Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1)

by J. Edward Neill

  “No purpose? Silliness…” she said. “If you do not have to go home and you do not have a lord, you are free. Why not build a house of your own? Or even a castle? Why not travel to see the mountains or go to the ocean and sail across the sea?”

  Saul stared at the cloudless night sky. He looked half-lost again. “I’ve seen mountains. More than most.”

  “You have?”

  “I have. Elrain has many. The Elgreth’s spires are sharp and high. They have long guarded our northern border. But then, I was not so lucky as to live in the north. I visited often, but my family lived in the west, beyond the great Cour Lake. There, our enemies attacked us from the wild lands.”

  Drifting ever closer to sleep, she murmured a last few questions. “Enemies? Who were they? Did you defeat them? Glad you survived.”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he answered, but she was already asleep.

  The next dawn shed its pale light upon the tall grasses and wind-whipped fields of Graehelm. A quick breakfast came and went. While preparing to leave, she stood in the listless morning light, stealing a last glimpse at the lands behind her. She could barely make out the faded outlines of the high towers and twenty-spired castle of the capital city. I wish we had stayed longer, she thought. All that eluded me in Cairn is there. But then, Saul said it was not safe. No king, and no law.

  As she climbed atop her horse to head for Gryphon, she wondered if she would ever see the capital again.

  * * *

  Under the same clouded dawn as Saul and Andelusia set forth, Rellen walked the streets of Gryphon with Bruced at his side. He tread the cool cobblestones of Gryphon’s outermost ring, massaging his belly with satisfaction for the breakfast feast he had just devoured. The streets were quiet today, the city folk kept indoors by the cold, but in his bundle of blue Gryphon robes, he minded none of it. “So what’ve you heard?” he asked Bruced at length. “A lot or a little?”

  Bruced, far taller than him and twice as wide, raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not deaf. I picked up a few rumors floating here and there. I heard a new king is chosen, but Father won’t say who. I hoped Gryphon’s finest would know.”

  “Aye, I may be Gryphon’s finest, but I know little more than you.” Bruced grinned. “I know the chosen is younger than we’d expect. He comes from the personal guard old King Balov used to keep. Like as not, he’s some whelp. Save for your father, the Councilors would like that. The younger they are, the easier to control.”

  Rellen shook his head. “The Councilors aren’t supposed to control the king. They’d like to, but Father will disallow it.”

  “Right, right, right.” Bruced shrugged. “The only one we can trust is Emun. With him in charge, this new boy-king will be safe as a secret in a dead man’s mouth. I reckon we should count ourselves lucky you can’t become king. If that happened, the world would know real disaster. ‘Ah, how does King Rellen fare?’ they’d ask. ‘Look how the sky crumbles! See how Grandwood falls! Crooked King Rellen, his throne empty and his bedchamber full,’” Bruced’s enormous laugher echoed in the streets. “But your fellow Croft, now he’s a strange one. From Mormist, eh? How do you know him? Is he trustworthy, or just another tag-along?”

  “I trust him with my life,” he said with a sly grin. “Maybe even more than I’d trust you.”

  For a moment, Bruced seemed to think the quip had been serious. “A joke,” Rellen admitted when he saw the big man grimacing. “Be calm. Garrett’s just…a different sort of man. He’s full of quiet wisdom, the sort you would trust to teach your children and guard your wife. And then sometimes, he’s like one of those Triaxe types, all swords and steel and stoicism. He’s mysterious that way. Hardly matters. I trust no one more than you.”

  “Smart lad. Be nice to the big man.” Bruced nodded his approval. “Anyway, if your father decides to send you away, I’ll join you. No need for me to stay here. Boring in Gryphon, I say. Chop firewood this and haul rocks that. Better for me on the road.”

  After meandering up and down many of Gryphon’s oldest streets, the pair came to a building whose middle-stones were laid half a story below the common level of the city. The old smithy was one of Gryphon’s first constructions. Its walls were round and low, and its foundation a cobbled collection of rocks and hardwood planks. The stones near the smithy’s entrance were blackened by soot, while the smell of ash and fire emanated from its bowels. Rellen beamed as he approached the place. Lorsmir’s workshop, he thought with smile. Old as dirt, but the best blades in Gryphon are inside.

  “After you.” Bruced beckoned him to enter.

  He pushed the creaking door open and ducked inside the low, smoky chamber beyond. A short hallway crossed, a set of sooty stairs descended, and he entered the workshop proper. Inside the great round room, the sounds of cold iron striking hot steel rang harshly in his ears. He glanced this way and that, awestruck at the collection of swords, axes, and spearheads blanketing the wall, wincing from the fires hotter than any other in Gryphon.

  Three men occupied the smithy’s working space. Rellen recognized only one of them. An aged but powerful man, his shoulders framed by the fires of two blazing hearths, Lorsmir the blacksmith stood with a hammer poised to strike. With one merciless blow, the powerful man brought his hammer down against a glowing length of steel, and sparks showered the air like red rain from an angry sun. Rellen liked swords and steel well enough, but he was not so sure he enjoyed their making.

  Five more strokes, and Lorsmir ceased his hammering. “Look who comes, the heir of our lord!” he bellowed. “And Bruced, so good to see you!” Lorsmir tossed aside his heavy hammer. He vainly tried to clean the ash from his face before crossing the room with ten long strides. “Rellen Gryphon.” The sooty smith shook his hand. “Of all places, here in my house of smoke and steel.”

  Rellen drew back his hand to find it blackened and smeared. “Lorsmir.” He greeted the old smith with reverence. “All is well?”

  Lorsmir creased his brow. “I wish I could say it were so, but all is not.”

  He raised his brow. “What could trouble you? I heard your family’s well, and I’ve seen your son guarding the walls of Ardenn. Anything I can do?”

  Lorsmir seemed reluctant to answer. A moment spent wiping his palms on his filthy apron, and he guided Rellen to a quieter corner of the room, where sat a great number of open crates and barrels. The crates were all cracked and dry, the barrels covered in dust. A few lumps of misshapen metal sat in a corner, but the containers were empty. “Master Gryphon, see here my troubles.” Lorsmir regarded the empty containers with disdain. “It’s with iron that I shape my work, and without it I’m idle. What you see before you is the last of all the ore in Gryphon, and yet I’ve promised much of my craft to many who’ll not be pleased. Seems there’s no good steel for Lorsmir, and none bound to here from its source. When the small bit I have is used up, my furnaces shall die and my hammer go to rest. I may even be forced to return to Romaldar, though I’d rather put a hot poker up my arse.”

  Rellen was speechless. How’s this? He wondered. This is Gryphon. Why should man lack for anything?

  It was Bruced who explained. “Rellen, Lorsmir means to say that trade with the east has stopped. Your father failed to tell you? No more merchants from Mormist come. The mountain mines are our suppliers. This here workshop is just one of many suffering for the lack.”

  “Aye,” Lorsmir agreed. “We’ve melted hammer and pipe, spoon and buckle, and now we’ve run out. But enough of that. I know why you’re here, Rellen. It’s not to listen to an old man’s woes. Come then, follow me. I’ve something I’ve been waiting to show you.”

  Until that moment, Rellen had supposed his visit to the smithy was meant only as a social call. He glanced at Bruced, whose lips leaked a knowing smile. “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “A little surprise.” Bruced grinned. “For you.”

  He wanted to ask more, but Lorsmir and Bruced were alread
y on the move. Into the corner of the room and down a narrow, dimly lit stairwell they led him, through the thick, churning smoke of Lorsmir’s twin furnaces. He grimaced at the stairs before descending. Thick layers of soot and dust clung to each step, and as he trotted downward, the passage swallowed him in darkness. “Not that I mind the visit, but why are we here?” he asked Bruced. “And who built this miserable stair?”

  Bruced never answered. The massive man grinned and pulled a smoking torch from its perch upon the wall to better guide the way. Rellen continued downward. He found a door hewn of dark wood at the bottom of the stairway. Lorsmir raised a long key from a ring on his belt to unlock it.

  “Enter,” the old smith coughed as the sound of his key grated against the innards of the lock.

  Bruced stepped ahead into the dark, round room lying beyond the door, moving through the shadows with ease, lighting a number of torches. Rellen entered hesitantly.

  What is this place? Dungeon? Prison cell? No…

  As Bruced’s torches sprang to life, he saw the room for what it was. A gracefully built under-chamber, it was clean and dustless, its ceiling held aloft by pillars of polished iron. Its stones were not darkened by soot, but were as white as though each one had been plucked from a river and washed beneath a waterfall. The light from Bruced’s torches danced across the walls, revealing the room’s contents. Look at that… A smile took shape on Rellen’s mouth. And that, and that, and that. I could die a happy man in here.

  Wall to wall, corner to corner, Lorsmir’s private collection of weapons hung on display. Silver-bladed swords, axes with edges too sharp to touch, and bright, perfectly round steel shields all slept peacefully against the pale stone, catching the light in such a way as to take his breath. “You made all of these?” he asked.

  Lorsmir stood proudly before a pedestal in the center of the room, regarding his works as though they were his children. “My life’s work. None for sale. All done for the love of it.”

  His mouth fell agape. “Such discipline, such perfection. These weapons have no equal. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish this room were mine.”

  “Many thanks, Master Gryphon.” Lorsmir nodded his appreciation.

  He glanced at Bruced, the light of many blades glinting in his eye. “But I wonder…why am I so lucky to see this today? Bruced didn’t say why he brought me here. Did he, Bruced?”

  Bruced remained silent, leaning against the wall as Lorsmir circled the pedestal in the room’s center. “That brings us to it, master Gryphon.” The old smith set his palms atop the pedestal. “Bruced delivered you today to show you something. For duty performed in the name of Gryphon and Graeland, for the slaughter of many Yrul, a reward is deserved. Receive this gift, given by your family and your city.”

  With a steady hand, Lorsmir removed a scabbarded sword from atop the pedestal and held it aloft. Rellen stepped forth, heart beating hard, not sure whether he trusted this moment to be real. “It’s real?” He felt foolish in asking.

  “Aye.” Lorsmir gave him the blade. “My finest work.”

  He drew the sword out, and he imagined his eyes went wide as two moons. Glory given substance, he marveled. The blade’s handle was entwined with silver and gold, while in its pommel rested a ruby so flawless that in the flickering chamber light it seemed to give off a glow of its own. The blade seemed impossibly straight, etched to half its length with a language of braided sigils unfamiliar yet beautiful to behold. The scabbard was of hardened, darkened leather, inlaid and tipped with the winged crest of Gryphon.

  He slid the blade back to safety into its perfect casing and held it before him, eyes glimmering with wonder. “I’m honored.” He bowed. “I have no words strong enough.”

  Lorsmir bowed and reached beneath the pedestal to retrieve another item. “Also yours.” He dropped the second gift into Rellen’s grasp. “Why settle for one reward when you can have two?”

  What has Father done? Bought me the whole armory?

  Rellen studied the second gift. The lustrous silver bracer was an elegant thing, its surface etched with the relief of a rising falcon, its innards lined with a pelt even softer even than his father’s floors. As long as his forearm, it curved gracefully, smooth and polished as water touched by the sun. Made just for me, he knew at a glance. I wager it fits perfectly.

  He snapped it into place over his left forearm and held it up to catch the light. “You outdo yourself,” he said to Lorsmir. “Should I expect a golden tower carved for me tomorrow? A dozen silver shields, maybe a statue in my honor? Thank you again, master craftsman.”

  “You’re very welcome, Master Rellen, but the bracer’s not of my making,” said Lorsmir. “Your father had it fashioned by another. He wished for me to give it to you with the sword, and so I oblige.”

  He stammered to apologize, but the old smith took him by the shoulder before he could speak. “Don’t worry. I’m not offended. A pretty thing indeed, but no bracer will serve you half as well as my sword.”

  Nothing in the world will serve me as well as this blade, I think. Rellen believed.

  He lifted the sword once again. He began to put it away, but saw something that captured his attention, a glimmer from the pommel, a sparkle of light reaching to the corner of his eye. He glimpsed a ring of tiny etchings circling the ruby gemstone, a circle of sigils barely visible. “These are different from the marks on the blade,” he said. “What do they mean?” He handed the blade carefully back to its maker.

  Lorsmir wrinkled his brow, anger flashing in his eyes. “These weren’t here before,” the old smith spat. “I didn’t carve them. Who did this? Who would sully my work so?” Clutching his creation, the old smith held a torch close to the sigils, squinting as though he could read them.

  “I know who made those.” Bruced emerged from the corner. “It could only have been one. It was the small man, the same one who made the bracer.”

  “Who?” Lorsmir scowled.

  “The small man?” Rellen made a face.

  “The small man indeed,” Bruced replied. “He served your father while you were gone. He stayed in the keep for a while, but I never saw his face. I remember he was only this tall, no higher than when you and I were young.” Bruced flattened his palm, raising it to the height of his chest to demonstrate the proportion of the mysterious man.

  Lorsmir looked no less aggrieved. Grinding his teeth, he slapped the scabbarded sword back into Rellen’s hands. “If Emun wished these marks to be made, I suppose it must be for good reason,” he said disgustedly. “I only wish he’d have told me. A small courtesy for an old man. A bit of dignity for an artist.”

  Lorsmir beckoned them to climb back up the dark stairwell. Once his guests were out and the torches extinguished, he fastened the door shut, sealing his collection away from all eyes. He’s angry, thought Rellen. But not only about the sword.

  The old man trudged up the stairs, leading his guests back to the surface, where it seemed all had changed in their absence. The apprentices…gone, Rellen observed. The smithy was eerily silent, the furnace fires already fading to glowing embers. Rellen cracked his lips to ask what had happened, but Lorsmir led the way outside, where a grey curtain of clouds blanketed the late morning sky.

  “Winter.” Lorsmir remarked. “Uglier here than in Romaldar. Ugly days for ugly times, I reckon. I should thank you for accepting my gift today, young Rellen. I hope it passes to your son and beyond. I wouldn’t make such a sword but for my friends, the Gryphons.”

  Rellen looked past Lorsmir, where the workshop sat in silence. The wind whipped down the street, as cold as the wind off a wintered mountainside, but the look upon Lorsmir as he locked the smithy door was much colder.

  “The little man,” Rellen offered, “he shouldn’t have meddled with your sword.”

  “My sword?” The old smith shooed his apology away. “It’s your sword now. Nothing for it anyway. What’s done is done.”

  “Is your work here finished? Is there no more to do?”<
br />
  “No work beyond this morning,” Lorsmir sighed. “You came in time to see us melt the last of our ore. If the fates allow it, we’ll work here again. But now ‘tis winter. Time for old Lorsmir to rest. I’ve got thinking to do, and a wife plump with child.”

  “But surely—” Rellen tried to reason.

  “Nay.” Lorsmir waved his sooty palm. “Nothing’s for sure. Today is not tomorrow, and the abundance of yesteryear long gone. You’d do well to enjoy your sword, young master Gryphon. You might need it ‘afore too long.” The old smith shrugged his tired shoulders, dropped his keys into his apron pocket, and went quietly on his way. In moments, he vanished from the street entirely, and Rellen could but watch.

  A blast of wind whistled down the street, curling between the buildings and ruffling Rellen’s tunic. A last look at the smithy, and he beckoned Bruced to follow him home.

  He returned to Gryphon Keep in a somber mood. His parting with Lorsmir had left a sour feeling in his stomach, and when he walked under the keep’s great stone archway and into the main hall, he felt guilty for the gifts he had received. “Well, the old man’s mood aside.” He said his first words since leaving the workshop behind. “It’s the finest weapon I’ve ever seen.”

  “Aye,” agreed Bruced. “Lighter than Helena’s skirts, sharper than Marlos’s tongue.”

  I guess it’s good to be home, he thought as he marched into the hall. Ardenn was never so comfortable. The smells of warm bread and hot cider greeted his nose, the hearth-fires blazing like little suns in every corner. Forgetting much that had darkened his mood, he sat on the end of a table and slid his new sword free of its scabbard. The flames from the fireplace behind him danced hypnotically on the mirror-like blade. “You were right. It weighs practically nothing,” he said as he stared.

  “Everything weighs nothing to me,” snorted Bruced.

  “I’m serious.” He swished the sword three times. “Feels like a part of me. Like my wrist were the pommel and my palm the blade.”

  He held the sword higher, marveling at its perfection. He took it nearer the hearth, for it seems to like the flames. As he stood, his gaze wandering up and down the weapon, he felt the strangest sensation take hold of him. His heart leapt in his chest and his eyes went dim at the corners. His muscles stiffened as though turned to stone. His skin quivered atop his bones, and a surge of strength coursed through his blood like a river swelling after a hard rain. Stunned, he lowered the blade to his side.