The Darkling Child Page 3

  He had formed the Red Slash ten years earlier, when he had risen to a position in the army where he could do so, and he had formed it for an express purpose. Like First Response—the units that provided the initial defense against any threat to the Federation cities—Usurient wanted a command that would act against threats to the overall safety and stability of the Federation Empire. Not as a defensive unit, but as an attack force preempting the need for any defense. And one not confined to threats against the walls of Federation cities, but against anything or anyone acting in a way that could prove adverse to the Southland as a whole. His was to be a unit that would preempt unwarranted attacks and invasions from any source, no matter how nebulous or remote.

  It had invested him with considerable power as a member of the Federation army. But he had used it boldly and successfully, and complaints had been few and largely ignored.

  It would be so here today with the coastal fortress of Arbrox, a nest of vipers that had been preying on the Federation for far too long. He had his orders, and they were broad enough to suit his purpose. Scorched earth and bones was the way of the Slash. Complaints were for weaklings and those who hid behind the walls of their houses.

  “Just there,” Desset whispered in his ear, leaning close and pointing ahead to the bank of fog toward which they were flying.

  Arbrox. The first hints of its walls and buildings were just coming into view as the dawn penetrated the marine layer and revealed bits and pieces of the ancient fortress. Thin columns of smoke rose from chimneys and watch fires, and shadows layered the huge stone blocks in dark splashes where the complex sat nestled within the coastal mountains. There were no signs of life, no indication of a presence within those buildings and walls, but Usurient was not deceived. He held up his hand in a prearranged signal, and the huge transport backed off until they were out of sight once more. He would take no chances on being discovered before he was ready.

  “Aye, Commander,” Desset had told him a dozen times at least before they set sail. “The brigands are in there, like rats in their nests—young and old alike, vermin in need of extermination.”

  Pirates.

  “And the sorcerer?”

  “Him, too—though you don’t hardly see him much. But that’s his hidey-hole, that one. Down in the rocks, deep in the underground. Oh, he’s there, all right. A blot upon the earth, a sickness to be burned away!”

  He ignored his spy’s boisterous words, his suspect characterizations, and his obvious prejudices. He cared only for the accuracy of Desset’s insistence on knowing the pirate lair, and in this he was unshakable. The pirates were there. And the sorcerer, as well—the hated Arcannen. After years of trying to track both through hearsay and rumor, through false leads and dead ends, he had them at last.

  The pirate raids on Federation shipping had been going on for months, but the bolder, more recent attacks against the diapson crystal transports had been the last straw. The Coalition Council had been in an uproar, the Prime Minister had turned to the Minister of Defense, and the latter had summoned him personally to deal with the matter.

  “I want this settled, Usurient,” he had announced two minutes after the other’s arrival. “I want these raiders found and stamped out. Every last one. No exceptions. The Slash does this sort of work well enough; make sure they remember how to do it. And if the rumors of Arcannen are true, then finish him, as well. The Prime Minister and the Coalition Council have agreed. To the deep pit with all of them; spare the women and children and the sick and old, but no others.”

  So here he was, a few miles west of Arbrox, his command ready, his orders clear. Search and destroy. This was an undertaking that would end in the complete slaughter of those he found—though it was not the mandate the Minister of Defense had given him or one the Prime Minister would countenance. Dallen Usurient was a hard man, and he had lived a hard life. Not for him the pleasures of city life and the comforts of bed and family. His family was the corps and his bedmate was his duty. Whatever comfort he found came from knowing he had never failed either and never would. What satisfaction he enjoyed came from his life as a soldier, from the raw taste of battle and the sweet scent of his enemy’s blood. Fighting gave his life purpose and order; fighting was experience and skill and instinct combined to form the heart and soul of a soldier, and in his opinion there was nothing better or more meaningful in the entire world.

  The transport was slowing down, and now the warships were moving up alongside. They would wait until the soldiers of the Slash were placed close to the fortress walls, then they would use their big guns to open paths to those who lay sleeping within. A few would be awake even now; a few would be keeping watch on the walls. But no one would be expecting the attack, and no one would be able to stand against it.

  Usurient took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled slowly. He would go in first. He always did. You led by example, no matter your rank, no matter the danger. His men took their courage from him. They found their strength in his.

  He turned around and faced his men. He was a tall, strong man, standing well over six feet, with a shock of black hair and a scar running crosswise on his face left to right over the bridge of his nose. He made an imposing figure as he lifted his right arm, fist clenched. Five hundred arms lifted in response, mimicking the gesture. Solidarity was everything in the corps. He glanced at Desset, who was looking ahead still, his uneasiness obvious. He was not a part of the corps; he could never be one of them. He was a spy, and his usefulness would end after today. His narrow frame, all bones and angles, his strange eyes with their cat-like slits, and his narrow chin did nothing to flatter him. He was a necessary evil, and he would not be missed by any of them.

  “Be calm,” Usurient whispered to him.

  “You’re not the one the survivors will come looking for when this is over,” the other hissed.

  Usurient shrugged. “There will be no survivors.”

  “Just make sure.”

  “Stay aboard, and stay out of sight. Wait for us here.”

  The cat’s eyes flicked in his direction. “Not much else I can do, is there?”

  The transport began to descend onto a flat that appeared between a swarm of gullies and ridges fronting the mountains ahead. When they were close enough to set the mooring lines, Usurient ordered the ladders thrown out, and the entire command began to climb down. Their progress was quick and efficient. It took less than ten minutes for all five hundred to disembark and form up below, organized by squads—scouts at the fore, heavy weapons at the rear. The squads consisted of bowmen, swordsmen, and spearmen, each with a specific task and all with a single command—to seize the fortress and kill everyone within.

  Usurient had thought earlier to amend that order on the chance that useful information might be gleaned from those kept alive. But in the end it was simpler just to kill them all. What information they had was likely of little use, and there was less risk to his people with a kill order than with a capture-and-detain proviso.

  He glanced around, standing now at the forefront of his corps. Ahead, the terrain was a barren mass of rocks and fissures. No vegetation, no sign of life. Not even a bird took flight at their arrival. Such a squalid, pointless bit of earth, he thought. How could there ever be anything here worth keeping?

  His squad leaders crowded close as he repeated one last time the instructions he had given them twice already. Wait for the assault from the warships. Once it ceased, move forward into the gaps in the walls—swordsmen in the lead, spearmen following, bowmen in reserve, and heavy weapons as backup. Find those still alive and kill them. All of them. Ferret them out, if they were in hiding. Leave no one behind.

  Then he moved them forward, taking up a point just behind the scouts as he led the way toward the peaks and the fortress they warded, the entire command spreading like a huge, silent stain across the landscape. They fanned out in two directions, forming a vise to imprison and contain those within the walls ahead, their lines staggered to prevent any esca
pe. The roar of the ocean crashing on the rocks and the constant wail of the wind hid their approach, muffling the clank and rattle of metal and scrape of boots.

  When they were in position, Usurient sent up the agreed-upon flare, and the warships eased forward to begin their assault. Turning broadside, the big flash rips mounted on the decking released the power fueled by the diapson crystals, and waves of explosive fire hammered at the now fully visible fortress. Entire sections of the walls disintegrated in minutes, and the main gates went down in splinters of wood and iron. Cries of alarm rose from those within, and men surged onto what remained of the walls to fight back. They stood no chance. The warships attacked relentlessly, sweeping the men away, disabling their inferior weapons, and knocking out the ramparts and towers on which they stood.

  When the airship weapons ceased, Usurient howled out to his five hundred, and the whole of his command surged toward the walls, flooded through the ragged gaps in the stone, and charged inside.

  What happened next was predictably horrific. The killing was rampant and unceasing as swordsmen and spearmen took out what few remained of the defenders and then went after everyone else. Men, women, and children, old and young, whole or damaged, were cut to pieces. They died screaming and begging. They died fighting and running away. They died where they were hiding or as they were seeking escape. But they died all the same. None was spared and none escaped. Blood and flesh lay everywhere, a lifeless mass of what had once been a human population, decimated in less than an hour’s time. The entire assault was executed flawlessly. Less than a handful of the Red Slash soldiers were killed in the process, and less than two handfuls injured in even the most minor ways.

  Even so, there were those who stood stunned in the aftermath, looking down at their handiwork, amazed at how terrible it was. The reaction was decidedly mixed. There were tears shed. There were muttered oaths and soft prayers asking forgiveness. There were wild excuses and insistences on the necessity of it all. There were boasts and sneers. A mixed pack, but a pack, all the same.

  Usurient walked through the carnage wordlessly, his hard face expressionless, taking it all in. He was pleased at how well it had gone, but irritated that his troops did not seem to have found the sorcerer. Desset had seemed so certain he was there, yet there was no sign of him. A canvas of his squad leaders did not reveal Arcannen’s fate, and that meant, in all likelihood, that the sorcerer had managed to escape.

  “Bring the men out,” he ordered. “We’re done here. A fine day’s work by all of you. The men get an extra ration tonight of any libation they desire, spirits or otherwise. Let them know.”

  He stood outside the walls as his men filed out, noting the mix of expressions on their faces, noting those who would not look at him and those who stared boldly; noting how they behaved with the battle behind them and the killing done. All sorts of responses, yet every soldier had done his or her duty and that was what mattered. The horror of the moment would fade; the memory of the dying would soften. In the not so distant future, no one would even think on it.

  When the heavy armor appeared, he sent them back in with portable flash rips to burn everything that was left, bodies included. “Leave no trace of any of it,” he ordered.

  He waited until he saw the fires spring up and smelled the stench of burning flesh permeating the sea air before turning and starting back with the others. The remains of this day’s work would disappear with the first strong storm off the Tiderace. After that, only blackened stones and shattered walls would mark the ruins of what had once been Arbrox.

  —

  The sun rose from behind the Tiderace in a haze of gray and silver, chasing the marine layer and brightening the blackened ruins of Arbrox. Trails of smoke rose from those ruins in slender threads that were quickly snatched away and dispersed by the sea winds. Gulls and cormorants and other seabirds began to wing their way in from distant haunts, settling down to feast on the remains of the dead, uncaring of the loss represented, caught up in the appeal of easy food and an uninterrupted meal.

  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, dead and living, 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?

  FOUR

  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 care for himself and no clue 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.