The Dark Citadel

by Michael Wallace

  Markal groaned, clutching his right hand, which shriveled and blackened. He looked up with watering eyes. “So much energy for such simple magic.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest of wizards.” He flexed his left hand, now his strongest, wincing. “This hand will have to do.”

  Whelan drew his sword. “I’ll come with you. There might be scuttlings down there.”

  “You’ll be worse than me. Blind. Stay and watch for trackers.”

  Markal went head-first down the hole, sandaled-feet pausing in the sunlight for a moment before disappearing. A scraping sound came from the hole, then nothing.

  Darik looked anxiously back toward the tombs, half-expecting to see mounted pursuit at their backs. “What’s he doing down there?”

  Whelan shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a wizard. If you haven’t guessed yet, a wizard’s not the best traveling companion.”

  Markal was gone for about ten minutes, then they heard the scraping sound again as he maneuvered his way back through the hole. He pushed out a bundle wrapped in worm-eaten leather, battered by time and its journey out of the tomb. Markal’s head and shoulders appeared a moment later. Whelan reached and dragged the wizard into the light, where he sat blinking.

  “What a miserable hole.” Markal unwrapped the bundle. It was some kind of book, built of steel sheets bound by metal rings. He thumbed through a couple of the leaves. “Time enough later, I suppose. Darik, will you carry it?”

  “How did you know it was down there?” Darik asked, lifting the tome with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked.

  Whelan said, “I told you, he’s a wizard. Best not to ask too many questions.”

  But Markal answered anyway. “I didn’t know. But the tome whispered in my mind while I was standing in the shade, saying, ‘Come find me, if you can.’” He sighed. “Alas, I ignored it. I’m somewhat deaf to such things. No, that’s not right. I can hear well enough when I’m awake, but I’m half asleep most of the time.”

  “The book talked to you?” Darik said, wondering how this was possible.

  Markal shrugged. “It wanted to be found, I suppose. Badly enough that it called Soultrup to wake me up. I once knew a wizard named Memnet the Great who had a glass sphere that was the focal point of his magic. But Memnet didn’t make the sphere, it simply appeared on his table one day while he studied in the library. He never figured out where it came from.”

  Markal continued, “Whelan found his sword in much the same way. The sword chose him.” He caught Darik looking at the sword. “Yes, it’s a magical blade—how do you suppose we drove off the wights?”

  Whelan reached a hand over his shoulder and placed it on the hilt, but didn’t offer any further details. Darik wondered if Markal had touched a sore spot in the man.

  Never mind, since Markal was perfectly willing to tell the story for him. “Once, when he fought in battle, his adversary had beat him down and was about to kill Whelan, when the enemy’s sword flung itself free from his grip and landed in Whelan’s hand.” He paused. “There’s more, of course, but I guess Whelan can share those details if he wishes.”

  Whelan turned his back. “Why should I, when you are perfectly willing to tell the tale?”

  But Markal had apparently tired of the story. He said, “In any event, I have no idea what’s in the tome but there will be time enough for that later. Just don’t try to read it until I find out what it is. Come.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” Whelan said. “Enough talk.” He looked anxious, anticipating something. And not merely fear of pursuit, Darik decided.

  “What is it?” Darik asked. “What is the matter?”

  “The Desolation of Toth. We’ll reach it tonight after we replenish our supplies,” Whelan said.

  The Desolation of Toth marked the boundary between the Western Khalifates and the mountains. If not for the Tothian Way dividing the dead lands, the Desolation would be impassable. As it was, men passed through quickly without looking to either side. Many a trader had stepped from the road and been driven mad by what he’d seen. Darik’s father had despised the place.

  Darik caught a glance between Markal and Whelan. It wasn’t just the Desolation, he decided. What new secret were they hiding?

  “What?” he asked. What is it? Tell me.”

  Whelan sighed. “My own personal burden, Darik. Come, all this talk will rouse the dead. Look! I can see the Way.”

  Darik didn’t press further. As he followed the two men, Darik noticed that the tome had a curious property. It was back-breakingly heavy at first, but the more he carried it, the lighter it became. He liked carrying it, could hear the book whispering in his mind. Whelan asked later if Darik wanted him to carry it for a stretch, but he said he was all right. Indeed, he didn’t want to let the book out of his hands.

  #

  They passed onto the Tothian Way. The road was wide and well-drained, with bricks so smoothly cut that they might have been laid four days ago instead of four centuries; the three companions made excellent time even on foot. They passed a number of small yeoman farms, irrigated fields of wheat waving in the wind.

  Several times Markal took them into the fields as small groups of riders came and went along the Way. The riders were Veyrians, in crimson and black. Whelan found a well in one of these fields, and they took the opportunity to wash away the filth of the sewage aqueduct and rinse their clothes. In the dry heat of the day, their clothing dried quickly. They kept walking.

  The Tothian Way stretched like a flat ribbon on the plain. There was no sign of the western mountains that they called the Dragon’s Spine. For now, the plain was all, dry and dusty.

  They left the Way just when Darik thought his feet could walk no more. A dirt road led from the main road, cutting through a copse of cork and olive trees. Beyond the trees sat a sturdy mudstone house, corners anchored by timbers, with windows on both floors, and a flat roof. A placard with a sleeping camel hung from the door, which meant that the house served as an inn for travelers.

  Whelan tensed when he saw the building. He licked his lips and glanced back at Markal.

  “Go ahead,” Markal urged. “You saw him in the bazaar. Nothing happened then.”

  “That was different,” Whelan said, voice straining. “We all worried that he’d been followed. We had no time for argument.”

  Darik frowned and looked from one man to the other. He wanted to ask, but thought better of the idea.

  Whelan walked toward the front door, then hesitated before pounding his fist against the wood. Three hard knocks. After a minute, he pounded again. Another three knocks. He repeated this a third time. At last, a slat slid open three quarters the way up the door and a pair of eyes peered out. The door opened a moment later to reveal a short, muscular man who looked familiar somehow.

  “Whelan.”

  “Ethan.”

  The two men eyed each other, each standing stiffly. Whelan clenched and unclenched his right hand and Darik feared he would reach over his shoulder to draw his sword and cut the man in two. And then Ethan grabbed Whelan in a fierce hug. The two men burst into laughter and Markal and Darik joined them. The broken tension left Darik with an overwhelming sense of release, even though he had no idea what had just passed between the men.

  “My captain,” Ethan said.

  “Brother,” Whelan insisted. “There is more between us than titles.”

  Ethan’s face turned grim. “I’ve felt your exile more than any, brother. But what the Free Kingdoms need now is not my brother, but leaders. So I will call you captain.”

  Darik recognized Ethan at last. “You! You’re the man from the bazaar. The one who haggled with Markal.”

  Ethan smiled. “The bread was as good as the wizard promised.”

  Darik shook his head, remembering how Markal had feigned ignorance of the secret communication played between the two brothers. The only one played for a fool had been himself.

  Whelan asked, “Is Ninny all right? And Scree?”

 
“Ninny’s fine. Your falcon, too. Here, I’m sorry. Come inside. There have been riders all morning. It’s not safe.”

  “Not safe at all,” Markal agreed. “You’ll have to leave here and return with us to the mountains.”

  “Here, let me take that.” Ethan grabbed the bundle from Darik, who held it a moment too long before realizing that he was resisting. Ethan frowned at the weight.

  “Ah, good,” Whelan said. Some of the tenseness of the last few hours slipped from his face. Whoever Ninny was—a favorite horse, Darik supposed—and his bird Scree, the man had obviously worried a great deal about them.

  The farmhouse was larger than it looked and pleasantly cool after the heat outside. The window slats were drawn closed to ward away visitors, but tallow candles burned in niches in the walls. A tapestry hung on one wall, a man on a horse following a pack of baying hounds that chased a hart with an arrow sticking from its haunch.

  “You’ll want to set out tonight, won’t you? Come upstairs and tell me what happened. But here, the boy looks ill,” Ethan said, noticing Darik for the first time.

  “Darik,” Markal said at once. “Yes, of course.”

  All at once, Darik was weak from hunger, thirst and heat exhaustion. Whelan caught his arm and helped him to a chair just inside the threshold.

  Ethan told him, “Follow the hall to the dining room. The girl will give you whatever you need.”

  Darik looked at Markal and Whelan, uncertain, but they nodded their approval. “We’ll be upstairs,” Whelan said. “We’ll only be a few minutes.”

  The three men climbed a staircase to the upper floor. Disappointed to be left behind like a child, but relieved at the chance to eat, Darik made his way into the dining hall. It was a small room with three tables and a stack of wine kegs in the corner. Several cheeses and a pair of pheasants hung from hooks over the wine. His stomach rumbled in anticipation. Beyond the hall, the inviting smells of a kitchen; someone whistled and he could hear the distinctive sound of bread being kneaded around the corner. He debated taking a mug and helping himself to some wine, but thought better of it.

  “Excuse me.”

  A girl appeared around the corner, younger than he’d expected. She was about twelve, thin and waifish like so many of the serving girls in his father’s kitchens. He didn’t want to assume too much, however, she might well be Ethan’s daughter.

  She eyed him curiously, and, he thought, fearfully. “Did Ethan let you in?”

  That answered that question. Not his daughter. Just another servant girl, then. Probably even a slave. “Yes, he did.” Darik pulled up a chair and sat at one of the tables. “He told me to get some food and drink.”

  “You came with two others,” she said, her voice high and excited. “A tall man and a wizard? The tall man is named Whelan?”

  Darik smiled. He knew how he must look to her, traveling with such men. He forgave the awe in her voice. “I did. Now, could I have some food, perhaps a little wine? And hurry, I’ve been on the road and I don’t think I’ll last much longer before my stomach falls out.”

  He tried to put a little humor into his voice, but the simple serving girl didn’t appear to catch it. She brought him bread and cheese quickly enough and a mug of drink. Unfermented grape juice, he was disappointed to note.

  “Have you traveled far with the others?” the girl asked, watching him drink.

  “Far enough.” He set down the mug and tore off a chunk of bread. Not bad, but nothing like they made in Graiyan’s kitchen. Still, he was so hungry that it tasted delicious. “I could tell stories, but the things I’ve seen would bring you the night terrors.” He took a long draught from his mug, thinking that it would be a little more dramatic if he were downing wine instead of grape juice. Still, a child like this would be easily impressed. “No, they’re not for little girls to hear.”

  “Is that so?” the girl asked, her friendly tone drying up.

  “Ninny!” Whelan called suddenly, stepping into the room.

  “Uncle Whelan!” the girl cried, throwing herself into the tall warrior’s arms.

  Whelan swept her around in delight. He set her down and turned to Darik. “I see you’ve met my daughter Sofiana.”

  Darik coughed. “Uhm, yes, I just did.” Daughter?

  Whelan beamed in pride, apparently not noticing Darik’s discomfort. “She once rode twenty miles while three bandits chased her, and I lay unconscious over the saddle. They never caught us, though.”

  Darik tried to disappear into a crack in the floor, but failed. Thankfully, Sofiana said nothing to Whelan, but clapped her hands in remembrance. “I’ve got Scree,” she said. “Let me get her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Whelan said, giving her another hug. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight.” He followed her back to the kitchens. Why, if she was Whelan’s daughter, did she call the man her uncle?

  Markal came into the room, giving Darik a knowing wink. “Even the worst wizards have excellent hearing.”

  Darik groaned. “You heard that?” He tore off a piece of cheese with his teeth, wishing he’d spent more time using his mouth for eating.

  “Who do you think suggested we come down as soon as we did? I thought I’d save you before you made yourself into any more of an ass. Sofiana is coming with us, after all.” He laughed. “And believe me, that girl can make your life miserable.”

  “Is Whelan her father or her uncle?”

  “Both, in a way.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “But that is Whelan’s business, as I’m sure he would remind me. My tongue wags too freely as it is without delving into that tale.”

  Whelan and Sofiana returned, a hooded falcon on the man’s wrist. He whispered in its ear and stroked its chest. Whelan and Sofiana pulled up chairs next to Markal and Darik.

  Ethan came in a moment later, then made his way back to the kitchen, returning with food and drink for the two older men. They tore into the bread and cheese much as Darik had earlier.

  Whelan eyed the wine and sighed. “No ale, Ethan?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Not much demand for ale or mead in the khalifates, I’m afraid. I’m trying to turn a profit here, remember. Every once in a while I find a passing merchant who has acquired a taste for good drink in Eriscoba and pay him dearly for a barrel or two. I had a casket of good dark stuff just last month.” Ethan grinned and patted his stomach. “But I’m afraid I didn’t save any for you, brother.”

  Markal gave Darik a wink. “Ah, don’t you love traveling with barbarians?” He took a long sip of the wine. “Now, if only he’d tasted of the Aristonian vineyards before the wars. A taste of those vineyards would convert even the most provincial of palates to its charms.”

  Ethan returned to the kitchen to stoke the ovens.

  Scree sat on Whelan’s left wrist, and he reached up his other hand to stroke it.

  “That’s a pretty bird,” Darik said.

  “It’s not a bird,” Whelan said, looking up sharply. “It’s a falcon. I suppose if you saw a griffin, you’d call that a ‘bird’ too, would you?”

  Markal laughed. “You think he’s protective of Scree, just wait until you see how he is about his daughter.”

  Whelan smiled and put his arm around Sofiana, as if ashamed to be caught fussing over his falcon when he hadn’t seen the girl for so long. Whelan laughed, a welcome sound to Darik’s ears. “Sorry. I’ve been strung out like a bowstring all day. My girl by my side and a little food and drink in my belly helps the spirits, though.”

  Sofiana stroked the falcon’s neck. The girl smiled at her father. “I took good care of her.”

  “I’m sure you did. I just hope someone took as good care of you.” He looked up at Ethan. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I didn’t mean—”

  Ethan held up his hand. “Of course you didn’t. I’ve loaded your bags.”

  “Ah, yes,” Markal said. “The camels and the supplies. Will thirty dinarii do it?”

  “No need for that,” Ethan said. “I’ve got enough
money.” He rose from the table to check the food in the ovens, then returned a few minutes later with goat meat on a skewer, fat chunks of meat interspersed with roasted onions.

  “I had some travelers last night who rode west in a hurry toward the mountains and had some food left over. Sorry I’ve got nothing fresher.”

  Darik gingerly pulled a chunk of meat from the skewer with his teeth. It tasted delicious, rubbed with butter and garlic. The bread and cheese had taken the edge off his hunger, but this was much better.

  “Who were these riders?” Whelan asked. “Veyrians?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Eriscobans. Brotherhood, I think. To be safe, I kept quiet about who Ninny and I were.” Ethan took a seat and picked up his own skewer. “But I suspect the time for silence has ended. Friend and enemy alike are sorting themselves into respective sides.”

  “Then you can come with us,” Markal said. “We could use an extra sword until we reach Montcrag and the mountains.”

  Whelan said, “But more than that, I need you to help me with the Brotherhood, help me win back their trust.”

  “I’m afraid Markal will have to help you with that. I’m going to stay here. Someone needs to keep an eye on the city, pass news to the khalifa, and let her know that she has the support of the Free Kingdoms.”

  “If you see the khalifa,” Whelan said between sips of wine, “and approach her as Prince Ethan, don’t tell her that I’m your brother. I spent some time at her palace several years ago and don’t want her thinking I had treacherous motives.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Prince?” Darik asked, confused.

  Whelan smiled, but there was a bitter edge to it. “We’re King Daniel’s own brothers, I’m afraid.”

  “Is nothing you told me true? What about the khalif’s captain in the Mascaras khalifate? A great warrior. Another lie?”

  Whelan shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Ethan said, “Part of that was true, anyway. Whelan is one of the greatest warriors across the breadth of Mithyl, from Veyre on the sea all the way to the Wylde. Captain of the Knights Temperate.” He hesitated. “Or used to be, anyway.” He turned back to Markal and Whelan. “When do you leave?”