Arval and Hawis backed away, spears leveled at his back.
“Master Croft, we’re not in the habit of killing innocent men.” Abertham softened. “But if’n you’re not a Moor’s Eye man, we need proof. We suffer no spies here. We take no chances.”
He looked at the fallen stool as though it were his worst enemy. After a glare at Arval, he set his seat upright and sank down again. “You want the truth?” he snapped at them. “Fine. Let me darken your hearts a bit. Take the spears away, sit your arses down, and listen.”
In the scowling red light of the three braziers, he took hold of the hollow tree.
He told them his name, and then sank into the story of the war, the flight of the Three Lords, and the arrival of the Furyons. He told them of the battle at Gholesh, of the storms, and of all the terrible things happening beyond Grandwood. Of Ahnwyn’s death and Ser Endross’s survival, he described with all the horrific detail he could muster. He even softened their hearts with the tale of Andelusia’s loss, shedding a few tears that were not for theater.
Many hours passed, and before he finished, the braziers went out and the sun rose behind him. Still he persisted. Telling his tale felt like sweet catharsis, a release from the evils he had endured. The morning drew on, and summer’s warmth slipped into the tree hollow.
“Your little Net-nam…” he sighed after many hours, “is Gryphon’s nemesis, and my enemy. On our way to Mormist, he and his riders assailed my company. Many of my closest men were slaughtered. I knew then the bastard was beyond forgiving, and that he’s as great a danger to us as the Furies. I’m bound for Mooreye, true enough, but only because the fiend took my father and the king-to-be, Jacob Nurė. I know it. I swear it. He’s either them locked away in his city or dropped their bodies somewhere in the bogs. You must understand; without Jacob, without my father, Graehelm has nothing, no hope of building an army large enough.”
Arval and Hawis were rapt, their eyes wide as moons. Having not spoken in more than two hours, Abertham cleared his throat. “You mean to sneak them out of Mooreye?”
“Yes. If they’re still alive. If they’re dead, I’ll kill Nentham.”
“Alone?” coughed Arval. “There’s no chance in that.”
He looked at the big man. “Especially when you hold me here against my will.”
Convinced at last, Abertham cut his bonds. For the first time, he saw how old and weary the hunter was, the lines so dark beneath his eyes. “Please forgive us,” Abertham told him. “We didn’t know. How could we have? But Arval’s right. You can’t do this alone.”
The sunlight shining on his back, he rubbed the pain in his wrists and looked hard as winter into the old hunter’s eyes. “And what choice do I have? I followed your poachers in the hope they might help me. And what do I get? Spears. A walk through a bog. A thousand threats. I’ve been patient. Now give me my weapons. I’m leaving.”
He rose. Arval and Hawis stepped aside. He swept to the entrance of the tree hollow, but just as he was about to step into the sunlight, Abertham called after him. “Rellen, wait. The Moor’s Eye is our foe, same as yours. Maybe we can help you.”
He halted halfway between the dawn and the shadows of the tree hollow. “You brought me here as a captive. I should kill the three of you and send a letter to Nentham about this little village of yours.”
“You don’t understand.” Abertham’s fearsomeness faded. “We never meant any harm. We’re not murderers. Walk free if you like. But I beg you…stay and listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“This place, our home, it’s a secret from the Moor’s Eye.” Abertham walked to him. “We aren’t here because we fancy starving and living in a swamp. We hide here so the black lord won’t steal our lads to join up with his army.”
“His army?” His heart felt like it stopped dead in his chest. “What army?”
“He doesn’t know.” Arval frowned.
“What army?” He faced the tree hollow again. “Tell me.”
Abertham rubbed his brow. “I thought you knew. The Moor’s Eye, damn them. I used to live in the meadows in the fields east of the city. Most of us lived there, least ‘til Net-nam turned rotten. We believed in him, in all his promises, but they were lies, all of them. Two winters ago he started stealing all the wagons inbound from Mormist, most especially them that had iron inside. Haven’t you heard? Hasn’t Grae gone sick from the lack of steel? It’s him, all him. He’s had his smiths at work since King Balov died, making weapons and hiding them from everyone, House Gryphon included. He wants us to fight for him, to war against you and the rest of Graehelm. When he found out not all of us were so willing, he killed hundreds. He wanted to make an example. That’s why we’re here. We who didn’t want to fight took all we could and built ourselves a better life. But now he’s got him an army, a nest of thieves and brutes and murderers. It’s only a matter of time before he lets them off their leash to hunt us down.”
Rellen took a deep breath. “How many men does he have?”
“Ten, maybe more. Thousands, not hundreds,” Arval grunted in the background. “I saw ‘em too, buzzing about like a bunch of hornets, spears sharpened for bloodletting and eyes ready for rape.”
He retreated into lowest cavern of his mind. He heard his father’s voice, Garrett’s and Farid’s too. I know what Mooreye’s planning, he thought. Down to the last drop of blood.
“Nentham’s army won’t hunt you,” he told them. “His soldiers are meant for something else. He’s aligned with the Furies. He means to win their favor. His first target will be Gryphon, and next the capital. It makes sense if you think about it. The Furies must’ve gotten to him years ago.”
The tree chamber went silent, and all the noises of the outside world hushed.
“If’n that’s all true, we haven’t got much of a choice,” Abertham finally spoke up. “We’re going to have to help you.”
Bogheart
Rellen awoke in a shanty hut beside an old and dying oak. The smells of mildew and rotting wood greeted him, and a plume of dust leapt into the air when he swung from his creaking bed and set his feet upon the floor. His sleep had been deep. For as much as he felt refreshed, he supposed being captured might have served him well after all.
Now to eat, he thought as he rose. And to rush off to Mooreye and die…
The door to the house was slightly open, allowing sunlight to pool like silver water upon the floor. He stretched and stepped outside, where evening was already upon the forest. Not so terrible, this place. He stood upon the threshold and watched the lanterns high in the trees spring to life. Maybe I died already. Maybe this is the afterlife.
The evening’s breeze felt cool and comfortable, while the fleeting sun scattered what little remained of the day in droplets on the forest floor. Upon the porch he found a bit of food: an apple, some bread, and an urn of water, which he devoured in a matter of moments.
As he stood on the steps of his little hut, he looked across the village.
He saw villagers talking, drinking, and smiling. Their peaceful disposition seemed the opposite of Nentham and his servants, and their homes not at all similar to the stark stone walls and vaulted iron ribs of Mooreye City. I’m in no danger here, he knew. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself a few moments of reflection. Garrett, what have you gone and done? You should be here with me.
Ande…would that I had known of this place. I’d have tucked you here until the end.
He clasped his dagger and sword to his belt, and walked out into the village to find Abertham. He felt out of place, a soldier amongst peasants. Everything seemed peaceful, and everyone so unconcerned with the war. He envied the people he passed, even though they fell silent as he walked by. He saw children sprint by only to stare once his back was to them, and he glimpsed the faces of several young ladies, most of them smiling and giggling when they thought he was not looking. Not so long ago, he would have strutted to the village heart and declared himself king, but now was different. In
his eyes, the children looked like pieces of paper ready to be burned by Furyon fires, while the girls served only to remind him of Andelusia.
The night drew on. He walked deeper into the village, where the trees vaulted into the sky and paper lanterns swayed from branches too high to see. As he crossed the village heart and rounded the great hollow tree, he saw the shadows between the trees being driven back. Many hundreds of candles had sprung to life in the night, one in the palm of each villager. A ritual? He wondered. For what? Did someone die?
With their soft, glowing beacons, the villagers walked in serpentine lines between the trees, greeting their kin with murmurs. They paid him no attention, but trod past him as though he were a ghost. Children and the venerable alike joined in, each of them with a single candle in hand, and each of them praying. “Grandwood keep us…” he heard them say, and their voices were sad.
He hoped to see Abertham in one of the lines, but when the old hunter’s face did not emerge, he let his hurriedness go, savoring this rare moment of peace. “Why do you light candles?” he whispered to a villager, a tall, willowy girl.
“Some of us have survived the Moor’s Eye. Many have not,” the girl answered. “We honor those taken from us.”
“Oh…I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The girl smiled. “Not your fault. You’re another of Abby’s visitors. How could you have known?”
“Abby? You mean Abertham. Do you know him? I need to find him.”
The girl pointed to a hooded, robed figure walking anonymously in a line of some thirty villagers. “He’s there. He’s been looking for you.”
“How do you know that?”
The girl allowed the rest of her line to pass her by. Lifting her candle beneath her chin, she took his sleeve in her grasp and tugged him off the path. “Shhh,” she whispered. “We mustn’t disturb the others. Come with me.”
He found himself at ease in her company. She possessed a soothing voice, her hair was the color of sunshine, and her face reminded him of a flower petal, soft and smiling. He allowed her to take him into the woods, where the shadows settled in a clearing between three venerable oaks. “So it’s true,” she said to him once no others were near. “You’re from Gryphon?”
“I am. Why should that matter?”
“Abby says you came to save us from Mooreye, and from Lord Thure’s army.”
“Oh really? He said that?”
“Yes. He tells me everything.”
“And just who are you?”
“I’m Erelei.” She smiled again. “Abby’s my father. He was so happy to meet you. He talked all morning about it.”
He staggered at that. Abertham must have sent her, he guessed. He thinks her charms will win me over.
“Your father, just who did he say I was?”
“He said you were a lord from house Gryphon. He said you’d crown the new king, and that with your help, we could all go back home.”
“Me? A lord? Crown the king? I suppose he also thinks I’ll destroy Mooreye, set a second sun to burning, and spin gold from every crop in the Dales?”
“Well maybe the first parts. I don’t know about second suns and gold.” She shrugged.
“Yes, well…” he said, “Mooreye does need destroying. But Abby leaps too far. I’ll go to the dark city, but not to burn it down. As is, I’m wasting my time. I should already be gone.”
Erelei curled her lips into the warmest of smiles. The candlelight caught her just so, and in the soft scarlet glow she looked beautiful. “I know why you’re going, Rellen. I’d do the same. You should come with me. Father said I should bring you to our house.”
She reached out and took his hand into hers. He let her become his guide, and by the light of her candle he trailed her back into the maze of houses. Together they slid through the evening, avoiding the villagers and their somber ceremony. He hardly even knew her, but he trusted her. Always, with the girls, he scolded himself. Damned fool…
Upon reaching a wooden cottage at the village’s northern edge, Erelei beamed. The house was as quaint as any he had seen, with twin chimneys, tiny stained glass windows, and a porch of smooth oak planks circling the dwelling on three sides. A bit nice for a bog-house, he wondered as Erelei tossed its door open and waved at him to enter. How long have these people been here?
“Home,” she chirped, sensing his hesitance. “Come inside. Do you like tea?”
“I suppose I do.” He felt helpless but to follow.
Abertham’s house was as cozy on the inside as it looked on the outside. Its three small rooms were connected by narrow, knickknack-riddled hallways. A low fire crackled in the hearth of the main room, warming a pot of sweet-smelling broth. Doubtless due to Erelei’s touch, flowers were everywhere. Some sat in bright bundles upon the table and windowsill, and others in clay cups clustered atop tables like pretty maidens waiting at market. The only item out of place was the broadsword hanging above the fireplace. Its edges were nicked and worn, its silver-wound cross-hilt forged in the likeness of coiled vines, and the blade etched with the crest of Graehelm. He stared at it as he sipped from a cup of fragrant tea, wondering where the weapon could have come from.
“It was my uncle’s,” Erelei chimed in.
“He must have been quite a soldier.” He stopped staring. “And your father, he’s not a warrior?”
“No. Father hates war. But he loved uncle, so he keeps the sword here to remind him.”
Loved, not loves. The man is dead. He stood in reverent silence, imagining the many fates her uncle might have suffered.
“Lord Thure killed him.” She told him exactly what he did not want to hear.
“I expected you’d say that.”
“Yes, well…” Her words stuck in her throat. “Father says Thure’s a bad man. I can’t even stand the sound of his name. It sounds like a snake; Net-nam the poison eye, Net-nam the murderer.”
To see her pretty face darken made him hate Nentham all the more. “Where’s your father, after all?” He changed the subject. “We could talk forever about all the things Nentham’s done, but there’s no time. I’ll hear your father’s plan, and then I’ll be gone.”
Moments later, Abertham and Arval stepped inside.
Their part in the candle vigil was finished, and they entered the main room and tossed their cloaks on the first chair they encountered. Abertham smiled, but Arval flashed him a smirk.
“How’s my girl?” Abertham hugged his daughter. “Thank you, Lei, for seeing to our guest.”
“Yes Father, I—” she began.
“I know you’re excited, dearie,” Abertham cut her short, “But Master Gryphon and I have many things to talk about. Run along, if’n you would, and fetch us some cider.”
The girl left, and the room felt darker for it. In her absence, Rellen and Arval remained standing, gazes cold as winter, while Abertham took to the chair beside the hearth with a sigh. “’Tis good to see you, Master Gryphon,” the old hunter puffed. “We’ve much to say, you and I.”
Rellen drained his cup of tea. “There’s not so much to say. I know why your mood has changed toward me. You want me to kill Nentham.”
Abertham leaned forward in his chair. His huge hands no longer looked powerful, but crabbed and arthritic. “I’ll not lie to you, Rellen. You say Lord Thure won’t attack us, that he only cares about Gryphon blood, but we’re not so sure. There’re thousands of them black-mantled bastards ready to march. If’n you mean to slip into Thure’s lair, you’ve the only chance to do what we can’t. You can kill him. His dying might save us all.”
“Were only it so easy.” He looked at the sword hanging on the wall. “As I said, I’m not going to Mooreye to kill Nentham. I mean to find Jacob and my father.”
“If they’re even alive,” Arval cracked.
He could have killed Arval for that, but gritted his teeth and kept his sword in its sheath. “You say you have a plan.” He set his eyes on the hearth-fire. “I might’ve gotten halfway to Mooreye by n
ow, but I stayed because you begged. So then, out with it. It had best be good, or I’ll be gone with or without your blessing.”
“The plan, yes...” Abertham took a deep breath.
“He’ll never go for it.” Arval licked his teeth.
Abertham slumped deep into his chair, fingers steepled beneath his wolfs-tail beard. “I’ll let Rellen be the judge of that.”
As stark and solemn as the night’s candle-bearers, Abertham laid bare his hopes for all things to come.
Rellen listened to it all. He had never understood Abertham’s desperation until that hour, and had never known just how many cauldrons Nentham Thure had dipped his fingers into. The night deepened, and Abertham’s demeanor changed. The old man’s optimism wasted away, replaced by bitterness. His smiles for Erelei became curses for Nentham. The illusion of the benevolent caretaker of the village dissolved, crumbling like the walls of an old and tired tower.
By the time it was done, Rellen sat cross-legged and cramped on the floor, Arval was as silent as death, and Erelei was tucked shyly into a darkened corner, eyes wide and fretful.
“It’s not a terrible plan,” he said at last.
“But do you think it can succeed?” asked Abertham.
He wanted to shout, there is no time. But he stood and flexed his fingers, breathing deeply. “I need to think on it. I’ll take a walk in the night. I’ll return.”
They tried to make him stay, but he gusted out of the door and into the night. Outside, the candlelight vigil had ended and the pathways between the trees were dark and clear. Feeling aimless, he wandered to the village’s edge. Most of the lanterns had been snuffed, the stars were hidden behind the leaves, and the moon seemed reluctant to offer more than a few slivers of her luminescence.
Father, are you out there? I need your wisdom. He stood in a clearing and offered his palms to the sky. You probably think I’ve abandoned you. Or maybe you heard about Gholesh and believe me dead. I’m still here, still alive. The little warlock’s bracer saved me, which might’ve been your plan all along. What should I do, Father? Everywhere I go, the war pulls me in. I should’ve saved you days ago, but these men…they’ve snared me. Forgive me, I beg you. I’m coming for you.
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 55