Darkmage

by M. L. Spencer

  “You’ll have to forgive my shock, Master Lauchlin,” he said candidly. “You see, I’ve had word from the Queen of Emmery that Aerysius has been completely destroyed. Begging your pardon but, by all reports, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Darien nodded thoughtfully, thinking that while such news might give the man pause, it still didn’t explain Pratson’s anxiety or the outright fear on the faces of so many of Wolden’s citizens. There was something else going on here, but the man was being slow to let on about it.

  “The report is accurate,” Darien allowed, watching the mayor’s reaction as he spoke. “To my knowledge, I was the only one who survived.”

  Pratson looked skeptical, though he was trying not to show it. Outwardly, his expression was one of polite attention. Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes gave away his doubts.

  The priestess shifted next to him in her seat, her fingers stroking the back of his hand under the table in warning. Glancing up, Darien saw that another man had moved silently into the room behind him. He had come in so quietly that Darien hadn’t even noticed his presence. Which was alarming; his ear was trained to pick up on such noises. Either he was slipping in his vigilance, or this newcomer was not an ordinary guard.

  Something about the man reminded him of the blademaster he had studied under in his youth. Nigel Swain had graduated from the Arms Guild in Auberdale and had been employed by his mother to hone the talents of the City Guard. What his mother hadn’t known was that he was also working with her own son on the side; she would have never countenanced such instruction. The tall man behind him had much the look of Swain. It was not a physical resemblance, more in the way the man held himself and the air of casual confidence he projected. Unless Darien missed his guess, the man was a blademaster.

  He found himself liking this situation less and less. Pratson was openly studying him now, gauging his reaction. Darien could no longer pretend to ignore the insult of the guards. Striving to keep his voice as even as possible, he said to the mayor, “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about.”

  Pratson slowly shook his head. “First, you tell me what brings you to Wolden.”

  “As you wish,” Darien allowed softly. Folding his hands on the table, he began, “I bear ill tidings from Greystone Keep.” As the man listened blandly, Darien described the size of the Enemy host waiting on the other side of the pass. As he spoke, he had the growing feeling that not one word of his account was being taken seriously. Pratson just sat there, leaning back in his chair and looking almost bored. When he was finished, the mayor reached a hand up and rubbed his temple.

  “Do you have a shred of proof that this army does, in fact, exist?”

  The statement sent Naia bolt upright in her seat, hands gripping the edge of the table as she hissed in disbelief, “You dare question the word of a Sentinel?”

  Pratson shrugged almost casually. “I fear I’m left with little choice.” Turning to Darien, he told him bluntly, “Your very presence here is a mystery to me; I find almost everything about you troubling. For one, I’ve always heard that mages were forbidden to bear weapons, and yet you come to me carrying steel at your back. What do you think, Broden? Is that sword just the fancy decoration it looks?”

  “No,” the tall guardsman was slowly shaking his head. “He’s had Guild training.”

  Darien’s eyes narrowed as he turned to stare at the guard behind him. The man had not been with the other guardsmen who had escorted them to the mayor’s house. In fact, Darien hadn’t seen him at all, not until he had so silently entered the room.

  “Broden’s good,” the mayor said with a wry grin. “Give him a few more minutes, and he could probably name the blademaster you studied under.”

  Darien shrugged. It was scarcely a secret, anymore. “Nigel Swain was Captain of the City Guard during my acolacy.”

  Broden nodded warily, sucking in a cheek. “I remember Swain,” he said, looking at Pratson. “He left the Guild for Aerysius thirteen years ago, just as he says. You know him, too. He’s Captain of the Queen’s Guard, now.”

  But the mayor still didn’t appear convinced. Slowly, he said, “And then there’s also the mystery of your name.”

  His words caught Darien by surprise. “What of it?”

  “Everyone knows that Emelda Lauchlin was Prime Warden. Are you claiming to be a relation?”

  “I am her son.”

  Pratson’s eyes ticked toward Broden. Instantly, the man was in motion. Darien rose halfway out of his seat, hand reaching for the hilt of his own blade. But he was caught by surprise, his reaction too slow. The cutting edge of Broden’s sword was already frozen next to him in the air. Slowly, Darien retracted his hand back away from the hilt, keeping his eyes fixed on Broden’s. Beside him, Naia was on her feet, glaring at Pratson in outrage.

  The mayor explained calmly, “In her note to me, Queen Romana mentioned that the downfall of Aerysius was brought about through the betrayal of the Prime Warden’s own son.”

  Darien flinched in shock. That explained everything; they had mistaken him for Aidan. He felt a sickening wrench in his stomach just at the thought of it. No wonder the people had stared at him that way on the street.

  Beside him, the priestess was drawing herself up, addressing Pratson in a near-whisper of threat, “In most provinces, it is considered a capital offense to detain a Master against his will.”

  But the mayor simply dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. He actually smiled confidently as he replied, “The town of Wolden is well within the protective margins of Orien’s Vortex. A black cloak means nothing here.”

  Naia looked down, her long veil brushing the surface of the table. Darien watched her from the corner of his eye, his gaze still locked on Broden. Slowly, the priestess raised her head, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “What if we can offer the proof you require?”

  Pratson shrugged. “Then, by all means, please do so.”

  Darien couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. He listened to her as he stared into Broden’s eyes, watching for any subtle change. Usually, where the eyes moved, the blade followed.

  Naia explained in a patient, almost lecturing tone, “Prime Warden Emelda had two sons. It was Darien’s brother Aidan who sacrificed his Oath of Harmony in order to bring about the destruction of his home. As you can imagine, if Darien had committed such an act, he would no longer bear the chains of the Oath upon his wrists.”

  Pratson pursed his lips, turning to Darien with eyebrows raised expectantly. Darien sighed, feeling disgusted. It always came back to his Oath. Always. Glaring at Broden as if daring him to strike, he raised both hands and shook back his sleeves, the material falling away to expose the hated markings there. Darien shuddered as he looked at those twin chains; he found the very sight of them repulsive. He had to force himself to keep his arms raised as Pratson sidled out from behind the table, walking around Naia to take his right arm into his hand. The mayor’s palm was even clammier than before. Darien closed his eyes in loathing as the man raised his wrist up almost under his nose, inspecting the emblem closely.

  He wanted to strangle Naia.

  Gently, the mayor lowered his arm, withdrawing his hand. As he did, Darien heard the sound of the guard’s blade sliding back home into its scabbard.

  “You have my most humble apologies,” Pratson told him, drawing away. “And my most sincere condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Darien murmured, falling heavily back into his seat. The priestess regained her own chair beside him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. When he looked over at her, he saw that Naia’s dark eyes were full of regret.

  Pratson remained standing, bringing a hand up to rub his brow wearily. “One week, did you say?”

  Darien nodded, feeling drained. “If that. Proctor has less than a thousand men under his command. It all depends on how well he can make use of tactics to slow them down.”

  The mayor looked as if he simply didn’t understand. That, or h
e just flat-out refused to believe. “Surely, Greystone Keep can hold its own in a siege far longer than you give them credit for.”

  “There will be no siege,” Darien stated with assurance. “If Proctor allows himself to be surrounded, his entire force will be destroyed.”

  But Pratson yet looked skeptical. He paced away toward the fireplace, raking a hand through his hair. With his back to Darien, he asked him, “And if this Enemy host is not stopped in the pass, then what makes you think our people will be safe even in Rothscard?”

  “Your people will be far safer in a fortified city with its own standing army than they ever will be in Wolden.”

  The mayor nodded, turning back with a look of bleary resignation. His face was pale and glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Shoving his hand into the pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a white kerchief which he used to dab at his forehead. “Then I suppose I ought to thank you, Master Lauchlin, for the warning. But I must admit, I’d almost rather make a stand and fight.”

  It was Naia who responded to him, leaning forward in her chair. “Your pardon, Mayor, but that would be suicide.”

  Pratson sighed, shaking his head. His eyes wandered toward the door, drawing up the wall above it. To where his priceless collection of oil paintings hung on the other side. “Well, that’s it, then. Is there anything further you require?”

  On impulse, Darien pushed his chair back and rose from his seat. “I’d ask you to leave something behind for the soldiers passing through in your wake.”

  Pratson frowned at him. “What do you have in mind?”

  Darien shrugged. “Anything you can think of that might be of use to a retreating army. Food. Remounts. Medicinals. Weapons, if you have any to spare. Arrows, especially, would be critical. An army on the run doesn’t have time to stop and retrieve spent shafts.”

  The mayor’s eyes traveled upward in thought. “Greystone archers have always favored the longbow, have they not?”

  Darien nodded.

  Pratson shook his head, raising his hands helplessly. “Out here on the plains, we’ve little use for them. I’m afraid I am simply not equipped to supply an army with arrows for bows we don’t use.”

  But Darien was not about to let the man off that easily. “What sort of bows do you have?”

  “The local nomads use hornbows to defend their grazing territories. I’ve supplied my own guardsmen with them.”

  Hornbows. As the mayor had suggested, arrows meant for the hornbow would be too short to work with the longbow. And yet...he had seen one of these hornbows on a guard at the gate. It was much smaller than the longbow, yet had the look of an elegantly effective weapon. Such a bow could be used from horseback. Longbows could not, at least not without enormous difficulty. The only chance of success Proctor had would be to strike and fall back, as fast as he could, as often as he could. If his bowmen were mounted and supplied with hornbows, their chances would be greatly improved.

  Darien put his hand on Pratson’s arm as he pressed him, “How many bows might you be able to lay your hands on in the span of a week?”

  “While trying to organize an evacuation?” the mayor asked incredulously. “You ask too much.”

  “What I’m asking for is the means of defending your homeland,” Darien reminded him sternly. “If you can provide the Greystone archers with hornbows and remounts, they could make use of them to harry the Enemy and slow their advance.”

  Pratson was looking at him with raised eyebrows. Shaking his head, he said, “I can try. But I make no promises.”

  “Do your best,” Darien glowered. “For every Enemy soldier that falls along the way, that’s one less to threaten the walls of Rothscard.” He released his grip on the mayor’s arm.

  Pratson scowled down at the floor, muttering, “Now I remember why I’ve never liked dealings with your kind. No good news ever comes on the wings of a black cloak. And you all seem to have the same insufferable knack of getting what you want, regardless of the price it costs others to provide it.”

  Darien reminded him curtly, “Your people exist free today because Sentinels have paid the price you’re talking about with their blood.”

  Looking up, Pratson met his eyes with a look of weary esteem. “Once again, I suppose you are correct.”

  He reached out and clasped Darien’s hand in parting. Naia rose, gathering her white skirts and dipping her head in a regally cordial farewell as she moved past Darien out the door. Kyel followed in her wake, looking a bit pale. Darien almost smiled as he watched his young acolyte leave, thinking that the meeting had been a good lesson for him.

  Then he frowned, remembering the next lesson he had planned. It was time to implement it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Follow the Field

  KYEL TURNED BACK back around in his saddle as the last sight of Wolden disappeared behind them, swallowed up by the rolling folds of the emerald prairie. The sky stretched expansively overhead, a deep azure blue with thin wisps of puffy white clouds drawn out across it. Kyel closed his eyes and let himself slouch back in the saddle, moving with the steady rhythm of his horse’s gait. It felt so good to feel the sun on his face. He tilted his head back, luxuriating in the warmth of the gentle breeze that caressed his cheeks and ruffled his hair. After living so long in the bitter darkness of the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, the return sunlight was like an invigorating rebirth.

  He paid little attention to where they were headed, happy just to relax and watch the scenery go by, the sharp peaks of the Shadowspears with their dark mantle of clouds growing smaller and more distant behind them. It wasn’t until the priestess angled her horse off the road and guided it westward, wading through the tall grasses, that he began to wonder where they might be headed. There appeared to be nothing ahead, just league upon league of open space and gentle, rolling hills. Every once in a while, the spreading branches of a small tree broke the monotony of the grass. Otherwise, the prairie was like a sprawling green ocean, stretching out before them in infinite tides to the distant horizons.

  “Where are we going?” Kyel wondered, contemplating the enormity of the view that surrounded them. It made him feel extraordinarily small and insignificant, and yet hale and fortunate at the same time.

  Ahead of him, Naia glanced back and flashed a small smile in his direction. “There is a shrine of the goddess a few leagues west of here,” she said, her pretty veil fluttering about her face.

  There was something about that veil that Kyel found disturbingly enticing. It was almost like a taunt, yielding just a hint of what secrets might be hidden beneath its sheer opacity, while stopping just shy of revealing any of its mysteries. He wondered if the woman beneath the veil knew what effect that snowy badge of chastity would have on the men around her. Somehow, Kyel felt she did. The priestess seemed to embrace her sensuality, yet at the same time rise above it.

  With effort, Kyel was able to tear his eyes away from the veil’s rippling fabric. Staring out into the vast emptiness before them, he found himself wondering, “Why would anyone want to build a shrine all the way out here?”

  The priestess slowed her mount, pulling back until she was riding abreast of him. “Death is a universal human experience, Kyel. It doesn’t happen just in towns and cities. Also, the governorship of this province strictly forbade us from building a temple in Wolden.”

  Kyel found that decisively strange. “Why?”

  “Oh, for reasons of politics,” Naia said as her mare twitched its tail into Kyel’s leg.

  “I fail to see how a temple has much to do with politics.”

  To his annoyance, Darien glanced back over his shoulder and exchanged an amused grin with the priestess. Kyel frowned, feeling like he was the butt of some joke he didn’t even understand.

  But when Darien turned his smile to him, Kyel realized there was nothing scornful about it. Rather, the expression on his face was almost fatherly as he explained, “Once you become a bit more traveled, I think you’ll find that the authority of the tem
ples is the only definitive power in the land.”

  Kyel nodded, thinking it strange that a man only scant years older than himself could make him feel so much like a child in his presence. He figured it was because Darien’s range of experiences was so vastly different from his own. Kyel had lived in the same remote township all of his life, learning what he could about the world from what he could glean from the few books that passed his way. Darien, on the other hand, had actually been to many of the places Kyel had only ever read about. More than that, a critical part of his training had been the study of the history and ways of the land and its various peoples. The Sentinel probably had more knowledge stuffed into the tip of his little finger than Kyel had ever learned in his entire life. Or ever imagined learning. It created a broad gap between the two of them, making Darien seem far older than he actually was.

  Kyel realized that he didn’t even know the man’s true age; he’d never asked him. Thinking back to the first night he’d seen Darien coming in with the Valemen back at Greystone Keep, Kyel remembered noticing how young he had seemed. Then, he would have placed him in his mid-twenties, still a tender age for a full Master. But Darien did not seem that young anymore. In the time since Kyel had first met him, Darien had grown into the cloak on his back remarkably. Even the features of his face seemed different, older. Kyel frowned, realizing that since he had known him, the Sentinel seemed to have aged. If pressed to put years to him now, Kyel would have to give him at least thirty.

  It was odd. Hardship had a way of aging a man, Kyel knew. And, the gods only knew, Darien had certainly experienced his share of trials. But Kyel thought it had to be more than that. He couldn’t help remembering back to the night Darien had tested him, when the mage had grudgingly shared his fear that the amount of power he had taken in would destroy him eventually. Kyel couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it wasn’t starting already. Darien had seemed to relax a bit after leaving the fortress, but he was still far from the quiet, gentle man Kyel remembered meeting that night in the tower.