War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2)

by Olney, Matthew

  “How about a wager, Commander,” he asked.

  Fritin raised an eyebrow, his curiosity peaked.

  “Go on.”

  “If Faramond wins the fight with your man, you must let us go.”

  “And if my man wins?”

  Luxon threw a look at his companions.

  “If your man wins, then we will surrender ourselves into your custody without a struggle.”

  Ferran shouted out in protest, but Sophia placed a calming hand on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Trust in Luxon. He knows what he’s doing … I hope,” she said with more confidence than she felt.

  Fritin thought for a moment, before nodding in his head. He faced his men.

  “You heard the wizard. If Bolgar wins, the magic yielders will surrender. Their fate is now in the hands of Niveren.”

  The crowd cheered, the earlier tension now eased. The prospect of a good fight outweighed their concerns over the politics of the capital. The cheers faded and a new tension filled the air as the two warriors circled each other. Faramond had a wry grin on his face and his eyes were fierce. Suddenly, Bolgar dashed forward and brought his sword down in a slice. Faramond spun on his heel like a dancer, and the blade whistled as it swept through empty air.

  The prince chuckled. To Luxon’s amazement, the man was actually enjoying himself, as if he had no fear. Bolgar grunted as he swung again; this time the blade was deflected aside easily. The crowd roared back into life as the sound of clashing steel broke the spell of silence that had fallen over them. The large legionary shuffled forward, hacking and slashing as he advanced. Faramond danced backwards, only using his own weapon to parry any blows that got too close. Bolgar roared in frustration at the prince. Already, sweat was pouring into the soldier’s eyes. Despite the autumn chill that filled the air, the man was hot and flustered as his foe kept dancing out of range.

  “Fight me, you coward!” Bolgar roared as he launched a combo of cuts and slices.

  Faramond ducked and dodged. Bolgar sneered as mid-swing he rotated his wrists and aimed the sword point at his enemy’s feet. The crowd gasped as Faramond acrobatically cartwheeled out of the way. He laughed at the stunned expression on Bolgar’s face.

  With a grace that would put a trained dancer to shame, the prince ran at Bolgar, dodging a swing by skidding onto his knees mid-run. The sword’s deadly blade passing narrowly over his head. Still in motion, he rose from his knees and launched himself into the air. Bolgar staggered backwards as Faramond’s knee connected solidly with his chest. Now it was Faramond who went onto the offensive. As at the start of the figh, he whirled his sword around so that it whistled through the air. At such a speed, Bolgar had no chance of seeing the blade. With sheer luck, he shifted his weight onto his heel and brought his own weapon up. The sound of clashing steel rang out again. The two men fought hard, their faces mere inches from one another; they could smell each other’s breaths. Both men grunted as they fought to gain the upper hand over the other. Bolgar growled; his sheer size and bulk was giving him the advantage. To his surprise, however, Faramond winked mischievously. With a speed that caused the crowd gasp, the prince disengaged his blade and launched himself into a back flip. With no resistance, Bolgar staggered forward and fell onto his knees. It was then that Faramond made his move by delivering a savage kick to the side of the legionary’s skull. Teeth and spittle flew from the big man’s mouth, his eyes rolled into the back of his skull and he crashed to the stone-flagged ground with a thud, unconscious.

  The crowd gawped in stunned amazement at what they had seen. Faramond sheathed his sword into his belt and knelt over his beaten adversary.

  “The bigger you are, the harder you fall to the earth like a sack of shit,” he chuckled.

  Luxon sighed in relief. He walked over to the prince and shook his hand. Next he turned his attention to Fritin. The commander’s face was red with rage.

  “Looks like we win, Commander.”

  The commander was about to reply when a horn sounded in the distance.

  A bell began to ring out on the western wall.

  “To your battle stations!” bellowed a centurion.

  The stillness that had settled over the crowd ended as the soldiers scrambled to their positions, the standoff between their commander and the magic wielders forgotten. More bells began to toll as the alarm spread through the mighty fortress. Legionarys hurried to the armouries or to positions on the wall. It was chaos.

  Ferran gripped Luxon by the shoulder and pushed him towards the horses.

  “This is our chance, mount up!” he called to the others. Kaiden leapt into Herald’s saddle and the others quickly followed suit. Luxon mounted his brown horse, pleased to see Faramond do likewise.

  A large contingent of legionaries marched past, their heavy armour clinking noisily. Many of the soldiers looked terrified, giving away the fact that they were rookies.

  “I recognise that horn,” Faramond whooped. “My people have come for me!” He kicked his boots into his horse’s flanks and shot off towards the western gate.

  With an exasperated sigh, Luxon and the others followed. Very soon, they began to struggle to keep pace with the prince. His equestrian skills were something to see. He commanded his steed with authority and grace. Skilfully, he steered his mount around the now running legionaries.

  The tolling of the bells grew more frantic as they approached the western gatehouse.

  As with the eastern gate, it was an impressive barrier of stone and iron. A massive portcullis had been locked into place and archers had taken up positions along the battlements. Commander Fritin was bellowing orders to his men. Clumsily, the soldiers formed up into ranks: spearmen in front, swordsman behind.

  Faramond reached the gate and trotted his horse in front of the petrified ranks of soldiers. He smiled happily and raised his head high.

  “Release me, Fritin, and allow my new friends here to leave, or my people will attack this fortress!” he shouted so that all of the legion could hear.

  Commander Fritin glared at his former prisoner, his eye twitching in rage. Luxon and the others trotted their mounts over to Faramond. The sound of thousands of galloping horses carried clearly on the cold air.

  Luxon dismounted and bounded up a set of stone steps which led to the battlements. He pushed his way past the archers gathered on the walls and looked out.

  An army numbering in the thousands was amassed just out of bowshot.

  Every warrior was on horseback, a bow in their hands. The earth shook as the Keenlance tribe kicked their heels into their mounts’ flanks. As one, the horses stamped their iron shod hooves onto the frost bitten grass of the plain. A single rider emerged from the massed ranks, a horn held high in the air.

  “Seems they want to talk, sir,” one of the archers called down to Fritin.

  The commander snorted derisively.

  “Of course they do,” he replied loudly. “It would take a million of those dirt eating tribesmen to breach the walls of this fortress.”

  Some of the legionaries chuckled.

  Sheathing his sword, Friton climbed the steps that led to the battlements. Arrogantly, he pushed his way past Luxon and leaned on the parapet.

  The rider holding the horn trotted forward. He wore an iron helm decorated with a tall red plume. The face piece was simply decorated, and only revealed the man’s mouth and chin. Like the other riders, he wore a suit of armour made of many individual small armour scales of various shapes, which were attached to each other and to a backing of cloth or leather in overlapping rows. Their arms were bare, and leather bracers were attached to the wrists, attesting to the importance they placed on the bow.

  “Release our prince, fiend, and we will retreat from your walls,” the rider shouted. “If you do not, we shall attack.” Enforcing his threat, the warrior turned in his saddle and pointed.

  Moving through the massed ranks of horsemen trundled six trebuchets, pulled by horses. Upon seeing the deadly siege weapo
ns, some of the colour drained from Fritin’s face. He swallowed visibly as he imagined the damage such contraptions could inflict upon the fortress’s walls.

  He rubbed a hand over his face as he contemplated his options. He had too few men to make repairs. With most of the legions fighting in the east against Retbit and Fell Beasts, he just didn’t have the manpower. If the tribes knew just how weak the garrison at the Watchers was, they would surely attack en masse.

  Without men to adequately defend the mile-wide walls, they would eventually be overrun.

  “I guess you had better let us leave, Commander,” Luxon said softly. Fritin’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment Luxon thought that the man would strike him. He channelled the magic in him, ready to defend himself. But with a reluctant sigh, Fritin’s shoulders sagged and he called down to the legionaries bracing the gates.

  “Open the gates and let them leave.” he said defeated. “We can’t afford to risk the fortress, not with all the weirdness occurring on the plains.”

  With a loud screeching the massive portcullis began to slowly rise. Dust fell as the huge iron doors creaked open. As they did so, the legionaries lowered their spears in preparation for an attack by the tribesmen. Luxon hurried down from the walls and climbed into his horse’s saddle.

  “Will you take us to my mother?” he asked Faramond, whose horse stood next to his own.

  The man nodded.

  “I shall, and I will show you why my people have risked everything to escape the plains.”

  15.

  It had once been a city of hope, a place where the disparate folk of the plains could gather in safety. Now, it was a city of nightmares. Stormglade had fallen into darkness.

  Black clouds roiled in the skies above the city; beasts of the Void stalked the lands outside its walls; and men with glowing eyes patrolled its high walls. In the streets, the dead prowled, and dark mages of the N’gist performed their foul incantations. It was a city of evil, a city of death … the city of Danon.

  In the city’s harbour, a black-sailed ship slid into port. Aboard were hundreds of prisoners captured during the Sarpi’s raids along the Marble Shore. Men, women and children were chained and huddled together in fright as the ship slowly pulled alongside a stone quayside. Among them were Alira and her little girl, Ilene. As the ship juddered to a halt, one of the Sarpi captors banged his spear on the deck.

  “Get them up and get them processed,” the Sarpi hissed. Rough hands gripped Alira and pulled her up onto her feet. She held tightly onto her daughter, pressing her close to her breast.

  “Fear not, my sweet. Papa will come and save us, I promise,” she whispered into her daughter’s ear. The little girl buried her head into her mother’s hair. The two of them were chained together by the wrist, and Alira was attached the other prisoners by a chain attached to her ankle.

  Miserably, the prisoners slowly marched off the ship and down a wooden ramp that had been attached to the starboard side. Standing at either side of the ramp’s base were two more cloaked Sarpi warriors, their eyes glinting menacingly in the darkness. Each held a long spear tipped with a jagged steel point. Between them was a man; not a Sarpi, but a normal man. He was short, with weasel-like features, and wore a black cloak with sleeves trimmed with scarlet red material. In his left hand was a large book, and in his right a quill with which he used to scribble notes on the tome’s pages. The prisoners were forced to file passed him, and as they did so he would write something in the book. Alira reached him. Immediately, she felt dizzy and weak. She cried out as she staggered. Ilene clung onto her tighter.

  “Wait,” the robed man said.

  He scurried over to Alira and grabbed her by the hair, and she cried out in pain. He leaned in close, his foul breath almost making her gag. A bony hand brushed her cheek and pinched her cheeks. The man sneered.

  “This one has magic in her veins,” he chuckled wickedly. He turned and gestured for one of the Sarpi to grab her.

  “Take this one and her brat and put them with the other gifted ones,” he ordered. He smiled, revealing a mouth of broken and yellowed teeth.

  “You should be happy, my beauty,” he cackled as he gestured for the line to keep moving. “You will be spared the digging. You will serve the master.”

  Alira and Ilene were pushed towards a small group of prisoners huddled miserably to the side. There were four of them altogether. An old man with a kind face stood close to a young man who looked petrified. Two young girls – twins it seemed – held on to each other tightly.

  A woman dressed in the same robes as the wicked-looking man emerged from the shadows. As she did so, Alira and the other prisoners moaned as the strange weakness overwhelmed them. It was then that Alira noticed the strange amulet hanging from the woman’s neck. They were pushed forward by a Sarpi whose spear butt jabbed them in the back whenever they faltered. All the while, the robed woman stayed close, and the sense weakness came with her.

  They were led from the docks into a wide open plaza which was lined by ruined buildings. The sound of metal striking rock filled the air, peaking Alira’s curiosity. They moved through the plaza, which was now filling up with the other prisoners and up a flight of stone steps which led to the city’s inner defensive wall. Despite the weariness she felt, she did her best to take in all that she could. Now that they were higher up, they could see down into what must have been the city’s centre. The prisoners stumbled, as they gawped at the sight before them. Huge stone temples were in ruins and a massive man-made crater filled the space which once would have been a wide open forum. Thousands of people with pickaxes and shovels were hard at work digging deeper into the earth. Overseeing the workers were more Sarpi and more hooded figures. The prisoners gasped as they spotted a digger fall to his knees in exhaustion. One of the hooded figures stepped forward, raised a hand and blasted him with magical fire. The man’s shrill, agonised screams filled the air, and the stench of cooked meat wafted on the breeze. The woman in the cloak ordered for them to stop, a wicked smile on her lips.

  “Watch. Witness the power of my master. Watch what will happen to all who oppose his will.”

  The hooded figure that had set the prisoner ablaze signalled to another who was stood outside a small stone hut located at the edge of the dig site. A frail-looking old woman came out of the structure, pulling a black cloak tightly about herself as she did so. Slowly, she shuffled over to the burned corpse of the prisoner. Then she leaned over it and began to loudly make an incantation.

  From their vantage point, Alira could not make out the words clearly. As the woman’s voice rose in volume, the air grew icy cold, and what sources of light there were seemed to dim. A white mist appeared as if from nowhere to envelope the dig site. Alira’s breath now came out as steam as the temperature dropped even further. Frost began to form on their clothes, prompting her to hug her daughter tightly to keep her warm. As quickly as it had formed, the mist began to dissipate and the temperature rose. After a few moments, the old woman stepped back from the body. To the prisoners’ horror, the corpse began to twitch and a terrible moan filled the air.

  “Undead!” Alira whispered in horror “By Niveren!”

  “N’gist …” the old man in front of her muttered in disbelief. Alira’s eyes widened at the name, it was the name of the cult of Danon, a cult long thought extinct.

  The now reanimated zombie picked up a pickaxe before going back to work.

  “You see,” their captor chuckled. “Even if you die, we can still make use of you.”

  The Sarpi grunted and shoved the group forward with the end of his spear. All the while, Ilene buried her head into her mother’s shoulder. Alira did her best to calm the petrified child. What were they digging for?

  They followed the inner wall until they reached a tall stone tower. The N’gist cultist opened a heavy wooden door and gestured for the prisoners to go through it. They did so to find themselves in square-shaped chamber, a single lit brazier offering the only light source. Ot
her people were inside huddled in groups.

  “This door is magically sealed, and this chamber is enchanted,” the woman said cruelly. “So don’t even bother using your powers to try and flee.”

  A last shove from the Sarpi and the door slammed shut with a loud bang.

  Alira’s eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom. She counted twenty other people in the chamber. Some wore the robes of Caldarian mages; another group wore the armour of Nightblades. Some just looked like ordinary people, wealthy and poor mixed together. She flinched as the old man who had spoken earlier touched her hand. He peered at her as though he knew her.

  “Forgive me, child, I mean you no harm. My name is Grig and that –” he said pointing to his younger companion, “is Huin. Have we met?”

  Tentatively, she shook the old man’s hand, and he broke out into a kind smile.

  “I don’t believe so. If we did then I cannot remember, I am sorry. My name is Alira, and this is my daughter Ilene.” Her daughter poked her head up, looked at the man, and then buried her face back into her mother’s blond hair.

  “You said something on the wall … you said those people are N’gist?”

  Grig nodded, his smile fading.

  “Aye. I did. For a long time there have been rumours that mages and magic users outside the safety of Caldaria had been disappearing. When the civil war ended, we left Caldaria and set up shop in Kingsford. As healers we made a pretty good living for ourselves. Then men claiming to serve the Baron of Champia came to our shop. They arrested us, saying that magic was forbidden. Poor Renly was taken prisoner. We tried to resist, but they wore strange amulets that prevented us from using our powers. They beat us, and then piled us into the back of a wagon which took us to the coast.”

  “And here we are!” Huin chimed in miserably.

  “What do they want with us?” Alira asked as she pressed her back to the chamber’s wall and slid to the ground. Ilene shifted to get more comfortable before starting to snore softly her small hands holding tightly onto her mother’s hair. The child was exhausted.