War for the Sundered Crown (The Sundered Crown Saga Book 2) Read online

  Firebound Books presents

  The Sundered Crown Saga: Book Two

  Firebound Books

  “Asphodel, Sword of righteousness I cast thee from the grasp of mortals for no man should wield thy power”

  – The Champion Alectae, following the murder of King Marcus the Mighty, the second year after the fall of the Golden Empire

  Map

  View larger map

  Prologue

  The figure moved silently through the darkness.

  The King’s Spire was thought to be impregnable; but for the right coin, anything could be breached by the Fleetfoots. The thief sneaked forward until he reached the base of the Hall of Treasures. The vast vault held the item his paymaster sought.

  Carefully, he took the rope hanging from around his shoulders and affixed a grappling hook to one end. He loaded the other end into a crossbow, which he slid from the holster on his back. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger. The snap of the crossbow’s string was deafening in the stillness of the night. With a satisfying clink, the grapple hook bit into the stonework of the Hall. The thief sighed in relief; no one came to investigate.

  The vault’s heavy iron doors were said to be unbreakable, but no one said anything about the stained glass windows placed high on the Hall’s walls. The thief pulled the rope and grunted in satisfaction; it had anchored itself successfully. With agility that comes with constant practice, the thief nimbly clambered up the rope. At the top, he paused, listening for any sign of the guards. He smiled. There was only the sound of the wind.

  The thief reached into his leather tunic and pulled out a small knife. He ran a gloved finger along its edge and smiled as the diamond encrusted blade glinted in the moonlight. With deft movements, he cut a hole in the base of the large glass window. Once done, he gently pushed the glass; it fell away cleanly. He carefully placed the glass onto the tiled roof under his feet, before crouching down and squeezing through the hole he had made.

  He now found himself in the rafters of the Hall. Below him was a large open space. The floor was made from the finest marble, and the walls and ceiling were covered in gold leaf. It was an impressive place, but that was not why the thief had come. He turned and pulled the rope inside.

  A dozen pedestals stood in the Hall, each displaying something valuable. Precious stones and gold jewels glinted in the moonlight. Licking his lips, the thief anchored the hook once again before tossing the rope down to the floor. With casual grace, he slid down the rope to the ground.

  One by one, he checked the pedestals. Each held ancient books or precious jewels, covered by glass cases. All of them except one.

  The thief felt his heart quicken as he spotted his prize.

  In the centre of the Hall was a pedestal topped with a red velvet cushion. Upon that sat a stone. It looked like a piece of slate, of no importance whatsoever, and yet the thief’s contractor had offered him a fortune for stealing it.

  He cut open the glass case and removed the stone, tucking it into the pouch hidden inside his tunic. Smiling, he hurried back to the rope and climbed back onto the roof. Again, he pulled up the rope from inside and threw it down into the courtyard below.

  With catlike grace, he slid back down to earth, careful to not make any noise. If he had timed things right, then the guardsman was still making his rounds on the other side of the Spire. Quickly, he gathered up the rope, slung it back over his shoulder and sneaked back the way he had come. With a little luck, no one would notice his incursion until the dawn.

  * * *

  A tall, black cloaked figure was waiting at the crossroads just outside the city. It had taken the thief an hour to get out of the capital without drawing any unwanted attention. Whistling merrily to himself, the thief strode down the road, a lantern lighting his way. Upon seeing the cloaked figure he hesitated.

  “Do you have it?” the figure asked, his voice quiet and menacing.

  The thief nodded, pulling the stone from his tunic.

  “I do indeed, friend,” the thief bragged smugly. “It was surprisingly easy, if I do say so myself. For all the talk, the Hall of Treasures was not that hard to crack.”

  The cloaked figure took the stone from the thief’s grip. It stared at it and chuckled. No kindness was in the sound – just wicked malevolence.

  “Er … so where’s my pay?” the thief said, a knot of fear slowly worming its way into his guts. The figure was scaring him.

  The chuckling stopped.

  “Here is your pay,” the figure replied. It snapped its fingers.

  Out of the shadows stepped other figures, their cloaks the colour of crimson. The thief tried to scream as they pulled out knives and plunged them into his flesh.

  As the thief was being murdered, the cloaked figure smiled.

  “You have doomed all the world, thief, and its fall shall be glorious to behold.”

  1.

  The girl whimpered as the jeering crowd roared with hatred. Men, women and even the children she had grown up with. All were there; all had hate in their eyes and vile words spewing from their mouths. She cried out as strong hands shoved her forward; the force of the blow sending her crashing to the mud. The street wound its way through the village and led to an ominous wooden scaffold. The girl’s white dress was now covered with mud and filth.

  “Keep moving, witch,” the guardsman growled. With one hand, he violently grabbed the girl’s golden hair and hauled her back to her feet. In his other hand, he held a long spear, which he used to shove back those in the crowd who drew too close. Behind him were a dozen other guards, each escorting a similarly terrified prisoner.

  Rotten fruit and excrement flew from the screaming crowd and pelted the pitiful prisoners. Some tried to shield their faces; others simply accepted the extra insult. Finally, the sad procession reached the scaffold. A dozen nooses hung from the wooden frame.

  The guards roughly shoved their charges into place behind each of the hoops. One terrified man pleaded with the baying crowd. Another pissed himself. Fear was evident all around. Once all of the prisoners were lined up and stood on square wooden blocks, a large man with a black hood upon his head stepped up onto the scaffold. Upon seeing the executioner, the crowd’s cries grew more excited; they knew that death was fast approaching.

  The hangman stood silent. He raised his arms to the sky to quiet the crowd. The guards formed a line in front of the gallows, their spears pointed outwards towards the increasingly excited mob. A tall man adorned in a long leather coat and purple trousers stepped forward from the sidelines. His long gaunt face was fixed with a long bony nose, thin lips and cruel grey eyes. A wicked smile creased his lips as he stared at the pitiful prisoners. The magistrate had long ruled the village with an iron fist.

  “Behold! Here stand those who have deceived us all,” the magistrate shouted above the roars of the crowd. “These wretches who made you believe that they were just like us. These villains have broken the sacred law; they have hidden their wicked powers from us and the eyes of Niveren. Magic users brought doom upon Eclin; they brought doom upon the world!

  “Under the laws of our King, Alderlade the First, you are all sentenced to die!”

  The man gestured to the hangman. The prisoners screamed in terror as one by one the hooded man kicked away the blocks. The first to die was the blonde girl; the snap of her neck could be heard above the crowd’s shouts. As the executioner reached his last victim, the yells had stopped. The horror of it all had finally sunk into the minds of the villagers.

  Women wept while the men stared on, white faced and ashamed.

  The final
prisoner stared out over the crowd, his shoulder length black hair hanging loose over both his shoulders and the rope about his neck. A scar ran down his right cheek. His brown eyes stared at the crowd. To the people’s surprise, the man chuckled.

  “Something funny, worm?” the magistrate snarled.

  The condemned man’s chuckle turned into a mocking laugh. He turned his fierce gaze upon the magistrate.

  “You’re all going to die, you fool. Whilst you wasted time arresting magic users, the Fell Beasts that I have spent the past week hunting have entered your village. You have condemned me, Ferran of Blackmoor, the only man who can save you from death. I find that ironic and amusing.”

  A scream came from the rear of the crowd. Another sounded, and then another. Soon the villagers began to push and surge forward towards the scaffold. Over the sounds of panic came unearthly roars. The magistrate’s face drained of colour.

  “Cut me free, you fool, or this whole village will be destroyed!” Ferran snapped. “And bring me the items you stole from me. I’m going to need them to save your wretched hides.”

  The magistrate stared in horror as a pack of snarling beasts appeared down the muddy street. Squat, brown creatures stalked their way towards the scaffold. Their long talons held an assortment of iron weapons, and saliva dripped from their fang-filled jaws. Upon their heads, the creatures wore material stained with the blood of their victims. This bloody trophy gave them their name: redcaps.

  The magistrate bellowed at the hangman, who was holding an axe in his large hands. The man’s fear was evident even through his thick black executioner’s hood.

  “Free him! Cut him down hurry!” the magistrate yelled, his voice filling with panic. One of the goblin-like creatures had cornered a petrified woman against the scaffold and was advancing menacingly towards her.

  The hangman swung his axe, the blade slicing clean through the rope tied above Ferran’s head.

  Ferran sighed in relief as the pressure eased about his neck. Angrily, he removed the knotted material from his throat and threw it to the ground.

  “My affects if you please, Magistrate,” he demanded, holding his hand out to the terrified man.

  “Here, take your things! If you get rid of these beasts I will spare you, I promise!” the magistrate pleaded as he handed Ferran a sack containing his valuables.

  Ferran tipped the contents of the sack onto the ground, sighing in relief as he saw the hilt of his tourmaline sword. The magic item was the weapon of all Nightblades. When inactive, it looked just like the hilt of an ordinary sword; but activated by the power of a Nightblade, a bright blade of pure magic burst into life. It was a weapon made to fight dark magic, and nothing was darker than the Fell Beasts of the Void.

  The hangman turned and fled, pushing the magistrate to the ground in the process. The tall man scrambled about in the mud in a desperate attempt to regain his footing. But before he could regain his balance, a snarling redcap leapt onto his back. The magistrate screamed as the beast plunged its dagger-like teeth deep into his neck.

  Ferran simply watched. As far as he was concerned, the magistrate was getting what he deserved. He was the murderer of innocent men, women and children. He was a man who ordered the deaths of people simply because they were different.

  After a brief struggle, the magistrate’s pitiful cries stopped and the redcaps started gorging themselves on his flesh. Slowly, Ferran moved away from the horrific scene and jumped from the scaffold. There were too many redcaps for him to fight alone. This village was doomed, but he was not sad to see it so.

  Using the skills of his trade, he snuck out of the village, doing his best to ignore the pitiful screams of the folk who had moments before been lusting for his death.

  He ran from the chaotic scene, jumping over a low fence to reach the open fields beyond.

  Ferran refused to look back. The smell of smoke drifted on the breeze as the monsters torched the doomed village.

  2.

  Sunguard

  Luxon watched the bustling city below. The people looked like ants as they scurried back and forth, and from his high vantage point from the top of the King’s Spire they even looked the same size as the tiny tenacious insects. He had only visited the rebuilt palace twice in the past five years – once to visit the king, and the other at the behest of Caldaria’s grand master.

  During his first visit, the Spire had only been half-complete, and on his second the final additions had been hastily made. The Spire towered over Sunguard and offered spectacular views of the huge city below, and the expanse of countryside outside the high walls. On the horizon, he could just make out the outline of the distant sea port of Kingsford. If he stood on a balcony on the opposite side of the tower, he would have been able to see the clear calm waters of the Ridder River. He stepped back from the railing he was leaning on and stretched his back. He had been waiting for over an hour and his patience was wearing thin.

  “You sure you don’t want some of this pie?”

  Luxon smiled as he turned and walked back inside. On one of the waiting room’s ornately decorated chairs sat his best friend. Yepert had grown taller in the past few years, but his waistline was still wide. Food would always be his passion.

  “Maybe later,” Luxon replied as he sat down on another of the room’s dozen or so pieces of furniture.

  “You would have thought the council would offer you some respect and not keep us waiting for so long,” Yepert said through mouthfuls of blueberry pie. His mouth was already covered in the blue fruits juices. “I mean you’re a wizard and the hero of Eclin.”

  Luxon ran a hand through his sandy blond hair and blew a raspberry in exasperation.

  “Only a few people call me that, Yepert,” he sighed. “Most just blame me for what happened. If it weren’t for me there would be no dragons terrorising the Western lands or Fell Beasts marauding unchecked throughout the realm.”

  For a brief moment in time, Luxon had been hailed a hero for his actions at Eclin. Together with his friends and the brave men of Balnor, he had defeated the dark wizard Danon and saved the boy who now sat upon Delfinnia’s throne. It had not taken long however before his name was used with scorn and anger. The tear, which had opened upon Luxon and Danon’s escape from the Void, had unleashed countless Fell Beasts and other long forgotten horrors onto the world.

  He was snapped out of his thoughts by his friend.

  “Lux, you okay?” Yepert asked.

  Luxon looked down. His right hand was shaking uncontrollably. He grabbed it with his left and willed it to be still.

  Not now! he thought.

  “I’m fine …”

  Yepert looked at him, unconvinced.

  “It’s just stress …” he added.

  “What’s happening out there is not your fault,” Yepert said. “The whole mess could have been cleared up if the council had allowed the mages to leave Caldaria and aid the Nightblades in hunting down the Fell Beasts.”

  Luxon’s hand stopped shaking. He was about to offer a retort, when a tall woman wearing a blue velvet dress approached them. She was one of the city’s noblewoman, charged with overseeing the kingdom’s administration and civic affairs. The sapphire pendant around her delicate neck was the badge of her office. She was young, no older than twenty at a guess. She smiled politely at the two magic users. Luxon frowned slightly – he could see in the woman’s eyes that she was nervous around them.

  “The council will see you now, Master Edioz,” the woman said. “I’m afraid your friend will have to stay outside however as the barons … well, the barons aren’t comfortable having two spell casters in the chamber at once.”

  Her eyes moved quickly between the two young men. Yepert wore the long blue cloak of a mage, whereas Luxon wore green, the colour of a wizard. The cloak had been dusty and in need of repair when the mages finally found it hidden away in Caldaria’s stores. With no wizard seen in the kingdom for a century, the etiquette of how to treat Luxon had been confused at
best.

  Yepert rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath.

  “You go on ahead, Luxon; I’ll just sit here and finish my pie. Wouldn’t want my mighty powers to scare those brave lordlings too much now, would we?” He flashed the woman a smile before settling back into his pie.

  The noblewoman bowed slightly, an uncertain look on her face.

  “If you would follow me,” she said before hurriedly leaving the waiting room.

  Luxon took a deep breath and followed her out of the room. The woman led him along a corridor that spiralled upwards. Lining the marble walls were large arched windows, which offered more stunning views of the city below. As they went higher, Luxon could see as far as the distant Eclin Mountains to the northeast. Memories of the terrible battle in the now destroyed city of Eclin flashed into his mind: the bodies scorched by dragon fire, and those rendered asunder by the claws of the un-dead. He shook his head to get the memories out of his mind. Since that day, whenever he found himself alone, a dark mood would threaten to overwhelm him. It was at those times that memories of his time trapped in the Void would try and surface in his mind.

  “Everything alright?” said the woman with a look of genuine concern, and perhaps a little fear, on her face.

  Luxon looked down and noticed that he was gripping the marble handrail that ran along the corridor’s side. His knuckles were white. Slowly he opened his hand and stared at it for a moment.

  “Master Edioz?”

  He looked at the woman. For a brief moment, she looked like his mother, before her features reverted to those of his now ashen-faced guide.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry … please lead the way,” he said, giving her a poor attempt at a smile. Hesitantly, she turned away and continued up the corridor.