He waited, stroking the thanacryst as she approached. Azár drew up in front of him, dark eyes mocking him in silence as she stared up into his face. She was a tiny thing; the top of her head reached no more than the center of his chest. She narrowed her eyes. Then she turned her head and spat upon the ground.
Darien glanced down to consider the wet stain of her spittle upon the blackened rocks. He wondered if Azár was even aware that her action had just desecrated what amounted to the mass gravesite of her countrymen. He doubted that she had even considered it.
“Would you show me where the transfer portal is, please?” Darien asked in as kindly a tone as he could muster.
He waited as she continued to glare up at him, hands on her hips. His gaze fell to the dagger she wore at her belt. The ebony hilt reminded him of the knife once carried by Garret Proctor, yet another man whose grave Azár’s action had just defiled.
For the first time, Darien took notice of the garments she was wearing. Azár’s clothing was of ash-dark cotton, thickly layered for warmth. There was absolutely no leather or hide anywhere on her body; even her sandals and belt were woven from what looked like coarse fibers of reed. She wore a thick shawl tied around her shoulders. There were many holes and tears in the fabric. Darien took note of these subtle inconsistencies. She was of the mage class of her society. Yet, Azár dressed as an indigent.
She was still staring up at him, unblinking.
“I know I’m not what you expected,” Darien said. “I’m sorry. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to leave?”
“I want you to die.” She was gazing steadily upwards into his face.
“I did that already,” he said flatly.
“A thousand deaths are not enough for you. The transfer portal is this way.”
She moved away from him, feet crunching over the rocks and molten glass scattered everywhere across the ground. Darien tracked her motion with his eyes, watching her as she approached the charred rock wall of Orien’s Finger. There, she muttered something under her breath. A Word of Command, he surmised. The fractured basalt rock of the pedestal seemed to shimmer, wavering for a moment. Then it disappeared altogether, revealing a gaping entrance cut into the side of the cliff itself.
Fascinated, Darien moved to follow her as she disappeared within. He conjured up a mist of magelight as he entered the dark chamber at the base of the pedestal, sending its glow spreading forward into the room.
He allowed his eyes to roam upward as he stood in the threshold of the doorway. The dark walls and tall ceiling glimmered with the sheen of thousands of tiny crystals that sparkled in the magelight. He watched as Azár moved forward into the center of the chamber, toward a tall, cross-vaulted arch. The arch was made of ruddy-colored marble that looked particularly out of place.
“I’d no idea this was here,” Darien muttered.
“That’s because you are ignorant.”
Darien shook his head, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. “I’m still in Hell,” he whispered under his breath.
Azár glanced back over her shoulder with a smirk. “Come. Take my hand.”
Darien raised his eyebrows in surprise as he crossed the chamber toward her. He contemplated her offered hand for a long moment before accepting it. Her olive skin was smooth and silken, like none other he had ever felt before. He couldn’t help himself; he ran his thumb across the back of her hand, noting the complete absence of lines. It was the softest hand he’d ever held.
“How old are you, Azár?” he wondered in awe.
She glared up at him, looking ready to snatch her hand back out of his grasp. “Empty your mind,” she said, anger roiling under her tone.
Darien closed his eyes and did as she commanded. She pulled him forward with her under the arch. He followed, letting go of the magelight and allowing the chamber’s natural darkness to settle in around them. He felt the transition as his feet stepped onto the marble foundation of the arch.
Then the whole chamber jolted and seemed suddenly to shift.
♦ ♦ ♦
Bryn Calazar, The Black Lands
Darien staggered and almost fell, catching himself on the marble pillar of the portal itself. He turned in a confused circle, taking in the new surroundings that confronted them.
He was in a different room, somewhere completely dissimilar to the one he had just been standing in only moments before. This room was large and brightly lit by braziers and flaming torches. They were not alone. Darien’s hand reached reflexively for his blade.
The cold prick of steel at his throat stopped his motion. Darien lowered his hand slowly, spreading his arms out at his sides. He could hear the thanacryst growl.
Azár stepped in front of him with a satisfied smirk.
“Peace,” she said at last. “He’s no threat.”
The sword retracted. Darien reached up to rub at the spot where the blade had scored his neck. His thumb came away with a slight stain of blood. Azár frowned, studying the cut with cold and critical eyes.
“So, a demon can bleed,” she commented.
Darien wiped the blood off onto his shirtsleeve, turning around to confront the man who had assailed him. He found himself staring up into the black-helmed face of an Enemy soldier wearing full battle plate. And the man was not alone. The room was ringed with them, at least a dozen plate-mailed guards. Darien felt a shiver of chill creep over him at the sight. The last time he had been surrounded by such men had been at his ill-fated parley with Zavier Renquist.
Azár motioned him forward away from the transfer portal. As he walked, Darien let his gaze rove over the room. Startled, he noticed that there were many of the cross-vaulted arches arranged in concentric rings. A few of the columns had collapsed, now only heaps of spilled rubble. He stared in wonder at the sight, understanding immediately the significance of what he was looking at. Each of the archways must be a portal to somewhere else, a transit system the ancients had once used. There had been nothing like it in Aerysius; such industry had been lost long ago.
There was a blinding flash of light. Blinking against the glare, Darien saw that Byron Connel and Nashir Arman had joined them in the chamber. With two more brilliant flashes, the rest of their party emerged. Zavier Renquist appeared last in a glimmering pool of light, striding behind the white-cloaked form of Cyrus Krane. He moved forward toward the center of the room as, all around him, plate-mailed bodies lowered to abase themselves upon the ground at the prime warden’s feet.
“You may rise,” Renquist commanded. “I must speak with the grand vizier. Bring him to me at once.”
There was a stir as two sentries ran out of the room to comply. Darien stood still, bringing a hand up to dab at his neck. The guards that ringed the room yet lingered at their stations with weapons drawn, blades held at ready across their chests, shields at their backs.
After minutes, the sound of marching feet echoed from above. A large retinue spilled down a flight of curving stairs: more plate-mailed bodies followed by men dressed in fine cloth. At the rear of the procession strode a bearded man dressed in embroidered robes and a tanned leather vest, a tall hat upon his head. The newcomers knelt before Renquist immediately upon their arrival in the chamber. Even the man in silk and leather dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against the floor.
“Arise,” the ancient prime warden greeted his servant.
The large man regained his feet, sweeping forward to embrace Renquist warmly, as one brother to another.
“Thank the gods you have returned! Honor and glory to you, Prime Warden.” His voice was deep and throaty, with a thick accent that sounded nothing like Renquist’s own. Darien realized the difference must be the result of the centuries that separated the two men.
Zavier Renquist smiled, returning the vizier’s embrace. “Peace and blessings, Vizier Sarik. It is only through the sacrifice of the Asyaadi Lightweaver that our return to Malikar has been achieved. It is to him the honor and glory is owed.”
The noblem
an turned to regard Azár. “Peace to you, Lightweaver. I am Sarik Uthmar, Grand Vizier of the city-state of Bryn Calazar. I offer congratulations upon your ascendance.”
To Darien’s amazement, Azár looked down, lowering her gaze before the vizier. The young woman seemed humble, a state altogether out of character.
“Very kind of you, Vizier,” she whispered, her voice full of humility.
Zavier Renquist stepped forward, draping his hand over the nobleman’s broad shoulders as he pulled the man close. “Vizier Sarik. Perhaps you can help us with a difficult situation.” He motioned to Darien, urging him forward.
Darien complied with a wary glance at the nearest guard. He strode across the room toward the two men, drawing to a halt before the prime warden.
Renquist indicated him with his hand. “Vizier Sarik, I present to you Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie, Aerysius’s Last Sentinel. He is the newest of our Master’s faithful Servants.”
The bearded man’s eyes narrowed at first, then widened slowly. “Prime Warden…are you saying this man is the self-same abomination who rained fiery death upon Malikar’s legions?”
“The same.”
Darien found it almost impossible to maintain eye contact with the man as the vizier leaned forward to peer directly into his face. The intensity of his stare was alarming, burning with the righteous fire of a zealot. Darien couldn’t manage it. He dropped his gaze to his feet.
“Ash’zeri!” the man exclaimed under his breath. “Prime Warden, you have vanquished Malikar’s greatest enemy and delivered him to our cause! There are no words to adequately express the greatness of your works!”
To Darien’s dismay, the man’s hands were suddenly upon him, taking him roughly by the shoulders. To his men, the vizier cried, “Light the braziers of the ziggurat and call forth the citizens of Bryn Calazar! This is a wonder that must be witnessed by all!”
The vizier turned to Renquist, lowering his voice to explain, “We must take great care in how we handle this, Prime Warden. The legend of Aerysius’s Last Sentinel is steeped in horrors and atrocity. The people will demand his lifeblood to fuel our fires. We must bring him before the citizens of Bryn Calazar as a captured slave is brought before the master of the house. Even then, we risk revolt if we do not compensate blood for blood.”
Darien stared hard at Renquist, his brow furrowed in concern. He mistrusted this bearded zealot. He was gravely troubled by the man’s words.
“Very well.” Zavier Renquist turned to face Darien, his face devoid of all expression. “I command you to bear what comes with shame and humility.”
Darien understood. He lowered his eyes, a sinking feeling settling deeply into his gut. He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat.
“Aye, Prime Warden.”
The vizier stepped forward, pointing down. “Kneel,” he commanded.
Darien obeyed, dropping to his knees on the floor. He glanced at the demon-hound that suddenly stood growling with hackles raised, eyes glowing a menacing green.
“Theanoch!” he commanded it. The hound fell down on its belly with a whine, head between its paws.
Vizier Sarik gazed down at Darien from under his tall red hat. He was fat; his bearded cheeks were ripe, his lips puffy and puckered like a fish. Nevertheless, he was strong. He brought his arm back, forming his hand into a fist. With a grunt, he struck Darien across the face with all the strength and weight of his body.
Darien’s head whiplashed around as blood sprayed from the force of the blow. Reeling, he almost fell over. He was caught and held upright by Azár’s firm grasp on his shoulders. The vizier hit him again, this time from the other side. Darien leaned forward, spitting blood onto the ground in a thick stream that dribbled from his chin.
The vizier leaned forward, hovering close over Darien’s head. In a deathly calm voice, he explained, “That is for the blood of Malikar’s sons and daughters you spilled upon the ground. Strip to your waist.”
Darien had no choice but to comply. He shrugged out of the baldric, laying his longsword down on the floor at his side. With trembling hands, he removed his black cloak and stripped his shirt off over his head. Those, he let fall to the ground around him.
“Bind him,” the vizier ordered his men.
Darien did not resist as two mailed bodies swept forward, one holding him securely as the other tied his wrists together in front of him with a woven cord.
“Let his blood flow,” the vizier whispered.
Darien closed his eyes and cringed as the blows began to fall. One man beat him with a coiled rope, the other with a gauntleted fist. Another man joined in, kicking him several times in the ribs. Darien fell to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest.
“Enough!”
The soldiers withdrew. Darien rolled onto his back, chest heaving, his whole body shaking and wet, glistening with a slick sheen of blood and sweat. A sharp pain stabbed at his side with every drawn breath.
“Stand, Darien Lauchlin, last of the fallen Sentinels,” the vizier commanded.
He could do nothing but obey. Trembling, Darien rose unsteadily to his knees and then, staggering, to his feet. Blood ran from wounds on his back, arms, and head. His lip was split, his left eye throbbing. He caught a glimpse of Nashir’s satisfied smirk. Darien glared at the darkmage with smoldering hatred in his eyes.
The vizier stood in front of Darien, placing his enormous hands on Darien’s shoulders. Then, leaning forward, he pressed a kiss against first Darien’s right cheek and then his left.
“That is for the grace and mercy Xerys has shown you,” he said, drawing back. To the guards, he commanded, “Collar him as a slave is collared.”
An armored man came forward and wrapped a supple cord around his neck, tying it with a slipknot attached to a length of rope. This he offered to the vizier.
Sarik shook his head. With a finger, he indicated Azár. The black-helmed guardsman strode over to the girl and placed Darien’s lead into her hand. Azár accepted the rope gravely, allowing her gaze to travel up its length toward the collar, her eyes progressing upward to Darien’s face. He expected her to sneer at him again as she had before. To Azár’s credit, she did not.
Darien lowered his head. His eye was already beginning to swell. He could have healed it in a heartbeat. He dared not.
Vizier Sarik informed him, “You will be presented to the citizens of Bryn Calazar as one who is utterly vanquished, defeated in body as well as spirit. You must submit yourself before the populace in shame. This is necessary. You can show no amount of pride or resistance. Do you understand what is expected of you?”
Darien could only nod, still staring at the ground. His mouth was once again filling with blood. This time he swallowed it, gritting his teeth against the taste. He noticed Azár studying him closely. He felt discomfited by her cold, unfeeling eyes.
“Whenever you are ready, Prime Warden,” the vizier announced.
“By all means. Lead the way.”
Renquist’s words were spoken with dispassionate authority. He stooped to retrieve Darien’s sword from off the ground. He held the scabbard up in his hands, clutching the weapon in front of him. He turned it slightly, allowing the rubies to catch the fire of the torchlight. Then, followed by the others, the ancient prime warden strode out of the chamber.
Darien was made to follow at the rear of their small procession, Azár leading him by the rope. She did not tug at his collar. Instead, she commanded him forward with the cold authority of her eyes. Darien followed her lead; he had no choice. The thanacryst trailed behind, nose to the ground, tail tucked between its legs.
Black-armored guards fell in behind. He was led out of the chamber of portals into a rock-encrusted hallway that seemed to stretch a very long distance ahead. Darien limped forward, favoring his right leg. His side pained him with each breath. He despised what they were doing, even as he understood the necessity. This was still part of his atonement, just like the other tortures he’d already been forc
ed to endure. He would bear this one, as well.
After minutes of walking, they emerged from a cliff side into the thick darkness of night. There, they paused on a high terrace overlooking the city of Bryn Calazar. The smell of the night air assaulted Darien’s nostrils. It had a hideous odor, thick and acrid, like black smoke from a forge. Darien tried to catch a glimpse of the city below through the press of bodies that surrounded him. He could see nothing. He moved forward, pulling the leash taught as he leaned over the edge of a crumbling balustrade.
The view below was chilling.
Darkness encased the city, but it was not the natural darkness of night. It was like the blackness that consumed the Shadowspears and the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. The ancient curse that had blackened the skies above Caladorn so long ago. Overhead, a cold and angry wind propelled a thick bank of cloudcover across the sky, tumbling and churning like the foaming froth of an ocean. Sheet lightning flickered from deep within that roiling mass. With a shiver of dismay, Darien realized he was gazing out across the corrupted heart of the Black Lands. And it was more thoroughly despoiled than he had ever imagined.
Sprawling outward to the distant horizon, the city of Bryn Calazar was revealed before him in all its tortured desecration. Thick plumes of smoke billowed over the city, fed by fires that seemed to burn everywhere. The smoke had a foul and oily taste to it, thick and bitter. The structures resembled distorted honeycombs, built of successive layers, one atop the other, dark walls haphazardly thrown up at odd angles. The roads were paved with tar and lined by great, snakelike clusters of pipes that twined and coiled about the twisted heart of the city. The heavens wept hot tears of ash that drifted softly to the ground, wafting from the skies like despoiled snow.
Darien stared open-mouthed at the sight, struggling to come to terms with the terrible wrongness of it. There was nothing left; all trace of nature had been either corrupted or consumed. This was not civilization, he realized.
This was Hell.
A tug on his leash pulled Darien away from the edge of the terrace. Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the vision of the repulsive city below. He stared down the side of the cliff, out across the dark waters of an ocean that seemed to bleed thick streaks of oil from its tides. In the harbor, iron-clad ships rode at their moors.
Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3) Page 6
