Descent Into Darkness: His Revenge

By Doris Ross

The Mancers’ Guild House has fallen. A city lies in ruins. In the aftermath of destruction, the Mancers struggle to rebuild their numbers while the Monster of Menie schemes.

Though Ba’tvian Delthanurk hunts them, Mancers must still heed their sworn duties. Responding to a call from the Rathburn Watch, one of their number returns to the city he once called home. A murderer is stalking the city of Rathurn, leaving mutilated bodies in his decade-long wake. The Watch suspect a local; the Mancer Veln Greenmeadow suspects a blood mage.

As Veln searches for the truth in Rathburn, Absol Omine prepares his people as best he can. Time is running out as Ba’tvian and his Shadowed Ones close in on Destiny’s Way. Absol’s hope lies in the boy he’s raised, one whose power may be equal to the blood mage Delthanurk’s. While the Mancers plan, the elven lady Nerisse se li Astorae enacts a scheme of her lord’s making. Every step she takes is haunted by what she’s done. As she tries to separate the madness she fears from the reality around her, Nerisse struggles for reprieve.

One will lose all sense of self. Another will perish in failure. And the Monster of Menie will lay the foundation of new a future.

Descent Into Darkness: His Revenge is part five of the novella series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doris Ross
• Release date: Jul 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370233427

Doris Ross

A confessed bibliophile, I've been reading all of my life. Eventually, I progressed from just reading stories to actually writing them. Once I realized just how much fun it was to play god in fictional worlds, there was no turning back. I've been writing ever since.In 2008, I co-founded Trinity Gateways, a writing website, with fellow authors LJ Gastineau and Tricia Sparks. We post rough chapters of our current projects on the site, and in 2012 opened submissions for our first anthology, Shadows of the Mind, and our reading/writing newsletter. Our newsletter comes out three times a year and available for free on our site, http://trinitygateways.net.I am the author of the six part dark fantasy novella series entitled Descent Into Darkness. The first half of the series, His Own, Her Lord, & His Beast, were compiled into a single printed volume, Descent Into Darkness, Vol. 1: He Begins, in May 2012. It is currently available at Amazon.com. Part 4, Descent Into Darkness: His Command, is due out at the end of October 2012.

Book preview

MAP

THE NORTHERN PORTION OF THE CONTINENT OF ORTHANOR

CHAPTER 1

EARLY SUMMER, 1307 AF

EVENING

THE PLAINS OF GASTAEIA, EAST OF THE BROKEN FALLS

BLOOD sprayed as Ba’tvian Delthanurk sliced the knife across the throat of a Mancer. The man was already bloody, beaten, scraped over – the results of his fellow blood mage Raptu Carthier’s method of transport: dragging him behind a horse. Half-dead, he was hardly worth the effort of a ritual. So Ba’tvian ended him, then rewarded his Shadows.

This one is yours.

The blood mage straightened from his kneeling position, letting the head fall back the ground, sidestepping his loyal ones as they swarmed the still warm corpse. Turning his back on the wet sounds of rending flesh and cracking bone, he scanned his surroundings.

He didn’t look like the callow youth from three years before. At the start, he had been slim, fit, non-descript. The years spent on the run had hardened his body, made the muscles lean, the features of his face sharp. Glimmers of crimson could be seen in the depths of his eyes.

Now those eyes searched the surrounding plains. When all they saw was the inky black of night his mind stretched out, searching for minds that shouldn’t be there. When he found none, he strode back to the cold camp set up twenty feet away. There, his adepts waited for him.

Adepts.

As the world measured a mage, the rank of adept was defined by the amount of power a mage could control. For him, and those that followed him, the label of adept was not a true denotion of their rank. A few of his cohorts – Raptu Carthier, for one – would never ascend higher than a Master level mage. Yet that was what the populace called them: Dark Adepts.

It pleased Ba’tvian. It was an acknowledgement of power, if not skill or knowledge. That recognition mattered, as did the fear that flavored it. Regardless of that success, he refused to grow lax.

Because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Once, he’d thought to simply wipe out his enemies, prove to the world he was a power to be reckoned with. Butchering Mancers would achieve that. Yet, once attained, there needed to be something more. If there wasn’t, he stood to lose everything he had fought for, killed for.

Because while Orthanor might be the largest continent on Einlienn, it wasn’t the most populous, wasn’t the most powerful. Somewhere in the world was someone else greater. They could undermine him, throw him down. Worse, they might not even take notice of what he’d accomplished.

He refused to be forgotten, brushed away like the dust from one’s feet.

Ba’tvian walked past Ibestor as he tended to his strange beasts, entering the camp proper. Halvark Tretoan, the blond nobleman he’d recruited, looked up from where he was digging a shallow pit in the ground. With a mute nod of acknowledgement, he turned back to his task. Ba’tvian found the elven Nerisse se li Astorae seated on a bedroll close to where his own laid, saw the rolls of the other three on the opposite side of the pit Halvark was digging. Ibestor, he was well aware, would sleep with his creations.

Where are Raptu and Prialla? He posed the question to all in the camp, yet watched the girl he’d seduced away from her people with a keen eye. A year ago, those same people had tried to take her from him. The price they – and Nerisse – had paid for that mistake had been high.

They are gathering straw grass for kindling, my lord. It was Nerisse se li Astorae who answered his question, her voice as soft as velvet. She hesistated as their eyes met, then dropped her gaze. He followed her line of sight, saw the herbal cradled in her lap. The elf opened the book, summoning a ball of light to illuminate the pages. There is rat root growing in the area. I’d like to harvest some in the morning, if you see no reason to leave right away.

He took his time giving her an answer. The ties that bound Nerisse to him were emotional, augmented by a practice of punishment and reward. She had not presented him with problems of late, though she had also not done much to warrant favor.

What is the rat root for?

A faint blush stained the slate blue of her cheeks.

It is a female medicine. She flicked her silver eyes up at him, then glanced off into the darkness to the east of their camp. We both could make use of it.

He narrowed his eyes at the neutrality in her tone. He’d become increasingly aware of a growing antagonism between Nerisse and Prialla Filoche, suspected what had founded it. Prialla may be discreet but she did enjoy twisting the knife in someone she didn’t care for – and she didn’t care for Nerisse.

She’s so insecure, so emotional, Ba’tvian. Why do you drag her around with you?

The question had come after one of their ruts far from the camp they’d made. As they both dealt with their clothing, he looked at her with eyes gone black. The Shadows that escorted him everywhere paused in their ceaseless drifting around them, as if anticipating the order to pounce.

Nerisse is useful to me in ways you barely comprehend, Prialla. Her loyalty to me irrevocable, her skills beyond price. In return she asks for little more than the illusions I give her.

Prialla had given a disdainful sniff. It makes her weak.

"It makes her mine." The statement was carved in stone. Know this: should your pettiness ever cost me her servitude, your fate will be far worse than the one we gave your benighted whore of a mother.

Unlike the other female in their party, Nerisse held her tongue, never questioning him on why they needed Prialla. That she was willing to persevere in silence was reason enough to give way on her request. Safety was not a concern at present; they weren’t being actively hunted at the moment. They could afford the time she wanted.

He gave the elf a nod of permission. She smiled at him from where she sat on her bedroll.

It’s almost the full moon, she murmured. When do you go?

Tonight.

Many things had changed since the fall of the Mancers’ Guild. His regular meetings with the blood mage he called Red was one of the most significant. No longer was Ba’tvian bound to provide a sacrifice for every cycle of the moon. Instead, the two of them had agreed to an informal alliance. It was a logical step. Their long term goals were the same: the eradication of the Mancers. Yet Ba’tvian’s ambitions were growing beyond that and one day that fragile alliance based on the exchange of information for death would fall apart.

No blood mage of power ever trusted another.

For now, however, they could work together. Ba’tvian had stated in their last meeting that he needed mages with certain skills. Red had indicated that he might have a few on a line for him. He need only wait until midnight to find out.

CHAPTER 2

THE DESERTED VILLAGE OF SUNDOWN, THE WESTERN COAST OF ORTHANOR

IN the dead of night, Absol Omine walked down the overgrown lane that led to the village square. The fishing huts he passed were worn, weathered by the salty air, and washed in the silvery gray light of the moon. The thatch on the roofs were rotting; some collapsed inward. The plaster covering the mud brick walls was cracking, crumbling. To the Mancer, it looked more like a graveyard’s parody of a village. Yet there were no graves here. No bodies. Absol had seen to it that those who’d died here were buried elsewhere, in a spot farther up the coast overlooking the sea.

Their agony echoed around him.

Whether the not-quite-noise was real or imagined, Absol closed his ears to it and glanced at his apprentice. Now twelve years of age, I’k’Nole walked beside him, a solemn expression on a face that looked more ageless than young. Neither of them wore the attire most associated with Mancers. The black cloaks had been switched out for brown, the light chain mail that Absol wore was more in keeping with a traveling mercenary’s gear. The boy didn’t wear chain. Instead, he sported leather. If didn’t fit very well. When I’k’Nole had made it clear that he was going with his mentor to Destiny’s Way, it was all they’d been to find.

The Mancer sometimes forgot just how much I’k’Nole had grown in the past year. He’d seen the death at the Guild, heard the stories of Ba’tvian’s transgressions, witnessed first-hand the kind of damage the evil man wrought. He understood the monsters in their world in a way most boys of his age wouldn’t – and he didn’t glorify any of what they did as Mancers. Still, this was the path he chose.

The breeze picked up, rustling the stunted weeds along the ground. Nothing else stirred within sight. Absol kept scanning their surroundings as they walked in silence.

Once he had hoped never to return here. Tonight, with the moon hiding behind the clouds above, he’d returned – not because the remains of the village would tell him of Ba’tvian Delthanurk, but because he was certain the blood mage was nowhere near the site of his second confirmed human sacrifice. It was a safe place with no other settlements for miles. That was why he would meet his remaining brethren here.

Mage sendings had gone out to everyone he thought might still be alive. They, in turn, and forwarded the message to others. He relied on his reputation within their order to bring them – provided that they still lived.

Things needed to change. Mancers needed to change. If they didn’t, if they continued to work solo, they would die.

Ba’tvian would hunt them down like animals to be tortured and slain.

I’k’Nole’s harsh, indrawn breath caught his attention. The boy’s jaw was set, his violet eyes resolute. There were shades of darkness in them tonight, as if he was aware of the direction of Absol’s thoughts. When he saw his mentor looking at him, he broke the eerie quiet around them.

He killed here. He killed them all, right here. It wasn’t a question or guess. There was knowledge in those eyes. Ancient eyes. That had been Absol’s first thought when he’d found the boy wandering through what remained of the Spirlan Forest.

Yes, he did. He waited, wanting to see what his ward would say.

He stole pieces of them. Sorrow seeped into the striking violet of those eyes, muting the hue. Now they can never leave.

What do you mean, ‘they can never leave’? Frowning, he studied the boy. Many things about the child had come to light since the attack at Chalbrooke; a strange sensitivity was one of them. I’k’Nole could sense death, fresh or old. The boy had led them to several bodies buried in the rubble of the Guild House.

When Absol had mentioned it to Master Abbott Dannon the last time they’d passed through Destiny’s Way, his old friend had looked thoughtful.

It explains a few things then. I’k’Nole has somehow managed to either attend, or alert someone else to attend, every death in the shrine. Animals mostly, yet he was there when Brother Milon was dying. He knew before I did, came to my door in the middle of the night so that I could give the final rites.

According to the shrine’s records, a few others had developed the ability to sense death. Most of them had been either healers or On’Desae monks. I’k’Nole was not a healer, nor did he feel called to serve the One as a monk.

I’ll be a warrior against the dark. Eyes burning bright with hope and resolve out of a nine year old’s face. I’ll be a Mancer like you.

Such a strong commitment from someone so young.

With the echo of memory reverberating in his mind, he watched as I’k’Nole’s brow wrinkled in concentration.

Well…you said that Shadows eat people? he said, finally.

Absol nodded.

And blood mages steal life force to use as magic?

He nodded again.

Ba’tvian took more than the life.

There were rumors that the more powerful blood mages could steal pieces of a person’s mind or soul. He had never seen evidence of it – wasn’t aware of what signs, if any, there would be.

How can you tell?

I don’t know. Now the boy looked apologetic. I just do. A soul has to be whole to move on. They can’t. This place… He looked around them as they came into the village square. It’s like I can hear them. They’re whimpering, kind of like old Marsterson’s dog, he explained, referring to the canine that has lost its paw in a fight with another dog. They’re not whole. It’s like something’s missing from them and they can’t leave until they find it again.

Your apprentice is very astute.

They looked up to see another Mancer approaching from the opposite direction. He was dressed much the same as they were, with nothing to suggest that he was Mancer. Blonde hair going gray, the line around his brown eyes pronounced, he looked as if he’d aged a decade since Absol had last seen him two years before.

Veln, Absol greeted as he placed a hand on his ward’s shoulder. This is I’k’Nole.

Veln Greenmeadow nodded to them both.

So what does this place tell you? Absol inquired. Veln was not a sensitive in the same way that his ward appeared to be. He was a mage with a knack for finding ghosts then laying them to rest.

It tells me that it’s haunted. The man’s frank gaze met Absol’s. I can do nothing for the spirits here. They’re too far gone to do anything other than gibber. He looked I’k’Nole over. We’ll need to see to his mage training as soon as possible. If he’s picking up on things such as this, he’s ready for it.

I’ve begun his instruction but my abilities are limited. I can only take him so far.

Perhaps I can help there. Veln gave a wry smile. If I know you – and I do – you’ll be wanting to keep us together. We haven’t done well alone or in pairs, though that’s our traditional practice. That provides ample opportunity for me take over some aspects of his education.

They paused as another of their brethren joined them in the square. One greeting turned into several as more Mancers wound their way through the huts to stand in the village center. Together they waited, hoping to see more come in. When none did, Veln bowed his head, his voice breaking through the quiet murmur of conversation between the rest.

Palin Fernick is dead. He was struck down two months ago. His words brought on a moment of absolute silence.

Geralle Bennin was killed three months ago in the moors, came a melancholy report from one of the others. They’d fed her to the Shadows.

More death confirmations followed as Absol listened, appalled. So many dead, over thirty in the past year. After the Guild’s fall, they’d scattered, kept in touch as much as they were able. Yet eight months prior, the mage sendings, letters, the occasional face-to-face contacts – had slowed. For some Mancers, they’d stopped altogether.

Prior to the meet, Absol had estimated sixty Mancers remained roaming Orthanor. Eleven had managed to meet in Sundown. With the litany of thirty-two dead, that left seventeen unaccounted for.

We can’t go it alone any longer. His voice was quiet. Everyone turned to look at him. That’s too many lost. If any of us needed proof that Ba’tvian Delthanurk was hunting Mancers, we have that answer.

Nods met his words.

What do you suggest? This from one of the younger Mancers. We cannot just abandon our duty in favor of hiding. There were murmured agreements.

We need to consolidate our forces. They’ll find us eventually, yet if we band together we have a better chance of surviving. Absol looked at the group of men and women, praying that this wasn’t all that was left. We live in dark times. When we go, there will be no one to stand between the people and Ba’tvian, except for the armies of the ruling lords.

Some of the lords won’t a lift a finger to help their people. Veln’s voice dripped with disgust. The corruption in the city states is spreading like a disease. They might even negotiate with Ba’tvian giving him payment in the form sacrifices or money so that he’ll leave them alone – or worse, consolidate their political power for them.

Fear is his best weapon, said another Mancer, her features shadowed by her cloak’s drawn up hood. Based on her voice, Absol identified her as Celina Behr, one of the few women who had lived long enough to achieve senior status in the Guild. Rumor is almost as strong a tool. Do you know what happened to Jevanel?

The city has fallen, Veln answered, his countenance grim. It lies entombed in the earth.

They did worse than that. They bound the dead to the spot. She shuddered. I’ve been there, to where their surface fields used to be. The land has sunken in and you don’t need mage-born sensitivity to hear the Elvanarae screaming from down below.

You hear them? Absol considered the village, wondered if the same had occurred at the underground city. He was not familiar with the details of the fall of Jevanel, only that the cavern that contained the elven city had collapsed in on itself. There were conflicting rumors as to who was responsible for the disaster – Ba’vian Delthanurk or the once-intended earth priestess he’d corrupted, Nerisse se li Astorae.

She nodded.

More, I saw one. It was a woman. She wandered the shallow valley where the crops used to be, wailing and weeping. She looked… There was an audible swallow. She looked as if she’d been cut open. Blood stained the gown she wore. There was a gaping hole in her chest where the heart should have been. Her head – one side of it was caved in. Another shudder. I couldn’t stay. The sight of her chilled my blood. I took off. Later, I learned that I wasn’t the first to have seen her, or others like her. The nearest settlements whisper of what happen at there, of what the Elvanarae have become. Now they avoid the place. They say it is cursed.

Silence stretched for a long moment after she’d finished speaking.

We can’t allow that to happen again. This came from one of the men, though Absol couldn’t tell which one. Omine has the right of it. We stay together, we make a stand.

But not foolishly. Absol was adamant. We hide, we prepare, then we let Ba’tvian come to us on the battleground we choose.

What of our duties? This came from one of the younger Mancers, one Absol did not know. The people will suffer if whole swathes of Orthanor is not patrolled.

They are suffering now. Absol shook his head, his bleak face resolute. If we few here tonight are all that it left, we could continue our patrols in any case. What we can do is spread word, gather resources, recruit others. Once we are ready, we choose our battlefield.

Where do we hide? We can’t go to ground the cities or villages, can we?

No. Veln’s reply was thoughtful as he rubbed his chin, narrowing his gaze on Absol. Still, there’s one place that even Shadows avoid, isn’t there?

The Wood of Destiny. I’k’Nole spoke for the first time. His tone was somber, firm in a way that adults seldom expected from an unblooded boy. Destiny’s Way and the Wood have always been free of evil.

We can melt into the Wood if necessary, Absol put in. We’ll need to figure out who is still out there, see if we can get word to them.

As the discussion turned to who might still be alive, Absol noticed that I’k’Nole watched, listening. It struck him that the look in the boy’s eyes wasn’t just ageless.

It was the look of man grown.

CHAPTER 3

THE PLAINS OF GASTAEIA, EAST OF THE BROKEN FALLS

IT was time.

Ba’tvian closed his gloved fingers around the ruddy orange spark that was Red’s mage sending. The older blood mage wanted him to meet a pair of possible tools. He gave Nerisse’s mind a psychic nudge to wake her from her doze as he turned to Raptu, who was standing the first watch.

I have a meeting. Nerisse goes with me. Raptu nodded as Ba’tvian gave a silent directive to his pets to keep an eye on his cohorts in his absence. Just because they were bound to him didn’t mean that he trusted them. Prialla, especially, possessed enough ambition to one day challenge him if the roots of the compulsions planted in her mind had not grown enough.

One year was too short a time for that kind of growing entrenchment.

Impatient, he waited for his most loyal follower. The elven chit was quick to gather herself so he was not left waiting long. With her trailing after him, he stalked off into the gloom them. It wasn’t until they were out of sight of the camp that he paused to erect the arcane portal.

They left the camp once everyone else had settled in for the night. Raptu took the first watch, idly oiling the knives he favored for their rites as he gazed out into the dark. Shadows flitted out there, unseen in the gloom as their chosen lord and his companion walked a fair distance away before constructing the arcane portal.

Nerisse stayed silent as he worked. He knew this bit of magery so well by now that he didn’t need all of his attention for it. Leaving part of his mind on the task, his mind touched the creatures that had come with them, conveying what he wanted of them without words.

Instructions given, Ba’tvian laid the last line of power into the framework and triggered the magic that would allow them to travel great distances in moments. Light flared blood red, then shifted to fiery white as the image of the familiar sea side locale faded into view at the center of the doorway he’d created. They stepped through the portal onto the sandy cliffs of Exile’s Peril, the barren