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

by J. Edward Neill

From the horrid device came three deep and hollow blasts, shaking the skies for a day in every direction. The impossible noise drew its breath from someplace beyond the real world, issuing from the void between the living world and the dead. When finally the dread noise ended and the horn fell quiet, only shudders remained. Then came the silence, profound as any the world knew. Archmyr heard no more of Ahnwyn’s host, nor any noise save the wind.

  What’s this?

  Ours are frightened as much as theirs.

  When does the dying start?

  For many moments afterward, he waited without breath. He shivered, his breath oddly frosted, his fingertips gone numb. He heard the Grae host cry for battle again, but only weakly and only for a moment, for it was then thunder shook the air and all other sounds perished. An unearthly rattle cracked the heavens, groaning like the sound of a million dead clawing at their coffins. Archmyr peered through the treetops as, pernicious clouds gathered in the sky, moving faster over the open plain than any horse could run. In the horn’s aftermath, a storm was birthed. Churning grey and black, a bulbous reservoir of writhing darkness, it took shape over the Grae host too quickly to be real.

  Archmyr watched, paler than pale. His fist, once held high to signal his captains to attack, fell limply to his side. The storm ripped the sky open to the edge of all sights. It began to swirl in place, its edges like the tattered cloak-bottoms of ten thousand wraiths, its center like a giant eye opening directly above the host of Gallen Hold. He winced when the first droplet of cold rain struck his cheek. He felt the wind quicken, and he heard the Furyons curse and retreat. “What’ve you done?” he screamed over the wind at Chakran’s servants, but earned no answer.

  The wind went from steady to savage. Rain became hail, and hail became ice. Hunkering behind an oak, he peered to the plain as the storm’s eye blinked and a blizzard engulfed everything. In the small gaps between screaming blasts of wind, he heard the host of Lord Ahnwyn quail. They sounded like children fleeing from a nightmare, helpless to escape.

  Their voices drowned in a sea of death.

  Streaking down upon them, the wind tore rider from horse and armor from skin. Then came the daggerlike hail, splitting the soft earth like so many arrows, spearing throats, backs, chests, and skulls. So dark was the storm that it seemed night had come again, for the plain was lit solely by a thousand strokes of lightning, deadly darts of gilded death slaying many thousands of men. Even Lord Ahnwyn could not escape the destruction. A falling shard of ice, sharpened in the frozen heavens, plunged down into his neck. The lord of Gallen Hold fell from his horse and onto the frozen earth, his body buried under a mound of ashen snow. The seven riders of Trebidal died right beside him, burned to char by hungry forks of lightning.

  The wind went mad. The world turned black. Archmyr fell to his knees.

  The edge of the horrid storm wailed upon the ridge, rending the earth as lightning tore into the forest. The tops of twenty trees caught fire, their leaves stripped away, curled and blackened as if by fire. Hating his cowardice, Archmyr crawled deeper into the forest. When he reached what he hoped was a safe place amid the brush, he shielded his eyes with his frosted vambrace and turned to glimpse the doom once again. The servants of Chakran were mad, it seemed. They clung to their wagon even as a bolt from the blackness slipped through the trees and smote them, blasting the wagon and horn into cinders. He saw their smoking corpses, their arms curling against their chests, and he fled.

  An hour of horror, and the storm swallowed itself. Save for the distant groans of dying Grae, silence reigned. Archmyr crawled out from hiding. He was first to return to the forest’s edge, where every tree was slain and the grass burned to crispy black strands. He came to where the horn had been, and he saw only a few smoldering fragments of bronze and bone scattered on the frosted ground. He looked to the fields below and saw not the army of his enemy, but an icy trench overflowing with the bodies of the slain.

  His captains crept behind him. He paid them little mind. He was lost in his darkest thoughts, contemplating the horrors he had witnessed. He did not believe in sorcery of any kind, and yet from his perch high above the devastated plain, he came to no other answer. The horn had done no harm to him or his legion, but had utterly destroyed his enemy.

  He gaped, first at the ragged skies and then at the graveyard below. There’ll be no prisoners, he ruminated. All of them are dead.

  “Milord Archmyr,” he heard one of his soldiers say. “What is next?”

  “No battle today.” He stared across the dead.

  “None of ours are hurt,” the captain noted. “Only theirs.”

  “Clever man,” he mocked. “I doubt even the Emperor knew his toy would work so well.”

  The captains clamored behind him. He walked to the last of the ridge’s trees, an old oak snapped in half at its middle, and he drank deeply of the carnage below. To the end of his sights, his foes lay strewn across the frozen plain like insects crushed by the hands of a giant. Mounds of grey snow blanketed the dead, swords and lances and frozen bones jutting out. He looked on, his countenance the same pallor as the snow-covered plain, his heart beating as black as the clouds that had only just begun to fade. Behind him, his army crept to the forest’s edge. When they came near enough, they heard nothing besides his ghoulish laughter, gloating over the dreadful calm of the dead.

  “Feast in what you see,” he said to the Furyons. “Today Archmyr of Thillria admits he was wrong. We aren’t men anymore, not in the Grae’s eyes. We’re the gods the world has wanted for centuries. For whom will stand against us when our swords stay in our sheaths and thousands of Grae still die?”

  The Only

  On a rainy eve, grey and gloomy, Rellen emerged from his tent.

  The weather was at its worst. The once gentle rain was now a deluge, sliding in dark sheets across the hilltop camp, invading all his men’s tents. The wind, calm and cool only yesterday, blew frenetically amongst the trees, tearing wet leaves from their parent branches and depositing them on every surface in sight. Sighing, he trudged to the edge of the camp. He saw the stream at the hill’s bottom overflowing, the forest floor pocked and mired by countless pools of rainwater. Of all the Gryphon men hunkered down for the night, Marlos was the only one to join him. Oil lamp in hand, the captain grumbled all the way from his tent to the space between two boulders where Rellen stood in the rain.

  “How much longer of this?” Marlos tinkered with the lamp. “If your father saw the rain, he might suppose the Three Lords drowned and our mission at an end.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Could be dead.”

  “This is pointless.” Marlos frowned. “No danger’s here. No one’s seen or heard of any design to overthrow Graehelm. We were wrong to come. We should be in Gryphon, raising a host to stamp that bastard Thure into oblivion.”

  Rellen could hardly deny it. Having spent the last week with Dennov sitting in the corner of every inn of Tratec, striking up conversations with every passer-through on the Crossroad, and gleaning rumors from every farm-lad, lumberjack, and milkmaid, he felt no wiser for it. The Three Lords’ whereabouts were unknown, no assassins had been spotted, and no one had said a word about any hatred of Graehelm. “I wonder what Father would do?” he asked without expecting an answer.

  “Probably stay another year,” Marlos quipped. “Rebuild Verod to its former glory and train every man to wield a blade as well as Bruced. Even if it took ten years, he’d put every stick and stone in its place. Your father loves order, you know.”

  Hearing his name, Bruced cut through the rain like a bear through a waterfall. “What’s all this about Bruced and blades?” he bellowed.

  “Marlos is trying his hand at humor,” said Rellen.

  Bruced situated himself between Marlos and Rellen, the sheer size of him blocking out half the rain. “Marlos making a joke? That’d be a first.”

  “Says the sheepdog to the shepherd,” Marlos cracked before turni
ng serious. “We’re just grieving, Rellen and I. Tratec’s proven to be something of an empty well. After Nentham’s business, we expected swords, not silence.”

  Bruced’s smile fell away. “Aye. The waiting is what’s hard. Not knowing what the Lords are up to. Not knowing how deep Nentham swims in the shit while we’re away.”

  Rellen squinted into the rain, watching the last slip of sunlight fade into the night. “A hood’s been pulled over our heads, lads,” he said wryly. “This town, these people, it all seems too peaceful. No one knows where the leaders of Mormist are, but everyone knows they’re gone. Where did they run to? East? North? And for what? Why’s everyone not in a panic, and where are all the travelers? I say we dig deeper starting tomorrow. Father would ask as much. We should go to Minec. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it there.”

  “The men are weary.” Marlos acknowledged the camp and the hunkering men. “Minec’s a long way from home. They’ll take the news hard.”

  “I know. Believe me.” Rellen scratched his chin with his knuckles and closed his eyes. His body had healed from the wounds suffered on the fields of Mooreye, but Nentham’s attack still weighed on his heart. “I’ve a bad feeling about this.”

  “A bad feeling?” Bruced rolled his shoulders and shed a mountain’s worth of rain.

  “Yes, bad. Look at us; wet as dogs and little wiser. Most of the men want to go home, and who can blame them? They worry what Nentham might do while we’re away. But we can’t just leave. Father didn’t send us here to be driven back by a few swords and some rain. As we speak, he’s bound for Ahnwyn’s camp. We must do what we swore. The men’ll hate me for it, but we’ll go to Minec. Garrett says Minec’s the heart of Mormist. If there’s trouble, we’ll find it there.”

  Marlos’s sigh was heavy. “Tomorrow then? At first light?”

  “Rain or shine.” He nodded. “The hardest part will be sending Andelusia away.”

  Marlos rolled his eyes. “The men ought to be upset she’s here in the first place. Good thing for you she’s so damnably pretty.”

  “Yes.” He shrugged. “Good thing.”

  He patted Marlos on the arm, glanced up to grim and soaking Bruced, and walked back into the camp. In the half-light of the sputtering campfire, he caught sight of his lady love. No matter the rain, she was as beautiful as the moon, as warm as the sun. She sat beneath the shadow of a boulder, her hair damp and clinging to her cheeks, her lips curled in laughter. Garrett sat beside her, doubtlessly telling her more stories about me.

  His heart became heavy with sadness when he looked upon her. He feared her heart would break should he leave her a second time.

  “You look grave tonight.” Garrett saw his approach. “Maybe you and milady should fire a torch and take a walk.”

  He meandered to the boulder. He saw the great rock guarding Andelusia from most of the rain, jutting from the hilltop like an old man’s tooth. He plunked beside her and placed a kiss on her forehead, though his gaze never left Garrett’s. “A walk would be nice, but for the rain,” he said glumly. “Is it always like this here?”

  Garrett held his palm open, catching a dozen drops of water. “Never like this. Not in my lifetime.”

  “Rellen?” Andelusia took his hands and rubbed them between her own. “What is the matter, love? The rain? Something else?”

  “Something else,” he admitted.

  Her gaze, twinkling in the firelight, caught him and refused to let go. “Tell us.”

  “Minec…” he mumbled. “We’re going to Minec.”

  “When?” She stiffened.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She took it better than he expected. He waited for tears, grasps at his shirt, maybe even begging, but she gave him none. Garrett’s calmness must have rubbed off on her.

  “Therian will take you home,” he explained. “The long way, so’s not to cross Mooreye.”

  “No,” she said as calmly as Garrett might.

  “No?”

  “I will not go back to Gryphon. I will stay in Tratec. I will wait for your return.”

  “Ande, I—”

  “My mind is made up.” She silenced him with a forefinger against his lips. “I knew this day would come. I have thought about it every night since you arrived.”

  “Wiser than her years,” Garrett murmured in the background.

  “And that brings me to you.” She spun to face Garrett, serious as a sword. “I am trusting you to take care of Rellen. Where he walks, you follow. If he goes into danger, you will protect him. You are a brother to him. You are his wisdom. Someone has to watch over him to make sure he does nothing foolish. You have been his guardian before. Please do it again, as ever you have.”

  Much as Rellen feared, Garrett nodded his accord, afterward standing and facing the night. “Goodnight, you two.” He walked into the deluge, palms turned upward as though no amount of rain could shake him. “Spend less time worrying and more time in love. I will see you both on the morrow.”

  Once Garrett was gone, Rellen was alone with Andelusia in the deep shadow of the boulder’s alcove. His stomach, tied in knots, fluttered more than ever in his life. “Would that you were willing to return to Gryphon,” he said. “I’d feel better about leaving.”

  She melted him with a serene smile. “I know. But I would rather stay here, close to your heart, than to pass so far away.”

  “Tratec might not be safe. How can I protect you?”

  “Could you protect me any more if I went to Gryphon?” she countered. “I heard the men talking. If Lord Thure attacks, there is no telling what might happen. Tratec likes me well enough. I will be plenty safe here, and much closer to you.”

  At the edge of sensation, he heard the rain weaken. Pelting knives of water faded to a much softer mist, fluttering to the earth like autumn leaves. Andelusia took his hand and dropped a kiss atop his knuckles. “The men will be wanting you.” Her smile was sad, but still intoxicating. “You should go to them.”

  “I’d rather skip supper and walk with you.”

  “Come back to me once you are done,” she said. “I will have more than kisses waiting.”

  Another graze of her lips against his skin, and he felt his stomach unknot. It was always her power over him, the taste of her mouth the same for him as wine for a warrior before battle. With a soft push, she sent him back to the camp. He waded back into the circle of Gryphon men, who gathered as Marlos explained they would not be going home anytime soon.

  It was a long, difficult eve.

  The plan to journey to Minec revealed, he spent his next hours trying to build hope amongst his men, bickering with Marlos and Bruced, and eating supper braised over a struggling fire. He returned to his tent long after Andelusia was asleep, his tabard damp and his head hurting. He was stunned to find her so peaceful, surprised to his core she had taken the news of his leaving so gracefully. As he lay his head down, he reflected on how lucky he was. She loves me, he knew. And everyone loves her.

  If I were a son to anyone but Father, I would take her away and never come back.

  The next dawn came earlier than he wanted. At first light, the drizzle returned, tumbling into the camp from the grey skies. Few could sleep in such miserable, dank weather, and so the company cheerlessly arose and readied to leave. Rellen was first to wake. As the others crawled from their tents, groaning at the weather, he tended to his poor stallion, whose mane sagged and whose coat was blotched with rain rot.

  It was Saul who snapped the sullenness. Perched atop one of the boulders, battlestaff lying across his knees, he cried out, “Lo! Men approach!”

  Rellen rushed to the camp’s center. Following Saul’s pointed battlestaff, he looked northward, where a line of fire meandered between the trees. Riders were approaching, men with torches, horses, and steel. Whether they were friend or foe was unknowable. “Weapons!” he hissed at his men. “Garrett, your bow!”

  The company came alive. Hoisting spears, swords, and axes, they formed a line on
the northern edge of the hilltop and glared into the woods below. “Who goes?” Bruced boomed. “Name yourselves or be slaughtered!”

  Rellen cut through the ranks to reach Bruced’s side. He counted no fewer than twenty men on foot, followed by ten more on horseback. They halted all at once, and the foremost among them called up the hillside. “We’re friends, not foes!” a lanky mountain man shouted. “Dennov knows us. We come with a message. You’re from Graehelm, no?”

  “We are.” Bruced crowed. “Only one of you may come up. The rest of you keep your fires down and your swords sheathed.”

  Weapons unsheathed, the Gryphon company clustered at the edge of the camp and waited for the man to make the climb. Dennov stood at Rellen’s side, Marlos the same. As the stranger climbed the saturated slope, thunder rumbled in the distance, the rain peppering his head, beard, and shoulders. When the man reached the camp’s edge, Dennov was first to greet him. The boy lord grabbed the stranger’s arm and pulled him onto steadier ground. They’re known to each other, Dennov and this lanky, sallow-faced stranger. Rellen knew.

  I see it in their eyes.

  The Gryphon company glared at the men at the hill’s bottom, but Rellen paid all his attention to Dennov and the stranger. The stranger’s hair was long and lank, his cheeks and chin stubbled with a pale beard. Breathless from his climb, the gaunt fellow took a moment to gather his feet beneath him. “Milord Dennov, do you remember me?” he puffed. “Name’s Adarros, Adarros of Orye. They told me I’d find you up here. Why here of all places? Who are all these soldiers?”

  “All questions will be answered,” answered Dennov. “First come and sit. You only just caught us before we left.”

  To Rellen, it seemed as though Adarros had not slept for several days, for his eyes were haunted and his shoulders sagging like tired tree branches. He’s been running, he thought. But from what? And how does Dennov know him?

  Adarros let himself be led into the ring of boulders, where the remains of the camp’s fire smoldered beneath the rain. After Dennov offered him a cup of tea, he sat beside the fire, sipping until some of the color returned to his face.