Death was imminent.
Where was the magic power?
43.
Then, suddenly, just as it had on that day when the flooded river threatened to drag Emi to her death, the sun dimmed.
The breeze died.
The rumbling sound of the horses’ hooves faded.
Silence fell upon the world.
All movement ground to a halt, including the armored men and their horses that, moments ago, had meant to shred Brenyn with their lances and trod him to his death beneath the hooves of their mounts. Unmoving, the large forms of the horses and their riders loomed above him in the strange mid-day twilight.
With the world gone suddenly dim and silent, Brenyn stood still while his heart pounded wildly in his chest, and drew in a deep, calming breath. Then he examined the mounted men to his front.
Their mounts, nostrils flared, were frozen in mid-stride, and the men on their backs sat them like statues, silent and motionless.
The strange power, bequeathed to his blood by his mother, had come to his aid once more, stopping time and stilling the world.
Brenyn drew in another deep breath and studied Gatison.
The prince of Durovia and self-styled conqueror of Magnus stared straight at Brenyn, his iron gaze devoid of expression. He seemed to Brenyn’s discerning gaze like a man who pitied no one, who cared nothing for the trials of those he ground under the boots of his army.
Anger coalesced within him.
Though a great amount of that anger was directed at this merciless man whose legions had destroyed the might of Magnus and laid waste to its cities and towns, most of that fury had as its object those wicked creatures who allowed men like Gatison to ravage their neighbors and even goaded them to do so.
And that anger spurred him to action.
Brenyn moved forward. He knew not how long the power that had stopped time would hold sway.
He needed to move quickly.
Coming next to Gatison’s mount, he pried the reins from the prince’s gauntleted fingers and then dragged the motionless and helpless man from his horse. He found him peculiarly heavy and difficult to manage. Some of the weight, he knew, arose from the heavy armor in which the prince was clad. Much of it, however, resulted from the fact that the magic in Brenyn’s blood had stopped the world, rendering him a veritable zephyr in a world of substance and solidity, causing every task to grow more cumbersome.
The prince’s body was frozen in a seated position, making him even more difficult to move. Taking hold of the prince’s booted feet, Brenyn laboriously dragged him westward along the roadway, away from his army, the prince’s armor sliding upon the pavement until, after several minutes, he had pulled him perhaps a hundred paces along the road.
Once he felt that he had gained sufficient distance from the other frozen riders, he positioned Gatison upon the pavement so that he lay upon his back with his legs bent in the air above his body and his steely gaze staring upward.
Then, drawing his sword and placing his boot upon the breastplate at the center of Gatison’s chest, Brenyn waited for time to begin again. As he waited, he looked around and examined the state of the world while it was locked in the embrace of this strange magic that he had inherited in his blood and that came to his aid at its own volition.
All was silent, and it was as if a great cloud had come over the sun, for the world was darkened. Colors seemed to have faded; everything was cast in various shades of gray.
Whatever it was that allowed him to effectively step outside of time for a few moments, Brenyn did not know – nor did he know how long the moment would last, or what it was that would occur to catalyze time to restart itself once more.
Moments passed while he waited, and in those moments, his heart gradually slowed, and his breathing normalized. Then, rather abruptly, the sun began to brighten, and the breeze picked up and rustled through the long grasses that grew beside the road.
The sound of horses’ hooves arose once more, accompanied by sudden shouts of alarm. In that same moment, underneath the pressure of Brenyn’s boot, Prince Gatison’s body convulsed, his arms and legs flailed wildly, and he shouted in shock and surprise. Then, finding his life threatened by Brenyn’s sword, he stiffened, staring up in stunned, wide-eyed, and disoriented astonishment at the man who, but an instant before, he had been intent on riding down. Now, the tip of that man’s sword was pressed against his throat as he lay, inexplicably, helpless upon the stone pavement.
Without taking his gaze off Gatison, Brenyn held up one hand, palm outward, in the direction of the approaching horsemen. But they were already reining in their mounts, staring in confusion at the suddenly empty saddle upon the back of their prince’s horse and then at the sight of that same prince appearing many paces away upon the roadway with the stranger’s sword at his throat.
Gatison, prone upon the roadway and in a state of shocked confusion, placed his hands upon the pavement as if to attempt to rise, but Brenyn pressed the tip of his sword against his throat and shook his head.
“Move – and you will die here and now,” he told the prince in quiet, yet harsh tones.
Gatison stared up at him. “What did you –? – how? – who are you?”
Brenyn ignored that. “You are Gatison of Durovia, are you not?” He asked.
Gatison studied him in silence, the expression of confusion slowly draining from his face. In his eyes, surprisingly, Brenyn saw little, if any, fear, only shock and disbelief. Whatever else he was, Prince Gatison of Durovia was not easily cowed. Even so, though he did not understand how it had occurred, he clearly understood that his life was utterly in the hands of the strange, gray-eyed man who stood over him with sword drawn.
“I am Gatison,” he affirmed.
He stared up at Brenyn for a long moment. “Who are you? – how did you –? – who are you?”
Brenyn gazed down without expression. “As I told you, Your Highness – I am death.”
Gatison narrowed his eyes. “My death?” He asked.
“Death,” Brenyn replied.
Gatison frowned at this and once more attempted to rise, but Brenyn increased the pressure upon the point of his sword as he shook his head. His voice took on a hard, if quiet, edge. “Seek your death here, Your Highness, and you will find it.”
Gatison lay back, staring up at Brenyn. “What are you, truly? – a wizard? – sorcerer?”
“If you like,” Brenyn answered, “though neither of those, when ascribed to me, is accurate. What I am matters not – it is that which I can do that must concentrate your mind in this moment, Your Highness. For I can slay you in this moment, or in any moment of my choosing.”
Caution, and a sharp awareness of the unmistakable truth of Brenyn’s words darkened Gatison’s eyes. He drew in a long deep breath. “What do you want of me?”
“Do you wish to live?” Brenyn asked.
“I do.”
“Then you must leave the land of Magnus – at once – with all your forces,” Brenyn told him. “Do this, and you will live.” He hardened his voice once more. “Do it not, and you will all die – today – you, and every man that followed you here.”
Silence fell for a long moment while Gatison, helpless, his life fully in another’s hands, stared up into Brenyn’s hard gaze.
Then;
“I did not start this war,” Gatison protested, “nor can the fault be laid to any that are allied with me. It was Shammed that invaded our land, causing death and ruin.” His own gaze narrowed. “And you – with such power in your control – whether you be a god or a wizard, or death itself, as you claim – you will take the side of that charlatan prince?”
Brenyn shook his head. “Shammed is dead, hanged by his own people in the square before the palace in Veir. Johan, son of Jasiel, the true blood prince, will now sit the throne of Magnus. And you will find Prince Johan, if not a friend, at least a good neighbor, one who will willingly dwell in peace with you.” He leaned forward and spoke low and harsh. “And if he does not
find you so, then I – death – will surely come for you. What say you, Your Highness?”
Gatison digested this in silence for a few moments before he gave his reply. “I know not this Johan,” he answered, “but I will live in peace with any that will do the same with me.”
“And your armies?” Brenyn persisted.
Gatison breathed in deep and let it out. “We will turn away this day and march for our homes.”
“You swear this?”
An expression of shrewdness found Gatison’s eyes. “I doubt not that you will watch to make certain that it is done,” he replied.
“Just so,” Brenyn answered. He met the prince’s gaze for a moment longer and then straightened up, sheathed his sword, and removed his boot from Gatison’s chest. Stepping back, he held out his hand to help lift the prince to his feet. Gatison hesitated only a moment and then took the proffered hand, wincing, and frowning at the tingle of strange power. Once upon his feet, Gatison looked around, regaining his bearings after his sudden and inexplicable displacement, and staring for a long moment in the direction of his column, still motionless, watching them from a distance of perhaps a hundred paces. Then he looked back at Brenyn.
“Will you tell me who you are?” He asked.
“My name is Brenyn Vagus,” Brenyn replied.
“And what are you, Brenyn Vagus?”
Brenyn’s gaze grew cold. “I am a slayer of darkings.”
The astonishment that came upon Prince Gatison’s face at that declaration was stronger than that which had existed there in the first moments after Brenyn had snatched him from his mount and bore him out of time. “No one can slay darkings,” he protested, “not even you, surely.”
But then, a light flickered into life in the depths of his eyes as he considered that which had happened to him during the last few moments. “Have you slain darkings?” He asked. “Truly?”
“I have slain four, including a darking lord,” Brenyn told him coldly, “and I mean to slay them all ere I am done.”
Gatison’s gaze flew wide. “Truly? – you swear this?”
“Truly,” Brenyn assured him. “Know this, Your Highness, when Prince Johan sits safely upon his rightful throne, I will come to Durovia – none will prevent me – and if there be darkings there, they will die at my hand.”
Gatison studied him for a moment and then nodded slowly. “If you can slay darkings, Brenyn Vagus, none will prevent you; you will be welcome in Durovia.” His gaze narrowed. “You have slain a lord? – a red darking?”
“I have.”
Prince Gatison’s demeanor, which, until then had consisted of cautious yet hostile confusion, changed utterly.
He gazed at Brenyn with a different light in his eyes. “If you can slay darkings,” he stated, “then you can alter the world for good – and remove the foul creatures that have wrought war and death and ruin throughout all lands.” He watched Brenyn closely with his hard and narrowed gaze. “Is this your intent, Brenyn Vagus?”
“It is.”
Gatison inclined his head. “Then you will find me a friend – indeed, an ally, if one is needed. Whatever you ask of me, I will do.”
“I ask only this,” Brenyn replied. “Go not to war with your neighbors, make peace and maintain it. Should darkings come, see that I know of it, and I will come and slay them.”
Gatison frowned at that. “But how can I see that you know of their coming? How will I find you?”
Brenyn lifted his hand and swept it around from east to west. “I mean to travel throughout all the lands that surround Magnus – from Durovia to Merkland and beyond. Johan of Magnus, Taumus of Merkland, or Garren of Fralun – someone will have knowledge of me. Send word to any of these princes and the rumor of the darking will find me and I will come.” He held up a hand of warning. “Do not resist the will of those foul creatures, should they come to your hall, but delay where and when you can as you send word to those other princes – men that you will find helpful, even amenable – and I will hear of it and come.”
Gatison nodded. “I will do as you say, Brenyn Vagus.”
At that, Brenyn stepped away and indicated the prince’s waiting army. “Then go, Your Highness, back to your own land. When you can, send an emissary to Johan, Prince of Magnus. He will hear you and will respond with peaceful intent.”
Gatison did not move but glanced back toward the east and then turned once more to address Brenyn. “There is a field of battle not ten leagues east of where we now stand,” he said.
Frowning, Brenyn watched him but did not speak.
Gatison drew in another deep breath. “Our dead, we buried there. We noted the names of all we could that their families might know of their fate.” He shook his head with regret. “Many are the dead of Magnus that yet lie there, unburied.”
He glanced up into the sky. “The sun has shone upon them, but the days have been cool.” He looked back at Brenyn. “If Prince Johan were to go to that place with their commanders – soon – their names might yet be known ere they are buried,” he suggested.
Brenyn nodded his comprehension. “I will tell him.”
Gatison turned and walked a pace away and then halted and looked back. “I am a man of honor and of my word, Brenyn Vagus. I will do as I have promised.”
“Then I am glad to know you, Your Highness.”
Gatison met his gaze for a moment longer, nodded, and then turned toward his waiting army, raising a hand to motion them to come to him. Brenyn watched him go and then turned away also, walking westward.
Murlet and the rest of the company came pounding up to him a few minutes later. Murlet reined in his horse and looked toward the east, where Gatison and his mounted companions had turned their horses and were riding eastward along either side of the vast column of his army which was also turning its back in preparation to march out of Magnus. Then he looked at Brenyn.
“They are quitting Magnus?”
Brenyn nodded. “The war is ended.”
Murlet stared at him as he shook his head in wonder. “You amaze me yet again, my friend.” He handed Noris’ reins to him and then waited until Brenyn had mounted up. Glancing eastward once more at the retreating host of Gatison and his allies, he looked back. “How do you do these things, my friend?” He wondered. “What are you, Brenyn?”
Brenyn watched the distant column as it turned away and began its long march out of Magnus.
He shook his head.
“I do not know.”
44.
After Gatison and his armies turned away from threatening Veir, Johan, now the prince of Magnus – though without ceremony except for the recognition granted him by the few dozen men that had followed him into the east – and aided by those same men and Brenyn, worked to restore the peace. Johan led the band eastward once more until they came to where the last battle had been fought and found it as Gatison had described to Brenyn.
The battle had been fought upon the top of a long, low ridge, surrounded by burned and abandoned farms, and, judging by the disposition of the dead, had spread toward the west as the army of Magnus disintegrated and fled the field, pursued by the victors.
Dead bodies, contorted, savaged, and swollen, beginning to blacken beneath the eye of the sun, lay all about.
The odor of death pervaded everything.
Accompanied by Brenyn and Kristo, Johan walked among them. After a time, he halted and shook his head.
“I see none that are known to me,” he said. “Nor,” he went on, “do I think they might be easily identified, after lying for so long upon the earth, even by those to whom they are known.”
He looked at Kristo, his eyes filled with sadness. “They must be numbered,” he said, “and then buried. We must discover their names by identifying those men that came to this battle and did not return to their families. What else may be done?”
Kristo nodded in sorrowful agreement. “Only time may tell who it is that we place into this earth,” he admitted.
An
d so, the former mercenary band, under direction of their captain, now prince of the land of Magnus, labored for eight days to bury men unknown to them – men that had fought and died in yet another of the pointless wars that plagued the earth.
Afterward, they returned to Veir and commenced working to bring order to that grand city once more. Shammed and his counselors were cut down and buried outside the city, the gibbet upon which they met their end was demolished, and the wreckage inside the hall was gradually cleared away.
As the rumor spread that Gatison had retreated, scattered small groups of soldiers began to find their way to the city to check on the veracity of the reports. These men, Prince Johan swore to allegiance and then pressed into service. Horses were found for those that were not mounted and they were sent to spread the news across the land that the citizens of Magnus that had been displaced by the war could return to their homes and take up their lives once more.
A trickle of refugees began to return; and then, as if the tide had turned, the trickle became a flood as the citizens that had fled the city found their way back home, both inside Veir itself and out onto the prairie beyond, to the east. Those that were older and remembered Johan’s father were glad to see Jasiel’s son upon the throne of their land. Those that were younger simply accepted that the tyranny of Shammed was at an end and that a more amenable ruler would now govern the land of Magnus.
Whatever their private thoughts on the altered state of their government, all were glad that this new prince – and a wizard that was apparently in his employ – had ended the bloody war.
As interested as they were in the character of their new prince – who, they were assured by those old enough to know, was a true blood prince – they were even more intrigued by the rumors surrounding the wizard that had accompanied him out of the west.
When it became widely known that this Brenyn Vagus, the companion of their prince, was also the darking slayer, the rumor of whom had also now come to them, it imparted to them a curious sense of being protected – not just from invading armies but from the masked fiends that had ravaged their earth. And because the darking slayer answered to their prince, his presence in their land lent an increased measure of legitimacy to the new prince as well.
A Plague of Ruin: Book One: Son of Two Bloods Page 40