The Darkest Night Page 6

  He had never seen so many dead.

  They littered the battlefield, their blood pooling on the ground, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles.

  “How can he do this to his people?” Corin said, his voice quiet and heavy with exhaustion and sorrow. He turned to Laen, his golden eyes glinting with fury. “Why didn’t they surrender?” Laen couldn’t answer him, could find no comforting words to sooth Corin’s rage. “Didn’t he see?” he demanded, the words rough and desperate now.

  Auberren must have seen. They both knew that. Even tucked safely away, far behind the lines of battle, he must know the futility of his fight. Corin’s power over the land grew at a rate that was staggering, terrifying. At every turn he had thwarted the Light Fae, creating vast barriers, hindering their progress, plunging men in their hundreds into deep valleys that swallowed them whole and buried them alive. Auberren had been powerless to stop him.

  “He must feel the land pulling away from him,” his oldest friend continued, and Laen felt a prickle of unease at how Corin was reacting, knowing his temper and his mind were walking a tenuous line now. “How can he expect to hold it?” he continued. Corin began to pace, one hand dragging through his hair. Laen looked at him, feeling worry tighten his chest. Corin was as filthy as he and worn to a thread, blood spattered and reeking of magic, such powerful magic. “This...” Corin held his hand out to the destruction at his feet, his eyes wild now, beyond rage and heading into darker territory. “This was slaughter!” he shouted, and Laen could see the desperation in his eyes. He watched as Corin turned away, his eyes glittering as he rubbed his face with a shaking hand. He took a breath as Laen laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. A reminder that he was not alone. “I’m not sure I have the stomach for it, Laen.”

  “There is no choice,” Laen replied, wishing with all his heart he could say otherwise. “You know this. Not if you are going to get to the capital.”

  Corin nodded, silent, staring out across the swathes of dead, cut down like some obscene crop. Corin stepped forward towards them and Laen dropped his hand, watching in awe as he felt the prickle of magic growing around him. Corin raised his hands, the language of the old tongue making Laen’s skin crawl with the power of it. Magic crept over the conquered terrain as Corin bent hundreds of acres to his will. Roots crept up from the ground at his feet, and all across the swathe of land they had just fought over. They wrapped around the bodies of the dead, gently, reverently. With terrible care, they pulled the dead down into the ground, down into the earth that their blood had been spilled upon, denying the crows and the wild creatures their share of the spoils and giving the soldiers peace beneath the soil.

  Laen caught his breath, but Corin wasn’t done. For a moment all was still, and he glanced over to see Corin’s eyes close, his hands lifting higher as life thrust up through the soil, hundreds of shoots, trees of every variety, growing at incredible speed. Laen had seen something similar before, but he’d been drunk and the scale had not been like this. All at once, the battle ground was gone, as if it had never been at all, replaced by a rich, lush woodland. The trees shuddered, their thick foliage trembling with the force of their creation until they settled and stilled, and all was quiet once more.

  Laen felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The things he had seen Corin do of late made him wonder just how far his powers extended. He had seen his own father manipulate the land but never anything close to the things Corin could do with apparent ease, and this was not Alfheim, but Solastire. Corin’s shoulders slumped and Laen wondered how he was even standing after everything he’d done today.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he chastised him, knowing it made no difference. Corin would not be told no, not any more. “You cannot afford to waste your magic on sentimentality.”

  Corin shrugged as Laen had known he would. “The men are exhausted,” he said, staring at the new woodland even though Laen felt sure he was still seeing the bodies of the men he’d killed in their hundreds. “I could not ask them to bury the dead now and I could not have rested with the thought of them lying out there ... in the dark.”

  Laen nodded, understanding but wondering how much more magic Corin had to give, with everything that was still to come. “It is a fitting memorial,” he agreed, not wanting to anger his friend by objecting any further. He laid a hand on back of Corin’s neck, trying to snap him out of the daze he seemed to have retreated into, even now still staring at the fields with a blank expression. “They should have set up camp by now. Come, let us go and get some rest and something to eat. We must repeat the whole bloody process tomorrow, I don’t doubt.”

  Corin nodded and moved at Laen’s command, but he did not seem to have left the field at all. Any attempts that Laen made to divert his mind to other subjects were met with a taut silence and no indication that they’d been heard at all

  ***

  Laen sat down on the edge of his bed with a groan. Gods, he hated camp beds. For a moment he allowed himself to think of his own bed and Océane lying beside him. He forced away a swell of longing for her, for his child. The light from the oil lamps flickered on the walls of the tent, sending shadows dancing around him. On the small table beside his bed there were candles lit, too. He had left offerings, gifts for the gods to thank them for their victory today and to ask to keep his loved ones safe. He prayed they’d listen. So much depended on Corin and the man looked shattered, broken by what he’d done today. Laen had coaxed him to eat a little, but it had hardly been enough to feed a child, let alone a man of his size. Worry niggled at him and he wondered if he ought go and check on him once more before he retired.

  He looked up as a voice hailed him from outside the tent.

  “Come.”

  One of his men came inside, snapping to attention. “My apologies, Your Highness, but I think you should come right away.”

  Laen frowned, getting to his feet. “What is it?”

  The man hesitated, anxiety in his eyes. “The Prince Corin, Highness, we ... we think he may be unwell.”

  Laen was already on his feet and out the door. He strode through the camp, trying not to run and stir fear among the men if they suspected their greatest weapon was not fit for battle. The sound of the men talking and laughing, celebrating their victory around camp fires, drifted over the land as he hurried on, past the makeshift hospital where Anaïs and her grandfather, Caelum, worked to heal the injured and sooth the dying. Outside Corin’s tent, his guards stood, the relief on their faces as he arrived clear to see.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” he demanded, his voice low.

  One of the guards stepped forwards. “We heard a disturbance, we thought perhaps he was being attacked, but when we went in, he was alone. He shouted at us to leave, Highness. We thought perhaps he would kill us if we didn’t. He is ...” The guard stopped, unwilling to say any more. Just as well, as Laen would tolerate no one else commenting on Corin’s state of mind.

  “Go. I will take care of this. Get Anaïs to come, and then see to it we are not disturbed, and,” he added, his voice hard and forbidding, “you will speak of this to no one.”

  Laen entered the tent to find a scene of destruction. Everything was smashed, only a single oil lamp somehow surviving his fury, casting a dim light over the broken remnants of the interior. Corin was sat on the ground, in the middle of the chaos, an empty bottle at his feet. His head was bowed down, resting against his knees, his hands fisted in his hair as though he would pull it out. Laen could hear him speaking, softly, urgently, to some unseen companion.

  “Corin?”

  He didn’t look up and Laen sat on the ground beside him. He grasped Corin’s arm, giving him a shake.

  “Corin, look at me, it’s Laen.”

  His head came up and he looked at Laen. He was shaking, still bloody and dirty from the battle, too tired to wash despite Laen’s protests. There was such misery in his eyes that Laen felt his heart clench to see his oldest friend in such despair.


  “Make it stop,” Corin pleaded, his voice harsh and his face streaked with tears. “Please. Please, for the love of the gods, make it stop.”

  Laen stared at him, not knowing what to say, how to help him. He could smell alcohol and knew he’d emptied the bottle at his feet in the short time they had been apart. “I would if I could,” he said, finding his own voice taut with the frustration and pain of not being able to help. “You know that, don’t you?” he asked, praying this, at least, Corin believed. “I would take this from you if I could, but I cannot. You must hold on, just a little longer.”

  Laen looked into his eyes, disturbed to see the gold so dull and such misery and despair visible instead. “His land is dying, Laen. It is dying and it screams in pain, it screams and screams and I can’t shut it out. What has he done?” He drew his legs up, head against his knees, wrapping his arms over his head as fear prickled down Laen’s spine. If Corin couldn’t hold on, things were going to get very bad, very fast, indeed.

  He grasped Corin’s arm. “It is not for much longer now, Corin. We must take the capital, but then you can put things to rights. We are so close, Auberren cannot stand against us, you’ve seen that. But you must hold on a little longer.”

  Corin shook his head, hands covering his ears now. “I can’t ... I can’t.”

  Laen took him by the shoulders as panic began to rise in his chest. He did not know how to comfort Corin, how to make this easier to bear, so he did the only thing he could think of and gave him a hard shake. “You can and you will,” he yelled, sounding angry now, though terror lay beneath it. “If you think I’m going to go home and tell Océane and Claudette I failed, you’ve got another think coming, damn you!”

  There was a short bark of laughter and the words that followed were bitter and hard. “Then give me another drink, maybe I can drown it out.” Laen shook his head.

  “No. No more.”

  “What then, you bastard?” Corin snarled, desperation sliding into rage with ease as he pushed Laen away from him. Laen grabbed hold of his arms to restrain him but there was a burst of light as pain exploded through his hands and down his arms. He was flung backwards, landing in a heap of broken debris, the shock of such force of magic making him breathless. He stared at the roof of the tent, gasping for air as Corin scrambled to his feet, looking mortified. He held his hand out to Laen, to help him up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his expression wretched with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Laen, truly.” Laen snorted and got up, and then watched in alarm as Corin fell to his knees in front of him. “Laen, I’m so sorry.”

  “Get up man, what are you playing at?” he demanded, unnerved by the sight of Corin kneeling before him.

  “Forgive me,” Corin said, head bowed, as though he couldn’t meet Laen’s eyes.

  Laen reached down and held him by the arms, dragging him upright. “What in the name of the gods are you about?” he demanded, really unsettled by his friend’s behaviour now. He had never seen him so utterly destroyed. “There is nothing to forgive. Gods, you have knocked me down enough times before and I have surely returned the favour.”

  Corin shook his head, clutching at Laen’s arms, his eyes pleading for Laen to listen to him. “No, no ... you don’t understand,” he rasped, shaking his head. “I have to tell you something.”

  Laen looked around as Anaïs came into the tent, taking in the scene before her in alarm. “Putain!” she exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. “What on earth...?” She took one look at Corin and rushed over to him, staring at Laen. “What is it, what happened?”

  “He can hear the land, it calls to him,” Laen said, never more relieved to see anyone in his life before. “I think it’s driving him out of his mind.”

  “Corin,” she said, her voice soft as she reached out and stroked his hair. “You’re exhausted, you must sleep.”

  Corin wrestled away from Laen’s grasp on him, his face angry as he pushed her hand away. “No! I have to tell him.” He turned back to Laen but kept his distance, looking at them with distrust now. “Laen, please you must understand, it wasn’t my choice …”

  Laen smiled at him, pity welling in his heart. “Stop fretting, for the love of the gods, there’s no harm done,” he said, as Corin looked ever more feverish. Laen glanced at Anaïs, who seemed to agree this needed to stop now. She dragged the mattress clear of the broken pallet and laid it on the ground before crossing back to Corin. “Come now, sleep.”

  “No!” he said, eyes flashing a deep gold with fury as magic prickled over him. “Why won’t you listen, damn you!”

  “Hold him!” Anaïs said, her voice urgent now.

  Laen moved forward, wrapping his arms around Corin and holding on with all his might while Corin shouted in panic and his magic burned.

  “No, no, Laen, listen to me …” he pleaded but Anaïs put her hands on him, her magic washing over him, bringing peace to the desperation clinging to him and forcing him to let go of his terror.

  “Relax, Corin, you must sleep now,” she said, her voice soothing as he fought to stay conscious.

  “No,” he whispered, but the bright gold eyes clouded and Laen caught him as he sagged, laying him down on the mattress. “I don’t want to do it, Laen ...” he mumbled before sleep took him under.

  “Gods!” Laen breathed running a shaky hand through his hair. “Thank you.”

  Anaïs smiled and nodded, though it was a sad expression. She stroked Corin’s head, smoothing the hair from his face. “He’s in turmoil,” she said, compassion in her voice as she looked up at Laen. “There is such confusion, such pain in his mind.”

  Laen swallowed, quite unable to consider a world that Corin wasn’t such a strong and forceful figure. “Will he make it?” he asked, his voice rough as he tried to cover his concern.

  Anaïs shrugged and got up to unearth a blanket from under the broken furniture. “I don’t know.” She laid the blanket over him as Laen moved to tug out another, knowing how Corin hated the cold. “There is a strange feel to this land, and if even I can feel it, there is something very wrong indeed.”

  Laen nodded and handed her the second blanket to add to the first. “I know. We can all feel it. It’s making the men jumpy, so the gods alone know what he is feeling.” He looked down at Corin and swallowed before glancing up at Anaïs. “He’ll sleep now?”

  She returned a sympathetic smile and nodded. “Yes.”

  Laen hesitated, unwilling to leave his friend alone, but Anaïs blew out the oil lamp and took his arm. “He won’t wake until morning, I promise,” she said, giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “Do you need anything to help you sleep? I can prepare something for you?”

  Laen gave a snort of amusement, he was so tired he could sleep where he stood. “No, thank you. Sleep is not something I have any trouble with.” As if to illustrate the point, a yawn crept up on him and he stretched, finding himself amused by Anaïs appreciative expression as she watched the way his muscles were shown off to advantage. “Waking up, however,” he muttered with a grimace.

  They looked up as Dannon approached and Laen noted the way her eyes lit up. Dannon slipped his arm around her and nodded at Laen. “I heard there was a disturbance,” he said, his voice low. “The men are concerned.”

  Laen scowled, holding back a curse. “I was afraid of that,” he muttered, giving a heavy sigh. “You must reassure them he’s fine. Tell them ... tell them he was drunk, celebrating too hard.”

  Dannon gave a snort and nodded, his face grim. “Well, that they’ll believe.”

  Laen shrugged, wondering how he was going to help Corin get through the next day. “I know.”

  “Will he make it?” Dannon asked, voicing the terror that was now a constant question in Laen’s mind.

  Laen looked back at the tent where his friend slept and gave a decisive nod. “Yes,” he said, knowing he had no right to say such a thing when he had such grave doubts himself. “He has to.”

  ***

  Bram woke to the sensat
ion of a cool hand smoothing over his forehead and sighed. It felt wonderful against his fevered skin. The hand moved to his cheek and he turned into it, seeking further caresses.

  “Wakey, wakey, sleepy head,” a soft voice murmured, pulling him out from rather anxious dreams of home. His eyelids opened with reluctance, to find a pair of wide grey eyes watching him, reflecting the flickering candle light. It was a strangely reassuring sight and one that made him smile. The idea unsettled him as he wondered why that was, and his smile faltered. Looking at the gloomy shadow in the room, he realised it was dark already.

  “What time is it?” he asked, disorientated.

  “Nine o’clock,” Ameena said, moving her hand away. “You’ve been asleep for hours. I would have let you sleep longer, but I thought you should eat something.”

  At the mention of food, his stomach made an audible complaint and he grimaced. “Food sounds good.” He frowned suddenly, looking around the room again. “Where is Jean-Pierre?”

  “He’s here, don’t worry,” she said, her voice soothing as she smiled at his anxiety, as though he needed humouring. “He went back home earlier and got some supplies. He’s going to camp out here with us until we decide what to do.”

  “He did what?” Bram demanded, trying to sit himself up and cursing as pain ripped through his shoulder.

  Ameena rolled her eyes at him. By the gods, but that was becoming a familiar gesture. “That’s why he went when you were asleep,” she said, tutting at him. “He’s fine, no harm done,” she said with a motherly tone that suggested she still didn’t have the slightest idea of the very real danger they were in.