The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Malrich, I need your canteen,” he called into the empty forest, his mind still half-delirious. “I need to boil some water and clean these wounds out.”

  Somewhere nearby a damaged tree succumbed to the forces of gravity and toppled over.

  Emethius only possessed fragmented memories of the attack. The Cul had Emethius and Malrich surrounded. Then there was a light and a figure made of shadows. The god had rummaged through Emethius’s mind like a thief searching a house for valuables. Then a blue streak of energy struck the earth, leaving emptiness in its wake.

  Malrich is gone.

  The truth hit Emethius like a hammer, and for a long time he remained motionless on his knees, calling into the still forest air. “Malrich,” he whispered over and over again. “Malrich,” he yelled, in a vain hope that someone might hear his cry. “Malrich! Malrich! Malrich!”

  The dread that had filled his heart in the presence of the Calabanesi now had meaning. The Cul had taken Malrich. So vile a foe grants no quarter. The words echoed in his head. Malrich was doomed to a death by torment.

  “By the Gods, what have I done,” cried Emethius. His right hand scratched frantically at the hash marks in his leather vambrace. His eyes searched the heavens. “Return to me vengeful god! Do with me what you will, but save my friend. He is innocent of my sins.”

  The forest was silent. There was no divine response. He cried until he had no tears left. Then he cursed the gods and then himself. When he got tired of that, he cursed the undertaking of his quest instead. “The mission of a fool.” He spit out the words bitterly. “I led one friend to his death to rescue another who was beyond saving. Fool. Fool. Fool!” Mustering what strength he had left, he staggered to his feet and began to walk south.

  Several hours passed. He trudged onward, although he knew not exactly why. There was no point in venturing to Bi Ache, he surmised. He had surrendered the location to the Calabanesi. Ftoril’s Sage and Sorceress were doomed. So where could Emethius go? Returning to Hardthorn was not an option — the Perim Lu were certain to kill him if he reentered the Northern Ador. Suddenly, taking another step seemed like a chore. Maybe I should just lie down and wait for the Cul to find me.

  But as that pitiful thought of surrender entered his mind, he heard the faintest of noises. A subtle tapping in the distance. It was quiet at first, but it slowly grew in intensity until Emethius could identify the sound.

  “Drums,” said Emethius. The noise droned from the southeast, drawing Emethius forward like a beckoning voice. But the drums weren’t for him, Emethius surmised. The Cul had a captive, and they wanted the whole forest to know. The sound would summon every Cul for a dozen miles.

  Emethius grabbed at his face, and let out a howl of frustration. “I have done all that I can for Meriatis,” said Emethius, absolving himself of his quest. He followed the tolling of the drum.

  The drumming was farther than Emethius imagined, and it was nearly dusk by the time he drew near the source. It seemed to originate from the far side of a wooded hill. Emethius crept forward with caution, concealing his advance behind the trunks of trees. He wormed the last twenty paces to the crest of the hill on his belly. Beyond, the hill fell away into a narrow valley, over which hung a thick canopy of trees. Squalid huts and lean-tos made of dyed animal skins stood everywhere. Countless tunnels were bored into the faces of the two opposing hills that formed the valley. Filtering from the caves and lean-tos were hundreds upon hundreds of Cul, all moving west like ants streaming from a nest.

  The drums tolled, brum, brum, brum!

  The rays of the setting sun shined upon their destination; a raised platform built at the edge of a precipice, beyond which the earth plunged into a deep gorge. From his elevated vantage Emethius could spy the shimmer of turbulent water at the base of the gorge. It’s the Puttdale River, Emethius knew in an instant, for beyond that lay the ruins of a vast and desolate city.

  Emethius couldn’t keep the moan from passing his lips. After journeying for weeks through the hostile kingdom of Emonia, the unwelcoming lands of the Dunie, the Cul-infested Barren Tracks, and the maddening Great Northern Ador, Bi Ache was finally within sight. Yet I will never reach it.

  On the raised platform, standing in a place of prominence, was the desiccated carcass of some unidentifiable creature. A bear, perhaps, or some nightmarish collection of body parts from many different animals — Emethius could not tell for certain. Somehow, the creature was posed in a standing position. It’s hairless body was black as jet. The shrunken flesh of its face revealed savage canines and empty eye sockets. A circlet of hammered iron mounted the head, beset with the tusks of a boar. A line of Cul shuffled by the grotesque figure, stroking its legs and bowing their heads.

  A limp figure hung before the effigy, bound by the wrists between two post. It took Emethius a moment to realize the battered and disheveled figure was Malrich.

  Emethius’s heart raced, and he felt like he was going to be sick all over again. “Focus,” he commanded himself. His stomach cooled, his pulse steadied. He had to do something, but what? The Cul were too many to contest, guile was his only hope. “Oh, Faceless God of Vas Perloh, guide me in my moment of need.”

  The bodies of the Cul were hidden from head to toe by their clothing. He could kill one and take their garb. As long as he kept his head down and didn’t reveal his eyes he would be indistinguishable from everybody else. But he would need a distraction. His gaze wandered to a cluster of huts with dry thatch roofs. “A fire just might work,” muttered Emethius to himself.

  While the Cul were distracted by the blaze, Emethius could go forward to pay homage to the effigy. That would put him close enough to Malrich to cut the bindings. But once he was atop the dais, there was only one viable escape route. He and Malrich would have to go over the cliff and into the river. If they survived the fall the Cul would surely give chase, but if Emethius and Malrich could reach the far side of the river and slip into the ruins of Bi Ache, they might be able to find a safe place to wait out the night. It was a desperate plan, but it was the best option Emethius had.

  Countless leagues in the distance, two white mountain peaks protruded from the earth like fangs. The sun finally began its slow and steady plunge into the valley created by the intersection of these two peaks. Their silhouettes became alight, two pyramids of stone wreathed by spectral flame. Sunset had arrived, and this set the Cul into a frenzy. Their voices rose into a terrible din, drowning out the drums and filling the valley with their awful call.

  Atop the dais, Malrich struggled weakly against his bindings. His skin was pale and slick with sweat. His tunic was stained red, likely from the arrow he had taken to the bicep. The wound to his leg was still oozing blood. His eyes were covered by a scarf, making him blind to the throng of chanting Cul.

  Brum, brum, BRUM!

  The drums ceased, the crowd fell silent. A Cul emerged from a tent beside the platform. Based on his ornate attire, Emethius assumed this was the village chieftain. The chieftain’s skin was concealed by a black animal hide, over which he wore a rusted hauberk. Half-a-dozen gold rings were pierced through his chin, the claws of a bear dangled from the rings. His teeth stood out as white ivory against his charcoal skin. The chieftain approached Malrich, bowing to the bear-faced effigy between every other step.

  Seeing that the crowd was distracted, Emethius darted from his hiding spot. He came to a halt at the edge of the village. He was now only two hundred yards from the platform. Emethius searched for a Cul that had lagged behind, but he didn’t find anyone. Emethius cursed under his breath. Time was running out.

  The crowd began to cackle, and the chieftain wrenched the blindfold from Malrich’s face, exposing him to the ruthless mob. Malrich grimaced and clamped his eyes closed, unable to bear the sight. This seemed to delight the Cul, and they began to shriek even louder.

  The chieftain motioned for silence. Once the crowd had settled down, the chieftain reached for Malrich’s face. Malrich contorted violently, j
erking his head from side-to-side. But the chieftain would not be dissuaded. The chieftain reared back, causing Malrich to howl like an abused animal. The chieftain was holding something aloft between his forefinger and thumb. Emethius was forced to stifle his own cry. The chieftain was holding Malrich’s eye.

  The chieftain placed the eye in the empty eye socket of the bear’s skull. The enraptured mob began to chant with delight.

  “Mercy,” whispered Emethius, knowing that it was the only thing left for him to do. Mustering up every ounce of air in his lungs, Emethius roared into the dusking night. “Hold your hand!” His call echoed through the Cul settlement. A thousand heads turned, and a thousand pairs of bloodthirsty eyes settled upon Emethius.

  Emethius did not hesitate for a second. With his sword held in both hands, he charged. There was a throng of Cul fifty deep between Emethius and the platform; he did not let that stop him. Emethius dove in amongst the Cul like a rabid beast, slaying four Cul before a single blade was drawn against him.

  Most of the Cul in the rear of the crowd were unarmed women and children, and they ran from the chaos shrieking in terror. The majority of the Cul warriors were gathered near the platform, and they were forced to jostle with those trying to flee to reach Emethius. Emethius welcomed every Cul he came upon with his sword, slaying all indiscriminately.

  Emethius drew closer to Malrich with every hewing stroke and piercing stab. Two archers emerged from the throng. Emethius split open the neck of one archer, but the second managed to get a shot off. The arrow embedded itself in Emethius’s leg. Howling savagely, Emethius took off the top of the archer’s skull before he could nock another arrow to his string.

  A spearbearer seized the opening and plunged the tip of his weapon into Emethius’s side. To the Cul’s great surprise, Emethius wrenched the spear free and turned the spear against its owner, punching a hole through the Cul’s gut. He then proceeded to use the spitted Cul as a battering ram. He pushed through to the front of the mob and clambered onto the raised platform.

  The Cul chieftain was waiting for him. Before Emethius could gain a sure footing, the chieftain swung a bone ax at his face. Emethius dodged aside, but not fast enough. The wedge of bone bit into his shoulder instead of his skull. Howling in pain, Emethius lashed out with his blade, cleaving the chieftain’s hand off at the wrist. The chieftain fell off the dais screaming in agony.

  More Cul warriors leapt atop the dais, eager for a fight. There was no way to beat such numbers, Emethius knew, and he was already badly injured. He ignored the surging throng and rushed to Malrich’s side, slicing through the bindings that held him in place.

  Malrich fell into Emethius’s arms, thrashing wildly. It took Emethius a second to realize why Malrich was fighting back. Malrich’s right eye was gone, and his other eye was swollen shut. He was effectively blind.

  “It’s me,” said Emethius, wrapping his arms around Malrich’s chest and holding him steady.

  Malrich began to cry. “You came for me.” Then with a degree of sadness. “Why? You should have saved yourself.”

  “Loyalty can cause a man to do stupid things,” said Emethius. He wiped the blood and filth from Malrich’s face, then held his friend close. The Cul had them surrounded. Net bearers were fencing them in, while others blocked their path to the edge of the cliff. Emethius sighed with resignation. It was as he feared, there would be no escape.

  “Thank you,” whispered Malrich, his voice trembling. “I was afraid of facing the dark alone.”

  “Then we will face it together,” said Emethius. He kissed Malrich upon the forehead. Then, setting Malrich between his arms, Emethius gripped his sword with both hands, and turned the blade inward. Malrich reached out and joined Emethius’s hands upon the hilt. The Cul, upon realizing their intention, rushed forward.

  “I love you, Mal,” whispered Emethius.

  Malrich nodded and sniffed back a tear. “I’ll see you on the other side, captain.”

  Emethius plunged the sword inward with all of his strength. The blade passed through Malrich’s frame without slowing, then Emethius felt the sword pierce his own flesh, slick and fast. A darkening chill overcame Emethius as he teetered on the brink of eternity embracing his friend.

  A pitiful cry rose up from the Cul. Emethius had defeated them, robbing them of the sacrifice they most desired. A small and simple victory, thought Emethius, as a light filled his world, blue as the sea and as bright as the sun.

  He let the warmth of the light drive away the chill, and a peaceful smile creased his lips. A blue flame enveloped his body and his existence was reduced to a deep quiet hiss.

  CHAPTER

  XII

  THE TREMELESE DAGGER

  The walk to Herald Cenna’s chamber was quiet and cold. Lady Miren, prideful as she was, led the way. They settled into the herald’s private study. Cenna took his usual seat upon the couch while Ionni slouched over in a nearby chair in a vain effort to look inconspicuous. Leta paced before the mantle, her heart pumping too hard for her to feign any measure of civility. Cenna gestured for Lady Miren to sit on the opposing couch, but she refused, apparently unwilling to sit in so equal a place. Instead, she leaned against Cenna’s desk, claiming the highest roost for herself.

  A look of disgust crossed Miren’s face when she saw that Ionni was in their company. “What is this traitorous little bitch doing here?”

  Ionni leaned forward and opened her mouth to reply, but Leta interjected before she could say anything. “Ionni is not the problem. The problem is what’s going on at the Vacian Monastery.”

  “I agree. You have interrupted the work of the gods,” said Lady Miren. She was now slurring her speech, although she didn’t seem to notice. “The final sacrament is an act of compassion.”

  “Which god favors this act of compassion?” snapped Leta. “The god-saint Tiberius, or the Shadow that Creeps?”

  “If anyone is serving the Shadow’s will, it’s High Lord Valerius and his demon spawn children.”

  “Sacrilege!” shouted Cenna. “The Line of Benisor was chosen by the gods themselves.”

  Miren scoffed. “Sacrilege? Is that so?” She gestured toward Ionni. “We have rebels conspiring to abandon the gods. We have a priestess cavorting with treasonous heretics. We have a prince calling for the overthrow of Calaban. And we have a high lord who claims to be a prophet, yet he refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

  Herald Cenna looked to Leta. “Is this true?”

  “Which part?” replied Leta, knowing that each one of Lady Miren’s accusations had a degree of validity. Her eyes wandered to the mantle and the ornate Temelese dagger Herald Cenna kept on display there. She was half tempted to pick up the dagger and stab Miren in the neck.

  “Admit it,” snapped Miren. “High Lord Valerius refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

  There was no use in lying. “Yes,” answered Leta. “My father has not sat upon the throne since the rebellion.”

  Cenna’s eyes narrowed. “This is troubling.”

  “That it is,” said Miren smugly. “Because that makes High Lord Valerius a false prophet, and he has led us all astray. The gods are watching us, even now. Do you think they judge us sinners, or do you think they judge us saints?” She clutched her fist until the blood drained from her knuckles. “If High Lord Valerius won’t act as the Prophet of Calaban, someone else has to. I have been given divine purpose, and I will do what I must to see that the will of the gods is fulfilled.”

  “A bold claim,” said Cenna. “But be wary. You are not the first Merridian to claim to be enacting Calaban’s will. Throughout history, most who have done so have had an unfortunate fate.”

  “Such should be the fate of all heretics,” said Miren. “Which takes me to my purpose.” She drunkenly waved her hand over the room. “Do you enjoy your plush apartment, Cenna, your comfortable little temple, your finely prepared meals? Do you like being revered and adored by the faithful? Do you like spreading the message of the gods
? All these things rest on a knife’s edge. Our little theocracy survived the first rebellion, but it won’t survive the second. Even High Lord Valerius, daft as he is, understands this. But while he is willing to test fate, I am not. Every last rebel must die, from Prince Meriatis to Admiral Ferrus. Only then will the wrath of Calaban be satiated.”

  “I will not allow for another clean soul to be smuggled through the doors of my monastery,” said Leta.

  Miren wheeled about and spat with fury at Leta’s feet. “Fine, let our little masquerade be finished. I’ll kill the heretics in the Grand Plaza if need be; I don’t really care. Let’s see your father try to stop me. He has his backers, Leta, but so do I.”

  Leta understood her insinuation. The Calabanesi supported Miren’s actions. “If you truly serve the gods, then you should know their commandments. There is one law that reigns supreme; it is a sin to take the life of another. Look at your hands, they are tainted with blood.”

  “Look at my hands? Look at your own.” Miren pointed to Leta’s pale flesh. “You aspire to sit upon the Throne of Roses, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the gods have already rejected you. You even have the scars to prove it. The gods demand obedience, and all your wretched family offers is rebellion and a deaf ear. It is time for your tainted line to fade, and for a new, worthy family to assume the throne.”

  Miren sighed and stared blankly off into the distance. “That was my sweet Fennir’s intent, and what a splendid high lord he would have been. But your cursed brother killed him, and now I live for one reason — to set right the ship.” Miren’s face contorted into a grimace. “I’m going to hunt high and low, far and wide until I find the murderer of my beloved son. Justice will be had, even if that means I have to hold the ax myself. Only when your line is completely extinguished will the gods be satisfied.”

  Leta heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward Herald Cenna’s chamber. Lady Miren’s maddened rant was drawing an audience. Now was the time to act.