Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1)

by J. Edward Neill

  In the present day, five years removed from her first days at the Rockbottom, Andelusia was no longer an adolescent, but a young woman of abundant beauty. No one in the world could say otherwise. Her scarlet hair, the envy of a Cairn’s ladies, cascaded like flames over her shoulders. Her eyes were the deep green of lush, dark moss, while her skin was without flaw, so pale and pure many folk whispered that she was sister to the moon. Wherever she went, she walked with a bouncing, almost musical gait.

  She was a magical creature, or so those who knew her believed.

  Though it was true Andelusia possessed more beauty than any other, she was far from untroubled. Few knew as much, but she believed herself a hopeless melancholic, a wandering soul locked into a lusterless existence. Perhaps it was because she had never known her father, or perhaps her endless daydreaming distanced her from other folk, but whatever the reason, she felt no sense of belonging in Cairn. Her closest secret was her desire to leave the old city behind, and as such, her only true friend was Symon, who every evening shared tales of the road and of places far, far away.

  So it was, two weeks before winter, a chilly, damp day came to an end. The clouds parted, and the stars winked upon the world. As was so often her routine, Andelusia made her way over Cairn’s leaf-strewn paths and rain-soaked fields, meandering toward the Rockbottom, clutching a thin, pale cloak around her to fend off the gnawing cold. She disliked winter, but she knew the tavern would thaw her spirits, her body the same.

  Pushing the inn’s doors open, she stepped inside and skipped around a dozen tables to reach the center bar.

  “You’re early tonight.” Symon smiled while pouring a great tankard of cider.

  “Too cold to stay home.” She shivered. “Besides, I forgot to gather firewood, and Mother’s angry for it. I hoped you might need some help.”

  After handing a tray of drinks to another barmaid, Symon lifted a part of the hinged wooden counter, allowing her to enter the center space serving as the tavern’s kitchen and bar. “Not many folk here, not yet anyhow.” He waved his hand through the air, referring to the twenty or so people scattered about the large room. “But give us an hour, and there’ll be plenty of work.”

  “Well enough.” She shrugged off her cloak and tossed it into a pile on the floor.

  Symon stopped and stared. Her tunic was frayed and dirty, the elbows crusted with mud, the bodice darkened by a half-dozen stains. “Why, girl? Why such drab things?” He eyed her much as a father might. “Surely my silver buys nicer somethings than this?”

  She smiled at his bluntness. “You sound like dear Mother, always questioning. I have a fine dress, finer than the things your other maids wear. I think I will save it for when the time is right.”

  “So…true or false?” Symon changed the subject. “I heard you squandered some of your savings to buy a dagger. That just a rumor, or have you taken up the warrior’s ways? Not planning a murder, are you?”

  She beamed, proud that word of her purchase had spread so quickly. “It is true, and so what? Nothing wrong with a little fun. Besides, the way some of your customers ogle me, it might come in handy.” Feigning a pout, she went to retrieve her new blade from under her tunic, where it was lashed to the outside of her thigh.

  “No, no, I believe you.” Symon looked mortified. “No need to show it off. Not in here. Put it away.”

  With a dangerous smile, she allowed her tunic’s frayed folds to fall back across her leg. Blushing, Symon continued about his business. “Ande, the weapons of a woman aren’t knives and steel, but her wit. My own ma taught me as much, and so I’ve seen a hundred times.”

  “It is only a knife.”

  “Only a knife, only a drab dress, only this, only that,” he lectured as he scrubbed the bar to a fine polish. “Never serious, are you? But someday might be you won’t have a choice. You can’t work at the Rockbottom forever, much as I’d like you to.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She crossed her arms.

  “Ande, Ande.” Symon slapped his rag across his shoulder. “I only want the best for you. You know I love to see you here, but it’s a waste for you to spend your life serving cider and cooking stew for farmers. What’ll you do with yourself? Work here until you’re all dried up? Stay unmarried and uninterested forever? It’s no way for a lass to live. Your own ma would tell you so.”

  She had heard the lecture before. Old fashioned as Symon’s notions were, they never much bothered her. Nimble as a mouse, she plunked atop a nearby stool and absently stirred a pot of spicy, hot soup with a long wooden ladle.

  Symon would have continued the debate, but the Rockbottom’s door kept swinging open and patrons poured in from the cold. With the arrival of so many hungry folk, duty called. Symon beckoned her to help, and she joined the rest of his servants as they ladled barley soup into bowls, piled plates high with piping hot vegetables, and poured tankards of mead by the score. Hours passed and the evening grew late. Much later, after every patron had dined and only a few dozen lingered, Symon sent his weary maids and cooks on their way home with small purses of coins for their week’s work. When all the others were gone, Andelusia stayed.

  It was then, long after she had scoured most of the tables clean and filled her belly with a bowl of Symon’s soup, her gaze fell upon a patron she had not seen before, a fellow unfamiliar to her all-knowing eye. Not from Cairn, this one, she knew. Maybe not even from Graehelm. Hunkered atop a stool at the bar, the stranger was dressed like a highwayman, with a collar high and stiff, a shirt black as pitch, and a beard still wet with rain. The way he leaned over the bar and guarded his goblet made him look deep into his cups, at least until he glanced up at her. Sober as a sword. She raised a brow. The only man in the Rockbottom not staggering back to his wife. She thought him strange, maybe even dangerous, and surely a foreigner. Leaning upon the bar beside him was a thick, iron-shod staff, an instrument of battle uncommon to Graefolk.

  After spying a few moments more, she retreated to the far side of the bar, where Symon was scrubbing an iron pot clean. “Who’s your new friend?” he asked.

  “I have no friends besides you. Remember?”

  “Silly girl. I mean the gent at the bar.”

  She peered back to the bar, where the grim fellow cast his long shadow across the polished planks. “I see no gentlemen. Just a robber drinking water and the usual towners getting drunk.”

  “Odd to me, that weapon of his,” said Symon. “The Lord Mayor won’t much approve.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Odd.”

  When next she looked back, the stranger was gone.

  The following week brought rain and frosty nights to Cairn. Gloomy days passed much as they always did in autumn, and if the nights were colder than usual, no one complained. The dreary weather drove more and more folk through the Rockbottom’s doors, and coin aplenty into Symon’s pockets. Andelusia agreed she would work every other evening, enough to put food on her mother’s table, but not so much as to interrupt the routine she had followed for years.

  Few in Cairn knew how she spent her time away from the Rockbottom. At the crack of each dawn, rain or shine, she prepared herself a breakfast of eggs and hash, slipped into her tired old tunic, and escaped her little house by the back door. There were always chores to be done, but she did her best to avoid them, her mother’s scolding notwithstanding. Rather than work, she took to the forest. The woods are my home, she had always believed. My sanctuary from the rest of the world.

  Most afternoons, she found a fallen tree, a glassy pond, or a quiet creek to sit beside and daydream the hours away. Occasionally she would go even farther out to the hillsides surrounding Cairn, where few folk lived, and where the tangles of the trees always offered a good place to hide. Whatever her secret spot of the day might be, her purpose was always the same. She sang songs no one else knew, danced without a partner, and fashioned stories only she could conjure the endings to. No matter the rain, the snow, or that most days she returned to the Rockbottom h
alf-covered in dirt and leaves, she loved her wandering.

  For what else is there?

  Nothing.

  On one day, the coldest of autumn thus far, she happened to linger in the forest until the precipice of dusk. As twilight slid across the sky, she drowsed on a tranquil hillside, bundled in so many blankets she looked more like a boulder than a sleeping girl. Evening drew on and the stars peeked out, but still she dozed, lost in dreams of faraway lands and people she knew she would never meet. Only when a bitter gust of wind washed over her did she start awake. Overslept again, she realized the hour. Symon will worry. Mother will be furious.

  In other words, the same as every other day.

  She leapt to her feet and drew up her hood. Like a fleet-footed doe, she loped through the woods and into town, where she tossed the Rockbottom doors open and strode triumphantly inside. Pleased to no end by her hours spent alone, she made no secret of her good mood, beaming at each patron she passed.

  “I had a dream.” She sneaked up behind Symon, startling him. “In it, I was not a dirty peasant, but a warlock. Fire and wind were mine to command. Castles melted at my glance, and rich men spilled coins at my feet to earn my favor. I was as powerful as a queen, as beautiful as the sun. And the best part, no one dared cross me.” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she shrugged off her blankets and claimed a stool.

  Symon gave her a blank expression. “You’re no warlock, Ande, but you are late. Now come over here. I’ve a job for you.” He led her outside the bar and to a table in the far corner, guiding her away from where most patrons were eating. He slinked onto a bench and hunched over the table, eyes full of secrets. “Remember the strange man, the one who’s stayed here all week?” he asked.

  “Maybe.” She made a face as she sat across from him. “A little bit anyway. Why?”

  Symon breathed deeply. “The Lord Mayor was here this afternoon. Seems he’s interested in our guest.” He paused, waiting for her to respond, but she said nothing. “Ande, the stranger…it turns out he’s from Elrain. The Lord Mayor’s man told me about him. Apparently he’s here to deliver a message to the capital of Graehelm.”

  She looked up at him, only slightly more interested. “Go on.”

  “The Lord Mayor’s man had questions, so many questions. They’re nosing after the stranger, it seems, wanting to know more about his business. Thing is; he hasn’t said much. So now the Lord Mayor asks for my help. His man said if anyone could get through to a traveler, it’d be me.”

  “So go ask him.”

  “He’s hardly likely to share his business with me. But he might be tempted to tell a lady.”

  “A lady?” She shrugged. “Wherever will you find one of those?”

  “Well…” He gave her a look.

  I see where this is going, she thought. “So let me understand,” she said. “You want me to trick some strange, foreign man into telling me his secrets so we can betray him to the Lord Mayor? Why? What should we care?”

  “Because it’s the Lord Mayor who asked. And because it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Oh, oh. Of course. I see.” She rolled her eyes. “I am just a pet, to do as I am told. I will do it, I suppose. But just this once, and only because it was you who asked me. Now what exactly am I supposed to ask him?”

  Simon hunkered even lower to the table. “Why he’s here. What his message is all about. Who’s army he’s in. Just get any answers you can.”

  Though she hid it well, she was intrigued. Something different to do, she thought. Anything is better than talking about harvests, livestock, or which of us bumpkins plans to marry the other.

  She started to rise and amble off toward the stranger when Symon grabbed her sleeve and tugged her back to the table. He looked her in the eyes, deadly serious. “Ande, be careful. I think he may be dangerous. There’re two of the Lord Mayor’s men outside.”

  She shook her arm loose, shot him a melting smile, and walked away. Honestly, she thought as she left. In the Rockbottom, one stranger is always the same as the next. Harmless as rabbits. Dull as porridge. You worry too much, Symon.

  She knew exactly where to find the stranger. At least in the Rockbottom, he stood out as stark as a crow in a cage full of doves. She spotted him sitting at the bar, palms placed on the old oak as though he liked the touch of it. A beast, this one. Look at him. He was taller than most folk of Cairn by a half a head, and his shoulders were twice as broad. His hair was an earthen hue, his loamy locks and curls tucked neatly into the open hood of a faded green cloak. He wore a profuse beard, but only the barest trace of a moustache. His eyes might have been sad, even tired, but the stare he offered the world kept whatever might be on his mind veiled.

  As she moved through the crowded tavern, she cast all Symon’s suspicions out of mind. Assume nothing, she thought. He might not be a robber. He might be a lord, or a king. She advanced upon the bar, and the nearer she came to the stranger, the more she struggled to guess his age, for there was both wisdom and youthful cunning in his demeanor.

  While still a few steps from his stool, she tried to brush her tangled hair and regain some semblance of a lady, but after remembering the look of her rough-spun tunic, faded skirt, and soggy boots, she realized she had only her charm.

  “Excuse me sir.” She slid into the stool adjacent to his. “We noticed you are not from these parts. What is your name?

  “Saul,” he said without looking at her.

  “Saul, is it? Saul…Saul…Saul…” She toyed with his name. “The people say you are dangerous. I have decided to prove otherwise.” She noticed his battlestaff lying across his left leg, carved of oak and shod with iron. “Why do you carry that? Are you a warrior?”

  “I was. Not anymore.”

  She tried to force a look from him, but Saul was like stone. He sipped from his hot cider and spooned large bites from an enormous bowl of stew, the whole while ignoring her. His aloofness made her want to pry even more. “Is it true all folk of Elrain are so quiet and cold, or is it only the way of those who carry iron staves to guard their supper?”

  He looked up, and she glimpsed the hint of a smile cracking his lips. I have him, she thought as he swiveled in his seat to face her. “Milady, your fellows are eavesdroppers,” he said. “They must have told you by now, and so you know my words are only for the ears of the Councilors of Graehelm. Your Lord Mayor and his servants will either have to follow me to the capital or wait until word of my message returns here.”

  “Your message?” she pried.

  “A secret,” he told her. “I depart tomorrow to deliver it. Then I’ll haunt this place no longer. If I’ve bothered anyone, I apologize. The road from Elrain is long and dangerous. I sought the Rockbottom to rest my legs and find my bearings south.”

  A secret, eh? She pushed her scarlet hair over her shoulder. If I have to charm him, I will. “Good Master Saul.” She leaned closer. “If something would trouble Cairn, would you not share it for sake of kindness?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I bear nothing so grave as to affect Cairn. It’s important, but not to you. That’s all I can say.”

  “If you will not tell me about your task, would you at least tell me of Elrain? We have few visitors here. Come and sit by the fire awhile. Tell me a tale or two. I can keep a secret, you know. I have plenty myself.”

  Her batting eyelashes might have melted the resolve of any man, but Saul seemed no ordinary fellow. Like a soldier ready for battle, his mood was hard as stone. “Ande…they call you Ande, yes? I wish you well, milady, but I must retire. I’m leaving soon. Another place, another time, I’d lend you as much conversation as you desire, but not tonight.”

  “But—”

  “Goodnight, milady. Don’t fret. By tomorrow you’ll have forgotten me.”

  Without another word, he rose and walked to the stairway in the far corner, leaving a generous amount of coins behind on the bar. She trailed him halfway to the stair, but he did not slow. He escaped, and she returned to he
r stool, vastly disappointed.

  Retreating to the bar, she sat down in the stool Saul had occupied, and in her gloom spun one of his coins like a top. The silver drab made a blur as it twirled, a little dance of winking light she was happy to lose herself in. Rude, she thought of Saul. Secrets are made to be shared. He might have given me a hint, at least.

  Just then, Symon emerged on the opposite side of the bar. He looked nervous, fearful of some imagined horror. “So? What’d you learn?” He leaned within inches of her.

  “The stranger? He was wooden, uninteresting and dour.” She frowned. “Gave away nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “As boring as he looks. Not a robber, not a lord, not anyone. Just another traveler on his way to better places than here.”

  Symon started to ask more, but she would have none of it. She stood up and pushed her stool away, her lips curled as though a chunk of sour apple were on her tongue. “Same as ever,” she said. “How low am I that not even a stranger will talk to me? What is so important he had to hide?” She wheeled around to face the door, only to spin back and accost Symon again. “I will never find friendship here, not if the only visitors we see are made of slate and coal. Is everyone so dull? Or is it me?”

  Symon stammered. “Ande, why fret over a stranger? The Lord Mayor was simply curious...”

  She curled her mouth into a sad smile. “Good night, Symon. The next time a stranger crawls into Cairn, send another of your maids to woo him. I have had enough.”

  Outside, the air was chill and the wind bracing. She wandered into the night, regretting her dramatic performance inside. Trudging away from the tavern and into the woods, she promised herself she would apologize to Symon. Tomorrow…when my mood is better. As the Rockbottom dwindled in the shadows behind her, she felt her guilt descend into her stomach. She felt sick with it, gravely ill at her behavior. Such a brat, I am, she thought. I should do Symon a favor and leave.