Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

“Two more weeks,” he said firmly. Then he added, “I know how badly you want to attack, but any sooner and we cannot guarantee that all the acolytes will be ready.”

He looked over at the First Sister. “Adrian has learned quickly, despite a few mishaps. If the others do as well, the ships’ seaworthiness will soon be ensured.”

Taking a moment to think, the prince looked past the table at the flames dancing in the blue marble fireplace. He purposely kept his eyes away from the empty chair to his right-Celeste’s chair. Her name was still inscribed on the back as a painful reminder of her absence. Pulling his thoughts together, he addressed Traax.

“How many fighting warriors do we still command?” he asked.

The Minion commander shook his head. “Not the number I would like,” he answered glumly. “Wulfgar’s second invasion force slaughtered too many.”

Tristan wasn’t in the mood for half answers.“How many?” he asked once more.

Traax sat up a little straighter. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. “At best-including the female warrior-healers led by Duvessa-we might summon fifty thousand. As you are aware, we do not know whether that will be enough to take the Citadel. Even worse, there are hardly enough fletchers, armorers, healers, cooks, and so on to support them.”

Tristan was about to respond when an insistent knocking came at the doors. Ox entered at Tristan’s command, and it was plain to see that the gigantic warrior was worried about something.

“What is it?” Tristan asked.

Ox bowed. “I be sorry to intrude,” he said in his broken Eutracian. “Visitors come to palace gates to request audience before Conclave. At first me not want to let them in. But they seem in bad way. They ride hard to get here. Lose three horses to the pace, they claim. I put them in Chamber of Supplication, then give them food and water. They wait for you there.”

“What do they want?” Abbey asked.

“Me not sure,” Ox answered. “But they say they must see entire Conclave-especiallyJin’Sai. ”

Tristan looked around the table. “Does anyone know what this is about?” he asked. They all shook their heads.

Tristan looked back at Ox. “They wish to see usall, you say?”

The warrior nodded. “Me believe that you should go. There be ten of them.”

Tristan nodded. “Very well,” he announced, and led the way out.

It took some time for the Conclave members to navigate the serpentine hallways that led to the Chamber of Supplication. On the way they passed dozens of servants-cooks, housekeepers, musicians-all hurrying to finish the preparations for that night’s masquerade ball.

Tristan sighed. We should be attacking the Citadel, he fretted. Instead, we will be foolishly feasting and dancing until dawn. Quickening his pace, he rounded the final corner to stop before the pair of massive doors that barred the way into the Chamber of Supplication. Each door was adorned with a golden roaring lion superimposed by a golden Eutracian broadsword: Together, they comprised the House of Galland’s heraldry. At Tristan’s signal, the two Minion guards on duty swung the doors open. He quickly led his group into the room.

The recently renovated chamber sparkled with cleanliness. The morning breeze flowed through opened stained-glass windows, gently moving the patterned draperies. The smell of fresh-cut flowers permeated the air. Pillars of sunlight streamed in, highlighting the violet walls and ceiling, and the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Hundreds of upholstered chairs sat in neat rows on the floor before the dais. This was the hall where the late king and the onetime Directorate of Wizards had heard specific requests from the populace. Such meetings had always occurred on the first of each month. Supplicants by the hundreds had always arrived, each seemingly bearing a request more urgent than the last. If the need had been found to be in the nation’s best interests, it was often granted. The wizards had yet to suggest that Tristan reinstate this old custom, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before they did.

Tristan made his way to the dais, where a row of high-backed chairs waited. From that vantage point, he looked down at the people who had come to see him. Although not one seemed injured, they all looked to be in a bad way, and all of them-five men, four women, and one young boy-were so intent upon a table that had been laid with food and drink that they hadn’t even noticed the arrival of the Conclave members. Watching them eat, Tristan realized that Ox had done the right thing by bringing them here.

Tristan decided he wanted Shailiha at his right side and Wigg at his left. As he directed them to their seats, the beleaguered citizens below finally realized that the Conclave had entered the room. Plates and goblets were set back on the table with a clatter.

A middle-aged woman with dark hair clambered up the carpeted steps to stand directly before the prince. A blond-haired boy of about seven Seasons of New Life followed her. They looked filthy and exhausted.

The woman started crying. To Tristan’s surprise, she threw herself at his feet, wrapping her arms around his knee boots. Bending down, he gently lifted her chin so she could look up at him.

“You’re safe here,” he said quietly. “What troubles you so?”

There was more than terror in her eyes. This woman was also grieving some awful loss. The little boy came to stand by her side. A worn haversack lay slung over one of his shoulders. Awestruck by royalty, he respectfully removed his weathered cap, then looked to the floor.

“Something terrible has happened, my liege,” the woman said in a quavering voice. “Charningham-our village-so many dead…” Her voice trailed off into more weeping.

Tristan turned to look at Wigg.

“I am Wigg, the First Wizard,” Wigg said gently. “What is your name?”

Trying to compose herself, the woman scrubbed her face with her palms. “I am Annabelle,” she answered weakly. “This is my son, Brent. My husband and four others were tortured and killed four days ago by a strange being of the craft. He told us to come here, to give the Conclave a warning. I have never seen anything like him. He wasn’t human…”

Tristan helped the woman to her feet; she buried her face into his shoulder. He ordered Ox to fetch chairs from the chamber floor. Soon all ten visitors sat on the dais, facing the Conclave members.

“Please tell us what happened,” the prince said. “Leave nothing unsaid.”

For the next hour, the refugees related the tale. Brent told about seeing the Darkling-Xanthus-cross the Sippora River, and then how he and his father had been taken back to Charningham. The adults described the savage torture, the senseless killings, and the Darkling’s bizarre self-mutilation. Finally Annabelle recounted the warnings Xanthus had given them, and how they were to be conveyed to the Conclave. When the group finally finished, the only sound came from the swishing window curtains as they obeyed the afternoon breeze.

Tristan looked over at Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay. If anyone knew what these beleaguered people were talking about, it would be they. “What is a Darkling?” he asked.

“I do not know,” Wigg answered. The First Wizard looked at Faegan, then Jessamay. They both shook their heads. Wigg looked back at Annabelle.

“Did Xanthus say where he was going next?” he asked.

The widow shook her head. “Only that if the prince did not obey, there would be more sacrifices,” she answered. “But he did say that there was no use trying to find him, for he could become ‘dust on the wind.’ As he rode out of town, all the foliage in his path died. Then he simply disappeared.”

His eyes alight with curiosity, Faegan wheeled his chair closer. “What did you just say?” he asked anxiously. “About the foliage, I mean.”