Heir to the Throne

by Andrew G. Wood

  Just as the previous day, the cultists ambled along the track, some chatting with others, led by the tall robed figure at the front. Not bothering to use scouts or even bother taking any precautions against any attack they were leaving themselves open to be easy targets. Oster waited until the main body of the group strolled into sight before giving the predefined signal for his soldiers to make their move. Placing his fingers up to his mouth Oster let out a loud shrill-sounding whistle that echoed slightly in the open spaces below. For a moment the cultists came to a stop, probably confused by the sound, but that split second of indecision was quickly followed by a rain of arrows and crossbow bolts slamming down into them.

  From no more than forty or fifty paces, even an average soldier could find a target, as the first bodies started slumping to the ground a few at the rear sought to turn about and try to flee. Oster let out a second whistle, a signal for his riders to reveal themselves and hunt down those trying to make good their escape. One more figure caught Oster’s eye, that being the black-robed man who had been right at the very front. Although hit with an arrow, Oster caught him trying to crawl away into a ditch at the side of the track ordinarily used to carry away excess water in the winter months. Now filled with little more than long grass, the man could well have avoided being seen when they cleared up the bodies and waited until dark before escaping. However, Oster had a keen eye, and after letting his riders thunder on past below him, he slid down the slope and onto the track.

  Walking at a slightly hastened pace, he drew his sword and got to the robed figure just as he was about to vanish from view.

  “Not so fast!” Oster said reaching down and hauling the man back up. With an arrow protruding from his thigh, the man yelped as Oster booted him over onto his back before looking down at him. Lowering the tip of his sword to the man’s neck, Oster took one look at his face. A man probably in his thirties with sharp pointy features and a look that showed nothing but pure hatred.

  “You will all die!” the man spat as he spoke. The last words he would ever say as Oster did not reply but merely thrust his sword down with a short, sharp stab.

  The man gurgled, and blood spurted up from his mouth, his body convulsed for a few seconds before eventually going limp. Oster pulled his blade free and wiped it on the man’s robe before letting out another whistle to indicate for his men to join him on the track.

  While some remained in position, a dozen or so slipped down the bank to where Oster was standing, and he immediately gave the order to check the bodies. Not only were the injured to be dealt with, but they needed to be searched for any information they may have on their person. Oster checked the pockets of the man in black and was pleased to see a note bearing the seal of Lord Elthan’s house. Written upon the note were instructions to move the cult pack to Scarwood and eliminate the young prince and anybody else who got in their way. In addition, there was also the promise of one thousand gold crowns to the cult leader who succeeded in achieving the main goal. Oster folded the paper back up very carefully, knowing it was another piece of vital evidence in pointing the finger to the ones involved.

  Oster used his boot to roll over one of the fallen cultists and just assumed them to be dead. However, he heard a groan and was shocked to the face of a boy probably no more than fourteen years of age. How did a child get embroiled in something like this? Now Oster had to make a hard decision. Could he willingly kill a child in cold blood? He had orders to take no prisoners, but this was surely something very different. He knelt down to check the boy’s injuries, and seeing a patch of blood on the boy’s right side he lifted the youngster's bloodstained shirt for closer inspection. There was a large gash where a crossbow bolt had skimmed the boy’s body, and although it had caused a nasty looking cut, Oster knew it was nothing life-threatening if treated.

  Oster stayed in his kneeled down position for a few moments now knowing his decision was even harder. Had the boy had serious injuries, killing him would have been seen as an act of mercy. Yet this boy’s wounds were merely superficial and just looked worse than they actually were. Had the boy been just a fraction further forward when the bolt hit, he would probably already be dead. Perhaps it was fate that had saved him? The question was, did Oster intervene and do what fate had seen fit to stop?

  Oster exhaled loudly, and after checking the boy had no messages, he was surprised to see that the lad wasn’t even armed. The boy groaned again, calling the name of someone, “Walter…”

  Oster called one of his men over and asked for a bandage.

  “I thought we were to kill all the cultists, Sir,” the man asked.

  “This is no cultist…It's just a kid…and not even armed…I for one am not killing an unarmed child… Now get me that bandage!”

  The soldier nodded his head and quickly did as was ordered, returning just a few moments later with a small field kit.

  Oster opened the canvas pack and removed a bandage but just placed it to one side. Firstly, he removed the water bottle from his waist and poured some of the content over the wound. The boy flinched, and his body shuddered as the cold water cleaned the area in and around the wound. Oster then placed the dressing over the top and secured it with another bandage that he wrapped around the boy's waist. Lifting the body up several times to pass the bandage underneath before eventually tying it off.

  “Walter…” The boy said again.

  Oster helped the boy sit up. “Who is Walter?” he asked.

  “Brother…” the boy said finally opening his eyes.

  Oster looked at the boy again. He had dark hair that was straggly looking, indicating it probably hadn’t been washed or cut for some time, and a pair of big brown tear-filled eyes.

  “Walter is your brother?” Oster asked, using his arm to keep the boy sat upright.

  “Yes…He was told to come here, so I had to travel with him…Where is he?”

  Oster let out another sigh. “Was he a cult member?” he asked not really wanting to hear the answer.

  The boy nodded his head…”He said I could join when I was old enough. He looks after me, they never go hungry…where is he?”

  Oster looked at the boy and held his gaze, “I’m sorry Kid, I think your brother is dead.”

  The boy let out a feeble sounding whimper, and those teary eyes started once more.

  “I’m sorry,” Oster said again, realising he had probably just deprived an innocent boy of the only person who cared for him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy, Sir,” the boy said sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “And how old are you, Billy?”

  “Twelve, Sir.”

  Oster just nodded at the reply, before trying to figure out what he was going to do.

  “Can you stand up?” He asked, giving Billy a helping hand.

  The boy took a sharp intake of breath and doubled over in pain, shaking his head, before Oster let him settle back down again.

  “Come on then,” he said, putting his arms under the youngster's body and lifting him up, “I’ll have to carry you then,” he said.

  Knowing that there was every likelihood that the body of Billy’s brother would be among the dead, Oster decided it was best to venture up the track a little further away. Knowing he wasn't due back at Garley for another week, it would seem that Billy would have to stay with him for now. While that was not a problem in itself, he would have to be kept away from any further attacks, which would likely mean having someone keep an eye on him.

  With the cultists dealt with, Oster now just needed to set camp again and scout the area he had been asked to keep an eye on. While he hoped to have stopped all the cultists, there was every chance a few might have got through, namely those who just looked like normal everyday travellers. While his patrols did stop as many of these people as possible, determining as to whether or not they were the enemy was quite difficult. Naturally, asking where they were going and why they were in Scarwood would likely give them some infor
mation, but just because somebody said they were going to Garley did not mean they had any ulterior motives planned.

  As the last hours of daylight faded away into that period when neither darkness nor daylight dominated, Oster was seated around a campfire. Having just received word that the bodies of the dead cultists had been dealt with, he asked for a guard detail to be set. Moreover, Oster had also made it known that no harm was to come to Billy and that the boy was under his care and protection. Any subsequent punishments for what amounted to disobeying Lord Oakley’s orders would be solely his responsibility. While a few of the men were clearly indifferent to him keeping the boy alive, because they considered Billy, the enemy, most were happy enough about the situation.

  “Here you go, Billy,” Oster said, handing the boy a wooden bowl.

  “It’s only stew, but it’s pretty much what we eat most evenings when we’re out of Garley. Oh and here, some bread and a spoon,” he added reaching into his pocket.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Billy said, still evidently nervous about his surroundings.

  Oster took up a position next to the lad, and while they ate, he explained that he would look after him for now.

  “When we get back to Garley I’ll sort something out for you. I’m not sure exactly what just yet, but I promise you will be well cared for,” he added dunking his bread into the gravy at the bottom of his bowl.

  After handing Billy a couple of blankets, one to use as a pillow and one to keep him warm, Oster insisted on checking the boy’s injury. While it wasn’t a serious injury, Oster knew only too well that if left to get infected, it might well turn into one.

  “Try and get some sleep,” he said, pulling one of the blankets over Billy and taking up a seated position not far from him beside the fire.

  Chapter 7.A family feud.

  Lord Elthan ranted and raged at his layabout son. Everything he had done was to get the boy on the throne, or at least manipulate the woman who sat on the one beside him. Yet, despite all their plans having faltered, Frederick seemed unmoved or uncaring as to the consequences if they did not succeed.

  “You need to get that whore of yours to force the nobles to back her!” Lord Elthan shouted.

  “Elysia is not a whore, father,” Frederick replied, trying to stand up for his wife.

  “Oh please don’t tell me you actually have feelings for her?”

  “Of course I do, we love each other.”

  Lord Elthan stormed over to his son and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, “Listen to me, you stupid idiot. If she wasn’t wearing that bloody necklace do you honestly think she’d let you hump her silly…No I doubt she would even look at you…Cretin!”

  Frederick’s courage was not that great, and he immediately cowered as his father held him pinned to the wall of the royal suite. Elysia merely sat and watched on, seemingly unable to comprehend what was actually going on, her mind not her own, nor had it been for some time.

  “Now get that stupid bitch to do as we want. If you don’t, you’ll have thousands of soldiers marching our way and removing your stupid ass off that throne before sticking our heads on a spike.”

  Frederick nodded his understanding, and after a few moments of his father glaring at him, he was released.

  “Now get it done!” Lord Elthan snapped before heading for the door.

  Frederick waited for his father to leave before going over to sit beside his wife. He gently took her hand in his own and gazed longingly into her eyes, “Let us go to bed my love,” he said softly. Elysia didn’t argue, she never did, and rose up off the chair allowing Frederick to escort her towards the bedchamber.

  “Remove your clothes,” he whispered, already finding himself excited at what was going to happen, despite having done it on numerous occasions before. However, despite all his efforts, it seemed that Elysia was still not with child, but that didn’t mean he intended to stop trying. His father had annoyed him, and he needed something to comfort him, and Elysia provided that.

  Elysia surely loved him, just as he did her, whether or not she wore the necklace or not. Frederick looked on as his young wife lay there for him atop of their marital bed. He removed his own clothes and sat down beside her running his hands between her breasts to the item of jewellery in question. Knowing it was blessed with some dark magical spell created by his aunt, Frederick wondered if it really controlled all Elysia’s feelings for him. If he were to remove it, then surely there would still be love there for him? Then again dare he risk it? What if his father was right, and she found him so repulsive that she could barely look at him, a thought he knew he could never cope with. Trying to shake the negativity from his mind Frederick eventually clambered up on to the bed and onto the young woman whom he loved.

  Lord Elthan returned to his main office only to receive yet more bad news. This time it came in the form of a letter from Bargsea, his own capital in Endallen, telling of how one of his ships had been lost to a larger vessel from the Casillian Isle. While that in itself was not a surprise, the fact that the enemy ship in question had contained so many soldiers and was heading back from Scarwood in the direction of Port Exley, suggested just two things. Either Lord Dalby had overstretched and was starting to move his soldiers back to the Casillian Isle or else he was doing so for another reason. The only reason Lord Elthan could comprehend as to why he would do such a thing was easy to figure out. “They’ve taken the bloody boy there!”

  Lord Elthan screwed the message up in a fit of anger and threw it across the room before slamming his hand down on the desk. The items upon the surface rattled and shook as the force of the impact vibrated across it, even toppling a few of the small brass weights that were used to keep maps from rolling back up when laying them out flat. Getting soldiers and his sister’s cultists to Scarwood was one thing, getting them across the sea to the Casillian Isle was another. Even if he had enough ships of his own to carry out such a manoeuvre, it was very likely that Lord Dalby could attack and sink them before they even reached their target, as he had far the biggest fleet of all the nobles.

  Pacing around his study, Lord Elthan had to think and do so quickly. Things were going from bad to worse, and with reports coming in of other nobles now amassing their soldiers on the borders of Brenthellin lands, it was only a matter of time before they crossed. If and when that happened he knew there would be little he could do to stop them. His last hope now was for his son to convince the princess to force the nobles sworn to her family to act. Of course, that might well backfire, and he would have more people against him, but what other option did he have. Loretta’s cultists were apparently all crossing over into Scarwood to kill a prince that Lord Elthan was now certain wasn’t even there.

  Moreover, Loretta had already foreseen that unless the boy was dealt with soon all would be lost. Perhaps it was best to cut his losses and head back home to Endallen to an area he could defend. Yet even if he did that, then it would only be a matter of time before the other nobles rallied to the call of the boy once he had retaken the throne. With the entire kingdom against him, any fighting would be futile and only end up with his family being removed from its ancestral home. Lord Elthan slammed his hand down again and stormed out of his office and down the corridor to find his sister.

  Passing beyond the area deemed safe for other palace personnel to wander, he stopped outside the door leading to her suite. In no mood to play stupid games with the two black-clad figures keeping guard, he went straight for the door only to find himself being blocked from doing so. Still raging, Lord Elthan showed he was in no mood and turned away slightly and slowly drew the dagger he kept at his waist. Turning swiftly he lashed out at the man to his left, not even bothering to check he was down before thrusting the point of the blade hard into the other man’s chest. As both guards slumped to the floor, the door suddenly opened, and the woman known as Sharice screamed.

  Lord Elthan merely shoved her aside, “Where’s my sister!” he snarled still with his dagger clenched firmly in h
is hand.

  “You can not see her my Lord, she is in her bedchamber,” Sharice explained even going as far as trying to grab his arm to stop him. However, Lord Elthan had finally had enough of all these stupid games his sister played and backhanded Sharice to the floor.

  “Touch me again, and I’ll slit your throat!” he spat, pointing his dagger her direction.

  Sharice lifted her hand up to her mouth where a small trickle of blood was already forming. Lord Elthan assumed that would be the end of it, but as he turned to head towards the bedchamber door, Sharice got to her feet, screaming defiantly, launching herself right at him.

  Lord Elthan merely held the dagger firmly in place, and the force of Sharice’s momentum did most of the work for him. He watched for a moment as her slim body went limp and dropped down onto the carpet, she took her last few breaths and went still. Lord Elthan just continued onwards and opened the door to his sister's bedchamber only to see a young man on top of her. Loretta was shocked to see him, although she ordered the man not to stop as she groaned, her body writhing and twisting with every thrust. Lord Elthan merely walked over to the bed and grabbed the man’s hair before leaning over and slitting his throat. Pulling the dying man off his sister a spray and gush of blood shot out across the bedsheets and over his sister.