Honor Crowned Read online

  HONOR

  CROWNED

  Volume III of

  The Spare Heir

  Michael G. Southwick

  Other Books by Michael G. Southwick

  Honor Bound

  Honor Found

  Special thanks to:

  Cindy for her understanding and support

  Michael for inspiring me

  Keith for knocking off the rough edges

  And so many others for motivating me to keep going

  Chapter I

  Rain, rain, rain, and more rain. It had started raining just as he’d left the comfort of the Broken Arms Inn three days ago and hadn’t stopped since. Occasionally it had slowed to a light sprinkle, but most of the time it had been something between a downpour and a deluge. The rivers were running high and the ground was more mud than earth.

  Jorem was soaked. Everything he had was soaked. All in all, he was about as miserable as he could get. He’d always enjoyed the rain before. Then again, rainy days had meant he could curl up next to a warm fire and read a book. Now he was riding to meet the troops he’d been assigned to lead. Another cold rivulet of water seeped past his cloak to run down his neck.

  It was nearly sundown. In these conditions he dared not travel at night. The heavy clouds blocked out the light from both the moon and the stars. Once the sun went down, the gray light filtering through the clouds turned black as pitch. What had taken three days to ride before was taking thrice that or more on the return. Between the slow pace and not traveling at night it was turning into a long and dreary ride.

  Reining his horse into a small grove of trees, Jorem dismounted. The horse was splattered with mud from its belly down. Rain or not, he’d have to give the animal a good rub down before turning in. Now all he needed was a handful of retainers and guardsmen to set up his camp and fix his meal for him. If only!

  Tying a rope between two trees and throwing a piece of canvas over the rope he managed a makeshift tent. He left one side of the canvas longer than the other so he could use it for a floor as well as the side of the tent. Stripping his gear from the horse, he tossed it all into the tent. The next thing was to get a fire going.

  It took longer to find enough dry wood for a fire than it did to start the fire. If the old wizard Pentrothe had been here, it wouldn’t have mattered if the wood were wet. Pentrothe could probably make water burn. But, alas, his mentor and friend was back at the palace, comfortable and warm. Jorem could sense when magic was in play, but unfortunately he could not play with it himself. So, if he wanted a fire he used flint and steel or went without.

  With the fire burning, fitful at best, Jorem set a tin filled with water and cracked grains to heat. Taking an old towel and brush, he went to work getting the horse cleaned up. The horse lipped at his leggings while he worked.

  “I know,” Jorem said to the animal, “you’re tired, wet and hungry. Well, so am I. But don’t you worry. You’ll get yours before I get mine.”

  One by one, Jorem lifted each hoof. Using his fingers, he dug the mud from the inside of the hooves, making certain there were no rocks lodged in them. Then he checked the horseshoes to see they were tight. Having the horse go lame and being forced to walk the remaining distance because of neglecting to check these simple things was not on his list of wise things to do.

  Scooping water from one of the many surrounding puddles, Jorem cleaned himself up. By the time he got back to the fire, the contents of the tin were bubbling nicely. Pulling a plate out of his pack, he filled it with most of the gruel. While that cooled a bit, he added some jerked beef, dried fruit, nuts and a little more water to the tin.

  After adding more wood to the fire, he set the tin to heat up again. Taking up the plate, Jorem checked to see that it was still warm but not hot. The horse’s ears were perked up and its eyes never left Jorem as he approached. As soon as the plate was held out, the horse wasted no time devouring its contents.

  A few minutes with a shovel provided a collecting point for water for the horse. After he ate his own meal, he spent a fair amount of time cleaning the saddle and tack. He dried it off as well as he could with a rag. It wasn’t a perfect job, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  Stripping off his own clothes, Jorem wrung out most of the moisture then hung them from the rope inside the tent. They might not be dry by morning, but they’d be dryer than they were now. He dug through his pack until he found a dry shirt and trews—well, mostly dry, anyway. Crawling into his bedroll he lay watching the fire sputter and hiss.

  Making himself as comfortable as conditions allowed, he closed his eyes, took and deep breath, and relaxed. Since discovering his bond with the healer Jennifer, he had found that if he focused his thoughts on her he could actually see her. Even though she was far away at Dawnsword Keep, the lair of Echalain, between his first breath and the next, he was there. Although his body still lay curled up in the tent with the soft patter of rain falling against the thin canvas shelter, it was as though he were actually standing in the dimly lit stone room with a gentle breeze drifting in through the open window.

  Jen lay where she had been each time he “visited.” The crisp, white, linen sheets made the pallor of her skin seem even paler than it already was. A single candle burned on a small table next to the bed. Jorem moved over to the bed and knelt down. He wasn’t sure just exactly how that worked when he didn’t have a body, but in thinking, he moved, and his vision moved accordingly. Zensa had told him Jen was in some sort of shock and would need help from some “people” she knew. That had been days ago and still she laid there, motionless save for the slight rise and fall of her chest.

  Raising a hand, Jorem brushed a wisp of hair from Jen’s face. This “bonding,” as the Folk had called it, had somehow made them one. The emotions he felt for her were stronger than anything he had ever felt before. To see her lying here, so weak and frail, caused him a pain that was almost physical.

  “You have stolen my heart,” Jorem whispered. “Without you, I see only darkness. I need to know that you are going to be okay.”

  Whether triggered by his words or not, at that moment Jen sighed deeply and a faint smile came to her face. “Mine for yours,” she murmured.

  Jorem found himself back in his tent. Although he was still chilled on the outside, a feeling inside grew and filled him with warmth. Eventually, his body warmed up too and he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter II

  Jorem was challenged by multiple sentries as he rode into camp. Once they identified him, he was passed through. It had finally stopped raining a few marks earlier, but a thick layer of clouds still blanketed the sky, casting a gray pall over the landscape. Droplets of water clung to leaves and branches, cascading down on the unwary who jostled them.

  The men were gathered in small groups around camp. Most were busy hanging clothes and bedding anywhere they could find a place, hoping to get things dry during the respite from the rain. A few waved to Jorem as he rode past, but most were too busy to notice. Jorem pointed his mount to the command tent. This would be one of his more interesting interviews with Captain Jonas.

  He was cold, wet, tired and hungry, and so was the horse. As he dismounted, one of the captain’s aides came and led the horse away. He entered the tent and was immediately drawn to the small portable stove kept burning even in warm weather. He huddled as close to the stove as he could without getting burned. The sound of shuffling papers made him turn to look.

  “Rim!” Captain Jonas exclaimed. “You look like you’ve been drug through a swamp!”

  “Yes sir,” Jorem said with a wry grin. “That’s pretty much what it is between here and Broughbor.”

  Another aide came in the tent carrying a tray of mugs. Seeing steam risin
g from the mugs, Jorem readily accepted one. He didn’t know what was in it, and right now he didn’t care. It was something hot and the mug was already warming his hands. The aide took Jorem’s sodden cloak and left.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon,” Jonas said. “Matter of fact, I thought you’d wait ‘til the weather broke and travel with the prince.”

  Faint wisps of steam were coming off of Jorem’s pant legs. He was still quite wet, but between the heat from the stove and the hot tea he was drinking, he was starting to warm up. With a little hesitation, he looked up at Captain Jonas.

  “You know as well as I that a little rain won’t harm anyone.” Jorem paused as he turned his hand over. There on his finger was a ring bearing the royal crest, a crest worn only by those of direct lineage to the throne. “Besides,” Jorem continued, “the prince didn’t want to wait.”

  The silence hung in the air. Jonas stood staring at the ring on Jorem’s finger. The silence drew out long enough to be uncomfortable. Finally, Jonas looked up at Jorem.

  “This is a joke, right? I mean, we’re waiting for Prince Jorem. Scrawny twig of a kid who can’t walk through a room without breaking something. You don’t exactly fit the bill.” Jonas shook his head. “So, where is the prince?”

  Jorem looked back at the captain with a smile. “Take a year at the forge, all the while eating working-man food, tack on nearly a year training with the meanest mercenary you’ve ever laid eyes on, and yeah, I suppose I’ve changed a bit.”

  “You’re kidding!” Jonas’ shock was plain to see. “You mean you’re really…”

  Jorem made a formal bow, careful not to spill his tea. “Prince Jorem, Rim for short, fifth son to King Halden, at your service.”

  “Why?” Jonas’ tone was incredulous. “I mean, you could have been killed—nearly were, as I recall. Shards! I could have been executed on the spot for putting you in danger.”

  Jorem sighed. “For starters, if I had been killed, you’d have buried Rim, an unknown from nowhere. Jorem would have disappeared, never to be seen or heard of again. As for why,—” Jorem paused and ran his hand over his short cropped hair. “I refuse to be wrapped in a cocoon. I want to do something, to make a difference. I want to be remembered for something more than being the spare heir.”

  Jorem took a sip of his tea. “A friend of mine once told me, ‘A man who does less than he could is less than a man.’ Someday I want to look in the mirror and be proud of what I see—of what I am.”

  Jonas shook his head slowly. He walked over to a table at the side of the tent and slumped into a chair. Reaching over, he nudged a piece of paper across the table. Jorem recognized the royal seal at the bottom and the command ribbons running down the side of the paper.

  “These are my orders,” Jonas said. “It doesn’t take much reading between the lines to see there’s little of honor or pride to be found.”

  Jorem walked over and picked up the paper. He read through the orders, then read through them again. When he finished, be tossed the paper back on the table.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Jorem said. “Either that or I’m missing something.”

  Jonas picked up the paper. “Essentially I’m to take my best soldiers and report to the capital as soon as you arrive. I’m to leave you with a dozen men or so—basically whatever is left. You and your men are to travel through every village, town and steading from here to the northern border. On your way, you are to assure the people of their safety and their importance to the Kingdom.”

  “I get that. I’m to parade about, stay out of the way of the war, and placate any unhappy citizens. It just doesn’t make sense.” Jorem walked over to the map table. “What do you know about the people of this area?” he asked, indicating the route the orders said he was to traverse.

  Captain Jonas rose and walked to the maps. “From what I hear, they’re a hard lot. They’d have to be to live in that rugged land.”

  “Exactly!” Jorem stated. “How are fifteen poorly-trained soldiers and a bumbling prince going to make them feel safe? No, there’s something missing, something we’re not being told.”

  Jonas studied the map for a moment then looked up. “You think too much,” he said. “We’re soldiers. We follow orders and we don’t ask why. I would though, if I were you, watch my back and keep an eye out for trouble.”

  “Get yourself something to eat and some sleep,” Jonas said as he guided Jorem out of the tent. “We’re not going anywhere just yet. I want to get things dried out as much as we can while it’s not raining. I suggest you do the same.”

  Jorem wandered over to the cooking tent for a bite to eat. When he’d had all he wanted, he walked over to the scout tents. They had a roaring fire going and assorted clothes and bedding were hung all about. Someone had already unpacked his bedroll and added his things to the array of drying items.

  The day was still cloudy but the rain looked to be over. Jorem found a blanket in his tent that was fairly dry. Stripping off his clothes and removing all of his hidden blades, he wrapped up in the blanket. His clothes he hung out with the rest.

  One by one, he went through each of his blades. Starting with his sword and ending with the smallest dagger, he cleaned and oiled each one. With his weapons cared for and his clothes and bedding drying, Jorem wrapped the blanket tightly about him, curled up on a thin sleeping pad and fell asleep.

  He awoke to the discordant sound of his tent mate snoring. Conrad was a grizzled old hunter with more tracking and hunting skills than most of the men at the camp. He was a good man to have at your back, but his snoring could wake the dead. A peek under the tent flap showed stars in the sky and a hint of false dawn on the horizon.

  Accepting the futility of trying to get back to sleep, Jorem felt around until he found a candle. A few sparks into a small wad of tinder gave enough flame to light the candle. The light flickered, throwing shadows about the tent. Conrad continued to snore his way through the night.

  Someone had brought Jorem’s clothes and bedding in and piled them in a corner of the tent. As quietly as he could, Jorem slipped into his Ovack armor and boots. Gathering up all of his blades, he stepped from the tent into the chill morning air.

  The camp was quiet, with only a few men standing guard around the perimeter. The scouts’ fire had burned down to a few glowing embers. Just enough light came from the starry sky for him to find some wood to stoke up the fire. The warmth of the flames eased the tension in his muscles as it soaked through him.

  With practiced ease, Jorem tightened the lacings of his shirt and pants. By the time he was done, the armor felt as if it had been sewn on. The mottled beige and brown coloring blurred to faded yellow in the firelight. The material was scuffed and scratched from the abuse it had been put through.

  Next, Jorem began inserting the myriad of blades into their hidden sheaths. Even though he’d checked them before, he again inspected each blade for damage. He wasn’t likely to see battle where he’d been ordered to go, but self-preservation had become a habit during his training with Neth. After the time he’d spent with her he would never be caught without a weapon nearby.

  Fully dressed and armed, Jorem drew his sword and began a warm-up routine to loosen his muscles. Then he moved on to an intricate exercise, twisting and turning as his blade wove patterns in the dim light. It was a far cry from the stately dance he’d tried to learn from Jen so long ago. Still, as his movements became smoother and his concentration more focused, it became a dance of sorts.

  Silent as the wind, he moved about the fire. Only the light scuffing of his feet on the moist soil gave evidence of his passing. The light from the fire cast his shadow across the camp. The flickering light reflected off tents and trees.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. So caught up in the moment, he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. Each completed move brought renewed energy, and his whole world condensed down to the fire, his sword, and the “dance.” His muscles strained and stretched as he forced himself to
extend each move to his limits. The mercenary Neth had taught him the routine, and it involved nearly every move, both offensive and defensive, she had taught him. It also included moves to increase one’s flexibility, reach and stamina. In the back of Jorem’s mind he thought about how much easier it was to keep his movements smooth and fluid without the worry of being whacked whenever he faltered or made a mistake. Neth had been a cruel taskmaster and not at all patient with mistakes. He could have argued that he was still learning but it was hard to argue when her blade was so often at your throat.

  The final move was a deep lunge ending with his left leg nearly parallel to the ground behind him and his right leg bent so his knee touched his chest. Before standing, he ducked his head down, flipped his sword around, and slid it smoothly into its scabbard. A light hiss of the metal sliding against leather and a subtle click as the sword seated in the scabbard were the only sounds.

  When he stood up, he found a dozen men watching him. He knew some of them by name, the others he’d worked with or seen about camp. They were guardsmen old and young. Good men he’d eaten with, marched with, and fought beside. Brothers in arms he’d come to care for.

  “So, is it true?” one of the men asked.

  Ferd was the man’s name, rough around the edges, but a good man.

  “Well, Ferd,” Jorem drawled, “that depends on what ‘it’ is.”

  Emboldened by Jorem’s familiarity, Ferd blurted out his question. “We heard you’re really Prince Jorem.”

  Jorem had to smile. The men facing him were barely breathing in anticipation of his answer. Knowing his response would be spread through the entire camp before first meal, he chose his words and tone carefully. He needed to be tactful but blunt. No fancy words or frilly speeches were needed here.

  “Well, I guess you heard right. I’ve kind of lost my taste for the title though. If you’d rather call me Jorem than Rim, that would be okay. Rim’s fine too.”