Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1) (36 page)

Fear took hold of Sacha and she lashed out with her magic.

Bright bolts of light shot from her skinned hands and slammed into the rider and his mount.

The impact of her attack left a smoking hole the size of an orange in the goblin’s chest. It fell from the warg’s back to land in a lifeless heap, while one of the warg’s charred legs spun away into the darkness. The mangy beast crashed to the forest floor along with its rider, howling in pain.

Sacha stumbled as the world tilted before her, the same nausea as in her battle with the Wildmen threatening to claim her. She cursed herself for repeating the same foolish mistakes.

Staggering, she turned back to flee toward the rivers and found her path blocked by a new abomination.

The thing before her was easily over nine feet tall and covered in slabs of dense muscle. Shabby, rusted pieces of mismatched plate armor were bound tightly around various parts of its large humanoid frame. The skin was sickly yellowish-brown in color and its thick hide glistened with sweat in the baleful glow of the moon. Brutal black tattoos covered the heavy neck, arms, and shoulders, creating an illusion that the thing was wearing some sort of close-fitting armor. The beast was the width of at least three men at the shoulder, and its girth gave it an illusion of shortness from a distance. The head was shaved and looked too small for the giant body it sat upon. An overly wide nose was crammed between two beady, bloodshot eyes. Those eyes stared at her with murderous intensity.

She beheld what could only be an ogre.

She took a step backward. Wargs and goblins were one thing, but this? Bale had once told her of an ogre that had shrugged off the blow from a charging knight’s lance!

In desperation, she poured arcane power into the vines below the ogre’s feet, willing them to rise up and lash about the thick legs of her adversary. Then she fled.

The monster waded through her living trap as if it were ankle-deep water. Massive strides matched her pace easily, and the thing had cut off her path to freedom before she had taken ten steps. The ogre bellowed and slammed its fists on the ground, crushing plants and causing the earth to shudder below her.

“Stop!” a man’s voice commanded in the sudden silence that followed the ogre’s roar. “You are caught, Milady. Stop.”

Sacha eyed the hulking brute that loomed before her. Even rested and fed, she doubted she had the skill or strength to kill the creature. Shoulders slumping in defeat, she turned to face her pursuers.

Several wargs and their goblin riders paced back and forth not far from her. The men from within the ruined keep held their barking dogs at bay as they approached. At the center of the mob that pursued her stood a brigand dressed in mismatched plate and chainmail and a heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders. The greying whiskers on his face were several days grown and his long, oily salt-and-pepper hair was combed back tight against his head, displaying a deep widow’s peak. His most distinguishable feature was a long white scar that ran across his face. Starting at his right temple, the jagged line finished at the corner of his mouth, pulling it downward. The scar tugged at his smile, distorting it, and turning it to an evil leer.

“Magistrate Harristone has already been captured and awaits your presence for dinner.” He stepped to one side and gestured toward the ruined keep. “I assume you are hungry and in need of a drink?”

Sacha raised her chin and straightened her back.
A battle lost for certain, but not the war
. “Lead on then,
Master
Brigand.”

The dining hall she was led to was in shambles. Everywhere she looked, signs of age warred with rot and decay, until she got to the end of the room where the debris had been cleared and serviceable tables and chairs had been set. It appeared the men taking refuge here had scavenged materials from every corner of the compound, as none of the chairs matched the worn table.

Brier was indeed seated as her host had promised. He slumped disconsolately in one of the three chairs under the watchful eyes of several men stationed around the hall. He looked up at her as she approached and stood, his brow furrowed in concern.

The man leading her barked a mirthless laugh. “Ever the gentleman, My Lord Harristone,” their host said through his ever-present sneer. His face suddenly dropped all hints of pleasantry. “Sit down.”

Brier sank back into his seat slowly, watching Sacha and her escort come to the table.

Sacha took note of new bruises on his kindly face, and anger surged within her. “You needn’t have struck him!” She turned and glared at the scarred man who walked next to her. “He is no threat to you, nor is he likely to become one!”

If he was taken aback by her outburst, the feeling did not show on his face. The mocking leer remained set as he continued toward their seats. He paused within a few paces of the table. “I believe, Princess, that dinner is about to be served.” He gestured to a chair with an exaggerated wave. “Please, sit.”

The men around the room chuckled appreciatively at their leader’s mockery. Sacha glared at her captor but took the proffered seat. The wooden chair had the remnants of a threadbare cushion and it creaked alarmingly when she sat.

Their brigand leader took his seat at the head of the table and snapped his fingers at a pair of goblins standing in a corner of the room.

Sacha had not noticed them before, they had been so still, but at their master’s call, the short, twisted humanoids leapt into action.

One brought a battered silver tankard to his master and plunked it on the table before him. With a flourish that was just as shabby as the room they were in, it produced a skin of wine and poured a stream of ruby liquid into the vessel. The second dropped a large roasted fowl of some kind on the table. Grease beaded on the bird’s crisped skin and a wonderful aroma wafted from the roasted meat.

Sacha was suddenly reminded that she hadn’t eaten in almost two days, and her stomach rumbled.

Poor Brier actually licked his lips as the goblin neatly quartered the bird and served a choice hunk of breast meat to their captor. The plates of the two captives were ignored.

The brigand took a large swig from his tankard and sighed before setting it back onto the precarious table top. “I suppose,” he said, “introductions are in order.” He seized a stained handkerchief off the table and with a snap, placed it on his lap. Once he had deliberately spread the corners, he looked up to make certain Sacha and Brier were both paying close attention. “You may call me Jagger DeBoucher.”

Brier snorted with derision. “Impossible. I saw the man you
claim
to be die on the Cliffs of Judgment two years past.”

“Did you now?” The man claiming to be Jagger pulled his belt-knife from its sheath and set to his portion with a will. Spearing a generous square of meat, he pointed at Brier with it and asked, “Are you sure you saw the
genuine
Jagger DeBoucher?”

Brier’s gaze followed the morsel dangling before him and he moistened his lips. “I suppose it makes no difference. We are your prisoners, no matter what your name is.”

Jagger popped the slice of meat into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed while eyeing the magistrate, then continued, “Ah, but credibility is the key to any successful profession, even mine.”

Brier said nothing, only looked back and forth from the bird to the scarred man. The brigand, however, remained still, staring at the magistrate. Eventually, it seemed to become apparent to Brier that the bird would remain unserved until some acknowledgement was given. “Very well. I’m not certain it was the genuine rogue that went over the cliff.” He sighed. “You may very well be Jagger DeBoucher.”

Their captor remained motionless.

Brier frowned. “You
are
Jagger DeBoucher.”

The mockery of a smile graced the brigand’s face once more, and he resumed cutting. “As I was saying, you may call me Jagger.” He nodded to his goblins. The leering creatures scuttled forward again, producing battered cups for Sacha and Brier. Red wine was poured into both cups with more than a little slopping onto the battered tabletop. When the quartered bird had been placed on the platters before them, Jagger motioned for them to begin. “Please, eat.”

Sacha was happy Jagger had made them watch him eat. It may have been a show to demonstrate his power, but it made her feel more comfortable about eating food from a man she had no reason to trust. If Brier had had any cautions, he wasn’t showing it now. He dug into his food like a starved wolfhound.

Sacha took a tentative bite, then found herself just as lost to propriety as Brier. The bird was delicious.

Jagger slowly cut his food and watched them as they consumed the delicious meal. After a few minutes, Sacha found his fork pointing at her. “I had been told,” he said with casual air, “that you possessed power. I had no idea, however, that you would be so strong, especially after such a short time at the Monastery.”

She choked on her wine and gaped at Jagger, stunned.

“Come, Princess, it was no secret that you left Stone Mountain for the Monastery. The reasons why you left, however, are a very different story.” He took another bite and chewed. The scar tugged at the muscles of his jaw as he did. Partially chewed food leaked from the corner of his deformed grin, and his smile didn’t waver as he deftly dabbed it away with his splotched cloth.

Sacha looked away from the gloating man.
He couldn’t know why I had left. He has to be fishing for information. He couldn’t possibly know about Renee. About Rylan
. “How do you know about the Monastery?” she asked, focusing the subject on the one topic that did not touch her personal life. “I thought the knowledge of its very existence was protected by the royal houses?”

Jagger laughed. “Which means
everyone
knows about its existence. Even Royals have a price, Princess. Do not lie to yourself about the
honor
of royalty.”

“I believe there is more to it than that,” she replied. “You speak as if you understand what is taught at the Monastery.” Sacha leaned forward and pointed her own fork at his leering face. “More to the point, I ran into something outside. An invisible barrier of some sort. I think it was magic and I think you are the one responsible for it.” She sat back, eyeing the man.

“Beautiful
and
smart. I can see why he likes you.” The rogue set his fork down.

Brier looked up from his plate and put words to Sacha’s thoughts. “What do you mean. Who likes her?”

Jagger paused to drink from his tankard. He held it out to be refilled and true humor touched his face. “My employer, of course.”

“And who might that be?” Sacha asked.

Jagger chuckled. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Brier looked at Sacha and then back to Jagger. “What does your employer want with us?”

“Excellent question, Magistrate,” replied the scarred man. “I have a message, specifically for you, as it happens.”

Brier straightened in his chair. “For me?”

Sacha relaxed. She didn’t know the details of Magistrate Harristone’s office in Waterfall Citadel but she knew he must hold considerable power and influence. This entire affair was likely an attempt to exploit an indiscretion of Brier’s, while she was to be used as leverage against her sister, the new queen to be. Everything began to make sense.

Jagger swept the table aside in one swift motion, belt-knife still in hand. Cups, plates and uneaten meat flew through the air as the rogue lunged at the magistrate. Brier reared back in surprise, hands coming up to fend off the looming brigand. Jagger’s blade easily slipped past the flailing arms of the older man, and the blade of the knife slammed into Brier’s chest.

Sacha screamed in shock and attempted to summon the Shamonrae. She could feel its presence but was horrified to find that it remained just beyond her reach. Desperate, she tried again, closing her eyes and attempting to focus her mind as she had been taught.

She could feel its presence, but something stood between her and the power. While she had learned to expect a barrier of sorts between her and the Shamonrae, there now was something she could only define as an empty space, which kept her from opening the wellspring. The more she pushed into it, the more depth it seemed to create.