Terry Brooks: The Darkling Child

West, the Federation warships and transport were just disappearing into what remained of the fading night, winging their way toward the city of Sterne.

The man in the black robes stood outside what remained of Arbrox and its dead, watching. His gaze shifted between the fortress and the warships, living and dead, thinking thoughts so dark that if it were possible to touch them it would be as touching shards of fire.

A single question dominated his thoughts.

How could they do this?

Yes, Arbrox was a pirate fortress, and its people were pirates and the families of pirates. Yes, they had raided Federation shipping as a means of subsistence even though they knew that retaliation was likely and that it would put their lives at risk each time they set out on a hunt. Yes, they lived on the edge of the sword and point of the spear.

But to kill off every last man, woman, and child? To destroy an entire population and raze a village back into the earth as if it had never existed? His fury was all–consuming. This was a mark of such darkness that it must be avenged. Though the hunt had not been for him–or at least not exclusively for him–it felt personal in the extreme. The people of Arbrox had taken him in when everyone in the rest of the Four Lands had been intent on hunting him down. These people had fed and cared for him, they had treated him as one of their own. They had given him back his life, and they had asked nothing in return.

They did not deserve to die as they had. They did not deserve to be wiped out like vermin.

He would have died with them if he had not chosen this night to sleep apart in the coastal shore watchtower he favored when his darkness most consumed him. He would not be seeing this sunrise if he did not know when it was time to step away and remain apart until the blackness passed and his good humor returned.

Pure chance that he was still alive. And fate, perhaps?

He pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders and looked down one final time on Arbrox and his friends. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had known of their lair and given them away to the Federation. The Slash could not have found them otherwise.

Time enough to settle that score–to settle with betrayer and killers both. But a way must be found that would catch them all up at once and feed them into a chamber of horrors equal to that which had consumed the people of Arbrox.

And who better than himself to find such a way?

Who better than Arcannen Rai?

SIX WEEKS LATER, ON A RAINY NIGHT MADE CONSIDERABLY less pleasant by a sudden drop in the temperature just before dusk, Reyn Frosch walked into the Boar’s Head Tavern in the village of Portlow shortly before performance time. Shivering with the damp and cold in spite of his heavy all–weather cloak, he stood in the tavern doorway and brushed himself off, shedding raindrops and discomfort while he scanned the faces of the patrons gathered in the great room.

More than a hundred, he guessed. Many more, in fact. They were three–deep at the serving bar, and the tables were filled. Well, almost filled. He noticed one at the back of the room where a man in a black cloak and hood hunkered down over his drink in splendid solitude, the rest of the room choosing to give him a wide berth. No one had mustered the courage to ask for the two chairs that sat empty in front of him, even though other patrons were standing everywhere about the room, most of them finding places to help hold up the walls.

He let his gaze drift until he found the Fortren brothers and felt a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. He had hoped they would not be here. He had hoped they would find another tavern and another musician to taunt. But apparently they either lacked the initiative or had decided it would be more fun to continue tormenting him. Yancel glanced up unexpectedly, saw him looking, and grinned. Borry turned and offered a tip of his battered hat. Both waited for a response, but he ignored them. What else could you do with people like these?

Shrugging the strap of the case that protected his elleryn higher onto his shoulder, he moved over to the serving counter and stepped around its end to reach the kitchen. He gave Gammon a wave as he passed through the door, not bothering to slow. The room beyond was filled with casks of ale, dry foodstuffs, packages of meats and bins of vegetables, table settings and implements, candles and lamps, a pair of stoves, and a cook standing over a griddle working diligently on preparing food for customers.

“Reyn, lad,” the old grease–dog offered, one hand lifting in an attempt at a jaunty salute.

Smoke rose and steam spat from the griddle and food smells filled the room, the mix venting poorly through screened openings in the walls. In spite of the vents, the room was stifling. Reyn waved back and walked over to the coatrack to shrug off his instrument and cloak and hang both over the wooden pegs.

Gammon came through the door. “Big crowd for you tonight, Reyn. Hope you’ve got your nimble fingers and angelic voice finely tuned and strongly flavored!”

He always said that, but Reyn grinned anyway. “Maybe you could keep an eye on the Fortren brothers for me?”

Gammon laughed. “Them? No need. I talked to them already. Told them one more incident, one more bit of trouble, and they were out of here for good. I don’t care who fathered them or how many more of them are out plowing fields and mucking pigsties. I told them that, I did.”

Reyn was less than convinced by what Gammon might or might not have told them. He would have been happier if the barkeep had just thrown the Fortrens out in the first place. But he knew he couldn’t do anything about it except what he always did, which was to keep an eye out for trouble because trouble had a way of finding him. It had a strong attraction to him, one he understood all too well because it had charted much of the course of his life.

Still, he was able enough that even the Fortrens didn’t frighten him. He was a boy technically–just past his sixteenth birthday, no whiskers showing on his face in spite of his size, which was considerable. Already, he stood six feet tall, and his broad shoulders and strong arms suggested he could look after himself well enough if he had to. He had been on his own since he was eight, no mean feat in the outland villages of the eastern Southland, orphaned and set adrift–well, set to flight, actually–with no idea how to look after himself and no clue of where to go to find out. But luck and providence and common sense had seen him through, and now here he was, supporting himself nicely, a member of a community that for the most part liked him well enough to welcome him into its fold.

He brushed drops of water from his shaggy blond hair and snatched a roll from a pan cooling on the stovetop. The cook gestured threateningly with his spatula but without enough emphasis to be convincing, then motioned to the platter of meat sitting next to him. Reyn helped himself, building a sandwich and devouring the results. Gammon found him a glass of ale to wash down his food and brought it over to him.

The barkeep paused, watching him, then headed for the door. “Soon as you’re done, come on out and do some songs. They’re getting restless out there. If you can soothe them a bit, maybe they’ll fuss less.”

“Voice of an angel, is it?” the grease–dog purred and grinned broadly.

Reyn knew better than to say anything back and simply nodded as if it were a complement rather than a taunt. One thing he could say for certain–there wasn’t an insult he hadn’t heard or a name he hadn’t endured. It came with the territory, and he’d learned long ago to absorb the blows.

His voice–that was the spark to the fire. His fortune and his misfortune. Hard to know which, sometimes. Both, he supposed. Right now, it was paying for his way in the world and his place in Portlow, so he was feeling good about it. Other times, it had been a different story. That was the way life worked, though. He’d learned that much along the way.