Darkfall

by M. L. Spencer

  “Stupid,” Darien finished for her. “I know.”

  Confident she was on her way back, he dressed and strapped his sword on. By the time he returned to camp, the forward scouts had already reported in, and the encampment was in a state of readiness, waiting to receive an attack. The forward defenses had positioned themselves along the camp’s western edge, taking cover behind earthworks and long lines of pickets. Darien looked out across the prairie in the direction of the rolling thunder, wondering what kind of horse lord would dare challenge an army of the size and capability of his own.

  Seeing a cluster of Zakai, Darien sprinted toward them. He caught sight of Sayeed among their number. Halting in their midst, he demanded, “Report!”

  Sayeed gestured toward the horizon. “A great many horse warriors approach from the west. They do not appear hostile, but their numbers are concerning.”

  Darien looked to the west and saw a brown plume of churned-up dust rising hugely into the sky. Sayeed was right to be concerned. The Jenn of the Cerulean Plains were fierce warriors who had little patience for outsiders infringing on their grazing territories. Gesturing for the demon-hound to remain behind, Darien made his way up the slope of a berm mounded to create a defiladed position. He halted on the top of the mound and gazed out across the sprawling sea of grass.

  Dominating the prairie was a dark tide of horses carrying riders with dusky brown skin garbed in furs and hide. They were armed with arsenals of spears and hornbows, and their horses’ blankets jingled with beads and bells. Darien stood motionless, astounded by the swirling sea of brutal weapons and flowing manes arrayed before him across the grassland.

  He abandoned the berm and made his way back to Sayeed. “It’s the Jenn,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll attack.”

  “Why not?” The officer frowned.

  “I know these people,” Darien said, then corrected himself, “I don’t know them, but I know a lot about them. I think they’re here to negotiate.” He glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Negotiate what?” Sayeed’s frown deepened.

  “Our passage.”

  Darien started forward, ignoring Sayeed’s look of incomprehension. Followed by the Zakai, he rounded the berm and strode toward a plank bridge that spanned a trench dug into the ground on the other side. He could hear the loud clatter of the officers’ boots as they kept pace with him. Stepping off the planks, he made his way out across the mud-slathered kill zone.

  Sayeed walked at his side, while the rest of the Zakai fanned out to stalk around them. Darien glanced around, seeing nothing but flat horizons and swarming horses in every direction.

  “I thought you were going to stay out of harm’s way,” Sayeed growled under his breath.

  “I’m not in harm’s way.”

  Darien waded into the knee-high grass of the open prairie. Spread before him were thousands of horses clustered together in a great herd that spanned miles. They roved in circulating patterns, never still. There were men and women, even children. Horses and foals. An entire culture loomed before him.

  Ahead, three horses broke off from the massive herd and trotted toward them. Darien halted, holding his ground, waiting for the riders to approach.

  The man who rode in front had long black hair pulled back and tied in a topknot. He was dressed in furs and tanned leather and wore his full beard groomed to a tapering point. All three men rode without saddle or tack, using only the pressure of their legs to guide their mounts.

  The strangers drew up only paces away. They didn’t dismount, but sat staring down at Darien and Sayeed from their horses’ backs. A tense silence clotted the air between them. Only the twitching of tails and the rippling of grass marked the passage of time. Eventually, the darkly bearded horselord nodded as if satisfied.

  “Darius dreoch,” he said in a rumbling voice.

  Darien stood stunned at hearing those words. At his side, Sayeed issued a sharp gasp. The man had spoken the ancient greeting of the Khazahar. Darien’s brain fumbled to make connections that should have been obvious from the start. The man’s olive skin. The bareback riding style. The horse blankets tinkling with tassels and bells.

  The Jenn. These people call themselves the Jenn…

  Stiffly, Darien returned the greeting. “Darius dreoch,” he said, then added, “Sulimu kadreesh.”

  The man glanced back and forth between Darien and Sayeed, his eyes widening. “Akadreesh issulim,” he responded, and jumped down from his horse. He strode forward with a wide smile to grasp Darien’s arm in a two-handed grip. “I am Ranoch son of Tellat, warlord of the Jenn.”

  Sayeed stood speechless as the man clapped his arm in greeting.

  Darien’s mind scrambled as he realized the vast opportunity Ranoch and his people afforded them. The Jenn had been devoted allies of the Sentinels for hundreds of years. If he could harness that allegiance, the horse clans would be a formidable asset. Darien drew in a deep, steadying breath, wondering how far he dare go. With the Jenn, there could be no halfway.

  “I am Grand Master Darien Lauchlin of the Order of Sentinels,” he announced, claiming the title he had not worn since his death. “Warden of Battlemages and Overlord of the Khazahar.”

  “You are him,” Ranoch gasped, backing away. His men jumped off their mounts and surged forward, reaching for their weapons. Ranoch raised his hand, halting them.

  Darien spread his arms, indicating the vast Malikari encampment behind him. “I’ve come to reunite you with your brethren.”

  The horse lord frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “What is the name of your tribe?”

  Ranoch shook his head in incomprehension. “Once long ago, the Jenn were divided by clans. No longer. Now we are one tribe. One people.”

  “Do you know which tribe your people descend from?” Darien pressed.

  The man answered slowly, “Once, my ancestors called themselves the Omeyan Jenn. But that was long ago. Now we are simply the Jenn.”

  It was Darien’s turned to be astounded. These people were more than just a lost tribe—they were his tribe. His own blood. Quietly, he said, “Then you are my kin.”

  Ranoch shook his head. “That is not possible.”

  “My ancestor was Braden son of Marthax, of the Omeyan Clan of the Dur ul-Jenn.”

  Ranoch stared at him flatly. “You are a son of the Omeyans?”

  Darien nodded.

  The warlord crossed his arms, appearing greatly troubled as his eyes slipped slowly over the vast Malikari encampment. At last, he nodded.

  “Then we are kin,” Ranoch decided. He turned and shouted back over his shoulder, “Ride forward and welcome your lost brothers to our home!”

  A deafening cry resounded across the plain. The horses of the Jenn broke forward as if sprinting into the charge. When they closed the gap, their riders abandoned their mounts and leaped to the ground. They dashed forward and embraced the Malikari soldiers like long-lost brothers in a surreal scene that transcended anything in Darien’s broad experience.

  “You never told me Braden Reis was your ancestor.”

  Darien glanced sideways at Sayeed. The man was frowning as he walked, his fingers stroking his sword’s hooked pommel. It was obvious the omission hadn’t pleased him. Darien glanced back to where the rest of the Zakai were clustered in the lee of the command tent. He wondered how the others would take the news.

  “You never asked,” Darien said, then admitted, “I figured it wouldn’t go over very well.”

  The man nodded. Some of the tension eased from his face, though he still looked as though he held a fair bit of resentment. Darien berated himself for not being more honest from the start.

  “I’m sorry, Brother,” he said. “When we started down this road, I wasn’t certain how far I could trust you. And I had reason not to.”

  Sayeed nodded thoughtfully. “It is probably for the best you kept that information to yourself. The name Braden Reis is cursed. It was he who brought about the Desecrat
ion. It is very unfortunate that this man’s blood runs in your veins.”

  Darien was mildly surprised Sayeed didn’t already know of his relation to the First Sentinel. When he’d been forced to provide his lineage to the elders of the clans, Sayeed had made him sit down and scribe a complete list of his pedigree. Braden Reis had been the last name on that long list. Apparently, the tribal elders hadn’t shared that information with the Zakai.

  “You have it wrong,” Darien said. “It was Braden’s brother who caused the Desecration. And it wasn’t his fault. Braden and Quin were trying to save the people of Caladorn from the rule of Xerys. But they failed.”

  Sayeed looked at him, confusion carving deep furrows into his brow. “That is not the story that has been passed down.”

  “Then your story is wrong.” Darien turned from him and shrugged. “It happens. Stories can change. Especially the stories of those who have suffered defeat. I had never heard of Braden’s brother until I met him. His name had been erased entirely from our records.”

  Darien halted and stood looking around at the bustling encampment. To every side, soldiers were going about the labors of the day: honing weapons, repairing armor, cooking meals. At almost every fire stood men and women of the Jenn, watching the Tanisars as they worked, offering knowledge and answering questions. There were many facets of living in the land of sunlight that the Malikari people were ignorant of. He was glad to see them learning from their new allies.

  Sayeed followed his gaze, his face darkening. “This man, Quin Reis—how did you meet a man who died a thousand years ago?”

  “Because he is also a Servant of Xerys.”

  His answer appeared to have a great effect on Sayeed, who drew his pack from his shoulder and turned to Darien with concern in his eyes. “So this cursed man is a Servant? How can that be?”

  Softly, Darien answered, “We are all cursed, Brother.”

  A long silence fell between them. Sayeed stood staring past him into the distance. At first, Darien couldn’t tell what the man was looking at. Then it occurred to him: he was looking at the sun. Turning, he followed Sayeed’s gaze. The sun had risen well above the Craghorns, burning fiercely in the brilliant sky. Before his death, he’d always taken the sun for granted. No longer. Darien realized that, for the rest of his time in this world, he should be thankful for every sunrise. He could only imagine what the Malikari must be feeling.

  “We keep calling ourselves brothers,” Sayeed said in a gruff voice. “Perhaps it is time to formalize this bond we claim to share.”

  Darien glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  Sayeed’s reply was measured and emotionless. “Among my people, there is a ritual that unites two men as kin.”

  “How does that work?” Darien had never heard of such a thing, although it didn’t surprise him. The Malikari seemed to have a ritual for everything. For a people whose very existence was defined by chaos, such a highly methodized culture added an element of structure to their lives.

  Sayeed took Darien by the arm and drew two fingers across the palm of his right hand. “Your blood and my blood would be mixed, as though we had been born of the same father.”

  “A blood rite,” Darien concluded, not liking the sound of it. The only other blood ritual he’d experienced had ended with the chains of his Oath cleaved from his wrists. The day he’d pledged himself to the goddess of Death to become her hand of vengeance. Which brought Darien to another thought equally disturbing: he had sworn his life to a goddess and sworn his afterlife to a god. He wasn’t sure how much was left of him to pledge to Sayeed.

  “And what would that mean for us?” Darien asked warily.

  Sayeed retracted his hand. “We would become family, in every sense of the word. Our fates and fortunes would be joined. I would support you—and your wife, and any children you might have—in all ways. I would fight at your side in every battle. I would second you in any feud. And upon your death, I would put you in your grave, and provide for your family as though they were my own. Just as you would do the same for me.”

  Darien dropped his gaze, feeling overwhelmed. What Sayeed was offering … it went beyond natural bonds of blood. True brothers were seldom so dedicated to each other. He felt unworthy of receiving such a commitment from another human. He couldn’t fathom it.

  He struggled to find words. It took him a moment. “I had a brother once. I didn’t get to choose him; I never would have. But if I’d had a choice, I would have chosen you instead.” He knew his response wasn’t eloquent, or even sufficient, but it was as close as he could manage.

  Sayeed’s smile was jubilant. He clapped Darien on the back. “We need your wife. And we need witnesses!”

  Before Darien could respond, the man scooped up his pack and hauled him forward by the arm in the direction of the command tent. Darien was pressed to keep up, pulled along by Sayeed’s enthusiasm. He was a little taken aback—he hadn’t expected Sayeed to act on the agreement immediately.

  “Can’t this wait?” he gasped, thinking of the scores of other things he should be doing at the moment. He had a war council to convene, the Jenn to attend to, a land to conquer—

  “These things do not wait!” his First exclaimed in a reproving tone. “We are at war, and neither one of us is guaranteed to live another day.”

  Darien grunted an acknowledgement. There was logic to that reasoning, he supposed. He followed Sayeed into camp along the main road that bisected the grid of tents, separating the Khazahari side of the encampment from the Calazi and Mariduri armies. Banners of different colors fluttered above the tents, each emblazoned with the symbols and emblems of their units.

  When they arrived at the pavilion, Darien lurched to a halt. He stood in a patch of trampled grass, staring at the sight of Azár armed with a wooden sword facing off against one of Sayeed’s Zakai. They were slowly circling each other, blades poised and ready to strike. Azár lunged first, the waster in her hand parried by the officer’s wooden blade. She pulled back, raising her practice sword to block the man’s attack. But she moved a second too slow—the officer’s wood blade connected with her chest. Azár jerked away with a growl, moving her waster back to high-ward.

  Darien exchanged glances with Sayeed. Azár’s movements were halting, her footwork clumsy. But her focus was intense. He had no doubt that, with time and practice, she could be quite competent with a sword. He came up behind her and grasped her sword arm, gently lowering her blade to mid-ward, and adjusted her grip.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Otherwise, he’ll just come in under your guard. Unless you’re trying to feint. But I wouldn’t worry about that just now.”

  Azár turned to him, lowering her waster to her side. She flashed him a confident smile.

  “Warden.” Her Zakai opponent saluted with his sword and then backed away.

  Darien nodded in acknowledgement. To Azár, he said, “If you wanted to learn the dance of the blade, you could have asked me.”

  Azár’s smile grew mischievous. “I wished to surprise my husband.”

  “I’m not surprised at all.” His wife was the most competent woman he’d ever known. Azár had the heart and spirit of a warrior, traits he found captivating. He took her by the hand, drawing her away. “Come. I need you as a witness.”

  She glanced at him with a bewildered expression, then turned to look suspiciously at Sayeed. The officer walked toward them carrying a large bowl in his hands, flanked by a grave-faced group of Zakai.

  “What is this?” Azár asked, tossing her practice sword on the ground.

  “Sayeed asked me to become his brother by blood,” Darien admitted. “I told him I’d be honored.”

  Azár beamed at him and kissed his cheek. “I am glad for you. You are too alone in this world.”

  Perhaps she was right. She usually was.

  “I need your dagger,” Sayeed said. He handed the bowl to a soldier at his side, then waited as his men spread out to encircle them. Darien glanced
around at the ring of witnesses, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. The officers stood at attention, their faces expressionless, as if they were witnessing some formal and weighty ceremony. He hadn’t realized Sayeed’s ritual would amount to such a solemn ordeal.

  Darien drew his dagger from its sheath and handed it to his First. Sayeed caught his forearm and forced his sleeve back to his elbow. Without hesitation, the officer drew a wide cut across Darien’s palm, slicing his skin. The wound didn’t bleed at first. But when the blood started, it flowed liberally down his arm.

  Sayeed handed Darien back his dagger then drew his own, pressing it into his hand. Without hesitation, Darien made a similar incision in Sayeed’s flesh. The officer sheathed his dagger and retrieved the bowl, which he used to collect their spilled blood. Another man stepped forward to add some wine to the pooling liquid. Darien’s stomach roiled, seeing the blood swirling around in the wine. To his disgust, Sayeed raised the bowl to his lips and took a great swallow, wiping his mouth.

  In a voice rigid with formality, Sayeed proclaimed, “Before the gods, I pledge my loyalty to this man, Darien Lauchlin of Amberlie, and take him into my heart as blood of my blood.”

  He passed the bowl to Darien. Darien stared down at the ghastly concoction, feeling his stomach tighten with nausea. Naia had forced him to drink from a chalice of his own blood to consummate his vow to her goddess. He still remembered the awful taste of it in his mouth.

  Holding his breath, Darien raised the bowl and let the thick, warm liquid run into his mouth. Gagging, he forced himself to swallow it down. The wine did little to cut the sharp metallic taste of the blood.

  Swallowing back bile, Darien stated gruffly, “Before the gods, I pledge my loyalty to this man, Sayeed son of Alborz, and take him into my heart as blood of my blood.”

  Hearing his words, the soldiers standing around finally let their discipline slip and let out a bellowing war cry. Sayeed swept forward and clapped Darien against his chest in an exuberant hug. At first, Darien recoiled from the touch. But he steadied himself and drew his wife in to include her in the embrace.