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

  “You must have a block…” Maran mused. “I see tension in the set of your shoulders and arms. Try to relax the magepower will not flow whilst you are tight and tense.”

  Aran gnawed his lip; this tension always seemed to be his stumbling block to easy and immediate access to the power. It wasn’t his fault, the day had been unbelievably eventful and now at the end of such a momentous day he was crouched in the semi-darkness with the Archmage, trying to light a fire by will alone.

  ‘Soon he would be king.’ The thought flowed unbidden to his mind as his brain yet again tried to wrestle with the unfamiliar concept—trying unsuccessfully to pin it down and attribute it some degree of normalcy, order. As his mind wrestled with the strange concept of kingship, Aran was alarmed to notice a thin line of blinding blue light extending from his outstretched hand into the logs in the fireplace. As he watched in puzzlement, the blue light faded from his hand to gather around the larger of the logs in the hearth. As it gathered, it grew brighter and brighter until it was a searing white light, then it faded to a rosy red and within seconds flames were licking the outside of the log.

  “Well I’ve never seen it done that way before!” Maran stated in some surprise, “Mind you I’ve never seen a Warriormage handle the power before. It must be peculiar to that Ability.”

  Aran sat back on his heels and regarded first his hand, and then the brightly burning fire.

  “What was that light?” he asked shocked.

  Maran gazed at him levelly, “I assume it was a physical manifestation of the magepower. A manifestation of the like I’ve never seen before.”

  “What usually happens when a mage lights a fire?” asked Aran.

  Maran’s eyebrows met in a considering frown, “As I explained before, in order to light a fire a mage pulls all the energy and heat out of the inanimate objects around him, and directs that stored energy into the log, and it bursts into flame. I felt you searching for the energy—it came, but not from around you.” Maran frowned again, “You seemed to draw the energy out of yourself, yet you yourself were not depleted—almost as if you were the conduit through which the magepower flowed from the land itself.”

  Aran shrugged, he did not understand the mechanics of it however he did now understand his block. In order to access the power he had to move his thoughts away from the act and concentrate on other things. He sighed, perhaps in time he may not have to go such a round-about way of accessing the magepower. Yet now it seemed to be the only way…

  The moment was broken by a quiet knock on the door of the king’s hall and Maran was up like a shot, his quickness giving lie to his age.

  “Dinner, Lords.”

  Mistress Thaley, flanked by two other serving men came in bearing platters of hot apple pies, roasts and fresh garden vegetables.

  Aran met Maran’s eye, “You’ll stay for dinner Archmage Maran?”

  Maran nodded with pleasure.

  *

  The remains of dinner was cleared away, and Aran had completed the small task of putting away his personal items in the chests, and on the small table in the bedchamber, when there was another quiet knock on the door. Aran got up from his comfortable chair in front of the fire, and opened the heavy oaken door. Outside Alissa and Darven were waiting and when they saw him they smiled.

  “When Thaley sent for us and told us that the Prince required our presence, we weren’t absolutely sure what to expect,” Darven said with a grin. “Especially since not being used to getting royal summons.”

  Aran pulled a face, and shut the door behind them, “I really hate the title ‘Prince’,” he sighed “They heard it from Archmage Maran so I guess it’s going to stick now.”

  “By Andur!” Darven turned around whilst admiring the room, “This is a marvellous room. Are these your private chambers?”

  “Haven’t you been here before?” Aran asked the Wolf Leader curiously, “I thought you’ve been right through this place?”

  Darven shook his head as he took in the royal magnificence. “No, everything connected with the Andurian kings was locked up after Sen went mad.” He gaped in wonder, “So all this is yours?”

  Aran nodded, “Believe me it takes a bit of getting used to. Would you believe I have a personal staff of five…” He laughed cheerlessly, “Seems I can’t take a bath now without someone hanging around or lending a hand.”

  Darven grinned, “You’ll get used to it.” Then he pursed his lips, “You are soon to be the King. I guess when after that happens you can pretty well make your own rules and regulations here.”

  Aran nodded again, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve been looking after myself for years now, I really don’t feel the need to delegate too many of those personal tasks to others.”

  Alissa sat down on one of the window seats and stared out through the clear pane of the windows at the brooding bulk of the Keep below. The darkness showed little details, so she turned back to where the two men had seated themselves before the fire. “I used to come exploring in here as a child,” she remarked suddenly. “It was a very long time ago, but it’s not changed much in all those years.” She stared about her, “Mind you it certainly looks a lot better since the rooms have been swept, dusted and the drapes changed and cleaned.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do with all this space,” Aran said shaking his head in wonder. “I mean back in Leigh I used to share a tiny room with Sed—and I thought at the time that I was pretty well off. Now look at me.”

  “So what happens now?” Darven asked at last. “How soon do we ride to war?”

  Aran shrugged, “I believe it will be soon after I am crowned. That is in a fortnight’s time, give or take a few days.”

  Darven nodded, “Good, I will speak to Kiaia about getting the horses fully prepared for the upcoming journey. I will need to remind Captain Taran to speak to Palor about stocks of replacement horse shoes, and Drek to stockpile any spare weapons he may have made.”

  “What about bows and crossbows?” Aran asked, remembering his futile hours out in the fields around Leigh with Sed.

  Darven frowned, “The Guard normally doesn’t handle those weapons. All of the crossbowmen and archers come from within the ranks of the southern legions and garrisons. I assume they will be providing their own arrows and quarrels. However I must enquire at Leigh about employing good fletchers for the duration of the war.”

  Aran looked up, “Master Solur is a fine fletcher, and I know that Sed gets all his arrows made by him. I’ve never heard any complaints about their quality or accuracy and Sed is considered one of the best shots in Leigh.”

  “Sed? That’s your foster brother?” Alissa was thinking hard. “I wonder...”

  “Don’t be thinking of drafting him into the Legions,” Aran grinned. “He may be deadly with a light bow, but he’d run a mile if he ever suspected that we wanted him to join the army.” Aran was adamant, “He has a disinclination to work, and does not tolerate any kind of authority…”

  Alissa shook her head, “I wasn’t thinking of the Legions, I just had an idea that’s all.”

  Darven leant forward, deeply interested, “What sort of idea?”

  Alissa gnawed her lower lip, “I think there are a lot of men like Sed out in the towns and small villages. I’d really like to find them and combine them into a small company, and put them under the leadership of the Guard.”

  “Whatever for?” Darven was confused.

  “To provide cover for our troops and for scouting work,” she explained. “When we were away, father talked to some of the Legions garrisoned in the southern cities, and I got the impression that their infantry, cavalry and bowmen work closely with each other. If we tried to pull out a company for our own use, we would find that they would be too rigid…too used to Legion ways and manoeuvres.”

  Darven nodded, “That sounds very true of what I’ve heard of the Legions. In this war we will all have to work together, but they seem to have their own ways of doing things.”

 
; “Exactly,” Alissa agreed. “If we can make up a company of civilian archers, then we will be able to mould them to our needs. I can envisage two archers accompanying a scout as he rides out to survey the land ahead. Most of these men learnt their bow skills through hunting, and I am sure they can be turned effectively to our needs.”

  “You certainly are your father’s daughter,” commented Aran admiringly. “Although Alissa, I would make one qualification. I would bet any amount of money these civilian archers probably have no taste for military life or discipline, else they would have joined the Legions long ago. You must appeal to their love of stalking, hunting to get them interested. Otherwise they won’t listen.” He grinned, “If they are anything like Sed, then you will need to pay them well. They won’t risk life and limb for little pay.”

  Darven nodded, “I will speak to Captain Taran about this. He may see merit in it.”

  Aran sat back and stretched out his long legs before the fire, “Have we thought of inviting the mounted archers from the horsetribes? I remember reading that Andur used them quite effectively in his battles against the Serat.”

  Darven scratched his head, “I don’t think so. They are a secretive, remote people who mix with the townsfolk only when they come to sell their yearlings and trade for goods.”

  He studied the calluses on his hands, “I will speak to Taran also about the plainsmen. It may be well worth our while to send out a delegation to speak with their Clan Chief, or better still their Bowleader since I’ve heard he commands the warriors.”

  Aran stared at Darven, “I know little about the plainsmen. Will there be danger in bringing them so deeply into the province? Will they hinder us instead of aiding us?”

  Darven shrugged expressively, “I was born and grew up in Eastling, and in all my years there I never spoke directly to a single plainsman. However I have heard many stories about them…”

  Aran drummed his fingers on the carved wooden arms of his chair, “What sort of stories?”

  Darven shook his head, “I cannot vouch for their accuracy, they may be just hearsay or tales elaborated at the tavern or fireside…”

  “I would hear of them nevertheless,” Aran interrupted abruptly.

  Darven glanced at Alissa, “My pardon Lady Alissa, some of these tales are not fit for a lady’s ear.”

  Alissa grinned, “Do not let me hinder you Wolf Leader. You know that I grew up in the company of soldiers and am well used to coarse language.”

  Darven nodded and shrugged, “One tale I have heard many times is that the plainsmen, after killing a blood enemy, will cut out the heart of the victim and eat it. Also I’ve heard that they disembowel their enemies so their shamans can interpret the future from the way that the intestines lay within the gut cavity.”

  “If they intend to eat all the hearts of their enemies,” Alissa interjected dryly, “Then they will be plagued with indigestion during the upcoming battles.”

  Aran shot Alissa a strange look then turned back to Darven.

  “What else do you know of these people?”

  Darven gave Aran a considering look, “Traders and merchants from Eastling who deal with the plainsmen say that the horsepeople are quick to anger, and take offense at the smallest thing—sometimes reading deadly insult into a gesture or look that would be overlooked by an ordinary citizen of Andur.”

  Aran shook his head at that, “Do you think they can be kept under control if they are invited deep into the settled part of the province? I don’t want murder or a massacre on my hands.”

  Darven shrugged helplessly, “Only if we win the total support from the Clan Chief. He alone would be able to talk the other leaders over.” Darven pulled a face, “If the stories are true, and the plainsmen do have these barbaric customs, then the leaders will need to control them before they are invited deep into the province. If we do not achieve the full support of the Clan Chief then we are in very real danger of the plainsmen running amok and hindering our mobilisation.”

  Aran ran his fingers distractedly through his hair, “I will talk to Maran about it tomorrow. He should be able to see if the benefits outweigh these obvious disadvantages.” He stood up, “We need to increase the size of our army, but if size means bringing additional problems in then we will have to think very carefully about the inclusion of the horsetribes.” Aran looked at the others, “I must beg your indulgence and ask you to leave now. I plead tiredness from such a long and wearisome day.”

  Alissa took one look at the dark circles and fatigue etched on Aran’s face and nodded.

  “Come Darven, I’m sure we all would benefit from an early night.”

  Darven stood and inclined his head, “Do not worry my lord Prince. I am certain that we will soon resolve these issues.”

  Aran smiled wearily, “I hope so Darven, and I will bid you a good night and see you both on the morrow.”

  They nodded and left him to his contemplation of the fire.

  *

  Later, after Alem had left, Aran lay on the bed in the darkened bedchamber and thought over the day’s events. In the space of several short hours he had gone from Guard and Warriormage, to the heir apparent of the Andurian throne. Aran stared up at the heavy drapes of the curtained bed, and in the moonlight caught the gleam of gold thread which had been worked into the design of the spreading oak tree. He had not yet been told the significance of that particular design, but he believed that it was the symbol adopted by his ancestor Andur. His ancestor Andur! He still could not believe it possible. Briefly he wondered at the vagaries of fate to thrust him into such an exalted position, and wished, not for the last time, that matters might have worked out otherwise. He wondered also about the likelihood of Alissa becoming his queen and lifepartner, and wished he had been brave enough to broach the matter to Maran earlier in the evening.

  Despite what Darven had said Aran knew that in reality he had very little say in who was to become his queen. Aran knew from his reading, that alliances with the Old Families were critical, and only the sheer force of Andur’s will had forced the Council into letting the Warleader choose as his bride his childhood sweetheart, Baranta. Aran was certain that the other generations of the Andurian line had not been so fortunate. Instead they were obliged to choose partners from the Old Families of Haulgard rather than having the luxury of choosing their own partner. Aran did not like the idea of arranged marriages, and he suspected that the mysterious young woman who rode in with Alissa from Haulgard may well the Council’s candidate for Queen.

  Aran sighed heavily, for he knew in his heart that he would never be happy with any other woman than Alissa—for to be with any other would be a deception to his heart, and he hoped hers.

  “No,” he whispered aloud, in answer to the silent spirits of his ancestors, “This cannot be borne! I must put forward Alissa’s name to Maran. I don’t care what the Council or mages have decided. If Alissa will accept me I will claim her for my own. I will not accept any other of lesser worth.”

  So resolving he turned his back on the night and succumbed to the insistent pull of sleep.

  *

  In his quarters on the floor above the royal rooms, Archmage Maran felt the great Keep of Andur cast instinctively its ageless protection around the last living heir of the Andurian line. The soul of the Keep had been absent for five generations, but finally it had returned. Maran thought about the dark and troubled days ahead and shook his head in weary dismay. This was not an auspicious time for a new king to begin his rule—unfortunately in this matter, the fates had decided otherwise.

  Maran believed that in Arantur, Warleader Andur walked again. Sighing, he shook his head and hoped belatedly that his gut instinct was right on this matter. If it wasn’t, then the province would suffer and be overwhelmed by her enemies as a result. Staring sightlessly into the candle flame, Maran knew there was rightness and strength in Arantur. He knew that there was no other man living who could have taken on this demanding role. From the first moment he had seen
Arantur at Glaive, he knew that the tides of destiny were pulling that young man ever forward. The blood and heritage that was the Andurian line was clearly evident in every gesture and look, and obvious in every word Arantur spoke. Maran inexplicably knew that he was seeing the spirit of Warleader Andur live again in the mind and body of his young descendant. Maran sighed again, and offered a brief prayer to the Goddess to look kindly upon Arantur and favour him with honour and good fortune.

  Maran sat back and stretched until his old joints cracked in protest. He had done all he could. It was now up to Arantur to do the rest. With a caress of the magepower, the Archmage snuffed out the candle and went to bed. Silence as heavy as night descended on Andur’s Keep.

  *

  Chapter 2—Riothamus

  “My Lord! An embassy has arrived.”

  Aran put down the spear he had been training with, and pushed back the helmet in order to see clearly.

  Almost a week had passed since that fateful day when he had been hailed as the last of the Andurian line. Slowly he was settling into a routine of training, and then afternoons of lengthy lessons and discussions of magecraft with the Archmage. Gradually he was accessing the magepower more easily, learning to break through his barriers and blocks with greater confidence. With the increasing mage knowledge, the Guard training was taking on extra dimensions, with Aran now easily out fighting even Captain Taran himself. With no one now to match him, Aran could only set himself goals of increasing quickness, accuracy and reaction time. He despaired every day the loss of the ancient Warriormages, for he knew that he could go much further in his power and fighting, yet he knew not how to do this. Maran was helping him with the general uses of the magepower, but even the Archmage himself could only guess how the ancient Warriormages achieved their legendary feats of prowess.

  “Who is it?” Aran asked, pulling off his nasal helm, mail coif and arming cap, and mopping the sweat from his brow. His fair hair was sweat sculpted darkly to his head by the rigours of the training, and he shook his head in the constant wind to free it.