Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  Mercalle smiled. “I thank you for that, Lieutenant, but I’ve got a couple daughters back home. I’ll try and get word to your folks, though.”

  There didn’t seem to be much left to say after that. With a final word of thanks, Beka left the tent and limped past the corpses in search of the living.

  • • •

  The Plenimarans had mown through the encampment, destroying tents, wagons, and anything else in their path. Soldiers were at work everywhere now, trying to salvage what they could from the tangled wreckage.

  Beka was just wondering which direction to try first when she heard her name called again and saw Corporal Rhylin waving to her from atop an overturned sutler’s wagon.

  “Praise the Flame!” he exclaimed, jumping down. He was taller than she by nearly a head and had an awkward, storklike quality when on foot that belied his prowess as a horseman.

  “We didn’t know what to think when you disappeared at the end,” he told her. “There’s been all sorts of rumors. Someone claimed Captain Myrhini went down.”

  “She’s fine and so am I,” Beka assured him, though the stitches felt like burning claws in her skin. “Where is everybody?”

  “Just over that way.” Rhylin waved a hand back beyond the line of hospital tents, adding glumly, “What’s left of us, anyway. You’d better take my horse.”

  “We’ll ride double. I want everyone together.”

  Rhylin swung up into the saddle and extended a hand. Gritting her teeth as another hot rope of pain pulled taut across her thigh, Beka climbed up behind him and gripped his belt.

  “What can you tell me?” she asked as they set off.

  “There are about a dozen of us accounted for who aren’t too badly wounded. Sergeant Braknil’s in charge of them. Mercalle’s hurt badly and Sergeant Portus—”

  “I saw him go down,” said Beka, hearing the sudden strain in the man’s voice. Rhylin had been Portus’ corporal.

  “Anyway, Sergeant Braknil sent some of us out looking for you. The others are scouting up food and gear,” he told her.

  Thank the Flame for that at least, Beka thought gratefully, imagining the stocky, blunt-spoken sergeant striding through the wreckage to whip things into order again.

  “That’s good. Mirn, Kallas, and Ariani will be back later. Steb and Thela are out of it for the time being—”

  “Aulos?” Rhylin asked, and Beka felt him tense again. He’d come into the regiment with the twin brothers. They were from the same town.

  “Dead,” she told him. There was no use glossing it over, she thought, feeling weary for the first time that day. Like Mercalle had warned, death was something they’d all better get used to, and quickly.

  As expected, Braknil had things well in hand. Food had been salvaged from somewhere, a few tents were up and, best of all, a dozen or more horses were hobbled nearby, a good many of them sporting Plenimaran tack.

  A cheer went up as the others caught sight of them riding up.

  “What’s the word, Lieutenant?” Braknil asked as the others gathered anxiously around. He had a bloody rag wrapped around one forearm, but it didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

  Beka counted fourteen in all, plus the sergeant.

  “The word is we got caught with our britches down,” she replied wryly. “Commander Klia isn’t too happy about that, but she thinks that First Turma can help make it right. What do you say?”

  Another cheer went up, mingled with angry shouts of “Let’s raid the bastards!”, “Blood and Steel!”, and “Lead on like you did today, Lieutenant, we’ll follow!”

  Beka eased herself down on a crate and motioned for silence. “It looks like two decuriae will have to do for now. Rhylin, I’m making you sergeant of Second Decuria. Who do you have left?”

  Rhylin looked around. “Nikides, Syra, Kursin, Tealah, Jareel, and Tare.”

  “Braknil, what about First Decuria?”

  The sergeant waved at the two exhausted young men beside him. “Just Arbelus and Gilly, so far.”

  “And us,” called Steb, who’d just arrived with Kallas, Ariani, and Mirn.

  “You’re missing an eye!” Braknil said gruffly.

  “I’ve still got one left,” Steb replied, though it was clear he was in pain. “Come on, Sergeant. There aren’t enough of us left to spare me. I can fight.”

  “All right, then,” the sergeant said with a shrug. “Corporal Kallas, you’re still sound?”

  Still deeply shaken by the death of his brother, Kallas nodded grimly.

  “So that makes seven in each decuria so far,” Beka observed, counting them up. “All of you who were with Sergeant Mercalle, step forward. Tobin, Barius, you go into Braknil’s decuria. Marten, Kaylah, and Zir, you’re with Rhylin. As soon as we’ve got horses and gear sorted out, we have orders to head up into those hills as scouts.”

  “We couldn’t make a worse job of it than Eagle troop,” Kaylah muttered. Others growled angry agreement.

  “Never mind that. The Plenimarans pulled a good trick this morning, it’s true. It’s up to us to make sure they don’t do it again. We’re going to poke our nose down every gully and snake hole until we find out where they’re hiding. They can’t conceal that many men and horses for long now that we know what they’re up to. Sergeants, see that everyone scrounges up a decent horse, patrol gear, and a week’s rations. Stow your tabards again, too. Maybe we can pull a few surprises of our own, eh? We ride out at dusk.”

  Beka sat where she was for a moment, watching the remains of her command bustle about. Most were sporting minor wounds. It was probably a mistake to take Steb, but as he’d pointed out, they couldn’t afford to spare anyone who could still ride.

  Twelve riders and two sergeants lost in a single day’s fighting, she thought, and half of those dead.

  It was a lucky thing they had a mission to take up their thoughts tonight.

  35

  PREPARATIONS

  A white linen pavilion had been erected for the Orëska dead. As Seregil and Micum passed by it the next morning, they heard soft chants and the weeping of those preparing the bodies for pyre or grave.

  Farther on, the enemy corpses lay under the open sky. Judged by their clothing, they could have been laborers or thieves, but most of them had the build and scars of soldiers. A Scavenger cart stood ready nearby. Untended and unmourned, they would be hauled away and burnt without ceremony.

  “Valerius said that after the attack was over, any of Mardus’ men who weren’t already dead just dropped in their tracks,” Micum mused as he and Seregil walked around the bodies, seeking faces they’d seen with Mardus in Wolde all those months ago. “You figure the dyrmagnos did that?”

  “Probably,” Seregil said. He was still wearing his baggy borrowed clothes and looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. Micum knew for a fact that he’d sat awake with Nysander all night. They both had.

  “But I doubt they killed all of their own people,” Seregil went on, taking a closer look at a ragged, one-handed beggar. “Have you noticed that no one remembers seeing Mardus and the necromancers leave? Except Hwerlu, maybe. He said something about a huge dark shape rising over the House as he ran toward it. He didn’t get there until it was over, so that may have been Mardus’ exit. A dyrmagnos could have that kind of power.”

  Micum felt an unlucky chill go up his back. “Let’s hope we can stay clear of the thing, then. Anything that can lay Nysander low and then fly off like a bat is nothing I want to face down.”

  A swarthy man with a scar through his bottom lip caught his eye. “I know him. He’s one of Captain Tildus’ men,” Micum said, pointing him out to Seregil. “I drank with him a few times at the Pony in Wolde. He’s one of them who gave Alec a hard time.”

  “I see an old friend, too.” Seregil stood looking down at a lanky, rawboned man dressed in a soiled leather jerkin. “Farin the Fish, a gaterunner who came up missing a month ago. Tym mentioned him to me just before he disappeared himself. I don’t recognize any o
f the others. Probably all Plenimaran soldiers and spies brought in for the job.” He tapped his chin with one long forefinger as he frowned down at the dead. “You remember I ran into a Juggler up in Asengai’s dungeon, that night Alec and I first met?”

  “The Plenimaran assassins guild, you mean?”

  “Yes.” Seregil jerked a thumb at the corpses. “What would you bet there’s a guild mark on one or two of these fellows?”

  Micum grimaced in distaste. “Guess there’s only one way to find out. What’s it look like?”

  “Three small blue dots tattooed to form a triangle. They’re usually in the armpit,” Seregil told him, adding with a wry grin, “At least this is better than going to the charnel houses.”

  Even in the scented coolness of the Orëska garden, however, it was not pleasant work.

  Pulling at clothing and cold, stiff limbs, Micum found no tattoos, but two men did have suspicious scars about the size of a sester coin under their arms. The healed tissue was still pink and new.

  “I think this might be something,” he said.

  Seregil came over for a look and nodded. “There are three more just like it over there. That scar isn’t a burn or a puncture; the skin was sliced away on purpose. If it wasn’t a Juggler’s mark they cut out, then I’ll wager it was something similar.”

  “That Mardus is a cagey bastard,” Micum said with grudging admiration. “He wasn’t taking any chances. Not that we can prove it now, though.”

  Seregil examined the scar. “You know, I’ve heard that these skin marks go deep. What do you think?”

  Micum sighed. “It’s worth a try, so long as no drysians catch us at it.”

  Slipping a tiny, razorlike blade from the seam of his belt, Seregil held the skin on either side of the mark taut with two fingers and sliced away the surface of the scar. When he’d pulled back the flap of skin, he and Micum inspected the livid flesh beneath.

  “See anything?” asked Micum.

  “No, they must’ve cut deep on this one. Let’s try another.”

  Their second attempt was more successful. Scraping gently this time, Seregil uncovered the faint triangular imprint of the Juggler’s guild mark still visible in the flesh.

  Seregil rocked back on his heels with grim satisfaction. “That’s proof enough for me.”

  “Maker’s Mercy! What do you think you’re doing?” It was Darbia, the dark-haired drysian who’d been helping tend Nysander. Bristling with indignation, she strode up and made a quick blessing sign over the corpse.

  “Enemy or not, I cannot condone such barbarous behavior,” she snapped.

  “It’s not desecration,” Micum assured her, getting to his feet. “This man and several others wear the mark of Plenimaran spies. The Queen should be informed before any of these bodies are taken away.”

  The drysian crossed her arms, still scowling. “Very well then, I’ll see to it.”

  “Did Valerius send you after us?” asked Seregil.

  “Yes, Nysander is stirring a bit.”

  Without waiting to hear more, Seregil and Micum ran for the tower.

  Magyana was still in the armchair by Nysander’s bedside where she’d spent the night, one hand still on his brow.

  Seeing her like that, Micum could almost feel her willing her own energy into her old love, trying to heal and sustain him with her own life force.

  To Micum, Nysander looked worse than ever. His face was a dull, chalky grey, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets beneath the unruly white brows. His breathing scarcely lifted the sheet covering him but Micum could hear it, rasping faintly as dry leaves across stone.

  The sight of him must have struck Seregil hard as well. He read a hint of despair in Seregil’s face as he approached Nysander, and knew it was born of the conflict between Seregil’s great love for Nysander and his desperate need to learn whatever he could to save Alec. Seregil paused long enough to cleanse his hands at the washstand, then knelt beside the bed and took Nysander’s hand between his own. Micum moved around behind Magyana’s chair in time to see Nysander’s eyes slowly open.

  “I found your map,” Seregil told him, not wasting any precious time.

  “Yes,” Nysander mouthed, nodding slightly against the pillow. “Good.”

  “The Pillar of the Sky, Yôthgash-horagh. It’s Mount Kythes, isn’t it?”

  Again, a slight nod.

  “This temple you spoke of, it’s on the mountain?”

  “No,” Nysander told them.

  “Beneath it, underground?”

  No response.

  Seregil watched the wounded man’s face for any movement, then asked as calmly as he could manage, “At the foot of it?”

  Nysander’s throat worked painfully as he struggled to speak. Seregil bent close, but after a few desperate efforts, the wizard’s eyes closed.

  Seregil rested his forehead against his clenched fists for a moment. Micum couldn’t see Magyana’s face from where he stood, but her hand was trembling as she reached to clasp Seregil’s shoulder. “He’s gone deep within himself again. I know how desperately you need to speak with him, but he’s just too weak.”

  “Could you make anything out of that last bit?” Micum asked, refusing to give up hope.

  Still kneeling by the bed, Seregil shook his head doubtfully. “He was trying to tell me something. It sounded like ‘late us’ or ‘lead us,’ but it was so faint I can’t be certain.”

  Magyana leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more forcefully this time as she turned him to face her. “Leiteus? Could it have been the name Leiteus?”

  Seregil looked up at her in surprise. “Yes! Yes, it could have been. And I’ve heard that name somewhere—”

  Magyana clasped her hands together over her heart. “Leiteus í Marineus is an astrologer, and a friend of Nysander’s! They’ve been consulting with each other about some comet for over a year now.”

  Seregil jumped to his feet and began searching the floor around Nysander’s hearth. At last he bent and pulled a book from beneath an armchair.

  “I noticed this lying open by his chair yesterday,” he said, handing it to her.

  She opened it and Micum saw that it was full of tables and strange symbols.

  “Yes,” she said, “this is one of Leiteus’ books.”

  “Have you ever heard the word ‘synodical’?” Seregil asked her with growing excitement.

  “I believe it refers to the movements of the stars and planets.”

  Micum looked to Magyana in surprise. “You mean Nysander really was trying to send us to this astrologer fellow?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “ ‘One place and one time.’ That’s what he said yesterday,” Seregil reminded them. “A synodical event, like the advent of this comet. It must have some bearing on whatever Mardus is up to.”

  He bent to lay a hand against Nysander’s pale cheek. “I don’t know if you can hear any of this,” he said softly, “but if you can, I’m going to Leiteus. Do you understand, Nysander? I’m going to speak with Leiteus.”

  Nysander gave no sign of consciousness. Seregil sadly stroked a lock of grizzled grey hair back from the old man’s brow. “That’s all right. I’m the Guide. You just leave it to me for now.”

  Outside the Orëska walls an early spring wind had blown up, clearing the sky and whipping corner whirlwinds out of the dead year’s dust and leaves.

  Galloping north out of the Harvest Gate, they left the highroad for a smaller one that wound along the sea cliffs.

  The astrologer’s modest walled villa sat perched on a headland overlooking the sea. Above it, gulls wheeled gracefully against the morning sky.

  The courtyard gate was shut tight, but a servant soon answered Micum’s relentless knock.

  “My master is not accustomed to receiving visitors at this early hour,” the man informed them stiffly, eyeing Seregil’s unkempt appearance and ill-fitting coat with undisguised skepticism.

  “We’re here on a matter of the utmost i
nterest to your master,” Seregil replied, affecting his most arrogant tone. “Tell him that Lord Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa and Sir Micum of Cavish, Knight of Watermead, require his attendance at once in a matter pertaining to his friend Nysander, High Thaumaturgist of the Orëska House.”

  Duly intimidated by the onslaught of titles, the man relented enough to escort them to a small sitting room overlooking the sea, while he went to speak with his master.

  “Prophecies and astrologers,” Micum grumbled, pacing around the tiny room. “Alec’s carried off by crazy butchering bastards and we’re weaving sails out of smoke!”

  “It’s more solid than that. I can feel it.” Seregil sat down on a bench under the window and rested one elbow on the sill as he gazed out.

  Having a thread to follow, even as tenuous a one as this, appeared to have restored the inner calm Seregil needed to function. After all the horror of the previous day, however, Micum wondered if he wasn’t just a bit too calm.

  And what if this astrologer doesn’t have all the answers?

  “How did Kari take you going off like this?”

  Micum shrugged. “She’s nearly four months gone with child, Beka’s off in the middle of a war, and I charge off again with you. I swore to her I’d be there when her time comes.”

  Still looking out the window, Seregil said quietly, “You don’t have to come, you know. Prophecy or not, the decision is yours.”

  “Don’t talk like an idiot. Of course I’m coming,” Micum retorted gruffly.

  “I’ve made my choice and I’ll stick by it,” he went on, sitting down next to Seregil. “Though I’ll admit I don’t like it. Nysander talks of a band of four and here we sit, knocked down to two before we even begin.”

  “We’re still four, Micum.”

  Micum stared down at the mosaic under his feet for a moment, then laid a hand on Seregil’s thin shoulder. “I know what Valerius said yesterday. I want to believe it as much as you, but—”