Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  “What do we do?” whispered Malrich.

  “Stay low,” hissed Emethius. “This may be a trap.”

  “A trap?” responded Malrich. “Most likely, but we are so close. If he can see us, he’s not far, just beyond the mouth of one of those tunnels.”

  “That’s the realm of the Cul, not ours. There is no saying what is hiding within the gloom.”

  “He’s a Dunie. He wouldn’t betray us.”

  “Would he not?” challenged Emethius. “And how certain are you that he is a Dunie and not a Cul?”

  “The Cul can’t speak,” said Malrich. “Can they?”

  Emethius looked at him blankly; he knew the answer no better than Malrich. “We cannot risk the mission over this.”

  “You did at Interleads,” said Malrich.

  “At Interleads there was certainty,” answered Emethius. His hands were shaking.

  At Interleads you still had the confidence to do what was right. “Fuck it,” muttered Malrich. He sprung from their hiding spot and raced toward the cluster of holes before Emethius could stop him.

  “Mal, no!” blurted Emethius, but Malrich was already peering down the first tunnel.

  “Where are you?” called Malrich, scurrying to the next tunnel mouth when he found the first one vacant.

  “Here! Here! I’m right here! Hurry!” The voice was coming from a tunnel about a man’s height in diameter.

  Malrich rushed to the mouth of the tunnel and immediately gagged as the smell of rot wafted up to greet his nose. He placed his forearm against his mouth and nose to ward off the stench and squinted into the darkness. A figure lay on the ground a dozen paces from the entrance. It was a Dunie soldier, of that Malrich was certain, but the darkness of the tunnel concealed most of the man’s features.

  “Get away from there,” hissed Emethius.

  Malrich waved at Emethius for silence and drew his sword. “Are you alone?”

  The figure jerked up to a seated position, his head lolling back and forth. He waved his arm at Malrich. “I’m right here. Hurry!” repeated the figure.

  The hairs on the back of Malrich’s neck stood on end. There was something about the way the man spoke that felt off. The figure began to bob back and forth, his arms flapping up and down. Then Malrich saw it; iron collars were strapped around the figures neck and wrists. Chains were attached to the collars. They ran up through the air to a series of pulleys embedded in the ceiling and then vanished into the depth of the tunnel.

  “Gods help me, he’s dead!”

  There was a soft creak, the kind of sound most men wouldn’t even notice, but Malrich recognized the sound immediately. It was a bow being drawn taut.

  The chained figure dropped to the ground, like a marionette released by a puppeteer. Malrich did likewise, and not a second later, an arrow came hissing out of the darkness. It just missed the top of Malrich’s head.

  “I’m here! Right here!” screeched the voice, which was now filled with rage.

  Malrich didn’t look back. He dove out of the tunnel just as a second arrow was let loose. The projectile missed him by a wide margin and went crashing into a pile of debris.

  Emethius was at Malrich’s side in half-a-heartbeat and pulled him to his feet.

  “I see you!” screamed a different voice from a nearby tunnel. “I see you, I see you, I see you!” The chorus came from all around them. All at once, a barrage of arrows came flying in from every perceivable direction, fired from tunnel mouths all over the valley. Emethius and Malrich ran for their lives as arrows clattered near their feet and whizzed by overhead.

  They rounded the final rubble mound, and the Dusking Gate came into view. The structure was nearly identical to the Dawning Gate on the far side of the valley, and just like the Dawning Gate, it, too, was open. Arrows rebounded off the face of the gate as they scrambled through the opening.

  The Cul cackled and laughed as their barrage of arrows pelted the gate, but none gave chase. With the gate serving as a protective barrier, Malrich and Emethius collapsed to the ground and sucked air.

  “That was stupid,” managed Emethius between breaths.

  “Damn stupid,” Malrich agreed.

  “You have any holes in you?”

  “No more than I was born with,” said Malrich, patting over his body just in case.

  “Then let’s put as many miles between us and this cursed place as we can.”

  Emethius took the lead, setting a grueling pace that did not stop even as night drew on. The path began a steep descent, and the scenery rapidly changed. The thorny bramble gave way to evergreens. The hoot of owls and the chirps of bugs resounded in the boughs of the ever darkening forest. If the Cul were giving chase they did not make a sound.

  Near midnight a ghostly shape emerged before them. They had reached the end of the Barren Tracks, and empty ramparts and dark windows overlooked the road.

  “The trading post of Cesca,” said Emethius, giving the ruins a name. “This was the ancient link between the east and west, built by the Cella at the edge of the forbidden forest.”

  “Then this marks the beginning of the Great Northern Ador,” said Malrich. He eyed the dark forest that surrounded them. The evergreens on one side of the road looked no different than the ones on the other side. He knocked on the trunk of one of the ancient evergreens. So great was its girth, a pair of men could wrap their arms around the trunk and not touch one another.

  “The gods forbid the talsani people from entering the forest and harvesting the wood of its trees, yet Atimir was foolish and bold,” said Emethius, continuing down the road and into the ruins. “How many trees must have been felled to build the homes and shops that once stood here? This town was an affront to the gods. Its ruins stand as a testament to Calaban’s wrath.”

  It was difficult to gauge how large of a settlement Cesca originally was. Most of the ruins had been consumed by the forest. The crumbling city keep was the only building of any significance that remained standing.

  Malrich and Emethius entered the keep, deciding it was safest place to shelter for the night. An aisle made of white marble divided the great hall in two and led to a weathered stone throne. Set into the wall behind the throne was a stone mosaic. In the dim light of the moon Malrich examined the scene depicted in the mosaic. Lord Atimir stood in the center, flanked by his army on the right and his grand armada of white ships on the left. In one hand he held aloft a sphere of shimmering adamant, and in the other a golden scepter. Upon his head was a crown beset by ten glowing gemstones. Unfortunately, the image had been sullied by vile hands. Atimir’s skin had been blackened, as if shaded by charcoal, and horns had been added to his crown. He looked more like a demon than a powerful lord.

  “Must the Cul defile everything?” said Malrich with a sigh.

  Emethius could only shake his head in response.

  They found an alcove far away from the ghastly mosaic, and there they fashioned beds out of pine needles. Feeling utterly exhausted, Malrich lay down upon his makeshift bed and stared up at the night sky. It looked remarkably similar to the sky above Mayal.

  “Tomorrow we will enter the forbidden forest,” said Emethius, as he settled down to sleep. “Supposedly there are forces within those woods even the Cul will not defy. We would be wise to keep this in mind.”

  Malrich knew what type of forces Emethius was referencing: the lost sons of Fenis, the Perim Lu. A shiver ran down his spine as he envisioned the yellow-eyed figures who had hunted them across Emonia. “Their souls reside in the boughs, and all who enter may never come out,” said Malrich, reciting the poem concerning the fate of High Lord Fenis’s five lost sons.

  Emethius nodded. “We are just as likely to meet our doom here, under the canopy of the sacred forest, as we were to meet our end along the Barren Tracks.” He sighed wearily. “Get some rest, Mal. I will take the first watch. For better or worse we are on the final leg, easier to go forward than to turn back.

  CHAPTER

  VIIIr />
  A FATHER’S WISDOM

  Leta hiked her knees up to her chin and stared despondently at the floor. She was in her father’s parlor, ordered to sit and wait for him to come and scold her like she was a child. Sir Rupert stood guard at the door just in case she tried to leave. It made her feel like she had lost every year of hard-fought wisdom she had ever gained.

  “I’m the one in the right,” she muttered irately. But her proof was gone. The image of Hern laying at the bottom of the ladder, his head cracked open like a melon, made Leta feel like she would be sick all over again. She had already thrown up twice, once on General Saterius’s shoes. The tiniest of victories, thought Leta with a grim smile.

  She only saw Ionni briefly. The bold girl had made the mistake of trying to shield Hern with her body. Saterius swatted Ionni aside like she was a peasant, breaking her nose and giving her a black eye. The last Leta saw of the girl, she was being escorted to the infirmary by Herald Cenna, her legs wobbly and unsound. Ionni’s wounds would heal. Hern’s would not.

  Saterius left Hern’s body where it fell, insisting that only Vacian Sisters had the training to deal with a corpse tainted by the Blackheart. Leta read his true intentions; Saterius didn’t want to bring the body into the light. It would be impossible to hide the signs of torture. If Leta had to guess, the corpse was probably being sped off to the crematorium while Leta sat locked in her father’s study. I need to stop that from happening, otherwise my last shred of evidence will be gone.

  Leta rose from her chair and scowled at Sir Rupert. “I can’t just sit here all day waiting for my father to come scold me. I need to go check on Ionni.”

  “The girl is fine,” said Sir Rupert. His eyes were fixed blankly on the wall. “Herald Cenna knows what he’s doing.”

  “Be that as it may, I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have involved the girl.”

  “Right you are on that one, priestess. Damn stupid, that was.” Then, perhaps sensing his words were a bit too harsh, he sighed. “Look, on any other occasion I would abide by your command, priestess, you know I would; but not today. I have very specific orders from your father. He doesn’t want you to... ah... embarrass yourself any further. His words, not mine.”

  “I didn’t embarrass myself,” muttered Leta under her breath.

  She considered charging the door, but she knew Sir Rupert wouldn’t step aside, and if he had to use force to restrain her, he would. Feeling defeated, Leta flopped back into her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and glared angrily at the knight.

  “It won’t be much longer, priestess. I assure you,” said Sir Rupert, fidgeting with discomfort.

  Just before noon, there came a soft knock on the door and High Lord Valerius entered the parlor. He exchanged a few quiet words with Sir Rupert, then the knight departed, leaving Leta alone with her father. Valerius’s eyes narrowed with anger the moment the door clacked shut.

  Her father had not lived an easy life, and each day the follies of his past failings seemed to drag his shoulders nearer to the ground. He was the high lord of a faith being splintered apart by the ravages of the Blackheart. He had sat upon the Throne of Roses and done nothing as his own son took up arms against him. His authority was decreasing by the day, and his one lasting legacy might be the collapse of the Benisor line. And I am his spoiled daughter, who brings him nothing but hardship, thought Leta, feeling a degree of guilt.

  Valerius sat across from her in the chair nearest to the hearth. His whole face glowed red, at one moment appearing a mask of rage, and the next just terribly sad. “What were you thinking, trying to free that man?” Her father chewed at his lip, as he often did when he was furious.

  I will not quail, thought Leta, I am the priestess of Vacia. I am the sole heir to the throne. She straightened her back and held her head high, doing her best to stand up to her father’s judging eyes. “He was innocent, Father. I wasn’t about to send a clean soul to the headsman. It’s not compassion. It’s murder. It’s a sin.”

  The creases about her father’s lips furrowed and smoothed, furrowed and smoothed. Valerius was maintaining his temper, but it was plain to see that restraint was a chore. “How do you know he was clean of the Blackheart’s taint?”

  What was she to do, admit that she had walked down to Admiral Ferrus’s ship, the supposed center of the rebellion, and had a drink with the man while they merrily discussed treason? She found herself staring at the floor, despite her effort to be brave. “I can’t tell you precisely how I know, only that it is the truth.”

  “Tiberius, give me strength.” Valerius raised his hands in frustration and lifted his eyes toward the heavens. “I clearly can’t trust you not to do something foolish. You’re forbidden from going anywhere near the afflicted until further notice.”

  “How dare you give me such an order?” snapped Leta. “I am the Priestess of Vacia. I am not some child you can punish and send to their room. I’m a woman grown and the master of one of the five holy orders.”

  “You are the master of an order that is subservient to my command,” replied Valerius hotly, his voice thundering off the vaulted ceiling. “What part of this don’t you understand? You are my only living heir. Everything you do is watched and questioned. You clearly can’t control yourself, so I must deny you the opportunity and temptation. If you do something this stupid again...”

  “It wasn’t stupid,” muttered Leta. She couldn’t get the image of Hern out of her mind. Even now she envisioned him gulping down his last breath as he wallowed in a puddle of his own blood.

  Leta breathed deep, struggling to regain a degree of composure. “This is Lady Miren’s doing. She has gone mad with vengeance. Exile her to Chansel. Let her chase ghosts up north. She is running a secret tribunal...”

  Valerius cut Leta’s words short with a wave of his hand. “I know all of your theories. Herald Cenna told me everything.”

  “Then do something!”

  Valerius stared into the fire and sighed. “I am so very weary, Leta. Is Lady Miren killing innocent people? I don’t know. Sometimes I fear a little bit of the Blackheart has crept into all of our souls. When I sat upon the Throne of Roses as a young man I would receive splendid visions of Calaban’s divine plan. I always knew when to sow the fields. I could see storm clouds gathering beyond the horizon and keep the fleet at anchor. I knew when winter would be long and summer too short. I could even see the faces of men who would act against our house. Assassins, spies, turncoats. The Weaver’s web was graciously laid bare. But as I got older I started to see images that haunt me still.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were suddenly wet with tears. “I saw your brother’s face.”

  “You knew he was going to betray you?”

  “I could never be certain,” snapped Valerius, refusing to accept any blame. “I saw images out of context. Meriatis seated atop the Throne of Roses. A fleet of ships sailing upon a sea of blood. An iron tower, indomitably tall and wreathed in flame. Doubt filled my mind, but I needed proof. Your brother was no fool, and he hid his tracks well. Not even my most apt spies could find anything against him.”

  Leta was not surprised. In the months leading up to the rebellion, Meriatis seemed as jovial and content as ever. Then one night in late winter, while Leta was out taking an evening stroll with Sister Beli, she caught sight of Meriatis walking toward the Court of Bariil with several dozen men in his company. Leta had never seen her brother so fiercely attired.

  Meriatis wore steel from head to foot; a helm, blooming with dyed horsehair, a breastplate embossed with the red rose of House Benisor, and most importantly a blue-gray broadsword that was honed to a terrible edge. His greaves ran red with blood, and the hem of his green cape was sodden. His eyes seemed to be on fire.

  “Go back to your room and lock your door!” commanded Meriatis. There was a sternness in his voice that Leta had never heard before. “Come out for no one until I return for you.”

  “What is happening?” Leta screamed, too foolish at the time to p
iece everything together. “Are we being attacked? Is father safe?”

  Meriatis’s reply was cold and aloof. “There are rebels in our mix. I’m going to the Court of Bariil to make sure father is secure.” It was the last time she saw her brother alive. His words still haunted her.

  Meriatis ordered three of his most faithful companions, Lord Lorans, Lord Lumkell, and Sir Ruvon, to guard her in her apartment. Lorans and Lumkell were the sons of minor lords and childhood friends of her brother. Sir Ruvon, a Knight of Niselus, was Meriatis’s master-at-arms.

  Leta had only the slightest inkling of fear when she retired to her quarters, thinking that this incident was just a false alarm. If there really was a problem, her quarters were like a small fortress, and could easily be defended. She lived in the old keep, which was only accessible by ascending a long exposed staircase, and then walking along a narrow rampart with a deathly drop on either side. While Meriatis’s three companions secured the apartment, Leta and Sister Beli rushed to the balcony to see what was happening.

  “I can’t tell friend from foe,” said Sister Beli as she leaned out over the railing to watch the slaughter in the courtyard. There would be a few minutes of intense fighting, and then silence for an hour or more, only for the fighting to resume when one group or another was flushed out into the open. Terrible screams and the clangor of steel became the music of the evening. Around midnight Weaver’s Hall was dancing with flames. The fire was only extinguished after the temple’s stone walls collapsed inward in a cloud of cinders and soot.

  The rising of the sun was answered by the boom of a battering ram breaking down the palace gate. The hinges failed first, and the doors were wrenched from their moorings and sent clattering to the ground. Hundreds of men flooded into the compound, their steel mail glistening yellow and orange from the glare of the morning light. Swords were raised, spears poised, banners beat lithely in the wind. She spotted Praetor Maxentius mounted atop his stallion leading the charge.

  “This is the end, then,” said Lord Lumkell sadly. He drew his sword, and his companions followed suit.