All breaths were held, all senses sharpened. The Emperor approached the wagon and lifted a corner of the cloth. He tugged aside enough to allow his watchers to glimpse the body of the great spiraled horn beneath. It was a strange instrument lurking in the wagon, massive as ten men, its bladelike curves elegant in a very Furyon way. The coiling of the horn’s gilded surface was of unknowable make, a craft alien to all who glimpsed it. Chakran teased the edge of the crimson shroud, flipping it up to allow brief glimpses of the horn before covering it again. “Pale Knight.” He glared at Archmyr. “Malog has made this for you. When you march south and the armies of Gallen Hold come out to greet you, you’ll not charge them. You’ll waste no arrows, no swords, no Furyon flesh. You shall bring the horn within sight of the Grae and call your soldiers to safety. This horn makes no music. It makes only death, and you’ll not want to be on the wrong side of it when it sounds.”
Archmyr curled his deathly lips into a grimace, and the Emperor looked to the two servants who had stopped the wagon. He advanced upon them, bearing down upon them like a storm upon a naked plain. “And you two shall sound the horn.” He smiled at their discomfort. “While you wait, every moment trembling for the beginning of battle, you will blow it three times. Do not flee. Do not fear. Wait until Malog’s thunder ceases before you take to the field. Bring any who survive to me as prisoners.”
The Emperor turned one last time to Archmyr, his stare smoldering as though pitch were burning in his eyes. “Do not fail me, Pale Knight. You’ve risen far from slave to soldier to bloodthirsty prince. Stumble now, and none of it will matter. Earn our love in battle, else earn eternity with the worms.”
If the Emperor’s command bothered Archmyr, Daćin could not see it. It troubles me enough, he thought. And the others as well. None of the Furyons dared to say a word, and none moved until Chakran and his bodyguards departed. After the Emperor and his shadow left the hillside, the ring of warriors broke wordlessly apart. Each man moved to fulfill his sacred duty, none of them smiling. Daćin was last to leave, for what lay ahead weighed heaviest of all upon him.
Is this war mine? He wondered. Or is it Malog’s? Why should we need a weapon of darkness? We have numbers, and strength, and the promise of Tyberia.
The softness of morning faded. The clouds mounted in the sky, roiling in from the east faster than Daćin could hope to escape them. Bristling in the shadows of the valley, the sea of blackened armor and thorny spears left a stain like ink upon the land. Within the hour, Daćin’s legion, now divided into two, set about their separate ways. Archmyr and his horde descended southward like a swarm of flies, meaning to consume all that lay between them and the edge of Velum Forest. An hour later, Daćin marched his own mass into the valley of the Three Lords, which lay not far beyond the clearing he had held the morning’s assembly in. The morning was ended. The sky was bleak and flush with the promise of rain. The ruin of Mormist was sealed, and the hour of the Emperor’s dominion at hand.
Emun’s Table
It was the second morning of spring, warmest of the year thus far. The sunlight spread over the horizon and washed in waves across the eastern eaves of Gryphon. With the new day came a new breeze, a rush of pollen wending its way through the fields, down the streets, and into every open window. Warm as the new day promised to be, the glory of dawn had no audience. Gryphon dozed, and the only sounds were the birds singing, dogs playing, and the wind catching in the towers’ blue banners.
Across the bare, suntouched cobblestones, the sound of a ringing bell sent a shiver through the air, shattering the morning’s peace. The sound came from the tallest tower of Gryphon Keep, where winter seemed steadfast, and where the walls were yet cold and unwelcoming. The bell was a summons. As it rang, clear yet solemn, its answerers came, shuffling their separate ways through the empty streets toward the keep.
Rellen Gryphon was first to his father’s hall. Down from his tower he came, walking sluggishly across the cold stones, the bell banging hardest in his head. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, finding a chair at his father’s great table only after a lazy circuit around the hall. Too early for this, he thought as he sat and stretched his legs beneath his father’s timeworn table.
A while longer of sleep, and I’d be better for it.
He took quiet stock of all that came. He saw that some were young and some were old, but that all were anxious about what was to come of the assembly. “They look like men bound for a funeral,” he muttered to Garrett, who slid into the seat beside him.
Garrett showed the only slightest smile, which faded as Emun’s guests gathered about the table. Sitting beside Garrett was Saul, who had recently sworn an oath of fealty to Gryphon. “Garrett. Rellen,” Saul greeted them as he sat stiffly in his chair. “A fine morning for a meeting, no?”
“Depends on what the meeting’s about,” Rellen grumped.
Next came Marlos and Bruced, both of whom he was grateful to see. They sat at the far end of the table, waving to him while murmuring beneath their breaths. Plunking between them was a young, spry-seeming lad, his eyes wide and wondering.
“Who’s that one?” Saul asked.
“Therian,” he yawned. “Marlos’s nephew. His first time at Father’s table. Look at him. You’d think he has just seen his first girl, stark naked and sitting in his lap.”
Saul shook his head. Grinning, Rellen watched with rising interest as the table continued to fill. Sinking into the deep recesses of the tall, creaking chair opposite him was Councilor Farid Lunes, grim and exhausted as wintered stone. Farid smiled once for Rellen’s pleasure, but then furrowed his brow and settled his gaze firmly onto the sheaves of paper laid before him. At Farid’s side plunked Dennov, who also smiled, but whose fingers tapped on the table like drums.
Then came the others, all of them strangers to the hall. Of the five who were last to enter, four were dressed alike, garbed in what Rellen recognized as the silver-blue tabards of House Nurė, most popular family of the Graehelm capital.
“And who are these?” Saul asked quietly.
Rellen watched the newest arrivals with sidelong suspicion. “House Nurė. From west of the capital. Not sure why they’re here.”
The five men found their seats on the side of the table opposite him. He paid only one of them any mind. The man in their middle was a Graefolk through and through, tall as a tower, his hair the hue of autumn wheat. Contrasting to the colors of the four men flanking him, the stranger’s raiment was a suit of mail, a masterpiece of art and function most certainly crafted by Lorsmir. His gauntlets were graven with sigils of oak trees, while upon his breastplate rested an amulet made of bronze, its shape the emblem of Graehelm royalty.
Rellen snapped his eyes shut and open again. He recalled who it was that sat across the table. Jacob Nurė, first son of his house, soon to be crowned king.
Eyes widening, he looked to Garrett, Farid, and Dennov for some sign of surprise or recognition, but none of them said a word.
The men at the table ceased murmuring. Emun Gryphon emerged from the deeper shadows of the hall. From darkness into light, Emun marched to the table’s head, and as soon as he arrived an unsettling quiet took hold of the room. Lord Gryphon’s cloak dragged behind him as though laden at its hem with iron. His greying locks were uncharacteristically unkempt, his face drawn and haggard as though his hermetic winter had aged him many years. Emun placed his knuckles against the edge of the long table and leaned into them, turning his hands ashen white. With the silence already unbearable, he waited for his audience to settle before giving them the thinnest of smiles.
“Gentlemen and friends, thank you for coming so soon. I’ve asked you here for two reasons, one of which you probably already know. Without ceremony I’ll come to it.”
Rellen sat upright in his chair, all semblance of mischief fading. He watched as his father plucked up a brass chalice and swirled it in his grasp, fixing his gaze more upon the liquid therein than upon his audience.
His father spoke, and
all were rapt.
“My guests,” Emun looked gravely to every man. “As we all know, our beloved Grae is without a king, without a hand to guide her. Old Balov was as wise and just as any before him. His policies were fair, and his skill at keeping our houses from each other’s throats legendary. But now he’s gone without an heir, and another must rise. We require a sovereign who would unite us. We must have peace. It’s the only way.”
Emun paused, allowing his audience to linger upon the truths he had uttered. Glancing for but a half-breath at Rellen, he fixed his red-rimmed gaze on Jacob Nurė. “Our fates are dependent upon who rules us.” He tipped his chalice not so subtly toward Jacob. “Without rulers, we go blindly. Without kings, we have war. That’s why, on this second day of spring, I offer you Jacob, wisest and most even-handed young man I know. We the Councilors, save for one of us, have already agreed to name him king. If you’ve met Jacob, you know his family is like kin to King Balov’s house. He’s therefore a brother to us all. I know of no man with a good heart who’d deny him his place on the Grae-throne. He’s earned it. He’ll do it well. If any among you would say he’s not fit to be king, your chance is now.”
No man dared say a word.
Rellen looked from face to face, seeing surprise on many, but nothing resembling disapproval. Emun motioned to Jacob as though to invite him to speak, but the young lord merely nodded his head in agreement.
Satisfied, Lord Gryphon drank deeply from his chalice. “But of course…” Emun sighed, his words seeming to ail him. “…there’s a second reason for gathering here today. I fear it’s direst of the two. By now, all of you, even Saul and young Therian, know how weak our frontiers have become. Our armies have shrunk, our houses are squabbling, and Mormist brings us no end of troubling news. And so it’s to Mormist I call your attentions. We’ve too often convinced ourselves the mountain folk hold Grae in high esteem. The Three Lords have forever sought ways to use us for their own gain, and to profit whenever possible. Perhaps now that Balov is gone, the Lords have seen their opportunity. More than ever, they steal from their own and place the blame for it upon us. They’ve severed our trade of iron and gold, strangling us from what we have become too dependent on. We desire friendship with Mormist, but the Three Lords prefer somewhat else.”
Emun broke into a fit of coughing, ended only when he drank from his chalice. Rellen rose halfway from his seat to aid him, but Emun shooed him to sit. “After all this time…” Emun rose to his fullest height. “I know why we let the Lords’ petty crimes come and go without punishment. We wanted peace between Grae and Mormist. But that was before, and this is now. Young master Dennov has come a long way to find us, and when he climbed my stairs at the death of last autumn, he told me this, the secret I’ve kept from many of you:
“The Three Lords of Mormist have betrayed us.”
The room stilled when he said it. “It’s true,” he continued before any man could question it. “The Lords are gone. Their servants and heralds can’t be found. Their magistrates are missing, their coffers emptied, and their oaths all broken. Their people have been left to fend for themselves, ungoverned and uncared for. Food dwindles, brigands arise, and all of Mormist shivers with lawlessness.”
Rellen looked to everyone, gauging their reactions one by one. Garrett and Saul searched Emun’s face, while Bruced and Marlos sat frozen with wide-eyed surprise. Farid gazed back at him with grandfatherly sympathy, and Dennov with a blend of sorrow and shame.
Emun startled everyone with his next act. He pounded the table with his fist, rattling his goblet, and he raised his voice until the banners overhead seemed to shiver and the walls shake as if thunderstruck. “The Three Lords wouldn’t abandon their lands without reason!” His gaze burned through every man at the table. “There’s treachery afoot. Here we have Dennov, who wouldn’t be swayed by ambition. He tells me the Lords are in hiding, that they plot the downfall of all the houses of Grae. He tells they’ve set assassins loose. Killers, maggots sent from the shadows. They’ve wormed their ways into the homes of those who would support the Grae. Many of our emissaries are already dead, and many merchants missing. We know this by luck alone, for one of these assassins, a soulless cur armed with a poisoned blade, tried to slay Dennov’s father as he lay sleeping, but was captured before he could work his evil.”
Rellen gulped hard, his throat aching as though he had swallowed a stone. He searched Dennov’s face, but found no answers.
“This doesn’t trouble you?” Emun shook his head, disappointed his audience had yet to show their wrath. “Then perhaps this will; the assassins sent by the Three Lords aren’t men of Mormist or Grae. They’re not from the Dales, the mountains, or even the far and stretching prairie. They are, by Dennov’s account, part of the same scourge Saul of Elrain warned us of. They’re spies from the blighted realm beyond our reach, the land of war and conquest. They’re Furies. Do you understand? Does this poison your ears enough to make you angry?”
The air in Rellen’s chest felt blasted out as if by a hammer. This was the link he had feared, the truth held in secret throughout the winter. A low murmur swept like a shadow across the assembly. Even Garrett’s eyes went dangerously dim, narrowing like knives sharpened in the darkness.
“This man…” Emun spat. “This killer who came to put an end to Dennov’s line couldn’t speak our tongue but for a few clumsy phrases. But before he died, he was able to say he was sent by Lord Ennoch, most powerful lord of Mormist. Of this, you should be wary. Such a miserable mingling of the Furies and Ennoch can only mean there’s some foul pact between the two, some plan to upset the balance of the east. I’ll not sit by any longer. As I stand before you this morn, I call upon myself, upon all of you, to join the cause against this wickedness. Contain it before it spreads westward. End it before it destroys us the same as it did Davin Kal.”
Emun shuddered and coughed, the wracking of his lungs sounding deathly in the emptiness of the hall. All gazes, Rellen’s most of all, fell into Emun’s like fires returning to their father hearth. Rellen did not understand how everyone remained so calm. It felt to him as though everyone in the room had already known what his father would say, everyone except me.
“What will we do?” boomed Bruced.
“What’s our first move?” echoed Marlos. “Take Mormist by force?”
“Send armies! Send them now!” shouted young Therian, with whom most seemed to agree.
Emun sipped from his goblet. The assembly settled. “We’ve thought of these things. By Jacob’s permission, I’ve dispatched riders in secret to Gallen Hold. They’ll summon Lord Ahnwyn of Triaxe, who will sally his garrison to southern Mormist. We’ve also sent riders to Lord Lothe at Barrok, who’s ready to march at a moment’s notice. If that be any sign to you, we mean to act upon this with all our power, lest the evils Ennoch plans come full circle.”
“Good. Smoke them out of their holes. Damn the Lords,” Marlos spat.
“And damn them for denying us what is owed,” Bruced rumbled. “Damn them for stealing Lorsmir’s steel and bread from our blacksmiths’ mouths.”
The assembly hissed and cursed. Rellen said nothing. Sinking deep into his chair, he watched his father sit and drain his chalice dry. He shut his eyes, opening them after three breaths only to see his father’s gaze set like a sword point upon him. I know what’s next, he told himself. Garrett knew all along, and here it is.
Emun reached out and touched his arm, telling more with a graze of fingertips than had been said the entire morn.
“You shall go to Mormist, my son,” Emun said. “Under your command shall be Gryphon’s soldiers. You’ll act as my right hand, Graehelm’s enforcer, and you’ll guard the mountain people even as you seek out the Three Lords’ plot. I shall go south to join with Ahnwyn. I swear it now before those most sacred to me; with your skill and Jacob’s guidance, Mormist will thrive again. The Three Lords will see their plans undone.”
Emun retreated to his chair. Rellen dared not move. G
arrett and Saul’s hands clapped separately against his shoulder, but he felt nothing. He was alone with his thoughts. His first imaginings were of himself, old and withered as Grandwood’s weariest oak, alone in a grey Mormist tower under siege.
His next thoughts were for Andelusia, whom he wished were here beside him.
Like kindling scattered by the wind, the assembly splintered into many voices. Questions were raised and hatred hurled against the Three Lords. Rellen despaired in silence, though not for long. He remembered what Andelusia had many times told him. Your day will come, she had whispered in his ear. Your future is what you make of it. It was with her memory glimmering in his mind that he stood, courage welling inside him like an ocean wave crashing against the shore. “When, Father? When do I leave?”
The assembly fell silent. Pride erupting to life in his eyes, Emun rose back to his feet. He seemed taller, the ailments of a moment ago evaporating. With Emun’s rising, Jacob and the men of his house pushed back their chairs and erected themselves like a row of silver swords opposite him. Pride burned in their eyes the same as Emun’s. Jacob cleared his throat, grasping the attention of all in the room, silencing all sounds with but a gesture.
“House Gryphon does rightly by Graehelm,” said Jacob. “In these days when so few are willing, it’s good to have friends like you. We give our profound thanks. Your house has always been honorable, now more than ever.”
“Thank you, your Grace,” Emun looked humbled.
“Thank you,” Rellen murmured lower than he intended.
Jacob regarded all the other men at the table. His was a kingly stature, commanding them to listen. “To the rest of you, I admit I knew all of this before our gathering today. Emun, Farid, and I have exchanged many letters. For this, we apologize. We hope you understand it was no easy decision, and that secrecy was paramount. Ennoch, Ruel, and Ivallos are a cunning lot, but greater evils seem at work. We must move quickly if we’re to succeed.”
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 14
