Darkrise Page 5

  “Sinan is the soldier whose duty it is to teach you the hijaz attack.”

  Darien glanced at the young Tanisar by his lonely campfire. “I don’t understand. How can that boy teach me anything?”

  “Ask him.”

  Darien didn’t want to ask. He swallowed against a knot of despair in his throat, feeling the last of his resistance crumbling away. He knew when he was beaten. There was no use in putting up a fight; with Thar’gon in his hand, Connel was far too powerful.

  Heart pounding in his chest, Darien walked toward the first man in line.

  He regarded the soldier before him: a young man with dark, shoulder-length hair and a prominent nose. There was no trace of struggle nor sadness in the soldier’s eyes; only a calm, determined strength. The man dipped his head in greeting.

  “Lord, I am Sinan son of Semal. It is my honor to teach you the attack known as hijaz. It is a very complex attack to master, I am told, so you must pay very careful attention.”

  Darien blinked, gazing deeply into Sinan’s dark eyes. The young man was rattling off a prepared statement, something he’d been made to memorize. It had the distinctive formula of a ritualized speech.

  “The hijaz, if performed correctly, will cause the body of a victim to explode. This is a very effective tactic for spreading fear to demoralize your enemy. Darien Nach’tier, please allow me the honor of teaching you the hijaz attack.”

  Darien swallowed, his mouth filling with the sour taste of acid. He brought his hands up, gripping the man’s shoulders. “Your name is Sinan son of Semal?”

  The soldier nodded. “It is, Lord.”

  Darien closed his eyes, clenching his teeth against the ache of horror.

  “I don’t want you to teach me this, Sinan.”

  The young man regarded him with an expression akin to sympathy. “I am sorry, Lord. It is my duty.”

  Darien released Sinan’s shoulders, glaring his hatred back at Connel.

  “Don’t make me do this.”

  The Battlemage stepped forward, taking Darien’s hand in his. “Feel through me.”

  There was absolutely no emotion in his voice. Darien could feel his hand shaking in Connel’s grip. His whole arm trembled. He closed his eyes, opening himself to Connel’s link. Instantly, he felt inside of Sinan. He could feel the pressure of the young man’s blood as if feeling his own veins. It pulsed and throbbed, swelling in volume with every heartbeat.

  “Please. Don’t.”

  He could feel what Connel was doing with his mind. Increasing the pressure of the blood against Sinan’s arteries, at the same time applying a counterpressure that kept the system in balance. He could hear Sinan groaning as the pain became unbearable.

  “Do you feel it?” Connel asked.

  Darien grimaced. He felt it. It was awful. He could feel Sinan’s blood on the verge of boiling. The soldier in front of him collapsed to his knees, throwing his head back as he moaned in tortured anguish.

  “Do you feel it?”

  Darien nodded, clenching his teeth. “Aye.”

  “Then finish it.”

  “I can’t,” Darien gasped, shaking in revulsion.

  Byron Connel leaned forward and growled in his face, “Don’t let him suffer!”

  Darien stroked Sinan’s body with his mind. He released the counterpressure Connel had applied to contain the man’s raging blood.

  Sinan exploded in a showering rain of gore.

  Darien shielded his face with his hands. He stood there shaking, hands trembling over his face, unable to bring himself to open his eyes. He felt Connel’s hand on his neck, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt, hauling him forward. Darien’s stomach wrenched. He swallowed against the taste of vomit in his mouth.

  Connel’s harsh grip jerked him to a halt.

  “Lord, I am Alton son of Orhan.”

  Darien opened his eyes. He stood in front of the next soldier in the line. This man was slightly older than Sinan had been, slightly taller. A fine mist of blood covered one side of his face. His forehead had broken out in a sheen of perspiration despite the chill of the air.

  Darien stared at Alton son of Orhan.

  “It is my honor to teach you the attack known as nebiza. If performed correctly, the nebiza causes the nerves of your opponent to quit functioning. This is a very effective tactic for stopping the hearts of many warriors at once. Darien Nach’tier, please allow me the honor of teaching you the nebiza attack.”

  Darien groped for strength, his breath shuddering in his throat. He stepped forward, gripping Alton’s shoulders with his hands.

  “Your name is Alton son of Orhan?” He wanted to make sure he had it right.

  Sinan son of Semal. Alton son of Orhan.

  He would remember those names. He swore right then and there he would never forget them.

  “It is, Lord.”

  Darien bowed his head. “You honor me, Alton.”

  “The honor is mine, Lord.”

  Darien pulled back, glaring at Byron Connel. The Battlemage took his hand. Again, Darien found his consciousness fed through Connel into the soldier standing in front of him. He could feel the man’s nerves at work, regulating the pace of Alton’s heartbeat. A subtle change in those impulses could stop that instantly.

  “Do you feel it?” Connel whispered.

  “Aye.”

  “Then finish it.”

  Darien sagged, groaning. He didn’t want to kill Alton son of Orhan. He admired the gentle depths in the man’s dark eyes.

  “Forgive me.”

  With a wrench of Darien’s mind, Alton’s heart seized in his chest, his body crumbling to the blackened earth. Darien stared down at him, drowning in self-loathing.

  Connel guided him forward to the next man in line.

  “Lord, I am Devrim son of Enver. It is my honor to teach you the attack known as ruhk. If performed correctly, the ruhk will cause the flesh of your opponent to catch fire. This is a very effective tactic for causing a terrible, excruciating death. Darien Nach’tier, please allow me the honor of teaching you the ruhk attack.”

  Darien leaned forward, gripping the man’s shoulders in his hands. He stared into the depths of the young man’s eyes.

  “Your name is Devrim son of Enver?”

  “It is, Lord.”

  Sinan son of Semal. Alton son of Orhan. Devrim son of Enver.

  “You honor me, Devrim.”

  “The honor is mine, Lord.”

  Darien offered his hand to Byron Connel. Instantly, he was transported deep inside Devrim, feeling the warmth of the young man’s core. He could feel the source of that heat. He understood how to change it. Such a subtle difference. But if done in every tissue of the body altogether at once…

  “Do you feel it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then finish it.”

  Darien squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as Devrim burned. The soldier’s screams were appalling. They went on for a very long time.

  He felt Connel’s hand on his back. He walked forward, swallowing his emotions, stoppering them up inside. He raked his shirtsleeve across his eyes, wiping away his humanity.

  Darien approached the next man in line.

  “Lord, I am Serkan son of Arsil…”

  5

  A Sentinel’s Duty

  Kyel staggered as the magic field surged back into his mind. The relief was so intense that it wrenched a gasp from his lips. He swayed over his feet, relishing the field’s sweet comfort. He stood there for a moment savoring the pulse, a feeling of contentment unlike any other. The magic field had been denied him ever since his arrival at Greystone Keep. The fortress had been constructed within the protective confines of a node. He understood the necessity, but the field’s absence ate at Kyel every second he was away from it.

  His hands tightened reflexively on the wrapped bundle he lugged in his arms. A crackling noise issued from beneath the layers of cloth, a sound no human body should ever make. He took one last step just to make
certain the field was at full strength. Then he lowered Meiran to the dirt as Traver wrestled with her legs. Gusts of wind whipped at their backs, cold and punishing. Traver righted himself and took a step back, staggering. He held his hand up in front of him, flexing the three fingers he had left. Then he grimaced, wincing back and covering his mouth with his cloak.

  “Gods’ mercy, she stinks!”

  Kyel nodded, his eyes watering as he held a cloth up over his own face. His stomach lurched, threatening to spill its contents into the dirt at his feet. “It’s the rot.”

  They’d shrouded Meiran in thick folds of cloth, which covered the raised blisters that oozed gore over her blackened flesh. But there was nothing they could do about the stench. It was terrible, much worse than the smell of decay. Whatever disease had hold of her, it was consuming her entirely.

  “Is there anything you can do?” Traver was pale, his eyes watering. He looked a bit green. The captain had handled enough corpses in his career that he should be used to the stench of decay. Maybe it was different when the victim was still alive.

  Kyel looked back up the hill in the direction of the keep. The path they’d taken down the ridge was empty; no one had followed them. Kyel felt relieved—he was glad to be free of Cadmus and the retinue of guards that followed him everywhere he went. Thanks to Traver, they’d managed to slip out of the fortress unaccompanied.

  He turned his attention back to Meiran. “I don’t know if I can cure this,” he admitted, dropping to a crouch at her side. She looked asleep. But Kyel knew better; it wasn’t sleep that was taking her. The way he figured it, Meiran didn’t have much time left.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and went right to work. Using his knife, Kyel sawed through the cloth wrappings to expose the blackened flesh beneath. He drew back away from the smell that spilled out. Meiran’s bloated form was barely recognizable as human. Viscous fluids streamed from cracks and large blisters in her flesh. Her limbs were deformed, fingers and toes withered and rotten. Kyel fought the urge to retch, clamping his teeth together.

  “What happened to her?” Traver gasped.

  “I don’t know. And I don’t have time to speculate. Do me a favor and just stand back.”

  A flare of lightning stabbed the mountainside nearby, followed by a deafening peal of thunder. For a split-second, the Pass of Lor-Gamorth lit up bright as day. Then the darkness came crashing back down on top of them. A gust of wind tore at Kyel’s cloak, rippling it out behind him.

  Kyel set his hands on Meiran’s shoulders, holding his breath against the stench. As his fingers caressed her skin, something inside made a crunching noise. His stomach twisted. He closed his eyes and reached within, grappling with the power that sustained him. The magic field flooded into him, coursing through his hands into Meiran’s corrupt tissues. He reached inside her, probing the full extent of her ruin.

  “Oh, gods,” he gasped, pulling back. Vomit surged into his mouth. He swallowed it back down again. Steeling himself, Kyel sent a desperate flood of healing energies into Meiran’s failing body. It didn’t go very far; it was like pounding a fist against a stone wall. He drew back with a cry of frustration.

  “What is it?” Traver called over the rising wind.

  Kyel was unable to answer. He was too horrified. He stood there numb, shaking his head as precious seconds ticked by.

  “She’s more dead than alive….” he finally managed to whisper. “I can’t…” He gaped at Traver, shrugging helplessly. Another bolt of lightning splintered the air.

  Kyel glanced around, at last recognizing where they were. It was the same spot where, two years before, Devlin Craig had saved Darien’s life after Arden Hannah had tried to roast him over a bonfire. Craig had carried Darien out of the node and dumped him down in this same place. He’d worked on him until Darien drew breath again.

  Craig hadn’t given up on Darien.

  Kyel knew he couldn’t give up on Meiran.

  Closing his eyes, Kyel knelt and placed his hands on her rotting flesh, using the magic field to probe deep inside her. He needed to make sense of the damage, at least get an idea of where to begin. It was like healing a corpse; most of her was already more dead than alive. He seared the toxins from her blood first, then set about burning away corrupted flesh. Beneath his fingers, new skin wove together, tightening, squirming into place. He invaded her core, restoring blood to organs starved for air. The whole process took only minutes, but to Kyel it seemed like hours. The infected flesh sloughed away, revealing fresh pink skin underneath.

  Meiran lurched, drawing in a sharp gasp. Her chest heaved, her back arching. Then she collapsed in a fit of coughing before going limp again. Kyel put his ear to her chest, listening to the faint sound of her heartbeat.

  “Is she healed?” Traver shouted over the wind.

  Kyel pulled back, watching the rhythm of Meiran’s chest, not trusting it.

  “She’s alive,” he said in wonder, only half-believing himself.

  Devlin Craig picked up a roasted fowl and held it up to his mouth, tearing off a long strip of meat. He chewed noisily then swallowed, chasing it down with a swig of mead. “Did she say anything at all?”

  Kyel shook his head, gazing down at the blackened hen on his own plate. The cooks had done a number on the small bird. It reminded him too much of what Meiran’s skin had looked like. He didn’t think he could eat it. He nudged the plate away a fraction, taking a sip from his cup, instead.

  “No.” He shook his head. “She hasn’t awakened yet. Where exactly did you find her?”

  Craig tore off another strip of charred meat with his teeth. He chewed with his mouth open, smacking the food around noisily. “Sentries found her lying in the riverbed. She’d been peppered with arrows and left for dead.”

  Kyel tugged at a bird wing, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. The joint separated, coming apart. He picked it up and sucked the flesh off the bone, closing his eyes as he tasted the fatty juices. Despite being charred, the hen wasn’t as bad as it looked. It was far better fare than he’d been treated to during his last stay at Greystone Keep. Apparently, the Southern kingdoms now took the Enemy threat more seriously.

  “That’s not like them, is it?” he mused as he chewed. “To leave a mage just lying about on the ground like that? I mean, why didn’t they burn her like all the others?”

  “Don’t know.” Craig plucked a bone out from between his teeth and tossed it down on the board. “Maybe they didn’t know she was a mage.”

  Kyel wondered at that. The chains on Meiran’s wrists were conspicuous. But perhaps they hadn’t been evident with all the rot.

  Craig wiped his mouth on the padded sleeve of his gambeson. “How is she?"

  “She’ll be unconscious for a few days, I suspect. We won’t know for sure until she wakes up. The arrows were poisoned. I did my best, but there’s no way of knowing if I got it all. If I didn’t, the rot will set right in again.”

  Craig tossed the bird carcass down on his plate, fixing Kyel with a smoldering glare. His wheat-colored hair fell in disarray about his shoulders, his beard matted with greasy juices. He looked a lot older than Kyel remembered.

  Craig nodded at the charred hen on Kyel’s plate. “You about done with that? There’s some reports I’d like you to take a look at.”

  Kyel hesitated, seeing the commander’s expression. There was something there that he didn’t like. He pushed his plate back. He felt suddenly on edge. “What kinds of reports?”

  Craig stood up from the table, casting down the napkin he hadn’t used. “The Enemy’s been redistributing forces along their perimeter. They’re splitting their assets.”

  Kyel glanced up at the man’s looming hulk. He dabbed at his mouth with his own napkin before setting it down. His mind fumbled with the information. “I don’t know what that means,” he admitted finally, a little embarrassed. “Am I supposed to?”

  “Aye. You’re supposed to.” Craig planted his big hands firmly on his hips
, glowering down at him. “The problem is, you don’t. It’s high time you learn to actually be a Sentinel instead of just strutting around calling yourself one.”

  Kyel blinked, the sting of the insult coloring his cheeks.

  Craig turned away and walked back across the room to another table with maps and charts layered over its surface. A larger map hung from the wall, a replica of the one that had been mounted in the tower of the old keep. Kyel felt drawn to the map, feeling suddenly sentimental. He reached up, running a hand over the vellum’s soft texture.

  Craig rapped his knuckles on the table to get his attention.

  “Look, Archer. There’s some things we need to get settled between us. There’s going to be a battle here in a matter of weeks, possibly days. I’m supposed to be able to rely on you. But I can’t. As far as I’m concerned, you only know enough to be dangerous.”

  Hearing that, Kyel hung his head. He knew he wasn’t the Sentinel that Darien had intended him to be. But he’d been trying his hardest to make himself more effective. In the past few months, he’d spent every spare moment with a book in his hands. But learning was proving to be all but impossible without a master to guide him. “I can give you my best,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

  “It’s not enough,” Craig snapped. “You’re the only Sentinel we have. And I need you to do your gods-damned duty. What do you know of siege warfare?”

  Kyel stared hard at the floor. “Not enough.”

  “Then welcome to your first day of training.” Craig planted two fingers squarely on one of the maps laid out on the table. “This is their primary staging area, right here, at the base of Orguleth.” He punctuated each syllable with a tap of his fingers. “They’re well-entrenched and sustained by robust supply lines. More forces arrive by the hour. Soon they’re going to reach a point where they’ll have to either disband or advance. They can’t just sit there forever.

  “The way I see it, they’ll deploy an advance force consisting mostly of foot soldiers…”

  Kyel stared at the map as the man’s words droned on into meaningless noise. He tried to pay attention. But all he could focus on was the image in his head of the mounded piles of corpses he’d been forced to walk through after his last battle in the pass. Kyel remembered it well, the wails and moans of the fallen, the stiffening limbs, the spreading rivulets of blood. The smell of the aftermath. He’d witnessed the personal hell Darien had gone through trying to heal the injured. That battle had changed him; after that, his eyes had remained forever haunted. Darien had never recovered from that day.