The Prince (Heirs of Legacy Book 1)

by Paul Lauritsen

“Climbed the wall,” Tar said briefly. “We heard the fight from my facility.”

  “Glad to have you,” Cevet said. “But we may have trouble. The whole Citadel is sure to be roused by now, and there’s . . .” he did a quick count, “Nine of us, plus Oreius.”

  “There are two palace guards at the Eyrie tower,” Relam remembered. “We could recruit them.”

  “Before we go any further, there’s something that we need to address,” Tar said grimly. “The Citadel guards. What do we do with them?”

  “We can’t kill them,” Relam said quickly. “Not all of them are traitors. Some are just following orders.”

  “They’re trying to capture the rightful king,” Yavvis pointed out. “To me, that’s treason.”

  “Then we give them the opportunity to turn,” Cevet suggested. “If they don’t-”

  “Disable if possible,” Relam broke in. “Leg wounds, cuts on their sword arms. Avoid killing them if at all possible.”

  Tar shrugged. “You’re in charge. We are here to follow and obey.”

  “And fight,” Yavvis added.

  “And fight,” Tar agreed.

  “We can get back to that as soon as we find Oreius,” Relam promised. “For now, we need to gather our forces and collect the two palace guards from the Eyrie Tower. If we see Oreius along the way-”

  He broke off as the sounds of weapons clashing reached his ears. He looked around, confused, seeing no conflict on the seventh level, then looked up.

  High above, on the bridge that ran between the Anchor and the Eyrie, two men were fighting furiously, one of them retreating steadily across the gap. Behind the other, at least a dozen warriors were packed in close together.

  “How the devil did they get up there?” Yavvis asked.

  “Oreius must have remembered the palace guards too,” Relam muttered. “He’s retreating towards reinforcements.”

  “Why not come here, where he knows the rest of your force is?” Tar asked, looking up, his mouth hanging open.

  “Because the rest of my force is children,” Relam pointed out. “No offense, Cevet, Sebast. I’m including myself in that assessment as well.”

  “None taken,” Cevet managed, eyes fixed on the fight far above. “I feel like a child anyways right now. These Citadel guards and D’Arnlo are good.”

  “D’Arnlo may be good, but the two of us plus Oreius can best him,” Tar said confidently.

  Relam nodded decisively. “Sebast, Cevet, gather the others. Leave the prisoners tied up where they are. We’re going to help Oreius. And kill D’Arnlo.”

  Chapter 43

  Relam let Tar lead the way through the Citadel as they raced towards the bridge to the Eyrie tower. The place was crawling with Citadel guards. Rarely was there a corridor or stairwell where the small group did not encounter a guardsman. Tar and Yavvis kept their promise, disabling the men in their path rather than killing them outright. Each time they approached a group of potential enemies, Relam called on them to surrender or join his group. Invariably the guards chose to fight, and paid the price.

  “We’re not moving fast enough,” Tar grunted as he knocked out a Citadel guard. “Oreius has been fighting D’Arnlo for a long time now.”

  “Which means D’Arnlo will be tired when we finally do catch up with him,” Relam said, shrugging.

  “Oreius will tire first,” Yavvis replied, slashing another guard across the thigh. “He’s a fine warrior, your majesty, but he’s older than D’Arnlo.”

  “And better,” Relam shot back.

  “Maybe. If he has the stamina,” Tar said, knocking the last guardsman against the wall. He dashed sweat from his brow and started down the now clear corridor at a jog. “Come on. We need to hurry.”

  They raced through corridor after corridor, climbing from level to level, always drawing closer to the bridge. Finally, they reached the wide archway that led to the narrow path. Four wounded guards lay on the floor, moaning and clutching at various injuries.

  “I’d say Oreius is having to fight more than D’Arnlo,” Yavvis murmured, looking impressed.

  The clash of swords caused them all to whirl around quickly. Then, Relam realized that the sounds were coming from above them again. He moved out onto the bridge and looked up, craning his head back. There were figures moving on the roof of the Bastion, but he couldn’t make out Oreius or the traitorous master of the Citadel.

  “Get down!”

  Relam was jerked off his feet by Tar as the sword master hauled him back inside. The young prince slammed against the floor, pain shooting through his shoulder and wounded leg. He turned his head, ready to berate Tar, and saw three arrows hiss through the space where he had just been and clatter off the stone bridge.

  “Thanks,” he muttered instead, stunned. “I didn’t even see them.”

  “Lucky Tar did,” Yavvis commented. “The problem is, how do we get to the Bastion now?”

  “Down and around?” Sebast suggested, stepping up beside Relam and peering out at the bridge.

  “It would take too much time,” Relam said, shaking his head. “We have to make a run for it.”

  “Are you serious?” Cevet asked, eyes widening.

  “Yes,” Relam said, nodding. “It’s the only way we get to Oreius in time.”

  “Relam, that’s a lot of open ground to cover,” Tar warned. “We don’t know how many archers they have up there either.”

  “And that’s another problem,” Yavvis pointed out. “If there are archers on the roof of the Bastion, we’ll have to deal with them when we get up there too.”

  “But Oreius-”

  “Is in a tight spot,” Tar agreed. “He has to stay close enough to D’Arnlo that the archers can’t risk a shot. Which means no rest and a continuous, deadly battle.”

  “We only have one option,” Relam said. “Charge. Confidently and quickly. No war cries, not as we cross the bridge anyways. Grab the shields from those guards if you don’t have one, and let’s go.”

  “Your majesty-”

  “Do it!” Relam shouted. Then, he raised his own shield overhead and charged across the bridge. Tar and Yavvis followed right behind him. The lordlings held back, watching in shock as their three leaders charged. Narin stayed behind as well, blocking the entrance.

  Relam didn’t look up, didn’t try to guess where the arrows would be coming from or where they would strike. He just ran, as fast as he could, eyes fixed on the archway that led into the Bastion tower. He could see two more guards sprawled in the entrance, dead.

  Something struck Relam’s shield, screeching off the metal surface and skipping on the battlements to his left. Relam’s mouth went dry with fear but he ran on, determined to make it to the other side. Another arrow hit his shield, sticking with a menacing thunk.

  Then, amazingly, he was into the Bastion, sheltered by the tower. He dodged to the side to give the others room to follow, then peered back out around the edge of the archway. Tar pelted past, his shield held high overhead, Yavvis close behind. Both had multiple arrows stuck in their shields, and they wore identical scowls.

  “Are you insane?” Yavvis demanded, lowering his shield and stepping closer to Relam. “You could have gotten yourself killed, and us too!”

  “You didn’t have to follow,” Relam replied. “I’m willing to risk everything to help Oreius and see D’Arnlo hang for his crimes. There will never be a better chance at victory for us. So we press on, taking every chance we have until we win or we’re dead.”

  “He’s right, Yavvis,” Tar said resting a hand on the sword master’s shoulder. “We have to act.”

  “Well, we made it,” Yavvis conceded. “By the way, hold your shield higher in situations like that, your majesty. Takes more angles away from the archers.”

  “Got it,” Relam muttered, looking around the tower room. “Where next?”

  “Stairwell, behind you,” Tar replied, drawing his sword. “Yavvis and I will lead. If we get into a fight with D’Arnlo, stay back, Rel
am. I know you are good, but you are not a master. This duel will be well above your skill level.”

  “But you get to witness it,” Yavvis said, smiling slightly. “I’m almost jealous really.”

  “Yes,” Tar agreed, grinning. “This will be a battle for the ages. The duel of the masters.”

  Relam realized that the two masters were actually looking forward to this fight, and he shivered in anticipation as he followed them into the stairwell. Above them, somewhere, Oreius and D’Arnlo were still fighting. Maybe. Hopefully. Relam refused to consider the alternatives.

  He glanced across the bridge one more time to see if the others were following. They were huddled in the entrance, watching.

  “Stay!” Relam called to them. “We’ll handle this.”

  Narin raised a hand in acknowledgement and the group moved back from the entrance.

  Relam followed Yavvis and Tar up the stairwell at a run. They encountered no opponents, but found the wreckage of Oreius and D’Arnlo’s duel everywhere. There was smashed furniture on the landings, dead and wounded guards at irregular intervals. Torches, some still burning, littered the floor instead of hanging in their brackets on the walls. Smashed lanterns were strewn about too, the spilled oil making for treacherous footing.

  “This place is a war zone,” Relam muttered.

  Tar held a finger to his lips for silence. “Quiet. We’re nearing our exit.”

  Relam nodded and shut his mouth, listening instead. He could hear the faint ring of swords clashing, but nothing else. The Bastion was still and quiet, except for the warriors charging up the stairs and the fight above.

  Finally, they came to an ironbound door that opened inward. Yavvis and Tar crouched on either side of it, murmuring to each other quietly.

  “We can’t just run out there if the archers are still on the roof,” Yavvis was muttering when Relam joined them. “We need a diversion.”

  “Like what?” Tar demanded. “If we can get the door open quietly, without them hearing-”

  “D’Arnlo could still see and alert them.”

  “The others,” Relam said quietly. “I can get the others to run across and give the archers something to think about.”

  “Too risky,” Tar said immediately.

  “Cevet is small, get him a big shield and he’ll be unhittable,” Relam said.

  “Well, at least you didn’t propose sending Jatt across,” Yavvis muttered.

  Tar sighed, exasperated. “Do it. We need to coordinate the diversion though. If you can get Narin across too, that would be good.”

  “In case there are more guards to deal with?”

  “Exactly,” Tar agreed.

  “Okay,” Relam said, thinking. “I’ll start the diversion in . . . ninety seconds.”

  “That will work,” Yavvis agreed. “Beginning count . . . now.”

  Relam took off down the stairs, counting the time in his head, hoping he wasn’t counting too fast or too slow. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

  Relam slipped on some lantern oil and nearly fell, slamming against the wall painfully. But he kept going, moving as quickly as he could, throwing caution to the wind.

  Finally, at a count of sixty-three, Relam careened out of the stair well and out to the entrance chamber that led to the bridge. He stood in the archway and waved his arms to attract the attention of the others. Immediately, Narin’s face appeared.

  Relam realized that he had no idea how to signal the plan to the others. He held up his hands, indicating for Narin to wait, then pointed to the bridge, and the archers. Narin nodded as though he understood and raised his shield overhead, crouching as he prepared to run. Relam gave him a thumbs up, then wrote Cevet’s name in the air. Narin frowned for a moment, so Relam repeated the signal as he counted seventy-eight.

  Then, Cevet shoved to the front, a shield held overhead, and nodded gravely. Relam flashed a grin and held up a clenched fist, still counting. When he reached eighty-five, he held up all five fingers, lowering them as he counted. Eighty-six . . . eighty-seven . . . eighty-eight . . . eighty-nine . . . ninety.

  Relam brought his hand down in a slashing motion and Cevet took off, shield held high overhead, Narin a step or two behind him. Shouts came from the rooftop and three arrows streaked downwards in quick succession. One struck just in front of Cevet, causing him to flinch. Another missed completely. The third struck the edge of Cevet’s shield and stuck.

  The lordling stumbled, off balance, then fell sideways with a cry of alarm, just a few meters from the safety of the Bastion. Relam considered running out to help Cevet, but then Narin raced up from behind, steadying Cevet and imploring him to run, half dragging the stumbling boy.

  Relam reached out and grabbed hold of Cevet’s collar as the pair approached, helping haul them to safety. Then, as they stood in the Bastion, breathing heavily, Relam realized that the arrows had stopped.

  Which meant Tar and Yavvis were on the roof.

  “It’s safe to bring the others,” Relam told Narin. “Tar and Yavvis have cleared the Bastion. Gather everyone here and hold the tower. I’m going to help.”

  Narin nodded gravely. “Go. I’ll hold the tower.”

  Relam turned and ran back up the stairs, leaping over the many obstacles in the way until he reached the landing where he and Tar and Yavvis had stood moments before. The door to the roof stood open now, but Relam could not hear any fighting.

  The young prince ran out onto the roof, sword drawn, shield at the ready, taking stock of the situation. The archers were down, their bows smashed into pieces beside them. To the right, Yavvis and Tar were menacing D’Arnlo with their blades while Oreius stood back, breathing heavily.

  “You!” D’Arnlo snarled when he caught sight of Relam. “I should have known you would run to Tar and Yavvis for help.”

  “Actually, they came to me,” Relam said. “I just held the wall while they climbed.”

  “And convinced them to betray me,” D’Arnlo said, chest heaving.

  “That wasn’t too hard, once they heard you had betrayed the crown and orchestrated the death of my mother,” Relam replied coldly.

  “And you took his word for it?” D’Arnlo demanded.

  Yavvis shrugged wordlessly.

  “Seemed like the right thing to do,” Tar replied. “Besides, Oreius has kept me filled in on the investigation into the queen’s death and the assassins Relam overheard that one night-”

  “At the banquet,” Relam added. “Which you were at, D’Arnlo.”

  “That proves nothing!”

  “And the prisoners in Eyrie tower told me they met with someone in Mizzran a few months before the first attempt,” Relam continued. “And you were there at the same time.”

  “And there’s the matter of your . . . discussion with Lord Thius this morning,” Oreius added, rejoining the small group. “Admit it, D’Arnlo. You’ve been exposed. You’re finished. Your plan to take the throne has failed. Now, surrender.”

  D’Arnlo did not move, glaring back at Relam and the three sword masters.

  “Drop your sword,” Relam urged. “There are only two ways this ends: your surrender, or your death.”

  “I think it ends with my death regardless,” D’Arnlo replied. “Isn’t that the procedure for traitors?”

  “It is,” Relam admitted, nodding.

  “No thanks,” D’Arnlo replied. “If you don’t mind, I think I will choose life.”

  The sword master charged towards Relam, aiming to cut between Tar and Yavvis. But the two sword masters intercepted D’Arnlo and drove him back, swords flashing in the bright sun. Relam stepped back, watching in awe as the battle began in earnest.

  The three sword masters were in constant motion, advancing, retreating, striking, and parrying, their swords darting and flashing, weaving and slashing. Relam could not keep track of all three men at once, nor was he able to follow each individual movement. This was swordplay at a level Relam had never dreamed of.

  And, despite th
e odds, D’Arnlo was holding his own. His defenses never showed gaps, no attack looked on the verge of breaking through. A couple of times, he even forced Tar and Yavvis to jump back to avoid being impaled. But he was losing ground, bit by bit, so slowly that Relam wondered if he was imagining it.

  Then, Oreius joined the fight and everything changed.

  The oldest of the masters came at D’Arnlo from the side, distracting him and driving him back. D’Arnlo turned slightly with a snarl, which was quickly replaced by a look of abject terror as he realized that he was finally, indisputably outmatched. Three on one was never fair odds. And against the three masters, D’Arnlo had no chance.

  The traitor began retreating quickly, giving ground until his back was against the ramparts, the curvature of the tower reducing the space his attackers had to operate in. But it was not enough. Oreius got in a slash on D’Arnlo’s left forearm, then Yavvis scored a cut across his thigh. Tar nicked his shoulder slightly and Oreius nearly ran D’Arnlo through, missing by a hairsbreadth.

  After that close brush with death, D’Arnlo looked around wildly and caught sight of Relam. With a snarl, he lunged forward, fueled entirely by rage. But his wounded leg betrayed him and he collapsed on the roof of the tower. A fraction of a second later, Tar disarmed the traitor, sending his blade skittering across the stone floor.

  “Yield!” Tar commanded, breathing lightly, glaring down at D’Arnlo.

  The traitor shook his head, crawling backwards, pressing his back against the battlements, looking around fearfully at the circle of gleaming blades. There was no pity there, no sympathy. Nothing but grim determination from the other three masters.

  Relam stepped forward, hoping to break the impasse and end this for good. “D’Arnlo,” he said quietly. “It’s over. Surrender.”

  The traitor stood slowly, inclining his head to Relam, his hands shaking at his sides. Then, in a single convulsive movement too quick for even the other masters to react, D’Arnlo turned and hurled himself from the top of the Bastion and out into empty space with a terrible yell.

  Relam and the others ran to the edge, Oreius cursing, Tar and Yavvis shouting incoherently. Relam alone among them was silent. They watched together as the rapidly shrinking figure plummeted downward. D’Arnlo struck the bridge between the Bastion and the Anchor and flipped sideways, spinning uncontrollably. Then, he slammed onto the unyielding surface of the seventh level courtyard and lay there, broken and unmoving.