Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  The king walked away with his younger brother: them closeted like a pair of conniving thieves. Adreyu did not doubt whom they were speaking of.

  There is some matter that you try to hide, Tristifer, and I will find it ere long. You may have had us seal our stones for the nonce, but I do not need it to read your mind. Betray this country as our father did, and it is I that will bury steel in your gut, no other.

  Adreyu looked to the Ser Lucius. “Ser, accompany me to the practice yard. I would have words.” The knight rose in acquiesance, and fell in beside Adreyu as he made for the outer halls.

  It was past noon, and the man servants were all but done their morning tasks. Patrols passed by silent and watchful. There were hushed murmurs from the adjoining chambers, and a pair of noblemen walked the tall pathways above. None who cared for a head to remain on their shoulders would dare overhear a word Adreyu spoke. “Is my brother a fool?”

  “It is not my place to say such a thing, even to you; though neither of you are wrong, Prince Adreyu. We have only just recovered from the last campaign. Trade has dried up, and the drought burdens us. Though I do not trust Elder Reuven and his knights that confer secretly with the king, nor the Dalians and their intent. There is some matter they are concealing, but what? That I would learn if the king will not; and if Adonis did take from the Dalians, I do not doubt Lutessa would feign forget. I fear we will soon fight a foe on two fronts.”

  This is good counsel. No politic or bartering. Blunt opinions from an honest man. If only the knights—not ragged noble creatures in their vain fineries—ruled the kingdom, much would be averted. I had my opportunity years ago to take the throne. I trusted my brother then. I do not trust him now.

  “Then we are to wait until our foes strike?” Adreyu asked. “The mountains to the north and south defend us, as does our harbour to these east. Yet that will hardly matter if Reuven takes us from within our walls. We are not as defensible, as my brothers seem to think.”

  “The Royal Protectors will not allow Elder Reuven to freely move around much longer, my prince. As for these southern knights, they do not know our land nor has their mettle been tested. You said it yourself, my prince: they have been used but once, and that a slaughter than aught else. We suffered losses o’er five years past, it is true, though many of us survived, and have been training since. I do not doubt that your end will be seen, whatever the king deigns.”

  “My brother will not see my end done. I know him too well. He is all but prepared to offer a truce to the pious sheep. Adonis reveals as much by his words, if not his actions.”

  “Bugger a truce, my prince. We serve the crown, and the royal brothers who serve it loyally.” The knight stopped and looked around before continuing. “And when Elder Reuven reveals his true intent, I will take his head myself, treason or no.”

  Ser Lucius had but spoken an honest truth. Adreyu’s kingly brother sat upon the Lion Throne—not for any great deed that he had done—but that the knights had allowed it. Adreyu was not a knight, but feared with a blade in hand; he won the support of the brotherhood years before any thought of patricide crossed his mind. If he but desired it, he would sit on the Lion Throne. Never did he wish it, but if his brother continued this path to oblivion, there may not be any other recourse.

  He arrived at the outer wards under the mid-afternoon sun. Summer was turning to fall, though many of the aspiring archers, swords, and pike were half dressed, or soaked in thin, light coloured linens as they laboured at their craft. Walking to the east, a crowd was joined at a great pit where squires and knights gathered for wagers. Adreyu leaned against the wooden rails of the practice yard. He saw young men and women clad in rusted mail, wielding blunted blades and wooden shields in the mud.

  The two men had been at it for some time, if their lagged blows and lazy parries revealed aught. They were both of middling height and well-muscled; one had sandy blonde hair, the other a shaggy brown. The blonde-haired fighter was ignoring his defenses, aggressively pushing for a blunted blow on his foe’s left thigh.

  “Ten silver coins on the shaggy lad, Ser Lucius,” Adreyu whispered. “It will not last much longer.”

  “A fool’s wager.”

  “No faith in a desperate fighter? It is then that a man is most dangerous. Cornered like an animal—that is when their true strength is unveiled.”

  “A man who must convince another that a counter wager is just, is a man who has faith in his own. I will not open my purse for you today, my prince.”

  Adreyu began to laugh, and the knight did as well. Some of the onlookers—bored knights, their squires, and up jumped swordsmen awaiting their turn in the pit—gaped and guffawed and bowed their heads. Adreyu waved them off, and pointed to the match.

  The shaggy fighter watched the blade, brought shield to every near blow. When the blonde-haired fighter staggered from an over reaching blow, the shaggy fighter took the legs from underneath the blonde-haired fighter, placing the tip of the blunted blade at his throat.

  “Well fought,” Adreyu called out, and all eyes turned to him.

  The master-at-arms—a tall grizzled man—bellowed back. “Piss for fighters, Prince Adreyu. The lot must serve for what it is.”

  Adreyu chuckled at Ser Stuart Hinit’s sour abrasiveness. “If I do recall, ser, you once thought that if I were ever to survive a battle, I had best find a hedge to hide behind, and hope there were no flaming brands on the field.”

  “Might be I still do in this intolerable peace. I got some big luggards here who could smack you down on your royal arse. If you would not mind that finery be stained by mud and sweat.”

  The assembled laughed uproariously, and Adreyu smiled wickedly. I will never back down from a challenge. He unlatched his sword belt and handed the scabbard to Ser Lucius, and then leapt over the rail and embraced his old friend.

  “Arm your prince,” Adreyu demanded. “And let us see if you can still train big men.”

  Ser Stuart began issuing shouts, rousing some of the boys further away. Meanwhile a short lad handed Adreyu a battered wooden shield and a blunted longsword. It was long since he had felt the weight of practice weapons, and though the balance felt a bit off, he flicked his wrist a few times and felt comfortable. He heard a loud harrumph, and saw a man of even height, though he seemed to weigh a stone more. The boy bore an ugly face though there was bloodlust in his eyes.

  “An ugly bull this one is!” Ser Stuart shouted. “Show your prince that my trainin’ was not lost on you, boy.”

  The bull charged. Adreyu put his shield up and planted his back foot. He felt the ringing vibration as the sword struck the wood. Strong. This one’s strength will serve him well.

  He pushed forward, knocking the bull back. Closing the gap, Adreyu swung at the man, who parried with the blunted blade. Adreyu stepped back.

  “You will need more than brute strength, boy,” he mocked.

  “I am not the one muddied.”

  The bull charged again, but Adreyu rolled to his right and lay a broad-sided blow to the back of the man’s leg. The bull turned, and charged back aggressively, swinging savagely.

  Mistake.

  The bull’s eyes seemed to grow with every lazy shield block that Adreyu glanced away.

  “Fight!” the lad roared.

  “But why,” Adreyu mocked, “you are but defeating yourself.”

  He savored the bloodlust. He craved battle; not the petty squabbles of politic with coin counters and fools in silk. Even in practice the rush was unmistakable, the blood and sweat was the only salve he ever needed.

  He slammed hard into the bull’s shield; and the man was taken back from the vicious strength that Adreyu hid to this point. He cut quickly at the shield, towards the legs, arms, and feet. The bull fell back, and shouted, “Yield!” as he thumped hard into the mud.

  “Get the oaf up!” Ser Stuart shouted. “Use your strength less and your wits more, boy. Same goes for the rest of you lot. Battles are not won on strength and fortitu
de alone, but on deception and strategy.”

  “I had the prince!” the bull grunted as two other boys helped him up.

  “You had piss, boy. Out of my sight!” The master-at-arms turned and looked to a freakishly tall lad. “You, Terrel, pick up your sword and shield. See what you can do.”

  “Terrel, is it?” Adreyu asked. “Tall.”

  The lad did not say aught back.

  “The boy does not talk much, my prince,” Ser Stuart told him. “Better than these louts who talk more than is good for them.”

  Adreyu charged the mute instead of waiting. Terrel parried more than blocked. Adreyu could not get close enough to land a blow. After a series that left him breathless, the boy smiled.

  “He mocks you, Prince Adreyu,” Ser Lucius called out. “What, forget how to fight them tall bastards?”

  Adreyu unslung his shield and threw it away. Terrel did the same.

  “I had not forgotten,” Adreyu insisted.

  Terrel charged, issuing small, short cuts that Adreyu parried, and in turn he lunged forward at the lad’s exposed front side, though Terrel side stepped it.

  “You know what you are about, boy,” Adreyu said. “Yet you shall never conquer a foe if you are so defensive.”

  Adreyu delivered a savage over the shoulder cut that caused the steel to ring out loud. The lad pushed back before mimicking the maneuver from the opposite shoulder. Adreyu parried the blow, and the boy pushed down hard. Rolling to the right, Adreyu saw the tall lad stumble forward, and before the boy could rise, Adreyu’s foot was on Terrel’s back, and blunted steel on the back of his throat.

  “Up!” Ser Stuart shouted. “That is enough of your disgrace this day. A foe’s tongue is as dangerous as the blade he wields. When you are goaded, you are dead. Hah. One more would please the prince?”

  Adreyu wiped the sweat off his brow. “One more, Ser Stuart.”

  “Jameis!” the master-at-arms shouted. “Do your brothers proud. You are the last lout. Come forth!”

  A slightly bigger, and much stronger man stepped forward. His eyes were stern and unforgiving, and his face was determined and sere. Adreyu thought the man possessed the demeanor of a knight who had been bloodied, even if he was only a squire. Adreyu reached for his shield and strapped it on.

  Jameis did not move. He planted his feet with shield up, waiting. Ser Stuart was shouting, and soon the squires followed. There was a crowd. The whole ward seemed to crowd around.

  If it is a spectacle they want—

  Adreyu quickly charged forward, feinting, and then buried quick slices towards his foe’s shield, sword, and side. His blows were blocked or parried. Jameis moved his feet slightly, pivoting. Adreyu paced around his foe, feinting and striking; none landed, nor did a reprisal come. Recalling battles of yore, he dared not yield to frustration.

  “Knock him down!” a voice called out.

  “Skewer the prick!”

  “Feed him mud!”

  Adreyu struck the shield again, and Jameis pushed back with all his weight, sending Adreyu flying against the rail. His arm was sore, not stiff. The force was violent; and he thought the man’s strength unfathomable.

  Jameis charged and all Adreyu could do was slip aside, and he heard the sword ringing against the rail. He swept a cut against the back of the man’s leg, though the lad did not falter; he only turned and rang his blade down in vicious, overhead slashes. Adreyu parried, though he was pushed back through the mud. Nearly at the rail on the other side, he put his shield up and pushed back; the momentum stopped as the wood became a pin cushion for the blade.

  Adreyu ducked away, and he threw away the shield between blows. The lad’s sword came down into the mud. Adreyu breathed heavily as he watched the behemoth discard his own shield.

  Adreyu met his foe in the middle of the pit, parrying the blows that came to him, responding with two handed slashes. When it became apparent that he could not brute force his foe, he dodged, tempting his foe to slash viciously away from him. He succeeded, but his foe never lost balance, and any glancing cut was shrugged off.

  He clashed hard against his foe’s blade. His arm ached, though he would not move. “Who are you?”

  Jameis looked down grimly. “Not a boy of this land.”

  “I should have you slain. Not a man here would not cut you down if I but called out.”

  “Pride stays your tongue, Prince Adreyu. It was ever meant to be your fall. The Cleaver Prince’s butchery ends in the mud.”

  As if some illusion was dispelled, the man’s face seemed rounder and fatter, eyes no longer stern and sere, but caring and resolute.

  “You are—”

  “A humble, pious man,” the boy replied as the flash of steel came forth, and a blinding pain seared Adreyu’s sight. He looked down and the hilt of a dagger jutted from his chest; the twisting blade found a way through the links of mail. He found himself without strength as his own sword fell from limp fingers, and his vision blurred.

  There were men all about him, though he no longer recognized the voices. What they did, what they were doing, he did not know. He made out their question, “Who did this?”

  “Stephen Francis. Dalian. Dalia did this. They struck first. Tell my brother, tell him that…”

  As the words twisted from his memory, all Adreyu saw was a darkening realm, alive in its immeasurable churnings.

  Is this where I have sent so many men?

  Doubt creeped through his mind as he slowly lost grip of the realm he knew. He lay in death and despair and saw a pair of crimson eyes boring away at every thought, until it was alike all that moved around him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fates Entwined

  Reuven felt the Darkness in the air.

  “Dach,” he called out, and the Deathsworn hurried from outside the chamber door. “Take whoever remains and go to the king. The tide has come, tell him that, and let no harm befall him.”

  “Your will be done, Elder Reuven.” The Deathsworn ran off shouting, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the halls.

  “The presence, it is here, is it not?” Yeuil asked. Her face was worn and creased with concern. “I can see it writ upon your face.”

  “He hath come. I thought we had more time,” Reuven grunted. “Drape my cloak about my shoulders. Aerona will have need of you. She has not accepted her role yet. I would not have her face the daemons alone.”

  “There is little anyone can do against them,” Yeuil declared, flapping the red cloak, and pinning it around his neck. “If any could, it will be her. The Harpy survived the Calamity, and stood before the Faceless Shadow. Strength resides in her heart.”

  “Confusion rules it, Yeuil. Fear does not take hold, yet that will not ward her against what is coming. Keep her safe.”

  He reached the door and Yeuil asked, “What will you do?”

  “Take the daemon’s head for myself.”

  The tower was empty. Torches were near guttered, and though it was mid-afternoon, he felt a palpable gloom, like a snake slithering across the floor. Amos. The serpent has twisted ‘round every other country, this kingdom is next, lest I can stop it.

  He ran down the twisting, lifeless stair, and lunged into the chaos of the castle.

  Women and children were wailing in corners, weeping, covering their eyes and ears, unable to bear the shouts and screams. Knights and guards all had swords drawn, running west, and then north. He followed the knights, bowling past any who stood in his way. He passed the great doors to the throne room, and the Royal Protectors had their swords bared and bloodied; corpses of nobles in silk lay at their feet.

  He turned a corner and the halls opened; squires and lads with blunted swords shoved past. Atop the walkways, maids, servants, nobles and merchants ran away to the south, east, and west, all but the north.

  He arrived at the outer wards and came to what seemed to be a training yard. To the left were the remains of archery butts; bows and swords were abandoned, and the imprints of mailed
feet depressed into the packed mud. To the right, he saw a fighting pit; knights shoved away any onlooker who came to close. Men shouted that they saw some stranger run to the east, others the south.

  Confusion and madness.

  “What happened here?” Reuven demanded of a knight.

  The knight shoved back, barring the way. “Piss off.”

  Reuven pulled down his hood. “Let me through. I serve the will of King Tristifer.”

  Recognition drew upon the burly man’s face, and he waved Reuven towards the pit.

  Healers and herb masters were knee-deep in the mud, hunched over a man who could barely speak. A score of knights turned to Reuven, but quickly stayed their ground. He knelt beside a slim, wisp of a girl who held Prince Adreyu’s head in her lap, whilst the others were stripping his robes and mail off, staunching the twisting wound that discoloured the ground.

  “The blade,” Reuven demanded. “Show me the blade.”

  A tall knight dropped the dagger steel first into the mud. Reuven withdrew it from the mud. The blade itself was twisted and jagged, dark and sere, as if the steel was layered with some dark metal.

  As if forged by the stones themselves. Steel wielded only by—

  “Prince Adreyu!” Reuven shouted. “Can you hear me?”

  The prince only murmured; his head barely moved. A short man in frayed robes looked up as his wrapped hands pressed against the wound, and said, “Be silent. There is little strength that remains to him.”

  “He will not survive,” Reuven growled. “What he knows will help those who yet live.”

  “You are the king’s guest, not the king himself. Do not make him talk, upon orders of the king!”

  “What would you know of the king’s will? All who seek audience with him are met by puddles of blood. My words will give King Tristifer answers.”