The Wayward Prince Page 8

  The tunnel to the right led to the family crypt. It housed over a hundred dead members of House Benisor, most of whom had long since turned to dust within their cold sarcophagi. The tombs scared her as a child, and it was the one place she would not venture when they played hide and seek. Meriatis would sometimes choose it as his hiding spot, guaranteeing she could not win the game. “Unfair,” she remembered complaining. “Guile is not a sin,” retorted Meriatis. “There is nothing unfair about exploiting your opponent’s weakness.”

  At the time, Leta hated her brother’s smugness, but in hindsight she realized he was probably right. I’ve been playing by other people’s rules, not my own, thought Leta. But what was Lady Miren’s weakness?

  Leta pulled the sailor in the opposite direction from the family crypt. Each time she came to a branch, she took the leftmost path. She walked with a short shuffling gait, lest she stumble upon some pit in the earth and not see it until it was too late. Finally she heard the telltale gallop of boiling water running parallel to her path.

  “What’s that sound?” asked Ionni.

  “Water from the hot spring,” said Leta. She felt around on the ground with her foot until she found a clay pipe with the edge of her toe. She could feel its scalding heat through the leather of her shoe.

  “The pipe will guide us to the exit,” said Leta.

  She led the way, making sure to always keep her toe pressed against the sweltering pipe. Hern didn’t complain in the slightest, although every step had to be a chore for the man. Finally, they came upon a thin square of light emitting from the tunnel’s ceiling.

  “That’s a trapdoor that opens outside the palace walls,” explained Leta. “There’s a ladder somewhere around here.” She felt around in the dark until she found the iron rungs. “Ionni lead the way. Hern, can you make it to the top?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said the sailor.

  Ionni went first, with Hern ascending just behind her on wobbly legs. Leta pushed on the man’s rump, assisting his climb. There was a sharp creak as Ionni pushed open the trapdoor. The tunnel was filled with blinding light. Ionni clambered through the trapdoor and girded herself topside. She reached back down to help Hern manage the final rungs.

  Leta’s mind raced as she tried to figure out where they would go from here. The trapdoor led to a fountain located just outside the palace grounds. They would be exposed and would have to move fast to get Hern out of sight. She wondered if she could sneak him into her own private quarters without being seen.

  Hern reached for Ionni’s outstretched hand, but as he did a surprised groan burst from his lips. Ionni issued a blood-curdling scream and fell from view. A black shadow cast across the exit, there was a wet smack, like meat being struck with a cleaver, and a wedge of metal suddenly grew from the small of Hern’s back.

  Hern tumbled backward. Leta reached out, trying to break Hern’s fall, but she wasn’t strong enough. His feet came down right on top of her head, and they both tumbled to the base of the ladder.

  Hern’s head smacked into the ground like a ripe melon thrown against a wall. An impulsive wave of nausea curdled Leta’s stomach. Hern’s mouth opened, as if he was trying to mutter some desperate plea, but all that came out was a gush of blood. With eyes wide in terror, Leta took his shaking hands in her own. A spurt of blood cascaded across her chest, and a second weaker spurt splattered across her feet. Then the spurts of blood stopped altogether, replaced by a slow steady leak that pooled across the floor.

  Overhead, Leta could hear Ionni sobbing uncontrollably. Her cries almost drowned out the clack of steel-toed boots hammering against the rungs of the ladder. Leta didn’t look up to see who it was. She didn’t have to.

  Strong hands hooked around Leta’s waist and hoisted her upright. The empty eye sockets of a wolf bobbed before her in the darkness, the figure regarded her from head to foot. “No, none of the blood is yours. That’s good. Your father would not have been pleased.”

  “Why, Saterius?” managed Leta in a voice so weak she hardly recognized it as her own. “Why are you doing this?”

  He smirked, causing his canines to jut out; for a moment he looked more like a wolf than a man. “I was told this blackhearted fool dragged you into the catacombs. What else was I to do except save your life?” Saterius spit on Hern’s corpse, and then gave Leta a mocking bow. “I live only to serve the line of Benisor, priestess. Past, present, and future.” He laughed, but his laugh sounded more like a howl.

  CHAPTER

  VII

  THE LONG WALK

  Emethius sat stooped over with his back turned to Malrich. The lower edge of the morning sun had just breached the horizon, and the air was still crisp and chill.

  “Seven, eight, nine, ten...,” counted Emethius. The arrows the Dunie had given them were collected on the ground at Emethius’s feet. He assigned each one a number.

  “This is a bad idea,” said Malrich, pacing a rut into the earth. He did so partly out of fear and partly to drive away the stiffness in his joints; he had spent the entire night curled in a ball so his legs didn’t go bursting through the makeshift wall of their hideout. “You’re going to awaken the wrath of every Cul between Hardthorn and Bi Ache.”

  “You don’t think I know that?”

  “How about a few other superlatives?” said Malrich with a deep frown. “This is a stinking awful stupid foolhardy bugger-headed idea.

  “When I was younger, I would often hunt deer in the forest on my family estate — it gave me an excuse to get away from my drunken sot of a father,” said Emethius, not looking up from his work. “On a good day, I could hit a target from forty paces. By my estimate, I’ll be a great deal closer today.”

  “That’s only if you’re willing to walk right up to the base of the tower.”

  Emethius’s eyes winked up at Malrich for just a moment; they were cold and aloof.

  He’s already distancing himself from what he’s about to do, realized Malrich. There would be no talking Emethius out of this plan. Malrich cursed under his breath and watched as Emethius began to sight the length of each arrow, checking their trueness. He laid aside the ones he was dissatisfied with.

  A little voice in the back of Malrich’s head told him a stiff drink would make all of his worries go away. He crushed the shameful thought and began to collect his things. He would need to be ready for anything.

  The coming of dawn had sent the Cul slinking back into whatever hell hole they called home. The sun had not arrived a moment too soon. Malrich had never known a more terrifying night in his life. It was difficult to track the passage of time inside their hidden shelter, and the night seemed to wear on forever. Neither dared to speak. The heat of the day was replaced by a biting cold, and Malrich was shivering not long after dusk. He had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering, fearful that the slightest sound would betray their location.

  The cackling call of the Cul droned on throughout the night, rising and falling like the howl of the wind. At times it seemed the enemy was right outside. They heard snorts, like a wild beast rooting for a faint scent, and once, the brush they had piled before the mouth of the crevice began to shake; Malrich never did figure out if it was caused by the wind or the searching hands of the Cul.

  “I have to do something for those captive Dunie soldiers hanging from the tower,” explained Emethius. He picked up a bundle of arrows, having selected the best from the lot. “You should not follow me.”

  “You know that’s not an option.” Malrich reached out and grabbed Emethius’s shoulder before he could turn away. “Those men are already gone, or near enough to it. Returning to that tower will do nothing save alert the enemy to our location. Think of the mission. If you die now, you doom Meriatis.”

  “Meriatis may be doomed no matter what,” said Emethius, shrugging off Malrich’s hold. “You know as well as I, the success of this journey has never been guaranteed.” He tested the draw of the yew bow — the string issued a sharp twang upon its release. �
�I can’t leave them like that, Mal. You say we are on the side of the righteous? Then we must stand up to that lofty expectation. This is but the first test of many; I will not falter. Will you?”

  Sighing with resignation, Malrich set his pack on his shoulder and checked the edge of his own blade. “Lead on, Emethius. I will follow you as close to that wretched tower as my nerves will take me.”

  Malrich hid behind an outcrop of rock a hundred paces from the tower. Emethius bid him farewell and with a boldness that Malrich did not possess, he walked out across the open expanse and approached the tower. If the Cul inside the tower noticed him, they made no sign.

  Reaching the front gate, Emethius knelt and prayed to the gods in a loud and clear voice. “Oh, gods of Calaban, hear my prayer! Make my body an extension of your grace. Bless these arrows so that their path will be swift and true. Please, gods, make me an agent of your mercy. Hear my prayer, gods, and give me the strength to do what must be done.” He rose back to his feet, crossing his throat and heart in the gesture of the faithful.

  Malrich wanted to look away, to not see what was going to happen next, but he felt a responsibility to bear witness.

  Emethius cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to the black tower. “Soldiers of the Dunie, hear me. I am Emethius of the Merridia. I haven’t the strength in arms to save you or to redress this wrong, but I have the power to end your torment.”

  Chains rattled and lamenting voices drifted down from above. Emethius set about his dreadful task with grim determination. He fired his bow seven times, and seven times his arrow found the center of his target’s chest. Each of the Dunie passed from this world without a cry. Had Malrich been a man of faith, he would have sworn the winged gods of Calaban had flown down and carried the arrows themselves, so true was Emethius’s aim. The chains that held the victims in place ceased their incessant chime. The moaning cries of anguish were replaced by the howl of the eastern wind.

  “Mercy,” whispered Malrich.

  With the task done, Emethius dropped the yew bow to the ground, regarding it like a venomous snake. He was shaking from head to foot, and Malrich was certain Emethius was going to collapse. Instead, Emethius drew his sword and approached the tower’s gate.

  “Don’t do it!” managed Malrich.

  But Emethius wasn’t listening. Like a man possessed, he reared back and brought his sword full force into the face of the tower’s iron gate. It rang like the gong of a bell.

  “No!” pleaded Malrich. “The deed is done, Emethius. Walk away! You’ll summon our doom!”

  Again Emethius struck the gate. The shrill sound of reverberating metal rent the air. He screamed into the morning sky. “I am Emethius, a captain of the High Lord’s Second Legion. I demand this gate be unbarred!”

  “Stop being a fool,” hissed Malrich from his hiding spot. “Let’s get away from here while we still can.”

  Emethius slammed on the gate with the butt end of his sword. “Shadow spawn have no right to enter the realm of the living. Open this gate and face me.” Emethius kept at it undeterred, striking the gate and repeating his challenge. When his voice grew hoarse, he cupped his hands about his mouth and called up to the lowest balcony. “Are you Cul such cowards that you need always to hide in the Shadow? Can you only find comfort in the dark? Come, walk into the light and see the face of your enemy.”

  By this point in time, Malrich assumed Emethius’s challenge would go unanswered. But then there was a low creak and a clang, and the balcony door swung wide.

  “The gods protect us,” muttered Malrich, the prayer involuntarily passing from his lips. He frantically drew his sword and held it at the ready, wondering what he should do. His fingers were shaking so badly he could hardly grip his sword.

  A low cackle wafted down from the open door, sounding somewhere between a laugh and a roar. A grotesque figure appeared at the balcony’s railing, haggard, with rangy limbs and a squat torso. Tattered cloth the color of rust tightly enshrouded the figure’s bony frame. No flesh was exposed, not even the eyes. Over this, the Cul wore the breastplate of a Dunie soldier. Cryptic letters were painted on the blemished armor with dried blood.

  Somehow, Emethius was undeterred by the terrifying sight. He pointed his sword with menace and called out a challenge. “See me well, scourge of the West, and heed my warning,” hissed Emethius, his voice wavering only ever so slightly. “Your kind will see an end before my days are through. Remember my name and my words. You will own neither the night nor the day, and all your kin will know what it’s like to be hunted. Not even in the darkest depths of the earth will you find refuge. I am Emethius Lunen, and I will avenge the fallen.”

  The Cul turned its head, and although its eyes were concealed behind a shroud, Malrich sensed they were set directly upon Emethius. Neither flinched, and at first it seemed this contest of will might go on forever. But then Emethius began to tremble, and although it was barely perceptible to the eye, it was enough. The Cul nodded, a slow, menacing, triumphant nod, and then turned, walking away from the balcony’s railing and out of sight.

  Emethius spit at the departing figure and turned his back on the tower. He managed only a few steps before he stumbled, his knees buckling, as one over encumbered. Malrich’s sense of duty overpowered his fear and he rushed forward, catching Emethius’s fall.

  Emethius was shaking so hard he could hardly hold his sword. Malrich collected Emethius’s blade from his shaking hand and returned it to its sheath, then he led Emethius away from the blighted tower.

  “I may have made a mistake,” Emethius admitted, his voice hardly audible.

  Malrich didn’t know how to reply. The Cul were no longer the demons of nightmares; he had now seen them in the flesh. The sinister image was difficult to shake. Malrich struggled to hold it together, knowing that Emethius needed him now more than ever. He took the lead without further hesitation, guiding Emethius away from the Tower of Interlead with all the speed he could muster.

  Emethius walked quietly beside him, passing over the land with a short shuffling gait. His skin was pale and his brow furrowed. For the rest of the morning he did not say another word.

  The sun passed its apex.

  The path was different than the one they had traversed the day before. Atimir’s grand road ended at Interleads, and they now traveled along a meandering trail that cut north beneath the face of mountain cliffs. The land was dead, and neither the call of birds nor the chirp of insects was heard. The trees had given way to a low thorny brush that hung desperately to the rock face.

  “It’s like the land knows,” whispered Emethius, finally breaking his silence. “It recognizes the evil that lives within its borders.”

  “That’s what we saw, was it not?” said Malrich. “I heard a rumor once that the Cul wrapped themselves in the clothes of their victims because they had no shape themselves. I thought it was a joke, but now I’m not so sure. They’re the Shadow embodied. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  “You needn’t use other words,” answered Emethius.

  “I spent a long time thinking about the poor souls lashed to that tower last night,” said Malrich. “Throughout the ages, people have done vile things to serve as a warning to those who might cross them, yet the Cul know the Dunie will not be returning to Interleads anytime soon. Those poor Dunie soldiers weren’t hung from the face of that tower as a warning. They were placed there because it gave the Cul some depraved pleasure.”

  “It’s as if the Cul are afflicted with the Blackheart,” said Emethius.

  Malrich thought of his wife, a woman he had loved with all his heart. Then he considered the shell that now remained and the unspeakable sin she had committed once she became afflicted with the Blackheart. She had more in common with the Cul than he would like to admit.

  “I shouldn’t have challenged them,” said Emethius solemnly. “They will not let my actions go without retaliation. I fear now more than ever that we will have to face the Cul before th
is is through. Yet if they can undo an entire Dunie legion, what challenge can we present?”

  “No, don’t doubt your choice,” said Malrich, realizing that he meant it. “The Cul had to be challenged, they had to be reminded that day ever follows night, or so the saying goes, and that the sun is always shining on the far side of darkness. The Cul are not immortal — the blood surrounding the Dunie fortifications would attest to that. They should fear us as much as we fear them, for we walk in the light.”

  Emethius seemed to take some comfort in that thought. “What can bleed can be killed,” said Emethius. A hint of self-assurance reentered his voice. “And what lives in the shadow can be driven into the light.” Emethius stopped in the middle of the path and drew his sword, pointing it east toward the monolith of Calaban, which stood hundreds of leagues beyond the horizon. “I vow that before my days are through my sword will be flush with the blood of the Cul.”

  “A worthy vow,” said Malrich. “Now, let’s hurry from here, otherwise you might be making good on that promise before the night is through.”

  • • •

  After a long and arduous day of ascending switchbacks and skirting along paths that were not much wider than Malrich’s shoulders, the shadows began to lengthen across the trail. Night was fast approaching and they needed to find cover fast.

  “Not a lot of options on where to hide for the night,” said Malrich, reporting the obvious. They were hiking along a narrow path that skirted the edge of a deep canyon; they had two options — press on and risk being caught in the open after dusk or climb down the cliff face and risk falling.

  “There’s a ledge,” said Emethius, pointing out a sliver of rock that jutted from the cliff face some twenty fathoms beneath the trail. The spot would be nearly invisible in the darkness of the night, but it would be a harrowing climb.

  The deep-throated cackle of a Cul sealed their decision.

  With searching fingers and toes, they found cracks and crevices in the cliff face and carefully lowered themselves down. The ledge was even smaller than it appeared from above; there was scarcely enough room for them both.