Heir to the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga)

by Matthew Olney

  “We just do it in the shadows. I bet I know more things that are occurring in the world at this moment than any of you lot do.”

  Sophia was about to snap off a snide remark but Kaiden stopped her with a look. He opened his hands to put the thief at ease. In his travels as a knight of the order he had seen the Fleet Foots. In every major town and city in the land they had a presence. They were an intelligence network in all but name.

  “I’m sure you do” Kaiden said slowly, ‘so, what is occurring in Balnor that leads the famous Fleet Foots to hide inside during their preferred hours of activity?”

  Thrift looked away his skin whitening. The other thief’s also looked frightened.

  “Death stalks the streets,’ one of them said, a young woman no more than sixteen.

  “Tis true, it comes from the Barons castle every night to feed on the living!” chimed in another, this one a boy.

  Sophia glanced at Kaiden with a raised eyebrow.

  “What comes from the castle?” Kaiden asked.

  “It started a few days ago. A woman with long blonde hair arrived in the city and met with the baron. That same night a scream came from the castle, one that would chill you to your very core. Everyone heard it. The next day there were stories that people had vanished from their homes. Every night the scream and more folk vanished. People tried to escape the city but none could,” Thrift explained.

  “How come?” Davik said. The old man was idly fingering his swords hilt; his eyes were tight with tension. He was a man used to fighting men not monsters.

  “A spell!” the young woman cried. ‘Those who stepped through the city gate...they...they...died.”

  “It can’t just be me that’s thinking that Cliria passed this way,” Sophia muttered.

  Kaiden wiped a gloved hand over his face. Just once he wanted things to go right. If Cliria was in the city then they were all in grave danger. None of them were a match for the witch, not even the brave witch hunter, or brave old warrior.

  “What purpose would she have being here? Why prevent the people from leaving?” Davik asked scratching his chin.

  “I guess we should find out, and if the opportunity arises where I can put a knife in her blackened heart all the better,” said Sophia fingering her daggers hilt.

  ***

  37.

  Sophia knelt in the darkness. The shadow cast by one of Balnor’s tall spires adding to the depth of blackness which concealed her. Crouched next to her was Thrift. The thief had insisted on leading her through the maze of backstreets which led to the Baron’s castle.

  Their hiding spot was close to the gatehouse which barred the path leading up the hill where the castle was. A large square of open ground lay between them and it.

  As they had crossed the city they had heard panicked cries and the sounds of people cowering in their homes. Luckily they had avoided whatever was stalking the streets.

  “There are no guards,” Thrift whispered pointing to the gate. Sophia’s gaze focused on where the thief pointed. Sure enough the gatehouse was dark and quiet. She grabbed Thrift’s hand and pulled him after her as she sprinted across the square. It was eerily quiet.

  With agile grace the witch hunter climbed up the stone wall and leapt down to the other side. Thrift close behind.

  “Been awhile since I snuck into this place,” he said licking his lips at the prospect of the loot within the castles walls. Sophia gave him a sour look.

  “We’re not here to steal. We’re here to find the witch and find out what she wants from Balnor. If I catch you inching a single candlestick I’ll put my dagger up your dung-hole,” she growled.

  Thrift’s eyes went wide; even in the pale light cast by the moons she could see his face go whiter.

  Quickly they moved up the hill. No guards were in sight. Whatever was terrorising the city had scared them off too. They stayed close to the tall walls shadow. Thrift avoided the main gateway and led them around to the base of the castle. Hidden in a small arched alcove was a wooden door.

  Thrift pulled a small pouch of black powder from his belt and poured a small amount into the doors iron lock. Next he took a piece of flint and struck a spark. With a smile he placed a small piece of cloth around the lock and held the flame up under it.

  With a muffled cracking noise and a bright light the lock was blown off.

  “Very clever,” Sophia said genuinely impressed.

  Thrift flashed her toothless smile before slowly opening the door. The door’s hinges creaked loudly and dust fell as the heavy wood moved inwards. Quickly they stepped inside.

  “We’re in the cellar. Up those stairs is the castle kitchens,” Thrift said quietly. He hefted his own dagger and Sophia likewise drew her own blade. If they did run into trouble they had to hope that being fleet of foot would save their hides.

  The cellar was filled with large barrels which contained ales and Glog, the favoured drink of the citizens of Delfinnia. Cobwebs covered every spare inch of space suggesting that the room was rarely used.

  “There’s a newer, bigger cellar on the other side,” Thrift explained. Crouching he hurried to the base of the stairs. At the top was a door, no light could be seen shining underneath its frame. The thief reached into the pouch on his belt to pull out two small metal rods. He pressed his ear to the wooden door and placed the rods inside the lock. After a few moments of fiddling the lock snapped open with a satisfying click.

  Sophia smiled. She’d never seen a lock picked so quickly. She too was skilled in the art, but she knew she was no match for the master thief before her.

  Her smile faded as the memory of that dark day drifted into her mind. It had been Thrift who had helped smuggle Ferran into her father’s stronghold. It was he who had helped the Nightblade find the evidence of treason against her father, the catalyst for his death.

  She shook her head angrily wiping a tear from her eye with a gloved hand.

  “You ok?” Thrift asked uncertainly.

  “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with,” Sophia replied shortly.

  Carefully Thrift eased the door open. On the other side was a kitchen. It was dark and empty, save for the mouse scurrying across the surface of a table in the centre of the room.

  A big iron pot sat in the centre of a long dead fire and food lay scattered about as though the cook had suddenly vanished whilst preparing a meal. Whatever had occurred in the castle had happened quickly and with little warning.

  “This way to the main hall,” Thrift said pointing to an arched doorway at the opposite side of the kitchens. They slipped out of the room and found themselves in a long corridor. The braziers and candles which normally would have been lit by the castle servants lay dark and cold casting an eerie feel over the place.

  Guessing that the place was deserted they picked up their pace. They passed through what appeared to be a servants quarters. It too was dark and empty. Finally they reached an open door which led into the long high ceilinged throne room.

  Sophia pressed her back to the cold stone wall and peeked around the doors frame. Her eyes widened and her heart sank as she saw Cliria pacing the room. A single candle was lit, its light flickering and casting shadows along the walls. The opulent room was painted with gold leaf and huge red and gold tapestries hung from a balcony high up on the walls.

  Sophia narrowed her eyes. Sat on a throne behind the witch was a man. He was no older than fifty but his haggard appearance made him look far older. His beard was grey and unkempt and his long hair was a tangled mess. As she saw his clothes she knew that the figure was the Baron of Balnor. He wore the clothes of a nobleman. A large golden chain was around his neck and his purple shirt and blue trousers were inlaid with golden silk.

  Deftly Sophia slipped into the chamber. She rolled silently across the polished marble floor to take up a position behind one of the pillars that ran along the edge of the room. She wished she’d brought her bow but the bulky object made moving stealthily near impossible. She held her dagger tightl
y.

  “I tire of this game Baron,” Cliria was saying.

  Sophia inched closer straining her ears to hear what the witch was saying.

  “You are broken, and yet you refuse to give me what I want. Has it not been torture enough to see what I have done to your beloved wife? Do you wish her and your peoples suffering to continue?” The witch snarled pacing in front of the slumped baron.

  “I will not tell you,” the baron replied quietly, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘You have failed witch. Unlike Rason or Retbit I will not become your puppet,”

  Cliria rounded on the baron and glared icily. She clicked her fingers and seemingly out of nowhere one of the crimson clad assassins stepped out of the shadows. The killer pulled their arm back before punching the baron hard across the face. Blood sprayed and the baron’s head lolled to the side.

  “Perhaps seeing your wife be turned was not enough,” Cliria muttered stroking her chin with a long finger. A vicious smile creased her lips and she chuckled wickedly.

  “Bring me his children,”

  The baron’s eyes went wide. He struggled against the assassin who had pinned him into his throne. Tears flooded from his eyes.

  “Please, no, not my children. You must not! Please!” the baron cried.

  Sophia ducked back deeper into the shadows. She noticed Thrift slip into the room to hide behind a pillar on the other side of the room. She was too busy focusing on the thief to notice the Crimson Blade sneaking up behind her from the darkness. Thrift did. He pointed wildly causing her to turn.

  The assassin was taken by surprise. He’d intended to snap her neck and his dagger was still in his belt. Sophia’s was not. Quickly she spun to face her attacker, instinctively bringing her blade around in a slicing motion.

  The metal caught the assassin in the throat slicing it open. Before he could scream and give away her position Sophia leapt on him and drove the dagger deeper into his mangled oesophagus.

  Only a quiet gargling and a spray of blood emanated from the killer. The two fell to the ground. Sophia sighed in relief as the thick red carpet muffled their fall.

  She was breathing heavily and sighed as she could still hear Cliria tormenting the baron. They were still undetected. She scanned the shadows for any more of the assassins but was relieved to see no more on her side of the room.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of children’s cries. The baron wept.

  Two small children no older than eight years old were shoved into the room. A boy and a girl were holding hands and crying. Both had curly blonde hair and blue eyes reddened by their tears. They were both in night clothes, the boy in blue pyjamas and the girl in a pink nightdress. Behind them was another of the Crimson robed killers.

  “No!” cried the baron.

  “Papa” the children cried. The assassin pushed the children forwards. Cliria clapped her hands giggling with delight. Sophia tightened her grip on her dagger. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Thrift shaking his head in warning. She eased her grip. If they were discovered they all would surely die.

  “Oh aren’t they just precious,” Cliria cooed sickeningly.

  “Please...not my children,” the baron pleaded weakly.

  All pretence at being kindly vanished from the witch’s features. She darted forward roughly grabbing the bawling girl by the arm and dragged her towards her father.

  “Tell me what you know of the sword. Tell me or this mewling brat will suffer the same fate as your wife,” Cliria snarled. The girl struggled against the witch’s powerful grip and cried out for her father who glared at the witch, his eyes full of hate.

  Sophia tensed. Her mind raced. What sword did Cliria want to learn of?

  The baron hesitated, his eyes raw from the tears streaming down his distraught face. He closed them and firmed his mouth shut. He looked away unable to look at his daughter.

  “You think your silence will spare them? You think that it will save you? Nothing can stop our plans!” Cliria screamed.

  Enraged, she shoved the girl to the ground. One of the assassins held the girl still whilst the witch stood over her.

  She closed her eyes summoning the dark powers. Her skin faded to a sickly white and black veins appeared on her hands and face. Her voice turned deep, unnatural. She spoke words, words of the N’gist cult.

  A dark energy swirled around her body as an unnatural wind swept the hall. The large tapestries swayed and rocked, and the ground itself shuddered. The candle went out plunging the room into a deeper darkness.

  The girl began to scream. Her small body contorted, the bones snapping sickeningly. Her skin tore and split as the summoned abomination clawed its way out from the terrified child.

  The winds faded. The candle burst back into life. Sophia clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Standing where the child had once been was a monster from the worst of nightmares.

  “Behold Baron,” Cliria chuckled cruelly. ‘Both of the women you love are now Necrist. Is it not an improvement?”

  The beast was the height of a man and it stood on two muscular legs but that was where the similarities ended.

  Its arms were long and covered in spines, its hands were talons, the nails like razor blades. The colour of its skin was a dark grey and its torso was thick with muscle and covered in sharp black hairs.

  Most disturbing of all however was the face. It bore the features of the little girl but instead of her dainty mouth there was an open maw filled with sharp teeth.

  “Thanks to you Baron, Balnor will now be terrorised by two monsters. I wonder how many of your people will be left alive by the time you tell me what I need to know,” Cliria said. The witch stroked the slavering monster like someone would pet a dog or cat.

  “Go outside and have some fun my dear,” she whispered into the beasts ear. With a snarl the Necrist turned and bounded out of the room with a snarl.

  Cliria turned her attention back to the baron. She clicked her fingers and the assassin shoved the terrified boy onto the floor. The witch draped an arm over the lad’s shoulders.

  “Look at your boy, the heir to your lands. So scared, so afraid. All noblemen love their sons, for they continue your legacy. Tell me what I wish to know and I will spare him,” she said sweetly.

  The baron looked at his son. His lips quivered. He was a broken man.

  “The sword...it lies hidden. Safe. Only the one destined to wield it can find it. All I know is where the key is,” the baron answered weakly.

  “Key? If I have the key then the one meant to wield it can never find it,” Cliria said thoughtfully. She stroked the boy’s cheek threateningly. The baron held a hand up.

  “The key was hidden. The companion of King Markus the Mighty the first king of Delfinnia hid the key crafted by the mages in the north. It lies within a cave nestled high in the Eclin Mountains. It is known as the sigils cave,”

  Cliria clapped her hands in delight. She spun around her arms open wide her long dress twirling as she pranced.

  “Oh happy day!” she cried. “I will find the key, and the threat to my beloved will be gone forever. His return approaches. He told me so in my dreams; soon he will have all the power he needs to return to me.”

  “Kill me witch for I have doomed the entire world,” the baron sobbed.

  Cliria stopped her twirling to skip over to the broken baron. She put a finger under his chin and kissed him on the lips. A red glow appeared around the baron’s face. She kissed him deeper and the light intensified until it was blinding.

  Sophia looked away. The boy screamed. The flesh on the baron’s face had been burned away, only his charred skull was left.

  Satisfied with her handy work, Cliria turned and tussled the boy’s hair before striding out of the chamber, the assassins at her back.

  Sophia fell to her knees. The horror she had witnessed overwhelming her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stifled sobs. Thrift emerged from the shadows after hearing the large door
s close deeper from within the castle.

  “Niveren save us...” he uttered in stunned disbelief. He’d heard tales of the N’gist cult. Hell, he’d even helped Ferran destroy a sect of the cult, but never had he seen such terrible magic in action. He felt sick.

  Cries brought him back to reality. He turned to see the baron’s son hugging the legs of his dead father.

  “The sword she was asking about. I think I know what it is,” he said staring at the baron’s body. The charred skull stared at him with holes where his eyes had been. Sophia stepped out of the shadows, her emotions once again under control.

  “What is it Thrift? What is so important for her to have done...this?”

  The thief gulped.

  “I think the sword she was talking about is Asphodel. The weapon used by Zahnia and Niveren himself to destroy evil. If she gets her hands on it....the world is doomed.”

  ***

  38.

  “It’s funny how old stories get forgotten or twisted. Details which should never be forgotten are, and the more fantastical aspects are wrongly elaborated upon.

  ‘The fall of Danon is such a tale. Most believe that at the end of the Age of Darkness, Zahnia the Great beheaded the enemy and cast his body into the void. This is not so. For how could it be that over a thousand years later Danon came close to returning to the world in the final days of the Magic Wars?

  ‘No. Danon’s body was never destroyed. There is a myth that only a few now recall. In it, the followers of the N’gist cult recovered their master’s body and hid it deep within the mountain lands beyond the boundary of the Empire. In the deepest cavern of the tallest mountain Danon’s tomb was made. His soul was cast into the void, but not his body.

  ‘Instead it was hidden and kept for his return. Thousands of years have passed since those days, but still his immortal bride continues her quest to restore her beloved.”

  Luxon sat crossed leg on a patch of purple grass his eyes closed in concentration. Stood next to him was Aljeron. He’d lost track of how long he had been in the void. To the outside world only a few weeks had passed, but to him every hour felt like a year of time. He felt old.