Darien nodded. He didn’t, either; he knew better. Devlin Craig had been a disciple of Garret Proctor, just as Darien had been himself. Craig knew how to wrest opportunity from desperation.
“He knows exactly what he’s doing,” Connel went on. “The new keep’s positioned in the center of a node.”
“I know. I’m the one who told him about it.” Darien’s eyes followed the craggy slopes of the Shadowspears. Somewhere up there, lost in the choking mass of cloudcover, was the new keep, a fortress his eyes had never once looked upon. Built right over the spot where Arden Hannah had tried to burn him at the stake. Where Devlin Craig had saved his life from the flames.
He breathed a sigh. “But the node actually works to our advantage. Craig’s mages will be impotent, but we’ll still have access to the Onslaught. They won’t be expecting that.”
“If you use the Onslaught, that will void the truce you just negotiated.”
Darien looked at him. “If I use the Onslaught, they’ll have voided it already.”
The man nodded thoughtfully then started walking back toward the pavilion. Darien fell in step with him, matching his pace.
Connel said, “I wish you hadn’t surrendered our officers. We can’t afford that kind of loss.”
“We won’t have to.” Darien ducked as he parted the flap of the tent. “Order every senior officer to find an infantryman with their same height and build. Have them trade uniforms and weapons.”
A look of appreciation grew on Connel’s face. “You’re good at this.”
“That’s why I defeated your armies.”
“No.” Connel shook his head. His smile disappeared. “You defeated me because I overestimated you. I assumed that just because you were a Sentinel, that you wouldn’t be morally depraved. I was wrong. You’re willing to sink to depths that I’d never imagine.”
Darien stared at him, returning glare for glare. Then he turned and stalked out of the tent.
Darien took his time about riding back to camp. He wasn’t in a hurry. His mood was just as bleak as the horizon. He let his horse pick out its own trail, head lowered, foraging fruitlessly in the barren soil. It was late in the day when he finally rode into the outskirts of the encampment, helm pulled down to hide his face. He thought about paying a visit to Myria but reconsidered. He made for his own tent, instead.
He tossed the reins of his horse to a foot soldier and moved into the tent, tugging off his helm. He unfastened the brooch that held his cloak, letting the heavy garment fall from his body.
Azár burst through the tent’s partition, nearly startling him off his feet.
His wife’s face was red with anger. She held her hands clawed into fists, her eyes narrowed like slivered coals. He’d never seen her so enraged. The hostility on her face made him take a step back in retreat.
“There is talk that my husband intends to abandon our cause and return to the side of our adversaries! Is this true?”
Darien was surprised that word of the parley could have reached the camp ahead of him. He’d been hoping to break the news to Azár himself. What bothered him most was the distorted version of his agreement that had gotten back to her ears. It made him fear what the men under his command must think.
“It’s not true,” he answered coolly. He walked past her toward a jug of wine set out on a table. He didn’t bother with a cup. He upended the jug and let the cool liquid spill into his mouth, drinking it down in thirsty gulps.
“Then tell me, what is the truth?”
Darien set the jug back down. He lowered his gaze to the table’s surface. It wasn’t made of wood. Something like slate. He poked his fingernail into a crack, musing at the texture. Without looking at her, he explained, “I volunteered to become their hostage—Myria and myself, actually. To guarantee we’ll honor the terms of the truce I struck with their commander. It was the only way they’d agree to let us enter the pass uncontested.”
Her eyes widened. “They will kill you,” she whispered.
“No.” He shook his head. “That would violate the terms of the agreement.” He raised the jug and took another gulp of wine. Then another. The magic field wavered for just a second. He set the jug back down with a heavy clunk.
Azár moved toward him. She wore a blood-red shirt with flowing sleeves, her hair collected in a single braid. She looked just as fierce as the first day he’d met her. She reached up and took his face in her hands, gazing piercingly into his eyes.
“My people have a saying: ‘Be a thousand times more wary of your friends than of your enemies.’ This is because your friends know best how to harm you.”
To Darien, the proverb sounded wise. He couldn’t argue with the logic. “I’ll be wary,” he said to assure her.
Azár’s gaze lingered on his face. Finally, she drew back, whirling away. She snatched the jug off the table and poured herself a cup. Then she lay back on one of the sofas arranged along the tent’s perimeter, stretching out her legs.
“I am concerned for you,” she said, glancing up at him. “When do you intend to surrender to these people?”
“On the morrow.” He placed his hand around the handle of the jug but didn’t lift it. Instead, he traced his fingers along its cool, engraved surface. The copper jug commanded his attention. It was far easier to look at than his wife’s anxious face.
“So, we have only tonight, then.” Regret cooled her tone.
He nodded, still engrossed in the textured handle.
“Have you managed to find any feelings for me yet?”
His eyes shot up. She was staring at him expectantly, he saw. Waiting for him to reply. “I feel something,” he forced himself to admit. “I’m not sure how deep it goes.”
“But you do feel something?”
He nodded, not certain what his own feelings even were. Grief, sorrow, guilt … one of those, or more likely a combination. Nothing good. Certainly not what she wanted.
Azár sat up, setting the wine cup down by her side. Her eyes drilled into him, as if trying to bore a hole right through his skin. She rose to her feet and stalked toward him, her stare wandering downward, taking in all of him. She circled slowly, her fingers trailing over his shirt. Darien tensed, her touch sending electric shivers through his skin.
She came to a halt in front of him.
“My husband is a handsome man,” she said at last. She reached up and pulled at the thong that held his hair, allowing the dark strands to spill down his back.
She leaned in, studying his expression. Then she said firmly, “You will do as I say and only as I say. You will stop if I say stop.”
He nodded, understanding the need. “Aye. I will.”
“Kiss me.”
He closed his eyes and complied. He brushed his lips against hers, not quite a kiss. Then he drew back, frowning deeply.
“Lower your guard,” she whispered.
He realized that she wasn’t asking any more of him than she was willing to give of herself. Somehow, that made things easier. He brought a hand up to her face, caressing her soft skin. Then he gathered her in and kissed her hungrily.
The sunless morning came too soon.
Darien wasn’t ready for it.
He rolled out of bed, leaving Azár slumbering with her lips parted slightly, the expression on her face for once tranquil. He found his clothes and pulled them on. But then he took them right back off again. Instead, he went to his chest and rummaged around, producing the same pair of black breeches and cotton shirt he’d worn on the day he’d died. It somehow seemed fitting. He’d abandoned the Rhen and his former life wearing those clothes. It seemed appropriate that he should return in them. He donned his cloak and broke his fast with a piece of bread and a handful of dates.
The whole while he chewed, he stared at Azár’s sleeping face, contemplating her broodingly. It wasn’t that he regretted the act they had shared; he didn’t. But it did complicate matters. It made what he had to do that much more difficult. It was one thing, walking into uncertainty, when h
e’d felt his wife was cold and distant. It was completely different, knowing that he left someone behind who genuinely cared for him.
He would have to make provisions, he realized, for the chance he didn’t return. Overnight, Azár’s security had become a new priority, one he hadn’t taken into his calculations before.
He frowned, studying her soft beauty as he munched down the last bits of bread and washed it down with a glass of wine. Then he rose, wiping his mouth, and bent down before the bed. He leaned over and kissed Azár on the cheek. She didn’t stir. He could hear the peace in her soft breath. He could see it written on her face. It made him glad.
Straightening, he donned his boots and made his way out of the tent. As he emerged, the thanacryst rose to its feet with an enormous yawn. It stretched, first its front legs, then the rear, then stood staring at him with expectant, sinister eyes.
Darien raised his hand, signaling the demon-hound to remain. He didn’t know what the thing would do when the camp moved on. The beast seemed to not mind Azár. He hoped it would follow her. So far, it hadn’t shown any inclination to use her as a food source.
Darien frowned, suddenly worried. He’d never questioned the wisdom of keeping the creature. It had always proved a loyal companion. Now he found himself doubting his own judgement.
“Stay here,” he told it, knowing full well it probably wouldn’t obey. He decided to try anyway. “Protect Azár.” The thing continued to gaze at him. He turned away. The hound settled back down again into the dirt, its nose between its massive paws.
Darien trudged away toward the heart of the camp, aware of the sound of footsteps jogging to catch up with him. He turned to find himself flanked by Sayeed and his nephew Iskender, a clot of Zakai hurrying in their wake. He noticed that Sayeed and his nephew had traded uniforms. He was glad to see that his commands were being heeded, especially by his own men.
“Lord, I must tell you that I am opposed to this plan,” Sayeed growled in a voice lowered so that none of the other men could hear.
“Your opinion is noted,” Darien said. He had no intention of getting sucked into an argument. He walked over to where the horses were picketed and, stooping, pulled at the knot to free his own.
“I don’t think you understand. They cannot be trusted —”
“Sayeed,” Darien said, laying a hand on the man’s arm. “I want you to keep my wife safe. Stand by her side, no matter what. Don’t come looking for me.”
“Lord—”
“No matter what,” Darien insisted. “Be in the vanguard when they open up the pass. Get her through as quickly as you can.”
Sayeed looked ready to argue. But instead, he effected a stiff and formal bow.
“Yes, Lord.”
Darien considered this man who had stood at his side through so many battles. Not physical battles. But the inner kind that mattered more and hurt harder. He finally realized the depth of his appreciation for him.
“Don’t call me ‘Lord,’” Darien corrected him on impulse. “Call me ‘Brother.’”
Sayeed looked stunned. He stood there for a moment with his face going slack, the color draining from his copper skin. “My Lord…”
Darien shook his head. Sayeed was the one man Darien knew he could trust. He had grown tired of the formal distance demanded by the Tanisars’ rigid code of honor. Damn formality. What he needed was a friend, not another subordinate.
“Go in peace, Brother,” he stated gruffly.
Sayeed swept forward and clasped him in a rigid embrace, nearly pulling him off his feet. He kissed Darien on both cheeks. Darien returned the gesture as best he could, trying not to seem as awkward as he felt.
“May the peace of the gods be with you,” Sayeed said, patting his back. Then he pulled away, collecting himself.
Darien climbed onto the back of his horse as Iskender mounted the spare. Zakai trotting along at their sides, they rode through the camp as onlookers came running to line their path. War drums thundered, men stood shaking spears and swords at the sight of their approach.
To Darien’s surprise, the hatred of the men for him seemed to have cooled overnight. A fiery outcry swelled from the heart of the encampment. They rode through dirt streets lined by howling warriors, finally reaching a large crowd gathered in the assembly area in front of the command tent.
There, Darien dismounted, leading his horse to where Byron Connel stood at Myria’s side, ranks of uniformed officers gathered behind them. Darien surveyed the assemblage, taking a moment to realize what he was looking at. These were the men the officers had traded roles with, gathered now to accompany him into the pass. Darien’s gaze swept over their faces. Not a man looked as though he didn’t belong. The officers had chosen their replacements well.
He drew up in front of Connel and Myria, the Battlemage nodding a terse greeting. Myria regarded him with an expression of amusement. She was wearing a short, brightly patterned tunic over trousers, a broad shawl draped over one shoulder.
“So, here’s the man who sealed my fate with a handshake,” she said.
Darien knew he owed her an apology, or, at the very least, some reassurance. “If everything goes as planned, we’ll be guests of the commander for a week.” It was an attempt to sooth her nerves.
It didn’t work.
Myria cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow in his direction, looking skeptical. “And how often do things go as you plan, Darien?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Not often,” he admitted.
Myria nodded, her face smug. “And what happens when they don’t?”
“Then I improvise.” He gestured toward the mountains. “They built Greystone Keep within a node. Their mages won’t have access to the magic field. But we’ll still be able to use the Onslaught.”
“We can’t heal ourselves with the Onslaught.”
“Then we’d best not get injured.”
Sincere doubt shadowed her expression. He couldn’t blame her. Darien turned to Connel, nodding his head in the direction of the gathered men. “Is this everyone?”
“It is,” Connel said, stepping forward. “Volunteers, one and all. Their lives are in your hands. Better pray your friend doesn’t see fit to double-cross you.”
Darien couldn’t guarantee it. If Devlin Craig was bent on treachery, then there was precious little he could do to prevent it.
Connel clapped his shoulder. “Go in peace.”
Darien returned the gesture then climbed astride his horse. The stallion danced sideways with a nervous snort and a jingle of tack. Darien gathered the tasseled reins in his hands, bringing the animal back under control.
Iskender jumped lithely down from the mare and held the stirrup for Myria. She mounted gracefully, clucking her horse forward while Sayeed’s nephew joined the group of foot soldiers.
Byron Connel gave a nod.
The low, throaty moan of a war horn rose over the field, sliding up dismally through the octaves. At the sound of it, the men started forward, marching to a syncopated meter tapped out on a single drum.
Darien urged his horse forward at a walk, Myria at his side, as over a thousand men formed up in a great column behind him. He turned his horse toward Orguleth, toward the Pass of Lor-Gamorth, his eyes taking in the flanks of the Shadowspears. Roiling cloudcover obscured the tops of the mountains. The flickering lights in the clouds beckoned him onward.
The horn cry rose again, the sound more ominous than before. The drum tapped out its fatalistic cadence.
Darien glanced back at Connel to find that the man had already turned and was walking away, hands clasped behind his back. Myria rode to his left, head bowed. Two standard bearers trailed at their sides, one holding the red emblem of the Tanisars, the other the green field of Bryn Calazar’s legions.
They marched forward, toward destiny or death. He didn’t know which. One path led to sunlight, the other to eternal darkness.
Darien stared up at the mountains, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding.
> It took hours to march the distance between the staging grounds and the alluvial fan that formed the wide mouth of the pass. By the time they started up into the canyon, it was already late in the day. The soldiers walked with their backs straight, showing no signs of fatigue. The drum continued tapping out its relentless beat.
At the mouth of the canyon, Darien pulled back on the reins and raised a hand, commanding a halt. Behind him, silence reigned over the columns behind him as the men stopped and stood motionless in perfect ranks. A slight breeze chased his cloak and ruffled his stallion’s mane.
Ahead, the fog that shrouded the pass parted just enough that he could make out the dark outlines of palisades. Fog and shadows obscured the air, but at last he saw the strength of Craig’s army. His scouts had already warned him about the numbers.
Still, it was an intimidating sight to behold. Ahead, an army numbering in the tens of thousands stood guarding the wide bottom of the pass, lining the walls of the canyon, continuing up the slopes.
Beneath him, Darien’s horse stamped nervously. A strong odor on the air made his eyes widen: the scent of wood smoke. Orange fires glowed from behind the fortifications, following the path of the river up as it snaked into the Shadowspears. In all his time in the Black Lands, Darien had never once smelled the odor of burning wood. The smell conjured an intense wave of anxiety sharpened by a sense of dread.
Movement ahead caught his attention.
A group of riders had broken away from the main host and was approaching his position. Darien kept a tight rein on his horse, letting the party approach. There were about twenty men, all mounted. Two rode in the fore, the others following in a single, spread-out file. Every man held a hornbow at his side.
Devlin Craig stopped his horse yet fifty paces away, Meiran drawing up next to him on a silver gelding. Craig’s men came up behind, forming a line as if taking up position to advance.
Holding Craig’s eyes warily, Darien dismounted. He glanced at Myria, nodding for her to follow suit. Then he turned, signaling his men to stay back.
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