Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “The gods help me,” said Malrich, throwing his hands in the air. “Here I am about to take a merry stroll into the lair of the Great Enemy, and I’m standing here fretting over a horse.”

  “That’s because you have a heart,” said Emethius. He jabbed Malrich in the chest with his finger. “Baylilly served us well, and she deserved a great deal better than what she got. Unfortunately, we have no time to mourn our faithful horse. The guards don’t believe the fog will clear much more until the day is long.” He gestured to the sun. It was not much more than a dim sphere of yellow a few degrees above the fog-shrouded horizon. “If we can see the sun, the Cul can too. They should have crawled back into whatever dank tunnel they call home by now. We need to go while we can.”

  Malrich hoped Emethius was right. The cackling call he heard the night before was the stuff of nightmares. Worse still, it stirred up memories that Malrich had tried desperately to forget. The cackle of the Cul was not so dissimilar from the sounds his wife made the morning she killed their son. Malrich looked at his hands, half expecting to find them slick with blood. Ali had simultaneously laughed and cried as Malrich beat her. It was as if she was of two minds — one possessed by a zealous madness, the other ripe with terror.

  “Damn the gods for doing this to me,” muttered Malrich, steeling his resolve for the coming leg of the journey.

  Without further delay, Emethius and Malrich departed from Hardthorn, this time leaving through a postern gate. They found themselves standing on a path that rose steeply up toward the mountains.

  Malrich kicked the ground. “The road seems clear despite the warfare,” he reported, in a vain effort to put a positive spin on the bleak and desolate road that stretched on before them.

  “This is the path I swore to take, but not you,” said Emethius, stopping dead in his tracks. He rubbed at the vambrace on his left arm. Malrich knew what was there — it was a tally of all the lives Emethius felt responsible for losing. “Once we enter the mountain, there will be no turning back. I don’t imagine we will find any sanctuary until we reach our final destination, and even that is not certain. If we somehow manage to survive the journey, neither of us will be the same.”

  “No one touched by the Shadow ever is,” said Malrich grimly.

  “You have gotten me this far, Mal, and I thank you. But there is no cowardice in turning back now. You should go home to Ali — it will likely save your life.” Emethius continued to rub at his vambrace.

  Malrich feigned a grin. “I get it, Emethius — the roads we have traveled thus far will not compare to the trials that lie ahead. I’m afraid — any sane man would be — but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to abandon you. I’m loyal like a dog, and perhaps a great deal more foolish, but such is my nature. We march onward for the greater good, and I have to believe that this will protect us somehow. Lead and I will follow.”

  Emethius regarded him in silence, and for a moment Malrich feared Emethius was going to bar his path and tell him to return home to Ali. There is nothing for me to go home to, Malrich wanted to say. The Ali he had loved died years ago. Cure or not, she would never be the same. Why couldn’t Emethius see that?

  Emethius’s face softened, his eyes seeming to read the torment in Malrich’s heart. He laid a gentle hand on Malrich’s back. “Let’s get moving before a watchman mistakes us for a Cul and starts lobbing arrows in our direction,” said Emethius, letting a rare smile crease his lips. “I would hate to be killed before we reach the truly dire part of this journey.” He forced a cheerful whistle and set out north along the road.

  Malrich grinned and followed close behind.

  At first the earthen road ran nearly straight, staying clear of shadowed passes and rocky outcrops — any place the Cul might lay in ambush. But a few miles in, the road began to twist and turn along switchbacks, taking on a steep grade as it progressed up the eastern face of the mountain. One side of the path was almost always a sheer drop off. The ascent was arduous, and by midday they seemed to have made little progress, save rising in elevation above the brown expanse of the Morium Vale.

  As they rose in altitude, the true magnitude of the mountains came into view. To the east the Lehan Mountains marched away for countless leagues, breaking somewhere far beyond the horizon. To the south, curving in a great white arc, were the indomitable snow-capped peaks of the Essari Range. They gleamed in the morning sun, a mixture of gray, white, and blue.

  “I thought we were supposed to cross the Culing Mountains, not travel up the front side of them,” grumbled Malrich between a mouthful of stale bread and dried meat. It was nearing noon, and his stomach felt ripe for a bit of food.

  “Patience, my friend,” said Emethius. “I expect that before the day is through you will pine for such a hospitable setting as this.”

  Emethius’s words came true soon enough. They walked around a bend and found that the path vanished over the edge of a cliff.

  “Damned be all the things we do,” cursed Malrich. He walked to the brink and spit into the void. “What now?” There was a ledge on the far side of the crevice, but the fissure was deep and sheer. Malrich examined the edge of the cliff for post holes or mooring bolts, anything to signify where a bridge may have once stood. Nothing.

  He flopped down on the ground and took out his canteen, which he had finally filled with water. The lip of the canteen still bore the faint scent of alcohol. He tried to ignore the sudden impulse stirring in the bottom of his gut, but it only grew stronger when water hit his tongue instead of alcohol. Disgusted with himself, he shoved the cork back in place and tossed the canteen against the cliff wall.

  “Don’t be so short of temper,” said Emethius, mistaking the cause of Malrich’s frustration. “It isn’t justified yet. Come and have a look.”

  Malrich turned and saw Emethius pulling aside a pile of dead brush that someone had stacked before a cleft in the rock face. Malrich gasped in wonder when he saw what lay beyond.

  It was a road, but it was unlike anything Malrich had ever seen. The road was cut into the mountain itself, shorn through stone and dirt alike. Narrow at its base, the opening widened as it rose toward the sky. It ran straight as an arrow, due west, and appeared to run on forever.

  “This is the actual Barren Track,” explained Emethius. “Carved from the living stone of the Essari Range, it was crafted in the time of Atimir’s reign, when the Cul were but a rumor of the past.”

  Malrich smiled as he glanced down the road. “Never north, nor south, only east and west, The Barren Tracks run with the flight of the sun,” said Malrich, recalling a lesson he had learned in school.

  Emethius nodded. “The road was built by Tremelese master masons, constructed in such a manner that a traveler can cross from dawn until dusk and never tread in shadow. Although never completed, it was originally meant to lead all the way to Bi Ache.”

  “Our destination,” said Malrich with a grunt. “If only it did.”

  “Indeed,” said Emethius, beginning down the trail. “The Barren Tracks are but one of Atimir’s many grand projects that were never completed. The road will take us as far as Interleads before the day is through, although I am not certain we will be glad to arrive there when we do.”

  “The Dunie were rather inhospitable. I can’t imagine the Cul will be any less welcoming.”

  “Hopefully that is something we will never learn,” said Emethius. “I plan to take a detour before we draw near Interleads.”

  “Then I hope we sprout wings,” said Malrich, gesturing to the sheer canyon walls that hemmed them in on either side. “We might as well be walking down a tunnel — there is nowhere to go, except forward or backward.”

  “We’ll fret about that as the day progresses,” said Emethius. The slightest twinge of uncertainty was in his voice.

  He sees it too, thought Malrich. This path is funneling us straight into the waiting arms of the Cul.

  “What do you know of Bi Ache and the fall of Cella?” asked Emethius, clearly tryin
g to change the subject to something less worrisome.

  “Only that Cella was once the envy of the world, that is, until the Sins of Atimir brought the realm to ruin.” Atimir was either a prince or a king, Malrich vaguely remembered from his schooling.

  “There was a time not long after the first pilgrims settled in Eremel that the realms of Merridia and Emonia were engaged in a bloody and senseless war,” began Emethius. “Most of the bloodshed centered around the city of Etro, as it lay in a contested land, located on an island in the middle of the Osspherus River.

  “It was there that Princess Ierra, the daughter of High Lord Denison, lived. In an act of brazen cunning, Prince Ateasar, second son of the Emoni king, captured the city and took the princess captive. Blinded by grief, High Lord Denison marched on Etro, and for three years he held the city under siege. It was to no avail; the river provided the people of Etro with enough food and water to hold out against an indefinite seige.

  “Prince Ateasar was a kind and gentle man, with a heart easily stirred by compassion. Although Princess Ierra was his prisoner, he granted her free rein of the palace as long as she promised not to escape. At night she often visited the palace garden and tended to the flowers. She would sing while she worked. Her voice would drift through the halls of the palace, drawing Ateasar to his window. He watched her in secret, at first with fascination, then with pity, and later with love. But as the war dragged on, he noticed a change come over the princess. Ierra’s shoulders were not raised with such pride, and her song became barely a whisper. The war was killing her, Ateasar realized, and he could not bear being responsible for her pain.

  “Disguising himself as a beggar, Prince Ateasar slipped from Etro in the cover of night and sneaked into the pavilion of High Lord Denison. Before Denison could rouse his guards, Ateasar threw off his cloak and knelt naked before the high lord. He confessed all of his sins and begged the high lord for forgiveness. Although Denison’s heart had become cold after these many years of sorrow, he was filled with a sudden compassion. He withdrew his own cloak and laid it across Ateasar’s shoulders. It was the beginning of peace between the two realms.”

  “I remember this part from my lessons,” said Malrich. “Prince Ateasar and Princess Ierra eventually got married, right?”

  Emethius nodded. “They were wed in the Court of Bariil. On the day of their wedding, Ateasar received a vision from the gods. The Calabanesi commanded him to conquer the Cultrator. Although the gods of Calaban promised the talsani people all the lands of Eremel, save the forests of the Great Northern Ador, the lands west of the Essari Range had yet to be seized from the Cul. Ateasar proclaimed a crusade to finally rid the land of the Cul’s vile taint. Warriors from every great household rallied to his banner, caught up in the zeal of conquest.

  “With an army of crusaders in his company, Prince Ateasar rode past the Lem Sette River with his wife at his side. The Cul flew before him like rats fleeing the light. On the tenth day he came to a river that flowed into the great sea. There he threw down his blade, and claimed the seat of his lordship. Bi Anule was founded, and would soon become one of the grandest cities in the world.

  “During the days of King Ateasar and Queen Ierra’s reign, they had three children. Ateius being their oldest son, Atimir their second, and Eonia their only daughter. While Ateius inherited his father’s throne, they gave the northern lands of Cella to their ambitious second son, Atimir. These were wild and untamed lands, and Atimir seized them with a ruthless passion. He rode north and selected a high hill upon which he built the city of Bi Ache.

  “Atimir’s ambition and hubris knew no bounds, and he thought nothing of delving into the forbidden forests of the Northern Ador and cutting down its sacred trees. With the lumber, he built a fleet of ships that plied the seas in search of wealth and trade. Within the Essari Range, mines were dug, deep as the ocean’s depths, and from these mines flowed gold and silver the likes of which the world had never seen. During his long reign the city flourished, and its wealth became unmatched by any city in the world. Its marble palaces and grand temples were legendary, and Atimir’s crown was said to be worth more than all the lands of Chansel.

  “But such prosperity did not last. There was a fire in the Essari Mountains that could be spied on a clear night, high up beyond the reach of any explorer. Many called it an omen, others a curse, but there was little conjecture about its true meaning; the Cul had been awakened. It was in these years that the Essari Range took on the name of the Culing Mountains. The people of Cella knew the Cul were there, but they were not afraid. The Cul had not been seen in the flesh since King Atesar entered the Cultrator a hundred years prior. The Children of the Shadow had become little more than a fable to scare misbehaving children.

  “To face this new threat, Prince Atimir conscripted an army, a hundred thousand glittering swords and waving banners. He paraded his host before the feet of the mountain, challenging the Cul to come down from their icy abode and face him in combat. But only a fool laughs in the face of the Shadow, and of this Atimir was guilty many times over. When the Cul finally came, they arrived like a sea of flames, devouring all that stood in their path. Atimir’s grand army was slaughtered, and the city of Bi Ache fell in a single night. The wise believe the gods sent the Cul upon Bi Ache as punishment for Atimir’s sins.”

  Malrich raised his eyebrow circumspectly. “For what? Venturing into the Great Northern Ador and cutting down a few sacred trees?”

  Emethius shrugged. “Perhaps. Atimir harvested trees from the forest despite a direct edict by the gods forbidding the practice. But there are other legends as well — that the men working in Atimir’s mines had brought to the surface gemstones that were used in the very forging of the earth. Atimir’s crown was said to have contained ten of these precious stones — one for every ocean in the world.”

  “What good his precious gemstones did for him when the Cul came,” said Malrich with a sneer. “Did any of the people of Cella survive, or is this tale just another legend based on hearsay?”

  “A handful of survivors managed to reach Terra Falls,” said Emethius. “They were led by Princess Eonia, the only surviving child of King Atimir and Queen Ierra. The land of Dunis was the only part of the Cella Empire not conquered by the Cul. To reconcile what little of the empire remained, Princess Eonia married Katel Langlif, the Lord of Hardthorn. Before the coming of the Cul, Hardthorn was just a trading hub on the eastern fringe of the Cella Empire. After the war, it became the seat of Atimir’s line in exile.”

  “The Dunie are the descendants of the Cella?” Malrich laughed at the notion. The lost people of Cella had always had a near mythical status in his mind. “To think, I pass refugees from Dunis begging in the streets of Mayal everyday. Not once have I ever associated those downtrodden people with their fabled forebearers.”

  “People are people, Mal. Be they proud and strong, or bow-backed and beaten. The sooner we learn this truth, the sooner so many evils in this world will come to an end.”

  The path ran straight and the day wore on. The fog and cloud cover had long since burned away, and the sun glowed viciously overhead, following their every step. For a while Malrich was glad for its presence; it was a source of comfort and familiarity. The Cul will not enter the light, he often reminded himself. But by mid-afternoon the encroaching walls began to radiate with heat, much like a stone oven, and despite the elevation, his tunic was soaked through with sweat.

  Every few leagues they came upon abandoned fortifications that were carved directly into the face of the stone wall. The Dunie had built them high up, so that they were inaccessible without a ladder. They appeared to be little more than rows of black chasms sealed off by iron bars.

  Malrich watched the black chasms with trepidation. He had never seen the Cul; few truly had. All he knew were the legends. Creatures who lurked in the night. Eyes that glowed. Fangs like daggers. Always in the Shadow. He imagined them hiding just within the gloom of the fortification with rusty blades
and cankered lips. At one such fortification he swore there was movement just on the periphery of his vision, but when he turned to look, the barred chasm was just like the rest — barren, empty, and uninviting.

  “Just ghosts and shadows,” Malrich reassured himself. But when he looked at Emethius, he saw his friend’s face had taken on a sallow complexion.

  “If you need any urgency to speed your step, you need only to look up,” said Emethius, with no hint of playfulness in his voice. “You are as close to the Cul as you have ever been in your life. Doubtlessly, they are watching us now. When the sun drops below the horizon they will come after us like the damned. We need to find a way to get off this road.”

  They quickened their pace, but still the impassible walls of the Barren Tracks held them ensnared. If anything, the walls seemed to increase in height. The cackling began about an hour before dusk. Unsettling cries, deep-throated, as if emitted from a parched throat. Calls wafted down from atop the canyon wall and braying cries replied from back the way Malrich and Emethius had come.

  “We’re surrounded,” said Malrich.

  Emethius was too winded to reply. He doubled over and looked as if he might wretch. Between the heat and the grueling pace they were both exhausted to the core. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s hand and pulled him along. Every step became a chore — Malrich had never felt so heavy in his life — but the adrenaline kept him going. Step, step, step, he commanded himself. Emethius staggered in his wake like a drunkard.

  Ahead of them the setting sun radiated like a thousand flames, threatening to dive below the horizon at any moment. Malrich led the way, his stumbling gait turning into a sprint. He chased after the sun as if it could be caught. His muscles ached and his lungs screamed for relief. The cackling rose above the sound of his ragged breath and thundering feet.

  Then suddenly Malrich was falling. He landed on his face. His mouth filled with dirt, and his vision was momentarily obscured by debris. In a daze, he looked back at his feet. He had tripped over a skull. Remnants of leathery flesh hung loosely to the white bone underneath. In stark horror, he kicked away from the awful visage, stirring up a cloud of red dust. He thought he might be ill.