From Darkness Won

by Jill Williamson

  “Don’t just stand there gaping, boy, help me up.”

  Sidal lunged forward. His foot dragged through something thick and warm on the floor. He looked down to a pile of smoldering ash where the Hadad’s body had lain.

  Sidal leapt out of the ash and pulled Macoun to his feet. “What happened, Master?”

  “The keliy has passed to me. I am the Hadad now. Unfortunately for you, boy. You’ve seen far too much.”

  A tremor of fear gripped Sidal’s heart. He glanced at the door, but Macoun walked there and opened it to the black knights.

  “Khai,” Macoun said, “send the armies to attack Allowntown and Carmine, as planned. Bring me the prince. Dead or living, I care not. If you fail, bring me the girl, her mother, or one of her sisters.”

  “Sisters? What good are they to anyone, Master?”

  “Bait for the girl and heirs should she die. Now, go!”

  The black knight bowed. “Yes, Master.” He descended the stairs, his companion at his heels.

  Macoun closed the door and faced Sidal. “I no longer have use for your pathetic powers, nor need I stomach another incessant question from that mouth of yours.”

  Sidal stumbled back. “Master, please. You said I could train to be a black knight. You promised—”

  A fist of green light gripped Sidal’s throat. It lifted him and carried him away from his master. Sidal grunted, kicked his legs.

  Promises are nothing but words, boy. Words that make people comply.

  Sidal could not speak aloud. I can be of service to you, master. I can help you.

  The keliy does not need your help. Only mine.

  The fist pushed Sidal’s body out the window. He struggled to cling to the side jambs with his hands, hook the sill with his legs. But the fist thrust him out. Gowzal wings swiped his back and head as they flew past the tower window.

  Macoun stepped up to the window, a small smile on his lips. Say hello to my master.

  The fist let go. And Sidal son of Lekim fell screaming, through the squawking birds, down the length of the watchtower, until he passed into Darkness.

  P A R T 1

  ACHAN

  1

  Get the little pilfering prince!

  The soldier’s wooden blade whipped toward Achan’s face. He lunged back a step in his heavy armor and threw up his guard. The wasters scraped overhead. His body ached, left thigh still sore from where Esek had stabbed him with Ôwr, right shoulder tender from the cham bear’s teeth.

  Achan tensed his muscles anyway, pushing against his opponent’s blade. His elbow exploded with pain as a different waster slipped past his armor and struck true. Grinding his teeth at the fiery throbs shooting up his arm, Achan cut down from high guard at the man on his right and thrust his shield against the soldier before him.

  Yet his attackers kept a steady pace. Dozens of boots pattered over the soft dirt around him. One waster clubbed his backplate. Another nicked his shoulder. He needed more space. They were crowding him. Even their thoughts and the cheers of the crowd seemed against him.

  This was supposed to be a practice fight, not a real one. Good thing they were using wooden swords.

  Achan stabbed one man’s chest, thrusting against chain armor. He stomped on another’s foot. Block to the left. Kick a man’s thigh. Parry with his shield. Left-guard to cut at open shins. Elbow to an exposed neck.

  And just when he managed to push back the last man, four fresh soldiers advanced.

  They bore down hard, slashing for Achan’s legs and head. He crouched, blocking his legs with his shield and parrying to high guard. Wood clubbed against wood.

  Shung’s warrior cry bellowed from behind, but there was no time to see whether Shung needed aid.

  There were too many.

  But Shung’s yell reminded Achan that volume was strength. He released a hearty scream of his own and threw out his shield arm, knocking a soldier back. He cut across two men with his waster. One stumbled into the dusty soil. The other danced back and retreated to the benches. This won Achan a moment to breathe. He returned his blade and shield to middle guard and glanced at Shung.

  His faithful Shield was surrounded by five foes. Shung blocked two strikes and caught a soldier square in the chest with his buckler shield.

  The onlooking soldiers rooted for their comrades.

  “Get ’em, men!”

  Go low, Zin!

  “Three cheers for Carmine!”

  “Take him down, Grigio!”

  Make him pay. For Rennan!

  For Rennan? Shung? Did you hear that? Achan asked telepathically.

  Shung glanced Achan’s way. Behind you!

  Achan spun around just as a waster pounded the top of his head, slamming his teeth together. His knees buckled. His head rang against his helm like the clapper of a bell. He sank to his knees—head throbbing, elbow and thigh screaming—and raised his shield to protect his head.

  Little Cham! Shung yelled. On guard!

  But Achan couldn’t think. He needed a moment to—

  A waster stabbed his left side. Another cracked against his shield. Achan cowered behind the slab of worn wood. He took several short breaths and jumped up. His shield struck his opponent’s again, but this time Achan rammed it outward. The soldier fell and skidded in the dirt.

  That won’t do, Zin! We’ve got to show him a Carmine soldier is more man than he’ll ever be.

  Shut up, Grigio. You’re distracting me.

  Achan wanted to identify who Zin and Grigio might be, but he barely had time to crouch into position to deflect a blow from his latest opponent. This one came at his feet. He met it with his sword and lifted his shield high, then brought the edge of his shield down toward his opponent’s head.

  Missed. The shields locked together. Achan’s opponent tugged him close, their faces inches apart. The man’s eyes were fierce, hateful. This was no training regimen for him. Why?

  A shadow flitted across Achan’s vision. Too late he saw his opponent’s sword in high guard coming down. He jerked his head aside. The waster whipped the air beside his head, nicking his helm.

  The helm twisted, blocking sight to his left eye. He ducked behind his shield as the weight of a man knocked against it. Leather scraped against wood. Achan fell. He kept his shield tight over his head and body. Kicked out a leg.

  Useless.

  Someone stomped on his wrist and jerked his sword away. A tug on his shield wrenched his right arm out straight. His cham wounds burned. He held tight until a waster cleaved against his arm. His shield flew away.

  Three dark outlines hovered overhead, the sky clear and blue above them. A kick to his ribs felt like a playful nudge through his armor. A mailed fist to his jaw, however…

  The air stung the raw flesh where he’d been struck.

  That’ll teach the lily-livered geck.

  What in all Er’Rets?

  Achan tried to roll away, but the same mail glove gripped his throat. Squeezed. “You yield?” the soldier asked, his voice a faint breath.

  Achan pushed against the man’s chest with his hands and managed to croak, “No.”

  Stubborn little pip, he is.

  You’ve got him, Grigio. Make him regret it.

  So this was Grigio, at least. The one choking him. The pressure increased, crushing Achan’s throat until his cheeks tingled. The cheers of the Carmine soldiers warbled.

  Shh-ung… a little help?

  Coming.

  Achan’s vision spotted, but Shung’s battle cry bolstered his courage. In one motion, the hand released his throat and his attacker fell away.

  He gasped and lifted his head to see Shung dragging the soldier away by the cape. Five fresh men approached from the benches.

  Pig snout. Would this never end? Achan pushed up onto one elbow and searched the dirt for his sword.

  “Halt!”

  Captain Tristan Loam stepped between the approaching Carmine soldiers and where Achan lay on the ground. The captain was tall and br
oad with reddish hair, a short beard, and a cushion of a belly, though Achan didn’t doubt he was a formidable swordsman.

  Captain Loam peered down on Achan. “Are you well, Your Highness?”

  Achan licked his bloody lip and panted. “Aye.”

  “Take a moment before we go again.”

  Go again?

  Achan let his head fall back on the ground. He swallowed a bit of blood and stared at the azure sky. It took several deep breaths to cleanse his strangled lungs. On his right, golden standards perched along the sentry wall, flapping in the wind, each marked with a bunch of plump red grapes. Achan watched their movement as his breathing returned to normal.

  Captain Loam’s voice muted as he addressed his men. “We’ll give the prince a moment to rest, then get back to it.”

  Aww. The knotty-pated baby needs a rest, a soldier said.

  Can’t believe he’s fighting us at all, another said.

  Half-trained lout don’t deserve Lady Averella.

  Achan stiffened at the jeers, but then he finally understood. The soldiers were angry about his betrothal to Lady Averella. Bran Rennan, who had been engaged to her, was one of their number. In their eyes, Achan had taken Bran’s woman.

  Aw, pig snout. Achan had hoped to bond with these men by coming here this morning. But he’d been naive, as always. There had been too many factors to anticipate. Half-trained, indeed. Achan wanted to go back to the peace of his chambers. Hide there. Or leave Carmine altogether.

  But that was not what a sovereign should do.

  A shadow stepped before him. Achan squinted until Shung’s hairy outline came into focus.

  Shung extended an arm. They are merciless warriors. Very brave. Glad they’re on our side.

  Achan reached up and grasped Shung’s forearm. They wanted to beat me.

  Shung jerked Achan up. That’s the object of the lesson.

  No. Achan straightened his helm and wiped his sleeve over his bloody lip. His jaw and thigh stung. He met Shung’s dark eyes and allowed anger to crush his self-pity. They wanted an excuse to beat me without the ramifications of beating the Crown Prince of Er’Rets. They’re cowards.

  No man had been willing to speak his mind. To confront Achan for taking Lady Averella from Bran. For such an act would be insubordination. Treason. Cause for discharge or at least a whipping. No. These men simply wanted an opportunity to vent their anger without backlash.

  Achan found his waster and shield on the ground and picked them up. His armor pulled on his shoulders and trapped heat against his body like a forge. The rivets in his chain armor tugged at strands of his hair and grated against his shoulder blades through his sweat-soaked hauberk.

  “Ready to go again?” Captain Loam asked.

  Bet I take the sorry piglet down, a soldier said.

  Yer full of dung, Zin. Keep to the plan. I almost had him.

  Achan searched the crowd for Grigio, but either he’d vanished behind the observers or Achan hadn’t gotten as a good a look at him as he’d thought. In hopes of discovering the gifted soldiers, Achan lowered the shields around his mind completely, as if he had forgotten everything he’d been taught. The act released the pressure of his bloodvoice. Anyone gifted would feel it like a blow.

  When three soldiers sitting on the benches cowered, Achan knew he’d succeeded.

  Your Highness? Sir Caleb’s voice, panicked, burst in Achan’s mind. Are you injured?

  Achan snapped his shields back in place. Sorry, Sir Caleb. Just a little experiment.

  “Your Highness?” Captain Loam awaited his answer.

  “I thank you, Captain Loam, for a vigorous practice, but I have other matters to attend to.” Achan returned his waster and shield to the racks, then walked to where his attackers sat, opening his mind to Shung. His heart hammered in anticipation. Stay close, Shung. This might go badly.

  Shung walked alongside Achan. What do you mean?

  Achan stayed open to Shung, but expanded his reach to the three soldiers, making sure Lady Averella’s maroon dress sleeve that was tied to his left arm was displayed before the men. Hey, you three. Did no one tell you the ‘half-trained baby’ could bloodvoice?

  Two of the men hung their heads, but the third—Grigio, the man with the angry eyes and unforgiving mail gloves— looked up, face flushed. Achan had no way of knowing if he were embarrassed, angry, surprised, or merely fatigued.

  “What is your name?” Achan asked.

  The man stood. “Grigio Franc, Your Highness.”

  Shung’s six foot plus inched closer to Achan, causing Grigio to shrink a bit.

  “Master Franc,” Achan said. “You are loyal to your comrade, Bran. This is a deeply admirable trait. But have you bothered to ask his side of this … situation with Lady Averella?”

  “I don’t need to ask. I can see it on his face.” Grigio glanced at Shung and added, “Your Highness.”

  Achan paused, curious whether Bran’s broken engagement hadn’t been as amicable as Duchess Amal had claimed. “Nevertheless, you should speak to Master Rennan before risking your life for his honor. While that in itself is an admirable way to perish, it is a foolish sacrifice when done under mistaken assumptions. Don’t you agree?”

  “I…” Grigio’s brows wrinkled. “Perhaps.”

  Achan nodded. “Good enough.” He walked away from the benches and the practice field, forcing himself not to limp on his sore leg. Shung tromped at his side.

  You will not punish us? Grigio asked.

  Achan turned back and met Grigio’s wide eyes. Should I? You’re a worthy fighter, Master Franc, and fiercely loyal. Killing you would not help me take Armonguard. And I need such hearts as yours at my side. So I give you another chance to correct your misjudgment of me before I cast my final judgment upon you.

  Once Achan had cleaned up and changed, he and Shung went to lunch in the great hall. They arrived early for the scheduled meal, but Achan preferred it that way. He’d done his duty by confronting the men on the practice field, so he figured he’d earned a reprieve from making small talk with Duchess Amal’s daughters and various other minor nobles.

  Shung, as usual, stood against the wall behind Achan, staring ahead like a sentry guard.

  Blazes.

  “Sit with me, Shung. Surely no one here plans to threaten my life.”

  “Soldiers on field had motives Shung did not see.”

  “Don’t punish yourself. You are Sir Shung, now. The brave knight who rescued the Crown Prince from a cham bear.” Achan had knighted his friend their second day in Carmine. Shung was the first man he’d ever knighted.

  “Shung did not slay the beast.”

  “You slowed it down and have the burn to prove it. And now the title too.” Which would make Shung worthy to marry Lady Gali, should the man get up the courage to ask. “Now sit and eat with me.”

  “Forgiveness, Little Cham, but Shung must do his duty.”

  Achan slouched down in the chair and looked out over the elaborate great hall. They each had a duty, didn’t they? And Achan’s duty was to be king. King of all Er’Rets. If they won this inevitable war.

  Sparrow had always sat with him for breakfast.

  Sparrow.

  With his bloodvoice, he found her instantly, sensed thick walls around her mind. He wanted to speak, but she’d been ignoring his messages ever since she left Mitspah. Likely still angry over his blunder the last time they’d spoken.

  He tried and failed to look through her eyes. He could break into almost any mind with his bloodvoicing power. But not Sparrow’s. Hers had always been impenetrable. He sighed. What good would any of this do? Pining away for Sparrow would not loosen the sleeve tied to his arm.

  She had made her choice, and so had he.

  Achan turned his chair sideways so he could talk to Shung as he ate. “I can think of no engagements set for this afternoon, can you?”

  Shung tipped his head, and the circle of carved bone he always wore in his ear rocked. “I cannot.”

>   Finally, some time to himself. One of his advisors would find him soon enough, make him study or drag him into another meeting. But if he could get out now, he might fill part of this day with his own will.

  “We shall go to visit Gren and her family,” Achan said, pleased with the idea. Months had passed since he’d seen his childhood friend.

  Shung grunted.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Achan ate his fill, and then he pushed his plate away. “I’m ready but will not leave this chair until you eat, Shung.”

  “Shung cannot shield when eating.”

  Achan switched strategies. “But a warrior must eat. At least carry some grapes with you as we walk.”

  The Shield shook his head. “Shung cannot wield sword with handful of grapes.”

  Achan blew out a long breath and stood. “Very well. I suppose you can eat at the Fenny home, though they are peasants and likely have little food to spare.”

  Shung looked over Achan’s head, scanning the near deserted great hall, then stepped toward the table and reached for a hard-cooked egg. His sleeve rode up his arm, and Achan caught sight of the scarred skin between sleeve and glove. A cham had breathed fire on Shung’s arm. “Will eat this.”

  “Good enough.”

  After Shung ate the egg, Achan led him across the great hall to the foyer. His body ached with every movement, sore from his injuries and his exercise on the practice field.

  “Good day, Your Highness.”

  To Achan’s left Lady Nitsa Amal, the Duchess of Carm, stood at the foot of the brownstone staircase, her auburn hair sculpted up under a ruby-beaded caul. She wore a blood-red gown trimmed in black and gold embroidery. Her skin was ivory porcelain in the dim light.

  He bowed. “Good day, my lady. Has your daughter returned yet?”

  She fixed her moss-colored eyes on Achan. “She has not, Your Highness. You are not joining us for lunch?”

  “I just finished. I planned to explore the grounds a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  The duchess’s small mouth curved into a smile. “Not at all. I shall not keep you from your schedule.”