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

by J. Edward Neill

  As he turned to leave the tower, he glanced at her one last time. “Mistress, I offer our gratitude. What you’ve done tonight and what you’ve told us, it’s not only brave, but also wise. A pity and a waste it would’ve been if you were to suffer your end. You’ve saved many lives, Furyon and Grae. Do not be miserable for it.”

  With a last nod, he walked away, vanishing into the darkness outside.

  Though Arjobec meant to ease her anguish, he did not succeed. I am a traitor, she cursed herself. What would Rellen say if he knew? Would he ask Garrett to take my head?

  She collapsed to her knees on the grassy floor, and in the failing light she was hardly aware that Daćin remained in the room. His attendants had gone with Arjobec, but Daćin stayed, watching over her with much curiosity.

  After several moments of weeping into her palms, she sniffled up the last of her tears and looked to the Furyon Commander. She felt ugly, filthy, and small, yet unafraid, even with his monstrous presence looming over her. She peered into the darkness of his eyes, and what she saw was not hatred, but compassion. She did not understand . That he should let her live made no sense, for she was a traitor, dishonored and low. How did it come to this? She wanted to ask him. How am I not sitting at the Rockbottom, chatting with Symon? How am I here with you, the enemy?

  How am I still alive?

  Awakening

  Alone, Daćin sauntered across the wide, empty courtyard. His walk was shrouded by the night, a rare moment of anonymity in an ocean of war. He was distracted this eve. The war was meant to be his only task, yet his deliberations were elsewhere. Like storm clouds, the Emperor’s motivations gathered in his mind. He wondered whether Chakran meant to reclaim Tyberia or whether the war existed for some other unfathomable purpose. You deceive me, my master, he thought as he walked. You deceive us all.

  And then there was his captive. Thoughts of the Graehelm girl took root in his mind, however unwanted. Her beauty had beguiled him. Her sadness, so profound, felt somehow deeper than in others who had lost much, much more. Men, women, nations. I have subjugated so many. But she is different. He had always tried to emulate the Emperor, and yet with the Grae girl he felt he must be something other than ruthless. Allow me this, my Emperor, he thought. Let me shield one small soul from our war. I ask no more than this.

  An hour of brooding, and the night’s wanderings brought him to a tower, highest in all of Orye. Like the rest of the city, the great tower was built of pale marble, though its innards were cleaner and its walls richly decorated. He entered through a broad stone foyer, where a thick layer of pelts, brown and grey, covered the fractured floor. He walked beneath the archway and traced his calloused fingers across the crumbling walls, his eyes glinting red by the light of several lanterns. In the tower’s heart lay a great round room, vaster than all others in Orye. Its roof was supported by marble columns, its walls lit by the scattered fires of many bronze braziers. With a yawn he looked to the room’s center, where sat a small mountain of pillows and pelts meant to serve as his bed. Eager to rest, he loosed his collar and approached, but a sentry emerged from the shadows.

  “Milord, go with caution.” The guard held up a gauntleted hand. “The Emperor is within.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “When did he arrive?”

  “An hour ago. Be wary, milord. The Emperor is impatient. Some say he hoped Mormist would have fallen by now.”

  He dismissed the sentry. Sucking in a huge breath, he strode past his bed and toward the room’s far side. It was there, in the portion of the great room where the lantern lights least fell, he saw Chakran perusing a deadly Dageni sword. Though his back was turned, the Emperor sensed his approach. “The invasion goes well,” Chakran murmured as he admired the blade. “Our victory is near enough to taste.”

  I know this mood. Arjobec should have told me he was here. Daćin curled his cloak around his forearm and dropped it on the nearest table. “Perhaps we should not be so bold, Sire. The struggle is far from over.”

  “This is why I chose you.” Chakran faced him. “No other is so cunning, so wise. Many before you have assumed triumph and perished because of it. But no, not you. There are no easy trials for Daćin. Such perfection, yes. This is your talent. You are the hammer and chisel by which we will carve Tyberia from the dead stones of Graehelm. Tell me then, Commander; what is our timetable for dominion?”

  He hesitated before answering, unsure whether Chakran meant to praise or mock him. “Sire, by the coming of the summer solstice, there will be nary a soul in Mormist to oppose us. By autumn, we shall be ready to cross the great prairie. The Grae armies, north and south, have been dealt fatal blows. The snake of Mooreye did poorly to avert their coming, but it mattered nothing beneath the shadow of your storm. By all reckoning, we should not have to do battle again until the heartland is breached and the Grae capital laid to siege.”

  Chakran plucked a serrated blade from a nearby table and swished it through the air as through it were a toy. It was an ungraceful weapon, curved along its front edge, a long row of cruel notches hewn into its back. Lifting it to eye level, the Emperor regarded its teeth with unsettling admiration. “I trust the tools I have given you are as promised?”

  “They are indeed, Sire. The Dageni alloy exceeds anything I had hoped for. It turns steel easily aside, often shattering it like glass. Our spears and swords do not break, and no armor denies them passage to the flesh.”

  “And yet your breastplate is scarred.” Chakran frowned. “Even your shield, most indestructible of all shields, is destroyed. I saw these things tonight.”

  He closed his eyes, withdrawing into deep thought. He shifted uncomfortably where he stood, contemplating the manner by which to ask the question he had long lingered on. “My Emperor, there is something else, something which has plagued me. I sense great unrest in our men, and I admit it spreads to me. I beg your permission to speak freely of it.”

  “Speak now.” Chakran tossed the jagged sword back onto its table.

  He cleared his throat. Caution, he warned himself. An ill slip of tongue, an accidental doubt, and he will take my meaning wrong. “My Emperor, forgive me. My knowledge of this world may be more than that of the common man, but there are things which elude me. I know now what it must feel like to be a grain of sand in the desert. I have seen things too vast to comprehend.”

  Chakran fixed his stare upon him. His eyes smoldered with the lanterns’ light, roiling with some unknowable emotion. “Go on…”

  “Sire, do not think me cowardly. I fear no doom. But this power, this cinder of the heavens that has twice slain our enemies is something I cannot fathom. Until our victory in the valley, the storm dogged our every step. I did not question it because I knew it was not my place. But now I cannot resist my misgivings. Storms like these are not natural, and so my instinct tells me they must be evil. I feel robbed of my usefulness beneath the shadows of the clouds. I feel unnecessary. And so I ask you; why is it these storms aid us? How do you so easily command the wind and thunder? And what of Archmyr’s horn? By what craft was it fashioned?”

  An abyssal laughter arose from Chakran’s throat. The great room echoed with its malice, and then all went silent. “The storms, the black skies, the artifacts of our ancestors. You wonder of them, for they are timeless, but forgotten by most. What little that remains of the ancient magicks is scratched into the few books of Malog that have been spared the long, cold sleep of time. I have read these books, my son, these tomes of magic. They tell of an age of magnificence unblemished by war, the age of Tyberia, when things like the wind and the rain were bendable to all men. From these books, I have learned much. I have gleaned things about the world, about the storm, things that few would understand…”

  He narrowed his eyes. He remembered Chakran speaking of the ancient days of Tyberia, but he was uncertain what the Emperor’s meaning was. He thought to repeat his question, thinking that Chakran had not understood, but the Emperor had only just begun.

  “My se
rvant…” Chakran’s eyes heated like irons in a forge. “My simple, foolish servant. There are more than books keeping record of Tyberia’s wars. There are objects, ancient things from far below the earth, artifacts from eras long forgotten. We at Malog discovered one such thing. We dug it from its tomb beneath Dageni. It is a marvel, this thing. It will win us this war when swords and arrows cannot. We possess the art of destruction, my son, malleable as clay in the forges of Malog. We possess doom, unquenchable and irresistible. I sense your confusion. Perhaps it is best you not understand. Such staggering truths may consume you.”

  Chakran drank deeply of the silence. His eyes darkened and his mouth sagged into a deep, dour grimace. “You think me reckless?” He smirked. “You worry and fret? Though I may stir iniquity with one hand, is it not possible I weave marvels with the other? You do understand the purpose of the war, no? The lives of our enemy must be extinguished at little cost to us, lest we find ourselves unable to fill Tyberia’s streets. I can give us an easy victory if those beneath me do as I say.”

  Chakran stepped closer. All the light within the tower began to shrink away. “Whatever you do, my Daćin, do not doubt me. Go into battle as my most loyal captain, unquestioning of the hand that guides you, just as you always have. Do not become my rival, for you know little of my wrath.”

  After a long, cold stare, the Emperor passed out of the tower. The lantern lights flickered back to life, and Daćin was left very much distressed. I have aroused his anger, he knew. But I have learned the truth. The rebirth of Tyberia is not the sole purpose of the war.

  That night, he took to his bed with a heavy heart. He lay awake in the center of the great and gloomy room, and though his inner self railed against it, he forced the doors of his curiosity shut. I am sworn to the laws of Furyon, he told himself in the dead of night. The task of war is mine alone to finish. These are truths unalterable. Closing his eyes to the world, he cleansed his mind of all the Emperor had said. He forced out his fears of the storm and of all the extraordinary things he had seen, squeezing them into a corner of himself he hoped would never again rise.

  A pale morning followed. Orye slumbered beneath a deep, colorless gloom. The city seemed especially stark this morn, its streets devoid of any sound save for the footfalls of Furyon soldiers as they stalked over the broken stone. Though the rain had abated, the grey skies lingered, the watchful mountain spur throwing a long shadow across every street and every tower. Having slept none, Daćin trudged out into the courtyard. He paced across the pale stones and trailed his fingers across fountains long asleep, his every thought centering on his strategy for the war. Mormist must fall. He dwelled upon it at length. Tratec, key to the gate of greater Graehelm, needs to be destroyed, and soon.

  In the midst of his brooding, he looked up to see Arjobec approaching from across the courtyard. His old friend meandered between the wreckage of crumbling fountains and weather-cracked statues, making straight for him, his gaze filled with great concern. “Milord, Chakran has sent word. All slaves are to depart before dusk. He wishes no delay to their arrival at Minec.”

  “Thousands we have sent, and always he demands more.” He pulled at his face with his palm. “Ah, but we will oblige. Fill every wagon. Make sure they come back when they are empty. The cages will be needed when Tratec falls.”

  “I shall.” Arjobec bowed. “But that is not all. Somehow the Emperor found out about your newest captive, the one you would spare. He wishes to see her before he leaves, though I know not why. I cannot help but think his spies watch us closely now.”

  He frowned. “Spies indeed. It is not just any spy who keeps watch over us. It is Vom. I have seen him skulking.”

  “Vom?” Arjobec tilted his head. “Is he here? I have not seen him.”

  “No one else knows. I have spied him more than once, glooming here and there in the days before we left to find Archmyr. He is from Malog, that one. The powers in the north like to send him about to keep themselves apprised of all we do. Know this; Vom would steal our prisoner for himself if he could, and he would do terrible things to her. I have worked too hard to let this happen. We will save her.”

  Arjobec nodded his agreement. “Lastly, milord, reports have come. The legions of far north and far south are nearly rejoined. Half of the Pale Knight’s men are marching to us, as ordered, though Archmyr is less than pleased. I expect them to arrive in three days. There is but one problem: Our fleet has not yet moved from the east harbor, meaning reinforcements from Morellellus will not arrive until winter. Chakran has judged that all ships capable of carrying men must be filled from aft to stern with the enslaved. His priority is the chattel, not the replacement of our wounded and weary.”

  I might have known. He glowered into the distance. “If he wills it, it is so. Whether with reinforcements or without, we are not permitted failure. Someday, friend, this country will be rebuilt by Tyberian hands, in the likeness of an age far better than ours. No one will care to remember how it happened or how many suffered to make it so.”

  Arjobec bowed again, this time much lower than before. He began to retreat, but Daćin halted him. “No, do not go. Come with me, Arjobec. We must attend to this final kindness of mine.”

  * * *

  Tucked away in her lonely tower, Andelusia was roused from sleep by the sound of two Furyon guards laughing. She walked groggily to where her breakfast had been placed on the floor, and she glimpsed the guards’ armored backs, the black tines jutting like knives from their shoulders. She swore she heard mockery in their voices, but as soon as she came near they laughed no more. What did their master tell them? She wondered. Touch her under penalty of death, I hope. Eyeing them warily, she plucked up a bowl of steaming broth and a block of hard bread and stole away into the far corner, where no one could see her.

  She breakfasted unhurriedly that morn, relishing each bite even though the meal was as tasteless as sawdust. Contented just to be fed and unshackled, she finished her meal and slumped back into the pile of grain sacks serving as her makeshift bed. She took amusement in her wretched, disheveled state. Her dress hung in ugly scraps from her shoulders, while her scarlet locks were scattered like sticks atop her head, her once flowing tresses gnarled into hopelessly knotted strands. She found it hard to believe that anyone, even men so awful as her captors, would spare her from slavery. The notion that a lord amongst the terrible Fury ranks had chosen her above all others to rescue seemed ridiculous.

  Not long did she sit, brooding and lifeless as a sapling long dead, than she stirred to the sound of voices approaching. She rose and crept near the archway, peering out into the gloomy day. The guards paid her no mind. She hoped it was Arjobec that came, for only he and his master offered her any real sympathy. Please let it be them, and no one else. Voices rang in the half-light and bootfalls echoed harshly against the cold, white marble. She tried to see the source, but the guards blocked her view. It was just as she began to retreat that two tall, mailed warriors entered the room. Their expressions were empty, their eyes like wells graven deep into the earth. Their black armor gleamed like polished onyx, and upon their cloaks, red suns setting into dark horizons were emblazoned.

  Another man entered the room behind them, this one even more fearsome. Vom’s footsteps were as silent as a raptor swooping onto its prey. She watched the narrow Furyon slide like a serpent between the guards, halting between the two Furyons with the red sun cloaks. She saw him and shuddered. One glance at him reminded her of Archmyr, though he was not the Pale Knight. Vom’s hair was as black and his face as cold, but within his manner of movement lurked a graceful, almost elegant evil, starkly the opposite of Archmyr’s ill-tempered wickedness. From his waist hung a slender blade, its pommel writhing with a coiled mass of Dageni snakes, the blade itself sheathed in carapace of white leather. The way he stared at her made her feel like prey. He the wolf, and me the lamb. Who is he?

  And then came still another sound, the heavy crunch of Dageni boots. Emperor Chakran came to her cha
mber, though she did not know him. He strode like a conquering king into the dawnlit tower, the reddened rims of his eyes smoldering like the sun at twilight. She shivered at the mere sight of him. The bearded beast of a man delivered a slanted scowl at Vom and looked from guard to guard, his disgust fair dipping from his haggard jaws. “Where is this creature?” he growled in a language she wished she could understand. “I would see her now, and make my decision.”

  With an unsettlingly low voice, Vom answered, “She is here.” He gestured at her, and she flinched. “Behold the girl Daćin has caught, the creature of fire.”

  “Another soul not fit for the pits of Malog, I see,” the bearded beast croaked, running his fingers through his brittle beard. “You brought me here for what? Another maiden? I grow weary of breaking the chastity of Graehelm girls. Their wails are tiresome, their blood not nearly as thick as Furyon women.”

  Vom grinned at her, and she gulped as the bearded beard settled his gaze upon her. “No,” said Vom. “See past her raggedness. Can you not sense it? She is of the old fire, my master. She carries our blood.”

  She remained still, fearful at the reason for such grim men to close in around her. She tried to shut their presence out, pretending the tower was empty, but then the men stopped speaking and the Emperor approached. She cringed beneath his shadow as though he was fire and she dry kindling. The king, she realized. He is their king, not the other.

  Fresh footsteps hammered on the broken marble floor. Looking beyond the Emperor, she glimpsed the weathered face of Arjobec, who stepped into the chamber just ahead of Daćin. The moment Arjobec and the huge warlord entered the room, all became hushed, and the slender ray of light that had once shined in the tower’s window waned in the Furyons’ collective presence. She saw all of their faces devoid of expression, their gazes graven in their sockets as though wrought by a blacksmith’s hammer. Arjobec lied, she believed. They mean to kill me. Be brave, Ande. Do not weep for them.