Darkfire: A Book of Underrealm (33 page)

Xain stood with Loren the longest. His eyes were wet with tears, but they did not fall. Albern had helped bind his arm in a bandage, holding it against his chest, for his shoulder would be long in healing. His other arm fidgeted with his hem, as though itching for action, if only Xain could determine what it was.

“I was not strong enough to save him,” the wizard said.

“No one would have been,” said Loren. “He said Trisken’s mark made him proof against all magic. No wizard could have stood against him, no matter their power.”

“Mighty they have called me, all my life. I wish I was mightier still.”

Loren said nothing, for those words sounded dangerous.

“Did he say nothing else?” said Xain, looking up at Loren.

Their dark master has returned
.
Ask Xain.

“Nothing that needs saying now,” she murmured. “We shall talk upon the road.”

They finally left the grave near midday. As they abandoned the hollow, Loren turned back one final time. The sun had come out at last. She thought shafts of light should have come piercing down, down through the overcast, to light the Mystic’s grave. But it was not one of Bracken’s stories. Still, the day was warmer and gentler than any in weeks. Gentler than it had any right to be, for one of the great men of the nine lands now lay dead.

Trisken’s body they left for the harpies.

The road back up was harder, for every step away from the valley they were leaving something sacred behind. It was hard to still the pain in her heart, and more than once Gem asked if he could go back to say goodbye once more. Annis shushed him each time, and by the time they reached the stronghold he had finally fallen silent.

They returned to the bridge. Its stones were bloodstained — Loren’s, Albern’s, Jordel’s, and even Trisken’s. Her eyes shied away. She could only stare at the spot on the edge, where Jordel and Trisken had toppled to their death.

Xain stopped his horse and dismounted, then went to the edge. Loren followed and stood beside him. Together they looked down into the valley. The grave was too far for their naked eye, but Loren could imagine it.
 

It would be just there,
she decided.
There between those rocks.

Xain reached out his hand, and his eyes glowed — black, for the magestone still ran in his veins. Fire spilled forth from a finger, small but white-hot. It ran over the stones like a pen, painting words on the bridge in liquid rock. He finished, then sent forth a gust of air to cool it.

“I never learned to read,” Loren whispered. “What do they say?”

Xain looked at her in surprise. But only for a moment before he turned back to what he had written and intoned,

Here fell a great man

A clarion trumpet against danger

In darkness where none could see

His name was Jordel

“Tis beautiful,” said Loren.

“I am no poet,” said Xain.

Loren blew the marking a kiss. “It fits him. He was never one to bandy words. And in those lines are hidden a great many secrets, which was very like him.”

“You speak true.”

“And what will you do now, Xain?” Loren turned to look at him. “Your powers are at their peak. Even with one of your hands injured, we could not stop your departure.”

Xain looked sharply at Loren. “You have the magestones?”

Loren swallowed and nodded. He knew that she did.

“Give them to me.”

She did not move.

“You know I could take them if I so wished. But I do not. I want you to place them in my hand.”

The wizard held forth his good hand, palm outstretched. Loren marveled again at the smoothness of his skin. He looked as though he had never worked a day in his life — and, now that she knew from whence he came, she supposed he never had.

Loren reached into her cloak and withdrew the magestones. She had barely tied the packet together, and it sat lumpy in his fist.

With a sweep of his hands — like the casting of a spell — Xain hurled the magestones into the void. They spun as they fell, flashing in the sunlight, and vanished into the chasm where Jordel would lay forever.
 

The wizard mounted and rode. Loren watched him for a moment. Then a hand stole beneath her cloak. She fingered the interior pocket — the one on the other side, hanging by her right hand. She brushed the fine brown cloth, so cool and rough against her skin.

Loren gained Midnight’s saddle, and followed Xain.

thirty-nine

THEIR ROAD FROM THE GREATROCKS into the village of Northwood was pleasant, more peaceful than any days since leaving Strapa. The sun burned brighter on the second day than it had upon leaving the fortress, and brighter still the day after that. The path wound down from the mountains, sharply at first, then ever more gently as it touched the foothills sloping into the wide land of Selvan.

To the north Loren could see the Birchwood laid out like a carpet of brilliant green. It swelled her heart, and to Loren’s great surprise she found herself aching to walk amongst the trees. It had been too long since she had been in a good and proper forest, and the Birchwood was home. Soon their road would take them north into its reaches. They still meant to make for Feldemar, and for Jordel’s stronghold of Ammon. What they would do then, Loren did not know, but it was their only course.

They rode mostly silent through the days and sat quiet about the campfire at night. They spoke only of gathering wood for fires, hobbling the horses, and setting a watch. Only one of them stood awake at a time, for they were tired, and no satyrs came from the mountains to plague them. It seemed that with the defeat of the Shade stronghold, the evil wanted no more trouble with the travelers, and had retreated into their caves to lick their wounds.

On the fourth day, Albern sang, as loud and as clear as he had when leaving Strapa. But his voice was tinged with grief, and he sang songs of fallen heroes from battles long gone by, lovers who lost each other in storms of war that swept the nine lands, and ships lost to the three seas. His songs brought fresh tears to all of their eyes, and a quiet calm to their hearts. Loren imagined bards writing odes to the Mystic and his battle against Trisken on the bridge, and wondered if the others were thinking the same.

“You should write a song about him,” she finally said.

“I am no songwright. Only a bowyer with a voice that barely keeps sheep from bleeting. My words do such a man no justice.”

“Nor could any of ours,” said Loren. “But you know the most songs, and you knew him. The Mystic’s tale should not be told by someone he never met.”

“I doubt that friends of Jordel are in short supply across the nine lands,” said Albern. “But if you insist, I will think upon it. Come and visit me when you are next in Strapa, and I will sing what I have.”

“You do not mean to come with us after Northwood?” Gem looked like he might cry again.

“No, little master. I will see you safely there, as I vowed. Then I will return home — upon the Westerly Road, and not the mountain pass.” He gave a harsh chuckle. “I think it will be a long time before I travel that way again, if ever I do. In Strapa, the wind tugged at my branches and made me yearn for the road. Now I have walked it again and find my roots have grown too deep. I long only for my bowery, the meager custom that comes my way, and a good tankard of ale in the evenings.”

“We should all be so lucky,” said Xain. The wizard had grown pale, and his skin broke out in sweat though they had not yet descended into summer’s full heat. The sickness was coming upon him again — but milder this time, and though his hands often trembled, Loren saw no trace of madness in his eyes.

“Still, I hope you will come my way if ever you have a chance,” said Albern. “For though I lament this trip and my role, mayhap one day we might look back with memories fond.” He fell silent and bent his head toward the saddle, as though afraid to say more.

Loren thought she knew his mind. “Do not blame yourself for the journey’s end. Jordel learned much that he would not have known otherwise, and passed that knowledge to us. We shall give his order the warning they need to deal with these Shades. The Mystic would have wished for nothing more.”

Albern nodded then turned to bury his face. Gem hid behind the edge of his cloak and wept again.

On the sixth day after leaving the fortress, they finally saw the town of Northwood stretching before them. A low wall surrounded it, not more than five feet high, something to stand behind rather than on top of. The town spilled out beyond the wall like wine from an overfilled waterskin, running among dikes and troughs bringing water from the Melnar river to the farms. Smoke plumed gently from every chimney, soft and white, like the simple wood cottages from Loren’s village.

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” said Annis. “Almost a city.”

“Aye, it is the northernmost town on the Westerly Road,” said Albern. “In one sense, it is Selvan’s northwestern border, though law says the borders lie in the Greatrocks to the west, and in the Birchwood to the north. And border towns are often large.”

“Should we be wary of a Yerrin ambush upon those streets, do you think?” Xain’s eyes were sharp as he surveyed the place.

“I think we worry not,” said Annis. “We destroyed my mother’s caravan. Without it she has nothing to trade, and therefore nothing to do. She has many men who must be fed, but probably scant coin to feed them, if she brought all of her cargo into the mountains. She will scuttle home to gather her strength.”
 

“And plot revenge,” said Loren.

“Aye, and that, too,” said Annis quietly.

“I know an inn here, where the ale is sweet and the beds are soft,” said Albern. “The matron will give you your custom as a gift.”

“We have coin,” said Loren. It was true, for Jordel had always carried much with him, and it sat in his saddlebags still.

“Do not deny this gift.” Albern fixed her with a solemn look. “Tis the least I can do.”
 

Soon they reached the first houses, little more than shacks set upon the wide fields of farms. Children ran up and scuttled about their horses’ legs, tugging at Loren’s fine cloak and waving to Gem. He waved back with a smile, though Annis wrinkled her nose.

“They do not often see riders coming down from the mountains,” said Xain.

“I should say not,” Albern agreed. “I know few who take that road, and none who have done so in the last many years.”

“Where is this inn?” Annis asked.

“A good ways from these farms,” said Albern. “What is wrong, my lady? Not fond of the smell of pig’s dung?”

“Are you?”
 

Albern tossed his head. “Fair enough.”

The streets soon turned from dirt to cobbles, then from cobbles to well-paved stone. The town rose atop a hill, with a cluster of many low buildings. Loren saw a great hall, probably the mayor’s home — for any town so large as this surely had one. But the other buildings were much like those she had seen in Cabrus and Wellmont, low stone structures with signs out front advertising the owner’s trade: smiths and clothiers, cobblers and bowyers. Albern peeked in through the door at a few to give their wares a passing glance. He lifted his nose and sniffed, haughty as Annis on her worst day.

They found the inn he had promised. Its sign was the largest Loren had ever seen on an inn, showing a great boulder erupting from the land, with a wave and a howling wind crashing against it.

“The Lee Shore,” said Albern.
 

The stable boy took their horses and gawked at Loren’s two silver pennies. Albern led them inside and to the back of the common room, where the matron stood behind a bar. Her eyes fell upon Albern, and she lit up like the sun.

“Now there is a face this place has missed for too long. Come here, you great lummox!”

She came out from behind the bar, leaving two patrons awaiting their drinks, and wrapped Albern in a warm embrace. Though a head shorter and slim, still she managed to lift his feet from the ground. Below her sleeves Loren glimpsed sinewy muscles.

“Xain, Annis, Gem, and especially Loren,” said Albern. “Take great pleasure in the company you now keep. This is Mag. We have known each other since we were barely more than babes.”
 

“A bit more than babes, you mean. Babes never get to the things we did at that age,” said Mag, laughing. Then, catching Annis’s expression, she laughed still harder. “Oh, mistake me not, my lady. We got into all sorts of trouble, but more the sort you make with a blade than the sort you make with … well,
his
blade.”

Albern’s face turned crimson. “Forgive Mag,” he said, bowing. “She has a tongue like the saltiest dock girl, and always the gumption to back up her talk. She has belonged to another for years now, so she means nothing by it.”

“Belonged to him as much as he belongs to me, you mean,” said Mag, punching Albern’s shoulder before returning to the bar.

“Of course, Mag.” Albern leaned close to Loren. “She is also the best fighter you would ever have seen. Every army in the nine lands poured their wine to the dirt the day she gave up soldiering.”