But the draugars were closing in, little more than a dozen feet away. Garin raised his shield and held his sword at the ready, rehearsing all the things he'd learned from Master Krador.
"Wren, use that cantrip," Tal said, speaking fast now. "Burning them can work as well as hacking them apart. Garin, I'm afraid you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Too dangerous for you to attempt magic now."
"Great." His breath was coming quick. Draugars stared at him through the darkness, their eyes unnaturally bright, rusted steel glinting dully in their hands.
Then they charged.
All thoughts of maneuver and technique went out of his head as the two closest draugars bore down. He threw up his shield, and as a blade hacked into the wood, his arm went numb to the shoulder. Gasping, he swung at the second draugar, but it dodged and punched a fist forward. Pain exploded from his nose, and Garin stumbled back, flailing to keep it at bay as his vision filled with sparkling lights.
But the draugar who'd struck him suddenly snarled and fell back — someone had chopped at its leg — so Garin stabbed at the draugar still trying to work its blade free from his shield. His sword found a gap in its side, and it shrieked, its cry of fury joining the chorus that had filled the forest. As it tugged away, he almost lost his weapon but managed to keep hold as it withdrew with a sickening squelch.
The remaining draugar had abandoned its sword and drawn a knife, and though one leg was hacked nearly off, still it came on, wasted face contorted with rage. Garin ripped the shield free from his arm and threw it against the dead man, and it caught it in the face, snapping its head back.
He took his chance with a wild swing, but his blade banged into the draugar's rusted pauldron and bounced away, sending him spinning off balance. As Garin tried to steady himself, he felt the draugar bearing down on him, swinging furiously at him with its knife.
The Nightsong welled up in his head, the whirlwind of sounds and senses nearly overwhelming him.
I will aid you, Listener. The fell Singer emerged from the clamor. Let me protect you. Cede me control, and none will stand before us.
"No!" he tried to roar, but he had no breath left.
The draugar stabbed down at him, and he threw up an arm as if he still wore a shield. The knife tore into his flesh, glancing off the bone. Red pain surged, threatening to drown him.
Clawing at consciousness, Garin stabbed upward and was surprised when his blade found its way under the dead man's breastplate and slid into its chest. The draugar stiffened and looked down, its features frozen in a furious scream. It almost seemed surprised to find a foot of steel stuck in its body.
Then the draugar looked up and raised the knife again.
Cede to me, or you die! the Singer lashed through his head.
"I don't want to die." It was near a whimper as Garin stared up at the dead man, this impossible enemy, trembling with the knife held aloft, but looking capable of killing him all the same.
Cede to me!
He had no choice. As the draugar brought down the dagger, Garin felt himself let go, and a sudden heat filled his body.
He seized him and twisted his body out of the way. He pulled the blade free, dodged around the clumsy draugar, and cut its legs out from under it. He stabbed the sword through the neck of the creature as it screamed on the ground, silencing it.
I will protect you, the Singer whispered, then withdrew its searing touch.
Garin reeled, shivering, barely keeping his feet. Only the battle still raging around him kept him from slumping over, curled around his gashed arm. Hovering lights illuminated the forest, showing the shapes of Tal and Wren cutting down the dead men and Aelyn, wreathed in flames, sending them burning to the ground. Turning, he saw more draugars running in from the forest, a score or more seething shadows.
Terror clenched his chest, and his throat seized so tightly it was nearly impossible to speak. Yet he squeezed out the words. "Help them."
Exaltation and triumph flooded through him, and Garin knew it wasn't his own.
"Dead men," Tal wheezed to himself, "shouldn't be able to move so fast."
He'd been counted a skilled warrior in his day, the most skilled by some false accounts. Falcon had once declared that he, Tal Harrenfel, had held off the whole of the Sendeshi army at the Pass of Argothe. The bard had also written that there was no duelist in all of the Reach Realms that had ever managed to touch Tal, much less win against him.
Unfortunately, both of those tales were flagrantly false.
As the draugars flooded the forest, driving at him and his companions, it was all he could do to avoid their rusted blades. In theory, he needn't have bothered; as summoned creatures, the Ring of Thalkuun ought to have protected him from their attacks. But the rules of sorcery were fickle things, and none knew it better than he. He wasn't going to risk being stuck with a sword on a hunch.
For every draugar he cut back into a corpse, three more took its place. He'd lost track of Garin and was barely managing to keep Wren alive, though the youth was holding her own.
"Kald!" Tal cried, and swept the blazing blade through three of the enemy at once, sending them reeling backward, blue flames engulfing their bodies. The other draugars faltered for a moment, and Tal risked a glance around. Wren fought two draugars at once, her sword weaving in and out as she parried and riposted. Aelyn made two more of the dead men erupt into blue flames, his lips pulled back into a disdainful sneer.
And Garin? The boy you roped into this mess?
But the draugars were surging forward again, and Tal had no time to look further. He blocked a blade, cut into another on the backswing, twisted out of a stab, kicked the leg out from a third. "Lisk!" he called, then "Kald!" — again, and again, and the corpses fell burnt or frozen to the ground, the corrupted souls bleeding out of them once more.
But despite the fury of the battle, the constant sorcery was leaving him weak and shivering. As yet more draugars ran at them from among the dark trees, he found himself doubting. I'm sorry, Falcon, for all the ways I've failed you, he thought. You cannot know how much.
A figure ran past his left, and Tal spun, sword raised. But he stopped short of striking as he recognized the lanky, youthful form running in front of him, straight at the oncoming draugars.
"Garin!" Tal roared and sprinted after him.
There'd been blood smeared across the youth's arm, too much blood, but Garin didn't seem slowed by it. Charging the foremost of the enemies, he stopped and raised his sword. Tal was still several paces behind when the draugars reached the youth. But before they could strike him down, unearthly words cut into Tal's ears. He cringed as the Ring of Thalkuun burned on his finger, and within, his blood surged.
The draugars, however, didn't fare so well. All had stopped fighting and were lined up in a row before Garin, like soldiers presenting themselves to an officer. The terrible words ushered forth from the youth's mouth again, and the draugars moved, twisting their swords around to point at their midriffs.
Then Garin screamed once more, and they thrust the blades into themselves. As one, they slumped forward and collapsed like grass before a scythe.
As Garin turned, Tal could barely meet his gaze. Something else looked out from his eyes, curled his lips into a triumphant smile, made him stand so unnaturally unaware of the deep cut oozing blood from his arm.
You got him into this. Now get him out.
Tal dropped his sword and raised his hands as he advanced on the youth. "Garin," he said softly, speaking as if to a skittish horse. "Come back to us, Garin. The danger's gone; you took care of it. Now it's time to come back."
His expression spasmed, eyes flickering, mouth twitching. Garin's shoulders slumped, but his eyes never left Tal's.
"You will let the blood flow," the youth whispered. "But he will incite the chorus to sing."
Then he fell forward.
Tal caught him and eased him to the ground. Garin groaned, and his eyes rolled up in the back of his head. He's free. Te
aring his gaze away, Tal scanned the rest of his body and found the most severe wound was on his arm. And what a wound it was, with the flesh torn all the way down to the bone. He'd seen plenty of gore in his day, but he still found his gut twisting at the sight of the boy's injury.
"Garin?" Wren had reached them, and Tal saw her eyes were more panicked than she'd shown during the fight. "Is he…?"
"Get Aelyn," Tal ordered her as he pulled out his knife and began cutting off Garin's sleeve short of the wound. When it was exposed, he studied it. Clean it, stitch it, bind it. The old advice from the battlefield infirmaries that he'd worked in as a boy came back to him slowly. It was the best he could do out here.
Wren returned a moment later with the mage, and Tal glanced up from his work. "His arm is cut deep. I need you to purify the wound for corruption."
Aelyn nodded. "I'll require a catalyst — there's one in my pack."
He moved swiftly away while Wren edged closer. The young woman hardly ever seemed uncertain, but now, she looked as wary as Garin had when first entering the Smallstage. "He'll make it," she whispered, and it sounded more like a question than a statement. "He'll make it."
Keep her busy, or the panic will. "Bring me my cloak, or yours," Tal told her. "And my water flask and pack. Quickly!"
She scrambled to do as he'd asked.
Pulling off his shirt, Tal barely felt the cold as he kept pressure on the wound as he waited, his blood hot in his veins. Garin's face was pale, and his lips moved, but only faint, jumbled words came out.
As Aelyn returned and bent before the lad, Tal moved over, letting the mage sprinkle powder from a sack over the wound, then lay his hands over it, heedless of the blood that oozed over them. The mage began muttering just loud enough for Tal to catch the words. He listened intently, hoping he wouldn't need to say them himself, but determined to know them should the need arrive.
A minute later, Aelyn released his arm and stood. "That should have cleansed him of the most common corruptions."
"Then we've got to stop this bleeding."
As Wren returned, she offered the water flask and cloak wordlessly, though her eyes wandered over him, no doubt wondering at the scars and tattoos scrawled across his skin. Tal ignored her and poured the whole flask over the wound, cleaning it as best as he could, then ruffled through his pack. "Cut strips from my cloak," he instructed Wren, and she pulled out her belt knife and set to it.
Finding his needle and gut, he threaded the needle, knotted the opposite end of the gut, and glanced at Aelyn. "Hold the wound shut."
The mage only slightly scowled as he knelt and pressed the frayed splits of the flesh together. Tal noticed his own hands were shaking. The performance matters this time, he thought. But he'd overcome his stage fright long ago, and he inserted the needle through Garin's skin.
Minutes later, the wound was pulled tightly closed with a neat row of stitches, and Tal took the strips of his cloak from Wren and began winding them tightly around the wound. The bottom layer saturated the cloth almost as soon as he'd bound it, but by three more layers, the blood had stopped seeping through. For the moment, at least.
Tal glanced at the other two: Wren kneeling next to them, her face pale, Aelyn scanning their surroundings, his scowl growing more pronounced by the moment.
"We can't stay here," Tal said.
"That much is obvious," Aelyn noted irritably. "Unless you'd prefer that more Nightkin find us."
"He can't move!" Wren said fiercely. "Look!"
"I can walk."
Tal stared down in amazement as Garin sat up, his uninjured hand set to his head. A moment later, he came to his senses and pressed the youth back down. "You'll faint if you try and stand now. Wren, could you fetch more water?"
When she returned with another flask, Tal offered it to Garin, and the youth drank it down, reluctantly at first, then greedily. He'd nearly sucked the skin dry by the time Tal pulled it away.
"I'll bolster his strength if I must, but we need to leave," Aelyn said, fingers tapping on his arm.
Wren had stood again, fists clenched at her sides, eyes staring behind them. "Too late," she hissed. "Look!"
Tal whipped his head around and found dark shapes advancing through the trees. "Yuldor's prick," he groaned. He glanced down at Garin and met his eyes. "Can you walk?"
His face was pale, but his jaw stiffened, and he nodded.
Tal pulled on his bloodstained shirt and his leather jerkin after, and slung his pack over his shoulders. Then he hauled Garin to his feet and, keeping a supporting hand on his arm, his other hand clutched Velori. "Warn me if they get too close," he told Aelyn, then set forth, their pace excruciatingly slow.
The mage walked beside him, his eyes still peeled behind. "I don't know that they will," he said softly. "If they meant to attack, they would have charged as the ones before had." His eyes flickered over to Tal, bronze flashing in the fey light hovering above them. "They're herding us."
Tal looked up the hill. "Little wonder where. Still have your surprise ready?"
Aelyn smiled, the pleasure sharp and eager. "Just get me close, Harrenfel, and I'll take care of the rest."
If we survive that long. Even with all the close encounters throughout his illustrious career, Tal was starting to wonder if his luck was running out.
Fable’s End
In all of their journey of exhausting escapades, Garin had never felt so low.
His head felt so light he thought he must soon float away from the World. His arm throbbed with painful regularity, sending hammer blows up his shoulder and into the base of his skull. The makeshift bandages were already soaked through with blood.
But he ground his teeth and said nothing. No point in complaining; neither he nor his companions could do anything about it. Halt, and the draugars herding them might decide it was finally time to end their march. And always, the incessant Nightsong filled his head so that it felt fit to burst.
All he could do was clench his jaw and keep stumbling up the hill.
As they ascended, a fog thickened around them until the day, already gray to start, became as gloomy as a moonlit night, and their draugar escorts faded to dark smudges. It almost came as a relief when the trees abruptly thinned before them, and high walls loomed out of the flat gray. Garin lifted his head to stare at the mist-wreathed Ruins of Erlodan. If I had just waited outside the ruins like Tal had wanted, none of this would have happened, he thought. And I never would have stabbed Kaleras.
But as his brothers had often said, regrets weren't worth a fart at the best of times. His gaze fell back to his feet as they shuffled forward amongst the cracked foundations of the timeworn castle.
After some time, he raised his head again and scanned the area. There were innumerable shadows and alcoves in which other Nightkin could be hiding, to say nothing of the fog that pooled in the dark spaces. But if the Extinguished wanted to kill us, he would have sent in the other draugars. There was something else Yuldor's warlock wanted, something they could only give alive. But with half the blood in his body leaking from his arm, Garin doubted he'd be able to think it through.
Soon.
The word was faint, less than a whisper, but Garin shivered at it all the same.
Tal pulled him to a halt, and Garin jerked his head up. A courtyard opened before them, but the thickest mist yet filled it so that even the ruined walls surrounding them were nearly lost from sight. Only one shadow, a lone figure dwarfed amid the fog, stood before them.
As comprehension washed over him, Garin felt his legs give way beneath him. Only Tal's grip on his arm kept him upright.
"Stay strong," his would-be mentor whispered to him. "You're stronger than him."
It seemed a funny thing to say when he'd never felt so weak.
"You came." It was Falcon's voice that rang out, echoing unnaturally in the fog, but it sounded wrong. The tone had harshened, and the cruel edge that Garin had begun to glimpse toward the end of the Soulstealer's facade had grown r
azor sharp.
"Against all reason, all wisdom," the Extinguished continued, "still, you came. As I knew you would."
"We came," Tal called back. "And you know what we came for."
The cruel laugh rang in Garin's ears. "You've grown soft in your old age, Harrenfel. A time was when you'd have sooner cut a man's throat than trust him."
"Time changes men." Tal's voice had changed, too, dropping low and rough. "Sometimes, for the better."
"But not often." The shadow in the fog drifted closer. "Some become bitter, others weepy. And a few become fools."
"Where is he? The man whose soul you stole?"
"Your friend? The one whose daughter you allowed to wander into danger?"
Tal released Garin's arm and stepped forward, and Garin leaned dangerously before someone else caught his arm and pulled him upright.
"I've got you," Wren whispered.
Garin tried for a smile and fell far short.
Tal walked a few steps before the others. He still wore his pack, and his shirt under his leather jerkin was stiff with blood, most of it Garin's. His rune-inscribed sword hung from his hand at his side.
"Give him to us," Tal said slowly, "and you may yet survive this."
The Extinguished laughed harshly again. "I will always survive! Even if you manage to kill this body, my master preserves me for his Path. My survival is not in question." The shadow in the fog raised a hand, and the dark band of metal on his wrist was just visible through the bright mist. "Nevertheless, I will give you what you want. If you're certain you still want him."
The stones below Garin's feet began to shake, and he stumbled against Wren as he lost his balance. He glanced up to see the ground split before the Extinguished, crumbling and folding back like a blooming flower until something solid and rectangular emerged from the gap. As it stopped rising, the earth ceased to rumble, and Garin loosened his clutch on Wren. But it was she who now clung to him, eyes wide as she stared at the stone block. A coffin, Garin realized.
"Is he in there?" Tal's voice was impossibly steady and sure.
A King's Bargain Page 25
