The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  THE CRIMSON LORD

  BOOK TWO OF THE DARK GOD RISES TRILOGY

  Robert Ryan

  Copyright © 2019 Robert J. Ryan

  All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover Design by www.damonza.com

  Trotting Fox Press

  Contents

  1. A Magician of Power

  2. The Blood of a Hero

  3. Battle and Victory!

  4. The Trickster

  5. A Place of Ill Omen

  6. Sorcery

  7. Bones and Metal

  8. The Power of the Gods

  9. Calm Before the Storm

  10. To the Death

  11. Word Spreads Like Fire

  12. The Wise Man Reads the Future

  13. The Runes of Life and Death

  14. You Need Swear No Oath

  15. Dark Dreams

  16. Char-harash

  17. Patience

  18. If I Don’t, Who Will?

  19. The Breath of the Dragon

  20. Blade and Hilt

  21. Duels are for the Reckless

  22. Battle and Blood

  23. Gormengil

  24. Two Battles

  25. The Prophecy of the Witch

  Epilogue

  Appendix: Encyclopedic Glossary

  1. A Magician of Power

  Unferth sat still, a mask over his features. A king should at least look as though events moved at his control, but he worried that even the guise of orderly rule had slipped away from him.

  Frustration made him want to smash his hand against the table. But he could not, for it would only prove that he was angry and therefore not in perfect control. This fed the anger that burned inside him even more. And that anger was red hot, raging and desperate to be unleashed.

  But deeper inside, in his innermost thoughts that he shared with no one, was something colder than ice. It was the thing that troubled him most. Fear.

  It was an ever-present whisper. It was the voice of doubt. It was the rasp of steel blades drawn in a nightmare from which he could not wake. Fear. It sent a chill through him that nothing ever warmed. And unlike the fear of most men that was formless and vague, his had a specific name. Brand.

  Brand haunted him. Even as a child, having escaped the killing of his parents, Brand had been like a sore that would not heal. If only he had been there that night, if only he had died as he was supposed to, the world would be a better place. Unferth knew it, knew that the sun would have shone upon him and he would have ruled both the Callenor and the Duthenor in a noontide of glory.

  But Brand was a shadow upon him, and the shadow lengthened year by year. And now came this. A final insult like a crack that could widen and destroy the life he had worked so hard for. Why did other men have it so easy while he must he fight tooth and claw like an animal for what was his?

  His fury boiled over. Despite the look of calm he knew he should maintain, he smashed his hand against the table anyway. The sudden noise stilled everything about him. The hall became quiet, and his counselors turned surprised gazes upon him. Fools! They did not understand. They never would.

  He spoke slowly, showing as much restraint as he could.

  “Why do you all debate this? Horta has told you what happened. Brand defeated the force sent against him. Outnumbered, he found a way to grasp victory.” That he must say those words humbled him, and the voice of doubt in his mind was more than a whisper now. “We’ll not beat him by debating among ourselves. You can be sure that already he moves against us. What shall we do? That is the question we must answer, and swiftly. Otherwise, he’ll be here in this hall with a sword to our necks. Do none of you understand that?”

  “We understand the possibility of it,” one of the men said. “But where is the proof of it?”

  Unferth shook his head, dismayed. “Horta has told you it is so. What more do you need?”

  “Horta has said that Brand won a victory. He has said the army we sent is defeated. He has said much, but I will believe it better when word returns with one of our own men. As yet, we have heard nothing.”

  There it was. Unferth knew he was losing control, and he must act decisively to regain it. Not long ago, his very word was law. Now, though he knew Horta would be proved right in what he claimed, the men awaited their own proof. The irony was that the military loss they yet did not believe was the thing that emboldened them.

  Horta adjusted the bearskin serape that hung over his shoulders. If he was offended, he gave no sign. But he never did.

  “Brand won a great victory,” the magician assured them. “Of that, you can be certain. I would tell you how I know, but it would burn your souls to ash. Believe, and you have an opportunity to act quickly and turn adversity into triumph. Delay, and the kingdom will slip through your fingers.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said another warrior at the table. “But why should we believe you?”

  Unferth ground his teeth. He knew Horta’s powers. He knew something of the magic the man possessed. Very likely, it would burn the souls of most men to ash.

  A look passed between them. Horta’s gaze said that magic was his province, and controlling the Callenor was Unferth’s. The magician’s disciple, Olbata, sat beside his master and stared at the men around the table, his eyes dark with hidden thoughts.

  Once more Unferth slammed his hand down on the table, and this time he shouted with it.

  “Fools!” He looked around, turning his cold gaze on the counselors. It was the gaze of a man who had killed, the gaze of a man who might yet hold the power of life and death over them. And their mood for defiance washed away, at least for the moment.

  But he did not have a chance to speak. The fire in the pit at the center of the hall flickered and smoked. The air grew suddenly chill, and an acrid odor filled it.

  Unferth looked at Horta, thinking he had begun to work magic. But there was dread in the other man’s eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen Horta display fear. He had always thought the man possessed a heart of stone.

  Horta stood and moved to the back of the room, drawing Unferth with him. Unferth did not resist.

  All around the table men seemed confused. Some drew their swords. A sudden wind roared to life, and within it came another sound, regular and forceful like the beating of vast wings.

  Unferth pressed his back against the wall. Even as he did so the wind died away and the great door to the hall crashed open with a booming clatter of oak planks and hinges. Timbers rattled, the hall itself shook, and within the opening a thing of huge shadows hulked. There it stood a moment, surveying those in the room. Its head swiveled, and Unferth thought that it sniffed at the air.

  Horta, his own back to the wall, moved. Briefly Unferth glimpsed the man withdraw a leaf from one of his many pouches with trembling hands and slip it into his mouth. Then the man whispered in his ear. “Do not move nor speak, no matter what happens, and all will be well.”

  The mass of shadows in the doorway began to move. The intruder walked like a man, though it limped. Ten feet high it stood, at least, and as it came into the room the fire in the pit flared to life with a crackle of popping wood and colored smoke.

  With the leaping flames came greater light, and Unferth saw the thing clearly. It had wings, vast and bulky that were furled behind it and still part-hidden by shadow. It had the form of a man, but its head was that of a bat.

  “Shemfal,” whispered Ho
rta beside him. Unferth did not know who or what this creature was, but the name slipped into his mind like a dagger of fear.

  On the creature came, striding like a king. Yet the limp marred his presence, and Unferth wondered what power walked the world that could give injury to such as this.

  One of the warriors at the table screamed a battle-cry and leapt at the thing. His bright sword flashed through the air, but Shemfal, barely seeming to move, brushed the blade aside with his arm and then smote the man a hammer-like blow.

  The warrior fell dead. Others had drawn their swords, but they milled about in fear and did not attack. They saw no way to defeat such a creature, and neither did Unferth. But he must trust in Horta. The magician had said all would be well.

  Shemfal came to a stop. His dark eyes, round and burning with a fierce gaze beneath pointed ears, turned to Horta.

  “The price must be paid, mortal.”

  “Indeed, great lord.”

  Horta said no more, but his glance turned to Olbata. So also the gaze of Shemfal.

  The massive wings of the creature unfurled slightly, and he pointed with a bony hand, black talons dripping from the ends of his fingers like curved daggers.

  “You are mine, mortal. Come hither.”

  Olbata trembled. He swung to Horta, his mouth working several times before words were voiced.

  “Why? Did I not serve you well?”

  Horta turned a cool gaze upon him. “Yes, you did. Yet also, you knew the risks. Knowledge does not come without cost. You are unlucky to pay the price, for it was no fault of your own. But the risk was always there. Do not dishonor yourself by trying to fight your fate. It is written now.”

  “It is written in my blood!”

  Horta did not answer, merely looking at his pupil as though at an ant beneath his feet.

  Unferth admired him in that moment. He was so calm, so assured of the rightness of his actions. Whatever lay behind this, no one understood fully but Horta. And yet Unferth guessed that this creature had been summoned from the pit and constrained to perform an errand. Now, it sought payment for the deed done. Such was the way of demons, which this thing must surely be.

  Olbata swung back to the creature and swiftly began to chant. He raised his hand, a tiny statuette in his fingers, and this he held high as some sort of talisman.

  Shemfal laughed. His wings beat and he darted forward, one hand snaking out to grab his victim by the throat.

  Olbata screamed, but the sound was muffled. With another beat of wings Shemfal hovered in the air a moment, and then he glided toward the fire pit.

  The flames roared once more as though in greeting. The demon descended, Olbata thrashing as tongues of fire licked his flesh. And then the fire pit was no more. In its place opened a fissure in the earth, and down in its depths Unferth glimpsed a mighty cavern, lit by flickering flames and wreathed in shadows. A dark throne rose in the center, and all manner of wicked things moved and writhed about it.

  Fire flared once more, and Olbata’s screams died away in a puff of greasy smoke. When that cleared, the vision of the underworld was gone and the fire pit burned as it always had. Silence filled the hall, but the beating of Unferth’s heart thundered in his chest.

  Here though was an opportunity to assert control again, and he took it. Despite his terror, he wore a guise of nonchalance.

  He stepped forward with confidence and ease. Righting a chair that had been spilled when the men rose from the table and drew their swords, he sat down and leaned back comfortably.

  “Our meeting is not yet over,” he said. “Come, sit down. We must continue.”

  The men returned to the table. One by one, reluctantly, blades were sheathed.

  “See,” Unferth said. “Horta is a magician of power. If he tells us Brand beat the army we sent, it is so. Do not doubt it.”

  One of the warriors scraped his chair loudly as he sat. “If Horta is a magician of such power, how is it that Brand still lives?”

  Unferth felt his frustration rise again. This time it was intensified by his terror at what had just happened, and he wanted to reach out and throttle the man questioning him. Was he not a king? Was it right that they contended with his every word?

  Horta was the one who answered the man though, his voice smooth and measured.

  “That will be remedied,” the magician said. “Twice now I have tried to kill Brand, and he has survived. The man’s life is charmed. But his luck must run out soon.”

  “How will you do it?” Unferth asked.

  Horta shrugged. “I have … ways. Best that you do not know them, for they would only serve to give you nightmares.”

  Unferth believed him. He had no real desire to know the details. Almost, he could feel sorry for Brand.

  The magician’s gaze showed nothing, but there was a hint of amusement to the curl of his lips. He knew exactly what Unferth was thinking.

  “This much I will say,” Horta continued, now addressing all of the men at the table. “I will look after Brand, but whether I kill him or not there is yet his army to defeat. It will not disperse now, even at his death. That is a problem you must deal with.”

  It was sound advice, and Unferth knew it. The Duthenor were raised against him now, and everything he had striven for could be lost. He would not let that happen.

  “Horta has summed up the situation well,” he said. “We must defeat Brand’s army, but how best shall we do that?”

  The men seemed sullen, and most kept glancing at the fire pit. Horta excused himself and walked away. Unferth watched him go, knowing that he would gather his disciples and initiate some dreadful rite of magic. What its nature would be, Unferth did not even want to contemplate. But he had a feeling that the little magician took Brand’s survival as a personal insult now. Brand, at least, would be one less problem soon.

  “Well?” he said to the men. “How shall we defeat the enemy? Shall we march against them, or let them come here and spend themselves against our defenses?”

  2. The Blood of a Hero

  It was the morning after the battle. It was the dawn of a new day, after a great victory. And yet Brand found little joy in his triumph. Others had paid for it with their blood.

  Haldring was especially on his mind as the army readied to march. He had instructed Sighern to hold the Dragon Banner of the Duthenor high, and it hung limply in the still air from the long staff it was attached to. Some had wanted to throw it away, soiled by Haldring’s blood as it was, and make a new one. He would have none of that. The blood of a hero was a better emblem than a dragon.

  But even in death he used her, as he had in life. At least, he could not help feeling so. He had not known what would happen, but he had guessed. And he had set the example himself. He had touched the cloth first thing in the morning, head bowed, and whispered an oath. I will try to show the courage you did, and fight until my last breath even as you. Nothing shall stop me.

  Many had seen him. Some had heard his words. And when he had walked away, a line of soldiers followed his lead. They touched the cloth and said the words. It would bind them, fill them with purpose, and give morale to the army. Already word was spreading through the ranks. A legend was growing, and by the end of the day every soldier would have done the same thing, become part of the same group. In years to come, if they lived, they would tell their children and their grandchildren that they had sworn Haldring’s oath.

  Brand took the reins of his horse and looked ahead with steely eyes. How had he come to this? What cruel fate had shaped him so? He could not do anything, even grieve the death of a friend, without turning it into a means of manipulating soldiers and strengthening the army. And yet, if he did not, the army would be weaker and more likely to lose. Then, all those who had died, Haldring included, would have perished in vain. What he was doing was wrong, but it was also right, and he yearned for a simpler world. But he knew he would never have it.

  “March!” he called.

  Nearby, a man blew a horn and
the army began to move. It would be no swift march, not today. Few were unscathed by yesterday’s battle, one way or another. Including himself. And the army was smaller than it was. Behind them they left the dead. The wounded had already been moved to villages close to hand.

  The sun rose to his left, for the army was heading south. He had a goal, but as yet no destination. That goal was the overthrow of Unferth. The man was at the heart of his woes, ever since childhood. He had murdered his parents. Who knew how many of the Duthenor had been killed at his hands? And last, though it was not murder, he was the ultimate cause of Haldring’s death. For all those things he would pay.

  Brand remained silent as the army progressed along the High Way. His thoughts kept him occupied, dark as they were. Even young Sighern, walking close by his side, recognized his mood and did not disturb it. Shorty and Taingern, leading their own horses on his other side, had long years ago learned when to leave him to himself.

  A dark mood such as this came on him seldom, and anger and frustration less often still, but they had him now in a grip of iron.

  The miles passed, and the rhythm of walking occupied his body but freed his mind. Walking was a good way to think, but it was calming too, and his mood gradually softened. He must put aside anger and vengeance. They were useless emotions. At least, they were not good in the long term. And that was how he must think. His every deed and action must be for the benefit and future of the army and the Duthgar. His purpose was to free them of Unferth, and that goal, and that goal alone, must guide his tactics. His personal feelings must be put aside.

  He called the first halt of the day. The soldiers wasted no time sitting or lying down. They were wise now in the ways of war, and rested whenever opportunity arose.

  Brand saw Taingern glance at him, assessing his mood. The man always read him well, and he must have sensed the change in his temper, for he spoke.

  “We’re making fair time,” he said, “despite everyone’s weariness.”