A Great Journey ~ Book One of Brother Betrayed

By D. M. Raver

Three princes steal from their castle and begin a quest to explore the kingdom they will one day govern. Long from home, a shady rider approaches them. More mystery and danger lurks in the forests of Arnith that will test the bond of their brotherhood.
Book One of Brother Betrayed, best selling fantasy by D. M. Raver.
Book Two: The Wars of Arnith
Prequel to the Flight Moon Series:
Fire Born (now available)
Fate of Fire (2017)
Converging Flames
and Wild Fire

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. M. Raver
• Release date: Dec 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370412105

D. M. Raver

Fantasy author for over twenty years, D. M. has a passion for writing and literature. Her first novel, Brother Betrayed, is the prequel to the Flight Moon series, published 11/11/11. Fire Born and Fate of Fire are the first books in the series. Upcoming books are Converging Flames and Wild Fire. Other works include: City of Silver - a dystopian fantasy about a young girl with the power to save a dying city. The Enchantress - an arabian fantasy about a woman, some toys, and an intelligent white tiger. Deep Dark Waters - a collection of poetry Dying to Live Again - a contemporary fantasy

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Well, I’ve committed. I’ve stained the first words onto these bound pages. What was empty possibility is now destined to fulfill a purpose my pen has decided. The words are permanent records of consciousness transcending through time and changing histories.

What confession would be worth the space these words now inhabit? What variance of sounds and letters would justify the effort to write, read, and remember them? What could I possibly write, other than that which occupies my heart?

I am here in the eastern tower, on the stairs overlooking the city. The smokes of Anteria’s hearths rise into the dusk. No one will come up here this week. They are all too occupied with planning Mother’s birth celebration. For a quiet interval I am allowed some time alone.

Fasime is still chasing a rumor. Some wild stallion was spotted in the northern forests. He’s been gone for half a moon.

With Fasime missing it has been difficult to plan our journey. Oman and I have been mapping our route, but we may never be allowed to leave the capital if Fasime returns injured.

It was Oman’s idea to explore the kingdom that will be ours. Of course our parents would never let the three of us travel alone. They will believe escorts accompany us. With how often my brothers have been leaving the castle, the king and queen have grown accustomed to Oman and Fasime arranging accompaniment for their ventures.

Oman said we should wander and see where the roads take us, but I told him that could be dangerous. We could end up anywhere – lost in the elven woods, in the cave of a giant, or trespassing in the Black Mountains. I told him I would plan the journey. He will see the White Cane does have some useful things to teach us.

It will all be for naught if Fasime doesn’t return soon.

I hear the trumpets calling. I must continue this later.

For the three brothers,

Syah, Prince of Arnith

Syah strolled the outer walls of the capital city, keeping vigil of the fields and forests surrounding Anteria. His thin, humble form was a familiar sight on the city’s walls, but the soldiers on watch still bowed to him. He passed with a nod and continued his leisured pace.

Farmers had begun preparing the soil for spring planting. The brisk breeze brought up sounds from the city, creaking carts transporting goods, city dwellers waking and conducting their business.

Syah spotted a cluster of riders crossing the freshly tilled field to the north. He leaned on the parapets and watched them approach. He found his brother close to the front of the group, his long wavy black hair set wild by what must have been a difficult journey.

The reason for the group’s labored approach was apparent. A flash of black erupted amongst the gathered riders, tousling them. It was a captive horse, with a coat that gleamed like crow’s feathers. Syah knew it was not a steed of Anteria.

Guards! the prince called as he hurried for the stairs. Send for Oman. Prince Fasime has returned.

Oman examined the rows of weapons positioned precisely upon the tables, his tall, muscular form commanding the room. Each blade and handle shone without blemish in the morning light.

These represent the work of the finest craftsmen in Arnith, a late-aged adviser told him. He was one of three advisers in the room, along with two squires who had arranged the display. The prince smiled inwardly, knowing none of them had ever truly wielded a weapon.

Oman found a two-handed sword with a thick guard and a grooved, hexagonal pommel. The fuller was simple and extended almost the length of the blade. Its leather and metal bore no intricate designs, as the other swords did. The prince traced the grooves of the pommel thoughtfully.

Who made this sword?

I believe it was Reddock of Anteria, the same smith who constructed your current sword, sire.

Tell us the design you desire, another adviser added, and we will start him working on it right away.

Oman turned to a call from the hallway. Prince Oman! It was repeated closer. A servant entered and bowed, catching his breath. Prince Fasime has returned.

Oman’s gaze went to the window, though it only offered a view of the empty courtyard before the castle.

So, we will see if the rumors of a wild stallion roaming the Arnithian countryside were true, he chuckled and lifted the heavy blade.

Sire, do you wish Reddock to create your new sword? the adviser asked in a hurried tone, seeing Oman start to leave.

This one will do, Oman stated and left, heading towards the back entrance of the castle.

The rope dug into Fasime’s sweaty palms, but he tightened his fists. The closer they drew to the city the more agitated the stallion became. Five other riders surrounded the beast with ropes lashed around its neck, struggling to keep it subdued. Perhaps he remembers this place, Fasime mused.

Without warning the stallion reared up, striking out with its hooves. The ropes stretched taut, ripping through the other riders’ hands. The bindings gave way and the steed broke from its bonds. The heavy beast bucked and then slammed against Fasime, nearly knocking him off his mount. The ropes were jerked back before the stallion could rear up again.

Sir, are you alright? a soldier inquired.

Fasime ran his hand down his leg, feeling it ache from the impact. He checked the restrained, rasping stallion. The black beast neighed with fury, stomping its hooves in the ground as the tight ropes pulled him forward again. The stallion turned its eye towards him with purpose. Fasime wrapped the rope around his hand a second time.

Let’s get him to the paddock before he tries that again.

The riders escorted the stallion into the fenced area outside the city’s outer wall. They were relieved by soldiers on the ground. The steed still tried the ropes, wrenching its head and body with such force it lifted some of its captors off the ground.

Fasime dismounted unsteadily. He noticed Oman and Syah observing the scene from outside the fence.

Fasime, you fool! Oman called as their usually agile brother limped towards them.

Fasime leaned on the wooden fence and drank from a canteen. He turned around to gaze at the stallion, snorting and shaking its head.

It’s true, Oman, he is the colt we lost three summers ago.

How do you know that? Syah asked.

Fasime brushed his curly black hair out of his face. Most horses become used to their fences within a moon. He has never known one.

The soldiers shouted as the stallion reared up, knocking several of them onto the ground. They scattered to avoid the steed’s pummeling hooves. When their ropes had it subdued, one of them approached the princes.

Was anyone injured? Oman asked.

No, my lords, the soldier answered then turned to Fasime. Perhaps we should put the beast down, sir. He is untamable.

Fasime considered, watching a dozen soldiers try to subdue the nervous animal. I did not track the stallion for half a moon to have him be slaughtered as cattle are for their skin.

Fasime, the horse is mad. There is no use trying to tame it, Oman told him.

Just look at him. His coat matches father’s stallion. He belongs to Anteria. He is destined to be a horse of kings.

A grim expression darkened Syah’s face. The colt you speak of lost its mother during a storm. If this stallion was that colt, it is not just wild, it is insane. He will break your bones!

And that will be a worthy end, a prince struck down by such a noble steed.

Fasime pushed himself off the support of the fence, but Oman grabbed his arm. It’s not worth it, Brother.

I can tame him.

And what will we tell Mother and Father if he kills you?

Fasmine’s clean-shaven face regarded Oman with amusement. Tell them I gave my life with pride. Don’t punish him if he kills me. Release him back into the wild, and my spirit will ride him into the mist.

With a twist of his arm, Fasime broke free from his brother.

Fasime! Oman cried.

Syah tried to stall him with his words. Death and fear drove this horse into the forest. You should not have brought him back.

You had better stand back from the fence, little brother, Fasime replied, turning his back to them and facing the struggling steed.

Let us quarter the steed in the stables, a soldier urged when they noticed Fasime returning, until it calms.

He has sensed our fear, Fasime spoke in even tones, approaching the steed straight on. The stallion’s labored breaths matched his measured footsteps.

My fear equals his own.

The prince reached out his hand.

Caution, Prince, a soldier warned, not raising his voice for fear of spooking the steed.

When Fasime was close, the stallion snorted and tossed its head. Though Fasime winced, he forced himself not to withdraw. You know I am afraid, he told the beast. The horse gnashed its teeth and pawed at the ground. Fasime stood his ground. For three cycles you have wandered Arnith’s forests, free from any enclosure or binding, but you will remember what you are. Fasime reached out and grabbed the ropes an arm’s length from the stallion’s head. Release the ropes on my command, the prince stated to the surrounding soldiers. Release him and remove yourselves from the paddock.

You don’t mean to ride the steed bareback! Oman shouted.

It is not the saddle that will tame him.

Before the soldiers or the stallion knew what he was doing, Fasime ducked below the ropes. He grabbed the coil of ropes around the horse’s neck and used it to propel himself onto its back. The stallion’s muscles rippled beneath him. Release him!

Prince Fasime, no! It’s too dangerous!

All the soldiers tightened their holds as the stallion shook its head and tried to back out of the ropes.

The prince tightened his grip on the knots and drew his sword.

Fasime, don’t! Oman cried.

Fasime swung his blade, severing several of the ropes. The stallion trampled the ground, almost able to break free.

You had all better run! Fasime yelled. Amidst cries on all sides, he aimed his sword for the ropes on his right. Though only two ropes snapped at the impact, the remaining ropes were unable to contain the stallion’s force. It pushed four sturdy legs into the earth, and its gallop was instantaneous. It tore around the paddock, narrowly missing soldiers as they fled the flying hooves. Fasime dropped his sword and gripped the ropes with both hands to avoid being thrown. The stallion seemed to sense him, but focused on speed rather than bucking him off. It galloped for the fence, leaping it with ease, barely jolting Fasime as it hit the ground, and maintained its momentum as it entered the field.

Fasime’s brothers watched him lean forward, grasping the fugitive steed with all his strength.

Without a bridle Fasime will be unable to steer him, Syah remarked.

Oman shook his head. The beast won’t slow until it has tossed him onto the forest floor, and the stubborn fool won’t let go while he still draws breath.

Soldiers mounted in an attempt to follow, but the stallion and crouching prince disappeared into the forest before they could set off in pursuit.

CHAPTER ONE

CELEBRATIONS

Ignoring the summons to join the celebrations in the great hall, Syah decided to take advantage of the solitude the empty castle provided. The hallways and rooms were void of guards and servants. He made his way to the library and found it lit with the setting sun’s final glow. The four walls of the library were lined floor to ceiling with thick volumes, most of which contained Arnith’s history and economical logs.

Syah approached the shelf near the windows that housed a disheveled collection of scrolls. He rarely perused this section while the White Cane tutored him. The scrolls and the seclusion of the library enticed the young prince and he ran his fingers over the wrapped parchment. Pulling one free, he saw the parchment was dirtied with age and neglect.

Syah sat on the windowsill and unrolled the scroll. He had the feeling that the last time the scroll had been opened was when it was written. The author was ambiguous, but the text was a plainspoken account of a scout’s patrol of the eastern border. Syah wondered why this account had been chronicled, until he removed the front parchment. The scout had visited the Dikartian tribe before they had become aggressive with Arnith.

Syah leaned forward, lifting the scroll to read it in the final ambiance of sunlight. Syah’s gaze flitted over tedious facts, such as the typical rates of trade and the common wares the Dikartians offered. He squinted, trying to read the scroll in the failing light. The next page was a large sketch of a road and trees, but he was unable to make out the inscription at the bottom.

A column of moonlight emerged from the corner of the window and cast upon the picture, revealing a grizzly depiction of a creature in the thick forest. A face materialized from the shaded branches. A gaping mouth and two solid eyes turned towards the prince. The mouth opened…

Syah dropped the scroll and backed away. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking, and stared at the mess of parchment on the floor.

Don’t be foolish… there was nothing on the page.

Syah knelt by the rolls of parchment and found the sketch. Examining it in the moonlight, Syah realized the trees and branches had evoked the impression of a creature. He read the writing at the bottom explaining that this was a common meeting place for the Dikartians. He checked the spot where the apparition had appeared. Though there was no trace of a creature, the feeling still lingered.

The surrounding silence lost its comfort and intrigue. He replaced the scroll and turned for the door.

Syah touched the handle, feeling music vibrate through the door to the great hall. He hesitated, knowing noise would inundate him if he entered. He imagined the guests awaiting him inside and wondered what the consequences would be if he ignored the summons to join the celebration.

Oman will discuss our plans tonight.

The lure of adventure doused his fear. He turned the handle and entered the hall.

Syah held his breath as the torrent of greetings, music, and commotion flooded him. The visitors respectfully let him pass through the fervor. His calm demeanor showed through his actions, his hand he respectfully offered to others, and his bow he returned to a few.

The commotion eased as he made his way to a less crowded corner near one of the casements. He sat at a table and gazed across the immense room, crowded with nobles, soldiers, and the royal court. The guests gave him little heed now, as if he were one of the noble stone statues that lined the perimeter of the hall. They were decorations too, he realized, necessary but overlooked guests.

The music lured his attention with its melody and rhythm. The piping and strumming notes swayed his thoughts. He imagined the music was a warm aroma, a smoke filling and intoxicating the hall. His mind saw the fumes enticing subjects of his kingdom to cross legs, turn arms, and change direction as the smoke shifted.

A single amused breath shook Syah’s form, proving his body had more life than the stone carvings. The dancers moved as if the fingers of the musicians strummed them flesh to flesh. The melody penetrated deeper into the prince’s mind as he watched them, seeing the guests as actors in a grand charade.

Syah imagined a tall man growing sleek, long hair down his back. His brown hat became a jeweled crown and his garment transformed into intricate cloth. Slightly bending his form to greet the interesting but barbaric humans around him.

A group of children, laughing with locked arms twirling in a circle, grew limbs that hardened, darkened into living branches, their hair full of leaves and flowers. Their voices were the playful wind through a meadow, the chirping of birds, and the chatter of mice and squirrels.

The laughter of a group of men at the other end of the hall became the deep laughter of mountain voices. They slammed their mugs heartily upon the table and their drinks splashed on their beards.

Then a young man emerged through the smoke. Syah knew who he was, but imagined him as someone else. He became a knight clad in armor, with an elaborate helm and a sword at his waist. The figure moved closer, his armor glinting link by link in the glowing light. The crowd parted as if he were the ghost of one of Arnith’s fallen kings.

Fasime! Syah cried, shaking the illusion from his sight. Fasime smiled, joining Syah at the table. How did you make it back so quickly? I thought it would take you another half moon to walk back to the castle. Syah examined Fasime’s neatly drawn black hair, his clean clothing. And I see you had time to change.

I didn’t walk, Fasime responded with laughter.

Hitch a ride with a traveling merchant? was asked from behind him. Oman approached the table and placed his hand on Fasime’s shoulder.

No, the middle brother answered.

You don’t appear to be injured, how in the skies did you get back to Anteria? Oman asked.

The stallion, of course.

Come, Oman said with laughter, this is a story Mother and Father will want to hear.

Fasime stood before the court. The king and queen were seated upon the throne. King Algoth laughed as Fasime retold the story of the wild stallion stealing him away from the capital. The queen’s face and curly brown hair glowed from the torchlight.

Fasime paced before them, commanding the attention of the multitude.

"The stallion and I struggled as he galloped relentlessly deeper into the woods. I knew he would eventually become tired, but I swear I’ve never seen a horse ride so long without rest. He bucked and reared to drop me, but I held fast, wrapping the ropes around my arms. We galloped for so long, his pace never slackening, until the forest was a whirlwind of trees. As the night fell upon us, I felt myself slipping. The strain of the ride wore on me, though I refused to let the beast win.

"Then a thought occurred to me. The stallion was afraid, though he had no reason to fear men. He had