War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2)

by Olney, Matthew

  “They want to turn us,” came a voice from deeper in the room. They looked up to see a blond-haired man walking over to them. He wore the black leather armour of a Nightblade. “They want to turn us into one of them, and make us join the N’gist.”

  Alira looked at Huin, whose eyes widened at the words. She shuddered as memories of the witch Cliria surfaced in her mind. The bride of Danon had possessed Alira when she was just a teenager. For years, she had been the unwilling vessel of the witch. After Eclin, she had been freed from Cliria’s possession, but in the years that followed, vague memories of the foul deeds she had been made to commit haunted her in nightmares.

  “I would rather die than become one of them,” she said quietly.

  “How do you know this?” Huin asked the Nightblade, who introduced himself as Torbin.

  “There were six of us. Now there are just two. The others were turned.” He gestured to the door. “The woman who led you here, she was one of us,” he said, his hands knotting into fists.

  “How is that possible?” Grig gasped.

  Torbin looked away before taking a deep breath to get his emotions under control.

  “Magic. Dark and ancient. Of a sort I have never seen before. All I know is that the others were dragged away and returned as one of them.” He paused as a deafening roar sounded from outside their prison. Alira gasped and Ilene began to cry.

  “Then there is that. Whatever that is,” Torbin added quietly.

  Memories of the battle of Eclin flashed into Alira’s head. She would recognise that sound anywhere, for it still haunted her dreams. The roar came again; it shook the chamber’s walls, and dust fell from the rafters in the ceiling. The roar contained something within it. It wasn’t the terrifying feral sounds that she remembered; if she had to guess, it was a roar of pain.

  “A dragon … they have a dragon?” she whispered.

  The Nightblade nodded.

  “Every night we hear it.”

  “It sounds like it’s in pain,” Huin said, his head tilted to the side to listen.

  At the sound of footsteps outside the chamber, they all moved away from the door, which opened to reveal a red-cloaked figure. Silently, it stalked into the room, two Sarpi guards close behind. It sniffed the air before moving quickly across the chamber. A bony hand reached out and grabbed Torbin by the arm.

  “This one …” the figure hissed.

  The Nightblade struggled but the cloaked figure was remarkably strong. With a violent twist, Torbin’s arm snapped loudly and he screamed in agony.

  “No! I will never join you … I will never join you!” he screamed as the Sarpi dragged him out of the chamber.

  The cloaked figure cackled.

  “That is what they all say.”

  16.

  Sunguard

  The royal palace was a hive of activity as the Grand Council prepared to meet. The barons of Delfinnia had been summoned, and all had arrived at the capital. The only problem was that Davik had not called such a council. Being the king’s regent, only he had the authority to issue such a summons. He didn’t have to think hard to know who had gone behind his back. Ricard was making his move.

  Davik had returned from his visit at the eastern front as quickly as he could upon hearing the news that the council had been summoned. He had wasted no time in ordering the Sunguard legion to accompany him back to the capital. If Ricard’s aim was to oust him from the regency, then he would surely hesitate when he saw an army at his opponent’s back.

  The soldiers marched through the gates before taking up positions throughout the palace. A handpicked squad of six legionaries was sent to the king’s quarters. Whatever game Ricard was playing, Davik was sure that it involved the king. He watched the troops filing past from the saddle of his white horse. The fighting in the east was not going well for the kingdom. Eclin was lost, the ruined city now the home of swarms of pucks and other foul creatures which had emerged from the dark places of the mountains. With no Eclin rangers or Knights of Niveren to guard the region, the Fell Beasts had multiplied in numbers. All he could hope to do was prevent the creatures from spreading across the kingdom. The legion had retreated to Plock and the valley of Summil. Hundreds of miles of territory had been lost. To the south east, Accadus of Retbit continued to harass the forces based along the Zulus River. Tales of dark magic being used, and rumours that Sarpi were fighting in the rogue baron’s army only confirmed his fears that Danon, too, was ready to reveal himself to the world once more. Davik sighed heavily and rubbed a gloved hand over his face. He was exhausted. Ricard had outmanoeuvred him at every turn. The wretch had spread dissention among the populace. His anti-magic rhetoric had struck a chord with the people, so much so that magic wielders were fleeing to Caldaria in their hundreds. With the mages fleeing, the rest of the realm would be vulnerable to the magical forces arrayed against it.

  “Davik. I must speak with you.”

  He looked up to see the king’s nanny striding towards him from the palace. She pushed her way through the leering soldiers until she was stood next to him.

  “Elena,” he greeted tiredly. “What is it?”

  The young woman bit her lip nervously.

  “It’s the king. I fear for his safety,” she replied.

  Davik snapped his fingers to summon a stable hand. A young boy rushed forward and took the horse’s reins. Gingerly, Davik dismounted, wincing in pain as his old injuries made their presence felt. Elena offered him her shoulder to lean on, and he grunted in thanks.

  “Come. Let’s talk inside.”

  * * *

  Davik poured himself a glass of Robintan wine and sighed contentedly as the delicious fruity liquid slid down his throat. He and Elena were in his private quarters, safe from the prying eyes and ears of any potential spies working for Ricard. They sat at the room’s small table. Upon his arrival, servants had brought him a plate of venison and boiled vegetables. It sat untouched; he had little in the way of an appetite.

  “The bastard has bested me again. I should never have left the capital,” he chuckled humourlessly.

  Elena looked away, tears in her eyes.

  “I have been denied access to the king,” she fumed. “Ricard has replaced me with his own servants. He said that a girl from peasant stock has no place mentoring a king.” The news took Davik by surprise. Anger surged through him. He slammed his glass onto the table.

  “What gives him the right? First he turns the realm against those with magic, and then he goes behind my back and summons a Grand Council, and now this! I will have him arrested for treason.”

  Elena looked at her old friend in sympathy. Davik had never wanted to be regent; in the years since he had been bestowed the title, the stress had caused his hair to turn white, and deep lines had taken root on his face.

  “There’s something else … I think I know why Ricard wants me out of the way,” Elena added softly. “Whilst you were away, Luxon Edioz and some of his companions met with the king. He commanded them to find that strange stone, the one found in the Eclin Mountains. After they had left the city, I overheard Ricard talking with the king. He said that the stone was being used by magic wielders to corrupt his mind – and that magic was not to be trusted. I fear the king believed every word.”

  Davik slumped in his seat. He had little understanding of magic, but he did know that Luxon Edioz was someone who could be trusted.

  “What is he up to?” he muttered. “Why has the wretch waited until now to sow such discord? Could it be he is a traitor?”

  The thought was too awful to contemplate, but it was one that made sense. With the Grand Council divided and their attention focused on power politics, the realm’s enemies would be able to press their advantage. He closed his eyes and sighed. He was a fool. He had again played into Ricard’s hands by bringing the Sunguard legion with him.

  The borders were already overstretched.

  “It would make sense that he is a traitor,” Elena said quietly. “He has resent
ed you for years for being made the regent. Before Alderlade was crowned, Ricard was one of the main contenders for the throne. It would not surprise me that he seeks the Sundered Crown for himself.”

  Davik rubbed his eyes tiredly. He hated politics. He stared into his now empty glass, his thoughts racing.

  “Think about it, Davik,” Elena continued, her tone growing angrier. “Who would be the best defence against Danon and Accadus?”

  “The mages!” she added, answering her own question. “By turning the people against them, Ricard has removed the best defence against the enemy’s magic. Instead of fighting at the legions’ side, the mages and Nightblades have been forced to flee and hide in Caldaria, as far from the battle as possible.”

  She stopped talking as someone knocked on the room’s door.

  “My lord regent,” came the voice of a steward. “The Grand council has gathered in the King’s Hall,”

  “I’ll be right there,” Davik replied gruffly. He stood up and walked over to the full length mirror in the corner of the room. He checked his clothes over, pulled his tunic straighter and adjusted his sword belt before spitting on his palm and slicking his hair back.

  “Wish me luck. I think I’m most definitely going to need it,” he sighed before leaving the chamber.

  * * *

  Davik walked down the long brightly lit corridor leading to the King’s Hall. He nodded in greeting to the legionaries standing to attention. As ceremonial guards, their armour was polished so that reflected the light cast by the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Davik stopped outside the large double doors that led into the hall proper and sighed. Facing the barons was the last thing he wanted to do. He nodded to the smartly dressed steward who was waiting patiently to open the doors.

  With a loud creak the doors opened.

  Silence greeted him as he strode into the hall. He held his head high and thrust out his chest. He may not be a skilled politician, but he was a warrior. As was custom, he took his seat on the plain-looking throne located in the centre in the hall. Arrayed in a semicircle in front of the throne were the barons in high-backed chairs of their own. To the side sat the clerks and stewards who would transcribe all that would transpire in the coming meeting. Davik caught the gaze of the realm’s most powerful men. The only seat that was empty was the one reserved for the barony of Retbit. The young Baron of Balnor smiled, but the rest masked their intentions. Sat in the centre chair was Ricard, a slight smirk on his handsome face.

  The door to the hall opened again and the barons stood as Archbishop Trentian shuffled inside. The old man was in his eighties and was the leading religious leader in the kingdom. With no gods to speak of, the peoples of Delfinnia worshipped Niveren, the hero who had delivered the world from evil and led mankind to glory. Trentian was the head of the Niveren cult and was tasked with overseeing the Privy and Grand councils. The old bishop took his place at a lectern, which was carried into the room by two servants.

  “I, Trentian, archbishop and loyal servant of Niveren and the realm hereby announce this meeting as begun.”

  Immediately, Ricard rose from his seat. He smiled cruelly at Davik.

  “Lords of the realm, I summoned this Grand Council,” he announced. The barons grumbled at the revelation. The Baron of Balnor stood.

  “Lord Ricard, what gives you the right to summon such a council?” the thirteen year old boy baron snapped, his high-pitched voice a stark comparison to those of the other lords. “By law, only the king – or in this case the regent – can do so.”

  Davik leant back in his seat and touched his fingertips together.

  You have overreached yourself Ricard, he thought as the other barons nodded in agreement with Balnor’s words.

  To his credit, Ricard covered his annoyance at the young baron well. He kept a thin smile on his lips.

  “Forgive me, my lords, archbishop. That is indeed correct, but I felt as though such a gathering was necessary.”

  Ricard moved from his chair to stand in the centre of the hall. “This past month has seen the situation across the kingdom deteriorate to such an extent that I know some of you believe we need new leadership.”

  The barons shouted in protest.

  “What gives you the right?” demanded the baron of Kingsford.

  Wyatt Foralis was a man in his forties with a reputation for guile. His skills on the battlefield, however, were questionable as he was one of the only barons to not get embroiled in the civil war for the crown that had raged five years previously.

  “I have the right of a concerned member of this council!” Ricard snapped. “Sarpi raiders harass your shores, Foralis. Dragons torment yours, Blackmoor, and Fell Beasts plague everywhere east of the Greatwood. We should all be concerned.” he faced the Baron of Balnor and glared at him. “And the rogue Baron of Retbit threatens your lands.”

  Ricard then jabbed a finger at Davik. “This man is no leader. He is just a warrior; violence is all he knows. He has failed spectacularly to bring peace and order to the realm. He allows magic wielders to roam the land freely and corrupt the minds of the people. He is in league with the wizard Luxon Edioz who, according to my agents, even now is heading west across the Great Plains, for what nefarious purpose I know not.”

  Trentian banged his fist on the lectern. Ricard bowed to the archbishop.

  “The accusations of negligence and the regent’s love of magic wielders is indeed a cause for grave concern,” the archbishop said. “I have heard from my priests that the common folk are turning from the light offered by Niveren to the mages of Caldaria for their salvation. This heresy must not be allowed to continue.”

  Davik slumped in his seat. So that was Ricard’s plan. He and Trentian had made a deal. The cult had no love for mages; they saw magic as heretical and impure.

  “Perhaps they turn to the mages because it is they who are our best hope of defeating our enemies,” Davik growled.

  “Blasphemy!” Trentian shouted angrily.

  The other barons began to argue amongst themselves. Some were in favour of replacing Davik, but others like Balnor were opposed. The shouting grew louder. Ricard smirked in silence. Trentian banged the lectern again to restore order

  “My lords! We are divided on this matter, that is clear to see, but I urge you all to think long and hard about what is good for the souls of the people. The mages plunged this world into war before and the wizard Luxon Edioz proved that magic remains the path to ruin. All the ill that has befallen our realm has come as a result of Luxon and the mages’ actions at Eclin.” Trentian’s face was flustered. His hatred for magic was well known.

  “Does the king not have a say in this matter?” said Rusay Broadmane, the Baron of Robinta.

  He was in his thirties, tanned by Robinta’s mild climate, and strongly built. He was the best swordsman in the realm, having won numerous tournaments over the years. The barony under his control was the bread basket of the kingdom, more famous for its wines and tea than for its strength at arms. Nonetheless, Rusay held considerable clout with the council for without the food Robinta provided the realm, the people would soon go short. It was for that reason that Rusay had remained mostly neutral in the fighting during the civil war.

  Ricard clapped his hands and the stewards opened the doors. The barons all stood and bowed deeply as King Alderlade was led into the hall by two legionaries. The eight-year-old monarch smiled and waved at Davik, who smiled warmly back. Davik stood from the throne and stepped aside. Ricard took the boy king’s hand and lifted him up onto the now vacant throne.

  Sat in the high-backed chair, the king’s diminutive size was apparent. His little legs couldn’t even reach the ground. Trentian gestured for the barons to sit again. Davik, however, remained standing.

  “Your Majesty,’ Ricard began, ‘as your uncle, everything I do is for your benefit and the benefit of the kingdom. We are gathered here today to discuss whether it is time for a new regent to be appointed. The realm is in peril, nephew; it is ti
me for a change in strategy.”

  The king looked to his uncle and then at Davik, confusion evident on his face.

  He is just a child, Davik thought. He felt himself getting angry.

  Trentian moved from the lectern and shuffled over to stand at the king’s side.

  “You must do what is best for the people, my king. Faith in divine Niveren keeps the souls of your subjects pure. Magic is like a disease – it poisons the mind and corrupts men’s morals. Davik has served the realm admirably, but his love of wielders blinds him. I believe that your uncle would prove to be a better candidate to guide you. Niveren wills it, Sire.”

  Davik glanced at the barons. They were whispering amongst themselves. In his heart, he knew they would vote in favour of replacing him. What bribes or deals Ricard had made with them, he did not know, but he knew that he had been bested. The barons of Bison, Kingsford, Blackmoor and Zahnia would vote in favour of Ricard. None of those men had love for magic wielders, and all of their lands had suffered from attacks by dragons, Fell Beasts and raiders. Perhaps if he had been more ruthless, perhaps if he had ignored the plights of the commoners and focused on waging war, then the realm would not be in such a dire mess. He shook his head angrily; ever since becoming regent he had doubted himself.

  “This is madness!” shouted the Baron of Balnor. The anger in the teenager’s voice caused the others to stare at him. With the gaze of his peers upon him, he flushed red in embarrassment.

  “Davik is a good man and not all wielders are wicked folk, Archbishop,” he continued angrily.

  “Watch your tone, boy,” Ricard growled in warning. “Trentian is the holiest of men, show him some respect.”

  “Holy? Just because he holds such a title does not make it true,” the baron shouted, his body trembling with rage. “If you continue down this road and replace Davik as regent, you kiss Balnor’s support goodbye.”