Forged for Royalty

Book 3: Forged For Destiny

by Andrew Knighton

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The third and final book in the Forged for Destiny series!

As Raul fights battle after battle using his newly acquired abilities, he comes to a decision about whether or not to take the throne of Estis for himself or put his fake destiny aside and let another become king. 

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 432

Sample

Raul stood in the fighting line, shield in one hand and sword in the other, facing the Dunholmi charge. Hooves thundered across a meadow crisp and white with spring frost, the horses’ breath billowing like smoke. Spear tips gleamed starkly in the early morning light.

Even after a year of war, Raul wasn’t used to these moments, when the choices had been made and all he could do was wait for their brutal consequences. He shifted the sword in his hand, forcing himself to unclench. But as soon as he loosened the tension in his muscles, it came back, shoulders tightening beneath his arming jacket and the chainmail over that. He felt the weight of the helmet on his head, of the shield on his arm, of the whole army’s expectations bearing down on him.

Halfway across the field, a Dunholmi horn sounded. The spears lowered, pointing straight at Raul.

His da had been right. The enemy were smart enough not to fight inside the town, where they would lose all the advantages of cavalry, but to come out and face the attackers. He had to hope that Valens had been right about the rest too, and that they weren’t smart enough to see what the rebels had planned.

He turned his head and opened his chest so his voice would carry down the line, just like Yasmi had taught him, then raised his sword so that the ruby in the hilt caught the light, gleaming red as fire.

“For Estis and for freedom!” he yelled. “A new moon rises!”

“A new moon rises!” the warriors roared, and the battle cry ran down the line, a thousand voices becoming a single cheer.

On the edges, the combat had started already, skirmishers from both sides shooting arrows back and forth. But it was in the thick of it that the hardest fighting would be done, and that was why Raul was here, despite the protests of his closest friends and advisors. How could he ask anyone else to face this if he wouldn’t do it himself?

The Dunholmi were nearly on them. All along the line, the Estian infantry raised their shields to form an overlapping wall. Raul slid his foot forward, resting the back of the shield against his knee, and raised his sword to defend his head.

The sound of the charge was deafening, the Dunholmi so close he could see the hatred in their eyes.

“Brace!” he yelled, and they leaned into their shields.

The charge hit.

A spear slammed into his shield, the force of the impact jolting through his arm, his knee, and the leg he’d stuck back to keep him from being knocked over. The very tip of the spear punched through the wood of his shield, splinters flying inches from his eyes, but behind it the shaft snapped. Raul and his shield held. The horse in front of him reared, hooves thrashing, threatening to smash Raul’s head open. But polearms reached over his shoulder from the ranks behind and those were enough to fend the animal off, to stop it trampling through. Its rider cursed in frustration, drew his sabre, and tried to turn his steed to take a swing at Raul.

No time to check the rest of the line. If it had broken, then they were all dead anyway. Raul tried to ignore the shouts and screams, the crash of weapons and thud of blows, the smell of blood already on the air, to focus on what was in front of him in the place where he could make a difference.

He slashed at the horse, his stomach churning with guilt as blood ran down its neck. The horse hadn’t chosen service to the armies of Dunholm any more than Estis had. It twisted sharply away from the attack and its rider tugged at its reins even as he swung at Raul. It was an easy blow to parry, wild but not strong, the whole movement flung off by the jolting of the horse. Raul batted the sabre aside, then lunged. He felt the moment of resistance before his strength drove the tip of his sword through the warrior’s chainmail, through the padding beneath, and into his belly.

The rider screamed and jerked harder on the reins, trying to draw back as blood streamed from his side. Down the line, a Dunholmi captain was shouting for a retreat, but her order drew another shout from further back, this one alarmed.

Raul grinned, despite the hammering of his heart and the shaking of his blood-slicked hand. Valens must have appeared at the cavalry’s rear, using local rebels’ knowledge of the terrain. Deprived of space to pull back, the Dunholmi couldn’t regroup for a fresh charge, but they were still an intimidating force, hooves and spears and blades battering at the Estian line.

Fortunately, Raul still had one more trick. Relying on the others to protect him, he sheathed his sword and drew a whistle from where it hung around his neck next to a protective charm. He pressed it to his lips and blew. The shrill blast ran down the line and was picked up by captains on their own whistles. In their hiding places at the edge of the field, Quintae and his engineers waited, ready to respond.

There was a rustling sound, like snakes through the grass, then a series of thuds. Amid the Dunholmi cavalry, wooden stakes sprang from the ground, sharpened tips slashing at the bellies of horses. Panicked steeds snorted and whinnied, tangling themselves in the ropes and jerking to break free. Warriors were flung away with thuds and curses and the crack of breaking bones.

“Forward!” Raul bellowed, flourishing his sword.

“For Prince Raul Warborn!” one of his captains shouted.

Others echoed the cry. “Warborn!”

That cry plucked a guilty string in Raul’s heart for the lie that drove these brave people on, but he couldn’t help feeling proud too. After all, he was the one they believed in.

The infantry advanced with slow, steady strides like Valens had taught them, shields in line, overlapping where they could, the points of polearms waving past their heads. Some of the Dunholmi tried to stand steady, sheltering behind their own shields and lashing out at the Estian line. But horses weren’t suited to holding ground and those who’d been flung from the saddle weren’t trained for infantry fighting, if they were even in a position to stand. The Estians advanced across a litter of broken and groaning bodies, parting only to pass around the stakes or the horses that lay thrashing in pain and panic between them.

At last, the Dunholmi couldn’t retreat any further. A circle of rebel banners with their red moon and blade closed around them. Pressed by infantry from ahead and behind, held back at the edges by archers and stakes, the Dunholmi were packed in too tightly to move, never mind to fight. Killing those who remained would be the easy part.

“Yield!” Raul demanded, catching the eye of a mounted Dunholmi warrior in an officer’s white sash, her visor raised to survey the desperate fighting. He had to yell himself hoarse to be heard over the crash of combat, but she looked like she’d heard. “They’re not worth dying for, not your king and not your count.”

Her gaze went from Raul to the warriors around him, then back across her own blue-clad troops. There was a moment of hesitation, her expression twitching as loyalty to her leaders battled with loyalty to her followers, and Raul feared that this might end worse than he wanted, one more bitter moment fuelling generations of hate. But her shoulders sank and she sheathed her sword before laying her hands on her saddle.

“It’s over,” she shouted. “Lay down your arms.”

One by one, the Dunholmi warriors obeyed, some swiftly and with looks of relief, others with reluctance. Some had already given up and were being herded through the Estian lines. The clang of sword against sword faded and the battle cries died, leaving the shuffle of hooves, the snort of nervous horses, and the groans of the injured.

“Are you in charge?” Raul stepped into the gap where blades had swung a moment before, taking off his helmet as he went, showing them his face and making himself vulnerable, trusting that this surrender was real.

The Dunholmi officer looked around.

“That depends on who else is alive,” she said. “But I’m as good as you’ll get right now.”

Warriors shuffled aside, making space for her and Raul to approach. He reached out and stroked her horse, doing his best to soothe the anxious beast.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked, unbuckling her sword belt. “The rebel king.”

“Just a prince.” Raul accepted her sword, wrapped in its finely decorated scabbard and white leather belt. Alongside it was a silver-handled dagger with a charm for sharpness stamped into its hilt, her badge of authority. “Can’t have a coronation until we’ve got our country back.”

That drew a round of cheering from his side, including those too far down the line to hear. It was hard not to feel like cheering when you’d fought and won.

“At least we lost to someone who matters.”

The officer climbed down from her horse and Raul realised that she was holding one arm tight against her side, trying to keep a wound from bleeding. Her face was pale, but she faced him with dignity.

“Your Highness, I beseech mercy for my troops. Many warriors here will fetch a fine ransom, and there is no honour in harming the rest.”

“There won’t be any ransoms,” Raul said. “Not while the war’s still raging. But don’t worry, we won’t be harming anyone either. In fact…” He stepped forward and caught her as she stumbled, sliding his arm under her shoulder to keep her on her feet. “Our physicians are waiting to see to your wounds.”

The crowd cheered again as the lines parted, his title rising from a thousand throats, swords beating against shields in celebration. He held his head high and smiled brightly, catching the eyes of everyone he passed, and the cheers grew louder, a wave of jubilation that washed over him.

“Warborn!”

He was the freedom fighter.

“Warborn!”

He was the heir to Estis.

“Warborn!”

He was the hope for an end to a generation of tyranny.

“Warborn!”

He was a fraud playing his part, and if his people found out, then everything was doomed.

The remnants of a fire burned in the hearth of the small timber house, a pot hanging over the flames. The inhabitants had probably been cooking breakfast when word came that war had arrived, and they had wisely fled. Raul wrapped his bloodstained shirt around his hand and took the pot off the heat. The porridge inside was burned, but he wouldn’t want the pot to be wrecked. He should ask someone to stock the log pile and the larder, to make up for the fear they’d caused these people.

“Here.” Yasmi handed him a fresh shirt. Raul’s calloused fingers lingered on the fabric as he pulled it on. He had never known silk before this year and it felt strange against his skin. “No time to wash, but we can do our best to make you look the part.”

She pulled a doublet from her basket, deep black with red embroidery.

“We just fought a battle,” Raul pointed out. “Looking the part would mean bloodstains and sweat.”

Even as he protested he held his arms out. He knew he wouldn’t win this argument and he couldn’t afford to waste vital time. By now, word was likely racing to Pavuno that the rebels had taken another town. They needed to regroup and build defences before the counterattack.

“In battle, you needed to look gritty and fearsome.” Yasmi stepped around him, sliding the doublet up his arms and settling it in place. “Now you need to play the part of the prince, regal and refined.”

Raul started on the lacing but Yasmi stepped quickly around him, the masks on her belt clicking against each other, and batted his hands away.

“I’m quicker at this than you,” she said. “And neater.”

“You’re better at most things than me.”

“Flatterer.” She smiled and treated him to a quick kiss. “But we both know that I’d be a terrible battlefield commander. By the time I finished my first speech, the war would already be lost.”

Raul fidgeted with his cuffs while the laces hissed through their holes. His heraldry was embroidered on one sleeve, a moon-pierced blade to match the so-called birthmark underneath, the brand with which his parents had marked him for destiny. Another piece of theatre, his clothes a reminder that he was the chosen one, the embodiment of years of prophecy.

Even his clothes were lies, another thought that made him squirm.

“You’d be better at the politics,” he said. “You’re used to pretending.”

Yasmi took a step back and placed her hands on her hips as she looked him up and down. Midmorning sunlight through the open shutters brought out the bright colours of her loose trousers and tunic, gleaming off a silver bangle he’d given her and lighting up her long strawberry blond hair.

“I’d enjoy the dressing up,” she admitted. “But it all seems far too serious. ‘Let lesser mortal fight for the fates of nations, I am bound by a brighter beat.’”

“Is that from Princess Pitura?”

“You remember that one?”

“I liked the part where you played a monkey stealing from the duke’s treasure chest.”

Yasmi laughed. “Tenebrial doesn’t write a lot of slapstick, but it’s fun when he does.”

“Come closer,” Raul said with a smile. “You haven’t finished lacing me up.”

“That’s deliberate.” She placed a finger on the small triangle of skin she’d left exposed beneath his neck. “You have a good body. We should remind people of that.”

“Flatterer.”

He pulled her close, luxuriating in her scent and the warmth of her body against his. As they kissed, all his worries went away.

Then he forced himself to let go, to raise his chin and puff out his chest, to take on the pose of the prince. He buckled on his sword belt, ruby pommel gleaming at his hip, and headed out into the street.

Hewed was a dark town, its buildings smeared black by the smoke from its foundries. The workshops of smelters and blacksmiths were built of stone to withstand the heat of their work and survive if fire broke out. Around them was a patch of dark mud before the timber houses in which the people lived, scattered between vegetable plots. Three well-worn dirt roads ran past its edges: two coming in from the hills where coal and iron were mined, the third from the lowlands and the markets where Hewed ironwork had been sold for generations, until the Dunholmi claimed it all for their armouries. For nearly twenty years, that road had run only to the governor in the palace of Pavuno, but today that changed. From now on, Hewed would arm the rebels instead.

No, not rebels. True rulers. Raul had to think that way, in hopes that he would talk like it too.

As he stepped out the door, half a dozen people bowed to him. It was unsettling to see his friends and companions bow, especially when he’d known some of them before any of this began, so he turned his attention to the one who forgot etiquette and stared at the frames of the buildings instead.

“Good work on the stake traps, Quintae. You saved us a lot of hard fighting today.”

“Good, yes, good.” The scrawny engineer patted the side of his own scarred head. “Easy work. Ropes and hinges, hidden in the grass. Not like the great machines. Oh, you should see them, yes…”

He flailed a hand in the direction of the road, back along the route they’d marched. His eyes gleamed excitedly and he clapped his hands together.

Behind Raul, Yasmi cleared her throat. Quintae’s eyes went wide.

“You should see them, Highness.” He flopped into an awkward bow, fingers trailing in the sooty dirt. Raul wanted to tell him that there was no need, but they were all actors in his play and he needed them to play their parts, whether they knew what they were doing or not.

Still, he laid a hand on Quintae’s shoulder and eased him upright before turning to face the others. Valens, his da, a towering mass of muscle dressed in the armour and red-on-black livery of their new Imperial Legion. Ferra, grey hair shaved down one side and with a bow across her back, the closest the Withered Hills warbands had to a leader. Silvano Ironhead, who had worked the docks in Pavuno and now led a company of refugees from the city’s work gangs. Biallo Lavelle, lead actor turned infantry captain, living the war stories he had once performed. Others who Raul knew less well, but who he trusted with his life and more importantly with the lives of those who followed him. Every day, their ranks seemed to grow, though there were losses too, people he couldn’t protect no matter how hard he tried, all the way back to Appia lying dead on the palace flagstones. It had been over a year since they’d returned from the Withered Hills, nearly two years since the failed rebellion in Pavuno, and the wins were adding up, but so were the losses. More people than ever wore black mourning rings.

He set that aside and focused on what they needed in this moment, on who he had to be.

“The town is secure?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Biallo said. “We’ve checked all the buildings and secured the local Dunholmi lord’s entourage.”

“The roads in and out?”

“We’ve folk fixing to watch them now, Highness.” Ferra nodded. “Clear a day’s good ride out at least.”

“And the wagons for the arms and armour?”

“Coming up now, yes.” Quintae nodded eagerly. “Many wagons. Many horses. Yes, Highness.”

“Good. I’ll tour the positions shortly and make sure we’ve got sentries set, then the rest of the troops can relax. Council will meet this evening to discuss our next target. Until then, back to business, though I’d like a word with General Valens before he goes.”

“Highness,” they chorused, and all bobbed their heads before hurrying away, leaving Raul with Yasmi and Valens.

“I still can’t get used to that.” Valens shook his head. “The general bit, I mean.”

“If it helps, I can’t get used to it either,” Raul said. “Feels weird to call you anything other than Da.”

“Get used to it,” Yasmi said. “Our people know how you’re related, but they need you to keep up the atmosphere, to make them feel like they’re part of a real nation and a real court.”

Raul sighed. They’d been through this conversation many times, and he knew in his head that she was right. Still, his heart ached for a different way of doing things, and he couldn’t keep from pushing at the edges of what was allowed.

“Come on.” Yasmi nudged him. “It’s good for our warriors to see you after a victory. It links you to a good mood in their minds, reminds them that they won thanks to you.”

“Thanks to all of us,” Raul said.

“Of course, but one matters more than the rest. So straighten up and get ready to perform, because they need their chosen one.”

It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy these moments. It was fun meeting people, learning about who they were and what had brought them here, watching their faces light up as they told their war stories to royalty. It was like being back at the inn, listening to the locals and travellers talk about their days, except that he didn’t have to serve the drinks anymore.

Smiling and striding proudly, he headed into the liberated town.

Bonfires blazed to either side of the stage and the wagons it rested on, warming the audience of weary warriors and illuminating the actors of the Company Dellest. Sparks burst free as logs cracked in the heat, blazing orange motes spiralling on the currents of hot air toward the stars. But none of it—not the fires, not the sparks, not even the stars themselves—could match the brightness and beauty Raul saw when Yasmi stepped onto the stage.

He doubted that anyone else in the audience saw what he did. They cheered, of course, and raised their tankards high as she stepped out from behind the curtain, her whole body transformed by the magic of her masks and her shifting skills. Instead of a woman, there stood a lion, a monkey, a wyvern with a scaly body and its wings spread wide, a wonder that most of them would only have seen a few times in their lives, if they were even lucky enough to have a wandering theatrical troupe visit their home village. Now they got to watch a play every month or so, whenever the enemy was far away and the army of free Estis was celebrating a victory. Tenebrial, the troupe’s playwright, had reluctantly abandoned nuance in favour of more monsters, more grand speeches, and more fanciful backdrops, all the spectacle that their audience loved. As several of the players had noted, what mattered most now was keeping people motivated. They could worry about high art later.

So the stories had been rewritten and Yasmi became even more the centre of the show. The story of King Balbianus no longer featured a wolf, since Yasmi had lost that mask, but the lion that now faced the ancient king in his final battle was as fearsome as the wolf had ever been, and while the string of monsters and animals that preceded it might not feature in the historical records, they kept the spirit of the old story, reminded people of the struggles that had founded the nation and the common bond that united them.

It wasn’t as though truth was the rebellion’s strength.

Still, when Yasmi stepped onto the stage Raul saw a different truth to everyone else. Instead of lumbering beasts and chattering imps, he saw the passion and energy that went into her performance. Instead of warts and claws, he saw the young woman who he’d known nearly his whole life and yet who still managed to surprise him in the best possible ways.

Right now, Yasmi was a heron, guiding Balbianus and his soldiers to the secrets of a mystical pool. As was traditional, the lead role was played by Efron Dellest, who seemed to find fresh energy playing alongside his daughter, his every third line drawing a cheer, a groan, or a laugh from the audience. Next to Raul at the back of the crowd, Valens watched with an expression that Raul imagined was much like his own, wrapped up in more than the performance.

He nudged his da.

“Efron’s on fine form tonight,” Raul whispered.

“He is.” Valens’s tone was curt but a smile curled the corners of his lips.

“He looks good in that new doublet.”

“He does.”

“Have you ever thought about…” Raul looked down at his feet, then back up, taking a breath. He didn’t normally feel awkward talking with his da, but this wasn’t just about him. “About getting married?”

Valens blinked, long and slow. The lump of his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“We’ve talked. I’ve said no.”

“But you and Efron love each other.”

“Loving a warrior is hard.” Valens held up the stump where his hand had been. “Marrying them is harder. Fastest way to end up a widower.”

“You won’t be a warrior forever. Once we’ve freed the country, you can go back to running an inn, or travel the country and help Efron put up the stage.”

“I was a terrible innkeeper and I’m a worse scenery hand. Besides, you’ll still need warriors when this is done, to keep the country safe.”

Raul frowned and plucked at a loose thread on his finely embroidered cuff. He hadn’t thought about what came after, not properly. About what he was committing to by claiming the crown. About what that would mean for his future and the people around him. It wasn’t as if their council meetings didn’t come close to the topic, like weeds creeping across a field of grain, but he always tugged that conversation out and moved on to something else. Had he been purposefully avoiding it?

Valens, who seldom looked away from the stage while Efron was performing, looked down at his son.

“Something you want to tell me about you and Yasmi?” he asked.

“What?” Raul blushed as he looked up. “No! I mean, I would, but it’s too soon, and…”

A warrior turned, finger raised, then saw who she’d been about to shush.

“Your Highness.” She bowed. “I didn’t know you was there. Would you like some cider?”

She smiled eagerly and held up an earthenware jug.

“Thank you.” Raul took a swig. It had taken him a while to realise that people wanted him to say yes, even though he had so much more than they did—fine clothes, roofs over his head, the certainty of a meal when supplies were short. They wanted to feel like they were sharing with him, and like he appreciated it. This time, he turned his grimace at the vinegary cider into something exaggerated, one of Yasmi’s tricks to turn awkward moments into shared amusement. “You’re a braver soldier than I am, drinking the likes of this!”

She laughed and gestured uncertainly toward her companions. “Would you like to join us, Your Highness?”

Raul hesitated. The thought of relaxing with these people was appealing, hearing about their lives and their adventures since joining the rebellion. But there were too many thoughts tumbling around his head; he needed to take a walk.

“Thank you, but I should do a tour of the camp. Maybe another time.”

He handed back the jug, gave her the warmest smile he could muster, and turned away.

“You want me to come?” Valens murmured.

“Not tonight. I need time to clear my head, and I’ll be safe enough by myself.”

Away from the stage and the roaring bonfires, the spring night was cold as it could be. The clear sky that let the stars smile down meant there were no clouds holding in the land’s warmth. Raul wrapped his cloak tight around him, hiding his embroidered tunic and tailored trousers as he headed out.

Though the rest of the encampment wasn’t roaring like the crowd around the stage, it was never quiet. Warriors huddled at their fires, cooking whatever food they’d been given or gathered, talking about the day’s fighting. Some of the civilians who accompanied the army joined them, spending time with the family they’d followed from home or the new friends they’d made along the way. Others were busy mending clothes, hauling supplies, rolling barrels from the barn where the Dunholmi had kept their supplies. Where the fields they were camped in met the edge of town, a fire blazed in the open front of a smithy and the clang of an anvil resonated through the night as blunted swords and spears were sharpened.

When the playwrights and chroniclers talked about war, it was all battles and sieges, heroism and tragedy, but it was so much more than that. It was the routines people fell into, with all their boredom and familiarity. It was real life.

But as Raul wandered alone through his camp, the peace of the moment did little to ease his mind. Instead, the future gaped before him. Life in a palace, all plump pillows and politics, impossibly distant from the upbringing of a simple innkeeper’s son. What would the routines of that life be? Was there space for Yasmi, whose craft took her across the country and beyond, performing in a new village every night? His ma would be fine, court politics was the life she missed, but what about his da? Could a life with Efron combine with life as one of Raul’s advisors, and if not, what would Valens choose? Could Raul even place that decision on him?

Too many questions, each one stirring up a dozen more. What he did was too important to choose anything else, but he missed the inn in winter with Old Wellic grumbling by the fire and other locals sharing a meal while Raul bustled back and forth between them, fetching drinks and washing cups.

“Hey, you!” A voice broke through his reverie. From around the nearest fire, a man was waving. “Yes, you, raggedy cloak man!”

Raul looked down and laughed. His cloak was faded and frayed from long marches through the winter and camping out in the woods, its tears patched with whatever had come to hand because this wasn’t a piece of royal costume but a practical thing to keep a warrior warm.

“Good evening.” Raul smiled and nodded to the man. Others around the circle turned to him and one shuffled up to make space.

“Do you know how to play seven stones?” the waving man said.

“Only a little.”

“The best sort of opponent! I need someone different to beat for a while.”

The warmth of the fire and of the company enveloped Raul as he joined the game, tossing one pebble in the air and trying to snatch up the others, shouting “Sevens!” any time he came close to a fistful. Others took a turn from time to time, but mostly they were happy talking, and playing the game meant that Raul didn’t need to say much in return.

He soon learned that several of them came from Rianti, which they insisted had the finest crafting halls in all of Estis. Three were basket weavers, one a carpenter, another a mason. There were also farmers from near a place called Barrowblack, which they claimed had been a burial ground when the gods walked the world. Several around the edges wore clothes too poor to have been artisans or even farmers before the war, beggars and itinerant labourers who had joined the army as much for food as for the cause. A woman with a wooden flute didn’t say much, too busy trying to learn the tune that the carpenter was teaching her.

“Thought you only knew seven stones a little, raggedy cloak man.” Raul’s opponent grinned gleefully, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “But you’re cursed close to beating me.”

“I’ve been copying that thing you do with your wrist.” Raul demonstrated as he tossed up a stone and plucked two more from the ground. “Trying to do the same. It works well, doesn’t it?”

“What thing with his wrist?” One of the weavers leaned closer.

“Now, now, raggedy cloak.” The man winked. “Don’t go giving away all of my secrets.”

“No, go on, show us.” Another of the weavers leaned in. “Maldio here has been beating us all