Down the Dark Path
Tyrants of the Dead – Book I
J Edward Neill
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Cover Design by Amanda Makepeace
Interior Graphic by Eileen Herron
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2013
Tessera Guild Publishing
To G, who might always wonder where his namesake came from. To C, who might never appreciate how thankful I am. And to the denizens of GND, who might never know they were the kindling of my fire.
Table of Contents
The Dark Banner Sails
The Red-Haired Girl
Leaving
The Restless
Winter
The Message
A Walk in the Woods
A Sanctuary for Swords
The Pale
Emun’s Table
Secrets
Promises
Three Days
Treading Lightly
The Bog
Rain
Whispers from the West
Three Blasts
The Only
Doom
Barrok
Black Tide
Blood
Jaded
The Dark Path
Awakening
A New Oath
Rebirth
Watchful
The Little Man
The Breaking
The Long Way Around
Glooms
Verod
The Fey
Path of Most Resistance
The Graveless Guardian
Lamb of Furyon
The Shadower
The Orb of Souls
Scorn of Mooreye
Bogheart
Wanderer of the Moor
House Thure
The Bottom
Thirty
Knight of Two Faces
The Pale Tower
Trials of Niviliath
No Turning Back
Five Brave Fools
Illyoc
The Vanguard
Blood Rain
The Apprentice
Damsel of Darkness
End of the Beginning
Ashes
Dust
Ghost of Mormist
Frost
The World Left Behind
I’ve seen the Ur sphere. I know what it does, what it feels like to stand beside it. It’s the unspeakable shadow, the slow drip of murder into every man’s heart. It will grow as it slays, corrupting everything until its evil broth swims to the sky’s threshold. It’s ambition. It’s betrayal. It’s the oldest weapon of the oldest civilization. It will never stop, not until every living man and woman is in its thrall. And now I know it is found. Your foes, the ones you’ve yet to meet, have resurrected it.
I can undo this thing. There are few capable souls besides me, and none so willing. With time and luck I will reverse this doom, but you must first call upon me. You must give me food, shelter, and trust, lest the enemy strike me down before it’s done. Name me, and I’ll kneel at your door. Invite me inside, and I’ll become your protector, the giver of the only truth that matters. Do not wait to answer this warning, for the enemy stirs even now, drinking death to make war upon your home.
- From Letters to the Lords of Grae, by the warlock Dank
The Dark Banner Sails
Morellellus, oldest harbor of Furyon, was not always so gloomy.
Long ago it had been a simple harbor town, a busy village of mariners and tradesmen with only a half-dozen wharfs and a few hundred chimneys to announce its presence in the world. It had been a happy, hectic place, stuffed to its brim with Furyon’s most colorful people.
But no more.
The rustic dwellings of old were gone now, the remains cast down and buried beneath a newer, sharper age. Where once the old village had slept, there rose thousands of soaring black edifices, a sprawling nest of sharp-shouldered towers stretching like a sea of knives to the sky.
This was the Morellellus of the modern age, bleak and cold and colorless. This was the will of the Emperor.
It was late in the Furyon autumn. Darkness descended early upon the city. The night, heralded by a brooding mass of clouds, crawled across the city, wrenching the sun’s light from the sky. Row after row of dwellings were shrouded in darkness, and the polished stones of each house and every tower settled into shadow. Faceless men in crimson cloaks lit candles in the city’s lanterns, little pale lights which surveyed the streets with ghostly eyes. No markets were open. Every window in the city was closed, every door locked tight. It was the same as all recent nights, for none but a few dared the darkness outside.
On one street, wide and black as a river at dusk, Daćin of Dageni marched beside the Emperor. His boots fell like hammers, ringing against the glasslike stone as he cut through Morellellus’s labyrinth. Before long, he came to the gates of the city’s tallest tower, a dagger of obsidian that might have pierced the moon if it dared dip too low. He ascended the glasslike stairs and entered the tower’s maw, which swallowed him as though he were its long-awaited supper. Not long afterward, he and the Emperor emerged upon the tower’s barren top. He leaned upon the black-toothed crenels and peered over the city, absorbing the spectacular view of the harbor and the sea. The waters were calm and dark, the crescent moon like a pale lantern in an otherwise starless sky. He stood like a king above it all. So high atop the world, no one disturbed him and his master.
No one dared.
Of all the men in Furyon’s warrior caste, none were as formidable as Daćin, or as revered. In a pool of moonlight atop the Emperor’s tower, he seemed a colossus, a beast of muscled shoulders and corded forearms, his red cloak and black hauberk stretched nigh to breaking. He was handsome in a very Furyon way, with smooth olive skin, short black hair, and calm, enigmatic eyes mirroring the nighttime sea. Four years in the war academy and four more in the blood-rutted hills of Davin Kal had not been unkind to him, for no blade had ever touched his flesh.
Standing beside him at the crenels, the Emperor was neither young nor handsome. Chakran, supreme ruler of Furyon, had little use for appearances. His beard was a wild mane of black and grey tendrils, his receding hairline hidden beneath a scarlet skullcap. His demeanor was the antithesis of Daćin’s, for his eyes were always roaming, always searching for something unseen.
“A perfect night, this.” The Emperor’s gaze trailed off into the darkness, the moonlight glimmering in his eyes like two ethereal candles. “I’ve long waited for such a night.”
“As have I,” said Daćin.
“Have you?”
He seldom looked his master in the eye, but on this eve, alone atop the world, Daćin risked a rare glimpse. “You invite so few of us to your tower, Sire. Ever since your summons came, I’ve counted the days.”
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “Do you know why you are here?”
“Everyone knows, Sire. You wish me to sail west. You wish to bring doom upon Graehelm. You need me to do as I always have.”
“And is that all?”
“Yes. War is my duty. I’m a soldier.”
“Oh, but you’re something more.” The Emperor grinned. “It is certain. It is known.” The moonlight brushed the shadows away from Chakran’s eyes, the stars like points of fire in his pupils. “I’ve need of soldiers, but there’s more to it. I require a Furyon of special dominance, one whom all our enemies will kneel before. That’s why you are here, Da�
�in of Dageni. You are this man. You have become what we hoped you would.”
“I don’t understand,” said Daćin.
“You do not know?”
“I make no assumptions.”
The Emperor’s gaze dropped to the sea. He let loose a low, ominous laugh, as though he relished his servant remaining in the dark. “Your modesty is unnecessary. You’ve toiled long enough. Tonight I asked you to join me for no small reason. Those who sit in Malog have long whispered your name in my ear. Champion, they say. Commander, they tell me. And so I’ve decided. All this shall become yours. My army, my fleet, the taking of Furyon’s newest vassal. You shall be my gift to our enemies. When they grovel before us, it’ll be your name ringing eternal in their ears. Not mine, but yours.”
“I didn’t expect this,” said Daćin.
“It has long been obvious to the rest of us. Of all my servants, you must know that you are most capable. Your service in Dageni, your conquering of the Davin Kal; those were your tests. You passed them. You’re ready to become Furyon’s gauntlet, the sword resting on the world’s throat. You’re to be called Commander. Malog has willed it. I’ve no medals to give you, no parades to bleat your name, but you are Commander nonetheless, and shall be until your death.”
“Milord.” He bowed. “I’m grateful.”
“Yes, of course.” Chakran stroked his beard and set his gaze back into the night.
After what seemed an eternity, the Emperor cleared his throat to speak again, wringing his hands as if to shake away an imaginary layer of dust. “There are reasons for this.” His gaze went cold. “I’m not the soldier I used to be. My bones creak when I walk. My sword is too heavy. My armor bursts at the seams. The years in Malog have worn at me. The war begins, and my body has betrayed me. I’m tired, Commander. Planning battles and digging graves for enemies who don’t know they’re dead is a young man’s task. I give it to you in my place. You shall be my sword, the conqueror of the Grae. Such a title will be remembered long from now. I’ll ask only once. Will you do this for me? Will you do this for Furyon?”
“Yes.”
“You will go without fear into war, the last and most binding of all wars?”
“Yes.”
Chakran gazed skyward again, pride burning like hot coals within his eyes. “Then it’s done. No power on earth can deny us. You are my champion. You shall lead us to victory. We leave in two dawns.”
The Emperor shambled away, vanishing into a door in the hard tower slate.
Daćin, now Commander, was alone.
He watched over the dark sea, contemplating all that had been said. If he was excited or skeptical about his advancement, he allowed none of it to show. He let his mind turn inward until all else seemed to dwindle, leaving him alone with his thoughts. At last. He shut his eyes, relieved. He has anointed me. I will do Furyon proud. I must, else he’ll destroy me.
The next morning, dark clouds swelled over the sea. The sun, diffused by a dreary, shifting fog, clambered above the horizon, while the wind cut like dull daggers through the sky. At first light, Daćin arose from his chamber and returned to the top of the tower, where no sentry dared to go.
He was alone again.
He was glad for it.
The weight of his master’s words was still upon him, but when he walked to the tower’s edge and felt the cold wind whisk past his face, he felt at ease. This was only his second morning in Morellellus, and for the second time in his life he looked upon the ocean, its roiling visible even behind the fog. The sea, last frontier of Furyon, seemed a mystery to him, a shroud lying between him and rest of the world.
Water was not all he could see. From his vantage, he spied the ships of Chakran’s armada. They teemed in Morellellus’s harbor, the world’s largest fleet. Their black sails, still furled, seemed hungry to embrace the wind. He remembered hearing rumors of the dread armada, tales of the ten years and ten-thousand slaves needed to build it. The sight of so many ships put a shiver into his bones. Which one is mine? He wondered. Which shall I take to Graehelm?
A deep breath, a cold thump of his heart, and he caught sight of Furyon’s army.
Never before in Furyon’s history had such a host been assembled. They were legion, a river of dark-masked knights swelling upon Morellellus’s streets like locusts. No man could witness such a thing and not be shaken. He took in the sight of two-hundred thousand men armed to the teeth with cold, black Dageni weapons and armor, and he shivered. They possessed the Emperor’s banner, the black and scarlet of Malog. They were his soldiers now, a legion never once defeated. And they are so many, he marveled. So, so many...
It was in those moments he sensed the change take hold of the sky. He felt watched, weighed down by a force he could not see. For a reason he did not know, he felt compelled to stride across the smooth stones of the tower’s top and peer northward, away from the sea and the army gathering at its shore. There, beyond Morellellus, he saw a darker sky. Black clouds, thicker than any he had ever seen, blossomed and writhed like volcanic plumes, shaping the forefront of a terrible tempest. Sunlight seemed loath to shine, as if something unseen guarded against the dawn. A sinister sensation crept into his heart. He felt as though he were witnessing something alien, something not of the natural world.
“It’s only a storm, nothing more,” said a voice from behind him.
The Emperor emerged from the shadows at the edge of the tower, his wraithlike robes flowing with every feint and gust of wind. His eyes were sallow, betraying a lack of sleep. “It comes from Malog. A blessing for our war. Should your heart halt in its presence, don’t lose faith. It has long been predicted.”
Only a storm… Daćin was not so certain.
A long silence prevailed. Chakran sidled to the tower’s edge and stared just as he did, directly into the northern sky. The two stood like statues, peering out across the vastness with wonderment and awe. “Graehelm. Their lands belong to us,” the Emperor said at length. “Two thousand years ago, the first Grae king carved out a great swath of our home for himself. Furyon wasn’t called Furyon back then. Its name was Tyberia.”
“Tyberia?” he replied. “But Tyberia’s only a myth, a story we tell to our children.”
“No,” said Chakran. “Cities paved with golden streets, towers soaring higher than mountains, a dynasty older than any other in the world. No, Tyberia is no myth. It was real. Your fireside yarns might say differently, but it was once the jewel of the world’s civilizations.”
The Emperor gazed upward. His eyes were wide, his palms open to the sky. “Don’t trust in what you think you know, Daćin. I’ve spent my life searching for this. Tyberia is father of all lands, from north to south the largest and most powerful realm ever to exist. The Grae destroyed what was perfect. Retaking it is cause enough for the war.”
The Emperor’s tale put a chill into his blood. He conjured but one answer, the same any Furyon soldier would give. “I don’t ask why we go to war. I simply go.”
The shadows in Chakran’s eyes mirrored the darkness of the storm. His mood was morbid now, cold as coffin air and as fearsome as all the armies milling below. “We at Malog have long known this, Commander. There are those who say our war is needless, that it’s vanity. In the end, Malog will be proven right. You must understand this. You must believe it. You must be faithful.”
“Of course.” Daćin chose his words carefully. “I believe as my Emperor wills.”
“Good.” Chakran slapped his palms upon the cold tower stone. “Now it’s time for you to go. Leave to your ship. It sits at the end of the longest dock. You’ll know it when you see it. Do not return here. There’s much I must tend to before leaving. I’ll suffer no interruption. We leave at dawn tomorrow. We’ll not speak again until we moor upon the Graehelm beach.”
Without a word, he marched past the Emperor and down into the tower. He was glad to go. Chakran’s tower made him uneasy, as though its sentries were ghosts and its lanterns hanging sets of watchful eyes. He swore
he heard whispers as he descended the stairs, which ceased only when the Emperor’s servants slammed the tower doors shut behind him. Dust and bad memories, he thought. Better to be far from here.
The tower was soon behind him, and the harbor of Morellellus beckoning. With nothing left for him ashore, he took the shortest route to the docks. He walked past scores of city folk, and the people hardly noticed him. They looked preoccupied, listless, slinking amongst the long shadows of Morellellus’s towers as though they dreaded being outdoors. He might have cared had he not been harried by the cold wind nipping at his ears. Wanting to escape the morning chill, he cut through them, alone anonymous.
And then he came to the harbor.
The fog was only now lifting, affording him full view of the Emperor’s armada. A thousand ships, filled to the brim with Furyon warriors, swayed in the dreary, colorless broth. His ship, largest in the fleet, lurked at the longest dock’s end. It was named Exemone, after the most revered of Malog’s warlords.
He came to the hulking craft, which bobbed in the water like an island of ropes and blackened wood, and he halted in its shadow. He lingered a last moment before climbing aboard. This is the beginning. He closed his eyes, preparing himself. This is why the Emperor chose me. I’ll miss nothing of home. My friendless, wifeless state will keep my mind empty enough to house the entire war. I am Furyon’s vessel, and blood is the wine that fills me.
He climbed aboard, never once looking back. Upon the broad, freshly-polished deck of the mighty Exemone, soldiers milled by the dozen. They moved to and fro, carrying crates of food and barrels of water from the wharf into the ship’s hold. They stacked sheaves of Dageni swords in iron-shod crates. For a time, they worked around him. Then one soldier recognized him, then another. All at once, the soldiers ceased what they were doing and cried out, “He’s here! All praise Commander Daćin! All praise Dageni! All praise Malog!”
The soldiers bowed. Rightly fearful, they cast their gazes anywhere but up. He looked across the sea of bent knees and bowed heads. Their adulation felt unnecessary. “Men,” he boomed, “save your praises until Graehelm is thrown down. The time will come soon enough. Return to your labors, lest the Emperor see you dawdling.”
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 1
