Prince
Kristian’s
Honor
Book One of
The Erinia Saga
Tod Langley
Prince Kristian’s Honor
Copyright © 2011 Tod Langley.
Published by Tod Langley
This book is available in print at most retailers.
www.TodLangley.com
Dedicated to Jennifer, the Queen of Patience
Stories of Fantasy are nothing more than the retelling
of our own triumphs and sad, sad tragedies.
Chapter 1
Quest’s End
“Do you still dream of me, Cairn?” she asked.
The cold was so bitter that anyone would have trouble finding the strength to go on. After several hours in the storm, the man had lost some of the feeling in his fingers and toes and could feel an icy pain working its way up his back. His chest ached, and his throat was raw; his eyelids were almost frozen shut. His body was sore, and yet, his mind remained clear. He knew where he was and where he was going.
“Will you always dream of me?” she insisted upon knowing.
The voice in his head comforted him and kept him focused. He pushed the numbness out of his mind and continued walking north, further up the mountain trail.
He pulled his thin, black cloak tighter against his body, trying to keep warm as he guided his horse up the narrow valley. It was just after sunset when he was finally forced to dismount and lead them both through the growing snowdrifts, some so high they threatened to force him back with his purpose unfulfilled. He was determined to see this through and was closer to completing his quest for revenge than he had ever been. No winter storm, no matter how cold or terrible it might be, was going to keep him from finally ending it.
“I should be there to keep you warm,” she teased with a whisper.
Would she talk like that? Cairn asked himself as he tried to pick up the pace. Was his love ever that forward? Yes, sometimes she was, he remembered. There was no happiness in thinking of her, though. There was only pain and sorrow.
Cairn tried to put her out of his mind for the moment to check his surroundings for signs of danger; he could not let anything steer him from his destination now. Three dead men in the foothills south of the valley were the latest proof of his determination and skill. It had been easy to kill them, Cairn reminded himself. He had hunted each of them down, stalking them like animals, slaughtering them like goats. The rest of his prey would not be as easy to kill.
He looked at the mountains around him, but he could discern little. It was dark and gloomy. The little bit of light there was reflected off the heavy snowfall, highlighting the narrow path with an eerie glow. The skeletal branches of the nearby trees reached out to him like the desperate arms of his dead parents. They silently begged for Cairn to help them, but it was too late for that. He could do nothing to save any of them.
The northern wind was so fierce that even the larger branches were frozen solid. Weighted down by ice and snow, they broke off and fell shattering on the rocky ground close by. Cairn could not hear their fall over the sound of the howling wind, the cold wind that made it hard to keep going. The jagged mountains themselves protested the unnatural storm, echoing the vengeful sounds of the wind back at him.
Cairn pulled his scarf up higher to cover his scarred cheek and started walking again.
“Just keep walking, my love, and remember me.” Cairn could never forget.
It was the harshest winter any of them had ever experienced, and they all regretted their decision to visit the tavern this night but not because of the storm. Settlers of the small mining village of Worndale had gathered in the town’s only inn, the Mother’s Vein, to forget about the storm as well as the rest of their bad luck. The sign out front smacked the side of the wall, knocking snow from the roof as the storm continued unabated. Normally, the tavern was filled with laughter as trappers and miners tried to forget their problems, talking about the gold still hidden within the mountains. The rough men normally joked with each other and drank away what little coin they still possessed. They thought about better times.
Tonight, however, the tavern was deadly quiet. The villagers sat nervously eyeing those that had invaded their peaceful sanctuary. There were ten soldiers sitting amongst them and all wore black armor with red-smeared crosses painted on their chest plates. They had come into Worndale late in the afternoon carrying broadswords and maces and demanded food and drink.
No one knew why they had come to their isolated part of the world, and the villagers really did not care. They simply wanted to be left alone. The soldiers, or more likely marauders, had burst into the tavern just as the storm hit the mountains, demanding the innkeeper serve them. They were evil men, full of anger and cruelty.
The villagers gave them plenty of space as they plopped down on chairs throughout the room. A few tried to escape when it was obvious the soldiers would not be leaving any time soon. One poor fool was immediately beaten and thrown back toward his table by the brutes; he tripped over his chair and fell to the floor, crying out as his elbow slammed into the wood. His shout seemed to annoy one of them, and they gathered around him. They were determined to force their brand of fun on all of the tavern’s occupants, and no one would be allowed to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the soldiers asked, pointing at the nervous man that tried to scramble away from him. The villager’s eyes opened wide in fear as two men grabbed him again, laughing cruelly.
“Come. We’re going to play a game,” one of them said.
“But we’re missing a key player,” the other man added. “Ever heard of Dead Man Swinging?” They laughed together as the villager squirmed between them.
“We’ll drink a toast to those that didn’t make it up this sorry mountain,” the one called Hefler cried out.
“To Pierren, Oril, and Dag,” his friend shouted back. “May the snow bury them so we don’t have to.” Hefler and the others laughed.
The frightened villager tried to break loose, but Hefler hit him hard with his fist. The man cringed, cupping his bloody nose with his hands. He watched in horror as Hefler’s companion grabbed a rope from his pouch and started making a noose.
A half mile down the snow-covered trail from Worndale, Cairn continued struggling against the wind and the snow, but he knew he was close. His breath froze in the air as soon as it left the cowl of his hood, but he ignored the storm completely and made a final push north toward the lights in the village. The solitary man had traveled far and never stopped to think about the hazards to his own welfare, but he suddenly felt a slight hesitation. He had always believed in his mission, and one way or another it would finally be over, but he was not as confident as he had been that he could see it finished. Cairn was not nervous or frightened … he had trained too long and hard for that. He was eager to kill those responsible for his loss, but he had no way of knowing if he would be successful.
“Better to die tonight than to keep on living,” he whispered.
The voice in his head giggled. “I love you, Cairn.”
“Not now,” Cairn told himself. “I’ve got to stay focused.”
He started searching for the men he had tracked for the last several weeks. Cairn walked up the one road in Worndale looking for signs of danger. They had to be here somewhere, he knew.
“They’d never face a storm like this in the open. They would seek shelter.” Halfway through the town, he spotted lights shining out from under the shuttered windows of the Mother’s Vein. He noticed several horses tied to the front porch and upon closer examination was able to tell they belonged to those he was searching for. He heard a man’s harsh laugh and a woman crying. This was d
efinitely the place.
He tied his horse up separately from the others, making sure the knot was secure but could be easily undone. Cairn did not like leaving his horse exposed in the storm like this; he was not like those he hunted, but he had no choice. He patted the animal’s neck to say thanks and possibly good-bye and then crossed the porch slowly. Cairn paused in front of the tavern, hesitating for a moment, to make certain he was prepared, and then he opened the door and entered. The commotion inside abruptly stopped as they looked to see who was foolish enough to interrupt their cruel sport.
Cairn quickly scanned the room to ensure there were no immediate threats. Thick, greasy smoke floated around his head, but it did not keep him from seeing the occupants clearly. On the left side of the tavern, he saw a small hearth with a fire spreading its light out into the main room. Soldiers and villagers occupied six round tables, unevenly spaced across the floor. A bald man sitting near the hearth abruptly ended the song he was singing and looked at him pleadingly. A body hanging from a nearby rafter was swinging slightly back and forth. The man at the hearth kept getting tapped on the shoulder by the dead man’s boot. He looked up at his dead friend in shock, but was afraid to move or stop the body. Cairn guessed the soldiers had strung one of the villagers up to set an example. One of them laughed and gave the body a rough push.
“If it stops swinging, you’ve got to get the next round,” Hefler shouted to his companion.
Two more soldiers looked up from their table to stare threateningly at Cairn but then turned back to their drinks. Obviously, Cairn was not seen as any real threat. He turned his attention briefly to those nearest him. Villagers sat huddled together at their table, frightened and worried. They did not look up, afraid they might accidentally draw attention to themselves. The villagers did not know Cairn and feared he might be another soldier that would do them harm.
At the bar counter on the right side of the room, one drunk soldier turned only momentarily toward him to make sure everything was alright before resuming his drinking. He was trying to keep his balance and was only able to stand by leaning on his axe handle. The bartender, an older, plump man wearing a gray smock under a beer-stained apron, quickly shook his head, warning Cairn to leave before it was too late, but he was distracted by the pleading of a young woman. At the back of the room, two more men were trying to rip the skirt off a young girl near a stairway leading up to a second floor.
Cairn ignored that particular situation and continued to search for the man he was looking for. A group of men were gambling with stones at the very back table. They were so intent upon their game that they paid him no attention. He let out a deep sigh and then shut the door. He was committed to ending this … tonight. Cairn’s gaze remained fixed on the one he had come for; he was one of the men at the back table and seemed oblivious to Cairn’s sudden appearance.
The soldiers returned to what they were doing, as if the shut door was a signal that the stranger was just another stupid villager, not worth the bother. The two would-be rapists lifted the poor young barmaid off the floor and manhandled her up the stairs.
“Father,” the girl begged for help, reaching out toward the barkeep.
A moan escaped the man’s mouth as he rushed toward the back of the room. “Not my girl, please, not my girl.”
The soldier at the bar grabbed him and put a dagger close to his face. A menacing snarl and a shove were more than enough to force the owner back. “They can poke her or I can poke you and a few others with this.”
The man waved a rusty blade at the innkeeper’s face. The man with the lute struck a few uneasy notes hoping to ease the situation, but the leader of the marauders looked up from his game and snarled at him. He then laughed as his men joked about what they would do to the girl.
“Come, lass, let me show you what a real pike looks like,” one of the men on the stairs shouted.
“Why?” the girl sobbed, reaching out a final time to her father. He raised a hand feebly back toward her, but did not move from his spot. The old man looked around at the intruders to gauge what might happen if he tried to stop them from raping his daughter. He let his hand drop back down to his side with a defeated sigh. The drunken soldier grinned in triumph and shoved him back toward the bar.
“I need another drink,” he demanded.
The leader of the soldiers finally sighed and then grimaced. He waved his spiked glove around the room, counting, “One, two, three, six … ten, twelve. Fourteen. Fourteen.” He shook his head in disgust.
“That’s why this is happening to you. That is why we have come. Because you are weak and we are strong. There are fourteen of you in here. There’s probably another twenty hiding in their homes. If you had any courage, you’d attack us. Sure, some of you would die … a lot of you would die. But you would win.”
The man nodded toward the stairs. “And she would be safe. But you won’t do it. You won’t move your scared asses off those chairs to help an innocent, young girl. And that’s why we’re here.”
He scratched his matted, black beard and sighed in pity. Then he casually picked his stones back up off the table and asked, “Whose turn was it any way?”
“Do you still dream of me?” the voice asked Cairn again.
“Of course,” he murmured back to the voice.
Cairn took a step deeper into the room, knowing he had found his man. He was their leader, and Cairn meant to kill him. He began to move slowly toward the back of the room.
He stopped at the table directly across from his enemy, scrutinizing each of the men carefully. One person, a local man, obviously did not want to be in the game. He looked up at Cairn nervously as if to determine what stone he should play next.
Two of the black armored soldiers sat to either side of the villager, their sheathed broadswords resting casually in their laps. On the far side of the table sat another black-armored man. He was the one that had taunted the villagers. He was the one in charge of the soldiers, and Cairn focused all of his attention on him.
He was a Belarnian officer, and Cairn noticed his armor was better maintained than the other soldiers’, though somewhat dented. His face was riddled with old scars and bore a permanent scowl. He wore a red cloak with black fur trim and had a helm of similar design setting on the table in front of him. On top of the helm rested a pair of spiked, leather gloves.
Cairn hesitated, staring at the gloves, as if reliving a deeply buried memory. Lost in the impossible past, he struggled to maintain his composure as the man across the table deliberately ignored him and continued to play out his stones.
Images of fire and smoke and cries of pain, agony, and grief emerged from somewhere deep inside him. It almost seemed that Cairn swayed, hypnotized by the rhythm of the cries in his mind. He first saw a thatched roof on fire. The yellow flames quickly sprang from the roof to the surrounding walls and structure, engulfing everything in its intense heat. Cries for help and screams of terror and pain echoed through his mind as he turned away from the blazing house to look for survivors. Every house in the village seemed to be on fire. People ran in all directions screaming in agony as flames ate at their bodies. A woman’s voice screamed in terror, “Cairn … Cairn ….”
“Remember.”
“Are you drunk or just another stupid villager?” The comment and the immediate laughter of the other two soldiers at the table brought Cairn out of his trance.
He stared at the leader again, prepared to follow through with his promise of revenge.
“You’re Garnis,” Cairn said softly. It was a statement not a question. “You’re a Belarnian lieutenant and serve the Prince of Belarn.” This got the attention of everyone at the table.
The one named Garnis set his remaining stones down and looked at the stranger closely for the first time. Cairn was tall and slender and dressed in tattered, black clothes. Little could be discerned about him other than his eyes and the small flash of brown hair escaping the folds of his scarf and hood. The leader briefly scanned
him for weapons and finding none focused back on his eyes. Garnis was unsettled for a moment; there was something familiar about the stranger. He had seen this man before, but could not remember where they had met. The officer could not figure it, out and it bothered him more than he liked.
Trying to play off the mystery of the stranger and his eyes, Garnis said, “So? Many have come to know of Garnis. Unfortunately for them, the wrong way. Unless you want to end your life like they did, I suggest you crawl away.”
The slight attempt at humor caused low grumbles of agreement from Garnis’ men.
“I would have you know my name as well,” Cairn said, standing a little straighter.
“And what might that be? Are you the village idiot? Are you the son of an important miner? Perhaps you are the King of the Mercies … isn’t that what you people call these cursed mountains? You people make me sick. You’ve lived here for too long without control. You’ve forgotten that your allegiance is to Belarn. Well, we’re here to help you remember.
“Now, sit down or I am going to string you up and gut you. We’ll use your intestines for replacement strings on that lousy musician’s lute.” The singer heard them mentioning him and plucked the wrong note, filling the tavern with a sharp twang. Again, Garnis’ taunts made his men laugh. The rest of the tavern, finally catching on to the drama unfolding before them, turned in their chairs to see what would happen.
Garnis looked around at his men, seeking encouragement in his name calling, laughing along with his soldiers. Then Garnis looked back at Cairn. The Belarnian officer looked into the stranger’s eyes, and he suddenly remembered him.
But it was too late.
“My name is Death,” Cairn promised him. Suddenly, the ebony handle of a dagger was protruding from Garnis’ throat. The officer’s eyes opened wide in shock. He had not seen the stranger pull the blade from his cloak or the swift flick of his wrist that sent it flying toward him faster than anyone could track.
Garnis was being strangled to death, the blade completely blocking his air passage, but he could not get anyone to help him. Villagers’ mouths dropped open in surprise, and soldiers looked on in drunken silence; no one seemed to understand what was happening. The soldiers shook their heads in disbelief, trying to shake off the effects of the ale and wondering what kind of man would have the audacity to murder a Black Guards officer.
Garnis tried to say something, but no word would ever escape his lips again. A small amount of blood welled-up, underneath the blade, and began to drip down his throat. Slowly, his eyes lost focus, and he blinked hard in a vain attempt to refocus on Cairn. His head began to wobble, and he reached out across the table to grab his killer. The officer failed and fell away from the table, his facing turning blue. The last thing he saw were the dirty boots of the villagers he had terrorized.
“My name is Death,” Cairn repeated in a low but determined voice. He deftly pulled a slender, two-handed sword out from the depths of his cloak and moved to take care of Garnis’ men. The remaining two soldiers at the table fell back with their throats cut before they could even get their weapons free of their scabbards.
Cairn’s movements were so quick and precise that the remaining soldiers hesitated before attacking. The four soldiers behind Cairn formed a tight wedge and prepared to hack at him with all of their weapons at once. He spun smoothly to one side, deflecting the blow of the lead soldier while returning a diagonal slash across the guard’s face. Cairn then moved to his left to dodge the downward swing of a wicked mace while swinging his own blade in a wide arc that sliced open the stomach of one of the other guards. He moved so quickly around the soldiers that all they saw was a blur of motion.
He took advantage of every available opening. As he turned back to his right to face the remaining soldiers, he saw that only two remained. One man lay crumpled on the floor at Cairn’s feet trying to keep his guts from bursting out through the large gash he had made. Another was dead, his face a bloody ruin.
Cairn cut down the other two men just as easily. They did not know how to work together, and he parried one man’s sword into the cross guard of the other soldier. He then used quick, jabbing strikes into the first man’s neck and then into the other man’s unprotected armpit. The two quickly fell, their life’s blood pumping out through punctured arteries.
Shocked at how easy it was for this stranger to kill his friends, the drunken guard at the front of the tavern just stared at him. There was a hint of confusion and despair reflected in his eyes.
Cairn did not hesitate, and he launched himself at the clumsy man who waved his axe wildly in front of him. Cairn swung his sword in a backhanded motion that easily deflected the attack. He landed lightly on the floor allowing his momentum to carry him forward; he tucked and then rolled right past the man. Before the Belarnian soldier could turn and face him, Cairn cut across the back of the man’s legs, severing his hamstring muscles and forcing him to his knees. Cairn quickly and efficiently jabbed his sword into the man’s back as the guard knelt on the floor in front of the villagers. The guard’s axe dropped from his hands as he clutched at the steel protruding from his chest.
Not wasting a second, Cairn jerked the sword free of the dead man and moved behind the stairwell as the villagers looked on in amazement. The two soldiers upstairs with the owner’s daughter, confused by the commotion in the main hall, came rushing down looking for signs of danger. They were pulling their clothes back on as they started to see the devastation below. Cairn jumped out from beneath them and thrust his sword across the steps in front of the down-rushing soldiers, letting their momentum cut their legs out from underneath them. The two guards lay crumpled on the floor, moaning and holding onto what remained of their lower legs.
Again, Cairn moved over to finish them off, jabbing his sword through their leather armor and into their hearts.
He scanned the tavern looking for any other threats before he walked back toward the center of the room. Seeing only shocked faces, he wearily lowered his guard. Then he walked over to Garnis to see if he was truly dead. Convinced that his quest was finally ended, he closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of relief.
“I will never forget,” Cairn promised her.
After only a brief moment, he walked back toward the front of the tavern. He paused near the door and looked around at the surprised faces of the villagers. His scarf had fallen away, and they could see the terrible scars that had ruined one side of his face, three parallel cuts that had not healed properly went from his right eye down to his chin. Cairn put the scarf back in place and then turned to the innkeeper. He nodded once at the old man, pulled the hood of his cloak back over his head, and opened the door to leave. Just as he was about to close the door behind him, Cairn thought he heard all of them let out a long-held breath.
He looked past his horse into the night, confused about what to do. For the first time in many years, he had no idea where to go. Cairn hesitated, reflecting on his past and struggling with the terrible memories. Then he finally guided his horse down the street away from the town. The snow quickly concealed him from the villagers that rushed out of the tavern to watch him disappear into the storm.
The wind still blew fiercely through the mountain valley, forcing him to huddle under an outcropping of rock only a few miles from Worndale. He found little wood that would catch fire, and he knew the best thing for him to do was to continue down the valley away from the village. Cairn was anxious to leave the mountains, but he was cold and exhausted. He looked at the fire trying to keep warm but felt a chill running through his entire body; it touched every part of his soul.
Cairn frowned. “It’s not the storm that makes me feel so cold,” he complained aloud.
But there was no turning back now, he thought.
“I am what I am,” he whispered.
He had finished his quest for revenge. The years of intense training and hunting had paid off. He had made good on the promise he set six years ago, and there was a certain sense
of accomplishment and relief in the fact that it was finally over. He could sleep now. After six long years, he would finally sleep and let the past go.
“It’s over now. It’s over. It’s over.” Cairn kept telling himself this as he ran his fingers lightly over the scars that covered the right side of his face. He stood and began pacing around the small fire, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to control his rising emotions.
“Do you still dream of me?” she asked him again. She asked him that a thousand times every day.
Unable to restrain his anger and pain any longer, he suddenly turned his face to heaven and shouted.
“Julia! Julia!”
It was the first time he had let his emotions run their course in six years, but it did not relieve him of his grief. He fell to his knees and gave in to the desperation that engulfed him.