Dawn Of The Blood Sovereign

CHAPTER 3: THE FALCON'S NET

The edge of the Outer Marches was not a boundary between kingdoms; it was a killbox.

The gorge itself was no wider than the two horses standing at either end. Towering two hundred feet above, the granite walls curved and swooped inward as if they were the fangs of a monstrous beast ready to close around their throats.

Kaelen’s horse slipped in the slick mud beneath him as he, Oi, Mari and Hyeopbo were herded into the center of the pass. Their cloaks were soaked, their faces drawn and exhausted from three days of unceasing flight.

“The air is dead here,” Mari grunted, hand resting on the pommel of his short-sword. “I don’t like this. This feels like the headsman’s block.”

“Keep moving,” Kaelen instructed, his low voice cutting through the patter of the rain. Underneath his cloak, the massive, black dragon bone bow pressed into his back like the rib cage of a monster, or a constant vibration humming at a deep, rhythmic pitch which told him that the air in the pass was occupied by a tense, metallic presence.

“Hold,” Kaelen suddenly ordered, pulling hard on the reins of his horse.

Before Oi could question him, the ridge above them exploded in torchlight.

Scores of torches flared to life, their harsh, orange glow bathing the wet stone in a mocking light. Archers dotted the ridge, their bows drawn taut with heavy steel-tipped arrows pointed directly down at the four riders below. They were in a dead end, a killbox.

“Drop your steel, royal dogs!” a deep voice bellowed from the darkness before them.

A dozen mailed horsemen charged out of the blackness, their thick leather armorstudded with silver that glittered in the firelight; the unmistakable livery of the House of the Jade Falcon. At the center of the charge, one horse broke from the others, a prancing white mare.

Perched atop the mare sat Vanya. Dressed in rich, deep-green velvet, her cloaked form defied the mud of the pass. The torchlight caught the sharp angles of her face and the pale green fire in her jade eyes, and no matter the clothes, she looked every inch a sovereign. “Four riders. One with a weapon wrapped in black silk which radiates more power than any ten mages in this city. You must be the lost prince.”

Oi maneuvered to shield Kaelen. “Get back, trader. You’re speaking to Prince Kaelen of Buyeo.”

Vanya let out a brittle laugh. “Buyeo has no prince called Kaelen anymore. Crown Prince Malakor took the throne yesterday morning, the King is dead, and your names have been expunged from all the royal registers. I hear your heads alone are worth ten thousand gold a piece.”

The words hit Oi, Mari and Hyeopbo like physical blows. Oi’s jaw tightened and Mari let out a soft curse, but Kaelen was impassive, his expression as unreadable as the stone of the canyon. He urged his horse forward slowly, past Oi, until he was only ten paces from Vanya.

“In that case,” Kaelen said, his voice terrifyingly even, “you are in the presence of forty thousand gold coins. Why have you not ordered your archers to fire, Lady Vanya?”

Vanya’s green eyes narrowed; she expected fear, desperation, a plea for terms. Instead, she looked up at a boy who was the only one in the entire canyon not looking up to her on her high horse. “Gold is cheap,” Vanya replied, tipping her head. “I have vaults of it. I do not have an arrow which can penetrate the dark iron armor of Malakor’s vanguard; they are marching south even as we speak, and if they do not get the message that they will not get pass to my gates, they will reach it in forty eight hours.”

“And you think a dethroned prince can stop an army?” Kaelen asked, an almost imperceptible lift of an eyebrow the only show of incredulity.

“I think a prince with the blood of a war-god running in his veins can,” Vanya replied, her gaze locking onto the black-wrapped bow across Kaelen’s back. “I know what you did in the Forest of Whispers. Malakor’s assassins were found shredded in pieces; they did not die by steel. The air around them was so cold that it froze their blood before it left their bodies. You are no mere prince, Kaelen.”

“If I am a god,” Kaelen’s voice dropped an octave, that faint, metallic thrum making the horses whinny and prance. “What makes you think that you can command me?”

“I don’t want to command you,” Vanya said, her green eyes flashing with a dangerous ambition. “I want to fund you. I have the grain for an army, the silver for the western mercenary. The fortresses to hold the line. I don’t have a leader who will strike terror into the High Kingdom’s heart. You want to live, Kaelen. I want an empire. Step down from your horse, Prince Kaelen, and we can discuss the price of a crown.”

Kaelen gazed at the archers on the ridge, then at Vanya. He saw the same ruthless calculation in her eyes that he’d seen in his brothers, the same cold hunger for power. She was a wolf, cloaked in silk.

She was also a wolf he could use.

Fluidly, Kaelen swung off his horse, his boots sinking into the muddy ground. He unslung the enormous black dragon bone bow and let the black silk fall away, the celestial silver inlay on the bow glowing a faint, predatory gold in the dark, confined space of the pass. The guard’s hands instinctively went to their hilts, their reins tightening as they instinctively drew back on their horses; Vanya alone remained stock-still, her breath catching slightly.

“The price of a crown is blood, Lady Vanya,” Kaelen said, his golden eyes flaring in the torchlight. “And I intend to have Malakor bleed for every single drop.”

Vanya stared down at him for a long moment, her sharp, calculating smile finally curving the corner of her lips. “Welcome to the Outer Marches, Kaelen,” she said, motioning to the open pass before her. “Let us build a fortress.”