“Whatever this is, it is very strong,” Azár said, making a face and handing him her cup.
Darien accepted it with a grin. Koff’s cider had been known and respected throughout the Vale. Gazing into her cup, he wondered where old Koff was now. And Koff’s wife. And the rest of his family. He tossed Azár’s cider down in a few swallows, feeling the magic field ebb as he did.
He stood up and wandered back through the thick smoke toward the fire, scanning for the cider cask. Night had smothered the town while he wasn’t looking. The bonfire crackled at the darkness, its flames snapping at the air. The sounds of laughter and conversation rose in a dull haze of noise, punctuated by the clatter of drums and the erratic blare of a war-horn. A cry went up from a ring of soldiers standing nearby—someone had won a game of cross-sticks. A group of men had formed a line beside the fire and, linking arms, began a foot-stomping dance that snaked around the gathering, picking up participants as it went.
He found one of the oak-barrels and angled toward it but was intercepted by Sayeed. The officer plucked the empty mug from his hand and replaced it with a fresh one.
“Just ask, Brother,” he admonished.
Darien asked, “Have you tried it?”
“Someone must have a clear head.” Sayeed smiled and clapped Darien on the back. Then he took him by the arm, guiding him back across the square. Darien had the mug drained by the time he reclaimed his cushion.
“Go dance!” Azár commanded, waving him away.
Darien sat down, staring at her with a look of affronted dignity. “No.”
Mischievous intent glittered in her eyes. Azár grinned at Sayeed, then leaned into Darien, nudging him forward. “Go! Just one dance!”
“Battlemages don’t dance,” Darien said firmly, and meant it. He reached across her for a piece of bread. The next thing he knew, he was being hauled to his feet.
“Tonight, they do!” Sayeed cried and, to Darien’s horror, pulled him by the arm toward the bonfire.
He shot an outraged glare over his shoulder at Azár, who flashed him an indulgent grin. He tried to yank his arm out of Sayeed’s vice-like grasp but a loud whoop! from the gathering stopped his squirming. Soldiers laughed and sprang back to clear a path for him. Men cheered, and women trilled their tongues, urging him forward. Before he knew it, he was standing in the line of dancers, trying to figure out when to kick and when to stomp—the whole while looking like a complete ass, he was certain.
The crowd laughed and clapped and cheered. He hadn’t had near enough cider, Darien decided. He missed a step and staggered—and was caught by Sayeed, who threw his head back and burst into hearty laughter. Darien found himself grinning, finally finding some humor in the situation. He stomped and kicked and kicked and stomped, finally figuring out the pattern—and found he was able to laugh at himself when he got it wrong. The crowd roared and cheered.
Hearing the song die around him, Darien twisted out of line and fled back toward the cider cask. He stopped when he was halfway there, feeling suddenly light-headed. For just a moment, his vision blurred. The cider had been stronger than he’d thought. He decided he didn’t need any more. The magic field was already a thin filament in the back of his head, scarcely tangible. He changed direction and walked back toward where Azár sat surrounded by Zakai. By the time he reached her, the exhaustion of the day had caught up with him. He sank down next to her with a full stomach and a weary sigh.
Azár threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight. “The Battlemage who dances!” she announced gleefully.
Darien feigned outrage, pulling away, trying hard not to laugh. Azár kissed him on the cheek and took his hand. Her touch sent a strange sensation shooting up his arm, like a fine needling of prickles that started in his fingertips. He let go of his wife’s hand and wiggled his fingers, trying to work the sensation out of them. He felt suddenly, uncomfortably warm. A sweat broke out on his forehead.
“What is it?” Azár asked.
Darien shook his head. The prickling feeling retreated back out of his fingers. He dropped his hand to his side. “I’m just tired,” he assured her. “I think I’ll find my bed.”
He pushed himself up off the ground.
She said, “I’ll go with you.”
He took her by the hand and led her through the hollering revelry back toward the mayor’s home. And the mayor’s bed.
19
The Sentinel’s Gambit
“Wake up!”
The voice wasn’t sharp enough to cut all the way through the dense fog that smothered him, holding him down.
“Brother, wake up!”
An incessant shaking threatened to break him out of the fog. Darien groaned, willing it to stop. But it didn’t. The shaking continued. He grew exasperated. He wanted to sink back down into the comfortable mist and never come up again. He lashed out with an inarticulate groan.
“He will not wake!”
The shaking stopped. A hand slapped his cheek, over and over and over again. It wouldn’t let him slide back down where he wanted to go. That made him angry. He swiped out with an arm.
“Stop!” he growled and cracked open his eyes.
“Brother!”
Sayeed lifted him upright, a motion that made Darien retch. His stomach convulsed, squeezing bile into his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, trying hard not to vomit. He was still shaking, though no hands were on him. His clothing stuck to his skin, drenched in sweat. The room was dark and infinitely cold.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
“You are sick!” Azár cried. “Many are sick! You must heal yourself!”
Sick. Yes. He was sick. He supposed he could heal himself. The magic field was right there, within easy reach. He caught ahold of it—
—and jerked his mind back away.
“I can’t heal myself and stay awake,” he rasped. If there were others that were sick, he would have to see to their needs first, before he let the healing sleep overcome him. Gritting his teeth, Darien fought himself fully upright. Doing so made his head reel and his stomach twist. His pulse raced. He felt like he’d run miles in his sleep.
“It is poison!” Azár exclaimed, touching his cheek with the back of her hand. “It is acting fast. You do not have time to delay!”
“Not yet.” Darien shook his head. “I have to stay awake. Help me up.”
Azár exchanged concerned glances with Sayeed. At last, she relented. Sayeed stood and took hold of him, pulling Darien to his feet. His knees buckled, but the officer’s strong grip kept him upright. Darien stood clinging to the man’s shoulder until he felt stable enough to stand on his own. He took a spongy step forward. Then another. With Sayeed’s help, Darien staggered down the hallway. Azár walked ahead of them, glancing back fretfully.
Darien halted in the doorway and looked out at the square, which had been turned into a makeshift campsite. Men and women lay groaning in their blankets around the still-glowing ashes of the bonfire. Others wandered as if dazed amongst the sick. The air was filled with the sounds of moans and the reek of human waste.
Sayeed shook his head. “We tested the food.”
“It wasn’t in the food,” Darien said, cursing himself. “It was in the cider.”
For the first time in a long while, he felt white-cold panic. Staring out across the devastation of his warband, he realized a very cunning mind had planned this assault—planned it well. And it wasn’t over yet.
“They’re going to attack,” he said.
Sayeed looked at him gravely, then nodded. He shifted Darien’s weight to Azár. The officer set off across the square, shouting orders at the soldiers still on their feet. All but the sickest ran to form a perimeter. Scores of men poured in from the side streets, supplementing their defenses.
Feeling suddenly weak, Darien sank down and leaned against the doorway, holding his head in his hands. Azár knelt beside him, looking at him in concern. Nothing happened for minutes. And every minute, he felt the poison gnaw a litt
le more of him away. He stared down at the number of men who still lay on the ground, unable to stand with the rest of their comrades. He should be helping them, healing them.
But he’d been a fool. He’d lowered his guard.
“Fall back!”
Darien glanced up, peering intently out across the night. Then he heard it: the clattering sound of arrows pelting the ground, followed by the ragged sounds of his sentries dying somewhere on the outskirts of town. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered down the steps, leaning heavily on Azár. More arrows splattered the ground, this time closer. Across the square, unarmored men and women started dropping by the dozens.
Darien reached out from within and threw his will on the air, struggling to conjure a shield to protect them from the bowmen’s long reach. He couldn’t do it. His mind was just as feeble as the rest of him. Staggering, he trudged forward.
“What are you doing?” Azár cried. “You cannot—”
He waved her silent. “I have to get closer!”
Another cloud of arrows whispered at them from the darkness. They clattered to the earth, finding purchase in the bodies of the ill and injured. Across the square, his soldiers were dropping at an alarming rate.
Darien knew he was close enough when he felt the wind of an arrow hiss past his ear. He closed his eyes, focusing his mind as best he could. He cast a glowing shield up over the square. Arrows battered against it, ricocheting off. In the distance, he could hear shouts of frustration when the bowmen realized they were neutralized.
Knowing what was coming next, he reached to draw his sword. And cursed when it wasn’t there.
“We need to flee. Now!” Azár jerked his arm, yanking him backward.
The shield was costing him. Darien didn’t have the strength to maintain it and grapple with his wife at the same time. So he staggered after her, letting the shield thin behind him. Sweat streamed down his face, and his legs trembled beneath him. He couldn’t keep up with her.
“Hurry!” Azár cried, tugging him forward.
Darien tripped and landed face-down in the dirt. Azár managed to get him back on his feet, to get him moving. He could hear his soldiers engaging an assault force, the clamor of battle ringing across the square, echoing off the walls of the houses. Exhausted, Darien dropped the shield entirely. It wasn’t necessary anymore.
“Back in the house!” Azár gasped, hurrying him toward the stairs. But his strength gave out. Darien sank to his knees in the dirt. The world lurched, his vision reeling. He felt like he was going to be violently ill.
“I have to help them,” he gasped, trying to make the two Azárs in front of him merge into one image.
Both Azárs raised a fist as if to strike him. “You cannot help anyone dead! You need to heal yourself—now!”
Darien closed his eyes. The world sagged, and he sagged with it. He rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach. He felt a growing calmness, a comforting fog drifting up to claim him.
Commotion across the square made him look. A group of Valemen had broken through the perimeter and were charging their position. A few Tanisars streamed in from the alleys to attack their flanks, not fast enough to overcome them.
Azár leaped in front of him and dropped into a fighting crouch, one hand on the ground, as if readying to take them all on by herself.
Darien could do nothing to help her. He lay on his side in the dirt, watching events unfold through a bleary, tilted world. Azár held her ground as the charging men closed the distance between them.
All at once, she screamed and swept out with her hand. A whooshing gush of flames poured forth, engulfing the Valemen’s front ranks. Men fled, screaming, through the street, trailing smoke behind them in a fiery wake. Others dropped and rolled in the dirt, enveloped in flames.
The last of the Valemen retreated but didn’t get far. A group of Zakai rushed forward, cutting down most with swords and crossbow bolts, routing the rest.
Darien watched the last burning man flail then stop moving. He thought maybe he recognized him. Not that it mattered.
With a cry, Azár dropped back to his side.
“You are safe,” she assured him, though the fear in her voice spoke otherwise. She rolled him onto his back.
Darien stared up at her blearily. He fumbled around for the magic field, grabbing the little bit he could. He drew it in and used it to look inward—
—and was horrified by what he found. His organs were shutting down, his tissues dead or dying. His heart stuttered along weakly, his lungs laboring to move air.
He closed his eyes and sucked in as much power as he could with what little he had left. He worked as quickly as he could, racing time against his own flagging consciousness. A wash of peaceful bliss swept over him, calming his heart, soothing the fire in his lungs. The fog came back and rose around him, consuming him, comforting him. Azár’s face faded as the mist claimed him entirely, sucking him down. Pulling him under.
Darien awoke comfortable and warm.
The mist was gone, receded back into whatever depths it had roiled up from. Darien blinked it away.
He was back in the bedroom of the mayor’s home. The mahogany bed with its over-stuffed mattress contained him, his head supported by down pillows. He was covered by a thick wool blanket that felt warm and scratchy against his skin. A tallow candle glowed from a bronze holder above the bed, the wall behind it darkened by soot.
He felt a hand squeeze his.
Darien turned his head to find Azár sitting at his bedside. She leaned forward, stroking her fingers through his hair. He couldn’t tell from the expression on her face whether she was happy or angry at finding him awake.
“How many did we lose?” he asked gruffly.
“Many.”
Azár continued to stroke his hair, gazing somberly down at him. Darien closed his eyes, internalizing her answer, using the knowledge to feed his self-loathing.
The deaths were on his hands.
He sat up with a struggle, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room wavered for a moment, then stabilized. He cast a glance around, taking in the dull, exhausted look of the bedroom. He wondered who the mayor might have been. Probably someone he knew. A tattered man with a tattered life, judging by his worn possessions.
With Azár’s help, Darien rose unsteadily to his feet. He tried a step, making sure his legs could support his weight. Azár peered at him skeptically.
“I’m good,” he told her.
He found his clothes draped over a shabby velvet chair. He started pulling on his shirt, but a purring noise behind made him turn. The demon-hound stood in the doorway, slobber stringing from its jowls. Darien tucked in his shirt and laced up his trousers. He walked across the room and offered out his hand. The hound licked his fingers with a festering tongue.
“Where were you last night?” he asked the detestable creature. The thing cocked its head to the side, looking fondly up at him.
“The attack was two nights ago,” Azár corrected him sharply.
Darien glanced back at her, hearing the anger in her voice.
“You’re unhappy.”
She stood with her arms crossed, exuding rage. “You were stupid!”
Darien couldn’t argue. He nodded in agreement, ruffling the thanacryst’s fur. “I agree. I’m stupid. I shouldn’t have trusted the cider. I’m sorry.”
Azár made a growling noise and spun away. “I am tired of your apologies! Every day, another apology! The problem is not the cider—the problem is you, acting as though you are immortal!”
Darien barked a scornful laugh. “Well, I’m not mortal, either, so what does that make me?”
“It makes you a fool!”
With that, she stormed out of the room. Darien stood listening to her loud footfalls echoing down the hallway. The front door opened and slammed shut again, rattling the windows. He let out a lingering sigh, looking down at the hound.
“Never get married,” he advised.
The
thing looked up at him and yawned. Darien gave it one last scratch, then sat down on the bed and pulled his boots on. He fastened his sword to his waist and followed his wife out of the house.
He walked down the stone steps to the street. There, Darien paused, looking over the debris-filled square. The dead had been cleared away, but evidence of the battle lay everywhere. The dirt was ribboned with blood and scorched by fires. Pieces of armor and bloody rags lay strewn everywhere. He walked slowly across the square, watching soldiers clearing away the remaining debris. They were working hard to return the town back to the state they had found it. Not for their own sakes; their force would be moving on. They were making ready for the civilians who would be following behind to settle in this place.
Darien followed a steady stream of soldiers moving in and out through the town’s main gate. He took only a few steps down the road before he slowed to a stop, too disturbed to move any further.
There, lining one of Nat Calway’s grain fields, lay a long row of corpses arranged neatly side by side. Sayeed’s men were laboring with shovels, digging a long trench along the far side of the field.
Darien’s insides twisted up in a knot. He didn’t know whether the dead were his own people… or his own people. He squeezed his eyes shut against a deluge of conflicting emotions he couldn’t push aside or ignore. The one that dominated, he thought, was an intense feeling of shame.
He forced himself to walk into the field of wheat, wading through the dew-wet grass. He needed to see their faces, had to know which friends his choices had slain. Starting at the end of the row of corpses, he worked his way slowly down the line, his gaze slipping from familiar face to familiar face. They were a sad, broken mix of men and women, white and brown. He knew the names of each. By the time Darien was halfway down the line, he felt physically ill. He made himself continue, scorching each name and face into his memory. When he reached the end of the row, he stopped and stared out across the grain field, feeling suddenly, inexplicably, numb.
He stood there a good while. Then he turned his back on the people he’d failed and walked away.
Darkfall Page 15
