Darien understood. He would have to prove he had the fortitude and resolve to lead Malikar’s armies. In order to lead, he would first have to conquer.
He closed his eyes and reached out from within, taking hold of the magic field. Shadows bloomed within the tent as the light of the lanterns faded to darkness. He concentrated harder, feeding the air with just a trickle of power. After a moment, quiet, uncomfortable noises reached his ears. He drew harder on the magic field, applying more heat and pressure to the air, feeling it thicken around him, until the tent was filled with cries and moans.
Darien held the tormented air in the tent for a minute longer. At last, he let the light return and willed the air to cool and thin. He opened his eyes to find men and women sprawled across the floor, groaning in pain. Shaken elders, pale and trembling, turned to confer with their war chiefs.
Darien didn’t wait for them to decide their positions. Stepping forward, he growled to every man and woman gathered in the tent, “Now kneel and pledge me fealty!”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then every elder in the room went to their knees, bowing forward. They were followed by the officers and then, eventually, the war chiefs.
Darien stood staring down at their backs in fury. He made them wait in the position of prostration a long time, each man and woman frozen as if carved from stone. After minutes, he walked to the back of the pavilion and claimed the bench-like chair Connel had ruled from.
One by one, the war chiefs came forward to offer their pledge. When the last man had kissed his hand, Sayeed rose and retrieved Darien’s sword. In one graceful motion, the officer bared Valdivora from its sheath and dropped to his knees. He bowed his head deeply and, cradling the blade in both hands, offered it to Darien.
Loudly, Sayeed proclaimed, “His Excellency, Darien Lauchlin Nach’tier, Warden of Battlemages, Last Sentinel of Aerysius, and Xerys’ Shadow on Earth!”
Darien rose and accepted the sword, sweeping it around and down, parting the air with a hiss. He looked down at Sayeed.
“Sayeed son of Alborz, I name you First Among Many.”
Sayeed remained frozen on his knees, absorbing his elevation in silence. But another man surged up behind him, face set in lines of outrage. Darien recognized him as Byron Connel’s second-in-command.
“Warden!” the warrior cried. “By tradition, the office of the First is reserved for the general of Bryn Calazar’s legions!”
“No longer.” Darien glared the man back to his knees.
A cold and heavy stillness settled over the pavilion, encasing them all in silence. Long seconds wore away, each seeming to bear the weight of eternity. At last, Darien surrendered his sword into Sayeed’s keeping and sank back down on the bench. He leaned back, spreading his arms as if assuming a throne. The men and women remained on their knees, eyes still fixed upon the ground.
“You may rise,” Darrien allowed.
As the warlords settled back to their respective places, Darien turned his gaze to the man who had challenged him. “Make your report then leave my presence.”
The general rose and, raising a hand to his chest, bowed stiffly. “Warden, the way ahead lies open and undefended before us.”
Darien waved a dismissal, hastening the man out of the tent. He turned to the commanders who remained. “Advise.”
There was a low murmur as the war chiefs conferred quietly. Eventually, the warlord of the Beyads rose to his feet. “Warden, we must apply our minds to the problem of logistics. As we move deeper into this land, it will become more difficult to maintain our supply lines.”
“Agreed.” Darien nodded. “What do you suggest?”
“We need to take care how quickly we move our civilians south of the Pass. It would not be wise to stretch our baggage train thin until we gain control of this region’s food production.”
Darien nodded. The words were an echo of his own thoughts. “That would be wise. What else?”
The men before him broke out in a chorus of suggestions and requests. Darien raised his hand, silencing the gathering.
“Stop. We need to provide food for our people. Until that’s taken care of, no other problem exists. These are my orders: further restrict rationing. Allocate less resources to the civilians—we need our warriors strong enough to fight. We’ll advance southward through the plains and scavenge food as we go.”
An old woman who wore the mantle of a war chief stood and spread her arms expansively. “Forgive me, Warden, but this region appears unpopulated. Will there be food enough to sustain us all?”
Darien leaned forward in his seat, addressing not just the woman, but every chief and elder gathered in the pavilion. “We won’t find enough food in the grasslands. Which is why we’ll have to advance quickly. We’ll go town by town, filling our stomachs as we go. Once we reach the population centers, we’ll have more food than we can eat.”
He paused for a moment, letting his resolve solidify. “We need more than just food. We need our own land. Our own borders. Our own sovereignty. We need everything they have, and there’s only one way we’ll get it. We’ll take this land from them and make it our own. We’ll drive them from the North.”
4
Creek Hollow
Kyel Archer didn’t like the looks of Creek Hollow. The windows of the town reflected the sunset’s orange glare, a harsh intrusion into the tranquility of the forest. Craggy rooftops poked out from behind a palisade that spiked like jagged teeth out of the ridge ahead. The strong odor of wood smoke drifted toward them on the air, overwhelming the clean fragrance of the pines.
He rode alongside Cadmus on a trail that meandered through the dappled shadows of a forest. Kyel concentrated on the stillness of the grove: the faint stirring of leaves, the steady creak of his saddle, the dull plodding of his horse’s hooves. The insistent hammering of a woodpecker echoed through the trees, along with the faint scampering of squirrels rummaging in the branches overhead.
“I really hope there’s an inn,” he commented. His voice sounded louder than he’d intended, interrupting the stillness of the grove.
“If you’d wanted an inn, then we should have taken the Northern Road,” Cadmus grumbled, not for the first time.
Kyel ignored him and closed his eyes, savoring the quiet. The cleric had been complaining about his choice of route ever since they’d bypassed Wolden and headed west toward the Vale of Amberlie. Kyel had avoided the usual trade routes, desiring their passage to go as unnoticed as possible. He wanted to arrive in Glen Farquist alive, not delivered on a bier.
He reached down to grip the haft of the morning star affixed to his saddle. Instantly, he felt a soothing wash of magic flood into him from the talisman. It was as though the weapon wanted to be held and was discontent at merely riding at his side. Whenever he touched it, the artifact brought him a feeling of contentment he hadn’t felt in years. It was the only thing that relieved the tension of his nerves. They had been stretched to razor-thinness ever since he’d absorbed Meiran’s gift from her dying body.
Kyel shuddered, thinking of the awful amount of power contained within him. It was quiescent at the moment, though sometimes it made his blood rage as if boiling. He wondered how much longer he could stand it; he had a full eleven tiers of power ravaging his mind. Which, Kyel figured, was tantamount to a death sentence. He just didn’t know how long it would take.
When they reached Creek Hollow’s unguarded gate, his horse balked and tossed its head, stubbornly refusing to enter. Kyel had to dismount and lead the gelding through the gate, which seemed more than peculiar. Within the perimeter of the palisade, the town looked even more unnerving than it had from the forest below the ridge. He remounted and directed his horse down an empty boulevard lined with decrepit storefronts made of logs that seemed to sag with weariness. Many of the buildings were boarded up; some looked ready to just give up and die. There were very few people about—all men—who stopped and stared as they rode past.
A breeze kicked up, chasing
leaves around the street. A faded sign creaked above a door, swaying back and forth on rusted chains. The daylight had faded to dusk by the time they drew their horses up in the center of town. Kyel looped his gelding’s reins around the pommel of his saddle then climbed down, stretching his legs. He stood dusting his shirt off, staring at the one building in town that seemed intact: a river-rock inn with windows that glowed an eerie, death-pale light.
Part of him wanted to climb back on his horse and ride out of town. The last time he’d stepped foot in an inn had been with Traver. The thought brought a sharp pang of sadness along with it. Traver was dead now. And, like everything else, his death had been Kyel’s fault.
He looked up at the wan light glowing through the inn’s mottled glass. Leading his horse by the bridle, he followed Cadmus across the yard toward the livery stable. They handed the horses over to the hostler then made their way back toward the inn.
Kyel paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The common room was mostly empty, with only a few customers huddled around an enormous rock hearth. Kyel found that curious—it wasn’t all that cold out. He took a step forward. A board creaked beneath his weight. Conversation died. Every stare in the room turned to fix on him.
Cadmus looked at him and shrugged. To Kyel, the reactions of the locals seemed off. They couldn’t know he was a mage; the black cloak that identified him was shoved deep in the dusty saddlebag thrown over his shoulder. Kyel took another step then froze, his eyes snapping wide open.
He’d forgotten he was wearing Thar’gon strapped to his hip.
Self-conscious, Kyel reached down protectively and grasped the weapon’s haft. He met the gaze of one of the men standing by the hearth, a stare that seemed absent any presence of thought. The fellow paused in the action of raising his tankard to his lips. His expression never changed.
A man behind Kyel made a gurgling sound, like a throat drowning in old phlegm. He turned to find the inn’s proprietor staring at them from behind a plank bar. Kyel motioned Cadmus forward to arrange their room and meals, while he claimed a seat at a table tucked away in a corner.
Cadmus returned shortly after haggling with the innkeeper, carrying two tankards of ale. He threw his portly body down on the bench opposite Kyel, sliding a tankard across the table with a grin just as dilapidated as the town. He glanced over his shoulder at the men by the hearth.
Kyel whispered, “Why do you suppose they’re staring at us?”
The cleric shrugged, taking a large swallow of ale. “Who could say? I doubt they get many wayfarers through here.”
Kyel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, taking a sip from his tankard. As he did, the sight of his bare arm made him choke. His shirtsleeves had pulled back, exposing the markings of the chains on his wrists.
He looked over to the men by the fire and saw them staring at him. Kyel gave a long, troubled sigh, looking down at the rough-hewn wood of the table. He’d left his cloak off in an effort to avoid this kind of attention. He’d attracted it nonetheless.
The men by the hearth exchanged glances then turned away. Kyel settled back into his seat, frowning into his tankard as he awaited more problems. But only the sound of Cadmus slurping his ale disturbed the quiet.
Their supper was brought by a pretty serving girl with warm brown hair and a shy smile. Kyel nodded his thanks at her, noting that she was the only woman he’d seen so far in town. As she slipped away, he turned his attention to the roasted squab she’d set down in front of them.
Cadmus wasted no time tearing into his bird, pulling the flesh off the bones. He talked while he chewed. “You need to stop overthinking things. I understand—you’ve found yourself in an unenviable situation. But, the way I figure it, you have two choices. First, you can worry yourself into inaction trying to make sense of the senseless. Or you can accept your fate and make the most of the time you have left.”
Kyel frowned. “That’s not what worries me.”
Cadmus harrumphed. He shoved a small wing into his mouth and stripped the meat off. “I know. You’re terrified you’re going to go mad, like your former master.” He took a heavy sip from his tankard. “You won’t. To be blunt, you’re not going to have time to deteriorate that far.”
“You can’t know that,” Kyel said. “I’m eleventh tier. Darien was only eighth tier and look how fast he declined.”
“It’s hard to say how much of that was power and how much was pressure. Or personality.” Cadmus shrugged. “I’ll let you know if I think there’s a problem. We’ll worry about it when we have to.”
“Can I get you more ale?”
Kyel looked up into the doll-like face of the serving girl. She stood gaping down at the chains on his wrists with moonstruck eyes. He did a double-take, eventually coming to the conclusion that she was, in fact, real. Dumbly, he offered his spent tankard to her. She accepted it with the slightest grin then set off, meandering back toward the kitchen.
“That’s opportunity there.”
Kyel fixed Cadmus with an irritated look. “She saw the chains. I’m surprised she wasn’t terrified.”
“What did I just say about making sense of the senseless?”
Kyel scoffed, pushing his platter away even though it still contained a half-eaten squab. When Cadmus raised his eyebrows and gestured at it, Kyel waved him on.
Cadmus slid the dish toward himself and picked the carcass up whole, tearing into it. Kyel’s eyes roamed to the group of men by the hearth. He wondered if they were locals or just travelers passing through. Whichever, they were still shooting him glances when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“Here you go.”
The serving girl was back with her sweet face and starry eyes, scooting his filled tankard across the table toward him. Kyel managed to yank his gaze from her cleavage only by a heroic feat of will.
“Are you really a mage?”
Kyel gulped. “I am.” He had to force himself to look at her face. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cadmus’ mouth screw into a grimace of barely-contained laughter. Frustrated, Kyel stabbed him a glare.
“Are you a good mage or a bad mage?”
Such an odd question, especially in light of the animosity he received anywhere else in the Rhen. This tucked-away little hamlet seemed to have missed the more condemning rumors that circulated the North. Though not all, apparently.
“I’m a good mage,” he responded carefully.
The girl brightened. “That’s what I thought. You look nice.”
Kyel felt his ego swell with the compliment. He took a drink of ale, reminded of Cadmus’ mention of opportunity. She did seem rather sweet. Her shoulder-length brown hair and pale eyes were especially to his liking. But he wasn’t the type to take advantage of a mage-smitten girl he’d never see again. It just wouldn’t be right.
The smile fell away from her lips, replaced by a fretful expression. “You’re sworn to help people, aren’t you?”
To Kyel, the question sounded like trouble. He answered guardedly, “Something like that.”
“Can you help me?”
Suddenly wary, Kyel opened his mouth to discourage her, but was drowned out by a shout from the inn’s proprietor. Red-faced, the girl knelt beside the table and, running nervous fingers through her hair, whispered, “Meet me out back in an hour? In the barn?”
It had sounded like a question, but she was gone before Kyel could refuse. He turned back to Cadmus, who was chuckling and shaking his head. With a frown, Kyel knocked back a large swig of ale.
“What do you think that was all about?” he asked in irritation.
Cadmus shrugged, a leering grin on his face. “If you want to know, you’d better go find out.”
“’Spose she’s in trouble?”
“Perhaps.” Cadmus tossed the spent carcass down on the platter. “Maybe she has a sick child or a souse for a husband. Or maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’s just out for a romp. Whichever it is, just remember one thing: we don’t have ti
me to pick up strays. Understood?”
“Understood.” Kyel felt affronted that Cadmus would even point out something so obvious. What did the man think, that he was going to fall for some starry-eyed village girl and drag her along after them? He’d never do that to any girl. Not when he had less than two months to live.
They finished their meal in silence. When Cadmus retired to their room, Kyel remained at the table, deep in thought and nursing his tankard. He’d stopped paying attention to the group by the hearth. Every once in a while, he chanced a glance at the serving girl. She was conspicuously ignoring him, taking great care to avoid eye contact. He wondered if it was because she regretted their conversation. Or an attempt to hide her interest in him from her employer.
When he’d figured about an hour had passed, Kyel slid a couple coppers to the center of the table and scooped up his saddle bags. He trudged up to the second level and left his things with a snoring Cadmus, then stole downstairs and out the front door.
The wind was up, blustery. Thankful for his coat, Kyel hugged himself as he made his way across the yard toward the stable. A tumbleweed skittered by, making him wonder what business a tumbleweed even had in a pine-forest hamlet. There were many such inconsistencies about Creek Hollow that just didn’t set right with him.
He had to fight with the stable door to get it open. Then he had to struggle with it to get it closed, as if the wind was determined to rip the door from his hand. Inside, Kyel found himself accosted by the acute odor of horse manure. The only light came from a slatted window on the far wall. Kyel felt along with his hands as he made his way down the central aisle between stalls. Razor-thin streaks of moonlight slanted in through the window slats—not enough to do his vision any good. Nickers and snorts greeted him from both sides. A velvet nose shoved into him, breathing a gush of warm air against his neck.
The aisle ended at a slivery plank wall. No serving girl, for which Kyel wasn’t sure he was grateful or disappointed. But then a gust of wind and moonlight erupted from a side door, startling the horses. Kyel whirled toward a hooded figure carrying a lantern who stepped inside then stopped to fight with the door. Striding forward, Kyel took the lantern, shielding its flame against the wind as he helped the girl get the door closed. Throwing off her hood, the serving girl turned and smiled at him shyly.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 116
