Darkblade avenger, p.113
Darkblade Avenger, page 113
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
Dahvynd raised an eyebrow.
Bull-neck placed his torch on the ground and drew out an axe. "Can't shorten ye a hand, but I doubt yer friends will miss a few fingers." He placed the axe head against the back of Layrie's hand. Layrie squirmed in vain to break free. "Just have to decide which ones."
Ardell's eyes never left Dahvynd. "All of them, Peyt."
"S'fair, I guess." Peyt pressed the axe blade hard, breaking Layrie's skin. Blood welled dark crimson in the torchlight.
"After this, tailor," Ardell spat the last word, "no one will refuse our protection."
Tension knotted Dahvynd's shoulders, but his hand remained steady. Peyt's axe rose; the world slowed to a crawl. Dahvynd saw the bulging vein in the man's arm, the fear in Layrie's eyes, the sneer spreading across Ardell's face. In that eerie calm, he moved. The baton flew through the air and slammed into Peyt's forehead. The bull-necked man's nose crunched beneath the impact of the heavy oaken club. Blood spurted and he cried out, clapping a hand to his face. Freed, Layrie darted away from his captor.
Ardell's eyes followed the flashing baton. By the time his head turned back, Dahvynd had closed the distance and drove his fist into Ardell's gut. The shaggy-haired man wheezed, and Dahvynd brought a knee up into his face. Ardell collapsed to the cobbled stone street.
Sorrin darted away as the sound of booted feet echoed behind Dahvynd. He whirled, steeling himself as more Bloody Hand thugs poured from the shadows of an alley. He knocked one down, ducked a swinging stick, and came up with a blow that sent another thug stumbling. He grunted at the pain flaring in his side, but drove his right elbow into the face of the man who had struck him. He'd faced hordes of barbarians; he had nothing to fear from these brutes.
Legionnaires wielded sword and shield, but Dahvynd had no armor or weapons save his fists. He cried out as a club slammed into the back of his mangled right hand, and two more struck his spine and legs. A blow sent him to one knee. Three clubs crashed into his head, and he fell.
The world swam around Dahvynd, but the thump of wood against flesh and bone kept him from blackness. Boots and fists collided with his arms, shoulders, ribs, and legs. Dahvynd could do nothing but curl into a protective ball.
The shouts and snarls of rage, the smell of blood—his blood—and the desperate terror sent his mind reeling back to Hangman's Hill. The hard cobblestones pressed against his face faded to muddy, bloodstained grass. Once again, he lay curled beneath his shield as the barbarian hordes surged through their lines. The screams of his comrades filtered into his ear through the din of battle.
No, a part of Dahvynd's mind recognized. I'm not on Hangman's Hill.
On that bloody hillside, he'd lain helpless and wounded as his friends died all around him. He'd failed them. He hadn't stopped Alven from bleeding out, hadn't prevented the barbarians from dragging Frayd to his torture and death.
But he hadn't failed Sorrin and Layrie. He clung to that as the thugs pummeled him toward unconsciousness. He'd saved his friends. That had to count for something.
A familiar barrage of curses pierced Dahvynd's pain-numbed mind. Sarge snarled and shouted. The wet crunch of a weapon slicing flesh and crushing bone sounded, and the screaming began.
He clung to his shield as scores of hobnailed boots thundered atop him. Yet the thunder that echoed through the ground sent a surge of hope through Dahvynd. The cavalry had come!
With a snarl of rage, he surged up from the ground, hurling a pair of barbarians to the side. He had no sword, nor a hand to wield it, but he had his shield. He slammed the rim into one's face, rushed another, blocked a pair of axes, and brought his foot up into an unarmored gut. The wild-haired man doubled over, and Dahvynd drove his shield downward. The barbarian fell and didn't rise.
He whirled, eyes wild with fury, hatred, and a lust for death, but the swirling mass of barbarians had given way to clusters of men retreating beneath a wave of cavalry. Sabers flashed in the fading sunlight, blood sprayed, and men screamed and died. But not Legionnaires. The few remaining men of 2nd Platoon slumped, exhausted and relieved. Tears streamed down Dahvynd's face, and he raised his shield and shouted defiance into the sky. All around him, his comrades joined in the cry.
"Easy, soldier." A soldier wearing the three stripes of a lieutenant commander reined in his horse beside Dahvynd. "They've been driven back. We've got them on the run!"
"Run, you cowards!" The harsh voice snapped Dahvynd back to the darkness of Lower Voramis. His eyes focused on three figures rushing into the darkness. Men lay on the street around them, moaning and shrieking, a few silent corpses.
Dahvynd looked down at his cracked knuckles and bloody forearms. His left hand clutched Ardell's axe, its edge glistening crimson. Pain flared in his skull, ribs, legs, back, and arms. But his hands no longer shook. They gripped the wooden haft without a sign of tremor.
Beside him, Sarge hurled curses at the retreating thugs. He drove a boot into Peyt's face, stamped again and again until the man's skull collapsed, spraying blood. Throwing back his head, he howled into the night—a sound of bestial fury painted with sorrow.
Then the sergeant turned his dark eyes on Dahvynd, cold fury glittering. Taking an instinctive step backward, Dahvynd dropped Peyt's axe and held up his hands. "It's over, Sarge."
He tensed as Gardner moved toward him, but the sergeant looked down at Ardell. The Bloody Hand thug whimpered as he crawled away. Sarge raised the axe and brought it down on the man's wrist. Ardell shrieked as his hand jumped away from his arm. Blood spurted from the wound, and the pale-faced thug collapsed.
"Not so tough now, are you, you bastard?" Sarge sneered.
Dahvynd's heart pounded a furious beat as the sergeant raised his eyes. But the cold fury had given way to something else—resignation, anguish, remorse.
"I couldn't let them, Dahvynd…" His voice cracked, and he swallowed. "It weren't right, them doin' you that way. No one does that to a Legionnaire and gets away with it." He met Dahvynd's eyes. "You're speaking true? It was Third Platoon that broke, not Second?"
Dahvynd nodded. "We held them off as long as we could, Sarge. Gave 'em a hell of a fight. But there were too many."
Sarge nodded. "I know." He gave Dahvynd a weak smile. "I was there, remember?"
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For Landen." He shrugged. "Had I known…"
"You'd have done your job, just as I trained you. You'd have held the line." Sarge's eyes went to Dahvynd's mangled right hand. "We all lost something that day."
A lump rose in Dahvynd's throat. He held out his left hand, and Sarge gripped it. Dahvynd thumped his twisted hand to his chest: the Legionnaire's salute.
Sarge studied the bodies littering the street. "They'll be back, you know. Bastards like this don't give up easy."
Dahvynd nodded. "I know. I'll be ready for them." He had no idea what he would do. But that was a problem for another day.
"Here." Sarge held out the axe. "You'll need this."
Dahvynd's eyes went wide. The sergeant had wielded that axe for close to two decades. He'd never let any of the others so much as breathe on it. "But, Sarge, that's your—"
Sarge shook his head. "No longer." The tension faded from his shoulders, and the lines in his face seemed to soften. "I don't need it now."
Without another word, he turned and strode up the street, disappearing into the darkness.
* * *
Dahvynd sat on a stone bench, eyes closed, drinking in the salty ocean breeze. The smithies hadn't begun belching noxious steam or filling the air with the clang of metal. He had a few minutes before the rising sun brought the ring of hammer on steel. For a moment, he had peace. And the smell of sea lilies.
The delicate fragrance lightened his heart. He hadn't been here in years—not since returning to Voramis. Killia had tried to bring him, but he'd never dared approach the smithies. He had to come here tonight.
He forced himself not to think about what awaited him in his shop. Indar's body, and those of the Bloody Hand thugs on the street. The Heresiarchs would want his statement. Indar deserved a burial. Perhaps he'd lay the private beside Killia. His wife wouldn't mind the company. He wouldn't join her for years yet.
"Oh!" The quiet gasp disturbed his peace. Seraphina stood over him. "I didn't know you were here." Her wide eyes roamed his bloodstained clothing, bruised face, and the axe in his hands.
His words came out low, heavy. "Not for a long time." He met her gaze. "What are you doin’ here?"
Seraphina swallowed whatever she had been about to say. "I…" She blushed. "I come here to smell the lilies sometimes."
Dahvynd nodded. "Same." He moved over on the bench. "Care to join me?"
Seraphina sat, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed on the ocean. Slowly the tension drained, and she let out a soft sigh.
Dahvynd let the silence stretch on. The sound of steel on steel greeted them with the rising sun, but he made no move. He ran a finger over the words etched into the metal band. The tremor had left his hands, and the images of his past no longer tugged at his mind. He was content to bask in the chill breeze that carried the calming, familiar scent of sea lilies.
Paint a Black Picture
"I paint a black picture because there is no other to do it."
The paintbrush danced over the canvas, leaving trails of swirling colors in its wake. Errin twisted the worn wooden handle between slim fingers, but he had no control over it. A compulsion yanked his arms about like one of Brother Trollus’ marionettes, moving his brush as if by the Illusionist’s own hand.
Liquid color splashed the walls, his face, the cold stone floor of his cell. Droplets of light that tried to draw his attention from the picture burned into his mind.
He wouldn't let it. He had to get the image out now. If he didn't, it faded for good. Though he hated every one of the pictures, he'd always painted them. Unthinkable.
A final jerky twitch of the brush, and he slumped onto his bed. He'd forgotten to breathe again. But he'd rushed to finish before the light burned him alive. A single shaft of daylight, nothing more, but he hated it. Hurt his eyes, felt like his skin was on fire. He ran a hand across the cool stone walls. Better. Shadow is much better.
He counted the footsteps. One, shuffle, two, shuffle, three. Brother Cerimon. Bringing lunch, I hope. The frenzied pace of his painting left him hungry.
He pulled the scratchy blankets up over his head and closed his eyes against Brother Cerimon's candle. Too bright.
He groaned in time with the squealing hinges and clapped a hand over his ears.
"Easy, Errin." Brother Cerimon's voice. Deep, quiet, calm. "I've brought food. Addara's soup, your favorite."
He lowered the blanket, squinted at the man at the door.
"S-s-soup!"
Cerimon smiled and nodded. "That's right, Errin. Soup." He set the bowl down on the wooden cot and stepped back.
Errin liked Cerimon. Never tried to touch his shoulder or hand. Kept far back, moved and talked quietly. Easier for Errin.
"Another black picture, Errin?" Cerimon stared at the canvas, head tilted.
Black? Errin wanted to scream. What are you talking about? It's right there! "G-girl..."
Why didn't the other brothers see the images? He'd painted dozens, maybe hundreds, but no one understood what he tried to show them. He lacked the words--he only had his brush and paints. Why do they all see black?
He'd stopped trying to show the others in the Temple of Prosperity. He bore the burdens of his pictures alone. To his eyes, the canvas was alive with colors, colors that formed a picture that made him shiver. Stars twinkling in the night. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, lying on the edge of the Midden, chest and stomach sliced open, leaking blood. Branded with a claw-tipped hand. Why can't he see it?
Cerimon turned to him. "You'll be wanting to go out, then?" He leaned Errin's easel aside and placed the painting on the floor.
"Y-y-yes."
Errin hated it. Cerimon looked at him the way he looked at a wounded kitten or a lame horse. All the brothers did. He wasn't broken. Cerimon couldn't understand that, or any of the others. And he hadn't the words to tell them. He knew what he wanted to say, but he could never quite get it out.
He took a deep breath. "Night."
"Tonight?"
Errin's words refused to form. He nodded.
"I'll be ready, lad." He pointed to the rope hanging beside Errin's bed. "You just ring that when it's time."
Errin wrinkled his nose. The bell wanted to break his head into a thousand pieces--thousand is a good number--but he had no other way to communicate.
"Eat it before it gets cold, eh?" With a smile--I'm not broken!--Cerimon left.
Errin stuffed fingers into his ears as the door squealed shut. He stared at the bowl, and his stomach growled as he smelled the spicy scent of herbs Addara used to make her soup.
The shaft of light stood like a pillar between him and his meal. He stretched out his arms and felt the walls of his cell. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shuffled forward. Three steps to the light. Deep breath. Jump through it.
A leap carried him past the torturous light but, for a moment, it set his skin prickling. He reached for the bowl of soup--chicken, dumplings, carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic, rosemary--and drained it in a few slurps. Not too hot or cold. Cerimon knew how he liked it.
His attention wandered to the painting. The little girl in the picture looked scared, alone. Why does she need to die?
The paintings never told him why, they only showed him who and when. He never knew what he would see until he finished it. He hated being jerked around, but worse was the burning that grew in his mind if he didn't paint. Last time, Cerimon hadn't brought his paints, and he'd tossed and turned as the monster battered his mind. Only when he put it on canvas would it leave him alone.
He had to see this one. Had to see them all. Too many of them went forgotten, unnoticed by the world. He wouldn't forget them. His canvas captured them, a final remnant of their lives.
Bowl empty, he stood and reached for the walls; wide enough he touched them with outstretched arms. Helped him balance, made it easier to walk. Taking a deep breath, he jumped through the light. Eyes open this time. Didn't hurt as much.
He sank into his chair, covering his eyes. Cerimon and the others needed light. He didn't. Light hurt his eyes, burned his skin, made his thoughts bounce around in his head like a ball on a string. He needed darkness--cool, comforting. Light played with his mind, but darkness simply was. Staring into the shadows, he saw everything he needed to see.
* * *
Errin whimpered as a terrible sound filled the night, and he gripped Cerimon's arm tighter.
"Easy, lad." He focused on Cerimon's calm, quiet voice. "Just a dog."
Errin hated being out of his cell. Outside was too big, too dangerous. Too many things to make his ears and eyes hurt. Colors too bright, sounds too loud. But at least he could comfort himself with darkness. His hood would hide him from the stars above, and Cerimon would protect him from everything else. He just needed to see and he could go back to the safety of his home.
"Gorf! What a stench!" Cerimon grunted and pinched his nose. "I'd forgotten how much I hated the Midden. If only your pictures had brought us to Maiden's Fields, eh?"
Errin didn't know what Cerimon was talking about. He didn't care. He was busy counting. Four thousand, eight hundred, two score, and five steps away from home. Too many.
He almost turned back. Didn't. Couldn't. He needed to see first.
He saw her. Smaller than she looked in his painting. Skin lighter, blood redder. Too red. A dark figure knelt before her, head bowed, eyes wide.
"Blessed Illusionist." Cerimon stopped, bowed his head, and made the sign of the Long Keeper.
With a shudder, Errin turned away from the scene. He had seen. Could return to his cell, safety. In there, no one would hurt him as they had hurt the little girl.
Howling filled the night, and Errin screamed and clapped his hands over his ears. Hurts! He crouched and buried his head in his cloak as more and more sounds pounded him from all sides. Make it stop!
He tried to run, tripped, and fell hard. The stones felt rough against his skin, but no pain. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back toward the temple.
"Errin!" Cerimon's voice sounded too loud. "Stop, please. You'll hurt yourself!"
Errin tripped again, fell, and rolled. The snap echoed in his body. His left hand--not the hand I paint with, don't need it--hung at a strange angle. He felt nothing. He just wanted to get back to the cool, quiet cell and be alone with his darkness. And his paintings.
Cerimon knelt beside him. "Mistress! You're hurt, lad. Let me help you up."
Errin cringed away from Cerimon's outstretched hand. Don't want to be touched!
"H-h-home." Tears streamed down his face as he climbed to his feet.
Cerimon nodded and adjusted his cloak. "Aye, Errin. Let's get you home."
* * *
Get it off! Errin tugged at the bandage around his left wrist. Hate it! Itches, burns, rubs.
Cerimon had insisted he leave the splint alone. Need to leave it to heal. The hand, thick and stiff, didn't move like it should. At least I still have my right hand to paint.
He didn't want to look at the latest pictures. They'd come to him last night and the night before, filled up four canvases. Men slumped around a table. Screaming men and women fleeing a fire that consumed stone and wood alike. Hanging figures dripping blood onto the wooden planks of the dock. A horrible, twisted face like a demon from the stories Cerimon told him.
The painting of the little girl sat in the corner still. The other pictures didn't bother him as much as this one. He was too late to see her alive. He was always too late.
He counted the footsteps. One clack, two clack, three. Heeled sandals. Addara.
He didn't stuff his fingers into his ears. Cerimon had greased the hinges, and it swung open without a sound.
"Good morning, Errin!" Addara's voice, bright and cheery, slurred. "How are we this morning?"
