The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  When the Northman’s fist connected with Raven’s face, something changed—only for a heartbeat, but that was all it took. She reached for the medallion in her pocket, the one she knew had belonged to Rubaron. She took it in her arms and she reached for the power she knew it held inside, dormant. Raven had said to her that all sorcery came with a price, but what price she wouldn’t give to save her homeland?

  She felt something… peculiar happen to her. A strange sense of calmness enveloped her, along with a faint pale-blue glow she could barely see. It was subtle, but Alessia could feel Avalon’s grasp on her fade. Had he noticed? It was still there, but she felt it was fading, gradually.

  To her horror, Alessia saw Raven’s rapier pierce the Northman’s shoulder. Their fight had bought her valuable time, but it was not enough. Raven was too cunning, too ruthless. She saw the Northman gaze at the table where Avalon sat, still muttering indescribable words. The Northman’s companions saw his look, and Alessia realized their intention. She felt another layer of the spell around her break as Rubaron’s pendant fought to free her.

  All it took was a few more heartbeats for another life to end abruptly. Raven’s rapier pierced mercilessly the redheaded woman’s chest—a wound Alessia knew would prove fatal in mere moments. Alessia fought relentlessly, and she could feel her body returning to her control.

  To the surprise of Alessia, the doors of the throne room were pushed open once more. A young man in torn robes walked in.

  “Avalon,” Raven cried, alarmed by the sudden appearance of the man—or a boy?

  Alessia felt the tingling in the air around her. It tried to seize control of her, but the mutterings couldn’t reach her. She could now feel control return to every part of her body. Oddly enough, the youth remained unfazed. Something radiant shone through boy’s robes. He, too, had a pendant? The boy looked sad yet determined. He pressed onwards.

  “So, you’re the one the trying to take over my kingdom?” The youth said, pointing his blade at Raven. “I will not allow it.”

  The youth charged.

  ***

  To flee this land, or to face his duty. That was the choice Master Nazek had given him. Betrayal after betrayal he had overcome. The rage inside of him still churched like an unstoppable blaze. It was a fire that threatened to consume him—one he couldn’t extinguish, but one he could keep it at bay. Perhaps, in time, he could even learn to master the pain. He could have given up, and he wanted to, but he didn’t. It was his promise to Nijakim that kept him going. He would receive a burial fit for a king, just like he had promised to him.

  Arin had told Eldon or Richard or whatever his name was to wait for him outside while he alone entered the heart of this nation. The sight of whatever sorcery now radiated in this wide, open space ahead of him should have affected him, but for some reason, he remained unfazed. Something terrible had happened here, and by the looks of it, he appeared just in the nick of time—or too late? Two already laid dead, and the dangerous-looking man with the axes looked like he was in no condition to fight.

  Arin felt a presence slamming at him like an invisible arrow. The spell tried to seize control of him, but it didn’t quite reach him. The memento of her mother glowed, shining through his robe with a translucent, radiant light. His presence here was an obvious shock to everyone, and the dark-haired man shouted something to a man sitting by the table—by the direction Arin could feel the spell coming from.

  “So, you’re the one the trying to take over my kingdom?” Arin said, pointing his blade at Raven. “I will not allow it.”

  The words sounded hollow to Arin, but he could see their influence on everyone here. The bleeding foreigner with an injured arm nodded at him, grimly, and Arin returned the nod, the implication clear: they would fight this man together. The other man—a southerner by the looks of it, like the Eyrians, here—holding the dead girl on the floor appeared strong, too, but he was in no condition to help them. So be it.

  Arin charged, crossing blades with the dark-haired man. Their blades locked, both opponents gritting their teeth defiantly.

  “So, you’re the missing prince. A pleasure to meet you,” the man said mockingly. Their blades were locked; neither could do anything but look at each other with hostility. The man was cunning, however, and he used their close distance to his advantage, nearly breaking Arin’s nose with a hard, well-aimed headbutt.

  Arin pulled back, circling his opponent. The Northman joined Arin by his side. The skill of the man was undeniable. He would prove a formidable opponent. Arin could see no opening in his stance, but with two of them, just maybe….

  “How’s your arm?” Arin asked the Northman.

  “It’s seen better days, I reckon. But the other one works just fine.”

  The man holding the girl wept, his cries of agony filling the otherwise silent hall. He looked like he could fight, but Arin could see he was in no condition to help them.

  “Bastard,” the Northman hissed. “How could you do this to Rose, Raven? She was one of us!”

  “I told you—I have no choice in the matter, not if you choose to act against me,” the man Arin now knew to be Raven said with a mournful voice.

  “So, the voice is in control then? I told you this would happen,” the Northman said through gritted teeth.

  Raven remained silent, but his eyes were filled with murderous intent.

  “I don’t know who you are or why you are here, but I welcome the help,” the Northman muttered.

  “Arin. The name’s Arin.”

  “Ronan,” the Northman grunted.

  Slowly, they circled their enemy. And Arin could see that even this Raven seemed alarmed for having to face multiple foes.

  “Enough games. Avalon!” Raven shouted. Just as she did, the guests sitting silently by the three tables stood up, turning their gaze towards Arin and Ronan. They walked wordlessly towards the alarmed duo, surrounding them. They all wielded knives used to cut their steaks. They made for poor weapons, but a hundred men with sharp knives could overpower anyone.

  “That’s dirty,” Ronan said, bloody teeth bared.

  Raven shrugged. I told you; I don’t have time for games. The sooner this tragedy is over, the better.

  Just as he finished the words, Raven charged at Ronan, using the crowded space to his advantage, poking, stabbing—all the while staying out of range of both Ronan and Arin. His aggressive push forced them to pull back, and the knives behind their back were growing dangerously close. Raven pushed and poked, grinning, sure of his victory. The Northman could hardly fight back; the range of his weapon was too poor. Arin did his best to help him, but he had his own skin to look after, too.

  Ronan cried in pain as the first knife dug into his flesh. This was it. Their last stance. In a one-on-one duel, he would likely prove an equal match to Raven. But this wasn’t the training grounds. Now, for the first time of his life, he faced a real enemy who didn’t play the rules. Arin had to either adapt or die. Something in the corner of his eye caught his curiosity. Could it be…?

  Arin lunged at his enemy in a final, desperate attempt. They locked their blades again.

  “Stop this foolishness, boy,” Raven hissed. “We are not enemies. Join me. We can rule this land. Together. I seek to unite, not conquer.”

  “Never,” Arin replied, shouting the words. “These are not the actions of a man I would ever help.”

  It was a gamble, but Arin took it with no hesitation. Now that their blades were locked, neither of them could strike. So instead, Arin pushed him back with all his strength. Raven’s footing was secure, and he remained in control, but Arin’s gamble paid off. The wall of human knives was far from Raven, but a lone girl moved, swift as lightning. She dug her knife into Raven’s back. Once. Twice. Thrice. Yelling, shouting, crying.

  Raven’s eyes widened in shock. He reached for his back, but the dagger was out of his reach. The man’s grip on his rapier loosened momentarily, and Arin used the moment to disarm him with his blade, throwin
g the rapier far and wide. Raven saw the danger he was in, but he was too slow to react.

  Arin’s own blade pierced through Raven’s stomach with ease. The man’s eyes bulged, and he gasped for air, grabbing the razor-sharp blade with his fingers—now bleeding as the blade cut his palms. He clawed and clawed, but Arin’s hold triumphed. He toppled to the ground, breathing heavily.

  In that moment, something happened that made Arin take a step back. A translucent, white smoke left Raven’s body, and a violent tempest emanated from him. A shape—humanlike—hovered in the air. It was the image of a man. Or something… more? Its presence was suffocating, unnatural—something powerful and ancient. The translucent figure pointed at the injured Northman, who, like Raven, laid on the floor, breathing heavily.

  Face me, a voice in Arin’s mind echoed. He knew it belonged to whatever being now hovered in front of him.

  A similar, but somehow different, presence left the Northman’s body. Just as ancient. Just as powerful.

  Finally. I was beginning to think you feared to face me, the presence hovering above Raven’s body said.

  I do not fear you, brother, the second presence replied.

  These vessels have been exhausted. I fear we cannot continue our struggle like this any longer.

  No matter, the presence hovering over Ronan’s said. I have another one prepared for me already. My armies await my return. Still, it’s a shame. This one would have been perfect to lead my armies. I invested deeply in him.

  I will not allow you to use my creations so. I will stop you, like I always have, the presence hovering over Raven said, calmly.

  The other one chuckled. That is funny coming from you, brother. For one claiming to love his creations so, you don’t hesitate to use them to your end. You would unite them under an illusion, claiming the righteousness of your cause. A millennium has passed, and still our fight remains the same. Your creations are but pawns, ants—they are pests, their only role to be exterminated.

  Silence, fool. You don’t know what you speak of.

  The presence hovering over Ronan moved across the room. In the blink of an eye, the presence turned into a luminous cloud, and it left the throne room.

  I care for my creations deeply, brother, the presence hovering over Raven muttered. You there. The presence pointed at the man who Arin could now identify as the source of the sorcery—the magus.

  The strange man whose skin Arin could see was now covered with runes stepped forward. The crowd made way for him, wordlessly. Arin could see the man was at a point of breaking; sweat glistered atop his forehead, and he breathed heavily.

  “I live to serve you, master,” the man croaked.

  Heal my vessel. He still serves me voluntarily, and unlike what my brother’s deceptive words might have suggested, I care for all my creations. I won’t just use them and discard them like he does. But to save you all, sacrifices must be made.

  “At once,” the man replied.

  Arin wanted to interfere, but something inside of warned him. Whatever happened now… he felt it was too surreal for him to partake in. He watched in silence.

  Also, the presence continued. Save that poor soul my cruel brother has tormented for so many years. His bravery has inspired me.

  Just as the presence asked, the sorcerer obeyed. He healed both Raven and Ronan, grunting with the effort. White light surrounded their bodies. Both men gasped for air; the wounds in their bodies closing.

  Good. Now take us to safety. I fear the actions my vessel has done here will not be seen… kindly.

  “But master,” the man whimpered. “My strength… is drained. I fear I may not… survive.”

  You will do this for me. Your strength will return in due time.

  The man nodded and obeyed. The room erupted in bright light.

  The last remnants of the man’s spell left the guests, their dull eyes regaining their light. Men and women cried in shock and disbelief, hugging the people close to them. They shouted, cried, shrieked as they realized their king was dead. They had all witnessed something otherworldly, and none could comprehend it.

  The girl who had dug her knife into Raven’s back toppled on the ground and crawled to the man by the throne—to the King. This girl had saved them all.

  Arin looked around, trying to find the hooded man or Raven. He looked everywhere, but they were nowhere to be found. They had all vanished. The threat to Eyria was over. Arin had done his duty, just like he had promised his friend. He fell to his knees, letting go of his blade.

  Arin wept.

  Chapter 19

  Alessia, Arin, Ronan

  The body of her father laid there, unmoving, cold, lifeless. Alessia wept, head buried in his bloodstained clothes. She wept her father’s demise. She wept for her kingdom. She wept for all the things she had lost and would still lose. Raven’s betrayal cut her deep, and while they had faced this small victory, her kingdom was still in great peril. She should have listened to her father more. She should have been close to him, heard his worries, helped him, obeyed him. Now he was gone, forever, and all the things she had left unsaid would remain so. It was a fact that would haunt her the rest of her days—for however little she had left.

  “Princess,” a voice said.

  Alessia recognized the voice—it was a general of her father’s army. Or her army, now?

  “Devalt,” Alessia acknowledged. She didn’t bother to hide her tears.

  “You must remain strong,” Devalt said in a hushed tone. “They all look for your guidance, now.”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” Alessia said, voice breaking.

  “No ruler does.”

  Alessia sighed. She breathed deep, gathering herself. Nothing could cover her bloodstained dress, or her hands, but she would do her best to at least appear strong. She lifted herself up, looking at the people gathering all around them. Among them all stood the young boy in ragged, dirty clothes. Could he truly be what Raven had insinuated? Or was it just another ploy of a man who had deceived them all?

  “You there,” Alessia said, pointing at the boy.

  The boy looked at her with distant, pained eyes.

  “What is your name?” Alessia asked.

  The youth swallowed, replying nervously. “Arin.”

  “Are you truly the boy Raven claimed for you to be?”

  “I—,” the youth muttered. The rest of the crowed were now looking at him. He seemed abashed, anxious.

  “He is,” a frail yet vibrant voice boomed from the doorway.

  A hobbling man entered the room. The ragged youth rushed to his aid, offering his shoulder for support. The old man took it gladly. There was something… familiar about the man. His features… where had she seen him before?

  “It can’t be,” General Devalt vas Eridian gasped. “You are dead. Buried. Forgotten.”

  “I fear I yet live, my old friend,” the old man replied.

  Alessia could see the man was blind or nearly so. His eyes were glassy, dim. And he was ill. Terribly so. He had barely the strength to stand up.

  “Your highness!” the General cried, kneeling.

  Loud muttering filled the air. Words of confusion, anger, disbelief.

  “You would call me king?” The frail old man shook his head. “After all the evil I have done to you, to our kingdom?”

  “That’s all in the past, my king,” the General said, his features trembling.

  “No,” the man replied. “What I have done can never be forgiven. I am not worthy of this throne. I never was. A good man—a just man—would never do the horrors I did. Tell me, my oldest friend, what king kills his own son, and sends his grandson to fend for himself with a woman barely out of childbirth? A monster. That’s who. I am closer to a Daemoni than a man, my friend.”

  “I—,” the General mumbled, frowning.

  “Uncle?” Alessia asked the frail, old man. She had stared at the very portrait of this man day after day, marveling how alike the two of them appeared to be. This was
the King who had gone mad. King Richard vas Nerian. Her uncle.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know you, child,” Richard replied, voice mournful. “My sight has been taken from me, and so has the knowledge of my kingdom. Tell me, the daughter of my brother, what has happened in my absence? Where is the man who has left me to rot in his cold, damp dungeons? Where is the man who has all but forgotten me? Where is my brother?”

  “Robert is dead,” General Devalt said. He took Richard’s arm, and led him to the lifeless body by the throne. When her uncle’s fingers met her father’s cold, wrinkled skin, he hesitated, face contorting with a strange mixture of disbelief, anger—and what Alessia recognized all too familiarly as grief. No matter how many bridges were broken between them, they had been brothers. They were blood.

  “This is not how I imagined our last meeting to go,” Richard whispered. “I hoped that after all these years you might have forgiven me. But you never did, did you? I don’t blame you; my madness ran too deep. My mistakes were great, indeed, and they nearly cost us our kingdom. But you, brother… you persevered. You fought and bargained, and you kept my home—our home—alive. I know I don’t have the right, but I do have a duty.”

  The guests around the throne room stood silent, none dared whisper. Yet, now that the doors were open, and word was passed from one guard to the next, more and more people entered. They, too, joined the speechless onlookers, witnessing this final exchange between two kings and two brothers.