Rend the Dark Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Act 1

  Act 2

  Act 3

  Act 4

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Previews

  Prologue

  THE BOY FELT IT BEFORE he saw it.

  There was a chill feeling, different from the usual cold that filled the stone halls of the orphanage. That cold was familiar and simple. You felt it in your bones. You endured it by hovering closer to the kitchen fire before the matron caught you, or by sharing a blanket with your chosen brothers and sisters.

  But this was different. This was a sharp-edged cold. Like the glitter that came off the knife they used to kill the goats. Like the ice that sheathed the old tree outside and made the branches snap off. He did not feel this cold in his bones, but in his very soul. And it made him want to whimper with fear.

  He had tried to keep quiet. Already many of the other orphans were angry at him. The dancers and jugglers had them clapping and laughing, a rare treat for the forgotten children housed here.

  Until he had begun screaming and pointing at one of the performers.

  He had ruined the show, and the embarrassed matron sent the children off to their dormitories immediately. Their anger was palpable, a terrible thing he felt all around, and he could hear harsh whispers up and down the halls of the old fortress that served as the orphanage. “Crazy is at it again,” he heard. “The lunatic’s seeing monsters again.” He knew if not for his friends, he would have suffered that night.

  His friends Elinor, Alys, Roan, and Kay had not been angry, though. They believed him. They comforted him, drawing him away from the performers and out of the room without a look back at the ruined entertainment. Elinor wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked and Roan stared daggers at the other orphans, defying their anger at his friend. Together, they returned to the dormitory and prepared for bed.

  No, his friends had not been angry like the other children were. They never were. But he also knew they did not understand. Not truly. Even he began to doubt himself. Perhaps the cruel whispers from the other children were right, he thought.

  Until tonight. Until he had seen the blackheart just an arm’s length away from him and he screamed and screamed till his throat was raw. Where their hearts should have been, oily mud and black smoke oozed from their chests to cover their bodies. He had seen them three times before, but never up close like this.

  Even now, in the small hours of the night when everyone in the large room was asleep, the boy remained awake. The fear of the shadowed juggler would not leave him, and behind his closed eyes, he pictured the horrible darkness moving over the man. The feeling crept over him more and more. The cold feeling. Sharp. Dangerous.

  He finally could not stand it any longer. His eyes snapped open, and he looked across the darkened room, past the simple cots the orphans all slept on.

  And he saw it.

  The blackheart was in the room. The rolling, oily blackness spilled from its chest like blood from a wound, deeper even than the dark of the night. It stood across the room from him, looming over the foot of one girl’s bed. The boy felt his heart pounding, and he longed to reach out to touch his friends, either to wake them to see what he saw or to wake himself from what must be a nightmare. But he was too frightened to move.

  As he watched, the juggler’s shape sloughed off, dropping to the floor like a discarded garment. In its place was something more horrifying. The head became longer and had no eyes, only a round mouth from which the boy could see wicked teeth. It craned a long, serpent-like neck toward the sleeping child while reaching forward with ragged claws at the end of spindly arms. The thing bent down to feed, and the boy moaned with terror.

  The long neck whipped impossibly around, turning its eyeless face toward the boy. It dropped to all fours and charged across the room.

  For the second time that night the boy screamed himself raw.

  ***

  Ferran opened his eyes and tried to still his breathing. The room was warm. All around him were men and women, wearing the earthy colors favored by the Order of Talan. Many of them had their exposed skin heavily tattooed with strange symbols and designs. But all of them looked on him with understanding eyes.

  An old man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a cane. Dark stripes were inked onto his weathered and wrinkled face, contrasting with the bright white of his long beard. He stood before Ferran and watched as the young man drew deep breaths.

  “What did you see?” the old man asked.

  Ferran matched the old man’s gaze and steadied himself. “My past,” Ferran said.

  The old man studied him for a long moment and then nodded once. He stepped out of the way and made a gesture. Across the length of the chamber, a heavy iron door swung open, to reveal the creature from his memory. The monstrous head whipped around and the circular maw puckered at the air. Long talons scraped across the floor with a high-pitched keening as it drew away from the open door.

  “What do you see?” the old man asked from behind Ferran.

  In his left hand, Ferran felt the weight of a long length of silver chain, and he let one end fall to the floor with a clear, bright ring. His other hand tightened around the haft of a short spear, the blade held before him, catching the light of the torches carried by the members of the Order who looked on.

  “What do you see?” the old man asked once more.

  Ferran’s lips drew back into a savage smile. “My future,” he said and advanced on the monster.

  1

  Cold wind blew through the trees and made gray clouds race across the morning sky. There was a pall to everything, and even the rich fields around them seemed dull and faded.

  As the wind blew hard, slipping beneath his cloak and chilling him, Hileon Finchlas wished fervently he was back at his desk. There he would have had a small fire going in the hearth. Perhaps a small pot of stew bubbling on a little iron hook beside the fire, as he worked his way through recording the fall tithes from the outlying villages of the march.

  But instead he was standing out here. Hungry, exhausted, and freezing. Hil pulled his cloak tighter about himself and looked at the other two men waiting with him at the crossroads. They had been in the great hall last night as well. It had been good to see Riffolk there, at least. The tall young man had been Hil’s friend since their time together at the Collegium.

  Though they had traveled all through the night with no sleep, Riffolk seemed more restless than normal. He paced the small stretch of road, and his hand fiddled constantly with the handle of a longsword he wore at his belt. Riffolk always wore the blade, even when working in the keep. He had once confided in Hil that had it not been for the wishes of his parents, he would have entered one of the Razor schools instead of the Collegium.

  Hil wore a blade today as well, but it was a strange and unusual event for him to go armed. He wore the weapon awkwardly. The belt kept sliding down from the weight of the scabbard, forcing him to reach under his cloak and adjust it.

  Riffolk let out an explosive sigh. “Did your friends not know to expect you here?”

  Hil’s jaw dropped at his friend’s boldness, and he shot Riffolk a cautionary look.

  The man Riffolk had spoken to turned slowly toward the young magistrate. He fixed Riffolk with an icy stare. “I did not say they were my friends,” Warden Mesym Aker said, his voice low.

  Unlike Hil and Riffolk, Warden Aker did not answer to the Lord of Greenhope. In truth, the warden was answerable to no one, save the king himself. It was never a good day when a warden came to do his yearly inspection, but it was an even worse day when a warden came for other reasons.

  Thi
s was one of those times.

  The warden stood in the road, his long, heavy cloak flapping in the frigid wind. His look shifted from Riffolk to Hil, and Hil felt himself wither under the intensity of that gaze. Aker rubbed a gloved hand along his neatly trimmed gray beard and seemed to come to a decision. “There has been some troubling reports coming out of this region,” the warden said. “Reduced tithes, disappearances on the roads. Weeks back, a royal courier was passing this way. He did not reach his destination.”

  Riffolk bristled. “Greenhope is a large march, Warden. We magistrates do what we can to maintain order, but even under our scrutiny, bandit attacks will happen.”

  “If I thought it was just bandits, boy, we wouldn’t be waiting out here to meet an acolyte of the Order of Talan,” the warden said sharply.

  Before he could stop himself, Hil spoke out. “A witch hunter?” he breathed fearfully. “That’s who we’re out here to meet?” Even saying the term aloud seemed to cause the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. In the old stories the acolytes of the Order of Talan hunted evil creatures. Beyond those stories there were darker rumors. Everyone knew it was bad fortune to cross paths with a witch hunter. Hil could not imagine actually being so foolish as to wait around to meet one.

  Where Hil was frightened, Riffolk just shook his head. “So it is not bandits, but the monsters from children’s tales that are plaguing the village,” Riffolk said. “Well, thank goodness you called in help for us mere mortals.”

  Aker rounded on the young magistrate. “Before this day is done I pray to the memory of the First King himself that you will still have reason to doubt those children’s stories. And you,” he said, pointing a finger sharply at Hil. “Do not ever use that term around one of the Order of Talan.” His voice dropped as he caught sight of two figures far off in the distance, making their way down the road toward the crossroads. “They don’t like it.”

  The pair drew closer. The man was tall and lean. He walked with a sense of purpose, his long strides eating up the road. Strapped to his back was a length of something, likely a staff or a rod. The skin around his eyes and part of his forehead were painted a dark black, and Hil felt a shiver of cold apprehension. The tall acolyte was like a character come to life from one of the stories his childhood nurse had told him.

  The woman who kept pace with the acolyte appeared to be a witch hunter as well. She was shorter than her tall companion, but her movements were lighter, freer. She wore a simple coat as well, though cut shorter, and she carried a heavy iron lantern, swinging it as she walked. Her hair was loose, and it blew wildly in the wind. Her face did not have the dark markings that the man’s beside her had.

  Aker’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Try not to say anything unless you are spoken to,” the warden said. “But listen well to what is said.”

  Hil tried to draw himself up taller as the pair approached, but he felt like his nervousness was readily apparent to all. Riffolk stood with his arms crossed over his chest. The pair crossed the final distance to their group in short time and stopped before the warden.

  The man with the tattooed face bowed his head. “We received your message, Warden Aker.”

  Aker frowned. “Where is Cadell?”

  The woman gave a small smile. “My father was called to serve at the Spire. We have come in his stead, Warden.”

  At that, Aker’s eyes narrowed in understanding. “Mireia,” he said. “Your father mentioned you to me when last I had need of him.” The warden’s frown softened. “It was a long time ago.”

  Mireia nodded. “Not so long that he does not remember you as his friend, Warden. He spoke well of you, always. He was impressed with your courage that day.” There was an edge of sadness in her voice, as if she spoke of something dark and unpleasant. Hil felt the change in the pit of his stomach and his unease grew.

  The warden drew in a deep breath. “Let us all hope that we are not looking at something similar this day.”

  “No,” said the tattooed man. He did not look at the warden or even the two magistrates. Instead his attention appeared focused along the road where the pair had come from, at a grove of trees that marked the edge of a forest a short distance away from the road. “No. It is something different.”

  Aker looked to the forest that held the man’s attention. Hil could not see anything besides the branches shifting in the wind. The warden’s lips were set tightly together. “Do you know what it is, acolyte?”

  The witch hunter shook his head, eyes bright and shining amidst the blackness of the tattoo. “Not yet,” he said. “But we will not have to wait long to find out.”

  Aker lowered a hand to the hilt of his sword, and Hil felt fear blossom in his gut, cold and hard. In the wake of it, he forgot the warden’s command to remain silent. “What?” Hil whispered. “What do you mean?”

  “Your liege sent you with me so that you would see proof of my concerns,” Aker said, drawing out the words. “Your proof is coming.”

  “Ferran,” Mireia said, her eyes focused on the forest.

  With a rasp of steel across leather, Ferran pulled the pole from behind his shoulders, and Hil saw a dark blade at the end of it. With the spear in one hand, Ferran filled his other with a length of bright silver chain.

  Mireia removed her coat and rolled up her sleeves, baring intricate tattoos covering her forearms. She held the dark iron lantern in her right hand and raised it up before her. Her long hair seemed to blow in the wind, though Hil noticed that at that moment, the wind had died down.

  Aker drew his sword, and Riffolk readied his weapon. Hil fumbled at the hilt with hands suddenly gone numb and clumsy. He managed to pull the sword from its sheath without dropping it to the ground.

  “What’s coming?” Hil whispered.

  From within the forest, shapes began to come forward. Hil fought to keep from yelling out and pointing, but it was clear the others had seen them well before he had. As they cleared the edge of the forest, Hil saw what they were.

  They were… men. Just men. Their clothing was ragged and threadbare. Each of them was armed with some sort of weapon, from farming tools to old, rusted swords and axes.

  Beside him, Riffolk laughed. The sound of it almost caused Hil to jump out of his skin. “Bandits?” Riffolk said. “That is what has you all so riled up? I do not know what they have taught you at your temple, but I can assure you, I have faced scum like this before.” With that, Riffolk walked forward and held up the magisterial seal bearing the crest of Greenhope March. “In the name of Lord Garre of Greenhope, I charge you to disperse.”

  Even as Riffolk spoke, the men approached, each step bringing them closer. A cold feeling of dread rolled over Hil at the sight of their slow steps, and as he looked to their faces, the sensation flared. The faces of the bandits were blank and expressionless, their eyes glazed over and unfocused. Even in the strong wind, none of them blinked or changed expression. They simply continued their advance.

  “What is wrong with these men?” Hil asked. The uneasy feeling inside him grew hotter and sharper.

  “These are not men,” Ferran said.

  In strange, horrifying unison, the group of bandits raised their weapons high and charged forward. There was no savage yell of fury or bared teeth. Their faces remained utterly blank and expressionless as they moved to attack the group.

  Ferran rushed past Hil to meet them, striking with spear and chain. Hil tried to run, to gain some distance from the cruel blades and blank faces, but he stumbled and went down hard. He rolled to his back and saw one of the bandits coming for him.

  Hil tried to scramble away, but the dead-eyed man closed quickly, hefting a woodcutter’s axe above his head. Hil raised his hand in a helpless gesture to ward off the coming blow.

  And then Riffolk was there, his sword swinging through the air and catching the bandit’s arm, severing it just below the elbow and sending the axe falling to the ground. Hil’s stomach clenched and his eyes went wide with a maddening h
orror as he watched blood pour from the terrible wound the bandit had suffered, and yet the man made no sound, no expression of pain as he swung again and again at Riffolk.

  Riffolk pushed the bandit away and then stabbed him in the chest. Hil was no expert at swordplay, but he knew a sword through the heart should fell any man. But the words of the witch hunter, Ferran, rang in Hil’s ears as he watched the bandit push himself forward on Riffolk’s impaling blade to claw once more.

  These are not men.

  Hil watched in a helpless stupor as the thing tried to kill his friend. Riffolk desperately pulled the sword free from the thing’s chest and swung again, cutting into the leg. The blow glanced off the thick bone of the leg, but it was enough to topple the bandit.

  As it fell, it looked at Hil with dull eyes. Through the blood-stained face, there was no twitch of muscle, no blinking of the eyes. Just the same, flat lifelessness. Then, reaching out with its one remaining arm, it began to crawl toward him.

  Riffolk moved to his side, reaching down and pulling Hil forcibly to his feet. Together, the two magistrates backed away from the thing on the ground. Hil looked around, surveying the scene of the fight around them.

  All around the crossroads and grassy fields there was carnage. All of the bandits were down, their bodies twitching and shaking. Some continued trying to attack despite their maimed helplessness. And yet despite the nightmarish scene, there were no screams from the broken and bloodied men. Hil could hear no sound beside his and Riffolk’s labored breathing.

  There was a pungent smell in the air, the iron tang of blood and rotten offal, and Hil felt his stomach clenching. He fought to keep from gagging.

  Riffolk looked around at the scene. “What manner of drug or chemical could do this to a man?” he said. “I have never seen anything like this before.”

  “Then you have lived a fortunate life,” said Warden Aker, approaching them. “This is no alchemy, boy. Though I pray that it were.”

  Hil followed the warden’s gaze across the grass to where the two witch hunters stood amidst the downed bandits. Ferran stood still, spear in one hand and silver chain in the other. He scanned the field as Mireia knelt down beside one of the still-moving bodies. She carefully put her fingers on its neck and looked at her companion.