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  Darkfall

  Book Four

  1

  Dawnbreak

  Not all fires burn hot. The fires in Darien’s heart raged like a cataclysm of ice, consuming everything he was, everything he’d been. All that he’d ever hoped to be.

  He stood at the edge of the Black Lands, at the furthest extremity of the Rhen. A place where the sea of darkness behind him lapped against the promise of sunlight. As he gazed out across rolling foothills garbed in shadow, he realized the only thing left ahead of him was an end. He wasn’t sure what that end would entail, or what it would look like. He only knew it would be final. And he looked forward to that finality.

  Winding behind him through the Pass snaked a ragtag collection of survivors. Survivors who had, for a thousand years, forged an existence beneath the oppression of everlasting night. He wondered how they would endure under the glaring judgment of the sun. The thought bothered him, crippling his mind until it ground to a halt. He put the question aside, focusing instead on the vast, empty darkness below, a plain that stretched to the distant horizon, broader than eternity. And the spatters of light that glowed like fireflies, creeping out across the sprawling night.

  The campfires of two armies awaited them below.

  Darien sat down on a boulder. He looked up into the brilliant face of a full moon gliding toward the zenith of the sky, a sky more wondrous than any he remembered. No longer did the savage clouds rage and rush toward the horizon. High above stretched a starry grandeur he’d failed to appreciate until those pinpoint lights had flickered out, shadowed by the cursed darkness that plagued the world he’d left behind.

  Below, the glow of campfires danced and taunted, beckoning like a siren’s song. He knew better than to heed that call. It was what his enemy wanted: to lure them out from the protective walls of the canyon, to rush blindly into defeat. The Rhen’s commanders had chosen their positions with slaughter in mind. Darien couldn’t usher his own forces onto the plain without sacrificing the whole of his vanguard. Perhaps most of his army. Looking down, he could easily envision the mounded corpses that would collect and obstruct the mouth of the Pass. They would be forced to scale that gruesome wall. Then the enemy archers could pick them off at will.

  It wouldn’t even be a fight. It would be a massacre.

  No, a sortie into the thick of the encampment was not an option. Without a miracle, they were pinned.

  Perhaps he could provide that miracle.

  The gravelly sounds of footsteps approached from behind. Darien didn’t need to look to know that it was Sayeed; he had the distinct sound of the man’s stride memorized. No other could replicate it; Darien would know the difference. When the officer drew up behind him, he turned and gazed up into the bearded face of his friend, his brother. The careworn look in Sayeed’s eyes should have given Darien pause. But it didn’t. He turned back around, looking out across the plain, considering the myriad campfires and their dire implications.

  Sayeed bowed. “They have combined the armies of two nations into a single defensive force,” he reported. “They have positioned archers and infantry to guard the mouth of the Pass.”

  “What do you need?” Darien sat gazing downward at the plain, his long hair stirring in the breeze.

  There was a crunching noise as Sayeed shifted his weight. “We need a way of punching through their front ranks. Of creating a breach.”

  Darien nodded. He’d been thinking the same thing.

  “I’ll do it,” he decided. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and turned to face his senior officer.

  The man instantly threw his hands up as if trying to ward him off. “No, Brother. It is too dangerous—”

  Darien shook his head, already moving past him. “No. It’s not.”

  Sayeed rushed to catch up, but before he could protest further, Darien said, “I’ll push their line back away from the mouth of the Pass. Send the infantry in after me. For every man that falls, have another ready to replace him.”

  He expected the Zakai officer to protest, but to his surprise, Sayeed didn’t respond. He fell in beside Darien, matching him stride for stride as they descended the trail toward the bottom of the Pass. To where his forces huddled in the cold without enough fuel to build fires of their own, with empty bellies and determined minds, and a tenacious faith that remained unfaltering.

  They reached the trail that meandered along the river bottom. On this side of the mountain divide, the flagging river trickled downhill toward the plain ahead. They followed the path along the watercourse past lines of hunkering soldiers, toward the forefront of the ranks. There Darien paused, gazing out through the narrow gap in the cliffs that formed the gateway to the Rhen. A gateway that now stood barred by forty thousand soldiers eager to deliver them to their deaths.

  He pulled on his threadbare gloves, flexing his fingers. He drew the scimitar he wore at his waist, offering it to Sayeed, who received the blade gravely with both hands. Then he turned and, squaring his shoulders, strode forward.

  “Husband.”

  Darien stopped with a sigh, closing his eyes. He didn’t turn around. Instead, he bowed his head in defeat, waiting as Azár approached from behind.

  “You promised. Never again.” Her voice was as cold and flat as lead.

  “So I did.”

  He turned and looked at her. His wife stood with her hands at her sides, her expression resentful. She had every right to be angry. He had betrayed Azár’s trust and left her behind. It had been for her protection, but that hardly mattered. She’d made it abundantly clear that he would never repeat the mistake.

  Darien had been born and raised a fighting man. He knew when he was beaten.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to teach you some lessons. Perhaps now’s the time for it.”

  He offered his hand. Azár stepped forward and took it, gazing upward into his face. The look in her eyes was fierce, daunting.

  “Where you go, I go,” she reminded him.

  Darien nodded, internalizing her words. Turning back toward the mouth of the Pass, he started forward, hand in hand with his wife.

  “Lord! Your armor!” Sayeed rushed forward.

  Darien waved him away. “I don’t need it. Have the infantry ready. This won’t take long.”

  Behind him, the men were already rising to their feet, reaching for their weapons. He could feel their eyes on his back. He ignored them and kept walking. He raised his wife’s soft hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her skin.

  “Feel through me,” he said. “You’ll have only a short while, and there’s an awful lot to learn. Besides, I might need your help.”

  Azár looked at him and smiled, her eyes brimming with pride. “You won’t need my help. My husband is the most dangerous man ever to walk the world.”

  “No,” Darien said, softly, surely. “I’m not.”

  Hoyte Griswalt shivered in the cold. The small fire he’d built wasn’t nearly enough to overcome the wintry chill that stiffened his joints and numbed his bones. His breath clouded the air before his face, his toes aching like open sores in his boots. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold, not so far north or this late in the season. He understood weather; he’d plowed a field far more years than he’d taken coin to serve in the royal army. Weather was something he considered himself attuned to, something predictable most of the time. But this weather … it wasn’t natural. Hoyte could swear there was something wrong with the wind. Or wrong with the world.

  He leaned forward to warm his fingers over the dying coals of the fire, careful not to stress the longbow lying across his lap. He grimaced as feeling shot back into his hands along with a bone-throbbing ache. The fingerless gloves he wore did precious little good. He rubbed his hands together and brought his palms up to h
is face, blowing warmth into them.

  “Fuck, it’s cold,” said Moss. He sat across the fire from Hoyte, hunched forward with a tattered blanket slung over his shoulders, warming his hands.

  Hoyte envied Moss that blanket, just as he envied the man’s thick beard. His own cheeks would only sprout a few patches of sparse whiskers, a family trait that never failed to rankle him. His boyish face had gotten him teased aplenty in his youth. It was even more of a curse now. A right good beard like Moss sported would go a long way toward warming his face. He reached up, running aching fingers over the pathetic growth on his chin.

  “Damn fuckin’ cold,” Pinkston agreed, and spat into the fire. The glob of spittle hissed when it hit the coals. It was one of Pinkston’s many talents. He could spit farther than any man in their company, and with acute precision every time. He was also the best bowman Hoyte knew. He had arms like an oak, and a calm steadiness Hoyte envied more than Moss’ blanket.

  “How long do you think we’re gonna sit here?” Flem asked, worrying at a strip of jerky with perfect yellow teeth. He was the only man Hoyte knew with straight teeth. Even if the two front ones were big enough to remind him of a jackrabbit’s grin. Flem finally tore off a bite, his jaw working slowly in a circular motion, popping as he chewed. Hoyte hated that sound. A man’s jaw shouldn’t pop like that. It wasn’t right.

  “We’ll sit here however long it takes.” Hoyte picked up a thatch of dry grass from a pile behind him and tossed it into the fire. The flames flared up for a moment with a puff of white smoke.

  “Why’d you fuckin’ do that?” Pinkston said, sitting up. “You know I fuckin’ hate it.”

  Hoyte shrugged. He couldn’t care less what Pinkston hated. He thought about tossing another handful of grass just to piss him off. Instead he turned to Moss and said, “Any more of those beans left?”

  “Naw. All that’s left’s a few strips of meat.”

  “I’ll take it, then. Give here.”

  “Tastes like dog,” Flem warned, still chewing his mouthful like a cud, jaw popping with every bite.

  Hoyte shot him a glare, leaning forward to snatch the leathery strip from Moss’ hand. He tore off a bite and started chewing.

  “I’m gonna take a piss,” Pinkston said and stood up. He dusted off his pants then started walking away from the glow of the campfire. Hoyte listened to the sound of his footsteps trudging away.

  The footsteps stopped abruptly.

  “The fuck is that?”

  Moss and Flem rose, clutching their bows. Hoyte frowned, wondering if it was worth getting up. He supposed it might be. With a groan, he pushed his stiff body off the ground, his joints popping like Flem’s jaw. He worked his shoulders, trying to stretch some of the stiffness out of them. Holding his bow at his side, he walked over to where Pinkston stood staring out across the prairie with a slack mouth. He followed the man’s gaze into the shadowy night. He didn’t see a damn thing.

  “What?”

  Pinkston raised a gloved hand, pointing in the direction of the mountains. “That.”

  Moss and Flem drew up next to them, Flem swallowing his meat noisily. Hoyte stared across the grassland, which glowed like a silver sea under the full moon. Ahead, the foothills of the Shadowspears rolled away toward a jagged wall of darkness. The mountains towered over them as if holding up the sky. Hoyte’s eyes traced the slopes of the foothills before focusing on the prairie. At the forms moving toward them through the night.

  “What the hell?”

  A man and a woman walked through the high grass, holding hands as if out for a moonlight stroll. A stroll through a kill zone.

  “The fuck,” observed Moss.

  He exchanged a flummoxed glance with Pinkston, who shrugged hugely, shaking his head. All around, soldiers surged to their feet, fumbled for their weapons. Hoyte calmly looped his bowstring around the notch at the end of the shaft. Then he withdrew a handful of clothyard arrows, thrusting them into the ground at his feet.

  “Ready your bows!” the captain bellowed from behind them.

  Hoyte grabbed an arrow and raised his bow, angling it upward as his eyes fixed on the approaching man and woman. Neither wore armor, and they didn’t appear to be armed.

  What the hell?

  “Hold!”

  Hoyte froze, eyes fixed on the two people closing the gap of prairie toward their ranks. No, they weren’t people, he chided himself. They were the Enemy.

  “Emissaries?” Moss guessed.

  Hoyte figured he might be right, though neither held a token of parley. It was possible they had come to negotiate. Apparently, the generals felt the same. Hoyte awaited the order to loose his shaft, but it didn’t come.

  The ranks bowed inward and opened up, admitting the man and woman into their midst. Archers swiveled to track their advance. Hoyte growled, realizing he now stood with his missile aimed at the company of bowmen across the gap. If the envoys proved treacherous, he was more likely to hit his own men than either of his marks. It was a bad situation, and he didn’t like it.

  “Hold!” the order came again.

  Pinkston cursed under his breath, bow sagging at his side. Hoyte glared sidelong at him. “What?”

  “It’s him,” Pinkston gasped, his eyes going wide. “Oh, gods, it’s fucking him!”

  “Who the fuck’s ‘him?’” Moss demanded.

  Hoyte felt his bowels loosen as he realized what Pinkston was trying to tell them. “Lauchlin?”

  Pinkston stood there, head bobbing on his neck. Then he jerked into action, nocking an arrow as Hoyte had done. Flem stared ahead dumbly, his bow hanging slack at his waist.

  “Draw!”

  The shout confirmed Hoyte’s worst fear. His eyes narrowed at the black-haired demon that had inserted himself into their midst. The man was still walking, deep inside their spreading ranks, holding the hand of a small woman whose eyes blazed with eager flames. Hoyte drew his bowstring back.

  “Loose!”

  Hoyte let the bowstring sing. He had another arrow nocked before the first had time to reach its target. He let the second missile fly as the first grouping of arrows shattered in a whiplash blast of air.

  Screams and shouts drowned out bellowing orders as the ranks collapsed backward. Hoyte stooped to snatch up his remaining arrows, backing away as quickly as he could. From every side, men jostled and bumped against him in their eagerness to retreat.

  A raging firestorm erupted behind them, followed by the awful sound of screams. Hoyte glanced behind to see an inferno gushing toward them from the center of the camp.

  The men at his back scrambled forward in terror, shoving Hoyte against the men in front of him. Pinned on all sides, Hoyte dropped his bow and used his elbows to batter his way through the frantic mob. He glanced about desperately for Moss and Pinkston, but they were lost in the surging mass.

  Another firestorm exploded only a short distance away. Hoyte felt the heat of it sear his face. Men and parts of men shot high into the air, raining down on those still fighting to escape. The roaring of flames drowned out the sound of screams, as more explosions erupted all around, guts and gore and severed limbs pelting down like battering hail.

  Hoyte fought to keep his feet, terror driving him away from the exploding horror. He was shoved, punched, clawed, squeezed, and bludgeoned at every step. He fought his way forward, every inch of ground seeming a mile, as men on every side tried to push past or climb over the struggling mass ahead. Hoyte stumbled over corpses that lay trampled beneath the rage of feet. Soon he couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The weight of soldiers around him crushed his arms against his ribs.

  Hoyte would have howled in pain, but he couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs to do it. He felt his ribs cracking. His legs gave out from under him. He should have fallen, but he was held upright by the sheer force of the surging masses.

  A roiling furnace blasted him full in the face, ripping him out of the crowd and flinging him backward and up. He hit the ground hard, scre
aming in shock and pain. His arms scrambled feebly as he tried to lift himself up, but he couldn’t get any traction with his legs.

  He fought to raise his head from the ground and looked down at his body. At first, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Then came understanding, along with horror. The last thing Hoyte saw as his vision dimmed was his charred backbone protruding from under his ribs, where his middle used to be.

  2

  Aftermath

  Darien glanced up at the star-scattered night that stretched on forever overhead. There were no clouds to darken the sky; it hadn’t rained anytime recently. And yet, everywhere he stepped, the ground was slick with mud. He scraped the toe of his boot across the mucky soil and watched the furrow he’d created fill quickly with blood.

  The smell was the worst. It rose from the mounds of smoldering corpses, borne across the battlefield by the smoke-fed air. Everywhere he looked, he saw the charred remains of fallen soldiers and horses. Some whole. Most not. The stench was nauseating. The smell of charred human was growing all too familiar. He’d smelled too much of it, too recently. It had a distinctive, sweet aroma. Roasted human smelled like roasted pork, except on a battlefield. There, mingled with the stench of blood and bowel, it was horrifically worse.

  Especially when the burnt corpses were of his own making. And his own kinfolk.

  The sounds of dying came from every direction and no direction, carried toward him on the air. Anguished moans and desperate weeping. All punctuated by raw, staccato shrieks, as knives worked tirelessly to open throats. His men ranged across the battlefield, sifting and prying through heaps of flesh in search of wounded. Those mortally injured were freed from their pain. Those who stood a chance of surviving were carried back to the encampment. Wounded soldiers of the Rhen were put to the knife, without exception.

  Another ghastly shriek cut sharply through the smoke and stench. The sound made Darien’s stomach tighten. He stood staring out across the carnage, contemplating the atrocity he had committed. He’d massacred thousands in just minutes, as he had done at Orien’s Finger. Only, this time, he had slaughtered the same people he’d once sworn to defend. The thought dredged up waves of guilt he couldn’t afford to feel. Guilt served no strategic purpose on a battlefield.