He lurched into the fire light. “Food!” he cried. “I’m starving. Give me flesh to eat. Wine, red, bloody wine. Ahhh!”
He held out his hands in a pleading gesture, a gesture that showed his hands, glowing from Markal’s oil. They stank too, like something rotting. He let the cloak fall away from his face.
The men jumped to their feet in a hurry, even those sleeping a moment earlier. The bones and money scattered. One man staggered backwards over the fire, kicking up sparks and smoke. He fell into another, who tripped into the coals with a scream. The horses pranced nervously, and freed from their tether, two of them simply trotted into the darkness.
“Ah!” Darik cried, lurching toward the men with outstretched hands. “Give me flesh!” He grabbed one man by the shoulders.
This shredded the last of the soldiers’ courage. One man, eyes drunk with sleep, screamed and the others turned and fled. The horses neighed at the confusion and ran.
Plan working perfectly and a grin on his face, Darik turned to go. Or, he would have, if Whelan’s overly long cloak hadn’t slipped around his ankles. His feet tangled in the cloak and he fell, hands outstretched to break his fall. He landed with a grunt.
And as chance would have it, one of the more level-headed soldiers saw him fall. Darik climbed to his feet, and in a panic.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “It’s a boy!”
Many of the others, those still close enough to the fire to see him, stopped running. Darik turned and fled.
“Stop him!”
Darik reached the darkness before they could grab him, but the shouts spread as the other soldiers joined in pursuit. He almost cried out for Whelan and Markal, but regained his senses. Not enough time bought yet, and the horses not scattered far enough. If he could keep running to draw them further from their camp, then he could call the others and the soldiers would be too far from their horses to reach them in time.
Some of the swifter soldiers closed behind him. One grabbed his cloak and it shrugged from his shoulders and fell off. Darik lurched to the left, leaving the man grasping at air. Heavy footsteps followed.
And Darik found himself surrounded on three sides. Some of the men had looped around while he snaked back and forth to lose them. Hands grabbed, one seizing him by the wrist. He stumbled backwards and lurched in the air on the edge of the road. The grip on his wrist broke as he fell down the embankment.
Darik rolled down the hill, striking rocks. His head landed against a rock and exploded with light. He sat up, dizzy, and looked around him. Dust rose from the ground to fill his nostrils.
“No, don’t follow him,” one of the men said from the road. The voices trailed away as the men drew back from the road.
Darik climbed unsteadily to his feet, thinking at first that he’d broken an ankle. But no, it was only a sprain. He looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. Even the very stars appeared to have been snuffed from the sky. It was then that Darik realized what had happened.
He stood alone on the Desolation of Toth.
#
Darik thought at first that he would simply walk alongside the Way for a few minutes, and then return to the road. The soldiers knew nothing about his companions, so they would have no reason to mount a pursuit. Certainly, he didn’t expect them to ride through the Desolation until morning. For this reason, he expected that Markal and Whelan would come looking for him on the road.
But it was dark, and he stumbled with every step. After a few minutes, he turned back toward the road, determined to creep halfway up the hill and listen for the soldiers. As he turned toward the Way, however, he found only empty space. He stumbled in that direction for a few minutes, then gave up and tried to return to the spot from which he’d come.
The moaning sound was much louder than it had been on top of the road. It rose in pitch and volume then disappeared, leaving silence so complete that he could hear nothing but the roaring of his own breath and the rattle of his feet kicking stones. And then it returned, howling around his ears.
Darik’s outstretched hands touched a wall unexpectedly and he knew that he’d headed off in a new direction. The wall came to shoulder height and was ragged and uneven on top. On the side, the stones were rounded and smooth.
He was afraid. He could see nothing, not even phantom lights blinking in his own wide-open eyes. Darik forced calm upon himself. Let panic take hold and he’d lurch forward all night into the waste, until he could no longer see the Way when sunrise came. If daylight ever came to this cursed land.
And then, like the slats opening in a window, he could see. The landscape blinked into existence in front of him. It was day time, but a haze draped over the land, cloaking everything in muted gray. The rising sun struggled to penetrate the haze. Darik staggered backwards in shock and fear at what he saw.
The wall his hand rested against was made of skulls, bleached white and mortared into the wall. It stretched in either direction as far as he could see. He could see over the wall and to his back, but didn’t see the road anywhere in sight, just the wind-blasted plain in every direction.
The stones he’d been kicking were more bones, some broken and splintered, others laying as whole skeletons. All clothing had long since vanished, but some still wore rusted armor, held swords in hand, or wore rings on their fingers. One man grinned back at Darik where he’d fallen, an axe buried in his skull.
The landscape was pockmarked with holes filled with brackish water. As soon as it grew light, a scum of tiny flies rose from the ponds and filled the air, swarming about his face. Plants grew here and there, but they were sickly things, huddling low to the ground. A purple, stinking vine climbed the bone wall in places, and as he brushed it, tendrils reached out to wrap around his leg. Darik stepped hastily back.
As he stood trying to figure out what to do, the howling started up again, and as it did, the bones on the ground came to life. Darik shrank back against the wall, no longer concerned about the vines.
Bones reassembled themselves. Tendons and flesh grew on the bones, then organs, skin, and clothing. Rust melted from old swords and armor, and the people jumped to their feet. Houses reformed themselves, fields of wheat and barley sprouted from the dead ground. But everything remained hazy, as if the land itself had been bleached.
The newly risen dead paid him no attention, but set about fighting. As far as he could see, men and women engaged in battle, rape, robbery, and murder, thousands of individual struggles. A man rode by on a horse and impaled a man standing next to Darik with a spear. The man staggered back against Darik, or rather through Darik, who felt nothing, then fell to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. As soon as he died, the man jumped back to his feet to rejoin the struggle.
Now that he could see, Darik could also hear and smell. Screams, shouts, and curses. Burning houses and fields. And above everything, the howling, as if something ripped apart the earth itself. A child screamed as a man on horseback ran her down, hooves throwing her into the mud.
At last the howling stopped, leaving a near-perfect silence but for the buzzing gnats still swirling around Darik’s head. The combatants collapsed to the ground, returning to bones. Fields and burning homes faded. From one of the stagnant pools came the forlorn croak of a stench toad.
Darik followed the wall, heart pounding. Ahead, stretched nothing, behind, nothing, but he had to move. And the howling started again. Armies reformed themselves and fought. This time it was too much for him. He slumped against the wall, trying to shut his ears against the sound, and clamping his eyes shut. The battle raged.
A scream sounded in the air overhead. A second scream closer, and then claws sank into his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Darik!”
Darik opened his eyes to see Scree sitting on his shoulder, eyes bright and piercing. The falcon looked back through the battle and Darik followed her gaze.
Whelan strode toward him, sword in hand. It was he who had shouted Darik’s name. Whelan
’s blade blazed brighter than anything else on this blasted landscape, and cast everything gray into sharp colors as he passed. Caught in this circle of color, the wights took notice of the man, wailing and dropping their weapons to shield their eyes. Whelan held out his arm and Scree flew to his wrist.
Darik climbed to his feet and embraced the man, so happy was he to see him. As he drew inside the circle cast by Whelan’s sword, everything changed. He could see the Tothian Way now, not more than a hundred feet behind him. And the battle changed.
The war was no longer in some field, but in Balsalom itself. He saw the Merchant’s Quarter burning, one of the minarets toppling to the ground. The palace itself blazed with an unnatural green light. Soldiers slaughtered people in the streets, setting fire to buildings and overturned carts. Smoke strangled the air, penetrated only by the smell of death. The bodies of children lay in the streets, and Darik thought for one horrified moment that one of them was his sister Kaya, but the vision faded before he could see for sure. Again, the scene changed.
The flat, blasted plain rippled and shimmered, then turned into water, its edge marked by a flat, rocky beach. A sharp, salty tang filled the air and sea birds wheeled overhead, their shrill cries rising above the sound of the waves. Darik lurched toward the water in amazement, even as he knew it was only an illusion.
“Darik,” Whelan warned, reaching out a hand to stop him.
A woman dragged herself from the surf. In her struggle to gain the land, the waves had pounded her against the rocks, and she bled from numerous cuts. Her clothing hung in tatters.
“No,” Whelan whispered. “Not this. By the brothers, please, not this.”
He staggered past Darik and onto the rocky beach. His sword dropped from his hands as he rushed to help the woman from the water. Scree rose from Whelan’s wrist with a startled squawk. The blade glittered at Darik’s feet. He didn’t know whether to follow the man, or remain. Howls rose from the blasted plain at his back and the smell of death mingled with the smell of the ocean that lay in front of him.
Whelan cradled the woman in his arms. “Oh, Serena. Please, don’t die.”
But the woman was not pleased to see Whelan. “No, Whelan. Don’t. Find him and bring him to me. I am going to die.”
“No, Serena. He’s not here.”
“Then leave me alone.”
This last bit tore the man apart worse than seeing the woman broken by the waves and the rocks. He cried out and pulled away, before reaching for her again. This time, she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes, breathing labored.
Once again, the landscape shifted and the sea and beach disappeared, leaving them in the midst of the flat plain again. The battle raged on all sides.
Whelan was left holding nothing, a terrible, choking look across his face.
“Whelan,” Darik said, grabbing the man’s arm and trying to pull him to his feet.
“Go away.”
“Come, we can’t stay here.” In desperation, he picked up the sword from the ground and handed it to Whelan.
Whelan stared at the sword for a moment, before rising woodenly to his feet. Scree let out a bewildered scream overhead and the man lifted his wrist for the falcon to land.
Whelan swung his sword in an arc and the illusions fled before them. He strode across the plain and Darik struggled to keep up the pace. Tears dried on Whelan’s cheeks, replaced by a grim frown.
At last they regained the road and the visions vanished, replaced by a flat gray plain, much as Darik had originally seen it. He could also see the wall stretching parallel with the Tothian Way. From here, it was impossible to see the skulls that bound it together.
The sun crawled into the sky. Thankfully, it was day—that much hadn’t been an illusion. Pale as the sun was, it lifted his spirits.
Whelan breathed deeply, and appeared to have regained his senses.
“Is this Serena going to die?” Darik asked.
Whelan turned to look at him and shrugged. “Serena is already dead. My sword, there are some who call it Soultrup, lies sometimes. I don’t know what was real, what had happened, what was going to happen.”
“Who was she?” Darik asked. He noticed even as he asked, that Whelan’s cloak was still stained with blood from the dying woman.
Whelan met his gaze, face unreadable. “Serena? Serena was the queen of Arvada and the Citadel.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s right, King Daniel’s wife and Ninny’s mother.”
But Sofiana was Whelan’s daughter, not King Daniel’s. How could she...? Belatedly, he realized the implications. Darik looked to the ground.
Whelan sheathed his sword and sent Scree aloft. He looked down at his hands and breathed deeply. “Yes, that’s right.” His voice had taken on a curious tone. Almost flat and emotionless. “I was young, she was young, and my brother was completely absorbed in the chores of a young king after Father died. It was all too easy to—” he stopped mid-sentence. “No, there is no excuse for what I did. I accept full responsibility and I will beg the king for forgiveness when we reach the Citadel.”
“So that’s why King Daniel banished you from Eriscoba,” Darik said, so many things growing clear. He’d been so overwhelmed to discover that Whelan was a prince in the Free Kingdoms that he’d almost forgotten what Ethan had said. “But why did he wait so long? Sofiana is what? Twelve years old?”
Whelan’s face clenched in sudden rage, the calm look on his face swept away. “Because I was a fool. I thought I could escape my problems, first by fleeing to Balsalom, and then by joining the Brotherhood. I suffered my ordeals in silence, purging myself and learning to control my appetites. But I simply could not admit to my brother what I had done.”
He laughed bitterly. “So I waited until the queen drowned and, in a fit of regret and mourning, told my brother of my earlier sins. At any other time Daniel would have forgiven me, I’m sure of it. But he had grown to love Serena too, you see, and in his grief, he exiled me. Banished from Eriscoba, from my home in the city Arvada, and from the Citadel.”
“But wait,” Darik said. He grew angry as another part of the story came into focus. “What about Sofiana? It wasn’t her fault. Why would the king banish her, too?”
“Oh no, Daniel didn’t hold Ninny at fault. He was angry, but not that angry.” A wry smile touched his lips. “You can blame my daughter for that one. Headstrong girl.”
“It was her own choice?” Having been torn from his own life of ease, Darik couldn’t see why she’d prefer to live on the road, instead of as a princess.
“Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Boys aren’t the only ones who crave adventure. When I returned the first time from Balsalom when Sofiana was young, I made sure I became her favorite uncle. That meant teaching her the bow and sword, horsemanship and falconry. Not that she doesn’t love her father.”
Whelan sighed. “And then when her mother died and I foolishly chose that moment to confess my crimes, she thought it would be a great adventure to follow me into exile. And justice, too. Alas, she’s not the sort of child you can compel to obey you, or I’d have sent her back to Eriscoba long ago.”
Scree returned with a scream.
“Come,” Whelan said, putting a hood over the falcon’s head. He swept the emotion from his face. “They’ve gone ahead.”
They found Markal and Sofiana a few minutes later with the camels. Markal looked at them grimly. “You do, indeed, look like a wight, Darik. I’m afraid you won’t be able to wash until we cross the Desolation.”
Darik looked down at his filthy, scratched hands to see that they still glowed with the oils Markal had given him.
“Ugh,” Sofiana said. “What’s that smell?”
Darik said, “It’s me, I’m afraid. Something in Markal’s potion.” He pulled the camel to the ground and mounted behind the girl. “It worked, though.”
She made a face. “You smell worse than the camel.”
Darik said, “You might not say that if you had to sit in the back.” He turn
ed to Markal. “I don’t know how you happened to have that potion in your bags but it worked. I’d have escaped if not for my clumsy feet.”
Markal smiled. “The oil is an ointment for an ailment I suffer in the, er...nether regions. The luminescence was a handy side effect. Sorry about the smell.”
Sofiana giggled. It might have been funny, or disgusting, or both if Darik and Whelan hadn’t just emerged from the Desolation.
“What happened out there?” Darik said, pointing to the Desolation. “My father used to ride through here on trading missions. He didn’t like the place, but I had no idea what it was. I don’t think he did either.”
“Most people don’t,” Markal said. “Not unless they leave the road and if they do, they don’t usually return.”
“This was once a prosperous kingdom. Aristonia.” Markal’s voice was reverent when he spoke the name. “The Fair Land, some people called it. Its people were free, its lands rich beyond belief. It was said you could plant anything in the ground, even gold, and a tree or bush or plant would sprout forth. A valuable gift was a box of the Aristonian soil. Plant it in your gardens and your produce would be the envy of every other grocer in the souk.”
“What happened?” Sofiana asked.
“King Toth demanded allegiance of the Aristonians. He’d subjected most of the world by then, and Aristonia had already suffered the Tothian Way to be built through its lands. Toth thought that if he turned the magic of this land, he could better make war against the Mountain Brother, his sworn enemy, who lived in the mountains just west of here.”
Darik shook his head. “What kind of man thinks he can kill a god?”
“The kind of man who has already killed one,” Markal said. “Toth had slain the Forest Brother the previous year. Most people don’t realize what happened to the fifth brother.”
“As he marched on Aristonia, all the free people of Mithyl united. Those chaffing under his rule revolted. For three years the battles raged across the land. Hundreds of thousands were killed, the Aristonians themselves scattered across Mithyl. When the war ended, Toth lay dead, but his curse remained on the land. I suspect it will always remain.”
The Dark Citadel Page 11
