King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1) Read online

  Arnaud smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure they are.”

  “I know that the boy, Oraeyn, is capable enough, and I know that training to be a knight is not easy work. I know that he is prepared, but it is Kamarie that I am worried about,” Zara said. “I know I shouldn’t, Oraeyn will look after her, and of course Darby will too, but she has never been out in the forest without a proper escort. I can’t help but think that at this very moment she is probably cold and frightened. The forest is not exactly the safest place in Aom-igh for her to be traveling. Maybe she should have stayed here.” Zara bit her lip and wrinkled her brow.

  King Arnaud laid a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I believe Kamarie is better suited to the journey than you might think,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “She is going to be fine. The trip to the village on the other side of the Mountains of Dusk is a long one, but I am sure that Oraeyn will get them to Peak’s Shadow safely. And when they get there, I have every confidence that Brant will be able to protect her. I sent him a message through Oraeyn, asking him to look after Kamarie and find her a safe place to stay until this threat is past.”

  Zara smiled wanly. “I know, I just worry. She is so headstrong, I suppose I worry mostly that she will refuse to be left somewhere safe, even by Brant… you know I have every confidence in his abilities, but it has been a long time, a very long time...”

  “I’m sure he has not forgotten how to take care of himself,” Arnaud smiled.

  Zara nodded and said nothing more. Despite his soothing words, Arnaud was filled with anxiety. He had not seen or had any contact with Brant for many years, and he was not even sure if the man was still living in the village of Peak’s Shadow. Brant had always been a wanderer, but that had been back in their much younger years, even before Arnaud had found himself the unsuspecting heir to the throne of Aom-igh and long before Brant had met Imojean and settled down into the simpler, peaceful life of a rancher and farmer.

  However, King Arnaud’s greater fear was that this lull in the storm would continue, that nothing would happen, and that they would all start to let down their guard. Then, when even he no longer expected an attack, the flood would come. He was not afraid of facing that flood, but he did fear that they could be swept away by it when they least expected it. The one certainty he had was that when the time came to take up arms, he would be there, fighting alongside his warriors.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the warm rays of light from the Dragon’s Eye peered over the horizon heralding the dawn of a new day, Brant awoke. As he pushed himself up, the tangles of half-remembered dreams and hours of deep sleep still clung to him as he stared at his surroundings in dazed confusion. Then the flood hit him as he remembered the events of the night before.

  He had stood in the rain and watched his house burn down until he could no longer hold sleep at bay. The events of the day had overwhelmed him, causing him to sleep more deeply than ever before. He had ended up falling asleep on the ground outside his house, and now he was covered in a layer of caked mud and soot.

  In a state of determined shock, Brant took a step towards the smoldering remains of his once happy home and then stopped as he realized that there was nothing left, nothing to salvage. Although his heart felt numb, the blazing fury from the night before when he had screamed into the storm was still smoldering in the depths of his heart. The difference this morning was that now he was thinking clearly. The rage and need for revenge was boiling beneath a cold layer of logic. He had once again taken on the mantel that had made him so dangerous so many years before.

  Turning away from the pile of blackened timber, Brant walked deliberately down towards the South Pasture. There was a pond bordering the edge of the South Pasture that served as a boundary between his own land and his neighbor’s. He could wash the mud, soot, and filth off his skin and from his clothes in the pond, and then he would ask Jonsten for the loan of a horse. He had his own horses, but he was certain his barn had been burned by his enemies. After that, he would go into the village for supplies and then he would hunt down these murderers. But right now his first step was to get to the pond without collapsing beneath the weight of despair.

  When he reached the water, he dove in. Staying under for as long as he could, Brant felt a welcome release from the horrors of the night before. It was peaceful and quiet under the surface of the water; he could not even hear the roaring in his ears that had started when he heard that first scream. He relaxed in the soothing grasp of the cool water, cradled in its embrace. He hung suspended in the darkness and the silence. Finally, Brant was forced to surface. He swam over to the far shore, letting the swimming motion through the water wash most of the mud from his clothes. He reached the shore on the other side of the pond and worked on cleaning the soot and dirt from his hair and clothes. When he was done, he was not prepared for what met his eyes as he looked up.

  A few hundred feet from the shore where Jonsten’s home had once stood was another pile of burned timbers, beams, and ashes. There was no sign of life anywhere around the remains of the house. In renewed horror, Brant quickly scanned the area, looking in the direction that his other neighbors’ houses were supposed to be standing. Instead of the pretty little homes, he only saw faint clouds of smoke where houses should have been. The rain had put out the fires, but some of the embers still smoldered, and thin wisps of smoke rose into the air. The realization that he was the only living person left in Peak’s Shadow dawned upon him, leaving him gasping for air. His village and his life had been turned into a pile of rubble overnight. There was nothing left now. Questions raced through his mind like stampeding horses. Was all of Aom-igh in danger, or had he been the sole target of this attack? One other idea was surfacing in the back of his mind; he tried to push it away, thinking it was ludicrous. But, could it be? Was it possible that the murderer was so determined to kill him that his very presence in this country was putting all of Aom-igh in danger? But that could not be, that would make the killer a madman, and Brant knew that the man who hunted him was anything but mad. He stared at the ruins of the village he loved in numb disbelief as water dripped down from his dark hair and rolled down his face.

  He had been so certain that he was the target of the attack, so certain that he knew his enemy, but this... could so much have changed over the years? Could his enemy’s jealousy have so consumed him that honor no longer had any meaning? Brant’s mind reeled and he changed his line of thinking, unwilling to contemplate what that might mean.

  Suddenly Brant let out a harsh and bitter laugh. If he had been the target, then his enemy, whoever he was, was a terrible marksman.

  Setting his jaw, Brant made a decision and headed back with long, determined strides past what had been his home without even glancing at it. He found the small mound that he was looking for and started digging. Two feet down, he hit something hard. Working more quickly now, he dug wider and finally was able to see the entire top of a long wooden box. With a little effort, Brant was able to pull the box out of the hole and set it on the ground next to him.

  Heaving a sigh filled with the weight of many memories, Brant knelt next to the box and ran his hand across the top of it. He hesitated when he touched the latch.

  “I buried this thinking I would never see it again, hoping I would never see it again. But something inside me could not believe that I would never need it again,” he muttered to himself. He breathed deep, and then shrugged the residue of the memories away.

  With no hesitation now, he turned the latch and lifted the lid. Inside the box were remnants of days that Brant had tried to forget, had tried to put behind him. A shirt of chain mail, a brightly shining sword that was deceptively plain-looking, a wickedly sharp throwing dagger, a shield with the design of a flame leaping out of a cluster of stars etched on the front in bright colors that seemed to mute the Dragon’s Eye itself, and a leather vest decorated with a miniature version of the same symbol.

  Brant rifled through the items; t
hen he lifted the sword out of the box and stood up straight. The hilt fit into his hand as though he had never laid the blade to rest. He went through a practice pattern with grace and perfection, almost as though sixteen years of forgetting had never occurred. With much less hesitation now, Brant pulled out the sword belt and strapped it around himself, sheathing the beautiful, but deadly, blade. He glanced at the shield longingly, but knew it was an impractical desire that he had, to bring it along with him; it would only hinder his progress. He also passed by the chain mail shirt in favor of the lighter, leather vest with his emblem of stars and flame imprinted on the left side. With not a little regret, Brant put the shield and shirt back in the box. Then he placed the box back in the hole and covered it up again.

  Finally, he headed towards his barn. He was relieved to find it still standing. It seemed it was the only building for miles that had escaped the devastation the rest of the village had been subjected to. The stables were a good distance from the house, down by the paddocks the sheep were herded into every night. A small hillock and a healthy line of pine trees stood between the house and the barn, which was most likely the only thing that had kept it from being burned to the ground like his home. Whatever the reason, chance or the guiding hand of Cruithaor Elchiyl, Brant muttered a quiet “thank you” as he slipped into the barn.

  “Easy, Legend,” he muttered softly to the big brown gelding inside the barn. As he spoke the horse’s name, he felt a pang. Schea and Kali had named the horse when he brought it home. He patted the horse’s shaggy neck and memories of his family flooded through his mind.

  Legend snorted and shook his head. Brant sighed and got the horse tacked up. Loading the horse’s saddle-bags with grain and weapons, Brant swung himself up onto Legend’s back and headed towards the mountains.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As Yole cautiously approached the ring of rock that was shooting light in all directions, he was frightened. It was a different emotion for him; he rarely ever felt frightened by anything. But this strange rock formation sent shivers of fear all through his body and made the skin on the back of his neck tingle in warning. And yet, the formation also fascinated him. He was entranced by curiosity. He moved towards it against his own will. He could not control his own legs; whatever the ring was guarding was singing, calling to him, a call he could not resist.

  He crept closer, closer, always closer to the opening in the ring of rock, until finally he was standing right in front of it. He stopped, uncertain, feeling as though he were trespassing on forbidden territory; but he had come this far, and he could not turn back now. He took another step and then he was standing in the opening, gazing towards the interior of the naturally formed room. Now the light was so bright it was blinding him. Another step and he was inside the ring with the treasure it guarded. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he saw that it came from a table-like pillar in the middle of the small room. A ring of golden flames, which accounted for the eerie, life-like quality of the light, surrounded the table. Lying in the middle of the table was an object that Yole could not see clearly. He was filled with an insatiable desire to move forward to get a better look at it, but the sensation of fear returned and stopped him in his tracks. Frozen, he stood there for a moment, and then he reached deep down inside himself and found a tiny remnant of courage.

  He approached the table, as close as he could get without being burned. In the middle of the table lay a sword. The blade was pure gold. The firelight made it shine and shimmer. The hilt was plain, almost nondescript, but then Yole rubbed his eyes and stared again. Because of the gleaming brightness flashing from the golden blade, the hilt was overwhelmed at first glance but closer inspection proved that it was made out of translucent silver. A brown strap of leather was wrapped around the hilt, making it easier to grasp. The sword was grace and beauty incarnate, and Yole wondered how many people had fallen to this lethal blade’s bite. The edge gleamed as though just sharpened, and the deadly point made Yole shudder as his gaze fell upon it.

  In a trance, Yole reached for the beautiful sword. As he stretched his hand out to grasp the hilt, a dancing flame reached up and singed his arm, jerking him out of his dazed state. With a yell, Yole leaped back from the table, rubbing his arm. The sword was beyond his reach.

  “The fire...” Yole narrowed his eyes. Was it possible that the fire had reacted with a will of its own? Keeping his eyes on the flames, Yole again reached towards the sword. A flame blazed brighter and Yole snatched his arm back just in time, but the fire followed his movement and only subsided after his arm was safely back at his side. Yole whistled, his eyes big. The message was clear: he could look, but he was not allowed to touch this strange sword.

  He wondered to whom the sword belonged. “What master craftsman formed this blade?” he asked aloud. “And from what did he form it?”

  “A dragon’s tooth.” The reply echoed around the cavern and caused Yole to jump in sudden fear. He fled the ringed formation and hid behind a boulder, his heart racing. He had been trespassing, and now the guard of the ring would make him pay for trying to take the treasure.

  A very old man emerged from behind the ring of light and looked directly at Yole’s hiding place. “Do you wish to know the secret of the sword or not?”

  Yole crept out from behind his rock. “Y-yes.”

  “The blade was created from a dragon’s tooth. And the hilt was made from a dragon’s scale.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say about it? You’re not going to tell me why the sword is here or who made it?”

  “I only answer questions that I am asked, I don’t read minds.”

  “Please, please tell me.”

  “It’s a story you want, I see. Well, children normally do enjoy these types of things. Very well,” the robed figure said. “I shall answer your questions.”

  Yole did not like being called a child, even by this very old man. However, he did not say anything to contradict him for fear that he would not continue.

  “The sword that you gaze upon in wonder was made many years ago when dragons were plentiful and humans did not fear them so much.”

  “When was that? Haven’t the dragons been gone for a long time? It’s so rare to see one,” Yole could not help interrupting.

  The old figure paused, “I said it happened a long time ago… six centuries ago, that’s not the point. There came a time when King Llian of Aom-igh faced invasion from his enemies. The Dark Country had arrived on his shores, bent on conquering Aom-igh and making it their own, and they were winning. In desperation, King Llian journeyed into the Mountains of Dusk where he beseeched the King of the dragons to come to his aid. The dragons consulted among themselves and decided they could not fight in this war. They did not fear the Dark Country, although perhaps they should have. Instead, they agreed that they would make a sword for this human king that might help him defeat his enemies. They told him to return three days hence.

  “After Llian left, the King of the dragons sacrificed one of his sharp teeth and one of his silver scales. Deep in the heart of these very mountains the dragons forged the golden blade you saw within the ring, and from the scale they created the hilt. With tooth and scale they forged a unique weapon of power and presented this gift to the grateful, yet still uncertain, King Llian.

  “The wizard Scelwhyn created a special sheath for the blade and binding for the hilt, and King Llian carried this treasure into battle. The blade is infused with dragon magic, and since King Llian had considerable power running through his own veins, the sword became a weapon of great might in his hands; with it, he defeated his enemies and chased them out of his country.

  “However, even good kings do not live forever. Years later, when King Llian lay on his death bed, he made one last request of his great friend, Scelwhyn. Thus, the wizard created this cave as a protection for the great blade so that no one would be able to mis-use this weapon. He built the strange rock formation you entered and infus
ed it with magic that would protect the sword. As you have seen for yourself, the sword cannot be removed from that table.”

  “But surely there must be some way for the sword to be removed!” Yole cried in dismay.

  “Yes, there certainly is one way. The only one who can take the sword from that table is King Llian himself.”

  “But… but you just said that King Llian died.”

  “Would you stop interrupting and let me finish? The only one who can take the sword from that table is King Llian himself, or one of his direct descendants. However, since the line of the kingship has become so tangled and twisted, who knows if any, or even one, of his direct descendants still exists. Perhaps the sword and its aid have truly been lost to us forever.”

  “Isn’t King Arnaud descended from Llian?”

  “No,” the old man replied. “I believe he is descended from Llian’s brother, Veli.”

  Yole pondered that a moment. “So if the sword can only be held by one of the direct descendants of King Llian…”

  “Ignorant child! The sword can be held by anyone who wishes to hold it. Why do you think King Llian ordered this spell to be cast? He desired to keep it out of the wrong hands! The sword will obey any master. King Llian and his chief wizard knew this, and they foresaw what evil use the blade could be put to.”

  Yole blinked. Then a new question occurred to him. “How do you know all of this?”

  The figure laughed. “Because I am a dragon!”

  Then, before Yole could recover from his shock and disbelief, there was a flash of light and when Yole had recovered enough to look around, he saw that the robed figure had vanished. Yole searched the cave and looked behind the rocks and the stalagmites, but the figure, the… dragon...? had completely disappeared.