Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  The archers fell to the ground as ranks of cavalry leaped over their heads from the shadows of the ravine. Enemy soldiers turned and fled, back toward Craig’s charge of armored horse. As Darien watched, the Enemy ranks were cut down, wedged in a vice between two fronts of hurling death.

  Ulric had stationed Kyel with another bowman in a crevice on the slope of a ravine far above the western edge the canyon. The sergeant had ordered him to wait there, keep his head down, and signal if he saw anything moving in the ravine below. But there had been nothing. And even if there had been, Kyel likely wouldn’t have noticed it. His eyes were riveted on the clash of battle, watching in horrified fascination as magic and steel combined in a sinister combination that was brutally effective. Outnumbered and outmatched, the Greystone forces seemed to be prevailing against the crumbling Enemy resistance.

  So fixated was he on what was going on below in the canyon that Kyel didn’t even notice the files of Enemy soldiers steeling up behind him in silence, far above on the rim of the narrow hill. He wasn’t even aware of their presence until a booming warcry issued forth from thousands of throats, shattering the darkness and overcoming even the clamor of the battle.

  A thunderous warcry echoed over the rim of the canyon. Darien turned in his saddle, confronting the sheer strength of a new Enemy line that had emerged on a hill across from him while his attention was directed on the tides of the battle below. Thousands of armored men battered their swords against their shields and shook their spears in numbers surpassing anything Darien had ever seen before in his life. The rage of their harrowing battlecry shook the blackened ground of the pass.

  Darien’s eyes widened as he realized that Kyel Archer was somewhere up on that slope, exactly in a position to be swept away by the flood of the Enemy charge.

  He reached over his shoulder, grasping the hilt of his sword. Sliding the steel from its scabbard, he brought the flat of the blade down sharply against the dark hindquarters of his mount. The warhorse broke immediately into an all-out run, head extended, tail billowing out behind. In a surge of wired muscle, the black beast gathered itself and took the edge of the escarpment in a powerful leap. The horse shuddered as its forelegs came down on the rock face of the slope, gaining momentum in long strides, descending the hill into the thick of the battle and picking up speed as it went.

  Darien raised his sword as the first Enemy soldier came at him.

  The blade fell, deflecting a war axe. More soldiers disengaged from the fighting, pouring toward him, drawn by the sight of his black cloak. Darien’s sword rose to meet them, brushing blades aside and shattering spears as the heavy warhorse pounded through the thick of the fight. His sword was but a whispered hiss in the darkness as he urged his mount faster across the field of death.

  He drew up sharply as a horse swung around in front of him, the soldier confronting him with a lance. The black beast beneath him screamed a challenge as it drew up, rearing, striking out with its forelegs and sweeping the Enemy mount aside. Darien felt almost nothing as the lance grazed his shoulder; the numbness that had gripped him up on the rim of the canyon had since chilled, becoming a cold and brittle detachment. He swept out with his sword in a backwards slice, brushing aside a pikethrust that would have gored his mount.

  Using the heels of his boots and the flat of his blade, he pressed the warhorse forward across the canyon in the direction of the cliffs. The black gelding took the ford of the river at a gallop, splashing across the surface of the water, flanks glistening with sweat as it surged up the slope on the far side. The destrier heaved up the embankment, taking the trail in long strides, upward into the face of the charging Enemy.

  Kyel glanced up from the crevice he had driven his body against at the surging turmoil descending upon him. The bowman he had been stationed with was dead, the dark fletching of an arrow feathering his side. Kyel held his own bow angled sharply upward, trained on the onslaught spilling down the slope. He loosed his round, then fetched another arrow from his quiver, nocked it and drew. He watched an armored figure fall, not twenty paces away, as he swept his hand back for another.

  That’s all he had time for. Kyel never got a chance to nock the shaft to his bowstring.

  Then he was being swept backward, wrenched up and into the air. He didn’t know what was happening as a powerful arm encircled his chest and heaved him face-first over the withers of an enormous horse. Kyel tried to right himself, but the horse reared and spun on its hindquarters, bolting upward along the edge of the Enemy line. Kyel clenched his teeth and tried not to scream, the rocks of the cliff speeding by right under his face. All he could hear was the sharp ring of steel being meted out above him and the thunderous pounding of the horse’s hooves beneath. He held his breath and braced his arms against his chest, clutching his bow in a double-fisted grip.

  He could feel the horse’s muscles gathering for a fresh surge of speed as they swept out in front of the charging line. And then he was being jerked upward again, this time by a hand dragging him over the front of the saddle by the collar of his shirt, swinging him bodily around. An arm slipped across his chest to steady him as Kyel managed to haul his leg over the animal’s neck.

  Turning, he saw riders breaking away from the front ranks in pursuit. Behind them, archers were angling their bows, drawing back and releasing their shafts. A volley of arrows shot over the heads of the horsemen, taking to the sky before turning to arc downward toward them. Kyel opened his mouth to scream as a shower of dark arrows fell out of the sky like pelting rain.

  The arrows hissed into flame and exploded in a shower of sparks that drifted lazily towards the ground. Incredulous, Kyel turned his head enough to gape into the face of the mysterious Sentinel who had just saved his life.

  Kyel could see nothing of the kind but troubled man he remembered in the harsh planes of Darien Lauchlin’s face. Those narrow green eyes met his own with a look of such frigid dispassion that Kyel wrenched himself back around. He clutched the horse’s mane with his left hand, squeezing the animal’s sides with his legs. He held his bow over his lap and closed his eyes, praying with all of his might.

  Traver looked up into the helm of the Enemy soldier that stood over him, the thought suddenly occurring to him to wonder why he was even here. He didn’t really know how to use the blade in his quivering hand. He didn’t know anything about battles or wars, blood and death. Someone must have really been desperate, if they thought a recruit as green as he was could make any bit of difference in the outcome of this fight. His Lady Luck had been with him for a while, her loving hand guiding his steel.

  But now Traver’s luck had just run out.

  He watched helplessly from the ground as the blade above him started its fall.

  Devlin Craig swore an oath that would have made his mother bleed in her grave as he drew his mount up and disengaged himself from the fighting. His eyes followed the slope of the canyon toward the mouth of a narrow ravine. There, thousands of fresh Enemy reinforcements were pouring down over the steep slopes like a raging deluge. Before that swarming host raced an exhausted black warhorse with two riders on its back.

  What did the fool think he was doing? As Craig looked on, the black gelding stumbled, almost went down, but gathered its legs beneath it and staggered forward in a bone-weary gait up the steep side of the ravine. The river of Enemy soldiers divided, the majority continuing its roiling sweep downward, spilling out across the canyon floor, while a narrow but deadly stream broke away from the main host in pursuit of the flagging black horse.

  Craig flexed his grip on his longsword and kicked his heals into the sides of his mount. Calling behind him at what was left of the men under his command, he abandoned the battle and sent the gray stallion at a gallop in the direction of the flooding Enemy.

  Kyel knew they were going to die. The thought didn’t scare him all that much; it mostly just made him sad. He tried to think of Amelia, but couldn’t summon her image to mind. The only thing he could see was the end of the
ridge in front of them, and the cliff that dropped off sharply over a bend in the ravine.

  Lauchlin pulled back fiercely on the reins and jerked the horse’s head around, its legs almost sliding out from under it as the animal skidded sideways, fighting to keep its feet. Kyel saw the mage’s arm raise, angling that wicked blade over his head, the twin rubies on the hilt’s crossguard looking like shining globules of blood. The horse’s sides heaved between Kyel’s legs, its flanks white and crusted with sweat. Behind him in the saddle, Darien Lauchlin held his sword in the air as he turned the horse directly into the face of the Enemy and waited for the charge to come.

  It would be only a matter of seconds, now. Kyel closed his eyes, but could not close his ears. The thunder of galloping hoofbeats swelled, became overwhelming.

  He was almost thrown from the saddle as the horse reared up and spun around, plunging toward the edge of the cliff. He screamed as he felt the destrier gather the last of its strength and kick off with its hind legs, propelling them over the edge, throwing its full weight forward into the air.

  Then they were falling.

  His scream was cut short as the warhorse impacted with its forelegs, staggered, then gathered itself and surged forward, stumbling ahead. Incredulous, Kyel glanced down at a bridge of solid shadow that had been melded beneath them in the air, arching across the gap of the chasm. The horse leaped off the end of that dark, impossible span, coming down hard on solid ground and turning as it drew up. Behind them, the bridge seemed to melt away, the shadows silently draining back into the dark recesses of the gap.

  The Enemy force halted on the other side of the chasm, bellowing anger across the cliffs, shaking spears and rattling shields. A few archers loosed their arrows, which simply slowed to a stop in midair and dropped, falling straight down. All Kyel could do was gape.

  And then silence filled the gorge.

  Kyel frowned, wondering why the Enemy had suddenly stopped bellowing that thunderous warcry, their spears and swords frozen, shields unmoving. He turned, looking behind him. He opened his mouth to gasp.

  Just as he did, the air was sucked right out of his lungs as a torrential gale of wind swept past him with a shrieking hiss, plastering his shirt against his back. For seconds, he couldn’t breathe. The scream of the wind was the eeriest sound he’d ever heard in his life.

  And then the world exploded.

  Kyel threw himself from the horse as the very air turned to fire. Rolling to his knees, he covered his face with his hands as a vast tornado of flame ripped by overhead, sweeping past him over the rim of the gorge. All around him flames scourged the air. He held his breath against the roiling inferno, but let it out again sharply as he realized the flames produced no heat.

  The firestorm swept across the gap toward the ranks of Enemy. The lines broke in chaos, collapsing in disorganized retreat. The whirling inferno paused, hovering, then gushed down the cliff into the canyon below, sweeping toward the main host of the Enemy.

  Kyel couldn’t believe the simple fact that he was still alive. Glancing up, he saw Darien Lauchlin still mounted on the back of the dark warhorse, face frozen in a look of dangerous intensity.

  “By the gods,” Kyel swore, coming slowly to the realization that he wasn’t going to die.

  The Sentinel looked down at him, the light of the fire reflected in his cold green eyes.

  Traver winced as the Enemy blade started its fall. He kept his eyes open, mesmerized by the play of shadow on that black steel as it hissed toward his chest.

  The steel never impacted. Another sword swept up to meet it, turning aside the stroke that should have killed him. Traver forced himself to roll out of the way as a red-bearded swordsman stepped up and drove the Enemy soldier backward in a barrage of furious blows. Traver’s own ears were ringing from the thunder of the crushing attack. The bearded swordsman feinted low, then cut upward to trap the crossguard of his opponent’s blade with a twisting motion. The man reached out and caught the hilt of the black sword with his hand. As the dark blade fell to the earth, the Greystone swordsman cleaved the warrior’s head off.

  Traver ran his gaze upward from the ghastly helmed head to stare wide-eyed into the face of the man who had saved him. He recognized him as one of the Valemen who had come with the mage. Corban Henley was his name.

  But he didn’t have time to thank the man. Henley was already moving away, cutting a path back into the thick of the battle as Traver’s mouth dropped open.

  On the other side of the battlefield swept a tumultuous tide of thousands of Enemy horsemen, swords and spears. Before them dashed the gray horse of Devlin Craig, its long strides tearing up the ground in an effort to keep ahead of the Enemy onslaught.

  And behind them all swept a colossal firestorm that twisted upward from the earth into the dark morning sky, tongues of flame writhing hundreds of feet in the air, fomented by vicious winds of their own creation.

  Traver closed his mouth, picked up his sword, and ran like hell the other way.

  Devlin Craig pumped his straining horse with his legs as he stole a glance back over his shoulder. What he saw was pure insanity. Enemy soldiers were hurling before an onrushing storm of twisting flame, stumbling, falling, trampling the bodies of the fallen. In all his long years of fighting, he had never seen anything of the like. Before him he could see that the battle for the canyon had been played out without him. The Greystone ranks were reforming in a solid line along the edge of the canyon’s wall.

  Craig silently promised himself that whoever had ended up in charge down there would be hanging from the tower of the keep before nightfall. He would see to it personally, even if his grim shade had to come back from the grave to accomplish the task. What was left of the Greystone resistance could not possibly withstand the storm that was thundering down; the frenzied Enemy horde would simply flood right over them. Whoever was in charge should be getting the men out of there, retreating back to more defensible positions higher up in the pass.

  But then Craig glanced upward at the rim of the canyon behind the Greystone line. As he did, he almost lost his grip on the reins. There, lining the top of the cliff walls, were row upon row of foot soldiers and heavy horse, companies of bowmen and pikes. Banners rippled as if drawn out by a gentle breeze, even though there was no movement of air to stir them.

  The charging Enemy horde saw it, too. As one, the entire dark and writhing mass behind him wheeled, turning back toward the mouth of the pass. The Greystone soldiers rallied as if in pursuit, screaming battlecries and shaking their blades.

  Before Craig’s disbelieving eyes, the soldiers on the cliff walls seemed to ripple as one, flickered, and then disappeared. In his ears, the warcry of his own men was replaced by ringing cries of victory.

  He drew his horse up, glancing behind him to see the firestorm swirling upward and collapsing in on itself, imploding into a blazing ball of yellow-gold light high above in the sky. In all his long years in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, that shining ball of fire was the closest thing to a sun Devlin Craig had ever seen. For just a moment, the entire canyon was alit as if at high noon, the shadows retreating into the rocks of the cliffs and the folds of the ground. But then that light faded again to night as the ball of fire exploded violently above them, showering the pass in raining trails of sparks.

  The cries of victory swelled, becoming a thunderous din.

  Chapter Twelve

  Grim Sense of Duty

  DARIEN PRESSED HIS HAND against the sweat-encrusted hair of his horse’s neck, closing his eyes. He felt a shiver pass through the animal. The gelding staggered slightly then lowered itself to the ground, neck outstretched on the rocks as it lay down on its side. The black horse closed its eyes and nickered softly, as if in thanks.

  Kyel was looking down at the animal with eyes full of concern. “Can’t you heal it?” he asked.

  “I already did.” Darien lowered himself down beside the beast, running his hand soothingly over its wet and heaving side. “Now it only needs
sleep to recover its strength.”

  Kyel nodded slightly. Then his eyes widened. Reaching down, the young man fingered the torn black cloth of Darien’s shirt, folding it back to expose a nasty-looking gash that had opened the top of his arm just below where the protective chains of ring mail ended.

  “You’re wounded,” Kyel observed.

  But Darien had already mended the injury before he’d finished speaking. He stood up, trying not to look at the expression of wonder on the younger man’s face. It made him feel uncomfortable. Turning away, he started walking down the middle of the ravine, following the line of a dry streambed back in the direction of the canyon. He could hear Kyel following him, the sound of his footsteps almost tentative.

  “Where are you going?”

  Darien didn’t look back as he shrugged. He was too tired. The weight of the mail and baldric dragged at his shoulders. It was the same as it was with the horse. He could heal almost any injury to himself with scarcely a thought. But there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the ache of exhaustion he felt down to his bones. It was not just the battle that had taken the strength out of him; what he had done that morning with his ability vastly outweighed any physical exhaustion he felt. As far as he knew, no mage in history had ever summoned the amount of raw power he had handled that morning without the aid of a Circle of Convergence. But it had taken its toll. As Darien trudged stiffly toward the mouth of the ravine, he had to fight at each step just to stay on his feet.

  Kyel must have noticed.

  “We should rest a moment,” he suggested.

  But Darien forced himself to keep moving. He didn’t have time to stop and rest. Not when he knew there were men up ahead dying. Darien dreaded what waited for him in the canyon; it had always been the duty of the Sentinels after a battle to heal the injured. His duty, now. He was not looking forward to it. It was hard enough, raising his hand and giving the order to send hundreds of his own men into battle. It would be much harder, looking down into the eyes of those who had died by his command.