The Drowning Dark
Book 4 of the War of Memory Cycle
by H. Anthe Davis
In Memory of Rena Phillips
Cast List
At the Seal of Air:
Cobrin son of Dernyel, ex-Guardian vessel.
Shaidaxi Enkhaelen, necromancer, Ravager vessel, formerly the Emperor's left hand.
Arik, a quillwolf skinchanger dedicated to Cob.
In the Imperial City and Environs:
Lark of Bahlaer, a Shadow Folk agent and proto-mage. Accompanied by Maevor, a bodythief.
Erevard of Cantrell, a White Flame ruengriin with a vendetta against Cob.
Cambriel Vyslin, a former Blaze Company soldier, now in White Flame armor. Linciard's ex.
Mariss Ysara Enkhaelen, haelhene-trained sorceress, Enkhaelen's long-lost daughter.
Caernahon, haelhene and former Lord Chancellor, Mariss's 'master'.
Haurah, wolf skinchanger and former Guardian, who tracked Enkhaelen to the Palace.
In Bahlaer:
Ardent of Taradzur, a shadowblooded Enforcer for the Shadow Folk.
Firkad Sarovy, captain of Blaze Company, currently in Shadow Folk custody.
Erolan Linciard, lancer-lieutenant under Captain Sarovy.
Savaad Rallant, senvraka-type specialist and traitor to Blaze Company. Linciard's...ex?
Makoura Jaedani Yrsian, a mentalist and scryer. With Revek Voorkei and Presh, mages.
Edarwyn Tanvolthene, Imperial warder formerly in Rackmar's pay, now with Blaze Company.
Kanor Vrallek, Houndmaster-Lieutenant and leader of Blaze Company's specialists.
Sergeant Pelwin Benson, Blaze Company logistics manager.
Lieutenants Arlin (infantry) and Sengith (archers) of Blaze Company.
Ticuo and Zhahri, Ardent's Enforcement lieutenants.
Gwydren Greymark, god-servant of the Trifold and the Lion Athalarr.
At the Crimson Siege Camp:
Argus Rackmar, Field Marshal, High Templar of the White Flame. The Emperor's right hand.
Weshker en-Nent, aka Vesha, a former slave, soldier, and Guardian, now plagued with crows.
Sanava en-Verosh, a rebellious Corvish slave.
Ammala Cray, widowed farmer and lagalaina, mother of Izelina and Jesalle. Detained.
Kelturin Aradysson, Crown Prince and former Crimson General. Detained.
Anniavela te'Couran, lagalaina and former handmaiden to the Empress. Detained.
Laurent, Field Marshal Rackmar's mentalist.
Elsewhere/Nowhere:
Aradys IV, the Risen Phoenix Emperor. Banished.
Darilan Trevere/Dasira te'Navrin, bodythief, once Cob's best friend. Dead.
Fiora Kinrick, Breanan Trifolder and Cob's ex-girlfriend. Location unknown.
Geraad Iskaen, once a Silent Circle mentalist and briefly Enkhaelen's ally. Dead.
Ilshenrir, renegade haelhene wraith and friend to Cob's group. Location unknown.
Jas Fendil, Erevard's lover. Dead.
Jessamyn, a Muriae warrior, Enkhaelen's wife and Mariss's mother. Dead.
Paol and Aedin Cray, Ammala's sons. Dead.
Rian, a juvenile goblin and Lark's adopted child. Dead.
Chapter 1 – Fixers
Chapter 2 – Reunion
Chapter 3 – Dark City
Chapter 4 – Hunting the Hunters
Chapter 5 – View from a Realm
Chapter 6 – Welcome to Infamy
Chapter 7 – Bitter Amnesty
Chapter 8 – Handmade Horrors
Chapter 9 – Vulnerability
Chapter 10 – Approach and Withdrawal
Chapter 11 – First and Final Offer
Chapter 12 – Ghosts of the Grey
Chapter 13 – Stress Fractures
Chapter 14 – Volcano Dance
Chapter 15 – Ticks and Leeches
Chapter 16 – Second Wind
Chapter 17 – White Hawk, Black Tree, Red Thorn
Chapter 18 – Lights and Shadows
Chapter 19 – The Rule of Force
Chapter 20 – Phantom Limbs
Chapter 21 – Black Blade
Chapter 22 – Gate of Wood
Chapter 23 – Blood and Silver
Chapter 24 – Precipice
Chapter 25 – Heart and Souls
Chapter 26 – Controlled Demolition
Chapter 27 – Gloves Off
Chapter 28 – Red On Red
Chapter 29 – Fall or Fly
Chapter 30 – Recovery
Bridge
Extras
Part 7
Per Aspera
Chapter 1 – Fixers
How long he'd been climbing, Cambriel Vyslin couldn't tell. Flickers of light sometimes moved through the Palace walls above, but they were like fireflies, there then gone: broken remnants of the Emperor's glow. Below, a creeping swathe of fleshy corruption tainted the amniotic waters and consumed the hive he'd just escaped, its long tendrils snatching at survivors as they tried to swim away. To fall back in would be death.
Inside the white armor, his arms quaked. Dragging himself up the dangling shreds of floor was no easy feat, made even tougher by the state of his new right leg. He'd lost the old one to the Darkness in Bahlaer, and had come here to claim his compensation in the form of a White Flame lieutenancy, but though he'd awoken in the White Flame armor, it didn't respond well—as if it wasn't quite set. His leg from mid-thigh down was just a twisted hook, incomplete, and the helm had peeled from his face as soon as he'd left the water, as if it couldn't sustain him any further.
Still, climbing gave him something to focus on instead of what he'd seen. The crushed honeycomb cells, bodies pulped within; the greasy black tentacles that had tried to drag him back into the depths...
Nearby floor-shreds had been transformed into that stuff, writhing slowly in the flickerlight as if waiting for him to get close. He glanced up frequently to make sure his route was still clear; the way things were going, he wouldn't be surprised if the whole Palace started to collapse. He could already see holes opening in the ceiling, black sky and stars glinting through.
Only marks ago, he'd been kneeling before the Throne, arms hooked around his crutches to stay steady, murmuring the petitioner's words alongside the other new converts. He'd been forewarned of the way the floor would unravel and the threads draw him down to be remade.
But had it really just been marks? For all he knew, his time in that amber dream might have been days, months—centuries.
He'd been awakened by the blast that broke the hives, and had spent his precious first moments scrabbling at crumpled walls and fighting through burst membranes. Whatever had caused this destruction, or brought the corruption, or banished the Emperor's light—
His reaching hand grasped an edge and all questions evaporated. Looking up, he found the ragged lip of the pit just above. Enthusiasm surged, reawakening his climb-numbed frame; a clamber, a heave, and he was over the top, to scramble a few swift yards more before letting himself collapse.
For a long moment, he just lay there, relishing the solidity beneath him and the thunder of his heart in his ears. He was safe. He'd survived.
Then he registered a presence nearby, and turned his head.
Another White Flame stood by the edge, helm off, staring blankly across the pit. His face was nearly as pallid as his armor but pitted with old scars, his hair like flattened white spines, the line of his mouth too long to be human. A broken black sword shivered in his hand, red light streaking the blood-groove.
Ruengriin, Vyslin guessed. He'd known a few in Blaze Company, and had found them com
panionable enough once his conditioning had worn off. No different from any other soldier.
This one, though… He wasn't sure if it was the sword or the weird look on the man's face—the rapt wideness of his starburst pupils, the listening tilt to his head—but he seemed different. Dangerous. Vyslin tried to listen too, but all he heard was the glurp of the water below and the creaking and ripping of the Palace walls.
Cautiously, he gained his feet—well, his foot and his weird white stub—and hobbled toward the man. As he came close, the black-and-red sword twitched upward like it had a mind of its own, its broken edge turning toward him. Vyslin shifted back, wary, but when the man didn't move, he said, “Hoi!”
The man blinked once, twice, then shot him a venomous look, pupils contracting to show the toxic yellow of his irises. “What?” he rasped, razor teeth showing briefly between his lips.
Vyslin paused. He hadn't approached for any reason but relief at seeing another survivor, but he could already tell that wouldn't be enough. He cast a look across the pit instead, to where the man had been staring—then stared himself.
Where the Imperial Throne and its dais had been, there was now only a slumped, peeling mass of white material no different from the damaged floor. Black stains covered it and the wall beyond, their corrosion opening gaps through which he glimpsed some sort of stone column, ringed by a spiral stair.
“Hang me up for the vultures,” he swore. “What happened? What's that?”
No answer. His companion's eyes had gone distant again, skimming the walls between here and the Throne as if seeking a way across, but there was no surface that hadn't been half-eaten by corruption. No safe passage.
Vyslin looked the other way and saw the great double-doors standing open, a few stragglers still hobbling toward it. Everyone else had already abandoned this place to the darkness gnawing at its ribs. The floor beneath his feet felt uncomfortably spongy. He had the feeling this whole chamber would collapse into the pit soon.
Reaching out, he grabbed the man by the elbow. “C'mon, you can ruminate elsewhere. We gotta go before—“
The man yanked away, virulent gaze lancing at him. “No. I have a mission. I need to follow them, finish this.”
“Them? Who?”
“They killed Jas. Brought the Dark here. Tried to drown me in it, but she pulled me out—she says I'm right, I'm right. This won't end until they've bled their last. They're the monsters, not me. I'm the avenger. They've gone up there, but I will find them. I will bleed them dry.”
Vyslin leaned away, unnerved, but the diatribe ended there. He wanted to ask 'her who?' but this didn't seem like the right time for it. “Uh, all right,” he said cautiously, “but unless you can leap that pit, I don't think you're getting them.”
“I will. I will. I—“ The man blinked, bewilderment and fear flashing across his face before his expression locked down again. The look he shot Vyslin was more lucid but no less daunting. “Who are you?”
Vyslin stuck out his fist automatically. “Cambriel Vyslin, Blaze Company, Crimson Army. Supposed to be a White Flame, but guess that's gone to shit. Look, uh...friend, I'm with you on killing whoever did this, but I don't think this is the time for it. Not that I'm gonna stop you...”
For a moment, the man just stared at his offered fist as if he didn't know what it was for. Then he reached up as if to tap his knuckles to Vyslin's, only to notice the blade still twitching in his grip. Frowning, he cocked it toward his back, where tendrils of white armor reached out to clasp it in place. The red light faded as it did, leaving it matte black.
“Erevard,” said the man faintly. “I think...you might be right.”
“Good. C'mon then, before we get eaten up.”
He took Erevard by the wrist and tugged the man through one step, then another. There wasn't resistance, exactly; if there had been, Vyslin would have given up right then. He had enough on his hands without adding a recalcitrant crazy person to it.
But Erevard fell in beside him, so that was all right. He could deal with an agreeable crazy person. He felt a bit crazy himself.
Together, they left the fallen Throne behind.
*****
Far above, three figures sat in tableau: Cob staring at Enkhaelen, Enkhaelen watching the sky, Arik eyeing them both.
“What are you talkin' about?” said Cob.
Enkhaelen turned pale eyes on him and repeated, “We broke the sun.”
His expression was difficult to read, face just a wan oval framed by rough-cut black hair. The outsized pilgrim robe hung loose on him, no longer illuminated by the Seal on his chest; the glow had faded from the rock of the Hag's Needle as well, leaving them lost in starlit darkness.
Cob shook his head slowly. It was cold up here and he had climbed for marks, mind numb, body aching, Light-singed face and right hand in agony. Resetting these Seals was supposed to be the end, a brief corollary to the victory over the Emperor. He didn't understand.
“That's ridiculous,” he said. “I jus'... I lost track of time. It's not dawn yet.”
“Maybe.” Enkhaelen didn't sound convinced. He looked to the sky again, then shifted forward as if to push himself upright, but his legs refused to get beneath him. Cob saw his face twist in frustration as he struggled to command his own limbs.
If not for the situation, he might have laughed. Angrily. Cruelly. He didn't like this man—this monstrous necromancer who had helped build the Empire only to bring it down around their ears. Because of him, Cob's friends were scattered or dead and everyone he had come into contact with had been damaged. If he'd had a choice, he would have pitched Enkhaelen off the Needle and smiled when he hit the ground.
But he'd already decided his course, for better or worse. They had to replace the Seals, and that meant Enkhaelen's life was precious.
“Stay down,” he said curtly. “Don't waste your energy right now. If y'need to go somewhere, we'll carry you, but you're the only one who can make us a portal.”
Enkhaelen made an aggravated sound but sat back, breathed deep, then gestured a mage-light to life. Its radiance barely spread beyond the Sealing circle, marking out a tiny island in the vast expanse of night.
On the other side of the circle, the silvery-grey skinchanger crept closer. Cob wanted to order him back; Enkhaelen could be feigning weakness, just waiting to betray them. But Enkhaelen was the vessel for the Ravager, spirit of predators, and thus a kind of god-in-the-flesh to a skinchanger like Arik.
And Arik was hurt, bright blood flecking his muzzle with each breath. Without the Guardian, Cob couldn't fix the ribs or arm he'd broken in his moment of captured-animal panic in the swamp—and even if the Guardian had stayed in him, he wasn't sure it would help. He'd hurt not just his friend but the Wolf spirit itself, with the Guardian's tacit assistance.
They needed Enkhaelen to fix that too.
“I've recaptured some of what I used to brace open the Seal of Air,” said the necromancer, “but there wasn't much to begin with. I think...I can make a portal, yes. If we've truly done the worst, then waiting and resting won't help. —Oh, give me Geraad's knife.”
Cob frowned, unburnt hand falling to the amber-pommeled blade tucked into his rope belt. It was one of the few things he'd salvaged from the chaos and destruction down below—and what Enkhaelen had tried to kill himself with, before Cob wrestled him free of the Throne. “Why?”
“I enchanted it. I can unpin the spell and take back the energy easily. Else we'll have to risk me accidentally cutting my hand off when my portal blinks out mid-use.”
Enkhaelen's slumped shoulders and rough, disused rasp of a voice made Cob inclined to believe him. Still, he'd seen the man puppeteer corpses far beyond mortal limits, so wouldn't put it past him to magically control himself. Those glittering eyes gainsaid any disability, so full of calculation and cunning that one could almost ignore the wasted face they were in.
I have the silver sword, he reassured himself as he edged closer. If he tries anything, I can just t
ap him with it and he should stop.
Provided its spell-breaking enchantment wasn't another one of Enkhaelen's ploys.
He saw the necromancer's gaze slide to it as he leaned in to offer the knife. It had belonged to his wife, a Muriae warrior—had perhaps been extruded from her own silver substance. Now it was slung across Cob's back, its blade half-melted from contact with the Emperor. Earlier testing had shown that it unraveled Enkhaelen's magic, but Cob couldn't trust that; it made no sense to enchant a blade against yourself.
Then again, it made no sense to do a lot of what Enkhaelen had done.
The necromancer accepted the knife with his right hand, the left still curled claw-like from atrophy. As his gaze fell to the amber of the pommel, his face turned sad, regretful. Cob lingered close, ready to swat it from his hand if he tried to stab himself again.
“I gave him this as a parting gift,” he said quietly. “He wasn't supposed to follow me.”
Cob stayed silent. Geraad hadn't been a friend, really, but they'd helped each other—and then Geraad had died at Enkhaelen's feet, to be consumed in the necromancer's makeshift pyre alongside another friend, Dasira. Darilan. Cob had no desire to share grief with the man responsible for their deaths.
“It has no purpose now,” the necromancer sighed, and touched the blade with his atrophied hand. Filaments of light unwove from it, sliding into his fingers like needles. His veins luminesced dimly beneath his skin as more and more of the energy unhitched from the weapon, until finally the amber sphere contracted like a drying fruit, then crumbled.
Flexing his damaged fingers slowly, Enkhaelen regarded the blade, then offered it back to Cob. “For your peace of mind.”
Cob scowled but took it. Those icy eyes seemed all too aware of what he was thinking.
“Would that I had my gear,” said the necromancer as he drew a circle in thin air, his finger leaving a luminous trail. “It would be so much easier to just reach through a pocket. Fortunately I know the coordinates by heart.” Circle complete, he pressed his fingertips to it and seemed to focus, energy streaming down his arm to power the spell.
The Drowning Dark (The War of Memory Cycle Book 4) Page 1
