Lesser Prince (Guardians of Gaeland Book 1)

by Jamie McFarlane

  LESSER PRINCE

  JAMIE McFARLANE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover Artwork: Patricia Leonardo Cavalieri

  Copyright © 2014 Jamie McFarlane

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  LESSER PRINCE

  Contents

  Blackhall Manor

  Heir

  Elendahl Ranch

  The Invitation

  Hunting Party

  Reprieve

  Headed East

  This Will Pinch a Little

  A Good View

  Faire

  Home Coming

  Dark Gathering

  Family Ties

  Construction

  Masquerade Ball

  The Crux

  T Minus 20

  The Edge of Reason

  A Kingdom Divided

  The Glade

  Rescue Party

  Winter's Bite

  Elves of the Glade

  A Wizard Revealed

  A Hard Decision

  Filbert

  Three's a Crowd

  A Suitable Defense

  Gnome Again

  Old Friends and New

  Tit for Tat

  To Gestal

  Glavious Shoth

  Lessons in History

  Hatching a Plan

  Answers and More Questions

  From Bad to Worse

  Embracing Destiny

  A Full Circle

  War

  Where the Heart Is

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Blackhall Manor

  Oregon

  Finias glared at his older brother. “The House of Blackhall is withering. How long will you stand by and watch it turn to ruin?” He paused to catch his breath, “I’m finished - I won't put up with it any longer. I finally understand that it’s up to me to restore the greatness of our name."

  "Fin, what are you talking about?” Gregor Blackhall returned his brother’s stare.

  "I found one, Gregor, and I can bring it here," Finias replied quietly. “Grandfather was right.”

  "What do you think you’ve found? That old man went mad because of his obsession with legends and lore. Elves, demons, and faerie magic, indeed! You sound as crazy as he did.”

  “You dismiss grandfather too easily. He was a great man and those legends are our legacy. You'd have done well to pay attention. Come with me and I’ll give you the proof you need.”

  Uncomfortable moments passed. Gregor considered his brother’s words, wondering if Finias had completely lost touch with reality. Finias had been wild-eyed when arguing, but once he said his piece, he actually looked pleased with himself. There was no sign of madness there. Finally making up his mind, Gregor uttered a barely audible, “Show me."

  Gregor followed his brother out of the library to the back hallway, which joined the west and east wings of the crumbling Blackhall Manor. Walking the length of the corridor, the brothers passed through an arched opening and stepped onto the landing of a circular stone stairway that descended into blackness. Gregor searched for the light switch, but Finias strode to the opposite side of the landing and took a flashlight from a cupboard.

  "Lights don’t work down here," Finias explained. It had been a long time since Gregor last ventured into the cellar of Blackhall Manor. As kids, they dared each other to see who could descend the furthest without light. Neither had ever gone past the next landing, some fifteen feet below. Gregor suppressed a shudder in an attempt to shed those childhood fears.

  A wide stone hallway came into view as Finias directed the light ahead. Rough-hewn doors, hanging on rusty hinges, were randomly spaced on either side. The near end of the passageway was clogged with discarded boxes and random junk. As they pressed past the debris, the junk gave way to a thick covering of dust, mold, and other unidentified stains. Thankfully, the center of the passageway had seen more traffic lately and provided a slightly cleaner place to step.

  "Where are we going?" Gregor demanded.

  "We're here." Finias stopped in front of a massive pair of doors, handed Gregor the flashlight, and drew a bronze key from his pocket. The key turned easily and the heavy lock made a satisfying clunking sound as it operated.

  They walked onto a platform looking over a grand room, considerably larger than Gregor expected. Stone stairs curved downward along the gentle arc of the wall on both sides. The room was thirty feet high with walls running forty feet on each side. Sconces shaped like eagle’s talons and holding ornate silver oil torches reached out from the walls. The flickering torch-light added to the horror Gregor felt as his eyes were drawn to the center of the room where a lone, hooded, human figure stood. Thick iron chains bound the person's wrists and dropped to the floor where they were anchored to a heavy ring.

  “Finias! Who is that? Are you crazy?” Gregor cried out with a high-pitched squeak.

  His brother, unperturbed, closed and locked the doors behind them. Gregor’s face tightened in anger. “Open that door at once, Finias! You’ve finally gone too far. Father will not overlook this.”

  The mention of their father brought a wicked grin to Finias’ face. “No, I don’t suppose he will.” Reaching for Gregor's arm, Finias said soothingly, “Let’s not squabble on the stairs. We should go down and visit with our guest."

  The chained man stood in the center of an elaborate pattern drawn on the floor. Around him was the outline of an equilateral triangle. Outside the lines were three ornate circles, one touching each vertex. Dread gave way to panic as Gregor realized the man was his father.

  Gregor turned toward his brother. "Stop. Finias, what are you planning?”

  “Why Gregor, we just spoke of this,” Finias sneered. “Blackhall must be restored.”

  “No. There has to be another way.”

  “I'm sorry, brother, but the time for talking is over. Actions will restore Blackhall, not words. Come, take your place and claim your heritage." Finias gave him a final push into one of the ornately drawn circles.

  Gregor's mind reeled with confusion. Could his brother truly have found a way to reverse the humiliation they’d suffered for so long? Could old legends spun by a rambling madman restore their fortune? The dark mistress of greed overtook reason and he allowed himself to be directed into place.

  "Lyka, Kestra, join us please," Finias said to the shadows.

  Movement across the room caught Gregor's attention. In a small sitting area tucked under the balcony, two figures rose from dark leather chairs and approached. Gregor recognized one of the two - Lyka Parnassus, a college friend of Finias’s. The woman, Kestra, he didn’t know. Lyka circled the strange gathering and took his place within the circle at the top of the triangle. Kestra stood just outside of Gregor's circle, well away from the lines of the triangle. Finias reached in carefully to yank the hood from his father’s head. Gregor forced himself to look at the elder Blackhall, whose face was turned toward Gregor, eyes vacant and body
slowly swaying.

  "Gregor, at no time should you step outside of the circle in which you stand," Finias directed. "You would endanger us all and most certainly forfeit your life." He stepped toward his brother and handed him a heavy, perfectly round, nectarine-sized stone. Pitch-black was the only way to describe its color. It had an unnatural heat to it, like it had been sitting in a warm bath.

  Finias moved to a nearby table and picked up a wooden staff with a very long, shiny knife blade protruding from one end. The firelight from the wall sconces danced on the highly polished blade, illuminating etched symbols on the metallic surface. Finally, Finias stepped into the remaining open circle.

  “Finias, what are you going to do with that?”

  Ignoring Gregor, Finias reaffirmed his previous directions, “DO NOT step outside of the circle.”

  Gregor heard his brother chanting. Though vaguely familiar, he couldn’t understand the words. A few moments later, tendrils of fire snaked between each of the perimeter circles, rising up from the lines of the triangle, linking them together. Finias's chanting continued and the flaming tethers grew in size until they were several inches wide - orange and blue flames rising three feet off the ground, burning with no apparent source of fuel.

  Finias's voice rose as he thrust his hands forward, spinning the weapon effortlessly through the air, finally bringing it to a stop, resting on his right shoulder. At the sound of the slicing blade, their father groaned and whimpered. The flames moved forward, extending like fingers and pointing at the chained figure in the center. Ghostly shapes rose from the floor and moved within the triangle. They bounced frantically against the walls of flame, searching for a weakness that would allow them to escape. In the midst of this chaos, Finias raised the long weapon over his head, the blade glowing bright white. Without further warning, he brought the blade down.

  Gregor could take no more. Without so much as a gurgle, he collapsed, unconscious. When he finally came to, Gregor had no idea how long he had been out. Opening his eyes, the white outline of the circle still surrounded him, flames dancing all around. The basement room and its occupants slowly came back into focus.

  "Sit up carefully, or you may well kill us all,” a woman’s voice hissed. Kestra’s eyes bore into his own. Dark tattoos which started as thin points on the outside edge of her eyes, extended along her cheek and neck, joining more complex tattoos that disappeared beneath her shirt. The outlines of the tattoos glowed. Gregor sat up, shaking his head to clear his vision. No one else had left their position and they all stared at him.

  "Good to have you back among the living," Finias offered sardonically.

  Remembering the ritual, Gregor was reluctant to look at his father. Surprised and relieved, he discovered a woman cloaked in black robes standing in his father's place. Finias held his bladed weapon at the figure’s throat, focused on the stranger’s every movement. "Welcome, Hunter." As if to underline the welcome, Finias drew back his weapon, holding it in a more relaxed position.

  "Why did you summon me, human?" the figure slowly intoned with the raspy voice of an old woman.

  "I require your assistance.”

  “Why should I assist you? Send me back from where I was summoned!” The figure pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing the wrinkled face of an old hag. Her long gray hair with a few remaining streaks of black, flowed wildly from her head.

  “I have sacrificed; shed my family’s blood to summon you. You will help me accomplish what I need. I will not be denied.” Finias’ voice was calm but forceful.

  “Take care, Blackhall.” She paused for a moment to let her words sink in. "Yes, young prince, I know who you are. I’d recognize your family's stench anywhere, especially here, in the King’s own chambers. I’m no one to be trifled with. Any idiot can recite a summoning spell - why must I help you?”

  “Very well, Hunter. As you know, centuries ago, enemies of my family set in motion schemes which destroyed the great House of Blackhall, leaving us in obscurity and ruin. I seek the heirs of my enemies. Through them, I will restore what is mine.”

  "Your family's bloodline is weak, Blackhall, all but extinguished. Why shouldn't I simply dispatch you and finish your enemy's work?" the old crone spat.

  "Hunter, it appears that you are of a mind to test me. Do what you must. In the end, you will do as I desire.”

  The figure didn't respond but stood completely still for several tense moments, considering her next move. Without warning, she whirled and flew directly at Gregor. In that instant, her corporeal body gave way to thick, dark vapor. It happened so fast that Finias had no time to react. He could only yell, “Freeze” in a voice edged with panic, as Gregor turned to run. By some miracle, the command stopped Gregor before he stepped out of his circle.

  The woman, not much more than a ghostly apparition, slammed into the invisible edge of the triangle and roared in anger. She flew at each of the other participants, trying to find a way through in order to attack them. Her speed and ferocity were incredible, a terror the likes of which the world hadn't seen in centuries. After apparently satisfying herself that no escape was possible, she calmed and once again faced Finias.

  "I have no knowledge of where these heirs might be hiding, young one. You summoned me in vain."

  "While that may be true, Hunter, I know you can find them."

  "You fool. Why would I do this? Can you not guess what I will do to you once I’m free? You can’t hold me here long. You humans are pathetically weak."

  "No doubt you are right, but certainly you remember how resourceful my family was in the past. Now that we’re speaking rationally, I propose a simple trade - something you need for something I want."

  "What could you possibly have that I need?" Her raspy voice seethed with anger.

  Finias's face relaxed. He had her. Holding the weapon in one hand, he reached into a pocket and extracted a small phial with a cork stopper. The contents glowed with a luminescence that sparkled through the crystal. "Here, Crone, is what I have to offer.”

  Silence fell in the room as the old woman recognized what he held. After a heartbeat, she growled, "Open the cork, let me smell of it."

  “I’ll do better than that, I’ll show you my generosity.” Finias tossed the phial toward the ghostly being. The old woman retook solid form and snatched it from the air. She withdrew the cork and passed it beneath her nose, then greedily drained its contents into her mouth. As she did, wrinkles began to disappear from her face and her posture straightened. Her hair darkened to the point that it was mostly black with only a few prominent grey streaks.

  The four humans stared in awe at her transformation. The crone appeared at least twenty years younger than she had a few moments ago.

  “Very good, young Blackhall. You have done your research. Now that you've used your bargaining chip, tell me once again why I should help you?”

  Finias laughed haughtily. “Crone, you would do well to stop underestimating me.” He reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew half a dozen of the same glowing crystal phials.

  The woman gasped and shuddered with uncontrollable emotion, “My prince. Where could you have come into possession of such wealth?”

  “You will do my bidding. You will locate and bring to me the heirs of my enemies.”

  "Yes. Give me another now, so that I can be to my task efficiently."

  Finias took the remaining phials and placed them on the ground within his own circle and then stepped out.

  “If any harm comes to me, that circle will collapse and with it will go the Essence of Life you seek. You will receive nothing more until you have delivered the heirs of Parnassus and Elendahl.”

  The summoning spell completed, the crone was now free. She flew at the circle where the phials lay; slamming again and again into an invisible barrier, but they were well protected. Without a word, she transformed into a dark vapor, flew into the roaring fireplace, and disappeared up the chimney.

  Heir

  Iowa
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br />   When other kids looked at Tig, they saw a quiet, oddly - maybe even shabbily - dressed fourteen year old who wasn't particularly athletic, with few real friends. Tig’s physical characteristics also put him outside the norm, especially now that he was in the eighth grade. He'd always been the smallest kid in his class with slight features, but when other boys his age started shooting up, he hadn’t. At just over five feet tall, Tig was still waiting for his growth spurt.

  Tig’s skin was deeply tanned with a leathery texture, something that tagged him as an oddity, especially in the dead of winter. And then there was his name. Don’t even get me started on that, Tig thought to himself. Who names their kid Tigerious? Almost a guarantee, right there, that a kid will have zero friends.

  These were all observations people would have made about Tig if they’d actually bothered to notice he existed at all. Given a choice, Tig would happily have chosen anonymity. He’d experienced enough nurples, swirlies, and ear flicks to know there were no advantages to being noticed in middle school.

  Today had started out pretty much the same as any other day. He’d woken up around six, fed and watered the goats and chickens, and collected the eggs. It never ceased to amaze him just how many eggs chickens laid each morning. He and his dad, Chey, ate their fill and Tig sold the extras to help with the household income.

  The two lived in a rented house on the edge of town. In a small town in Iowa, there was no such thing as a “bad part of town.” When the houses got sparse and no longer boasted new paint, modern style, bright green lawns and well-trimmed hedges, you were considered to be in the country.

  The Parnassus home had two ancient cottonwood trees in the front - their roots, no doubt, responsible for the heaving sidewalk and sun-starved lawn. A fence separated the back yard from the front and kept the goats corralled, although it was much less effective at containing the flock of ravenous chickens.

  They’d moved into town just after Tig’s mother had left. He’d been four, so he didn't remember much other than a few fleeting impressions of her face, warm and smiling. The memories of her still brought tears to his dad’s eyes, so it was a subject they avoided.