A Darkness in the East

by Aaron Pogue

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A DARKNESS IN THE EAST

  First edition. March 26, 2013.

  Copyright © 2013 Aaron Pogue.

  ISBN: 978-1497727700

  Written by Aaron Pogue.

  Also by Aaron Pogue

  A Consortium of Worlds

  A Consortium of Worlds No. 1

  A Consortium of Worlds No. 2

  A Dragonswarm Short Story

  Remnant

  From Embers

  Auric's Valiants

  Notes from a Thief

  Auric and the Wolf

  Ghost Targets

  Surveillance

  Expectation

  Restraint

  Camouflage

  The Dragonprince's Arrows

  A Darkness in the East

  The Dragonprince's Legacy

  Taming Fire

  The Dragonswarm

  The Dragonprince's Heir

  The Original Dragonprince Trilogy

  Watch for more at Aaron Pogue’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Also By Aaron Pogue

  A Darkness in the East

  Sign up for Aaron Pogue's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Remnant

  Also By Aaron Pogue

  About the Author

  A Darkness in the East

  The shadow of a dragon lay across the village of Auvillan, far to the east of the Dragonprince’s stronghold. This dragon was no ordinary raider, but an Elder Legend large as a mountain. And it had a human rider. High above the town, heedless of the danger, Daven leaped away from his perch on the dragon’s enormous back and tumbled like a shooting star toward the earth below.

  This was the Dragonprince. The hero of the dragonswarm was not a mighty giant, not a royal wizard, not even a prince in anything but name. And he was not yet twenty. He rode to battle in homespun cotton with a simple linen band around his brow for a crown.

  The only things extraordinary about him—in appearance, at least—were the scars along his arms. And, of course, there was his extraordinary mount. The ancient monster Pazyarev filled the sky above Daven like some crimson thundercloud.

  But Daven paid the beast no mind. He turned his attention to the earth below. Taking on his wizard’s sight, he touched the gossamer threads of air between him and the town. He bent them by the chaos power in his blood, shaped the air around him, and exerted gentle pressure until the strands of air caught at him, cradled him, and kept him from harm.

  Daven Dragonprince fell a mile from the sky, yet he hit the grass of Auvillan’s village green with no more violence than a king’s cavalier dismounting.

  He looked around, but despite his dramatic arrival, no one came to greet him. He’d heard rumors that this region needed him. Late afternoon less than a week after the end of harvest season, the green should have been bustling. Instead, it was empty beneath the thick gray clouds. Had he come too late?

  Daven took a long step forward, searching left and right. “Hello?” he called to the empty air. “I am a friend. I bring you aid.”

  No one answered, but Daven caught a feeble whimper on the breeze. Someone hurt or frightened in a nearby home. He turned that way and saw the furtive dance of shadows on drawn curtains. Was it someone hiding from him?

  Wary, he took on his wizard’s sight and peered beyond the fragile walls, the bolted door. Within the home he saw the writhing fire of human blood—the signature of living will—and in that one small home he found a dozen people hiding.

  He raised his hands, both empty, and called toward the house. “I’ve come to help you. What has happened here?”

  No answer still. He took one step in that direction and heard another frightened gasp.

  It was a woman’s gasp. A man’s voice, harsh and low, answered her. “Be still! Or do you want to die?”

  Daven hesitated. He looked upon the room again and traced the silver glow of crafted metal. Weapons. Half of those inside were armed, and heavily armed at that. The other half were huddled together in a corner, pale and weak.

  Had he misunderstood the danger here? Isabelle had reported rumors of a darkness in the east, of cruel tragedies among the little nameless villages so far from civilization. He had expected dragons. The whole world trembled beneath the rage of waking dragons. But something was different in the east. None of the refugees Isabelle spoke with could explain it, but all among them had trembled and hinted. “Not just dragons. Something worse than dragons.”

  Now Daven stood outside this pathetic hovel where well-armed men stood guard over the helpless villagers. But were they friend or foe? Were they protectors or hostage-takers? A bitter fire burned in Daven’s heart at the mere suspicion. Men could be worse than dragons, but he could kill one kind of monster as easily as the other.

  No matter their intentions, these men had made themselves an obstacle to Daven’s goal. He had come to save the people of the eastern plains, and six men with sharp-edged swords were not enough to stop him. He nodded to the door, and ancient oak writhed beneath his will. It uncurled, shrinking back from the crafted iron bolt, then of its own accord the door swung wide.

  A monster of a man blocked the open doorway. He wore a soldier’s chain and tabard and carried a huge two-handed sword. He fixed his eyes on Daven. Without a trace of fear or hesitation, the sentry slung his sword in a vicious arc aimed straight at Daven’s collarbone.

  But Daven didn’t flinch. He caught a gust of wind out of the sky. He bundled up a thousand little threads of air within his will and stabbed them past his left shoulder and down into the house. Focused, living wind caught the sentry like a battering ram. It hurled him back and crumpled him upon the floor.

  Then, for the first time, Daven had a chance to see within the room. He could not tell at a glance the whole situation, but he saw within the house what he’d expected: one wide open room, a knot of women and children on the far wall, and six strong men arrayed against him.

  Well, five now.

  Still standing on the threshold, Daven flexed his right hand—borrowing power from the monster high above—and summoned up a sword of living stone. Grains of elemental earth almost too small to see swirled up in an inverted whirlwind, gathering first in his palm, taking the shape of a sword’s hilt, and then rapidly coalescing into the shape of a blade. The sword looked something like a rapier, but it shone the perfect black of obsidian and gleamed along an edge as sharp as starlight.

  In the same breath, Daven summoned wild fire into a ball around his left hand, the power of a blacksmith’s forge contained, constrained, but anxious to explode. It glowed the angry red and dull black of a smoldering coal and cast long, flickering shadows into the crowded room.

  From his place on the floor, the fallen giant groaned out, “Don’t just stand there. Kill him!”

  To Daven’s great surprise, the men complied. They surged forward as one. Daven shook his head and went to meet them.

  A heavy axe slashed toward his head. Daven met the blow with the obsidian sword. Delicate though the blade looked, Daven fixed his will upon its Chaos structure, and the rapier turned aside the axe. Daven ducked under a swinging maul, parried a kitchen cleaver, then dived away from the attackers toward the outer wall.

  Before they could pursue him, Daven spread the fingers of his left hand gloved in fire, and five long tongues of flame uncurled. He nodded to the ruffians, and the tongues of fire struck like vipers, roaring hot and loud within a hand’s breadth of each man’s face.

  The warriors dropped their makeshift weapons and shrank away, cowering in fea
r. Daven sent the living flame to keep them at bay, but otherwise he paid them no more mind. He turned his attention instead to the cowering women and children.

  Right away, he knew who among them had cried out. She was on her feet now, tall and terribly thin, with dirty blonde hair and wide, bloodshot eyes. Her shoulders shook, her chin trembled, and tears damped her cheeks, but she stared across the unnatural fire and met her rescuer’s gaze.

  Daven nodded, reassuring. “You’re safe n—“

  She curled her lip in sharp disgust and shouted, “Go away! West wind take you! Go away!”

  Daven took a step toward her, but she cried, “Monster! You stole my man and stole my boy and what...what is left to take? Leave me! Leave me be!”

  In answer to her screams, the children wailed. Daven shook his head and raised his voice above the noise. “I am not who you think I am. I’m here to help.”

  The widow spat at him. She turned in a frenzy, searching, and snatched up a horsehair brush. She flung it at Daven. The other woman held her back, but the widow found a cheap tin cup to throw. A candlestick. A tiny wooden box. Everything in reach she made a weapon.

  Daven stared, dumbfounded. In all the towns he’d visited, he had never found a reception such as this. He dropped his sword, and it dissolved into a puff of dust before it even hit the floor. He lowered his voice and tried again. “I mean no harm to you or yours. I’ve certainly done you none. I have come to fight the monsters. Just tell me—“

  “Nothing!” she screamed, hysterical, and the children’s cries took on a keening edge. “I will tell you nothing more. I’ll die before I help you. Haven’s name, I wish that you were dead.”

  The other woman pressed her back, trying fruitlessly to soothe her. That one had her eyes fixed on Daven, too, and they were full of accusation. Daven shook his head slowly, his mouth working without a sound, but at last he retreated. One step took him back to the threshold, but it did nothing to calm the frantic woman. If this town held any answers for him, he would not find them in this house.

  He closed his hand and doused the flames. He turned to go.

  And found the town outside the door.

  They were not an impressive mob—a couple hundred men, most armed with hooks or hammers, some with axes, but it seemed the best the town could offer were the ones he had already faced. The rest were frail or broken, some lame and some half-starved.

  Unimpressive though they were, they stood united here against him. He sighed. “I am not here to threaten you. I’m here to help.”

  The crowd gave him no answer, but they withdrew. To left and right they broke apart, opening a path toward the village green. That path revealed one man, tall and graying at the temples, with coal-black eyes protruding like a toad’s. Was this the mayor? A village elder? He must have been important, as the townsfolk turned his way with expectation in their eyes.

  Daven went to meet him, cooperating any way he could. Perhaps this man, at least, would show some reason. Daven went six paces then called, “I’ve heard some rumors of what happened here.” Another pace. “I’ve come to make things right.” Another pace. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I am the Dragonprince.”

  He should have saved the proclamation. He knew it from the terrified gasp that went up from the crowd. He knew it from the desperate determination in the eyes of the man who waited for him. Not the mayor. Daven was close enough to see the length of rope thrown over this man’s shoulder, the noose in his right hand. Not the mayor; the executioner.

  And at the name of “Dragonprince”—a name that would have earned him cheers and joyous welcome anywhere west of the Teel—as soon as these folks heard his name, they fell upon him. Hissing, screaming, frightened and ferocious, they closed upon him and dragged him on toward the green.

  Daven had no intention of dying here, but he had little stomach for hurting the frightened and abused. He saw no chance of salvaging his plan—in this state of mind, these folks would hear no reason—so his best hope was to escape. He could disguise himself to return later, or find some local farmer to introduce him. He could come back another day or find some other village to tell him what he needed to know.

  But first, he had to get away. The mob was doing worse than jostling him along. They were throwing clumsy blows and jabbing with the butts of spears. He caught a crack beneath the ribs that stole his breath, and then a moment later someone’s bony fist split the skin above Daven’s right eye. Pain flared, and blood clouded his vision.

  Daven cried, “Enough!”

  High above the village green, the Elder Legend Pazyarev beat its massive wings. Three short bursts slammed against the upper air and blasted it down toward the earth in whorling, wild gusts. They might have stricken like hammer blows, but Daven had a better use for them. He caught the thready essence of the wind and shaped it to his will. He made a hundred nooses of the air, invisible loops as strong as steel, and guided every noose toward one of his assailants. He draped the ropes of air too wide—with purpose—so they settled in the crooks of elbows instead of landing on collarbones.

  Still, he put them to their tasks. In another heartbeat, with a snarl of rage, he snapped a hundred nooses tight at once and jerked them up into the air. A hundred villagers went up, unharmed but perfectly restrained. They hung a pace above the ground, their free legs kicking wildly and eyes rolling like panicked horses. Some screamed. Some wept. Some sagged limp within their bonds. Daven looked on them with pity, through one eye still blurred with fresh-spilled blood.

  He turned back to the hangman, still hoping for some explanation of what had happened here. Before he found one, a new cry rang out above the clamor of the mob. “No!” It was a heartfelt sob, and Daven recognized the woman’s voice. “Don’t let him live! Don’t let him get away. He’ll bring them back!”

  Daven turned to face the wretched widow. The men he’d fought pressed close behind her, the largest tried to hold her back, but she twisted free. Her eyes were fixed on Daven now, unwavering, and Daven recognized the murder in her heart.

  With a cleaver in one hand and a saucepan in the other, she charged him. Daven could not touch the crafted iron—not with his Chaos power—and he could not bring himself to strike the woman. Instead, Pazyarev beat his wings again, and Daven looped a noose around himself this time. He snapped it, flicked it like a whip when she was not two paces distant, and launched himself into the air. She screamed frustrated agony, and Daven’s pity went to her as well.

  But then Pazyarev plucked him from the air, and Daven found a riding perch. He released the bonds upon the villagers, dumping them upon their green, then fled toward the south. The Dragonprince left Auvillan behind. For now. He could do nothing for them yet.

  ~

  While Pazyarev winged away from the stricken village, Daven pressed the heel of his hand against the cut until the bleeding stopped. Then he did what he could with a corner of his cape to wipe the drying blood from his face. When he could see clearly through both eyes again, he turned his attention to the far horizon.

  His head throbbed. It wasn’t just the villagers’ attack. Another pain—deeper, distant—pounded at the base of his skull. It was an old, familiar ache, but it had become so much stronger ever since he’d arrived here.

  Vechernyvetr. Daven’s first dragonbond was close. For ages now Daven had heard nothing from the beast that had bonded him. Ever since the fight with Pazyarev, since Daven chased King Timmon back to the capitol, Daven had been waiting for Vechernyvetr to return. The dragon had left, and for a time, Daven hadn’t questioned his absence. Vechernvetr had old wounds to heal, and perhaps a brood to build with his bright new dame.

  But then the pain had started. Distant, a gnat’s buzzing in the back of his head, but it was always there. Time and again he’d convinced himself it was nothing but imagination. Dark suspicion. Worry for a friend.

  And then.... Then he’d heard the rumors. Something dark was brewing in the east. Something terrible as dragon raids but not quite the s
ame. In time he realized that all these rumors came from this place, in the shadow of the mountains Daven and the dragon had once called home.

  Daven ground his teeth and told the empty air, “This is not Vechernyvetr’s doing.”

  His voice came out a vicious growl, a rumble that shook the very air until Daven realized it was coming from the monster underneath him. Daven felt the fire building in Pazyarev’s breast, the massive talons tearing at the evening air. He felt prepared to wreak some havoc.

  But that served no one. Vechernyvetr was not a monster, and neither was Daven. He had a job to do. He took one calming breath, blinked away the fear and fury, then focused on the task at hand.

  Night was coming fast, and night meant dragon raids. Daven didn’t dare delay. He bent forward to search the earth below, and soon enough he spotted another town, this one nestled close in the foothills beneath the rugged mountains. Daven’s eyes shied away from the mountains’ peaks. He had too many old memories, too many new fears among those shadowy slopes.

  He focused instead on the newfound village. Pazyarev swung wide of it, hidden among the heavy fog, and settled to the ground most of a mile outside town. Daven scrubbed at his face again, hoping he didn’t look too fearsome, and set out walking.

  It wouldn’t do to announce himself as the Dragonprince again, not after what he’d seen at Auvillan, but he needed some explanation for his arrival. Something to get him a room for the evening and someone he could speak with.

  He made his plans as he went. He’d traveled half a mile and concocted names for his hometown, his family and servants, even the faithful plowhorse that had served him as a steed for most of his cruel journey. Alas, it had died three leagues back and he’d come on foot since then....

  Lost in these thoughts, head still pounding with Vechernyvetr’s distant pain, he never saw the crossbowman until he heard a pointed cough. Daven whipped his head around, searching, but his assailant stood in plain view upon the road behind him. The crossbow rested almost casually in the older man’s grip, but Daven recognized a trained restraint in the villager’s eyes. The soldier’s eyes, rather, for he held himself like Caleb—confident, prepared for anything, and honed to perfect violence.