“Beneath the stable, of course,” said Graso.
Paradon stepped further forward, past the mason, running his hands over the walls. The whole place felt like a trap, closing him in, making him lose all sense of self and direction. Could they really be beneath the barn? It felt like they had been walking in strange patterns for hours. What time was it? And if they were beneath the barn, where was Temrod?
“How long have we been down here?” Paradon asked, finally turning toward the stooped mason.
But something had happened. The mason was no longer wringing his hands, he wasn’t stooped. He stood tall and erect, shoulders pulled back and a confident smile breaking the beard. His cloak had been throw aside and Paradon’s blood ran cold. The man’s clothing seemed to glint with the hilts of weapons; small axes at his belt, daggers along his sides, a sword on his hip.
“I’m afraid Temrod had to leave. After all, he has a coronation to attend,” the man’s voice was different, growling, deep, a note of manic joy in it. He took a step toward Paradon. The limp was gone. He moved cat-like, calmly sliding one hand to the sword. “It’s a shame you won’t be there when he reads the letter with your seal saying you’ve left Alamore. That you did not want the crown thrust upon you. It’ll be a shame to miss,” he took another step, his words freezing the Prince to the floor, “that you will never get to hear him and your sister order search parties to find you. But the crown must rest on someone’s head tonight. Athina is a woman, it won’t be hers. She doesn’t have a child yet to call an heir, but your brother is ready to take the throne, and soon,” another step, “he will be ready to announce his engagement to my master, the Princess of Thornten.”
“You’re lying,” Paradon hissed. His mouth had gone dry.
“Lying?” the man laughed maniacally. “Even if I were lying, what chance have you to get away? For a moment there, I feared that meddling knight ruined everything, ruined all of this,” the man laughed coldly. “But you brushed him away like the fool you are. Too trusting of your brother, too willing to forgive. You never would have made a good King, Paradon.”
“Graso, don’t be a fool,” Paradon said, his hand at last and too late moving toward his sword.
Graso unsheathed his sword with one hand and, with the other, pulled a thin-bladed knife from his jerkin. “I’m not Graso. I’m no mason. I am Glore Tresfal, assassin of Princess Rhyspa, and loyal to King Temrod, her betrothed. Don’t bother with the blade, Paradon, unless you truly want me to draw this out, to make you suffer,” his face twisted in a terrible leer, “which I would love. I’ve promised your brother it would be quick but give me a reason and I shall make you wish you’d been born a to a pig farm.”
Paradon hesitated for only a heartbeat before gripping his sword handle and moving to unsheathe it. The dagger flew from Glore’s hand and he wheeled to the side, though not quickly enough. Pain flashed before him, scarlet and hot, as it dripped down his arm. His hand nearly released his sword to grip his now bleeding shoulder.
Glore laughed. “I hoped this was what you’d chose. I’ll have to beg forgiveness from my new King but, I feel he will find it in his heart to forgive the man who put him on the throne.” He was panting, a manic gleam in his eyes.
Paradon gripped his sword tighter, the fingers of his left hand trembling with the pain spreading down his arm. Panic was starting to rise in his chest with the realization that he was going to die here, in this tunnel, away from help. No one knew where these passages were, no one knew where he was. He took a wavering step back, away from Glore. The assassin, cackling, advanced and drew a second dagger from his body.
“Are you going to try to run away? Truly?” asked Glore. “Like a coward? Beg for a fast death and I will grant it. Beg for me to kill you like I poisoned your father, and I shall see to it that your death is quick. You might not even have a chance to scream.”
The words rang in Paradon’s head for a long moment, freezing the beat of life in his chest. His father had been poisoned. And by this man, posing as an aid to the King while truly weakening the castle and collecting payment. He was going to die here, he was certain. He wasn’t made for battle and this man lived to kill but he would not die a coward. He would not die slinking away in fear. No.
“No!” the words ripped from Paradon and he lunged forward, the assassin’s face registering surprise. He recovered quickly however, and blocked Paradon’s strike against his sword, snaking beneath with the dagger to slice at the Prince’s side. He felt fabric and skin catch and tear, blood crying down his ribs. It didn’t matter. If he died, he would make sure he took this man with him.
Another strike and the assassin was laughing again, slipping from his blows in a snake-like dance. “You might be a Prince and a decent swordsman, but you’re nothing compared to me. You’re no natural with a blade.”
Paradon didn’t have time to consider a rebuke as the man lifted a booted foot and kicked him, hard, in the chest. Paradon staggered and fell to the earth, the sword flying from his hands. The blade slithered over the red dirt, cutting a trail and coming to rest out of his reach. Paradon made to rise and received another kicked to his chest. He fell back, spluttering for air, tasting blood and dust that clogged his throat and lungs. He stared up at the hate-filled eyes above and a calm clarity rested over him. This was how he was going to die then. He wouldn’t show fear. He wouldn’t show anything at all. Instead, he would watch it happen so his killer would never have the satisfaction of truly winning.
“You had the chance to beg, Prince,” the assassin snarled, shoving the sword back into his belt and crouching, the dagger in his hand twisting back and forth through the air, “but you thought you should fight. Means I get to have my fun. What first? Your tongue, perhaps? So I might never have to hear you scream…”
Paradon refused to answer. There would be no games.
The assassin chortled, straightening and staring down at him. “You truly are an arrogant little–”
“You’ll treat the King of Alamore with respect,” Paradon’s eyes moved past Glore and fear rose in his chest again. This time it wasn’t for his own life. Instead, it was for the life of the golden-haired young knight, a sword gripped in both hands, blood running down his hairline, and green eyes flashing. “If you raise a blade against him,” Cavian snarled, “it’ll be the last move you ever make.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Laughter broke from the assassin again and he turned away from Paradon, turning both knives in his hands and staring hungrily at the young knight.
“Oh, I hoped we would have the chance to meet again. It was a shame when I realized it would have to be one of the soldiers who handled you so that I could tend to the Prince.”
Cavian hefted his blade more securely in his hands, jerking his chin up. “Well, now you have your chance.”
“Cavian, no!” Paradon made to move but the assassin spun at him, raising a dagger to throw into his chest. No sooner had he moved than Cavian struck. He cleared the distance between them in two bounds, an angry snarl escaping him. He sounded wolfish – a man made animalistic with pure fury.
There wasn’t time for the assassin to strike at Paradon. Instead, he spun, barely managing to use the small blade to push Cavian’s sword aside. The assassin’s free hand flew to his side, pulling free a second dagger. He plunged it under Cavian’s guard and Paradon reacted instinctively, kicking out. His boot collided with the back of Glore’s knee just as the young knight’s sword drove down.
Glore staggered back with a gurgling sound, his body convulsing in pain, his hands releasing his fine-bladed knives. They fell in the dust as he sank to his knees, eyes growing dark.
Cavian stood over him, his face twisted with anger and disbelief, his sword stained to the hilt with the assassin’s blood. He lifted it, ready to strike again should Glore try to stand but the man had already fallen backwards, blood dripping from his lips, his gaze staring blankly at the ceiling above.
“For a first kill,” Paradon said,
his voice a rasp as he pushed himself upright, his shoulder throbbing, “you outdid yourself. Do you know who that was?”
Cavian shook his head, seemingly unable to pull his eyes from the man’s dead face. “All I know is he had to die.”
“He should have died years ago. Glore Tresfal, assassin to the Thornten throne and right hand to Princess Rhyspa,” grunted Paradon. He managed to stagger to his feet, wincing and gripping his shoulder tighter.
Cavian noticed and spun, his sword falling to the dirt. “You’re injured, Paradon!”
“I’m aware of that,” Paradon said, but his lip twitched into a grin. The grin slid away though as he stared at the man on the floor. “You were right. This was Temrod’s doing, his attempt at my throne.”
“No,” said the knight.
Paradon looked up at Cavian, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Cavian slowly, “I didn’t expect this. What I expected was your brother to challenge you to Right of Blood at the coronation. I was attacked after you and he vanished and, once I had escaped, came running to find you. I followed you down the tunnels.”
Paradon’s blood ran cold. The coronation above them, where his brother would be announcing that he had left and that Temrod was now heir. If they didn’t make it there, then Temrod would still be crowned. “Explain while we go!” Paradon ordered, stooping to grab his sword and breaking into a run toward the ladder hanging from the ceiling.
“Paradon, you can’t go. You’re injured and–”
The Prince ignored the knight, thrusting his sword into the sheath and taking the rungs of the rope ladder two at a time. Above there was only a crack in the ceiling that the ladder had been thrown down and he had to twist, his shoulder screaming in pain, to slide the stone above. Instantly fresh air – glorious fresh air – rushed into his lungs and the tunnel. He pulled himself through and stood, taking in his surroundings. He was in a storage area of the barn, haybales stacked around them to hide the tunnel entrance. A moment later Cavian was beside him, panting and pulling the ladder through the hole in the floor.
“What were you saying?” demanded Paradon, leading the way into the alley of the barn. Stable hands stopped and stared as the Prince and his knight appeared as if from nowhere, blood-stained, and dust-covered.
“Right of Blood,” Cavian repeated, jogging to catch up with Paradon. “Your brother has the right to challenge you for the throne because your family observes Right of Blood.”
“What the Thornten is that?”
“It’s an ancient tradition to stop civil war. Should two royals – be it, brothers or cousins, with the royal line – the less worthy can challenge the true heir to a Right of Blood duel. They fight one against the other, no help from others.”
“And why would I be daft enough to agree to that?” Paradon snarled. They had entered the courtyard. The dusk air was cool over his skin, filling his lungs.
“Because,” Cavian grabbed Paradon’s arm, pulling him to a stop, “because the Right of Blood is only effective if your brother has a following. Think about it. He’s led the armies here for years now, he’s always fought alongside them. Should you refuse, you’ll be seen as a coward, and Temrod’s loyal soldiers will join forces with him in an uprising. Your own followers will see you as weak and waiver in their loyalties as well.”
“And should I accept?” demanded Paradon, hot rage rushing through him.
“Then your brother will kill you,” said Cavian. “Paradon, send me as your champion against him. You’re already injured, and I can fight.”
“Absolutely not,” snapped Paradon. “If I am to keep my people loyal, then they will see I’m not afraid of my brother. Now, we’re going in there before we waste too much time here and the crown becomes his, despite any Right of Blood.”
He didn’t wait for Cavian to answer, bursting through the double doors and stalking down the entry hall. Ahead he could hear the clamor of voices, the sound of confusion, and occasional burst of argument. It seemed his brother was already making his move, telling the court that Paradon had been a coward and fled.
Straightening, Paradon pushed through the next set of double doors with all of his strength, letting them crash off the walls.
“TEMROD!”
The room fell instantly silent. He could sense Cavian standing at his back, feel the eyes around the room taking in his blood-stained appearance. At the back of the room where the last set of double doors was thrown wide, revealing the stairs that would lead to the hall of ceremony, stood Temrod. He was standing on the steps like they were a stage. Beside him, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her face distraught, was his beautiful little sister.
It was her who made the first sound, a strangled cry. She made to rush down the steps and toward him, but a soldier appeared from the crowd and blocked her way. Someone else in the crowd let out a roar of fury and Paradon recognized the angered tone of his sister’s husband.
“Paradon,” Temrod’s face broke into a smug smile. “How nice of you to change your mind and arrive,” he waved a hand toward the soldier blocking Athina – a soldier loyal to the traitorous Prince – and the man released the girl. She rushed toward Paradon and flung her arms around him. He embraced her, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting the burning that rushed to them. He wasn’t sure he had ever been so happy to see her, to feel someone wrapped in his arms.
“What happened?” she whispered so no one else could hear.
“You need to stay safe,” Paradon’s eyes shot open, fear flooding his stomach. He looked past her at his brother suddenly terrified that he might use their own sister as another pawn in his play for power.
Cavian seemed to read his mind and stepped forward, bowing to Athina. “Lady Athina, if you please,” he gently pulled her away from Paradon.
“You have nearly missed your own coronation, brother,” Temrod said, descending the stairs slowly. People cleared away from him, nervously looking between Temrod and Paradon.
Paradon snorted, anger making him brazen. “With your assassin holding me up, I was nearly missing my head. Quite unfortunately, you’ll owe your new queen a new hired sword.”
Temrod’s face twisted for a moment then he relaxed, smiling. “You have always had entertaining tales, brother. But a Kingdom deserves more than that.”
“What are you doing, Temrod?” hissed Paradon, stepping nearer. The words were meant only for his little brother, the brother he had loved and grown up beside, but they carried through the room.
“I’m doing what is best for this country,” said Temrod. He was raising his voice, unlike Paradon, bringing everyone’s attention to them. “You would leave this country weak, you would flee if it so pleased you. Alamore deserves better, we deserve the alliance with Thornten that I can bring us. We deserve to take more lands to the North, to the South. Kelkor, Shadow Dale, Phersal. We deserve to be the most powerful country to have ever been,” he was yelling now and Paradon took a step away. His brother looked like a stranger. A deranged and power-hungry stranger. “So, my brother, I challenge you to your throne by Right of Blood!”
The room broke into mutters, some aghast, others confused. Paradon felt certain that many in the room, like him, had never heard of such a thing. He silently thanked Cavian for his knowledge. He would, if he lived, have to find out how Cavian had learned so much.
Now wasn’t the time though. He pulled himself to his full height, fighting the pain in his shoulder, and nodded. “Very well, brother,” Paradon let the word fall from his lips, a last attempt to bring back the Temrod he knew. “I accept.”
The room took a collective step back, leaving a circle free of people, of tables and chairs, of anyone to stand between Temrod and Paradon as both men drew their swords. Paradon swallowed his heart with the tears he knew he could never let show. No matter who won – his world was about to fall apart forever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was Temrod who struck first and Paradon swung up to block it, the vibra
tions running up his arms and pulling a grunt of pain out from his thin pressed lips. There wasn’t time to formulate an attack before Temrod was striking again, this time in a dive forward that Paradon leapt aside from. There was no doubt in his mind that Temrod was the better swordsman. He had always been.
Step after step, Paradon retreated. He battled himself even as he fought his brother. There was some part of him screaming not to strike, not to risk his brother’s life. He would see sense, surely!
One of his steps was too slow and blood blossomed over his side, fabric tearing and skin breaking. It had only been the flat of the sword or he would be dead, but it was enough. Enough to tell his instincts to take over. He didn’t wait for Temrod to find another opening. He struck back, all his strength driving into Temrod’s sword. There was nothing in the world except the scream of steel on steel, the rage pumping life into his blood. No pain. No people. He had no brother.
Temrod seemed taken back with Paradon’s recovery at first then attempted to recover, trying to drive him back. Paradon refused to give ground, instead twisting his sword so the crossbar took the drive of Temrod’s blade. His hands were numb with the shock of the blow, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to feel. It was better not to feel. Never had he felt like this in a practice or one of the raids from Thornten. No fight had ever made his mind so blank.
He sensed each move before Temrod had time to perform it. The rush of striking was making him giddy, lightheaded, nearly careless. One step back and he left the opening, risking his chest exposed. Temrod’s eyes brightened and he dove, sword flying for Paradon’s heart.
Paradon stepped to the left, bringing his sword hilt up and behind his brother. With both hands gripping the handle, he drove the pommel into his brother’s back. Temrod staggered and Paradon struck again, the flat biting into Temrod’s shoulders.
Temrod sprawled on the ground, his sword hissing over the stone floor. He made to roll toward it and found Paradon’s sword inches from his throat.
The Falcon and The Stag Page 4