Jak Koke - The Edge of Chaos

“Or what?” Duvan asked, pushing wearily to his feet.

“Or we kill you.”

Standing below a reddening sky in the monastery courtyard, Slanya tried to retain her calm while absorbing this new request. Leave the monastery? All right. But travel to the changelands? And go past the border where the change-land was rampant? That was impossible to accept.

“I can see that this is a surprise for you,” Gregor said. “Follow me and I will explain.” Putting his arm around her shoulder, he guided her into the chapel. They crossed the mosaic inlaid in the chapel floor, a skeletal hand holding a balance-Kelemvor’s scales-and walked into the alchemist’s laboratory.

The laboratory was Gregor’s domain, and Slanya rarely visited it. The smell of sulfurous powder mingled with the aroma of crushed red-bark leaves. One whole wall held racks of crystal vials that contained purified ingredients for Gregor’s concoctions, each labeled with a glyph. Another wall housed floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and scrolls, and a door leading to what Slanya assumed was a storage room, although she’d never been through it. On the third wall, coal burned in a narrow oven, and an iron ring bolted to an elaborate stand held a ceramic cauldron over the fire.

In the center of the room was the workbench, perfectly organized like everything else. Racks of cleaned vials stood to one end, ready to be filled and distributed to the next wave of pilgrims headed for the changelands.

“Our need is simple,” Gregor said, closing the door behind them. “We must make more elixir to protect the pilgrims who will participate in the Festival of Blue Fire. I originally planned for a few hundred, but Vraith claims that we may need enough for thousands.”

Slanya nodded. The influx of pilgrims had increased over the past few tendays, and many of them seemed to be waiting until the festival to visit the Plaguewrought Land.

“We only have a few days to make a great deal more, and our supply of plaguegrass is depleted.”

Plaguegrass-tall, brown grass that grew inside the borders of the Plaguewrought Land-was the key component to the elixirs that Gregor concocted to help the pilgrims survive exposure to the spellplague.

“You are the only one I can trust to get this done,” Gregor said. “You have proven that you can accomplish difficult tasks.”

Yes, Slanya thought. I am the one who gets chosen for such tasks. She had been in charge of the team sent to scout this location for the monastery. She had been the one sent to negotiate with the Order of Blue Fire for access to this land. When Gregor or Kaylinn needed someone for a special purpose, Slanya was their first choice.

And truth be told, she liked it. Because, while performing funeral rites and advanced meditation formed the bedrock of her existence, sometimes the routine grew monotonous and tiring. Still, routine was better than a suicide mission.

“We need more plaguegrass.” Gregor said. “The small quantity that I originally obtained from Tyrangal is depleted. I have completed the preventative for the spell-sickness, and now I need to make a lot more so we can save all these people.”

Slanya looked at Gregor. The passion in his face showed strong and clear. He truly wanted to help these pilgrims. “The formula works?” she asked. “You’re positive?”

His ability to create new concoctions was uncanny, coming partly from his comprehensive knowledge of the effects of herbs and animal parts. But he claimed that his genius came primarily from his spellscar, that his exposure to the spellplague had granted him a lens through which he could see the effects that potions would have on people.

A smile broadened on his face. “Yes,” he said, nodding happily. “All the testing was worth it, don’t you see?” He rubbed his hands together. “And now all I need to do is make enough to protect all pilgrims going to the changelands. But for that I need more plaguegrass-lots more plaguegrass.”

“Why can’t you get more from Tyrangal?” Slanya asked. “Why do you want me to risk my life to go into the changelands?”

“Your life will not be at risk, my child,” Gregor said. “I have enough of the elixir to protect you while you complete the task. And unfortunately Tyrangal has no more plaguegrass. Neither does anyone else. It only grows inside the Plaguewrought Land. It’s quite amazing that she had some to begin with.”

Slanya stood at balanced readiness and waited for him to continue. She had made her decision; she would go regardless of the risk. She had never been inside the Plaguewrought Land, but the benefits to those who came into contact with the spellplague would be immeasurable.

And despite his recent obsessions, Gregor had saved her life and had given her everything. She trusted him and would do whatever he asked.

“I have two doses of the elixir left,” he continued. “You will take them with you, and they will protect you from the spellplague remnants.”

Slanya nodded.

“I need someone I trust to do this for me,” Gregor said, putting his hand on Slanya’s shoulder. “Vraith has offered to help, but I don’t want the Order of Blue Fire involved. Just between you and me, I’m not sure I trust their motives, and I’d rather they stay ignorant of the elixir’s ingredients.”

“Very well,” she said. “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow,” Gregor said. “First thing in the morning, you will meet with Tyrangal.”

“Tyrangal herself?” Slanya did not follow the gang politics of Ormpetarr, but even she had heard of the secretive woman who commanded a sizable fighting force to keep the peace. She had a reputation for ruthlessness and cunning.

“Yes,” Gregor said. “I have spoken with her, and she’s agreed to help. Someone who works for her has been inside the changelands and will act as your guide.”

Slanya blinked. Everything was happening so fast. “I’ll need to get my things prepared.”

Gregor nodded. “Yes, but hurry. I’ve arranged for you to meet with Tyrangal. She’s expecting you at dawn.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Duvan said, circling carefully away from the cliff edge. “Let’s talk this over before anyone gets hurt.” He continued his slow sideways walk to put his back to the jungle.

“The only one who might get hurt is you,” Beaugrat said. “It’s two against one. You’re tired and, frankly, look like you’ve been through the Nine Hells.”

As the other man spoke, Duvan gathered detailed stock of the situation. Beaugrat and Seerah stood slightly apart with the horses behind them. No getting to the horses without going through the two of them. Smart.

He could run for the forest; that might be his best bet, if he could get the crossbow off him. The ranger clearly wanted to shoot him. The setting sun’s light made her pale skin and blonde hair seem limned in blood. No uncertainty showed in her eyes; she clearly hoped he would try something so she could pull the trigger.

Duvan cursed himself for not seeing this coming. He rarely trusted anyone, but Beaugrat had been one of Tyrangal’s men. And over the years he had come to trust Tyrangal. But now, this riffraff could kill him here and take all his possessions-including the book he’d risked his life to get for Tyrangal. In fact, they would be stupid to threaten that and not do it.

The main question on Duvan’s mind was, would they kill him even if he gave up the treasure?

Not that giving up the book was even an option. At least not a permanent option, but he might be able to use it as a delaying tactic until he could figure out a way to kill them. He’d made a promise to deliver the book to Tyrangal if he found it, and Duvan never backed down from a promise.

Kill or be killed. It was a strategy that he’d often lived by, and one which had served him well. The other strategy he liked was “run or be killed.” So, he mused, it was decision time: fight or flight?