Darien moved through piles of littered corpses, healing wounded as he went, working his way along the canyon wall as Kyel followed, trailing behind with his bow. The young man’s expression was a mixture of horror, awe, and outright pity. Darien found himself consciously avoiding Kyel’s gaze. He knew the pity was for himself, and he couldn’t stand it. Shoulders shaking, he pushed himself up from the body of a man who his failing strength hadn’t been able to save.
“Stop,” Kyel begged. “You’re exhausted. You need rest.”
Darien shook his head, kneeling beside a man who lay groaning in agony, clutching his own dismembered arm as a steady pulse of blood pumped from the stump above his elbow.
There was nothing Darien could do about the arm. He willed the man into unconsciousness, his fingers gently loosening the soldier’s grip on the gruesome appendage and casting it aside. He had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain in his head as he staunched the flow of blood coming from the stump, forcing the flesh to fold and knit together over the white fragments of bone.
As he stood back up, a wave of dizziness made him stagger. He brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes as he groped for balance. Kyel’s hand caught his arm to steady him, an expression of concern clouding his face.
“Look.” Kyel’s voice was no longer pleading. “You can’t keep this up. You can hardly stand on your feet.”
Darien shrugged away from him. He could hear Kyel muttering under his breath, but he didn’t care. He stumbled forward over torn limbs and shattered bodies, picking his way toward a motion on his left.
But as he knelt beside a dying soldier, he realized he’d made a mistake. He was staring down at the black helm of an Enemy swordsman. Darien started to push himself up, using his hand to wrench his weight off the ground.
As he did, a gloved hand snaked out and caught his arm, holding him down with an ironclad grip. He heard a low voice rattle in their vile tongue:
“We thought you dead, Battlemage. She’ll be coming for you.”
Darien ripped his arm away, staggering backward.
He could hear the man choking as he died. At least, it sounded like choking. Darien realized the soldier’s death rattle was actually gurgling laughter. He could only stare in shock as the last breath wheezed from the gaping hole in the warrior’s chest. After that, the man moved no more.
But that terrible laughter echoed on in his mind, along with the whispered promise: She’ll be coming for you. He had no idea who she was, but the word sent a lance of dread stabbing through his heart.
He thought of the strange tides of the magic field, of the way the flows swirled and ebbed in ways completely different from normal. He thought of the map on the wall of Proctor’s quarters, of his finger tapping the arrow that pointed toward the upper-right. The letters beneath the arrow that spelled out the words: To Bryn Calazar.
He thought of the gateway. What dark terrors had his brother unleashed? Closing his eyes, Darien drew a trembling breath. There was only one kind of terror he could think of that went by the feminine pronoun ‘she.’ The mere thought was repulsive. Only, there was no other possible explanation.
Aidan had summoned the powers of the Netherworld to wield a deathblow to Aerysius. It made a terrifying kind of sense that his act had also liberated the Eight Servants of Xerys. And if either Myria Anassis or Arden Hannah were bending the lines of the magic field around Bryn Calazar, then he knew his life might very well be in grave danger.
The Eight had no chains on their wrists to Bind them, no Oath sworn to uphold. Only a dark compact with the Lord of Chaos. And if they were now aware of his presence, then the dead swordsman was probably right. She would be coming for him.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
Darien turned his back on the corpse and, stepping over the body of a decapitated bowman, looked for someone else, anyone else, whose life needed saving. He staggered forward, dropping down beside another man and forcing a flood of healing energy into his shattered frame. Then he went on to another, and another, until his head throbbed with the beat of every pulse and his vision blurred until he couldn’t see.
Kyel Archer stumbled along beside him, holding him up and begging him to stop and rest. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. Darien forced himself to keep moving, keep healing, working across the canyon through jumbled piles of savaged bodies until he finally collapsed across the corpse of a Greystone soldier, overcome by sheer exhaustion.
That was how Devlin Craig found him.
Swearing an oath, the captain threw himself off his mount and trampled over the corpses of fallen comrades until he reached the young bowman who had flagged him down. Dropping to his side, Craig glared his anger at him as he reached out and rolled Darien’s unconscious body off the legs of a grisly cadaver. Craig pressed his ear against the mage’s chest. Satisfied that his heart was still beating, he lashed out in anger at the boy.
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
The young bowman opened his mouth, shaking his head. “I tried…”
Craig growled, heaving Darien’s weight into his arms. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. He knew himself how impossible it was to keep Darien Lauchlin from any purpose once his mind was set on it.
He left the bowman there to fend for himself and lifted Darien onto his horse, swinging up behind him. Kicking the stallion forward, he headed back up the pass toward Greystone Keep. He was angry. Angry at Proctor for underestimating the strength of the Enemy. Angry at Darien for insisting on holding to an Oath that was going to get him killed. And angry at himself for ever riding away from Darien’s side.
Sutton Royce was furious.
“What were you thinking, leaving him alone?”
Craig hung his head. “I suppose I wasn’t.”
“You’re damned right, you weren’t!” Royce paced away, slapping a pair of black leather gloves against the palm of his hand with a shocking crack. He took a deep breath, striving for composure.
“Tell me again about the boy.” It was the first time Proctor had spoken since the conversation began.
“His name is Kyel Archer. I don’t know much about him, other than he picked up the bow incredibly quick. Darien asked me to position him away from the fight.”
“Has he returned yet?”
“No.” Craig shook his head. The last he’d seen of Archer, he’d been standing in a heap of stiffening corpses looking completely petrified.
“Send a rider down to fetch him.”
As he strode out of the room to comply, Craig chanced a glance at the pallet where Darien lay sleeping. There had been no marks on his body; Craig had checked him over for wounds. But other than the rise and fall of his chest, the man hadn’t stirred in hours.
He relayed Proctor’s order to a sentry then returned to the command chamber. When he entered the room, he found Proctor and Royce bending over one of the maps on the table.
“These same tactics aren’t going to work for us again,” Royce was saying. “The Enemy wasn’t expecting a Sentinel, and even when they found out, they didn’t know for sure whether or not he was Bound. But next time they’ll know for certain. They’ll see right through Darien’s illusions.”
Proctor nodded thoughtfully. His face looked more haggard than usual. Craig couldn’t blame him; it had been a long day for them all.
“I must speak with this Archer,” Proctor said. “If I’m right, then he is the key.” His eyes looked suddenly hardened, as if he’d all along been battling some internal struggle that had finally, brutally, been resolved. It must have been a tough one. Proctor’s face had gone almost gray.
“What do you mean?” Royce probed with a frown.
Proctor looked up to meet his captain’s gaze, but he hesitated before speaking. “I can think of only one reason for Darien’s interest in this Kyel Archer. The boy must have the potential. It is the sole explanation that fits.”
Craig’s mouth fell open. Of course.
The commander went on in a
voice devoid of emotion, “Darien won’t survive another battle. He’s too impotent with those chains on his wrists, and he’s too damn obstinate to keep out of harm’s way. Have no doubt—we will lose him.
“Which leaves us with only one question that we must answer for ourselves: is there any way we can somehow turn this situation to our advantage?
“This is the way I see it.” His eyes shifted to Craig, his stare hardening even more. “If we are going to lose one mage because he refuses to forswear his Oath, then the gods may have just delivered us another not so Bound. Perhaps we should expedite the opportunity.”
Craig stared at him long and hard. Then he turned and left the room, his vision darkened by anger. He’d known Garret Proctor nearly his entire adult life. Craig had never had a problem with Proctor’s cruel strategies—when they were directed against the Enemy.
He’d just never thought to see them employed against a friend.
Proctor still had Craig’s loyalty; he owed him that much. But the man had just lost every last shard of Devlin Craig’s respect.
Kyel saw two horses coming toward him down a steep embankment. There was only one rider on a brown horse, holding the reins of a chestnut mare that ran beside him. Kyel expected the man to gallop right by and was surprised when both horses drew up, the helmed soldier dropping down to the ground next to him. Lifting his visor, the man looked at Kyel sidelong, passing his eyes over him as if confused about something.
“Kyel Archer?” The words carried a heavy undercurrent of doubt.
Kyel nodded, wondering how the man could possibly know his name. But then it dawned on him. Of course. Lauchlin. The mage seemed to be taking no chances with his new acolyte. If that’s truly what he was. Kyel had never been given the opportunity to turn him down.
“I have orders to fetch you back to the keep.” The soldier’s eyes were skeptical. “The force commander wants a word with you.”
Kyel’s brow furrowed. Proctor? That was peculiar. A cold prickle of doubt itched his skin. He climbed up on the spare horse as the soldier threw him the reins. He hung his bow over his shoulder and followed the man up the narrow trail.
When they reached the steps of the keep, Kyel passed the reins back and jumped down. He didn’t know where they kept the horses. He hadn’t seen a stable. But, then, he also hadn’t seen but a small fraction of the men gathered in the pass that morning. Their numbers had come as a shock, albeit a good one. Kyel suspected there were camps spread throughout the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
At least, there had been. He wondered just how many could possibly be left. The piles of corpses he had wandered through following Darien on his grisly undertaking made Kyel fear their forces had been decimated.
Entering the keep, Kyel wasn’t sure at first where to go. He decided to just follow orders and head up the tower on his own.
As he passed by the hall door, he ran into the intimidating form of Devlin Craig. The man’s eyes were even more hostile than Kyel remembered. The captain glared at him with an expression of distaste, his mouth curled in a snarl.
Kyel couldn’t quell the growing feeling of trepidation swelling in his chest. Something had changed, and he didn’t like it at all. He had the feeling something had gone terribly wrong. As his feet approached the opening to the tower room, Kyel found himself holding his breath. He didn’t know what he was going to find up there, but he didn’t think he was going to like it.
He stepped over the threshold into the barren, circular chamber and paused. He felt Proctor’s eyes fall on him: that hardened, ruthless gaze that unnerved him completely. Kyel did his best not to waver under the weight of that stare.
The commander said, “You are to stand down from future battles. Your place is now here. Return your bow to the armory and collect your things.”
Kyel’s eyes drifted to his bow, the golden wood he had become so comfortable with. Since his first night in the fortress, that bow had never left his side. He didn’t want to give it back. And he didn’t want to leave his fellows. Most of all, he didn’t want to spend his days as the constant companion of the daunting old warrior who stood glaring at him.
“No. Please, no. I mean—what I mean is …” Kyel forced himself to take a deep breath. “Please, no, Force Commander. With all due respect.”
He stood trembling as the man circled him slowly like a hawk, hands clasped behind his back, gray cloak swaying in his wake. As the target of that predator-like stare, Kyel felt exceptionally like a mouse hiding in an open field, waiting for the raptor to descend.
His eyes fell on a black, narrow hilt protruding from the belt at the commander’s waist. He’d never noticed it before, but the knife looked viciously intimidating, even more so than the sword at the man’s side.
“Your place is now here.” Proctor’s tone brooked no argument.
“Please, Force Commander. Just let me keep my bow.” Now, why had he said that? The stick at his side was the least of his worries. Maybe what he wanted was a weapon to defend himself against the man.
He found himself glancing to where Darien lay by the hearth, his face more peaceful than Kyel had ever seen it. He would not be stirring for a while, Kyel thought, remembering the exhausted black warhorse they had left behind in the canyon.
“You’re an acolyte mage,” Proctor said. “What use have you for a weapon?”
The man knew.
Kyel felt drenched in cold, petrifying fear. He groped deep down inside, desperately trying to summon the last scrap of courage he could find. He still wanted to keep that bow.
“What use has Darien for his sword?” Kyel challenged, then quickly added, “Force Commander.”
The harsh angles of Proctor’s face softened just a bit. To Kyel, those stern blue eyes seemed to be almost smiling. A grim, satisfied smile that was more ominous than the man’s outright glare.
“Keep the bow, then,” he said softly, and strode past Kyel in the direction of the stairs.
“Wait,” Kyel called after him.
Proctor stopped, turning slowly around.
“Tell me one thing,” Kyel said. “Who are they? The Enemy?”
The force commander stared at him for a long moment without moving. Eventually, he said, “They were once the people of Caladorn. But they’re not people anymore. They dwell in darkness and worship Xerys. For the last thousand years, they’ve made it their purpose to threaten us. To invade us. To destroy us. In the end, it doesn’t matter who they are.
“That’s why we just call them the Enemy. Because knowing what they call themselves isn’t going to help us fight this war. We don’t need to know anything about them. We just need to kill them.”
With that, he turned and stalked down the stairs.
13
Two Vows
It took the better part of a week to dig the graves for the dead. By custom, each Greystone soldier who had fallen was buried individually, with a stone cairn piled over his remains. The work was done entirely by the men of his own company. No words were ever spoken, no rites performed. The dead were not buried with their armaments; steel was far too precious to waste. Instead, the weapons of the dead were collected back to the armory and stored for future reuse.
Enemy casualties received different treatment. A long trench had been dug down the center of the canyon. The stiff corpses of Enemy soldiers were dragged, bumping across the ground, toward the pit, where they were unceremoniously dumped in. There, they collected in a growing, rotten-smelling mass that was layered daily with lime. Then at the end of the week, the whole trench was filled in with the black dirt of the river bottom.
The soldiers had labored continuously through the horror of every step. Together, they raced time against the maggots, the scavengers, and the diseases that inevitably spawned under such fertile conditions.
On the last day, they gathered together to stand at the feet of their comrades for the last time, quietly honoring their sacrifice. Even the officers turned out for the silent memorial. To Darien, the c
omplete strength of the remaining Greystone forces paled beside the numbers of rock-encrusted graves.
As he stared out across the grimly moving sight, he felt afraid. He couldn’t help thinking that although the battle had been considered a victory, the forces that held the Pass of Lor-Gamorth had been dealt a devastating defeat.
Kyel sat on a boulder protruding from an outcrop overlooking the Pass of Lor-Gamorth from the rear of the fortress. He’d wondered why no one had ever bothered to rebuild the keep’s crumbled rear wall. Now he knew. There was nothing behind the structure but a small rock scarp and the sheer drop of a cliff. The mountainside was more of a defense than the rear wall of the keep had ever been. Incursion was impossible from that approach.
Kyel found it a good place to escape the stark chamber of Proctor’s quarters. He didn’t like being left alone with the force commander. Proctor reminded Kyel of a cleverly brilliant chess master who was ingenious enough to think six moves in advance, yet ruthless enough to sacrifice any given piece to gain an advantage. His eyes had taken on an emptiness just as barren as his chamber.
The sound of movement below startled Kyel from his thoughts. His hand dove for his quiver, but he didn’t nock an arrow to the string. The sentries were fewer in number, now, strung out at greater intervals along the length of the pass. But their eyes were now sharper than ever. No Enemy soldier could make it so far as the steps beneath Greystone Keep.
And he was right. The man who approached from below was no enemy. He might even be the only friend Kyel had left.
“It’s a good view,” Darien said, turning to glance over the lip of the outcrop. He didn’t look like himself at all, wearing regular clothes, his hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders.
To Kyel, the different apparel seemed a drastic change. Darien looked shockingly less severe, shockingly normal. Even the chains on his wrists seemed to lose their emphasis.
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 16