Dark Fate: The Gathering (The Dark Fate Chronicles Book 1)

by Matt Howerter

  The broad man and his mount plowed their way through an assembly of attackers, battle axe swinging and forelegs kicking. The group of Wildmen had worked their way around the Pelosian line and were headed toward the wagon filled with the princesses’ family. Kinsey’s savage attack scattered them, but more Wildmen poured from the forest and headed for the wagon, forcing the young women to take up arms.

  Erik loosed another arrow.

  His aim was true. The smooth wooden shaft entered the ear of an unsuspecting goblin crawling up one of the wagon wheels, sending it sprawling to the ground where it lay in a still heap. As Erik pulled another arrow from his quiver, Princess Sloane thundered by him, heading straight into the fray. Her dark hair had come down in the excitement and streamed in the wind of her passage like a lone penant whipped by a storm. The sword he had given her was held out to the side and behind, waiting for opportunity to strike.

  Erik didn’t waste his breath in an attempt to stop the princess; he had abandoned any attempt to keep her from the danger when he armed her. She likely would have paid little heed to his words in any event, so he settled for searching for potential assassins. Most of the Wildmen had rushed forward to engage the caravan after the initial rain of arrows, but it would be safe to assume a few of them still lingered in the trees, bows at the ready.

  The princess rode on at a near reckless pace. She dealt out blows to enemies foolish enough to stumble into her path but did not seek to engage them. From his vantage, he could see what she saw, and he understood her intention. The Wildmen who currently besieged the princesses’ family had unknowingly positioned themselves in a perfect line alongside the wagon. The young women on the cart swung wooden baskets, flowers, and blankets in a desperate attempt to fend off their attackers, providing the perfect diversion for the approaching Princess Sloane.

  An arrow streaked from the treeline toward the charging princess but missed, crossing behind her as she rode by. She was a difficult target, but if the archer was at all competent, he would not miss twice.

  Erik took aim on the treeline and waited for movement. Camelyard shifted slightly and his nostrils flared with a snort. “Easy, boy,” Erik murmured and eased his grip on the horse’s flanks. “Just a little bit longer—”

  Leaves shook and the tip of an arrow protruded from the bracken.

  Erik adjusted his aim and released, nocked another arrow, and released again.

  The first arrow disappeared into the trees. Staggering from cover, the hidden archer clutched a pierced hand. Erik’s second arrow took the screaming Wildman in the eye, dropping him like a stone.

  Much better. Erik grinned savagely, placed another arrow to his bow, and glanced back at the wagon filled with Pelosian women. He was just in time to witness Princess Sloane attack the Wildmen like a raging avalanche.

  Her battle cry sounded over the din of battle with a voice that echoed through the branches, as if it belonged to some nameless horror dwelling within a haunted wood. Her charging warhorse crashed into the line of Wildmen at full speed. Screams accompanied the sound of breaking bone as human and goblin were trampled into the dust under the hooved mountain of flesh and muscle.

  The women, still using picnic gear as a means of defense, jumped from the wagon and seized the weapons that had fallen from the trodden bodies littering the ground. Basinian troops rushed forward to join the ladies and repel the surviving Wildmen. The leader of the Pelosian forces rode up beside the princess, hacking into Wildmen at either side as he came.

  The struggle finally broke. Wildmen ran for their lives, in every direction, unable to defeat the more powerful forces of the caravan.

  Erik spurred Camelyard forward, calling for Kinsey and the other leaders of the escort. “We must move quickly. There is a larger force headed this way.”

  Rouke pulled on the reins of his horse as it danced about. “What of the wagons?”

  “Leave them. We must break from the main road and head directly to Riverwood.” Erik pointed in the direction of the riverside town.

  Bale frowned. “We don’t have enough supplies on the mules to make the rest of the journey.”

  “We can hunt for provisions along the way.” Erik leaned forward in his saddle. “We will not survive an engagement with the Wildmen headed this way. There are too many.” Erik hoped the Pelosian would look past his pride and see reason. The forces he’d seen would spell their doom if the large man decided to be stubborn.

  “Right.” Kinsey turned his horse from the group, not waiting for the Pelosian’s response, and began to issue orders. His voice rose to carry above the subsiding clamor. “Unhook the horses from the wagons, gather what you can, and get everyone mounted!” He spurred Dak forward. “We are leaving the road, now!”

  Bale gave Erik a flat look. “I will not leave without a prisoner.” He jerked his reins and trotted off.

  “A group of Wildmen that size don’t bode well fer us.” Rouke moved closer to Erik. “What’cha think it means?”

  Erik’s eyes had not left the Pelosian captain. He continued to watch as Bale dismounted to pick up a wounded Wildman and place him on his horse.

  Erik sighed. “Trouble.”

  “...and that is why, My Lords, Minister,” the nobleman stated as he turned to face the bench with a flamboyant wave of his hand, “you can have no choice but to agree that mine is the rightful claim to the proceeds in question.”

  A shifting of restless bodies was the only acknowledgement to Lord Popin’s closing argument and he resumed his seat in the relative silence.

  Banlor couldn’t have agreed more with the court’s silent proclamation of boredom.

  As Head Minister of Trade for Basinia, one of his duties was to sit in judgment not only over trade disputes, but many other issues of land and legal property. Many of the cases he presided over were, at their heart, nobles sniping at each other through legal means over one parcel of land or some point of authority that would give them an advantage for a short time. Lord Popin’s quest to solidify the proceeds of land beyond the tip of his estate, by means of acknowledging a twist in the river, was but the latest move from this most boring of men.

  Ridiculous pheasant of a man, Banlor thought irritably. No reason to deny him, though, and granting the request should cement his support in my next acquisition. Plus, there is his daughter...

  The exquisite young woman herself was in attendance with her father today. She spent most of her time looking nervously at the high seat where Banlor sat and fanning her face with a lacey folding fan that had to have come from the sylvan nation to the Northwest. Her fresh skin glowed with health, and her limber form was nicely swathed in a curve-hugging bronze silk. Her furtive glance caught his eye, and she smiled shyly, hope lifting the corners of her mouth.

  He picked up his crystal stone and pounded the leather pad before him, signifying to those present that he was ready to pass judgment. Lords Popin and Harrelfol rose to their feet. Popin dropped the hand of the lovely brunette woman by his side in order to clutch the pretentious plumed hat he had worn into the proceeding.

  He must be nervous, Banlor thought as Popin’s daughter—Walina?—surreptitiously wiped her hand on a strip of cloth she had slipped from a delicate leather satchel tied at her slim waist. Harrelfol had no attendants today. His solid brown eyes never wavered from Banlor’s face. Banlor thought the man must have guessed how the decision was going to be cast. Where Popin looked expectant and worried, the older and more weathered man simply gazed on in patient silence.

  Banlor allowed the quiet to stretch before he stood and addressed the room. “It is both an honor and a solemn duty for me to dispense these rulings in the name of our good King Roderick. Though you have both presented well-reasoned and compelling arguments for the proceeds of the Hantafour region, it is the ruling of this court that Lord Popin will be the recipient of the profit from the sale of the grain in this year’s market. Further, it is the ruling of this court that boundary markers be placed to permanently disting
uish the border of each estate.” He watched the faces of the two men and Walina as his words rolled over them.

  Harrelfol pursed his lips and began to organize his papers without a word of protest. Popin, by contrast, forgot himself enough that a loud whoop escaped his lips. The startled Walina stumbled sideways, almost dropping to the floor on her luscious rump. Popin took no notice of her distress. Quite unexpectedly, and unbecomingly, he rushed to the podium while Banlor was still delivering his final pronouncements.

  “Lord Popin!” Banlor snarled, arresting the fop’s forward rush. “Do not forget your place, or the accords of this proceeding, lest the judgments issued be stripped as penalty for your unseemly behavior. Act according to your station, sir!”

  Lord Harrelfol stopped for a moment, an evaluating weight to his gaze. Popin’s advance was halted most satisfactorily. The hat, however, would never be the same.

  Banlor allowed a cool smile to grace his lips. “As I was saying, these boundaries will be the absolute limit of the two parties’ land until the winter of the fourth year from this day. At which time, the rivers path will be reevaluated by my duly appointed representative.” Banlor watched as Harrelfol frowned and looked to Popin with disgust. “Any boundary dispute between then and now will be subject to the absolute rulings of this court.” His eyes swept across the courtroom.

  Popin, Harrelfol and the rest of the chamber were at rapt attention.

  Banlor nodded in satisfaction. “We are adjourned. Lord Popin, please attend me in my study for signing of the official decree.” He stood and lifted a hand, indicating that all present should do so as well.

  Obediently, the dozen or more people about the room stood and quietly waited while he descended the stairs from his seat. He passed through the door to his study that was held open by the guard who served as the bailiff for these proceedings. A gentle thump followed the closing door, which muted the rising voices of commiseration and congratulation to a low hum.

  Dropping his notes on the table, Banlor crossed the room to a cabinet and poured himself a drink.

  The study was not a huge room, but the fine precision of the appointments lent it the gravity appropriate to his station of Minister of Trade. Winewood paneling enclosed the walls and ceilings, and intricately woven tapestries had been chosen carefully for lighter colors that contrasted with the wood’s deep red hues. Thick woven rugs absorbed sound, pleasantly giving each motion in the room a quiet gravitas that settled his mind. One wall was completely given over to leaded casement windows that were currently thrown open to allow the late summer breezes to stir and freshen the otherwise still air of the room.

  Sipping from the crystal glass in his hand, he enjoyed the warm tracings of the amber liquid, then crossed to the windows to look out on the day and wait for Popin’s arrival.

  Where the room was muted, sensible, and controlled, Waterfall Citadel and its surrounding city were anything but. Perched at the edge of the Winewood forest on an island that split the Tanglevine river south and east, the city commanded a fine view of the forests as they stretched away to the Northwest.

  Fifty or more of the giant trees were scattered about the island city. Their roots anchored the ground and stretched their giant tendrils out into the water, creating eddy pools that attracted thousands of fish and then mobs of fishermen. At the island’s center, one massive specimen, Terrandal, soared several hundred feet into the air, its canopy easily two hundred yards across. The shade from the colossal, ancient thing covered almost a quarter of the island, and the winewood trees that sheltered under its massive bulk paid for their keep in a reduced size, only reaching to a height of perhaps one hundred and fifty feet. The buildings where people lived and worked had been built primarily of a locally quarried red limestone that matched well with the many wooden structures. All of the buildings had been tucked in between, over, around, and in some cases under, the roots that twined across the ground of the island. The palace where the king dwelt and held court was nestled into a joint between two enormous spreading roots on the east side of Terrandal and was currently enjoying the shade of the afternoon. All of the royal facilities were built around this behemoth. Parade grounds, practice yards, servants facilities—all surrounded the giant tree, and like much of the rest of the city, used the natural architecture of the roots to define their limits.

  Banlor’s home, much too far from the palace for his liking, was akin to the other manors belonging to nobles that had attained high standing. Built into the walls and roots that defined the edge of the palace grounds, the structure was a sprawling affair that afforded excellent views from the many open terraces of his estate. By design, the balcony to his private study was just visible from this vantage point.

  The second defining aspect of the city was the river itself. Tributaries from the great plains to the East flowed together, becoming the massive complex of rivers known as the Tanglevine. The mighty flood of water poured from a rocky shelf easily half a mile wide into a lake on the eastern side of the city. This violently turbulent pool rushed westward, flowing around the island to create two massive waterfalls that emptied into a basin several hundred feet below the city’s northwestern side. The large amounts of water rushing around the island city provided a constant low thrum of noise as they thundered down into the basin below. The water broadened into a deep but small lake, before it moved down through a series of falls that flowed to the Ice Lakes far to the Northwest.

  A massive shadow swept briefly across the windowsill and drew his eye to a sight others would consider as important a feature as any: the Rohdaekhann.

  They were distant cousins of the standard avian world and resembled eagles more than any other bird, though there was a departure in size. The Rohdekhann were huge. The giant that had passed above Banlor was carrying a rider clad all in leathers and crouched low into the golden ruffle of feathers behind the massive raptor’s head. With a wingspan of more than forty-five feet, the bird dwarfed his rider.

  Beyond their enormous size, one other distinctive feature separated these birds from their smaller cousins: their innate intelligence. As Banlor understood it, the Rhodaekhann had a social pecking order that almost mirrored that of the humans who lived and worked with him. They had made their homes in the Winewood here in the bowl and enjoyed the rich hunting of large fish, before a human ever came to the island. Centuries ago, the first humans were only able to occupy the island by making common cause, and as he heard it told, friendships with the huge animals.

  Manmade aeries had replaced the nests that must have preceded them. Dotted through the perimeter of the great Winewood, they were accessible primarily by winch-lifted baskets. Or, if one was bold, there were twisting stairs of wooden dowels that corkscrewed around the giant bole. No rails or ropes existed along these paths, but Banlor could even now spot several small figures making their steady way up and down.

  Either path you took, just getting to the eagles was only for the bold or the passionate. Once you had attained the heights, the eagles themselves presented an additional challenge. He knew from personal experience that each bird had a definitive personality and would not tolerate a rider they did not care for.

  Banlor fingered a deep scar that ran along one forearm. Scowling, he took another sip of his drink.

  A loud knock caused him to turn from the window. He crossed the room and raised his hand to a particular portion of the decoration within the frame surrounding the door. The ornamentation itself was an intricate carving meant to echo the patterns of the wild rivers outside, but in this one, small place, there was a concealed portal. Banlor pressed his finger against a small, carved rock within the patterns, causing the hidden panel to pop open. He removed the small tuft of wool that had been placed inside to prevent sounds from intruding, or more importantly, giving conveniently hidden access to conversations held in the privacy of this room.

  “Yes, Milliken.” Banlor knew the sounds passing through this portal would emanate from several subtly placed pinho
les on the other side, giving the impression of a disembodied voice speaking from everywhere at once. He hadn’t seen the work completed, but he had been told the trick was likely done with a series of finely wrought bronze tubes.

  “M’lord?” Milliken said. “Lord Popin is ready to meet with you.”

  “Yes. Very well. Send him in.” Banlor replaced the wool and firmly but gently shut the panel, causing it to blend back in with the other carvings with only a hint of its outline visible to his eye. Turning from the door, he retreated back to the windows behind his desk and assumed an air of readiness.

  The door opened, and thankfully, it opened on the visage of Walina. Before she could step forward, Lord Popin and his ridiculous hat promptly preceded her through the door. Milliken shut the door quickly behind the pair with an audible click.

  “My Lord,” Popin began, “I thank you for your quick and decisive rendition of justice in this matter.” Popin’s gaze went to the neat stack of papers on the desk in front of Banlor. “The papers I must sign?” He hurried toward them.

  “Don’t be more of an idiot than that hat makes you appear, Popin,” Banlor snarled. “It would be ridiculous to assume the official work could have been completed in the mere moments since I rendered the decision.” He watched as the steps Lord Popin had been taking faltered to a stop.

  “But then, what did you—”

  “You are here...” Banlor swept his free hand at the room. “So I can explain to you what it is you are going to do for me to uphold this decision.”

  A look of doubt crossed Popin’s face and he took a hesitant step backward.

  “We both know, as does Harrelfol, I imagine, this is a ridiculous contrivance that you have drummed up. But it is one I can see my way clear to upholding, if you do a number of things for me.”

  Popin snatched the hat from his head with one hand and once again subjected the bedraggled thing to a crushing grip. His face reddened. “That is absurd, Lord Graves. I—”