The Prelude to Darkness

by Brenden Christopher Gardner

  A dim light, soft and growing, appeared on the far end of the tunnel. He ran towards it expectantly, the glow filling his sight. “A gathering hall,” he thought, walking across a mortared floor. Wooden pews curved towards a dais at the far end of the chamber, unadorned, but the walls were wrought of marble, glistening in the light of torches.

  There were no other tunnels. No doors. No gateways or arches. No walkways.

  He sat down on the dais, put his head in his hands, and sighed. “It is naught but a gathering place. There is no way out. My house will fall under siege without and within. The kingdom has come to an end. What have I done?”

  He sat in silence. No lord, knight, or mercenary had ever outwitted him, but Ser Elin Durand—an upstart pious shite who he had never met—had. He survived the sod’s onslaught at the gap, braved Sherin Forest, and raised nearly all of Holy Dalia, and it all came to an end for a fool decision.

  “Lillian was right,” he murmured solemnly. “I should have heeded her. I should have done much that was different, and now …”

  Letting his words trail off, he removed his sword belt and put it aside. He lay on his back, looking upward at the dirt ceiling of the chamber. It was empty, but not lifeless. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the city above it, wondering what else this alliance of Dalians and Isilians dared to burn. The city was overlarge, and if the shites spread their fires, the other companies may not have known until it was too late. Even if they did, word would take too long to spread.

  “This is worse than Sherin Forest,” he said aloud. “And—” He held his tongue and looked to the left. There was a section of wall, near the northern end, that did not seem just right. He buckled his sword belt and wandered over to it.

  It is darker than the others, just a little, he thought, grazing his hand over it. I wonder if—The section crumbled, the rubble piling up on the mortared floor. Looking beyond, another earthen tunnel seemed to wind outward. He sprinted to a near wall, retrieved an ensconced torch, and passed through it.

  Keeping the torch high, the path stayed flat, and he could see small spiders skittering across the walls and long, stretching roots punctured through the ceiling. I could do without seeing the insects, but I will not complain about the lack of light.

  Adreyu knew what awaited him. Dalians, most likely, but Isilians would not surprise him either. He did not care. Every step towards them would be better than waiting for them, or worse, slowly starving. Resting his left hand on the lion pommel of his sword, he pushed onward.

  Minute after minute, the path did not slope, curve, or change at all. It drifted on and on. Then, he felt a brisk wind against his face. Darkness still lingered beyond his sight, and he unsheathed his sword, holding it aloft. Archers could await beyond the darkness, or men with bared steel. He would not be surprised. No, if I am to die, I am taking some of these bastards with me.

  The smell of sea and salt filled his nostrils. So it was more than just a gathering place, but a means of escape. That warning may not be so vain after all. He quickened his step. If any sod awaited, even the quietest step with plate and chain would alert the worst sentry. Even Adonis, if that fool ever donned armour.

  Past the glow of his torch, black faded to a deep, dark blue. He tossed the torch aside, running. Rolling out to a cliff top, a thunderous roar echoed behind him. Boulders had piled behind him, but of foes there were none.

  “If you want to discover my men, look atop the cliffs.”

  Adreyu did as the familiar voice bid, seeing bent bows of men in darkened leather on outcropping. He numbered twenty, all told. “Do you truly require twenty arrows to slay me, Lord Commander?”

  He watched as Rafael Azail walked out from behind a large boulder, sword still sheathed at his hip. “I need but only one, though unless you try to cut me down, that will not be needed.”

  Adreyu sheathed his steel and crossed his arms, though the archers did not relent. “I am not a fool.”

  “You are not?” the sentinel said, now inches from Adreyu’s face. The bastard was grinning. “Our numbers dwindled trying to protect the plain for two years. I told Elin it was madness, but he was adamant. I do not think even he thought that you would march nearly all your strength into a city without a man defending it. What possessed you?”

  “What possessed me?” Adreyu seethed; he intended to wipe the smugness off the sentinel’s face. “And what possessed you to use children as kindling?”

  The sentinel shook his head, hiding his face. “Their loss was lamentable.” His solemnity did not belie enough. “The choice was not terribly difficult. We either killed them while they sleep, or you would have slaughtered them for sport. It was a kindness.”

  “Kindness?” Adreyu shouted. He did not know why he was so cross, but those children, no, what the sentinel commanded was madness. “There was no kindness, I would—”

  “You would have what, spared them?” Rafael asked, backing a step and pointing a finger at Adreyu. “As you spared the Northlands and all those towns and villages on the plains that we did not reach in time? When we herded them south to the Sister Cities and Dale, they were scared but alive. You would have put that sword,” he pointed to the lion pommel, “through them all. Now, the children of Dale will not see the death you bring..”

  If the sentinel was so sure of that, then the city must have … “Zelen, it—”

  “Will be naught more than a ruin when the sun rises. We knew where you would send your swords. There were children at the magister’s hall, granaries, manses, and wherever else we could hide them. We struck at once. The city burns.”

  Lillian. Rian. All the knights and squires, pike, and archers. They would all be dead. Lillian did say one company was sent to a small encampment, not that Adreyu would reach it. “Then why all this with me?”

  “You have a role left to play,” the sentinel said, smirking, “and I expect you to play it.”

  Adreyu would not play Rafael’s game, but learning what it was would hardly hurt. “And that is?”

  “The cliff to your right has a natural ladder, leading down to the water. There is a row boat waiting for you. I —no, we—wish for you to return to the Lion Throne and tell your father, the king, that the great kingdoms are not of his dominion, and should we so much as spy a Trechtian vessel off the northern coast, it is Trank that will burn next.”

  Adreyu unsheathed his sword, pointing the tip at the neck of the sentinel. “I am not errand boy.”

  Rafael inclined his head upwards. “Draw my blood and you will be a corpse. My men will not miss.”

  “And you will be dead with me.”

  “A price to be paid to put a monster like you in the ground.”

  The sentinel’s face was stern and implacable. Adreyu knew the claim was nonsense, but the bastard believed it. He sheathed his steel.

  “There now. Return home.” Rafael turned and walked away.

  “And if I refuse?”

  The sentinel turned briefly, looking back with a smile. “By all means, row south if that is your preference. A fleet of Dalian and Isilian ships await. If you live long enough to board one of our vessels, every captain has been ordered to cut your head off. Your choice.”

  Adreyu let the bastard leave. Shrugging, he made his way to the cliff, uncaring if the archers put arrows in his back.

  Dangling his legs over the edge, his feet found the rungs cut into the rock. One foot, then the other, he descended the cliff. If my father does not demand my head, I will see to it that Rafael loses his. His blood and brain will be spattered on my steel. Then I will come for sers Elin Durand, Jacob Merlen, and Johnathan Falenir. He has made a fool of me. I will not, cannot, forgive that.

  Looking down and seeing the flat land, he jumped down. A small rowboat was tied to a mooring in the bland, drying sand. Inside the boat was a week’s supply of water, hard bread, and cheese.

  Adreyu put an oar in the water and rowed, not north or south, but west. When the coast was lost to sight, he pulled th
e oar in and looked east. The sun was creeping over the horizon, bathing his sight in a red glower. But he did not see the red dawn, he could not. All he saw was the rising smoke and the billowing cloud that would end his house. “He really did it,” he lamented. “The bastard. The fucking bastard.”

  Sighing, he looked once to the south. There, he would die at these shite’s hands. Dalian, Isilian, it did not seem to matter. Slowly, he wrenched his eyes north. A single company and whatever else remained of a small encampment lingered.

  He turned the boat about, rowing north.

  Hours faded and the sun loomed overhead, but words passed through his mind that he had not heard in years: Your father. My king. Your king. The Great Lion, not a cub.

  “I am not a cub, not any longer, Ser Jered,” he said aloud. “My father will learn that, too.

  “Then the rest of this besotten realm.”

  Blood of the Lion

  Noon

  20 November 15135

  Tristifer stood to his father’s right, on a step below the Lion Throne.

  He looked to his left and saw his youngest brother, Adonis, shuffling his feet back and forth. He was garbed regally in a long green robe, but a pained expression seared across his face. Tristifer thought the same expression must be mirrored on his face. He brushed that aside. He needed to be strong for his middle brother.

  He looked to the throne—and his father—King Marcus Marcanas. The king had chosen a rich red robe hemmed with an interchanging weaving of gold lions and green leaves. A gold crown sat atop his head, begemmed with dark rubies, though Tristifer thought it sat askance. He knew to keep such thoughts to himself: for the king was grim-faced, and every word he uttered was likely to be foul and cruel.

  Tristifer glanced to the wide and long balconies above; they were filled with noble lords and ladies, wealthy merchants, and visiting magistrates from across the kingdom. The men were mostly garbed in fine doublets and trousers, and the women wore long flowing dresses of red, green, and gold. They seemed to be chattering away, but Tristifer did not care a whit for what they said. Word reached the castle days ago of what befell his brother in the Dalian mainland, and though he did not believe it, he cared only for what his brother would say before the Lion Throne

  In silence and patience, the knights in gilded plate caught his eye. They lined up all along the walls, the bright rays of early afternoon bathed them and the marble floor. To a man, they held onto halberds taller than they were. He espied Ser Lucius Godbert—the king’s own sworn protector—pacing up and down the lines. Tristifer did not think the knight was overly concerned with his men.

  Three thunderous knocks echoed from beyond the doors to the Lion Throne. Ser Lucius halted his pacing and looked to the king—who nodded in acquiesance— and the knights opened the towering oaken doors. A lanky man in a doublet black as night came forth, heralding the return of Prince Adreyu Marcanas.

  Tristifer smiled briefly at his brother, though his heart leapt to worry. Adreyu looked beat down and bedraggled. The robes that buoyed over his chain and plate were torn and dirty, and his face was lined with embarrassment and humility. Brother…how?

  Adreyu stopped short of the dais, took a knee, and the knights in escort did the same, staring into the floor. “We have returned, Your Majesty.”

  “Who—or what—do I look upon?” King Marcus demanded, leaning forward in his seat. “I see the heraldry of my house and mine kingdom, but I do not see the man borne from my blood. What has become of my son?”

  Adreyu slowly raised his eyes from the floor and looked towards the throne. Tristifer saw hurt and betrayal stare upwards, but also fear and terror.

  “Will you not speak as commanded?” the king growled. “Do you defy the Lion Throne as you have failed it?”

  “I remain your son, Father,” Adreyu replied. “Many of our knights fell in battle. Brave men.”

  “False knights I call them,” King Marcus said strongly. “The fools in Dalia who harbour our birth right are naught more than pontificating preachers. They beseech their fool of a goddess for preservation, though she ne’er listens. I gave you swords to bring ruin to these white-robed sheep. Instead I look upon a craven, unfitting to bear my name.”

  Tristifer wanted to speak in defense of his brother, but he looked across the hall and Ser Lucius shook his head. Tristifer knew to keep his silence.

  “Ser Elin Durand,” Adreyu began, and the lines of humility and embarrassment faded to rage. “Lord Protector Ser Johnathan Falenir. Ser Jacob Merlen. Lord Commander Rafael Azail. These are not fools in white. They are warriors, and monsters.”

  “I thought my son a warrior,” the king said.

  “I asked for all the strength of Trecht,” Adreyu declared. There was heat in his cheeks and a resolve in his voice. “All my requests were ignored. The birds simply bore your royal command: push, search, and find the God Stone. So I did, like a dutiful son. I butchered. I burned. I raped. I pillaged. Those sots knew naught of what you seek. Every week you commanded again and again: push, search, and find the God Stone. We pushed, we searched, until those monsters trapped us inside a church—they burned and buried your brave knights!”

  “Mayhap you should have been burned for your shortcomings,” King Marcus declared. “You have made us weak and vulnerable.”

  Tristifer saw an unquenchable wrath in his brother’s eyes. He had seen it before privily or in councils that his brother thought secret. Adreyu was always the most brash and abrasive, but cunning and secrecy were ne’er his strengths.

  See wisdom, brother, Tristifer thought solemnly, staring down at Adreyu. Now is not the time. It will come soon, but it is not now.

  “Your Majesty,” Ser Lucius said suddenly. “Your son has returned without the God Stone which should be in our care, yet there is much we must learn of what went wrong. We must not neglect the movements of the pirate lords.”

  Tristifer relaxed, smiling wanly at the knight.

  “More traitors,” the king declared, disgruntled. “The Baccan and Dannars lords have much to answer for. I shall attend to them. Take my accursed son from my presence.”

  Tristifer thought that Adreyu would not hold his tongue, but a touch from Ser Lucius seemed to quell any speech. Small mercies.

  Adreyu followed the knight silently. The nobles and merchant lords chattered incessantly; their disappointment was palpable. What did they truly expect? Tristifer wondered. My brother is but one man, and we faced two great kingdoms in their most desperate hour. He looked to his father whose face was still creased with rage. Father, did you truly expect much else?

  Tristifer slouched down upon an oaken chair in his royal chambers. Full gloom had taken hold, and he picked at fruits that the servants had left for him. He was hungry, but each mouthful was a struggle. There are no answers, not for us.

  He had stood dutifully while the king questioned lords Devan Baccan and Adrian Dannars in turn. The lords feigned ignorance of their son’s motives—they professed profusely that they were beyond reach—though this did little to assuage the king.

  In the end, the crown will take more of their coin in reparations, Tristifer thought, whilst popping grapes in his mouth. Father does not grasp that by beggaring two of the stronger houses that his support will wane. Truthfully, I do not think he cares.

  Tristifer looked to a portrait beside his bed, on the western wall of the room. He and his brothers were no more than infants, with his father and mother standing behind, smiling. Mother, I have missed your presence all these years, though I fear Father has missed you more. I attended court as you wanted, though I did not understand it. Even still, Father seemed different. He was not so callous and cruel. Now he writes our ruin, and what am I to do but stand and bear it?

  “Prince Tristifer.”

  He looked to the door and saw the helmeted face of a guard outside his door. “Yes, ser?”

  “Lord Theadric Rammel here to see you, my prince. Orders of the king.”

  My father’s lo
rd chamberlain. “Send him in.”

  Lord Theadric walked in quietly and methodically. Against the shadow of the doorframe, the lord chamberlain looked so old and frail; his back was bent, as if the draping red robes he wore were too much to bear. His eyes were squinted—nearly closed—and when he spoke, Tristifer was still surprised at the vivacity. “I bring words from the king.”

  “My lord,” Tristifer intoned. “Please sit.” He offered the chair opposite his, and placed the platter of fruit on the table between them. “Nibble as it please you. I doubt overmuch that I will have much more. There is too much to ponder.”

  “Indeed, there is,” the lord chamberlain replied. He sat down and plucked an overlarge grape, squeezing it between his fingers before plopping it in his mouth. “The king did not fail to note your ambivalence to your brother’s shortcomings. He is concerned for you.”

  What Father is concerned with is his seat of power. “My brother’s defeat is concerning, my lord. This self-styled overlord and his right hand—accursed traitors both—will only complicate affairs. I am concerned for our borders.”

  “Is that all?” Lord Theadric chuckled, though it looked like his bones were going to crack in half. “Leave such matters to others, my prince. The king did not send nearly all his knights into the Dalian mainland, and our fleets suffered little even in defeat. There is no power in all the realm that will threaten our home.”

  If more were sent, mayhap my brother would not be humbled and beggared. “I shall bear that in mind, my lord. You may tell my father not worry.”

  “I shall see that His Majesty learns of that,” he said as he sliced a ripe orange. “There is another matter of importance.”

  “What would that be?”

  “The burdens of rule.”

  Is this where you will justify my father’s coldness, Lord Theadric?