Something was happening, Kyel knew. Only, he had no idea what. He watched as Commander Proctor strode into the long hall, barking a demand for a report. He was met by Royce and Craig, who scaled down the ladders to meet him. Both men had broken out in a glistening sheen of sweat, though Kyel could not imagine how in the icy temperature of the keep.
“A large party approaches from the south,” Royce reported, nodding his head in the direction of the tower.
Above, a flaming arrow shot across the black sky, up and over the open roof of the keep. It was followed shortly by another. A signal, though Kyel had no idea what it meant. He was starting to fear the worst, but then he realized that the Enemy would be approaching from the north; at least, he hoped. As he turned in the direction of the shattered rear wall, his eyes fell on a prone form lain out on its back in the middle of the floor behind them.
It was the man with the dark beard who had stood to the left of him in line that evening. The man’s chest was pierced with three arrow shafts adorned with gray fletching, the same type of arrows that the archers had nocked on the ledge above. The man who had walked in front of Kyel all the way from Rothscard to the Pass of Lor-Gamorth had not been killed by the shafts of the Enemy. Kyel’s eyes widened as he remembered the commander’s promise that one of them would be dead by morning, killed while seeking an escape. Proctor had been proven right.
Above, a third fiery shaft blazed across the midnight sky. A shout rang out from the pass below. Both Royce and Craig moved to a long horizontal slit, staring through it down into the darkness below the keep as the commander took up position in the back of the room. Proctor stood erect, arms behind his back, in the same manner he had adopted when addressing the prisoners. He faced the front of the keep, in the direction of the open door that led to the circular room at the base of the tower. He stood, and did nothing more than calmly wait.
The sound of voices came from below. Overhead, Kyel watched as an archer checked his aim and drew the bowstring in his fingers back toward his cheek. Over the sound of the wind, Kyel could hear the clamor of approaching footsteps. Whatever force was coming, it was no few. The archers on the walls swiveled as one, their shafts now aimed toward the door to the hall. Kyel held his breath, watching and waiting. His eyes shifted to the still form of Garret Proctor, who was regarding the doorway with narrowed eyes, arms now folded across his chest. Royce and Craig drew up in front of him, one man to either side, baring their steel.
Suddenly, men were spilling in through the doorway. Kyel almost rose to his feet, but just as he pressed his hands against the rough wood floor to push himself upright, he realized that the men congregating at the front of the room were no threat. They were not soldiers. If anything, they looked to be farmers; exhausted farmers, clothed only in tattered and filthy rags, though some of the men did appear to be armed. They staggered in shivering, swaying on their feet, eyes widening as they noticed the bowmen on the walls with shafts directed at their chests. But the men kept coming, pouring in through the open doorway, at least seventy of them. Possibly over a hundred.
As the last of the ragtag collection of men entered the hall, Kyel felt himself drawing in a hissing breath. The man who entered on the heels of the others was nothing like those who had come before; indeed, he was no mere farmer. He strode forward through the press of bodies by the door, drawing up sharply as his eyes fixed on the commander and his captains. He was young, only a little older than Kyel himself, but there was an alarming intensity in his eyes that made Kyel want to draw back away from him. The man was clothed entirely in black, with the gleam of a sword hilt protruding over his shoulder. His hair was as black as his cloak and as long as the commander’s, worn in a similar fashion tied back at the nape of his neck. Kyel knew little about warfare, the Enemy or the front. But he did know enough to feel certain that if the man turned enough to show him his back, he would find a gleaming Silver Star embroidered on that ebony cloak. The man strode forward boldly toward the still forms of the officers and their threatening steel. As he passed by, Kyel saw that his suspicions were confirmed. The Star was there, set into the fabric between his shoulder blades.
The man was a Master of Aerysius.
A hushed silence filled the hall as the mage drew up before the still forms of Craig and Royce. Slowly, the two men lowered their weapons. The commander made no move, just stood regarding the newcomer with hard and critical eyes.
A slow smile formed on Craig’s lips. In one smooth motion, the captain sheathed his blade, striding forward to clasp the man firmly by the wrist, exclaiming, “Darien! I didn’t think we’d ever see you again. And by the looks of it, you’ve brought us a kingly gift. Praise be to the gods, man!”
As Kyel looked on in utter astonishment, the two men embraced as if old friends. Royce eased his blade back into its scabbard with as close to a smile as his harsh face could manage, stepping up to shake the mage’s hand. Garret Proctor moved forward, unfolding his arms. He nodded a curt greeting, his stare no longer quite so harsh.
The mage shifted his weight, and as he did the hilt of his sword gleamed in the dying light cast by the fires. Kyel blinked, having forgotten all about the sword. That was strange. Kyel’s father had owned a copy of a classic manuscript, The Mysteries of Aerysius, by Cedric Cromm. Since it was the only book in the house, Kyel had been made to read it over and over again until he had it practically memorized. From that book, Kyel knew that all Masters of Aerysius were summarily forbidden any kind of weapon whatsoever, lest they be tempted to direct their powers in the taking of a life. Perhaps the man before him was merely an acolyte, as Kyel’s own father had been. That might explain the presence of the blade.
Kyel watched as the man in black confronted the Force Commander’s imposing glare. In a tone of stark finality, he pronounced, “The Well of Tears has been opened. Aerysius stands no more.”
Garret Proctor took a step backward in shock. Kyel’s own mind reeled as it struggled to make sense of the horrific tidings. As he looked around from face to face at every soldier in the keep, he found that every man there was rocked by the mage’s statement, mouths open, eyes widening in dismay. If Aerysius had truly fallen, then everything was lost. The Sentinels were the last, strongest line of defense his homeland had. Without the Sentinels, there was no hope. The Enemy would flood down upon the vulnerable Southern nations unchecked. There would be no repeat of the Battle of Meridan, where magic alone had turned the tides of war.
It only took Proctor a moment to steady himself somewhat. But he was still visibly shaken, the sound of his voice but a whisper of its former strength as he asked, “What is left?”
The man in the black cloak of dead Aerysius uttered in a grim and barren tone, “To my knowledge, I am the only survivor.”
The commander turned away. Kyel could not see his face. But he knew the depths of despair that had to be written there, the same as on the face of every man in the wide hall. Garret Proctor took a faltering step away and then another. He walked stiffly toward a wooden chair, the sole piece of furniture in the room. Without hesitation, he cast himself down upon it, holding his head in his hands. Kyel saw Royce lay a hand in sympathy across the emblem between the mage’s shoulders. But then he, too, turned away and moved to stand behind his commander, head bowed.
The mage turned and swept his stare over the stark confines of the room. Kyel felt himself shiver as those unsettling green eyes fell upon his own. Their gazes locked for just an instant, but then the man turned away, striding forward to stand at the Force Commander’s side.
Slowly, the Warden of Greystone Keep reached out his hand and grasped the man’s arm. He slid back the dark fabric of the sleeve, exposing a mark that looked like a heavy iron chain that twisted around, firmly binding the younger man’s wrist. Kyel had seen such markings before. This was no acolyte that stood before him. The man with the emblem of the chain on his right arm was a fully Bound Master of Aerysius.
Garret Proctor looked relieved as he stared dow
n at the legendary symbol. “Which order did you take?” he asked, eyes swiveling upward to confront the mage.
“I chose the Order of Sentinels,” the younger man responded.
Proctor nodded slightly. Then, much more directly, he asked, “How strong are you?”
The mage’s eyes darted instantly to the floor, staring at the ground as if he were ashamed. Then, after a moment of pause, he admitted softly, “I am a Grand Master of the Eighth Tier.”
There was a murmur from all around the room. As Kyel watched, soldiers’ hands groped for the comfort of their weapons. Even Craig and Royce took a step back away from the man. Kyel’s own mind spun in the throes of horrified disbelief as Cedric Cromm’s own words spoke out in his mind:
“A mage passed beyond the Sixth Tier would be a vile abomination, creating chaos beyond imaginings. No mind of man is capable of controlling the vastness of such power, and should soon be broken down.”
Kyel looked up with a shiver of dread. This was no mage; the man who stood before him cloaked in black was an abomination. By the authoritative expert on the subject, this Darien was already condemned, destined to be consumed by the unthinkable strength of the power he wielded. It was only a matter of time.
But Garret Proctor did not seem to understand the dire corollary. He was staring up at the man with eyes full of brimming hope.
“We have a chance, then,” he uttered in a whispered breath. “Yes. A chance.”
Chapter Nine
The Last Sentinel
DARIEN SLUMPED DOWN into the chair that was offered him, eyes roving upward to take in the circular room that he found so comfortingly familiar. Garret Proctor had made his home at the top of the tower of Greystone Keep for over fifteen years. And in all that time, the old soldier had acquired scant possessions. The dim chamber was as stark and barren as the man himself. The only adornment on the stone walls was a large map that showed a bleak image of the mountain areas above the Cerulian Plains. The map ended at the northern extremity of the Shadowspears; no one had ever managed to chart the Black Lands further than a league away from the mouth of the pass. No one who had made it back alive, at any rate. There were a few pieces of furniture which looked barely good enough to manage in the home of the humblest peasant, just a small chest by the door and four decrepit chairs pushed up to a long table that had been broken and mended so often that no two legs matched. The commander’s bed had ever been just a simple pallet tucked up against the curve of the wall by the opening of the hearth.
Proctor took the chair opposite him as Royce fetched earthenware cups from the chest by the door. Miraculously, he produced a flagon of wine, hefting it proudly in his big hands before filling both cups. He placed one on the table before the commander, offering the other to Darien. It was a thick and dark red vintage, reminiscent of fresh blood. Darien swirled the liquid around before tasting it, trying not to make a face at the harsh bite of the wine.
“Don’t you complain,” Royce admonished as he set the flagon down on the table. “That’s all there is. A special present from the Queen of Emmery. You saw her latest shipment down in the hall. I’ll wager she sent this wine along as a bribe to be sure we don’t send that lot right back to her.”
Royce was referring to the conscripts clustered around the fires downstairs. That was all Rothscard ever sent anymore: convicted felons. It was probably just as easy to ship them northward as to put them under the headsman’s axe. The Queen of Emmery was actually more gracious than other rulers; infrequent shipments of prisoners were better than no reinforcements at all. Not a soul had been sent up from Auberdale in recent months, and Treshorne had stopped sending men to the pass years ago. The Southern nations had never aided Greystone Keep within living memory; their kings had probably forgotten that the front even existed so far away in the North.
Proctor took a heavy drink from his cup. He closed his eyes as he swallowed the bitter liquid, savoring it as if the wine were the most delicate vintage that had ever passed his lips.
Then he commanded Darien, “Now, tell me everything.”
Darien took another slow sip of his drink and then did just as the man asked, beginning with his arrival in the Vale of Amberlie. It was hard, reliving the memories. Harder still to see his own emotions mirrored in the eyes of the three men listening. Craig swore a vulgar oath when he told them that it had been his own brother who opened the Well of Tears. As he described the destruction of the Hall of the Watchers, even Sutton Royce lowered his head. He told them of his fall from the cliff and of the Bird Man who had forced his gift upon him while he slept. He spoke of the long march up from the Vale through the Cerulian Plains, ending only with their arrival at the steps of Greystone Keep. When his words finally died, Darien felt utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He sagged back heavily in his seat, taking a long drink of the loathsome vintage. After he swallowed that he took another, tilting his head back and draining the cup.
For long moments, not a word was spoken in the room.
It was Royce who finally broke the silence. “Things haven’t been much better here. Enemy soldiers are still massing, swelling their ranks in numbers unheard of. They’re gathering just to the east, under the shadow of Orguleth. We’ve had raids almost nightly. They’re probing us, testing our fortifications and marking the locations of our sentries. Everything points toward a sizeable offensive.”
Darien nodded, eyes thoughtful. The Enemy had been mobilizing even before he had left the pass for Aerysius. His mother had known, as well. That was the reason she had issued the Summons, calling every mage back from the distant corners of the land. Aerysius had been gathering its might, preparing for open war. Bound as they were by the Mage’s Oath, the Sentinels would have been meager defense against the size of the invasion that was surely coming. And now he was all that was left to wage that fight.
Proctor must have been sensing the direction of his thoughts. The commander held Darien’s eyes as he spoke with absolute conviction, “You are the last surviving Sentinel of Aerysius. Your strength shall be our salvation.”
Darien bowed his head, looking down at the empty cup in his hand. He lowered it to the table, setting it carefully on the coarse, unfinished wood. It seemed that everyone had expectations of him that were inflated far beyond what was reasonable for just one man. Everywhere he went, there was always someone who wanted more from him than he could give. It had been the same when he had been an acolyte, and again in the Vale. And now even here. Garret Proctor had worked with the limitations of his kind before, had calculated them into his tactics all throughout his long career. He had been at the Battle of Meridan. Darien would have thought the man might have learned something from the harsh lessons dealt that bitter day.
“I’ve spoken the Oath of Harmony,” he reminded him, silently hoping the old soldier would understand.
It was Devlin Craig, his friend and brother in arms for two long years, who strode forward to challenge him on it. The huge man leaned forward with his hands on the edge of the table, staring across its length with eyes wide and penetrating. “I see you still carry your sword. Exactly what are your intentions, Darien? Are you going to keep your Oath? Or will you forsake it?”
Darien looked away, eyes drawn toward the glowing fire in the hearth. As he watched, a log broke and rained sparks upward with a startling crack. He watched the sparks drift lazily, wafting on an updraft from the chimney.
“I thought to convince my mother to Unbind the Sentinels before Aerysius fell,” he told them solemnly, still staring into the fire so he wouldn’t have to meet their eyes. “She refused me. I did not understand at the time, but now I do.” He looked down at the symbol of the chain on his wrist as he traced the lines of it with a finger. “The Oath is all that separates me from the likes of Zavier Renquist and Byron Connel. Cyrus Krane, Arden Hannah...Myria Anassis. You must recognize those names. You know of whom I speak.”
But Garret Proctor only waved a dismissive hand before taking another
sip of his wine. “You speak of eight demons long dead and moldering in their graves. The fall of Bryn Calazar was over a thousand years ago. You can’t compare yourself to them.”
Proctor didn’t understand. Just as Darien hadn’t understood himself, not until the moment he had been forced to decide between the cliff’s sheer face or the shards of a broken vow. “I am a Grand Master of the Eighth Tier,” he stated tightly. “Do you know what that means? There has never been a mage allowed to progress beyond the Sixth Tier, ever, in all of history. Not even the First Sentinel himself. Do you know why?”
Proctor nodded slightly, but his face was a study in determination. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve read Cromm’s work; I can even quote you the very passage you’re referring to. But that makes absolutely no difference to our present situation. Right here, right now, you can be a very effective weapon if you allow yourself to explore the full extent of your potential. Over time, if Cromm is right, you may even become a dangerous weapon. But that is exactly what I need.”
“I will not forsake my Oath,” Darien insisted firmly.
Craig slammed his hand on the table, jolting Darien’s cup. “Then why are you even here?” he all but shouted. “Tell me that! Aerysius is dead. Its traditions are dead! Why do you insist on holding to a vow you’ve always claimed you don’t believe in?”
Darien started to push his chair back to stand up, angered by Craig’s harsh words. But Proctor’s raised hand kept him firmly in his seat, fuming silently and unable to even look Craig in the eye.
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