Non-Heir: The Black Mage Prequel Novella

by Rachel E. Carter

  The leader, a black wolf with a silver chest, took off down the ravine, the others following. Excited yips crowded the air as the hunters gave chase.

  Darren heard rather than saw the moment they reached the horse down below.

  Blayne’s eyes were wide and afraid. Whatever bravado he’d carried before was gone, and now he was looking to his younger brother—his protector. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  But Darren was already dismounting. In a second, he was on the ground as he handed his brother the reins. “Go find us help, Blayne.”

  “Darren—”

  All his life he’d faced a monster that won; these monsters weren’t the way it would end. Not them, and not his father.

  Darren wasn’t afraid.

  The boy took off, splaying dirt as his boots hit the slope, kicking up roots and pebbles as he slid down the steep ravine, fighting to keep hold of his bow.

  It was times like this he wished he didn’t feel pain. His arm throbbed each time he hit a bit of brush.

  The mutt beat him to the man. Darren hadn’t expected it to follow; the little dog was half the size of his brother’s hound.

  When they reached the base, two of the wolves were tearing into the knight’s mare several yards away. The boy jerked his gaze away, feeling a pinch in his throat.

  Sir Chadwick was on the ground, rivulets of blood dripping down his face as he struggled to stand, a blade shaking in his fists.

  The shaggy dog growled and leaped, catching the nearest wolf off-guard as it ripped a bloody trail from its throat.

  The wolves were circling the knight, getting closer as their barks took on an excited pitch. They didn’t even notice the boy and his mutt.

  The next great animal leaped, and Darren’s first arrow missed.

  The boy drew another, cursing Sir Audric’s insistence that he kept his sword in the training grounds, and let loose not a second too soon. Fire burned down the length of his wrist.

  The wolf went down with an arrow to its side, letting loose a keening wail that had the others on guard.

  The remaining six lunged, two at the boy and four for the knight.

  Panic hit the boy’s chest like a kick to the ribs, but there was something much worse than fear, and that was cowardice.

  Darren fired the final arrow with surer hands, but it missed. He dove forward with only the stave as a weapon. He brandished it like a staff, swinging and stabbing out any way he could.

  But a stave wasn’t a sword. His cuts weren’t bringing enough pain to keep the predators at bay.

  The boy was halfway through a swing when the second animal surged. Darren lost control of his aim as his boot caught on a pile of loose dirt.

  He stumbled.

  Dust plumed around him in a haze as he struggled to his knees, coughing and spewing blood. The stave dropped from his hands.

  Two rows of teeth tore a jagged line down Darren’s bandaged arm, and the boy roared. At the same moment, the mutt let out a bark as a wolf’s teeth caught it’s shoulder.

  The wolves were going to kill them both.

  Darren could hear the dog’s whimpering cry as something hard and sharp tore into his already injured flesh.

  No.

  A hero was better than this. And so was the boy.

  Sheer will overcame his pain, and the boy took hold of that control. He reined it in and grabbed the stave, swinging hard.

  Darren would fight. Again and again. Hard. He threw out as much concentrated weight as he could. The wolf went down. The prince’s arms burned and his shoulder was on fire. His injured arm felt like someone had submerged it in needles and ice. But the boy kept on.

  And so did the mutt. With a writhing twist, the dog broke free of the wolf’s teeth and ripped a bloody trail across the predator’s neck, dripping scarlet from its snout.

  The wolf collapsed just as Darren reached the mutt’s side.

  And then the two made their way to the knight.

  The man shared a look with his saviors, but there was no time for thanks.

  They aligned back-to-back with the mutt standing guard between them. The man had taken out one on his own.

  Only four wolves remained.

  It wasn’t impossible odds.

  Swisssssh.

  Down went the nearest wolf. Someone’s arrow must have caught it from above. Blayne? Darren didn’t have time to check as the three predators lunged.

  The knight swung as did the boy; the mutt caught the next by the neck.

  Howls and snarls ripped the air as blood sprayed out across the forest floor.

  There was a roar in Darren’s ears, and he couldn’t hear his pulse. He was fighting just to keep the closest animal at bay. So. Close. But he was dizzy, and it was growing harder just to stand. His thrusts were weaker each time.

  Spots danced before his eyes. He blinked and cursed as he narrowly avoided a row of teeth.

  And then all at once, his world was shrouded in violet. The commotion dimmed as the boy dropped to his knees. He could hear shouts from up above, but they were too distant to make out.

  Am I dying?

  Darren couldn’t hear the wolves anymore. He shut his eyes.

  “Your highness,” Sir Chadwick gasped, “we’ve been saved.”

  They were enclosed in an amethyst globe. A shield of magic. The wolves were dead just beyond it.

  The boy looked up.

  And then he saw him.

  Up ahead on the ledge were his father and Blayne and the rest of the Crown’s personal regiment. At the front of the line, with ebony hands raised toward the sky with magic hovering above his palms like a fire of violet sparks, was a middle-aged man. The infamous Black Mage, Lord Marius. On one of his ears was a single golden hoop that glittered against the dying light from above. He wore the infamous black robe of the Combat faction, and his shield had just saved their lives.

  Later, when they asked him what happened, the boy lied.

  Sir Chadwick had opened his mouth to… lie? Tell the truth? Darren would never know. He cut the man off with an explanation of his own.

  All it had taken was one passing look between his father and Blayne.

  The king might have applauded his heir for hunting a knight, the monster was despicable enough, but causing a huge scene that had almost cost his little brother’s life? And failing the actual act of hunting itself? Darren didn’t believe in luck.

  Blayne’s eyes were rimmed red, and he was cowering under the monster’s angry glower.

  So Darren lied. And the knight, perhaps knowing it best not to counter two princes of Jerar, kept to silence instead.

  Sir Chadwick’s horse misstepped, and the two brothers witnessed his fall. Darren, soon-to-be a future knight of the realm, had immediately sought to rescue him, while the heir, a future king whose life was too valuable to risk in a fight, had gone to seek help.

  The two had managed to fend off eight feral wolves, killing off most by the time the King’s Regiment had finally arrived, with two broken arms, a broken leg, and a mutt not fit to be called a hound.

  The knight, a man who had fought bravely and whose only crime was an unsteady mare, was immediately sent to the infirmary to be treated by the palace healers and then given a month’s respite from service.

  Darren, for his part, was celebrated. He had succeeded in the hunt, aiding an injured knight and bagging two wolves on his own, which was far more impressive than a hare or even a buck.

  The scrupulous dog was given a permanent place in the palace kennels. Like it or not, the mutt had earned its stay, and no one could question its devotion to the prince.

  “What are you going to call ‘im now that ‘e’s yours?”

  The boy stared out at the little heap of gray matted fur. Heath had sweet talked one of the palace healers into visiting the kennels and seeing to the worst of its wounds. The little mutt would make a full recovery, and now it was asleep at his feet.

  What should he call the pile of bones that had beate
n all odds? What name would give it a title above the rest?

  It wasn’t like the other hounds. It was special.

  It was underestimated, just like him.

  “Wolf.” The boy finally said. It was a name to remind the others of its accomplishment and its unquestionable loyalty to those of its pack. “I want his name to be Wolf.”

  4

  When the boy turned twelve, Sir Audric introduced a new weapon to their daily rotation: the battle axe.

  It required more precision and skill than the sword, but Darren immediately felt a connection he had previously lacked. There was something primal about hefting an axe in each hand, and though his shoulders burned like nothing else after each session, he never wanted it to end.

  All of the knights fought with swords or arrows from afar, and some soldiers used polearms. But as far as the boy could see, no one used the axe, and he wanted to be different. If he was going to stand out from the masses, he wanted to do it with the weapon everyone else was afraid to use.

  Fear was a powerful thing. It was also a motivator to push on long past the point of exhaustion. Sir Audric and Eve were first to remark that he pushed himself too hard, but Darren didn’t care.

  It felt good to be the best, and with the axe, he finally was. Eve still beat him in archery, and they were evenly matched with the sword, but the axe required a strength she didn’t have. Darren pressed that advantage, lifting special weights at every opportunity.

  Eve teased him—Darren had shot up six inches in the course of a year, adding muscle to his frame so that he now towered over her by a whole head and outweighed her by half. But Eve had the agility he would always lack. The girl was fast and she was smart. Any victory over his slim opponent was hard earned, and he had a sense it would never, ever, come easy.

  On their fifth month using the axe, Sir Audric finally permitted the two to intermix their weapons in a freestanding duel. Previously, they had only taken turns with patterns, trading off the sword for the axe.

  Hook in then out, slash and cut. It was a dance, a heavy pattern that took more strength and dexterity to parry. The swift movements of Eve’s sword and shield were a challenge for two hefty blades, but Darren was getting better. Every day he was getting used to the weight.

  And today he was determined to win.

  He might have, too…

  But as he swung with what should have been the winning blow, an overpowering gust sent him sprawling against the wall instead.

  For a moment, he just lay there, stunned.

  What in the gods’ blasted names just happened?

  He should have won. Darren hadn’t tripped. His form had been perfect. He had spent far too many hours making sure he cut with just the right amount of weight, and that he had full control of his swing—

  And then, as the boy was pushing himself up off the dirt, dust coating his arms, he saw Eve.

  Her weapons were on the ground in a heap. Normally Sir Audric would chide them for such careless regard, but both he and his daughter were too busy staring at her hands. She held her fingertips close to her face as she studied them with wide, unblinking eyes.

  All at once, the boy knew exactly why Eve had won.

  “You have magic.” Darren was first to speak the words, torn between disbelief and something else, something that burned in that far corner of his chest.

  “But I…” The girl couldn’t finish her sentence. She couldn’t deny it. Darren hadn’t miraculously tripped and thrown himself across the grounds. Eve had cast magic unconsciously, but with enough force to blast him several yards away.

  It was the only explanation that made sense. Eve’s instinct, her need for self-preservation against Darren’s winning blow, had called on a latent pool of magic from somewhere within.

  It wasn’t unheard of. Magic only emerged during adolescence, and both Eve and Darren were of the right age. It was one of the many reasons the realm’s three war schools—the School of Knighthood, the Cavalry for Soldiers, and the Academy of Magic—recruited as early as age twelve and as late as seventeen.

  Darren simply hadn’t considered his friend a candidate. Magic was rare. The two had always shared a laugh over the countless courtiers’ children wasting away in the library, pouring over magical instruction with stuffy tutors when their time would be better spent investing in something more practical, like battle formation and sparring. If their magic never emerged, and most of theirs never did, then they were ill-prepared for anything else. And then, instead of earning the high prestige of knighthood, they would have to settle for the life of a soldier.

  The Cavalry had the easiest acceptance of all. Three of every four applicants passed their trial year. In the School, only four of every ten were allowed to become squires. And at the Academy, only one of every ten was accepted as an apprentice mage… The odds of succeeding, even if you were one of the lucky few with magic, were minimal at best.

  “Eve.” Sir Audric cleared his throat. “Go and see if you can find Mage Marius in the Council of Magic’s chamber. He isn’t supposed to depart for another week. Tell him that we need a recommendation for a tutor here in the palace.”

  What? Darren’s eyes shot to the knight master. A mage tutor, but that meant…

  “We’re going to need the best we can get. Combat is the most competitive faction, and they only apprentice five students to each study after the first year.”

  “But, Father—” Eve swallowed, her hands tucked in at her sides “—I thought you were training me to be a knight.”

  “If you fail the Academy’s trial, we will still send you to the School.”

  “But I…” Her shoulders fell. “I want to be like you and Darren, Father.”

  “And you still can. You would just be an apprentice instead of a squire. You could still serve in the Crown’s Army among your friends when you ascend.” The man’s voice was a bit gruff. “Now, go on, child. Marius is a busy man.”

  The girl shot one final look at Darren, a hesitant glance that bespoke her guilt, and then she was gone.

  The prince scowled. The one friend, the only person he actually trusted in this place, let alone could bear the company of, was never coming back. Darren had always held onto the belief that they would be leaving the palace for the School together.

  That dream was gone.

  Later that evening, Darren begged his father to admit him to the School early. There was no point in remaining behind at court. But Lucius refused to grant his request.

  “You need to be the best,” the king snarled. “You will apply at sixteen when you are sure to stand out. I won’t have you dishonor the Crown by letting another perform better, and Sir Audric reports you still have much to learn.”

  Darren had a few choice words for what he thought of the knight master now that he had stolen his one friend away from his training. He had even more when he arrived at the training field the next morning and found someone else who was not Eve waiting in his old friend’s place.

  He would recognize those sharp violet eyes anywhere. He was familiar with the way her body curved and how those long beautiful tendrils of dark auburn hair curved along her face. He’d become aware of that two years before.

  Priscilla was beautiful, and she knew it. That was never the problem. Darren admired confidence. His issue was with the implication of her presence.

  Priscilla was Baron Langli’s daughter, a man well-known for his temper and braggart nature in court. The king put up with the baron because the Langlis had more wealth than most of Jerar’s noble families combined.

  If Priscilla was here now, it could mean only one thing, and it was the same reason Darren had avoided the girl’s presence for so long.

  A forced friendship and, if the baron had his way, betrothal. That was something the prince wanted to avoid at all costs.

  Blayne was free of the intrigues of court. Lucius was already working on an alliance between heirs with the Borean emperor. The crown prince didn’t have to deal with plotting c
ourtiers and the countless daughters that followed—all of which would lie through their teeth, save Eve.

  “Priscilla is to be your new sparring partner. The two of you will train together from here on out. She also plans to enter the School.”

  “Does she?” Darren’s smirk was cruel. He looked the girl up and down. She was just like the others who pretended to share his same interests in hopes of ensnaring a prince. She might have been beautiful, but she was a flower. And a flower belonged in a glass, not in his training court.

  The prince wondered if his father had sold the role of his new training partner to the highest bidder. Baron Langli certainly had the most coin, and the court liked games.

  The girl gave him a demure smile, blatantly ignoring his tone. “How nice that we share the same interests.”

  He would see about that when their practice began.

  Darren looked to the knight master. Priscilla was already outfitted for sparring, so he would prefer to end this charade before it began. Once Sir Audric saw how ill-equipped his partner was, surely he would petition the king to allow one of the others to take her place—someone who knew how to wield a sword instead of counting jewels. King Lucius would not want his son’s education to suffer, no matter how pretty the price might have been.

  The knight motioned for the two to grab a scabbard and take their starting positions across the way.

  For a moment, Darren was surprised to find Priscilla’s posture mirrored his own, not a muscle out of place.

  And then the drill began.

  “Block left, half-crest right. Reverse…” The knight trailed off, clearing his throat. They were only two minutes into the drill. “Very good, Priscilla.” The shock in his voice was unmistakable.

  The girl hadn’t just performed the moves, she had done so with the same vigor as Darren. There were no flaws to her stance. The strength she projected, the way she adjusted her sword for each cut… it was perfect.

  She knew what she was doing, and she was doing it well.

  The girl batted her eyes at the prince, having noticed his open-mouthed stare. “I’ve been training as long as you.”