Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  He was Draven’s son, not Lional’s. He was no hero. He was no king. What was he doing here? What were they? Why were they following him?

  Because you insisted, you fool. Because you made them believe you were the man they needed.

  But he wasn’t. He was barely a man at all. He’d acted like a child that day in the old hall, playing at being king. Because he’d thought himself brave enough.

  And he was, for his own part. He wasn’t afraid of Bramwell. He would gladly rush out there right that moment and run headlong into his enemy, sword at the ready. He wasn’t afraid to die.

  But their deaths were another matter entirely. Their deaths were terrifying. Their deaths were crippling.

  It doesn’t matter. None of it does. It doesn’t matter that you regretted convincing them to follow you the instant you did it. It doesn’t even matter that you can’t do this now. You must.

  Say something.

  Finally, Wardin Rath, rightful heir of Eyrdon, last of Eyrdri’s own chosen, opened his mouth and spoke.

  “Right. You all know what you’re to do, then. Let’s go and … do it.”

  25

  Erietta

  The tunnel was full of the sounds and smells of dread: shuffling feet, shallow breathing, sweat. Someone might even have been sick.

  The people packed in there, waiting to ascend to The Dark Dragon, had good reason to be afraid. They weren’t soldiers. Most of them weren’t even magicians, but villagers forced by circumstance into a magician’s fight. They knew there was little hope that they could get the better of Bramwell Lancet, who had so rarely lost a battle in his long years as a prince and then a king.

  Erietta felt sorry for them. Not because she was any less anxious, but because her own suspense would end soon enough. She would be the first up that ladder. Surely anxiety would give way to something else, when anticipation at last gave way to action. Bloodlust, perhaps. Or vengefulness. Or pain.

  Most of the others would stay behind for the moment, still stewing in their apprehension. It was up to her, along with Wardin and Arun, to secure the tunnel door and the storage room beyond. Then their respective crews would ascend behind them, and Wardin’s plan would begin to unfold in earnest.

  Just the night before, Wardin had teased Erietta that her worry over that plan was owed mainly to her not being the one to come up with it. She had to admit there was some truth to the joke. Pendralyn was her responsibility, and she disliked not being in control.

  But she was out of her depth when it came to a true military operation. And no matter how small the numbers they were dealing with, that was what this was. The magistery was under siege. It would take a warrior to save it, not a contriver.

  Besides, Wardin didn’t need her to strategize for him. His plan was a sound one. And a clever one, taking full advantage of their assets to offset their lack of numbers and experience. She had every confidence that he would make an excellent commander.

  Erietta’s guilt that she’d so sorely misjudged him—and embarrassment that she’d been such a shrew because of it—was outweighed by the sheer joy of having been wrong. She had more than just her friend back. She had someone who could help her save the magistery. Perhaps even someone who could return Eyrdon to what it once was. Wardin was the prince they needed.

  Or he would be, once he learned to give a speech.

  At last, Bartley gave her the signal, indicating that those who’d been preparing a cloaking spell were ready to release it. Their collective power would help Erietta go unnoticed for as long as she was within their range, freeing her to focus on other spells.

  She nodded, first at Bartley, then at Arun, and finally at Wardin. The latter’s eyes were hard, his chin set, his face the very picture of calm determination. But he was fidgeting with the links of his hauberk. He was every bit as afraid as she was. The smile she offered him before turning away was no doubt too wobbly to be of much help.

  Willing her limbs to be still, lest the rope ladder become unstable with her trembling, Erietta began to climb. She didn’t know how many she would face at the top. As far as the magisters knew, the Harths didn’t know which room in the inn hid the entrance to Pendralyn. There might be nobody in that storage room; there might be as many men as could fit inside. She needed to be prepared for either, or anything in between.

  A shiver ran through her, not of fear this time but of cold. The spell they were weaving around her was similar to the one Jasper had used to make those entering Pendralyn less noticeable to his patrons at the inn. As long as Erietta stayed quiet and kept to the periphery, she would be safe from detection.

  And by the time she was in front of them, it would be too late. The thought of Jasper strengthened her resolve. His was the most recent in a long line of losses. Her father had died in the last war. Her grandmother, a respected sage, had been murdered during the dissolution.

  Yes, of course, it was crucial that they save the last magistery. But the Harths weren’t just threatening magic. They were threatening her and her own.

  And they’d been doing it long enough.

  She reached the top at last. Below, Arun and Wardin were preparing to climb up after her. She felt the shield Wardin was casting, encircling her in those invisible blades he was so fond of.

  Erietta prepared a spell of her own, a particularly challenging one she’d begun learning when the siege began. She’d had defense in mind at the time, but it would suit her first purpose perfectly: before dealing with any enemies, she must seal the room. She envisioned a barrier of ice, thick and impenetrable.

  When she was ready, she pressed her palm against the square door and gave it a gentle push. With the swish of the sacks sliding off, it began to open, spilling light into the tunnel.

  Silent as only a contriver could be, she eased herself upward, excruciatingly slowly so the door wouldn’t creak. Judging by the chatter above, there were several men in the room. At least four different voices, that Erietta could isolate, and probably more.

  But between the barrels above and the contrivers below, nobody would be able to see her unless they happened to be staring directly at the spot where the door was. If that were the case, surely their swords would already be testing Wardin’s shield. No challenge came.

  As her eyes rose above floor level, she saw a broad back immediately in front of her, a soldier sitting on a barrel. By either instinct or training, he was keeping his back to the wall. It wouldn’t serve him today.

  Harth or Eyrd?

  She couldn’t tell. Wardin wanted the minimum of Eyrdish blood spilled, and on that Erietta agreed with him.

  By the time she had her shoulders out the trap door, she could see the soldier’s unhelmeted head—and the dark brown, wavy hair that topped it. It wasn’t a certain test, of course, but the Harths tended toward fair hair. She wouldn’t kill this one if she could help it.

  When she had a wider view of the room, she saw several more bodies, sitting on barrels or leaning against the wall, chatting or throwing dice. Praying the cloaking spell and the general clutter would keep her from their notice a bit longer, Erietta released her sealing spell, sending her invisible, imagined ice creeping over the walls. It spread and thickened, filled in every crack, froze the door shut.

  Whatever happened in this room now, nobody outside that door would hear it.

  She slithered out the trap door, landing on her belly, and lay still while she prepared her next spell. Darkness gathered in her mind. When it reached its peak, she sprang to her feet and released it, casting in rapid bursts, blinding each soldier in turn.

  Three, five, seven, eight in total. It was the work of moments. Their questions turned to cries as the affliction spread. The last one was looking wildly around for the source of the spell by the time Erietta hit him with it. His eyes locked with hers, too late, in the instant before they clouded over.

  The room filled with confusion as the men tripped and stumbled and groped about. Most were wise enough to still their weapons.
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  One of them fell over a barrel and landed directly in front of Erietta. His red-gold hair was the same shade as Tobin’s. She pushed a dagger through his throat without hesitation.

  Arun and Wardin were at her side now. They drew their own daggers, there not being enough space for swordplay. The small room was so crowded, there was barely room to swing any weapon at all. But the blades were necessary; the soldiers were regaining their sight.

  Protected by his shield, Wardin killed two obvious Harths. He kept the remaining five men—all of whom might be Eyrds, by their looks—busy while Arun and Erietta went about neutralizing them.

  Within seconds, two of the men stepped away from Wardin, and turned instead to one another.

  “Did you see that rabbit?” one asked.

  The other nodded. “It went down the ladder. I wonder why it didn’t fly?”

  Two others, blinded anew by Erietta, argued that the rabbit couldn’t fly, because it was far too dark for flying.

  Wardin stopped fighting, while Arun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and snickered as he continued his spell.

  “It’s not a question of how it got down there,” the fifth soldier said. “The main thing is, we’ve got to follow it.”

  “Do you think it’ll lead us to the treasure, then?” This was the first one again.

  “Of course it will. What else has it got to do? The weather’s not very nice.”

  Erietta laughed and withdrew her own spell, making sure all five soldiers could see well enough to chase their imaginary rabbit down into the tunnel. Those below would take them one by one, as they descended the ladder, and bind them as prisoners.

  “Why is it always rabbits with you?” Wardin asked with a grin.

  Arun shrugged as he straightened up. “I find them amusing.”

  “Sorry to be the taskmistress,” Erietta said, “but we are sort of in the middle of a battle.”

  There was no time to dally or gloat. Those first eight had been dealt with easily enough, but there were four hundred more outside. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed that the storage room had gone suspiciously quiet, or tried to push the swinging door and found it stuck.

  Arun offered his sister a jaunty bow before turning to Wardin. “Shall I give the signal, then?”

  “No. Let’s test it first, just us three.” Wardin’s face had returned to its previously grim state, his jaw so tense that Erietta thought he must be giving himself a headache. Perhaps she should have let him smile a bit longer. She understood the terror hidden behind that stoic exterior; they were about to find out whether the day held any hope for them.

  She squeezed his hand as he and Arun came to stand on either side of her, forming a line in front of the kitchen door. But she could find no words of encouragement. None that he would believe, anyway. The best thing to do for him, for all of them, was just to get on with it, and see.

  Arun closed his eyes and prepared his spell. Erietta did the same. The stillness beside her told her that Wardin was readying his own, though his would be the last link in their chain.

  After a few moments, they all opened their eyes, and the power they’d amassed swelled within the room, circling around them like a flock of agitated birds. It was more energy than Erietta had ever felt pent up in one place, even on the practice yard. They wouldn’t be able to hold it for long.

  Nor did they want to. She melted the door’s seal, and extended her frozen barrier outward; until they took the inn, she would have to spare the energy to maintain their secrecy. They stepped through into the kitchen.

  There were eight more soldiers there. Erietta watched as their startled faces went vacant, then knotted in confusion. Several of them started arguing about rabbits and pies.

  She really ought to encourage Arun to branch out. The rabbits would lose their novelty long before the day was over. Always assuming, of course, that they survived that long.

  These thoughts came without fear, as she awaited her own moment to release her spell. She’d been right, in the tunnel: the anticipation was the worst of it. Now that she was leaving it behind, she could do the same with the dread and worry. All that was left was to act.

  Now.

  Erietta was indifferent to the fates of the Harths. She would not weep for their deaths while they stood as conquerors on soil they had no right to. So it made little difference to her whether they fled this battle, or stayed to be killed. Her only concern was sending Tobin’s Eyrds running, and making certain they would not stop until they no longer posed a threat, and were no longer in danger themselves. To that end, she’d chosen the trick she would use this day with great care. Distasteful though casting it might be.

  All Eyrds feared the dead.

  They were less than a day’s march from Sarn Graddoc, the fabled ancient shrine to the necromancer deity who, long ago when the deities still walked freely in Cairdarin, had tried to steal Eyrdri away from her brothers. As the story went, he tempted a horde of his followers to dark magic, and they raised an army of the dead to help him abduct his prize.

  A myth, most likely, but it had taken root across these mountains. All Eyrds feared the dead.

  With a deep breath, gathering all the energy she’d been holding back, Erietta took her mind to the blackest, most horrible place she could. Then she raised her arms in front of her, and released her spell.

  As if streaming from her fingertips, ghost after ghost rushed outward: pale skeletons, walking corpses, bloody shrieking women, bloated drowned men. All manner of the dead—an army of the dead—stalked toward her enemies.

  And at their head, Graddoc himself. Taller than any man, formed entirely of bone and blood and shadow, he carried his great axe in one hand, and his customary lantern in the other—a lantern that would steal light rather than give it. As a final touch, Erietta added the smells of brimstone and rot, emanating from him in a putrid cloud.

  Graddoc opened his mouth and released a booming laugh, a loathsome, sickening sound that chilled even her.

  Already confused, the soldiers were no match for the apparitions in front of them. Many of them dropped their weapons to clap their hands over their ears. Eyes bulging, mouths twisted, they fell back.

  And then, to seal the matter, Wardin released his fear spell.

  The soldiers were gone almost instantly, leaving only screams in their wake.

  Erietta grinned, her heart light with relief. They’d done it.

  Wardin’s face remained sober—she thought he might be a bit stunned—but Arun’s was lit with delight, as though he’d just watched a drama played after dinner in the keep. With a wink at her, he stepped back into the storage room and whistled: one long burst, followed by two short.

  But the three of them didn’t wait for their reinforcements to arrive. Returning their focus to their spells, they made their way out to the common room, sending soldiers fleeing as they went. The very few who resisted fell beneath Wardin’s sword.

  The room was cleared within minutes. So far, Erietta’s icy seal had kept the uproar to a minimum; nobody was rushing in from outside or from other parts of the inn yet. But with all the soldiers they’d just sent running through the front door, that would change soon enough.

  Excited bays burst out around them, along with the clicking and scrabbling of canine nails on the floor. In the next moment, Hawthorn was slobbering all over Erietta’s hand. She bent to greet him, letting his welcome energy flow into her, while the other blackhounds, contrivers, sages, and battlemages who’d been chosen to weave the illusion came in, mingling with the phantom dead still dissipating into the air.

  “I take it it’s going well,” Bartley said with a smirk. “Wish I’d seen the looks on their faces.”

  “You’ll be seeing plenty of them, before the day is done,” Erietta said.

  “Gather round!” Wardin waited a moment while the new arrivals did just that. He looked much more in his element now, chin high, voice ringing with assurance. Rowena was at his side, as regal a
nd proud as if she herself were in command. “We take the inn first. Spread out and prepare your spells. Clear every room. Fasten all doors but the front. Erietta, Arun, and I will take the second floor.”

  Erietta’s pulse sped up as they climbed the stairs. Here was the moment she’d been waiting for all morning. She thought there was a good chance the Harthian royals had made the inn their center of command. They might be up there even now, oblivious to what was happening below, thanks to her barrier.

  They were not. Those who were—Eyrd and Harth alike—were easily sent running, tripping down the stairs, trampling one another to get away from Graddoc and his fearsome army. Erietta barely noticed their stricken faces. Not for any longer than it took to confirm they were not Tobin’s, and dismiss them.

  But she unclenched her teeth, and reined in her impatience. It didn’t matter. The prince was here somewhere, in the streets of Avadare, or in the hills around the village. She would find him, and she would have her revenge. The first ghost she sent shrieking at him would be Jasper’s.

  When they got back downstairs, they found the first floor empty of enemies—apart from the dead ones—and all doors but the front magically fastened, as Wardin had instructed. They’d been luckier than any of them had dared to hope; there wasn’t so much as a wound among them yet.

  And Wardin’s plan was working, at least so far. Erietta paused to lean against the wall, already tiring a bit. Creating such horrors, and so many of them, was no ordinary trick.

  Doing it all over Avadare, affecting hundreds, sustaining it even in her absence, would depend entirely on the tainted water. The potion must ensure that the minds of their victims were particularly susceptible to this onslaught.

  And even then it would be a fool’s tactic, if not for the sage and battlemage at her side. Their foes would discover soon enough that the dead, however much they might rage and slash and claw, could not actually hurt them. It was up to Arun to keep the men confused, and Wardin to ensure that they fled, before they decided it was safe to ignore the specters entirely.