Edge of Darkness ~ A Darkness & Light Novel Book Three (21 page)

"You've got watch," Sully said.

Berk nodded. "Not a problem. How's the head feel?"

Sully reached up to touch the blood plastering his hair down. "Better than my leg."

"Want me to take a look at it?"

"Nah. It's not bleeding and doesn't hurt enough to notice." He took the flask and cocked it back for several long swallows. "A couple hours at the most. Then we head back to the road and put some more leagues behind us."

Berk nodded, waving off the flask when Sully offered it to him. Instead, he took the lieutenant's weapons from where he had placed them close at hand, and set about cleaning and sharpening them. Sully mumbled a thanks, his head bobbing once or twice before he gave in and let his chin drift toward his chest.

When he finished with Sully's weapons, and then his own, Berk went to check on the horses before making a wide circuit of the surrounding area. He went all the way back to where they first joined the game trail. Marauders were excellent trackers, but they'd need the blessings of their gods, and all the luck of the fates to find them. That didn't mean Berk and Sully didn't have any worries. The marauders were just as likely to shadow the road until they came upon them, or some other unlucky travelers. Once they had their blood up they were like hounds on a hunt.

By Berk's reckoning, the Emperor couldn't be more than a couple days ahead of them. Hopefully, he wouldn't have a return message. Or, if he did, Berk prayed he held off for a couple days. Regular soldiers tended to give messengers a hard time, but by the unholies, they had to be tough to keep up such a grueling pace. Every muscle ached, only a few of them from the pitched battle with the marauder scouts. Stopping and resting actually only made getting back in the saddle seem ten times worse.

A soft breeze lifted through the trees as Berk headed back to their camp. He approached from the opposite direction, and first thought the dark shape close to where Sully rested against the tree was a rock he hadn't noticed before. But then it shifted and Berk froze. The figure hunkered down beside Sully, back to Berk, a woman, if the shadows around it indicated the flare of skirts.

Berk canted his head to listen, eyes sweeping the area, peering into every shadow to determine if there were others lying in wait. He slid his sword from its scabbard and, placing his feet carefully, crept forward as quietly as he could, until he got within striking distance. The woman didn't move when Berk rested the tip of his sword against the back of her neck.

"Stand up and move away very slowly," Berk said. "You really don't want me getting twitchy right now."

The woman rose in a fluid motion, pushing a hood back as she turned to face Berk. Her features were masked by the night, but Berk knew her instantly. His heart stopped, then sprang back into action like a galloping horse. She lifted a hand and placed two fingers against the edge of his sword and pushed it slowly to the side as she stepped closer. Berk backed in equal measure, snapping the blade back between them and narrowing his eyes down the length of it.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice tight, but steadier than he expected.

She halted and the tip of the blade puckered the skin at the hollow of her throat. She tipped her head so the starlight fell on one side of her face, showing her mouth curved in a hungry smile. "To start with, I'd like for you to lower your weapon."

"That's not going to happen."

"I could make it so. Just as you were made to do my bidding in Nisair."

"What do you want?" Berk repeated.

The smile twisted downward. "Why so unreasonable?"

"I'm not going to ask again."

"Nor am I."

In a move too fast to prevent, she slapped the blade aside and had Berk by the throat, her fingernails digging into his flesh, cutting off his air. His arms hung straight down, muscles straining against an invisible hold. The woman straightened her arm and lifted, and Berk found himself on the tips of his toes, struggling to draw in a breath.

"You should be showing me your gratitude instead of the sharp edge of steel," she said. "I could have killed your companion just now. Sent him to your petty, vain Goddess with but a touch. I could kill him still, if it pleased me. You as well, though that would be a shame."

Berk gritted his teeth and forced his left arm to move, his hand to edge toward the dagger at his back, put all his effort into that and nothing else.

"I intend to put you to good use, but not just yet. Soon, though. Each day I grow stronger, and each day my plans edge closer to completion. When they do, there will be a new order of things, and you will need to choose a side. I could force you to serve me, just as you were forced to serve on Nisair's wall, but I would rather you came willingly."

Berk kept his eyes locked on hers. His fingertips brushed the pommel of the dagger.

"In my service you will be a prince. A king, if you choose."

His fingers wrapped the leather grip as the edges of his vision faded to black. A trickle of sweat slid down his temple and along the line of his jaw. The woman leaned into him, reaching up to trail her tongue along the side of his face. In doing so, she relaxed her grip on his throat ever so slightly, enough to put Berk back on the soles of his feet. A muffled curse from Sully's direction drew her attention and Berk put all he had into yanking his dagger free. He jerked his arm forward and up, felt the blade slide into her with little resistance. In the next instant, he hurtled backwards through the air, limbs wind-milling until he hit the ground.

Before Berk could register what had happened, the woman landed on his chest, her knees together, and drove him into the dirt. Her eyes blazed like violet flames in the dark. She touched her side and raised her hand so Berk could see the glistening of the blood on her palm.

"I should make you pay for this," she said. "And I will. Eventually. Trust me on that. But I like your spirit, and your strength."

She smeared her hand across Berk's mouth, forcing his lips apart, and though he clenched his jaw, her blood slipped past his teeth and lingered on his tongue, hot and oily slick. He gagged as it slid down his throat. The woman laughed and twisted her head to look over her shoulder.

"Take care of him for me," she said. "He's one of my favorites."

Her weight vanished and Berk rolled, retching into the grass. He managed to get his arms beneath him and pushed up onto his elbows. His back hunched uncontrollably with his stomach's efforts to empty its contents. A curse heralded Sully's arrival as he dropped down to kneel beside Berk, a hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me you saw her," Berk said around desperate breaths.

"I did."

His body arched and Berk hung there for a long moment before finally pulling his legs in and shoving back to sit on his heels. He scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, turned his head to spit, and fought back the urge to do more than that. Sully handed him a water skin and Berk took it with shaking hands. He rinsed his lips and mouth repeatedly in an effort to get rid of the taste of her.

"Goddess above." Berk couldn't stop the tremor working through him. At least now he knew the woman wasn't merely a product of his imagination, small consolation though that was. Although, the more he thought about it, the less sure he became in regards to that being a good thing.

"Who is she?" Sully asked.

"I don't exactly know. She was working with Ciara's father. She's the one who took me to him the first time. She put some kind of spell on me to get me to go with her. It's hazy, to be honest, and one of the things I'd rather not remember."

He took another mouthful of water, swirled it around, turned and spat it out. Breathing hurt, and his stomach muscles ached from forcibly convulsing, but he levered himself to his feet, weaving like a drunkard, dimly aware of Sully struggling to stand beside him. Berk reached down and linked forearms with him, shifting his weight and bracing as Sully pulled himself up. The lieutenant grimaced, hopping awkwardly to gain his balance.

"If you feel up to it, I say we push on," Sully said. "We're defenseless against the likes of that woman. What I know about magic would fit on a knife tip. That's more the Emperor's game than ours."

Berk nodded. "I'll get the horses."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Donovan could not deny feeling pleasure in the warmth of the sun on his face, and the contradictory chill of the wind sliding cold fingers down his spine. He drew in a deep breath, laced with the sharp bite of leaves just beginning to turn, filling his lungs as he reveled in his freedom.

"Don't…  like… bouncing 'round… on… smelly horse."

His pleasure vanished beneath the gravelly voice of the crone's creature. Now the priestess's, Donovan supposed. A loan, she had called him, though Donovan thought 'spy' to be a more accurate title.

"I can arrange for you to be bouncing beneath it, if you would prefer," Donovan said, not bothering to look to where the creature clung desperately to the saddle, flopping one way and then another with the pony's choppy gait. "Or perhaps tied to its tail? Would that be more to your liking?"

"I… kill… you… some… day…. Lor… del-ing."

Donovan nudged his horse into an easy canter, smirking, despite the grating quality of the wail the increased pace brought from the creature.

The priestess's plans for the general were risky, and though Donovan refused to allow himself to dwell on them while in her presence, now that he gave them proper attention, they terrified him. To kill the Sciath na Duinne, or to break him, those were far different matters than what she intended. It may have been a splitting of hairs, but bending the general to do her bidding, versus turning him to her side, were two vastly different matters. Breaking the man, and forcing him to serve her, meant she controlled his actions. Whereas, appealing to his desire for Darkness, allowing him to embrace the power to be had and act of his own free will, would make him closer to a god than any man should be.

The priestess told Donovan he would have nightmares. That last thought was enough to give them to him by the wagon load. The priestess possessed far more power than anyone Donovan had ever come across. It rivalled the Goddess's own. It would not, however, even with the addition of his, be able to withstand the combined force of the Goddess, the Imperial bloodline, the Council of Mages, and the Sciath na Duinne.

Change the allegiance of that last player on the board, and the balance would swing the priestess's way. Then again, she might very well find it hard to stand against the general should madness push him beyond recall. Donovan held no illusions as to his own fate if that event were to occur. The general would kill him without a moment's consideration. So, it became a matter of self-preservation for Donovan to see the priestess's plans did not go as smoothly as she intended.

He reined in on a small hillock and waited while the creature grumbled its way alongside him. "A day's travel from this point you will come upon the Eastern Road. You will follow it to where it joins with the Southrun and you will wait there. In hiding. The Emperor and his general will be arriving in the Greensward soon. Watch for them. Do not allow them to discover you. Do not cross the borders of that land. Follow them when they leave. When your mistress makes her move against the general, you will lure him off, and bring him to me. Do you understand?"

The creature scrubbed the back of his hand across his nose. "Who is Genner-ul?"

Donovan forced an image of the Sciath na Duinne into Grumnlin's thoughts.

"Oh. Great Lord." He bobbed his head, then shook it vehemently. "No do. Great Lord kill me."

"I will kill you if you do not do as I say."

"You no kill. Pretty Witch say so."

"Pretty Witch is not here, is she?"

Grumnlin glowered at Donovan.

"In any case, the general will be in no condition to kill anyone," Donovan said. "Excepting himself, perhaps. I will send someone to aid you. If you fail me, you fail your mistress. She will be even less pleased than I."

"I not take smelly horse."

"You need to move swiftly."

The creature grumbled something unintelligible and slid clumsily off the far side of the pony, causing it to shy into Donovan's horse. "I go fast on legs. Faster than horse. Lady make me."

"I am aware. Keep in mind who killed your precious Lady."

"Mind who kill you some day," the creature said, and spat at the hooves of Donovan's horse before he turned and stomped off.

Donovan watched until the creature disappeared from view before dismounting. He stripped the pony of its tack and gave it a solid smack on its rump, chasing it off. He had much ground to cover in a short amount of time. A short-legged pony would only slow him down. Better it should find its way to some famer somewhere, or the belly of wolves. Donovan cared not one way or the other.

He turned his horse to the north and when he touched his heel to its side, the beast sprang forward with a lightness that promised speed. Donovan called on his power to enhance the horse's natural abilities and eliminate its need for rest. At the same time, he opened his awareness, and sent it out in a focused search for a particular group of marauders.

Before waking in the priestess's hands, stripped of his power, Donovan would never have given such a minimal use of it even a passing thought. Now, however, he possessed a newfound appreciation for his gifts. To be able to cast over hundreds of leagues with as little effort as drawing breath gave him a thrill he had not felt in a long time. Perhaps he owed the priestess his gratitude. Power such as he possessed should never be taken lightly. To have been deprived of it for even a short time had been worse than any physical torture he would have had to endure.

A trickle of distant, faint magic vibrated the strands of his casting like the web of a spider trembling with the capture of a fly. Donovan smiled. Just like a spider, he would build a wide, intricate net to ensnare his enemies and see them devoured.

***

The first three marauders to draw steel as Donovan stepped unannounced into their midst, fell dead with nothing more than a subtle gesture on his behalf. One harsh word from the woman seated central-most at the campfire prevented others of her tribe from meeting the same fate. Piercing blue eyes slanted toward the corpses, then lifted languidly to Donovan's face.

"To what do we owe the honor, Black Prince?" she asked, but without the reverence the words would have suggested they carry.

"Lenai of Tor Gurn, your tenure as chieftain never fails to amaze me," Donovan said. A slender man of darker complexion and slighter build than most of the others, took a step closer to the marauder chieftain and drew Donovan's attention. "I see you still keep your ineffectual weather mage at your heel."

Lenai rose off her log seat, tall and straight, chin tipped, raven hair glistening in the firelight. "Come to beg our service again? You've yet to pay what you promised the last time."

"Be thankful I am feeling generous, and willing to provide you the opportunity to rectify your failure in that regard."

She slid another look at the men sprawled in the dirt. "I hope your task doesn't require strength of arms. You have a habit of depleting mine."

"I trusted in your martial skills in the past," Donovan said. "I found them wanting. You will find them non-existent should you repeat your sad performance."

The mage shifted and several of the others laid hands on weapons. Donovan despised dealing with them. In most regards, marauders were little better than animals, yet Donovan had come to realize that even base creatures could serve a purpose, so long as it did not prove to be anything overly complicated. He had made that mistake in the past. Trusting the marauders to take and hold his daughter had been an error in judgment. A task beyond their skill. Attacking Broadhead to serve as a distraction, and harrying the general's group to slow their progress to Nisair, however, they had managed with brutal efficiency.

"You played us false," Lenai said. "A simple girl, you called her. Yet she was neither of those things, was she?"

A cold smile touched the corners of Donovan's mouth. Two casual strides put him close enough to smell the ale on Lenai's breath and the heavy musk of the leather and fur she wore. She tipped her head back to meet his gaze, but did not move her hands from where they rested near the grips of the Imperial swords that hung at her hip, one on either side, the challenge clear in her stance and expression. Donovan had to admit, bedding and breaking the marauder chieftain would make for entertaining sport, if he were given to such distractions.

"Do you believe you have recourse in the matter?" Donovan asked.

"I believe you bleed like any other man."

She may have found out the truth of that statement, save the flick of the mage's eyes gave her away. The man creeping up behind Donovan made it within striking distance before crumpling. In the same breath of an instant, Donovan's hands closed around Lenai's throat and he lifted her until her toes barely touched the ground. Instead of struggling against his hold, however, she grabbed his forearms and pulled up, her knee aimed at Donovan's groin. Donovan lurched forward with the shifting of her weight, regained his balance before the blow could land, and tossed her bodily backwards. Lenai's limbs flailed as she floundered into the arms of her warriors.

"I have less patience than once I had," Donovan said. "It would take but a thought for me to wipe your entire tribe from the face of this earth."

"Do it." She snarled like an angry cat as she disentangled herself from the hands helping her back to her feet. She settled her weapons and reclaimed the space between them, her wrath not the least bit diminished. "Better to die free, than grovel at any man's feet."

Donovan's fingers twitched. There were, perhaps, fifty or so men and women in her tribe, but the well of his power ran deep. A bit of focus, a few words, and they would drop where they stood, down to the last infant. Power did not come without cost, however, and he could ill-afford such expenditures with the priestess a constant threat.

The chieftain's mage stepped in to whisper something in Lenai's ear, but she shoved him away, her eyes fixed on Donovan, full of fire and fury. "If you're so powerful, why is it you need the
lowly
Tor Gurn to do your bidding, Black Prince? Perhaps you exaggerate your skill."

Donovan raised a brow and turned his head slowly toward the corpses littering the ground. He frowned as he brought his gaze back to her. "And perhaps it is time the Tor Gurn had a new chieftain."

Lenai's eyes bulged, the skin of her face going dark in the dancing firelight. She dropped to her knees, gaping like a fish snatched from the water. Yet, even in the grip of a slow and certain death, her spirit remained as sharp as her blade. Her mage stepped suddenly between them, palms up in supplication.

"We will aid you," he said, his smooth voice laced with a mix of fear and loathing. "Only if she lives."

Lenai collapsed onto all fours and grabbed for one of the mage's legs, perhaps in a desperate bid for aid, though Donovan suspected it was more out of her unwillingness to allow him to speak for her. Her fingers curled weakly around the man's calf and she sagged forward.

Donovan allowed it to continue a moment longer before he released her. "Keep her to task, mage. Perhaps I will see you elevated to the position you deserve."

Lenai sucked in several loud, harsh breaths and said something unintelligible as the mage turned and helped her to her feet. She glowered at him before turning the same look on Donovan. This time, however, it came tinged with just the faintest hint of wariness.

"A time will come," she said and then, as though the words were being pulled forcibly from her throat, "What is it you require?"

Donovan rolled the tension out of his shoulders. "There is a deep swale to the south of Kensing Tor. Do you know it?"

The chieftain pursed her lips. "Along the west banks of the Triltur?"

"That is the one. I am sending an agent there. He will not be alone. You will see to it the man with him is delivered safely to me at the village east of the Tor's base."

"The dead place?" Marauder superstition rang clear in Lenai's question and the widening of her eyes. "Why is it your agent can't see it done himself?"

"Because he is even less competent than you, and because there is a likelihood he will be followed by no small number of Imperial Guards. I suggest you sharpen your swords and your skills." Donovan swept a glance across the gathered warriors. He cared not who won the confrontation sure to take place, so long as they kept the Emperor and his guards at bay long enough for him to secure the general.

   After which, Donovan would need to find a way to convince the man, in this instance, they would serve each other better as allies than enemies. For that, he required the proper leverage.

Donovan left the marauder camp behind and, with the last twinkling of the stars reined in on a high, barren hillock. He slipped easily into the ethereal, his awareness open. If the priestess discovered what he was up to, or if she got to his daughter first, events would most certainly not play out in his favor. In which case, death at the hands of the general would seem a preferable alternative.