Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (16 page)

“After a time, we ‘recover’ the stolen goods, and claim we’ve dispatched the brigands,” concluded Dak.

“Ok, question.  Won’t stealing from the caravans upset your Common?” asked Cam.

Everyone at the table looked at one another.  Cam was the only one totally ignorant of Sharron politics, Lyrra-Sharron noted. 

“Possibly, Cam Murtallan.  But then, they will not realize we are behind it,” remarked Morick Delmorr.  Lyrra-Sharron was not as familiar with him as the others at this table, but he was an advisor and deputy to Nadav, and she trusted that choice.  “Besides, merchants really have no voice.  Like soldiers, they are, shall we say, overlooked.”

“Overlooked?” questioned Cam.

Lyrra-Sharron turned to him, keeping her patience with the ignorance of the sorcerer.  “When the Common was created, the merchant class was non-existent, more or less.  Village representatives moved goods and services.  As that emerged into a merchant class, they never actually were given a voice on the Common.  With the exception of a few who rise to the ranks of the nobility, of course.”

Cam was silent, but still looked dubious.

This was not how she had seen this plan going.  And she very much wanted to do it her way.  But it was obvious that the others showed a preference for Dak’s less dangerous suggestion.  “I grant you, it is not a bad idea, Dak.  It may also prove to be equally effective,” conceded Lyrra-Sharron.

Dak appeared to look inwards thoughtfully a moment.  “In fact, it should be much more effective.  The negative is that hitting barracks would better arm us.”

“Perhaps if you choose one barracks, a smaller one, you could still hit them,” commented Torman.  “Meanwhile, my people, during our move, will strike one of the larger merchant convoys.”

Lyrra-Sharron turned her eye to him questioningly.

“Look, I wanted to bring this up anyhow,” Torman began anew, reading her gaze.  “I think we should leave Tarmollo behind.  Over half my people are refusing to sleep within the village, because...well, because no one
can
sleep inside its walls.  So if my people hit a large caravan on our way out, that might be a good beginning.”

“Sounds quite unusual to me,” commented Nadav.

“I didn’t sleep while I was there,” spoke Kallan quietly.

Lyrra-Sharron glanced towards Kallan Val-Sharron, recalling her annoyance at his distaste for the once plague-ridden hamlet.

“At any rate,” Torman continued, “while we hit a local convoy...”

“We attack an army barracks,” finished Dak.

Torman nodded his head in affirmation of Dak’s statement.

Dak turned his eyes to Lyrra-Sharron.

She looked around at the others.  She wanted to go with her original intentions, to strike at the army, but realized that a part of her planning was based on negative emotions regarding her father and General Bodrir, probably his most ardent supporter.  This was not supposed to be a personal vendetta.  “Yes.  I think that makes for a good plan.  All in favor?”

Each laid a fist upon the table.  Except for Cam.

Lyrra-Sharron noted that he glanced about at the others.  All eyes were on him.             

“Well, it beats killing unsuspecting pawns,” he stated.  Then, he, too, placed his fist upon the table.

“Alright.  It is done then,” said Lyrra-Sharron.  “Let us lay out a timetable for this...”

After another twenty minutes of discussion, the plan was complete.

Lyrra-Sharron watched the reactions of her command staff, and noted the sense of excitement about their next step.  She felt a surge of pride at what she had put together here. The anticipation of how much closer it would bring her to the crown was like the sweetest taste of honey on her tongue.

“We hit them two weeks from tomorrow?” recapped Nadav.

“Yes,” Lyrra-Sharron replied.  “And remember, leave the merchants alive, but the soldiers and any other guards are fair game.”

That was acknowledged by everyone.

“When you have found a new base, send us a runner, Torman, so we know where you are.”

“Aye,” replied Torman.

“We are finished here.  We reconvene in a month, at Nadav’s base.  Get your people into the villages to spread our name, and see what you can do about making more direct contact with anyone on the Common.  The end of Varlock-Sharron’s reign is approaching.  We must not be caught unprepared.”

As the others arose from the table to leave, Lyrra-Sharron glanced at the Sorcerer.  The time was coming for her to explain everything to him, for she knew he wouldn’t continue to assist her blindly.  So, too, she decided, was the time coming for Cam to explain himself to her. 

*****

General Portav Sopirr, Knight of Sharron, wore concern on his face like a well tailored gambeson.

His scouts brought back more reports, all pointing to the same thing.  The Medaelians were massing somewhere near the border.

He stood atop the wooden battlements of the fortress at Vanntir, peering out across the plains to the river, and as far across as he could see with the aid of a looking glass.  From here, the Medaelian town of Penlorka was not visible, though he did observe a rider crossing the shallow but wide River Mendanaria, being met instantly by three mounted Sharron Army soldiers.

He watched as the lone rider stopped, and gave a salute, pausing in all likelihood to identify himself.  The other three quickly wheeled their horses around, and together all began to charge back towards the fortress.

“Sentry!” General Sopirr called.

“Sir?” came the response from the soldier closest to him.

“Inform the gatewatch that the scout approaching now is to be sent to me immediately,” commanded General Sopirr.

“Yes, sir!” he toned.  Fist to heart, he saluted, and practically ran for the stairs to the courtyard below.

General Sopirr handed off his looking glass to the silent guard beside him.  Shifting ever-so-slightly the long sword upon his back, General Sopirr walked at a stately pace towards the steps to the courtyard.

The rain had ceased, and the sky was a muddy grey.  More rain was on its way from the west, but the brief lull eased some of the tension from the soldiers at this outpost.  Reinforcements would soon be en route, or so General Bodrir’s last communiqué had said.

In his mid forties, General Sopirr was a hard man.  All muscle, black hair and dark eyes, clean shaved.  He had become Second to General Bodrir after saving his life, and helping him plan and carry out a victory during a border skirmish with the Medaelian army years ago.  It had, unfortunately, left him with some nasty scars on his cheek, forehead and chin, but that did not diminish his talents as an officer.

He walked into his office, a large room with a huge fireplace and maps along the walls.  Until recently, this had been the office of Captain Torin Elkirr, but he was currently setting up a new outpost along the border to the north.  The young Captain was a good man, and General Sopirr planned to promote him upon completion of the station. 

He undid his sword, and placed it along the side of his desk.  He took his seat, then, and drew a dagger from one of his boots.  He took a sharpening stone, and began to hone the edge of the weapon as he waited.

Soon, two soldiers escorted the dismounted rider to him.  They saluted their superior, as did the scout. 

“Corporal Rivv Alseer reporting, sir!” spoke the scout.

The General set down stone and knife.  “At ease.  Private Arvona, Private tey-Sharron, you’re dismissed.  Please have someone bring water and food for the Corporal.”

They turned and left the room.

“Have a seat, Corporal.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the young soldier.

“How far did you go?” asked the General.

“I went as far as the woods outside of Penlorka, sir,” stated Alseer.  “I left my horse at the edge of the forest nearest our borders.  They haven’t any patrols within, though they were riding the roads surrounding them quite heavily.”

“Good thinking.  Continue, Corporal Alseer.”

“Thank you, sir.  I saw two separate columns enter the city, and three depart, heading south.  They are increasing the height of the walls at Penlorka, and the patrols are more frequent and better armed than is normal.  I...took the initiative, and tackled one of their soldiers from his horse.  I knocked him out, then dragged him into the woods.”

The General leaned forward.  “Why would you do that, soldier?”

Corporal Alseer cleared his throat.  “Well, sir, we, uh, haven’t been able to get a good look at where the soldiers are going.  They go south, but we don’t know where.  So I...asked him.  At first, he refused to answer, but I...plied certain tactics learned from Sir Garvol’s service tests.  He became quite talkative, and now I know where they are.”

General Sopirr leaned back, contemplating.  Some soldiers of the Sharron Army had had extra training by Sir Garvol, to work as special scouts and spies.  Though ordered not to cross the border, after weeks of learning nothing useful about the Medaelian troop movements, Sopirr had opted to find such a one, as the General needed more info than simple patrolling provided. 

Sending out Corporal Alseer, a graduate of Sir Garvol’s instruction, was the best tactic. 

“Go on,” Sopirr encouraged.

“They are encamped at the fork of the River Mendanaria, just north of where it branches off to the border, and northeast to Penkira.  We have been unable to see them, sir, because they’ve dug serious trenches into the soft earth, deep and wide, to hide the size of the forces there.”

“So that’s why we’ve not located the forces moving through Penlorka,” General Sopirr concluded.  His tone was not pleasant.  “They go south, and disappear into the ground itself.  Of course, that makes sense, now.  Damn, they can be clever.  Anything else, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir.  One of the Companies going south was attired in Cordianlott Military uniforms.  It begs the question as to how long the alliance has been in place between Medaelia and Cordianlott, sir.”

General Sopirr shook his head.  “That’s not my problem.  Those soldiers to the south are.  Still, that’s news Sir Garvol will wish to know of.  What, by the way, did you do with your captive?”

Corporal Alseer looked away, hiding his face.  “I broke his neck, sir.  Carried him to the road, near a low hanging branch.  Led his horse there, too.  Made it look like a stupid accident.”

“Well done, Corporal, well done,” affirmed the General.  “Alright, take food and drink, then get some rest.  I’ll get you a scribe, and I want you to dictate this to him, and have it written up.  As soon as that’s done, you get a fresh horse, and make ready to ride for Gara-Sharron.  Report directly to General Bodrir.  I’ll make up a scroll, to get you into him quickly.  I’m also assigning you a platoon, what with the Falcon Raiders out there.  Is that clear, Sergeant?”

The newly promoted Sergeant Alseer quickly stood and saluted.  “Yes, sir!”

General Sopirr grinned.  He was known for promoting those who did well.  He tossed to his subordinate the proper rank insignia pin for his uniform.  “Very well.  Sergeant Rivv Alseer, report back as soon as you’re ready.”

The young soldier turned and left.

General Sopirr took parchment, and began to write out a message of his own to his superiors.  It looked very much like war was imminent.  His only plan was to keep the Medaelian Army within their own territory.

Chapter 14

Varlock-Sharron found himself regularly tired and frustrated of late.  And almost as if to add insult to injury, General Bodrir and Constable drey-Sharron had nothing new to say to their King.

“My lords, they escaped over a month ago, now.  Other then the suspected camp at Tarmollo, and a few contacts of the late merchant, we have nothing to show.”  Varlock-Sharron stood, and walked to the window, unable to stay still for long.  “I expect more from you both.”

General Bodrir cleared his throat.  “My liege, if the problem were that simple, it would be done with.  But they are very good at keeping one jump ahead of us.  Princess Lyrra-Sharron was well taught, Sire, and she knows our tactics and placements rather intimately.  As if that weren’t enough, the situation on the Medaelian border worsens.”

“We’ve done all we can for the contacts within the city of Gara-Sharron, your Majesty,” added drey-Sharron.  “Sir Garvol is convinced that we have finished them.  Further, as I’ve said before, I have been in contact with the constabulary of almost every village and town within the kingdom.  It’s only a matter of time, your Majesty.”

“Indeed.  Time.”  The King turned back to the men seated before the table.  “Lyrra-Sharron will continue to humiliate us, and gain support from the Common.  I am doing all I can to keep that from happening, but she has studied her history thoroughly, and is fully aware of what she must do to win their favor over me.”  His tone darkened.  “I have heard rumblings, my lords.  Crude though they have been, embarrassing as they were, the people are taking notice.  Furthermore, I cannot be certain of what the Common will do next.”

Neither man could add anything further, and were both appearing uncharacteristically uncomfortable under Varlock-Sharron’s gaze.

Lord Tulock and Sir Garvol strolled in, slowing as they noticed the look on the King’s face.

“We have some news, your Majesty,” stated Sir Garvol.

The King took a deep breath, calming himself, and sat down.  “Proceed.”

Sir Garvol pulled out a scroll from his pouch, and read of it.  “We have interrogated all those implicated by the merchant, Kurr Vangam.  I believe we have effectively crippled the network the Falcon Raiders had set up within Gara-Sharron.  We’re re-checking everything now, but I think it’s been dealt with.  Additionally, I have some information on the man known as Dak Amviir.  From all accounts, he’s part of the hierarchy of the Falcon Raiders, quite possibly a high councilor to the Princess, or even her Second, though this is not completely clear.  After numerous inquiries, I have a basic description of a most non-descript man.  I believe he is not of this kingdom, and am currently working with various agents, spies and ambassadors to ascertain his true identity and origins.  My initial guess is that he is from Ontseer.  He was, however, primary contact for the majority of the Gara-Sharron network.”

King Varlock-Sharron leaned back in his chair, not hiding his vexation.  “Does it matter, Sir Garvol?”

Sir Garvol seemed a bit taken aback by the question.  “Indeed, your Majesty.  If he’s as important as it seems, we may want to add him to the scrolls, and possibly set a trap for him specifically.  This would be a prudent action on our parts, my liege.”

“Very well,” agreed the King with no enthusiasm.  “Yet that brings me no closer to finding the Falcon Raiders, and ending their disruption of my Kingdom.  Do you have anything else?”

A grin crept onto the Warlord’s face.  “One last, my liege.  Messages have been sent to various agents inside the palace at Penkira.  Our, shall we say, problem, thereabouts, shall be dealt with forthright.”

“Good.  Have a seat, both of you.”  As they sat, Varlock-Sharron found the last news had calmed his ire, and his tone changed to one less dour.  “You should both be aware I did finally speak with Marna Forkuln.  Your intuition about such things does you credit, Lord Tulock.  She accepted my offer, and Lady Marna takes over as Foreign Minister tomorrow.  Sir Garvol, please make yourself available to join Lady Marna, Tulock, Ara and myself in the morning, so we may get the Foreign Ministry back in order as soon as possible.”

“As you say, your Majesty,” acknowledged Sir Garvol, passing on his usual flippant commentary.

The King arose again.  He walked to the window a moment, looking out at the drizzle.  Varlock-Sharron was feeling terribly conflicted, and seldom trusted himself to speak when his emotions were so chaotic.  He paused for a while, collecting all of the random thoughts running through his head. 

Finally, he turned to his assembled Council.  “My lords, Princess Lyrra-Sharron and her Falcon Raiders are more trouble then we had originally given them credit for.  It is increasingly apparent now that my daughter’s goal is to obtain the throne, in a more-or-less legal manner.  She leaves me no choice.  I have to address the Common soon, lest we lose face.  She must be stopped.  She does not realize her actions jeopardize the stability of Sharron.”

He paced some, then turned to them again.  “We know their goal.  We have seen how they operate, but we cannot let that lull us into thinking them predictable.  Lyrra-Sharron is nothing if not impulsive.  What we need to do, is to stop reacting to them, and make them react to us.  Thus we must give them something so tempting, they will be forced to reveal themselves and strike.”

“You wish to set them a trap?” queried Lord Tulock, “What do we do with them if we ensnare them like that?”

“We strike.  A large military force, to overwhelm them,” stated Varlock-Sharron definitively.  “We must crush her rebellion totally, or she will continue to be a force of chaos.  Sir Garvol, you are my Warlord, and by all accounts too clever for your own good.  Take what counsel you need, but draw up a plan to see to this.  One last thing you should make note of, with regards to your planning.”

His expression never changed, but he turned to the window.  He did not trust what he might show them if he faced in their direction.  “She commits high treason against me.  Captured, she becomes a victim.  Worse, her capture could lead to a real civil war.  But it is her that these Falcon Raiders follow.  So it comes down to one thing.  If she is dead, she is finished.  Lyrra-Sharron of the House of Anduin must die.”

*****

The Kingdom of Medaelia was a relatively young nation, barely four hundred years old.  Its history was a study in conquest, the domain as it was today the product of a long forgotten, minute country conquering its larger neighbor.  Soon after that, Medealia had added a third small realm to its borders. 

After numerous attempts at annexing pieces of Sharron, two-hundred years ago the Vann Region was captured by their western neighbor, and the title Second Prince taken by the Sharron monarchy. 

Following nearly two centuries without growth, twenty years ago, Anaria was overrun and added, just after Wilnar-Medira was crowned King.

King Aldo Wilnar-Medira had ascended the throne at the age of thirty, succeeding his father, Wilnar Vorn-Medira.  Against his father’s wishes, practically his first act as King had been to conquer the small but ancient kingdom to the east. 

Anaria had been the oldest independent nation in the world.  It was the only country that had survived the Falling.  Even Imperial King Pallantir, ruler of every nation in the world, had never formally invaded nor conquered Anaria.

Before Vorn-Medira’s death, Wilnar-Medira had tried ceaselessly to encourage an invasion of Anaria.  He had secretly moved his troops into place, as his father was dying.  The Medaelian army outnumbered the Anarians seven to one, and it was a swift, brutal, and bloody triumph.             

Now, at fifty, Aldo Wilnar-Medira ruled a larger land than any of his predecessors in two centuries.  But he wanted more.  Sharron, the most stable and largest nation on the continent, was a constant reminder of what he was lacking.

His throne room was opulent, with beautiful tapestries dating back hundreds of years.  Many of these had come from Anaria, following its capture.  The rest were from the other two or three kingdoms that had been in this land before it had become a single nation.

Aldo Wilnar-Medira, King of Medaelia, was tall and thin, with brown hair cut short.  He was clean-shaven, though this left him with a baby-face, belying his age.  Never married, as a young man he’d been considered spoiled and eccentric. He’d had many lovers, but had never been willing to take one to wife. 

When he took the crown, however, he threw this off, and became known for his calm, steely demeanor.  He was regal, and unapproachable. 

He sat now upon his throne, in his purple and crimson robes of state, his rapier leaning against his seat.  Lord Mika Forkuln stood before him, completing his report, having finally gained an audience before the Medaelian ruler.

“The Falcon Raiders, led by Princess Lyrra-Sharron, continue to gain support among the peasants, striking at the Army, further destabilizing King Varlock-Sharron’s rule.  I doubt very much that he can handle any attacks on his borders now.  He had expressed some concern about such to those of us on his Council,” concluded Lord Mika.  He studied Wilnar-Medira’s face, trying unsuccessfully to garner his reaction.

The King looked at the portly man before him, seemingly straight down his nose, if that were possible.  “Thank you, Lord Mika.  Your information, I am certain, will prove useful to us in our plans.  I know you have been waiting for this opportunity to make your request to me directly.”  He glanced to those on either side of his throne.  “Let all those present witness that I grant you the amnesty you require.”

“Thank you, King Wilnar-Medira,” responded Lord Mika, bowing awkwardly.

The King smiled, but it was chilly, never touching his eyes.  “That is all.  Return to your quarters.”  He gestured.  “Guards, escort Lord Mika through the palace.  See to it he is comfortable when he reaches his door.  Lord Gelva,” he turned to his Prime Minister, “call together my advisors, and Ambassador Norva of Cordinalott.  We have many things to discuss.”

Lord Gelva Dova-Kumirr, standing to the King’s right, inclined his head in acknowledgement, then turned and left.  As the guards reached his side, Lord Mika bowed again, then also departed from the throne room.

As he moved off, he heard King Wilnar-Medira say quietly to one of his advisors “The fat traitor only confirms what we already know.  We keep him well fed and safe, he might be useful, and might remember something more interesting to share in time.  I can see why Varlock-Sharron had little use for the man...”

Lord Mika grunted low in his throat as he overheard the Medaelian monarch’s opinion of him, but didn’t care anyhow. 

He’d never been respected by any of the Council members of Sharron, and though the King of Medaelia showed little deference, it was still more than he’d grown accustomed to back home.

Traitor.  The word sent a chill down his spine.  King Varlock-Sharron was known to have a vengeful streak, but Lord Mika still knew things about the inner workings of the Kingdom that he felt would keep him protected.  Besides, in the castle of Wilnar-Medira, no one of Sharron would be able to approach him.

They walked quite a ways, towards the chambers of the various ambassadors of the realm.  Lord Mika had personally sent Fratt gel-Sharron, the Sharronian ambassador to Medaelia, home.  He did not expect that the man would actually ever see Sharron again, but that was not his concern.  Lord Mika had taken over gel-Sharron’s space, and his quarters here were large and comfortable.

He smelled fresh bread as they passed the secondary kitchens, and his stomach rumbled.  The guards, in purple tabards with the sigil of Medaelia, the rampant lion before the flaring sun, took themselves too seriously.  He’d get a servant to fetch him libations when he reached his quarters.

They came to his door, and the guards saluted.  “Thank you, my lords,” said Lord Mika regally.  He paused, and seeing they were moving no further, opened his own door and went into his quarters.

There he remained, for almost a quarter of an hour, moving from his bed to one chair, than another, then back to his bed, thinking about what to do to occupy his time, when there was a knock at his door.  “Yes?” he called.

One of the guards admitted a servant, in white save the sigil of Medaelia above her left breast.  She carried a tray with a pitcher, a small bowl of fruit, and a warm loaf of bread with butter.  As she came into the room, the guards closed the door.

“By order of the King, Lord Mika,” she said, placing the platter on a table before him.  She took a goblet, and poured wine from the pitcher.

“Why, thank you,” said Lord Mika, leering at the attractive servant.  He took the wine, and drank a cup.  She continued to stand before him.  “Is there something else?”

She wore a wicked smile.  “I may be able to offer a few other...services.” She walked around behind him, and placed her hands upon his shoulders, then began to rub.

He let out a contented sigh, leaning back into her hands.  “Ah, how thoughtful of your King.  And I thought he didn’t much like me.  Umm, yes, that’s very nice.  You know, I’ve not had a beautiful woman such as yourself in a long, long time.”

She giggled lightly.  “Yes, my King is very thoughtful.”  Swiftly, she pulled a cord from around her wrist, and placed it at Lord Mika’s throat before he could react.  She pulled at it, hard.

Lord Mika’s eyes bulged, and he flailed, trying to get at her, to pull the cord from his throat. He gasped, unable to cry out, as she choked the life from him.