The Darkling Child

by Terry Brooks

  It troubled him that Arcannen was being so open about it. The man was fortunate to have escaped him the last time, yet he seemed untroubled by how close he had come to dying along with the rest of the ruined city’s population. He was taunting Usurient, daring him to make a second attempt. His arrogance was startling, even slightly mad. But Usurient could not afford to let it be known that he had failed to respond. He kept command of the Red Slash by ensuring that no challenge to his authority or to the reputation of his Federation command would be allowed to go unanswered. A response was needed. A quick and certain resolution of the matter would have to be implemented—one no one could mistake. He had been given no orders to that effect, but sometimes the situation demanded that you act without them.

  Yet there was nothing to say all this could not be achieved in a more unexpected and less conventional way than what the sorcerer might be expecting or his authority allowed.

  Wrapped in his cloak, he slipped from the barracks and started down the road that would take him to the Shadow Quarter and the arena where the drasks engaged in combat. Mallich participated regularly; his animals were among the most fearsome in the city. He fought them once a week, every week, on this night only, pitting them against whatever challengers were brought in from other cities to vie for the fat purses offered by the organizers to the winners. Few in Sterne gave any thought to challenging Mallich these days. The odds were too great and the outcome too predictable.

  And yet outsiders still thought his reputation inflated. They came from all over, from every walk and persuasion of life, professional breeders from as far away as the deep Southland cities and the distant mountainous regions of the Eastland. Some were newcomers, unwilling to believe the stories, convinced they would be the ones to prove them wrong. A man couldn’t always win, they told themselves. No animal was unbeatable.

  Except for Mallich’s.

  Usurient had no idea what Mallich did to create such monsters, and it seemed better to him to leave it that way.

  In any case, it wasn’t his breeding techniques that compelled the Red Slash commander to go searching for him. It was his hunter’s skills, and his unerring ability to seek out prey and corner it, frequently with little more than a hunch and his instincts. Mallich understood fear and anger and frustration better than any man or woman alive. For more than twenty years, he had used that understanding to track down and subdue the enemies of those who hired him. For much of that time he had served the Red Slash. Then, nearly four years ago, he had quit. He had never offered an explanation, but Usurient knew the truth of it.

  Likewise he knew a thing or two about the human condition, and he believed that even after you had left there was always a way to bring you back. Quitting was not forever; it was simply until the right impetus or the necessary compulsion changed your mind. All that was needed was to discover the nature of the lure.

  In the case of Mallich and the sorcerer, Usurient thought he knew the answer.

  When he reached the cavernous building that housed the fighting pits, he found it already packed to overflowing with customers and participants. Large crowds were gathered at all the entry doors, men and women fighting to get inside, yelling and screaming at the doorkeepers, holding up credits and in some instances pieces of gold. One man even thrust out a diapson crystal, his certainty in his betting prowess evidenced by his willingness to part with something far more valuable than anything he could hope to win inside the ring.

  Ignoring the clamor and the bodies that pressed close, Usurient worked his way around to the back of the building, where the gates to the walled area reserved for participants stood closed and under guard. But nothing was off limits to him, so he walked up to the guards, identified himself, and was promptly admitted. Only once had he been refused—more than ten years ago now. In retaliation, he had brought two squads of soldiers in the next day, confiscated all the drasks, money, and equipment, and sold it all off in Wayford.

  After that, no one had ever questioned his right to be there.

  Inside the yard, the drasks were straining against their chains and bindings from within the cages where their keepers housed them. They were strange beasts at first glance—a mix of dog, wolf, ape, and something more that Usurient had never been able to define. Or perhaps he had chosen not to try to explain, because it reminded him too much of some of the men he had known. It was only after you considered the drask’s purpose that you understood why it was perfectly constructed. Deep chest, massive shoulders, short, powerful legs—the front slightly longer than the rear—square head that was all bone and gristle, massive jaws, eyes that were restless and hungry. Fighting animals, drinkers of blood, takers of life. They were covered in bristling hair sharp enough to prick the skin, and the air was filled with low growls and the warning snap of teeth.

  Usurient cast about, searching for Mallich. Drasks weren’t the only animals he raised and trained. He also favored oketar—trackers that, once they were on your scent, were almost impossible to throw off. And then there were cretex—huge, lumbering beasts strong enough to carry a dozen men and pull sleds piled high with stones.

  And the crince, of course. Mallich was one of only a handful of men who bred those. The less said about them the better, although he imagined Mallich would want to use one against Arcannen.

  After a few minutes of shifting his position in the courtyard to gain a better view and scanning through the large number of participants in a night’s action that would continue until dawn, Usurient found his man. Mallich was seated on a stool over by the back wall, dressed in his familiar loose-fitting gray work clothes and ancient scuffed-up boots. His beard and frizzy hair were as gray as old ashes and his skin as gray as his hair, giving him the appearance of the walking dead. He was smoking a short pipe and gesturing at a scrawny boy who was serving as his assistant for the evening. Mallich kept a handful of them around—off-leash street kids with no home, no parents, and no life beyond what he provided for them and what they could find on the streets. Everyone else in the drask business used full-grown experienced men and women; not Mallich, though, who seldom did anything like anyone else.

  He glanced up as Usurient approached, a glimmer of interest surfacing momentarily on his weary features before quickly fading. He nodded in greeting as the Red Slash commander took a seat next to him.

  “Looking for a little excitement, Dallen?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Ah.” The other shrugged. “I’m retired. No more hunts.”

  “Just drask fights and breeding these days.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. I still find time for other forms of entertainment. Pretty much like you. I just prefer sticking close to home.”

  “You’re entered tonight?”

  “Two bouts. Want to place a bet?”

  “Only if it’s on you.”

  “Of course it’s on me. But I wasn’t talking about the drasks. I was talking about the odds of my not agreeing to whatever proposal you’ve come here to offer.”

  “You’re telling me to save my money.”

  “And your breath. But you’re going to make the offer anyway, aren’t you?”

  “What sort of man would I be to back away every time someone tells me to? Should I never take risks again? Should I stay only with the safe and known?”

  Mallich considered him a moment and then rose. “I have to go. My first bout is coming up. My animal is favored to win at five to one. You should place a bet you can be sure about.”

  Usurient rose with him. “Let’s see how it goes.”

  Usurient went inside the building through the participants’ door and found a seat high up on the arena’s back wall. The building was cavernous and filled with bodies and raucous yells. There were no empty seats farther down; there was barely standing room. Torches lit the darkness at the rear of the structure in a smoky haze, but at the arena level smokeless lamps cast a clear, sharp light. Usurient watched expressionlessly while Mallich’s black-as-coal d
rask tore the opposing animal to shreds in under a minute. It was brutal and final, an overwhelming victory meant as both an object lesson and an arrogant challenge. Fight Mallich’s drasks and you took your chances. Go up against his animals at your peril.

  When the bout ended, Usurient kept his seat. He studied the crowd, picking out men and women he knew. Several were from the Red Slash, come for an evening’s entertainment. None of them approached him. Even if they recognized him, they would keep their distance.

  The second bout took a little longer than the first. The drask challenger was a sturdy, low-slung creature, its body scarred and ridged with muscle, its head not much more than eyes and jaws. Huge paws and thick legs supported its odd, piggish frame. It was durable and vicious, trained to go for the eyes and legs, and seemingly impervious to pain. What saved Mallich’s reputation was most likely the homework he had done on the animal ahead of time—something he did as a matter of course in order to select the proper opponent from among his own stock. In contrast with the challenger, his drask was lean and lanky and cat-quick—the kind of gray ghost that was there one minute and gone the next, so quick you could barely follow its movements. It dodged the other animal with practiced ease, snapping and tearing in a flurry of strikes while keeping carefully clear of the arena sides and corners where it might become trapped. If the attacker had been able to pin it down, the fight would have ended quickly. But Mallich’s drask was too quick. The minutes dragged on. Though the attacker kept coming in spite of the injuries being inflicted on it, the damage began to tell.

  When finally it tired and went down, helpless to rise and defend itself, Mallich’s animal carefully circled behind it, seized its neck, and bit down with an audible crunch that signaled an end to the battle.

  Usurient waited until Mallich had led his blood-smeared drask from the ring and the process of mopping up the remains of the loser had commenced, then left his seat at last and went back down into the participants’ yard.

  “Very impressive,” he acknowledged, coming up to the other and handing over a purse of gold coins. “I shouldn’t have bet against you.”

  The gray man studied him a moment while he hefted the purse and then handed it back. “If I take your money, I will owe you. This is just a way to get me to consider your offer.”

  Usurient smiled, accepting the purse back. “Why don’t we do this? You take care of your drasks and then come to the Broken Soldier for a drink. We’ll celebrate your victory. I will make my offer; you will listen and decide its merit.” He shrugged. “However it goes is how it goes.”

  Mallich spat. “Waste of my time. Besides, I’m tired and I don’t need a drink. You’d best be on your way, Dallen.”

  The Commander of the Red Slash shrugged. “Have it your way.” He turned to go, and then stopped. “By the way. Did I mention that my offer concerns Arcannen?” He waited a beat. “So if you know of somebody who might be his equal, perhaps you could send word to me?”

  Mallich did not stop what he was doing. He did nothing to indicate that he had heard anything the other had said. But Usurient knew he had heard every word. He smiled. “I’ll be at the tavern, if you change your mind about that drink.”

  Then he turned away once more, and this time he kept going.

  —

  He never once worried that Mallich wouldn’t follow him to the tavern. Any mention of Arcannen would be enough to draw Mallich’s attention. Any suggestion that there was an opportunity to track down his most hated enemy would win his active support.

  Because Mallich did indeed hate the sorcerer worse than anyone.

  And for a very good reason.

  Five years earlier, Arcannen had murdered a minister of the Federation’s Coalition Council in the guise of a member of the Fourth Druid order. It had taken the personal intervention of the Prime Minister and an agreement with the Ard Rhys of the Druid order to unmask the deception, but it had been discovered and Arcannen had been forced to flee his home in Wayford, leaving everything behind. For a time, he had disappeared completely. Both the Druids and the Federation had searched for him, but rumors of sightings and efforts to bait him into showing himself had yielded nothing. After nearly a year of searching, any active hunt had been abandoned.

  Then, shortly afterward, a report surfaced that the sorcerer was living in a small village south and east of Wayford called Dorrat. A member of the Federation army, while visiting his wife’s family, had seen the sorcerer engaged in a discussion with the village blacksmith. Aware of the stalled hunt for Arcannen, he had reported his discovery immediately upon his return to his company in Sterne, and word had eventually filtered back to Arishaig and the senior commander of the Federation army.

  The commander, in turn, had given the job of following up this latest rumor—one that he believed worth examining more closely—to Usurient and the Red Slash. Find out the truth of things and report back.

  But Usurient—choosing to reinterpret his orders—decided that men other than regular soldiers should handle the matter. He called in Mallich at once, told him of the assignment, and asked if he would undertake it. If the sorcerer was found, he was to be killed at once. No consideration was to be given to any other course of action. Arcannen was extremely dangerous; killing him swiftly and without hesitation was the proper resolution to the task. Mallich could accomplish this any way he chose; he could take with him any others he felt would aid him. He could use whatever methods he felt necessary. Whatever the nature of any damage or condemnation that resulted, Usurient would make certain there were no repercussions.

  Because of the sorcerer’s reputation and the challenge offered in hunting him down, Mallich accepted the assignment. He did not do so without a full awareness of the danger he would face, but his confidence in his own considerable skills and experience persuaded him that he was more than equal to the task.

  For support, he took with him two of his oketar trackers, a drask to protect them, and a handful of the men who had assisted on hunts like this in the past—all of them familiar with what was required and willing to do whatever was demanded of them to achieve the result Usurient desired.

  He also took with him his only son, a sharp-eyed, hulking boy of twenty years named Mauerlin.

  Taking the boy was a bad idea, Usurient believed, because while fully grown and otherwise entirely capable, Mauerlin lacked experience. But he said nothing to Mallich because it wasn’t his place to do so. As one of many, perhaps the boy would be in no special danger. Surely the father would recognize the need to keep a close eye on his son.

  But he misjudged Mallich’s determination to give his son an opportunity to prove himself. Arriving at the village of Dorrat, the company split in two. Mallich took command of the first unit and gave the second over to his son. Each of them would take one of the oketar, and Mauerlin would be given the drask, as well. Their quarry’s scent was provided through a piece of clothing retrieved from among the clothes Arcannen had abandoned in Wayford when he had fled the city. A quick sniff was provided to the animals, and the two expeditions were off.

  They approached their search methodically, coming toward each other from opposite ends of the village. They held off until after nightfall, biding their time until they knew most of the villagers would be in bed. They searched quietly and efficiently, allowing the oketar to set the pace. Mallich had already determined, through a surreptitious investigation by one of his most trusted scouts, that Arcannen was still in the village. It was troubling to him that no one seemed to know exactly where the sorcerer kept his quarters, but overall that seemed an inconsequential obstacle.

  In fact, it was their undoing.

  However he managed it—whether through some mistake made by Mallich or some warning system he had set in place previously—Arcannen quickly discovered that he was being hunted. Rather than waiting around to be found, he went down into the streets and began to track the hunters coming at him from the north.

  Mauerlin’s unit.

  What ha
ppened afterward was never entirely clear to anyone, in part because there was no one left to describe it. Arcannen took out the drask and oketar first, and when the hunters were left blind and in disarray, he took them out as well. One by one, he picked them off until all lay dead save their leader.

  Then he set out to make an example of Mallich’s son before fleeing into the night and disappearing once more.

  When the father found his son, Mauerlin was hanging inside the blacksmith’s by his arms. A weight was tied to his legs, which in turn were connected by a length of rope that was fastened about the boy’s neck in a noose. So long as Mauerlin kept his legs raised, he was safe. But when he tired and the weight pulled his legs down, the noose about his neck tightened.

  Usurient, who had seen men die in every way conceivable, knew what that must have been like for the boy as he fought to keep from strangling and for the father when he found him afterward.

  They had never talked about it, Mallich and he. But Usurient, who knew men and understood their passions, never doubted what the boy’s death had done to the father or how badly the father hungered for retribution. He might act as if the matter were over and done with and he had gotten past it. He might pretend that he didn’t spend every waking hour waiting for a chance to do to the sorcerer what he had done to Mauerlin. But Usurient knew better.

  You never got over the death of a child and the guilt that somehow attached to it.

  —