The Cutthroat Prince (William of Alamore Series Book 2) Read online

  The Cutthroat Prince

  Book Two in The William of Alamore Series

  C. J. R. Isely

  Copyright © 2021 C. J. R. Isely

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7346674-5-5

  ISBN-10: 1-7346674-5-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Vincent,

  Thank you for being my other half and always listening to my wildest thoughts, both when I talk about the world we live in and the world that lives inside my head

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Join the Adventure

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  About The Author

  Books In This Series

  Books By This Author

  Dear Reader,

  Join the Adventure

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  PROLOGUE

  Heart slamming in his throat, threatening to strangle each rasping breath, the man ran harder, tripping over brambles and branches that caught at his clothing in the dark. His white-blond hair fell over his blue eyes; blood dripped over his arms through his clothing, down his face like scarlet tears. Somewhere in the tangle of trees around him, he could hear the hammer of hooves, a second pulse that beat a strange separate rhythm through his skin and chest. Hindered with exhaustion and the stale tavern spirits he could still taste on his tongue he stumbled, this time not catching himself before sprawling in the dirt on his chest. He felt blood leap to his skin where it had torn over his palms and knees. Swaying, he tried to push himself up. Run! He could hear the word screaming through his head. Run!

  The hooves were nearing, getting closer and closer with each breath. The moon’s silver light was filtering through the trees, showing nothing but branches and the sheen of the river only a few yards ahead, in the clearing of trees. Reaching it seemed impossible without being spotted and, even if he could, he couldn’t swim well sober let alone in his current state. He closed his eyes, half hoping he might vanish. Perhaps they wouldn’t see him here.

  “Pathetic.”

  The voice above him sent a shiver through his body, deep and cold in his chest. He opened one eye and the world spun round him. He swallowed the panic and sick rising in him and lifted his face to the hooves that had stopped between him and the water, blocking his way forward. Black feathered hooves that led up the powerful legs of the fine animal, a horse the color of a clouded night, its eyes reflecting the distant moon in two faint stars so high above it may have been miles. The rider might have been the specter of death in his grey cloak, a sword swaying at his saddle, too far away to see if he even had a face.

  “Mercy.” The man’s voice croaked, and he winced, his eyes stinging with tears. “Mercy, please, please have mercy.”

  Someone else in the shadows cackled, high and manic, but the rider before him merely cocked his head. “Mercy?” He sounded unimpressed, indifferent. “Surely the guards of Alamore are supposed to show more grit than that.”

  More laughter. The man on the ground squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the whimper that rose in his chest. “Please. Please don’t kill me.”

  There was a faint musical note, the sound of spurs as the rider dismounted and approached him, each step shadow silent. “Look at me,” said the rider, sounding bored.

  The Alamore guard lifted his face, eyes still tightly squeezed shut, waiting for the death blow to slice through him.

  “I said look at me,” snapped the rider, impatience making his tone sharper.

  The man opened his eyes and blinked up. Off his horse, the rider seemed small, yet not any less powerful. He stood straight like a King of Darkness that was ready to condemn the guard at his feet. The guard wished that he could close his eyes again. He had to clamp his teeth down to hold back his whimper of fear.

  Unable to take the silence pressing down, waiting for the blade to fall onto his neck, the guard swallowed and spoke, his voice breaking with terror. “Who are you?”

  “Never you mind.” The rider laughed coolly, crouching down so that he could see the man on the ground better.

  The guard blinked, bewildered. Was it the alcohol playing tricks or the moon? This rider looked like a teenager, a boy with a faint smirk on his lips, his dark hair falling loose around his black eyes under the shadow of his hood. Even if he couldn’t be sure of the rider’s age, he was certain of one thing; the pale face with its high cheekbones and the rider’s regal stance spoke of power, something that the guard had never had, only seen and envied in the men that commanded soldiers and armies.

  “Tell me, are you actually an Alamore guard or was that all an act back in the tavern to get the ladies to talk to you and the men to buy you drinks? It’s hard to tell at times if people like you are telling the truth or if you’re boasting the stories of others and are full of lies when you drink too much. So, which is it?” the rider inquired, tilting his head again, taking in the guard better.

  The guard swallowed hard and nodded. “I–I am a guard of the castle, yes.”

  “Excellent.” The rider leaned back, his smirk widening. “Would you say that you enjoy it?” He sounded calm. They might have been discussing the matter over a drink, as if this stranger was a friend merely curious about his life, but there was still something menacing about this boy and the shadows that shifted out of sight around them–more riders standing guard, silent and watchful.

  “Ex-excuse me?” The guard blinked hard, tr
ying to push himself off his stomach. A hiss of steel made him freeze, terror rising again. He was certain the slamming heart in his chest might break through his bones.

  “I don’t recommend getting up right now,” the boy said, holding up a hand.

  He wasn’t certain if it was to stay him or the shadows that had drawn their weapons. He didn’t move, too terrified by the prospect of death to dare more than breathing.

  “My Cutthroats are a bit defensive of me.”

  “C-cutthroats?” the guard asked, his confusion evident across his face.

  “Yes, but before you ask, no, we’re not your common rogues and thieves. We don’t deal in your stolen horses and money, that’s not what we’re interested in. Not what I’m interested in.” The boy ran a hand over his smooth jaw, assessing the guard. “You see, I have those things. What I steal is information, debts, and loyalties. Stealing is a bit harsh of a word to describe it perhaps… it’s more I accept them as payment.”

  “In exchange for what?” the guard asked slowly, but he had a horrible feeling he already knew.

  “Are you this thick or are you enjoying playing stupid?” the boy asked, sounding genuinely interested. “If you want to live to see the dawn, you’d best think what your loyalties, information, and life are worth. Now, what’s your name?”

  “Oberoan,” the guard whispered. He could hear the shake in his own words, the whimper. Another laugh, lower and more dangerous, hissed from the dark behind him, in the direction of the drawn steel.

  “Oberoan…” the rider repeated the name and Oberoan had the sense he was mulling it over, making sure he would always remember it. “Well, Oberoan, let me ask you this: are the guards of Alamore as foolishly loyal as the knights?”

  “Sorry? I don’t understand what you-”

  “I mean,” the rider cut across him, a note of annoyance now edging his voice, and reached toward his belt, “do you happen to think that staying true to King Revlan is worth your life?”

  A gleam of brilliant silver in the moon’s light showed the ornate blade of a dagger in the shape of a diving falcon, its beak open wide to swallow the blade. “Think carefully before you answer, Oberoan. I don’t give people the chance to change their minds.”

  Oberoan’s eyes shifted from the black eyes under the hood to the dagger and he licked his dried and cracking lips, fighting to keep himself from screaming or getting sick. “I have th-three years on my time left for the King of Alamore…”

  “And will you serve him or me?” The rider was annoyed now.

  “You?” Oberoan heard it come out as a question from his own lips and flinched as the blade moved. A shrill scream broke from him before he could help himself, but the blade wasn’t diving into his chest. It instead flicked closer, pressing up against his exposed neck. The horsemen in the dark laughed again, harder now.

  “That didn’t sound very certain. I’m feeling nice today, so I’ll ask you again, who do you serve?”

  “Y-you, my Lord.”

  “Very good, Oberoan.” The boy pulled the blade away, thrusting it into his belt, and rocked backwards, rising to his feet and straightening. “You will serve me and, should you turn out to be lying, you will wish I had killed you here. Is that understood?”

  “Y-yes, my Lord.”

  The boy laughed coldly, shaking his head. “I’m not a Lord, and don’t waste your breath on that title. You will call me Your Majesty or Prince. You owe me your life now, Oberoan and, more important to me than your life, is the information and secrets you will risk your life to bring me.”

  “What information is that?” Oberoan turned his head up higher, panting, trying to see the Prince better.

  “First of all.” The Prince ran a hand over his jaw under the hood, a smirk playing over his mouth. “I want to know what you’ve heard of the uprisings in Kelkor. Is your King planning to send reinforcements?”

  “Uprisings? We haven’t heard anything about sending soldiers for any uprisings… months ago, they had discussed Shadow Dale pressing Kelkor, that the King’s brother was concerned.”

  In the darkness, he heard the hiss of a voice, the shivering steel of a blade being drawn.

  “What uprisings are you talking about, Your Majesty?” Oberoan hated the squeak of fear in his voice.

  “Uprisings of those loyal to the Kelkorian crown and those seeking a new order. If you haven’t heard of it, perhaps you will soon… I expect that the Ranger of Kings will be working to keep your King Revlan informed on the happenings in Kelkor. After all, Revlan will want to look after his brother’s throne, won’t he? But no matter. Should you hear anything you will be sure I find out. Is that understood?”

  Sweat beaded over Oberoan’s lip and he licked it away, a tremor running over his body. If his information was deemed worthless, then what? The world’s edges spun and again he cursed the ale he could still feel burning his throat and tongue.

  “I don’t believe I’ve heard any guards say we are to be sent anywhere. The castle’s hurting in terms of soldiers and guards after the winter battles with Thornten.” He licked his lips again. “Might have heard some knights whisper of unrest in the south, but nothing strong, nothing worth the worry of sending us to Kelkor. But the Ranger’s been away, and when he comes back, I could find out more.”

  “Excellent.” The Prince chuckled. “You’re learning your new role quickly, aren’t you? It’s good to see someone who wants to keep their end of the bargain…and their life. You say the Ranger’s been away often? Have you heard any whispers of where he’s been? Or why?”

  “N-no. The Ranger doesn’t speak to the guards, Your Majesty. He keeps to the council, to the King, and that’s all. W-what do you need to know about the Ranger?” asked Oberoan slowly.

  The Prince snorted, annoyed. “I need to know his movements, his plans, his plots, where he is going, what he is saying, who he is speaking with, when he’s in the castle, and most importantly when he’s away. You will watch his movements; you will let me know when he’s gone and for how long he will be away. Is that understood?”

  Oberoan shook his head, his temples throbbing, vision blurring. “I can’t do that, it’d be impossible. He tells nothing, he arrives any day or time and there’s no pattern, no reasoning, to how long he stays or leaves.”

  “You best find a way to, or you’ll pay most dearly,” the Prince replied coldly. “I’m sure a man as adept at hustling cards like you were attempting at the tavern can be clever enough to save his own life.”

  “How did you-” Oberoan started, but the Prince cut him off.

  “Don’t worry about how I saw you, only worry about how you’ll be of use to me. I don’t believe in keeping the worthless and if I could see you in that tavern without you seeing me, know that it would be just as easy to have you killed.”

  With that, the Prince moved to his horse and slid one foot into his stirrup. He was on the brink of lifting himself into the saddle and Oberoan felt a surge of relief. They were leaving, he was alive, and they were leaving. The relief vanished as the Prince hesitated, one foot resting in his stirrup. He turned to Oberoan, his face shrouded in the dark of his hood, impossible to see. “If you tell a word of this to the King or the Ranger, believe me, I will know. You will wish I had killed you here as you begged for your life. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Prince,” Oberoan whimpered. He was starting to feel desperate. The others in the shadows seemed to be growing impatient. He could hear their breathing, the jangle of their tack, the hissing sigh of blades half drawn to strike.

  “Additionally,” the Prince started, then hesitated, as though considering his words carefully, debating what he could say. “You will bring me anything you know about the squire William. Anytime he leaves the castle, you will send a signal, anything you hear of him, you will bring that information to me. Is that understood?”

  “A squire?” Oberoan furrowed his brow. None of this was making sense. The shadows at his back were moving past him, toward the Prince.
“What use is there in a squire? Are you meaning the Greyhead squire? He isn’t a Count until he’s eighteen and-”

  “I don’t care about the Greyhead boy,” the Prince snapped, pulling himself into the saddle. “Bring me information on the Ranger and William. That’s what I need from you.”

  “Why? If it’s money you want, neither of them-”

  “I’ve already told you,” the Prince said through gritted teeth. “I don’t need money. Their titles mean nothing to me, nor does their wealth, is that clear to you, you dolt?”

  “How?” the guard whimpered, trying to inch upright. “How will I tell you?”

  “I have ears that can slip in and out of the castle,” said the Prince and Oberoan could imagine the smirk under the hood. “You won’t need to worry about how you will tell me or about finding me. They will find you and will get the information I need from you. If you’re alive or dead when they are done is entirely dependent upon your cooperation.”

  Oberoan nodded, his mind sluggish with information, with bewilderment. “And why? Who are you? What does the Ranger have to do with a squire?”

  The other riders hissed and snarled, hounds and snakes that mistrusted him, but the Prince threw back his head with a laugh, his hood falling from his face. He gathered the reins to his black horse, his handsome young face smiling dangerously as he stared down at the wreck of a man before him. “You’re asking bold questions for a man on the verge of wetting his own pants, Oberoan. Consider it my interest for Thornten. There are times when heirs to a throne are useful, a future alliance perhaps or just another pawn to use from a place of power. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Heirs? To Thornten?” The liquor and terror made everything harder to understand. “What matter is that to you?”

  “Never you mind what matter it is to me,” purred the Prince. He reined the horse in a tight circle as the other riders moved away from him, shifting toward the river, five other hooded figures on dark animals. The Prince eyed Oberoan assessingly again, his head tilting once more. “Don’t disappoint me, Oberoan. You won’t care to be on the wrong side of The Cutthroat Prince.”