The Darkling Child

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 Arca

“I have a request to make.” Arca

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,” Arca

“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 pla

“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 Arca

“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. Arca

“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.”

Arca

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 Arca

Arca

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. Arca

“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!”

Arca

“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?”

Arca

“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!”

Arca

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.

SEVEN

PAXON LEAH WAS WORKING OUT IN THE PRACTICE YARD WITH Oost Mondara, his prickly Gnome sword master and close friend, his black-bladed sword flashing in the sunlight as he progressed through a series of feints and strikes, thrusts and parries, incorporating everything into positions of defense and attack. It had been five years since these lessons had begun, and another man might have decided long ago that he had learned all there was to learn of swordsmanship and there was no point in continuing to study. But Paxon wasn’t just another man, and he took nothing for granted when it came to improving his skills. That he had discovered the power of the ancient Sword of Leah was a gift to be honored. That he had been given the chance to serve as the Ard Rhys’s Blade and had been given a home and life in the Druid Order was not something he would ever take for granted or fail to view as a challenge.

So every day he came down to the yard to practice with his blade, and every day he learned a little more and progressed a step farther. Oost continued to instruct him, doing it now more out of the satisfaction he derived from viewing Paxon’s enthusiasm and steady development than he did out of a sense of obligation. In Paxon, the Gnome had found a kindred spirit—a fellow believer in the importance of hard work and dedication to a talent that clearly set him apart from almost everyone. Paxon was good with a blade, maybe the best the gnarled trainer had ever encountered, and if there was a way to make him even better then there was no reason not to employ it.

But Paxon was bored with practice and anxious for a chance to do something of a more practical nature, so he was more than a little excited and relieved when Keratrix arrived to tell him that Isaturin wished to see him when his practice time was finished. Paxon tried not to rush through what remained of his session, but failed miserably. Finally, Oost broke it off, throwing up his hands.

“That’s enough. You are sleepwalking through your disciplines! I’ve lost you completely.” His voice was gruff and accusatory. “Go find out what the Ard Rhys wants of you. Might as well do something useful.”