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

by J. Edward Neill

  Revenen spoke to her again. His invasion of her mind no longer pained her, but seemed familiar, almost comfortable. “The Orb,” he uttered. “Greatest of the five relics of Archithrope, grandest weapon of Tyberia. All of Furyon lies within its thrall, and soon all the world.”

  “Where did come from?” She touched it.

  “Dageni. The old nations destroyed and buried it, but we rebuilt it. For centuries before Chakran found it, its ruins moldered in the mines, its power leaking into every crevice of the earth. And thus we have Dageni steel. An accidental weapon, but most welcome.”

  “And the storms?”

  “The Orb.”

  “The Furyon soldiers? Their grey faces and dead eyes?”

  “The Orb.”

  “The slaves… the bones… it works by death?” She peered across the ocean of corpses surrounding her.

  “By death does it give life…and power.” She felt his smile upon her back. “Because of it, I am a thousand times lived, and more powerful than any being on this earth.”

  “You boast.”

  “Never. If you do not believe, consider that I was there at the Orb’s first remaking. How many thousands of years ago was it? I do not recall. It does not matter. I was there. The Furyons call me an abomination, but Chakran calls me master. And so shall you, until you are Queen.”

  Scorn of Mooreye

  The hour was dark, still long before sunrise.

  Alone and horseless, Rellen marched beneath Grandwood’s shadowed boughs with a clearer determination than ever. He cut through the night’s fog, a sharp wind through stagnant smoke. He sprinted between the sentinel trees, a tireless fox. He carried neither torch nor lantern. Even in midnight’s haze, the narrow bars of moonlight were enough for him. These are my woods, he repeated his mantra in his mind. Every stick, trunk, and fallen leaf, mine.

  He marched all night, halting only for bread and water. Come dawn, when the sun lit the forest canopy and turned it silver, he moved even faster. The trees allowed just enough light to make the world seem ethereal, and the mist splashed beneath his boots. It was summer now, warm and welcoming, but no matter that the birds sang cheerful songs, the squirrels chattered and played, and the early sunlight sparkled, he paid none of it much mind. Be like Garrett, he told himself. There’s no beauty in war. Peace is an illusion.

  His plan for invading Mooreye City rehearsed a thousand times in his mind, he breakfasted and then followed Grandwood’s edge ever eastward. By his estimation, Nentham’s city was close, a mere three hours’ trek northeast. He could tell it by the way the trees were stunted, the ground soft and wet, and the crows ever present.

  Two hours into the morning, he came to rest beneath a gnarled, red-barked oak. He was sweating, hungry, and tired. For the hundredth time, he wished Garrett were here, and Marlos, and Saul, and Bruced. As he rubbed his temples and mulled over his plan, he heard a noise that struck him as out of place. A branch snapping in the woods caught his ear. He clambered to his feet to investigate, drawing a dagger from its hiding place inside his bedroll. With the blade tucked close to his wrist, he crept where the sunlight was least and the ground softest.

  Not far from where he skulked, two men prowled in the woods.

  He froze at the sight of them, his body still as stone. He watched them pass him by, and by chance he heard the conversation pass between them.

  “There’s some more o’er here!” said one, a man as burly and stout as a sack of potatoes.

  “That’s twelve,” cracked the second, a fellow thin as a willow branch. “Thanks be to Lord Thure.”

  He observed the two closely from behind a tree. Poachers, he reckoned. Not enemies. Maybe even friends.

  The burly man stood in a pool of sunlight, two braces of rabbits dangling from his meaty fist. “That’s the last of ‘em. Damn hares. Same supper every night. Not much of a meal, if’n you ask me.”

  “Aye,” agreed the other. “Here’s to hoping Brack found him a hart.”

  “Or better yet, a boar,” grunted the burly one.

  As quickly as they had come, the two men lumbered southward. Rellen followed them for a short while, slinking trunk to trunk behind them. He guessed by their mannerisms they were from the Dales. If so, they’ll be unfriendly to Mooreye, he hoped. They might help me.

  They might even know where Nentham hoards his prisoners.

  In silence, he chased the poachers. The trees were closer the deeper he went, the vines and brambles far thicker than the woods near Gryphon. Trailing the sounds of the men’s voices, he leapt over deadfalls, slid through walls of leaves, and shouldered his way into the gloomiest part of Grandwood he had ever been. The voices vanished. He staggered to a stop at the place he thought he had seen them disappear, but saw nothing more. Lost them. Damn you, Garrett. I need you.

  Resigned to the failure of his pursuit, he leaned against a tree and took a long pull from his waterskin. The shadows here were as deep and dark as a wall of Furyon pikes, and the sunlight like swords piercing the gloom in only a few places. Exhausted, he never noticed his chosen tree was rotted, that its sides were black with fungus. As he leaned, it crumbled and snapped. It crashed to the ground, and he fell with it. Afterward, he lay for a while in an uncomfortable heap, cursing his misfortune.

  And then he heard a sound that sent him flying back to his feet.

  “Who’s there?” He clutched his dagger close.

  The sound of many footsteps pattered across the forest floor. He crouched low to the wet earth, dagger in one sweating hand, palm lying on his sword pommel. He heard the click of flint and saw a torch burst into flames between the trees. Moments later, he watched as the torchbearer passed his flame to a man standing nearby, who in turned passed it to another and still another, each setting fire to his own torch until a dozen lights surrounded him.

  “Who be there?” The voice belonged to the burly poacher.

  The trees were like prison bars, the torches flaring all around him. Stupid, he cursed himself. Should’ve let them go.

  His vision sharpened, and he glared at the faces of the twelve men who surrounded him. All but one were lean as whips, and all were wildly-bearded, their teeth stumpy and yellow. Their shoulders were draped in red-painted deerskins, and their headpieces made of bone and racks of razor-pointed antlers.

  Worse yet, their grasps were filled with all manner of swords and hunting spears.

  “You’ve a name, don’t you?” the fat one asked.

  “Rel…Garrett. Garrett Croft,” he said. “And who are you?”

  The fat man grinned to his comrades. “Quite a fix you have yourself in, Master Garrett. A long way from the wolves’ den.”

  Twelve men. A hard fight. He glared, his hand loosening around his sword-hilt. Best not antagonize them.

  “What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Are you poachers? Thieves? Why so close to Mooreye?”

  Smiling, the fat man ran his fingers through his beard. “Well, seeing as there’re more of us than you, I’ve an idea. Why don’t you come with us? Answer our questions, and maybe then we’ll answer some of yours.”

  “Not today. I have important matters,” he said. “Continue on your merry ways. Forget you ever saw me.”

  The men burst into laughter. Then all at once, they lifted the killing ends of their spears off the ground and pointed them at him. “What do you think of these merry ways?” One of them smiled toothlessly. “Maybe you’d best leave your matters for another time. Take off your sword belt, nice and quick. It’ll be cleaner than us skewerin’ you like a piggy on a pole.”

  His wanted to fight. He swallowed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. Foolish. These are their woods. They have me surrounded. Fires, spears, and blades. What good will it do Father and Jacob for me to die here? Damn you, Nentham.

  “Now then…” The fat one sensed his reluctance to fight. “Throw that there sword and knife in the dirt. Fall in ahead of our spears, keep your lips tight, and maybe you’ll live to see th
e stars again.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but we are. We see sods like you all the time. Clean and smiling, swords a shining. We let you go, and you’ll be running to the Moor’s Eye, returnin’ with fifty of your damn knights.”

  “I’m not from Mooreye.”

  “Doesn’t much matter. You’re coming with us, in one piece or a hundred.”

  Their fires crackled in his face, and their spears made a prison from which no escape was possible. Three of them closed in and relieved him of his weapons, while another three produced ropes from their satchels. Thieves, he sensed. I’m not their first victim, but the thousandth.

  Well done, stupid.

  He saw the silver rings around their necks, the finger bones dangling. Fearful, he thought to argue his cause a dozen different ways, but with two spears at his back and another under his chin, he reconsidered.

  In moments, they bound his wrists, cleaned out his bag, and shoved him ahead, two spears to a side. “That’s right, Moor’s Eye maggot. You’ll learn,” they told him. “Not a sound from that mouth o yours, or we’ll hang your tongue with all the rest.”

  Their spears at his back, they led him deep into the forest.

  They marched him east and south, into the densest, darkest tangle of Grandwood, where the leaves were broad, the loam wet and stinking, and the sun unwilling to shine. For the first hour, they spoke seldom to him, but talked plenty amongst themselves. From what he gathered, they were an assortment of hunters, trappers, and former farmers, a collective from the outskirts of Mooreye and the Dales. They spoke often of their disdain for “The Maggot Lord”, whom he assumed was none other than Lord Nentham Thure. They pushed and prodded him, maneuvering him at the tips of their spears, and he came to understand that they meant to take him to their hideaway. I should’ve fought. But then I’d be dead.

  Several hours into the forest, the tallest, eldest of the hunters approached him. The hunter’s countenance was severe, his beard long and grey as a wolf’s tail. More intimidating were the antlers on his headpiece, sharp as knives and pointing at Rellen’s throat.

  “You’re a Croft, eh?” The hunter strode alongside him. “Can’t say I’ve heard that name before. I’m Abertham, though I don’t expect you’ve heard of me either.”

  He continued to walk, saying nothing.

  “Not much of a talker, I see,” Abertham continued. “Well, that’s fine. Keep it shut for now. When we get where we’re going, you’ll tell me where you’re from and why you’re in my woods, and you can keep it shut as long as you like afterward.”

  “I’m not from Mooreye,” he muttered.

  “I did’n ask if’n you were.” Abertham shot a dangerous glare at him. “And I did’n say now was the time for you to start answering.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “For you to think about what you’ll say, Master Croft. Think hard, and think smart. We only take truths here in the deep wood. Liars and skulks, we kill.”

  Abertham walked ahead. Rellen watched him and the others closely. They were an odd group, and none too orderly. He saw them laughing, jesting, and waddling through the woods as though they had already forgotten him. He heard them talk about their families, their wives and children, and how they looked forward to returning home.

  This isn’t what it seems, he began to believe. This is a farce. These aren’t brutal men, nor killers. I could wrest that spear away and be done with half of them before they knew it. Look at the way they march. Not one of them’s a soldier.

  And yet, they captured me so easily…

  The woods grew dimmer and the rain fell. In the journey’s next hour, the forest became a quagmire. The hunters forced him across a mire, leading him over a path of piled wood and stones. Stagnant water lurked on either side, drowning the trees’ roots beneath a dreary, poisonous soup. There were few animals here, and no signs of humanity other than the hunters. The trees were crooked and low, their limbs brushing his shoulders like hungry spiders’ legs. Even with the hunters’ many torchlights, the day seemed depressingly dark, with grey clouds and broad leaves smothering the sun. It felt like the bogs of Mooreye, only gloomier.

  At dusk, and just as he began to fear he could march no longer without trying something foolish, the worst of the bogs vanished. The tangle of dying trees and torpid water came to an end, and Grandwood seemed its familiar self again. Even the rain relented, the clouds parting and the moonlight lighting the grounds beneath his boots.

  Far ahead, Abertham let loose a shrill whistle, and a pair of equally piercing sounds echoed through the forest in answer.

  “Where are we?” he asked groggily.

  “You’ve been quiet for a good long while,” said a skinny hunter. “Don’t stop now.”

  He came to the hunters’ lair with uncertainty in his heart, straining his eyes in the moonlight to glimpse his captors’ homes. He did not know this part of Grandwood. It seemed a well-kept secret, a place no one in Gryphon had ever mentioned. A village, he mused. Out here? Impossible...

  They brought him closer, and he saw what could only be called a city in the woods. The trees were massive, towering oaks and red-barked behemoths, all of them reaching higher than anywhere else in Grandwood. He saw houses founded high in the branches, reachable only by ladders, and other dwellings at the trees’ bottoms, woven like stitchwork around trunks ten men wide. The whole of the place was lit by hanging paper lanterns, some of which were so high up they might be confused for stars.

  How many live here? Hundreds? Thousands?

  They marched him without fanfare into the heart of the forest city, where a ring of oaks formed a barrier against the world outside. In the night’s gloom, he saw little, and yet the sounds of the villagers reached his ears. Just out of sight, their voices filtered out of every dwelling. They whispered suspicions and fearful wonderings about him. Don’t be afraid, he wanted to say to them. I won’t be here for long. Your Abertham will fill my belly with some of your food, and I’ll be off to kill Nentham.

  I hope.

  Several of the men broke away from the group, leaving him alone with Abertham and two others. Their spears still poking him, they ushered him into the innards of an ancient hollow tree. The massive tree, gutted long ago, was lit within by a trio of braziers whose searing light stung his tired eyes. He saw tables and chairs cluttering the great chamber, and in the center a chopping block whose sides looked as though stained with blood. Foolish, he cursed himself for letting them take him peacefully. But if they think to kill me in here, let them think again.

  He entered without a word. Abertham plodded in right behind him. The grey-bearded hunter tossed his torch into a brazier and motioned for him to sit.

  “I’ll stand.” He raised his chin defiantly.

  “Better that you sit,” said Abertham. “’Tis likely we’ll be here ‘til the cock crows.”

  The other two hunters prodded him with their spears. Grimacing, he slunk into his chair.

  “Croft, is it? Odd name for a Moor’s Eye knight.” Abertham folded his hands and stood like a tower above him. “Well Croft, the skinny one behind you is Hawis, and that there big fellow’s Arval. You’ve nothin’ to fear from us, not if’n you give us the answers we ask for.”

  He looked first to Hawis, a slight, hawk-nosed man, and he wondered how the whiplike man could even hold his spear up. He then perused Arval, a bear of a man dressed in a battle-scarred cuirass and assortment of scrounged armor. Hawis looked tired, but in Arval’s eyes he glimpsed anger. Like Thracic, he recalled. If it comes to it, Arval dies first.

  “I appreciate you bringing me here.” He tore his gaze from Abertham’s underlings, “But I can’t stay. Give me some of your food and return my weapons. I’ve better things to do.”

  Arval and Hawis snorted. Abertham looked unimpressed. “I’m sorry, Croft. This is our home, our way of life. We don’t much care for folk like you sneakin’ about and spying. I think you know why. If’n the devil of
Mooreye finds us, we’ll be roasted on his next spit.”

  He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I may have been sneaking, but not for the reason you think. I’m no spy.”

  Arval came close, spear in hand, breathing down his neck like a wolf upon its prey. “I think he’s a Moor’s Eye dog,” the brute spat. “He’d best spill it, else we should spill him.”

  No matter the stink of Arval’s breath, Rellen stared straight at Abertham. “If you think these ropes on my wrists will stop me from killing him, think again. Get him away from me.”

  Smirking, Arval backed away.

  “Well,” said Abertham. “You’ve fight in you, and that’s commendable. But what say you, Croft? Are you or aren’t you one of Net-nam’s maggots?”

  “You mean Nentham Thure.”

  “That’s what I said; Net-nam,” Abertham reprimanded. “You’ve but one chance to answer us, and then it’s to the bottom of the bog with you. So out with it. Are you one of his?”

  “Not if the whole world were against me would I ever side with that one,” he cursed. “The lord of Mooreye would kill our King, our Councilors, his own mother if it brought him to power. He’s my enemy more than he’s yours, and he will be until his death. Now then…I’ve had enough. Set me free. I’m not Nentham’s man, and nothing you do to me will make me say otherwise.”

  A deep quiet took hold of the tree hollow. Abertham and Arval exchanged troubled glances. “See here, if’n you’re lying…” Abertham began.

  “I’m not.”

  “But if’n you are, custom demands we put you down. And in any case, we can’t let you go. You’d run back to the black city and tell him all about us. So no, just like the others, you have to stay.”

  “Enough!” He stood and roared, sending his stool tumbling. “I will not stay here. I’ve done nothing to harm you. I played your little game and let you bring me here, but it ends now. You don’t understand what keeping me prisoner means.”