Darwath 3 - The Armies Of Daylight (2 page)

“Yeah,” Rudy agreed warily. “And that's probably the scariest thing about you.”

“It is the most frightening thing about any wizard. A hypothesis to anyone else is merely an overwhelming temptation to a wizard. Do you think you would be able to handle yourself in the Nest of the Dark?”

Rudy swallowed hard. “I think so.” The vivid imagination which was the mainspring and curse of the mageborn sent a series of chills scampering up his spine. “That's what this is all about, isn't it?”

Ingold's eyes returned to focus from some private, inner reverie. In the starlight, they seemed bright and preternaturally clear. “The Chancellor Alwir cannot hope to reconquer Gae from the Dark without reconnaissance of their Nest there,” he said quietly. "He has chosen Gae, partly because of its importance as the capital of the Realm and partly because it lies at the center of communications.

“But time is short. Our allies, from the Empire of Alketch and from the various landchiefs of the Realm, will be assembling here in the not-too-distant future. You will be leaving for Gae within a day or so.”

“Okay,” Rudy agreed shakily, with valiant mental adjustments. “Uh—just me?”

Ingold snorted. “Yes, just you, all by yourself,” he snapped gruffly. “Of course not! For one thing, Gae is a flooded ruin—you could never hope to find your way through its streets to reach the Nest.”

A drift of wind stirred his mantle and ruffled Rudy's long hair. Rudy's muscles locked at the touch of it, but he made no move. A moment later he saw the flickering shadow of a little whirlwind dancing away over the snow. He let his breath out in a shimmer of silvery smoke.

“Of the mages who survived the coming of the Dark Ones,” the wizard continued quietly, “less than a dozen have powers strong enough for me to have made this test on them. They, too, are abroad in the Vale tonight. Of those, only two hail from Gae—Saerlinn. who was a healer in the lower part of town, and me.”

Rudy nodded. He'd become acquainted in the last week with the other survivors of the world's wizardry. Saerlinn was a fair-haired, rather nervous young man, a few years older than his own twenty-five. He was unusual not only in the fact that he wore spectacles—uncommon enough among mages, who could generally adjust their own senses and faculties—but also because he'd managed to preserve them unbroken on the long and desperate trek from Gae to the Vale of Renweth.

“At one time I considered leading the Gae reconnaissance myself,” the old man went on, and Rudy cast him a startled, protesting glance. “But aside from the fact that, as the head of the Wizards' Corps, I could ill be spared, I do take a rather academic and refined interest in the preservation of my own skin. Since the Dark are hunting me—for whatever reason—I would be in twice the danger of detection within the Nest. It would be folly to tempt them.”

“It would be sort of pointless to get yourself killed on a routine mission,” Rudy admitted.

Ingold smiled. “Precisely,” he agreed. “I'm sending Thoth to head the reconnaissance of Penambra—he knows that city from his early days as a healer there. And I'm having the Raider shaman. Shadow of the Moon, take a couple of scouts to the Nest in the Vale of the Dark, some twenty miles north of here. She knows woodcraft—among other things.”

In the black wall of woods to their right, branches stirred suddenly, rustling in dark, aimless winds. Clouds were moving down from the glacier-locked mountains that loomed above them to the west, swallowing the few remaining stars. Cold cut through Rudy's coat like a skinning knife.

“Kara of Ippit will go with you and Saerlinn to Gae,” Ingold went on. “She's had the most formal training as a mage. Unless one counts the Chancellor Alwir's Court Mage Bektis, of course.”

Rudy sniffed. He did not like Bektis. “If he's out here tonight, I'll eat my boots without even scraping the mud off 'em.”

“If that's the case, I regret to inform you that you're going to miss a meal.” Ingold sighed. “Bektis knows Gae, too. But I'm sure that his ever-pressing duties will not permit…”

He looked up suddenly, the words dying on his lips. A scream split the mountain stillness, a hopeless, echoing shriek that scaled up to a frenzied pitch of horror, then jarred and broke. Rudy sprang to his feet, the hair prickling on his neck, and was instantly arrested by the iron grip on his arm.

“Be still, you fool.”

A figure broke from the edge of the woods on the far side of the valley, black and tiny against the hoarfrost landscape. A man, Rudy thought, watching the way he ran, young and slender, stumbling over his own cloak in his terrified haste.

A swirl of darkness passed like a whirlwind over the snow. The fugitive screamed again as he ran, his arms outstretched, plunging blindly down the hill toward the black monolith of the Keep of Dare. Darkness swelled from the trees behind him, a strange shifting of images that even the dark-sight of a wizard could not pierce. Something flashed, wet and sticky, and a last piercing cry rang out, as if ripped from the dissolving flesh. Then there was silence, and something scattered over the half-melted snow.

Even at this distance, Rudy could smell the blood on the backwash of the erratic winds.

“Who was it?” Rudy asked.

His voice was pitched low, audible only to certain beasts, or to another wizard. But still his words sounded sacrilegiously loud in the horrible stillness of the hillside.

Ingold straightened up from the sodden, stinking mess in the torn snow. Even the bones they had found had not only been stripped of flesh but seemed strangely deformed, as if the bone tissue itself had been melted. Nauseated, Rudy looked away from the black, half-liquefied remains, to Ingold's impassive face. Darkness masked the wizard's features, but mageborn eyes could penetrate ordinary night; Rudy could see no change of expression in that lined, nondescript countenance.

But then, he supposed, after what had taken place in the ruins of the City of Wizards, it was not likely that the old man would ever be shaken up by much of anything again.

“We shall come out with the others, when the sun is in the sky, to burn what remains,” Ingold said quietly. “To do so now would only bring the Dark Ones once more upon us.”

He dropped what he held in his hand back onto the fetid little heap. Round, discolored lenses flashed in the starlight in their twisted frames. Ingold said, “It seems that I shall be visiting the Dark Ones at Gae, after all.”

Dawn was just thinning the stygian overcast of the night when Rudy and Ingold again reached the gates of the Keep. Against a charcoal sky, the ebony mass reared like a small mountain, close to a hundred feet from the top of the rock knoll on which it stood to its flat, snow-powdered roof and nearly half a mile in length. Its black, windowless walls faintly mirrored the trampled snow and dark trees that lay below it. Only its western face was broken by a gate and a short flight of broad steps. From a distance, the torchlight flickering in the square opening gave it the appearance of a single, small, baleful eye in the midst of an otherwise utterly featureless face.

As Rudy climbed the muddy path past the goat pens and ramshackle workshops that surrounded the Keep in a vast zone of trash, he could see most of the Wizards' Corps assembled on the icy steps. He could pick out those who, like himself, had spent the night outside. Kara of Ippit, tall and homely, in her threadbare mantle and the two cardigans her mother had recently knitted for her. Thoth the Scribe, called the serpentmage, sole survivor of the massacre at Quo, austere as a bald vulture-god of antiquity, his topaz eyes illuminating his narrow white face like a jack-o-lantern's. Dakis the Minstrel. A little fourteen-year-old witch-child from the north called Ilae, her dark eyes peering from behind a mane of red tangles. Others, a pitiful few, it seemed, huddling in the shadows like refugees in an old photograph of Ellis Island. And behind them stood those survivors of the massacre by the Dark who had been judged too lacking in power to participate in this trial of spells: itinerant conjurers, spellweavers, weatherwitches, and goodywives, the lower end of the spectrum of power that had not answered the dead Archmage's fatal summons to the City of Quo.

Rudy's heart sank at the sight of them. So few, he thought. And what the hell can we do, anyway, against the might of the Dark?

Other shadows appeared in the firelit tunnel that pierced the wall, leading from the outer gates to the inner, their forms ghostlike in the steam where the warmer air within came in contact with the outer cold—the day watch of the Guards, rubbing their bruises from the morning's weapons practice and cursing one another and their deceptively elfin instructor good-naturedly. The Keep herdkids went tearing out in an enthusiastic boiling of infant energy to throw snowballs and milk goats. Soap boilers, hunters, woodcutters, and tanners emerged, men and women plying what trades they could from the scanty resources of this bitter and isolated valley.

And among them were a dark-haired girl in a black fur cloak and a peasant woman's rainbow skirts and a tall, rather gawky woman some five years older, dressed in an outsize black uniform and white quatrefoil emblem of the Guards.

Minalde brushed the sable hood from her dark hair as she ran down the steps to meet Rudy, the rich fur of her cloak rippling glossily in the gray light. In sunlight, her eyes were the unearthly blue of a volcanic lake on a midsummer afternoon; shadowed as they were now, they were velvet-blue, almost black, and wide with anxiety. She caught Rudy's hands. “They told me they'd heard a scream,” she said.

Rudy fought the urge to put a comforting arm around her shoulders, as he would have done had they met alone. She's the Queen, he told himself, the Regent and the mother of the heir, for all she's nineteen years old and scared. There are too many people watching.

“Glad to see it wasn't you, punk,” Gil Patterson added, bringing up the rear, her long sword tapping at her ankles as she walked. Since she had joined the Guards of Gae, her former shy defensiveness had been gradually replaced by a toughness that, Rudy reflected, wasn't any easier to see through. Those pale schoolmarm's eyes still forbade any inquiries into the true state of her feelings, but she did look pleased that he'd survived.

At his side, Alde whispered, “Who was it?”

“Saerlinn. I don't know if you knew him.”

She nodded, tears starting in her eyes. Alde knew, and was friends with, almost everyone in the Keep. Again Rudy struggled with his instinct to hold her, to offer her silent reassurance. “It puts us in a bad place,” he admitted quietly. “When we go to scout the Nest at Gae…”

“You?” Fear widened her eyes. “But you can't—” She bit off her words, and a slow flush rose to her cheeks. “That is—it isn't just for that,” she added with a soft-voiced dignity that made Rudy smile. “What about your experiments with the flame throwers, Rudy? You said you'd be able to create weapons to hurl fire from the things that Gil and I found in the old laboratories. You can't…”

“They'll just have to wait,” Rudy said quietly. “I'll put one together for myself to take to Gae; the rest can wait till I return.” He put his hands on her shoulders and smiled at her frightened, woebegone face. “And I will return,” he promised her.

She looked down, her eyes veiled, and she nodded.

Gil's voice cut sharply into the silence between them. “You think you'll really be able to put working flame throwers together, then?”

He looked up, startled at her tactlessness, and saw what she had seen—the tall form of the Chancellor of the Realm, Alwir, Minalde's brother, standing watching them in the mist and firelight of the gates. Rudy backed quickly away from Alde and took a few steps up the path toward the Keep.

“You bet,” he bragged in his best Madison Avenue voice. “Hell, in a month we'll make swords obsolete.”

“That would be to your advantage,” Gil commented, “since you can't pick one up without cutting yourself.”

But in spite of the banter, Rudy was acutely conscious of Alwir's cold gaze on him as he rejoined Ingold among the mages at the foot of the Keep steps.

Alwir came down toward them, “a gleaming edifice of sartorial splendor,” as Alde had once joked, dominating those around him with his size, his elegance, and his haughty, unbending will. Like his sister, he was cloaked in black, a velvet mantle that billowed like wings behind him. The chain of sapphires that lay over his broad shoulders and breast were not bluer or harder than his eyes. He was trailed by the obsequious Bektis, his Court Mage, who alternately rubbed his long white hands together or stroked his waist-length, blue-silver beard as if in a self-congratulatory caress.

The Chancellor came to a halt on the lowest step and looked down at Ingold with an impassive face. “So your information was correct,” he said, in his rich, well-modulated voice. “The thing can be done.”

“By those with the strength,” Ingold returned quietly. “Yes.”

“And the reconnaissance?”

“We shall leave this time tomorrow morning.”

Alwir gave a satisfied little nod. Beyond them, the rising of the cloud-veiled sun had cast a kind of sickly, diffuse light upon the snowy wastes of the Vale, bringing forth from shadows the tangled grubbiness of the barricaded food compounds and the chain-hung pillars on the hill of execution across the road from the Keep.

“And these?” The Chancellor's careless gesture took in the other mages—old women, young men, solemn black Southerners, and ice-white shamans from the plains.

“Believe me, my lord,” Ingold said, and there was a flicker of anger in his shadowed eyes, “whether or not it is decided to undertake this invasion, these people constitute your chief defense against the Dark Ones. Do not treat them lightly.”

Alwir's eyebrows went up. “An unprepossessing lot,” he commented, scanning them, and Rudy felt that those enigmatic, speedwell-blue eyes lingered for a moment on where he had returned again to Aide's side. “But perhaps more dangerous than they look.”

“Far more dangerous, my lord.” The new voice drew Rudy's eyes and, half against his will, Alwir's as well. In the suffused pallor of the dawn, the Guards on the steps had doused their torches in the snow, but within the gate passage above them fires still reflected redly on the polished walls. Against that reflection stood the red-robed shape of the Bishop of Gae, Govannin Narmenlion, her bald head and narrow, delicately jointed hands giving her the appearance of a skeleton wrapped in a crimson billow of flame.