King's Reaping: The Legacy Series, #2

By Jason Varrone

The shocking ending in the novella Warrior's Ascension leads to book two and the first novel in Jason Varrone's new epic fantasy fiction saga – The Legacy Series.

The barbarian Rexhall strives to stake his claim as the new ruler of Rothesia and restore his people from banishment. His quest sweeps up Raelyn, a warrior with a tragic past, when her adoptive father is brutally killed by servants of the usurper. She is forced to race toward the castle of the king, desperate to warn him of the treachery. Schemes, deceit, and violence explode across the kingdom, with slavery and tyranny threatening to swallow decades of peace. Now only Raelyn and Prince Arryn, whose dark secret could destroy the kingdom even without Rexhall, are in a position to untangle barbarian plans born of decades of hatred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Varrone
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201289966

Jason Varrone

Jason Varrone accidentally stumbled into the world of fantasy fiction in elementary school, becoming quite obsessed with the genre, and then fostered that love by delving into the realm of fantasy role-playing games. Little did he know that his desire to write was born during those carefree days as a child. It took him until adulthood to throw caution to the wind and realize his dream. By day, he is a captain of the insurance industry, a husband, and a father, all the while trying in vain to keep his houseful of cats content. By night, when the magic takes hold and the dreams begin, his mind fills with valiant knights, deadly spells, and flame-breathing dragons. When not reading or writing, he is playing the drums to his favorite '90s-era grunge songs.

Book preview

PROLOGUE (including Map of Rothesia)

Raelyn rounded the corner on quick-booted feet as a man stabbed her adoptive father through the chest. The point of the sword protruded from his back, glinting in the harsh sunlight, his blood running down its length. The pair stood as if locked in a loving embrace, barely twenty yards ahead. Eyes wide, her father slowly turned his head to look at her.

With a roar Raelyn charged, drawing her longsword, her feet barely touching the stone-covered road leading to the outskirts of her village.

The attacker withdrew his sword and whipped his head around to face her, his face bearded and grim, her father crumpling to the ground before him. A second man standing behind her father came into view, his blade also sticky with blood, a smile on his hooded face. He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture as he started to move forward.

Raelyn grimaced at the condescending stance. She locked eyes with the smiling man and returned a smirk of her own.

His smile wavered.

Raelyn launched into the air with all the strength in her legs, covering the yards in seconds. She held the sword made years ago by her father over her head and sliced it down in a vicious strike. The once-smiling man raised his sword high to parry the blow. His blade shattered. Her sword continued downward, opening him from collarbone to sternum, where it lodged and stuck fast. The man gurgled and toppled to the ground, taking Raelyn's sword with him.

She spun to her right, ducking as the bearded man stabbed at her. They circled. Raelyn drew her dagger, her heart thudding in her chest. She shook her unkempt hair out of her eyes, her breathing too rapid, the rush of adrenaline and excitement flooding her lithe, coiled body. She inhaled deeply, again, her mind slowing, focusing. She couldn’t help but smile inwardly. This was the moment in battle she loved, she craved, when strategy and battle tactics become instinctive, when her body seemed to move and feel and act on its own without conscious thought.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her father again, crawling on his hands and knees toward them, blood soaking his chest, still holding his sword.

With one glance at him, her rage became a wildfire.

Raelyn yelled and lunged forward. The man’s eyes widened and he stepped back, raising his sword. He stumbled over the body of a third man hidden in the deep grass.

Rae! her father yelled.

She turned. Her father's sword twisted through the air toward her, its silver hilt twinkling as it spun. Raelyn caught the thrown sword as her attacker regained his footing.

Stay focused, her father pleaded, crumpling back down.

The bearded man swung low, then high. Raelyn parried both attacks and returned simple, short strikes, testing his defenses. She forced herself to forget about her father, forget he groped for his last breaths. Raelyn let the battle lust take over, the counters and feints and attacks and parries clearing her mind again.

She hammered her opponent with a series of quick blows, high-to-low and low-to-high, right-to-left and left-to-right. She became a tornado of movement, her body as one with her father's longsword. The man tried to maintain his defenses under the fury of her attacks, to parry each blow she threw, but he soon bled from several wounds.

Raelyn spotted a weakness, an inability to counter attacks from the lower left to the upper right. She feinted with an overhead strike, switching her stance at the last moment and slicing in an upward diagonal motion.

Her blade penetrated his defenses, slashing a deep gouge across his torso. He toppled over, grabbing his ruined body, twitching. Raelyn stared, and breathed, a part of her disappointed the fight ended. At last, he lay still.

Movement to her left. Papa.

Raelyn knelt next to her adoptive father, cradling his head in her lap as he lay on his back. She tried staunching the blood flowing from the wounds in his chest, but he pushed her hands away. She stroked his cheek as they spoke their last words to each other in the green field near the road leading out of Sutlene. The three slain men surrounded them as if a grotesque audience, arms and legs splayed, eyes staring at nothing.

Rae, he whispered, gripping her arm, these men were mercenaries. I overheard them, and their plans. The kingdom...in peril. Someone must warn the king. The castle is in dang—

His scream split the air and his back arched, his hands digging into the ground, tearing out chunks of earth. The sound made the chirping birds flutter away from the nearby forest.

Papa, slow down, Raelyn said, already tasting tears. Breathe. Tell me what happened. Who were these men? What about the castle?

Listen closely. He swallowed and took a deep breath as if willing his body to cling to life. It was slow at the armory. I got to the inn early and waited for you. I heard them behind me. He gestured to the dead men around them. They spoke of treason, about being hired by someone named Gendrad on behalf of a Northland barbarian.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again in a ragged wheeze. Seems this Gendrad is hiring sellswords throughout Rothesia at the orders of a Northlander for a mission. I had trouble hearing some of what they said. I think one of them knew Gendrad from prior work, and Gendrad confided the Northlander's true plan. The barbarian and his mercenaries plan to attack Castle Hopeshire. Treachery is stirring, Rae.

He coughed up blood and spat. You hadn't yet arrived and they left. I didn't think they noticed me. Fools they were for speaking so openly about this, but the prospect of money does that to men. I asked the innkeeper who they were, but Drach hadn't seen them before. I told him I meant to follow the men to learn more. That must have been how you found me.

Yes, Raelyn said. You were gone, and Drach told me what you said. I guessed the men would be leaving Sutlene and coming here.

Her father squeezed out his words through clenched teeth and bloodstained lips. I tried to follow them and not be seen, but they ambushed me. I fought, Rae. I took one down, but...I failed. Thank the gods you came when you did.

No, Papa, you're here now, telling me what I need to know. A few drops of her tears fell on his cheeks and forehead. He smiled up at her. What should I do?

Trust no one, he said. I helped you become the warrior you always wanted to be. But your emotions, Rae, you must control them. They've always been your weakness. They almost cost you today when you charged in anger.

He coughed up more blood, his voice thinning. Raelyn leaned closer to hear. Leave Sutlene, he said. They’re traveling to meet this Gendrad and the Northlander near the castle. The king has to be warned. Find the man closest to him, the commander of his army, Crennan Dawnblack. Maybe he already knows, but...can't take...that chance. Tell him all you know. He shuttered and drew a deep breath, eyes widening and locked on Raelyn. He touched her cheek lightly. The gods delivered me a daughter.

His eyes fluttered, a slight smile appearing on his face as one corner of his mouth curled upward. His hand fell.

Raelyn's jaw clenched, over and over, her hands balled into fists. She pounded the ground.

Without warning an old memory flashed in her mind, one she had not thought of in many years, an encounter with an old man long ago. Raelyn remembered his face, his unique blue and black eyes, and recalled what he had told her. He spoke of the destiny that lay beyond the confines of Sutlene and warned her she would face tremendous hardship trying to accomplish a task in which loved ones would die, but the rewards for success would be more than she could imagine.

For years she had buried that memory within the depths of her mind. There it sat, nudging at her subconscious. Raelyn wondered why it returned now.

Had the time come? she asked herself. Is this the task the old man foresaw?

Rest now, Papa, Raelyn whispered, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. I'll find Crennan Dawnblack. I give you my word your death won't be for nothing.

Map Description automatically generated

ONE

Siathas Greymorn gazed at the stone tomb covering his beloved daughter's body, silently questioning if he had the strength to continue, his identity seeming to turn to sand and slip through his fingers speck by speck. King of Rothesia, champion of his people, protector of the kingdom and all who dwelt within. What did those monikers even mean anymore? Now he was a mourner of lost children, a widower, a man who barely took a breath without the stabbing twinge of loss.

He wiped his eyes, the morning breeze out of the west playing with his black-speckled gray hair. Ariez, he thought, forgive me. I failed to keep you safe, as a father should. You were my conscience, the child I relied upon most in ruling this kingdom. What am I to do now? A memory of her face came to mind, her auburn hair curling around her shoulders, eyes sparkling with life, the life he created.

Siathas fell to his knees, his old bones crackling with effort. Take care of your younger brother, he said, looking at the sarcophagus to the right of his daughter's, the Greymorn crest proudly on display, carved deep into the stone. You know how Jonac admired you. He turned back and tenderly caressed the white stone. Rest now. It's been so long since you've seen your mother. He looked farther to the right at a third tomb. She'll give you comfort now. Tell Kathia and Jonac how much I miss them.

Siathas rose and walked to the right, stopping in front of an open area next to the tomb housing the remains of his wife. He stared at the inviting space. He imagined crawling into the hole and covering himself with layer upon layer of dirt. Would the kingdom be better for it? I will join you all soon.

Siathas sighed and gazed up at Castle Hopeshire, its spires reaching high into the sky, the sun rising behind it making him squint. Now I return to my living tomb. His family's crest waved on a banner attached to one of the spires, a shield emblazoned with a red dragon, all set on a background of white and red. For most of his life, he looked upon that crest proudly, its symbol giving him purpose, a shield to use in times of need to lend him strength as the leader he needed to be for his people, his family. Now it seemed a weight, an obligation.

He recalled a time of joy in that castle, a time when his wife graced its halls, his children running around playing with their toys and getting into mischief as only children could. He ascended to the throne at a very young age. At that time Siathas had questioned if he could succeed in the tasks of kingship and wondered if he could repair the damage done by the former king. His family had strengthened him, given him more purpose, and lent him gumption when he most needed it. Now the halls stood quiet, the ghosts of the past all that remained.

Siathas shook himself out of his reverie.

The two royal guards accompanying him stared from beyond the iron fence surrounding the castle’s large cemetery, ever watchful. Siathas spun in a circle, row upon row of stone sarcophagi lining the field, the resting place for generations of kings and their families. The stench of death filled his nose, seeped into his bones. His eyes lowered and shoulders hunched, he walked through the gate and started up the western slope behind the castle. I'm all alone here, save for Arryn, but the curse, how I've treated him...

Your Grace. A faint voice carried through the wind, shaking him from his thoughts.

Siathas raised his eyes as a man ambled his way, arms spinning in circles to slow the momentum carrying him down the steep hill leading from the castle. The sun behind the waddling figure made him look like a stumbling shadow. Siathas waved, knowing the man at a glance, wondering what pressed his steward to leave the castle to find him. Siathas picked up his pace to close the distance.

What news? he yelled.

My King, Andlec responded, huffing and trying to regain his breath as he drew near his liege. Visitors...the sword...a chronicler...you must return to the castle.

Relax and catch your breath. Siathas placed a steadying hand on his steward's shoulder. Who is here, Andlec?

I'm sorry, Your Grace. We have visitors. A man...he brings with him a sword. I didn't believe it at first. I refused to believe it, but it's the same.

A sword? Siathas shook Andlec's shoulder. What sword? What are you trying to tell me?

Your Grace, men have come to bring you Striver. They have news of Crennan.

What? How can that be? Have you any doubt it's Striver?

None. I'd know that sword anywhere. A magnificent blade with a gold hilt in the shape of a dragon's claw. How often has the man who wielded it defended us? It is the same. You must come.

Siathas ran.

YOUR GRACE, OUR THANKS for seeing us. My name is Rexhall, a chronicler from up north.

Siathas tried not to stare but failed. Clothed in plain black and brown woodsman's garb, Rexhall had the look of an oak tree, long blond hair tied in a ponytail curling around shoulders almost as wide as the doorframe behind him.

Rexhall bowed. In his right hand, he held a long object wrapped in tan cloth. He straightened, the small leather pack at his side bumping against his hip.

Siathas shook his head. I'm sorry, friend. You are...big...for such a profession. Forgive my rudeness.

Rexhall laughed. I hear that often. I’m from Shaldorn, the small settlement near Rothesia’s northern border. I’m sure you know of it. It is barely large enough to make it onto maps of this great kingdom. I grew up hearing the old folk spin tales that my people are descended from giants from another age. Many find it odd I write for a living. He turned to the man standing to his right. This is Gendrad, an associate of mine. He assists me during my travels.

The goateed man, of a much smaller build than Rexhall, bowed his head.

I do know of Shaldorn, Siathas said, and have visited that village in years past. Our young kingdom is vast but not as heavily populated as others on this continent. I’ve always made it a point to visit as much of it as I can. His eyes lingered on the second man, Gendrad’s gaze darting and cold. Siathas wondered if the man’s smile could reach those eyes.

Siathas shifted his gaze back to Rexhall. Odd, he thought, but far be it from me to judge a man's work by the size of his frame. He is young to be a chronicler, perhaps thirty, almost as old as Arryn. Most writers I meet are old, a part of history themselves. He glanced over Gendrad's shoulder, seeing one of his royal guards standing by the large oak door, knowing another stood at the opposite wall. He glanced briefly at Andlec, the steward at his side.

The six men stood in the small rectangular antechamber in the forebuilding attached to the castle’s main keep, used for receiving guests. A table, chairs, locked chests on the floor, and metal hooks built into the masonry walls for securing the weapons and possessions of visitors were its sole contents. A lonely wash basin glistened in the corner.

Siathas glanced again at the men. Neither appeared armed, save for what Rexhall held. The king never met visitors in this room or this building. Tyrack, the captain of his guard, would insist it was not safe. On his way from the cemetery, Andlec had also repeatedly warned Siathas, begging him to meet these men in the great hall, as protocol dictated.

Siathas buried his doubts, his eyes fixated on the wrapped item cradled in the chronicler's large hands. Visitors to the keep would have to pass through several checkpoints to make it successfully into this building. The guards at the main gate would have asked the men their business and searched them for weapons, and the force outside the keep would have followed the same routine. Andlec said they knew of Crennan Dawnblack, Siathas’s legendary son-in-law, the former commander of his army, a man he loved as if he were his blood.

That was all that mattered right now.

May we speak in private? Rexhall asked, eyeing the guards. I have urgent news you alone should hear.

The men in this room have my trust, Rexhall, Siathas said. You have already met my steward, Andlec, I believe. Siathas pointed to his right as Andlec bowed his bald head, double chins sagging. Tell me, what news do you have?

I bring news of Crennan Dawnblack, Your Grace, Rexhall said in a deep bass. I'm sorry to tell you he is dead. We brought his body for you to bury.

Siathas stepped back as if struck. How? Were you there?

Yes. He defeated the barbarian, Othang Ragehame, on the Plains of Islefield. During the battle, he took a mortal blow. I witnessed the battle from afar and approached Crennan after it ended. He asked me to stay when I told him I wrote for a living. I recorded his story, word for word. Rexhall reached into his pack and retrieved a bundle of parchment tied with twine. Crennan's story is one of legend. A more valiant fighter this kingdom will never see. I present you his words, King Siathas, faithfully written with my quill.

Siathas took the offered parchment, holding it as if it were an egg that would break with the slightest pressure. He groped for a chair and sat. Thank you...for delivering this. I considered Crennan a son. His story, his teachings, should be for all to read, so others may learn from his great example. Dead, he thought. Another member of my family.

That is not all I have for you, Your Grace. Rexhall slowly unwrapped the long object he carried, holding it like a parent would a baby. The gold hilt appeared first, the dragon's claw peeking out from the wrapping, followed by the rest of the blade known as Striver, named by Crennan after the teachings of his father. I bring you his sword. He wanted you to hold this weapon until you chose to pass it on to a warrior deserving of such an honor. The chronicler extended the hilt to Siathas.

Your Grace, warned the guard behind Siathas, taking a step forward, hand on his sword.

Be at ease, Jenkin, Siathas said, waving his hand at the guard. His voice cracked as he spoke. They bring...Striver.

Siathas rose, staring at the outstretched dragon's claw, remembering the joy on Crennan's face when Siathas surprised him on his wedding day with the newly forged hilt. He extended his hand to grasp the blade.

Rexhall spun Striver once in the air, catching the hilt in his hand, and plunged the sword deep into Siathas's left shoulder. Behind the huge man, Gendrad spun and whipped his arm in the air twice, once behind him, once in front. Siathas turned his head at the sound of grunts of pain. Small daggers grew from the necks of each of the guards, who clutched their throats as blood sprayed the walls. They slumped to the floor. Rexhall pointed his finger at Andlec. The steward stood shivering in fear, arms raised high.

The blade in his shoulder not yet registering, Siathas reached for his hidden dagger. He realized too late he had failed to arm himself that morning.

Not one move from our glorious king. A shame. Rexhall sneered. I expected more.

Siathas yelled, grabbing his shoulder and trying to pull Striver free. Rexhall twisted the blade. Siathas fell to his knees, knocking over the wooden chair behind him, hands balled into fists.

Your reputation as a warrior and man of action reached my lands long ago, Siathas Greymorn. Rexhall ripped the blade free. He held Striver up