Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  King Iantir laughed bitterly. “The Blackheart does not exist in the land of Dunis. The Shadow holds no sway over the hearts of my men.” He stood, his face twisted with fury, and lurched in their direction. Emethius and Malrich stepped back, unsure of King Iantir’s intent. “Three moons have passed since I sent High Lord Valerius word. Three moons have passed since the Cul took Interleads and the Mines of Stygia. Three moons have passed since the Cul fell into our valley and began attacking the gates of my city at night. Three moons have passed, and just now I receive High Lord Valerius’s reply — a healer and a leech boy with no army to their back and no supplies in their wagon. What use are you to me?”

  The facts kept hitting Emethius like a hammer setting nails into his coffin. The Barren Tracks are not open. The Cul control the pass. There is no safe path into the Great Northern Ador. Meriatis is damned. He felt a wave of nausea overcome him, and he stood mute before the eyeless lord.

  Malrich stepped forward, taking charge. “Our research into the Blackheart seems a trivial matter given the dire state of your land. If you grant us leave in the morning, we will return to Mayal with all haste and plead your case. High Lord Valerius is a reasonable and gracious lord, Your Grace.”

  King Iantir laughed. “I have learned to take the promises of Merridians lightly. But if you insist, tell your high lord this. Our land is infertile, our larders are empty, and the wealth in our coffers is dwindling. We cannot buy food with stones, and we certainly can’t eat them. The Emoni have promised us grain, but they send us only a third of what we need. So my men go hungry, and the number of deserters grows every day. My people are boiling leather to get what nourishment they can. Babies are dying at the breast because their mothers can’t produce milk. The few farmers still working the land reap a harvest of dust. My country is fading, and in the evening the cackle of the Cul grows louder every night.” He spit at their feet. “We are the wardens of the west. When we fall, our plight will become the scourge of Eremel. Tell your high lord that. And until you return with an army ten thousand strong, curse your word, your high lord, and your people.” He waved to his men. “Take these fools from here. Feed them no better than what my own men receive, and throw them from the city as soon as the Shadow clears.”

  Using the butts of their spears, the Dunie guards prodded Emethius and Malrich from the great hall and out into the cool mist-filled night.

  The amicable grin had slipped from Sir Bilis’s face. “If you favor your life, I would recommend you have your lies sorted out before you come before the true King of Dunis, healer,” whispered Sir Bilis into Emethius ear.

  “Lies? What lies?” demanded Emethius, still trying to stay in character as he was shoved along.

  Half-a-dozen men emerged from the shadows of the great hall, all clad in black. One man came up behind Emethius and Malrich and took their swords and daggers, while another pair patted them over from head to foot. Malrich tried to resist the rough treatment until a man twice his weight locked an arm around Malrich’s throat. Emethius thought better of resisting and raised his hands in surrender. “Take us where you must.”

  “There’s a good lad,” said Sir Bilis. “Now keep your mouth shut and don’t cause a fuss. I don’t fancy making a mess on these lovely streets — washing blood off of cobblestones ain’t easy. Hurry along now, we don’t have far to go.”

  CHAPTER

  II

  THE FEARLESS RUNNER

  The wooden planks of the dock groaned and creaked beneath Leta’s feet, while farther below the sea crashed, spraying white foam skyward. She had the unnerving impression she was walking into a fortress. She could feel the eyes of a hundred watchmen on her, although she only spied a few — dim outlines in the riggings of ships and shadowed faces peeking through portholes. The crew of every ship in the harbor seemed to be aware of her presence, though no perceptible alarm had been sounded.

  This must be the most protected dock in the world, thought Leta as she walked farther and farther from shore.

  Half a dozen ships were moored to the various branches of the dock, with more anchored in the open water of the harbor. A handful of the ships were large trading galleys, each graced with three banks of oars. These ships were designed to ply the narrow sea that nearly split Elandria in two. But most of the ships were war vessels, two dozen at least, with sleek bodies designed for speed. Some were painted blood red, while others were orange or yellow — a few were as blue as the sea. The grandest of the vessels was so black it seemed to swallow what little light remained in the dark of night. This was the Fearless Runner, the pride of Elyim, and the most famous ship in all of Merridia. It was also the capital ship of Lord Admiral Ferrus’s fleet.

  The ship’s hull resembled polished jet. The only splash of color on the entire ship was its wooden figurehead which jutted from the prow like a battering ram. It was fashioned in the likeness of a ferocious golden osprey with a gaping jaw and lengthy wings that swept along either flank of the ship. Writhing eels dangling from the bird’s talons, dipping almost to the waterline.

  Leta ascended the gangplank which joined the dock to the Fearless Runner. As she did, a small creak drew her vision skyward. A man sat astride the uppermost yard of the foremast, his legs bowed about the wooden plank like a man sitting astride a horse. He looked as comfortable as a cat in a tree, if not a tad more dangerous. A quiver of arrows dangled from the riggings beside him, and he held a bow in his hand. Not knowing what to do, Leta nodded to the man. He responded by nocking an arrow to his bowstring.

  She looked away, pretending that the threat didn’t exist. “These men serve my family. I will not show fear,” Leta whispered to herself.

  Three men were lounging on the deck, a roasting brazier at their center. In the red light of the smoldering coals she could detect that each man wore a cutlass at their hip. Their soft leather breastplates were festooned with ringlets of steel — Meriatis had once told her that men were not apt to wear steel plate on a ship lest they fall overboard and drown due to the weight of their armor.

  The man she took as their commander regarded her with cold unwelcoming eyes. “Has the lady come to sell her wares to my men?” His companions snickered at the crude remark, and one of the men began to lift the hem of her skirt with a fire-poker.

  Leta swatted the poker aside and took on a stern voice. “The lady has come to speak with the admiral.”

  This caused the men to laugh, the archer in the riggings included.

  “He’s not here,” said the man. He waved his hand back toward the shore. “This is a private dock. I ought to have you arrested for trespassing. Now get off my ship and back to your brothel, whore.”

  Leta pulled off her left glove and drew her arm into the light of the brazier, revealing the pale white flesh of her hand. An audible gasp passed from every man’s mouth. “Tell the admiral that Priestess Leta Benisor demands an audience.” Leta slammed her heel into the deck to emphasize her command.

  The men all stood at once, sending their stools clattering against the deck. “Priestess Leta, Your Grace.” The man who had lifted the hem of her dress bowed awkwardly, clearly not accustomed to the act. “I... ah... well.” His face had turned as red as the coals burning in the brazier.

  “Lord Admiral Ferrus did not expect you,” chimed his companion. “He’s in a meeting with the crew. If you could wait one moment I will draw him out.” He bowed with an appropriate degree of grace and kissed the back of her hand. “I am Lieutenant Floren, Admiral Ferrus’s second in command. If I may be so bold as to ask, why are you here? The admiral will want to know. Rarely does a person of such prestige visit our quaint ship.”

  “More like never,” snickered his companion.

  Lieutenant Floren cut off the man’s laughter with his stare.

  “I will not wait,” said Leta, taking on the stern voice she used when giving orders in her monastery. “Nor will I share my purpose with an underling of the admiral. Take me to Admiral Ferrus at once.”

&nbs
p; Lieutenant Floren looked to his companions for support, but both men were already shuffling aside; they clearly didn’t wish to partake in this conflict of interest — Admiral Ferrus was their commander, but Leta was the daughter of the high lord.

  The lieutenant acquiesced with a gracious smile. “Please, follow me, priestess.” He led Leta below deck.

  This somehow feels too easy, thought Leta, suddenly fearful that she had walked into a trap. She was supposed to be asleep in her apartment — no one knew she was here. If these men were truly associated with the rebellion, they would not hesitate to take her captive, or worse.

  Every one of her senses came on guard; the caustic stench of mildew stung her nose, the coarse threads of the rope railing grated against her fingers as she descended the stairs, the pitch blackness of the ship’s hold caused her pupils to flare wide.

  Why is it so dark down here? wondered Leta, her unease growing. I’ve been in caves that were better lit. She tried to quell her rising panic, reminding herself that open flames were rarely welcome on a ship. She had to stay calm. Admiral Ferrus and Meriatis were once good friends. That thought only furthered her disquiet. Who better to be a rebel than Meriatis’s childhood friend. Leta cursed under her breath. What kind of fool walks into a rebel’s den?

  A voice in the back of her head told her to run. She might manage to escape the ship, but she doubted she could run the length of the dock before one of the sentries put an arrow in her back.

  Lieutenant Floren led her down another flight of stairs, which put them below the waterline. They passed down a long open space with rows of hammocks hanging on either side of the path. Only a handful were occupied.

  This is the crew’s quarters, but where’s the crew?

  At the end of the passage was a door, its edges wreathed in glowing light. There was a loud thump on the other side of the door, followed by a wretched cry of pain.

  “Oh, gods.” She wavered, and was certain she had to flee, but before she could go two steps, Lieutenant Floren reached out and grabbed her hand with his vice-like grip.

  “This way, please. The admiral would have my head if you injured yourself stumbling about in the dark.”

  Beyond the door, another voice joined the first, crying in desperate agony.

  Floren threw open the door. Leta half expected to walk in on a scene of torture. She had to blink in surprise.

  “Next up!” roared a voice as two writhing men were pulled from the center of the room.

  There were four dozen men crammed into the hold. Every eye was focused on what was transpiring at the center of the room. A shipping crate served as a makeshift table. Atop it sat a tin bathing basin filled to the brim with water. A jellyfish fluttered within — its knotted mess of translucent tentacles nearly filled the entire basin. Two silver coins sparkled at the bottom.

  A row of shirtless men surrounded the basin, drumming on the rim with their hands. The men took turns plunging their arms into the water, each attempting to weave a path through the brier-patch of stinging tentacles and retrieve a coin. Several men came up short, until finally one man managed to snake his hand through a hoop of tentacles. He yelled in delight and thrust his hand aloft, revealing a silver Merridian clutched between his fingers.

  The whole room exploded in a whooping cheer.

  Lieutenant Floren tried to forge a path through the throng of men, but gained little headway. When that failed, he yelled out to the admiral. “Admiral Ferrus!” His voice was lost in the uproar.

  The admiral was not difficult to spot. He was a head taller than most of the other men, and he was goading on the contestants louder than anybody else. So this is the meeting that the sentries didn’t want me to see. Leta eyed Ferrus with mild amusement.

  Ferrus, like most members of the high nobility, had hazel eyes. They peered out beneath full eyebrows and a square jaw. His brown hair was slicked back in a wavy arc, as if years of facing into the wind had permanently set his hair in that direction. He had attributes that many people would call handsome. Leta didn’t see it, but perhaps that was because he reminded her so much of her brother.

  Meriatis and Ferrus were born only a few months apart. The two were natural friends, and over the years the young admiral-to-be became a frequent guest at the palace. As a child, Meriatis always seemed to have either Ferrus or Emethius in his company. On the rare occasion when all three boys were together, they made for an unholy trio of terror.

  Playing at being alchemists, the three boys once tried to turn iron into gold. They filled half the cooking pots in the kitchen with a mixture of raw iron ore and quicksilver. Thankfully, the chef caught them in the act and put a stop to it before they filled the palace with noxious fumes. Every pot the boys touched had to be discarded, lest they accidentally poison the entire household.

  Leta remembered Ferrus as a nuisance, someone who was more likely to ruin her day than to bring a smile to her face. But now looking at Ferrus amongst his men, she had to admit there was something dashing about the admiral, something she had not detected when he was just a trifling boy playing silly games with her younger brother. Maybe it was the air of confidence he held while in the presence of his men, maybe it was the grace and certainty of his motions. These sailors actually revere him, realized Leta, as she spied man after man looking to Ferrus for approval. It reminded her of how Soldiers of the Faith regarded Meriatis before the rebellion.

  The game had reached its final prize, a lone silver coin wreathed by a nest of jellyfish tentacles. One man went for it. A tentacle fluttered a hair’s breath short of the man’s flesh, and he recoiled, coming up empty-handed. The sailors hooted at the man’s cowardice, and another contestant swooped in and collected the final coin before the man could scrounge up enough courage to try again. A moan of disappointment filtered through the packed room; the game was over, the fun was through.

  Ferrus leapt atop a table, taking on a bandy-legged stance to catch his balance. From his vantage he had a commanding view of the room. He held up a gold Merridian, dancing it from knuckle to knuckle. The flare of gold drew his men’s attention like a moth to a flame. More than a few mouths hung slack-jawed with greedy desire. When the coin reached Ferrus’s thumb he flicked it in the air, letting it sail over the heads of the contestants. It plopped into the tub, landing right on top of the jellyfish’s body. It seemed to hover near the surface of the water for a moment, then in wide floating arcs, it slowly descended through the knot of tentacles, and came to a rest against the bottom of the basin.

  The men surrounding the bathtub eyed the gold Merridian with envious eyes. Everyone wanted the coin — it represented over a month’s salary — yet no one dared to sink their hand into that viper’s nest of stinging tentacles.

  “No takers?” called Ferrus with disappointment. “Very well.” He flicked a second coin atop the jellyfish, and then a third and a forth.

  Leta had to correct her earlier assessment of the admiral. Ferrus has a bit of dash and a whole lot of arrogant swagger.

  A sailor shoved through the ranks, a thin man who was not much more than sinew and muscle. He uncorked an old bottle of spoiled wine and took a lengthy draw, filling his cheeks with the sour fluid. Leta could smell the pungent scent of vinegar from across the room. With his cheeks puffed out like a rodent and his eyes nearly bugging out of his skull, he slapped his forehead, working himself up for the challenge.

  Admiral Ferrus toasted the brave sailor with a raise of his tankard. “To the brave and the bold, the stupid and the foolhardy. I salute you!”

  “Hear, hear!” cried the men in unison.

  The thin man nodded respectfully to the admiral, then plunged his hand into the water, punching straight through the body of the jellyfish and into the tangle of stinging tentacles. A gurgling moan issued from his wine-filled throat as he grabbed the first and second coin. The muscles in his hand seized up as he tried to push his palm through a tangle of tentacles to reach the third and fourth coin. Clutching his forearm with his
free hand, he forced his quivering fingers to come to a rest atop the final two coins. A look of pure madness overcame the man’s face, a mixture of ecstasy and horror. He yanked his hand from the water, pulling a web of sticky tentacles with it.

  The man’s hand and forearm were already pink and covered with spiraling lines of welts. A jet of vinegar came gushing out of the man’s mouth, soaking the inflamed flesh and dislodging the last few tentacles in the process. The vinegar didn’t seem to help with the pain. The man shrieked like a dying animal and fell to the ground, clutching at his stricken hand as if it was possessed. His fingers began to convulse and retract against his will. The gold coins fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

  The men around him hollered and cheered.

  “Hold him down,” roared Ferrus. He jumped from the table and pressed his foot firmly against the stricken sailor’s chest. Laughing heartily to himself, Ferrus unlaced his breeches and began to pee on the man’s welt-covered arm and hand. More men joined in, until their were half a dozen men pissing on the rich fool. A few moments later, the stricken sailor emerged from the throng reeking of urine and bad wine. He pumped his red hand over his head triumphantly, while he simultaneously bit into each of the four gold coins, measuring their worth with his teeth. Men rushed forward with bottles of liquor to reward the man for his bravery.

  Lieutenant Floren finally managed to push his way through to Admiral Ferrus just as the admiral was lacing up his breeches. Floren coughed loudly, catching Admiral Ferrus’s attention. “Um-hum, Admiral, you have a visitor.”

  The admiral’s eyes flared in surprise. “The Lady of the Rose!” said Ferrus. A coy smirk crossed his face, and he immediately dropped to one knee and pressed his lips against the knuckles of her pale left hand. “What an honor for you to grace us with your presence. Did you enjoy our game?”

  She glanced at the man who had collected the gold coins from the bathing tin. He was sitting atop a man’s shoulders pouring liquor down the throat of anyone who would open their mouth. This is what remains of Meriatis’s rebel army? They are more children than men, thought Leta, feeling a little disappointed. “It is nice to see that the men of the Elyim Fleet are ever ready to defend the realm.”