The Edge of Chaos by Jak Koke

to his face and the spellscar.
    But Duvan was faster, more agile, and smarter. Well, he hoped he was smarter. That would be determined by the outcome.
    Beaugrat gave a quick glance at his fallen cohort, and it registered on his face that she was out of the game. She would be dead shortly if an antidote wasnt delivered.
    “You should’ve taken the deal,” Duvan said, breathing heavily in the humid jungle air. “Now it’s even odds, and you’re about to go down.”
    Beaugrat grinned again. “I don’t think so,” he said. Then he extended his arms and pressed his wrists together, palms out toward Duvan. Immediately, his right arm erupted in gauzy blue-white flames. Spellscar.
    “My master and I were hoping it would not come to this,” Beaugrat said, “but I see no choice now.”
    “Your master?” Duvan said.
    “Not that it matters to you anymore, but the Order has plans for Ormpetarr and the changelands. Tyrangal has been a consistent impediment and is standing in the way of unity and progress. She must be eliminated.”
    Duvan spread his arms. “All right, but what does that have to do with me?”
    “We’ve been interested in you for quite a while, Duvan. You are Tyrangal’s darling, but we can’t figure out why. She sends you to find things, but we don’t know what they are
    and why she wants them. You are a mystery, and we don’t like mysteries.”
    “I am happy to fade away. Disappear.”
    “Enough talk,” Beaugrat said. “Time to die.” The fire engulfing his arm shot from his hand toward Duvan. The big man screamed in rage as the blue energy fire swirled like a tornado around Duvan.
    But it did not touch him. It did not affect him.
    Duvan felt a weakening in the base of his gut, like the whole of his being was transforming into liquid. It was a feeling he’d had before, many times—a feeling which brought back flashes of torment at the hands of the elves—memories of long, painful nights caged inside the plaguelands.
    Duvan had always tried to keep his resistance to spellplague secret. It had been the source of more pain in his life than anything else. The fire’s energy dissipated the closer it got to Duvan, all of its potency gone by the time it reached his body.
    Beaugrat lowered his hands, his eyes going wide in disbelief. The big man’s shoulders and back slumped from the exertion.
    It was Duvan’s turn to grin. His gut and body felt solid once again, and he sized up his angle of attack.
    Abruptly, Beaugrat lunged, directly for Duvan.
    By reflex, Duvan sprang sideways to dodge the onrush. He simultaneously drew one of his daggers from a scabbard on his thigh.
    Beaugrat, however, didn’t attack. He kept running, past Duvan and into the cluster of horses. Duvan looked on as the big man pulled himself, plate armor and all, up onto his war horse.
    Duvan watched the barbarian ride off, and decided not to go after him. Their paths would no doubt cross again, and Duvan would deal with Beaugrat then. The present crisis was past, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
    “Kill me,” said the ranger, Seerah, in her northern dialect. “It’s burning me up on the inside.”
    Duvan looked over at her. She had dragged herself a few yards, although it wasn’t clear where she’d been trying to get to. The skin around her mouth and eyes had turned blue; it was too late to administer the antidote. Seerah would be dead shortly.
    Duvan had miscalculated. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he said. “Life comes and goes. Death will take me one day, just as it has taken you and your sorcerer friend down in the chasm today.”
    “Not my friend,” she croaked. “Just—” She gave the hint of a shrug. “Just someone else from the Order.”
    The Order? Duvan wondered. Beaugrat had also mentioned the Order. The Order of Blue Fire concerned itself with the running of charitable works in many cities and towns. It was headquartered in Ormpetarr, though, and held a comparable amount of power in