Days Of Light And Shadow (41 page)

Chapter Sixty Three.

“Damn!” It was only a whisper but it conveyed perfectly everything Y’aris was feeling as he looked down upon the prison. As he saw all of his plans coming undone before his eyes.

“Commander?” Y’aris waved the young watchman to silence with a quick flash of his hands, not wanting to answer any questions. The watchman had been right to come to him in the night, to tell him what was happening, but it didn’t help. Nothing would help any more.

Not when he could see the people gathered outside of the prison. Hundreds maybe thousands of elves, gathered outside of the prison, all in stony silence save for the forlorn cries of the women as they found the bodies of their loved ones. But that silence would quickly turn to anger he knew.

As the bodies were being carried out of the prison one by one, and the priests intoned their foolish words over them, he could feel the hurt and pain slowly turning to something darker. And there were so many bodies. Even more than he had realised. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand lay on the grass, each one even in the darkness showing the signs of the work of the inquisitors. His inquisitors.

For their part the inquisitors stood tied and bound in front of the assembly, and showing the signs of battle. Torn uniforms, cuts and tears in their flesh, blood dripping down on the grass. Obviously they had put up a fight, but they had been outnumbered. Y’aris knew a small moment of pride in them for that, even though they were really just his master’s priests. And then he remembered that they had failed both Y’aris and his Master. They should have fought to the death. That would have been the right thing to do. If he could have killed them then and there, he would have.

And still the rescuers entering the prison were returning from its depths carrying more wounded and dead.

“Sir.” The watchman annoyed him again, and this time he didn’t seem to want to  be quiet. “You should speak to them. Address them. Make them understand that this is all for the safety of the realm. For the glory of the people. That these people were traitors.”

The watchman was a true believer. Y’aris knew that, and he applauded the sentiment in the elf. There were too few who understood his dream, and he could see the light of understanding shining in the elf’s eyes. But he also knew that this was not the time. To go down there now would be to die. The people would tear him limb from limb. That was the wisdom that came with age, to know when to stand up, and when to seek a strategic retreat.

“Of course soldier.” Y’aris turned to him and placed a reassuring hand on his man’s shoulder. “I will do that shortly.”

“Yes sir.” The man seemed happy with his words. He even smiled. Until the blade of Y’aris’ belt knife found its way all the way into the centre of his belly. Then when he twisted it, forcing it up under the boy’s rib cage, driving the air from his lungs so that he couldn’t cry out, he just gasped and fell to his knees in front of him. His face was a mask of shock and pain.

“You are a good man. A good soldier and a good elf. I am proud to have had your loyalty.” Y’aris pulled the blade out of the elf so that he could use it again. But before he did he wanted his soldier to know one thing. He wanted him to know that he had done well. It was the right thing to do. So he pulled him close and looked straight into his horrified eyes.

“Yours is an honourable death.”

Then with a swift downwards plunge he sent the knife deep into the back of the man’s neck, very nearly severing his head completely, and making sure he could not make a sound.

Afterwards, when the body had fallen to the grass and he had cleaned his knife off on the man’s cloak, Y’aris knew a moment of sadness for his victim. He had been a good soldier, a good elf. He had come from a good family. His only crime was that he was a little slow. He didn’t understand what was needed for victory.

But Y’aris did. He understood everything. The time to try and take the Heartwood Throne had passed. In the morning the people would come for him and Finell. Two days early. And it wouldn’t just be to take Finell to his trial either. Once they saw the marks of his master upon the dark priests and knew them as his inquisitors, they would know whom he served. There would be no need for a trial. There would be no hanging. The people wouldn’t be happy. In fact they would be angry. And with the sort of fury he could see growing in them he knew that they would simply tear him apart.

His army couldn’t protect him. He knew that. Even if there had been more of them, and fifteen hundred men at arms should have been enough to hold the city, he couldn’t trust them when he could see others of his watchmen helping with the carrying of bodies. The elders had somehow corrupted them. Maybe because they hadn’t been given enough of the cursed water. The watchmen he had sent to war he had given extra to, knowing that they might be away for a long time, out of his direct control. But not the ones in Elaris itself.

The piss useless high lord could face them alone Y’aris decided. He could be lynched alone. After all he had failed him. He hadn’t called for a conscription when he needed to. And in that mistake Finell had cost him everything. He could hang. For the moment it was time to run. Time to head for the temple and the priests. And then to forget subtlety as they raised an army of abominations.

There would be blood for this. Oceans of blood. If the throne couldn’t be taken through subtle means, then it would be taken by force. One way or another Y’aris would claim it and he would rule Elaris as its true king. And then the outsiders would be destroyed, the half castes with them. All of them slaughtered for the beasts they were. And along with them all the traitorous elves that had stood against him. Those who no longer knew what it was to be of the people. The blood would not stop flowing until every one of them was dead.

That was his vow.

Chapter Sixty Four.

The captain held up his hand and they came to a halt. Even Tenir and his family, who were still adjusting to life in the saddle, managed to stop with everyone else. For once. It had been a long time since they’d done any riding, there wasn’t much call for it in the city, and for the most part when they’d gone further afield they’d used a light wagon. He would have preferred to do that this time, save that rangers rode and it wouldn’t have looked right. Besides a wagon could not travel through the forests.

As it was seven full days in the saddle, riding through forests and back roads instead of taking the quicker route, had taken it out of them. His wife was sore, though she remained stoic. Their daughters were slightly more vocal as they all but fell off their horses at every stop and collapsed each night. The maids were the same, and even the guards looked sore and tired. The salves could only do so much.

And as for the longbows, the accursed things were a nightmare as they got tangled up in the saddles as they rode, and occasionally tripped them up as they tried to dismount. He hated having to wear the thing on his back. There was a reason that the other cavalries used shortbows and crossbows from horseback. But rangers had trained in their use for years, and Tenir and his family had to look the part. Even if it meant ending up flat on your back beside the horse every so often.

Still three or four more days of hard riding, and it would be over. A journey that would have taken weeks in a wagon. Weeks when if the elders were right, the Watch would have been chasing them. Weeks when they would have been out in the open on the main roads for all to see. It was better a little pain now and to survive rather than a brutal death in Finell’s foul prison.

Today by his reckoning, was the day of Finell’s trial. And if the Grove had acted early as the elder had promised, today Herodan would either be free or dead. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to dwell on. Not knowing was almost worse in a way than knowing the worst. Though he could never wish harm on his son, to be torn between hope and fear all the time was pure agony.

“Why have we stopped?” Freylin asked the rider beside her, and typically got nothing back save a pointed stare. She should know better than to ask. He did. The rangers were surprisingly well disciplined, and they didn’t engage in idle conversation when they rode. They didn’t gossip that much when they stopped for the night either, which left him and his family feeling distinctly alone.

Then the captain drew his longbow with a practiced swing of his arm, and Tenir forgot about the social niceties. Something was wrong. Deadly wrong.

He couldn’t see anything. Just trees and more trees, the forest surrounding them on both sides of the trail.

In front of him he could see Elder Rhea, muttering some strange words as he held his hands before him. A prayer maybe? Or maybe not. Not when he could see the elder’s fingers stretched out wide as if he was holding a ball before, him, and a slight purple haze extending between them. A spell of some sort? Many of the elders were spell-casters of one sort or another. Or maybe it was a blessing? He had never been completely sure of the distinction. A spell of faith or a spell of magic. They seemed remarkably similar to him.

With a tiny gesture the elder flicked the ball of purple haze away from him and Tenir realised it had been cast. But it didn’t seem to be much of a spell. A little light between his hands and that was it. Why? What was the point?

Heartbeats later his question was answered in an unexpected manner. He saw half a dozen creatures walking, shambling out of the trees ahead, confused. In sooth it was hard to see any sort of confusion on their faces. What was left of their faces was skin stretched tight over the bones until what remained looked like a leather covered skull. These were the abominations he’d heard stories of, and they were every bit as horrifying and frightening as he’d heard. But they were also harmless. They shambled around in strange directions, bumping into each other, and not seeming to have any clear purpose in mind. That he guessed was the elder’s spell at work.

“Captain, they have no knowledge of us or anything else for the moment. I’d suggest that a few arrows might be well placed in their heads.” The elder spoke quietly, but there was an air of certainty and authority in his calm voice. The captain clearly thought so.

He gave a wave of his hand, and a heartbeat later thirty rangers had fired, and the half dozen things fell down, dead, arrows sticking out of their heads like the needles on a hedgehog. It seemed that whatever they were, they were no match for the rangers’ arrows and the elder’s magic.

But where had they come from? Why were they on the trail? Had they been lying in wait for them?

Apparently his questions weren’t to be answered. The captain gave the signal and instantly the riders were returning to their formation and preparing to ride again. Not even bothering to collect their arrows. That seemed wasteful. But maybe it also seemed desperate. As though enemies were on their tail and they didn’t have time. Maybe they were.

Could these things have something to do with Finell? It was a horrible thought. That one of his family could have anything to do with such dark magic. But the boy was rotten, and always beside him stood the black blood Y’aris. Tenir knew in his heart that this could well be their work. And the paper he had signed had cited consorting with demons. Maybe it hadn’t been simply a ploy as he’d thought. Maybe the two of them actually were. In which case they were very lucky to be gone from Elaris. And his son was very unlucky to still be there. Even more than he’d imagined.

As they took off again, the pain in Tenir’s legs was suddenly forgotten as the pain in his heart returned in full measure. And there was nothing he could do to help his son save pray.

Chapter Sixty Five.

The Royal Chamber was full that morning, more than full, and when Finell entered it he knew that something was wrong. The faces in front of him, all so filled with questions and outrage, it had to be very wrong. But he didn’t know what was wrong. No one had woken him to tell him that there was a problem. In sooth, no one had come to him at all, and that was very wrong.

Annis should have come and woken him if he had overslept, and then drawn his morning bath for him. And by the time he was done with that, she should have laid out his clothes for the day. Then when he came downstairs, Viviane should have had his breakfast already on the table waiting for him. But none of that had happened.

His breakfast had not been prepared for him. His bath had not been drawn. His clothes had not been laid out. And when he wandered through the house to find out what had happened, no one was there. His royal quarters had been empty save for him. For the first time in years he had had to feed and dress himself, and he wasn’t happy about it.

That had upset him, and he had promised himself that he would punish the servants for their failures when he found them. But walking into the Royal Chamber for the normal morning’s duties, he realised their vanishing was only a brushstroke in a larger painting.

Where was the court? This was to be their first assembly in a week. But standing at the entrance to the chamber, staring in, he had to ask that obvious question. Normally the court, all the high born elves of the great houses would be waiting for him with their petitions and requests. All except House Vora of course, who were banned. But not this time. There wasn’t a noble among the assembly. There were no envoys either. And no Y’aris. He looked around for him, but his advisor was nowhere to be seen.

Instead there were priests. A dozen elders at least from the grove, all standing there patiently in their long ceremonial robes, waiting for him. They did not look happy. And with them were the commoners. The low born. The bakers and the millers, the farmers and the minstrels. Not in the seats for the audience, but rather standing there with the elders. Why were they waiting for him? In the royal chamber no less? And why did they look so angry?

“Y’aris.” He bellowed his advisor’s name, worried by what he was seeing, and despite everything, expecting the High Commander of the Watch to be beside him. He was normally at his side even when he didn’t realise it. In fact sometimes his constant presence was almost an annoyance. But this time when he turned, the black robed advisor was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing in his place, were more low born, and more elders, all standing there behind him, almost as if they were preventing him from running. Why would he run from his own court?

He never ran. That would not have been noble. And so instead he straightened his shoulders, tidied his robes about him a little and strode boldly into the chamber. Surely whatever was wrong with the people, their high lord could address it.

But as he walked up the steps and then took his place upon the Heartwood Throne, he realised one thing more that upset him. There were no guards. Their posts at the doors were empty. No guards, no servants, no advisors and not even the Court. Something was very wrong.

“Who are you? Why are you here? And where is my court?” There seemed little point in waiting for the traditional introductions to be made and the formal requests for people to take their seats. Not when he suspected they weren’t coming.

An elder stepped forwards, one that he instantly recognised and hated.

“Yossirion! Why are you in my Chamber?” That so many other elders were standing in the Royal Chamber was an offence against custom and law. That this particular elder was there, that was somehow worse.

“To present you with the papers of course and to escort you to the Honeysuckle Grove for trial.” Was he jesting? Had he been breathing the mist? Yet he looked completely serious as he handed him the document, and no one was laughing. No one even looked surprised.

“I am High Lord Finell. You may not charge me with anything!” But the elder didn’t seem to care about the law. It was as if the law had been forgotten. Then when Finell read the first of the papers in front of him he understood. The shock ran through him like an arrow. But he understood.

“Consort with a demon! I have never! I would never!” He shouted his denial for all to hear. He cried it out with all his strength knowing that the penalty for such a crime was death. No one listened, and he could almost feel the noose tightening around his neck. It was unfair. It was a lie. But this had nothing to do with fairness or truth. Not when he knew who was responsible. Y’aris had told him of his great hatred for him. Of Tenir’s fear that he would soon usurp him as First of House Vora.

“This is my uncle’s doing. He is angered that his son is in my prison and this is his revenge. It is a plot!” He screamed the last, angered beyond measure to realise that Y’aris had been right. His family, his own house had been plotting against him. Why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t he had them all thrown in the prison sooner? Instead he had waited too long, believing in them, and they had continued their plotting. Now he realised, they had sprung their trap. And his uncle’s name listed on the document as the accuser was the proof.

“Bring Tenir to me. Bring my accuser to me that I may face him.” But no one leapt to his bidding. No one so much as moved a finger.

“Tenir and his family have fled Leafshade. They are far beyond your reach.” Of course they had. They had written these poisonous lies about him, and fled before he could answer them. It was base and dishonourable, but what else should he have expected of them? Y’aris was right, they were not worthy of him. Happily they were also stupid. Tenir should have realised that the charges could not be heard unless he was there to stand behind his words.

“Then there is no witness. No accuser. Only lies scrawled on a piece of paper by a vengeful uncle. There can be no trial based on that. This is a matter for House Vora to deal with. And if my uncle is gone and with him his family, then I am the First of the House.”

“And as the First of House Vora I declare Tenir a house traitor. A man of no word. His fleeing the land is evidence enough of that. And as High Lord I declare him a criminal. He shall be hunted down and tried for his treason.” It seemed only logical to him, but the elder didn’t seem to be moved in the least by his argument.

“You are not the First of House Vora.” The elder handed him another piece of paper. “There is no House Vora any longer. Nearly a week past Tenir, First of House Vora, seceded the house in its entirety from Elaris and committed it to the Grove.”

“You are a man of no house.”

Finell stopped breathing for a moment, his heart stopped beating in his chest, as the horror took him. He could read the document, he could see his uncle’s signature on it, but he couldn’t seem to understand it. House Vora gone. It couldn’t be. It was madness. The elder was lying. He had to be. He could not be a man of no house. Of no name. And there was more to come. He knew that when he saw another document magically appear in the elder’s hand.

“And a man of no house may not sit on the Heartwood Throne.” He handed him the last piece of paper and Finell scarcely glanced at it. There was no need. He knew the law by heart. The high lord had to be of a house.

“This is madness.” But he barely whispered the words. For some reason he had no more strength. No throne, no house, unnamed. It was a night terror given form.

“Come.” The elder held out an arm to show him the path to the rear doors. “It is time for you to stand trial.”

But Finell couldn’t do it. He couldn’t descend from the throne. His legs simply wouldn’t let him. And instead he sat there, silently gasping like a fresh caught fish.

“Perhaps you did not hear Elder Yossirion.” A woman appeared in front of him, but she was no true woman. She was a monster. A creature of horribly mixed blood, much of it troll, and possibly giant as well. Finell stared at her, he couldn’t look away from her sheer ugliness. And all the time he was wondering if she was going to attack him.

“Perhaps my companions can speak more clearly.” Perfectly on cue he heard growling coming from behind him, and when he turned it was to see two of the largest crag cats he had ever seen, scarcely a few feet behind him, their teeth showing proudly. And they looked hungry.

He screamed in terror, and suddenly his feet worked again as he leapt for the floor, all to the sound of laughter. They were laughing at him. The more so when he spun around to see the cats still standing on the far side of the Heartwood Throne, ignoring him. They weren’t attacking. They weren’t even interested in him. And everyone there knew it. That was why they were laughing.

“Silence!” He screamed at them, his voice suddenly shrill and hysterical, and it seemed to work for a bit as they fell quiet. But the hush was somehow worse than the laughter, as he felt the weight of their eyes upon him. They were accusing him of something. By the Mother they truly believed him guilty of something. Of conspiring with demons. How could they? He had done nothing but serve them.

“This way please Finell of no house.” Yossirion promptly put a hand on his shoulder to steer him away from the throne, down the aisle between the rows of silent witnesses, out of the double doors at the end and into the sunlight. There things became even worse.

Bodies! There were bodies everywhere. Someone had laid them out in a line, two lines, bordering the pathway leading from the Royal Chamber to the Grove, down which he suddenly understood, he was expected to walk. Why? Who were these people? And why were they so mangled? Beaten, torn, twisted and broken. Blood everywhere. He had never seen so much death in his life. It was horrible. And he knew the people standing in two long lines beside them blamed him for it. That was why they were all staring at him, their green eyes accusing him. And it was why so many of them showed the signs of terrible battle’s as well. Injuries, beatings, missing limbs, blood and scars. It was as though they had been attacked by wild animals.

“What? Who?” He didn’t understand. He didn’t even know how to ask.

“This is your prison Finell of no house. Yours and Y’aris’ underworld.” Yossirion was still beside him, speaking softly into his ear, his voice filled with sorrow and regret. But not for him. “These are your victims. Elves, high born and low, outsiders, those of mixed blood, those of pure. All innocent. All foully murdered.”

“And these, -” he abruptly turned him around to see a group of nine or ten more bodies lying to one side, “- are your inquisitors.”

But they weren’t. They couldn’t be. Not with black eyes and black veins. Even he knew the signs of demons. They weren’t his soldiers at all.

“No!”

“Yes.” The elder had not a trace of doubt in his voice. “Now shall we head for your trial?”

“It was Y’aris!” He shouted it out loud for all to hear and no one listened. But he knew it was true. Of course it was. He didn’t understand it, but he knew it could only be him. He had hired the inquisitors. He had run the prison. He had arrested the people. It was all his fault. But the elder said nothing as he tried to explain. He just kept him walking down the path of death, between the endless bodies, heading surely for his own execution.

And all the way there he kept asking, how could this be happening to him? What had he done to deserve this?

And where was Y’aris?