The Descendant (The Diamond Sword Chronicles Book 1)

by M. M. Whan

  “I bet Dorien was not pleased to hear that.” She said, not hiding the pleasure she felt at the thought of the creepy old wizard getting taken down a few pegs.

  “A plan is in place to capture him, Syline, do not worry. He is a traitor to the crown, guilty of Regicide, and Attempted Regicide. There is not a place that boy can hide now.”

  “Attempted regicide?” She scoffed. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

  Lethaniel grinned. “After our dear king was assassinated, Eferath attacked King Dorien’s guards during his escape. As I said, the boy has no chance, and I have determined it to be highly unlikely that Eferath would travel to his home town and risk his family. King Dorien will mobilize the army to search the entire kingdom, and word has been sent to our neighboring kingdoms as well, also reminding them that if any of them are found to be harboring him, or aiding in any way, it will be considered as an act of war against Escoran.”

  Syline stiffened at that. “His first royal decree is to threaten neighboring kingdoms, powerful kingdoms at that.”

  Lethaniel smiled again, and his eyes roamed her body, not even trying to hide what he was doing. “You worry about things too far above your station, dear Syline.” He reached out and gently touched her hair, smiling wistfully. “We must all remember our place during this… trying time. Don’t you agree?” Lethaniel winced suddenly and his hand froze a hairsbreadth from Syline’s cheekbone.

  “As you should remember yours, Lethaniel. For if you continue to stare at me as though you were dying of hunger, and I was a lifesaving meal, I will remove the part of you that doesn’t seem to take no for an answer, and feed it to the dogs.” To accentuate her point, Syline pushed the point of her knife forward into Lethaniel’s groin, making him rise to his tip-toes. “Am I clear?”

  Lethaniel visibly gulped, then nodded quickly and severely, backing up off of her knife with the greatest of care. “Ahh… yes. Well. You are right, of course.” He said with a shaky voice, attempting to remain casual as he straightened his robes.

  “So again, why are you here?” Syline asked again, still holding her small dagger between her finger tips.

  “King Dorien agrees with me in what I feel to be the option with the greatest chance of success. And that is for you and one of Eferath’s squad-mates to head out immediately and attempt to contact him. If you find where he is, you are to send for me immediately. If he discovers you, and does not come willingly, you are authorized to kill him.”

  Syline cocked an eyebrow. “Why me?”

  “You are the obvious choice.” Lethaniel answered in a tone that suggested the answer should have been obvious. “You received personal training from Eralon, training that may be similar to Eferath’s. For that reason, I feel you may be able to anticipate where he will go and what he will do. Since you were the one who brought him to the castle, it is likely that Eferath will simply kill you as soon as look at you.”

  “Hence why you said to bring along one of his squad mates, I get it.” She finished for him. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was better than nothing.

  “When do I leave?”

  * * * *

  Syline gently knocked on Dorien’s audience chamber door. Lethaniel had left her door nearly an hour ago when she was summoned to see the king. That was going to take some getting used to. Especially considering the fact that she would have to express emotions of grief for the assassinated king.

  She did not like to express emotion.

  When Syline was little, she was abandoned by her guardians in a filthy tavern somewhere in Escoran. The tavern keeper had found her and took pity on her, raising her as his own.

  To this day she wished he hadn’t. If she failed to learn quickly enough, or if through her childish innocence, upset a patron, she was beaten, often severely. Not by the tavern keeper, no; he was a kind-enough man whose heart was in the right place. It was his cruel and malicious wife who was as ugly as a cave troll, and had the temperament to match one that gave the punishments. Those beatings only got worse as she grew up and her beauty often stole the breath from the very patrons she served their mead to. When Dorien had come to take her from that place, the half-elf made a promise to herself that she would never allow another person to have power over her again.

  “Enter.” Dorien’s voice commanded, sounding muffled through the heavy oak door. Syline shoved the door open and stepped through, eager to find out why she had been summoned when there was work to be done, and froze the moment her foot crossed the threshold.

  She spotted Dorien standing at the foot of his dais, completely decked out in his royal regalia. She would never tell him, but she thought he looked absolutely ridiculous – his late brother Terryn had more restraint and taste. It wasn’t seeing Dorien standing there that caused her to freeze in her step, it was the second party kneeling in front of him.

  Bergen Swyftblade.

  Syline continued forward, slowly, her eyes flicking from Dorien to the kneeling man. Bergen had his chin on his chest, blood trickling down his face. His head lolled slightly from side to side, and Syline’s keen ears could hear the pitiful groans coming from him.

  “Ah Syline!” Dorien greeted her, as if she were carrying his favorite treat and there wasn’t a near-death, severely beaten man mere feet away. “I am glad you came by. Bergen! Don’t be rude, greet the lady!” Dorien accentuated his words with a solid kick to the poor man’s ribs. Bergen was a tough sort, though, and the only indication that he had been hurt was the slight wince of pain from the impact, but not a sound. Syline already knew the man was tough, but this was something else entirely.

  Syline held up a staying hand when Dorien prepared to level another kick. “Please, do not insist. I don’t mind. I came here to see how you were doing after losing your brother.” She said, trying to suppress her distaste at the blatant abuse of power as she entered the room. She glanced slide long at Bergen, whose nodded almost imperceptibly. She held his gaze for a moment, and almost winced at the man’s one eye that was nearly swollen shut.

  Dorien ignored her question. “You must be wondering why this fellow is bleeding all over my audience chamber floor. No? Well good, that will save some time.” Dorien stared down at Bergen with something below contempt, as if the man laying prostrate before him was a new species of roach.

  Syline leaned against the first pillar in her path and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Is that why you summoned me? To watch you torture a defenseless man? Really, Dorien, such actions are beneath your station.” Dorien stiffened at the casual nature in which she addressed him.

  “You will address me as Majesty, or my King, nothing else.” He hissed through gritted teeth. Syline noticed that Dorien didn’t take his eyes away from Bergen, but that the veins in his neck pulsed in anger. The half-elf shrugged. She will play his game, she decided. “My apologies, your majesty.” The words had an immediate effect, and Dorien visibly relaxed.

  “I know why Bergen is here; Bergen knows why he is here; do you know why he is here, Syline?” At that moment, the door burst open and Lethaniel stepped through, immediately pausing in his stride much the same way that Syline had.

  “Did I miss something?” He asked Syline with one eyebrow cocked. The half-elf didn’t answer him, just ignored him and continued to stare at Dorien.

  “Eferath is alive, Syline. He is alive because two things happened.” Dorien explained harshly after taking a deep breath and turning his back on Bergen. “First and foremost, he is alive because Lethaniel failed to capture him. Ah, ah, no excuses, my friend, we have already spoken about your failure, it is true, I did not summon you back so soon to rehash that now. No, it is because the events up in the mountains did not play out the way they were supposed to.”

  Lethaniel nodded nervously, his eyes locked on Bergen’s quivering form. “If word should get out about what happened to the patrols…” He started to say, but Dorien cut him off with a glare so cold even Syline felt it
s icy touch and shivered.

  Dorien looked like he was on the verge of another explosive outburst, but suddenly calmed. “You have just reminded me of something that must be dealt with immediately.”

  Lethaniel looked a question over at Syline but the half-elf merely shrugged. She had no idea what Dorien was talking about, and consigned herself to wait patiently to see where the man was going with this.

  “Feast your eyes, my friends!” Dorien announced after Lethaniel and Syline had a moment to absorb the condition of the newcomer. “What you behold here is a traitor. Had this man given Eferath the patrol orders he was told to give, he would have been slaughtered as he ought!”

  Syline’s eyes widened in shock. How did Dorien know that? She had purposefully excluded those details when she had given her account of what had happened. Dorien apparently noticed her reaction and chuckled.

  “You weren’t the only person I sent out there.” He said in response to her expression. His eyes flicked over to Lethaniel, and the half-elf knew immediately who that person was.

  Syline glared over at the old man, who was doing a masterful job at avoiding eye contact with her. “So, you believe a simple mistake is worth the savage beating of an unarmed veteran?” She asked incredulously, putting added stress on the last word.

  “He didn’t do as he was told.” Dorien explained calmly, eyeing Syline dangerously. “A simple instruction wasn’t carried out, and as a result, put us all at risk. Such oversight appears to be becoming far too common for my liking - Something that I will be correcting immediately.”

  Syline’s expression hardened. That was the closest thing to an open threat Dorien had ever spoken to her. Though he didn’t outright threaten her, his words implied how severe the consequences would be if she failed in her mission. Dorien was staring at her as if making sure his words had been well received.

  They had, and Syline didn’t like it one bit.

  “How do you answer to these charges?” Dorien demanded as he looked down at Bergen while drawing his sword. “You shall be put to death either way, but if you confess then I will see to it you will have an honorable burial. If you lie, then I shall feed you to my dogs. What will it be?”

  Bergen spat a mouthful of blood, then sneered up at Dorien. “Go kith a wock twoll.” Go kiss a rock troll. Syline had to admire the man’s grit, even though the impact of his words were lessened by the dreadful lisp he had.

  The next sound that came out of Bergen’s mouth was a gurgling grunt as Dorien impaled him through the chest with nearly four-feet of steel. Syline nearly jumped at the suddenness of the attack and she felt a profound sinking sensation as Bergen stared at her accusingly with his one good eye. Then he sank to the floor face down amidst a widening pool of crimson.

  “Feel better?” Syline burst out before she could reign in her mounting anger. “You didn’t have to kill the man!”

  Dorien suddenly advanced on her, his face a mask of pure rage. He stopped with mere inches separating the two of them and struck her backhanded in the face. “Do not believe for one second that our past relationship has any bearing on my decisions in regard to your wellbeing!” He roared an inch from her face, but Syline didn’t back down an inch, and she was glad that the backhand blow had knocked her face to one side. She knew that if she looked into his eyes, she would kill him where he stood. “It is only because I love you that you are not lying dead on the floor beside him!” Dorien hissed in her ear, spittle spraying her cheek.

  Syline stiffened. His words cut her more keenly than any slap might, and she felt her eyes starting to burn, threatening to water. With tremendous effort of will, she managed to build a wall of anger to block out the weakness that threatened to seep out. She stared into Dorien’s eyes, then turned her back and walked away. Before she left the room, she stopped.

  “Dorien,” she said softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She purposefully used his name instead of his title. Then, turning only her head, she continued, her melodic voice colder than ice. “If you ever touch me again. I will kill you.”

  Even Dorien had nothing to say to that. He was smart enough to know that if Syline made a promise, she always kept her word.

  Chapter 12

  I

  t had been a long day for Eralon; Every day had been long since his son Eferath left home to attend Escoran’s Academy. It had been a long year in general, and not a moment went by each day that he didn’t miss his son’s company. Sleep eluded him tonight. He was restless, and he felt a great sense of unease as he tossed and turned next to his wife, only to end up staring at the ceiling. No matter what he tried, his thoughts always returned to Eferath’s well-being. Eralon could feel a profound sense of worry deep inside him.

  Eralon stared up at the darkened ceiling, trying to focus his mind. Then he remembered something; A travelling merchant from Escoran had mentioned that he had to leave for Escoran early because the Academy needed particular items before the field training exercise. That had been… what? A week ago? Eralon thought to himself, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe that was what was bothering him, he reasoned. The field training exercises were designed to be as real as possible, with the exception of not being too dangerous. So, if the merchant had to return quickly for the upcoming training exercise at the end of the week, and today being the seventh day…

  Eralon heard something suddenly. It started off as a low hum that gradually increased in volume until it became a distinct rumble. Eralon sat up in his bed so quickly, he startled Lillyan from her sleep.

  “What is it?” She asked blearily, but Eralon didn’t answer her. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his sword leaning against his bedside table with a quick movement.

  The rumble grew so intense that Eralon could feel it through his bare feet on the floorboards. He heard Emily’s cry of alarm and felt the presence of Lillyan as she stood up out of bed and moved to stand next to him. The rumbling suddenly reached a crescendo, and Lillyan hurried over to shield their daughter, clapping her hands over her ears mere moments before a terrific crack! split the air from somewhere below them. Next came another thunderous retort, followed by a terrific crash and the sound of splintering wood.

  Eralon knew a teleportation spell when he heard it; he had heard their distinctive sound more times than he cared to remember and his blade made a ringing hiss as he yanked it out of its sheath.

  “Stay here.” He whispered to Lillyan, and his wife nodded her understanding. The door to Emily’s room opened and both she and his wife hurried inside and shut the door behind them.

  Eralon looked back over at the door one last time before he headed for the stairs. He crept down the creaky wooden stairs as quickly as he dared, holding his scabbard like it was another blade. As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the carnage in the kitchen. As he moved closer he spotted what looked like armored feet. Eralon passed through the threshold of the kitchen and finally got a good look at the intruder lying unconscious in the middle of what had been their table.

  A dull, ringing clang sounded as Eralon’s blade fell to the floor. “Eferath!”

  * * * *

  Lethaniel Xance moved like he was a man on a mission. He shoved guards and attendants alike out of his way as he made his way to the archives. He pulled the torch that illuminated the top of the stone stairwell out of its sconce and held it aloft as he made his descent. The stairway was narrow; narrow enough for him to feel like he had to scrunch his arms in just to fit. Each step clacked and echoed annoyingly, even as the air grew thick with dampness.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the winding stairway finally came to its end, and Lethaniel’s soft, expensive boots stepped into moist earth. His nose scrunched up in disgust, but time was of the essence. There would be time to lament ruining his expensive boots later.

  Lethaniel grunted uncomfortably as he had to stoop his lean, over six-foot-tall height torso over far enough to avoid whacking his head on the low ceilin
g. Thankfully, the archives were located a stone’s throw away from the stairway, so he didn’t have to endure it for too long. As soon as he entered the room he knew that he had his work cut out for him. Scrolls were stacked in shelves that were stacked from the ground all the way to the ceiling. Most of the scrolls were stacked at least four high. Luckily, Lethaniel was friendly with the sage in charge of organizing everything, and knew where to look.

  Within a matter of moments, Lethaniel located the section dealing with family histories. Lethaniel had spent years memorizing the contents of the archives. It was likely that he knew more about the known world than any other, and it was that knowledge that allowed him to find exactly what he was looking for. His mind kept going back to his encounter against Eferath. Some of his most powerful spells were merely shrugged off by the young man’s magical barrier.

  He had spoken to Eferath’s instructors. The curriculum didn’t include such a spell – at least nothing anywhere near strong enough to withstand the barrage he and his companions unleashed. Neither did Eferath seek such knowledge in the higher magics, or even show the slightest interest in their pursuit, despite the instructors practically begging him to pursue the arts. It was possible that the young man had a private tutor for such things, Lethaniel pondered. Such a thing was not unheard of, but that possibility didn’t fit. Which left only one thing.