The Descendant (The Diamond Sword Chronicles Book 1)

by M. M. Whan

  Just when he thought he could run no more, the trees finally broke, and he could see Tallonin barely a mile away. He groaned and tried to fight the urge to curl up in a ball and just give in. Eferath had a lot of open ground to cover, and with the hot pursuit right on his tail, he would be under fire every step of the way. He realized that standing at the edge of the clearing, staring at the distant security of the city walls would cost him all the distance he gained from his pursuers.

  His body groaned in protest, but he took off at full bent, running with the last bit of energy his limbs had to offer. Eferath zigged and zagged, imagining a hail of arrows arcing in for the kill. He waited for the sensation of magical energy building in preparation of obliterating him once and for all. None of that happened, and Eferath figured he looked the picture of absolute lunacy jinking and dodging his imagination, but he didn’t care.

  He reached the perimeter wall in record time, slamming closed the gate behind him and leaning against it, panting with exhaustion. He ignored the curious stares the gate guards gave him.

  “Where is Eralon? Where is my father?” Eferath demanded through heaving breath.

  The guards looked at each other for a long moment, then their recognition of him won over their reluctance. One guard tilted his head toward the centre of town and shrugged.

  “He’s meeting with the Escoranians that came in not too long ago-“ He continued speaking, but Eferath was already running, heading in the direction of the town square. Time was of the essence, and he knew that if he didn’t get there in time, there could be no telling what would happen.

  Eferath dashed between buildings, ran down alleys past startled townsfolk that were going about their business. He wheeled around the next bend and crashed full speed into a high stack of barrels. He and a half dozen wood barrels fell to the ground in a heap, and like them, Eferath rolled with them and came up to his feet running. Several heads poked out to see what the cause of all the ruckus was, but Eferath didn’t wait around to explain.

  He continued running until finally he recognized where he was, and just how close he was to the town square. Eferath skidded to a stop, then leaned his back against the last building between him and the opening that was part of the town square and stuck his head out to observe the situation.

  The town square was a square in name only. Its actual description was that it was an irregular circle made up of buildings and houses. There was a main street that ran straight through the entire city from one gate to the other, and branched off in the directions of the other gates. Eralon and the other settlers had chosen this specific location because the major trade route between Escoran and several of the southern kingdoms would run right through the village. It would nearly ensure their survival along the fringe of civilization. Well, as far as tradable goods were concerned. To say nothing of bandits, orcs, and various other villains in the area.

  Sure enough, as Eferath peeked around the corner of the building, he laid eyes on the detachment of Escoran soldiers. Only there was a problem. These weren’t the regular soldiers Eferath expected them to be. They were elites.

  And there were a hundred of them.

  His father stood as if barring their way with scores of the village’s ex-soldiers standing in ranks behind him. It was impressive sight, Eferath had to admit. He had never seen the villagers rally together in such a way. His father was an impressive man, and he wondered if it was his reputation as a warrior that halted their advance, or the fact that Eralon had founded the Elite Crystal Guard. Whatever the reason for it, Eferath knew their true purpose for being here.

  “I told you, my son,” Eralon said, adding extra emphasis to the reference to his kin. “Is not here. Your presence is not necessary, and even if Eferath were here, I would defend the fact that he is innocent with my life.”

  “There are many witnesses, including the King himself.” The woman who was obviously in command retorted simply. There was no heat in her response at all. It was almost as if she was bored of this whole thing. That, or she knew her orders and it mattered not anything his father had to say to her. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she ordered her people to attack? Should he show himself? Maybe his presence would be the catalyst that set this bomb ready to blow.

  “Witness accounts by the sole heir of the throne who was also conveniently the one to find the body. Forgive me, but I will not suffer my son to be judged by the guilty! Begone from my city, you are trespassing!”

  Even from this distance, Eferath could see the cold smile creep across the woman’s face. He could even feel the frost from it, and his hand dropped to his sheathed sword.

  ”I have orders from your king to bring your son in, and I will do so whether you stand in my way or not. If you hinder me, or continue to threaten me… Well, let’s just say it will be a lot less messy if you just comply.”

  She turned her head slightly to regard her second, then nodded. “Search the town. Burn the buildings down if you have to.” Then she levelled her gaze on Eralon as if daring him to interject. “Kill anyone if they resist.”

  Even from his distance Eferath could see the lines of his father’s jaw tighten. He knew that every fiber of his father’s being screamed for him to take action as elites spread out in every direction. Eferath watched them go as they broke down doors to the screams of those that had occupants. He gripped the hilt of his sword, closing his eyes against the injustice that was happening all around him.

  Not now… He told himself through clenched teeth. He glanced up again as the commander and his father stared each other down. Neither seemed willing to blink, and it was Eferath’s guess that the elite commander had definitely heard of Eralon’s prowess with the blade, and wondered to herself how she would stack up against him.

  “Eferath is not here!” Eralon roared, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. It was a movement that was mimicked by ally and enemy alike. Instantly the tension increased by an immeasurable level.

  “But he is here!” Claimed another voice that rose above the din. The voice came from somewhere to Eferath’s left and at a distance that was far too close for his own comfort. He ducked behind the shadows cast by the building and kept a wary eye on what was going on.

  It was Morgan.

  Eferath spotted the traitor as he walked into the square as if he was the King of Escoran himself. Eferath narrowed his eyes. It was amazing how tough someone became when they were backed by an army. The smug look on his face made Eferath want to rush out there and punch him, but to do so would doom everyone. The tension could be cut with a knife, and Eferath had no intention of that knife being his diamond blade.

  Morgan strode up to where Eralon and the commander stood, smiling broadly. “Isn’t he, my lord Eralon?”

  Eralon stared at Morgan, and he did not hide the suspicion from his face. If looks could kill, Morgan would have been cut in twain at that moment.

  “He is not, you can see for yourself, damn you!” Eralon snapped, leaning forward toward Morgan to add emphasis to his words, his hand slicing through the air in anger.

  Morgan’s smile widened, and Eferath’s heart sank. “Oh, I have.”

  The silence that followed his words was deafening. It had the weight of truth behind it that not even Eralon could refute. “My lord Eralon you are hereby placed under arrest and charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive.” The commander of the elites announced formally and with the sharpness of a sword edge in her voice. “By the power vested in me by his Majesty the King, Dorien Fallherder, I hereby carry out his orders as judge, jury… and executioner.” As soon as she finished speaking, and Eferath noted the smile on her face as the last word was punctuated, Eferath knew that he had to act. It was time to act, or watch his father die.

  Fury brewed inside him, swirled and made into a savage tempest that felt as though it would tear him apart at the seams. It was pure darkness, colder than the icy depths of the ocean, and it filled his entire being, threatening t
o swallow him whole. Rage consumed him, rage at the injustice of it all. But there was only one way he could ensure the safety of his family now.

  Surrender.

  “No!” Eferath shouted suddenly, stepping out from the shadows of the building with his hands held high above his head, sword sheathed at his waist. “I am here, I surrender!”

  “Eferath!” Eralon shouted desperately. “No! You must flee this place!” He was silenced as Morgan’s gauntleted hand came sailing in and struck him on the side of the head. Eralon was made of tougher stuff than Morgan was expecting, though, and his blow merely knocked the former general back a step or two. Eralon reached up and wiped the blood from his lip with the cuff of his sleeve, never taking his eyes from Morgan’s.

  “Father, stay out of this. This is my decision, and mine alone. I will not have you put yourself at risk for me. Now, please be silent.” Eferath said, still advancing. Each and every soldier in either the Elite’s retinue, or Lethaniel’s regarded him as if he was a wild boar. An old and especially dangerous one at that. Despite Eferath’s surrender, the young man noticed that each held their weapons ready to draw. At some level, it pleased him to see them – especially the elites – fear him, but that minimal pleasure was far from the very real fear that gripped his heart.

  As soon as he stood next to his father, Eferath faced the commander of the elites, Morgan, and Lethaniel. “If I go with you, do I have your word that you will leave this place and leave my family unharmed?” Despite the disappointed look on Morgan’s face, both Lethaniel and the commander nodded their assent.

  “Eferath, you cannot. I forbid it!” Eralon said in a hushed voice, grabbing Eferath by the jerkin. The young man didn’t try to force his father’s hands away. The decision was already done, and no manner of scolding could change his mind now.

  “Ugh,” Spat Morgan with obvious disappointment. “And I was so looking forward to bringing the great Eralon back to Escoran in chains.”

  Eferath shot him a glare so cold that Morgan took a step back and reached a shaky hand toward his sheathed sword. “Let us leave this place and leave swiftly.” Eferath said after ensuring the intensity of his glare sunk in, and that the underlying threat it bore was understood. From the cautious way that Morgan regarded him, Eferath was satisfied that it had.

  “Guards! Shackle the prisoner!” The commander ordered, and within moments Eferath was flanked on either side by guards and his hands were bound at his back and shackled in irons. For a moment, Eferath wondered if anyone present remembered the fact that he was more than likely equipped with a spell to rid him of these bindings, but then Lethaniel caught his eye and he realized that it was most likely the case.

  Both guards grabbed him roughly and shoved him toward the middle of the group of elites. As he was being led away, Eferath heard Morgan speaking to the commander.

  “Burn it all.” Morgan ordered just loud enough for Eferath to hear.

  Eferath felt as if his whole world had been swept out from underneath him. His knees became jelly, and as he stared at Morgan’s ice-cold smile he knew that he had doomed them all.

  The order was given, and flaming torches and brands were sent flying in the air, arcing toward the many buildings around the square. It hadn’t rained in some weeks, Eferath knew, and he could hear the cackling as the flames took hold. He heard the screams of the townsfolk somewhere out of sight and he knew the same scene was being repeated all over Tallonin.

  “Morgan, you lying bastard!” Eferath roared, spreading his hands against the restricted movement by the shackles, hearing not even a creak as he poured all of his strength into the movement. “You said you would leave them!”

  Morgan wheeled on him, the smile gone from his face even as the sound of burning wood and thatch grew to an ever-present roar. “Do you honestly believe that I would keep my word with you? A traitor to your country?” With that, Morgan spat in Eferath’s face, then struck him with a backhanded blow that sent Eferath reeling.

  “I’m going to kill you.” Eferath growled through clenched teeth and the acrid copper taste in his mouth from his cut cheek. “I will look down upon your wretched body as you die and smile!”

  Morgan slugged him. This time it was a clean, full bodied right hook that took Eferath off his feet and made his vision go black and white.

  “You will die as the traitorous scum that you are, filth. Be silent, lest your words foul my mood enough so that I kill your father and have my way with your mother!”

  Eferath distantly heard a sword being drawn. “You are welcome to try, boy.” It was his father’s deep voice, he recognized. “You should have challenged me yourself if you weren’t such a gutless coward.” Eferath looked up from his position to regard his father. Eralon was cool and collected, and there was a hard edge to him that Eferath had never before witnessed. It was a dangerous edge, he knew, one that he doubted Morgan would be smart enough to notice.

  Morgan wasted no time in drawing his blade, then he stepped toward Eralon with all the confidence the graceless cur could muster. Eferath watched from his side as the two warriors circled. Well, he reflected, only one of the two combatants were an actual warrior. That fact was proven brutally mere moments later as Eralon and Morgan crossed blades with a terrific clang. Morgan attempted to bring his sword in for Eralon’s waist, only to change direction at the last moment into a slicing upper cut. Eralon was no fool, however, and though the maneuver probably seemed clever to Morgan, to someone of Eralon’s superior fighting skills, Morgan might as well have explained what he was going to do before he did it. Eralon brought his own sword down, point facing the earth, then swept his blade out to the right side. Another clang rang out as Eralon knocked the blade out to the side before it had even begun to ascend.

  Eralon seized the opportunity his counter-move created, and connected a solid left hook that spun the young man around on the balls of his feet. Morgan was nothing if not agile, though, and managed to dance away from the deadly follow up that would have severed his head from his shoulders. Eferath trembled with excitement as he saw the fear in Morgan’s eyes. His father will have Morgan dealt with in the next few moves. Eferath almost smiled; his father had used the same set of moves on him and the young man could almost picture what was coming next.

  Sure enough, Eralon raised his sword above his head, spinning it around in his grip before bringing it down hard for Morgan’s head in a steely blur. Morgan intercepted the hissing weapon by raising his own sword above his head at the last moment, one hand on the hilt, the other on the edge near the tip in order to help absorb the savage power behind the blow, as was expected. What Morgan wasn’t expecting, however, was the lightning fast follow up straight-kick that Eralon slammed into his chest a moment after their blades met. The blow took Morgan from his feet, and he landed hard on his back. Morgan attempted to hold his sword up, but Eralon swatted the paltry defense aside, sending the blade flying away.

  Eferath nearly whooped for joy as his father remained victorious, and he clenched his fist anxiously awaiting for his father to kill Morgan where he lay.

  “Yield.” Eralon said, holding the tip of his blade to Morgan’s throat. Morgan tried to scramble away, but Eralon followed him every meter of the way. “Yield!” He shouted suddenly, pressing the tip of his sword to the skin just under the young man’s chin.

  Eferath wanted nothing more than for his father to separate Morgan’s head from his shoulders. But the blow never fell. Eralon suddenly stepped back several steps and his expression was completely incredulous.

  Then he looked down.

  Chapter 19

  Carlisle took a moment to stop and survey their surroundings. He and Syline had been traveling nearly non-stop from Escoran on a meandering south-west and south-east course. They were doing such to maximize what little chance they had of picking up signs of Eferath’s passing, or of passersby who might be able to point them in the right direction. It was a long shot, he knew, but his companion
refused to acknowledge it. Eferath was as skilled as anyone Carlisle had ever met, and he was convinced that if his friend didn’t want to be found, then he wouldn’t be. He didn’t believe for a moment that Eferath had done what people said he had. Sure, they had been ambushed and all of the patrols were nearly killed in what could only be described as treachery, Eferath would never have even considered killing the King.

  His half-elf companion hardly spoke, and – though he couldn’t tell if it was from her heritage – hardly ate. It seemed as though something was troubling her mind, but Carlisle did not think it was over his friend. Quite the contrary, actually. It seemed that she was angry with Eferath for his role in the events. They had been travelling for over a week, and Carlisle could count how many words she had spoken, whether to him or to herself, on both hands with fingers left over. Their goal was Tallonin, Eferath’s home town and what was assumed to be the least likely place their quarry would have fled to. Syline believed that Eferath would have taken a roundabout route to his home town, possibly to enlist the help of his father and mother. Both of whom were not only powerful, but were well connected as far as politics were concerned.

  At first, Carlisle didn’t agree with her assessment. Eferath was many things, but stupid was not one of them. Syline dutifully, and patiently reminded him how Eferath was smart enough to know that his home town, as much as it would be the obvious place to look, would be the least likely place to be searched because of how obvious it was. The half-elf surmised that Eferath would have enough time to sneak home, gather supplies and enlist the help of allies.