Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1)

by Matt Howerter

  “So you would end it?” he asked, still not looking at her.

  The words bit deep, more than she believed they could. Arece had been pondering breaking off the affair for some time, but each time she considered it, her heart quailed, and she found herself more enthralled with the man. This growing infatuation was reason enough to end the dangerous bond as quickly as possible, but the lack of anything remotely resembling human connection that waited for her in her own relationship kept her from action. And then there was the terrifying possibility that she might love this man. “I... Bale, I don’t want to, but...” Words simply lacked any semblance of adequacy. Arece shook her head in frustration.

  Bale laid his large, calloused hands over hers. “I can find a way for us to be together, just give me more time.”

  “You will help my daughters? You will go to Waterfall Citadel with them?”

  “I will. For you.”

  Sacha and Sloane had to come first. Once her daughters were safe in Waterfall Citadel, she could risk a real attempt at a life with someone she might actually love. But not before. “Find our escape, Bale. I will wait for you.”

  He smiled deeply, brought her hands to his lips, and kissed them softly. “I will not fail.”

  She flushed at the gesture, and it dawned on her that this might be her last chance to embrace the warmth of her lover. Arece looked into his eyes to see the same hunger she felt in her heart, and she let go of her trepidation one last time. “Lock the door.”

  BIRDS glided beneath him. Their wings were sprinkled with dark blues, bright, metallic yellows, and teal. They soared in effortless patterns along the jagged cliffs of Mountain Wall, just above the brilliant green canopy of the Winewood.

  How easy it would be to lose himself in the splendor of the crisp mountain air and the expansive view that lay before him. From his vantage, Teacher could see miles of the giant wood below. Low-hanging clouds could be touched if he were to fly a bit higher, but instead he dove to skim the canopy of the never-ending sea of green.

  Teacher hugged the profile of the jagged cliff while keeping one eye out for shadows on the canopy below him. The mountains were too high to pass over, and the winged predators that made the soaring basalt their home were certainly large enough to consider one elderly wizard an admirable meal. He would never forget a recent trip when he was startled by the plunging form of a Grahl as it tore a rock goose from the sky, scattering its migratory companions and loosening his own bowel. It was likely he would have been the target of the hunt had it not been for the goose’s more familiar form; the wingspan of an adult rock goose was well in excess of eight feet. There had been no warning, just a flash of red, and then floating feathers and honking geese. It would have been safer to circle the mountains along the oceanic route, but once again, he found speed dictated his action rather than safety. Using the treacherous Ice Lakes pass and skirting Mountain Wall’s ridge was the most direct path, and so, with trepidation, he once again quested forth.

  Despite Sacha’s subdued response to his news of a forthcoming reunion with her child, Teacher was convinced it was the best thing for her. He looked forward to giving his pupil some peace of mind, at least, in this one thing. He was keenly aware that the past two years had been difficult for her, so he was willing to travel the more dangerous course and retrieve her child with the greatest speed possible.

  Regardless of the potential danger, he found certain thoughts hard to set aside. Primary amongst them were the haunting lines of the ancient texts that spurred his rush in Sacha’s training, and the potential implications should he fail in preparing her for the challenges she might face.

  two and two, eyes of blue

  end of the world, close in view

  Teacher curled his lip in disgust as he reflected on the doggerel line. Why must prophecy always be so obscure?

  Shrouded in mystery, the texts might well be, but the long years in the Monastery had trained him for certain responsibilities, regardless of his frustrations. Responsibilities such as taking care of and guiding the prophesied youth who might yet save the world. Who that person would be, how they might achieve such a feat, and when the saving would occur was less than clear. What had been made clear was that only this savior had the capacity to do so, and he or she would ultimately fail if not taught the ways of the Shamonrae.

  He remembered well the tension at the monastery many years ago upon the death of his predecessor and the pupil they believed to be the savior when they thought the end was nigh. How does one face an apocalyptic vision when the key has been lost?

  A flock of snow-white birds burst from the canopy in a flurry of flapping wings and screeches as he flew near them, wrenching his attention back to the present. Teacher spun to face the sky, hands raised in anticipation of an attack, only to find nothing but puffy white clouds suspended in the vast blue. He let out a deep breath and shook his head. “Keep sharp, or you’ll regret it,” he said aloud, in an attempt to give his thought more weight.

  Teacher took note of the position of the sun as it began its descent toward the canopy of the Winewood and knew being airborne in the dark in this part of the world would be inviting death. Spinning back to face the forest canopy below, he tapped the arcane power within him and willed the air currents around his body to flow at greater speed. He was propelled forward at such a pace that his skin was pushed taut around his jaw and cheekbones. He adjusted the large leather and crystal goggles that protected his eyes from stray insects and debris that might otherwise blind him. Teacher smiled. Truly essential gear for flying.

  Nestled between the Winewood and the cliff wall was an expansive clearing of grassy hillocks that stretched across the elven borders of Asynia and into Pelos at its northern tip. It was in a valley that extended north from this region that Teacher had found a small ranch to place Sacha’s daughter. Isolated and far from the southern borders that adjoined the Savage Lands, it made the perfect place for Rylan to grow up and maintain a healthy life.

  Teacher did not like much of what he had been forced to do since Sacha’s arrival at the Monastery, but the forcible separation of his new pupil and her child had been the hardest task. The queen of Pelos had agreed with him, grudgingly, on the separation and insisted upon the utmost discretion. Though he was not compelled to obey, obliging the woman was a simple act of mercy. Teacher attempted to insulate the child from the politics that defined her situation by placing Rylan in a home that would allow her to become a simple farm girl. The life of a princess would be more glamorous, certainly, but this was honest, the people were genuine and kind, and ultimately, until he came up with a better solution, it would have to do.

  By the time he reached the Pelosian border, the sun had fallen below the Winewood and started its descent into the ocean far beyond.

  Teacher raced alongside the mountain range in the failing light, skimming the tops of thick mist formations that began to arise between the towering cliffs and the dense Winewood miles to the West. Rounding a last outcrop of rock, he finally sighted the grouping of farmhouses where Rylan resided, swathed in the shadow of the mountain and bathed in the nightly fogs that rolled down from the moisture-laden cliff face.

  He slowed himself to a comfortable glide once he reached the rows of corn that surrounded the buildings just ahead. Heavy mist obscured the details of the homestead, and before he even reached the last row of stalks, the skin of Teacher’s arms and neck pricked in sudden unease.

  Teacher first thought the fog was the culprit for his concern, but upon closer inspection he came to realize there were no sounds of life. No dogs barking, no wood being chopped, no people calling with the last needs of the day... only stillness. The fog carpeted everything in shadow and silence, making this once welcoming ranch a threatening maze.

  Arcane power surged through Teacher’s body as he gathered more of the energizing magic in a rush of panic. His eyes darted between the house, the barn, and the granary but found no immediate threat. Teacher focused the summoned
power toward his senses to create vision sharp as an eagle’s and hearing acute as a doe’s. He held utterly still, acclimating to his enhanced attributes, and held his breath in an attempt to catch the sound of impending danger.

  The wind whistled along the jagged cliffs high above, but below where Teacher waited, everything remained absent of sound. A thinning in the rolling moisture allowed his eyes to take in a new level of detail. Dark stains painted the front of the farmhouse and the grass just off the porch. The door appeared to be missing and the frame surrounding the gaping hole was shattered. Stress cracks and gaps radiated from the splintered wood along the entire length of the house.

  Controlling his mounting fear for Rylan, Teacher pushed his arcane power outward in search of life, probing for any trace of body heat, any breath of life, but found nothing coming from the house. He quickly scanned the barn and granary but obtained the same results. His growing fear mounted as he forced himself forward to the entrance of the broken house. Unable to see into the pitch blackness, he created an orb of pure light within the main room of the farmhouse and stepped through the splintered entry.

  Blood. Everywhere there was blood. Parts of Greg Hostlen and his family lay strewn across the one-room house, which was in disarray. Every piece of furniture was either broken or tipped over, and the family’s clothes were scattered through the scene like some twisted decoration.

  Teacher stared at the scene in shock. He had thought this the safest place—no one else knew of the remote sanctuary but Marin, his apprentice, and she had been here, somewhere. Still shaking with astonishment, he stepped into the massacre to look for some sign of his former pupil and Sacha’s child.

  Teacher stopped in the center of the rectangular room and immediately noticed sooty plumes on the walls. He recognized the distinctive shapes and knew the dark scorches were most likely made by fire, Marin’s trademark offensive maneuver. For a moment, Teacher entertained the thought that Marin had betrayed him, but none of the remains appeared to have boiled or blackened skin. And for what purpose would Marin do such a thing? Her fierce loyalty was the main reason he had chosen her for this crucial task.

  Any doubts Teacher harbored about his apprentice were put to rest at his discovery of her mangled body underneath one of the toppled beds. Marin lay twisted at an awkward angle with large gashes, or possibly bites, on her limbs and torso.

  Tears welled in his eyes. Seeing Marin torn and bloodied in such a manner, after a now obvious battle in defense of the family and child, made him feel shame for even considering the possibility of her disloyalty. Teacher leaned down and gently rolled her over. “I’m so sorry, Marin... I thought it would be safe,” he whispered to her lifeless form.

  Her eyes were glazed and stared into nothingness. Her face was locked in an expression of terror, trapping the last moments of her life so Teacher could bear witness. More puncture wounds covered the front of her body.

  The pit of his stomach rolled at the thought of what Marin must have gone through before she died. With the tender touch of his fingertips, Teacher closed her eyes and said a small prayer in hopes that Eos had taken her soul to a better place. He laid Marin on the bed that had covered her and proceeded to search for Rylan in the sea of gore before him.

  It took more than an hour for Teacher to thoroughly search the three buildings that sat in a quiet parody of the peace that once existed here. Despite the time and effort, he was unable to find either a trace of Rylan, or any evidence that would indicate who or what did the butcher’s work here. Wildmen, Teacher’s first assumption, would’ve stolen the livestock, not slaughtered them, and there would have been tracks to follow. There was no doubt in Teacher’s mind that the natural predators in this part of the world could have achieved this level of destruction, but Marin should have been more capable of fending them off, and again, there were no traces left behind to indicate such a thing.

  After Teacher buried what remained of the Hostlen family and Marin, he went back into the house to reexamine the shattered cradle that he assumed the farming family had made for Rylan. Bits of golden fabric he had missed before were poking from the mangled heap of wood and now caught his attention.

  He pulled the tattered yellow blanket from underneath the pile of broken bedding to examine it more closely. The soft cloth was worn almost through and was torn in several places, but even so, Teacher could judge the richness of its original quality.

  Holding the ragged fabric almost reverentially in his hands, he gently caressed the fabric with his arcane power, searching for anything that remained of the child, any hint that could be used to begin his search. His eye passed by the useless dead skin and hair, but found something he could use: a resonance.

  His mind’s eye opened to an impression of the child, crying into this blanket, holding it close. He could hear the soft echoes of lullabies and feel the comforted feeling of the child’s spirit as this blanket was being snuggled into in the cold of night.

  He smiled. This blanket had become far more to the child than simply a covering. In her own unthinking way, she had made this into a totem of sorts. An item she had unthinkingly turned to in times of stress, and something into which she had placed trust, faith, and yes, even a bit of herself. Finally, something I can use!

  Common men did not understand just how much of themselves could be imprinted on the things they held dear. He found it amusing to hear of folktales that attributed power to dead and cast-off items from the body. Who cared for skin, sloughed from the body, or hair shed each and every day? Even families that did not possess the heritable ability to manipulate the Shamonrae, as the Moridin family did, had items in their possession that became more than just heirlooms. The tools of a talented craftsman, or a homemaker with a favorite mixing bowl, or a child with a toy that meant more than the others... All of these common people impressed themselves on items of sentiment, making the cherished pieces subtly more than mundane. The actual crafting of a magical item was so much more involved, of course, but this sort of impression was a beginning.

  Returning his focus to the task at hand, he spun around, took the blanket, and hunted for more traces of the sensation that matched Rylan’s deep emotional impressions.

  Now that he had found the beginning, the child’s trail of passage blazed to life before him, leading from the crib across the ruined floor, out into the night. Scrambling to his feet, he moved quickly to the door and followed the resonance to a spot mere feet in front of the bloodied porch. Here, the trail ended abruptly.

  Teacher settled himself upon the blood-stained boards and once again drew in more of the energy that would help him search for clues. The lack of traceable evidence had already implied that the attacker, or attackers, were supernatural. The question remained, though: What kind?

  Teacher reached out with his arcane power, this time looking for something that wasn’t humanoid, or even alive, for that matter. He had taken note of many holes, similar to those found in Marin’s body, perforating the soil in the same location where Rylan’s trail ended. Teacher focused on this spot as a possible point of origin.

  Magical energy probed the ground at Teacher’s direction, finding a multitude of insects and vegetation in its search for the source. As the questing tendrils approached the puncture marks in the soil, he began to feel a chill, and upon making contact with them, a sensation of bitter ice started to seep into him. As if it were a thing alive, and sensing his warmth, the cold surged forward hungrily to engulf and smother its source.

  Teacher clawed his way backward across the porch to break away from the unseen magical and spiritual attack. His back slammed into the house, halting his escape from the voracious void, and he felt its cold hunger rush toward him. Wide-eyed, he threw his hands up, shaping arcane power into a shield between him and the enveloping blackness.

  The shelter immediately began to dissolve, as if it were no more relevant to the ravening void than a sunbeam would be to a twist of wind. The arcane power was being consumed, as if by
millions of unendingly hungry mouths. Teacher’s reserves of magic quickly began to wane as he desperately fed energy to the shield.

  Teacher’s mind reeled under the overwhelming feel of need... of hunger... that flowed from the presence. His years of training rescued him in the end. The rising panic in the face of the all-consuming void began to fall away as his resolve was buttressed by the lessons he had both taught and learned. Once again master of his thoughts, the answer came to him. Like a flash of lightning, he knew... knew what this was, and knew what he must do to survive.

  Redoubling his effort, he swiftly created a second shield around himself. He inverted the energy of the second shield to make it appear just as black and empty as the very thing that was trying to consume him.

  The instant his cocoon was complete, he released what remained of his first shield, closed his mind to the outside world, and waited.

  Moments dragged past in utter silence as he waited for the void to retreat. Its icy touch enveloped his new barrier, but Eos be praised, it retreated when it found nothing to consume. Frustration echoed from the void as it receded.

  Floating in the quiet of his mind, Teacher was able to discern more clearly what he had just experienced. Dausos, the spirit world, had been invoked here. Creatures formed from the void and completely alien to this world had been used to perform the acts perpetrated upon the Hostlen family and his pupil. Even if Marin’s fire bolts had been sufficient to rend one of those entities, and there was no surety this would have been the case, the creature would have dissolved, leaving no trace of its existence except for the damage it had caused to this world during its short tenancy.

  Remorse sunk into him at the realization that Marin and the Hostlen family did not ascend with Eos to the blessed afterlife but instead had had their souls devoured. Creatures of Dausos craved the living soul above all else and were incredibly hard to control, which made them some of the most dangerous beings in existence. Dausos was so dangerous, in fact, that the art of summoning was rarely practiced, and then only in times of great need. Or, he admitted to himself, by those of the blackest hearts. Whoever called these atrocities from the darkness did so at great risk and would have to possess extraordinary power.