Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

Suddenly enraged, Tristan brought Shadow up short. He glared hatefully at the Darkling. “I won’t do it!” he shouted.

Xanthus also stopped his horse. Like he was tutoring some insolent schoolboy, the Darkling shook his head. “Tell me, Jin’Sai- during the brief but eventful time you have known me, have I ever made a false threat?”

Tristan’s jaw hardened. “No,” he answered softly.

“Just so,” Xanthus said. Saying nothing more, they got their horses moving again.

An hour later, they came to some structures sitting along the Sippora’s western bank. Tristan saw a thatched cottage, a barn, and a water-powered gristmill. The gristmill’s paddlewheel was being turned by the swiftly moving Sippora. Xanthus stopped his horse.

The Darkling smiled. “There can’t be many people there,” he said, “but it will do for today. It’s such a pretty picture. I wonder if there are any children about.”

Tristan couldn’t believe his ears.“Children?” he wailed. “You cannot mean that!”

Xanthus glared back at him. “You’re in no position to give orders!” he growled. “That is, unless you accompany me to the pass this instant!”

Tristan hung his head. “Ican’t!” he whispered. “You know that!”

“Then hide your face, Jin’Sai, ” the Darkling ordered. “Because of your stubbornness, more innocents are about to die.”

His hands shaking with rage, Tristan reached beneath his vest to produce the hated black mask. After securing it over his face, he followed Xanthus toward the unassuming buildings.

The house was a simple one. It was built of fieldstone and mortar, and its roof was neatly thatched. By the look if it, it held only a few rooms. A colorful bantam rooster arrogantly squired his hens about the yard. The house was surrounded by a split-rail fence, and a stone walkway lined with wildflowers wound its way toward the front door. No lights shone through the cottage windows, nor did smoke curl from the chimney top, though Tristan guessed they would when darkness fell and the night air cooled.

As expected, the barn was larger. Its wooden doors hung open. Numerous grain sacks lay stacked against the inner walls, and its upper story was filled with hay and straw. A small corral was attached to one side, and three strong plow horses roamed its confines. Tristan knew that the horses would be used to turn the great millstones during the Season of Crystal, should the Sippora freeze over.

The mill was large, even by provincial standards. The square, two-story building was painted red. The gristmill’s paddles continually dipped into the quickly moving Sippora only to rise and fall again, and their connecting wheel lay attached to the mill sidewall facing the river.

The owner had cleverly multiplied the current’s power by placing dams in the river, thereby concentrating the water flow. This created a narrower, more rapid current to more speedily rotate the wheel. Pull levers led from the shore to a series of sliding dam doors, to adjust the current’s course and speed. With each revolution the paddlewheel squeaked pleasantly.

Xanthus dismounted and beckoned the prince to do the same. They tied their horses to a corral rail. Xanthus immediately started walking toward the mill. Tristan warily followed.

To the prince’s relief, there was no one inside. The floor was deeply littered with crushed grain husks. Turned by the paddlewheel, a flat, circular under-stone supported a smaller one, grinding against its topside. Another lever system provided the means to lift the upper-stone from its mate.

Had people been working here, they would have been crushing grain between the two stones. The grist would then be sacked and sent downstream on barges to such cities as Tammerland and Far Point. Business seemed good for the mill owner, for dozens more grain sacks lay stacked against the walls, waiting to be emptied. As the squeaky paddlewheel revolved, the comforting smells of crushed wheat, corn, and barley filled the air.

For the first time since meeting Xanthus, Tristan smiled. “How disappointing for you,” he said nastily. “There is no one here to kill.”

Smiling back, Xanthus turned his glowing eyes toward the prince. “Is that so?” he asked. “Then why do the horses remain in the corral, and their saddles still hang on the barn wall?”

Just then they heard a door squeak open on the mill’s western side. With the setting sun at his back, a man stood squarely in the doorway. He held a pitchfork in his hands. Ignoring the Darkling for the moment, he glared straight at Tristan.

“No one wears a mask unless he plans to rob you!” he growled.

His voice was elderly, but strong. Standing his ground, he raised the pitchfork a bit more. He defiantly spat a dark wad of chewing tobacco toward the husk-covered floor.

“State your intentions,” he ordered, “or I’ll kill you where you stand!”

Xanthus didn’t hesitate. Raising one hand, the Darkling called the craft. The pitchfork was torn from the man’s hands to fly across the room; its tines embedded themselves into the opposite wall.

Xanthus moved his fingers. At once the man was lifted into the air. As Xanthus brought him closer, the helpless miller stared back in disbelief.

“Who…what…are you?” he whispered.

“I am from another world,” Xanthus answered. Using his free hand, he pointed to the prince. “This man in the mask is my assistant,” he added. “As an incentive to help me change his stubborn ways, he is going to help kill you.”

“Are you…a wizard?” the man asked.

Xanthus smiled. “No,” he answered. “I am more powerful than any wizard ever born.”

Xanthus closed his eyes. He was summoningK’Shari, Tristan guessed.

Walking outside, the Darkling caused the terrified man to follow him through the air. His heart in his throat, Tristan went with them. As Tristan neared the river, his suspicions were confirmed.

The Sippora had stopped flowing, as had the wind. No creatures stirred. Like they had been frozen in time, the chickens and the horses stood stock-still. With no current to power it, the paddlewheel squeaked to a slow stop. The total stillness felt deadly.

Waving one arm again, Xanthus caused the man to go flying. The miller landed hard, facedown atop the paddlewheel’s zenith. His head was facing downstream, and his arms and legs hung over the wheel’s opposite sides. Xanthus quickly generated a wizard’s warp, holding the man fast.

With tears gathering in his eyes, Tristan looked at the elderly miller trapped atop the wheel. He appeared to be about sixty Seasons of New Life. He was dressed in simple farm clothes, and his body was still lean from years of hard work. His face was tan, his jaw strong. His thick hair was silvery-gray. In some ways, he was reminiscent of the First Wizard.

Xanthus looked at Tristan. “Shall we start?” he asked. “This time you’re going to participate.”

Other than going to the azure pass, Tristan knew there was nothing he could do or say that would change the Darkling’s mind. Clearly, Xanthus would continue with these gruesome killings until Tristan relented. Even so, all the prince could do was to shake his head.

“Very well,” Xanthus said.

The Darkling closed his eyes. Tristan soon realized that Xanthus was no longer summoningK’Shari.

As the Sippora quickly regained its strength, the paddlewheel started to turn. Screaming, the miller headed down toward the rushing water.

As he went under, the struggling miller tried to hold his breath. Coming out on the other side, he gasped desperately for air while trying to regain his senses. As the wheel turned and the man started to go under again, the Darkling looked at the prince.

“It seems the wheel is moving too fast,” he said. “You are going to slow it for me, keeping him under longer.”