Chaos Trapped Read online

  CHAOS TRAPPED

  Book Four of

  the epic fantasy series

  Chaos and Retribution

  Stone Bound: Book One

  Sky Touched: Book Two

  Sea Born: Book Three

  Chaos and Retribution is the sequel to

  Immortality and Chaos

  Wreckers Gate: Book One

  Landsend Plateau: Book Two

  Guardians Watch: Book Three

  Hunger’s Reach: Book Four

  Oblivion’s Grasp: Book Five

  Also by Eric T Knight

  the action-adventure series

  Lone Wolf Howls

  the action thriller

  Watching the End of the World

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  Chapter One: Fen

  “I own you now. You belong to me,” Lowellin said.

  On his knees, Fen looked up at Lowellin. The icy coldness was rapidly spreading through him. His muscles were beginning to spasm. A convulsion passed over him, and he almost toppled over.

  “You don’t believe it yet. You still think you can overcome what Ilsith did to you,” Lowellin said, leaning over Fen. The Shaper’s cold gray eyes bored into him. “But you can’t. You’ll never be able to break free. Believe me on this.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Fen said through gritted teeth.

  “No, you’ll see. I already know.” Lowellin was holding the key fragment that Fen had retrieved for him, rubbing it with his thumb. The glow which had lit it before was gone. He patted Fen on top of the head. “Go ahead. Give it your best try.” The menace was gone from his voice. He sounded almost amused.

  Fen’s eyes went to the four Ankharan sorcerers flanking Lowellin. The blue tattoos stood out starkly on the bone-white skin of their faces, and their eyes were filled with malevolent joy at his suffering. Maphothet, their leader, had Ravin’s arm clamped in an iron grip.

  Fen’s eyes met Ravin’s. The fear he saw there was like a dagger in his heart. He’d failed her. He’d failed everyone. Instead of stopping Lowellin, he’d gotten the fragment for him.

  Rage boiled to the surface suddenly. With it came new strength, and he lunged for Stone power…

  And was beset suddenly by excruciating pain that tore through his chest, so intense that he cried out and nearly lost consciousness.

  “Fen!” Ravin cried. She twisted in Maphothet’s grasp, clawing at his face. Her nails tore bloody furrows down his cheek, and he lost his hold on her. She ran toward Fen.

  But before she’d taken two steps, Maphothet recovered. A crackling blast of indigo power shot from his hand. Ravin was slammed up against one of the stone stalagmites that dotted the floor of the large cavern and crumpled to the ground.

  “No!” Fen howled. He staggered to his feet and tried to go to her, but Lowellin grabbed his arm. He tried to fight back, but he was weak, terribly weak, and the strength of a mountain was in Lowellin’s grip.

  Lowellin gripped the front of Fen’s mail shirt and lifted him into the air as if he weighed nothing. Up close the new scars on Lowellin’s face were raw and livid. It looked like some powerful beast had mauled him badly.

  “I told you it was hopeless. Do you believe me now?” Fen struggled to respond, but his thoughts felt disconnected, as if the burst of pain that was still echoing down through his nerves had scattered them like leaves before a thunderstorm.

  “I can see that you haven’t. You’re a stubborn one, Fen. You’re going to throw yourself at the bars of your cage over and over, no matter how futile it is, aren’t you?”

  Fen swallowed the bile in his throat and glared at Lowellin. “If you hurt her, I will make you pay.”

  Lowellin smiled. It was not a human smile. Yellow teeth showed behind his lips. “What a predictable thing to say. Come now. You can do better than that.”

  “Let her go,” Fen said hoarsely. “Do whatever you want to me. Only let her go.”

  “I’m happy to. She’s served her purpose. I’m happy to let you go too.” He dropped Fen. When Fen hit the ground, his legs gave out on him, and he collapsed.

  Fen pushed himself up from the dirt and looked at Ravin. She twitched slightly and moaned. Relief flooded him. At least she was still alive.

  “Once I’m sure I don’t need you anymore,” Lowellin added.

  Fen managed to get to his feet. The shadow creature Ilsith stood motionless behind Lowellin. Ice-blue points of light shone within its depths. The shadows shifted, and for a moment Fen saw a face within them, the eyes watching him. What was that thing? What had it done to him? Whatever Ilsith had done to Fen was still spreading. It felt as if fingers of ice were working their way through his veins. Stone power was receding further into the distance with every heartbeat.

  “You have the piece,” Fen said. “What do you still need me for?”

  “I told you. There are still other pieces I must acquire. I may need your help again.”

  “I’ll never help you again. Even if you kill both of us.”

  “That remains to be seen, really,” Lowellin replied. “You’d be surprised what I can make you do. I have thousands of years of practice manipulating humans. You’re very predictable.”

  Lowellin turned to Maphothet. “I will come for you when I’m ready to retrieve the next piece. Take him to the Fist. Make sure he is locked away, not executed.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Leave her here. Unharmed. I may need her again also.” With that he turned away. Ilsith swirled around him and wrapped him in shadows. When the shadows dissipated a moment later, Lowellin was gone.

  Maphothet nodded to one of the other sorcerers, and he took hold of Fen’s arm. Instinctively, Fen grabbed his wrist and twisted, trying to pivot and throw the sorcerer as he’d done so many times on the practice yard while training. But he was too weak, his fingers too nerveless to get a proper grip, and the sorcerer defeated him easily. Next Fen went for his sword, but he barely managed to draw it before the sorcerer hit him with a blast of chaos power and knocked him sprawling. The sword clattered away across the floor of the cavern.

  “It won’t work,” Maphothet said. His voice was a low hiss, like a venomous snake. “Your power is gone, and you are nothing without it.”

  “You can’t keep me from my power forever,” Fen said. “I promise you that.”

  “It is a promise you will not keep. Chaos overwhelms all.”

  With Maphothet leading, the sorcerers headed for the exit. Fen was dragged along behind them. At the bottom of the rough-carved stone stairs, he turned to look back at Ravin. He reached out a hand to her, but then he was pulled into the stairway and lost sight of her.

  ╬ ╬ ╬

  Fen stumbled and lost his footing a number of times as they made their way back to the surface. He couldn’t see a thing, and he could barely feel his legs and feet at all. The darkness did not seem to bother the Ankharans. They moved swiftly and surely up the crumbled stone stairs.

  They passed through the old mausoleum and then the cemetery. The night was warm, partly because it was summer and partly because of the many fires that were burning in Marad, but to Fen it felt like the depths of winter. Some kind of cataclysmic conflict was being waged inside him as Ilsith’s venom worked its way ever deeper into sinew and muscle, severing his connection to Stone power, which was so faint now as to be almost nonexistent. He was shivering badly, and the edges of his vision kept going dark.

  They made their way through the ruined city, heading for the dark mass of the fortress at its heart. Bodies lay scattered everywhere, men, women and children. Here and there r
oamed small bands of soldiers spattered with blood, carrying plunder, objects of gold and silver, fine clothing, bejeweled weapons. Many carried stolen jugs and bottles of alcohol, with which they toasted their victory. One soldier carried a struggling woman over his shoulder, her hands and feet bound with cords. Those who saw the four sorcerers coming moved quickly out of the way. Though the victory had been won through the Ankharans’ sorcery, it was clear they feared and distrusted the foreigners.

  Flames leapt into the air from burning buildings, clouds of smoke obscuring the stars. Violence and death still wracked the city, as evidenced by screams and cries for mercy that echoed in the air. But the night was old, and the frenzy of mindless violence was slowly dying down, burning out like a fire running out of fuel.

  They walked for what seemed like forever to Fen, who stumbled along in a haze, his legs weak and numb, shivering from the effects of the venom. The fortress gates were shattered, doubtless the work of the massive hammer the Fist had used on the city gates. Dead Maradi soldiers littered the ground, most looking like they’d been hit by a rockslide, armor crushed, heads caved in. There was only one dead Samkaran soldier.

  More dead soldiers were scattered between there and the palace itself, as the defenders spent their lives in a futile attempt to protect their sovereign. Lying in tangled heaps in front of the palace doors were the Maradi king’s elite defenders, clad in polished plate mail rimmed in silver and gold, their cloaks made of rich fabric with the eagle of Marad embroidered on them. Breast plates and helmets were crumpled, their armor no match for the brute force of the Fist’s hammer.

  Several Samkaran soldiers were bent over them, relieving them of rings, necklaces and weapons. They looked up as Fen and the sorcerers approached and scuttled out of the way, returning once they were past, like vultures swooping back down to feast on the dead.

  In the entrance hall of the palace were another score of dead soldiers, but after that most of the bodies they encountered wore servants’ livery. Among them were women and elderly and even children. Even numb as he was, Fen could not help but feel horror at the sight. They had also been killed by blows from the massive hammer. What had the man he followed, the man he looked up to as king and father figure, become? Was he lost forever?

  The heavy bronze doors of the throne room were bent and sagging from their hinges. A handful of dead and dying soldiers lay sprawled in the doorway. From inside the room came a final, despairing cry that was abruptly cut off in a loud crashing sound.

  The throne room was huge, far more opulent than the one in Samkara. Marble pillars supported an arched ceiling high overhead. The walls were covered in gold brocade, the floors tiled in crimson-veined travertine. Crystal chandeliers the size of wagons hung from the ceiling. Strewn across the floor were still more soldiers. A few still twitched feebly. One soldier was moaning, trying to drag himself with one arm. The back of his armor had a massive dent in it, the blow doubtless shattering his spine. There were a handful of Samkaran soldiers in the room. One of them walked up to the injured men, reversed his sword, and drove it through his back. The man died with a rattling sound. The soldier turned toward them, and Fen saw that it was Sergeant Ely.

  In front of the throne stood the Fist, his back to them. The massive hammer was in his hand, its head crusted with blood. On the throne was the body of the late king of Marad, crushed almost beyond recognition. The blow which had killed him had been so fierce that the throne had cracked into pieces.

  The Fist was covered in blood and gore. Several arrows were sticking out of his back, and there was a deep cut on his side. Yet when he turned, he did not move like a wounded man. There was no weakness or pain in his movements, though now Fen could see several more arrows protruding from his chest and another gash across his collarbone.

  The Fist dropped the hammer to the floor. He took a deep breath, and his body began to heal itself. Arrows pushed out of wounds and clattered to the floor. Sword cuts closed, the blood flow stopping. The Ankharans and Fen came to a halt at the foot of the dais and stood and watched. Soon the healing was complete. Every wound was healed, though purplish scars remained to mark where they’d been.

  But the healing had taken its toll, depleting the last of the life-energy that the Fist had drained from the Maradi prisoners before the battle began. The unnatural muscles had shrunk, and he was once again normal-sized. Deep lines etched his face, and his long mustache had turned gray.

  “Never again will Marad threaten Samkara,” the Fist said. His eyes glittered. Fen did not see the man he knew there.

  “You have won a great victory this night,” Maphothet said.

  “I vowed retribution, and now it is mine,” the Fist said.

  Maphothet inclined his head. “All hail the Fist.” To Fen, the man’s tone sounded faintly sardonic, but the Fist didn’t seem to notice.

  The Fist’s eyes shifted to Fen, taking in his lack of a weapon and the grip the Ankharan sorcerer had on him. “What is this?” he asked.

  “A traitor,” Maphothet said. He gestured and the sorcerer holding Fen shoved him forward. Fen stumbled and fell against the dais. “He attacked me from behind. He thought to slay me while I was occupied in helping subdue the enemy.”

  The Fist’s eyes narrowed. “Is this true?” he asked Fen.

  Before Fen could reply, Sergeant Ely stepped forward. “I can vouch for the truth of that. I saw it happen.”

  Fen was surprised at the boldness of the man’s lie. Surely the Fist would never believe him. How could Ely have witnessed such a thing, after all? He’d been here, in the throne room with the Fist. But when he looked up at the Fist, he saw rage in his eyes and knew the lie had been swallowed whole.

  “It’s not true,” Fen said.

  “You deny attacking our allies?” the Fist said through clenched teeth.

  Fen hesitated, but lying was not his nature, and after a moment he said, “It is true that I attacked the Ankharans, but they were—”

  “Silence!” the Fist barked. “I will not listen to your excuses.”

  “But they are only using you so that they can get the—”

  The Fist struck him, a hard, open-handed slap that rocked Fen’s head back and cut his lips on his teeth. He tasted blood in his mouth. “I warned you,” he growled. “I told you not to presume on my good graces. I told you that if you betrayed me, you would face dire punishment.”

  He had a dagger hanging from his belt, and as he said this he swept it from its sheath and raised it to stab Fen. Fen braced himself for the blow, knowing his life was close to ending.

  Before the Fist could strike, Maphothet stepped forward and stayed his blow.

  “Do not interfere,” the Fist snapped at him.

  “I only wish you to think before you act,” Maphothet said smoothly. Fen saw something move under his black robe and remembered the leathery-winged creatures he’d seen emerge before the battle.

  “There is nothing to think about,” the Fist replied. “The punishment for treason is death. It is my right.”

  “This is true,” the sorcerer replied, “but would it not be better if he stood trial first and then was executed publicly? Would that not send a message to others who think to follow his lead?”

  The Fist considered this for a moment, then lowered the weapon. “What you say makes sense.” He looked at Fen again. “You will meet justice in Samkara, traitor. The executioner’s blade will take your head.”

  Knowing it wouldn’t make any difference, still Fen had to try once more. “Please listen to me, Fist,” Fen begged. “You can’t trust them. They’ve poisoned your mind. You’re not yourself.”

  The Fist bristled. “You presume too much,” he said harshly. “Do not speak to me this way.”

  “Look into your heart, Fist,” Fen said. “Do you really believe I would betray you? I have dedicated myself to your service. I have been, and will always be, loyal to you and to Samkara.”

  The Fist hesitated, and Fen saw, or thought he saw, someth
ing flicker in his eyes. But Maphothet cut in again.

  “He has hated us since we arrived,” Maphothet said. “He can’t accept that we intend only the glory of you and of Samkara. He believes we threaten his place at your side, and he has done whatever he can to undermine us. You have only to remember the false claims he has made against us in the past.”

  The Fist nodded slowly. He looked tired suddenly.

  “Remember, I warned you that he would act against us sooner or later,” Maphothet said. “I told you that he would try to eliminate us when he got the chance. Once he has taken care of us, he will come for you.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Fist,” Fen said. “He’s lying to you.”

  The Fist looked at Fen, then back at Maphothet. He seemed confused.

  “Look around you,” Maphothet said, spreading his arms. “We have delivered to you your hated enemy. We have showed you how to unlock the power inside you. We have made you a god. Are those the actions of men who mean you harm?”

  “He’s using you,” Fen said desperately, sensing that his chance was slipping away. “He doesn’t care about you or Samkara. He’s just trying to get the pieces of the key for his masters. They’re going to open the Abyss and let the Devourers into our world.”

  The Fist turned back to Fen. “The key? Devourers?”

  “Enough,” Maphothet said, and there was the ring of command in his voice. “You will listen to his ravings no more. There is much to be done still.”

  The Fist nodded, and his jaw tightened. “Bind him securely,” he said to Ely. “Be sure he does not escape, or it will go poorly for you. Take him back to the camp and turn him over to Captain Rouk.”

  The stout sergeant saluted. The Fist gave Fen one more withering look, and then turned his back on him.

  “You will send orders to your men to stop the killing,” Maphothet told the Fist, his voice still ringing with command. “Marad is beaten, and we need the survivors as slaves.”

  The Fist nodded. “Yes,” he said faintly.

  Maphothet turned to the other Samkaran soldiers in the room. “You heard your Fist. See to it at once.”