The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  Heirs of Legacy, Book 1:

  The Prince

  Paul Lauritsen

  Heirs of Legacy, Book 1: The Prince

  Copyright © 2019 Paul Lauritsen

  All rights reserved

  Cover art by Jacquelyn Novelli

  Maps by Glen Lauritsen

  For my parents, Mark and Susan Lauritsen,

  and for my brother, Glen Lauritsen:

  Thank you for being my first readers,

  editors, and biggest fans

  Acknowledgements

  The process of writing a whole book is a lot more involved than just coming up with a story, and it is by no means a smooth road. There are changes along the way, corrections and edits that need to be made, sometimes entire sections that need to be thrown out and redone. And then comes the nitpicking – lots of it – and the finishing details like the cover and other elements. This book had a great many helpers along the way to get to where it is now, and they need to be recognized for their endless patience with me and with the story.

  First, my parents Mark and Susan Lauritsen, and my brother Glen. They were my very first test readers, the first to step into this world with me and take part in these adventures. They were also my primary editors (especially my father) and helped polish the rough manuscript I started with and make it something special. My mother was an endless well of support and enthusiasm, always encouraging me to keep working at this book and to follow my dream of being published. My brother Glen, who is a writer himself, was always available to bounce ideas off of and even helped fill in some gaps along the way. He also provided the maps that accompany this book. Between them, they made a formidable and meticulous team, and this could never have happened without them.

  I had other readers along the way as well, including many in my support network of fellow writers, such as Kevin Quibodeaux and other members of the Creative Writers of Aggieland. They helped me develop as a writer and were a great source of critique and support. Another member of this group, Jackie Novelli, is the artist behind the fantastic cover art for this book.

  Lastly, I need to recognize where my path to creative writing started. Mr. Jeffrey Murrin was my eighth grade language arts teacher, and about midway through the semester he gave us a short creative writing assignment. We were to describe a conflict between two characters, but could not describe the source of the conflict. The prompt was unique and challenging, and I threw myself into that short, two-page piece with the limited creative writing talent I had at the time.

  That simple story fired my imagination, and over the next several years I expanded on it and wrote several other books as well. I worked on creative writing in my free time, all through high school and college, refining my skills and working towards becoming a published author. But, without Mr. Murrin’s eighth grade class, none of this would have happened. He opened the world of creative writing to me, and I will forever be thankful for that.

  Thank you to everyone that helped along the way. It took a long time and a huge effort from every one of us, but here we are. This book would not be what it is without the contributions each and every one of you made.

  The Prince

  Chapter 1

  “Go to!”

  Tar Agath’s order rang around the field, echoing off the stone walls of the training center. Prince Relam began moving sideways slowly, his actions mirrored by his opponent two meters away. This was the third bout Relam had fought against Sebast Garenes that day. They had each won one, though Sebast had only managed to win his thanks to a dirty trick. Relam was determined to win this third bout, and so claim a victory in their ongoing personal war.

  Sebast feinted a thrust at Relam’s shoulder, but the prince deflected it with a quick flick of his wrist. Their wooden training swords met with a loud THOCK! then all was silent again. Relam shook his brown-gold hair, dripping with sweat, out of his eyes and prepared for the lordling’s next move. Sebast feinted again, and this time Relam moved forward, stepping past his opponent’s questing blade and cutting at his sword arm. Sebast parried clumsily, retreating a pace.

  Relam followed, pressing his advantage, flowing into one of the patterns Master Agath had drilled into the cadets for the last several years. Backhand, thrust, overhand, thrust, thrust. Always moving forward, never letting Sebast pause and recover.

  Finally, Sebast was forced to retaliate or be driven against a wall. The lordling slashed wildly and lunged forward, trying to gain space to maneuver. Relam ducked the first two blows, then batted Sebast’s sword aside and flicked his own blade up so the tip rested on the shoulder of Sebast’s heavily padded jerkin.

  “That’s it!” Master Agath shouted immediately, hazel eyes flashing warningly. “Bout goes to Relam.”

  Relam saluted Garenes as protocol demanded, though he had little respect for the lordling. Sebast merely scowled and threw down his practice sword, stalking away to a row of low stone benches, where the other cadets in their year were waiting. Master Agath made no effort to call Sebast to order, but frowned slightly, clearly troubled. Relam picked up Sebast’s practice sword and handed it to Master Agath, along with his own.

  “Thank you, Relam,” the angular sword master said, smiling. “Well fought, your highness.”

  Relam saluted, clapping his right fist to his heart and bowing slightly. “Thanks to your training, sir,” he replied.

  Agath nodded once. “You are ready for the trials,” he announced. Then, he turned to the group at large while Relam took a seat, a little apart from the others. “All of you are ready for the trials. For these last three years, I have poured everything into you cadets. Miraculously, some of my training seems to have stuck.” The sword master smiled to take the sting out of his words. “As cadets of eighteen years, and with my approval, you are now eligible to face the trials and either take your place in the army as soldiers, or go on to train with other masters and seek knighthood.” Agath paused and looked over the cadets, nearly all of whom were from the nobility. “Somehow, I doubt that any of you will be soldiers,” he observed drily. “Still, it is a milestone in your training, and in your quest to become men. I am proud of what each of you has accomplished.”

  The cadets murmured their thanks.

  “The trials will be held next week,” Agath continued. “Until then, dismissed.”

  The cadets rose as one and began talking excitedly amongst themselves. Master Agath disappeared into the largest of the stone buildings flanking the training field, his personal quarters and office. A few cadets began moving towards a low building to the right, the cadet barracks for Agath’s older students. Across the field was a barracks for younger cadets, twelve years old or less, who were learning from the master. A few were sitting outside their barracks, watching the older cadets jealously.

  Relam stripped off his practice jerkin and padded helmet, sighing as a cool breeze swept over him. Summers in Etares were hot, especially near the end of the season. He couldn’t wait until autumn, when the temperatures would begin to drop and the leaves would begin to fall.

  As Relam made for the exit, five other cadets, including Sebast, joined him.

  “You should be glad I went easy on you, your highness,” Sebast said loudly. “Otherwise they’d be picking up the pieces in a basket.”

  “Is that so?” Relam replied. “That’s strange. I was under the impression that you were lucky to win even one of the three.”

  “Only because I can’t practice full speed against you,” Sebast replied hotly, jostling the young prince as they passed through the narrow exit and onto the crowded River Road that led back to the wealthier neighborhoods.

  “Why? Scared?” Relam asked, looking at the dirty
, sluggish river and the squalid dwellings on the far side. How different the western side of Etares was from the east, he reflected.

  “You wish,” the lordling replied. “Really, none of our bouts should count. After all,” he said, turning to the other cadets walking beside him. “Everyone knows that his highness has to be protected from injury. The heir must not suffer damage.”

  “Enough, Sebast,” Relam growled irritably, finally looking back at his adversary. “I know you didn’t hold anything back. Anyone who saw the way you sharpened the edges of that wooden practice shield would agree.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Garenes sniffed haughtily. “I resent your implication that I engaged in dishonorable actions in hopes of beating you. I don’t need that kind of trick to win.”

  “No? Then let’s go again some time. See what the result is. Or would you rather we leave the standings for the week as they are: Six wins for me, one for you, with the one earned by cheating.”

  “There’s no point! You’re still the prince and, therefore, untouchable!”

  “And there would not be repercussions if you were . . . damaged?” Relam asked, stopping and turning to Sebast, fixing him with a cold stare. “You are a son of a major lord after all, and your father is very influential. In fact,” Relam said, looking around the circle. “All of us are sons of nobility. Don’t try and pass off your losses with such weak excuses again.”

  “Sebast has a point though,” another lordling countered. “You are the prince.”

  “Something you would do well to remember, Delan,” Relam muttered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sebast decided, pushing past Relam. “When our formal training starts, the playing field will be leveled. Master D’Arnlo will not play favorites like Tar Agath does.”

  “Has D’Arnlo accepted you then?” Relam asked, already knowing the answer. “Congratulations! I hear he only accepts the very best. It’s rare for a cadet that hasn’t passed the trials yet to be taken on by the master of the Citadel.”

  “I thought D’Arnlo wasn’t even talking about students for next year yet?” Jatt Reshi interjected, sounding betrayed. “How could you possibly be accepted?” Jatt was the son of a minor lord, big and powerful, but none too bright.

  “He hasn’t been accepted yet,” Relam explained with a superior air. “But his influential daddy will fix him right up and get him the very best.”

  “And yours won’t?”

  “No, because I’ll be getting in on skill,” Relam replied.

  Sebast glared at him. “I have plenty of skill. And I’m bigger and faster-”

  “Except for your brain,” Relam countered. “That’s small and rather slow. Do you think it will be up to the demands of a great lord one day?” Relam turned away, as though Sebast were beneath his notice, looking up at the bright blue sky. “I wonder if the four families the great lords come from have ever been altered because of the heir’s incompetence?”

  A heavy blow exploded behind Relam’s ear, sending him stumbling. Then, as his vision flashed red and black he was shoved against a rough stone wall, a forearm across his throat, choking him, crushing his windpipe.

  “Sebast, no!”

  Hands entered Relam’s field of vision, pulling the lordling back. The moment he was released, Relam sagged against the wall, rubbing his neck. Sebast was being restrained by Delan and Knet, another son of a major lord. Jatt was standing to one side, looking confused. The remaining lordling, who had been quiet to this point, looked stunned. He was Cevet Thius, the son of the minor lord who led the Assembly of Nobles and its High Council.

  Sebast hung between Delan and Knet, panting heavily, struggling against their restraining hands. His dark curls were drenched with sweat, nearly plastered flat, but his tan, compact frame was full of rigid intensity as he attempted to continue the one-sided fight. Relam looked around surreptitiously, but none of the other travelers on the River Road seemed to have noticed the brief skirmish.

  “Let it go,” Delan urged. “Remember who he is.”

  “Yeah,” Sebast growled. “Always have to protect the prince.” He straightened and stepped back, shaking the others off. “By your leave, your highness.” He made a small, mocking bow then stalked off towards the Furnier River, along which many of the nobles had their manors. Delan, Knet, and Jatt glanced warily at Relam, then followed. Cevet hung back though, looking at Relam curiously.

  “Go on, go with them,” Relam said, gesturing towards the retreating lordlings.

  Cevet looked away. “You could have him arrested, you know. Or have your father punish him.”

  “That would only create more problems,” Relam replied, wincing as his ear throbbed again. “Lord Garenes is powerful, and moving against his son for something as petty as a squabble between cadets will create all kinds of fallout. Besides, I fight my own battles.”

  “Against five to one odds?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “How about four to two?”

  Relam looked up, surprised. Cevet was the smallest of the cadets, not very strong, but reasonably smart. Not a powerful ally exactly, but something. Unless he was joking. But the expression on Cevet’s thin face told Relam the other boy was totally serious.

  “You may not want to throw in with me,” Relam warned. “Sebast will be after you too then.”

  “Fine,” Cevet said, shrugging. “If you don’t want me, I’ll just be moving on.”

  And before the prince could call him back, he was gone, walking quickly across the road and disappearing into an alley that led towards the Furnier River.

  Relam straightened, grimacing, and began the short journey back to the palace. His head throbbed with each pace and his balance was a little off, but other than that he hadn’t suffered too badly from Sebast’s outburst. He rubbed at his neck, troubled by the sudden eruption of violence from the lordling.

  One day, Relam knew, he would have to work with the young Garenes heir all the time. Sebast would be a major lord, and therefore a chief advisor to the crown. A man of considerable power.

  Relam swore under his breath, wishing that he was not destined to be king, doomed to moving in the circles of stuck-up nobles and self-important brats for his entire life. There were few people at court he could tolerate, and fewer that he liked.

  What the young prince really wanted was to be away from all of that. He craved adventure, not the sheltered and pampered life of a noble. As a boy, he dreamed of fighting pirates on the southern seas and hunting fantastic beasts in the northern ranges and the wild forests around the Furnier Sea. As the years passed though, Relam realized these dreams were at odds with the life of royalty. Royalty meant official gatherings and council meetings and negotiations. The most adventurous thing Relam had ever done was weapons practice, and every young noble did that.

  Relam looked up as he entered the royal plaza, a tremendous, open, paved area that fronted the palace. Here, people met to discuss business or share news, and sometimes even just to swap stories. Elsewhere in the city, such a space would spontaneously become a market on most days, crowded with merchants selling all manner of goods. But the royal plaza was different. Here, guards stood at the entrance to each of the seven roads that branched off like spokes, and a full platoon manned the palace steps. The safety of the royal family came first, and having a confused, exotic gathering like a market was a major security risk.

  Relam jogged up the steps of the palace, nodding to the guards he recognized. They inclined their heads gravely in reply, then immediately went back to scanning the plaza for threats. Not that there was likely to be any. The Sthan Kingdom ruled the entire world, and only the most foolish of criminals would dare attempt to cause trouble in the capital of Etares. Much less at the palace itself.

  The young prince slipped in through a side entrance on the north end of the porch, a servants’ entrance really. He preferred this to entering through the grand portal that centered the front of the palace and led to t
he stunning entrance hall. This was partly because he was sweaty and frustrated and needed a long bath, but mostly because Relam knew he was unlikely to encounter any members of the court in the servant corridors.

  Sure enough, Relam encountered no one but palace staff as he made his way to the wing where the royal family lived. The servants knew him by sight, and bowed and smiled as he passed. Relam nodded politely in reply, but did not stop. He needed to get back to his room quickly, preferably without being noticed by any meddlesome individuals. A few of the servants were casting curious glances at his battered appearance. Relam ducked his head and turned slightly away, turning the final corner and emerging onto the hallway that the royal apartments were on.

  As he did, he ran right into someone moving quickly down the hall. Relam stumbled backwards, trying to regain his balance. When he had recovered, he looked up, wondering who he had run into.

  His heart sank as he recognized the tall, painfully thin figure of the most meddlesome of nobles, the king’s chatelain, Marc Clemon. Clemon was the king’s main advisor, and had an annoying habit of turning up at the most inopportune times.

  “Your highness,” the nobleman said smoothly, bowing slightly. “There must be something urgent in the offing for you to be moving so quickly.”

  Relam shrugged, tilting his head a little to try and conceal the worst of the bruising. “Not really. Just wanted to get cleaned up in time for dinner. Training ran a little long.”

  “Hmm.” Clemon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked down his overlong nose at Relam. “Rough training session today, your highness? It appears you took some blows.”

  That was another thing about Clemon. He noticed everything you didn’t want him to notice.

  “I had a bit of a down day,” Relam lied. “Dropped a couple of matches, misread my opponents. I think I might have been anxious about the upcoming trials.”