Luxon looked away unable to meet the old man’s intense gaze. Perhaps he was too clever for his own good.
“We are on our way to Caldaria to seek safety. The war grows worse and magic users are being killed as the common folk blame all the world’s ills on us,” Huin added darkly. ‘We had a good business in Balnor until we we’re chased out of the city. It’s a sign of madness that even healers are being persecuted. Once we were respected despite our magic...now we are murdered in the streets...”
Gric held up a hand to stop his young companion.
“Fear does terrible things to people, but we shall rise above it. I fear that healers will be much in demand before the war is over,” Gric muttered. He dipped the ladle into the now boiling water and scooped out the liquid that had turned a blue green colour. Carefully he took an empty bottle from out of the satchel and tipped the fluid into it.
Luxon held the bottle steady. A thought occurred to him.
“How do you know that I’m a mage? I’ve not used any magic since the city..,” he asked in confusion.
Gric cackled mischievously and put a cork into the bottle. A twinkle was in his eyes.
“Anyone who travels in the company of a Nightblade, Witch hunter and Knight must be a mage, for it is only a mage that would ever find themselves in such strange company and...You do radiate magical power... Just like that girl you’re with.”
Luxon sat back in surprise. Alira? She was as powerful as he, why hadn’t Thanos said anything? He’d assumed that the girl was even more of a novice than himself.
Gric clapped him on the shoulder his expression turning serious once more.
“Be careful of the girl...there is something odd about her” the old man whispered.
“You’re not the first to say such a thing...” replied Luxon, feeling troubled.
“Let’s see if we can rouse your friend. Huin take hold of the boys head,” Gric said as he shuffled over to Yepert.
Luxon could see that his friend was as stiff as a board, his limbs were rigid but his chest rose and fell slowly. Huin lent over the boy and restrained his head while Gric opened Yepert’s mouth and poured the contents of the vial down his gullet. The old man closed his eyes and muttered an incantation. A white light emanated from his palms as he chanted. The magic engulfed Yepert’s body in a blinding flash.
With a start Yepert’s eyes fluttered open and his mouth opened in a silent scream.
“Yepert, easy.” Luxon soothed as he knelt down next to his friend. Yepert’s face went red as the blood flowed once more, with a harsh gasp his breathing returned to normal and his muscles began to twitch uncontrollably. Huin held him still whilst his body thrashed about.
“The Banshee’s spell is being broken. If Huin doesn’t hold his head then the boy could break his own neck as life returns to his body...seen it happen before,” Gric explained.
A few moments passed until at last Yepert stopped moving. His eyes were wide and alert and colour had returned to his skin. Luxon breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” he said to the two healers.
Yepert sat up in confusion...
“Luxon? Wha...I’m hungry....”he moaned as he held his stomach.
Luxon laughed.
***
20.
Sunguard
The crowds angry shouts were irritating Rason. The general was dressed in the regalia of a soon to be King. A purple robe was draped over his shoulders, his white silk shirt and black trousers were ironed to perfection. His knee high black boots were polished to magnificence and the jewels of Delfinnia shined opulently around his neck. The only thing missing from the outfit was the crown.
He posed in front of the body length mirror affixed to his chambers wall. He marvelled at his regal appearance.
Soon after disposing of the Privy Council he had taken possession of one of the former King’s manors. The building’s ornately decorated interior of gold and silver just oozed wealth and power. He felt at home there.
His thoughts were interrupted when a red faced legionary burst into the room. The man was wearing the plate armour of the legion and his breaths came in ragged gasps.
“General Sir,” the legionary rasped giving a feeble excuse for a salute.
“A salute? Sir? Am I not the king? Bow, and address me by my proper title,” Rason demanded giving the tired soldier an angry, withering stare.
Annoyance briefly flashed across the legionary’s face before he bowed low, his armour clinking as he did so.
“Now, what do you want? I gave captain Odrin clear orders that I was to not be interrupted. I have a coronation to prepare for after all,” Rason said airily. Again the soldier scowled at his general’s arrogant tone.
“Sire,” the solider said through gritted teeth, “The city’s populace are growing restless, we’ve seen rioting in some parts of the city and a large mob is heading this way. Captain Odrin requests that you order more troops to the manor, he fears that what men we have will not be able to get you to the crowning stone safely,” the solider explained. All the while the sounds of the angry crowd grew in volume. A crash came from downstairs as a rock was sent through a window.
“Why are the people rioting?” Rason asked in genuine confusion.
“Begging your pardon...sire, the people...they say that you don’t have the right to wear the crown...that there is a true heir out there somewhere,” the legionary cringed as he spoke.
Rason’s face went red, fury rose within him. His hands twitched uncontrollably, he hadn’t betrayed everything he had loved and worked so hard to achieve for it to be laid low by rumours and lice ridden peasants. He glared at the legionary who looked away. Reaching into his boot he pulled out a knife.
“I AM THE KING!” Rason exploded in rage as he plunged the blade deep into the legionary’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound splashing onto his fine cloak and face. The soldier’s body slumped to the floor with a crash. The dying man gasped, his hands covering the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood. His hands quickly grew slippery as he desperately fought for life. Eventually he went still eyes open wide in shock.
Rason stared at what he had done for a moment, before wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s armour.
“I am the king,” he muttered. The sound of the mob grew louder. ‘If they will not accept me as their king then I will make them.”
He left his chamber and walked through the manor house. Portraits of kings and battles from long ago adorned the walls and a vast golden chandelier hung from the painted ceiling. It was a cacophony of gold’s and reds designed to exude power and regal majesty to all who would gaze upon it. The staircase was made from crystal so pure that it glinted in the dimmest of light, statues of marble and obsidian stood on every step. Quickly he bounded down the steps to the ground floor.
Four legionaries were bracing the large oak doors whilst two more were shooting crossbow bolts from the balcony above which overlooked the courtyard leading to the manor.
“Sire...We can’t hold them much longer, there’s hundreds of them out there, they’re threatening to torch the place!” one of the soldiers reported. Panic was in the man’s eyes but the long years of legionary training prevented him from fleeing.
Rason walked to a window and peeked outside. Sure enough there were hundreds of peasants all baying for his blood. Shouts of ‘usurper’ and ‘murderer’ filled the hate filled air. After he had killed the council the populace of the capital had been stunned into obedience, now rumours had spread and anger had followed.
He smirked as a peasant fell to a crossbow bolt fired from one the legionaries on the balcony. The bolt pierced the screaming woman in the leg knocking her to the ground. Immediately other rioters pulled her to safety. He didn’t envy the hundred or so soldiers that were preventing the crowd from getting any closer. Rocks were being thrown as well as rotting veg and pig shit. He was pleased to see that captain Odrin had formed his men up into a shield wall, an impenetrab
le barrier of steel.
“I have to reach the crowning stone by noon. Enough of this nonsense..,” Rason muttered. With a nod of his head the legionaries opened the heavy doors and raised their kite shields high to protect their general and king. The roar of the crowd swept into the manor like a thunder clap, and for a brief moment Rason hesitated. He shook the concerns away angrily before they stepped outside into the manor’s courtyard. The line of legionaries held fast as the crowd tried to force their way through their ranks.
“Bastard!” shouted a man in the crowd.
“You have no right to the crown!” screeched a woman.
“Prince Alderlade!”Yelled another.
Rason stopped upon hearing the name. None of the common folk knew that name. A realisation struck him like a bolt of lightning.
“Davik...” Rason shouted angrily. They had never found the old warriors body. Now it was clear that the old king’s captain of the guard was spreading unrest amongst the populace. Rason raised his right arm into the air and thrust it at the crowd. They had tried his patience, now they would see that it was not wise to anger their King.
Captain Odrin saw his general’s arm fall and gulped. He knew what the command meant; it meant that things would only get worse in the capital. He swore under his breath, he’d joined the legion to defend the people not massacre them.
At first he had believed that Rason was the man to take the crown, but as rumours spread of a true heir doubts had crept in. It didn’t help that his general had become drunk on power. Before Rason’s bid for power Odrin had just been a private, only the executions of his superiors had shot him up the ranks. Now his head was on the line, he had to obey or else he would die.
“Draw swords!” he barked to his men. Some of which glanced at him uncertainly.
“That crazy fools going to kill us all,” muttered another, a grizzled veteran of numerous campaigns against the wild tribes and Yundols. Despite their protests they drew their weapons.
“Niveren forgive us,” Odrin prayed quietly. The captain drew his sword, and the butchery began.
*
Rason was happy. The crowd was silent. It was also dead. The grim faced legionaries had done their work with ruthless efficiency as always. He had ordered the manors terrified servants to put blankets on the blood soaked path leading from the manor, he didn’t want to ruin his shiny boots.
Now he was on horseback in a procession of three hundred of his most loyal legionaries. The Sunguard legion had been tasked with securing the rest of the city and the smell of smoke and cries of terrified citizens carried on the air.
The marching steps of the legionaries resonated like thunder and upon seeing the approaching soldiers people fled back to their homes. Doors were bolted and windows locked as they marched. The people were afraid. Rason didn’t see the looks of shame and anger that crossed many of his men’s faces.
Word had spread quickly of the bloodbath at the manor causing many of the rioters to flee, but others were emboldened by the slaughter. Anger was tangible and as the procession wound its way through the cobbled streets volleys of rotten veg battered the soldier’s shields. One soldier had been knocked unconscious by a thrown piece of masonry and torn apart by the baying crowds. The city’s mood was ugly.
Some of the people had chanted the names of the Baron’s, something once unthinkable before the demise of the Privy Council. The rebel barons had been loathed, but now some were seen as possible saviours from the usurper.
Finally after a tense journey they reached the heart of Sunguard.
The plaza of Kings was a vast open space tiled with marble and other precious stones. Statues lined the plaza’s edges and in the centre was a large domed cathedral inside of which lay the King’s stone, the sacred stone where every King since the creation of the Kingdom had been crowned.
The legionaries marched into the plaza, forming up into pristine formation, their armour and spears glinting in the sunshine. More soldiers took positions around the plaza’s edge to block the dozen roads that led into its heart. Mobs of rioters charged the lines on the north side but were repulsed with spear butts and shields.
Rason ignored the racket. All of his attention was now focused on the King’s stone. Standing outside of the large iron and wood doors of the cathedral were half a dozen members of the Chantry. The elders of the realm’s sole surviving religion were adorned in their white robes of office and their tall hats and staffs signalled that they were men of god. Each glanced at the plaza’s edge nervously.
Rason trotted his horse to stand before the holy men.
“Archbishop Trentian,’ the man who would be king said, acknowledging the superior man of the cloth. Trentian was a man in his seventies whose skin was as brown as the sands of the Bison plain, and his elderly features made him appear as though he was made of paper left under heat for too long. Lines of age bore deep into skin and his yellow tinged eyes were deep in his head. A simple moustache of silver hair came in stark comparison to his bald head.
“General Rason,” Trentian replied shortly. The other clergymen gasped in horror and their leader’s lack of respect. The old man ignored them. He’d seen too many tyrants and fools to be quelled in fear by them.
Rason raised his eyebrows in amusement.
“I think you mean sire or my grace Archbishop,” he chuckled.
Trentian took a step forward shaking off the warning hands of his fellow bishops.
“No. I mean general. For that is what you are. In no way have you proven that you are anything more to god or the people of this realm,’ the old man shouted angrily. He wanted his voice to reach the ears of the soldiers at their general’s side.
“Five other claimants to the Sundered Crown still stand and still tear this land apart through their lust for power. Some have legitimate claims. The Baron of Balnor was the dead King’s right hand. The Baron of Retbit has support of the eastern lands and Ricard of Champia is related to the dead Queen through marriage to her sister.’ Trentian gasped for breath but resumed his tirade.
The other bishops shrank back from their leader, the legionaries looked away unable to hear the words, but Rason simply glared at the Archbishop.
“And then there are the rumours of the Prince in hiding. You, Rason, demand to be crowned because you butchered the Privy Council. You have done nothing to prove that you deserve the throne. If you become King nothing will change. No one will accept you... they will all still call you the usurper!”
Rason stared silently at the old man. He did not see a hint of fear in his weathered features. Instead all he saw was belief and defiance. He chafed to draw his sword and take the man’s head from his shoulders. Instead he hesitated. Killing a few nobles and peasants was one thing but to murder a man of the church was another thing entirely. He sighed angrily.
“Very well Trentian... you win,” he muttered darkly. He wheeled his horse about and galloped towards his legionaries stood to attention in the plaza. He trotted to stand before the front ranks. He raised his head and bellowed as loud as he could.
“Soldiers of the Legion hear me. People of Sunguard hear me,” his voice boomed.
The plaza was designed to carry voices and his deep powerful one rang out to all corners of the square. What the defiant Archbishop had said was true. Other claimants still lived. He would destroy them one by one.
“I came here to be crowned a King. Instead, I stand here before you all, and before god to make a vow. I will only return here to claim my throne when all enemies of the realm are defeated, when Retbit, when Balnor, when Bison, when Champia and all the others are carrion for the birds, that is when I will return to you.’
He paused for effect.
Already he saw his words were going down well with the legionaries. All they wanted was to restore order, war was in their blood. His next words were aimed at the people.
“I will only return when I can bring peace and security to the people of Delfinnia. To atone for what many see as my crimes
I will vanquish the kingdoms true foes.”
“What of Alderlade?” the crowd shouted in response.
Rason swore under his breath. What of the Prince indeed? If the rumours were true then they would never accept him as their king. No. If he found the child he would have to end its life. Discreetly of course.
He smiled.
“If the rumours are true and an heir yet lives then I will stand aside and help put him on the throne myself. All I do. I do for you and the realm,” he lied.
His smile widened as the crowds jeers turned into cheers. The legionaries stamped their spears against their shields to show their appreciation for their general’s words. Rason waved as the sound rose in volume until it roared like thunder.
He had a war to plan.
***
21.
The Sundial crossroads was more than just a road which went off in all directions; it was basically a small bustling prosperous town. Standing tall and proud was the legendary Sundial Arms the biggest and rowdiest tavern in Delfinnia. Due to its strategic location the Sundial had seen its fair share of skirmishes between the rival factions.
This day the flag of the Baron of Balnor’s sigil of the eagle clutching a bar of gold and a hammer in its talons fluttered gently in the breeze. In a week’s time it would likely be replaced by the legion or Retbit’s standard.
A tall sturdy stone wall encircled the tavern and a gateway was placed upon every road. Twelve different gates leading off in twelve different directions meant that technically Sundial was the heart of the land.
Luxon stared in wonder at the sight of hundreds of people milling about and the shouts and calls of the many traders, pedlars and other merchants that had set up shop outside and inside the walls. Most of the people appeared tired, their clothes worn and their boots dusty. Standing tall was a rune stone, an ideal spot for one and was no doubt a major attraction for weary travellers.
Heir to the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga) Page 14
