Ossendar: Book Two of the Resoration Series (70 page)

Flare paused momentarily. He was in danger of all the raw emotions breaking over him, and now was most certainly not the time. He had to clear his throat before speaking. “He didn't make it.” He managed finally.

Chapter 29

Flare was simply amazed at how fast they traveled north with the dragon carrying them. It had taken almost two months for them to travel south from Telur to
Mount
Ogular
, but they made the return trip in just four days. Actually, they traveled at night, so he guessed it would be four nights. The dragon had suggested moving at night, so as to keep the sightings of a flying dragon to a minimum.

Atock had been groggy for most of the first evening of travel, but had accepted Flare's explanation of the deal with the dragon readily enough. Flare did not mention the part of the deal where the dragon was released from the valley; there was no way that he could have explained it, as only a member of the Dragon Order could have released the dragon. Atock didn't ask many questions, as he seemed terrified by the dragon and watched him constantly.

Flare had also lied about the manner in which Philip had died. He had instead blamed Philip's death on the arrival of Zalustus and his soldiers. He hated lying to a friend, but there was nothing else he could do. If he told the truth, then Atock would probably try to kill Flare himself, and honestly, Flare wouldn't have blamed him.

They stopped every morning, either just before the sun started coming up, or just afterwards. The dragon would carefully pick a secluded area, and they would land and make camp for the day. Every night Flare cleaned the cut on his left shoulder. It wasn't deep, and was already healing.

Flare and Atock were clutched in the dragon's shorter forearms during each flight. Even though they had nothing to do while the dragon flew, they both were pleased to see the first light of the sun coming up in the morning. The flights wore them out, and left them sore from not being able to move. Atock grumbled every morning that it wasn't natural to be traveling without a horse.

Except for the sore muscles, Flare loved being carried by the flying dragon. The wind rushed by their faces, and they could see forever, even in the darkness of night. The cold was intense too. Flying north, the temperatures were colder, and then flying with the air rushing past them made it seem even colder. When they had flown just south of Telur's border, he had been dismayed at the number of storehouses and barracks that he could see from the air. Telur was still facing an imminent invasion.

At the end of the fourth night, just before the sun rose, the dragon landed on the eastern road. He gently set the two guardians on the ground. The road appeared deserted in both directions. “Our deal is complete.” The dragon flipped its head to the west. “The city lies that way, maybe a mile or two.”

Flare bowed his head, “Thank you. Without you, we would have died on that mountain.”

The dragon huffed, blowing air through its teeth. “I didn't do it for any love of you, boy. Part of me still wishes that I had bitten you in two.” The dragon spread his wings, “Now, I must go find a hiding place to sleep.”

“Wait!” Flare called out, a sudden idea occurring to him. “Did you notice the storehouses south of the border?”

The dragon nodded its head. “Yes. So?”

Flare smiled, “Well, if you are so inclined, feel free to burn them to the ground on your way back south.”

They approached the eastern gates of Telur a couple of hours after the sun came up. It had taken them longer than Flare would have thought to reach the gates, but Atock was still moving rather slowly, and he suspected the distance from where they landed to the gates was at least five miles. They struggled through the early morning cold, their breath making a cloud of fog in front of them. He had started shivering from the cold, and he couldn't stop. Most of their cold weather clothes had been left behind in their packs in
Mount
Ogular
.

There was a line of farmers and merchants waiting to enter, and a small group of soldiers who were busy inspecting the wagons and packs. There was a small portable barricade across the road. Flare led Atock straight up to the soldiers, pretending that he could not hear the complaints of those waiting in line.

The soldier in charge, a sergeant judging by his insignia, was making notes on a piece of paper. He didn't even look up. “Get to the back of the line.” His tone was irritable, even angry.

“Sergeant! Move out of my way!” Flare snapped, the soldier's rudeness annoyed him.

The sergeant raised his head slowly, anger clearly visible in his face. “Who are you?” He asked, his tone threatening.

Flare leaned closer to the soldier. “I am Prince Flaranthlas. Now move aside.” He raised his voice just enough for the words to carry to all the soldiers. It had the desired affect.

The sergeant's eyes went wide as he recognized Flare, and he practically tripped over himself snapping to a salute. The other soldiers quickly followed their leader's example.

Flare did not return the salute; instead he walked directly to the barricade, stopping directly in front. He turned his glare on the nearest soldiers, but they did not even see it, as they were already jumping forward to move the barricade out of his way.

The sergeant stepped closer to Flare, “Sir, I can send a runner ahead of you and let the castle know you're coming. I mean, if you would like me to.”

Flare nodded, exhaustion was weighing him down, making it difficult to think. “Do it.”

They arrived at the castle about an hour or so later, and the guards at the gates and doors opened them immediately; the sergeant's messenger having done his job.

The looks on the guards' faces were surprised. Not too unusual, Flare thought, after all they had been gone for almost two months.

Lord Maltin, the king's spy master, was waiting for them in the reception hall, just inside the front doors. His eyes flickered to the sword hilt sticking up over Flare's shoulder, and his eyes widened. “I don't believe it.” He said quietly, awe in his voice.

Flare nodded his head, “Lord Maltin. I need to see the king immediately.”

Lord Maltin pulled his gaze from the sword hilt with some difficulty. “I asked you once before to please call me Jared.”

Flare started to smile, but there wasn't any mirth in the Lord's voice, and he looked older. His hair was grayer than Flare remembered, and his general appearance was haggard. “Sir, is something wrong.”

Jared sighed, “You might say that.” He motioned for Flare and Atock to walk with him, and he led them down a side hallway. He glanced sideways at Flare, “I'm sorry to have tell you this, but four days ago the crown prince was killed in a hunting accident.”

“What?” Flare asked in stunned amazement, almost stopping in the middle of the hall. “How did that happen?” Jared did not stop, and he hurried to catch up.

“He was hunting deer with some of the other nobles, and one of the arrows went wild and hit Prince Darius in the chest.” Jared shook his head, “The prince was dead before they got him back to the city.”

“How's King Darion taking it?” Flare asked, still stunned by the news.

Jared shrugged, “He lost his firstborn son. How do you think he's taking it?” They turned left down a side passage.

Flare followed Jared's lead without even paying attention to their surroundings.

“Things are even worse than you know. Not only is King Darion dealing with Darius' death, but he also dire matters of state to deal with.”

“You mean the storehouses to the south?” Flare asked, interrupting.

Jared nodded, “That's part of it. Every indication we have is that Molain, Natesh, and Ontaria will send their troops over the border in the spring.”

Flare wondered if the storehouses were still there, or had the dragon burned them to the ground as he had suggested. Even if the dragon had burned the storehouses, there was no way that he could mention it.

Lord Maltin stopped in front of a door that had two guards on either side of the entrance. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced at the guards and simply said, “The king is in here.”

Flare nodded, “Thank, Thank you.” He muttered, almost in a daze. The guards had already opened the door, and Flare and Atock walked through. The room beyond was a small room, maybe twenty yards long by ten yards wide. The king sat in a slightly elevated chair at the far end of the room. The ceiling recessed in the middle of the room, forming an inverted bowl. Columns, which looked more like ribs, were attached to the walls, and ascended to meet in the very center of the ceiling. Besides the king's chair, there wasn't any other furniture. Duke Angaria was there as well, standing just to the King's left.

Flare's eyes narrowed at the sight of Angaria. Although he didn't have any proof, he felt certain that Angaria was involved in sending Philip to betray them. Even without proof, he silently vowed that Angaria would pay, and pay soon.

“I don't believe it.” Angaria said, staring at Flare. His eyes also traveled up over Flare's shoulders to rest on the Ossendar's hilt.

King Darion stood up, he too was staring at Flare, but there was something more than surprise in his look. What was it? Was it fear, or maybe sadness? He dropped his eyes to the floor, “Welcome back.” The words lacked any real warmth.

“Where are the rest of your guardians?” Angaria asked, as soon as King Darion quit speaking.

Choosing to ignore the duke, Flare instead focused his attention on his father. He dropped to one knee, and heard Atock do the same just behind him. “I have completed the mission that you sent me on. I have brought back Ossendar, the sword of Osturlius.”

King Darion nodded, “Congratulations. You've done a good job.” His tone was flat, certainly not excited.

Flare stood back up, “I heard the news about Prince Darion. I am truly sorry.”

Darion nodded his head again. He seemed drained, for want of a better word. “Flare, there has been some changes to our plans, since you left.”

Flare had no idea what was coming next, but already warning bells were going off in his head. Whatever this was, he was sure that he would not like it. “Oh? Such as?”

King Darion sighed, “I have decided that Barrett will be the new crown prince.”

“Barrett!?” Flare said, not even realizing as he spoke that he interrupted the king. “What about Prince Aldon? Shouldn't he be next in line for the throne?”

Darion nodded, “Yes. However, I have decided that Barrett will be better for the
kingdom
of
Telur
.”

Flare could not believe his ears. There was no way that the Barrett he knew would be better for Telur than Aldon. Barrett was a spoiled rotten child. Telur would be lucky to survive him taking the throne.

“And there has been another change,” Darion continued. “I have decided that it will be better for the kingdom if Barrett leads the armies, and carries Ossendar.”

Flare's ears were ringing. “But I was promised.” He started to say, but Angaria interrupted him.

“Are you questioning your king?” His tone was gloating. “The king has made his decision and who are you to question it?”

Flare turned his attention to Angaria for the first time. “When I want the opinion of a traitor, then I will ask you.”

Duke Angaria, his face livid, took a step forward, but stopped when King Darion's hand slapped down hard on the arm of his chair. “Enough! Both of you.” Darion snapped. “Flaranthlas. I have made my decision. I understand that you don't like it, but it is for the best.”

Flare opened his mouth, but once again Angaria interrupted him. “By royal decree, I insist that you relinquish the sword.”

Flare glared at the duke, who once again wore an oily gloating smile. Rage writhed within him. But what could he do? If he refused, then he would undoubtedly be imprisoned. If he gave up the sword, would the rightful ownership be transferred to Barrett? As he stood there, he remembered something Dagan had told him about the divine blades. 'There are only two ways that ownership of the sword can be transferred from the rightful owner to another. The rightful owner can choose to give up the sword, or a challenger can defeat the rightful owner in a fight.' He wasn't sure, but he thought that perhaps the sword would still rightfully belong to him if it was taken from him.

“Well?” Angaria asked again. “What are you waiting for?”

Hating the man, and furious with his father over the betrayal, Flare started raising his hand to the hilt. He glanced at King Darion, and was surprised to see the king resting his face in the palm of his left hand. Even from this distance, he could see the king's eyes were closed.

Just then, Flare heard a creak from the left side of the room. He stopped lifting his hand, and looked to that side of the room, but there was no one there. Something was wrong. Someone was there, had to be, but where were they? Were the walls thin enough for him to have heard the creaking? He rather doubted it, but where else could someone hide? Then his eyes came to rest on the column. Could someone hide in there?

“Enough stalling.” Angaria said loudly, “Give me the sword.”