Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  This time, Darien stayed his hand, walking purposely forward into the trap.

  He hadn’t known what to expect. An alarm of some kind; a screeching wail or distant pealing. But there was nothing, no evidence that the device had even been triggered. It was possible that the mechanism had failed after so many years of disuse and neglect. Possible, but he doubted it. Aidan would have made certain his defenses were well maintained. His brother had always been one to err on the side of caution, if not downright paranoia. With a sense of conviction, Darien knew that his presence had been made known. All he had to do now was wait.

  Waiting was never easy.

  He roamed forward, pacing slowly, casting the magelight ahead and brightening its intensity. He would give them a luminous trail to follow, so there would be no guessing. Already, he felt too pressed for time. Not daring to move very far from the trap he had sprung, Darien stopped, bending over to pet the thanacryst. The beast whined, its tail beating against the wet stone as Darien passed his fingers through its slathered fur. However dreadful, the creature was a faithful companion. Its eyes gleamed in the darkness, wide and eager. Then, abruptly, the tail stopped. The beast lifted its head, nostrils quivering as it scented the air.

  Darien straightened, alerted by the sudden change that had come over the thanacryst. He closed his eyes and listened, but heard nothing. No distant echo of footsteps, no rush of armored bodies. Of course, whatever might be coming may not tread on legs and feet. He opened his eyes, scanning ahead into the wash of magelight that lit the long and narrow path ahead.

  The necrators that rose up from the floor around him took him by no surprise. Darien merely regarded them, releasing the magelight and letting complete darkness settle in. He felt no trace of the awful dread their presence had once inspired; the rhythm of the magic field continued on in his mind, uninterrupted. They were no threat to him; he had rendered himself thoroughly immune to their influence. His meeting with Renquist had taken him well beyond the point of return. Now, even the indiscretion of his feelings for Naia was not enough to lessen the bleakness in his heart. Darien smiled, knowing that he was now free to feel anything he wished. There was no going back, not now. Not ever.

  Though the necrators had come as no surprise, the indigo-robed form of Cyrus Krane striding through a glow of crimson magelight gave Darien a shock. He had not expected the darkmage, and the significance of Krane’s presence was alarming. The demon drew up before him, his gaze lingering on the thanacryst that stood at Darien’s side, purring and drooling profusely at the same time. The demon’s eyes roved upward as a smile came to his lips, distorting the dreadful scar that slanted across his face into a jigsaw pattern that made his appearance seem even harsher than it was already. He looked satisfied at finding Darien there; the expression in his eyes might even be considered gloating.

  “We had a feeling you might try something like this,” he stated almost pleasantly. “My Master will be well-pleased.”

  Darien refused to be intimidated; the advice he had given Kyel held true, especially here. He had to remain steadfast; to doubt was to die. He held no white banner in his hand this time.

  “Which master are you referring to?” he taunted dryly. “Aidan or Renquist?”

  “I have but one Master,” was Krane’s terse reply. “Now, so do you.”

  Darien made no effort to resist as the necrators pressed in around him, surrounding him with their shadowy forms. Krane turned away, striding back down the long corridor the way he had come as the necrators moved to follow him, gliding like shadows over the ground. Darien allowed himself to be herded forward, moving in the wake of Krane’s flowing robes. Strange, how Krane felt comfortable enough to walk with his back to him, as if he considered him no threat at all. Perhaps the demon felt confident enough that the necrators had eliminated any possibility of his resistance. Or, perhaps, he really did pose no threat to the ancient darkmage, which was a thought altogether more disturbing.

  The narrow corridor wandered upward, turning back on itself as they approached the surface. There, a narrow stair was carved into the rock, curving as it rose. Krane mounted the steps first, his magelight like crimson mist pouring up the stairs instead of down them. Darien followed, walking within the confines of his shadowy guard. The steps were narrow and treacherous, and he had to look down to watch his footing as they passed under a sculpted arch with the symbol of the Star set into the capstone. After what seemed like minutes, the stair opened up, emerging at the base of the ruined city.

  As he stepped out of the darkness of the caves into the wan green light of the Gateway, Darien realized that he was finally home. Only, Aerysius was no longer the way he remembered it. There were no structures, no crumbled ruins, no traces of the devastation he remembered from that dreadful night. There on the cliff face high above the Vale, the slate had been wiped thoroughly clean. Except for the soaring Arches that rose like a forlorn and obsolete monument over the snow-covered Square, only empty terraces remained. The ruins were gone, scoured completely away. The Arches were all that remained, and the terrible column of light striking upward into the heavens.

  Darien tilted his head back, gazing up at the towering pillar of the Gateway. The sight of it filled him with a peculiar mixture of dread and anticipation. The glowing spear of light inspired nothing of the terror he had experienced the night it had first appeared. He understood its purpose better, now. He had internalized it, making it his own. With that strange sense of ownership, he allowed Krane to guide him toward it, out into what had once been the ornately tiled Square. Now just a flat expanse of snow and rock.

  Looking around, he realized that there was nothing left for him here. This desolate mountain face no longer held even the memory of his home.

  “Darien?”

  So transfixed was he by the barren foundations of the city, he had almost missed the small, dark figure kneeling in the snow only a few feet away. Like Aerysius, his brother was nothing as Darien remembered. Indeed, his face was more of a devastated wasteland than the city he had brought to ruin. Aidan was gaunt, the flesh sagging on his pale face, eyes but dark hollows under the sharp ridges of his protruding cheekbones. His hair had gone completely gray, almost white, and had receded dramatically. He was kneeling on the ground, arms bound behind his back by bonds of gleaming red light that twined about his wrists in a grim parody of the scars hidden beneath Darien’s own sleeves.

  Darien froze, forgetting the presence of even Krane. He wanted to look away, but found it impossible to do anything but stare at the sad, twisted man that had been the object of his hatred for so long. Almost, Darien thought he could feel sorry for him. Almost. But then he reminded himself of Meiran, of the Hall of the Watchers, of the mother he had lost. That was just the beginning of the long, blood-written list he wanted to hold this man accountable for.

  “They want to remake you,” Aidan rasped, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes. “Why did you come?”

  Confused, Darien felt a terrible, growing sense of dismay. Aidan was insane; it was written on his face, gaped out from his reddened, tortured eyes. The realization came as a startling shock; Darien could feel the hatred he had nurtured so carefully for so very long simply, slowly dissolve. In its place, he felt only an emergent sense of pity.

  Turning to Krane, Darien silently implored the man for an explanation.

  “He drained too many before the Hall of the Watchers fell,” the demon stated blandly, glaring down at Aidan as if he were some abject and broken tool to be discarded. “There is only so much power the human mind can endure.”

  Not knowing what to feel, Darien gazed down on his brother somberly. Slowly, he moved toward him. As he lowered himself to kneel at his side, Aidan shirked back, turning his face away. But not before Darien caught a glimpse of the tears that stained his ruined cheeks.

  Peering intently, Darien searched the man before him, trying to find something left within him to hate. But he found nothing; just a trembling, miserable creat
ure that cowered from his stare, pathetic in his depravity. Darien found himself instead searching his own heart, wondering if he even had it within himself to deliver the justice he had sworn in blood to mete.

  Sighing, Darien reached out with his mind and unmade the bonds that constrained Aidan’s wrists. His brother sagged visibly, chin falling against his chest, eyes staring vacantly at the ground. Tears fell from his cheeks, dribbling softly to the snow.

  Wretchedly, he whispered, “Forgive me.”

  Darien almost wished he could. The sight of his brother’s tears brought back memories of their boyhood together. For once, not all of those memories seemed so terribly bad. There had been times when he had even enjoyed Aidan’s company. Not often. But times. For a long period of his life, his brother had been the only connection he’d had with his family. He had never been fond of Aidan as a person. But, once, Darien had loved him as a brother, the only brother he’d ever had.

  “Take my hands,” Darien whispered softly. “Let’s be done with this.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Darien shook his head. “I can’t forgive you, Aidan. Mercy is all I have left within myself to offer you.”

  Behind him, he heard the soft footsteps and shivering robes of Cyrus Krane.

  “Yes,” the demon hissed at his back. “Take his life. That is the first step.”

  “The first step of what?” Darien turned to glare up at him, resenting the intrusion.

  “Your new life as one of us,” Krane explained as he smiled down at him, a gloating, sinister grin.

  Darien shook his head, feeling suddenly uncertain. “I declined Renquist’s offer.”

  “You were under the protection of truce last night. Not so, now.”

  With a shiver of dismay, Darien realized that Krane was right. Aerysius was a snare, with his brother set out as bait. After their meeting, Renquist had anticipated he would come here. It was a trap, and he had fumbled blindly into it.

  Darien rose from his brother’s side, easily matching the ancient Prime Warden in height. Glaring his contempt, he uttered, “I’ll never be one of you.”

  Krane pronounced ominously, “But you already are.” The confidence in his voice made Darien wince, fear raking over him with sharpened claws. He took a step back, consumed by a cold numbness that eclipsed his every perception.

  “What do you mean?” he whispered, dreading to hear the demon’s response.

  “The thanacryst,” Krane informed him simply, nodding his head toward the creature. “Such a beast cleaves only to a soul already damned. You are a Servant of Xerys. You have surrendered yourself to Him freely. You belong to Him, now.”

  “No.”

  He refused to believe it could be that heinously simple.

  But Krane seemed very certain that it was. He dismissed Darien’s denial with a curt gesture of his hand. “You’ve already made your choice. There is no going back. Now, go. Do your duty by your brother. I wish to depart this vile place.”

  Darien chanced a glance at the Gateway. The pulsating beacon throbbed, beckoning, its slithering ropes of energy calling out to him with a promise of hope and release. There was no chance he could he reach it; Krane stood before him, physically barring his path.

  There was only one thing to do. Dropping back down to Aidan’s side, Darien reached out and took his brother’s hands in his own. As their fingers touched, Darien felt a pulling sensation from deep within, a strange and distant tingling. Startled, he realized that his brother was establishing a conduit between them, locking them together in a treacherous link. Reviled, he tried to pull back.

  But Aidan clenched his hands rigidly, a look of hungry desperation in his tortured eyes. Darien fought as the pulling became a tearing ache that grew into a tangible pain. The pain swelled, increasing to a wrenching agony. Darien threw his head back, gritting his teeth and clutching his brother’s hands as he fought to turn the conduit back around.

  A lightning spear resolved from the sky, hurling forcefully downward, stabbing into Aidan’s back. Darien felt the conduit slam closed with a force that hurled him backwards to the ground. He rolled onto his side, looking up to see Aidan writhing on the ground, red energies crackling as they clawed over his body. The sounds of his shrieks were terrible, and they seemed to go on and on. Finally, Aidan collapsed back to lie in the snow, his tortured body limp and still.

  Darien looked away, horrified. Cyrus Krane moved toward him and, to his amazement, reached down and offered him his hand. Darien accepted it, allowing the ancient darkmage to help him to his feet. His legs trembled as he walked over to where Aidan lay motionless on his back. Darien bent down over the body of his brother, laying his head against his chest to listen for a heartbeat. Unbelievably, he heard a faint stirring, weak and irregular, but undeniably there.

  Looking back up at Krane, Darien wondered in bewilderment, “I don’t understand. He summoned you. I thought you were required to obey him.”

  Krane shook his head. “Only until the initial purpose of our summoning was fulfilled. Since then, we’ve been under our own recognizance.”

  Darien looked back down at his dying brother, not quite certain how to feel. Aidan had been responsible for the tragedy of Aerysius, but everything that had happened since had been Renquist’s doing all along. All this time, Aidan had been merely the demon’s pawn, nothing more.

  Feeling strangely weak, Darien struggled back to his feet. He was unable to take his eyes off his brother, watching the shuddering rise and fall of his chest.

  “Come now,” Krane commanded, extending his hand with a welcoming invitation on his lips. “Renquist is expecting us down the mountain.”

  Darien shook his head, the demon’s cool assurance distilling a cold anger within him. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Krane only shrugged casually. “I’ll compel you if you leave me no choice. But I must warn you: our Master exacts harsh punishments from his servants. And you must also think of Meiran; her soul will be made to suffer along with yours.”

  Darien gaped at him, appalled, feeling his anger chill to a frozen, arctic sea of contempt. He couldn’t accept that. Not Meiran. Too many souls had already paid the price for his decisions. Meiran was innocent, and had already suffered far more than she ever deserved. Looking up at Krane, he narrowed his eyes and coldly shook his head.

  “Your master can go to Hell.”

  He reached out from within, summoning the fatal potency of his rage. A shaft of fire bloomed from his hand, hurling viciously at Krane. The demon seemed to shrug slightly as a wall of red light appeared in front of him, neatly absorbing the lance of flame. Then Krane smiled, black eyes gleaming with sinister promise as he reached his hand upward to the sky.

  Darien dodged sideways, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid the writhing net of living energy that fell, draping over him and tugging him to the ground. The searing fibers of the net burned, scorching his skin with blistering heat as he struggled to free himself. Through the web of glistening light, he could see Krane’s robe trailing toward him over the ground, through his groans he could hear the demon’s malevolent voice:

  “Is it your wish to spend an eternity in such pain?”

  The net lifted suddenly, dissolving into threads that slithered away into the air. Darien lay on his back, shuddering as he healed the burns the ghastly thing had made. He struggled to sit up, but no sooner had he accomplished the motion then a series of blue rings appeared around him, constricting. The rings tightened inexorably, compressing his ribs a little more with each breath he exhaled.

  Soon, even breathing became impossible. Frantic, Darien reached deep inside the mage. He clasped his mind around the demon’s heart, envisioning it shuddering to a standstill in his chest.

  But, as he groped for that blackened and twisted organ, he discovered to his horror that Krane’s heart was already dead.

  With a laugh of contempt, the ancient Prime Warden threw out his hand. The rings fell away as a voraci
ous blast of air took Darien full in the face. He sagged to the ground, feeling a sharp stab like a swordthrust take him between the ribs.

  Dimly, he glanced down to see blood welling over the hand he held clutched against his side. He could hear Krane’s laughter, almost drowned out by a clamorous ringing in his ears. He groped within, trying to get enough sense of the wound to heal it. As he did, he felt a shooting lance of pain descend like an axe through the middle of his head.

  Abruptly, the magic field was gone. He couldn’t even sense it.

  Darien looked up and saw Krane moving toward him as if through a fog, a dim silhouette backlit against the light of the Gateway glowing piercingly bright directly behind him. The demon seemed to be moving impossibly slow as he knelt down at his side, smiling that vile grin, fingers roving over him scant inches above his body.

  “Your first lesson, my acolyte,” Cyrus Krane pronounced. “Never seek to defy your masters again.”

  He pressed his hands to Darien’s chest, wielding vicious, searing agony. Darien convulsed, the noise of Krane’s harsh laughter drowned out by the sound of his own screams.

  Kyel figured he had waited long enough. It was time.

  He moved back to the first rune in the sequence he’d located and raised his hand. Behind him, he could feel Naia leaning over him, looking on over his shoulder. Her presence made him suddenly self-conscious, and he clenched his hand into a fist. He couldn’t doubt. He had to believe. He knew fire, knew how to summon it from flint. All he needed to do was transpose that knowledge to the air. He couldn’t doubt. He would not falter.

  Raising his finger to the glowing rune, he muttered its name and willed the air above it to warm. At first, there was nothing. Then, slowly, he could feel the heat. But it wasn’t enough. He steeled his mind in concentration, consuming his thoughts with a determined, singular intent. A fine dagger of flame flared toward the rune, hissing as it came in contact with it. Kyel almost fell backwards into Naia in alarm, staring up at the rim of the Well to see the unholy light of dacros suddenly dim and fade out.