Crown (The Manhunters Book 3)

by Jesse Teller

  “How old are you?” Rayph asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  “You started writing this spell when you were ten?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t working on it the entire time. I had other passions I needed to pursue.”

  “I don’t know how to process that,” Rayph said. “How long have you been casting?”

  “My brother and I learned our first spell when we were three.”

  Rayph had no words.

  “We need to get going. Where we are headed, we will need to time things perfectly.”

  “I hope you have a plan. When I located Betamus last, he was in the hands of Burke Dreadnaught. Burke’s father is a king and a racist. He hates humans; he hates trimerians more. He is, however, an otherwise decent man. I will not attack him. The things he’s doing for his race are commendable.”

  “I have no intention,” Roth said, “of fighting a war with Victor Dreadnaught. If diplomacy cannot win me the sword, then nothing will. But I have a theory about Burke. Everything I’ve heard of the man leads me to believe he wishes Betamus’s freedom as much as we do. And I do have a plan. It involves you, and it might be a touch unpleasant.”

  Rayph nodded. He grabbed his fetish. “I have to leave the city for a while. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Where are you going?” Smear asked through the fetish.

  “To start a war I fear.”

  “Take me with you,” Dissonance said.

  “Can we take a friend of mine?” Rayph asked Roth.

  “Best not. We don’t want to come in force. Things will be,” the boy searched for the right word, “tense.”

  Rayph did not like the way that sounded.

  Roth spoke a word and a glowing portal opened up, but this was no normal portal. Its edges crackled and snapped with orange energy running with tongues of purple. Rayph had seen a portal like this before, but he could not remember where. Roth entered quickly. Rayph followed Roth through first one portal, then the next, until they walked out into a massive room.

  The floor gleamed, polished green marble shot through with black and flaked with gold. The ceiling was high, higher than any Rayph had ever seen, and from the sight of it, it was obvious every inch of the roof was carved to perfect detail of a massive dragon that curled around the ceiling. Its body dripped down a wall and its enormous head stared out at Rayph from over a throne. Warriors and mages and all manner of powerful people filled the room. Rayph looked at his side, Roth on his knees, his head bowed. Rayph turned the direction Roth was facing, and a fierce man stepped down from his throne with a long sword in one hand, a short sword in the other. He was scarred along his cheeks where it looked like his lips had been flayed open before, and in the middle of his forehead, a terrible gray sightless eye stared out. Rayph pulled back horrified before he noticed the man was half-trimerian. A half blood. And the thing that sat upon his head was a crown. This was Victor Dreadnaught.

  Rayph dropped to his knee and closed his eyes.

  “Seize them!” the man roared. His voice was a terror that froze Rayph’s blood. Rough hands grabbed him and held him down. A fist gripped his hair and pulled his face up to look at a twisted visage. A thumb was used to pull open Rayph’s third eye, and he saw anger and hate in the king’s eyes.

  “He is a trimerian!” the man above him shouted. Rayph was thrown to the ground and a blade placed on his neck.

  “Wait,” Roth said. “This is no regular trimerian. This is not the army that chased you north. This is not a vile oppressor of your proud race. This is Rayph Ivoryfist. Self-exiled from his home. He can’t go back.”

  A blade touched Rayph’s chin and lifted his eyes to the scarred king. His dead eye stared at Rayph whose skin crawled under the gaze.

  “You just appear in my throne room? Just enter without warning or invite?” The terrible king laughed, and the room laughed with him. “See, we are good people. Kind even. We will send the bodies back home to your people. We might keep a few random parts to decorate the castle, but we will send most of you home.”

  The room laughed. Rayph felt sick.

  “Why don’t I cut you to pieces and feed you to my dogs?” Victor sneered. He pointed his swords at a line of fierce mutts, snarling but controlled. Not one of them was a full breed. Each dog was different, each bearing the traits of many bloodlines. Together they looked like a mad pack, a gathering of hellhounds set at his throat. Rayph held real fear the man would indeed feed him to the pack of mutts.

  “I am Rayph Ivoryfist. I was training to be a knight. I was to lead the Ivory Arm when I was knighted. I have been court wizard of Lorinth for ten thousand years. In that time, I have come to love humans. I have served them and fought beside them. I have worked beside many of your race. I am friend, not foe.”

  “Worked with my race, huh?” Victor said with a laugh. His throne room broke out in riotous laughter as well. “Ever seen anything like me before?”

  Rayph looked the king in the eye seeing power, true naked power held in check by a terrible mind and a deep love. Rayph was terrified of this man and so glad he existed at the same time, horrified, ready to run, and honored to be in his presence.

  “I have never seen anything that could have prepared me for you,” Rayph said. “You are a man who needs no introduction.”

  “Now you’re trying to make me blush. You want to warm my bed, trimerian? Seems like you are trying to flatter me,” the king said.

  Rayph tried to ignore the words but they scared him more than a little. “You are Victor Dreadnaught, the king of Neather. You led an army of half bloods north until you came here. Rumors say Ebu was selling your people into slavery up here. You came to make them pay for it. Got yourself a nation for your trouble.”

  “Wasn’t much of a fight, to be honest. They had no answer for us. Nothing fights like a mutt. Nothing fights like my people,” Victor turned to his dogs and walked over to them. He walked with a terrible limp, but looked capable of ripping a man to shreds with little more than a thought. “What do you think, lovelies? Want to eat him?” He limped over to his dogs and they rioted around him, nipping and licking him as he walked among them.

  “What do you think, son, do they look hungry?” Victor asked.

  A man of about twenty-three stepped out from around a crowd of people. He was thick and muscled. He wore black armor fitted with rubies to make a bloody head bowed and praying. He carried a massive sword on his back and seemed capable of ripping a man’s spine from his body.

  “This is my youngest boy Burke. He is going to be king one day. My others have little tact. They are not as even-tempered as me,” Victor said. The men around him laughed and Victor smiled with a mouth missing many teeth. “But one day Burke will lead us all. When I get too old to rule or get bored. Whichever comes first.”

  Burke stepped forward and stopped before Rayph, staring. He motioned to his father’s guards. “Grab him.” Rayph was seized again. “Hold him down,” the young man said. Rayph thought of spells that would free him, and he almost released them, when Burke’s hand fell on Fannalis and ripped the blade free.

  Rayph stared as the thorns dug into the boy’s hands and the prince wasn’t surprised. “You’ve held a brother before,” Rayph said. Burke gripped his massive sword and pulled it from his back with one hand. The long handle exploded with thorns that riddled Burke’s scarred hand.

  “What is this one’s name?” Burke said, holding out Fannalis.

  “His name is Fannalis. He is the oldest of the brothers, and Betamus’s twin,” Rayph said. “He is a friend dear to me, and I am on a quest to free him from his captivity.”

  “You’re gonna free him?” Burke said.

  “That has been my aim for ten thousand years.”

  “You’re slow to get going,” Burke said.

  Rayph looked at Roth and nodded. “I’m picking up speed.”

  “You came for my son’s sword?” Victor reached for the chains on his mutts and they roared in anticipation.
<
br />   “Father, stop,” Burke said.

  “You can’t be serious,” Victor said. “It is the most powerful weapon this nation knows. With that sword in your hand, you are invincible. I will not let you hand that over to a full blood. Trimerian even! Can’t allow it. I’ll kill him first!” Victor said.

  Burke stared at Fannalis. “I want to be there when you free him.”

  “Burke, no,” Victor said.

  “Father, Betamus is a slave in this sword. He is trapped and I use him to do my bidding. I force him to kill enemies that are not his own. I can’t allow that to continue. I told him long ago if I found a way I would free him. These men know a way.”

  “That sword helped carve a place out for our race,” Victor said.

  “Yes, it did. And now it is time for it to go home. Now it is time for Betamus to be free. We came up here to end slavery. We have built a navy to go out and hunt for slavers carrying our half blood brothers. How can I use this sword another instant when I could free it?”

  Victor turned to Rayph and growled. He stomped over to Rayph, grabbed him by the hood, and pulled his fist back, snarling in his face.

  “You never could have done this without the help of a half blood.” He turned back to his son and wiped what could have been a tear away. He turned to Rayph again and flashed a maniac’s smile. “Burke Dreadnaught freed this sword. Do you understand me? That is how history will remember this. What you do with that woman’s dagger is your own thing, but Burke Dreadnaught freed Betamus. When they write about this, that book says my son’s name.”

  “You have my word,” Rayph said.

  “Your word means nothing to me. You write anything else, I’ll take your ass,” Victor said.

  Burke looked at Roth. “When are you doing it?”

  “I need time with Betamus. I need to prepare him properly. I will need time with you. You know him best. I will have to ask you a few questions. It will be weeks, maybe months yet, before casting the freedom spell.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Burke said.

  “Agreed,” Roth said.

  Victor grabbed Rayph by the collar again and sneered into his face. “You will have a king of Neather with you, boy. If you don’t bring him back, there is no place on this planet you can hide from me.”

  Rayph believed him.

  The Duel

  Rayph left as soon as his legs and the portal would carry him out. He said a few words about hoping to see more of the nation one day and that Victor should one day come to Lorinth and forge an alliance with Thomas, but in the end, Rayph wanted out of the throne room of Victor Dreadnaught.

  When he was gone, Roth stood before the half breed with a smile and, once on his feet, extended an arm. Victor looked at him as if he had lost his mind. When Burke coughed, Victor grinned and shook Roth’s arm.

  “Humans are little better than trimerians,” he said with a growl. “But they are a little better.” He laughed and Roth smiled. He had to admit that when standing before this man, he did feel awe, but try as Victor might, Roth felt no fear.

  Burke nodded to his father and turned to Roth. “I will have to get a few things in order before I can go with you. Can you stay for the night and dine with us?”

  “It would be my pleasure to stay. My order strives to make alliances with all fair races. If you would like to meet my companions, I can call them.”

  Victor turned to Burke and waved him off. Victor wrapped an arm over Roth’s shoulders and walked him to a window in the far side of the hall.

  “How do you know us fair?” Victor said. “We conquered another nation. My people fought unimaginable hordes and laid death out before us like a carpet. How know you we are not vile?”

  “I can see evil when it is before me. You are not evil. Racist, but not evil.”

  Victor stopped to look at Roth. “How know you that I am racist?”

  “You are trying to intimidate me right now, pulling me in close so I can smell the oil of your sword. Putting your arm on me so I will feel encroached upon. You are talking to me as if I do not know your nation’s politics, and you are growling your words when I am almost sure you would have a more melodic voice.”

  Victor stared at him.

  Roth smiled. “Would you do these things if I were to tell you I am a half trimerian?”

  Victor stepped back, looked at Roth and shook his head. “No, you’re no half breed. You have the stink of nobility to you. There are no half breed nobles on this continent, save the ones I made when I took this place. Your blood is too pure. You are a full-blooded human. A stout but young full-blooded human.”

  “So you do not trust me. Because of my blood. Without knowing anything about me or my order. That makes you a racist. Now, I can see you were once a slave.”

  Victor growled.

  “It is plain as the brand on your neck. I can see a myriad of scars and I know why you took this land, so I will wager a guess your racism stems from maltreatment. I can assume you have been hurt, or even tortured, for the blood in your body and no other reason. This has made you hate me and all other races. I cannot fault you for that, but I do hope you see soon I am not your enemy. My order deals with all races fairly. Even those that hate us.”

  “How old are you?” Victor asked.

  “I’m fourteen.”

  “Quite a mind for such a young man.”

  “I am what I was made by my teachers and the one who raised me.”

  “You are a mage. I can smell magic on you. Why do you carry such a sword on your back? It is almost as big as you are. Can you wield the thing, or do you carry it for effect?”

  “I have trained with it for years,” Roth said. “I can heft it well and use it better. I have never had to kill a man or woman with it, but I would be able to without too much trouble.”

  “Do you want to spar with my people? We have much respect for that type of sword. I have many who would be good enough with it that you might learn something.”

  “I’m not even a bit tempted to take you up on that offer.”

  Victor laughed.

  “I am a wizard by trade. Warrior by choice. I do not have the expertise to do much but make a fool of myself. You would likely set your greatest warriors against me, and before them I would pale. You are not meeting me on equal terms unless you meet me with magic.”

  “Is that so?” Victor said.

  At that, a man stepped out of the air. He wore a dark purple robe open, betraying a set of leather armor. His hair was shaved, his head tattooed with glyphs Roth knew.

  These were the markings of a warrior mage from Brogoan. They were mighty duelists known to fight for noble families. This one carried a thick staff with a mace head on it and wore war boots with steel toes. When he smiled, his teeth were black and he looked to be the most fearsome man Roth had ever seen.

  “You wish me to duel your mage?” Roth said.

  “Well, you will be traveling with my son. He is a prince. He has many enemies and most of them are mighty. If the wrong situation would arise, you might be forced to fight alongside my son, and in that case, I would like to know if you are a capable wizard or if I have to send Decard here with you.”

  “Your mage cannot come with us. Too wild will be the magic I am using to free the Thorn Brothers. I cannot guarantee his safety. I cannot guarantee that his presence would not foul the rite.”

  “If you can’t bring Decard with you, then I guess you had better prove yourself worthy of a fight beside my son. If you can’t, then Decard is going with you, whether you want him to or not,” Victor said.

  “This boy thinks his magic will be dangerous to me and my power. What is this child but fifteen? He cannot wield magic enough to hurt me. And if he thinks he can, then he has insulted me. Who is this man that he would do such a thing so boldly?” Decard said.

  “I am Roth Callden of the Callden Collective. I do not wish to engage you at all. I am not a duelist, and it is obvious you are. I would not be comfortable facing a man like y
ou, but if I must do this and there is no way to beg off, then I would ask where would this duel take place and when?”

  “Callden Collective, you say?” Decard said.

  “Have you heard of us?”

  “You know I have. You know what it is you belong to. You are Roth. The weapons master they call you,” the man sneered.

  With that expression, Roth knew he would have to fight this man.

  “Why do they call you the weapons master?”

  “I am versed in magical weapons of all kinds,” Roth said. “I can tell you something about every magical weapon ever crafted.”

  “Bold words,” Victor said. “Perhaps a demonstration then.” He pulled his short sword and held it out to Roth. “What can you tell me about this weapon?”

  “May I?” Roth said, reaching out for the weapon.

  “If you are not afraid of it,” Victor said. “It has quite a bite.” The mage laughed and Roth took the weapon in his hands.

  He examined the blade, then he smiled and handed it back.

  “This is indeed an honor. I thank you for allowing me to hold it. I am a big fan of its creator,” Roth said. Victor frowned. “This weapon was made by Dixus Vortex. It was not forged. No hammer touched this sword in its creation. This sword was commanded into being. It is made not of steel but of pure magic. The man who crafted it is widely known to be a mighty conjurer. In fact, I would have to guess he made the armor you wear as well. It also seems to be of an unhammered ore. Your armor will take a beating, but it will never crack, or be penetrated by any mundane weapon.”

  “His knowledge of this sword only convinces me further that he would be as a child before a master were he to step into a dueling circle,” Decard said. “This is a scholar, not a war mage. He is all but helpless before me.”

  Roth fought back his anger, rage bubbling behind his eyes. He looked at Decard and fought to calm himself before he spoke. His even tone kept his anger well hidden.