Unbroken Chain: The Darker Road

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “My fault. It’s because I say only half of what I think and half of what I see,” Ilvani said. “You can’t see the owls, can you?”

  He tilted his head. “Did you see some in the trees?” He looked around at the wood. “I’d like to see what one looks like outside the Shadowfell.”

  Ilvani glanced up. There were thirteen owls now. “So would I,” she said.

  “Do you want to go back to the camp?” Ashok asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m not afraid to dream,” she said.

  That got his attention. “The woman from your dreams—she’s gone?”

  “Not gone. But she’s different. She’s not being hunted. She’s at peace, so I can be at peace.”

  “The nightmare hasn’t reacted to you the way he did on the Shadowfell plain,” Ashok said. He made a gesture toward her as if to lift the cloak, but he stopped himself and let his hand rest on the spiked chain hanging from his belt. “Your arms are healing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ilvani said. “But there will be scars, and I won’t know what they mean.”

  “The symbols,” Ashok said. “Don’t worry, when we get to Rashemen, the witches will explain why you were seeing them in your dreams. Or maybe …”

  “What?”

  “Couldn’t you ask … Him? Surely Tempus could give you some hint as to what the dreams mean?”

  Ilvani sighed. “He might, but I haven’t talked to Him since that night—you know when.”

  “I know.”

  She scowled. “I’m not afraid. But I haven’t decided what I think or feel about Him.”

  “Neither have I,” Ashok said.

  They sat in silence after that. Ilvani heard Skagi and Cree moving through the trees. There was the sound of a blade, a heavy thud—in that instant she felt the pulse of life quicken and fade. The owls rustled their wings and made soft keening sounds that caused Ilvani’s heart to quiver in her chest.

  The soul’s flight—tonight there will be another long journey, Ilvani thought. Another creature will have to find its way home.

  “Cree killed a deer,” she said.

  Ashok nodded. He didn’t ask her how she knew. “Cree is doing well without his eye,” he said.

  Ilvani sat up and shook the snow out of her hair. “Your words don’t match your face,” she said.

  He fingered the spiked chain, heedless of the sharp edges waiting to bite his skin. Ilvani sensed new magic crawling along the links, magic that smelled like smoke. “You told me once that I should value my companions and keep them safe,” he said. “I failed in that.”

  “You didn’t understand what I was asking you,” Ilvani said.

  “That’s not truly surprising.”

  “You’re not ready to understand.”

  The snow had stopped falling. Skagi and Cree came trotting through the trees, carrying a deer carcass between them.

  “Not to worry, you two,” Skagi said dryly. “You just keep on sitting there. We can handle this hunt. It was no effort at all, really.”

  Ashok grinned. “Skagi and his great enemy, the woodland doe.”

  “He needs the training,” Cree said.

  Skagi dropped his end of the deer, which caused Cree to stumble and curse. “Can we go back now? If those brigands return, I don’t want to miss any of the fun. We haven’t had a good fight in days.”

  “We’re all feeling it,” Cree said. He flexed his gloved fingers. Ilvani knew he was holding back a tremor. When he could no longer control it, he would need satisfaction, in one form or another. Their shadow selves had been too long at peace on the road. She could see them, the shadows clawing restlessly at their skin. She saw the thing they feared, she heard the whisper they tried to ignore. But she could never put a name to the things she saw, or tell Cree, Skagi, or Ashok that the menace was so close all the time. It would make them afraid of her.

  She was not always aware of her world or the workings of the people in it, but Ilvani knew enough to know that she would rather the shadar-kai thought she was crazy than fear her.

  “We’ll spar tonight,” Ashok said, “the three of us. Maybe we can talk the Beshabans into joining us. They have to be hurting too.”

  “So long as they know ‘spar’ means you stop short of ‘kill,’ ” Cree said, but there was a spark in his black eye, a hint of excitement at the possibility of challenging the other shadar-kai.

  Ashok knows what to say to them, Ilvani thought. Maybe he is beginning to understand. She looked up at the tree, but the owls were gone. They had fled the shadows too.

  When they got back to camp—the brothers had made Ashok carry the deer—he deposited the meat with the cook, who’d managed to get several fires going, some for cooking and some for warmth. The presence of the invigorating flames and their arrival at the trade route more or less on schedule had put the camp into an almost-festive mood. Tatigan, the Martucks, and the dwarf merchant—Tatigan had referred to him only as Thorm—sat around one of the fires and discussed their expedition into Uzbeg. Ashok couldn’t hear what they said, but by their expressions, the trip must have gone well. Even the boy, sitting close to his parents, seemed at ease.

  Ashok saw the bard, Daruk, sitting on a rock before the largest fire. He had his eyes closed in meditation. Ashok wondered if tonight was the night they would finally get to hear the man sing.

  Eveningfeast was spitted venison and more trail rations. Ashok took the bowl the cook handed to him and went to sit with Ilvani and the brothers by one of the fires. A few minutes later, Mareyn came over with her own meal and sat down on Ilvani’s other side. She said nothing to the witch, just went about eating. Ashok couldn’t tell if the woman’s presence unsettled Ilvani or not. She’d been unusually coherent in the woods earlier that day. In fact, looking at her now across the fire, Ashok sensed a flicker of vitality in her thin face. Maybe it was just false hope on his part, but Ashok thought that removing Ilvani from the oppressive Shadowfell had brought her some peace.

  He wished he could understand her better—see some of the things she saw. He knew too well what it was like to feel isolated and helpless, with shadows all around.

  Ilvani turned and said something to Mareyn then that Ashok couldn’t hear. Mareyn gave a delighted laugh and nodded her head. Ashok wanted to move closer so he could hear their conversation, but he noticed the bard, Daruk, coming toward them.

  “Well met,” the man said.

  His wide smile showed excitement but too many teeth. The expression didn’t look friendly. Ashok and the brothers nodded a greeting. Ilvani and Mareyn were still talking and did not notice the bard.

  “I feel I’ve been unspeakably rude for not introducing myself before now, especially since Tatigan has told me so much about all of you,” the bard continued, though his gaze rested on Ashok as he spoke. “I am Daruk the singer, Daruk the rhymer, Daruk the traveler.”

  “Lot of names for one human,” Skagi said. He licked meat juice off his fingers. “You get along better having more names than anyone else?”

  “It certainly never hurts to have advantages no one else can claim,” Daruk said. “I also call myself Daruk the collector, but only at certain times. I’ve collected tales on many fascinating subjects, Skagi—almost scion of Tareff the Mad, weren’t you? That would have been quite a name, had you been able to claim it.”

  Ashok saw Skagi’s gray face go rigid in a heartbeat. By the time Ashok registered a similar reaction in Cree, Skagi was on his feet, bowl thrown aside so he could get his hands on his falchion hilt.

  Ashok and Cree sprang up to restrain the big warrior. Skagi said nothing, but the tension in the warrior’s muscles told the extent of his rage. Ashok strained to keep Skagi’s weapon in its sheath.

  “Whatever it is, he isn’t worth it,” Ashok hissed.

  “Listen to Ashok,” Cree said, speaking low and rapidly. “This is old blood, already spilled and turned to dust. It means nothing, Brother. Nothing.”

  Cree caught the side of his b
rother’s head and forced him to look at his face. Skagi stared into his brother’s remaining eye. Something passed between them—old battles, old memories—and eventually Skagi nodded as if he understood. Tense muscles relaxed, and Ashok let go of Skagi’s arm. The brothers sat back down together, ignoring the quiet stares of the caravan crew who’d seen the altercation.

  Ashok remained standing. He faced the bard. “Tatigan needs to keep you on a shorter lead,” he said quietly.

  Daruk smiled ruefully. “I’ve made an enemy of you now, haven’t I? Maybe if you heard me sing, you’d feel differently.” He stepped away from the fire, inviting Ashok to follow. Ashok reluctantly left the others and walked away from the camp with him—anything to keep the bard away from Skagi.

  “My quarrel is not with Skagi,” Daruk said when they were out of earshot of the brothers. “Though his tale is an interesting one. I’ll tell it, if you’re curious?”

  “I’ll hear it from Skagi and no one else,” Ashok said.

  Daruk sighed. “Pity. It would help explain why he hates the humans in Ikemmu so much.”

  “I’ve never known Skagi to hate anyone other than his enemies,” Ashok said.

  “Oh, I see. You know him so well, after less than a year fighting beside him? How well do you really know any of them, Ashok?” Daruk asked. “How well do they know you?”

  “They know me better than the brothers who raised me,” Ashok said. He cursed himself. Why had he told the bard that?

  But Daruk said nothing about his revelation. He watched the campfires from a distance and wrapped his dark green cloak close around himself. “You’re a mystery to Ikemmu in so many ways, Ashok,” he said. “I’ve heard your name whispered with so much confusion and doubt. The city doesn’t know what to think of you. It sparks my collector’s heart. Your secrets might be worthy of song.”

  “Why do you want to sing tales of the shadar-kai?” Ashok said. “As you said, we look down on your people. Where’s the glory in singing for a race that scorns your creations?”

  “Not you,” Daruk said. His voice betrayed his excitement. “You keep yourself apart from all those petty grievances. Nothing ties you down—even the gods don’t touch you. The sword of Tempus hasn’t marked your flesh. Do you have any idea what you could do with such freedom?”

  “No more or less than I do now,” Ashok said. “I fight for Ikemmu—”

  The bard scoffed at that. He waved a dismissive hand. “Ikemmu will not last another generation. Trade is all that keeps the city from dissolving into civil war. Abandon the dreams of idealistic leaders, Ashok, and you’ll sleep better at night.”

  “If you’re so certain the city will fall,” Ashok said, “why do you make it your home?”

  “There’s enough there to interest me, for now,” Daruk said. He smiled and waved to the camp. “You’d better go back to your friends. I don’t want them thinking I’ve dragged you off into the darkness.” He chuckled as if at some private joke. “But listen to my songs, Ashok, and judge for yourself if they don’t stir something in your blood.”

  He walked back to the large fire, and Ashok went to rejoin his friends. Mareyn had gone back to check on the Martucks; Ilvani was asleep by the fire wrapped in Ashok’s cloak; Skagi had retrieved his bowl and ate in silence. Cree leaned over to speak to Ashok.

  “What did the bard want?” he asked.

  “As far as I could tell, he wanted to hear himself talk,” Ashok said.

  Cree nodded. “He looks harmless, but if he knows things about us …” He glanced uneasily at his brother.

  “Then he isn’t harmless,” Ashok said. “Don’t worry about him now. Tomorrow, before dawn, we spar—just the three of us.”

  “We’ll be there,” Cree said.

  Daruk’s voice drifted across the camp. “All right, then, you’ve all had your supper and are no doubt congratulating yourselves on having survived another day of Tuva and Vlahna’s death march, am I right?”

  Chuckles and scattered applause met this pronouncement. The caravan leaders made rude gestures at the bard. In response, Daruk bowed.

  “As some of you no doubt heard, the inestimable Tatigan Carrlock has recently suggested I earn my keep on this journey.” More laughter. “Friends, I’m here to answer that call. Shall we have a song or a tale?”

  “Song!” the Martucks called out. “Something we can dance to.”

  There were groans from the other side of the camp. “We’re too damned tired to dance,” someone complained. “Give us a tale, Daruk.”

  The crowd went back and forth for a minute or so, until Daruk held up his hands. “My people have spoken”—Ashok detected a hint of disdain in the words—“and so it shall be a tale and a song.”

  He turned, raised his hand straight up in the air, and the campfire twisted, shooting toward the sky in a violent cyclone.

  Some of the caravan crew gasped and scooted back from the flames, but others acted as if they’d seen the spectacle before. Mareyn and the Martucks, except for the boy, whooped and applauded. The dwarf, Thorm, didn’t even look up from his meal.

  Daruk spread his hands, and the fire split at the top and widened like a chalice in the air. “It’s all about theatricality, my friends. What is life without dramatics or scale? The fire is not a fire—it won’t burn you.”

  “Tell that to my singed cloak,” one of the guards grumbled.

  Daruk ignored him. “The fire is the field of battle, and if you look closer, you’ll see—”

  Ashok saw. Rising up out of the flames were riders, tiny figures made of fire that rode in ordered lines. Daruk’s illusion made it look as if there were dozens, hundreds that rode off into the distance until they became smoke clouds.

  From across the camp, Tatigan laughed and applauded. “The Tuigan at last, Daruk? I thought you’d never tell that tale.”

  “Everything in its time, green-eyed man,” Daruk said. “It’s been more than a hundred years, but true warriors and their quest for glory will never be forgotten. Though their conquest ended in tragedy, some of their spirits are still here. Those of us who’ve walked this road before have seen them wandering the wastes, waiting for a battle that was lost a long time ago. The nomad warriors of the plains rode out of their country with dreams of conquest in their hearts. Their leader, Yamun Khahan, took his armies into the west and fell to a Cormyrian king. But no one told the ghosts.”

  Sparks fell from the fire and hissed as they hit the snow. Behind a curtain of steam, Daruk stared up at the fiery riders and began to sing.

  “I hear the echoes

  Of these fallen flames

  I speak with their voices

  These tombs of the dead.”

  Ashok listened to the melody created by the bard’s voice. He sang unaccompanied, but the flames and their phantom story amplified his presence. Ashok had to admit, he’d never heard music like this. Daruk’s song had none of the wavering qualities of Darnae’s music. He sang with the assurance of a master. The music did stir him. Ashok felt the restlessness in his blood, the need to hold his weapon in his hands. When he glanced over at Skagi and Cree, he saw them similarly affected, despite Skagi’s efforts to ignore the song and the fire.

  Near their smaller fire, Ilvani had her eyes open. She listened to the bard’s song, but she was not as enraptured as the others were. She closed her eyes again and pulled Ashok’s cloak up over her ears.

  The sparks fell like glittering jewels, each a fallen warrior. Daruk sang for them, and Ashok lost himself in the music. His breathing quickened. He remembered riding in his own fire upon the nightmare’s back across the plains.

  Suddenly, he had a vision of himself alongside the warriors of the steppes, men clutching their shortbows and guiding their horses with their legs as they fired on the armies of Faerûn. He looked at the warriors on either side of him, friends whose faces he’d never seen.

  “If we’re meant to die today,” one said, and stretched out his hand to Ashok, “then I am more blessed than
any other, to have you fight at my side.”

  “Yes.” Ashok had never heard the warrior’s language before, but somehow he understood the words. He reached for the warrior’s hand. His vision blurred, and he was back at the camp, listening to Daruk’s song end. The flame column dwindled until it was a simple cookfire again.

  Panting, caught between the dream and reality, Ashok looked around. The crew and passengers prepared to sleep, and the watches had already set out from the camp. He felt light-headed and strange, as if his skin were too taut for his body. It must be the inactivity. His need for stimulation was manifesting in half dreams.

  He settled down with his bedroll and tried to sleep. The watches changed shift twice before he was able to drift off into oblivion.

  Ilvani stood at the edge of the camp and scanned the darkness for signs of movement. She saw none, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Daruk’s song still echoed in the air like a summons.

  The fool, Ilvani thought. He should know better than to whisper to old ghosts.

  She walked back to the camp and noticed Ashok tossing fitfully in his sleep. He shivered as if in the throes of a fever. Slipping his cloak from her shoulders, Ilvani covered him and stepped back.

  “You feel it too,” she whispered. “But you have no name for it.” She sighed. The night wasn’t over yet. Something was coming.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  ASHOK AWOKE TO FIND ILVANI CROUCHED AT HIS SIDE. SHE watched him intently, her brow furrowed in consternation.

  “Do you know yourself?” she asked.

  He looked around. The camp slept on peacefully. The fires burned steadily, fed by the watch guards.

  “I dreamed that I was … not myself,” he said. “Someone called to me—”

  “He’s waiting,” Ilvani said. “We have to go.”

  “Where?” Ashok stood up, fastened his cloak, and checked his weapons. Ilvani was already walking north out of the camp. She removed a crystal sphere from her pouch, spoke a word, and shook it. Reddish gold light filled the sphere and illuminated the night. Ashok untied the nightmare’s reins and led the stallion after her.