Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (48 page)

“We’re ready, Captain,” said Nadav to her formally.

It had, actually, worked even better, and gone far smoother than expected.  “Alright.  Lieutenant Darak, wait for Torman to attack.  Take out the Guards from behind when they are diverted.    Lieutenant Nadav, Sargeant Khelvan, you have your orders, you know the plan.  We take the palace as quickly and quietly as possible.  Go!”

*****

Lieutenant Nadav led his company in towards the heart of the Palace.

“Move quietly, everyone,” he ordered just louder than a whisper.  “Any servants or palace personnel we encounter, we take.  Gag them, but do not cause them injury…they’re not likely to offer us much resistance, so we take it easy on them.”

They swept through hallways quickly, on watch for guards to avoid, capturing any in palace livery they encountered.  At one point, they ducked into a small storage room, as soldiers passed quickly, responding to some emergency.  Nadav pressed an ear to the door as they passed.

“…some sort of disturbance at the docks…” someone running past was saying.  Varnon’s group, obviously, had struck.

Continuing their sweep, Nadav and company found themselves in another open courtyard, facing a group of similarly armed men and women.

“Khelvan,” Nadav acknowledged, the surprise in his voice evident.  “I thought you were sweeping the palace for stray guards, before Torman’s attack takes the rest to the walls?”

“We are,” replied the Falcon Raider Sergeant, “but we found these barracks, and met only slight resistance.  We were about to move out again, then you arrived.”

Nadav looked around, saw that none of Khelvan’s people appeared hurt.  “We’ve still work to be done, and these prisoners are slowing us down.  Clear the weapons from the barracks, bar the windows, and let’s set up a holding cell here.”

“You heard the Lieutenant,” ordered Khelvan immediately, without question.  “Make it happen, people!”

In a matter of minutes, the weapons had been cleared out of the barracks, and the windows blocked with shields hastily nailed over them from the outside.  The servants were escorted within, gags removed, and were admonished to remain silent, lest they be dealt with harshly.  As predicted, they did not resist, accepting their fate without comment.

“We need to sweep the Palace again, I don’t believe these are all the servants,” stated Nadav.  “Khelvan, keep your people here, and on guard.  Torman should be attacking within minutes.”

“We’re on it,” he replied.

“My people, let’s move!” ordered Nadav.

They swept through the palace again, gathering anyone they encountered not in uniform.  As they marched them back to the barracks, shouts were heard, and they ducked into dark doorways as the remaining palace guards raced past, responding to attackers from outside the walls.

Once they were clear, Nadav rushed the servants to the barracks, where he found Khelvan and his people, weapons ready, on guard.

“We must have gotten all the guards that use these barracks,” Khelvan commented, some edginess in his tone.  “No one came for additional weapons.  Torman’s group is attacking, so it’s up to Darak to take care of them, now.”

“Yes, it is,” said Nadav thoughtfully.  “Any remaining servants won’t be much of a threat.  Khelvan, stay here with the rest of your people, keep on guard.  My group, with me!  We go offer Darak some assistance.”

Weapons still drawn, Nadav ran towards the outer walls, where he knew Darak would be facing the distracted guards, fighting Torman and his attack party.  This time, he had carried out his plan perfectly, without mistake or injury.  Feeling redeemed, the Falcon Raider third in command confidently shifted his mission.

*****

Lyrra-Sharron and Dak, along with four other Falcon Raiders, were heading directly for the center of the Palace, and the throne room therein.

They were quiet, and were quick.  Leather armor didn’t bang around.  Dak had out his sword, and Lyrra-Sharron carried only one of her rapiers.  They hugged the walls, shot past intersections with other passageways, ducked into alcoves to avoid anyone coming by as best they could.

They eventually came around a corner, found a pair of guards, walking.

“Who in the...” began one, startled.

He didn’t finish his sentence, because Lyrra-Sharron had plunged her rapier into his chest.

Dak had advanced, and punched the next guard with the pommel of his sword.  He went down, hard.

“Okay, we leave them and keep going,” ordered Lyrra-Sharron.

They ran on, coming to the intersection of the hallway where, according to Sir Garvol’s spies’ maps, the Medaelian King’s study was located.  They paused around the perpendicular hallway, and Lyrra-Sharron quickly whispered orders.

One of the Falcon Raiders, Dufon, walked around the corner, passing right before the double doors, and the pair of guards stationed there.

“Halt!” called one of the guards.  “Who the hell are you?”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.  Wrong corridor,” said Dufon.  He turned, and ran back the way he’d come.

One of the guards chased him, and as he rounded the bend, he ran literally into the point of Dak’s sword.  He dropped without a sound.

A few minutes passed.  “Donol?” called the other guard.  “Donol, you get him?”

The guard began to move towards them.  As he neared the bend, Lyrra-Sharron emerged, placing her sword to his throat.

“You aren’t Donol!” he choked.

“Very observant,” replied Lyrra-Sharron dryly.  “Is the King in there?”

The guard bobbed his head nervously.

Lyrra-Sharron removed her sword from the guard’s throat.  Dak came around, and brought the pommel of his sword down on the man’s head, hard.  He crumpled.

“Wilnar-Medira is in there,” stated Lyrra-Sharron.

Dak gestured towards the door. “Let’s do it.”

They walked around the corridor.  When they reached the entrance, two of the Falcon Raiders flanked it.  Lyrra-Sharron stood ready, Dak at her side.  She inclined her head at them.  The other two Falcon Raiders bashed the doors in.

She charged, ready to face Wilnar-Medira.

The study was empty.

A smaller door, behind the desk and to the left of the far wall, was open. 

“Damn.  He must have heard us coming,” said Lyrra-Sharron.

“I doubt it,” replied Dak.  “Probably wanted to get away, without his guards.”

“My father does that sometimes,” conceded Lyrra-Sharron.  “We had better follow him.”

“Halt!” came from the door.

They turned, and faced six guards.

“Could you, by some chance, tell us where his Majesty is at the moment?” asked Lyrra-Sharron deadpan.

“You are intruders!  Drop your weapons!  You are under arrest!” ordered the lead guard.

“I do not think so,” replied Lyrra-Sharron, the point of her rapier up in a threatening position.

Dufon swung his sword, and the lead guard went down.

Dak’s sword flashed, taking off a guard’s head.

Lyrra-Sharron thrust into the chest of another.

Four guards trotted past the open doors.  They came back, a stunned looked on their faces, weapons drawn.

Lyrra-Sharron felt her arm pulled, and spun to face Dak.

“The others can handle these!” exclaimed Dak.  “We need to find Wilnar-Medira.”

Lyrra-Sharron nodded her head, and followed Dak through the door at the back of the study.

They found themselves in a short, narrow passageway, and it led to a curtain.  When they got to the end, Dak tentatively pulled at it, then walked through.

The curtain was actually a tapestry, and they were in the throne room.  It appeared empty.

“Damn him, where is Wilnar-Medira?” exclaimed Lyrra-Sharron aloud, exasperated.

“Right here, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin,” came a voice from across the room, near the main double doors.  “And what
are
you doing in Penkira?”

“Greetings, to you as well, your Majesty,” said Lyrra-Sharron sweetly, turning towards the voice.

King Wilnar-Medira simply stood there, looking at her.  The annoyance evident in his glance turned to a smug grin on his face.  He crossed his arms in a disaffected gesture.  “Well, well, if it isn’t the rebellious Princess of Sharron.  This is an unexpected pleasure.  I thought you were stirring all kinds of trouble against your Father.  Have you given up whatever cause you claim to fight for, and come to join me?”

“Hardly,” she responded.  “I come before you to stake my father’s claim as Second Prince of Medaelia, and hereby order you in his name to recall your troops.”

“It’s too late for that, your Highness,” Wilnar-Medira declared proudly.  “We attacked this morning.  As good as Sharron Intelligence has always been rumored to be, Varlock-Sharron would not have been prepared to face my forces.”

Lyrra-Sharron shook her head.  “Actually, I know my father is well aware of your alliances with Cordianlott and Lirdarra.  But Sharron still has the largest standing army in the world.”

Wilnar-Medira stood his ground.  “That’s as may be, but with these alliances, I have over a hundred-thousand soldiers facing your army.  At best, the Sharron Army has seventy-thousand.  You cannot win.  Your father is outflanked and outnumbered.”

Lyrra-Sharron was unshaken.  “My father is the finest general in the world.  Numbers mean nothing against sound strategy.”

Wilnar-Medira chuckled.  “Such the optimist.  Why are you in Penkira?  How, may I ask, did you get into my palace?  My spies last put you on the road to Mintarn, nowhere near Medaelia.”

“You never did have very good spies,” Lyrra-Sharron responded acidly.  “Oh, and, Tilroan was a terrible choice on your part.  The Sharron treasury appreciates your contribution now, though, thank you.”

All traces of smugness vanished from Wilnar-Medira’s face.  “I have had enough of Sharron.  Enough of your father.  And enough of you.”  He drew a rapier from a scabbard at his left side, and gestured with his sword.  “I hear you fancy yourself quite good with that weapon.  I have even heard you have the audacity to call yourself a master.  I was training with one before you were even born.”

“Really?” asked Lyrra-Sharron sweetly.  “You mean, you have actually participated in some form of combat?  I am amazed.  Perhaps, though, you should surrender now, and send someone off to stop the fighting.  I am certain my combat experience is far more fresh than yours.”

“And they call me arrogant,” remarked Wilnar-Medira with a snort.  “I hear so much of the renowned fighting prowess of the Anduin blood.  You shall not leave my palace alive, Lyrra-Sharron.  Are you willing to face me, Royal blood to Royal blood?”

“I was hoping you would challenge me.  Let us finish this, here and now.”  She turned.  “Dak, watch the door.  We certainly would not want to be disturbed.”

Dak moved cautiously towards the doors, never taking his eyes off Wilnar-Medira.

Lyrra-Sharron advanced towards the Medaelian King, and took an en guard stance.  As did he.

The King of Medaelia and Princess of Sharron faced one another, rapier and dagger against rapier.  Unexpectedly ceremonious, Wilnar-Medira brought his weapons up and together before him, saluting his opponent.  Lyrra-Sharron touched the flat of her rapier to her forehead in response.  Each returned to an en guard stance, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Chapter 37

                Cam was still amazed at the ability of the King and his top generals to command a force as large as this.  If he survived, he would indeed have tremendous knowledge of the art of war. 

Survival was looking much less probable now, though.

“Maybe if we strike, a spearhead, perhaps, into the heart of their re-enforcements, we can break them apart and force them to react to us,” suggested General Sopirr.

“Perhaps if we retreat, leave a lot of traps, force them to come to us...” stated Major Tindurna.

“No, that would leave them the opportunity to spread out, and sweep around us,” remarked General Bodrir.  “Withdrawal is not an option.”

“You are correct,” commented Varlock-Sharron.  “We cannot pull back now.  We should bring in the reserves, and get ready to face what is coming.”

“I disagree, sire,” stated General Sopirr.  “We cannot just bring them forth to face a force nearly twice their size.  We need something more.  They’ll see what we have, and probably send an equal force.  As needed, they’ll dispatch more forces.  We can’t match the numbers, and they can reserve fresh combatants as needed.  We’ve very good soldiers, but facing these odds, even the most hardened veteran loses heart.”

“Could we quick-march them behind the enemy re-enforcements?” asked Major Jun-Shilla.  “I mean, this fighting is quite evenly matched.  Suppose our people break through, and we send our re-enforcements around?  They’d have a difficult time with attack on both sides.”

“You assume, Major, that our forces now in battle will emerge the victors,” commented General Sopirr.  “As we appear to be evenly matched, the outcome is inconclusive, and they have the strength in numbers.”

              “Besides, there would be almost no way to move twenty thousand soldiers to a position behind the enemy unseen,” added General Bodrir.  “As large a plain as this is, it simply could not be done. At least, not in a reasonable span of time.  I think we need to move in the reserves, before they charge and overrun us.  We give them one hell of a fight.”

Varlock-Sharron nodded his head solemnly.  “I will not surrender, not even against superior numbers like these.  We stand our ground.  Prepare to move in the reserves.  We shall hold them from the battle as long as we can, and supply units as needed.  We might be able to drag this out long enough to overcome even these overwhelming forces.  A pity we do not have ten times the reserves we do, but then, no force has ever outnumbered ours before now.”

Cam had been mutely watching the fighting, and only half listening.  Soldiers mounted rode about, chopping, hacking, being taken from their horses.  Soldiers on foot swung blades, raised shields, swung heavy maces, fired short bows, killed and were killed.  They howled.  They fought.  They died.  And the fighting continued, never slowing.  It took a moment for the King’s last remark to hit him.

“Majesty?” asked Cam suddenly, and over-loud, coming into the moment.

“What is it, Cam Murtallan?” asked the King, looking impatient.

“Suppose we
did
have ten times the reserves we do?  Would they have to fight?”

General Bodrir snorted.  “Cam Murtallan, this is no time for supposition.”

“Why is that?  What if we had another hundred-thousand soldiers in reserve?  Would they fight, or would the enemy retreat if faced with that?” asked Cam.

“We don’t have time for this,” remarked General Sopirr impatiently.

Cam stood his ground.  “Hear me out.  Would the Medaelians and their allies retreat of we presented them with a hundred thousand reserves?”

Varlock-Sharron considered that a moment.  “Depends on the composition of those forces.  Enough horse, enough heavily armored soldiers, and maybe they would reconsider.”

“Sure,” replied General Bodrir sarcastically.  “That alliance isn’t all that secure.  General Torma and Sir Ulnar were not overly comfortable when they learned his Majesty commanded our forces.  But, again, useless supposition.”

              “So you are saying if we
had
a hundred thousand soldiers in reserve, our enemy would likely turn and run?” Cam pressed once more.

General Sopirr laughed without humor.  “Certainly, why not?  And what are we to do, Sorcerer, conjure these reserves out of thin air?”

The look Cam shot at the General spoke volumes.

“What are you getting at, Cam?” queried the King.  “You mean you could conjure such a force?”

“Illusion,” replied Cam.  “I can make them visible, I can make them loud.  I can even make them smell, if you like.  They wouldn’t fight so good, but...”

“I think you may need to reconsider your ban on sorcery, Sire,” remarked General Bodrir dryly, a note of renewed confidence in his voice.

“What do you need, Cam?” asked the King anxiously.

“Advance the reserves.  I need to get a look at them.  Multiply them.  That ought to give our enemy something to think about.”

“Well?” Varlock-Sharron asked the command staff.

Looks were exchanged.  No one spoke.

“Best idea I’ve heard,” remarked General Sopirr.  “What have we got to lose?”

“I’m for it,” remarked General Bodrir.

“Excellent,” replied the King.  “If this does not work, we stand ready to face whatever they throw at us.  Cam Murtallan, if this works, I promise you, my ban on sorcery will be no more.”

“If it does not work,” he continued, changing his line of though.  “Well, I do not need to tell you how bad things might get.  Alright, General Sopirr, advance the reserves.”

The conflict continued, as the enemy reserves stood, waiting to be called to battle.  Swords clashed.  Flesh was broken, blood was spilt all about.  Men staggered away from the field, in both directions.  Some dragged friends clear.  Some continued to fight and hack. 

A cacophony of sounds, metal on metal, horses and men screaming, the slurping noise of the suction of the earth on hoof and boot came to Cam’s ears. 

Battles between units ensued, as did fights between individual soldiers.  Sword on sword.  Man to man.  Heroism, death and pain mingled in a sickening ballet across the muddy, bloody field.

Cam heard them approaching, a force of twenty thousand.  The reserves were coming into view.  Compared to that of the enemy, they looked quite pitiful.

“It is up to you now, Cam,” said the King, a note of doubt in his tone.  “Generals, be ready to order the reserves into battle.”

“I need them to get just a bit closer,” said Cam.  “A foggy illusion isn’t going to do us much good.”

“The enemy reserves won’t stay still much longer,” remarked General Bodrir.  “They see them.  They know we are outnumbered.  The combat on the field is winding down.  They will come.”

“I can do this,” pressed Cam, virtually staring at the Sharron reserves, his eyes calculating.  “Be patient.”

“We’re gambling a lot on the word of a Sorcerer,” remarked Captain Hir-Sharron quietly.

“We gamble either way.  Hold your tongue,” replied Colonel Pirvarn softly.

The air was filled with the sound of marching soldiers on damp and squishy ground.  Steel clashing, wood splitting, men screaming of battle and pain and death.  Smells of rotten soil, cold steel, broken wood, metal and blood and sweat filled the air. 

Cam took it all in, absorbed it as he looked over the reserves.

They were orderly.  They marched with certain, hard to perceive precision that seemed somehow impossible for a force of twenty thousand.  Cam noted every detail, how they moved, how they sounded, how they smelled.  He felt the pressure in the air as they marched closer.  Felt the vibrations of the earth from their footfalls.  Heard breathing, and coughing, felt the sweat, the tension.  Every little detail came to his attention as he focused, concentrated.

This would be the largest, most complex spell Cam had ever attempted.  His focus was absolute.  If he failed, the illusion would not work, the enemy would not back down.  He made numerous mental notes, as many subtle observations as he could. 

Before the loss of his power, this feat would have been impossible.  With his new found patience, and far stronger powers of observation, he could do it.  He was ready.  He took a deep, cleansing breath, and began.

“Power within me.  Magic of Sorcery.  Power beyond sight.  Observe these soldiers, marching to war.  Multiply their numbers, five times and more.  Every detail, every sense, multiply five times to the present tense.  March them closer, from behind, my control, to confuse the mind.  An illusionary force five times greater than that before me, appear and befuddle the enemies against us...March!”

Cam’s eyes remained closed.  He was still concentrating.

*****

“I don’t think it worked,” remarked General Bodrir softly, moments later.  “I don’t see anything.”

“Prepare to move out!” said General Sopirr.

“Not yet,” ordered the King calmly.  “Listen!”

They paused.  There was something there.  Something in the air.  You could feel it.  A large force was coming closer from behind.

They could not be imagining this.  Or so they hoped, as they could see nothing.

*****

General Kiran Grom-Valock felt particularly pleased with himself.

He had gritted his teeth, and gone to parley at the request of his allies from Cordianlott and Lirdarra.

He had known it would be to no avail.

They had both been shaken by the appearance of King Varlock-Sharron, but General Grom-Valock had expected it.  The King of Sharron was loathe to leave the fighting to others, and had in addition to himself several fine strategists among his staff.  Grom-Valock found that he could not help but respect the opposing King for his boldness.

General Grom-Valock was confident of his own prowess, though.  His allies were both deputy commanders of their military forces, sent to lead their contributions to the Medaelian war effort, leaving him in overall command.

His forces were quite good, as were those of his allies.  Despite the noted abilities of the Sharron Army and its commanders, he was certain he would be able to prevail, as he had a full army as his disposal.

Besides, if nothing else, he had a force he knew to be stronger by some thirty thousand plus soldiers.

They had erected a table, just before the reserves.  A trio of aides to the generals were tracking positions of their forces, enemies forces, and estimates of numbers, to better utilize the reserves when the time came.

He and the allied generals would not be a part of the fighting, not unless the combat made it here, which he was convinced would not happen.  They had to make certain someone was around to give the orders to the military forces.  Varlock-Sharron and his generals were noted for participating in the actual fighting. 

Let them risk their lives, let them risk destroying their chain of command.  He was not so inclined.

The Medaelian General had begrudgingly noted excellent tactics on the part of his enemies.  Tactics that might have normally defeated his forces.  But not today.

Varlock-Sharron and his generals had beaten Grom-Valock before.  Always he had managed to retreat, and leave the battle before he could be captured.  For once, he would not have to go at all.

He had called the reserves forward.  Let the Sharron Army see what they were up against.

“It looks as though the first wave is winding down,” stated General Torma, swinging off his horse.  He had ridden to the edge of the battlefield.  “We may wish to move the reserves in soon, let them attack.”

“Not yet,” said General Grom-Valock.  “I want Varlock-Sharron to bring his reserves up, first.  So we can all share a good laugh over his pending misfortune.”

“You are certain they have only twenty-thousand?” asked Sir Ulnar yet again, a hint of concern in his voice.

The General sighed to himself.  They may be allies, but neither had seen as much combat as he had.  Sir Ulnar, in fact, had none, while General Torma had only recently been promoted to his post, and had only seen combat a time or two.  “I know the Sharron Army.  Sixty thousand regulars, ten thousand reserves.  Trust me.  With the probable exception of the Winsottans, they’re the largest army in the world.  Until now.”

“I can’t believe King Varlock-Sharron would allow this to happen,” Sir Ulnar commented.  “He’s practically a legend as a military strategist.  I’m surprised he’d fall victim to this.  Your King Wilnar-Medira makes a lot of promises.  What will he do with Sharron when he’s done?”

“That,” began General Grom-Valock, “is his Majesty’s concern, not ours.  We will finish this.  The Sharron Army will be ruined, and Sharron ripe for the picking.”

“They don’t bother us,” remarked Sir Ulnar casually.  “But my President feels allegiance with your King is most beneficial for Lirdarra.”