“My men have fun when they ought to have fun,” said Ferrus with a dismissive shrug. “But they are deathly grim in all other circumstance.”
Leta envisioned the archer resting atop the mast. Yes, grim and dangerous.
“To what do I owe this honor?” asked Ferrus, still grinning.
“I followed a man associated with the rebellion to your dock,” said Leta, not in a mood to mince words. “He seemed bound for your ship, but he thought it wise to disappear down an alley when he noticed I was following him.”
The smile slipped from Ferrus’s face. “We should speak in private.” He motioned toward the aft of the ship and placed a firm hand on the small of Leta’s back. “If you will?”
The nascent fear that had been dogging her since she first set foot on the ship crept back into Leta’s mind. She looked around the room, and the crew stared back. Suddenly all of their joyful faces didn’t seem so joyful. They seemed suspicious, irritated, even angry.
“Perhaps you should visit me in the palace,” suggested Leta, eager for a way out.
“No, here is better,” replied Ferrus, as he pulled her along. “The palace has too many ears, too many eyes. If you and I are to speak about treason, the privacy of my ship is absolutely necessary.”
CHAPTER
III
THE LORD CAPTAIN
The soldiers quickly guided Emethius and Malrich through the levels of the city. The grim-faced men in their escort were different from the soldiers Emethius had seen lounging at the tables in the king’s great hall — these men were more tawny and wind-burnt, the type of men who did the real fighting.
They entered an old tavern which was mostly empty save for a few drunken soldiers. The barkeep and patrons hardly lifted an eye when Malrich and Emethius were shoved through the parlor. They were taken straight to the building’s cellar. The wooden stairs creaked from rot, and the air was heavy, smelling of mold.
“I’m not going down there,” protested Malrich at the top of the landing, putting forth one final effort at resistance. It resulted in him being thrown down the entire flight of stairs.
Emethius dragged Malrich to his feet.
“Sit,” instructed Sir Bilis, pointing to a pair of overturned casks set in the center of the room. Firm hands made sure they complied with the direction.
The cellar served as a storage chamber, and casks of wine and beer were stacked on either wall. A group of men stood at the far end of the cellar. They were staring intently at a piece of parchment laid flat over the top of a barrel. They spoke quietly for several minutes, until finally, the man who appeared to be their leader excused himself and approached Emethius and Malrich with a staggered gait.
The man was not any older than Emethius, but he carried himself with an air of authority that Emethius lacked. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, which he wore unbuttoned and open. The eagle crest of House Langlif could be spied upon his surcoat. His braided hair was dark, almost brown. Hazel eyes gleamed from beneath his furrowed brow. He is of royal stock, at least by some measurement, Emethius surmised. A nephew or grandson of the king most likely.
“These are our visitors from Merridia, my lord,” said Sir Bilis, giving both Emethius and Malrich a rough pat on the shoulder.
Without saying a word, the young lord turned Emethius’s head from side to side, examining the skin of his neck. He did not seem pleased by what he discovered.
The bastard is checking my neck for a transfuser scar, Emethius realized. Most healers had one from the test they took as a child.
“You’re a master healer, right?” The lord rolled back the cuff of his left pant leg, revealing a deep scar in his calf. There was an entrance wound on one side, and an exit wound on the other. “A Cul archer hit my leg a few months ago. Lucky for me, the arrow wasn’t poisoned. Still, I would prefer not to walk with a halt for the rest of my life. I want you to heal my leg.”
“I would be happy to help,” began Emethius, struggling to stay calm. His heart was beating so hard, he was surprised no one else could hear it. “But there are certain evaluations that must be performed before a transfusion can occur. I must inspect you for signs of the Blackheart. It can be a lengthy and tiring process, but these are the rules of my order.”
“Ah, you don’t know me. That’s a good excuse. Quick thinking.” The lord tapped at his head. “But you know him, right?” He unsheathed his blade and pressed the edge to Malrich’s neck. Malrich tried to draw away, but Sir Bilis held him firmly in place. “If I slice open your companion’s throat do you think you could heal him before he bleeds to death?”
Emethius tried to keep the panic from showing in his face. “I’d prefer you not injure my leech boy. A good one is quite hard to come by.”
The lord grinned. “There’s a bit of cheek in you. I can appreciate that, even from a liar.” He kept his knife pressed against Malrich’s neck. “Let me make my position clear; I believe you told King Iantir the truth when you claimed to be from Merridia. Based on your accents, I would wager you two came from the coastal southlands.” He pulled at the sleeve of Emethius’s fox fur cloak. “I also know you are not a healer, although your disguise is authentic. Did you kill the master healer who owned this?”
“No,” said Emethius, although in his heart he wondered if that was a lie. Ftoril had left the healer bound in a cave. “The cloak belonged to my uncle. I inherited it from him when he died. I hoped the cloak would grant us a certain degree of protection as we traveled the North Road. In Merridia, master healers are still held in high regard. I can see that this is no longer the case in Dunis.”
“An unlikely story,” said the lord.
“You can’t kill us for an unlikely story,” challenged Malrich brusquely.
“Oh, I can kill you,” said the lord with an unsettling degree of certainty. “You’re a fat ingrate of no importance. It’s your companion I’m not so sure about. He might be somebody, or he might be nobody. Here it is, your last chance to tell the truth, then we’ll see how good you are at suturing up a throat.” He jabbed the edge of his blade into Malrich’s neck, drawing blood.
Emethius saw no other path forward. “Put away your blade,” blurted Emethius, raising his hands in the air. “My name really is Emethius. My companion’s name really is Malrich. That much we told King Iantir in truth. I will happily tell you the rest, but before I do, I must know who you are.”
The lord chuckled quietly. “I like a man who barters when he has nothing to offer.” He rose to his full height and smacked the eagle emblem embroidered on his surcoat with the flat of his dagger. “I am Ianin Langlif, son of Lord Serin, grandson of King Iantir, and Lord Captain of the Dunie.” He was clearly proud of his lineage.
“That would explain the eyes,” said Emethius. He was only somewhat informed about the House of Langlif, but he knew Serin was King Iantir’s eldest son. “I am Captain Emethius Lunen of the Second Legion and Master of Greenstone Manor. Lieutenant Malrich is my second in command.”
“Hmm. So I was right about your accent. You’re a couple of Henna Lu boys. Do you serve under Praetor Maxentius’s banner?”
“Yes, but we have ventured west on our own private business.”
“Go on.” Ianin’s knife was still out, but at least he was no longer holding it against Malrich’s neck.
To tell more was a risk, but this journey was a gamble from the start. “There is a rumor in my land that there is a healer of the Blackheart in the west.”
“Then you need to look no further,” said Ianin with a grin. “For I carry the cure to the Blackheart in my hand.” He waved the dagger in Emethius’s face.
“So your men have been keen on telling us,” began Emethius. “But our destination lies much farther west. The Cultrator. It is a journey fraught with danger, but I have a friend who is worth it. I assumed my disguise would grant us safe passage as far as the Stygian Mines. We did not know that the Barren Tracks had fallen.”
Lord Ianin sheathed his blade and stood
in silence for a moment, thumbing at his chin. Finally he motioned to one of his men. “Bring me a chair, I now have something to talk to these men about.” A stool was brought immediately.
“The Cul hit the Stygian Mines first,” explained Ianin, as he took a seat. “My father rallied the garrison and for several days they managed to keep the enemy contained. The Cul would attack at night in groups of ten to twenty. They were probing for weakness, testing every gate, checking the range of every watchtower. A messenger reached Hardthorn on the fifth day of the siege. A quarter of the garrison was dead, another quarter was injured, but the gate still stood. The sixth day came and no message. The seventh, the eighth, and the ninth were no different. On the tenth day we lost contact with Interleads. Over the course of the next week only a handful of survivors managed to limp down from the mountain pass.”
“Was your father, er..., Lord Serin, amongst them?” asked Emethius.
“He was last seen holding off the Cul advance at the Sun Gate.” There was a glimmer of pride in Ianin’s eyes as he recounted his father’s final act of bravery. “King Iantir summoned every able-bodied man in Dunis to muster at Hardthorn. Men came from as far away as Westhorn and Terra Falls. I advised my grandfather to delay, to await the coming of spring and the lengthening of the day, but no sensible words would sway his heart.
“My grandfather marched his army into the Barren Tracks while there was still snow on the ground. Worse still, the fog had not yet lifted from the mountain pass. We were ambushed before we even reached Interleads. It was a slaughter. A tenth of the men were lost. Twice that number were injured. Not even my grandfather was safe. The Cul tried to drag him into one of their tunnels. I rushed to his aid, but by the time I fought the cull off, the demons had plucked out both of his eyes.
“King Iantir was led back to Hardthorn by a rope. Most men would sooner die than live through such a disgrace. My grandfather is a broken man. All of his sons are dead, and what last shred of honor he possessed has been lost. So while he sits upon the throne in Reel Aper, his men come to me for orders. Thus the task of saving this land now falls squarely upon my shoulders.” Tears glinted in Lord Ianin’s eyes, and he took a moment to gather himself before continuing.
“I have dispatched my two cousins to the Court of Bariil. They are pleading our case to anyone who will listen. My mother, I have sent to Ulmer. She is the sister of King Clement and has been received with open arms. Her king brother has yet to grant us more than a pittance in aid, but I have faith that his charity will increase as the cackle of the Cul draws nearer to his borders. As to your high lord, he has answered thusly — Merridia is wrought with plague and inner turmoil and not a man can be spared. But the high lord has promised to pray nightly for our kingdom atop his Throne of Roses.” Ianin spit. “Everything moves slowly in the fair palaces of kings and high lords yet here the Shadow creeps as it ever does. So while your lord battles the madness of the Blackheart and the heresy of Prince Meriatis, we Dunie fight the only battle that really matters, the war against the creeping terrors of the Shadow.”
“I do not know how to respond,” said Emethius. “It is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude. I can only pray that some deliverance is found.”
“Are you so foolish as to believe that prayer actually works?” scoffed Ianin. “Or were you simply trying to be kind? The gods have forsaken this land, and only the blades of my people keep the devil at bay.” Ianin sat in silence for a minute, letting his frustration subside. “So, now that you know what has happened to my land, what do you intend to do? Will you turn tail and return to Mayal, or continue on with your foolish errand?”
Emethius almost fell over in surprise. Lord Ianin did not mean to stop them.
“This news changes nothing,” said Malrich, answering before Emethius had fully processed the information. “We will press onward.”
Emethius’s eyebrows flared with surprise. He had always known the last leg of their journey would be fraught with danger, but this sounded a lot like suicide. Contending with the Cul from the Barren Tracks onward was considerably different than contending with the Cul only through the Cultrator. Or was it? “If we venture the Barren Tracks, we could travel safely by day. And at night, two might find sanctuary within a shelf of rock or a hidden cave, while an army a thousand strong would have no choice but to lay in the open waiting for the Cul.”
Lord Ianin nodded in agreement. “What you propose has been accomplished before, although never under such circumstances as these. Countless Dunie warriors have journeyed into the Cultrator. None have returned. We joke that a honed blade is the best cure for the affliction, but there is a more honorable path one can take. We call it the Long Walk. Those afflicted with the Blackheart may enter the Cultrator alone, armed with nothing but a bow and a blade. One’s only responsibility: slay as many Cul as you can before you enter the hereafter. Highborn or low, man or woman, it does not matter. The Long Walk is open to all.”
“Do you have any idea how far most make it?” wondered Malrich.
“My own uncle, Lord Cador, holds the record,” said Ianin. “He undertook the journey some years ago after he began to show the symptoms of the affliction. The marchwardens atop the tower of Interleads were able to mark his progress based on the smoke signals he sent up each night at dusk. He made it as far as the Puttdale River before he stopped sending signals. But my uncle was an extraordinarily dangerous and cunning man. I doubt his success will ever be replicated.”
“It will have to be if we hope to succeed,” said Emethius, seeing no harm in sharing their mission. “Our destination lies just beyond where your uncle vanished.”
“Bi Ache,” said Ianin with a knowing nod. “You think a cure is hidden in those blighted ruins? Perhaps. It is hard to say what the Cella unearthed before the Cul burned their kingdom to the ground.” He leaned forward, seeming to take a genuine interest in Emethius’s plan. “I will give you the same advice I give anyone who is about to undertake the Long Walk. The Cul will not enter the light, and by day you will be safe. But the Cul own the Shadow and the night. The Cul are at their strongest when we are crippled by darkness and our vision is at its worst. Avoid shadowed valleys and never enter caves or hollows in the earth. If there is mist, there are Cul nearby. They are supernatural creatures, but they can be killed. They seem to fear fire, and a blade will kill a Cul as easily as it does a man.”
Ianin shook his head. “Only madness would guide one into the realm of the Cul, yet here you sit before me, claiming to be of sound mind and cause. The two of you will die, of this I am sure, but what am I to do other than oblige your request? The gods will sort out the ignorant from the wise.”
“If it is the will of the gods, I will die for my cause,” said Emethius. “And Malrich is foolish enough to follow me somewhere he should not.”
Malrich shrugged off Sir Bilis’s hands and rose proudly at Emethius’s side. “It’s an ill-advised sense of loyalty, yet all the same, I will follow Emethius wherever he leads me.”
Ianin chuckled. “What a gift it is to be your friend, Emethius. You’ll risk your life to save one friend while dragging another to his death.” He turned to Sir Bilis.
“Give these men the same provisions we would grant someone about to undertake the Long Walk. Ropes, a bow, arrows, and food.” Ianin looked to Malrich and Emethius. “I don’t take lightly the dispersal of my provisions. Kill as many of the Cul as you can before the Shadow takes you.”
CHAPTER
IV
THE ADMIRAL
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing Leta and Admiral Ferrus in the captain’s quarters. They were alone, which was not ideal. Leta had just accused Admiral Ferrus of being a rebel, which, in effect, made him an enemy of the Court. And now I’m locked in a room with him. Not exactly the brightest of moves.
“I apologize for the mess,” said Ferrus as he busied himself clearing empty bottles, unclean dishes, and discarded clothes from the two small couches set in the center of the ca
bin.
Admiral Ferrus’s private cabin was much like the exterior of the ship, dark and opulent. The walls were made of ebony, while stained-glass windows created a collage of colors that encircled three quarters of the room. Leta stopped in front of a large round table which had an intricate map carved into its face. The island of Elyim lay in the middle, and like the spokes of a wheel, all of the great cities of Elandria were linked to it by rhumb lines.
“I never knew Elyim was the center of the world,” said Leta. She ran her hand along the ridges and eddies, tracing a line between Mayal to Elyim.
“My father thought it was so,” said Ferrus, taking a seat upon a couch. He patted the open spot next to him. Leta took a seat across from him instead. His face curled in feigned injury. “Elyim is the center of trade. And trade runs the world, does it not, priestess?”
Ferrus’s late father, Admiral Nolus Leair, had been a coarse man even at the best of times. As far as the old patriarch was concerned faith was important, but money always reigned supreme. On more than one occasion he toed the line of treason to keep his coffers full. He once broke a trade embargo against the Kingdom of Emonia by transporting Tremelese weapons. On another occasion, he imported grains harvested by Emoni slaves into the Merridian market. These, and other unscrupulous transactions made him very rich — by many accounts his family had accumulated more wealth than any other house in Merridia — but it also made Admiral Nolus a near constant political opponent of Leta’s father. It was not a stretch to assume that Ferrus had inherited his father’s rebellious streak.
“Elyim is in the midst of it all,” agreed Leta. “The grand crossroads between Eremel and Tremel. But tell me, is Elyim also the center of the rebellion?” She saw no reason to delay getting to the point.
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