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

by J. Edward Neill

  “So this is Mormist.” She shifted in her saddle.

  “No other place like it,” said Garrett.

  “I like it already. Beautiful. Even Grandwood is not so pretty.”

  “There are some who would agree.” He gazed into the twilit trees. “Others who might not. Grandwood has its ghosts, but this is Velum, and they say the spirits here are older than anywhere else.”

  The Bog

  Three days east of Gryphon, Rellen’s riders galloped into the Grae province of Mooreye.

  Nentham Thure’s realm possessed a look nowhere else in Graehelm could claim. Its swampy fields, black-grassed moors, and dark lakes stood stark as swords against springtime. Its late afternoon sky was packed with sullen clouds, and its air felt damp and heavy. In the grim, unwelcoming land, Rellen felt nervous for the first time since leaving home. He rode at the forefront of his men, blue tabard flagging in the wind, while at his back forty-five soldiers rode in a well-ordered line. He imagined his men looked much like a river, smooth and quick as water atop their steeds. All except Dennov were dressed in azure and silver, and all us of wary of what Nentham has in store.

  Guiding his stallion out of the grass and onto the road, Rellen slowed and beckoned his men to look eastward. There sat Mooreye City, stronghold of Nentham Thure. Its towering walls, looming like storm clouds above the city’s nine gates, cast a deep shadow upon all things beneath. Rellen’s stallion slowed as if wise enough to be fearful.

  “Ugliest city I’ve ever seen.” Marlos pulled up beside him. “Why ride so close?”

  “Look.” Rellen pointed south, where Grandwood stood sentinel. “There. And there.” The Mooreye portion of Grandwood was dense, the trees packed together like towers in a crowded city. “And look there.” He nodded north, where manor houses dotted the flat, miserable moors. The manors’ walls were hewn of dark brown stones, their sides greening with vines, but their innards were packed with Graehelm’s wealthiest men, few of them friendly to Gryphon. “Either way we go, Nentham will know,” he explained to Marlos. “Might as well make a show of strength.”

  He snapped his reins and rode ahead. The company picked up their pace behind him. They neared the city, riding close enough to see its soldiers keeping watch atop the steel-crenellated walls. In a field beyond the northernmost gate, Rellen held up his palm.

  The company’s gallop became a trot, and Marlos and Bruced converged beside him.

  “We’re stopping? Or planning to storm the city with just a pocketful of men?” asked Bruced.

  “Remember where we are.” He nodded toward the city. “Get a good look at Nentham’s guards, and let them do the same. From here, we’ll head north for the night. My hope is Nentham will see our numbers. And choose not to try anything…stupid.”

  “Aye. Let them see me especially,” Bruced boasted. “Mooreye bones are too soft for this soldier.”

  “So much for subtlety,” said Marlos.

  A short while of trading stares with the guards atop Mooreye’s walls, and he gave the city his back. He sank his spurs into his stallion’s flanks and tore off at a swift gallop to the north, his company hot on his tail. The paths were narrower north of the city, the grasses and thickets growing darker in the approaching gloam. He led his men away from Nentham’s stronghold for an hour, halting only after the city and the manors were well out of sight.

  At the edge of dusk, he brought his riders to a secluded place, a niche of soft, weedy earth hidden in a ring of trees. In the heart of the clearing, a pool of deep water sat in silence. The glass-surfaced lake looked like polished stone, dark and uninviting, but his men and their horses knelt at its bank anyway, filling their bellies. This place will do, he thought as he dropped down from his stallion and filled his waterskin. Dark, dank, and uncomfortable.

  Nentham will never expect us to settle here.

  “Fine camp this’ll be.” Marlos dropped down beside him. “Wet and sodding. But suitably out of the way, I reckon.”

  With a wave of his arm, Rellen gathered the entire company near. Off their horses they came, huddling around him. “Men, I didn’t feel safe camping close to Mooreye,” he told them. “The city’s ugly, its leader uglier. I came to this little lake once when I was younger. Nentham’s men won’t likely follow us here. If they do, the advantage will be ours. There’s only one way in through the trees.”

  “Best to set a guard.” Bruced thumped him on the back. “I volunteer for first watch. Five of you come with me. The rest of you keep your tents low and your fires lower.”

  The men dispersed to their duties. By the time total darkness claimed the sky, the company was at rest, their camp strewn along the lakeshore. As they sat beside their fires, the clouds broke and the waxing moon cut through, its pallid face shining on the water like a great white eye. In the eerie light, Rellen wandered amongst the men for a while, trading jests and quelling worries before slipping into his tent.

  Inside his tent, Marlos awaited. The burly captain’s tabard was damp and spattered with mud. He sat on a stump in the tent’s corner, shooing off lake gnats, his beard like a rope swinging to and fro. “Did we have to ride so close to Nentham’s rat-hole?” he groused. “The whole place stinks. I hate it, and so do you.”

  “I know.” Rellen plopped down onto his bedroll. “But here we are. The way around would’ve take weeks.”

  “So then…why three days?” Marlos glowered.

  “Three days?”

  Marlos rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend. During the three days we waited for you in Gryphon, you were hardly holed in your room. You were worried about your little lady friend. You spent all your time with her, likely living and dying beneath her skirts instead of dreaming of ways to outsmart the Three Lords.”

  Anyone else he would have sent sprawling into the night, but Marlos had always spoken his mind freely, and all of us tolerate it.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “And so what? I needed her. The day we left, I couldn’t even find her to say goodbye. She was hiding, and who can blame her? There I was, professing my love one day, and riding off with you on the next.”

  Marlos shook his head. “Clear your mind, Rell. The girl’s not important. Nentham is what matters, Mormist doubly so. Your father would never approve of the lass anyway, not if he knew how much time you two spent together.”

  He might be right, Rellen thought. But then…how could he understand? He and Nandra have been together for decades.

  Smiling with a memory of Andelusia, he tore a piece of bread in half and stuffed it in his mouth. “If you knew her, you’d understand. She’s not like other girls. I can be myself with her. No posturing. No bragging. Just her and me. What Father thinks be damned.”

  “As you like,” said Marlos. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose. But take care you don’t dream of her so much you forget what’s important.”

  “I know,” he said. “Mooreye and Mormist. Nentham and the Three Lords. What woman could take my mind off that?”

  Only one, he wanted to say.

  Andelusia.

  * * *

  Outside Rellen’s tent, at the far end of the water, Bruced, Therian, Saul, and three watchmen hunkered in a narrow opening between the trees. Laughter from the campsite behind them rang out in the night, but the watchmen wore no smiles. The darkness was too full of unfamiliar noises, the realm beyond the camp rife with snaps and chirrups and caws. Young Therian was most nervous of all. Kneeling beside a gnarled, long-dead tree, he gazed down the path leading out of the camp and into the Mooreye plain.

  “You see that?” He pointed.

  “See what? There’s nothing,” grunted Bruced.

  “Just watch,” Therian whispered. “I thought I saw a light.”

  Many moments of nothingness passed. A flock of clouds passed over the face of the moon, shrouding the campground in near total darkness. For a time the watchmen relaxed, but Therian kept his eyes on the gap between the trees. “Look.” He tugged Bruced’s shirt. “There it is again. See?�
��

  Bruced scoffed, but the warrior beside him hoisted his spear and jabbed it into the night. “The boy’s right.” The warrior pointed. “Look there.”

  In the miserably low light, the six could see little further than their hands. But none missed what moved in the distance. Several pinpoints of light winked into view, swaying up and down like the eyes of hungry wolves.

  All the watchmen froze save Bruced. Glaring at the advancing lights, the huge man clutched the handle of his heavy axe with one hand and shook Therian with the other. “Go, boy,” he muttered. “Tell the others, and do it quietly. Nentham and his maggots are here.”

  “Nentham? How do you know?”

  “I know. Now go.”

  Therian dashed into the darkness. Clamping his meaty palms onto the haft of his axe, Bruced grumbled to Saul. “Those are torchlights,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Whoever carries them comes toward us on horseback. Rellen was right to be worried.”

  Saul clutched his battlestaff. “Why would Nentham attack us?”

  “The maggot of Mooreye needs no reason. To him, the best Gryphon man is a dead one. It doesn’t matter. Let them come.”

  * * *

  Rellen dozed on his bedroll, lost in a featureless dream. He felt the breeze on his face and the scent of water invading his tent, but awoke only when he heard the shrill sound of Therian whistling. He sat up, sluggish as half-frozen porridge, and he found Therian standing before him.

  “Rellen, wake up! Riders are near!” The light from Therian’s torch stung his eyes. “Friend or foe…we’re not sure! Bruced thinks it may be Nentham!”

  “Riders? Here?” he murmured. “If they come from the south, they’re foes. But if from the north—”

  “From the south.” Therian cut him off.

  With three breaths he sprang into action. He clasped on a breastplate and snatched Therian’s torch away, dousing the flame to its death in a bucket of dark water. The rumble of approaching horses churned like drums, the sound like thunder shaking the last remnant of sleepiness from his mind. “Nentham,” he cursed as he pushed his way past Therian, “the man’s lost his mind.”

  He bolted out of his tent, where the soldiers of Gryphon stirred. He saw swords being unsheathed, spears shouldered, and shields strapped to forearms. Fear smoked from the eyes of his men, but courage as well. “Riders!” he hissed at his men. “You twenty, take your horses and make a line behind Bruced. You ten, snuff your fires and hide in the trees on either side of the path. Wait for my call to attack. Make no delay! Go!”

  The company erupted to life. Some thirty men untethered their horses and galloped toward the path, weapons bristling like an angry hive of hornets. Another ten strapped their shields on and led their mounts away on foot, slinking like highwaymen into the trees. Rellen cursed that the darkness was so deep. Alone at the water’s edge, he grasped a spear from its rack and pulled himself atop his stallion. This should be interesting, he said to no one but himself.

  Damn you, Nentham.

  * * *

  Away from Rellen, Bruced stepped onto the path between the trees.

  Fires burned in the pupils of his eyes, swaying scarlet reflections from the torches of the approaching riders. From the darkness, they came. They were some sixty men of Mooreye, their raiment black and their faces painted. They ground to a halt in front of Bruced, glaring like buzzards at a banquet of dead men.

  “Evening, fellows.” Bruced puffed up his barreled chest. “What brings ye to our little camp?”

  The riders at the forefront said nothing. They were a cruel-eyed lot, their grasps full of all manner of steely death, but none of them were as huge as Bruced. From their center came a warhorse saddled by a black-mantled man. Scowling, the Mooreye man looked down upon the Gryphon host. “You must be Bruced.” He sneered. “The ox of Gryphon, so they say.”

  “Aye.” Bruced obliged with a grim smile. “That’d be me.”

  Bruced knew the sneering fellow by reputation alone. Thracic, murderer amongst murderers, had long been the captain of Nentham’s guard. Thracic’s pitiless eyes were visible through the front of the helm, burning like smoldering stars. In his left hand, the fiend clutched an oval shield, and in his right, a notched broadsword.

  Thracic drove his horse back and forth along the front rank of the massing Gryphon company, snorting at them in contempt. “You all look so pretty with your shiny knives and dainty horses,” he mocked. “Tell me what it feels like to be Emun’s slaves. Smile for me like children, and maybe we’ll let you live.”

  From the depths of the Mooreye ranks, a second rider urged his destrier forth. He was a tall man, lean as a willow switch, hands crabbed around his torch like a skeleton’s fingers. Bruced knew him as well.

  Nentham Thure, lord of Mooreye.

  Nentham smirked at the Gryphon host. “Where’s the boy, Rellen Gryphon?” He searched their faces like a carrion bird seeking his plunder. “I should like to greet him to my lands.”

  “He’s a busy lad these days,” boomed Bruced. “What with doing all the deeds you and yours refused.”

  “Busy?” Nentham showed his teeth. “Is that what you call it? A little lamb runs from his father’s flock and loses himself among the wolves, and you call it a deed worth doing? Why are you here? This is Mooreye, my land. No one passes without my consent.”

  “Begging pardon,” Bruced rumbled. “But we’re not the type to ask permission. This plot of mud is ours for the night. See yourself back to your tower, else we’ll send you there in pieces.”

  Nentham looked angry enough to tear his own skin off. When Marlos and the rest of the men arrived, it inflamed the Mooreye lord even more. Marlos drove his mount to the front of the Gryphon host, reining to a halt beside Bruced. “Nentham…” he fumed. “You greet the son of a fellow Councilor thus, with brigands and swords? Go home. Come back when your manners have returned. Better still, come back never.”

  Nentham’s neck turned molten red. Hawkish nose held high, eyes bulging, the lord of Mooreye spat at the Gryphon company. “Gryphon dogs!” His lips twisted. “Is the wisdom of Emun’s house broken? He sends men to cross my lands without an invitation? To where are you bound? Why do you need so many men-at-arms? If your little quest is so noble, why’ve you corralled yourselves here in the muck? Why do you hide from Mooreye?”

  “We weren’t aware the lands of Lord Thure were off limits,” said Marlos. “We’re Emun’s men. We have right of free passage across any lands, yours included. Not that we like it here. The ground’s too soft, and your city stinks like a privy.”

  Nentham absorbed the insult with a sneer. He drove his destrier to stamp the soggy ground, throwing clods of mud into the air. “You meddle in things best left to others.” He wheeled close to the Gryphon front line. “I too am a Councilor. What right have you to do anything without my consent? Whatever Emun sent you to do is a waste of time. His…and mine.”

  Marlos trembled with rage. His twin blades shivered in their sheaths, his ropey beard swaying with his every hot breath. “Your king-to-be sent us,” he said. “You’ve no power greater than his, do you? Take your dogs and be gone! This is our muckhole. We’ll be gone by sunrise, out of Mooreye by dusk tomorrow.”

  Nentham glared at Marlos. The two men’s hatred hung like a cloud over every man. “I recognize no worm of Nurė,” Nentham spat. “He’s not my king, nor the king of Mooreye. The other Councilors mean to hoist the brat into his chair without my consent. But we’ll not stand for it. Mooreye won’t yield until a worthy man is crowned.”

  “And who might be worthy?” Marlos growled. “Someone from House Thure? You?”

  Nentham laughed, a cackle like a crow feasting on a field of dead. “An amusing choice, and perhaps not so far from my desire. But no, I wish no throne, at least not tonight. I say only that we choose better. Jacob’s a petty soldier, hardly a king, and certainly no politician. If I have it my way, he’ll not last a season upon the throne.”

  “You threaten him
?” Marlos paled.

  “I’d rather slay him.”

  The Gryphon men reeled. Fear and anger caught fire in their eyes, their hands squeezing around the hafts of their spears and swords. Men on both sides shouted vulgarities at the other, and through it all, Nentham smiled.

  “Were you wiser…” Marlos steadied his nervous steed. “…you’d throw down your filthy blades and crawl home. You’re traitors and thieves, all of you. The rest of Graehelm shall hear of this.”

  “Careful, Ser Marlos.” Nentham guided his mount beside Thracic’s. “You’re in my field, far from prying eyes. Were you to be lost, there’d be none to remember your passing, none in all of Mooreye to mourn you. But I’m a merciful man. I offer you your lives in exchange for your withdrawal. You’ll lay down your weapons, turn Rellen Gryphon over to me, and abandon this unlawful trespass.” Punctuating his threat, Nentham waved his smoking torch through the air and fixed his domineering gaze upon the faces of the Gryphon men. Hatred roamed in the darkness of his pupils, loathing for all those he looked upon.

  A moment of silence, and the men in the rear of the Gryphon company stirred. Slow and steady, a grey stallion and its rider parted the ranks, trotting through lofted steel and snapping fires. “And why should Mooreye hate us?” Rellen halted between Bruced and Marlos, just three sword-lengths from Nentham. “Makes no sense to me. Do you want Mormist, source of all your gold and steel, to break away? Would you have us do nothing while the Three Lords abandon all their oaths? Or are the rumors true? Does House Thure pluck its profits from Ennoch’s breeches? My father was right not to trust you, but I wager he never expected treason.”

  Like a vulture circling, Nentham smiled. “Foolish child. Does your father’s lilting enchant you? Do you think Graehelm is the only power in the world? I say to you, Rellen Gryphon, surrender now and save your men. If you don’t lay down your arms, this bog will be your festering gravestone. I’ve long awaited the chance to end Emun’s line. And here you’ve served it to me, platter and all.”