Tying the last knot, he gripped Aeric’s collar and pulled the boy close. His fingers were cold, his breath hot, and his teeth bared like a wolf’s fangs. “I’ve seen them, Aeric. I’ve seen the Furies your master would worship. They’ll never stop, not for your Nentham, not for anyone. Your master’s made a pact with a monster. They’ll slaughter us all.”
Aeric swallowed hard. His eyes widening like two windows blasted open by the truth, the boy seemed to grasp the shadow of his meaning. “Who are you?”
“Nobody, just a soldier.”
He dragged Aeric deep into the field of weeds. Well off the beaten path, somewhere in the thicket of neck-high grasses, he dropped the boy like a bag of bricks onto the ground. He was about to walk away, to abandon poor Aeric to whatever fate had in store, but stopped. He pulled a waterskin from beneath his cloak and dropped it near enough that Aeric might wriggle and drink from it.
Then, without another word, he backed out of the weeds, leapt atop the boy’s horse, and raced northward.
The fields flew past beneath the horse’s hooves. Mooreye City, its walls hard and bleak, fell behind him. Aeric was forgotten, but not the message on the scroll. Tormented by what he had read, he carved through fields and thickets, blazing past Mooreye’s environs with murder on his mind.
Abertham and his are killing your brothers even now, he wanted to shout at Nentham. You should run before they come for you.
The hours swept by. Come late afternoon, he led his lathered steed into a fallow field well north of Mooreye City. The weeds were short and sunburned, the wind flowing freely over the earth, sweeping dust and dirt into the summer sky. From his vantage, he saw more than twenty enormous manor houses looming in the grasslands ahead. The houses of the Mooreye lords, he thought with a frown. Thure Manor is near. I remember this place. Father brought me here as a boy.
The manors of Mooreye were daunting things, founded like mountains of stone upon plots of land bigger than some cities. Separated by wide, well-kept lawns, each house was surrounded by a grove of oak and maple. Towering green hedges carved in labyrinthine fashion marked the manors’ grounds, while every garden was lush with luxurious flowers, the riot of colors far fairer than any of the houses’ masters deserved. Rellen paused in a fallow field, feasting his gaze upon the abundance of golden, scarlet, azure, and violet flora. He might have smiled at the sight, but in his heart he knew the gardens were a lie. Beyond each garden, a doorway. Beyond each door, a lord of Mooreye. Above the flowers bright and merry, the stone dwellings looked like cruel, corrupted warlords watching over a sea of innocent. He wished Abertham and his men were here, that he might burn each house to the ground.
Quaking with rage, he spurred his mount forward. The beast sagged from lack of rest, and after a while he trotted it into the nearest grove and leapt out of the saddle. You’ve had enough, I think. He patted the old horse on its rump. Go on. When next you see a Mooreye man, bite his fingers off.
Shouldering Aeric’s spear, he crept alone into the trees. The first manor was close, its wall of hedges not more than a hundred paces ahead. He moved like a hunter from tree to tree, and ducked through the maze of topiary as if he knew the way. When he came to the garden in the heart of the hedges, he was surprised to see the lawn before the manor was empty, the carriage lanes quiet. Crouching in the shadow of a hedge carved in a castle’s likeness, he glimpsed flowered trellises, climbing vines, and bushes two men high, but no people. No servants, no guards, not even a horse. Wreaths on every window, baskets full of flowers. This place is too pretty. This isn’t House Thure.
He heard a woman singing.
Her song was sad and solemn, yet enchanting. He could not see her, but he knew she was close. He slunk back toward the manor, crossing the garden like a fox prowling for a hare. Peering over the top of an olive-hued shrub, he gazed upon the gravel carriage lane in front of the manor. The grey-stoned dwelling dominated his sights, its hundred windows gazing grimly down upon him. Some disguise I have. He worried for the eyes that might lurk behind the windows. If they see me, I’m finished.
He heard the woman’s song echo up and down the carriage lane, and then he saw her emerge from behind a hedge. She was burdened with two sacks of flour, her cheeks and forearms paled by the white powder from her load. She was a pretty creature, but her song was prettier, and so melancholic. Golden ribbons of her hair bobbed in the sunlight, relics of youth hanging like flower fronds upon an otherwise unhappy face. He wondered of her song, for a lover lost, a child ill, someone slain in the war?
He nearly forgot himself and walked right up to her, but then another figure appeared from a servant’s door, a man with raven hair and a face as emotionless as a moonless night sky. A Fury. He kept his distance. So it’s true.
Nentham beds with monsters.
The Fury man was a soldier, to be certain. A bare black sword hung from his waist, a Dageni weapon devouring all the sunlight. The Furyon’s gaze was as cold as a midnight sky’s dimmest star. His eyes seemed soulless, his stare all-penetrating. Bristling, Rellen clutched his spear all the tighter. Can’t attack him. Not here, not now. Where there’s one there might be many.
He crouched, half hoping the Furyon might see him if only to have an excuse to kill him. A few moments passed, and then he heard the woman’s song come to an end. He could not help himself. He peeked over the hedge again and saw the Furyon circling the woman like a bird of prey. She’d thank me for killing him, he thought. His palms leaked sweat over his spear’s haft. Every sinew in his body felt tighter than a bowstring. He knew he should turn to the trees and seek another manor, and yet he lingered, needing to know what was next to come.
The woman tossed the sack of flour down into a cart with a sigh. Seeing the Furyon, she backed away from the wagon with a curtsy. “Finished, sire,” she offered.
The cart brimmed with sacks of flour, gilded chests, and velvet bags bulging with coin. The woman’s work appeared to be finished. The dark-eyed Furyon approached her as if to inspect, but after a blink and a cruelly curved smile, struck her down backhandedly. Rellen watched in horror as the Furyon’s forearm shiver sent the woman sprawling to her back, where she whimpered and begged him not to hit her again. A dark line of blood ran from her nose and the corner of her mouth, but the Furyon simply smirked. He said something to her, something predatory, but Rellen understood nothing over the blood pounding in his ears.
I have to help her. I’m a coward to sit and watch. Father, forgive me.
A half-breath from bursting out of cover and descending like a thunderstorm upon the Furyon, he heard the manor’s main door open.
“Enough!” said the man who emerged.
Knees in the dirt, heart crashing hard, Rellen glared over the hedge. The man behind the voice was no Furyon. The very essence of Mooreye aristocracy, his hair was oiled and slicked, his coat black and silver, and his boots impeccably polished. Rellen hated him all the more for it. The aristocrat was tall, yet puny, his arms hidden inside his robes like the branches of a withered sapling. Nevertheless, he commanded obedience from the Furyon. He barked, and like a hound called off its prey, the Furyon stepped away from the woman.
“You and yours, always so spiteful.” The Mooreye man sneered at the Furyon. “Now go and fetch my carriage, and do it quickly. You can have your fun later, perhaps with someone else’s girl.”
Expressionless, the Furyon marched off. Rellen watched and waited. The woman stood and wiped her blood away, and the aristocrat glared disdainfully upon her. After a short while away, the Furyon returned just ahead of a four-horsed carriage, which rumbled to a stop at the aristocrat’s command.
“Load our tribute into the carriage, then go and make yourself presentable,” the Mooreye man said to the woman. “We’ll return late this eve. You wouldn’t want our guests to see you bleeding, would you? A drop of blood is all it takes to excite them.”
The woman loaded the carriage full of food and treasures, after which the Furyon and the aristocrat st
epped beneath its shining black hood and were off, rolling out of sight toward the city. All became quiet again. The woman looked all around as if to make certain no one else was watching, and then sank into the gravel, a slow stream of tears dribbling down her cheek.
I should leave, Rellen thought. What’s one woman’s suffering when so many others have died?
He could not bring himself to go.
He left his spear hidden behind the hedge and sauntered up to the woman, who was still kneeling in the carriage lane and using the hem of her dress to staunch the blood.
“Madame…” He summoned his gentlest tone. “You’re hurt. Why did he do that?”
The woman scrambled to her feet and backed away. The blood on her face mingled with her tears. “Who are you?” she snapped.
“Just a soldier. I was behind the verge. I saw what happened.”
“You don’t look like a soldier.” She hid her wound with her palm. “How did you get here?”
“Everyone’s away. I came up through the garden.”
She glared at him untrustingly. “Most are in the city. Lord Nentham’s meeting. If you were a soldier, you’d know that. What was your name again? Come any closer and I’ll call the guards. They’re not all gone, you know.”
He held his arms out as if to surrender. “You needn’t cry for help. They probably wouldn’t come even if you did. I ask but a moment of your time, and then I’ll leave.”
She hardened her bloody lips into an angry line. “Come any closer, and I swear it. I’ll scream.”
“Alright.” He lowered his arms. “No closer for me. But I have a question. Who’s the master of this house?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows this is the house of Lord Dalak.”
“Dalak. Thank you,” he sighed. “I saw the Fury strike you. I only wanted to help.”
“Help?” She turned a cold cheek at him. “They hit us all the time. We’re lucky when they only use their hands, not their swords. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t much care. If you were smart, you’d turn right around and go back where you came from. There’s no chivalry here, no maidens for you to save.”
“I can help you, truly,” he argued. “But I need your help first.”
She sucked in a deep breath, and her pride burned away her tears. “There’s nothing you can do. Even if they kill me, and they will, they’ll never break me. The only dishonor is that I must live amongst them until I die. But you, little noser, you should run. I know a soldier when I see one, and you’re no soldier. Don’t you know any better? Don’t you know what passes for normal in these parts?”
“Nothing is normal in Mooreye.” He despaired. “But since you don’t want help, you can tell me something, and then you’ll never have to look upon me again.”
She lifted her chin, her skin split from the Furyon’s strike. “What do you want?”
“Tell me if you’ve seen the King. I need to find him.”
“King? What king? Balov’s long dead.”
“Right…dead…” He saw he had confused her. “Never mind that. What I mean to ask is; where’s House Thure? Nentham has a private prison. I need to know where it is.”
“And why should I tell you?”
He dared two steps closer. When she held her ground, he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “These men, the ones who carry the black steel, are they your masters now? Is their presence so welcome here? Do you love them so deeply? I can help you, good madame, if you’re willing to let me. I need to know where Thure’s house is. The black steel men don’t want me here. The answers I need are better whispered by your mouth than extracted from one of them.”
He saw her soften. Mistrust became pain, and fresh tears began to leak. “Who am I to question them?” Her voice cracked when she said it. “They provide for me, for my children. It’s fair.”
“Yes, this I can see.” He reached out to touch her battered cheek, but stopped short.
“You can’t help me.” She lowered her head, her golden locks hiding her injury. “You’re just one man, a rope and a gibbet from ending up like all the rest. You should run off, the faster the better.”
He looked to the sky above the grey-mortared manor. The hour was late, and evening drawing near. If I had all night, I might convince her. But there’s no time. “As you wish, madame.” He bowed to her and backed away. “Perhaps, if you are kind, you might forget you saw me.”
He trudged back into the garden. Many hours of treading like a cutpurse from manor to manor awaited him, and he was not eager for it. It was then, even as he neared the shadow of the trees beyond the lawn, he heard the woman pelting after him. “Wait!” she called, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Yes?” He faced her.
Her gaze fell to the earth, then rose, then fell again. A secret was turning on her tongue, he knew. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She shivered as she spoke. “I can tell from the look of you that you’re looking for trouble.”
“I’m only looking for justice.”
“Call it what you like. If it’s trouble you want, I can help you find House Thure. It’s the furthest house north from here, not a stone’s throw from the moors. You couldn’t miss it if you were blind. Its towers are black like the dark men’s swords, and its windows are mirrored.”
“The King is there?”
“I don’t know anything about any King. There isn’t one, not that we follow. I only know there’s murder at the dark manor. People go there all the time and never come back. If you go quickly, you might even get there before the stewards return. They and most of their guards are in the city.”
“Nentham’s meeting.”
“Yes. But if I were you, I’d forget this place. Leave and never come back.”
He walked right up and planted a kiss upon her forehead. She was startled, but did not scream. “Thank you, madame,” he said as he backed away. “You don’t know it yet, but you may have saved us all.”
House Thure
At midnight, an armada of clouds sailed across the sky.
They conquered the stars and shrouded the moon, inking the world in darkness. Rellen lingered at the far northern edge of a boggy forest, where the twisted trees lurked like stunted children, their dark arms stretching like talons over the prairie grass. The wind’s picking up, he worried. There will be rain. This is good…and bad.
Between flashes of lightning, he glimpsed a trio of manors breaking the flatness of the northern fields.
One of them has to be Nentham’s.
The darkness beckoned. He wiped his brow, shouldered his spear, and waded like a flockless shepherd into the grasses beyond the trees. Raindrops pattered on his head. The sheaves of black clouds, gliding east to west, moved with terrifying alacrity. As he stalked across the field, his thoughts wandered to Tratec and Verod. Anymore, he felt a pit where his heart used to be. He wondered if his friends still lived, if they had fought with valor, or if they all had perished as Aeric’s scroll had implied, leaving Graehelm wide open for the taking. The guilt he felt for having left them might have crushed him, but he pushed it deep into the corner of his mind, burying it for a day of reminiscence that might never come.
He marched through the rain, caring none for his comfort.
Not far ahead, lying between him and the three manors, a tangled thicket stood stark against the prairie, its canopy illuminated by silver flashes of lightning. He cut through the wet, windblown grass and ducked beneath the trees, where the darkness was so deep he knew no one in the world could see him. Creepers and fallen limbs stuffed the spaces between the trees. He minded it none. He was relieved just to escape the rain. He pushed as far into the brush and twisted roots as he could manage before sinking to a heap on the ground. No matter the rain, the thunder, and the sorrow in his heart, he found shelter beside a gnarled, rotting tree and collapsed into his life’s most miserable slumber.
Asleep he lay, and his dreams carried him far from the world.
Tho
ugh he did not know it, the secret holdings of Lord Nentham were already burning.
The men of the forest had crossed over the southern fields and stolen their way into Nentham’s forbidden dwelling. With torches and burning oil, they set a fire, a terrible blaze that beat back the rain and licked the bottom of the night sky, searing wood, stone, and treasure alike. Within hours, most of Nentham’s secret keep was reduced to cinders, and all the hoardings he had gathered to purchase the favor of his Furyon lords were destroyed. Many of the raiders from Abertham’s village did not survive, but those that did retreated to the deep woods, taking refuge in whatever dark corner they could find. If only Rellen had known, he would have rejoiced. But in the deep of night, cold and wet as the bottom of a Furyon frigate, he dreamed only of Andelusia.
Hours slithered by. The rains subsided. Come the earliest glint of predawn, when the morn was but a grey haze sliding into a far fragment of overcast sky, he snapped awake. It was not the meager dawn that stole him from his dreams, but another light, far sharper. He caught the lantern’s glow slicing through the narrow spaces between the trees. Too curious for his own good, he shook off his weariness and crawled over root, bramble, and deadfall to reach the eastern edge of the thicket. He saw the light again, only this time it was many. Just beyond the tangled trees, several lanterns moved northward along a road, dancing like fireflies at the death of night.
Five bearers. Five lights, he counted. Where are they going?
His boots were soaked and muddy, his clothes clinging to his skin like moss to a tired tree. His hood hung limply from his brow, wet as a kitchen rag. At least no one will confuse me for myself, he mused. From the shadow of the trees, he spied on the lantern-bearers as they moved along the road. He did not care who they were, only where they were bound for.
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 57
