3
The Warden’s Promise
They rode in uneasy silence down the mountainside.
The sky rumbled and raged overhead, echoing Darien’s mood. He glanced up as a streak of lightning stabbed a nearby slope, the air erupting in crackling thunder. The horse beneath him jumped sideways and tried to bolt. He pulled the reins close, fighting to calm the animal. With a defiant snort, the stallion yielded control back to him.
He was in a black mood. Too many thoughts raged in his head, warring for dominance. Each fleeting thought bubbled to the surface and then sank, tumbling back down. First Meiran’s blood-crusted face gaped up at him, accompanied by an upwelling of grief and loathing. Then Kyel flashed before his mind, wielding Thar’gon in his hand—a thought so dreadful it made Darien flinch. He’d made a tremendous mistake, leaving Kyel alive. He regretted that decision now. He suspected he’d regret it even more later.
Below, the fog in the river bottom parted, and their encampment came into view. There were no lights of cookfires; there was no coal to burn. The camp was almost completely broken down. His own tent was one of the few that remained intact.
Looking at Sayeed, he asked, “How long until we march?”
“The forward camp is not yet prepared,” Sayeed informed him.
“Good. That’ll give me time to rest.”
When they attained the camp, Darien tied his horse to the picket and returned to his tent. He threw his boots into a corner, his mail shirt following them to the ground. Feeling exhausted, he cast himself down on his pallet. He sat there until he heard Azár enter after him. She paused in the tent’s entrance, one hand holding back the flap. She took a step inside, letting the canvas sway closed.
“My husband does not look well,” she observed, taking another step toward him.
Darien kept his stare angled at the floor. “I’m fine.”
She sat beside him and looked into his eyes. “Do you wish to speak of it?”
“No.”
There was a long pause that conveyed the weight of her hesitation. After a moment, she said, “I know Meiran mattered very much to you. I know it must be hard for you to—”
“Stop.” Darien jerked away from her. “You have no idea how I feel.”
Azár’s face hardened. She stood up, scowling. “You’re right. I do not. That is because you are like a wall to me. How am I supposed to walk beside my husband, if he will not speak his heart?”
Darien glared at her through several layers of irritation. “That’s your problem to figure out. When it comes to Meiran, you will respect my privacy. What I feel—or felt—for her is none of your damn concern. Understand?” She had no business in his feelings. His feelings were his own.
A troubled silence settled between them.
“I understand,” she said at last, though he knew she didn’t.
But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was done trying to drag his emotions out to dissect on the floor.
“I’m going to get some sleep.” He lay back, tugging the blankets up, and turned away from her.
He awoke to a slobbering tongue wetting the side of his face. The sensation was accompanied by a putrid stench that was fondly familiar. Groaning, Darien reached up and pushed the weight of the demon-hound off him. The grisly thing moved back, its tail drumming against the floor.
“Theanoch.”
The thanacryst obeyed with a whine, its jaw snapping shut. It stared at him dejectedly.
He rubbed his eyes. Groping at the pallet next to his, Darien found the covers empty. Azár had either awakened before him or had never slept at all. He summoned a blue glow of magelight, enough to look around. The tent was empty. Even his possessions had been packed up and carried out. Only his clothing and armor remained, piled where he’d left them in the corner.
Darien donned his boots and his mail shirt, strapping on the scimitar Sayeed had given him for a wedding gift. Valdivora. It had once been carried by Khoresh Kateem, the notorious conqueror who had united the tribes of Caladorn into the largest empire in history. The sword had such an important role in deciding events that had shaken the world, that Darien had been hesitant to wear it. But he didn’t have a choice now. It was the only sword he had left.
He emerged from the tent and found his men forming up for the march. Frustrated, Darien wondered why no one had thought to wake him. He set out toward the horse pickets, where he found Azár untethering her mare. She saw him approaching and mounted up, kicking her horse forward and angling away from him. Darien watched her go.
He crossed the camp toward his own stallion, the demon-hound keeping pace with his strides. The soldiers paid the thanacryst no mind as he wove through their midst. It had long ago stopped being an anomaly.
Darien untied his horse and mounted up. He kicked the stallion to a canter, riding toward the front of the column. Sayeed and Azár were already there. His wife glanced his way as he drew up at her side. The anger on her face was still there, looking permanently etched into her skin. She turned away and made a conspicuous effort to avoid eye contact.
As the column moved forward, Darien found himself wondering how long his wife was going to shun him. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t understand her any better than he understood himself.
As they rode out of the Pass, the clouds slowly loosened their grip on the sky. Streaks of sunlight broke through the layers, blinding rays that slanted down and dappled the slopes of the foothills. Eventually, the clouds yielded altogether, revealing a sky more furiously blue than Darien remembered. He squinted, his vision overwhelmed by the brilliant glare of sunlight. He brought a hand up to shield his face, his eyes watering. He heard gasps and cries from the soldiers behind him, many of whom had never seen the miracle of daylight.
Their joy came to a nauseating end.
Before them, stretched out across the plain, was a thick black scar where the battle had been waged. The carnage had been left untouched for two days, the dead left where they’d fallen. The air was filled with the consistent cries of birds: black ravens whose sheer numbers carpeted the battlefield and thickened the skies. Darien’s stomach twisted at the sight of the birds, at the vast number of dead sprawled across the ground or collected in decomposing hummocks.
When they waded into the sea of rot, the stench became unbearable. Darien held his cloak over his face, though the thick fabric did little good. Hordes of flies bloomed up from the ground, the sound a loud, consistent drone. The stench and the noise set Darien’s horse on edge. The stallion laid back its ears and tugged its head, fighting for control of the bit. Darien steadied it with a firm grip on the reins.
The sounds of their passage startled great mobs of birds, which took wing in squalling protest. They swirled in the sky, a bulbous and writhing mass, before settling back down. Looking out across the roiling sea of decay, Darien felt enraged. There was no reason for this waste. No reason why he’d had to resort to such savagery. All of this blood wasn’t on his hands. It was on theirs. The commanders of the Rhen could have withdrawn their forces and let them pass. Instead, they’d ordered their soldiers to stand their ground against impossible odds. It was unsettling. And infuriating.
Clucking at his horse, Darien urged the stallion faster.
They reached the forward camp just as the sun’s red disc sank beneath the grassland. The sky was a hostile red streaked with gold, an expansive display of beauty that captured Darien’s gaze. It had been years since he’d last seen a sunset. He’d forgotten how powerful they were.
As they rode into the encampment, he saw that the command tent had already been raised. It was another testament to the ingenuity of the Tanisars when they were on campaign: they had a way of leapfrogging campsites to hasten the march. As the rear camp was broken down, the forward camp was already being pitched. There were actually two command tents. The one left behind in the Pass would be packed up and moved ahead of them and readied for the next day.
Sayeed set their course to
ward the pavilion. Darien balked, drawing back his horse’s reins. He was too drained to want to deal with the clamor and challenge of the war chiefs. His emotions were too rough, too brittle. He needed time to find some clarity.
“No.” He shook his head. “Not tonight. I just want to find my own tent.”
Sayeed turned back to him with a confused expression. “This is your tent.”
Darien opened his mouth to object, then realized he had no objection to make. With Byron Connel dead, it made sense that he would assume the Warden’s command. And his tent. Darien wondered what the elders of the tribes would think about that; he was only blood of their blood through marriage. He didn’t want to fight another challenge to his legitimacy.
He dismounted alongside the pavilion and handed his horse’s reins to a waiting soldier. Sayeed at his side, Darien walked toward the tent on stiff legs. He stopped at the entrance, not wanting to go in. It didn’t seem right. None of it felt right, like it didn’t fit.
Sayeed patted his shoulder. “Go in, Brother. I will have your possessions brought to you.”
Darien asked, “What about Connel’s things?”
The officer shrugged. “Do with them what you will. They are yours now.”
Darien followed the man’s suggestion and entered the tent. The smell of incense filled his nostrils. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the ambient light of the interior. Hanging fabric cordoned off several rooms, and the floor was layered with overlapping rugs. Through a gap between curtains, he saw that a large table had been set up in one of the partitions. A few men were already seated on the floor in the gathering area. They looked up and frowned at the sight of him.
Darien leaned his sword against the canvas wall. Then he made his way through the cloth partition that cordoned off Byron Connel’s personal quarters. Inside was a large four-poster bed with a matching wardrobe, along with cushioned chairs and an iron rack made to hold armor. Bright fabric hung from the walls and the ceiling, the floor layered with sumptuous rugs. For a moment, Darien stood staring incredulously. It all looked so surreal in the midst of a military encampment. It defied reason.
His attention was drawn to the far end of the room, where a book rested on a pedestal. The sight was so peculiar that he couldn’t keep himself from wandering over to it. The tome was open, a blue silk ribbon marking the page. Darien gave the text a cursory glance, enough to see that the words were some type of poetry, perhaps an epic ballad. He read a few stanzas before deciding it was not a work he was familiar with.
He heard Azár enter and pause to stand behind him. Darien supposed he couldn’t keep avoiding her. But he also didn’t know what to say. So he stood there waiting, staring at everything in the tent but her. Preparing himself to weather another barrage of questions he didn’t want to answer.
But instead of speaking, Azár simply drew near and wrapped her arms around him. Surprised, Darien hugged her back, wondering at her change of heart. Azár’s touch felt good, comforting. Gradually, he felt the rage of emotions in his head dwindle to a manageable fury. She held him for a long time then pulled back to look into his face, her gaze wandering over his features.
Darien took her by the hand and guided her toward the bed. This time, she let him.
He woke from sleep to a loud blur of conversation. Guessing the cause, Darien rose and dressed. Azár still slumbered in their oversized bed, one hand lingering on a pillow, fingers outstretched. The covers pulled over her body rose and fell in a gentle, consistent tide. Darien lingered for a moment, composing his thoughts, then slipped through the partition into the main gathering area of the tent.
The pavilion was crowded with people. They sat scattered in small groups across the floor. Food was arranged on long drapes of cloth that had been rolled out, covered with bowls and communal platters. There was a constant buzz of discussion, broken only by abrupt spikes of laughter. Darien looked around at the spread of food, wondering what the soldiers in the camp were eating.
The conversation died as people took notice of him. Sayeed sat close by, surrounded by a small group of Zakai. Darien recognized many of the other faces as the warlords and elders of the various clans. They were all staring at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to speak. By the wary looks he was receiving, he gathered his newfound authority was not universally accepted.
Darien decided it was time to formalize the position he’d inherited from Connel. If the war chiefs wanted to challenge him, it would be better if they did so now instead of later. He couldn’t afford his orders to be questioned, and the last thing he needed was a power struggle.
Looking at the men and women seated before him, Darien said, “I’ll accept your pledges of loyalty now.”
Many of the faces darkened with anger. A few of the younger men threw their bowls to the floor and stood up. He knew several of them, and he also knew their temperaments. They were warriors and did not yield easily. They respected authority only when it was wielded over them like a hammer.
The leader of the Jenn Kadeesh rose and stood towering over him, looking Darien up and down as if assessing a bad piece of meat. With a heavy frown, he grumbled, “You might be a Battlemage, Darien Nach’tier. But you are not Warden. Only Zavier Renquist can name you so.”
Sounds of collective agreement echoed from all around the tent. Even the elders sat nodding. Darien fumed. Apparently, nothing came without a struggle, even actions that seemed obvious and logical. He was getting tired of people pushing him further than he wanted to go. He hoped the tribal leaders would relent before things went that far.
“Zavier Renquist isn’t here,” he informed them. “I’m taking Byron Connel’s place as Warden of the Combined Legions of Malikar. If you wish to argue, go ahead—but I’ll win that argument. I have a goal. And I’ll not be deterred from it.”
The men stared at him with defiant faces.
Sayeed rose from the floor and whispered in his ear, “They will not give you their loyalty. You must take it.”
Darien understood. He would have to prove he had the fortitude and resolve to lead Malikar’s armies. In order to lead, he would first have to conquer.
He closed his eyes and reached out from within, taking hold of the magic field. Shadows bloomed within the tent as the light of the lanterns faded to darkness. He concentrated harder, feeding the air with just a trickle of power. After a moment, quiet, uncomfortable noises reached his ears. He drew harder on the magic field, applying more heat and pressure to the air, feeling it thicken around him, until the tent was filled with cries and moans.
Darien held the tormented air in the tent for a minute longer. At last, he let the light return and willed the air to cool and thin. He opened his eyes to find men and women sprawled across the floor, groaning in pain. Shaken elders, pale and trembling, turned to confer with their war chiefs.
Darien didn’t wait for them to decide their positions. Stepping forward, he growled to every man and woman gathered in the tent, “Now kneel and pledge me fealty!”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then every elder in the room went to their knees, bowing forward. They were followed by the officers and then, eventually, the war chiefs.
Darien stood staring down at their backs in fury. He made them wait in the position of prostration a long time, each man and woman frozen as if carved from stone. After minutes, he walked to the back of the pavilion and claimed the bench-like chair Connel had ruled from.
One by one, the war chiefs came forward to offer their pledge. When the last man had kissed his hand, Sayeed rose and retrieved Darien’s sword. In one graceful motion, the officer bared Valdivora from its sheath and dropped to his knees. He bowed his head deeply and, cradling the blade in both hands, offered it to Darien.
Loudly, Sayeed proclaimed, “His Excellency, Darien Lauchlin Nach’tier, Warden of Battlemages, Last Sentinel of Aerysius, and Xerys’ Shadow on Earth!”
Darien rose and accepted the sword, sweeping it around and down, parting the air with a
hiss. He looked down at Sayeed.
“Sayeed son of Alborz, I name you First Among Many.”
Sayeed remained frozen on his knees, absorbing his elevation in silence. But another man surged up behind him, face set in lines of outrage. Darien recognized him as Byron Connel’s second-in-command.
“Warden!” the warrior cried. “By tradition, the office of the First is reserved for the general of Bryn Calazar’s legions!”
“No longer.” Darien glared the man back to his knees.
A cold and heavy stillness settled over the pavilion, encasing them all in silence. Long seconds wore away, each seeming to bear the weight of eternity. At last, Darien surrendered his sword into Sayeed’s keeping and sank back down on the bench. He leaned back, spreading his arms as if assuming a throne. The men and women remained on their knees, eyes still fixed upon the ground.
“You may rise,” Darrien allowed.
As the warlords settled back to their respective places, Darien turned his gaze to the man who had challenged him. “Make your report then leave my presence.”
The general rose and, raising a hand to his chest, bowed stiffly. “Warden, the way ahead lies open and undefended before us.”
Darien waved a dismissal, hastening the man out of the tent. He turned to the commanders who remained. “Advise.”
There was a low murmur as the war chiefs conferred quietly. Eventually, the warlord of the Beyads rose to his feet. “Warden, we must apply our minds to the problem of logistics. As we move deeper into this land, it will become more difficult to maintain our supply lines.”
“Agreed.” Darien nodded. “What do you suggest?”
“We need to take care how quickly we move our civilians south of the Pass. It would not be wise to stretch our baggage train thin until we gain control of this region’s food production.”
Darien nodded. The words were an echo of his own thoughts. “That would be wise. What else?”
Darkfall Page 3
