The young man seemed hesitant. Darien took the sack and, opening it, discovered that it was filled with dried meat, slices of bread, and even some cheese. Wellingford produced a waterskin and handed that to him, as well. Darien accepted it with a muttered word of thanks.
The boy stared out at the flickering lights, his cloak stirring behind him. Softly, he whispered, “Is that the Enemy?”
“Aye.” He watched as Wellingford stepped forward, stopping right at the edge of the cliff. Just seeing him there made Darien shudder. Wellingford didn’t seem bothered by heights in the least. He stood motionless, gazing outward across the plains, one foot slightly ahead of the other.
“Mother of the gods,” he whispered.
Looking up at him, Darien asked, “Have you been taught how to estimate an army’s strength by counting campfires?”
Wellingford turned back around, taking a step away from the cliff’s edge. “Yes, but … there’s too many. It would take all night.”
“Not all night.” Darien shook his head. “Judging from the lights, I estimate their numbers at somewhere near fifty-two thousand.”
The boy swept a hand back through his hair, shaking his head as his eyes glistened in the moonlight. “I never thought there would be so many,” he said, lowering himself to sit at Darien’s side.
“There were more, once. I can only assume that the men under Garret Proctor’s command have put their courage and their horn bows to good use.”
Wellingford just stared at him blankly.
Darien raised his hand, pointing toward the dark swell of a ridgeline. “Look there.” He indicated a patch of starless sky hanging inches beneath the moon, slightly above the rolling hills that sloped upward into the Craghorns.
“I see nothing.”
“The stars above the ridge,” Darien specified.
“There are none.” Wellingford shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t understand. What could be obscuring them?”
“Smoke. From campfires.”
The boy drew in a sharp gasp of breath. “The second army,” he whispered. When Darien nodded, Wellingford’s face seemed on the verge of collapse. He had that crestfallen look again, although this time it made his face seem older instead of younger.
“Do we really stand a chance? The forces from Emmery you promised us never arrived.”
“I won’t be expecting them till the morrow.” Darien stared hard at Wellingford’s face. The boy needed reassurance, needed it desperately. “Why don’t we go over strategy? I was thinking to wait, but seeing that you’re here…”
“That would be good,” Wellingford said eagerly, leaning back with his gloved hands in the snow. His fingers sank deeply into the icy powder with a crunching noise, exposing a wide, man-made crack in the stone below. Perplexed, he brushed away the snow with his fingers to reveal a curving line.
“What’s this?”
“You’re sitting on a focus line of the Circle of Convergence.”
Wellingford stared down at it, frowning. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You don’t want to,” Darien assured him. “Just listen, do your part, and leave the rest to me.”
35
Black Solstice
“Time to get up.”
Kyel groaned, wondering what hour it could possibly be. Squinting into the darkness, he made out the form of Nigel Swain, a mere shadow against the other shadows within the tent. Outside, it appeared to be ink black through the open flap, and cold. Terribly cold. Why hadn’t Swain closed the flap when he’d entered? Probably a tactic to get him up and moving faster.
Then he remembered: Solstice. Dawn. Today. Feeling suddenly wide awake, Kyel threw his blankets back and shot up from the covers.
“What time is it?”
“Too damn early,” came Swain’s acidic growl. “Come on, I brought you some of that fodder they’re serving in place of food.”
Kyel shook his head even though he knew the man probably couldn’t see him in the darkness. The thought of eating curdled gruel within scant moments of waking was frankly nauseating. Besides, his bladder was so full it ached. He dragged himself up from his pallet, moving toward the opening. “I need to go out for a minute.”
He was stopped by the captain’s warning growl. “Better be just a minute.”
Kyel nodded, taking the man’s point. He had spent the entire first day of the march making frequent trips into the bushes before he was finally able to bend one single link of his chains. Then, it had taken him another day and a half of side trips to close the same link back up again. He’d practiced opening and closing the link at every chance he found, until the presence of the vortex had given him other things to think about. That was all the practice he’d had. And it was all he was going to get.
That was precisely what Swain was grumbling about. After the first two days of Kyel’s prolonged excursions afield, the captain had caught on that he was up to something, though he never figured out what. But after that, Kyel had found his movements strictly watched. If he didn’t make it back quickly enough, Swain made certain he missed his next meal.
He made his water then returned to the tent, the first light of dawn still absent from the sky. The moon was setting, though, which meant sunrise couldn’t be that long in following.
The captain met him outside, waiting for him. As Kyel strode up, he could feel Swain’s eyes looking him over, lingering a moment on the chains. Kyel pretended he didn’t notice.
“How long will it take us to get there?” he asked. They couldn’t be that far away. Most of the camp still had to be broken down, and he’d told Blandford that Darien was expecting them by sunrise.
Swain transferred his bowl to his left hand, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Pointing, he said, “See that ridge?” He indicated a jagged patch of blackness against the slightly grayer sky. “Orien’s Finger is about two more ridges north of it. We’ll be there about an hour after sunrise, so that’s about a two-hour march.”
Kyel felt stunned. Betrayed. “But Darien told us to be there at sunrise!” He rounded on Swain. “We can’t arrive an hour after the fighting starts—it might be too late!”
The captain just shrugged. “Blandford wants the Enemy bloodied a bit before we engage.”
Kyel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What did they expect Darien to do, take on both armies by himself? Or was that exactly what they intended? Feeling a sudden, searing anger, Kyel took a threatening step toward the captain.
“This has been your plan all along, hasn’t it?” he accused. “You intend to just bide your time while he wears himself down, then sweep in when he’s no longer a threat to you.”
Looking at the coldly gleaming hilt of Swain’s sword, Kyel felt his rage swell to scalding. “That’s why you’re here,” he realized. “You’re captain of the city guard. You don’t even belong with the army! Romana just sent you along because Darien trusts you—you’re the one who trained him. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re here to kill him!”
Swain looked at him sideways, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Then he took a step back and, tossing aside the flap of the tent, ducked inside. Kyel wanted to scream in rage. Not bothering to bite back the curse on his lips, he followed Swain into the tent. He wasn’t going to let him get away, not without an explanation.
In the darkness of the tent, he saw the captain’s shadow as only a blur. Then hands were on him, restraining him from behind. He felt the warm brush of Swain’s breath at the back of his neck as the captain warned, “Don’t press me further.”
But Kyel couldn’t help himself. “I don’t understand you. You must have been his friend. How can you do this?”
The hands eased their pressure on him gradually. Kyel turned around, peering intently into the shadows of the man’s angular face. Swain’s eyes glared at him with a dangerous intensity, his chest heaving with every drawn breath.
“I knew a boy named Darien Lauchlin, once,” he said. “But that was a long time ago. The
man up there on that mountain, now … I don’t know him anymore. I don’t want to know him. And if you had any brains in your head, you wouldn’t want to either.”
Sunrise.
Darien had spent the hours after moonset pacing the circumference of the Circle, stirring the dusted snow off with his boots and with the power of his mind. He dared not use too much. There were creatures that could sense such stirrings of the field. But a trickle here and a tad bit there gradually revealed the deeply hewn lines that ran inward from the margin of the Circle, forming an exactingly rendered copy of the star he wore on his back, only many times larger.
Two stars, one offset against the other. He knew the pattern of the Circle was not a star at all. At least, not by intention. The rays were a focus that directed the lines of power in the eye of the vortex, merging them together in one place, one single point in space at the Circle’s center. That was the power of the Circle of Convergence. All the energy of the vortex could be gathered here. The rays of the star functioned like lenses to bend the lines of the magic field together and filter them, rendering that tremendous well of power safe to use.
But like glass lenses, each Circle had its flaws, its little imperfections. Even minuscule faults had an impact on its ability to focus the surrounding vortex. Orien’s was a Lesser Circle, which meant its flaws were more problematic than the Greater Circle that had existed in Aerysius, now buried beneath the rubble of the Hall. Darien was not sure what impact those flaws would have on the Circle’s use. Only time would tell. All he could see from his cursory study was that Orien’s Circle was still functional after its long sleep of over four hundred years. All he had to do now was awaken it.
Gazing down from the rim of the crag, he could see the gray sky in the east giving way to vivid hues of gold and vermillion. Sunrise had always been his favorite time of day. The colors of the sky seemed more saturated than they did at sunset, especially when there was just a splattering of clouds on the horizon, as there was today.
But there was no joy to be had in this sunrise, this dawn, this day. Darien ignored the timorous beauty of the wakening sky as if it didn’t exist. To him, nothing existed in the world except for the vast black wedge approaching from the north, that and the Circle of Convergence beneath his feet. It was almost time.
This dawn, this day, this purpose.
Steeling himself, he walked to the tip of the nearest ray and drew upon the potent rapture of the magic field, a wonder far more stirring than any daybreak. He felt the power moving through him, a bliss unlike any other. The magic field had never felt this way, not until lately. Not until he had clothed his heart in ashes and cloaked his soul in apathy. But now it seemed the tranquil stirring of the field was the only thing keeping him going, the only thing keeping him alive.
Beneath his boots, the ancient stone-carved lines began to glow with a silvery light that ran like quicksilver down the length of the ray to the Circle’s focal point. Unnoticed, the first rays of the sun broke above the white rolling plains in the east.
His back to the sunrise, Garret Proctor contemplated the advancing army before him. He had worn their numbers down considerably. But it had hardly made a difference.
So many dead. All for the trust he had placed in one man. One man who he still had no guarantee would come through for them.
He sat his horse and waited. His new captain, a man by the name of Wade Tarpen, was at his side. Tarpen had Craig’s horse and Craig’s gear, but none of the other man’s spirit. Proctor grimaced as he looked to the east, toward the sunrise, despising the wait.
Today, he knew, he was going to die. He doubted Lauchlin had even known it at the time, but the mage had sentenced them all to death with a few simple words uttered at the base of the tower at Greystone Keep.
Draw the majority of their strength into the eye of the vortex, and I’ll see to it you get your wish.
Proctor wondered if Lauchlin had realized at the time the hone of the blade he’d let fall that day. Because there was only one way to draw both Enemy hosts deep enough into the eye of the vortex for Darien’s purpose to succeed.
He had missed the break of dawn. It had been over fifteen years since his face had last gazed upon the rising sun. Garret Proctor savored the warmth of daybreak, knowing there would never be another. Death was always cold, just as the grave was always dark and stale. He knew; he had buried enough friends to be certain.
Darien heard someone approaching up the steps. It could have been Wellingford, but he knew it wasn’t. It might have been any number of people, but he already had a very good idea who it would be. He recognized the sound of her footsteps even before she came into view. It was a noise firmly ingrained on his mind. The sound of her slippered feet moved often through his nightmares.
He turned to face her as Arden Hannah came into view, picking her way over the last treacherous step to emerge at the glowing summit of the crag. Her creatures must have sensed the ripples in the field he’d created by awakening the Circle.
Dark forms swept out from behind her, gliding past her to line the edge of the rim, six in all. Necrators. Darien had begun to feel the effects of their approach minutes before. He had known they were drawing nearer when the song of the magic field had started to fade in his head. It was almost gone now. Almost, but not quite. He could still feel the pulse of it dimly, like the tremulous echo of a dying heartbeat.
He wasn’t there yet. There must be something further he needed to do.
Arden stood regarding him with sparkling eyes, resplendent in an intriguing mixture of blue silks and silver chain mail. Slowly, a smile bloomed on her lips. It was a triumphant smile, and its radiance swept upward to gleam in her eyes.
There was a low growl. Darien’s eyes were drawn behind her, to the beast that glared at him with glowing green eyes. The thanacryst was black and large with matted fur. It had a rabid look. Its mouth was open and panting, a wide and cavernous hole that drooled thick saliva to the stone. Revolted, Darien felt an instinctual impulse to draw away from it.
“You’re so full of surprises, my dear.”
Her voice was like silver droplets of moonlight. She took a step toward him, placing a slippered foot inside the margin of the glowing Circle. Tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowed as she considered him.
“Oh, my, but you’ve changed. When we first met, you were just a little sweetling. My fire must have scorched your soul.” Gazing into his eyes, she said in a voice full of conviction, “Look at you. You’re positively glorious.”
Darien shuddered, the silken tone of her voice eliciting memories he had struggled to forget.
Behind her, the thanacryst uttered a low, guttural growl of yearning. Its nose quivered as it sensed the proximity of its prey. Arden placed a hand on its head, soothing it with the liquid texture of her voice.
“Easy, my pet. Not yet.”
Turning back to Darien, she brought a hand up. Her fingertips stroked the pale flesh of her neck.
“Come to me,” she commanded. “There is nothing in the world so erotic as two mages united, naked bodies and unrestrained power intertwined. I can give you a little taste of what it would be like, if you were mine.”
Standing there on the margin of the Circle, offering herself up to him like a sacrifice, her seductive energies took hold of him with an influence that was overwhelming. This time, Darien allowed it. He did nothing to resist the electric tension that shuddered down his nerves. It was almost like the longing ache he felt for Naia, though shockingly more feral. It filled him with a desperate urgency he had no inclination to ignore.
His eyes took in the shape of her figure, the sleek curves of the chain mail draped over her hips. He found the sight of her as enticing as it was repulsive. But, strangely, the dichotomy just added to her attraction.
He needed to take her. And he needed to enjoy every hungry second of it.
Moving forward, he kept his gaze fixed on Arden’s as he reached up and grasped the platinum locks of her hair
. Consumed with untamed rage, he scoured his lips over the silken crease of her neck, the intensity of his assault driving a gasp from her lips.
He reached his hand up and released his cloak. Drawing it from his shoulders, he spread it out over the glowing lines of the Circle’s rays with the star facing downward, pressed against its larger counterpart.
He pulled his shirt off over his head and drew her toward him, dragging her down with him to the ground. Her power flowed over him, through him, the electric intensity of her gift searing like wildfire through his mind.
Conscience forsaken, Darien gave her everything she asked for, everything he had, everything he was. Most important, he gave Arden exactly what she wanted from him most.
There on the flattened summit of Orien’s crag, Darien surrendered to Arden Hannah all that remained of his tortured soul.
His raised fist a silhouette against the red disk of the rising sun, Garret Proctor himself bellowed the command to send his men forward to their deaths. He kicked his boots into the flanks of his horse, drawing the cold length of steel he had not wielded in battle since Meridan. The hilt felt good in his gloved hand, the balance of the sword excellent. He had never favored a fight from horseback, but a man had to eat from the plate the gods served him, even if the fare was cold and bitter.
With a grim smile on his face, Garret Proctor swept his blade downward, sheering through the end of an Enemy spear. Pressing his mount forward with his legs, he raised his shield and warded off the attack of a mace as he wheeled his horse around, charging back out of the thick of the fight.
Darien rolled over to lie gasping on his back, staring upward into the sky. He felt Arden’s hand caress his chest, heard the silken texture of her voice as she whispered in his ear, “I think I’ll make you my pet. Yes. For a little while, at least.”
The Complete Rhenwars Saga: An Epic Fantasy Pentalogy Page 39