Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

“There is something else you have failed to consider,” he added softly.

“And that is?” Faegan asked.

“I possess the stone. I can vanish, cloaking my blood so well that your modest gifts will never find me. If I leave here without theJin’Sai, not only will the atrocities recommence, but whatever hope you might have of recovering the Paragon will vanish with me. You see, I am to take theJin’Sai to a place that your simple minds would find unimaginable. Allow theJin’Sai to accompany me, and you might see your prince and your precious Paragon again. Do not, and the Heretics won’t be so generous with their mercy.”

Faegan wheeled his chair a bit closer. “What guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your word?” he demanded.

Like he was lecturing some dullard schoolboy, Xanthus shook his head. “Fools,” he said. “I have given no word to keep.”

“Is it true that you have attainedK’Shari?” Tristan asked. “Before I believe you I want a demonstration of your presumed gift. But I demand that you leave the guests alone. They have done you no harm.”

“If you insist,” the Darkling said.

Xanthus pointed to the battle axe tied to his saddle. The leather straps securing it untied themselves. He opened his palm, and the axe flew into his hand. He looked back at the prince.

“My ears hear no begging,” he said. “My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.” Then his glowing eyes bored straight into Tristan’s. “The bluish green one, I think,” he said.

Without taking his gaze from Tristan, Xanthus launched his axe into the air. Suddenly realizing his mistake, Tristan could do nothing but watch.

The axe caught a blue-and-green flier in midflight, slicing its body in two as though it had been tissue paper. The axe flew on, its blade crashing into a marble column lining one wall, its impact so great that it nearly cracked the gigantic support in half. For a moment Tristan wondered whether the massive column might give way. Stunned by what they had just seen, guests scurried away from it.

Its wings still beating pitifully, what remained of the flier tumbled to the floor. Faegan cried out; Shailiha screamed. As the broken butterfly convulsed, violet blood ran from her severed innards. Then her two halves stopped moving and died. The Great Hall became quiet as a tomb.

Again without looking up, Xanthus raised one hand. The axe hauntingly levered free from the cracked column and flew back to him. Xanthus calmly caught it in his palm. Violet flier blood ran down the axe’s handle, onto his hand.

“You bastard!” Faegan screamed. His eyes were bulging, and his face was red. He wheeled his chair closer. “How dare you! Why did it have to be a flier? Are you insane?”

His mind raging past rational thought, Faegan pushed his chair closer yet. The old wizard loved the fliers with all his heart. Now one had died unnecessarily at the hands of some endowed madman. For that Xanthus would pay.

“A moving target is the only true test of my skill,” Xanthus answered casually. “Cutting something in half as it travels through the air commands a certain degree of respect.” He looked back at the prince. “Youunderstand, don’t you, Jin’Sai?”

Faegan had reached the breaking point, and he impulsively raised his arms. Twin azure bolts left his hands to go screaming across the room toward Xanthus. Tristan felt the bolts’ searing heat as they narrowly missed him and continued on toward their target.

The twin strikes passed harmlessly through Xanthus’ body. Tristan watched in horror as they continued, unfettered.

Before the unsuspecting guests at the hall’s rear could react, Faegan’s bolts tore into them and they were blown off their feet, their bodies literally torn to shreds. Five died instantly. Many nearby cried out in agony from scalding burns. Other guests started to scream; some fainted away. Blood trails crawled their way across the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

Some guests instinctively tried to flee the room, but they found that the doors wouldn’t open. Tristan could only imagine that the Darkling had used the craft to lock them. Alarmed by the strange noises coming from the Great Hall, Minion sentries on the doors’ opposite sides called out in concern and started pounding on them. But Tristan understood that it didn’t matter how many warriors might barge into the room. If they threatened Xanthus, he would kill them all.

Without warning, the Darkling raised a skeletal hand. An azure bolt streaked from his palm to go flying straight toward Faegan.

The crippled wizard raised his arms in a try to ward it off, but he was too late. Xanthus’ bolt blew Faegan’s chair apart, throwing the wizard three meters into the air. Thrown rearward, Faegan crashed hard against Tristan’s empty chair, then finally landed atop the dais floor and didn’t move.

Wigg ran across the floor to his friend. Wasting no time, Jessamay, Abbey, Adrian, and Duvessa all hurried to the room’s other end, to see what might be done for the wounded guests.

His rage nearly overtaking him, Tristan glared angrily at the monster seated atop the black horse. He desperately wanted to go for his throwing knives, but he knew better than to try. Many surviving guests were cowering in the room’s corners. The air was smoky from Xanthus’ and Faegan’s bolts, and its charred scent harassed his senses. Pieces of Faegan’s chair lay scattered across the floor, some of them lying in pools of blood.

Looking up, Tristan saw that the remaining fliers had attached themselves to the ceiling corners in an attempt to keep from harm. His jaw hardened as he saw the blood from the dead guests’ mangled bodies approaching his boots.

Tristan removed his mask and dropped it to the floor. He looked back at Xanthus. The Darkling slowly lowered his arm. His glowing eyes confident, he smiled again.

“It is time for us to leave, Jin’Sai, ” he said. “Unless you want to see more of these puny humans die.”

“Is the crippled wizard dead?” Tristan demanded.

“I don’t know,” Xanthus answered. “Nor do I care. Your welfare is my only concern.”

Tristan looked back at Wigg. The First Wizard paused in his examination of Faegan to look at the prince and gravely shook his head.

“Give me a moment to consult with my Conclave,” he demanded.

“Very well,” Xanthus answered. “I grant you five of your world’s minutes.”

Taking Tyranny by the hand, Tristan walked her to the dais. Wigg was kneeling over Faegan’s body. The First Wizard’s eyes were closed. His ten fingertips lay on either side of Faegan’s head. The lower half of Faegan’s robe was burned away, showing his hideously mangled legs.

Everyone knew better than to speak during Wigg’s examination, so they stayed silent. Finally Wigg removed his fingers from Faegan’s skull and opened his eyes. Desperately anxious for an answer, the others huddled nearer.

Tristan looked frantically into the First Wizard’s eyes. “Is he-”

“No,” Wigg whispered, hoping that Xanthus wouldn’t hear him. “Faegan lives, but barely. Xanthus’ bolt struck Faegan’s chair, but part of the bolt’s energy was transferred to Faegan’s body. His brain and nervous system are severely shocked, and his heartbeat is wildly irregular. If I can get him to the Redoubt, Jessamay and I might be able to save him. If not, he will die.”

Tristan turned to glare at Xanthus, then looked back at Wigg. “Something doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“What is that?” Shailiha asked.

“It’s obvious that Xanthus has attainedK’Shari, ” Tristan answered. “It is said that those possessing that discipline never miss. And yet, his bolt struck Faegan’s chair, so-”

“Xanthus never intended to kill him,” Tyranny interrupted. “But if he really was sent here by the Heretics, why didn’t they order him to destroy us all, right here and now?”