Darien shoved her away from him forcefully, taking her by the shoulders and locking his arms to keep her at a distance. Arden stared at him as if wounded, her face darkening to a pout. But her eyes continued to gleam as she shrugged out of his hands and twisted away. She started to walk back in the direction she had come but then hesitated, turning back around as if she had forgotten something, her smile a mischievous grin.
“By the way, your Meiran sends her love. I’ve seen her myself, kneeling at the feet of my Master in the Netherworld.”
Darien collapsed to his knees as all of the strength drained out of his body in a flood. He couldn’t endure the vivid image that formed in his mind, provoked by the woman’s malicious statement. It was the image from the dreams that plagued him almost every night, of Meiran staring up at him with the green light of Hell in her eyes. An anguished cry tore from his throat as he collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, falling forward and bringing his hands up to cover his face.
Above him, the sound of Arden’s laughter echoed off the rock walls of the ravine.
Feeling a hand pat his shoulder, Craig whirled around to find himself confronted by Corban Henley. He took a step back in surprise; the last he’d seen of Henley, the Valeman had been lying unconscious on a pallet in the tower, lucky just to be alive. Seeing him standing there, by all appearances hale, came as something of a shock. Henley still looked a little peaked. But other than that, it would have been impossible to tell that he had been only moments from death just that morning.
“I can take back over, if you like,” the Valeman offered.
Craig ran an appraising look over him, doubtful. It was almost too much to believe. But Henley stood before him stock straight, his hand resting calmly on the hilt of his blade. Craig knew the Valeman was a sensible man. He decided he could trust his new drill master to use his own judgment. So he gave the man a tight nod and turned back toward the keep. The men were Henley’s, after all. And from what Craig had witnessed in the last two days, most were coming along. The Valeman did seem to know his business.
As he strode out of the practice yard, he caught sight of another man walking his way, the young man he’d always taken for a scoundrel who had shocked them all by his near-heroics the night before. Traver Larsen was another surprise, and also a mystery. Craig had thought he’d had the man pegged the first moment he’d arrived as a drunk and a slacker. But anyone who could ride through the night with an arrow in him had earned Craig’s respect. And he had seen the man train. Larsen was actually becoming almost decent with the blade. In time, he might actually be good.
Craig hailed him, motioning the man toward him. Larsen looked a little pale, as had Henley. But other than that he looked fit enough. There was even a slight spring in his step as he hurried his pace, half-jogging over to where Craig was standing at the entrance of the yard, waiting.
“Turning out for practice?” Craig inquired of him, raising an eyebrow.
The young man nodded, a lock of hair slipping forward into his eyes. He pushed it back out of his face with a swipe of his hand, looking a little out of breath to Craig.
The captain considered him for a moment and was about to offer him a word of praise when the sound of galloping hoofbeats behind him made him turn. Frowning, he looked over in confusion at the black warhorse that was running up the trail toward him. Empty stirrups bounced at its sides as the Tarkendar pulled up in front of him, sides heaving, eyes rolling and showing the whites. Slowly, Craig reached up and gathered the horse’s reins into his fist, stepping back and letting his eyes rove over the sweat-stained flanks of the gelding. There seemed nothing amiss with the animal, except for the alarming fact that the horse was absent its rider.
Instantly, Craig was in motion. Jumping on the gelding’s back, he wheeled the animal around and kicked his boots into its sides. Without hesitation, the courageous destrier broke into a gallop, angling back over the hill in the direction of the paddock. Craig pulled the horse up next to the wood fence, his breath now coming in gasps from the grip of cold panic that had seized him. He tore his eyes from horse to horse, dreading what he would find.
Just as he’d feared, Royce’s dark stallion was conspicuously absent from the herd.
“Darien,” he whispered.
They had ripped the black cloak from his body, wielding it in the air and waving it in triumph like a captured banner. Then they had tied him to a stake. Darien hadn’t even made an effort to struggle as his hands were bound tightly with corded leather straps above his head, his feet likewise trussed. More straps were laced around his chest and waist, fastening him securely. The harsh leather chafed, as did the rough, hard shaft of wood at his back. Then they had just left him there, lying on his side in the dirt.
He watched as Enemy soldiers hauled in armloads of wood, unloading it from the backs of horses and piling it in the center of the ravine. He didn’t care; he was past the point of caring. The thought of the fire frightened him, numbing his body and chilling his mind. But that was all. He feared the agony of the flames, but death itself would come as only a welcome release. He was tired of the nightmares. His passion for life had died with Meiran; now, it seemed his very soul had been condemned to Hell along with hers.
He watched as the logs of his pyre were mounded, dismissing the sight with acute indifference. His thoughts drifted to his father, wondering how that brave man had felt staring out at the same grisly scene. Darien found the thought strangely ironic, yet comforting all the same. His mother had told him how alike he was to his father. Now, it seemed that parallel would be rendered complete.
Arden Hannah was approaching in a graceful sway of silk. Kneeling down beside him, she whispered in his ear, “It’s time. Are you ready to die?”
Looking up into her pale and beautiful face, he admitted sincerely, “I was ready a long time ago.”
Two black-armored soldiers stepped forward, bending down to seize both ends of the stake. He was lifted and carried face-down toward the pile of wood in the center of the ravine. They laid him there beside it, angling the pole so that he had a clear, unobstructed view of what was coming. As he watched, two more soldiers stepped forward, brandishing flaming torches that they threw onto the top of the pile. The dry kindling caught instantly, slithering ropes of flame racing over the thirsty fuel with a crackling, rushing hiss. Black smoke wafted upward, sparks drifting though the air like lazy snowflakes. The smell of it was chokingly thick. It stung at his eyes as Darien tried to turn his face away from the intensity of the heat.
He felt soft fingers stroking the back of his head, running tenderly through his hair.
“Farewell, my sweet.” Arden’s delicate voice was barely audible over the crackling roar of the flames.
Then he was moving, the stake shifting as it was lifted upward into the air. He closed his eyes, holding his breath as the vicious heat of the smoke hit him square in the face.
Devlin Craig grimaced in dismay as he saw the column of smoke twisting upward in the distance, a black roiling shadow against the flickering lights of the clouds. He knew instantly where the smoke was coming from and what its presence signified, realizing even before he veered his horse toward it that he was already too late.
He rode bareback, as did the rest of the men behind him. He hadn’t wanted to waste the time it would take to saddle up and fetch his gear. He had not even returned to the keep to enlist the help of real soldiers; he hadn’t wanted to take the risk that Proctor might stop him. So instead, he had rounded up every man from the practice yard who could ride.
But as he charged his gray destrier into the mouth of the ravine, he knew that his guess had been wrong. He had feared his commander had ordered Royce to slay Darien, trading the Sentinel’s life for a new weapon, one potent enough to give him the slender chance he needed against the hosts gathering below the pass. Royce was Craig’s friend, and Darien’s, as well. But he was also a man enslaved by his commitment to duty. He would do anything Proctor asked of him, eve
n if it meant sacrificing his soul along with the sum of his principles.
But the wafting column of smoke up ahead told Craig that he had been terribly wrong. There was only one possible explanation for it; there simply wasn’t enough wood in all of the Shadowspears to kindle that kind of blaze. Only the Enemy could be responsible for such a fire, and there was only one reason why they would have built it. Craig wished he could close his eyes as his horse raced into the ravine. Darien Lauchlin had been the truest friend he had ever known. Craig did not wish to look upon his burning remains.
The men behind him divided, spreading out, some angling their horses toward the slopes of the ravine, while those who remained formed a wedge behind him. Craig was frankly startled; he had never told anyone to teach them that. He glanced back with respect at Corban Henley, who rode behind him on Darien’s black destrier.
And then the fire was before him. He tried not to look at the motionless body that hung from the propped stake, obscured by waves of heat coming off the blaze. Grimacing, Craig directed his mount toward the flames. He had no idea what the warhorse would do, presented with such a directive. But the gray stallion obeyed his command, racing forward as Enemy arrows whistled by him in the air. The stallion bravely executed the maneuver taught to it by the horsemasters of Southwark, reinforced by years of practice and training. The gray beast reared up as it dove into the fire, lashing out with its forelegs at the burning stake.
Craig dove off the horse, rolling away as he hit the ground. All around him, the sounds of fighting echoed through the ravine as his men engaged the Enemy. He forced himself into motion as the smell of charring horsemeat assaulted his nostrils, blinking against the tears that stung his eyes as he ripped off his cloak and used it to beat the flames from Darien’s body. He collapsed to the ground as his ears were assaulted with the screams of his dying horse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the stallion thrash through the flames, shrieking in agony before it finally laid down and died.
Darien lay motionless beside him, still tied to the smoldering stake. His clothes were nothing but tattered ashes, his face blackened and blistered from the heat. Reaching for his knife, Craig sawed at the bonds with trembling hands, hardly able to see through the tears that welled in his eyes.
He felt at Darien’s neck for a pulse, detecting a tenuous flutter of heartbeat. But it was just one; that was all. Craig waited, but another didn’t come. A tingling sensation stirred in the fingers of his hand, like a strange energy that seemed to want to slide up his wrist and into his arm. He almost withdrew his hand, but then he felt another flicker of pulse. The strange energy subsided, drawing back down into his fingertips.
Without thinking, Craig hefted the mage into his arms, stumbling as he surged forward with only one thought on his mind: he had to get Darien out of the node. He had no idea where the boundary was; Darien had only mentioned it to him once. Oblivious to the sounds of fighting around him, Craig staggered as fast as he could with the weight in his arms down the slope toward the mouth of the ravine. Once there, he collapsed in a heap over the body of his friend.
He shook him as hard as he could, not caring that he touched scorched and blackened flesh. He didn’t notice the burnt tatters of cloth that came away with his hand. He raised a fist above his head, slamming it down into the man’s chest.
Darien’s head lolled to the side, his blistered lips unmoving. Craig brought his fist down again with all his strength. Beneath him, the body jolted gruesomely.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, shocked to find himself staring up into the face of the boy mage. Kyel Archer knelt beside him, shaking his head, eyes glistening with tears.
“Stop,” he pleaded. “Please. Let him go in peace.”
Craig bowed his head, averting his eyes from Darien’s ruined face. It was wrong. So wrong. He deserved a better death than this. Craig tried to think of a prayer he could say, something to ease his friend’s tortured spirit out of life. His numb mind groped for words. None came.
But then he realized he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t sit back and let his best friend go without a fight. With a growl, Craig grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him without mercy.
“Breathe!”
He brought his fist down again.
“Come on, breathe, you bastard, breathe! Heal yourself, damn you!”
Below him, Darien’s cracked lips moved as if to draw breath, but instead produced only a choking gurgle. Then the mage shuddered.
It was almost like a wave that started at the top of his head, passing over his body to his feet. As Craig stared down incredulously, the charred flesh beneath him whitened, the burnt cloth rewove and mended. Darien’s chest spasmed with a sharp intake of breath, his head arching backwards, eyes opening to stare vacantly upward at the sky. His eyelids dropped again as the breath was released, but his chest rose again, assuming its normal rhythm.
Devlin Craig sat back on his haunches, throwing his head back in an outburst of laughter mixed with tears. At his side, Kyel Archer just stared down at the renewed body of the sleeping mage, mouth open wide in disbelief.
The sounds of the battle unwound behind them. Craig wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of blue silk disappearing over the rim of the gorge.
Chapter Sixteen
No Price Too High
THE DARK TOWER of Greystone Keep rose above a bank of mist like a lone island encased by a gray and swirling sea. The fog broke against its stark walls like ocean swells upon a shoreline, white-capped breakers sweeping up against the gray embattlements before receding back again with the tide. The dark banner at its peak for once hung limp and motionless for lack of wind enough to stir it.
Devlin Craig reached his hand down to soothe the brown horse beneath him that had once belonged to Royce. The animal was nervous, unused to the strange weight and scent of its new master. Royce had raised the stallion from a colt; he had been the only man to ever ride it. But Royce was dead. Craig had buried him with his own hands and piled the rocks atop his grave.
Ahead of him, Darien pulled his horse up and dismounted, leading the black gelding forward. Craig followed suit, as did the remainder of the men behind him. Corban Henley drew up beside him, and together the two of them flanked the Sentinel down the path that led across a dip in the ground between ridges. The thick curtain of mist parted before them to reveal the steep and narrow stair that led upward to the mouth of the fortress high overhead upon the cliffs.
Craig was worried about his friend. Darien had scarcely spoken a word since he had awakened late last night. There was something different about him, a subtle and yet significant change. Craig had noticed it immediately, almost the first moment the mage had opened his eyes. It was as if the shadows that always seemed to move behind his stare had deepened, solidifying to an almost tangible obscurity. Craig didn’t know what that meant, but he knew he didn’t like it. The Darien that had immerged from the flames was not the same man he had known only yesterday. An acute sense of dispassion seemed to have fallen over him, shrouding his emotions like a pall. Craig was starting to wonder if part of him really had died in that fire, the part that mattered most.
Ahead of him, Darien’s strangely muffled footsteps slowed, coming gradually to a stop. Glancing up, Craig saw the reason. It looked as if half the keep had turned out to greet their solemn homecoming, lining the cliffs and the steps, the fortress walls and the high turret. Only, it was not a welcome greeting. To his dismay, Craig saw that every soldier had a weapon ready in hand, swords raised and bowstrings drawn, every shaft and blade trained on their approaching party. Their path was barred by none other than the Force Commander himself, standing with shoulders squared and feet apart in the middle of the opening to the rockwork stairs. Proctor’s face was set in harsh lines of anger mingled with disgust.
Darien raised Royce’s bared sword before him like an offering, cradling it in his open palms at a level with his chest. He left his horse behind, crossing the dista
nce between himself and Proctor at a slow and deliberate pace. Craig stayed where he was, transfixed by the scene, unable to tear his eyes away from Royce’s gleaming blade. Darien drew up before the imposing form of the Force Commander and, closing his left hand around the hilt, wielded the sword in a backwards grip. With a sudden surge of force, the Sentinel bent his knees and brought the blade around, driving it point-first into the ground at Proctor’s feet. The sword quivered there, wobbling, as Darien removed his hands from the hilt.
The Warden of Greystone Keep stared down at the shivering blade as if mesmerized by it. Darien brushed past him, his shoulder grazing roughly against Proctor’s arm as he moved by. Bowmen along the cliffs tracked his movements with their shafts, following him the entire way as he ascended the rock-hewn steps and entered the keep. The boy Archer scurried after him, ducking around Proctor as if worried the man was going to take his head off with his bare hands.
Craig found himself confronting his superior officer. Garret Proctor brought his gaze up from Royce’s quivering sword to survey him with narrowed eyes, running his stare from his boots to his face, finally fixing him with a look of molten fury.
“You betrayed my trust,” Proctor accused him in a quiet but threatening tone.
Craig shook his head, feeling his anger mounting. He had done no such thing. He had merely acted against a threat, a soldier’s role in life. The Force Commander himself had been the only one guilty of that sin.
“No,” Craig spat defiantly, feeling rage flooding into his face like blood-red heat. “You betrayed mine. Royce is dead now because of it, and we came damned close to losing Lauchlin and Archer, both.” He frowned then, sweeping his eyes over the man in front of him as if looking for a sign. “Do you even have a soul left, or did you sacrifice that, too? Tell me, is there no price so high you’re not willing to pay it?”
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