Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten (Order of Fire Book 1)

by Kameron A. Williams

  The man finally took his eyes off his wound and looked at his fellow guards scattered across the ground. A look of wonder crossed his face as he beheld his men, slaughtered and sprawled over the ground. “We are the king’s men,” he said. “Are you mad?”

  Zar shook his head. “The king, the king, the king,” he mocked, “oh, the king, the king.” He took his dagger and pushed it slowly into the man’s thigh. “Aye, I’m quite mad,” he said, giving his blade a twist.

  The man howled in pain. “What would you know?” he asked. “What would you know? I will tell you!”

  “There are young women being taken from these lands, are there not?”

  “Aye—girls being taken.”

  “It is because of your king, is it not?”

  “Aye,” the man answered. “The girls are for the king—they are for the king.”

  “Now listen carefully,” said Zar, taking the man’s hand in his grip. “Cuts scab and wounds heal, but limbs—limbs can never grow back. There are some I’ve visited today who’ll never be the same, you understand?”

  “I understand,” the man said, pleading. “What would you know, sir? Spare me and you’ll know it.”

  “When I pull out my knife your blood will run until you faint. You’ll then bleed to death and never awake.”

  “Spare me, sir,” the man pleaded, “I will tell you all.”

  “But if you’re helpful I will tie your wound after you faint and you may yet live,” Zar continued. “However, you must speak quickly, you understand?”

  “Aye, speak quickly.”

  “Where are the girls being taken?”

  Zar began to slowly unsheathe his dagger from the man’s thigh when the man wailed out saying, “The storehouse! The storehouse! There is a storehouse!”

  “A storehouse?”

  “Yes,” the man cried. “All girls are brought to the storehouse before they are taken to Snowstone. They wait in the storehouse. Go south out of the city—and west to the valley—red valley—there’s a storehouse.”

  “A storehouse of girls, for what reason? All for his bed?” Zar asked, yanking his dagger completely from the man’s flesh and wiping it off.

  “It is not truly known if he takes them for his pleasure, or for other purposes, or both.”

  The man’s eyes rolled off to the side as his blood continued to run, and his eyelids fluttered down over his eyes, staying closed a little longer each time they shut.

  “What other purpose could he have?” Zar demanded.

  “Speak!”

  “Tiomot has a secret,” the man uttered before trailing off into silence. His eyes widened a touch before closing abruptly. His body fell flat.

  The man would be dead in moments, and Zar would waste no time bandaging his wound. He shuffled over to Dancer and climbed into the saddle, spurring the mount with his heel until the stallion was galloping away.

  Zar followed the plain along the mountainside. The quickest way was beside the bluffs. He could descend down into the valley from there if he found a good enough trail. The path ahead wound up above the cliffs and west toward the capital, but to follow it would lead him to a majestic mountaintop that rose high over the plain below, and provided a breathtaking view of the southern peaks of Or and Halrea. If he rode low along the base of the cliffs though, he had a straight path leading to Red Valley, for the ground was flat enough for the stallion to breeze over like the wind. The lower plain curved northward and would take him out of the way, and though the steppe turned back westward he would lose time going around the cliffs. But if he stayed on the path he was on now he could make straightaway for the valley, and all he had to do was find his way down onto the plain before the trail rose any higher. He had done it countless times—though with Asha who knew the way and who was accustomed to travelling uneven ground.

  Crumbled bluffs closed in on Dancer’s left side and the stallion adjusted his step, shifting slightly to the right. Zar now had a better view of the ground—they had elevated more than he thought. He could see in the distance the plain returning beside the rocks, where it had been pushed to the east by stone bluffs and boulders. The rocky ground narrowed out like a fence to his right side, and Zar searched the edges carefully for a place to get down. This was the time.

  Dancer moved far too fast for Zar to fully examine the ledges. He had never been this far up the pass without descending. To the left, a hill rose that would no doubt lead to a cliff, and to the right the trail squeezed narrowly between the higher ground and the plain below. Zar stayed straight ahead. Guiding the stallion through the middle, he observed the ground lowering even more, and he could see the grass of the plain rising to meet them afar off.

  The ground had grown rough and littered with boulders, and slowing Dancer a bit, Zar could see the grass of the plain coming closer. The rocky ground he now traveled dropped abruptly in the distance as the trail led to a plateau. It would be much easier for Dancer to jump from it than walk down it, and Zar spurred the mount forward, questioning his decision the closer he got to the plateau’s edge.

  Dancer moved fluidly toward the stone edge while rays of evening sun sparkled across his ebon coat. There was an indescribable grace in his movement. Even as his hooves lifted off the rocky lip, Zar felt only a smooth ascent toward the evening sky while the stallion floated like the fog. It seemed a rather long period of time that they were in the air, and when Dancer finally began to sink toward the plain, Zar felt himself shifting forward as the mount’s neck arched toward the ground below. He thought they would both topple over and hit the ground head first. Instead, Dancer soared onto the plain below, striking hard and giving Zar a jolt. There was no break in his movement coasting down onto the plain, still galloping as he landed.

  The sun hung low in the sky and Zar could feel the cool of dawn approaching as Dancer crossed the plain between the hills. In the distance, the ground deepened where it seemed a great mountain had been dropped into the earth and left an impression. The Great War had been fought here in old times; the old kings of Krii had united to expel the Serradiians. It was said that the valley remained stained with blood for an entire year—and so it was named Red Valley. The Serradiians were pushed back over the mountains, and, eventually, across the sea. In the years to follow, a winter expedition had failed to return them to the continent for they were unable to cross the strait due to a winter storm; and in the warmer months, when Leviathan appeared in the strait, they never attempted to.

  Zar swore he could feel the souls of the dead as he passed through the valley. It was shameful to think that more blood would be spilled in this place, and he almost felt guilty knowing what he intended to do. Almost.

  The thought of sneaking in and rescuing Shahla without being seen had crossed his mind, but it was quickly brushed away by anger and disgust, and some other feeling Zar could not name. His blood was boiling. His arms had reached for his sword and dagger a half dozen times, like they had a mind of their own. Each time he breathed deep and relaxed his limbs, assuring himself in a uniquely calm but crazed whisper that the time would come soon enough. He was close to a quarter of a mile away from building when he dismounted and traveled the rest of the way on foot.

  When he came to the structure that was nothing more than a large stable equipped with an upper room, the structure that a Snowguard had referred to as “the storehouse” not a half a day before, he drew his sword out slowly. Shouts rang through the window of the upstairs room, and shadows danced across the candlelit room. The structure itself had a dark look to it, its worn wooden frame blackened by weather and rain, leaning slightly to one side as it stood in the valley. He had never looked at any one object in such a way, with both contempt and anticipation, hoping to the heavens that Shahla was there, but knowing how upset he’d be if she was.

  was better found than lost—better to have suffered a bit and been rescued, than to never be found.

  The dusk darkened and made way for the night.

  Zar moved
to the stable entrance and shuffled inside. A musty odor greeted him, and the sound of reveling from the upper floor he had heard from outside.

  “Who’s there?” A voice called from above.

  Zar disregarded the voice and searched the stalls on the right side—all horses—nearly a dozen as it looked, though he didn’t waste time to count. And on the left— women.

  Not many things were able to stop Zar in his tracks, but these women chained in stalls, bodies soiled with mud and the manure of livestock, was certainly one of them. They sat shivering, looking entirely frightened at the sight of him, and before he could assure them he meant no harm they had scurried to the corners of their stalls. There were two or three in each stall, and Zar moved along, checking one after the other as he made his way down the hall, still ignoring the noises above, even the sounds of footsteps that were making their way down those crooked stairs.

  He needed to see Shahla, first. He needed to know if she was there.

  He had caught the eyes of a girl who couldn’t have been any more than fifteen, looking at him through the gate of her stall. She sat shivering in a corner with wide, white eyes that stood out starkly against her face that was smeared with the umber soil that covered the ground beneath her. She looked terrified, and as Zar moved his hands to open the gate he was spotted by a guard who had come down to see about the noise.

  “There’s someone here!” the man yelled.

  Zar rushed the guard, blades clanging together. The man pushed down. Zar pulled back his weight, causing the man to lunge forward. With his left hand he pulled his dagger from his belt and let the man stumble into it while he guided the flailing blade away with his right. Others trampled down the stairs as his dagger entered smoothly into the man’s ribs.

  The men gathered all around him.

  They were about a dozen, as Zar had already concluded from their mounts. A crooked bunch—one man still fumbled to tie up his leather pants, and above Zar could hear the shameful whimpers of a violated woman. The men were dressed light, a few equipped with mail while most wore nothing but a simple cotton shirt. They had made themselves quite comfortable stationed in the middle of the valley with a room full of women to guard. They probably thought it was the best assignment they could have gotten from their king—out in the middle of nowhere with enough women to satisfy each of their twisted fancies ten times over.

  Just before a brief outburst from one of the guards had them all rushing in, Zar heard a familiar voice call his name.

  Zar let his victim fall, parried with his dagger, and sliced into a throat. He swung his right sword arm behind him wildly to keep the attackers there at bay, and hopped forward into the attack of another, catching the man’s blade with his dagger. The man whose throat he had split stumbled over his shoulders, neck wide open like a gaping mouth.

  While the men shuffled around the falling corpse, Zar parried another blade, then sliced with his dagger. He turned to the left to parry with his dagger and the blade was knocked away just in time, brushing the side of his pants just above the knee and splitting the leather.

  He knocked off the arm of the man who had lunged forward. Another rushed from the front and another at his right side, and Zar jumped into one to avoid the other. His chest struck against the other man’s, inside of his wide blow, and Zar, too close to attack with his sword, stabbed his dagger into the man’s gut. He rolled off the man and out of the way of the other’s blade, and swung back-handed and wide with his sword, catching the other near the wrist.

  The men moved closely about him, but fighting this way it did not matter. He was always in range, whether near or far, the dagger busily poking and stabbing when he was too close to use his main weapon, and when he had adequate room he could still hack with his sword. There were only openings—openings up close and openings from afar. He kept always in an awkward range, either too close or too far away. What seemed to be too close or too far away. It’s how he kept himself safe. His dagger worked close when they were tangled and clinched, and his sword reached them when they thought themselves out of its range.

  Zar fell into one man that was too close, hugged around him, and stabbed him in the back. He skipped away from oncoming blades, then turned back toward them, slicing out long and stretching out his arm until his sword found flesh. He danced away again, letting steel soar downward as it missed him, then darted forward into the men as they recovered.

  Tangled in a vine of limbs and blades, catching steel, moving from man to man, wrapping around, stabbing, feinting back, lifting his sword arm high and letting it crash through muscle and bone, he was fueled by the thought of a girl who sat waiting in a dark and filthy stall. He hoped from that shadow of a place she wasn’t watching, peering into the light through the slots of her stall’s gate to see him claim limbs and lives for her sake. He hoped she didn’t see that deadly dance, the river of blood from the growing heap of slain and dismembered men.

  11

  “I HAVE A TIGHTNESS IN MY SHOULDERS, could you give a hand?” Anza removed the cloak of fine silk from her shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. Her torso was bare except for a meager cotton cloth that bound her breasts. Her long legs lay covered in loose cotton pants and stretched off the wicker stool she sat on.

  “I can give two,” said Stroan, moving behind Anza and resting his palms on her shoulders.

  Stroan could not deny she was a most attractive woman—even as hard as she was. There were few women in the clan that matched her in terms of physical appeal, though she would never walk, talk, or giggle as womanly as they. Her face was striking, with almost unnaturally smooth skin spread over a sharp bone structure, high cheek bones, bedchamber eyes, and full, lush lips that Stroan was sure all men looked at and lusted after. Though her shoulders were muscular, they did not seem overly built for a woman, but rounded and strong, and carrying a rare amalgam of power and grace that when seen must be admired. She was tall and amply filled out, with bulges in all the right places and a slender waist to accentuate them. She was, albeit not unblemished, an enchanting warrior queen, and the collection of scars grazing her forearms, shoulders, and stomach seemed minor as they blended into the sweet brown intensity of her skin.

  Three years ago Stroan never would have imagined he would be there in her chamber, working his fingers into her skin with only the dim light of a small candle to survey them. His dealings with her had become dangerously casual as of late. He was her right hand, and they had become close as a result—a result he did not oppose, for in the weeks of late he had seen a side of the matriarch that he was sure few others knew existed. She had worries and concerns, weaknesses even, and though she was their ruler she was still a woman, and no less immune to being taken by emotion than any other woman.

  Stroan had been privileged to become close enough to know her for the woman she really was, flawed and imperfect. He imagined that beside a handful of servants, a few elders, and maybe Yari Thorn, there were none who actually knew her. But she had let him in, and Stroan knew it took great trust for her to do so.

  But more than trust, Stroan feared there was now something else. He had noticed a change in her look when her eyes passed over him, and now he was alone with her in the Great Aerie massaging her shoulders, a thing she had asked of him most casually as if it were a harmless gesture like bringing her a candle or an extra fur rug.

  Was this what they had been moving towards on those late nights when they shared their thoughts with one another regarding the siege of Snowstone, and their conversations had drifted from strategy to matters far more personal? Was this what was in progress as the bounds of a master-servant relationship had been knocked down and the two shared laughs in the midst of their meetings? Was this where they were going as she revealed to him the beautifully flawed, magnificently vulnerable person that she really was?

  Stroan had never noticed until now.

  He hoped he was sorely mistaken. Of all the men she could send to her chamber would she really have him? He co
uld not tell, and he could not imagine it, but if the time came and it was true, he could not refuse her. No Condor could refuse anything of their matriarch—nor would any desire to. Aside from that, no sane man would ever refuse to share a bed with Anza—besides a man in love with another woman, perhaps, a woman whose face he could not rid from his mind.

  Stroan’s fingers stopped moving.

  “What is it?” It felt as if he had only stopped for a few moments when the lady’s voice sounded. “Have you finished already?”

  “How does it feel?” said Stroan, quickly replacing his hands firmly at the base of her neck. He must have lost track of time thinking about Yuna, and he wondered how long he’d been idle.

  “It’s good,” Anza replied. “You have strong fingers. All my servants are far too gentle with me.”

  Stroan laughed.

  “And you know how to use them,” Anza continued, leaning her head back and exhaling slowly. “I may require them to grace more than my shoulders.” She chuckled.

  Stroan’s throat tightened and he swallowed hard. There was a time when he would have slid his hands down over the front of her shoulders, and caressed her breasts before moving down her smooth belly, all the while kissing and sucking at her neck while letting his hands slide down between her thighs. But now, because of what this meant for him and Yuna, he was frozen at the invitation. It was an invitation, wasn’t it?

  He should’ve seen it all coming. He should’ve known that working so intimately with her might result in such a situation, and he should’ve been prepared for it. But he wasn’t. Instead, he stood thinking about how all of this had come to pass—and why. Did she find him fine to look at? Was it his curse for being a handsome right hand to the matriarch? Was it a curse at all? No one in the clan knew what lovers she had among the cliffs. Some said she satisfied her desires with womankind, with Yari Thorn in particular, or with the many servant girls that waited on her hand and foot.