Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  “What are you doing out here on your own?” one of the guards asked.

  Wardin smiled again. Then he released his spell.

  The guards went still, their faces draining of blood. One of them opened his mouth, but he could force out no more than a puff of air; even that was cut off as his companion jumped back and jostled him. For a moment they became a single tangle of limbs, struggling to throw one another off and be the first to escape. The instant they broke free of each other, they fled.

  Erietta gave Wardin a look of frank shock and admiration.

  He grinned and patted the pouch on his belt, where he still carried the book he’d borrowed from Magister Felton. “Fear spell. I practiced on Arun every day on the way here.”

  She returned his smile. “Well. The archmagister is proud to see you applying your studies so well.”

  “Don’t know how long it will last, though. We’d best keep moving.”

  They arrived at the cheese shop just as twilight set in. Varin waved his hands in horror when Erietta tried to speak to him, a vein beneath his eye twitching. “Not here,” he whispered, though the shop was empty. “You can thank me later. Hurry upstairs while I close up.”

  When they entered the modest residence above the shop, Arun’s greeting was far more enthusiastic. But Erietta pulled back quickly from his embrace.

  “I did too much magic today, with too little power in reserve for it,” she said. “I’ve got to see to my balance. I’ll make dinner.”

  “You can wash my tunic while you’re at it.” Arun looked down at his chest. “You’ve gotten blood all over it. But let’s see to that wound before you do anything else.”

  An hour later, they were all settled around Varin’s small table, eating a simple meal that consisted mainly of cheese. “The guards are going door to door,” the spry little cheesemaker said as he filled their goblets with wine. “I spoke to them twice. Tobin is incensed, by the sound of it.”

  “I’m sorry for the danger we’ve put you in,” said Erietta. “We’ll leave you first thing tomorrow. We’ve got to hurry, anyway. I don’t like the idea of leaving Bartley in charge of preparing our defenses.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Arun’s jaw tightened, no doubt in memory of the last time they’d seen Bartley. “I suspect self-preservation is a talent of his.”

  “I’ll take you out in my cart in the morning,” Varin said. “I come and go regularly. A lot of the guards know me.”

  “We’d be grateful,” said Erietta. “I’ll be rested by then, and between my ability to disguise, Arun’s ability to confound, and your cart, there shouldn’t be too much risk.”

  “I’ve got a few useful spells of my own, you know.” Wardin cocked his head to one side. “Or am I just here to charm anyone who discovers us with my handsome face?”

  Arun snorted. “Let’s hope not, or we’re all doomed.”

  Wardin accepted the gibe with a smile. Arun hadn’t been an easy companion on the journey, irritable and jittery. But now that his sister was safe—at least reasonably so—he’d cheered considerably, though he seemed hit hard by the news of Jasper’s death.

  They left before dawn, huddled beneath a thick waxed canvas among several wheels of cheese, the smell of which did nothing to enhance the experience of the jolting ride. Between the bumpy road and the awkward position he was in, Wardin’s neck was soon aching.

  He scarcely dared to breathe when the gate guards stopped the cart.

  “Sorry for the delay, Varin,” he heard one of them say. “We’ve been told to question everyone. Where are you off to this morning?”

  Although Wardin couldn’t see Arun’s face, he heard a soft whisper from his friend’s direction.

  “Harador,” Varin said. “What are you looking for?”

  “A fugitive.”

  “A rabbit,” another guard added. “It’s dressed as a lady, and carrying a small harp.”

  “It’s going to perform the ‘Lay of Taslin’ for the Baron of Heathbire,” the first guard said.

  Wardin felt Erietta begin to quake beside him, and judging by the muffled sounds from her throat, it wasn’t with fear. He groped for her wrist and squeezed it hard. Her amusement was contagious, and the last thing they needed was for them both to start laughing.

  “That’s a long way to go,” said Varin. “But it’s obviously not in my cart. It would eat all my cheese.”

  “I thought it was only mice that eat cheese?” There was a hint of suspicion in the second guard’s voice. “I’m not sure cheese is good for rabbits.”

  “It’s a rabbit.” The first guard sounded exasperated with the slow wit of his partner. “How’s it supposed to know it shouldn’t eat cheese?”

  Whatever they said next was drowned out by Erietta’s snort, and for a tense moment Wardin was afraid she’d given them away. But the guards must have waved Varin through, because moments later, the cart began to move again.

  The village of Harador was several miles west of the city, a good head start for their journey back. From there, Arun would lead them on the sorts of isolated paths and hidden trails that had gotten them safely to Narinore, the same sort that had gotten Wardin from Harth into Eyrdon in the first place.

  “I keep telling you, brother, you missed your call as a contriver,” Erietta teased as she stepped out of the cart. She looked much improved that morning, with color in her cheeks and a voice that didn’t croak the way it had the day before. But her eyes were dark, her smile never reaching them, and Wardin knew she was grieving for Jasper.

  “You’d best hurry back.” Varin’s eyes darted to and fro as he spoke, despite the fact that they stood in the shadows behind a stable, completely alone. “You aren’t the only ones heading west. I passed a company of soldiers, as I drove away from the city.”

  Wardin swore. “How many?”

  “Hard to say. Hundreds. And Tobin was leading them.”

  This one doesn’t like it much.

  Best hurry, then. That powder we used on ‘em will wear off before long.

  You sure this’ll work?

  It’d better. They say they’re demons, and they can breathe fire from their eyes. Can’t we just kill them and say they fought back?

  Prince says there’s a reward for bringing them back alive.

  Wardin woke gasping and sputtering, to find himself being held down by one pair of hands, while another forced a foul-tasting, burning liquid down his throat. Instinctively preparing a shield spell, he threw off one of his assailants, then rolled to avoid a blow from another. His sword was gone. He jumped to his feet, releasing the spell at the same time.

  There were just the two of them. His shield of whirling blades deflected one of their blows and sent the man reeling. The other gaped at his companion before turning his wide-eyed gaze back to Wardin. Clearly whatever they’d poured down his throat hadn’t worked as intended; they weren’t expecting magic.

  Their hesitation was brief, but it was enough of an opportunity for Wardin to prepare another spell. As they came at him again, he focused on one of their sword arms, clearing his mind of everything except blood and pain. A gash opened in the man’s wrist, slicing a tendon.

  The soldier cried out and dropped his weapon. Wardin pounced on the fallen sword, as another blow bounced off his shield. That time, he could have sworn he heard one of his invisible blades parrying it.

  Rolling back over with the real sword in his hand, he flung out another hasty spell. It was meant to trip the man whose wrist he’d cut, bringing him down within reach of Wardin’s swing. But Wardin hadn’t taken the time to prepare the spell properly. The soldier barely stumbled.

  Renewing his efforts, Wardin got to his feet. But concentrating harder on one spell took too much from the other. Even as he sent one of his opponents off balance, the other got a blow through his shield.

  Ignoring the searing pain as a blade cut across his hip, Wardin slammed into the falling soldier, knocking him to the ground. Then he brought his bo
ot down on his foe’s chest, and thrust the man’s own sword into his neck. He was dead almost instantly.

  Wardin turned on the other one. Perhaps the man expected him to shoot fire from his eyes; his whole face was trembling as he dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands raised.

  It was the first time Wardin had killed in combat, and he felt none of the sorrow or regret he’d always expected to feel at such a time. Instead, his blood boiled with the fervor of battle, his heart burned, his ears pounded. It took a greater effort than he’d have liked to admit, to rein in the instinct to keep coming at his enemy, and accept the man’s surrender instead.

  “Impressive, War.” Arun’s groggy voice said behind him. “You’ve gotten good with that sword.”

  Without taking his eyes off his new prisoner, Wardin stepped backward until he was beside his friend, who was struggling to sit up beneath the tree where they’d been sleeping. “Think my shield spell’s getting better, too. Are you all right?”

  “I think s— Etta!” With a curse, Arun crawled over to where Erietta lay soundless in the grass.

  Wardin stared aghast at her still form. It had been her watch. How had these blundering Harths, whom he’d taken down with so little effort, managed to sneak up on a contriver?

  “It’s not our fault, her being like that!” Eyes round and terrified, the kneeling soldier watched Arun trying to rouse her. “We used the powder and the tonic on her, but I don’t know that they did anything. She was sound asleep when we got here, and she looked bad.”

  Wardin stepped closer to the man, sword extended, teeth clenched. “Your excuses will not save you, and neither will your surrender, if she’s not all right.”

  “She’s breathing.” Arun’s voice was tight despite the reassuring words. “I’ll see to her, you see to him.”

  Wardin glared at the soldier. “What powder, and what tonic?”

  The man swallowed. “The powder was to put you to sleep for a bit, long enough to tie you up. The tonic was supposed to keep you from doing magic. They swore to us it would, that we needn’t be afraid. We were only supposed to capture you, not kill you.”

  “I’m afraid they lied. You’re advanced scouts from Tobin, I assume?”

  A nod. “He sent several parties ahead, in different directions, to search for the escaped prisoner.”

  “Did you ride?”

  “No. Some of the terrain’s a bit undependable for riding.”

  Erietta moaned softly. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “My fault. My watch.”

  Wardin glanced at her. She’d gone white, even her lips, and her brow glowed with sweat. Stomach churning, he turned back to the scout, bringing the point of his sword still closer to the man’s throat. “Did you give her too much?”

  He blinked rapidly and shook his head. “I … no … it was Robert who did the powder, I swear, I—”

  “It’s not that.” Arun had pulled the collar of Erietta’s tunic down to expose her shoulder. He unwrapped the bandage, and even from several strides away, Wardin could see that the wound was oozing. Judging by Arun’s face, it looked—or smelled—even worse up close.

  “Eyrdri’s teeth, Etta, why didn’t you say anything?” Arun barked.

  “No time to stop,” she murmured with a shrug. “Thought I’d just see to it when we got home.”

  Wardin swore. For four days, they’d been traveling at a punishing pace, compensating for the time lost to the circuitous, difficult paths they chose by taking the minimum of rest. They hadn’t stopped to gather herbs for Erietta’s wound; Wardin hadn’t even looked at it in two days.

  Tempting as it was to berate her—and himself—it would only waste time. Instead he met Arun’s eye. “Go and look for some crowliac.”

  With a brief nod, Arun hurried away. Until he returned, there was nothing more Wardin could do for Erietta. Instead he studied the scout’s anxious face. Unlike his deceased companion, the man had the look of an Eyrd.

  “What’s your name?” Wardin asked him.

  “Baelar.”

  “And were you conscripted into Tobin’s service, Baelar?”

  “I was.” He raised his chin. “I’m no coward, no matter what it looks like. But I’m not so fond of Harthian rule that I’m willing to die for it. I only answered the summons because I heard they kill the families of the ones who don’t. But if I don’t ever get back, they’ll think you killed me, and my family will be safe.”

  Wardin raised a brow. “What makes you think I won’t kill you?”

  “Well, you’d have done it already, if you didn’t think I might be useful.”

  “Not fond of Harthian rule, eh?” Wardin crossed his arms, a little ashamed of the thrill he felt at the words he was about to say. “How about the rule of your rightful prince?”

  By the time the man was convinced—with Erietta’s muted and sickly assurance—that Wardin was indeed the last Rath prince, Arun had returned with the crowliac. While Wardin tended to both her wound and the gash in his own hip, Baelar begged for mercy and promised his allegiance.

  “I know it doesn’t do much to recommend me, surrendering and deserting and all,” Baelar said. “But they’re Harths.”

  Wardin laughed. “That is the only justification you need.”

  “Particularly as one of those Harths is Tobin,” Erietta added with a scowl.

  “You’ll remain my prisoner until I’ve had the chance to ask you some questions,” Wardin said. “So expect a long walk with your hands bound today. You’re going to tell us everything you know about Tobin’s troops and his plans. And I’ll warn you now, there’s an inkwell, where we’re going, that won’t let you lie. So if you’re trying to fool us, you might as well save us all some time and let me kill you now.”

  The very idea of an enchanted inkwell seemed to confirm Baelar’s worst fears about magicians, and he stammered his assurances of loyalty in a quaking voice. Wardin hated to think of native Eyrds so far removed from magic that it was a tale told to frighten them.

  It was nearing midday. They’d expected to arrive at Pendralyn by dinner, and Erietta insisted on keeping as close to that plan as possible, despite the obvious fact that she needed rest. “It does me no good to have a festering wound out in the wilderness,” she pointed out. “The sooner we get back, the sooner I can be healed. I’ll keep to my feet, one way or another.”

  Nonetheless, they made much slower progress than they had the previous days. Before long, Erietta was forced to tolerate assistance, and Arun and Wardin took turns supporting her while the other walked with Baelar and questioned him.

  According to the scout, the company marching from Narinore was four hundred strong. An excessive show of force, it seemed to Wardin, for a simple matter of law enforcement. Apparently Tobin and his father were taking no chances. Even with the advantage of magic, thirty-odd magisters—most of whom had seen combat only on the practice yard—couldn’t hope to resist four hundred trained soldiers. Not if the enemy made it through the tunnel. It wasn’t so long ago that all the magisteries in Cairdarin had been dissolved with far less.

  All but one.

  Those other archmagisters had seen no choice but to surrender. Wardin did. He was certain Erietta would as well. They were the last of their kind, and they would find a way to fight.

  They arrived in Avadare well after dark, in a violent downpour that chilled Wardin to the bone despite the mild temperature. His hip ached where Baelar had gashed it. He yearned desperately for a fire and a mug of mead and the comforting presence of Rowena at his feet. Erietta stumbled as they walked through town, but she didn’t seem overly feverish, at least.

  Arun hurried back to the magistery with his sister and Baelar, but Wardin stayed behind at The Dark Dragon. His longed-for warmth and welcome would have to wait. There would be little rest for any of them, perhaps for some time.

  His stomach churned as he thought about how much time they’d lost that day—and how soon the enemy would be upon them, coming directly up the road as they w
ere. By Baelar’s estimate, they would arrive sometime the following morning.

  The village had no sheriff or mayor; Jasper had been the closest thing to an authority they had. A woman called Polly, who turned out to be his cousin, was managing the inn in his stead. Wardin only hoped she had as much influence.

  His throat was thick as he broke the news of Jasper’s death, wishing he had time to be gentle. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid the grief must wait. You need to gather as many as are willing to come, and bring them into the magistery. Tonight, if possible. Dawn, at latest. Be convincing. I don’t want anyone left outside, if we can help it.”

  Polly’s tearful eyes went wide. “They don’t allow villagers inside the magistery.”

  “They will now. It’s the safest place for all of you.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “The Harths are coming. Shortly. And I don’t expect much mercy when they get here.”

  21

  Bramwell

  Bramwell paced back and forth in front of the gnarled pine from which he’d hung his lantern, hands clasped behind his back as though delivering a lecture to the indifferent tree. The sounds of laughter and conversation carried across the camp, but as was often the case, he was happiest in solitude. Anyone Bramwell Lancet might have called friend was long dead.

  Their fires looked weak, sickly, as though they might be swallowed by the darkness. There was no starlight, no moonlight. Only thick clouds and damp and cold. His adept—his new one—foretold a harsh autumn, and a worse winter. All the more reason to conclude this business quickly, and return to more gentle, tamable land.

  Bramwell detested the mountains. The thin air. The wind. The many crannies for conniving Eyrds to hide in, always preferring an ambush to standing against their enemies like men. Over the course of two wars and several smaller incursions, he’d had enough of Eyrdon—and its stubborn people—to last him a lifetime.