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

by Olney, Matthew

  Davik winced at the words. The chamber erupted in a cacophony of shouting, and accusations flew. Most of the barons had battled each other for the crown in the civil war, and no love was lost between them. The shouting grew louder as the men squabbled. Davik looked at Ricard. The bastard was doing his best to hide a smile. It was the king who put a stop to the arguing. He stood on his chair and screamed. It was a childish act, but it worked at silencing the barons.

  “I, too, am a boy, uncle. Would you dare dismiss my views as easily?” Alderlade scolded. The smile on Ricard’s face dropped and Davik felt his chest almost burst with pride at the king’s words.

  “I will not allow my barons to be divided. I may just be a child but I am also a king. To settle this matter I will strike a balance. Davik will remain as my regent.”

  Davik sighed in relief, he stepped forward to thank the king, but was halted as Alderlade held up a hand.

  “And my uncle shall be co-regent,” the king added. “You will either work together or fail. I need you both.”

  * * *

  “That could have gone better, but it could also have gone a whole lot worse, too,” Rusay Broadmane said as he poured himself a mug on wine. After the council meeting, Davik had retreated to his quarters. The barons of Balnor and Robinta had joined him, they were the only allies he could rely on in the council.

  “Does the fool want another civil war?” Balnor muttered. The young man was staring out of the window. Outside, in the palace gardens, the sound of birds singing and the gurgling fountains carried on the breeze.

  “Balnor is right, Davik,” Rusay added. “The decision by the king has calmed things for now, but it will only be a matter of time before Ricard tries again to remove you. I fear the king himself is in grave danger. Ricard has always lusted for power, always sought ways to gain advantage over his rivals. With enemies pressing upon the kingdom’s borders, I fear he will lead us to ruin,”

  Davik ran a hand through his hair. He was getting too old for this. He downed his own glass of wine.

  “I do not trust the man. My spies have reported that dark things are afoot in Retbit and Stormglade. If he divides us now, our true enemies will destroy us. He has Trentian on his side, and now as co-regent he can press on with his campaign against magic wielders with a vengeance.”

  Balnor slapped his hand against the wall in frustration. He had seen first-hand what dark magic could do to people. His own mother, father and sister had all been slain by the witch, Cliria. Despite all that, he had no ill feeling towards the mages; some were even his friends, and he included Luxon in that list.

  “We must expose him, then,” Rusay said thoughtfully. “If your fears turn out to be true then Ricard must be stopped by any means necessary.”

  There was a knock on the door, and the men glanced at each other nervously.

  Slowly Davik rose from his chair and opened the door.

  A young woman in a red dress curtsied. In her hands she held a bottle of wine.

  “A peace offering from my master Ricard, sirs,” the girl said politely.

  Davik took the offered bottle and dismissed the girl. The label on the bottle said Robintan wine 265. Rusay whistled as he read the words.

  “A 265! Even I do not have a bottle of that in my cellar. 265 is a legendary vintage, Davik. Perhaps Champia is truly sorry. It would have cost him a fortune to get his hands on a bottle.”

  Rusay took the bottle out of Davik’s hands, he then popped the cork and poured himself and the others a glass each.

  “A toast, my friends. The world may be in dire straits but at least Davik here has survived his enemies plot to have him removed from power!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Davik chuckled. He drank a large gulp and gasped at the taste. A whirlwind of flavour assaulted his tongue

  And then the pain hit him.

  “Argh!” he cried.

  His throat felt like it was on fire. The sweet tastes of the wine were quickly replaced by the foulness of poison. Rusay and Balnor were just about to drink their own glasses, bu threw their glasses aside as they rushed forward to help their friend.

  “Davik, Davik what is wrong?” Rusay asked desperately.

  The colour drained from Davik’s face as the poison took effect. He screamed in pain as the liquid burnt its way down his throat and into his guts.

  He collapsed to the ground with a thud and writhed in agony.

  “Guards!” screamed Balnor.

  The veins on Davik’s face bulged until they looked as though they would burst. His pained scream spluttered as blood spat from between his lips.

  With one last violent spasm, his back arched and snapped like a twig.

  He lay unmoving …

  Dead.

  17.

  Luxon had read in one of the dusty tomes in Caldaria’s Great Library that the Plains were vast. Now that he was riding on them, he understood why the tribes called it the Ocean of Grass.

  The terrain was flat for hundreds of miles in all directions. They had been riding for an entire day, and they had yet to encounter any other people. The Keenlance army rode behind their prince, who was in deep discussion with one of his commanders. Luxon was nervous. He wasn’t sure whether Faramond would keep his word and take him to his mother, or kill them all.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Hannah. She smiled at him sweetly. Yepert rode next to her, his face looking green. The lad always suffered from motion sickness. Ferran, Sophia and Kaiden were further back, chatting. What about, he couldn’t quite hear, but whatever it was, he bet it involved the next stage of their mission.

  The sun was slowly sinking under the horizon, and the first of Esperia’s two moons was beginning to make an appearance to the west. Night would soon fall, and with it, the dangers posed by Fell Beasts would rise. With no sigil stones anywhere in sight, he wondered how they would find safety. They were highly exposed. There was nowhere for them to hide if it came to it.

  “Luxon,” called Faramond. “Come up here. We have much to discuss.”

  Luxon nodded.

  With his heels, he spurred his horse into a trot and took his place at the prince’s side.

  A smile was on Faramond’s face. He took a deep breath and sighed contentedly.

  “You smell that, lad? That is the smell of freedom, the smell of the plains, and the smell of home.”

  Luxon sniffed.

  “Smells like dust and horseshit to me,” he chuckled. “My home smells like wood smoke and chemicals. The alchemists of Caldaria always come up with weird new odours for us to sample.”

  Faramond laughed heartily.

  “Home is important to all folk, master wizard,” he said seriously, a dark expression crossing his face. “I fear that mine may soon be lost. Evil stalks the plains, and not just Fell Beasts. We have always had to endure those horrors, but now something else threatens us and all the tribes.”

  Luxon looked away, unable to meet Faramond’s fierce gaze.

  “Undead stalk the lands near the city of Stormglade, armies of ghouls and werewolves assault our encampments. Worst of all, though, are the men in cloaks. At night they come and take away our people, for what foul purpose we do not know. Entire tribes have been taken. Only ourselves and the other warrior tribes resist, but we do not have the strength to keep fighting. I fear whatever is in Stormglade will soon be ready to spread across the Ocean of Grass and beyond.”

  “The cloaked men. Do their eyes glow?” Luxon asked, looking over his shoulder. The army was kicking up a massive dust cloud that could no doubt be seen for miles around. He was worried; if there were any of the enemies nearby, they would have to be blind to not see their location.

  He narrowed his eyes and, with a slight gesture, used his magic to create a light breeze that made the dust cloud scatter. Now, to any observer, they would be a lot harder to spot.

  “The Sarpi we know,” Faramond continued. “The men I speak of look more like mages to me. The only thing they have in common are
the amulets they wear and their use of magic.”

  “Mages?” Luxon said in surprise. He thought back to the posters he had seen in Caldaria. Had mages truly joined the enemy? He shook his head. He could not believe that any of the mages he had grown up with would willingly choose to serve the dark powers.

  * * *

  They rode on for another hour. The dying light of the sun lit up the horizon, casting an orange glow and long shadows over the plain. As the light faded, the column of riders grew quiet. The warriors pressed closer together and drew their weapons. Most had bows, but the riders at the edges held lances. Luxon and his companions were ushered into the centre of the line, the safest place to be.

  “It’s too quiet …” whispered Kaiden. He had drawn in his own sword and held it in a tight grip on his lap.

  “The plains are known for night stalkers, Fell Beasts that run as fast as a horse and have fangs like a snake,” said Ferran, who was riding at his side. “The worst however are the gargantuans, massive beasts that can tear a man apart limb from limb.”

  The Nightblade had never been on the plains before, but he had met others from his order that had, and the tales they told made even his hairs stand on end.

  Both men were shushed to silence by one of the Keenblade warriors.

  Only the sounds of the horses and the clinking of weapons and armour could be heard.

  Finally the last of the sun’s light vanished and night fell. The sky was cloudless and revealed the stars which were hidden in the daytime. The column continued its march. With no landmarks or sights to break up the boredom, it felt like the journey had latest forever to Luxon and the others. The safety of the Watchers’ walls was miles behind them; only danger lay ahead.

  A roar sounded from somewhere in the distance. The column tightened further. The roar came again, this time closer. The warriors strung their bows and lowered their lances. Kaiden raised his sword and Ferran ignited his tourmaline blade. The two men ushered the others to get behind them. Luxon pulled Dragasdol from the sheath attached to his saddle. Whatever was out there didn’t sound friendly.

  At the head of the column, Faramond made a motion with his arms. Immediately, a dozen riders broke off from the main army and galloped off into the darkness. The rest of the riders drew torches from their saddles and lit them with firestones. The sight of the magical stones surprised Luxon. They were made in Caldaria and were widely used across Delfinnia. All a user had to do was hold the stone up to a flammable object and rub it against it three times. The riders did so and the torches burst into life. The light they provided offered some comfort and enabled the army to see any incoming dangers.

  A scream sounded from the rear of the column. A trumpet blared.

  “Form a circle!” Faramond commanded.

  With amazing skill, the Keenlance warriors wheeled their horses around until they formed a fast-moving circle. Luxon and the others were in the centre, along with the prince and a handful of warriors. They now dismounted and hammered long spears into the ground, the deadly points facing outwards.

  Another scream sounded, and this time Luxon saw what had happened. A large creature darted in from the darkness and plucked one of the riders off their terrified horse.

  “Nightstalkers!” Ferran shouted.

  The riders loosed a volley of arrows outwards. Some of the projectiles struck home, eliciting a pained screech.

  “My Lord!” yelled one of the warriors to Faramond. “It’s a pack, and more are on the way.”

  The prince shut his eyes before looking at Luxon.

  “We were fools to allow ourselves to be caught out in the open like this. We will lose many men this night. Break circle! Attack!” he roared.

  The warriors broke the circle and shot off in small groups. Now that the wall of horsemen was gone, Luxon could see the Nightstalkers. There were too many to count. The plain was filled with the fast-moving creatures. With the protection of the circle now gone, Luxon and the others were now open to attack.

  One of the snarling beasts charged towards them, but was downed by one of Sophia’s silver-tipped arrows. More of the beasts came at them. The scene was one of carnage as the Keenlance forces battled the Fell Beasts. Horses and men were being slain by the dozen, their pained screams echoing in the night. Despite the losses, the warriors fought on. One of the Nightstalkers was impaled by a rider wielding a lance, whilst another was brought down after being riddled with arrows. They were brave, but Luxon could see that bravery would not be enough to survive. He looked at Yepert and Hannah.

  “We have to help them. Use your magic!” he cried as he spurred his horse forward, Yepert and Hannah close behind. He raised Dragasdol and aimed the staff at a Nightstalker who was about to devour a wounded tribesman. He focused his power and vaporised the beast with lightning. Yepert and Hannah, meanwhile, used their magic to launch fireballs.

  To his right, he spotted Ferran hacking and slashing at the Fell Beasts, his Tourmaline blade flashing brightly in the darkness. Kaiden, meanwhile, cut one of the monsters down before reaching from his saddle to pluck a wounded warrior to safety. Sophia had joined the Keenblade horse archers and was shooting arrow after arrow, and most were hitting their targets.

  Luxon turned his horse; he aimed for the heart of the Nightstalker pack. Narrowing his eyes, he summoned the magic within. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he channelled his powers. Raising his right hand, he called the winds. A howling gale began to blow across the plain, and dark storm clouds appeared as if from nowhere as he focused. He aimed the wind at the Fell Beasts. It grew in intensity until it turned into a whirlwind. The power of the swirling vortex ploughed into the pack, taking the beasts high into the air. The monsters’ pitiful cries were silenced as they were sent flying in all directions in a tangle of broken limbs.

  Luxon wasn’t finished. Raising Dragasdol to the sky, he summoned more power to himself. His eyes shone bright blue as the magical energy surged through him. With a roar of rage, he thrust his staff at the vortex. With a deafening boom, lightning split the sky and struck the staff. Dancing fingers of electricity surged through it to strike the Nightstalker pack. Some burst into flames; others exploded.

  Ferran yelled a warning as he rode hard towards his friend. Luxon was too focused on the spell he was casting to notice the Nightstalker charging towards him. With a vicious snarl, the beast leapt, its jaws sinking into the flesh of Luxon’s horse.

  The mortally wounded animal bucked in agony and threw the wizard from the saddle. Luxon cried out as he crashed to the ground. The force of the impact sent his staff flying from his grasp. Weariness filled him; he had exerted too much magic and now he was helpless against the Nightstalker, which advanced menacingly towards him. He scrambled back on his hands but the beast leapt. He cried out as the weight of the creature pinned him to the ground. All he felt was fear. He was a wizard, but what good is that if he could not use his magic?

  Desperately, he tried to conjure a spell, but his fear and tiredness kept breaking his concentration. With a roar, the Nightstalker opened its fang-filled mouth. Luxon could smell its foul breath.

  Just as he thought his end had come, Ferran’s sword sent the Nightstalker’s head flying off.

  Luxon fainted.

  * * *

  Luxon was stirred by the aroma of cooking meat. Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed of animal pelts, in what appeared to be a large tent made of cloth. From the faint light trying to penetrate the material, he surmised that it was daytime. He winced. Every part of him ached, and his head swam as he tried to sit up. In the centre of the tent was a large fire with a spit placed above it. A pig was cooking nicely. Cushions of many different colours and designs were scattered around the grass-covered floor. The only furniture that he could see was a wooden desk and stool. At his bedside was a large clay jug filled with water and a simple cup. If he had to take a guess, he would say that he was at the camp of the Keenlance tribe.

  Tilting his head he could make ou
t the sounds of a busy camp. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith was hard at work, their hammer clanking against metal.

  He sat up again, this time fighting the dizziness that tried to keep him down. He was still wearing his clothes, although they were now covered in dirt and what looked like soot. Staggering to his feet, he could see that he was alone inside the tent.

  Where is everybody? he thought.

  Concern for his friends filled him.

  Was Hannah safe? Was Yepert? What about the others?

  Looking around he saw his staff lying at the end of the makeshift bed. He picked it up; its weight was reassuring.

  He tensed as the tent’s flap opened. A tall, elegant woman with long black haired stood in the entrance. Her large green eyes widened when she noticed him. Around the woman’s neck hung an amulet with an unmistakable pattern upon it.

  It was the sigil of the Diasect.

  Luxon stepped back and lowered his staff.

  “Could it be?” he whispered.

  The woman smiled softly.

  “Hello … my son.”

  18.

  Luxon shook at the sight of her. So many years had passed, so many years where he had believed that she was dead. He could feel his eyes fill with tears.

  He dropped Dragasdol to the ground and ran to her. Opening his arms wide, he grabbed her in a tight embrace, and laughed. His heart swelled with happiness, Drusilla’s own joy mixed with her son’s. She held him close and stroked his hair, while he breathed in her scent. It was comforting, and reminded him of the days when his family had been all together and happy.

  After a while, she eased out of the embrace and held him at arm’s length. Her eyes were wet with joyful tears.

  “You’ve gotten tall, Luxon,” she laughed. “And strong, like your father was.”

  Luxon rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic.

  “I’ve missed you, mother. I never stopped searching for you. I never stopped believing that you were still alive.”