Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “No!” screamed Leta, unable to control her anguish. She held up her hands in despair, motioning toward the heavens. “Gods, can I do no good in this world?”

  Cenna looked about the monastery, genuinely puzzled. “Leta, if you dragged me away from my students to show me an empty ward, I won’t be pleased.”

  Shlick. A low noise issued from beyond the door of the adjoining courtyard. That would be Sir Rupert sharpening his ax.

  “By Vacia, there’s still time!” Leta grabbed hold of Cenna’s hand, and dragged him out the door. “Come on, you oaf, move your feet!”

  Cenna grabbed his skullcap, as if such brisk movement might dislodge it from his head.

  They entered the courtyard just as Sir Rupert was lifting his ax to execute the first Blackheart victim. The doomed man lay flat on a chopping block with his neck and head hanging over the edge. A blood-stained basket was placed in front of the block. Sir Rupert’s assistant was grinding the heel of his boot into the man’s back, struggling to hold him in place. Four other patients were still strapped to their beds. Sister Beli and a group of sisters were standing far back to avoid being struck by stray droplets of blood.

  “Sir Rupert, Halt!” commanded Leta. “Put down the blade, and step away!”

  Sir Rupert paused with his ax pointed up toward the heavens. For a moment he looked queerly between Leta and Sister Beli, trying to decide who was in charge. Finally he lowered his ax and shrugged. “Ain’t my place to sort this out.”

  Sister Beli spun around on the balls of her feet. Her face a mixture of surprise and agitation. “Priestess Leta, we were just finishing up here. I know how you don’t like the sight of blood. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the inner ward...”

  “I do mind,” snapped Leta. She stormed across the courtyard, her shoes clacking angrily against the flagstone.

  A Vacian Sister who Leta had never gotten along with pointed a self-righteous finger in Leta’s direction. “You’re not supposed to be here, priestess.”

  “We have very specific instructions,” said Beli, her voice still calm. “High Lord Valerius himself has forbidden your presence, and while you are the master of my sisterhood, he is the master of my faith. His word supplants your own.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to have mixed allegiances,” said Leta snidely. “Step aside. This will be quick.” She pushed Sir Rupert out of her way and knelt next to the Blackheart victim bent over the chopping block.

  “Be mindful, priestess,” said Rupert. “This man is dangerous.” The patient began to squirm and almost broke free of the assistant’s hold.

  Leta placed her hand against the patient’s cheek. “Be calm. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man lifted his head, and upon seeing Leta, he blinked in confusion. He ceased to struggle, at least momentarily.

  “What are you trying to prove?” asked Cenna, still standing by the door. His armed were crossed before his chest in a disapproving manner.

  “Just observe,” said Leta. She lifted the patient’s head away from the wooden slab. His eyes lolled in their sockets, unable to focus on anything for long, and his tongue hung from his mouth.

  Leta spoke in the loudest voice she could muster. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

  A chorus of disapproval sounded from the collection of Vacian Sister. Herald Cenna crossed himself, clearly disturbed. Beli stared at Leta as if she had gone completely mad. Sir Rupert cocked his head sideways, his face a mixture of puzzlement and interest.

  There was a low croak from the back of the courtyard, the sound of a dry throat struggling to conjure up words. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame,” answered a raspy voice out of compulsion.

  Leta stood upright, marking the speaker. “There, the second victim from the left!” exclaimed Leta, pointing with excitement. The rest of the victims remained silent, including the man bent over the execution block.

  Sir Rupert gave a low whistle, seeming to gather her point.

  “There’s my proof,” said Leta, stamping her foot. “It’s as clear a symptom as blanching skin, darkening irises, or an inclination toward violence. Those in the late stages of the affliction can’t help but recite that dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”

  “I don’t know,” managed Herald Cenna. His eyes passed circumspectly over the other four supposed Blackheart victims that had remained silent.

  “What don’t you know, herald?” called a harsh voice. Lady Miren was standing in the courtyard portal wagging her finger with disapproval. Ionni stood beside Lady Miren doing her best impression of an innocent young girl. “These Blackhearted fools are a threat to the good people of Merridia! Why have you interrupted the work of the gods?”

  “Not my gods,” said Leta angrily. “The gods I worship would never allow the execution of clean souls.”

  Miren rested her hands on her hips and scowled. “What has gotten into you, Leta? Do you feel all right? Have you been hearing voices, feeling strong impulses? My dear, I’m worried about you. I have been praying to Tiberius to watch over your soul, but I fear my prayers have gone unanswered.”

  “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame!” continued the lone Blackheart victim, ignorantly unaware of the battle of wills playing out before him.

  “Ask Tiberius to watch over your own soul instead,” snapped Leta. She felt rather foolish saying something so snide, but it was the only rebuttal she could think of at the time, she was far too excited. She had Miren precisely where she wanted her.

  “He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil!” continued the afflicted patient, still reciting the dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms. Several of the patients began to weep.

  Miren’s face hardened as she took in the chaotic scene. “High Lord Valerius asked me to keep an eye on you, and I am glad I did. You have delayed the inevitable, giving these dark souls hope. It’s inhumane.” She stormed across the courtyard, heading straight for the chopping block. “Let’s get things moving. Sir Rupert, hand me your ax.” When Sir Rupert balked at the request, Lady Miren tried to yank the ax out of his hands.

  “Lady Miren, I think this is, uh, unwise,” said Sister Beli.

  “Mind your own damn business!” snapped Miren, struggling to gain control of the ax. “Let go of the ax. That’s an order, you baseborn fool!” Her voice was growing more frantic with each passing second. The dwarven knight outweighed the slight old woman by a dozen stones, and there was no chance in the world she was going to win this test of strength, yet still she hung on to the handle. “These wretches have to die. They deserve to die. Let go you dwarven bastard. Let go! Let go! Let go!”

  Sir Rupert did not let go. The Vacian Sisters collectively gasped with dismay. Even Sister Beli appeared taken aback. Leta smirked. There was a madness in Lady Miren’s behavior that was unmistakable. No one in attendance could argue that Lady Miren was currently of a sound mind.

  Ionni shot Leta the tiniest of smiles and turned the palm of her hand so only Leta could see what she was holding. The vial of Engroot tonic lay in her palm. The vial was half empty. Leta’s eyes flared wide. Leta had instructed the girl to put a few droplets into Lady Miren’s morning tea. Instead, Ionni had given her a near lethal dose. It would only be a matter of time before Miren was as incoherent as the patients lying strapped to the table.

  “Give me the ax, or I’ll have you dragged before my tribunal for treason!” The agitation in Lady Miren’s voice was gone, replaced by pure rage.

  A disapproving growl resonated from Cenna’s throat. “Take these patients back to the inner ward,” ordered the herald. He gestured to a pair of sisters. “You two are personally responsible for these patients’ well being. See that they are comfortable. A single scuff or scrape, and by the gods, I’ll see that you answer for it.” It was like a lever had been pulled, and he was suddenly the old firebrand Leta remembered from her youth. He motioned to Lady Miren. “We need to speak in private, all t
hree of us.” He nodded to Leta, including her in that number.

  Lady Miren released the handle of the ax and spun around to face Herald Cenna. “I will come and speak with you when I am good and ready,” said Miren with unrestrained indignation. Her pupils had grown unusually dilated. Her brow was slick with sweat.

  “You will come now, and of your own freewill, or I will have Sir Rupert drag you to my chambers. Either way works for me.”

  Sir Rupert locked his hand on Lady Miren’s shoulder to show that he was more than willing to fulfill Herald Cenna’s request.

  Lady Miren glared daggers in Herald Cenna’s direction. “If you or this thing so much as...”

  “Don’t threaten me, woman. I am the Herald of the Tiber Order while you are but a lowly lordess. A lordess who is currently acting like a lunatic, I might add. You will do as you are told. One foot in front of the other, there’s a good girl. Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER

  XI

  A JOURNEY’S ENDING

  Singed leaves swirled around Emethius, carried by the wind. The charred and fragmented husks of collapsed trees littered the forest floor. The few trees in Emethius’s vicinity that were still standing had lost all their leaves. Their naked limbs filtered the rays of the sun, creating a dancing collage of shadows. It took a moment for Emethius’s clouded mind to place his location.

  I’m on the border of the Great Northern Ador and the Cultrator, he vaguely recalled.

  He must have passed out from his injuries, because the sun was now directly overhead. How much time has passed? Two hours? Maybe three? He couldn’t be certain. The top of his head ached so badly he couldn’t think straight.

  Emethius gingerly ran his hand along his head, finding that a portion of his scalp had been sheared off. Pine needles and dirt were plastered to the side of his face, intermixed with dried blood. It hurt to lift his arm, and when he did, the laceration in his chest reopened. He inspected the shallow cut that ran from his collarbone to his nipple. It was half clogged with dirt and would likely get infected if not properly cleaned.

  “Malrich, I need your canteen,” he called into the empty forest, his mind still half-delirious. “I need to boil some water and clean these wounds out.”

  Somewhere nearby a damaged tree succumbed to the forces of gravity and toppled over.

  Emethius only possessed fragmented memories of the attack. The Cul had Emethius and Malrich surrounded. Then there was a light and a figure made of shadows. The god had rummaged through Emethius’s mind like a thief searching a house for valuables. Then a blue streak of energy struck the earth, leaving emptiness in its wake.

  Malrich is gone.

  The truth hit Emethius like a hammer, and for a long time he remained motionless on his knees, calling into the still forest air. “Malrich,” he whispered over and over again. “Malrich,” he yelled, in a vain hope that someone might hear his cry. “Malrich! Malrich! Malrich!”

  The dread that had filled his heart in the presence of the Calabanesi now had meaning. The Cul had taken Malrich. So vile a foe grants no quarter. The words echoed in his head. Malrich was doomed to a death by torment.

  “By the Gods, what have I done,” cried Emethius. His right hand scratched frantically at the hash marks in his leather vambrace. His eyes searched the heavens. “Return to me vengeful god! Do with me what you will, but save my friend. He is innocent of my sins.”

  The forest was silent. There was no divine response. He cried until he had no tears left. Then he cursed the gods and then himself. When he got tired of that, he cursed the undertaking of his quest instead. “The mission of a fool.” He spit out the words bitterly. “I led one friend to his death to rescue another who was beyond saving. Fool. Fool. Fool!” Mustering what strength he had left, he staggered to his feet and began to walk south.

  Several hours passed. He trudged onward, although he knew not exactly why. There was no point in venturing to Bi Ache, he surmised. He had surrendered the location to the Calabanesi. Ftoril’s Sage and Sorceress were doomed. So where could Emethius go? Returning to Hardthorn was not an option — the Perim Lu were certain to kill him if he reentered the Northern Ador. Suddenly, taking another step seemed like a chore. Maybe I should just lie down and wait for the Cul to find me.

  But as that pitiful thought of surrender entered his mind, he heard the faintest of noises. A subtle tapping in the distance. It was quiet at first, but it slowly grew in intensity until Emethius could identify the sound.

  “Drums,” said Emethius. The noise droned from the southeast, drawing Emethius forward like a beckoning voice. But the drums weren’t for him, Emethius surmised. The Cul had a captive, and they wanted the whole forest to know. The sound would summon every Cul for a dozen miles.

  Emethius grabbed at his face, and let out a howl of frustration. “I have done all that I can for Meriatis,” said Emethius, absolving himself of his quest. He followed the tolling of the drum.

  The drumming was farther than Emethius imagined, and it was nearly dusk by the time he drew near the source. It seemed to originate from the far side of a wooded hill. Emethius crept forward with caution, concealing his advance behind the trunks of trees. He wormed the last twenty paces to the crest of the hill on his belly. Beyond, the hill fell away into a narrow valley, over which hung a thick canopy of trees. Squalid huts and lean-tos made of dyed animal skins stood everywhere. Countless tunnels were bored into the faces of the two opposing hills that formed the valley. Filtering from the caves and lean-tos were hundreds upon hundreds of Cul, all moving west like ants streaming from a nest.

  The drums tolled, brum, brum, brum!

  The rays of the setting sun shined upon their destination; a raised platform built at the edge of a precipice, beyond which the earth plunged into a deep gorge. From his elevated vantage Emethius could spy the shimmer of turbulent water at the base of the gorge. It’s the Puttdale River, Emethius knew in an instant, for beyond that lay the ruins of a vast and desolate city.

  Emethius couldn’t keep the moan from passing his lips. After journeying for weeks through the hostile kingdom of Emonia, the unwelcoming lands of the Dunie, the Cul-infested Barren Tracks, and the maddening Great Northern Ador, Bi Ache was finally within sight. Yet I will never reach it.

  On the raised platform, standing in a place of prominence, was the desiccated carcass of some unidentifiable creature. A bear, perhaps, or some nightmarish collection of body parts from many different animals — Emethius could not tell for certain. Somehow, the creature was posed in a standing position. It’s hairless body was black as jet. The shrunken flesh of its face revealed savage canines and empty eye sockets. A circlet of hammered iron mounted the head, beset with the tusks of a boar. A line of Cul shuffled by the grotesque figure, stroking its legs and bowing their heads.

  A limp figure hung before the effigy, bound by the wrists between two post. It took Emethius a moment to realize the battered and disheveled figure was Malrich.

  Emethius’s heart raced, and he felt like he was going to be sick all over again. “Focus,” he commanded himself. His stomach cooled, his pulse steadied. He had to do something, but what? The Cul were too many to contest, guile was his only hope. “Oh, Faceless God of Vas Perloh, guide me in my moment of need.”

  The bodies of the Cul were hidden from head to toe by their clothing. He could kill one and take their garb. As long as he kept his head down and didn’t reveal his eyes he would be indistinguishable from everybody else. But he would need a distraction. His gaze wandered to a cluster of huts with dry thatch roofs. “A fire just might work,” muttered Emethius to himself.

  While the Cul were distracted by the blaze, Emethius could go forward to pay homage to the effigy. That would put him close enough to Malrich to cut the bindings. But once he was atop the dais, there was only one viable escape route. He and Malrich would have to go over the cliff and into the river. If they survived the fall the Cul would surely give chase, but if Emethius and Malrich could reach the far side
of the river and slip into the ruins of Bi Ache, they might be able to find a safe place to wait out the night. It was a desperate plan, but it was the best option Emethius had.

  Countless leagues in the distance, two white mountain peaks protruded from the earth like fangs. The sun finally began its slow and steady plunge into the valley created by the intersection of these two peaks. Their silhouettes became alight, two pyramids of stone wreathed by spectral flame. Sunset had arrived, and this set the Cul into a frenzy. Their voices rose into a terrible din, drowning out the drums and filling the valley with their awful call.

  Atop the dais, Malrich struggled weakly against his bindings. His skin was pale and slick with sweat. His tunic was stained red, likely from the arrow he had taken to the bicep. The wound to his leg was still oozing blood. His eyes were covered by a scarf, making him blind to the throng of chanting Cul.

  Brum, brum, BRUM!

  The drums ceased, the crowd fell silent. A Cul emerged from a tent beside the platform. Based on his ornate attire, Emethius assumed this was the village chieftain. The chieftain’s skin was concealed by a black animal hide, over which he wore a rusted hauberk. Half-a-dozen gold rings were pierced through his chin, the claws of a bear dangled from the rings. His teeth stood out as white ivory against his charcoal skin. The chieftain approached Malrich, bowing to the bear-faced effigy between every other step.

  Seeing that the crowd was distracted, Emethius darted from his hiding spot. He came to a halt at the edge of the village. He was now only two hundred yards from the platform. Emethius searched for a Cul that had lagged behind, but he didn’t find anyone. Emethius cursed under his breath. Time was running out.

  The crowd began to cackle, and the chieftain wrenched the blindfold from Malrich’s face, exposing him to the ruthless mob. Malrich grimaced and clamped his eyes closed, unable to bear the sight. This seemed to delight the Cul, and they began to shriek even louder.