The King Trials

by D L Sims

But hate was the only thing he saw in his brother now.

  Ikar only had a second to bring his own weapon up to block his brother’s blow. His arms vibrated with the force of the hammer knocking against the axe he had stolen from a fallen Mezeran.

  “Yvney, please.”

  Lonis took one step forward to help Ikar, but the other Mezerans--Ikar now saw they were also prisoners from the Round Tower, he recognized the man who had called out to him during his visit--attacked, seeming to swallow Lonis like an army of ants overtaking left out food.

  Yvney did not falter. He swung the hammer time and time again, and Ikar blocked each blow, but he was not sure how long he would be able to fight off his brother. His whole body shook with fatigue.

  “Yvney.”

  Yvney roared. He paused in his attacks, but only long enough to change his features. Black hair turned orange, and pale skin turned warted and brown. He grew several more inches. In front of Ikar stood, no longer his brother, but a tall, husky ogre.

  “Fuck.”

  The ogre swung, and Ikar blocked his blow, but with Yvney’s new appearance came new strength. The attack made Ikar fall into the grass, and his ass twinged with pain.

  “Yvney,” he pleaded. He tried to reach into Yvney and find that part of him that was still Dominikov.

  “Fight me, you fucking coward!” Yvney bellowed. “Wachë!”

  Ikar froze. Never had Yvney called him that. Yvney had spent the early part of his teen years learning Lysin swear words, and he had called Ikar others, but never a wachë. It was the lowest insult in the Lysin language.

  “Ikar!” Lonis' voice shook him from his shock.

  The hammer came down again, driving into his forearm. There was a sickening crack. Ikar screamed in pain, but he had no time to nurse his injury. His brother had taken up Ikar’s fallen axe and swung. With no other weapon near him, Ikar put his broken arm up as a means to defend himself.

  Stupid, he chastised himself.

  The blade connected, severing his hand from his wrist. Ikar screamed.

  His hand flopped in the grass.

  Several soldiers surrounded Ikar, pushing Yvney and the other prisoners back.

  Tears streamed from Ikar’s eyes as he cradled his bloody stump to his chest. Lonis was at his side in seconds, kneeling beside him, face covered in dirt and blood.

  “Let me see.”

  Gently, Lonis took Ikar’s arm in his hand, surveying the wound. Just above the stump was turning purple, bone protruding from the skin.

  “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  “How?”

  Lonis thrust his arm into the smoldering grass, not even inches from Ikar’s head. He screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” Lonis said.

  Around them, the Eltharian soldiers had created a barricade, giving Lonis time to see to Ikar’s wound.

  One of the soldiers had a large piece of cloth tied around the shield at their back, Lonis stole it, earning nothing more than a disgruntled look from the man.

  “My wife gave me that.”

  “Well, now I need it,” Ikar said. “I’m more injured than you.”

  The end of his arm was black and red, and the smell of burning flesh hung in the small space around them. Ikar laid back in the grass. A dragon flew overhead.

  “Just leave me to die here.”

  “Stop being dramatic. You’re not going to die. I promised Roz I would keep you alive.”

  “That woman has no faith.”

  Lonis smiled slightly. “She just loves you.”

  Ikar’s eyes pinched as Lonis tied his wounded arm to his chest. “Have you seen Grant?”

  Worry etched Lonis' features. “Not since he went to find Mikhial.” He stood, offering to help Ikar to his feet. “The bind should hold. We’ll see a doctor once this is over.”

  “If I don’t die first.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  The soldiers made a path to let Lonis and Ikar back into the battle. Lonis stuck close to Ikar’s side, defending him when Ikar couldn’t defend himself.

  Ikar searched the field for Yvney and found him not far away, driving a sword through the heart of a Lysin.

  He’s too far gone. Ikar did not know what the Mezerans had done to his brother, but the man before him was no longer Yvney.

  “We’re going to have to kill him,” a soldier said, kicking a Mezeran down onto the grass as she tried to grab his coat. “He’s not your brother anymore.”

  Even though Ikar thought the same, he tried to come up with a retort, another solution, but he had nothing. If Yvney knew this was what he had become, he would beg for Ikar to take his life.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You’re injured,” Lonis said.

  “Thank you. I’m highly aware that I am now sans hand.” Ikar shifted his grip on the sword he held. He wasn’t sure where he had even retrieved it from. “At least it wasn’t my wanking hand.”

  Lonis ignored that comment. “I’m coming with you.”

  But Ikar shook his head. For the first time in twenty-two years, he truly felt his powers stirring in him. As if they had been lying dormant until this exact moment. Ikar closed his eyes and willed them to consume him.

  Bones cracked. His body shifted. It was painful, but Ikar didn’t scream.

  When it was over, he towered over the others. Long black fur lined his arms.

  “Holy shit,” one of the soldiers said. “You’re a bear.”

  Even as a bear, Ikar rolled his eyes.

  He fell to all fours. His stump was already healing due to the magic in his veins, but it still stung to use it to limp across the field to his brother.

  Yvney’s eyes caught on him, and his cruel smile grew. “Brother, you finally found your powers.”

  Ikar swung his large arm, putting his weight on his front paw. Yvney’s eyes went wide before he sailed through the air, body slamming into a large tree. He slumped to the ground, shaking his head from the daze, but he didn’t get up.

  Ikar shifted back to his human form, uncaring that he was naked. He knelt down, grabbing a dagger from the belt of a fallen Eltharian soldier.

  Yveny’s eyes met his. They were flickering between the wild Mezeran and the clarity of his brother. The clarity in his eyes told Ikar that Yvney was already dying.

  When Yvney saw him approach, he smiled. His lips turned up in resolution. “Brother.” Blood trickled from his lips. “I’m proud of you.”

  Ikar hesitated. If he tried to save Yvney’s life now, would he go back to being the pain in the ass he always was? Or would he be lost to the Mezerans?

  “Don’t hesitate, Ikar. Kill me.”

  Ikar’s hand shook. “Yvney.” There was so much he wanted to say. Despite their dislike for one another, Ikar had looked up to him once, had loved him once. They were blood, bonded in ways that superseded the fights over the years, the dark words.

  “It’s okay, little brother. I would rather it be you.”

  Ikar drove the dagger into Yvney’s heart. Tears leaked down his face. Yvney’s eyes flew wide momentarily. Then his smile faltered as the last of his life flickered from his eyes.

  “M-may Kurem lead you to the Gates.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  Kelmen stood at the front of the city walls. The soldiers expanded across the road, lining the tall stone structure for as far as the eye could see. Two dragons stood before them in the middle of the Main Road, their riders perched on top, ready for battle.

  The sun was almost to the highest point in the sky.

  “They’re coming,” his mother said.

  He had tried to beg her to go into the castle with the other women, but she had scoffed.

  “I was front and center during the Ogre Wars and the War with Soldare. I was in the room when the peace treaty between the three western kingdoms was signed. I will not sit out for this one.”

  Kelmen found it better not to argue with his mother.

  A small smatteri
ng of Mezerans crossed the bridge over the Roaming River, spilling out before them. The man at the front was Emperor Lo-Bie Jabü, the ruler of the Mezerah. He was broad-chested and tall. He wore long emerald robes and a fur-lined cloak. His hair was black, and his tawny skin shimmered in the sun. At his side was his brother, Ai-Jael, and his nephew, Bahst-el.

  No one spoke. Master Roxell broke from the line and stepped forward. “Lo-Bie, leave our kingdom at once.”

  General Sinero shook his head. He had planned to greet the Mezerans with arrows and swords, not words of warning.

  The dragons shifted restlessly.

  Emperor Jabü chuckled. “I have no intention of doing that, Roxell Vaslev.”

  “Enough of this,” Johan Sinero surged forward, sword in hand.

  Everything happened quickly. The Mezerans came forward, crying out a battle roar that seemed to shake the earth. The dragons took to the sky. Arrows flew overhead. His mother began chanting incantations at his side.

  Kelmen’s body tensed. Run. But he couldn’t run. He had been drafted into this fight like every other man in Elthare.

  Run.

  He pulled the sword he had been given from his back.

  Run.

  And he did.

  Toward the fray.

  He was not a skilled fighter. He was only nineteen and had worked as a fisherman since the age of eleven, but he had quick hands. He knew how to wield a knife.

  If being a fisherman had taught him anything, it was how to cut open something living.

  But before his sword connected with the Mezeran, the man fell over. As if he was a wind-up toy that had lost power.

  Kelmen groaned. Mother. He turned, and she flashed him a small smile.

  She tried to keep the Mezerans away from him, but they were quicker than she could spew out spells and curses. One slipped through, and his axe sliced through Kel’s calf. He fell into the dirt and screamed.

  “Kel!” the Wood Witch screamed.

  The air around Kelmen pulsed as he tried to stand, but he couldn’t. The cut was too deep, and when he fell, he had sprained his ankle. The Mezerans gave him a wide berth. His mother had erected a shield around him that none could penetrate. Kelmen could do nothing but watch the battle from the dirt.

  Blood seeped from the wound on his leg. It was too deep for the magic in his veins to heal it swiftly. It would take a day or two at the most.

  Kel watched as Johan battled Bahst-el.

  The pain in his leg was making him groggy. He felt ready to puke.

  General Sinero blocked a blow from the Mezeran General.

  Black blinked at the edges of Kel’s vision.

  The last thing he saw before he passed out was Master Roxell cutting off Emperor Jabü’s head.

  Grant was injured. Beyond injured. He was surprised he was still moving, still fighting. His pinky finger of his right hand was bent at an odd angle, and a sizable cut slit across his forehead and dripped blood down his face. A stab wound to his side left him gasping for breath.

  Mikhial looked worse, but he was still standing as well. He was protecting Briar, who was unscathed, minus a large cut spanning the length of his chin to his shoulder.

  Grant could feel the pain now. His adrenaline was fleeting. He sank to his knees.

  “Come on, little brother!” Mikhial commanded.

  “I can’t do it anymore, Mik.”

  They had pushed the Mezerans back to the outskirts of Odenmal. Some were already fleeing back to the ships waiting in the sea.

  Briar knelt in front of Grant, tugging him up by the hand. “Come on, Grant. We’re winning.”

  By some miracle, they were winning. Thousands of men and women still stood, and more than half were either Eltharian or Lysin.

  “Alright,” Grant conceded. “I’m going to need a pint of ale and chocolate after this.”

  “I’ll get you the big--” Briar’s eyes flew wide, blood spilled from his mouth. He fell to his knees in front of Grant.

  Grant’s hands flew out to catch him. A dagger stuck through the back of Briar’s skull. Behind him, a Mezeran smirked.

  Grant jumped to his feet. Fury boiled inside of him. He pushed every single ounce of his power at the man. His smile slid from his face.

  Grant held the man’s feet above the ground, never wavering as he willed his power to crush the man’s spine like a boa would its prey. The man screamed.

  Grant watched the life bleed from his eyes.

  He fell into a heap on the ground when Grant released him.

  More and more Mezerans were falling back, running away into the streets of Odenmal. Ships were starting to sail back to the east.

  Grant heaved. Bile burned his throat as it left his mouth, splashing to the ground.

  Mikhial was at his side, rubbing between his shoulder blades. “Let it out, little brother.”

  Grant shook Mikhial’s hands from his shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”

  Mikhial looked hurt, but stood back. Soldiers and dragons gave chase to the retreating Mezerans, killing those that were too slow to make it back to the ships.

  Thick and eerie silence fell. But the echoes of dying screams still rang in Grant’s ears.

  “I need to find the others.”

  Grant couldn’t bring himself to look at Briar’s corpse.

  He stalked back through the woods, stepping over bodies that littered the forest floor. ShadowCloud was not far, arrows pierced his side. Fedirij lay a few feet away with an axe stuck through his chest.

  Soldiers were going through, stabbing the Mezerans that still lived, but were too injured to get up, and helping allies to their feet.

  A man was cut in half before Grant. He came to a stop. The top half of the man belonged to Garis Frell, one of his family’s Guard.

  “Grant!”

  Grant turned at the sound of his name. Ikar, Lonis and his father limped toward him. They were injured as badly as anyone else. Lonis was covered in cuts and stab wounds, Ikar was missing a hand, and his father was missing a leg. He was holding onto Ikar and Lonis for support.

  Grant wound his arms around his father’s neck and sobbed into his chest.

  “It’s alright, my son. We won.”

  Grant pulled back, dashing at his tears. “Ikar,” he started, emotion choking him. “Briar--”

  “I know.” Ikar hung his head. “I saw.”

  Grant turned to Lonis next. His left eye was swollen shut. “Lonnie.”

  He smiled, and Grant noticed one of his teeth had been knocked out. “We survived, Sin.”

  The four of them continued through the field, looking for familiar faces and helping those alive.

  “We sent a fire message for a doctor,” one of the soldiers said. “The Wood Witch said that a few hundred Mezerans slipped passed us and tried to take the castle.”

  Lord Sinero nodded. “Master Roxell?”

  “Alive. He killed the Mezeran Emperor.”

  Grant left his father and the soldier, and followed Ikar and Lonis to the fort Andalen had been defending. There were no signs of life. All their archers and Lord Amadon were dead.

  Under the body of a large Mezeran, they found Andalen. Her large brown eyes stared up at the afternoon sky. Her hand still clutched her family’s dagger.

  Grant’s heart squeezed. He knelt at her side, brushing his fingers over her curly hair. “May Kurem lead you to the Gates, my friend.”

  Lonis and Ikar stood behind him, silent as he said a prayer to the Gods to guide Andalen safely through the Afterworld.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  Months after the battle, the setting sun turned the sky above the sea pink and orange. Grant had been sitting on Oszerack’s dock for the latter part of the day, thinking about all that he had lost during the battle, the scars he still bore. A mouse skittered across the dock to his side.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked the mouse.

  It chittered.

  Grant rolled his eyes. “Turn back. I ca
n’t have a conversation with you as a rodent.”

  He felt movement at his side, and a very naked Ikar sat beside him. “I’m going to get splinters in my ass.”

  “That’s your problem, Dominikov.” Grant swung his bare feet, his toes skimming the water. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.

  “Master Roxell is up at your house. He wants to talk to us.”

  “Are you planning on putting on clothes before that?”

  Ikar smiled slightly. “I was thinking I would show up naked. What do you think?”

  “I think I am seeing too much of your cock.”

  Ikar laughed. “I talked to Lonis. You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?”

  Grant nodded and threw a pebble into the sea. “Be happy, Dominikov. That means you’re going to be king.”

  His mind briefly went to Khett. The former prince had survived his injuries but would no longer be able to speak. He woke nightly from horrible nightmares, and could only make it through the day after he had smoked a pound of Nestvor, and he and Lady Pedgram had left to live with her sister in the wilds of Rivland.

  “This is not how I wanted to get the crown,” Ikar answered soberly. “We were all supposed to survive, and everyone was supposed to cheer for me at the end.” His voice cracked. “Briar was supposed to see my beautiful Freja grow. Khett’s gone insane, and now you’re leaving too.”

  Grant’s mind flashed images of Briar, Andalen, Mr. Hesito’s stiff hand holding a blood-stained picture of Lonis and his wife. “I can’t stay here right now.”

  “I understand, Sinero.”

  They stood, and Grant gave Ikar his cloak to cover himself. They were silent as they walked back to the Sinero Estate. He led Ikar to his chambers to find some clothes before meeting Master Roxell and the remaining Noble Council in their Library.

  Lady Monneaire and Lady Amadon were sitting close together on the couch. Lord Monneaire hovered by the fireplace. Lord Sinero, Arlen and Mikhial sat at a round table with Master Roxell. Lady and Lord Dominikov lounged in plush armchairs. A man Grant had never seen before leaned against the window.

  “Ikar, Grant,” Lord Sinero rose, gesturing to the unknown man. He looked to be sixteen or seventeen at the most. “This is Christophe Pedgram, Khett’s cousin. He is now the head of the Pedgram house.”