The man in black turned to face the force commander. In a tone of grim finality, he pronounced, “The Well of Tears has been opened. Aerysius has fallen.”
Garret Proctor took a step backward in shock. Kyel’s own mind reeled as it struggled to make sense of the horrific tidings. As he looked from face to face, he found that every man in the room was rocked by the mage’s statement, mouths open, eyes widened in dismay.
If Aerysius had truly fallen, then everything was lost. The Sentinels were the last, strongest line of defense his homeland had. Without the Sentinels, there was no hope. The Enemy would flood down upon the vulnerable nations unchecked. There would be no repeat of the Battle of Meridan, where defensive magic had turned the tides of war.
It only took Proctor a moment to recover himself somewhat. But he was still visibly shaken, the sound of his voice but a whisper of its former strength as he asked, “What is left?”
The man in the black cloak of dead Aerysius answered, “To my knowledge, I am the only survivor.”
The commander turned away. Kyel couldn’t see his face. But he knew the depths of despair that had to be written there, the same as on the face of every man in the wide hall.
Garret Proctor took a faltering step away, and then another. He walked stiffly toward a wooden chair, one of the sole pieces of furniture in the room. Without hesitation, he cast himself down on it.
Captain Royce lay a hand in sympathy on the mage’s shoulder. But then he, too, turned away and moved to stand behind his commander, head bowed.
The mage turned and swept his gaze over the stark confines of the hall. Kyel felt himself shiver as those unsettling eyes fell on him. Their stares locked for just an instant, but then the man turned away, striding over to stand at the force commander’s side.
Garret Proctor reached out and grasped the man’s arm. He slid back the dark fabric of his shirtsleeve, exposing a marking that looked like a heavy iron chain that firmly bound the mage’s right wrist.
Kyel had seen such markings before. This was no acolyte that stood before him. The man with the emblem of the chain was a fully Bound Master of Aerysius.
Garret Proctor looked relieved as he stared down at the legendary symbol. “Which order did you take?” he asked.
“I chose the Order of Sentinels.”
Proctor nodded slightly. Then, much more directly, he asked, “How strong are you?”
The mage’s gaze darted to the floor. He stared at the ground as if ashamed. Then, after a moment of pause, he said softly, “I am a Grand Master of the Eighth Tier.”
There was a shocked murmur from all around the room. Soldiers groped for the comfort of their weapons. Even Craig and Royce took a step back away from the man. Kyel’s own mind spun with horrified disbelief as he recalled something he’d read in The Mysteries of Aerysius, a text his father had kept in his library. It was one of the few books they’d owned, so Kyel had read it enough to have the passage memorized:
A mage passed beyond the sixth tier would be a vile abomination, creating chaos beyond imaginings. No mind of man is capable of withstanding the vastness of such power and should soon be broken down.
Kyel looked up with a shiver of dread. The man who stood before him cloaked in black was an abomination. By the authoritative expert on the subject, this Darien was already condemned, destined to be consumed by the unthinkable strength of the power he wielded. It was only a matter of time.
But Garret Proctor did not seem to understand the dire corollary. He stared up at the man with eyes full of brimming hope.
“We have a chance, then,” he uttered in a whispered breath. “Yes. A chance.”
9
The Last Sentinel
Darien slumped into a chair, eyes taking in the circular room he found so familiar. Garret Proctor had made his home at the top of the tower of Greystone Keep for over fifteen years, yet in all that time, he had acquired few possessions. The dim chamber was as stark and barren as the man himself.
The only adornment was a large map that showed a rough image of the Shadowspears. The map ended at the northern extremity of the mountains. No one had ever managed to chart the Black Lands beyond the pass. No one who had made it back alive, at any rate.
There were a few pieces of furniture in the room: a small chest by the door, and two decrepit chairs pushed up to a table that had been broken and mended so often that no two legs matched. The commander’s bed was just a simple pallet, tucked up against the wall near the hearth.
Proctor took the chair opposite as Royce fetched earthenware cups from the chest by the door. Miraculously, he produced a flagon of wine, hefting it proudly in his big hands before filling both cups. He placed one on the table before the commander and offered the other to Darien. The liquid was dark red and thick, reminiscent of fresh blood. Darien swirled the wine around before tasting it, trying not to make a face.
“Don’t you complain,” Royce admonished as he set the flagon down on the table. “That’s all there is. A special present from the Queen of Emmery. You saw her latest shipment down in the hall. I’ll wager she sent this wine along as a bribe to be sure we don’t send that lot right back to her.”
The Queen of Emmery was more gracious than other rulers. Infrequent shipments of prisoners and supplies was better than no reinforcements at all. Not a soul had been sent up from Auberdale in recent months, and Treshorne had stopped sending men to the pass years ago. The Southern nations had never aided Greystone Keep within living memory. Their kings had probably forgotten that the Front even existed. In the absence of a recent offensive, the nations of the Rhen had become complacent.
Proctor took a heavy drink from his cup. He closed his eyes as he swallowed the awful liquid, savoring it as if the wine were the most delicate vintage he’d ever tasted.
“Now. Tell me everything.”
Darien complied. It was hard, reliving the memories. Harder still to see his own emotions mirrored in the eyes of the three men listening. When his words finally died, Darien felt exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He sagged back in his seat, taking a long drink of the loathsome wine. After he swallowed that, he took another, tilting his head back and draining the cup.
For long moments, not a word was spoken.
It was Royce who finally broke the silence. “Things haven’t been much better here. Enemy soldiers are still massing in numbers unheard of. They’re gathering just to the east, under the shadow of Orguleth. We’ve had raids almost nightly. They’re probing us. Testing our fortifications and marking the locations of our sentries. Everything points toward a sizable offensive.”
Darien nodded. The Enemy had been mobilizing even before he’d left the pass for Aerysius. His mother had known, as well. That was the reason she had issued the summons, calling every mage back from the distant corners of the land. Aerysius had been gathering its might, preparing for open war. Bound as they were by the Mage’s Oath, the Sentinels would have been meager defense against the size of the invasion that was surely coming. And now he was all that was left to wage that fight.
Proctor must have been sensing the direction of his thoughts. The commander held Darien’s eyes as he spoke with absolute conviction:
“You are the last surviving Sentinel of Aerysius. Your strength shall be our salvation.”
Darien bowed his head, looking down at the empty cup in his hand. He lowered it to the table, setting it carefully on the coarse, unfinished wood.
It seemed that everyone had expectations of him that were far beyond reasonable for just one man. There was always someone who wanted more from him than he could give. It had been the same when he had been an acolyte, and again in the Vale. And now even here.
Garret Proctor had worked with the limitations of his kind before, had calculated them into his tactics all throughout his long career. He had been at the Battle of Meridan. Darien would have thought the man might have learned from the harsh lessons dealt that bitter day.
“I’ve spoken the Oath of Ha
rmony,” Darien reminded him, silently hoping the old soldier would understand.
It was Devlin Craig, his friend and brother in arms for two long years, who strode forward to challenge him on it. The huge man leaned forward with his hands on the edge of the table, staring across its length with a penetrating stare.
He said, “I see you still carry your sword. Exactly what are your intentions, Darien? Are you going to keep your Oath? Or will you forsake it?”
Darien looked away, eyes drawn toward the fire in the hearth. A log broke and rained sparks upward with a startling crack. He watched the sparks drift lazily, wafting on an updraft from the chimney.
“I thought to convince my mother to Unbind the Sentinels before Aerysius fell,” he said, still staring into the fire so he wouldn’t have to meet their eyes. “She refused me. I didn’t understand at the time, but now I do.”
He looked down at the symbol of the chain on his wrist as he traced the lines of it with a finger. “The Oath is all that separates me from the likes of Zavier Renquist and Byron Connel. Cyrus Krane, Arden Hannah … Myria Anassis. You must recognize those names. You know of whom I speak. It’s a safeguard. An assurance that the power I wield does not corrupt me.”
But Garret Proctor only waved a dismissive hand before taking another drink of wine. “You speak of eight demons long dead and moldering in their graves. The fall of Bryn Calazar was a thousand years ago. You can’t compare yourself to them.”
Proctor didn’t understand. Just as Darien hadn’t understood himself, not until the moment he had been forced to decide between a cliff’s sheer face or the shards of a broken vow.
He insisted, “The Oath is imperative for me. Don’t you understand? More than any other mage who’s ever walked this earth, I must take it seriously. I am an eighth-tier Sentinel. There has never been a mage allowed to progress beyond the sixth tier, ever. Do you know why?”
Proctor nodded slightly, but his face was a study in resolve. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve read Cromm’s work. I can even quote you the very passage you’re referring to. But that makes absolutely no difference to our present situation. Right here, right now, you can be a very effective weapon if you allow yourself to explore the full extent of your potential. Over time, you may even become a dangerous weapon. But that is exactly what I need.”
“I will not betray my Oath.”
Craig slammed his hand on the table, jolting Darien’s cup. “Then why are you even here? Tell me that! Aerysius is dead. Its traditions are dead! Why do you insist on holding to a vow you’ve always claimed you don’t believe in?”
Darien started to push his chair back to stand up, angered by Craig’s harsh words. But Proctor’s raised hand kept him firmly in his seat, fuming silently and unable to look at Craig.
“There are other ways,” Royce allowed. “The Sentinels who protected Meridan never broke Oath.”
But Craig was having none of it. “Darien’s father died at Meridan! And Lauchlin wasn’t alone. Twelve mages were lost within the first hour after the fighting broke out!”
Darien’s tension eased as it occurred to him why Craig was so incensed. It wasn’t simply because of his refusal. As any true friend would be, Craig was simply concerned for him.
Proctor’s eyes looked like smoldering, silvered coals. He said to Royce, “We cannot use Darien the way the Sentinels were used at Meridan. If we put him in the thick of battle, he’ll be a target for every Enemy spear in the Black Lands.”
Darien had to nod in agreement. It was true. A black cloak was a target on any field of battle, a trophy prized by the Enemy far above any other.
In an effort to appease, he assured them, “I still have my sword. The Oath doesn’t prevent me from using it, just tradition. And I can heal any wound I take almost instantly.”
But his words had the opposite effect of what he’d intended. Royce was furious. He twisted away from Proctor. With a blademaster’s speed, he grabbed a fistful of Darien’s shirt, hauling him forward and half out of his chair.
“Can you heal yourself when an axe takes your head off? Can you save yourself from the flames when you’re beaten senseless? Your own father burned to death with those chains on his wrists. That’s what the Enemy does to your kind. Is that how you wish to die? You’re the last Sentinel left, Darien. You can’t just throw your life away!”
“Or is that exactly what you mean to do?” accused Craig, eyes brimming with concern. “You’ve lost everything. Aerysius was destroyed by your own brother’s hand. You’ve lost Meiran, and I know how dear she was to you. You’re drowning in pain. Tell me, Darien. Did you come back here just to die?”
Shaking, Darien reached up and firmly disengaged Royce’s hand from his shirt. The entire room reeled around him. Never in his life could he remember ever being so enraged at a friend. He clutched Royce’s hand in a trembling fist as he glared his wrath into the man’s face. Then he threw the soldier’s arm away from him, rising from his chair as he growled through clenched teeth, “I don’t know what you expect from me.”
There was a long, gaping silence. Then:
“Stop.”
The commander’s word had the bite of an order. But neither Craig nor Royce backed down. Instead, they stood frozen in place, glaring.
Proctor told them firmly, “Leave him be. He’s been through enough.”
There was a tense moment of hesitation before both captains finally relaxed. But Darien couldn’t. He stood confronting the two men with shoulders tensed, quivering in fury.
Craig bowed his head, blowing out a heaving sigh. He took a moment to collect himself. Then he looked up at Darien with sincere regret in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry about Meiran. I’m sorry about everything. Gods, Darien.” He turned and stalked away, a fist swiping out at the air in front of him.
Royce nodded, backing down. “Look. We’re all tired. Let’s get some sleep. We can hash this out in the morning.” He looked over his shoulder and waited for Proctor to nod his permission.
“You can bed down here in the tower,” the commander said to Darien, rising from his chair.
Without another word, both Royce and Craig departed, the sound of their boots echoing down the stairs.
Darien turned out his bedroll on the other side of the hearth. Proctor took to his own pallet, fully dressed, as was his custom. Darien placed his sword on the floor and eased himself down beside it, pulling his cloak tight about him as he lay his head back and stared up into the shadows of the rafters above.
He closed his eyes. He could still hear the throb of his pulse in his ears, a constant and irritating rhythm that seemed louder than the shriek of the wind that hissed in through the arrow slits. He measured the pace of his breathing, trying to calm his racing heart.
He lay there a long time. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and crept across the floor. Trying to move as quietly as he could, he started down the steps and let the winding stairs carry him around and down to the tower’s base.
The massive oak door stood closed and barred, so he turned away from it. He would have liked to have gone outside, to stand looking out at the tall crags of the Shadowspears, as he’d done so often in the past. But instead, he turned back toward the soft glow of light coming in through the door to the hall.
Darien picked his way quietly around the scattered bodies of slumbering men to the far corner. He stopped beside a fire that had burned low, now only a glow of dying coals.
He stood still, eyes scanning over the sleeping faces sprawled on the rough wood floor. He let his eyes wander, moving slowly over each face until he found the one he was looking for. Then he knelt beside the slumbering man with curly blond hair and the face of an innocent.
Darien stared deeply into the man’s face, taking in every smooth feature, his gaze traveling to the hand clasped limply around a longbow. He had noticed the man earlier, and something about him had drawn his curiosity.
He reached dow
n, lifting the flaccid hand away from the smooth shaft of wood. He ran his fingers over the palm, tracing upward to stroke the pads of the fingertips. Beneath him, the young man stirred in his sleep, sensing the touch. Darien drew his hand away.
The skin he had felt was soft and smooth, but for a small buildup of callous at the base of the fingers. Those hands were used to the fine strokes of tools, not the steel grip of a weapon or the coarse handles of a plow. More intriguing was the small callous on the third finger of the right hand.
Darien turned his gaze to the bow at the man’s side. It looked to be good wood. Gingerly, he drew it toward him, rising to his feet as he held the bow out before him, angling his gaze down the shaft. There was no warp in the wood. It was an excellent bow. He lowered it to his side, resting the bow on the floor like a staff. Turning, his foot scuffed against a metal hilt on the floor.
Darien raised his eyebrows as he took in the enormous bastard sword lying at the side of a slender man with tousled auburn hair. He scoffed silently as his eyes appraised the delicate wrist that stretched across the hilt. The man was a fool. He had selected a blade that was much too massive for him. If he could even swing it, Darien would be surprised. And even if he could, he’d be so grossly overbalanced and under-speed that he’d find himself easy game for even the greenest Enemy spear.
Darien knelt again, drawing the hand away from the hilt of the weapon and sliding the sword off the floor. He turned and moved away, clutching the elegant longbow in one hand, his other hand clenched around the hilt of the bastard sword.
Kyel awoke the next morning to find a full sheaf of arrows at his side, along with a new waxed bowstring. And Traver’s sword had been replaced by another, this one much smaller and cleaner-looking. The blade was well-oiled, and someone had meticulously honed the dual cutting edges.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 12
