The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  “Fine with me,” Relam replied, tossing the cup aside. “Anything to avoid embarrassing myself again.”

  His father smiled and rested a hand on Relam’s shoulder. “You did not embarrass yourself. In fact, you performed admirably. I believe you might be a better fighter than I was at your age.” Then he grinned, shaking a finger at Relam. “But I am older, wiser-”

  “Slower?” Relam asked impudently.

  “In your dreams,” the king replied, eyes glinting with mirth. “Come on, let’s practice a few tricks that will help you on the trials next week.”

  For the next two hours, Relam’s father put him through all manner of drills, demonstrating how to defeat opponents with deception, speed, and intelligence. First, the opponent had to be distracted by an obvious threat, such as the thrust the king had led off with earlier. Then, a quick follow up attack, putting the enemy off balance. Finally, an attack from an unexpected quarter, such as the leg sweep or a kick. Relam learned dozens of combinations of moves, flowing from stance to stance, always moving with speed and power and balance. He was constantly in awe of his father, who seemed able to attack from three or four directions at once. Sometimes, he would carry out three separate attacks, one with each arm and another with his dominant leg. Once, he ducked a sidearm cut from Relam, dropping to the ground, and kicked off, slashing with his sword and sweeping his feet around at hip and knee height. Relam hurled himself backwards, landing on his back, staring at his father. The king awkwardly got to his feet, favoring his left leg.

  “Think I might have pulled something,” he muttered. “That used to be easy when I was younger.”

  “That was incredible!” Relam exclaimed, sitting up and grinning. “Even in your supposedly diminished state.”

  His father smiled. “Thank you, my son. Now, how about we have one last battle between the pair of us then call it a morning?”

  “Deal,” Relam agreed. “But first, a rest and a drink.”

  “Of course,” the king agreed.

  As they walked to the lean-to, Relam realized he had yet to bring up the matter of Aven. The prince considered waiting a little longer, then crushed the thought ruthlessly. No, he would do it now, during their break. He would not delay any longer, lest he forget entirely or something else come up.

  Relam filled two cups from the water barrel, handing the first off to his father. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he began, sipping slowly.

  “Oh? Something about the trials?”

  “Not exactly,” Relam replied, frowning. “Actually, there’s a lot of things I wish we could talk about. But there’s one in particular that I need to resolve.”

  “Ask away,” the king replied, drinking deeply.

  “Do you remember Aven?” Relam asked, taking the plunge.

  “Aven?” His father frowned, thinking, tapping his teeth with the rim of his cup. “The name is familiar. One of the palace staff, I believe?”

  “Yes,” Relam said. “He’s my personal servant.”

  “Ah, yes,” Orram said, remembering. “Younger boy, isn’t he? Serving you well?”

  “The best servant I have ever had,” Relam confirmed. “He’s extremely hard working, cheerful, helpful. A promising lad altogether.”

  “Hmm. Well, what did you wish to discuss about him?” the king asked.

  “Aven has always had a dream of becoming a warrior,” Relam explained. “There are two problems, though. First, he is slightly built-”

  “And warriors tend to have a bit of size.”

  “Exactly. The other problem is he’s very poor and can’t afford training, even though he works for us and his parents work elsewhere in the city. They can barely feed themselves most weeks.”

  “Ah.” Relam’s father was frowning deeply now, swirling the last of the water in his cup. “Are you asking for charity for the boy, Relam?”

  “No,” Relam said as firmly as he could. “But I did have an idea that might help the situation.”

  The king was silent. Then, finally, he spoke. “Explain,” he said slowly, drawing out each syllable.

  “Well, I thought that maybe Aven could begin training as an archer for the city guard and earn some extra money that way,” Relam said eagerly. “I don’t need him around all day after all, so he has the time to train, and even a slightly built warrior can manage a bow. By the time he is old enough to officially join the guard he will be a more than capable archer, and his other qualities indicate he could become a good leader.”

  “The idea has merit,” the king allowed. “Why do you bring this to me?”

  “Well, I thought that if I was going to recommend him to the guard, I should clear it with you,” Relam explained. “After all, it is a rather unique situation.”

  “Yes, yes it is.” Orram fell silent, thinking. “It is a good thing that you wish to do, Relam. But it is also dangerous. Handing out favors like this can lead to unfortunate consequences.”

  “If you’re worried about Aven-”

  “I am not worried about Aven. I am worried about others who may wish for the same special treatment,” the king growled, waving a hand irritably. “It is the monarch’s quandary: how to be generous yet fair.”

  “We can’t promote everyone to the guard,” Relam pointed out.

  “Exactly my point,” his father agreed. “We can’t help everyone.”

  “But shouldn’t we still do what good we can?” Relam asked, sensing that he might be losing ground. “Who’s to say this won’t start a trend among the nobility of helping those less fortunate?” Even as the words left his mouth, they sounded ludicrous. Relam tried to picture Garenes granting a servant a favor, raising them up. His imagination fell miserably short of that image.

  As though confirming Relam’s thoughts, his father laughed out loud.

  “Not your best argument, Relam. I don’t see such an idea taking hold any time soon.”

  “So you won’t let me help Aven?”

  Relam tried to keep the accusing note out of his voice, but his father heard it anyways. “Don’t make this about me,” he snarled. “I am bound by my position. I cannot grant favors on a whim or everyone will line up outside the palace for a handout.”

  Relam sighed and looked down, frowning.

  “But,” his father continued. “I could, very quietly of course, send a message to a trusted officer in the guard with the instructions for this arrangement. Of course, Aven would have to keep quiet about this and not lead people to think we had been involved in any way shape or form.”

  “Thank you,” Relam said simply. “This will change Aven’s life, father. And the life of his parents. You’re giving good people a chance to do great things.”

  “So I am told,” Orram agreed. “Now, enough talk. Let’s have that last quick bout, shall we?”

  As it turned out, the last bout was in no way quick.

  It started as the others had, a slow circling of opponents, sizing each other up, seeking an opening, a telltale twitch or flexing of muscles preparatory to an attack. When at last Relam charged his father, practice sword swinging high overhead, the fight began in earnest.

  The king countered Relam’s advance with a two-handed horizontal sweep of his practice sword. Relam ducked and slid under the wooden blade, nearly ending the bout by getting under his father’s guard. But his quick slash was parried awkwardly and the fight continued. Relam rolled to his feet, behind his father, and went on the offensive again.

  The young prince preferred attacking to defending, but it was just as difficult. On defense, he was constantly looking for the next strike, the next threat. Then, he had a split second to react correctly and either block the threat or avoid it in some other manner. When he was attacking, though, Relam’s ingenuity was constantly pushed to the limits as he strove for more creative attacks and searched for new ways to exploit tiny weaknesses in his opponent’s defense.

  Relam’s father, for his part, seemed perfectly happy to play defense for
the moment, blocking Relam’s best attacks with ease and giving ground slowly. The young prince followed him all around the courtyard, the sound of their wooden weapons clashing ringing in the otherwise silent space.

  They fought in this manner for some time, until Relam’s arms grew leaden and his muscles complained with each jarring impact of sword on sword. He noticed his father had begun deflecting blows rather than blocking them, reducing the shock somewhat. But still both fighters were panting from exertion, sweat pouring from their limbs and down their sides.

  Finally, Relam thrust forward, only to have his attack deflected almost contemptuously by his father. The prince stumbled forward, off balance, and his father grabbed him by the collar to steady him.

  “Victory!” the king gasped, breathing heavily. “And none too soon either.”

  Relam nodded agreement, sagging against his father’s support gratefully. “Good . . . fight,” he managed to croak. He tried to stand upright, but overbalanced and fell to the ground, winded and exhausted.

  His father laughed and sat down beside him, looking up at the pale blue sky. “What a morning,” he said happily, looking back at Relam. “Thank you, son. That was the most fun I’ve had in many a year.”

  “Thanks for teaching me,” Relam replied, gulping down lungfuls of air. “I think,” he added as his side flamed with a painful stitch.

  “You’ll be fine when the trials come,” his father assured him. “Take the rest of the day off. And tell your servant I’ll have everything arranged in the next few days.”

  “Thank you,” Relam said again, groaning.

  “Don’t mention it.” The king stood, wincing. “Right. Ready for lunch? I’m starving.”

  Relam started to rise, then moaned aloud and sat again. “I think I need another minute.”

  Chapter 5

  Relam took his father’s advice and spent what remained of that day resting in his room. He ate a light lunch with his parents, his father regaling his mother with a blow by blow account of the morning battles, then retreated to his room to clean up and change out of his sweat-stained practice gear. Once he was clean, he fell back onto his bed and stayed there until dinner, alternating between dozing and staring at the ceiling. By the time he was summoned for the evening meal, his muscles were starting to stiffen and were sorer than ever.

  After dinner, Relam retreated to his room again and promptly fell asleep, drained of energy. When he woke, it was late morning, and sunlight was streaming through the tall windows opposite his bed.

  The young prince squinted into the bright light and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He struggled for a moment to remember what had happened. Had he been sick? Was that why he had been allowed to sleep the morning away?

  Then, he stretched and his arms and shoulders popped and cracked. His muscles protested weakly, reminding him of the exertions of the previous day. Relam sighed and got out of bed slowly. Even his legs were sore and he had difficulty moving with any speed as he crossed to the washroom.

  A half hour later, Relam emerged from the washroom feeling considerably better. He had just finished dressing when a knock came at the door.

  “Who is it?” Relam called, raking a hand through his damp hair.

  “It’s Aven, your highness.”

  Relam smiled to himself and reached eagerly for the door knob. Then he paused. Aven never called him ‘your highness’. Relam pressed his best eye, his left, to a cunningly concealed spyhole in the door. Sure enough, it was Aven on the other side, looking anxious and uncertain.

  The prince flipped the latch and opened the door quickly, just wide enough for Aven to slip through. The boy did so without any delay.

  “Since when have I been ‘your highness’ to you?” he asked Aven curiously.

  “The king is in the sitting room,” Aven explained. “I thought it wise to be on my best behavior.”

  “Ah, yes, good thinking,” Relam agreed. “Good news on that front.”

  “He agreed?” Aven asked, eyes wide with excitement.

  Relam nodded. “Yes, much easier than I expected. Now, you’ll have to keep quiet about this and so will your parents, but we’re making the arrangements. Everything should be in place by the end of the week. I’ll let you know when that’s done and what the next step is.”

  “Wow,” Aven breathed. “I can’t wait to tell my parents. They were pretty ske- . . . skepti . . .”

  “Skeptical?” Relam suggested.

  “That,” Aven agreed. “Told me not to get my hopes up too high, that nobles are different from-” He clamped his mouth shut suddenly, as though afraid he might offend Relam.

  Relam chuckled tolerantly. “No offense taken, Aven. I am smart enough to realize what most of those of my station act like. I have to deal with them on an almost daily basis.”

  “Will that change after the trials? You could choose a different master than them.”

  Relam hadn’t thought about that. He had assumed he would still have to see Garenes and the others nearly every day. But now that he thought about it, why shouldn’t he just choose a different master and avoid them altogether?

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he allowed finally. “But some problems only get worse if you avoid them rather than confront them.”

  “Maybe,” Aven said shrugging. Then, he brightened again. “Wait until I tell my parents. Me, in the city guard. A soldier, once I’m old enough.”

  “It will take hard work,” Relam warned. “And it might be difficult to do two jobs at once.”

  “I’ll manage,” Aven said confidently. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” Relam replied, smiling.

  “Anything else you need?” Aven asked as he turned back towards the door.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Okay,” Aven said, waving airily. “Good luck with your trials tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! Relam started involuntarily as he realized that the trials were, in fact, scheduled for the very next day. “Yes, thank you, Aven,” he managed, smiling tightly.

  The boy retreated to the outer room and Relam sank onto his bed, thinking furiously. The trials, tomorrow! Between his battle with his father and Aven’s new job he had somehow forgotten they were so close now. Was he ready? Should he go back to the courtyard and practice more?

  Relam stopped abruptly, shaking his head to clear it. “You’re ready,” he told himself firmly. “You just need rest so you are in top condition for tomorrow.”

  With that thought fixed in the front of his mind, the prince lay back and slept until dinner.

  When Relam emerged from his room for the evening meal, his parents were waiting, sitting together in front of the hearth. A cheerful fire danced around a small mound of branches and sticks.

  “How do you feel?” his father asked tersely.

  Relam shrugged uneasily. “I guess I’m ready,” he said eventually. “Everyone keeps saying I am. You, Master Agath. And you should know since you’ve both been through the trials yourselves.”

  “Yes,” his father agreed. “You may not feel ready now, but when you begin your trials you will find that everything you need to succeed you have. Strength, speed, wits, knowledge, skill. You are one of the finest young warriors I have seen, Relam. I do not say that because you are my son, but because I have seen you fight and pitted myself against you. You will do very well tomorrow.”

  Relam nodded, though he was not reassured by his father’s little speech. A weight had settled in his stomach, and every time he thought of the trials it seemed to grow a little heavier.

  “Enough talk, let’s eat,” the king said when no reply was forthcoming.

  Relam mechanically followed his parents to the table and sat. Food was placed in front of him but he scarcely touched it, moving potatoes back and forth, rolling vegetables over and over. His parents tried to engage him in conversation but soon gave up. Relam did not even notice when Griff wished him well the following day, not until the servant
accidentally bumped his chair as he moved to clear the prince’s plate.

  “Oh! Sorry, Griff, what was that?” Relam asked quickly.

  Griff smiled patiently. “I was just saying that we all wish you well on the morrow, your highness.”

  “Thank you,” Relam said quickly. “I appreciate that. I apologize for being so distracted.”

  “It is understandable, your highness,” Griff replied generously. “We know that you must have a great many things on your mind.”

  “Yeah,” Relam murmured, his thoughts already shifting back towards the trials. “A great many things.”

  “Why don’t you get some sleep?” his father suggested. “You want to be alert and full of energy.”

  Relam nodded automatically, though he wasn’t tired at all after sleeping half the day, and wandered back to his room, shutting and locking the door. He quietly got into bed and lay there in the dark, thoughts whirling about in his head as he tried to guess what feats he would be expected to perform the following day, and how he would accomplish each one.

  What if he had to fight multiple opponents? That was something they hadn’t spent much time on, but just the sort of twist Agath could throw at them. Would the cadets be pitted against each other? Or would they be tested in some other way? Would he have to fight Garenes?

  Questions like these and a thousand others continuously assaulted Relam’s mind. Hours later, in the darkest hours of the night, Relam still lay awake, unable to find rest due to his overactive brain. Finally, a few hours before dawn, he slipped into unconsciousness.

  The morning came entirely too soon. Relam woke to gray dawn light filtering weakly into his room and the sound of someone pounding vigorously on his door.

  “Son? Time to get ready,” his father called, voice muffled by the thick door.

  Relam rubbed sleep from his eyes and yawned, stretching. “I’m up,” he muttered wearily, squinting around the room. Slowly, he stumbled into the washroom. The day of the trials was here, at long last. Relam splashed water on his face several times, then went through the rest of his morning routine at top speed, trying to ignore the nervousness building within.