Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

Standing in the heat of the rising sun, the sharp sculptures of ancient crumbling masonry like twisted sentinels around them, Slanya reflected on Duvan’s words. They struck a chord inside her. For all that he lacked in civility, there was a vestige of compassion in this wildman.

The fire caught on the dead man’s clothes soaked in oil. Slanya resisted watching at first. But the flames drew her, and she stared into them. They glowed like sunlight through an open doorway-a gateway to a realm of chaos and light, a portal into a wild universe, abandonment of reason and law.

Involuntarily Slanya took a step toward the funeral fire. The searing heat coming off of it stung her skin, and she felt water rising in her eyes.

“We should leave now.”

Duvan’s voice snapped her from her trance.

“It’s not safe to stay here any longer,” he said.

Not safe, she thought.

Flames licked the body in front of her, leaving blackened and blistering trails. The smell of burning fat brought her back to her childhood, back to her memory of the event.

The vision was always the same. Evening had come to the city and the cacophony of the sprawl had finally quieted. Aunt Ewesia’s breathing had slowed, and she had started to snore-asleep in her rocking chair.

It was the only time little Slanya could relax. The only time she knew that she wouldn’t get in trouble.

In the vision, she looked down on her younger self. Little Slanya in her stained dress was six years old with blond hair flying out in tufts from the braids that tried to keep it organized. She watched in her mind as little Slanya finished removing the linens from their drying line next to the fire, folded them, and put them away. They had to be folded just so, or she would have to do it again when Aunt Ewesia discovered her failure.

When little Slanya returned from the bedroom, Aunt Ewesia was on fire. Alarmed and frightened even then that she would be punished for this accident, young Slanya blanched and she held her breath. Aunt Ewesia’s clothes blazed, but she awoke slowly despite that. The infusion she drank to put her to sleep every night worked too well.

And then, the fiery behemoth that had been her aunt heaved itself from the chair, screaming like a thousand banshees, making the hair on Slanya’s skin stick straight out. Aunt Ewesia lurched toward Slanya. The flames had ripped through the cotton and wool of her clothing and had started in on her skin.

Slanya felt her breath catch as she watched her younger self run from the groping, screaming demon. Later she was ashamed that she had run. Later she would tell the other orphans that she had tried to help, but couldn’t stop the fire. But she hadn’t tried to help; fear had gripped her, and she had run away from the beast of flame and anger.

“Can you ride?” Duvan’s voice shook her from her reverie.

Slanya squeezed her eyes closed to block out the fire. She held her breath to avoid smelling the burning body. She waited until her heart’s frantic beating slowed and some semblance of calm returned to her.

Then, nodding to Duvan, she took the reins of the pilgrim’s black mare. Slanya straightened and stretched her back. “I’m ready,” she said, climbing up into the saddle.

Riding the dead archer’s horse, Duvan led them expertly through the rubble away from the pillar of black smoke that rose from the burning body. He headed away from the old outpost and along the path that led around the city to the monastery.

After a minute of silence, Duvan spoke. “Thank you for standing by me back there,” he said. “It means a lot.”

Slanya’s face wrinkled into a puzzled expression. It had never occurred to her to run.

“Not many folks have fought for me,” he added.

“Well, I couldn’t very well lose my guide, could I?” she said, but regretted it as soon as the words escaped her lips. Here he was expressing true gratitude, and the least she could do was accept it.

“I suppose not,” he said. “But thanks all the same.”

“You have been alone all your life?” Slanya asked.

He considered the question for a moment. “Yes,” he said, but Slanya could tell there was more than he was letting on. “For the most part, I don’t play well with others.”

“Well, I’d say we made a good team back there.”

Duvan glanced over at her, his dark eyes examining her face. Perhaps he was looking for a lie or exaggeration, but if he saw anything he gave no indication. After all, Slanya had been serious, and at least on one level had been telling the truth. As far as the fighting went, they were a great team.

“Yes,” Duvan said. “We do make a good team.”

That made Slanya smile, not least because something in his tone and expression told her that those words had rarely, if ever, escaped his mouth before.

Duvan dismounted just outside the temple complex, amid the stench of the afflicted. Tents full of dying pilgrims surrounded the unfinished stone structure.

He didn’t understand the pilgrims. Why would anyone come here by choice? Why would they leave a comfortable life full of friends and family? And for what?

Perhaps they just didn’t realize that of all the possible outcomes of spellplague exposure, emerging alive with a spellscar and a wonderful new power was by far the least likely. Most just died instantly-burned up before they had a chance to scream.

And of those who came out alive, a good many were doomed from too much exposure. They grew sick, while death lingered around them, their bodies riddled with the chaos of the Plaguewrought Lands.

Duvan wondered if anyone would come if they’d been told what it was really like instead of the propaganda disseminated by the Order of Blue Fire. Travel to the Plaguewrought Land to be touched by the divine fire. Spellplague will give you power and change your life forever!

He imagined bards would attract smaller crowds with lines like, “Want pain and death? Visit the Plaguewrought Land.”

Monks and monastery clerics of Kelemvor moved among the sick and dying, providing comfort and aid. Also scattered in the mix of tents and grass mats were Order of Blue Fire volunteers in their pale blue robes.

“Lots of Order around, Slanya,” Duvan said. “Why is that?” He knew his tone was suspicious, and he didn’t care.

“Nothing nefarious, I assure you,” Slanya said. “They come to ease the pain of the sick and dying. Most of them are unskilled, but they can clean up excrement with the best of them.”

“But clearly your monastery has dealings with the Order,” Duvan said. “That may or may not be cause for alarm.”

“These volunteers don’t come inside the monastery,” Slanya said. “I know of only one formal arrangement, and that’s for a supply of Brother Gregor’s elixir.”

Duvan scrutinized Slanya’s face. Not lying.

“Let’s just get our supplies and move out,” Slanya suggested.

Duvan nodded his agreement.

“Sister Slanya,” said a short cleric, bald except for a long auburn sidelock. Duvan caught sight of a tattoo at the base of her skull, in the same location as Slanya’s-the scales of Kelemvor in simple blue ink. “Gregor has your supplies ready.”

Slanya nodded. “Thank you, High Priestess.”

The cleric turned to Duvan. “I am Kaylinn, head of the monastery.”

Duvan gave a head bow. “I am glad to meet you,” he said. “I’m Duvan.”

Slanya interrupted, “We should get these horses to the stables.”

“I’ll take the horses,” Kaylinn said. “Brother Gregor will meet you in the chapel anteroom; that’s where your supplies are.”

Slanya gave a slight bow. “Thank you.”

The stench of dying pilgrims and smoldering bodies lessened as they made their way into the monastery. Here Duvan breathed a little easier. If he wasn’t careful, the smell that floated on the summer air in the Plaguewrought Land would trigger painful memories.