Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1)

by Matt Howerter

  Banlor, my pet, what news of progress have you? The voice purred from every direction and bathed his assaulted mind in its fiery sweetness.

  “M-m-m-mistress...” was all he could manage. Desperately, he struggled to organize his thoughts. How much did she already know? It was difficult to conceive that he was her only pawn. Even if he was, what guarantee was there that she wouldn’t have found out the princess had come to Basinia despite his plans to the contrary? It seemed an eternity, but he found his tongue once more. “I personally guarantee there will be NO lasting peace between Pelos and Basinia. One of their precious royals lies dead in the wilderness. Discord and chaos will follow.”

  Chilling laughter swam through his mind. The prospect of chaos seemed to delight his mistress in a way that simple obedience never had.

  Excellent, my pet. Her voice lingered sultrily over the soft consonants, pulling at them softly and sending shocks of lust through his core. His abdomen twitched violently and sent him to his knees. A gasping moan escaped him as he fell to the floor and spasmed in the throes of his own ecstasy. All the while, her purring, husky voice surrounded him in soft, passionate sounds, encouraging each convulsion to tighter and tighter bindings, until finally he whimpered with pain and exhaustion.

  Begging and clawing at the floor, he mumbled “No more, Mistress... no more. Please.”

  After what seemed an eternity, the ecstasy relented. I think, my pet, that you deserve a reward. Her tone sounded satisfied and fulfilled, as if she, too, had just experienced a massive climax, but where Banlor’s mind still shuddered and reeled, her voice was strong and ready to move on. He quailed at the pain and pleasure of her words, but his mind was caught fast in a will beyond his own.

  Tonight, before the next two hours have passed, you must go to the north wood and take five men or women with you—five you consider to be the most important to my work. A vision of a darkened glade blossomed in his mind. There was a single ghostly light floating with no apparent source or support in the center of the glade. The spectral light it cast painted the boles of the surrounding winewood trees with colorless light and shadow, drawing sinister patterns in the deep grooves, and making black, gaping maws of the darkness in the spaces that yawned between them. You will be receiving my help to ensure that you do not fail in your tasks.

  “Tonight? But I—”

  Question my grace at your peril. Her voice was no louder, but its power surged through his mind, erasing all rational thought in a wave of pain and nausea. Though he was wracked with sobs and retching, he could not avoid hearing every word that was said. The reverberations of the power in each syllable thrummed through his bones. You will be there, and you will have the bodies with you, or I shall cast you aside to raise another.

  Once again, it was some time before he could speak, and when he finally regained the ability to do so, a hoarse whisper was all he could manage. “Y-yes...Yes, Mistress. It shall be...as you say.”

  Yes, my pet...It shall be.

  As quickly as it had come, her will left his mind, and the light of the oil lamps from the room began to creep back into the edges of his awareness. Once again, he found himself on the floor of his study, his legs trailing across the threshold to the balcony.

  It was fortunate that he had issued orders not to be disturbed for any reason when he had the door to his study closed. The room remained blessedly empty except for himself and a couple of messenger birds that rustled softly in their cotes.

  Shakily, he brought his knees under his body and pushed himself to his hands and knees. He waited patiently for strength to return to his limbs, which quivered gently in the echoes of the ordeal of his mistress’s presence. He finally stood and made his way to the call tube at the door that would allow him to speak to the servants three floors below. It was time to test his authority with Gornella and Spinnaker. They would be a start. Mastering his breath, he removed the cover of the tube and made a call to begin his task.

  The glade was exactly as it had been painted in his mind. There could be no mistake.

  The single light hung motionless, without a flicker of movement, in the middle of the glade, patiently awaiting him and his company. The trunks of the trees looked just as dead in the ghost light as the vision had presented them. Overhead, the illumination failed to reach any of the living branches of the winewoods that blocked out any starlight. Only a dome of rustling blackness remained.

  “What is that?” asked Gornella as he looked up at the suspended orb. “Is this the ‘most dire’ development that forced me to depart without summoning even a single servant to accompany us on this nonsensical trek?” The scorn in his tone was heavy.

  Dammer Gornella had let the lesson of Brier’s disappearance slip from his awareness, it seemed. Dammer was a well-preserved man in his early fifties with flashing hazel eyes nestled in a lined but otherwise clear face. There was plenty of white in his wavy auburn mane, but he had not allowed himself to go to seed as so many others of the noble class had. The bluff older man had not responded well to Banlor’s demands. Though he had come, he had come with a renewed vigor in his apparent determination to test the limits of Banlor’s authority.

  Dismounting easily, he laid one hand upon the green-and-gold-wrapped hilt of his sword as he strode into the center of the glade to stand below the mysterious light.

  “You should stay clear of that thing, Dammer,” Rashalon Spinnaker called from his place next to Banlor. “You don’t know what it is, what it might do.” He sat astride a giant roan gelding that looked black in the night. The cold light from the center of the glade did nothing to bring out the horse’s red coat. Rashalon was the youngest person in the group, but his youth was not reflected in his health. The man overflowed his saddle in every direction and he gripped the reins with swollen fingers, each of which bore a ring. Even in good light, his plump cheeks were sallow, but tonight, his sweating face had the look of a well-fed, moistened corpse. His full lips were puckered in a concerned pout, and the tongue that peeked between them, looked grey and dead in the evil light. His normally brown eyes looked black in this gloomy hollow, and they nestled below the knitted plump brows like two lumps of coal. “Lord Banlor said it was dangerous.”

  Banlor had said no such thing, but a small murmur of agreement sounded from the three others who remained by his side in the glade. Clarissa Grenleaf, Laran Perisal, and Walina rounded out the five he had been commanded to bring.

  Finding the requisite number had been taxing in the extreme. He had been fortunate indeed to find Rashalon and Dammer, for neither of their house servants knew where to find them. The damnable celebration had the entire city in chaos. It had become immediately apparent that few people were going to be found in the places they should be, and if any of them were in the throngs at the palace, it could take the labor of his entire staff just to find them. Never mind convincing them of the need to leave the city with no notice and no attendants. He was certain to get back to the Citadel and find numerous notes, and perhaps even a few people anxiously waiting on him, but what choice had he had?

  After his third runner came back with empty hands, Banlor had turned in desperation to the invitation Lord Laran had sent earlier that morning in celebration of the princess’s arrival.

  With invitation in hand, he had strode to Laran’s house. He had bypassed the flustered servant who answered the door by thrusting the invitation into the old man’s face and pushing past him into the entry hall. He hadn’t paused to remove coat or hat, despite the old fool’s protestations and requests, but had strode purposefully into the grand reception parlor of the lord’s home. There he had found five he urgently needed, quietly speaking with their heads together. Laran, Clarissa, Rashalon, and Dammer.

  On any other night, he would have considered a meeting of powerful people that didn’t include himself suspicious. Tonight, Banlor could almost feel the grains slipping through the hourglass of his mind, making the group’s meeting and possible conspiracy a trivial thing. Every m
oment that passed grated on his soul. Echoes of the pain from his mistress’s voice thrummed against his memory as he stared at the quartet.

  He was used to his presence shocking those of lesser power. Even so, it had been blatantly obvious from the sudden silence that his arrival was amongst the last to be expected in that night. Lord Laran attempted to recover with an issue of welcome stammered through pale lips; the man looked like he might have been suffering a stroke in the moments before Banlor’s entry.

  Banlor cut off the irritating, stumbling speech with a cutting gesture of one hand. “I am glad you are all together. It will save time,” he said without preamble. “A situation of the most dire character has arisen, and you all must accompany me, now, to resolve it, lest our country be lost.” He slammed his walking staff on the floor, punctuating his speech.

  There had been questions and demands for more information, but in the end, his grip on each of them was too firm, or the force of his presence was too strong to be denied. Grudgingly, they each agreed, then set about mounting to accompany him.

  In the end, Banlor had commanded Walina to come with him as well, though she could hardly be counted amongst those critical to the success or failure of his plans. None of his other servants had had any success finding other likely candidates to serve his mistress’s mysterious need. Even Popin, ridiculous, flamboyant layabout that he was, couldn’t be found.

  Exiting the city had not been a problem. The guards who patrolled the bridges were enjoying the festive spirit of the celebration. Even had this not been the case, their primary charge was seeing no one entered the city without challenge. They knew Banlor, of course, which had also smoothed the the way, but it occurred to him as they rode into the darkness that it might not be in his best interest to be recognized.

  A problem for later, he thought.

  Dammer snorted loudly and derisively at Rashalon’s nervous abjuration, but he turned in place below the glowing light and regarded the other five riders. “If this thing were truly dangerous, Rashalon, then surely Our Lord wouldn’t have come with only the five of us as protection. A fat man, two women, and two old soldiers hardly seem to be likely candidates to stop the tide of a ravening horde...” He paused and turned his head partially to the light, regarding it coolly with one raised brow, almost as if he doubted its existence. The light sparkled with an internal fire for a brief moment and shone more intently on the man. But the light’s increased intensity did not wrap around his features, and the side of his face closer to Banlor was shrouded in deeper shadow, making him seem more of a specter than before. His deep voice issued forth, falling flat in the glade. “Well, whatever this may be,” he said, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder, “it certainly isn’t dangerous.”

  He turned more fully to the light and drew his sword from the scabbard on his hip, raising it as if to poke at the floating light.

  “My Lord,” Walina was sitting on Banlor’s left side astride the dusky white stallion that had become her favorite. She reached forward and laid a tentative hand on his arm. The muscles of his forearms were rock hard as he clenched his hands into fists on the reins. Her cool fingers brushed his skin lightly but only added to the tension in his body. “This place frightens me. May we please go back?”

  He moved to take her hand from his arm, but before he could touch her, his skin prickled painfully. Each hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood rigidly to attention. A wave of cold followed, rolling from the levitating orb, as Dammer’s sword touched it and all six of the horses went mad. Dammer’s black mare, lacking a restraining hand, turned and bolted from the clearing, diving into one of the gaping black voids from which the group had emerged.

  Crying out loudly, Rashalon and Clarrissa fell heavily to the earth. Clarissa was the more skilled rider, but the only reward for her practice was a softer landing on top of the blubbery Rashalon. The fat man had immediately been deposited on the ground below her and lay stunned, facedown in the moss and rocks. Clarissa’s delicate form rolled off of the fat man and came to a stop, propped on one elbow.

  From the point in the woods where Dammer’s black had disappeared, the screaming of a horse in terrible pain issued forth. The screaming sent the two riderless mounts fleeing into the woods in the opposite direction. Almost immediately, new rounds of equine agony assaulted their ears, causing the remaining horses to redouble their efforts to be free. The last three riders, including Banlor, could no longer control the beasts and also found themselves deposited roughly on the ground. Dammer spun in a circle, his sword held before him in a white-knuckled grip.

  Banlor could only lie on the ground, his ears ringing with the impact and his breath coming in pain-shortened gasps. Through the haze of the bells in his ears, he could just hear the others: Dammer called loudly in fear laced with anger, demanding to know what was going on and who was there; the others groaned or cried in pain, begging for help or simply taking small, whimpering breaths.

  From the corner of one eye, he made out Lord Laran stumbling to his feet and snatching up his stave from the ground with one hand. With the other, he drew a small ceremonial dagger that he always wore in commemoration of his time as a general in the Basinian military. The eldest of the company, he was still a soldier in his bearing, and he limped to Dammer’s side. Small twigs and leaves decorated his thinning hair and beard, but he paid them no mind. His dark eyes swept the glade with all the intensity of a man who had extensive practice staying alive while others around him died.

  Banlor began to push himself to his hands and knees when he felt a familiar brush upon his mind. Be still, my pet. Selen’s voice whispered within. Observe now the gifts I give you. He froze in place, partially splayed upon the ground and unable to see much beyond the two old soldiers now standing back to back under the spectral illumination, which now pulsed rhythmically.

  Banlor’s ears cleared and he could hear the soft sound of the trees rustling all around him. A jagged rasp cut through the soothing noise of the breeze. It might have been mistaken for a harsh wind rattling limbs together, but for a distinctive raw edge that brought to mind sandpaper dragging over ill-formed glass. The rough sound put his teeth on edge and caused fresh ripples of fear to ascend his backbone. He shivered uncontrollably in the dirt.

  Dammer was the first to spot something, and his eyes focused beyond Banlor’s sight.

  “Stay back!” he ordered in a loud voice, which had carried more weight when he was a captain in the king’s house guard. “We are not here for trouble, but we have plenty to give, should you want it.”

  Following close on the heels of Dammer’s strident order, Laran hissed at Banlor. “What is going on here, Banlor? What is it you have brought upon us?” Laran looked over at Rashalon, who was still lying prone and gasping for breath. “Get up, you fat fool! Lest you die on your ample ass.”

  Rashalon moaned louder and cried out as he attempted to roll to his side and rise. “My leg! My leg is broken!” he yelled shrilly, his voice breaking like a panicked child’s.

  Banlor only shook his head softly, fearing what he might see.

  Dammer moved his mouth wordlessly for a moment then called out, “Get away from her!” He dashed forward, brandishing the sword, and out of Banlor’s view. A scream from Clarissa came on the heels of his call, and Banlor slowly turned his head to see what was happening.

  The thing crouching over the noblewoman’s body resembled nothing he had ever seen, nor anything he had run from in his deepest nightmare. He knew, though, that from this day forward, he would be forever running from that horrible vision.

  A forest of limbs sprouted from a moist, pale white body, equal in size to a man. Each limb was unique and jointed at odd angles with skeletal protrusions jutting from various places. Sharp hooks and slime-covered tentacles waved about, slinging ichor in every direction. Insectoid wings buzzed together at several places along its lumpy back. The body was almost entirely bisected by a gaping mouth, which was lined with rows of jagged teeth, and the
rough halves were peppered with many lifeless black eyes.

  Clarissa, although she was advanced in years, somewhere in her fourth decade perhaps, was still lithe in form. Her straight blonde hair was untouched by grey in spite of the wrinkles that were beginning to gather at her eyes and mouth. It was her habit to maintain the tresses pulled back with simple circlets of finely wrought metal or leather. Banlor could not see one now.

  One of the thorn-covered limbs had skewered Clarissa’s slim abdomen; her body was arched so he could see the pale appendage protruding through her back and stabbing deep into the ground beneath. Blood, the color of midnight in the pulsing luminescence, poured from the wound and flecked the woman’s mouth. Her hands gripped the leg that transfixed her, and she pushed at it as she continued to scream.

  Unable to look away, Banlor watched with fascination as the blood that flowed over the chitinous flesh of the creature’s leg disappeared, as if it had been soaked up by a sponge. The black splashes of Clarissa’s lifeblood that had spotted its flesh were only momentary blemishes upon the surface as they, too, were drawn away in the same hungry fashion. Why does it have a mouth? He wondered in horror. The pale white shell seemed to bloat as it took in her bodily fluid and thin tentacle arms rummaged the ground beneath her in search of any precious liquid that had fallen. One twisting rope of flesh flopped and wriggled in the pool that was forming below her like a delighted child at play—A delighted demon child.

  Dammer brought his sword around with a shout and cut through the limb that transfixed Clarissa. “Die, demon spawn!” he crowed. Holding the sword defensively, he crouched and seized Clarissa by one arm and was set to drag her away from the creature, toward the light. The limb that had been severed remained in the ground, and Clarissa gave a shriek as her body slipped free of the thorn-covered stake. Blood that had flowed gently before now poured freely from her, making a black river on the ground behind her.