Beneath his boots, the ancient stone-carved lines began to glow with a silvery light that ran like liquid metal down the length of the ray to the Circle’s focal point. Unnoticed, the first rays of the sun broke above the white rolling plains in the east.
His back to the sunrise, Garret Proctor contemplated the advancing army before him. He had worn their numbers down considerably. But it seemed that it had hardly made a difference, like ladling a cupful of water from the ocean and spilling it in the sand. He almost wondered why they had even bothered. So many dead. All for the trust he had placed in one man. One man who he still had no guarantee would come through for them in the end.
He sat his horse and waited. His new captain, a man by the name of Wade Tarpen, was at his side. Tarpen had Craig’s horse and Craig’s gear, but none of the other man’s spirit. Proctor grimaced as he looked to the east, toward the sunrise, despising the wait.
Today, he knew, he was going to die. He doubted that Lauchlin had even known it at the time, but the mage had sentenced them all to death with a few simple words uttered at the base of the tower at Greystone Keep. Draw the majority of their strength into the eye, and I’ll see to it that you get your wish. It had seemed like such an innocuous statement. Proctor wondered if the mage had realized at the time the hone of the blade he’d let fall that day. Because there could only be one purpose Orien’s Circle could be put to on such a day as this. And, in order for both Enemy hosts to be drawn deeply enough into the eye of the vortex for that purpose to succeed, it would require bait. Live bait.
He had missed the break of dawn. Before coming down from the pass, it had been over fifteen years since his face had last gazed upon the rising sun. Garret Proctor savored the warmth of the sunrise, knowing there would never be another. Death was always cold, just as the grave was always dark and stale. He knew; he had buried enough friends in his lifetime to be certain.
Godfrey Faukravar was the rightful King of Chamsbrey, and ever had the kings of Auberdale accompanied their armies into battle. It was the way it had always been done, down through the years and through the dynasties. The Black Prince, however, had absolutely no intention of doing so; war was an unseemly and dangerous affair. His crown had already been knocked off his head once, and he was not fool enough to risk it again. Better to let men trained to a task accomplish it. He would send his soldiers off with the grace of a good speech, and then gracefully retire forthwith to his tent.
Clutching his black enameled helm against his breast, Faukravar directed his horse to the forefront of the lines. The ignorant fool Wellingford was already there, issuing orders to his colonels. It grated, seeing the boy dressed in the noble uniform of a commissioned officer of the Realm. Whenever he looked upon the boy-general, Faukravar felt his face flush red. Undoubtedly, Lauchlin had selected him for no better purpose than to vex. The youth certainly had no other qualities to speak of.
Drawing up at Wellingford’s side, Faukravar cast his gaze out upon the ranks. He had heard tales of the speech Lauchlin had delivered to these same men the Day the Sun Rose Twice, on the Field of Tol-Ranier. By all accounts, it had been quite a performance. He doubted these men would find the man so inspiring after today’s grim work was done. He sincerely doubted that any of the inspired but ignorant fools before him would be fortunate enough to be returning home with him.
Darien heard someone approaching up the steps. It could have been Wellingford, but he knew that it wasn’t. It might have been any number of people, but he already had a very good idea who to be expecting. He recognized the sound of her footsteps even before she came into view. It was a noise engrained on his mind; the sound of her soft, slippered feet moved often through his dreams.
He turned to face her as Arden Hannah came into view, picking her way delicately over the last treacherous step to emerge at the glowing summit of the crag. Her creatures must have sensed the ripples in the field he had created by awakening the Circle. Dark forms swept out from behind her, gliding past her to line the edge of the rim, six in all. Necrators. He had begun to feel the effects of their approach minutes ago. He had known they were drawing nearer when the song of the magic field had started to fade slowly in his head. It was almost gone, now. Almost, but not quite. He could still feel the pulse of it dimly, like the tremulous echo of a dying heartbeat.
He wasn’t there yet. There must something further he needed to do.
Arden stood regarding him with sparkling eyes, resplendent in an intriguing mixture of blue silks and silver chain mail. Slowly, a smile bloomed on her sensuous lips. It was a smile of triumph, and its radiance swept upward to gleam in her doe-like eyes.
Darien heard a low growl. His eyes were drawn behind her, to the beast that glared at him with glowing green eyes. The thanacryst was black and large, like an enormous wolfhound with thickly mattered fur. It had a sinister, even rabid look. Its mouth was open and panting, a wide and cavernous hole that drooled a thick fluid to the dark stone beneath its paws. Revolted, Darien felt an instinctual impulse to draw away from it.
“You’re so full of surprises, my dear.”
Her voice was like glistening silver droplets of moonlight. She took a step toward him, placing a delicate slippered foot inside the margin of the glowing Circle. Tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowed as she considered him. “Oh, my, but you’ve changed. When we first met, you were just a little sweetling. My fire must have scorched your soul.” Gazing knowingly into his eyes, she said in a voice full of conviction, “Look at you; you’re positively glorious.”
Darien shuddered, the silken refrains of her voice eliciting memories he had struggled to forget.
Behind her, the thanacryst uttered a low, guttural growl of yearning. Its nose quivered as it sensed the close proximity of its prey. Arden placed a hand on its head, soothing it with the liquid texture of her voice, “Easy, my pet. Not yet.”
Turning back to Darien, she brought a hand up. Her fingertips moved softly over the pale flesh of her neck. “Come to me,” she commanded in a throaty whisper. “There is nothing in the world so erotic as two mages united, naked bodies and unrestrained power intertwined. I can give you a little taste of what it would be like, if you were mine.”
Standing there on the margin of the Circle, offering herself up to him like a sacrifice, her seductive energies took hold of him with an influence that was overpowering. This time, Darien allowed it. He did nothing to resist the electric tension that shuddered down his nerves. It was almost like the longing ache he felt for Naia, though shockingly more feral. It filled him with a desperate urgency he had no inclination to ignore. His eyes took in the shape of her figure, the sleek curves of the chain mail draped over her hips. He found the sight of her as enticing as it was repulsive. But, strangely, the dichotomy just added to her attraction.
He needed to take her. And he had to enjoy every hungry second of it.
Moving forward, he kept his gaze fixed on Arden’s as he reached behind her head and grasped the platinum locks of her hair, raking her head back. Consumed with untamed rage, he scoured his lips over the silken crease of her neck, the intensity of his assault driving a gasp from her parted lips. Pulling back, he held her eyes as he reached his hand up and released his cloak. Drawing it from his shoulders, he spread it out over the glowing lines of the Circle’s rays with the Star facing downward, pressed against its larger counterpart.
He pulled his shirt off over his head and drew her toward him, dragging her downward with him to the ground. He felt her power flowing over him, through him, the electric intensity of her gift searing like wildfire through his mind.
Conscience forsaken, Darien gave her everything she asked for, everything he had, everything he was. Most important, he gave Arden exactly what she wanted from him most.
There, on the flattened summit of the twisted crag where Orien Oathbreaker had yielded up his life, Darien surrendered to Arden Hannah all that remained of his tortured soul.
His raised fist a silhouette agains
t the red disk of the rising sun, Garret Proctor himself bellowed the command to send his men forward to their deaths. He kicked his boots into the flanks of his own horse, drawing the cold length of steel he always wore at his side but had never wielded in battle since Meridan. The hilt felt good in his gloved hand, the balance of the sword keen. He had never favored a fight from horseback, but a man had to eat from the plate the gods served him, even if the fare was cold and bitter.
With a grim smile on his face, Garret Proctor swept his blade downward, sheering through the end of an Enemy lance. Pressing his mount forward with his legs, he raised his shield and warded off the attack of a mace as he wheeled his horse around, charging back out of the thick of the battle. Two dark horsemen broke away from the skirmish, bearing down on him. With a growl, Proctor swung his horse back around to engage.
Darien rolled off of her to lie gasping on his back, staring upward into the clear blue sky. He felt Arden’s hand caress his chest, heard the silken texture of her voice as she whispered in his ear, “I think I’ll make you my pet. Yes. For a little while, at least.”
Darien closed his eyes, the sound of his pulse ringing in his ears, the song of the magic field a sudden, rapturous symphony in his head. Reaching up, he took her hand in his.
The raging current he sent through her took Arden completely by surprise. Twisting in agony, her mouth drew into a rictus as she screamed, blue lightnings of power clawing into her flesh. Darien watched in fascination as her pale skin glazed and then crisped, cracking to ooze boiling fluid that ran like tears down her once-perfect face.
He let the crackling energies die with the sound of her screams. Leaning over her, he smiled in satisfaction.
“The necrators....”
Startled by her voice, Darien drew back. Somehow, she was still alive. But not for long; the sound of her breath was but a gurgle in her throat.
“They have no power over you,” he reminded her.
“Because my heart is black,” she whispered softly as she died.
Darien nodded, staring down at her charred corpse. He felt no sympathy for her whatsoever, absolutely no remorse. The only thing he felt was a satisfying sense of vindication.
“So is mine, now,” he assured her.
He rose to face the ring of necrators who stood regarding him with acute disinterest. They had no reason to challenge him; if they looked deeply into his heart, the only thing they would find was an ally.
Proctor raised his sword to block the blade that was cleaving down at him as his stallion reared and attacked the other horse with its hooves and teeth. He clung to his shield, warding off blow after blow from one soldier as the other worked furiously to get his blade inside his guard. He parried the thrusts, then changed through to an upward cut that took his opponent in the neck. The man slid from the saddle as Proctor swung his sword around to ward off a glancing slice from the opposite direction.
Urging his mount forward with his knees, he pressed his opponent’s horse back as he took control of the fight, advancing on the Enemy soldier with a barrage of blows that kept the man on the defensive. Catching the dark blade on the edge of his shield, Proctor wrenched the hilt out of his opponent’s hands and thrust forward with all of his strength, feeling the plate give way under the force of his steel.
He spun his horse away, angling the destrier back toward the charging horde.
Darien gazed down from the rim of the summit, his boots scant inches from the edge. He was no longer troubled by the reeling vertigo he had experienced earlier; many things he had been afraid of before had ceased to be a problem, now. Arden’s thanacryst sat on its haunches at his side, nose quivering as it scented the wind, mouth drooling a fetid slaver that slicked its dark fur and dripped, viscous, to the stone. The necrators at his back remained silently at their stations; he paid them no mind. They would linger there as long as he ignored them, until he deigned to send them away. He was their master, now.
Darien gazed down, considering the view below with calm indifference. To the north he could see the wedge of the first host, dispersed now as mounted horsemen beset themselves on what was left of Proctor’s men. To the west, he could see the van of the second host emerging from behind the ridge. There was still no trace of Emmery’s support, but now he doubted he would even need it. Orien’s Circle glowed behind him, pulsing to the cadence of the magic field.
He waited, watching as below him men of Proctor’s command were swept under the breaking tide of black water. He waited, and did nothing.
Reaching down, he ran his fingers through the coarse fur of the thanacryst’s head. The beast had been anxious, ever since he had dumped its mistress’s corpse off the edge of the cliff. He soothed it with quiet, whispered words, hand ruffling the slathered fur of its neck.
Garret Proctor felt the arrow take him in the chest, piercing through his boiled leather armor even as his sword smashed through the visor of an Enemy pikeman. Gritting his teeth, he brought his blade up again. Hacking his way out of a thicket of shields and swords, he sent his mount at a galloping retreat across the snow-laced plains. Ahead, he could see the tall spire of Orien’s Finger like an ancient and decrepit pillar thrusting upward into the sky. All he had to do was reach the pillar’s base. After that, his final duty would be consummated.
The thanacryst growled. He thought, perhaps, it might be hungry. Only, he had nothing for it to feed on but himself. Patting its head, Darien took one last look down at the flagging battle below then turned away from the edge. Under the silent watch of the necrators, he strode calmly to the center of the Circle, taking his place at the focal point of the glimmering lines of the Star.
It was time.
Darien closed his eyes, shrouding his mind in concentration as he felt the Circle of Convergence through his feet. The lines of power pulsed once, harkening to his call. Gathering the energies of the focus, Darien summoned the strength of the magic field, offering himself as a conduit for the vast intensity of the vortex. The battle below forgotten, he opened up his mind. The surge of power flooded into him, filling him, consuming him utterly.
The lines of Orien’s Circle glowed, glimmering, increasing to a white brilliance unequalled even by the sun. A breeze stirred, calm, playing with the strands of his hair. The breeze swelled, became a vibrant gust of air that moved along the perimeter of the Circle, slowly rotating. Almost stately, the spinning column of air grew, groping upward into the sky as the new-found morning began to darken.
The thanacryst threw its head back and howled.
The necrators looked silently on, their dark forms unaffected by the first strains of the Grand Resonance forming around them, groping upward to choke the sky.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grand Resonance
GARRET PROCTOR FOUGHT the reins of his horse, wincing as his arm raked across the fletching of the arrow protruding from the right side of his chest. Looking down, he saw that the entire front of his leather armor was stained with a dark burgundy sheen. The strain of fighting had enlarged the wound, preventing the shaft itself from staunching it. And the battle-rage that had quickened his heart had only served to pump the blood out faster. He had seen many such wounds before, and knew with certainty that it was mortal.
Grasping the arrow by the fletching, he snapped off the protruding end of the shaft and flung it away. The pain was fierce, almost incapacitating. His vision swam, and for a minute the pillar of rock before him wavered and grew dim. Looking down, he could see his lifeblood now coming in thin spurts timed to the rhythm of his heartbeat. It wouldn’t be much longer, now.
Ahead of him, Orien’s Finger reared sharply overhead, jutting upward into the sky. As his horse took the hill at the base of the crag, Proctor drew back on the reins and wheeled his mount around. Behind him, what was left of the men under his command were embroiled in a desperate race. There were so few left; two more fell from their horses even as he watched. The writhing mass of both Enemy armies flooded behind them, churning like an
ocean at the place where two swift currents meet.
The hurling onslaught slowed to a halt perhaps a hundred paces away. His back to the rock face of Orien’s Finger, Proctor brandished his sword over his head as the twenty or so men that were left formed up at his side. Before them, the front ranks of the Enemy were like a raging blackwater, piercing the air with a resonating warcry.
The cry was taken up like a wave through the ranks, sweeping out from the crag like a deafening riptide. The clamor rose even further as the second host joined in, over fifty thousand fresh voices adding their thunder to the din.
And then every voice suddenly silenced in unison as all eyes were drawn upward to the sky.
All across the plains from horizon to horizon, the dawn went abruptly, alarmingly gray. Looking to the east, Proctor saw a shadow slip across the face of the sun, rendering its disk pale and colorless, like a face taken with the pallor of death. The new white sun glowed like an ill omen in the sky, its veiled face emitting little warmth and little light. The day turned rapidly, sinisterly cold. The air seemed to almost congeal in its place, becoming chokingly still.
A dreadful calm descended on the plains, silent and impassively gray. Even the dark ranks of the Enemy were stricken motionless, like a frozen black sea. His own men glanced around fearfully, faces as pale as the dim white sun overhead.
Garret Proctor did not need to look up; he knew what was coming. Instead he closed his eyes, fondly remembering the few friends he had known in his life, and praying that the gods would forgive him his sins.
The sky grew dark as the sun paled to a sickened, ghostly hue. Staring up at it, Malcolm Wellingford knew that his face only echoed its ghastly shade. The summit of Orien’s Finger could be seen looming high above the ridge behind them, encased in a circulating mass of black clouds that expanded even as it rotated, groping outward across the sky.
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