Styx & Stones

  Styx & Stones

  -:Tales of the El Defensor:-

  Book One.

  A Novel.

  Copyright © 2016 by Adam Derbyshire

  First Published in July 2016

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form

  or by any means without the prior written permission

  of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form

  of binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition being imposed on the

  subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is

  purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1535290708

  ISBN-10: 1535290706

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to

  Nicola, Ryan and Owain.

  When I need Inspiration…

  You are mine.

  I got there in the end!

  Prologue

  Kerian Denaris was a haunted man, driven not by a noble cause or sense of justice, but by the fear of his own impending death. From the glint of steel and threat of violence in his hazel flecked eyes, to the scarred leather armour and battle-worn weapons about his person, any casual observer would swiftly realise it was folly to stand between this man and his goal: no matter how dark, twisted and selfish that goal could be. Kerian’s journey across miles of war-scorched land had been a rushed and anxious one but it was finally nearing its end.

  The knight pulled sharply on the reins of his stallion bringing its gallop towards Caerlyon Vale to a thundering halt. His horse snorting at the rough handling, pacing backwards and forwards in agitation as its master scanned the twisting path ahead with a military focus, looking for possible ambush sites or other dangers to impede his urgent path. The fog was thicker here in the vale, its chilling touch wrapping around the mounted knight as he eased his stallion forwards. Tendrils of ground mist coiled about the forelocks of his charger, making the horse step nervously at the unsolicited attention.

  “Steady, Saybier.” Kerian reached forwards, patting the neck of his steed reassuringly. “I think it would be better if I walk from here.” He dismounted carefully onto the slick path below. The fog swirled about his scuffed leather boots obscuring the surface of the trail, but the knight never hesitated, reaching out to take Saybier’s reins with one gloved hand even as his other rested lightly upon the pommel of his sword. The last time he had left this place he had sworn never to return: now necessity forced him to do so. With a throat dry and a frame barely suppressing the shiver running down his spine, he took a deep breath and stepped further into the gloom. Castle Caerlyon waited below, its evil presence permeating the air, rekindling thoughts of dark secrets and stirring long buried emotions.

  Kerian did not want to follow this path, yet he knew, despite his deep-seated reservations, that the dark magic controlling his future would only be broken following the inevitable confrontation awaiting him.

  Gnarled roots, half buried and obscured beneath the slick mud of the trail made the descent a perilous one, loops and snarls threatening to trip the unwary and send them falling through the mists to their doom. Brittle-fingered twigs clawed out from the murk to snare Kerian’s cloak and catch in his hair making his feelings of apprehension rise in tandem with the agitation displayed by the normally taciturn charger at his back. Trying to seek solace in the confines of his cloak was equally futile, the woollen material already saturated from the long night’s travel and enveloping mists. The pathway began to level out and the sentinel trees withdrew from the trail in mock deference as his path dwindled to an end.

  Kerian tensed at an alien sound ahead, a cackling echo, distorted by the mists but tinged with an underlying cry of the insane. The sound amplified as he advanced, splintering from its initial origin into shards of sound that appeared to come from more than one source, mocking the knight and raising his sense of hopelessness.

  Something was wrong here… horribly wrong. Was he too late? Were the rumours from the roadside true?

  Several shapes emerged from the swirling mist. The cackling sounds came from these sinister creatures but they were not interested in the approaching horse and rider, only navigating the shrouded ground, occasionally stopping to jab at unseen objects beneath the veil of mist.

  He recognised the creatures instantly. They were the pets of his queen, her eyes and ears to the outside world. However, their appearance outside the castle raised more unanswered questions, making the knight curse the weather and his inability to see things clearly. This was insane, coming back here without scouting the area first. What had he been thinking? These creatures were supposed to be caged, and should never have been loose unless they were out scouting for their mistress. What was going on?

  One of the creatures caught his eye, precariously balanced upon the cross hilt of an abandoned sword, the tarnished blade swaying gently under the weight of the scavenger. It turned to regard Kerian with baleful black eyes before spreading skeletal wings to glide down and join the fevered pecking of its colleagues.

  Kerian’s eyes narrowed in grim distaste as he realised that further down the now vacant blade, there gripped the unmistakeable remains of a desiccated hand, contorted in the violence of death. Slithers of flesh still dangled from the partly stripped bony fingers, and even as he looked, another black shape hopped over to feast on the remains.

  Taking another tentative step Kerian became aware of a cool breeze that suddenly sprang to being, momentarily shredding the mist, peeling back the layers of secrecy to reveal a bloody morass underneath. Corpses lay everywhere, unseeing eyes staring blankly from sockets that oozed congealing blood and enhanced grimacing death masks. Dismembered limbs lay alongside abandoned tools of war, dropped in terror from nerve-severed hands. Swords and spears lanced the sides of fleeing soldiers, their unyielding steel sheathed in the bodies they had slain. The smell of copper was overpowering, with grasses stained scarlet and pools drying with a crimson crust.

  One shuffling scavenger pecked its way across the grass towards the knight, showing no signs of wariness, just a single-minded goal to find the freshest carrion upon which to feast. Kerian’s boot lashed out in disgust, catching it unawares and snapping its light bone structure like kindling. At the explosive sound all the other pecking and cackling stopped, feasting forgotten, replaced by a sense of self-preservation as the area exploded into collective flight, skeletal wings scything through the mist, beaks filled with whatever moist prize they could hastily gather.

  Kerian warily continued to skirt the battlefield, noting the armour and uniforms adorning the bodies at his feet. The majority of the dead wore colours that matched those he used to wear. His pulse quickened as he recollected the tales of uprising whispered from gaunt refugees passed along his way. The rebellion against the Caerlyon Knights and his dark queen was much more than half-suppressed rumours, his lover’s power had clearly slipped away.

  Picking his way through the appalling carnage, he approached another well-traversed path that lead up and away from the battlefield. The littered ground held grimmer corpses, twisted in death and more numerous in number, forcing him to step ever more carefully as he tackled the increased hardship of the trail. Castle Caerlyon loomed darkly from the fog, its parapets and gargoyles towering high with overhanging battlements emphasising the ominous tyranny its owner once held over the surrounding lands.

  From his poor vantage point, Kerian could see flames flickering from untended fires, the light dancing with shadows at every arrow slit and murder-hole. He hurried on, hunched inside the folds of his cloak, doubt assailing him at each step. He was too late; he should have started back days ago… if only he had not been so proud!

  The shadowy ramparts seemed to tower even higher as he ascended the path, the walls blackened with pitch and oil, peppered with catapult shot and scorched with magical flame. Bodies hung from cages stripped of flesh, bony digits hanging free, stretching down to him pleading for release, whilst other, fresher corpses hung as a macabre warning, their necks stretched with the hemp every traitor to the crown earned. His queen had ruled harshly during her years here, and even now, after all the fighting, fear of retribution meant her warnings to others remained on display.

  The drawbridge hung open, its appearance anything but inviting, the thick lengths of weather-seasoned wood lying smashed and splintered from the invading force that had fought to bring the drawbridge down and gain entry. Any thought of crossing on horseback was a foolhardy option to consider, leaving Kerian no choice but to reluctantly tether Saybier to one of the thick drawbridge chains or risk the weakened wood crumbling under their combined weight.

  “Wait here,” he whispered, sharing a nervous smile as he stroked the stallion’s nose reassuringly. “I’ll be back before you know it.” With one last tug to secure the reins, he turned towards the entryway, offering a silent prayer to any gods that his last words would prove to be prophetic ones. The moat churned and bubbled below, as if some unseen force lurked beneath the surface maliciously digesting the last foolish person who had dared to cross this ill-fated evening.

  Stepping gingerly from slat to slat, he winced at every tortured groan and agonising creak his armoured weight drew from the ruined timbers beneath him. Kerian suddenly felt uncomfortably warm, beads of sweat dotting his bro
w as he struggled to maintain his balance and reach the far side of the drawbridge.

  After several harrowing moments, his feet touched unyielding stone and he gasped in relief, stealing a moment’s pause to gather his breath. His heart pounded in his ears as he took one last glance back at the shadowy figure of Saybier snorting nervously amidst the swirling fog. He then turned and passed under the bared teeth of the double iron portcullis and into the black throat of the castle beyond.

  The bodies of more Caerlyon knights lay around him, slumped against the castle walls, or strewn across the cobblestones like discarded marionettes, lifeless and limp, their strings cut, and no one left to play with them and bring them back to life. Their presence added further to his paranoid thoughts. Someone had stormed the castle, the walls and gates clearly breached. He was definitely too late.

  A forgotten torch spluttered into life, spiralling acrid smoke to the ceiling above. The meagre illumination helped steer the knight deeper into the castle’s structure, down twisted stone passageways long committed to memory, his rising panic ignoring the dark haired rats and other less identifiable creatures that lurked and skittered in the shadows around him.

  He arrived at the heavyset doors of the throne room, gargantuan in structure and matching the sheer scale of the outside walls in making anyone entering feel small and insignificant. What remained hung forlornly from warped and buckled hinges; the smooth wood blasted with arcane fire, ragged holes still glowing from the fading residual magic that had destroyed them. The throne room was over fifty feet square in size; the floor littered with yet more corpses. Firelight danced across stone where ruined tapestries transformed into lifeless black ash, cooling embers kissed dangling cobwebs and arcing streaks of scarlet showed where knights had met their end.

  He discarded his torch, placing it into a nearby sconce on the wall, easily retrieved if a fast getaway was required.

  ‘If I even get that far…’ his mind taunted.

  Kerian entered cautiously, the crackling of the fire serving to mask his footfalls as he moved to the right, slowly circumnavigating the room, the wall firmly at his back.

  This was all so wrong! The vibrant life of the royal court was gone, wiped away in these moments of brutal reality. Memories from a lifetime ago flickered through his mind. A sensual moment in a now defaced alcove; a furtive glance for the great table, where a stolen kiss and an erotic tryst had been taken passionately, breathlessly, with no thought that the exotic beauty writhing beneath him would be his ultimate downfall. Where was the table anyway? It should have been present, in the centre of the room.

  Across the floor, the raised dais and throne from which she had ruled was ablaze with flame. In his imagination, it was still whole, his queen achingly magnificent, her face one of hatred and spite as he had crashed to his knees before her in chains, beaten and bloodied for his betrayal. It was there that she had given him her parting gift for his lack of devotion and sealed his fate with her dark powers.

  All around lay yet more cadavers, some missing limbs, others appearing to have met their ends in rows, plainly killed on their knees and left where they had fallen, all looking towards the pyre where their queen once ruled.

  Kerian flexed his hand, affirming the grip he had on his sword. As he took in the grisly scene, he realised that could have been his fate if he not taken the painful choices he had. His thoughts seethed murkily as he began to understand what had happened here. He too would have fought this bravely, never questioned, never doubted and been willing to offer the extreme sacrifice of giving his life in her defence. He shamefully realised that despite all the horror and pain, she still meant that much to him in the darkest recesses of his mind.

  He took a breath determined to crush out this alien emotion. His being here would have changed nothing. What use would another dead commander have been? He took in the faces of the men around him, comrades he had once shared fireside tales with and sparred on the practice fields. Now all they did was stare accusingly with lifeless eyes.

  Yet one question remained. If they had all died here to protect his queen… where was her body? Why did her corpse not lie amongst them?

  Kerian slowly unsheathed his sword, a pale violet nimbus crackling up the awakened blade and dancing across the runes etched across its surface. He suddenly felt chill, the hairs on his arms rising, as if exposed to a static charge near a lightning storm. His sixth sense warned him there was unseen danger observing him from the shadows.

  He choked back his feelings of insecurity and tightened the grip on his sword, taking his time to scan the room, putting the fire behind him so he could take in the charred tapestries, shattered furniture and the painted frescos on the ceiling. Viewing the room in this way, even his own shadow appeared to dance about the ruins in manic glee.

  Satisfied no threat remained behind him he walked around the dais, skirting the fire and it was then, in the periphery of his vision that he saw her. Initially he refused to believe the grisly scene that his eyes beheld, blinking several times to clear his tear-blurred vision. He was determined to blame this on the wall of heat he approached, rather than the feelings he knew he still held for the figure before him, yet even as clarity confirmed his deepest fears and realised the truth of what he beheld, a deeper anguish realised his hopes and dreams had crumbled into bitter ashes of despair.

  His queen still sat upon her throne, holding empty court with her returned suitor of one. However, her throne now stood in the centre of the blazing pyre. Smoking eye sockets stared out from within a blackened skull of peeling skin and exposed ivory bone. Dribbles of molten gold traced down the sides of her grisly visage, where the remains of her crown melted upon her brow. Thick chains restrained her arms at her sides, glowing in the heat generated from the remains of the great table used to feed the blaze at her feet. Sentenced with fire for her sorcerous crimes, her throne became the makeshift stake on which she burnt.

  Kerian felt his knees weaken at the sight and sank slowly to the floor. The rebellion against the queen had succeeded. Celebrations would be taking place across the land even as he spoke. Bells would ring from church steeples, people would cheer and cry as the throne at Catterick would now have a new King in waiting. The tyranny and terror of his queen removed forever, swapped for a newer threat as advisors sought to bend the favourable ear of a child not yet able to choose the colour of his clothes, let alone rule a land. Nothing ever changed, life moved on.

  However, not for this knight…

  He heard the drawn out scream long before he realised it was his own. The acrid air stilled as all of his frustration, terror and overwhelming despair finally gave voice. He bowed his head. This could not be happening, not now, not after he had tried so hard to return.

  “Why?” he screamed his frustration. “I have your token… his hand reached for a worn leather pouch at his side. “I am here as you demanded… you have to free me from this damned curse!” Tears of frustration tracked down his face as his desperation aired. “You can’t be dead… You just can’t be.”

  Kerian struggled to control his breathing, he needed to bottle up the emotions inside him and become a professional soldier once more. He had to get a grip on himself and think. What was he going to do now? Her message had been clear. If he wanted to be free of his curse, he needed to return and present her with her token. The very thought of it at the time had been risible.

  Why would he return to this cruel sorceress and her merciless army when he had just escaped from her dungeons and deserted? The decorated walls to the castle were clear as to the penalty for that! Yet as the curse had taken hold over the weeks following his escape, and panic had risen at the reflection greeting him every morning, common sense had evaporated. It was clear she had let him escape; clear she wanted him to suffer for doubting her powers. She had wanted him to crawl back to her, begging, grovelling to be free… The logical part of his mind realised he would have faced a long lingering death at her hands if she had still been alive. Unfortunately, with this current situation he was facing the same end. It was just going to be a little quicker this way.