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

by J. Edward Neill

  “And if not? If they decide to march on us?”

  He thought hard on it. “I’ll send you west with a cadre of riders.” He smiled. “And Garrett straight at the enemy. I figure one of him is worth at least a hundred thousand of them.”

  She asked nothing more. He was grateful. It’s never her way to cut too deep or ask too much. She’s a world aside from everyone else, the light that clears the darkness from my heart.

  Eyelids heavy with sleep, his head buzzing with her touch, he sat and stroked her hair for longer than he knew. Had she risen and begged him to escape into the night, he told himself he would follow without a care. I’d break all my oaths, he knew. My name would be cursed from now until forever.

  And I wouldn’t care a bit.

  Doom

  One month into the invasion, and half of Mormist lay conquered beneath Daćin’s sword.

  Velum Forest had been easy fruit for the plucking.

  The Furyons came, and the lords of every town scattered or submitted, the survivors barred in cages and sent rolling toward Minec. Children were spared, the infirm as well, but all men of strong body became chattel, and all women of age passed about like common coin. There were no battles. There was no heroism. Come the thunder of Daćin’s boots, the few small swords daring to resist were crushed, their limbless corpses hung from the trees as warnings.

  Worse than the Furyons was the rain.

  The torrential herald of the Emperor advanced ahead of the Furyons like a primeval monster, drowning valleys, felling trees, and consuming hundreds in its maw. Every city Daćin took, the storms preceded his arrival. He was the conqueror, and the rain his vanguard. A thousand shades of midnight, a monument of cloud and lightning, it crumbled the hearts of all who saw it.

  “Will it ever end?” Sarik asked Daćin one evening while standing in the opening to his tent.

  Daćin closed his eyes and listened to the storm slashing the earth outside. “When the war’s finished and Tyberia restored, the rain will end.” He leaned back in his pillowed chair with a grunt. “The Emperor won’t say as much, but that is what I believe.”

  Daćin’s camp lay on the eastern banks of the Gholesh. His tent was near enough the river that he could hear it even now, even with the rain rushing down through the night. The Gholesh was his plague. Where once it had quietly babbled, there raged a flooded artery of swift and deadly water, a torrent engorged by the unending deluge. Villages that had long stood undisturbed in the woods had been swallowed by the river’s surge. By now the forest valley was not much more than a ruinous canal, wracked by the fell downpour.

  “This won’t do,” he said to Sarik after a tense silence.

  “Sire?”

  “The rain. The river. The waiting.” His frustration fumed. “The Emperor won’t stand for it.”

  Ever cautious, Sarik closed the tent flap and poured him a second goblet of wine. It was sour stuff, ruined by the humidity, but he drank it all the same.

  “Will the Emperor come down from the mountains?” Sarik asked.

  He gulped half his wine down and set the goblet on his table. “I think not. Why venture to the front when Minec is so comfortable? Ennoch’s body dries in the sand, and our Emperor takes the man’s tower for his own. I send him wagon after wagon of strong men and pretty Grae girls, and all he does is ask for more. No, I don’t think he’ll come.”

  Sarik was a safe lad to heap such complaints on. The young Furyon looked unwell of late, his cheeks paling and his raiment rotting from the rain, but Daćin found him no less a good ear, and least likely of his squires to repeat the words uttered in his tent.

  “What will happen?” Sarik asked. “How will the invasion proceed?”

  “Two weeks, and still the Gholesh rises.” He raised his voice to match the rolling thunder. “If the rain never stops, the war will stagnate. The Grae will gather their armies on the far bank. The Emperor will think me weak. He cares none for excuses, our master. He’ll promote the Thillrian to commander. Then there’ll be no slaves, only carcasses tortured and torn. Tyberia will be founded on bones, not glory, and the blame will fall on me.”

  “Sire, you go too far,” Sarik said timidly.

  Elbows resting on the arms of his chair, huge fingers interwoven beneath his chin, he glared over the tops of his hands at Sarik. “Leave me for tonight, boy. Tell Akkari to ship ten more wagonloads to Minec, and Arjobec to double the watch on the river bank.”

  “Sire.” Sarik scuttled out of the tent and into the driving rain.

  The next dawn arrived, and though the rain was lighter than yestereve, it pelted him when he awoke and exited his tent. Every part of the forest was drowning. Roots rotted at his feet, leaves sagged as though autumn were near, and everywhere Furyon soldiers cursed at fallen tents, snuffed fires, and ruined gear. He emerged into the rain like a mountain in the middle of an ocean, his gaze absorbing everything. At least the weapons and armor won’t suffer, he said a silent thanks.

  Dageni steel never rusts.

  The rain beat on his brow as he marched through the mud and came to the bank of the flooded Gholesh. No men approached him. All of them saw the look in his eyes, the darkness therein. He kneeled at river’s edge, the water churning wildly, and he removed the Dageni gauntlet from his left hand. Like knives, he slipped his fingers below the surface. As the water flowed past his hand, he closed his eyes meditatively. Not an accident, this rain. Witchcraft. Malog. Chakran.

  All of it meant to be.

  A long while of kneeling at water’s edge, and he pulled his hand from the water and whistled to summon his fastest messenger to him. In fifty breaths, a lean, pale-faced knight rode down the slope toward the river, mounted on a sleek ebon courser. The knight wore only a leather cuirass, his only Dageni instrument the longsword at his side, his face reflecting in a mirrored puddle upon the riverbank.

  “I’ve a task for you, Akkari.” Daćin waved his dripping fingers toward the black clouds. “You’ll go back to Minec, to the hall where Chakran stays. You’ll ask him to end this. Ask him to end the storm, that we might continue.”

  “Sire, I don’t understand,” Akkari stammered. “End the rain? But how?”

  “Go to the Emperor, I say again. Tell him we must cross this river soon, lest every sheep in his enemy’s flock escape before we do. We must cross. The storm must end. He’ll know exactly what I mean. It doesn’t matter whether or not you understand.”

  “Yes, Sire. As you command.”

  Akkari leapt into his stallion’s saddle and sped through the trees. Afterward, Daćin drew in a great breath of humid air. He yearned to cross the Gholesh, not with desire to collect more slaves for Chakran, but in the hopes of finding an enemy worthy of conquest, an enemy to test his skill. Any Furyon could sit by a river and wait. My value is nothing if not for battle.

  He stood on the Gholesh bank, the shearing rain drenching him to his core. A crack of thunder came, and he retreated to his tent.

  Eight days went by.

  News of Archmyr’s successes in the south reached his ear, yet he was no happier for it. His men came to him day and night, and to all of them he promised the invasion would soon proceed, and that the storm was the work of fearful Graehelm sorcerers. From every corner of eastern Mormist, missives and riders arrived daily to extol Furyon victories, but he rejoiced none. The glory is Archmyr’s, he fumed. By the time the river falls, he’ll have buried every soul in Graehelm. Tyberia will be a tomb.

  On the ninth day, he awoke to the sound of a great stirring in the woods.

  Dressing in a red and black longshirt, black breeches, and Dageni-studded boots, he pushed open the heavy cloth guarding the entrance to his tent. His men rushed here and there as if for battle, but he heard no horns blowing, no cries of an imminent fight. For so many days his men had been sunken like tree roots into the forest, but now they were alive again, bustling and heavy of breath. He saw Sarik running through the rain, panting like a dog. The look on the squire’s face said ever
ything. Emperor Chakran is here.

  Upon a barrel-legged, jet-mottled destrier, the Emperor thundered into the heart of the camp. His mount was one of few brought forth from Furyon, its appearance made wild by dangling crimson ribbons tethered like serpents to its mane. The Emperor looked as fearsome as ever, a bearded battle-lord clad in garments of shadow. Chakran drew back his reins and leapt to the soaking ground, pounding a plume of water into the air beneath his booted feet.

  Daćin stood fast as his master approached. He saw how Chakran’s armor seemed to absorb all light, how his every step seemed to shake the earth, and for a moment he was afraid.

  “Commander,” the Emperor bellowed. “You called for me.”

  “I did, Sire,” said Daćin. “The rain…it never ends. The river’s swollen. I’ve sure you’ve heard. I hoped you might help us.”

  Chakran smiled knowingly. The whites of his eyes were what Daćin saw most, gleaming behind all the black. “It’s good you understand.” The Emperor rolled his shoulders. “You were wise to call me. I can help you. First you must take your men away from the river. Send them to the high wood for the rest of the day. Do not leave any behind. I will remain here. Do not send any messengers or inquiries of my progress. At sundown tomorrow this angry stream you call a river will be no more than a trickle.”

  He resisted the urge to utter any of the thousand questions burning on his tongue. Shrugging off an ocean’s worth of rain, he bowed. “My lord, once the river falls, we may be delayed. The bridge has washed away.”

  Chakran snorted, “Here we have sixty thousand, yet a batch of fallen timber would hold us back? I think not. We’ll take to the valley at nightfall, two days hence. Leave the wagons behind, the slaves also. The bridge can be rebuilt after the enemy is slaughtered. We go by foot.”

  “My lord, how is this? The flood still rages. Even if the waters were gone, if the enemy should see us in the vale, they’ll claim the high ground. We’d be trapped beneath their arrows. We’d be helpless.”

  “Helpless? Is that what you believe?” Chakran’s teeth gleamed like knives behind his beard. “We fear no enemy, Commander. The valley will be as it was before you came: empty but for a streamlet. When we ford the shallows, you’ll see we’re far from helpless. The Grae will flee in the darkness like lambs before the pack. How many wagons, I wonder? How many will their bodies fill?”

  Daćin dared no questions. If this is his will, I will see it done, he thought. But rivers do not vanish in a day. And giving the Grae the high ground is folly.

  His face gone blank, he lifted his hand into the air and called the names of three captains standing nearby. They came to him, heads down and gazes empty. “You have a new task,” he told them. “You’ll do it now. Summon every soul within an hour’s ride. Call every soldier, every slaver, every quartermaster. March them east of the river for two hours, and don’t return until I send word. You’ll go with them, as will all the captains. There will be no questions, no answers, only an empty stretch of forest where this camp used to be. Now go. Do this at once, or the Emperor’s mercy won’t be enough to save you.”

  The three captains hastened away. He heard their voices booming amid the trees, demanding tents be torn down and wagons loaded for departure. After they moved on and their voices dimmed, he looked to the Emperor again.

  “I like how they leap at your commands.” Chakran grinned. “Like dogs fighting over scraps of meat. It’s hard for Furyons to swallow their pride and do as they are told, but for you they seem so willing.”

  “They do it more for you than me, Sire. They tire of waiting. They’re hungrier for battle than I remember.”

  “Good,” the Emperor rumbled.

  “When the river falls, do you mean to join us in the valley?”

  “Yes.” Chakran smoothed the rain from his black vambraces. “You’ve done well thus far, as has the Pale Knight. Mormist is all but finished. But it’s time, I think, to demonstrate our truest might. The Grae and their vassals must witness why the wiser path is to fall, not to fight. For this, you’ll need me.”

  He wondered what the Emperor’s meaning was. “Yes, of course,” he said. “And the storm? It will subside?”

  “The storm…” Chakran licked his teeth. “The storm will do as I tell it. You need only be ready. Two nights from now, we march.”

  He searched his mind for a way to question Chakran about the storm, but he had no time. Too swiftly, the Emperor pulled himself astride his hulking destrier. Chakran glowered toward the river valley, and twelve riders emerged from the shadows of the trees. Men from Malog, Daćin knew. Sorcerers…and murderers. They joined the Emperor on his way down to the river, none of them saying a word as they passed him by.

  An hour later, only he and Sarik remained. The rest of his host was vanished in the east, and in their absence the forest felt like a wasteland. He and Sarik stood outside the last remaining tent, two statues stiller than the trees. A wall of grey mist curtained their view of the river, and so he listened more than watched, his eyes shut fast. He thought he heard a voice crawling out of the fog, a chant in a language unknown. Chakran, he knew. Speaking the tongue of Malog.

  As dusk swept across all of Mormist, he and Sarik took shelter. They dined on salted meats and spiced mead, and with the tent flap folded open, they watched the rain end, the clouds part, and the storm begin to break.

  Barrok

  Of all the places to meet, Rellen thought as he trudged into the bowels of Verod. Garrett picks this one.

  He hated Verod’s dungeons, for all that they reminded him of a coffin. The hollows beneath the old castle were labyrinthine, a prison for decades forgotten. Cobwebs hung in white strands from candelabras long unlit. The floors were littered with dirt, broken pottery, and what looked to him like a fine layer of bonemeal. In the lowest room of all, the lone circular table resembled a shield many battles old, its top cracked and worn.

  Worst of all was the dust, leaping in plumes from his chair when he sat, clinging to his fingers in cloudy strands when he swiped a line on the table.

  Garrett and Saul entered the room just behind him. He watched Saul place his lantern atop the table, its light casting long shadows throughout the cobwebbed room. Then came Garrett, ebon hauberk and all, dropping his sword on the table and sinking into a groaning chair. Last of all to enter the room was Andelusia. As he swiped yet another line of dust from the tabletop, he glimpsed her taking a quiet seat in the corner of the room. He smiled once for her, and then retreated into council.

  “They say the second army’s bigger than the first,” began Saul. “More than eighty thousand. Only a handful of mountain folk made it across the river before it flooded, and all of them say the same.”

  “Perfect…” He had heard the same, but hoped it was only a rumor. “More murderers, more slave-takers, and more rain. What other bad news? The enemy’s twenty feet tall? They breathe fire? They turn soldiers to stone with just a glance?”

  “Might as well,” Saul ruminated. “Every city east of the Gholesh is said to be taken without a fight. Present company aside, the mountain folk have no stomach for war.”

  “We have never had to,” Garrett added without stirring.

  “And what of the weather?” Rellen swiped the dust from his palms. “Yestereve, I heard a merchant refugee from Gholesh complaining. He said the river’s swollen ten times higher than normal. He said the lightning cooks twenty trees an hour, and the skies are so dark no soul east of the river has seen the sun in weeks.”

  Saul rubbed his temples. “It could be the storm Ser Endross mentioned. Or not. Either way, the enemy suffers as much as we do. Maybe the skies will do Ahnwyn justice and destroy their men instead of ours.”

  He shook his head. “Doubtful.”

  “At least they can’t attack until the river goes down,” Saul reasoned.

  “True of the northern army. But not of the other. Bruced had it right when he said they’re likely to march northward and shove their swords right up
our arses. Then again, no one since Ser Endross has seen this Pale Knight. Where is he? What does he want?”

  Silence befell the room. Rellen leaned back in his chair, quietest of all. He looked to Andelusia, who sat on her hands and showed a slender smile, but then he slouched and stared at the ceiling.

  Maybe the cobwebs will have answers.

  Saul was first to crack the silence, brown beard failing to hide the hard line of his lips. “Knowing what we know, our current plan is madness. I know my voice is small here, and I know the others have counseled otherwise, but I believe we should retreat. We should go to Gryphon and retake this country when the time is right, when we’ve a worthy army to fight with.”

  “No.” Garrett leaned forward. “If we wait for the Furies to overrun every thicket, Mormist will not be worth retaking. It will fragment, and everyone will die. They say at my home, fair Trebidal, the enemy’s ghoulish general locked all the men in chains, bound every girl between twelve and fifty to their beds, and put every lad not of fighting age to the sword. There is no bargain to be made with such a foe. We must give them back the death they so crave.”

  “Garrett’s right,” said Rellen. “They won’t stop. They’ll kill and enslave everyone. These are the armies warned of by King Lumaur. They mean to conquer us, and they mean to do it mercilessly. They aren’t knocking on our door; they’re bashing it into splinters. Father would say this is our defining hour. We survive, or we die.”

  “So it’s decided?” Saul grimaced. “We challenge them now?”

  Rellen nodded. “Yes. There’re two thousand men willing to fight in Tratec. We can double that in a week. If Barrok comes, we’ll have an army larger than Ahnwyn’s. We might not win, but maybe we can kill enough of them to keep them away until more Grae arrive.”

  “Do not forget the storm,” Garrett said grimly. “We have reports from others confirming what Ser Endross saw. Lord Ahnwyn is dead. All witnesses claim it was the weather’s work.”