Darkfall

by M. L. Spencer

  Alexa shook her head furiously. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t!” She tugged at his arm, face pale and desperate. “I saw them closing in on you. I thought if I distracted them, maybe it would give you a chance to get away. I don’t remember anything after that!”

  Kyel could feel a hot spark of anger igniting in his gut. Too many strange events converged around Alexa like iron filings to a lodestone. He said, “Well, you’re obviously here, so how did you get here?”

  She threw her hands up. “I don’t know! That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I woke up here this morning. I don’t remember anything before that. I really don’t. I think…”

  “You think what?” Kyel demanded.

  Her face went blank, her eyes slipping to the side as if in thought. Very slowly, she said, “I think I was brought here. But I don’t know how.”

  Her explanation did nothing to ease Kyel’s doubt. Rather, it had the exact opposite effect. “How could you have been brought here without knowing it? The attack on Glen Farquist was ten days ago! What have you been doing for the last ten days?”

  Alexa staggered back. Her face was flushed, either in anger or in desperation. “I don’t know! I don’t remember!”

  Kyel held his hand up. Thoughts tumbled around in his head then gradually began totaling themselves. The sum wasn’t in Alexa’s favor.

  He said, “Look. It all boils down to this: can I trust you? The more I think about it, the more I think the answer is no.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his hand again. “You’ve never told me a lie, at least none that I can verify. And you’ve helped me a lot, with the talisman and the necrators. But you’ve also never told me any truth that I can verify. Not one. Everything you say, I have to take on faith. But my faith’s running out. Tell me something I can validate. Right now. Or you’re going back to that cell.”

  Alexa shook her head in desperation, her eyes wide enough to eclipse the moon. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t remember!”

  Kyel could only shrug. Her response confirmed his doubts. “Then I’m sorry. I’m going to get the guards now.” He started to open the door.

  She shot out her hand, grasping him by the shoulder. “I banished his necrators!”

  Kyel turned back around. Warily, he said, “Explain.”

  Tears were collecting in Alexa’s eyes. “I banished Darien’s necrators!” she repeated. “I sent them away!”

  “Sent them where?”

  Softly, she whispered, “I sent their souls to Oblivion.”

  Kyel pulled away, taken aback. “Necrators don’t have souls.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her, shaking her head emphatically. “Necrators are souls! Collections of souls enslaved to the master who commands them.”

  “So how does this prove anything?” Kyel asked. “You’re telling me you can command his minions. Wouldn’t that make you a demon as well?”

  “No!” Alexa shook her head furiously. “I’m a Naturalist. I’m an expert at Natural Law—that’s what we do! And necrators are unnatural. That’s why I can unmake them. If I were one of Xerys’ Servants, I would have commanded those necrators to destroy you.”

  “All right, enough.” Kyel sighed, rubbing his temples. His brain ached. And, he had to admit, what she was saying made sense. He stepped back out of the doorway.

  “I’m just trying to help you, Kyel,” Alexa said, her eyes pleading. “I promise.”

  Kyel sighed and closed the door.

  The nameless Zakai officer bowed low before Darien. The man probably had a name, but he hadn’t bothered to learn it. Darien realized he knew very few of the names of the men sworn to serve him. It was better that way. Better to keep a distance. He didn’t want to be able to put too many names with too many faces. It made it much easier to bury a man.

  He leaned forward, using a stick to probe at the fire he’d built a good distance away from camp. He’d wanted to be alone. Away from the soldiers. Away from Azár. His thoughts were rampant, like a crowd of voices all shouting in his head, drowning out the rest of the world.

  “Warden, the pavilion has been made ready for your use,” the nameless officer reported.

  Darien glanced up, glaring at the man for disrupting his solitude. “What about Renquist?”

  “Both Prime Wardens have returned to Bryn Calazar.”

  If the soldier was put off by the look on his face, he didn’t show it. No Zakai would. Darien figured he could punch the man in the groin and the soldier would probably just thank him for it.

  He gave a grunt and poked at the fire again. The officer bowed and walked back toward the heart of the encampment. Darien stared after him, his eyes tracing the rows of tents while the thoughts in his head clamored for attention.

  He rose and kicked dirt into the fire, smothering it. He could have used magic—it would have been easier. But sometimes it felt better to perform a task unaided. He girded his sword belt around his hips and drew his pack on over his shoulders. Then, fingers hooked in the straps, he made his way over the trampled grass back toward the heart of the encampment.

  As he moved between rows of tents, the familiar sounds and smells settled his nerves. The camp had a life and rhythm of its own. Right now it was winding down, getting ready for the smooth transition into night. The sun had already set, its light just a gray smear on the western horizon. Voices carried on the air from every direction. Laughter rose somewhere in the distance then faded again like a tide. The smell of searing meat invaded his path, making his mouth water. In the back of his mind, his thoughts still churned, still vied for dominance. It was all he could do to ignore them.

  It took him awhile to reach the command tent. Darien pushed back the flaps and entered with an intense feeling of unease, half-expecting Renquist to appear out of the shadows. But the nameless officer had been right: both Prime Wardens were truly gone. Wearily, Darien pulled off his boots and pushed back the cloth partition. He stood there a moment, just looking. The four-poster bed looked the same as he’d left it. Connel’s book of poetry rested open on its pedestal. The colorful woven rugs were arrayed across the floor in the same overlapping pattern he remembered. As if the tent hadn’t been packed up and moved dozens of times over hundreds of miles in his absence.

  Darien’s gaze travelled across the floor, coming to rest on Azár’s back. He was surprised to find her kneeling on the rugs on the other side of the bed, taking items from a chest. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then rose gracefully with a smile. He slid his pack off and stood for a moment, just staring at her. Then he crossed the space and wrapped his arms around her from behind. His hands came to rest on her middle, on the slight bulge that had started to form there.

  He asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  He drew a deep breath, taking in the scent of her. “Your hair smells good.”

  “Yes, well, you stink.” He could hear the smirk in her voice. It made him smile. He held her tighter.

  “Do I, now?”

  “You smell like that hound when it gets wet.”

  Darien couldn’t help but grin. He released her and opened himself to the magic field, filling his mind with its sweet song. A soft blue light sprang into being around him, rippling over his body in azure waves. After a moment, he let it fade. Then he glanced down, verifying that his clothes were now just as clean as they smelled. He slipped his arms back around her.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.” He heard the smile in her voice. “That is better.”

  Softly, he kissed her hair. As he did, he felt inside her, probing, exploring, until he felt her heartbeat. And beneath that sound there was another—softer and intensely faster. Darien concentrated on that sensation, bent all of his will into exploring it. At last he felt it: the faintest, tentative echo of identity.

  “You carry a baby girl,” he whispered, his voice full of awe.

  “I know.”

  The smile was gone from his
wife’s voice. Only sadness remained. Sadness and despair. She twisted away from him. “I am going out.”

  He let her go, staring after her as she shrugged on a robe and fled through the partition. Darien closed his eyes and drew in a long, shuddering breath. He let it out again slowly. Collecting himself, he moved back out into the empty gathering space. Instead of following his wife, he moved to the table. He gazed down at the maps that were strewn across its surface, shoving his feelings aside. They were an unnecessary distraction.

  No harm would ever come to his wife or his daughter, he decided.

  He wouldn’t let it.

  Darien pinned his focus on the maps, studying them with an acute sense of purpose.

  32

  Servants of Xerys

  Quin emerged from the Catacombs into the death-dim shadows of a temple basement. The space seemed abandoned, the dark stones floured with old dust. The smell of mildew dampened the air, and the constant sound of dribbling water echoed softly through the darkness. Quin started forward, the sound of his footfalls jolting the quiet.

  He walked up an aisle lined with thick, dark pillars that supported a vaulted ceiling. Overhead, the roof seemed to sag in exhaustion, burdened by weight and old age. He reached a set of stairs and paused, looking up at walls encased by shadows that convulsed with sporadic torchlight. Quin closed his eyes, taking a moment to ease himself into the old mindset of hyper-vigilance. It took longer than expected. Centuries of indifference had dulled the sharp edges of his mind.

  In his former life, Quin had lived every moment in such a state. Because of his temperament, he had been identified young and trained in secret to three different orders at once, in an experiment that went far outside of ethical boundaries. He had become a perfect alloy of magical expertise: Arcanist, Empiricist, and Battlemage—an unexpectedly dark and potent combination. Quin’s unique skillset made him the most dangerous kind of assassin: a mage-killer. An ambush predator capable of disappearing into the shadows or striking from a distance. And under the rule of Zavier Renquist, the need for his talents had experienced a renaissance.

  No one in Aerysius had ever suspected him. Quin’s victims died of natural causes: heart attacks, aneurisms, falls… The tools he’d created left no magical traces, no indications of foul play. And if a particular death seemed too coincidental, Quin had made certain he was the last person in the world anyone would suspect. He’d lived a quiet life: just an introverted, cynical artisan who never left his workshop. A talented Arcanist known throughout the world for his capacity to create. Only three men in all of history had been aware of his capacity to destroy.

  One of those men was Zavier Renquist, who had commissioned his training all those years ago. Renquist called what Quin did “shadow diplomacy.” Quin had found that ironic at the time, because his brother had always been the diplomat in the family. And yet it was often Quin’s negotiations, more than Braden’s, that had the most impact.

  Beneath Quin’s feet, the temple rumbled.

  He paused, listening. The noise of dripping water seemed amplified in the stairwell. Above, one of the torches flared, the shadows flinching in response. Cautiously, Quin moved forward, stepping into a broad streak of torchlight.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a faint motion. His gaze ticked toward the young priest of Death who had been unfortunate enough to notice him. Quin willed the man dead then stepped over the corpse. Clutching his shadow staff close against his body, he crossed the shrine toward the door.

  He peered outside, shooting a glance up and down the dark street. The ash-paved road was empty, save for one lone man who limped toward him, head wrapped in the gray scarf of Bryn Calazar’s underclass. Quin stepped into the street, tipping his hat at the fellow. He caught the glint of suspicion in the man’s eyes as he walked away.

  Quin turned a corner and stepped into a narrow alley between the crumbling walls of two deteriorated buildings. There, he set his pack down and rifled through it. He withdrew a black vest made of a glimmering fabric that was dizzying to look at. Righting himself, Quin pulled on the vest. Immediately, the clothing he wore shimmered and blurred, distorted by a wave of magic. When he stepped out of the alley, he wore the thread-bare and soot-stained rags of a Calazari coal-digger. A mangled gray scarf hung from his shoulders, and his feet were bare and blackened. Quin wound the scarf around his head as he walked, tucking it into place.

  He followed the street to its inevitable end, then turned onto a more populated thoroughfare. Adopting the bow-legged stride of a tunnel-dweller, he walked with his shoulders slumped in the general direction of the harbor. The streets became crowded—too crowded, under the circumstances. Looking around at the intersections teeming with foot traffic, Quin began to wonder if Bryn Calazar had ever been evacuated.

  As he walked, he was constantly jostled by citizens in too much of a hurry to dodge him properly. Cadak was the busiest quarter of the city, and the most impoverished. Most people scurried about wrapped in throws and blankets, their skin unwashed, open wounds festering on their legs. Gas lanterns bordered the street, hazy orbs of light that faded in and out, at the mercy of roving clouds of coal-smoke. Quin followed the street as it curved, rising, to the top of a low hill.

  At the summit, he paused and caught his breath. Below, at the bottom of the cliff, a broad expanse of ocean unfurled before him. He could hear the crash of the waves as they broke against an offshore reef, could feel the thick humidity in the air. But there was no scent to the ocean. The miasma of coal-smoke overwhelmed even the taste of salt in the air. Quin stood there for a long time, listening to the gentle rhythm of the waves, remembering the myriad gulls and sails that had once bobbed on the surface of the crystalline water.

  Gazing out across the harbor, Quin realized how much he missed Bryn Calazar. Not this decapitated and resurrected monster of a city—he missed Bryn Calazar as it had been a thousand years ago, as it would never be again.

  Across the harbor, overlooking the ocean, limestone cliffs capped by a modest-sized temple drew his attention. In that spot, the Lyceum had once stood, its arching domes and graceful minarets a wonder of the ancient world. The Lyceum had survived wars, dynasties, millennia…

  …until his own choices had destroyed it.

  A low rumble overhead echoed Quin’s mood. He glanced up at the sky. The black clouds above looked even more volatile than usual, racing toward the horizon. The lights within their murky depths strobed as if incensed. Every once in a while, the lights would flare in unison, sending branches of lightning spiderwebbing across the sky. The sight was chilling. He knew what he was witnessing, for he had seen it before: the first throes of the magic field, as it cringed in anticipation of the Reversal.

  Quin thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned away from his memories. Keeping the harbor on his right, he set his course for the ziggurat.

  Darien folded his arms, looking around at the tight circle of war chiefs gathered in the command tent. Of them all, the general of Bryn Calazar’s army stared back at him the hardest. Masil ul-Calazi resented him and made no effort to hide it. Darien didn’t care. The man was capable and efficient. He’d secured the whole of the western plains while Darien’s Tanisars had been raiding down the far side of the Craghorns. Ul-Calazi commanded the largest professional fighting force in the world. It would be foolish not to take him seriously.

  Speaking with his hands as much as his mouth, the general explained, “When we first arrived, the defenders would ride out from their gates in groups of roughly two hundred and attack our flanks. They would hit us quickly and then flee back behind their walls. Since then, they have engaged in no offensive maneuvers.”

  Darien nodded, taking in the information and saying nothing. His gaze was focused on the general’s eyes, which stared back at him flatly. He was beginning to get the impression that, to ul-Calazi, war was only about numbers, timing, and probability. Darien found himself in agreement.

  “Have you met any magical defense
s?” he asked.

  The general scratched the side of his nose, his mouth pursing. “There has been no magic used against us.”

  Which was well. Darien had been hoping Kyel wouldn’t follow them to Rothscard. Or worse—arrive ahead of them. Resting his hands on his thighs, he nodded thoughtfully. He swept his gaze around the circle of officers, then directed his response to ul-Calazi.

  “Prepare your men for an assault. We’ll attack the Lion’s Gate at dawn. While you’ve got their attention, I’ll create a breach in the eastern wall … here.” He planted a finger on one of the maps spread out on the floor between them. “As soon as I do, abandon the gate and make for the breach.”

  Ul-Calazi glanced down at the map, dropping his hand. “What opposition should we expect within the walls?”

  Darien tapped on the map, indicating a dense section of the city snug up against the eastern wall. “This quarter’s called the Regret. It’s mostly peasant shacks and fishmonger huts. It’s also about as far away from the Citadel as you can get. They won’t be guarding it. Just get there quickly, before they have time to plug the hole. We’ll be fighting in the streets, house-to-house. It’s going to get bloody.”

  The general waved his hand, as though dismissing Darien’s concerns as trivial. He inclined his head stiffly. “Is that all, Warden?”

  “That’s all.”

  As the men and women rose from the floor, Darien commanded, “Sayeed. Remain.”

  His First turned back toward him, lingering on his feet as the other war chiefs cleared the tent. When they were alone, Darien gestured for him to sit, then rose and replaced the various maps he’d been using back on the table. He fetched a jug and two tin cups from an assortment of supplies stashed along the wall, then took a seat on the spread of rugs. Guessing his intent, Sayeed’s eyebrows rose in question, even as his expression tightened with worry.

  Very deliberately, Darien set the cups down between them and unstoppered the jar. He poured enough rika into each cup to fill it halfway. He then lifted his cup and emptied the contents into Sayeed’s. As he did, the man’s eyes snapped up to lock on him. Keeping to the ritual, Sayeed gave Darien back his share and, watching him drink it down, followed suit.