King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Seamas’ glare deepened, and the tension in the air between the two warriors thickened almost visibly. Oraeyn was almost surprised that there were no sparks flashing in the air where their gazes met and clashed. A knight bumped into Oraeyn, and he turned to see who it was. As he turned, he realized that the raging battle had stopped. The men from both armies had gathered around Brant and Seamas in a large ring and now they stood watching, transfixed.

  The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen. Then, with a loud yell, Seamas attacked again. Holding his sword in both hands, he swung the blade in a great arc over his right shoulder, aiming it at Brant’s head. Brant brought his own sword up and met the blow, blocking it with ease.

  “I would have thought, brother,” Brant said quietly, “that you would have changed your tactics a little over the years. That attack has never worked, in all the years we sparred as children.”

  Seamas gritted his teeth angrily and sliced down towards Brant’s leg. Brant brought his sword down, blocking the blow again. He had not yet made an offensive move.

  “Seamas, Seamas,” Brant shook his head, “will you never learn to take the unexpected strike?”

  Seamas glared. “I took the unexpected move when I attacked Aom-igh.”

  Brant sighed. “Yes, but your plan had a hole in it, and your prey saw through your decoy and you still ended up being the one who was taken by surprise.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Seamas said, thrusting his sword at Brant’s throat, “I have you here in front of me at last.”

  Brant pushed Seamas’ blade to the right with his own. “No, I suppose it did not matter, your army outnumbered your enemy’s by at least three to one.”

  Seamas brought his blade in a chopping motion towards Brant’s waist. Brant moved to block it but at the last moment Seamas switched directions and swung his sword down in a slice at Brant’s right leg. The maneuver should have worked, but Brant simply jumped backwards, causing Seamas’ blow to swing wildly through the air, hitting nothing.

  “I suppose I should be flattered: all this effort, the subterfuge, the strategy, the resources, all just to find me. Did your men know what you were really after? Or did you fill their heads with the glory of expanding Llycaelon across the seas?”

  Seamas stepped back, keeping his sword up. “Will you not attack?”

  “Do you really want to die?”

  “It is you who will die.”

  “I beat you once, brother. I can do it again.”

  Seamas’ face turned red, and his eyes seemed to glow in his rage. “Prepare yourself, brother! After I kill you I will hang you in the palace garden and let my wolves devour you!”

  Brant’s face lost all expression and became hard and implacable. His jaw tightened, and his eyes became burning embers. He stood on guard and nodded at Seamas.

  “As you wish.”

  All who were watching took a step back, realizing that the duel had just become much more serious.

  Seamas let out a yell, but this time as he rushed in he crouched low and made a thrust up at Brant’s stomach. Brant spun away and then brought his sword around towards Seamas’ shoulder. Seamas ducked and then chopped up at Brant’s arm. Brant switched directions with his sword and blocked the blow. The blades screamed as they came together and sparks flew as the edges clashed.

  Oraeyn watched the dance of death in fascination. The two fighters whirled and chopped and blocked and ducked at dizzying speeds. Oraeyn found that it was hard to tell which was the better swordsman; they were matched so well. However, after a while it became apparent that Brant was the stronger and quicker of the two. His sword moved in a blur that seemed to be no more than an extension of his arm. He seemed to be just a touch more comfortable with his sword than Seamas, and that tiny difference was beginning to take its toll. Seamas was breathing hard and bleeding in several places where he had not been quick enough. Seamas made one last, desperate attempt to defeat his opponent. His blade sang a deadly song as he swung it through the air at Brant’s head. Brant ducked at the last moment and brought his own sword up in a final blow.

  Seamas gasped as the sword went through him. For one, agonizing second, he stood staring at Brant in disbelief. Then he sank to his knees as though stunned.

  “No… no…” Seamas mumbled the words. He looked pleadingly up at Brant, dropping his sword and reaching out towards Brant. Slowly, he pulled the sword from his body and dropped it on the ground, clasping both hands over the wound. “Brother...” He toppled over.

  Brant crouched down next to his brother, wary of any tricks that Seamas might play; but Seamas was beyond tricks. His eyes were quickly becoming glassy, his breaths coming in short, painful gasps. Brant dropped his sword and knelt, putting one hand beneath Seamas’ head.

  “Rhoyan?” Seamas blinked, and then squinted at Brant’s face. “Rhoyan? Is that you?”

  “I’m here, Ky, I’m here,” Brant’s voice was soothing. “It’s me.”

  Seamas’ lips quirked up in a pleasant smile, and the harshness of his face softened. His dark eyes had a faraway look in them, and he suddenly seemed much younger, just a boy. “I looked for you, Mother wanted you home for dinner. Hasn’t been the same... with you gone.”

  “I know.”

  The expression the dying man’s face twisted into one of anguish, he lifted his head, reaching up to clasp Brant’s shoulder with bloody fingers. “Rhoyan... I did... something horrible. I...” Seamas’ voice came in whispered gasps. “I was... wrong. Done so many... so many... terrible things. Please... forgive...me.”

  “I already have, brother. A long time ago.”

  Seamas’ expression relaxed into a whisper of a smile. “You... would,” he gasped in pain, his body arching, Brant held him tightly. “Please... watch over... my son. He is not... not... like me. Please... he’s a... good boy. Lot of... his mother... in him. Might make... a... good... king. You de... decide.” His breath left his body in a final, ragged gasp, and he was gone.

  Brant bowed his head and knelt over the body of the slain king for a long moment. Then he laid Seamas on the ground and folded the king’s hands over his heart. Brant stood up slowly and gazed at the people who had gathered around him. He looked weary but alert. His muscles were tensed as though he was ready for any attack. Oraeyn held his breath as the tension of the silent battlefield mounted, wondering what would happen now that the King of the Dark Country had been defeated. He tensed, ready to fight off a new attack if need be. Then one of the Dark Warriors moved towards Brant. Oraeyn tried to shout a warning but the words died on his lips as he watched in astonishment.

  Brant tensed visibly as the man strode to stand before him, but the Dark Warrior made no move to attack. Instead he knelt and turned his sword to hand the hilt to Brant, holding the blade in the crook of his left arm.

  “My name is Tobias,” he said, in a strong yet submissive voice, “rank: Aetoli. We met once, long ago, perhaps you will not remember me. I have kept your secret these long years, though apparently it did not do as much good as I had hoped. You have defeated my king, and by the law of Llycaelon I will serve no other. You spoke many true things to King Seamas. I cannot excuse the things that I have done, I take responsibility for the orders I followed and for the men who followed me. I take responsibility for standing by and doing and saying nothing to stop the evil that has occurred by the hands of our warriors in this peaceful land. I was afraid, but I know that is a poor excuse. I will accept the consequences that you deem just, even death.”

  Oraeyn was confused, but Brant seemed to understand the man perfectly. He took the Warrior’s sword and raised it high, then he turned it around and handed it back hilt first saying, “I remember you well, Tobias, you did me a great service once. You saved my life. Consider my debt repaid. There has been too much bloodshed done today already, your life is yours.”

  Tobias stood up, nodded gravely, and took his sword, sheathing it once
more. “Thank you, my King.”

  Another Dark Warrior moved forward. “Tobias speaks for many of us, and he speaks truly when he calls you our king. By our laws, you have defeated our king and are entitled to take his place. You seem familiar with our ways, and with my captain. I do not know how this is possible, though I have my own theories on the matter. If I may make a request? May I ask your name, Majesty?”

  Brant nodded. “My name is Brant of the House of Arne, though when I was younger I was known as Rhoyan,” he spoke quietly, but his voice carried across the battlefield as though he had shouted.

  The Dark Warrior stepped back, a stunned look in his eyes. “Then you truly are the rightful heir to the throne.”

  A murmur traveled through the Dark Warriors, and they all gazed at Brant with something new in their eyes. It seemed to be a cross between respect and fear. A few more of the warriors knelt respectfully before Brant and recited words that sounded like oaths of fealty. Oraeyn felt a little stunned himself at this sudden turn of events, and he found that he was still tense and ready to fight if the need arose.

  Then someone nearby started up a shout of, “Hail Brant, hail the new king!” And Oraeyn let out his breath, realizing for the first time that he had been holding it.

  Soon all of the Dark Warriors had laid down their weapons and taken up the shout. The battlefield was filled with a great roar of men shouting for their new king. And there was Brant, in the middle of it all, deaf to the shouts. He had fallen to his knees beside his brother, and he was weeping.

  chapter

  TWENTY

  With the death of their leader, the rest of the Dark Warriors surrendered. Many had witnessed Seamas’ duel and the word spread swiftly through the ranks until all acknowledged Brant as the victor. They had seen how their leader had given challenge, and since Brant had conquered, the Dark Warriors had knelt in surrender.

  There was much to be done after the battle, and Oraeyn found himself almost wishing for the “good old days” of traveling through the wilderness and running from Dark Warriors. The first thing on the list was dealing with the traitors of Roalthae. Guards were sent to Roalthae and Prince Elroy was brought back to Aom-igh in chains to face charges of treason and espionage. King Arnaud had him and several of his highest ranking aides locked up in the empty wine cellar so that they could be dealt with in due time. At present, there were more pressing matters to take care of before the traitors could be tried.

  The dead had to be buried, and Brant insisted upon giving his brother, Seamas, a king’s funeral. Arnaud had been loath to give his enemy such an honor, but Brant had been adamant. They had argued about it for an entire day, and finally Arnaud had relented.

  The Dark Warriors and the knights of the realm, and many others gathered at Seamas’ funeral. He was laid in a black coffin. He was dressed in combat attire, and his crown was laid on his chest along with his sword. Brant stepped forward to say a few words.

  “In life, the King of Llycaelon was ambitious, proud, and determined. These qualities were to his tribute, and he led his people well for many years. However, in the end, it was these same attributes that pulled him down.”

  Brant stopped and stepped back with a sigh, shaking his head. “I cannot say what needs to be said, for though he was my brother, he became my greatest enemy. He challenged me as such because he had convinced himself that his throne was in danger so long as I lived. Seamas never knew that he was the only one who ever questioned his right to the throne.

  “His body will be borne to Llycaelon and buried with our father and the other kings of Llycaelon. Truly, Seamas was a good king for many years, and had he not allowed his pride and his fears to rule him, I believe he could have continued to be such.”

  Brant fell silent once more and motioned towards several of the Dark Warriors. The men he motioned to strode forward and picked up the casket. They carried it onto one of the ships that would sail back to Llycaelon. The rest of the people shifted uncomfortably and then dispersed in silence, returning to the undesirable task of burying the rest of the fallen.

  Dylanna walked over to Brant. “I think you were too kind, but I find myself in awe of your strength. I could not have done that.”

  Brant gave her a weary smile. “‘Speak no ill of the dead,’” he quoted. “I did not think I could do it either. But it was different when we were younger, before either of us realized there was anything special about being princes of the House of Arne, before Seamas discovered that the eldest son is usually the heir. For a long time, we were best friends; for a long time, he was a very good man.”

  Dylanna wanted to ask Brant why Seamas had not been chosen in the first place, and what the prophecy was that Seamas had spoken of; she wanted to ask so many questions, but she kept them unspoken. Months of travel had taught her that Brant answered questions with cryptic words that hardly explained anything. She also knew that he was always saying more than he seemed to say, so she left him alone, puzzling over his words.

  Brant stood alone for a long while after everyone else had left. A tear rolled down his face as he gazed across the sea in the direction of Llycaelon.

  “You weep for him?” Kiernan’s voice startled Brant, and he dashed a hand across his face as though to hide the tears.

  “He was my brother, once,” Brant replied.

  Kiernan smiled, but it was a smile filled with sorrow. “I am sorry.” Then he slipped away as quietly as he had come. Brant watched him go, wondering why the minstrel’s words had sounded like a heartfelt apology rather than a statement of sympathy.

  Everyone worked together to clean up the battlefield, even the dragons and the other people of Krayghentaliss helped dig graves and plant new grass. Oraeyn worked alongside Brant as much as possible during the next few days. Most of their work was done in silence, for it was not the lighthearted sort of work that leads to conversation. It was as though the silence of the fallen men they were burying had penetrated each one of them and held them captive until the task was finished. Once the grisly task was complete, Arnaud asked Brant to seek for any strays that may have been injured and escaped into the woods or surrounding countryside. Brant readily consented to this task and asked Oraeyn to join him. Both men were eager to exchange the battlefield of death for the life that blossomed in the woodlands. But it didn’t really matter where Brant was headed, Oraeyn was always glad to be at his side.

  “Brant?” Oraeyn said as they walked into the forest.

  Brant looked back at him, but said nothing, waiting for Oraeyn to finish his thought. Oraeyn smiled a little, then continued.

  “Will you be sailing back with the Dark Warriors?”

  “They are called aethelons,” Brant said kindly, then he sighed. “Yes, I will be sailing back with them. I am their new King.”

  Oraeyn’s face fell a little, but he did not press the point any further. Instead he changed the subject.

  “Why did the dragons come to our aid?”

  Brant looked at him. “You do not know?”

  Oraeyn shook his head. “No.”

  Brant raised his eyebrows, and then answered, “Apparently King Rhendak was trying to make a statement. You remember the two dragons who tried to stop us from leaving Krayghentaliss with the pipes?”

  Oraeyn nodded, and Brant continued, “They tricked Rhendak and managed to put on a convincing show that they had lost their sanity. As a result, Rhendak spared their lives. They were placed in a locked room, but since they were only lightly guarded, they escaped with ease. Rhendak hunted them down and killed them himself. But justice came a little too late; his people, as well as the other creatures of the under-realm, were beginning to doubt Rhendak’s strength as a leader.

  “The Elders continued to uphold him, but even their support was not enough to curb the mutinous grumblings that arose. The only way Rhendak could see to save his position as king and rebind the loosening loyalties of his people was to lead them into action. I suppose it was luck
y for him that there was a war going on. He led all of the creatures of Krayghentaliss above-realm and towards the palace. As they headed this way, they felt the presence of another dragon and then Yole called them, directing them to the battlefield.”

  “All of the creatures followed Rhendak into battle except for the unicorns,” Oraeyn commented. “Why?”

  Brant snorted. “Typical of unicorns.”

  Oraeyn would have pressed the question further, but a noise ahead of them made both men stop and listen.

  “What is it?” Oraeyn whispered.

  “Listen.”

  They moved forward with caution, aware that whoever it was might not know the battle was over. As they drew closer to the source of the noise, the sound became clearer. Oraeyn stared up at Brant in confusion.

  “Someone is crying.”

  Brant’s brow furrowed, and he moved silently ahead on the path. He pulled back some branches, and suddenly there was a flash of steel. Brant leapt back hurriedly, barely missing being cut by the sword.

  “Go away!” a young voice shouted angrily. “Leave me alone! I wish to die, let me die in peace!”

  Brant and Oraeyn shared a confused glance. Then Brant darted back to the bushes and reached towards the branches. The sword flashed again, but this time Brant was ready. He ducked away from the blade and then reached with his left hand and grabbed the arm that held the sword. He pulled the owner of both the sword and the arm from behind the bushes. Oraeyn stared in surprise at the figure. It was a boy who looked to be only a few years younger than himself. The boy had dark hair and eyes, and he resembled Brant a little. Seeing that he was held captive, the boy dropped his sword and stared at the ground in defeat.

  Brant kicked the sword away. “What is your name?”

  The boy stared at him. “Jemson.”

  “Why are you crying, Jemson?” Brant asked, his voice kind.