The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy

Copyright © Fay
Parkyn 2011

Smashwords
Edition September 2012

Brisbane,
Queensland

Australia

I’d like to dedicate the ‘Riothamus’ trilogy to a number of
people who have helped
(either deliberately or inadvertently) in
the creative process.

Thanks to
Linda, Elizabeth, Sue, Erin, Joanna, Marion, Ian, Nadine, Sean,

the Brisbane
Medieval Reenactment groups, and the ‘Fireside’ ghosts and
denizens.

Special thanks
to Claire and Mat, and of course to my family and my husband
Richard

for all his
love and support, cups of tea and all the useful battle
information.

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respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.

From the
previous book ‘Arantur’

‘
Did he
really have a choice?’ Aran thought desperately as he watched the
Archmage draw nearer. At every turn his life had been changed,
turned upside down, wrenched from simplicity into complexity. Every
time he felt settled, happy, events would transpire to cast him
into deeper waters, requiring from him even greater maturity and
wide-ranging decisions. It was all so terribly unfair he thought
unhappily, regretting yet again his association with the mages.
Deep in despair, Aran nevertheless felt no great surprise when
Archmage Maran finally stopped his slow pacing to stand directly in
front of him. Through the grey haze of his misery, Aran saw that
the Guardsmen stared openly at him in amazement and shock, and not
for the last time heartily wished himself back in Leigh.

“
Arantur of
Leigh,” Archmage Maran’s voice was quiet, yet it seemed to fill the
Great Hall. “You are rightfully born of the line of Andur. The
sword is yours.”

Aran
swallowed, and gazed about him. He quickly met Darven’s eye, the
young Wolf Leader inclining his head as if he was addressing his
king. Aran searched out Alissa by the far windows. Desperately he
sought her face she too smiled sadly and nodded.

‘
Take the
sword brother,’ a quiet voice drifted in by his right ear, ‘It is
your destiny. No one else has the right and the province has the
need of a king.’

‘
What about
my dreams, my lifepath?’ he questioned his sister.

‘
This is
your true lifepath, Arantur,’ she whispered back, ‘Any other would
be false and wrong.’

Aran stared at
Archmage Maran angrily, deeply hurt because yet again he had to
choose.

“
You led me
to believe I was to remake the sword for a new lineage,” he accused
the old man.

Maran shook
his head, “No Arantur…that was your own belief. You instantly
recognised the sword of your family, but your conscious mind could
not accept it, and instead made excuses and found another, less
treacherous lifepath to follow.”

“
So I am
Andur’s heir,” he said and the words came out as a statement of
fact, not a question.

“
Aye
Arantur,” Archmage Maran dropped to his knees. “I implore
you...take the sword. There is no other alternative for you or for
the province.”

“
What if
you are wrong?” Aran demanded. “What if I am consumed by it? How
then will you live with my death?” he asked.

Archmage Maran
looked up and met his fierce gaze, “It will not harm you. Like
calls to like, blood to blood, you are the seed of Andur…as I am,”
he added softly.

Aran rocked
back on his heels in shock, “Who are you mage?”

Maran spoke
gently, softly. “Once, a long time ago I was known as High King
Maran. My father was Andur of which we are both descended. I
renounced my throne for Glaive as soon as my first-born son Trenor
was old enough to be crowned. Since I gave up my kingship, the
sword no longer recognises me; even now, and after all this time I
cannot explain why that is so, perhaps only a Metalmage full in his
power could tell me. I can only safely wield it if I wear the
arcane protection spells, and even then it is costly to me—he held
out one hand, and Aran saw that the Archmage’s palm was blistered
with topical burns. You are now the only one the sword will
recognise, it calls to your blood, the blood of Andur—take it and
restore the line of Andur to our province.”

“
Then there
is no other way?” Aran asked heavily.

Maran inclined
his head, “Take it if you love your province and wish to protect
her from enemies gathering. Take it only if you wish to follow your
right and true lifepath.”

Aran sighed,
“That has been my only wish all along.” He looked into the grey
eyes of Maran, “Very well Archmage,” he sighed heavily, wishing
otherwise but knowing that that there was no otherwise. “I will
take up this sword.”

Maran nodded
and smiled, “Then discard the weapon you now wear. The King’s Sword
is jealous and will tolerate no other in the hand of its king.”

Aran
unsheathed the other ancient blade and laid it gently on the floor.
Slowly he held out his hand and accepted the cool hilt of the
King’s Sword from the Archmage. He waited to be consumed but he
stood untouched. The sword itself felt light to wield and the hilt
curved within his hand in such a familiar way, that he knew that
there would be no other sword for him. Conscious recognition burst
forth from the hidden memory of his lineage, and the sword blade
began to glow gently with a cold light reminiscent of the stars at
night. Aran stood alone whilst the whole company fell down upon
their knees before him. The line of Andur was whole, the line of
Andur had at long last returned to the Keep.

“
Long live
the High King!” Aran heard Darven’s voice as if from a great
distance.

“
Long live
the High King!” The cry was picked up by his fellow Guards and
given full voice.

Aran stood
holding the glowing King’s Sword in wary amazement, and knew that
nothing ever would be the same again.

And so the
story continues...

Arantur of
Leigh, former blacksmith’s apprentice, latent Metalmage and
Warriormage, and last of the Andurian line stood in the Great Hall
of Andur’s Keep with the naked, magecrafted King’s Sword in his
hand, and nervously eyed his subjects. He did not want to be king,
and had events unfolded otherwise, he would have been happy to lead
a quiet life in his hometown of Leigh. However the Goddess was
capricious and Aran knew with a sinking heart that he really did
not have a choice. The province needed a king and it seemed utterly
certain that he was the only one available.

Aran stared at
the faintly glowing sword, the hilt that his hand grasped with such
easy familiarity. This was the first time he held it, yet he knew
it well and the memories of its familiarity flooded his mind. This
weapon, from the first moments of holding it, had grown tendrils of
recognition of his Andurian blood deep within his mind. Within his
subconscious it murmured to him, whispering silent songs of memory
and kinship, of past times, and of long absence.

If he could,
Aran would have put the sword down and walked away from Andur’s
Keep, never to return. However, from the first moment of lifting
the sword and feeling the connection, there had been an
overpowering oneness with the weapon, with this building and with
the land. He had heard that the King’s Swords’ power melded the
true king to the land, and the quiescent earthpower, but never
would he have believed it possible except he was experiencing the
transformation himself.

“You feel it
my Prince?” Archmage Maran was standing now and he regarded the
reluctant heir with considering eyes.

“Aye
Archmage,” Aran whispered.

Maran stared
at the young man in front of him. “It’s been hundreds of years
since I felt the peculiar oneness that comes with wielding the
King’s Sword.” He shook his head in sorrow, “If I had not a deeper,
stronger calling to Glaive then I would have happily held that
sword until my dying day. Never in all my years as a mage, had I
felt that feeling of oneness with the hidden, secret power of the
land. I consider it the first real benefit of Kingship.”

Aran stared at
the weapon and finally shook his head to clear away the daze he
seemed to have fallen into. Reluctantly he sheathed the sword in
the scabbard he wore, immediately the sensation dimmed too…dimmed
but did not go away. It seemed likely now that he was irretrievably
linked to the weapon. That there existed a bond that only death or
abdication from the line would break.

“You need to
speak to them, my Prince,” Maran advised, “They are still on their
knees.”

“What do I
say?” Aran whispered back, uncertain and full of doubt.

“Do not be
afraid for the words will come…they always do,” Maran replied
softly.

Aran stepped
forward and walked slowly up to the high table where the mages had
already positioned an extra seat next to where the Archmage had
sat. As he neared the table he met the eyes of those he had once
called his betters, his leaders, and wondered how in Andur’s name
he was going to address them now. Briefly he caught Alissa’s eye,
she inclined her head and smiled a secret smile. Walking around the
back of the table he waited whilst the mages pulled the chair out
for him. Quickly he sat, taking the moment to unlace and remove his
helmet and arming cap placing both on the table before him. Finally
he felt better able to address the crowded hall.

“Please be at
ease.”

Aran watched
as his fellow Guardsmen lifted themselves to their feet, some
nervously brushing dust from their knees.

“It seems that
I am to be your King,” he continued warily. “I must tell you now
that I did not seek this position,” he added striving to make them
understand. “Except for an ancient lineage I am really still just
an ordinary man, a friend and a fellow Guard. Had things worked out
differently, nothing would have pleased me more than to join your
ranks and spend my life a Guardsman. It is for this reason that I
would ask you not to put me far above you. I value all your
friendships and I will need your companionship and support in the
weeks and months ahead.”

Aran sighed,
“I do not know how to be a king, so you must bear with me and give
me your strength, for I think that it will not be a light task or
an easy road.” Aran stared about the great hall, “My esteemed
ancestor Warleader Andur had a great deal of practice leading men
before he was crowned king. I must learn to do the same.”

Aran turned to
Archmage Maran, “What now?”

Maran turned
to the others at the table and nodded. “You may as well let the
Guards go, Prince Arantur. We have matters of state to discuss, and
it ought to be done privately.”

Aran glanced
at Captain Taran, Deputy Morel and the two company leaders, “I
would have these men stay, Archmage.”

Maran inclined
his head, “Certainly Prince Arantur, they are crucial to our
discussion.”