The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

  Relam knelt beside the fallen figure as well. It was his father. The left side of his face was pressed into the ground and he was buried from the waist down in snow. His skin was ashen, bloodless and lifeless, his lips blue. And all across his body, bloody furrows like those on the other victims. The king’s right hand held one of his light spears in a death grip, half of the shaft missing, the stump a mass of splinters. The broken-off part lay in several pieces a meter away, and beyond it was another spear, the tip stained with dried blood.

  The prince tugged the gauntlet off his right hand and reached out with trembling the fingers. The cold stung, but Relam had to be sure. He laid trembling fingers on his father’s neck, just below the jaw, searching for a pulse. As soon as he touched his father’s skin, he knew they were too late. The king was as cold as the snow around him, and as lifeless. Several moments with no discernible pulse, not even a faint flutter, confirmed it. Relam sat back on his heels and bowed his head.

  “Dead,” he whispered to the surrounding guards. He brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away the beginnings of crystal tears. They reformed almost immediately though.

  The soldiers knelt and bowed their heads as well, some of them weeping. They stayed there, together, for several minutes, each alone with their grief yet leaning on their neighbor for support. For hope. For strength.

  Finally, Galen rested a heavy hand on Relam’s shoulder. “Your majesty, we must go,” he murmured, startling Relam with the use of the title. “We must take your father back to Etares before dark.”

  Relam nodded stiffly, the tears still falling. Slowly, he stood and backed away. “Make ready to return to Etares,” he said, choking on the words. “The king has fallen.”

  Behind him, Galen drew his sword and raised it overhead. “Long live the king!” he shouted.

  All around, soldiers stood and drew their blades, eyes hard and clear, faces set in determined lines. “Long live the king!” they chorused, the cry echoing through the forest defiantly.

  Relam gave a tight little smile. “Get my father out of there,” he said, gesturing to the snowbank. “We need a way to get him back. Could we make a sling between some horses?”

  “Eckle will have a cart for the hunt still,” Wil supplied. “I can ride and fetch it.”

  “Do that,” Relam said gratefully. “We’ll start moving towards the road in the meantime, try to meet you halfway.”

  Wil swung into the saddle and galloped off to the north, in the direction of the road. Eric and Johann knelt with several others and began scraping the snow away from the king’s body. As they worked, more and more wounds became visible, revealing the extent to which the monarch had been savaged by the bear.

  “They must have really riled it up,” Relam murmured to Galen. “And it must have been a rare specimen.”

  “But no tracks,” Galen replied, frowning.

  Relam started to reply, then stopped. Galen was right. They had found none of the bear’s tracks.

  “Maybe they were hidden by the snow?” he suggested.

  “You found that boot print.”

  “In the clearing,” Relam remembered.

  “Could this have been done by brigands?” the guard wondered, looking around.

  “Galen, look at those wounds. That was a powerful beast. With claws,” Relam added.

  “Some sort of large cat then? They move more lightly than bears do,” Eric said, looking up from his work around the king.

  “Possibly,” Relam conceded. “But I’ve yet to see a human use a weapon that leaves those kinds of wounds. Or a human with the strength to rend armor so easily.”

  “You’re right,” Galen admitted finally. “I guess I was just hoping for something I could hunt. Something to take revenge on for this death. Your father was a good man, your majesty. And a good king.”

  Relam nodded. “Yes,” he murmured, the weight of grief settling on him again. “He was.”

  By the time the king’s body had been freed of the snow, other teams of soldiers had freed the bodies of the guards as well. The other horses had been found slaughtered as well, further supporting the idea that some kind of beast had been responsible for the attack. The loyal steeds were left where they had fallen. There was no reason to take them back to Etares.

  Not long after this had been accomplished, Wil returned, leading a small wagon and commander Eckle with his thirty warriors. The riders moaned when they saw the king’s body and wept openly, stunned by the loss. Eckle himself sat rigid in his saddle, shaking his head.

  As the sun brushed the horizon to the west, the king and his two guards were loaded into the back of the wagon, which was just large enough for three men to lie side by side. Relam and his four guards took the lead, riding just in front of the cart. Eckle led the rest of the soldiers behind the wagon.

  They set off for the road in silence, with none of the customary shouting of orders. Nobody had the heart to disturb the mournful silence, or to interrupt the grieving of those around them. All the way to the road, the only sounds were from the horses, the wagon, and the riders’ equipment. Even the forest animals were silent. No deer bounded from tree to tree, no squirrels chittered angrily as their territory was invaded by the procession, and no birds burst from bush and tree in a flurry of wings.

  The journey along the road through the Midwood was just as silent. Torches were lit to combat the gathering dusk, and their flickering orange light shone all around, creating dancing shadows to the left and right of the road.

  As the riders emerged from the forest, Relam looked up and saw Etares, lying in wait. Braziers glowed on the wall tops and the lights of the city were visible beyond. The palace gleamed most brilliantly of all, illuminated by dozens of lanterns. Not far away, the Citadel glowed only slightly, a dark mass blocking out the stars that dotted the heavens.

  They continued riding in silent formation, the cart rolling and bouncing, the horses plodding placidly. The riders sniffed and shivered in the cold air, but none were weeping anymore. Not even Relam. He was still grieving, but he had run dry of tears during the ride back from the forest. Bit by bit, he was realizing that he was now the heir to the throne. That he would soon be king.

  He knew in his heart that he was not ready for that burden, not in his present state. He did not have the wisdom of his father, nor was he the warrior he wanted to be. He was not the peacekeeper his mother had been, he was not a strategist or military commander. Nor did he have a particularly good head for business or administration. What right did he have to ascend to the throne, meager as his skills were?

  Relam’s thoughts were interrupted by shouts from the wall above. He heard running feet, the sound of the portcullis rising. Then, the gate began to swing open, and warm light spilled forward from dozens of men holding torches and peering out at the procession.

  “Your highness!” Hadere said, shoving to the front. “The city has been secured as requested, but we have received no word from Eckle-”

  The commander broke off as he surveyed the mournful band, and saw Eckle’s face behind the wagon.

  “What has happened?” he asked, looking at Relam worriedly.

  Relam went to speak, swallowed, then shook his head. His voice did not seem to be working properly.

  A shudder ran through Hadere, then, slowly, he knelt before Relam.

  “I am at your service . . . my king,” he said gently.

  Whispers ran through those who had assembled to welcome the search party back to Etares. Relam heard snatches of it, heard the voices that said his father was dead, that the king had fallen during the hunt. But he ignored them for the present, focusing on one matter at a time.

  “Thank you, Commander,” he said gently. “Please, rise.”

  Hadere stood, and bowed his head. “This . . . this is a tragic day, your majesty,” he murmured. “My heart goes out to you. If there is anything I can do, let me know.”

  “I will,” Relam assured him. “Now, please, reopen the harbor an
d see to it that things return to normal. And get some rest. There will be time tomorrow to . . . to decide what we must do next.”

  Hadere nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for Relam to enter the city. Relam set his heels to his horse’s side and rode through the west gate. Not as a prince anymore. But as a king.

  Chapter 38

  Relam woke with a start in the middle of the night.

  His room was cold and dark, save for a shuttered lantern, and he had managed to kick his blankets aside while he slept. Not that it could really be called sleeping. Relam had dozed off and on, tossing and turning, trying to find rest but to no avail. Every time he tried to clear his mind, the death of his parents somehow came to the surface again. Not only his father, but also his mother, even though he had been coping with that loss for three months. He had finally passed out from exhaustion a little after midnight.

  But now something had awoken him.

  Relam froze, listening, trying to identify what had caused him to awake. It had not been light filtering through the windows. The sky outside was completely dark, and there was no moon. By Relam’s estimate, dawn was still hours away. There was no one in the room with him, and no guards had stayed in the main room overnight. But the fact remained that Relam had come suddenly and completely awake, not just drifted out of slumber like he would in the morning. There was an urgency, a prescient warning to this situation that Relam wasn’t recognizing.

  A faint sound reached his ears and Relam’s skin prickled. The sound of leather scuffing on stone. A footstep? But it was coming from the windows.

  Relam scooped up his dagger from the bedside table and hid it under his pillow, feigning sleep and listening. The sound came again. Definitely a footstep. But there was nothing beyond the window. No balconies, no terraces. Just a shear wall all the way down to the palace gardens. And those were patrolled by palace guards. Was someone attempting to climb the wall, or was Relam imagining things?

  The sound came again, closely followed by a scrabbling noise. Relam frowned and got out of bed, buckling on his weapons belt and flattening himself against the window wall. He transferred the dagger to his left hand and drew his sword, holding it vertically in front of him and breathing lightly.

  More footsteps and scrabbling. Then, a pair of light impacts, and the meager light from the stars was blotted out. Relam flinched sideways, away from the window that the intruder was blocking. When the man entered, Relam would take him down from behind. Not kill him, capture him. Question him, find out who he answered to. Maybe this would be-

  The window next to Relam shattered and a crossbow bolt hissed across the room and buried itself in Relam’s pillow. The prince flinched as a dark figure somersaulted into the room. Relam didn’t hesitate, bringing his dagger up and around and slamming it against the man’s head.

  The blow did not have the stunning effect Relam had hoped for, because of the hooded, furred cloak the assassin was wearing. The black-clad figure snarled, spun, and slashed at Relam. The prince jumped back and swung his sword at the assassin. The intruder ducked and Relam kicked out, catching the man just under the jaw. The assassin stumbled backwards, towards the empty space where the window had been.

  Relam took advantage of the momentary respite to shift the shutter on the lantern so that he had more light. As he did, the assassin ran forward again, still clutching a dagger. Relam parried clumsily and struck back, heart pounding. The assassin was a master knife fighter, quick, agile. And Relam was a swordsman, necessarily slower because of his larger weapon. This was not a fight he could easily win.

  The assassin crept forward slowly. Relam kept him at a distance with the sword. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”

  “To kill,” the man hissed.

  “Who sent you?” Relam repeated.

  “Does not matter,” the assassin replied. “You will not live to tell. And I will not betray my master. He has promised me much in return for your death.”

  The assassin feinted and Relam moved to parry with his sword. But then the assassin struck again and Relam barely parried with his own dagger. As he did, he looked down and saw that the tip of the assassin’s blade was stained with some substance, gleaming in the light of the lantern.

  Poison, Relam thought. He couldn’t even take a small cut from the blade.

  The blade darted forward again, and Relam decided that he had to end the fight, decisively. Dodging the dagger, he snatched up the lantern and smashed it at the assassin’s feet.

  Oil splattered across the floor, along with glowing globules of flame. Then, the fire spread, consuming the rug in an instant and forming a wall between Relam and the assassin. The black-clad man recoiled, his cloak aflame, retreating from the fire. When the assassin had shed his charred cloak he glanced at Relam, eying the flames that separated them.

  “It may not be by my hand,” the assassin growled. “But you will die all the same. Good luck escaping the fire, your majesty.”

  The assassin backed through the window and disappeared. Relam looked around wildly and realized the assassin may have had a point. The whole room was aflame now, fire running along the wooden beams supporting the ceiling, consuming the bed, licking across the rug towards the desk.

  “Time to go,” Relam muttered. The only problem was, a wall of flame stood between him and the door.

  Relam circled towards the desk, wincing at the heat from the flames. His armor was scattered on the floor there, where he had thrown it after the hunt. It might protect him from the flames, but it would take time to put on.

  The flames were rapidly growing in intensity, so Relam simply snatched up his heavy, fur-lined cloak and bundled himself in it. Then, bracing himself for the pain, Relam ran straight through the fire towards the door, holding his breath.

  The cloak protected him reasonably well, but he still felt the heat on his face and smelled his hair burning. Then, he was through the fire, wrenching the door open and tumbling into the main room. The heat was still with him though, following him. Looking down, he saw that the end of his cloak was aflame and quickly stamped it out.

  Relam started for the outer door, then stopped. He couldn’t stay here. If he stayed, the assassins would keep coming. Eventually they would get lucky. He needed to get out of the palace, needed to lay low for a while.

  Instead of making for the main door, Relam ran for the servant’s entrance. Behind him, the royal suite burned, erasing his past life and all the relics of it. As he pulled the secret door shut behind him, he heard guards crashing through the door to the corridor, shouting his name and yelling. Relam paid them no heed though, hurrying down the stairs and into the servants’ corridors below.

  At this time of night, the palace was still and quiet. Relam made his way to the entrance hall without any trouble and slipped across the open space without anybody noticing him. He hesitated at the massive front doors, then pushed one open just a hair and squeezed through the narrow gap. Outside, he flattened himself back against the door. There were still guards on duty out here, concentrated near the front of the porch. Relam moved to his left, crouching to avoid being seen, and went to the far end of the porch. Peering over the railing, he measured the two-meter drop, then swung himself up and over, landing with his knees slightly bent to absorb the impact.

  Almost immediately he was on the move again, striding purposefully towards the River Road and Oreius’ house. The old warrior would know what to do, Relam was sure of it. He had helped him hide Narin, after all.

  The River Road was also nearly deserted, only a few dark figures moving from building to building. Thieves perhaps, or maybe night watchmen on their way home. A few staggered drunkenly, and once Relam was startled as the door to a bar flew open and a patron was ejected forcibly, landing in a heap in the road. Other than that minor incident though, there was no sound and no cause for alarm or worry.

  Relam kept moving, passing the black bulk of the Citadel. On the far side was a narrow alley, half concealed in sha
dow. The young prince continued on, knowing he had to get out of the city before it was put on lockdown, then stopped as a voice reached his ears. A horribly familiar voice.

  “You failed me?” the man hissed.

  “No, no, I succeed,” another voice protested in accented common. “He dead, I promise.”

  “Really?” the first voice hissed. “Forgive me, but I doubt that is accurate.”

  “I swear it! You can freely take over now, there is no one to oppose you with the heir dead.”

  “Really? And if the prince is not dead, what then? What if, despite your assurances, he returns?”

  “He will not-”

  “What if he has put the flames out, what if he escaped them? Fire is an unreliable ally at best, assassin.”

  The voices were coming from the alley, echoing and rebounding strangely. Relam guessed that the men were several meters back from the road and unaware that their conversation was echoing down the narrow passage. Cautiously, the prince inched closer.

  “Wait for morning, the news will be everywhere that the heir is dead and the kingdom leaderless. I promise!”

  “I hope you are right,” the other man hissed. “In any event, I no longer have need of your services.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Surely,” the first voice continued, “You realized that I would have to kill you whether you succeeded or not. After all, you know far too much.”

  Relam heard a whisper of steel against leather, probably the assassin drawing a dagger. “Just you try it, my lord,” he snarled. “I will not be the one to die tonight!”

  “How wrong you are,” the first man replied.

  Relam heard a sword being drawn quickly, then a series of short impacts of metal on metal, followed by the skittering sound of a dagger skating across the rough stones that paved the alley. A moment later, there was a gasp of pain and a weak cry. Then, finally, a wet squelching noise as a blade was withdrawn.

  Relam began moving backwards, creeping away from the entrance to the alley. There was a recessed entrance to a store a meter back. If he could make it there, maybe he could see at last who was behind the assassinations, if the hissing man came out to the River Road.