A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  “Yes,” Aeolus answered. “I do not mean to brag. But to state otherwise would be a lie.”

  “I mean no disrespect, but I find that hard to believe,” Tristan said. “Especially considering the amazing tales Abbey told me about your skills.”

  After giving Tristan a smile, Aeolus stood. Finding himself a bit confused, Tristan stood with him.

  “Come with me,” Aeolus said.

  They walked across the grass for a time. On reaching the courtyard’s center, Aeolus stopped and turned to look at Tristan.

  “Draw your sword and do your best to kill me,” he said simply.

  Tristan shook his head. “I understand what you’re trying to do,” he answered. “It isn’t necessary. I ask for no proof other than your word.”

  Aeolus smiled. “Wigg tells me that you and your sister are very stubborn,” he said. “That having been said, I want no doubt to linger about this. Do it, Jin’Sai. Unsheathe your sword.”

  Perhaps it was Tristan’s intense curiosity about all things martial that persuaded him. Or it might have been the commanding nature of the old wizard’s gaze. But for whatever reason, Tristan found himself reaching behind his back.

  The dreggan’s handle came surely into his right hand. As he pulled the sword free, its blade rang in the air and glinted brightly in the sunlight.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Aeolus said.

  Taking a deep stance, Tristan raised the dreggan overhead with both hands, holding its blade parallel to the ground and its tip pointing directly at Aeolus. Surprisingly, Aeolus assumed no defensive posture. He simply stood in place, his dark eyes locked on Tristan’s. Swiveling both arms, Tristan brought the blade around with everything he had.

  At first the prince was sure that Aeolus was about to die. Standing stock-still, the master waited patiently for the blade to reach him. Then he simply wasn’t there.

  The heavy blade hummed through the air with such speed that it nearly took Tristan around with it. Looking leftward, he saw Aeolus calmly standing about two meters away. His hands were placidly crossed before him.

  “Again,” Aeolus said.

  Feinting high, Tristan quickly reversed his blade’s direction, then brought it around and down. Designed to deprive an enemy of his legs, it was a technique that had served him well in battle.

  Again the blade went whistling around, striking nothing. Aeolus had moved to the right this time.

  Catching his breath, Tristan glared at him. “Are you using the craft to summon that amazing speed?” he demanded.

  Aeolus shook his head. “No,” he answered simply. “Now then, one more time, if you please.”

  Tristan did not wish to hurt Aeolus, but he had become determined to succeed at this in some fashion-even if it only meant his blade touching the master’s clothing. Taking the sword into both hands again, he reclaimed his stance.

  As quickly as he could he drove the sword’s point straight ahead, directly toward Aeolus’ abdomen. But like the other times, the sword struck nothing.

  Suddenly Tristan felt a sharp pain in his sword hand. He felt himself being launched into the air; then he landed hard on his back. He was dazed, but conscious enough to realize that his sword was gone. The force that had taken him off his feet had been unexpected, irresistible.

  As his vision cleared, he raised up onto his elbows. Aeolus was standing over him with his dreggan in his hands. The old master was calmly examining the blade in the sunlight. He looked down at Tristan and smiled again.

  “My apologies,” he said. “It seems that you have never been taught how to fall properly.” Holding one hand out, he helped Tristan to his feet. “That is the first thing we teach here.”

  Scowling, the prince rubbed the back of his neck. “How did you do that?”

  Aeolus handed the sword to him. “It is merely a technique, much like many others,” Aeolus answered. “But like all neophytes, you’re missing the point of the lesson.”

  “Which is?” Tristan asked as he sheathed his sword.

  “If you cannot kill me while I am unarmed, then how could you ever hope to best me if I had sword in my hand?” Aeolus answered.

  Shaking his head again, Tristan smiled. “I stand convinced,” he said. “Even so, I have another question.”

  “By all means,” Aeolus answered.

  “Do you really commandK’Shari?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Aeolus answered. “For me, K’Shari was attained only by a lifetime of intense training. But Wigg told me that a Forestallment calculation exists for imbuing the talent directly into one’s endowed blood. What an amazing concept! A lifetime of work, condensed and gifted in only a few moments. But as I’m sure you know, little is impossible when the craft is involved.”

  “With your indulgence, I wish to see proof that you command the gift,” Tristan said.

  Aeolus nodded. “I understand. But tell me-will you truly recognize it when you see it?”

  As Tristan thought back to the times that Xanthus had been forced into torturing and killing innocent Eutracians, his face darkened. “I am all too familiar with its effects,” he answered.

  Aeolus nodded. “If that is true, then you are one of the world’s few,” he said. “Wigg told me about Xanthus, by the way.”

  Aeolus turned to look toward the courtyard’s rear wall. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself.

  “My ears hear no begging,” he said quietly. “My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.”

  At once the courtyard quieted. The singing birds and buzzing insects hushed and the wind stopped, stilling the tree branches. A deathly, almost familiar silence overtook everything, like nature’s life forces had somehow ceased to exist.

  Tristan took a few steps closer to the martial master and looked into his face. The old wizard’s visage showed no strain whatsoever. For Aeolus, it seemed that calling forthK’Shari was as natural as drawing his next breath. Even so, Tristan couldn’t imagine the degree of hardship, sacrifice, and training that must have been required to reach this level of enlightenment-especially without help from the craft.

  “Again, I stand convinced,” he said quietly.

  Aeolus opened his eyes. Almost at once everything returned to normal. His gaze toward the prince was calm, knowing.

  “You burn with curiosity for all things martial, do you not?” he asked.

  Tristan nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I can see it in your eyes. Satine had much the same look. It never left her.”

  Aeolus led them back to the table, and they both sat. As he leaned closer, a concerned look came over his face.

  “When the Conclave returns, you have every intention of asking Wigg to imbue your blood with its calculations, don’t you?” he asked.

  Tristan was taken aback. That was indeed his desire, and had been ever since learning of the Forestallment. He knew that if Serena could be stopped and he returned to Crysenium as the Envoys wanted, commandingK’Shari might be immensely useful.

  “Yes,” he answered. “How did you know?”

  Aeolus smiled. “It was by no wizardly use of the craft that I guessed your intentions,” he answered. “It was simple logic. Who among us interested in the martial ways would not want such a thing? And to gain it so quickly and easily! What a feat that would be!”

  Tristan looked down at his hands for a moment. “Quickly, yes,” he answered. “But perhaps not easily. Sometimes imbuing Forestallments into endowed blood causes terrible pain. I know firsthand. Under Failee’s orders, the sorceress Succiu placed many Forestallments into my blood against my will, and all at once. They are gone now. But the pain is not something I wish to reexperience. Even so, I believe thatK’Shari would be worth it.”

  A faraway look came into Aeolus’ eyes. “Succiu,” he said softly. “What a beautiful but evil woman. Her devotion to the Vagaries was unquestionable.”

  “You knew her?” Tristan asked.

  “I knew all the sorceresses of the Coven,” Aeo
lus answered, “and Failee best of all. Those were such dark days for Wigg. I am truly glad that he and Abbey have found a measure of happiness.”

  “I have a request of you,” Tristan said.

  “And that is?”

  “Come take up residence in the palace and train me-if only for a little while,” Tristan asked. “Abbey told me what you said aboutK’Shari- about how someone so quickly imbued with its Forestallment might need specialized physical training as well, so as to hone the gift. I’m not asking you to give up your life here and join the Conclave-that is up to you to decide. Nor do I think it wise that I explain all of what we are up against, unless you join us. But I am asking you to do something to help the Vigors in its hour of need.”

  Aeolus thought for a moment. “Do you have any idea when the Conclave might return?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Tristan answered. “I ordered them to attack the Citadel, a Vagaries stronghold. None of us knows what awaits them there. I can only hope that they will be successful, and that they will all return safely.”

  Aeolus sighed, then nodded. “In the interests of the Vigors I will do this thing for you,” he said. “But I have conditions.”

  “Name them,” Tristan answered.

  “During our training sessions you will abide by my orders,” Aeolus said. “We train where I say and when I say. Time might be short before the Conclave returns. You will be a mere beginning student and I the master. During our sessions neither your royal heritage nor the fact that you are theJin’Sai will have any meaning for me. You must be prepared to train like you have never trained before. Nor will you question my orders, no matter how bizarre they might seem. In these things I will brook no disagreement.”

  “Done,” Tristan answered. “Is there anything else?”

  “I reserve the right to leave whenever I wish, and again take up my teaching here,” Aeolus said, “whether I have done all for you that I can or not.”

  Tristan thought about that for a moment. After having spent this time with him, Tristan would have preferred that Aeolus stay on and join the Conclave. Wigg was right, he realized. Aeolus would make an invaluable addition to the group. But Aeolus’ demands seemed firm.

  “Very well,” Tristan said. “I accept your conditions. But if duty calls I will feel free to walk away from a training session without your permission.”

  “Of course,” Aeolus answered.

  “When can we expect you?” Tristan asked. “I will tell the palace gnomes to make your quarters ready.”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” Aeolus answered. “I need to settle some things here and select a student to carry on in my stead while I am away.”

  “A Minion warrior awaits me on the street to take me home,” Tristan said. “I would be happy to tell him to stay and escort you to the palace tomorrow.”

  Smiling, Aeolus shook his head. “As you have seen, I have no need of your warrior’s protection. I might be old, but I’m not senile. I remember the way to the palace well enough.”

  Tristan smiled. “Of course,” he answered. He stood from the table and reached out his right hand.

  “Until tomorrow,” he said.

  The two shook hands. Tristan found Aeolus’ grip firm and dry.

  “Until tomorrow,” the master answered. “Sleep well, Prince. Shortly after my arrival we will start.”

  Tristan nodded, then started the long walk back to the house. As Aeolus watched him go, his thoughts turned to the future.

  He will be good, that one, he thought. But he will also be headstrong and impatient. He will want to run when I command him to walk. There is a natural quickness and an inherent ability in him that few possess. Satine was one of them.

  Sighing, Aeolus shook his head. He would never have thought that he would become the willing teacher of the one who had killed Satine. It seemed that his life was about to come full circle.

  As the insects buzzed and the birds sang, the old teacher sat there for some time before returning to the house to inform his students.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  FROM THE DEPTHS OF HIS IMPRISONMENT, XANTHUSwept. Time had no meaning here, and trying to guess how long he had been in this place was impossible.

  Crouching naked on the filthy floor, he had no idea why his revered masters were treating him this way. During his unexpected march through the Borderlands with theJin’Sai, he had seen Tristan suddenly fall prey to one of the red desert’s great sinkholes. He had told them that simple truth over and over again, but to no avail.

  Deprived of his gifts and condemned to human form only, Xanthus tried to peer into the dark. Even after days of confinement, he could see nothing in the impenetrable darkness. Food was lowered to him by way of an azure column, its brightness stabbing his eyes. During all other times only darkness reigned. Biting rats and his own decaying excrement took up what space the filthy floor had to offer.

  Standing weakly, he reached out to touch the unforgiving prison surrounding him. The deep hole into which he had been lowered was cylindrical, and its sidewalls were constructed of rough-hewn stone blocks. He had tried several times to climb the blocks in the darkness, only to fall back again. Realizing that escape was impossible, he had finally given up trying.

  Weeping again, he held his head in his hands. Why have my masters forsaken me? his soul cried out. I did my best to fulfill my mission. Yet I find myself here, in this terrible place. The Jin’Sai’s death was not my fault. Stripped of my gifts and my Darkling side, I am totally helpless. Even my command overK’Sharihas been taken from me.

  Imperial Order Guards had come for him once already. He had been interrogated with such viciousness that he had been sure he would die. All he could tell his captors was the same truth over and over again, for that was all he remembered. After repeatedly bringing him to the cusp of death, they had finally stopped. His interrogators were experts. They could keep him on death’s knife edge for years if they chose to.

  “Bring that traitorous filth back up into the light,” he suddenly heard a voice say from above. “He is to be questioned again.”

  From high above, an azure light shaft streaked down into the hole, illuminating Xanthus and his dank cell. As the azure gleam struck his light-unaccustomed eyes he cried out in pain.

  The descending light shaft stopped about one meter above where he crouched. Tentacles formed at its base, then snaked downward to wrap themselves under his arms. Gripping him by his shoulders, the beam of light started silently lifting him upward. He could do nothing but let it happen.

  On finally reaching the top, he fell to his knees. As the light beam started dragging him across the floor, the onetime Darkling fell unconscious.

  “WAKE UP, XANTHUS,” SOMEONE SAID. THE VOICE WAS MALE. Its timbre was almost fatherly, caring. “Your last session was not as productive as we had hoped. It is time for another talk.”

  Still unconscious, Xanthus did not hear him.

  “His mind has gone deep,” another said. “I suggest you wake him.”

  At once a jagged bolt tore through the air to strike Xanthus in the face. As his head snapped back he screamed aloud and his body jerked uncontrollably. He slowly came around.

  “That’s better,” one of them said.

  Xanthus gingerly opened his eyes. Blessedly, the room was dark, and its contents were bathed in shadows. Looking around drunkenly, he tried to take stock of his situation.

  Like the time before, he was seated in a simple wooden chair. An azure glow shone down from above, encircling him. More bands of azure light secured his hands and feet to the chair. Prior experience told him that the craft’s harsh embrace would grant no slack. Straining his eyes, he tried to discern what lay before him in the shadows.

  Thirteen figures faced him. About three meters away, they sat next to one another behind a rectangular table. Cloak hoods surrounded their shadowed heads, making their facial features indistinguishable. He neared unconsciousness again, and his head slumped forward to his chest.

  De
spite his grogginess, Xanthus suddenly realized that this time he was not in the presence of Imperial Order troops. A shock went through him as he understood his new interrogators’ identities. He was sitting across fromPon Q’tar clerics. What little mercy he had experienced before would not be granted again.

  “You told us that theJin’Sai perished in the Borderlands,” one of them said. “Yet we know that he has returned to Eutracia. Worse, he has sent the Conclave to do battle against the Citadel queen, and to capture the Scroll of the Vagaries. We can see no end to the trouble this might cause. Tell us, Xanthus-how can theJin’Sai be dead in the Borderlands, yet also fighting the Vagaries in Eutracia? Do you mean to say that he has somehow risen from the grave?”

  Xanthus closed his eyes. His throat was parched. “Water…,” he begged.

  “No,” another of their voices answered simply. “Not before we have the truth.”

  Sobbing quietly, Xanthus hung his head.

  “Are you secretly in league with the Shashidans?” another voice demanded. This time its owner was female. Its tone was sharp and impatient.

  “No…”

  “How did theJin’Sai manage to take the Paragon from you?” another asked. “He wears it for the first time. Yet another of your failures, it would seem.”

  “I don’t know,” Xanthus answered.

  “You do!” the voice answered. “You’re simply being stubborn to better protect your new friends, isn’t that right?”

  Desperate to understand why his masters would not believe him, Xanthus shook his head back and forth like a wounded animal. “No…,” he rasped. “I’m telling you the truth! TheJin’Sai died in the red desert! I tried to save him, but I couldn’t!”

  Suddenly one of thePon Q’tar clerics banged his fist down on the tabletop.

  “Enough of this!” he shouted. “Either you tell us what we want to know, or we will enter your mind again. And this time we will rummage through your brain so savagely that you will beg for death.”

  “Then kill me if you must!” Xanthus shouted. “It would be a blessing!” Again losing consciousness, he slumped forward in the chair.