Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm (32 page)

Xain’s sour expression faltered, and he cast his eyes away. “I … I am sorry. I did not mean insult. The … the power, it … no matter. We would do well to leave here at once.”

His arm over Albern’s shoulder, Jordel shuffled outside. Gem tried walking with Annis’s help, but his steps came slow. Loren scooped him up in her arms like a babe, despite his squawking, then settled in her grasp.
 

“I would travel all the nine lands if I could find transport like this,” he said.

Loren made as if to drop him, catching him at the last second. Gem whimpered. “My pardon,” she said, smiling brightly. “I am not so steady a steed as a good horse, you can clearly see.”

Gem glared and muttered darkly.

They mounted their horses. Jordel took his charger, while Xain fetched another from the corral, abandoned by the Shades. Gem sat behind Annis, clutching her tightly, wincing at the steed’s every step. To ease their injuries, they walked slowly to the stronghold’s eastern gate, stepping out before the bridge to freedom.

But just beyond the gate, they reined to a halt.
 

Loren’s blood turned to ice. The children blanched beside her.
 

Trisken stood on the bridge, blocking their escape, an evil smile splitting his face from ear to ear.

thirty-seven

THE COMMANDER STOOD UNCARING IN the middle of the bridge, his warhammer standing on its head beside him, the handle leaning against his thigh. But he did not wear the sleeveless shirt and vest they had seen him in before. Now he wore a suit of full plate, gleaming dark grey metal that covered his arms, legs, and breast. Upon his head was a helmet with two small black horns jutting forth from the forehead. Loren remembered how he had slammed his face into Jordel’s, and was nearly sick at the thought of those horns punching through flesh and bone. Even his hands and feet were shod in metal, with interlocking plates that looked an inch thick. Loren wondered how he could even move in such armor, then remembered the thick layers of muscle that covered his body.

Trisken’s smile widened as they watched him. “Why do you wish to leave my company so early? Have I proved a terrible host? I know that Jordel, at least, enjoyed his stay. Why, you screamed my praises through the night.”

Jordel glared from a face motley with bruises, but before he could speak, Xain spurred forward and dismounted upon the bridge.

“You might think to frighten the others — but not me,” said the wizard, his voice rumbling with hidden power. “I was bound and helpless when last I saw you. But not now. Do you wish to test yourself against my strength?”

“I hear the magestones that lie behind your words, wizard,” said Trisken. “I am not impressed. Scuttle back to your master before I teach you the meaning of courtesy.”

Xain’s eyes glowed, and he formed balls of flame in each fist. “I have been freed by one who holds life sacred. At her wish, I will give you one final chance, since you have not yet raised a hand against us. Turn and go. Vanish into the mountains, and never show your face in the nine lands again. Fail to obey, and your tale ends here.”

“I raised my hand against the Mystic and the boy, while you hid in these mountains,” said Trisken. “They still bear the marks. But of course, you were not there to see it. Here. I shall show you.”

Trisken seized his warhammer and swung it in a wide arc. It slammed into his left hand with a loud
clang
of metal. Then he took a step forward — only one, his plate boots grinding on the stone.

Jordel and Albern nudged their horses forward, but Xain turned to them, raising a hand. “Stay back, for my fires may fly wild and I would spare you from their heat.”
 

They withdrew, Albern with relief, Jordel with a sour mouth.

Xain put forth his power, and the sky darkened. Clouds swirled down into a terrible spiral, channeling toward Trisken where he stood on the bridge. A great bolt of lightning arced forth. Its thunder was deafening, and Loren hastened to cover her ears. Too late, for the sound came and passed before she could raise her hands, leaving a deafening ringing behind. The ground erupted in a burst of light, pluming stone dust around Trisken’s feet.

He stepped through the dust, rolling his shoulders as though pained by an aching neck.
 

Xain paused. Loren saw it, and could almost feel his hesitation. Then he cut loose again, this time with flame. It rolled toward Trisken in a great wave. It reached the commander then rippled and roiled, splitting before him as though upon an invisible wedge, and passed without harm.
 

A deep and terrible laugh issued forth from Trisken’s helmet. “What is wrong, firemage? Come, throw some more sparks my way. I shall use them to roast you all on a spit.”

He was getting closer, and Loren wanted to cry out to Xain, to flee, to turn and run. But the wizard held his ground, letting loose with a gale to blast Trisken back, but the winds guttered and died almost before they had fled his fingertips.
 

In desperation Xain shot white-hot flames at the bridge. Stones and mortar melted, turning it from a solid roadway into a pit of liquid rock. But as Trisken continued his relentless advance, the stone cooled beneath his feet. The ground turned solid with his steps, giving him a narrow walkway across the flames.

Cursing, Xain finally fell a step back, but even in his retreat struck again. Darkfire sprouted from his fingers, twisting with a fury that was blacker than a night with no moons. It stretched forth in grasping tendrils, like fingers of the dead, twisting around Trisken and wreathing the beast in ebony flames.

Then Loren saw, or thought she saw, a dark glow, from Trisken, rather than Xain. Darklight emanated from the commander’s head, or somewhere about his neck, and its malevolence matched the icy fury in Xain’s glare.

It lasted a moment, then vanished. But the darkfire fell back as though a wind had blown it asunder.
 

Jordel and Albern both jumped forward, too late.
 

Trisken reached the wizard and struck, swinging his warhammer around for Xain’s chest. He twisted, but not far enough, and took the blow on his shoulder instead of his chest. It spun him like a top and tossed him to the ground with a yelp.
 

Then Jordel was there. His sword struck twice on Trisken’s armor before the larger man backed away. With more space between them, Albern loosed two shafts. Both found joints in Trisken’s armor, in shoulder and groin, and pierced the chain mail. But now that she was looking for it, Loren saw the glow of darklight again — just a flash, and this time she was sure it was the neck. Trisken stumbled, then ripped the arrows free and attacked Jordel with a vengeance.

Albern ceased his volley to stoop and grip Xain’s boot, pulling the wizard across the stones and out of the fight. Loren leapt from her horse, seized her bow, and ran forward to stand beside the bowyer. Behind her Gem struggled to climb down from his saddle. Annis seized his bruised arm in her hands and squeezed.
 

“Do not be an idiot, Gem, you will only get yourself killed!”

Loren drew an arrow as Albern had taught her, the motion coming easier now, but she did not have his aim and knew it. Jordel and Trisken were locked in a frantic dance, and she could not find a clear shot. Albern planted another arrow in his knee, while a second ricocheted from his helmet. Then Jordel was back in the way.

Trisken swung in wide, swooping arcs, faster than even so large a man should have managed to wield a warhammer. Loren could hardly follow the motion. But Jordel was faster still with his sword, and a seasoned fighter besides, never reaching too far nor withdrawing too quickly.
 

Trisken swung too wide at last, leaving an opening. A dagger appeared in Jordel’s hand, drawn from a sheath on the back of his belt. It punched through the chain mail at the side of the breast plate, and Trisken grunted.
 

Loren leaned forward, mouth open, hoping he would fall.

But it was a ruse. Trisken grinned with bloody teeth and seized the Mystic’s tunic. They were too close for a wide hammer swing, but he gripped it below the handle and slammed the head into Jordel’s chest. The Mystic nearly fell, choking. Somehow Jordel managed to bring his sword around and hack at Trisken’s neck, but the swing was weak and the mail held.
 

Trisken’s metal knee found its place in Jordel’s stomach, and felled the Mystic. The hammer rose to finish him, but Loren and Albern both charged.
 

Albern reached for his sword, but without a weapon Loren wasted no time. She seized Trisken’s neck, trying to bowl him over backward. He lost his balance and stumbled, but somehow managed to catch his feet. Leaning back, his gut was an easy target, and Albern drove his sword up and under the breast plate, deep into the giant’s belly.

His helmet came off under Loren’s arm, his hair swinging wildly, streaked with blood coughed up from his lungs. Loren glimpsed a tattoo worked into his neck — a twisting, intricate design of black that resembled the designs on her dagger. It flashed with darklight, and she recognized the glow.

Trisken reached back, seized Loren by the hair, and flung her over his shoulder. She crashed into the bridge, where a low wall kept her from sliding off into the chasm stretching for hundreds of feet to the valley floor. He ignored the sword in his stomach and grabbed Albern. His horned helmet was gone, but his head was plenty hard. He sent it into the bowyer’s nose with a
crack,
and Albern’s head snapped back with a geyser of blood.
 

Jordel lay only a few feet from Loren. His eyes were glazed and wild, darting around as if searching for something. He was nearly senseless, but still he fought for his feet. His breath came in wheezing gasps, and Loren heard a gurgle. Though his chain mail was whole, there was a dent in his chest that should not have been there.

“Jordel,” she said. “Jordel, look at me.”

The Mystic’s eyes tried to focus on her face. Their keen blue seemed clouded as if by some spell, but at last she saw recognition.

Loren scrambled to her hands and knees and crawled toward the Mystic. “The back of his neck. A tattoo, like the signs upon my dagger. It glows whenever we strike him. Tis what keeps him alive.”

Jordel’s head turned, far slower than it should have, toward Trisken. Albern had broken his grasp and was fending the giant off with a sword, but Trisken was pushing him ever further toward the edge.

“A tattoo,” mumbled Jordel. He coughed, and a bloody lumph of phlegm spattered upon the stones. “Dark magic. I was right.”

He fought to his feet, using his sword like a crutch. Loren stood and helped him. At first he could take no more than a knee, but in another moment claimed his feet.

“I must help Albern.” Loren let go of Jordel, but he seized her sleeve and dragged her back to meet his eyes.

“My worst fears are true. Hear me, Loren. The Shades’ dark master has returned, and Trisken is one of his favored champions. Ask Xain. I told him
everything
.”

Loren looked over the Mystic’s shoulder at Xain, on his back at the far side of the bridge. He stirred while Annis and Gem knelt by his head, trying to rouse him.

“No magic,” said Jordel. “Tis no proof against them. I never told him that. Tell him now.”

He broke from Loren’s grip and charged at Trisken’s back.

She reached for him, tried to grasp his arm, and missed her grip. The chains of his shirt slid under her skin.
 

Jordel still held his sword, and Loren thought he meant to strike Trisken. But the Mystic cast his blade aside and, stooping as he ran, reached for a hunting knife in his boot.

Trisken’s metal fist struck Albern in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. Then Jordel hit him from behind, wrapping his arms around the commander in death’s embrace. His hunting knife plunged into the back of Trisken’s neck, and together they pitched over the edge, off of the bridge and into the chasm below.

thirty-eight

THEY FOUND THE BODIES SHATTERED on the valley floor.

Albern thought it was too dangerous to take the long road down, but Loren would not hear it, refusing to let Jordel’s body rot where the crows and the wolves — and the harpies — could peck at it.
 

So they went through the stronghold, to the long stone road on the other side. Then they traversed all the way around the mountain’s foot.

Land beneath the bridge was mostly soft loam, punctuated by rocks jutting from the soil like rotten teeth. A fine mist hung on the ground, swirling around their boots and cloaks as they picked their way along, searching.

Jordel lay on his back. His eyes were mercifully closed. Loren did not think she could have bared to see them open, their keen blue robbed of life. They were eyes that had mesmerized her from the first time she saw them, and had given even the mightiest warriors pause. That they would no longer walk beside her, to watch over her and all the nine kingdoms, seemed a crime beyond punishment or hope of justice.

Trisken’s body lay not far away. Jordel’s knife was buried to the hilt in his neck tattoo. The commander had struck one of the rocks when he landed, and it had shattered his back so that his body was almost in two. His neck was twisted, and every part of his armor dented and tarnished. Not a muscle stirred.

They dug a grave for Jordel. They had no shovels, and so made do with their fingers and sharp stones. It took an eternity, and they could not make it deep enough, so after laying the Mystic in they covered him with stones. Loren wrapped him in his red cloak beforehand, fetched from the saddlebags. She kept his clasp, stowing it in her cloak. If she could no longer walk by Jordel’s side, she would keep that to remember him by. Some urge of her heart told her to bring it to the Mystics. Disgraced though he might be, she guessed that some of his brothers and sisters would want to see him honored for his service to the nine lands — for she knew there must be many.

They stood beside the stones for a while. Loren’s eyes leaked slow and steady tears, though she tried to still them. Annis did not weep, mayhap because she was trying to comfort an inconsolable Gem. He buried his face in his cloak and threw himself down upon the stones, refusing to leave. Albern had to carry him away from the grave, but did so gently, with soft murmurs as though to an animal wounded.