Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (19 page)

Of course, a chance to fight with the King was in and of itself considered a privilege, as his skills were near legendary.  And for good reason, they always learned.

Back in his study, the King sat, looking at the papers on his desk with distaste.  Tulock was still with him, a servant applying a salve to one of his nastier bruises.

“Why do I bother, Varlock-Sharron?” he asked, wincing as the bruise was salved.  “I rarely beat you.”

The King leaned back in his chair.  “True enough.  But when you practice with others, how often do you win?  Every time we fight, you improve, and learn from me, and I from you.  You practice with your bow, what, daily, correct?”

“Aye.”

“I shoot once in a great while,” Varlock-Sharron continued.  “As such, my prowess is less than yours.  You are quite the good shot, Tulock Oran.”

The Seneschal shrugged.  “I guess.  And I do practice with the blade no less than every couple days or so.”

“You know that I practice with my sword every day,” the King stated.  “My prowess with the blade outmatches yours, though it took me a long while to get where I am.  I may have achieved mastery with my sword, but if I wish to maintain that skill, even improve upon it, this can only be done with practice.  Practice, Tulock, hones more than just my body, it strengthens the mind and spirit as well.  I know with great certainty that aptitude of this nature is fleeting.”

“I never analyzed it so definitively,” remarked Tulock.  “I take the same kind of pride in my archery as you in swordsmanship, your Majesty.”

“And it shows.  Do not feel so despondent about your blade skills, Tulock.  You should know that I can never hold back when I face you.  I have to use everything I have got, to emerge the victor in our bouts.  And there are only a few I say that of.”

Tulock looked at Varlock-Sharrron’s face, and grinned.  He knew to take it for the high compliment the remark was.

The King never would lie about someone’s prowess in swordsmanship.  His honor demanded total honesty of him.  And he admitted that he enjoyed the work that went into practicing with Tulock.

Bread was brought in, hot from the kitchens, as well as oatmeal and some fruit.  The King was offered up a mug of strong tea.

“Thank you,” he said.  The servants left him and his Seneschal alone.

“Business today?” he asked, feeling ready to face his duties.

Tulock took a parchment from his belt pouch, and unrolled it.  “Court is held in three hours.  The Council meets this afternoon, and we introduce Lady Marna Forkuln to them.  After that, before dinner, you meet with Speaker Erlonn Broyva to set a time to meet with the Common.”

“He is new to this, yes?” asked the King.

“Aye,” replied Tulock.  “Baron Porlan gran-Sharron stepped down, wanting to spend more time at home with his new wife, and as-yet unborn child.”

“And this Erlonn Broyva?”

“An odd choice on the part of the Common,” Tulock explained.  “Representative from the port city of Anduin.  Not even a noble, for once.  But extremely well respected.”

The King took a moment to consider that.  “It has been many years since I visited my family estates in the Anduin region.  I shall make a note of that.  I should also pay closer attention to the goings-on of the Common.  When did he become Speaker?”

“Only a week or so ago, sire,” replied Tulock.  “I believe that was on the first Annaduan of Prilentis.”

Varlock-Sharron grimaced.  “I need what you have about him.  I do not want to be talking to a total stranger.  It will not bode well at all, what with my daughter’s rebellion making me look bad as it is.  Just what we need...more complications.”

Tulock wore a look of concern.  “You’re worried?”

Varlock-Sharron arose.  “If anyone else asked me that, Tulock, I would flat deny it.  But you are my friend.  I am...concerned, yes.  She is making a lot of noise, and people are starting to listen.  She is not ready to wear the crown, not with what is going on.  Wilnar-Medira will feast upon her, given the chance.  My army is getting split, and it is only a question of when the Medaelians will attack.  If we lose the Vann Region to them, our other enemies might get bold enough to try something.”

              “General Bodrir, Sir Garvol and Constable drey-Sharron claim they’ll have a more workable trap for her any time now,” remarked Tulock.  “With each new plan, they come up with something less dramatic, and with a higher probability of success.”

“I just hope it is not too late by then,” responded Varlock-Sharron with only a hint of annoyance. 

Every three or four days, since he had ordered Sir Garvol to design a trap for Lyrra-Sharron, the one or more of the oddly-matched trio of the General, the Constable, and the Warlord would lay out another ludicrous scheme.  And every time, Tulock and Varlock-Sharron ripped it apart.  They were improving with each attempt, but still had nothing without too many flaws to be made manifest.

“It is a fragile situation, Tulock.”  His tone became dark as he let his anger out.  “I swear, before I die I will have Wilnar-Medira’s head on a pike, and we shall take it on a parade through Aldara.  Then we will mount it on the battlements of his own palace in Penkia.”

He let out an exasperated breath.  “Enough of this, we have business to attend to.”  Varlock-Sharron let it go, and his voice returned to its natural timbre.  “Have someone fetch our state robes and accoutrements, and we shall go to court from here.”

“Yes, my liege,” replied Tulock, turning to go.

“Tulock?” the Seneschal turned back.  “Thanks for the sword practice this morning.”

“My pleasure, your Majesty,” he replied.

Varlock-Sharron began to go through the scrolls, parchments, and other papers on his desk.  Duty could only be held at bay for so long.

Chapter 16

Torman ApCrill surveyed the hiding places of his soldiers.  Falcon Raiders were dispersed all along the side of the road, awaiting the caravan spotted a few minutes ago by his scout, Corlan.

Of course, they didn’t much look like Falcon Raiders at the moment.  All wore mismatched outfits, mostly browns and greens and greys, and hoods pulled up to hide their faces.  They also were less armed than usual, and some even used weapons left out in the rain, uncleaned.  It would not be difficult to pose as common brigands.

Torman paused a moment, considering the last couple of weeks.  He was actually relieved to be clear of Tarmollo, and had sent Neva and some of the younger, less trained raiders ahead to the new camp. 

They were now located along a deserted beach, a mile or so off the road, on the most inland point of a small bay.  There was a town at the most southwest tip of the land, Horvan, only a few miles south.  But aside from fishing trawlers and a ferry to Garwiln Isle, the town had little going for it, and did not draw much attention.  Certainly there was only a small military presence.

Torman grimaced as old memories crossed his mind.  He’d joined the ranks of the Sharron Army as a lad of sixteen, son of a not too terribly successful merchant.  He’d risen through the ranks, and during a particularly nasty border skirmish with the An-Quarvan Army, he’d wound up in command of his company, all the officers having been killed.  He was made a Lieutenant for his actions that day, but soon found he’d tired of military life.  He gave up his commission and based himself in the Town of Natarn.

Then one day it happened.  A group of Falcon Raiders, led by Dak Amviir, came to Natarn, tired, hungry, hunted by a platoon after hitting a patrol.  He hid them, and as a reward was introduced to Lyrra-Sharron.  She told him what she was about, and he sold what was left of his business and joined up.

              The best thing to come of his joining the Falcon Raiders was meeting Neva Alcarra.  It had taken them weeks to admit what they were feeling for one another.  Circumstance had brought them together, and when they stopped fighting the attraction, they were both content at the outcome, and ensuing relationship. 

He came out of his reverie, hearing horses approach.  They were just off a main highway that led from the Port of Anduin to Gara-Sharron.  A lot of traffic passed through this area, so it made the perfect target, and Torman knew a dozen places to stash what they took between here and the new base.

The caravan, six wagons total, was escorted by a dozen Sharron Army soldiers.  Some merchants hired private guards, but the Sharron Army often provided for the larger, state-supported merchants.  Three rode ahead of the caravan, a trio behind, the others dispersed amongst the wagons. 

Most likely they guarded specialties from one of the kingdoms across the ocean, maybe granite or precious gems from the mountains of Vilcarr, or perhaps coffee beans and citrus from Jennorrit.

The lead guards passed his position.  He gave the call of a local bird three times.  Counting to five, Torman arose, drawing back his bow, arrow knocked, aiming for the nearest soldier.

Almost perfectly synchronized, arrows shot out from the woods from all kinds of hiding places.  Soldiers toppled from their mounts.  A few were spared, and drew swords, issuing challenges.

They broke clear, a band of masked bandits.  They outnumbered the soldiers, and quickly captured them.  Crossbowmen held the merchants at bay.

“Tie the soldiers!  Put them off the side of the road,” called Torman, disguising his voice.

The Falcon Raiders obeyed his orders swiftly, and soon the soldiers were taken care of.  Five had survived the initial attack.  They were all tied around a tree, just far enough off the road that they’d not be immediately noticed.  Swathes of cloth were tied about their eyes to blindfold them as well.

“Bring the merchants here!” called Torman.

This too was done, and soon eleven men and four women stood before him, looking nervous and scared.

Torman chose to really throw them off the trail, adding archaic language and unreal dialect to his speech.  “We have what we came for.  I give you your lives.  Continue walking east.  Ye will come upon a village, about seven miles from here.  Ye should be able to make it by sunset.  Walk, mind, don’t run.  We’re keeping an eye on ye.  Any tries runnin, we shoot ‘em.  Got it?”

Each indicated their understanding.

Torman gestured with his knife.  “Go.”

The merchants began the slow walk east, throwing back nervous glances.  As ordered, Corlan followed off the side of the road, letting himself be seen to keep them aware of his presence.  It wasn’t long before they were out of sight.

Torman and the others wasted no time turning the wagons around.  It wouldn’t be long before the road would cease to be empty.  Soon they had removed their disguises, and with half posing as merchants, half in Sharron Army uniforms, they mounted the horses and wagons, and looked like a caravan returning from Gara-Sharron to Anduin.

It had gone very well indeed.  Almost too well for Torman’s liking.  But then, no one had assailed such a caravan in almost a hundred years.  The Sharron Army had gotten very good at finding and routing out groups of bandits and brigands.  The few in existence were poorly organized, and easily overpowered. 

The Falcon Raiders were well screened, and as yet no spies had infiltrated.  But the Falcon Raiders were something else entirely, and Lyrra-Sharron knew her father’s tactics better than nearly anyone else.

The complete plan was simple.  Soon they’d leave the main road, and dispose of the wagons and supplies therein.  They’d return to their base, and be finished with it.  Eventually, Torman was sure, this would be heard by The Common, and once that happened, the Falcon Raiders would quietly ‘find’ and return these items, making the Sharron Army appear weak.

When it was all said and done, Torman was certain, Lyrra-Sharron would be Queen on the throne of Sharron.

*****

They rode in small groups, moving south steadily.  No group was larger than seven or eight, and they’d done what they could to conceal weapons.

As often as possible, they stayed off the main roads.  The Falcon Raiders did their best to avoid any villages, or roadside taverns.  They were working hard to go unnoticed.

Kallan Val-Sharron scouted ahead, along with Andim Noros.  The duo picked paths, and looked for everything they might need to avoid.

They were, in all, ninety-five.  Each small group had various weapons, and a different leader. 

Cam remained with the lead group, while Lyrra-Sharron and Dak circulated amongst the others, keeping them inline and in order, to hit their mark by sunset.  It would be close, but they were certain to make it.  The only thing holding them up were those not mounted on horseback.

It would not be an easy attack.  The barracks at Brivarn could hold anywhere from a few dozen soldiers to almost two-hundred.  With rumors reaching the Falcon Raiders, just before they departed, of some sort of pending border conflict with Medaelia, in addition to the search for themselves, it was thought the barracks would be more empty.  Or so they hoped.

Cam steeled himself to the task.  He wore all black, his tunic, breeches and the leather vest with small, blackened metal studs like the other raiders wore.  Not that it was visible under his grey cloak.  In addition, he wore his new rapier at his left hip, a long knife at his back, and his staff was being carried by one of the raiders walking in this group.

He was expected to use sorcery once they were ready.  It was not a complex spell, and Cam was fairly certain even with his weakened power, he could make what was desired work.  Or else he’d be awfully embarrassed in the attempt, and Lyrra-Sharron would be thoroughly displeased.

They looked like other pilgrimage or merchant groups to any that might see them.  Just outside the actual town of Brivarn was a small stream, said to have been blessed by a long-dead Sorcerer King, thousands of years ago.  It was said miraculous healings had occurred in some who drank of its waters.  Cam didn’t believe in such tales, though in his current state, he was half tempted to get away at some point and try for himself.

He grunted at the thought.  The raider walking beside him tapped his leg.  “Lord Andim returns.”

Cam looked up, saw the grizzled veteran soldier riding to him.  They were on the road at the moment, and Andim and Kallan had been seeking a point where they could again walk the woods.

“Cam,” Andim addressed him.  “Kallan is up ahead, awaiting you.  He’ll show you the path we found.  Hurry some, there’s a merchant caravan coming this way, and they got soldiers with them.  They might catch up to us if we aren’t off the road quick.”

“Right,” replied Cam.  He looked at the others, and pumped a fist into the air three times.  He spurred his horse, and moved from a decent walk to a fast trot.  Those on foot jogged with them.

Shortly, he saw Kallan next to his horse, just off the road.  It was not an obvious path to the woods. 

Kallan pushed back some of the undergrowth.  “Through here, Cam.  Go about three minutes.  You’ll find an abandoned, overgrown highway.  Follow it when you get there.  We scouted ahead, and it should take us most of the rest of the way to Brivarn.”

“Got it.  The others should be just behind us,” said Cam.

Kallan remounted.  “I hope so.  That merchant caravan is only about twenty minutes down the road.  Second group’s coming up now, though.”

Cam turned a moment, and saw them, led by a raider named Jolun, trotting up.  “Ok.  We’re gone.”

He moved into the underbrush, his horse exhaling a protest.  It was a decent animal, and though his experience was limited, Cam found himself to be a natural rider.  But he did still prefer his own feet.

Cam reached the derelict highway.  Not a tremendously wide space, probably why it was abandoned in favor of the current road.  Sharron itself had been a kingdom a long time, though another had been here before The Falling.  There were many overgrown paths such as this throughout the countryside.

Cam led the group to the southwest, down the path.  After a while, a pair of horses came thundering along from behind, Andim and Kallan, retaking the lead as scouts.  Soon they were out of sight, down the road.

Cam glanced back.  They were closer together now, each group.  From the glimpses of the sun he got above the treeline, it appeared to be only an hour or two from nightfall. 

He noticed a rider coming forward.  On closer inspection, he realized it was Dak.

Dak rode up to him at a trot, reining his horse in an even pace alongside Cam.

“We’re not too far now,” Dak informed him.

“Good.  I was noticing the time,” Cam responded.  “We’ll make it about sunset, I’m guessing.”

“As planned,” replied Dak.

“Kallan said we should be able to stay on this path most of the rest of the way,” Cam added casually.

“I imagine so,” replied Dak.

It was never easy to start a conversation with the man.  Odd as that was, from the time of his rescue Cam had felt a sort of kinship with Dak Amviir.

Cam felt like talking.  “If I may ask, Dak, where did you learn to fight with the sword?  You’re very good, from what I hear.”

Dak shrugged.  “I picked it up along the way.”

Cam twisted in his saddle and looked at him, noting the fine hand-and-a-half sword strapped along his back.  “‘Picked it up along the way’?  C’mon, Dak.  You learned somewhere.”

“I don’t care to talk about it,” replied Dak coldly.

Cam thought about that a moment.  “Why not?”

Dak turned and glared at him.

Cam returned his look with an equally glaring one.  “You know my secrets, Dak Amviir.  And, what little I know, we’re not all that different, you and I.  I bet we have similar origins.”

Dak just faced forward, muttered darkly, “You know nothing, Cam Murtallan.”             

“So, enlighten me, Dak.  I recognize you don’t come from Sharron,” Dak turned on him at that, looking angry.  Cam held up a hand to forestall the next remark.  “Look, I’ve traveled several kingdoms now.  I was born in Anaria.   I grew up there.  You learn to observe things, to stay alive, when you live on the streets.  I always knew the foreigners, theirs were the easiest pockets to pick.  You don’t have the look or attitude of a Sharronian, or the haughtiness of a Medaelian.  Unless I miss my guess, you probably come from Garrock or Ontseer.”

Dak was very quiet now.  Dangerously so.  He didn’t look at Cam, but said softly, “You surprise me, Cam Murtallan.”

“Is that a compliment, or an insult?” asked Cam.

Dak expelled a frustrated breath, the tension broken.  “A compliment, I suppose.  You’re going to make me talk, aren’t you?”

“It passes the time,” Cam commented.  “Or you can always ride ahead and join Kallan and Andim, or wait to take up the rear once more.”

Dak said nothing.  Cam had to work hard not to smirk.  The Sorcerer was as stubborn as the Falcon Raider Second. 

Cam continued from where he’d left off.  “As I said, I think we might have a lot in common.  So...Ontseer or Garrock?”

Dak shook his head.  He paused another moment, as if seeking a way out.  He reached a decision, though, and still not looking at Cam replied, “Ontseer.”