A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  Lifting an akulee jug, Traax took another drink. They all needed the rest, for the flight to this place had been exhausting. He was immensely proud of his troops. No other fighting force on earth could have traveled so far so quickly.

  After his troops had returned with newly constructed litters, they’d loaded the dead, then flown back to the base camp. Laying the fallen alongside their murdered brothers, the funeral detail lit the traditional pyres. The flames roared for hours.

  Satisfied that his base camp troops had hunted down enough food and found a potable water supply, Traax had ordered twenty-five warriors to return with him to the pass. Supplies were loaded onto the empty litters and brought along. Traax had sternly ordered the base camp commander to inform him immediately if intruders were seen.

  Traax stretched out on the ground beside the fire. Several warriors were sleeping. Three scouts stood guard downhill, and four more watched the shimmering pass. Traax had given stern orders that no one stray from his post.

  Just then he saw his three scouts rush into camp. Sensing trouble, he came to his feet.

  Before Traax could speak the lead scout covered his mouth, telling everyone to remain quiet. Then the scout pointed to one ear and one closed eye, indicating that he had heard something, but seen nothing.

  One by one the warriors silently woke their brothers. Soon everyone was on his feet. The campfire was extinguished, and magenta moonlight reclaimed the scene.

  Drawing his dreggan, Traax listened intently. No night birds sang and no creatures stirred. But that meant nothing, because quietness had blanketed the mountainside from the moment his group had arrived. Then the night wind stilled eerily.

  Again looking to his commander, the first scout formed a V with two fingers, then pointed his hands toward the ground and wiggled them, signaling that the sound had come from two horses’ hooves. The warrior standing beside him nodded his agreement, then pointed down the sloping mountainside.

  Satisfied that the threat was real, Traax pointed at some fighters and gestured upward. Their beating wings nearly silent, five warriors stealthily took to the sky. Smiling grimly, Traax was suddenly glad that he had picked these troops personally.

  Traax pointed his dreggan toward the ground. Recognizing the order, every warrior quickly took up a handful of charred earth, rubbing it onto his blade so that it wouldn’t shine in the moonlight. After a final signal from their commander they fanned out. Expertly becoming one with the charred forest, the warriors waited.

  As the anxious moments passed, Traax started to wonder whether his scouts had been wrong. Then the sound of horse hooves rose up the mountainside. Gripping his dreggan tighter, Traax strained his eyes in the moonlight. Still he saw nothing.

  Soon an azure cloud formed. As it neared, the horse steps grew louder. The cloud faded to show two glowing eyes hanging menacingly in space. Soon Xanthus and his mount took form.

  Sitting astride his stallion, the Darkling held his axe in one hand and his shield in the other. He stopped his horse about twenty paces downhill. His impatient stallion snorted and pawed the charred ground.

  Traax could not see the prince. But even with Xanthus’ mount standing still, the Minions soon heard another horse approaching. A second azure cloud formed.

  Traax watched spellbound as Tristan appeared from its depths. Riding up alongside Xanthus’ horse, theJin’Sai pulled Shadow to a stop. The misty cloud from which he had emerged quickly vanished. Still crouching in the darkness, the Minions waited tensely.

  Xanthus turned his awful gaze toward the prince. “It seems that your Conclave hasn’t given up on you,” he said quietly. “The craft tells me that twenty Minions hide there in the darkness. Another five circle the sky. If you want them to live, call them off. I can kill twenty-five as easily as one.”

  Tristan glared at the Darkling. “If I order them to stand down, do you promise not to hurt them?” he asked.

  Xanthus returned his gaze back toward the camp. “Yes-provided none try to kill me, or to rescue you. I expect you to honor our bargain. If you refuse, your Minions will die. Either way, I grant you some time alone with them before I approach.”

  Tristan spurred Shadow forward. He soon saw the abandoned campsite. Stopping his horse, he looked around.

  “Sheathe your weapons and show yourselves!” he shouted into the night. “This is an order from yourJin’Sai!”

  Knowing that Tristan’s words superseded all else, the warriors obeyed. Tristan soon heard the familiar sound of dreggans sliding into their scabbards.

  Traax showed himself first. Then the five flying warriors landed and the rest came out from hiding. Traax hurried to his lord’s side. Casting a wary glance downhill, he saw that Xanthus had not moved.

  Traax looked worriedly at Tristan. His face drawn and pale, theJin’Sai seemed exhausted. “Are you well, my lord?” Traax whispered.

  “Well enough,” he answered. “It is good to see you, my friend. There is no use in whispering. Because he commands the craft, Xanthus probably hears everything we say.”

  Looking around, Tristan acknowledged the other warriors. Their faces grim, it was clear they were spoiling for a fight. “Xanthus says that there are twenty-five warriors here with you,” Tristan said. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Traax answered. “Another twenty-five wait at the base camp, making fifty in total.”

  Tristan looked around at the anxious warriors. He knew that his next order would be nearly impossible for them to accept, even from him.

  “Drop your dreggans!” he shouted. “You have no chance against the Darkling.”

  Even though the order had come directly from theirJin’Sai, at first the warriors hesitated. Then the razor-sharp swords started falling to the ground. Looking down at Traax, Tristan saw that his second-in-command had not complied.

  “You too,” he added sadly.

  Traax looked aghast at Tristan. To a Minion, the mere idea of surrendering one’s sword was blasphemy. “Butwhy, my lord?” Traax asked. His incredulity was such that his voice had become little more than a whisper.

  “We are fifty-one warriors!” he protested. “If we all attack at once, I know that we can kill that bastard! You have but to give the word!”

  Tristan shot Traax a determined look. “We cannot defeat him!” he answered. “I have seen the things he can do! I have no choice but to go with him through the pass!”

  Stupefied, Traax took a step backward. “But Xanthus serves the Vagaries!” he argued. “Only he knows what will happen to you on the other side! You mustn’t do this!”

  Tristan gazed deeply into Traax’s eyes. For everyone’s good, the order had to be followed. “Commander!” he said sternly. “Drop your sword!”

  Knowing he must obey, Traax took a deep breath. His dreggan fell to the ground.

  “Does Faegan live?” Tristan asked anxiously.

  Traax nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He was badly burned, but he will recover.”

  “Good,” Tristan said. “What about the ball guests he accidentally injured?”

  “Several Minions and humans were killed outright, and some survivors still lie near death. The Minion healers and the acolytes are doing all they can for them. Shailiha ordered us to come here, to intercept you.”

  Turning in his saddle, Tristan looked down the moonlit hillside. Xanthus was still keeping his word. The prince turned back to Traax.

  “I expected as much,” he said. Then Tristan saw the ruby pin attached to Traax’s body armor. He fully understood the custom. He managed a slight smile.

  “That betrothal pin comes from Duvessa, I’d wager,” he said.

  Traax nodded. “She does me a great honor.”

  “In truth, you honor each other,” Tristan answered.

  Reaching beneath his vest, Tristan produced the hated black mask. He held it to the moonlight for a moment before handing it to Traax. A confused look overcame the warrior’s face.

  “Xanthus insisted that I wear it,” Tristan
explained. “He didn’t want me recognized while he committed more atrocities. I’m glad to be rid of it. When you see Shailiha, give it to her.” Tristan leaned down on his saddle pommel. “I assume that because you are here, the Conclave has yet to set sail for the Citadel,” he said.

  “They had not done so when I left. I cannot vouch for after that.”

  “After I am gone, I want you to fly back to the palace,” Tristan ordered. “Tell the Conclave what happened here. Shailiha must attack soon! Every second we wait, our position weakens. I am more convinced than ever that our answers lie across the sea.”

  Worry crowded its way onto Traax’s face again. “Is there truly no other way?”

  “Not that I can find,” Tristan answered. “If I refuse, he will keep on killing. Worse, we might lose the Paragon forever.”

  Wondering what fate awaited him, Tristan looked past Traax toward the shimmering azure wall. His jaw hardened.

  “I will do everything in my power to return,” he added softly. “Tell Shailiha that I love her. In my absence-be it a day or forever-you are to follow her orders like they were my own. In the event of her death, the wizards command you.”

  “Your time is up, Jin’Sai!” they suddenly heard Xanthus call out. “I am about to approach! If your warriors resist me, they will die!”

  Spurring his stallion onward, Xanthus neared the campsite. As the Darkling neared, the prince could sense every warrior tensing, each desperately wanting to pick up his sword. To Tristan’s relief, not one did.

  Xanthus glanced around at the discarded dreggans. Looking at Traax, he smiled.

  “Very sensible,” he said. He looked over at Tristan. “The Heretics await you. It is time to go.”

  Tristan gave Traax a final look of farewell. “Remember my orders,” he said. “Do not try to follow us.”

  It was rare to see Minion weakness. Even so, Traax’s eyes were damp. Collecting himself, he clicked his boot heels together. “I live to serve!” he said.

  Tristan looked at Xanthus. “I am ready,” he said.

  Shimmering brightly, the pass stood about twenty meters up the hillside. As the helpless warriors watched, Xanthus spurred his stallion toward its splendor. Tristan followed.

  The azure glow was nearly blinding. Even so, it gave off no heat. Just like the first time Tristan had come here, white light shards danced to and fro within its limitless depths.

  Raising his arms, Xanthus called the craft. A white vertical line formed on the center of the wall. Xanthus spread his arms, and the pass divided into two halves. Gazing in, Tristan saw only blackness. Xanthus looked over at the prince.

  “It is our time, now,” he said softly. “No otherJin’Sai orJin’Saiou has ever been so privileged. Take care not to leave my side. Alone, your death is inevitable. I will place a spell over our mounts so they remain calm, and do our bidding. Come, Jin’Sai. Together we will make history.” Spurring their horses forward, Tristan and Xanthus entered the darkness and disappeared.

  The azure wall closed behind them, leaving the Minions alone again in the night.

  CHAPTER XXII

  LEANING BACK IN HIS CHAIR, LOTHAR WINCED. HISburned chest and abdomen hurt like blazes. The escaping girls either hadn’t had the power or the will to kill him, but they had come perilously close. He still had no idea who they were, or how they had become proficient in the craft. Had he known they were gifted, he would have kept them drugged until concluding their sale.

  Glowering down at his raw chest, Lothar lamented his bad luck. He could only imagine the wondrous services those endowed creatures might have plied on their clients, had they somehow been convinced to follow Mary’s chosen profession! And with extraordinary selling prices, to match! But he would never know. Not only had the girls slipped through his fingers, but several guards had burned to death during the escape. The guards would have to be replaced, and that was always expensive. It wasn’t just anyone who was willing to work here.

  Lothar reached across the desktop to unbutton his shirt, then pick up a bottle of balm the neighborhood healer had given him. He poured some into one palm, and reached beneath his bandages to rub more onto his badly scalded torso.

  The girls’ bolts had nearly killed him. After lying unconscious for several hours, he had finally awakened, screaming in agony. The guards had called for a healer. Lothar would live, but would be scarred for life.

  But ever true to his nature, his grief had quickly turned to greed. This was a new day; there was work to be done and fresh profits to be stolen. Despite his painful condition he intended to make the most of it.

  Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he placed the lotion bottle back atop the desk, then gave the torturer another nod. The man in the black mask was the same fellow who had performed the public dunking and provided him with the debtors’ next-of-kin list several days before. As the torturer resumed his work, another scream filled the air, then wafted its way down the prison halls.

  Lothar sat in a dank stone room. Four leering guards stood nearby. Near one wall a man sat behind another crude desk. His left arm lay tightly stretched across the desktop and his body was tied to his chair.

  The hooded torturer sat across from him. Bolted down to the desktop, a manacle encircled the prisoner’s left wrist. A hinged iron device encased his left thumb. A broad, rusty turnkey protruded from the device.

  Several of the debtor’s relatives sat in chairs on the other side of the room. Selected from the prized next-of-kin list, they had been “asked” to attend this session by Lothar’s guards, and told to bring all their money. They knew that Lothar could be vengeful. Not one dared refuse, lest something even more dire happen.

  The point of this gathering was simple. Unless they paid off not only their relative’s debts but also their own, they would soon find themselves sitting in the torture chair. It was the morning following the girls’ escape, and Lothar could afford to take his time.

  Realizing their plight, some of Lothar’s “guests” had tried to pay up even before the session had gotten started. For them, the mere sight of the muscular fellow in the black hood had been incentive enough. But because of his foul mood, Lothar had decided to give them a demonstration anyway. Because he had to suffer, so did everyone else. Smiling, he nodded at the torturer again.

  Grasping the thumbscrew key, the hooded man gave it another quick turn. This time bones snapped. Blood ran from the device to drip lazily onto the table. Screaming madly, the prisoner jangled in his chair. But the jailor was not in a forgiving mood. He glared at the cowering relatives.

  “Shall we continue?” he asked. “We have lots of time. After all, he has nine digits left. Nineteen, if one counts his toes.” Sitting back, Lothar lit a cigar, then sent the smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Then again, we could stop,” he added, casually regarding the cigar’s glowing end. He looked over at the cowering relatives.

  “If you agree to pay a bonus-say, an extra twenty percent above and beyond your current debts-you may all walk out of here right now,” he offered. “For those of you who do not have enough kisa on hand I will accept a signed promissory note, certifying that the adjusted sum is now the legally recognized amount. Interest adds up, after all! So do we have an arrangement? Or do we keep going?”

  Tired and beaten, the weary relatives started shuffling toward Lothar’s desk. One by one, they paid all they had. Those who could not meet the ludicrous extortion demands signed detailed documents obligating them to make regular payments to Lothar or be immediately incarcerated. As the travesty continued, a smiling guard witnessed each signature.

  Just then Lothar heard shouting from down the hall. It sounded like guards’ voices, mixed with others that he didn’t recognize. An explosion followed, shaking the prison. Dark smoke started filtering into the torture room, making it difficult to see.

  Coughing, Lothar rose gingerly to his feet. He glared at the guards. “Don’t just stand there, you idiots!” he shouted. “See what’s goi
ng on!”

  The guards drew their swords, and rushed into the hallway. Lothar followed them as far as the door, where his guards disappeared into the smoke.

  Soon Lothar heard more shouting, followed by clashing sword blades. Silence reclaimed the prison. Holding his breath, Lothar waited. As fear gripped him, his cigar fell to the floor and his knees trembled noticeably.

  Suddenly a dozen Minion warriors rushed into the room. Holding their dreggans high, they quickly ringed the walls. Some of their blades were bloodied. There was no sign of Lothar’s guards. The startled jailor glared at the warriors.

  “How dare you!” he shouted. “You have no business here! Wait until the Conclave hears of this intrusion!”

  Just then more people stepped from the smoky hallway. Lothar saw an old man in a gray robe, several more Minions, and a tall blond woman. Suddenly recognizing the First Wizard and the princess, he nearly choked.

  Wigg calmly walked to stand before the fat jailor. Waving one hand, he caused the smoke to disappear. The First Wizard’s eyes bored directly into Lothar’s. Swallowing hard, the jailor tried to smile.

  “Do you know who I am?” Wigg asked quietly.

  “Uh, er…of course!” Lothar stammered. “The First Wizard himself! This is indeed an honor!”

  “I cannot say that the feeling is mutual,” Wigg answered dryly.

  He looked around the room. When he saw the torture victim his face went scarlet with rage. Pointing to the thumbscrew, Wigg called the craft. The device unhinged itself. Then the bolts holding the wrist manacle to the tabletop ripped loose, freeing the debtor. Wigg moved his fingers, causing the thumbscrew to fly across the room and into his palm. He held it before Lothar’s face. It was still dripping blood.

  “And this?” he asked. “A tool of your trade, I presume?”

  “Certainly not!” Lothar protested. “Time after time I have told my guards to never use such things, but they won’t listen! In fact, I had just entered the room! Now that we’re both here, together we can put a stop to it!”