A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  At once the great ship regained altitude, and her speed rose markedly. Gathering his robe against the strengthening wind, Wigg was suddenly reminded of how fast these amazing vessels could fly, given the proper mystic to captain them. With Jessamay at the helm they would be home in minutes.

  Then other, more dangerous thoughts revisited him. Turning west, he looked out over the ocean again. His mind started unknowingly echoing some of the same concerns that had teased Serena, only two days before.

  The enemy lies out there, he thought. Only the Afterlife knows what new horrors await us. Turning back to the east, the ancient wizard watched the Eutracian coast grow closer.

  CHAPTER V

  BRENT WAS DOING HIS BEST TO IMPALE A WORM ONTOhis fishing hook, just as his father had shown him. But the slimy little creature kept wiggling about, adding to the difficulty. Every time Brent tried, the worm somehow seemed to outsmart him. Slipping from his grip, it plopped into the Sippora River. Brent guessed that his father would not be pleased.

  Instead, the lean, middle-aged man only smiled. Reaching into his bait box, he produced another worm and handed it to his son. He considered doing the job for him, but he wanted the boy to learn on his own.

  Brent took the worm and started the frustrating process again. At seven Seasons of New Life, he found preparing the hook far less fun than dangling the line in the water and waiting for a fish to come along.

  Finally succeeding, he beamed a smile up at his father, then lowered his line into the swift-moving Sippora. The river was fairly shallow here, making this a perfect place to find Eutracian trout.

  Alfred watched Brent’s line go out and take the bait downstream. When it had traveled far enough, Alfred told his son to stop letting it go. The red-and-white cork attached to the line bobbed happily as it fought the current.

  The late-afternoon sun slanted across the water; it would be time soon to return to their small village of Charningham. Many such farming hamlets bordered the Sippora. Lying well to the north, Charningham had been spared the wrath of the orb’s recent rampage. Rumor had it that Prince Tristan had somehow used the craft to heal the orb and restore the river’s vitality. Everyone had been grateful for the good news.

  Alfred looked up from his line. He and Brent were sitting on wooden chairs, atop a stone bridge stretching over a curved neck in the river. A farmer by trade, Alfred owned much of the surrounding land. To the east, Charningham stretched out before them. Colorful wildflowers dotted the intervening fields for nearly as far as the eye could see.

  Evening was fast approaching. Cicadas and tree frogs sang happily. The Sippora burbled noisily, adding its unique contribution to nature’s chorus. The river pulled on Alfred’s fishing line, gently reminding him to pay attention.

  Looking down, he affectionately tousled Brent’s blond hair. They already had two trout in the quiver, and the last one was still flapping about. One more and they would go home. Annabelle could do miraculous things with trout. Tonight’s dinner might be late, but definitely worth the trouble.

  That was when things suddenly changed.

  The Sippora River impossibly stopped flowing. Alfred had often seen the river meander or rush, depending on the season. But this was different. A curious expression on his face, Brent looked up at his father.

  Then the breeze abruptly quieted. So did the singing of the cicadas and tree frogs.

  Everything suddenly carried a deathly stillness about it, like nature herself had somehow lost her never-ending vitality. Rising from his chair, Alfred looked downstream. His hands tightened around his fishing rod.

  Dark and unmoving, a rider could be seen on the western bank. Dressed all in black, he simply waited there, staring at Alfred and Brent. The black stallion’s coat shone in the growing moonlight; vapor streamed whitely from his nostrils. Alfred couldn’t see the rider’s face. Grasping Brent’s shoulders, Alfred spun him around.

  “We’re leaving!” he said quickly. “Grab up your pole!”

  A questioning look crossed Brent’s face, but he did as he was told. Alfred snatched up the bait box and quiver, then literally started pulling his son off the bridge. At the same time the intruder spurred his horse into the still river and started coming upstream. Reaching the end of the bridge, the father and son stepped to the ground.

  As Alfred turned to look, his face fell. It would be useless to try to outrun the stranger. Charningham was a quarter of a league away, and there was no one about to help. All he could do was wait, and pray that the rider meant them no harm.

  As if reading his mind, the lone rider slowed his mount to a walk. The intruder quietly exited the river. As he watched him approach, Alfred’s mouth fell open.

  With every step the being’s horse took, the surrounding grass and wildflowers withered and died.

  The rider prodded his horse closer. A battle axe hung at his left hip, and a war shield was tied to his saddle. Even now the river refused to flow, the night creatures remained silent, and the breeze had not returned.

  Alfred looked into the rider’s face. A shock went through his system; he took a step back and put an arm around his son.

  Alfred tried to find his voice. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Call me Xanthus,” the leader answered. “I come from another world-a world you couldn’t possibly imagine. The answers to your questions will do you no good, for I can tell that your blood is unendowed. So inquire no more.”

  “What do you want?” Alfred whispered.

  Xanthus smiled. “I want you,” he answered. The voice possessed a strangely macabre, hollow timbre. If a dead man could speak, it seemed that this was what he would sound like.

  “Why?” Alfred asked.

  “For no other reason than you are the first Eutracians I have encountered,” Xanthus answered. “My orders are specific.” He turned in his saddle and looked east.

  “Charningham?” he asked.

  Nervously, Alfred nodded.

  Xanthus leaned forward in his saddle. “How many souls live there?” he asked.

  Alfred’s dread grew. “About one thousand.”

  “A sizable enough audience with which to start,” Xanthus replied cryptically.

  “What do you mean?” Alfred asked.

  “You will learn that soon enough. You are coming with me.”

  At once Alfred felt his body rise into the air. Struggle as he might he couldn’t overcome the invisible grip that tossed him onto the stallion’s back behind Xanthus. Speaking and moving had become impossible. He could only watch as Brent, screaming, was hauled into the air and deposited on the horse’s back just behind him. And then the scream was cut off as Brent, too, was frozen in place.

  Xanthus turned his horse toward Charningham. The grass and flowers in their path died quickly, turning brown. The sun, its golden rays slowly reddening, slowly slipped behind the Tolenka Mountains.

  Hoping he and his son might somehow survive the night, Alfred closed his eyes. There was no one around to observe as the horse and its riders vanished.

  With the Darkling gone, the Sippora River slowly started flowing again. The breeze returned. The tree frogs and cicadas sang. Inside the abandoned fishing quiver, the most recently caught trout finally gave in to the inevitable, and died.

  “Are you resting comfortably?” the voice asked.

  It was an absurd inquiry. The false concern, born only of malice, was taunting; its tone was completely devoid of compassion.

  Night had fallen in Charningham. The only light came from the flickering torches Xanthus had lit-no doubt for dramatic effect. The town square was a mass of people; it seemed to Brent that every person he knew was there with him. All those who had resisted the Darkling’s demand to attend him in the town square were dead, killed outright, their bodies left lying in pools of blood. Brent was mute with horror. Tears filling his eyes, he clung unashamedly to his mother’s skirts. He could feel her legs trembling.

  Shuddering, Brent looked down at his father.


  Alfred lay in the square’s center with his back against one of the large stones forming the plaza floor. Two men and two women lay at even intervals beside him. The Darkling sat on horseback, glowering over them. No one spoke; no one moved.

  Iron shoes clip-clopped on the stones as Xanthus spurred his horse to stand before Alfred. A hush descended over the crowd.

  “I asked you a question,” Xanthus said. “Are you resting comfortably?”

  Despite his partial paralysis, Alfred did his best to look up at his captor. “What do you want?” he asked. “We have little money to give you! We know nothing about the craft! Please-leave us in peace!”

  “By the time I leave here, you will have found everlasting peace, I assure you,” Xanthus answered.

  Xanthus’ ominous words made Alfred’s skin crawl. He tried again to move, but it was no use.

  “At least let the two women go!” he begged.

  “No,” Xanthus answered simply.

  “But we have done you no wrong!” one of the other men screamed. “What in the name of the Afterlife do you want?”

  “Ah, yes,” Xanthus said. “The Afterlife-a concept you humans refer to often, but know so little about.” Raising his dark head, he looked around the crowd.

  “Despite your frequent references to it, who among you mindless sheep can explain it, eh?” he added. The silent crowd simply stared at him in dread.

  “Just as I thought.” He looked back down at Alfred. “Don’t worry. You will become fully acquainted with the Afterlife’s workings soon enough. In some ways, I envy you.”

  “What do you want?”Alfred demanded again. Fearing the worst, he strained to find Annabelle and Brent in the crowd.

  “The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “I want you five to die. It is going to take a long time, and your fellow citizens shall provide the audience. It is no more complicated than that.”

  Saying nothing more, the Darkling raised one arm.

  Alfred started to hear a grinding sound. When he finally realized what was happening, his eyes bulged and his breath caught.

  One of the massive stones of the plaza floor was lifting into the air. Dropping loose soil from its dark underside, it came to float directly above him. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, he could make out the worms, maggots, and other crawling creatures still attached to it, milling about on the stone’s slick underside. Expecting the stone to come crashing down on him, Alfred closed his eyes.

  But the stone did not fall. Instead it lowered slowly, its crushing weight starving his lungs bit by bit. His face was spared. But as the excruciating pain rose, he felt his sternum and several ribs snap. The pressure sent the wriggling creatures crawling free from the stone and onto his face.

  Shaking his head wildly from side to side, Alfred screamed. Gasping for breath, he looked up at Xanthus.

  “What-what do you want from us?” he whispered. He was barely able to get the words out.

  Under the stone’s overpowering weight, his veins began hemorrhaging; blood rivulets trickled from his nose, eyes, and ears. Unable to watch, Brent turned away, retreating farther into his mother’s skirt folds. His entire body was shaking. Like his father, he could barely breathe.

  “I have already told you,” Xanthus said. “Be still, for my ears hear no begging. My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.”

  Another large stone came floating into the air. The other captives started begging. But they soon learned that the stone was not meant for one of them. Some in the crowd spoke up, pleading that the torture be stopped. But Xanthus ignored them.

  As the second stone’s weight added to the first, the remaining air was pushed from Alfred’s lungs. Several more ribs snapped, and both his shoulders dislocated. His heart, crushed, beat its last. A final death rattle escaped his lungs. His eyes were open wide, but unseeing.

  Annabelle fainted; a nearby man caught her in his arms. For several long moments, Brent’s wailing was the only sound in the square.

  Suddenly a man rushed from the crowd. He was brandishing a sword, which he pointed directly at the Darkling.

  “You’re insane!” he growled. “If you don’t stop this madness, I’ll kill you!”

  Xanthus didn’t say a word. Raising one arm, he used the craft to levitate the fellow into the air. The man’s fingers opened, and his sword clattered to the ground. His body stiffened; his eyes rolled back in his head. As if he were controlled by some unseen puppeteer-and in a way, he was-his body started dancing about wildly. Then his limbs began to break.

  First the arms then the legs snapped, their glistening bones rupturing the skin in grisly, compound fractures. Blood flew, spattering the crowd nearby.

  Suddenly the man’s eyes went wide. His body arched, and then, with a sudden, swift motion, his back broke.

  The body fell to the ground. Xanthus wheeled his horse around and glared at the crowd. Some sobbed; others hung their heads in shame. An elderly matron pulled Brent close to her.

  “Is there anyone else who dares to be heroic?” Xanthus shouted. Silence filled the square.

  “Good,” he said simply, and walked his mount back toward the remaining captives.

  It took three more hours to kill the four others. When it was done, Xanthus climbed down from his horse and removed the clothing covering the upper half of his body.

  He was no longer the ghostly apparition the unfortunate Minion warriors had fought at the azure pass. He now appeared human, his body flesh and blood. Kneeling on the ground, facing west toward the Tolenkas, he removed a black, knotted line from his discarded clothing and began to flagellate himself.

  Those in the crowd who had not already fainted watched, frozen by the Darkling’s spell, though shock and horror would probably have kept them silent and unmoving even without the use of the craft.

  As the cords ripped into his back, he showed no pain, no slacking in his self-discipline. On and on it went, his strokes perfectly spaced, until he had finished one hundred lashes. As the moonlight beamed down, his blood ran into the thirsty dirt lying between the square’s remaining stones.

  The Darkling stood and placed the bloody cords into a pocket, then donned his clothing again. The azure glow revisited him, returning his body to its original form. Xanthus released the crowd from his spell. The dazed citizens cowered as he walked back toward them.

  “My work here is done,” he said, “but yours is not. My mandate to you is this: Assemble a group of your most trusted citizens, then ride hard for Tammerland. You are to request an emergency audience before the Conclave of Vigors. Tell them what happened here by the power I, a Darkling, hold. Tell theJin’Sai that it will do no good to try and find me, because I can vanish like dust on the wind. I will visit him soon enough. If you disobey me, I will return to this place and more of you will die.”

  He pointed to a nearby tree, and one of its branches tore loose to float in the air. As the flying branch approached, Xanthus drew his axe and cut it in half with a single motion. The two pieces fell to the ground. From a pocket he withdrew a white scroll bound with a bloodred ribbon. He tossed the scroll to the ground.

  “See that theJin’Sai is given the scroll and one of the cut branches,” he ordered. “He will understand.”

  With a final glare at the crowd, Xanthus mounted his horse and headed out of town. As if bowing in shame, the foliage lining the street withered as he passed.

  Just as the monster slipped into the darkness, he vanished.

  CHAPTER VI

  THREE DAYS LATER, TRISTAN SAT ALONE ON HIS PRIVATEbalcony, looking out on the newly landscaped grounds of the rebuilt palace. It was morning in Eutracia, and he wore only a blue silk robe. He was tired; sleeping had been difficult again last night. A lavish breakfast brought by Shawna the Short sat untouched before him. Shawna would be beside herself when she learned that he hadn’t eaten, but he just wasn’t hungry. He took a sip of lukewarm tea, then returned his gaze to the palace grounds. He sat there for some time, remembering. />
  Finally he stood and walked into the rooms that he had briefly shared with Celeste. The familiar scent of myrrh still clung to the bedsheets and pillowcases. It often caused haunting memories of her to enter his dreams. He sometimes awakened in the night, expecting to find her lying there beside him. When he remembered that she was no more, the tears always came, making him feel even more alone in the darkness.

  He shrugged off his robe and dropped it onto an empty chair, then dressed. As he took up his dreggan a thought struck him. He slowly slid the sword from its scabbard.

  The Conclave was convening this morning to discuss the impending attack on the Citadel and other important matters. How much longer would he need physical weapons like this? he wondered as he stared at the shiny, razor-sharp blade.

  Faegan, Wigg, and the late Redoubt Wizards had abandoned the use of physical weapons once their gifts had become fully realized. When he was trained, would he do the same? He always felt naked without his sword and knives, and couldn’t imagine being without them. Sheathing the blade, he tossed the sword onto the four-poster bed.

  He walked to the fireplace. On the mantel rested the urn containing Celeste’s ashes. Beside it lay her farewell letter. There was no reason to read it again-he knew it line by line. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned away and walked back to the balcony to lean against the railing.

  His recent behavior was hurting people he loved. He knew that, but sometimes the pain welled up so much that he couldn’t help it. Had his sorrow been only for Celeste, it would have been devastating enough. But when he also remembered the many others who had sacrificed their lives to the Vagaries, his sorrow morphed into sullenness, his sullenness sometimes deteriorating into outright rage.

  Worse, until the Acolytes of the Redoubt learned to empower the Black Ships, there seemed little for him to do. Since the return of the Coven, Tristan had been a man of action, intent on destroying Vagaries practitioners wherever he found them. Whenever there was no enemy to fight, his restless spirit died a little. Eutracia was enjoying a peaceful time, and for that he was grateful. But without an enemy to face, this newfound peace was frustrating him.