Crown of Dust: The Gloaming, #1

By D.G. MacRath

Treachery. Betrayal. Death. Peace takes a brutal toll on the world.

 

A generation after a savage civil war, Mata rules as Prince Regent. But the festering wounds of the past remain. The Realm's ancient religion wanes. A new creed rises. Treacherous lords lurk in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

 

The Realm's uneasy peace shatters when a foolish young noble rides against Mata in open rebellion. The wearied ruler must once more rouse his old body to defend his family, his people, and his right to rule. But in the red mist of battle, Mata's distinction between justice and evil blurs.

 

If he can push back the usurper, Mata will usher in a new era of peace. But if he fails, he will condemn his people to more vicious bloodshed.

 

• ☆☆☆☆☆ "Violent and harsh, this is the story of a good man's descent into tyranny."
• ☆☆☆☆☆ "From bucolic forests to weathered castles, MacRath depicts his scenery in such detail that it will place you in the damp moss between the cities of the realm or amongst a regiment defending their marquess."
• ☆☆☆☆☆ "MacRath paints such vivid pictures with his narrative that you'd swear you can smell the woodsmoke and hear the clang of armour."

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. MacRath
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393388593

Book preview

D.G. MacRath

Crown of Dust

Treachery. Betrayal. Death. Peace takes a brutal toll on the world.

Copyright © 2020 by D.G. MacRath

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

D.G. MacRath asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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For LAURA

Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Henry IV, Part II

Acknowledgement

This book would not exist without the hard work and support of dozens of people. In particular, early-stage readers Fiona, Matthew, and Curious Eggplant, my editor, Jo Lavender, and outstanding artists Guillaume Tronel, Chaim Holtjer, and Laura Hurst.

I

The moon had died long ago and sunk behind the mountains to the north. Darkness smothered the landscape it left behind, cold, damp, and oppressive. In the distance ran a fetid, sluggish burn, with shallow waters. On the bank, a string of campfires flickered, fighting for life in the wet air.

Get me Edward, said Mata, gazing down at the dancing lights from the crest of a low hill. Someone to his right whistled and whispered. Then all was still once more.

The wind picked up, little more than a breeze, but cold enough to needle any sliver of exposed flesh. Mata dropped to his haunches, resting his back against an oak tree. He drew his waxed greatcoat tight over his plate mail, but the needles still found him. This was a night for a warm bed, not a cold field.

His ears pricked as feet padded across the leaf-strewn floor, growing louder with each step, until they stopped behind him.

Prince Regent, whispered the shadow. I was fetching the reports, as you asked.

It’s them?

We believe so, but no one could get close enough to see an emblem.

It’s them, said Mata, rubbing life back into his cold legs. There are few who would camp out here. Get the men ready, Edward.

Please, sir. We need more time. We’ve mapped their pickets, but the land before them is still a mystery. They could have laid stakes or dug trenches. Give me time and I will find you answers.

Enough, said Mata, rising and turning to face Edward. He was a large man, a full head taller than his companion. We have watched them for long enough. Get the men ready.

Yes, sir, Edward said, stepping backwards. He wore a frown, though the ridges of his furrowed brow were barely visible in the gloom. He retreated, and after a few steps, only the fading crinkle of leaves betrayed his presence.

Mata stared back into the gloom, watching the campfires flicker, each one an island of warmth. He rubbed his gloved hands, begging the blood back to his bone-white fingertips underneath. The wind crept down his neck and he shivered in the unforgiving, unrelenting cold. Around him, trees bent and swayed, groaning softly. A miserable night, he thought, and one about to become even worse.

Edward returned, guiding two horses through the dense woodland, pausing before the crest of the hill. He handed the reins of a large pewter destrier to Mata, who stepped onto a stirrup and up into his saddle with a grunt. Edward, meanwhile, slid up and onto his, nudging the mare backwards until she stood at Mata’s right flank.

The edge of the forest grew busy, a line of heavy horses blowing their wet breath into the night. On their backs rode men in plate mail, the normally burnished metals painted a dark blue.

Mata turned and nodded into the blackness to his right.

Somewhere, someone blew into his hands, releasing an owl’s call into the trees. Underfoot, vermin bolted for their burrows, casting furtive looks skyward, searching for keen eyes and sharp talons.

Then, in unison, two thousand horses stepped forward out of the treeline and surged onto the gentle downward slope. Their hooves were all but silent on the mossy grass. They seemed to glide, an avalanche of flesh cascading towards the fires below. Only the rattle of steel suggested movement.

When the ground levelled out, the owl call came again. Mata rose in his saddle and kicked his stallion into a trot. It pulled at the reins in his hands, unwilling to run into the darkness. Mata kicked harder, driving the beast onward. To his sides, he heard the subtle clicks of metal joints, the scrape of steel as heavy sabres slid from their sheaths.

The fires grew brighter, barely two hundred yards away. They were no longer flickers of light. Now, Mata could see individual flames licking at metal pots and skewered animals. Against the pale glow, he saw squat silhouettes. The men hunched near the fires, trying to capture their heat before it escaped into the cold night.

Closer now, he could see low-slung tents bordering the camp. Inside them, Mata knew, there would be pickets, men posted to stare into the darkness and listen to silence. On a bitterly cold night such as tonight, he hoped they would have retreated somewhere warmer.

Fifty yards from the outermost tents, the owl called once more. Along the line, men kicked their horses into a canter. Their cavalry sabres rose from their sides so their wicked tips pointed towards the camp. Mata felt his destrier surge beneath him. The cold air bit his face and shocked his lungs. He leaned forwards, gripping the reins with one hand. He felt the familiar weight of the blade in his other hand. Its carefully honed cutting edge flashed in the firelight as they began the charge.

The quiet was gone. The horses pounded the ground, their hooves beating a manic rhythm, driving the wall of man and beast forward. Mata could hear nothing but the roar of their hooves, the champing and snorting of their breath. He clenched his jaw and set his mind on the encampment before him.

Ahead of him, a dozen paces away, a face emerged from the dark. He was young, his blond hair matted and dirty, his eyes wide with terror. Before he could react, Mata was upon him, the cold steel of his sabre cleaving through flesh and ricocheting off bone.

* * *

The day was half gone when the weak winter sun finally crawled over the eastern hills, bathing the landscape in much-wanted warmth. Its touch burned the chill from the tips of leaves and drove the dew from the grass, revealing the pools of dark red blood underneath.

Away towards the flat clearing in front of the hill, two dozen men dug trenches in the mossy ground, wincing when their dull picks struck stone. Another party dragged bodies into the openings or, where there were none yet ready, into piles. Even in the cool air, the smell was putrid, a cloud of rot and bile. The men worked without breaks or conversation. Their only concessions to their gruesome task were the rags tied around their mouths and noses.

As they toiled, they laid petals on the eyes of dead men. The flowers were payment for the Graves, the spirits who collected souls.

The dead men were Lathas and followed a pantheon of new gods. Their lives were full of gifts and bribes. They slaughtered animals for Cerun, their goddess of life, when their wives fell pregnant. They shaved steel from their swords to appease Lugh, their god of war. With the life faded from their eyes, they relied on other men to pay Ara, their goddess of death, and her army of Graves. Gold and steel wouldn’t help where they were going, but a bright snippet of life laid on their eyes might buy them quicker passage.

Mata, his face muddied and his arms stained with blood, hauled a lifeless body to the edge of the burn. The lad’s face was white, his features sharp and angular, as if carved from marble. He was young. He still had the weak muscles of childhood, but they were strung along the long limbs of adolescence.

Mata reached into the burn and splashed a handful of water onto the boy’s face, washing off the worst of the dirt that caked his eyes and temple. They would wash his body later, but this would have to do in the meantime. He hefted the corpse into his arms and began a slow ascent of the hill, atop which waited a wide cart.

You recognise the lad? Mata asked the doctor, who leant on the cart’s packhorse.

Yes, Regent, he replied. A Lennox, I believe, though I was not aware the Duke of Howes had sent us any men.

He didn’t. The lad’s barely a child.

Mata laid the body on the cart, beside four others, and unfurled the stained white cloth to cover them all. The priests always talked about peaceful passings during funeral rites, rejoicing that souls had escaped back to God. But they had rarely seen anyone die. They hadn’t seen men cry as their bowels spilt and their blood congealed to a sickening black. They didn’t know.

Below them, the remnants of Mata’s house guard, his elite standing cavalry, laboured at digging, filling, and covering graves. He had retained a fraction of his men, releasing the rest back to their families. No unnecessary soul ought to endure this.

You asked your men to bury them with Latha rights, Regent? asked the doctor.

Aye, replied Mata.

You are a better man than they.

Mata hummed, mulling over the doctor’s words. A good man, he said. Perhaps, doctor. But good men don’t often butcher men as they sleep.

The robed man shifted nervously, busying himself with his tools and vials. Meanwhile, a figure broke off from the labouring party. He looked older than the rest, his deep eyes ringed with weather-beaten wrinkles. He walked with a limp, though it seemed more an annoyance than a hindrance. While others had stripped to undershirts, he still wore his blackened plate and sword. He ascended the hill slowly.

Sir, he said, nodding towards the doctor. Will you excuse us?

The doctor bent at the waist in a polite bow and left, wandering down to the long cuts in the ground where dead men lay.

It’s a mess, Benneit, said Mata, leaning back onto the cart’s base.

Aye, it is, Benneit replied. He scratched the packhorse’s ears and lifted some loose grains to its mouth. But someone had to do it, Mata. They signed their warrant the moment they marched out of Mir.

Mata sighed and nodded. Far below, there were only a handful of bodies left to bury. Most of the labourers had drifted away, either tending to their horses or collecting their equipment.

Did we lose many souls? asked Benneit, peering into the cart.

A hundred and ten at the last count. He paused, thinking. No, more. A lad from Kirklee died during the night. I sat with him, Benneit. He passed easily, for what little consolation it gives.

Thank you, Mata. It makes it easier knowing someone was there with him. Benneit looked out down the hill to the bloodstained soil and mass grave. How many of these poor beasts died alone?

There were fewer than we thought, Mata said, nudging the subject to something more palatable. Eight hundred, maybe. Half knew which end of their sword to hold. God, Benneit, what was this?

Benneit lifted his heavy shoulders in a shrug. His old joints creaked as he moved.

We are godforsaken butchers, Mata said.

Aye, we are.

Benneit tugged a wineskin from his belt and drank a mouthful. The drink was foul, but it reminded him of the desolate northern hills of Kirklee from where he hailed. He offered the skin to Mata, who drank greedily.

Below, Mata’s men laid the last men into the grave, placing flowers on their eyes before dropping soil on top.

Why do they humour them? Benneit asked, nodding down towards the mass grave. Why do they waste time foraging for flowers?

They do so at my instruction. If it makes their suffering easier, I will cut whole fields of poppies to lay on their eyes.

They wouldn’t do the same. They would drop you in a hole and forget about you.

Perhaps, said Mata. The thought reminded him of the Lennox boy, a Latha too. Mata plucked two stray daisies from the ground, drew back the sheet, and laid the happy flowers on the child’s eyes.

Damn their beliefs, Benneit muttered, rubbing the sweat and dirt from his face. The rantings of a madman.

Mata ignored him and stamped his feet, beating out the cold. Each stamp sank into the mossy floor, absorbing the force and the noise. It was quiet and peaceful. For a moment, he forgot the slaughter that lay before him.

Somewhere in the distance, a horn shattered the silence. Its shrill howl cut through the mists. Benneit’s hand fell to his sword hilt as he scanned the landscape. Mata jolted to alertness, his muscles taut.

There, Benneit said, pointing towards the southern horizon, where a dirt road followed the twists and turns of the burn. Half a mile from the camp, two horses kicked their way towards the remaining gravediggers, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Mata led the way down the hill, walking a wide circle around the graves to the huddle of men near their horses. He had seen too many dead men for the day. As they passed, the cavalrymen dipped their heads in small bows. Mata brushed them away.

It’s Boy Fraser, shouted someone up ahead. They found him hiding in a bothy. He threw down his sword when they kicked open the door.

Goddamn fool, Mata spat, kneading his temples. He had searched the bodies in the half-light before morning, searching for the rebellion’s instigator. Even through the long lacerations and caved-in skulls, he had known the Duke of Mir, Boy Fraser, hadn’t been among them. His beady eyes were absent from the piles of death.

Have them pitch a tent and double the pickets, Mata instructed. If this fool slipped through, others will have too.

An hour later, Mata pushed through the heavy canvas flaps and into the darkness. The tent was bare, a canvas sheet pulled taut over two poles. Mata’s house guards had placed a table in the centre with two chairs. In one sat Boy Fraser, bloodied and bruised, his armour long discarded, his undershirt caked in mud and torn along the seams. His hands were bound to the chair’s uprights, behind his back. His eyes gleamed in the dark.

The two guards who flanked the prisoner left, dispatched by Mata’s wave. The tent was cool and quiet. The wind had died and the fabric walls and roof hung still. All Mata could hear was Boy Fraser’s ragged breath. Each inhale cracked as he sucked air through pools of blood. Occasionally, he coughed – deep hacking splutters to dislodge coagulated masses.

You are a sorry state, lad, said Mata, drawing out the free chair. His joints ached and clicked as he sat. The body of an old man. He unclasped his cloak and dropped it onto the table. The bronze crest clattered as it fell. It bore Mata’s crest, an iron shield laid horizontally to protect those who sheltered beneath.

Did any survive? Fraser asked, his head slumped forward, his eyes fixed on the muddied ground by his feet.

No, said Mata, turning the crest. Save a few, like you, who fled into the field.

They lapsed into silence. In the half-light and the comfort of a chair, exhaustion fell upon Mata. His limbs felt weary and his breathing laboured. His hunt had been fierce, the pursuit brutal. He wanted this to be over.

Your lads fought well, Mata said, leaning his elbows on the table. It groaned under his weight.

It was slaughter, muttered Fraser.

Aye, lad, it was. Mata nodded. But you were alone against the Realm; a fool’s errand.

Alone? His voice cracked and he coughed again at the ball of blood and phlegm in his throat. If cowards had courage, I would not have been.

Mata studied his face. He had known the lad’s father, an honest man. He had opposed Mata on most things, but always with candour and integrity. The games of politics were not for him. He had died a handful of years ago, snatched away by a fever. Mata had stood at his funeral. He’d even laid a flower on the man’s corpse, though he believed none of it. Mata would have seen the body cremated as the Proest priests dictated. Boy Fraser was a shadow of his father.

You led hundreds of men to their death, and yet you talk of courage? said Mata. He could feel anger swelling in his chest. You are a fool, little more.

More will come, spat Boy Fraser. He raised his head and stared at Mata. His bloodied eyes bored into Mata’s, as though interrogating his soul. He leant forward, straining against his bonds.

The fields are wide and our picks sharp. Mata bristled, stilling his anger. There is sufficient space for more serpents.

You will never lead us, said Boy Fraser, laughing cruelly. You are a heathen in this Realm. More will come.

Enough! cried Mata, slamming his hands onto the edge of the table and ripping it forward into Boy Fraser’s chest. The prisoner erupted in a fit of coughing as bloody bile bubbled at his mouth. That is enough. These men are dead because of you. You will not lay blame at my feet.

Boy Fraser spat onto the mossy floor, wincing in pain as his ribs contracted. A ferrous stench filled the tent, stinging Mata’s nose and throat. Mata rubbed at his face, quieting the nausea in his belly.

More will come, mumbled Fraser, small tears welling in the corner of his eyes, and then spilling over his cheeks. He looked like a child at that moment, like one of Mata’s own sons, who charged about brandishing dulled blades, reliving the great wars of the past. The thought unsettled him.

You are to die. Mata fastened his hands together and clenched them until his knuckles whitened.

Boy Fraser said nothing but sobbed softly as tears rolled down his cheeks and onto his dirtied undershirt. Mata rose and pushed back the canvas door, wincing at the winter sun that hung low in the sky.

He’s ready, Mata told Peadar, the captain of his house guard, who waited by the door. Find a box and a heavy blade.

Peadar dispatched one of his men to fetch the instruments of execution and two more to retrieve Boy Fraser.

Mata coughed, loosening the ball in his throat. He leaned his head backwards, basking in the sun, allowing its weak rays to warm his face. From behind him, he heard scuffling feet and the creak of wood as they released Boy Fraser from his bonds.

The Duke of Mir emerged from the tent, strung between the two guards. Though he wore a disdainful expression, he had stopped crying, and he was placid and sunk to his knees without objection. His guards lowered his torso forward until his neck rested on the rough-hewn wooden frame. Mata stooped