Lehrling glanced to Roble. “I can, if he’s willing to learn.” He glanced down and saw Bausch’s bastard sword, picked it up, and handed it to Roble. “Here, this was Bausch’s blade. It’s lightweight, which will aid you in using it. If you will accept it, I will train you.”
“That is greatly appreciated.” Roble made a few practice swings. The blade sliced and glided through the air like Roble was already trained in how to properly use it.
“You’ve never used a sword?” Bausch asked again with a suspicious frown.
“No.”
“You appear trained already.”
Roble shrugged. “I can’t explain it, but the blade feels right in my hand.” He slid the sword into the sheath on his belt. He walked toward the Prince’s horse. “I’ve never seen horses this massive.”
“Vyking warhorses.”
Roble grinned. “I’ll take this one.”
“These have Waxxon’s brand on them. We can’t take these.”
“I don’t give a damn. Do you intend to travel on foot in this weather?”
Lehrling shook his head. “No. But once we get to Glacier Ridge, we need to trade them for less conspicuous horses. My horse is already in the stables, but I’m certain you’ll get a great horse by trading the three of these for one.”
“It better be one hell of a horse,” Roble replied. He tethered one of the other two horses to his.
Lehrling took the other two swords and ripped open the leather pouches tied to the Vykings’ belts, taking their gold. Then he walked to the third warhorse and struggled for a few moments to climb on. “What did you do with Bausch’s body?”
“We left him.”
“You didn’t bury him?”
Roble shook his head. “The ground is frozen too hard.”
“He needs a proper burial,” Lehrling said. “Come, let’s return to his body before we venture into Glacier Ridge for the night.”
Chapter Forty-four
Crukas awakened from his sleep. Hunger gnawed at his gut. After eating all of the stolen walnuts, he didn’t have anything more to eat. He was only a few hours from Glacier Ridge, so he wouldn’t starve. His stomach might protest on his way down the mountainside, but that was about the worst of it.
He rose and stepped past the old horse to look outside the cave opening. The dark cloudy horizon hadn’t lessened, even after spilling out several more inches of hard ice pellets onto the narrow mountain path. In ways, he wished he had continued downward during the brunt of the falling ice instead of hoping it passed. Now his descent was more treacherous than before and night was coming, which made it even worse.
With the threatening storm still hanging overhead, waiting for the following morning was not an option. If more heavy snowfall came overnight, he could be trapped inside the small cave for days or until he starved to death depending upon the severity of the storm. He needed to reach Glacier Ridge soon.
Crukas wasn’t certain if the horse could make the trip down, due to the slipperiness of the path. He’d leave the horse behind if he knew the horse would eventually find its way to the bottom, but he doubted it would attempt such a trek alone. To abandon the horse meant it would starve to death. Although he was a thief, he wasn’t heartless. He refused to allow the beast to die in such a manner. He’d lead it down the icy slope, but he wouldn’t chance riding it. That would prove deadly for both of them.
Quickly checking all of the bags, he took the horse by the bridle and turned it toward the opening. Whistling wind pressed against him. He tucked his chin to his chest and flipped his hood over his head.
Icy rocks made his first few steps awkward. He pressed against the mountain wall, bracing himself, and focusing on his balance. At first the horse resisted his lead, but after a good fifty feet, it eased forward. Bracing against the cold, Crukas estimated walking at least three more hours before he entered the rear entrance of Glacier Ridge. Warmth of a roaring fire, hard alcohol, and a hot meal were incentive enough to make him walk a bit faster.
“Easy,” Crukas said to the horse. “One step at a time. We’ll make it.”
***
Waxxon sat back in Queen Taube’s throne with his arms set causally on the golden armrests. The throne was his, but he didn’t feel like a ruler. He lacked the satisfaction he had thought came with being seated upon the throne. Taking the kingdom by force only meant he’d have to spend the rest of his life trying to keep it. Now he had a vast number of enemies, exceedingly far more than Queen Taube ever did. He had probably been the only chief enemy set against her rule. She was beloved, and he had resented that. His abrupt attack for the throne and her murder were reasons he’d never sit upon the throne with ease. He’d never know peace as king.
He could never deny that he had made his ascension more difficult than necessary. Paranoia was an even greater enemy lurking inside his soul and gnawing its way through his deranged mind. No matter how trustworthy any of his guards or servants presented themselves to him, he’d always remain suspicious of their true motives.
The ones he had relied upon the most heavily had already made threats—the Vykings. They had enabled him to take the throne, but they weren’t the allies he had convinced himself they would be. Waxxon had rewarded the Vyking princes and leaders with titles of Baron, Duke, and Knight in hopes to appease them. Unlike the guards that had readily turned against Queen Taube in exchange for titles and deeds, he doubted that these titles held any importance to the Vykings. And Prince Xylus didn’t hide his disdain or view Waxxon’s authority as genuine or significant. His open threat was a challenge that he knew Waxxon wouldn’t counter against. The Vyking prince would not only kill him, but would make him wander forever in an undead body.
Waxxon took a deep breath and held it, shuddering at the thought of what those undead hobbling creatures looked like. This plague that kept a decaying body alive was more gruesome a punishment than any cruel sentence he could have decreed upon a prisoner. He couldn’t imagine fighting against such creatures either. How did a city defend against beings that didn’t feel pain and were already dead? At least Mors was on his side, for now. Wasn’t he?
His eyes rested on the bloodstained floor where his newly devoted guards had killed Queen Taube’s most loyal protectors. They had sacrificed themselves in their foolish attempt to keep her alive. Although he had ordered servants to scour the floor, remnants of the browning blood remained visible; a reminder to all who entered the royal chambers that Waxxon accepted no opposition. After all, he had offered Queen Taube the chance to abdicate the throne. She had made her defiant decision, and paid the ultimate consequence.
During his first day as the new king, hundreds of city residents loyal to Queen Taube had died in the streets of Hoffnung at the hands of his militia, vowing to not bow or serve allegiance to King Waxxon. The carnage was much more than he had expected.
He released a long exasperated sigh.
Fools.
At the court double doors, Waxxon had posted two guards inside the chambers and two more on the other side. The outer castle courtyards were still filled with Vykings that had set fires and didn’t seem interested in leaving Hoffnung anytime soon. Why should they? They had everything they wanted without the need to plunder elsewhere.
Waxxon had offered them the spoils of the city, which meant strong drink, food, loot, and women. He had truly expected more of them to move on to attack neighboring townships since they were ravage plunderers and not colonizers. Should they decide to stay, he was faced with a bigger dilemma. He had not held the command of his troops long enough to know their resolve. If he ordered his own guards to drive the Vykings out of the city, would they raise a sword against the intruders? Were they capable to outfight the Vykings?
In many ways, Waxxon doubted Hoffnung’s guards could win a battle against the Vykings. On the night of the raid, none of Queen Taube’s soldiers on the docks had survived. The city inhabitants that remained secretly loyal to Queen Taube were undetermined enemies that migh
t attack his guards as well.
Hoffnung was in a state of disarray. Chaos outweighed order. He might sit on the throne and claim the title of King, but he didn’t possess complete power over the people. Any allegiance they held was begrudgingly.
Queen Taube had won their hearts. She had ruled through love, generosity, and justice; whereas, he would rule strictly by force or the threat of death. More blood would inevitably spill before Hoffnung completely bowed before him.
Waxxon needed to paralyze their minds with fear.
He hoped the Vykings that had left Hoffnung to hunt and kill the Dragon Knight Order would return with good reports and trophies to prove they had eliminated more of the Order. Deep inside he knew he shouldn’t place so much concern with the Dragon Knights. After all, with the demise of the great dragons, they were useless knights. Their statuses no longer held the grand importance they once had when dragons ruled the skies.
Waxxon thought King Erik was foolish to grant his knights the added title of “Dragon.” Just exactly what had the dead king hoped the comparison would bring to the citizens of Hoffnung? These knights were men that died. They weren’t immortal. Donavan had died easily on the night of the Vyking raid.
Besides, the goddesses favored Waxxon, so it didn’t matter if dragons did exist. The wyrms were not equal to power of the Three Goddesses. He still ached at the death of Priestess Rene, but the goddesses apparently had no further need for her. They had removed her to allow him a direct connection to them. Blessings showered around him, and he had won their favor.
Then why did he still feel torn inside? Why did he doubt his power and their protection?
“Lack of faith is dangerous,” Waxxon whispered. He extended both arms forward, with his palms facing upwards. “All of this was granted to me.”
Of those in the kingdom still loyal in heart to Queen Taube, Waxxon had much to fear. A cook might poison his food. At any time an archer might attempt to assassinate him through an open window or during a march through the city. Or a bed maiden might seduce him and then kill him once he abandoned his caution for unrelenting passion.
Sweat crept upon his furrowed brow.
A series of heavy knocks struck the double doors, echoing ominously through the court chambers. Waxxon bolted upright in the throne. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade.
“See who it is,” Waxxon said to the guards.
The two guards stepped aside and drew their swords. They seemed as anxious as Waxxon was. One guard eased the right door open slightly, and then pulled the door inward.
Sighing with relief, Waxxon motioned the armored man to approach.
The heavy plate boots clacked across the tile floor as he walked.
“Ah, Captain Artos,” Waxxon said. “What news have you?”
Artos stopped at the foot of the throne, bowed, and then rose to make eye contact. “Nothing good to report, Your Majesty.”
“You’ve searched the entire palace?”
Artos nodded. “Every room, every hall, and every hidden passageway, and Lady Dawn is not in the keep.”
“No way you might have missed her and she circled back?”
“No. Our sweep was too wide for her to ever slip past us.”
Waxxon’s jaw tightened. He shook his head. “I cannot understand how she managed to escape without someone at least seeing her. Didn’t you say that she had been in her room when you killed Queen Taube?”
“We never saw her or her lady servant, Nessa. That’s why we wanted Queen Taube alive, to question her and find Lady Dawn before we killed the queen, but she sacrificed herself.”
“No sign of Dawn at all?”
Artos offered a slight grin.
“What is it?” Waxxon asked.
“Upon reexamining her room, we found a door in her closet that led to a hidden stairwell.”
“Where does that lead?”
“To the sewers is my best guess.”
“You didn’t follow the stairs to find out?”
Artos nodded. “We did.”
“And?”
“It ends at a locked door many levels below the castle.”
Waxxon formed a bridge with his hands and rested his chin upon them. “And what is in between the hidden door of her closet and the bottom door? No other rooms or floor?”
“On one floor it leveled off, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Walls of invisible coldness prevented us from venturing onto the floor. Angry apparitions forced us to hurry below.”
“Ghosts?” Waxxon gave a look of genuine disbelief.
Artos’ eyes indicated he had seen something disturbing. “They made threatening whispers.”
Waxxon detected the fear in Artos’ eyes and voice. He swallowed hard, thinking about what they might have seen, but didn’t press his Captain of the Guard about his apparent cowardice. “Were you able to get through the door?”
Artos shook his head. “No. The door handle was broken.”
“Do you think Lady Dawn escaped through that door?”
“I don’t see how it is possible. The old door seems welded shut from age and rust. Three of us pressed against it with all of our strength. The door didn’t budge.”
“Gather up a half dozen or so guards and scour the sewers. She must be found at all costs. As long as she is alive, the citizens of Hoffnung will never accept me as their King. They know she lives, so we have to show them her body. If you find her or any signs that she’s been there, report to me immediately.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Artos said, bowing forward.
Artos turned on his heels and marched toward the doors where the guards stood. After he was gone, Waxxon slunk back against the throne with his building paranoia clawing into his fragile mind.
Ghosts?
Was there more opposition that he was about to encounter?
Sitting upon the throne bored Waxxon. He wanted to help hunt for Lady Dawn. Perhaps killing her was not the best solution. Taking her to be his bride, the rightful Queen, would possibly draw the approval of Hoffnung’s citizens and lessen the loss of Queen Taube. But Dawn had always shown a keen distaste for Waxxon. Her facial expressions had revealed her abhorrence toward him, and he had never understood what he had done to offend her. To convince her to be his queen was impossible. Magically enticing her, however, was an option that he might find feasible, provided he found a suitable dark wizard or mage to help him with the proper potion. That was the only way to tame her.
Chapter Forty-five
When Lehrling, Roble, and Shawndirea returned to Bausch’s body, Lehrling felt his heart ache. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and he fought the urge to burst into sobs, even though he wished he could. He had lost more than an apprentice, a friend, or a comrade in arms; he had lost a man he viewed as his own son. His grief added to his bruised and busted ribs made him long for death. The pain was too much to bear.
On the frozen snow, Lehrling noticed the vial that the Vyking had crushed underfoot. Although broken, the lower half of the glass vial was still partially intact. The potion inside was frozen. While Roble and the faery were looking at Bausch’s corpse, Lehrling stooped and took the bulb part of the vial into his hand. A long crack was down one side. He applied a bit of pressure and the glass cracked apart, leaving the potion a little frozen ball.
Lehrling examined the ball and when he was certain no small fragments of glass were stuck to the frozen liquid, he popped the potion into his mouth. After a few seconds, the warmth of his tongue began to dissolve the potion, making his stomach turn. The horrid taste made him gag. Since it was ice, the only way he could ingest the healing agent was to allow it to melt, and with the intense pain he was experiencing, he’d gladly suffer the taste over spitting it out.
While he struggled to keep a straight face, he handed Roble an ax. After two strikes into the icy ground, the handle cracked, so Lehrling handed him a hatchet.
“Are you okay?” Shawndirea asked Lehrling.
He nod
ded but was unable to hide his grimace. His complexion was ashen green.
“You look a bit sick.”
Lehrling swallowed what remained of the icy chunk of potion, patted his chest, and said, “Just need to get out of this cold weather and get some food.”
“That does sound good,” Roble replied. “Although, I have to say this armor has kept me from feeling cold.”
Lehrling looked at Roble and quickly glanced down. He couldn’t part with his grief, but deep inside he wondered if fate had directed Roble into his path for a reason. Perhaps. It might not alleviate his loss, but it lessened the blow by having a companion to travel with.
Wolves howled from the vale below.
“Something disturbs them,” Lehrling said. “Usually their cries come after the sun sets. Never this early though.”
“How can you tell the time with these overcast skies? It looks like the sun will set soon. It’s almost a constant dusk.”
Lehrling shook his head. “Darkness is still a few hours away, and believe me, once the darkness settles in this area, the dangers that emerge make demons tremble.”
“Then I don’t intend to wait around any longer than necessary,” Roble replied.
“You’re wisdom is far greater than your youth.”
After Roble had dug the grave deep enough, they buried Bausch, took the three Vyking horses and headed to Glacier Ridge. Roble seemed sincere and trustworthy, a man capable of great accomplishments.
The potion made Lehrling’s pain vanish. He could breathe and move again without any stabbing pain. With his thoughts clearer, he marveled at the faery and Roble. Each seemed totally infatuated with the other; perhaps they were greatly in love. He shook his head and grinned. Was that possible?
Suddenly the faery gave a warning of an approaching threat. Although he looked and searched, he saw nothing, but she insisted that they gallop and get out of the forest before it was too late. Without waiting any longer to see what lay ahead, they galloped away, and he had never been happier to suffer through the horrible taste of a potion. The harsh running didn’t make him hurt. But he wished he had something to scrape the thick sour taste off of his tongue.
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