Path of Kings

by James Dale

  "I guess I cans et grubs for a few more days if'n it means a promotion to the Tower," Rhegnar smiled wickedly.

  "I thought you'd see it my way," Bkormar the Black replied. He knelt down beside Jack without taking his foot off his pinned wrist. "You go back to sleep now pretty boy." the beast man grinned wickedly, "We'll take good care of you." Jack was helpless to stop the gnarled fist descending toward his face, and the dark night winked out into nothingness.

  Sometime later he regained consciousness. It was day. Thick clouds covered the sky and there was a cold wind blowing stiffly from the north. He was lying on his back and his head was pounding like someone had tried to crack it open with a sledgehammer to see what was inside. Jack tried moving only to find his wrists and ankles were tied securely with stout cords. He heard a low grunt to his right and turned slowly to discover he was surrounded by grim'Hiru.

  They were nightmarish figures, obscene transformations harboring only the basest parts of their Hiru heritage. The one sitting so nauseatingly close to him was larger and more hideous by far than the others. The hair on his head was long and coarse, with braids intertwined with small bones and bits of metal cascading over his broad shoulders. He was dressed in lacquered leather studded with iron rings. Tied at his waist was a spiked war club and strapped across his back was Jack's sword.

  Sensing movement, the huge beast-man looked down at him and smiled viciously. "Ahh...pretty boy's awake again lads. I guess I didn't kill him."

  "Does that mean he kin walk fur hisself now?" one of the other grim'Hiru asked hopefully. "He be a lot heavier than he looks."

  "'Fraid not," Bkormar answered. "From the looks of him he be too weak to travel at our pace, and the longer we stays out here in this cold the quicker he could dies on us and fangs up our promotion. You boys will just hafta keep luggin' him til we gets to the Tower."

  "If'n he dies on us can we et him?" someone asked.

  "If'n he dies on us this close to the Tower," Bkormar replied, "The One Who Sleeps will be et'n us when he wakes up. Gimme your water Rhegnar."

  "Why my water?" the beast-man whined.

  "Cause it's your turn to carry him and I want to ease up your load," his leader hissed sarcastically. "Just hand over the fanged water!"

  Rhegnar quickly passed over his water-skin.

  "Drink up pretty boy," Bkormar grinned, unstopping the cap on the skin and pouring a small amount on Braedan's parched lips. The water had a stale, tepid quality, but to the dehydrated man it tasted like liquid heaven.

  "Slowly," the grim'Hiru laughed. "You get sick all over Rhegnar's back and he might forget we needs you alive."

  When his throat was working properly, Braedan swallowed the precious fluid greedily until Bkormar pulled the skin away. "That'll do you for now."

  "Why's this meat so important anyway?" Rhegnar asked, catching the water-skin as it was tossed back to him.

  Bkormar shrugged. "Looks half elvish. Maybe he be a Ranger scout sent down here by the damn tree lovers or their Lordy-Lords to stirs up the fanged Amarians. Whoever he be, his trouble making days be over now. Back to sleep pretty boy."

  Jack tried to dodge the coming blow, but he was too slow and weak. Blackness descended once more.

  The next time he awoke it was night again. His entire body was one tremendous ache from spending all day bouncing along draped across the shoulders of various grim'Hiru. Apparently however, the big grim'Hiru was serious about keeping him alive. He was lying on his side close to a small fire. His bearskin cloak was draped snugly over him and despite the bitter cold wind whipping across the plains, Jack was the warmest he'd been in several days.

  Across the fire, he could see shadowy clumps lying on the ground in small groups of two and three, bunched together for warmth. He counted five, maybe six of the grim'Hiru. All were snoring noisily, fast asleep. Ever so slowly, he turned his head about, trying to find the others. He located four more. There was nine, maybe ten of the beast-men. He lay motionless for several minutes listening closely to the sounds of the night, but aside from the wind, all he could hear was their heavy breathing.

  Had they left him totally unguarded, trusting his weakened condition and their bindings to hold him? Jack flexed his arms beneath the blanket covering him, testing the leather cords on his wrists. Blood rushed into his numb fingers as the pressure of the bindings lessened and he gritted his teeth until the pain had passed. After another two attempts the cords had loosened enough for the feeling to return completely to his hands.

  He was about to try again when he suddenly felt a knife at his throat.

  "You wouldn't be trying to get loose under there would you?" a voice hissed in his ear. It was Bkormar. The big grim'Hiru had been watching him all along. "Cause I'd hate to take that nice warm blanket off'n you so's I could watch you better."

  Jack relaxed with a defeated sigh.

  "Much better," the beast-man chuckled. "Go back to sleep now pretty boy."

  "Shit!" Jack muttered. The blow struck and darkness descended once more.

  Bkormar slapped him awake several hours later to force more water down his throat, only to punch him senseless again when he was finished drinking. Throughout the rest of the day Braedan drifted in and out of consciousness, dimly aware they had removed his bindings and he was being carried along by four of the grim'Hiru, one under each arm and leg. During one such moment of awareness, he also discovered they they'd left behind the open plains of the Bergaweld and were now in a barren, hilly region of rock and hard packed earth. He briefly had the opportunity to marvel at the remarkable speed and endurance of the grim'Hiru, wondering how far they had traveled since finding him, before darkness reclaimed him once more.

  Chapter Three

  The Iron Tower

  "Wake up pretty boy," Bkormar growled wearily, slapping Jack conscious for the final time. "We be here. That be the Iron Tower. Take a good gander elfling. It be the last sight ye’ll see in yer miserable life.”

  The Iron Tower. Braedan had arrived, but not as he had hoped. Like Tarsus, he was a captive, doomed to a lifetime of torture and living hell. Aralon and its people would suffer an even worse fate. Its lingering, painful death under the rule of the Iron Tower would take many centuries. Jack bowed his head in defeat as Bkormar's laughter echoed cruelly off the surrounding hills.

  Such was the depth of Braedan's despair when his grim'Hiru captors arrived at the Tower wall and were denied passage into the fortress, not even the ensuing argument between Bkormar and the human guards manning the portcullis could rouse Jack from his dark fugue.

  "What the Hells do you mean I can goes no farther?" Bkormar shouted. "I've gots to take this meat to the Tower!"

  "Someone will come and collect the prisoner," an unseen voice replied.

  "Collect?" the grim'Hiru screamed, spittle flying. "Collect? Aint nobody collecting this meat from me and fanging up my promotion! Open the damned gate!"

  Bkormar jerked the spiked war club from his belt and began to beat like a manic upon the iron barred gate. When the wooden handle of the weapon shattered under the ferocity of his blows, he continued his ferocious assault with bare fists. Finally, the gate began to swing ponderously outward and the large grim'Hiru turned in triumph towards his squad, motioning for them to bring their prisoner forward. But the other beast-men remained rooted to the spot, their legs suddenly turned to stone at the sight of the dozen armored men surrounding the dark robed figure waiting on the other side.

  "Give him to me," the sorcerer said quietly.

  All trace of defiance instantly vanished from the grim'Hiru and he meekly presented his captive to the dark robed figure.

  Though his face was hidden in shadow, Jack could feel the malicious gaze of the sorcerer studying him. A pale, withered hand appeared from the sleeve of the dark robe and lifted his chin, causing Braedan to recoil in horror from the wizard's burning touch.

  "You actually came," the sorcerer marveled. "Foolish man. Even the usurper Ljmarn, with armies of
the Whesguard at his back and the power of the Sunheart in his hands, knew enough to fear this place. Whatever did you hope to accomplish here alone?"

  Jack could not summon the strength to reply.

  "Take him," the wizard cooed triumphantly.

  Two of the guardsmen stepped forward to relieve the grim' Hiru soldiers of their charge, but as they turned to go Bkormar mustered one last bit of courage and addressed the dark robed figure.

  "Mighty Lord?" the beast-man ventured.

  The sorcerer wheeled on the grim'Hiru, eyes flashing.

  "The lads and me..." Bkormar stammered, "we done... we done come a long way with this meat and...and..."

  "What is your name worm?"

  "Bkormar," whispered the grim'Hiru, groveling before the wizard. "Bkormar, Mighty Lord."

  "What do you want?" the sorcerer asked impatiently.

  "Mighty Lord, it's just...we..."

  "You desire a reward?"

  "Y-y-yes." the terrified grim'Hiru whimpered. "Mighty Lord."

  "Your reward is I do not incinerate you for daring to speak to me!" The sorcerer cried, spinning on his heels. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the groveling beast-man and Bkormar cringed, expecting red fire to erupt from the sorcerer's hands and consume him. But no fire came.

  "On second thought," the sorcerer mused, "You have done me...you have done the Master a great service. I do not want to seem ungrateful. Take your squad and present yourself to the Captain of the Guard tomorrow and say Nalon-Lok has sent you. Understand?"

  "Y-y-yes Mighty Lord." the grim'Hiru stammered, "Thank you Mighty Lord!"

  "Follow me," Nalon-Lok said, motioning to the two men supporting Jack.

  The remaining guardsmen fell in behind them without a word, following the sorcerer as he made his way through the open gate and into the vast courtyard of the Iron Tower. Though empty of activity now, the spacious grounds surrounding the Tower was dotted with hundreds of covered wells and out-buildings which in times past and in times soon to come had served whole armies encamped at the foot of Gorthiel. It was almost a thousand yards between the wall and the Iron Tower, and Nalon-Lok covered the distance slowly, savoring his moment of triumph. He could not pass up this opportunity to gloat over his helpless captive, and spoke freely in front of the dozen guardsmen who were his own personal troops.

  "I really do appreciate this you know," the sorcerer laughed quietly. "Your loyalty to the wretched Amarian has secured my position as the new High Priest of Gol’gar. When the Master awakens, he will no doubt be pleased with the humble servant who delivered the heir of his enemy into his hands. I have insured his victory over the weakling Kings of the Whesguard and their pitiful, useless Staffclave before a single blow has been struck! With my agents already at work in the palaces of Brydium and Doridan, the west will not last three months once the Black Banner of Grethor begins its march to the sea! Driven in chains before the Host of the East will be the Heir of Bra ‘Adan dancing to the whip of Nalon-Lok, The Right Hand of Darkness! Overlord of the Whesguard! Overlord of the Whesguard. A fitting title, is it not?"

  A black emptiness settled over Braedan's soul as he listened in horror to the sorcerer's detailed plans for the raping of the west. It would all be his fault. Each atrocity inflicted upon the people of the west and every drop of blood shed by the conquering armies of the dark-King as they subjugated and enslaved the earth would be on his hands. By coming here, he had served Graith more faithfully than any sorcerer or grim'Hiru or eastern king. No demon conjured from the deepest pit of hell had ever done more to ensure victory for the Lord of Destruction than had Jack Braedan.

  Overwrought with despair at the tragedy he had brought upon the world, Braedan collapsed within himself, seeking refuge in the hollow wasteland of his soul. Consumed by a swirling morass of self-pity, he did not see Nalon-Lok lead his guardsmen through the gaping dragon's maw that was the entrance to Gorthiel. He was blind to the dark, twisting passageways carrying them steadily deeper into the bowels of the dark-Lord's fortress. Passing by unnamed corridors of unfathomable destination and purpose, he was oblivious to the foul odors wafting up from below on the whispered breath of hell. Down and down they traveled, descending deeper into the subterranean roots far beneath the tower until they finally arrived at the heart of darkness, the throne room of the dark-King, Graith'ak'thal.

  Columns of black granite lined the walls of the cavernous room, each sporting a sputtering torch struggling in vain to hold back the pressing darkness. Shadows danced in every corner, hiding nightmares never meant to walk upon the earth. At the far end of Graith'ak'thal sat the throne of the dark-King, resting under a canopy of Val'anna skins, supported between four columns the color of old blood, carved with horned skulls and intertwining serpents. The Seat of Doom men called it. To the Ailfar is was known as Horak'Agnst, the Angry Chair. For a short time eight centuries before, the powers of hell on earth had been commanded from this throne by the transformed being who thought himself a demi-god. No man or Ailfar brought before it by force had ever walked free again to see the open sky.

  Horak'Agnst itself was made of onyx and silver, its base a pedestal of facing dragons. Upon its high backrest was the winged skull of the dark-King's battle crest and seated beneath it now was a shaven headed man with dark eyes, a square protruding jaw and the pointed ears of an Ailfar. His finger and toe nails were painted red and upon his wrists were bracelets of gold. On either side of him stood a hooded swordsman, each over seven feet tall, with bare chests of bulging muscles as hard as living stone. Both men held in their hands curved scimitars with rubies the size of a child's fist in its pommel and blades that blazed with ill intent in the ruddy glow of the torches.

  The shaven headed man shifted uneasily in his seat as Nalon-Lox and his armored guards approached, eyeing Braedan warily. "Is this the man?" he asked in heavily accented common tongue.

  "Oh Right Hand of Darkness! Warden of Gorthiel! He who recovered the One Who Sleeps!" Nalon-Lox replied bowing. "Behold the Heir of Bra'Adan! Vain and last fleeting hope of the west."

  The seated man motioned the two guards carrying Jack to bring forward. They deposited him at the foot of the throne where he collapsed in a heap.

  "This pitiful creature slew Urioch?” he asked incredulously. “This man burned Norgarth and called down lightning to conjure up the Galekindar? This man defeated an entire legion of grim'Hiru and walked across the Bergaweld alone?"

  "This is he," Nalon-Lox confirmed.

  "Whatever power he may have possessed," the Warden of Gorthiel said, relaxing visibly, "it is obviously gone now."

  "So it would seem," Nalon-Lox agreed.

  "You have done well," the Warden announced, unable to contain the envy which crept into his voice. "When the Master awakens, he will no doubt reward you generously for the delivery of the Heir of Bra'Adan."

  "I am sure He will." Nalon-Lox smiled triumphantly. His reward would be indeed be great, the sorcerer smiled inwardly. Galen Severa may have discovered the body of their master and returned him to Gorthiel, but he, Nalon-Lox would be the one to present the son of his enemy at his feet when the dark-King once again sat on his throne. The reward he expected was to replace the man seated before him as the Right Hand of Darkness.

  "Deliver him to the Jailer," instructed the Warden of Gorthiel. "Have him kept alive until the day the Master awakens. We will present him naked and groveling in chains to The One Who Sleeps in commemoration of his rebirth."

  "It shall be done," Nalon-Lox replied and motioned to his guardsmen. "Bring him."

  Braedan was jerked roughly to his feet by the guardsmen and carried from Graith'ak'thal. Nalon-Lox led them deeper still into the bowels of Gorthiel, far below ground where the air was dank and cold and moisture lined the ancient stone walls. Into empty corridors and cavernous passage-ways, they traveled, down into corridors carved from the living rock by the awesome power of the Bloodstone. An oppressive gloom soon enveloped the group, its weight so overpowering not eve
n the torches carried by the guardsmen could not penetrate blackness surrounding them. The sorcerer was forced to conjure up a ball of red fire to go before them and light their path with corrupt amber flame.

  With each step they descended beneath the earth, the last vestiges of Jack's will to fight and live was driven deeper and deeper into empty darkness of his soul. Though enveloped by a crushing weight of despair, he had been dimly aware of the events transpiring around him in Graith'ak'thal. He knew the ignoble doom awaiting him. To be chained naked at the dark-King's feet and paraded before his armies as they marched upon the west was a fate worse than death.

  That the cringing masses would soon revile him mattered little. To them he would merely be some unrecognizable, soulless lump of flesh they had never known. But what of the few who did know him, even if they had never known the truth of his destiny? What would Thessa Arthol think of her champion, when she discovered what he might have been and realized how far he had fallen? What would she think of the last descendant of Ljmarn Bra’Adan, Heir of the Highsword Yhswyndyr, when she learned he had become the betrayer of the west? What of Tereil and the Amarian villagers who had placed so much faith in him think? Would they even be alive when he was brought forward for display or would they be already cold and lifeless, the first to be crushed beneath the weight of the advancing armies of the dark-King as their ancestors had before them so many years ago.

  What of the woman he loved? What of Annawyn? Would the Princess of Doridan recognize him as she gazed upon the pitiful wretch he had become, completely devoid of hope and life? Or would her emerald green eyes flash with hatred and disgust for the man who sat by unmoving as the dark-King forced her to submit to the rule of Grethor? Jack could endure the loathing of the nameless masses as they were placed in the dark chains of slavery, but the thought of Annawyn hating him, the image of her beauty marred by the cruelty of the Bloodstone's master was something he could not bear. That terrible thought at last stirred something within his breast.