Secrets of the Stonechaser (The Law of Eight Book 1)

by Nicholas Andrews

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “These men use the colors of the forest to hide them, but a man who sees no color can more easily pick out movement. If you place him with an accurate bowman...”

  Nerris saw where he was going. “That’s an excellent idea, Mikaren. Take Chalis and see if we have such a man with us.”

  Mikaren and Chalis saluted and galloped off. Half an hour later, they returned with an older man who sported a white beard and a mole on his left cheek. His salute was somewhat nervous when he laid eyes on the commander.

  Nerris nodded at the man. “At ease. I understand you see no color, is it...”

  “Cheld, Commander,” the man said. “Aye, I see naught but shades of black, white, and gray. Been that way since I was small.”

  “Good.” Nerris gestured to the trees dotting the path around them. “There are archers in these trees, Cheld. As we ride, you are to keep your eyes on them. If you spot any movement, tell Chalis. Chalis, you think you can pick off any targets Cheld points out?”

  Chalis fingered his bow and jutted his chin at a boulder fifty yards away. “I could hit that stone dead center and have another arrow out before it bounced off.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  They gave Cheld one of the victims’ horses, and he rode beside Chalis, leaning over to whisper to him every so often. Chalis would nod, notch an arrow, and loose into the tree branches. It pleased Nerris to hear an accompanying scream follow the whistle of every arrow. He put Mikaren in charge of investigating the bodies, but no man carried any identification. With the fifth dead archer, though, the one-eyed hunter returned with a grim look on his face.

  “Look at this,” he said, handing a strange bow to Nerris. A rudimentary sigil was etched on the bow. The crudity made it difficult to discern, but they agreed it resembled a wolf’s head.

  “House Bosmick,” Nerris replied. “Prince Lahnel knows we’re coming.”

  “It’s logical,” Rade said. “He knows that Lady Qabala does not want him to link up with Dume Rhonor, or he’ll have enough of a force to break the siege. By now, the scouts will be off to report our numbers.”

  “Mikaren, go to Commander Quin and tell him we will make camp for the night,” Nerris said. “We’ll need to modify our strategy a bit.”

  Soon, Quin called a halt. Chalis went about setting up Nerris’s tent. He had appointed the young man as his personal aide, or squire, as he would be considered where Nerris was from. As darkness fell, Nerris lit a lamp and had a table brought in, where he placed a map of the area. Soon, Quin and Rade arrived.

  “Prince Lahnel is aware of our presence now,” Nerris said. “He’s trying to slow us down so he can choose a battleground. We’re still approximately a four days’ march from Gelnicka. We need to buy some time and force him to choose that place to fight us. Rade, you were to take one thousand cavalry to harry their ranks and supply wagons. I want you to double that number. Ride hard, until you come here.” Nerris pointed to a mountain pass west of Gelnicka. “Fall on him from both sides and cripple his wagons until he slows. If we can beat him to Gelnicka, the battle will be there.”

  Quin frowned. “If Rade’s men should fall, we’ll be short half our cavalry,” he said. “Our scouts report he has double our numbers with six thousand cavalry. We’ll be at a severe disadvantage.”

  “I know,” Nerris said, “but if Rade doesn’t fail, we’ll be able to surround them at the battle. We may be able to smash him right here and now.”

  “That’s not what the Aeterna ordered,” Quin said.

  “I’m improvising,” Nerris said. “If we can get spearmen on their flank, we could rout their cavalry. The rest will follow soon enough.”

  Quin still had reservations about the plan, but Rade was enthusiastic enough and insisted he would be back at Gelnicka with nary a man lost. Nerris dismissed them, and settled in for the night. As he lay on his bedroll, his thoughts turned to Qabala. How was she faring? Her army would reach Palehorse soon. Would Dume Rhonor’s army be waiting for them? Would her agents provide her access to the city without a siege, as the defector Lukas Kord had promised?

  He found he was anxious about the battle to come, something he had not felt since becoming a mercenary. For the first time in a long time, he cared whether he lived or died. He wanted to make it back to Qabala, to present her the gift of victory. And then...

  What then? Stay at her side in Palehorse? Become a Dume-General and rule with her? The throne was not for him, Nerris knew that much. But was Qabala?

  He fell into a fitful slumber from which he awoke an hour later. He knew why. He had reached for Qabala while asleep, and upon not finding her, panic jolted him awake. He sighed. Who was this strange, beautiful, captivating woman who had ensnared his affections so fluidly?

  Nerris dressed himself and left the tent. The chirping of crickets filled the chilly night air, and Nerris noted he could now see his own breath. The season had begun to turn. He encountered a guard at the camp perimeter, who looked half asleep himself. He hailed Nerris with a sloppy salute. “Uh, Commander—”

  “It’s all right,” Nerris said as he walked past him. “Just taking a piss. I can’t abide the smell of chamber pots.”

  The guard nodded and let him through. Nerris wandered away from the camp, stepping carefully in the dark. He had not lied; encampments tended to smell of piss and shit and smoke, and he never had much liking for it. He wanted to get into the forest, to feel the cool breeze on his face and listen to the sounds of nature.

  Though Nerris had grown up in the Great Oak Forest, these woods had their own unique presence. The gnarled trees seemed like hulking giants, especially in the dark, and it was no wonder the place had such a frightening reputation. Even Nerris, who braved horrors both physical and supernatural with frequency, kept a hand on his scabbard. He found a trail, and stepped over the fallen leaves silently, as he had been taught in his hunting classes at Gauntlet. Whether ghosts were out here or not, his presence was best kept secret.

  Nerris thought about the coming battle as he walked, and Prince Lahnel’s feeble attempts to slow him. Something didn’t seem right about that business with the archers. What had he hoped to accomplish?

  Lost in thought, he suddenly realized he had strayed far from the camp. He had climbed a hill, and could see the cook fires glowing in the distance. He strained to hear any sound, a man’s shout, a horse’s whinny, but he was too far away. He found a likely spot, and rolled down his riding pants, relieving himself on a tree stump.

  When he finished, he pulled his pants up and buckled his belt. That was when he finally heard a sound, drifting into his ears from over the hill. He heard many voices, raised in processional chant. It was faint, but it carried on the wind.

  Nerris knew he was in command of an army and had no business risking his neck so flippantly, but a lifetime of habitual curiosity was difficult to deny. Nerris sneaked over the crest of the hill and came upon a small copse, overlooking a glade in the far distance, well below his perch.

  Many chanters littered the glade, each wearing some kind of robe. Those on the fringe carried torches, giving light to their gathering. As Nerris strained to hear, a twig snapped behind him. In one quick motion, Nerris freed his katana from its scabbard and spun, swinging the blade in an arc.

  Steel clashed against steel as the figure behind him got his sword up. “Nerris, it’s me!” Rade hissed.

  Nerris hesitated before he went for his next stroke, and saw the old man’s gray beard and eyes twinkling in the moonlight. Nerris sheathed his sword. “Don’t ever do that, Rade,” he said. “I nearly cut you in half.”

  “Good thing my sword-arm reflexes haven’t gone to rust like the rest of me,” Rade replied.

  “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “Might ask you the same thing, Commander.” Rade sheathed his own blade. “It’s a nice night for a moonlight stroll, but you’re too valuable to lose. I’m just acting under Lady Qabala’s or
ders. She wants you tailed at all times.”

  “Tailed?”

  Rade shrugged. “She really wants you to come back to her. What’s so important that you need to leave camp in the middle of the night? Was Chalis’s cooking that bad?”

  Nerris pointed at the gathering in the distance. “I heard voices.”

  Rade looked out onto the glade, and his lips pursed. “Ah.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Undesirables.” Rade’s mouth curled. “With those dark robes, they must be cultists.”

  Nerris leaned out further over the edge of the copse. “Cultists?”

  “They’ve been the bane of northern Yagolhan for longer than I care to remember,” Rade said. “They manipulate people’s minds, make them into something that’s not themselves. They pray to a being known as the Tattered Man. New members are initiated by abduction rather than request, and they practice unnatural rites. But what are they doing this far south?”

  “What kind of rites?”

  “Human sacrifice is a popular one,” Rade said. “Murder is everything the Law of Eight stands against.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nerris asked. “What does the Aeternal Council have to do with this?”

  “Nothing,” Rade said. “The Aeternal Council was established thousands of years ago, its philosophy bastardized from a higher purpose to fit the whims of a power-hungry ruler.”

  “What higher purpose?”

  The chanting below picked up volume as more cultists joined in. They brought a man forth. He was naked, his manhood flopping side to side as the robed figures jostled him between them. The man’s captors laid him over a rock, and a figure emerged from the throng. The chanting stopped and became a kind of long gasp as he held up a hand, holding a long, curved knife.

  He approached the naked man and yanked back his hair. The robed figure began to saw through the man’s scalp. Blood ran down the victim’s face, obscuring his features. The captive screamed, long and primal.

  Nerris started forward, but Rade grabbed him. “There’s nothing we can do, Nerris, There has to be fifty of them down there.”

  “The men—”

  “They would be long gone before you came back with any kind of force,” Rade said. “Hard to pin down, these cultists.”

  In the glade, the cultist had finished his gory work and held up his victim’s bloody scalp for all to see. The chanting resumed, and this time mist formed as if called from the air itself. Nerris sucked in his breath. It was the same black mist he had seen in the tent on that last morning he spent with Qabala.

  The cult leader held out his hand at the man, and Nerris felt something, almost like a pull. Then it rushed out, and in the distance, the victim’s chest blew apart, spraying blood and flesh all over the surrounding cultists. The lifeless man fell into a pool of blood, and the cultists around them cheered. Nerris felt ill, but he quickly stymied that reaction and replaced it with fury.

  He drew his blade. “That tears it.”

  Before he could move or Rade could stop him again, the wind picked up in a violent rush. The torches in the glade flickered, and some of them went out. The rush of new voices filled the night air, rapid whispers which sounded like a combination of man and animal. Many shadows darted back and forth across the glade, and the cultists panicked. Chants turned to shouts of fear, and men stumbled over each other in their haste to flee.

  Nerris strained his eyes but couldn’t see anything but shadows and fleeing cultists. The whispering became more coherent, as what sounded like music and laughter mixed in with the wind. The shadows grew more numerous until they covered the entire glade.

  And just like that, the glade stood empty. The wind died down with the same quickness it had come. Only Nerris and Rade were left standing at their hiding place, looking down on a glade where blood had stained the ground moments before. Where the sacrifice had fallen, flowers now bloomed.

  “What in Clystam’s name happened?” Nerris said after a long silence.

  “What needed to.” Rade’s voice had lost its usual joviality, his words coming out solemn. “Come, Nerris. Those cultists will trouble this place no more.”

  Nerris followed Rade back down the hill and toward the camp. It was much in the same state in which he left it; not one man in the ten thousand he commanded seemed to have heard anything which had transpired beyond the hill.

  “Don’t dwell on it,” Rade said to Nerris’s silence. He saw Nerris all the way to his tent. “Get some sleep, Commander. I won’t see you until Gelnicka. Don’t worry, me and my men will give you plenty of time to reach the battleground.” He disappeared with a cocky smirk and a wave.

  Despite what he said, Nerris did dwell on it. He undressed and settled back into his bedroll, his mind recoiling in horror every time he saw that man’s chest explode in his mind’s eye. But he was also overcome with feelings of peace and serenity when he thought of whatever had driven off those mad cultists. He dwelled on that instead, and drifted off with a smile on his face. This time, he rested well.

  Chapter Six

  FALARES LED THE way through the North Gate, his plaited hair swaying as he slowed his destrier to a trot. Qabala followed, dressed in gleaming plate and a visored helm, surrounded by a dozen of her best sabres. Her wagon trailed behind, with all her possessions contained within: weapons, armor, treasure, and Meeka.

  Throughout the city of Palehorse, fires raged and women screamed as the men of the Horde took their pleasure. As they rode deeper, they came upon one such incident. A homely maid, her skirt hiked up around her waist, was being taken like a dog by one of Qabala’s militiamen. He was so intent on his pleasure he did not even notice their party. The maid looked up to them, and reached toward Qabala as if begging for relief.

  Falares kicked the man in the chest and sent him sprawling. “Away with you! Make way for Queen Qabala Aeterna!”

  The militiaman made a brief bow and caught his sobbing prize by the hair, dragging her farther up an adjoining road. Qabala watched them go, her lip curled in disdain. What right did a weak woman like that have to implore to her? She was much the same once, but had found the strength to rise above being a mere victim. The strong always rose.

  Palehorse had greeted them with defiance at their appearance, two days past. The Qabalan Horde arrived to find the gates closed, and the United Guard and the City Watch posted along the walls. Little had they known the rats were already inside the walls.

  Qabala surrounded the city and engaged in a feint against the south gate. As the undermanned forces of the late King Lahnen rushed to meet her assault, she sent up a smoke signal. Her people inside the city had responded in kind, creating a riot that drew the attention of the City Watch, while a force led by Lukas Kord stormed the North Gate, slaughtering all the sentries. He opened the way for Qabala’s men, who rushed into the city and took it from the inside, with casualties being too incidental to mention. The United Guard, however, had been eradicated.

  Falares and her sabres cleared a path as they made their way to the city’s west end, where the Aeternica loomed over all the surrounding buildings. She passed a city square, where the remainder of the United Guard kneeled under the presence of her own soldiers. With their hands behind their heads, they awaited her judgment.

  The main gate of the Aeternica stood wide open by the time her procession approached. Several men kneeled before her, the leader’s long silver hair hanging out from his blood-spattered half-helm. At a command from Falares, they rose. Qabala lifted the visor on her own helm to look upon them better.

  The leader removed his half-helm, revealing an older man with crow’s feet encircling his pale, blue eyes. He met her gaze and he grinned. “My Eternal, Palehorse and the Aeternica are now yours.”

  “Lukas Kord, you have done my people great favor,” Qabala said, “first with your information and assistance in the demise of Lahnen the Corrupt, and now for opening the gates of the capital, both of which have given us great victory while mini
mizing our losses. What would you have of me?”

  The former watchman saluted and bowed his head. “My Eternal, when your coronation has come, I would be named a Dume-General, to forever protect your divine person and mete out swift death to your enemies, and to lend my wisdom to your decisions concerning the welfare of Yagolhan henceforth.”

  “Then you shall have it,” Qabala said.

  Lukas kneeled. “I thank you, my Eternal. Allow me to present this gift.”

  He gestured, and one of his men came forward and emptied a sack at her horse’s feet. Her horse shied away a bit as a number of heads tumbled onto the cobblestones, some indiscernible through the coagulated blood.

  “Once your signal went up, my people inside the castle acted swiftly,” Lukas said. “The prime minister and his loyal councilors also welcome you to our fair city.”

  Qabala sniffed at the acrid stenches pervading the air, and glanced back at the smoke. “Hardly fair at the moment, your Constancy,” she said, using the formal mode of address for one who held the position of Dume. “If the castle is secure, I wish to be conveyed to my new chambers so I may make myself more presentable. There are battles yet to fight, and I must ensure the city is firmly in hand before that time.”

  “Of course.” Lukas Kord led her procession through the gates of the Aeternica. Her own soldiers were already inside, and stood at attention as she passed through the bailey.

  Qabala dismounted at the steps of the main keep. “Have those heads spiked and set on the ramparts,” she told Falares. “Then see that my things are brought to the royal chambers.”

  Lukas and a tail of sabres escorted her to the great hall, where the throne sat empty upon a red-carpeted dais. “Shall you take your rightful place?” he offered.

  “Not yet,” Qabala said. “I merely wish to gaze upon the thing I have fought for, for so long. When I hold godstone in hand and have my love Nerris by my side, only then will I sit the throne.”

  “I heard tell Nerris Palada was the man sent to end King Lahnen’s life, and even now leads your forces against his son,” Lukas said.