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

by J. Edward Neill

  “What’s wrong?” Bruced sauntered up beside him. “You look scared, like a little girl.”

  The feeling was too much. Bruced grabbed his arm to steady him. The room spun in his eyes, and before he knew it, he sank to the floor in a heap, the sword lying across his thighs.

  “You sick?” Bruced looked worried. “You see a bit of steel and your legs bend like willows? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m fine,” he murmured. “It is just…the sword. For a moment, I felt like I was filled with fire, like my blood was on fire. It didn’t hurt. I felt stronger. But now I feel dizzy. Does that make any sense?”

  Bruced took the blade and helped him back to his feet. “Aye, I know the feeling. I carried the damned thing to Lorsmir after your father gave his approval. I felt it, same as you. Seems I forgot to mention it. You’ll have to forgive me.”

  His dizziness fled as fast as it had come. After shaking the cobwebs from his head, he took the sword back and slapped it into its scabbard.

  Recovered, he wandered into the center of the hall, where the servants of the keep were preparing a sizeable repast. He saw them wheeling out barrels of mead and lining tables with platters and cups, so busy with their work they hardly noticed him. Glad no one else had seen him stumble, he plunked on the end of one of the tables, this time well away from any hearths. “So you knew all along?” he said to Bruced. “I might’ve known. When did you take it to Lorsmir?”

  “Eight days ago. The morning your father went to the capital. Emun always sends his best,” Bruced quipped.

  “Quite a sword, to floor me. This sort of generosity is unlike Father. He’s not one for gifts. Never has been.”

  “Ach, you earned it. The sword and the fall.” Bruced accosted a servant and took her breadbasket, afterward shoving two biscuits down his gullet. “All that business in Ardenn, and the whole mess with Romaldar. They say you did what many others could not. A sword seems a small price to pay.”

  “Garrett did most of it.”

  “Not if you ask Emun, or anyone else in Graehelm. The people know you, not him. You sure you’re well?” the big man worried again. “You look paler than a pile of snow.”

  Bruced hovered over him, but he ignored it. I need to keep moving, he thought. If I faint here in the middle of Father’s hall, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  He sat up from the table and wandered in a half-haze about the hall, plucking morsels of food from servants’ unguarded plates. The food was delicious, the cider sweet and warm, but all he could think about was Lorsmir’s sword. He stole glances at its jeweled hilt while Bruced noshed on sweetmeats and buttered bread. He talked blithely as Bruced followed, meandering between tables as though to inspect the servants’ work. The sword conquered his thoughts. He worried it might be difficult to keep it in its scabbard, that it might somehow compel him to rip it out and lose himself in the feeling of power it gave him. He was about to loose the scabbard from his belt and shove it into Bruced’s hands, but no sooner did he think it than a servant approached. The old man, among his father’s favorites, waddled in front of Bruced as though the big man were not even there.

  “Milord Rellen, your father calls you to his chamber,” the old servant declared. “He asks you do not delay.”

  “Now?” Rellen cocked a disbelieving look at him. “Right now?”

  The old man raised a bushy eyebrow. “Aye. And he also asks that you stop scrabbling around in the breadbaskets. He has guests today. This feast isn’t for you.”

  The servant shuffled back to his duties. After he was gone, Rellen stuffed a last hunk of bread into his mouth and patted Bruced on the back. “Duty calls.” He shook his head. “See you tomorrow. Keep out of trouble. Never mind what I said about the sword.”

  * * *

  Beyond the walls of Gryphon Keep, winter tightened its grip. It was dusk now, grey and gloomy, the sky like a cloak whose hood covered everything. The wind gnawed at the earth, sweeping across the land without care or concern, tearing autumn’s last leaves from their branches. Out in the prairie, where the grasses bent and the lakes reflected only the greyness of the sky, two riders drew closer to the city. They spurred their mounts across the frosted plain, drifting like two specks of dust blown helplessly against the wailing birth of winter.

  “I see it!” Andelusia pointed to Gryphon. The city looked like a cluster of stars, each window a pinprick of white light in the growing darkness. Her teeth chattered in her jaw as she rode closer. Her eyes were dry from the wind, her fingers numb from the cold, but she did not despair. She held out her half-frozen palm, stealing a trembling snowflake from the air. Winter is here. She gazed skyward and saw a tumbling sheet of snow twisting and falling toward her. And with it a storm.

  “We’d better hurry.” Saul broke her reverie. “This will get nasty.”

  She hastened her weary mare. A hundred times since leaving Cairn, Saul had warned her of winter’s approach, but only now did she believe it. Colder than home, she thought. Colder than anywhere I have ever been. As she rode, cold to her bones, Saul pointed with his staff to the foreground of Gryphon. She squinted through the snow and saw a man sitting atop a black-coated destrier. In his grasp was a torch, red and sputtering like a candle at the bottom of its wick. The blaze threatened to die with every gust and pull of wind, and yet it burned brightly enough for her and Saul to use it as a beacon. Someone waits for us.

  But how would they know we were coming?

  Through winter’s froth she came to the edge of Gryphon, her cheeks whiter than the snow. Her pale visage, jeweled with emerald eyes, broke with a smile despite the cold. A city, she exulted. Warm and full of food. And a hundred times bigger than Cairn! She bobbed on the back of her lean, dark mare, warm enough in the furs Saul had bought for her in the capital. As she and Saul approached the man atop the destrier, she asked herself whether she was glad for fleeing home, or whether the price of leaving Symon and her mother was too great. Time will tell, but this looks promising.

  She slowed before the rider in black. His scarred hauberk was freckled with snowflakes, his cowl black against the world’s white. The whole city lay beyond him, but it was clear no one would pass beyond him unless he allowed it. “Too cold for riding, especially tonight,” he called out. “State your purpose.”

  Saul trotted a few paces closer. “This is Gryphon?” he shouted over the wind. “I must meet with its lord as soon as he would allow. I’m Saul of Elrain. Can you take me to your master?”

  “He was expecting only one,” the man in black replied.

  Saul shook his head in disbelief. After a moment’s contemplation, Andelusia understood what the Councilors at Cyrul had done. They listened more than they let on. They sent word to Gryphon ahead of us. I wonder if Saul knows it.

  “Lord Emun was expecting us?” Saul asked.

  “Yes.” The black rider lifted his torch. “But the courier said one would come, not two.”

  “Forgive me. She’s my friend.” Saul patted her mare’s rump with his staff. “She’ll not trouble you. We’d be grateful to you and your lord if you would take us to shelter. We can’t abide this cold much longer.”

  The houses of Gryphon twinkling behind him like stars, the black rider waved his arm toward the city. “Follow. Emun awaits in the keep.”

  Saul fell into line behind the rider’s horse. She did the same. As she rode onto Gryphon’s outermost street, the wind tore at her face and pulled at her cloak. The snow swirled, and the white lights in the city’s windows grew faint. All other sounds drowning, Saul leaned close and whispered to her, “When we arrive, say nothing. You may accompany me to Emun, but it’ll be best if you don’t talk.”

  She rolled her eyes. Keeping quiet is not my finest skill. “You there.” She looked to the dark rider. “What is your name?”

  The man glanced back at her. His gaze briefly met hers, and his destrier seemed to slow. “Garrett. Garrett Croft.”

  “Well met.” She smiled for him. “I am
Andelusia.”

  The wind turned his cheek away. “Andelusia.” He said her name as though it tasted pleasant. “A pleasure to meet you. It is good to find the two of you unfrozen. Lord Gryphon would not be happy if any harm had come to you.”

  “How did you know we were coming?” she asked.

  “Riders from the capital,” he said. “Faster than the two of you.”

  “Do you mean to make fun of us?” she dared, ignoring the dark look Saul shot her.

  “If you are late, it is no wonder. Beautiful women and messengers from Elrain are rare things, and allowed to take their time.”

  “How do you know I am from Elrain?” Saul interrupted.

  “I know plenty.” The black rider glanced back again, and though she tried, she could not see his face at all.

  The snow fell harder, and she felt her heart spike beneath her furs. Something about the black-clad stranger set the gears in her mind to spinning, and almost, she dared to speed her mare and deluge him with questions. There is so much to know, she thought. About the city, the castle, the lords who live here, and where a man finds horses so huge.

  But the rider’s demeanor was distant, much as Saul’s had been when first she had met him. Better to say nothing for now, she decided. Perhaps I will find him later.

  Squinting in the face of the gale, she and her mare followed Garrett and Saul as they twisted and turned through Gryphon streets. The city’s windows winked at her like stars, while the whitewood eaves of every house seemed to smile at her coming. The cold felt lesser inside the city’s embrace, and the deeper into Gryphon she went, the more she felt at home.

  The Message

  “Father?” Rellen called as he cracked open the door at the top of the stairs.

  It was a cold eve in the highest reach of Gryphon. He entered his father’s room with great uncertainty. His footsteps fell lightly upon the furs and pelts lining the floor. His narrowed eyes glimmered gold, his pupils ablaze with the light of a dozen hanging lanterns.

  “Enter.” He heard his father’s voice from deeper in the room.

  He pushed the door shut behind him. The rest of Gryphon Keep fell out of sight and mind. He walked past the first row of columns and into the room’s center, where all the shadows burned away. He felt his heart banging away at his ribs like a ladle against a pot. He hated to be so nervous.

  “Ah.” His father welcomed him. “My son is here.”

  He halted at the edge of the light. Gaze to gaze, he looked his father’s guests over one by one. There were three men, none of them alike. He recognized only two.

  “Nentham Thure,” he said the name of the tallest man louder than he meant to. The tall man looked like a crow, towering and lean, his hair black and slicked as though with oil. Him, he thought, his stomach turning. Of all the people, why should he be here?

  Councilor Nentham Thure regarded him disdainfully. “Rellen Gryphon, hero of Ardenn.” Lord Thure licked his lips. “So nice of you to join us.”

  Rellen smirked at Nentham, but managed a smile for the second Councilor. Councilor Farid Lunes stood opposite Nentham, stout and smiling, his hair grey as stone and his eyes bright and blue. The sight of his father’s old friend almost made him forget about Nentham. “Farid.” He bowed. “It’s been a while.”

  Farid’s smile widened. “Aye, young Rellen. Too long. Your father tells me of your deeds in Ardenn. For this, we’re all in your debt.”

  He blushed before looking to his father’s third guest. The last of the three was plainly not of Gryphon. His earthen hair and hard-hewn features marked him as from beyond Graehelm. From Mormist, he guessed. His boots, his sword, the rich fabric thrown over his shoulders.

  This one’s a noble.

  With his entrance, the conversation between guests ground to a halt. His father reached out to embrace him, but Emun’s grip was hard, his countenance severe. “Welcome, my son. You remember Councilors Lunes and Thure. We were only now discussing your future.”

  “My future…” He looked apprehensively at Farid, but spared no glance at Lord Thure. “What’s this all about?”

  Emun said nothing. It was Nentham Thure, sneering like a snake about to swallow his supper, who cast his forbidding glare across all in the room. “Good. Now the son of Gryphon can hear the truth.” Nentham tilted his nose up as though it pained him to look to look at the others in the room. “Emun, poor Emun, please tell the boy. Relieve him of this burden you’d lay upon him. House Gryphon can’t take these affairs into its own hands. You must wait until a king is seated.”

  Fire reigned in Emun’s eyes. A half-breath of frozen silence, and the elder Gryphon stepped before Nentham, looking all the world as if he intended to strike the much taller man down. “Always a serpent, always a Thure.” Emun’s voice filled the room. “I take no liberties with the power of the throne. I do what I must to preserve Graehelm in the absence of a king. You may either join us or return to your chair in Mooreye. If you won’t help us, then may you rot with your indifference.”

  Nentham stood tall in the face of Emun’s wrath. “Me? Rot? You’re the one whose corpse will molder, Emun Gryphon. Your line with you. You’re a fool to think this is the way. You’ve no power but that of a lonely little Councilor, same as the rest of us. House Gryphon will crumble, and your rash decisions will be the end of you. Awaken from your stupor, old man. Choose a different king, else Mooreye will stand against you.”

  “What different king?” Emun turned red. “Some puppet of your own choosing? We could bring a hundred men before you, Nentham Thure, and you’d reject them all.”

  “Not all.” Nentham showed his teeth. “Only those who are handmaidens to Gryphon.”

  When Farid brightened with rage, Rellen knew the argument had started long before now. Farid is never angry, he thought. Not unless someone like Nentham works him for an hour or two.

  “Better a handmaiden to Gryphon than a slave to Mooreye,” Farid spat.

  “We’ve no slaves,” Nentham growled. “A few unwilling participants perhaps, but the path to enlightenment is never easy. Some of my people take longer than others, but all of them know to distrust Gryphon. For what men are as weak as you two, scrabbling in the sewers for your king? How can Graehelm be powerful when its Councilors look for benevolence in place of strength?”

  “Not all of Graehelm sees it likewise,” said Farid. “Besides, what is your vote worth? We have seven of eight, and that’s all we need.”

  That seemed too much for Nentham. Disgusted, the crow-like lord of Mooreye stormed from the room in a fury, slamming the door shut behind him. Good riddance. Rellen secreted a smile. Feels warmer in here without him.

  Farid shook his head at Emun once Nentham was gone. “The fiend. You should make a motion to strip him of his vote, and you should throw him out into the snow. He’s forsaken his duty. He’s no worth to this kingdom anymore.”

  “No,” said Emun. “Nentham will leave Gryphon before the morn, and I’ll not become a murderer. We’ve talked enough for now. We’ve laid our choices out, but it’s not yet clear what we must do. Please leave us, good Farid. You and I will speak more in the morning, after I’ve explained all of this to my son.”

  Farid bowed to Emun and again to Rellen. Only kindness and sympathy lived in the elder Councilor’s eyes, a grandfatherly goodness Rellen respected. “In the morning then.” Farid nodded. “When the sun shines anew.” Hobbling, he creaked toward the door and vanished from the room.

  And now the room is colder again, thought Rellen.

  Three men remained. Rellen looked sidelong at the stranger from Mormist before facing his father. He yearned to storm Emun with questions, but withheld his onslaught. Patience, he bid himself. He promised to explain everything.

  “How unpleasant for you both to have to hear.” Emun wrung out his hands. “Please forgive me. That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Exactly what did happen?” asked Rellen.

  “My son, this is Dennov of House Graf.” Emun ig
nored the question and placed his arm around his last remaining guest. “He comes to us from Mormist, from his father’s stead in the city of Orye. He’s the lord of his estate and a good friend to Graehelm. We’re to treat him as ambassador.”

  Ambassador? He thought. From Mormist? Here in Gryphon?

  He approached Dennov and grasped the young man’s hand, shaking it hard to test the Mormist lord’s strength. “Well met.” He forced himself to say it.

  “The same,” said Dennov amiably.

  He let go of the young lord’s hand. He meant no rudeness, but after hearing the war of words with Nentham, he needed answers now. “Father, the truth now. What was that argument about? Why have you called me here?”

  The eldest Gryphon strode the length of the room, stopping only when he reached the window at the room’s opposite end. Even shuttered, the window failed to guard the great chamber from the frigid air swirling outside. The wind whisked through its cracks, sending shivers throughout the room. “My boy, ours is a busy winter,” Emun began. “We Councilors must summon a new king to the throne, and we must protect him. But before even that, we must guard our realm from those who would see it torn into pieces. And no, I don’t mean Nentham.”

  “Then what do you mean?” he pressed. “What are you talking about?”

  “While you were gone, many things changed.” Emun sighed. “Old enemies sprang back to life. Cracks in the Grae shield were exposed. Our corners are frayed and weak, my son, and worse things than Nentham wander the darkness beyond our doors.”

  He grappled with the meaning behind his father’s words. He could only conceive one question: