Robert Newcomb: A March into Darkness

“I’ll take her,” Jessamay answered. “It has been three hundred years since I tried, but I used to be pretty good at this! Let’s see how much speed I can get out of this old bucket!”

Jessamay hurried to stand beside the acolyte. She said something to Adrian, and the tired First Sister gratefully started unraveling her spell. After summoning the spell’s lengthy calculations, Jessamay took over for her.

At once the great ship regained altitude, and her speed rose markedly. Gathering his robe against the strengthening wind, Wigg was suddenly reminded of how fast these amazing vessels could fly, given the proper mystic to captain them. With Jessamay at the helm they would be home in minutes.

Then other, more dangerous thoughts revisited him. Turning west, he looked out over the ocean again. His mind started unknowingly echoing some of the same concerns that had teased Serena, only two days before.

The enemy lies out there, he thought. Only the Afterlife knows what new horrors await us. Turning back to the east, the ancient wizard watched the Eutracian coast grow closer.

BRENT WAS DOING HIS BEST TO IMPALE A WORM ONTOhis fishing hook, just as his father had shown him. But the slimy little creature kept wiggling about, adding to the difficulty. Every time Brent tried, the worm somehow seemed to outsmart him. Slipping from his grip, it plopped into the Sippora River. Brent guessed that his father would not be pleased.

Instead, the lean, middle-aged man only smiled. Reaching into his bait box, he produced another worm and handed it to his son. He considered doing the job for him, but he wanted the boy to learn on his own.

Brent took the worm and started the frustrating process again. At seven Seasons of New Life, he found preparing the hook far less fun than dangling the line in the water and waiting for a fish to come along.

Finally succeeding, he beamed a smile up at his father, then lowered his line into the swift-moving Sippora. The river was fairly shallow here, making this a perfect place to find Eutracian trout.

Alfred watched Brent’s line go out and take the bait downstream. When it had traveled far enough, Alfred told his son to stop letting it go. The red-and-white cork attached to the line bobbed happily as it fought the current.

The late-afternoon sun slanted across the water; it would be time soon to return to their small village of Charningham. Many such farming hamlets bordered the Sippora. Lying well to the north, Charningham had been spared the wrath of the orb’s recent rampage. Rumor had it that Prince Tristan had somehow used the craft to heal the orb and restore the river’s vitality. Everyone had been grateful for the good news.

Alfred looked up from his line. He and Brent were sitting on wooden chairs, atop a stone bridge stretching over a curved neck in the river. A farmer by trade, Alfred owned much of the surrounding land. To the east, Charningham stretched out before them. Colorful wildflowers dotted the intervening fields for nearly as far as the eye could see.

Evening was fast approaching. Cicadas and tree frogs sang happily. The Sippora burbled noisily, adding its unique contribution to nature’s chorus. The river pulled on Alfred’s fishing line, gently reminding him to pay attention.

Looking down, he affectionately tousled Brent’s blond hair. They already had two trout in the quiver, and the last one was still flapping about. One more and they would go home. Annabelle could do miraculous things with trout. Tonight’s dinner might be late, but definitely worth the trouble.

That was when things suddenly changed.

The Sippora River impossibly stopped flowing. Alfred had often seen the river meander or rush, depending on the season. But this was different. A curious expression on his face, Brent looked up at his father.

Then the breeze abruptly quieted. So did the singing of the cicadas and tree frogs.

Everything suddenly carried a deathly stillness about it, like nature herself had somehow lost her never-ending vitality. Rising from his chair, Alfred looked downstream. His hands tightened around his fishing rod.

Dark and unmoving, a rider could be seen on the western bank. Dressed all in black, he simply waited there, staring at Alfred and Brent. The black stallion’s coat shone in the growing moonlight; vapor streamed whitely from his nostrils. Alfred couldn’t see the rider’s face. Grasping Brent’s shoulders, Alfred spun him around.

“We’re leaving!” he said quickly. “Grab up your pole!”

A questioning look crossed Brent’s face, but he did as he was told. Alfred snatched up the bait box and quiver, then literally started pulling his son off the bridge. At the same time the intruder spurred his horse into the still river and started coming upstream. Reaching the end of the bridge, the father and son stepped to the ground.

As Alfred turned to look, his face fell. It would be useless to try to outrun the stranger. Charningham was a quarter of a league away, and there was no one about to help. All he could do was wait, and pray that the rider meant them no harm.

As if reading his mind, the lone rider slowed his mount to a walk. The intruder quietly exited the river. As he watched him approach, Alfred’s mouth fell open.

With every step the being’s horse took, the surrounding grass and wildflowers withered and died.

The rider prodded his horse closer. A battle axe hung at his left hip, and a war shield was tied to his saddle. Even now the river refused to flow, the night creatures remained silent, and the breeze had not returned.

Alfred looked into the rider’s face. A shock went through his system; he took a step back and put an arm around his son.

Alfred tried to find his voice. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Call me Xanthus,” the leader answered. “I come from another world-a world you couldn’t possibly imagine. The answers to your questions will do you no good, for I can tell that your blood is unendowed. So inquire no more.”

“What do you want?” Alfred whispered.

Xanthus smiled. “I want you,” he answered. The voice possessed a strangely macabre, hollow timbre. If a dead man could speak, it seemed that this was what he would sound like.

“Why?” Alfred asked.

“For no other reason than you are the first Eutracians I have encountered,” Xanthus answered. “My orders are specific.” He turned in his saddle and looked east.

“Charningham?” he asked.

Nervously, Alfred nodded.

Xanthus leaned forward in his saddle. “How many souls live there?” he asked.

Alfred’s dread grew. “About one thousand.”

“A sizable enough audience with which to start,” Xanthus replied cryptically.

“What do you mean?” Alfred asked.

“You will learn that soon enough. You are coming with me.”

At once Alfred felt his body rise into the air. Struggle as he might he couldn’t overcome the invisible grip that tossed him onto the stallion’s back behind Xanthus. Speaking and moving had become impossible. He could only watch as Brent, screaming, was hauled into the air and deposited on the horse’s back just behind him. And then the scream was cut off as Brent, too, was frozen in place.

Xanthus turned his horse toward Charningham. The grass and flowers in their path died quickly, turning brown. The sun, its golden rays slowly reddening, slowly slipped behind the Tolenka Mountains.

Hoping he and his son might somehow survive the night, Alfred closed his eyes. There was no one around to observe as the horse and its riders vanished.

With the Darkling gone, the Sippora River slowly started flowing again. The breeze returned. The tree frogs and cicadas sang. Inside the abandoned fishing quiver, the most recently caught trout finally gave in to the inevitable, and died.