The Furyon monster called for his own mount, the hugest destrier she had ever seen, and he tethered her slender mount to it. She swayed in the saddle like a strip of cloth in the breeze, feeling less like a woman and more like a rag doll. She saw the beast staring at her, his eyes seeking some response, but she gazed through him as though he was invisible.
Go cold, Ande, she thought as they led her away from Archmyr and into the darkness.
No matter what they do, I will give them nothing.
The Dark Path
After a long, dreamless night, dawn swept away the darkness.
Andelusia lay on her side, gaze wide and hollow, the early breeze gusting across her body. Her suntouched cheek felt warm, the feeling rousing her to look skyward, where the sun was already burning. She shielded her eyes with her palm and glanced to each side of her bedroll, seeing several Furyon shapes moving in the background.
Satisfied no immediate pain would befall her, she shut her eyes and pretended to drift back to sleep.
“Good morning,” the voice above her said. “Tell me your name. Or shall I tell you mine?”
The voice was tainted with a Furyon accent, but the words were Grae. She peered up and saw a man crouching over her, a fellow older than all the other soldiers she had seen. His eyes were wrinkled at the corners, his pupils the color of freshly-worked clay. He was garbed in a greying cloak, battered and stained, which covered a suit of very un-Furyon iron mail.
“Were you talking to me?” she asked.
“No one else is near.”
She peeled herself from the earth, gaping as though he had just slapped her.
“I see you’re famished, and in need of a good draught.” He gave her a cup filled to its brim with water. “Here, have some. Your voice may yet find its way back.”
She drained the contents of the cup, afterward wiping the excess from her lips.
“Is that better?” he asked.
She nodded and rubbed her neck, which was sore and stiff from her pillowless slumber upon the earth.
“You’re tired still?” he asked.
She shook her head. She needed no more sleep, only food.
As though he could read her mind, the aged Furyon walked a short distance away and returned with a bowl. Her eyes widened, for the bowl overflowed with grapes, figs, and apples. He set it into her palms, and without any regard for manners she tore into the fruit, finishing only when she could stuff no more into her belly. He watched her eat without a word, saying nothing of the mess she made.
“Was that enough?” he asked when she was finished.
“Yes,” she replied, her cheeks still stretched with grapes.
As she gulped down the last of her unexpected meal, the old soldier looked her over. He studied her the same as a scholar might a book. “You needn’t be afraid.” He took the bowl back. “We mean you no harm. We’re a bit hurried however, and we must leave here. We’ll go on horseback. You’re thinking we mean to torment or enslave you, but find faith in this; the worst is over.”
Her fear gave way to a glimmer of trust. She took his hand, allowing him to lift her to her feet and lead her to the same horse she had traveled on the previous night. As she reached the horse, he laid his weathered hands gently atop her shoulders.
“My name is Arjobec. I’m a guide and translator in the service of my master, Daćin of Dageni. You are under his protection now, and you need fear the ugliness of Archmyr no longer. Should you require something, you must ask me and me alone, for no other man in this company speaks the Grae language.”
No sooner did Arjobec assist her into her saddle than the questions tumbled from her mouth like a waterfall from a mountainside. “Why? Why are you doing this? Why did the Pale One not kill me? And who is Commander Daćin? Why would he protect me?”
“Well, well, you can talk after all.” Arjobec’s eyes brightened. “Many things will be explained, but for now we must hurry. You must guide your horse behind mine and make no attempt to escape. Although you are a guest of my master, any attempt to leave will forfeit your life. Come now, young mistress. Follow me into the forest.”
Arjobec took hold of the long strand of rope knotted tightly about the reins of her mount. He jerked, and they both went trotting, down, down into the sunlit trees.
This cannot be happening.
Kindness? Figs, berries, apples?
What happened last night?
Where is the giant?
For many hours he led her through the forest, weaving between the trees behind a long line of Furyon knights. There were many, many Furyons, all clad in dark, dagger-plated armor and none of them smiling. She saw no sign of the Furyon giant, and better still, no sign of Archmyr.
For long stretches it seemed as though she and Arjobec rode alone, for no word was spoken between he and the others.
Deep into the woods they led her. The Furyon company halted only once, and only briefly. After watering themselves and their horses, they began anew, riding until the sun reached its apex in the sky. Fixed like a statue upon her mount, she devoured everything given to her by Arjobec: apples, figs, and salted nuts. They rode on, and her exhaustion caught up to her, weighing so much upon her shoulders she might have toppled from her horse had not her new warden cautioned her against closing her eyes. Deeper into the day they took her, away from all sights of the civilized world. She began to think the trees might never end, that their branches might stretch into forever and beyond. The sun eventually paled, its dwindling radiance tearing the clouds into tendrils of lavender. She looked to the sky and saw she was drawing near the Crown Mountains, whose ethereal shapes she remembered asking Saul to take her to see. And here I am, she mocked herself. No Saul. No Rellen. No Garrett.
Only an old slaver and a pack of wolves.
In the last moments before night slew the day, Arjobec led her abruptly downhill, where her view of the mountains vanished behind the trees. Before her was a place she had never seen before. At first glance, she assumed the Furyons had brought her to some grand stronghold, a fortress hidden in the woods, but when she shook away her drowsiness, her gaze fell upon pale towers, domed dwellings, and empty streets. A city newly taken. My new prison, she assumed. Whom will I be fed to tonight?
What the city had looked like before the war, she could not guess. Nestled in the shadow of a massive mountain spur, it looked far different than Tratec. The city was packed with rows of tall, ashen stone structures. Towers of granite and white marble stood everywhere, while broken-roofed domes and vaulted ruins cast shadows upon the streets. The whole place seemed fashioned more in the manner of a cemetery than a city where living men might dwell, though it was not always so, she reckoned. She searched the streets for signs of Mormist folk, but all she saw were Furyon warriors, their hair and armor stained black as pitch. New place. New prison. But still flooded with the enemy.
Arjobec led her into the heart of the moribund metropolis. He brought her onto a narrow street, a path paved by shattered slate, and led her away from the accompaniment of soldiers. Until then, she had thought only the enemy lurked within the city, but she now saw differently. Huddled close, fearful and quiet in night’s shadows, many faces peered out at her. There were women, young children, and the weary faces of the elderly, but she saw not a single man younger than forty winters. What did they do with the men? Something awful. The Pale Knight has already been here.
She did not know it yet, but she had arrived at the chief encampment of Daćin. The ancient city of Orye, once home to thousands of Mormist stoneworkers, miners, and architects, had fallen early in the war. From its towers, hundreds of young men had been stolen away to the slave pens of Minec. Left behind was a skeletal place, a city abandoned to ruin, sheltering within its somnolent midst only a handful of inhabitants who suffered in captivity.
After a slow trek down the city’s decaying thoroughfare, Arjobec took her to Orye’s heart, where a great ring of ruined towers surrounded an ancient, marble-paved courtyard. The stru
ctures here all looked the same. Each towering roof was capped by an oval dome of cracked grey marble, each entrance flanked by vaulting columns graven in the shapes of valiant men and nubile women. Between the domed dwellings, soaring stone archways were hewn, each one leading away from the courtyard and into the streets beyond.
“Welcome.” Arjobec led her into the courtyard’s center. “This city was called Orye. You might look at it and think we’re the ones to despoil it, but in truth this city rotted long ago.”
She peered into empty windows in the sides of the marble towers. A shiver ran up her spine, as though a ghost lurked behind each one. “I have never been here.”
“Very well,” Arjobec sighed. “You must be exhausted. Follow me for a moment more, and you may take your rest.”
He led her out of the courtyard, beneath an archway, and into one of the domed towers. Still atop her horse, she trailed him into the tower’s main chamber, where four massive columns supported a ceiling wrought of marble. She thought the place must be ancient, for by the light of the tower’s hanging lanterns, she saw every surface of the tower insides marked by tiny fractures. The great room was a mess, all crumbling stone, cracked statues, and rotted furniture. When she slid down from her horse, her bare feet touched onto hard, bristly grass, the only manner of floor remaining.
“Don’t sleep yet,” Arjobec warned. “First you must eat, and then there will be questions.”
“I am staying here?” She glanced into the room’s darkest corners.
“For the night.”
At least no other Furyons are here to torment me. She watched as Arjobec led her horse back outside. After he vanished in the courtyard, she hunkered in a corner, cradling her knees amid the dry grass and broken stones, wondering, will my next meal be my last?
Time indeterminable slid by.
The darkness of night became complete, the tower innards lit only barely by two surviving lanterns. She dealt with her loneliness and hunger as she always did, by losing herself in a daydream, a thousand thoughts of easier times and fairer places. She began to drift toward sleep, but even as her eyelids tumbled down and her muscles slackened, she was startled awake by the arrival of several Furyons. Arjobec had returned, bringing with him six soldiers, each of them clad in black and red.
She willed herself to show no terror. Among the six arrivals was the dark-eyed, dark-haired behemoth who had spirited her away from Archmyr. Do not look to him for pity, she told herself. He is their master. His kindness is false. He is the worst of them.
The Furyons spoke amongst themselves, all in their harsh, hateful tongue. Arjobec came for her afterward. He kneeled, helped her to her feet, and brought her close to the huge man.
“Young mistress, this is Commander Daćin.” Arjobec steadied her. “He hopes you appreciate his hospitality. It’s not lightly given.”
She shivered. “What does he want from me?”
Arjobec looked to Daćin and translated her words. Daćin replied with two words, which Arjobec thought upon for a moment before speaking again. “He asks only that you answer his questions.”
Ensnared as she was, she supposed her only hope of survival was to submit. She wondered if she even cared anymore, if it might be better to rebel and let the Furyons slay her. “I will answer as best I can,” she said at last.
Arjobec spoke with Daćin again. At length, the huge man faced her, and his mood seemed grimmer than before. He muttered many questions, each of which Arjobec translated in turn.
“What is your name?”
“Andelusia. They call me Ande.”
“Andelusia. A pretty name. Where in this country do you come from?”
“Cairn. A small town, far to the west.”
“How did you come to be so near this conflict?”
“My lover…” Her heart sank. “He led his men to Mormist. I would not be parted from him. I followed him. I should not have.”
“What is his name?”
She stammered, as though she had somehow forgotten him. “Rellen Gryphon, champion of Graehelm, heir to House Gryphon.”
Arjobec stared at her. “Mistress Andelusia, if you know such a man, it might be assumed you know something of Graehelm’s plans for defending their country. Is this so?”
She swallowed hard. What Arjobec said was true. She knew many of Rellen’s plans. She had been by his side whenever he had discussed them with Garrett, Marlos, and Saul. Down in Verod’s cellars, she recalled. With the dead watching us. Her heart halted in her chest, her gut roiled, and her legs shook. Tears trickled from her gossamer eyes down onto her ivory cheeks, her face gone as rigid as the marble dome far above. “I do. I know everything.” Her voice cracked as she swallowed. “But I cannot tell you.”
Arjobec glanced to Daćin. Neither man looked pleased.
“You cannot? Or you will not?”
“I will not.” She clenched her jaw.
Arjobec took reign of the conversation now, needing his master’s input no longer. He seemed almost sympathetic at first, but then became as grave as the first cloud of a deadly storm at sea. “My lady, if you would live beyond today, if you would not be subject to the awful whim of the Emperor’s justice, you’ll tell us everything. You’ll spill from your lips the truth of every place, every soldier, every rumor and whisper you’ve heard. For such secrets, there is great reward. In silence there is only suffering.”
She gulped hard. Tears streaming, she began to shake until she collapsed to her knees. The Furyons did not move to help her. They watched impassively as she suffered. She wished she could have died on the spot. “No…” She quaked, her eyes going dark. “I will not say.”
Arjobec came to her. She expected him to dash her head or slit her throat on the spot. He did neither. He leaned close to her, some small kindness flickering in his eyes. “Do as my master wills, mistress Andelusia, and you’ll not only survive, you’ll be as free as he can make you,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “But do it not, and I fear to tell you I can’t protect you. I’ve seen what my brethren do to those who won’t bend. I shudder to think of your pretty skin being pulled from your bones by Dageni hooks. I don’t want them to burn you, flay you, or string your parts from the tower tops. But know this; they will do these things, and they will do them tonight. Answer them. Don’t be a martyr for a cause that is already lost.”
A sensation like a falling black curtain descended over her sights. She cracked her lips open, meaning to tell Arjobec and his master to do their worst, but no sound came out. It felt strange, but in that moment, helpless and full of horror, her body betrayed her mind. A voice in her head compelled her to shape words that were not hers, the same voice as in Verod, the same one that made me go into the valley.
Her bones rattled like swords in loose scabbards, her skin prickling with pain before falling numb. “I do not…I cannot…I mean…I do not want to die.”
Darkness took root in her mind. She knew not its source, its reason. Whether she lived or died no longer mattered to her, but the voice in her head commanded that she survive.
She coughed, her saliva tasting like poison, and the plans of Graehelm’s defense came spilling from her tongue.
From the names of every captain she knew of to the tale of the new king to come, she wept to Arjobec, telling him everything. Of the armies of Barrok, of the cities of Mooreye and Gryphon, and even of distant Ardenn, she told him every detail Rellen and Garrett had shared with her. Deep into dusk, almost until midnight, she betrayed her friends as though she had always been a spy amongst them. Arjobec was astonished at how much she knew, and he recounted her words to Daćin and the others with fervor. When at last she was finished, her voice was nearly spent, and she fell to her elbows and knees, weeping wretchedly, wishing she were dead.
In the end, Arjobec’s promised pity was given, but not by Arjobec. It was the monstrous Daćin who came and kneeled before her. He set one huge hand upon her shoulder and met her tortured gaze with his own. Though she wanted
to, she saw no evil in him.
“Andelusia,” he said to her.
She looked up to him, her eyes swollen with sadness. She saw a gleam in his eyes, a small bit of softness in an otherwise rigid, shadowed face. She knew that somehow he understood her, though it hardly eased the torment of her betrayal.
Nearly choking on her tears, she whispered, “What is to become of me?”
Daćin, seeming to understand, took Arjobec aside. She waited for them to finish speaking, half-hopeful one of them might draw their sword and clip her head from her shoulders. She felt lost, a grain of sand washed into the sea, a star fallen from the sky. As soon as Daćin finished speaking with Arjobec, the wizened warrior came back to her.
“Mistress, take heart.” She heard Arjobec’s voice through a haze of misery. “Your fortune is beyond that of most. My master has chosen your life to spare. You see, Daćin has a lord of his own he must bend to. A woman with beauty such as yours would almost surely be given to our Emperor, and be sent away to serve him. But there is hope. Each and every soldier of Furyon is gifted with the right to spare a single soul, one man or woman, so long as they’re of no threat to our campaign. It’s part of our code. It’s seldom invoked, but here and now, my master offers it. You’re spared, mistress Andelusia. Your life will not go to the Emperor or to his minions. Your part in this conflict is finished, and your worries ended.
“In two days hence, my master leaves to claim this country for the glory of Tyberia, but you needn’t endure any further pain. You’ll pass across the mountains and beyond the sea to our land, our Furyon, where you’ll live out your life as one of the blessed few. To the house of my master you will go, where the rest of your days will pass without grief or sorrow.”
He bowed to her and to Daćin. “I must attend to my other duties. This tower will serve as your quarters until you leave. Food, water, and bedding will be forthcoming. Whatever you do, don’t leave this place. I can’t guarantee your safety should you wander outside.”
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 32
