Robert Newcomb: A March into Darkness

The dreggan blade came whistling around, slashing into the rider’s right shoulder. But as it did, the warrior felt no resistance against it.

Doing no harm, the dreggan flowed through the intruder’s body, then down through his mount as though they were ghosts, burying itself into the trunk of a nearby tree. The warrior frantically struggled to free the blade, but could not. His eyes wide, he looked up at the miraculous opponent who had just bested him. The being’s face was hideous, terrifying.

“Who are you?” the warrior demanded.

Staring down at his bewildered enemy, the being atop the horse smiled. He raised one arm.

“I am a Darkling,” he said quietly. “But you won’t live to tell anyone.”

The warrior’s organs exploded like those of his fellows, and he fell dead to the ground. His dreggan-still caught in the tree trunk-glinted softly in the light of the three red moons.

Saying nothing more, the rider guided his horse down to where Gaius and the five other Minions were camped. The dark gap in the pass sealed itself, leaving no trace of the exit that had just formed.

In the end, the sleeping warriors at the bottom of the mountainside would fare no better than their brothers.

DESPITE THE COOLNESS OF THE NIGHT, TRISTAN WASsweating. Its blade shining in the moonlight, his dreggan felt cool to the touch as he held it vertically before his body. A stout Eutracian maple tree was at his back. He had been hiding at the edge of the forest for some time. Taking a deep breath, he peered around the tree trunk.

Wigg and Jessamay were quickly making their way down the hill. The crippled wizard Faegan was close behind, levitating his wooden wheelchair as he went. The trio would soon near the nondescript cottage in the clearing. Then they would know.

Gritting his teeth, Tristan chafed at being left behind. For the last two months each of these deadly encounters had been the same. He and the others were always ordered to stay back, while the mystics went in first. More often than not their fanatical prey chose to die, rather than surrender. The few who had been taken alive were interned in the depths of the Redoubt.

As the three mystics hurried, Faegan cloaked their endowed blood. Even so, the adepts neared the cottage with extreme care. Light could be seen coming from its windows, and smoke gently curled its way free from the stone chimney. It was an idyllic picture, belying the deadly nature of those hiding inside.

Desperately wanting to act, Tristan looked over at Traax and Shailiha. Their expressions told him that they were equally eager to go charging down. They all had their individual scores to settle-Tristan most of all.

Looking deeper into the woods, Tristan saw more eager Minions, crouched in hiding and awaiting his orders. He doubted that the extra warriors would be needed, for the scouts he had sent here yesterday had reported that only two souls inhabited the cottage. But if the fugitives were of the craft they could prove deadly. His hands tightening around his sword hilt, he looked back down at the scene.

Their backs flattened against the cottage’s front wall, Wigg and Jessamay waited anxiously for Faegan. Finally landing his chair directly before the cottage door, the crippled wizard raised his hands. Twin azure bolts shot from his fingers, brilliantly illuminating the night.

Faegan used the twin bolts to free the door hinges from their frame. Lifting his hands into the air, he cast the door to the grass. Tristan held his breath as he watched the wizards and sorceress charge inside.

At first nothing happened. Then Wigg’s warning came roaring out into the night. Tristan raced down the hill. As he approached the cottage, bolts of azure energy screamed from the windows. Then the roof exploded into the air, and three of the cottage’s four walls tumbled into ruin. The blast took Tristan off his feet, throwing him hard to the ground. What remained of the cottage crumbled into flaming debris. Burning wood and charred stone landed all around him.

Tristan slowly came to all fours. He looked up to see Traax, Shailiha, and Ox come running. As his vision cleared, they helped him to his feet. Traax handed him his sword.

“Are you all right?” Shailiha asked anxiously.

Tristan ran one hand through his dark hair. “I…believe so,” he answered. But as his mind cleared, a terrible foreboding took him.

“Wigg…,” he breathed. As fast as his legs could carry him, he again started running toward the inferno.

Soon the heat was too much, forcing him to a skidding stop. Trying to enter the crumbling cottage was unthinkable. The last timber suddenly fell in, leveling the dwelling for good.

Shailiha came to stand with Tristan, and she took him by the hand. His body was shaking with hate, and tears filled his eyes.

“What happened?” she asked quietly as she sheathed her sword.

Tristan angrily slid his dreggan into the scabbard lying across his back. He looked down at the ground.

“Whoever was inside that cottage chose to die, rather than be captured,” he answered grimly. “Did you see those azure streaks come tearing out of the windows? That explosion was generated by the craft. Despite their amazing gifts, our friends never stood a chance.” His hands balling up into fists, theJin’Sai closed his eyes.

“Oh ye of little faith!” a gravelly voice suddenly called out from the darkness. A familiar cackle followed.

Everyone spun around to see Faegan approaching. He was again levitating his wooden chair. In the light of the burning cottage they saw that he was dirty from head to toe, but smiling broadly. Wigg and Jessamay-each equally filthy-were following along behind.

Tristan let go a sigh of relief. Shailiha ran to greet them. Faegan and Jessamay beamed back with the sheer joy of being alive. Embarrassed by Shailiha’s enthusiastic embrace, Wigg cleared his throat, then busily smoothed out the hem of his singed robe.

While the cottage remains crackled and burned, Tristan, Ox, and Traax walked over. By now the warriors hiding in the woods had joined them. Faegan gave Tristan a conspiratorial wink, but it was clear that theJin’Sai was not amused. The prince crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’d say you three have some explaining to do,” he said. “How did you manage to survive that explosion?”

“We managed to take cover behind the rear wall, which we strengthened with the craft.” Obviously pleased with himself, Faegan smiled again.

Shailiha scowled. “I don’t understand,” she protested. “How did you know that there would be an explosion? And what made you believe that you would be able to get out in time? It must have been close!”

“Indeed,” Wigg answered.

As the First Wizard and Jessamay walked closer, the others could see that their hair and clothing had been singed. The Paragon-the bloodred jewel that helped to empower both sides of the craft-hung securely from a gold chain lying around Wigg’s neck. Seeing that the gemstone was safe, Tristan finally relaxed.

“When we stormed the cottage, we saw two men sitting at a table,” Wigg added. “I recognized them as onetime consuls of the Redoubt. When a ball of energy started to form between them, I wasted no time in causing the windows to blow out so we could run for cover. We were lucky, but the two consuls died immediately. I think that was their intent from the beginning. I am sorry to see them perish. They might have told us much.”

Reaching down into one knee boot, Tristan retrieved a ragged piece of parchment. He held it to the moonlight as he glanced down the page.

“This was the last consular safe house on Satine’s list,” he said. “But that does not mean that it was the last of the consuls.” His face grim, he closed his hand around the parchment and crushed it to pieces.