King Of The North (Book 3) (6 page)

The boy charged forward, barely missing Adder with his feint and counter. Adder dodged correctly, recognizing the fighting technique, and parried the blade with his own. The two stepped back and took defensive stances again.

"You're are skilled, thief," the boy said. "I am impressed."

"Thank you," Adder replied smiling. "I've seen that move before. It was around my ninth birthday. I dodged it then, too."

The boy scowled, and attacked again, this time with a surprise back slash that started as a wild vertical strike. Again, Adder dodged.

"My grandmother showed me that one," Adder taunted him.

"I am the Prince, fool," Eogan said. "You are fighting your future master."

"In that case," Adder continued. "I hope you will improve your fighting skills, Prince Fool."

Eogan, enraged, struck again, this time with a triple attack. He slashed vertically, then back up at an angle. Adder parried the first two attacks. The final slash caught him in the shoulder as Eogan leaped to the side and attacked with an inward strike. Adder grimaced as the blade sliced through his flesh, and his arm reacted on its own, swiping back as Adder stumbled forward. The blade struck Eogan in the face, slicing through the flesh and cleaving his brow all the way down to his lips.

Eogan dropped his sword and clasped his face in pain, falling to his knees. Kassir rushed forward to attack Adder, but was stopped short by the dagger that Jhayla had thrust into his heart and quickly withdrew. He stiffened immediately, his eyes open wide in shock, and fell back into the dirt. Jhayla caught Adder as he stumbled, looking back at the howling Prince Fool.

"You bastard!" Eogan hissed through his fingers. "You will pay for this!"

Adder stumbled back in his direction, swinging his sword wide to finish him off. But  the Prince threw something to the ground, and disappeared in a flash of light. Adder's attack went wild, and the thief tumbled to the ground as he lost his balance.

Jhayla went to him, kneeling over him as he rolled over. "Are you alright, Fordran?" she asked, calling him by his real name.

Adder groaned, gripping his lacerated arm. "That hurt," he said. "That will take awhile to heal."

"Stand up, man," Jhayla said as the rest of the thieves gathered around to help. "We'll take you to Argan. They have the best healers."

Adder nodded, sitting up and grabbing his sword. "Well," he said, looking up at his companions. "Just because it was my arm doesn't mean I want to walk there."

Jhayla smiled, motioning for the others to help the stricken thief and carry him to Argan. Adder would heal, she knew, but the fight had raised many questions. Who was this young man who claimed to be the Prince? The Prince of what? As far as anyone knew, the Queen was childless. There would be no Prince.

Shaking her head, she followed the rest of the band, going over the many possibilities that crossed her mind. Whoever this Prince was, Adder was now his worst enemy.

Chapter Six

The assassin awoke in a strange place, his eyes snapping open at the faint sound of his own heartbeat. He was submerged in a warm liquid that was lit with a dim, orange light. Fearing that he would drown, he immediately kicked his legs in a panic, propelling himself upward. Above, bright light poured through an opening near the surface, and he focused on it as he swam toward it to escape.

When he was on the verge of taking a lungful of the thick liquid, he pushed upward with one last kick, breaking through the surface to the open air. He gasped for breath, propping himself up by resting his arms on the rim of the opening he had just broken through. He kept his eyes closed as he fought for breath. Though he knew he was getting air, the feel of it entering his lungs was painful. It was as if he were taking his very first gulps of air with newborn lungs.

Finally catching his breath, and becoming accustomed to the feel of the air moving through his lungs, he pulled himself up and out of the hole, collapsing onto the hard, stone ground. He felt weak, helpless, and confused. He remembered nothing; who he was, where he had come from, and what his life had been, if anything. He knew he was an assassin, but, for whom, he couldn't guess. He didn't even know his own name, or if he even had one.

The assassin opened his eyes. His face was pressed against a floor made of stone blocks, brown like clay, and perfectly formed. Above, the sky seemed odd, as if it were the sky of an alien world, or even the inside of something huge. There were no clouds, no winds, and not a sound could be heard.

He propped himself up on his hands, struggling to stand. He realized he was naked, and he covered himself with his palms as he looked around. In either direction, as far as he could see, the block flooring continued. He was in an absolutely featureless land, with no sky, and no clothes on his body.

Garret,
a voice said.

He looked around, seeking the source of the voice. It sounded like a woman, and she had said a name. Was it
his
name?

"Where are you?" he called out.

Come to me, Garret.

He looked around, scanning the horizon for any features; structures, trees, or any break in the monotonous blocks. Nothing.

"Where are you?" he called again.

Follow my voice. I am here, waiting for you.

He began walking in the direction he thought was the voice's origin. He went slowly, unsure of whether he was awake or dreaming. Nevertheless, he continued toward the voice.

"Who are you?" he whispered, somehow knowing she would still hear.

You know me, Garret. Come to me.

The voice sounded familiar. He had definitely heard it before, in some other time, some other place. But its familiarity was still unknown.

"I am coming," he said. "But I do not know where I am going."

Just follow my voice. I am here.

He trudged onward, feeling the stone blocks beneath his feet. They were beginning to become cool and slightly damp, and a light mist was building in the distance. It became thicker as he approached, and he could feel the humidity begin to build up on his skin. Eventually, he became enveloped within it, nearly blinded by how thick it was. Despite this, it was not at all uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. It was warm, yet cool at the same time. Just the right temperature to keep him comfortable and refreshed.

Shadows began to appear ahead, dark shapes like trees and small structures. The block work began to give way to rough gravel, then small pebbles, and finally, to soft, supple soil. Suddenly, he walked through the mist to a clearing.

The area was green, filled with lush vegetation, gleaming, white gazebos and pathways, and soft grass that soothed his aching feet. Above, the sky was blue, with few clouds, and the sun was a welcoming source of natural light. In the center of the clearing, there stood a fountain. It was carved of white marble, with veins of gold and black, and overgrown with supple, green vines. The edifice featured a statue of an unknown being, complete with wings, a healthy, muscular male build, and a pitcher from which fresh water poured.

The assassin approached the water and dunked his hands into its surface. It was cool and crystal clear, and when he drank it deeply, it tasted sweet. The very feel of it going down his throat filled his body with renewed energy and strength. He took several more mouthfuls before sitting on the fountain's edge and relaxing in the sun.

Is this more to your liking, my child?
the voice asked.

"What is this place?" he asked.

You are in my garden, Garret. I have brought you here to heal.

"I am not sure what you mean," he said. "Heal from what?"

You do not remember anything?

He thought for a moment, trying to reach into his mind to pull, at least, some kind of memory from it. He shook his head, furrowing his brow. "I do not."

Do not despair. When your heart is ready, it will all come back to you. For now, you must rest and regain your strength. That is why I brought you here.

He stood, looking up at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious being who spoke to him. "Where are you?" he asked. "Who are you?"

I am all around you. I am the ground, the trees, the birds in the sky, and the water you drink.

"I don't understand."

You will. In time.

"Who am I?" he asked, the question nagging at his mind.

You are Garret. You are my son now, and you will be my hands.

"Your hands?" he repeated. "What do you mean?"

You know what you are. What you are best at. I have comforted you in my womb, given birth to you again, that I may use you to fight this battle.

Garret swallowed hard, still uncertain as to her purpose. "I am an assassin," he said flatly.

Yes. You are the Scorpion. You have killed for kings, Queens, and merchants. And now, you will kill for me.

Eamon dreamed of his Mother. He was in her chambers, watching her give birth to the infant that would become the Onyx Dragon. He stood silent, hearing her groans and screams as the oddly-shaped child emerged from her womb. It was black, scaled, and cried with the fury of The Dragon himself.

He knew this was just a metaphor. He was not born this way. He was a normal child, completely human in appearance, as, of course, he would be. But this vision served to remind him that he was not an ordinary child, but was destined for something else. He knew this, Siobhan knew this, and Garret knew this, as well.

The assassin stood near the bedside as Siobhan gave birth. The handmaidens and midwife scolded him, demanding that he comfort Siobhan as she lie in pain. Like any man, Garret was apprehensive and frozen stiff at the event he was forced to witness. Eamon chuckled as he watched Garret occasionally turn a greenish hue, covering his mouth to avoid vomiting.

For an assassin who had killed hundreds of men, Eamon mused, Garret had a rather weak stomach for the rigors of childbirth.

"He's almost out, my Lady," the midwife said. "Just one more push and he'll be comin'"

Siobhan grunted and groaned, pushing with all her might. The baby's legs finally came out, and the midwife smiled as she held the child up for all to see. The room was filled with smiles, and one oddly sick individual who was on the verge of collapsing. Siobhan received the child, holding it close to her bosom. Its sharp fangs sought out her breast, and she offered it as a mother would.

"What'll you name him?" a handmaiden asked.

Siobhan looked to Garret, whose expression hadn't changed. He seemed unconcerned with anything but keeping his breakfast down. He gasped, pursing his lips, and shook his head.

"I think I will name him Eamon," Siobhan said. "After his great, great grandfather."

Garret smiled, nodding.

"Eamon is a fine name, my Lady," the midwife said. "Now, we will leave you in peace."

Eamon watched the handmaidens go, staying for a brief moment to watch his mother and Garret admire the baby she held. Knowing it was still a dream, he turned and followed the handmaidens out the door. They faded away as he walked behind them, replaced by the vision of an empty hallway.

Then, a small boy ran through, dashing past him with a playful gait. Eamon turned, seeing a slightly older Garret chasing the boy, laughing to himself as he pretended to be outrun. The boy giggled as Garret caught up to him and snatched him up. Eamon felt warmth in his heart as he watched, remembering the games he and Garret used to play.

He followed them into the Queen's chamber, where he saw himself yet again. He was around the same age as he was in the last vision, but he was now with the Queen. She was kneeling down, adjusting the young Eamon's formal clothing. It would be the Prince's first day accompanying her in court, and his appearance was important. She straightened his tunic, tightened his belt, and used a licked finger to wipe a smudge off of his face. The young Eamon winced and wiped the moistness from his cheek, scrunching his face in disgust.

Eamon chuckled to himself as he watched, remembering full well the annoying "spit wipe" that mothers always used.

"Eamon," a voice said to his left. He turned to look down the hallway, seeing his mother standing near the doorway to Maedoc's tower. He looked back into her chambers, finding them empty.

"Eamon," she said again. "Come to me, my son."

Siobhan was looking straight at him, as if she saw him as plain as day.

"Can you see me?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied. "You're standing right there."

He swallowed, walking toward her as she beckoned him. His heart pounded in agony just seeing her face. He longed to be in the comfort of her embrace one last time. It had been so long, it seemed, since he had felt her love in person. He missed her deeply.

She smiled as he approached, holding her arms out to receive him. When he leaned in close, she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. Her embrace brought him to tears, driving away all fear, anger, and loneliness. He felt nothing but her love.

"I've missed you," she said. "Though I know you are doing what you were meant to do. It doesn't make your absence any easier."

"I've missed you, too, Mother," he cried. "And my world is nothing without you."

"You must not think that way, my son. You are the King now, and the world is yours to protect. Your people need you."

"I will not be King until Eirenoch is united."

She pulled him closer, holding him tighter. "You will succeed," she said. "I know you will. But you must do this without me. You are more than capable of ruling without my counsel. And your men trust you. I am very proud of you, and Garret would be, too."

"I miss him as well," he said. "He was the only father I have ever known."

Siobhan smiled, kissing Eamon's cheek. "He loved you as a son," she said. "And he was proud of you, too." She pulled back, looking Eamon in the eyes. "But we are gone now, my son. And you must not stray from your path. Do not hold in your fears or your sorrow. Let them out. Let them be free. Only by doing so will you be able to move on."

Eamon shook his head. "I don't understand."

"Even great kings weep, Eamon. Your grandfather wept when your grandmother was revealed to be the witch she was."

Eamon contemplated her words. He knew she was right. He could not hold in his emotions forever. They would build to the point where they interfered with his judgment. Such things were the death of kings.

"I knew the precise moment when you were killed," Eamon muttered. "And I know how it happened."

"You must not despair. Do not be angry with Garret. It was not his fault. He was tricked by magic, as was I."

"I do not blame him," Eamon said. "He was carrying out your wishes, despite his better judgment. I understand why he was in such a great state of shock when he was killed."

Siobhan smiled, holding Eamon's head in her hands as she looked into his eyes again. "He was in shock, yes, but the reasons why were much greater than my death."

"Then why? What was it. Why did he not defend himself?"

Siobhan released him, turning to ascend the flight of stairs into Maedoc's tower. "I must go," she said. "And you must awaken. Seek your answers without asking questions. For, the more questions you ask, the more questions will be raised."

"Wait..." he begged, sadly watching the door close behind her. He reached out to grasp the handle, but his hand simply passed right through it. Desperate, he placed his hands on the door to see that it was solid. He pounded on the wood, begging it to open. But it was to no avail. Siobhan was gone, and he was left in the dream.

Eamon opened his eyes, sitting upright in his bed. He felt alone in the darkness as he swung his feet onto the floor. The emotion coursed through him, clouding his thoughts and his vision. Nothing made sense anymore, and now, he was even more bewildered.

He sighed, letting his head fall into his palms. Alone in his bed-chamber, for the first time since his mother's death, he wept.