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

by J. Edward Neill

  “We won’t yield,” said Rellen.

  His tirade finished, the lord of Mooreye kicked his horse in its sides and fled to the rear of the Mooreye riders. Thracic, leering like a half-starved lion, returned to the forefront and gaped with murderous eyes upon the smaller Gryphon company.

  “So this is how it is.” Bruced clutched his axe.

  “Of course,” said Rellen. “The fiend wants no peace. Never has.”

  The enemy struck first.

  Even as Rellen leveled his spear, the Mooreye men set their hatred loose. Thracic was first to come. With a stroke like lightning, the murderous knight smote the nearest Gryphon soldier with his broadsword, sundering his helm and splitting his skull like a rotted melon. Afterward, the Mooreye host howled and charged headlong. Thracic’s men hurled their torches as they came, striking horse and man alike. Rellen heard the twang of crossbows being fired, and gaped as a quarrel tore the throat from the man behind him. Madness, he thought as the enemy washed over him. Whatever happens here will start a war.

  Resisting the first onrush of fire, steel, and foaming stallion, Rellen’s men held the front line and fought Nentham’s host to a standstill. Rellen greeted one enemy with a spear in the throat and felled another after wheeling his horse and piercing the poor fool’s thigh. Battling beside him, Bruced shouted, “From the trees! Attack!” and ten horsemen, five to either side of the swarming attackers, sprang from the darkness. They carved their way into Nentham’s brutes, cutting the enemy’s position in half, winnowing half a dozen Mooreye riders as they came.

  Horses and riders collapsed all around Rellen. He whirled his spear, surrounded by the sounds of steel sluicing into flesh and grating against bone. The Mooreye advance was too powerful. A hurled torch glanced off his shoulder and a dagger whistled past his ear. He skirmished with one enemy rider, then another, but both soon plunged past him and into the ranks beyond. Still on foot, Bruced howled at every rider who swept by, for the Mooreye men avoided him as best they could. Fast for a big man, thought Rellen. Watch and learn, Nentham. When two riders tried to flank Bruced, the brute let out a wild roar, hauled the riders off their mounts, and cleaved at them until their gargled cries ceased to cut the air.

  Another four riders sped past, and this time Rellen pursued. “Follow!” he roared at Bruced, as if the brute needed his direction. He and Bruced carved through the middle of Nentham’s black-clad curs, hacking their way toward Marlos, slaying two and wounding three. The going was slow, for the Gryphon line shattered all around them.

  Ropes of blood and scarlet blades flew through the air. Rellen saw Marlos, unhorsed and driven toward the lake, retreating before the advance of three of Nentham’s riders. He wheeled his mount to help his friend, but his stallion staggered over the corpses of two men, and in a flash he was lost in the thick of battle again. He could but watch as Bruced waded forward on foot, nimbler than most men half his size. Reaching the three Mooreye riders before they could gut Marlos, the brute drove a scavenged spear through one’s back and smote another’s thigh with such force the man fell screaming from his horse. The third wheeled his horse, but Marlos slid through the shadows and thrust upward with both his blades, driving two tines of steel into the poor cretin’s flank. The Mooreye man pitched off his horse and hit the ground like an anvil.

  Caught in a sea of screaming men and flashing steel, Rellen spun his horse many times, jabbing his spear at any man who drew too close. The battle began to flow around him, streams of men flying past as though he were a boulder wedged in a river of death. He saw the Mooreye soldiers swarming through the trees and scuttling toward the water like ants. Fallen torches flaming beneath their boots, the Gryphon company reeled against the attack. No. His blood smoked in his veins. It will not end like this.

  Not here.

  Not to Nentham.

  He charged into the thick of battle. One of few still atop his horse, he speared one Mooreye man in the chest and trampled another. He cut his way ever closer to Thracic, whose blade he saw rising and falling on the helmets of his brothers. The coward. Look at him.

  Here and there the monster of Mooreye rode, striking out at men who had their backs to him or were entangled in fights of their own. Riding all the way to the shore, Thracic tallied three deaths upon his broadsword before swinging back around and galloping to the trees, where he rallied a half dozen men to his side. In the shadows of the trees, Rellen lost sight of him. Several Grae tents were burning, and the smoke filled the clearing.

  He never saw the Mooreye fiend’s attack.

  “Die!” He heard Thracic curse as the fiend drove a shield into his side. When Thracic’s steel oval struck his shoulder, he plunged from his horse in a messy heap, floundering in the mud for many breaths before staggering to his feet.

  Smoke stung his eyes.

  Blood ran in a narrow river down his cheek as the haze of half-consciousness swept over him.

  All sounds became dulled, all sensations muted.

  He stood and pointed his spear in what he thought was Thracic’s direction only to collapse again into an armored heap, surrounded by seven men of Mooreye. Thracic hovered over him, a dark mountain of steel ready to fall like dusk upon him. “Lord Thure said you were a man of valor, of some worth in battle.” The wicked man of Mooreye sat atop his steed, deriding him. “I see you’re but a boy, deluded, defeated, and dead.”

  His spear wavered in his hands. He jabbed it upward, but Thracic swatted it away. Murder in his eyes, the black knight of Mormist hoisted his broadsword and leveled it at his head. Lorsmir’s sword, Rellen remembered. Now is the time. He reached for his waist, but Lorsmir’s sword was still in his tent, forgotten in the panic of battle.

  He gritted his teeth and glared at Thracic. Go on then. Kill me.

  Bruced’ll have your head on his wall.

  Thracic clacked his teeth, but before the fiend could strike him down, a figure clad in steel rings and greaves emerged from the smoke and planted himself in the mud, battlestaff whirling.

  “Get back!” Saul shouted at Nentham’s men.

  Like a dervish whose weapon was made of wind, Saul spun his battlestaff. Even in his haze, Rellen marveled. Moves like water. Like ten staves instead of one. Who knew Ande’s uncle was a fighter?

  Thracic and his horsemen backed momentarily away. They seemed not to believe one man on foot would dare stand against eight on horseback.

  “Bearded fool,” cursed Thracic. “So eager to die.”

  The Mooreye riders leered as Thracic swept in for the kill. His horse stamping in circles, the fiend brought his broadsword to bear against Saul some dozen times, hewing as if to carve his way through a tree. Almost effortlessly, Saul turned away Thracic’s sword as if a child were wielding it. Blow after blow he parried with his iron-banded battlestaff, driving Thracic into a fit of wrath.

  Eyes bloodshot from the smoke, Thracic retreated long enough to slide down from his saddle and kick his horse in the ribs, sending the beast galloping into the night. “Watch,” he said for the pleasure of his men. “Learn how to kill a Gryphon man.”

  “I’m not from Gryphon,” said Saul.

  Thracic came after him, roaring and spitting and slashing. He bore down upon Saul with his shield, but Saul shouldered him back, banging Thracic on the shins with his battlestaff. The madman of Mooreye came again and again, wielding his broadsword with increasing wildness, rending the smoke to tatters, but Saul sent him reeling every time, battering him as though the fiend’s blade was but a sapling twig.

  When Thracic lowered his shield and panted like a weary wolf, gulping great mouthfuls of air as through it were wine, Saul seized the moment.

  Thracic’s armor was too thick to be broken, but his fists were unshielded, and in one motion Saul clubbed the fiend’s shield aside, slapped the broadsword out of his grasp, and crushed the warrior’s sword-hand with a flick of his iron-shod staff.

  Thracic’s shield fell into the muck. Baying like a wounded dog, the fiend picked up
his mud-splattered broadsword with his unbroken hand. Hate gurgled in his throat, and bloodlust became madness. His riders were onlookers, none of them brave enough to join the fray, thought Rellen.

  Thracic’s jaw pulsed like a hungry hound’s. His teeth looked like daggers, his mangled fingers like rotten tree roots. Heedless of all else, he strove again at Saul, and in doing so abandoned his defense. Saul sidestepped two clumsy stabs and hammered Thracic more times than any man could count. The black knight collapsed into the muck. His helmet was crushed, his cheek caved in, and both his wrists shattered like toothpicks by a blacksmith’s hammer.

  In the time it took Saul to defeat Thracic, the battle began to turn against the men of Mooreye.

  Scattered too widely about the field, unprepared for Bruced’s fury, Marlos’s cunning, and the resilience of House Gryphon, the Mooreye host fell faster than Nentham hoped. Backs against the water, the Gryphon men rallied and drove their enemy back toward the trees. Sensing their destruction, Nentham’s men tucked tail and fled. The seven riders nearest Thracic, fearing a fate similar to that of their champion, tore off through the smoke, following their fellows into the night.

  The battle died as quickly as it had erupted.

  All became quiet, and the night’s eeriness returned.

  Rellen came to. He looked at Saul, who seemed less a man and more a soldier’s specter, his battlestaff still making blurs in Rellen’s vision whenever it moved. “That didn’t go as planned.” His words felt sluggish.

  “You did well,” answered Saul. “I saw you kill four at least.”

  Rellen shivered and shook his head. He was alive and mostly unhurt, but it felt like knucklebones were rolling loose inside his skull. “Not well enough,” he said. “Some of us died, same as them. Where’s Nentham?”

  “Gone,” admitted Saul.

  It was true. He saw it with his own eyes. The Gryphon defenders roved about, seeking Nentham, but the treacherous lord had already escaped. He kneeled beside Saul, his eyes glazed in the battle’s aftermath. He saw Gryphon men limping and clutching their sides, and others who did not move at all. The Mooreye attackers were gone, but the damage had been done. The moon slipped out from its cloud cover, and he glimpsed at least eleven of his company lying dead in the grass, their armor torn and their helmets splintered. At least another nine were wounded, limping back to the camp, their blood weeping and their swordarms gone soft.

  Saul lifted him to his feet and guided him back toward the lake. As they went, they passed Thracic. The fallen Mooreye fiend writhed in the mud, cursing and hissing. His body was shattered, his bones cracked in a hundred places. “Ragged peasants! Slaves to an unwanted king!” he spat a mouthful of teeth and blood. “What right have you in our lands? Go home to your whores! Work no more of your evils against Mooreye!”

  Sagging in Saul’s arms, Rellen’s eyes went dark. He cast a long look at the Mooreye knight, anger stirring in his heart. “We should kill him,” he said to Saul. “He’s as unworthy of life as his master.”

  “In Elrain, death is granted only to those who are worthy,” Saul answered. “Look at him. Unworthy. Lower than death deserves. He’s broken. He’ll live out his days a cripple. He’ll never kill again.”

  Rellen’s pain was too powerful. Were his hand not numb and a blade nearby, he might have slipped from Saul’s grasp and gutted Thracic where he lay. “I hurt too much to finish him,” he said instead. “You win. We’ll let him live.”

  “Coward!” Thracic cursed. “Come back here, Gryphon boy. I’ll bugger you with my fist. I’ll…”

  The fiend spouted a thousand things more, but Saul talked over him. “Ignore him, Rellen. We’ve other worries. Our company’s halved. We can’t stay here.”

  Strong as an ox, Saul hauled him all the way back to his tent, one of few not touched by fire. He felt pitiful to be helped, but his pain demanded his compliance. Saul pushed aside the tent flap and helped him sit atop his bedroll.

  And then Marlos burst in.

  “Still in one piece!” Marlos knelt before him. “Thank the stars! Your father would’ve had my head if anything happened to you.”

  He rolled his neck and sat up. “Alive, but not liking it.” He winced. “Father will have my head all the same. Look what I’ve led us into.”

  “We mustn’t stay here.” Marlos looked to him and Saul. “We must gather the living and the dead and ride out tonight.”

  After another labored breath, Rellen staggered to his feet. He wavered like a top about to tumble, but somehow managed not to fall. Trudging past Marlos and Saul, he pushed his way outside the tent. Grief welled in his heart. Across the moonlit field, he saw the bodies of Gryphon men lying stiller than headstones. Saul and Marlos uttered many words, but he heard nothing. In his mind, the faces of the fallen were all that burned, their cries unheard beyond death’s veil. “Collect the fallen,” he said to Marlos. “We’ll honor them tonight. Saul, help me to my horse. I’ll ride wounded.” …and far less a hero than a few hours ago.

  “Your mount is slain,” said Saul.

  “Then I’ll take one of theirs.”

  Saul nodded and left. Trudging away from his tent, Rellen surveyed the darkness. “Where’s Bruced?” he murmured to Marlos.

  Marlos stepped up beside him. “Look harder. Over there. The beast lives.”

  He gazed across the field, crestfallen. As the last of his bleariness fled, Bruced’s broad shoulders and too-huge axe appeared from the murk.

  “Crows take my eyes!” Bruced lumbered toward his tent and hugged him so hard that all his bones shuddered. “You made it!”

  “For that, I owe Saul.”

  Bruced grimaced, the streaks of blood on his face somehow fitting. “Ah, the beard, the battlestick. I might’ve known!” He clapped Rellen on the arm. “He’ll get my thanks aplenty. But for now it waits. There’s evil at work tonight. Give us leave to pay Nentham a visit. With a dozen riders, I might catch him before he gets back to his kennel.”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “No?” Bruced looked surprised.

  “No. We’ll break camp. The wounded will go back to Gryphon. The rest of us are off to Mormist.”

  Bruced clenched his fists. “Half of us are wounded or dead,” he argued. “How can we go to Mormist with but twenty?”

  He and Bruced stared at each other, unblinking and hard, grim as a pair of midwinter moons.

  Saul returned with a scavenged steed, but said nothing. Even Marlos remained quiet, struck still by the confrontation. Several others of the Gryphon company assembled around them, their faces drawn and weary as crumbling castles, and yet none of them made a sound.

  “Look at them,” Rellen bade Bruced.

  “I see them. What of it?” Bruced narrowed his gaze.

  “The fight is done. They’re bleeding, broken, and outnumbered.”

  Bruced lowered his eyes. Some of his fury began to fade. “You ask me to tuck tail and run. You want me to be like Nentham’s men.”

  “I want you to be alive.”

  Rellen saw the tension in Bruced’s shoulders release. The huge man’s fists fell open, the conflagration in his gaze dimming to candlelight. “Alright, alright. You win,” he grumbled. “We go east. Nentham will have to wait.”

  He stepped back from Bruced.

  H was greeted by the gazes of some thirty men.

  Their faces were blank, their hearts unknowable. He saw Dennov in their midst, Therian too, but grieved not to see many others who had been friends. He looked across all their faces, knowing what had to be done. “Soldiers of Gryphon, we go from here. The battle’s won, but Nentham will come back. Marlos, gather the dead. Make litters for each man, and make them quickly. We’ll bring the fallen away with us. Those of you who are well, strip down your tents, fill your skins, and find all our weapons. You’re coming to Mormist with me. Those of you who are hurt, make ready to get yourselves home. Your service to Gryphon will continue, but not here, not now. Therian, pen a letter. The
wounded will take word of what happened here to Gryphon. Father and Jacob will decide Nentham’s fate.”

  In the aftermath of the night’s horror, the Gryphon company moved. The enemy’s torches were relit, illuminating the crushed, bloodstained grass between the lake and the trees. Wounds were bandaged, trees hewn to make litters, and the dead were dressed, their faces covered so as to hide them from the empty, godless sky. Within an hour, the camp was dismantled and the company ready to leave.

  Rellen gave the signal shortly thereafter.

  Some on horse, some on foot, he and his men journeyed eastward until an hour before dawn, venturing far out into Mooreye’s uninhabited lowlands. A forgotten place they found, far from any farm or village. When they finally stopped, they found themselves even farther from home, the mist-covered earth dotted with dense thickets and lonely ponds. The Dales aren’t far, Rellen hoped. Nentham won’t dare attack us outside of Mooreye.

  Will he?

  Upon the footsteps of a quiet, dark grove of trees, he sat down to rest. His head was pounding, his legs as weak as dry, wind-blasted weeds. He wanted nothing more than a skin full of wine, a soft pillow, and a full day’s sleep, but none of it was to be had.

  His respite was short-lived, for not long after sitting he cracked his eyes open to the sun’s rising. With Saul and Dennov watching, he joined with his brothers in the shadow of a lonely grove and helped them to bury eleven souls of Gryphon. Eleven sons dead. Eleven because of Nentham Thure.

  He went to each barrow once it was done. Atop each mound of wet, freshly-turned humus he set three stones pointing toward Gryphon, afterward falling into silence.

  Marlos came to him an hour later.

  “We sent the wounded north,” the captain told him. “We want them to go around Mooreye, not through it. We think they’ll be safe. North is Barrok land, and Lord Lothe is a friend. Bruced still wants to lay siege to Nentham, but I settled him down. For now.”