A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (23 page)

The shamans had disappeared, and when Tallen stretched out a web of Psoul magic to find them, his reserves drained. The medallion went ice cold, and the light of the diamond died away. A crushing weight of exhaustion washed over him, and he collapsed forward on his elbows.

“Tallen!” Dorias ignored the blood that ran into his eyes. “What did you do?”

The orc captain charged, his axe swooping toward Shade. The mare ran, unable to face the warrior’s charge. Dorias threw himself between them, more dexterous than Tallen expected. The orc swung and Dorias’ dagger shattered against the blow. A fierce kick caught the wizard in the chest, throwing him half a dozen yards, where he crashed hard against the ground.

Tallen could see only a few feeble movements in Dorias’ hands, and he screamed in impotent rage. No power came to his call.

The orc captain spat at the wizard. “Be honored,
Mage
. I’ll hang your guts on my war banner.” He lifted his axe and stomped toward Tallen’s teacher and friend.

“No!” Tallen cried, throwing himself over the edge of the washout. His weakened arms and shaky legs gave him no support, and he tumbled through cold mud and sand. It caught in his mouth, and he splashed through a crust of ice into biting water. Any strength left in his body sapped out of him, and he lay there as the orc closed in on Dorias. Tallen lifted a feeble hand.

A figure leaped from the far side of the washout, flashing a pair of curved swords. The orc captain turned like a startled fox, catching the blades with his axe and heaving the man over the top of his head. When he came to a rolling stop, Tallen realized it was Gwelan, who only had eyes for the orc.

The two closed again, Gwelan’s blades flashing out in a flurry of perfectly timed motions. The orc captain caught them with his axe and a heavy iron gauntlet. A fist punched between the swords and ripped along Gwelan’s face, cutting a vicious slash along his jaw. Underneath the punch, one of the swords thrust, opening a hole in the orc captain’s abdomen. He kicked Gwelan away. The rogue tumbled and came back up on his feet, sword points held low. The orc held his guts in with one hand while sweeping the air with his axe. Gwelan closed, circling slowly, waiting for the orc to bleed out.

A slow smile built on Tallen’s face as the redness spread through the orc’s fingers. The giant warrior’s movements slowed, and the victory that rose in Tallen’s chest swelled near joy at the sight of the orc staggering.

Knowledge of his precarious fate flashed in the orc captain’s startled expression. He bashed at Gwelan in desperate swipes. Tallen noticed a slight grin on the rogue’s face, but when Gwelan took a moment to examine him and Dorias, the grin washed away, replaced by fear and concern. The man rushed forward, slashing to his left and drawing the orc’s parry. Gwelan shifted in a striking leap, changing his direction. The axe went wide and two steel teeth bit into the orc’s side and neck. Deep red blood spurted into the air in a swift beat. The swords withdrew and the orc collapsed on his chest, splashing black water into the air.

With a final twitch of his hand, the captain lay still in the crimson-brown mud.

Pushing himself with every last ounce of strength, somehow Tallen found his feet again. He tumbled forward the few yards to where Dorias lay. Gwelan beat him there. So did Merl, swooping down from the sky to land next to the wizard’s head, one wing hanging slightly askew. His light squawks barely rose to Tallen’s ears. Shade trotted closer, her nostrils flaring.

The wizard’s chest did not move, and he stared at the sky. Gwelan collapsed at his side and pressed against his chest. A gasp rose from Dorias’ lungs, and he blinked. He began to cough, scrambling to sit up with Gwelan’s help. The wizard shook his bloody head and gave Tallen a thankful nod, before pulling out his silver flask. Merl hopped on a stone, but Shade stamped nervously.

“Fireheart,” Dorias whispered.

Tallen turned toward the roan stallion. His steel-shod hooves were stained with almost as much blood as his gaping side. The great steed had finally gone to his knees and lain down, but his head still lifted to look toward the others.

A sudden pounding of wet steps broke the peaceful trickle of water. Tomas charged up along one neck of the washout’s tributaries. The paladin’s sword remained in its sheath, because both arms churned the air. Tallen had never seen a man run so fast, one step seeming to create a splash before the previous one was finished. He slid to a sudden halt, taking a last few careful paces to kneel down next to the stallion.

“Dearest Balance,” he mumbled, “if I can be no aid to my friends, at least let me be of aid to my horse.”

Despite the numbness in his senses and the emptiness of the medallion, Tallen felt the paladin take hold of Fireheart’s fading
psahn
. Tomas poured his own strength into it. Throwing his gauntlets aside, he pushed the horse’s wound together, using both his fingers and his power to tuck the animal’s innards into their proper places. The wound closed slowly, the muscle and skin knitting together over the hole in Fireheart’s abdomen. Sweat broke on Tomas’ brow in spite of the cold, and grimness set in his features. Chords of muscle stood out on his neck.

The wound shut, covered at last by scant fur and a wide, pinkish scar. Fireheart reared his head, but Tomas cradled it to rest. Dorias hobbled to his feet, while Gwelan handed him a clean kerchief for his head. Shade trotted over by Fireheart, the whites of her eyes still showing. She sniffed him, her hot breath blowing steam across the stallion’s rump. Fireheart moved as if to rise, but Tomas eased him back down again.

“We should set a camp here.” He looked back at Tallen and Dorias. “Both of you can barely stand.” He tried to find his own feet. “Apparently, neither can I.” He heaved his body upright. “It is only momentary. I will regain my strength in a short time. It took a great deal to close Fireheart’s wound.” He looked to the rogue. “Gwelan, we cannot chance a fire, if you could—”

Dorias held up his hand with the flask while the other pressed a crimsoned cloth to his head. “The attack is fading, either by time or distance from its caster. I can manage some heat, if you can find me a hard enough stone.”

Tallen reached for the flask while Gwelan searched for a stone. “You can barely touch enough Fire to do that when you are well. Give me a sip, and I think I can do it.”

Dorias laughed as he handed over the liquor. “Boy, you can hardly stand.” He hobbled over to the chunk of worn granite Gwelan and Tomas had shifted closer to Fireheart. “There is a way to do it with Earth.”

Tallen felt the wizard use the Earth Aspect, but he could not sense its exact weave. The stone began to radiate warmth, and Dorias breathed heavy by the time Tomas raised his hand. Both Tallen and the wizard collapsed along the edge of the washout.

The shadows, already lengthened, faded into the darkness of night. The four men, two horses, and a raven huddled close to the stone, Tallen and Dorias forcing what little power they could find into giving it heat.

“I should never have brought you out here,” Dorias whispered around midnight, when everyone knew that no one was asleep. “I am a damned fool for thinking I could guarantee your safety. Thank the Waters Gwelan came back when he did.”

“It was Merl who found me.” Gwelan shifted against Shade’s shoulder. “It looks like all the humans got outmatched by our animal friends.” He stretched his neck. “I wonder what happened to my horse.”

Tallen shifted his cloak. “And mine.”

A plodding splash sounded not far up the gully, and everyone leapt to their feet. A few seconds later, an old palfrey wandered into the washout.

Tallen could not help but throw his arms around the beast’s warm neck. “You are lucky I’m just glad you brought back my blanket,” he whispered in the old horse’s ear. “Or I’d make that stew I once promised.”

The Woodsingers tried to warn the mages. They knew the spell might save us from the Cataclysm, but it would kill Lond’s Lifetrees in doing so. Would that it had killed them all. – Leolan “Lastking” Calais in a letter to Aravath the Navigator

D
arve Northtower spat a gobbet of greenish phlegm into the sharp blades of brown-gray switchgrass, right at the line where it ended. Beyond, only black and charcoal stones spread before him in a wide, descending valley. Pits of foul ooze speckled the dead landscape, a fetid stench and haze rising from their surfaces. A few bluish lichens grew on the very tops of the tallest boulders, clinging for some type of sustenance. Otherwise, nothing lived in the Haunted Vale.

“We’ll never make it across.” Silios Vonstrass shifted in the saddle he never left these days, unless it was to change horses. “Something kills everything out there, and the horses won’t set hoof beyond the grass line.”

Looking up at the human, Darve wrinkled his nose at the seeping yellow sore on his neck. The Bluecloak ranger was one of the few of his kind left among the Highspur survivors.
There would be even less if we hadn’t found the herd.

He stroked the shoulder of the steed on which Silios sat. “To think how much I once hated these beasts. We would not have lived had we not found them and their herders after Highspur.”

A heaving cough broke from Silios’ chest, wet and hollow. Darve waited for Silios to catch his breath. It took several gasps before he continued. “But no…no number of horses will get us through this black valley alive.”

A hollow nervousness growing in his heart, Darve turned to walk back to their makeshift camp. The steady beat of waves rolling in from the Lone Sea pounded against the wide sandy beach. About a hundred dwarves, elves, and humans, and about five times as many horses, huddled between the ocean and the vale.

“Orc spears to our north and east, endless sea to the west, and death to our south.” He looked up at Silios, whose horse plodded alongside. “Which choice sounds best to you?”

The ranger pulled his ragged Fadecloak closer about his shoulders. “I’d pick the sea if only we had a boat.” He searched the barren landscape. “Or at least a tree to build one.”

Two figures broke from the main camp to meet them on their trek back. Ian Forstra still wore his healer’s cloak, blue trimmed in dirty yellow. Ravenna stood taller than most humans, her pointed ears peeking through a tight bun of white hair.

“We cannot stay here much longer,” the healer said, his tired eyes matching the tone in his voice. A yellow sore seeped pus on his left hand. “The effects of the Haunted Vale will begin killing us off within the next day or two.”

“Even my folk are beginning to feel the effects of this…” The elf leader frowned at her words. “…this valley. The horses, too.”

Darve looked at the black desolation to their south. He could almost sense the poison radiating from it. Compared to the empty field of dead stone and stagnant pools, the switchgrass of the Wastes looked a paradise.

Silios Vonstrass edged his steed forward. “We should head east along the Vale, where we can try to cross the Lond. If we meet any orc patrols, we charge through them.” He folded his arms. “I’d rather die fighting than sit here and wait for death to creep up on us.”

Doctor Forstra shook his head. “That won’t do. We have to get away from this Vale. That means back north.”

Shaking his head, Darve spat into the grass again. “We won’t get five leagues without being swarmed by orcs. Besides, it’s the wrong direction entirely.”

Silios’ horse stamped with the same frustration on his master’s face. “Then do you plan to build us boats from stones, Master Dwarf?”

Shifting his weight on his aching knees, Darve snatched a blade of grass. “I have no idea what to do, Captain.” He looked at Ravenna. “How wide is the Haunted Vale?”

Darve had never seen the look of fear so clear on an elven face before. Ravenna cleared her throat. “The Vale of Amgedon was known to be about two and a half leagues. The mouth of the Lond is almost a mile of that.”

“None of us humans will survive crossing it.” Doctor Forstra kept his voice flat. “Some of the elves might, but they will be sick for weeks afterward.”

Chewing on the grass left an astringent taste in Darve’s mouth. He kept chewing, the bitterness of the grass driving away some of the sourness of his thoughts. He watched the waves of the Lone Sea roll against the white sugar-sand beach. Standing there, the sound of the surf and wind in his ears, Darve felt a moment of peace, something he had not known since his nephew betrayed Highspur.
And it was Bran, not Brax! What happened with those boys? Why have I so failed my family, friends, and allies?

He cleared his throat to stop the threatened tears. “I don’t know…”

The others stood silent, each studying their own distant nothing. A hollow pit reopened in Darve’s heart, one he had scraped a bare cover over since leading a desperate charge through the orc horde at the end of Highspur’s fall.
I cannot fail these last few the way I failed those we left behind.

The maw in his heart did not close, and his senses collapsed into it. It threatened to swallow his conscious mind and drop him down into a pit of madness. He clung to the edge, staring at the sea, hoping it might find a way to wash his soul clean.