After the meal was finished, Kyel found himself set to the task of cleaning the cooking pot and then was directed to take care of the needs of the horses. As he led the two geldings over to the bank of a small stream, he glanced back at the shadow of the lean-to. Darien was still just sitting there, staring out across the dreary landscape, eyes studiously introspective. Throughout the meal, he had never uttered a word. The only communication Kyel had even had with the man was when he found himself being given directives. He was starting to feel discouraged, and more than a little bit betrayed. He had accepted Darien’s offer under the guise of friendship, and now it seemed that friendship had been withdrawn.
The rain had stopped by the time he returned to the lean-to. Feeling uncomfortable in more ways than he could name, Kyel sat down at his master’s side, leaning back against the rough black stone. The Sentinel gave no indication that he was even aware of his presence. Darien’s gaze was still directed outward at the recesses of the ravine. Or perhaps inward, withdrawn somewhere into the frothing turmoil that haunted his mind. Whatever the case, Kyel was left feeling alone, and lonely.
In an attempt draw him out in conversation, Kyel asked him, “Why is your Oath so important to you?”
Darien blinked, lowering his head a bit as his eyes slipped to the side in thought. To Kyel, he appeared to be struggling for just the right words. When he finally spoke, the sound of his voice was almost wistful.
“The only reason I’m alive now is because I stepped off a cliff. I had no idea that the fall itself wouldn’t kill me. It was only by blind luck that I lived. There was another mage below in the Vale who saw me falling and saved my life.”
He paused a moment before continuing, rotating his hands so that the palms faced upward, his eyes contemplating the gleaming duel chains. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m still up there on that cliff, only dangling from the edge by my fingertips. I can choose to keep holding on, hoping that somehow everything will turn out all right. Or I can choose to let go. Only this time, if I decide to fall, I know there will be no one around to stop me.”
Kyel felt hopelessly confused and out of his depth; try as he might, he couldn’t understand what the man was trying to say. “So, you’re afraid that if you give up your Oath, you’ll die?”
“No,” the Sentinel shook his head. “When I was up on that cliff, it wasn’t death that scared me the most. What scared me the most was the fall itself.”
“I don’t understand,” Kyel whispered.
Darien responded sincerely, “I hope you never have to.”
Kyel looked to him for further explanation, but there was none forthcoming. The mage’s stare had once again retreated inward, the shadows now storming violently across his eyes. He was staring out across the ravine, but Kyel doubted that he saw anything but the grim ruminations of his mind.
The day lingered, the rains tapering on and off. Kyel sat with his back up against the stone wall, his cloak drawn tightly about him, shivering in silence. The horses foraged across the black dirt in front of him, necks stretched down in search of food. But there was none to be had; no blade of grass broke through the soil. In a land where sunlight simply didn’t exist, no seed could ever take root. The black slopes of the Shadowspears were utterly barren.
A sound from down below broke the uneasy silence of the ravine. Kyel leaned forward, listening. Beside him, Darien drew sharply up, hand reaching for the scabbard of his sword. Kyel saw his movement and went for his bow, feeling a sudden stab of fear. He glanced around at the surrounding slopes, seeking, but finding nothing.
Then, echoing up from below, he heard the rattle of tack and the plodding of shod hoofbeats. He stood up, bringing his bow up and nocking an arrow to the string. Horses were approaching. He trained the shaft of the arrow on the chest of the first horse, a target far larger than its rider. But as he narrowed his eyes in concentration, he found himself releasing the tension on the string.
To his relief, Kyel recognized the form of Sutton Royce flanked by a small number of mounted men. Darien had been right; Royce must be an excellent tracker, to have found them so quickly in the dark. The horses walked forward up the slope of the ravine, Royce out in front on a dark brown destrier.
Kyel lowered his bow as the captain and his entourage pulled up before them, perhaps twenty paces away from their makeshift camp. He felt genuinely heartened to see the man; perhaps his presence meant that there had been some resolution back at the keep that would allow Darien to feel comfortable enough to return. Kyel longed for even the uneasy tension of Proctor’s tower. At least the chamber was warm, and he could always escape if he had to. But to his dismay, he found that Darien had not relaxed one bit. His hand still gripped his scabbard, the blade bared a threatening inch.
Kyel thought he was being ridiculous. Royce was Darien’s friend, and the man’s mere presence could scarcely pose any threat. The burly soldier dismounted from his horse, taking a step toward them.
“We need to talk, Darien,” he said as he moved off to the side, in the direction of a low hill to the north of their campsite. Kyel watched Darien’s eyes track the rippling folds of Royce’s gray cloak as he walked away with his back to them. Slowly, the Sentinel’s hand loosened its grip on the hilt, allowing the blade to slide fully back. Scabbard in hand, he rose to his feet. Without a glance at Kyel, he moved out of the shadow of the lean-to and followed the soldier across the black soil of the ravine toward the slope of the hill.
There, just out of earshot, the two met and appeared to be speaking. Kyel had no idea what words were being exchanged. Darien seemed to be arguing heatedly, his expression irate, his motions brisk, though his words were kept low enough that Kyel couldn’t catch more than a few syllables. Kyel wished he knew what the men were talking about, though he thought he knew. It was probably just a continuation of the argument in the tower, when Proctor had all but ordered Darien to forswear the Mage’s Oath.
Darien turned sharply with a rippling length of his blue-black cloak, looking ready to stalk off and storm away. As he did, Royce’s mailed fist came smashing down against the side of his head in a powerful, backhanded strike that spun him completely around and took him to the ground.
Kyel’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. He grabbed for his bow, but was immediately halted as he found himself surrounded by Royce’s men. They jumped down from their horses, caging him in with the bulk of their bodies, swords drawn and threatening. A man reached out and ripped the longbow right out of his fingers. Kyel almost started to fight for it, but the threat of a crossbow quarrel aimed right at his face stopped him dead. The grim soldier holding the weapon looked as if he had every intention of using it. The only thing he could do was stand and watch the events unfolding on the hill, helpless to do anything.
Royce was advancing, stalking toward Darien’s prone figure with his blade drawn and poised. His gaze was a simmering cold fury, raging with a harrowing mixture of fire and ice. Kyel felt his eyes widen as he was hit with a jarring slap of understanding. Royce was acting under orders; he had to be. And, knowing the man those orders must have come from, Kyel could feel the ruthless nature of their intent. Again, he thought of Proctor as a chess master, sitting in his dark tower day after day, brooding as his mind sifted through tactics and strategy in an attempt to find himself any desperate edge within grasp. Only, this time Proctor was doing much more than sacrificing a mere pawn. Try as he might, Kyel could not think of any reason in the world why.
On the ground, Darien was moving slowly, bringing an arm up to wipe a stream of blood out of his eyes. Royce hovered over him, sword poised in the air. His lips moved, but Kyel could not hear his voice. In his hands, the dual-edged blade of the greatsword was trembling.
Royce screamed, throwing his head back. The sound of his booming cry echoed off the walls of the ravine as he brought the sword up over his head in a double-fisted grip. The steel glinted white in a sudden flare of lightning, and then it was falling, crashing downward with deadly speed.
Darie
n rolled out from under it as the blade cleaved deeply into the dirt. Somehow, he ended up on his feet, his own steel singing with a metallic ring as he drew it and flung the scabbard to the ground. Kyel watched the mage edge backwards, holding the hilt of his sword in both hands as Royce advanced cautiously toward him. Blood covered the left side of his face and ran down his neck. But his eyes blazed with a numbing fury that made even the chill fire of Royce’s gaze seem brittle in comparison.
The captain swept out with his blade, and Darien parried the strike. Then the mage advanced with a smooth series of cuts that made Royce’s sword dance in the air to keep up with them. The soldier disengaged, swinging away to the side as Darien dove after him, bringing his sword around to slice over his shoulder. The blow was caught on the flat of Royce’s blade. Steel shrieked as Darien’s sword slid down the length of Royce’s weapon toward the hilt. The soldier twisted his hands, pushing Darien away as he thrust out in a wicked undercut. But the mage spun back, bringing his sword up to deflect the next crushing blow that was already coming at him.
They were both masters, Kyel realized as he watched the graceful but deadly dance. Both men seemed equally matched, Darien’s quick, confident movements making up for what he lacked of Royce’s sheer, brutal strength. They moved in a slow circle as their swords played in the air between them, first one man advancing and then the other, neither one losing an inch of ground. The soldiers surrounding Kyel were watching, also, attention riveted on the fight.
Darien surged forward, shifting into a two-handed grip as he pressed Royce back down the hill with a storm of ringing blows. The captain was forced to retreat, his sword barely moving quick enough to catch the deadly stream of hailing steel that seemed to be falling all around him from every direction at once. Royce’s foot stumbled over a dent in the ground, and he brought his blade up to shield his face as he fought to keep his balance.
But the mage didn’t let up. He let his blade sing in the air, raining down another precise sequence of attacks timed to exploit the opportunity and shatter Royce’s defense. The captain was beaten steadily back, down and off the hill. Darien lunged forward, letting his sword slide under the captain’s blade. He caught Royce’s crossguard with a twisting motion, then reached out with his hand and ripped the hilt out of his grasp.
Darien swept his blade back over his shoulder as Royce’s sword fell from his hands. He stood there shaking, chest heaving, eyes burning with explosive rage.
A ringing peal of laughter echoed down from the rock walls above them.
Thinking he was either dreaming or insane, Kyel glanced up the slope into the face of a pale and beautiful woman mounted on the back of a glistening white horse. Her platinum blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, stirring in the wind. The gown she wore was silver-blue silk, flowing luxuriously over the sides of her mount. Her pure, youthful face was the picture of gentle innocence.
So in shock was he that Kyel almost didn’t notice the line of Enemy soldiers spreading out on both sides of the woman’s horse, lining the walls of the ravine. All were archers, and every bow had an arrow nocked and drawn tight against a black-helmed head.
The woman’s pure, melodic voice rang out over the mountain slopes like sparkling silver bells of laughter. “To think that I rode all the way from Bryn Calazar just to kill a wayward mage. Imagine my surprise at finding his own friends already doing my work for me.”
She smiled shyly, a lilting twinkle in her eyes.
Kyel watched the woman’s horse descend the slope toward them, the folds of her silvery blue fabric rippling in the wind. She was not wearing a black cloak, but Kyel didn’t need to see one to guess that the woman must be another mage. An Enemy mage, despite her honey-innocent looks. She slid down from her palfrey’s back, stepping lightly across the ground toward them. Her eyes were wide and crystalline blue, doe-like. On her lips she wore a childish grin.
Three Enemy soldiers advanced beside her, sweeping forward with black blades held at ready. Together they pressed Royce away from the place where he stood as if frozen under the threat of nocked bowstrings. Numb with confusion and fear, Kyel allowed himself to be guided firmly back against the slope with the group of soldiers who had come with Royce. There they stood together in a cluster, guarded by a small contingent of plate-mailed bodies with weapons drawn and ready.
The woman gathered her skirts as she drew up at Darien’s side, her hair falling in rich platinum waves. She reached a slender hand up to touch his face, caressing a finger down the side of his cheek.
“So you’re the Battlemage I’ve heard so much about,” she said in that clear and bell-like voice. “Do you have any idea what we do to your kind?”
The smile on her innocent face radiated a thrill of eager anticipation as her pale eyes glistened in delight.
Devlin Craig grimaced as he surveyed the sad collection of men going through the motions of practice in the yard. He had taken over their training for two days, and in that short amount of time had found himself growing more discouraged by the hour. After weeks of practice, the recruits had come a long way, especially after Henley had taken over their tutelage. But they were far too few, their talents still green and undeveloped. It took months to make a soldier, months these men simply didn’t have. Even if he could somehow manage to turn every one of them into a blademaster overnight, it still wouldn’t be enough. Not with the size of the Enemy forces gathering on the other side of the two peaks to the north.
He stalked up to one of the recruits who was sweeping his waster around in a flowery dance of swirling arcs that looked impressive, but were also grossly ineffective. Tearing the wood practice sword out of the man’s hand, Craig hurled it to the ground at his feet.
“If I wanted a dance master, I’d have sent to the Player’s Guild,” he growled, giving the recruit a slap on the face with the flat of his own waster. The frightened young man raised his hand to his cheek, mouth open wide.
“Get out of my sight,” Craig growled at him, stepping forward menacingly and gesturing back toward the keep. “A few days of covering latrine pits might clear your head a bit. Now, go! Before I change my mind and have you thrashed, instead!”
The man whirled, ashen-faced in shame, and ran away from him. Craig scowled, sweeping his gaze over the rest of the men who had paused in their practice and were standing there staring at him.
“Get back to work!” he bellowed, glaring as each man scrambled back into their stances.
Perhaps he had been too hard on the boy, but Craig didn’t care. He continued his survey of the men, strolling back down the front line and examining each man’s movements individually with a practiced eye. Not one of them dared look up to meet his stare as he walked by. They were all terrified of him, as well they should be; he was in a decisively bad mood.
The woman’s breath stroked the skin of Darien’s neck below his ear, the feel of it sending electric shivers traveling down his nerves, spreading throughout his entire body. He turned his face away, refusing to look at her, as soft platinum curls brushed against the side of his cheek. The scent of her filled his nostrils, a fresh yet subtle fragrance that reminded him of a field awash with glowing spring. Her very presence exuded a frightening, seductive energy. She brought a fingertip up and traced his lips with a soft, almost loving caress.
“Do you know who I am?”
Darien shivered. There was only one person in the world she could possibly be, but that woman was a thousand years dead. He felt confident, though; she so perfectly matched the descriptions he’d read, it was almost uncanny. He decided to risk his guess.
“Arden Hannah.”
The woman’s eyes widened, a smile of appreciation blooming on her perfect lips. “Oh, very good, my sweet. And you must be Darien Lauchlin, though I’m uncertain of how that could possibly be. Your brother seemed quite convinced you were dead.”
Darien’s gaze darted toward her. “How...?”
She pulled back enough to stare, smiling, into his face. Her
hand moved to stroke the stubble on his cheek, whispering in a low and breathless voice, “You resemble your mother remarkably.”
Darien shirked back from her touch. “You’ve never laid eyes on my mother.”
The smile fell from her beautiful face, her lips pursing in an expression of profound sympathy. “But I have. I was staring right into her eyes the moment I killed her.”
His vision reeled. Forgetting the threat of the bowmen, Darien staggered backwards. His mind groped instantly for the field, but of course there was nothing there. He cursed his own stupidity as his body shook in a furious mixture of revulsion and grief. Arden was smirking, her pale eyes wide and sparkling with amusement. She moved gracefully after him, the hem of her dress gliding across the black ground as she closed the distance between them. She was tall for a woman. As she drew up in front of him, her head came almost to the level of his eyes.
Darien clenched his jaw as she took his hand and pressed it into her own, running her soft fingers over his palm, upward to trace the marks of the chain on his wrist. His eyes darted to the archers on the cliffs. Closing his eyes, he suffered her touch as she leaned into him and whispered in his ear:
“Before you die, know this: a great host is gathering below Aerysius, waiting to sweep down through the Vale and flood into the North. A similar host is gathering here, in the shadows of Orguleth and Maidenclaw. In three weeks’ time, when the sun rises between the Pointer Stones at Glen Farquist, those two forces will merge as one and topple the walls of Rothscard. This land you have sworn to protect will be desecrated, its people subjugated and destroyed.”
As she spoke, a shuddering chill slithered over him, starting at his shoulders and working its way down the length of his arms, coiling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to draw away from her, but her hands slid forward and wrapped around his back, drawing him close as she nestled her head against him, staring up into his eyes.
“But you shan’t need to worry about that,” she soothed him, smiling reassuringly and running a hand through his hair. “Your worries end here today. My soldiers have brought plenty of wood; they know how much I delight in the sound of a man’s dying screams.”
Darkmage Page 24
