A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (39 page)

Death darkens every man’s door. – Caladrius Dreamwalker

L
ord Doctor Tymin Marten smacked his dry lips, his tongue like a wad of sandpaper in his mouth. He scrabbled about in the loose scree for a grip with his one unblemished hand. Finding a solid rock to grab on to, he pulled himself forward another few inches. The tattered velvet of his cape caught on a twisted piece of armor, causing his silver broach to jab into his neck. He thrashed about with his mangled hand, missing two fingers and still leaking blood. The clasp came loose, as did his cape, and he dragged himself an inch or two farther. This time when he flailed with his good hand, he felt the damp lap of the edge of the Gallond.

“Water,” he croaked.

Marten slapped his wet fingers against his lips, ignoring the grit and mud to suck at the sweet wetness. Another strong pull and his face rested in the mud, with little ripples of river water lapping against his forehead. He swallowed sand as he sucked, causing most of it to come right back out in a vomitous cough. Once he regained control, he pulled himself deeper into the river, and then drank greedily. The water tasted of blood, but Marten did not care. His only desire was to slake his agonizing thirst.

A few minutes later, he had pulled himself over to lean against a boulder to watch the eastern sky darken
. I dragged myself twenty yards across that battlefield, through guts and muck and rent steel. It’s only a few thousand more across the grassland.

“If only I still had my beautiful legs,” he whined as he looked down at the bloody stumps below his knees. “If only I had the strength to heal my feet back.”

I should be dead.

“Damn that beast that trampled me!”

Through the haze of pain and despair, a piece of Marten realized that he spoke to himself – that madness was the only thing left to him. Knowing that accepting his fate would crush the last of his spirit, he let the madness take him, embracing it like a savior.

He flopped over on one side, the pain mostly a dull ache that covered his entire body. His
psahn
leaked out of him just as his blood did.
But I have drained the energies of many…

“And my life force is still strong!”

A wracking cough tore through him, bringing up a small spray of blood that was lost against the already crimsoned ground. Once it came under control, his breath returned in weaker gasps. A warm numbness coursed through his remaining limbs, and his mind wandered around the edge of strange dreams. Marten felt himself drift away and he realized he did not care.

Tearing through the sense of calm, a cold, icy grip manhandled him back to consciousness. “Oh, you don’t get off that easy, Lord Doctor.” The voice remained calm and quiet in his ear, but its chilling tone drove fear of darker things than death into his heart. “I marched all the way out here dressed as a fool infantryman with three jobs to do, and the orcs pretty much handled them for me. They took Arathan’s head, leaving me nothing there. It looks as if the bastard is their prisoner, out of my reach for now. Thank the Source that they only took your legs. And praise it that there are plenty of horses left for me to ride back to civilization.”

Marten struggled to open his eyes, but their weight pressed down on his entire head. He felt a sucking sensation at his
psahn
and thrashed about against it.

“Oh, you’ve tasted many, haven’t you, my Lord?” The calm voice chuckled as if it were owned by an old friend. “Though, I mostly smell street urchins and wine-soaked beggars on you. For shame, doctor. Our gift is such a rare and powerful one. To waste it on the weak is…well…a terrible waste.” The voice made a clucking noise, scolding Marten like a disappointed teacher. “I have drained archdukes and princes, wizards and priests. I have tasted a woman who gave birth a dozen times, and a virgin not far into her blossoming.” Marten imagined a ghastly face smile behind his closed eyelids. “And now I will drain you.”

Marten heaved backward and with a last, desperate thrust of his Talent, threw up a shield similar to the one used by Maddi. The desperation in his heart strengthened his
psahn
, and a desire to live rekindled in his heart. He squeezed all of his strength into protecting himself, but a sad, scared piece of his spirit cried out that it would never be enough.

“Well, now, isn’t that something new and interesting.” The voice paused for a moment. “Yes…very interesting. I wonder…where did you learn that, dear doctor?”

“My…my student,” Marten grunted through dying lips. “She is ss…stronger than I ever…ever. I ssshould have…”

He could not force his mouth to work. Fear of his life essence being drained drove him to struggle, however futile his efforts might be. His anxious heartbeats drove more bleeding from his wounds, and Marten felt himself weaken further. He gasped for heavy breaths and the air reeked of his own death.

“Hmmm…perhaps I will find this student of yours when I return to Daynon.” The voice came closer, now hovering near his ear. “Perhaps I will insist that she be a part of my reward since I have been robbed of the life force of a king and an earl, and most of that of a Lord Doctor.”

The shield Marten had thrown up shattered at a stab of the assassin’s
psahn
, not just because his own life force was weak, but because the voice held a Talent beyond anything Marten had ever sensed. It crumpled every ounce of his defenses and grabbed his
psahn
like a mastiff shaking a ragdoll. The assassin sucked it from him, and Marten no longer had the will to resist.

“Oh, I had so hoped for an epic battle – a test of wills between two…well not equals obviously, but at least someone who might have offered me a challenge.” A soft sigh followed Tymin Marten into oblivion. “Perhaps if I can find this student of yours…”

Peace is only wrought through victory. – Wild Tiger

S
lar leaned against the freshly carved stone parapet. Early summer spread across the Northlands before him in a splash of colorful wildflowers, dancing with the grasses in the soft breeze. Beyond the last pines, the rolling hills of sun-warmed tundra stretched to the horizon. Most of the straggling conifer trees had been cleared around the new gate, as yet without a wall. It marked the outer limits of the new city that sprang up around the base of Dragonsclaw. Slar’s private chamber stood well above it, carved into one of the upper faces of the tunneled-out mountain.

“It’s still not high enough for me to avoid the smell of all those Mammoth Clan fools.” He spat over the edge, watching the gobbet drop toward the distant collection of new buildings and field tents. “They win one battle and think the glory is all theirs. Thank the Flames most of them remain at Highspur.”

Otherwise, the rest of us would be outnumbered.

The doeskin curtain separating his terrace from the inner chamber fluttered aside and Tealla stepped out to join him. Her eyes met his for one moment, then lowered.

“Your son, Sharrog awaits at your door, my Warchief.” Her fiery gaze again met his. “He asks to speak with you.”

The sourness in his stomach at thoughts of the Mammoth Clan faded. “Bring him to me.”

Tealla bowed and disappeared. Moments later, Sharrog walked out on the terrace with a frown.

“Why so dour, my son?”

The young orc’s features wore much more than the year and a half of toil they had spent in Galdreth’s service. “You should see the lines on your own visage, Father.” He leaned against the stone, carved with dragons and flames. “Our victory lies sour in my stomach. I should rejoice at smashing the Human army. I should rejoice for my kin who died as honored warriors.” Sharrog pulled on the thick gold ring in his ear. “But all I can see is the numbers who have died. Even though the enemy fled, our own horde was so weakened by the battle that we were forced to return to the Northlands. We did not even plunder their cities or chase their survivors into a hole.”

Slar shrugged. “It was the command of Galdreth. You were there when our master appeared to Sargash and me after the battle.” The painful old acquaintance in his gut flared at thoughts of Galdreth and of Sargash. “Tonight we will unite Galdreth with the vessel. Then we will have time to gather another harvest, and next spring we will swing southward with an even greater host than last time. Only there will be nothing to stop us until we reach their walled city of Gavanor.”

Placing both hands on the rail, Sharrog stared out over the summer-painted Northland tundra. “Grindar once told me your reasons for following Galdreth. That only by uniting the clans to move southward could you save the Boar Clan from the encroachments of the others. I see the wisdom of this.” He turned to look at Slar. “But now our clan is even weaker than before, and the Mammoths are many times stronger. The Rams and the Wolf are decimated even more than we. Only the Bear and Snake could challenge them, and they are their closest friends.” Sharrog looked down at the swarm of builders and warriors far below. “I fear that this halt is to allow Mammoth to consolidate their power before moving southward. I fear they may well try to eliminate you.”

Though he felt no mirth, Slar forced a laugh. “Sargash would never harm me. I am Galdreth’s chosen Warchief.”

Sharrog’s frown deepened. “That’s what I fear most.”

His son’s words shook Slar to his core. They brought up thoughts he had tamped down after their close victory at the Gallond. The fiery knot in his gut burst into a searing flame. A hint of blood rose to his tongue and Slar felt a sudden urge to vomit. He spat over the side of the mountain, away from his son to hide the spittle’s pinkness.

“You should rest and eat well before tonight’s ceremony.” Slar wiped his chin. “I want you to lead the Boar soon. Maybe someday lead all clans. Meet me here an hour after sunset and we will go down to the chamber with the shamans together.”

The young warrior bowed, turned, and left through the doeskin curtain.

Slar watched the orcs working at the foot of Dragonsclaw for a while, but the preponderance of Mammoth Clan banners moving among them kept the pain in his gut from settling.
And I still left half of them at Highspur.

He spat one last time, and then passed back into his chambers. Tealla stood there with a silver cup filled with chilled goat’s milk. He downed it and handed the cup back with a smile.

“Your smile is so handsome,” she commented. “I see it so rarely these days

Slar barked a laugh. “A chieftain rarely smiles, and a Warchief even less.”

Tealla turned to set the cup down next to a massive chest. Heaving it open, she pulled out a piece of twisted silver and flashing opals. “Does not the crown of your enemy make you want to smile? Or perhaps we could stroll down and view his head where it rests on a brand new spike?” She dug further in, lifting up another piece of twisted metal, this one set with a diamond and hung upon a snapped leather thong. “Or this medallion, taken from the vessel himself?”

Slar grabbed her wrist and she dropped it back into the chest. “You should not speak of such things out loud. The vessel is not to be announced until after the joining.” He shook his head. “The people will not follow a human until they witness Galdreth’s power within him. I should not have told you.”

Tealla lifted her other hand to caress his cheek. “You should tell me everything, for I will tell others nothing, and they think that’s all I know. I am the only counselor you have with no possibility of replacing you.” She leaned her head against his chest. “I’m the only one you should completely trust. You lifted me up when none other would.”

“I can also trust my son,” Slar whispered, watching on the exit from his chambers.

Leaning back, Tealla looked up at him. “I think so – for now. But sometimes sons can become ambitious, with hopes of replacing a powerful father too quickly.” She patted his chest. “I do not think Sharrog is that sort by any means, but men can change.”

Slar nodded. “You offer wisdom. That is another reason why I trust you with so much. Only one of my wives ever offered good counsel, and she is long passed on to the Halls of Fire.”

An enticing smile curling at her lips, Tealla ran a red-lacquered claw along his cheek. “I can only hope you honor me someday by making me your wife, but know that I am forever content with just having you.”

Slar leaned in to kiss her with a deep passion, and then nip about her ears. They collapsed onto his fur-stacked bed and relieved each other of the tensions that had built up within them. Almost an hour later, they still lay there, peacefully at rest and in each other’s arms.

Staring at the painted flames upon his ceiling, Slar’s thoughts drifted to the chest, its various contents, and the prisoners far below who owned them.

“I must speak with them,” he said to Tealla, though he was not certain why.

“Who? The shamans?”

He gestured toward the chest. “The humans who carried those treasures.”

Tealla rose up on one elbow. “Do those trinkets haunt you the way they haunt me?”

His inner doubts rising at her words, Slar tilted his head at the woman. “What do you mean?”