The Darkling Child

ELEVEN

PAXON WAS STANDING DEEP IN THE SHADOWS CAST BY THE trees at the rear of the Boar’s Head when the back door eased open and a figure emerged into the light. It was hard to be certain who it was–even if it was a man or woman–but a rucksack and a leather case shaped like a musical instrument were strapped to its back. Paxon stayed where he was, watching the figure cross the open space almost directly toward him, moving quickly.

When the figure was less than a dozen yards away, he stepped out of the trees. “Reyn?” he called.

The boy stopped, his face lifting into the misty moonlight, clearly revealed now, surprise and consternation imprinted on his young features. For a moment, he looked poised to run. But then he seemed to think better of it and held his ground.

“Who are you?” he called back.

“My name is Paxon Leah. I came here from Paranor with a Druid companion. We need to warn you about the magic you are using.”

“How do you know I use magic?”

“If I am mistaken, just say so.”

The boy hesitated. “I’m just leaving. Please let me go.”

“I’m not here to cause you trouble,” Paxon said, pressing ahead quickly. “I just want to explain what sort of …”

In the next instant a rope of fire burst from between the buildings behind the boy, barely missing his head. He threw himself aside, trying to protect his belongings as a second explosion flashed past him, this one even closer.

“Stay down!” Paxon yelled, rushing to his aid, his black sword drawn and held protectively before him.

But Reyn was up and running, bolting away from Paxon and the source of the fire both, sprinting along the rear walls of the buildings left of the Boar’s Head until a gap appeared between them and he disappeared from view. Paxon kept advancing toward the source of the fire, but no further bursts appeared. Whoever had attacked them was gone.

“Reyn!” he called after the boy. “Wait! Come back!”

But he wouldn’t, of course. He would run and keep running. He would believe it was the Druids who had attacked him. He would think Paxon lured him out so he could be disabled or killed. But unless for some unknown reason it was Avelene who …

He caught himself and stopped short.

Avelene. Where is she?

He gave up on the boy. If they were going to find him, they would have to track him down in daylight and try to explain to him why he was mistaken. Assuming he was. Would Avelene have attacked him? No, there was no reason for her to do so. He began running hard, passing between the Boar’s Head and the building next door to the roadway and then crossing the street to where he had left her.

There was no sign of her. It was so shadowy in the narrow opening between the darkened buildings that he could barely see. He rushed back across the street, took down a torch from one of a matching set bracketing the front door to the Boar’s Head, and raced back across. Using the light it cast, he held it close to the ground and began to search. Like most Highlanders who hunted extensively, he could read sign. He found Avelene’s footprints right away, and then a second pair close behind where she had stood. A man’s, from the size of them. She had been facing away from whoever had come up on her. There were no signs of a struggle, just the prints coming up behind her and then moving away again.

Only they were deeper than before where they turned back. As if whoever made them had been carrying something heavy.

Someone had caught her off guard, rendered her helpless, and bore her off. He followed the prints to a door behind the building to his right. The door had been locked, but the lock was broken–burned loose from its hinges. His torch held out before him, Paxon slipped into the room.

Boxes, crates, and barrels were stacked everywhere. He held up the torch and looked around. He saw no one moving, sensed no one waiting. But he remained cautious anyway as he pushed farther in. The silence suggested nothing was amiss, yet something felt curiously out of place. He studied the stacks of supplies cautiously as he moved through the room, tying to decide what it was.

Then he noticed a patch of deep blackness. It was nothing more than what appeared to be empty space back between the crates, but his torchlight would not penetrate it. Tightening his grip on the Sword of Leah, he took a few steps forward, trying to make out what it was.

Even when he got close, though, it still didn’t seem to be anything more than an especially dark place. He reached out to touch it and discovered he was wrong. The blackness surrounded a hard shell, a sort of cylinder propped upright against the wall. He sheathed his sword and ran his free hand over the surface, gauging its size and strength. If there was something within, he couldn’t tell from looking; even when standing right on top of it he could not see inside.

After a moment, he stepped back again. Whatever this was, it didn’t belong here. It did not remind him of anything he knew or had ever seen, and he was pretty sure it did not contain supplies.

He felt a chill sweep through him. Magic? Could magic be involved? Didn’t it have to be? The fire thrown at the boy from the darkness between the buildings was clearly generated by magic. A magic wielder could have conjured this black cylinder.

Right away he thought of Arcannen.

Wedging the torch between stacks of boxes nearby so that he still had the use of its light, he unsheathed his sword once more and placed its edge against the surface of the black container, testing its response.

Instantly the familiar green snakes began to crawl through the weapon’s blade, writhing and twisting, and Paxon felt a familiar jolt as the sword’s magic awoke in response. A second later the opaque surface of the cylinder turned transparent, and he could see Avelene’s body suspended inside. She was held in place by invisible bonds, hands at her sides, body still. But her eyes were open, and she was looking at him.

Her eyes told him she was terrified.

He lifted his blade away from the cylinder and watched it go dark again. For a moment, he considered simply smashing his way into the young woman’s prison, but he resisted the urge. If whoever captured her wanted her dead, why hadn’t they simply killed her and been done with it? If they wanted her to be found, why bother with all this elaborate imprisoning?

Unless his suspicions were right, and it was Arcannen who was responsible. Especially if he knew Paxon was there. Wouldn’t he find it fitting if Paxon bulled his way recklessly into the black cylinder using his precious sword and thereby caused the death of the person he was supposed to be rescuing?

What he needed was someone who knew more about magic than he did. Someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who could tell him if by opening the container he was putting Avelene in worse danger still.

He sheathed his sword. The boy would have to wait. His first obligation was to the Druids he was sworn to protect. Avelene would have to be transported–cylinder and all–back to Paranor. He could only hope a way to release her could be found when he got her there.

Frustration at feeling so helpless gnawed at him as he made his decision. He was almost certain by now that imprisoning Avelene was Arcannen’s work. This whole business had a personal feel to it, and his suspicions suggested strongly that it was the sorcerer who was behind it.

He expected he would know soon enough.

Retrieving his torch from where he had wedged it between the supply boxes, he went back out into the night to find help.

Not until he had arrived at the outskirts of Portlow, following the road that led east toward the coast, did Reyn Frosch stop running long enough to pause and look back. No one seemed to be following. He thought the man who had approached him behind the tavern might have given chase, but apparently he had decided against it. Perhaps his cohort, the one using the magic, had held him back. Or perhaps they would try to track him after it got light. Anger and determination flooded through him. They would never catch up to him now. They had lost their best chance when the fire had missed and he had managed to escape. Now he would be watching out for them.

All that talk about warning him and wanting to help was nothing more than a ruse to delay him. He wondered what they were really after. Whatever they wanted, it must be connected to his use of magic. All magic was outlawed in the Southland, and there were rumors that the Druids were seeking to acquire any magic not already under their control.

Which suggested they might be trying to acquire his. His battle against the Fortrens might have drawn them to him. He had heard stories about the Druids and their machinations. He had heard how they hunted down and destroyed those who used magic.

It was beginning to rain. Hunching his shoulders, he tightened his travel cloak and pulled up its hood. He had lost the rucksack that contained his clothing and possessions. All he had managed to salvage was the elleryn Gammon had given to him. He had no food or water. A handful of Federation credits were stuffed down in his pants. It was a poor start to a new life, but he would have to make do.

He began walking, moving away from the lights of the town. If he could reach Sterne, he could disappear into the larger population. He couldn’t sing or play anymore–not in public, at least. Word would get around. It would draw attention. The Druids would hear of it and come for him once more.

His best bet was to work at a job that would give him enough money to buy passage on an air transport west into Elven country where use of magic was not outlawed and therefore less noticeable, and a man could change his identity with ease. He could find a place in a Rover village, perhaps. He could use his voice again to make a living working at a tavern. He could start over.

Thoughts of what he could and couldn’t do ran through his head as he pushed ahead through the rain. The roadway quickly turned sodden and muddy, and he moved off to the side in the tall grasses where the ground was more solid. After a time, he deliberately angled toward the fringe of the forest trees. Standing out in the open seemed like a poor idea.

He tried to prepare himself mentally for what might happen. He could protect himself if his pursuers continued to come after him; he was not helpless against them. The magic would keep them at bay. But they had been so quick to attack him back in Portlow. Why would they do that when they didn’t even know him? The man who had approached him had seemed willing to talk. Why hadn’t they given him a chance to explain himself?

Something streaked past his head and struck the trunk of a tree to one side. A crossbow bolt. He darted into the trees at once, seeking shelter. Another bolt followed, this one nicking his shoulder as it sped past him into the darkness and disappeared. He dropped into a crouch, looking around frantically, fixing on the direction from which this new attack had come.

“Pap!” a voice shouted. “He’s over here! I’ve got him trapped!”

At once he was up and running, weaving through the darkness, angling away from the voice and the attack. He ran deeper into the woods, the elleryn clutched to his chest. He had forgotten about the Fortrens watching the roads leading out of Portlow, of Gammon’s warning that they were waiting for him to try to escape. He was so caught up in the mystery behind the Druid attack that they had slipped his mind completely.

Still, whatever his assailant might think, he was far from trapped. He tore through the rain and the dark, fighting down the fear building within him. The road branched just ahead, one path running on to Sterne, the other to Wayford. Along the way were dozens of small villages. He needed only to reach one of them to find a place to hide. Someone would take him in.

But when a fresh crossbow bolt whizzed past to one side, he was reminded that the Fortrens were woods people and more at home in these surroundings than he was. He ducked instinctively and took a new direction back toward the road. The trees and the heavy scrub of the woods hindered his efforts, and he might make better time in the open. He wasn’t as skilled at wilderness survival as the Fortrens, but he was strong and quick. He might be able to outrun them.

A tree trunk exploded in a shower of bark nearby, seconds before the explosive discharge of a handheld flash rip. Others followed, bracketing him as he twisted and dodged, fighting to keep his feet in the slick grasses. There was more than one of them now, the pursuit growing. If he couldn’t find a way to lose them, he would have to turn and fight. The thought chilled him. Use of his magic would likely lead to someone dying. Worse, it would alert the Druids to his presence and bring them down on him.

But what choice did he have?

He was breathing heavily now, the ache in his leg muscles slowing him. He was running out of space and time; his strength was failing. He pushed himself harder, clearing the fringe of the trees just where the road ahead branched toward Sterne and Wayford. He felt a surge of hope. Which should he take? What if he took neither, but went between them, angling toward the former but keeping off the road entirely? It might confuse them enough to make them decide to wait until daylight, giving him extra …

The thought died before he could finish it. Ahead, a grouping of figures emerged from the darkness to block the split, closing off all choices of where he might flee. He slowed automatically, knowing he could not go forward, that he must turn back. But that would mean returning to Portlow, and there was no hope for him if he did.

Figures emerged from the trees behind him, his pursuit having caught up. He stood frozen in place for several long moments, watching the figures close in from all sides. He must run, but he no longer believed that running would be enough. He would have to stand and fight. He would have to use his magic if he were to get out of this alive.

He set down the elleryn. He was about to step away from it, still hoping to protect the one possession he had left, when he was struck a blow to the head that knocked him sprawling. The blow had been sharp and painful, and he knew a sling stone had struck him. They were disabling him before he could do anything. He tried to rise, but he was dizzy and slow, and those closest were on top of him too quickly, bearing him to the ground. Screams and shouts of wild elation filled the air.

“Got him, Pap!” one yelled, whooping and laughing. “All mine, he is. You watch what I do to him! Just let me have ‘firsts.’ ”

Reyn tried to see what was happening, but there was blood in his eyes. When he tried to use his voice, he found his throat constricted by an arm locked about it. He was helpless.

“You do nothing, boy!” a rough voice snapped. He recognized it at once. Costa Fortren. The family patriarch’s shadowy form loomed through a haze of blood and raindrops. “He’s mine. His life belongs to me, and I am the one who shall take it from him. You can have him back when the light begins to leave his eyes.”

Reyn tried to blurt out a final plea, but all that emerged was a strangled gasp. Dark figures were clustered all around. Voices filled with hate and bloodlust traded laughter and jokes. He heard his new elleryn being smashed beneath boot heels.

He closed his eyes. It was over for him.

Then someone gasped–a sound filled with fear and loathing. Bodies shifted, and from out of the darkness a figure emerged, blacker than the night, robes billowing in the wind, a wraith exuding terror.

“I warned you not to harm him.”

The voice was a crackle that rose above the sounds of the storm. Everyone went silent. For an instant the entire world seemed frozen in time. Costa Fortren turned. “We have no need to do as you …”

“You have every need,” the wraith replied. “But now it is too late.”

In the next instant the entire area lit up in sudden explosions of fire as huge torches burst into flame and screams filled the air. But the torches were neither of wood nor pitch, but of human flesh as the Fortrens and their allies caught fire, one after the other. Burning alive, unable to extinguish the flames, they ran screaming this way and that, rolling on the ground, flinging themselves into puddles of mud and water, beating at their flaming bodies helplessly. Their efforts failed. The fire was relentless. One by one, they were consumed, collapsing in charred heaps, their lives extinguished until all that remained were Reyn Frosch and the dark figure striding toward him.

“I told you to wait!”

The boy still couldn’t talk, his voice little more than a ragged croak. He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to avoid looking at the bodies heaped all around him.

Strong arms pulled him to his feet. The black–cloaked stranger from the Boar’s Head leaned close, his features bladed and hard. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, hold tight to me.”

Aching and worn, the boy held on for dear life.