The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)
Text copyright © 2010 Jonathan French
All Rights Reserved
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental and unintentional.
ISBN 978-0-9882845-0-0 (trade paperback)
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9882845-1-7
Autumn’s Fall is a registered trademark of Jonathan French
Forge Born is a registered trademark of Jonathan French
Cover Art by Ivan Zanchetta
www.exiledheir.com
DEDICATION
To Liza, my wife. To Ann, my mother.
The midwives of this book.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY ONE
TWENTY TWO
TWENTY THREE
TWENTY FOUR
TWENTY FIVE
TWENTY SIX
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Death was the darkness and he slept it away. Eyes open or eyes closed made no matter in the darkness where he squatted. Eyes open or eyes closed, he slept. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days of sleeping death. Three-hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days since they shoved him into the darkness.
His prison was underground, deep in the Earth. Far below the kingdom he sought to conquer, far above the kingdom that was once home. There were days before he was taken. Days of light and lust and war and the only darkness was night.
Night!
He wanted to laugh, but did not want the darkness to claim his tongue. The true darkness, deeper than black, where the eyes see nothing and cease to matter, cease to exist. There was no sight. What was night, compared to that? A bad mimic, a poor mockery, a whore playing at being a lady.
The darkness ate him. Piece by piece. Took his eyes first, popped them into its blacker than black maw like sweetmeats. Gone, pop, pop, the instant they tossed him in. It took his ears next, but it did not eat them quickly. It leaked slowly in, filling the cavities, dissolving his eardrums with cautious cruelty. He did not realize they were gone until it was too late. He was deaf. He could dispel it if he spoke. Shouted. Laughed. Cursed. Screamed. Screamed. Screamed. But he dare not, lest the darkness snatch his voice out forever. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days.
There were days before. Days after those of lust and war. Days when there was still light. He was a prisoner then, as now, but they did not keep him so deep underground, so deep in the dark. He escaped. Once. Twice. Thrice. More. He escaped and they caught him. Once. Twice. Thrice. More and more. They caught him. And put him in the dark.
Down in the deep, down in the dark, beyond where his sweet cousins laid their dead, interred and tended by the blind. But time had stolen his gaolers’ sight over the slow crawl of centuries, or war savaged them with smoke and iron, making them as blind as he. But they came blind to the darkness. And would never see again. But he would. He did. Every day. Once every day. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days.
He could still summon the Fire. Call forth the flame to fight the darkness. But Fire burned; flame consumed, demanded sacrifice of its own and hungered for fuel. They kept him smothered deep in the Earth, miles of ancient rock and dirt pushed in around him, dampening his power. His gaolers were warded against him, hidden by the darkness. It was all he could do to summon a spark, barely an ember, a pitiable gnat of flame. But he could feed it. Feed the flame and starve himself. They brought him food, once a day. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty hunks of dry bread. And he gave them all to the Fire.
They burned. And the burning sated him more than a hundred feasts.
An itch in the darkness. A single star in an endless sky. Ash in the eye of the blackness. An ulcer in the gullet of his prison. And he lived. He awoke. His eyes were restored and his ears returned to the sizzle of burning bread. He had only a moment. Quick. Painful. Ecstasy. Enough time to feel, to be whole, to breathe, to mark the wall, to count the days. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days. Then the flame died. And he died with it. The darkness returned and he slept again. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty deaths.
Every one thousand four hundred and sixty days, he cut his hair, gnawing through the filthy strands with his teeth. He mixed it with the contents of his slop bucket and summoned a true fire, a blaze to illuminate his cell fed by his leavings, the waste from a wasted body. He danced and he cheered, cursed the darkness and counted the marks on the wall. Tallying the cost. Totaling his captivity. Three hundred and two thousand, two hundred and twenty days.
And one day the meal did not come. No bread. No Fire. No count. No life. He was blind. He was deaf. He was asleep. He was dead. And he would not live again. He started to panic. The Earth would claim him; the darkness would digest him, to be shit out into oblivion.
The walls of his cell exploded inwards, punching his ears with concussive force, showering him with grit and burning dirt. The Earth was on Fire. Burning. Smoking. A great hole gaped where once stood a rarely seen wall, protected by darkness. Figures stood in the fissure. Squat of body, wiry of limb, flat of head, pointed of ear. Not his cousins. His brothers! Saviors silhouetted in the magnificent glow of violent firelight. Light! Constant, steady and painfully bright. He wept. He was free and a new day could begin. Another chance for conquest and vengeance. To burn. To burn it all and never stop until his King was back on the throne. He smiled and his atrophied voice was a croak.
“One.”
ONE
Padric let his knuckles bleed and cursed his small hands. He dipped his injured hand back into the frigid creek and tried to watch his blood mix with the water, but the current was too fast. Even this small creek cared nothing for his tiny contribution. Padric spat in spite and gave a snort of self-mockery when the flowing water also overcame his foamy expulsion. His hand started to go numb, but he did not remove it, hoping the water would cool his anger as well as his pain. He knew it would do neither.
The betrayal of his hands was an old hurt. Familiar and constant, even predictable. Today, it was a welcome distraction from the rage that had been building for some days, threatening to boil over and tempting in its promise of relief. So far, Padric had resisted. He feared what would happen if he lanced the poison within and exposed it to the village. Mostly, he feared himself. There was murder in his heart. He did not want to kill Eirwen, but even his small hands could complete that grisly work with confidence if fueled by the torment in his head.
Eirwen’s callous disregard did not deserve such a punishment and Padric could think of what others would say if they knew his feelings, but the dark thoughts in his head were ungoverned by the opinions of others. In truth, Padric could think of no crime of either the law or the heart that would merit the killing of a woman. He remembered the widow who had given her daughters over to the gruagach last year. Even she was spared by the village council. Sent to the Knucklebones, of course, but still alive. Padric was not vicious or violent by nature, but the fire of passion burned the brighter when lu
st turned suddenly to hate. At least, that is what he told himself.
He took his hand from the water, closing the cold, swollen fingers into a fist. He watched as the blood welled up once more on his ragged knuckles, then shook his hand, ridding it of droplets both clear and crimson. He thought of returning to the border ditch, but tarried by the creek instead. The prospect of going back to the company of his father and the other men was not a welcome one. No matter that he was a man grown, Padric always felt the fool child around his father. There was no task Padric could perform for the benefit of the clan that his father could not do with greater ease and greater haste.
He had been sent to gather more spades and was happy to get away, for the tedious labor did nothing to distract his mind from Eirwen. His thin fingers and narrow palms had lost their grip on the hafts of the tools as he was backing out of the small stack stone shed. Foolishly, he had tried to carry four in each hand; to avoid the embarrassment of a second trip. His father could have handled five, maybe even six in each of his meaty clutches. Three was pushing it for Padric. His overzealous efforts were rewarded with nothing but an awkward juggle for control of the heavy tools which Padric quickly lost, but not before he had managed to rake the back of his left hand against the rough stone of the shed wall. He made two trips after all.
After giving over the second bundle of tools with as much pride as he could muster, he mumbled some excuse and headed for the creek. He felt the eyes of the men on his back as he stalked away. He could almost hear the shake of his father’s head.
He was such a failure. And it did not matter if his father or the other men thought it. Padric thought it of himself. His only real accomplishment was winning the affections of Eirwen, but even that prize had vanished in the time he had been away.
Two months!
The thought of how quickly her feelings fled set his teeth to grind and sent his mind skulking into its darkest corners where schemes of blood and vengeance squatted in wait. He could escape in the mundane tasks of his daily life for only so long before some unexpected thought of her sent him seeking out those black fantasies in order to calm his anger and comfort his pain. But the more he thought on them, the more difficult it became not to act upon them, to bring them forth from his wounded heart and cast them in her face.
The sound of the creek dwindled behind him, and it was some moments before Padric realized he had set off toward the village. His jaw was sore from clenching. He tried to relax it before he ground his teeth to dust. He was vaguely aware of the maul riding in his injured fist and made his way along through familiar habit. His vision was clouded with the image of Eirwen’s tear streaked and pleading face, the body of her new and unknown lover wrecked upon the ground. He had never seen the man, but he knew Eirwen and her tastes. He would be fair of head, broad of shoulder and deep of chest, with a soft, simple face and not an ounce of cleverness behind his eyes. He would be the opposite of everything Padric was.
A growl of frustration echoed behind Padric’s clenched teeth and his pace quickened. He did not know for certain where she was, but his anger told him he could sniff her out wherever she dallied. And if he found them together, so much the easier. There would be no choice then.
He reached the upper outskirts of the village, where his father’s house lay. Instinctively, he gave it a wide berth, knowing that giving his mother even the briefest glance of him would alert her to his intention. Mothers knew that kind of thing. He would try Eirwen’s rooms first, hoping to find her there, otherwise he would have to go up to the fort and search the cider house. The thought of that familiar task only increased the burning behind his eyeballs.
By the bones, that girl could drink! And dance. Those were her true loves. Public displays of frivolity that only increased her appeal with the men of the village and the fort. That and the fact that she was slim, with a round bosom and backside, with long, red tresses, creamy skin and a flashing smile. But Padric knew the truth was in her eyes. Frigid and distant and overly large, so like a fish, and when they knew fear, they turned to puddles of panic. The shapely woman fled and the lost child was left behind. He had seen it many times. Despite all appearances she was not a lusty wench. Padric often thought she had inherited the madness of her mother, for fear was her driving factor in all things. She gave her body readily enough and that could be forgiven had she found true joy in it, but she did not. It was simply that she feared to be alone. Two months and she had replaced him!
The old widow that lodged Eirwen had not seen her that day. She looked up at Padric with an expression both lost and full of pity. Padric was not sure she recognized him and he began to wonder, not for the first time, how many men had come calling at this woman’s door, seeking her itinerant lodger. Eirwen did not sleep here often, that he did know. He could not count the nights they had spent together, hidden away in some turf shed or root crib. She would always drop off to sleep directly after and leave him lying awake, pondering the lack of true affection between them. He did not love her, then or now. That knowledge, however, did not ease the sting of her betrayal.
The widow slowly closed the door. Padric stood a moment and glared at the house. He wondered if Eirwen was doing the cooking or the washing for the widow as she was supposed to. Shame settled over him with the thought that he had been one of the numerous distractions that kept Eirwen from tending to her duties and caring for this poor woman who had taken her in. Not again, he promised himself. He had wasted enough time with her and no matter what course this day would take, he would see himself free of that worthless wench.
He felt sick to his stomach as he made his way up the hill. The familiar sight of the fort at the summit curdled his anger into a swimming nausea. He hated this place with its cider house and barracks. The drunken warriors with their big talk and idle ways made Padric glad he was a farmer’s son. The labors of the land were thankless, boring, and hard on the bones, but at least the result kept the children’s bellies full. These louts did nothing but create more hungry mouths. Their killing made orphans, their carousing made bastards. Padric was glad his seax was still under his bed. He was like to use the large knife given his mood and he could ill afford a fight with one of these sword-wearing swine. He was not a fighter by any means. Had he the bulk, which he did not, he would still be a farmer’s son. Farmer’s sons were not fighters, they were strugglers.
He did not even glance at the sentries by the gate. Padric discovered long ago that simply appearing direct in action was enough to remain unchallenged by these fools. They perceived he had business in the fort, some menial labor to perform and were not interested enough to bother with him. Or they could have just been afraid of him. He deepened his frown and pushed on, leading with his shoulders as he passed through the gate.
It was a risk coming here. Always was for Padric. The warriors might try to goad him into a fight. They had before, sometimes with success. The drunken ones were the most likely to try or the ones that liked to mask their fear with bullying. Just another reason to hate this place, hate the fearful and simple-minded people who branded him.
Raven-touched. Death Cap.
Ill luck was in his blood or so the midwives said. Those ugly crones should be sent away too, like the child-selling widow and Eirwen’s mother. He should have stayed away. Fafnir had asked him to journey farther and it had been tempting, but Padric felt obligated to return. His father needed him.
Padric’s face twisted.
It was a lie he told himself then, as now. He was a burden to his father, a mouth to feed that was rarely useful except to draw the ire of the other farmers when a sheep died or the milk turned sour. For true, his uselessness was the reason he had been given leave to travel with Fafnir and he left with a high heart. This place could contain his revulsion no longer. The distrust of the village had poisoned him, he was full up with it and it leaked out of him. He had idled here over tedious years, the sour frustrations of his own shortcomings seeping out of him, soaking into every house and every
person that surrounded him, until he had poisoned them in kind. Leaving it all behind was like coming out of a long illness, a sudden breaking fever and then nothing but easy breaths, clear and deep. It was not a long journey, but how he had enjoyed it. He had been free of this place. Free of Eirwen, free of the endless work, free of a people who judged and feared one of their own simply because his hair was the color of coal. Padric hated them for believing such a thing. He hated them for making him believe it.
Eirwen always admitted to believing the things that were said about him. Rather than shunning him, she seemed to take pleasure in his reputation. It excited her and made folk talk of her also, which she relished. She had no family to speak out against their coupling, so their romance kindled. To her, he was a dangerous novelty and she was a child playing with fire. When she was in good spirits she delighted in reminding him what the villagers called him, as if he would take equal pleasure in hearing the unwanted titles. When angered she would spit them in his face and proclaim how cruel he truly was, how she feared for herself when he was near. He was rarely the cause of her sorrows, in truth, but it was easier for her to place the blame upon his dark brow.
The fort stank as it always did. Wet, freshly cut timbers, rotten apples, sweat, urine and Eirwen. All of these smells hit his nostrils, moist and unpleasant. He slogged through the thick, dark muck of the yard, not bothering to avoid the puddles. He was filthy enough from the labor at the ditch and was likely to be far more soiled before he was done here. It was possible he would be completely covered in mud before the day was out, buried in a rank grave.
He paused. Padric was not afraid to die. It would certainly put an end to his shame, his anger, his hurt. He was more afraid to simply do nothing, to walk away and continue to carry the crushing weight of his failures. He could brain Eirwen’s new lover, his maul scattering pieces of the fool’s skull into sticky, broken pottery. It was a sweet thought, but the balm of his enacted vengeance would be fleeting. Afterwards he would have to make a choice. Flee and be hunted, bringing worry and shame to his family or stay to face the knives of those seeking a blood debt and the fines that would ruin his kin. Warriors rarely had family, but they always had friends. Either path brought sorrow and hardship to those he cared for; the people who cared nothing for the color of his hair and who endured the same gossip it created.