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

by J. Edward Neill

  It was then, while brooding in the darkness, he heard footsteps in the dark. A tiny candle glided near until its light was within arm’s reach. In the soft yellow glow he glimpsed Erelei. In one hand, she held the candle, and in the other a plate of cooked potatoes, spiced apples, and buttered bread.

  “Erelei.” He managed a smile for her.

  “Sorry to be a bother.” She set the plate down in the grasses beside him. “I thought you might be hungry.”

  Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, he beckoned her to sit. “Smells delicious. I’m half-starved. Thank you.”

  “I made it just for you. Please…”

  Without another word, he scooped up the plate and indulged himself. She watched him eat, smiling at his lapse in manners. “Hungry?” she asked with a smile.

  “Rude of me. I know.” He set the plate back into the grass, his mouth still full. “I don't usually eat like this.”

  Erelei batted her eyelashes. “Hardly offensive. If you think anyone here eats differently, you’d be disappointed.”

  After another three mouthfuls, he leaned back upon his palms. He expected Erelei to leave, but she scooted closer. “Something’s on your mind, Rellen?” She looked at him with her big, kitten-like eyes. “You’re afraid to go to Mooreye? I would be.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Afraid for your father, but not of Net-nam,” she cut to the heart of it. “I understand.”

  “Are you always so…curious?”

  “It’s my way. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “Erelei, I…” The way she smiled flustered him. “Listen…just because I heard your father’s plan doesn’t mean I agree to it. I’ll do what I can, but more important is my father. And trebly so, Jacob.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t want my father to be there either. I just hope we see you again, in one piece instead of many.”

  She tries to cheer me, he thought.

  “What’s wrong? You’re sad again.”

  “Not sad. Angry,” he said. “I feel like a fool for allowing your father to catch me, more so for still being here.”

  “I understand,” she sympathized. “Here…” She reached into her bodice, pulled out something shiny, and dropped it into his hand. “Take this. Father said to give it to you.”

  He opened his palm and saw a silver chain, finely-braided and polished to a gleam. He guessed from Erelei’s grin the bauble was of great value to her. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Look closer,” she instructed.

  Holding the chain up in the candlelight, he inspected it. A coin was fastened to one of the links, a thin flake of grey metal bearing the winged crest of the Gryphon House. A signet, he marveled. Given to Gryphon’s most beloved! “Who gave you this?” he asked. “Where’d you find it?”

  “You mean you really don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  Her smile flashed across her lips. She leapt to her feet, wagging her finger as if to scold him. “Your family has got more friends than you know. Silly, here we thought you were just pretending. Father knew who you were the moment you told him your name. I’ve even heard stories of you! Don’t you know you’re famous?”

  He clambered to his feet. “You mean this was a ruse? Abertham knows me?”

  “Yes. Arval too. That’s why he’s so jealous!”

  “Then why?” He felt angry, but hid it for Erelei’s sake. “Why not just say it? Why the deception?”

  She looked fearful. “We had to be sure.”

  He realized then that his name had preceded him. His service in Ardenn and his travels throughout Graehelm had always felt insignificant.

  I was wrong.

  Erelei turned serious. Far from the innocent girl she had played at, she looked full of quiet wisdom, and the grave look she gave him stilled his heart. “So you see, Rellen, we know you. We know Emun and House Gryphon. Even if’n you don’t kill Net-nam, we’re with you. Father knows who Jacob is, and he wants him in the golden chair. Anyone’s better than Net-nam, we think. So when you go the Moor’s Eye, we mean to do our part. Truth be told, I’d rather you not go after Net-nam. I’d rather you get Jacob and your father out. I’d rather see you again. Maybe it’s selfish. I don’t care.”

  “I’m promised to another, Erelei. I—”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She planted a kiss on his cheek. “I’d rather see you all the same.”

  She left him then. The faintness of her perfume lingered in the air after she vanished, the subtle scent of flowers enough to put a haze in his head. He wanted to say something profound, or even chase her back to her father and raise a clamor about being kept in the dark, but he did not. He stood right where he was, head clouded yet clear as dawn. Tomorrow is Mooreye, he thought. And Abertham’s plan. Can it work? It must. We have to try.

  Ah, but I wish I had Lorsmir’s sword…

  Wanderer of the Moor

  It was early morning at the edge of Grandwood, and the forest brimmed with fog. The last rows of oaks slumbered like giants in the mist, their roots invisible beneath the stagnant grey soup. Upon the far eastern horizon, dawn chipped tiny bites out of the darkness, the night giving way to a violet sunrise.

  Having marched through most of the night, Rellen crept to forest’s edge and knelt amid the moss at the base of a massive oak.

  “This is it,” Arval muttered. “Far as I go.”

  Rellen chomped on an apple and stared northward, trying to make out what lay beyond the fog. All his thoughts were for his father, Jacob, and his hoped-for downfall of Mooreye.

  “Lucky fellow, you, to have Abby’s favor,” Arval continued. “And luckier still that Lei likes you. We’ve all of us asked for her hand, but the old man won’t promise a thing.”

  He knew Arval was upset with Abertham’s plan, and he understood how many lives were at stake. Even as he waited for dawn to burn away the last of the fog, he knew the men of the forest village were marching eastward. Nentham’s secret manor in the bogs, he recalled what Abertham had told him. How did Father not know? If they reach it, if they burn it…the Mooreye armies will have to answer. And if they sack Nentham’s hoard and burn away his stables…

  Is it possible?

  “Too many men will die today, and for what?” Arval’s voice cut like a dull dagger into his stream of thoughts.

  “For the King,” he snapped. “What else?”

  Arval snorted. “This lord or that lord, why should we care? If this damn Jacob is so precious, we should send all our men to fetch him, not just you.”

  “If we did that, they’d kill him at first sight of us. It has to be just one man.”

  “One man…” Arval scoffed. “You’re as good as dead. And that’s not just me talking. That’s the truth.”

  “It may be so.”

  He shut his eyes and uttered a silent plea, a few hopeful words to honor Abertham and the brave woodland folk. Even now, they were closing in on Nentham’s secret manor. Thure’s lair was a quarter day’s march to the east, a dark island in the center of a shallow bog, or so they had told him. Suppressing a shudder, he loosed Erelei’s signet chain from his pocket and worried the old coin with his thumb. The coin spoke volumes of the past. It had been a gift from Emun to Abertham, given in secret trust long ago. He had not known it before yesterday, but there had long been a bond between Gryphon and the people of the woods, a promise to aid one another even in the direst days.

  Another secret no one thought to tell me…

  An hour after sunrise, he and Arval remained crouched to the earth, keeping still for fear of Nentham’s spies. A warm breeze drifted in and out of the forest, dispersing the fog. At the edge of his sights, he saw Mooreye City. It lurked like a mirage, stark and shadowy on the northern horizon, doubtless flush with the cutthroats and conscripts of Nentham’s army. “The ugliest city in Graehelm.” He remembered what Marlos had once said.

  “Aye, damn nest of thieves.” Arval agreed with him for once. “You mean to go thro
ugh with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if’n it kills you? When they catch you, and they will, they’ll quarter you and leave you for the crows.”

  “A friend once told me anything worth fighting for is worth dying for.”

  Arval shook his head. “Ach…Abby has faith, and little Lei is head over stockings for you. There’s two things I’ll never understand. So I reckon I’ll say it just this once; don’t go dying too quick. If’n you should plant a dagger in the black lord’s ribs, I’ll be the merriest man in Grandwood.”

  “Is that supposed to pass for a well-wishing?”

  “Aye, and it’s all you’ll get. I’ve no love for lordlings or pretenders. Ruin the Moor’s Eye, and maybe I’ll change my mind.”

  He broke his stare at Mooreye and smiled slyly at Arval. “I knew you’d come around. Remember, whatever happens, you know what you have to do. The forest will not harbor you safely anymore. When the Moor raiders come, flee as far west as you can.”

  “You worry about your part.” Arval slunk back into the trees. “Ours is handled.”

  Grim as a gravekeeper, Arval vanished into Grandwood. The last of the fog dwindled, and Rellen slunk alone into the open fields. There was nothing left for him in the trees, nowhere for him to hide. On my way, Father. Wish me luck.

  He hardly looked like himself anymore. His hair was as wild as a storm-blown field of wheat, his blonde beard drawn into a tight spike beneath his chin. To better disguise himself, he had assumed the likeness of one of the forest folk. In place of his azure Gryphon raiment he wore a dun shirt and leggings, a cloak as ragged as a brown autumn leaf, and boots that had seen a thousand treks through Grandwood. Abertham had advised him to leave his sword behind, and although he had argued, he walked into the open with his waist bare. But not without my dagger. He felt his hidden weapon clatter against his calf as he walked. Might need that.

  Looking the part of peasant, he eyed his road. The pastures between Grandwood and Mooreye city were largely empty, dappled by only a few small farms and houses. The emptiness came as no relief. The great manors of Mooreye lay far north of the city, still well beyond his sights, all of them guarded by Nentham’s men.

  He trod into the open fields, striding like a shepherd into the waist high grasses. For the better part of an hour he walked without catching sight of a single person, without any sign of Nentham’s henchmen. Dawn became midday, the city drew nearer, and after crossing through a hundredth pasture he approached a road snaking between two fields. There he stopped. A mounted figure was riding near. One man’s as dangerous as a thousand, he thought. If this lone rider sounds the alarm, I’m doomed.

  He slipped into the nearest field, where the golden grass swayed higher than his head. He stayed on his knees, barely breathing, and as he hid he scrabbled in the dirt, his fingers closing on a fist-sized stone. The rider and mount trotted heedlessly past. Just when it seemed all was safe, an idea crackled to life like fire in his mind. The rider. I have questions. Maybe he has answers.

  Swallowing hard, he sauntered onto the path. “Lo there!” he called out. “Can you help me?”

  The rider spun about in his saddle. He was just a boy, a blonde-haired, sallow-faced whelp. Nevertheless, Rellen saw the spear flashing in his grip. The curving, razor-sharp polearm was the favored weapon of the Mooreye lords, the same sort that had taken many a Gryphon life.

  “Who are you?” the boy tightened his grip on the spear.

  “Well, I’m a bit lost, if’n you must know.” He mimicked the Dalefolk drawl. “I’ve come ‘ere for the army. I can fight, you know, more than well enough. Where do I join?”

  “The ranks are filled,” the boy declared. “Go home to your crop.”

  “But I—”

  “The answer’s no. Lord Thure can’t feed any more.”

  He had heard all that he needed to. Even though the rider was just a boy, he was a soldier in Nentham’s host, and thus a traitor. Pretending to hobble, he dared ten steps closer, careful to stay just out of reach of the spear. “Well that’s a shame. I came all the way ‘ere for nothing? Why won’t you need me? To claim the crown, I’d think you’d need as many as you could get.”

  The boy glared at him. “Who said anything about taking the crown? You’d best mind your own business, farm-rat, else trouble will find you.”

  Beneath the façade, he felt almost guilty. “So…” he growled, abandoning the Dalefolk drawl. “This is the sort of soldier Nentham would steal the kingdom with. Boys smaller than field mice, baby sparrows with spears they have no idea how to use.”

  The young rider’s face flashed with anger. He leveled his spear, but like lightning striking Rellen slung his hidden stone. The rock streaked through the air and cracked just above the boy’s eye. Stunned, the boy cried out and clutched his face, his naked palm falling upon streams of blood. Rellen fell upon him like a wave crashing against a shore. He tore the spear out of the boy’s grasp, dragged him from his stirrups, and hurled him onto the ground. The young soldier flailed, but Rellen drove his heel into the boy’s chest, cracking ribs like kindling. The horse reeled to bolt, but he snatched the reins and jerked the beast to a halt.

  “Now tell me boy, or I’ll let him drag you across a hundred fields.” He knelt and gripped the young soldier’s collar.

  “Tell? What?” the boy wheezed.

  He dragged the boy into the weeds, soiling every part of the boy’s disgraceful uniform. Well out of sight of the road, he planted his knee in the boy’s gut, doing his best to seem less a Gryphon lord and more a murderer. “Keep no secrets, boy, and you might live. Answer me quickly. Where’s your lord? Where’s Nentham?”

  The boy whimpered. “In the city. Please…it hurts…”

  “And his army?”

  “The city also…”

  He lifted his knee, allowing the boy a shallow breath. “And his prisoners? Where does he keep them? Behind the walls? In his bog manor? Somewhere else? Where?”

  “He’ll kill me…if I say anything…please…I beg you…”

  “I’ll kill you if you don’t say.”

  The boy snapped his eyes shut and open again. He looked an awful shade of white, the tears welling like stormwater in his eyes. “I swear it…I don’t know.”

  Rellen stripped away the knife the boy had sheathed upon his belt. Lowering it onto the boy’s throat, he conjured his most murderous glare. “Here we are, all alone, just you and me,” he said through gritted teeth. “What better place for you to die? This field will be your tomb if you lie to me again. I’ll break one bone in your body for each of Mooreye’s crimes. Think you have enough?”

  The boy had no courage left. He ceased struggling, his bloodstained tears leaking onto Rellen’s sleeve. “I swear it…I don’t know. I can…he only tells us…what we need to know. Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Shhh…” He shook the boy less violently than he had before. “Tell me then; where does he keep his secrets? What places will he not allow others to go?”

  “Please...I…” the boy sputtered. “If anywhere, it’d be the...Bog Manor. He won’t let nobody go there. They say he keeps thieves and debtors there to torture, but nobody knows for sure. But you…you’re looking for…someone else?”

  “Correct,” he hissed. “Where do the others go? The important ones? Where is the King?”

  “The King? What king?” The boy’s swollen eyes widened.

  He worried when he saw the look. Has Nentham has already killed them? Or maybe the fiend tells no one his plans? Or maybe…

  “Never mind that.” He pressed his knee back onto the boy’s gut. “Just tell me what places are forbidden, where none but your lord’s closest may go.”

  Gasping for air, the boy spat out two words. “Thure…Manor…”

  He lifted his knee, relieving the boy’s agony. As if he could see the gates of Nentham’s manor opening, he gazed to the sky. The boy remained motionless on the ground, petrified. “Will you be missed?” he said.
“Will anyone care if you’re gone?”

  The boy quivered. “Yes…I—”

  “I may let you live. Tell me where you were going today.”

  The boy nodded fearfully. “I was bound for…for the city. There’s another gathering today.”

  “A gathering? What sort of gathering?”

  “My message…” the boy wept, “they told us not to deliver it until midday.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  The boy flicked his gaze to the saddlebags hanging from his horse’s belly. Rellen leapt up and rifled through the bags, finding at first nothing but loose grain and bread. But what’s this? His fingertips brushed across a sheaf of rolled paper, a scroll bound by the seal of Mooreye.

  He pulled the scroll out and snapped it open.

  The leaflet read simply:

  We march west in ten days. Request five hundred to Fetter’s Field for meeting. Verod is destroyed.

  Verod’s destroyed… He shut his eyes. A heartbeat’s worth of grief wracked him, though he suffered it in silence, gulping it down like a cold stone. He knew the scroll’s meaning. Fetter’s Field is in the Dales. The Furies are coming. Nentham means to send an envoy. Marlos, Saul, Dennov are dead.

  “You keep poor company,” he said to the boy, stuffing the scroll back into the bag and shaking his head. “What’s your name?”

  “Aeric.” The boy wiped his tears back.

  “If you’ve a drop of sense in your head, Aeric, and I doubt you do, you’ll run as far west of Mooreye as you can. Once you untie yourself, that is.” Even as he said it, he cut loose the horse’s reins and saddlebag straps. Then he was back astride the boy, binding his wrists and ankles. He wound the leather straps mercilessly tight, and for a moment he relished Aeric’s squirms.

  “You see that dark line of clouds?” He nodded to the eastern horizon, where a stroke of shadow inked a distant line in the sky. “Do you know what that is? No, of course not. If you knew anything, you’d know those clouds are the end of you and me, the end of all that is Graehelm and Mooreye. Listen to me, little one. This is your day of choosing, the day you decide whether to return to Nentham or whether to cut loose and live to see another day.”