The Heir of Gorradan (Chronicles of Faerowyn Book 2)

by Tony Roberts

  THE HEIR OF GORRODAN

  The Second Tale Of The Chronicles of Faerowyn

  © Tony Roberts 2016

  www.tonyrobertsauthor.com

  ISBN 978-1-5136-1389-5

  Artwork by Jane Vellender

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  Also by Tony Roberts

  ONE

  Four men sat around a large camp fire, a fifth patrolling round the perimeter of the light, cradling a crossbow. They were morose, hard looking men with decent quality armour and weaponry. Chainmail, pieces of plate here and there, a couple of helmets. The crossbowman was clad in thick leather and wore a wide-brimmed round helmet.

  All this was seen by Faerowyn as she looked on from the darkness. Her elfin eyes scanned the rest of the woodland. Nothing. Her senses, much better than any human, were on full alert. Her pointed ears were shaped to pick up sound better than humans, but apart from the usual noises one would expect from a woodland at night in winter, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  Decision made. She pulled her horse out of the shallow dip they had been in and walked towards the light. She was cold and wanted warmth, and her stomach was protesting at being denied food. She carried some in her saddlebags, but it needed cooking before it was edible. She also needed information on the kingdom of Gorradan; what had happened in the two years since she had been there?

  Now eighteen, she was much more confident about her own self and abilities. It had been two weeks since she had left the fortress of Kaltinar, high in the mountains, and made the long road journey to Gorradan. She was bound for her home village on the coast, but to get there she had to pass through a land that had until recently been gripped by civil war.

  She trod on a twig and the five men whirled. “Who goes there?” the crossbowman challenged.

  “Friend,” Faer called out, and her form slowly emerged into the light of the fire.

  “Hold it right there,” the crossbowman growled. “You ain’t no friend – I don’t have any female friends.”

  The others were standing close to the fire, swords in hand. “Who are you and what is your business here?” one of the others called out, his breath clouding in the cold air.

  Faer stopped and released the reins. She stepped forward two paces. “My name is Dark Blade and I am returning to Gorradan. I would like to share your fire this night.”

  “Dark Blade?” the crossbowman said. “What sort of name is that?”

  “Professional,” she shrugged, smiling, her hands out wide.

  The men’s eyes switched to the hilt of the sword sticking up above her head. She carried a back scabbard, and her belt, a wide leather one, contained a few pouches and a knife. “Oh, a mercenary, is it?” the man at the front of the group by the fire said. “A woman mercenary?”

  “Elf blood too,” the crossbowman said, nodding at the pointed ears.

  “Dark skinned elf? Never seen one of those before.”

  “I’m half human,” Faer explained. “And cold.”

  “Stay cold – we don’t want you here. No room round the fire anyhow.”

  Faer examined the fire. It was very large and four men hardly took up any space. She smiled ironically. “Seems plenty of room, even for a tiny half-elf like me.”

  “Mouthy, too. Got plenty of balls, or you’re stupid. Hey, Hend, go see what’s in her saddlebags.” The crossbowman complied with a nod and began passing behind Faer.

  She turned. “I wouldn’t if I were you.” Her hands came down to hang alongside her hips.

  “Oh?” the man by the fire said. “Sounds like a threat, boys. What you gonna do, Dark Blade? Fight us off?” he laughed.

  Faer was not laughing. “Hend, you stop right now.”

  Hend slowed and looked around. “Or what?”

  “I kill you.”

  Hend scowled and raised his crossbow. Faer’s hand blurred, grasping her knife hilt and plucking it from her belt. A quick draw back with her hand and then a flick and throw, and the knife flew straight into Hend’s chest. He stood there stupefied, then fell backwards, dropping the crossbow.

  Faer was already moving, her right hand reaching up to grasp the hilt of her Royal Dark Elf Bloodline sword, pulling it out of its sheath. Three feet of shining forged steel from the Dark Elf city of Keria, it was incredibly tough, durable and light. Perfect for a female warrior to wield.

  The four men by the fire grasped their swords and stepped forward, scattering slightly to allow space to wield their weapons. Faer was moving forward swiftly, closing the gap in a couple of heartbeats. Her blade rose as she reached the first man who was drawing his four feet chunk of steel to deliver his first, and what he expected to be his only, blow. But it never came.

  A rapid strike smashed into his chest, slicing the linked steel mesh of his chainmail armour apart like paper and biting deep into his chest. The man felt something vile pass through his body, filling him with horror and dread, and then his life force seemed to be sucked out of him. He sank to his knees, blood spurting from the deep gash in his body, and Faer was already past him, eyes darting left and right. Two men closed in on her from opposite sides.

  Quick decision. She drew in a deep breath and focussed on her stomach. A force deep within her, a mass of dark elf abilities, rose up. She flattened out her left palm and with her mind forced a wall of power at the left hand man. The swordsman was picked up and bodily hurled backwards, screaming in shock. He hit the ground hard and his head struck a stone, stunning him.

  Before he had even hit the ground, she had turned to the right, her sword angling down, cutting below the other man’s path of attack. She twisted, bending, and the steel flashed over her body. Her blow came up and cut through his torso, from the stomach up. It exited out of his upper back, spinning him around, a shower of blood spraying out as he twisted and crashed to the leaf-covered ground.

  The last man came at her with a shrill scream, borne out of desperation. Faer smashed his blow aside and countered, two rapid blows ripping slices into his chest and neck. The man fell forward, his eyes losing focus.

  She turned slowly, examining the tableau. Four men dead or they would be so very shortly. One groaning holding his head. She smiled mirthlessly. Time perhaps to use another of her dark elf abilities. She wiped her blade and walked over to the slowly recovering man. He realised she was approaching so he made a move for the hilt of his sword. Faer kicked it aside.

  He tried to scramble away but she put a foot on his chest and the tip of her sword to his throat. “That wasn’t friendly, was it?” she said accusingly, smiling at him in a manner that unnerved him. “All I wanted was to warm myself by your fire. Look where your attitude has got you.”

  “Kill me and be damned,” he said in a strained voice. “Or leave me be.”

  Faer looked at the fire. “I think things would be much more civilised if we continued our conversation over by the fire, don’t you? I don’t fancy freezing myself here away from it.” She stepped back and flicked her sword in a commanding manner. “Up. No stupid moves.”

  He got up, glared at her, then slouched over to the warmth. He stopped and turned to face her. She halted a couple of paces away, sword pressed into his chest. “I know you’re thinking of trying something but don’t; it’ll be the last thing you’ll do. Now tell me about Gorradan.”

  “What about Gorradan?”
>
  “I want to know what’s happened the last two years from, say, the approach of the rebel forces on Portris.”

  “Huh, is that all?” he said sarcastically, then pulled a knife out from his belt and stabbed upwards. Faer twisted and the point narrowly missed her throat. She slapped him with the flat of her blade and raised her left hand sending another shock wave at him, flinging him off his feet. He hit the ground two feet from the crackling fire and lay there stunned.

  Faer slid her sword back into its sheath and pulled him back from the blazing logs and looked down at him, sighing. She resigned herself to what she was to do with him. She knelt on his chest, her knees then sliding either side of his chest, gripping him tightly. The warmth of the fire beat at her and she sighed appreciatively – it was the first time she’d really felt warm for days.

  The man groaned and feebly shook his head. His arms came up and pushed at her legs but they were clamped hard against him.

  “Now, sweetheart,” she purred, “your last chance; tell me what I want to know.”

  “Go burn in the abyss you bitch,” he snarled.

  “As you wish,” Faer said and leaned forward. “Now darling, let me bring you pleasures you never dreamed of.”

  She kissed him deeply and allowed a wave of power ripple up through her body into his, shaking him to his core. He gasped and her tongue was inside his mouth, sweetly caressing him and a numbness spread from it throughout his mouth, then into his brain. Some dark wave engulfed his consciousness and then…

  …nothing like he’d ever experienced… joy. Pleasure. Ecstasy. Ohhhhhhhh!!!!

  Faer pulled away from the kiss and whispered into his ear. “Now you’re mine, forever. Whose are you?”

  “Y-Yours…”

  She smiled, then whispered again. “I am your mistress; you will address me as that.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She nodded and plunged into another deep kiss, sealing him to her irretrievably, her dark elf pheromones and endorphins soaking into his body and mind, binding him to her.

  A short while later she sat by the fire, cooking a smallish forest fowl she had hunted on a long stick. It hadn’t been that difficult to catch the animal; because the villagers where she had grown up had refused to let her go fishing with them she had developed a skill with the sling to catch food for her mother and herself. The fowl had been rooting around the forest floor and one well-aimed stone had done the trick.

  She scrutinised the animal, not wanting to burn the flesh. She had plucked, gutted and beheaded it and then impaled it on a handy stick. She had ordered her new slave to go fetch her horse and then dispose of the four bodies, strip them of any useful items and pile whatever he had found on the ground near the fire.

  He was still dutifully dragging the dead away into the undergrowth, so she did what she often did when alone, speak with her other self. People would consider her mad if they heard her, so she was careful to only do it when she was on her own. This was something she wasn’t sure was normal with people like her with two distinct heritages; a human side and dark elf side. Was it because dark elves were so different and used what humans called magic as a matter of course? Until she spoke to another like her, and from what she knew there were very few, then she wouldn’t know for sure.

  You going to keep this one like Grange?

  “No. I don’t want to have a dependant.”

  Well why bind him to us? Not that I’m complaining – I enjoyed it.

  “You know full well why – if they had been accommodating we would be sitting round this fire talking to one another.”

  Then decide his fate.

  “I already have. After speaking to him.”

  Let me kill him.

  “Be silent and behave.”

  If there was a psychological version of a pout, Faer detected it. She smiled and turned the mostly cooked fowl. It was nearly ready, judging by the smell and look. It was driving her stomach crazy. “Bring my small shoulder bag hanging from the saddle,” she called to the man.

  “Yes Mistress,” he said and came over, a small leather bag with a long strap hanging from it. He was ordered to open it and take out a small bag with a piece of string tying the neck shut. She then told him to open the small bag and sprinkle some of the contents onto his hand. He obeyed and stopped when she told him to. A mind-slave would not think to stop when they thought enough was enough. They followed commands blindly.

  “Here, put it in my hand,” she said. “Good. Now kneel by my side and watch.” She brought the sizzling fowl close and sprinkled the fragrant herbs onto it. Being careful not to burn her hand, she smeared them all over the flesh. “Cut a chunk off with your knife and taste it.”

  The man did so and chewed. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Good?” Faer asked.

  “Yes, Mistress, the best I’ve tasted ever!”

  She pointed to a narrow-leafed shrub to one side of the clearing, just visible in the camp firelight. “That there is called tarragon. The leaves can be cut off and used with fowl, like this, improves the taste enormously. They can be stored in bags like this for a time. If you ever see bushes like that, store some. The next time you eat anything like this, smear some on.” She cut a piece off herself and chewed. It sent her taste buds tingling. He wasn’t exaggerating; it was excellent.

  When they had eaten their fill and the bones and carcass had been thrown into the fire, she turned to look at him, kneeling before her. “Tell me, what were you and your friends doing here, and why were you so hostile to me?”

  “Mistress, we were survivors from the royal army of Gorradan, defeated by Jerethal, outside Portris two years ago. We have been hunted by the new king’s forces ever since, but we’ve hidden here away from them. We thought everyone was an enemy, so we did not wish you to join us – I am sorry, Mistress,” he hung his head.

  She waved his apology aside. “That is not important. Tell me, what is the situation in Gorradan now.”

  She was told what she wanted to hear. Jerethal, now king, had captured Portris after defeating the royal army; the town had simply surrendered. Gorradan City had held out for two months before capitulating through lack of food. Jerethal had the king and his family put to death and taken the crown himself. All those who had supported the dead king had been arrested and nobody knew what had become of them.

  Anyone suspected of being a supporter was hunted down. King Jerethal did not want any opposition to his new reign. Faer wondered if that would make things for difficult on her journey through the kingdom to her old home village. She needed to get there to find the next set of papers her father had left her in her pursuit of her heritage. A list of dark elf contacts, supporters of her father. One must still be alive, after eighteen years, and she would then have to pick up her father’s trail from whoever she found, and convinced them as to who she was.

  And what she was. Princess Faerowyn of the Royal House of Owyn, the heir to the Owyn title. Her father was the popular choice to take the throne of Keria, the Dark Elf Kingdom. If her father was no more, then the popular choice would fall on her shoulders. Queen Faerowyn. It was an overwhelming thought.

  “Now listen to me,” she said in that commanding tone she knew she would have to use to any slave. “I wish to sleep. You will guard me tonight with your life. In the morning you will sleep here, then take a message to the fortress of Kaltinar atop Blade Mountain. You will deliver my message to Blademaster Territus, do you understand? Good. It will take you many days to reach it, but take the road on the other side of this forest and make for the mountains. When you reach the village on the river fork, take the west road into the mountains and when you see the flat top of Blade Mountain, cross the bridge and climb to the gatehouse at the summit. Tell them Dark Blade sent you.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “You will then request service there and follow the commands of Blademaster Territus. I permit it.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She then command
ed him to resume collecting the dead men’s belongings and sat on the bedroll from her saddle and composed a letter to Territus. She marked it private, and smiled at the words she put, full of fondness. They had made love the morning she left, a wonderful experience for her, and she knew the head of the school had the same deep feelings for her, but their paths differed and they both understood that. Otherwise she would have remained there a little while longer.

  Fool, you should have enjoyed him many more times.

  “Shut up. You’re just in a sulk because I didn’t let you loose on him.”

  You’re just annoyed because of what happened at the party.

  “Less of that you harlot.”

  Laughter greeted those words and she shut her inner self out and concentrated on her message. She explained what had happened to this man and why she had sent him to the school. She believed he would serve well as a guard there, under the command of Territus. That way the man would have a purpose.

  She then folded the message in three and tied it with a small piece of string, and settled down for the night. In the morning she would take half of what had been gathered and leave the rest for the man to use on his journey.

  Then she would go to the town of Portris and see for herself how she would be greeted.

  TWO

  The town of Portris didn’t look any different to how she remembered it. She had only been there once, two years previously, when she had come this way with Markus on their way to Kaltinar. From what she recalled, it had been living nervously from the approach of the then rebel army under Jerethal, and she and Markus had stayed at the temple. She wondered if the same priest who had been so helpful to them that night was still there. Perhaps she could thank him – what was his name? – Ghular, yes that was it. Servant of Horthas.

  She rode slowly up to the gates and halted. There were four guards on duty and they looked a little more efficient that those here previously. “State your business,” one challenged her, looking her over carefully.