Heir's Defiance: The Legacy Series, #3

By Jason Varrone

The shocking revelations and plans born of hatred in King's Reaping set the stage for book three in Jason Varrone's epic fantasy fiction saga – The Legacy Series.

The brilliant barbarian Rexhall Ragehame holds the heart of Rothesia in his grasp, convinced his plans for conquest are all but flawless. The loyalty of his army, composed of sadistic half-men, sellswords, and monsters, is far more questionable. The deposed King Siathas Greymorn desperately seeks to retake the throne, but with the corruption and deceit born of ambition infecting Rothesia, he doubts he'll be able to escape with his life, let alone retake the kingdom. His son, Prince Arryn, is still reeling from the shocking and tragic eruption of his newfound powers. He may be the key to either saving Rothesia or delivering its final destruction. The only thing keeping him grounded is the warrior Raelyn. She has the blood of a hero in her veins, but individual heroes might not be enough when the enemy has monsters and an army. The strands of the lives of these four scarred souls are being woven together by destiny to form the tapestry of the final fate of an entire kingdom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Varrone
• Release date: Aug 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201498849

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)

Theegrand Gorgrim woke to the sound of a cool wind sweeping across the forest, his eyes crusted from a fitful sleep, his disdain for the land he called home the first thought in his foggy mind.

Yet another day, he thought. I pray to our gods. I make sacrifices for them. All for nothing.

He yawned and threw his feet over the edge of a bed laden with an orgy of raccoon, deer, and bear pelts. He rose and stretched, trying to get the blood to circulate to his fingers and toes, a hopeless gesture. Even in summer, the cold breeze always blew in the Northland Wastes, its landscape dotted with thick forests and sheer cliffs capped with snow throughout the year.

Theegrand glanced behind him, eying his wife's inviting, exposed leg as she slept. His loins tickled, but with a grimace, he quickly realized it was not the urge he hoped for. You're getting so old your need to piss outweighs the desire to bed your wife.

He shuffled through his home, its walls covered with preserved animal hides and thick wool blankets wrapped around a large wooden frame, the roof covered in mossy thatch. He shifted the soft, black bearskin serving as a door to the side and stepped out into the sunlight.

Morning light peeked through the leaves, the sounds of the singing birds a virtual chorus. Theegrand squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sun. He walked a few paces and made water, remembering as a child how he found it fun to paint designs with his waste on the trunks of the evergreens and maples. Shifting his leggings back into place, he turned for home, again thinking about his wife's thigh and imagining what he would like to do with the rest of her body. He stopped sharply, almost barreling over Welfin. Theegrand stood so tall he barely noticed the boy below his line of sight.

Chieftain, Welfin said, a bird came with a letter. He held out a bony hand, a small slip of parchment sticking from between dry, cracked knuckles.

By the gods, Welfin, warn me next time before I squash you, Theegrand boomed, taking the letter from the young tribesman and waving him off.

He unfolded the letter and read. When finished, he raised and shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the early morning daze that came after waking. Head bent low, he again pored over the delicate handwriting decorating the letter. He spat.

Cursed Ragehames, he whispered. His long, braided hair swung as he paced for a moment. At it again, it seems. He stroked his beard, then looked up. Welfin.

The boy turned from where he stood yards away. Yes, Chieftain? He trudged back to stand before Theegrand, his long neck craned upward.

Call a council meeting.

This early, Chieftain? Most still sleep.

The sharp crack of Theegrand's hand across Welfin's face sent birds scattering from the trees above. Are you questioning me?

Welfin wobbled, blood already dribbling from the corner of his mouth. No, Chieftain. I—

Move!

Welfin flew through the forest on stick-thin legs.

THE MEMBERS OF THE Cromhrun Council hovered around a small fire, their faces drawn and eyes bloodshot after being summoned from a restful night's sleep. The five men sat quietly, sipping hot water and herbs, one sipping ale, secluded beneath tall evergreens in their ceremonial meeting place, protected from the wind. Torches on tall stakes lit the outer circle, the smell of incense heavy in the air. A banner hung limply on a wooden post behind them, occasionally fluttering at the whims of the breeze, the standard of the tribe of the Cromhrun: a red skull atop a field of black, a notched battle axe dripping blood underneath.

Young Hilslaug, the newest and most eager member of the council, turned to face Theegrand. What news, Chieftain?

Theegrand cleared his throat. A letter came from Rothesia, bearing King Siathas's seal. I felt it important we meet.

Akrum spat into the fire. To hell with that bastard. His shiny, bald pate reflected the light of the fire as he scrunched his face and spat again. We want nothing from him.

Why'd the king write us, Chieftain? Hilslaug pressed, his cheeks rosy from the cold.

He hasn't written us, Theegrand replied. The king is a prisoner in his keep. Another man now controls Castle Hopeshire.

King Siathas overthrown? Rarmak asked, scrunching his lined face. He waved his hand as if to dismiss the thought. Impossible.

According to this, Theegrand said, holding up the letter delivered by Welfin, the man in control will soon conquer Parandor.

Why write us? old Thansir asked, his wispy gray hair fluttering as a breeze clawed its way through the trees. Can we ally with this man?

We can do one better, wise Thansir. He is a Cromhrun.

A roar swept over Theegrand, surprise and awe hitting him in waves from the members of the tribal council. Shouts of Who? and How? rose in the dawn, soon turning to cheers.

Calm yourselves, he said, raising his hand and voice. Your joy may turn to spittle. Theegrand took a breath, his mind still churning with doubt. The exile, Rexhall Ragehame, holds the castle.

Ragehame? Akrum questioned, spitting a third time. Damn family's wronged us far too long. Ignore it.

I agree, Hilslaug said, nodding. I've heard stories of the Ragehames. My father told me of Rexhall's grandfather, Wyrrhen. The fool couldn't even conquer the village of Duanin. The grandson's no different.

Theegrand narrowed his eyes at the young barbarian. As a member of this group, you must think before you speak, Hilslaug. I respected Wyrrhen as a boy. I fought with his son, Othang, on the Plains of Islefield. They always held our tribe's interests dear. It's too bad they couldn't plan a battle to save their skins. If they could, I wouldn't be sitting here. Othang would still be in my place.

It is true Othang came close to sacking Rothesia, Thansir said, his wrinkled face reflective. We banished the Ragehame family because of that failure. His eyes turned to Theegrand. We've not heard from Othang in a decade. Does he ally with his son?

Theegrand shook his head, the braids in his beard swinging. Othang Ragehame is dead. His flesh now rots on the same spot where he failed to take Castle Hopeshire ten years ago.

He cleared his throat, watching his breath turn to mist, slowly rising into the air, like a ghost from the past. Rexhall asks us to join him, to lead men to fight with him and conquer the rest of the kingdom. He wants us to send word to the other tribes as well. Rexhall seeks to unite the tribes as his father once did. He says he stands with a thousand dargmor, and that by the time we join him, the rest of Rothesia will be ripe for the taking.

Akrum grimaced. He invited dargmor before his kin?

Rarmak turned to Akrum, wiggling a finger at the bald man. Rexhall served as our tribe's emissary to the dargmor as a boy. He must've built a strong bond. Smart lad.

You have no idea, Rarmak, Thansir said, standing, his old knees creaking. When Rexhall walked among us, he always searched for answers before raising his axe. I remember how his peers viewed him. He turned to face each of them. And I remember how mine viewed me. He and I are the same. Long have I voiced ideas to you all, but few were the times they were considered over simple force. Do not underestimate Rexhall. Consider what he has accomplished and join him. He sat again, collapsing in his seat.

He may be smart, Thansir, Akrum said, but the dargmor? Those savages? Why go to them first? Why not his tribe?

Theegrand stood and stretched. Because his tribe banished his family. No, he found another way to reach his goal. He shook his head, lost in memory, and spoke quietly, more to himself than the others. The Ragehames. I've never known a more stubborn family. For generations, they tried to reclaim Rothesia. For generations, they failed. I don't know how, but Rexhall found a way.

What'll you have us do, Chieftain? Akrum asked. Raise our tribe's hopes to have them crushed again? I fought with Othang on the Plains of Islefield. We were slaughtered.

I'll never forget that day, Theegrand said, his voice growing deeper, and I've got the scars to prove it. Othang gave us hope, but when the day ended, he failed. We all failed. Othang led with purpose. He had vision, at least.

Akrum harrumphed. Vision? Where'd it get us? We ran back here, tails tucked between our legs. I shan't do it again.

Theegrand closed his eyes and turned away as the four barbarians argued and cursed at one another, each choosing a side, pleading his case. He walked to the far edge of the circle, the sky filled with white, puffy clouds, and wondered what kind of leader he had turned out to be after his people turned to him after Othang's banishment. I'm a fighter, not a leader. He gazed at the tribal standard, the battle axe under the skull dripping crimson. Theegrand's heart warmed at the sight of it. He yearned to be the leader his people deserved but knew he lacked the skills to do so. He wanted steel in his hand, not to be surrounded by a bunch of fools leading a council. But the idea of conquering Rothesia, at long last, spun in his brain. He could lead that war effort. But did he have the gumption after so many past disappointments?

From behind Akrum said, We've made a good life here. Why risk it?

Good? Theegrand roared, turning and walking back to the others. We barely survive. We scrape and claw for enough food to last us through the long winters. Our closest allies are misshapen half-humans who dwell in caves. Our tribes war against each other over tiny pieces of land and imaginary boundaries drawn in the snow. A good life, Akrum? No. All we do is exist.

Theegrand breathed heavily, his emotion and memory the fuel he needed to make his decision. My brothers, he continued, an opportunity sits before us. Cowards would turn away. I'll send word to the other tribes. It'll be their choice to join us. We won't beg them. If they don't come, they share none of the riches. We'll gather the finest fighters we have among the Cromhrun and march our standard south to join Rexhall Ragehame.

He stared each council member in the eye, his blood pounding through his veins as if he were ready to charge into battle. And if the boy fails, if again our hopes are raised only to end in defeat, then I'll personally extinguish the Ragehame line once and for all.

Map Description automatically generated

ONE

Denglasse Mangold shuffled around the small cave he called his home, snatching breakfast ingredients from stone shelves. Why he thought of the past today, a day dawning the same as the past forty years’ worth had, he did not know. They came unbidden from the depths of his mind, memories both fraught with joy and laced with pain.

His mind's eye took him back to when he first realized he was becoming a mage as a younger man, the dreams sneaking into his sleep, as they had done to all magi throughout time. At first, he did not understand them. Family members, some long-dead and some still among the living, visited him in his subconscious at night, telling him how special he was, of the gift and the responsibility there for the taking, if he would accept it. When he finally understood, Denglasse had wept with joy, for as a gangly youth with little confidence and meager prospects for the future as the son of a poor farmer in a remote Rothesian village, he always looked upon magi with reverence.

A soft, familiar voice pierced his thoughts, a voice not spoken aloud, but whispered within his mind, shaking him loose from the memories. Thinking of the past again?

Denglasse turned to see a slate gray puma sitting in the oval entryway. Luminous green eyes stared at him, the animal's coat like shining velvet.

Eve, Denglasse said. Good morning.

The puma padded into the cave and rubbed against Denglasse's thigh. He scratched her behind the ears as she purred, a thrumming reverberating throughout his body. Satisfied, she moved away and curled up on her small bed of straw as Denglasse continued making his meal.

You have a faraway look in your eyes again, Eve's voice echoed in his thoughts. You're also about to add hot spice to your oats.

Denglasse stopped to look at the canister he held. He frowned, setting the spice back on the shelf and grabbing a pouch of cinnamon. Thank you.

What bothers you?

It is difficult to say. I had a restless night, the third or fourth in a row now. Memories harass me, some I thought I had long since forgotten. When you walked in, they were still flooding my head, like I was dreaming. His head swiveled around. Am I awake?

Yes, unless one of your spells went awry.

I haven't cast any lately. I hadn't any need. Denglasse stopped and stared at the wall of the cave. The memory of the day he acknowledged and accepted the gift of a mage's power crashed into his mind. The clay plate he held dropped to the floor. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, running his hands through his thinning gray hair, the strands seeming thinner since the last time he did so. What have I become? he thought. I'm a withered, old shell of my former self. I can't remember the last time I cast a spell. I've forgotten so many of them as the years droned on.

Eve silently sprang to her feet and rushed to his side. What is it? She cuddled next to him, supporting his head with her body.

Denglasse wrapped his arms around her, the softness and warmth of her silky coat easing his mind. The memory faded. Why do you stay with me? I'm a useless, old mage. What can I possibly offer you?

She pulled back and stared at him, the whisper in his thoughts of her calm tone soothing. You're my friend, and friends don't abandon one another, especially when one of them is in pain, as I know you've been for some time. I expect nothing from you, just your uplifting company.

Denglasse smiled and wiped his eyes. I didn’t know cats could tell jokes. I don't deserve your company. I still often wonder why you're not with your kind, why you chose not to have more children.

We're kindred spirits, Denglasse. We both long for companionship. She looked away. My children are grown now. They left to make their own families and claim their territory. It is difficult for a mother to watch her children leave. I refuse to bear it again. Eve turned her whiskered face back to him. I long for intelligent conversation and a friend, a place to call home. My kind walks alone and can't provide what I seek. I’ve always known I was different from others of my ilk. But you already know all this, as we've discussed it before. Tell me what bothers you. You're not yourself.

Denglasse picked up the pieces of the plate, piling them on the wooden table. He pushed himself up, shaking his head. He reached for a new plate, adding hard bread, aged cheese, and fresh-caught pike from the river to the north that sliced through the Phalanx Mountains. Disruption stirs, Eve. I lack the power of divination, like my old pupil Jalaphas, but I feel...something.

Is it your second sense? Eve asked.

Yes. Something is about to happen.

Something bad?

Denglasse shrugged. I'm filled with a sense of foreboding and...a stirring of power, an awakening. I do not know any other way to describe it. It’s as if it’s happening far away, but somehow I can sense it, almost feel it.

You need the counsel of your fellow magi. You're lonely. Why not try and reenter the world, as you've always dreamed your people would?

Because we can't. We could try to do it covertly, but we would eventually fail and be discovered. And how would we even find one another at this point? Even if we did try to gather, if we did it among non-magic folk, our identities would be betrayed. Forty years is not long enough for people to forget the name of the man who singlehandedly changed our fate.

King Lensane.

Yes. If he was a commoner, nothing would have changed. My kind was besmirched because of his actions.

Why not travel to see your friend Jalaphas again? Your people may be banished and difficult to find, but why does that stop you both from coming together?

Denglasse sighed. The memory of our old lives haunts us. I know it does me. Why come together to commiserate about what we no longer have, or will never have? It would be too painful, and dangerous. Better to leave the past alone. Our fate is unchangeable. And besides, we are scattered to the corners of Rothesia now. I know the area where Jalaphas is, but for all I know, he is dead.

It has been four decades since the time of Lensane, Eve said, her shining eyes fixed on him. Why not try and repair the damage? Why not seek an audience with King Siathas?

Denglasse whipped his head around, his face a mask of fury. I will not speak with him, he who banished me from his gates and let the innocent slaughter of a group of his people go on without lifting one finger to stop the bloodshed. He is dead to me. I have no use for him, as he has none for us. I know what he went through, what Lensane did to his father. I know it stained his perspective. But he became king. He had a greater responsibility. Instead, he let stories and exaggerations fly throughout the land, to the detriment of all magi.

Eve's eyes widened. Denglasse, your plate.

He beheld what his anger had done. The plate he fixed his meal upon had melted, the hard bread turned to ash, the cheese oozing off the side, and the fish burned beyond recognition. He shook his weary head. And now look what I have become, a mere apprentice who can't control his own emotions and lets the gift have its way. He hurled the remains of the plate against the wall. Pieces flew in all directions, the stone stained black from the impact of the charred food. I'm no longer hungry.

Denglasse stomped out of the mouth of the cave. The warm sun caressed his face and the smell of the river carried on the wind. Eyeing the pebbled trail leading north, he hung his head low and trudged forward.

He sensed Eve following him a few yards behind, her eyes ever watchful. He berated himself for losing his temper and making his companion feel guilty for trying to help ease what ailed him.

In a way, she is right, he thought to himself. Has it truly been nearly four decades of dreaming of reuniting with his fellow magi? He had planned and strategized a way for magi to reenter society, to somehow find a way to shed the fallacies of the past and make a peaceful life with his fellow citizens of this great kingdom. For years he conceived every possibility, every idea that came to his mind dissected and thought over until his brain hurt. He envisioned a council made up of magi to spearhead their reentry into society and to monitor how magic was used, led by what he called a Magus Prima. Perhaps the magi needed organization, a brotherhood, an alliance to plead their case and establish rules to make the king and commoners alike comfortable with their presence. Denglasse wondered if he could be that leader someday. Years and years of wondering and planning were expended in this effort.

All for nothing, for he decided none of it could ever work. Now he was just an old fool.

As they made their way through the mountain pass, the jagged red-orange and gray cliffs piercing the sky all around them, Denglasse's eyes fell on a solitary tree extending out of the rocky ground to his left, its gnarled bark a stark contrast to the light color of the stone surrounding it. No leaves grew from branches extending in all directions. It loomed like a specter out of the realm of nightmare, staring at him, daring him.

The rope still hung in the clutches of its limbs. Denglasse shivered. He stopped and stared.

I remember when we first met here. Eve's voice whispered in his thoughts as she padded next to him.

It was a moment of weakness, nothing more, Denglasse said. He remembered the noose scratching the frail, crinkled skin of his neck when he slipped it over his head. Your cry of concern rescued me. I remember hearing it in my mind. It shook me from my sorrow.

Imagine my surprise when I realized you heard me and I heard your voice in return. I had no idea that men could do such a thing.

One of my talents as a mage, one that still serves a purpose. Our ability to communicate after I taught you our language saves me to this day, my friend. Still, I often wonder if it would have been better if I were to have gone through with it. The world wouldn't have missed me. He looked to the sky. I haven't much time left, Eve. I’m old. I can feel the end coming. All I want is to matter again, even for a short time. It seems that is beyond the realm of possibility.

Never say that. Her voice rose in his mind, angry. You were one of the most powerful and knowledgeable of your kind. You matter still.

I doubt that.

You matter to me.

Denglasse smiled down at the puma, her coat radiant in the light of the morning, her eyes shimmering like emeralds. He smiled and scratched her head. You are right. He knelt beside her, his knee scraping against the rough ground. Forgive an old fool filled with sadness who looks too much to the past. You deserve better. I—

He stared at his body, a puzzled look creeping onto his face. His heart suddenly raced. Blood coursed through his veins. Still kneeling, Denglasse placed a hand on the ground and clutched his chest. What is that? he wondered.

Denglasse, are you unwell? What is it? She paced around his withered body as he clung to the ground, his head down, eyes closed.

A feeling grew within him, a slow, building tension within his chest. Gasping, he somehow realized the genesis of the feeling came from afar, to the east,