Текст книги "The Darkling Child"

Автор книги: Terry Brooks

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“He ain’t so clever.” Borry was cracking his knuckles and moving to cut off any attempt at escape, which Reyn could already tell was not going to happen in any case. “Else he wouldn’t have let himself be caught out alone like this. You want to try us now, boy? Or do you just want to take what’s coming to you and be done with it?”

“Yeah, maybe that. Just take your punishment for that smart mouth. We won’t break too many bones.”

“’Course, you won’t be playing those pretty songs for a while. Or maybe never, once we’re done with you.”

“Singing, Yance. He won’t be doing much of that, either, I don’t expect.”

“Well, I’m sick of his singing in any case. Best if we don’t be hearing him at all after this. You know what he’s gonna sound like? Like a chicken head after it’s been twisted off, throttled good and proper, all croaking and slobbering. No one gonna understand him anymore. Not a word.”

So there was no avoiding this, no way to keep it from happening. Reyn thought momentarily of trying to dash back inside fast enough that they couldn’t catch him. But if he did that, he would be a marked man and they would call him a coward. There would be no end to their mockery. Better to try to stop it here and now. He was strong enough to take either one alone. He might have a chance against both if he kept his wits.

And if they didn’t use knives.

Then he saw the iron bar that Borry was holding down against his leg. So much for that.

“You really don’t have much confidence in yourself, do you?” he said, taking a step toward them. “If you need that iron bar, you must think you’re in trouble.”

Borry laughed. “Don’t need it, chicken-boy. I just like the idea of it. I don’t want to hurt myself more than I have to on pig slop like you. Come on, step a little closer.”

Reyn unslung the elleryn and leaned it back against the wall of the building, searching as he did so for something he could use as a weapon. He saw a washtub and a clothesline. Useless. Some wood was stacked against the back wall. He moved over quickly and snatched up a four-foot length. Better than nothing.

“You sure about this?” he asked them, advancing a few steps.

The brothers exchanged a quick glance, and then both grinned. “Sure enough,” Yancel spat at him.

“Gonna hurt you bad,” Borry added. “Real bad.”

They came toward him, separating slightly so they had room to maneuver. Reyn kept his eye on Borry and the iron pipe, letting Yancel think he was free to act. As he expected, Yancel came at him first, charging in a sudden rush that surprised his brother and caused him to shout out a warning.

The big man paid no attention, however, and threw himself at Reyn in an attempt to overpower him using his superior size and strength. But the boy dropped into a crouch, braced himself, and jammed one end of the piece of wood deep into his attacker’s stomach. Yancel gasped, retching uncontrollably as he dropped to his knees. Reyn was already leaping up to meet Borry’s attack but to his surprise found the other Fortren just standing there, staring at him.

“You’re so tricky, ain’t you? Just think you can make us look like fools, but I ain’t stupid, chicken-boy. I ain’t my brother. I got something else in mind for you.”

Borry backed toward the tavern wall. “See, hurting you ain’t just about breaking bones. It’s about breaking your heart. By doing this.”

With inexorable purpose he moved to where the elleryn rested. Several violent swings of the iron pipe smashed it to pieces. Reyn stared in shock as his instrument was reduced to broken bits of wood and severed strings, ruined beyond any hope of repair.

Borry turned back to him. “How do you like that, you pissant? How do you like your pretty plaything now? Why don’t you play something for me? Why don’t you make your pretty music?”

Reyn felt the rage building in a slow, steady boiling that worked through him like a fire given life by kindling and air. He started toward Borry, gripping his piece of wood.

But Borry was ready for him. He had discarded the iron pipe and now held a long knife in its place, the blade glinting in the moonlight. “Oh, you think you’re ready for this, do you? Come get it!”

Fighting down the urge to run, Reyn braced himself, ready to block the other’s knife. But suddenly arms wrapped about him from behind as Yancel, having finally regained his feet, came to his brother’s aid. Reyn thrashed and twisted, but Yancel was strong and his grip solid and unyielding.

Borry howled with glee, then lifted his knife and charged.

Reyn, all chance of escape or defense gone, howled back at him in response.

Instantly the air seemed to change color, even in the darkness, and the faint silvery light of moon and stars seeping through the departing rain clouds took on a crimson blush. Borry Fortren felt the impact of the magic as he slammed into its invisible wall, not two feet away. The knife blade shattered. Reyn screamed louder, any attempt at control lost. Yancel’s arms released their grip on him, and he tumbled away.

Borry, still fighting to get close enough to grip the boy with his bare hands, simply exploded. It happened spontaneously, with a shocking and terrible suddenness, pieces of the big man flying everywhere. Reyn stumbled back, shielding his eyes, trying to stay upright. But Yancel snatched at his legs from where he lay on the ground in an effort to topple him. The boy reacted instinctively, all hope of ending this any other way gone. His scream came from somewhere deep inside. It felt as if it came from somewhere else entirely, the intrusion in his own body harsh and raw. Yancel was flung backward, his arms torn from his shoulders, his blood flooding out of his body as he lay gasping out the last of his life.

Then Reyn Frosch felt the familiar disconnect, and he was tumbling into that familiar dark hole in which there was no light or sound and from which he could not extricate himself.

Everything around him disappeared, and his thoughts ceased.

SIX

WHEN REYN WOKE AGAIN, IT WAS MORNING. BRIGHT LIGHT streamed through the gap in the curtains of his room, though the light was gray and hazy rather than sunny. He lay in his bed in the loft room over the back half of the tavern, listening to the sound of voices coming from below. He remembered right away what had happened, and he took an extra few moments to check himself over, searching for injuries.

There were none.

Not to him, anyway. But two of the Fortren brothers had suffered the sort of injuries from which you did not recover. And he was the cause. Reyn closed his eyes against the visions that suddenly thrust themselves to the forefront of his mind—Borry, torn into pieces of bone and slivers of flesh; Yancel, armless and bleeding out; his elleryn, its broken remains lying scattered on the ground; himself, falling out of the world, tumbling down into the pit of non-being, everything he had brought to pass left behind.

He closed his eyes. So it had happened again, just as he had feared in those last moments when he faced the brothers. Just as it had happened all those other times. He had been provoked, had lost his temper and composure, had given way to his emotions, and had vented through deadly use of his voice. In an instant’s time he had ruined everything.

Conflicting questions rose in a rush. Why couldn’t he have prevented it from happening? Why couldn’t he have found a way to stop it? If he could control the modulation of his singing, why couldn’t he do the same when he screamed? A light and a dark side to his voice—shouldn’t he be able to manipulate both instead of only one?

He reached for the glass of water by his bedside and drank it down. He felt bereft. Two dead; two more ghosts that would haunt him forever. It didn’t matter that they had hated him and that he cared nothing for them. It didn’t matter that they had provoked him in a way that had effectively removed every other option if he wanted to stay alive. Nothing mattered to ghosts save that they haunted until they found peace, and there was no peace to be found for Borry and Yancel Fortren.

Nor any for him.

He was finished in Portlow. He would have to leave now. There were Fortrens everywhere, and they would be hunting him. And even if they weren’t, the townspeople would be appalled by what he had done. It didn’t matter how much they loved his music or admired his singing. Doing what he had done, killing two men in the manner he had—even if they didn’t know exactly how he had done it—would be beyond their understanding. In truth, it was beyond his. He couldn’t explain it any better than they could. He could barely accept it as a part of who and what he was.

He had risen and was dressing when Gammon came through the door. He saw the wariness in the other’s eyes immediately and felt ashamed.

“Feeling better now?” the tavern owner asked, closing the door behind him. “You don’t seem hurt.”

He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t hurt. I killed them before they could do anything.”

“Self-defense, though. Found Borry’s knife. Everyone knows it. So no question about what happened. But the knife was shattered all to pieces. How did you do that?”

“Rock.”

“You used a rock on him and his brother? Looked like they’d been sent through a shredder.”

“They were. In a manner of speaking. Look, Gammon, I won’t talk about it. I just won’t. I know I have to leave, and I’m sorry about what happened. I didn’t like those two, but I didn’t want it to come to this. I liked being here. I liked singing in the tavern. I wish I could take it all back.” Reyn sighed. “You’ve been good to me, and I appreciate it.”

Gammon came over to him. “Look, Reyn, your business is your own. Even with this. You were attacked, and you defended yourself. They smashed your instrument, tried to take your life. Everyone knows it. No one likes the Fortrens, so losing Borry and Yancel won’t cause much loss of sleep.” He paused. “But it’s the way it was done, don’t you see? If you could just offer something … explain it a little …”

The boy smiled. “I can’t do that. I can barely explain it to myself, and trying to explain it to anyone else won’t help. I have to leave. It’s best for everyone. The rest of the Fortrens will be coming for me. That’s a given. If I’m not here, there can’t be more of what happened last night. And there will be more, Gammon, if I stay and try to explain.”

The tavern owner nodded, a resigned look on his face. “Your mind’s made up, I see. But you might not find leaving so easy. There are Fortrens already watching the roads. They know what you intend, and they will try to stop you. So don’t do them any favors. Stay a bit longer. Give this a little time. You can keep your room here. Some of us like you enough that we’ve agreed to watch over you until we find a way to sneak you out. What do you say?”

Reyn finished dressing, then picked up the remainder of his clothes and stuffed them in a travel sack. “I say you are a good friend, and I’ve found a home in Portlow that I hate to leave. But I won’t risk you and those others you’ve persuaded to help you. I’ll have something to eat and be on my way. Come now, tell me who found me last night. Was it you?”

“The old grease-dog. He heard the howling outside his door and opened it just in time to find the Fortrens—or what was left of them—on the ground and you standing there staring into space like you’d lost your mind. He couldn’t get you to talk or respond in any way, so he brought you inside and walked you up to your room and left you there. I came up later and checked you for injuries. You didn’t have any, but you still kept staring at nothing. So I tucked you in and left you. Guess you came out of it at some point and fell asleep.”

The boy shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I don’t remember any of it. I was fighting to stay alive, and then I woke up in my bed. Everything between then and now is a black hole in my memory. Can we go down and get something to eat? I want to leave right away.”

They left the room and descended the stairs together. The steps ended at the back entrance, and they turned into the kitchen through a second door that bypassed the great room. There wouldn’t be many patrons there at this hour, but even one was enough to sound the alarm. Gammon motioned him over to the cook’s table and went to pour him some of last night’s beef stew, which was simmering in the kettle set over the stove flame at a low heat.

“You really ought to give it another day,” he said, but Reyn didn’t respond. He was finishing the last of his stew when there was a knock at the kitchen door leading in from the great room. He looked up expectantly. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had knocked on that door. Staff used it mostly, and there was no reason for them to knock.

Gammon walked over and pulled the door open. The black-cloaked stranger from the night before was standing there.

His eyes settled on the boy. “Would you be willing to spare me a few moments of your time?” When Reyn hesitated, he added, “I can sit with you right there. You won’t have to move. Just a few moments.”

Reyn wanted to say no. In fact, he was all prepared to say no, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way the stranger was looking at him or maybe it was simply his own curiosity. The stranger had known he had magic. Could he possibly teach Reyn more about it, how to manage it so he wouldn’t have to keep living in fear of losing control? He nodded and beckoned the other over.

The stranger took the chair across from him. “You certainly are full of surprises. Everyone’s talking about you.”

“What do you want?” Reyn asked, anxious to get on with things.

“You’re planning to leave?”

How did he know that? Reyn shrugged. “It seems like a good idea.”

“I’d like you to stay another couple of days. I have business that needs my immediate attention, but I don’t want to lose track of you. I can be back quickly enough when it’s finished.”

“I don’t think I have two days. I doubt that I have two hours.”

“The Fortrens?”

“You seem well informed about my situation.”

“I am well informed about most things, your singing included.”

Reyn paused. “You know what I can do?”

“I not only know what, I know why. I meant what I said last night. There is a history to your talent, and I can tell you all about it. I can offer you better understanding of what it means and perhaps give you a way to control it.”

“But not now?”

“My business is pressing, and the need to address it is urgent. I must go at once. But I will be back, and we can talk then. At length, if you choose.”

“Well, perhaps you can tell me a way to reach you?”

“Or perhaps not. You intend to disappear somewhere the Fortrens and their ilk can never find you. One of the Southland cities, perhaps? Well, I need to be able to disappear, as well. So I need you to wait right here.”

He paused, his bladed features taking on a strangely feral look. “What if I guarantee you that the Fortrens will leave you alone until I get back? What if I can make certain they will not try to harm you? Or even come into the village?”

Reyn gave him a dubious look. “I think you offer more than you can deliver. The Fortrens aren’t the sort to listen to reason.”

The stranger stood up. “I’ll speak to them immediately. I’ll make the time. You won’t have to worry. Look for me in two days. You will be glad you waited. I will make it worth your while in more ways than one.”

And like that, without waiting for a further response from the boy, or even giving him another glance, he was out of his chair and gone.

Arcannen left the Boar’s Head quickly, anxious to wrap things up in Portlow so he could make his appointment in Sterne. He was already thinking ahead to what he would do once he got there, his plans taking shape as he mulled over his options. But now there needed to be some revisions. The boy was intrigued enough by Arcannen’s promise to reveal more about the nature of his magic that he would stay where he was for two days. Although once back again, Arcannen knew he would need more than a few promises to persuade the other to his cause.

What he would need was something the boy didn’t have but would want, even if the boy didn’t know what it was.

Fortunately, his sorcerer’s talents allowed him to divine the needs and desires of others. He had been able to do so here, and now all he needed to do was to produce what was required. The trouble this would require would be worth it in the end. Ten times worth it, if he could make the boy his ally.

But first, the Fortrens must be dealt with.

He had gleaned a little of their family history from talking to a few of the townspeople in a discreet and seemingly conversational way, so as not to cause suspicion. There was nothing very complicated about them. Their patriarch was Costa Fortren, a man nobody seemed to like and everybody feared. He was the one who could exercise control over the others, and there were plenty of others if you counted all the shirttails and hangers-on. Well over a hundred.

But Arcannen had been confronted by situations like this before, so he wasn’t at a loss to decide what needed doing.

He took his Sprint from where he had left it concealed in the surrounding forests—a modified two-man vessel that was sleek and fast. It was all that remained of his once-powerful fleet of airships, but then almost everything else was pretty much gone by now, as well. His failed attempt to subvert the Leah siblings and kill Aphenglow Elessedil had cost him everything, and he was still trying to figure out how to get it all back. The irony, of course, was that if he had just waited five years, the woman would have died anyway. Dealing with Isaturin as Ard Rhys would have been less of a challenge than dealing with Aphenglow, but the chance of gaining immediate control over the Druid Order had been too tempting. Well, it was all water under the bridge now, and he did his best not to dwell on how things had turned out.

Save for the matter of Arbrox. That was too recent, and the emotional damage he had suffered as a result felt as fresh and raw as it had on the day the atrocity had been committed. That could not be forgotten.

He flew only a short distance before reaching the Fortren compound, a sprawling complex of houses and outbuildings—some barns, some storage bins for food and what he guessed were stolen goods—sitting out in a meadow with good sight lines in all directions. He crisscrossed the area several times so that everyone could get a look at him, then he brought the Sprint down close to the main house and climbed out.

Men converged on him from all sides, many carrying portable flash rips and spring guns, others crossbows and blades. They approached cautiously but showed no signs of being intimidated. He stood where he was as they closed in, wrapping himself in protective magic in case one or more got a little careless with their weapons. He hadn’t come out here to end up the victim of some fool’s overzealous behavior.

“Costa Fortren!” he called out boldly, scanning the faces around him. “Are you willing to speak with me?”

There was momentary silence; then the front door of the main house crashed open and a huge bear of a man lumbered into view. He was wearing furs and leather, and there were blades hanging from belts and sheaths all about his body. He glared at Arcannen, then stomped down the steps of the building and came over. When he was a dozen feet away, he stopped. A handheld flash rip appeared in one great hand.

“Who are you?” he roared.

“My name is Arcannen.”

The big man shook his head. “Never heard of you. What are you doing here?”

The sorcerer ignored him. He gestured at the other’s weapon. “You seem well supplied with illegal goods. Those flash rips are meant as army issue only.”

Costa Fortren laughed, his belly shaking, his thick beard billowing out. “The army won’t miss them. You come here to try to take them back from us? You a Federation official?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “Hardly. They want me dead. They probably want you dead, too. So we have something in common.”

“We have nothing in common. You look like a Druid to me.”

“It might look that way, but I’m no Druid—though I do have the use of magic. I was passing through Portlow when I stumbled across someone I’ve been hoping to find for a very long time. Trouble is, you want to kill him.”

The other man’s eyebrows beetled together as he scowled. “You mean that boy? The one that killed Yancel and Borry? Would you be his friend, maybe? Come to beg for his life?”

Arcannen shook his head. He didn’t like all the dark looks he was getting from the rest of the assemblage. “I want to point out something before we continue. If any member of your family decides to use a weapon against me, it will end badly for them. I’m only here to talk.”

Costa Fortren glanced at the men and women surrounding them and shook his head. “Weapons down!” he roared. The response was immediate, as everyone took a step back. The big man looked at Arcannen. “No one does anything unless I tell them to. Say what you have to say. But don’t waste my time.”

“I have a request to make.” Arcannen kept the protective magic in place. “I need the boy alive because I have a use for him. My intention is to take him away with me. When I do, you will never see him again. But I need you to promise you will do nothing to him until then. Two days, maybe three from now.”

The Fortren patriarch stared at him. “He killed two of my sons. I don’t care what you want him for or why. He has to pay for what he did. I’ll never allow him to walk free.”

“I thought you might feel that way, but I have to warn you,” Arcannen continued. “He is not exactly what he appears. He is much more dangerous than you are. You or your whole family. He didn’t just kill your boys by accident. He has the use of powerful magic, and if you go after him, bad things will happen to you, too.”

“It doesn’t matter. He dies all the same.”

“There is every reason to believe that if I take him with me, he dies anyway. So why not wait and see? That way we both get what we want. If he lives through what I’ve got planned for him, you can always come after him later.”

“You talk nonsense, sorcerer! You talk like a fool.”

It wasn’t Costa Fortren who spoke this time. It was a young man who had stepped forward from the others, a flash rip lifted and pointed. The boy was young but his mean face and hard eyes suggested that he was old in other ways.

“Antriss!” Fortren snapped at him. “Did I not say to lower all weapons? Who leads this family?”

“I’ll not listen to any more of this man’s talk, Pap!” Antriss snarled. “He’s not taking that cow-dung music boy anywhere!”

He was working himself up to using the flash rip, and Arcannen was concerned that if he did so, it would set off all the others. His magic was significant, but it was not all-powerful. He had assumed something like this would happen, however, so he was prepared. He had known he would have to make an example of someone.

“Hold!” he snapped at the boy, one hand lifting, palm extended.

Instantly Antriss was frozen in place as the sorcerer’s magic wrapped him about. He fought to free himself, but the bonds were too strong. Arcannen left him that way and turned back to his father.

“How many sons do you have?” he asked, keeping his hand arm extended toward Antriss.

The big man hesitated. “Three, with Borry and Yancel gone. Let him go.”

“Is he your youngest, then?”

“He is. Now let him go or you’ll regret it.”

Arcannen smiled. “Not half so much as you will if you cross me. Will you grant me my request? Or would you prefer to lose another son? Or … would you like to see exactly what I can do?”

He twisted his outstretched hand slightly. Slowly, painfully, unable to keep himself from doing so, Antriss lifted the flash rip and pointed its barrel toward his own throat. “Father!” he croaked.

“Stop this!” Costa Fortren roared at Arcannen. “Let him go!”

Arcannen didn’t move, holding the boy and the weapon fast, watching the big man, waiting for a further response. “Do we have an understanding?” he pressed.

The Fortren patriarch fumed, barely able to contain himself. Then he nodded. “We do. Let him go!”

“Your word, please? Promise that neither you nor any of your family will harm the boy before I take him away. Promise that not one of you will even go into Portlow until then. Say it.”

Shouts and cries had risen from the remaining members of the family, some anguished, some furious, all directed at him. Arcannen paid no attention, his gaze locked on their leader.

“All right!” the big man howled, his face gone red, his body taut with rage and frustration. “I give you my word! On everything you just said!”

Arcannen gestured again, and Antriss lowered the flash rip. He stood there in silence, a stunned look on his face.

“A promise made under duress is not a binding promise!” Costa Fortren spit out the words venomously. His weapon lifted. “You realize that, don’t you?”

Arcannen did not respond. Instead, he gestured once more at Antriss, who raised the flash rip a second time, turned it toward the family members standing right behind him and shot a man standing not six feet away. The charge from the weapon burned a hole through the man’s midsection and dropped him where he stood.

“Are you sure about that?” the sorcerer asked. A second motion of his hand had Antriss pointing the weapon at his own throat anew. “Very sure?”

“Enough!” The big man had gone pale. “I take your point. You have my word. I will keep it. The boy will be kept safe. Now get off my land!”

Arcannen nodded. “Just remember. If anything happens to that boy—anything at all—I will come looking for you. If I do that, your family will cease to exist. Every man, woman, and child. Don’t doubt me on this. I am a bad enemy to make, Costa Fortren. Much worse than you know.”

Keeping the protective magic wrapped close, the sorcerer eased toward his Sprint, eyes sweeping the faces of those surrounding him, watching for any sort of treachery. But everyone seemed thoroughly shocked by what he had just said, and no one was doing anything but watching him.

He reached the Sprint without difficulty and climbed back aboard. He felt reasonably certain he had convinced the Fortrens to do what he wanted. They boy would be safe until his return. There was nothing like an object lesson to make a point. Actions really did speak louder than words.

If not, it would be the worst mistake they had ever made.

He powered up the diapson crystals, and moments later he was winging his way toward Sterne.