Kyel tried to blink his vision back into focus. He gazed up at her mutely, fumbling to comprehend his situation. He was lying on his side, hands and feet trussed like a hog awaiting slaughter. Just the thought of using the magic field made his stomach rebel with a pang of nausea.
“What’s going on?” he murmured, his voice just as blurry as the rest of the world.
His gaze shifted to Traver, who stood on the other side of Meiran with his hands on his hips. The look of accusation in his old friend’s eyes was painful to witness. Kyel suddenly remembered the rock. And why Traver had used it on him.
Meiran said, “You admitted to being a traitor. And a murderer.”
That’s right. He’d killed both Craig and the priest. Kyel supposed that did make him a traitor and a murderer. Funny how he didn’t feel like either.
“Then why am I still alive?” Soon, his head would be clear enough to touch the magic field again. Then all the bonds they’d tied him with wouldn’t matter. He couldn’t understand why they hadn’t killed him already.
Meiran folded her arms, bending down until her face was scant inches from his own. “Because their army is on the march, and they’re coming here to destroy us. Despite my better judgement, we need you.”
Kyel’s head throbbed, as much from the logic of that argument as from the injury.
“Let them through, Meiran” he said. “That way, no one needs to die. It’s what you agreed to in the first place.”
Meiran stood up, dusting herself off. She wore a disgusted look on her face. “They’re out for blood, now. They won’t just pass us by.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
The look in her eyes was caustic enough to corrode his confidence. Kyel closed his eyes as a fresh surge of nausea tightened his stomach. The world spun, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But he spat the bile out of his mouth and swallowed the rest back down again.
He looked miserably up at Meiran. “I don’t understand you. You’ve abandoned all sense of decency. You’re just as bad as Darien. Honestly, I don’t see any difference between the two of you. You’ve both been to hell, and you’ve both come back changed. Maybe there’s something to that.”
Meiran’s face went slack, her paleness fading into whiteness. But her eyes remained hard. She whispered, “You think I’m the one who’s corrupted?”
“I think you both are.”
Meiran glanced to Cadmus, who was squatting on the other side of the dying fire. She turned back to Kyel. “It doesn’t matter what you believe. I’m still the Prime Warden, and I’m giving you a choice. Defend me with your life. Help me get down off this mountain. Or die now on your friend’s sword.”
That wasn’t much of an option. Kyel saw Traver’s hand moving toward the hilt of his blade. His gaze traveled upward to the man’s face. He saw his own fate meted out in blood in Traver’s eyes.
Kyel sighed, resigned. “I’ll defend you with my life. As much as my Oath will allow.”
Meiran looked grimly satisfied. She said, “That chain on your wrist is the only reason you’re still alive. Don’t lose it. The moment that chain comes off, I’ll give the order to have you slain.”
Kyel nodded; he expected no less.
Meiran said to Traver, “Release him.”
Kyel went rigid as both Meiran and Traver knelt beside him, one sawing through the ropes that held him, the other laying hands on his chest. Kyel stiffened, knowing exactly what was coming. But knowing didn’t make it any better.
The shock of Meiran’s healing swept over him, dragging him down like the suction of a whirlpool. He gasped, feeling his consciousness twist away.
The climb into the pass was slow and grueling, infinitely tedious. Rain slanted down like icy needles, buffeted by the wind. The collapse of the mountainside had buried the canyon and its approaches, which made progress even more difficult. Connel had ordered a battalion of engineers to precede them, forging a new trail and clearing debris from their path, until they reached a shallow lake that had formed behind the blockage in the stream. The walls of the canyon were too steep to bypass the lake; they would have to cross it.
Darien stared down from the top of a rock scarp at the narrow lake below, not liking the looks of the situation. The stream that fed the canyon had been blocked by the landslide. With no outlet, the water was collecting, forming a long and narrow lake that was altogether treacherous. The east edge of the lake lapped against a sheer rock precipice. The other side was overlooked by a series of low bluffs where his intuition told him Greystone archers would be stationed.
Darien didn’t see any bowmen. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
He didn’t trust it. The lake was a natural killing zone, a place where any advancing force would be slowed to a crawl, its defensive options limited. If Craig were still alive, he wouldn’t let such an opportunity for slaughter slip him by. And even though Craig was dead, Darien guessed that his orders were still being followed. They hadn’t had the time or talent to come up with something better.
Darien ordered a halt well back from the lake, out of bowshot. There was not enough room to erect tents, so he had his men camp right there on the top of the rubble, building cookfires to huddle around. If his men were going to fight, then they would fight rested, with their bodies warm and their bellies full.
“They must see us coming.” Azár nodded in the direction of the cliffs above the lake, her eyes dark and shadowed with worry. “Why do we stop here and give them time to prepare?”
“Because I want them to see us coming,” Darien answered, removing his helm. He pointed at the cliffs ahead with a chain-gloved hand. “I want them to watch us fill this canyon and get a good sense of our numbers.”
Azár nodded, seeming to understand his intent. “Our numbers will strike fear into their hearts. Their ranks will crumble before us.”
“Aye,” Darien agreed. “That’s the idea.”
The look of excitement on Azár’s face surprised him. He’d always known she was fierce; he’d admired that. But he hadn’t foreseen how alive she would become at the prospect of battle.
“We will feed them their fear,” she whispered.
“That will be your job. The light you’ll weave will fill them with terror.”
Azár’s smile grew proud and ferocious. Never had Darien seen a woman more intensely beautiful than his wife was at that moment. He turned and walked away to where his officers stood gathered, the demon-hound stalking at his side. He caught Sayeed’s attention with a wave of his hand, beckoning the man over.
“We’ll maintain position here for a few hours,” Darien instructed. “Tell the men to sharpen their tent posts at both ends. Double the fires. Burn every coal brick, if that’s what it takes. I want it to look like we’ve got at least twice our true number.”
Sayeed stared at him in incomprehension. “What do we do when we run out of coal?”
“It won’t matter. After the morrow, we’ll be in the Rhen. And then there’ll be plenty of villages to burn.”
Sayeed squeezed Darien’s arm. Then he strode away to relay orders to the other officers.
Darien pulled off his gloves and turned to survey the column behind him, admiring the discipline of his men as they went about the process of setting up camp. Before arriving in the Black Lands, he never would have imagined such efficiency possible. He looked about in awe of the people he led, of the wife he’d married, of the fortunes that fate had brought him. For the first time in years, he felt worthwhile.
He realized that this must be his purpose, the reason why he had been spared when Aerysius fell, why he’d cast off the chains of his bondage. Why he had pledged his soul to two dark gods and put the Soulstone on his neck. All that had happened for a reason.
Because these people deserved to see the sun.
And Darien was determined to give it to them.
The night wore on infinitely, the way nights do before a battle. Darien had a hard time staying as
leep. He kept jerking awake, gasping for air and drenched in sweat. His mind worked furiously, sifting through strategies and weighing contingencies. Minimizing casualties and maximizing assets. He knew there was no way to predict how the battle would go; the best he could do was prepare and anticipate. But battles had a way of taking on a life of their own, and that bothered him. He didn’t like anything outside his control.
Darien finally gave up on sleep and rose well before the rest of the camp. He ate a quick meal then set out, intending to take one last survey of the lake and the battlefield ahead. He wore his cloak over his black cuirass. With the helm on his head, he was indistinguishable from any other officer in Bryn Calazar’s legions.
No one recognized him, which was good. He walked away from the camp, following the gentle rise of the slope above the lake. Scanning the cliffs ahead, he saw no fires. But he wasn’t fooled; he knew they were there. Darien knew it because that’s what he would have done. And he felt certain that’s what Craig would have done too.
He marveled that he felt no compassion for the Greystone soldiers he had once fought beside, as if his death had erased all ties to his former homeland. Craig’s betrayal certainly had. Men he’d once considered brothers, he now held beneath his contempt. He didn’t understand the people he’d been born to, didn’t want to try to understand them.
He just wanted them dead.
The fires were doused, the Tanisars formed up in a long, drawn-out column, awaiting the order to advance. Helm tucked in the crook of his arm, Darien walked with Azár toward the clump of officers standing on a long, flat ledge. Azár was wearing her armor, carrying her helm. Darien’s hand rested on the hilt of the scimitar given to him by Sayeed. The blade once held by Khoresh Kateem, the only conqueror to ever successfully unite all of Caladorn.
The air was frigid, and his metal armor felt like a layer of ice. It sapped the heat right out of him, even through the thick padding he wore beneath it. Every breath formed a cloud before his face. Fingering the hilt of Kateem’s sword, Darien moved into the center of the cluster of officers. He swept his gaze over them, looking into the face of each man individually. He felt a twinge of anticipation, the feeling that the future was finally forming up into something tangible. The promise of sunlight ahead didn’t seem quite as surreal as it had the day before.
To the officers standing ’round him, he said, “We’ll have to advance right up the center, through the middle of the lake. It’s not deep, but it’ll be slow going. Expect an ambush. They’ll have archers stationed above you on those cliffs.” He pointed at the bluffs above the water.
He continued, “There’s only a thousand of us. But every one of our soldiers is worth three of theirs. Pick the fastest men and women you have. They’ll need to gain the far shore as quickly as they can. They’ll be under heavy fire the whole way, so tell them to keep their shields up and their heads down. Our objective is to gain and hold the shoreline. Then we’ll wait for the main force to relieve us.”
He turned to Azár, who stood looking up at him with a noncommittal expression. He told her, “I want you riding at my side. I’ll weave shadow as we cross the lake; I want them fighting blind. You can’t dodge a blade if you can’t see it coming. When we reach the shoreline, that’s when I’ll need your light.”
Azár’s eyes smiled at him, proud and eager.
Darien donned his helm and mounted his armored stallion, nudging his horse toward the files of men. Azár followed on her own mare as the officers dispersed to their respective commands. He directed his mount to the front of the column, where he drew up and waited.
When the battalion was formed up behind him, Darien drew Kateem’s sword. He held it over his head then brought it down decisively. The column behind him advanced. Darien kept his horse in check, allowing the warriors to pass him by as he called on the fury of the magic field, weaving shadow to cloak their intent. After the first battalion had past, he urged his mount forward, Azár at his side. The shadow he wove roiled over them like a blanket of coal-soot, covering them all in stifling darkness that muted even sound.
The infantry made their way down the rock scarp formed by the slide, then waded into the murky lake. The men moved through the water without a sound, holding their shields and weapons over their heads. Darien sent his stallion forward, wading into water almost up to its belly. Sayeed waded beside Azár’s horse. A totality of silence travelled with them. No one spoke. There was no rustle of armaments or jingle of tack.
Nevertheless, a shout rang down from the heights. It was followed by the infinite quiet that only comes before the storm. Darien closed his eyes, bracing. He concentrated, thickening the shadows above Azár until they became a palpable barrier.
A whisper hissed through the darkness.
He couldn’t see the arrow-cloud, so he let it descend upon them. Immediately, the silence of the canyon was assaulted by a raining clatter. Arrows clanged off shields, plunked against helms, rebounded off steel. Darien’s cuirass rattled, battered by the volley coming down around him, as more arrows clanked against his stallion’s armor. A man to the left of him grunted and went down, a clothyard shaft protruding from a gap between plates. Arrows collected on the surface of the water, floating like driftwood. The men around him surged forward, scrambling to reach the shoreline.
Another hiss, followed by the clamor of broadheads. There was a pause. Then more arrows came down in a constant hail as the archers began loosing their shafts at will. Darien gathered in his web of shadows further, tightening them densely around Azár while leaving his own men exposed. He heard groans and screams as more soldiers fell under the relentless barrage. But Azár remained safe, which was all that mattered. The life of one Lightweaver was worth more than a thousand warriors.
Ahead of him, the first ranks reached the shore. They were met by another cloud of arrows, this one coming from groups of bowmen stationed dead ahead against the canyon wall. At close range, the gray-fletched shafts were more effective. Instead of just plunking off armor, they began to penetrate. Screams and groans erupted all along the ranks as men began to fall with frequency. Bodies collected along the shore of the lake, creating stumbling blocks for the soldiers coming behind. Darien’s horse tripped over a corpse half-submerged in the shallows, but it regained its footing quickly, surging toward the shore.
More men slumped and fell ahead of him. Darien tightened his cloak of shadows, unable to do more. Men sprinted past, rushing forward to pound the sharpened stakes they carried into the mud, creating a slanting thicket of spikes hidden by their numbers. More men screamed and fell as others set about the punishing job of resharpening the stakes after they’d been hammered in.
The barrage of arrows suddenly ceased.
Darien glanced up, knowing the reason. His body tensed in expectation.
A swelling thunder echoed off the canyon walls as a wedge of cavalry careened toward them. More Tanisars crowded the bank, a constant stream arriving from behind. The numbers amassing on the shoreline swelled, jostling the front ranks forward and pushing them toward the oncoming charge.
Darien raised his hands, reaching out from within and taking hold of the lines of power that swirled through the canyon. He drew it all in, every drop he could stand, until he was filled to the point of saturation and power bled from his body. Dropping the shadow-shield, he hurled everything he had at the incoming riders.
Horses staggered and fell, rolling as their riders flew from their backs. A few of the chargers made it as far as the front ranks, hurling onto the sharpened stakes as his own men sprang back. Animals screamed and died, spitted on shafts. Some turned and bolted back in the direction they’d come, foiling the momentum of the charge. Soon the entire beach was a gruesome tumult of confusion.
Ahead of him, Darien saw a line of Greystone infantry brandish their weapons. With a mighty warcry, they charged across the trampled beach, hoisting swords and pikes, maces and crossbows.
“Now,” Darien said.
All
around, Azár’s magelight bloomed like glistening ribbons of dawn, so bright it made his eyes water. The golden warmth swelled, consuming the darkness in a wash of tortuous brilliance. Within it, Darien’s own magelight spread forward like a molten river of bluest lava.
“Hold here!” he yelled to Sayeed and Azár as he kicked his mount through the blinding spill of light.
He could do no more with the magic field; he was already saturated to capacity and feeling the strain. So he called upon the Onslaught, sucking it into him with violent fury. Then he lashed out with everything he had, using Azár’s brilliant magelight as a catalyst.
The resulting firestorm surpassed anything he could have imagined.
The screams were almost as terrible as the stench that followed. Only a few men survived long enough to engage the Tanisars. Some hit the ground, tumbling, then rose, fighting to bring their weapons up. They staggered a couple of steps before exploding. Others erupted into flame, some melting into the ground. The lucky ones just folded over and died.
The fresh corpses dissolved, searing the ground where they lay. Man-like shadows bloomed in their place. A host of necrators glided forward, disoriented. They were newborn and weak, yet uncertain of their duty. Darien looked upon his creations with a cold feeling of pride.
The Tanisars around him charged, taking advantage of the chaos. With a thundering cry, hundreds of warriors ran forward, weapons raised. The assault careened right into the center of the Greystone retreat, then continued forward as more soldiers poured through, widening the rupture.
Then the necrators swarmed in to finish off the rest.
Darien’s horse reared, spooked by the presence of the shades. He was flung to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. He lay there panting as he watched his stallion bolt away. A Greystone foot-soldier saw him down and raised an iron mallet to finish him off. Before the man could swing, he was hurling backward, exploding while still in the air.
Darkrise Page 31
