The Winds of Strife (The War of the Veil Book 1)

by John Donlan

  It was the last sound he made. A wicked, black blade rose into the air and came whistling down against his throat, severing his head from his body.

  Seventeen

  Captain Jaran Olmsfard walked the halls of the royal palace, his footfalls echoing loudly around the ancient stone walls. He was reminded of a time, just a week or so earlier when he had been moving with a similar purpose. Back then, he had been on his way to speak to the queen, to try and make her see sense. Today he had a different goal in mind, but it was no less important.

  The queen had made good on her promise to return to the proper ruling of Arrenissia, but she had also taken to locking herself away in the archives for hours on end, at times when she was not busy with duties of state, to pour through old tomes and talk with the ancient loremaster, Kindrey. At first, Jaran had been unconcerned; the queen would eventually grow weary of her search, or come to the same conclusion that he already had. She had hallucinated the thing in the mountains. It had been nothing but a fever dream, brought on by the cold and the exposure. But she had not done as expected. If anything, her frantic, urgent search had increased in pace and determination. Jaran was certain that Kindrey was aiding and perhaps even encouraging the queen in her fantasies, but he had no proof. He made a mental note to himself to have a stern talk with the old archivist.

  Lately, the queen had been absent more and more often. She only appeared for meals or to perform official duties, duties that could not be taken up by another. If she could avoid something, she did. Her eyes had taken on a near zealous sheen, the same look he saw in the eyes of devoted, fanatical priests in the city. Despite apparently finding nothing to substantiate what she claimed she had seen, her belief in that strange entity and the murder it had committed only grew stronger. It was taking a toll on her in ways that worried Jaran. She had shed weight, and she looked exhausted due to lack of sleep. If it went on much longer, Jaran feared she would grow ill.

  He had not wanted to consider it before now, but the last day or two he had forced himself to face the possibility that his queen was falling prey to the same sickness of the mind as her father. He had heard of such things being passed from father to child, before, so it was not beyond the realms of possibility. In many ways, he found it easier to believe that, than to accept her story.

  So Jaran had done what needed to be done. He had decided that if the queen would not see the truth herself, he would make her see it. Two days earlier had sent a detachment of his guards back to the mountains, with instructions to find the hut the queen had described, and to learn the truth of what had happened. He fully expected that they would find an abandoned ruin, or perhaps even the woman alive and well. He had a suspicion that the witch had done something to the queen, perhaps given her some foul concoction that made her see the things she did. A part of him hoped that was the case as it would relieve some of the fears that were consuming him. Whatever it was, he intended to discover the facts, and then present them to her highness in a way that could not be disputed.

  The guards were due to return today, and he was on his way to speak with them now. He had arranged to meet with them in secret, to avoid unnecessary questions and suspicions.

  He took a little used route through the palace and emerged into the growing darkness of dusk through a small door at the back of the palace. There was a small training yard here, where his most skilled and trusted guards would come to practice their combat skills and to drill for possible war. A barrel of wooden swords sat up against the wall, while old pieces of armour sat in a corner, rusting.

  Those sessions had grown more numerous of late. He was determined that his men would be ready when the inevitable conflict arrived. In addition, commands had gone out to the generals of the army to do the same thing. That had been a more trying decision to make, since increased training amongst the kingdoms soldiers would not fail to be noticed by the populace, and of course, they had. The rumours had already begun to spread like a fire. Whispers of war and strife carried through the streets of the city, and he had no doubt that they would reach the other towns and settlements in Arrenissia before long. But there was no helping that. Better that the people worry than to be unprepared when war began.

  The walls that surrounded the palace were nearby. A door was set into the wall beneath a curving arch of stone. It was a little known entrance to the palace grounds and would usually be guarded at all times, despite the fact that the door was hidden on the other side by thick ivy and clinging vines. Now though, the guards had been dismissed. He did not want anyone seeing the return of the men he had sent to the mountains.

  He knew that the queen would be very displeased to learn that he had decided to investigate her claims; the ruler of Arrenissia was meant to represent the ultimate authority. As such, any word the queen spoke was deemed to be true. Disputing anything she said was tantamount to treason. If the queen so wished, she could arrange for him to be stripped of his rank and banished from the palace, or even have him executed. At best, she might have him locked away for an indeterminate amount of time. He did not believe Lysena would do any of those things, but he was not willing to take the chance. Not because he feared for himself, but because he feared for the queen without a loyal and devoted man at her side. He was doing what he was doing for her and for Arrenissia, not for himself.

  While he waited, he rubbed his hands together briskly in an effort to stave off the cold. Here in the capital, the snows had not yet come, but the winter months were fast approaching, and already the temperature had plummeted. He could feel the bitter chill in the air. It was nothing compared to the merciless cold that would come with the changing of the season, but the potential was already rearing its ugly head. He shivered and then turned back to the door.

  He did not have long to wait. There was a rattle, and then the door opened and a man staggered through. A single man, not the small troop he had expected. He had sent five of his best, all competent, strong, stalwart men.

  His eyes narrowed, then widened in alarm when he saw the look on the guardsman's face.

  He had seen that look before, on the faces of men who had witnessed the horrors of war and lived through them. The eyes grew dull, hollow, haunted; irrevocably changed by all that they had experienced. This man wore that same expression, as if he had seen something so terrible and horrifying that it would live with him for the rest of his days.

  Jaran reached out and grasped the man's shoulders, pulling him forward. “What happened?” He hissed. “Where are the rest of the men I sent?”

  The guardsman stared at him for a moment as though not recognising who he was facing. Comprehension came a moment later. He shook his head slowly. “They are dead,” he whispered back. His voice was broken and without strength. “All dead.”

  “How?”

  “We went where you told us to go...” the man took a shuddering breath and ran a trembling hand over his face. “The cabin... was burnt, almost to ashes. But the snow was not... we went forward... we looked beyond the walls. And then...”

  The man's face took on a sudden look of horror as though whatever he had seen was too terrible to remember. His eyes bulged from the sockets as though they were about to pop out, and his whole body began to shake uncontrollably. He crumpled, sobbing brokenly.

  Jaran shook the man hard, trying to bring him back from whatever brink he was about to topple over. But he knew it was already too late.

  “It killed them. All of them. But it left me alive… it spoke to me. It told me to pass on a message… It is waiting… for the queen.”

  Jaran stepped back quickly, afraid that the terror gripping the man might be infectious. Despite the precaution, he still felt a chill steal over his heart as though an ice cold hand had wrapped frozen fingers around it and squeezed.

  And the thought that the queen might actually have seen what she claimed she had seen began to take root in his mind for the first time.

  * * *

  The queen was sleeping in her chambers. E
ven after what he had heard from the surviving guardsman, Jaran was reluctant to wake her. Coming here without permission was one thing, coming here when the queen was slumbering was something else entirely.

  But he had no choice. After seeing the guardsman to the barracks to rest, he had taken the decision at once. The queen had to know what he had done, and in turn, he had to know what the queen had learned in her studies of the archive. Whatever had happened to his men, it seemed certain now that it was connected to the thing that had been summoned in the mountains. The queen had not dreamed her encounter and he had been wrong to doubt her.

  He knocked hard on the door and then, when he heard a muffled response, pushed through and stepped inside.

  Queen Lysena was just sitting up in her bed when he entered the room, a vague, formless shape in the darkness. He waited until she had collected herself and lit a candle beside her bed before stepping forward. She glanced at him briefly and then sighed.

  “I can see from your face that you have done something disagreeable, captain, and I think I might even hazard a guess as to what it might be. You went to investigate my claims.”

  The fact that he was here at all would have been enough for her to guess the first, and the expression on his face would have led to the second. The queen was an astute woman, and Jaran was bad at hiding the guilt of his deeds. He nodded. “I did not go myself, my queen, but I sent men to validate what you told me. I wanted to prove to you that there was nothing to fear, that you had perhaps imagined the things you thought you had seen. I know now that I made a grave error. Only one of the men I sent returned.”

  She sat up fully, frowning as she swung her legs out over the edge of the bed. “I wish you would have trusted your queen enough to believe what I told you, Captain Jaran. The thing that was born in those mountains is not something to be trifled with, nor taken lightly. We are lucky that far worse did not happen.”

  Jaran stiffened and held his back rigidly. No man liked to be told how badly he had erred, and he least of all; but he also served the queen, and in this instance, there was no escaping the truth of what she was saying. Even so, her reprimand was like a slap to the face. It made his stomach crawl with self-recrimination. She was right. He should have trusted her.

  “I was wrong,” he said softly. “But to believe on faith alone is a difficult thing, my queen. I had to know the truth of it.”

  “The truth of it?” She was standing, pulling a shawl and cloak over her shoulders to fight back the evening chill. “Even I, with my diligent studies have barely started to peel back the layers of what we might be facing. But I believe it is time to tell you what I have discovered, though it may shrivel your heart to learn of it.”

  “I am ready.”

  He followed her out of the chamber and down to the archives below. The old loremaster, Kindrey Lolsk was there, slumbering at his desk, head resting on a heaped pile of books and parchments. He did not even stir as the pair swept past him.

  Jaran had never cared much for libraries. He had only been here in the private archives once, on the queen’s orders, and he had never felt compelled to return. He was a man of action, not words, and he considered books to be a waste of his time. Ink on a page was no substitute for a sword in the hand, after all. Still, he did not dismiss them completely. He knew that for others, they were a useful tool; a means and a guide to knowledge. Just not for him.

  The books contained here, however, left a foul taste in his mouth. They concerned magic; deep, dark magic, ancient rituals, things mankind had no business delving into. He had known of the old king's fascination with such things, and had found himself loathing that side of the man. superstition and ancient tales were the domain of old nursemaids and storytellers in inns, not kings. He considered it to be a strange and unwholesome contradiction in a ruler who had otherwise been wise and noble. He often wondered if it was this obsession that had led to the mental disintegration that had eventually claimed the king’s life. But at least the king had known to keep his curiosity to himself. Royalty had been toppled for lesser things than an interest in ancient arcana.

  The queen led him to an old, battered table at the far end of the archive. It was piled high with books and had the look of being used extensively of late. Here, he realised, the queen had delved into the same interests as her father.

  She went around to the far side of the table and beckoned Jaran forward. He approached and she pointed to an open book. “Read,” she said simply.

  Jaran did as she commanded.

  There are only a few, fragmented accounts of encounters with the Frendrith. We know of their existence only through the practitioners of that most vile of arcane arts, and through terrible encounters with the servants of those ancient and abhorrent entities. Yet even then the accounts are disjointed and incomplete, and those who witnessed such things were often driven into the darkest pits of insanity.

  There is only one truth of which we can be certain about with any degree of accuracy; the arrival of these sinister and macabre beings always, and without fail, precedes a great calamity. There are but a handful of recorded encounters throughout known history, and each one heralded a disaster, such that it can no longer be considered coincidence.

  What is not known is whether the arrival of these sinister servants serves to warn us, or to bring about those terrible events themselves; are they messengers, or the instruments of the terror that follows? None alive can be sure of the answer to that question with any certainty, but it is my opinion that both answers are true. They come to do both. Like all things natural and supernatural, the Frendrith have the will to be both benevolent and malevolent.

  It is written that when they enter our world, they do so without form or substance; a living darkness that can do little but consume and devour. But with each life claimed they grow in power and shape, until their true nature is revealed. At that time, the real purpose of their arrival becomes known, at least to those who are aware of the existence of the entity. By then, of course, it is often too late.

  Jaran looked up as he finished reading the passage and a chill dread settled over him. “My men...” he whispered, realising then what he had set in motion.

  “Served only to strengthen this thing,” the queen said, sadly. “Whatever it may be. It feasted upon them, captain, and in so doing, grew stronger. Whatever its purpose here may be, the death of your guardsmen only served to bring it closer.”

  He closed his eyes, appalled at this fresh discovery. If true, he had potentially brought disaster to his world.

  “The war that you fear is coming may only serve as a prologue to the true horror awaiting us,” Lysena said softly. “I will not hold you accountable for seeking the truth of my claims, captain, but you must still make retributions for your actions. To that end, you must swear to aid me in my search for a means to unveil the intentions of this dark stranger, and to do all that we can to stop it.”

  “I swear on my oath to the crown, my queen,” Jaran said as he opened his eyes. “I will stand by your side.” How could he have done anything else, now that he knew what he knew, now that he had sent men to needless deaths because of his lack of belief?

  “Good.” She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know that you will not fail me again, old friend. And now, I believe we are getting closer to a revelation and an understanding. Until then, we have work to do.”

  Eighteen

  The night was cool and refreshing after the heat of the day, and Shuvani revelled in the soft breeze that blew across her bared shoulders as she slipped out of her home and began to make her way along the winding trail that led down to the great river. There was a large stone dock on the banks of the river that she owned, the last one before the great sinuous body of water emptied into the sea. It was an essential part of her holdings, allowing her to send huge barges east, to the other cities in the empire. It was also useful for certain other things, such as the purpose it would be put to this night.

  Shuvani had bee
n forced to wait until her sister was in her bed and sleeping soundly before leaving the villa. Muvesh had been a thorn in Shuvani's side ever since she arrived. She had become a shadow, following Shuvani wherever she went, asking question she had no business asking, and becoming more of a nuisance every day. As a result, Shuvani had been made to halt her usual dealings as much as possible, but there were still some things that could not wait, and the business tonight was one of them. There was someone she needed to speak with, someone essential to her plans.

  The path was steep but easily descended. Where it became too acute, stone steps had been cut into the sandy earth. Flickering flames sat in brass braziers all along the path to light her way and to ensure she did not miss her footing. She knew the way well enough, however, that she could have made it in the dark. Tonight, she wished she’d had the foresight to douse the lights completely. She felt as though eyes were watching her every step of the way.

  Shuvani was wearing a simple blue dress of exquisite silk. It hung from her sensual frame, hugging her bosom and hips before falling lightly around her sandalled feet. Her shoulders were bare, as were her arms. Only a pair of soft straps held the dainty garment in place. Shuvani had discovered long ago that her physical attributes could be of great value to her, and she used them whenever she could. The meeting that she was about to attend would be one of those times. The woman waiting on the docks very much admired Shuvani's beauty.

  She could see the small boat waiting beside the stone platform at the edge of the river. It was a single masted vessel, capable of river travel and of short trips along the coast. It was a type used mostly for pleasure by idle nobles in the cities, but also as a means of transport between the various hubs along the river. The owner of this particular boat used it for neither of those things. For her, it was a tool of her particular trade, and a vital one at that.