Forsaken Kingdom (The Last Prince Book 1)

by J. R. Rasmussen

  The king found a small smile for his son. “Where is Wardin, then?”

  “Wardin?” The self-satisfaction fled Tobin’s face. Possibly through his gaping mouth. “Well, I don’t really—”

  “Please don’t tell me someone killed him. I was very clear that I wanted him taken alive. I shall … but no.” Bramwell’s thoughts seemed to stutter as images flickered through his mind. Wardin’s muddy cheek. The boy’s panicked eyes when he understood he was about to die. “Did I kill him?”

  “No, Father.” Tobin scratched his temple. “As far as I know, Wardin is still alive.”

  Something wasn’t right. Why on earth had Tobin been smiling when he came in? Clearly their victory had not been absolute. “What do you mean, as far as you know? Where is he?”

  Tobin swallowed and looked over his shoulder, as if for assistance. Bramwell narrowed his eyes at his son, and finding no immediate answer there, struggled again to recall what had happened.

  The thrill of triumph, the taste of Wardin’s fear.

  And then a sound, some sound. One that didn’t belong.

  “A horn. Why did I hear a horn?”

  Tobin shook his head. “I didn’t hear any horn. I was, er, on the other side of the field from you.”

  Bramwell snorted. “More likely you were cowering in the caves the whole time.”

  “It was the caves that saved us, in the end. Them and a bit of quick thinking on my part. After the Eyrds turned on us—”

  “They what?” Bramwell did sit up this time, though it cost him dearly. Scalding heat ripped through his eyes, his temples, his neck. Even his jaw hurt. He fought another wave of nausea and glared at his son.

  Tobin opened his mouth, then closed it again without a word. But there was no need for him to answer. It was all coming back now.

  Those blasted Eyrds. Cowards. Deserters. But they’d found their courage in the end, it seemed.

  Found it for the boy.

  The horn had awakened Bramwell from the eclipse of his rage as if from a dream, and he found his own men—Eyrds, all of them—casting off their cloaks and turning on him. Perhaps it was his own fault, for losing control. How many of them had he killed, before they decided their chances of survival were better fighting against him than for him?

  But it wasn’t the Eyrds who got the better of him, in the end, nor Wardin and his magicians. There was something else. Rumbling and crashing. Chaos. A heavy blow from … above.

  “Rocks?” He tilted his head at Tobin. “A landslide?”

  “That’s what I was about to tell you.” Tobin’s confident smile returned, though it was a bit more subdued. His eyes still betrayed the fear Bramwell despised in him. Always worried for his own skin. He was weak, like his mother. Like Bramwell’s father. “When the Eyrds turned on us, the tide turned with them. And they had all that magic. I could see how it was going to go. So I commanded a distraction to cover our retreat.”

  Our retreat. Had the fool really come in here smiling over a retreat? Bramwell ground his teeth. “What distraction?”

  “Walter. He cast a spell that made the earth tremble until the tunnel we’d been digging collapsed. The whole mountain shifted.” Tobin laughed, heartily, falsely. “I was the tiniest bit afraid for a moment, I’ll admit. Seemed like it might get out of hand. Boulders rolling, rocks and dirt flying everywhere, the ground shaking. We lost a few of our own, and then you took a hit to the head. Gave us all quite a scare. But everything was chaos by then, and those magicians weren’t paying any attention to us anymore. Made it easy enough to get you away.”

  “Am I to understand,” Bramwell asked slowly, “that the boy and his pack of delinquents saw the King of Harth being carried away? That you ran from them?”

  Tobin blinked at him. This was clearly not the reaction he’d expected. Had he honestly thought his father would praise him for this? “But … well … we weren’t really running from him. Everyone was running. From the rocks, you see … it … Walter cast a spell.”

  “So you’ve said. I take it the boy wasn’t fool enough to give chase?”

  “Chase? No, of course not. He wouldn’t dare pursue us.”

  Bramwell was not at all certain of that. He’d seen the look on the boy’s face, the thirst for victory. And something more: hatred, not for Harth, but for its king. Such personal animosity made a measured response difficult. Especially at twenty. However ill-advised the instinct might be, Wardin must have had some urge to follow, when he saw his enemy flee the field.

  Yet he hadn’t. He’d passed the test. Bramwell had to admit a grudging respect. He had once faced that same choice, at that same age. And failed. In a red fury he could no more control than he could harness the stars, he pursued a retreating enemy far from the battlefield, leaving his father the king vulnerable. It was his first taste of defeat, a devastating lesson in the consequences of being ruled by one’s passions.

  The infamous Lancet temper. The cost had been high then. And it had been high today. He was too emotional when it came to the boy.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Tobin shift from one foot to the other, reminding him that he was not alone. Bram turned back to his son, giving rise to another flare of pain in the back of his head. “Have you anything else to say?”

  “Unh.” Half word, half cough, a nervous, almost feminine sound that set Bramwell’s teeth on edge. “Father, surely you can see that we had no choice but to retreat? Especially once you were wounded.”

  “Which I would not have been, had you not decided to collapse a mountain on top of our own men.”

  Tobin’s eyes slid away. “Dissolving one magistery isn’t worth risking the life of our king. We’ll come back, we’ll—”

  “Will we, now? And when will that be, Tobin? Autumn is already underway. Would you have us raise an army and march it into the mountains, just in time to bury it in snow?”

  “No, I suppose not. But we can be patient.”

  Bramwell raised a brow. “Can we?”

  “Time is on our side. They can’t resist us forever.” Tobin squared his shoulders and set his jaw, perhaps in imitation of his father. It didn’t suit his bulging lips. “You’ll have his head on your gate, Father, I promise. Even if I have to cut it off myself.”

  Bramwell scoffed. “How brave of you. Now leave me. Before I do something you’ll regret.”

  Never one to keep himself in harm’s way, Tobin scurried from the tent. Bramwell lay in silence, staring at the canvas above him, breathing slowly, struggling for calm.

  Had he not just cautioned himself to keep a cooler head? Venting his wrath at Tobin or whatever poor fool came in here next might be satisfying, but it wasn’t useful. His temper would not serve him now. Particularly not when the pounding pulse in his ears and the tension in his neck made an already excruciating headache that much worse.

  But the rage would not subside. The situation was beyond enduring. He could count on one hand the number of battles he’d lost in his lifetime. Now he’d lost to that boy. To a trick.

  An absurd trick, at that. Graddoc. Honestly. It was a child’s prank, the sort of joke Bram’s Ladimore cousins would have played on Haunts’ Eve, or on a dark winter’s night to scare little Calla. And Bramwell had been routed by it.

  But then, he hadn’t really lost a battle. Because it hadn’t been a proper battle at all. Nor a proper siege. He’d brought no army, and limited provisions and equipment. Just a single company of men to surround a small band of criminals, and await their surrender. He had come to Eyrdon for a dissolution, not a war.

  It was not a mistake he would make again. If it was a war the boy wanted, a war he would have. Bramwell would crush that magistery to dust, and bring the mountains down around it. Perhaps every mountain in Eyrdon, while he was at it, until there was nothing left in this cursed land but rubble and bones and half-forgotten tales of what had once been.

  Not right away, though. Not at this time of year. It would have to wait until spring, and that was assumi
ng Iver of Dordrin didn’t assert himself as the greater problem first. Even if he didn’t, Dordrin was a threat they must keep ready to face. And readiness was costly.

  If Bramwell was to fight another war in Eyrdon, he would almost certainly have to levy a new tax to pay for it. His council and his barons would be incensed. He could deal with them, of course, and with the outcry of the people. But it would be a blasted nuisance.

  And all the while, Wardin would be warm by his fire, drinking his revolting mead, gloating over his victory. Thinking himself a fine warrior, a true Rath, a true Ladimore. Thinking himself clever too, no doubt, for how he’d done it. Laughing at his memories of Bramwell’s soldiers scattering like frightened mice before the specter of Graddoc.

  Laughing at Bramwell himself. Just as the boy’s grandfather had once laughed at Bram’s father.

  Beyond enduring, indeed.

  So don’t endure it. You are the king. You needn’t ever tolerate the intolerable.

  It was true. By degrees, the knot in Bramwell’s neck began to loosen. He was looking at this entirely the wrong way. There was no reason to allow the boy such a reprieve. Quite the opposite.

  At last his breathing steadied, and his pulse stopped hammering so painfully through his head. He could use this interlude to his advantage.

  If they were to spend the winter waiting, Bram could make sure that Wardin did so with dread.

  28

  Wardin

  Wardin sat on his favorite rock by the waterfall, reveling in the crisp breeze and the yeasty scent of greymoss, and contemplating his challenges—those he’d somehow made it past, and those he knew were to come.

  Unlikely as it was, he’d won a victory over Bramwell Lancet. The last magistery was saved—for the moment, at least. They’d run the enemy off. Magic lived on, its survival once again assured by a Rath.

  But that enemy would return. And Wardin did not fool himself that it would be in such small numbers again.

  Pendralyn must be protected permanently. The best way to do that was to insulate it inside a sovereign kingdom, independent of Harthian rule and interference. Wardin would get his wish: it was time to retake Eyrdon.

  Perhaps he should have given chase. Bramwell had been wounded. If they’d gone after the king, caught him, killed him, the impending war would have ended before it began. Instead they’d put out the fires, cleared the rubble, tended to their wounded, and buried their dead.

  There were far too many of the latter. Of the hundred and fifty who’d come out of the magistery to fight, more than twenty days ago now, over thirty had died. Most had met their end during the battle. Some were lost days later, after suffering at length from wounds too serious for the healers to mend. Bartley had been one of those.

  The contriver had looked so small and helpless in death, lying on a cot in the makeshift infirmary they’d set up in the old hall. Somehow it made it worse, that Wardin had detested the man. They’d never passed a kind word, yet Bartley had died because of him. The knowledge was like a hole in Wardin’s chest that kept it from filling with air. He had led them. And some of them had died.

  He’d best get used to it. More would do the same, before this was over.

  He knew it could have been a great deal worse. The battle had gone almost exactly as intended. The vast majority of their enemies fled rather than fought, and there was remarkably little bloodshed, all things considered. Until Bramwell’s sage brought the mountain down on them all, friend and foe alike. Nearly half their losses were suffered in those last few minutes.

  “Sitting here second-guessing yourself again?” Erietta plopped down beside him, bringing the familiar scent of sweetnettle soap to mingle with the greymoss. She handed him a honey cake before biting into one of her own.

  Whatever his problems and pressures, it was good to be home. “Yes, actually. Do you think we should have—”

  “Pursued a retreating but still formidable enemy across the mountains, while Avadare burned and our wounded lay on the ground suffering? While many of us were dangerously unbalanced from all the impossibly intense magic we’d just done? While you were in fact bleeding from the many places where the king’s sword, and then several rocks, had just cut into you?”

  Evidently, Erietta had most of this conversation memorized. Wardin could hardly blame her, given how many times they’d had it now. “Yes,” he said through a mouthful of cake. “That.”

  She snorted. “No. Now if you’re done brooding, I didn’t come here just to eat cake with you. You’re needed at The Dark Dragon.”

  “Oh?”

  “Quinn and Baelar are back.”

  Wardin’s mouth went dry, making it difficult to swallow his cake. Quinn, a thick, gravel-voiced soldier, was the appointed leader of the men who’d turned their cloaks at the end. Changing sides had been an impetuous decision, made in the heat of battle. Although they knew they could never take it back, they nonetheless required some time to consider their loyalties and their futures.

  “They saw you, risking everything to fight for them, even while they were fighting against you,” Quinn had told Wardin after the battle. “That’s why they did what they did. But a lot of them have families to consider. Families they’ll want to go check on now. And a lot of them weren’t so keen on being soldiers in the first place. They’ll need time to think about whether they want to stay rebels, and go to war, or just stay out of it.”

  Wardin had agreed to give them that time, and although a few had stayed behind in the village, having no place else to go, most had scattered.

  He’d also released the Eyrds they’d taken prisoner at the inn, after they swore an oath that they would never again take up arms against him. He remembered what his uncle had told him, that battles were often decided by devotion rather than might. Wardin would neither conscript nor hire soldiers, if he could help it.

  For his part, Quinn had agreed to represent Tobin’s Eyrdish soldiers, not only the turncloaks, but as many of those who’d fled as he could find. Baelar had gone to join him in seeking them out.

  “I’ll either come back with the start of your army, or with bad news,” Quinn had said to Wardin when they parted ways.

  Now, it seemed, the soldier had one or the other. Heart hammering, Wardin stood, then offered a hand to help Erietta up. “Let’s go find out which it is. You might as well come with me, so we can discuss them seeking sanctuary here, if it comes up.”

  “You look nervous.”

  “I am nervous.”

  She squeezed his arm as they started across the grounds. “Of course you are, but you know better than to look it.”

  “I won’t, when we get there.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about. They can’t possibly do anything but join you. You saw them on the field. You inspired them.” Erietta gave him a teasing smile. “With your fighting, at least, if not your eloquence.”

  Wardin grimaced, still not quite over the sting of his failure to give a rousing address when needed. He feared he might never be very princely. “The horn inspired them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There you go with the horn again. It was you charging to their defense that rallied them. Not some phantom horn.”

  The horn remained a mystery. Wardin had assumed one of the contrivers was responsible for conjuring the sound. Nobody in Cairdarin had used battle horns for many years, though Baden had revived the old tradition when he was king.

  But Erietta denied casting any such spell, as did the others. None of them could even recall hearing a horn. She seemed to suspect he’d imagined it. Perhaps he had.

  Helena was in the field near the gate, ostensibly doing training exercises with several puppies, although the dogs seemed to be doing more frolicking than learning. Wardin nodded ahead at them and smiled. “It’s a shame ours are otherwise occupied. Polly always saves some scraps for Rowena.”

  “As well she should,” Erietta said with a chuckle. “Rowena is a war hero.”

  Rowena had, in fact, torn out
the throat of a Hart who was attacking Polly’s sixteen-year-old brother, forever cementing her place in the hearts of the villagers, and most especially the new proprietor of The Dark Dragon. But the hound would have to forego their adoration today; she and Hawthorn had gone into the mountains with Arun, searching for herbs to replace some of the stores they’d depleted.

  Wardin and Erietta returned the kennel mistress’s exuberant greeting, though there was no time to chat—or to play with the dogs, much to Wardin’s regret. He watched them rolling over one another in the grass, while he held open the gate for Erietta. At least no blackhounds had been lost in the fight.

  When they were inside the tunnel and out of Helena’s hearing, Erietta arched a brow at him. “Rowena isn’t the only one benefiting from her hero status, I see.”

  Wardin scowled as he paused to pick up a lantern. “Meaning what?”

  “Helena looked awfully disappointed when you kept walking. Arun won’t like this.”

  “There is no this for Arun to disapprove of.” He tugged at his ear, which felt suddenly hot. “Come on, let’s not keep Quinn waiting.”

  “Let’s not keep you waiting for news, you mean.” She gestured forward. “Lead the way, you’ve got the light.”

  Securing the Dragon first had spared the inn much of the battle, but the tremors and the landslide had caused a collapse on the south side. A canvas curtain hung between the common room and the corridor that led to that part of the building, and a film of dust seemed to have settled over everything.

  Quinn and Baelar sat at a table with a pitcher of mead and a platter of roast fowl and tarragon dumplings, the smell of which reminded Wardin that he’d eaten nothing but Erietta’s offered honey cake since breakfast. But he didn’t think his churning stomach could tolerate so much as a bite.

  “Shall we call for more mead?” Quinn asked, when greetings had been exchanged.