Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1)

by Kameron A. Williams

  “And you embraced the man as your elder brother and legitimate prince,” said Thae, ever smiling, “and gave him a horse and rode with him through the northern woods.”

  “A ride he never came back from,” Tharid added with a smirk.

  Mother and son both laughed for several moments, and Thae said, “See, it was not only me. You’ve helped greatly.”

  “Aye, but they have been your plans, and your ideas, and there are many other times than those. You are clever and you see things coming before I, and you always know how to handle them.” Tharid brushed his hand across his mother’s pale cheek and kissed her. “You’ve kept us in power.”

  Thae’s eyes flickered.

  “But Father doesn’t understand such things,” Tharid went on. “So let us make the decision ourselves next time. I’m afraid one day we won’t like the answer we get from him.”

  “Aye, son,” Thae agreed. “These kinds of decisions must not be left to your father.”

  Tharid pulled the large comb from his mother’s crown all the way down through the hair that rested on the ground in one fluid stroke, coming to a squat at the end of the motion. “Snowstone is great because Father is mighty,” he said, standing back up to repeat the motion. “If he was wise it would be even greater.”

  Thae smiled at her son’s words. “You are wise. Even in your youth you are wise.”

  “You flatter me, Mother.”

  Thae patted down her hair with her hands. “Have I told you that you will make a fine king?”

  “Aye, Mother, many times,” Tharid said, “though I never tire of hearing it.”

  Thae beamed. “How does it look?” She stepped forward and turned slowly.

  “Fit for a queen.”

  Thae smiled as she walked over to her chamber window. “Banas and Krin are waiting in the yard. Go on down so I can watch you again.”

  “Do I improve?” Tharid waited with a grin for the answer he knew would follow.

  “With every lesson,” said the queen, nodding. “There was a time I thought Krin was the best man to swing a sword in Snowstone. Now I know it is you. As for Banas the Brute, if you can stand against him, you can stand against any man.” And Tharid did more than stand against him. He outmaneuvered him. Banas, big, burly, and positively intimidating to look upon, was his father’s most trusted retainer. His skin was dark as coal and etched generously with deep scars. His face was ever grim, eyes cold and mean. He had fought under Tiomot’s command since they were both young men of the Highlands, and now he was a lord of Tiomot’s making with his own castle in Sirith and some two- hundred odd men at his command.

  Tharid parried a blade, shuffled out of the way of another, and darted in quickly, touching his sword’s tip to Banas’s ribs. A few movements later that same edge tapped against the other man’s neck—Krin, who was captain of the castle guard and had been appointed such when the previous captain Harol was killed over a decade ago. He was short and lean, but strong as an ox and dangerously adept with any manner of blade one was fool enough to let him get his hands on.

  Both men had been raised in battle, nurtured on spilled blood and cracked bones, made hard and rugged by years of war. Even so, the prince held them off, and not by overpowering them, being a lean lad himself, but by gracefully out dancing them.

  Tharid’s body moved with the sword, as if he was a part of the blade, swinging it with as much precision as his own arm. He measured his distance perfectly and kept agile, and never wasted energy. He only moved to strike when he was sure of an opening. His dance was fluid and strong, more than a little graceful, and above all—dangerous.

  “What have I told you?” said the prince, stepping back from the men with his sword still stretched out in front of him. “My father cares not if I’m hurt, so don’t hold back!”

  “We don’t hold back, my prince,” Krin insisted. A bead of sweat trickled between his brows and rolled down the bridge of his nose.

  Banas and Krin had always claimed that they never held back when dueling with the prince, and Tharid believed them. He had threatened to beat them, expel them from service, starve them, and in some cases kill them if he found they were taking it easy on him during practice. But he believed they fought their best, for in the past he had been injured more than a few times for failing to block one of their blades. Months ago, he had been completely stunned and had the wind knocked out of him when Banas’s dull blade had struck him hard in his stomach, and some years ago he was unable to use his right hand for a month when his wrist had been smashed by Krin the same way. He was grateful for every injury.

  The men swung their weapons with enough force to break bone, but Tharid deflected their blows at the perfect angle, or shuffled his feet until he was just out of reach. He had become something of a master at measuring distance, knowing to not move too far out of the way when evading, but just out of reach, so that with barely a step in he was in perfect range for his counter. Everything was perfectly calculated—and quick. He was a master of the dance, outsmarting the men with his footwork, and luring them in to his perfectly placed and perfectly measured blows.

  They dueled until he had tired both men out, and Tharid looked up to his mother’s chamber window to see the woman smiling. He had not been bested even one time today, and his mother had seen it all.

  5

  “THEY MUST BE ALIVE AND untainted,” the shadow’s words echoed, “And they must be beautiful. Are you able to discern this?”

  What a foolish question from the Condor. Why wouldn’t he know the face of beauty? After all, he had lain with many beautiful women—albeit, not by their choice. He was a savage indeed, but still a man. It was true he didn’t live by the rules—rules of men nor rules of gods—only the rule of Ozgan that said he could do what he wanted and kill anyone who didn’t like it. Even so, he was no stranger to beauty. In fact, he admired it. As for wickedness he believed all men had the intent for it, though only some had the means to carry it out. He was just more honest than the rest of them—and a lot more capable. Nothing more.

  The woman was terribly afraid, and he could feel it. How he enjoyed that feeling. Fear wafted from her body like a burning fire, crippling her every movement, causing her body to shake, her eyes to shoot wide and glaze over. She was consumed with it.

  Her hand trembled as she clumsily pulled an arrow from her shoulder quiver and knocked it. She shot it as fast as she could, but he was more than ready for it. He turned his cleaver flat and blocked it with the broad blade. The woman drew again as he marched her down, and Ozgan blocked the shot just as easily as the first. Her time was up.

  She turned to run. The side of the cleaver’s blade struck hard against her head, knocking her into the grass. For a moment he forgot exactly why he was trying to catch her, and raised his heavy weapon to strike her again. Just before he brought his weapon down he remembered his instructions for the job. He remembered why he couldn’t kill this woman, why he couldn’t rape her after. “Must be alive and untainted,” he reminded himself aloud. “Alive and untainted.”

  The brute smiled after she had been completely bound. “Must be alive and untainted,” he said again, his eyes traveling over her unmoving form. How he admired beautiful things.

  The wagon wasn’t far off, and Ozgan grabbed the woman by the ankles and dragged her to it. It was not a day after meeting with the Condor that he had spotted her riding the fields of Vlysa alone. He had kept an eye on her for hours, leaving his wagon and mule in a secluded place while he stalked her quietly on foot. When she had dismounted and was far off from her horse for the second time he knew he must act. The first time there had been people nearby, and while normally he would happily engage any fool who tried to interfere with his barbarism—be it guards or common folk—the Condor had been rather adamant about keeping things quiet on this mission. “I do job good,” he had told the Condor before setting out. “If I’m seen, I kill who sees.” He couldn’t risk having someone see him and escape, and he was on foot,
while the folk who had been passing by were mounted.

  After placing his catch in the covered wagon, Ozgan grabbed the reins of his mule and led the animal back towards the road. He had seen many fine women in the villages around Vaul, which was far enough from the capital to not draw too much attention. This was a bit like hunting, except he wasn’t allowed to kill—he was barely allowed to hurt. While he hoped someone would interfere during one of his captures—so he could kill them—he knew it was better if no one saw him at all. Often times just coming into town provided him some sort of conflict as most people were threatened by his very presence. He was once commanded to leave an inn in Karthin for staring at the barmaids and making them afraid. A company of Snowguards and townsmen charged in and surrounded him because, as said by the innkeeper, “He produced a look that made it unclear as to whether he wished to know them or to have them as food.” He left that night, but only after leaving the place quiet with wet, red walls. It had been nearly a year since that he wasn’t of a mind to risk it by traveling north of Blackwood.

  The wagon creaked as the mule pulled it down the road towards Karthin, with Ozgan’s firm hand on the reins while the other gripped a torch. The night was black save for the lustrous sliver of a yellow crescent moon and a few twinkling stars. Ozgan marched down the road with strides long and strong, bringing him to a speed that made even his mule pick up its pace. It almost looked as though he was dragging both the animal and the wagon—the way he was hunched forward, charging violently on while the mule ever quickened its step to keep up.

  Amid the dark, a bright flicker of orange caught his eye, dancing between the trees afar off in the woods along the road. He put out his torch and slowed his pace. Bringing the wagon to a creep, he moved forward quietly, and soon after brought his mule to a halt on the roadside and fastened the reins to a young tree. He would not risk scaring these campers off and having no sport. He would much rather surprise them—scare them.

  The night was still and quiet as Ozgan crept towards the orange light. Shifting his massive weight as carefully as he could, he moved in on the camp with darkness as his only cover. How he hated this sneaking about—this crawling and careful stepping that reminded him too much of the Clouds. Those cliffs were not at all fit for the likes of giants like him; he couldn’t roam and stomp and crush. He was the first one to desert.

  He could now see the men clearly. There were only two of them, sitting across from one another with a fire between them. Ozgan changed his direction to approach their flank, quietly pulling the leather strap up over his head and lifting the massive cleaver-sword off his back. Holding it low, he crept towards them, hauling himself between trees, over stones, through the brush—and upon a branch that cracked out loud into the night.

  “Who’s there?” One of the men hopped up, peering in Ozgan’s direction.

  With a smile, his cleaver raised above his shoulder, he stepped out from the trees into the fire’s light. “I’m here.”

  The men scrambled.

  Ozgan had one slain in an instant, lunging forward with his great sword and dividing the man at the waist. The other who had darted for his weapon, froze upon seeing the bloody remnants of his slain companion sprawled about the ground, and ran for it. Ozgan stomped after him. He would never allow an escape.

  The brute wound back his arm and heaved his cleaver at the runaway. The weapon cut through the air with one swift and violent rotation, flying into the man’s back and pushing him forward as the steel sunk through. He was swept into a tree trunk and pinned, leaving the blade stuck firm into the wood of the tree and the camper mangled. Blood crept into the soil.

  Ozgan surveyed the campground: a goatskin rug, a few small blankets, the fire, and the meager meat of a small hare that was roasting on a spit. The brute scowled. Such a small meal would only make him hungrier. He would save that tiny thing for his captive.

  After marching back for the wagon and leading his mule to the campsite, he swept his blade through the trees, cutting several green saplings. Hacking down the branches into smaller parts, the brute lashed them together, creating a parallel framework of bars, and set his crudely fashioned grill atop the two forked shafts that once held the spit.

  He then approached one of the corpses, pulled up the arm of the dead man and wedged his cleaver’s blade against the shoulder. Pressing down with the weapon, he gave the arm a yank, plucking the limb from the corpse. He removed the other limbs as well, peeled off the clothing and set them upon his wooden grill.

  Ozgan took a seat and rested himself as the meat roasted. He had done too much stalking today, too much creeping. He shut his eyes for what felt like a minute when the smell of charred wood and cooked flesh signaled it was time for dinner. Ozgan turned his cleaver flat, held it below his grill and rolled off one of the limbs onto it with a stick. He let the flesh cool for a few moments before shoving it in his mouth. This kind of meat was his favorite.

  6

  THE CONDORS’ HOMES IN THE CLIFFS were nothing more than nests, tiny dwellings bedded with thatch that were scattered among the crevices of the highest peaks. They had built their homes like the ancients atop the bluffs of the higher cliffs, and directly below were all other buildings of import, such as: the armory, the food keep, and the shops of the clan’s various craftsmen. The lower point of their city was below and between the great spires of rocky mounts. In the gorges and canyons below sat the common areas of the city where there was the most level ground, much of which was used to contain the herds.

  The ancients had structured the city strategically.

  Their homes were in the highest and most secluded of places, and they could only be reached by other members of the clan, for only the Condor could maneuver those cliffs. To an outsider, their village in the high city was inaccessible, and, provided they could even see the dwellings, trying to reach them would be gambling with their lives.

  Even their buildings in the low city were somewhat protected from outsiders, though not nearly as much as the village. The canyons and gorges on the ground were the only areas of the City in the Clouds that could be easily traveled by intruders, but nothing of value lay in those areas except for the herds, and in the event of a battle the mountain goats would be led from the ram’s gorge up into the hills.

  Living like the ancients had preserved their society for thousands of years. There was never a battle at their doorstep; there was rarely a battle at all. They killed their enemies in the shadows, and few believed they existed. They had remained secluded from the rest of the world until recently when Anza came to power. And so it was, now, that everything they did was to forsake their ancient city.

  Stroan opened his eyes. The sunlight peered into his dark cleft in the rock and brightened the aerie. He had left his flap folded back a bit to make sure he didn’t oversleep, and he awoke squinting as the bright rays crept under the folds of the hide door and enveloped his face. It was early when he made it back to the Clouds, too early to visit Anza, so he had scaled to his aerie in the high city and lain down for a few hours. But he wouldn’t delay any longer. His reports to Anza were crucial in assuring the deceits they had subtly sculpted would bring them closer to their promised paradise—a royal life in a coveted and occupied land.

  She had planted this idea in their minds when she first came to rule nearly twenty years ago, and it had sprouted in their hearts like a germinating seed. They had embraced her with open hearts and high hopes, clinging to the possibility there was something more in store for them all. Something better.

  “A descent from the clouds,” she called it, as if giving it a name would somehow make it more important. And somehow it did. Every move they now made was to abandon the City in the Clouds and reclaim Snowstone, the land that had been theirs in old times according to Condor legend—a legend that Anza ever reminded them of. To rally their morale, and inspire their cunning, she told the tale of their people’s origin, how they occupied the land now known as Snowstone. For years they’d lived
in great prosperity, then, they’d lost a war with the mainreachers and were forced to retreat to the hills, claiming them as their new home. She was crafty, but far too elegant to be duplicitous among her own people; to the contrary, she always said exactly what she meant. All of the Condor loved her. She had given them ambition, something to strive for. She had given them her dream and they had made it their own.

  But Stroan had paid a price for her vision, for he didn’t enjoy the freedom that other Condor may have enjoyed under a different ruler—or the freedom that other Condor enjoyed that weren’t of such high standing in the clan. She had sent him to diverse lands: sending messages, having people killed, delivering gold, and whatever else she needed done to fulfill her plan. She held his life in the palm of her hand, and if that wasn’t bad enough, she constantly, albeit, unknowingly, reminded him that she was the reason him and Yuna could not yet be together.

  Of all the Condor, Anza had chosen him to report to her of Yuna’s findings. Today, like so many other days she would ask him, “What news have you from Yuna? What has she found out?” And every time he answered her he acted as if it were nothing at all, as if it didn’t bother him one bit that his love was in Tiomot’s bedchamber, giving her body to that animal so they could get the information they needed. It made him furious, yet every time he delivered the news he stood there looking unconcerned—calm and strong in front of the matriarch.

  Stroan sighed as he lifted his head from his bedding of thatch and sat up. Taking a long, deep breath he swept his blanket to the side and crawled out of the aerie. He stood up and stretched out a bit. Looking down upon the world, he let the frigid wind do its work in awakening him fully. He never grew tired of gazing down from their village in the sky. Snowstone was the most interesting to look at for there were so many structures, and while the other cities’ buildings seemed like nothing more than faint specks in the distance, Snowstone was vivid and clear, rich and inspiring. Everything looked so big, because it was so close, and the castle seemed like a great spire of white stone rising out of the ground. Stroan saw it as a majestic mountain peak, seeming so close to them high in the sky that he almost wanted to jump to it. Sirith looked like a few small pebbles scattered outside the forest, and farther down, the structures of Vlysa were tiny black grains of sand scattered over a few small fields.