The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (2 page)

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 cradled 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…”

He paused and
said quietly, “That man is you.”

Seeing Aran’s
darkening face, he hastened to add, “Prince, as the rightfully
throned King, with the possession of the magecrafted King’s Sword
and the Warriormage Ability, and finally with Andur’s blood
coursing through your veins we believe you have every chance of
success.”

“But first we
must reduce her power,” Aran added, “Otherwise there would be no
hope of stopping her.”

Maran nodded,
“Even if you were in the full season of your Kingship and
magepower, you would not be able to stand against her.”

Aran sighed
heavily, “I am yet not a king and as a Warriormage, I am but new to
my Ability…” he gazed across at the Archmage, “Yet I must do this
thing that you say can’t be done.” He paused and his face grew
grave, “After all that you have told me and enemy or not, I do not
know if I will be able to kill a woman.”

Alissa had
been listening unnoticed to the conversation but finally she could
keep quiet no longer.

“Not to do so
would be equivalent to you lying down in the path of their armies
and letting them slit your throat!” she stated furiously. “Prince
Arantur, this woman seems to have no redeeming qualities. She has
taken a Goddess-given Ability and warped it…used it to base and
bitter ends. The land will be well rid of her.”

Aran stared in
amazement at the vehemence in her voice.

“You as a
woman would condone the killing of another of your sex?” he asked
astonished.

Aran flinched
as he encountered the steel in her eyes, “Aye Aran,” she replied,
dropping all formality. “By her actions she has forsaken any kind
of allowance or favour from you. Kill her as you would kill a
bitch-hound running mad in the streets!”

The Archmage
and the others at the table stared at the young, golden haired
woman with new and respectful eyes. Aran, pulling a startled hand
through his hair, eyed Alissa nervously, wondering if he would ever
really know her.

Alissa walked
up to the high table, “My lords I beg your indulgence. Prince
Arantur and I need to talk… Privately”

Maran veiled a
quick smile behind his wrinkled hands and nodded.

Aran, bemused
by the sudden turn of events could only stand and follow Alissa out
of the great hall.

*

“Where are we
going?” he asked, following her swift progress through the
Keep.

“Upstairs!”
was her equally swift reply.

Aran dogged
her heels, startled yet again by the mercurial moods of his
friend.

Alissa paused
before the great twin oak doors of the throne room. Hesitantly she
touched the heavy brass handle, softly the doors swung open.

“Ah good...”
she breathed, “I was hoping it had been unlocked.”

Aran followed
Alissa into the darkened throne room, the magecrafted sword flaring
briefly as he entered.

“Come Aran,”
she called distantly “Help me remove these wooden shutters and get
these windows open. I warrant it’s as dark and stuffy as a tomb in
here.”

Aran,
following her example, began to pull down the wooden shutters from
the windows of the throne room, exposing a chamber heavily coated
in dust and cobwebs.

“It needs to
be aired,” she explained. “It’s been locked up, and I doubt if it’s
been cleaned properly in over three hundred years.”

Aran coughed
as the cool sea breeze began to move the dust around and into his
lungs.

“Why was this
place never cleaned?” he asked sneezing.

“Try not to
breathe too deeply,” Alissa advised seriously.

“But why was
it left this way?” he asked yet again.

Alissa turned
and Aran saw a dust smudge mark on her nose, “Because everyone
thought the Andurian line had died out, you idiot.”

Aran tried to
frown, “You can’t call me an idiot…I am to be your king.”

Alissa’s
eyebrows lifted at that, and she laughed for the first time that
morning.

“Why what’s so
funny?” Aran demanded of her, his mind in confusion at the
morning’s rapid turn of events.

Alissa smiled
and shook her head wryly, “Why…nothing at all, my Prince…”

Aran sighed,
if it took him his entire life he would never understand
Alissa.

“Right, now
it’s aired,” stated Aran as he stared at the dust motes swirling
and spinning through the narrow shafts of morning sun arcing in
through the windows. “So what is it that you wanted to talk
about?”

Alissa went
and sat on the step of the dais, where the two ornately carved
thrones had been placed.

“Look about
you Aran,” she said, “I want you to see your heritage.”

Aran sneezed
yet again, and for the first time stared about him at the throne
room. For several long moments he gazed and what he saw took his
breath away. The entire room seemed to have been constructed of
age-darkened oak with heavy tapestries and banners in rich colours
hanging from the walls. The thrones themselves were made from the
dark blackish-red bloodwood, additionally each chair had been
ornately carved and the carvings highlighted in gold-leaf and blue
sapphires. Dark blue, almost black, velvet covered cushions graced
the thrones, and embroidered upon the top of each cushion and
carved into the back of each chair was displayed the emblem of a
spreading oak tree. Aran noticed that many of the banners and
hangings featured the oak, and he assumed that it was the symbol of
the Andurian line.

“Look behind
you Aran,” Alissa said quietly.

Aran moved
around slowly, taking in the rich magnificence of the room. As he
espied the wall facing the thrones he stopped in wonderment.
Holding his breath in amazement, Aran walked slowly down to the far
wall where a series of murals had been painted upon the wood.

“Who are
they?” he wondered aloud.

Alissa had got
up off her step and had swiftly joined him.

“You should
ask that. You are the very likeness of the first man there,” and
she pointed to the far left portrait.

Aran walked
down and faced the mural. It depicted a man in his early thirties
with long dark-blond hair falling to his shoulders. The man had a
strikingly chiselled face with high, broad cheekbones and a square
jaw with an almost imperceptible cleft in his chin. Dressed in
chainmail, he was bareheaded and in his hand was a naked blade. It
seemed to be the same sword that hung from Aran’s hip. Aran stared
at the image of the man, and suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling
that those narrowed, yet direct grey eyes were gazing back—weighing
him, gauging him, judging his ability to be king.

“Warleader
Andur,” Alissa said quietly by his shoulder, “I understand that
this was painted just before his coronation as High King.”

Aran stared at
the image of his ancestor.

“I look like
him? I know that we both share grey eyes and fair hair, but…”

“Then stand
beside the mural…I would like to compare you with him,” Alissa said
firmly.