Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “What do you think, Fletch?” asked the marchwarden, directing his voice toward the top of the tower.

  “I think I’d like to put an arrow in each of his eyes and a third down his pious throat,” called a voice in reply. An archer suddenly appeared atop the tower, his upper body hanging through a crenel. He held his bow with an arrow nocked and at the ready.

  “Aye, I bet you would,” said the marchwarden, smacking his lips. “And I’d like to let you try, but Lord Ianin keeps telling me to be nicer to our guests, otherwise we might stop getting visitors to our lovely land.”

  Emethius drew Malrich’s hand away from his hilt and gave his best apologetic smile. “Please, if it is all the same to you, we would still like to pass. We have traveled for nearly two fortnights to get here. It would be remiss of me to return home to Mayal without speaking with your king. There was a time when brothers of the Tiber Order would have received a warm welcome in the House of Langlif.”

  “Those days are long dead,” said the marchwarden, spitting at Emethius’s feet.

  “Long dead,” his men agreed in chorus.

  Despite his hard demeanor, the marchwarden motioned for the portcullis to be raised. “Quickly now, to Hardthorn if you must. But don’t dally.” He gauged the angle of the sun to the horizon with his pointer finger and thumb. “It’d say you have three hours until sunset. The city gate seals at dusk; you would be wise to not be outside when it does. Make that mistake, and we’ll be feeding your corpses to the dogs come morning.”

  “That is, if we can find them,” chimed another. The men laughed and stepped out of their way.

  Emethius and Malrich didn’t stop to share in the marchwarden’s mirth. They hurried across the bridge, lest the guards change their minds and decide to detain them.

  As Emethius stepped off the landing beneath the face of the west tower, Baylilly came to a sudden and skittering halt. Her nostrils flared, and her ears pinned flush to her head. Emethius had never seen such terror in the typically stalwart horse.

  “What is it?”

  Malrich directed Emethius’s gaze to the ground.

  Oddly enough, the brickwork beneath his feet seemed to be painted black. But even as he thought this, the scent of iron and rot struck Emethius’s nose, and he became sickeningly aware that the sticky black substance was something much more macabre.

  “Cul blood,” said Malrich gloomily. He checked the bottom of his boot to see if the vile taint had transferred to his heel.

  With a few gentle words Emethius was able to coax Baylilly off the landing. He quickly led her away from the dried blood and down the dirt road. As he went, he glanced over his shoulder at the tower. The west-facing wall was painted with bloody hand prints that reached a dozen yards up its face. An uncontrollable shiver worked through Emethius’s frame.

  “Hurry now,” called a voice from atop the tower. “We Dunie rule the day, but the Cul own the night.”

  • • •

  With that cold and stark welcome to hurry them along, Emethius and Malrich traversed the barren countryside as quickly as their feet and tired bodies would take them. The terrain on the west side of the river grew steeper with every passing mile, sending them higher and higher into the foothills of the Culing Mountains. The city of Hardthorn was always in Emethius’s line of sight, resting a thousand feet above the valley floor upon a weathered point of rock. Emethius eyed the fortress city in wonder. He had often read about Hardthorn, but what he saw did not fit the description.

  It sat upon a saddle of blue-gray rock, offset by the towering mountain range that rose peak above peak to its rear. It looked much like the worn canine of a hound, and twisted to a jutting point. A wall ran the perimeter of the city. The stones were heavy, immovable, as if they had been placed there by giants. The city itself was built in terraces. At its peak was a tower capped by a raging fire. This was Reel Aper, the Watchtower of Hardthron.

  They were still a mile out from the citadel when the sun began to settle below the ridgeline. To the east, the Morium River flared red as blood in the failing light. Mist came with the lengthening shadows of twilight, and soon the valley began to fill with a vexing fog.

  “We need to hurry,” said Malrich. “The Dunie will shut the gate before long, and I don’t want to be trapped out here after dark. They say the Cul are born from the fog, that they are creatures of mist and Shadow, and can appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.”

  “Don’t believe all superstitions so readily,” said Emethius. “The Cul are as much flesh and blood as you and I. Besides, I sincerely doubt there are Cul here in the valley; the Dunie would never suffer Cul in their realm. The marchwarden was simply trying to scare us.”

  As the fog grew denser, Emethius found himself doubting his own reassurance. He urged Baylilly to go faster. The mare moved begrudgingly at first, but as the fog began to roll thick about their ankles, she quickened her pace. There was a darkness to the encroaching night that could be sensed beyond what was seen. Emethius couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, and he began to wonder if Malrich’s superstitions were justified.

  They reached the last leg of their journey just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The road leading to Hardthorn twisted like a snake up the face of the plateau. They sprinted the final quarter mile, knowing that time was running out.

  They found the gate closed.

  Emethius cursed under his breath. Malrich said nothing, and just stared at the sealed gate. It was painted black with dried blood, just like the walls of the tower in the valley below.

  Torchlight marked the top of the battlements. The orange light flickered in and out of view as the fog thickened and dispersed, swirled and abated. Night was upon them, and darkness brought with it a gripping fear.

  Emethius struck the iron gate with the flat of his hand. It emitted so little sound he might as well have been knocking on stone. This fortress city has been built to withstand the most devastating weapons the Cul can muster, thought Emethius. He tried again, this time using the butt of his sword. A faint hollow ting was his only reward; no one answered.

  He stepped back, struggling in vain to catch sight of the night watchmen. “Hello!!??” yelled Emethius into the gloom.

  There was still no response.

  Malrich joined in, and together they hammered at the gate like they were trying to forge steel. Only after several minutes of ceaseless beating did they finally relent. Exhausted and out of breath, they slumped against the gate.

  A low cackle sounded somewhere in the valley below. It was like the deep-throated growl of a dog. It was quiet, almost indiscernible at first, and it took Emethius a moment to be certain he heard anything at all.

  “The Cul?” whispered Malrich.

  “I haven’t a clue,” answered Emethius with a shrug. But in truth, he knew otherwise. He had heard that noise only once before, when he was young, fresh out of the field academy. He was serving on a mounted patrol in the foothills of Mount Calaban. An old veteran told him it was the call of the Cul. It was how they communicated with one another over great distance, the veteran had claimed. At the time, Emethius laughed at the notion. The Cul had not been spotted east of the Morium River in over a dozen generations. But the following morning, only a mile down road, a farmer and his two children were found dead, their eyes plucked from their sockets. It was the Cul’s way to take the eyes, explained the veteran, although no one knew exactly why. The farmer’s wife was never found.

  The cackle rang out again, and this time a second call responded to the south.

  Malrich pointed his blade into the darkness. “There are two of the bastards!”

  “There’s probably a lot more than that,” said Emethius under his breath. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called up to the hidden battlement. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order, sent at Herald Cenna’s behest to speak to King Iantir. In the name of High Lord Valerius, and the gods for whom he serves, open this gate!”

  St
ill no one responded.

  Emethius was growing convinced there was nothing he could say to gain entrance into the city. But just as he was giving up hope, there was a pop, and a rope suddenly thudded to the ground at his feet. He followed the length of rope skyward with his eyes, finding that it disappeared into the fog. There were no words, no orders, just a rope dangling seemingly out of thin air.

  Emethius unbridled Baylilly, and placed his hand atop her great snout. “I’m sorry, Baylilly, but we have to leave you here for the night.” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head in shame. It was all he could manage to say to the horse who had served them so faithfully.

  A Cul cackled and this time five distinct voices echoed the call in reply. One cackle seemed to be coming from the base of the hill.

  “We need to go,” urged Malrich.

  Hand over hand, Emethius climbed the rope skyward. He was using muscles he had not used in some time. The wound in his back, Meriatis’s wound, began to ache. Finally, he reached the battlement and squeezed through a narrow crenel that studded the top of the wall. He fell exhausted on the cold stone battlement. He was greeted by half a dozen archers, their arrows nocked and ready.

  Emethius held up his hands in surrender. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order. I come at Herald Cenna’s behest,” he managed out of breath.

  “Stop yelling like a damn fool. You’ve brought half the valley to life,” hissed one of the archers, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “We’ve turned men into pincushions for less than what you just did,” said another soldier.

  “Then I thank you for holding your strings,” said Emethius, as a pair of soldiers reached over the edge and pulled Malrich onto the battlement.

  Malrich rose to his feet and let out an exhausted grunt. “What about our horse?”

  “The gate doesn’t open at night, on the lord captain’s orders,” said one soldier staidly.

  “I’ll put her down with an arrow, if you’d like,” said an archer. “It would be an act of compassion,” he added when Malrich looked at him with horrified disgust.

  “Baylilly will have to fend for herself tonight,” said Emethius, finding himself sick with guilt.

  “But...” began Malrich.

  “Buts don’t get you very far in this land.” The Dunie soldiers parted, and a dwarf clad in all black armor emerged from the crowd. “You ought to keep that in mind when you speak with King Iantir.” He shook both of their hands and introduced himself. “Sir Bilis Pride. I’m the master-at-arms of House Langlif.”

  Emethius was a bit surprised to meet a Knight of Niselus this far west. A man of the cloth, such as the knight, might see right through Emethius’s and Malrich’s disguise, but it was too late to change stories now. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Brotherhood,” said Emethius, with a partial bow. “And this is...”

  “Brother Malrich,” said Malrich.

  “Aren’t you a bit old to be a leech boy?” asked Sir Bilis.

  “The gods work in mysterious ways,” said Malrich, crossing himself in the gesture of the faithful.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Sir Bilis. He gestured with his hand. “This way, gentlemen.”

  Sir Bilis led them through a maze of narrow streets, each byway leading higher than the last as they progressed through the levels of the multi-tiered city. “The Cul stir in the Shadow, so Hardthorn was built tall,” explained Sir Bilis, as they went along. “Nearer to the sun and away from the creeping reach of the fog.”

  Every building in the city seemed to abide by this rule. The homes and shops were all multi-storied, built one right alongside the next so that most neighbors shared a wall. It was easy to guess where all of the trees from the valley had gone. Most of the buildings had frames crafted from wood. No piece of exposed lumber was without ornamentation. Faces were carved into the heads of support beams. Banister railings were made to look like snakes. Pillars resembled bears and eagles. Wooden patios overhung the main road and created a canopy. The city was breathtaking, set as it was against the backdrop of snowcapped peaks.

  Emethius would have expected to find the city overflowing with people, yet he saw hardly a soul. The few Dunie they did encounter all wore swords at their hips, women and men alike. They greeted Emethius and Malrich with grim and unwelcoming eyes. War wears down even the hardiest people, thought Emethius.

  Built from a finger of stone atop the city’s highest terrace stood the citadel of Reel Aper. The watchtower closely resembled a lighthouse and served much the same purpose.

  Sir Bilis pointed toward the flame leaping from the pinnacle of the watchtower. “The flame of Reel Aper burns night and day. It signals the surrounding lands that the wardens of the Barren Tracks have not faltered, and that the great enemy remains contained.”

  “Contained where?” asked Malrich. “We heard Cul in the valley.”

  “It has been a hard winter,” was all Sir Bilis would say in reply. “Here we are, King Iantir’s great hall.” The great hall adjoined the Tower of Reel Aper at the base. These two buildings stood out from all of the other buildings in Hardthorn, as they were the only two buildings constructed completely out of stone.

  Emethius entered the great hall by ducking through a low and narrow walkway. This was a defensive measure, Emethius knew. It was awfully hard to fight your way into a building while hunched over like an invalid. The walkway opened up into a mammoth hall.

  Several hundred could feast comfortably within. Tonight, most of the tables were empty, and only a few dozen soldiers were clustered about the wooden benches that ran along either side of the central aisle. They hungrily tore at hard bread and the seared carcasses of small game hens. The condition of their food was poor and the men looked malnourished. Emethius saw no signs of fruits or vegetables.

  “A hard winter indeed, if this is the fare eaten by the king’s closest men,” whispered Malrich out of the side of his mouth.

  A large fire burned near the center of the hall in a hearth so large, a spitted bull would have fit in the space. A mahogany chair, its back wreathed in eagle feathers, stood before the hearth. It was so near the flames, Emethius wondered how it kept from catching fire.

  “King Iantir,” said Sir Bilis, speaking directly into the ear of the elderly man who sat stooped over on the throne. “Two men have arrived from Merridia. This is Master Emethius, a healer sent from the Tiber Order. He is accompanied by a leech boy.” Sir Bilis took up position directly behind the throne.

  At first, the elderly king did not look up. His gaze was transfixed upon a crown that was resting in his lap. It was a plain and ordinary circle of iron, save for the jewel that beset its front — a single yellow diamond that was the size of a small child’s fist. King Iantir Langlif ran his thumb over the faceted surface of the stone, causing refracted firelight to cascade across the hall.

  Emethius and Malrich waited in silence, standing as near to the fire as they could tolerate. Emethius could feel the waves of heat lashing against his clothes, and he imagined the hem of his fox fur robe would singe if he stood much closer.

  “The fire keeps the chill away,” said King Iantir, perhaps sensing their discomfort. His voice was little more than a whisper and was nearly drowned out by the crackling fire. “There is no Shadow in the flame. It drives away the mist and silences the cackling calls of my foes. Fire is the only certainty in a world wreathed by darkness.”

  “The Shadow creeps as it ever does,” said the king’s guards in unison.

  “It was kind of your high lord to send us a healer in our time of need,” said the king. “It is hard to forget one’s own blood, no matter how far removed.”

  “That it is,” said Emethius. The founding matriarch of the Langlif line was a Merridian princess, Emethius recalled. She was the love of Atesar, the story told in Emethius’s favorite poem, the Lay of Etro. “Merridia has not forgotten the Children of Ierra. High Lord Valerius sends you tidings of health and mirth, Your Grace.”

  “Does he
?” exclaimed the king. He turned toward Emethius, his stare causing Emethius’s knees to grow weak. Beside him, Malrich gasped. King Iantir’s eyes were gone, gouged from their sockets, leaving behind dark voided holes.

  “I-I meant no offense with the comment,” stammered Emethius. He looked away, although who that benefited he could not say.

  “You may not have meant any offense, but High Lord Valerius damn well did,” growled the king. “Did you come here to give me a new set of eyes? I’ll happily take the eyes of your leech boy, if that’s what you’re offering.” He blindly snatched toward Malrich’s face, which caused Malrich to shuffle back a step. The king frowned and turned back toward the fire. His face glowed red from the flames, save for his eye sockets, they remained dark pits.

  Something awful has happened to this land, realized Emethius. He glanced at Malrich for support, but his companion could only shrug in response.

  “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but we were dispatched before word of your plight reached Merridia,” said Emethius. Whatever the situation was in Dunis, he and Malrich still needed safe passage to the Sygian Mines. Without that, they might as well turn around and go home. He took on his most diplomatic tone of voice.

  “The Blackheart is getting worse in Merridia,” continued Emethius, happily mixing the truth with lies. “Valerius’s own son has succumbed to the madness, and the high lord has taken a special interest in the affliction. We have been sent to investigate the impact of the Blackheart on your land, to learn how quickly the disease is progressing, and to record what treatments your people have found successful. Of course, my companion and I are not alone in this matter, other healers have been dispatched to the great cities of Emonia. I, personally, have been tasked with going as far as the Stygian Mines, with your leave, of course, but now I see that this may not be possible. I apologize for my ignorance. Were I aware of your current situation I would have been more... ah... delicate, Your Grace.”