The False Prince (Fall Of A King Book 1)

by Fuller, James

  Meath was on his feet and on top of the sentry, raining fists down hard before he had a chance to recuperate, dazing the man even further. For a split second from the corner of his eye, Meath saw the glint of light reflecting off steel. But before he could act, the blade bit into his shoulder. His hand wrenched the knife from his shoulder and he stabbed down immediately, hoping to end one of his threats. The sentry regained his senses and grabbed a hold of Meath's hands, halting the attack. Meath pushed down with all his weight, trying to overpower him, but the sentry held strong. Meath knew he had only moments before the other sentry was upon him and then he would be in trouble. He forced his Gift into the dagger, heating it to blistering temperature within an instant. The sentry could not take it any longer. The dagger pierced through his heart, scorching and blackening the skin around the immediately fatal wound with a pungent hiss.

  Before Meath could react, the other sentry exploded from the overgrowth. His foot connected solidly with Meath's ribs, hurling him off the dead man and into the trunk of a tree. Meath coughed and gasped desperately for air as he tried to push himself up so he could defend himself before it was hopeless. He turned his head so he could see the next attack and was surprised at what he saw. The sentry was standing there, crossbow leveled, the kill there for the taking at any moment.

  "Tell me it is not true, Meath!" The sentry said, his posture softening only slightly.

  "What?" Meath coughed out agonizingly, not comprehending what was happening and why he recognized the voice.

  "Tell me the rumors are not true, Meath! Tell me you did not kill the King and kidnap the Princess!" The soldier towered over him and cried out frustrated. "Tell me so I do not have to…kill the man who once saved my life!"

  At once Meath knew who the sentry was.

  *****

  His name was Stewart - he was younger than Meath and had been trained in Drandor alongside him. They had been in separate squads that trained together frequently. It had been on their first serious excursion out as freshly trained soldiers. Both squads were sent out to investigate one of the towns near Lake Lajuen, near the border of Zandor. There had been countless reports of Barbarian raiding parties, attacking the town and caravan supply wagons going in and out for months.

  They had met up with a small caravan heading to the town and disguised themselves as fellow travelers. Most of the soldiers hid in the wagons, out of sight, so not to give their true numbers away, in the hope of luring out the enemy. Drawing out the enemy - they did - but they had not been ready for them. They had still been two days ride away from the town and had stopped for the night on the side of the road near the river. Many of the soldiers had befriended the caravan merchants who were more than willing to share their wines and ale with them for the extra protection. The soldiers had overindulged in the generous offer that night, completely unaware they were being watched.

  Meath had been part of a sentry squad that was to protect their flanks for half the night. Along with him in the squad had been a fine soldier named Tyler, who was well on his way to becoming a Captain. There was a giant brute of a fellow, who they had nicknamed the Sandman. His sheer size and fierce looks had made several of his training partners black out from anxiety before they had ever stepped into the training square. Then there had been Stewart. He had come from a rich family of respected sailors and soldiers, his parents expected him to follow suit.

  It had almost been the end of their shift when the unruly attack ensued. The four of them had just met back up at their checkpoint after surveying their designated surroundings one last time. Everyone reported a dead night, which had made them overconfident and careless on their trek back. They had been a mile from the camp when they were ambushed - they had missed all the signs. The pure tranquility of the night had dulled their sense of danger. The vivid stillness of night creatures and insects should have been their first clue that something was wrong, but it had not.

  They made small talk as they hiked back to camp - which had given their numbers and location away effortlessly. They had stopped for a few moments to catch their breath, when a barrage of arrows mutely hailed down on them from the darkness. It had caught them all bitterly by surprise. Any chance they had to mount a proper defense was hastily taken from them by the time the last arrow struck the earth. Tyler was dead - half a dozen arrows had laid him to the dirt before they had even realized they were in peril. The Sandman had taken two arrows, one in his thigh and another in his side, but still stood firm and ready with his twin headed battle-axe. Stewart too had been hit in the thigh - the wickedly crafted arrow having severed a part of an artery and he was bleeding profusely. Luck had been on Meath's side, for he was the one who had been chosen to carry the supply pack - it had stopped three arrows from penetrating his back.

  The rain of arrows ceased and they went back to back as several savages melted out of nowhere - their crude, tarnished weapons hungry for blood. They knew they were dangerously outnumbered and if they did not act quickly, death was imminent. Retreat was their only option for survival and the survival of those back at camp. Several of the savages plundered Tyler's corpse for anything worth pilfering, while the others were left to deal with the three ambushed soldiers.

  Tyler had been the Sandman's best friend and watching the enemy maul and disrespect his body had enraged him. He broke rank like a charging bull, yelling for Meath and Stewart to run back to camp to warn the others - his blades leading the way in wild, vicious swings of defiance. Meath had to fight the urge to stay and die fighting like his friend, but he refused to let the Sandman and Tyler die in vain. They bolted through the trees - the distraught cries of the Sandman, who bought them as much time as his life could, fueling their steps.

  Meath had known by the amount of blood Stewart was losing, that he would not be able to keep up for long. Meath forced him on, putting his arm around him, half-pulling, and half carrying him until finally, Stewart collapsed. Meath refused to leave another comrade behind and did something on pure instinct for survival. Something Ursa had warned him never to do.

  Meath forced a stick into Stewart's mouth and told him to bite down, as he tore the arrow from his leg. His hands covered the deep wound as he urged the unknown power that he knew was hidden inside of him to come out before it was too late. But nothing happened - he was about to give up when he heard the shouts of the enemy not far in the distance. Panic and fear overwhelmed him, but in those moments, his Gift surged through him and released into Stewart's leg. The fatal wound began to close and heal slowly by means neither one of them really could fathom. With a newfound strength and will, they made it to the camp just in time to warn them.

  *****

  "Stewart, I swear to you it is not true!" Meath gasped pushing himself up onto his knees.

  "How can I believe you, Meath, when here you are?" Stewart cried, his crossbow shaking in his hands.

  "On my honor, I promise you it is not true!" Meath said imploringly to his old comrade - he knew Stewart was reliving that moment too.

  Stewart glared hard at Meath for several long moments fighting some unseen inner battle, until finally the crossbow lowered to the ground. "I owe you my life, Meath, and I feared I would never get the chance to repay it."

  "Ursa, no!" Meath cried out just in time to stop the Wizard from smashing a thick branch over Stewart's head.

  Stewart spun around to level his crossbow at the unexpected assailants that had appeared behind him, but a sharp surged of air tore the weapon from his hands and off into the growth.

  "Treachery!" Stewart cried, looking back at Meath as if betrayed.

  "No, what Meath said is true," Nicolette said, drawing Stewart's stare her way. "They did not kill my father."

  "Stewart…Ken, are you all right in there?" A voice called from the road.

  Stewart looked hard at the three of them, again fighting some unseen skirmish from within. "I believe you…now run! I will lead them astray," he told them running off towards the road. "They're getting
away. This way!" Stewart yelled, leading the others the opposite way into the jungle.

  "Let us not waste our good fortune!" Ursa said again, leading the way.

  They hiked through the jungle for a handful of hours before finally feeling confident enough to venture out onto the road again. It appeared as if Stewart had been able to lead the soldiers astray.

  Ursa marched over to Meath and cuffed him upside the head. "Heroicness does not become you! Are you trying to get us all killed?"

  "What?" Meath blurted out, dumbfounded. "I saved our lives!"

  "You almost got yourself killed! You need to stop thinking like a brute soldier and start using your wits," Ursa snapped, looking at the moist blood oozing from Meath's shoulder. "Another wound, hardly surprising!" his tone carrying a father's worry.

  "It was my fault we were almost caught," Nicolette intervened, shocked by Ursa's outburst. "I am sorry."

  Ursa stopped his eruption and let out a long exasperated sigh. "What is done is done - it matters not anymore. We are all alive. Now let me heal that before it gets infected and I have to remove the whole arm." Ursa placed a palm onto Meath's shoulder and let his Gift flow through him into the wound. His outburst had been more a father's concern than anything else - he knew Meath had most likely saved their lives. "We are not far from the trail - we must make haste and get off this road."

  *****

  "They were here, all three of them, Sir," The tracker said over his shoulder to Rift, tracing his hands over the footprints on the ground.

  "How long ago, damn it!" Rift yelled while looking down at the man from his horse.

  "They came through here a few hours ago, I would say. From the looks of their tracks, they are heading northwest to Sheeva City. It seems foolish though, they must know the news would have reached there by now and that getting in would be impossible. Not to mention it is a long way to go without supplies and horses." The tracker mounted his horse and waited for new orders. "If Sheeva City is where they're headed and they're still on foot, we should be able to overtake them before the sun sets."

  "Believe me, nothing is impossible for Ursa. He is a cunning man and very well connected. But why would they take her there? It does not make any sense - where are they going?" Rift said aloud while he pondered what to do. "Are you sure you know nothing else?" He asked the battered sentry who had engaged them.

  "They passed right by Ken and myself. If they were going anywhere else, I would figure they would have tried to slip by on the other side of the road," the sentry replied.

  "Did you hear them discussing anything, anything at all?" Rift pressed with a stern look.

  "No sir, they were dead quiet, we only heard them because her Highness tripped and cried out," he answered.

  "Was she restrained?" Shahariel asked.

  "No sir - it was very peculiar if you ask me," Stewart replied awkwardly. "But then again, she was most likely scared out of her wits and knew better than to resist."

  "You are lucky to be alive…you might have ended up like your friend here," Shahariel said pointing to the unfortunate sentry, who had a charred dagger protruding from his chest.

  "I was sadly outmatched, but would have died for the cause all the same," Stewart sighed, looking down at the other sentry whom he had known for years.

  "Good job, soldier," Rift muttered, walking out of the woods and back onto the road. "As for the rest of you…" he began, but stopped when he saw a pair of riders coming hard from the west.

  "Rift, we found their tracks a few miles up ahead. They travelled northwest for a time but turned off onto a hunters trail, which leads back toward Darnan," One of the riders blurted out as he jumped from his horse, almost too fast to catch his feet underneath him.

  "Shahariel, you come with me. I might need you to find their tracks again and it will be much faster with just the two of us. The rest of you follow as fast as you can. Darnan is as far as they will go!" Rift ordered, leaping onto his horse and spurring it into a hard run.

  Stewart watched the group ride off around the bend and cursed under his breath. "Sorry Meath, I tried."

  "What did you say Stewart?" A patrolman asked while swatting as a bug.

  "I just said I hope they catch those bastards." He lied, still watching as the dust settled.

  "They will - they will," the man replied.

  *****

  Meath neared the group of soldiers guarding the entrance to Darnan and dread encircled his insides. He could not help but wish Ursa was with them, but the Wizard was already waiting on the other side of the barricade in the town somewhere. It had appeared so effortless watching Ursa go through. The guards hardly seem to pay the Wizard much notice, as they were not looking for a simple old beggar drifting by himself. Ursa had rubbed dirt along his arms, face and even in his hair, giving him a mangy, vagrant look. Then he had used one of the dusty horse blankets that they had taken from the horses as a cloak to hide his dirty white robes

  Ursa had played the part so flawlessly; the hump back, the limp, even begging the guards for a few coins. Meath shook his head. He had to concentrate and play his part just as convincingly, if not more so. The guards were looking for the Princess and she was with him, huddled right beside him.

  He looked at Nicolette and could tell she was just as nervous as he was. He knew, as well as she, that if this did not go precisely as planned they would likely never see each other again. He gave her a reassuring look, though he did not quite believe it yet himself. He stole one last glance at her as they came to a halt in front of a large, clean-shaven soldier.

  "Remove your hoods!" The soldier commanded. He stood his ground in front of them with his hand lazily on the hilt of his sword.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Meath asked cautiously. "We have done nothing wrong."

  "I said, remove your hood, or I will remove it for you! I am not in the mood for insolence," The man sneered, a fierce tone behind his words.

  "All right, no need for violence," Meath said, pulling the blanket off his head. The soldier glared at him for a moment then looked over to Nicolette who still had not removed the blanket from around her head.

  "I said take it off! This is the last time I will ask," The man barked, taking a step closer to Nicolette. She slowly pulled the blanket down and let her scarlet hair fall down her back. The soldier stared at her hard for a moment, "What is your name?"

  Nicolette's eyes shimmered with anxiety. They had not thought any need of false names and she was so terrified she could not calm her thoughts long enough to think of one.

  Meath noticed her delay and knew every second counted. "I am afraid my poor sister is a mute sir," Meath blurted out nervously. "She got bit by a spider when she was younger. Our parents could not afford the potion to counteract the poison in time and she lost her voice. Her hearing is not too good either," he added cleverly.

  The guard looked her in the eyes for several moments then turned back to Meath. "I did not ask for your life story - what is her name?"

  "Her name is Victoria, sir," Meath replied, saying the first name that came to his tongue. Meath was almost certain they were about to be discovered and wished Ursa had not made him throw his sword away.

  The man stood back and looked at both of them as if contemplating their story. "What brings you to Darnan?" He asked dourly.

  "Well sir…we are…" Meath mumbled out trying to think of a reason. "…are traveling to each town and city in hopes to find a physician or Wizard who might know of a cure for her muteness," he managed.

  "Then I would suggest you go and see Mister Todward, he is the best physician in town and if he cannot, I am sure he would know of someone who can," the guard told him, a hint of compassion edging into his voice.

  "Thank you - may the Creator shine on you with many blessings, sir," Meath praised in thanks.

  "A pretty little thing like that must have had the voice of an angel - it would be a shame for no one to ever hear it again," the guard replied respectfully, falling fully f
or the ruse. He stepped aside and waved the other men out of the way so they could pass. Meath and Nicolette made their way through the mass of soldiers that formed the roadblock.

  "That was too close," Meath whispered after they were out of hearing range. He looked over his shoulder and was glad to see none of the guards showed any signs of suspicion toward them.

  "I cannot believe that worked," Nicolette replied, pulling her hood back on.

  "I was sure we were done for. I have to say, the red hair was a good idea. I think it saved our lives," Meath replied with a long sigh of relief.

  "Of course it was," Ursa said from behind them. "Follow me at a distance and make sure no one sees us together, Meath, good job." With that, he turned down a side road between two small houses, all the while keeping up his begging as he went.

  Meath had a difficult time following the aged Wizard. Ursa looked so much like all the other beggars in the fading light and even had the gait perfected. More than once, Meath and Nicolette lost view of him and each time, after only a few moments, he would emerge behind them again scolding him.

  "We are almost there. Keep your eyes open and do not lose sight of me again," Ursa muttered, clearly irritated.

  They followed Ursa through several more alleyways until he finally came to a stop in front of a large gated off mansion. Ursa waved the doorman over, once Meath and Nicolette had caught up to him.

  "It is late - what do you want? We do not give to beggars. Go bother someone else," the short, black-haired man said, waving his hand in dismissal when he neared the gate.

  "We are not your regular beggars," Ursa said lifting his hood back.