“By the Hand!” Whelan cried. “I break your chains and commend your souls to the Harvester!”
The door rattled and Darik felt a terrific desire to open it. He wrestled with the urge, afraid. At last, he ran to the door and threw it open. The swamp fell silent, but a faint call sounded in the distance. A horn blowing and hounds baying. Darik fought the knot of fear spreading from his belly. He had opened the door to invite the Harvester.
Whelan brought the sword down on the chest. The chest shrieked and Whelan fell backwards, a stunned look on his face. Whelan cast Soultrup aside with a cry, and it smoked on the ground where it hit. He tried to pick it up, but it was too hot to touch. The chest continued to shriek.
Darik stripped off his shirt and tossed it to Whelan. “Here. Take this.”
Whelan regained his feet and wrapped Darik’s shirt around the hilt. He swung at the chest again and this time the blade bit into wood. He swung again, casting sparks where the blade hit the metal.
Darik hurried outside, ignoring the rain, the wind, and the growing sound of baying hounds, and searched around the house until he found what he was looking for. It was a broken clay jug, half buried in the mud. He hurried to the water, rinsed the jug and filled it, then returned to the house.
Whelan attacked the box. Again and again he swung, damaging the box little by little. Soultrup hissed and burned, but never chipped. The blade grew too hot to hold, even with Darik’s smoldering shirt wrapped around it. Whelan grabbed the jug. Darik expected him to dip his hand in the water, afraid that direct contact with the hot sword would shatter the blade, but Whelan poured the water all along the blade, ducking away from the steam that hissed from the metal. Darik ran to get more water, while Sofiana drew her bow and notched back a bolt, staring into the darkness outside with a concerned look on her face.
After about twenty minutes, Whelan stopped. He put the sword to the ground and bent over to gasp for air. He’d opened a small gap in the side of the chest that was perhaps a half inch wide. Blue light spilled onto the floor from the hole.
“Want me to take a turn?” Darik asked.
Whelan nodded and pointed for him to pick up the sword. Darik bent to obey, but the sword danced away from his fingers and threw itself into Whelan’s hand.
Darik said, “It’s not ready to give you up yet, it appears.”
Whelan sighed and lifted the sword over his head. “By the Hand!” he shouted. “Release your prisoners.”
“No!” a voice said behind them. “They are mine.”
They turned to look at the newcomer and drew back at what they saw. He was like a wight, but more solid, with only a slight flicker around the edges betraying his true nature. He wore a gray robe inscribed with ancient cartouches and clasped his hands together in front of him, making them disappear into his sleeves. He was taller even than Chantmer the Tall. Darik drew his sword.
“Cragyn,” Whelan said.
The dark wizard smiled. “You can call me that if you wish.”
Whelan gestured with Soultrup at the dead body on the floor. “It must come as a surprise to come back and find yourself without a head.”
“No matter,” Cragyn said. “I will find another body. Perhaps your own, my friend.” He fixed Darik with a cold stare. “Or maybe the boy who meddles in the affairs of wizards. Tell me, boy, how did you pull yourself away from the book? Never mind. We shall discuss it later.” He looked back to Whelan and held out a hand. “Give me Soultrup.”
“No, Cragyn,” Whelan said, emphasizing the man’s name.
“Leave us alone, Cragyn,” Sofiana said.
“The Harvester has numbered your days on this world, Cragyn,” Darik said.
Whelan sprang forward with Soultrup reared over his shoulder. He brought it down, but the wizard had already moved. Cragyn thrust out a hand to seize Whelan, and although the man ducked away from the grasp, the wizard’s hand still brushed his shoulder. Whelan lurched back with a cry.
Darik attacked with a snarl. His sword thrust completely through the wizard’s chest. Sofiana fired her crossbow, but the bolt bounced against the far wall harmlessly. The dark wizard paid them no attention, but grappled for Whelan’s sword.
“The box!” Whelan cried. He landed a blow on the wizard’s arm, and the wight shrank back with an angry hiss, then pressed his attack again. Whatever power his soul held, it was vastly superior to the force that had bound Tainara. Even binding him to Soultrup by using the man’s name had been insufficient.
Darik and Sofiana turned their attention to the box. It still sat open, with a gap of blue light spilling from the breach Whelan opened. Sword and crossbow would do no good if a half hour from Soultrup had only damaged it slightly. Instead, they tipped it over.
Wrestling to uproot the chest, Sofiana and Darik lodged their feet beneath it once they pried it from the floor. A final surge of effort tipped it face down. Blue light spilled onto the floor.
“Leave it alone, fools!” the dark wizard said, breaking his attack. Whelan sprang at him, but Cragyn swept him aside and rushed to the chest.
A draft blew through the room, “Mortals,” a voice said, so cold and deep that it sucked the air from the room. Everyone stopped and looked to the doorway. A newcomer stood just inside the threshold, a giant of a man whose head brushed the ceiling. A horn hung from his neck, with a scythe in each hand. A sack dangled from his waist, bulging and squirming with the night’s harvest.
“Huntsman,” Cragyn murmured. “How did you find me in the swamps?”
“I called him,” Whelan said. “And he followed your stinking, rotting soul.”
The wight ignored Whelan and said to the Harvester, “You can’t take me, Huntsman. Not even your brothers can challenge me this time.”
Bewildered that the dark wizard could challenge the Harvester so openly, Darik looked to their silent visitor, but the Harvester said nothing. His hounds bayed outside the door, begging to get inside, but blocked for the moment by their master.
“Perhaps not alone,” Whelan said. “But together, we can take you.” Soultrup burned in his hand.
And as Whelan attacked, the Harvester stood aside and let his dogs pour into the room. Their skins burned with unearthly light and slather dripped steaming from their mouths. Snarling, the dogs set into the wight, tearing at his flesh, while he fought off Whelan’s attack.
“Ninny, the door!” Whelan shouted.
Sofiana shut the door, while Darik ran to the windows and drew the slats closed. With a final burst of energy, the dark wizard dissolved in a flash of light that swirled about the room, looking for a place to escape. Unfortunately, Darik and Sofiana had overlooked one escape route. The flash of light overturned the chest to close it, then shrank the box to a second pinprick of light. Together, they burst into the hearth and up through the chimney. The hounds stood baying at the hearth, anguished by their lost quarry.
The Harvester said, “I have other business to attend to.”
“But the wizard,” Darik protested. “He’s wounded. We can track him down.”
“He is only one soul. I have others to gather.” The dogs turned to the three humans and whined. “Fly, mortals. My hounds thirst for your souls.”
Suddenly remembering whose company they kept, the three companions needed no more warning. They threw open the door and ran to the boat. Paddling furiously across the lake, they reached the other side as the baying hounds splashed into the water. They reached the pathway and fled.
By the time they reached their camp, the hounds had faded into the distance, distracted by other quarry. Scree flew down from the trees to greet them, keening softly.
It was still dark as they broke camp and loaded the horses. Whelan found a spare shirt for Darik in his baggage, much too large, but a welcome shield against the rain. Whelan wrapped Scree in a blanket to keep her dry, whispering to comfort her. They made their way from the swamps into Estmor’s damp fields; the fields turned into quagmires under the steady downpour.
The rain quenched Darik’s fear. As they moved, he settled into a familiar rhythm, the endless travel of the last few weeks. A hint of light touched the horizon, but Darik couldn’t see the sun through the clouds and foggy mist. His muscles were still twitching off the excess excitement. He had faced the dark wizard.
They passed a small lake rimmed with sod houses, similar to the one where they’d battled Cragyn, in front of which a few women gathered belongings into oxcarts. The three companions continued until they found the roads. The sun rose at last, dirty yellow through the gray.
On the roads, they discovered much of Estmor marching west. Families drove oxcarts piled high with possessions, while ragged groups of armed men, many of them wounded, galloped past. A man drove a herd of swine through the rain, unwilling to leave them behind. One large boar lodged himself in a mud hole and the man pushed and cursed, trying to dislodge the beast. They helped him free his pig, then asked him about the dark wizard.
The man shook his fist. “That bastard. He burned the city to the ground. Spent the entire night pillaging, from the tale of it.”
“So the dark wizard has marched from the mountains?” Darik asked, not sure if he understood everything through the man’s thick accent.
“Aye, yes. The whole bloody Way is crawling with the bastards.”
So close, Darik thought. They’d come so close to ending the entire war.
That was all they needed to hear. They remounted and galloped west, no longer trying to hide themselves. The war was upon them.
Chapter Eight
The rain slowed to a drizzle as Darik, Whelan and Sofiana rode northwest on the Tothian Way. The road grew even more crowded as they approached the Citadel. From bits of conversation, Darik gathered that nobody had actually expected Cragyn to invade, but that he and King Daniel would come to an agreement about trade through the mountains, which was Cragyn’s pretended reason for marching to Eriscoba. Closer to the Citadel, the Tothian Way crawled with friendly soldiers, the armies still trying furiously to organize themselves to confront the approaching forces.
Darik felt the full weight of last night’s events sinking in through his ever-mounting exhaustion. He’d seen the dark wizard and the Harvester in the same night and survived. How had he become so tangled in these events? These events should be left in the province of kings and wizards.
Bowing his head under the rain, Darik remembered the comfort of just a few months ago, before Whelan and Markal bought him on the slave blocks. A lifetime ago. What had become of Father; was he merely a slave in Veyre, or did he still spy for the Free Kingdoms? And what of Kaya? Had she survived the battles? For a moment he wanted nothing more than to go back to quiet days at his father’s house.
But no, he had changed. The events that had swept him into their path hadn’t left him the same person. He had grown, yes, into something more than just a boy. But while no longer wishing to return to live in Balsalom, he wasn’t sure what to do when the battle came to an end. Join the Brotherhood? Follow Markal? Go see Daria and become a griffin rider if they would have him?
Whelan rode quietly, listening to Sofiana talk about her march over the mountains from Montcrag. Occasionally, he nodded or asked a small question, but Darik guessed he was lost in his own thoughts. At last Sofiana fell quiet and they rode in silence. Whelan looked glum, Darik thought. Not only had they failed, but Whelan had discovered that both King Daniel and the khalifa’s souls were under Cragyn’s power.
Darik had guessed Whelan’s thoughts, if not his exact mood, for a few minutes later the man said, “Why does it matter what kind of souls he binds?”
Darik said, “Kind? You mean, kings and queens instead of any free soul?”
Whelan nodded. “He doesn’t even wait until they’re dead. He speeds the process, and even binds souls into his box while they’re alive.”
Darik shrugged. “No idea how he does that. But maybe he takes kings and queens for their strength of will. They have the will to resist the Harvester.”
Whelan said, “Much like King Toth after the wars. They say he still wanders the Desolation, always one step ahead of the Harvester.” He nodded. “Yes, I considered that. But there are others who would be well-suited. Generals, viziers, pashas, powerful merchants and warlords. If the dark wizard keeps a separate box for his most powerful wights, you’d expect to see them there as well.”
“That’s true,” Darik said.
Whelan said, “We need Markal. It’s easy to find a wizard when you don’t want one, but they’re never around when you do.”
Nobody stopped or challenged them until they reached Sleptstock, a small town about fifteen miles from the Citadel, just inside King Daniel’s realm. Sleptstock straddled the Thorft River, connected by a stone bridge that was bound with the same magicks that had created the rest of the Tothian Way. The river itself ran deep and swift from the Wylde, heading due south from the forest to the southern seas. The Free Kingdoms had marked the bridge to make a stand.
Men on horseback put buildings on the east side of the river to torch so they couldn’t provide shelter to the enemy. The rain had stopped, letting fires burn hot. Small clumps of men and horses gathered on the west side, pitching tents on the river bank and appropriating houses and mills.
Whelan stopped his horse to watch the action. “Let’s see if Sleptstock lives up to its reputation .”
Darik asked, “What reputation?”
Sofiana gave him a disgusted look. “You don’t know?”
Whelan said, “In the Wars Toth’s army rested at this ford before marching to crush Arvada. According to the story, wizards from the Crimson Path had disguised an army of Eriscobans as cattle and sheep sleeping in the sun on the banks of the Thorft River. When Toth’s men came to slaughter the stock to feed their army, the sleeping beasts changed back into men, and swept through Toth’s forces, driving them east. That battle turned the tide of war. Two months later, Memnet the Great stopped the dark wizard in Aristonia.”
Darik could see why King Daniel had decided upon Sleptstock to make a stand. The message was clear. We stopped an enemy here once, and we can do it again.
And from a purely strategic point of view, defending the single crossing of the Thorft River was a good idea. But the Eriscobans looked too few in number to stop Cragyn. He’d heard about the mammoth charge at Balsalom and thought that such a tactic, together with an aerial assault from dragon wasps, would quickly break such a small force.
But Darik reconsidered when they made to cross the bridge. Dozens of archers gathered on the west banks to guard the approach. As the Veyrians rushed the bridge, these archers could bury them in a murderous hail of arrows, while the forced narrowness of the bridge prevented a similar return of fire. He remembered how Hoffan had turned a similar approach at Montcrag to his advantage. A small tower straddled the west side of the bridge, and more archers manned its arrow loops. Refugees passed under the tower, their belongings searched by soldiers.
Mounted knights milled along the bridge and quickly noticed the three companions. “Stop there!” one man yelled. Dressed in chain mail, he held a shield at his side, painted with a upraised hand that dripped blood. All of the men had helmets on their laps, and javelins and swords tied to the horses.
“We have business with the king,” Whelan replied. Scree struggled in the man’s fist, upset by the commotion. “Let us pass.”
“Captain?” the man said, stepping his horse forward.
“Stewart,” Whelan said. He moved forward and clasped the man’s forearm.
“I didn’t recognize you in all that mud,” Stewart said. “But I should have recognized the falcon, at least. I’m sorry.”
Whelan shrugged away the apology. “Why aren’t you with Ethan? I thought he gathered the Knights Temperate at the Citadel.”
“He’s trying to,” Stewart said, eyeing Whelan’s companions. “But it takes time. Too long. Ethan is still riding along the Wylde looking for Captain Roderick. We’re under Hoffan’
s command for the moment.”
“Hoffan?” Darik exclaimed.
“He told me you’d probably pass this way and said that your wizard friend would be here tonight.”
Whelan said, “Hoffan, eh? Why’s that old scoundrel in charge? Come on, I’d better have a word with him.” He gestured back at Sofiana and Darik. “You’ve met my daughter. This is Darik. I’m hoping he’ll join us. He would be a great asset to the Brotherhood and the Knights Temperate.”
Stewart raised an eyebrow. “You must be quite a man to garner such a compliment from Whelan. Maybe you can ride with us in battle.” He stepped his horse forward and clasped Darik’s forearm. The four of them turned and rode across the bridge, leaving Stewart’s two companions to sort through the others flowing west. Darik beamed with pride at Whelan’s compliment.
Hundreds of men-at-arms gathered in west Sleptstock, together with hundreds more bringing supplies by oxcart and horseback. But there appeared to be little coordination between the dozens of sub-groups in the army, each identifiable by their banners and different manners of dress.
Hoffan had taken residence in a mill south of the bridge. The wheel itself stood still, no longer grinding flour. Inside, a stack of cloth sacks was the only evidence of milling. The rest of the room was filled with tables and maps. Hoffan sat arguing with his advisers, some of whom Darik recognized from Montcrag.
“So they’ve put you in charge?” Whelan asked. “Unbelievable.”
Hoffan looked up and laughed. He rose to his feet and gave Whelan a bear hug then turned to Sofiana and Darik, crushing all resistance in turn. Darik thought his eyeballs would burst.
Hoffan looked more respectable than last time they’d seen him. His eagle’s nest of a beard was trimmed to manageable proportions and he no longer wore clothes that had seen a week of slogging through the mountains. He sent away Stewart and his advisers, and sat the others down.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Ah, I thought so. I can see the famished look in your eyes. Can’t have you eating your chairs.”
He retreated to his larder and returned with cheese, bread, and pickled eels, then fetched mugs of ale. Darik tore hungrily into the food as if the Famine Child herself had followed him from Estmor, but drank the ale only because he was thirsty for something besides swamp water. What he really wanted was some good Chalfean wine.
The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Page 12
