Darkrise Read online

  Darkrise

  Book Three

  1

  Darkening Dawn

  There’s a kind of promise the dark makes. Kyel Archer thought he remembered it well enough.

  He stared up at the ink-black slopes of the Shadowspears, at the ghostly lights that flickered in the clouds. His memories of this place were vivid with shadow. The darkness whispered at him from the gullies and ridges, echoed off the high mountain passes. Unfurled before him in the storm-tossed sky. Its vast emptiness raked dread into his heart, feeding his soul with trepidation.

  The dark that encased the Shadowspears promised only a legacy of sorrow. After a thousand years of conflict, that was all it had to give.

  He glanced at the gray-cloaked sentries warding the long stair ahead. It was not the same stair he remembered, just as Greystone Keep wasn’t the same fortress. It had evolved. The Pass of Lor-Gamorth had changed a great deal in the past two years.

  Below, he could make out the ruins of the old keep, now just a shattered and scorched foundation. The new stronghold lay farther up the ridge, perched high on the cliff. The new keep made better use of the natural defenses of the slopes, half-built and half-carved out of the mountainside itself.

  The steps to the keep were narrow, zig-zagging up the ridge. Kyel felt short of breath before their party was even halfway up; he wasn’t used to the elevation. Or the exercise. At his side, a weary Cadmus panted and gasped, grappling his considerable weight up the treacherous stair. Kyel felt sorry for the cleric. Cadmus hadn’t journeyed a step outside the Valley of the Gods in decades.

  It took their party long minutes to gain the entrance of the fortress: a narrow arch formed from hewn granite that opened into darkness. A tunnel leading straight back into the heart of the mountain itself.

  Kyel stopped to catch his breath, craning his neck to glance up. Far overhead, a high curtain wall skirted the summit of the ridge. There were no stairs that could be seen; the keep’s entrance must be buried somewhere deep within the rock. Kyel was impressed. Whoever had designed this new stronghold had intended it to be impregnable.

  He continued onward with Cadmus at his side, a small group of uniformed soldiers treading behind them. The Conclave had seen fit to provide him with five Guild blademasters to form his personal retinue, as deadly an honor guard as a man could wish for. Unfortunately, the swordsmen were a necessity.

  Kyel was, after all, the last surviving mage left in all the Rhen.

  He’d sworn a vow to serve his land and his people. He’d sworn another vow never to inflict harm upon a living thing. Those two oaths, each contradictory, nagged at Kyel every moment of every day. He could feel the oppression of their conflicting doctrine dragging him down, like iron counterweights dangling from his wrists.

  Within the tunnel, the dark descended with its promise of sorrow. Vibrant torchlight labored in vain to constrain the shadows, forming orange pools of flickering light. The flames did little more than illuminate the path beneath their feet. Kyel walked with his head bowed, hands clasped in front of him.

  The tunnel ended at a portcullis. They waited as soldiers labored to raise the iron grate, heaving on long chains suspended from a mechanism overhead. On the other side, a stairway veered upward, angling steeply.

  “Avoid the wood. Walk only on stone,” cautioned a Greystone sentry.

  Kyel nodded his understanding. Behind them, the portcullis lowered with the clattering whirl of chains racing through systems of pulleys. The stairs were made of steps arranged in alternating patterns of wood and stone. Kyel obeyed the sentry’s instructions, avoiding the boards and stepping only on the granite-hewn stairs. He didn’t know for certain what would happen if he missed a step, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine. Kyel had no wish to plummet to his death.

  The stairs emerged into a wide courtyard surrounded by crenelated towers and soaring palisades. The keep itself loomed before them, its imposing stone ending abruptly in a jagged array of blocks. The main fortress was left unfinished, Kyel realized with dismay.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the structure. It reminded him too much of the old Greystone Keep, with its crumbling rear wall and caved-in roof. The sight of the incomplete stronghold made his stomach clench in apprehension.

  “Great Master.”

  He turned to face the soldier who acted as his guide. The young man carried a hornbow slung across his back, a quiver strapped to his leg. Probably a conscript, Kyel presumed.

  “This way.”

  He motioned the young soldier forward, falling in behind. His gray-cloaked escort led them across the bailey to the castle’s upper ward. From there, they proceeded through a series of hallways to a rather unremarkable door on the second floor of the tower. The soldier he followed knocked twice.

  The door opened immediately.

  “Your men will need to wait outside,” the soldier said.

  Kyel nodded, signaling his guards. Then, gathering his courage, he stepped into the room.

  The first thing he saw was Traver’s narrow face, now covered by a wiry growth of whiskers. No longer lanky, Traver had the hardened body of an infantryman. Kyel’s mouth dropped open; he almost didn’t recognize his old friend. Before he knew what was happening, Traver crossed the room in two large strides and scooped Kyel up in his arms, hefting him off his feet.

  “You damnable fool!” Traver exclaimed, giving Kyel one last squeeze before setting him down again. “You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been!” He grinned wryly, a shaggy lock of auburn hair falling into his face. He flipped it back with a toss of his head.

  “I’m fine, Traver. Really.” Kyel made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. It was difficult. He was glad to see his old friend. But the sight of Traver was accompanied by a pang of sadness. He felt suddenly homesick. “How’ve you been?”

  “Well enough.” Traver grinned and raised his left hand, wiggling the three fingers he had left. “Except for this. But I rather think I’m better with half a hand than most men are with a whole one. Forces me to use my head.”

  The other man in the room shifted his weight conspicuously over his feet. Kyel turned toward the imposing form of Devlin Craig. Craig’s straw-gold hair was pulled back from his face, which was covered in what looked like a week’s growth of stubble. He wore a quilted gambeson that hung to his knees, an enormous sword strapped across his back. Kyel extended his hand, smiling at his former commanding officer.

  “Force Commander Craig.”

  “Archer.” Craig nodded curtly. His gaze travelled over Kyel, lingering for a moment on the black cloak that fell from his shoulders. His face conveyed a look of profound skepticism. He took a step forward and accepted Kyel’s handshake with a firm, double-fisted clasp.

  “Thanks for coming. We’ve got a problem.” His voice was low and gruff. Kyel could see the tension in his eyes.

  “I know.”

  Craig shook his head. “No. I don’t think you do.”

  Kyel frowned, uncertain what the soldier was alluding to.

  “Come with me.” Craig tossed his head, already moving past him.

  Kyel fell in behind, following Craig’s burly form as the man strode through the doorway, moving toward a flight of stairs. Kyel mounted the steps after him, jogging to keep up. He walked beside the commander up a spiraling staircase that ascended into the reaches of the unfinished tower.

  He trailed his hand along the wall as he climbed, at once taken back in time to the old Greystone Keep of his memory. The old fortress had a very similar stair that had led to Garret Proctor’s quarters at the top. This new tower preserved much of the same character, down to the arrow slits that followed the rising curve. Only, this tower ended halfway up. Kyel gasped as he realized he was standing on the last stair with
one foot already lifted off. One more step would have sent him over.

  Kyel flailed his arms, groping to catch himself on the unfinished wall at his side. Craig’s hand shot out and caught him by the scruff of his cloak, clenching a fistful of fabric. He jerked him roughly backward. Kyel dropped to his knees as the world surged beneath him.

  “Watch your step.”

  He rose, trying to catch his balance and his breath. Then, leaning over, he looked down over the unfinished portion of the wall. The view below was harrowing.

  Kyel’s vision swam as his stomach dropped right out of him. His palms broke into a sweat, toes curling in his boots. His eyes traced down the length of the tower, past the curtain wall and parapets, all the way down the side of the mountain. Before him rolled the sprawling black peaks of the Shadowspears stabbing out of a murky bank of fog. If it weren’t for the fog, he might have been able to see all the way down to the bottom of the pass. Perhaps all the way out into the Black Lands themselves.

  “Look.”

  Craig raised his arm, pointing out across the foggy sea below. Kyel tried to make out what the commander was trying to indicate, but there was nothing to see. Just thick, blanketing mist that extended like an ocean to the distant horizon.

  Then the mist parted.

  Kyel saw what the fog had been obscuring. Black, sinister forms arranged in geometric patterns extended across the dark plain ahead, no natural design. Fires glowed in the distance: thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. So many. Strangest of all, a set of dark, parallel lines, curving away toward the north.

  “Mother of the gods,” Kyel whispered. “What is all that?”

  “That,” Craig responded, lowering his hand, “is the Sixth Invasion. So far, they’re eighty thousand strong, with more arriving each day.”

  Kyel’s jaw sagged as he looked out across the fog. Below, cold fingers of mist trailed together to conceal the staging army. He turned away from the site, not wanting to see more. He looked down at the stone in front of his boots, instead. His heart beat furiously, tumbling within his chest. His nerves were cold. Numb. He felt unable to conjure an emotion.

  This is what Darien must have felt like.

  Kyel swallowed, slowly shaking his head as he worked his fingers together. He dug into the skin of his hand with a nail, finding the pain somewhat helpful. It gave him something else to focus on. Not that distraction was the answer. It wasn’t. There was no answer to the size of the army gathering beneath the fog below.

  “What do you expect of me?” Kyel asked, his words trembling under his breath. “What do you think I can do against that?”

  Craig stared at him, his face impassive. Then he reached out and snatched Kyel’s wrist. The burly man raked back his white cotton shirtsleeve, exposing the intricate markings of the chain engraved into Kyel’s wrist. The mark of the Oath of Harmony.

  “By my best guess, you’ve got less than a month to figure it out.”

  Craig dropped Kyel’s arm with a final glare and stormed away, his long strides carrying him quickly down the steps. Kyel rushed after him to catch up. He was too stunned to protest and too appalled to think clearly. At the bottom of the steps, he almost ran headlong into Craig’s back.

  The force commander turned toward him with a harsh expression, considering him wordlessly, as if he were sizing up a piece of meat. Kyel could do nothing but stare right back. He knew fear was etched into his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t bother to try to hide it. He knew he had every right to be afraid.

  Devlin Craig scowled and brought a hand up to rub his eyes. When he looked back again at Kyel, his expression was softer but even more unsettling. It spoke volumes of regret.

  “I’m sorry, Archer. I wouldn’t be doing this if I had any other choice. But I don’t. I promised myself years ago that I’d never do to you what Proctor did to Darien. But when all’s said and done, it comes down to this: you’re just another asset. No more, no less. Like all the rest of us here. And with the size of that army down there, I’m going to have to exploit every asset I can get my hands on.”

  Kyel’s throat tightened, hearing that. Now he knew how Darien must have felt, staring down at such a similar scene. Knowing that all he could give would never be enough. Knowing that he was defeated even before he began. And knowing that every man in the keep would be looking to him, seeing him as their one desperate chance to even the odds.

  Kyel’s shoulders slumped. He felt vaguely sick to his stomach. But he forced himself to gather his courage and look the commander straight in the eyes. “I’ll do all that I can. Anything you ask. Anything in my power. But I will not break Oath. That is where I draw the line. Do we have an understanding?”

  Devlin Craig’s eyes wandered over Kyel’s face for a long, silent moment. At last, he nodded. “I won’t ask that of you. You have my word: that is the one thing I won’t do.”

  Kyel stared back hard, searching the commander’s face. There was nothing in Craig’s gaze that gave him reason to doubt the man’s sincerity. Devlin Craig had remained loyal to Darien’s commitment to his Oath, standing by his decision even in the face of calamity.

  “Now. There’s something else you need to see.” Craig turned on heel, beckoning Kyel to his side. The young mage had to move quickly, working hard to keep pace with the man’s long strides. Craig spoke without looking at him as they crossed Greystone’s bailey past roving groups of cloaked men.

  “Two days ago, one of our patrols stumbled across a woman who escaped the Enemy. She’s not one of theirs … She’s one of ours. She’s the only person ever to walk back out of the Black Lands after walking into them. I’d like to get some information out of her. The only problem is, there’s not much of her left. I’m hoping you can help. At least heal her up enough to answer a few questions.”

  Healing wasn’t Kyel’s strong suit. Especially if this woman was as badly injured as Craig made her out to be. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He followed Craig toward a long building that looked like a barracks. Craig led him to one of the wooden doors and, nodding at the man who guarded it, stood back as the door swung open. The ceiling inside was low; Kyel had to duck as he entered. Inside, he groped through the dense shadows. When his gaze fell on the form of a woman on the floor, he froze.

  She was lying on her side, her hands clenched before her face. Her fingers were contorted, wrapped in stained rags that seeped blood and pus through the fibers. Kyel could smell the stench of her wounds. It turned his stomach: a putrid, sick-sweet odor.

  “She’s rotting,” he whispered, looking at Craig.

  The commander nodded. “Aye. I’ll get some of my men to carry her out of the node. I want you to see what you can do with her.”

  Kyel doubted he could do anything. On the floor, the woman moaned and thrashed. He didn’t have any idea what to do about this kind of injury. He’d never dealt with anything so severe on his own. Kneeling, he reached out to lift the fabric that obscured her face.

  He flinched back with a gasp.

  Kyel tried hard not to wretch. Beside him, Craig dropped to one knee, laying a steadying hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

  Kyel’s tongue didn’t want to work. He brought a hand up to his mouth, choking on horror.

  “Gods’ mercy,” he whispered. “It’s Meiran.”

  2

  In Darkness, There is Light

  Soft ribbons of magelight filtered down from the sky, unfurling in gentle, amber strands. Warm rays fell on Darien’s skin, delivering comfort like a summer day. A breeze stirred, moving the tall grass of the pasture, rustling the leaves overhead. The entire world was awash with roiling swirls of orange and gold.

  He sat beside Azár under the sprawling branches of an oak, one knee drawn up against his chest. His attention was captivated by a chestnut horse that loped in slow circles, roaming the confines of its enclosure. The stallion tossed its head and bucked, muscles rippling beneath its coat. With a snort, the animal bolt
ed in the opposite direction, turning only when it reached the fence line. It moved in easy circles around the pen, the sound of its hoofbeats marking time to the wind. Darien watched, enthralled by such display of power tempered by grace.

  A soft breeze chased his hair. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that he was someplace far away. If he tried very hard, he could almost imagine he was home.

  To the woman sitting beside him, he asked, “What would you do if you woke up one morning and realized that everything you believed was all just a lie? That everything you thought was right was actually wrong? Would you think you’d gone insane?”

  The question had been rhetorical; he was surprised when she answered.

  “I’d thank the gods for opening my eyes.”

  Her words came from a startling perspective. Darien turned to look at her as if seeing her for the first time. What he saw surprised him. When he looked into Azár’s face, he saw beauty. Wild, untamed grace like the kind on display in the paddock before them. Despite the golden warmth of the magelight, Darien felt abruptly cold.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he confessed.

  Azár scooted toward him and brought a hand up to touch his face. She leaned forward, staring into his eyes. “Then believe in me.”

  Darien bowed his head. The cold settled further into his bones, became a disturbing sensation. It took him a moment to recognize it as fear. It numbed him. Paralyzed him. The feel of her touch was too much, too soon. Too raw. He didn’t want anything to do with it.

  He felt her soft lips against his, questioning.

  The fear welled into panic. He broke off the kiss, wrenching his face away. “I can’t do this.”

  “Then don’t.” Azár shrugged, pulling away.

  Darien collapsed back against the tree, dazing up at the silhouette of oak leaves twirling against a background of golden light. Confusion nettled him, a violent storm of conflicting emotions.