Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 55–A Throne for A King

---

Brecc dug spurs into his mount. The animal leaped forward, carrying the would-be ruler of Bretagne and Cazidor down the road toward the Krador Mountains. He risked a glance over his shoulder to spy, in the distance, a small group of mercenary horsemen in pursuit—the same men who had pledged loyalty before the invasion, then mutinied when the tide turned. The same men who should have been kneeling before him now, not hunting him like common prey.

A bend in the trail momentarily hid him from his pursuers. Shifting his gaze, he looked at the path leading him toward Cazidor. The decision to flee in that direction had been the only one available; at least back in Cazidor, he still ruled as King—technically—and could salvage his ambitions after this catastrophic failure.

If only my brother hadn’t stood in my way for so long. If only the Grand Council had given me the proper forces instead of treacherous mercenaries.

That is, if Dathon still maintains control of Wolfbern. The last few messages he’d intercepted—intended for Viperious—threw that into doubt. Still, he was out of options if he wanted to stay alive. It was still several days to Wolfbern, and he had nothing besides whatever might be stuffed into Viperious’ saddlebags.

As his mount thundered forward, ruined villages littered his path—sacked not by enemy forces, but by the very mercenaries he’d been meant to command. The few residents who remained kept their doors closed and windows barred. Those he caught sight of turned away, their faces painted with disgust and fear. No help would come from them. A few ruffians cast suspicious looks in his direction, noticing his fine mount and rich clothing.

They don’t recognize their rightful king. He straightened his posture despite his fatigue. But they will, once I reclaim what’s mine.

Soon, the tall trees of the Old Forest appeared, as did the snowy tops of the Krador Mountains. It would not be long before he reached the pass to Cazidor. But then his horse slowed, panting and covered with sweat. He needed to stop for water and forage. A glance to his right revealed a small stream off the path; perhaps upstream, there would also be a clearing where he could rest.

With a quick jerk of the reins, he redirected the horse along the stream. The animal turned and walked cautiously, navigating a narrow gap in the trees where the stream wound through the forest. At a bend, the water pooled into a small basin. The horse stopped and plunged its snout into the water, gulping down the liquid to slake its thirst.

Brecc slapped the side of the horse’s neck. “No, keep moving.” The horse snickered but kept drinking, stepping closer and into the water. He gave the animal a quick kick in the side and jerked the reins away from the pond. “Obey me,” he hissed, the command coming naturally to his lips after years of expecting immediate compliance.

The horse raised its snout, snorted, and lurched forward. Clawing for the saddle horn, Brecc grabbed hold and hung on as the animal shot into the trees.

“No, not that way, back to the stream,” he shouted. The animal bounded into the underbrush, branches, and brambles sweeping over them. Brecc raised his arms to fend them off. Something hard struck him in the chest and lifted him out of the saddle. With a painful thud, he landed on his back, the air rushing from his lungs. Something heavy sat on his chest. He reached up to find a saddlebag sitting on him. He pushed it off onto the ground next to him.

Once the spots cleared from his vision, he stared at the surrounding trees. Above him, a large branch hung low, the reins of his mount snagged on it. The animal tugged, and the reins came free. Catching his breath, Brecc stepped toward the horse.

“Come here,” he commanded, his voice scratchy and gruff, using the same tone that demanded obedience from servants.

The horse turned its head, looked at him, blew air out of its nostrils, and moved away—yet another betrayal in a day full of them. Brecc took another step toward the animal, but it bolted and ran back toward the road. A rock slipped out from under his boot, and the would-be King of Bretagne and Cazidor landed face-first in the water. Sputtering, he jumped up.

Foolish animal. Just like those mercenaries—no respect for nobility or rightful authority.

The distant sound of hoofbeats approaching sent a chill up his spine. He grabbed the saddlebag from the ground, then turned and ran deeper into the woods, away from the creek. Branches and twigs stabbed at him, tearing his fine clothes—clothes meant for a throne room, not a desperate flight through the wilderness. Tall moss-covered rocks soon appeared in his path. He paused, unsure of which way to go. Voices carried on the breeze and the sounds of men searching the underbrush some distance away.

His heart began racing. For all his royal blood and ambition, he was ill-prepared for true danger. He’d always had guards, servants, armies—never had he faced death alone like this. The thought made his mouth dry with fear, though he tried to push it away.

I am a king. Kings do not cower.

Slipping along the rock face, he kept probing the hanging vines in the gaps between the boulders. The stories his old nurse had told him as a child came back unbidden—tales of hidden caves in these mountains, where the ancient dead walked, and unwary travelers disappeared forever. Childish nonsense, of course, but the memory made him hesitate.

Still, somewhere along here, he should be able to hide. Sure enough, his hands pushed against the vines to reveal a dark opening. He slipped inside, the darkness embracing him. Something brushed up against his leg. He looked down. In the dim light filtering through the vines, he could see what appeared to be discarded torches, some of them quite old, lying in a pile next to the rocky wall.

An involuntary shiver ran through him. These weren’t just random torches—someone had used this place before, perhaps many people. What did his nurse call the caves in these mountains? The Passages of the Damned? He shook his head to clear it of such superstitions.

“He must have gone this way,” came a shout from a short distance away.

Brecc grabbed a couple of torches and padded the darkened enclosure with his hands, searching for an opening. Soon enough, one appeared, less like a natural cave and more like the outline of a door. He pushed. With a muted groan, the rock moved, revealing a jet-black opening.

Fear cascaded through him as he stared into the darkness. How deep was this cave, and what might be inside? The old stories spoke of an underworld beneath these mountains, where a grim ferryman carried the souls of the dead across a midnight river. But those were just tales to frighten children.

Footfalls approached. Brecc darted through the opening without a second thought and quickly turned to look out. A shred of light illuminated the cave entrance. He peered deeper into the cave. In the low light, nothing but a smooth tunnel floor and walls revealed themselves.

A low groan rumbled behind him; he whipped around just as the door swung shut, extinguishing the light. Complete darkness surrounded him. His heart raced, and cold sweat beaded on his brow. He was sealed in now, safe from his pursuers—maybe—if they didn’t also find the entrance. But the absolute darkness ramped up his anxiety.

He needed to light the torch he had. But how? Wait, the saddlebag might have something. He dug into it and found a small tinderbox, containing flint, fire steel, and a dry cloth soaked in light oil. Though he’d always considered such tasks beneath him, he remembered enough from the hunting trips his father, King Elysis, had forced upon him and his brother Edwyn. The old king had insisted they learn basic survival skills, not rely on servants—a lesson Brecc had resented.

Kneeling on the cold stone, he fumbled with the flint and steel. After several attempts, sparks flew in the darkness, catching on his tinder. With careful nursing, a small flame appeared, which he transferred to the torch. Light flooded the immediate area, pushing back the suffocating darkness.

See? I don’t need servants for everything. A surge of pride faded as he took in his surroundings. The stone floor revealed footprints leading deeper into the tunnel. Others had come this way before. Was there another exit?

He listened intently for a few minutes. What was that sound in the distance? Voices? Dripping water? He glanced back at the cave door. He didn’t dare try to go back out that way.

This is temporary. Soon, I’ll be back in Cazidor, gathering loyal forces. This is merely a setback, not a defeat.

But the trembling in his hands suggested his body believed otherwise. Annoyed at his own weakness, he gripped the torch tighter and turned to face the tunnel’s depths. Time to press forward.

He followed the footprints, hoping they’d lead him to safety. Minutes passed without count as the passage angled lower and lower. The sounds he’d heard earlier became clearer—a rhythmic lapping of water. The cave opened into a large cavern, the limits of which couldn’t be seen in the torchlight. Ahead, something glistened.

He raised the torch and stared. A vast body of water stretched across his entire field of vision. There didn’t appear to be any way across, yet the footprints ended at the water’s edge. He peered down into the water; it was glassy, clear, and smooth, the bottom visible without effort. Perhaps he’d have to wade across?

As he looked for a place to enter, the sound of splashing—low, rhythmic, controlled—drifted toward him. He looked up to see an old and worn wooden ferry emerging from the darkness. A tall, cloaked, and hooded figure stood at one end, pushing it along with a long pole.

The sight froze him in place. His nurse’s tales came rushing back—was it the River of the Dead, home of the silent ferryman who carried souls to their final judgment? But that was impossible. He was alive, fleeing very real enemies, not some ghost to be ferried to the afterlife.

The ferry approached and then ground to a halt on the shore. Brecc stared at the figure, unable to make out details beneath the hood.

“You there,” he called, trying to force authority into his voice despite his fear. “Is there another way out of here besides how I came in?”

The figure pointed toward the other side of the water. “Yes, ” the voice said, dry and hollow, like wind through dead leaves.

Brecc squared his shoulders. “I command you to take me across.”

The figure remained motionless. After a long moment, it extended a hand. “You must pay to cross. Do you have what is required?”

Brecc fingered the small coin purse hanging from his belt, all that remained of the royal coffers. And now he was reduced to bargaining with a cave-dwelling boatman.

“What do you need?” He dug a gold crown out—a coin stamped with his King Alric’s profile—and placed it in the outstretched hand of the figure.

Looking down at it, the figure shook its head. “You do not have what is required.” He handed the coin back.

“Do you know who I am?” Brecc demanded, his fear momentarily displaced by indignation. “I am Brecc, rightful ruler of Bretagne and Cazidor! That coin bears my likeness!”

“Names and titles mean nothing here,” the figure replied, unmoved. “Only proper payment matters.”

A chill raced down Brecc’s spine. He had to get across the water. His pursuers might find the cave entrance at any moment. “I have more,” he stammered, his composure cracking. “You can have it all. Just get me across the water.”

The figure paused, head tilting slightly. “In return for what?”

“What do you mean, ‘for what’? For coin! For gold!”

“Gold buys nothing here,” the ferryman replied. “What will you offer that has value beyond mortal wealth?”

Brecc’s mind raced. What did he mean by ‘mortal wealth’? What else did he have to offer? He was a king—or would be again, once he reached safety. “I can grant you lands and titles when I regain my throne.”

“I have no use for lands among the living.”

The words sent a shock through Brecc’s system. Among the living? Then what his nurse had said was true…

“Then what do you want?” Brecc asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

“What are you willing to give?” the ferryman countered.

Brecc looked over his shoulder, toward the tunnel behind him. “Anything,” he said finally. “Just get me away from here.”

The figure stood silently, then extended a hand. Brecc took it, flinching at the coldness of touch. After pulling him aboard the ferry, the figure quickly pushed away from the shore.

Relief passed over him for the first time since he’d fled Cazidor. But as he looked down, white faces appeared in the water—pale, ghostly visages staring up at him with hollow eyes. He recoiled in horror.

“What is this place?” he demanded; his voice higher than he intended.

“Every child hears the tales. Every soul knows the way,” the ferryman replied.

“Those are just stories,” Brecc protested, though his conviction wavered.

“Truth sleeps in every story’s final breath.”

Soon, the opposite shore appeared. Brecc took a deep breath. Perhaps he’d soon make his way out of this dank, dark space and back into sunlight. The thought helped ease his anxieties. The barge grounded on the sandy shore. He started to step off, but a hand, cold and tight, gripped his arm.

“Time to pay,” the ferryman murmured.

Brecc pulled his coin purse loose and offered it again, but the figure pushed it away. Instead, it extended the weathered barge pole toward him.

“I don’t understand,” Brecc said, eyes flicking between the pole and the figure. “What am I to do with that?”

“Take it.”

“And then you’ll let me go?”

The ferryman remained silent.

“Answer me!” Brecc demanded, his voice rising.

“I answer only to necessity, not commands,” the ferryman replied. “The pole awaits a new hand. Will you take it as you promised to give anything?”

Brecc glanced at the shore—so close, yet unreachable without the ferryman’s permission. What choice did he have?

“Fine, whatever,” Brecc said with annoyance and seized the pole. His fingers tingled as the figure let go and stepped back. Then the ferryman stepped from the barge onto the shore.

“Where are you going?” Brecc asked, alarm rising in his voice.

The ferryman took a deep breath and looked upward. “To where all ferrymen go when their service ends.”

“And where is that?”

“To rest. At last.”

Brecc stared, dumbfounded. Then he shook it off. No matter, he’d made it to the other side. He tried to step off the barge, but something blocked his way. Pushing harder, he couldn’t bring his feet to step onto the shore.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, panic edging into his voice. “Let me pass!”

His face grew warm as frustration mounted. With an exasperated sigh, he tried to fling the pole away—but it refused to leave his hands. He laid the pole on the barge, put a foot on it, and pulled. No matter what he did, the pole would not come free.

He turned to the ferryman, genuine fear replacing his usual arrogance. “What have you done to me?”

“Me? No, this is the price you paid to cross,” the ferryman replied. “You’re to bring the dead here now.”

A tingling sensation ran through Brecc’s arms as fragments of the old legend came back to him. The Land of the Dead, where souls crossed a midnight river, guided by an eternal ferryman who could never leave his post unless another took his place.

“No,” Brecc whispered, understanding dawning. “What do you mean? The dead?”

“It is now your task to ferry the dead to the Land of the Damned.” The ferryman pulled back his hood, revealing a skeletally thin face with empty eye sockets. “My service is done.”

“No, no, NO!” Brecc screamed, his voice echoing across the dark water. “You can’t leave me here alone! I’m a king! I’m meant to rule nations, not… not THIS!”

“Kings, beggars, merchants, thieves—all serve here in the end,” the ferryman said, stepping further upon the shore. “Some by choice, some by chance, some by doom of their own making.”

“Where are you going?” Brecc shouted, struggling against the invisible bonds that tied him to the ferry and the pole.

“Away,” was all the former ferryman said. At that moment, his robes sank to the ground, and he vanished, leaving nothing but empty garments on the shore.

Brecc’s scream echoed out into the darkness, unanswered. The would-be king of two realms had found his throne at last—a wooden ferry on a midnight river, carrying the dead for all eternity.