Kyel stopped to catch his breath, craning his neck back to glance up. Far overhead, a high curtain wall skirted the summit of the ridge. There were no stairs that could be seen; the keep’s entrance must be buried somewhere deep within the rock. Kyel was impressed. Whoever had designed this new stronghold had intended it to be impregnable.
He moved forward with Cadmus at his side, a small group of uniformed soldiers treading silently behind them. The Conclave had seen fit to provide him with five Guild blademasters to form his personal retinue. As deadly an honor guard as a man could wish. Unfortunately, the swordsmen were a necessity.
Kyel was, after all, the last surviving mage left in all the Rhen.
He’d sworn a vow to serve his land and his people. He’d sworn another vow never to inflict harm upon a living thing. Those two oaths, each contradictory, nagged at Kyel every moment of every day. He could feel the oppression of their conflicting doctrine dragging him down, like iron counterweights dangling from his wrists.
Within the tunnel, the dark descended with its promise of sorrow.
The roof was vaulted, the walls curving to meet the floor. Vibrant torchlight labored in vain to constrain the shadows, forming orange pools of flickering light. Kyel moved forward in the space between pools. The flames did little more than light the path beneath his feet. He walked with his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him.
The tunnel ended at a portcullis. Kyel and the others waited as soldiers labored to raise the iron grate, heaving on long chains suspended from a mechanism overhead. On the other side, a stairway veered upward, angling steeply.
“Avoid the wood. Walk only on stone,” cautioned a Greystone sentry.
Kyel nodded his understanding. Behind them, the portcullis lowered with the clattering whirl of chains racing through systems of pulleys. The stairs were made of steps arranged in alternating patterns of wood and stone. Kyel obeyed the sentry’s instructions, moving carefully to avoid stepping on the boards. He didn’t know for certain what would happen if he missed a step, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine. Kyel had no wish to plummet to his death.
The stairs ended at a wide courtyard surrounded by crenelated towers and soaring palisades. The keep itself loomed before them, its dark, imposing stone ending abruptly in a jagged array of blocks. The main fortress was left unfinished, Kyel realized with dismay.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze scanning the structure. It reminded him too much of the old Greystone Keep, with its crumbling rear wall and caved-in roof. The sight of the incomplete stronghold made his stomach clench in apprehension.
“Great Master.”
He turned to face the soldier who was acting as his guide. The young man carried a hornbow slung across his back, a quiver strapped against his leg. Probably a conscript, Kyel presumed.
“This way.”
He motioned the young soldier forward, falling in behind. His gray-cloaked escort led them across the bailey to the castle’s upper ward. From there, they proceeded through a series of hallways to a rather unremarkable door on the second floor of the tower. The young soldier he followed knocked twice.
The door opened immediately.
“Your men will need to wait outside.”
Kyel nodded, signaling his guards. Then, gathering his courage, he stepped forward into the room.
The first thing he saw was Traver’s narrow face, now covered by a wiry growth of whiskers. No longer lanky, Traver had the hardened body of an infantryman. Kyel’s mouth dropped open; he almost didn’t recognize his old friend. Before he knew what was happening, Traver crossed the room in two large strides and scooped Kyel up in his arms, hefting him off his feet.
“You damnable fool!” Traver exclaimed, giving Kyel one last squeeze before finally setting him down again. “You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been!” He grinned wryly, a shaggy lock of auburn hair falling forward into his face. He flipped it back with a toss of his head.
“I’m fine, Traver. Really.” Kyel made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. It was difficult. He was dearly glad to see his old friend. But the sight of Traver was accompanied by a pang of sadness. He felt suddenly homesick. “How’ve you been?”
“Well enough.” Traver grinned and raised his left hand, wiggling the three fingers he had left. “Except for this. But I rather think I’m better with half a hand than most men are with a whole one. Forces me to use my head.”
The other man in the room shifted his weight conspicuously over his feet. Kyel turned toward the imposing form of Devlin Craig. Craig’s straw-gold hair was pulled back from his face, which was covered in what looked like a week’s growth of stubble. He wore a quilted gambeson that hung to his knees, an enormous sword strapped across his back. Kyel extended his hand, smiling at his former commanding officer.
“Force Commander Craig.”
“Archer.” Craig nodded curtly. His gaze travelled quickly over Kyel, lingering for a moment on the black cloak that fell from his shoulders. His face conveyed a look of profound skepticism. He took a step forward and accepted Kyel’s handshake with a firm, double-fisted clasp.
“Thanks for coming. We’ve got a problem.” His voice was low and gruff. Kyel could see the tension in his eyes.
“I know.”
Craig shook his head. “No. I don’t think you do.”
Kyel frowned, uncertain what the soldier was alluding to.
“Come with me.” Craig tossed his head, already moving past him.
Kyel fell in behind, following Craig’s burly form as the man strode out through the doorway, moving directly toward a flight of stairs. Kyel mounted the steps after him, having to jog to keep up. He followed the commander up a long, spiraling staircase that ascended into the reaches of the unfinished tower.
He trailed his hand along the wall as he climbed, at once taken back in time to the old Greystone Keep of his memory. The old fortress had a very similar stair that had led to Garret Proctor’s quarters at the top. This new tower preserved much of the same character, down to the arrow slits that followed the rising curve of the stair. Only, this tower ended halfway up. Kyel gasped as he realized that he was standing on the last stair with one leg already lifted off. One more step would send him over.
Kyel flailed his arms, groping to catch himself on the unfinished wall at his side. Craig’s hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of his cloak, clenching a fistful of fabric. He jerked him roughly backward. Kyel dropped to his knees as the world surged beneath him.
“Watch your step.”
He nodded, trembling in panic. He rose, trying to catch his balance and his breath. He gazed up at Craig with startled eyes. Then, leaning over, he looked down over the unfinished portion of the wall.
The view below was harrowing.
Kyel’s vision swam as his stomach dropped right out of him. His palms broke immediately into a sweat, toes curling in his boots. His eyes traced down the length of the tower, past the curtain wall and parapets, all the way down the side of the mountain. Before him rolled the sprawling black peaks of the Shadowspears stabbing out of a murky bank of fog. If it wasn’t for the fog, he might have been able to see all the way down to the bottom of the pass. Perhaps all the way out into the Black Lands themselves.
“Look.”
Craig raised his arm, pointing out across the foggy sea below. Kyel tried to make out what the commander was trying to indicate, but there was nothing to see. Just thick, blanketing mist that extended like an ocean to the distant horizon.
But then the mist parted.
Kyel’s mouth fell open as he saw what the fog had been obscuring. Black sinister forms arranged in geometric patterns extended across the dark plain ahead, no natural design. Fires glowed in the distance: thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. So many. Strangest of all, a set of dark, parallel lines, curving away toward the north.
“Mother of the Gods,” Kyel whispered, feeling his heart seize in his chest. “What is all that?”
“T
hat,” Craig responded, lowering his hand, “is the Sixth Invasion.”
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THE RHENWARS SAGA
Darkstorm
Darkmage
Darklands
Darkslands is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by M.L. Spencer
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Damonza
Edited by Morgan Smith
Stoneguard Publications
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Spencer, M.L.
Darklands / M.L. Spencer
ISBN: 978-0-9971779-9-2
ebook ISBN: 978-0-9971779-8-5
Acknowledgments:
I would like to thank Kyra Halland, Andrew McVittie, and Daniel Crabbe for being terrific beta readers. I would also like to thank Morgan Smith for her excellent editorial advice. And special thanks to my family for putting up with me.
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Darklands (The Rhenwars Saga Book 3) Page 34