The Dark Citadel

by Michael Wallace

  Markal rubbed at his beard. “Nightfall, I think. Too dangerous to travel before then. Do you have somewhere we can sleep for a few hours? Last night stopped short of restful, I’m afraid.”

  Sofiana rose from her seat. “The big room is still a mess from the men who came last night, but the well room has bedding.”

  She led them upstairs. The well room was a small room for travelers that overlooked the fields behind the innhouse. Darik looked down from the window and saw a small stone well off the back porch that had given the room its name. Three camels knelt in the shade of the house, dozing while their saddle bags lay stacked to one side.

  “Tell me the truth,” Darik asked when Ethan and Sofiana left the three of them alone. “Will riding a camel to the mountains end my hopes for Sanctuary?”

  Whelan nodded. “For now, yes. You are free Darik, now that you’re away from the city.”

  Whelan took off his boots and lay down on the second bed. Markal took a seat beneath the window and closed his eyes. Soft snores immediately came whispering from the wizard’s bearded face.

  Darik shook his head. “I still feel like a slave. I think I might always feel like a slave until—” he trailed off in frustration. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t feel like a slave. But my family has been destroyed and dishonored and my sister is being raised by someone else. I thought if I reached the Citadel and begged Sanctuary—” His voice trailed off again.

  “You could join the Brotherhood?”

  Darik nodded. “Maybe even join the Knights Temperate. There is honor in that.”

  Whelan said, “Great honor. And discipline, too. The problem is, there’s no way you’ll make it through the mountains by yourself on foot. Two days from now it will be too late to make it by horse or camel. It may already be too late.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  Whelan nodded. “I am now. And I’m truly sorry about all of the lies to get you out of the city. We should have been honest, but I couldn’t be sure how well you could be trusted to keep your calm in danger. Now try to get some sleep.”

  Darik thought it impossible that he would fall asleep, but as soon as he closed his eyes, he fell into sleep, exhausted. He dreamt of the wights in the Slaves Quarter, who chased him through the narrow alleys, scrabbling at his robes with claws that burned with ice.

  Darik woke some time later to an insistent shaking. He sat up to find Ethan standing over him. Whelan and Markal sat on their beds, lacing up boots, while Sofiana stood at the door, a crossbow in her hands.

  Ethan lifted a finger to his lips to warn Darik to silence.

  “What is it?” he asked in a low voice. The sun slanted in through the window at a low angle. He must have slept most of the day away and felt as though he could have kept sleeping right through the night.

  Ethan said, “Soldiers! They’re at the house. Hurry.” He held Whelan’s falcon on his fist, a hood over its eyes.

  Darik pulled on his boots, fear penetrating his grogginess.

  “How many?” Whelan asked. “And how are they armed?”

  “Heavily armed and armored with Veyrian scale and good Eriscoban leather. Too many to fight. Come, we’ll take the back staircase.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Darik said, still trying to shake the sleep from his head. “Why are they here? I thought the dark wizard wanted to take the city first.”

  “Balsalom?” Ethan asked. “It’s already fallen. The khalifa is dead.”

  Chapter Six

  Whelan’s face turned pale. “Kallia? Cragyn killed her? How?”

  “I have no idea,” Ethan said. “That’s what they said. Hurry. I need to get more wine for the soldiers. They’re devouring the rest of the goat. They’re hungry bastards. Another minute and they’ll come looking, demanding more food.”

  The back staircase was a rickety thing on the opposite side of the converted farmhouse. Ethan stored barrels of wheat and oats on the planks and the stairs, thinned and dusty from dry rot, complained noisily with every step. At last they all reached the bottom of the stairs and made their way into the back of the inn, where the three camels dozed in the sun. Ethan untied their leads and pulled them to their feet.

  Ethan handed a glove and Scree to Sofiana then helped Whelan struggle the heavy packs on the camels. Markal cinched the packs tight and then Markal and Sofiana scrambled onto the first two camels.

  Darik looked at Whelan and at the final camel, unsure what to do.

  “You ride with Sofiana,” Whelan explained, pulling her camel’s bridle until the beast lay on the ground. It bellowed once in irritation, and Darik winced at the sound, sure it would attract attention. Whelan dropped his own camel’s neck and scrambled on top. He pulled his sword from his saddle bags and slung the scabbard over his shoulder.

  Darik made to slide in place in front of the girl, but she shook her head and gestured over her shoulder. “You ride in back. Just hold on.”

  “I can ride a camel,” Darik protested, heat rising in his cheeks.

  “Darik, ride in back,” Whelan said. “Don’t argue.”

  He obeyed and climbed behind the girl. She jerked on the reins to pull the camel to its feet then fell in behind the others. Sofiana handed Scree, hooded and tethered, to Whelan.

  Ethan said, “The Brothers guide your path. Take care in the Desolation.”

  At word of the Desolation, Whelan’s face darkened. “We will. Thanks, brother.” He reached down and clasped his brother’s arm, then they rode.

  Whelan led them northwest for the next two hours, where they moved at a crawl. They soon moved beyond the fields, making good time across the sandy ground, but slowing where the ground was rocky and ill suited for the camels. The wind blew prickles of sand against the skin.

  The desert stretched in all directions like a vast, lumpy rug streaked with different colors of brown. The occasional sage brush clumped in the lee of a boulder, or a desert thorn gnarled its way defiantly from a crack in the rock. Far to the west, the mountains shimmered against the heat, and Darik thought he could see a hint of white at their crowns. As the sun set, it turned the desert brown to a deep, brooding red. It grew difficult to see.

  At last Whelan brought them back onto the Tothian Way. It was fully dark by now, with the barest crescent moon in the sky. The camels settled down as they plodded west along the road. None of them spoke, and Darik found himself drifting to sleep. He fought it, not ready to surrender consciousness. He leaned back in the saddle and let Sofiana lead.

  The stars shimmered overhead. His mother used to tell him they were the souls of the dead scattered across the sky by the Harvester. “For everyone knows,” she said, “that you must sow before you can reap. The heavens are his fields and souls are the seeds he plants.”

  The image was comforting. Darik thought of the rich fields of irrigated grain outside of Balsalom, waving in the desert wind. He thought of the smell of desert in the Grand Bazaar early in the morning, before the smells of the souks awakened to the day’s business. That smell came from here, the vast southern desert that only crept this far north in the extreme western khalifates. It was the Desolation of Toth that allowed the desert to spread, his tutor had told him once. His peaceful thoughts evaporated as he thought of crossing that hellish waste.

  He closed his eyes and let sleep wash over him. As he did, his hand drifted down to his saddle bags and rested upon the steel book.

  Darik woke to an insistent tapping on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found Sofiana leaning over him looking annoyed. He sat up, disoriented, but the girl put a finger to his lips. A pain shot up his back where he’d slept at a crooked angle. Other muscles also complained, from his calves to his shoulders and arms.

  Whelan pulled his camel next to theirs, face shadowed. His sword lay across his lap. Markal’s camel sat empty. The wizard was nowhere to be seen.

  Whelan leaned over and whispered, “Markal heard something. He thinks someone is on the road ahead.”

  Dari
k’s stomach clenched with memory of the battle in the Slaves Quarter. “Wights?”

  “They won’t be out on a night like this. The Harvester is abroad. Listen.”

  Darik listened. At first he heard nothing but the wind and bugs chirping. And then, in the distance, a huntsman’s horn. Baying hounds. The sound was gone as soon as it had come. He shuddered. A moment later, the horn and the baying hounds again, this time further east. Darik sighed in relief. So the Harvester didn’t mark their own deaths. It didn’t necessarily mean they would live to see the morning, but it was an encouraging sign.

  Whelan sounded grim. “If the Harvester is hunting souls, there must be killing aplenty. My guess is, Cragyn’s army has sacked the city.” He pulled his camel away and they waited for the wizard.

  Darik’s thoughts turned to Balsalom, to Kaya. By the Brothers, let her stay safe.

  Markal returned shortly, approaching so silently that none of them heard him until he was on them. The others dismounted and held a brief counsel with the wizard.

  “We’re on the edge of the Desolation of Toth,” Markal said, not bothering to whisper. “I thought at first I heard the Famine Child whispering in my ear.

  “But no,” Markal continued, “It’s definitely men I heard. A Veyrian cavalry unit—ten of them—has set up camp on the edge of the Desolation. They’ve got a fire, and no perimeter sentry, so they’re not expecting company. About half of them are asleep, in fact, and I suspect the rest would be too, if they weren’t afraid to be so close to the Desolation. I think they’re here not to fight, but simply to stop traders or spies from getting through.”

  “Did you hear anything about the khalifa?” Whelan asked. “How she died?”

  Markal shook his head. “If something happened yesterday, these men wouldn’t know. My guess is they split from the army before it reached the Great Gates. The problem is, what do we do? We don’t want to leave the road in the Desolation.”

  “If they’re so unprepared,” Darik said, “can’t you cast another thunderclap or something and kill them?”

  “Thunderclap? I’d be hard pressed to snap my fingers. I have no magic in me whatsoever right now. Apart from that, we’re not at war with these men. I don’t want to kill them if I don’t have to.”

  “The Free Kingdoms might not be at war,” Darik said, “but I’m from Balsalom, and they’ve just killed my queen.”

  “True,” Markal said. “And it is also true enough that they will soon be at war with King Daniel as well.” He shrugged. “You know what those men were talking about? How their children learned to crawl. Hard to kill a man when you hear that. Now, I felt no remorse blasting that torturer last night, but this is different.”

  “There’s another thing to consider,” Whelan said. “We kill them it makes a lot of people sit up and take notice.”

  “So they’re not paying attention,” Darik said. “The road is wide. If we keep the camels quiet, we can creep by in the dark.”

  Markal said, “This close to the Desolation, these men are jumping at every little sound. They’ve also got horses, which will smell the camels and make a stir.”

  “All we need,” Sofiana said, “is a diversion. Veyrians are notoriously superstitious.”

  Darik nodded, remembering how they feared the Tombs of the Kings. He began to see the beginnings of Sofiana’s plan.

  She continued, “And everybody knows that the Famine Child lives in the Desolation.”

  The Famine Child was a thin, waifish girl, half-insane sister to the Harvester, who appeared in times of hunger and pestilence, spreading misery wherever she went. She was rumored to live in the Desolation of Toth where thousands had once died, feeding off the decay that still permeated the land.

  Sofiana’s plan was simple. She would chase their horses from the road, dressed as the Famine Child to frighten the men if they saw her. Whether the soldiers panicked or tried to recapture their horses, the companions could slip by on their camels. Whelan didn’t want to send his daughter into danger, but agreed with the others that it was an excellent idea.

  Still sitting on the ground, Whelan rested his knee on his chin, scratching idly at his face. “Not bad, Ninny, not bad. It might work.”

  “There is one thing,” Darik said, hesitating and looking at Sofiana, half afraid to contradict her plan. She was younger than he, but these men obviously valued her opinions and skills more. “If the plan fails, they’ll catch her easily.”

  Sofiana frowned. “They won’t catch me. Why do you say that?”

  “No offense,” Darik said, “But you’re only, what? Twelve? You’ll never outrun those men. I should play the Famine Child. I can run faster.”

  “No,” Sofiana said. “You’re too tall, and you’ll have to wail and act half-insane as you come upon them.”

  “I played Migrath in the Harvest Festival for three straight years,” Darik said, regretting the overly defensive tone in his voice even as he spoke but helpless to stop it. “I did well enough playing the role of a drunken idiot.”

  Markal said, “Ah, so drunken idiot comes naturally, does it?” He gave Darik a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Yes, I can believe that.”

  “He’s right,” Whelan said to Sofiana. “You’ll be more useful guarding his back. I don’t think he knows the crossbow, do you Darik? No, well Ninny is an excellent shot.”

  Markal rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “And she’ll already be mounted on the camel, ready to flee if necessary.” He turned to Darik. “Don’t take any risks. Veyrians might be superstitious but they’re excellent swordsmen.”

  Sofiana looked displeased, but didn’t argue further. Darik also found himself frowning, even though his plan had been accepted. It was a petty thing, he knew, and he struggled to suppress his irritation; somehow he’d won the argument but reinforced his uselessness.

  #

  The Veyrians camped in the middle of the Way, and their campfire cast the road in a dim, flickering light. They had no sentries but huddled together, closer to the fire than must have been comfortable.

  Darik couldn’t say he blamed them. A humming wafted from the west, rising and falling in pitch. It was an eerie, unpleasant sound.

  He crawled forward on his belly as close as he dared and watched for a few minutes as Whelan had instructed. A snake slid past his hand, creeping across the road to take advantage of the warmth captured by the brick during the day. The snake flicked its tongue a few times in his direction, then, deciding he was of no interest, continued its way across the road. Darik watched the snake warily until it crawled out of view, then turned his attention back to the soldiers.

  “Make sure you know where everyone is before you move,” Whelan had told him. “You can execute your plan flawlessly and still be cut down by the man who stepped into the bushes to take a piss.”

  He counted ten. Four slept in blankets with boots off, although from the way they tossed about, he doubted any of them truly slept. The other six played a game of bones, placing bets with a few coppers. They did it simply to pass the time, he guessed, as one of them with no money bet from a stack of small pebbles instead. They spoke in low voices, and Darik couldn’t make out anything they said. Swords lay within easy reach as well as crossbows strapped to saddlebags.

  As for the horses, they acted much the same as their owners. They huddled to the north of the soldiers, milling in the shadows beyond the camp fire. They nickered nervously at the moaning sound. None wore saddles. They were roped to a single lead horse, a large roan, branded across its back. To scatter them, Darik would have to cut that rope.

  Markal had dressed him as the Famine Child. He shredded and muddied a cloak from Whelan’s bag, then draped it across Darik’s shoulders. It was too large and hung in tatters to the ground, making him look thinner than before. Markal stripped off Darik’s outer cloak, leaving him with only an under cloth around his waist. The wizard then rubbed dirt and sand into Darik’s skin and hair, mixing it with water until it left him with the proper mud-str
eaked look. Sofiana had turned up her nose, but admitted that he looked the part of a starving child. Markal pressed two vials into Darik’s hand, one an oil to rub onto his face before he acted, the other a powder to throw into the fire should the need arise.

  Time to act, Darik decided, heart pounding.

  Darik had spent time with horses in his father’s stables and moved quickly to sooth the animals before they grew jittery. He ducked low behind the lead stallion, then took the first vial, broke the wax plug and dumped the oil on his hand. It might have been a pure cooking oil of some kind but that when it touched his flesh, his skin glowed with a pale sheen. He rubbed it quickly onto his face, then struggled with the knot. The Veyrians kept talking. He could understand them now.

  “D’ya suppose they’ll make us march through the Desolation, too?”

  “Sure,” a second soldier said. Darik heard the rattle of bones shaken and tossed. “You think we’re going to sleep in Veyre this winter?” He chuckled. “You’ll see the Wylde itself within the fortnight, I’ll wager.”

  “Well I don’t like it.”

  Darik could not work the knot free. It was too tight and tied in an unusual way.

  “Nobody likes the Desolation, you fool. But if we stick to the road, we’ll be fine. Traders cross the waste all the time.”

  “Sure,” a third man said. “But when the spirits howl, they cast lots and sacrifice the loser.”

  “Good thing we’re not casting lots, the way you’re throwing the bones tonight.”

  “Why don’t you all shut up so I can sleep,” a new voice said.

  At last, Darik worked the knot free. He slipped the rope carefully through the bridle as the horses danced in anticipation.

  “Hey!” one of the men shouted, jumping to his feet. “What’s that?” He snatched his sword and stepped toward Darik and the horses. The other men turned.

  Darik froze. An overwhelming urge to run came over him. He took an inadvertent step backwards before he remembered.

  “Aieeee!” he shrieked, stepping toward the light. Not a frightened cry, or an angry cry, but the cry of a mad man. The scream was the signal to Markal and Whelan to go.