Leta turned to walk home, and as she did, she picked up a rock and threw it at the sign that had given her away. Her aim was true, and the sign gonged like a bell as it swung back and forth on its hinges, its polished surface catching the light of a nearby oil-lamp.
“Who puts a sign in front of a dock anyway,” muttered Leta in annoyance. The thought caused her to squint and examine the sign more closely. The sign read, “Private Dock. Closed to the Public.” Only the rich and powerful had private docks, and although this one was unmarked, she immediately recognized the ship that was moored at the end of the dock.
Leta had to stifle a gasp.
There floated the Fearless Runner, the capital ship of the Elyim Fleet, and the personal war galley of Admiral Ferrus. Her blood ran cold.
The rebel wasn’t going to some dockside warehouse, he was going for the Fearless Runner. Why would a rebel be heading to meet with Admiral Ferrus. Unless...
Leta suddenly didn’t know what to do. You didn’t see this, screamed a voice in the back of her head. Just turn around and walk home.
Instead, Leta stepped out onto the dock and walked toward the admiral’s ship.
CHAPTER
XVII
THE RUIN OF VAS PERLOH
Emethius squinted into the darkness. The rain was coming down so hard he was forced to use his hand as a shield to keep his vision from blurring. He spied a streak of yellow and a flicker of orange against the black backdrop.
“I’m imagining things,” he reassured himself. “Nothing can burn in this downpour.”
It had been raining since midmorning. The first dark clouds appeared on the horizon just after dawn. They came boiling across the plains like a reaching hand, and by mid-morning the forward wedge of an anvil-shaped cloud overtook them. The sun disappeared behind a veil of impenetrable black and the rain came down in earnest. It was a soaking relentless downpour, with raindrops so large they stung.
Emethius kept at his vigil, ignoring the impulse to flinch away from the freezing rain that lashed his exposed cheeks. He had to be certain.
There it was again. The hungry leap of a flame. A red banner waving in protest against the rain.
“How far?” called Malrich, momentarily illuminated by a streak of white lightning. He was fifty feet below Emethius, standing at the base of the rock outcrop. Malrich huddled beneath his cloak, his fingers impatiently drumming against his empty canteen.
“Half-a-league. No more,” said Emethius. But they may be a great deal closer. The rain was making it difficult to gauge distance. “Tomorrow or the next day, our paths will cross.”
Malrich cursed and kicked a stone, which he immediately regretted. He hopped around on one foot for a minute, then limped off to prep the horses.
Thus begins another sleepless night, thought Emethius, as he made his descent down the slippery stone outcrop.
He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past three days. Or was it four? Day and night were beginning to blur together. He wondered if this was how Meriatis felt as he fled across the billowing flats with Praetor Maxentius’s grand army hot on his heels.
Emethius sneered at the thought. I am the last foolish rebel fighting for a lost cause.
At least Meriatis knew who was chasing him. Emethius didn’t have the slightest clue who their pursuers were, only that they were a threat. One of them had a bow, and a skilled bowman would win a battle against two unarmored men every time. Then there was the rider Emethius took as their leader. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the man standing atop the embankment, his body shrouded in a halo of light. Emethius shuddered at the vision. Of course, he wasn’t even sure if the memory was true — each day Emethius seemed to recall a more twisted version of the encounter. He gave his cheeks a sharp slap hoping to drive the cobwebs from his brain.
Since crossing the Ulma River, Emethius and Malrich had pressed onward nearly without rest, spurred on by the knowledge that their followers, the men Malrich had come to call the Watchers, were never far behind. They took turns riding Baylilly to give their own horses a break, and when all three horses were too exhausted to bear a rider, Malrich and Emethius trudged forward on foot.
Emethius’s rump was blistered with saddle sores and his thighs were so wobbly he had trouble walking straight. He made the mistake of taking his boots off, and with them came a great slough of blistered flesh. Now his feet were wrapped with so many bandages he could scarcely move his toes. Still they pressed on, fighting pain, fighting exhaustion. They stopped to rest when their bodies had burned through every store of energy, and even then, only for a few hours.
Despite their relentless pace, each night the campfire of their pursuers drew closer. It was a losing race, Emethius knew, and he only saw one hope. Vas Perloh.
No sensible god-fearing man would venture into the city of the damned. During the Culing War, the city had served as the last bastion of the Cul east of the Morium. It was said that the ghosts of the dead still wandered the ruined city at night. Emethius gave little credence to such superstitious fears; he had lived long enough to know that the true terrors in the world were not ghouls and shadow-wraiths, but vile outlaws and vicious Cul. An abandoned city attracted unsavory denizens like a dead horse drew flies. The detour would be dangerous, but it would test the resolve and mettle of their pursuers like nothing else. In the close confines of the ruins, Emethius and Malrich might be able to spring an ambush that would put their pursuers at a disadvantage.
Advantages and disadvantages, risks and rewards. For now, Emethius decided to keep the idea to himself. Malrich was in bad shape, and Emethius saw no reason to place another weight on his companion’s already sagging shoulders.
They rode west.
Day came, marked by a lightening of the stormy sky. The downpour eased by midmorning, then ceased altogether come noon. The rain was replaced by a thick creeping fog that chilled to the bone. Visibility dropped to a hundred paces, if that.
Emethius and Malrich spoke little, exhaustion seizing them like a drunken stupor. Malrich spent the better part of the morning with his head turned back the way they had come. He swore he kept seeing figures approaching out of the fog, but each time Emethius turned to look, he saw nothing but the depthless grays of the swirling mist.
“There it is again,” whispered Malrich, giving way to a panicked delusion.
“What?” asked Emethius, trying to restrain his agitation.
“Horses,” began Malrich. His face was abnormally sullen and had a yellowish hue. His eyes were so bloodshot and puffy, one would have thought he had spent the entire night crying. “I’m more sure now than before. The clatter of hooves. A soft neighing. Those bastards are not far behind us.”
“Not far behind,” Emethius agreed.
The road was choked with mud; it sucked at their horses’ hooves. Manos stamped forward with his ears pinned straight back and his stomach flecked with filth. Etso seemed to inherit Malrich’s mood and became skittish at the slightest sound. Only Baylilly trudged on without a care, content as she ever was.
“The fog may be a godsend,” said Emethius, deciding it was time to let Malrich in on his plan.
“How so?”
“As you are probably well aware, there are two paths forward,” began Emethius. “Soon, the road will cut north, skirting Lake Ioria by a wide margin. But in doing so, the path will take us much farther north than we need to go. Due west lies the forest of Veren Ador. I intended to avoid the haunted forest, but now that we find ourselves pursued it may be the best option. There is a road through the forest, or so the ancient maps attest, that will lead us to the banks of Lake Ioria. There was once a bridge spanning the water, although what remains of it I cannot say.”
For a long time Malrich mulled over their options in silence. “I fear ghosts no more than you do,” said Malrich finally. “But I expect our pursuers will be no different. They have followed us this far without apparent rhyme or reason. I doubt they will pause for a second to enter
the cursed city because of the rumor of ghosts.”
“We don’t need them to avoid Vas Perloh, we need them to believe we will avoid Vas Perloh. They’ve had nothing but a certain choice thus far — follow the North Road. We can use the fog as a shield and slip from the main trail unseen. They may never catch their mistake.”
“Or they will follow us like a hound on a scent.”
“If that’s the case, we set an ambush at Vas Perloh. Neutralize the bowman, and the odds won’t be far from even.”
“Two versus four? I like the sound of that.” Malrich spit, his opinion clearly cemented. “I get the fighting part, Emethius, I always have. It’s the fleeing I can’t stomach. I’d sooner venture to Vas Perloh and have an end to this pursuit, one way or the other, than keep fleeing like a scared hare and wind up with an arrow in my back.
“Then you’re with me.”
“Always.”
Emethius ran his finger along the deep gouges in his vambrace. Each represented a life that was lost because of him. Emethius was not about to add Malrich to that number. “We turn west. If it comes to blows, it will be on our terms.”
Malrich grinned devilishly and patted the pommel of his sword. “The old girl’s been rusting in her sheath. She’ll be glad to see the light of day.”
A cairn of stacked stones was all that marked the fork in the road. The path that led to Vas Perloh had vanished beneath a carpet of knee-high grass. The North Road continued onward as before, the only clear way forward. Malrich toppled the stack of stones as they departed the North Road and forged a path across the prairie.
“We follow the flight of the sun,” said Emethius, gesturing to the glowing sphere of white that shone dimly behind the ceiling of clouds. The fog is thinning, realized Emethius with disquiet. There was nothing to be done about that.
By mid-morning, the sun had burned away both the fog and the clouds, revealing a clear bright blue sky. To the west, a line of green ran across the horizon. “That must be the haunted forest,” said Malrich. Emethius grunted in agreement.
The trees of the forest — ancient oaks and elms, chestnuts and pines — pushed back against the grassland, tumbling over each other with sun-seeking limbs. Spring had yet to arrive here, and the gnarled naked limbs resembled the knotted arms of a million reaching beasts.
Emethius’s unease grew as they approached the forest. There was no apparent path through the tangled mess. But as they drew near, Emethius spotted a stone sculpture set at the base of a tree. Gray and covered in lichens, the sculpture was eroded by time. Still, Emethius could see that the sculpture had once been fashioned in the shape of a bear with words etched into the chest and stomach. The markings were indiscernible, yet Emethius recognized them on sight. They were Cul runes. Whether they were set there to protect or curse, Emethius could not say.
Malrich drew his sword and hacked at the underbrush, revealing an opening into the forest. “Look here, this path is too even to be a game trail,” said Malrich. “This was once a road.”
As if on cue, Baylilly stamped at the ground and turned over the topsoil, revealing clay-colored bricks underneath.
Emethius chewed at his lower lip as he peered into the heart of the forest. The canopy of twisted limbs blotted out the sun. “I’ve never seen a more uninviting path.”
Malrich did not answer, but instead motioned east. The silhouettes of five horsemen appeared on the horizon.
“I have a sickening feeling they know exactly where we are going,” said Emethius. “It almost feels as if they are shooing us along, speeding us toward our destination.”
“Or driving us into a trap.”
“They may be one and the same.” Emethius ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and entered the forest. “Hurry now, while we still have time.”
Malrich cursed under his breath and followed next, while Baylilly took up the rear, trotting along as happy as ever. The five Watchers vanished behind a wall of twisted limbs and bark. They will be joining us on the trail soon enough, Emethius was certain.
The forest trail was narrow, only wide enough to advance single file. The road had originally been laid in flat stone, but tree roots had long since encroached. Roots as thick as a man’s leg dove in and out of the ground like serpents, twisting and overturning the stonework. The horses managed the uneven path with difficulty, and Emethius was forced to slow their pace to a crawl; if one of the horses broke an ankle, it might seal all of their fates.
Everything within the forest was still. No birds sang, no crickets or cicadas chirped. Even the tops of the trees seemed untouched by the wind. For a long time all Emethius heard was the steady clomp of horse hooves. But after riding for what seemed like hours, he began to hear the soft hiss of moving water. At first it came as a relief, breaking the silent foreboding of the timeless forest. But with each passing minute the sound grew in intensity, until by the time they reached the banks of Lake Ioria the noise had amplified into a thunderous boom.
Emethius stopped at the shore and bowed his head, realizing his mistake. On the opposite shore stood the crumbling ruins of Vas Perloh, so close, yet impossibly far. Lake Ioria was in fact two lakes, the Green Water in the north and the Red Water in the south — that much Emethius’s map showed correctly. What his map failed to illustrate was the fact that the two lakes were connected by a sliver of galloping white water that cascaded down a series of impassable cataracts. No creature that walked the earth, be they on two legs or four, could hope to ford the cataracts and survive.
Emethius pointed down the bank. “There’s our way across.”
Malrich grunted with discontent. “Let’s go investigate what remains. The Watchers will be upon us soon.”
A few hundred yards downstream stood the derelict remains of a bridge. Stone pillars stood at regular intervals, thrusting from the rapids like teeth. A few of the spans were still intact, but for the most part the pillars stood naked and alone. The bridge had ceased to serve any useful purpose long ago.
“Now I fear we have come to the trap,” said Emethius. But even as he spoke a smile spread across his face and he pointed excitedly. “But look, there’s a way!”
Strung just above the churning water were two guide ropes bolted to the south face of the first pillar. One was set at chest level, while the other was set low to accommodate a person’s feet. They spanned across the raging river, dipping below the water line at the center, and then rising back up toward the opposite shore.
“No way,” spurted Malrich, not liking the idea in the slightest. “If that archer catches up with us while we’re stuck in the middle we’ll be as good as dead. Let’s make our stand right here and be done with this.”
“No,” said Emethius, yelling to be heard over the roar of the water. “We cross the river and cut the line once we reach the far shore. There’s less risk.”
Just then, the five Watchers emerged from the forest downstream. Malrich looked from the river to the Watchers, then back again. “What about the horses?”
“We abandon them, and we go now!” barked Emethius. Without hesitation, Emethius and Malrich dismounted and began to pull everything they could carry from their saddlebags.
The Watchers advanced, not keeping their distance as they had before. The bowman drew an arrow to his string. Another shouted something that was lost in the roar of rushing water. The one Emethius had taken as their leader remained just beneath the eaves of the forest, keeping his body concealed in the shadows.
With a saddlebag slung over either shoulder, Malrich rushed over to the ropes. He gave them a tenuous test with his hands and feet. The ropes were old and stained by slippery algae, but they seemed capable of bearing his weight. He locked his hand onto the guide rope overhead, and shimmied from the shore, side-stepping as quickly as he could. Emethius was right behind him.
The ropes swayed and bobbed with each step. The water raced by beneath them, a tumble of white foam. They had not made it more than a quarter way across the river when the Watchers
reached their horses.
Baylilly and Manos didn’t resist being handled, but Etso bit down on the first hand that reached for his reins. The Watcher reeled back howling in agony with two of his fingers missing at the joint. The bowman rushed forward and fired an arrow straight into Etso’s eye, felling the horse instantly.
Malrich howled with rage, and had Emethius not been blocking his path, he would have probably clambered back to shore and taken on all five of the Watchers by himself.
“Keep going,” ordered Emethius, shoving Malrich back in the right direction.
The Watchers began to go through the saddlebags Emethius and Malrich had left behind, dumping their contents on the ground. Each piece of parchment they found was examined thoroughly before being discarded into the river.
“What are they looking for?” screamed Malrich over the roar of the water.
Emethius could only shake his head in response.
Not finding whatever it was they sought, the Watchers threw the bags into the rapids with disgust. The archer motioned out across the water, and the two able-bodied Watchers leapt on to the rope bridge and gave chase. Hand over hand, they advanced with fluid motions and began to quickly close the gap.
“Go faster!” screamed Emethius.
They were nearing the center of the river. The rope dipped below the waterline, submerging their ankles, then their knees, and finally their waists. Emethius could feel his body weakening with every passing moment as he fought against the relentless tug of the current.
One of the Watchers drew near. He reached for Emethius, grabbing the cuff of his sleeve. Emethius kicked, trying to drive some distance between himself and the Watcher. He lost his footing in the effort and almost got swept away.
Malrich was screaming something, but Emethius couldn’t understand what he was saying. Water was beating against his chest and neck. He could feel his fingers losing their hold. The Watcher latched onto Emethius’s shoulder, knotting his fingers into Emethius’s fox fur cloak.
Fractured Throne Box Set 1 Page 23