Children of Fire
Drew Karpyshyn
Advance Reader’s Copy — Not for Sale
CHILDREN OF FIRE
Drew Karpyshyn
Del Rey
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
Tentative On-Sale Date: August 27, 2013
Tentative On-Sale Month: September 2013
Tentative Print Price: $26.00
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Del Rey
An imprint of the Random House Publishing Group
1745 Broadway • New York, NY • 10019
BY DREW KARPYSHYN
STAR WARS
Star Wars: Darth Bane Path of Destruction
Star Wars: Darth Bane Rule of Two
Star Wars: Darth Bane Dynasty of Evil
Star Wars: The Old Republic Revan
Star Wars: The Old Republic Annihilation
MASS EFFECT
Mass Effect: Revelation
Mass Effect: Ascension
Mass Effect: Retribution
TEMPLE HILL
Baldur’s Gate II: Throne of Bhaal
This is an uncorrected eBook file. Please do not quote for publication until you check your copy against the finished book.
Children of Fire is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Drew Karpyshyn
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
ISBN 978-0-345-54223-6
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54676-0
www.delreybooks.com
Book design by Caroline Cunningham
To Jennifer,
my love and my life
Contents
Cover
eBook Information
By Drew Karpyshyn
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Children of Fire 2
About the Author
Prologue
All things are born from fire. The flames of Chaos are the source of all life and all creation; the cause of all death and all destruction. The entirety of the mortal world was forged from the inferno of the Burning Sea, the Chaos shaped and bound by the power of the Old Gods to create an island of tranquility floating in an ocean of flame.
First came the plants and trees. Next came the fish of the oceans, then the birds of the air and the beasts of the land. Finally, the Old Gods created woman and man, and they spread out to populate the newly formed world.
But Chaos rebels against structure and order, and even the magic of a God cannot bind it forever. Nothing is eternal.
—SALIDARR, founder and first Pontiff of the Order
Nothing lasts forever.
He knows this better than any. Elevated from the ranks of mortals by the Talismans; transformed by the infinite power of Chaos into a God himself … only to be cast down. For too long he has been imprisoned in this nether realm of smoke and shadow for the unforgivable sin of daring to challenge divine authority. But now the Old Gods are gone, and he alone remains.
Just as he is alone now, a single figure in a deserted, ashen plain: dry, cracked earth beneath a gray and featureless sky. He stands before a fountain of white stone, a simple pedestal four feet high with a wide, deep bowl atop. He traces a clawed finger around the rim of the bowl, transcribing the final arcane figures of the ritual with the blood dripping from his nail … his blood, the blood of an Immortal. The offering will cripple him, leaving him weak and vulnerable as the magic feasts on his power. But it will give strength to his spell.
His is not the only blood that stains the fountain. A dozen of his followers, chosen from the descendants of those exiled with him, have died for this spell. He had hoped they would come without protest, giving up their own lives so that others might have a chance to escape this wasted land and return to the world their ancestors once knew. Not one was willing to make the sacrifice. But in this bleak nether realm his will is absolute, and those who were chosen for the ritual could not deny his claim. Their lifeblood now fills the fountain’s bowl, their broken and shattered bones piled around the base of its pedestal.
The fountain trembles beneath his touch; the crimson pool quivers with the power of Chaos. Power enough to save him. Power enough to destroy him.
The lives of his followers hang in the balance with his own. Should the magic consume him, the denizens of this realm will tear one another apart to claim his barren throne. But they are mortal—what is life to them? How much more does an Immortal risk? He alone can understand the consequences of what he is doing; a calculated gamble; one he has no choice but to take.
For too long he has been forced to sit and watch, doing nothing, waiting in vain for the Legacy—the barrier that shields the mortal world from him and his followers—to crumble. Day by day, year by year, century by century he has slowly watched his power ebb, waiting for this last spell of the Old Gods to fade. But the magic of a God dies slowly. The Legacy is still strong, and now he himself is beginning to wither and die. The risk is great, but he can wait no longer.
Placing a scaled hand on either side of the bowl he tilts his head back to the empty sky and closes his eyes. Softly he begins to chant, mystic words meant to draw upon the power of Chaos, to channel it through his body and into the fountain.
He holds the gathering magic for as long as he is able, until the building power bursts forth in a rush of heat. The blood within the fountain seethes and boils. Thick bubbles burst with wet, sickly sounds, releasing clouds of crimson steam. The flesh of his palms begins to cook against the scorchin
g stone of the fountain’s bowl. Pointed teeth clenched, he endures the searing pain in silent agony as the color is burned away and the blood is transformed into clear, crystal water.
Only then does he let go, staggering back and gasping for breath as the waters quickly cool. His great leather wings twitching in anticipation, he watches as the bubbling surface of the fountain goes still, becoming a perfectly reflective pool. The ritual has begun.
He reaches up with one burned and blistered hand to clasp the fist-sized black stone that hangs from his neck. He has worn it for many years, dangling from a thin gold chain running through the tiny hole bored through its heart. Over the centuries he has kept it close, drawing patience and strength as he waited for this day that has finally arrived.
With a sharp tug he tears the stone free, oblivious to the bite of the chain digging into the flesh along the back of his neck before it snaps and slithers to the ground at his feet.
The stone is cold in his grasp, but quickly warms to his touch. Symbols are traced in blood across its smooth, dark surface: his blood. Runes from the Old Tongue, they represent the four aspects of everything he once was: wizard, warrior, prophet, king. Imbued with his divine essence, the stone is his seed. The spirit of his unborn child is trapped within … a child destined to tear down the Legacy.
Stepping forward he peers into the pool and sees the mortal world: a vision of a realm still tantalizingly beyond his grasp. Ignoring the pain of his mutilated palms he grips the dark stone tightly with both hands, raising it high above his head as he begins another chant.
The magic builds within him for a second time, the heat coursing through his veins yet again. The water in the fountain begins to bubble and boil once more. The tranquil vision of the mortal world disappears, replaced by the churning flames of the Chaos Sea.
The stone begins to pulse with heat; a steady rhythm that matches the beating of his own heart. His voice rises, his words channeling the power of the spell that will carry the stone across the Sea of Flame to touch the shores of the mortal world. There it will take root, and somewhere a child will be born. His child. A child born from the fires of Chaos.
His body begins to tremble from the strain; his words falter. And in that instant the Chaos breaks free. The stone explodes in his hands, tearing open the wounded flesh of his clawed fingers as it splits into quarters. He recoils with a scream to the empty sky as the pieces tumble from his grasp, disappearing beneath the surface without a ripple.
At their touch a roaring pillar of blue flame erupts from the pool. He hurls himself clear as the tower of fire engulfs the pedestal and the surrounding bones, utterly consuming them before vanishing a second later with a thunderous clap.
He lies huddled on the ground, panting, his wings folded over his head and back in an instinctive reaction to shield himself from the withering heat of the conflagration. Slowly the wings part and he peeks from beneath them at the scorched earth and small pile of black ash, a God humbled. Chaos cannot be contained; cannot be controlled.
Yet he senses that all is not lost. The stone was split, its essence fractured; but the four quarters were consumed by the fires of the spell. Stretching across the infinite breadth of the Chaos Sea, the effects will be muted and faint. Yet even those pebbles will send ripples to lap against the shores of the mortal world.
Not one child, but four, each touched by the power of his magic, each marked to be born in the flames of strife and suffering. Mortals imbued with the burning essence of a banished and forgotten God, their lives inevitably linked and intertwined. Even he cannot foresee their ultimate fate; salvation and destruction sit poised in perfect balance, the outcome is uncertain, his vision unclear.
Yet as he unfurls his wings and rises once more to his feet, he is certain of one thing: Chaos has been unleashed.
Chapter 1
An unseen branch snaked through the darkness of the night to snag Nyra’s ankle with dry wooden fingers. She toppled forward, her swollen belly making her awkward and clumsy. The heavy shawl wrapped about her shoulders tumbled to the ground as she thrust her hands out in front to break her fall.
She felt a sudden pain in her left wrist as her hands hit the unyielding frozen earth—sharp, but not severe. She struggled to her knees, her hands cradling her midsection, trying to comfort and console the unborn child in her womb. She whispered words of reassurance as she caressed her girth through the heavy wool of her winter dress, praying to the Old Gods and the New to feel the baby kick or squirm in protest at the unexpected fall.
Nothing. She stayed there on the cold earth, refusing to accept her child’s lack of response. The chill of the night seeped up from the ground through her knees and into her weary thighs. The bite of the winter wind blew harsh against her cheeks and shoulders. But she wouldn’t cry. Not yet. Not while she still had hope for her unborn child.
Slowly, she turned and reached back for the shawl she had brought to shield her from the night’s cold. The Southlands rarely saw snow, but her village was no more than a few days’ ride from the steppes of the Frozen East. Winter here had a sting the deep Southlands never felt.
She hefted the shawl and twirled it up and over her shoulders, noting a twinge in her left wrist as she did so. The unexpected pain made her grit her teeth. As best she could in the night’s blackness she examined her injury.
Sprained, she decided at last. Only sprained.
With great effort she clambered to her feet, her hand instinctively dropping to her belly yet again. The child within remained still. Ignoring the cramping protest of her calves and thighs, the constant ache running through her back, and the knots in her neck and shoulders, she continued on her way.
She moved with greater care now. The crescent moon was obscured by the tangle of stark, bare branches overhead, and the forest cast disorienting shadows along the overgrown path she followed. But she knew it was more than that.
During the day the path would be easy to follow, worn flat by constant traffic from the nearby villages; kept clear by the constant passing of men and women coming to present their pleas. In the light of the sun, the path was simple enough for a rider on a sure-footed mount to safely traverse.
But the hag did not like visitors at night; her enchantments made the way more difficult than it should be. Chaos changed the route beneath the mantle of darkness. The earth became rough and uneven, the roots and limbs of the trees themselves grasped out to impede her progress.
Nyra had left her pony tied to a tree more than a mile back, knowing she would have to make the passage on foot. She pressed on; time was running short. She had no choice but to come under the cover of night, while her husband slept. In the twenty years since the Purge had ended, most of the laws against practicing magic had been repealed. But Gerrit still frowned upon those who possessed the Gift.
She didn’t blame him. He was older than she was, old enough to remember the Purge. As a child he had watched the Order’s public executions; his earliest memories were of witches and heretics crying out as they burned at the stake. Times were different now. Chaos magic was tolerated, though the Order still officially spoke out against its dangers. And like most who lived in the Southlands, Gerrit had no wish to do anything that might displease the Order. He would have tried to talk her out of this.
“The baby has been healthy,” he would argue. “We felt it kicking and squirming inside you, eager to be born and full of life. The times before it wasn’t like this.”
True, for a while. But shortly after the eighth moon of her pregnancy, the baby had grown still. Like the others. Gerrit didn’t know. She hadn’t told him—and the Gods willing, she would never have to.
Nyra stumbled along, falling often. Her knees bruised and stiffened, her hands became red and raw from scraping over the frozen, jagged ground with every tumble. Once she struck her jaw on a jutting branch as she fell, splitting her lip and biting her tongue. The taste of blood scared her; it reminded her of the blood of birth. Too much blood, in her case.
But she didn’t spit it out. And she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t let herself, not yet. Not while there was still hope. Unconsciously, she passed a gentle hand over the swell of her pregnancy.
After another mile she glimpsed the flicker of a small fire, just beyond the crest of a knoll jutting up in the path. The way suddenly seemed to clear: The tripping roots melted into the now smooth earth; the clutching branches retreated to a distance. The icy air around her thawed with the warmth of the tempting fire, carried forward on a whispering zephyr. Nyra crawled to the top of the small but steep knoll, using her hands as much as her feet to get her heavy, swollen form up and over the crest.
The other side was a gentle slope into a small clearing. In the corner was a cramped cottage, little more than a wood-and-grass hut. A campfire burned in the center of the clearing, well away from the surrounding trees and the dry thatch of the tiny home. The flames flickered blue and purple, then red and orange. Green and yellow sparks popped and crackled within the unnatural blaze.
An old woman knelt by the fire, stirring the coals with a thin, crooked stick. She wore simple dark garments, heavy layers warding off whatever winter chill the fire could not keep at bay. Her hair was gray, her skin sallow. Beside her was a pile of small animal bones. Nyra hesitated, uncertain, until the witch looked up.
“Have you come all this way only to turn back now?” Gretchen the Hag asked. Her voice was a dry, raspy whisper.
Nyra slowly approached the strange flames until she stood across the fire, facing her withered host.
“Sit,” the old woman instructed.
With great effort, Nyra lowered her bulk to the ground. She shifted her legs to try to get comfortable on the hard earth, but the effort was wasted.
“Speak,” Gretchen ordered, oblivious to the pregnant woman’s obvious physical discomfort. She poked the fire once more with the gnarled stick.
“I … I have come for my child,” Nyra began.
“Another, or this one?” the old woman asked, jabbing her stick in the direction of Nyra’s swollen belly.
“This one. There is no other. Twice my husband and I have tried, but both times the baby has been stillborn.”
