Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (26 page)

Lyrra-Sharron went on to detail for Cam the tragedies of their deaths, and the evidence of her father’s evil; his plans, his plots, the blood that soaked his hands.  She detailed years of neglect, deceit, and treachery that were both hidden and protected from the world at large. 

              If what she said was true, Varlock-Sharron Anduin was a villainous mastermind, plotting to make for himself a legacy unseen since the time of Pallantir, while neglecting everyone, from the overall populous of Sharron, right down to his own family.

              Cam was silent for a time.  He considered her argument.  If the face he showed the world were a mere façade, then Varlock-Sharron was an incredible con artist.

Cam considered his words before he spoke.  “I was, of course, his prisoner for a time.  Once, he himself oversaw my questioning and torture.  He surprised me, cut me upon the rack, only to hear me scream.  It was utterly cruel, totally detached.”

“You see my point?”  Lyrra-Sharron questioned.

Cam raised a hand.  “But then, before I was to be hanged, he came to me.  He...seemed to need to justify his actions to me.  I was...surprised, to say the least.  Before he left, he offered to bring me quill and paper, to leave messages behind for any who would mourn me, promised to see them delivered.  Not the sort of thing the miscreant you describe would do, Lyrra-Sharron.”

She laughed mirthlessly.  “Your torture was brutal, I do not doubt.  But even as his prisoner, condemned to die, he needed to keep you off balance.  He likely came to you like that that as a last resort, hoping his show of kindness would finally draw you out, get you to speak.  And while he would have made good on his word, and delivered your final messages, it would not have been done before he learned what he could of you from the notes you would leave behind.”

Cam pondered her words a moment.  “I never thought of it that way.  But given what you have told me today, it fits.”

“You were healed, cleansed for the benefit of those at your hanging, lest they feel sympathy for a burned, scarred, and beaten man.  Do you understand now, Cam Murtallan?  Your time in his custody was nothing compared to mine as his daughter and protégé.  I speak the truth.  Varlock-Sharron cares nothing for anything or anyone other than himself and his power.”

Cam inclined his head thoughtfully.  “So now I understand what this is all about.  We are aware of each other’s place, and have no more secrets.  Does it change anything?”

She stood, pacing some, then turned to Cam.  “That depends on your answer to this question.  Are you still with me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then nothing has changed,” she remarked. Lyrra-Sharron walked to him, looking grim.  “I confide in you the truth, Cam Murtallan.  You have become one of my most trusted lieutenants.  I need to know I can count on you, until the end.”

Cam stood, facing her eye to eye.  “You know who I truly am, Lyrra-Sharron.  If you hold my secret, then you hold my trust as well.”

She offered her hand to him.  “So be it.  We carry on as before, Cam Murtallan.”

“So be it, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin.”

*****

              The Common was now almost one-thousand years old.  It had been created after the end of the reign of Imperial King Pallantir, soon following the formation of the Kingdom of Sharron. 

The City of Mintarn, where the assembly met, was once the capital of the country of Mintarn, one of the nations that merged with a smaller neighbor, its name forgotten, to form Sharron.  For a time, Mintarn remained the new nation’s capital, while a city was built where Gara-Sharron now stood.  When the capital moved, the legislative body voted not to depart with it.  This would prove to be a typical gesture on the part of The Common. 

              The assembly hall was a six-hundred year old structure, modified over time to include lighting with oil piped through, and internal plumbing.  They would meet here almost daily when in session, which would be for periods of two months, followed by a month’s pause, followed by two more months in session.  This was supposed to allow the legislators time to return to their homes, and learn of new issues that needed to be addressed, to be certain the voice of The Common was always current.

The meetings of the assemblage ranged from three to nine hours at a seating, and included among their topics infrastructure, crops, city/town/village law, crime, and the ability of Crown and Council to rule the Kingdom. 

Although the assemblage had no real power - all they did was discuss and pass resolutions to send requests and information to the Council and Crown - this was an important body of the government of Sharron. 

              The voice of The Common was considered the voice of the People.  And in a nation the geographic and populous size of Sharron, without such a body, the Crown might easily lose track of the people it governed.

Anywhere from seventy to one-hundred and ninety people sat in on the proceedings at any one time, depending on municipality representatives, and any and all nobles present.  Standard attendance was about one-hundred ten or so.

Twenty feet up from the floor was a gallery, where anyone could sit and view the proceedings, though entrance to the balcony was very well guarded - no
weapons of any sort were allowed.  Many tapestries hung from the gallery down, representing the arms of each community, and many of the noble houses. 

At the top of the walls there were large lancet windows, the vaulted ceiling rising almost one-hundred feet above the floor.

The Chamber was a huge affair, like the legislative body itself.  The seating was arranged in an oval pattern, along the east, south, and west, from a central floor area moving up a step each level.  This provided an un-obstructed view of the leadership, or any on the floor.  Each row was a long table with seats all around, broken up with three aisles down the center, and an additional aisle on each end. 

Generally, attending nobles sat in the front, followed by city representatives, then town representatives, then village representatives to the back. 

The Order was seated to the north, on a raised platform, devices of office hanging behind. 

A bell was rung three times, bringing the members to their seats.  The Order, those who stood as the overseers of this assemblage’s activities, proceeded into the chamber.  As they took their seats, the Herald rang the bell twice more, then intoned in his loud, booming voice, “Common to Order!  Common to Order!  Pray attend the Speaker, Erlonn Broyva, Representative of Anduin!”

Erlonn Broyva, attired in his robe of office, entered the main chamber alone, to the light applause of many representatives.  He ascended the short stairs to the raised dais, giving a wave to the assembly when he reached his chair.  He gestured to the Herald, and took his seat.

“The Speaker wishes attendance slated!” intoned the Herald.

The Chronicler, Baroness Beviara Kurmann, arose, holding up a scroll.  “Those seated in Chambers on this day numbers one-hundred thirteen gentles, my Lord Speaker.”

Erlonn Broyva nodded his head to her, and Baroness Beviara sat.  He again gestured to the Herald.

“The Speaker wishes the minutes of the last seating read!” he intoned.

Lord Umar Norick arose, and took up a scroll from the Chronicler.  This was the duty of the Underchronicler at meetings. 

Erlonn Broyva hardly paid attention, nearly done with the formalities of the proceedings.  It was almost time.  He looked out, and noted the addition of two young nobles up front, as well as a woman claiming to represent the village of Wolnav near the back of the chamber.  Everything was nearly in place.

Lord Umar set down the scroll, looking to the Speaker.  “That is all, my Lord Speaker,” he said formally.

Erlonn Broyva glanced in his direction, and he sat.  It was rare for the Speaker, or for that matter any on the Order, to not be of noble birth, save one office.  But for some reason, Erlonn Broyva had won an uncanny unanimous vote.  And no one, it was said, ever seemed to find they had anything unpleasant to say about him.

The title of Speaker carried little weight and almost no power, but did grant him authority over nobility, at least in Common.  Not that that meant much, if anything, to the peerages.

Erlonn Broyva arose, ready to play his part.  He looked to the Herald. 

The office of Herald was the exception, having almost always been held by a commoner.  Garen Val-Sharron had a huge voice, and had now served in his place for nearly twenty years.  Representing the Town of Dorkun, he was respected by nobles and representatives alike. 

Garen Val-Sharron had spent his youth as a drill sergeant for the Royal Guardsmen, retiring after losing a leg during the first battle lead by young King Varlock-Sharron, following the assassination of his father.  Garen returned to Dorkun after his service, and found himself faced with a town overrun by outlaws and bandits.  Taking matters into his own hands, he re-formed the constabulary, and set out to clean up his home.  Soon, he was elected to be Constable, and was eventually elected to serve on Common.  He was always re-elected, and with his powerful voice, no one challenged his right to hold the office of Herald either. 

“The Speaker wishes to address the Common!” he declaimed formally, his voice resonating off the back wall and tall, domed ceiling.

Taking a deep breath, Erlonn Broyva could not help but smell the musty aroma of the ancient stone.  Would his actions today leave an impact as lasting as the historic structure these meetings took place in?

Letting the breath out, he accepted the place his King had asked him to take.  He did not care for his personal gain, Erlonn Broyva cared for the greater good of his homeland. 

His head was clear, so he began.  “Representatives, Nobles, good gentles all.  I wish to address Common before we proceed with old business.  It has come to my attention, recently, that many of you have voiced questions and concerns with regards to the Falcon Raiders, and their affiliation with Princess Lyrra-Sharron of the House of Anduin.”

A light rumble of voices ran through those assembled, then subsided.  Erlonn Broyva continued.

“I think it fair to state that we all have questions about the wherefore, why, and all other reasons behind these Falcon Raiders, and their intentions towards the people of Sharron.  It has come to my attention as well that some among you may have contact with these Falcon Raiders, or their associates.”

An even louder rumble ran through the chamber, but also subsided fairly quickly. 

“I am not concerned with such trivial matters.  I am, however, concerned about something that threatens the safety and stability of the people of the Kingdom of Sharron.  As will be addressed in new business later this afternoon, we have a situation mounting on the border with Medaelia.  Rumor, however, carries more weight than truth, and to prevent further difficulty, I feel we simply must address this matter in the most expedient manner possible.”

They hung on his words.  Not normally an eloquent speaker, Erlonn Broyva was proud of this speech he had created to set this in motion.  “Therefore, free from persecution, I call Princess Lyrra-Sharron of the House of Anduin to stand before this body.  I call Princess Lyrra-Sharron to address the people, and state her claims in plain language, to explain to us all the meaning of her rebellion against the Crown of Sharron, and the intentions of these Falcon Raiders.  We wish to hear her out, so we may decide if her grievances towards the crown are just!”

The last was stated over an ever-growing roar from the legislature.  All order was disrupted, and soon shouting and loud voices echoed throughout the Chamber.  The Herald arose, and Geran Val-Sharron rang the bell a half dozen times, before booming out “SILENCE!  The Chamber will come to order, and pay heed to the Speaker!”

That got their attention.  Erlonn Broyva inclined his head towards the Herald, before he looked to the assembly and continued.

“We wish to hear her out, so we may decide if her grievances towards the crown are just,” he repeated in the even tone he had begun with.  “Those of you who can, must see to it word of this reaches the ears of the Princess of Sharron.”

Again the roar went up, growing steadily louder, until the bell was rung three more times by the Herald.  Shortly after this, it died down, and Erlonn Broyva gestured once more to Geran Val-Sharron.

“The Speaker has said his peace!  This matter is concluded.  The Speaker calls on the Underspeaker to begin old business with the Common!”

The Underspeaker, Lord Tamon Vertrun, arose, and called for continuation of old business from the prior meeting.  Erlonn Broyva half tuned his deputy out, considering what he had begun.

Word was sure to reach Lyrra-Sharron within days.  He had the information to turn the Common against the Princess and her Falcon Raiders, but he had never-the-less set in motion a plan that would bring about the demise of the heir to the throne.  Erlonn Broyva hoped that somehow, things would turn out alright. 

He also fervently hoped he would soon be able to return home to his wife.  He found he missed her now more than ever before.

Chapter 21

General Sopirr was growing increasingly concerned, and it was likely obvious to everyone who came in contact with him.

He was sitting at his desk at Vanntir, pouring over numerous reports from spies and scouts.  They told him little, aside from the lack of knowledge on the location, and thus the numbers, of most of the Medaelian troops.

Frustrated, the General stood, leaning upon his knuckles, planted firmly against the desk.  Soldiers were moving all across Medaelia, heading to a point in the south.  There were rolling prairies all about that point, and reports indicated deep trenches dug in, hiding the numbers being moved there.  No one could get a good count.  There could be hundreds already in place.  There could possibly be thousands ready to strike.

Sharron’s regular army consisted of nearly sixty thousand soldiers, with an additional fifteen thousand reservists available as needed.  The armies of both Medaelia and Cordianlott were each half the size of Sharron’s.  Medaelia, however, had more reservists, leaving them an army of nearly fifty thousand.  With the expected forces from Lirdarra, the three combined armies arrayed against Sharron could have a numerical superiority.

Right now, even with reserves being called up, General Sopirr had only fifty-thousand soldiers available.  Another twenty thousand were still scouring the nation in search of the Falcon Raiders, or performing other necessary duties they could not be pulled away from. 

Estimates put Falcon Raider forces at anywhere from two-hundred fifty to a thousand total.  Well hidden, more or less impossible to find.

General Sopirr had worked with his staff this morning, positioning troops.  Most were still just outside the Vann Region proper, his and General Bodrir’s means of hiding their own numbers, ready to march to the border within hours. 

There was no telling, however, where an attack would come.  If enemy forces divided, deploying the proper numbers to meet them could be a logistical nightmare, in which case it was possible there may be no stopping them until they were well within the borders of Sharron. 

Concerned only began to describe General Sopirr’s position.  He was faced with nothing certain at all, and had to plan for too many contingencies for comfort.

A soldier entered his office, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

General Sopirr looked up at him.  “Yes, Private?”

The man had clearly read his mood.  “General, Sir!  A large platoon is riding here now, sir!  Sergeant Alseer is at the head, sir!”

“Very good, Private.  Dismissed.”

“Sir!  Thank you, sir!”  The soldier saluted, and marched smartly from the office.

General Sopirr grabbed his sword, strapping it to his back.  This was the second time he had used the young sergeant as a courier.  He had proven himself to be quite competent, and completely trustworthy.  The General walked out to the courtyard.

The gates were open, and the platoon, now twice the size of the one that had gone out, rode in.  They reigned in their horses, and swung down off their mounts.  Sergeant Alseer handed off his reigns, and approached the General, saluting.

“Sergeant Rivv Alseer reporting, Sir!” 

General Sopirr returned the salute.  “Sergeant.  Hard ride?”

“No sir.  But we were ordered to move fast!”

“Good.  Follow me.”  The General turned, and led the Sergeant into his office.

General Sopirr walked to a small table, and poured water from a pitcher into a pair of goblets, handing one to the young sergeant.  Sergeant Alseer inclined his head in thanks.

“What news?”  General Sopirr ordered.

“I have multiple messages from General Bodrir, sir,” replied the Sergeant.  “These are sealed...and have remained so.”

The General took the scrolls offered to him, and broke the seals. 

As Sergeant Alseer sat, General Sopirr absently began to read the scrolls, slowly taking a seat behind his desk.  When he was done, he set them down.  At least they had a decent idea as to when to expect the strike. 

“Any other messages?” he asked.

“Verbal ones, sir,” responded Sgt. Alseer.  “General Bodrir spoke to me personally again.  He is planning to march here himself within a week or so.  He says you’ll understand the timing with the information he sent you in the scrolls.  He then said you should continue with your original plan, defensive posture.  Re-enforcements are on their way, a few days behind me.”

“Good,” replied the General.  “You’ve done well again.  Anything else?”

“No sir,” he replied.

“Very well.  Please send for Colonel Pirvarn, and see to your platoon.  Prepare to be moved to the front lines.  I may need your special talents again very soon, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Sergeant Alseer left, and the General again re-read the scrolls.  When he was done, he burned them.  Secrecy was an important thing with an operation of this magnitude underway.

A knock at his door received an immediate response.  “Yes?”

Near in age to General Sopirr, Colonel Von Pirvarn had served on his staff since he’d been made deputy commander of the whole of the Sharron Army.  Colonel Pirvarn was a simple man, with short blonde hair and a well-trimmed beard.  His left arm hung at his side, useless, crushed during a battle long ago.  One of the few General Sopirr trusted implicitly.

“Von, come in.  Have a seat.  Pour yourself some wine, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Portav,” he replied.  Only in private did they speak with one another so.  They’d been friends for nearly twenty years now.

General Sopirr informed his aide of the newly-discovered threat from the Lirdarrans, the expected timing of the Medealian attack, in addition to a few other items taken from General Bodrir’s latest communiqué.

“We’ve got reinforcements coming,” he concluded.  “The Gara-Sharron garrison is being cleared, the Guardsmen are taking over a lot of our people’s positions there.  Also, General Bodrir liked my idea, and is advancing and graduating the current class at both the Military Academy and the basic training camps.  That should up our numbers well, and we’ll mix these green soldiers and officers in with more experienced units.”

“That should give us another, what, couple thousand?” Colonel Pirvarn asked.

“Aye.  We should have about sixty-thousand all told within a week,” commented General Sopirr.  “We can start to shift our positions rather swiftly, to meet incoming threats.  Wilnar-Medira will most likely have Grom-Valock focus their army into a single press.  How well we’ll be able to meet this is anyone’s guess.” 

Colonel Pirvarn stroked at his beard thoughtfully.  “We’ve patrols all up and down the border, so they’ll not cross unnoticed.  We’ll be ready to face them.”

General Sopirr grunted.  “Understrength, unfortunately.  It’s gonna be bloody.  There’s more...”

“Always is,” interrupted Colonel Pirvarn.

General Sopirr smirked wryly at that.  “Aye.  The Falcon Raiders.  General Bodrir expects to ensnare them inside of a month, well before the Medaelians likely commit to the attack.  Soon as they’re finished off, the rest of our forces get their orders to march here.  If Malov’s plan works, we can hope they aren’t too late.”

“The Lirdarrans?”

“Should be in place in about nine days.  Maybe less.  Reports out of Medaelia are more and more sketchy.  Heightened security.”

Colonel Pirvarn scratched at his cheek.  “Of course.  Be that as it may, what are we planning on?  What do you expect this massed force to do?”

General Sopirr stood, and walked over to the map.  “We’re certain they’re mostly gathering here,” touching the point where the River Mendanaria forked, northeast and northwest.  “Reports, however, indicate another possible presence here,” he marked the point where the Mendanaria touched the southernmost tip of the Vann Region.  “So we have a sense that the attack will likely come somewhere near the middle, around here.”  The General pointed out the spot.  “We are also considering the possibility that they may converge their forces, and march from southwest of Penlorka.”

“Awful close to Vantirr and Vantu, though,” remarked Colonel Pirvarn, rising and joining the General at the map.

“I agree.  They’re much less likely to hit a fortified garrison.  However, it’s possible they’re looking to overrun Vantir, to give them something tangible.”

“A tangible goal?” asked Colonel Pirvarn.  “I can understand the logic, but why give us the advantage of fortifications to defend?”

“Exactly,” commented General Sopirr offhandedly.  “Which is why we expect the attack on open ground.  We’re on the defensive, and they have the advantage.  We don’t know the size or exact location of their forces, and I’m not gonna waste needed platoons to find out.”

“Should we set traps at the river, then?” asked the Colonel.

General Sopirr shook his head.  “No.  Don’t want to waste the time or resources.  We wait.  Much good might it do us.” the General snorted, and turned to the Colonel.  “Look, Von, I don’t like this.  I doubt very much we’ll have everything in place when they attack.  We will need to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Colonel Pirvarn nodded his head in agreement.  “Likely so.  You want the rest of the staff?”

“No,” stated General Sopirr firmly.  “This is for you, alone.  We...can’t be certain of the Falcon Raiders, and their contacts.  We’ll call them in in a day or two, when we’ve a bit more to tell them.  For now, we count and arrange what we’ve got, and prepare.”

“Very well, then.  Anything else?”

Sir Portav let out a frustrated sigh.  “No, thanks.  I’m riding out to inspect our people tomorrow morning.  You’ll have command of the Garrison til I return.”

“Very well, sir.  And if I may say so, get some rest.  You’re gonna want to be as clear as…”

“Possible, yes,” General Sopirr interrupted.  “Thanks, Von.  I’ll see you at supper.”

The Colonel saluted, and left.

General Sopirr turned back to the map.  The border with Medaelia was long, and the river was both shallow and narrow at many points.  The attack could come from nearly anywhere.  But the Sharron Army would be there, to meet whatever forces tried to invade their homeland, and they’d fight as hard as ever they had. 

*****

              Prison, he noted, was certainly not a comfortable place to be.

An important lesson he had learned, a little late.  Never volunteer.  If the situation weren’t moving from bad to worse, Graff Vir-Sharron would have laughed at the thought.

The cell was dim, and fairly odorous.  The guards did not speak to him, and he was unsure of the time.  Daylight, he knew.  He shook his head, and sat, done pacing again.

Graff Vir-Sharron was twenty-one, brown hair and eyes, average height at five foot ten, thin build.  He was the son of a lesser noble family, his father being a Magistrate in one of the districts of Gara-Sharron.  He had chosen, like his father, to seek out a life of public service, at the conclusion of his grammar schooling.

Graff had been working for the last few years in the office of Sir Garvol Dorran, as an analyst, alongside Marna Forkuln.  When she had been made Foreign Minister, she’d asked him to come over as a part of the ministry.  A promotion, of course.  He’d considered interning in the Foreign Ministry originally, but had been despondent over the situation he found there.  Sir Garvol had asked him to join his team, so he had. 

Lady Marna, a long time friend, classmate, and, after a large party and many drinks, ex-lover, had asked for volunteers for a dangerous mission to Medaelia.  He had accepted, and, alone, had been sent representing Sharron as Ambassador to Medaelia.  He would certainly not have chosen to be in such a predicament.  But he knew the dangers involved, and the possible rewards, so he’d gone. 

With a white flag, and many official papers, he’d made his way into an audience with King Wilnar-Medira.  The King had listened, and, after hearing what Graff had been sent to say, had responded by sparing his life, and tossing him into the dungeon.

So here he was, certain that several days had passed, waiting for a fate that was completely undeterminable.  He’d known the risks, and since his life had been going nowhere at the time, he’d taken the challenge.  It would have been quite the career boost to have helped bring about a diplomatic solution to the current situation.  Besides, if he went home looking suitably heroic, perhaps Lady Marna would grant him her favor again.

He sighed softly to himself.  The guards were talking quietly, then one left, closing the heavy door behind him.  Graff was the only prisoner in the dungeon at the moment, so they normally had only one guard.  He realized it must’ve been the changing of the shift again.

He thought about it more thoroughly, and realized how many times that had happened.  Doing some quick math, Graff realized he’d only been here a couple days, three at most. 

The Medaelians were showing him no diplomatic courtesy, that was certain.

An attractive woman came into the dungeon.  She wore white, with the sigil of Medaelia above her left breast.  Blonde, slender build, a servant of the palace.  She glanced at Graff as she passed his cell, then spoke to the guard.  Graff could not hear more than rumblings, one low pitched, the other higher.  A few minutes later, a brief silence.  He heard them moving, heard them go into the cell next to him.  Moments later, the noises of a couple in the throes of passion reached him.