An Oath Of The Kings (Book 4)

by Valerie Zambito

  “I don’t know. That’s all I heard.”

  Raine Aubry stepped up beside her father. “We will double the Queen’s guard, Your Grace. We will find whoever is responsible for this.”

  “Unlikely. For all the expertise of the Gladewatchers, Raine, Haventhal has no defense against sorcery.”

  “What do we do then?”

  Her father scratched his chin in thought. “I need to find Rogan Radek.”

  ****

  Rogan tapped his chin in thought, only half-listening to the logistical concerns of his quartermaster.

  After weeks on the road, tomorrow they would arrive in Nysa.

  Although his boiling temper had cooled to a low simmer and as much as it twisted his guts to have to make this trek, his need for vengeance had not been quelled. Someone would pay for the death of Erik. He would see to it. Over the leagues, he had come to terms with the weight of the crown upon his head and accepted that discord would often force his hand to deal with the more unpleasant aspects of governing. He felt up for the task. With his Mage son and fireshifter daughter by his side, the reign of the Radeks would be long and fruitful. Soon more grandchildren would be born to carry on his legacy. The thought brought Rogan’s humble beginnings as an orphan in Pyraan to mind, and he felt a sense of pride at how far he had come.

  “The Land of Men will mock you. They do not believe you a worthy King.”

  Rogan straightened on his throne at the insidious, whispered voice in his ear. The quartermaster droned on and the servants moving about his tent showed no sign of having heard his deep-seated fear spoken aloud. Rogan sat alert for a long moment before finally settling back down. I need more sleep.

  “Weevil larvae have been discovered in every bag of wheat we brought from Deepstone,” the quartermaster complained. “We had hoped to purchase more along the way, but have been unsuccessful. Weapons are missing, soldiers and animals are sick, winds stir up these odd little dust storms, and rogue fires—”

  Rogan snapped to attention. “Rogue fires?”

  “Out of nowhere, my King! The blazes are small, but simply impossible to extinguish.”

  A chill crawled up Rogan’s spine. He got up and walked out of the tent. Outside Jala and Teran stood talking quietly.

  “Father?” Jala asked when she saw him. “What is it?”

  Rogan continued on through the camp without answering, but heard them fall into step behind him.

  The acrid smell of thick smoke burned his nostrils just as he heard the screams. He took off at a sprint directly into chaos. He skidded to a stop, held back by the unbearable heat that rolled off the administrative row that held the officer shelters.

  A soldier rushed to his side. “They just started, my King! Small fires at first, but now they’re out of control!”

  Rogan watched three fiery tents rock violently as the Dwarves trapped inside fought in desperation to escape. A line of soldiers with buckets of water tried in vain to put out the flames.

  I have to get to them! Rogan dropped the robe from his shoulders, pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth and dashed for the tents. He didn’t get far. A wall of fire rose up in his path, blocking his way.

  “Dear Highworld,” he murmured.

  “What is it?” Jala demanded, arriving at his side.

  “More water!” Teran shouted urgently.

  Rogan shook his head. “It won’t work. It’s shifted fire. I need fireshifters right away. And, healers! Quickly now!”

  Jala sprinted away, bellowing out his orders. She had only been gone seconds, but it felt like a lifetime to Rogan. He lifted his hands to seek the origin of the fire. Where are you? If this was an organic fire, he would be able to find the source with little effort, but this was shifted fire and not so easily discernible.

  He was still working on it, the dying cries of the Dwarves chafing away at his sanity, when Jala and two fireshifters arrived to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. “Forget about the source for now,” he told them. “Just put them out!”

  Together, they merged their magic, beating at the fires, snuffing their flames. It worked, but for every blaze they extinguished, another rose in its place.

  “We’ve got to try something else!” Jala cried.

  Rogan could take no more. “Stay back!” A snarl ripped from his throat as he put his shoulder down and charged through the wall of fire. The magic inside sprang to his defense keeping the fire from consuming his body, but still he burned. His hair, his beard, his clothes. His flesh.

  He ran to the closest tent. Bile tickled the back of his throat at sight of the charred smoking humps hanging halfway out of the opening. White teeth gleamed in gaping black mouths.

  Rogan gulped back his revulsion and rushed to the next tent and ripped apart the flap that tied the entrance together. To his amazement, two Dwarves engulfed in flames hurtled out of their hellish prisons.

  He jumped back.

  Jala and the fireshifters raced to assist, smothering the burning soldiers in magic and blankets. Coughing and cursing, others rushed to the third tent, but it was too late. Nothing left inside could be alive at this point.

  The fires stopped then, completely vanishing at the will of the fireshifter that started them, and Rogan slumped to the ground. Healers surrounded the two Dwarves that had escaped, but Rogan could tell by the looks on the attendants’ faces that neither would survive their ordeal.

  A female healer approached him. “Your hands, my King. Let me tend to you.”

  Rogan looked down at the blackened skin on his hands and numbly held them out for treatment. “I don’t understand this,” he mused aloud.

  Teran stood from inspecting the Dwarves on the ground. “Shifted fire did this?”

  “Yes. That scoundrel of a Mage, most likely. Find General Arsten, Teran. I’ll need his help in finding the bastard. Go! Now!”

  “That would be impossible, my King.”

  “How so?”

  Teran pointed to the corpse on the ground. “That, I’m afraid, is General Arsten.”

  Chapter 30

  Old Friends

  Rogan glanced behind him at the orderly column of cavalry, archers and infantry bristling with pikes, maces and swords. Beside him sat Jala, Teran, Dallin Storm and a dozen Iron Fists. Conspicuously missing, the grizzled general who had served four Kings of Deepstone and who seemed such a stalwart, indestructible force to the Dwarves. His death left a considerable chink in their collective armor and rattled quite a few nerves. Rogan’s most of all. He had come to rely heavily on the general’s advice, and he needed it now more than ever.

  Rogan studied the city of Nysa before him and the number of soldiers formed up outside of the wall.

  “Do you see, my King?” a voice hissed in his ear. “Nysa closes its gates to the Dwarves! A greater insult I have never witnessed.”

  Rogan growled under his breath at the obvious slight. His cooled temper now seethed once again in a barely controlled vortex of emotion. He could not remember ever being this angry before.

  “Maximus thinks to scorn the Dwarves,” the voice continued. “By murdering King Erik and now to suggest that you are less of one! Rogan Radek, a King to be shunned and ridiculed!”

  Rogan trembled in fury, clenching his fists at his sides. “Does he plan to attack?”

  “No, something else is going on.”

  Rogan’s head snapped to the side at the sound of this other voice. Jala.

  “Father, are you all right?” she asked, and Rogan had to blink his eyes several times to bring her into focus.

  “Yes, yes. What did you say?”

  “Look,” she said, dancing her horse close to hand him a range finder. “The marketplace outside of the city appears closed, but the soldiers surrounding the gates are not formed offensively. It looks like a siege.”

  Rogan peered through the finder to discover that what Jala said was indeed correct.

  Two long, avian squeaks followed by two short sounded shrilly on the afternoon air
.

  Teran pointed to the sky. “Bodyshifter incoming!”

  A striped hawk came into view and swooped down directly into the line of soldiers.

  Good, some news, Rogan thought as he waited impatiently for the messenger to emerge. If nothing else, it will allow me more time to consider my options.

  Rogan gasped in surprise when a moment later, Airron Falewir walked into view. White hair flying out behind him, he wore the too-short cloak of a Dwarf, but the command in his stride was that of a King.

  “Falewir!” The anxiety and anger melted away at sight of his friend, and he had to resist the urge to jump off his horse to greet him. Where are these bloody emotions coming from? “Good to see you,” he said more calmly and dismounted.

  Airron sauntered over with no such reservation, reached down and wrapped him in a hearty embrace. “Did you miss me, Fireball?”

  Rogan cleared his throat and patted his friend’s back awkwardly. “Hardly.”

  Airron pulled back and waved a pale finger in his face. “I do believe you’re lying. If I’m not mistaken, that is a tear glistening at the corner of your eye.”

  Rogan swiped under his eye and turned away. “Nonsense.”

  Airron laughed and walked over to Jala, reached up and kissed both of her cheeks. “Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

  “They are. Thank you, Uncle.”

  “Wonderful. It will give your father something to do with his time.”

  “How in the Highworld did you know?” Rogan asked him.

  “Janin sent word to Melania.” Airron looked at Rogan with a smirk. “Kings, huh? What crazy spirits thought the pair of us should wear crowns?”

  “Drunk spirits?”

  “Had to have been.” Airron eyed him critically. “What happened to your hair and beard?”

  Rogan ran a hand over his scorched beard and led Airron away from the others. “I’ll explain later. First, tell me what you’ve heard. Do you have any news about the situation in Nysa?”

  “I do. Maximus is dead.”

  Rogan stopped. “What? I’ve received no message!”

  “I sent a scout into a nearby village yesterday and the people he spoke to informed him that Nysa has been embroiled in an accession war since his death.”

  Rogan thought back on the dark-haired King who so frightened him the first time they met. That deep voice that chilled his blood. Those knowing eyes that pierced his soul. Of course, over the years since, Rogan had learned what a generous, compassionate man he really was. A remarkable friendship had developed, and it was one Rogan greatly valued. Yet, moments ago I harbored murderous intent toward Maximus? He shook away the disturbing thought. “How are Kiernan and Beck? I need to see them right away.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “Where could they be at a time like this?” he asked incredulously.

  “No official word, but rumors claim that Kiernan ran off after catching Beck with a mistress. Allegedly, Beck abdicated the Crown to go after her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I’d sooner believe in flying pigs. Regardless, we’ll need to speak to whoever holds the city to get to the truth. According to the scout, it’s Gage Gregaros.”

  Rogan paused at that somewhat shocking news.

  “Let’s go,” Airron said and started away.

  “Wait! Are you just planning to fight your way through all the soldiers at the gate, Elf?” He wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Whatever for when I can get us in without a single scratch?”

  “How?”

  “We’ll fly!”

  Rogan’s stomach fell. “Fly? Your eagle can’t carry my weight,” he protested, not keen on being that far up in the air. Especially, with Airron at the helm.

  Airron rubbed his jaw. “You do appear to be a tad thicker than the last time I saw you. Have you gained a few pounds?”

  “Of muscle!”

  Airron laughed. “It doesn’t matter. My Gigan can carry the weight of a mantath.”

  Rogan’s eyes widened at Airron’s casual mention of the legendary bird. Sightings of the beautiful species were as rare as that of a Draca Cat. Those that did catch a glimpse reported a bird that stood at least seven feet tall with elaborately colorful plumage, an enormous curved beak, and talons as sharp as knives. “You have a Gigan? Since when?”

  “Found it on a hunt in the Du’Che last summer.”

  Rogan sighed as he realized that any forthcoming excuses wouldn’t work. However, when he told the others of the plan, Teran gave him a bit of hope.

  “I don’t think you should go, Your Grace. You won’t have any protection in what is clearly a hostile situation at the moment.”

  “Perhaps, he is right,” Rogan started, but Airron cut him off.

  “Bah! We’ve known Gage Gregaros for years. I’ll have your King back in an hour, Fist, I assure you.” He turned toward Rogan, his pale eyebrows wiggling. “What do you say, Torch? It’s been a few years since we’ve been on an adventure together.”

  “If I recall, we were tied to stakes by a horde of thirsty bloodsuckers at the time.”

  “And, if I recall, we went willingly.”

  Rogan sighed heavily once again. “All right, we’ll go. But, you better not bloody drop me!”

  “I won’t. Just hang on to the feathers at my neck.” Airron turned to Jala. “I must shift. If you will be so kind to turn your back, my dear?”

  Jala obliged with a smile and Airron quickly swept away the Dwarven cloak and let it fall to the ground. The air flickered and the Elf’s tall, lanky body stretched upward and sprouted feathers the size of palm leaves from the Puu.

  Rogan stepped back in awe at the beautiful but fierce-looking creature before him with its downy layers in every color of the rainbow. And, then some.

  He had hoped that his adventures were behind him, but alas, it was not to be.

  The bird knelt low to the ground and Rogan settled himself on the broad back and gripped the feathers in his hands. “Jala, I’ll be back before—” He squealed in fright as the Gigan abruptly stood and took off from a standing position directly into the air. “Bloody hell!” It took all his effort to hold on for dear life as the bird climbed higher into the sky, its massive wings flapping in languid strokes that seemed insufficient to keep it—and him—airborne.

  Dear Highworld, let me live through this.

  The spirits listened. As soon as the entreaty had been formed in his mind, the Gigan leveled out and the ride smoothed. His body suddenly felt buoyant. The wind whistled around him in a spectacular rush and he found his lips curving up into a smile. He even managed to open one eye and for a moment—just a moment—he envied Kenley Nash and her ability to airshift.

  But, then, Airron started down in a steep dive and all focus centered on retaining the contents of his stomach.

  Iserlohn soldiers pointed as they flew over their heads and the wall of Nysa. The Gigan made a graceful descent over the city streets and landed in the courtyard before the palace.

  Rogan trembled in relief as soon as the bird’s feet touched the ground, grateful to be alive. He lifted a leg to slide off the Gigan, but the rattle of swords stopped him cold.

  “Don’t move, Dwarf, or you’re dead.”

  ****

  Airron shifted out of his Gigan form into a kneeling position and sent Rogan sprawling to the cobblestone courtyard with a string of curses. “A cloak, please,” he barked to the guard holding a sword closest to his face.

  The heavily bearded soldier with a lump of what looked and smelled like tobacco in his mouth leaned down. “You’ve come onto Iserlohn soil unauthorized with an army at your back. Do you realize, Elf, that makes you my enemy?”

  Airron straightened to his full height, naked as the day he was born. “You will first address me as King Airron. Secondly, you will take me to your King if you have one. Lastly, you will bring me a fecking cloak!” he screamed.

  The soldier
pulled back with a snarl, black juice dripping into his beard. Fingers found their way to hilts. Muttered oaths flew. The air shimmered as Airron prepared another form.

  Fortunately, Gage Gregaros appeared at the palace doors.

  “Stand down!” he bellowed to his men, and the sullen and silent Nysian citizens that had gathered around to watch scurried away like leaves in a storm. “Give the King some clothes and escort our guests to Grace Hall,” he ordered and turned away without another word.

  Airron caught the garments flung his way and dressed.

  Rogan grunted and got to his feet. “You really need to improve your landings, Elf.”

  “My landing was flawless, Fireball. It’s clearly your dismount that needs work.” Airron met Rogan’s scowl with a wide smile and then turned to the soldiers dressed in the black and white of House Gregaros. “Lead on, men!” He gestured extravagantly in the direction Gregaros had taken.

  The soldiers grumbled, but followed orders. Airron walked inside the castle within their armed circle wondering what really could have happened to cause Beck and Kiernan to leave Nysa. It felt strangely bereft and frightening not to have Everard hands at the wheel that turned the cogs of this city and their absence could be felt at every turn. The irascible soldiers, the servants that ducked around corners like frightened animals, the morose people on the streets. It was as though everyone was holding their shared breath for the inevitable violence that would first break and then ultimately restore their lives.

  Airron stepped through the open doors to the resplendent Grace Hall. Out of habit, he looked up to admire the fresco of Nysa on the domed ceiling and noticed the black scorch marks that marred the image. What happened here? A battle in Grace Hall? With sorcery?

  “Come,” Gage beckoned from Maximus’s throne. The former Saber looked just as tense and haggard as the rest of Nysa. Black circles curved under sunken eyes. Iron gray hair stood out in disarray.

  “So, you are King?” Rogan spat as they drew near. “You’ve overthrown House Everard?”

  Airron shared his friend’s sentiment. He liked Gregaros well enough, but the thought that he might have employed aggressive tactics to steal the Iserlohn Crown did not sit well with him.