The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy Read online

  The High King

  Book Two of the ‘Riothamus Trilogy’

  Rosemary Fryth

  Copyright © Fay Parkyn 2011

  Smashwords Edition September 2012

  Brisbane, Queensland

  Australia

  I’d like to dedicate the ‘Riothamus’ trilogy to a number of people who have helped

  (either deliberately or inadvertently) in the creative process.

  Thanks to Linda, Elizabeth, Sue, Erin, Joanna, Marion, Ian, Nadine, Sean,

  the Brisbane Medieval Reenactment groups, and the ‘Fireside’ ghosts and denizens.

  Special thanks to Claire and Mat, and of course to my family and my husband Richard

  for all his love and support, cups of tea and all the useful battle information.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1—Last of the Andurian Line

  From the previous book ‘Arantur’

  ‘Did he really have a choice?’ Aran thought desperately as he watched the Archmage draw nearer. At every turn his life had been changed, turned upside down, wrenched from simplicity into complexity. Every time he felt settled, happy, events would transpire to cast him into deeper waters, requiring from him even greater maturity and wide-ranging decisions. It was all so terribly unfair he thought unhappily, regretting yet again his association with the mages. Deep in despair, Aran nevertheless felt no great surprise when Archmage Maran finally stopped his slow pacing to stand directly in front of him. Through the grey haze of his misery, Aran saw that the Guardsmen stared openly at him in amazement and shock, and not for the last time heartily wished himself back in Leigh.

  “Arantur of Leigh,” Archmage Maran’s voice was quiet, yet it seemed to fill the Great Hall. “You are rightfully born of the line of Andur. The sword is yours.”

  Aran swallowed, and gazed about him. He quickly met Darven’s eye, the young Wolf Leader inclining his head as if he was addressing his king. Aran searched out Alissa by the far windows. Desperately he sought her face she too smiled sadly and nodded.

  ‘Take the sword brother,’ a quiet voice drifted in by his right ear, ‘It is your destiny. No one else has the right and the province has the need of a king.’

  ‘What about my dreams, my lifepath?’ he questioned his sister.

  ‘This is your true lifepath, Arantur,’ she whispered back, ‘Any other would be false and wrong.’

  Aran stared at Archmage Maran angrily, deeply hurt because yet again he had to choose.

  “You led me to believe I was to remake the sword for a new lineage,” he accused the old man.

  Maran shook his head, “No Arantur…that was your own belief. You instantly recognised the sword of your family, but your conscious mind could not accept it, and instead made excuses and found another, less treacherous lifepath to follow.”

  “So I am Andur’s heir,” he said and the words came out as a statement of fact, not a question.

  “Aye Arantur,” Archmage Maran dropped to his knees. “I implore you...take the sword. There is no other alternative for you or for the province.”

  “What if you are wrong?” Aran demanded. “What if I am consumed by it? How then will you live with my death?” he asked.

  Archmage Maran looked up and met his fierce gaze, “It will not harm you. Like calls to like, blood to blood, you are the seed of Andur…as I am,” he added softly.

  Aran rocked back on his heels in shock, “Who are you mage?”

  Maran spoke gently, softly. “Once, a long time ago I was known as High King Maran. My father was Andur of which we are both descended. I renounced my throne for Glaive as soon as my first-born son Trenor was old enough to be crowned. Since I gave up my kingship, the sword no longer recognises me; even now, and after all this time I cannot explain why that is so, perhaps only a Metalmage full in his power could tell me. I can only safely wield it if I wear the arcane protection spells, and even then it is costly to me—he held out one hand, and Aran saw that the Archmage’s palm was blistered with topical burns. You are now the only one the sword will recognise, it calls to your blood, the blood of Andur—take it and restore the line of Andur to our province.”

  “Then there is no other way?” Aran asked heavily.

  Maran inclined his head, “Take it if you love your province and wish to protect her from enemies gathering. Take it only if you wish to follow your right and true lifepath.”

  Aran sighed, “That has been my only wish all along.” He looked into the grey eyes of Maran, “Very well Archmage,” he sighed heavily, wishing otherwise but knowing that that there was no otherwise. “I will take up this sword.”

  Maran nodded and smiled, “Then discard the weapon you now wear. The King’s Sword is jealous and will tolerate no other in the hand of its king.”

  Aran unsheathed the other ancient blade and laid it gently on the floor. Slowly he held out his hand and accepted the cool hilt of the King’s Sword from the Archmage. He waited to be consumed but he stood untouched. The sword itself felt light to wield and the hilt curved within his hand in such a familiar way, that he knew that there would be no other sword for him. Conscious recognition burst forth from the hidden memory of his lineage, and the sword blade began to glow gently with a cold light reminiscent of the stars at night. Aran stood alone whilst the whole company fell down upon their knees before him. The line of Andur was whole, the line of Andur had at long last returned to the Keep.

  “Long live the High King!” Aran heard Darven’s voice as if from a great distance.

  “Long live the High King!” The cry was picked up by his fellow Guards and given full voice.

  Aran stood holding the glowing King’s Sword in wary amazement, and knew that nothing ever would be the same again.

  And so the story continues...

  Arantur of Leigh, former blacksmith’s apprentice, latent Metalmage and Warriormage, and last of the Andurian line stood in the Great Hall of Andur’s Keep with the naked, magecrafted King’s Sword in his hand, and nervously eyed his subjects. He did not want to be king, and had events unfolded otherwise, he would have been happy to lead a quiet life in his hometown of Leigh. However the Goddess was capricious and Aran knew with a sinking heart that he really did not have a choice. The province needed a king and it seemed utterly certain that he was the only one available.

  Aran stared at the faintly glowing sword, the hilt that his hand grasped with such easy familiarity. This was the first time he held it, yet he knew it well and the memories of its familiarity flooded his mind. This weapon, from the first moments of holding it, had grown tendrils of recognition of his Andurian blood deep within his mind. Within his subconscious it murmured to him, whispering silent songs of memory and kinship, of past times, and of long absence.

  If he could, Aran would have put the sword down and walked away from Andur’s Keep, never to return. However, from the first moment of lifting the sword and feeling the connection, there had been an overpowering oneness with the weapon, with this building and with the land. He had heard
that the King’s Swords’ power melded the true king to the land, and the quiescent earthpower, but never would he have believed it possible except he was experiencing the transformation himself.

  “You feel it my Prince?” Archmage Maran was standing now and he regarded the reluctant heir with considering eyes.

  “Aye Archmage,” Aran whispered.

  Maran stared at the young man in front of him. “It’s been hundreds of years since I felt the peculiar oneness that comes with wielding the King’s Sword.” He shook his head in sorrow, “If I had not a deeper, stronger calling to Glaive then I would have happily held that sword until my dying day. Never in all my years as a mage, had I felt that feeling of oneness with the hidden, secret power of the land. I consider it the first real benefit of Kingship.”

  Aran stared at the weapon and finally shook his head to clear away the daze he seemed to have fallen into. Reluctantly he sheathed the sword in the scabbard he wore, immediately the sensation dimmed too…dimmed but did not go away. It seemed likely now that he was irretrievably linked to the weapon. That there existed a bond that only death or abdication from the line would break.

  “You need to speak to them, my Prince,” Maran advised, “They are still on their knees.”

  “What do I say?” Aran whispered back, uncertain and full of doubt.

  “Do not be afraid for the words will come…they always do,” Maran replied softly.

  Aran stepped forward and walked slowly up to the high table where the mages had already positioned an extra seat next to where the Archmage had sat. As he neared the table he met the eyes of those he had once called his betters, his leaders, and wondered how in Andur’s name he was going to address them now. Briefly he caught Alissa’s eye, she inclined her head and smiled a secret smile. Walking around the back of the table he waited whilst the mages pulled the chair out for him. Quickly he sat, taking the moment to unlace and remove his helmet and arming cap placing both on the table before him. Finally he felt better able to address the crowded hall.

  “Please be at ease.”

  Aran watched as his fellow Guardsmen lifted themselves to their feet, some nervously brushing dust from their knees.

  “It seems that I am to be your King,” he continued warily. “I must tell you now that I did not seek this position,” he added striving to make them understand. “Except for an ancient lineage I am really still just an ordinary man, a friend and a fellow Guard. Had things worked out differently, nothing would have pleased me more than to join your ranks and spend my life a Guardsman. It is for this reason that I would ask you not to put me far above you. I value all your friendships and I will need your companionship and support in the weeks and months ahead.”

  Aran sighed, “I do not know how to be a king, so you must bear with me and give me your strength, for I think that it will not be a light task or an easy road.” Aran stared about the great hall, “My esteemed ancestor Warleader Andur had a great deal of practice leading men before he was crowned king. I must learn to do the same.”

  Aran turned to Archmage Maran, “What now?”

  Maran turned to the others at the table and nodded. “You may as well let the Guards go, Prince Arantur. We have matters of state to discuss, and it ought to be done privately.”

  Aran glanced at Captain Taran, Deputy Morel and the two company leaders, “I would have these men stay, Archmage.”

  Maran inclined his head, “Certainly Prince Arantur, they are crucial to our discussion.”

  Aran caught Captain Taran’s eye and he nodded. Turning, the Captain barked a short order to the waiting Guards. Aran watched as they turned and marched out of the door, inwardly he wished he was still able to march out with them. Aran sighed heavily and eyed the now almost empty great hall. He felt unready to be king, and he knew that the days ahead were not going to be easy ones. His mind still full of questions he turned to Archmage Maran, the one man in the entire room whom he knew would be able to give him the answers he needed.

  “Does Trevan know?” he asked simply.

  Maran shook his head, “No Prince Arantur...but I think that after a time he suspected.”

  Aran thought about everything that had happened and was troubled.

  “If I am the last of the Andurian line, then what happened to all the others of the lineage? I mean there must have been dozens of princes and princesses of Andur’s blood that were never crowned. What happened to all their families?”

  Maran stared at the young man who was destined to be king, “We have not been able to trace them. In the intervening generations they married, took up professions, forgot that their ancestors were of Andur’s line.” He looked steadily at Aran, “Prince Arantur you are the last direct descendant of High King Andur. The sword you wear will only recognise the first-born son or daughter.”

  Aran was troubled, “What if my sister had not died? We were twins would the sword have recognised us both?”

  Maran glanced at the other mages as if for support, “Although you were both born but moments apart, we believe however that you were not the first-born, my Prince. Your sister, had she lived, would have been the one to ascend the throne. On her death however, the kingship and the right to the sword passed to you.”

  Aran felt a deep sick, uneasiness rise in his belly “Was my sister’s death accidental?”

  Maran gazed long and hard at Aran, “Aye Prince, it was. We do not understand how the fates align but we are thankful that it was you and not your sister who is standing here today.”

  Aran was puzzled and more than a little angry that the Archmage had dismissed her so lightly. “Why? She was but a child when she died. What did she ever do to invoke Glaive’s displeasure?” he growled.

  Maran shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat. “You have heard, Prince Arantur, that our province is being threatened yet again by enemies at her borders.”

  Aran nodded, he was still angry, and not yet understanding how the present situation could have any bearing on Sarana’s death years ago.

  Maran nodded towards High Mage Drayden, “Prince Arantur, we have discovered many unsettling things about our enemies, but the most frightening discovery is that the Thakur, whom we long believed to come from the lands west of the mountains are in fact the descendants of the Serat who once ravaged this land.” Maran saw Aran’s face pale and added, “This is not the worst of it. We now understand that their Warleader is possessed of a frightening Mage Ability, an Ability we have never before seen nor really understand….”

  Aran stared stonily at the Archmage, “What is this Ability? How does it relate to Sarana?”

  Maran swallowed, “It seems that the Warleader has the Ability to overcome the minds of her people and drive them to war with us.” Then the Archmage paused, “Sarana, although she would have probably ruled well, did not have the magepower within her. For this time and this war we need a King who is also a mage, specifically a Warriormage.”

  Aran sat silently digesting this new information; finally he nodded his understanding then asked, “So this Warleader is a woman?”

  Maran nodded, “Aye Prince, a woman.”

  Aran frowned again and his grey eyes grew as hard as slate, “Why does she want to war with us?” he asked finally. “The Serat have not troubled us for over three hundred years, why now?”

  Maran gnawed his lower lip, “We suspect that they have long coveted our land, and their defeat at Warleader Andur’s hand still rankles. Until now they would not have dared our armies. However this charismatic new leader possesses their minds and thoughts driving them onwards to our borders.”

  “Are they stoppable?” Aran asked narrowly, his fingers drumming an insistent rhythm on the tabletop.

  Maran sighed and admitted, “It seems likely that the armies that will be rising against us are driven by her will and power. Perhaps individual soldiers will be able to be killed, but whilst the Warleader lives she will send all against us.”

  Aran, feeling a sudden bleak despair cradle
d his head in his hands, “So what do we do now?”

  Maran sighed heavily, “My Prince we must go to war against them. We believe they are beyond reason, beyond diplomacy, beyond any kind of reconciliation. We must take our army to the border and fight them on the field of battle…”

  “What about this Warleader?” Aran interjected his head snapping up furiously. “She seems to be the source of the problem. Do we let her go her own merry way until we have left only exhausted soldiers with still rank after rank of mage driven armies marching against us?”

  Drayden stood, “If I may Archmage…I would like to respond to that.” Maran inclined his head.

  “Prince Arantur,” Mage Drayden continued, “From what I have been able to find out, is that the strength of their Warleader is directly proportional to the number of minds she is able to control. At the moment she would be invincible to any attack…such is the size army she commands, before we can hope to take her on we must first reduce her power base.”

  Aran looked up and met the High Earthmage’s eyes, “In Andur’s name how is that to be achieved?” he asked bitterly. “Must we fight and kill every man who comes against us in order to make this Warleader vulnerable?”

  Drayden‘s golden sea-eagle eyes never once left Aran, “It is not certain how many must be killed, Prince Arantur, but in Andur’s name we have no choice, we must go to war.”

  Aran knew he had to ask the next question.

  “And after that?”

  Drayden’s golden gaze grew suddenly shadowed, heavy-lidded. Finally he looked up and his gaze was uncompromisingly direct.

  “Prince Arantur....only a Warriormage wielding a powerful magecrafted weapon could have any hope against this Warleader.”

  Aran smiled grimly, his mouth a thin hard line, “I am the last Warriormage.”

  Maran, his face tightened by emotion, interrupted, “Prince Arantur, we have looked for every possible way out of this dilemma. We have considered using the other Abilities against her, but we believe that there is only one way we can succeed. In the entire province there is only one man who has the necessary Ability, power, strength and lineage to take on this enemy…”