Dark Throne, The

  Dark Throne, The

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  THE DARK THRONE

  By

  Raven Willow-Wood

  (C) Copyright by Raven Willow-Wood, May 2014

  Cover art by Alex DeShanks, May 2014

  Smashwords Edition

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Dedication:

  To Charlotte Irwin. Thanks for all your help.

  Prologue

  He’d done it.

  Thirty years ago, he’d laid out his dreams in a plan. Laid them out, studied them, calculated ways to attain his every desire.

  And now, he’d done it.

  He shook his head at the thought. His hair rasped against the pillow as he moved. All the years of working had finally come to fruition. It seemed so impossible and yet, it was true.

  Calder wasn’t the rightful heir to the Dark Throne and he’d always known that. He was the bastard offspring of the last King. Royal blood coursed through his veins, but it was blended with that of a serving maid’s. When his half-brother had ascended to the throne, he’d felt nothing, no jealousy or envy. However, when he’d produced that throwback, when the fruit of King Charek’s loins had been borne with wings upon his back, Calder knew he had to act.

  The elven realms on Mearth could not be ruled by an abomination.

  The idea of himself reigning had whispered through his mind, and he'd liked the image. It had become deeply rooted into his mind. He’d actually started to envisage the coronation, the first council session as he worked with ordinary elven to ensure their happiness.

  It had seemed childish, foolish even, but his mind had frequently wandered to, what seemed to be, the impossible.

  However, Calder was nothing if not fair. He’d given his half-brother two years to produce another child, a normal heir, the rightful heir to the Dark Throne.

  When the King had failed to do this, Calder had taken action and decided upon a plan.

  And now, success was within his grasp.

  It seemed incredible, implausible . . . but, in truth, he was a hair’s breadth from reaching all of his goals.

  Soon the King would be dead, as would Fade, the Dark Prince and heir.

  And he, Calder, would sit upon the Dark Throne and take a wife. He’d beget an heir, a normal heir, and this unfortunate period of history would soon be forgotten by the elven people.

  Calder would be King.

  It was more than just a dream now, certain situations and plans were in motion and they could not be stopped.

  Plus, Keira was already dead.

  She had been the King’s last hope. No other Royal house would betroth a daughter to him, not when he soon beheaded them for failing to produce an heir.

  The abduction had been his idea, and it had worked perfectly. He’d owed the hoonans a favor. Now the elven realm was on the precipice of watching a real Roban ruling it.

  King Charek and Fade might be Royals, but in no way did they match him.

  Soon all of Mearth would know, and they would celebrate the new king.

  Calder smiled at the thought. Pressing his hands to the serving wench’s head, curling his fingers into her waving flaxen locks, he pushed it down, impaling her mouth on his cock.

  His hips arched as thoughts of the future and of gifting this servant girl his royal seed flushed through his mind.

  Desire soon took first priority. Calder roared his climax as the girl swallowed every single drop of his essence. He patted her on the head in thanks, released her, and then turned on to his side to sleep. With that out of the way, he could now relax and sleep a little. More preparations were necessary and he needed to be at his most best to see them achieved.

  And succeed he would.

  His endeavors were most certainly ordained from above.

  He was blessed, and Charek was doomed.

  Chapter One

  Standing on a small rise before the hoonan castle he'd been sent to infiltrate by the King, Fade Roban, Dark Prince and heir to the Dark Throne, watched as hoonan and elf collided in a deadly dance. Each sought supremacy, some achieving it only to be torn down by another enemy, their lifeblood spurting out as they sank into the cerulean moss underneath their feet, the soul slowly seeping from their eyes as death took them to the next plane.

  Fade took it all in with a clinical, calculating gaze. He could see the tactics were all wrong and that the elven generals had completely cocked this battle up, but above all that one thing stood out. Despite the fact that before him there were different races with different practices and different beliefs, hoonan and elven alike, their blood was the same crimson. The irony didn't escape him.

  Tightening his hands on the pommel of his horse, Eowyn's, saddle, he shifted a little and trod a few yards to the left and then down to the right, attempting to view the scene from every possible angle. It was carnage. And for what? His father's ridiculous need to beget another heir because the current one was unsatisfactory.

  Never had Fade witnessed a battle from such a perspective. It was unusual to be watching the proceedings from this position. He had always been at the very thick of it. Using the knife and sword his mother had gifted him when he was a mere boy to protect both himself and to defend his father's kingdom. In all of his thirty-two years, the weapons had protected him. Even as battle-hardened as he was, Fade knew that in death his mother was still protecting him, and, with the father he had, he needed every ounce of help he could get.

  Unfortunately, that was no more. The protection had come to an end that very night as he'd plunged his sword into a hoonan. The man had died still impaled upon the metal tongue which had bitten into his body. When Fade had attempted to retract it, the blade had simply splintered, leaving a part in the dead man's body and the other half still attached to the hilt.

  He'd risked his life by jumping to the ground to pull the splintered metal from the cadaver. He'd then headed to the hills in search of another sword. Once there he'd been ordered to stay until the foot soldiers cleared a path to the hoonan castle where the King's future bride had been sequestered after her kidnap.

  Fade normally would have ignored the order. He tended to do whatever he wanted. It was only by denying him a weapon and ordering all soldiers in the vicinity to guard their swords on pain of death if they failed to retain their saber that he'd obeyed.

  The blood red drapes of his father's colors surrounded the King’s favored four generals. They were there for a show of force rather than to work. It was quite pathetic really - or Fade felt so at any rate.

  From a tactical point of view, this stronghold wasn't strong. The hoonan fort couldn't have contained more than six hundred and the King had sent a force of one and a half thousand fighting men, plus the throwback heir to the throne. It was more than pathetic in actuality.

  Ten years ago, he would have understood and eagerly attempted to save and protect his father’s intended, but he’d learned a lot in that decade. The wool had certainl
y been dragged from his eyes. That experience made him hope that it was in fact too late for Princess Keira.

  Her fate was held in kinder hands at the moment than it was within the hands of his father. The hoonans were bastards, evil through and through, but, if King Charek wed himself to another wife who failed to produce an heir, then Keira would experience more kindness in the hoonan camp. Fade was tired of watching the executions of his stepmothers.

  Nine beheadings he’d had to witness.

  Nine.

  He’d visited each of his father’s brides within the Royal Dungeon. He'd attempted to ease their suffering prior to the event by bringing them gifts of sweetmeats and flowers and then comforted them as they finally faced their fate. Each and every one of them, even though they knew their predecessor’s fate, believed the King would come to his senses. Fade had comforted them, when they had realized the King was an evil old bastard and that death was stalking their heels.

  He was here, fighting the hoonans, because the race were scum and they’d behaved abominably by daring to abduct a royal princess. The battle between elf and hoonan had been raging since Mearth’s Dark Ages. The truth was, he enjoyed killing the hoonans, plus it honed his already fearsome skill on the battlefield. That he would prefer Keira to be slain by the hoonans rather than face the hangman didn’t really enter into it.

  It was well known that the King was cursed and had been since Fade’s birth. The last of the winged elves had died some eighteen hundreds years ago. Fade was considered an abomination. If a normal child were to be born from the King’s loins, then that child would gain the King's title, superseding Fade's right to the Dark Throne.

  His eyes flitted left and right, watching over the fight. He was disgusted to realize that while his father’s army should have decimated the small hoonan holding they were doing anything but. If the situation wasn’t deadly serious, then Fade would have laughed. The Royal Army was running about the field, barely holding formation at all.

  “Center right, Sire Gerauld,” Fade called out. When he failed to hear a response, he stood on Eowyn’s stirrups and attempted to peer into the shaded tent. What he saw had him gritting his teeth. He rode quickly over to the makeshift pavilion, almost walking Eowyn into it. “Sire Gerauld. We’re losing. Your men are all over the Gods-be-damned place. Sort them out!” he yelled.

  Jolted awake, Gerauld studied the battlefield with bleary eyes and then blanched. He coughed, spluttered, and then wheezed out a cry. “Signal the Lieutenants!”

  Fade glared in disgust at the other generals who were each as lax in their duties as Gerauld. “Apparently you wish to lose Princess Keira to the hoonans.”

  General Horaxe wiped his chin which glistened with the ripe juices of the preal fruit. “The King has already warned you. Do not tell us how to do our jobs,” he grunted.

  Fade shrugged. It was not a throwaway gesture but one filled with anger.

  A week ago, scouts had been dispatched to this stronghold. They’d discovered a secret entrance to the castle. The plan had been to distract the hoonans and allow a solitary rider to enter the melee and slip inside the castle to rescue Keira.

  Originally, he'd been selected as the solitary rider. That was before the generals had completely ruined the battle with their poor leadership skills and he’d lost his weapon.

  From Fade’s position, he wasn’t entirely certain the King’s men could win this battle, never mind having someone slip into the secret opening.

  “It is no skin off my nose if the hoonans kill Keira, but I would imagine your heads rest on it.” His lips quirked in a smile which clearly showed his approval of such a fate. “Perhaps you think it is time for me to return to the fray?”

  General Brae’s head swung between the trio and answered for them. “Aye. Get a sword from the arms sergeant. Try and work through the melee and break into the castle.” His lips rose in a sneer. “Let the princess’ fate rest in your hands and on your head rather than our own.”

  Slowly, Fade lowered the afore-mentioned head in the way his mother had taught him all those years ago. She had been the one to teach him royal standards. His father had merely cast him off, begrudging even having to feed and clothe him but knowing he had no other choice. The countless coaches and tutors of other royal offspring were not to be had. In his younger years, his lack of training had upset him and severely hampered his confidence. However, now, he’d learned not to give a damn.

  “I’m sure Keira’s fate is safer in my hands than your own, gentlemen,” he countered before leading his horse away from the tent. On his way out, he grabbed one of the poles that supported the pavilion. Eowyn’s momentum had one of the supporting rods toppling down. Swathes of fabric collapsed on the generals’ heads.

  Fade discerned the arms’ sergeant’s location and steered his way over to him. “Give me a sword, Drummond. The generals have rescinded the order.”

  “Looks like we need your help out there as well, your highness,” Drummond said, shaking his head.

  “Do you have a sword for me?”

  “I can’t see why not, sire. Do you want to give me the shards of your other sword? I’ll have one of the blacksmiths mend it for you if you want. I saw you leap down from the horse and salvage the splinters. It shouldn’t be too hard to fix.”

  Fade reached down for the sword Drummond passed him. “I appreciate that, Drummond. But no, it’s a good luck charm. I’d hate to be parted from it during a battle.”

  “Understood, sire.”

  Drummond backed away and moved towards the carts which housed the weapons the generals had called for after the King had cried war on the hoonans.

  There were myriad folk roaming around in the background of the fighting. Mostly old men or too young boys, some acting as messengers or aids to the more superior officers, who were out on the field, others preparing food or poultices for the injured.

  As Fade urged Eowyn towards the battle, he realized that there never was a more conspicuous person than himself- the huge, black-feathered wings on his back did that without the royal colors on his steed adding to his very inability to blend into the crowd. His renowned skill saved him from being of too much interest to the average soldier and even though it was sheer cowardice on their part, he made it into the midst of the battle with very little difficulty.

  Hoonan officers atop their own mounts were littered here and there and Fade had to brandish his new and ungainly weapon. The few seconds it took to grow accustomed to the different shape, size, and weight could have been costly but he managed to unseat the hoonan attacking him. Without even a nudge of Fade’s knees to remind him, Eowyn did as he’d been trained. He reared upwards, the fury of the battle already simmering in his veins as he began to pummel the enemy with his hooves. Specks of blood rained through the air and Fade felt the moisture drench his cheeks and arms, coating Eowyn’s hide as well.

  Gripping his mount with his knees, he hefted his shield and began to hack downwards. The dull thud of heavy wood bludgeoning into flesh pounded through his ear drums and more blood spattered Eowyn and himself. His concentration was total, his pleasure at ransacking hoonan scum complete, but the sight of fallen elven littering the ground had his stomach churning. Bile gathered in his throat and for one solitary moment, Fade wasn’t entirely certain if he had control of his body.

  Like an untried boy fresh to war, nausea grumbled through his system. Had his father been there, he’d have spat at him and enjoyed watching the older man’s shock and growing fury at his hated son’s impudence. Especially as the King wouldn’t even be able to punish him for his actions. No man in the empire would dare take on Fade.

  How many had to die? How many brethren had to lose their life to satisfy the King’s need?

  Charek had always been a selfish bastard. But as the years passed and he grew ever more desperate, his evil knew no bounds.

  When the party of troops who had been sent to guide Keira and her entourage to the Royal keep in Darraby returned minus thei
r charge and severely depleted after the hoonan attack, the King had not thanked them for risking their lives. No, he’d had them strung up in the dungeons. Fade had tried to convince his bastard father to release them, but to no avail. When they’d set out to rescue Keira, only one of the ten had managed to survive the torture of the King’s guards.

  Fade would see to it himself that their widows would be well cared for, but rage still coursed through his veins at his father’s abuse of station.

  He used the rage and transformed it into strength- it powered his arm as he hacked his way through the crowds, both with the sharp edge of his sword and the heavy shield. Men tried to crowd around him, but Eowyn soon put a stop to that and within twenty minutes, he’d made it through the horde and to the other side of the battle field.

  The hoonans were poorer than the elven. Elven had magic to boost their coffers, when they ran low. They also had the ability to ‘talk’ to Mearth. If a harvest faltered, the elven called on their shaman and he and Mearth united and the harvest was strong. It meant their population was healthy. Their bellies always full.

  The hoonans were not so fortunate. Every fighting man was too small, their frames narrow and thin. They were almost frail, where the elven were stocky with nourishment.

  And the keep itself spoke of their poverty. This stronghold was small, yes, but it was obviously the possession of a minor royal if the ramshackle flag waving desultorily in the weak breeze was anything by which to go. It was rundown and battered- of no consequence.

  No Royal elf would have dreamed of crossing such a squalid threshold.

  Apart from Fade that was.

  On this side of the battlefield, there were no generals sitting in expensive tents, swathed with costly material. Nor were there arms’ sergeants and carts loaded with heavy and modern weapons. It was basic and the hoonans were managing to equal the elven simply out of fury.

  It wouldn’t last. They didn’t have the training of the elven soldiers, but their blood was surging with the lust of the kill. It was a powerful intoxicant and seemed to be doing the trick at that moment.