A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  Gunther stepped forward. He again stared down at the newly formed blood signature. “This strange-looking pattern,” he said. “That means that she practices the craft?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “How is it that no other Kilbourne clan member’s blood exhibits these strange ways?” Gunther asked.

  “One must be trained in the ways of the craft first,” Tristan answered. “None of you claim that advantage. You yourself told me that Arwydd was born a Zorian. Clearly, there are parts of her history about which you still do not know.”

  “Even so, how do you know that she practices the dark side?” Gunther asked.

  “Because no Vigors practitioner commits unneeded murder,” Tristan said. “But my wizards have other ways of telling, should you want further proof. If you bring her to the palace, we will show you how it is done.”

  “How did you guess who she was?” Rafe asked Tristan.

  “Her use of herbs and oils reminded me of another partial adept I know,” Tristan answered. “She serves on the Conclave. Even so, that wasn’t proof enough. When Arwydd asked me her two questions, I felt dizzy, and I suspected the craft was at work. I believe she used a technique allowing her to enter my mind. My wizards also perform it, although to a much better degree. But until tonight I didn’t know that partials could also perform the spell. This parlor show was just window dressing, designed to fool you all-it always has been. She got her real answers when she entered my mind-not by reading goat bones! As long as she could trick you into believing that she was merely some sort of soothsayer who worked without the aid of the craft, she could continue to show that she was worth keeping alive.”

  Straining as best she could against Balthazar’s iron grip, Arwydd leaned closer and spat directly into Tristan’s face. He calmly wiped it away.

  “Very clever, Chosen One,” she said.

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “That’s another mistake,” he said. “You just called me ‘Chosen One,’” he said. “Usually only those acquainted with the craft know that phrase. So you admit who you are?” he asked.

  “Yes, I admit it!” she shouted, knowing that her ruse had finally run its course. “I only hope I live to see the day when you and your wizards are crushed by the Vagaries!”

  From their places in the crowd, Yasmin and Sonya gave each other astonished looks. “So the princeis as clever as he is handsome!” Sonya whispered.

  Scowling, Yasmin poked her sister in the ribs, then returned her gaze to Tristan. “Hush!” she whispered back.

  Gunther stepped closer. As he stared at Tristan, there was a determined look in his eyes. “I told you that we tolerate no deceivers in our midst,” he said. “I meant what I said.” Gunther looked at Balthazar. “Take this traitorous bitch into the woods and kill her,” he ordered.

  Grabbing Arwydd by one wrist, Balthazar started dragging the screaming woman from the clearing. By now, Tristan knew better than to intervene in highlander business. Even so, he couldn’t just stand by and watch her be killed. He was about to risk a protest when Arwydd sealed her own fate.

  Twisting violently, she went for the dagger at Balthazar’s hip. Pulling it from its scabbard, she plunged its blade into the giant’s left shoulder. Like the wound meant nothing, Balthazar acted swiftly.

  Letting go of her wrist, he took her head into his hands and give it a savage twist. Tristan took a quick breath as he watched the partial adept’s head turn all the way around, her neck bones cracking loudly as it went. Letting go of her, Balthazar stepped back. Arwydd stood there stupidly for a moment; then the light went out of her eyes. She collapsed to the ground like a rag doll, dead where she lay.

  Rafe stepped closer to Tristan. There was a deep look of appreciation on his face.

  “When you asked to see Arwydd’s blood, I thought you mad,” he said. “Now all I can do is to offer you my thanks. My parents have finally been avenged.”

  “I understand all too well,” Tristan answered.

  Then he saw Yasmin and Sonya approach. After giving Tristan a knowing look, Yasmin went to Balthazar. She grasped the dagger by the handle.

  “Gather your strength,” she said.

  Knowing what was coming, Balthazar nodded. Yasmin quickly pulled the knife from his shoulder. Smiling, she looked at Tristan again.

  “It seems that I must sew up more than one man’s wounds tonight,” she said. As she started leading Balthazar away, she turned and gave the prince a final look. “You know where you can find me if you wish,” she said quietly.

  Grinning widely, Rafe slapped Tristan on the back. “Your work for the night might not be over!” he said laughingly.

  Tristan gave Rafe a smirk. “What about the vote?” he asked.

  They turned to see the elders huddling in animated conversation. It went on for some time. Finally Gunther walked back to where Tristan and Rafe were standing.

  “Will you vote now?” Rafe asked.

  “We already have done so,” Gunther answered. “There is no need for you to add your vote, for it won’t change the outcome.”

  “And that is?” Rafe asked.

  “Seven to three in favor,” Gunther answered. “We have accepted the prince’s offer.” Gunther held out his hand to Tristan. They shook hands, sealing the deal.

  “As of this moment, you have nearly one thousand highlander horsemen on your hands, Your Highness,” Gunther said. “The rest of the clan will follow them to Tammerland. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Tristan smiled. “So do I,” he answered. “But no matter what else happens, know that I will keep my part of the bargain.”

  “You’d best do so,” Gunther warned him. “Clan Kilbourne would make for a determined enemy.”

  Tristan smiled again as he thought about what Wigg and Faegan would say when the Minion scouts told them that a highlander clan was coming, with Tristan leading them. Both the wizards disliked highlanders, Tristan knew. Making the two mystics comfortable with this new arrangement would take some doing.

  Gunther looked at the night sky. “It will be dawn in a few hours,” he said. “I suggest that we get some sleep. At sunrise we will bury our dead, then break camp and head for Tammerland. I bid you good night.”

  Rounding up the other council members, Gunther escorted them from the meeting place. When the crowd saw the elders leaving, they too started walking away. As they left, some looked at Tristan with curiosity, others with worry, and still more with outright scorn. Soon Tristan and Rafe were left alone with only the bonfire, the stars, and their concerns about tomorrow. Looking at the ground, Rafe worried a pebble with the toe of one boot.

  “It will take much more than what happened here tonight for you to gain the entire clan’s respect, you know,” he said. “You have won the right to command our horsemen how and when you wish, but nothing else. The elders and I still govern the clan. You need to remember that.”

  Tristan nodded at his new friend. Something told him that before too long, he and Rafe would be riding into danger together.

  “I know that my powers are limited,” he answered. “You have my word that I will not overstep them.”

  “Good,” Rafe said. “Will you walk with me?”

  Tristan shook his head. “You go on ahead. I have some thinking to do.”

  “Very well,” Rafe said. “Until dawn, Jin’Sai. ”

  Tristan smiled slightly. “Until dawn,” he answered.

  Tristan stood alone by the bonfire as he watched Rafe’s lean figure disappear among the shadows. Only then did he pick his weapons up from the grass and start his way back into the camp’s heart.

  As he walked among the wagons and surviving clanfolk, stark remnants of the recent battle again came into view. Dead Zorian bodies still lay where they had fallen, but the Kilbourne dead had been taken away. Blood lay on the ground in random patterns, its darkness shiny against the surrounding grass. Some highlanders were still awake beside their campfires, talking excitedly about what their new lives might br
ing.

  Looking at the sky, Tristan smiled as he saw a silhouetted Minion patrol cross darkly before the three magenta moons. Good for you, Hector, he thought. That’s one mistake we’ll never make again.

  For better or worse, he realized that he was slowly wending his way back toward Yasmin’s wagon. He knew that she would be waiting there, lying in the dark and wondering whether he would come to her. Finally nearing her wagon, he sat down on a stool. A campfire still burned, and an abandonedtachinga jug lay near his feet. It seemed that no one else was awake. That’s just as well, he thought.

  After taking a deep drink from the jug, Tristan placed it back down on the ground, then put his head in his hands. Bone-tired, he sat that way for some time, thinking. So much had happened in the last few days that he scarcely knew how to interpret it all. Looking around the campsite, he shook his head.

  I beg the Afterlife, he thought, what have I done? I am about to lead an entire group of people on a life-changing exodus. How will I ever live up to their expectations?

  Then he remembered Celeste.

  Tears overtook his eyes; he brushed them away. What would she want for him? he wondered. He remembered her last letter to him, the one she had saved until her death. The letter still lay on the fireplace mantel in his palace quarters, the golden vase holding her ashes standing beside it. That’s all that remained of her. Mere ashes, and nothing more. That’s all that will eventually remain of any of us, he realized. In the end, all that matters is how we lived, and who we loved.

  Turning, he looked back at the wagon. The canvas flap was lowered; no light shone from inside. Finally deciding, he stood and climbed the wagon’s steps. Pushing aide the flap, he went inside.

  Lying naked atop the wagon bedding, Yasmin’s body glistened in the moonlight. Her long, dark hair was splayed out over her pillow, and her perfume returned to arouse his senses. Lying down beside her, Tristan started to speak. But before he could, she placed her fingertips across his lips.

  “There is only one thing to consider,” she whispered. Lowering her hand, she looked into his eyes. “Do you want this, Jin’Sai?”

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  Leaning down, he placed his mouth onto hers.

  CHAPTER XL

  BY THE TIME WIGG, FAEGAN, AND JESSAMAY FINALLYstruggled their way back to theTammerland ’s top deck, the scene before them was so terrifying that they all stopped short the second they cleared the hatchway.

  The fog had rolled in over the night sea from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, engulfing the entire fleet. Thick and gray, it clung to everyone’s clothes and skin. With the fog’s arrival the temperature had plummeted, making everyone’s breath appear as ghostly vapors. The wind had calmed, resulting in a glass-smooth sea. Their dreggans drawn, thousands of Minion warriors crowded the fleet’s top decks.

  Some of the fog had coalesced into massive columns, rising from the water. As the Conclave members knew would happen, the columns had morphed into giant hands, each pair grasping a ship by opposite ends. All the fleet’s ships were thus caught. As the Necrophagians’ wailing assaulted their ears, Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay hurried to find the others.

  The princess and the captain were standing in the bow with Adrian, Traax, and Scars. Although their insane howling was growing ever louder, the Necrophagians had yet to appear. Tyranny spun around to give Wigg a serious look.

  “What about the aft hallways?” she shouted. “Were you able to seal them from the sea?”

  Leaning closer, Wigg put his mouth near Tyranny’s ear. “Yes!” he shouted back. “But the meeting room is completely flooded! The strain of keeping the spell in place is exhausting the three of us!”

  Regardless of the Necrophagian threat, Tyranny was sea captain enough to know that the condition of her crippled vessel came first. She immediately ran to the starboard gunwale, then looked over the side. Her worst fears were quickly realized. Because of the flooding, the flagship was riding dangerously low in the stern, and threatening to go down. Tyranny knew that the trapped seawater was immensely heavy, forcing her to wonder whether the mystics would be able to return theTammerland into the air.

  “We’re foundering!” she shouted as best she could above the terrible wailing. “The flooded compartments are nearly sinking us! Even if we unfurl the sails, there is no wind to fill them! Our only hope is to fly away!” Grabbing Wigg by his shoulders, she glared desperately into his face. “Please tell me that you and the others can release us from the Necrophagians’ grip and get us aloft!”

  Wigg shook his head in frustration. He was about to answer when Shailiha called out. She was standing at the opposite gunwale with an astonished look on her face. The others hurried to her and stared over the side.

  The sea around the fleet had begun to bubble and roil, like something was trying to come to the top. Then faces started to form on the ocean surface. The Necrophagians-the ages-old Eaters of the Dead-were coming into view.

  Everyone stared in awe at the rapidly forming beings. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Their flesh was a mixture of sea green and dark red and streaked with ancient wrinkles and boils. Where eyes and mouths should have been there were only dark, empty holes. Then the wailing unexpectedly stopped. As the faces drifted ominously among the waves, an eerie silence reclaimed the night.

  Faegan looked at Wigg and Jessamay. “Follow me!” he ordered.

  Praying that his assumptions about the Necrophagians were correct, he levitated his chair and soared over the gunwale to hover directly above the hundreds of menacing faces. Wigg and Jessamay quickly followed him. As the three mystics hovered in the air, they looked down on the terrible threat.

  “You are all about to die!”the Necrophagians suddenly shouted as one.

  Their words were so explosive that everyone thought their eardrums might burst. Such torrential wind accompanied the Necrophagians’ unexpected statement that the three hovering mystics struggled mightily to keep from being blown far out to sea, their robes and hair flying as the awful wind struck them.

  As the angry Necrophagians waited for a response, the terrible wind subsided. Composing himself, Wigg looked down into the awful faces lying just meters below his boots.

  “Why must we die?” he asked respectfully. “We have done nothing to harm you. We only ask permission to cross, and we will pay if we must. That is the standard arrangement, is it not?”

  “You and theJin’Saiare responsible for the death of the Enseterat!”the voices answered.“You also wish to attack the Citadel. That must not be allowed to happen. We are ordered to destroy you.”

  “Ordered by whom?” Faegan asked.

  “Fools!”the voices screamed.“Powers far beyond your ken command us!”

  Faegan suddenly realized that his suppositions about these strange beings might be true after all. That would explain so much! But it would also make crossing nearly impossible.

  “It was Wulfgar who freed you from your previous territories as he traveled west on his way to Eutracia, was it not?” Faegan asked. “Then he ordered you to follow him to the Eutracian coast, and to help him in his invasion. But the invasion failed and Wulfgar was killed, leaving you free to roam the sea at last.”

  Silence reigned again. Faegan cast a knowing glance at Wigg and Jessamay. The First Wizard raised an eyebrow. It seemed that Faegan had struck on something important-something the Necrophagians were uncomfortable dealing with.

  “Tell me,” Faegan pressed. “With Wulfgar dead, has Serena become your new mistress?”

  “Our true masters are the same as they have always been, their magnificence long since ensconced on the other side of the Tolenka Mountains,”the voices answered.“Travelers may form bargains with us, just as Failee and Wulfgar did. But they can never truly rule us. That remains the province of only one group of indomitable mystics, the likes of which your minds cannot grasp. We tell you these things only because you are about to die.”

  Like the Necrophagians were suddenly humbled
by this new topic, their voices had quieted to their usual whisper. The terrible wind that had once accompanied their screeching also stilled, as did the sea. But the mysterious hands of fog still held each vessel tight in their iron grips.

  Fascinated, Faegan lowered his chair closer to the waves. “Who are these great mystics?” he asked. “Are they the Heretics of the Guild? Do you commune with them?”

  At first the Necrophagians did not answer. When they finally did, their voices were even softer, like they were speaking of the divine.

  “We commune with only the most powerful of the Heretics,”the voices answered,“those in whose blood the highest gifts of the Vagaries flow.”

  Intrigued by the Necrophagians’ answer, Faegan thought for a moment. “Who are these mystics?” he asked again. Like the Necrophagians, his voice had also become a whisper.

  “They are the embodiment of the Vagaries,”the voices answered back.“They are the ones to whom all other Vagaries practitioners bow. They are the Pon Q’tar.”

  “You were once members of the Ones Who Came Before, were you not?” Faegan pressed. “Captured in the War of Attrition, you were morphed by the Heretics into the Eaters of the Dead. Then you were ordered to remain in this sea forever, protecting the Citadel by devouring any who dared come near. Some of you even commanded these Black Ships in the service of the Vigors. Isn’t that true? Will you not spare an answer, and grant the dying wish of an old, foolish wizard?”

  Tense moments passed.“We do not…remember,” the chorus of whispers answered.

  “What is thePon Q’tar?” Wigg asked.

  “Enough of this!”the voices shouted back, their voices thunderous again.“You are of the Vigors! You mean to attack the Citadel! It is time for you to die!”

  Everyone aboard the Black Ships knew what would happen next. Using their massive arms of fog, the Eaters of the Dead would relentlessly pull the vessels under. Then they would greedily consume every living person and warrior, sucking them into their gaping maws. There would be no escape, no reprieve. Unless the three frantic mystics could devise a way to stop it, everyone would die here and now on this sea. Worse, the ramifications of the slaughter would resound through the centuries, perhaps sealing the Vigors’ fate forever.