A March into Darkness dobas-2

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A March into Darkness dobas-2 Page 7

by Robert Newcomb


  Their nightmare had begun one day during the previous Season of Harvest. The girls had been playing on the Fledgling House lawns when the sky suddenly darkened with strange creatures. An evil-looking man was riding one, his face leering, predatory.

  As the awful beasts descended, Duncan-the consul who oversaw their training in the craft-was killed before their eyes. Martha, their loving matron, was sent flying away to Tammerland atop one of the horrible birds. At that time, the girls ranged in age from six to eighteen. Now nineteen, Mallory was the oldest and best trained. Since that fateful day, the others looked to her for leadership.

  But she didn’t feel like a leader as she wended her way deeper into the dingy cell. She had gotten the girls this far, only to wind up in a filthy debtors’ prison with no way out.

  Mallory was worldly enough to understand that because the jailor did not know their real identities, no one would be coming to pay off their “debts.” She bristled at that lie. They owed nothing to anyone-a fact she would gladly shout to the heavens if only they could escape this place. They were a mere half day’s walk from the royal palace. But because they were locked inside this gruesome prison, the Redoubt might as well be a thousand leagues away.

  At first she had briefly considered telling the leering jailor who they were. But then she thought better of it, fearing that it would only worsen their plight. Even Lothar would fear trying to bargain with the Redoubt wizards for their release. His solution might well be to kill them outright, simply to get them off his hands. And so Mallory remained silent about their true identities. But if only she could somehow inform the acolytes or the wizards, she knew that the mystics would tear this place apart to save them.

  Because the jailor did not understand the girls’ importance, Mallory had also wondered why he had taken them prisoner in the first place, for they had no debts. But after overhearing the guards she learned the answer. They were to be sold into sexual slavery as soon as Lothar could arrange it. Several of the lecherous guards had as much as said so.

  The girls’ memories of their capture at Fledgling House existed only as short, dreamlike snips in time. Some recalled a beautiful-looking man in a glistening white robe. As her own fragmented remembrances resurfaced, Mallory winced, then locked them away again. It was probably best that they could not remember everything, she realized. The entire tale might be too much for the younger girls to bear.

  Even so, they all remembered waking up one day in one of the elaborate Fledgling House chambers. No one was about, and the place was stripped of food. Worse, the Season of Crystal was due to arrive. The thirty confused girls realized that if they stayed there, they would starve. So they started walking toward the only other refuge of magic that they knew-the Tammerland Redoubt. If they could reach the Redoubt they would be cared for.

  Leaving Fledgling House, they wisely decided to travel alongside the Sippora River’s meandering banks. The journey would take longer that way, but they hoped that they could catch fish as they went, and use the river water for drinking and washing. People in the villages lining the riverbanks would surely help them on their way, Mallory had reasoned.

  But as they neared the river they learned that strange aberrances of the craft were afoot. A great gouge had been carved into the earth, wending its way west toward the Tolenka Mountains. The river was boiling, and of no use to them. Living on their wits, they employed their weakening gifts to trap animals for food, and to divine water.

  Given the land’s recent decimation, such devices proved inadequate. By the time they joined the last refugee column trudging its way toward Tammerland, twenty-two of the girls had died. Despite the fact that they had been weakened by starvation, Mallory and a few older girls had done their best to bury their friends where they fell.

  The fleeing villagers graciously shared what little food they had. As they all traveled south, the girls slowly regained some strength. By the time they entered the capital, much of Tammerland had been mysteriously burned to the ground and newly rebuilt. For the provincial young girls, it was like walking into a dream world. After learning the way to the royal palace, they immediately set off, hoping that their travails were finally over.

  Then they had encountered the kindly old tavern keeper who offered to help them. Seeing the disheveled girls walking across Bargainers’ Square, he had beckoned them into his small establishment.“Come in,” he had said.“The place isn’t much. But please sit for a while away from the sun, and have some free rootberryade. It will do you all good before you resume your journeys.”

  The tavern was a dark, dirty place, but to the wayward girls it seemed a palace. The old man could tell that they were refugees, as were so many others in the streets these days. Giving them something to drink was the least he could do, he said. The man’s wife was a pleasant woman, with a dark gray bun and a broad white apron. Smiling, she presented the girls with glasses of cold rootberryade. They drank it greedily, then asked for more. That was the last thing they remembered.

  Mallory had been the first to awaken on the prison floor. As her mind cleared, she realized that they had all been drugged. She later met Lothar during his first disturbing meeting with them. Soon after that she heard the guards talking. Putting things together, she quickly understood that the old tavern owner, his wife, and Lothar were in league with one another.

  As Mallory sadly shook her head she wondered how many other people had suffered this fate. If only she could escape, then find her way to the palace. She could return with the wizards, and that vile jailor would truly suffer.

  As she reached the cell’s rear wall, several large rats ran across the floor. The younger girls shrieked, but Mallory didn’t care. A girl named Magdalene raised an arm to employ the craft against the rats, but Mallory quickly reached out to stop her. The look in her eyes meant business.

  “No!” she whispered sternly. “You know our agreement! There is to be no craft use until we are ready! We simply cannot afford to tip our hand! Our powers are weak enough already, and we can’t risk draining them further! Whether you like it or not, that includes you!”

  Magdalene glared angrily at Mallory before finally lowering her arm. At sixteen Seasons of New Life, she was third oldest among them. Mallory didn’t like Magdalene. For no good reason, Magdalene always thought herself to be special. Worse yet, she was quick to use the craft first and ask questions later. She had been that way in all her classes at Fledgling House. Sometimes Master Duncan had become so frustrated with her that he threatened to expel her and send her back to her father. Rather surprisingly, the threats never seemed to faze Magdalene.

  Mallory gave her another harsh look. “Remember-no use of the craft until we are ready,” she repeated.

  Offering their support, the other girls gathered closer. Several of them looked at Magdalene with disdain. As usual, Magdalene didn’t seem to care.

  “If she tries anything like that again, stop her,” Mallory told the others. Leaving Magdalene to stew in her own juices, Mallory walked over to see how her best friend was doing.

  Ariana was seventeen. Ever since their grueling journey started, she had been Mallory’s right arm. Mallory was the most powerful among them. But Ariana was the most learned-especially concerning spell formation.

  Master Duncan had often said that in all of Fledgling House, Ariana had no equal in that discipline. Mallory had even overheard Duncan whisper to Martha that when it came to spell writing, Ariana had already surpassed many consuls he had known. It was this same talent that Mallory was counting on.

  Ariana was on her knees, facing the cellar’s far wall. She was tall for her age, with long dark hair. She disliked Magdalene even more than Mallory did. Several times during their journey the two girls had nearly come to blows. Looking up from her work, she smiled.

  “I heard that browbeating you gave her,” she said. “Good for you.”

  Mallory shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t enjoy it, but someone has to keep her in line.” A faint smile cros
sed her face. “If I left her to you, only the Afterlife knows what you’d do,” she added, then looked down at Ariana’s work. “How is it going?” she asked.

  Ariana dropped the charcoal piece she had found, then stood. She gazed over at Magdalene for a moment. Still seething from the lecture Mallory had given her, Magdalene sneered back. Sighing, Ariana rubbed her face.

  “The work is slow,” she answered. She looked around the cramped cell, then back into Mallory’s blue eyes.

  “These aren’t the best working conditions, you know,” she added. “Even if I were back at Fledgling House, this spell would be difficult to formulate on my own. And having had nothing substantial to eat since we left the school has not helped our mental or physical abilities,” she added. She shook her head.

  “Why am I telling you this?” she asked. “You know these things as well as anyone. But even if I can produce the spell, there’s no telling whether you will be strong enough to work it successfully.”

  “I know,” Mallory said. “But it’s all we have.”

  Ariana kneeled again and took up her charcoal. The wall before her held esoteric numbers and symbols by the dozens. To Mallory’s surprise, Ariana shook her head, then used one hand to scrub away all her recent formulations. She looked back up at Mallory with tired eyes.

  “This latest series is just another dead end,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, but this is one that Duncan had yet to teach us. So I must figure it out on my own.”

  “I understand,” Mallory answered. “But you must hurry! I don’t know how much time we have left.”

  Ariana was about to answer when they heard a guard call out. “You!” he shouted.

  Standing, Ariana narrowed her eyes. “Me?” she asked.

  “No, no!” the guard shouted back. “The pretty blond bitch, standing next to you! Come ’ere!”

  Mallory cringed. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she didn’t dare disobey. Summoning up her courage, she walked to the cell door. All the other girls could do was to watch in dread. Ariana gave her a supportive glance.

  As Mallory approached the door she became slightly relieved. The guard had brought them something to eat. It wasn’t much-mere bowls of gruel and flasks of water. Neither would provide enough nutrients to significantly augment their gifts. But it would keep them alive another day, and staying alive in this awful place was the first order of business.

  As Mallory approached, the smell coming from even such simple food started her stomach growling. The nearer she came, the more the guard leered.

  The guard placed the food tray on the floor, then used one hobnailed boot to shove it through the small gap between the barred door and the floor. He hadn’t shaved for days, and smelled of stale liquor. A jagged scar ran down one cheek. His eyes were menacing, predatory.

  Mallory bent down to pick up the tray. As she stood with it in her arms, the guard’s left hand shot between the bars. Grabbing Mallory by the neck, he squeezed. The pain was excruciating. She could barely breathe. The guard brought his face nearer.

  “Come closer,” he breathed, “or things will only go worse for you.”

  Trying to think through the pain, Mallory realized that if she tried to fight him she might drop the tray. Regardless of the food’s quality, they needed it to keep what strength the girls still had remaining. Using the craft against the guard was not an option, because they needed to keep their identities secret until the last moment. She knew that the other girls would desperately want to help her, but she also hoped that they would have the good sense not to try.

  Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed. As her face neared the bars she could better smell his stink. His hand tightened around her throat a bit more.

  “Hold still, bitch,” he whispered. “Don’t fight me. If you do, I’ll see to it that not one of you eats for a week.” Smiling evilly, he licked his lips.

  Mallory felt his other hand slip beneath what remained of her tattered school dress. Trying to control her emotions, she closed her eyes. Some of the other girls in the cell started to cry. As he probed her, she did her best to remember Duncan, Martha, and the good times she had known.

  On and on it went, the guard’s dirty fingers violating her in every way he could without being on her side of the door. Finally it was finished.

  Mallory opened her eyes, but she held fast, unflinching in her gaze. For the first time in her young life, she truly knew what it was to hate-to hate so much she could kill.

  The guard raised his rapacious hand before his face to luxuriate in her scent. Smiling, he finally let her go. Struggling for breath, Mallory took two paces back, nearly dropping the precious tray.

  “Such a treasure you are,” the guard said. He looked her up and down lasciviously. “I’ll remember you,” he whispered. “And I’ll be back.”

  As she glared at him, Mallory memorized his face. He finally turned and walked down the hall, his heel strikes fading away amid the flickering shadows.

  For the others’ sake, Mallory forced back her tears. As she carried the tray into the cell, Ariana touched her on the arm.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “No,” Mallory answered softly. “But I will be.” Turning her head, she looked back to the cell door. “Once he’s dead,” she added menacingly. She looked back at Ariana.

  “Hurry,” she whispered simply.

  Squaring her shoulders, she walked the food to the other girls.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AS TRISTAN WALKED DOWN THE PALACE HALLS, IT SEEMEDthat the entire castle had come alive. It felt good to him to see the place bustling again, even if he did have to attend tonight’s masquerade ball.

  When his mother, father, and the wizards of the Directorate had lived, the palace always seemed to be in a state of activity. With the arrival of peace, it was starting to become that way again, and tonight’s impending ball was adding much to the general excitement. Servants, cooks, musicians, acrobats, jugglers, and others responsible for preparing the evening’s festivities filled the halls. As expected, many seemed obliged to stop and speak with him.

  Wending his way through the hubbub, Tristan tried to acknowledge as many people as he could, but he was already late. He smirked as he imagined the scowl he would get from Wigg-not to mention the mischievous looks Tyranny, Shailiha, and Faegan would contribute when he finally reached the Great Hall.

  Tristan flagged down a waiter carrying a tray laden with wine. With a bow the waiter held it out to him. Tristan took a glass and quickly downed the contents, then grabbed another. If he had to attend this event, his unfair share from the palace wine cellars would help ease the boredom. After giving the waiter a smile, he continued on.

  The newly rebuilt palace was a revelation. During the Coven of Sorceresses’ unexpected return and the subsequent struggles with Nicholas and Wulfgar, much of the structure had been destroyed. But the combined efforts of countless Minion and citizen laborers had brought the castle to an even greater magnificence.

  All seven hundred rooms had been repaired and redecorated as needed. It seemed that everywhere Tristan looked he saw new furniture, artwork, rugs, and tapestries. He sighed as he wished that his parents could be here to see it all. Then he again noticed the servants’ black-and-white formal attire, and he smirked.

  Despite Shailiha’s earlier coaxing, he had adamantly refused to change clothes. Even his weapons still hung over his right shoulder. If he must be put on display tonight, then he would do it on his own terms, no matter what anybody said about it. Just then, Wigg crossed his mind. The First Wizard always placed great importance on such public affairs. He was bound to be incensed when he saw that Tristan hadn’t trussed himself up in some ridiculous costume to match the occasion.

  But Tristan decided he couldn’t be angry with him. Wigg was more than three hundred years old. He had been the royal advisor and leader of the Directorate during the reigns of nearly a dozen Eutracian kings and queens, including Tristan’s mother and father. S
uch traditions were an established way of life for the wizard. But Tristan still rejected them as boring and tedious.

  As he neared the Great Hall he started to see guests. Each of their costumes seemed more sumptuous than the last. Even the Minions were in disguise-a rather incongruous notion, because it was impossible to hide their dark wings. It gladdened his heart to see Eutracians and Minions mixing so well. Less than two years ago, this gathering would have been impossible.

  At first he was surprised to find the Minion women so stunning. Their body armor gone, they were dressed in human, female attire. Despite the obvious alterations for their wings, they wore the garments well. He smiled to himself as he wondered how Ox, Traax, and Duvessa would be dressed.

  As he made his way through the crowd, he realized that wearing no mask put him at a disadvantage. As expected, guests began recognizing him. Disguised as they were, it was difficult to know how to respond to their greetings. After an older man lowered his mask to show Tristan that he was in fact Tammerland’s mayor, the rather embarrassed prince decided it was time to even the odds.

  Ducking into a room off the hallway, he closed the door. He put down his wineglass, then reached beneath his vest to produce his only concession to the masquerade-a simple black mask that covered the upper half of his face. He quickly tied its string around the back of his head. Picking up his glass, he walked to a mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

  The image staring back at him looked far more like some menacing highwayman than it did a member of the royal house. Then his memories crept in again, and he looked to the floor. Closing his eyes, he rolled the half-empty wineglass back and forth between his palms, thinking.

 

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