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

by J. Edward Neill

  “Well…what of it, Rell?” Nicolaen’s question snapped him back to his senses. “It’s good news and bad, the way we see it. If Nentham’s dead, we’ve thousands fewer to contend with. But Jacob’s still absent, and there’s few of us who know these Furies of yours. We know just one thing for certain. We’d be madmen to sit out here in the open for another day.”

  “Aye,” a lord of Ardenn gruffly put in. “You hauled us to this feast. ‘Tis time for the main course.”

  His heart sank, then rose, then fluttered in his chest as though this were his first time leading men into war. He stood from his bed, his shadow falling long across the faces of the others. “Therian…” He caught the lad off guard. “Tell us again; how far was the storm from the city?”

  “I… I’m not sure,” Therian stammered. “It was drizzling there, but not storming. The worst of it was likely a day or two’s ride east, though probably closer now.”

  “Was there lightning? Could you hear thunder? Did the Fury camp look as though it had been settled for many days?”

  Therian’s nerves seemed to settle. “No thunder that we heard, nor any lightning. In the east it looked plenty flashy, but the clouds over the city weren’t black like at Verod. And yes, I’d say the camp was more than a few days old. Larkus said he could smell it at a thousand paces.”

  Rellen paced before the men. They want me to decide right now. So be it. This ends only one way.

  After a short silence, he raised his chin and looked them all dead in their eyes. “I don’t know what happened to our enemies’ alliance, but this is the first mistake the Furies have made. The storm’s behind them, which means their master is still in the Dales, maybe even in Mormist. This is our opportunity. We should strike at them now while their storm can’t harm us. They’ll never expect it.”

  All gazes shifted to Nicolaen, who plied his beard with his fingers. The lord of Ardenn sat quietly and stewed, his huge hands folded in his lap. “Lord Rellen,” Nicolaen chuffed, “are you implying we should lead this magnificent army into a city still burning? Against an enemy three times our size? After a fifteen day march?”

  “Yes.”

  Nicolaen narrowed his eyes. “We’ve nothing more than the words of a horse-boy to guide us. You’re sure he sees rightly?”

  He glanced at Therian. “I trust this horse-boy like a brother. He delivered Barrok to Mormist faster than we hoped. He eluded Nentham’s spies in the bogs and cut his way through two ambushes. If he says the Mooreye men are dead and the worst of the storm is still in the east, I believe him.”

  The lords of Ardenn hooded their eyes and murmured among themselves. Never before had he seen such fear in their gazes, never until now. They doubt the storm is real, but are terrified it might be, he reckoned. With Jacob not here, they could tuck tail and run back to Ardenn.

  But how long would they be safe? They’ve all heard the rumors.

  Nicolaen’s voice broke free of the murmurs. “You look vexed, milord Gryphon.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  The big man grinned. “You know Ardenn has always done what’s best for Graehelm. We’re brothers, south and north. I see you doubting us. You shouldn’t. We’re with you.”

  Looking at the other lords, he felt less than convinced. “Jacob was supposed to be here. I have no authority over you.”

  Nicolaen laughed. “We’re here on your word, not his. I know your mind. You hear us bickering and you think, ‘They’ll abandon me.’ But our debate isn’t whether to help you or not, but whether we should march tonight instead of tomorrow. If this storm of yours is real, why tempt it? Why wait for the King? We should leave straightaway, as in right now.”

  He had not expected that. He waited for the other lords’ dissension, but they simply stared at him, grey eyes and grizzled beards, hard gazes with not a lie among them.

  “This happened once before,” he exhaled. “I took Lothe into the valley of Gholesh. I thought we were invincible, but I was wrong. What happened there...well…you know what happened. And here you are, telling me you’re willing to attack Mooreye City.”

  “You said it yourself,” said Nicolaen. “If we sit and wait for Jacob, the Furies will trample us like dead leaves in winter. Besides, it’s not the Ardenn way to wait. Better to attack than be attacked.”

  “Any general would agree,” said the eldest of the Ardenn lords, a man whose beard was white as the moon and trimmed to a swordlike point. “To fight when the odds are even is the surest way to glory, but to fall upon your enemy and slay him while he sleeps is a better way to stay alive.”

  “Piss on the Furies. They’ve no honor anyhow,” added a second lord.

  “We’ll show them what a real storm looks like,” trumpeted another. “There’s no rain falls on a man like arrows and Ardenn steel.”

  The boasts continued. The fear inside the tent dissolved. Rellen could not help but be swept up by it. Had he a goblet, he would have toasted to the lords’ courage. Alas, all the mead is at home, he thought. We’ll fight sober.

  On that night, long after the sun had sunk into the blackness of the west, the host of Ardenn came alive. They folded their tents, hoisted their banners, and dressed for war. Rellen took his place in the center of the camp, watching from the top of his white stallion as Nicolaen’s men strapped themselves in steel plates, locked their grasps around lances, swords, and bows, and dropped their helmets over their eyes. He began to believe they were the most fearsome Grae host he had ever seen. They and no other, he thought as his gaze wandered over them. They’ve fought more foes in a year than Barrok or Triaxe has fought in a century. Perhaps that’s why Father sent me to them; to learn.

  The night’s reprieve ended. Within an hour of Nicolaen’s summons, the host stood ready to march. Some carried lances and swords, and others bows and quivers stuffed to bursting with arrows. Rellen felt like he never had while marching with Lothe.

  Powerful.

  Dangerous.

  Once arranged into marching order, the host fell silent, and the night became their dominion, their surreptitious tool of war, under which they marched invisibly eastward. Their only guides were the blazing torches of their captains, which burned in the night like the eyes of hungry wolves, hunting the last and most formidable of prey.

  Rellen rode in the thick of it all. How many hours it had been since last he slept, he no longer remembered. His weariness peeled away, and a fire began to smolder in his belly. The Furies stole my vengeance, he said to the sky, in which he felt certain his father’s spirit roamed. But I still owe them. For Garrett. For Marlos and Bruced. For her. Watch over me, Father. If I should die tomorrow, make it worthwhile.

  He hoped for answers. He knew none would come. Some hours into the slow, grim march, he looked up to see Therian trotting along at his side. Even in the dark, the lad looked so, so young. The light of a nearby torch glinted off his perfect mail, catching each link and lighting it like a star. A fast rider, yes, he thought of the brash boy. And braver than most. But ready to fight Furies? Ready to see the rest of us butchered into bits? No, not quite.

  “Therian,” he called to the lad some while later. “Come here.”

  Therian trotted closer. A new sword, bigger than any the boy had trained with in the yards of Gryphon, dangled from his belt. “Aye, milord. You needed something?”

  “There’s something I want you to do.”

  “Anything.” Therian nodded. “You’re Emun now, and I’m yours.”

  “I want you to turn back.” The words wounded him to say. “I need you to find King Jacob. No one else is more capable than you. Take Larkus and a few of the others. If you find the King, tell him what you told us, and tell him what we mean to do. Tell him we mean to test the Furies’ strength at Mooreye City. Beg him to come as fast as he can.”

  Therian sagged in his saddle. Rellen knew his words were the last the brave boy wanted to hear. “But Rellen, I can’t go back, not now.” Therian pleaded. “Please, I beg you; let me stay.
Send someone else!”

  “This is no joke.” He tried his best to sound menacing. “We may surprise the Furies, but it doesn’t guarantee our lives. We need fighters, not fast riders. If anyone can find Jacob, it’s you.”

  Both he and Therian reined their horses to a halt. The soldiers of Ardenn meandered by, staring but saying nothing. Therian looked at him as though he had just slain the lad’s mother, his cheeks turning red and his chest puffing with wounded pride. “You’re my lord, and I know this,” said the boy. “Uncle always said to listen to you, no matter what. But milord Rellen, please…I’ve as much reason to fight as you do, and you know it. Please don’t send me away. I’ll do Gryphon proud. I can fight well as any other. Uncle taught me, Bruced too, but now they’re dead and I’ve nothing I can do for it. So please let me fight. Send another in my place. Larkus wants no part of the Furies. Let him go. I beg you.”

  “Why do you want to go?” Rellen asked. “There’s no glory here. You think dying is honorable? You think killing is easy? If only I could make you understand...”

  Therian sank into a deep silence, seeming like a shadow fading into the host of passing men. “I’m not a little boy anymore,” he said at length. “Uncle would make me go back, but you…I never thought you’d ask it. Besides, you need every sword you can get. Is it not true?”

  He dwelled upon Therian’s request in agonized silence. Lucky me, he ruminated. First Ande, now him. Everyone is so damn eager.

  He knew what Marlos or his father would do. Send him home with a welt on his cheek. But he was neither of them. Tomorrow might mark the defeat of the Furyons and the end of the war, or it might mean his destruction, and that nothing stood between the storm and Therian’s home. So who am I to deny him? When I was his age, I would’ve wanted the same.

  “Milord?” Therian interrupted. “We’re falling behind.”

  “Alright, alright.” He regretted his decision already. “Stay if you must. Send Larkus and the others instead. My only condition is this: if battle should come, you stay by my side. You won’t leave me, no matter what. And you’ll find a bigger shield. And a better helm. These are not negotiable. You want honor, you’ll find it behind the mountain of me.”

  Therian’s smile said more than enough. The lad raced off to catch up with Larkus and the rest, crowing wildly all the way. There, thought Rellen once he was gone. That much is done. Damn you, Jacob. Damn you, Furies. I should be in Grandwood somewhere with Ande, lying in the grass and making a family. But no, here I am.

  Crows help me, I should’ve gone with Garrett.

  Blood Rain

  In the highest hollows of Nentham’s tower, the Pale Knight crept unwillingly back to consciousness. Wretched dreams of black rain and dead Furyons clung to the insides of his mind like cobwebs. He lurched out of Nentham’s throne, creaking to his feet as though he had slumbered for a year. The early sunlight felt more like twilight, carving into the windows like grey daggers. If he was happy for anything, it was that the tower was devoid of Furyons, and that no sounds troubled his ears other than the wind catching the banners of Mooreye. But soon, more rain. He sniffed the air with a smirk.

  The Emperor means to drown me.

  Stretching his limbs, he shambled to the eastern window and haunted the sill for a time. Mooreye City was desolation. He looked out over the shattered streets, the buildings like tombs, and the pyres still smoking. The number of dead seemed uncountable. Grimmer still, he saw black clouds broiling in the eastern sky, corrupt as blots of ink spilled into a bowl of water. My punishment inbound.

  Six days in Mooreye, and much had changed in Archmyr’s mind.

  He no longer felt joy at the horrors he had worked upon Mooreye. The sight of the ruined city disgusted him, and the emptiness of its streets tasted foul instead of delicious. The Furyons, bless their black hearts, had brought him women, sacks of gold, casks of wine, and fistfuls of jewels from Nentham’s many hoards, but he had sent them all away. Ruling over a dead city was not nearly as glorious as he had assumed, and worse still were the creatures aiding him. Ghouls, he thought of the Furyon soldiers, turning away from the window in disgust. And I their master.

  He clapped the shutters closed and spun back to the room. The shadows stretching across the floor and walls looked as dense as Furyon clouds, though none of them were thick enough to disguise the ruin he had worked. Nentham’s tables were overturned, the chairs splintered into pieces. Goblets, fragments of plates, and shards of glass littered the marble floor like bodies in the city streets. Even Nentham’s artwork was destroyed, the faces cut from the paintings, the sculptures of nude maidens broken and scattered. For Archmyr’s vast discontentment, Nentham’s tower had paid the price. And why not? He scowled as he sank into the throne again. No one will remember this place except as a graveyard.

  Not long later, as he hunched in Nentham’s chair and sipped from the only unbroken chalice in the room, the door to the tower room creaked open. Entering was Nimgabul, whose eyes were completely white and without pupils, and whose cheeks were the sickly grey of a corpse. Dressed in full Dageni armor, Nimgabul tucked his helm beneath his arm and stalked slowly into the room. His black boots crushed fragments of glass, the sounds of which Archmyr pretended were screams.

  “What of today?” Nimgabul asked, his voice creaking like the lid of a century-old coffin. “Where next do we go?”

  The Furyon warlord unnerved him. He gave the creature only a glance before turning his cheek the other way. “You look like the rest of them, but worse,” he spat. “How am I to lead dead men into battle?”

  “We’re not dead.” Nimgabul’s white eyes glimmered. “Only changed. You would understand, were you Furyon.”

  “I know what Furyons look like, and you’re not one of them. The Furies I know sing songs for the battles they win, take passion in their plunder, and make war like fine art. You and yours are but butchers.”

  “And you are no butcher?”

  “Your Emperor paid me to win this war and secure his new empire. What have I done, if not that?”

  “And yet we remain in the Moor’s Eye,” said Nimgabul. “Our soldiers need no rest. Why are we still here?”

  He gave Nimgabul his back and returned to the east window. He gazed past the smoke and fog, sizing the storm that stirred in the distance. “Your brethren are a day or two away at the most.” He scowled. “Chakran’s with them. I know it without seeing him. Daćin will come as well.”

  Nimgabul shifted slightly, and Archmyr swore he heard bones popping. “We could be gone by then.”

  “We could be…” He forced himself to face the warlord. “But we won’t. I’ve changed my mind. The Emperor will want to know what happened here. You’ll be the one to tell them we had no choice but to attack.”

  Nimgabul blinked, though his eyes remained white and dead. “They’ll know the lie. They’ll punish you.”

  At that, he smiled. “They can try. No twenty of you live who can manage just one of me. No, I think I’ll claim my reward for slaying Ahnwyn, conquering the Dale-land, and destroying the enemy the Emperor meant to betray anyway. Chakran will see it my way. He’ll give me what I’m owed, and your Tyberia will come again. Either that, or he and his little Commander can die on the end of my blades.”

  A month ago, Nimgabul might have cried treason, but no longer. He doesn’t care, thought Archmyr. I could dangle his mother’s head before him and wear his wife’s skin as a cloak, and he wouldn’t be moved. I must be rid of these men. Their relic won’t have any part of me.

  “Then we’ll stay?” Nimgabul’s neck popped again. “You’ll claim your due and give us back to our master?”

  “We stay.” He clacked his teeth. “As for the rest, we’ll see.”

  Nimgabul gave a slight nod. Then, quiet as the storm crawling across the sky, the warlord retreated from the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

  When Nimgabul was gone, Archmyr shuddered. He felt unfamiliar tension seize hold of him, his heartbeat
quickening. He was alone again, and his fearlessness felt as though it were abandoning him. His skin felt frigid, his bones weak as weeds. Sweat oozed from his pores, several drops sliding to the ends of his black, lanky hair. He backed against a wall and sank to the floor, sucking in deep quaffs of air as though he might suffocate. What’s the matter with me? The thought echoed within him a thousand times. Where have my wits run to? Claim what I’m owed? Ask the Emperor for my promised freedom? Fool’s dreams. I may kill twenty of them, even forty, but they’ll have me in the end. I will be the same as the Moor’s Eye folk, strung up and smoking.

  He sat on the stone and dwelled in darkness for longer than he knew. He knew only one thing anymore. This war isn’t mine. It’s theirs. I was wrong. Tyberia will be real. The storm will live forever, and all nations will wither. I’m not a Fury. I have no place among them.

  He considered his options, which felt too few. He dreamt of escaping the city and fleeing, but concluded the Graefolk would know him on sight and hunt him to his end. Cornered in his mind, he let his thoughts stray into the impossible. He dreamed of nameless realms where no one knew his history or his deeds. In place of fire, swords, and graves, he imagined himself at peace, awaking each morn on the shore of a far and silver sea, where the rain was warm and nourishing instead of cold and black. He wished he could go to such a place. And I could, he momentarily convinced himself. I could be someone other than who I am. I could leave here and be reborn. I could descend the stairs, find my horse, and ride as far as the road takes me. But the longer he sat in the shadows, the more he knew his dreams belonged to someone who was not him. His weakness kept him from abandoning the war he both hated and loved. It was his pride, cursed and everlasting, forcing his sweating palms to curl back into fists. I’ve done too much. I’ve gone too far. I’m no deserter.

  I must finish this.

  His decision was made. Darkness fell again like a curtain upon his soul, casting death’s long shadow across all his thoughts. His mind eased, and malice saturated his body once more. With a clearer head than before, he lumbered across the room to the western window, into which the sunlight shined brighter than in the murky east. He leaned out to survey the great span of grass below, and summer’s midday light fell upon his ashen face. It was then he saw it, a silver gleam upon the far pastures, a mote of light he nearly passed over. Swords. Spears. Horses. Soldiers. He squinted, narrowing his gaze like an eagle’s into the grass. Graehelm. He felt a smile take shape on his lips. Graehelm is here. And not a moment too soon.