Eyes squinting, Kyel didn’t know they were approaching the node until he felt the barrier come crashing down around him, stifling his perception of the magic field completely. The feeling was even worse, this time. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on that comforting sense until he had started exercising it. When it was gone, the void it left behind was terrifying.
Confused and miserable, he slouched low in the saddle and tried not to think about it. He soon found even that impossible. The thirst of his mind for the telltale pulse of the field was like a gnawing hunger that only grew stronger and wouldn’t subside.
Ahead through the rain, he could see the shadow of the black horse pull up as its rider dismounted. Kyel lowered himself from the back of his own mount and walked to where Darien was unloading the bundle he had tied behind his saddle. Soon even the absence of the magic field was forgotten. At the mage’s direction, Kyel found himself pounding stakes into the ground with the blunt end of a rock as Darien unrolled a large square of oiled cloth.
In short order, they had a lean-to constructed against the protective face of the rock wall, a small fire glowing beneath it. But though all he wished was to throw himself down beside the comfort of the fire and warm his shivering body, Kyel didn’t get the chance. At the mage’s direction, he found himself set to work preparing breakfast as Darien just sat there, looking silently on.
It was not much of a meal. Darien had given him only scant time to gather provisions before ushering him out of the keep. He’d had just enough time to grab a few small bags from the stores. Kyel hadn’t even bothered to look to see what was inside. So he found himself cooking up a meal of half-rotten turnips and a few strips of salted beef that looked as if the rats had been at it first. When he served up the sick mixture, Darien brought the food to his lips and ate without complaint or thanks.
That bothered Kyel. He remembered his first conversation with the Sentinel, when he’d told him simply, my friends call me Darien. That one statement had done so much at the time to lower his defenses, to draw him in. Kyel had begun to think he’d found someone he could relate to, even confide in. Someone who understood him. But now, it seemed he’d lost that new-found friendship just as quickly as it had begun. Darien no longer treated him as an equal.
After the meal was finished, Kyel found himself set to the task of cleaning the cooking pot and taking care of the needs of the horses. As he led the two geldings over to the bank of a small stream, he glanced back at the shadow of the lean-to. Darien was still sitting there, staring out across the dreary landscape, eyes studiously introspective. Throughout the meal, he had never uttered a word. The only communication Kyel had with the man was when he was given directives. He was starting to feel discouraged and more than a little betrayed.
The rain had stopped by the time he returned to the lean-to. Feeling uncomfortable in more ways than he could name, Kyel sat down at his master’s side. The Sentinel gave no indication he was even aware of Kyel’s presence. Darien’s gaze was still directed outward at the recesses of the ravine. Or perhaps inward, withdrawn somewhere into the frothing turmoil that haunted his mind. Whatever the case, Kyel was left feeling alone, and lonely.
In an attempt to draw him out in conversation, Kyel asked, “Why is your Oath so important to you?”
Darien blinked, lowering his head as his eyes slipped to the side in thought. To Kyel, he appeared to be struggling for just the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost wistful.
“The only reason I’m alive now is because I stepped off a cliff. I had no idea that the fall wouldn’t kill me. It was only by blind luck that I survived. There was another mage below in the Vale who saw me falling and saved my life.”
He paused a moment, rotating his hands so that his palms faced upward, his eyes contemplating the gleaming duel chains. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still up there on that cliff, only dangling from the edge by my fingertips. I can choose to keep holding on, hoping that somehow everything will turn out all right. Or I can choose to let go. Only this time, if I decide to fall, I know there’ll be no one around to stop me.”
Kyel felt hopelessly out of his depth. Try as he might, he couldn’t understand what the man was trying to say. “So, you’re afraid if you give up your Oath, you’ll die?”
“No.” The Sentinel shook his head. “When I was up on that cliff, it wasn’t death that scared me. What scared me most was the fall itself.”
“I don’t understand,” Kyel whispered.
“I hope you never have to.”
Kyel looked to him for further explanation, but there was none forthcoming. The mage’s stare had once again retreated inward, the shadows now storming violently across his eyes.
The day lingered, the rains tapering on and off. Kyel sat with his arms wrapped around him, shivering in silence. The horses foraged across the black dirt, necks stretched down in search of food. But there was none to be had. No blade of grass broke through the soil. In a land where sunlight simply didn’t exist, no seed could ever take root.
A sound from down below broke the uneasy silence of the ravine. Kyel leaned forward, listening. Beside him, Darien sat sharply up and reached for his sword. Kyel saw his movement and went for his bow, feeling a sudden stab of fear. He glanced around at the surrounding slopes, seeking, but finding nothing.
Then, echoing up from below, he heard the rattle of tack and the plodding of hoofbeats. He stood, bringing his bow up and nocking an arrow to the string. Horses were approaching. He trained the shaft of the arrow on the chest of the first horse, a target far larger than its rider. But as he narrowed his eyes in concentration, he found himself releasing the tension on the bowstring.
To his relief, Kyel recognized the form of Sutton Royce, flanked by a small number of mounted men. Darien had been right. Royce must be an excellent tracker, to have found them so quickly in the dark. The horses walked toward them up the slope, Royce out in front on his dark brown destrier.
Kyel lowered his bow as the captain and his entourage pulled up before them, perhaps twenty paces away from their makeshift camp. He felt heartened to see the man. Perhaps his presence meant there had been some resolution at the keep that would allow Darien to feel comfortable enough to return. Kyel longed for even the uneasy tension of Proctor’s tower. At least the chamber was warm, and he could always escape if he had to.
But, to his dismay, he found that Darien had not relaxed one bit. His hand still gripped his scabbard, the blade bared a threatening inch. Kyel thought he was being ridiculous. Royce was Darien’s friend, and the man’s mere presence could scarcely pose a threat. The burly soldier dismounted from his horse, taking a step toward them.
“We need to talk, Darien,” he said as he moved off to the side in the direction of a low hill to the north of their campsite.
Darien’s eyes tracked Royce’s gray cloak as he walked away with his back to them. The Sentinel loosened his grip on the hilt, allowing the blade to slide fully back. Scabbard in hand, he rose to his feet. Without a glance at Kyel, he moved out of the shadow of the lean-to and followed the soldier across the black soil toward the slope of the hill.
There, just out of earshot, the two met and appeared to be speaking. Kyel had no idea what words were exchanged. Darien seemed to be arguing heatedly, his expression irate, his motions brisk, though his words were kept low enough that Kyel couldn’t catch more than a few syllables. It was probably just a continuation of the argument in the tower, when Proctor had all but ordered Darien to forswear the Mage’s Oath.
Darien turned sharply with a rippling length of his blue-black cloak, looking ready to stalk off and storm away. As he did, Royce’s mailed fist came smashing down against the side of his head in a powerful strike that took him to the ground.
Kyel’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. He grabbed for his bow but was immediately surrounded by Royce’s men. They jumped down from their horses, caging him in with the bulk of their bodies, swords drawn and threatening.
A man reached out and ripped the longbow right out of his fingers. Kyel almost started to fight for it, but the threat of a crossbow aimed at his face stopped him dead. The grim soldier holding the weapon looked as if he had every intention of using it. The only thing Kyel could do was stand and watch the events unfolding on the hill, helpless to do anything.
Royce advanced, stalking toward Darien with his blade drawn and poised. His gaze was filled with cold fury, raging with a harrowing mixture of fire and ice. Kyel felt his eyes widen with a jarring slap of understanding.
Royce was acting under orders. He had to be. And, knowing the man those orders must have come from, Kyel feared the ruthless nature of their intent. Again, he thought of Proctor as a chess master, sitting in his dark tower day after day, brooding as his mind sifted through strategy in an attempt to find himself any desperate advantage within grasp.
Only, this time, Proctor was doing much more than sacrificing a mere pawn. Try as he might, Kyel couldn’t think of any reason in the world why.
On the ground, Darien moved slowly, bringing an arm up to wipe a stream of blood from his eyes. Royce hovered over him, sword poised in the air. His lips moved, but Kyel couldn’t hear his voice. In his hands, the blade of his sword trembled.
Royce screamed, throwing his head back. The sound of his booming cry echoed off the walls of the ravine as he brought the sword up over his head in a double-fisted grip. The steel glinted white in a sudden flare of lightning. Then it was falling, streaking down.
Darien rolled out from under the blade as it cleaved deeply into the dirt. Somehow, he ended up on his feet, his own steel singing with a metallic ring as he drew his sword and flung the scabbard to the ground. The mage edged backward, holding the hilt with both hands as Royce advanced toward him.
Blood covered the side of Darien’s face and ran down his neck. His eyes blazed with a molten fury that made even Royce’s stare seem brittle in comparison.
The captain swept out with his blade, and Darien parried the strike. Then the mage advanced with a smooth series of cuts that made Royce’s sword dance in the air to keep up with them. The soldier disengaged, swinging to the side as Darien dove after him, bringing his sword around to slice over his shoulder.
The blow was caught on the flat of Royce’s blade. Steel shrieked as Darien’s sword slid down the length of it.
They were both masters, Kyel realized, as he watched the graceful but deadly dance. Both men seemed equally matched, Darien’s quick, confident movements making up for what he lacked of Royce’s brutal strength.
They moved in a slow circle as their swords played in the air between them, first one man advancing and then the other, neither one losing an inch of ground. The soldiers surrounding Kyel were watching, also, attention riveted on the fight.
Royce twisted his hands, pushing Darien away as he thrust out in a wicked undercut. But the mage spun back, bringing his sword up to deflect the next expert slice already coming at him.
Darien shifted into a two-handed grip as he pressed Royce back down the hill with a storm of ringing blows. The captain was forced to retreat, his sword barely moving quick enough to catch the hailing steel that seemed to be falling all around him from every direction at once.
Royce’s foot stumbled over a dent in the ground. He brought his blade up to shield his face as he fought to keep his balance.
But the mage didn’t let up. He let his blade sing in the air, raining down another precise sequence of attacks timed to exploit the opportunity and shatter Royce’s defense. The captain was beaten steadily back, down and off the hill.
Darien lunged, letting his sword slide under the captain’s blade. He caught Royce’s crossguard with a twisting motion, then reached out with his hand and ripped the hilt out of the captain’s grasp.
Darien swept his blade back over his shoulder as Royce’s sword fell from his hands. He stood there shaking, chest heaving, eyes burning with explosive rage.
A ringing peal of laughter echoed down from the ridge above them.
Thinking he was either dreaming or insane, Kyel glanced up the slope into the face of a pale and beautiful woman mounted on the back of a glistening white horse. Her platinum blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, stirring in the wind. The gown she wore was silver-blue silk, flowing luxuriously over the sides of her mount. Her youthful face was the picture of gentle innocence.
So in shock was he that Kyel almost didn’t notice the line of Enemy soldiers spread out on both sides of the woman’s horse, lining the walls of the ravine. All were archers, and every bow had an arrow nocked and drawn tight against a black-helmed head.
The woman’s melodic voice rang out over the mountain slopes like sparkling silver bells of laughter. “To think I rode all the way from Bryn Calazar just to kill a wayward mage. Imagine my surprise at finding his own friends already doing my work for me.”
She smiled, a playful glimmer in her eyes.
Kyel watched the woman’s horse descend the slope toward them, the folds of her silvery blue fabric rippling in the wind. She wasn’t wearing a black cloak, but Kyel knew the woman had to be another mage. An Enemy mage, despite her honey-innocent looks. She slid down from her palfrey’s back, stepping lightly across the ground toward them. Her eyes were wide and crystalline blue, doe-like. On her lips, she wore a childish grin.
Three Enemy soldiers advanced beside her, sweeping forward with blades held at the ready. Together, they pressed Royce away from where he stood as if frozen under the threat of drawn bowstrings.
Numb with confusion and fear, Kyel allowed himself to be guided back against the slope with the group of soldiers who had come with Royce. There, they stood together in a cluster, guarded by a small contingent of plate-mailed bodies with weapons drawn.
The woman gathered her skirts as she drew up at Darien’s side. She reached a slender hand up to touch his face, caressing a finger down the side of his cheek.
“So, you’re the Battlemage I’ve heard so much about,” she said in that bell-like voice. “Do you have any idea what we do to your kind?”
The smile on her face radiated a thrill of anticipation as her pale eyes glistened in delight.
Devlin Craig grimaced as he surveyed the sad collection of men going through the motions of practice in the yard. He had taken over their training for two days, and in that short amount of time had found himself growing more discouraged by the hour. After weeks of practice, the recruits had come a long way, but they were far too few, their talents still green and undeveloped. It took months to make a soldier, months these men simply didn’t have. Not with the size of the Enemy host gathering on the other side of the two peaks to the north.
He stalked up to one of the recruits who was sweeping his practice sword around in a flowery dance of swirling arcs that looked impressive but were also grossly ineffective. Tearing the waster out of the man’s hand, Craig hurled the wooden sword to the ground at his feet.
“If I wanted a dance master, I’d have sent to the Player’s Guild,” he growled, giving the recruit a slap on the face with the flat of his own waster. The frightened youth raised a hand to his cheek, mouth open wide.
“Get out of my sight,” Craig growled at him, stepping forward menacingly and gesturing back toward the keep. “A few days of covering latrine pits might clear your head a bit. Now, go! Before I change my mind and have you thrashed instead!”
The man whirled, ashen-faced in shame, and ran away from him. Craig scowled, sweeping his gaze over the rest of the men who had paused in their practice to stare at him.
“Get back to work!” he bellowed, glaring as each man scrambled back into their stances.
Perhaps he’d been too hard on the boy, but Craig didn’t care. He continued his survey of the men, strolling back down the front line and examining each man’s movements with a practiced eye.
Not one of them dared look up to meet his stare as he walked by. They were all terrified of him, as well they should be. He was in a decisively bad moo
d.
The woman’s breath stroked the skin of Darien’s neck below his ear, the feel of it sending electric shivers down his nerves, spreading throughout his entire body. He turned his face away, refusing to look at her, as soft platinum curls brushed against the side of his cheek. The scent of her filled his nostrils, a fresh yet subtle fragrance that reminded him of a field awash with glowing spring. Her very presence exuded a frightening, seductive energy. She brought a fingertip up and traced his lips with a soft caress.
“Do you know who I am?”
Darien shivered. There was only one person in the world she could possibly be, but that woman was a thousand years dead. He felt confident, though. She so perfectly matched the descriptions he’d read, it was almost uncanny. He decided to risk his guess.
“Arden Hannah.”
The woman’s eyes widened, a smile of appreciation blooming on her perfect lips. “Oh, very good, my sweet. And you must be Darien Lauchlin, though I’m uncertain how that could possibly be. Your brother seemed quite convinced you were dead.”
Darien’s gaze darted toward her. “How…?”
She pulled back enough to stare, smiling, into his face. Her hand moved to stroke the stubble on his cheek. She whispered in a low and breathless voice:
“You resemble your mother remarkably.”
Darien flinched back from her touch. “You’ve never laid eyes on my mother.”
The smile fell from her beautiful face, her lips pursing in an expression of profound sympathy. “But I have. I was staring right into her eyes the moment I killed her.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 18
