Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien’s finger tapped twice on the arrow. Then he spun away from the map and made for the stair, scooping up his sword along the way and clutching the scabbard against his chest as he ran. He took the steps two at a time, shrugging into the baldric as he reached the tower’s base. There he stopped, glancing toward the closed and barred door of the keep. On impulse, he turned away from it and let his feet carry him instead in the direction of the hall.

  Kyel Archer was not hard to find. The young man stood out, like a beacon of flame blazing amidst the dim glow of the men around him. Darien crossed the hall toward him, men scrambling to move out of his way. He reached out his hand, grabbing the young man by the shoulder and turning him around with the pressure of his fingers.

  “Stay clear of the battle,” he warned him, then moved away toward the collapsed north wall of the keep. Ignoring the stares that were aimed at him, Darien mounted a ladder to the catwalk at the top of the wall. He paid careful attention to the narrow footing as he worked his way toward the form of Sutton Royce; heights had been bothering him ever since his fall. The captain turned as he saw Darien approaching, a look of concern on his face.

  “Look to the east,” Darien told him. “They’ll be coming from the Spire at dawn.” He watched Royce’s eyes widen. It was not what they had been expecting.

  “Our plan won’t work, then,” Royce shouted at his back as Darien was already moving away.

  He paused, turning. “No, it won’t. But I’ve a better idea.”

  Kyel stared, watching the Sentinel’s black cloak vanish though the door of the hall.

  “Smells like trouble,” grunted Traver, who had been occupying the time by honing his blade for what to Kyel seemed like at least the past hour. The man held up the shining steel, turning it slowly in the dim light. Apparently, he’d found a place he wasn’t quite satisfied with, laying it back down and going at it again with the whetstone.

  After a few minutes, he muttered, “I thought you were going to stay clear of that darkmage.”

  Kyel glared at him, shirking back and clutching his bow reflexively in his grip. He was about to give Traver a piece of his mind, had even started opening his mouth, when he was interrupted by the sound of a ringing cry from below on the cliffs, followed instantly by a near-volley of fire arrows crossing the open sky overhead. Kyel sprang to his feet as all of the men in the long hall responded at once. There was a clatter of boots as the regular soldiers took to the walls, followed by a gush of commotion as the recruits reached for their weapons in panic, the sound of their voices filling the room with a clamorous din. The whole hall was a rippling tide of men surging to their feet, reaching for their arms.

  A shout from the doorway brought order instantly back to the room. The faces of the men turned to stare at the rigid form of Commander Proctor, standing with feet apart and hands folded over the pommel of a greatsword planted blade-down in front of him. He was flanked by both captains, who stood raking their imposing stares over the faces of the men. To his right, the black-cloaked mage appeared and stood calmly regarding the room, a chain mail corset gleaming under the cross-strap of his baldric.

  It was actually happening, Kyel thought, feeling a surge of sudden panic. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he stared at the glistening steel rings exposed between the folds of the Sentinel’s cloak. There was going to be a battle. And, judging by the number of fire arrows that had flared across the sky above the keep, it was going to be big.

  Kyel glanced over his shoulder at Traver, who was cradling his sword, the blade resting in the fold of his arm. The young man’s chest was rising and falling in shallow, rapid motions. His eyes were wide, but not in fear, Kyel realized. The look on Traver’s face was one of anticipation, even excitement.

  The officers were speaking quietly with the men under them. As Kyel looked up, he saw Lauchlin shake his head sharply in response to a question. Then the group broke apart as the regular soldiers surged out into the crowded hall, rapidly making their way through the spaces between clusters of panic-stricken men. Sergeant Ulric wound his way through the hall, pointing out specific individuals and signaling them to follow him. When he came near Kyel’s group, his finger waved in the air as he selected only a few of the men around him.

  “You, you and...you.”

  Ulric’s bony finger was pointing right at his chest. Kyel’s knees felt as if they were going to give way as he followed the sergeant with his small group of hand-selected archers. To Kyel, the number of men not picked far outnumbered the men who had been. As he walked toward the front of the hall in Ulric’s wake, he noticed the mage’s eyes upon him again. Lauchlin’s stare was narrowed, his expression displeased. He turned and muttered something to Craig, who looked at Kyel and nodded thoughtfully.

  “Ulric,” the captain called as their group approached. The sergeant sprinted over to him. As they spoke, Kyel saw Ulric’s hand gesturing wildly in the air. It looked almost as if the two men were arguing.

  When Ulric returned, the look on his usually dour face was one of anger. He glared at Kyel, raking his eyes over him. “You’re coming along with us,” he told him, as if there had ever been a question about it. “But you’re to stay clear of the fray and keep your head down. Orders from above.”

  By the way he said ‘above’, Kyel assumed he meant Lauchlin. He nodded, feeling a little disappointed. It wasn’t as if he wanted to go out there and risk his neck, but he also didn’t like being singled out. He felt heat rising to his cheeks as he shifted his gaze to the floor.

  They stood there doing absolutely nothing for minutes as commotion continued around them in the hall. Then there was another shout from below, quickly followed by another fiery round of arrows. He heard a man whisper beside him:

  “This one’s going to be bloody.”

  Then Ulric was giving the word to move out. Kyel strode forward with the rest of the archers as the bowmen formed a line and followed the sergeant out of the hall, through the keep’s tall door, and out into the frigid bleakness of night.

  Traver was grinning, amazed that he’d even been picked. This was going to be great, maybe one for the history books, and he was actually going to have the chance to take part in it. His hand fingered the cold steel of his sword as he waited his turn in the line of recruits waiting to be armored. He could have used a stiff drink, but the rush of the thrill that filled him was practically just as good. Maybe even better. He was almost glad he had messed up so badly back in Hunter’s Home; the front was where he was meant to be. Not running some boring dyeworks back in Coventry, not driving a wagon along a lonely, dusty road with the constant reek of horseflesh in his face. The thrill of impending battle was far more intoxicating than any of his frequent binges. His hand quivered on the hilt of his sword, eager with anticipation.

  Two soldiers slapped a vest of heavy, boiled leather around him, cinching it tight. A hand clapped him on the back, sending him forward to another group of armored and eye-wide men who were waiting by the door. Someone thrust a pair of gauntlets at him, but Traver just handed them off to another man at his side. The armor they’d already given him would slow him down enough.

  As he followed the line of foot soldiers across the threshold of the keep, Traver closed his eyes, whispering a soft prayer to the goddess Dreia, his sweet Lady of Luck. Back in Hunter’s Home, he had almost thought his Lady had abandoned him. But now Traver knew better; his luck had flared golden that night. Or, how else, out of all the remote chances in the world, could he have ever managed to end up here?

  His lips had always tasted the flavor of his coin whenever he’d made ready to play a game. Traver brought the flat of his blade up to his lips, planting a kiss on the smooth and oiled steel, praying for his sweet Lady Luck to be with him in the fight.

  Darien pulled back sharply on the gelding’s reins, feeling the dark warhorse beneath him quivering, almost as if the animal could sense the coming storm. He looked out over the edge of a steep escarpment, down into the murky shadow
s of a long, dark canyon almost at the very base the Shadowspears. From his vantage point, he could see the deep ravines and narrow rivulets that fed into the mouth of the pass. Behind him, he could hear the nervous shuffle of the men spread out along the rim overlooking the canyon below. To his left across a narrow gap in the cliff, he could see the form of Devlin Craig mounted on his gray warhorse, its silvery mane whipping in the wind. Craig caught his stare and nodded slightly.

  It was the signal he had been waiting for.

  Darien closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. It was no small feat of concentration, summoning the skirling eddies of power that churned at the mouth of the pass. He groped outward tentatively, feeling the currents of air rushing upward into the craggy mountain slopes behind him, sensing the energy and friction of the wind. With the will of his mind he dominated the air currents, shifting them in direction, doubling the wind back upon itself. At the bottom of the canyon, dozens of violent whirlwinds burst upward, churning the black dust of the river bottom and splitting into double-twisters of swirling air that finally slowed and exhausted themselves against the rocky slopes. The anger of the wind was gradually spent, fading into the stillness of an unearthly, numbing calm.

  Silence replaced the din of the gale. Below in the canyon, nothing moved. It was as if the entire motion of the world had frozen in place, the pulse of reality halting to a standstill. The distant trickle of a running stream was the only indication that time was still moving forward at all. Darien glanced behind him and saw that the ranks of armored men flanking his sides were entirely still. The restless stir of armor and weapons had ceased, the soldiers now gaping out into the utter quiet that had swallowed the pass completely.

  Darien raised his hand, spreading his fingers over the crystalline-black calm.

  A fog rose from the lowlands, spreading out slowly from the winding crease of the river bottom, groping upwards toward the black slopes of the surrounding bluffs. The canyon was gradually devoured as swirling gray mists unfolded, clinging to the rocks of the cliffs and rendering the view of the approaches impossible. The fog rolled upward to consume them in vaporous clouds. It seemed as if the entire world had been swallowed by a thick, choking blanket of haze.

  Darien looked for the outline of Devlin Craig, barely visible through the twisting tendrils of mist. Again the captain nodded to him, the expression in his eyes beneath the shadows of his helm grimly approving. The stillness of the canyon stretched below them, overwhelming in its totality. The fog swirled, churning, reaping the shadows of the sunless dawn.

  The sound of a distant rumble echoed through the mists. It seemed at first almost natural, like the peal of thunder after a stab of lightning. But the noise was constant, growing. It increased in volume and proximity, swelling to a low, throbbing roar, escalating until it became clear that there was nothing natural about it. The roar became a deafening echo that rose from the mist and shattered the silence of the canyon.

  Darien glanced sideways at Craig. The captain was holding his left hand in a fist above his head, the signal to hold. Below, Darien could hear the ranks of the Enemy advancing under the choking cover of fog. He waited, chest vibrating with the rhythmic thunder of the army that marched beneath them under the thick veil of fog.

  He glanced back to Craig, a tingling shiver passing through his body like a wave. Darien focused his gaze on the soldier’s hand. As he watched, the captain brought his arm down, bellowing a warcry.

  Darien released his hold on the canyon.

  The fog abated instantly, revealing Enemy ranks spread out like dark waters across the riverbottom below. There were many more than he had expected. Cold fingers of dread traced upward from the small of his back to his neck, steeling down his arms to numb the touch of the reins in his fingers. The gods had not listened to his prayers. The Enemy numbers were spread out across the folds and ripples of the canyon floor, seeming to lack anything in the way of organization or discipline. But Darien knew better than to be fooled by the muddled appearance of those dark ranks; somewhere in the choking desolation of the Black Lands, Chaos had transcended to devise an order of its own. To Darien, the army below looked like a dark and dangerous river of quaking spears and thundering shields. The peal of their warhorns brayed above the clamor of their armaments.

  He raised his own fist into the air, a finger pointed upward into the black morning sky, then let his hand sharply fall.

  On his mark, the ranks of archers behind him released their shafts with a throbbing hum of bowstrings. He watched the first ranks of the Enemy drop under the rain of gray-fletched arrows.

  A terrible roar broke out as the black river of soldiers below swept forward, breaking over the bank and storming up the side of the canyon toward them under a hailing barrage of arrows. Armored forms dropped, littering the slope, to be consumed by the relentless flood that came behind. Screams of death mixed with the sound of braying warhorns and blood-curdling battlecries as the first dark ranks spilled over the lip of the canyon.

  Craig drew his sword and spurred his mount forward. His steel ripped through the air as volleys of arrows whistled over his head to drop in a deadly rain on the writhing slope. To both sides, horse and infantry engaged with thundering force, pressing the Enemy back down the rise of the escarpment.

  As Craig’s horsemen descended the slope in pursuit, Darien clenched his fist in a rage of anger. The plan had been to hold the top of slope, where they had the advantage, not to follow the retreating Enemy back down into the gorge. As he stared out across that deadly sea, Darien felt the anger slowly fade, replaced by a numbing calm. He waited, watching as if through someone else’s eyes as Craig’s horsemen assailed the forces below. They engaged the Enemy ranks with the clamor of ringing steel and shattering armor. The sound of the battle resonated up the walls of the canyon, the thunderous impacts of men and steel merging together in a murderous clash of confusion.

  Darien opened his fist, sweeping his arm down to his side. With a cry that shook the air, hundreds of swordsmen sprinted past him down the slope, feeding the frenzy of the fight. Darien swept his gaze across the battlefield, taking in the sheer viciousness of the fray. Beneath him, soldiers were flailing, rending, dying, breaking against the shield wall of the Enemy ranks. He watched with numb detachment as his own men screamed and fell, their broken carcasses collecting on the ground. Through it all he could see the gray charger of Devlin Craig weaving in and out, his tremendous sword cutting a wedge through the middle of the shield wall.

  Darien looked to the north, toward the dark banks of a steep defile where he knew Kyel Archer was stationed, well away from the perils of the battlefield. Sensing no danger to that position, he turned his attention back to the fight.

  Traver brandished his sword as the first Enemy soldiers came crashing into the Greystone line of running footmen. He could feel his heart flailing wildly, the roar of bloodflow in his ears dampening even the thunder of battle around him. He’d known it would be bad, but nothing like this. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man beside him fall to his knees, a foot-length of black steel driven through his chest. As Traver looked on, the Enemy swordsman kicked the man over backwards to free his blade. The staring eyes of the dying man glared up at Traver from the ground, a blood-washed hand clutching the gaping hole in his leather armor. His lips were slowly moving, forming soundless words.

  Traver tore his eyes away just in time to dodge as a spear hissed right past his ear. At the same time a sword slashed down from out of nowhere. He brought his own blade up to block it, almost losing his grip when the jarring impact came. He tried to recover, tried to get his sword back up in time as the Enemy blade arced around and came right back at his face. All he could see was a black blur in front of his eyes as he dropped to the ground and thrust his own weapon up.

  He felt the hilt wrenched out of his grasp as the black-armored warrior twisted above him, felt something wet and soft splattering down over his face. Traver brought his hand up to scoop whatever
it was off, smearing it away. Rubbing what felt like slimy mud out of his eyes, he blinked and found himself staring down at the glistening wet ropes of entrails.

  Gagging, Traver heaved the contents of his own stomach on top of them.

  Devlin Craig wielded his longsword like an extension of his arm as he guided his horse with the pressure of his legs. Weaving through the ranks of infantry, he swung his blade in great hacking arcs. A rain of blood showered behind him in his wake, bathing the gray flanks of his mount in a red, frothy sheen. He raised his sword as a spear came at him from the right. Swatting the spear aside with a swipe of his blade, he continued the stroke downward to rip through the muscle and bone of a pikeman’s shoulder.

  Darien waited, the sounds of screaming horses and dying men assaulting his ears, watching as the clash of the fighting below him swelled to a tumultuous fury. The Enemy lines reformed, the fragments of the Greystone troops wheeled and swept before them toward the mouth of the pass.

  Darien sent his mind groping outward across the canyon, seizing a narrow wall of rock that sheltered the battlefield from a ravine on the other side. Wrenching the cliff with the force of his mind, he watched as the rock face trembled and then erupted with violence. Scores of Greystone soldiers poured out through the gaping rent from the other side, taking up position where the cliff had been only moments before. Archers knelt, firing volleys of arrows into the face of the Enemy charge. Bodies dropped woodenly to the canyon floor, showered with a litter of gray-fletched arrows.