Fate of the Tyrant (The Eoriel Saga Book 3)

by Kal Spriggs

  Fate of the Tyrant

  by Kal Spriggs

  Published by Sutek Press

  Copyright 2016 Sutek Press

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Author’s Website

  Amazon Page

  Books by Kal Spriggs

  The Shadow Space Chronicles

  The Fallen Race

  The Shattered Empire

  The Prodigal Emperor

  The Sacred Stars

  The Renegades

  Renegades: Origins

  Renegades: Out of the Cold

  Renegades: Out of Time*

  The Star Portal Universe

  Fenris Unchained

  Odin’s Eye

  The Eoriel Saga

  Echo of the High Kings

  Wrath of the Usurper

  Fate of the Tyrant

  Heir to the Fallen Duke*

  *Forthcoming

  Maps

  Prologue

  Commander Covle Darkbit

  Near Tymbark, Duchy of Masov,

  12th of Ravin, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Covle Darkbit had undergone something of a transformation over the past months of bitter cold-weather fighting. His perfectly trimmed beard and mustache had become a ragged, unkempt thing. His finely tailored tunic and hose had been replaced by a practical -- and warm -- woolen coat and heavy overcoat. His cheeks, normally slightly plump from his love of good food and wine were gaunt, kept from the edge of starvation only through ruthless efforts to keep himself and his men fed.

  The internal changes, though, would have surprised those who had not known him before he took up Lord Hector's service. He stared through the sparse trees with a hungry look. Yet he remained motionless, a patience driven home by the hard fighting here in the borderlands between what Lady Katarina and Lord Hector's armies claimed.

  Covle would never have waited motionless for hours in the miserable cold and snow, not without the desperate patience earned through dozens of skirmishes in these border lands. He had seen several of Lord Hector's other mercenary commanders give in to eagerness or impatience... which was why only his force remained of those sent by Hector to savage the rebels.

  Well, he admitted, that and the fact that I have some help. He stroked the hilt of his sword, warm to the touch, a gift from Xavien at their last meeting. Xavien had told him that it would draw power from those it killed and that it was an old, and valuable, weapon.

  At the time, he had felt flattered by the gift and took it as a sign that Xavien did not blame him for the mess at Zeilona Gora. Now, it was just a tool to keep him alive.

  The sun came out from its hiding place in the clouds. He squinted against the sudden glare of sunlight on snow. What a sad, pathetic thing I have become, he thought, a thing of the cold and darkness. Yet he felt a cruel smile part his lips as his patience was finally rewarded.

  Bundled figures moved against the bright snow. At least fifty of them, wrapped in blankets cut into jackets and laden with packs. They had only three wagons with them, the oxen that pulled them were gaunt, as near to starvation as their owners. Refugees from the lowlands, seeking safety and protection from Lady Katarina. Some part of Covle Darkbit was tempted to allow them past. More mouths would stretch things even tighter in the southern highlands. While in the north the farmers were getting in the last of the season's crops, frost and snow had fallen early here in the highlands. Covle and his fellow mercenaries had burned stockpiles of food where they could. Yet he knew that the rebels had some supply routes through the Ryft Guard. And in spring, these starving refugees would be more hands to help get crops in... and more volunteers for Katarina's army.

  No, he thought, while I would prefer to kill rebels, I'll leave refugees dead in the road just as gladly. Besides, these poor fools would have their most valuable possession with them and he had already accumulated a tidy stash of loot from the others he had hit.

  The thin snow of late fall slowed them as they trundled along the road. It tugged at their wagon wheels and dragged at their feet.

  "At them!" Covle snarled and his men leapt to their feet. His handful of bowmen loosed a volley and threw aside their bows to join the charge.

  A few of the refugees fell from the arrows, but most of them seemed to hunker down. Covle felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he saw them withdraw to their central wagons. Most of the refugees he had attacked had either fled or cowered, but this lot had consolidated, almost as if to form a fighting rank...

  "It's a trap!" he shouted out as he stumbled to a halt.

  The laden wagons had looked heavily laden... and they were, save with fighting men instead of furniture or supplies. At least thirty more men rose up from the wagons, many armed with bows. They took aim and loosed as Covle's men stumbled to a halt in shock.

  Those arrows scythed into his men from close range and Covle felt his stomach sink as dozens of his men went down. On fair terms, he would have taken any hundred of the enemy with his own company... but now the enemy had the numbers and advantage... and they had already proven they had the element of surprise.

  "Fall back!" Covle shouted out. They closed ranks as his sergeants shouted commands and began to withdraw, even as the enemy started to advance. Covle felt his mouth go dry as he hoped, for a moment, that the rebels would charge him. If they broke ranks to pursue him, his men could hammer them, for his men had the better armor and weapons for this fight.

  Covle felt his hopes dashed, though, as a big, one-eyed man moved to the front of the rebel formation and slow their movement. Damn, Covle thought, it would be good to salvage something of this.

  The enemy volleyed more arrows towards him, but Covle's men at their shields up, and Covle swept out his sword to dash a couple out of the air that were headed his way. He had become used to such feats, no longer certain if his skill had improved or if the sword somehow sensed such threats and used his arm of its own volition.

  In truth, Covle didn't care. He was still alive... and he would live another day.

  He nodded at Savino, his second in command, "Orderly withdrawal, once we get back to the trees we'll mount and head for Myrtai. If they've a company here, then they'll be thinner there. We might take one of their patrols as payback."

  "Yes sir," Savino said. The former mercenary captain had signed on under Covle after the losses he took at Zielona Gora. He hesitated though, "Their leader, do you think that was the Swordbreaker?"

  Covle grimaced at that. The rebels had a number of commanders who had garnered fear among Lord Hector’s mercenaries. Swordbreaker was one of them, purportedly the same who had killed Grel. Covle didn't believe that any one man could have killed Grel, the Duke's Hound. More than likely it would have taken dozens of men and left most of them dead in the process.

  Still, Swordbreaker had a reputation and Covle could understand the importance of such things. "Him?" Covle scoffed. "Any man can wear an eyepatch and wave a sword. Probably half of Katarina's forces h
ave someone looking like that, just to scare piss-ant cowards."

  He saw Savino nod and look a bit more confident at that. Then again, if the rumors were right, half of his company had died when they ran into Swordbreaker's Ghost Company. Have to put some spine back into the men after this fight, Covle thought. Though he had mentioned a patrol, he would probably have them burn out some more farmers to give them their confidence back.

  Covle gave a last glare at the rebel formation before he turned his attention back to his men. "Alright, move it out!"

  ***

  Captain Aerion Swordbreaker

  "Captain Swordbreaker, should we pursue?"

  Aerion looked over at Sergeant Miller, his second section leader. "No," he said in reply, even as his single eye went back to the withdrawing enemy. Ghost Company had clashed with several of Hector's mercenary raiders since the first snows began in the fall. As the fighting had grown more and more desperate, Aerion had learned better than to pursue an organized enemy. Some of Lady Katarina Emberhill's forces had not been so cautious and their bodies lay cold in the shadows of the forests, scattered where they had fallen.

  "Form them up," he called out to Jasen, the company's First Sergeant, who snapped out commands to the section sergeants. When Jasen turned back, Aerion spoke in a lower voice, "Who did we lose?"

  "Donat and Eryk," Jasen answered. "Gaja is down with an arrow to the leg, but he should pull through. The rest are minor wounds."

  "Be sure of that," Aerion said with a grave voice. Just the past week they had lost two men to wounds that should have received attention. Neither man had thought to seek help, or at least, not until it was too late. He rubbed one hand across his face. "A few more seconds and we would have had the bastard."

  Rumor had it that Covle Darkbit led this particular band of ravagers. While most of the Usurper's mercenary raiding bands had grown smaller over the past couple months from casualties and desertion, this one had grown larger, the ranks swelled by bandits and mercenaries who knew that Darkbit would keep them alive and better fed. Darkbit's men had slaughtered men, women, and children, burned food, and killed far too many of Lady Katarina's smaller patrols. The man had become a revenant, hitting where Lady Katarina's forces were weakest and then disappearing.

  Aerion had hoped to engage Darkbit’s company in a real fight, which was why he had set up the surprise ambush. "Any enemy wounded?" Aerion asked as he saw the appointed squad return from their sweep of the fallen.

  "Two," Jasen said. "One won't survive, the other can't walk, probably why they left him."

  Aerion grimaced at that. The mercenaries tended to leave their wounded behind. They knew that Lady Katarina's forces would tend to them. The ones they could convict of crimes were punished, but there were few enough survivors from most of the worst atrocities. Lady Katarina had a small prisoner of war camp located near Zielona Gora. To date, Aerion knew that there were another two hundred mouths to feed there... along with a company of troops to guard them.

  Hector's mercenaries didn't take prisoners. They killed the wounded and anyone tried to surrender.

  Aerion just nodded, though part of him wanted to leave both of the mercenaries to die. Yet he had to set a better example than that for his men. He knew that more than a few of them wouldn't hesitate to kill the enemy wounded. Too many of his company had lost family and friends, either in the past two months or in the previous cycles of Lord Hector's occupation.

  Bad enough to strip the dead, he thought, yet the enemy weapons, armor, and most importantly, their warm clothing, would save lives.

  He tried not to think too hard about leaving the bodies where they lay, but the truth was that with the ground frozen so hard, it would be impossible to bury them. If he and his men remained in place long enough to construct pyres, they would spend the night in the open and the lengthening night and growing cold would sap their energy and leave them less prepared for the next fight.

  Besides, he thought as his eye picked out movement in the shadows of the trees off the road, the scavengers will pick the bones clean before sunset.

  He just hoped that the scavengers were all animals... what with some of the darker rumors.

  ***

  Xavien Tarken, Herald of Andoral Elhonas

  Fortress of Armak Zhul, Noriel

  13th of Ravin, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  The winter winds howled at the sides of Armak Zhul like a mad, living thing bent on destroying the mountain fortress and undoing the labor of thousands of cycles. The winds might well have that intent, Xavien thought, certainly it wouldn't be alone in that regard if it was.

  The raised voice of an angry Armen brought him back to the matter at hand.

  "I will not kowtow to your demands, woman," Warlord Sakan Alk snarled. The big Armen chieftain clearly misunderstood his position in the world, Xavien noted.

  Andoral Elhonas's consort moved so quickly that even Xavien barely kept up. She spun and drew her blade in a single, smooth motion. The blade's long reach allowed her to rake it across Sakan Alk's belly without having to take even a single step closer.

  As the Armen chieftain let out a sharp scream and pawed at his spilling intestines, she whipped the blade back around to remove his head.

  The other Armen gathered before her were spattered with hot, sticky blood. They didn't show fear, but Xavien did see shock on their faces. They were not used to women who would strike a man, much less one who could take down a fighting man of Sakan Alk's caliber. The more fools they, Xavien thought, the women are the more dangerous of the species.

  "Rentak Khobis," Seraphai said as she flicked the blood off of her sword. The red metal of its blade seemed to pulse in an odd fashion. Xavien wished he could study it, but he knew better than to ask. This was Makhvili Dzala, Andoral's Blade of Power. Even as Herald, he would not be allowed to touch it, much less to study it.

  The Armen chieftan stepped over the twitching body of Sakan Alk. He bowed his head slightly, "Yes, my queen?" Xavien felt no surprise that Rentak Khobis remembered to use the honorific. Whatever their other limitations, the Armen were capable of learning when the consequences for failure were rubbed in their faces.

  "You are now the Warlord of the Sepak Armen. Follow the commands I gave to your predecessor or meet the same fate," Seraphai snapped. As the Armen warrior nomad nodded, she sat back in her throne. "You are dismissed."

  She waited as the Armen withdrew, dragging the corpse of their former Warlord with them, all but the severed head which had come to rest in the corner. Xavien wondered if that would be kept as a trophy and displayed on the walls of Armak Zhul or thrown off the side as garbage.

  That is the fun part about the new Consort, Xavien thought, I never know exactly what she has planned. A meticulous planner himself, Xavien viewed her actions with a mix of amusement and fear. Just in her arrival to court, she had thrown so many of his plans into disarray.

  Not that he viewed her as a threat. Xavien had no desire to rise above his position under Andoral Elhonas. The powerful spirit rewarded such ambition with death, after all. It wasn't as if Xavien could be the Consort, and that only left challenging the ten thousand cycle old spirit himself. Herald is quite sufficient, especially when I'll rule over the Five Duchies in his name, Xavien thought.

  The confidence born of knowing his place allowed Xavien to work with his new Queen quite effectively.

  Not so with some of Andoral's other supporters. Some had challenged Seraphai almost as directly as the late Sakan Alk. Others had attempted more indirect methods of her removal. All of them had died. Xavien suspected that was to his master's intent, a way to challenge them all, to thin out those who might be slower, less intelligent, or disloyal.

  Certainly there could be no doubt that their master had chosen Seraphai. She carried Makhvili Dzala, which would be impossible without his will behind it. Besides that, there was the irony of having her as his consort, the one with the combined blood of the line of High Kings and Maghali Mede, the Ancie
nt King, as his consort... the spirits of his enemies must writhe at their inability to prevent it.

  "Are you certain of this plan, Herald?" Seraphai asked.

  Xavien looked up and met her eyes. Their violet color intrigued him, apparently a natural coloration. "I am certain," Xavien said. The new plan was merely a refined version of his original plan. The chaos he had sown in the Five Duchies had left them ripe for conquest. While he had met some setbacks along the way, he knew he could pull off the invasion of Masov with little opposition. With the Lonely Isle isolated, it would only take a few months to wear them down and regain the foothold. After that, he could link up with his Noric allies in fallen Taral and invade the Grand Duchy of Boir, followed by the Duchy of Asador. In all likelihood, the Vendakar would invade and conquer Marovingia, yet four out of five under the rule of his master would be enough, initially.

  With his master's servants among the Wold and the Noric's masters, the Five Duchies would fall quickly. And I, he thought, will be free to act more openly. Xavien had enjoyed his game of shadows, but he longed for the chance to use his powers to their full extent. His sorcerous abilities would improve capabilities of his shock troops and he knew that cycles of study and preparation at Armak Zhul had given him enough wizardly power to crush any number of southern wizards.

  "What if they unite against you?" Seraphai asked, her voice intent and her violet eyes calm. Xavien, though, thought he caught the barest flicker of crimson in those eyes. Was this a question from his Queen... or his Master?

  "It will not happen," Xavien said. He had planted a letter which revealed his own ties to the Armen for Duke Hector to find. Given that he was Grand Duke Christoffer's son, the letter had poisoned the alliance between them. Xavien had gloated a bit when he heard of the casualties that his father's forces took after Hector betrayed him.