The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  With his feet dangling over the edge, Malrich pulled out a hunk of cheese the Dunie garrison master had been generous enough to part with. “It would be best if we got some food in our stomachs before the Cul begin their hunt. We’ll have to stay as stiff as stones tonight if we hope to go unnoticed.” He offered a slice to Emethius. Emethius shook his head — his attention was set elsewhere.

  In the dying embers of the sun, Malrich spied Emethius using his dagger to score fresh lines into the vambrace he wore on his left forearm.

  “You don’t need to do that, Emethius.”

  Emethius kept at his grim memorial. “All I’ve ever wanted was to help people, Mal. My mother, Prince Meriatis, those Dunie. What other purpose does a man have, than to leave the world a better place? But the older I get, the more damage I seem to have done in this world.”

  “Hash marks on a piece of armor don’t tell the full story,” said Malrich. “They are a blunt reminder, nothing more. They do not reveal the nuance of each decision. They say nothing about justice, or morality, or compassion. They are simply a line.”

  “Was it just for me to kill my own father?” asked Emethius, pointing to the first line.

  “There’s no blame for that. He was sick with the Blackheart.”

  “He was sick,” Emethius agreed, but there was something about the way he said those words that Malrich found unsettling.

  The story of Lithius Lunen’s demise was well known amongst the Henna Lu community. There was an entire industry of dwarven men and women authorized by the Court of Bariil to send victims of the Blackheart into the netherworld, headsmen for the poor, alchemists for those willing to spend a bit of gold. Emethius had taken the responsibility onto himself. Few would have made the same choice.

  “My father always was an abusive drunken sot,” said Emethius, still looking down at his vambrace. “But things only got worse after I went away for school. Without me there to take the brunt of it, my father took his rage out on my mother. She still bears the scars of his final assault. I did what needed to be done. I thought I was saving her, but I might have ruined her instead.”

  Emethius held up his vambrace, revealing the ten grooves etched into the hard leather. “Each represents a choice I can never take back. Each represents a chain of consequences that are now beyond my control.” He pointed out each hash mark in turn. “My father, Perin, and Quintus, plus these seven helpless Dunie at Interleads.”

  “Death can be a mercy.”

  “What I did at Interleads was mercy,” Emethius agreed. “And the deaths of Perin and Quintus were ill chance. My father’s execution was a perverse form of justice, or so some might say.” He sighed, looking genuinely exhausted. “If I can save Meriatis there will be one less soul weighing on my conscience. Honestly, if I have to add one more line to this tally it just might break me. I think I’d rather die.” Emethius’s hands were trembling.

  Malrich held Emethius’s hands until the tremors subsided, then he pulled a blanket over his friend’s frame. “Get some sleep, Emethius. I’ll take the first watch.”

  Emethius was soon asleep. Malrich kept at the watch for the better part of the night, lost in his own thoughts. Every soldier carried with them a number. Some men were lucky, and were held in the reserve, thus avoiding the thick of battle and the necessity to kill. Others fired arrows and could distance themselves from the harm they inflicted upon their enemies. As a cavalry man, Malrich had always been in the thick of things; each broken lance and hewing stroke remained seared in his memory. Eight was the number Malrich knew for certain. He had grievously injured several more, but he did not know if the men lived or died. During the war a stiff drink had been sufficient to crush any semblance of guilt. But what did he feel now?

  Nothing, he finally surmised. I feel nothing at all. How could he ever hope to be a good man if he didn’t feel guilty over taking someone else’s life? He looked at Emethius, who was grimacing in his sleep. We’re opposite sides of the same coin, thought Malrich.

  The sun dipped below the horizon and the Cul took to the mountain pass. A fire raged on the far side of the valley, and drums tolled away to the north. Throughout the night, Malrich could hear the pad of feet running up and down the trail, and around midnight, a great procession of torch bearers, several hundred in number, marched toward Interleads, crying and cackling as they went. Malrich trembled as he watched them go, the sight reminding him of a fire wyrm weaving its way through the mountain.

  • • •

  The sun broke the eastern horizon and the cackling ceased. Shivering against the morning frost, Emethius and Malrich clambered back to the path and resumed their journey north. The trail took them deeper and deeper into the valley. The snow-capped peaks were now behind them.

  We’ve passed the high point of the mountain, Malrich realized, eyeing the peaks that now soared to their backs. They would soon come to the Stygian Mines, and beyond that, the Great Northern Ador.

  It was midday when they arrived to the southern entrance of the mine complex. The Dawning Gate loomed before them, blocking the path. It was one of two massive gates that guarded access to the valley. Moored into the rock face of two adjacent cliffs, the bronze gate rose fifty feet into the air. It was studded with hundreds of sconces, and the spent wax of countless candles cascaded down its face like a frozen waterfall.

  Malrich looked upon the gate in awe. “It must have glowed like a wall of flames at night.”

  “Aye,” said Emethius. “Until the light was extinguished and the Shadow took it. Look here.”

  The indomitable Dawning Gate, built to guard the last bastion of civilization in the west, stood ajar. Blood painted the ground at its base, but there were neither bodies nor discarded blades to show any other sign of struggle. Malrich shuddered as he considered what the Cul might have done with the dead. They passed through the narrow opening and entered the mine.

  The Stygian Mines encompassed a wide bowl-shaped valley. Black holes riddled the cliff face and valley floor, giving Malrich the impression they had just entered a mole colony. Some of the chasms were small, barely large enough to allow a single person to crawl through at a time, while others were massive; a dozen men marching abreast could enter and still have room. Large mounds of earth, built from the discarded detritus of the mines, lay all about the valley. The road wove through them, branching off like the threads of a spiderweb. Atop the largest hill lay the scorched remains of the mining town. They gave the ruined settlement a wide berth and veered west.

  Emethius and Malrich ducked and weaved as they went, trying to pass through the mines without notice. The entire encampment had been fouled by mud and stagnant pools of water. Malrich guessed the waterworks had been undammed by the Cul, and they soon found themselves trudging through ankle deep mud. So much for not leaving a trail for our pursuers to follow.

  They had walked halfway through the compound when a cry rent the air. Malrich froze midstride, the cry ripping through his nerves like a razor blade. He spun about, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. In the silence of the deserted mine the cry was ear-splitting, although in reality it was probably no louder than a whimper.

  Emethius shot up his finger, signaling for silence. He motioned for Malrich to duck down. Crouched low in the midst of the mire they waited and listened.

  “I see you,” moaned the voice.

  Malrich threw his hands over his mouth, silencing an audible gasp.

  “They’re gone now, all of them. Quickly, come and help.” There was a clank of chains. “To your right, to your right, look!”

  Thirty paces to their right was a patchwork of small holes from which rose a reeking vapor. There was no way to tell where the victim’s voice was coming from.

  “What do we do?” whispered Malrich.

  “Stay low,” hissed Emethius. “This may be a trap.”

  “A trap?” responded Malrich. “Most likely, but we are so close. If he can see us, he’s not far, just beyond the mouth of one of those t
unnels.”

  “That’s the realm of the Cul, not ours. There is no saying what is hiding within the gloom.”

  “He’s a Dunie. He wouldn’t betray us.”

  “Would he not?” challenged Emethius. “And how certain are you that he is a Dunie and not a Cul?”

  “The Cul can’t speak,” said Malrich. “Can they?”

  Emethius looked at him blankly; he knew the answer no better than Malrich. “We cannot risk the mission over this.”

  “You did at Interleads,” said Malrich.

  “At Interleads there was certainty,” answered Emethius. His hands were shaking.

  At Interleads you still had the confidence to do what was right. “Fuck it,” muttered Malrich. He sprung from their hiding spot and raced toward the cluster of holes before Emethius could stop him.

  “Mal, no!” blurted Emethius, but Malrich was already peering down the first tunnel.

  “Where are you?” called Malrich, scurrying to the next tunnel mouth when he found the first one vacant.

  “Here! Here! I’m right here! Hurry!” The voice was coming from a tunnel about a man’s height in diameter.

  Malrich rushed to the mouth of the tunnel and immediately gagged as the smell of rot wafted up to greet his nose. He placed his forearm against his mouth and nose to ward off the stench and squinted into the darkness. A figure lay on the ground a dozen paces from the entrance. It was a Dunie soldier, of that Malrich was certain, but the darkness of the tunnel concealed most of the man’s features.

  “Get away from there,” hissed Emethius.

  Malrich waved at Emethius for silence and drew his sword. “Are you alone?”

  The figure jerked up to a seated position, his head lolling back and forth. He waved his arm at Malrich. “I’m right here. Hurry!” repeated the figure.

  The hairs on the back of Malrich’s neck stood on end. There was something about the way the man spoke that felt off. The figure began to bob back and forth, his arms flapping up and down. Then Malrich saw it; iron collars were strapped around the figures neck and wrists. Chains were attached to the collars. They ran up through the air to a series of pulleys embedded in the ceiling and then vanished into the depth of the tunnel.

  “Gods help me, he’s dead!”

  There was a soft creak, the kind of sound most men wouldn’t even notice, but Malrich recognized the sound immediately. It was a bow being drawn taut.

  The chained figure dropped to the ground, like a marionette released by a puppeteer. Malrich did likewise, and not a second later, an arrow came hissing out of the darkness. It just missed the top of Malrich’s head.

  “I’m here! Right here!” screeched the voice, which was now filled with rage.

  Malrich didn’t look back. He dove out of the tunnel just as a second arrow was let loose. The projectile missed him by a wide margin and went crashing into a pile of debris.

  Emethius was at Malrich’s side in half-a-heartbeat and pulled him to his feet.

  “I see you!” screamed a different voice from a nearby tunnel. “I see you, I see you, I see you!” The chorus came from all around them. All at once, a barrage of arrows came flying in from every perceivable direction, fired from tunnel mouths all over the valley. Emethius and Malrich ran for their lives as arrows clattered near their feet and whizzed by overhead.

  They rounded the final rubble mound, and the Dusking Gate came into view. The structure was nearly identical to the Dawning Gate on the far side of the valley, and just like the Dawning Gate, it, too, was open. Arrows rebounded off the face of the gate as they scrambled through the opening.

  The Cul cackled and laughed as their barrage of arrows pelted the gate, but none gave chase. With the gate serving as a protective barrier, Malrich and Emethius collapsed to the ground and sucked air.

  “That was stupid,” managed Emethius between breaths.

  “Damn stupid,” Malrich agreed.

  “You have any holes in you?”

  “No more than I was born with,” said Malrich, patting over his body just in case.

  “Then let’s put as many miles between us and this cursed place as we can.”

  Emethius took the lead, setting a grueling pace that did not stop even as night drew on. The path began a steep descent, and the scenery rapidly changed. The thorny bramble gave way to evergreens. The hoot of owls and the chirps of bugs resounded in the boughs of the ever darkening forest. If the Cul were giving chase they did not make a sound.

  Near midnight a ghostly shape emerged before them. They had reached the end of the Barren Tracks, and empty ramparts and dark windows overlooked the road.

  “The trading post of Cesca,” said Emethius, giving the ruins a name. “This was the ancient link between the east and west, built by the Cella at the edge of the forbidden forest.”

  “Then this marks the beginning of the Great Northern Ador,” said Malrich. He eyed the dark forest that surrounded them. The evergreens on one side of the road looked no different than the ones on the other side. He knocked on the trunk of one of the ancient evergreens. So great was its girth, a pair of men could wrap their arms around the trunk and not touch one another.

  “The gods forbid the talsani people from entering the forest and harvesting the wood of its trees, yet Atimir was foolish and bold,” said Emethius, continuing down the road and into the ruins. “How many trees must have been felled to build the homes and shops that once stood here? This town was an affront to the gods. Its ruins stand as a testament to Calaban’s wrath.”

  It was difficult to gauge how large of a settlement Cesca originally was. Most of the ruins had been consumed by the forest. The crumbling city keep was the only building of any significance that remained standing.

  Malrich and Emethius entered the keep, deciding it was safest place to shelter for the night. An aisle made of white marble divided the great hall in two and led to a weathered stone throne. Set into the wall behind the throne was a stone mosaic. In the dim light of the moon Malrich examined the scene depicted in the mosaic. Lord Atimir stood in the center, flanked by his army on the right and his grand armada of white ships on the left. In one hand he held aloft a sphere of shimmering adamant, and in the other a golden scepter. Upon his head was a crown beset by ten glowing gemstones. Unfortunately, the image had been sullied by vile hands. Atimir’s skin had been blackened, as if shaded by charcoal, and horns had been added to his crown. He looked more like a demon than a powerful lord.

  “Must the Cul defile everything?” said Malrich with a sigh.

  Emethius could only shake his head in response.

  They found an alcove far away from the ghastly mosaic, and there they fashioned beds out of pine needles. Feeling utterly exhausted, Malrich lay down upon his makeshift bed and stared up at the night sky. It looked remarkably similar to the sky above Mayal.

  “Tomorrow we will enter the forbidden forest,” said Emethius, as he settled down to sleep. “Supposedly there are forces within those woods even the Cul will not defy. We would be wise to keep this in mind.”

  Malrich knew what type of forces Emethius was referencing: the lost sons of Fenis, the Perim Lu. A shiver ran down his spine as he envisioned the yellow-eyed figures who had hunted them across Emonia. “Their souls reside in the boughs, and all who enter may never come out,” said Malrich, reciting the poem concerning the fate of High Lord Fenis’s five lost sons.

  Emethius nodded. “We are just as likely to meet our doom here, under the canopy of the sacred forest, as we were to meet our end along the Barren Tracks.” He sighed wearily. “Get some rest, Mal. I will take the first watch. For better or worse we are on the final leg, easier to go forward than to turn back.

  CHAPTER

  VIII

  A FATHER’S WISDOM

  Leta hiked her knees up to her chin and stared despondently at the floor. She was in her father’s parlor, ordered to sit and wait for him to come and scold her like she was a child. Sir Rupert stood guard at the door just in case she tried t
o leave. It made her feel like she had lost every year of hard-fought wisdom she had ever gained.

  “I’m the one in the right,” she muttered irately. But her proof was gone. The image of Hern laying at the bottom of the ladder, his head cracked open like a melon, made Leta feel like she would be sick all over again. She had already thrown up twice, once on General Saterius’s shoes. The tiniest of victories, thought Leta with a grim smile.

  She only saw Ionni briefly. The bold girl had made the mistake of trying to shield Hern with her body. Saterius swatted Ionni aside like she was a peasant, breaking her nose and giving her a black eye. The last Leta saw of the girl, she was being escorted to the infirmary by Herald Cenna, her legs wobbly and unsound. Ionni’s wounds would heal. Hern’s would not.

  Saterius left Hern’s body where it fell, insisting that only Vacian Sisters had the training to deal with a corpse tainted by the Blackheart. Leta read his true intentions; Saterius didn’t want to bring the body into the light. It would be impossible to hide the signs of torture. If Leta had to guess, the corpse was probably being sped off to the crematorium while Leta sat locked in her father’s study. I need to stop that from happening, otherwise my last shred of evidence will be gone.

  Leta rose from her chair and scowled at Sir Rupert. “I can’t just sit here all day waiting for my father to come scold me. I need to go check on Ionni.”

  “The girl is fine,” said Sir Rupert. His eyes were fixed blankly on the wall. “Herald Cenna knows what he’s doing.”

  “Be that as it may, I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have involved the girl.”

  “Right you are on that one, priestess. Damn stupid, that was.” Then, perhaps sensing his words were a bit too harsh, he sighed. “Look, on any other occasion I would abide by your command, priestess, you know I would; but not today. I have very specific orders from your father. He doesn’t want you to... ah... embarrass yourself any further. His words, not mine.”