He snapped awake, recognizing the warning bell for what it was.
Pratson sat up in bed, heart pounding in his chest. His brain labored to process the bell’s significance. It could be a false alarm. It could be something much less dire than the horrors his mind was trying to leap to. It could be one of the town’s many drunkards pulling the rope, or a scorned lover or…
The sound of distant screams shred his hopes. Pratson turned toward the window, only then noticing the dull orange glow streaming in through the tatted curtains, making the shadows dance across the walls.
Fire…
It could be a stable. An inn. It could be anything. It didn’t have to be them.
They weren’t supposed to come. Two great armies stood between Wolden and the Pass of Lor-Gamorth.
Pratson swung his feet over the side of the bed and rushed to the window. Ripping the dusty curtains aside, he pressed his palms against the cold glass and stared out into the night. He could see the outline of jagged rooftops silhouetted by the glow of fires in the distance. The sounds of screams were clearer now, heard through the glass. The scent of smoke finally reached his nostrils.
Cold terror gripped Pratson’s throat. He whirled away from the window and made for the chair where he’d laid his clothes. He stumbled into his trousers then strapped his belt around his waist. He picked up his shirt, thrusting an arm into the sleeve—
The bedroom door burst open with a crack of shattering wood.
Pratson cried out, backing away from the lone man advancing toward him. The man shot out a hand and slammed him roughly against the wall. He started to struggle.
“They’re here!” growled a low and familiar voice.
The glow of the flames revealed Broden’s jagged features. The guardsman gripped Pratson by the arm and spun him around, saying, “The gate’s been breached—we’re overwhelmed. I’m getting you out of here.”
Pratson didn’t argue. He was too busy trying to keep his feet moving as the guardsman steered him out of the bed chamber. He followed Broden down a dark hallway toward a set of stairs that descended into the basement. There, they could gain access to tunnels that had been dug decades ago to escape this very threat.
As they crossed the foyer, the great double doors burst open. Armored men spilled into the room, blocking both escape and retreat. Broden shoved Pratson back and stepped in front of him, raising his blade into a warding stance.
Black-mailed soldiers fanned out from the door, shields and weapons raised. Broden stood his ground, looking determined to take down as many as he could before meeting his own end. Terrified, Pratson clung to the wall, his eyes sliding over the fearsome helms of the Enemy soldiers who confronted them.
The soldiers parted to create an opening. Pratson’s eyes were drawn toward the door, then stuck there as if glued. A cold wash of air blew in, scattering leaves across the floor. The leaves whorled and fluttered, collecting in the corners.
The wind gasped its last breath and went still.
Another warrior entered, taller than the rest, all in black plate with a thick cloak furling about him. He halted in front of Broden, as if immune to the threat of the blademaster’s sword. He stood there a long moment as all motion in the room ground to a halt, freezing like jammed gears. The warrior reached up and removed his helm, shaking out a dark mass of sweat-greased hair. Pratson gaped, recognition slamming into him with the force of a hammer blow.
Lauchlin.
The mage was almost unrecognizable. He’d only seen Darien Lauchlin once before, when he’d been a new Sentinel passing through town with dire warnings of invasion. Pratson had been wary of the man even then. There had been something about him. Something tainted. Broden had sensed it too. Even after he’d seen the markings of the chains on the man’s wrists, Pratson still hadn’t trusted him.
Now he understood why.
The same man stood before him. Only, now, the taint of corruption had grown too great to be bodily contained. It bled off him in waves, darkening the air around him like a vile penumbra. The eyes that locked on Broden went far beyond cold. It was as though Lauchlin’s mere presence sucked all hope from the room.
Pratson’s breath hitched. He stood with his back pressed against the wall, heart lurching in fear. His limbs trembled as he felt the air stagnate around him.
“Stand down,” the darkmage ordered Broden. He didn’t raise his voice; there was no need. Dire threat was implicit in his tone.
Pratson gaped at him in revulsion. “You were a Sentinel,” he gasped. “How do you stand your own existence?”
The demon’s eyes bored into him. Calmly, Lauchlin responded, “I swore to serve the land and its people. All of its people. I’m doing my duty—now you do yours. Tell the residents of Wolden to flee. Or I swear by Xerys, I’ll put them all to the sword.”
Adjusting his grip on his hilt, Broden growled, “I remember you. I also remember you’re helpless within a vortex.”
Lauchlin shook his head. “Not anymore.”
Broden stood unmoving, staring into the demon’s eyes as if gauging his intent.
“Ah, fuck,” he whispered.
His knees buckled. Broden’s sword dropped from his hands as he folded over, dead. Pratson gaped at the darkmage in horror, realizing there was nothing between him and death.
“Go do your duty,” Lauchlin ordered.
Pratson bolted forward, slipping past the man out the door of the manor. He sprinted for the road, drawing up only when he reached the chaos in the street.
He gaped around in terror.
Wolden was burning. Crackling fires scorched the night, feeding roiling clouds of smoke that blotted out the stars. Screams ripped through the air as people were chased from their homes and stampeded through the streets. It took Pratson only a moment to figure out what was going on: Wolden’s inhabitants were being rounded up, herded into the town square, where they were ringed by black-mailed savages brandishing torches and weapons. Women clung to their children, their men shouting in fear or defiance or both. While their homes burned behind them.
Pratson ran right up to the edge of the square and scrambled onto the back of a cart. He stood waving his hands and shouting, desperately trying to get his peoples’ attention.
“Take your families and evacuate!” he bellowed. “Leave everything behind! Run!”
The ring of soldiers opened to allow the crowd to spill between them. Pratson jumped down from the cart and started after, but the threat of a scimitar stopped him short. He looked slowly up, his eyes meeting Darien Lauchlin’s shadowed stare.
“Not you,” the darkmage said, holding his blade steady.
Pratson felt all the blood leak out of his face. He whispered, “What are you going to do?”
The demon nodded at the ground. “Kneel, and I’ll make it quick.”
Gripped in the claws of terror, Pratson couldn’t move. A warm wetness dribbled down his leg, scarcely noticed. “No,” he gasped, taking a step back and shaking his head. “No, no, please!”
“Kneel or suffer.”
He didn’t understand his options. They flowed over him like water. He didn’t react fast enough.
Pratson screamed as his skin erupted in indescribable pain. Looking down at his hands, he saw his flesh melting, running like hot wax.
The scream that tore from his throat died just as violently as the rest of him.
6
The Price of Arrogance
Darien turned away from the gelatinous mass that had, just moments before, been Wolden’s mayor. It took him a moment to realize he was surrounded by a circle of Zakai who stood staring at him warily. He hadn’t bothered explaining to them about the Hellpower.
“How…?” Sayeed gasped.
Looking around for Azár, Darien answered, “I can’t use the magic field in a vortex. But I can still use the Onslaught. It’s ugly, but it’s effective. The one drawback is, I can’t heal with it.”
He found Azár walking toward them, wielding a
double-edged qama in her hand. He wished she had something more substantial than a short sword. She couldn’t use magic in a vortex. The torrential power would kill her, just as it would kill him.
Across the street, a building gutted by fire collapsed on itself, showering glowing embers into the air. Screams came from every direction, echoing over the roar of the flames. A lone Tanisar jogged up the road and gave a concise report to Sayeed. Darien’s new commander sent him off with a series of barked orders.
“The town is mostly cleared, and the fires are contained,” Sayeed relayed the report. “There is only a small pocket of resistance left down by the mill.”
Darien donned his helm, tightening the strap. “I’ll take care of it. Round up any remaining civilians you can find—if they don’t want to leave, take their heads off. Mop up, then loot what you can.”
Sayeed bowed and set off with a small group of Zakai. Darien waited until Azár reached his side, then started off in the direction of the mill, surrounded by a small but formidable guard. Screaming townsfolk fled before them, some with babes in arms and children in tow. Darien took in the scene impassively, his concentration pinned on the next objective. Inflicting brutality was much easier if he didn’t think about it.
They walked through the emptied streets in the direction of the flames. He had ordered the most impoverished section of Wolden put to the torch, for shock value. There were far less resources there to burn, and the housing was well-separated from the rest of town. But apparently, the tactic hadn’t driven out everyone.
They found a large group of men collected in the square around the mill. Some held swords, while others were armed with axes or makeshift weapons. They stood as if guarding the mill—a pointless endeavor. They were a far inferior force than the scores of Tanisars that ringed them. The entire scene made little sense.
With a gesture of his hand, Darien ordered his guard of Zakai to stay behind. He removed his helm and strode forward, intent on a big man holding a mace who stood in front of the others, no doubt the mob’s ringleader. He didn’t object when Azár took his hand. She was still insistent that her place was at his side, and it wasn’t worth the effort to try keeping her away from it.
He stopped in the middle of the square and confronted the ringleader.
“Tell your men to surrender,” Darien advised. “If they do, I’ll let them keep their lives.”
Instead of complying, the bearded man spat on the ground.
His action gave Darien pause. Defiance was one thing, but the mob’s behavior was suicidal. Something didn’t feel right. He ran his gaze over the crowd, seeing the same confidence in the eyes of every man gathered. None of them looked prepared to die protecting a town mill.
“Go back,” he ordered Azár under his breath. For once, his wife obeyed without question. She released his hand and started back across the square toward the Zakai.
He heard her fall.
All at once, a barrage of arrows rained down all around him, ricocheting off his armor. Darien dove forward and threw himself on top of Azár. He looked up to face a charging wall of men rushing toward them with weapons raised, more streaming into the square from the surrounding buildings.
Shielding his wife, Darien lashed out blindly with the Onslaught.
Ghastly screams tore through the air as the square erupted in a roiling explosion of hellish green flames. The screams didn’t last long. The arrows ceased their barrage. Darien looked up to find the square covered in bodies that lay strewn like fallen trees, half-melted into the cobbles. Something—either smoke or steam—rose from the corpses.
Some of the fallen were Zakai.
Darien rolled Azár over, loosening the straps that held her breastplate, then ripped it off, casting it aside. He let out a growl at the sight of a crossbow quarrel that had slipped through a gap in Azár’s armor to shatter her collar bone. His wife lay gazing up at him, eyes narrowed in pain. The bolt had penetrated deep, narrowly missing the main artery in her neck. If the shaft was jostled, even just a bit, the head might still nick it.
There was nothing Darien could do for her—he couldn’t use the Onslaught to heal.
He had to get her out of the vortex.
Darien lurched to his feet, glancing around. Chaos and confusion surrounded him as some soldiers swarmed toward him while others fled back.
“I need my horse!” he bellowed.
He dropped back to Azár’s side, wishing there was something, anything, he could do. As it was, he was afraid to even try stanching the flow of blood, for fear of moving the shaft. He gazed down at his wife helplessly, taking her hand. Azár stared up at him, remarkably calm.
Minutes passed. Reinforcements arrived, bolstering his guard of Zakai. All around, fires consumed the surrounding buildings. The square was eerily bright and just as eerily quiet.
From a distance, Darien heard approaching hoofbeats. He jolted to his feet, feeling infinite relief at the sight of Sayeed on his red charger, galloping across the square to draw up beside him. The officer slid from the horse’s back and held the reins as Darien mounted. Two Zakai rushed forward, lifting Azár delicately and helping to settle her in his arms.
“Go, Brother!” Sayeed gasped, and swatted the horse on its flank to send it bolting forward.
Darien clutched Azár against him, clinging to the stallion with his legs. The horse raced through the streets, spurred faster by its instinctual fear of fire. Soldiers and fleeing townsfolk leaped out of their path, the sound of charging hoofbeats parting the crowd ahead.
The horse cleared the town walls and broke for the open road. But after galloping only a couple of miles, his mount began to flag. Darien pulled the stallion back to a walk, cursing the horse and cursing his luck. He shifted Azár’s weight in his arms, trying to make her more comfortable. She sagged against him, her head lolling against his shoulder.
Panicked, Darien fought the urge to run the horse to death. But doing so wouldn’t serve Azár, so he kept the lathered stallion alternating between a walk and a trot as they followed the road ever northward. It was still another ten or so miles before they would be clear of the vortex. And he had no idea how many of those miles Azár would last.
Darien clenched his fists in anxiety. Every minute, he felt his wife sinking lower and lower against his chest. It was a constant struggle to keep her sitting upright, keep her from slipping off the horse. Her eyes were closed, her face pale in the moonlight. He kept checking her pulse, unable to resist the compulsion. Every time he did, he was surprised to find her heart still beating. Dark blood saturated the front of her shirt. His arms were slick with it.
Darien started measuring the minutes in heartbeats, dreading the moment her pulse stopped. He felt certain that moment was coming. He didn’t have the power or the luck to stop the inevitable.
He rode on, gritting his teeth and holding his dying wife against his chest.
Eventually, the vortex above them thinned. Darien checked Azár’s pulse again. It was thready and rapid, almost too weak to feel. The magic field was still too hot to handle, but he couldn’t wait any longer.
Desperate, Darien pulled the horse up and slid off its back. Carrying Azár in his arms, he laid her out on the grass. He could feel the vortex still battering against the shield he’d thrown up to protect his mind from its raging torrent. It was weaker than it had been. He wasn’t sure if it was weak enough.
Regardless, he had to try.
Setting his hands on Azár’s chest, Darien opened his mind to the vortex. The raging cyclone of power tore through him, slamming into Azár. Every muscle in his body contracted at once, ripping a scream from his throat. He worked through the agony as fast as he could, as long as he could, throwing every effort of will into healing his wife and leaving nothing for himself.
Darien awoke hours later to the feeling of something shaking him, over and over. He groaned and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the sensation. It was more than irritating. But it continued, relentless.
>
“Husband!”
He gazed blearily into Azár’s face. She was leaning over him, fear widening her eyes. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t understand why she was there.
Then he remembered.
Rage filled him.
Darien scooted away from her and staggered to his feet, fighting waves of vertigo that almost took him to his knees. Azár reached out and tried to stabilize him, but Darien jerked away. He trudged forward a few steps, fighting to contain his fury.
“What is wrong?” Azár shouted at his back. “Are you angry?”
Darien brought his hands up to clutch his throbbing temples. “Yes, I’m angry!”
She stared at him. “Why are you angry?”
Her voice was suffused with hurt and confusion. She didn’t understand. How could she not understand? Her ignorance infuriated him all the more.
He whirled back to her. “Because you almost died!”
She stood her ground.
He moved forward and raged into her face, “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t heal you! The only thing I could do was watch you die!”
She gazed at him with mute understanding in her eyes. The look did something to him. His anger liquified, draining right out of him. He turned away.
He heard a quiet noise that sounded like a sob. Looking back, he saw that his fierce wife had tears in her eyes.
Confused, Darien gaped at her. “Why are you crying?”
She muttered something in a voice too soft to hear.
“What?”
Softly, she said, “Thank you.”
Darien shook his head, baffled by her answer. “Thank you for what?”
Her eyes glistening, Azár whispered, “Thank you for caring.”
Darkfall Page 5