The Three Darks

The Three Darks


         They called him Lord Fox, for his face was thin and angular, and his eyes were cruel.  He had been a mercenary once, before the great peace between the Three Peoples of the land.  Now he was Lord of the High Mountains, where few people lived and few crops grew.  His people were like him, strong and bold, but he was held in awe even by the roughest herder and the harshest soldier.  The collected lords of the lower lands were grateful to have him at a distance.
         Much happened in the High Mountains five winters after the great peace; many creatures appeared in the inhabited lands that had not come so far down from the heights before.  Everyone wore a weapon for their own safety, for the creatures of the mountains were hungry and willing to eat even man-flesh. 
         Thirteen people from one small village died in one night, and only then did the people turn to Lord Fox.  He listened to their tales, sorted through their panic, and gathered to him a core of soldiers.  All had served under him as mercenaries in the wars, and if he trusted at all, it was these men. 
         Gathered about the largest fireplace in the deep-dug halls of the High Mountains they planned, searching maps for signs of the creatures’ homes.  As they searched old maps, Lord Fox stared into the fire, his eyes reflecting green and gold.  Movement at the table caught his attention, and he turned his head to watch the men.  One held a map up close, his back turned to the fire for more light, map lifted high.  He peered at the bottom of the map.
         “Lord Fox?”  The man’s voice was respectful, but nonetheless called urgently for his lord’s attention.
         “What have you?”  Fox shoved himself upright and sauntered to the table.  Tall enough to peer over the man’s shoulder, Fox was able to see what had caught the other’s attention.  “Bring it closer to the fire.”  He threw himself back into his chair, wishing not for the first time he had seized more tapestries; anything to block the drafts in the upper rooms.  He pulled his gray fur coat closer and took the map from the man.  Squinting, he could barely make out the words scribed on a winter-map from one of the early High Mountain lords.  “The Three Darks have driven us to the lower caverns,” he read aloud, his voice echoing from the bare walls.  “And we have not the strength to stand against them.”
         He rolled the map up slowly, handed it back.  “Good.  The Three Darks.”  He tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully.  “Bring the historian-“ he broke off with a frown.  “No, we’ve not a historian any longer, have we?”
         “No, Lord.”
         “Feh.  Fine.  Bring lanterns.  Get someone to lay a fire in the library.”  He stood again, rubbed his hands together.  “Perhaps it will be warmer there.”  A brief smile darted across his face and he clapped the man across the shoulder.  “Good eyes, as always, Calle.” 
         The erstwhile scout nodded his thanks and left the room to locate lanterns.  The other men gathered up their goblets of warmed wine and the rest of the maps.  “Lord Fox – do you think these three darks have something to do with the beasts?” 
         Lord Fox nodded and walked from the room.  The men trailed after, heading down the steep ramps to the lower levels of the fortress now called Fox’s Den.

         “Search everything.”  Fox stood in the center of the library, his hands clasped around a warming mug.  “I want all mention of Dark copied out and laid aside.  Make certain you note from where the mention comes, and the writer’s name, if it is given.” 
         He carried the mug to one of seven tables in the library.  It was warmer here, in this tall room filled to the ceiling with books and scrolls, and loose papers from all over the lands.  Each table held a stack of papers, several pens, and a wrapped jug of wine.  His core of men spread out through the library, each claiming a table and a segment of the room.  Fox pulled a sheet of paper close, penned orders in quick, sharp sentences.
         A servant entered, bringing more wine.  Lord Fox looked up, beckoned the man closer.  “Take these orders to the guards.  Have the cooks double check their inventory.”  The man nodded and hurried away.
         “Lord?”  The mercenaries looked up, one man voicing everyone’s curiosity.
         “I am bringing the people in.  There is little enough they can do in the snows, and herds can be grazed – for a time – in the outer courts.”  He cracked his knuckles, stretched long fingers.  “We are too spread out for the winter.”  He sighed, turned back to his search.  “I should have tended that right off.”
         “There were other things to be done,” Calle offered.
         Lord Fox shook his head.  “If we had looked to the people’s safety, perhaps they would not have fought me when I came.”  His grin, feral and almost angry, appeared for an instant.  “But now they will obey.  They will come, and quickly.”  He reached out to the nearest shelf, tugged at a book.  “Books.”  The word was a curse.  Calle, at another table, nodded silent agreement.  He was a fighter, and book-knowledge had come late to him.  Among the former mercenaries few enough could read, and fewer still had pride in the skill.  Only Zale read for pleasure, and was called away from his books often enough to read or write for his companions, even now, when scribes were plentiful.

         Three days’ work brought them only seven mentions of the Three Darks, and none seemed to add to anything.  Only Calle, Lord Fox, and Fox’s personal guard Zale worked in the library; they had known one another since youth, and only Zale and Calle remembered their lord’s true name.  Zale carefully copied their notes onto a single page, for his was the neatest hand at writing, and handed the scant page to his lord.
         “Three Darks there are…three darks that seek three truths,” Fox read.  “Palest, mid, and darkest, the three are.”  He rattled the sheet impatiently.  “The darks that ride abroad in winter, and come from the highest peaks.”  He paused, turned his head to contemplate a map hung above the fireplace.  “The highest peaks,” he repeated softly.  Then, turning his eyes back to the page in his hands.  “But from which peak comes the last Dark….”  Twisting his face in a grimace, he threw the paper aside; it fluttered to the floor.  “The last note – where did it come from?”
         Zale held up a partially destroyed manuscript.  Even from a distance Fox could see the marks of immersion in water, the shreds of pages dripping from the bindings.  Fox grunted.  “Where was that?”
         Zale shrugged.  “Looks like one of the books out of Lord Eseos’ library,” he said, naming a former employer.  “After the fire – and rain – and… whatnot,” he trailed off sheepishly.  Calle turned his head to hide a grin at the memory.  Eseos’ manor had burned well, and Lord Fox had made off with the choicest possessions after Eseos refused to pay them.  It had been the start of their climb from mercenaries to accepted landholders, and the first step to a Lordship for Fox.
Fox shook his head slowly.  “We need to find more information.”  He stood, paced back and forth before the fire.  “Bring all the scribes, all the merchants trapped here by the snows.  Not here-” he added.  “Take them to the Center Hall and find out…damn.  Never mind.”  His mind was already leaping ahead, as it had when he planned attacks.  His hand gestured at the papers.  “Clean this up.  I need to think.”  He collected his coat and stalked from the room.  Calle and Zale exchanged looks that held both resignation and amusement.  Whatever their lord planned, it would surely involve them – and trouble, if past history proved anything.

They rode out for the lowlands the next day, Calle and Zale.  Their lord they left behind, for he was unwilling to leave his lands in the deep of winter, at the only time when his people needed him.  He had commanded them not return until they had discovered the source of the Darks, no matter how they retrieved the information. 
When they had dropped out of sight along the drift-lined path, Lord Fox returned to his chambers, but only for a moment.  He shed his dark fur coat for a white and gray hooded coat of wolf fur, and drew his sword from its place on the wall.  Fourteen men waited in an inner courtyard, all dressed as he was.  He sheathed his sword as he examined the men; all were former mercenaries.  Something in him was pleased at their attention.  It had been almost five years since they had need of their weapons, but still they looked prepared.  He caught their eyes with a raised hand.  There would be no speeches; he had never given speeches, despised those, like Lord Eseos, who did.
“We go to the three highest peaks in the High Mountains.  There will be things there to fight.”  He grinned at his men, who grinned back.  They were fighters; this was their delight.  “So let us then be off about it.”
Each man retrieved from the side of the courtyard a pack laden with gear for the winter trek.  Once the packs were checked, they fell into three lines.  A space was left for Lord Fox, and he made his way to it with pleasure.  He slapped the side of his pack with a quiet bark of laughter.  Swinging the pack onto his back, he waved for the gate to be opened.
They made the trek through the courts to the outer walls at a slow walk, readying their bodies for the cold to come.  Once through the outer gates, with the immense tree-trunk bar falling into place behind them, they increased their pace.  They had a climb ahead of them, and the more ground they covered before nightfall the better.
“Lord Fox?”
“Yes?”  His voice did not invite the man to continue, but he did.
“Why are captains Calle and Zale not with us?”
“I had other places for them to be.”  Fox turned his eyes to the man, stared him into silence.  “Questioning me, Aviles?”
“No, lord….”
“Good.”  Fox turned his green-gold eyes ahead again.  In the back of his mind he knew he was five years too late; something in him had grown soft in the hard mountains.  There were too few enemies here, and his men had too much time to think, to question.  Under his hood his lips drew together in a silent snarl.  The Three Darks – whatever they might be – were what he needed.  There would be blades again, and blood, and no papers, no harvests to deal with, no lost sheep or shepherds. 

Their maps led them up deeper into the mountains, up passes long blocked by snow and ice, and always there were beasts.  Wolves, bears, anything that ate meat was out hunting.  They did not lose any of their scant enough number to the beasts, but the supplies they brought seemed to dwindle too quickly for their safety.  They turned to hunting the beasts that hunted them; swords were exchanged for hunting spears, plans for snares.
On the seventh day they broke out of the tree line.  They stopped long enough to gather wood for fires, and continued on, picking their way between rocks and snow.  Here above the trees the sun managed to show a faint light for several hours every day, but it did not warm their bodies, and there were still the beasts.  These were less afraid of people, for rarely did people climb so high.  The fourteen roped themselves into groups, so that if one fell he need not plunge to his death on the steep rocks.  For more rocks and more ice there were here, and less snow.  The winds died down, blocked by the very peaks they climbed.
And always Lord Fox led the way, shivering beneath his heavy coat, weapon clasped in his hands.  He alone did not lose his footing among the rocks and ice, and he alone stood without a hood in the evenings, looking above them at the third highest peak in the range of High Mountains.  The others let their beards grow wild, their mouths hide beneath growing mustaches, but Lord Fox kept well-trimmed, as though he dwelled still in his fortress-den. 
“Lord Fox?”
“Aviles?”  The warning sprang into Fox’s voice, but the lieutenant continued, not directly challenging, yet still managing a certain unruliness.
“There is but little food left, Lord.  And little enough chance at finding something here.”
“And?”  Fox let his long hair spring out of its ties as he turned.  “You would retreat into the trees to find us something, perhaps?”  The smoothness of his voice did not match the heat in his eyes.  Aviles did not look to his commander, and missed the anger. 
“Yes, lord.  I could take three men and be back with enough food for all – perhaps only a few hours, and we could return.”
“Perhaps,” Fox agreed coolly.  “Would you take all your rope-companions with you?”  He scanned the other three men for signs of betrayal, but found only sudden nervousness. 
“Yes.”  Aviles paused, glanced back at the others.  “For safety.”
“Of course.”  There was no irony in Fox’s voice.  He paused, then flapped a hand at the quartet.  “Very well then.  Go.”
Aviles made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, turned to lead the others away.  The hindmost man gave Fox a perplexed look, but did not speak.  Fox merely nodded, rolled his hunting spear in his hand.  The rest of the camp waited in silence, watching the men pick their way slowly down the mountain toward the tree line.
As they waited, Fox lifted his spear, removed the pegged-in crossbars.  He cocked his head, watched the quartet.  The second man slipped on a patch of ice, lost his balance, plowed into Aviles.  Aviles likewise lost his balance on the slope and started to fall forward.  The two men in the rear set their feet visibly, waiting to pick up the strain of two men’s weight.  The rope stretched as it caught the two men.
Fox drew back his arm and cast the hunting spear.  It flew straight, its steel head slicing the rope in two just behind Aviles.  The man fell without a cry, slithering off the edge of the mountain.  His rope-companions watched in shock.  The man who had first slipped managed to climb to his feet, scramble back to the other two men, who hauled him further from the edge.  The three retreated to Fox and his watching men. 
“Dangerous, attempting a descent with so few men,” Fox observed mildly.  “Perhaps you should stay with the rest of us.”
They did not argue him, but took their places among those in the camp.

Zale and Calle huddled beside a bookshelf.  “I didn’t think finding a book could be so… dangerous,” Calle observed, risking a glance around the edge at the men lurking in the near darkness. 
“Well, it is the last copy,” Zale shrugged, drawing a fallen foe to him.  He tugged the arrow from the man’s throat, cleaned it carefully, checking for splitting or broken feathers.  Finding none, he fitted the arrow to his bow again and waited.  The book they had been sent for rested at his feet.
They were in the library of the king’s fortress.  They had been greeted with disdain by the historians, and no amount of bribery had allowed them to take the book with them.  And so, the attempt at thievery in the night.  Zale sighed softly.  “Maybe we should have just copied out the pages,” he finally agreed.  “But Lord Fox said he wanted the book.”
Calle grunted softly, watching a light make its way through the darkness between bookshelves toward them.  It was the last historian in the palace; the others had fled.  The man waved a small white flag with one hand, held a lantern up in the other.  “Don’t fire – he wants to deal,” Calle said softly.  Then, louder: “What do you want, historian?”
“To survive,” the man replied honestly.  “I want to live through this.  But my lord the king demands you release the book and give yourselves up.”
“This is a deal?” Zale demanded of Calle.  “Why should we?” he called to the historian.
“Because the king has more men than you can kill.”  The historian spoke with a shiver in his voice.
Calle pulled his dark lantern closer, lit it with flint and steel.  Zale watched him, sighed with a nod.    Calle settled the lantern on a bookshelf.  “Not necessarily,” he called back to the waiting historian.  “There are more ways than one to kill large numbers of people.”  Zale took aim at the historian’s lantern.  “All we want is this one book, historian.  Is it worth dying for?”
“Yes.”  The historian took several more steps forward.  Zale saw men moving quietly forward behind him.  He hissed at Calle, jerked his chin forward. 
Calle lit another lantern from his pack and set it on the floor.
“As you will.”  Zale called to the historian, releasing the bowstring.  The arrow struck the man’s hand, knocking the lantern to the floor.  Glass smashed; they heard the historian cry out at the spurt of flame.  “Now!” Zale hissed.
Calle launched the first lantern over their makeshift cover, heard the crack of breaking glass.  The two men rose and set their backs against the bookshelf, pushing at it.  “Heave!” Calle groaned.  Slowly the bookcase toppled towards the soldiers trying to charge them.  The final lantern Calle hurled into the midst of the soldiers.  He snatched the book they had come for from the floor and rushed the men.  Behind him he heard Zale’s bow sound twice more before it clattered to the floor.  In the shadowed room, now lit only by three small fires, men darted to catch the duo.
Calle grabbed at a man in the darkness, drove him down to the floor, hearing the man’s neck snap.  He stripped the body of its overtunic, climbing hastily into it.  He hoped Zale had done the same.  Someone kicked at the books, trying to keep them from the fire.  Voices called out, and then the flames suddenly soared out.  Books erupted in flame.  Men suddenly turned to flee the fire.  Calle allowed himself to be pushed out with the rest, and made his way quickly to join the fire brigade.  They tossed him a bucket and pointed in the direction of a second well.  He ran for it, threw the bucket to a man waiting at the well, and kept running.  Quickly he was lost among the halls, far away from the burning library.  He ducked into a room, scanned it for life.  Finding none, he bolted the door and sat down against it.  He drew the book from beneath his tunic and began to read.

They reached the first peak in early afternoon, as clouds dropped from the sky to rest on the mountain-tops.  As Fox had both hoped and expected, there was a rough cave high on the side of the peak.  He beckoned his men to follow; they did so without question.  Aviles’ death had quieted their mutterings, but had taken from their morale as well.  Once in the cave their sullenness vanished, replaced by wonder.  The ice in the cave had been carved by winds into strange shapes, and seemed to lead them further into its depths.  Fox waved two men into the lead, their lanterns casting twisting shadows.  The clouds seemed to trail after, filling the cave with colder air.  They shivered in their coats and drew closer for warmth.  Only Fox stayed aside, drawing his coat even closer about his body. 
“The least of the darks,” he whispered to himself, moving further back into the cave, forcing the scouts to keep ahead of him.
He heard whispers now, but could not tell from where they rose in the cloud-fogged air.  What is this place?  Why have we come here?  What is the good of this?  Where are we?  He snatched a lantern from one of the scouts and advanced more swiftly into the deeper dark.  The men trailed after with increasing reluctance.  Smoothly Fox drew his sword from its sheath, continued to inch forward.  The whispers died down; the winds rose slowly to cover all other sounds.  He could hear his men behind him, hear the ice moving and cracking in the wind. 
His eyes slowly adjusted to the refracting light; he ignored those behind him to ever move onward.  A shape in the darkness brought him to a stop, and his lantern-hand gestured for the rest to do likewise.  Without thought, Fox blew out his lantern.  Muffled oaths sounded from those with him, but their words died in the darkness.  Fox moved on, alone.
“The first dark.”  His voice faded in the darkness, and a shape rose in the wind around him.  He heard the cries of his men, and then silence.  “What truth do you seek?” he called.  “What is the truth you wish to hear?  I can speak it!”  He whirled as the winds pushed at him, seeking an opponent. 
“Why do you drive the animals against us?”
Silence answered.  He lunged forward in the darkness, found only ice, and the shape vanished.  He threw himself against the wall of the cave, hacking at it with his sword. 

Calle closed the book slowly, wrapped it carefully in his own tunic, tucked it into the stolen overtunic he wore.  Rising, he looked again about the small room.  A heavy cloak lay on a table; he snatched it up and flung it about his shoulders.  Zale would have to fend for himself; the book called for haste on his part.  He would need a horse, food.  He smiled grimly to himself.  The stables, and a cavalryman.  He pushed open the door and moved quietly into the hall.  No one was about, and he made his way swiftly down the corridor toward the stables.

Fox woke to the cold and dark.  He rolled over, his hand reaching for his sword.  It was cold in his gloved hands, but comforting.  Standing, he found a thousand tiny cuts and bruises, but none that seemed to slow him.  Whatever lurked in the darkness, it had – for the time – bested him.  He fumbled for the lantern he’d abandoned, found it on its side, the oil dripping slowly onto the ice.  Cursing softly, he lit the lantern and raised it to look about. 
His men were gone, fled, dead, or buried beneath the ice.  Something had brought the ice cavern down around them and it seemed that he alone remained.  He pulled free of the ice and snow and made his way back towards the entrance.  It was blocked by snow, but here and there he could see free spaces, where the wind still blew through.  He sheathed his sword and used a gloved hand to knock out more of the obstructing snow.  Only when he had enough room to walk out standing straight did he leave the cave, his eyes already scanning the mountain peaks still above him for his path.  Something in him stirred, warming his steps.  This was the way it should be – he must face the three darks alone.  If there were others, the battle would be shared.  This was to be his battle.  He slogged up the mountainside toward the next peak.

In the stables, Calle made for the nearest stall.  Inside he found a warhorse, discarded it as too visible.  The next three stalls held warhorses as well, but the fifth stall held a long-necked plains horse.  He threw a blanket and saddle over its back, silently apologizing in advance to the beast.  Swinging into the saddle, he kicked the stall door open and rode out.  The stablemaster took him for one of the king’s men and did not try to stop him. 
The former mercenary took to the wide roads through the city, heading west into the open plains, away from patrolled roads.  The book bumped at his side, leaving bruises as he rode.

Three days later Fox drew near the top of the second-highest peak in the mountain range, lantern burning low in his hand.  His pack was far lighter than when he left Fox’s Den, his firewood gone, his food dwindling.  Even the smallest of rodents seemed to have vanished in the hard-packed snow and ice.  Not even tracks were seen now, save his own leading from the lower lands.  The summit hung over him, the descending sun dropping the mountain’s shadow over him like a second cloak.  He stopped, pulled his pack loose and dropped it carefully onto the snow; here the snows were less stable, the angle of the mountain prone to shifting under his steps.  He rummaged through the remains of his supplies, frowning.  Perhaps another few days’ food, and more than that away from Fox’s Den.  His frown faded, was replaced by a bitter smile.  If needed, he would devour the Darks, whatever they were.  He would not be taken off-guard again.  He re-shouldered his pack, lifted his dying lantern, and drew his sword.  He would be prepared to meet them.
He plodded up the ever-steeper mountain, finally using his sword as both crutch and pick to guide his steps.  He could feel the cold in his feet, and knew that he had to find a way to dry his boots, or risk death at the hands of frostbite.  Here the winds had picked up again, and he had to keep his head down and the hood of his coat pulled almost closed, navigating by the shadow above him.
He slipped, lost his balance, fell hard.  On the ground he checked his motion, waiting until he was certain nothing would slide away from him.  Then he did stand and continue his journey. 
As his lantern flickered out its last flame, the oil gone at last, he reached the summit of the peak.  There nothing greeted him but darkness and a mountain swept bare and flat by the winds.  Fox stood on the mountaintop, turning, looking down at the world around him.  When the heat of the oil lantern faded in the cold, Fox swept his arm back and cast the lantern into the darkness. 
“Come, then!  Come, Dark!  I am prepared for you!”
When there was no answer but the last fading rays of the sun, he turned to the snows to dig a shelter in the snow. 

Calle reached the hill-lands within two days, keeping the horse to a steady pace.  He had not seen patrols, but nonetheless he kept moving, fearing that if he stopped he could not help his lord.  Fox must be warned; the Darks were a battle that could not be won.  He heard hooves behind him on the hard-packed winter ground and twisted in the saddle to look.  A king’s man, on a warhorse and carrying a long spear, was racing after him.  Calle cursed and kicked the horse’s flanks.  It coughed, but obeyed the command for more speed.
The mercenary drew his sword as he rode, knowing that the short blade would be all but useless against the war spear of the cavalryman.  He could feel the horse faltering under him, and risked a glance ahead.  The beginning of Fox’s lands were too far ahead.  He reined in sharply, abandoning the horse with a leap.  He landed solidly on the ground, spinning to face his pursuer.
“Calle!”  The rider reined in as well.
“Zale?”  Calle did not sheathe his sword, but allowed the rider to draw close.  It was Zale; the mercenary extended a hand down to his companion. 
“Come on.  You have the book?”
“Yes.  How did you get out?”
“Same way you did, I suspect.  Stole a uniform and fled.  You must have hit the stables before I did; there were only warhorses left, and I had an… argument with a cavalryman before I could leave.”  Zale clicked his tongue to the horse; it started up into the hills.  “I’ve been on the main roads – hoped I would see you.”
“I found out about the Darks.”  Calle’s voice was flat.  “Lord Fox needs to know.”
“Tell me as we go.”
Fox huddled in his snow cave, the darkness complete around him.  In one hand he gripped his sword; the other he tucked inside his coat, trying to keep warm.  He had no fire, no way to warm himself, and knew that if he slept he would not survive.  The Darks would sneak up upon him and destroy him.  He forced his eyes to stay open, blinking against the wind.           
The whispers returned, sounding in the wind.  What is this place?  Why this peak?  Who is the hunter?
Fox shivered again, but from a sudden fear.  He shook himself angrily, trying to cast off the fear, but it settled into the cave with him, drawing close as though to take comfort from him.  He cleared his throat, coughed.  “Where are you?” he whispered.  He forced his voice to full strength.  “Where are you?  Come out to me!”  He leapt up from the small cave he’d made.  “I am the hunter!  You are the hunted!  I have come to destroy you! I, Lord Fox!  I am the clever one!  All say so – those who love me and those who fear me – all!” 
The fear drove him back down into his makeshift den.  The whispers returned, mocking him in his voice.  Who is the hunter?  Why seek the Dark, when it sits with you?
He turned constantly, shivering in his coat, wishing for company, someone to whom he could turn, someone to cry out to.  Instead he cried out to the wind and the darkness.  “Come, then!”  He heard defiance and fear in his voice.  “I will meet you – all three of you!  I will meet all three Darks at once, and you will be forced to submit!”  The winds chuckled around him.  He did not sleep, and through the night leapt from his snow-den to drive his blade repeatedly into the dark, but never did he meet resistance.  At dawn, with the sun finally rising, he rolled himself in his coat of fur and settled back against the now-unshadowed mountain peak and slept.

“Ride on!”  Calle prodded Zale in the back.  “There is something not right at the Den!”
Both men could see the gates wide open, the guard nowhere in sight.  They sped past, two men still in uniforms of the king’s officers.  They halted in the late afternoon.  A single plume of thin smoke rose over a stone house.  They pounded on the door until a young woman answered.  She kept one hand behind the door.
“Your pardon, my lady,” Zale said courteously.  “We have need of food and firewood.”
“You go into the mountains?” she demanded.  She did not recognize them as the Fox’s men, they decided, and her next words confirmed the belief.  “Like the fool of a Lord Fox?”
They paused a moment, looked to each other.  He had taken to the mountains, then.  Zale’s mind made a leap ahead.  Lord Fox had gone to hunt the Darks.
“We go to bring him back.”  Calle made his voice harsh.  She shrugged.
“If you wish.  I can sell you food and firewood.  The horse will never make it – but I’ll trade you for it.  I’ve a mule I can’t afford to keep much longer.  The horse will make a fine draft horse in the lowlands.”  They saw greed in her eyes.  Zale nodded with reluctance.
“Very well.  A fair trade.”  He jerked a thumb toward the fortress.  “What has become of High Mountain fortress?”
The woman shrugged.  “The people are told little enough here, sirs.”  Suddenly her manner was ingratiating.  “But I have heard rumors – they say that one of his own has taken over.  That the Lord Fox has gone into the mountains to die.”  She smiled.  “We are told to go back to our homes, that we must depend upon ourselves this winter.”  Her face softened a moment.  “At least the Lord Fox tended our needs.”  She shrugged.  “But now he is gone, and another madman is in his place.  The others of my kin have not come yet.  It would be a kindness to be able to take them away from here – to the lowlands?”
Zale nodded again.  “I have agreed to the deal.  We need food and firewood.  And this mule of yours.  Quickly, woman.”  He and Calle waited impatiently for the woman.  When she returned, it was with two heavily-laden packs.  She thrust the packs at them.  “Get the wood from the shed – next to the barn.  The mule is inside the barn.”
They made their way around the back of the house to the barn, pulled open the door.  Inside was a single mule; it raised its head at their entry.  Calle grumbled under his breath, but went to retrieve the beast.  It followed dutifully, allowed itself to be weighted with firewood.  Soon they were off again, pausing only to strip the war horse of its saddle and blankets, adding the wool blankets to the mule’s pack. 

A coolness in his bones woke Lord Fox, prodded him back onto his feet.  He stretched awkwardly; the hours of sleep had only cramped his shoulders, not rested him at all.  He shrugged out the worst of the pain and picked up his almost deflated pack.  He had little enough time before dark to reach the highest peak; he peered into the afternoon light, fixing his eyes on the last and highest spot in the range.  Only a short distance – as a bird might fly – separated this peak from the highest, but it would take him several days’ hard travel to get there.  He shouldered his pack and set out, half-sliding down the bare rock of the second highest peak.  He cursed it softly as he walked, naming it in his own mind the Peak of Whispering Doubt, and swore he would see it leveled.

Before the next day was out the storms were returning.  The winds whipped at him, tearing at his coat and his pack until the hood of his coat shredded and the pack-straps broke.  The pack went tumbling off into the wind, dropping from the mountainside.  Fox watched it fall with hot eyes, without the will to curse the wind. 
He turned his eyes to the tallest peak.  In his mind it was the Peak of Three Darks, and only part of him laughed at the name.  His sword was all that remained, and he held it tight in half-frozen hands, using it to pull himself along.  The hem of his coat battered at his legs, but he barely felt the whip-like sting. 
His body was thin, and his face thinner.  More than ever he resembled the fox they named him for, and more than ever his eyes burned gold and green.  Still he kept his beard neat, his mustaches long but well-tended.  He pulled his hood closer and stared blankly down at the lands below.  The snows had returned, but here he was seemingly above them; nothing but bare rock and frozen black dirt stood above him.  Below the world was white, and he could see smoke below, marking where the people were moving back out into the High Mountains.  There was not remembrance in his gaze, only the fox-fire.
He turned his back to the lower lands and began moving again.  He had reached the slope of the highest peak when the snows began to fall, whipped by the wind into a living thing.  Peering through the snows at the final peak, he bared his teeth.  To climb he needed both hands, and cast his sword into the winds, ignoring its fall.  He dug into the rocky soil with both gloved hands, pulled himself up the slope, his boots finding purchase on frozen stones.  A darker patch at the summit was his goal.

Calle and Zale found a single corpse lying in the snow.  The animals had already moved further down into the inhabited lands, so had not been at the body.  They rolled the body over, and despite the broken bones could recognize the face of Aviles.  His coat was white and gray fur, with great brown patches where he had bled.  They left him where he lay, noting the neatly severed rope about his waist.
“We’ll never spot him if he wears the same kind of coat.”  Zale’s words were soft, more to himself than to his companion. 
Calle shook his head.  “We know where he is going.  If he meant to conquer each in turn, he will have reached for the third Dark already,” Calle said, tugging at the mule’s halter.
“Then I hope he’s not found it.”  Zale sighed and shaded his eyes to look up into the mountains.  “We’ll head for the highest peak – ignore the others. That’s where he’ll have gone.”
They changed their course, abandoning the dead man to the weather.  Snow began to drift around them; they walked on, heedless.  Only at nightfall did they stop to make camp, and were moving again before dawn. 

Lord Fox huddled below a boulder embedded in the summit.  Sheltered from the wind, he took stock of his surroundings.  In the center of the peak a hole gaped; the wind whipped at his hood, keeping him from a clear view into the hole.  The sun slid slowly away from the sky, dropping to its nightly resting place, and as it did the winds lifted, easing the sharpness of the cold.  He lifted his head from his chest and sniffed the air; more snow would fall soon enough.  His hands were half-frozen beneath his coat, the gloves torn from climbing the last peak.  Here only the one boulder and the hole offered shelter.  In his mind he knew he must wait; he could not face the three darks until night was full, until no light showed in the skies.  He bowed his head again and waited.
The first night there were stars in the sky, and a full moon above the peak.  Lord Fox dug deeper into the frozen ground and waited.  In late afternoon of the following day, snow began to fall, the clouds growing heavier and closer.  He grinned to himself in the growing darkness.  Under his coat he flexed his fingers, waiting for full darkness and the three Darks.

Calle and Zale pushed on through the falling snow, refusing to turn back.  They did not halt for the night, for the highest peak was close at hand now.  There were no lights above, no signs of life.  Still they continued, hoping to find their lord before he found the three Darks.
“Why Aviles?” Calle called to his companion.  “Why take him along at all?”  He chewed a piece of jerked meat as he walked, half-leaning on the mule.  “Lord Fox has never trusted Aviles.”
“Perhaps that was why, then.  Take those you do not trust,” Zale replied, his voice distant.  He looked above them, at the low clouds descending onto the highest peak of the mountains.  “But if the woman was right, he did not take them all.”  He frowned, pulled his hood up about his face.  “Someone remained behind to take command.” 
Calle looked back down the mountain at the smoke rising from Fox’s Den.  “When we find out who-“
“It must wait.”  Zale’s voice held a sudden urgency.  Calle turned back, followed his pointing finger.  Above them, a flare of light, and then abrupt darkness, leaving an echo in their eyes.  Both men threw their weight against the mule’s reins, then hastily unloaded it.  They had little enough wood now; they could carry it with ease, and their food took but little space.  Calle slapped the mule on the shoulder, urging it to return to its former owner.  The beast needed little goading and turned to pick its way home.  The two men used spears to help keep their balance now, shoving their way up the mountainside.  Zale shook his head at new thoughts as his legs grew cold in the deepening snow.  Lord Fox was their lord, and they were sworn to help him, no matter the cost of battle. 

Fox jumped to his feet, stumbled, caught himself on the boulder.  The spray of light vanished as though it had not been, but his eyes remembered the sight, led him unerringly in the pitch black night to the hole gaping in the center of the summit.  He knelt, touched the rim lightly, found it warm to the touch.
He crept down into the hole, feeling the earth grow warm about him.  His hands and feet began to tingle, as though he climbed down sharpened daggers, but still it was completely dark.  The hole came to an end, widening out.  He halted, put both hands out, felt nothing.
“Where are you, my Darks?” he called cheerfully, his voice a growl.  “I have come to find you, all this way.  Come to me.”
His voice echoed, and he could sense a cavern around him, warm enough to make him sweat beneath the ragged coat.  He shed the coat and stood on shaking legs.  His arms and legs burned, and he could barely feel his fingers curve into claws.  Lord Fox stripped the shredded gloves from his hands and stood, waiting.
Something brushed past him in the darkness; he spun and slashed out with a bare hand.  He connected with the object, but felt only a cold burning in his fingers.  He smelled dirt, and stone, but nothing else, heard nothing.  Another object struck him a glancing blow, spinning him about.  He fell to fighting with a howl.

He climbed the pile of foes to stand erect.  The chill was growing on him again, but still he saw nothing but darkness.  The movement around him had long since stopped; he panted, shivered in the sudden gust of wind.  He could now feel the coolness of snow drifting onto his shoulders.  He scrambled from the hole to crouch in the open, letting the wind blow the heat away from him.  There was a lightening of the air around him.  The Dark was fleeing, and he had won.  He alone had defeated the Darks that threatened his people and his lands.

Calle saw him first, a slash of bright blue and green against the dark stone.  He abandoned his pack in the snow and crawled up the steep slope to his lord’s side.  Zale, stooping to lift the fallen pack, looked up at his companion’s silence.
“Calle?” he called.
The former scout lifted Lord Fox to a sitting position, felt the man’s cheek, his chest.  After several heartbeats, he shook his head.  “Nothing.”  The word slid down to Zale like a stone.
“Then he found the final Dark,” Zale whispered.  He dragged himself to the summit, stood over the rock-filled hole.  “He defeated two, but the final….”
Calle nodded, took off his own stolen coat.  He wrapped Lord Fox in the coat, added the horse blanket atop the coat, binding them with climbing rope.  Silently the two men maneuvered their fallen Lord into the stone-filled hole, lay stones atop his body.
“Not much of a den,” Calle muttered.  He took the book from his tunic, opened it to a marked page.  “Lord, we were late.”  He spoke to the body buried under stone.  “We might have together defeated this Dark.”
“Or have gone together to the last conflict,” Zale added in a whisper.  He reached over, tore the page from the book, read it aloud, the wind carrying his voice to the lands.  “’The dark of the day is the palest of darks – the first and the least of all.  When all are abroad, yet it is dark, this is the first.  The dark where man’s soul turns without, to seek truth from others.  This is the dark of the storm.
“’The second and middle dark – when few are abroad, when the crimes and loves of man take over.  The dark where man’s soul turns within, to seek truth from the self.  This is the dark of winter’s night.
“’The third dark – last and most powerful – is the deepest dark.  It is the dark wherein no one is abroad save one, and he alone can see.  The dark where man’s soul turns away, to look to the gods for truth.  This is the dark of the grave.’”