Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (34 page)

“I see,” responded Neva.

“Just how serious is the dispute between Sharron and Medaelia?” asked Torman.

Nadav gave a shrug of his shoulders.  “That’s the trouble.  We are not completely sure of what is going on.  Baron Tilroan claims the King is blowing this out of proportion.  But I’m not so sure.  We all expressed some...concern, over the situation.”

              “What does Lyrra-Sharron intend to do about it?” asked Torman.

Nadav shook his head.  “Nothing.  We march to Tarmollo, regroup the entire force of the Falcon Raiders, then Baron Tilroan and two other Barons, Foltupp and Dovan, meet us with their household guards.”

“They’re joining us?” questioned Torman with a clear tone of disbelief.

“Supposedly,” replied Nadav.  “They think the King has overstepped his bounds with this Invocation.  They will go with Lyrra-Sharron before the Common, and show support of her to them.”

“She could win support of Common with three Barons behind her,” commented Torman.

“It seems like that,” stated Nadav with some skepticism.  “But I’m worried, Torman.  We, that is myself, Dak and Cam, proposed that we wait, get a clear picture of this border dispute, before we act.  But she wants to move, right now.”

Torman poured water for himself, then filled the goblet for Neva, which he handed to her, before taking a drink from his own.  “She won’t wait?”

Nadav shook his head.  “No.”

“What are you worried about, Nadav?” asked Torman gently.

“Look, I know you were not happy when Lyrra-Sharron and Dak went to Gara-Sharron, and left me in charge, over you.  I know that you may think me too young and inexperienced.  But I know my history.  If she claims the Crown now, and there’s a very real threat of invasion from the Medaelians, she could be starting something...well, dangerous.  To us.  To herself.  To Sharron.”

“Why do you follow her, Nadav?” questioned Torman quietly.

“I believe in her,” replied Nadav simply.  “She is my rapier master, has been a mentor to me, even though we are quite close in age.  I heard her story...I’ve seen her with the King,” he shook his head.  “It all comes down to the one issue.  I believe in her.  That’s why I follow her.”

“Yes, that would be my reason, as well.”  Torman looked closely at Nadav.  “You are right, Nadav.  I have harbored some resentment towards you because of Lyrra-Sharron’s choice.  But now I understand why.  It will take us a day and a half to reach Tarmollo from here.  Perhaps once we arrive, we can talk with her again, see if we can change her mind.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Nadav.

Torman walked over, offered his hand.  “You’re a good man, Nadav Rivarr.  I’m proud to fight this battle at your side.”

Nadav took his hand.  “Thank you, Torman ApCrill.”

“Let us hope none of us comes to regret that choice, either,” commented Neva.

In only a couple hours, Torman had his group ready.  They began to march out of the valley towards Tarmollo.  In a day and a half, all the Falcon Raiders and their allies would be gathered there, to conclude what they had started.

*****

              King Aldo Wilnar-Medira was standing behind his desk in his study, looking at a large map on the wall.  He was looking at the border shared with Sharron, picturing where his troops were placed, and what they were preparing to do.

Wilnar-Medira had never been to war himself.  He had Generals to order his armies, and he knew his own understanding of military strategy was limited.  His father had done little during his tenure to enlarge Medaelia, not even taking real advantage of the chaos the assassination of Varlock-Sharron’s father had produced.

He was the strongest King of Medaelia in generations.  He was the first to expand the borders, never understanding nor caring about the reasons for the long standing ‘protection’ of Anaria.  His name would be remembered…Aldo Wilnar-Medira would not be a mere footnote to history, like those who’d come before him.

A loud knock on his door, and he turned.  “Enter!” he called.

His skin was dark, his eyebrows were bushy and full, and over-long.  He wore a mustache, but no beard.  A mysterious man, son of the former ambassador from Anaria, Count Tamno Vular-Murtona had betrayed his own father to Wilnar-Medira, before the man could warn his government of the impending invasion.  They’d been close ever since.  Even in light of his continued failure to place a decent spy inside the palace of Varlock-Sharron, the man was an excellent spy chief, and had served in that capacity for nearly fifteen years.

“What was so urgent that you demanded to see me?” questioned Wilnar-Medira with obvious annoyance. 

Vular-Murtona grinned.  “Information has reached me.  A line I had baited a while ago has finally been pulled.”

“Which?” questioned the King.

“A certain Sharronian of noble blood.  It took a while for the news to reach me, but this bodes well for us.”

“How so?”

“The laughable Sharron Common has called the Princess to account.  He marches at her side.  He claims he supports her, but in the end, he will speak out against both her and King Varlock-Sharron.  The ensuing chaos should weaken the position of Varlock-Sharron enough to make our retaking of the Vann Region simple.”

“You are certain you have him well and truly ensnared?” question Wilnar-Medira.

“I am,” replied the Count.  “I have made arrangements for him to be well paid, arrangements I’ve no doubt you shall agree to, Majesty.”

“Perfect,” stated Wilnar-Medira with a smirk.  “Well done, Tamno.  Well done.  It goes far better than I’d planned.  It is only a matter of time, now, until Sharron pays for the continued insults it places upon Medaelia.”

Vular-Murtona bowed his head.  “Indeed, your Majesty, indeed.”

Wilnar-Medira turned back to his map.  To rule Medaelia and Sharron as one nation.  History would never forget the name Wilnar-Medira, nor Medaelia, ever again.

*****

The afternoon was wearing out, and the darkness of night would soon descend.  Lyrra-Sharron, flanked by Andim and Kallan, returned to the abandoned village of Tarmollo.  It was still not a pleasant place. 

Andim wore a look of indifference.  Kallan kept glancing nervously about.

A bird called out in the distance, lonely, hollow.  Kallan nearly jumped from his saddle.

“What did I tell you about Tarmollo the last time, Kallan?” queried Lyrra-Sharron with obvious annoyance.

The boy started, looked at her, and shook his head.  “I know, Highness, I know.  This place is just so…eerie.”

Lyrra-Sharron snorted.  As she looked about, though, she understood where that would arise from.  The descending sun cast some elongated, almost frightening shadows.

“Could I make a suggestion?” asked Andim carefully.

Lyrra-Sharron turned to the grizzled veteran.  It was indeed unusual for him to speak up, for rarely did he have something he felt of enough import to share.  She gestured an affirmative to him.

“The Sharron Army has likely swept through this area already.  And Torman made it clear that few were…comfortable, within the walls of the village.  I think it better if we use the clearing down the road, the staging area we Guardsmen used when we besieged the village?”

“The walls are easily defensible,” remarked Lyrra-Sharron.

“That they are,” agreed the veteran soldier.  “But with the make-up of our forces, I think we stand a better chance in the open.  Besides,” he took on a lopsided grin, directed at Kallan.  “Falcon Raiders without sleep tend to fight poorly.  If this place makes so many of our people uncomfortable, sound reason or no, why bother?”

She had not expected to find this man really putting up an argument.  But she trusted his judgment, knowing he was a sensible man. 

“You have a point, Andim.  Very well.  We ride back, and set up camp in this clearing of yours.”

He nodded his head to her respectfully, and the three turned, and rode back out of the village.

Lyrra-Sharron was loathe to admit a certain sense of relief that had come over her once they were clear of the village gate.  She did not believe in evil spirits.

“What was it like, Andim?” asked Kallan conversationally.

“What was what like, lad?” remarked Andim with a question of his own.

“Besieging a village.  Even if it was only to prevent spread of plague?”

“That was long ago, son,” remarked Andim.

“But what was it like?” pressed Kallan.

Lyrra-Sharron remained silent, but admitted to herself she would like to know.

Andim sighed.  “It was awful.  But we had to do it, son.  There was no choice.  Kill a few, save many, many more.  But the smell, and the screams of the dying and the condemned are the most awful memories…you would not wish to have them.  But we stopped the plague here.  Had it spread, half the continent could have been wiped out, as nearly happened fifty years after Pallantir’s death.”

“So you just left after you burned the village?” asked Kallan.

Andim shook his head.  “No, lad.  We remained here a month later, making certain as there were no survivors.  There was also the possibility that some among us were infected.  We were quarantined here.  Since none died or took ill of plague, we returned to Gara-Sharron.”

“I never saw any action as a Guardsman,” commented Kallan absently. 

“As I recall, son, you weren’t one long,” remarked Andim.

Kallan took on an irritated look.  “No, barely out of training.  Damn that Gramm Dornam!”

“Who?” asked Lyrra-Sharron, joining the conversation.

“Gramm Dornam.  My sergeant.” Kallan shook his head angrily.  “He stole coin and other possessions from the Guardsman in my barracks, a little at a time.  Our Lieutenant ordered a search of all in the barracks, and he planted some of what he’d taken on me!”

“The sergeant was stealing?” asked Lyrra-Sharron.

“For years!  Every few years, he’d take from the latest group of green soldiers, and each time someone like me would take the fall,” he cursed.  “He didn’t like me, knew my father, had been disciplined for insubordination by him long ago.”

“Why did you not make a case against him?” asked Lyrra-Sharron.

“He’s a damn veteran, and a war hero!” exclaimed Kallan.  “Arrow-proof.  No one could touch him.  The officers turn a blind eye ‘cause he’s such a good instructor.  Many seem to owe him some kind of debt.”

“What did they do to you?” she asked softly.

“Booted me from the Guardsmen,” he responded sourly.  “The officers didn’t feel right imprisoning me, what with my father being who he is and respected and all, so I was kicked out.  The Army certainly wouldn’t have me after that.”

“I am sorry, Kallan,” remarked Lyrra-Sharron.  “When I am made Queen, perhaps I will set things to rights.”

Kallan glanced to her, his tone of resentment fading.  “Perhaps, your Highness.  Perhaps.”

They reached the rest of the Falcon Raiders, and Lyrra-Sharron addressed them.

“We will not go into the village.  Just off the road is a large clearing the Guardsmen used as a staging area during the siege of Tarmollo.  We shall set up the pavilion, and the rest of our camp there.  Our other two groups should be joining us in a the next few days.”

There were mutterings amongst the Falcon Raiders at that.  They fell silent again as she raised her hands.

We will follow Andim to the clearing.  I want volunteers to post as guards here, and we shall set up others soon after that.”

A few Raiders raised their hands, and Lyrra-Sharron chose three to act as guards.

“You will be relieved in a few hours, once we get set-up.  Alright, move out!”

They followed Andim into the woods to a very large clearing off a small, clean stream.  No wonder they’d used this for a staging area so many years ago.

              Lyrra-Sharron lent a hand all around, as tents were erected, and fires started for the preparation of meals.  The direct route here had been quick, and they had at least a day or two until the others could join them.

              Lyrra-Sharron was still concerned somewhat with the whereabouts of the Sorcerer, Cam Murtallan.  She hoped perhaps he’d meet her here.  There was something she found comforting about his presence.  She wanted him with her when she went to Common.  She could still use him.

Dak had not been happy to be with the other group, preferring to stay at Lyrra-Sharron’s side, but someone had to lead them.  Nadav would be on his way with Torman soon.  They would all converge, and be ready to march to Mintarn, before the week was out.

Several hours after sunset, Varlock-Sharron was in his study, going over reports from the border, statistics on treasury expenditures from Lady Ara, and various other notes meant for the King to see.  Tedious, but necessary business.  There was a knock on the door, and Varlock-Sharron set down the scroll he’d been examining.

“Enter.”

Sir Garvol had a scowl upon his face.  “Your Majesty, we have a problem.”

“This is nothing new.  What this time?”

The Warlord placed a scroll upon the King’s desk.  “Word has reached me of the utmost import.  We’re going to have more trouble with certain Barons than we’d anticipated.”
              The King eyed Sir Garvol a moment, then took up the scroll.  He read it once, then again, and looked to Sir Garvol. 

“This must be some kind of mistake,” stated the King gloomily.

Sir Garvol shook his head.  “I wish it were so, Majesty.  Baron Tilroan has led Foltupp and Dovan to the Falcon Raiders.  I have spies in the households of the latter duo.”

“They not only defy an Invocation of Royal Commission, they take those soldiers and join my daughter’s rebellion?”

“You have always known that Tilroan has sort of commanded his own court,” commented Sir Garvol.  “He has persuaded them that supporting her is their best course of action.”

“So I lost several hundred needed soldiers, and my daughter gains powerful allies.”  Varlock-Sharron noted the pained look on his Warlord’s face.  “What is it, Garvol?  I know that look…what more have you found?”

“Sorry, your Majesty.  What’s even worse is this other information I uncovered.”

              Sir Garvol took another scroll from a large pouch he carried at his side.  He presented it to the King, who promptly unrolled it to read. 

Varlock-Sharron examined the scroll three times.  Sadly, slowly, he set it down, shaking his head.  “I cannot believe this.”

“It’s true, my liege,” reported Sir Garvol.  “This information came to me from my best spy in Medaelia.  It was returned by young Graff Vir-Sharron, who barely made it home alive a few hours ago.  They baited a while back, but he never bit.  Until now.”

The King let out an exasperated breath.  “Noble blood of Sharron working for the Medaelians.  I cannot believe he would sell out his Kingdom like this!”

Sir Garvol shrugged.  “Desperation, perhaps?  Promises of greater power from Wilnar-Medira than ever he would find with you?  And as a part of the Falcon Raiders, he can do the most harm to the nation.”

“Find them,” stated the King sharply.  “Find the Falcon Raiders.  This has to end.  I cannot let them reach Common, now more than ever.  Sir Garvol, get Sir Tulock.  Assemble two more companies of soldiers, I do not care how they are mixed and matched.  Get them to Mintarn.”

“It will not be that easy, Majesty,” commented Sir Garvol pointedly.

“No, it will not.  We have very few Sharron Army soldiers not already en route to the border.  But if the Falcon Raiders make it to Common, the kingdom will be torn apart.  Lyrra-Sharron will never suspect him of this treachery.  She must be stopped.”

Sir Garvol bowed, and quickly walked from the room.

The King stood, and went to the table against the wall to his left.  He poured himself a goblet of wine from a pitcher there.  He set the decanter down, drank from the cup.  When he set it down, too, his fist shook.  He cried out, and swept the items from the table to the floor angrily, the pewter clattering loudly against the marble.

Varlock-Sharron placed his fists upon the table, catching his breath, releasing his anger.  It was all falling apart, and his options were fewer and fewer.

Another knock on the door brought his head up. 

“Yes, what is it now?”

Sir Tulock entered.  He carried something covered in a half cloak.  He gestured respectfully to the King. 

“Your Majesty,” Tulock intoned.  He glanced towards the mess on the floor, but said nothing of it, returning his gaze to his King.

“Did Sir Garvol find you?”

Tulock shook his head.  “No, your Majesty.  Why?”

The King walked back to his desk, sat down.  “We have another problem with the Falcon Raiders.  We need to alter our plans for them.  I sent him to find you, to arrange this.”

“Understood,” replied Tulock.  “However, my reason for coming now has to do with the Falcon Raiders.”

Tulock approached the King’s desk, and the covered item.

“The guards at the Palace gate found a man ringing the bell to gain admission.  He told them he was a representative of the Falcon Raiders, and that he must see you, and only you, immediately.  He was admitted, and presented the guards this, saying you would know its’ origin.”

The King took what Tulock presented him, and uncovered it.  A fine work of craftsmanship he recognized immediately. 

“Show him in, Tulock,” commanded the King quietly. Tulock stepped out of the study.

Varlock-Sharron examined the object, and found a mix of emotions coming to the surface.  His thoughts drifted to a number of moments from the past.

He was brought out of the reverie by a sensation he had not felt in a very long time.  It tickled the back of Varlock-Sharron’s memory.  It felt like something familiar, almost like there was someone else inside his head, at the base of his skull.  He shook his head, and ignored it. 

Tulock reentered the study.  Behind him, a pair of Guardsmen escorted a cloaked and hooded man between them.  He was about average height, but any description beyond that was impossible, the hood hiding his face.

“He is unarmed, sire,” stated one of the guards.  “He yielded his weapons to us on his arrival, and bore no others when searched.  He would speak not to us, saying his words were only for the ears of the King.”

“Very well, then.  You are both dismissed.”

They saluted, and left.

“Welcome to Gara-Sharron,” the King said.  He held the object up.  “I do indeed know this.  How did it come into your possession?”

The man shook his head, and pointed to Sir Tulock.

“This is my Seneschal, Sir Tulock Oran.  What you say can be heard by him as well.”

The hooded man adamantly shook his head again, crossing his arms.

Varlock-Sharron looked at Tulock, who glanced back, and shrugged.

“Very well, then.  Wait outside, Sir Tulock.  If I need you, I shall call.”

“Understood, your Majesty,” stated Tulock.  With a salute, fist to heart, he departed from the study, closing the doors behind him.

“Alright, then, friend.  It is just you and I.  What is it that you can share only with me?”

The hooded man reached up, and pulled back the hood of his cloak.

Varlock-Sharron hissed in surprise, leaning back in his seat.  “You!”

“We need to talk, your Majesty,” stated Cam Murtallan evenly, without preamble.

*****

A great deal of thought had gone into Cam’s decision.  He weighed all of his options, considered all that he had learned, and again and again returned to the same conclusion.

There could be only one way to save Lyrra-Sharron, the Falcon Raiders, and the Kingdom.  Only one man held the key to this.  Summoning all the courage he had ever known, Cam rode to Gara-Sharron.

Cloaked and hooded, no Guardsmen at the gate he entered had paid him the slightest attention.  Moving at a steady, unhurried pace through the city, Cam noted the tension, and held onto a calm similar to that he used in meditation.

He reached the palace unhindered, and stood a while before its gate.  Centering himself as best he could, Cam reached for the bell-pull to the right of the sealed entrance, and rang.

A slit at eye level slid open.

“State your business,” Cam was crisply ordered.

“I need to see the King immediately.  I have urgent information for his eyes only.”

“The King does not just see anyone, my lord.  Why would he see you?”

“I have information about the Falcon Raiders, as I have lived among them for some time.”

“Do you have any proof of this claim?”

Cam had pondered how he would do this, and took up the rapier, sheathed, showing it to the guard.

“Show his Majesty this.  He will know where I got it from.  I don’t doubt he will wish to see me then.  But I will speak to no other but the King.”

The slit slammed closed, and Cam waited.  He presumed his request was being passed along the chain of command.  After a few moments, the gate slid up, and a pair of Guardsmen were pointing their weapons at him.  A third man, with reddish hair whom Cam had seen standing beside the King at his failed execution, waited.

“Let me take that to the King, my lord,” the man said, holding out a hand for the sheathed rapier.

The Guardsmen both raised their weapons to strike.

Slowly, pommel up, Cam handed the sheathed rapier to the man. 

Now he stood once more before the man who had sentenced him to death almost four months ago.  The future of the world was hanging on the outcome of this choice.

*****

Varlock-Sharron recovered quickly from the initial shock.  He arose, and looked at the Sorcerer before him.

“I certainly did not believe we would ever meet again,” commented the King.

“Nor I, your Majesty,” replied Cam with a hint of irony in his tone.

“Who are you?”

“I am just a Sorcerer, on a very important quest.  I have, unfortunately, found myself a bit sidetracked along my journey, from time to time.  My name is Cam Murtallan.”

“Cam Murtallan,” Varlock-Sharron repeated, the answer to a question he’d asked a season ago.  “Anarian.  That is easy enough to recognize.  Why have you come here?”

              “The course your daughter has set is putting this Kingdom at risk,” Cam pressed ahead.  “If she continues unabated, Sharron will be ripped apart.  My quest will be terminated if that happens.  Sharron will suffer if my purpose is thwarted.  The world will suffer if my purpose is thwarted.”

“What do you mean?  What quest?” asked the King.

Cam took a step closer.  “If she goes before the Common, or she is killed, Sharron will not survive.  It has to be stopped.  You are the only one who can do so.  I’ve foreseen this.  That is why I come before you now.”

“Your quest?” pressed the King without flinching.

Cam let out a breath, conceding to the demand.  “I am The Seeker of The Source.”

Varlock-Sharron paused, and slowly sat down again.  “The Seeker?  It is not just a legend?  The Source is real?”

Cam nodded his head in the affirmative to that.

Varlock-Sharron eyed him sharply.  “Why should I believe you?  Claiming to be The Seeker is audacious.  Give me one good reason why I should not carry out the sentence pronounced upon you?”

Cam was undaunted.  “Your Majesty, I know what Lyrra-Sharron plans.  That is her sword, and she gifted it to me after she trained me how to use it.”

The King examined the sword closely.  He remembered the day Sir Torin had presented this weapon to his daughter, with great pomp and ceremony.  Varlock-Sharron had been just outside the chamber when it had been done, watching with the quiet pride he felt for his talented daughter. 

He’d not thought of that moment a long time, now.  A long time indeed since any pleasant memories of his daughter had surfaced.

Cam continued.  “I come before you, at no small risk to myself, because I need to prevent an enormous tragedy.  As to the latter...if you believe you
can
kill me, feel free to try.”

Varlock-Sharron arose once more.  He remembered what the sensation at the base of skull was telling him.  “I know you lost your power!  You cannot have it back!  That is not possible!”

A look of surprise crossed momentarily over Cam’s face.  Just as fast, he recovered.  “That is a fact.  None has ever recovered before from the loss of their powers.  But it’s true.  I have.  And I’m stronger now than before.” 

Varlock-Sharron raised his eyebrows, at a loss for words.

*****

Cam began to pace, thinking back, analyzing something he sensed, then turned to Varlock-Sharron again.  “When you tortured me, you said, ‘You have lost your powers, I know.  You have nothing left.’  I never took the time to ponder what you were saying to me.  But now I see.  I can feel it.”

Cam took a step closer to the King, until he was right before his desk.  “Of course you would know.  You can feel it.  As I can feel it in you.  You have the powers of a Sorcerer.”

             
Varlock-Sharron slammed a fist upon his desk, his nostrils flaring with his outrage.  “How dare you?!  I am the King of Sharron.  I am not a Sorcerer.  How dare you make such an accusation.  I will have you destroyed for such lies.” 

Cam leaned in closer, clearly
unintimidated.  “You cannot hide the truth from me, King Varlock-Sharron.  I am a Sorcerer.  I can
feel
the power within you.  Untouched, virtually unused.  You’ve never learned how to truly apply it, but it’s there, none-the-less.  That is how you knew me to be without mine.  This is how you know I have it once more.  You can sense it.”