The Darkest Hour tst-2

by Martin Hengst

  A murmur ran through the crowd and the Voice lifted the gavel, a stone cylinder about six inches tall and three in diameter, slamming it into the platform in front of his seat. The loud crack it produced effectively silenced the assembly.

  “Do you,” the Voice stabbed a long finger at Zarfensis, “deny that you sent raiding parties out without the approval, or even knowledge of the pack council?”

  “I deny nothing,” the High Priest said with a snarl. “I refuse to recognize the authority of any council that would have the Chosen cower like vermin in their dens.”

  This time it was less of a murmur and more of a roar that went through the chamber. Zarfensis looked sidelong at Xenir and saw him scanning the crowd. They were thinking the same thing. Perhaps there were more elder loyalists than they had given credit for. Once again the gavel silenced the uproar.

  “You will be summarily executed for treason,” the Voice announced, dropping any pretense of a fair ruling. He pointed to Xenir. “Your accomplice, the Warleader-”

  The Voice never had a chance to finish his sentence. Zarfensis had hunkered down into a crouch, exploding forward as the magically imbued leg drove him across the advocate’s table and into the Voice. They crashed into the throne, toppling it and plunging the room into panic. The High Priest wrenched the gavel from the Voice’s hand and slammed it into the elder’s head. There was a sickening, satisfying crunch and the Voice twitched once and was silenced.

  Tossing the gavel aside, Zarfensis saw that Xenir had followed his lead and descended on the other council members. He tore at them with a ferocity that bordered on zealotry. Zarfensis reached into the deepest depths of the Quintessential Sphere and called forth a disease-ridden mist that descended over the panicked Chosen scurrying about below the council platform.

  The older and infirm Xarundi succumbed almost immediately. Gasping for breath, their tongues lolled from open mouths, their clouded eyes protruding from the sockets as they fell. Those not immediately afflicted broke for the doorway, only to find a flood of young Xarundi descending upon them. Young fangs and claws could still do damage, and their sheer numbers guaranteed their swift victory. Zarfensis dispersed the mist as the striplings entered the chamber.

  The entire coup was over within minutes of its start. No one on the council had survived the assault, and most of those who had attended the faux trial lay dead or dying on the floor of the chamber.

  The Warleader scooped up the gore-matted gavel, brandishing it above his head as he leapt to the top of the Advocate’s table, somehow, miraculously, still standing among the detritus of battle.

  “The council is dead! I swear my loyalty to a new Lord Regent, the High Priest!” Xenir dropped the gavel and went to a knee. The genuflection spread rapidly through the crowd, until all the Chosen had taken a knee before Zarfensis.

  “My brothers and sisters!” Zarfensis spoke loudly, so his voice would carry into the tunnel beyond. “Let today usher in a time of dominance and superiority for the Chosen. Let us seek out and destroy our enemies where they live and never again cower in the Warrens as if they were a prison.”

  The thunderous shout that rose from the assembly shook the walls of the chamber and echoed down the wide corridor. Zarfensis dropped from the platform and offered a hand to Xenir.

  “Come, Lord Protector, there is much to put into motion.”

  Chapter Five

  Tiadaria was laying on her bed, staring at the ceiling when someone knocked on her door. “Lady Tiadaria,” Harold called. “You have a gentleman caller.”

  “Faxon,” she said to herself. “It’s about bloody time.”

  Shifting off the bed, she strode to the door and threw it open. Wynn stood on the threshold. He had a large book tucked under one arm, almost hidden from view by the sleeve of his robe. He took a step backward at the sudden moment of the door and ran into Harold, who steadied the lad and disappeared down the hallway.

  “Lady Tiadaria,” Wynn’s voice wavered and the tips of his ears were burning a bright enough red that they could have probably lit the deepest cavern on Solendrea. Tiadaria was perversely pleased by his discomfort. “I, um… I’m, er- what I mean to say is that I’m not very good with people.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Tiadaria replied at her driest. She motioned him in and closed the door behind him.

  Seeing the work table seemed to ground the young quintessentialist. He went to the table and deposited the book he was carrying on the surface with reverent hands. Tia found herself wondering if he treated every book he touched with such awe and care. If so, she could understand why Faxon entrusted his research to this particular apprentice.

  Wynn began flipping through the book, his fingers lightly grazing each page as he flipped through them. When he spoke again, the shakiness had left his voice.

  “You said yesterday that Master Indra is looking for a relic that the Xarundi also seek, buried in snow and ice. I remember seeing an entry in this journal about an expedition to the Frozen Frontier to find a source of rare and powerful magic.”

  “Ah, here it is; Alveron and his men left Ethergate two fortnights ago. They go to the far north in search of a relic of limitless power. I asked Alveron where he learned of the relic, but he wouldn’t share the information with me. I thought it was important that we know the source of the rumor, so I took matters into my own hands. I took his quartermaster to the inn and got him good and drunk. The quartermaster says that they bought the information from a Dyrseer in Overwatch. He said the Dyrseer’s great-grandfather saw the relic buried in the ice and brought the tale back with him at the end of the war.”

  Wynn glanced up at her. “It continues on into a lot of detail you probably don’t need or want. It does, however, seem to hint at there being some truth to the rumor you’re chasing.”

  “What’s a Dyrseer?” Tiadaria asked.

  The quint tapped the journal with his forefinger. “It seems to be a now-forgotten term for the creatures you refer to as the Xarundi.”

  “So who was this Alveron?”

  Wynn sniffed. “A quintessentialist of mediocre renown. If he had paid more attention to his studies and less time running around searching for relics, maybe he’d have survived his journey to the Northern Rim.”

  “How do you know he didn’t survive?”

  He tapped the journal again. “Theodrin was a direct descendant of Grigor Gatzbin and the historian of our order until his death in 219p.c. Theodrin mentions Alveron once or twice more in his journals, but he never mentions his return.”

  “That’d be a neat trick after eight hundred years,” Tiadaria quipped. “If he wasn’t dead then, he is now.”

  “A logical assumption,” Wynn said, nodding.

  Tia stared at him. “I was joking, Wynn.”

  There was a long silence, punctuated by the quintessentialist flipping the book closed and tucking it back under his arm.

  “Joking, if you can call it that, aside, you now know that there may be a relic somewhere in the Northern Rim.” He turned to leave and Tia caught him by the sleeve.

  “We need to know more, Wynn. We need to know where the relic is, or at least make a good guess so we can start looking. We have to beat the Xarundi to whatever this thing is, if it exists.”

  “Why?”

  Tiadaria gaped at him. Her lips moved wordlessly for a moment before she finally found her voice. When she did, her words came out in the barest whisper.

  “Why? Why do we have to beat the Xarundi? Why do we have to ensure that they don’t unleash something terrible on Solendrea?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Her initial shock abating, Tia found the full strength of her voice and used it. “Don’t you know anything about the Xarundi? Don’t you know that they almost wiped out the human race? Don’t you know that two years ago, they almost did it again? I was there. People died, Wynn.” Her voice broke and her fingers went instinctively to her collar. “People I cared about. People Faxon cared about. The Xarundi are savag
e monsters and we cannot allow them any advantage. None.”

  The quintessentialist had the good form to look uncomfortable, though Tiadaria couldn’t tell if it was because her words were having any impact whatsoever, or if he was just twitchy because she was so emotional.

  “I’m- I’m sorry,” he said after a long pause. He placed the journal back on the table and sat down on her bed. “I was born here. In Ethergate, I mean. My parents were both quintessentialists, both researchers. Like me. I’ve never even been outside the city.”

  Tia peered at him, wondering if this was his way of getting back at her for her joke earlier. She studied his face, drawn in solemn lines. Wynn probably wouldn’t know a good joke if it leapt out of the fire and danced on his toes.

  “You’re serious?” Tia was aghast. Even as she asked the question, Tiadaria realized it wasn’t as ridiculous as it had first seemed. After all, she hadn’t been outside the clan lands before her father had sold her to the repugnant slaver who brought her into the Imperium. Even so, she had been to other clan villages. To never have been outside the city…

  “Why would I leave?” Wynn’s sweeping gesture encompassed all of Ethergate. “Everything I could ever need is inside these walls. There’s never been an attack on Ethergate that made it beyond the gate. What kind of fool would make war against a city full of mages?”

  She could appreciate the logic in that. Somehow, though, she didn’t think that the Xarundi would much care about how many mages there were. They’d breed as many bodies as they needed and throw them at the walls until they fell.

  “The Xarundi might,” she said with a sigh.

  The look he shot her was plainly disbelieving. “These creatures may be savage, but surely they don’t think they could take the city. That’s just not reasonable.”

  Tia threw her hands in the air. “These aren’t reasonable creatures, Wynn! They believe they are the Chosen. They believe that they alone have the right to rule over every race on Solendrea and they’ll stop at nothing to ensure that they see that to its end.”

  She took a knee next to him, so she could look up into his face. “Don’t you see? That’s why we need you, Wynn. That’s why we need to find out as much as we can about this relic. What it is. Where it might be. How to find it. Your skill could be invaluable. You could save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives.”

  The mage rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. His eyes were troubled and Tiadaria felt sympathy for him for the first time. It wasn’t all that long ago that her entire world view had been challenged. She knew what a shock that was.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said, meeting her gaze. “I can’t believe that these…things…would attack Ethergate.”

  “Maybe they won’t,” Tiadaria agreed. “Maybe they’ll just kill as many men, women, and children in the Imperium as they can, then enslave the rest. Then Ethergate will be the last human settlement they haven’t destroyed or made slaves of. Do you really think they’ll leave you alone forever?”

  “Alright!” His voice rose as the last of his resistance broke. “Alright. I’ll see what else I can find in the archives.” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe I can at least find you somewhere to start.”

  Tia laid her hand on his knee and a familiar shock shot up her arm. Wynn jumped at the touch and she quickly pulled her hand away. “That’s all we ask for, Wynn, thank you.”

  The quint got to his feet and once again retrieved his book. He bade her good day and told her that he’d come to her with anything that he might find during his investigation. As Tiadaria closed the door behind him, she wondered if he had realized what had passed between them, and if he had, how long it would be before the Order’s inquisitors descended on the inn to take her away.

  “Damn it, Faxon,” she said quietly to herself. “I need you here now. Where are you?”

  * * *

  “Vermin in the Warrens! There are vermin in the Warrens!” The pup that came racing into the rectory was so young that Zarfensis suspected he wasn’t long off his mother’s teat. His eyes were wide with panic, their blue fire amplified by a lens of tears.

  The High Priest put down his pen and went to the door. In the cathedral he could hear excited yips and shouts. Excited, not fearful, and not panicked like the youngster crouched down next to his desk. It wasn’t, then, the vermin descending on them en masse to finish what they’d begun at Dragonfell.

  “Come, whelp.” He offered his hand to the cowering pup, who took it with only a moment’s hesitation. “The vermin are not to be feared. We teach the vermin to fear us. We are the Chosen.”

  “Y-yes, Your Holiness.”

  Zarfensis lead the pup from the rectory into the cathedral. He’d wasted no time in moving back into his traditional quarters after the coup and now the adolescents that he and Xenir had assigned to stand guard over the upper levels of the Warrens were streaming into the sanctuary in twos and threes. The High Priest was about to take them to task for leaving their posts when he saw Xenir.

  “Your Holiness!” Xenir motioned toward the antechamber and Zarfensis nodded his understanding. He gently pushed the pup into the waiting arms of a nearby stripling. The adolescent stepped in front of the pup, his half-grown claws unsheathing as he took up a protective position.

  Zarfensis bounded across the sanctuary, his metal leg ringing against the marble floor with each step. “Report, Warleader.”

  “There are vermin in the upper tunnels, Your Holiness. The tunnel guards did exactly as they ought, took them by surprise from one of the blind tunnels and restrained them. They are holding their captives at the north entrance.”

  “They’re not bringing them here?”

  Xenir wrinkled his nose, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “No, I’ll not see the Warrens defiled by vermin.”

  Zarfensis chuckled at the vehemence in the Warleader’s tone. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Very well, brother. Let us go greet our…guests.”

  The Warleader snorted but said nothing. They loped easily up through the tunnels leading to the surface, passing knots of curious onlookers as they went. They passed a bitch, followed by a full litter of pups. Zarfensis held up a hand and the Warleader stopped. The High Priest turned to the bitch, who immediately bowed her head and went to her knees.

  “Your Holiness?”

  “Rise, dear sister. Why are these pups out of the nursery?”

  “I heard there are vermin in the Warrens, High Priest.”

  “Then why aren’t you protecting your charges in their place?”

  “The pups must learn what the vermin look like, what they smell like, how they sound. Otherwise, how will they hunt them down as they grow?”

  She tossed her head haughtily, refusing to drop her eyes from Zarfensis’s intense gaze.

  “Well spoken, sister.” Zarfensis motioned for the Warleader to continue and called over his shoulder. “Just ensure their safety.”

  “The day I can’t protect my pups from a few vermin, I’ll cut off my own tail.” She said as they rounded the corner.

  Zarfensis shuddered. Losing a tail was the greatest shame a Chosen could be subjected to. The High Priest wondered if there were many other females with that same streak of aggressiveness.

  “She has a warrior’s heart,” Xenir remarked. Zarfensis had often wondered if Xenir’s gift of foresight also offered him the occasional glimpse into another’s mind, but when the Warleader continued, the High Priest’s suspicion was allayed.

  “Those pups are mine,” Xenir said without a trace of pride. “She’s not the only female with that kind of fire, either. I wonder if we might be well-suited by allowing them to become warriors.”

  “One cultural upheaval at a time, Xenir. We’ve only just restored the Chosen to our rightful status, let’s not give the scant handful of elders who backed us a reason to overthrow us just yet.”

  Xenir grunted and walked on. Before long, they reached the oval cavern that was used as the ready room for the northern entran
ce to the Warrens. Three dirty, pink vermin were on their knees, guarded by two pairs of Xarundi guards. Zarfensis was impressed with their restraint. None of the prisoners seemed to be mauled in any way.

  “Only three?” Zarfensis remarked to Xenir. “Are these vermin suicidal?”

  “You were at Dragonfell,” the largest of the humans said, nodding toward Zarfensis. “The quints gave you a right good beating.”

  A meaty thud echoed across the cavern as the man’s head rocked back on his neck. The force of the High Priest’s backhand raised an ugly welt across the human’s cheekbone.

  “Learn your place, vermin.” Zarfensis snarled.

  The man hawked and spat blood onto the floor in front of him. “My place is where the most money is. We have information you may find interesting, for a price.”

  Zarfensis marveled at the audacity of these vermin. They defiled the Warrens with their presence and then expected to be compensated for their information. They should be happy they were still breathing.

  “What information could a lowly vermin possibly have that is of interest to the Chosen?”

  The man smiled, showing a crooked row of bloody teeth. “We know where the Swordmage is. If I were you, I’d want my revenge. I’d want to see the bitch flayed alive.”

  The High Priest glanced at Xenir. The vermin obviously had no idea how offensive his words were. To compare a human woman to a female Xarundi. It was disgusting. The Warleader’s gaze slid from his and Zarfensis suddenly wondered if he was seeing the Deep Oracle again.

  There would be time to address that later, he thought. If these vermin actually did know the location of the Swordmage, that could be valuable.

  “What is the price for this information?” Zarfensis raised a hand at Xenir’s protest. He understood the Warleader’s protest. No Chosen could ever be indebted to the vermin.

  “Runedust,” the man said, longing creeping into his voice. “Six vials, two for each of us.” He nodded to his companions.