Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

His curiosity piqued, he studied it.  It appeared to be a ball of light, like the sun up close, but yet like nothing at all, almost indescribable.  It was nearly too bright to look upon, a sunburst of red and gold and orange, but with traces of all the other known colors flashing within.  And that pulsing.  It was so familiar, the rhythm, the timing.  Then it dawned on him. 

Of course he should know it.  It matched the beat of his heart.

He examined the incredible orb more closely.  A sort of webbing, like that of a spider, though nearly translucent, seemed to be about the globe of light, holding it in.  Had that always been there?  He reached out to it.  It gave beneath his touch.  He pushed more.  He could feel his power, he could sense it more clearly than he had in a long time, and yet he could not penetrate it.  The webbing shifted, rearranging itself.  Was that supposed to happen?  He could not remember.  He had never examined it this intensely before.

He looked closer now.  No, it was definitely wrong.  He watched as the translucent web shifted and changed, keeping the power within, just out of reach.  Why?  He tried to think it through.  He reached out, felt around it, this time gently, exploring, probing. 

If he could access this before, why not now?  Was there a way inside?

He suddenly came to an edge.  Yes, the webbing had a small edge.  He felt about it, tried to reach around it.  Not quite.  He concentrated harder, and slowly reached around the edge.  There it was!  He could make contact with it at last! 

He trembled from the intensity it brought on, emotionally, physically, psychologically.  It was only a very light touch, barely a fraction of a fraction of what he could take in before.  But he could touch it.  The sweetness and power trickled through to him, giving him renewed strength, hope, and insight, for the first time since his error upon the field.

It was in that moment that the door to his cell had been slammed open, preventing him from going any further.  But he had managed to access enough of his power to endure the King’s torture.

Since then, he had yet to be successful in connecting any further to his sorcerous strength, even after countless attempts. 

Returning to the now, he began the process once again.  He took several deep breaths, cleansed his thoughts, then slowed his breathing.  He sank within himself, seeking the inner power that had been the core of his life until just a short time ago.

There it was.  He’d reached it more quickly this time.  The webbing was still there, he knew.  But he’d again found the center of his power.  A small hole, little more than a pinprick, allowed a trickle of the vast energies to come to him.  It would be completely undetectable to any other sorcerer, and for the most part completely useless, but there none-the-less.  He shivered as he let it flow more freely into himself, accelerating up his healing some, awakening the greatest depths of his being.

Every time he arrived in this place, he tried to rip the opening wider.  He tugged, he pulled, he thrashed at it, but had never managed to widen it.  So for the last few days he’d only studied it, contemplated the power within.

It was far easier to examine when he slowed his heart, for everything shifted slightly with the pulsing beat. 

He let his mind drift, giving thought to the day he’d lost his powers.  The last action he had taken was to roll the earth.  It had required almost everything he had, the most powerful act he had ever committed with his skill in Sorcery.  He’d unhorsed an entire company of charging soldiers, rocked the earth for miles, calling upon everything he’d known.

He had felt the joy and excruciating bliss that came with the use of his power
. 
But he’d been exerting himself for too lengthy a time, and had been using the energies passively, allowing them to flow into his limbs and chest and heart, which in turn let him run far longer and faster than he should have been able to naturally. 

He’d exhausted himself beyond the limits of his endurance.  Use of the power within for Sorcery was always slightly draining, and the body needed some time, however short it may be, to rejuvenate itself. 

That had been his great mistake.  He had counted on his full power, to commit an act that required absolutely everything he had to spare.  Too late, he’d realized his error.  The Sorcerer had sunk to his knees, shaking, trying to fight the waves of exhaustion, nausea, and dizziness.  But after all he had expended, it was a fight he could not hope to win, and he’d collapsed.

Hours later, he’d regained consciousness.  He could barely move, muscles cramped and knotted, but almost immediately he’d realized he remained on the field, and it was night.  He presumed he had wounded, killed, or frightened his pursuers enough that they had not seen him lying there as they limped off the razed meadow.  He’d escaped, but very nearly destroyed himself.

Taking a deep breath, he had coughed on the dust in his throat from the tumbled earth. 

He remembered clearly that the ground was cold and hard beneath him, a musty odor emanating from the newly upturned soil.

He had tried to tap into the power inside himself, to relieve his aches, and his exhaustion.  He could not, for a time, find the center of it.  And when he finally did, he slowly realized he could not touch it. 

He had tried again, growing frantic.  It was a gift, not to be wasted, not to be lost.  But he could not feel it, though it was there before him, the vital center of his being, out of reach.  No matter what action he took, he could not touch it, could not release it.  It hovered before him, taunting him, mocking him, but it could not be used by him any longer.

Eventually, he gave up, and limped off the decimated field.  When he had reached the road, he simply followed alongside it, unaware of his surroundings, or the passage of time.  If any passed him along the way, he did not notice them, nor they, him.

Captured at a roadside tavern following another unfortunate incident, he had considered all lost, and the prospect of death a welcome comfort, especially after his torture.  But the moment he discovered that he may be able to recover his powers, his hope returned, as did his will to live.

Coming out of his reverie, he studied the webbing more closely.  It was almost as if it was protecting the power within, not really preventing him access.  Why?  What did it mean?  Why would the energy sphere need protection?  How could he penetrate it?

He examined the small hole he had opened.  It had been created with unusually meticulous concentration.  It was coming back to him now.  When he’d taken his time, and worked slowly, he’d made an opening.  Then he proceeded to tear and tug at that. 

But when he’d worked bit by bit, methodically, he’d started to get within.  When he fought it, it resisted him.  When he was patient, careful, thorough, he could gain entry.  That was the answer.  That was the key.

Patience, unfortunately, had never been his strong suit.

But he had to try.  If he did not, he would never regain his powers.  If he regained his powers, he might just find his way out of this situation, and continue along the path to his destiny.

Doing his best to slow his heart down as much as possible, he made a very careful examination of the small breach within the webbing.  It took all self control to prevent himself from trying to rip at it.  Slowly, gently, he began to probe at the fissure.  He could feel the tremendous power being held in, begging to be touched, caressed, released.  He wanted so much to become one with that power again.

Before he could stop himself, he began trying to shred it once more.  His heart sped up, complicating matters.  It took him multiple attempts, and several minutes before he was able to stop, able to slow his racing heart, and examine the orb passively again.

There was, in fact, a larger hole now.  No longer a simple pinprick, it had become the size of a very small stone.  Less than half a centimeter, he estimated.  But it was larger.

It had not increased in size when he tore at it.  As he’d suspected, it had done so when he’d probed lightly, gently. 

He tried again, this time, however, he only felt around at the opening, not allowing the minuscule flow to penetrate him.  He could see the power this way, but it would not affect him.  It was almost painful, but after a few minutes, he had clearly increased the size of the gap.  Now it was more like a whole centimeter in diameter.

He took a shuddering breath, the deepest since he’d begun the meditation, and opened his eyes.  He was shocked to find a platter of obviously cold food near the door, and darkness. 

He had worked for hours, and had only slightly increased the power flowing free of the webbing.  Still not enough to do anything useful, beyond letting him concentrate more deeply, and speed up the healing of his wounds.  He let out a sigh of disappointment and frustration. 

It would take time.  And patience.  And unfortunately for the Sorcerer, he had neither.

Chapter 5

No matter the weather, his duty was never-changing.

When he had first been chosen by his predecessor to become the Baron-Administrator, he had been deeply honored.  He was, after all, one of only fifteen in all the city. 

Years later, he still wondered if in fact the old man had been punishing him for some long-forgotten slight.

Tonight it was pouring rain. 

He walked along with a pair of constables in tow, his usual rounds.  His cloak was drawn tightly around him, to ward off the wet and slight chill.  He was starting to find inclement weather such as this more and more bothersome as he aged.

The trio reached their destination, a street corner, and the tall encased lantern there. 

The Baron-Administrator stepped up to the lantern’s post, while his constable guards kept watch, to be sure none interrupted his duty.

He shook his left wrist, let the chain fall loose, a key on its end.  He took hold of the key, and reached for the lock on the lantern post.

He turned the key in the lock, and heard it click.  Pulling at it, he heard the small compartment door squeak open, long in need of lubrication.  Something else he would have to attend to someday soon, lest it interfere with his duty.

He could nearly perform this activity with his eyes closed, now.  He reached to the holster at his right hip, and withdrew the long firestick. 

He shifted his weight, and reached the firestick into the compartment with his right hand.  He felt the trigger on its top with his thumb, and began to roll it back and forth.  In a moment, the tip ignited into a small flame.

With his left hand, he reached into the compartment.  Before him was a small circular hole and a fist-sized knob above it.  He reached the glowing firestick into the hole with his right, and with his left hand turned the knob clockwise.

As per usual, he heard the whoosh that was the sound of the flame catching, and spreading across the circuit.

He glanced up to the lamp above him, and watched as it began to glow.  He turned his head right to look down the street, and watched as each subsequent lantern ignited along the avenue, one by one.

He released the trigger of his firestick, and withdrew it from the compartment.  With a despondent squeal, he closed the small door, and turned the key until it again clicked.  He removed it from the lock, and shook his wrist to allow the chain to slide up his sleeve.

He had let his hood fall back some when he’d checked the lanterns, and reached up now to adjust it to fully cover his head and face.

The Baron-Administrator sighed audibly, and gestured to his escorting constables.  Every night he lit the lanterns, extinguishing them just as unceremoniously every morning.  He would go from street to street, until all the lamps in his district had been lit. 

This so-called ‘great honor’ became more and more burdensome as they years wore on.  Not for the first time, he debated just whom he should ‘honor’ with it next.

******

Dak guided them, his torch providing the only light in this tunnel.

The passage was dark and narrow, the mounts devoid of torches.  It was dusty, though occasionally water would drop from the ceiling, leaking from small cracks in the aqueduct above.  It smelled of disuse, mildew, mold, and damp clay; not unpleasant, but certainly not inviting, either.

Lyrra-Sharron followed close behind him.  She had draped over herself a large but non-descript brown cloak, the hood up.  She had severely tied back her curly hair.  She carried a bundle over her shoulders, where her rapier was hidden.  She was armed only with several knives, and wore a plain dress over her armor.

Next came three of her Raiders, and the two minor merchants from Gara-Sharron, who had met them at the rendezvous point.  Each was a firm supporter, having been suppliers of torches, sacks, barrels and other necessities for her bases. 

Bringing up the rear were Andim Noros and Kallan Val-Sharron.  Dak had been very adamant that she must have personal guards along, and these two were the logical choice. 

She had left one of her most loyal soldiers, Nadav Rivarr, in command.  He was rather young, a long acquaintance and son of a nobleman.  Nadav had spent a year on the road, and caught up her when he’d returned.  Thus far he had shown wisdom and experience belying his years, and she wanted to see how well he could manage in her absence.  She could always use another trusted second.

As they continued along the passage, her mind drifted some.  She recalled how they had come to be known as the Falcon Raiders. 

Lyrra-Sharron had not named them, but her original second had suggested they always leave behind a calling card.  It was a small favor with the soaring silver falcon on a black field.  It had been her late brother’s arms.

The Falcon Raiders had been making a mockery of the army all over the land, and had made enough of a name for themselves to keep every merchant and common brigand throughout the kingdom on guard.

She took a moment to think about her men.  Almost all men, she reminded herself, remembering five women in particular.  Those five had been the wives of soldiers, but were now the widows of soldiers. 

They came from all walks of life.  Sailors, merchants, ex-soldiers, criminals, peasants, even a few noblemen, like Nadav Rivarr.  They weren’t accepted into their ranks and just sent out on raids and patrols, either.  Every man and woman of the Falcon Raiders had spent time being trained in the use of multiple weapons, and hours were devoted daily for drilling and practice bouts.  They were well armed and well skilled.

Getting them to join often took very little.  Small bribes sometimes, veiled threats, the occasional indecent proposal, but most often it was the story of the simple truths she had learned.  Lyrra-Sharron had a purpose and a goal, and nothing would stop her from achieving her objective. 

Her mind returned to the passageway as Dak stopped.  Lyrra-Sharron held up her hand to halt and silence the others.  He passed her the torch, then drew a long dagger.  He slowly pushed open the service door, then stepped out.

She waited.  This always made her nervous.  Moments later, he came back in, nodding his head to affirm it was safe.

He strode out again.  She passed back the torch, then did the same.

One by one, they left the service passage, walking into a narrow alley.  Dak still had his knife drawn, and looked apprehensive.  Andim was the last to come out, leaving the torch inside.  Some light came into the alley from the windows above.  The rain continued, but was not as heavy as it had been. 

Lyrra-Sharron had not been inside the capital city of the Kingdom since she had struck out from it two years ago.  The alley stank of rotted foodstuffs and other garbage, but the rain that reached them did cleanse things somewhat. 

Everything was more or less as she remembered it.

The merchants came forward.  “Are we ready to proceed?” asked one with obvious apprehension.

She ignored his discomfort, and gave an affirmative gesture.  “Lead on, my lords.”

Kurr Vangam and Max Parcall showed the way, moving east towards the street.  They pulled their cloaks more tightly about them.  The rest followed in small clusters, close enough to not lose one another, but distant enough to not seem like a single group.

The party came to the nearest street, which was lit by tall, encased lanterns.  Small pipes ran underground in most of the city, and at night oil would be channeled through.  Each district of the city had a noble overseer, who would be sure at sunset to ignite the lanterns.  It was a very efficient way to keep the city out of the dark.

The capital was new.  Gara-Sharron had only been built two hundred years ago by King Gara-Loros Anduin.  Its predecessor, also in this place, had been invaded and demolished by the King of Medaelia. 

It had been a bloody war, and was the result of several smaller houses taking up arms against the King, which the Medaelians took advantage of.  Gara-Loros, after the burning of the capital, was finally able to convince the nobles to cease their petty war, and with their renewed support led an army into Medaelia, capturing its capital, Penkira.

A treaty eventually had been worked out, after months of negotiations.  Gara-Loros withdrew his troops, taking with him an eighth of his eastern neighbor’s territory, and the title Second Prince of Medaelia. 

He had gone on to spend the rest of his life overseeing the reconstruction of the capital, and after his death it was named for him.

Gara-Sharron was laid out more-or-less along a grid.  It was circular and walled, split by several small canals that ran throughout.  Recognizing that these canals could not be kept clean, potable water was brought into the city via aqueduct from mountains in the north and west.  Gara-Sharron was divided into fifteen districts, each overseen by a Baron-Administrator.  Order was maintained by Royal Guardsmen, Sharron Army soldiers, and an independent Constabulary. 

To the west, the circle was broken.  The municipality was on uneven terrain, and the west end backed up against the beginning of the western mountain range.  Rising above the capital itself stood the royal palace, a small city within.  Separately walled, the palace was virtually impregnable.  But then, no army had made it very far within the borders of the Kingdom of Sharron proper since the time of King Gara-Loros Anduin.

The northern district, Gara-North, was almost entirely residences.  Industry labored in the south, making armor and weapons for the military, carving stone and preparing wood for construction, turning wheat into flour, and so forth.  Merchants sold their wares all over the metropolis, but were centered around the markets in the East and Center.  The Bureaucracy, aristocracy, and courts were in the West, near the palace. 

It was only about two hours past sunset, the merchants and laborers were returning home to families and supper.  At this time of night, most guards were centered on the labor areas, where they could keep an eye on things as the various businesses were closed for the night.  In a few hours, they’d shift back here, to protect the sleeping citizens.  This was the safest time to go about the community unnoticed.

As they moved away from the outer wall, Lyrra-Sharron noticed the quality of the buildings increasing.  They were coming into a better neighborhood.  She was not really concerned, but if anyone recognized her, they would have to flee. 

The merchants paused at a street corner, and Dak signaled the others to wait.  Lyrra-Sharron moved up beside him, taking his hand.  She noted that he seemed almost to freeze up, for the briefest instant, but then was himself again.  She decided it was probably her imagination.

The merchants went first.  After counting silently to twelve, Dak and Lyrra-Sharron went forward.  Counting to seven in her head, Lyrra-Sharron could hear bootsteps as Andim and Kallan came up as well.  The others would all be separated as individuals, and a few minutes behind.

As they traveled down the street, a group of three deputy constables were at the corner, mounted.  They were chatting quietly, all with identical grey jackets and breeches.  Each had a sash across the left shoulder, two dark red and one blue, all with a silver five-pointed star, the device of the constabulary.

“This sword I began to fashion today was incredible,” Dak began as they were walking.  “This is probably going to be the finest weapon I have ever crafted.  I believe we already have a dozen buyers lined up, so the bidding should really elevate the price.”

Lyrra-Sharron nodded her head casually at Dak’s chatter, though she found it hard not to smile, as this was the most she had ever heard him speak.  As they strode a few yards away from the constables, she identified two Second-Deputies and a Gara-North District First Deputy.  They appeared to be paying no attention at all to the cloaked figures passing by, the hoods of their own dark grey cloaks pulled up. 

If they did look, all they would note was a pair of merchants quietly heading home, and following them a couple, a craftsman and his lady, talking quietly.  To the rear of them, a pair of men casually walking and joking around, probably father and son.

As they strode down several more blocks, they encountered only a couple more constables, and no soldiers or Guardsman.  Finally, Kurr and Max entered a large house with a painted sign indicated Kurr’s business before it.  Lyrra-Sharron and Dak walked around the block, then down the alley.  The door was open, and light poured out.  Checking first down one way, then the other, Dak and Lyrra-Sharron walked in.

Kurr and Max were hanging cloaks on pegs by the door, a large cooking fire roaring in the fireplace, warming the room.  This time of year, the rain was cold, and chilled the air.  Several pots hung over the fire, no doubt tea and coffee, and a small cauldron with a pleasant smelling vegetable stew.  Dak and Lyrra-Sharron removed their cloaks, placing them on the pegs.

There were several others in the room around a table, two women, the merchants’ wives, and three other men.  Their contacts in the city of Gara-Sharron.

“My lords.  Thank you,” Lyrra-Sharron said, taking the seat offered her by Kurr.  Max and Dak took seats as well, Kurr joining them.  One of the women stood, getting a pot and pouring an herbal tea for everyone.

“I shall explain everything when the others arrive.  How long till we have everyone here?”