The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Page 9

  Mel placed his on the ground and repeated the word. Within moments, another horse had materialized.

  “They can travel longer than a horse of flesh, but they still must rest. They are spirits, so they will need to return to their realm. To dismiss them, you must say ‘dhíbhe’. If you run them too long, they will dissipate on their own, whether you are still mounted or not.”

  “Thank you, Holy Goddess,” Mel said with a bow. “We appreciate these gifts.”

  “Will you be there when you are needed?” Aramis asked Zevea. “When we confront my brother?”

  “I will be near,” she answered. “You will need all the help you can get if you hope to stop Mordum.”

  Aramis turned to Mel. “Let’s be off then. Maybe we can find a town to eat at. I don’t really care to eat more fish.”

  Mel chuckled. “I agree, my Lord.”

  “Until we meet again,” Zevea said. Then she continued pushing her cart along the beach.

  Aramis mounted the spirit horse and pressed his lower legs tightly against the horse. He urged the horse forward, holding onto its mane with his hands. He let the horse walk until he felt secure, then urged the horse to speed up. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Mel was not far behind.

  If the gods thought to use him like a tool, they had a rude awakening coming. He refused to be pawn in their game.

  They rode for nearly an hour in silence before they saw signs of life. Several people walked along the road ahead of them, headed in their direction.

  “We should keep our guard up,” Mel suggested. “I know we are far from Oakhaven, but I would not underestimate the reach of Mordum’s servants.” Aramis nodded wordlessly in agreement.

  As they neared the group, it became evident there was nothing to worry about. The people were dirty and appeared to be carrying everything they owned. They moved to the side to allow the horses by. Aramis stared at them as he passed, wondering how they had come to look so pitiful. They continued following the road and eventually left the people behind, only to encounter another group in a similar condition.

  Eventually, the road was crowded with people. Most of them looked like farmers or traders and almost none of them spoke. The air about them radiated hopelessness. Some of the people led livestock while others carried or herded small children.

  “I wonder where these people are coming from,” Aramis said with a glance to Mel.

  “Hail,” Mel called out to one of the farmers. “Where are you going? And where do you come from?”

  The haggard man walked next to a woman whom Aramis assumed was his wife. Two younger girls, likely his daughters, stayed close by his side.

  “We’re going anywhere that will take us,” he answered. “And we’ve come from Ravencliffe.”

  “Why are all these people on the road with you?” Aramis asked.

  “Haven’t you heard? The town has been raided and burned.” The man’s wife choked up and started to sob quietly.

  “By who?” Aramis asked.

  “The king.”

  Aramis stopped his horse. “What are you talking about?” The man backed away warily. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Aramis said. “What do you mean the king raided the town?”

  The farmer ran his dirty hand through his even dirtier hair. “I don’t know how you haven’t heard,” he said. “The king has been terrorizing everyone. He’s looking for the prince that murdered his father. When his soldiers were told that no one knew where he was, they destroyed everything.” The farmer placed his arm around his wife comfortingly. “We’ve lost everything we’ve known. So, we’re leaving to find a new place to start over. But I’m afraid that no matter how far we go, those soldiers will just continue to follow us.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your troubles,” Aramis said. A deep hatred was boiling up within him. How could his brother do such terrible things to the people that he was supposed to serve? He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a few coins. “It’s not much, but please, take it.”

  The farmer stared at him. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Someone who cares,” Aramis answered.

  “You might need it,” the farmer said. “The soldiers have set a blockade outside of the town. They are charging for passage, in or out.”

  “Take it,” Aramis insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

  The farmer hesitated for a moment, then accepted the money. “The gods bless you!” he called out as Aramis nudged his horse onward.

  “The gods can go to Hell,” Aramis muttered under his breath. Once they got clear of the people on the road, Aramis spurred his horse and thundered down the road. Mel followed suite. He could tell from Aramis’s demeanor that he was beyond enraged. Zevea help anyone that gets in his way, Mel thought.

  “The influence of what we say

  pales in comparison to our actions.”

  —Melchiades

  CHAPTER Nine

  It was nearing noon when they reached the rolling hills that marked Ravencliffe’s borders. Aramis reined in his horse, jerking on the bit so hard that the animal grunted. Ahead, the smoke of the burning town hung in a thick haze and some of the buildings were still aflame. Aramis watched the thatched roof of one of the buildings give way in a shower of sparks. A few feet away, a copse of oddly swaying branches caught his attention. As the smoke swirled, the truth became clear. The trees were gibbets, and a dozen bodies hung from their branches.

  His anger burned as hot as the flames around him. He stood in his stirrups and surveyed the rest of the town. Spotting a large gathering of people, he nudged his horse in their direction. As he got nearer, he counted four guards. Two were standing idle, while the other two were harassing people trying to pass. A long line of people stretched down the road, all of them trying to flee somewhere safer. The guards were extorting money, goods and even livestock as passage fees.

  A few people were allowed to pass through the blockade at the cost of all the money they had on them. The guard stopped a woman with two small children.

  “Please,” she begged. “I don’t have anything to pay with. I’ve lost everything.” Behind her, the ill-clad children clutched at her and huddled together.

  “I don’t believe you, wench! Now pay the fee.”

  “That or you can trade one of the children,” the other guard said. “I like children,” he added with a leer. He reached toward one of them and the woman screamed.

  “Get away from them,” Aramis said. He summoned his blade and the air hissed as it formed. The crowd gasped and backed away from the blockade.

  The guard who had reached for the child turned to face him. “Well, well. A rogue on a horse. Likely stolen, too. Mind your business, fool.”

  “Get away from them,” Aramis repeated. He heard the air hiss behind him as Mel summoned his own blade. He moved his horse forward until he was between the guards and the helpless woman.

  The guard drew his sword. “This is none of your business.” The other guard drew his blade as well, but the two standing idle only had their hands on their pommels.

  “I’ve just made it my business,” Aramis said. “I suggest you and your fellows remove this blockade and get back to the castle.”

  “What are you going to do?” The guard sneered at him. “You’re outnumbered.”

  “Is that so?” Aramis asked as he summoned his armor. The black metal formed around him and it felt different this time, stronger, more powerful. The guard exchanged uncertain glances with his fellow and then swallowed hard.

  “You’ll have to kill us all,” he said. The other two guards unsheathed their swords and advanced toward him.

  “With pleasure,” Aramis said. His ebony blade glinted in the sun as he brought it down hard. The child-loving guard brought his own sword up to block, but it shattered under the force of Aramis’s blow. Aramis wheeled his horse around, knocking the backside of the animal into the man. He staggered backwards and landed on the ground. As the horse came about, Aramis leveled his blade a
nd swung horizontally, catching the other guard at the neck, just under his helm. The blade cleaved through bone and sinew. The guard’s head dropped to the ground, followed quickly by his body. The other two guards slowed their advance, approaching cautiously.

  Strike them, a voice bade him. Strike them down.

  His heart was drumming in his head, pounding loudly in his ears. His hand clenched tightly around the handle of his sword. He swung out of the saddle, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. The guards, thinking they had the advantage, rushed him. He cut them down with little effort. He’d experienced the blood rage of battle before, when adrenaline coursed through his veins. Yet this feeling was something different, something darker.

  He turned his attention to first guard who was still on the ground, not quite recovered from the horse hit. Aramis stalked toward him.

  “Please,” the man said, “I’m sorry. I was only following orders!”

  Aramis barely heard the words. He closed the distance and placed the tip of his blade to the man’s neck. “Beg for mercy,” Aramis said.

  The guard was terrified. A puddle formed under the man as he urinated on himself.

  “Mercy!” he cried out. “Please, give me mercy!”

  The tattoo on his arm began to pulse. Aramis could hear voices whispering, but he couldn’t make out the words. Images flashed through his mind in a whirlwind. Death and destruction, visions of Mordum and his servants plunging the world into darkness, Oakhaven burning. The one that finally broke him was Hannah. Her body lay strewn on a roadside, naked and battered. A man he didn’t recognize laughed as he tossed a coin onto her dead body.

  Then the images were gone. Aramis shook his head, trying to clear the things he had seen from his mind. The guard stared up at him, trembling in fear. “Please,” he whispered. “Mercy.”

  Aramis drove his blade through the man’s throat. He made a choking sound as blood poured from the wound and out of his nose and mouth.

  “Death,” Aramis vaguely heard himself say, “is mercy.”

  —

  “You didn’t have to kill him,” Mel said quietly. Sunset had come and they sat around a small fire. They had dismissed their spirit horses for the night and made camp outside the town of Ravencliffe. Most of the refugees had continued on, but a few had stayed. They had thanked him countless times, especially the woman he had rescued. The people had also offered him gifts, the only things they had with them. He’d gently refused, knowing they needed more help than he did.

  “Yes, I did.”

  He picked up a stick and poked at the coals, then threw a few small branches into the fire. “He would have done it again to someone else.”

  “How do you know that?” Mel asked. “You could have scared him enough to make him leave that life behind.”

  “Doubtful,” Aramis replied. “Those inclinations are bound deep in the heart. It would have taken the power of a god to change him. And the only god he seemed want to follow was Mordum.”

  “So, you are judge and executioner? Can you see into the hearts of men now?”

  Aramis felt the tattoo on his arm burn. He looked at Mel. His friend stiffened. “What is it?” Aramis asked.

  “Your eyes. They’re worse.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Aramis noticed that his eyes did feel dry. “Must be the smoke,” he said. “I think it’s drying them out.”

  “No, they are getting darker. The blackness … it’s noticeable.” Mel summoned his sword and offered it to him. Aramis took it and tilted the blade at an angle, using the firelight to see the reflection of his eyes. Peering back at him were two large black orbs. Aramis dropped the blade and stood up. His heart started pounding and he looked around in panic. My eyes! What do I do? His mind screamed.

  Mel’s voice cut through the fear. “My Lord, please sit down.”

  Aramis tried to calm himself. He sat back down and stared into the fire. The power is changing me, he thought. He could feel Mel staring at him. What does he think of me now? What happens if this power takes control of me? Will Mel kill me?

  As much as he tried to convince himself that Mel would never try to, the thought nagged at him. “I’m going to sleep,” Aramis said. He left the fire and laid a few feet away after taking his shirt off to use as a pillow. Not long after, he heard Mel put the fire out. Aramis stared up at the stars, his thoughts tormenting him worse than any physical pain could. His night was sleepless.

  The next morning, despite being exhausted, Aramis’s mood improved. He could feel the beginning of a headache, likely from not sleeping. His muscles ached and he didn’t want to get up, but he knew that time was something they lacked. He sat up and looked for Mel. His friend was cooking breakfast. He put his shirt on and walked over to the small crowd that had formed around Mel. A couple of refugees were talking with him.

  “It’s worse the further you go,” one of the men said. “The new king is a tyrant.”

  Some of the other nodded their ascent.

  “Anyone who tries to fight back is punished. I’ve heard stories. Someone told me their brother was taken to the dungeons and tortured. They took a bucket of rats and placed it on his stomach, then put hot coals on the top of the bucket. Once it got hot enough, the rats tried to escape.”

  The man paused. “They burrowed through his flesh.”

  Mel remained silent, but Aramis saw the disgust in his friend’s eyes.

  “I go to stop him,” Aramis said.

  The people turned to see who spoke.

  “Who are you?” the man who had been speaking asked.

  “Aramis, prince of Oakvalor.” There was a moment of silence before a few of the people began to kneel.

  “Hold on,” the man said. “You don’t know this man from a beggar in the streets. How do we know he’s really the prince? From what I hear, he murdered his father for the throne. He’s the reason we’re in this mess.”

  “I am the prince, but I did not kill my father.” Aramis turned his arm to display the tattoo on it. “I was cursed by the god of the dead with this mark. The man who claims to be king is my brother, banished long ago for dark crimes. He’s responsible for my father’s death, not me.”

  The man eyed Aramis, his uncertainty evident.

  “I will make him pay for everything he’s done. I will restore everything he has destroyed. Your homes, your crops, everything.”

  “You can’t bring back the dead,” the man said, his tone softer.

  “No, I can’t,” Aramis replied. “I lost my father to an assassin’s blade. I know the sting of loss. I know too, the anger that burns beneath the grief. I will do everything in my power to right the wrongs he has committed. I swear it.”

  “I don’t know if you are really the prince or not,” the man said, “but I can hear the conviction in your words.” He looked around at his fellow refugees. “I’ll follow you.”

  The people in the crowd began to voice agreement, pledging their loyalty to him. “Please,” he interrupted. “The path I walk is a dangerous one. I would never ask any of you to put yourself in peril.”

  “You didn’t ask,” the man said. “We volunteered. He may have killed your father, but my daughter was killed by his men on his orders. I will take up my sword and fight in her memory.”

  Aramis considered the man’s words and knew he could no more deny the man’s right to revenge than he could deny bread to the hungry. “If only I had a few thousand more men like yourself,” Aramis said.

  The man straightened with pride. “I don’t know about that many, but if you are looking for men who want to fight against that tyrant, I know a few. I’ll get word to them.”

  “Thank you,” Aramis said. “Gather anyone you can find willing to fight, and meet me in ten days outside of Oakhaven.”

  After they ate breakfast and the refugees had departed, Aramis summoned his spirit horse.

  “It’s a few days’ ride from Oakhaven,” Mel said. “Why did you tell them to wait so long?”

  “W
e’re going to make a stop along the way,” Aramis answered.

  “Where at?”

  Aramis mounted his horse and adjusted his position in the saddle until he was comfortable. “We’re going to the Temple of Edria.”

  —

  The scene that greeted them when they reached Kaldore two days later gave Aramis pause. At least a hundred refugees crowded the city. So many makeshift tents littered the streets, there was no room for wagons to pass by. Not that there were any wagons to speak. Trade, it seemed, had all but halted. Several priests roamed among the people, handing out meager portions of food and spare clothes and blankets.

  Seeing the plight of his people added to the hatred for his brother that was already on the verge of boiling over. They pushed their way through the crowds and made their way toward the temple. Aramis felt a nervousness building within him as they got closer to the temple grounds. He remembered the betrayal of the Prophet. Although Mel had explained the Prophet’s actions, he still felt the bitter sting of treachery when he thought of the man.

  They only saw a few priests within the courtyard of the temple. Aramis assumed that most of them were out in the city, doing what they could to ease the troubles of the people. The large wooden doors were wide open, allowing free passage in or out. Mel took the lead and navigated through the various halls to an all too familiar door.

  Aramis thought he saw the shadows flicker with life. Dark whispers filled the air around him. Distracted by them, he didn’t notice that they had entered the Prophet’s chamber until the man’s voice echoed through the space.

  “Melchiades?”

  When he’d first met the man, he had been impressed. Now, Aramis barely recognized him. The Prophet’s once muscular frame was now on the flabby side. His hair was disheveled and unkempt and his jaw had the faint beginnings of gray hair. The pendant he normally wore around his neck, a closed hand with an open eye in the center, lay on his desk.

  “I thought you were dead,” the Prophet said. He came around the desk and hugged Mel. “Had I known you were alive, I would have sent you help.” As he broke the embrace, the Prophet seemed to notice Aramis for the first time.