Dark Throne, The

by Raven Willow-Wood

  However, their poverty ensured the castle itself was poorly guarded. All of its defenders had fled to the field in search of the kill. In a way, the plan of distraction had worked, but the King would not be pleased, when the Generals ultimately accounted for the losses of highly trained men who were fighting barbarians.

  Fade hoped to sit in the council on the day Gerauld or Horaxe had to confess to incompetence.

  Even if they managed to save Keira, as delighted as the King would be, he would be furious at the expense. After all, this should have been no fight at all. It should have been a massacre.

  Well, that was the case. But not on the hoonan side.

  Fade bent low as he peered through the rays of the dying red sun as it shone its light on the castle. Close to Eowyn’s ears, he hummed under his breath to calm the horse’s agitation. His chest heaved with the exertion of trampling men into the mire- not that it tired him, simply that a blood lust of the equine variety powered through the beast’s veins.

  His position meant he could calm his steed, but it also meant that his features were hidden. Any hoonans spying him might think him already dead and if they neared and attempted to rob him of his horse, Fade could attack them swiftly. Surprise on his side.

  He saw no one however, as he moved carefully towards the castle walls. He followed its curve, his eyes always switching left and right, monitoring the situation. A copse of trees neared, dark and potentially offering shelter to attackers and he continued along the bend in the stronghold’s wall, his eyes fixed there.

  Vines clung to the stones and scratched his tilted face, but he ignored the sting, ignored the slow drip of blood along the angular curve of his jaw. His eyes were intent as the bend disappeared and he moved onwards and away from the copse.

  Dismounting because the scout had detailed the opening to be built into the wall after this curve, Fade squinted in the dying light at the different stones and sought a particular cluster of vines. The scout had mentioned they were of a different color to the others, but it was hard to differentiate between black and black. The shadows made his quest nigh on impossible and he returned to Eowyn’s side, rummaged around on the small pack of essentials that was tied to the pommel on his horse’s saddle. There he found a striker. Two pieces of flint banded together with a wad of thick straw within it.

  Fade pulled the two stones apart and the band charged the energy from the action and sparked a flame, which lit the straw. The light was dim, but when he held it against the vines in the area, he managed to discern a set, which was a darker shade of crimson to the rest.

  In the distance, war cries pounded through the night, the sounds of pain-filled screams, dying men’s whimpering accompanied them. They were sounds he was accustomed to, they were part and parcel of war and over the years, he’d seen too much bloodshed over the King’s selfish wants.

  A part of him realized that enough was finally enough.

  He would and could fight, but only if the cause was worth dying for. He’d had enough of risking his neck, especially when he received no gratitude for it and the more his reputation as a warrior grew, the more terrified people became in his presence. Which in itself was saying something. His wings scared the majority to death. Combine that with his reputation, it was a wonder anyone spoke to him.

  It was a situation, where only he lost. And he’d had enough.

  The thought shimmered through his mind as the scents of stale and ripe urine melded with fecal matter and pummeled his nostrils with the sour stench. Obviously this was where a privy dropped its load. Grimacing at the thought, he pulled apart the vines and spotted a shadowed doorway.

  It was narrow. Too narrow for him and probably too small for a thin maiden, but he’d merely have to squeeze in there. This was the only way of saving Keira. Even if it was kinder to let her die here, he had to at least try so he could face his father with truthful eyes.

  He rammed his shield against the doorway and grunted as the move had vibrations oscillating along his arm and shoulder. The impact hurt, but he continued until he heard a splintering- both of the door and of the shield. Muttering under his breath, he discarded the shield and began to ram the now-broken door with his shoulder.

  It didn’t give way. Not by one sound or by a look could he tell that he’d made any progress. He took a few steps back, intending to run against the door and use the extra force to cave in the door.

  His toes curled in his boots as he waited, sucking a deep breath before powering off from his stagnant position and against the door.

  When the opening crumpled as soon as his arm touched the wood, his eyes widened as he fell inwards. His touch had been feather light and yet, the door toppled inwards as though a battering ram had been swung against it.

  The momentum sent him to the ground with a force that would have sent shockwaves of agony rippling through him, had it not been for one thing.

  The warm, yielding body that broke his fall and which was now groaning in pain.

  His body still ricocheted with the abuse he’d put it through that night, but he jumped upright as soon as they came to a standstill. He grabbed for the woman, those plump curves were a dead giveaway even had he been blind and as he caught her in a choke hold, his other hand simultaneously drew his knife and he pressed it to her throat.

  The groans stopped and were replaced by the sound of gentle whimpering. Before he could tell the hoonan to shut up, his eyes were caught by a strange box that lay on the floor. Filled with metal implements that looked like tools but were covered with a strange shining substance, which acted as their handles.

  The box caught his attention because he’d never seen tools like them. Why weren’t they scorched by the forge as were any good blacksmith’s tools? These shone as though the metal was precious. But who wasted silver on tools? It was notoriously weak, but what other silver-toned metal existed?

  He looked upwards, spotting a bizarre painting, which portrayed an apparently disfigured woman. Her nose was on her forehead and her eyes lopsided and nigh on surrounding her mouth. On top of that, she was a peculiar shade of blue.

  Other strange objects appeared in his line of sight and merely added to his confusion. Pink fluff covered the floor. Where were the stone slabs of most keeps? This pink stuff was soft under the feet and yielded to his weight.

  An odd paper with peculiar designs on it clung to the walls. There were bubbles behind it, which made it stand apart from the wall. Where were the tapestries? The heavily-woven fabrics elven womenfolk dedicated months to, in an effort to hide the cobbled stone walls?

  A strange contraption sat upon a small table and as he studied it, sound exploded from it. The women in his hold jumped, as did he but he didn’t move from his position. He was almost frozen.

  It was a bell. Repetitive. Irritating. But where was the man powering the bell? Urging it back and forth so as to create the echoing sound of metal clanging against metal?

  While it seemed impossible, Fade had to face facts.

  Secret openings weren’t guarded by defenseless women. Nor were they plushly decorated.

  They were grim and dark and dank. Putrid smells filled each crevice.

  Here, a light flowery smell permeated his nostrils. It could have been the woman, but be it the room or the woman, he’d never scented such a flower before.

  Secret openings didn’t have bizarre pictures hanging on their walls, or soft woven mats on the ground.

  Nor did they have shining tools, which looked like something one of his father’s torturers would use on hapless victims.

  And that ringing bell. It was almost. . . . mechanical.

  It did it of its own free will. He’d never known a machine that could do that. Elven placed most of their technology within the farming industry. Even though Mearth could always be relied upon to yield a bountiful harvest, elven tended the soil with respect and care in thanks to Mearth.

  But even this technology was manned. Either that, or pulled by horses or asses attached t
o the machines by harnesses.

  Nothing worked alone. Nothing relied entirely upon its mechanisms to function.

  And more than anything, that terrified Fade, because something of this nature was entirely outside of his ken.

  Very little terrified Fade. Not since he’d been a small boy and he’d lost his mother, had Fade felt fear. One only experienced fright, when one had something to lose. Fade had lost that something, or in his case, someone, at thirteen years of age. Without his mother, he’d had no one and as such, there had been no one to protect but himself. While he’d missed her, with a father such as his, it had been easier that way and from a young age, he’d been autonomous and self-reliant.

  But now, he was afraid, because this place, wherever it was. . . . was not Mearth.

  The repercussions of this discovery were too numerous to count. Fade felt little interest in understanding this phenomenon, all he knew was that he wanted to know where he was and he wanted to return home.

  Mearth might house his father, might be the home of millions of elven - each one afraid of him and of eventually being ruled by him - but it was still his realm.

  Anything else made no sense.

  His unease had his grip on the knife in his hand tightening as he pressed the blade to his captive’s throat.

  “Where am I, woman? Tell me now or I’ll slit your throat.”

  The words didn’t echo around the room as they would have done in a castle. They were a sibilant hiss and one that had the pliant female in his arms growing even more pliant.

  Quite suddenly, she was a dead weight and Fade realized she’d swooned.

  Chapter Two

  "Christ, it's hot.”

  Heather's grumble went unheeded by the weather, as did the glare she shot at the sweltering sun, glowing contentedly overhead. It didn't seem to care that the entire state was mooching about miserably, thanks to the heat which seemed to have made the air a tangible thing. Sticky, glutinous. . . . it was worse than downtown Manhattan in High-Summer with a ton of cabs adding the tang of exhaust to the heavy atmosphere.

  The only advantage to the heat was her new place.

  It meant that she could hang her laundry out in the small and private yard, which in turn meant she could wander about in a skinny Tee and panties and in this weather, that was a blessing. Hell, anything over a steaming, sweltering Laundromat.

  On top of that, her tiny house had been fitted with central air. An invention which had certainly been blessed by God and which Heather believed was a ton more reliable than the average male. It was a shame she couldn't start a relationship with one of the vents, it would undoubtedly be the source of much satisfaction. As it was certainly more useful than her last boyfriend. Kevin had been a jerk and a lazy son of a bitch to boot. The vents worked a damned sight harder than Kevin had.

  Immediately, she felt anger began to crawl around her veins. God, she hated him now. It seemed so impossible to realize she'd wasted nearly two years on him. Hoping he'd change and become the man he ought to be. Although, something must have registered with her. Something deep inside. Because she'd never let him fuck her. Only her ass and mouth. It had been a weird stipulation, one Kevin hadn't been happy about, but she'd had a quick retort which had always shut him the hell up - "Marry me, then. I told you, I'm going to lose my virginity on my wedding night. Put a ring on my finger and then you get access to my pussy. Do you understand me yet?"

  It had always worked. Thank God. She wasn't a prude, never had been and never would be. Hell, her thoughts and imaginings would probably make a porn star blush. But still, she was old-fashioned in this one way and even at twenty-eight it was something she'd managed to stick to and always would, until she met the one.

  Although, she did have something to thank her schmuck of an ex for. . . . this house. He'd refused to realize their relationship was over and so, she'd skipped town and made a new start here in Pennsylvania. Heather had always believed that a change was as good as a rest, but had never taken it to this extent.

  It felt damned good to be out of the city. While New York had been home for as long as she could remember, it was delightful to be away from the pollution, the noise and the expense. There was no way she'd have been able to afford this kind of house in the city on her pay as a technical writer. But here, in Boggarty, Pennsylvania, she had a three bedroom pad. Woohoo.

  At the thought, Heather did a little jig as she collected all of her wind-dried laundry—an impossibility in New York, because everything would need washing again if she were to hang them on a line—and retreated indoors and into the glorious cool of her shaded house.

  She hadn't finished decorating it yet. In all honesty, she didn't have the money to finish it how she would have liked and so, intended on concentrating on a room at a time. Perfecting one before moving on to another. As it was, she'd made it as homely and livable as possible, while she focused on the bedroom which would eventually be hers.

  The sweat dried on her back and Heather knew that another cold bath would be a must before she went to bed that night. The heat wave was unexpected and unbearable- for nearly five days, they'd been experiencing close to one hundred and twenty degree weather and Heather had been suffering with a tension headache for nearly all that time. The damned thing had only disappeared that morning and to celebrate, Heather had decided to potter around the house and fix tiny irritations she'd noticed ever since she'd moved in.

  Having purchased a pink tool box and all the requisite paraphernalia at the local hardware store, she was armed and equipped to handle any and all DIY problems. She grinned in memory of the teenage kid behind the counter- his tongue had looked cleaved to the roof of his mouth, when she'd walked into the store and asked for his assistance. Apparently, short shorts weren't common attire in Boggarty- she'd probably starred in a few wet dreams since then. And hell, in the city, she'd seen shorter shorts. Hers weren't exactly bottom-huggers, but they were here.

  That was another thing she liked about this place. Sure, it was odd not to be able to wear modern or tight clothes without raised eyebrows, but the whole place was more old-fashioned. Safer. Secure. She'd just bet her next door neighbor would know the entire history of the block, back to front. The old woman sat on her rocking chair viewing the world from her creaky porch- she'd probably seen some really interesting stuff.

  Making a mental note to go and have a chat with her at some point, because one of Heather's downfalls was a love of gossip, she switched her attention to DIY and couldn't help but pat herself on the back.

  So far, she'd conquered the leaky faucet in the bathroom, fixed a hook to the hallway wall upstairs, where she'd hung her favorite Picasso print, plus she'd managed to mend a closet door by tightening the hinge. Plus she'd done the laundry, set it out and it was dry now. And smelling like a dream. You could only purchase that smell in Manhattan- it came out of a detergent bottle. Not here.

  Heather felt very pleased with all she'd done that day and her next task would be to tackle her biggest target of the day:

  The doorknobs.

  Hardly the most important part of any home, but for Heather's house, they were. Or at least, they would be.

  Her Aunt May had practically raised Heather since her parents' death, when she'd only been eight years old. For the last twenty years, May had been Heather's only living relative, until last year, when an unexpected heart attack had taken her away from the girl who'd been like her daughter.

  May's death had been another factor in leaving the city. She couldn't view any of their old haunts without bursting into tears and as huge as NY was, Auntie May seemed to have placed her stamp on nearly every square mile of the damned city.

  In her will, May had gifted Heather with enough money for a down payment on this house, as well as sufficient funds to move out of the city and to pay for some of the refurbishments. She'd also left her something Heather adored. The gift had been crazy, but it suited May down to the ground and Heather intended to fit each and every doorknob
in the case May had left her.

  She dumped the laundry on the kitchen floor and walked over to the table where she'd carefully laid out the antique box that morning and cleaned each one of them with a baby wipe.

  Over a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal, Heather had studied each knob and marveled at their intricacy.

  One was a brass knob, etched with what seemed like millions of stars. The etchings were as clear as a bell and not rubbed as one might have imagined with an antique.

  Another was a wooden ball, into which had been carved a face. It reminded her of Tinkerbell. Pointed ears, triangular-shaped face- the carving was 3D and the edges were sharper than ever. Not one edge had been dulled by time.

  A painted porcelain knob had been the next one to gather Heather's attention. Delicately painted flowers covered this one. But the flowers were like none she'd ever seen and considering Heather had once written gardening manual, she'd seen a hell of a lot of flowers. The colors were the strangest her eyes had ever come across and she wasn't entirely sure how the artist had even mixed the hues. One was blue, but wasn't. There was a touch of green in it as well as purple and crazily enough, gold. . . . It made a shade that was almost cerulean, but wasn't. The rest of the colors were the same. Containing shades Heather recognized but in a peculiar way.

  The fourth one was like a huge marble. Inside of the glass sphere was another ball, this time golden. This one had a segment removed from it so that a silver sphere could be seen and then another segment had been taken from the silver ball and there was a bronze one. Heather had sought a line in the glass, a bubble or a mark. . . . something to indicate how it had been manufactured, but she'd found nothing. That particular knob was her second favorite, but it was a close-run thing, because the fifth and final knob was out of this world.

  Constructed of a stone she'd never before seen, it reminded her of veined Italian marble but silver and gold veins ran through the almost gemstone-like rock rather than the usual shades of blue, white and green. There were crystal caves, which shimmered and sparkled in the light and the color of the stone was again, something she'd never before seen. That it was a natural creation astounded her. This hadn't been dyed a shocking shade, it was naturally this hue. Like a mixture of precious metals, blended with a royal shade of purple. . . . It beggared belief and would ultimately adorn her bedroom door. She couldn't even describe a color which in anyway matched. Reds and golds and violets all seemed to blend together to create a color that was truly out of this world.