The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  And you loved every second of it.

  “No!” Ronan shouted. “I did not. I admit, at first the power was exhilarating. It was nothing like I had felt before. Aye, I admit that, maybe, for a moment, I adored it.” Ronan’s face grew solemn. “But as time passed, I realized that the power came at a cost too terrible for a single man to pay. That’s why I started to fight the voice. Slowly at first. But eventually, I won my freedom. I left my past behind and started anew. I met a woman whom I cherished. I settled down for a moment and started a family with her. And for a passing moment I was happy. But my struggle didn’t come without a cost. Do you know what I lost?”

  Raven frowned. He didn’t say a single word, but only nodded. Once.

  “Aye. My very soul. Is this a wager you’re willing to pay, Raven, your very being? When I breathe my last and leave this damned earth, I know where I will end up, and aye, I have made my peace with that. Ask yourself, Raven, is this a cost you’re willing to pay?”

  “It is,” Raven replied grimly. “I’ll do anything to stop the madness that threatens this world; I care for it too deeply to choose something so insignificant like my life instead of all mankind.”

  Ronan growled. “Foolish boy. You think these thoughts are yours? Even now the voice tries to control you. It is like a seed—fast to grow and fester, until, finally, it seizes control. You have already lost yourself to it and you don’t even realize it.”

  There was no time to think, not if Ronan wanted to stop this insanity before it got out of hand. The grip around his hatchets was firm, and now Ronan was left with a choice: to submit to Raven’s madness, or to fight back.

  But when the choice was to fight or to submit, it was no choice at all.

  Ronan charged.

  He brought his axes from left and right, air howling with the swiftness of his strike. He hoped he would catch Raven off-guard. It was his best chance, and likely, the only one he would get.

  Ronan failed.

  His axes cut thin air. Within the span of a single heartbeat, Raven had jumped back, out of Ronan’s reach. Ronan had no time to think, he knew only a relentless assault could work against the man, so he jumped at the opening.

  Each blow Ronan made was deflected by Raven’s rapier. Sparks flew scattered across the throne, quickly vanishing as they touched the stone-cold floor. Ronan gritted his teeth in silent fury. Raven had proved fast and nimble—just like he had expected. They circled around, carefully. Ronan charged again, Raven sidestepping each blow with ease. He kicked Ronan in the stomach, causing his knees to buckle. Ronan heaved, puking on the marble floor.

  “Pitiful,” Raven muttered, sounding unimpressed. “I admire the effort, Ronan, I do, but you have to do better than that.”

  “You… bastard.” Ronan coughed blood. His chest hurt every time he gasped for air. He looked to his right; he had lost one of his axes. Looking around, he saw the weapon laying near one of the tables where the guests still sat silently, way out of reach. “This’ll have to do, I reckon,” Ronan muttered to himself, spitting out a pool of blood. Raven’s kick had been painful; he was sure at least a rib or two had been shattered. But it was nothing he hadn’t endured before. He could still fight; there was no way he would give in this easy.

  “What are you waiting for?” Raven said mockingly.

  Ronan raised his gaze. He saw Raven smiling. Through gritted teeth, Ronan raised himself up, fighting the constant shooting pain coming from his stomach and chest. He could smell the blood in his mouth, the smell both intoxicating and disgusting—all too familiar.

  He exhaled and charged again, howling madly.

  Yes. That’s the spirit, Northman. Embrace the madness.

  Ronan’s eyes widened with surprise at the voice’s return. It was so close now, the voice. It made his charge falter, and Raven deflected him with ease. It made Ronan even madder. Was he truly so easy an opponent to him?

  Ronan growled, charging once. Twice. Thrice. Yet every time, the man pushed him back. He no longer bothered to even meet his blade. He simply sidestepped every strike that came from his way. Smiling each time. Where did he get this stamina, these reflexes?

  My brother enhances his every move. They attack in unity; a single man is no match for their combined skill. You need me, Northman. It is useless to resist.

  “Fight, you coward,” Ronan shouted. He felt his lungs burning with the effort; his stamina was nothing compared to the young man he was facing.

  “Make me,” Raven said with a chuckle.

  Good. Let the anger consume you. Can you feel it grow inside of you? The hatred for the man who killed your son. How can you let the man responsible for your son’s death live? Avenge him.

  Ronan could feel his strength fading, yet Raven showed no sign of fatigue. He regretted the last few days he had wasted wallowing in self-pity, drowning his tears in ale. It had made him weak.

  Ronan charged again. This time Raven had no choice but to parry his attack, and when he did, Ronan let go of his weapon. This was a gamble, but if it worked, it would be worth it.

  Raven’s eyes widened in surprise as Ronan’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him crashing to the throne he had stolen. Raven cried in pain. But, incredibly, the man used the momentum of Ronan’s blow to his advantage, somersaulting back to his feet. He touched his face, grimacing with pain, spitting out blood.

  “So, the man does bleed,” Ronan said, showing a bloody smile while picking up the hatchet he had lost. Now they were in equal grounds again.

  Raven’s look darkened.

  For just a moment, the docile obedience of the people in the room seemed to weaken as the people looked left and right, muttering in confusion. Ronan could see the droplets of sweat covering Avalon’s forehead. Had he lost his focus for a moment? Avalon muttered something, and the crowd turned docile again. A thought entered Ronan’s mind. He couldn’t defeat Raven alone, but if the crowds came to his senses….

  Ronan cast a begging glance at Rust’s direction. Rust nodded. He understood what he had to do. Ronan knew he wouldn’t help him kill Raven—a man he had trusted so—but it looked like he wouldn’t stop Ronan, either. He, too, must have thought Raven had gone too far.

  Careful.

  The voice warned him too late. Raven was already upon him. His rapier pierced his shoulder, stabbing through the layers of his skin, muscle, bone.

  Ronan screamed as the man pulled his blade back with a kick, sending Ronan sprawling to the floor. He tried moving his right arm but found that it did not obey him. In a numb horror, he realized Raven’s blade must had severed a tendon.

  “Watch out,” Ronan grunted, but in vain. Raven was already upon both Rose and Rust, the disbelief in their eyes palatable.

  Raven’s attack was utterly without mercy; his blade pierced Rose’s heart silently. The girl could hardly usher an alarmed cry, so sudden was Raven’s betrayal. When the pain came to her, Rose whimpered. She shuddered in Rust’s arms, blood pooling down her stomach. Rust held her close, whispering something in her ear.

  She stopped breathing.

  ***

  But how? Why?” Arin cried. “How could you be alive? We thought you all lost!”

  “We were not,” Master Nazek replied.

  Arin could feel his heart quiver. If Master Nazek lived, then could he still live, too? Could he dare hope?

  “Elder Kelmunir. Did he…?”

  Master Nazek shook his head. “Kelmunir is dead. I’m sorry, young Arin. I know he meant the world to you.”

  “I see.”

  Nazek seemed to consider something, watching Arin with quiet, thoughtful eyes. He saw the old man standing at the gates and frowned. “Is Nijakim not with you?”

  Arin bit his lip. “He did not make it.”

  Master Nazek sighed. “I was too late then. I am sorry. Truly.”

  Arin felt something at the back of his head—doubt, fear? He was still determined to lead the old man to safety but meeting his old weapons master had changed e
verything. He had thought their task that of vengeance, but if Nazek lived, then so might others. Their order was not decimated—not completely. But still, what was this… doubt he felt? Something was wrong. He could feel it.

  “Master Nazek,” Arin said, pausing. He feared the answer, but the question was too important to leave unanswered. “How did you know I was here?”

  “We have our ways.”

  “We?”

  “My order.”

  “Don’t you mean our order?” Arin said, biting his lip.

  “No, young Arin. Not yet, that is.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Master Nazek nodded. “I know. You deserve answers, and I promise I will give them to you, but only if you’ll agree to hear me to the very end. You tend to react with anger—it is the flame of youth inside of you. The passion. I will explain everything to you, but only if you give me your word that you will let me finish, no matter how painful my words prove to be.”

  “I understand, master,” Arin said, even though he didn’t. “But is this the right place and the time? The guards might be coming back at any moment. I promised I would help this… old man I have with me.”

  Master Nazek shook his head. “They won’t interfere. Your grandfather is safe here with me. You have my word.”

  And how did you know that, master?

  “Very well,” Arin replied, swallowing.

  Nazek motioned Arin to sit by the marble fountain. He sat down, not caring that his long robe turned moist from the constant splashing of the fountain’s water. He took the opportunity to wash the blood out of his hands. Feeling renewed, he let Nazek talk.

  “As you well know, I spent close to two decades here. I fought relentlessly, tirelessly against our enemy, the Daemoni. But try as I might, their numbers refused to dwindle. To seek answers, I sought out our Swords. There were men here who had faced what I had faced for as long as I had, so I thought they might have the answers that I was seeking. And when I did find them, I discovered they had given up. They, too, had felt the despair, the hopelessness of our cause. The men here no longer fought like in the days of old. The Daemoni were no longer a threat; they hunted only the weak, the old, the women and the child. Instead, mercenaries fought them. And for coin, no less! Our ancient, just cause, had been taken over by men who respected only coin. I was a young man then, proud, arrogant, furious—much like you, young Arin. I refused to give up. So, I sought out the scholars of this vast world, hoping to learn more—to find a clue how I might destroy our enemy once and for all. And do you know what I found out?”

  Arin nodded. He knew well enough.

  “I know you do. I was there when Nijakim was imprisoned. The elders wanted the same for you, but Kelmunir and I were able to stay their hand. But I digress, I’m sorry.” The old weapons master cleared his throat. “When I learned the truth, I was furious. I wanted to return to the Three Peaks to confront our elders, but a young man I met here convinced me it was futile—and I agreed. When I told others, they were furious, too. We had been betrayed by our order. To sacrifice our lives for a cause that had been a lie… it was too much for us to bear. So, eventually, I proposed to forge our order anew, for there were too many sins in the old one.”

  “So that’s what you meant by your order.”

  Nazek nodded. “Precisely.”

  “Why tell me this? Why now?”

  “Because I want you to join us.”

  This offer was everything he wanted to hear. What more could a warrior ask for but a cause he could follow, with a man he respected, valued? He had always wanted to become a Sword, to fight their war. But a part of him shouted out in alarm, and Arin found himself thinking: what and where he was his ‘order’ when their home was burned to the ground? The truth came to him then. It made him shiver, his body convulse. Horror masked his every feature. “It was you who attacked our village, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Master Nazek replied with a sad tone.

  “How could you?” Arin whispered.

  “It was inevitable. Regrettable, yes, but necessary.”

  How could he sound so proud of what he had done? It was sickening, infuriating. It made Arin’s heart quiver with anger—the same anger he had felt when the old beggar had been pushed to the ground. The anger he felt the day Nijakim had been imprisoned. Or when they had been falsely imprisoned here in Eyria. But this anger he felt was more than that—it was almost primal. How could this man—a man he respected—say these words, to him? Was there anyone left who hadn’t betrayed his trust? Nijakim. He was the only one who told me nothing but the truth, no matter how difficult. And now he is dead.

  “Elder Kelmunir,” Arin found himself saying. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “It was not what I wanted, young Arin,” Nazek said, his face contorting with grief. “He was a dear friend of mine, a comrade. I gave him an offer to join us, but he refused. He gave his life to an idea founded on false pretenses, but it was a choice he made. And he died protecting an order that should have been dissolved long ago. A fresh start—that’s what we needed.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  Arin swallowed, exhaling deeply. “After telling me all… this. You still expect me to join you? Why me? Why now?”

  Master Nazek pointed at Eldon who sat by the steps of the castle. “I know of your past; Elder Kelmunir confided in me. As for why I need you… I’m sure you know the answer by now.”

  Arin shook his head. “No. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  Nazek raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know who that man is, do you?”

  Arin bit his lip. “He calls himself Eldon. He’s been imprisoned here for years.” Arin lifted the pendant from underneath his robe, presenting it to Nazek. “He recognized this… pendant. It belonged to my mother. That’s why he knew we were kin.”

  Nazek nodded. “That man may call himself Eldon now, but before this, he was called Richard. King Richard vas Nerian. The true ruler of Eyria.”

  “That’s impossible,” Arin said, looking at the fragile old man with open eyes. His features were fragile, weak, broken, but he did hold himself high, even now. He was, no doubt, a noble. But the implications… this would make Arin a prince, wouldn’t it?

  “It’s the truth.”

  Arin nodded. All made sense now. “You think me a prince of this nation. You want me to persuade this kingdom to join forces with you.”

  “Correct,” Master Nazek replied.

  Finally, Arin had learned the answer he had gone out to seek with Nijakim. But the answers weren’t what he had hoped for. He hoped to find an enemy—someone he could hate. Someone he could exact revenge on. But that flame had been extinguished once he learned the truth. For his mentor—his teacher—to be the man behind it all, it was all too much.

  “No.”

  Master Nazek frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “The answer is no,” Arin answered, sternly. “I will never join you.”

  His old weapons master stood there, motionless and silent, judging Arin. “Think carefully, young Arin, for this is a grave mistake you’re making. If events unfold as I have foreseen here, you will become a powerful man. And while we could use your strength in our fight, we do not need it. My advice to you is to think carefully what your next words will be. You do not want to make an enemy of us.”

  “I have made my choice, Master Nazek. I am done with all this. You have taken everything from me; I have no wish of being used as a pawn to your plans.”

  “Very well,” Nazek replied. He stood up, casting a final glance at Arin. He seemed disappointed, but he regained his proud, neutral mask right away. “I have one final question for you, young Arin.”

  “What is it?” Arin asked, struggling to hold back his anger. It pained him greatly to let the man walk away, but he had given his word to Nijakim. He would protect his grandfather—whoever he was. And if there was
one thing in the world that he would keep, it was his promise to him.

  “Even as we speak, events are unfolding in the throne room. A former… acquaintance of mine has begun a game tonight. He has made his first move. It is a gamble—a grave one. I wonder… now that you know of your true heritage, will you choose to run away to save this fragile, sightless old man, or will you follow your duty and save this kingdom? The choice is yours.”

  With those words, Master Nazek left Arin alone. The revelation of his old weapons master had been shocking, indeed, and the turmoil inside his heart had grown twice-fold. He stood at a crossroads, now. He could either lead the old man into safety, or risk everything to save a kingdom he owed nothing to.

  ***

  Alessia could do nothing but watch in silent horror as the man they called Raven traded blows with this rugged, dangerous looking Northman. They talked of voices and destinies, but it was nothing but noise to her. The voice she heard was there, numbing her mind, her thoughts. Strange words she knew belonged to the magus. She knew she was being controlled, suppressed, but try as she might, nothing could make her muscles move. She was forced to stand there like a statue, and stare at her father’s lifeless body lying on the cold floor, the illusion now shattered. It was not the end his father had deserved; no one deserved an end like this. She couldn’t believe the man who had raised and cared for her could be taken from her so suddenly. It was just like with Rewalt, Lionel and Edgar. Their end had been abrupt, too, and she had not a single moment’s respite to mourn for them, not truly. And now she was to bury her father, too? All of this was unfair, terribly so.

  No one could have blamed if she were to just give in. Their kingdom was as good as gone; if the Nubian Empire didn’t invade them, then she would lose her home to this madman she had let into her home. How could she have trusted him? The rightful heir of Eyria—it all sounded so silly now. Time and time again she had proven her stupidity. But she couldn’t give up. She, as the last living heir of the line of Nerian, would survive this. But how?

  She knew next to nothing about swordplay, but even she knew Raven had the edge here. In her youth, Alessia had joined her father to watch knights and noblemen battle in the colosseum. She had relished the thrill she had felt watching those brave men fight each other for glory. But when she grew older, she realized the absurdness of it all. Why risk the health of their soldiers just to prove that someone was better than the rest? For glory and honor, of course, but glory and honor meant nothing to Alessia. They were empty words. Glory didn’t feed their poor. Honor couldn’t save the children dying of illnesses ravaging her lands. When she was taken as Meridian’s pupil, she had stopped all these mundane things others enjoyed. She had dedicated herself in her studies, resolved in her quest to become a scholar.