The Sworn Defender

by The Ranger

  Copyright © 2021 Michael A. Rubalcava

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798684701016

  Cover design by: David Collins

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my grandmother, who celebrated her ninetieth birthday while this story was being written.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  The Blessing of Divine Light

  The Blessing of Fire

  The Blessing of the Deceiver

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Prologue

  Prince Lacerne

  The courtyard leading into Castle Azra had always been a favorite spot for the young prince. Flowers, guardsmen, and a peaceful breeze always instilled a certain sense of serenity— and a sure sign of security. However, there were times, like this one, when the courtyard was not as welcoming to Lacerne as it usually was.

  The heir to Azra fell hard on his behind as the battlemaster chuckled. The Prince had been tempering his combat skills for most of his life, but he still felt inept when forced to put them to use. He was nearly the age his father had been when he became king; it was embarrassing to be so inadequate while having the best instructors available.

  "Ready to try again?" the battlemaster asked.

  Lacerne looked up at him, squinting his eyes as the harsh sun entered their view.

  His trainer was an older man who had retired from his harsher duties, yet he still retained his lean figure and quick reflexes. Burns graced the side of his neck and appeared in a handful of patches along his bald head. The Prince shifted his gaze to the battlemaster's chin, where he could still make out the traces of a scar wrapped around the ridge of the older man's jaw.

  "Of course, Bart," Lacerne smiled.

  He flicked his crimson hair away from his eyes and rose to his feet, adopting a defensive stance. The Prince eyed his opponent curiously, deciding he would wait for an attack to come instead of pouncing forward. He quickly realized he would not have to wait long.

  Bart dashed forth, bringing his blunted sword down towards Lacerne's shoulder. The Prince quickly intercepted the swing with the flat of his blade, but he was too slow to dodge the battlemaster's elbow as it struck his cheek. He recoiled and raised his wavering sword in an attempt to ward off another attack.

  "Blades and axes are not our only weapons," Bart lectured. "Always watch for everything in your opponents' reach. Although: shields, fists, and a jagged piece of wood are the least of your concerns if you let someone get the better of you."

  Lacerne smirked at the lesson. He had heard it a hundred times before, and they both knew it. It was just taking longer for it to sink in than either of them hoped it would.

  Bart began to smile as he often does right before he forces someone onto the ground, but his class was abruptly interrupted.

  "Enough, Bartholomew," a voice called out.

  A solemn-looking man, easily in his sixties, stood before them with a walking stick in hand. He appeared to have been tall, once, but now he was bent over his cane, a shriveled and fragile man— it looked as if his body might snap at any moment. He was dressed in exquisite clothes, but they were rumpled and stained and had been worn for very long. His gray hair had a few traces of its illustrious crimson past; however, it was thinning and very nearly gone. Only his emerald eyes seemed sharp and ready for whatever may come their way.

  "While I appreciate the thrashing you give my son, I'm afraid we'll have to cut it short today," he said.

  "Of course, my king," Bart nodded, bowing his head slightly.

  Lacerne handed his practice blade to Bartholomew as the battlemaster turned to leave. The Prince then faced his father only to find a grim look adorning his face.

  "Did you need something from me, Father?" he asked.

  "Yes," Laycen mumbled. "From you… and your brother. He and the Master were due back yesterday. Why haven't they returned?"

  "T-they have," the Prince corrected. "They arrived late in the night… Uros sent a guard to notify me, but they haven't entered the city. The Master is resting, I'd assume, and Lucan's likely traipsing around the woods ready to set it alight."

  "Why wasn't I notified?" the King questioned, a slight bitterness grazing his words.

  "As busy as you tend to be…" his heir murmured, pausing for a moment. "I doubt they wanted to… bother you."

  "Hmphf," the older man grunted. "It matters not. Find them both, and bring them to me. There is much that needs to be discussed."

  The walk to Azra's forest was a quiet one, and while the young prince was a tad frustrated with his task, Lacerne welcomed the solitude of the woods around him. It gave him a moment to ponder his father's words and the urgency hidden behind his eyes. The King hardly left the castle, as he usually confined himself to his room or his private library, and he rarely summoned either of his children. Lacerne began to worry that something might be very wrong. However, he was not given much time to think.

  A small red flame billowed at his feet, forcing him to jump back and nearly crash into a tree. The fire disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as it formed, and he looked around wildly for its caster. A few feet away, nearly hidden by a bush, crouched Prince Lucan. He burst into laughter as Lacerne marched up to him and gripped the collar of his shirt.

  "I wish you could've seen your reaction! Hah!" Lucan chuckled. "You'd think you wouldn't fall for that obvious trick by now!"

  "That's not funny, Lucan," the older prince grumbled, pushing his brother onto the ground.

  Even cross-legged on the dirt, he continued to giggle at his brother's expense. It was then Lacerne noticed the singed edges of Lucan's trousers.

  "What happened there?" he pointed. "Did you get a bit… overeager with that fire of yours?"

  Lucan pushed his straight hair away from his face and over his shoulder before he glanced at his pants. A wicked smile formed on his lips.

  "Oh, this I have to show you," he beamed as he jumped to his feet.

  Prince Lucan stretched his hand forward and allowed a small ball of flame to grow in his hand. It stretched and flattened until it was as thin as a disk— Lacerne likened it to a three-pronged star. It spun wildly in his brother's hand and shone furiously in the afternoon light.

  "I think I'm going to call this… the Sunburnt Star!" the young mage mused. "Look, I can toss it and control the direction of its flight!"

  He launched his fiery creation in front of them, and Lacerne watched as his younger brother moved his hands and twisted his fingers to pull it
into new paths.

  "I can get it to go faster, but if I push too hard, it's happened that I-" the younger prince began to explain.

  The star collided with a tree, falling apart and igniting everything around it. Lucan froze as they watched sparks bite into the dried leaves and fallen branches.

  "Oh, look what you've done!" Lacerne screeched. "Well, come on now; send the flames away or something!"

  Lucan looked at the fire nervously as it spread among the greenery.

  "It's harder to do when it's this widespread…" he mumbled, scanning the growing blaze.

  "Then why come to a forest!" Lacerne barked.

  "I like to come here," a voice announced.

  The pair turned to see a tower of a man standing behind them with a calm look in his eyes and long blonde hair flickering in the sunlight. His large, pointed beard almost reached past his breast and had begun to gray. The mark of his Blessing glowed on his bare forearm: a three-pronged flame encircled in orange. It shone furiously in the sun. He stretched out his hand, and the hungry flames darted into his open palm, dissipating harmlessly in seconds.

  "Difficult circumstance breeds perseverance," Uros enlightened. "That is why we are here."

  Lacerne smirked at his words. The experienced mage would often say that practicing in hazardous areas, such as the woods or atop a cliff's edge, forced one to hone their precision. Prince Lacerne thought the decision was reckless, but he never questioned Uros. Very few did.

  The sorcerer gave a wry smile as he stepped closer to the princes. Uros was clad in leathers beneath his light brown robes and sported a small yellow flower pinned to his belt, likely given to him by his daughter, Ursula.

  "Good afternoon, young man," Uros grinned, placing his hand on Lacerne's shoulder. "What are you doing so far from the castle? And without your Sworn Defender?"

  "He's gone off to one of the farming villages, I'm afraid," Lacerne answered. "He was feeling restless and had heard there were bandits nested nearby. He's taken charge of the local guard to deal with them."

  "Pursuing bandits out of boredom… how very 'Bart' of him. I'm sure the battlemaster might have even joined his son if he were a few years younger, hah!" the sorcerer chuckled. "Still, that leaves the question: what are you doing here?"

  Lacerne shuffled in place uncomfortably before sighing and meeting the man's gaze.

  "My father," he mumbled. "He sent me to fetch you and Lucan… and escort you back to the castle. We've been summoned."

  Uros' eyes grew apprehensive for a moment before returning to their relaxed disposition. He sensed the same concern Lacerne had.

  "Very well," the flame-master agreed, scratching his bare lip. "Let's head back."

  The journey to Castle Azra seemed to pass quickly as Prince Lacerne and Uros debated the reason for their summons while Lucan amused himself by creating small flaming animals in the palm of his hand. When they finally arrived, the twilit courtyard seemed less than inviting to their skeptical eyes.

  The trio found the King hovering in the castle's Great Hall, alongside an abundance of loose papers, maps, and treaties strewn about the tables. His cane and crown were misplaced among the mess, but he did not seem to notice. He was accompanied by Bartholomew, whose expression seemed much more sullen than it had before.

  "It's good to see you, Bart," Uros greeted, clasping the battlemaster's hand in his own.

  "Yes, it's been too long, Master Wizard," Bart smiled dryly. "Where did the road take you this time? Syvon? Altura?"

  "The college I've told you of — actually — in the far north," Uros revealed. "A few months spent there and a few more in Morvir did us well. Seeing that old dragon's bones is always-"

  "As much as I enjoy your tales of the realm," the King interrupted. "The conditions of this reunion are less than welcome. Enough so that we are past the time for pleasantries."

  Uros turned to the King and crossed his arms over his chest.

  "What's happened now, Laycen?" the wizard prodded. "You look unwell… more so than usual."

  Lacerne looked over his father carefully. He seemed sickly, but he always had. Whatever the sorcerer saw in him now was beyond the Prince's eyes.

  "I'm fine," Laycen murmured. "I am simply tired, and what's come to find me… I have troubling news."

  The gaunt king hunched forward and swiped at the scrolls and parchments that laid across the table. From them, he pulled a small, folded page.

  "My father was always quick to anger and even quicker to attack," Laycen recalled. "It is because of him and his predecessors that we remain locked in conflict against Marinia. A conflict that has begun to escalate."

  "Your spy?" Uros questioned, earning an odd look from the two princes.

  "Indeed," the King admitted, turning to his sons. "Not too long ago, I moved to have one of our own embedded within Marinia's trade guilds. He had remained silent all this time, until now. There was a rider in the night, bearing troubling news from our hidden ally."

  Prince Lacerne felt an itch in his throat. There hadn't been a significant battle between the two countries in over thirty years, but there had been plenty of minor skirmishes and disagreements. The Prince had always feared their hostilities would come to a head.

  "Should we summon the High Priest before we continue?" he asked. "I have found Kota to be very knowledgeable regarding the workings of the land, and he has provided me with invaluable-"

  "No, no, no!" Lucan cut in. "Don't tell me you still let that zealot give you advice, Stern!"

  Lacerne scowled at his younger brother. 'Stern Lacerne,' was a nickname he had devised and used whenever the mood suited him. It was an unpleasant thing.

  "You travel across the realm, gallivanting here and there but never in your own home," the elder prince jabbed. "One of us needs to learn our history and how best to preserve it!"

  Lucan chuckled, but there was a slight fire in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but words did not escape it.

  "Your brother is right, Lacerne," their father grumbled. "Kota may appear wise and dignified, but his duty is to pen the histories— not direct them. The Temple of Azra is an honored and sacred place, but its practices are regressive and nefarious. I refuse to support them."

  Lacerne forced a slow and deliberate nod; he heavily disagreed with his father, but he would not contradict him.

  "So, what is the news?" Uros asked.

  The King sighed, unfolding the page he held in his hands and passing it to the sorcerer.

  "The Marinians have always lacked the forces to attack Azra head-on, but their commercial ties give them opportunities that are impossible to foresee. It seems they are using one such opportunity to sign a mercenary army. They will soon send envoys to Myonmara and, even worse, to the Royvarians," he muttered. "If we continue on this course… it would mean open war."

  Uros let out a slight grunt.

  "The Royvarians? I'd be more troubled if I thought those heavy-handed imperials were even interested in these lands," he commented, tugging at his beard.

  "Of course they're interested, but their interest makes little difference; either they help the Marinians in order to create a foothold here, or… well, gold is still gold," Bart rejected, his copper eyes turned to his friend.

  "Bartholomew is correct," Laycen agreed. "We cannot allow the eye of the empire to turn here. What we must do is stop this madness before any other nation gets involved. I believe we must-"

  "I see what you're getting at, Father," Lucan interrupted, small flames whipping around in his hand. "We end them before they can hire any mercenaries."

  "Stand down, boy," Uros scolded, swatting at Lucan's hand. "I'm certain your father has no such intention."

  Lucan shrugged innocently and turned to glance at his father, who had raised an eyebrow as if he were waiting for another interruption.

  "As I was saying," the King continued. "I believe we must journey to Marinia for a parley. We may not be able to amend the past, but we can certainly end thi
s before blood soaks the stones."

  Prince Lacerne saw his chance.

  "I'm happy to accompany you, Father," the Prince proclaimed. "Together, we can settle this witless conflict and preserve peace."

  Lacerne gave an eager smile as he finished, but his father did not share his enthusiasm.

  "No," he denied. "Uros will come with me, along with a few riders. It would look unseemly to travel in a large party, and I will not risk your safety."

  The King turned to Bart and placed a hand on his forearm.

  "You shall take the mantle of Steward of Azra and marshal its defense should negotiations fail. And Lucan," he turned. "Your powers are great, but you must hold them near unless they are absolutely needed."

  "Of course, Father," Lucan smirked. "Should any of them be foolish enough to attack us, the ashes of their defeat shall be seen all across the land!"

  Laycen patted Lucan's cheek softly before slowly turning to face Lacerne.

  "Don't let him do anything too hasty, my son. You must keep a level head should disaster befall us," the King smiled.

  Of course, Father," Lacerne agreed, though a pang of envy rippled through his chest.

  "Good. We will speak again in the morning, before my departure," Laycen said as he began hobbling away. "Rest well, my sons. I suspect our days will grow difficult soon."

  Bart followed the King out and steadied him as his legs began to falter, leaving the pair of princes behind with Uros.

  "Ursula," the wizard muttered. "She should stay here, in the castle. I don't want her at the cabin while we are away…"

  "I'm sure there's an empty room across from Lacerne's chambers," Lucan giggled, overtly winking at his brother.

  "T-there are plenty of rooms!" Lacerne countered, red-faced. "But, yes— she is more than welcome here.

  The aged wizard nodded and turned his eyes to the entrance of the Great Hall.

  "Guard!" he called.

  The guard at the door rushed over and knelt before Uros. He looked to be around fifteen and had his blonde hair cut just below his ears. His eyes seemed bright, yet they did not match one another.