by C. J. Aaron
THE WEIGHT OF DARKNESS
©2021 CJ AARON
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Contents
ALSO IN SERIES
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
FROM THE PUBLISHER
About the Author
ALSO IN SERIES
A TRIBUTE AT THE GATES
FULCRUM OF LIGHT
GHOSTS OF THE ERYLN
THE DEFIANCE OF VIM
THE WEIGHT OF DARKNESS
Prologue
Lord Kagran cursed as the wine sloshed from his crystal goblet. The heavy crimson liquid rolled down his shimmering, velvety garments. He swatted at the offending beads before they could soak into his opulent finery. The string of profanities, seemingly unbefitting for a man of his station, carried on in excess.
“Curse these roads,” Lord Kagran steamed, brimming with anger at the innocent affront of the drink.
The servant seated silently to his side in the spacious carriage hurried to dab at the liquid with a clean cloth. His eyes were filled with a cultivated fear as his master continued to vent. The young man, seated stoically at his side, merely grinned at the scene. The expression quickly vanished at the vehement glare from the lord.
“Mind yourself, my son,” he hissed. “Lest you forget, Tev, it is through my will alone that you will one day have a tribute ripening for the Harvest.”
Kagran’s mood had been foul since the king’s missive had arrived over a moon past. He glared across the carriage at his youngest son, who now averted his eyes after his father’s chiding. Neither he nor any members of his vaunted house had any tributes readied for this cycle’s Harvest, so the lengthy journey to Cadsae Proper was an inconvenient irregularity.
Marching at the head of his house’s army was another.
The most recent troubling word had come by way of the king’s councilor, delivered by hand. In fact, the displeasing string of missives from the lord he owed his fealty heaped a copious amount of anxiety enough to addle his daily activities.
The wagon skipped again as it rolled over the uneven road.
Rumors of discontent, while ever present, had been circulating with greater frequency and far less secrecy. Like the irregular winds at the head of a storm, they warned of a coming gale. Why then would the king summon the forces of all the loyal houses to Cadsae Proper? It was true, the port city upheld the hallowed distinction as the guardian of The Stocks, yet it was a remote corner of the kingdom bounded by the impenetrable palisades.
Nothing lay beyond but the wastes of the Outlands.
The orders from King Lunek the Third demanded a showing of the full force of each of the great houses. Lord Kagran had ruled over his territory for more cycles than he could count. The Blessing of the King, a gift from his father nearly two and a half centuries earlier, had sustained him far longer than his natural life expectancy. He had grown old, though in appearance, he did not look the part. He had grown wealthy and wise.
He had grown ruthless.
He was well aware that he commanded the largest force aside from the soldiers who fought under the standard of the king. No, he would not leave his house unprotected in his absence. Though his number mimicked his full force, over fifteen thousand strong, many were little more than reserves or conscripts only months into their service. His forces remaining at home were well entrenched, fortified, well trained and provisioned. They’d allow no invading troops to enter his lands.
Had the king known? Word had reached his ear of the disruption of the annual Harvest. They’d passed scores of citizens in the previous days, all bearing a similar version, though likely exaggerated. The tales were unbelievable at best. Stories of magic. Mythical warriors who cast fire from their hands and fought with blades burning with green flames. A large plume of smoke had appeared on the southern horizon earlier in the morning.
The march to Cadsae Proper was to take them weeks, close to three-quarters of a moon. His officers had their work cut out for them training the army. They’d accomplish the task, or pay the price for failure.
He suffered no failure.
The wagon ground to a slow halt as the steady sound of fast-approaching hoofbeats rumbled closer. The wagon shifted as his personal guards took their position before his door. The thunder of hooves slowed.
“My lord.” The voice that greeted him was familiar. A captain of his forces beckoned.
Shifting the plush curtains aside, he glared out at the interruption, squinting as the rays of the setting sun to the west shone directly in his eyes.
“A messenger, my lord,” his captain continued. “He brings word from Cadsae Proper.”
Lord Kagran’s interest was piqued. He shuffled his frame across the comfortably padded seats, easing the door open, alighting from the wagon with assistance from his personal guards standing at a
ttention on either side. He heard the soft padding of his son’s feet hit the ground behind him a moment later.
Along the flank of his captain’s horse, a single rider remained mounted. The messenger was filthy, his uniform and skin caked with a thick layer of dust. His mount foamed at the mouth, its massive chest heaving with every breath. The rider was young, dressed in the telltale uniform of the king’s soldiers. Through the dust and grime, worry was clearly written across the young man’s face.
“What news?” he snapped. He saw no sense in disguising his irritation.
“Cadsae Proper burns, my lord,” the messenger stammered. Clearly shaken, he stumbled through his message as best he could. “The city is lost.”
“Lost?” Kagran boomed as he cut off the rattled soldier. His impatience got the better of his moderation. Internally, the hint of excitement blossomed. A lingering yearning, one he doubted that any in his position could honestly deny.
“The king’s army. The Lei Guard. All accompanied His Majesty. There is no force of man that could have overtaken them.” He scoffed at the statement.
Through the coating of dust, the color blanched from the face of the young rider.
Lord Kagran’s excitement swelled.
“It was no army of man. It was the beasts from the Outlands. The Horde, my lord,” he whispered. “The king. The population of Cadsae Proper. They’re dead.”
Kagran felt his heart race as the information settled in. He let his eyes go wide; an astonished gasp slipped from his lips—one that he hoped didn’t sound forced. He covered his mouth with one hand, resting his other on the guard at his side as he let his knees quiver from the apparent shock.
“No,” he gasped, doing his best to feign true remorse and utter devastation. “The Lei Guard rode with the king. The army. What of them?”
If the guard noted his forced emotions, he showed no sign of surprise. The tingle of anticipation swelled from his core. Though the messenger’s tale had likely been well rehearsed over the long miles, his voice still displayed the tone of disbelief.
“The demons showed no remorse. They massacred the civilians, yet the army remained intact,” he answered. “The beasts followed the will of the king. The Lei Guard held them in check. The demons preyed only on those who abandoned their ranks.”
“There have been no sightings in over a millennium,” Lord Kagran gasped. There was no need to feign disguise at the admission. The facts were as unbelievable as they were shocking. “Where are the demons now?”
“They returned to the Outlands,” he continued. “There are few who witnessed the battle before the Pining Gates. The avenues run with rivers of blackened blood. The bodies of tens of thousands of the demons choke the road.”
Kagran felt his heart accelerate with excitement.
“The king is lost? Are you certain?” He gasped. “If not by their hands, how did he fall?”
The messenger shook his head adamantly.
“Aye. That he is dead there is no question,” he offered. “The same warriors who disrupted the Harvest held the gates. Rumors of their powers then grossly underestimated their true strength. To a man, the Lei Guard were incapacitated. Not dead, but unconscious. None know who they are. They collected the bodies on wagons, leading them into The Stocks.”
Though the words of the messenger rang with truth, the rumors of the powers had to be exaggerated. His mind dwelled on the possibilities for only a moment before shifting to that of his own desires. His heart raced at the fortuitous shift in his fortune.
“Find accommodations for the messenger. See that he and his horse are rested and well provisioned.” Lord Kagran turned to one of his personal guards. The man responded without question, ushering the road-weary messenger toward the rear of their great column. Lord Kagran watched them depart for several moments, the wicked grin fighting to spread across his face.
“See that he carries no further messages,” Kagran whispered to the remaining guard at his side. The man nodded, his face impassive as he stalked after the retreating rider and escort. His hand fell ominously to the hilt of his sword.
The eternal reign of King Lunek the Third was no more.
His feared henchmen, the dreaded Lei Guard, were no more.
The tributes were lost, the element who secured their temporary freedom slunk further into The Stocks.
The Kingdom of Damaris would need a voice. It would look to leadership. No house alone could match the strength of his army.
“Captain,” Lord Kagran bellowed. There was no longer the need to disguise the look of greed that had overtaken his face. “The port city is lost. Rally the troops. We march on Leremont.
“We march on the capital.”
Chapter 1
The wind blew from the southeast, striking his back as he leaned against the cold stone railing. From his perch high atop the guard tower that sprouted from the corner of the southern and western palisades, Ryl’s view to the west was uninhibited. His eyes cautiously scanned the horizon.
There were no signs of motion.
It had become the repetitive norm though the ever-present worry remained a lingering discomfort. His vision rolled across the fertile landscape, newly illuminated by the morning sun. As it had done daily for the last moon, only the motion of the clouds overhead disturbed the still of the terrain. His vigil had been consistent, though thankfully presented nothing new.
The vibrant colors, the healthy greenery of the fertile, wild land to the west had been trampled into a brown slurry of mud and waste. The multitude of clawed feet had scarred the earth, painting a massive swath of disturbed soil that stretched across to the horizon.
Ryl still gaped in awe at the sheer numbers that had caused the destruction. The overwhelming force had been choked by the close quarters of Cadsae Proper. They had been slaughtered by the thousands upon the avenue before the Pining Gates. His stomach churned at the thought of the rivers of blackened blood and indescribable filth that had streamed down the crude gutters of the devastated city.
An errant gust of wind pushed from the sea to the south. The brine from the water was still strong here, yet there was nothing it could do to wash free the traces of the putrid scent. The stench of the Horde still lingered. The odor of death accompanied every breath. Though the fires had long subsided, a hint of ash remained.
The combination was revolting. Both in odor and in the memories it conjured. Ryl guessed that the cleansing scent of the sea would forever share a tragic bond within the recesses of his mind. The calming aromas of the salty air would be forever tainted by the devastation that had defined the last moon.
The resulting scents of Cadsae Proper would live on long after the decimated city was rebuilt.
Every howl of the wind sent a shiver down his spine. Ryl recalled every gut-wrenching scream that had echoed through the night as the Horde butchered all who had failed to heed their warnings. He squeezed his eyes shut, pleading with his mind to purge the images of the massacre left in their wake.
For a time, they had labored to cleanse the city. For days, the armies worked hand in hand to remove the dead, both human and inhuman alike. Burials were largely out of the question. By and large, the remains were nondescript, only identifiable by species. Funeral pyres had dominated the great markets of the ports. It was with great remorse and much deliberation that the decision was made to allow the flames to take the city with them. There was no time to clean the area with any proper care. The fears of disease were too concrete. Every stone walkway was stained with blood. Every paver, a reminder of a life lost. A life allowed to be butchered by the king.
The toll was too great.
The somber silence lasted for days as those who could bear the sight watched the once great city burn to the ground.
The guilt and sorrow were a new, persisting weight. Ryl felt the weight, the human costs of his decisions, crush down on him. Yes, the tributes had been granted a measure of time to recover. The withered force who’d rallied to his cause had b
een saved, yet the betrayal and the loss of one in particular stung with a strikingly potent force.
Kaep.
Ryl could still feel her presence. He closed his eyes, picturing her lithe frame. Her auburn hair burned with amber flames as it reflected the light of the setting sun. Her physical features painted an image that he’d never forget. His left hand rubbed gently over his tattooed right arm, brushing cautiously over the handprint that had been added by her touch.
The welcome sensation, the familiar warmth associated with proximity to others with alexen in their blood, blossomed as his fingers crossed the mark. The feeling was potent, laced with a jolt of energy that begged for release. The flash of her glow, brilliant and golden, the telltale signature was clear.
He opened his eyes, exhaling a long, slow breath. The crackling energy that had flooded his core faded to a tolerable measure. Ryl held up his left arm, examining the tattooed sun around the crook of his arm. The glow was subtle, barely perceptible in the afternoon sun that seemed to pulse from his arm.
The rumbling sound of hooves snapped Ryl from his introspection. With one final calculating glance across the still expanse of the horizon, he descended from his station atop the guard tower.
“A rider approaches, sir.” A young guard, dressed in the drab uniform of the Cadsae Proper guard, met him as he exited to the walkway atop the western palisade. The soldier was a familiar face, among the initial group who defected with Le’Dral during the uprising at the Harvest.
