The Wayward Prince Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Continent of Elandria

  The Four Realms of Eremel

  1. Hardthorn

  2. The Fearless Runner

  3. The Lord Captain

  4. The Admiral

  5. The Barren Tracks

  6. The False Shadow

  7. The Long Walk

  8. A Father's Wisdom

  9. The Northern Ador

  10. Requiem of Cataclysms

  11. A Journey's Ending

  12. The Tremelese Dagger

  13. The Sorcerer of Bi Ache

  14. The Court of Atimir

  AFTERWORD

  A WORD OF THANKS

  BOOKS BY LEE H. HAYWOOD

  Copyright © 2019 by Lee H. Haywood

  All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Story Consultant and Editor: Kerry Haywood

  First Published 2019

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9970810-9-1

  www.leehhaywood.com

  For J.B.

  THE CONTINENT OF ELANDRIA

  THE FOUR REALMS OF EREMEL

  He is not your maker, but your master all the same.

  You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame.

  He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil,

  and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.

  -The Requiem of Cataclysms

  CHAPTER

  I

  HARDTHORN

  Emethius eyed the valley with a mixture of disquiet and wonder. The land was barren — fields of dry grass and outcrops of basalt rock. Leafless trees studded the ugly terrain, their trunks knotted and twisted from the continuous wind howling from the west. A river bisected the land, its water so black, it could have been mistaken for ink.

  “The third realm of Eremel,” said Emethius, finding that Dunis looked nothing like he imagined. He could only wonder how this land ever stood on an equal footing with Emonia and Merridia.

  “My old school teacher used to say, if Dunis falls, the rest of Eremel will soon follow,” said Malrich, squinting into the distance.

  Emethius nodded his head knowingly. The Dunie were the marchwardens of the west, tasked with defending the talsani realms from the creeping Shadow of the Cul. “Perhaps the rest of Eremel should be counting their days,” said Emethius, noting the apparent ill state of affairs.

  From his vantage atop the valley wall, Emethius could see for leagues, yet he could count the number of homesteads on the west side of the river on his fingers and toes. For every home that remained standing, there were a dozen that were scorched husks. “There’s no one left in the valley. You can see why Mayal has been receiving so many Dunie refugees.”

  “Aye, and the land looks half-dead.” Malrich chewed at his lip, his nerves clearly frayed. “This isn’t what I expected. I don’t like this one bit.”

  “Neither do I, but we didn’t come all this way to turn back now.”

  Malrich grunted his discontent and gave Baylilly’s reins a gentle tug, guiding her down the road.

  The land was enveloped by a barely perceptible haze, which made everything seem out of focus; distances were almost impossible to gauge accurately. They descended quickly toward the valley floor, the road passing through fields of grass that rose thigh high. The land had clearly not been worked by a plow in years. All was brittle, brown, and dry. Winter still held this land, although Emethius doubted it would look much different come spring. There was a blighted and evil feeling about the land, and the faint scent of brimstone was ever-present in the air.

  “An ill humor,” said Malrich, sniffing at the cold wind that came wafting out of the mountains to the west.

  “That’s the Shadow creeping as it ever does,” said Emethius. “We would be wise to reach Hardthorn before nightfall.”

  They quickened their pace.

  Two ancient stone towers stood at the crossing of the Morium River, a matching pair, one built upon either bank. A narrow portal cut through the base of each tower allowing access to a bridge that spanned the river; a man on horseback would have to duck to manage the passage. The walls of the towers were higher than any fortified building Emethius had ever encountered in the east. The only difference between the two structures was the tilt of their respective foundations. One tilted north, the other south, forming a great “X” when viewed from a distance. A dozen tall, stalwart soldiers lounged about the east tower’s entrance.

  A stern looking soldier stepped forward to greet them. “Hail, travelers! What business do you have in the realm of King Iantir?” He was garbed in the livery of House Langlif, and a black eagle adorned his chest.

  Emethius held out his palms as he approached the tower. “I am Master Emethius, a master healer of the Tiber Order.” He saw no reason to use a false name this far from home. “We are bound for Hardthorn in hopes of easing the minds of those afflicted by the Blackheart and giving peace to their souls.”

  “Then you have been misinformed,” said a different guard who was a head taller than Emethius and built like an ox. “There hasn’t been an afflicted person living in Dunis for a hundred years. We have found a cure.”

  “A cure?”

  “Steel seems to do the trick,” said the sentry with a sneer. He patted the pommel of his sword, while another guard made a chopping motion with his hands.

  The other soldiers laughed.

  “The Court of Bariil frowns on such barbaric practices,” said Emethius, staying in character. “I have come to provide you with alternative treatments. I possess soothing ointments and tonics that will ease the mind.” He produced a handful of small vials from a hidden pocket in his cloak.

  At this the men laughed. “Do you also have men in your saddlebags, or perhaps slings and bows?” called the chief marchwarden. “Your witches’ brew is not welcome here. Steel, men, and more steel is what we need. Your meager wares are not suitable to our needs.”

  “We have been sent here by the Herald of the Tiber Order,” interjected Malrich. He quickly flashed a piece of parchment with Herald Carrick’s signature at the bottom, fast enough for the men to detect the name, but not fast enough for them to tell that it was a testimonial from Herald Carrick’s journal.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Brother Malrich. I am Master Emethius’s apprentice.”

  The guard looked Malrich over from head to toe. His eyes settled on the sword Malrich wore on his hip. “A leech boy, eh? A bit old, aren’t you? And so well armed...”

  “I served as a Soldier of the Faith before I heard my true calling,” said Malrich. “I thank the gods for every opportunity they have afforded me. Were it not for my training in the army, we might both be dead. We were attacked by bandits on the North Road. They took two of our horses and most of our provisions. A man may guard his spirit with the gospel, but only a fool is unprepared to guard his body with a sword.” He let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword — the gesture was not quite a threat, but it was certainly a reminder that the blade was present and ready to be used.

  “What do you think, Fletch?” asked the marchwarden, directing his voice toward the top of the tower.

  “I think I’d like to put an arrow in each of his eyes and a third down his pious throat,” called a voice in reply. An archer su
ddenly appeared atop the tower, his upper body hanging through a crenel. He held his bow with an arrow nocked and at the ready.

  “Aye, I bet you would,” said the marchwarden, smacking his lips. “And I’d like to let you try, but Lord Ianin keeps telling me to be nicer to our guests, otherwise we might stop getting visitors to our lovely land.”

  Emethius drew Malrich’s hand away from his hilt and gave his best apologetic smile. “Please, if it is all the same to you, we would still like to pass. We have traveled for nearly two fortnights to get here. It would be remiss of me to return home to Mayal without speaking with your king. There was a time when brothers of the Tiber Order would have received a warm welcome in the House of Langlif.”

  “Those days are long dead,” said the marchwarden, spitting at Emethius’s feet.

  “Long dead,” his men agreed in chorus.

  Despite his hard demeanor, the marchwarden motioned for the portcullis to be raised. “Quickly now, to Hardthorn if you must. But don’t dally.” He gauged the angle of the sun to the horizon with his pointer finger and thumb. “It’d say you have three hours until sunset. The city gate seals at dusk; you would be wise to not be outside when it does. Make that mistake, and we’ll be feeding your corpses to the dogs come morning.”

  “That is, if we can find them,” chimed another. The men laughed and stepped out of their way.

  Emethius and Malrich didn’t stop to share in the marchwarden’s mirth. They hurried across the bridge, lest the guards change their minds and decide to detain them.

  As Emethius stepped off the landing beneath the face of the west tower, Baylilly came to a sudden and skittering halt. Her nostrils flared, and her ears pinned flush to her head. Emethius had never seen such terror in the typically stalwart horse.

  “What is it?”

  Malrich directed Emethius’s gaze to the ground.

  Oddly enough, the brickwork beneath his feet seemed to be painted black. But even as he thought this, the scent of iron and rot struck Emethius’s nose, and he became sickeningly aware that the sticky black substance was something much more macabre.

  “Cul blood,” said Malrich gloomily. He checked the bottom of his boot to see if the vile taint had transferred to his heel.

  With a few gentle words Emethius was able to coax Baylilly off the landing. He quickly led her away from the dried blood and down the dirt road. As he went, he glanced over his shoulder at the tower. The west-facing wall was painted with bloody hand prints that reached a dozen yards up its face. An uncontrollable shiver worked through Emethius’s frame.

  “Hurry now,” called a voice from atop the tower. “We Dunie rule the day, but the Cul own the night.”

  • • •

  With that cold and stark welcome to hurry them along, Emethius and Malrich traversed the barren countryside as quickly as their feet and tired bodies would take them. The terrain on the west side of the river grew steeper with every passing mile, sending them higher and higher into the foothills of the Culing Mountains. The city of Hardthorn was always in Emethius’s line of sight, resting a thousand feet above the valley floor upon a weathered point of rock. Emethius eyed the fortress city in wonder. He had often read about Hardthorn, but what he saw did not fit the description.

  It sat upon a saddle of blue-gray rock, offset by the towering mountain range that rose peak above peak to its rear. It looked much like the worn canine of a hound, and twisted to a jutting point. A wall ran the perimeter of the city. The stones were heavy, immovable, as if they had been placed there by giants. The city itself was built in terraces. At its peak was a tower capped by a raging fire. This was Reel Aper, the Watchtower of Hardthron.

  They were still a mile out from the citadel when the sun began to settle below the ridgeline. To the east, the Morium River flared red as blood in the failing light. Mist came with the lengthening shadows of twilight, and soon the valley began to fill with a vexing fog.

  “We need to hurry,” said Malrich. “The Dunie will shut the gate before long, and I don’t want to be trapped out here after dark. They say the Cul are born from the fog, that they are creatures of mist and Shadow, and can appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.”

  “Don’t believe all superstitions so readily,” said Emethius. “The Cul are as much flesh and blood as you and I. Besides, I sincerely doubt there are Cul here in the valley; the Dunie would never suffer Cul in their realm. The marchwarden was simply trying to scare us.”

  As the fog grew denser, Emethius found himself doubting his own reassurance. He urged Baylilly to go faster. The mare moved begrudgingly at first, but as the fog began to roll thick about their ankles, she quickened her pace. There was a darkness to the encroaching night that could be sensed beyond what was seen. Emethius couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, and he began to wonder if Malrich’s superstitions were justified.

  They reached the last leg of their journey just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The road leading to Hardthorn twisted like a snake up the face of the plateau. They sprinted the final quarter mile, knowing that time was running out.

  They found the gate closed.

  Emethius cursed under his breath. Malrich said nothing, and just stared at the sealed gate. It was painted black with dried blood, just like the walls of the tower in the valley below.

  Torchlight marked the top of the battlements. The orange light flickered in and out of view as the fog thickened and dispersed, swirled and abated. Night was upon them, and darkness brought with it a gripping fear.

  Emethius struck the iron gate with the flat of his hand. It emitted so little sound he might as well have been knocking on stone. This fortress city has been built to withstand the most devastating weapons the Cul can muster, thought Emethius. He tried again, this time using the butt of his sword. A faint hollow ting was his only reward; no one answered.

  He stepped back, struggling in vain to catch sight of the night watchmen. “Hello!!??” yelled Emethius into the gloom.

  There was still no response.

  Malrich joined in, and together they hammered at the gate like they were trying to forge steel. Only after several minutes of ceaseless beating did they finally relent. Exhausted and out of breath, they slumped against the gate.

  A low cackle sounded somewhere in the valley below. It was like the deep-throated growl of a dog. It was quiet, almost indiscernible at first, and it took Emethius a moment to be certain he heard anything at all.

  “The Cul?” whispered Malrich.

  “I haven’t a clue,” answered Emethius with a shrug. But in truth, he knew otherwise. He had heard that noise only once before, when he was young, fresh out of the field academy. He was serving on a mounted patrol in the foothills of Mount Calaban. An old veteran told him it was the call of the Cul. It was how they communicated with one another over great distance, the veteran had claimed. At the time, Emethius laughed at the notion. The Cul had not been spotted east of the Morium River in over a dozen generations. But the following morning, only a mile down road, a farmer and his two children were found dead, their eyes plucked from their sockets. It was the Cul’s way to take the eyes, explained the veteran, although no one knew exactly why. The farmer’s wife was never found.

  The cackle rang out again, and this time a second call responded to the south.

  Malrich pointed his blade into the darkness. “There are two of the bastards!”

  “There’s probably a lot more than that,” said Emethius under his breath. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called up to the hidden battlement. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order, sent at Herald Cenna’s behest to speak to King Iantir. In the name of High Lord Valerius, and the gods for whom he serves, open this gate!”

  Still no one responded.

  Emethius was growing convinced there was nothing he could say to gain entrance into the city. But just as he was giving up hope, there was a pop, and a rope suddenly thudded to the ground at his feet. He followed the length of rope skyw
ard with his eyes, finding that it disappeared into the fog. There were no words, no orders, just a rope dangling seemingly out of thin air.

  Emethius unbridled Baylilly, and placed his hand atop her great snout. “I’m sorry, Baylilly, but we have to leave you here for the night.” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head in shame. It was all he could manage to say to the horse who had served them so faithfully.

  A Cul cackled and this time five distinct voices echoed the call in reply. One cackle seemed to be coming from the base of the hill.

  “We need to go,” urged Malrich.

  Hand over hand, Emethius climbed the rope skyward. He was using muscles he had not used in some time. The wound in his back, Meriatis’s wound, began to ache. Finally, he reached the battlement and squeezed through a narrow crenel that studded the top of the wall. He fell exhausted on the cold stone battlement. He was greeted by half a dozen archers, their arrows nocked and ready.

  Emethius held up his hands in surrender. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order. I come at Herald Cenna’s behest,” he managed out of breath.

  “Stop yelling like a damn fool. You’ve brought half the valley to life,” hissed one of the archers, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “We’ve turned men into pincushions for less than what you just did,” said another soldier.

  “Then I thank you for holding your strings,” said Emethius, as a pair of soldiers reached over the edge and pulled Malrich onto the battlement.

  Malrich rose to his feet and let out an exhausted grunt. “What about our horse?”

  “The gate doesn’t open at night, on the lord captain’s orders,” said one soldier staidly.

  “I’ll put her down with an arrow, if you’d like,” said an archer. “It would be an act of compassion,” he added when Malrich looked at him with horrified disgust.

  “Baylilly will have to fend for herself tonight,” said Emethius, finding himself sick with guilt.