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

by J. Edward Neill

  “What are you doing here?”

  Garrett pulled up beside him. His saddlebags were full, his borrowed Furyon sword clapping against his back. “You need watching over, and I made a promise to someone.”

  “A promise?” he stammered. “What promise?”

  “To watch over you, to protect you. The road is a long one. If you have questions, ask as we ride.”

  Garrett prodded his destrier a few steps down the road, but Rellen stayed put. “I told you before; where I go, I go alone. Go back, Garrett. Verod needs you. Marlos needs you. You are a Mormist man, remember? All pride and steel, with a mountain of dead Furyons beneath your boots, remember?”

  “I will not go back.”

  “Why?”

  Any hint of a smile on Garrett’s face fell away. “There may come a time when we go our separate ways, but not today. My skill is with a sword, not with hammers and axes. I am willing to set aside my pride and return with you to Gryphon. I have promises to keep, oaths I would not cheat.”

  “You mean…Ande?”

  “She bade me guard you. I mean to see it through.”

  Rellen hid a secret smile. He was grateful Garrett had appeared, far more than he dared let on. The road back to Gryphon might be a deadly one, likely peppered end to end with Nentham’s spies. Worse still, it would be dreadfully lonely, and he was nothing if not a man who liked good company. “Alright, alright.” He summoned his best groan. “You can follow, but only on one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Swear to tell no one in Gryphon how bad things really are. If they hear what the Furies have done, they will lose all hope, and then we will not have our army.”

  “Agreed.”

  He sighed. He felt guiltier than ever taking Mormist’s finest fighter away. “Are you sure you want to do this? You could ride back now. No one would ever know.”

  “I am certain.” Garrett steered his black, beastly mount toward the grasses of the Dales. “I did not save you from the Furies only to let Nentham have your head.”

  Watchful

  The way home proved harder than Rellen hoped.

  Each dawn, he and Garrett arose beneath the first splinters of sunlight, breakfasted on salted pork, tasteless bread, and warm water, and then rode until dusk, making their way ever closer to the heart of Graehelm. Theirs was the path to Gryphon, and they suffered nothing to slow them. They spoke little, preferring comfortable silence to the grim reminders of Verod, and they avoided the Crossroad at all costs, for they knew better than to take the open road.

  Nentham will be waiting, the snake, he many times reminded himself. If he’s in league with the Three Lords, or worse, the Furies, he’ll try to kill us.

  …again.

  So it was he and Garrett tread carefully into the realm of Mooreye. There was no going around it, not without sacrificing vast amounts of time. He knew the land well enough, or so he pretended. He avoided cities at all costs. He talked to no one, neither merchants, nor innkeepers, nor even the farmer’s pretty daughter who spied them near her home and begged him to take her far away. The grass ocean of the Dales became wetlands, and the pleasant, river-snaked prairie turned into a morass of wet, weed-strewn thickets and stagnant ponds. Three days in the Dales and three more in the bogs, and all signs of civilization dwindled.

  On the seventh morn he and Garrett emerged from the worst of it, soggy and tired as two piles of compost.

  The open prairies between Mooreye and Gryphon lay within sight, stretching far and wide as the cloudless sky. Tired already after two hours’ trot, Rellen slowed his stallion’s gait on the first dry patch of earth he found. “Another day in the swamps, I might’ve done the Furies a favor and skewered myself.” He glared at the wetlands behind him. “Bog gnats, creepers, and boot-biting snakes. Nentham should’ve drained it eons ago.”

  Garrett was far less plaintive. “Seems Thure had other plans. With your house guard away, we should worry less about snakes and more for Gryphon.”

  “Yes.” He slouched in his saddle. “The maggot will be bolder. Still, better to die in the grass than the swamp.”

  He spoke the truth. The countryside stretching before him felt far removed from the war. An ocean of luxuriant grass, the great green prairie of Graehelm, swayed in the warm summer wind. Islands of lush, long-limbed willows stood like sentinels, observing the windblown grasses like old men watching children at play. The sun was brighter here, a golden coin glittering in the sky, burning away the memories of the Furyon storm. Home is near. Something small to look forward to. A night in my own bed, and then a plan for the Furies’ end.

  After a few hours’ ride through the grass, he and Garrett lunched in the shade of a wide-bottomed willow tree. “Not a soul all day long,” he remarked between swigs of water. “If Nentham were up to something, we would’ve known it by now.”

  Garrett squinted across the midday haze. Far, far in the distance, the hazy parapets of Mooreye’s northernmost manors lorded upon the horizon. “Maybe.” Garrett shook his head. “Wiser would be not to underestimate him.”

  “You give him too much credit. You and Marlos both. But the maggot of Mooreye isn’t half as clever as he thinks he is, else he would’ve brought more men to kill me.”

  Garrett leaned against the willow and took a pull from his waterskin. “You can be sure he will not make the same mistake twice. To be comfortable is to be vulnerable. We should travel by night from now on. Rest here until dusk, and then ride until sunrise.”

  “Well and good.” He felt in no mood to argue. “Moon and stars aren’t so bad. The horses will be thankful.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed without event. He dozed in the stubbly grass beneath the old willow, for once not dreaming of death beneath the Furyon giant’s blade. Later, when the clouds rolled in and the last of the day’s light burned like a dying ember beneath a grey curtain, Garrett roused him to leave. He dined on bread and water, same as ever, and as he lifted himself into his saddle, a weak drizzle descended.

  “Some night this’ll be.” He caught raindrops in his palms. “Just as well. Soon we’ll be home. Then a feast at Father’s table, and a full night’s sleep on feathered beds.”

  He trotted into the sea of grassy swords, low in his saddle, his stallion’s snout dappled and damp. All was dark save for Mooreye’s faraway manors, whose winking lights he used as a beacon for which way not to go. “I’ve a plan, a real one,” he explained to Garrett. “Father never came to Mormist as promised, at least not by any road I know of. With any luck, he might be home. If he is, we’ll bring the bad news to him. Then we’ll go before the King and beg him to grant us all the soldiers in Graehelm.”

  “Jacob may yet be uncrowned.” Garrett’s destrier sauntered beside him, nigh invisible in the night. “If there is no king, there will be no army.”

  “Well then you and I will manage it. Who else? Give us two decent swords, and we’ll kill them all.”

  He imagined Garrett approved of that. He rode contentedly for a while afterward, hearing none of the usual words of wisdom. He might have traveled the entire night likewise, but an hour later he glimpsed a firelight blustering in the shadows of a nearby thicket.

  “There,” he whispered to Garrett. “See? What’s that?”

  Garrett slowed beside him. “A camp. Eight horses. Six men. All armed.”

  “Think they see us?”

  “Aye,” Garrett said gravely. “They might.”

  Even in the deep of night, the thickets surrounding the firelight were darkest of all. The long line of trees, barrier to the boundless sea of grass beyond, looked like the black spires of Mooreye itself. The campfire blazed at its edge, and the shapes of dark men moved about it like faceless shadows. Rellen’s stallion snorted, the sound of it like a trumpet’s blast. He snapped his reins to silence the beast, but it was too late.

  “Who goes?” demanded a voice from beside the fire.

  Rellen remained motionless. Surely they can’t see us. The day
’s done, the night black and starless.

  He peered at Garrett, whose face was invisible in the dark. He raised his arm, motioning for Garrett to flee, but even as he did he was dumbfounded to see Garrett lift his shield into the air. A whistle in the night, and the sickly thud of an arrow slamming into Garrett’s shield jarred him. The arrow punched right through the wooden plank, stopping a hair’s breadth from Garrett’s chin.

  “You there!” a snarl came from beside the campfire. “These trees are Mooreye’s! No one may pass!”

  “How do they see us?” Rellen hissed.

  Garrett snapped the arrow off his shield and wheeled his horse. “It matters not. Time to run.”

  The six men by the campfire erupted to life. Five of them bolted to their mounts, gathering up swords and spears as they went, while the last of them nocked another arrow. Rellen drove his heels into his stallion’s ribs and sped into the night with Garrett close behind. A second arrow whirred past, then another, both barely missing. The five riders came in hot pursuit. The flames from their torches streamed behind them, giving off gouts of smoke as the men screamed, “Stop! Stop! Trespassers! This is Nentham’s land! Submit or be slaughtered!”

  He had no doubts what would happen if he surrendered. Garrett strung up between those trees. Lorsmir’s sword in Nentham’s sheath. My bones crackling in some Mooreye hearth.

  He rode harder then, full of fear. Garrett’s destrier, though huger than most, flew beside him as though it were a hare fleeing from a pack of wolves. The five riders hurled curses and commands, but their chase yielded little gain. As comfortable in the night as an owl, Garrett took the lead, and Rellen followed right behind him. They took a hundred twists and turns, skirling through the grasses like wind. The fires streamed furiously at their backs, but the riders soon fell hopelessly behind, seeming to know they strove to catch the uncatchable.

  After a long while of riding hard, he slowed behind Garrett. His horse grunted, its sweat beading like rain, but rider and mount were unhurt. He trotted beside Garrett and peered into the grasses behind him. Gone, he thought of the attackers. But for how long?

  “Should have used the Fury shield.” Garrett frowned as he tossed his broken shield into the grass.

  “Saved your life all the same.” He shrugged. “Those were Mooreye men. They meant to murder us. If they persist, they’ll find our trail in the grass and hunt us in the morning.”

  “They might,” said Garrett.

  “And if they do?”

  “Easier to fight by day. We kill them all. The archer first.”

  “Oh, a fine plan.” He rolled his eyes. “Our best chance…they give up.”

  “We can hope,” said Garrett.

  The drizzle peppering him, he and Garrett rode in silence for a long while thereafter. No more of Nentham’s bounty hunters surfaced, and no arrows whistled in the night. The way to Gryphon was hard to know in the darkness, but Garrett seemed confident. Silent and serene, the black-clad hunter wound through the grasses as comfortably as a river on its way to the sea.

  And I can only follow.

  Riding in the pitch was no easy task. The darkness was all but impenetrable, the moon shivering behind a sea of clouds no less gloomy than a Mooreye bog. When he asked to light a lantern many hours after encountering the hunters, Garrett refused him. When he grumbled about wanting to stop and relieve himself, Garrett did not slow. How can he see? He thought but did not ask. Owls have worse eyes than he, and hounds weaker noses. Hours and hours churned past, all spent picking his way across the prairie in Garrett’s shadow. When at last the night began to die and dawn’s first luminescence crept across the horizon, Garrett led him into a run of short, broad trees, not fit collectively to be called a thicket. A village stood on each side of the trees. The dwellings were dark and quiet in the mist, their inhabitants still asleep.

  How long he dozed on his bed of grass and dirt, he could not say. Not nearly long enough, he thought when the sunlight snatched him from sleep. I could sleep a whole day and clear ten platters. The midday sun beat through the leaves, heating the earth like an oven. Still exhausted, he sat beneath a tree and gazed blearily at Garrett. “Here we are, not more than a day from home, hiding like thieves,” he groused. “I could walk into either of those towns and recognize half the people who lived there. That’s the worst part, not being able to trust your neighbors. Does Nentham have spies in that village? What about that one? Am I hunted in my own land?”

  Garrett stretched and yawned, his grey gaze lost in the great blue sky. “Not long in coming.”

  “What is? What do you mean?”

  “The future. Whether we live to see better times, or whether the Furies destroy us.”

  “Lovely.” He gargled noisily on his water. It tasted foul, so different from the crisp, cool liquid he remembered from Gryphon’s wells. “What if we lose the war, but survive anyhow? I can see it, you and I scavenging like wolves, the sheep and the milkmaids running whenever they see us. No thank you. It can’t come to that. I’d rather die than run.”

  “And yet here we are.” Garrett regarded the thicket, the trees with branches like soldiers’ gnarled spear. “Far from the war.”

  For the rest of the day, he and Garrett remained in the thicket. He wished for fresh water, for clean sheets, for laughter, but none of it was to be had. He pestered Garrett often, wanting to risk the daylight in the hope of reaching Gryphon before dark, but Garrett denied him. So cautious. So like the hunter. I wonder if he rode by night when he brought Ande to Mormist.

  The hours slogged by. He sat separately from his companion, his back against a rough-barked tree, his bottom aching. Were he alone, he would have bolted for the nearby town and spilled all his coins into a barmaid’s apron. A platter of beef, he dreamed of what she might bring him. Buttered bread, two goblets of mead, a pile of sweetcakes, and the softest bed in town. But not so long as Garrett’s here.

  Daylight dwindled. The clouds returned in force. At dusk, a steady drizzle leaked from the leaves onto his head, annoying him the same as the bog gnats in Mooreye had. The sky thickened as though filled with grey broth, the air grew heavier, and when it seemed as though the rain might finally drown him, the day died completely.

  Like a raven, he spent another night flying from field to field. The world felt even darker in the rain, and Garrett was relentless. The Mormist man led him through stands of black trees, across fields of wet, swordlike grass, and around lakes whose presences he detected only because of the rain slashing across the water. How does Garrett know this land so well? He wondered more than once. He said he never came to Gryphon before.

  One trip to Mormist couldn’t have been enough to learn it.

  Or could it?

  A few hours before sunrise, the rain died and the stars came out. The starlight relieved him, the white candles in the sky as welcome a sight as any. As the moon crept from behind a stream of clouds, he spied a grove more familiar than all the others he had passed. The trees struck toward the sky from the top of a mound, a little hill bubbling from the prairie grass like a mushroom’s cap.

  I know this place, I think.

  Bruced and I came here once.

  We hid here after stealing that barrel of mead.

  How long ago was that?

  He and Garrett kept moving. As they neared the grove, they felt safe enough to use one of the many paths winding through the trees and into the Gryphon fields. They passed evergreens and oaks, swaying grasses and prickly shrubs, and soon enough the thousand dim lights of Gryphon became visible. It was only just dawn, but already the city was awakening. Windows were open, doors cracked, and chimneys puffing their pre-breakfast smoke. Beyond it all, Rellen caught the stark outline of Grandwood, black against grey, as comforting a sight as a lover with arms wide-open.

  “Home.” He breathed easier than in days.

  “A shame we cannot stay long,” Garrett agreed.

  He took the lead as they made their way across the starlit meadow.
Exhausted, he meandered past the fenced farmsteads and thatch-roofed dwellings standing on Gryphon’s outskirts. If we’d won in Mormist, they would’ve turned out in droves to see our return. I would’ve had my pick of Lorsmir’s armory, my choice of maidens.

  Though none of the blades would’ve been the fire sword.

  And none of the girls would’ve been Ande.

  Dismounting, he and Garrett set foot onto Gryphon’s thoroughfare. Guards watched him with curious gazes, seeming not quite certain who he was. He trudged past them all, dirty, disheveled, and drearily tired. When a group of four guards approached on horseback, lanterns held high, shields and spears at the ready, he tried to smile for them.

  “M’lord Rellen?” One of them squinted. “That you?”

  “Aye, it is. Lord Croft and I are back. We prefer anonymity for the moment,” he explained.

  “But m’lords, all the talk’s about you. The streets are aflame with worry. Everyone will want to know.”

  “And they will,” he sighed. “But not just yet. Our aim is Gryphon Keep. We need in, and quickly.”

  The guards understood. Rumoring amongst themselves but asking no more questions, they sneaked him and Garrett across the moat and into the archway of the keep.

  When he came to the keep door, he let all the breath in his body out. “A sight for sore eyes.” He touched the door.

  “Aye,” Garrett agreed. “So this is what home feels like.”

  The guards took his and Garrett’s horses and left. He entered his father’s hall. The moment he crossed the threshold, his memory of the journey through Mooreye fell from his thoughts like sand sliding to an hourglass’s bottom. Never thought I’d be here again. And now so empty, so quiet. Where’s Father?

  The keep was dark inside. Not a soul was in sight. The main hall was utterly vacant, disturbed by nothing. The only light was that of three pale beams of the early sun’s offering, tumbling down like golden lamplights through three of the hall’s lofty windows.

  “Like a graveyard,” he remarked. “But quieter.”