Lord General Tsan’s horned helm swung slowly toward him, as if reluctant to take his eyes from his daughter. “As you wish, Protector. Shall I interrogate him?”
Garn regarded the great artifact’s owner. Brown eyes stared back warily, an expected reaction when mentioning any form of the word interrogate. One never knew if only questioning would be involved, or torture, perhaps both. “Nay, Lord Tsan. I intend to handle this myself.”
“Trenton, my name is Trenton,” the gray robe, Trenton, said.
Garn ignored the man’s outburst. “You are dismissed, take him to confinement,” he said, nodding at Tsan.
General Tsan looked at Jade once more. When she failed to look at him, he stomped down the steps, his steel-heeled boots tinging on every step. “Bring your charge,” he snarled at his two soldiers.
Each soldier gripped the gray-robed man by a shoulder, spinning him around.
“One other thing, Trenton,” Garn said.
The soldiers stopped. Trenton looked over his shoulder, his curly brown hair masking one eye. “Yes?” he asked.
“I suggest you give the general your full cooperation if you wish to live beyond today,” Garn said.
Trenton gave a curt nod. Then the two soldiers pulled him roughly away.
Garn watched them go, hoping he hadn’t lied.
DARK SOUL
Squeezing the darkness tight around the last group of ingrots that had dared attack him like a giant extension of his own fist, Darwin compressed the subterranean dwellers. Green, glowing pulp oozed from the darkness. Squeezed higher, as high up as a dwarf standing on a man’s shoulders, the mass rose twice the height the creatures normally stood when they were separate. Releasing his hold, the radiant gel plopped into the tunnel’s standing water, pooling for a time as the water worked at dispersing it.
Darwin’s smile was grim. The flow of power had shifted. He had not needed Malkor’s substantial help even. A wealth of strength, dark and commanding, burned within him now. An agonizing sweetness both painful and succulent flowed into the stream of Dark User resource, the Flow, from the roiling blackness that had once been his soul.
He could now draw the Flow from two places, through his body as before and from within the blackness surrounding it. The Spear acted as a catalyst and power source, storing and shuffling the power to whichever tip he chose to fling it with. Ultimate supremacy raged through him, searing away compassion, eroding remorse. At last, he had the means to destroy those who had maimed him and the one whose power had surpassed his own.
Yet, such power came at a price he had not prepared for. The darkness sought dominance. The blackness expected no less than complete mastery of him from the moment the axe sliced into the sentient part of the soul, the awareness one has of one’s own ambience, the part attached to one’s body from the neck up. Instead, the dark power had found a prison, containment inside his soul.
Enraged like any beast caged, the darkness within his soul clawed and tore at the boundary the Shimmer Spear and the Flow set for it, a separation Darwin had not been certain would hold, even with the old lore’s assurance Malkor had dredged from his eons of experience accessible to only a Lore Master, which the red robe had quickly become. Soon, his manservant may even surpass Naa’thon.
However, such thoughts were for another time. Darwin had to make haste. Reclaiming the Dark Citadel would take time, even with the added power of the shadow. As it was, the constant fending off the beast wore at him, draining his patience. “Your ineptness is surprising, Malkor. You and all your lore gave assurance the glow frogs would give us no trouble.”
“My surprise is as great as yours, Master; ingrots are known to fear man with a proper demonstration. They are aware of the futility from attacking a User of no little power. Always in the past, groups of the creatures would test the mettle of a single traveler or small company of travelers by sacrificing one of their own. Once dominance is established, they slink back to their holes.”
“A continual wave of attacks hardly counts as ‘slinking,’” Darwin sneered.
“I simply meant to imply that—”
“From this point on, reply only with something useful. How far do we have left to go to reach the Citadel?” Darwin interrupted. Malkor’s whines had grown irritating.
Made brighter by the dim light of their surroundings, Malkor’s eyes glowed red as he accessed his lore base. Darwin noted the ease with which he slipped into the mode of searching now.
“Next is a short ramp upward leading to the lower holds, which may have guards,” Malkor stated. His eyes kept their crimson brightness.
Darwin frowned. “Why are the subterranean dwellers this close to humans?” he asked aloud. “Why such high numbers and showing so much aggression? Do not answer, my servant, my friend. I speak of things handled once the Dark Citadel’s forces are under my command. A proper cleansing shall come then.”
Malkor sloshed past without replying. His eerie red eyes dimmed only slightly from the bright white of his flawless glimmer shard.
Marching through the tepid water, Darwin quelled his rising irritation as he caught up to the red robe. His manservant would soon know his place or accept punishment for such a slight.
For those below him, showing respect was something Darwin would insist on implementing once the dark throne and the Obsidian Table were his. Of course, having those two stations meant all would be beneath him. His time had come.
As his servant expected, a pair of soldiers stood on each side of a wooden door banded with thick and wide strips of black iron.
Darwin’s dagger-sized black splinters protruded from their eyes and cheeks before they could raise an alarm. Had they worn helms, he would have had to come up with something more draining on his stores. Something else to make note of when established as great lord and faction leader. Helms were standard issue for a soldier; they would always wear them on duty or face severe recriminations.
Darwin signaled for Malkor to stay close behind, and then he pulled the door open, stepping through without pause. Two additional guards stood at duty on the inside. Not one of them moved or even looked his direction.
He continued past them, going farther along the hallway and then stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing, worm?” the Great Shadow within him asked. Raspy from disuse, the dry voice in his mind continued. “Only a fool would leave an enemy alive behind him.” Darwin turned around abruptly. “Drop,” he said simply to his manservant.
Malkor froze. Then he fell to his knees.
Surprised at the speed of the Flow available to him, Darwin executed the same fate to the two men as he had their counterparts on the other side of the doors. Both men dropped without voicing a sound.
Satisfied they would continue undetected, Darwin nevertheless wondered at the soldiers’ lack of action. At the very least, the guard duty called for the script proof of patrol requirements for anyone accessing the Endless Caverns. The soldiers should have detained them and demanded to see it. Had protocols changed so much under the hooded man’s rule? Had they become lax?
If so, the Alchemist was going to pay dearly for it. At first, Darwin had considered convincing the Dark One to serve him but discarded the notion quickly. The man was too dangerous, such cunning had no match, and it was best to dispose of him immediately along with those in his command hierarchy. “The fool learns,” the Great Shadow said, laughing maliciously. Darwin ignored the voice in his mind.
Though his confidence grew with each unguarded doorway he passed through, Darwin slowed his pace. Overconfidence had maimed him for life; vengeance would soothe the hatred for those who had made it happen.
Darwin detoured along a side hallway that opened into the natural cavernous rooms the Ancients had left with little enhancements, only boring hallways to and from it.
The Caverns of Creation had changed. Well, the main cavern, the first and largest, had. The seven pools of water within the caverns had changed to a glossy
black color from seasons of Flow experimentation, which was normal.
The square tower rising five stories, halfway to the enormous stalactites stretching down, was not. Many had broken off, or blown apart from the caverns grip by an errant bolt from a young or arrogant Dark User.
Darwin shunted the images of past time spent in the caverns to the back of his thoughts. The dark creation towering three stories beside the wooden structure captured his attention, filling his vision. The Alchemist’s Dark Users had developed a way to make the raggedy doll-like creations bigger and stronger. Several dozen Users must have collaborated on the project.
Having no care for the mechanics of such Using—though at a certain time in his life, he would have thought of little else—he desired only the power, the enhancement to strength.
Reaching out to the Flow, drawing it through a pool of dark water, he filled the colossal creation with the sludge of life, making it his own. Behind it, another awaited in the same state. He brought the Flow into it also. Wide, yellow-orange eyes lit upon both faces, standing out sharply on the burlap-textured skin of the creations. Neither one had a nose or mouth to catch the eye, which was just as well; he wanted a weapon not a companion.
Darwin left the room going back the way he had come. The Great Master—Darwin—could call either or both of the juggernaut creations with a thought, if he should need them. A short hike along the hallway of his original starting point brought him to a long stairway rising upward.
As Darwin climbed the first set of stairs leading toward the Dark Gate, he prepared every step of his assault on the Citadel in his mind. Revenge was close. As he did so, the blackness within him raged.
GRIM GRANDEUR
As they galloped along the Black Road, Camoe had sufficient time to reflect on the irony of his life. A few short months ago, he had avoided the dangers of the Black Road while aiding with the escape of a young woman from the Dark Citadel. Now he rode on a dark horse out in the open on the Black Road, heading back to the same blasted place he had worked so hard at leaving.
Worse, he could not help but think that if he had not brought Maialene with him to the Dark Citadel those seasons before that to pinpoint the exact location of the Dark Oracle, his daughter would still live. Kara Laurel would not have hated the sight of him for it and joined with the enemy. The same enemy he now escorted to the Dark Gate. Why did fate keep him returning to this dark place of heartache and bitterness, his greatest error in judgment? Why had he ignored the foretelling back then?
Easily recognizable on his red stallion, the hooded man caused an about face from every patrol leader who thought to detain them during the last three days as they moved toward the Dark Gate. For two nights, they’d kept a cold, fireless camp. Interestingly, they encountered no one, military or otherwise, coming from the Citadel.
Camoe urged his mount beside the Alchemist and motioned for him to slow; something he had wondered about more than once had resurfaced. “Why have we not encountered your army’s return from the Vale? A token force would hold it, the Valens have fled.”
The black cowl swung toward him, all but the Alchemist’s beardless chin lost in shadow. “Some knowledge is dangerous to glean, druid,” he replied.
Camoe nearly drew his sword. “I shall only warn you one last time. Do not toy with questions. Answer all that I ask or die in this barren, blackened, and defiled place. Another headless corpse shall gather scant notice, not even a hooded one.”
The dark cowl swung to the front and behind, the hood settling to face back in Camoe’s direction. “As you wish, but do not speak aloud I did not warn you. You are correct with your observation. A regiment ensures the taking of the Vale stays with the Citadel, the rest march to join those assailing Surbo. The capitol city of the White Lands shall likely reside under Dark User control, under my power within a week,” the Alchemist said, the tone of his voice soft.
Camoe, too, spoke soft. There could still be patrols no matter what the Alchemist insinuated. “Why have you assailed Surbo in the first place? There are much easier, less defensible places to hold in the central and eastern lands. Your losses against the city are great.”
For a long while, the dark cowl faced him in silence, the sound of the horses’ hooves clopping against black cobblestone the only sound. Finally, the Alchemist stirred, checking the road ahead as he spoke. “I expect not one of you on this foolhardy expedition shall survive. Revealing to you that taking Surbo is imperative, or so it looks, shall not cause harm to the desired outcome of the plan at this point.”
“Why? What is so important there it is worth throwing so many lives away, killing so many innocents?” Camoe asked.
The beardless chin lifted slightly. The thin lips of the Alchemist shifted upward, forming a grim smile. “Surely you have an idea, druid. The prize is not what is there in Surbo but what lies beneath.”
Camoe drew in a sharp breath as the enormity of the Alchemist’s words hammered him, causing his heart to race. “The Flow, the great river of power, is strong there,” he breathed.
The Alchemist’s smile widened. “Precisely,” he purred. Spurring his horse with the heels of his boots, the hooded man pulled away.
Leaning only slightly forward, Camoe urged the dark horse into a gallop. The big stallion needed little incentive; the great horse was unused to following, and he had had to rein it back more than once, dropping behind the Alchemist to maintain the ruse his little band of warriors had joined with the Dark One. Camoe watched the expert way the man rode and knew anxiety over his devious brilliance. With the power of the entire Circle of Light at his disposal, the Dark One may become unstoppable.
For now, all Camoe could do about it was ride on.
Rounding a bend, the grim grandeur of the Dark Gate came into view.
A hundred meters wide, the gate curved outward a half kilometer to its center, finishing the arc from there at the opposite canyon wall. Built with the same dark gray granite as some parts of the Citadel, the gate defied imagination with its sheer size. Two gigantic, black iron doors stood closed halfway along each side of the center arc, hanging on massive poles bored through the wall.
A second wall, made to blend in with the cliff face of the plateau, towered above and behind the main one. Four great iron doors were spaced evenly on it with room to slide to the side, which released flying creatures according to stories Camoe had heard of in a past age. He hoped never to see what would come screeching out of them firsthand. Each exit was nearly as wide and high as a falun tree.
The Alchemist galloped at full speed toward the gate until it loomed with the presence of a hill sliced vertically by some gigantic axe, and then stopped abruptly.
Pulling hard on the reins, Camoe slid past the man by a horse’s length. “What is it?” he asked.
“There, in the dark shadows of the far left arc, what do you see?” the Alchemist asked in return.
Camoe looked. A blackness darker than the shadows gaped where the wall met the canyon. A doorway, opening inside, stood ajar. “Where are the gate guards?” Camoe asked.
“Precisely. The gate is only opened for returning patrols without mounts, always heavily manned,” the hooded man said softly. “Before getting this close, a horn should have sounded, the first warning to halt and declare ourselves.”
“What is the second warning?” Kerna asked.
“A hail of arrows,” the Alchemist replied.
“That is pleasant,” Peers said. “I assume if one makes it to the third warning, it is the worst?”
“An assault by magical means,” the Alchemist said. “None of this has happened, but something has. Keep a sharp watch. The likelihood we go to battle is high.” The Alchemist leaned on the pommel of his saddle, his dark cowl facing Camoe. His smooth blocky chin and grim mouth were the only view of his features. “Perhaps, your decision to ride the Black Road in lieu of the topaz gateway shall have merit after all,” he added. Urging his horse on, he made for the g
aping hole in the wall.
Camoe coaxed his black stud after the hooded man, slowing to match the wine-red stallion’s pace. “Perhaps you organize different than your predecessor, but recalling from my limited experience, the Black Road had as much activity coming out from the Dark Citadel as going into it.”
The Alchemist slowed. “Your memory serves well. There has not been commercial or military travel as normal; it is disturbing,” he said softly. The Alchemist dismounted at the doorway, letting the horse continue to the wall’s base without him.
Camoe did the same, keeping the horse between him and the ominous blackness beyond the doorway. “You shall continue to lead, but know this. The first sign of treachery, and you receive a dagger in the side. Your death will be slow and excruciating,” he promised. Sidling close to the man, he followed the Dark One’s example of keeping his back to the canyon wall out of sight of the door.
The Alchemist deigned not to respond to his threat. Instead, he waited until Peers and Kerna slipped from their horses, and moved quietly behind them. Then, the hooded man strode boldly into the darkness.
Camoe had a brief moment of despair. He hated how fate and the foretelling of Flow threads, his curse, had forced him back into the lair of his lifelong enemy. This very fortress had taken his loving daughter from him one time and then allowed him to escape with another dear to him the next. As he strode beyond the Dark Gate, he doubted if he would survive a third excursion.
Camoe cared not. Jade needed him.
HER RESOLVE
Crystalyn admired the great gates. The sheer size of them, towering from the Old Town Coliseum’s floor to where the ceiling started its magnificent arch, made her feel small. Their very function added a backward sense to everything one knew about technological disciplines. The alien technology that kept them sustained for so long was nearly incomprehensible, far beyond anything known, even on her Terra.
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