Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

  The chieftain motioned for silence. Once the crowd had settled down, the chieftain reached for Malrich’s face. Malrich contorted violently, jerking his head from side-to-side. But the chieftain would not be dissuaded. The chieftain reared back, causing Malrich to howl like an abused animal. The chieftain was holding something aloft between his forefinger and thumb. Emethius was forced to stifle his own cry. The chieftain was holding Malrich’s eye.

  The chieftain placed the eye in the empty eye socket of the bear’s skull. The enraptured mob began to chant with delight.

  “Mercy,” whispered Emethius, knowing that it was the only thing left for him to do. Mustering up every ounce of air in his lungs, Emethius roared into the dusking night. “Hold your hand!” His call echoed through the Cul settlement. A thousand heads turned, and a thousand pairs of bloodthirsty eyes settled upon Emethius.

  Emethius did not hesitate for a second. With his sword held in both hands, he charged. There was a throng of Cul fifty deep between Emethius and the platform; he did not let that stop him. Emethius dove in amongst the Cul like a rabid beast, slaying four Cul before a single blade was drawn against him.

  Most of the Cul in the rear of the crowd were unarmed women and children, and they ran from the chaos shrieking in terror. The majority of the Cul warriors were gathered near the platform, and they were forced to jostle with those trying to flee to reach Emethius. Emethius welcomed every Cul he came upon with his sword, slaying all indiscriminately.

  Emethius drew closer to Malrich with every hewing stroke and piercing stab. Two archers emerged from the throng. Emethius split open the neck of one archer, but the second managed to get a shot off. The arrow embedded itself in Emethius’s leg. Howling savagely, Emethius took off the top of the archer’s skull before he could nock another arrow to his string.

  A spearbearer seized the opening and plunged the tip of his weapon into Emethius’s side. To the Cul’s great surprise, Emethius wrenched the spear free and turned the spear against its owner, punching a hole through the Cul’s gut. He then proceeded to use the spitted Cul as a battering ram. He pushed through to the front of the mob and clambered onto the raised platform.

  The Cul chieftain was waiting for him. Before Emethius could gain a sure footing, the chieftain swung a bone ax at his face. Emethius dodged aside, but not fast enough. The wedge of bone bit into his shoulder instead of his skull. Howling in pain, Emethius lashed out with his blade, cleaving the chieftain’s hand off at the wrist. The chieftain fell off the dais screaming in agony.

  More Cul warriors leapt atop the dais, eager for a fight. There was no way to beat such numbers, Emethius knew, and he was already badly injured. He ignored the surging throng and rushed to Malrich’s side, slicing through the bindings that held him in place.

  Malrich fell into Emethius’s arms, thrashing wildly. It took Emethius a second to realize why Malrich was fighting back. Malrich’s right eye was gone, and his other eye was swollen shut. He was effectively blind.

  “It’s me,” said Emethius, wrapping his arms around Malrich’s chest and holding him steady.

  Malrich began to cry. “You came for me.” Then with a degree of sadness. “Why? You should have saved yourself.”

  “Loyalty can cause a man to do stupid things,” said Emethius. He wiped the blood and filth from Malrich’s face, then held his friend close. The Cul had them surrounded. Net bearers were fencing them in, while others blocked their path to the edge of the cliff. Emethius sighed with resignation. It was as he feared, there would be no escape.

  “Thank you,” whispered Malrich, his voice trembling. “I was afraid of facing the dark alone.”

  “Then we will face it together,” said Emethius. He kissed Malrich upon the forehead. Then, setting Malrich between his arms, Emethius gripped his sword with both hands, and turned the blade inward. Malrich reached out and joined Emethius’s hands upon the hilt. The Cul, upon realizing their intention, rushed forward.

  “I love you, Mal,” whispered Emethius.

  Malrich nodded and sniffed back a tear. “I’ll see you on the other side, captain.”

  Emethius plunged the sword inward with all of his strength. The blade passed through Malrich’s frame without slowing, then Emethius felt the sword pierce his own flesh, slick and fast. A darkening chill overcame Emethius as he teetered on the brink of eternity embracing his friend.

  A pitiful cry rose up from the Cul. Emethius had defeated them, robbing them of the sacrifice they most desired. A small and simple victory, thought Emethius, as a light filled his world, blue as the sea and as bright as the sun.

  He let the warmth of the light drive away the chill, and a peaceful smile creased his lips. A blue flame enveloped his body and his existence was reduced to a deep quiet hiss.

  CHAPTER

  XII

  THE TREMELESE DAGGER

  The walk to Herald Cenna’s chamber was quiet and cold. Lady Miren, prideful as she was, led the way. They settled into the herald’s private study. Cenna took his usual seat upon the couch while Ionni slouched over in a nearby chair in a vain effort to look inconspicuous. Leta paced before the mantle, her heart pumping too hard for her to feign any measure of civility. Cenna gestured for Lady Miren to sit on the opposing couch, but she refused, apparently unwilling to sit in so equal a place. Instead, she leaned against Cenna’s desk, claiming the highest roost for herself.

  A look of disgust crossed Miren’s face when she saw that Ionni was in their company. “What is this traitorous little bitch doing here?”

  Ionni leaned forward and opened her mouth to reply, but Leta interjected before she could say anything. “Ionni is not the problem. The problem is what’s going on at the Vacian Monastery.”

  “I agree. You have interrupted the work of the gods,” said Lady Miren. She was now slurring her speech, although she didn’t seem to notice. “The final sacrament is an act of compassion.”

  “Which god favors this act of compassion?” snapped Leta. “The god-saint Tiberius, or the Shadow that Creeps?”

  “If anyone is serving the Shadow’s will, it’s High Lord Valerius and his demon spawn children.”

  “Sacrilege!” shouted Cenna. “The Line of Benisor was chosen by the gods themselves.”

  Miren scoffed. “Sacrilege? Is that so?” She gestured toward Ionni. “We have rebels conspiring to abandon the gods. We have a priestess cavorting with treasonous heretics. We have a prince calling for the overthrow of Calaban. And we have a high lord who claims to be a prophet, yet he refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

  Herald Cenna looked to Leta. “Is this true?”

  “Which part?” replied Leta, knowing that each one of Lady Miren’s accusations had a degree of validity. Her eyes wandered to the mantle and the ornate Temelese dagger Herald Cenna kept on display there. She was half tempted to pick up the dagger and stab Miren in the neck.

  “Admit it,” snapped Miren. “High Lord Valerius refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

  There was no use in lying. “Yes,” answered Leta. “My father has not sat upon the throne since the rebellion.”

  Cenna’s eyes narrowed. “This is troubling.”

  “That it is,” said Miren smugly. “Because that makes High Lord Valerius a false prophet, and he has led us all astray. The gods are watching us, even now. Do you think they judge us sinners, or do you think they judge us saints?” She clutched her fist until the blood drained from her knuckles. “If High Lord Valerius won’t act as the Prophet of Calaban, someone else has to. I have been given divine purpose, and I will do what I must to see that the will of the gods is fulfilled.”

  “A bold claim,” said Cenna. “But be wary. You are not the first Merridian to claim to be enacting Calaban’s will. Throughout history, most who have done so have had an unfortunate fate.”

  “Such should be the fate of all heretics,” said Miren. “Which takes me to my purpose.” She drunkenly waved her hand over the room. “Do you enjoy your plush apartment, Cen
na, your comfortable little temple, your finely prepared meals? Do you like being revered and adored by the faithful? Do you like spreading the message of the gods? All these things rest on a knife’s edge. Our little theocracy survived the first rebellion, but it won’t survive the second. Even High Lord Valerius, daft as he is, understands this. But while he is willing to test fate, I am not. Every last rebel must die, from Prince Meriatis to Admiral Ferrus. Only then will the wrath of Calaban be satiated.”

  “I will not allow for another clean soul to be smuggled through the doors of my monastery,” said Leta.

  Miren wheeled about and spat with fury at Leta’s feet. “Fine, let our little masquerade be finished. I’ll kill the heretics in the Grand Plaza if need be; I don’t really care. Let’s see your father try to stop me. He has his backers, Leta, but so do I.”

  Leta understood her insinuation. The Calabanesi supported Miren’s actions. “If you truly serve the gods, then you should know their commandments. There is one law that reigns supreme; it is a sin to take the life of another. Look at your hands, they are tainted with blood.”

  “Look at my hands? Look at your own.” Miren pointed to Leta’s pale flesh. “You aspire to sit upon the Throne of Roses, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the gods have already rejected you. You even have the scars to prove it. The gods demand obedience, and all your wretched family offers is rebellion and a deaf ear. It is time for your tainted line to fade, and for a new, worthy family to assume the throne.”

  Miren sighed and stared blankly off into the distance. “That was my sweet Fennir’s intent, and what a splendid high lord he would have been. But your cursed brother killed him, and now I live for one reason — to set right the ship.” Miren’s face contorted into a grimace. “I’m going to hunt high and low, far and wide until I find the murderer of my beloved son. Justice will be had, even if that means I have to hold the ax myself. Only when your line is completely extinguished will the gods be satisfied.”

  Leta heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward Herald Cenna’s chamber. Lady Miren’s maddened rant was drawing an audience. Now was the time to act.

  “Maybe I’ll look into you next, Leta,” continued Miren maniacally. “A wolf tells me you’ve been meeting with Admiral Ferrus. Worse still, you’ve been reciting passages from the Requiem of Cataclysms in a holy temple. There were quite a few witnesses to that sacrilege. It would be a shame if the Blackheart poisoned two members of your household, but it wouldn’t surprise me; the affliction runs wild in corrupt blood.”

  “You dare threaten the priestess?”

  “Be quiet, Cenna. I’ll get to you next. Don’t think I can’t replace you. You helped raise Meriatis, after all, and you served as Herald Carrick’s second for years. I’m certain...”

  In her boisterous rant, Miren failed to notice Leta had taken Herald Cenna’s Tremelese dagger from the mantel. But the hiss of steel drawing from a sheath cut the words off in Miren’s throat. Her eyes flared with shock, and a sudden sobriety returned to her face.

  “Priestess Leta, what are you doing?” asked Ionni, blinking in wonder.

  Leta pointed the dagger at her aunt. “You’re a murderer, Miren, plain and simple. But you’ve managed to wear your disguise so well no one could see it until now.” Leta was surprised by how level and cool her voice sounded. She approached her aunt, certain of what had to be done.

  “S-s-stay away from me,” croaked Miren, her boldness slipping away in an instant. She raised her hands protectively before herself.

  Leta didn’t stop. Step after step she drew closer. Miren seemed to be frozen in disbelief, with her legs backed up against Herald Cenna’s desk; she couldn’t retreat any farther. “Put down that knife, you foolish child.” The words tumbled out in a panic; she was quivering with genuine fear. “Stay away. Herald Cenna, do something!”

  Cenna templed his fingers over his stomach and leaned back in his chair, his face curling with intrigue over what might happen next.

  Leta drew within inches of Miren’s shaking frame and pressed the tip of the blade to her bosom. The Tremelese steel would only need the slightest thrust, the honed edge would plunge greedily through fabric, skin, and bone as it sought out the rotten heart in Miren’s chest. Leta wanted to see the fear in Miren’s eyes, she wanted to see the same resignation that haunted the faces of the rebels that Miren sent to the headsman.

  “I ought to kill you. Merridia would be better for it,” said Leta with a sad shake of her head. “If I intend to inherit the Throne of Roses, it would appear that I need to become a killer. Did you make it that way? Did Meriatis? Or have rulers always waded through a river of blood to claim that which is rightfully theirs?” She envisioned Meriatis on the day of the rebellion, his cape and greaves sodden with loyalist blood.

  “Killing is never the easy part,” said Miren huskily. “But revenge makes it oh-so-palatable.” Leta let the tip of the blade sag. Miren’s shoulders slackened and a flicker of hope reentered her eyes. She mistakenly thought her trial was over. Leta crushed Miren’s hope.

  “This is my revenge for the men you killed,” hissed Leta.

  As quick as a striking viper, Leta stabbed down with the dagger, certain she would stall and not do what was necessary if she paused for another moment. Lady Miren screamed. Herald Cenna and Ionni gasped. There was a hot flashing pain in Leta’s left arm just beneath her elbow, like someone had plunged a red hot brand through her flesh. For a second, all Leta could do was stare in wonder at the Tremelese blade that was suddenly protruding through either side of her forearm. The dark blue-gray steel stood in stark juxtaposition to the porcelain lightning streaks that covered Leta’s arm. At first, only a thin bloody outline wreathed the blade where it punctured her skin. Then the trickle became a torrent, and from elbow to fingertips her arm became awash in red.

  Miren was bewildered beyond words.

  Leta took her bloody hand and ran it straight down Miren’s body, casting her nose and lips, chest and stomach with a streak of red. The mark of a killer.

  Miren shrieked in absolute horror.

  “Revenge hurts,” muttered Leta almost to herself.

  She could hear people bursting into the room behind her, drawn by Miren’s guttural cry. Leta fought every instinct to turn and see who was there; she was putting on a show, after all, and she needed her best performance if she hoped to impress the audience. Leta collapsed to her knees and grasped Miren’s ankles.

  Now Ionni, now is your cue.

  “By the gods, someone help us!” screamed Ionni, making sure her voice could be heard by the gathering throng of onlookers. “Lady Miren stabbed the priestess! Murderer! Murderer!”

  “It’s the Blackheart, isn’t it,” managed Leta in a faltering voice as she grabbed at her forearm. “She has been acting like a madwoman!”

  “I’ve never seen a more sudden onset of the Blackheart in my life,” said Herald Cenna from somewhere behind her. “Pure madness. It’s my fault. I should have noticed the symptoms. The tribunals, the sense of betrayal, the anger. And now violence against our priestess. I’ve condemned people to the headsman for less.”

  “Liars all of you,” screamed Lady Miren. “Leta stabbed herself. Look at her! She stabbed herself!” The absurdity of the claim made Miren sound all the more insane.

  From the numerous gasps Leta heard, she imagined quite a crowd had gathered for the show. She held up her injured arm so that all could see. Blood ran in rivulets from her elbow and fingertips, splattering across her thighs and pooling on the ground. So much blood. I might have miscalculated. Leta suddenly felt lightheaded. The world began to spin.

  Ionni rushed forward and caught Leta in her arms as she tumbled over. Leta’s eyes briefly lolled toward the door. Sister Beli stood half blocking the doorway, but there were others there as well, Vacian Sisters, Tiber Brothers, and many more. Each bore witness to the scene, Lady Miren covered in blood and raving like a madwoman, while Leta, the victim of the assault, lay in a growing puddl
e of blood.

  Leta smirked at her aunt. “Go home, Miren,” she whispered so only Miren could hear her. “Go back to Chansel. Flee before you end up bent over Sir Rupert’s chopping block yourself. Your reign of terror is through.”

  Miren stood there frozen with her mouth agape, her hands shaking in fists at her sides, a streak of blood painting her from head to waist.

  Cenna offered Miren some advice. “If you wish to escape, my lady, it would be best you depart immediately. The guards will be after you soon.”

  “Someone seize her!” cried Ionni.

  Before anyone could act, Miren shoved her way through the crowd and fled the room, yelling as she went. “Sinners, all of you! Neither you nor your brother are ever going to sit upon the Throne of Roses. I will see to it!”

  What a peculiar thing to say, thought Leta as she began to lose consciousness. How could Meriatis ever sit upon the Throne of Roses? He was dead.

  CHAPTER

  XIII

  THE SORCERESS OF BI ACHE

  The blue flame washed to black and the warmth was replaced by a dire chill. Emethius found himself standing naked within a cave. Rough hewn rock spanned away from him in all directions, vanishing into the inky expanse of the earth. At first he thought he was alone, but a low cackle caused him to turn. Just on the periphery of the gloom stood twelve figures.

  Emethius’s father stood before the rest, with Meriatis to his left and Malrich to his right. The remaining nine had vacant eye sockets. One by one the ghastly figures greeted Emethius with a nod, welcoming him to his new home.

  A mist rolled in from the depths of the cave, and in amongst it came black tentacles, oozing and slick. The tentacles twisted up the legs of Emethius’s greeting party, delving in and out of their skin as if their bodies were made of parchment. The tentacles protruded from their eyes and mouths, contorting their bodies as a puppeteer does a marionette. The twelve figures began to speak in a dozen different tongues, all ancient, all incomprehensible, a discordant chorus of agony and torment.