Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “Where is Master Fayec?” demanded Slant Jaw. His hand was clenched like a vise on Emethius’s shoulder. Emethius was going nowhere until he provided a satisfactory answer.

  “Master Fayec fell from his horse and broke his leg,” Emethius lied.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem for a healer,” snorted the man sucking on engroot. He spit yellow saliva at Emethius’s feet.

  “It is for one as inept as Master Fayec.” Emethius gave the men his best toothy grin. “I’m his replacement. Here is a letter from Master Fayec. You will see that it bears the brotherhood’s seal.” Emethius handed the guard the sealed note, which Ftoril had wisely forced the healer to write. “Now please, gentlemen, do not foolishly delay me any longer. The hour is late, and I’ve traveled a weary road. Let me complete my task and be gone.”

  Slant Jaw passed the letter over his shoulder to the man with hazel eyes. He is their leader, Emethius surmised. The man read over the passage and made a queer expression at the end. He was obviously not satisfied. His tone grew harsh. “Then who are you?” he growled.

  “Master Finian,” answered Emethius, hoping that was what it said in the letter. “I serve the diocese of Vel Katan.”

  “My cousin has a butcher shop in Vel Katan,” said the westerner. “The name’s Agnan Fangir. You know him?”

  “Perhaps I know him, perhaps I don’t,” said Emethius, growing bold. “Remember, gentlemen, this is all hush hush business we’re dealing with. I’m not actually here, and if I had to guess, neither are any of you.” He shrugged off Slant Jaw’s hands and pushed past the guards. “Enough with the inquisition. Where is my patient?”

  The hazel-eyed man smacked Emethius in the chest with the letter. “Tell Herald Cenna he’s a fool for not telling us there was a change of plans. You’re lucky to leave here with your life.”

  “Tell him yourself,” said Emethius as he collected the letter and slipped it into his coat’s inner pocket. “Herald Cenna plans to join the high lord the next time he pays his son a visit.”

  “Visiting the abbey would be ill-advised,” said Hazel Eyes. “But who am I to tell the herald what to do? This way, please.”

  “The patient’s condition has worsened since the last healer’s visit,” explained Hazel Eyes as they made their way deeper into the earth. The tunnel was narrow and the ceiling low. Emethius had to stoop to avoid hitting his head. There were numerous tunnels that branched off from the main path. Most were half flooded with stagnant water. He spotted sleeping quarters, a barely serviceable kitchen, and passages sealed off by rusty iron bars. In more than one alcove he spotted the dull glint of rusted shackles hanging from the wall. One room contained the weathered skeleton of a torture rack. Emethius grimaced as he imagined what the Vacian Sisters did down here when the monastery was still in use.

  “He won’t eat more than a few nibbles of food — he’s growing frailer by the day,” said Slant jaw. Nobody referenced Prince Meriatis by name. “It’s no use trying to reason with him, the madness has run too far along its course. He’s thrown his shit pail at me more times than I can count. And the things he mutters when he’s looking at you with those cold dead eyes...” He gave his body a hard shake. “It just gives me the shivers.”

  They stopped before a heavy wooden door — the only door Emethius had seen in the entire tunnel complex. “We had to chain him up,” explained Hazel Eyes, as he turned over the lock. “We won no favors from the high lord, but we didn’t have a choice. The patient is growing more violent. I advise you keep your distance.”

  Emethius gestured for the door to be opened and breathed deep, preparing for the worst. He wasn’t ready for the smell. He recoiled as the nauseating stench of refuse struck his nose. Raising the cuff of his cloak to his face, Emethius stepped inside the room and investigated the space.

  A lone candle lit the room and it took Emethius a moment to adapt to the darkness. He made out the dim outlines of three figures, two near the door, and a third shackled to the far wall. The room itself was much like the tunnel — earthen walls and ceiling, reinforced by wooden beams. A collection of soiled animal furs were strewn across the floor. The only break in the drab interior was a potted plant, drooping woefully atop a stained mat near the wall.

  The chained figure didn’t seem to notice Emethius. He sat cross-legged near the plant, plucking at its leaves one at a time. He would crease each leaf down its center, then with slow, purposeful motions he would peel away each segment of the leaf until nothing remained but the stem.

  How is this my prince? Emethius had to fight the cold panic that was working through his body. Only a few months had passed since Emethius saw Meriatis. How could he have deteriorated so quickly? You put a blade in his gut, remember? nagged a voice in the back of his head.

  “I need to be alone with my patient,” said Emethius, doing his best to keep his voice calm.

  The hazel-eyed guard shook his head in response. “It’s not safe, master.”

  “The gods watch over me, I will not be harmed.” Emethius crossed himself in the gesture of the faithful. “There is a sacred trust between patient and healer. It would not be appropriate for others to be present.”

  “Master Fayec never wanted to be left alone with him.”

  “Aye? Well look what Master Fayec’s ineptitude has accomplished.” Emethius pointed at Meriatis, his finger quivering with genuine rage. “Out, all of you! I need silence and solitude to work my craft.”

  Hazel Eyes nodded to the two guards tasked with watching Meriatis. They both shrugged with indifference and exited the room. “I warn you, keep your distance from him,” said Hazel Eyes as he shut the door.

  Emethius waited until he heard the men strike up a conversation in the hall. “Meriatis,” he whispered. “Can you hear me, friend? It’s me, Emethius.”

  Meriatis made no response. He was focused on the newest leaf he had plucked from the plant. The Blackheart was a disease that poisoned the mind, but not the body, leaving behind a vacant shell that could live long after the soul was gone.

  Is there anything left of Meriatis behind those cold dead eyes? Emethius cautiously edged closer to Meriatis, uncertain how dangerous his friend had become. “I’m here to help,” said Emethius.

  Meriatis slowly turned, revealing features so different Emethius hardly recognized him. The prince was shrunken and malnourished. His cheekbones stood out against pale and blotchy skin. His hair was matted, and clumps were missing in places. But the most striking feature was his eyes; they had turned from a radiant hazel to a sickly black.

  “I... I hear y-y-you,” said Meriatis. His voice was foul, and drew from his throat in fits and starts. Meriatis’s hands groped in Emethius’s direction. When his grasp met nothing but empty air, a look of rage came over him. “Come! Come to me!” he screamed, his voice screeching like a dying pig. He frantically swung his arms, until finally his hand came to rest against the potted plant. He seemed to find some comfort in this, and resumed plucking at the leaves.

  “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” sang Meriatis. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame. He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

  Emethius watched Meriatis continue on like this for several minutes, plucking leaves and singing his cryptic song. Finally, Emethius couldn’t take it any longer. He reached within his cloak and pulled out the vial Ftoril had given him. Particles of what Emethius assumed were dragon horn had settled to the bottom. He gave the vial a hard shake, causing the white flakes to stir like snowflakes.

  “I need you to swallow this,” said Emethius, placing his hand on Meriatis’s back. The sudden stimulus was too much for the prince. He leapt atop Emethius like a cat pouncing on its prey. He growled viciously and bit down on Emethius’s shoulder.

  Emethius impulsively opened his mouth to cry out in pain, but he caught himself. He couldn’t alert the guards outside. Instead, he threw his weight backwar
d, slamming Meriatis against the wall. The air burst from Meriatis’s lungs in a loud umph. His body fell limply to the floor. Emethius quickly subdued Meriatis by putting a knee on either of his wrists. Meriatis howled and spit and champed his teeth, but it was simply no contest; in his current state Meriatis was weaker than a child.

  Emethius pried open Meriatis’s jaw and forced the vial into his mouth. The liquid poured in, causing Meriatis to sputter and choke. Emethius clamped his hand over Meriatis’s mouth so none of the elixer would spill back out. “Drink it. Drink it!” he hissed. Meriatis’s resistance weakened then stopped altogether. His ragged breathing eased. His eyelids drooped. The tonic was taking hold.

  Emethius cautiously released Meriatis and stepped back. “I have given you a healing tonic that will drive away the madness for a while. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Meriatis groaned and blinked with surprise. “Emethius? Why are you here?” He tried to crawl forward, but was halted by his chain. Dumbfounded, Meriatis stared at his shackles and tugged weakly at the chain. “Why am I here?”

  “You’re sick, Meriatis,” said Emethius. He was suddenly seized by an over-powering feeling of pity. How was it possible that his friend had been reduced to this. Emethius looked away and tried to explain what had happened. “It’s the Blackheart. You’ve been like this for some time. The dragon whelp Ftoril said you were alive. I didn’t believe her, I didn’t want to believe her. Yet here you are.”

  A light of recognition showed in Meriatis’s face. “The Sage sent you.” Meriatis frowned, as if he had just made a horrible realization, and he began to paw at Emethius’s cloak. “I have been poisoned, Emethius, and it grows stronger every day. I fear I’m losing myself.”

  “The Sage and the Sorceress offer a cure, but we haven’t much time,” said Emethius. “Ftoril claims you stole something, a sword. You must tell me all you remember before the tonic wears off.”

  “Shadowbane.” Meriatis snickered at the name. “They weren’t willing to use it. I was. So I took it from them. I... I...” Meriatis doubled over, grabbing at the side of his head. An expression of pure agony contorted his face. “There were so many of them. Tentacles, black as night. They were everywhere!” His eyes flickered about the room in terror. “Behind the walls, above the ceiling, beneath the floor. Inside me!” He lowered his face against the floor and sobbed.

  There was a sudden rush of footsteps beyond the door. The guards were running away from their post. Something was amiss. The urgency of the situation fell on Emethius like a sack of stones.

  Emethius lifted Meriatis’s chin so that he had no option but to meet Emethius’s eyes. “Listen to me, Meriatis,” whispered Emethius. “The sword you tried to kill me with at Imel Katan, where is it?”

  “Tried to kill you? What are you talking about, Emethius?” Meriatis’s eyes lolled backward. His eyelids fluttered. His voice took on a drunken drawl. “Do you remember what I told you at Imel Katan?”

  “Meriatis...”

  “The Calabanesi,” continued Meriatis. “We bow and we pray, granting them the undeserved title of god. And in doing so, we have become slaves to our own creation. They are poisoning us with the Blackheart, Emethius. They plan to harvest us all like pigs.”

  “Meriatis, there isn’t time,” urged Emethius.

  “But it can be undone, Emethius. We just need the right tools. The right weapon. The right blade.”

  “Yes, the sword! Where is the sword?”

  Meriatis pounded his fist into the ground. “We can destroy them. We must destroy them. It’s the only way to keep the Shadow at bay.”

  The hiss of drawing steel resounded beyond the door. The door’s heavy latch began to turn over. The guards had returned.

  “I must know,” pleaded Emethius.

  For a moment Meriatis’s eyes were once again hazel, but the expression on his face was so pained and sad. “They took it, Emethius. The voices took Shadowbane from me. It is lost.”

  A guard burst into the room.

  “You need to get out!” It was the guard with the western drawl. His sword was drawn.

  “But the healing is not finished,” stammered Emethius. He waved his hands in the air, copying the motions he had seen true Tiber Brothers make when they performed blessings. “I need a few more minutes...”

  “You’ll leave now or I’ll run my sword through your gut,” growled the guard, clearly in no mood to negotiate.

  Something was terribly wrong. They know I’m a fraud. The thought tore through Emethius’s nerves like a bolt of lightning. They know I’m a fraud, and I don’t have a way to defend myself. He eyed the guard’s sword.

  Even if the guard knew Emethius wasn’t a healer, he likely didn’t know Emethius was a trained soldier. Emethius might be able to overwhelm the guard with a sudden attack and wrestle the weapon from his hands.

  Emethius rose to his feet and slowly turned to face the guard. His attack would have to be quick and devastating. But just as he was about to pounce, Meriatis grabbed both of Emethius’s ankles and pulled his legs out from underneath him. Emethius fell flat on his face, and before he knew what was happening, Meriatis sat astride his back. Ftoril’s tonic had not lasted five minutes!

  The crazed prince raked Emethius’s face with his nails, scratching him from forehead to cheek. Emethius rolled and tried to shove Meriatis off. Meriatis responded by reaching inside of Emethius’s shirt and clawing as his abdomen; it felt like Meriatis was trying to rip out his entrails. Emethius kneed the prince in the groin, but it had no effect. Finally, the guard intervened, yelling and cursing as he pulled Emethius and Meriatis apart. Meriatis collapsed back into his corner, growling like a wild beast.

  “Get up,” ordered the guard. He smacked Emethius in the back with the flat of his blade to emphasize his point.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” cried Emethius. He pointed at Meriatis. “If you stop the treatment now you will condemn the patient to madness.”

  “He already is mad,” growled the guard. “And we have bigger problems to deal with today. Let’s go.”

  Two more guards were waiting out in the corridor. They took up position behind Emethius. Emethius looked over his shoulder to see if there was a friendly face among the pair. He was greeted by menacing stares. Outnumbered and without a weapon, there was nothing for Emethius to do but comply. If they let him live, he might be able to get word to High Lord Valerius and plead his case. That wasn’t likely though. The guards would probably execute him in the courtyard, that is, if they didn’t question him on the torture rack first.

  They led him straight to the grotto’s exit. Emethius was pondering whether that was a good sign or a bad one when he was greeted by the most unexpected sight. A burly dwarf stood in the middle of the abbey’s courtyard holding a bloody cloth around his hand. He paced to and fro cursing wildly. Emethius’s eyes widened. I know this man. The stricken dwarf was Sir Rupert, the master-at-arms of House Benisor.

  Emethius ducked his head, hoping to conceal his face from the master-at-arms. Sir Rupert had known Emethius since he was just a small child chasing Meriatis around the palace grounds. The knight was the first person to show Emethius the proper way to hold a sword. There was zero chance Emethius could pass by Sir Rupert unrecognized. I’m absolutely and truly screwed.

  “The little bastard got Ol’ Rupert’s thumb,” snickered Slant Jaw, pointing to the opposite side of the courtyard.

  There, snarling like a cornered dog, lay Ftoril trapped beneath a weighted net. Half-a-dozen guards, all draped in cloaks as black as night, ringed Ftoril with leveled spears.

  Ftoril began to gnaw at the netting, fraying it to ribbons in a matter of seconds. She managed to snake her snout through the gap. A guard tried to correct the behavior by bringing the steel toe of his boot across her snout. This set Ftoril into a berserk rage, and she probably would have torn through the netting had Sir Rupert not yanked a spear out of the hands of a subordinate and cracked Ftoril squarely across the br
ow. The hard oak staff broke in two from the force of the blow and Ftoril immediately went limp. Sir Rupert spit on the unconscious dragon and clutched his thumbless hand.

  “Get out of here,” hissed Sir Rupert, redirecting his rage toward Emethius. “We’ve arranged boarding for you at the Sallyport Inn. I expect to see you back here at first light.”

  Emethius kept his face pointed toward the ground, hoping the darkness of night would continue to conceal his true identity.

  “Look at me, boy.”

  Emethius lifted his head and their eyes met.

  “Say not a word of this to anyone,” said Rupert. “Not a word about the abbey, not a word about your patient, not a word about the dragon. Got it?”

  “Y-y-yes, sir,” stammered Emethius.

  Rupert turned away, preoccupied with his missing thumb.

  For a moment Emethius stood paralyzed to his spot. He didn’t know what to do. Ftoril was the key to Meriatis’s rescue. Without the dragon to carry his message, how would this mysterious Sage and Sorceress ever know of Meriatis’s condition? They wouldn’t, Emethius surmised.

  A second dark thought entered Emethius’s head; Meriatis wasn’t the only life at stake. A master healer was tied up in a cave somewhere waiting to be set free. The healer would die without Ftoril. Emethius’s only option was to turn himself in and reveal to Sir Rupert that Ftoril had kidnapped the healer. In doing so, he would doom Meriatis, but the prince was probably doomed either way.

  Emethius took one step forward and opened his mouth as if to speak, but as he did, cowardice seized him. The words tumbled from his mouth in a single indiscernible croak. All eyes turned on Emethius.

  “You got something else to say?” demanded one of the guards.

  Emethius shook his head and walked away, turning his back on Meriatis, Ftoril, and the healer he never met. It was the most selfish thing Emethius had ever done in his life, yet he hadn’t the strength to act otherwise.

  He mounted the healer’s horse and rode north along the wooded path. As soon as he fell out of earshot of those at the abbey, he kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, driving the beast into a blinding gallop. Overhanging branches raked at his face, the wind tore at his ears, but still he drove the horse faster and faster. He had to get as far away as possible, or the horror of what he had just done would force him to turn around.