Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

Tristan looked skeptically at the food, then back at Xanthus. The Darkling smiled.

“We might be together for some time, Jin’Sai, ” he said. “You must learn to trust me.”

Deciding he had no choice, Tristan took a sip of the excellent tea, then filled a plate with food. After dipping a bread slice into the butter, he ate hungrily. He soon felt the forgotten ball mask rubbing against his skin. Reaching beneath his vest, he removed it. Xanthus eyed it knowingly.

“Before this day passes, you will come to hate me even more,” he said. “But less, I suspect, than you will hate me tomorrow.”

Putting down his plate, Tristan regarded the mask, then turned his eyes back toward the Darkling. He had never visited Everhaven, but he already mourned its citizens’ fates.

“Must it be this way?” he asked angrily. “Is there nothing I can do-short of going through the azure pass-that will dissuade you from this madness?”

“No,” Xanthus answered. “I have given you all the needed explanations. It is time to decide.”

Tristan looked at the mask. “I know why you gave this to me,” he said. “You wish me to remain anonymous as I watch the atrocities. What I do not know is why.”

“The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “If and when you return from the other side, the Heretics want no animosity existing between the populace and their prince. Only recently have your fellow Eutracians come to again accept you as their legitimate regent. Should they recognize you while I go about my work, your family house would carry the stain for all time. Such an unfortunate occurrence would prove problematic.”

“Why do the Heretics care about such things?”

“All in good time, Jin’Sai, ” Xanthus answered.

“You just said, ‘if and whenyou return from the other side,’” Tristan mused. “Assuming that I follow you into the pass, won’t you be returning with me?”

“No,” Xanthus answered. “Once I take you to the other side, my work is done.”

“What will happen to you?” Tristan asked.

“My existence’s sole purpose is to bring you to the Heretics,” Xanthus said. “After that, I do not know what will happen to me. I will be rewarded in some way, I suppose.”

Tristan looked thoughtfully into Xanthus’ human face. He couldn’t help but notice that in this form, the Darkling seemed less evil, less remote. If there was any chance that Xanthus might be dissuaded from his mission, it would be now.

But which side controls the other?

Waving an arm, Xanthus caused the breakfast things to vanish. Then the fire went out. The tack lying nearby rose skyward and secured itself onto the horses. Xanthus’ axe and shield rose to meet his saddle.

“It is time to go,” Xanthus said. “What is it to be, Jin’Sai? Shall I take us to the azure pass in a single heartbeat? Or do we go to Everhaven?”

Heartsick with worry, Tristan looked around. As far as he could see, the Farplains fields lay barren. He couldn’t kill Xanthus, nor could he escape him. His only two choices were to give himself over to the Heretics here and now, or to helplessly stand by while the Darkling tormented the Everhavians. He looked beseechingly into the strangely human face.

“Don’t do this!” he said softly. “I beg you!”

“The time for begging is over,” Xanthus answered. “Choose.”

His heart breaking, Tristan closed his eyes. “No,” he answered. “Not now, not ever.”

Xanthus sighed. “Very well,” he said. “But one day youwill follow me through the pass. Your love for humanity will demand it.”

Reaching back, Xanthus pulled his robe hood up over his head. Tristan watched the craft’s aura form around the Darkling. Soon Xanthus’ face and hands melted away, to be replaced by his hideous spirit form. The awful eyes in the hood’s recesses stared menacingly at the prince. The combination of the glowing orbs and what was about to happen in Everhaven made Tristan’s skin crawl. The evil had returned.

“Mount your horse,” the Darkling said. “Take care not to lose your mask.”

The two riders climbed aboard their mounts. As the reins untied themselves from the tether line, the line disappeared. Saying nothing more, Xanthus started riding north. His heart heavy, the prince had no choice but to follow.

As the riders left the forlorn campsite, the Sippora started running again, the birds sang, and the wind was reborn.

AS THE VICTIM SCREAMED, TRISTAN TRIED TO TURN HIS FACEaway, but could not. Aside from blinking, he could not otherwise close his eyes. From behind the black mask, tears ran freely down his cheeks. What madness…and I am partly to blame!

From the start of the horrific spectacle, Xanthus had used the craft to take away Tristan’s ability to speak, and to move his body. The prince could move his head, but only to suggest yes or no. Before incapacitating him, Xanthus had ordered Tristan to sit in a simple wooden chair, from which he could clearly view the Darkling’s grotesque handiwork.

The grisly scene had been going on for hours, and the eager Darkling showed no signs of stopping. The naked man being tortured to death was today’s fourth such victim. No one needed to tell Tristan that the poor fellow would soon join the first three already in the Afterlife. But that mattered little to Xanthus. The room was filled with people from whom to choose.

On reaching Everhaven, Xanthus had acted quickly. Calling the craft, he invoked a spell summoning every man, woman, and child to the town square. Tristan had been amazed by the enchantment’s powerful grasp.

Spellbound, the unseeing citizens had all trudged to the same spot. Xanthus had then ordered as many as possible to enter the community hall. Those remaining outside simply stood waiting in the sun with vacuous looks on their faces. Tristan and Xanthus entered last.

The hall was a simple structure and was built of fieldstone, mortar, and wood. It was there that the town fathers called the people together to decide important issues, and to share the kingdom’s news. Large candelabras hung from the rough-hewn rafters. Wooden pews sat in neat rows, and their lengths were filled with entranced spectators. Stained-glass windows lined the walls, and a dais sat at the room’s far end. Standing on the dais and alongside Tristan’s chair, Xanthus went about his grisly work.

Waving a skeletal hand, Xanthus inflicted another round of torture. A terrible banging sound came, followed by a scream that filled the air, then faded into nothingness. Sobbing followed. Tristan watched as yet more blood dripped lazily to the floor. Seemingly unfazed, the spellbound citizens sat quietly in their pews as they watched.

Conjured by Xanthus, a massive wooden altar lay on the dais. It was rectangular in shape and measured about one meter high. The dried blood of past victims lay splattered across its sides and top. Sturdy ropes bound the victim’s head, torso, and legs to the altar top.

Wooden planks lay along the man’s sides, stretching from his hips to his feet. Ropes bound the boards tight against the man’s legs, pushing them together. A wooden wedge had been driven between the victim’s knees. A bloody wooden mallet, its business end wound with harsh rope, hovered in the air. Nearby lay a wide-mouthed bucket filled with common salt.

Tristan could only watch as Xanthus caused the bloody mallet head to again grind itself into the salt, then hauntingly rise to a place high above the victim. Saying nothing, Xanthus paused in his work to look at the prince. His mind nearly mad with guilt, Tristan thought for a moment, then sadly shook his head.

With another wave, Xanthus caused the mallet to come down with amazing force.

The mallet drove the wedge deeper into the shrinking space between the man’s knees, squeezing his limbs against the planks and crushing the flesh and bone. The mallet’s salt sank into the fresh wounds.