Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Someone looking for me?” he called out.

  “Me, sir,” Alec said, reluctantly leaving the brazier.

  “What is it then?” Micum asked impatiently. He stopped, recognizing Alec as he came closer. “By the Flame—!”

  “Greetings, Sir Micum,” Alec said, covering a discreet warning gesture with a bow. “Is there someplace we could speak privately?”

  Taking Alec by the arm, Micum drew him into the stable. Grabbing a horse blanket from a nearby stall, he handed it to Alec.

  “What happened to you?” he whispered. “And what are you doing here of all places?”

  Alec pulled the smelly blanket around him gratefully and sat down on an upended bucket with his back against a post. “It’s a long story,” he sighed. “I ran into a bandit on the hill track—”

  “The hill track. What possessed you to come that way this time of year?”

  Alec cut him short with a weary gesture. “Believe me, I won’t do it again.”

  “And you were attacked by bandits. Were you on foot?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I borrowed a fresh mount at Watermead, and they took it. That is, she took it, his woman. I killed the man— Anyway, I’ll pay you for the horse and I’ll need another to get home from here. But that’s not what I came to tell you. Seregil and Nysander think the four of us—them, you and I—may be mixed up in some sort of prophecy having to do with the Eater of Death and that wooden coin we found up in Wolde.”

  Micum looked less surprised than Alec had expected. “After what I saw up in the Fens, that makes some sense. But what have we got to do with it?”

  Alec told him what Nysander had revealed, his own dreams, and the possible connections between the coin and the Plenimarans.

  Micum listened without comment. When Alec finished, he shook his head slowly. “These Illiorans and their dreams. You mean to tell me that he sent you clear up here by yourself in this weather just to tell me that something bad might happen and that he’s not even certain what it is?”

  “Well, yes. But Seregil says he thinks Nysander’s not telling us everything yet, and that he seems genuinely worried.”

  “If Nysander’s worried, then we’d do well to pay heed. But first we need to get you into some dry clothes. I’ll wager you haven’t eaten all day, either. Come on in.”

  “I’d better not,” Alec said. “Seregil didn’t want Kari or anyone to see me up here like this.”

  “All right, then. You wait here and I’ll bring things out. Stay put.”

  Micum returned quickly with a bundle of clothes and a mug of steaming soup, a hunk of fresh bread balanced on top.

  “Strip off those wet things,” he ordered.

  Alec pulled off his coat and shirt, anxious to get into warm clothes. As he was about to pull on the thick tunic Micum had brought him, the man let out a low whistle and touched a finger to a long purple bruise darkening across Alec’s left shoulder.

  “Fetched you a good one, didn’t he?”

  “I was lucky; he was aiming for my head. My arm’s fine, though.” Pulling on the tunic and breeches, he wrapped his hands around the hot mug and took a sip of the thick, steamy broth. “Maker’s Mercy, that’s good! So, about that horse? I mean to go back tonight.”

  Micum’s heavy red brows drew together ominously. “Now look here, Alec. You’re hurt, tired, and chilled through and it’s already starting to get dark. Stay here tonight and get an early start in the morning.”

  “I know I should, but I can’t. Seregil’s trying to track down some Plenimaran spies, and he may need my help.” Whether he knows it or not, he added mentally. It wasn’t exactly lying to Micum. Not exactly.

  Micum looked like he was about to argue the point, but then he just shook his head and said gruffly, “All right then. I can’t force you. I’ve got a horse you can take if you promise to stick to the road and not go gallivanting around through the woods with it in the dark!”

  Alec grinned as he clasped his friend’s hand. “You have my word on it.”

  Alec saddled Micum’s Aurënfaie black quickly, not wanting to give him time to reconsider.

  “I should be home before midnight,” he said as he mounted and settled his sword against his thigh under his borrowed cloak.

  “Maybe,” said Micum, still looking dubious. “Don’t gallop yourself into a ditch for the sake of an hour, you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  Micum reached up and clasped Alec’s hand tightly again, a shadow of worry crossing his face as he looked up. “Safe journey to you, Alec, and luck in the shadows.”

  Alec returned the grip, then walked the black toward the gate. He was just about to ride out, however, when he realized he’d forgotten something. Turning, he rode back to where Micum stood watching by the stable door.

  “By the way, Seregil wanted me to ask if you’ve had any strange dreams lately.”

  Micum shrugged, grinning. “Not a one. Tell him I leave that sort of thing to you. I do my best fighting when I’m awake.”

  30

  NIGHT VISITORS

  Thryis and the others sat pushing their suppers around their plates in silence that night. The announcement of war had come at midmorning and the news of Plenimar’s attack on Mycena the previous day had thrown the city into an uproar.

  Bluecoat patrols were out in force, rounding up beggars and keeping the peace. Down in the harbor, fighting ships that had rocked at anchor like winter ducks hoisted their colors and sailed out through the moles to join others from ports up and down the coast. At the Harvest Market vendors’ stalls were being moved aside to make way for ballistas and catapults.

  Diomis had spent the afternoon in the streets, trying to sort some sense out of the ebb and flow of rumors flying freely around the city: the Plenimaran fleet had been spotted off the southern tip of Skala; the fighting was centered around the island of Kouros; it was a land attack—the enemy had crossed the Folcwine and was marching west toward Skala; Plenimaran marines were at the Cirna Canal.

  A Queen’s herald had arrived at the market at last with solid news; the Plenimarans had made a surprise attack against Skalan troops somewhere in Mycena.

  “It makes my old fingers itch for a bowstring even now,” Thryis commented wistfully as her family and Rhiri gathered in the kitchen for the evening. “I still remember that battle we fought above Ero. A clear summer morning, not a breath of wind to spoil the shot, and a hundred of us lined up behind the infantry with our longbows. When we let fly, the Plenimarans fell like a swath of wheat before a scythe.”

  “They’ll be fighting in mud and rain, starting in this early. I wonder how Micum Cavish’s girl is making out—” Diomis broke off in surprise as a tear trickled down his daughter’s cheek. “Why, Cilla, you’re crying. What’s the matter, love?”

  Cilla wiped her cheek and hugged the baby to her, saying nothing.

  “Luthas’ dad is a soldier, isn’t he, dear?” her grandmother asked gently, patting the girl’s shoulder.

  Cilla nodded mutely, then hurried up the back stairs with Luthas in her arms.

  Diomis rose to follow, but Thryis stopped him. “Let her go, son. She’s never talked of the man before; I don’t suppose she’ll say anything now until she’s a mind to.”

  “What do you know about that?” he said, scratching under his beard in bemusement. “You’d think if she cared for whoever this fellow is enough to weep for him now, she’d have said more about him to us. Why do you suppose she keeps it such a damned secret?”

  “Who knows? I always thought maybe he’d broken promises to her, but she wouldn’t cry for him if he had. Ah well, Cilla’s always had her own way of doing things.”

  They sat quietly a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire. Then Rhiri tapped the table with his spoon and made a hand sign.

  “No, I have had no word of them since yesterday,” Thryis told him. “Alec’s Patch was gone this morning, but both of Seregil’s horses are still in their stalls, aren’t they?�
�

  Rhiri nodded.

  “I wouldn’t worry about those two,” said Diomis. “You go on up to bed now, Mother. Me and Rhiri will see to things down here.”

  “Make certain the doors are barred,” Thryis warned as he helped her to her feet. “Rhiri, don’t you forget to put oil in the lanterns out front. With all the excitement today some folks may get up to mischief. I want the court well lit.”

  “Aye, we will, Mother,” sighed Diomis. “Haven’t we seen to the closing up these last twenty years? Rhiri, you go on out and check the stable. I’ll take care of the front room.”

  Rhiri gave a quick salute and went out through the lading-room door to the back court.

  In the front room Diomis checked the bar on the door and extinguished the lamp. The hearth fire was out; with only two guests in the inn, he hadn’t bothered to keep it burning when they’d turned in early. He was just checking the shutter hooks when he heard the familiar rattle of the front door latch.

  Diomis peered through the crack of the shutter but saw no horses in the courtyard.

  “Who’s that?” he called.

  There was no answer except a crisp rap on the door.

  Diomis had no patience for games tonight. “We’re closed up! Try the Rowan Tree, two streets over.”

  The unseen visitor knocked again, more insistently this time.

  “Now look here—” Diomis began, but was cut short by the crash of the kitchen door slamming back on its hinges.

  31

  THE FIRST BLOW

  Topping the crest of a hill just north of Watermead, Alec was surprised to see a long line of torches in the distance. As they came closer, he saw it was a column of cavalry under the red and gold insignia of the Red Serpent Regiment. Reining in, he hailed the first of the outriders as he came abreast of him.

  “What’s going on?” Alec called out.

  The soldier slowed his horse. “War, son. It’s war at last. Pass it on to all you meet.”

  “This early in the year?” Alec exclaimed.

  “Looks like the bastards were spoiling for a fight,” the man replied grimly. “A Plenimaran raiding party ambushed some of our cavalry up in the Mycenian hill country. We’re headed north to join with the Queen’s Horse Guard. Word is they took the brunt of it, as usual.”

  “The Queen’s Horse? I know someone in that regiment. Could you take a message for me?”

  “No time, son,” the man said, spurring away as the column caught up.

  The hundred or more riders wore red and gold tabards over their chain, and their huge black horses rang with harness and breastplates. Then, like an apparition in the deepening dusk, they disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  “Maker’s Mercy, here you are at last!” Arna exclaimed, coming out into the courtyard to meet him. “Did you have trouble on the way?”

  Alec was in too much of a hurry to properly address that. “Just tell that fellow Ranil not to send anyone else that way,” he said, leading Micum’s black to the stable. “I had news on the road, though. The war’s started.”

  Arna’s hands flew to her wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, my poor Beka! She’s up on the border already. Do you think she’s in it yet?”

  Alec didn’t have the heart to lie. Turning, he took the old servant by the shoulders. “The soldier who gave me the news said the Queen’s Horse was in it, yes. Micum didn’t know any of this; word hadn’t reached Warnik’s yet. I imagine they’ll hear it there before long, but in case they haven’t, you tell Micum first, then let him break it to Kari, all right?”

  “I will, love, I will,” Arna sighed, dabbing her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “Wouldn’t you just know it? Nothing will do for her but to enlist, then doesn’t she land smack in the middle of things. And her not even twenty yet.”

  “Well, she’s a good soldier,” said Alec, as much for his own comfort as hers. “With Micum and Seregil for teachers all those years, and then Myrhini—that’s as good training as anyone could have.”

  Arna gave his arm a squeeze. “Maker love you, sir, I hope you’re right. I’ll go get you something to eat as you ride. Don’t you go off without it, hear?”

  By the time he’d shifted his borrowed saddle onto Patch’s back, she was back with a bundle of food tied up in a napkin and several torches. Mounting he lit one from the courtyard lantern and set off on the final stretch to Rhíminee under a clouded, moonless sky. He met more columns of riders and foot soldiers along the way, but didn’t stop for news.

  He came in sight of the city just before midnight. The highroad followed the top of the cliffs above the sea and from here he could see down to the harbor where lines of watch fires outlined the moles, shining brightly across the dark expanse of water. More signal fires burned on the islands at the mouth of the harbor, and torches had been lit along the city walls above.

  The north gate was open under heavy guard to allow for the passage of troops. Inside, the Harvest Market looked as if a war had already been fought there. Piles of scrap wood and tangled shreds of colored canvas were all that appeared to be left of the booths and stalls he’d ridden past that same morning. Despite the lateness of the hour, soldiers were at work everywhere, setting up ballistas and hauling off refuse. From now on, it appeared, merchants would have to carry on their business under the open sky or from the backs of carts.

  Steering Patch through the chaos of the market square, Alec rode on into the maze of side streets beyond to Blue Fish Street. Light still showed around the front shutters, although in the excitement Rhiri had let the lanterns hanging at the Cockerel’s front gate go out.

  Thryis will be after him for that, Alec thought, riding around to the back courtyard.

  He stopped at the stable long enough to unsaddle Patch and throw a rug over her steaming back. Leaving her with water and feed, he let himself through the lading-room door and hurried up the back stairway. With all the uproar around town, perhaps Seregil would overlook the fact that Alec had ignored his admonition to spend the night at Watermead.

  He knew the way upstairs well enough not to bother with a light. On the second floor he gave the corridor a cursory glance, then headed up the hidden stairs to their rooms. The keying words for the glyphs had become habit to him by now, and he spoke them with absent haste as he went up. In his eagerness to find Seregil, he failed to notice that the warding symbols did not make their usual brief appearance as he passed.

  No final dream or vision prepared him.

  Nysander was dozing over an astrological compendium by his bedroom fire when the magical warning jolted him to his feet; the Orëska defenses had been breached. The alarm was followed by a storm of message spheres, swarming like bees through the House as every wizard in the place called out for information.

  Or in fear.

  Invaders in the atrium! Golaria’s voice rang out in a red flash. A dying cry from Ermintal’s young apprentice stabbed at Nysander’s mind like a shard of glass, and then that of Ermintal himself—The vaults!—cut short by another burst of blackness.

  Through the onslaught of voices Nysander called out to Thero. There was no response.

  Steeling himself for the battle he’d hoped never to fight, Nysander cast a translocation and stepped through the aperture into the corridor of the lowest vault just beyond the secret chamber. Shadowy figures waited for him there. He took a step toward them and stumbled. Looking down, he saw what was left of Ermintal and his apprentice, recognizing them by the shredded remains of their robes. Other bodies lay heaped beyond them.

  “Welcome, old man.” It was the voice from Nysander’s visions. Magic crackled and he barely managed to throw up a defense before it struck him in a roar of flame. The corpses sizzled and smoked as it passed.

  Regaining his balance, Nysander retaliated with lightning, but the smaller of the two invaders merely lifted a hand and brushed it aside to explode against the wall. By its light, Nysander saw it was a dyrmagnos. Beside it stood a figure so cloaked in a shifting veil of shadows tha
t Nysander could not be certain at first if it was human or supernatural.

  “Greetings, old man,” the dyrmagnos hissed. “How weary you must be after your long vigil.”

  Not Tikárie Megraesh, but a woman, Nysander thought as he took a step toward her. She was a tiny, wizened husk of a creature, blackened with years, desiccated by the evil that animated her. This was the ultimate achievement of the necromancer—the embodiment of life in death wearing the sumptuous robes of a queen.

  Raising gnarled hands, she held up two human hearts and squeezed them until blood oozed out in long clots, spattering to the floor around her feet.

  “The feast has begun, Guardian,” the figure beside her said, and Nysander again recognized the voice of the golden-skinned demon of his visions. But it was an illusion. Through the veils of darkness, he saw a man—Mardus—speaking with the voice of the Eater of Death.

  Just behind them, several other robed figures came into view. Nysander could smell the stench of necromancy coming from them and with it something heartbreakingly familiar—the unmistakable sweetness of Ylinestra’s special perfume.

  “After all these years of anticipation, you have no reply?” the dyrmagnos sneered.

  “There has never been any reply for you but this.” Raising his hands, Nysander launched the orbs of power that burned against his palms.

  32

  LOSS

  The moon had passed its zenith by the time Seregil came back to Blue Fish Street. It had been a pointless day overall. With the Beggar Law in force, most of his more valuable contacts had fled or gone to ground. Those that he had managed to track down had no fresh information on Plenimaran movements in the city. If the enemy was in town, he was keeping a low profile.

  Weary as Seregil was, however, the sight of the unlit lanterns in front of the inn brought him up short. A tingle of presentiment prickled the hairs on his neck and arms. Ducking quickly into a shadowed doorway across the street, he scrutinized the courtyard for a moment, then drew his sword and crept cautiously across to the front door.