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

by J. Edward Neill

  The knight awaited the answer to his unknowable demands, and Dank hissed. The little warlock sucked in a deep breath, slid near like a snake, and spat out a Furyon diatribe that froze the knight in his place. A hundred of the warlock’s words, and the knight ceased drumming his fingers. Here it is. Garrett stood firm. The dark magic. Good only for fire, death, and fear. Dank’s voice rose until it echoed like thunder in the street, rattling the narrow-necked lantern posts and dimming the pallid lights therein. When the warlock was finished, the Furyon took two steps backward and said no more. Garrett glared a final time at the knight, and then stalked away.

  “What did you say to him?” Saul dared a whisper once they were some thousand steps away.

  Dank grinned. “I told him Garrett was a Fury lord. I said we were returning from the warfront in Graehelm. I think he doubted me until I told him we were bound for Malog. When he heard that name, he thought better than to challenge us. Every Furyon knows to fear Malog. Now keep quiet. We’ve a ways more to walk until we can rest.”

  All the men were afraid, Garrett saw, all but Dank and himself. He marched past the rows of jet towers, drawing nearer to the city’s end, but he felt nothing in his soul beyond his sense of duty. I must have no emotion, he told himself. Not if I am to do this. Whatever the Object is, the others may turn to putty when they see it. I must be the one.

  There is no one else.

  No more sentries troubled his passage. No knights erupted from any of the alleys or towers. If a single soul drew breath in the northern half of Illyoc, he could not hear it. This is no city, but a tomb. The trip lasted nearly another hour. When at last he laid eyes upon the northern end of the city, he saw it bore no semblance to the gateway in the south. There were no doors here, only a vast opening into the dark plain beyond the city. Dank slowed, and he trailed, gliding like mist into Illyoc’s final courtyard. The rain fell steadily now, a cold grey shroud conquering the night. Somehow soundless in his armor, Garrett wound between the dozens of columns standing in the courtyard, each of them graven in the shape of a caryatid. The slithering female forms carried obsidian swords and shields, seeming to watch him both lustfully and murderously as he slid by. Beyond the caryatids, there stood only a great arch, and beyond it darkness.

  The night air flowed freely into the city. The scent of rain was powerful, and the northern sky torn ragged by rampant flashes of lightning. The others hesitated when they glimpsed the dozen Furyon guards standing like statues beneath the arch, but Garrett held his chin high and passed the guards by as though he were their master, and they powerless to halt him. After so long, he feared the Furyons no more. If they try to stop me, their bones will still be smoldering when the sun rises tomorrow.

  The guards made no motion to interfere. He was first out of Illyoc, Dank and the others cold on his heels. As he walked into the open, he sniffed the humid evening air and tasted a trail of smoke through the rain. Fires. Furies. An army is near.

  He stopped twenty paces ahead of the others, struck still by the sight on the plains below Illyoc. Below the city’s hill, out past the rocks and crushed grasses and through the veils of rain, a vast Furyon host drowsed. Their camp was larger than any the world was meant to bear. Their fires were everywhere, spitting scarlet back at the midnight rain. The swollen mass of wandering men, hungry horses, and black pavilions numbered far more than Garrett had seen in the valley of Gholesh. There were no stars left in the sky tonight, but even had there been, he reckoned the Furyons would have outnumbered them. A second army. He felt a chill run up his spine. Enough to destroy home a hundred times over.

  “What’s that?” Saul halted beside him.

  “You know who they are.” Dank’s voice was cold. “The rest of Furyon’s army. They come fresh from Davin Kal, the lands east of Elrain. They’ve finished their genocide, and quickly. They’re bound for Morellellus. In a month or so, they’ll land in the Mormist harbor.”

  “Crows take my tongue!” spat Marlos. “We’re done for. How could any army hope to stop so many? You should’ve told us!”

  “Why?” said Dank. “So you could have cowered in Verod and died?”

  “He is right. You should have told them.” Garrett gazed across the grass, through the rain, and onto the hundred thousand sputtering fires.

  “So many…” Saul’s breath escaped in clouds through the eye slits of his helm.

  “Even if we destroy the Object, what good will it do?” Marlos trembled. “Why even build the thing when they have this many men?”

  Dank pulled back his hood. The rain lashed his bare face, but he seemed not to care. “There are thrice as many soldiers here as in all of Graehelm. This army is worthy of Tyberia. Where they go, there won’t be war, but desolation, an eternal sleep for all who encounter them. Maybe now you can see it, the uselessness of remaining in Verod. There is but one way to stop this.”

  “The Object…” Garrett’s heart beat steadily. “Now is the time to say what it is and how you mean to destroy it.”

  “Yes,” said Marlos. “Now or never.”

  “Tell us,” Saul agreed.

  Dank exhaled again, this time a sigh of resignation. The lightning flashed above the Furyon horde, illuminating black tents, black flags, and black-helmeted men all at once. A few breaths more, and the rain fell harder.

  Dank chose then to tell them about Malog and the Object, and Garrett listened closest of all. He committed the wizard’s every word to memory, and when it was done, he took the lead into the blighted grasses between Illyoc and the army. The others called after him to wait, but he hardly slowed. The rain slashed against his helm, and the wind howled, colder than any air in summer had a right to be. All his life had come to this, it seemed. For Rellen and Andelusia, he swore it would be done.

  I will make it to Malog. I will destroy this thing.

  Even if Dank had not brought me, I might have come to finish it myself.

  The Vanguard

  In a meadow far east of Gryphon, Rellen sat atop his ivory stallion and winced against the wind.

  It was summer still, but the breeze was vigorous and cool, hurling his hair back and ruffling his tabard’s tired folds. He tried not to blink against it. Jaw clenched, he swept his gaze across the far western fields of Mooreye, where the outer villages were but specks in a sea of amber grass. The storm’s coming, he knew. He glimpsed the faint line of dark clouds against the bright blue of late morning, the blackness carved like a dagger’s wound on the far eastern horizon. The storm made no sound at so great a distance, but he knew it all the same. The Furies are near.

  Thirty days were behind him, thirty sunsets of feverish riding and drastic plans. He had journeyed the length of Grandwood twice over, slept countless hours in the rain, rattled the gates of Ardenn, and talked so much his throat was sore and raw. He was weary of it all. His eyes felt heavy, their blueness diminished, while his shoulders sagged as though encumbered by an ox’s yoke. I did as Jacob asked, he thought with a shiver. Counts for something, I hope.

  Beside him sat two friends, both on warhorses of their own. To his left was Yorian, young knight of Gryphon, garbed in tarnished silver mail and a sapphire tabard. Yorian was well-recovered from his imprisonment in Nentham’s tower, and plucky as a raven despite the long journey to and from Ardenn. To Rellen’s right sat Nicolaen, a brawny giant whose arms were thick as corded oak and whose broadsword could scarcely be lifted by other men. Nicolaen’s green tunic was embroidered with the high sigil of Ardenn; ten golden swords circling a yellow flame, the same as the banner catching the breeze on his lance.

  “What’s the matter, Rell?” Nicolaen rumbled. “Is that coal in the sky I see?”

  “Trouble,” he answered with a cluck of his tongue. “The Fury storm. Their master must be with them.”

  “Who?”

  Rellen squinted hard. “There’s a Fury who controls the storm. He has some kind of magic sword. He waved it at us in Gholesh and killed half of Lothe’s men. I told you all of this alrea
dy.”

  “Hmm…” Nicolaen shrugged, unimpressed. “Best kill him first, I reckon.”

  I wish I were as confident, he thought. Reminds me of Bruced, this one.

  Nicolaen was a lord of the south, to be certain. He was the son of the Councilor of Ardenn, nearly a king amongst his people. Rellen was not sure whether to be glad Nico had never before fought a Furyon, or miserably worried. Though if he’s brash, perhaps it’s not entirely unfounded. He glanced to his back and gained a moment’s reassurance. The host of Ardenn was here. They were more than twenty thousand swordsmen, archers, and knights, all of whom had offered their steel to him upon hearing Graehelm’s plight. The host knew him well and loved him like a brother. More importantly, they had been trained in Ardenn, whose walls housed the legendary Academy of Grae, the world’s grandest collection of scholars and tomes devoted to the mastery of war. Ardenn was second only to Triaxe in skill at arms, or so it was widely believed. But then, all of Ahnwyn’s men are dead.

  “You wonder where Jacob is?” Nicolaen interrupted his worries. “Damn kings always keep everyone waiting.”

  “If he’s late, it must be for good reason. He’ll come. I know it. He’s a man of his word.”

  “And if not?”

  He paused to consider what might happen. He felt sick at the thought of engaging the Furyons alone. Even with Jacob’s army, how much chance do we have? But without him...

  Before he could think too long on it, he spit the taste from his mouth and wheeled his horse about. “If it happens, we go at it alone.”

  Nicolaen grunted like a bear. His lance rattled in his grasp, and his horse whinnied beneath his weight. “Alone? Bah! Hardly. How many Yrul have we maimed, you and I? How many Romaldarians have wet their beds with nightmares of us? These Furies of yours, they’re nothing special.”

  Rellen looked sidelong at Yorian, who offered no support. Grimacing, he faced eastward again, forcing himself to remember that beneath their dark armor, the Furyons were only men. “Where’s Nentham’s host?” He changed the subject. “I expected they would have attacked us already, or at least sent skirmishers.”

  Even from as far away as Ardenn, Nicolaen knew all about Nentham Thure. At the mention of the most hated man in Graehelm, this big man squashed his face into a sneer. “Moor’s Eye worms. Could be hiding anywhere. Like as not, they took one gander at us and crawled back into the dirt. For my part, I hope they come. I’ve heard all about the Moor’s Eye maggots. Father asked that I collect some of their bones and bring a bag back home.”

  Rellen rolled his eyes. “Sounds like something a friend of mine used to say.”

  “Aye,” Nicolaen chuffed. “But what if they come groveling instead of fighting? You wouldn’t make peace with them, would you? Not after what they did to your father.”

  “No…” He shook his head. “No mercy.”

  “Good.” Nicolaen nodded. “I’ll get my bag yet.”

  He took a long breath and tried to clear the evils from his mind. It was no easy thing. His father’s voice echoed in his skull, while the faces of Garrett, Marlos, and Ande moved like spirits through his mind. He held up his left hand, bidding Nicolaen and Yorian to stay put, and then trotted alone into the empty grasses ahead of the Ardenn host.

  Where are you? He asked the sky for Jacob. A day late, and not a word. It had better be because you found more soldiers than we hoped for.

  He was alone now, leastways as much as he could hope for. The warriors of Ardenn hunkered so quietly in their stirrups he no longer heard them. Savoring the moment, he dropped down from his horse and knelt in the high grass. The storm was not yet here. The blue skies were still blindingly bright, the earth soft and inviting as any bed. Even so, in his heart he felt as though it were already midnight, and the tops of his hands brushing across the tips of spears instead of prairie grass. What should I do, Father? I did everything you and the King asked. Gryphon’s safe for the moment, Mother too. But the Furies are coming, and Nentham Thure also. How am I supposed to fight so many?

  No answers came. He arose from the grass with no more clarity than before. As he trotted back to Yorian and Nicolaen, reins in hand, he felt like a dog slogging in from the rain.

  “What was that about?” Nicolaen eyed him.

  “I need the riders.”

  “They’ve already returned,” Nicolaen reminded him. “They say Jacob isn’t within a day’s ride, not yet anyway.”

  He rolled his neck in a slow circle. “I meant the eastern scouts. They should’ve been back by now.”

  “No sign. Nentham’s probably got them.”

  Another glance at the dark dagger of approaching clouds, and he led his mount between Nicolaen and Yorian. “One more day,” he said as he plodded by. “Tell the men to make camp. If by tomorrow no one’s come, we’ll discuss a new plan.”

  That evening, as the last of the day’s blueness drained into dusk, the scouts from the east returned. He heard the commotion as he sat in the grass outside his tent, poring over an old map of Mooreye his mother had gleaned from Gryphon’s cellars.

  “There they are! There they are! The scouts are back!” he heard the shouts erupt.

  He blinked hard at the sudden noise. I wouldn’t be so excited if I were you, he thought of the shouting men. Good news these days is rarer than a good night’s sleep.

  If he was skeptical, he hid it well. He was so weary his eyelids felt like iron gates about to crash closed, and yet for pride’s sake he cracked a smile and made a show of striding swiftly through the grass. Within moments, he, Yorian, Nicolaen, and a dozen Ardenn knights arrived at the camp’s eastern edge, where four lads dressed in dark raiment were dropping down from their saddles.

  “You made it.” He clasped hands with the foremost rider.

  “Of course.” Therian beamed. “You sent the best for a reason.”

  He held Therian’s shoulders square and shook his head in disbelief. That the lad still lived felt like a miracle. How many times has he slipped through Nentham’s nets? He truly is the best.

  “Well, out with it,” Nicolaen cut in. “What of Mooreye? Where’s Nentham’s horde? Has Jacob gone ahead of us?”

  Therian, enjoying the attention, held his listeners in suspense for a few moments. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he cracked his knuckles and grinned. “You’ll hardly believe this.”

  Nicolaen glared. “Just tell us. This is serious business, boy. We’ve men to kill tomorrow.”

  “Mooreye City burns,” Therian began, and all his listeners went rapt. “Larkus and I saw the fires from an hour’s ride away. Last night we sneaked through the grass to get closer. There is much carnage. The gates are broken and most everyone’s dead. The streets look like a butcher’s floor, all red and runny.”

  “You jest.” Rellen could hardly believe it.

  “The King will have your head if you’re lying,” added Nicolaen.

  Therian’s smile faded. “I tell no lies, milords. Every Mooreye man is dead. The villages are all cleaned out too, and the bodies hung from the rafters.”

  Nicolaen scrunched his brow. “Who would do this?”

  “The Furies,” Rellen murmured.

  “Aye.” Therian gulped. “Them. We saw them in the city. In this tower and that, they stood and stared, still locked in their armor. We thought they’d catch us, but they seemed not to care. It’s the truth, milords. They hold Mooreye now, at least what’s left of it. They have a huge camp north of the city.

  “You saw the battle?” asked Rellen.

  “No. It was over when we got there, though maybe only by a night or three. It looked less a battle and more a slaughter. Larkus and I saw no Fury dead, unless maybe they’re burning in the pyres. I would guess Nentham’s dead too, cooked or cleaved with the rest.”

  “Mother of crows, the Furies went and did our work for us,” Yorian blurted.

  “Aye.” Therian turned paler. “But milords, ‘tis not as grand as all that. We saw terrible things, we did. The bodies
of the people were stacked around the walls and in the alleys. The rest were burning, hundreds at a time, women and children too. The Furies’ armor was red instead of black, and the stink...it was terrible. The Furies weren’t sleeping or eating or even sharpening their spears. They were just standing about like something had froze them over, not minding all the blood. Meanwhile, the city still burns. We reckon half of it’s turned to ash.”

  “How many Furies?” asked Rellen.

  “At least thirty thousand, probably more. With all the smoke and such, it was a bit hard to tell.”

  A great murmur arose amongst Nicolaen and the captains, a growing fear of the Furyons. Rellen tried to hush them before their hearts sank too low. “Let him finish, lads. This may be the best news we’ve heard in a while. Therian, when you say the Furies were standing about, what do you mean? They’re not preparing to march against us?”

  “Well, no...” Therian stammered. “They were scattered all about, hardly talking. They didn’t even leave guards on the walls, which is why Larkus and I were able to get so near. It’s like I told you; it looked like someone froze them. They just stood there like they were waiting for something. You’d have to see it for yourself to believe it.”

  That night, Rellen held council in the confines of his tent.

  Nicolaen was present, along with Yorian, Therian, and some twenty lords of Ardenn. The men sat half-armored on the tent floor, their grey cloaks pooling like rainwater on the soiled blue cloth of the tent’s floor. The lanterns were few, the lights doing little to scatter the grimness of every man’s mood. As Rellen sat on the edge of his pallet and listened to them quarrel, he imagined what he must look like to them. Father always said to sleep before a war, he thought as all eyes began to turn to him. And here I am, all baggy eyes and dirty clothes. I’m ten years younger than most of these men. It’ll take a miracle for them to listen to my next idea.