The False Prince (Fall Of A King Book 1)

by Fuller, James

  It took him several moments to realize what was happening, but when he saw the two crimson fangs disappear and his friend crumble to the earth revealing the assailant, he knew the danger that revealed itself to him. He shot to his feet and reached for his battle-axe , which rested against the crate. But Shania was the quicker. Her left blade sliced clean through muscle, sinew and bone, leaving the savage's outstretched arm on the crate. He stumbled back in shock at seeing the bleeding stump, almost tripping over his seat. Shania was fast to act, leaping over the crate with cat-like agility. Her feet touched the ground and she bolted forward, sinking both blades deep into flesh before he could act further. With his remaining hand, he grabbed Shania's throat and squeezed, hoping to take his killer to the afterlife with him. But his strength was dwindling with each second, his grip slackened. With one final twist of her weapons, a concluding gasp escaped his mouth and he slumped forward.

  *****

  Zehava awoke with a moan as something soft and wet touched one of his fresh wounds. Tears welled up in his eyes, as he feared the sight of who was there with him.

  "It is okay. I am not going to hurt you," the familiar voice whispered to him as she stroked his blood-soaked hair back and cleaned the wounds on his back and legs. "I cannot believe you alive." She whispered again, helping him sit up and starting to remove his tattered shirt. Zehava moaned in pain as the shirt pulled free of the wounds it had dried to, re-opening many of them.

  "I am sorry it hurts - but I must clean them, or they will fester." She spoke so softly and gently that Zehava imagined it must be what an angel would sound like at death.

  "I did not scream," he said. His head began to spin again and he fought to stay conscious.

  "I know," she whispered back. She knew that warriors prided themselves on never screaming or begging for mercy when at the hands of an enemy, no matter the pain they were put through. She almost thought it odd that he would hold onto that throughout the ordeal. She had witnessed many of his race, who had so easily given up and begged for mercy or a quick death.

  It seemed like it took her forever to clean all his wounds, but once she was done she applied a sweet smelling paste to them. The paste made the wounds tingle and took a little of the sting out of them by numbing them.

  She laid him back down, rested his head in her lap, and fed him more of the stew she had brought in her pack to help him get regain his strength. Shania knew he was in no shape to escape that night. He had lost a lot of blood and could barely move. His wounds needed time to close and his focus to come back.

  Between mouthfuls, he spoke to her. It took more strength than he though mere words ever could. "Why are you helping me?"

  "I do not know," she paused. "I never met anyone like you, and since I first see you I felt connection." Shania stayed silent for a while. "When I look into your eyes I see something I never see before." She tried to stop herself from being caught up in the thoughts that were racing through her mind. "Instinct tell me to trust you."

  "I must get out of here," Zehava groaned, trying to sit up, but when he could not, he let his head fall back into her lap.

  "You in no shape to escape tonight." Shania replied, trying to think of what to do next. She could not stay within the camp through the following day. The bodies of her father and the three warriors would be discovered.

  "Find my friend and free him, he will be able to help," Zehava whispered.

  She went silent for a time as she caressed his head with her soft touch. "I be back tomorrow night, and we escape," she told him getting up. "If not here by the full of night," she paused. "Then me dead."

  "I cannot leave without my friend," Zehava moaned, rolling over to look at her. All she did was nod her head and then she scurried into the darkness, leaving him alone again.

  *****

  Meath had tried to sleep but could not. His arms ached and his stomach would not let up, while the cut in his leg throbbed. He had no idea what was going to happen and that truly frightened him. What if what the Shaman had said was true? It did not really matter; he knew he was dead either way. He had prayed to the Creator to make sure Nicolette stayed safe. He had prayed for her before he had prayed for Zehava or even himself. He knew he would never see her again.

  He had not attempted to use his Gift again, because of what had happened the first time. He never wanted to feel that kind of pain again, and he knew trying would not help. Meath wondered if Ursa knew that such a circle of powers even existed.

  Meath looked up through the small hole in the very center of the hut and saw that it was still quite dark out. He had never felt as helpless in his whole life, than he did at that moment. Meath looked up at the hole in the roof again and saw someone looking down at him. He thought it might be Death coming to take him away.

  "Who is there?" Meath whispered.

  "Shhh." The figure whispered back as it climbed in through the hole and onto the beam above him.

  "Who are you?" Meath asked. The slender figure came closer and he could see it was a barbarian girl, her face badly bruised.

  "My name, Shania. Will be killed if found here," she whispered back to him, her eyes never stopping their scanning of the room.

  Meath could see her urgency. "What are you doing here?" He could see from her expression she was fighting with her words.

  "Me help your friend escape tomorrow night," she paused. "I cannot help you. If escape tonight me could, but not tomorrow."

  "Then we will leave tonight!" Meath whispered back eagerly, a new hope filling him.

  She shook her head down at him. "He no travel tonight, badly hurt."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Me tried to help him, got caught. He was punished," Shania whispered down, sorrow in her tone.

  "Cut me down and take me too him. We will leave tonight," Meath stammered to her. "All three of us, I can carry him."

  The girl seemed to consider his words carefully. She looked up through the hole in the roof. Day was fast approaching. "Not enough time."

  "What?" Meath cried up at her louder than he should have. "You cannot be serious. You cannot just leave me."

  "Not enough time. Too many awake soon; never make it," she told him directly.

  "I do not have until tomorrow night. I need to be cut down tonight or I am dead," he begged her.

  She looked down at him again, nothing but remorse in her eyes. "Me can get him out tomorrow night. You, me can do nothing for, me sorry."

  "Please cut me down…. You cannot leave me here," Meath begged, knowing this was his one chance and he did not want it to slip away. He looked down at the white powder circle interfering with his Gift. "Just break the white circle for me and I will do the rest!" he urged, looking back up, but it was already too late. She was already gone from sight. He could hear her light footsteps on the roof and then… silence again. He cursed under his breath.

  6

  Meath watched the sunlight invade the shadows as it slowly spilled over the rim of the hut's chimney. It had been an hour or so since his encounter with the barbarian girl. He had been so angry with her for leaving him there, but in the several minutes after she left, he heard the activity of the stirring camp. She had been right; they would never have been able to make it out alive. He cursed again to the emptiness.

  He had tried to keep blood flow in his arms, but it seemed unimportant now. What good would his arms be? He was not getting down alive. This would be his last day on earth, he had to accept that. He cursed again, this time at himself. How could he give up? His heart still beat and his lungs still drew breath.

  Meath looked up through the hole in the roof and wished he could feel the warmth of the sun that beamed through on his skin. It was touching his tied hands, but he could not feel. He forced his fingers to move slowly at first, then faster and harder clenching his hands into fists, feeling the full burn of blood pumping through them again.

  The sun had been up for a while when Kinor finally returned to the hut. He carried a smal
l bag - Meath could only assume that he would be using for the ceremony.

  Meath glared hard at the Shaman; bitter hate emitting from his eyes with vicious intent. But the Shaman did not notice. He had not even gazed at Meath yet, as if he had no interest in him whatsoever. Meath found it odd and that angered him more.

  Finally, the Shaman looked over to Meath with a tranquil gaze. "Ah, you are still awake. Sleep well?" he asked with a sardonic grin.

  Meath bit back his rage that almost slipped from his mouth. He was not about to give the Shaman any satisfaction to his jabs. But the twisting of Meath's lips seemed to be enough for the Shaman.

  Meath watched him walk over to the small table and pull the hide off, revealing what was underneath. There were small and large iron knives - some curved, and some as small and as thin as they possibly could be without breaking when cutting into flesh. Beside them were eight metal symbols attached to long metal rods. Meath knew what those were for and he could feel his body start to sweat.

  Kinor began to pull small pouches of herbs and powders from his bag, placing them on the table. Once he was done, he called in his savage tongue to someone outside. A large brute came into the hut. Over his shoulder, he carried a slender, elderly man. The brute regarded Meath for a moment, and then with a snarl, looked to Kinor for direction.

  "Anywhere!" Kinor snapped aggravated, "then start the fire!" The brute dropped the man to the earth hard and went outside to grab some wood.

  Meath watched the man on the ground, he was out cold, several bruises riddled his face and his robes were stained with blood. His robes…Meath's eyes widened, the man on the ground was a Wizard too.

  "You two share the same fate," Kinor said, seeing the question in Meath's eyes. "It was so very convenient for my men to come across another true Wizard."

  "You are a mad man!" Meath hissed.

  Kinor chuckled patronizingly. "Maybe, but soon I will be more than the Creator Himself."

  The large brute came back, started a fire in the pit, and waited for his next task.

  "Tie him up beside our friend." Kinor ordered, he placed one of the metal symbols into the coals and sprinkled one of the pouches of herbs on the fire.

  Meath's heart began to pound in his chest, watching the metal brand heat up, but a slight movement from the old man pulled his attention away. The brute had the old man over one shoulder as he walked over to the beam. His eyes opened quickly to survey the scene and met Meath's for a second.

  The old man pushed himself upright in one sudden movement, catching the brute off guard enough that he released his hold on him. Before the Wizard's feet hit the ground, spikes of ice formed off the palms of his hands and he slammed them hard into the brute's oversized chest. With one last surge of will before death sealed his fate, the barbarian swatted the old man hard.

  The Wizard crashed to the earth, momentarily stunned from the blow. He lifted his head to see his hand a reach away from the white powder that encircled Meath. He moved his hand out to break the spell that restricted Meath's Gift, but his hand was stopped. A thorny vine tore from the earth entangling it, pulling his arm down violently into the earth up to his elbow, dislocating his shoulder and breaking his forearm.

  The Wizard cried out in anguish trying to pull his arm free, but the ground refused to release its prisoner. He shot his free hand up, several small ice shards had already formed in his palm and released with a violent flow of air.

  Kinor was ready and with a single thought, a prevailing concussion of air met the lethal assault, scattering the ice blades around the hut. Several of the pieces cut into the old Wizard's defenseless body. Before the Wizard could muster another attack, Kinor launched his own.

  "You like ice?" He hissed bitterly, hurling two solid ice orbs at the exposed Wizard. The orbs hit his chest hard, cracking bones one after the other.

  Meath hung there helplessly. His blood pumped furiously as he lurched and pulled on his restraints, wanting nothing more than to help the old Wizard who was being battered by the frozen rocks.

  Kinor grabbed a handful of white hair and pulled the tattered Wizard up to look him in the eyes. "Was it worth it?" he asked coldly.

  The Wizard lifted his hand toward Kinor in defiance. Kinor's face quivered in fury. He grabbed the Wizards arm and released his Gift.

  The Wizard howled and thrashed in agony, frost and ice began consuming the length of his arm to his shoulder. Kinor released his arm and it fell to the earth stiff and unmoving. The man's wails continued until Kinor's hand covered his mouth. The Wizard thrashed and convulsed wildly and Meath could smell burnt flesh.

  Kinor released his handful of hair and the Wizard fell to the ground, exhausted and silent. Though he still was screaming, only a muffled sound escaped the melted, blistered flesh where his mouth had been.

  A lean warrior entered the hut, his eyes darting this way and that, taking in the scene. Kinor's head snapped over to him. "What do you want?"

  The warrior's eyes locked with the Shaman's and Meath could see fear in his eyes. He held up his hand and showed the Shaman a bloodied whip. The warrior said something in his native tongue and Kinor's eyes widened.

  "Are you sure?"

  The warrior nodded his head and said something again that Meath did not understand.

  "Find her and bring her to me!" Kinor left the hut and several minutes later two large savages came in and dragged the corpse of their comrade away.

  Meath looked down at the old Wizard and wished he had something to say, but there was nothing. The man looked back up at him with regret and apology in his eyes. Meath nodded his understanding. "It is not your fault, you tried."

  Kinor entered the hut once again, one of the large warriors in tow. He grabbed the red-hot brand from the fire. "It is a shame you will not feel this!" He pressed it down into the palm of the defiant Wizard's icy arm. Kinor walked back to the table and grabbed a new brand and placed it in the fire.

  Meath eyed the Shaman attentively, his adrenaline renewing his strength and will. His eyes narrowed on the sword that hung at the hip of the warrior, his sword. The impressive blade looked small and out of place on such a large man.

  "Watch and witness for it will be your turn soon," Kinor growled, clearly annoyed of how things had gone.

  Meath lurched forward, his face twitching with anger and hate. He was about to speak when Kinor cut him off.

  "What? Hmm, what are you going to do?" he taunted. "Even if you could use your Gift, you are no match for me." As he spoke, the ground rippled underneath him and a platform of steps emerged from the earth, all the way up to the edge of the white circle that contained Meath, until he was eye level with him. "I have taken The Gifts of a dozen Masters and a hundred whelps like you, and with each one I grow stronger!"

  Meath could smell his breath and a wicked smirk curled across his lips as he spat into his face. Meath embraced the moment and kicked his legs up hard. Kinor did not have time to react and he was knocked off his earthly pillar.

  "Stronger maybe, but not smarter," Meath spat again, a defiant smile spreading across his lips.

  Kinor scrambled to his feet, his face flush with rage. "You wretch!" he screamed, flames erupting from his outstretched arms.

  Meath flinched back as he saw the ravenous flames rush towards him. At least this way he would be killed before the Shaman could steal his Gift. Meath could feel the intense heat from the fire all around him, but no flames licked his flesh. His eyes slowly opened, the heat stinging them. The fury of fire crackled and raged all around him, but did not penetrate the circle. It was as if a wall was stopping the flames from entering. Soon after, the flames dispersed into nothingness.

  "Your time will come!" Kinor hissed, grabbing the brand from the fire pit and walked over to the battered Wizard on the ground. The earth shifted and rose exposing the Wizard's frayed, broken arm. He pressed the brand into the palm hard. The old Wizard tried to pull away but did not have the strength to resist effectively. "Bring me a knife and a g
oblet," Kinor commanded to the warrior who stood dumbfounded in the hut. He was fast to act, lest he anger the Shaman any more than he was.

  The Shaman took the blade and ran it across the old Wizard's cheek, freeing the warm blood he was after. He held the cup under the old man's jaw and collected the stream until he was satisfied with the amount.

  Meath's stomach turned, watching the Shaman drink every crimson drop from the wooden goblet. His eyes drifted to the brand mark in the Wizards palm and he tried to make out what it was.

  "They are the Keeper's symbols. I am sure you have heard of them, 'Hate, Lies, Murder, Devastation, Greed, and finally Death'," the Shaman intervened. "It is His will that makes it all possible, but you will see that soon enough. You will get to watch this one die and give his Gift to me, and then you will give me your Gift."

  Meath lurched forward again, his teeth gritted in anger, which only brought a smile to the Shaman's face. He grabbed another one of the brands and placed it into the flames.

  Meath's attention turned back to the old Wizard, the earth was rising up with him on it. Vicious vines sprouted around him, latching on and entangling the poor man tightly. As the vines moved and consumed his body, their sharp thorns cut and tore into his flesh. Meath could hear the muffled wails of the Wizard and he prayed the lack of air would kill him before anything else. Only his feet remained uncovered by the thatch work of crimson wet vines.

  Meath watched the Shaman burn two more symbols into the man, one on each of his feet. It was sickening to watch the Shaman work, his face was void of anything but satisfaction in his inflictions.

  The bloody vines unraveled back to where they had come, leaving behind their lacerated, near-dead victim. Meath could not even tell if the man was still breathing. He hoped for his sake he was not.

  The Shaman seemed to notice this too. "Cannot have you die, yet," the Shaman mused. The blood-soaked earthly table shifted forward, rippling the ground as it came to the call of its master. The Shaman place his hand on the Wizard's chest and several of the deep gashes closed as they were force-healed. Kinor turned back to the fire pit and grasped the next symbol. The earthen podium lifted from the back, sitting the Wizard almost upright. Kinor waved the warrior over and the brute tore the tattered robes off, leaving him naked. The brand pressed hard into his chest with a hiss.