Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Biggest damn bird I’ve ever seen,” concluded Malrich. He rubbed at his wrist where the creature had bitten him. A matching pair of teethmarks ran on the front and backside of his arm.

  “It’s not a bird, you daft twit,” answered Emethius. “It’s a female dragon whelp. We have captured a dragon.”

  Malrich gave the creature a puzzled look as he sucked at the wound on his wrist. “Nope. That can’t be right. Dragons are extinct.”

  “I’d say the history books are wrong on that one. Help me tie her up.”

  They bound the dragon as best they could, tying her legs like they would a hog. Malrich took off his belt and cinched it about her snout.

  “What about her wings?”

  They were disproportionately small when compared to the rest of her body; Emethius doubted she could actually take flight. Just in case, he wrapped her upper torso in a blanket. Satisfied the dragon no longer posed any serious threat, Malrich and Emethius leaned back in their chairs and waited. This time, when Malrich offered Emethius a drink, he did not decline.

  “What does a dragon whelp have to do with Meriatis and the rebellion?” wondered Malrich aloud.

  “I plan on asking her that when she wakes up.”

  The dragon regained consciousness shortly before dawn. The beast remained as still as a statue — its shifting eyes were the only thing that revealed it was awake. The twin slits flickered between Emethius and Malrich, burning with hatred.

  “Do you think we’ve treated you unfairly?” challenged Emethius. “You’ve come sneaking to my door like a stalker in the night. You’re fortunate to still have your life.”

  The dragon’s eyes settled on Emethius. It was like looking into an inkwell. Some base instinct in Emethius’s head told him he needed to look away, to stare at the floor, and show submission to the beast. Emethius resisted the urge, and held the creatures baleful gaze. This seemed to please the dragon, and the corner of her mouth upturned in the slightest of smiles.

  A dragon only smiles at its prey, Emethius reminded himself as he carefully removed Malrich’s belt from around the dragon’s snout. “Can you speak?” asked Emethius as he quickly moved out of striking distance of her jaw.

  “I can speak in a thousand dead languages you would not comprehend,” hissed the dragon in the old tongue.

  Emethius struggled to keep his surprise from showing on his face. “Let’s stick to the common tongue. That, and an explanation of why you are here.”

  The dragon flashed her teeth in a toothy grin. “I have come as a messenger of the Sage and Sorceress,” said the dragon switching to the common tongue. She spoke with a heavy accent that bore twinges of the Tremelese dialect, but there was something else there as well. Something foreign. Something far more ancient. “I meant you no harm, although my treatment causes me to believe your intent is otherwise.”

  “You got better than you deserved,” said Malrich. He raised his bloody wrist. If you try to bite me again, I’ll be plucking those teeth right out of your skull.”

  Emethius ignored his friend’s bluster and took on a diplomatic tone. “If you are a messenger, do your job. Deliver your message.”

  The dragon’s lips curled in a toothy grin. “In your hasty assault my letter was lost, although if you check near the door...”

  Malrich was already on his feet. He held up a piece of parchment, and for a moment glanced over the text.

  “What does it say?” asked Emethius, not taking his eyes off the dragon.

  Malrich opened his mouth, but the dragoness spoke first. “The Wayward Prince awaits you. Find me at the Abbey of Atto Ifoire at midnight on the next new moon.”

  “That’s in eight days,” said Malrich.

  “Indeed,” said the dragoness. “Our paths have met too soon.”

  “But met they have,” said Emethius. “Why reference the Wayward Prince? Does this have something to do with Prince Meriatis? And why did you leave Herald Carrick’s journal on my doorstep.” He held up the journal which now had a slight bend in the spine from Malrich using it as a cudgel.

  The dragon clacked her teeth. “You will have answers to these questions when you meet me at the abbey.”

  Emethius frowned. “Why not tell me now?”

  “It’s not something I can tell,” said the dragoness resolutely. “Its something that must be seen. The Sage and Sorceress would have it no other way.”

  “Well, perhaps we will just keep you here until your masters change their minds,” said Malrich.

  Emethius shook his head. “Other than sneaking across my roof and leaving cryptic messages at my door, you’ve done nothing that shows you have ill intent. I will meet you at the abby in eight nights.” He undid her bindings. “If you have truly come as a friend, share with me your name and those of your masters. It’s only fair that I know who I’m dealing with.”

  The dragon arched her back like a cat, stretching her lanky torso and limbs. She gave her wings a few test flaps. “In your tongue I go by the name Ftoril Bato Mason. If and when you prove your worth, you will learn the names of the Sage and Sorceress.”

  Then quite unexpectedly, the dragoness leapt the entire expanse of the room and darted through the broken front window.

  Malrich watched the dragon disappear into the gloom. His disapproval was written plainly on his face. “We should have...”

  “Don’t say a thing,” said Emethius, cutting him short. We should have kept the dragon captive. We should have marched the beast to the Court of Bariil and turned her over to the high lord. But something told Emethius that he needed to find out what the dragon was hiding. Her cryptic message had him intrigued. “Are you with me on this, Mal?”

  “Aye, captain. I’m with you,” said Malrich. He gave Emethius a lazy salute, settled back into his chair, and took a lengthy draw from his bottle of rum.

  • • •

  The great hall of the Abbey of Atto Ifoire loomed at the top of the bluff. The building lay in ruins. Its lone standing wall teetered on the edge of the cliff, pockmarked and defaced. Emethius imagined the slightest breeze could send it toppling over, yet the wind howled strong and steady and still the wall remained.

  “It seems only fitting that this is where the little devil wished to meet us,” said Malrich. He hitched his cloak up about his cheeks to stave off a sudden gust of wind. The chill bit to the bone, and Malrich’s teeth gave a sharp chatter. “I can feel it. There’s something wicked in the air.”

  Emethius had to agree; this truly was an evil place, and his nerves were fraying with each passing minute. Midnight had come and gone, and Ftoril had yet to show her snarling face. Emethius compulsively rubbed at the vambrace that protected his left forearm. There were four deep lines gouged into the face of the hard leather, where there had once been three. Meriatis, mouthed Emethius, giving the new line a name.

  The abbey was originally a monastery for the Vacian Order. Supposedly, the goddess Vacia led the Merridian pilgrims to the bluff upon which the abbey was built, and from that vantage, revealed the cluster of islands that would eventually become Mayal. Standing now atop the sheer stone bluff, Emethius could spy the dim city lights shimmering half a league in the distance.

  In an age long since past, pilgrims from the farthest reaches of Eremel ventured to the abbey, hoping to bathe in the blessed waters of its bathhouse or feel the healing hands of the sisters who called the abbey home. But over the years, as the number of Blackheart victims grew, the abbey took on a more dire purpose. The Vacian Sisterhood was tasked with finding a cure for the blighted affliction. The sisters tried every possible concoction to cleanse the soul of the affliction’s taint. Nothing worked, and countless patients died tormented deaths within the abbey’s walls. It became a forsaken place, and its upkeep was ignored. Eventually the abbey began to crumble, much like the cursed souls it housed. The structure had been abandoned for more than a century. Its doors were left unbarred, and wild things moved in, replacing the patients.

  “The Sha
dow creeps as it ever does, but I feel it here within these ruins most of all,” said Emethius. “I’m getting tired of waiting. Let’s go search the abbey. Maybe we’re missing something.”

  He led the way into the abbey’s waste. Its southern walls had collapsed, and its domed ceiling lay in heaps across its once grand hall. The abbey’s bell tower still stood, but it tilted at an angle. Standing in the central courtyard was a lone statue. It was sculpted in the likeness of the Calabanesi, but its stone wings were sheared from its back, and most of the god’s face had been chipped away by a vandal.

  Emethius had only walked a few steps into the courtyard when a low hiss sounded to their rear. Both he and Malrich spun, seeking daggers they had concealed within their cloaks.

  “Follow quickly,” called the voice. The foreign accent left little doubt; it was Ftoril. A shadowed figure galloped across the court and clambered up a forested hill.

  “Ftoril?” called Malrich into the night.

  There was no answer, save the sound of clawed toes raking against stones.

  “Let’s go.” Emethius hustled after the sound of pattering feet which was already growing distant.

  The night was dark, without even a sliver of moon to help illuminate the way. Emethius slipped on loose rocks and caught his toes on hidden tree roots. Only a soft rustle in the brush signaled that Ftoril was still ahead of him. Finally, Emethius found himself atop a hill overlooking the abbey’s ruined great hall.

  “We are here as you requested, Ftoril,” called Emethius. “It’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain — why are we here?”

  “In time, in time.” The small dragon bounded from the shadows and leapt into a tree, taking refuge in its boughs. “Merridian, ever wise, should know it is best not to rush things. Wait and be patient. You will see when it is time.”

  “And when will that be?” grumbled Malrich as he joined them atop the hill.

  Ftoril did not respond.

  Malrich plopped down on a rotten stump and and began to fuss with the lid of his canteen. Emethius repositioned his dagger so it could be quickly drawn and joined Malrich on the stump. The darkness was so absolute Malrich was little more than a shadow sitting beside him. Ftoril remained perched in the tree; the dim glow of her eyes was the only thing that revealed her position. Emethius let his hand slowly wander to the hilt of his dagger — just in case.

  Emethius turned an ear toward the abbey. A muffled moan sounded on the wind. Or perhaps it truly was the wind. He didn’t think much of it until the sound repeated itself, this time with more strength. Emethius jumped to his feet. The abbey was not as vacant as it appeared. No one spoke. All ears homed in on the sound. It grew louder with each passing minute — first a murmur, then a wail, and finally a loud braying cry.

  Malrich couldn’t take it any more. “Is this why you brought us here, to listen to a banshee howling in the night? The damn place is haunted. We’d be fools to linger. We need to go.”

  Emethius did not respond. A light flickered on the periphery of his vision, drawing his attention inland, away from the abbey and the sea. “They’re coming.”

  A procession of torchbearers were walking along a path that ran directly beneath the hill upon which they were waiting. After spending so long in the dark, the torches seemed to shine as brightly as a beacon fire. Emethius felt inclined to shield his eyes, lest he lose his night vision.

  “Quickly now,” whispered Ftoril, leaping from her perch. She slithered along the ground like a serpent. Emethius and Malrich followed, staying low and quiet. She led them to a rock overhang that jutted above the path. They arrived just as the first torchbearers were passing by below.

  There were a dozen in all. Each wore a black cloak that concealed everything but their face. A soft clank resounded with every step. The men wore mail beneath their cloaks, Emethius surmised, and if the bulge on their right hip was any indication, they carried swords as well. This was a formidable host of fighting men, but who were they off to fight, or what were they meant to defend?

  Emethius got his answer when the middle of the procession passed beneath the overhang. There, flanked on either side by a guard, walked a bow-backed figure with a halting step. There, concealed in the darkest of night, walked Valerius Benisor, High Lord of Merridia.

  The progression disappeared around a bend. The steady rattle of shifting steel faded into the ether, replaced once more by the pitiful wail drifting from the abbey.

  Ftoril spoke in a hissing whisper. “Now you have heard the cry of a familiar voice and seen the light in the father’s eyes.”

  “I-I saw him die,” stammered Malrich. “The prince was as pale as a statue. He was set right through the middle by Emethius’s blade. No, this cannot be true!”

  “But it is,” hissed Ftoril.

  “Prince Meriatis lives,” whispered Emethius. “I would not have believed one without the other, but I know that voice, and I would not mistake the face of my own high lord.”

  “This is witchcraft,” challenged Malrich. “Some trick by the dragoness. We are being played, Emethius.” His hand shifted to the hilt of his dagger, as if to remind Emethius that killing the dragon was still an option.

  “The day I doubt my eyes is the day I lose my sanity,” said Emethius. “We mistook death for something quite like it.” He guided Malrich’s hand away from the hilt of his dagger.

  “So you did,” said Ftoril. “For the Wayward Prince lives. He has been healed of all mortal wounds. But in the absence of light a gnawing madness has taken hold. The Blackheart runs rampant, and he has been all but consumed by the Shadow.”

  The dragon is using you, reminded a voice in the back of Emethius head. But how? He tried to read Ftoril’s face, hoping to catch any hint of a lie. “Why have you brought me here, if not to tell me that Meriatis can be saved and that my sins may be undone?”

  Ftoril’s white teeth shone against the dark of the night. “A cure, you mean? Yes, that is what I offer.”

  “Why?” asked Emethius. “Who are you to care about Meriatis’s madness?”

  “My masters care, so I care. It is as simple as that,” explained Ftoril. She shrugged with indifference. “Surely this is something a Soldier of the Faith can understand. How many times have you killed because your master told you to do so?”

  Apparently not once, realized Emethius. His hand involuntarily shifted to the fourth line he had scored into the leather face of his vambrace. He thumbed at the deep groove that represented Meriatis, wondering if he could rub it out.

  Malrich tapped his foot with impatience. “This Sage and Sorceress, your masters, were they behind Meriatis’s rebellion?”

  “No,” said the dragon. “Never anything so foul. The madness of the Blackheart drove him to rebel. We tried to stop him, but once the war began there was nothing we could do.” If Ftoril meant for her face to show anything other than indifference she failed miserably.

  “Your story has more holes than a sea sponge has asses,” said Malrich, jabbing Ftoril in the chest. “I see a darker cause in your heart than what you admit.”

  “As do I,” said Emethius, certain the dragon was revealing as little as possible. He felt inclined to voice his opinion. “I do not trust you, Ftoril. Your toothy grin hides more lies than I can count, but as you well know, you have me at a disadvantage. My love for Meriatis is undying. I will do whatever is necessary to get Meriatis the cure, but if you betray me or the ones I love, I vow to hunt you until one of us is dead.”

  “With such an oath, you reveal yourself as the man worthy of this undertaking,” said Ftoril. She bowed, sweeping out her stunted wings in a graceful arc. “I have told you the prize, but now you must agree to the price. As we speak a master healer is traveling from Chansel along the Silverway Road. He’s supposed to arrive next week. Much ill can befall a lone traveler along the barren stretch that lies south of Estri. The poor soul will run afoul of bandits, I fear.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Delayed,” sa
id Ftoril. “Fortunately for the afflicted prince, I stand before the master healer’s replacement.”

  “Me?” wondered Emethius.

  Ftoril nodded. “I need someone to sneak into the abbey and speak with the prince.”

  “To what end?” asked Emethius.

  Ftoril hoped atop a rock so that she and Emethius were standing at the same height. “Before the madness took him, Meriatis had in his possession a trinket that my master holds dear. You need to find out what happened to it.”

  “What kind of trinket?” said Emethius.

  “A sword, peculiar in design, with a blade as black as night and a fuller set with gemstones.”

  Emethius kept his face from showing any recognition, but he knew precisely the sword Ftoril sought. Meriatis had wielded that exact weapon when he battled Emethius atop the pinnacle of Imel Katan.

  “Does the weapon have a name?” wondered Malrich.

  Ftoril smirked. “It has had different names in different ages, but all roughly translate to the same thing. The blade that drives away the Shadow.”

  “Shadowbane,” said Emethius, conjuring up the title Ftoril would not say. “Shadowbane, the fabled blade that can make a mortal out of a god.”

  CHAPTER

  IX

  LADY MIREN

  The Court of Bariil’s interior was dark. During the day, its opaque windows seemed to suck all of the light out of the world, but at night it was as black as coal. The only light in the entire temple was from Leta’s oil lamp. The seemingly endless expanse consumed the dim light. The ceiling high above was not to be seen. She tried to coax the lantern flame to grow, but it was only getting weaker. The growing knot in her stomach confirmed what she had already suspected — they shouldn’t have come here.