For a long moment she didn't say anything but stared straight ahead at all the glass liquor casing lined up on the shelves behind the counter. The reflection on the casing acted as a mirror for her, so she was able to see what went on behind her without facing it. Finally, Vixen shifted her entire body to face Heldon. “Your brother is a coward.”
“Which one?” Heldon gestured for the barkeeper to pour him a drink.
“Theran.” The name sounded like a curse on her lips, but Heldon only nodded as he accepted his drink and tossed the man a few coins.
“So, he is here.”
Vixen nodded to a darkened doorway off to the side of the room. “Upstairs.”
“He's not alone, is he?”
“No.” Vixen looked back at her drink. When she moved, the cloak she wore shifted just enough for Heldon to see her signature silver scaled vest hugging her body like a corset. However, Heldon knew it was not merely an article of clothing but rather a weapon—each scale was a throwing blade, and she was proud of her unmatched skill at throwing knives and her oftentimes unchecked temper. Heldon knew to tread with care when dealing with this assassin.
With a sigh, Heldon finished his drink then moved to rise to his feet. “Well, I must interrupt whatever it is he is doing. I have questions that cannot wait to be answered.”
“Heldon, wait.” Vixen's hand snatched his arm, and he looked down at her fingers then up at her face, and she shook her head. “There's something you should first know—”
“Well, well, if it's not the little Prince Heldon of Cuskelom,” a newcomer joined the conversation. The statement made Vixen curse under her breath and release Heldon's arm as she dropped her hand close to her body—no doubt ready with a blade.
Heldon stiffened at the sound of the voice but slowly forced his gaze away from Vixen to the man—men—who had come from his right. Both dark-haired men favored darker shades of clothing and hoods, which was why Heldon had not noticed them during his initial survey of the room. They stayed in the shadows and waited like snakes for the right moment to strike; Heldon must have unwittingly triggered a confrontation.
The prince pulled back his shoulders and attempted to mask any sign that they intimidated him. “Aradin, Dustal.” He nodded to the men. Upon closer observation, he noted each had their bow on their back and a quiver full of arrows—their preferred weapon. Heldon merely arched a brow. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping Theran,” Aradin replied at the same time Dustal said, “Looking for Lorrek.”
Now Heldon turned to face the two completely. The brothers were commoners—thieves who had once tried to steal from Prince Haskel of Serhon and kidnap Princess Atheta. Lorrek had been present at the time and proved too quick for them, binding them with his magic long enough for Theran and Honroth to come. Theran proceeded to punch Dustal's face until the thief handed over Haskel's money. Meanwhile, Gremina and Haskel had their bows trained on Aradin, who had Atheta captive, and Lorrek suggested he let the princess go. Aradin freed her and attempted to run, but Theran followed after him with a roar, then moments later, returned dragging the thief along.
To teach the thieves that not all royalty were stuck-up individuals, the royals forced them to accompany them on their hunting trip. After an adventure where the thieving brothers had constantly been trying to backstab and steal while the royals repeatedly reinforced the law and the moral code time and time again, the brothers finally came to respect the royals. They especially approved of the princesses Atheta and Gremina and Prince Haskel because they had exchanged archery tips.
Seeing that the brothers were now aiding Theran caused Heldon to frown. “Lorrek is dead.”
Aradin shook his head and crossed his arms. “That's not what Theran thinks.”
Heldon lifted his brows. “Why would you look for Lorrek? You never trusted him. What are you going to do—give his head to Haskel, Gremina, and their father?”
A cocky smile crossed Aradin's face. “Something like that.” His eyes briefly shifted over to Vixen.
Heldon noticed the movement. He glanced at the assassin beside him, only to find her with a death glare on the thieves, and he chuckled as he looked back at the brothers. Although Vixen was helping Theran—and therefore in a roundabout way helping Aradin and Dustal—she had no loyalty to the lesser men and would sooner drive one of her knives into their bodies before handing Lorrek over to them. This was reassuring to Heldon as he turned his attention back to the brothers. “Well, I am here to speak with my brother.” He tried to pass them, but Dustal didn't move.
Instead he crossed his arms and stood in Heldon's way. “About what?”
Heldon wasn't surprised by Dustal's reaction and merely looked at him with patience. “Business.”
“Are you pulling him off this quest?”
“Of course not.” Heldon hardened his eyes into a glare then nodded at Vixen. “Now, if you would excuse me.” He slipped away just as Vixen grabbed each brother by the throat and dragged them outside—for either a lecture or a beating, he wasn't sure which, but he was glad it wasn't him.
Heldon fixed his eyes on the darkened doorway that Vixen had pointed out earlier, and he sighed as he walked up the creaky, wooden steps to the upper level of rooms. Ignoring the shameless women, Heldon walked with purpose through the short corridor. “Theran!” He bellowed as he opened door after door—startling the occupants. When room after room failed to yield his brother, Heldon kept moving until he flung open the final door and saw his brother sitting on the edge of a bed, shirtless, while a modest woman tended to cuts on his chest.
The sight caught Heldon off guard, and he hesitated in the doorway until Theran finally looked at him. “Planning to bring all Jechorm's forces down upon us with your shouts? Now all the kingdoms know where I am.” His harsh voice sounded very different from how Heldon remembered it, and his eyes held ice where warmth and laughter had once been. Theran shook his head and looked away from Heldon. “What do you want, Held?”
Stepping into the room, Heldon quietly closed the door behind him and took in the sight of the brother he hadn't seen for the last five years. Theran's once golden hair was a shade of dull brown now. His muscles—always bulky and the largest of all the brothers—were even stronger now from years of travel and hardship in the wild. Heldon had no idea what Theran might have encountered that was worse than the wars and battles they'd endured side-by-side as brothers, but looking at him now he knew Theran was a changed man—a hardened man.
Unable to sit still and unwilling to appear superior to his brother, Heldon lowered his shoulders and took a step forward. “What happened?”
“That is none of your concern!” Theran snapped a glare up at his younger brother, who withdrew and nodded.
Heldon took a moment to contemplate Theran's condition but then decided it best to focus on the task at hand. He lowered into the chair, straddling it, and watched as the woman—a plain girl wearing rags but obviously skilled in the art of healing—bandaged Theran's chest. “Your handblade.” That caught his brother's attention, and Heldon nodded. “Jechorm wants it.”
Theran let out a laugh. “By all means, let them have it.” He dismissed the woman with a gesture then struggled to pull on his tunic.
Heldon furrowed his brows. “What do you mean? That weapon has been in our family for generations. We've been charged with safekeeping it. If the Jechorians harness the handblades’ teleporting abilities or any of its other abilities, they will only add that to their technology, and they’ve been taunting us with war already, hoping to prove that their technology is superior to the magic of our land.”
“Well, at least their teleportation will be relatively short-ranged,” Theran shot back. “Without the World Orbs, you know they can’t travel from land to land, world to world.”
Heldon’s eyes hardened. “You know as well as I do that teleportation from land to land by means of the handblade is possible—”
Theran shook his head and scowled at his b
rother. “And you know that in the hands of the untrained, the consequence of traveling such distances is rather...unpleasant.” Then he straightened his posture and motioned at Heldon. “After all, that’s how you will be returning home, is it not?” He gestured to the bracelet on his brother’s wrist. “It doesn’t bother you or any of us who grew up with such travel.”
“That doesn’t matter!” Heldon jumped to his feet and marched up to Theran. “If the Jechorians get a hold of this, they will train their people to withstand the side effects, and if they can teleport their technology with them, then Cuskelom is doomed.”
“Let them have it.” The surety in Theran's voice caused Heldon to pause and search his brother's face, only for Theran to nod. “At least it will be out of Father's well-guarded vaults and out in the open.”
“You...” The pieces fell into place, and Heldon snapped his fingers. “You planned this. You're trying to get your handblade back.” Theran shrugged, not caring if he was guilty, and Heldon nodded as it made more sense. “Does Jechorm know?”
“Those mindless people meddling with science and metals?” Theran chuckled as he shook his head then reached for a bottle of whiskey. Downing the warm liquid, he sighed and lowered it back to the small side table.
Heldon observed his brother—the way he sat hunched, the hollowness in his cheeks, and redness in his eyes. He bore more scars and scratches on his face and arms than Heldon recalled, and he favored his left side as if still suffering from an old wound.
Heldon pressed his lips into a thin line. “Why not merely ask Honroth for it?”
“Honroth?” Theran scoffed a laugh. “He took it from me in the first place, remember? He wouldn't give it to me even if I had a good reason.”
“And do you? Have a good reason, I mean.”
Theran shuffled where he sat.
Heldon wanted to whack Theran on the back of his head to knock sense into him. Back when all four brothers fought side-by-side, they were rarely injured because they watched out for one another. If only Theran would come back home, they could work together again—protect each other, help each other, and trust each other.
“How is Mother?” Theran's question surprised Heldon, and he blinked back to the present moment, only to watch his brother down more whiskey.
“She's...” Heldon let his mind wander to their mother who had left the court of Cuskelom after Honroth's ascension to the throne. She claimed she needed to find peace with her husband and son's sudden deaths. “She's here in Athorim,” Heldon said as he realized that he was in the same land as his mother. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to go to the royal palace and find her and become the little boy again whom she had comforted when life became too cold and too confusing. Knowing that wasn't possible, Heldon took a deep breath and drew back his shoulders. “She's at the palace—seeking solace.”
“She seeks for it here—in the center of magic?” Theran lifted his bloodshot eyes to his younger brother.
Heldon nodded. “Lorrek spoke much of the healing powers of magic.”
Still, Theran was not impressed as he set down his now empty whiskey bottle, but his hand did not leave it. “She's been here for the last ten years?” When Heldon confirmed this with a nod, Theran tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle, and he shifted his blazing eyes to Heldon. “It's been ten years, Heldon! Why has Honroth not summoned her back to Cuskelom?”
Familiar with his brother's temper, Heldon took a step back, locked his arms behind his back, planted his feet on the floor, and looked at Theran with a scowl of his own. “Every year he requests her presence, but every year she refuses to come.”
“That is no excuse!” Theran flung the bottle aside, and it shattered on the wall.
Both brothers stared at the falling pieces—remembering the cascading remnants of shattered orbs, Theran's shout of denial, and their last sighting of Lorrek.
Heldon shook his head free from the memory but couldn't fight the shiver down his back. He looked at Theran and found him bowing his head with his eyes closed.
He took a hesitant step toward his elder brother. “Theran.” He waited until he heard an acknowledging grunt before he went on. “The reason Honroth hasn't forced her to return is the same reason he hasn't dragged you back to Cuskelom since your last confrontation.” His words made Theran lift his head, and Heldon was careful to maintain eye contact. “He's going to let both of you come back when you're ready.”
Theran stared at his brother. He remembered all those reckless days when Heldon willingly joined him in his mirth. Heldon had never questioned Theran's judgment, and more than once Theran made his younger brother the fool by placing him into a compromising situation. Still, Heldon never lost that glow of admiration for Theran even after all he had done to him, but now looking for a remnant of that light, Theran saw something else—maturity, wisdom. Heldon was still a boy at heart, but now he walked in Honroth's shadow doing everything he could to keep all from falling apart.
The older prince chuckled as he wagged his head. “When did you become so wise, Heldon?”
“When you left me no choice.”
Theran paused, looking at his younger brother. He hadn't expected an answer, but now that Heldon had replied, he heard something sharp in his words—not hatred or resentment but rather defeat and long forgotten sorrow.
Finally, Theran looked at Heldon, who had taken a step back again. He knew his eldest brother’s temper well, and Theran supposed that had been his fault; he had knocked him around from time to time in a drunken rage. It seemed that Heldon had learned something from Honroth after all these years, and the only word that came to Theran's mind was 'discretion'. He knew how to read situations now—how to understand a person and when to move in or pull back.
Heldon was no longer the willing accomplice—though Heldon wished he could be once more.
Theran acknowledged all this with a nod. “You should leave while you still can.” He rose to his feet—wincing and touching his chest lightly. He would have to see if someone could fully heal his shallow wounds before leaving Athorim.
“Why? So Aradin and Dustal won't find me here?” Heldon stood his ground. “I already ran into them. Now, what happened to you?” He nodded at Theran, indicating his wounds, but Theran was already shaking his head.
“You don't have to concer—ow!” Theran flinched when Heldon stepped forward and poked the wound on Theran's chest. Theran batted his hand away and folded his arms protectively over himself, only for Heldon to poke the wound across his forearm. “Heldon! Stop it already.”
“Then tell me what happened.” Heldon lifted his hand to jab the injury again, but Theran had already turned his body away from his brother.
“It's not important.” He reached for his sword belt and strapped it on.
“Theran—”
“I said it's not important.” Theran cut him off again with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Now, don't you have more important things to do, like preventing Honroth from going to war with Jechorm?”
Heldon shook his head. He couldn't believe how stubborn his brother could be. “He's not going to give them the handblade.”
“Tell him I said he should—it'd prevent the loss of countless lives. Isn't that what he's all about?” Theran sheathed another dagger on his belt. “He's too righteous to let blood stain his hands when he has a way to avoid it.”
Heldon heard the disgust in his brother's voice, and he shook his head. “You don't know Honroth at all.” Theran merely raised a brow when he heard this, and Heldon nodded but then turned to leave only to find Vixen standing in the doorway.
She jutted her chin down the hall. “The boys are sleeping off a confrontation from my fist.” She rubbed her knuckles as she stepped into the room. “Don't worry about Theran. I have his back.”
Heldon shook his head and let out a helpless chuckle. “You just don’t understand. It's not Theran I'm worried about.” He looked between his brother and the assassin. “Cuskelom will go to wa
r. As much as you don't care about rites, rituals, and traditions, Honroth still holds true to them. He won't allow anyone but Theran to possess that handblade, and he is more than willing to put Cuskelom at risk to protect our heritage. It's something I don't ever expect you to understand.”
“Still, try to persuade him. Before you go...” Theran raised his hand to keep Heldon from teleporting away. “Tell Honroth to recommend to the Jechorian ambassador that he should follow the southern road out of Cuskelom.”
The younger brother gave his sibling a hard stare. “You're planning something.” He didn't have to ask because he already knew, so he shook his head. “Tell me not. It is best I know nothing. That way I can plea ignorance when it all unfolds.” With that, he moved his hand to the bracelet on his wrist and touched the runes upon it. He never broke eye contact with Theran as a gust of wind swirled through the inn and howled through the halls, consuming Heldon in a cloud of dust.
Theran and Vixen lifted their hands to shield their eyes. Once the cloud settled and Heldon was gone, Vixen lowered her hands and shook her head. “I'm never going to get used to that.”
Theran smiled then nodded. “Oh, yes you will—when we get my handblade back.”
Vixen groaned—already loathing the idea of retrieving the handblade. “Come.” She motioned for Theran to follow. “Let's see if the boys are awake.”
He gave her a brilliant grin as he followed her out the room. Everything was falling into place—as long as Honroth did what he asked.
5
In Cuskelom, Honroth marched through the corridors of the palace with his advisors, discussing details of Jechorm's demands. “I don't care if they think they have legitimate grounds for an attack. Their request is impossible, and I will not yield to it!”
“But Sire, be sensible,” one of his advisors tried to calm him. “This will undoubtedly bring war upon us.”
The Chronicles of Lorrek Box Set Page 4
