by J. C. Staudt
“Yes, and while you’ve been doing all that thinking, your wife has been without the man who swore to be near her. To protect her. To cherish her.”
Darion’s whisper took on a roughness. “I had to go. I had to. Rudgar would’ve laid Maergath to ruin if I hadn’t convinced him to stay his hand.”
“You did your duty,” said Sir Jalleth. “And in so doing, you gave your lady wife a knave’s courtesy.”
“She should be more understanding of my sacrifice. She—”
“Do not presume to speak to me as if I don’t know you, Darion Ulther. How much did you sacrifice to travel halfway across the world to do what you were born for? To do what makes you feel most alive? It was your idea to offer Rudgar King your sword. Not his. Not your wife’s. Yours. You went because you longed for it. Lusted for it. Battle. Glory. Victory. You could taste it long before the salt spray of the Forscythe touched your face. You are a Warcaster. A man of great power, grown unhappy with having settled for less. I know. For I, too, am one. I was once, anyway. Love and duty seldom make good bedfellows.”
Darion wanted to draw his sword and strike sparks on the stone wall beside him. Sir Jalleth was right, and it infuriated him. Darion didn’t want to be here; not more than he wanted to be in Korengad, where his talents were most useful. What did he know about raising a child? What sort of husband could he be if he returned to a humdrum life like the one he’d lived at Keep Ulther—a life of drinking and lounging and daydreaming about the old days? He’d spent the early days of his marriage wishing for something more, and he did not see that changing now.
Master Quilian showed Sir Jalleth to his quarters, then opened the adjacent door to let Darion and his family into theirs. Darion thanked the castellan before shutting the door behind him. Alynor stood in the center of the room with her hands on the boy’s shoulders, looking too afraid to move but eyeing the red satin canopy over the massive bed with a tired sort of longing.
“You may rest, if you wish,” Darion said. “I know you must be tired.”
Without a word Alynor peeled back the coverlet, then lifted Draithon to a seat on the bed and removed his shoes. She lifted his tunic over his head and tucked him beneath the sheets before rounding the bed, where she sat to remove her sandals.
“Alynor,” Darion said. “Will you not speak to me?”
She turned, and with a note of sweet venom in her voice, asked, “About what?”
Darion’s mouth hung open. He could not fathom what must be going through her mind to offer such a response. Then again, she was tired. Perhaps after a long nap she would be more amenable to discussion. “Nothing. Get some sleep.”
He left the bedchamber and ascended to one of the keep’s balustrades, from whence he could look out over the town on one side and the river on the other. Soldiers clad in chainmail and yellow-and-gray tabards greeted him with solemn nods. Fluffy white clouds drifted through a sunlit sky, shading the hilly lanes below where crowds shuffled past on their morning routines.
Darion tried not to think about Alynor’s cold reception, but it was all he could do. He would’ve thought his wife happy to see him after all this time—even a little. Yet she’d been so distant they might as well be half a world apart. It was as if their time together had taken place in another life rather than a few years prior.
Time had unraveled the braid of their intimacy. Darion knew he’d changed—and, he suspected, so had she. A woman did not become a mother without a profound sort of change. Perhaps she no longer loved him. But then, that was to assume she had truly loved him back then, when things were simpler.
“Buggers,” shouted a soldier on the city’s western battlement. He lifted his crossbow; a dozen others did the same.
“Hold your fire,” said the guard captain.
Darion scanned the downs to the west. He could see only a sliver of rolling landscape beneath the brightening sky. Dozens of moving blemishes dotted that distant horizon like nymphs squiggling on the surface of a neglected puddle, coming closer.
There was no way to get from the keep’s upper balustrades to the battlements on Trebelow’s ringwall—a safety measure, he knew, but one of particular inconvenience to him now. He rushed downstairs to the keep’s main level and exited onto a street jammed with commoners. Foot and cart traffic was always heavy this time of day, but there was no other route to his destination. He pushed his way through the crowds to the complaint of many, darting down empty alleys and squeezing between bodies wherever he could fit. He had adopted a similar strategy earlier that morning after Ristocule had found him, but the streets had been emptier then.
Merchants called out to him, but Darion had no time for haggling. He reached the gatehouse and hurried up the steps to stand on the battlement with Lord Goldane’s men as a wave of figures surged toward them from the west. Next to him stood a soldier called Vingel, whom Darion had met a time or two before.
“Are these the first you’ve seen of the infected?” Darion asked.
The soldier shook his head. “Not the first. The most we’ve seen all at once, though.”
“Has Lord Goldane given you instruction on how to handle them?”
“We tell them to go away, just like everyone else. Even the infecteds wander off eventually. If they don’t respond, or can’t speak, or don’t go nowhere after a time, we’re given leave to take action.”
“And the bodies?”
Vingel shrugged. “Burn them where they lie, or let nature claim them. Plenty of creatures in the downs looking to fill their bellies. No one here brave enough to touch one. Ain’t allowed to bring them inside the walls anyway.”
“These particular individuals look fairly intent on entering the city,” Darion said, pointing.
The approaching horde was composed not only of villagers from Westenreach, but of every sort of creature, monster, and animal in the realms. These were not simple wanderers, tainted toward mindless rage and violence. They were all heading in the same direction—toward the rising sun. And Darion sensed in some undeniable way, potent enough to send a twinge of fear up his spine, that somehow they were moving under a single consciousness.
“Don’t you fret, Master Ulther,” said Vingel. “We’ll have them, anyone tries to get scrappy ‘neath our gates.”
“Good man,” said Darion. “Fetch me if things happen to get out of hand.”
“Doubt they will, milord, but thank you.”
Darion clapped him on the back and descended the stairs. There was a tight feeling in his gut as he marched across town to the Hunter’s Hill, a massive stone inn with graceful eaves beneath a split-shingle roofline. He passed beneath the arched entrance and through the courtyard, where the built-in stables and outdoor hearth and dining area were full to bursting.
Seeing no sign of Jeebo and the others out of doors, Darion entered the dim interior, a wide U-shaped room with hazy yellow glass in the windowpanes and a grand fireplace at either end. The ceiling was low except where staircases angled up the corner walls to carry patrons to their beds.
“There he is,” shouted a familiar voice from the crowd packed in among the trestle tables.
Darion saw a hand, then a face. Kestrel and Jeebo sat on one side of the table while Triolyn and Axli shared the other.
“Saved you a seat,” said Kestrel, scraping back a chair.
“Next to you,” Darion said as he sat down, showing no lack of sarcasm.
Kestrel threw an arm around him. “Reunited for mere moments and we’re back at it already. Say, where’s the old man and your lady wife?”
“Sleeping by now, I presume.”
“Not up for a rousing day of stiff drinks and stiffer conversation, eh?”
“This will hardly take all day,” Darion said. “The only thing I need to know is where you put that lute.”
“I’ve told you. Tenleague Deep. In Noralin’s tomb, where it belongs.”
“There is someone who feels it belongs elsewhere, and that someone happens to pose a threat to my w
ife and child. How Alynor came to be in the service of one of the ancients against her will is moot, as far as I’m concerned. All that matters is retrieving the periapt and delivering it to Shandashkaleth. Or the creature who now inhabits her body.”
“Who gives a flying leap about some old bag of bones playing at dragonery?” said Triolyn. “If she wants Alynor, let her crawl out and try. I’ve seen you fight a dragon before. I’ll put up a half-weight in gold she’s all wind and no thunder.”
“That may very well be,” said Darion. “Nevertheless, one does not stretch the limits of mortality without first amassing a formidable set of talents. We would be fools to ignore the promises of an ancient, lest she keep them. Now, where is this tomb of Noralin’s?”
“Through fire and famine, plague and pestilence,” said Triolyn. “It took the four of us nearly a week to make it there, and another to escape the trap our caster laid for us and make it back out.”
“This caster… Rothlan, you said his name was?”
“That’s right.”
“Where exactly did you leave him?”
“In the tomb,” said Kestrel.
“In the tomb. And where did you leave the lute?”
“In the tomb.”
Darion had been afraid of that. “How very unfortunate. If I know anything about the ancients, Noralin’s soul may no longer be where it was when you left it.”
“You think she’s shifted?”
“I think she would’ve shifted into you, had you not shown the foresight to get rid of that lute when you did.”
Kestrel smiled proudly. “Why thank you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. It was a bloody fool move to leave the periapt in there with that mage.”
“We didn’t have much choice. We had one chance to pull our trick on him, and thank the gods it worked. Once he was locked in there, not a one of us would’ve opened that door again.”
“Then it appears I shall have to,” said Darion. “Whoever is in there—whatever sort of being Noralin is—I must face her. I must capture her and deliver her to Shandashkaleth. It may mean Alynor’s death if I don’t.”
“You’re not going anywhere just now,” said a man with straw-colored hair at the next table. “Not with those buggers crawling up the city walls.”
“He’s right,” said Triolyn. “Lord Goldane won’t open the gates today, even for you.”
Darion stood. “Then I’ll have to lend a hand against the onslaught.”
“That won’t do any good. Your magic’s more like to spread the infestation than stop it. Buggers need a clean death. An arrow through the skull, quick and simple. There’s no way out for you until they’re gone or dealt with.”
“I agree,” said Kestrel. “You’ll have to exercise a little patience.”
“The west gate isn’t the only way in or out of this town,” Darion said.
“You may be a Warcaster, but you’re no less susceptible to infection than anyone else. Be smart about this.”
Darion sighed, then sat down heavily. “Stuck here then, am I?”
“By all means, try your luck with the buggers,” said Triolyn, gesturing toward the door.
“I’ll refrain, if only to deny you your spite, archer.”
“That’s the spirit,” Kestrel said. “You’ll have to stay here and enjoy a few drinks with us. Barkeep. A round for the whole table. On me.”
The barkeep brought five brimming mugs to the table, and the day began with the clinking of cups and the telling of tales.
Chapter 27
Tower bells were ringing when Alynor awoke. She could not say whether it was the bells themselves which had woken her, but it did not take her long to discern that something was wrong. The cusp of early evening shone in a golden sliver beneath the window drapes, and Draithon was still asleep beside her.
She rushed to the window and pulled the curtains aside, still groggy with sleep. Frenzied townsfolk rushed down the streets in every direction. People in houses and storefronts were locking their doors and pulling fast their shutters as if expecting rain. In the early evening sky, a pale glow signaled clear weather on the horizon. Something about that sky was not clear, though; in the west, a dark cloud swarmed before the setting sun, coming closer.
There was a sharp knock at the door. Alynor cracked it open and peeked out.
“We must find your husband at once,” said a befuddled Sir Jalleth. His eyes were bibbed with dark circles, and a tired hunch was in his back.
“Is he not here in the keep?”
“I’ve looked everywhere for him. A guard told me he left shortly after we arrived this morning.”
“The inn,” Alynor said. “He went to the inn to meet with Kestrel and the others.” Without me, she realized. Anger festered inside her. Another betrayal; another slight.
“Which inn did he say?”
“I—I can’t remember the name of it. The Miller’s… something.”
“Never mind. We’ll ask the guards. Come.”
“What about Draithon?”
“Let him sleep. I’ve arranged for Lord Goldane’s governess to check in on him. He’s safer here.”
Alynor gave her son a worried glance. “Are you sure?”
“He’ll be fine, Alynor.”
“We’ll hurry back once we’ve found Darion, won’t we?”
Sir Jalleth nodded. “First thing.”
Alynor slipped the door closed and hurried off after the old knight. “What have you been up to today?” she asked as they shuffled down the wide grand staircase.
“Sleeping. Haven’t you?”
“Yes, but… you look tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. “No amount of sleep is ever enough for this tired old body of mine anymore. I do not look forward to tomorrow morning.”
“Now that things mustn’t be so secretive all the time, it’ll be easier to keep you from changing back,” Alynor said.
“It really has been a chore keeping me around these past years, hasn’t it?”
Alynor gave him a look. “An understatement, if ever I’ve heard one.”
Sir Jalleth laughed.
They asked the guards at the keep’s front entrance to list off the names of a few of Trebelow’s inns and taverns. When they mentioned the Hunter’s Hill, Alynor and Sir Jalleth remembered at the same time. They got directions and thanked the guards before going on their way.
The streets were in chaos, though they were beginning to empty out as townsfolk retreated to their homes. Alynor and Sir Jalleth made their way to the Hunter’s Hill and entered to find the inn all but deserted. A balding innkeeper with stains on his brown tunic was drying mugs behind the bar.
“What can I do for you two? A room for the evening, perhaps?”
Alynor wrinkled her nose. After sharing a tiny hut with Sir Jalleth for the last few years, she was in no rush to return to old habits. “We’re looking for my husband.”
“Ah,” the innkeeper said knowingly, glancing back and forth between them. “Time for a bit of truth-telling before the world ends, is it?”
“It’s nothing of the sort. Have you seen a tall man with long brown hair and a graying beard? He would’ve been sitting with perhaps four others; a man of elven blood, another of mixed orc lineage, a third with dark hair pulled back, and a woman with curly red locks.”
“I do remember a fellow like that, come to think,” said the innkeeper, “though I remember the redhead better, I don’t deny it. Quite a woman, she was. Near the biggest I ever seen. Likes ‘em big, I do.”
Alynor ignored the commentary. “They were here, then. How long ago did they leave, and which direction did they go?”
“Couldn’t tell you where they went. Everyone leaves here through the same door, except for me and the barmaids. They’re more the back door sort, if you catch my meaning.” He chuckled, showing her a dead brown tooth and the dying yellows beside it.
Alynor crossed her arms and sighed. “When?”
The innkeep
scratched his chin. “Oh, I’d say not more than a quarter hour past.”
“What is it that’s got everyone in such a fluster?” Sir Jalleth asked.
“Buggers at the west gate, they say. Looks bad. Worse than ever.”
“Wonderful,” said Alynor, despairing. “We’ve lost him. Where do we look now?”
Sir Jalleth gave her an amused look. “Alynor. This is Darion we’re talking about.”
Alynor understood. “Thank you,” she told the innkeep. “Excuse us.”
“Come back anytime,” the man called after them.
They raced through the streets toward the west gate. Sir Jalleth kept up easily despite his apparent exhaustion. Long before they arrived at Trebelow’s low western wall, there came a crack like thunder, followed by a sparkle of light they could see over the tops of the buildings. The light gave Alynor a better look at the flying things she’d seen earlier. Bats and birds; hundreds of both, circling the western wall like vultures before a slaughter. She hurried all the faster.
When they emerged onto the wide downward-sloping avenue which led to Trebelow’s western entrance, a line of yellow-clad Goldane soldiers stood on the cobbled street facing the gate with spears in hand. As Alynor and Sir Jalleth approached them from behind, the gate’s thick wooden doors shook on their hinges. The soldiers flinched, though the doors held fast under the force of the impact. In their midst stood Jeebo, Kestrel and Axli, wielding scimitar, short blades, and bludgeons, respectively.
Guards on the battlement leaned over to fire crossbows at something on the ground outside the gatehouse. Alynor picked out Triolyn, whipping arrows from his quiver and loosing them as fast as he could draw his bow. He was indeed a match for his self-appointed title, the Lightning Hand, she knew.
There on the gatehouse, Alynor saw her husband. His present condition was not unexpected, given that he’d spent all day in a tavern with three of his old friends and a fighting woman who may as well have been one of them. There was a sway in his stance, a wobble indicative of drink. He was casting spells, shouting and cursing over the wall between incantations. Flecks of spittle glinted in his beard.