The Prince of Warwood and The Sword of the Chosen (Book 3)

by J. Noel Clinton

  Abraham gave a slight nod and answered gruffly, “Your father will have a choice. If he chooses to protect you, he will die…”

  “Don’t give me that, Abe!” he shouted. “I’m sick and tired of your riddles and puzzling words! Just tell me! Is my dad still alive in the future or not?”

  The prophet shifted uneasily before answering, “No. He’s not.”

  “Then, stop it!” he ordered, jumping to his feet and storming over to him. “You’ve got to stop it from happening!”

  “Xavier, I can’t. I’ve told you the laws of my abilities…I can’t stop it. Even if I could, I…I doubt that your father would allow it.”

  “No!” he cried, lunging at the prophet and grabbing him roughly by his shirt. “Why would you save him once and not do it now? Please! Help him!”

  “I can’t, young sire. You’re the only one who can prevent it,” Abe told him regretfully.

  “How? Tell me!” he cried, tears rolling down his cheeks as he shook the man in his grip.

  Jeremiah intervened, seizing him in his strong arms and lifting him away. “Stop, Xavier. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I would rather die than for one hair on your head to be harmed. Please, son, stop crying. I’m not afraid. I don’t dread it. I simply embrace it as my destiny.”

  “No! It’s not your destiny, Dad. Your destiny is to be with me. Your destiny is to marry Lana and live to be an old man. Your destiny is NOT to die for me!” he wailed. “I won’t let you! I won’t!”

  Jeremiah sank to the cool stone floor cradling the despondent boy. “Sh! It’s all right, son. Please, don’t cry. It’ll be okay,” he murmured, hugging him.

  But Xavier knew in his heart it wouldn’t be okay. The prophet was right; only he could stop his father’s sacrifice. So as his father soothed and held him close, he vowed silently to save him.

  “Abe? Abe, are you all right? What is it? What’s wrong?” Loren yelped, hurrying to the old man’s side.

  The prophet had dropped to his knees in obvious agony. A sudden spasm of pain sent the man to all fours, and he cried out. For several long seconds, he knelt on the cold stone, panting and heaving violently. Then another invisible torment slammed him onto his back and he screamed, clutching his right hip while blood crept to the surface of his trousers.

  Loren grabbed Abe and tried to steady his seizing body. “Abe? What’s going on?”

  The king rushed over and dropped to his knees next to the prophet.

  “Hold him still, Loren. I’ll apply pressure to the wound and try to stop the bleeding.”

  Xavier shuffled toward the men, watching his father press his hands against the bloody wound.

  The prophet yelped and swore as perspiration beaded on his flushed face.

  “Abe, what hap…” Loren’s words fell away as the prophet’s body pitched and arched against another invisible force. Tremors violently threw his body against the hard, rocky floor.

  “Hold him, Loren!” Jeremiah yelled as he struggled to keep pressure on the now profusely bleeding wound.

  Abe let out a long, loud scream as some invisible force severed the finger on his left hand, leaving a small bloody stump.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God!” Abe hissed as a long ugly scar ripped its way across his jaw. There was one last painful shudder as blood oozed over the front of his cloak, and then his face turned ashen gray.

  Rasping for breath, the prophet’s eyes bore into Xavier’s as he moaned, “Xavier…d…don’t… please…” Then, before any of them could ask him what he meant, there was a great blinding silver light, and the prophet disappeared.

  “What the hell?” Jeremiah hissed, looking at his general. “Loren, what happened?”

  “I don’t know, sire, but something has changed the prophet’s future,” he replied, eyeing Xavier suspiciously.

  “What do you mean? How do you know that?” Ephraim questioned, approaching them.

  “God, Ephraim! You saw what happened! Did it look like Abe was playing charades to you?” Loren spat sarcastically. “He was dying…or more accurately…he was being murdered. How else do you think those injuries and scars occurred?”

  “What do we do, Loren. Can we stop it?” Jeremiah asked.

  “I don’t know, sire. I just don’t know,” Loren responded, shaking his head.

  The men stared at the pool of blood where the prophet had been just a moment ago.

  Only then did Xavier feel the pain in his palms. He looked down and found the Sword of the Chosen still clutched tightly in his hands. With great mental effort, he released the blade and stared at his blood-covered hands.

  Chapter 22

  Secrets

  Breakfast an hour and a half later seemed illusory and dreamlike. The shock of it all still had its dark, sinister claws in him. He knew his father had been candidly truthful in their discussion, but he still couldn’t quite believe it. He was the Chosen! The Great White King! Savior of mankind. It was hard to wrap his mind around it. The violent disappearance of Abraham Vincent was a conundrum. It was as if the prophet knew about the budding plan sowing in Xavier’s mind, and it somehow hurt him.

  He was so preoccupied that his father had led him back to the chambers where he showered and dressed without ever remembering having done it.

  Now, sitting in the Grand Hall with pancakes and bacon in front of him this overwhelming mood lingered, and he toyed absent-mindedly with his food. Even Robbie’s approach didn’t change the funk he was in.

  “Hi, Xavier. Oh, what happened to your hands?” Robbie asked.

  After a nudge from his father, Xavier snapped his attention to her. “Ah…my hands?” He looked down at his bandaged hands. “Oh…I cut myself. It’s nothing.”

  Robbie gave him a funny look. “Are you all right? You’re acting weird.”

  “He hasn’t had much sleep, Robbie. You’ll have to be patient with him today,” Jeremiah told her.

  “Oh,” Robbie noted with a relieved grin. “Well, okay. Will you sit with me at lunch?”

  “Ah, sit with you? Sure,” Xavier muttered and watched as Robbie returned to her seat. Then, his gaze fell on Lana, sitting at the far end of the first row of tables. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she looked miserable. He glanced at his father to find him studying Lana as well. His face was stoic, but the pain in his eyes was unmistakable, and his control on containing his thoughts was weak. He still loved Lana, and his heart broke at the sight of her. He carried enormous guilt for hurting her and wished things could be different. The brief insight into his father’s feelings was short yet informative. In the blink of an eye, the king clamped down on his emotions and regained his control. Then, he stood, raised his hand, and waited as the crowd grew quiet.

  With a weak smile, he announced, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. As many of you know, General Hardcastle and I returned this morning from our trip to gain intelligence on how best to reclaim our kingdom.”

  A loud bang from a back table drew the entire hall’s attention to Lana, who had jumped from her chair and was storming out. Jeremiah watched her exit the room, slamming the doors behind her, and he winced. The room erupted in heated whispers and gossip.

  After a moment, the king cleared his throat and continued, “As I was saying…we’ve gained enough knowledge to do this. Therefore, all men between the ages of fifteen and fifty and in good fighting condition are asked to train for the imminent invasion to recapture our great kingdom. All men that meet these specifications are to report to the gym after lunch today. Following breakfast tomorrow, we will leave the Mountain to train and prepare at Mirror Lake. You’ll need to pack your camping gear. We’ll be roughing it for the next couple of weeks, gentlemen. Make no mistake about it; your training will be grueling, exhausting, and painful. Then, we will retake our kingdom! It’s time for retribution, my brothers! LeMasters will pay for his crimes!”

  The hall exploded in cheers and applause, before the crowd began chanting, “Long live, King Wells! Long live, King Wells! Long live, Kin
g Wells!”

  The crowd didn’t grow quiet until the king humbly raised his hands.

  “Thank you. You honor and humble me. A king is only as great as his citizens, and I have to admit, I have the best citizens any king has the right to have. Thank you! Now, boys and girls, starting tomorrow, all empowerment classes will be cancelled for the next few weeks. You will have core classes only from eight to eleven. For the remainder of the day you will help to maintain the facilities of the mountain during the men’s absence. You are needed now more than ever. We’ll restart Wells Academy with a full schedule as soon as we’re back in our homes. So, until then, I appreciate your help and understanding. If anyone has any questions, I will entertain them throughout the day today. Have a good day.”

  A loud throng of murmurs filled the hall as the crowd dispersed.

  “You’re going to Mirror Lake for training? What about me? Am I going?” Xavier questioned.

  “No. You will not, son,” Jeremiah answered.

  “Let me guess,” he noted acidly, “I’m staying with Uncle Mike?” When his father nodded, he jumped to his feet filled fury. “Great! You obviously don’t have time for me! Why don’t I just move in with Uncle Mike for good? Maybe I should start calling him Dad! After all, I’ve seen more of him in the past two months than I have you!” With that said, he stormed from the hall not waiting for his father’s rebuttal.

  Xavier skipped his morning classes and spent the morning staring into the river. His anger toward his father had ebbed away, and now, he felt…weird. He felt strange, disconnected, like he no longer belonged among the empowered, like he had surpassed them. It was the loneliest feeling in the world.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Xavier!” he hissed out loud. “You know what you have to do. It’s probably good that Father will be leaving the mountain tomorrow. He won’t be around to complicate things.”

  It was nearly lunchtime when Xavier finally left the river with a fully formed plan in his mind. The way he figured it, if he was successful, he wouldn’t have to worry about being the Chosen anymore. If he was successful, his father and Lana could be together without any worries of what LeMasters might do to them. If he was successful, he was free to see Robbie. If he was successful, no one would have to worry about William LeMasters ever again. IF he was successful!

  Xavier, deep in thought with examining his plan for flaws, found himself outside the Grand Hall with no memory of having walked there.

  “Hey, X! Where have you been?” Court’s voice hammered into his thoughts as the boy jogged toward him and fell into step beside him.

  “I didn’t feel like going to classes this morning,” he mumbled, entering the hall ahead of Court.

  “Oh, yeah, I understand, mate. If I’d found out that I was the Chosen, I’d probably want to hide too,” Court whispered.

  He stopped and looked at his friend. “How long have you known, Court?”

  “Dad told me this morning…”

  “No. That’s not what I mean,” Xavier growled. “When did you first know about who…what I was?”

  He squirmed under the question. “Ah, well…since your divination …”

  Xavier huffed bitterly and stomped ahead of the other boy to the buffet line. Court scrambled up behind him.

  “You’re mad, aren’t you?” he asked, as they began filling their trays with food.

  “No, Courtney. Why in the hell would I be mad? After all, one of my best friends has been keeping an enormous secret from me! He’s known for months that I was the Chosen and didn’t say a damn thing about it. Now, why on Earth would that make me mad?”

  “I’m sorry, mate. I really wanted to tell you, but if I had, my father would have beaten my butt. As for King Wells, well, I sure didn’t want to find out what he would have done to me,” Court pleaded.

  Erica and Robbie approached the arguing boys with their lunch trays.

  “What’s going on?” Erica questioned.

  “I suppose they know as well?” Xavier asked shortly.

  Court simply nodded.

  Not even bothering to muffle his string of curses, Xavier stomped toward the table at the very back of the hall.

  “Sire Wells!” one of the cooks blared. “Did you just say what I think you said? That kind of language is unbecoming for the Prince of Warwood.”

  “So?” he spat. “We’re not in Warwood, are we?”

  “That may be true sire, but you are still our prince. And, as the Prince of Warwood, you should set an example for all the children here, and that kind of language is highly inappropriate,” she continued, shaking her finger at him.

  He glowered at the woman, his anger swelling. “As the Prince of Warwood, I don’t take orders from the kitchen help. You take orders from me! So, shut your mouth and do what you do best. Cook something!”

  The woman looked at him, stunned. Then with a scowl, she chastised, “Your father will hear about this!”

  “So? What else is new?” Xavier shouted at the top of his lungs. “If I forget to do my homework, someone has to tell my father! When someone reads a letter I wrote in front of every kid in the kingdom, my father is told. God! If I breathe wrong, someone has to tell him. Why wait? Go and tell him now while you’ve got the chance. Lord knows with this tasteless slop you’re trying to pass off as food, you won’t be missed!”

  The woman rushed from the hall in tears.

  “Xavier? I don’t care if you didn’t sleep well or not, what has gotten into you?” Robbie scolded. “You made her cry!”

  He felt a stab of guilt, but quickly pushed it away and shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to the back table and settled himself into a chair. Robbie followed.

  “Xavier…”

  “Don’t spout your holier-than-thou crap at me, Robbie. You’re not the perfect, thoughtful, do-gooder you make yourself out to be!” he blared.

  “What are you talking about?” she exclaimed.

  “You KNOW what I’m talking about!” he hissed under his breath. “Why didn’t you tell me that I’m the Chosen?”

  “How did you…”

  “That doesn’t matter! You should have told me!”

  “Xavier…I’m sorry…I…”

  “Forget it,” he grumbled, waving her away. “Just leave me alone! If I don’t eat something before Father comes, I won’t eat…”

  “XAVIER WELLS!” the king’s voice boomed. “Come here, NOW!”

  “Great! Looks like I won’t have lunch today,” he grumbled, getting to his feet and making his way across the hall to his father, who stood imposingly in the doorway.

  The moment he was within arm’s reach, his father’s hand shot out, and hauled him out into the hall. The cook stood outside the door with red, watery eyes, and another pang of guilt wrenched at Xavier’s insides.

  “Son?” Jeremiah hissed expectantly.

  His eyes fluttered from the woman to the floor in front of him.

  “Xavier Wells!” the king growled, his hand tightening warningly on his arm.

  Xavier looked up at the woman again and cleared his throat. “I…I’m sorry, ma’am. I was angry, and I wrongly took it out on you. You didn’t deserve it…please, accept my apology…”

  When Xavier didn’t continue, Jeremiah added stoutly, “And as retribution, Xavier will volunteer to do your cleanup duties this evening so that you can have the night off, Ms. White.”

  Leave it to his father to make sure his apology exceeded normal standards. Xavier looked up at the woman in front of him and gave her a small encouraging smile. “Yes, ma’am. Of course I’ll do that.”

  The woman smiled. “Thank you, young sire. I should have known you’d come to your senses, and…I’m sorry you’re having a bad day. I hope it gets better.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, looking at his large, daunting father standing beside him. “But I have a feeling that my day is only going to get worse.”

  The woman exchanged an uncomfortable glance between the king and the prince before an
nouncing, “Well, thank you again. I’d better get back to my chores. Good afternoon, sire.”

  “Good afternoon, Diana,” Jeremiah responded, flashing a warm smile.

  As soon as the doors closed behind Ms. White, Jeremiah’s steely eyes bore into Xavier as he ordered, “Come with me. We’ll finish this in the residence.”

  Then, he turned and strode toward the steps. Xavier released a shaky breath and sluggishly drifted after his father.

  Jeremiah didn’t look back until he reached the entryway to royal chambers. He opened the door, turned to the slouching, shuffling boy, and commanded, “Inside.”

  Xavier slipped past his father and into the chamber.

  “Sit.” Jeremiah ordered shortly, pointing at the sofa.

  Xavier sat on the edge of the sofa and timidly glanced at his father, who dragged a chair from the table and settled in front of him.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” he probed.

  Xavier squirmed under his father’s glare but didn’t answer.

  “Answer me, son! What happened to make you believe that you have any right to treat an adult that way?”

  He tried to meet his father’s eyes but faltered under the power and intensity there. He quickly looked away and stared at his feet.

  “I…I was angry at my friends,” he finally whispered, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa.

  “I see,” Jeremiah noted stiffly. “So being angry with your friends gave you the right to backtalk, disrespect, and act insolently toward an adult?”

  “No,” he retorted.

  “Oh, so being the Prince of Warwood gives you that right, then?”

  “No! Jeez, Dad! Stop twisting my words. I’m trying to explain. I was already mad at Court, Erica, and Robbie, and that’s why I lost my temper with Ms. White!”

  “You do not have the luxury to lose your temper, boy! Not only because you’re their prince, but more importantly, you’re the Chosen. Losing your temper could result in deadly consequences!”

  “Damn it, Dad!” he spat. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone!”

  “Watch your language with me, boy!” his father barked.