“Y-you?” Eric’s bottom lip quivered. “Where am I?” He pawed at his chest, his heart in his throat. “Oh, no! It’s gone!”
“Calm down, son.” Trog sat down in the chair. He wrung out a wet rag and placed it on Eric’s forehead.
“No, you don’t understand! I lost Sestian’s necklace! I have to find it!”
“Are you talking about this?” Trog pulled the filigreed necklace with the dragon eye center from the nightstand drawer and held it up, the pendant dripping from his fingers.
“Yes!” Eric snatched at it.
Trog reeled it back. “Uh-uh. Not until you tell me where you got it.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“It was in a box of Sestian’s things, and I want it back.”
Trog shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Eric. Slavandria needs this. It’s—”
“I know. It’s a mage stone. The Eye of Kedge. She told us about it when we last saw her.”
“Why didn’t you give it to her if you knew she was looking for it?”
“Because she didn’t ask for it.”
Trog stared at him, his green orbs locked on Eric’s face. “That is very selfish, Eric, especially when you know how it can alter the course of this war.”
Eric stared back. He was done being intimidated, especially by someone who had lied to him his entire life. “Don’t lecture me on selfishness, Father.” The word clung like poison on his tongue. “Sestian left it to me. Therefore it is mine to do with as I wish, so if you don’t mind, give it back and do something you never do. Trust me.”
Trog considered him for the longest time, all the while brushing his thumb over the smooth eye. After several minutes, he tossed the necklace to Eric. “Give it to Farnsworth when we return to Gyllen, understood?”
Eric caught it and draped the chain around his neck. “Yeah. Sure.”
Trog stood and walked to the hearth. “How are you feeling?” He ladled some food into two bowls.
“Fine, except for this ridiculous burning in my ribs.”
“You were scratched by a shadowmorth’s blade. Not enough to bring blood, but sufficient to cause some discomfort.” Trog returned to his chair and sat down, handing Eric one of the bowls. “I used some of the same ointments Charlotte used on my wound. Let me know if they help.”
Eric’s insides fluttered. There was that name again. Charlotte. So unusual. So beguiling. He shifted in the bed.
“Who is Charlotte?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “Is she a healer of some sort?”
Trog nodded. “Yes, she is. Appointed by Slavandria herself. Why?”
Eric shrugged. “I was curious why a paladin would bring a girl into battle with him, but if she’s a healer, then it makes perfect sense.”
“There’s more to it,” Trog said, taking a bite of food. He motioned to Eric with his fork. “Eat. You need your strength.”
Eric tried but there were too many questions, anger, happiness, and confusion, floating around inside of him to even think about food. He set his bowl on the bedside table with only a few bites gone.
“I’m sorry for lashing out at you,” he said. “I was—am—so angry you’d lied to me. Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There were many times I wanted to, son, but I couldn’t. The risk was far too dangerous. If anyone else knew the truth, your life would have been in danger.”
“You mean, because of whatever deal King Gildore made with Seyekrad?”
Trog nodded. “Yes.”
“But why would the king do such a thing? He’s never trusted Seyekrad.”
“It’s a long story.” Trog leaned back and ran his hands through his hair.
“So. Have you got some place you need to be?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Eric.”
“Then don’t call me son if you have no intentions of treating me like one.” Eric crossed his arms and stared at his father.
“Fine,” Trog said with a deep, heavy sigh. “It was seventeen years ago. You were a baby, no more than six months old, when we heard rumors of Einar amassing an army so he could attack Hirth. Gildore dispatched several legions to seek proof of such an army. I took five men with me and headed east. Several weeks into the journey, we encountered a dragon in the Northern Forest—a vile creature who resembled Einar right down to his sinewy tail. In a very short time, the black beast managed to slay all five of my men. In the end, the dragon lay dead on the forest floor. By some miracle, I survived, though not without suffering my own wounds.”
“The one on your neck and your back,” Eric said.
Trog nodded. “Once I regained my strength, I continued my search, eventually meeting up with a small regiment from Doursmouth and Trent. About three months later we discovered the location of two outposts filled with Dalvarian rebels. I returned home to report what I’d discovered. That is when I found out your mother had been murdered.”
“Murdered?” The word stuck in his throat like an ice pick. “By who?”
“No one knows, but we suspect Einar sent someone to do what he couldn’t. Queen Mysterie found her floating in the fountain. She’d been stabbed through the heart.”
Eric swallowed hard, pretending not to feel the anguish caught in his chest for a woman he never knew, a woman he should have known. He stared at his lap and fiddled with the sheet. Poor Trog. His nightly visits to the fountain weren’t just sentimental journeys. He was there to pay homage to his wife and the mother of his child. Eric’s heart fell into his gut, Trog’s drawn face almost unbearable. He knew Trog. He knew him well enough to know he blamed himself for her death. All these years he carried around his own guilt. Guilt for not being there to protect the woman he loved. Guilt for angering a dragon to the point he would seek revenge over the death of his own son.
Blinking back tears that burned to escape, Eric asked, “What was she like, my mother?”
Trog stared at a spot behind his son. “She was unlike any woman I’ve ever known—beautiful. Spirited.” He glanced at Eric and smiled ever so slightly, as if the memory pleased him. “A mirror image of her sister, Mysterie.”
Eric’s heart almost jumped from his chest. “What! They were twins?” He pushed himself up a little more so he was straight up and down on the bed.
Trog nodded. “Identical.”
“Dragon’s breath! No wonder you look at the queen like … ” Eric caught his words before they flew out of his mouth.
“It’s alright, Eric.” Trog stood and looked out the window. “It is difficult sometimes to see her and not see Gwyndolyn. In moments of anger or frustration with Gildore, my tongue has been known to slip and call her by her sister’s name. She understands. Both of them do.”
Silence filled the room except for the crackle of the fire. Sunlight was fading, and a brisk breeze wafted through the open door, carrying with it a hint of rain. Trog closed it and poured a cup of wine.
“Anyway, before my return to Hirth, Gildore received word that a few hundred of Einar’s troops were marching their way across Berg toward Hirth. He sent a messenger to Chalisdawn to ask Slavandria for help, but she was gone. Desperate to save his kingdom, Gildore met with Seyekrad. The sorcerer made him an offer. He would place a spell around Gyllen to protect it from an attack by Einar and his shadowmorths. In exchange, Gildore would ensure no heirs to the throne existed within Fallhollow, and that upon his natural death, the throne would revert to Seyekrad. Should the terms break, so would the protections.”
“I don’t understand? You’re the king’s brother. You’re an heir. I’m an heir.” Saying the words out loud still didn’t make them real.
Trog leaned against the kitchen table. “Yes, and no. Gildore was barely two years old when I was born. Our mother died giving birth to me, and our father fell ill from grief, but not before he proclaimed me dead as well, or so the story goes. I was taken to live with Gowran’s family. For fifteen years, Father lingered in a comatose state, tu
cked away from the world, not knowing one person from the next.”
“Who took care of King Gildore?”
“Father’s best friend was Sir Falwyn, Farnsworth’s father. Farnsworth was the same age as Gildore so it only made sense to move Falwyn’s family into the castle to care for Gildore. Of course, my brother and I grew up knowing the truth, Sir Falwyn made sure of it, but according to royal papers, I was dead. It wasn’t until my adoubement ceremony two years after Gildore became king that we dared tell Gowran and Crohn the truth. What I didn’t know until a few years ago was that Slavandria and Jared documented our holy births (he rolled his eyes at the words) and our official records are stored in the mage vaults in Avaleen. If need be, I could assume the throne without question.”
“Wait. Are you telling me that Seyekrad knows who you are?”
“No.” Trog sipped his wine and walked over to the hearth. “The documents are locked up tight in Jared’s personal vault, protected in ways I can’t even fathom.”
“But still, you’re the king’s brother. How could Gildore make the promise to not have any heirs in Hirth when you’re obviously here?”
Trog faced Eric. “When you were born, the king and queen still did not have any children. Convinced they would never have any, Gildore appointed you as the heir apparent upon your birth. The ceremony was private and overseen by Jared and his two daughters.”
Eric’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wait. Jared ordained my title? Why would he do such a thing?”
“Their sacred Book of Telling requires Hirth to have an heir to the throne at all times. Since I was the official heir to the throne, but didn’t want to be, and you were my son, thus third in line, you were appointed, I was removed, and Jared was happy.”
“But there was still an heir in the kingdom,” Eric said, his eyes pinched in confusion. “Me.”
“Yes, but you’re also a mage-appointed heir, meaning your identity is kept secret until such day it needs to be revealed. Your presence, however, can be detected with the right kind of magic. Crooked magic, Slavandria called it.”
“Crooked magic?”
“Trickery, Eric. You see, according to Gildore, there was another caveat in place. The mages’ sacred book states that Jared has the authority to summon the paladin in a time of war. He would then join forces with the heir of Hirth to return stability to the land. However, he couldn’t enter Fallhollow unless the heir was present, so, Seyekrad, in his greediness, made sure that didn’t happen. In short, Seyekrad got tired of waiting for Gildore to die. He caused enough chaos to force Slavandria to summon the paladin, and waited to see what would happen.”
“Wait.” Eric winced as he leaned forward, his mouth open. Understanding clicked in. “So when the paladin arrived, it triggered a trace to show up. Seyekrad saw it but he doesn’t have a clue who it belongs to?” He laughed. “What a dolt! He must be going insane!” Eric took a deep breath, giving his brain time to absorb everything. After a few moments he chuckled. “So much for the mages not interfering in the lives of men, eh?”
Trog pulled a sour face. “They interfere far more than they will admit.”
Silence fell over the cottage. Eric picked up his bowl and finished his dinner, the story of his life weaving around in his mind. There was still a piece that didn’t make sense.
“Sir.” Butterflies scurried in his belly. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t call Trog Father. “Why didn’t you raise me as your own?”
Trog scratched his nose and sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. “The night before I returned home from my skirmish with Maldorth, someone from Einar’s camp killed your mother and left a message carved in her arm.” He stared at the floor, his jaw tight, his hands clasped so hard his knuckles were white.
Eric gulped. “W-what did the message say?”
Trog’s lip twitched. “You killed my son. Yours will be next.” Trog stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and walked away. “Of course, Gildore did the only thing he could to keep you safe. He put you in the care of the blacksmith. When I discovered what had happened, I wanted to scoop you in my arms and whisk you away. But I was a knight. I couldn’t run. Even if I had, Einar would have hunted us down and killed you.” Trog pulled the rectangular table from the wall, and propped his foot on the rung of a chair. He withdrew his sword from his scabbard and examined it, running his fingertips along the sharp, double-edge. “It was the hardest thing I ever did, letting you go. I used to sit by the fountain and watch you play with the other boys. You know, you knew how to wield a stick better than anyone. When you were five, I took you as my page. The rest of the story you know.”
Eric smiled, memories of his childhood streaming in his mind. The years with Trog hadn’t been that bad. He’d never been beaten. Trog very seldom yelled at him. Of course being on the receiving end of the look was far worse than any lashing he could have received. Knowing what he knew now, it made sense for Trog to be hard on him. He expected more, wanted more, for his son. If only Eric had known sooner.
Thunder rolled closer. The wind whistled through the trees, neither one loud enough to conceal the sound of booted footsteps approaching the rear of the cabin.
Trog held a finger to his lips and approached the door, firelight glinting off his sword. “Stay put,” he said as he slid back the bolt and stepped into the night.
Eric tossed off the covers and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, his ribs on fire. Using the chair to steady himself, he took a deep breath and stood. Glancing around, he found his own sword on the shelf above his bed. He grasped the hilt, stifled the moan clogging his throat, and shuffled to the open door.
There was no movement. No sound. He peeked around the doorframe. No Trog. Looking both ways, he stepped onto the narrow porch, the cool night air sweeping over his goose-bumped skin. A rustle sounded in the brush to his left. His heart raced. A rough hand clamped over his mouth.
“I thought I told you to stay put!” Trog whispered in his ear. “Get inside—now!”
Dark figures moved from the shadows of the trees. Human. Their garments were as black as the masks concealing their faces.
Eric squirmed out of Trog’s grasp. His face hot, his hand gripped tight to the hilt of his sword. He sensed a presence behind him. He waited, held his breath, then spun and kicked at the intruder’s chest.
The assailant flew backwards and crashed to the ground. Behind Eric, swords clashed. He glanced over his shoulder as Trog brought down his weapon, splitting a man’s skull clear to his eyes.
Red droplets sprayed Eric’s arms and face. Vomit rose in his throat. He staggered back, leaned over the rail and hurled his dinner. More footsteps approached from behind. A glint of metal flashed out of the corner of his eye. Panic back-flipped in his stomach. Who were these people? He ducked as a sword cut the air above his head. Heart thumping, he whirled to his right, and sliced his assailant’s neck. Blood spattered across his face. He gagged, fell to his hands and knees, and retched.
Shadows swarmed. A few steps from the porch he could make out the sounds of a struggle, feet shuffling through dirt and brush. He heard agonizing moans, the clanging of swords. Eric lifted his chin as Trog twisted and elbowed a man in the face. Eric winced at the loud, meaty crack.
A foot connected with Eric’s side, and he yelled, clutching his ribs. Another blow bashed his chin, sending him sprawling. He coughed. Blood oozed from his mouth in a string of spit.
“Get him inside,” a voice said, “and bring that mongrel of a knight, too.”
Eric was hoisted to his feet and shoved inside the cabin. He caught himself on the rear wall, and pressed his head to the cold stone, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel the pain screaming in his chest. Trog stormed in the room seconds later, his hair wild, his face smeared with blood from a pulped nose and a gash across his forehead. He barged forward, lashing out at the men in his way, and positioned himself before Eric, his weapon raised.
; “Step away from the boy!” ordered one of the men. “Drop your weapon! Now!”
Outside, booted footsteps clomped over the wooden planks of the porch. Eric looked up and gulped as a man with blond hair, dressed in black-and-red leathers, crossed the threshold. The men moved aside to let him pass.
“Bainesworth,” Trog growled. “I should have known.”
The knight smiled. “I always love seeing that stupefied expression on your face when I get the best of you. Now move aside before I order my men to kill you where you stand.”
“What?” Trog said. “Are you not man enough to do it yourself?”
Eric flinched and glanced around the room at the twenty or so warriors armed with swords, daggers, and an array of lethal weapons, that could rip their lives away in an instant. Was Trog crazy? What happened to Don’t taunt your enemy?
Bainesworth shoved Trog. “Get out of my way.”
Trog pinned the tip of his sword on Bainesworth’s throat. “What is it you want?”
Eric pushed off the wall, his sword at his side.
Bainesworth’s gaze shifted from Trog to Eric. “I want your squire.”
“You can’t have him.”
Bainesworth’s eyes locked with Trog’s. “It wasn’t a request.”
“Then you will have to kill me first.” Trog lunged. Bainesworth twisted, his torso barely escaping Trog’s sword.
“Lower your weapons!” Bainesworth shouted to his men. “This miscreant is mine.” He drew his sword and brought it down in a sweeping arc, the blade glistening in the firelight.
Trog spun out of the way and kicked, dislodging the weapon from Bainesworth’s hands. He lunged and rammed his fist into the browbeater’s gut, his own sword clanging to the ground. The two men grappled on the floor like wildcats, rolling, flipping, grunting and growling.
Bainesworth punched Trog’s face. The sound reverberated off the walls. “Grab the boy!” he shouted to his men.
Trog grasped Bainesworth around the neck and flung him on the bed, the man’s weight shattering the frame. He plucked his sword from the floor and rushed Eric’s assailants, disarming them both. Others advanced. Trog picked up a fallen sword, and with a double –handed swing, robbed two men of their heads.
In the Shadow of the Dragon King Page 30
