Ulric had stationed Kyel with another bowman in a crevice far above the western edge of the canyon. The sergeant had ordered him to wait there, keep his head down, and signal if he saw anything moving in the ravine below. But there had been nothing. And even if there had been, Kyel likely wouldn’t have noticed it. His eyes were riveted on the clash of battle, watching in horrified fascination as magic and steel combined in a sinister combination that was brutally effective. Outnumbered and outmatched, the Greystone forces seemed to be prevailing against the crumbling Enemy resistance.
So fixated was he on what was going on below that Kyel didn’t notice the files of Enemy soldiers stealing up behind him in silence, far above on the ridge. He wasn’t aware of their presence until a booming war cry issued from hundreds of throats, shattering the darkness and overcoming even the clamor of battle.
Darien turned in his saddle, confronting the sheer strength of a new Enemy line that had emerged on a ridge across from him. Hundreds of armored men battered their swords against their shields and shook their spears. The rage of their harrowing battle cry shook the blackened ground of the pass.
Darien’s eyes widened as he realized Kyel Archer was stationed somewhere up on that slope, exactly in a position to be swept away by the Enemy charge.
He reached for the sword he carried strapped to his saddle. Sliding it from its scabbard, he brought the flat of the blade down against the dark hindquarters of his mount. The warhorse broke immediately into a gallop.
In a surge of wired muscle, the black beast gathered itself and took the edge of the escarpment in a powerful leap. The horse shuddered as its forelegs came down on the face of the slope, gaining momentum in long strides, descending the hill into the thick of battle and picking up speed as it went.
Darien raised his sword as the first Enemy soldier came at him.
He swept out with his blade, deflecting a war axe. More soldiers disengaged from the fighting, surging toward him, drawn by the sight of his cloak. Darien’s sword rose to meet them, brushing blades aside and shattering spears as the heavy warhorse pounded through the thick of the fight.
Using the heels of his boots and the flat of his blade, he urged the gelding across the canyon in the direction of the cliffs. The horse took the ford of the river at speed, its flanks glistening as it surged up the slope on the far side.
Kyel glanced up from the crevice he had driven his body against at the surging mass descending upon him. The bowman he’d been stationed with was dead, an arrow embedded in his chest.
Kyel held his own bow angled upward, trained on the armored bodies spilling down the slope. He loosed his round, nocked another arrow, and drew. He watched the arrow plunk uselessly off a black breastplate. Cursing, he swept his hand back for another.
That’s all he had time for.
Then he was wrenched upward. He didn’t know what was happening as a powerful arm encircled his chest and heaved him face-first over the withers of an enormous horse.
The horse reared and bolted along the edge of the Enemy line. He could feel the animal’s muscles gathering for a fresh surge of speed as they swept out in front of the charge. An arm slipped across his chest to steady him as Kyel managed to haul his leg over the animal’s neck.
Turning, he saw soldiers breaking away from the front ranks in pursuit. Behind them, archers angled their bows and released their shafts. A cloud of arrows took to the sky before turning to arc toward them. Kyel opened his mouth to scream.
The arrows exploded in a shower of sparks that drifted softly toward the ground. Incredulous, Kyel turned his head enough to gape into the face of the mysterious Sentinel who had just saved his life.
Kyel could see nothing of the kind but troubled man he remembered. The eyes that met his contained such a look of frigid dispassion that Kyel wrenched himself right back around. He clenched the horse’s mane, doing his best not to fall off. He clutched his bow and closed his eyes, praying with all his might.
Traver looked up into the helm of the Enemy soldier that stood over him, the thought suddenly occurring to him to wonder why he was even there. He didn’t really know how to use the blade in his quivering hands. He didn’t know anything about battles or wars, blood and death. His Lady Luck had been with him for a while, her loving hand guiding his steel.
But now Traver’s luck had just run out.
He watched helplessly from the ground as the blade above him started its fall.
Devlin Craig swore an oath that would have made his mother bleed in her grave as he drew his mount up and disengaged from the fighting. His eyes followed the slope of the canyon toward the mouth of a ravine. There, hundreds of Enemy reinforcements surged down the slope like a raging deluge. Before the swarming host raced an exhausted warhorse with two riders on its back.
As Craig looked on, the black gelding stumbled, almost went down, but gathered its legs beneath it and staggered forward back up the steep side of the ravine. The charge of Enemy soldiers divided, the majority continuing its sweep downward, spilling out across the canyon floor. A narrow but deadly stream broke away from the main host in pursuit of the flagging black horse.
Craig flexed his grip on his sword and kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount. Calling behind him at what was left of the men under his command, he abandoned the battle and set out at a gallop toward the Enemy charge.
Kyel knew they were going to die. The thought didn’t scare him all that much. It mostly made him sad. He tried to think of Amelia but couldn’t summon her image to mind. The only thing he could see was the end of the ridge in front of them and the cliff that dropped off sharply over a bend in the ravine.
Lauchlin pulled back on the reins, jerking his horse’s head around. The gelding’s legs almost slid out from under it as the animal skidded sideways. The mage raised his blade, holding it swept back at a threatening angle as he turned the horse directly into the face of the Enemy charge.
It would be only a matter of seconds, now. Kyel closed his eyes but could not close his ears. The thunder swelled, became overwhelming.
He was almost thrown from the saddle as the horse reared and spun around, plunging toward the edge of the cliff. He screamed as he felt the destrier gather the last of its strength and kick off with its hind legs, propelling them over the edge, throwing its full weight forward into the air.
Then they were falling.
His scream was cut short as the warhorse impacted with its forelegs, staggered, then gathered itself and surged forward, stumbling ahead. Incredulous, Kyel glanced down at a bridge of solid shadow that had been melded beneath them in the air, arching across the gap of the chasm.
The horse leaped off the end of that dark, impossible span, coming down hard on solid ground and turning as it drew up. Behind them, the bridge seemed to melt away, the shadows draining back into the dark recesses of the gap.
The Enemy force halted on the other side of the chasm, bellowing their rage across the cliffs, shaking spears and rattling shields. A few archers loosed their shafts, which simply slowed to a stop in midair and dropped, falling straight down. All Kyel could do was gape.
And then silence filled the gorge.
Kyel frowned, wondering why the Enemy had suddenly stopped bellowing that harrowing war cry, their spears and swords frozen, shields unmoving. He turned, looking behind them. He opened his mouth to gasp.
Just as he did, the air was sucked right out of his lungs as a torrential gale of wind swept past them with a shrieking hiss, plastering his shirt against his back. For seconds, he couldn’t breathe. The scream of the wind was the eeriest sound he’d ever heard in his life.
And then the world exploded.
Kyel threw himself from the horse as the air turned to fire. Rolling to his knees, he covered his face with his hands as a vast explosion of flame ripped by overhead, sweeping past him over the rim of the gorge. All around him, flames scourged the air. He held his breath against the roiling inferno but let it out again as he realized the flames
produced no heat.
The firestorm swept across the gap toward the ranks of the Enemy. The lines broke in chaos, collapsing in disorganized retreat. The whirling inferno paused, hovering, then gushed down the cliff into the canyon below, sweeping toward the main host.
Kyel couldn’t believe he was still alive. Glancing up, he saw Darien Lauchlin still mounted on the back of the dark warhorse, face frozen in a look of dangerous intensity.
“By the gods,” Kyel swore.
The Sentinel looked down at him, the light of the fire reflected in his eyes.
Traver watched helplessly as the Enemy blade started its fall, mesmerized by the black steel that hissed toward his chest.
The sword never impacted. Another blade swept up to meet it, turning aside the stroke that should have killed him. Traver rolled away as a red-bearded swordsman stepped in front of him, driving the Enemy soldier back in a barrage of furious blows.
Traver’s ears rang from the fury of the attack. The bearded swordsman feinted low then cut upward. As the dark blade fell to the earth, the Greystone swordsman cleaved the warrior’s head off.
Traver ran his gaze from the ghastly helmed head to stare wide-eyed into the face of the man who had saved him. He recognized him as one of the Valemen who’d come up from Amberlie with the mage. Corban Henley was his name.
But he didn’t have time to thank the man. Henley was already moving away, cutting a path back into the thick of battle as Traver’s mouth dropped open.
Hurling toward them was a fresh charge of Enemy reinforcements. The gray horse of Devlin Craig dashed before it, long strides tearing up the ground to deliver him from the charging onslaught.
And behind them all swept a colossal firestorm that twisted into the dark sky, tongues of flame enraged by vicious winds of their own creation.
Traver closed his mouth, picked up his sword, and ran like hell the other way.
Devlin Craig pumped his straining horse with his spurs as he stole a glance back over his shoulder. What he saw was pure insanity. Enemy soldiers were hurling before an onrushing explosion of flame, stumbling, trampling the bodies of the fallen. In all his long years of fighting, he had never seen anything of the like.
The battle for the canyon had played out without him. The Greystone ranks had reformed in a solid line along the edge of the canyon’s wall. What was left couldn’t possibly withstand the frenzied Enemy horde charging toward them.
But then Craig glanced upward at the rim of the canyon. As he did, he almost lost his grip on the reins. There, lining the top of the cliffs, were row upon row of foot soldiers and heavy horse, companies of bowmen and pikes. Banners rippled, even though there was no movement of air to stir them.
The charging Enemy saw it too. As one, the entire dark host wheeled, retreating toward the mouth of the pass. The Greystone soldiers rallied as if in pursuit, screaming battle cries and shaking their blades.
Before Craig’s disbelieving eyes, the soldiers on the cliff walls seemed to ripple as one, flickered, then disappeared. His ears filled with ringing cries of victory.
Craig drew his horse up, glancing behind to see the firestorm swirling upward and collapsing in on itself, imploding into a blazing ball of yellow-gold light high above in the sky. In all his long years in the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, that shining ball of fire was the closest thing to a sun Devlin Craig had ever seen.
For just a moment, the entire canyon was lit as if high noon. Then light faded again to night as the ball of fire exploded above them, showering the pass in trails of sparks.
The cries of victory swelled, became a thunderous din.
12
Grim Sense of Duty
Darien pressed his hand against the sweat-encrusted hair of his horse’s neck, closing his eyes. He felt a shiver pass through the animal. The gelding staggered slightly then lowered itself to the ground, neck outstretched on the rocks as it lay down on its side. The black horse closed its eyes and nickered softly.
Kyel stared down at the animal with eyes full of concern. “Can’t you heal it?” he asked.
“I already did.” Darien lowered himself down beside the beast, running his hand over its wet and heaving side. “Now it only needs sleep to recover its strength.”
Kyel nodded. Then his eyes widened. Reaching down, the young man fingered the torn black cloth of Darien’s shirt, folding it back to expose a nasty-looking gash that had opened the top of his arm just below where the protective chains of ring mail ended.
“You’re wounded!”
But Darien had already mended the injury before he’d finished speaking. He stood up, trying not to look at the expression of wonder on the younger man’s face. It made him feel uncomfortable.
Turning away, he started walking toward the bottom of the ravine, following the line of a dry stream bed back in the direction of the canyon. He could hear Kyel following him, the sound of his footsteps almost tentative.
“Where are you going?”
Darien didn’t look back as he shrugged. He was too tired. The weight of the mail dragged at his shoulders. It was the same as it was with the horse. He could heal almost any injury with scarcely a thought. But there was nothing he could do to rid himself of the ache of exhaustion he felt down to his bones.
It was not just the battle that had taken the strength out of him. What he’d done that morning with his ability vastly outweighed any physical exhaustion he felt. As far as he knew, no mage in history had ever summoned the amount of raw power he had handled that morning without the aid of a Circle of Convergence. But it had taken its toll. As Darien trudged stiffly toward the canyon, he had to fight at each step just to stay on his feet.
Kyel must have noticed.
“We should rest a moment,” he suggested.
But Darien forced himself to keep moving. He didn’t have time to stop and rest. Not when he knew there were men up ahead dying. Darien dreaded what waited for him in the canyon. It had always been the duty of the Sentinels after a battle to heal the injured. His duty, now.
He was not looking forward to it. It was hard enough, raising his hand and giving the order to send hundreds of men into battle. It would be much harder, looking into the eyes of those who had died by his command.
Darien remembered a time when he was a boy, when his father had come back from the Front and had stopped for a while in Amberlie to visit his sons before heading up the mountain. Darien remembered that visit well. His father had looked particularly haggard, and there had been a haunted look in his eyes. He had spoken of a battle, and of his grim duty afterward.
When his father had left, Darien remembered crying. Gerald Lauchlin had always been his hero. Darien had thought there was nothing that confident man couldn’t handle with his usual, carefree tenacity. But his father had changed after that day. The shadows had never left his eyes. It was as though he’d taken a deep wound that all of his great strength could never heal.
Darien forced his feet to keep moving toward the mouth of the ravine. He tried not to think about what awaited him ahead. But at least he knew he didn’t have to worry about his own eyes changing, shadowing, taking on the same haunted and battle-weary expression of his father.
He knew they already had.
He could see it in the face of every man that had the courage to meet his gaze. Even Craig and Royce, even Proctor. Even the young man following him now.
At last, they reached the place where the dry stream bed emptied into the canyon. There, Darien stopped, staring out across the carnage of the battlefield with growing dismay.
“Mother of the gods,” Kyel whispered beside him.
Darien could only silently agree. He swept his gaze across the canyon floor, taking in the shocking sight of thousands of wasted human lives, literally piles of men fallen over each other, still limbs bent over fallen comrades, fingers limp and unmoving. Thin streams of blood flowed out from the heaps of Greystone corpses, running across the black soil in red rivers to mix with the blood of the Enemy.
>
He raised his right hand, staring down in contempt at the coldly glinting chain on his wrist. The piles of corpses were his fault. If it wasn’t for his Oath, none of this would have happened. The fire he’d created could have burned hot more easily than cold. He could have immolated the Enemy ranks with a thought, melding flesh together with bone in a holocaust of will.
That was what Orien Oathbreaker had done. His one supreme act had driven the forces of the Enemy back into the Black Lands for over a hundred years. But Orien had also died a traitor’s death, kneeling in shame to accept his punishment. Darien had always wondered why the man had surrendered himself so easily.
Now he understood. An Unbound mage was an abomination. That despised chain on his wrist was the only thing keeping him in check, saving him from himself. Corruption of the flesh was inevitable, a predestined fate meted out at the birth of every life. What Darien feared most was the corruption of his soul.
Sometimes, he could feel it already starting, an outgrowth of the vast amount of power he’d been forced to take in. The temptation to strip off that chain was growing harder to deny each day.
Especially now.
The sounds of the injured and dying accosted his ears. He forced himself to start forward, eyes scanning through the carnage for signs of movement, any trace of life. He quickly found an unconscious man with a gaping wound in his chest.
Bending over him, Darien placed his hand over the soldier’s wound and closed his eyes. His head throbbed as he forced himself to grope through fatigue that was already almost unbearable. When Darien stood, he left behind a man slumbering in peaceful sleep, oblivious to the fact he had been scant moments from death.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 15