The Restored King (The Fallen King Chronicles Book 4) Page 12

  “What are you writing?” Larson asked.

  “A letter to my brother.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He doesn’t know where I am. I’m going to send him a letter with false information. I’ll need one of your men to deliver it to the castle.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Larson asked.

  “If we can divert his attention elsewhere, the army can get here with little notice.”

  “I suppose …”

  Aramis finished writing and blew on the ink to make it dry faster. “Can you get someone to deliver it tonight?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Larson said.

  The next morning, while Aramis and Larson were eating, a messenger came into the underground makeshift camp.

  “Sir,” he said to Larson. His breathing was labored.

  Larson stood up. “What is it?”

  The messenger shook his head, tried to speak, and fell silent. His eyes became watery.

  “What happened?” Larson asked, the worry in his voice evident.

  “Dead,” was all the man managed to say.

  Larson glanced back at Aramis. “I’ll be back.” He left with the messenger.

  Aramis could only guess at what might have happened. He finished his breakfast and then summoned his sword and armor and began practicing his sword fighting. Before he’d left in exile, he would practice with the soldiers. While he wasn’t the most skilled, he could certainly handle himself in most situations. And his magical armor and sword didn’t hurt either.

  A quarter of an hour into his practice, he had worked up a sweat. While his armor was practical, there was only one flaw: ventilation. His body heat was trapped inside the metal encasing, making him burn up more than other types of armor he’d worn. He stopped to drink some water and Larson returned.

  “What happened?” Aramis asked between mouthfuls of cold water.

  “The messenger who was here. His brother was killed last night. His head was removed and set on a pike outside the castle. His body was hung by the feet above the castle’s main gate.”

  “Gods,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “For what?”

  “For delivering your message,” Larson said softly. “Whatever was in it, your brother did not take it well.”

  Aramis slumped to the floor, dropping his water. The wooden cup clattered to the floor and the water splashed his legs. “I never …” he sighed. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but words failed him.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Larson finally said. “Adamar is a cruel man.”

  “We cannot use that excuse to justify all of his atrocities,” Aramis replied. “This ends. Now.”

  “Physical might can never compare to the power of Mordum.”

  —Adamar

  CHAPTER eleven

  Aramis was sprinting toward the castle, his anger overriding his good sense. He’d outdistanced Larson when the man had tried to stop him. The man meant well, but Aramis knew there was only one way to stop Adamar. He had to kill him.

  The main gate was shut. Aramis pulled his helm down mid-stride, lowered his head, and ran as fast as he could. He slammed into the gate with the force of an ox, bending the metal barrier and sending it crashing open. Several guards stood nearby. As he breached the walls, they all gaped at the spectacle, unsure of what was happening.

  One of them snapped out of the shock and drew his blade, then charged him. Aramis summoned his own blade and met the man head-on. Their blades clashed together loudly. The guard issued a curse. Even with his armor, Aramis felt the vibration in his arm. He fought like a man gone mad, lacking all self-control. His practiced moves and footwork were drowned by his sheer ferocity and wild strikes.

  Aramis quickly had the man on the retreat. The man attempted to feign left but slipped on a loose rock and Aramis had him, driving his onyx blade into the man’s stomach. He violently ripped the blade free, then met his next attacker.

  A peal like thunder shook the courtyard and Aramis realized someone had sounded the alarm. He noticed black robed men streaming from the castle, heading towards him. Pure rage and something darker inside him took over. He howled like an animal and swung his blade in any direction his arm would go. Blood splattered his armor and covered the ground, bathing the stones with a slickness he found hard to navigate.

  He hardly noticed the flash of light in the corner of his eye before he felt himself flying through the air. His senses disoriented, he didn’t know what was happening even after he crashed hard into the castle wall. Aramis struggled to his feet and was quickly surrounded. His breathing was labored and his muscles burned like fire, but he refused to give in to exhaustion. He swung his sword and severed someone’s arm at the elbow. Another swing caught a man in the face, splitting him open from his ear to his cheek.

  He saw one of the black robed men standing among the crowd of soldiers that had surrounded him. Aramis lunged toward him and tried to cut him down, but his blade turned at the last moment and struck the ground harmlessly. Aramis growled and swung again with the same result. So focused on trying to strike the man, he was taken completely by surprise when something heavy struck him in the head.

  He staggered from the blow and his legs became wobbly. His muscles rebelled against him and he collapsed to the ground.

  “Don’t touch him!” he heard someone shout. And then he was laying on his back, staring up at the sky. An unfamiliar face knelt over him.

  “Impressive, little brother. Though I must admit, it was foolish. Whatever you were trying to attempt …” Adamar frowned. “Well, let’s say it was a wasted effort.” Adamar looked to someone who Aramis could not see. “Bind him, gag him, and take him to my quarters. Do not leave him alone. If he escapes, your life is forfeit.”

  Before Aramis realized he was being lifted, his vision went dark. At first, he thought he had passed out. He quickly realized that someone had placed a sack over his head, as he was fully aware of being moved and could hear his guards talking, though the sound was muffled. A door creaked open and the sack was removed. He found the method of his transport to be ludicrous, considering he had grown up in the castle and knew every room.

  He immediately recognized his father’s chamber. The terrible memory of his father’s assassination flooded him, overwhelming his senses. His guards set him roughly into a chair and bound his arms and legs. One of them grabbed a cloth and forced it into his mouth, then tied it in place. He glared at them.

  I’ll get free, and I will kill all of you! He screamed the thought in his mind as he struggled to break his bonds. One of the robed men entered the room and came to stand in front of him.

  “Dispel the armor,” he said. His voice was a deep baritone and didn’t fit the face that stared down coldly at him. Aramis hardened his eyes in an attempt to show his disobedience.

  “Dispel your armor or I will dispel it for you.”

  Aramis huffed through his nose. He dared the man to try.

  Perhaps knowing Aramis would not be complicit, he touched Aramis’s forearm and leaned down, placing his face within inches of Aramis’s. “I warned you,” he said softly.

  An intense pain shot through his body. Had he not been bound to the chair, he would have flailed about wildly and fell to the ground. Unable to move, it made the pain that much harder to bear. A muffled noise was all that escaped him through the gag. Then his armor disappeared in a swirl of hissing mist.

  He breathed furiously through his nose as the pain receded. The robed man stood back up and straightened his hood. “Now then,” the man said. “Tell me where the bones are.”

  Aramis bit the cloth in anger and frustration. He refused to be a pawn to Mordum or his servants. The robed man’s eyes stared at him intently, studying him.

  “I understand,” the man said. “You are rebellious by nature. No matter. I shall just have to break your will. I can do it, you know. I have broken many men’s minds. It’s never an attractive sight, madness. It changes you, makes you into so
mething that is neither human nor animalistic, but something in between. If you force my hand, I will do it.”

  Aramis knew by the look in the man’s eyes that he wasn’t lying. He saw darkness in the man’s eyes, but not the darkness that had consumed his own. A different darkness, but no less real. Yet he knew if he gave up the location of the bones, any chance of stopping Adamar and Mordum would be impossible. He hardened his gaze. No, he thought, I will not give him anything willingly.

  The man shrugged, turned, and left the room. Aramis looked at the guards. He didn’t recognize them. They were probably men his brother recruited. If he could escape his bonds, he knew he could deal with them easily enough. Since his armor was gone, the ropes were not as tight. He kept his eyes on the guards as he began to wriggle his arms, trying to pull his wrists through the ropes. Just as he almost had one arm free, the robed man came back into the room.

  He was carrying a glass orb that glowed faintly with a red hue. White tendrils floated around within it, their motions slow and lethargic. There was something about the orb that grabbed his attention. He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. His eyes remained fixed on the orb and his thoughts became fuzzy. And then he found himself floating on a sea of red. Wispy clouds floated above him, churning lazily. He felt groggy, as though he had just woken and not gotten enough sleep. Everything around him moved in slow motion.

  “Hello?” he called out. The word disappeared into the distance. There was no echo, no reply, nothing. And then he heard the dark whispers. They said terrible things. He covered his ears with his hands to blot out their voices, but it didn’t help. The whispers intensified. They sounded angry. They demanded things from him. Things that he knew he shouldn’t give them. He fought back against the voices, denying them. That only angered them further.

  Suddenly, one of the cloud wisps came for him. It changed direction from the rest of the clouds, moving down towards him. It was slow, but Aramis found that when he tried to move, it was like being stuck in molasses. His movements were sluggish and the cloud easily caught him. It wrapped around his head, but he didn’t feel it touch him. And then the things he knew he shouldn’t give flew freely from him mind.

  “No!” he cried.

  The dark whispers laughed. And then he had the sensation of falling.

  “What is he doing here?” an angry voice demanded.

  Aramis blinked several times, trying to clear his mind. Something had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. He shook his head, fighting against the fuzziness. The world around him swam momentarily, then came into glaring focus.

  The robed man held the orb, but there was no color swirling within it. It was clear and empty. Then he saw his brother, Adamar, for the first time. He stood as tall as Aramis but he was thin by comparison. Fine-boned and long-fingered, he cut a handsome figure in the opulent court clothes that he was wearing. Light blue eyes under long lashes were as pretty as any maiden’s, and his classic, even features reminded Aramis of sculptures he had seen. Were it not for his evil actions, Aramis guessed that the ladies of the court would have vied for his attention. Yet for all his beauty, Aramis sensed a vulnerability in him.

  “I don’t like repeating myself,” Adamar said, his tone icy.

  “We thought you sent him,” one of the guards answered.

  The robed man smiled condescendingly. “I was just leaving,” he said. He looked to Aramis and tilted his head. “Thank you for the conversation.” He started to leave, but Adamar blocked his path.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “And why do you have that with you?” Adamar pointed at the orb.

  “The Prophet asked me to gather some information,” the man answered. “And so I have.”

  “What information?” Adamar demanded.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. You can ask the Prophet, if you’d like. I do need to be on my way,” the man said. “The Prophet doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Adamar stepped out of the way with a growl. The robed man, his face smug, left the room.

  “I don’t want to see him around this prisoner again. Is that understood?” Adamar’s face was flushed red with anger. The guards nodded uneasily.

  “Let him hide behind Ilias’s power. Once I have gained the Mark, it is I who shall rule Mordum’s servants!”

  No one spoke and no one moved. Finally, Adamar walked over to Aramis and removed the gag. Aramis inhaled deeply, relieved to breath better.

  “Tell me, Aramis, why you are here? Certainly, you know that you have signed your own death warrant?”

  Aramis studied his brother before answering. “I am here to reclaim the throne that you have stolen.”

  Adamar laughed. “Stolen? I am the eldest of us. I am the rightful heir to the throne. You are nothing.”

  Aramis could see that there was a deep-seated rage within Adamar. He wondered what happened to him, wondered what he had experienced to make him full of so much hatred. Aramis knew that anything he said would fall on deaf ears.

  “I don’t know where you’ve been all these years,” Aramis said, “but I am heir to the throne. It is known to everyone in this kingdom by royal proclamation.” Aramis shook his head. “You have no legitimacy other than the claim that you are the heir. You have nothing but your word. And the word of a killer is worthless.”

  Adamar’s eyes lit up with a burning fury and Aramis had the fleeting thought that perhaps he’d gone too far. He didn’t care. Whether they were brothers by blood or not, Aramis hated him. He’d killed their father and there was nothing that could quell his own hatred for Adamar.

  “Leave us!” Adamar shouted. The guards scrambled to flee the chamber. The last one to leave slammed the door shut behind him. Adamar paced back and forth across the chamber in front of Aramis.

  “I understand from the Prophet that you are the chosen vessel for Mordum’s return,” he said as he paced. “Tell me, brother, what did you do to catch our dark god’s attention?”

  “I serve no god,” Aramis spat. “Least of all Mordum.”

  Adamar paused to look at him. “I held the same delusion once,” he said. “Over the years, I have learned otherwise.” He began pacing again. “The gods do they as please, choosing us for service when they see fit. Assuming you live beyond today … give it time. You’ll see things as I do.”

  “I will never see things as you do. You are a tyrant. I’ve seen the destruction your troops have brought upon the people. Your people. How could you?” Aramis asked, his voice rising to match his anger that threatened to boil over.

  Adamar sighed. “You don’t understand, do you? I thought you’d have figured it out by now. Seen the signs.” Adamar walked over to a table that sat in the corner, adorned with a few crystal glasses and a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass and looked at Aramis from over his shoulder. “Would you like some? The servants found it in the pantry, hidden behind some flour. Apparently, father had a secret stash and was keeping the best stuff for himself.”

  Aramis glared in response.

  Adamar shrugged and downed the entire glass. He refilled the glass and then resumed his pacing. “I’m going to be honest with you. As such, I expect you to do the same service to me. Can you agree to that?”

  Aramis remained silent.

  “I’ll take your silence as consent, then. Where do I start?” he asked aloud. “How about from the beginning, as far I know it to be true. You and I are brothers, but only half. We share the same father, but my mother died after contracting the plague. Father spiraled into a depression after that. A long, deep darkness that consumed him. Have you ever experienced anything like that? I suppose you haven’t. But I have.” Adamar took a sip from the glass.

  “I was ten when death took her from us. She was beautiful. Her passion for life was unrivaled. I think that is what father loved most about her.” Adamar paused for a long moment before continuing. When he spoke again, Aramis could hear a strangled emotion in his voice.

  “I tried to help him feel better, but nothi
ng worked. The servants told me to be patient, that he needed to grieve and that once enough time had passed, he would find some normalcy. As the years passed, I began to doubt that was true. Those years were difficult, to understate it. I was passed from one servant to another, servants who barely noticed my existence. I was tutored and trained as I should have been, but not having father’s attention was …crushing.”

  Aramis thought he saw Adamar wipe a tear from his eye.

  “When I was sixteen, father met your mother. Somehow, she managed to pull him out of his depression. He came alive again, enjoying the things he had forgotten for so long. Well, most of them. Father doted on his second wife the way he never had time to do with me. After a few years, she became pregnant with you. My disdain and jealousy doubled when I heard the news. I was already jealous of your mother for the attention father gave her, attention that I never received.

  “The thought of a half-brother getting the charming life I never experienced was too much. When it comes to kings, second sons are … disposable, only needed in the event that the heir dies prematurely. Second sons never feel the weight of the crown, nor the dangers of kingship. I digress.” Adamar drank the rest of the brandy and returned the glass to the table.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Aramis asked. “Are you trying to justify your evil by blaming our father’s grief for your childhood? That it didn’t go the way you wanted it to? Please, spare me! That’s life. Nothing ever goes the way you plan.”

  “You are right, my brother. You are too right.”

  Aramis knew that he should hate Adamar, but he was finding it hard to keep that hatred burning the more he heard.

  “Yet I am not trying to justify anything. The things that happened, happened. There was nothing that anyone could have done to change that. But,” Adamar came to stand in front of Aramis and looked him in the eyes. Aramis could see that his eyes were watery and red. Is he crying? Aramis thought. “father and I didn’t agree on many things, least of all … you. When you were born, the physicians thought you were blind. Your eyes had a milky substance that could not be cured. Father suggested …”