The Way of Pain Read online

  Contents

  The Way of Pain

  Front Matter

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Author's Note

  Also by Gregory Mattix

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE WAY OF PAIN

  SCIONS OF NEXUS

  BOOK 2

  GREGORY MATTIX

  The Way of Pain

  Copyright © 2018 by Gregory Mattix

  Cover art by dleoblack

  Map by Gregory Mattix

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Elyas rode hard through the dark of night, the rush of air bitter cold against his skin as his mount moved at a steady gallop. The surrounding land was dark beneath a black moon, but the way remained clear of foes. He traversed grassy rolling fields, the ground soft from recent rains and muffling his horse’s hooves. His gut was clenched tight with fear, for not only had his unit suffered a devastating loss that night from treachery, but the entire city of Ammon Nor had fallen to the enemy. He hadn’t witnessed the city’s fall firsthand, yet the pounding of thousands of feet as Nebaran soldiers poured out of the city to fall upon the demoralized and already decimated garrison camp left no doubt. His comrades and the citizens of Ammon Nor desperately needed the might of the king’s army to march in and crush the invaders before they could fully secure their position.

  When he wasn’t worrying about the battle behind him, he thought of Taren. He’d last seen his cousin the day prior and fervently hoped he’d been able to escape the city before it fell.

  At first, when Elyas heard the ring of steel on steel and screams of the dying, he thought his exhaustion and fearful imagination were causing him to relive the desperate fighting he’d left some miles back. But then he crested a low rise and was shocked to find a scene eerily similar to the one he’d left behind at Ammon Nor. A battle was raging, the fighting obscured by the same unnatural fog that had allowed assassins to fall upon his unsuspecting garrison. The entire Ketanian army’s encampment was now under assault.

  To the northern side of the battle, the fog appeared to be weakening, shredding apart and dissipating. Ranks of armored men were regrouping, having formed a solid cordon to protect the royal pavilion. Perhaps the king had mages driving away the dreadful mist, yet if so, they were only partially successful, for the southern portion of the camp was thickly blanketed. Shadowy figures moved within, fighting and dying. Orange glows of firelight blazed like will o’ wisps within the fog.

  Elyas’s heart sank at the sight. I must deliver this missive, yet I fear no aid will be forthcoming. It is all they can do to defend themselves from slaughter.

  And a slaughter it was—butchered men had fallen by the scores that he could see, and he didn’t doubt there were many hundreds or thousands more that he couldn’t, concealed by mist and darkness amid the chaotic frenzy of fighting. Save for the line of steel around the king and his officers, the Nebarans were efficiently cutting through the ragged blocks of Ketanian defenders, harrying and scattering the soldiers.

  A sudden burst of fire or spark of lightning in the dark indicated mages among the army’s ranks, but they looked to be few in number and were met with answering exchanges of offensive magic. Ketanian commanders were organizing their men for a consolidated push, but Elyas didn’t know if that would be enough. Depending on how great the Nebaran numbers were, the king’s army might be forced to retreat, but he hoped they would be able to regroup later and push back the invaders. Yet if they faced only a small force of assassins, such as at Ammon Nor, then perhaps they could still defeat the attackers.

  He had slowed his winded horse while observing the fighting, letting the poor animal rest a few precious moments. He surveyed the battlefield, at least as much as was visible and not shrouded in fog, seeking a safe path to try to skirt the combat and deliver his missive to the officers.

  That was when he first saw the demoness.

  His breath caught in his chest when he laid eyes upon her. She was quite tall, and her flaring pitch-colored wings seemed to further heighten her stature. Ebon armor fit her like a second skin. She formed the tip of the enemy’s spear, laying about herself with a wicked longsword sparking with infernal energy, carving a swath of destruction through the ragged clumps of Ketanian defenders. Men turned and fled before her as though she were Shaol himself come to visit his destruction upon them. He realized the whispered rumors he’d heard at the garrison had been true. The Nebarans had fiends of the Abyss among their ranks, and they were being used to devastating effect.

  Elyas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fiend’s terrible majesty. The few men with the stones to stand before her were swiftly cut down. Fearful though she was in battle, she also had a wicked allure, equally beguiling and terrifying.

  With some difficulty, he regathered his wits, grasping the pommel of his sword so hard it dug painfully into the palm of his hand. Focus, fool! Complete the task at hand.

  He turned his attention back to the rear of the muddled army. Colonel Krige and the garrison were relying on him to deliver the missive. Regardless of the current situation, he still had his duty to perform.

  Elyas spurred the tired horse back to a reluctant canter, circling to the northwest to try to skirt past the fighting. A blast of cold wind chilled his face as he hunched low over the horse’s neck. His hands were numb on the reins, and he fumbled to draw his father’s old longsword to fend off any assailants.

  Cries and shouts rang out from nearby as faceless figures struggled in the nearby darkness, tendrils of mist curling around them and silhouetted occasionally by the glow of embers in campfires burned low. A shadow lunged from the dark toward Elyas, a hand reaching for his horse’s reins. He struck out reflexively with his blade and hacked t
he hand free of its wrist. A shrill cry was lost behind him as his flagging steed gamely plunged onward.

  A quarrel whistled past Elyas’s head. Shouts rose up, then the shadows came to life as a trio of Nebarans rushed him, swords and axes in hand. They were unarmored, dressed in black clothes, their skin smeared dark with soot. Even their steel was blackened to cut any reflection. Elyas kicked out, striking one attacker’s shoulder and knocking him down. Another swung a sword, but his blade was quicker, laying open the soldier’s throat. He looked for the axeman but couldn’t see him.

  Movement flashed in his peripheral vision to his left. Before he could react, the blade of a battle-axe cleaved into his horse’s foreleg. The animal collapsed, falling forward with a pained scream, and Elyas was briefly weightless. His stomach lurched, seeming to cram into his throat. The ground spun toward his face, and he tried to tuck his head down and hoped to Anhur he wouldn’t break his neck.

  The cold ground slammed his mailed back like a hammer blow, blasting the breath from his lungs. His helm came loose when his head impacted the ground. He lay there stunned, light and shadows swirling around him in the darkness. Somewhere, his horse was screaming in pain. Or it might have been a person. He didn’t know.

  A dark form loomed over him, a brute of a man, bloodied axe in hand. A soot-stained face leered down at Elyas, teeth bared. The killer languidly raised the axe overhead, eyes locked on Elyas’s. He tried to raise his sword in defense, but his hand was empty. The sword was gone. All he could see was his killer standing over him, axe poised to drop and split his head open.

  With a sudden thwack, an arrow sprouted in the axeman’s chest. His eyes went wide, almost comically, jaw jutting out as he growled and glared around in search of the archer who had wounded him. A moment later, another arrow appeared a handbreadth to the left of the first. The man staggered back.

  Armor-clad men appeared in Elyas’s view, shouting, their swords plunging into the Nebaran axeman’s body. He growled a curse, managing to bury his axe in one of the Ketanians’ helms before he was brought down beneath their stabbing blades.

  “Are you all right, friend?” A soldier peered down at Elyas, face spattered with blood. He was about ten or fifteen years older than Elyas, clearly a veteran, and wore a blue-and-white surcoat with a red falcon on it.

  “Aye… the wind… knocked out of me is all… I think.” He tried to get up, but his back ached, and his legs were wobbly.

  The man clasped his wrist and hauled him to his feet. Elyas tottered a moment and regained his balance.

  “Are reinforcements en route from Ammon Nor?” an archer asked, a dark-haired woman with a recurve bow. “We saw you riding like a madman, Nebaran scum swarming like wasps over a smashed nest to bring you down.”

  Elyas shook his head, and the others visibly deflated at the news. “Our situation is no better—worse, even. I must deliver this missive… to the king. Or Lord Lanthas.” He was relieved to find the satchel still strapped to his chest.

  “Come on,” the first soldier said. “We’ve reestablished a foothold for the moment. We’ll escort you there to deliver your message—then perhaps a cup of mulled wine.”

  “Aye. That would be nice.” Elyas looked around and was relieved to find his sword a few paces away. He returned it to his scabbard.

  The dark-haired archer knelt by Elyas’s maimed horse and plunged a dagger into the animal’s neck, putting it out of its misery. She muttered a few words, stroking the horse’s muzzle before rising again, her face hard.

  A score or so of friendly soldiers still fought on nearby, sending the Nebarans retreating with arrows and swords. Elyas craned his neck, searching for the demoness leading the enemy. He saw her then, fearlessly standing perhaps fifty paces away among her troops, who were falling back in the face of the solidifying resistance as the tide finally shifted. The much greater numbers of Ketanian troops were beginning to advance, and the smaller force was melting away back into the fog and darkness.

  A shiver ran down his spine when his eyes momentarily met the fiend’s over the battlefield. Hers glinted, reflecting the light of the campfires like tiny mirrors. Her cold, beautiful face looked disdainfully on all around her as if they were naught more than insects to be eradicated. He suspected she was only falling back with her troops out of a tactical practicality, not from any fear or disorder.

  “Come on, man! Let us deliver your message.” A hand grabbed at his arm, pulling him, and he stumbled ahead, breaking gazes with the demoness.

  “Who… that woman.” Elyas swallowed hard. Had she smiled at that last instant? That fall must’ve addled my damned brains. He glanced over his shoulder again, but she was gone amidst the fighting.

  “The demon bitch?” asked the soldier hustling him along. “Aye, she’s leading those whoresons. They’ve sold their souls to Shaol, ’twould appear.”

  A trio of additional soldiers fell in around him, shields raised, and guided him toward the line of soldiers near the pavilion where officers stood cursing and barking orders.

  “I’ll not stand for this outrage! These bloody yellowbellies, murdering men in the night. We shall meet them on the field and crush these demon worshippers. Sol will bless our blades and smite them down!” An older man wearing a golden crown sat upon the back of a snow-white stallion, resplendent in a suit of heavy silver plate armor.

  “We’ve finally driven them back, Your Majesty,” a senior officer said. “Once the mages get the rest of this damnable fog cleared out, we can see how grievous the losses are.”

  “Thank Sol for that, at least,” King Clement Atreus muttered.

  Elyas briefly wondered how the king could even fight in all that heavy armor. It looked as though it would restrict movement so much as to be nearly worthless unless it carried an enchantment. But he figured it was more for show than any actual combat.

  “Lord Lanthas!” called the man escorting Elyas. “A courier from Ammon Nor!”

  Another older man, on the upper side of middle age and perhaps of an age with the king, turned to regard them. He wore a fine suit of armor that was more practical than his liege’s and had actually seen battle, from the looks of it. His white hair was cropped short, and his blue eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. Whereas the king was all bluster and fury, Lord Lanthas was steady calm.

  “Are reinforcements on the way?” the lord asked hopefully. After a moment, his face turned grim at Elyas’s expression. “I thought not. Our enemies are too savvy to allow for that.” He accepted the scroll tube Elyas handed over. After reading the missive briefly, he cursed. “No help will be forthcoming. They are in dire straits themselves. I take it the same method of attack? Magical fog concealing assassins.”

  “Aye, milord,” Elyas said. “And Ammon Nor fallen from the look of it before Colonel Krige dispatched me here.”

  Lord Lanthas grimaced and blew out a slow breath. “Damn. The king won’t appreciate more ill tidings this night, yet I commend you on your bravery.” He nodded at Elyas then turned to the soldier accompanying him. “Glin, see this man gets a meal and warms up by a fire. From the enemy’s blood on him, he’s had a long night as well and deserves a moment of rest.”

  “Aye, milord. Come on.”

  The warrior, Glin, guided Elyas away from the knot of lords and officers. Beyond them, a number of wounded were being taken to one of the command pavilions, where an older cleric was directing them.

  Elyas saw Lord Lanthas turn to deliver his ill tidings to the king and the other officers. The king’s reaction was lost as he was led away past a couple tents and to a warm bonfire.

  He eagerly held out his numb hands, relishing the heat. A moment later, he was handed a mug of mulled wine followed shortly after by a bowl of hot porridge. Once his belly was satiated and warmed by the hot meal and wine, he had time to speculate on what had occurred.

  How is this possible? How has the enemy crossed the Black Channel?

  Ammon Nor was the sole ford within days for the deep, swift-flo
wing river. The enemy host should not have been able to position itself so far to the east of the garrison to fall upon the unsuspecting army of the king, yet here they were—and in significant force.

  The night might have proven a disaster, but at least he’d survived for the time being, for which he sent up a quick prayer of thanks to Anhur.

  ***

  Nesnys hated to withdraw from the battle, yet she knew her attack had served its purpose brilliantly. Ammon Nor had fallen, the garrison there decimated, and the king’s army had suffered substantial losses and had the fear of Shaol driven into it. She had already sent word to Scaixal to have her entire force massed at Ammon Nor, save for a token number to hold the city, to immediately march on the location of the king’s encampment to prevent them from regrouping. By the time dawn broke, instead of the reprieve the Ketanians desperately sought, they would instead face nearly twenty thousand swords ready to end them.

  The thousand men of Colonel Cornix’s Hundred Scorpions had been reduced to barely a third their number, but by her estimates, for every man she had lost, the enemy had lost five in turn. Those were the types of odds she liked, especially when her army had the greater numbers to begin with. Cornix and his men had pulled back to the low hills to the south, in position to keep watch until the rest of her army arrived in a few hours’ time.

  Circling high overhead, she watched as the Ketanian mages dispelled the last of the mist and the soldiers secured the perimeter.

  “On the morrow, we’ll crush those dogs and make them rue the day they ever set foot on Ketanian soil!” the mortal king shouted.

  Nesnys smirked at the king’s bluster as he tried to rally his demoralized men. “Oh, you’ll be the one ruing the day you stepped out of your castle, soft fool.” She circled past the officers and over a large bonfire.

  One of the men sitting at the fire glanced up as if sensing her presence, yet she knew he couldn’t see her in the darkness at her altitude. She recognized the young courier she’d seen racing to deliver his missive—the grim news that Ammon Nor had fallen and the garrison was smashed. Ill tidings were a powerful force to further weaken already shaky morale, and she smiled to herself as she flew back south.