Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  Malrich gestured toward the river. “If this really is the Puttdale River, the ruins of Bi Ache will not be far. We should be able to reach the city by nightfall.”

  At that very moment the wind carried the deep-throated cackle of a Cul.

  Malrich’s eyes flared with disbelief. “It’s day... the Cul should be in hiding.”

  Emethius’s gaze wandered skyward, searching for the sun. All he saw was an endless green canopy of trees. “It’s the trees. They blot out the sun.”

  The cackling grew in intensity, a pair of voices, then a dozen, then a hundred, all coalescing into a single maddening sound. The call seemed to emanate from every perceivable direction. Malrich clamped his hands over his ears, the terror of the Cul making him momentarily forget about the wound in his arm.

  “It is just as I feared,” said Emethius with resignation. “We will face the most vile stretch at the end. We must find a clearing. Run, run now, the demons are upon us!”

  The cackle of the Cul became louder with every passing step. There were crashes in the undergrowth all about them. Black forms began to emerge on either side, slowly but surely hemming them in. Emethius watched in horror as the scene from a nightmare swarmed into reality.

  The Cul might have been a little taller than a talsani if they stood up straight, but they ran with bowed backs and some even galloped on all fours. Their tattered and soiled clothes were wrapped tightly around their malnourished frames. Their eyes were large, their pupils honed to inky slits in the light of day. They grinned wickedly, revealing yellowed teeth and sharpened canines. What little exposed skin Emethius saw was as black as coal.

  “We need to break free of their ranks!” called Malrich.

  Emethius veered left, his sword flashing. A Cul wearing the ragged remains of a Dunie uniform tried to block Emethius’s path. Emethius took off the Cul’s left leg just below the knee. The vile creature collapsed to the ground, his cackle turning into a pitiful wail.

  Emethius’s triumph was momentary. More Cul closed in, blocking all routes of escape. Malrich skittered to a halt and bared his teeth, trying to make a brave showing. Emethius waved his sword at any Cul that drew near. “Stay back!” he hissed, but the Cul only edged closer. Emethius could smell their rotten breath and see into their wicked eyes. There was wisdom behind those baleful orbs. They would not make the same foolish mistake as their crippled comrade.

  A few goaded Emethius and Malrich with their blades while the rest waited for an opening. Malrich swatted aside a spear tip only for another Cul to lunge forward and hack at his legs with a bone ax. Emethius took off the culprit’s hand with a swipe of his sword, but that was only after Malrich received a slash that trailed from hip to knee. A third Cul took advantage of the distraction and leapt onto Emethius’s back. Before Emethius knew what was happening, bony fingers were digging into his eyes. Malrich saved Emethius this time, taking off the Cul’s head with one clean stroke of his sword. There was a spurt of black blood and the creature slid silently from Emethius’s shoulders. The other Cul neither advanced nor retreated.

  “You will not pick us apart, one by one,” howled Emethius, blood soaked and enraged. He charged into the throng of Cul, hacking wildly with his sword.

  The Cul struck back with rusted blades, chiseled stone, and sharpened bones. A blade tore through Emethius left breast, cleaving the muscle. Emethius turned his attacker’s face into a hideous red mask. Another Cul stabbed Emethius in the shoulder. Emethius swung around, catching only air as the Cul dodged aside.

  Malrich had somehow lost his footing and was rolling about on the ground trying to throttle the life out of a Cul. Emethius moved to help his friend, but a club cracked against his skull, causing his world to strobe yellow and orange. I’m going to die, Emethius realized, as he stumbled down to his knees. All about him the Cul cackled, their call suddenly sounding oddly similar to laughter.

  Malrich was now on his back struggling with a Cul for possession of a serrated dagger. Emethius shouldered the Cul aside and tried to lift Malrich to his feet. But in that moment a crack rent the air and the earth felt as if it were torn in two. The ground shuddered. The forest around them began to tremble and come apart. Trees split down the middle, limbs tore through the air like bolts fired from a ballista. A whirlwind of leaves and debris obscured Emethius’s vision. There was a swooshing sound, like the rushing wind, and Emethius’s mouth went dry. The forest broke down to its base parts — dirt, bark, leaves, twigs, limbs, roots, and trunks.

  A searing light descended through the maelstrom, brilliant yet terrible to behold. Everything it touched caught fire. Emethius and Malrich reached out for one another. Their hands met, and they held on as the flaming wind boiled over their frames.

  The radiance grew greater than that of the sun. The Cul could not withstand the light and fled in terror. Within the flaming fury stood the silhouette of a winged man. Emethius felt himself moved to tears, although he did not know why. The figure towered over him, at one moment a thousand feet tall, and the next, no taller than an average man.

  “The Calabanesi,” mouthed Emethius in horror. That was why the Perim Lu had abandoned their pursuit at the river — they had gone to summon their god. Spying the winged silhouette against a backdrop of flames left little doubt in Emethius’s mind — this was the same figure who had tracked Emethius and Malrich across Emonia. But now his mortal guise was cast aside and his true self revealed. Emethius sought desperately for the power to stand up to the incontestable might of the Calabanesi, but he couldn’t help but grovel at the god’s feet.

  “Trifling fools,” hissed the winged figure in the flames. “You will tell me everything. Where you are going. Who you seek. The location of the prince. The whereabouts of Shadowbane.”

  “The Covenant, you’re breaking the Covenant!” blurted Emethius. His words came out weak, his voice hardly a squeak amongst the roaring flames.

  “Brave and stupid, you are,” replied the god, laughing at Emethius’s boldness. “You do not know the extent to which I can undo your making. Kings tremble before me, even your high lord would kiss the ground I walk on, yet you are so bold as to defy my will. I am the sun, the sky, the earth, the water, but I am also the darkness in the deep. Do not dare defy me. Where are the Sage and the Sorceress?”

  It suddenly felt like there was a second presence in Emethius’s mind. Fingers twisted at the webbing of his consciousness while watchful eyes scoured his every secret. A feeling of dread, greater than he had ever experienced, overcame him. He was naked before such power, and felt compelled to speak. He had to tell the god everything or he might burst.

  “Bi Ache! I seek the Sage and Sorceress in Bi Ache!” The words vomited from Emethius’s mouth beyond his control. The grasping fingers and searching eyes that were probing at his mind slipped away. Every ounce of strength flowed out of Emethius’s body, and he collapsed to the ground. He was so weak he couldn’t even raise his eyes. He lay stupefied, staring at the dirt, awaiting the next question. But the next question never came.

  The god’s gaze was cast skyward, his concentration focused far away on something unseen by mortal eyes. The hairs on Emethius’s body stood on end. Something was wrong. There was another flash of light, only this time it was blue, on par with the hottest flame of a blast furnace. The earth beneath the Calabanesi’s feet melted away. There was a bone jarring boom, and Emethius’s body left the ground as gravity momentarily ceased to exist. He was flung backward and struck something hard. The world vanished into a haze of light and shadow.

  Emethius wondered if he had gone blind as he groped about on the ground for a weapon; anything that he might use to protect himself. He found the rusted sword of a Cul and held it aloft; no challenger emerged.

  “Malrich,” Emethius cried, but he felt more than heard his voice drawing from his lips. His ears were bleeding. He could feel the blood trickling down his chin and neck. His hearing dwindled to a dim hiss.

  Slowly his vision returned, revealing t
he burning hell-scape left behind by the god’s tumult. In mute horror Emethius came to a startling truth; he was alone in the forest.

  The god had vanished, as had the Cul, but most terribly, so had Malrich.

  CHAPTER

  X

  REQUIEM OF CATACLYSMS

  Leta awoke in the morning to discover a figure silhouetted against her bedroom window. In a cold panic, Leta frantically reached to her bedside table for anything that could be used as a weapon. All she found was a small handheld mirror. She pointed it toward the intruder as if it were a dagger.

  “No need to mock me, Priestess Leta,” said the shadowed figure, waving a disinterested hand toward the mirror. “I don’t wish to see my ugly face any more than you do.”

  It’s Ionni, realized Leta with sudden relief. Ionni leapt down from the window ledge, taking extra care to not put too much weight on her bad leg. A week had passed since the incident in the catacombs. The left side of her face was still yellow with bruising, but most of the swelling was gone. Ionni’s nose now had a slight and permanent bend. The poor girl would bear a reminder of Saterius’s savagery for the rest of her life.

  “How did you get in here?” asked Leta, as she set the mirror aside.

  Ionni jangled a key ring in the air. “I stole Sister Beli’s keys. Your guards aren’t very good at their job, priestess.”

  “I will have to look into that,” said Leta, trying to keep a stern face. She rose from bed and pulled on a robe. “What, pray tell, was so important that you would steal from a sister of your sworn order?”

  “I came to confess. Honesty is one of the five virtues, isn’t it?

  “True,” replied Leta. “But you don’t need to confess to me. It’s not the place of a mortal to judge. Go to the temple of Vacia and tell the god-saint your sins.”

  “This sin involves you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I betrayed you, Priestess Leta.” Ionni looked down at her hands, showing a semblance of shame. “I warned Lady Miren you would be following her the night of her secret meeting. Lady Miren gloated about it after the fact. She called you one of her leashed rats.”

  Leta struggled to keep her rage from showing. She hadn’t been clever by tracking the club-footed rebel to Admiral Ferrus’s ship — it had all been a trap. Lady Miren wanted to make her complicit in Admiral Ferrus’s treason.

  “There is more, priestess,” continued Ionni. “When you ordered me to lock the monastery door the other day, I instructed one of the sisters standing outside to go fetch General Saterius.”

  “Why?” demanded Leta, feeling truly shocked.

  Ionni kicked at the ground, unable to make eye contact. “I don’t want to stay in Mayal and be a Vacian Acolyte, and I certainly don’t want to spend another day living in the house of that mad woman. I just want to go home. I thought if I was honest with Lady Miren and did everything she asked, she would see that I’m not a traitor.”

  “But you are a traitor, Ionni.”

  Ionni gave Leta a sly smirk. “I am ever the loyal servant to the Throne of Roses.”

  “Indeed you are. But your game of double-crossing turned deadly.”

  Ionni’s eyes shied away. “Lady Miren told me to send for General Saterius if you acted peculiar around the afflicted patients. I didn’t know they would kill the man. I feel sick. I haven’t been able to sleep.”

  “Good,” said Leta. “Let the guilt gnaw at your stomach. A double-crosser ought to feel the consequences of their betrayal.” Leta meant for the words to sting, but they came out even harsher than she intended.

  Ionni sniffed, and tears began to well in her eyes. “I made a mistake, Priestess Leta. I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly Leta saw Ionni for what she was — a scared child. Leta reached out and hugged Ionni to her chest. Leta had put an adult’s burden on a child; no wonder she was buckling under the pressure. “I shouldn’t have asked any of this from you. It was wrong for me to get you involved.”

  “You didn’t.” Ionni pulled away from Leta’s embrace. She placed one hand over her mouth and a second over her eyes. Leta had seen that gesture before — it was the rebel salute. “I inherited this cause from my father. Lady Miren wants every last heretic to pay, but most of all, she wants to bring the leader of the rebellion to justice.”

  “Admiral Ferrus?”

  “Your brother, Priestess. Lady Miren wants Prince Meriatis’s head atop a pike. She believes you know where the prince is hiding.”

  “Ha!” Leta couldn’t help but laugh at the cruelty of the notion. “I know precisely where Meriatis is hiding. He’s in the family vault beneath the Court of Bariil. I had to beg my father to have Meriatis buried alongside his ancestors. Does Miren wish to open his crypt and cut off his head?”

  “Have you actually seen your brother’s body?”

  Leta had, although she tried hard to suppress the memory. Meriatis had been caught in the fire that broke out at Imel Katan toward the end of the siege. Leta could hardly recognize her brother. His face had become a black mask of seared flesh. Sickeningly, it reminded her of a spitted pig left over a fire for too long. Leta hadn’t been able to bear the sight of her brother’s ruined visage for more than a few seconds.

  “War can be cruel to a body,” Leta said finally, “I saw what was left of my brother.” But even as she said this, doubt entered her mind.

  “I intend to make this up to you,” said Ionni. “That is why I came here to confess.”

  “No, Ionni, you’re finished with all of this. I’m going to petition my father to have you sent home.”

  “You don’t get to decide that,” said Ionni, her face stiffening with resolve. “I helped get a man killed. I have to bear that weight on my conscience, not you. I won’t be responsible for anyone else’s death. Now, stop acting like a worried mother and have a look at this.” She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a dark green stain.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” said Ionni. “A fresh batch of patients came in yesterday. One of them spit on me.”

  “His spit was green?” Leta inspected the splotch closer, giving it a sniff. The faint scent of engroot struck her nostrils. “He’s been poisoned. The man has a clean soul!”

  “There’s at least one patient that I’m sure about, but there might be others. When he arrived, he was completely incoherent. But as the day wore on, he began to sober up. He started to ramble on about his innocence. Then, come this morning, he was once again out of his mind.”

  “You think someone from the monastery gave the man another dose of poison last night.”

  Ionni nodded. “At the night time feeding, I’d imagine. There are only a couple of sisters it could be.”

  One name in particular stood out in Leta’s head. She wouldn’t betray me. Would she?

  “I went through Sister Beli’s footlocker,” continued Ionni, seeming to read Leta’s mind. She reached into her pocket and produced a small vial containing a green fluid. “Engroot tonic. A drop or two will loosen your tongue. An entire vial will make you stark raving mad.” Ionni gave the vial a little shake, causing it to slosh back and forth.

  Leta felt ill. Sister Beli had served as Leta’s assistant ever since Leta became the head of the Vacian Order. They’d been friends for years. “The gods help me. Why would Sister Beli serve Lady Miren? To harm others is a betrayal of her vows; it’s a betrayal of everything the sisterhood stands for.”

  “It’s not a betrayal if Sister Beli believes she is serving a directive from the gods. Disobeying the orders of a gray prophet is not advisable.

  Leta’s eyes flared wide. “How did you know about the gray prophet?”

  “I know a great many things that a child should not know. Living through war has a tendency to do that.”

  “This patient, is he still in the monastery?”

  “Yes, although I can’t say for how long. I think Sister Beli intends to perform the final sacrament this morning.”

  “Then there is
n’t much time.” Leta’s mind raced as she quickly formulated a plan. “Can I trust you, Ionni? Truly and without reservation?”

  “Yes, priestess.”

  “I need you to go to Lady Miren and tell her I’m trying to interrupt the execution.”

  Ionni’s eyebrows raised circumspectly. “She will not be pleased.”

  “Good. That is my intent. But before you inform her of my interference, I want you to serve Lady Miren her morning tea.”

  • • •

  Leta rushed across the courtyard. Herald Cenna was precisely where she expected to find him. He was droning on about Merridian history while his students fell asleep on the steps of the Court of Bariil. Trevis, Herald Cenna’s leech boy, sat bowlegged on the steps with each of his legs encased in a plaster cast. Leta could only shake her head at the unfortunate child’s condition as she approached the gathering.

  “Get up, you droning fool,” said Leta, as she hooked an arm through each of Cenna’s armpits, and lifted him to his feet.

  “What... eh... Priestess Leta, what a surprise!” He motioned to the children. “Say good morning to the priestess.”

  “Good morning, Priestess Leta,” called a chorus of high-pitched voices.

  “Class is over, children. Go enjoy the rest of the day!” said Leta, as she began to drag Herald Cenna across the plaza. “This way, please.”

  Trevis remained seated on the steps, staring slack-jawed as Leta led Herald Cenna away. With his legs bound in plaster casts he had no way to follow. “Herald Cenna, what do you want me to do?”

  “Just wait there,” said Leta, answering for the herald. “We’ll be back shortly.”

  Cenna hopped and shuffled alongside Leta, struggling to match her pace. “Would you be so kind as to explain yourself?”

  “I have my proof.”

  “Proof? Proof of what?”

  “Poison. Treachery. Conspiracy. Come, there isn’t much time.”

  Herald Cenna squinted at her incredulously, but allowed himself be led onward. The Vacian monastery wasn’t far, but Cenna was dreadfully slow, and by the time she pulled him into the inner ward the patients were already gone.