Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

The man screamed insanely. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and his neck cords strained so tightly that they looked like they might snap apart. After the screaming stopped, the sobbing began again.

Xanthus caused the bloody mallet to again dip into the salt bucket, then resume its place high above the altar. He looked at Tristan. So that the crowd could not hear what he had to say, he silently revealed his thoughts to Tristan’s mind.

“What is it to be, Jin’Sai?” Tristan heard the Darkling’s voice say.“How many more must die because of your childish stubbornness? Follow me into the azure pass, and this will stop. Follow me, and the many answers you seek will be yours.”

Tristan again looked at the suffering man atop the altar. Who is he? he wondered. And who am I, to have the power of life and death over others?

“You are theJin’Sai,” Xanthus answered.“Like every Jin’Saibefore you, you have been born into the dark worlds of magic, manifest destiny, and pain. You are still unable to control your magic or your destiny. But you can control this man’s pain. Say yes, Jin’Sai, and save him.”

Tristan sobbed openly. He was close to believing that the fault was his, and that had he found a way to murder this abomination of the craft, this would not be happening.

“Yes,”Xanthus whispered silently.“This is indeed your fault. But there is time to rectify your sins. Come with me and I will heal this man, making him as he was before. Resist me, and he will die a horrible death.”

Tristan gazed at the desperate victim’s face. The man would never know who Tristan was, or that it had been he who had signed his death warrant. Finally deciding, Tristan looked directly into Xanthus’ glowing eyes and shook his head.

Tristan watched in horror as the mallet again came down to squarely strike the wedge. More bone cracked, more blood spurted forth, and more screaming filled the air. This time the damage was so severe that yellow bone marrow oozed from between the boards and the altar top and went slipping down the altar’s sides. The last blow rendered the man’s knee joints little more than useless sacks of crushed meat, marrow, and bone. This time the trauma proved too much. As his head slumped to one side the man gasped his last and died.

Xanthus looked at the prince. “Four is enough for one day,” he said. “I will grant you a different entertainment tomorrow. Perhaps it will make you more agreeable.”

Ignoring the corpse, Xanthus came to stand in the dais’s center. Soon the craft’s azure glow surrounded him. Tristan watched the Darkling reach into one duster pocket and produce something. After removing his duster and his robe, Xanthus dropped them to the floor. In his human form, the Darkling slowly turned to face Tristan.

For the briefest moment, Xanthus seemed to regard the prince with sadness. Then his expression hardened. He turned away.

Naked from the waist up, the Darkling’s human muscles glistened in the candlelight. In one hand he held a black knotted cord. After taking several steps across the dais, he faced northwest and sat on his knees. For several long moments the Darkling bowed his head.

His self-inflicted penitence started slowly. Lashing his naked back, Xanthus opened up wound after gaping wound. As the blows quickened, his blood started flowing down his back and onto the floor, mingling with that of his victims.

As the lashings continued, Tristan suddenly found that he could close his eyes. That must have been Xanthus’ doing, but he was at a complete loss about why.

If I can shut this out, I will, he thought, as more tears streaked down beneath his hated mask. Since the Coven’s return, I have witnessed the horrors of a thousand lifetimes. I needn’t watch this.

As the knotted line continued to split Xanthus’ skin, the enchanted townspeople watched blankly. Tristan of the House of Galland shut his bleary eyes.

AS HE WINGED THROUGH THE AIR, TRAAX SEARCHEDthe countryside for landmarks. He had pushed his airborne phalanx hard and without pause in his attempt to reach the pass as fast as possible. He knew that Shailiha was right. TheJin’Sai ’s life could hang in the balance.

It was midday in Eutracia, and the sky was clear. The sun hung directly overhead, warming the warriors’ wings. If their endurance held, they would reach the pass within the hour. Traax smiled. It would be good to see Gaius again.

Traax was proud of the warriors flying with him. After receiving his orders from Shailiha, he had asked for volunteers. There had no been no shortage from whom to pick. The fifty accompanying him were the best of the best.

He hoped that his chosen warriors could fly to the pass nonstop, yet arrive fresh enough to fight. So far, they had proven him right. Time was of the essence. Traveling light, they bore no supply litters. When they reached the pass they would live in true warrior style, taking what they needed from the land.

Realizing that he was thirsty again, Traax reached back to grasp his canteen. Minion warriors could go for days without food, but water was a constant need. Knowing that they were nearing their destination, he gulped down all that remained.

Seeing their commander drink, the fifty obedient warriors followed suit. A revered Minion tenet stated that a commander must be willing to personally suffer whatever he demanded from his charges. Conversely, while on a mission no subordinate could take rest or sustenance until his leader did so first. There were many warrior ranks, but they all shared this common bond. It was more than good discipline. It was a matter of honor.

Traax could easily have navigated his way to the pass by following the gouge left by the once-rampaging Orb of the Vigors. But taking that meandering path would have wasted valuable time. He had therefore chosen to fly by dead reckoning. Prominent landmarks, the position of the sun, and wind variables had determined the way.

Traax was one of the best navigators in the entire Minion force. More important, he had faith in his abilities. Unless he missed his guess, they would soon fly directly over Fledgling House. Covering the distance from there to the pass would be brief. Confident that he was on the right course, he allowed his mind to drift back to the pleasant time just before he had assembled his troops.

Hearing of his imminent departure, Duvessa had rushed to join him in his quarters. Dried blood from the masquerade ball victims still showed on her hands, forearms, and armor. A white feather lay stitched across a red one on her chest armor, indicating her premier rank as a warrior-healer. Reaching out, Traax pulled her to him.

“Was it bad?” he asked.

Duvessa nodded. She was a handsome Minion female, and she considered Traax her equal. Besides leading all the Minion healers, she also commanded the female warriors. She bore the mantles well.

Duvessa briefly closed her eyes. “We and the acolytes did all we could for them,” she answered, “but Faegan’s bolts were powerful. Who could have guessed that it would pass through the Darkling like that? Five died straightaway. Three were human and two were Minion. Twelve more were seriously wounded. The survivors’ destinies lie with the fates. How is Faegan?”

Traax’s expression darkened. “He will live,” he answered. “But when he realizes how many he accidentally killed and wounded, I fear he might never be the same.”

Holding up her hands, Duvessa regarded the dried blood. “Such strange beings, these humans,” she said. “Some are gifted with the craft and some are not. They are not as physically powerful as we. But their loyalty and honor can be equally strong. Sometimes I believe we share more with them than we know. As our blood mingles with theirs, I cannot tell them apart.”