Darkfall

by M. L. Spencer

  Outraged, Kyel crossed back toward Alexa and said to her, “We have to stop this here. Can you banish his necrators?”

  Alexa nodded. “If I get close enough.”

  Kyel bit his lip, trying to think of the best way to proceed. “Stay by me,” he ordered. He crossed the street toward Swain.

  “This is a godsdamn disaster,” the Prince growled.

  Glaring in rage at the gate, Kyel said, “I’ll control him. Have your men finish him off.”

  Swain flashed him a devil grin and freed his longsword from its wooden sheath. He waved Kyel and Alexa back against the wall, then shouted the order to raise the portcullis. There was a groaning shriek of fatigued gears and clattering chain. The portcullis shuddered upward to admit a frantic hoard of rampaging people who streamed past them out of the Regret. It was minutes before the flood drained to a trickle. When it did, Swain ordered his men forward. They moved through the gate at a dogtrot, faces pale and rigid. Kyel couldn’t blame them. They knew exactly what they advanced toward.

  Side-by-side with Alexa and Swain, Kyel followed the soldiers into the Regret.

  35

  Duel with a Demon

  Darien led his men across a war-torn square that had, only minutes before, been part of the Rhen’s largest covered market. The slatted roof had burned away, leaving only the scorched bricks of merchant stalls intact. Darien swiped his hand out, throwing a concussive blast that sent a group of city regulars hurling to the ground. Only a few managed to get back up again. By the time the Zakai arrived, most of the survivors had fled. His warriors dispatched the rest.

  Looking back, Darien saw that an entire company of Bluecloaks had flanked them and were closing on their rear. He recalled his necrators to his aid. They rose around him, shadowed wraiths that served with mindless hunger. With a whispered word, he sent them gliding toward the encroaching soldiers.

  A shout from Sayeed made him whirl back around. Dozens more guardsmen were pouring into the other side of the market. His necrators weren’t done eliminating the threat behind. Darien drew in the exhilarating taint of the Onslaught, wielding it against the men-at-arms ahead.

  Immediately as he struck, a group of his own warriors were lifted off their feet and thrown brutally backward. They collided with the sides of the tall brick buildings, their skulls and spines shattering on impact. Darien froze in place, numbed by shock. Sayeed started forward, but Darien threw a hand up, stopping him.

  “It’s Kyel.” He swore a curse.

  Sayeed hissed in frustration, raising his sword. “Can you counter him?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  Darien intensified the glowing shield that warded them, reinforcing it with the Onslaught. He scanned the way ahead, searching rooftop to rooftop, window by window. Confounded, he moved warily forward, Sayeed at his side, a half-dozen injured Zakai behind them. They were all that was left of his warband. The remainder of his men lay dead and broken in the street behind them.

  The market square was eerily quiet, save for the crackle of flames still gnawing at the bones of the surrounding district. Ash drifted through the air like snowflakes, borne on a wicked-hot breeze.

  Darien tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry to perform the action. He turned slowly around, scanning the alleys, seeing nothing. The day had become eclipsed, a totality of smoke that darkened the sun.

  A distant clattering echoed toward them, sharp noises ringing off the surrounding walls: the sound of hoofbeats. Darien whirled toward the end of the street, bringing his sword back. Sayeed moved into position at his side, his blade held ready, glancing up and down the street.

  All at once, a lone horse erupted from a side street, careening toward them at full gallop, empty stirrups bouncing at its sides. Startled, Darien lowered his sword and backed away. The horse didn’t slow its charge, but angled toward them as if aiming to run them down. Darien leaped out of the way, Sayeed throwing himself in the other direction. Before Darien could recover, scores of soldiers spilled into the market, converging on them from all sides.

  The Zakai leaped forward to ring them defensively. Sayeed raised his sword, his fingers flexing and unflexing their grip on the hilt. Blood and grimy sweat ran down his cheeks, dripped from his chin. His lips drew back in the rictus of a snarl. He stepped behind Darien, turning to ward his back.

  The Bluecloaks closed the distance and engaged with fury. Darien seized the magic field, lashing out with it violently. A roiling conflagration of flames consumed the center of the square, devouring everything in its path. Soldiers screamed and fell, thrashing on the ground before quickly succumbing. Those who tried to outrun the flames didn’t get far. The entire market was ablaze with whipping whirlwinds of fire that twisted high in the air.

  When there was nothing left to consume, the flames died down. It took Darien a moment to realize that only Sayeed and himself remained alive in the square, crouching in a perfect ring of uncharred cobbles.

  Trembling, Darien pushed himself to his feet. His anger burned raw, hotter than the flames.

  “Visea,” he whispered, recalling his necrators.

  Swain cursed and ordered his reinforcements into the market. Kyel stood glaring at the black smoke that roiled from the center of the square ahead, wondering how many soldiers had been devoured by Darien’s assault.

  Suddenly, a terrible feeling overcame him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. A ghastly chill seeped through his skin, freezing his heart in a thick layer of ice. The cold was insidious and complete, terrifying. He’d felt that feeling before and knew exactly what it meant.

  He wasn’t surprised when the song of the magic field died inside him.

  From out of the ground, shadowy forms rose to encircle them. The necrators made no move to advance, but lingered, wavering, as if uncertain of their purpose. Kyel turned slowly, raising the talisman. He was cut off from the field, but he could still feel magic in the weapon. Considering the number of shades surrounding him, Kyel figured it wouldn’t be enough. But perhaps he could take a few of the demons out with him.

  “You can’t fight them, Kyel,” Alexa said with calm resolve. “But I can.”

  Walking forward, she moved toward the nearest living shadow. The necrator’s ebony form rotated slowly, centering on her. Alexa muttered a phrase in a language Kyel didn’t recognize. The necrator immediately vanished.

  As Kyel looked on, Alexa moved toward the next demonic shadow, dismissing it casually. Then she went on to the next, making a slow circuit of their position. One by one, Darien’s necrators popped out of existence, until only one remained. Alexa halted in front of it. With a smile, she waved her hand.

  The necrator steamed and hissed as it dissolved.

  Darien staggered, the pain of loss slamming into him like a sword thrust, tearing the breath out of him.

  “Brother!” Sayeed cried. “Are you wounded?”

  It was all Darien could do to shake his head. His screaming nerves were like phantom pains from a lost limb. His minions were gone. All of them. Unmade.

  He wavered, feeling unstable, then took a step forward.

  An invisible wall of air slammed over him, imprisoning him. He brought his hands up, testing the limits of a cage he couldn’t see. He couldn’t penetrate it, not with his hands, not with magic. He groped at it frantically, nervous sweat streaming down his face.

  The square around them erupted in fire. Shattered cobblestones rained down on their heads like falling hail. Darien dropped to the ground beside Sayeed as another fiery explosion scorched the air around them. The intensity of the heat nearly overwhelmed his shield. At first, Darien thought it was Kyel attacking them. Then he realized it wasn’t.

  “They’ve turned the trebuchets on us,” he rasped. The first two projectiles coated with Hell’s Fire had missed them, but the soldiers tending the siege weapons would be recalculating their aim.

  Another flaming missile arced toward them from the ramparts, trailing a tail of smo
ke behind it. Darien closed his eyes and put everything he had into an absorption shield strong enough to cover both himself and Sayeed. The missile hit, its flames gushing in a whooshing fireball that overwhelmed his shield. The searing heat scorched Darien’s skin even as he fought to heal himself. At his side, Sayeed screamed in agony. Darien dropped to the ground, holding the man who called him brother, healing Sayeed as he burned.

  Another flaring missile hit, disgorging its payload of flames. This time, Darien diverted the heat from the air and channeled it into the ground, a reservoir big enough to absorb the energy. Another projectile exploded around them, followed by another. Each time, he diverted the heat of the flames into the ground.

  But the street was starting to heat up. His tactic wouldn’t save them much longer. Trembling, he held Sayeed clutched against him and fought with all his might to keep ahead of the flames.

  He was starting to panic. The nightmares that plagued him endlessly, of being roasted alive, were no longer just torturous memories—they were quickly becoming reality. With every shuddering attack, his defenses slipped another crack. He could no longer keep the agony of the flames at bay. Waves of heat roiling off the ground distorted his vision. And still the trebuchets thundered, wearing him down a little more with each strike.

  He knew he was at his end when he could no longer feel the pain. He clenched his teeth and held Sayeed tighter.

  All at once, the bombardment stopped.

  Darien remained hunkered down, waiting for the barrage of flames to resume. When they didn’t, he chanced a glance up at the battlements and saw that every last trebuchet was on fire. Ul-Calazi’s men had finally overrun the walls.

  In his arms, Sayeed lay limp, but alive.

  The world reeled around Kyel. He gasped, filled with a euphoric excitement he couldn’t explain. Before him, crouched on the ground, Darien knelt in a blackened ring of smoldering bricks that glowed red at the edges. Even though the city was falling around him, Kyel felt triumphant.

  He felt a tug on his sleeve. Alexa stared up at him, her eyes wide and feverish. “You have him down!” she exclaimed. “Now end this!”

  Kyel shook his head, wishing he could.

  Her face flushed brightly. “You are dead in two days! What does your Oath matter?”

  “It matters!” Kyel jerked his arm out of her grasp. He didn’t have the energy or the desire to argue with her. He was still maintaining the cage of air around Darien, and the effort was taxing.

  At his side, Swain growled. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  He reached behind his back and tugged at the cinch straps of the harness that anchored his armor. His breastplate slid off, falling to the ground. Swain trudged forward, armored only by his chain hauberk and gambeson.

  “Release him,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  To Kyel’s dismay, Swain drew his sword and stalked down the street in the direction of the market. Kyel stared after him, incredulous. He thought he could guess the man’s intent, and it scared the hell out of him. Even so, he released the prison of air around Darien.

  Kyel strode forward, Alexa at his side, trailing Swain down the street. He stopped at the edge of the square, silently absorbing the devastation.

  Darien still crouched in a smoldering ring of blackened stone, while all around him the remains of collapsed buildings yet smoldered. Corpses lay sprawled across the ground, most reduced to charred skeletons. The smell was ghastly, a combination of sulphur and roasted flesh. Kyel brought his hand up to his mouth, fighting back bile.

  Ahead, Swain approached Darien cautiously, blade drawn and carried downward at his side. Darien stared reproachfully up at him from the ground, his face a mixture of rage and pain and some other emotion Kyel couldn’t identify.

  Darien lay the man in his lap down on the cobbles, then rose unsteadily to his feet. Dark power seethed from his body, bleeding into the air in distorted waves. He was drawing hard on the Onslaught, Kyel realized. Preparing for a strike. Wary, Kyel tightened the protective shield around Swain.

  The Prince halted. He stood hefting the hilt of his sword in his hand, as if testing the weight of it. He acknowledged Darien with a nod, and said in a calm voice, “Just you and me, like the old days. But this time, only one of us walks away.”

  Kyel felt his stomach clench. Darien was the best swordsman he’d ever known, but Swain was a blademaster, the man who had trained him.

  Darien stood motionless in the street, eyes fixed on the slow motion of the Prince’s blade. His gaze slid slowly upward to lock on Swain’s eyes. He nodded slightly.

  Reaching up, Darien unbuckled his chinstrap. He tugged his helmet off and tossed it on the ground, shaking out a mane of sweat-matted hair. His face was darkened by sooty grime that left a perfect delineation where the protection of his helm had ended. The look in his eyes was cold as death.

  Swain took a step forward, his eyebrows raised in question. Darien glowered at him for a moment then reached up and unfastened the buckles of his harness, dropping his armor to the ground. His hand traveled to the hilt of his sword and drew the weapon from its sheath. It wasn’t the same sword Kyel remembered; it was a scimitar. Kyel didn’t know much about the mechanics of swordplay, but he couldn’t help wondering if Darien’s training with the longsword would translate well to this curved, sleeker blade.

  Swain approach slowly, his weapon extended in front of him. Darien brought his sword up, lightly tapping Swain’s blade.

  The Prince exploded into motion.

  He swept forward with a lightning series of attacks that sent Darien retreating.

  Swain’s sword moved so quickly, so precisely, that Kyel’s eyes couldn’t keep up with it. The violent hammering of steel against steel rang sharply off the walls, echoing through the square.

  Behind Darien, the Enemy soldier he’d been protecting stirred, leveraging his torso off the ground. Seeing Darien circling Swain, the man’s eyes went wide, first in surprise. Then in fear.

  Kyel understood why. Darien was at a clear disadvantage. The sword in his hand was shorter than Swain’s. The Prince had a much longer reach, and Darien was forced to keep dodging and retreating. While Swain’s motions were crisp and precise, Darien moved his scimitar in great, sweeping arcs.

  He swept out with a feint. Swain dodged, rotating his blade and deflecting the blow. He brought his sword up and held it out in front of him, keeping Darien at a distance. Then he brought the blade back over his shoulder and swept it down. Darien ducked under the attack and used his momentum to shove Swain forcefully aside.

  The Prince whirled around, scoring a cut across Darien’s back. Then he launched a crisp sequence of attacks that battered him to the ground. Overwhelmed, Darien raised his sword over his head to fend off Swain’s hacking cuts.

  He struck out with a foot, taking the Prince behind the knees and sweeping his legs out from under him. Swain hit the ground and rolled, somehow ending up on his feet. He sprang back, then whirled, delivering a slice that cut through Darien’s gambeson, drawing a line of blood across his ribs as he rose from the ground.

  Kyel gasped, appalled by the sheer brutality of it all. The harsh clangs of steel impacting with steel drove home the viciousness of the fight. It was starting to sink in that one of the two men before him was going to die a brutal death. Kyel dreaded that moment.

  Swain struck again, batting Darien’s sword aside. Darien danced back, drawing his long dagger from his belt. Crossing both dagger and sword, he interrupted Swain’s next strike with a scissoring motion. The two men circled slowly, each waiting for an opening.

  All at once, Darien lunged. Moving both dagger and sword together, he parried Swain’s attack with the dagger while throwing a high cut with the sword. The curved blade took the Prince in the neck, continuing its slice down through tissue and bone. Darien tore the sword out, fanning the cobblestones with blood. He stepped back, weapons held ready, even as Swain fell.

  Chest heaving, Darien stood over the Prince and w
atched him bleed out. Callously, he wiped his blade clean on the fabric of Swain’s leggings. Then he returned both weapons to their sheathes and turned to fix his stare on Kyel.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  Kyel understood. There was nothing more he could do. The city had fallen and would soon be overrun. He couldn’t stop Darien, not by himself.

  Darien glared at him hard, his expression going from dark to demonic. A terrible green light suffused him, pulsating, sucking the light from the day. The shadows of the square deepened, the air growing fiercely chill. It was terrifying to behold, especially since Kyel knew what was happening: Darien was filling himself to saturation with the combined might of both the Onslaught and the magic field. Preparing a strike that Kyel couldn’t deflect, not even with Thar’gon’s great aide.

  “Darien, no!”

  Naia hurled past Kyel, inserting her own body between the darkmage and himself. Darien’s expression changed, fading through various degrees of rage into something that looked like regret. The green aura around him slowly waned but didn’t fade completely.

  Naia took a step toward him. “Please, Darien. You need Kyel to destroy the Well of Tears.”

  Darien recoiled as if struck.

  The glow around him winked out. He looked back and forth between Naia and Kyel with the haunted face of a condemned man. He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”

  “It is possible!” Naia insisted, closing the gap between them. “Come away and listen. You sent Quin to Titherry for a reason. We have your answer, Darien! The answer you wanted us to find!”

  Darien looked dazed, as if the sight of her was like venom, paralyzing his ability to react or comprehend. His mouth moved, fumbling silently, at last forming words. “Quin? You came with Quin?”

  She halted before him, commanding, “Afford him clemency!”

  To Kyel’s disbelief, Darien obeyed. Nodding, the darkmage turned to address him. “A truce, then. Your life is under my protection.” He turned back to Naia, his face telling a dismal story of boundless guilt. He said softly, “Naia. I don’t know what to say … I don’t have the words….”