Jordel and Albern nudged their horses forward, but Xain turned to them, raising a hand. “Stay back, for my fires may fly wild and I would spare you from their heat.”
They withdrew, Albern with relief, Jordel with a sour mouth.
Xain put forth his power, and the sky darkened. Clouds swirled down into a terrible spiral, channeling toward Trisken where he stood on the bridge. A great bolt of lightning arced forth. Its thunder was deafening, and Loren hastened to cover her ears. Too late, for the sound came and passed before she could raise her hands, leaving a deafening ringing behind. The ground erupted in a burst of light, pluming stone dust around Trisken’s feet.
He stepped through the dust, rolling his shoulders as though pained by an aching neck.
Xain paused. Loren saw it, and could almost feel his hesitation. Then he cut loose again, this time with flame. It rolled toward Trisken in a great wave. It reached the commander then rippled and roiled, splitting before him as though upon an invisible wedge, and passed without harm.
A deep and terrible laugh issued forth from Trisken’s helmet. “What is wrong, firemage? Come, throw some more sparks my way. I shall use them to roast you all on a spit.”
He was getting closer, and Loren wanted to cry out to Xain, to flee, to turn and run. But the wizard held his ground, letting loose with a gale to blast Trisken back, but the winds guttered and died almost before they had fled his fingertips.
In desperation Xain shot white-hot flames at the bridge. Stones and mortar melted, turning it from a solid roadway into a pit of liquid rock. But as Trisken continued his relentless advance, the stone cooled beneath his feet. The ground turned solid with his steps, giving him a narrow walkway across the flames.
Cursing, Xain finally fell a step back, but even in his retreat struck again. Darkfire sprouted from his fingers, twisting with a fury that was blacker than a night with no moons. It stretched forth in grasping tendrils, like fingers of the dead, twisting around Trisken and wreathing the beast in ebony flames.
Then Loren saw, or thought she saw, a dark glow, from Trisken, rather than Xain. Darklight emanated from the commander’s head, or somewhere about his neck, and its malevolence matched the icy fury in Xain’s glare.
It lasted a moment, then vanished. But the darkfire fell back as though a wind had blown it asunder.
Jordel and Albern both jumped forward, too late.
Trisken reached the wizard and struck, swinging his warhammer around for Xain’s chest. He twisted, but not far enough, and took the blow on his shoulder instead of his chest. It spun him like a top and tossed him to the ground with a yelp.
Then Jordel was there. His sword struck twice on Trisken’s armor before the larger man backed away. With more space between them, Albern loosed two shafts. Both found joints in Trisken’s armor, in shoulder and groin, and pierced the chain mail. But now that she was looking for it, Loren saw the glow of darklight again — just a flash, and this time she was sure it was the neck. Trisken stumbled, then ripped the arrows free and attacked Jordel with a vengeance.
Albern ceased his volley to stoop and grip Xain’s boot, pulling the wizard across the stones and out of the fight. Loren leapt from her horse, seized her bow, and ran forward to stand beside the bowyer. Behind her Gem struggled to climb down from his saddle. Annis seized his bruised arm in her hands and squeezed.
“Do not be an idiot, Gem, you will only get yourself killed!”
Loren drew an arrow as Albern had taught her, the motion coming easier now, but she did not have his aim and knew it. Jordel and Trisken were locked in a frantic dance, and she could not find a clear shot. Albern planted another arrow in his knee, while a second ricocheted from his helmet. Then Jordel was back in the way.
Trisken swung in wide, swooping arcs, faster than even so large a man should have managed to wield a warhammer. Loren could hardly follow the motion. But Jordel was faster still with his sword, and a seasoned fighter besides, never reaching too far nor withdrawing too quickly.
Trisken swung too wide at last, leaving an opening. A dagger appeared in Jordel’s hand, drawn from a sheath on the back of his belt. It punched through the chain mail at the side of the breast plate, and Trisken grunted.
Loren leaned forward, mouth open, hoping he would fall.
But it was a ruse. Trisken grinned with bloody teeth and seized the Mystic’s tunic. They were too close for a wide hammer swing, but he gripped it below the handle and slammed the head into Jordel’s chest. The Mystic nearly fell, choking. Somehow Jordel managed to bring his sword around and hack at Trisken’s neck, but the swing was weak and the mail held.
Trisken’s metal knee found its place in Jordel’s stomach, and felled the Mystic. The hammer rose to finish him, but Loren and Albern both charged.
Albern reached for his sword, but without a weapon Loren wasted no time. She seized Trisken’s neck, trying to bowl him over backward. He lost his balance and stumbled, but somehow managed to catch his feet. Leaning back, his gut was an easy target, and Albern drove his sword up and under the breast plate, deep into the giant’s belly.
His helmet came off under Loren’s arm, his hair swinging wildly, streaked with blood coughed up from his lungs. Loren glimpsed a tattoo worked into his neck — a twisting, intricate design of black that resembled the designs on her dagger. It flashed with darklight, and she recognized the glow.
Trisken reached back, seized Loren by the hair, and flung her over his shoulder. She crashed into the bridge, where a low wall kept her from sliding off into the chasm stretching for hundreds of feet to the valley floor. He ignored the sword in his stomach and grabbed Albern. His horned helmet was gone, but his head was plenty hard. He sent it into the bowyer’s nose with a crack, and Albern’s head snapped back with a geyser of blood.
Jordel lay only a few feet from Loren. His eyes were glazed and wild, darting around as if searching for something. He was nearly senseless, but still he fought for his feet. His breath came in wheezing gasps, and Loren heard a gurgle. Though his chain mail was whole, there was a dent in his chest that should not have been there.
“Jordel,” she said. “Jordel, look at me.”
The Mystic’s eyes tried to focus on her face. Their keen blue seemed clouded as if by some spell, but at last she saw recognition.
Loren scrambled to her hands and knees and crawled toward the Mystic. “The back of his neck. A tattoo, like the signs upon my dagger. It glows whenever we strike him. Tis what keeps him alive.”
Jordel’s head turned, far slower than it should have, toward Trisken. Albern had broken his grasp and was fending the giant off with a sword, but Trisken was pushing him ever further toward the edge.
“A tattoo,” mumbled Jordel. He coughed, and a bloody lumph of phlegm spattered upon the stones. “Dark magic. I was right.”
He fought to his feet, using his sword like a crutch. Loren stood and helped him. At first he could take no more than a knee, but in another moment claimed his feet.
“I must help Albern.” Loren let go of Jordel, but he seized her sleeve and dragged her back to meet his eyes.
“My worst fears are true. Hear me, Loren. The Shades’ dark master has returned, and Trisken is one of his favored champions. Ask Xain. I told him everything.”
Loren looked over the Mystic’s shoulder at Xain, on his back at the far side of the bridge. He stirred while Annis and Gem knelt by his head, trying to rouse him.
“No magic,” said Jordel. “Tis no proof against them. I never told him that. Tell him now.”
He broke from Loren’s grip and charged at Trisken’s back.
She reached for him, tried to grasp his arm, and missed her grip. The chains of his shirt slid under her skin.
Jordel still held his sword, and Loren thought he meant to strike Trisken. But the Mystic cast his blade aside and, stooping as he ran, reached for a hunting knife in his boot.
Trisken’s metal fist struck Albern in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. Then Jordel hit him fro
m behind, wrapping his arms around the commander in death’s embrace. His hunting knife plunged into the back of Trisken’s neck, and together they pitched over the edge, off of the bridge and into the chasm below.
thirty-eight
THEY FOUND THE BODIES SHATTERED on the valley floor.
Albern thought it was too dangerous to take the long road down, but Loren would not hear it, refusing to let Jordel’s body rot where the crows and the wolves — and the harpies — could peck at it.
So they went through the stronghold, to the long stone road on the other side. Then they traversed all the way around the mountain’s foot.
Land beneath the bridge was mostly soft loam, punctuated by rocks jutting from the soil like rotten teeth. A fine mist hung on the ground, swirling around their boots and cloaks as they picked their way along, searching.
Jordel lay on his back. His eyes were mercifully closed. Loren did not think she could have bared to see them open, their keen blue robbed of life. They were eyes that had mesmerized her from the first time she saw them, and had given even the mightiest warriors pause. That they would no longer walk beside her, to watch over her and all the nine kingdoms, seemed a crime beyond punishment or hope of justice.
Trisken’s body lay not far away. Jordel’s knife was buried to the hilt in his neck tattoo. The commander had struck one of the rocks when he landed, and it had shattered his back so that his body was almost in two. His neck was twisted, and every part of his armor dented and tarnished. Not a muscle stirred.
They dug a grave for Jordel. They had no shovels, and so made do with their fingers and sharp stones. It took an eternity, and they could not make it deep enough, so after laying the Mystic in they covered him with stones. Loren wrapped him in his red cloak beforehand, fetched from the saddlebags. She kept his clasp, stowing it in her cloak. If she could no longer walk by Jordel’s side, she would keep that to remember him by. Some urge of her heart told her to bring it to the Mystics. Disgraced though he might be, she guessed that some of his brothers and sisters would want to see him honored for his service to the nine lands — for she knew there must be many.
They stood beside the stones for a while. Loren’s eyes leaked slow and steady tears, though she tried to still them. Annis did not weep, mayhap because she was trying to comfort an inconsolable Gem. He buried his face in his cloak and threw himself down upon the stones, refusing to leave. Albern had to carry him away from the grave, but did so gently, with soft murmurs as though to an animal wounded.
Xain stood with Loren the longest. His eyes were wet with tears, but they did not fall. Albern had helped bind his arm in a bandage, holding it against his chest, for his shoulder would be long in healing. His other arm fidgeted with his hem, as though itching for action, if only Xain could determine what it was.
“I was not strong enough to save him,” the wizard said.
“No one would have been,” said Loren. “He said Trisken’s mark made him proof against all magic. No wizard could have stood against him, no matter their power.”
“Mighty they have called me, all my life. I wish I was mightier still.”
Loren said nothing, for those words sounded dangerous.
“Did he say nothing else?” said Xain, looking up at Loren.
Their dark master has returned. Ask Xain.
“Nothing that needs saying now,” she murmured. “We shall talk upon the road.”
They finally left the grave near midday. As they abandoned the hollow, Loren turned back one final time. The sun had come out at last. She thought shafts of light should have come piercing down, down through the overcast, to light the Mystic’s grave. But it was not one of Bracken’s stories. Still, the day was warmer and gentler than any in weeks. Gentler than it had any right to be, for one of the great men of the nine lands now lay dead.
Trisken’s body they left for the harpies.
The road back up was harder, for every step away from the valley they were leaving something sacred behind. It was hard to still the pain in her heart, and more than once Gem asked if he could go back to say goodbye once more. Annis shushed him each time, and by the time they reached the stronghold he had finally fallen silent.
They returned to the bridge. Its stones were bloodstained — Loren’s, Albern’s, Jordel’s, and even Trisken’s. Her eyes shied away. She could only stare at the spot on the edge, where Jordel and Trisken had toppled to their death.
Xain stopped his horse and dismounted, then went to the edge. Loren followed and stood beside him. Together they looked down into the valley. The grave was too far for their naked eye, but Loren could imagine it.
It would be just there, she decided. There between those rocks.
Xain reached out his hand, and his eyes glowed — black, for the magestone still ran in his veins. Fire spilled forth from a finger, small but white-hot. It ran over the stones like a pen, painting words on the bridge in liquid rock. He finished, then sent forth a gust of air to cool it.
“I never learned to read,” Loren whispered. “What do they say?”
Xain looked at her in surprise. But only for a moment before he turned back to what he had written and intoned,
Here fell a great man
A clarion trumpet against danger
In darkness where none could see
His name was Jordel
“Tis beautiful,” said Loren.
“I am no poet,” said Xain.
Loren blew the marking a kiss. “It fits him. He was never one to bandy words. And in those lines are hidden a great many secrets, which was very like him.”
“You speak true.”
“And what will you do now, Xain?” Loren turned to look at him. “Your powers are at their peak. Even with one of your hands injured, we could not stop your departure.”
Xain looked sharply at Loren. “You have the magestones?”
Loren swallowed and nodded. He knew that she did.
“Give them to me.”
She did not move.
“You know I could take them if I so wished. But I do not. I want you to place them in my hand.”
The wizard held forth his good hand, palm outstretched. Loren marveled again at the smoothness of his skin. He looked as though he had never worked a day in his life — and, now that she knew from whence he came, she supposed he never had.
Loren reached into her cloak and withdrew the magestones. She had barely tied the packet together, and it sat lumpy in his fist.
With a sweep of his hands — like the casting of a spell — Xain hurled the magestones into the void. They spun as they fell, flashing in the sunlight, and vanished into the chasm where Jordel would lay forever.
The wizard mounted and rode. Loren watched him for a moment. Then a hand stole beneath her cloak. She fingered the interior pocket — the one on the other side, hanging by her right hand. She brushed the fine brown cloth, so cool and rough against her skin.
Loren gained Midnight’s saddle, and followed Xain.
thirty-nine
THEIR ROAD FROM THE GREATROCKS into the village of Northwood was pleasant, more peaceful than any days since leaving Strapa. The sun burned brighter on the second day than it had upon leaving the fortress, and brighter still the day after that. The path wound down from the mountains, sharply at first, then ever more gently as it touched the foothills sloping into the wide land of Selvan.
To the north Loren could see the Birchwood laid out like a carpet of brilliant green. It swelled her heart, and to Loren’s great surprise she found herself aching to walk amongst the trees. It had been too long since she had been in a good and proper forest, and the Birchwood was home. Soon their road would take them north into its reaches. They still meant to make for Feldemar, and for Jordel’s stronghold of Ammon. What they would do then, Loren did not know, but it was their only course.
They rode mostly silent through the days and sat quiet about the campfire at night. They spoke only of gathering wood for fires, hobbling the horses, and setting
a watch. Only one of them stood awake at a time, for they were tired, and no satyrs came from the mountains to plague them. It seemed that with the defeat of the Shade stronghold, the evil wanted no more trouble with the travelers, and had retreated into their caves to lick their wounds.
On the fourth day, Albern sang, as loud and as clear as he had when leaving Strapa. But his voice was tinged with grief, and he sang songs of fallen heroes from battles long gone by, lovers who lost each other in storms of war that swept the nine lands, and ships lost to the three seas. His songs brought fresh tears to all of their eyes, and a quiet calm to their hearts. Loren imagined bards writing odes to the Mystic and his battle against Trisken on the bridge, and wondered if the others were thinking the same.
“You should write a song about him,” she finally said.
“I am no songwright. Only a bowyer with a voice that barely keeps sheep from bleeting. My words do such a man no justice.”
“Nor could any of ours,” said Loren. “But you know the most songs, and you knew him. The Mystic’s tale should not be told by someone he never met.”
“I doubt that friends of Jordel are in short supply across the nine lands,” said Albern. “But if you insist, I will think upon it. Come and visit me when you are next in Strapa, and I will sing what I have.”
“You do not mean to come with us after Northwood?” Gem looked like he might cry again.
“No, little master. I will see you safely there, as I vowed. Then I will return home — upon the Westerly Road, and not the mountain pass.” He gave a harsh chuckle. “I think it will be a long time before I travel that way again, if ever I do. In Strapa, the wind tugged at my branches and made me yearn for the road. Now I have walked it again and find my roots have grown too deep. I long only for my bowery, the meager custom that comes my way, and a good tankard of ale in the evenings.”
Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm Page 25