An Oath Of The Kings (Book 4) (3 page)

Is this it, then? Am I to die here on my floor never to see Kiernan or the rest of my family ever again? Never to make that belated apology?
The grim look on the Mage’s face told him that, yes indeed, his time had finally come.

Maximus glanced over at Sevant with sadness. A third Scarlet Saber dead in service to him. First Colbie Nash, then Darin Morel, and now Sevant Cree. If Maximus had not screamed out like a child at the cat for frightening him, Sevant wouldn’t have looked into his chambers. The Saber’s back would not have been turned as his murderer stealthily approached from behind.

Even now, Maximus could see Natasha sitting behind the Mage as he unsheathed his sword and lifted it above his head to deliver the killing stroke. The blade swung down and Maximus’s breathing hitched in his chest, both at the mortal pain inflicted by the blade and at the shimmering air that revealed a woman shifting out of the body of the cat.

Rogan Radek stopped his midnight run with his hands on his knees to catch his breath, but the unexpected sound of running footsteps on the road behind twisted him back around. Good thing, too. A troop of Iron Fists thundered toward him at a furious march, and he had to leap out of the way to avoid being trampled.

His glare went unnoticed as the soldiers passed by without a single glance in his direction.

He looked for Jala in the group, but didn’t see her.
What could they be about?
A training exercise? At this late hour? He gave a mental shrug. General Klay Arsten must have a reason for calling in his elite troops and whatever that might be did not concern him. In fact, nothing much
did
concern him these days. His children were grown. Reilly was off to Mage training and Jala, following in the footsteps of her mother, had joined the Deepstone Army a few years back and had recently been promoted to the Fists—a first for someone of her age and a first for a Dwarven female.

A smile pulled up the corners of his mouth at the thought of his daughter. Although no one knew yet except him and Janin, Jala was with child. The father-to-be, Teran Mathis, another Iron Fist, appeared just as thrilled as Jala. However, whenever he brought up the subject of marriage, Jala quickly squashed the discussion by reminding him that he had not married her mother until after both she and Reilly had been born. It was hard to argue the point. In any case, King Erik would provide enough of a diversion with his own royal wedding tomorrow.

Rogan watched the Fists disappear into the palace courtyard and walked around the back to avoid whatever was happening in the castle proper.

He sighed. As much as he took pleasure in the lives of his children, he had to admit that his own was quite lacking these days. As heir to the throne, he had been prevented from ever joining the military and there had been no further sea journeys with his
Savitar
friends since the debacle with the Ellvinians. Beck and Kiernan, as usual, were mired in the volatile politics of Iserlohn, and Airron was busy doing everything in his power
not
to become enmeshed in the governing of Haventhal.

Again, nothing to concern him, he reminded himself.

He made his way to the royal kitchens for a late snack, wondering what he could do to fill his day tomorrow. Perhaps he could talk Teran into sparring with him. An acclaimed metalshifter in his own right, the Dwarf could probably show Rogan a thing or two. It was rumored that the Fist could fashion a flawless blade out of slag within seconds. Rogan had never seen him do so, but had no reason to doubt the story.

And, if Teran took him up on his offer, it was possible that the right words whispered in the Fist’s ear might be enough to prod him into asking Jala to marry him sooner rather than later.
My daughter will thank me one day whether she knows it or not.
After all, Teran
did
have quite the respectable beard. Short yet, but full.

With his new plan in mind, Rogan arrived at the kitchens and ate his meal alone at the butcher’s block, ignoring the disapproving glances of the cook undoubtedly occupied with preparations for the wedding tomorrow. In order to avoid the scolding he saw coming, Rogan finished his food quickly and left.

He was surprised to see servants scurrying along the corridors on the way to his apartments.
Something is definitely going on.
He debated going to King Erik to find out, but in the end decided against it.

When he reached the second floor, he found Janin anxiously waiting for him along with the group of Iron Fists he had seen along the road.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, rushing toward him.

“Running. And, then eating. What’s going on?”

Before she could answer, two Fists grabbed his arms and turned him around. “Your presence is required in the Great Hall right away, Kal Rogan.”

The soldiers moved so fast, they were practically carrying him down the hallway.

“Let go of me! I’m more than capable of walking on my own two feet!”

The Fists ignored his protests and swept him down the stairs.

He wrenched his head around. “Janin!”

“I’m here,” she told him, walking behind him as quickly as decorum would allow.

Within moments, he was ushered directly into the Great Hall.

Rogan blinked in shock to find the room filled with many of the kingdom’s nobles—some still in their night robes! They silently lined both sides of the aisle emphasizing the empty throne at the end. Obviously, the King had gathered everyone to make some sort of important announcement.

A horrified gurgle escaped his throat as the Fists ran him up the aisle, onto the raised dais and plopped him down on Erik’s throne.

“What in demon’s breath is going on?” he swore out loud, the last word hanging in the air as a hollow echo in the vast chamber.

His questions continued to be met with silence.

General Klay Arsten, dressed in a ceremonial tunic, marched forward, the clicking strikes of his boots the only sound in the room. The gray-haired Dwarf crashed to his knees before the throne, unsheathed his long knife and held the weapon out in front of him. “By my oath, I swear to you my faithful allegiance. My sword is yours to command, my King.”

“My King?” Rogan leapt to his feet. “For the last time, I demand to know what is going on here. Where is King Erik?”

Klay stood up. “We will discuss that now, but I wanted you and all in this room to know that you are now under my protection.” He turned to face the crowd. “You now address the King of Deepstone! King Rogan!”

The people in the room gasped almost as loudly in his ears as his own sounded. “King Erik is dead?”

Klay turned back to him. “Yes, murdered, my King.”

Rogan looked up and noticed Janin slip into the Great Hall. He breathed a sigh of relief. In this world that had suddenly gone mad, her presence comforted him. “But, who would want to kill the King?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed.” The comment came from Gundar Fither, the Merchant’s Guildmaster and King Erik’s closest advisor. He stepped forward into the aisle wearing a blue silk dressing gown. “Let us discuss who would benefit the most from the King’s death,” he said with a pointed glare toward Rogan.

“Be careful with your words, Lord Fither,” Klay growled.

The noble waved a hand in the air. “An observation, General Arsten. Surely, we all wish to find out by any means possible who murdered our King.”

Rogan ignored Fither and turned his attention to Klay. “How was he killed, General?”

“Drowned in his bath.”

“Do we have the murderer in custody?”

“No. In fact, the Iron Fists had no inkling that a murder was even taking place until one of them heard a muffled shout, tried the door and found it locked. As they were trying to break it down, the assassin walked right out of the bathing chamber and disappeared.”

“Who would be so bold? I want that Dwarf apprehended! Tonight!”

“Not a Dwarf, my King, a man.” Nervous murmurs broke out. “And, not just a man, but a Mage.”

A Mage?
There were only thirteen sorcerers living on the island of Massa. Beck Atlan and the twelve
Dagarmon
of his new Order. But, none of them could so much as lift a finger to harm others. There was no possible way around their Mage oath.

The nobles began to voice the questions in his head.

“Doesn’t Iserlohn have Mages? Dagger something or other they call themselves.”

“Do you think the First Mage knows that one of his sorcerers has struck out against Deepstone?”

“How can we defend ourselves against magic?”

Rogan held up his hands before the discussion could spiral out of control. “We will not be defenseless for long,” he told them adamantly. “No one will ever convince me that Beck Atlan was aware of this attack, but it never really sat well with me that Iserlohn alone had an Order of Mages while Deepstone sat vulnerable.” He paused to ensure he had their attention. “As a result, I convinced King Erik to send Dwarves to train in sorcery.” His admission was met with firm nods of approval. No Dwarf ever wanted to be viewed as weak or inferior in any way. Especially, in the eyes of men. Rogan waited until the mumblings quieted before continuing. “Even Beck Atlan does not know yet that we will soon have six Dwarven Mages to call our own.”

“Hail King Rogan!”

It was Gundar Fither himself who started the cry and soon all of the nobles joined in.

In a subtle move, Janin joined him on the platform and he gave her a grateful nod. She was far more versed in the political formalities of Deepstone than he was. She lifted her arms high. “My fellow citizens! Step forward and deliver your oaths! We will mourn King Erik on the morrow, but today, my friends…today, we have a new King! Bring in the crown!”

Gentle hands pushed Rogan back onto the throne as a court servant rushed forward and placed the golden circlet upon his head.

Just a short time ago, Rogan had been wondering what to do with his days.

And now, he was the King of Dwarves.

“Please, Izzy, just one kiss,” the Elven boy wheedled.

Izzy Falewir wiggled her eyebrows and plucked a piece of hay from the boy’s long, silver hair. “I haven’t decided yet, Valint Strong.”

“Please, just one.”

“And, if my father decides to visit the stables for a late evening ride?”

Valint paled slightly at the mention of her father, but apparently decided the reward worth the risk. He pulled her tighter. “I’ll take my chances.”

She laughed, a light tinkle in the early morning air. “Very well. You may kiss me.”

Although no one was near, the boy looked around nervously before leaning in to place his lips on hers. She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the feel of his arms beneath her hands, his lean body pressing her up against the stable wall. She supposed it was pleasant enough. Better than the last two, anyway. All the girls agreed that Valint Strong was the perfect boy, in line to follow in his father’s footsteps as a Gladewatcher.
But, is he perfect for me? Will he be able to make me forget?

Only one way to find out.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and…it happened. Again.

Valint’s innocent features slipped away and took on a dark cast. His thin arms grew strong and muscular, his light hair and eyes were now black. She stiffened in place as the Ellvinian, Chandal, stared back at her. His specter loomed over her, a menacing presence, reaching for her with hungry fingers. Touching her. Hurting her. “No!” she screamed, pushing him away. “Leave me alone!”

Valint stumbled back. “What did I…?”

The dark image vanished at Valint’s spoken words.

“Go!” she yelled and turned away, mortified at her reaction. “Please just leave me alone!”

The Elven boy narrowed his violet eyes in anger. “My friends were right about you. You’re a nutter, aren’t you?”

“Just go,” she whispered.

“I never want to see you again,” he hissed and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Izzy sank down to the ground and pulled her long legs in tight to her body. She took deep, calming breaths to rid herself of the nightmare in her mind’s eye.
Demon’s breath, will I ever be normal? Will I ever be able to kiss a boy without seeing that horrible dark Elf?

She thought she had put that terrible experience behind her, but at fifteen years now and experimenting for the first time with boys and first kisses, repressed memories had recently began to bubble to the surface.

She groaned and put her head in her hands. Soon, it would be all over Sarphia how she sent another boy running from her. It didn’t take much to notice how the other girls her age pointed and whispered behind their hands. The humiliation kept her from confiding in her parents about her flashbacks. They couldn’t fix what was wrong with her and telling them would only make them worry.

If only Kane Atlan were here.

Her cheeks heated at the thought of the boy with the golden eyes. She wasn’t sure when childhood friendship had turned into something more, but for her it had.
Did he feel the same?
He did tell her he loved her once. But, if she was being honest, he had said it with a boyish ruffle to the top of her head. All who knew Kane, knew how painfully shy he was. Perhaps that was just his way of showing his affection. At least that’s what she told herself. She didn’t know if his kisses would be any different from any of the other boys, but she wanted to find out.

First I have to get to Nysa.

She had a sinking feeling that the dark Elf, Chandal, would pursue her no matter where she went, but at least by leaving Sarphia, she could deal with her torment away from people who knew her. Away from the ridicule.

The idea took root in her mind and she jumped to her feet.
Yes! That’s exactly what I’ll do! I’ll go to Nysa. On my own if I have to.
She paused and tapped her lips.
If only I had a friend to go with me. Why can’t I be like Kenley Nash and have my own Draca Cat?
Of course, that was the dream of every Elven child, but was it even possible? Would one of the magical beasts bond with a simple Elf girl like her? Oh, the adventures they could go on together! And, her cat would fiercely protect her from all the dangers in the world. From all the darkness.

The sound of running feet outside of the stables pulled her from her fanciful reverie and she ran to the window.

Two Haventhal soldiers raced toward the estate, shouting. “Lord Falewir! Urgent news! Lord Falewir!”

What in the Highworld is going on?

She opened the door, picked up the sides of her dress and raced after the two soldiers, keeping out of sight behind the trees surrounding the back of the estate.

Her father’s manservant, Quincy, came out of the house, pulling on those silly white gloves of his. “What is all this screaming about?” he demanded.

The soldiers pulled up short. “The King,” one said breathlessly. “The King is dead. Airron Falewir must be raised at once.”

The usually unflappable manservant blinked in surprise and a hand flew to his mouth. “The King? But, how?”

“A
Dagarmon
.”

A
Dagarmon
? Izzy had heard that name before but wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

“Are you telling me Iserlohn is behind this?” Quincy asked.

The soldiers shrugged their uncertainty.

Quincy mumbled a prayer to Elán for the death of the King and then quickly recovered. “I will have Lord Falewir at the King’s Round in a few moments for the raising. Tell Captain Oliver to ready the army. I am quite sure the command will be made to travel to Nysa at once.”

Izzy privately bid her King safe passage to the Highworld, but couldn’t help but recognize the opportunity that had just fallen into her lap.  

She no longer needed to run away. She would be traveling to Nysa with an army at her back.

****

Melania stood by the window with her night cloak pulled in tight around her throat. “What do you think that shouting was all about?”

Airron shrugged and stretched his long legs and arms in the bed. “Probably a few revelers left over from the Earthshine celebration. I wouldn’t worry overly much. Without a doubt, the pedantic Quincy is outside confronting the offenders as we speak.”

Melania snorted a laugh. “You two are more like rivaling siblings than manservant and lord.”

“You should have told me you were a package deal when we married.”

She turned from the window. “Oh, pooh. He puts on airs, yes, but I don’t know what the two of you would do without each other after this many years.”

A hard knock sounded outside their door and then Quincy’s shout from outside. “Lord Falewir! Open at once!”

Airron moaned. “Speak of a demon and he shall appear.” He got out of bed and followed Melania into the sitting room. As soon as she opened the door, Quincy rushed in along with two Haventhal Gardiens.

Airron stiffened, sensing that this was no ordinary visit.

“What is the matter, Quincy?” Melania asked.

“I’m afraid I have very bad news, my lady.” Quincy turned toward Airron and twitched his nose in distaste. “My lord.”

“Out with it, man. What’s happened?” Airron asked, planting his feet and crossing his arms at his chest.

One of the soldiers stepped forward. “King Thorn is dead, Lord Falewir. Murdered in his private gardens this evening.”

Melania let out a squeal of disbelief.

“Murdered?”

“Yes. The Gladewatcher on duty at the time claims a sorcerer came out of nowhere and attacked them in the gardens. The Mage tangled him up with a spell and then killed the King. A few moments after the assassin left, the spell dissipated, but it was too late.”

“A Mage?” Airron mused out loud, running a hand through his long hair. “That’s impossible. Beck Atlan assured me that the
Dagarmon
were marked.”

“Can we believe him?” Melania asked quietly.

His gaze snapped to hers. “Of course, we can believe him! I’ve known Beck since we were children, Melania. He’s like a brother to me as you very well know. Come now, the bloody man carried me across his back for leagues once to save my life!”

“That was many years ago.”

Violet eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am just pointing out that people change, Airron. Certainly, you don’t expect Beck to be the same man he was back then just as you are not the same as you once were.”

Airron rubbed his jaw. Her point would be well taken if they were talking about any other man. But, this was Beck Atlan.

“If Beck says the
Dagarmon
are marked, then they are marked. Regardless,” he said, moving toward the door, “this unconscionable act must be taken up with the Council of Kings. We cannot—” He stopped suddenly as the implication of King Thorn’s death sank in. “Wait, if Thorn…that means…”

“Yes,” Quincy muttered dryly and dropped to one knee, “you are now the King of Haventhal. Dear Highworld, help us all.”