“This looks too familiar,” Kyel grumbled.
Darien set off across the curved valley, outpacing the others by design. He remembered exactly where the entrance to the hidden stair was, beneath a spelled set of runic numerals. Fortunately, he knew the Word of Command that unlocked them. The numerals awakened, gleaming with an inner light. A dark opening appeared in the scorched rock beneath, revealing a set of dim stairs that climbed upward into darkness.
Darien looked back over his shoulder at the others. “Remember. Shield yourselves. We’ll be walking into the vortex that surrounds Aerysius.”
Naia dropped her pack on the ground, then knelt to rifle through it. She withdrew two short branches and a sealed earthen jug. Unstoppering the jug, she produced long, oil-soaked strips of cloth and began winding them around the ends of the shafts.
“This time, I thought to bring torches.” She smiled up at him. The torch in her hand burst aflame.
Darien accepted the other torch with a feeling of appreciation. Too many times in his life, he had taken too many people for granted. Naia’s name was at the top of his long list of regrets.
“You first,” he said, moving behind her.
The stairway was steep and brutal. Even with the torchlight, Darien found it hard to keep his footing. The pool of light they moved within extended only a short distance, enough to see the steps ahead, but not enough to see where they led. The stairs were broken intermittently by short landings, where their party halted to catch their breath. Over the edge was only a vast maw of emptiness. Darien had no idea what manner of death a fall would bring.
His mind wandered rampantly as he climbed. His thoughts turned to Azár, his beautiful wife. He tried picturing her in his mind. But, to his irritation, every image he summoned was out of focus, as though it had been years since he’d last looked upon her face. Perhaps it was just his mind’s way of coping. If so, it was a cruel trick.
A ghastly roar shook the mountain beneath their feet, rattling the stair. Jagged fissures raced across their path, fracturing the steps. Kyel staggered and fell to his knees. He glanced up, eyes wide and startled.
“What was that?” he gasped.
Staring upward into darkness, Darien responded, “I think we’re running out of time.”
40
The Demon’s Pawn
Naia tripped.
Darien reached out to catch her but was a fraction too slow. She hit the floor of the landing with a grunt and a splash. He reached down and helped her back to her feet, stabilizing her until she could find her balance.
“The floor is wet!” Naia exclaimed through chattering teeth.
Darien moved past her, his feet splashing through pools of water on the floor. The flame of his torch reflected in a distorted pattern off the surface of the water. Despite the light, he could see only a short distance ahead. But it was enough to make him feel certain they had finally come to the end of the stairs.
“We’ve reached the bottom of the warrens,” he said.
“The Well’s up three levels, isn’t it?” Kyel asked. He mounted the last step and stopped beside Darien, his face a jagged dance of shadow in the flickering torchlight. At Darien’s nod, he strode forward a few steps before turning back. “We have to keep moving. Can’t you feel it?”
“I feel it,” Darien growled.
He tossed his torch on the ground. The flame hissed out as it struck the water. In its place, he conjured a mist of magelight that trailed ahead of them, lighting their path with a silvery glow. Kyel stared at the magelight with a look of speculation on his face, then turned to glare back at Darien. He flung his own torch over the edge of the landing.
They followed Darien’s magelight down a long tunnel. Naia trailed after him, while Kyel brought up the rear. Their feet splashed through water that pooled on the floor and wept like blood down the walls. The warrens were humid and cold, smelling sharply of loamy mildew. It wasn’t long until they reached a series of adjoining chambers Darien remembered well.
They pressed on until they came to a winding stair that led precipitously upward.
Suddenly, the entire magic field wrenched and groaned, gasping like a dying thing. The field lines oscillated wildly, sending a sharp pain lancing through Darien’s skull. He brought his arms up to cover his head, but the gesture did little good. It wasn’t something that could be muffled or blocked out. It was more like something that was trapped within, clawing to escape.
Eventually it passed. But not without leaving Darien feeling shaken and fatigued.
He stopped for a moment, collecting himself, and then started forward again. The stairs ended in a long, mist-lit corridor that seemed to waver around them. Ahead, there was an intersection that looked familiar. Darien brought his hand up, signaling a halt. He groped along the slimy, spring-fed rock until he found a small button. He pushed it. The trap built into the wall gave a small click. Straightening, he turned and started forward—
—and jolted to a stop.
His magelight collapsed into darkness.
The air around him cooled to a glacial chill.
Utter blackness caved in on top of them, complete in its totality. Cold terror stabbed into Darien’s gut like barbed crystals of ice. He didn’t need to see to recognize the threat. Necrators. He could feel them there, lingering in the shadows. Waiting for their master’s command.
From out of the chill emptiness, he heard the swishing sounds of footsteps. They paced slowly, relentlessly nearer, stopping just ahead. There was a long gap of silence. Then a malevolent voice pierced the darkness like a knife.
“I warned him not to trust you. He wouldn’t listen to me. It took Alexa’s death to convince him otherwise.”
A sinister gleam of crimson magelight slithered toward them from out of the darkness. By its glow, Darien could make out the owner of the voice. Cyrus Krane strode forward to stand in front of him, gazing into Darien’s face with a strange, mercurial expression that seemed stuck somewhere between contempt and regret. Krane’s necrators glided smoothly forward, ringing them in like a shadow-woven cage.
Leaning closer, Krane asked in a taunting voice, “Has there ever been an oath you haven’t broken?”
“No,” Darien answered honestly.
Krane sneered. He turned away and, with a wave of his hand, beckoned them to follow. “Come. We haven’t much time.”
The ring of necrators constricted, herding them forward. Naia winced as one of the shadows reached out to touch her. Darien pulled her close against him, out of the demon’s reach. With a hand on Naia’s shoulder, he moved after Krane. The unnatural terror provoked by the necrators lessoned, slowly displaced by anger.
Chaperoned by their demonic guard, they had no choice but to follow the ancient darkmage up long flights of steps that wept running water in an unnatural cascade. As they neared the surface, the magic field wrenched atrociously, sending a shockwave through Darien that shook him all the way to his bones. He reached out and caught himself on the wall, his knees turning to jelly.
Krane glanced back at him and smirked.
Darien scowled his anger at Krane’s back, but even that small token of resistance sapped his strength. A chill breeze fanned the magelight ahead. The crimson mist crept forward again only hesitantly. Ahead, the corridor ended at a steep flight of steps that angled through the roof of the tunnel. The stairs were illuminated by an awful green light that flickered and strobed, as if lit by a thousand jabs of lightning.
Another gust whipped Darien’s hair and billowed his cloak. It brought with it a sharp, pungent odor, like the smell of clay after a heavy rain. He recognized the scent and knew the origin. The Gateway stood just above them, feeding the air with the Netherworld’s taint.
They ascended through the roof of the warrens, buffeted by gusts of wind. All around them, the magic field shuddered and winced. It was growing fainter, Darien realized, its struggles weak and exhausted. The rock walls strobed with a hellish light. Rumbling crackles of thunder sh
ook the entire mountain to its core.
Darien paused at the top of the stairs, reluctant to take the last step. The empty terraces of dead Aerysius still haunted his memories. He had no desire to look upon them, to be reminded of the majesty of the city that had been his home and heritage. It took every last drop of resolve he had left to will his feet forward after Krane.
They emerged into a ghastly world of buffeting winds and tormented skies. Darien narrowed his eyes against the raging gale. His gaze was drawn upward to a towering pillar of green light that pierced the heavens high above. Surging clouds circulated the spire like a vortex. The sight of it, the smell of it, made his stomach clench in dread. It was an abomination, a malevolent lance that pierced the sky and impaled the earth. At his side, Naia issued a sharp gasp of horror.
“This way,” Krane commanded, impelling them forward.
They had no choice but to obey. The ancient darkmage led them across the remains of the Grand Square’s once-elaborate tiles, now broken and scattered. Ahead through the shrieking wind, Darien could make out a glowing orb of light where the enormous Hall of the Watchers had once stood. Now, only the bared footprint remained, jagged shards of broken stone jutting upward from the ground. The rubble of the hall had been cleared away, leaving behind only a half-buried foundation.
The ring of necrators constricted again, now little more than an arm span away. Darien could no longer ignore the fear inspired by their influence. It was too encompassing, eating away at his courage and resolve until very little remained. Staggering against the rage of the wind, he stumbled forward into the circle of light.
And stopped, frozen between strides.
He stood on the margin of Aerysius’ Circle of Convergence. Its power had been quenched the night the city had fallen.
Somehow, impossibly, the Circle had been restored.
Silver light shone from its rock-hewn lines, bright enough to chase back the night. A liquid radiance delineated the Circle’s rays, which converged to form an enormous eight-pointed star. The Circle hummed eagerly, already awakened and primed. Darien stared at it in awe, rocked by the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. There was only one man who had the skill and knowledge to repair such an evolved artifact of magic.
Darien’s stomach sank like a lead weight. He raised his eyes to look across the Circle of Convergence. What he saw confirmed his fear. Restrained by bonds of light, Quinlan Reis knelt, hunched in defeat, on the broken ground at Renquist’s feet. The Prime Warden stood over him, wielding Quin’s own sword in his hand. The sight was chilling.
Darien knew exactly what it meant.
He had failed utterly.
No. It was worse than that. He’d allowed himself to be manipulated from the very beginning. By Renquist’s design, he had betrayed every person he’d ever loved. Every value he held sacred. Every cause he’d ever championed, every commitment he’d ever made. And he had done it all willingly, deluded into thinking he was in command of his own destiny. He had been Renquist’s puppet all along, and too arrogant to recognize it.
The weight of that realization was crushing. It nearly drove him to his knees.
Beneath him, the Circle of Convergence throbbed in time to his own heartbeat.
Slowly, inexorably, Zavier Renquist crossed the pulsating Circle, leading Quin by a leash woven of magic. He drew to a halt before Darien, gazing upon him with the saddened face of a father sorely disappointed in a son. There was no air of triumph about him, and there should have been. Darien wondered at that. Summoning his courage, he lifted his eyes to meet Renquist’s gaze. It was like looking into the depths of the abyss. There was nothing remotely human in that stare.
Zavier Renquist informed him, “It is time for you to complete your purpose, your final duty to our Master. Thank you, Darien, for your sacrifice.”
He lifted the sword. At first, Darien thought he was going to strike him down. But instead, Renquist handed the blade to Cyrus Krane. Then he stepped back out of the Circle’s pulsating light.
Krane stared down at the hilt of the sword in his hand as if unsure what to do with it. A slow smile formed on his lips. He turned to Quin, raising the blade. “I’ve waited a thousand years to gut you with this.”
Quin stared at him blandly. “That’s an awfully long time. You must be fantastically incompetent.”
The blade jerked upward, slicing a cut across Quin’s cheek.
“No!” Naia sprang forward, dodging a necrator.
Renquist waved his hand casually. With a startled scream, Naia staggered and collapsed. Instantly, Quin was in motion, throwing himself at Cyrus Krane.
He was knocked to the ground as if smacked by a god-sized hammer. He rolled over and groaned, coming to rest against Naia.
Krane swung his attention to Kyel. With a jerk of his head, he summoned the Sentinel forward. “We need your talisman.”
Impelled by the threat of the necrators, Kyel had no choice but to do as directed. Darien finally realized Renquist’s strategy: he was gathering them together in one place. He intended to kill them all, then use Krane as a conduit to store their combined power. For Renquist’s plan to work, Krane would have to be touching all three of them when they died.
The way Darien saw it, they had only one chance.
“Stop,” he commanded. Reaching into the pocket of his cloak, he withdrew the Soulstone. He held it up in front of him, swaying by the band, the red stone glowing brilliantly.
“With this, you’ll only need one of us,” he informed Krane. “I’m holding your thirty-two tiers of power in my hand. Quin fixed it. Now it draws vitrus right out of the magic field itself.”
Staring at the medallion, Krane’s eyes brightened for a fleeting second. But then he shook his head. “Even if you are correct, you can’t know its capacity.”
“I do,” Quin growled. “I’m the one who created it. It can draw any amount of vitrus you need.”
Darien glanced at Naia, remembering her warning. About the decision he would have to make, the one choice that would determine the world’s destiny. He felt it in his gut: that decision was upon him. The most important choice he would ever make.
He looked back at Krane. “I’ll be your conduit. If I can spare even one of them, I’ll do it gladly.”
Krane glanced at Renquist, who shrugged noncommittally. Then he looked at the medallion in Darien’s hand, his eyes cool and considering. He nodded slightly.
Darien brought the necklace up and wrapped the silver bands of the collar around his neck. He closed his eyes and opened the clasp.
“Darien, don’t!” Naia screamed, her voice shrill with panic.
But there was no other choice to make.
This was the one chance they had.
He filled his mind with a singular thought: Thirty-two.
Then he let the clasp spring closed.
The world went brilliantly, atrociously white. Then there was silence, complete and perfect, soon broken by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. From somewhere very distant, Darien was vaguely aware of pain. But the pain wasn’t part of him. The world had stopped. Time had stopped. The motion of the universe had frozen to a standstill.
Then, all at once, it all came crashing back at a harrowing speed.
Darien screamed as all the vast agony in the world slammed into him.
41
Born in Blood
Quin sprang to his feet and wrenched Naia off the ground, hauling her after him toward the stairs. But she jerked her arm away, twisting out of his grasp.
“Get Kyel!” she cried and ran back toward where Darien lay writhing and screaming in an inferno of raging power.
Quin growled in frustration and fear. He turned back, searching frantically for Kyel. He found him at last, pinned by three necrators against a toppled column. Quin gasped, recognizing the danger: if the shades touched Kyel, they’d lose the talisman and their last hope of success. Quin knew he’d never reach him in time.
So he flung himself at Cyrus
Krane instead.
He took the darkmage by surprise, knocking him off his feet and jarring the sword from his hand. Quin rolled, snatching the weapon off the ground. He brought the blade around in a sweeping arc, slashing Krane’s neck.
Blood sprayed, and the demon slumped to the ground. Quin whirled, looking desperately for Naia. He didn’t see her. Across the Circle, Darien lay still, most likely dead. Quin hoped, for all their sakes, he was.
Overhead, the magic field trembled. It shuddered violently, quaking the mountainside. Quin was knocked off his feet. He lost his grip on Zanikar. The sword flew from his hand and tumbled, skittering across the ground, sliding to a halt at Renquist’s feet.
Across the glowing Circle, Kyel sidled out of the ring of necrators. The shadowy forms remained frozen in place, obeying the last command of their master.
“Hurry!” Quin shouted, spurring Kyel faster. He turned and looked frantically for Naia, but she was nowhere. He had no choice—they were out of time. He turned and dashed for the stairs.
Kyel caught up to him, and together they raced for the opening to the warrens. The Sentinel held his gleaming talisman in his hand, using its radiance to light their way. Quin followed him down the stairs and through a series of winding passages.
“Stop!” Kyel shouted.
Quin halted in his tracks.
Kyel pressed a button on the wall then stepped back, heaving a sigh. “The Well’s just around that corner. I need you to guard the door.”
Quin looked at him skeptically. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Whatever you can do!” Hefting the talisman, Kyel strode away down the corridor. Quin traipsed after him, casting a frantic glance back over his shoulder.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 145
