Chapter Thirty-One

To take a throne

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The meat was still smoking in her hands, the steam swirling in the air and he eyed it ravenously. Abruptly she tossed it to him, "Don't take what is mine," she instructed as she got to her feet and made her way into the shack. The horse snorted before walking off to graze, leaving the boy alone in the clearing with a freshly cooked and warm slab of meat, with only the stars for company.

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Clayton nodded to Carson, who silently rose from his side and slipped into the night. Several days had passed since a strange warrior had saved him from the gallows, and since then there had been over two dozen deaths within the city. The Wardens were jumpy, starting at any sound and liable to attack and beat anyone they found alone on the streets. Since their proclamation this morning, that a child would die for every day the attacker didn't come forward, several people had been beaten in their homes, and some had died from their injuries.

It seemed the Wardens were too scared to move in small numbers and had taken to gathering at their headquarters or the local tavern, and moving in large groups throughout the city. While it gave the people time to hear them coming, when they were caught there were plenty of angry men to go around and all of them wanted to let out their frustrations, on either men or women.

Clayton and his friends had asked around, and as far as they knew not one of them had killed the Warden's, so either it was the Warden's themselves playing a trick in an attempt to capture the Rebels, or something else was happening. Either way he could not allow a child to be murdered in the morning, so he had gathered his friends and those who were able had donned cloaks, hoods and weapons in preparation for the rescue.

The square was both a hindrance and a help to the city. In times long ago, the various streets and alleyways made travel for large numbers easy, now though it meant there were places to hide and many escape routes, for both the Rebels and the Wardens.

Eleven men had volunteered to come tonight and they were slowly closing in on the square, taking out any Warden sentries they came across, and hopefully by the time they closed in on the children, any help for the guards wouldn't be coming.

Two sets of Warden's were guarding the cages, boredly leaning against buildings or the cages, and some were lying down and appeared to be asleep.

Skye, the only one of the Rebels to be professionally trained, was positioned on one of the rooftops with a bow and arrow at the ready. The plan was to rush the guards and surround them as Skye shot them from above. When the Wardens were dead they would free the children and get them out of the city.

In the shadows his men were moving forward and Clayton took a deep breath, hoping everyone was in position.

He got to his feet and drew his blade, approaching the Wardens quietly as his friends emerged from the shadows of buildings. Abruptly an arrow hissed through the air and struck the gong next to the cages. The guards leapt to their feet and drew weapons as the Rebels rushed them and around them doors banged open as more Warden's erupted into the square and torches flared into life.

Several of his friends were taken out immediately and he fought for a moment before he was disarmed. As Clayton fell to his knees a furious blow hit him in the head and he was sent sprawling into the dirt. His legs and hands were tied tightly, with several kicks aimed at him before he was dragged to his feet.

The Warden's second in command, Markus, grinned at them as they stood within rings of guards, "Bucaic is going to be very pleased to see you," he smirked.

Theon spat at him, and the smile left Markus' face, and his returning blow sent Clayton's dark-skinned friend to the ground where he crumpled and was still.

Markus began to walk away, the guards dragging the captured rebels with them and Clayton glanced up at the roof, a single figure stood there grinning viciously down at him, it had always been a trap.

Their walk to the Tavern, for that was where Bucaic spent most of his time, was relatively short and easy, as the square was only a few hundred meters from the tavern and it was relatively flat ground.

The Wardens strode up the sunken porch and burst through the door, dragging the prisoners with them. The inside the tavern was musty and dark, with candles in lanterns whose glass was a dark black from the smoke. A chandelier hung brokenly from the ceiling, with a few candles lit and there were several on the tables. Most of the table tops had been destroyed and many were held up by empty barrels beneath the legs. Patrons sat on old crates or chairs held together by rope and they fell silent as the group entered. A fire was crackling in the corner and a large, moth-bitten and threadbare chair was positioned before the fireplace.

Markus led the group over to the fireplace and threw Clayton down at the chairs side and he whimpered in pain as he rolled onto his knees.

The figure on the chair rose to his feet and stepped around to face the prisoners, "Clayton Ashran," he drawled as he looked at the prisoners. Several gasped in shock and glanced to the young man with betrayal in their eyes. "I did hear reports of someone fitting your description leading the Rebels. I thought to myself, surely he cannot be that stupid, to risk his family…"

Clayton's head rose and he glared at Bucaic, ignoring his companions for the interim. Bucaic was a short and round man, with greedy yellow eyes and straw coloured hair. He twirled his moustache as he looked down at the young lord, "I think I'll send our reinforcements out to Ashran Castle when they get here."

Clayton paled, the only reason the Ashran Castle hadn't been attacked by the Wardens yet was because their family still held some power within the community, had conformed to the Warden's wishes and had the loyalty of a dozen professional fighters, trained by their fathers before them.

"Thought your little assassinations were funny, did you?" Continued the leader of the guards, trembling in fury, "Tell me who did it and I might consider keeping your sister for myself."

Clayton gave a growl of fury and fought against his restraints and Markus came forward to smack him about the head. "It wasn't us!" He declared once he recovered, "I swear it!"

"Hm," Bucaic tilted his head slightly, "I hear she's a pretty little thing. Maybe I'll let you watch," he said as he walked away. Thankfully Clayton's reply was lost as the door burst open and the guard's attention was on the young boy at the door.

"They're all dead!" He screamed, and those who weren't listening were paying attention now.

"What? Who is dead? Boy?" Demanded Bucaic and the boy nervously answered him, "I was told ta come and tell ya, by one o' your men. He's out there," the boy gestured to the door.

The door opened again and this time Skye was half dragging, half carrying a bloodied man into the tavern. A table was cleared and the soldier was laid onto the table, Bucaic hurriedly moving forward. Clayton twisted around as he got to his feet and stared at the man. His tunic was splattered with blood and he could see cuts in his clothes where something had hit his skin. His face and arms were evident as to what was beneath the rags of his clothes, blood was streaming down his face and Bucaic slowly lent forward and pulled a splinter of wood from the man's cheek, ignoring the man's yelp.

"What happened? What is this?"

"He took em all out, like-like they was nothing!" The man was frantic, "We was just sittin' and he came in on the horse an threw these things and boom," his arms flew out as his sides.

Several of the guards flinched but he didn't notice as he continued, "'e walked righ' in, silver an' black armour an' all an' just slid a sword through 'em like butter. Smoke came outta ta balls an' we was chokin' an' there was a light."

The soldier seized on the table and after a moment of no response a second guard checked his pulse, he was dead. Bucaic spun to the boy, who gulped and tried to run, however he was caught around the collar and lifted into the air.

"What happened then?" Bucaic demanded in a soft and deadly voice as the guards listened in, the patrons of the tavern straining to hear.

The boy swallowed, "I dunno," he answered before hastily adding, "Sir. Didn't stick around did I."

"What did you stick around for?" Bucaic growled and the guard holding the boy jerked him sharply.

"I seen them all gets killed and then I ran. Met that guy an he told me to come 'ere."

There was a moments of murmuring among the guards while Bucaic processed this and then the sound was broken by, "Hey! I know you!"

The boy squirmed in mid-air and kicked behind him, successfully landing a foot in a not-so-pleasant-place-to-be-struck. The guard grunted and released the youth who quickly sprang for the door, he was intercepted by the guard who had spoken and was forced onto his knees, his arm bent behind him.

"Move and I'll snap your arm," the guard instructed before turning to his boss. "This is the kid that's been stealing from our stores."

A cruel gleam entered Bucaic's yellow eyes and an unpleasant smile crossed his face, "Well, well, I guess there is to be another death today."

The door burst open with a slam that shook the tavern and a group of men poured into the inn, followed by a tall figure in black and silver armour and a silky coal cloak.

"You!" Bucaic growled at the stranger, a mixture of fury and fear on his face.

The stranger crossed his arms, cloak snapping out behind him, moving on a soft wind and his face was hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Flanking him on both sides were the prisoners from the Warden's base , a small force numbering just shy of a dozen and a half. It looked like they had raided the stores of the Wardens, for the armour and weapons they had were both in higher quality and condition.

"What do you want?" Bucaic asked, shifting closer to his companions, who were eying the number of Rebels disquietly with weapons drawn. In such a small space, with many of the patrons in the Inn being civilians, the Warden's would be outnumbered if it came to a fight, and it looked like it would.

The stranger remained silent as weapons were drawn around him and the guards and Rebels eyed each other.

"Surrender and this won't get bloody," Bucaic demanded, sweat beading on his forehead.

The man glanced over to the boy held by one of the guards in a very obvious and slow movement, drawing all attention from him to the guard and back. The guard flinched under the power of the hooded haze and quickly released the boy, stepping back hurriedly. The boy swiftly moved forward and stood at the warriors side, gazing up into the hood and muttered a thanks before sliding into a corner behind him.

The black hood rose from the boy and looked over to the leader of the guards, who was sweating profusely. A gloved hand rose, pointed at him and then drew back across the front of his cloak, across his neck in a cut-throat movement.

The guards flinched and the Rebels charged them, screaming battle cries and the warrior slowly made his way through the fighters to the bar, where he leant over the counter, got a bottle of Ashran's finest wine and then leant against the table, watching the fights around him.

One of the Rebels made his way through to Clayton and his companions and quickly untied them, turning around when the young man warned him of approaching danger.

He was too late and a sword went through his chest, though he was avenged a moment later when the Inn Keeper smashed an empty bottle down over the guards head. He crumpled and Clayton rushed forward, snatching a sword and beginning to fight. The young lord wasn't too bad with a sword, he moved with precise movements, kept his centre of gravity low and constantly kept moving.

The battle was more evenly matched than the Warden's had thought, the patrons, finally seeing a chance to be free, had gleefully fell upon the Warden's with whatever weapon they could find. Several had broken table and chair legs, others had grabbed bottles and someone had gone to the fire place and taken the prodder and was slamming it repeatedly across the face of one of the unconscious Wardens, tears streaming down her face.

The Inn Keeper's Wife, a slender and pale woman emerged from the kitchen with a frying pan and leapt at the girl, wrapping her in her arms and whispering into her hair.

One figure stood surrounded by a pile of bodies, sword flashing in the light, blood flying through the air as he duelled. Skye was steadily making his way towards the door, slaying, with extreme prejudice, anyone who got in his way. The warrior straightened and slid around the brawlers after him, shoving a body behind him as he reached the traitorous Rebel.

Skype spun around to meet him and a gloved hand shot out to grab him by the throat, slowly he was lifted off the ground, his sword arm being caught and twisted so the blade fell from his grip. Around him the remainder of the Wardens were dispatched and Clayton approached, blood dripping from a cut above his eye and a growing patch of red at his side.

Furious gold eyes drilled over the warriors shoulder and into the steadily reddening face of the traitor. Behind him Carson had tied Bucaic's arms and legs and a large chain had been wrapped around his hands, a loop connecting him to Bucaic's neck.

Abruptly the warrior moved, dropping Skye to the floor and leaping over him and flipping so that he was directly behind the traitor as Skye fell to his knees. A gloved had snatched a fistful of hair and dragged his head up sharply, forcing him to look at Clayton as the other hand went to his shoulder, keeping him in place.

Clayton's jaw tightened before he swung his fist forward and slammed it into Skye's face. The traitor's head jerked backwards in the warriors hold but the remainder of his body was still. Skye's blue eyes darkened in hate as he turned back to the young Lord and he spat at him.

Clayton's face twisted and he leapt forward, only to be halted by hand rising and facing him, palm forward, a universal gesture for stop.

"What!?" The Lord demanded panting furiously and itching to kill the traitor.

The warrior turned and began to drag Skye across the floor, a finger gesturing for the Rebels to follow him. The small boy rushed to open the door for him and then followed the warrior out into the dawn.

Clayton hesitated and glanced around him to his friends, landing on Theon.

"Maximus," a dark haired man came forward, "take Theon to Laelia immediately, and then meet us at the Square."

"Right," grunted the man, his brown eyes blinking as he moved to Theon and slung the dark-skinned youth over his shoulder easily.

"Come on," Clayton straightened and, after ensuring he had some able men to follow him, exited the Inn. The remaining men would clear the Inn of the wounded and dead and see that their gear was taken and stored in a secure location.

The warrior had mounted his horse and was waiting silently for the Rebels and as they exited the building the horse moved forward, tied to the saddle with a silver chain was Skye. He glared and cursed furiously as he was forced behind the rider up the street, thrashing around trying to get free.

Clayton took a deep breath and sheathed his sword, making a mental note to clean it later, and strode off after the horseman, his long strides catching them quickly. Behind him came the Rebels who were able to stand, each of them proudly marching along with him, victorious. Carson was dragging a defeated Bucaic behind him, often jerking the chain so that the man was flung forwards and onto his knees, being dragged before stumbling to his feet.

News of their victory had already spread; someone else had seen the warrior take out the Warden's and had informed the town's people of the revolt, for they were slowly emerging from alleyways and buildings, watching the procession silently.

The rider led them into the square and dismounted, walking over to Skye and untying him. He easily lifted him by the scruff of the neck and carried him over to the pedestal where he threw him onto the ground, with his hands tied behind his back. Clayton strode forward as a black and silver blade slid from its sheath with a soft chime and rested against the traitors neck, the stranger deadly still behind him.

The faint glow of the rising sun crept over the square as Clayton stared down at Skye, who glared mutinously back.

"Why?" He rasped in question, thinking of all of the times they had gotten each other out of tight spots and the deaths the man had caused in the three years he had been with them.

"Your nothing but scum," spat Skye, "The House of Slyenthia will rule all of the land and all Houses will kneel before-" he was interrupted by a fist slamming into his jaw and he jerked in the warriors hold.

Clayton clenched his hand as he withdrew it and the warrior gave a soft growl of enquiry, Clayton shook his head as he answered, "It's pronounced Ly-en-tee-ah, not Sly-en-tee-ah, but most foreigners say the latter." He spat on Skye, "They are soon forcefully taught better by the Wardens and their ilk."

A hooded head nodded once in understanding before hauling Skye to his feet and dragging him over to the rope where the end was grasped in a gloved hand and dragged down, lengthening until it was long enough to form a noose. The loop was pulled over Skye's head and then the warrior lifted him into the air by his clothes. His blue eyes were wild in fear and he was panting furiously as Clayton stepped forward and spoke in a loud voice, "For the deaths of our brothers, you will die. May your God's have mercy on you."

Clayton Ashran, heir to the House of Ashran, nodded to the stranger and he moved forward over the hole, Skye thrashing in the air as he was held over the pit. Abruptly the warrior let Skye go and he jerked as his neck took his weight and the warrior calmly moved forward and cut the rope, the body dropping into the pit with a thud. He turned his head over to where Carson stood next to Buicac and the instruction was clear.

Carson gave a grim smile as he dragged the thrashing prisoner over to the warrior and handed the chain over. Clayton was glaring with undisguised hatred at Buicac and his fist was clenching and releasing with tension, as though he longed to plunge it into the Nobel's flabby stomach. As the warrior slid a noose over his head Buicac began to beg and plead for mercy, offering gold and gems in exchange for his life. The warrior remained silent within his hood before hauling him into the air and dangled him out over the pit, Buicac screamed and begged, thrashing in the warriors hold like a fish.

The towns people and rebel fighters were standing silently watching the proceedings, an aura of grim pleasure surrounding them as Buicac screamed out, "The reinforcements will kill you all!"

Clayton blinked, he had forgotten the Warden had mentioned reinforcements, and unfolded his arms, "How many reinforcements?" Buicac's jaw clenched and he frowned slightly, refusing to speak.

The warrior lowered his arm, and Buicac jerked in his hold, having plunged several inches and his skin was ashen, sweat dripping down his face.

"I- I c-an't," groaned Buicac, "You don't understand…"

Clayton glanced to the warrior and the warrior slowly lowered his arm, until the rope was taunt, then he shifted back, leaving the warden gasping and twisting in the air as his air supply was slowly cut.

A strangled grunting came from his mouth and the warrior picked him up, releasing the tension and then he used his other hand to cut the rope with a blade appearing then vanishing from his sleeve. The warrior moved around the pit, Buicac's collar secure within his gloved hand and carried the Warden over to Clayton.

Gloved hands roughly removed the rope from about his neck and Buicac gasped and groaned into the dust, rolling his neck about as though he could lessen the pain with his hands bound. Clayton growled as he moved forward and after kicking the warden onto his back, placed his boot over the rapidly reddening throat of the prisoner. The warrior moved over to his horse, the stallion waiting impatiently in the light, and began to rummage through his saddlebags, almost disappearing against the horses own black and silver garb.

"How many men are coming?" The Ashran heir growled, lightly applying pressure to Buicac's throat.

Buicac's yellow eyes widened, "If I tell you they'll kill me!," he rasped and jerked beneath the boot.

Carson gave a harsh laugh, "If you don't tell us, we'll kill ya!" Laughter rang out around the square as the rebel's heard the young man's comment, and they murmured their agreement.

"How many reinforcements, where are they coming from and who leads them? "Clayton demanded leaning intently forward and applying more pressure.

"I-don't-know," rasped the leader, "I sent-a message-for help."

A black glove materialised over Clayton's shoulder, a slip of paper in the warrior's hand. The lord jerked in surprise at the sudden appearance but took the paper and examined it.

The first and third squadrons of the Seventh Legion will arrive via the Great Road on the fourth and sixth day of our King. Captain's Brice and Adule will take charge.

Korvak, Commander of the Seventh Legion

Clayton turned pale as he read the scrawl and turned to the warrior, "How did you get this?"

The hood turned to face him, and a sharp whistling sound came from his mouth, moments later a large, black bird plummeted from the sky and landed on his forearm. A gloved finger stroked its head before tossing it into the air, where it rose into the sky and vanished.

"So you caught this…Korvak's…reply?"

The warrior nodded after a few moments of appraisal, as though the answer was obvious.

Clayton handed the grubby slip of paper to Carson, whom slowly read the script, mouth forming the words as he struggled to read. It took him a few minutes before he grunted and lowered the paper, "Ideas?"

The warrior turned around and moved towards his horse as the warrior's listened to Clayton inform them of the approaching reinforcements and their numbers.

"Boys, we have two squadrons heading our way," Clayton informed them softly, staring around at his followers, "at best we number … twenty able-bodied men, of those, only half have any training. " The men around him nodded grimly, they knew they were lucky to have survived this long and it was clear in their eyes that they were tired, tired of fighting for nothing and wasting away in the former Capital of Ashran. The villagers had begun to disperse, the action of the morning fading to the more serious issues of finding food and shelter for the coming winter.

Carson folded his arms, muscles bulging beneath his worn shirt, his green eyes unusually serious, "That's forty men, even if we had fifty men, we couldn't take them, not with their training and supplies."

Murmurs of agreement moved around the small gathering and they were interrupted by the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones. The warrior towered over the remaining men and he spoke softly to them, "Train. I will return."

He turned his horse, ignoring Clayton's protests and began to move across the square. "So you're just leaving us?" He asked as he jogged to keep up with the trotting horse, leaving the half dozen men standing next to the gallows.

He received no answer and tried another tactic, "How are we meant to train? I don't know how to teach."

The hood turned to look down at him, "Then perhaps it is time to return to your Seat, Lord Ashran," hissed the warrior.

Clayton jerked to a startled halt as the warrior's voiced carried through the air and the remaining warriors flinched and turned disbelieving eyes on the young Lord.

A small figure burst from the shadows of a bowed building and ran after the horseman, "Wait!" He screamed, "Take me with you!" The horse halted and the hood turned to watch the young boy approach, and after a few moments a gloved hand reached down and swung the child into the saddle in front of him. Then he nudged his horse forward and in a swish of coal and a clattering of hooves, they made their way onto the dirt road, the riders cloak whipping like a battle flag.

Clayton neither heard nor saw any of this; he remained standing in the middle of the road as what remained of his world crumbled around him. "Clayton," a hand descended on his shoulder and he blinked as he returned to reality. Carson was standing behind him, a frown on his face, before he twitched his chin to the left, indicating his friends who were standing warily behind him.

"I reckon they heard him," Carson continued in his deep voice, "Now they know, what are you gonna do?"

Clayton glanced up into the green eyes of his giant friend before squaring his shoulders, "Tell them the truth."

Carson raised a brow and Clayton elaborated, running his fingers through his thick hair, "That I am Clayton Ashran, son of Freddrick Ashran and heir to the House and Seat of Ashran and Lord of Ashran Castle."

Carson nodded, "And when they ask why you left, why you are here?"

A cold look entered Clayton's gold eyes, "I'll tell them I left for the protection of my family and people, and to seek the lives of those who have wronged us. And I cannot return until these lands are restored to their former glory and my people flourish and we live free." The young Lord's voice rose with passion as he spoke and when he finished Carson nodded again, "Then, tell them."

Clayton straightened and strode towards his friends, and said everything he had just told Carson, adding, "I cannot lead my people when our children and our children's' children will have nothing, so I ask that you follow me, and let me lead you-our people-to a better life."

His companions had never heard this side of him, the impassioned young man before them seemed to glow with purpose and they found themselves nodding at his words, agreeing wholeheartedly with his position. While the sharp pain of betrayal would fade, they owed Lord Ashran their service and fidelity, as Ashranian's.

One of the men, Gavin, who wasn't an Ashranian, was a wanderer, traveling place to place in search of riches and women. He wasn't well liked but was begrudgingly respected for his knife throwing abilities, and his ability to hold more ale than all of them combined. He spoke now, "Why should we follow you? You're just a lad, you know nothing about leadership or combat. "

Clayton looked at the ground as his friends nodded in agreement. "You have no resources to go after the Warden's and we will only get killed if we stay, and we ain't stayin' for free. So, why should we fight and die, for you?" Gavin smirked in victory as the lords companions looked at him calculatingly and from their reactions, found him lacking in many areas. "You're nothing but a boy," grinned Gavin, revealing yellowing teeth, "we can find our fortunes elsewhere." He spat at the ground before Clayton and spun around in a manner he thought haughty. Clayton's friends glanced to the retreating man and the defeated lord and back, undecided, before shifting to move in Gavin's direction.

Carson spoke to Clayton, loud enough for their friends to hear, but soft enough to be though as private, "Where ever you go, I'll follow ya, no matter what these honourless cowards say." He nodded from behind Clayton, where he had and would always stand. Theon had re-joined the group, and hesitated, "Clayton, why should we follow you to destruction?" His dark eyes curious, for even Clayton couldn't be so naïve to think he would live through the upcoming skirmish.

Gold eyes rose from the ground, burning like embers, "Because… I plan to sit on the Kurvalic Throne."

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Author's Note:

So, are you happy to hear from me? Yes, I am still alive and am still plodding along, we just hit a little rut in the road and are having trouble getting out of it. I hope everyone had a safe and joyfull Christmas and I wish you all the best for this coming year.

Also, watched the latest episode of Rizzoli and Isles, and sorry, but Jane cannot marry Casey! Rizzles all the way!

Regards, CDL