Theft of Swords (The Riyria Revelations #1-2)

The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. “No! Stop! You can’t! Stop!” His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip, and years of wielding swords and shields in battle had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.

Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul’s blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The one nearest the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man, who held a sword in each hand.

Again the sound of twigs snapping came from the woods nearby.

“Everyone, over here!” shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.

The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.

Myron climbed out of the woods and stood in the moonlight, his rapid breath forming little clouds in the cold night air.

Alric heard Royce’s voice: “Your friends aren’t coming. They’re already dead.”

The two guards wielding swords looked at each other, then raced down the road in the direction of the Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier, holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted.

Alric could not stop shaking as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.

“They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to kill me!” he screamed.

He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.

Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from the Silver Pitcher Inn and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.

“Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”

“As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”

“Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.

“Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”

There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.

The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge and began to divvy up the loot as best he could.

“Give the elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.

“What?” the innkeeper asked, stunned. “You want us to give him a horse? Are you sure? I mean, most of these men don’t have a good horse.”

Drake quickly cut in. “Listen, we all fought equally tonight. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”

“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.

The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm but his eyes smoldered.

“What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, them is his horses, right? His soldiers was a ridin’ ’em. We should ask him to decide—okay?”

There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He had come within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back at the crowd.

“Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, coldly. “They are my royal protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys them will be executed.” There was silence in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”

Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then mounted. The monk was quiet now and walked in a daze. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.

As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-breed gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I’ll hold everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once, it will be legal.”

The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed, “It was my own uncle.” Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Hadrian mentioned. “The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he’d be just as big a target as you, only he’s not a blood uncle, is he? His last name is Braga, not Essendon.”

“He married my mother’s sister.”

“Is she alive?”

“No, she died years ago, in a fire.” Alric slammed his fist on the saddle’s pommel. “He taught me the blade! He showed me how to ride. He’s my uncle and he is trying to kill me!”

Nothing was said for a while, and then Hadrian finally asked, “Where are we going?”

Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering’s castle. He is—was—one of my father’s most trusted nobles and our closest friends. He’s also the most powerful leader in the kingdom. I’ll raise an army from there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or uncle, who tries to stop me!”