Darkrise

by M. L. Spencer

  “I disposed of it.”

  “How? Where did you dispose of it?”

  “Come. I’ll take you to him.” Darien extended his hand toward the chamber’s entrance. He waited, eyes fixed on Connel’s glare.

  At last, the Battlemage relented and strode to the door. Darien fell in at his side, matching his pace. He led the big man into the hallway, turning in the direction of the stable. Sayeed was there, lingering along the side of the hallway. He stood rigid as stone, staring straight ahead into nothing.

  Connel made no attempt at conversation as Darien led him into the stairwell that accessed Tokashi’s warren of subterranean dungeons. Spiraling steps took them downward, away from the warmth of the Residence, into the frozen heart of the glacier that consumed the lower levels of the fortress. The air grew colder the further they went. The walls of the stairwell darkened, became moist with condensation. A pool of chill air greeted them as they reached the bottom of the steps.

  There, Darien opened a large metal door that led into the bowels of the dungeon. A gush of frigid air rushed past them, along with a wash of eerie blue light. Darien stepped into the ice-carved passage then turned back, waiting for Connel. The Battlemage looked around, planting the palm of his hand against the slick wall of ice.

  “He kept me here,” Darien explained as he strode forward into the depths of the ice warren. “They locked me up and kept me near death. Then they dragged me there.”

  Darien pointed, indicating an iron door straight ahead at the end of the hall. He made no move toward it. He had no desire to look within; he didn’t wish to confront the nightmares that door unlocked. His memories of the chamber beyond were riddled with holes. Some things he remembered luridly well, like the feel of the dust-filled rag in his mouth and the ghastly sounds of Meiran’s screams. The clicking noise of the mechanism. Other things he couldn’t remember at all. He had no recollection of how he’d come by the gut wound that had almost killed him. He had no idea how he’d survived.

  He stepped aside and waited for Byron Connel to work the latch. The Battlemage regarded him with a long, searching gaze. Then, one hand on his weapon, he opened the door and stepped into the dark chamber within. He walked forward a few paces then stopped, stark-still.

  Darien followed grudgingly. He moved to the side, standing with his back against the jagged rock wall. Above, rusted chains and hooks dangled from the ceiling. Mechanical devices with winches and gears, cogs and screws, had been placed all around the edge of the room. A long, narrow table equipped with leather straps stood on the far end of the chamber, its surface stained dark with blood. The scene was gruesome, appalling. Darien’s gaze avoided all of it, remaining instead on the one object in the room that overshadowed all the rest.

  A living nightmare hovered in the center of the chamber, rotating slowly, its silhouette form orienting toward them.

  Darien stared at the necrator, repulsed by his own reaction to the thing. He should be frozen in fear, terrified beyond capacity to act.

  Instead, Darien felt nothing.

  This monster was his own creation. He had willed it into existence from the scorched fabric of Nashir’s soul, granting it life by feeding it death. Only, he had no recollection of doing so.

  Connel turned to look back at him. His mouth hung slack. Revulsion and disbelief glassed his eyes. “You did this?”

  “Aye.” Darien nodded once. He stared fixedly at the necrator. He didn’t trust it. Even though he was well beyond the creature’s influence, he loathed it utterly.

  “Can you command it?”

  The question took Darien by surprise; he hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Try.”

  Darien looked down at the floor. To where a dark brown stain mottled the stone near his feet.

  “Visea,” he whispered.

  Immediately, the necrator in front of him melted into the ground. It was gone, as if absorbed by the porous stone. Byron Connel turned to gape at him, his expression full of dismay. His hand clutched his spiked weapon tight against his chest.

  “Bring it back,” he whispered.

  Darien closed his eyes and willed the necrator back into existence. When he looked up again, the shadow was back, hovering, crystalline-black and sinister. Silently awaiting his command.

  Connel stared long and hard at the abomination. Finally, he dropped his chin to his chest, shoulders sagging. “What you have done…” He sighed heavily. “If I didn’t know Nashir so well, your soul would be halfway to hell right now. But fortunately for you, I did know Nashir. I know what he was capable of. And now I know what you’re capable of.”

  He glared at Darien significantly.

  Darien nodded, internalizing the threat.

  Connel dropped his hand, strapping Thar’gon back to his belt. He was trembling in either rage or fear; Darien couldn’t tell which. The look on Connel’s face was impossible to read.

  The Battlemage said, “You’re absolved of the murder of Nashir Arman. But make no mistake: I will never turn my back on you. Ever.” Connel glanced at the necrator. “Get rid of it.”

  Darien obeyed, watching as the malevolent shadow melted away. He turned, walking back through the doorway. In the corridor outside, he waited for Connel to emerge. The door closed behind them with an echoing thud.

  Byron Connel said nothing the entire long climb back up to the level of the palace. As they moved out of the cold stairwell, he stopped beside a servant standing to one side, rigid enough to appear painted on the wall.

  “Bring wine,” Connel ordered. “And plenty of it.”

  The servant bowed, backing away, then hurried off in the direction of the kitchens.

  Darien led Connel back to his own chamber, offering the man a cushion by the hearth. He sat down across from him, eyes darting to the thanacryst across the room. The demon-dog was curled up in the corner by the door, staring at them with disinterest.

  The servant returned with a decanter of wine and cups arranged on a silver tray, which he set down on the floor between them. Without uttering a word, the man bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door in his wake.

  Darien waited for Connel to serve himself before pouring his own cup of wine. He raised the cup to his lips, breathing in the sweet scent of the grapes. Then he threw his head back, draining half the cup in one swallow. The wine was harsher than it smelled. It burned his throat going down.

  “Quin and Sareen have vanished.” Connel set his cup down on the floor at his side. His eyes locked on Darien. “Do you have any knowledge of their whereabouts?”

  Darien took another swallow, finishing the remainder of the wine in his cup. He wiped his mouth dry on his shirtsleeve. He answered truthfully, “I’ve no idea where they could be.”

  He’d had no word from Quin. Darien assumed the man must be halfway to Titherry by now, but he had no way of knowing for certain. In this case, he was grateful for his ignorance.

  “We have reason to suspect the temples are aligning against us,” Connel said as Darien poured himself more wine. “The disappearance of two of our own is disconcerting. And now with Nashir…”

  His voice trailed off. He took a heavy sip from his cup. “We’re down to only five of our former number.” Connel regarded Darien with a frank expression. “I’ll be relying on you as a Battlemage. You’re my second-in-command, now.”

  Darien looked away, gazing intently into the fire. The oversized hearth burned bricks of coal instead of logs. The coals glowed orange, silvering at the edges. The smell was acrid, mingling with the floral scent of incense that permeated the room. It was not a pleasant combination.

  Connel grumbled, “We’re running out of mages, and we’re running out of time. The southern population centers are already mobilizing. Renquist wants the entire Khazahar ready to deploy within a week.”

  Darien glanced up. “A week isn’t enough time to prepare an invasion.”

  “This isn’t an invasion,” Connel corrected him. �
��It’s an evacuation. We’re emptying all the Black Lands.” He downed the remainder of his wine and set the empty cup on the floor, holding Darien’s gaze the entire time. Watching his reaction to the news.

  Darien shook his head, unable to contain his surprise. Everything was happening so much quicker than he’d expected. Which complicated his plans. He’d hoped that Quin would find a way to break the curse, to release Malikar’s skies from the grip of darkness. Evacuating the entire population into the Rhen was a nightmare situation that Darien hoped they could avoid. He still had faith in Quin.

  He insisted, “I need more time.”

  “Time is the one thing you don’t have. Travel alone to the staging area will take you a minimum of three weeks.”

  Darien felt hampered at every turn. He needed a way out, a change of direction. A jarring thought occurred to him. “Isn’t there a transfer portal nearby?”

  “Under the lake.” Connel poured himself a fresh cup of wine. “How deep can you swim?”

  Darien scowled, not appreciating the sarcasm. He lowered his cup, leaning back against the wall beside the hearth. The warmth of the fire felt good despite the noxious smell of coal. He could feel the effects of the alcohol on his mind, smoothing his tattered nerves. He felt suddenly weary.

  Connel leaned forward and clapped Darien on the shoulder. Then he climbed to his feet. “I’ll have your man find me a room with a bed in it. Report to me after thalath. We’ll begin your education.”

  Darien followed Connel to his feet. The Battlemage extended his hand, palm outstretched. Darien accepted the gesture, noting the hesitance in Connel’s grip. There was a void of trust there he’d have to work hard to bridge.

  Connel turned away. But instead of making his way to the door, he wandered instead toward the writing desk in the corner of the room. Darien stiffened, remembering the catalogue of his ancestry he’d left there in plain view. The list that ended with the name Braden Reis.

  He did not want Connel to discover his relationship to Quin Reis.

  The red-haired mage picked up the parchment from the desk, raising it up before his face. His eyes scanned over the long list of names, starting from the top. But he broke off not even halfway down, his eyes flicking back to Darien.

  “What’s this?”

  “My family lineage,” Darien answered stiffly. It was hard to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

  Connel set the parchment back down on the desk. “What inspired you to write this all out?”

  Darien shrugged. “Sometimes I fear I’m starting to lose myself.” That, at least, was sincerest truth.

  Connel nodded. He strode toward the door, clapping Darien on the back as he passed by. “You can’t lose something you never had, Darien. Get some sleep.”

  He strode out the door, shutting it behind him as he left.

  Darien sank down on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, cupping his head in his hands. His stomach felt ill. He could feel the effects of the alcohol draining out of him like blood leaking from his veins. The warmth of the wine was replaced by stone-cold fear.

  The next time he saw Connel was early afternoon.

  The Battlemage had assembled a small party of Tanisars, men who would normally follow only Darien’s command. But in the shadow of Connel’s presence, it seemed he’d been outranked. They rode out from the palace on the few mounts they had. Past the dark lake, beyond the denuded foothills to the south. Out from under the oppressive energies of the vortex that swirled around Tokashi Palace.

  Connel didn’t speak a word to Darien the entire ride. The Battlemage remained encased in the cold grip of silence, his intractable stare scouring the landscape. Sayeed trailed behind on his own mount, a quiver of spears hanging from his shoulder. His mare dragged an empty travois that raked a trail behind them that looked like dual claw marks in the sand.

  Darien wondered about the travois, speculating why it was necessary. He almost asked. But then he stopped himself, reckoning that he probably didn’t want to know the answer. He didn’t know where they were riding or what to expect; Connel wouldn’t tell him. But by the long looks on the faces of the men, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Connel angled his horse off the road, guiding his courser down a path that led to an opening in the cliff wall just ahead. At first it seemed just an indentation in the rock. But to Darien’s surprise, it turned out to be the entrance to a slender canyon that parted the cliff face.

  Connel reined in and climbed down from his horse. Darien followed him to the ground, leading his mount forward to examine the opening. The walls to either side had been carved in bas-relief. Twin images depicting winged horses with hawk-like faces stood like a pair of ancient sentries on either side. The gate they created was daunting, striking in every detail. Running his hand over one of the sentinels, Darien could feel every rippling muscle, the barbs of the feathers that decorated the wings.

  They led the horses on foot through the opening between the stone guardians. The walls of the crevice beyond were tall and steep, smooth like fire-polished glass. The path they tread had been a streambed; now dry. The water had eroded the rocks, forming the narrow passage. Darien could make out different layers of sediment, some ruddy, others more golden in hue. The splendor of the cliffs had been diminished by the Desecration but not permanently undone.

  “What is this place?”

  Connel glanced back at him but said nothing.

  It was Sayeed who answered. “This is an ancient place that is held to be sacred by all the tribes of the Khazahar. There is a spring hidden deep within that seeps water blessed by the gods. It is said that drinking from this well cleanses the heart of all fear. Men come here to drink their fear before going into battle. It is tradition.”

  Darien nodded even as he dismissed the man’s claim. The culture of superstition ran deep in Malikar’s bloodlines.

  The canyon curved sharply then ran straight ahead for some distance. Looking ahead, Darien saw that soldiers had been stationed every so often at intervals along the passage. Each man stood alone beside a small campfire.

  Connel stopped and handed the reins of his horse to a soldier. With a gesture, he instructed Darien to do the same. As Sayeed relieved him of his horse, Darien saw a trace of sadness in the man’s dark eyes.

  “May the gods lend you courage, my friend,” Sayeed whispered. “Drink your fear.”

  Darien turned to Byron Connel in alarm. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  Connel untied the spiked silver weapon from his belt, wielding it like a club. His red-bearded face was full of arrogance and ice.

  “It is called the Rakkah,” he said. “The final test of a Battlemage. You are well-schooled in defensive tactics, but that’s only half the equation. Now you need to learn how to kill. Above all else, you must fortify your resolve.”

  He motioned ahead at the line of men stretched out along the walls of the canyon.

  Darien felt ice-cold dismay as understanding hit him in the face.

  “You want me to kill all these men?”

  The Battlemage nodded. “I need you combat-effective.”

  Darien paced away a few steps, eyes studying the first man in the long, drawn-out line. The man was a soldier, a Tanisar by the uniform. He stood at attention beside his small fire, face untroubled by emotion. He had the look of a man resigned to duty and fate.

  Darien spun away, feeling sickened. “Who are they?” he demanded. “What have these men done to deserve death?”

  Byron Connel moved to stand in front of him. He was taller than Darien, his face set in harsh, uncompromising lines. “They are Tanisars. Soldiers who volunteered for this duty. Men who desire only to serve you.”

  That explanation sickened Darien even more. His throat clenched in revulsion. “Why would they volunteer for this?”

  “Because I asked them to. There is much sharaq in such a death. They know they lay down their lives to help prepare the greatest weapon Malikar has ever known.
The selfsame weapon that will deliver their families from the curse of darkness.”

  Darien shook his head, backing away from Connel. “I’m not a weapon,” he whispered.

  The Battlemage narrowed his eyes. “After today, you will be. You will be the most fearsome weapon our world has ever known. Never before has there existed an eighth-tier Battlemage trained in offensive tactics and capable of wielding the power of the Onslaught. After today, you will be indomitable. No mortal force will be able to stop us.”

  Darien shuddered, sickened with disgust. “I will not murder these men.”

  “Yes, you will,” Connel said gruffly. “This is the Rakkah. The final trial of an apprentice Battlemage. You must pass the Rakkah to earn admittance into our order. The price of failure is death. There is no going back. There’s no halfway. The Rakkah has already begun.”

  “I won’t do it.” Darien turned his back on Connel and began stalking away.

  The hand of the gods reached down from the sky and slapped him off his feet, hurling him hard against the face of the cliff. Darien slumped to the ground, where he lay stunned, gazing up at the ink-black sky, slowly blinking. The taste of blood filled his mouth. His vision went from white to red.

  Connel reached down and hauled him to his feet. He wielded his spiked talisman in his right hand, bracing Darien upright with his left. Darien staggered, reeling. He couldn’t seem to focus on the man’s face. Pulling at the magic field, he struggled to heal his injuries. The world went dark, and he wilted to the ground.

  Pain flared inside, tearing him wide awake.

  “Be warned,” Connel growled into Darien’s face, leaning over him menacingly. “The next blow will be a killing strike.” He motioned to the first man behind him. “Stand up! You bring dishonor to Sinan.”

  Darien rolled over, pushing himself weakly to his knees.

  “Who’s Sinan?” he asked, still half-dazed by the talisman’s magical strike. He staggered to his feet, taking a limping step ahead. He brought a hand up to his face, smearing a trail of blood that trickled from his nostril.