A March into Darkness dobas-2

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A March into Darkness dobas-2 Page 17

by Robert Newcomb


  “Don’t do this!” he said softly. “I beg you!”

  “The time for begging is over,” Xanthus answered. “Choose.”

  His heart breaking, Tristan closed his eyes. “No,” he answered. “Not now, not ever.”

  Xanthus sighed. “Very well,” he said. “But one day youwill follow me through the pass. Your love for humanity will demand it.”

  Reaching back, Xanthus pulled his robe hood up over his head. Tristan watched the craft’s aura form around the Darkling. Soon Xanthus’ face and hands melted away, to be replaced by his hideous spirit form. The awful eyes in the hood’s recesses stared menacingly at the prince. The combination of the glowing orbs and what was about to happen in Everhaven made Tristan’s skin crawl. The evil had returned.

  “Mount your horse,” the Darkling said. “Take care not to lose your mask.”

  The two riders climbed aboard their mounts. As the reins untied themselves from the tether line, the line disappeared. Saying nothing more, Xanthus started riding north. His heart heavy, the prince had no choice but to follow.

  As the riders left the forlorn campsite, the Sippora started running again, the birds sang, and the wind was reborn.

  AS THE VICTIM SCREAMED, TRISTAN TRIED TO TURN HIS FACEaway, but could not. Aside from blinking, he could not otherwise close his eyes. From behind the black mask, tears ran freely down his cheeks. What madness…and I am partly to blame!

  From the start of the horrific spectacle, Xanthus had used the craft to take away Tristan’s ability to speak, and to move his body. The prince could move his head, but only to suggest yes or no. Before incapacitating him, Xanthus had ordered Tristan to sit in a simple wooden chair, from which he could clearly view the Darkling’s grotesque handiwork.

  The grisly scene had been going on for hours, and the eager Darkling showed no signs of stopping. The naked man being tortured to death was today’s fourth such victim. No one needed to tell Tristan that the poor fellow would soon join the first three already in the Afterlife. But that mattered little to Xanthus. The room was filled with people from whom to choose.

  On reaching Everhaven, Xanthus had acted quickly. Calling the craft, he invoked a spell summoning every man, woman, and child to the town square. Tristan had been amazed by the enchantment’s powerful grasp.

  Spellbound, the unseeing citizens had all trudged to the same spot. Xanthus had then ordered as many as possible to enter the community hall. Those remaining outside simply stood waiting in the sun with vacuous looks on their faces. Tristan and Xanthus entered last.

  The hall was a simple structure and was built of fieldstone, mortar, and wood. It was there that the town fathers called the people together to decide important issues, and to share the kingdom’s news. Large candelabras hung from the rough-hewn rafters. Wooden pews sat in neat rows, and their lengths were filled with entranced spectators. Stained-glass windows lined the walls, and a dais sat at the room’s far end. Standing on the dais and alongside Tristan’s chair, Xanthus went about his grisly work.

  Waving a skeletal hand, Xanthus inflicted another round of torture. A terrible banging sound came, followed by a scream that filled the air, then faded into nothingness. Sobbing followed. Tristan watched as yet more blood dripped lazily to the floor. Seemingly unfazed, the spellbound citizens sat quietly in their pews as they watched.

  Conjured by Xanthus, a massive wooden altar lay on the dais. It was rectangular in shape and measured about one meter high. The dried blood of past victims lay splattered across its sides and top. Sturdy ropes bound the victim’s head, torso, and legs to the altar top.

  Wooden planks lay along the man’s sides, stretching from his hips to his feet. Ropes bound the boards tight against the man’s legs, pushing them together. A wooden wedge had been driven between the victim’s knees. A bloody wooden mallet, its business end wound with harsh rope, hovered in the air. Nearby lay a wide-mouthed bucket filled with common salt.

  Tristan could only watch as Xanthus caused the bloody mallet head to again grind itself into the salt, then hauntingly rise to a place high above the victim. Saying nothing, Xanthus paused in his work to look at the prince. His mind nearly mad with guilt, Tristan thought for a moment, then sadly shook his head.

  With another wave, Xanthus caused the mallet to come down with amazing force.

  The mallet drove the wedge deeper into the shrinking space between the man’s knees, squeezing his limbs against the planks and crushing the flesh and bone. The mallet’s salt sank into the fresh wounds.

  The man screamed insanely. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his neck cords strained so tightly that they looked like they might snap apart. After the screaming stopped, the sobbing began again.

  Xanthus caused the bloody mallet to again dip into the salt bucket, then resume its place high above the altar. He looked at Tristan. So that the crowd could not hear what he had to say, he silently revealed his thoughts to Tristan’s mind.

  “What is it to be, Jin’Sai?” Tristan heard the Darkling’s voice say.“How many more must die because of your childish stubbornness? Follow me into the azure pass, and this will stop. Follow me, and the many answers you seek will be yours.”

  Tristan again looked at the suffering man atop the altar. Who is he? he wondered. And who am I, to have the power of life and death over others?

  “You are theJin’Sai,” Xanthus answered.“Like every Jin’Saibefore you, you have been born into the dark worlds of magic, manifest destiny, and pain. You are still unable to control your magic or your destiny. But you can control this man’s pain. Say yes, Jin’Sai, and save him.”

  Tristan sobbed openly. He was close to believing that the fault was his, and that had he found a way to murder this abomination of the craft, this would not be happening.

  “Yes,”Xanthus whispered silently.“This is indeed your fault. But there is time to rectify your sins. Come with me and I will heal this man, making him as he was before. Resist me, and he will die a horrible death.”

  Tristan gazed at the desperate victim’s face. The man would never know who Tristan was, or that it had been he who had signed his death warrant. Finally deciding, Tristan looked directly into Xanthus’ glowing eyes and shook his head.

  Tristan watched in horror as the mallet again came down to squarely strike the wedge. More bone cracked, more blood spurted forth, and more screaming filled the air. This time the damage was so severe that yellow bone marrow oozed from between the boards and the altar top and went slipping down the altar’s sides. The last blow rendered the man’s knee joints little more than useless sacks of crushed meat, marrow, and bone. This time the trauma proved too much. As his head slumped to one side the man gasped his last and died.

  Xanthus looked at the prince. “Four is enough for one day,” he said. “I will grant you a different entertainment tomorrow. Perhaps it will make you more agreeable.”

  Ignoring the corpse, Xanthus came to stand in the dais’s center. Soon the craft’s azure glow surrounded him. Tristan watched the Darkling reach into one duster pocket and produce something. After removing his duster and his robe, Xanthus dropped them to the floor. In his human form, the Darkling slowly turned to face Tristan.

  For the briefest moment, Xanthus seemed to regard the prince with sadness. Then his expression hardened. He turned away.

  Naked from the waist up, the Darkling’s human muscles glistened in the candlelight. In one hand he held a black knotted cord. After taking several steps across the dais, he faced northwest and sat on his knees. For several long moments the Darkling bowed his head.

  His self-inflicted penitence started slowly. Lashing his naked back, Xanthus opened up wound after gaping wound. As the blows quickened, his blood started flowing down his back and onto the floor, mingling with that of his victims.

  As the lashings continued, Tristan suddenly found that he could close his eyes. That must have been Xanthus’ doing, but he was at a complete loss about why.

  If I can shut this out,
I will, he thought, as more tears streaked down beneath his hated mask. Since the Coven’s return, I have witnessed the horrors of a thousand lifetimes. I needn’t watch this.

  As the knotted line continued to split Xanthus’ skin, the enchanted townspeople watched blankly. Tristan of the House of Galland shut his bleary eyes.

  CHAPTER XV

  AS HE WINGED THROUGH THE AIR, TRAAX SEARCHEDthe countryside for landmarks. He had pushed his airborne phalanx hard and without pause in his attempt to reach the pass as fast as possible. He knew that Shailiha was right. TheJin’Sai ’s life could hang in the balance.

  It was midday in Eutracia, and the sky was clear. The sun hung directly overhead, warming the warriors’ wings. If their endurance held, they would reach the pass within the hour. Traax smiled. It would be good to see Gaius again.

  Traax was proud of the warriors flying with him. After receiving his orders from Shailiha, he had asked for volunteers. There had no been no shortage from whom to pick. The fifty accompanying him were the best of the best.

  He hoped that his chosen warriors could fly to the pass nonstop, yet arrive fresh enough to fight. So far, they had proven him right. Time was of the essence. Traveling light, they bore no supply litters. When they reached the pass they would live in true warrior style, taking what they needed from the land.

  Realizing that he was thirsty again, Traax reached back to grasp his canteen. Minion warriors could go for days without food, but water was a constant need. Knowing that they were nearing their destination, he gulped down all that remained.

  Seeing their commander drink, the fifty obedient warriors followed suit. A revered Minion tenet stated that a commander must be willing to personally suffer whatever he demanded from his charges. Conversely, while on a mission no subordinate could take rest or sustenance until his leader did so first. There were many warrior ranks, but they all shared this common bond. It was more than good discipline. It was a matter of honor.

  Traax could easily have navigated his way to the pass by following the gouge left by the once-rampaging Orb of the Vigors. But taking that meandering path would have wasted valuable time. He had therefore chosen to fly by dead reckoning. Prominent landmarks, the position of the sun, and wind variables had determined the way.

  Traax was one of the best navigators in the entire Minion force. More important, he had faith in his abilities. Unless he missed his guess, they would soon fly directly over Fledgling House. Covering the distance from there to the pass would be brief. Confident that he was on the right course, he allowed his mind to drift back to the pleasant time just before he had assembled his troops.

  Hearing of his imminent departure, Duvessa had rushed to join him in his quarters. Dried blood from the masquerade ball victims still showed on her hands, forearms, and armor. A white feather lay stitched across a red one on her chest armor, indicating her premier rank as a warrior-healer. Reaching out, Traax pulled her to him.

  “Was it bad?” he asked.

  Duvessa nodded. She was a handsome Minion female, and she considered Traax her equal. Besides leading all the Minion healers, she also commanded the female warriors. She bore the mantles well.

  Duvessa briefly closed her eyes. “We and the acolytes did all we could for them,” she answered, “but Faegan’s bolts were powerful. Who could have guessed that it would pass through the Darkling like that? Five died straightaway. Three were human and two were Minion. Twelve more were seriously wounded. The survivors’ destinies lie with the fates. How is Faegan?”

  Traax’s expression darkened. “He will live,” he answered. “But when he realizes how many he accidentally killed and wounded, I fear he might never be the same.”

  Holding up her hands, Duvessa regarded the dried blood. “Such strange beings, these humans,” she said. “Some are gifted with the craft and some are not. They are not as physically powerful as we. But their loyalty and honor can be equally strong. Sometimes I believe we share more with them than we know. As our blood mingles with theirs, I cannot tell them apart.”

  Traax looked thoughtfully into her eyes. He had known many Minion females. But not one had possessed the strength, the heart, or the ability to love that this one did. Since her first husband’s death and her subsequent mourning period, she and Traax had been together. During that time she had never asked for more than he had been able to give.

  Duvessa placed her palms on Traax’s chest. Concern showed on her face.

  “Come home safe,” she said. “I know you have defeated many enemies. But this Darkling possesses gifts that baffle even the wizards. I am forced to agree with Shailiha. The pass is the likely place where he entered Eutracia. If that is true, it will also be his way back. You might come face-to-face with him again.”

  “Then let it be so,” Traax answered quietly.

  The realization that he must leave her crowded in on him again. How would it affect him, he wondered, should he lose this woman? She had become his reason for being, second only to his allegiance to hisJin’Sai. Searching her eyes, he decided.

  “Stand back, my love,” he said gently.

  A confused look crossed Duvessa’s face. She did as he asked.

  Stretching his back, Traax snapped open his dark wings, then gently closed them around her. Among their kind, such a revealing gesture occurred rarely. Her heart in her throat, she returned his gaze.

  Opening his wings again, Traax repeated the gesture. Can this be happening? Duvessa asked herself. I hadn’t dared to hope…

  Traax parted his wings once more. As Duvessa felt them closing about her for the third time, a tear left one eye.

  There could be no mistaking his meaning. According to Minion custom, the first time his wings surrounded her, he was saying how much he honored her. The second time confirmed his love for her. The third time told her that he wanted them to marry.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes-with all my heart.”

  “Then my answer is yes,” she said softly. She had never meant anything more deeply.

  Their personal bond was sealed. But according to Minion custom, two more things needed be done to announce their betrothal.

  With his wings still surrounding her, Traax extended a hand to unclasp a gold pin attached to the chest area of his leather body armor. Soon after the Minions were released from the Coven’s domination over them and they came under Tristan’s aegis, theJin’Sai had allowed them to marry according to their wishes and without permission from a higher authority. Traax had seized on the idea of showing intended betrothal among the Minions by ordering the warrior goldsmiths among them to fashion two distinct types of pins. Each pin was round in shape and it held a jewel in its center. The pin worn by unattached males held a bright, round turquoise, while the pin for the single females secured a round, red ruby in its center.

  After unclasping his turquoise pin, Traax attached it to Duvessa’s armor. Then Duvessa returned the gesture, attaching her ruby pin to Traax’s armor. From this moment until their wedding day, every Minion would know that she was his, and he hers.

  How he had wished he could have lain with her then, but he knew he had to leave. Taking a deep breath, he held her closer. He would soon become a husband. If the fates allowed, he might become a father, as well. After giving his intended a farewell kiss, he hurried to assemble his troops.

  His mind returning to the present, Traax looked down at his body armor. He smiled. Duvessa’s ruby pin remained stubbornly in place, despite the forces buffeting against it, trying to shake it loose. Just as our union will be, he thought.

  Just then he saw his second-in-command fly up alongside. Traax looked over to see the warrior point toward the ground.

  Nestled peacefully among the emerald fields, Fledgling House lay directly below. The Tolenka Mountains could be seen just beyond. Traax nodded his understanding and he watched the warrior slip back into formation.

  They soon spied the gorge left by the orb. Traax knew they were close enough to the p
ass so that the still-smoldering canyon could effectively guide them. Changing course again, he gave up some altitude. Before long, they found the remains of the magnificent pine forest that had once lined the mountain base.

  It was a chilling sight. For as far as the eye could see, the forest’s charred remnants climbed the craggy mountainside. Wispy smoke could still be seen escaping the ruins. Angling his flight path to accommodate the sloping terrain, Traax climbed to follow the earth’s ominous scar.

  A few moments later, he saw the dead bodies. The ravaged Minion camp had been stationed on a grassy field, just east of where the charred forest started.

  Raising one arm, Traax ordered his warriors to hover. His phalanx quickly gathered around him. After displaying a series of hand signals, he watched the warriors draw their swords. With their fifty-one blades shining in the sun, the warriors retracted their wings and started down.

  Splitting into two groups, they landed and ringed the campsite. Looking around warily, they snapped their tired wings back into place. Traax led his two most senior officers into the camp.

  Aside from the dead bodies, there was little to see. The warriors stationed here had lived simply, just as Traax’s would do until they were relieved. Six tents stood nearby, their unsecured canvas doorways flapping about in the wind. The remains of a wild boar-its half-eaten body now crawling with hungry flies and wriggling maggots-lay skewered over a long-dead campfire. Various tools, weapons, and akulee jugs lay wherever they had been dropped. As Traax and his officers walked toward the stinking bodies, they were forced to cover their noses.

  Traax squatted down and looked at a dead warrior. He did not know him. The victim was still holding his dreggan, but the blade was not bloodied. The warrior’s lower abdomen and the surrounding grass were covered with blood. His internal organs lay alongside him, with some of their entrails still attached to the torso beneath his armor. Showing no distinction between animal or warrior, flying carrion feasted here as well.

  Bending closer, Traax could see no puncture marks in the warrior’s body armor. He scowled. Unbuckling the chest armor’s brass fasteners, he lifted it from the body. The grotesque sight took him aback.

 

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