Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  Darien remembered a time when he was a boy, when his father had come back from the front and had stopped for a while in Amberlie to visit his sons before heading home up the mountain. Darien remembered that visit well. His father had looked particularly haggard, and there had been a haunted look in his eyes. He had spoken of a battle, and of his grim duty afterward. When his father had finally left, Darien remembered crying. His father had always been his hero. Darien had always thought there was nothing that gently confident man couldn’t handle with his usual, carefree tenacity. But his father had changed after that day. The haunted look had never left his eyes after that. It was as if he had taken a deep wound that all of his strength could never quite heal. Gerald Lauchlin had never completely recovered from that day.

  Darien forced his feet to keep moving ahead, onward, toward the canyon. He tried not to think about what awaited him there. But at least he knew that he didn’t have to worry about his own eyes changing after today, shadowing, taking on the same haunted and battle-weary expression of his father.

  He knew that they already had.

  He could see it in the face of every man that had the courage to meet his gaze. Even Craig and Royce, even Proctor. Even the young man following him now.

  At last, they reached the place where the dry streambed emptied into the cool wash of water that ran down into the mouth of the pass. There Darien stopped, pausing to stare out across the carnage of the battlefield with growing dismay.

  “Mother of the gods,” Kyel whispered beside him.

  Darien could only silently agree. He swept his gaze across the canyon floor, taking in the shocking sight of thousands of wasted human lives, literally piles of men fallen over each other, still limbs bent over fallen comrades, fingers limp and unmoving. Thin streams of blood flowed out from the bottom of those heaps of carcasses, running across the black soil in red rivers to mix with the blood of the Enemy.

  He raised his right hand, staring down in contempt at the coldly glinting chain on his wrist. The piles of corpses were his fault. If he had not been Bound by his Oath, none of this would have happened. The fire he had created could have burned hot more easily than cold. He could have immolated the Enemy ranks with a thought, melding flesh together with bone and armor in a holocaust of will. That was what Orien Oathbreaker had done; his one supreme act had driven the forces of the Enemy back into the Black Lands for over a hundred years. But Orien had also died a traitor’s death, kneeling in shame to accept his punishment. Darien had always wondered why the man had surrendered himself so easily.

  Now he understood: an Unbound mage was an abomination. That despised chain on his wrist was the only thing keeping him in check, saving him from himself. Death of the flesh was inevitable, a predestined fate meted out at the birth of every life. What Darien feared most was death of the heart. Sometimes, when he writhed in the throes of the nightmares that endlessly plagued his sleep, he thought he could feel the corruption already starting, an outgrowth of the vast amount of power he had been forced to take in. The temptation to strip off that chain was growing harder to deny.

  Especially now.

  The sounds of the injured and dying accosted his ears. He forced himself to start forward, eyes scanning through the carnage for signs of movement, any trace of life. He quickly found an unconscious man with a gaping wound in his chest. Bending over him, Darien placed his hand over the soldier’s wound and closed his eyes. His head throbbed as he forced himself to grope through fatigue that was already almost overwhelming. When Darien stood, he left behind a man slumbering in peaceful sleep, oblivious to the fact that he had been scant moments from death.

  Darien moved through piles of littered corpses, working his way slowly along the canyon wall as Kyel followed, trailing behind with his bow. The young man’s expression was a mixture of horror, awe, and outright pity. Darien found himself consciously avoiding looking at Kyel’s face. He knew the pity was for himself, and he couldn’t stand it. Shoulders shaking, he pushed himself up from the body of a man who his failing strength hadn’t been able to save.

  “Stop,” Kyel begged. “You’re exhausted. You need rest.”

  Darien shook his head, kneeling down beside a man who lay groaning in agony, clutching his own dismembered arm as a steady pulse of blood pumped out of the stump above his elbow. There was nothing Darien could do about the arm. He willed the man into unconsciousness, his fingers gently loosening the soldier’s grip on the gruesome appendage and casting it aside. He had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain in his head as he staunched the flow of blood coming out of the stump, forcing the flesh to fold and knit together over the white fragments of bone.

  As he stood back up a wave of dizziness made him stagger. He brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes as he groped for balance. Kyel’s hand caught his arm to steady him, an expression of worried concern clouding his face.

  “Look,” Kyel said, his voice no longer pleading. “You can’t keep this up. You can hardly stand on your feet.”

  Darien shrugged away from the man. Behind him he could hear Kyel muttering something under his breath, but he didn’t care. He stumbled forward over torn limbs and shattered bodies, picking his way toward a motion on his left.

  But as he knelt down beside the dying soldier, he realized that he had made a mistake. He was staring down at the black helm of an Enemy swordsman. Darien started to push himself up, using his hand to wrench his weight off the ground.

  As he did, a hand snaked out and caught his arm, holding him down with an ironclad grip. He heard a malicious voice rattle in their vile tongue:

  “We thought you dead, Battlemage. She’ll be coming for you.”

  Darien ripped his arm away, staggering backward.

  He could hear the man choking as he died. At least, it sounded at first like choking. Darien’s breath clenched in his throat when he realized that the soldier’s deathrattle was actually gurgling laughter. He could only stare in shock as the last breath wheezed from the gaping hole in the warrior’s chest. After that, the man moved no more.

  But that ominous, gurgling laughter echoed on in Darien’s mind, along with the whispered promise, She’ll be coming for you. He had no idea who she was, but the word sent a lance of dread stabbing through his heart. He thought of the strange tides of the magic field, of the way the flows swirled and ebbed in ways that were completely different from the normal, smooth lines of the field in this place. He thought of the map on the wall of Proctor’s quarters, of his finger tapping the arrow that pointed off the chart toward the upper-right. The letters beneath the arrow that spelled the words, To Bryn Calazar.

  He thought of the Gateway. What manner of dark terrors had his brother unleashed? Closing his eyes, Darien drew in a trembling breath. There was only one kind of terror he could think of that went by the feminine pronoun ‘she’. The mere thought was reprehensible. Only, there was no other possible explanation. Aidan had summoned the powers of the Netherworld to wield a deathblow to Aerysius. It made a terrifying kind of sense that his act had also liberated the Eight Minions of Xerys. And if either Myria Anassis or Arden Hannah were bending the lines of the magic field around Bryn Calazar, he knew that his life might very well be in grave danger. The Eight had no chains on their wrists to Bind them, no Oath sworn to uphold. Only a dark compact with the Lord of the Six Hells. And if one of them was now aware of his presence, then the dead swordsman was probably right.

  She would be coming for him.

  But there was nothing he could do about it. Darien turned his back on the still corpse and, stepping over the body of a decapitated bowman, looked for someone else, anyone else, whose life needed saving. He staggered forward, dropping down beside another man and forcing a flood of healing energy into his shattered frame. Then he went on to another, and another, until his head throbbed with the beat of every pulse and his vision blurred until he couldn’t see. Kyel Archer stumbled along beside him, holding him up and begging for him to stop and rest. But h
is pleas fell on deaf ears. Darien forced himself to keep moving, keep healing, working across the canyon through jumbled piles of savaged bodies until he finally collapsed across the broken corpse of a dead Greystone soldier, overcome by sheer exhaustion.

  That was how Devlin Craig found him.

  Swearing an oath, the captain threw himself off his mount and trampled over the corpses of fallen comrades until he reached the young bowman who had flagged him down. Dropping to his side, Craig glared his anger at him as he reached out and rolled the unconscious body of his friend off the legs of a grisly cadaver. Craig pressed his ear against Darien’s chest. Satisfied that his heart was still beating, he lashed out in anger at the boy.

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  The young bowman opened his mouth, shaking his head. “I tried....”

  Craig growled, heaving Darien’s weight into his arms. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. He knew himself how impossible it was to keep Darien Lauchlin from any purpose once his mind was set on it. He was probably the most stubborn, reckless man Craig knew. He was also the best friend Craig had ever had. And, vulnerable as he was, he would make a very enticing target.

  He left the boy there to fend for himself and lifted Darien onto his horse, swinging up behind him. Kicking the stallion forward, he headed back up the pass toward Greystone Keep.

  He was mad. Mad at Proctor, for underestimating the strength of the Enemy. Mad at Darien, for insisting on holding to an Oath that was going to get him killed and yet not having the good sense to stay out of harm’s way. Mad at himself, for ever riding away from his side. Craig had known better than to leave that headstrong man alone on a battlefield. They had fought together before too many times. He had a vast amount of respect for Darien’s talent with the sword. The man’s downfall was that he didn’t know his own limits or, if he did, then he simply refused to acknowledge them most of the time.

  Sutton Royce was furious.

  “What were you thinking, leaving him alone?”

  Craig just hung his head. “I suppose I wasn’t.”

  “You’re damned right, you weren’t!” Royce paced away, slapping a pair of black leather gloves against the palm of his hand with a shocking crack. He took a deep breath, striving for composure.

  “Tell me again about the boy.” It was the first time Proctor had spoken since the conversation began.

  Craig did as he asked, describing how Darien had left his position and risked his life to save one green bowman who had come in with a pack of convicts. “His name is Kyel Archer. I don’t know much about him, other than he picked up the bow incredibly quick. Darien asked me before the battle to position him away from the fight.”

  “Has he returned yet?”

  “No,” Craig shook his head. The last he’d seen of Archer, he’d been standing in a heap of stiffening corpses looking completely petrified.

  “Send a rider down to fetch him.”

  As he strode out of the room to comply, Craig chanced a glance at the pallet where Darien lay sleeping. There had been no marks on his body; Craig had thoroughly checked him over for wounds. But other than the rise and fall of his chest, the man hadn’t stirred in hours. Craig didn’t know the capabilities of an Eighth Tier Sentinel. But he did know that what he had seen that morning in the canyon went beyond any display of magic he had ever witnessed in his life. Craig would not have even thought that firestorm possible, made by only one man.

  He quickly relayed Proctor’s order to a sentry then returned to the command chamber. When he came back into the room, he found Proctor and Royce bending over one of the maps on the table.

  “These same tactics aren’t going to work for us again,” Royce was saying. “The Enemy wasn’t expecting a Sentinel, and even when they found out what they were up against, they didn’t know for sure whether or not he was Bound. But next time they’ll know for certain. They’ll see right through Darien’s illusions.”

  Proctor nodded thoughtfully. His face was looking more haggard than usual, but Craig couldn’t blame him. It had been a very long day for them all.

  “I must speak with this Archer,” Proctor said slowly. “If I’m right, then he is the key.” His eyes looked suddenly hardened, as if he had all along been battling an internal struggle that had finally, brutally, been resolved. It must have been a tough one, Craig thought. Proctor’s face had gone almost white.

  “What do you mean?” Royce probed him, frowning.

  Proctor looked up to meet his gaze, but he hesitated before speaking. “I can think of only one reason for Darien’s interest in this Kyel Archer. The boy must have the potential. It is the sole explanation that fits.”

  Craig’s mouth fell open. Of course. Proctor had to be right.

  The commander went on in a voice devoid of emotion, “Darien will not survive another battle. He’s too impotent with those chains on his wrists, and he’s too damn obstinate to realize it. Have no doubt— we will lose him. Which leaves us with only one question that we must answer for ourselves: is there any way we can somehow turn this situation to our advantage?

  “This is the way I see it.” His eyes shifted to Craig, his stare narrowing. “If we are going to lose one mage because he refuses to forsake his Oath, then the gods may have just delivered us another not so Bound. Perhaps we should even take measures to expedite the opportunity.”

  Craig stared at him a long, silent moment. Then he turned on heel and left the room, his vision reddened by anger. He had known Garret Proctor nearly all his adult life. Craig had never had a problem with Proctor’s sometimes unconscienced strategies—when they were directed against the Enemy. He just had never thought those same cold tactics would ever be employed against a friend.

  Garret Proctor still had all of his loyalties; he owed him that much. But the Warden of Greystone Keep had just lost every last shard of Devlin Craig’s respect.

  Kyel saw two horses coming toward him at a gallop down a narrow trail across a steep rock embankment. There was only one rider on a brown horse, who was holding the reins of a chestnut mare that ran beside him. Kyel expected the man to ride right by, and was surprised when both horses drew up, the helmed soldier dropping down to the ground next to him. Lifting the grate of his visor, the man looked at Kyel sidelong, passing his eyes over him as if confused about something.

  “Kyel Archer?” The words carried a heavy undercurrent of doubt.

  Kyel nodded, wondering how the man could have possibly known his name. But then it dawned on him. Of course. Lauchlin. The mage seemed to be taking no chances with the life of his new acolyte. If that’s truly what he was; Kyel had never been given the opportunity to turn him down.

  “I have orders to fetch you back to the keep,” the soldier informed him, eyes still skeptical. “The Force Commander wishes a word with you. Don’t ask me why.”

  Kyel’s brow furrowed. Proctor? That was passing strange. A cold prickle of doubt itched the skin of his back. He climbed up on the spare horse as the soldier threw him the reins. He hung his bow over his shoulder and followed the man up the narrow trail.

  He was beyond grateful for the ride. Marching down the mountain, he hadn’t realized how long the trek was, or how steep. He had spent most of the evening struggling along, not really knowing where he was going, just following the footprints he found imprinted in the powdery black dirt. He didn’t like the sound of the summons, but at least it had provided him with a ride. The backs of his calves were aching.

  Kyel passed the reins back to the soldier as they reached the steps of the keep. He didn’t know where they kept the horses. He hadn’t seen a stable. But, then, he also hadn’t seen but a small fraction of the men that had been gathered in the pass that morning. Their numbers had come as a shock, albeit a good one. Kyel suspected that there were camps spread out throughout the Pass of Lor-Gamorth. At least, there had been; he wondered just how many could possibly be left, now. The piles of corpses he had wandered through following Darien on his grisly undertaking made Kyel f
ear that the strength of the Greystone forces had been devastated.

  Entering the keep, Kyel wasn’t sure at first where to go. The soldier had said it was Commander Proctor who had summoned him, but was he supposed to just walk right up the stairs? To his knowledge, the room at the top of the tower was almost sacrosanct. And, besides, last time he’d had an escort. He decided finally to just follow orders and head on up the tower on his own.

  As he passed by the hall door, he ran into the imposing form of Devlin Craig. His frigid blue eyes were even more hostile than Kyel remembered them being down in the canyon. The captain was staring at him with an expression of blatant distaste, his mouth curled in a snarling grimace. Craig’s eyes seemed to be raking over him, scouring in their intensity, making Kyel hasten his feet toward the stairs.

  Kyel could not quell the growing feeling of trepidation that was quickly overcoming him. Something had changed, and he didn’t like it at all. He had the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. As his feet approached the shadows of the opening to the tower room, Kyel found himself holding his breath. He didn’t know what he was going to find up there, but he didn’t think he was going to like it.

  He stepped over the threshold into the barren, circular chamber and paused. The commander’s quarters looked very much as they had the last time he’d been there, with the singular exception that the man was currently occupying them. Kyel felt the old soldier’s eyes on him, that hardened, ruthless stare that unnerved him completely.

  Kyel did the best he could to draw himself up as Proctor just stood there in silence, eyes appearing to consider him.

  Finally, he uttered, “You are to stand down from future battles. Your place is now here. Return your bow to the armory and go collect your things.”

  Kyel’s eyes drifted down to his bow, the soft golden wood he had become so comfortable with. Since the night he had walked through the door of the fortress, that bow had never left his side. He didn’t want to give it back. And he did not want to leave his fellows. He did not want to spend his days as the constant companion of the intimidating old warrior that stood glaring at him.