“Why do you ask?” she said.
Quin swallowed the lump of bread in his mouth. It didn’t go down very well. “Just curious,” he muttered.
Naia shrugged. Then she took a bite of cheese. “I haven’t really thought about it.” Her legs resumed their swaying motion as the silence settled back between them. Apparently, she considered the subject dropped.
But Quin didn’t want to drop it. He decided to press the issue. “He doesn’t love you, you know.” This time, he turned to look at her and didn’t look away. He watched the emotions range over her face.
“Yes. I know.”
He nodded. He tore off another strip of bread and started chewing. He gazed at the floor, at a little chip in the tiles. A breeze came up, pushing a leaf into the kitchen stall, scooting it across the floor toward them. It was an oak leaf. He realized he hadn’t seen any oaks in a while.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he murmured into the gaping silence that stretched between them.
“Then what did you mean?” Her voice was blunt with irritation. Her legs had stopped swinging again.
“I…” He shrugged. “I suppose I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
Naia jumped down from the counter. She turned to face him. “My feelings are my own,” she told him in a firm voice. “I’ve known for a long time that Darien doesn’t love me. Nevertheless, I chose to care for him. It was my choice. I felt very strongly he was in the right, so I followed him, and I was there for him … even when it hurt. But he doesn’t need me anymore.”
Quin stared into her sad, dark eyes and could only nod.
“And that’s fine with me,” Naia went on. “I spent a large part of my life being what other people needed me to be. My father needed me to be a priestess, his successor. So that’s what I became. I never paused to ask myself if it was what I wanted. I made my father very proud; that’s all that mattered to me. But then I found a person who needed me more. So I left my father and went with Darien … and I became what he needed me to be.”
Quin gazed at her, watching her face as she worked her way through all the emotions bubbling to the surface. He felt sorry for her. “Naia,” he said. “I think the important question is … what do you want?”
She raised her chin. She put her hand out, pushing back her sleeve to reveal the red scars where the marks of her Oath had once been. “I have failed at literally everything I have ever attempted,” she said. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
Quin reached out and caught her arm, wrapping his fingers around the markings on her wrist. “No,” he insisted, leaning forward. “You’ve only failed at trying to be something you weren’t meant to be. So tell me. Who is Naia? What does she want?”
“I don’t know…” her voice faded away, her eyes filling with hurt.
Quin released his grip on her arm, tucking her sleeve back down to cover the welts. Then he leaned in close. “Look at me.”
She did.
Staring into Naia’s dark eyes, Quin told her, “You need to decide who you are and what you stand for. Until you do, you aren’t much good to anybody. That’s why you’ve always failed.” He sat back, his eyes becoming quite serious. “But I can’t let you fail this time. This is too important. I need your help, Naia.”
She gazed at him with incomprehension in her eyes. He reached out, stroking a wayward strand of hair away from her face. “I need you to help me destroy the curse over the Black Lands. And you won’t be able to do that without a strong sense of self. Somehow, in the very near future, you’re going to have to figure out who you really are.”
26
Feast of Souls
Darien left the dungeon behind, following the flights of stairs upward. He couldn’t get the awful stench of charred Myria out of his nostrils. He couldn’t get the look in Kyel’s eyes out of his head; he was infected by both. He braced his hand against the wall and vomited, spilling his guts onto the stairs. Then he wiped his mouth and kept going.
At the top of the stairs, he staggered through a doorway into the open courtyard of the keep. He cast a bleary glance around. He felt overwhelmed. He wasn’t sure what to focus on; he couldn’t separate what was important from what was not. Scores of soldiers swarmed the yard in a flurry of activity. Darien drew back against the wall, stepping into shadow. He stood there panting, fighting to catch his breath.
He was vaguely aware of the gray-cloaked man who noticed him. The soldier went immediately for his sword, crying an alarm. It was too much at once; the man was just a blur. Frantic, Darien pulled at the Onslaught and sent it hurling out of him like a terrible spear of damnation.
The soldier howled a cry of mortal anguish, his muscles locked rigid. He collapsed forward, flesh smoldering and popping as he died. The necrators swept in to swarm the corpse, feasting off the soul.
Darien stared at the gruesome sight, quietly satisfied. The confusion that had addled him fell away, leaving only a calm sense of clarity.
Another soldier attacked. Darien drew his blade and blocked the first strike. He pulled his arms up, swinging the pommel out, and took the man down with the short edge of his blade. The necrators wasted no time.
He lowered the sword and backed away, stumbling over the first corpse. Shouts rang out from all across the ward. An arrow streaked down from the fortress, lodging in the dirt next to him. Darien glanced at the half-built tower and saw that Greystone archers were taking up positions at the arrow slits.
He tried summoning a shield to defend himself, but it didn’t work. The Onslaught couldn’t be used like that; it was strictly an offensive weapon. He could do nothing to protect himself from injury. All it would take was one well-placed arrow to bring him down.
With that thought in mind, Darien recalled the necrators and sprinted back toward the palisade. More soldiers ran forward to meet him, forming a line of spears and interlocked shields, blocking the only exit from the yard. Darien stood for a moment in indecision.
He took a step back.
Then he lashed out at them savagely.
The wall of soldiers collapsed, melting into a vile-smelling mass that steamed and gurgled in the chill night air. The necrators glided eagerly forward. Darien gripped his stomach, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight. He stood frozen, hit with the sudden awareness of what he was capable of. Figuring out how far he was willing to take it.
A dark thought occurred to him, sicker than all the ones he’d already had.
“Narghul,” he whispered.
More sinister shades rose from the hummock of melted flesh. As Darien sheathed his blade and fled through the portal, eight necrators drifted after him. It takes twenty deaths to raise a necrator, he’d heard once. He’d already done it with far less.
Outside the ward, he encountered more stairs. But as soon as his foot touched the first step, the wood broke beneath him. He fell through, catching himself with his hands as his legs dangled under him. He glanced down at the forest of sharpened stakes that awaited him below.
Darien grimaced, using all his strength to pull his body up through the broken cage of the stair. He rolled sideways, extracting his legs. Pushing himself to his feet, he eyeballed the trap warily. He saw that the stairs followed a particular pattern: alternating wood and stone. It was exactly the sort of device Devlin Craig would have devised. He cursed himself for not noticing the pattern immediately. He’d almost paid for his distraction with his life. He started down again, stepping over the wood and walking only on stone, his demonic companions gliding smoothly behind.
The stairs ended at a raised portcullis that marked the entrance to a long tunnel lit by torchlight. Darien grabbed a torch off the wall, holding it as he strode through the darkness. Eerie shadows swarmed around him, none more sinister than the shades trailing at his back. When he reached the end of the tunnel, he flung the torch to the ground. It continued to burn, its flame rippling in a gust of wind blowing up the mountainside. The savage wind caught his cloak, billowing it out.
T
wo guards saw him and started forward, spears leveled at his chest. They died horribly, the price for their vigilance. While the necrators feasted, Darien brought down a third man, who dropped and slid to a stop in front of him. Another two fell where they stood, their corpses smoldering.
Darien glanced down at himself to find his body saturated with the Onslaught. It leaked out of him like a green aura, just like the one he remembered from the Catacombs. But he knew better what it meant now. The aura wasn’t a symptom of his damnation. It was a mark of grace, a flaring symbol of his god’s vengeful wrath.
A soldier running up the steps stopped in his tracks and stood staring at Darien, his sword arm wilting. He turned and fled. One of the necrators glided after the man, overtaking him swiftly. The soldier writhed on the ground, shrieking as his soul was devoured.
Darien stepped over the corpse and started toward the stairs that led down the face of the mountain. Below, he could see a serpentine trail of lights snaking through the bottom of the pass. It could only be one thing: the hosts of Malikar escaping the Black Lands through the canyon. He stared at the long, drawn-out column as cold fear clutched his heart.
Craig’s treaty had been a trap. Not just for him, but for them all. He realized then how thoroughly he’d been betrayed.
A war horn sounded from behind him in the fortress. The cry was answered by another, somewhere in the faint distance across the pass.
Darien drew up, his hand reaching reflexively for his blade. He waited, listening, panting for air. A glacial stillness gripped the pass. There was silence. Then another horn brayed across the black distance.
There was a low, deep-throated rumble.
A series of explosions burst out of the side of the mountain opposite him, disgorging thick clouds of hurling debris. The ridgelines buckled, fracturing. Then they gave way completely. Avalanches of snow and tumbling rock collapsed into the pass with a deafening roar that shook the air.
The thunder ended and silence reigned, the entire profile of the mountainscape forever changed. Thick clouds of dust rose from the bottom of the pass, choking off his view of the devastation.
Darien froze, panting, numbed by raw emotion. He gaped slack-jawed down into the bottom of the pass, searching the rubble for signs of survivors. Visions of fallen Aerysius filled his mind. At first it was all he could see. He chased the images away and concentrated on the tragedy below. Clouds of dust rose from the gaping maw of the canyon, bathing the mountainside in gray.
The entire world was gray.
Everything that mattered to him had been down there.
He stood blinking, the ache of loss slowly settling in. He hadn’t loved his wife as he should have. He’d taken her for granted. And now she was gone.
Darien sheathed his sword. He staggered down the hillside, slipping and stumbling, until he burst through the invisible barrier that marked the edge of the node. He fell to his knees, rocked by the sudden presence of the magic field.
He threw his head back, gasping for breath as the magic field slammed into him, pulsing like a living thing. The necrators hovered as he knelt there, drowning in the field’s soothing bliss. He sucked it all in, every drop he could stand, until his body bled with energy and his soul cried in pain.
Shaking, he heaved himself up from the ground, fighting to stand on legs that were desperately weak. He started down the hill again, stumbling down the stairs until he reached the main trail that descended into the canyon. If there were more soldiers about, he didn’t see them. Perhaps they had fled. Perhaps he had killed them already. He didn’t care. The world was gray and Azár was dead.
In the bottom of the pass, the dust was still settling. He couldn’t tell if anything moved down there. There was nothing to see. In the riverbed below, there was nothing but silence. And a long, echoing sense of horror. He followed the trail down, hope leaching away a little more with every step. He knew it would take him at least an hour to follow the trail down off the mountain. And he feared what he would find.
The sound of hoofbeats behind him made him turn. A group of riders were approaching from the direction of the keep. Even from a distance, Darien could tell they were heavily armored. He stopped and gathered the magic field around him until blue energies crackled over his body.
More hoofbeats approached from the opposite direction.
He turned, sensing the danger.
Darien tugged at the magic field, summoning a pool of magelight at his feet. The approaching riders drew up in front of him, reining their horses in. From behind, an equal number blocked his retreat. Most held hornbows trained on him. A few men bared swords. Some leveled crossbows at his chest. Horses whinnied and tossed their heads, eyes rolling nervously.
Darien stood his ground, assessing the situation. He sought the eyes of the men, gauging their resolve. His gaze leaped from face to face, grimly studying each. He didn’t make a move for the hilt of his sword. He knew he didn’t need it.
“Ride away,” he warned.
No one moved.
Darien turned and started walking in the direction he’d been heading, keeping his eyes trained on the path in front of him. Behind, he heard the twang of a single bowstring.
The arrow never hit.
He didn’t look back at the firestorm that erupted behind him, consuming both men and beasts. But he heard their screams, which seemed to go on far longer than they should have. Lightning struck down from the sky, summoned by the terrible wrath of his power. He fed off its electric energy, letting it invigorate him, supplementing his strength. Then he hurled it like an explosive javelin toward the group of cavalry in front of him.
This time, the screams didn’t last long. He bared his sword as he strode through the inferno, but there were no enemies left to fight. A lone horse galloped past him, stirrups bouncing, its mane and tail streaming flame.
He sheathed his blade and raised his hand, dismissing the necrators.
The burning stallion reared, screaming its terror and pain. Then it stopped, appearing suddenly, inexplicably calm. It turned and sprinted back to him.
Darien reached out and caught the horse’s reins. He closed his eyes and smothered the flames, healing the burns and the memories. He stroked the animal’s fur, soothing the gelding with his mind. Then he climbed onto the horse’s back and urged it forward. The beast leapt onto the trail, galloping with all its heart and courage toward the bottom of the pass.
He let the horse run until it tired, healed it, then let it run some more. He did that again and again, exhausting himself as much as his mount. Even at that pace, the descent into the canyon took some time. And it was unsustainable.
Eventually, the horse dropped dead beneath him.
Darien jumped clear as the gelding stumbled and rolled, coming to a rest on its side. Darien stood over it, gazing down, swaying over his feet. He turned slowly around, staggering, taking his bearings as best he could.
By the time he reached the bottom of the canyon, much of the dust had already settled. It was possible to see the devastation that had been wrought. All along the neck of the pass that extended toward the Black Lands, explosive charges had been used to bring down the side of the mountain. The entire canyon floor was filled with fresh mounds of earth. Huge chunks of stone barred the passage.
In the canyon, no one stirred. The river itself had been drowned by the rubble.
An echoing stillness hung over the pass, thundering with presence.
Darien jumped down onto the fresh-spilt earth, knowing that he walked upon a grave. They were all there, beneath his feet. The people he’d sworn to protect. The wife he’d sworn to cherish. He dropped to his knees, plunging his hands into the soil as deep as they’d go. There was only dirt to cling to. He clawed his fingers through the soil, feeling sharp rocks gouge his skin. It didn’t matter; the world was gray. And Azár lay dead somewhere beneath his feet.
Eventually, he rose and wandered in the general direction of the Black Lands. As he walked, his eyes scoured the
rubble, hoping in vain. But there was nothing to justify such hope; in the bottom of the pass there was no movement, no stirring of life. Nothing left to save.
He stumbled forward, picking out a treacherous path over loose rocks and jagged debris. Finally, he came to the edge of the great scree. He staggered down the slope, sliding over crumbling earth and, to his relief, encountered people.
A group of men digging in the dirt glanced up and, seeing him, dropped their shovels and bared their swords. Shaking from exhaustion, Darien raised his hands, uncertain what to do. They were Malikari soldiers: Southerners, by the uniforms. They didn’t recognize him, but why should they? All they saw was an enemy.
“Demas narghul masaad,” he said in their language.
The men drew up, but didn’t lower their blades. They exchanged outraged glances. One growled something that Darien couldn’t understand, then advanced. The others rushed forward behind him.
An arrow sliced through the air, just missing Darien’s head. It buried itself in the chest of the first man, taking him to the ground.
Darien whirled to find a Greystone archer standing behind him on the lip of the scree. He didn’t stop to think. He just acted. The man exploded in a shower of gore that rained down all around them. A hand tumbled through the air, falling to the ground at Darien’s feet.
The Malikari soldiers faltered, looking at Darien with wide, terrified eyes. The man with the arrow in him moaned and thrashed upon the ground. Darien knelt at the warrior’s side. He placed a hand on the man’s heaving chest, getting a sense of the wound. The soldier gritted his teeth as Darien drew the arrow from his ribs. Then he healed the wound before the man could bleed out.
The others looked on, slowly lowering their weapons. At last, the soldiers surrounding him sheathed their blades. Darien looked from one face to the other, finally gesturing at the towering wall of rock behind them.
“How many?” he demanded.
The soldiers looked like they didn’t understand.
Darkrise Page 27
