Into a Dark Realm: Book Two of the Darkwar Saga
Valko reversed the sword and returned it to his teacher. “I’ll say nothing of any of this. But it was hard not to take your head, old man.”
Hirea laughed. “You may still get the chance. I have no living son, and someday, soon perhaps, I may seek you out to put me down: my bones begin to feel the cold and my vision isn’t as keen as when I was young. Now go!”
Valko obeyed. Hirea might have been his victim today, but he was still his teacher and as such must be obeyed. But what he had said troubled the young fighter, who walked slowly back to his quarters, wondering if the old man had been right about his mother. She was certainly unlike other women, and many of the things they had spoken of when alone were forbidden. Could she have been Bloodwitch? That fabled sisterhood had been banned by the TeKarana himself. Every member was to have been hunted down and executed without hesitation. They were declared blasphemers by His Darkness’s Highest Priests, and their teachers were declared an anathema.
Suddenly, very tired, Valko thought, Mother, what have you done?
“Caleb, what have you got us into?” Tad said as they clung to the side of the cliff face.
“I don’t think he can hear us,” shouted Jommy over the wind.
Zane said nothing as his teeth were chattering and he hung on to Tad’s tunic to keep him from falling.
“Move up!” shouted Servan. “You’ve got to go up first, then down!”
Jommy nodded, and said just loud enough for only Tad and Zane to hear, “I hate that he’s right.”
“Well, stop worrying about that, and start worrying about getting Grandy down,” said Tad.
Jommy nodded then climbed over Tad’s position on the narrow ledge, and came down between him and Zane, who moved slightly to let him get settled.
Six boys were perched upon a mountain a half-day’s ride from the city of Roldem. The exercise had been designed to train them to work as a group in difficult circumstances, in this case climbing to the top of a rocky crag without the aid of ropes or tools. They were just a few yards shy of the peak when an unexpected squall blew out of the north, unleashing torrential rains and a brutal wind.
Five of the six boys were in reasonable situations, hunkered down against the rock face, in a good position to wait out the storm, which should pass within an hour or two, but Grandy was in trouble.
The smaller boy had been nearly blown off the face of the mountain by a sudden gust of wind as he traversed along a ledge in their attempt to get back down the mountain. He had slid down to a shelf of rock a few yards below the others, and now he clung to it with the tips of his fingers and terror-inspired determination.
Servan had quickly organized the others. “Jommy, lie flat against the rock face, then let Zane, Tad, and Godfrey lower you down to where Grandy can grip your hands!”
“Why are you the only one standing around?” shouted Jommy.
“Because of the four of us, I’m the weakest,” Servan replied: which was true. A very good swordsman, he lacked the physical strength of even Godfrey, who was a good deal weaker than the three robust young men from Sorcerer’s Isle.
Jommy was left with no reason to complain: Servan was being honest and putting his personal vanity aside in trying to get Grandy to safety.
A hundred feet below them, two monks were desperately trying to get up the face of the wet rocks to aid them, but they were having even less success than the six boys, since they were wearing sandals and long robes.
Jommy half slid, and was half lowered down the rock, water sheeting along the surface and granting him little to hold on to. “Hang on tight!” he shouted to Tad and Godfrey.
Godfrey and Tad each held a leg, while Zane, the stockiest and strongest of the three, lay back with his full weight while he hung on the backs of their tunics. Jommy reached down and got one hand on Grandy’s shirt, and shouted, “I’ll pull you up!”
“No!” shouted Servan. “Grab him, hang on tight, and we’ll pull you up!”
The odd chain of boys inched back up the mountainside, when Grandy was gripped by sudden panic and tried to climb up Jommy’s arm. Jommy felt his grip on the boy’s shirt loosen, and he tried to turn, not realizing he was only barely being held by Godfrey and Tad. Their grip on his legs began to slip, then failed; first Tad lost his hold, then Godfrey. Within an instant, Grandy was climbing up to a place of relative safety while Jommy twisted in place, his legs swinging past his head, and found himself suddenly sliding down the rocks, feetfirst, clawing for any handhold. Servan sat down hard and let himself slide after Jommy, then he rolled, ignoring cuts and bruises from the rocks, and turned himself headfirst, nearly diving down the side of the rocks. He managed to reach out and grab Jommy’s tunic collar.
Zane managed to grab Servan’s as he slid past. The boy shouted in pain as his hip was almost dislocated by Zane’s actions. Jommy reached up blindly and found his hand seized by Servan. “Don’t let go!” he shouted.
Servan said, “I won’t!”
Forcing himself to calmness, Jommy shouted to Servan, “What now?”
Grimacing in pain, the royal cousin’s eyes never left Jommy. “I can’t move. Use me like a rope and climb over me.”
Jommy used all the strength in his left arm to heave himself up. He reached with his right hand, grabbing the belt on Servan’s trousers. Feeling around with his right toe, he got a scant purchase in a crevice and hauled himself up. Then he let go with his left hand and reached high to get a strong grip on the fleshy part of Servan’s right thigh, pulled once more and felt Godfrey’s hands on his shoulders, helping him to the ledge.
As soon as he was safe, Jommy turned and helped Zane pull Servan back up to the ledge. The six boys sat panting with exertion, terror, and pain, freezing in the driving rain on the ledge. Jommy looked at Servan. “You’re mad, mate, you know that?”
Servan said, “I don’t like you, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you dead.”
“I don’t like you either,” said Jommy. Servan’s face was cut, his cheek swollen, and from the way he rubbed at his right shoulder, he might have dislocated it. With the rain pelting down Jommy couldn’t tell, but he thought Servan’s eyes swollen from tears, probably from the pain. “But I owe you my life.”
Servan managed a faint smile. “A bit of an awkward situation, isn’t it?”
Jommy said, “Doesn’t have to be. I don’t know why you felt the need to lord it over us when we first arrived, and right now I don’t care. You saved my life: I was sliding down this mountain and there was no way I was going to stop till I hit the bottom. So, if anyone asks, I’ll be the first to say you’re no coward. A madman, maybe, but no coward.”
Suddenly Servan smiled. “Well, I couldn’t let you fall after you almost killed yourself getting my cousin.”
“Cousin?” asked Tad. He looked at Grandy. “He’s your cousin?”
Grandy, teeth chattering with cold, said, “Yes. Didn’t I mention that?”
“That makes you another of the King’s nephews?” asked Tad.
“No,” said Servan. “That makes him the King’s son. Grandy’s older brother is Crown Prince Constantine of Roldem. Which means that someday he’s going to be the younger brother to the King.”
“Damn me!” said Jommy. “The people you meet.”
Suddenly, Servan started to laugh. The sound was so genuine—a release of tension and fear—that the other boys could not help themselves, and joined in.
Brother Thaddeus, the monk who was attempting to reach them, found a stop a dozen yards below them and shouted, “Wait there! Brother Malcolm is hurrying back to the university. He will bring Brother Micah back. Stay there and hang on!”
The boys huddled closer in the rain. Micah was not properly a monk of the Order, but a Lesser Path magician who resided on the grounds of the university. His many talents included control over the weather.
By the time Micah arrived, the boys were thoroughly miserable, shivering uncontrollably, and hardly able to move. Micah chanted a spell to le
ssen the severity of the storm, creating a large pocket of more clement weather around the boys. The sphere of the spell was nearly a hundred yards in all directions, so that within it the rain fell like a gentle spring fall, rather than this unexpected squall.
With the torrent abated for a few minutes, Brother Thaddeus clambered up the rock face so he could help the boys get down to the wider ledge below. From there it was a relatively easy trail down to the foot of the mountain, a mere three hours’ walk under normal conditions. As they made their way down the slippery trail, Jommy turned to Grandy and said, “Why did you never mention you’re the King’s younger son?”
Grandy, shivering and looking the worse for his ordeal, said, “If you’ve noticed, no one at the university talks much about family. It’s considered rude. We’re all students.”
Jommy nodded, though he didn’t understand. In the time he had been at the La-Timsan university a few idle remarks had been made about this student or that student being the son of a noble or rich merchant, but as he thought about it, he realized no one had come out and said whose father was whose. Grandy had been the exception when he mentioned that Servan was a cousin to the King’s family.
Jommy felt confused. Exhausted, battered, and totally confused. From the look on the faces of his foster brothers, he could tell that Tad and Zane were feeling equally out of their depth.
He saw horses waiting at the bottom of the trail. At least they wouldn’t have to walk back to the city. And when they were there, there would be dry clothing and hot food.
As they reached better footing down the trail, they picked up speed, and when they were near enough to smell the damp scent of horse hair and the pungent smell of the wet woods, Jommy looked again at Servan. He was in no frame of mind to puzzle out exactly what kind of fellow the young royal really was, but he was determined that things would not return to how they had been before. He saw Godfrey limping, and without saying a word, he slowed a little, moved in next to him, and slipped the boy’s arm over his shoulder, helping him take the weight off his injured ankle.
Valko stood silently with the other nine surviving young warriors as Hirea and another older warrior motioned for the youngsters to line up. When everyone was in place, Hirea said, “There is more to bringing honors and glory to your empire, your society, and your father’s name than being a mindless killer.
“Good killing is an art and nothing brings more pleasure than watching an artful killer dispos. Nothing, that is, save the art of mating.”
A couple of the young men laughed.
Hirea said, “I do not speak of lying with a female, you stupid tavaks!” The field animal he called them was well known for being both sexually active and incredibly stupid.
Now several of the warriors looked confused. They had all taken females while in the Hiding. It was one of the signs that a young male was nearing the time of testing. When the competition among the boys in the Hiding became too violent, their mothers attempted to get them back to their fathers’ domains.
Hirea laughed. “Are there any among you whose mothers have returned with you to your father’s keep, castle, or estate?”
Two young warriors held up their hands.
He pointed at those two. “They are fortunate. They have clever mothers, as well as strong fathers. Their mothers were unforgettable. Their fathers wanted them to return, perhaps to sire another son.
“Some of you had to remind your fathers just who your mother was.” He shook his head as he looked down. “It is the nature of the Dasati that ideal pairings are rare, but they are desirable, not only for the chance for superior offspring, but because an ideal pairing makes a man’s life more bearable, more pleasurable.”
He motioned to the man at his side. “This is Unkarlin, a rider of the Bloodguard.” He turned to him and asked, “How many surviving sons and daughters are in your household?”
“I am the third son, and fifth of seven children.”
“From the same mother?”
Unkarlin inclined his head in assent, and several of the young warriors made noises of astonishment. Two, even three offspring from the same parents was not unheard of, but seven! It was heroic!
“Thus are dynasties born!” shouted Hirea. “When your sons kill their enemies and claim spoils, then riches, estates, Lessers, and more riders come into the family! This man’s family is partially responsible for the Bloodguard’s power and success. Consider your fathers and how many kinsmen ride with him. How many uncles and cousins count you in the Sadharin, Valko?”
In the weeks he had spent with his father before coming to Hirea for training, Valko had learned these details. “My father is eldest in the Sadharin, Hirea! He counts a younger brother, and four lesser cousins in the riders. From them I have twenty-seven cousins and sixteen lesser cousins.”
“How many riders in the Sadharin?”
“Ninety-seven, fifty lords.”
“Out of fifty lords of the Sadharin, Valko counts forty-nine as kinsmen!” He looked around the room. “You can hardly have stronger ties than that!”
“But to breed that sort of strength, to have that power to call upon, you must pick wisely who you bed, young fools! There are women you will desire until your body aches for them, but they are a waste of your time and seed. Even if you have a powerful son with a Lesser, he is still Lesser born. If you have a son from a warrior family, but it is a weak family, without strong patrons or blood ties, what do you gain? Nothing. They gain by joining your line, but it drags you down.
“You need to seek out equals, or if you are clever enough, if you have something unique in you”—here he seemed to stare directly at Valko—“then you breed upward. Any man who can bed one of the female kin of the Karana, no matter if she is the ugliest female you have every beheld, then do so, and if you keep her until she is with child, pray that child is a warrior of the first renown, for then shall you have ties that will make your enemies tremble at the very thought of you.
“Then can you rise above the politics of your nation, even the politics of your world, and become a force within the Twelve Worlds.” He paused as he saw he had each young warrior listening raptly.
“But it all begins with having the sense to know that mating is an art.”
Now the warriors were ready to understand their next task, thought Valko. He had appeared as interested as the next student, but nothing Hirea had said was new to him. His mother had spoken with him on such topics for hours.
He knew that to waste time with a female of any rank less than his own was the height of foolishness, unless it was to bind a vassal, perhaps a lord with no surviving sons, for lands and livestock had more value than sons from lesser houses. But he would focus on trying to rise in status. He knew that his mother expected him to advance quickly, and within ten years to be Lord of the Camareen; and to have powerful sons within twenty years, with links forged to powerful houses.
Valko understood only part of his mother’s plan. That she had a plan, he had no doubt, for she had raised no fool for a son. He knew that somewhere, sometime, she would reveal herself to him again, and then he would learn exactly what was behind his training.
“Now,” said Hirea, “we are going to a festival, in the city of Okora. There you will meet daughters and household females of rich and powerful men. Choose wisely, young warriors, for these shall be among the first to send you sons, sons who will return to your fathers’ houses in years to come, and who those sons shall be is up to you.
Silently, Valko thought, Only in this one thing. After that, it is the mother who molds the child.
Pug strained against the urge to do something, anything, but willed himself to be as motionless as possible. They sat in a circle, Magnus to his right, Nakor to his left, Bek next to Nakor, and opposite Pug, the Dasati named Martuch.
Martuch had spoken to Pug and Nakor on several occasions over the previous two days, asking questions that were clearly related to this undertaking, as well as seemingly making conversation ab
out the mundane. Aspects of human existence fascinated him as much as everything Dasati fascinated Pug and Nakor; but without a frame of reference, it was difficult for Pug to put a name to his attitude toward the guide. If asked, he would have been inclined to say he found him to be an agreeable companion.
Martuch said, “Be still, my friends. It is better that way. The more you struggle, the more uncomfortable the change.”
They were in the second week of practicing magic in the city of Sushar. Martuch was, apparently, a practitioner of many trades, and magic was among them. He explained that on the Dasati worlds, “spellmongers” were considered commoners of a trade no more elevated than that of a smith or carpenter. But he had reassured them that once they had mastered their arts on Delecordia, those arts would work on the Dasati worlds.
He had still not agreed to guide them. He had said he would give his decision when the time came, but as of yet he had said neither yes nor no. What he was seeking to understand about Pug and his companions wasn’t clear, but he seemed in no particular hurry to come to a decision.
“You must be patient,” said Martuch. “When this process is complete, you will be able to breathe the air, drink the water, eat the food of the Dasati, and to all appearances be Dasati. There is a glamour we shall employ that will make you seem one of us, though you will probably elicit odd glances from a Deathpriest if you happen to encounter one closely—I would avoid this, if I were you. In this one thing you have an advantage: the Ipiliac magicians are superior to the Deathpriests in that our magic does not depend entirely on necromancy. By various arcane means, we can ensure that your disguise bears close scrutiny.
“But that is the least of your worries. For in temper and nature you are as alien to the Dasati as they are to you, and there are a thousand ways of being, looking at life, and proceeding in the affairs of the everyday that will be lost upon you. Some you may learn quickly, while others will always elude you.”