“I can handle this rabble; it is you who has to stay alert. Watch for signs of anyone passing a message. Kill all involved and then report to me as soon as you return. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Master.”
Darwin contemplated the beautiful woman lying in the sand at his feet. His entire plan hinged on her knowing the way to the elusive Servants of Eons. For her sake, he hoped she had spoken the truth.
HELPLESSNESS
Garnet Creek thought little of the red-robed Dark User, but the black robe didn’t seem bad; at least he’d flashed a wide smile when he entered the room. Though Garn didn’t return the gesture, he assumed better of the man for it. He’d seen both men attend the Obsidian Table meeting before, but he’d never been privy to their names.
Closing the door to the Obsidian Table’s meeting room behind the two, Garn leaned his weapon on the wall at his customary position beside the door, which kept it within easy reach and put his back to a wall.
His chosen weapon for the day was a two-handed onyx broadsword he’d taken from Lord Charn’s armory—now his armory—provided by the generosity of the Alchemist. The armory’s previous owner apparently didn’t need it. He’d never come back from wherever he went after his confrontation with the hooded one.
Garn studied the man wearing the dark robe. His smooth, tanned face showed confidence in the set of his jaw, though his blue eyes contained a world-weary blankness he was too young to have. He was not smiling now.
The black robe glanced pointedly to the Alchemist’s right side. He frowned at the red-robed woman sitting there. “I requested a private meeting, Dark One,” he snarled. Garn noted the man’s eyes did not include him in the request for privacy. The mam had recognized his role as the hooded man’s personal guard.
The Alchemist’s golden hourglass eyes sparkled with irritation as his soft words carried throughout the room. Garn was likely the only one to notice. “Kara Laurel is much involved, Pasquin. My User is the only one here who can now make use of the Oracle. Speak what you will or leave my sight.”
The man in the red robe spoke. Though his hood shadowed his features, his voice had a grating quality one would not soon forget. “Is this wise, Great Lord? Kara Laurel is high on the Circle of Light and now the only one who can use the Oracle. What is to deter her from simply contacting the Circle when no one can hear?”
The dark hood of Garn’s master swung toward the red robe. “Do not think to question me, Drayne. Though your Flow saturation is great and you sit high at the Obsidian Table, you are not irreplaceable.”
Drayne’s jaw set. He glared at everyone in the room—except the Alchemist.
Clasping her hands together, Kara Laurel leaned forward, covering a smile tugging at the corners of her full lips.
Pasquin appeared not to notice. “I shall accept your wisdom on this as I have from days gone past, hooded one, though I wonder if her beauty has clouded your judgment. Such a thing has happened to great lords, some not long ago. This should merit eradication from the start.”
The hooded man’s reply came as a deadly hiss, a promise of violence waiting to spring forth. “I am not such a fool as you choose to believe. Your subtle threat, hidden within your words, shall now have the immediacy you have bestowed upon it. Is it your wish to meet my weapon at the Dark Dais for a challenge this day? I sense power in you. Is it sufficient to destroy me? Consider your next words with some care.”
Garn had gripped his great sword’s pommel as soon as the first words left his captor’s mouth. By the end of the Alchemist’s statement, he’d slid his fingers around the grip.
Kara Laurel slowly unclasped her hands, slipping them onto her lap.
Pasquin and Drayne considered the offer, gazing at each other and then at the Alchemist with interest. The silence lengthened. Garn eased from the wall. Finally, the black robe spoke, his tone mild and almost clinical. “The two of us have offered to protect you as you travel to the forefront of the battle, yet you forsake us. One is simply curious as to why you would pass on our considerable power.”
The hooded man’s unblinking hourglass eyes regarded both men for many heartbeats longer than necessary, revealing nothing. “I shall mention this only once,” he finally said, softly. “My motives are my own. Do not voice an inquiry about them in my presence again.”
Garn moved into a battle form, Water Flowing from the Mountain, one of his best for magical defense. Seeming at ease, Garn had his sword and stance set at the ready. If anything were to happen, it would come soon and fast.
Pasquin glanced his direction and then back to the Alchemist. The younger man’s reaction was so fast most would not have seen it. Nonetheless, it heightened Garn’s alertness. The black robe had taken him and his weapon into account. The man was more dangerous than he’d first believed.
The smile that flashed upon Drayne’s broad face held no mirth. “We simply wished to allay a curiosity we have carried. Is it safe to ask how you disposed of Lord Charn? A historical battle on the Dark Dais with the end result of the great lord lying broken and destroyed? Such a great challenge would merit a stamped official ledger recorded by a historian and stored in the Death Watch Hall. We found nothing. Tell me, was his a slow death?”
There was no hesitation to the hooded man’s answer. Garn relaxed slightly. “I have not destroyed your great lord, though I may if he should ever feel foolish enough to come back here.”
Pasquin’s composure dropped a little as he leaned forward. “He is alive then?”
“I have no knowledge. Your Lord Charn went inside your General Darwin Darkwind’s chambers with the prophecy vessel and the anomaly. The Dark Child, the warden, and a creation entered with them. No one came out. The sapphire obelisks were recovered,” the Alchemist said. “Your General, the Spear’s failure to destroy your Lord Charn has cost us, dearly.”
Leaning forward, Drayne had perked up at the mention of the obelisks, almost as much as Garn had, but then he seemed confused. “You have the entire Dark Citadel at your disposal and the gateway you sought. Why are you still here? Surly someone could activate them?”
Kara Laurel interrupted, which annoyed Garn. The red robe had dared ask about the sapphire obelisks. The hooded man had a way for him and his girls to return home right under his nose all along. “You are a blasted fool, Drayne, if you cannot see the implications our great lord has mentioned. No one came out!”
Drayne’s look at Kara Laurel was scathing, but then his face cleared. “Perhaps you have just cause. Losing the vessel and the anomaly is a loss, though perhaps for the best. I have spoken of this before. Relying too much on prophecy is oftentimes fatal.”
Garn felt a fool. What in the Great Father’s name were they talking about? What prophecy?
Garn regarded his captor. The hooded man’s hourglass eyes stared unblinking at Drayne, his expression unreadable.
The room fell silent. Drayne’s glare was gone, replaced by a confident air of superiority. Garn returned his grip to the great swords hilt.
The hooded man broke the silence. “My greatest weapon could kill you both where you sit in seconds; your adeptness with the Flow is of no concern to him. A wise man would use these next seconds to convince me to withhold such an armament.”
To Garn, the Alchemist’s soft-spoken words were a direct order. He moved to the other side of the table, their side, his sword positioned at the ready in front of him.
Pasquin glanced at him and his eyes grew wide.
Too arrogant to acknowledge the danger coming for him, Drayne sneered at the hooded man.
Garn shuffled closer. Briefly, he wondered about the political implications of killing the pair, they both sat at the Obsidian Table, but he put it from his mind. Soon it would not matter; neither one seemed inclined to speak for their lives.
The sound of folded steel meeting beaten steel rang out from the hallway.
Garn leapt upon the table, sliding beside the hooded man in time to
deflect a bolt of red flung at the Alchemist from Drayne. Then a transparent barrier encompassed them. Aimed for Garn’s head, Drayne’s next bolt rocketed from the obstruction, slamming into the wall beside him and chipping the stone.
Pasquin was on his feet bellowing. “We are not the enemy!” His words came too late. The Alchemist’s vial broke apart on his chest. Encasing the Dark User’s head, black smoke billowed from it to the ceiling. The black robe crumpled to the floor.
“No!” Drayne shouted. Encasing Pasquin’s torso in ice, he went to his knees beside the fallen black robe. The ice melted away taking the oily black smoke with it.
The door to the room crashed open. One of Garn’s soldiers he’d ordered to stand watch fell inside. Landing facedown, blood spread in an expanding circle from underneath him. Grant and Lynn, the other two soldiers he’d stationed there, stepped over Davram, and shuffled into the room. “Explain your actions quickly,” Garn commanded. He glanced about the room, searching for the one preparing the next move.
Silent, the two men halted partway to the table’s edge with weapons raised, their eyes blank.
A rotund soldier he hadn’t met entered, followed by the pompous Lord Braddert who halted at the doorway.
Though Garn disliked the way the so-called lord treated those beneath his command, he hadn’t exchanged a single word with him. That would now change. “Such a callous action of slaying one of my men had better have sound reasoning involved with it, Braddert,” he said with a casualness he didn’t feel. He’d purposely left out the lord part of the proper address. Such an affront should throw the man and any soldiers loyal to him off-balance by raising their ire.
To his credit, Lord Braddert said nothing.
Ignoring the rotund soldier, Garn regarded the two men, his men, who stood protectively in front of Lord Pomp. “You two, however, have no recourse. By betraying my trust, your executions will be as slow as I can make them.”
Their long swords held at the ready, neither man reacted, each face as blank as when they had entered. He’d admired them for their competiveness in the past. When had they gotten so… professional? Why had he not seen it?
Rising above the three men’s shoulders, Lord Braddert made an imposing sight. As he stood tall and muscular in his black plate mail armor, his dull hazel eyes fixed first on Pasquin aiding Drayne and then slowly slid to the hooded man. He spoke not a word, nor did his slack expression change.
Kara Laurel slipped behind Garn. “I shall try to let you know if I am able to switch protection barriers to the physical,” she murmured.
Garn glanced back and forth between the Dark Users and his soldiers. Combating two fronts at the same time was not cautious fighting, and battling weaponry and magic together was foolish. Too many unforeseen occurrences could happen. A saying he’d made his daughters memorize rolled through his mind. If one didn’t have faith in the situation, one had but to change it. Now he would follow his own advice.
The Alchemist’s low, disdainful voice slid past Garn’s hearing. “What do you truly hope to accomplish here, Lord Braddert? Had you thought to catch me unguarded?”
Drayne stood, pulling Pasquin to his feet. Huge blisters covered the black-robed man’s neck and lower chin.
Lord Braddert’s helmless head swung toward the robed men, but he said nothing.
The Alchemist’s voice—not much higher in volume than a hiss—drew Lord Braddert’s eyes back. “Your motive is of no concern, your death is. There is no escape for you or your men. Kill them all!”
At the command, Garn slipped into Crow Flies in Deep Woods—the form he taught and named himself, for close-quarters fighting with a sword. Garn reveled in the heightening of his awareness that the form demanded for mastery. The great sword’s balance attuned with him, seeming to weigh the same as the wrist that gripped it.
Garn’s ears perked, sorting the minute sounds in the room: Drayne’s quickened breaths, the ragged breaths of Pasquin’s pain, the short breaths of Kara Laurel and the hooded man, and the bellows-like inhales of everyone else in the room. This triggered alarms in his mind; confronted with a hacking death from such a large piece of sharpened steel should have created a sense of wariness to those facing it.
Garn flicked a quick jab at Lynn’s chest. Twisting his wrist, Lynn knocked his sword to the side. He took a half step backward to reassess; Lynn’s move was clumsy at best and nearly too late. The captain of his guard was a far superior fighter. Why hadn’t at least one of the three taken the opportunity to counter when he had made the move?
Behind him, the Alchemist drew a sharp breath. “Why are you not attacking? Do I have to do it myself?”
“I think the better question is why they aren’t? Something’s off,” Garn replied over his shoulder.
The Alchemist’s breathing quickened and then slowed. “Yes, I sense you are correct, though it does not alter the command. They will die.
Glaring at the newcomers, Pasquin’s right hand burst into a ball of flame. The black flames flowed clockwise around his right hand without sound. “You dare attack Users here at the table of the ruling class? Your insolence will cost you!” His dark eyes brightened as a cloud of blackness streaked from his hand.
Lord Braddert grabbed Lynn and moved him in front of the cloud, ducking slightly to avoid overspray. “Too many have gathered here,” he said, finally speaking from behind the eerily silent captain. Lord Braddert’s voice sounded bored and listless. “Removal from this situation is prudent. Ensure my escape.” He backed through the doorway pulling the soldier with him; the man’s flesh sagged and smoked as it dissolved. Lord Braddert released his hold and vanished from sight.
As Lynn slumped to the floor without a sound, Grant and the portly soldier attacked.
Parrying Grant’s quick side thrust, Garn spun, slid under the rotund soldier’s hammer swing, and severed the arm swinging it below the biceps. Without much pause, he reversed direction and blocked Grant’s downward chop to the back of his neck with a block over his shoulder. Spinning again, he moved with blurring speed, even for him. He sliced through Grant’s leg where thigh met groin.
As Grant dropped, he turned toward the rotund soldier. A slight breeze warned him to leap to the side. Incredibly, Grant had swung at his head as he had fallen. Blood fountained from the gap of his missing leg as he lay still, only jerking in the throe of death once.
Bending calmly, the wide soldier fished his hammer from the hand that still gripped it.
Garn took a step forward and prepared to finish it.
A ball of black flame slammed into the round man’s side and exploded, covering his upper torso with crackling flame. Swinging the great hammer back and forth blindly, the wide man advanced.
Garn blocked several wild swings, each one slower than the last. Finally, the soldier fell burning to the floor, the putrid scent of his flesh smoking the room. Silence descended, broken only by the occasional pop from the burning man.
Finally, the Alchemist spoke. “There is something amiss with this attack. I require your patience, Pasquin, now that I have decided you may live for a while longer. Your request for a meeting shall have to come later. Know that I shall expect it. For now, Lord Braddert has taken precedence. There is the small matter of enacting vengeance for your wounding… should you so desire it. Make your choice here and now if we are to finish it.”
Pasquin gazed around the room. His dark eyes smoldered as his black eyebrows sank, his face twisting in rage. The light in the room dimmed, growing paler beside the promise of deep darkness.
Then, with a suddenness Garn found disconcerting, the light returned to normal. Pasquin turned to Drayne. “For the good of the Citadel, I delay action for another time. Do you agree?”
Drayne gave a simple nod of his head and then turned to the hooded man. “We ask your leave.”
The hooded man’s golden eyes glittered with something indistinguishable, possibly disappointment. “My guard shall escort you.
”
Though he said nothing else, Pasquin’s brown eyes were livid as he left the room, followed by Drayne.
As Garn made his way out of the room, the Alchemist’s soft commands drifted to him. “Escort them to their chambers and assure that guards are left behind. Return at once to me, we have a shadow to root out of my domain.”
Garn couldn’t help feeling there were already too many variables beyond his control that stood in the way of finding his daughters and bringing them home. Now he had a shadow, an insidious something blighting his resources. He had no idea how to go about looking for it. He hated the helplessness the thought brought to him.
ENFOLDED
Jade wandered away from the impromptu defense strategy meeting. She’d heard what she wanted to know after the first hour. According to the Valen and druid commanders, two additional concentrated retaliation attacks should send the aggressors retreating to the hills. At least, the leaders hoped so after the pounding the enemy had taken when Lore Rayna had led them to the southern outpost in the great falun tree. Between the Valens’ ranged bow and magical attacks, coupled with Crystalyn’s symbol bouts as Jade fed the Flow to her, the other side had sustained heavy losses for five days in a row.
With luck, the enemy would retreat to the Dark Citadel they’d spewed from soon. The past few days, she’d seen gobs of bloodshed; more than a young woman should have to endure in a lifetime. At nineteen seasons, she should be fending off, or flirting, with every buff boy who happened along, as Dad would say. Except, he wouldn’t mean it in an amenable way, and he’d promptly intimidate all suitors into leaving rather quickly, nor would he want her flirting, Jade did that all on her own. She missed Dad.
Making her way across the rocking tree branches entwined in such a way as to provide a mostly flattened surface, Jade slipped from branch to branch with care; some gaps were large enough for someone her size to fall through. The Valens would have no such risk.
Beyond the Dark Gate Page 10
