Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

“Are you resting comfortably?” the voice asked.

It was an absurd inquiry. The false concern, born only of malice, was taunting; its tone was completely devoid of compassion.

Night had fallen in Charningham. The only light came from the flickering torches Xanthus had lit-no doubt for dramatic effect. The town square was a mass of people; it seemed to Brent that every person he knew was there with him. All those who had resisted the Darkling’s demand to attend him in the town square were dead, killed outright, their bodies left lying in pools of blood. Brent was mute with horror. Tears filling his eyes, he clung unashamedly to his mother’s skirts. He could feel her legs trembling.

Shuddering, Brent looked down at his father.

Alfred lay in the square’s center with his back against one of the large stones forming the plaza floor. Two men and two women lay at even intervals beside him. The Darkling sat on horseback, glowering over them. No one spoke; no one moved.

Iron shoes clip-clopped on the stones as Xanthus spurred his horse to stand before Alfred. A hush descended over the crowd.

“I asked you a question,” Xanthus said. “Are you resting comfortably?”

Despite his partial paralysis, Alfred did his best to look up at his captor. “What do you want?” he asked. “We have little money to give you! We know nothing about the craft! Please-leave us in peace!”

“By the time I leave here, you will have found everlasting peace, I assure you,” Xanthus answered.

Xanthus’ ominous words made Alfred’s skin crawl. He tried again to move, but it was no use.

“At least let the two women go!” he begged.

“No,” Xanthus answered simply.

“But we have done you no wrong!” one of the other men screamed. “What in the name of the Afterlife do you want?”

“Ah, yes,” Xanthus said. “The Afterlife-a concept you humans refer to often, but know so little about.” Raising his dark head, he looked around the crowd.

“Despite your frequent references to it, who among you mindless sheep can explain it, eh?” he added. The silent crowd simply stared at him in dread.

“Just as I thought.” He looked back down at Alfred. “Don’t worry. You will become fully acquainted with the Afterlife’s workings soon enough. In some ways, I envy you.”

“What do you want?”Alfred demanded again. Fearing the worst, he strained to find Annabelle and Brent in the crowd.

“The answer is simple,” Xanthus said. “I want you five to die. It is going to take a long time, and your fellow citizens shall provide the audience. It is no more complicated than that.”

Saying nothing more, the Darkling raised one arm.

Alfred started to hear a grinding sound. When he finally realized what was happening, his eyes bulged and his breath caught.

One of the massive stones of the plaza floor was lifting into the air. Dropping loose soil from its dark underside, it came to float directly above him. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, he could make out the worms, maggots, and other crawling creatures still attached to it, milling about on the stone’s slick underside. Expecting the stone to come crashing down on him, Alfred closed his eyes.

But the stone did not fall. Instead it lowered slowly, its crushing weight starving his lungs bit by bit. His face was spared. But as the excruciating pain rose, he felt his sternum and several ribs snap. The pressure sent the wriggling creatures crawling free from the stone and onto his face.

Shaking his head wildly from side to side, Alfred screamed. Gasping for breath, he looked up at Xanthus.

“What-what do you want from us?” he whispered. He was barely able to get the words out.

Under the stone’s overpowering weight, his veins began hemorrhaging; blood rivulets trickled from his nose, eyes, and ears. Unable to watch, Brent turned away, retreating farther into his mother’s skirt folds. His entire body was shaking. Like his father, he could barely breathe.

“I have already told you,” Xanthus said. “Be still, for my ears hear no begging. My eyes see no pain. My heart feels no remorse.”

Another large stone came floating into the air. The other captives started begging. But they soon learned that the stone was not meant for one of them. Some in the crowd spoke up, pleading that the torture be stopped. But Xanthus ignored them.

As the second stone’s weight added to the first, the remaining air was pushed from Alfred’s lungs. Several more ribs snapped, and both his shoulders dislocated. His heart, crushed, beat its last. A final death rattle escaped his lungs. His eyes were open wide, but unseeing.

Annabelle fainted; a nearby man caught her in his arms. For several long moments, Brent’s wailing was the only sound in the square.

Suddenly a man rushed from the crowd. He was brandishing a sword, which he pointed directly at the Darkling.

“You’re insane!” he growled. “If you don’t stop this madness, I’ll kill you!”

Xanthus didn’t say a word. Raising one arm, he used the craft to levitate the fellow into the air. The man’s fingers opened, and his sword clattered to the ground. His body stiffened; his eyes rolled back in his head. As if he were controlled by some unseen puppeteer-and in a way, he was-his body started dancing about wildly. Then his limbs began to break.

First the arms then the legs snapped, their glistening bones rupturing the skin in grisly, compound fractures. Blood flew, spattering the crowd nearby.

Suddenly the man’s eyes went wide. His body arched, and then, with a sudden, swift motion, his back broke.

The body fell to the ground. Xanthus wheeled his horse around and glared at the crowd. Some sobbed; others hung their heads in shame. An elderly matron pulled Brent close to her.

“Is there anyone else who dares to be heroic?” Xanthus shouted. Silence filled the square.

“Good,” he said simply, and walked his mount back toward the remaining captives.

It took three more hours to kill the four others. When it was done, Xanthus climbed down from his horse and removed the clothing covering the upper half of his body.

He was no longer the ghostly apparition the unfortunate Minion warriors had fought at the azure pass. He now appeared human, his body flesh and blood. Kneeling on the ground, facing west toward the Tolenkas, he removed a black, knotted line from his discarded clothing and began to flagellate himself.

Those in the crowd who had not already fainted watched, frozen by the Darkling’s spell, though shock and horror would probably have kept them silent and unmoving even without the use of the craft.

As the cords ripped into his back, he showed no pain, no slacking in his self-discipline. On and on it went, his strokes perfectly spaced, until he had finished one hundred lashes. As the moonlight beamed down, his blood ran into the thirsty dirt lying between the square’s remaining stones.

The Darkling stood and placed the bloody cords into a pocket, then donned his clothing again. The azure glow revisited him, returning his body to its original form. Xanthus released the crowd from his spell. The dazed citizens cowered as he walked back toward them.

“My work here is done,” he said, “but yours is not. My mandate to you is this: Assemble a group of your most trusted citizens, then ride hard for Tammerland. You are to request an emergency audience before the Conclave of Vigors. Tell them what happened here by the power I, a Darkling, hold. Tell theJin’Sai that it will do no good to try and find me, because I can vanish like dust on the wind. I will visit him soon enough. If you disobey me, I will return to this place and more of you will die.”

He pointed to a nearby tree, and one of its branches tore loose to float in the air. As the flying branch approached, Xanthus drew his axe and cut it in half with a single motion. The two pieces fell to the ground. From a pocket he withdrew a white scroll bound with a bloodred ribbon. He tossed the scroll to the ground.