Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

The Sorcerer still did not speak.  Nor did he open his eyes.

The King moved towards him, leaned in closer, grimacing as he caught the reek of urine, feces, sweat and bile emanating from the tormented man.  He took in every detail and nuance of the broken sorcerer held before him that he could.

“You will continue to defy me?” he said softly.  He straightened up again.  “Very well, then.  We are not done yet.  What little remains of your life will be terribly unpleasant, but that is your decision.  You have lost your powers, I know.  You have nothing left.  Let me make your death a simple relief from this torture.  Answer me.”

******

The Sorcerer did not even stir.  It took the very last spark of his will to hold back the sobbing from the pain of in his shoulders, wrists, ankles and hips.  It was the only resistance he could offer. 

The King was mistaken about one thing.  The loss of his powers was not complete or total.  He was not quite left with nothing.

******

Varlock-Sharron leaned in even closer now, just inches from the Sorcerer’s face, hands behind his back.  It was over.  He would learn nothing from his prisoner today.  He was nearly finished with him.  “I suppose that I have your answer, then.  Very well.  But I will not be completely thwarted today.”             

The King slashed a blade he had silently drawn from a scabbard at his back, upwards across the chest of the Sorcerer. 

The dagger ripped open his prisoner’s soiled tunic, drawing blood from the surface wound. 

The Sorcerer, unprepared, cried out in pain. 

The King stood up straight, and took a step back from the racked man.  He took a cloth from his belt, and wiped his knife clean as the prisoner sobbed, unable to hold back any longer.

“You see?  You cannot resist me entirely, lad.  This is not completed yet.”

Varlock-Sharron had a moment’s surprise when the Sorcerer unexpectedly opened his eyes.  Tears still streaming down his face, the tortured man’s gaze sought out his captor’s face. 

The King looked back, into those piercing blue eyes, seeing pain, seeing agony, seeing fire, seeing fear.  But there, most startling of all, the Sorcerer’s eyes burned with unwavering determination. 

Varlock-Sharron Anduin and his captive Sorcerer locked eyes once again, in a wordless battle of wills where neither could prevail.

Chapter 2

The Kingdom of Sharron had an infrastructure second to none.

The main highways were well traveled, and thus well maintained.  Taxation of the people, which was always a source of contention no matter how great or small, did not go directly into the pockets of the nobility, but were spent on the maintenance of roads and aqueducts and sewers and other aspects of infrastructure.

With winter approaching, the inclement weather that the season brought to these lands would often expand any pits or potholes along the roads.  This time of year, the sight of kingdom maintenance crews along the well traveled paths were a reassurance to the taxpayers.

The merchant found their line of work distasteful and completely unappealing, no matter how important it was to the continued well-being of the nation. 

He had already been delayed fifteen minutes by the first such group of roadsmiths and gravellers, the second had held him up another half hour.  The longer he heard the noise, the more annoyed it made him.

His cart had a very squeaky left rear wheel he was regretting not lubing before setting out for the village of Korma.  He shook his head at that thought.  The last thing he’d needed was another expense.

The constable beside him was looking out at the trees to either side of the causeway, as if the mounted rider before them might miss something.  The merchant glanced back at the last constable, riding behind them, the look on his face showing his annoyance at the squeaky cart he’d been hired to follow.

The Lord Mayor of Tuvann, in an effort both to protect cargo and earn money for the town’s coffers, had recently begun to hire out trios of constables to individual merchants traveling from Tuvann to either Korma or Natarn or even Vaneyer in the Vann Region.  With the rumors of outlaws called The Falcon Raiders all about, he concluded that the protection of his citizens’ wares was paramount to the revitalization of the formerly prosperous community.

The merchant grimaced to himself at that.  The gates at the roads into Tuvann were littered with broken carts and wagons and various other refuse, a constant fire hazard.  Over the past two decades, those elected to civil leadership of the town had been increasingly more and more corrupt, and pocketed tax revenues, letting the town fall to disrepair.  When the last such leader had gone too far, and took from the pockets of the local Baron, a Magistrate had appeared with Baronial Guardsmen, and arrested and imprisoned the man.  Soon his entire staff was taken as well, and the town had a chance to elect a leader completely unconnected to the years of unscrupulous government.

The new Lord Mayor, recently elected, had promised to clean that all up.  Of course, funding to do so had to come from somewhere, so hiring out the largely superfluous constabulary was one of his means to that end. 

Of course the merchant was a skeptic, and knew that corruption went beyond the offices of the town’s officials, and that it would only be a matter of time until things went back to how they used to be.

For the first time in years, the merchant did not travel alone.  While he’d been perfectly willing to shill out for the services of his escort, he’d been slightly less pleased at the extra he’d been forced to pay, not long after departing his home village.

As they’d rounded the first bend and reached the treeline, the mounted pair halted his cart, while the constable at his side checked its contents.  It only took a moment for him to discover the false bottom of the cart, and the truffles hidden within.

They’d left the merchant with two options.  Pay them to forget they found the goods he was concealing, or return to Tuvann a captive, and face imprisonment for smuggling.  Sixty gold pieces later, twenty per constable, they continued along the road as if no pause had occurred.

Ahead he saw the crossroads that ran southwest towards the ocean, and northeast towards Tarmollo, ending at Vantu. 

He shivered at the thought of Tarmollo, remembering the horror from a half a decade ago.  He’d lost a few friends, fellow merchants, to that terrible incident.

Passing the crossroads, he noted a trio of Kingdom Roadsmiths ahead, wearing yellow tabards with the device of the nation on the back, which denoted their line of employment.   This was the third such group they’d encountered this day.  Each had shovels, and there was a wheelbarrow and other assorted tools used in the maintenance of the pathway just off the side of the road.

“Hm,” the constable beside him grunted.  “Three days ago, when I passed this way last, the road was perfectly fine at this point.  Seems odd.”

The merchant said nothing as they passed the Roadsmiths, who paused to watch them go by.

“I suppose they must be paid to do something,” remarked the merchant with disgust.  To his mind, a man would have to be in the direst situation to have to resort to such base labor.

Suddenly, the constable on horseback at the rear cried out.  The merchant turned, and saw the Roadsmiths around him, having clearly pulled him from his horse, swords drawn. 

Before the constable riding ahead of them could do anything, a trio of armed men emerged from the trees, one pointing a crossbow directly at his chest.

The merchant took a gasping breath, as the constable beside him attempted to rise up and draw his sword.  But someone grabbed him by the front of his tunic before he could finish standing, and pulled him roughly from the cart.

The merchant was terrified as their assailants had the road completely blocked, leaving no escape.  He glanced about, saw the mounted constable surrounded, hands up in surrender, the other two peace officers on the ground with swords keeping them there.  He was afraid to move further, uncertain what to expect.

Scared as he was, the merchant had managed to count eight attackers.  One of them, a young man with a clean-shaved face, holding a rapier, was obviously approaching him.

“Step down from your cart, please,” he said calmly.

Without hesitation, the merchant complied.  The young man gestured with his sword, and the merchant moved towards the unhorsed constable at the rear.

“Woolens?” the young man questioned conversationally. 

“Wha…what?” the merchant asked in response.

His young captor smiled.  “You have these various bolts of wool from Tuvann, en route to Korma, no?  Wool, right?  Not cotton or silk?”

“Yes.  Wool,” replied the merchant nervously.  They had reached the constable, who was on his feet again.  Both were now marched to the side of the road.

“It is going to be getting colder, soon,” the young man continued.  “Your contribution to our cause will be greatly appreciated.”

The merchant noted the other two constables had been brought together, and were being marched to the other side of the road.  When he and the rear constable reached the treeline, their captives made them sit back to back.

“We shall not kill you, as you may have feared,” the young man said.  “We do not kill indiscriminately.  Once we are gone, you may go as soon as you free yourselves.”

Ropes were tied about the Merchant’s wrists and ankles, and a moment later they tied him and the constable together back to back.  Unable to fight, he could do nothing when they removed his coin pouch.

All four of their assailants were on the road again, two of them tossing the wheelbarrow and tools into his cart.  The other attackers must have finished with the last pair of constables, and clearly went to the young man.

“What now, Nadav?” questioned one of the men.

The young man responded.  “We take these back to base.  That is what she ordered me to do.  We certainly can make good use of the wool, and I shall bet you a gold piece he was smuggling something, too.”

“She’ll be pleased with this one,” another said.

Soon the eight attackers had mounted the horses and the cart, and simply continued along the path in the direction the merchant had been traveling.  In a matter of minutes, the sounds of his squeaky wheel faded, and soon were gone. 

All he saw now was the road and the trees.  He heard the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, the breathing of the constable at his back, and birds and a gentle breeze occasionally catching the colorful leaves of the trees.

“Help me, merchant, we need to get free before night,” the constable broke into the sounds of nature.

His fear was suddenly replaced by an almost irrational anger.  “I paid good coin for your protection, and what just happened, constable?   What was that?”

“That was The Falcon Raiders, taking us by surprise,” was the response he received.  “They have only been known to attack unarmed merchants before, which is why the Lord Mayor believed the protection we offered had been working.  Come on, man, push your back against mine, and let’s try to stand up.”

Grumbling, contemplating his losses, the merchant pressed his back to that of the constable, wondering who would cover his expenses, and what the King might do about these Falcon Raiders.

Chapter 3

“C’mon, lad, this place has long been abandoned, now.”

“I know, I know,” his younger partner sighed despondently.  “But after what happened here…”

He remembered.  He had been here, then.

All around them, only stone and concrete foundations, and the charred remains of brick and rock walls, marked the homes and shops that had stood here.  Almost six years had passed, and the little that remained was devastated.

He remembered the flames.  He remembered the screams of the dying.  Disturbingly, he remembered the stench of charring wood, searing cloth, and most horrifically flesh and hair.  He found himself glancing up, looking for the thick, acrid black cloud that had marked Tarmollo’s passing.  But his eyes found only the grey overcast, threatening rain.

“Andim?” the younger man called him back from his reminiscing.  “I’ve found stairs…they don’t look like they got flamed.”

Andim fully returned to the here and now, and passed through the two foot tall remains of a door post, into the blackened ruins of someone’s former home.  The younger man was standing above the wide opening, nervously looking into it, as though something might leap out.

“Can you see all you need to from there, lad?” Andim queried.

The boy’s head jerked up, and he could not hide the fear in his eyes.  “I can see down to the bottom, and it looks like it didn’t get too burned.  But it goes a bit to the left, and I can’t see what’s there.”

Andim looked at his young partner sympathetically.  “C’mon now, Kallan.  It was half a decade ago.  We left no one behind, the plague has long been gone.  The village has stood untouched since.  Anything we find that is usable will be safe.”

Kallan was shaking his head.  “I understand that.  I do.  I just…I just don’t like the way this place feels.  It’s so…eerie.”

Andim nodded knowingly.  “I recall what happened to this village, lad.  It was terrible.  But we need a new headquarters, and she thinks this abandoned hamlet will do.  Nothing has touched this place in over five years, but we have to be absolutely certain of that, we don’t want any surprises.  If you think it would help, take a deep breath, hold it, and go down the stairs quickly.  Make sure no one has disturbed anything recently, and if you find anything of use, come back up and tell me.”

Kallan started to bob his head up and down, feeling the reassurance from his recently adopted mentor.  He began to take deeper breaths, clearly preparing.  Finally, he took an extremely deep draught of air, and, obviously setting his resolve, charged down the stairs.

Andim began to glance about, and shook himself a moment.  For all his brave talk, this place made his skin crawl.  Even after his years of service, and all the education he’d received with that, the recollection of what had overridden this village was powerful, and still haunting.

Specialists among the Guardsman had pieced together the evidence, a few months after the razing of the village.  They presumed a poor excuse for a trapper, the kind that scarcely sought out company of any non-animal, had entered the village, probably attempting to sell the skins of a woods-rat or other less-than-desirable prey.  Flea bitten, and none-too-clean, he had probably been in a tavern when the plague overcame him.  From there, it would spread across the village faster than a lightning bolt could split a tree.

Tarmollo had been one of the oldest communities in the Kingdom, once a simple fur trading outpost.  It had grown to a small village, where the fur trade added the wool trade to it.  Eventually, it expanded even more, and a strong stone wall had been built around the municipality, protecting the commercial interests there.  It also isolated the community, which had been its downfall. 

Andim had been posted at the door to the conference room when the report reached the King.  Unwilling to allow either the rumor or actual plague to spread further, Varlock-Sharron had dispatched his own Guardsman to Tarmollo to quarantine the village.

Andim was never of any station where he would learn how, exactly, word had reached the King as swiftly as it did.  But by dawn the next day he found himself besieging the walled village, and preventing any within from departing.

The next two days were abysmal.  There was only one gate in and out of the village, and they blocked and barricaded that immediately.  Any who attempted to breach the quarantine was duly warned, and if successful, riddled with arrows.  The bodies had hardly hit the ground before they were doused in oil and burned.

Villagers went so far as to attempt to leap from the walls, which stood nearly sixty feet high.  Those who succeeded were soon shot full of arrows and crossbow bolts.  All were burned.

On the third day, orders arrived from Gara-Sharron, along with siege weapons.  The catapults and trebuchets were loaded with orbs composed of pitch and naphtha, which were ignited and lobbed over the walls. 

Nothing he had heard before or since was as terrible as the screams and cries of the burning villagers of Tarmollo.  It was even said they could be heard from miles away.

Just when it seemed their supply of flammables was used up, more arrived.  The flames could even be seen licking the tops of the walls. 

The Guardsmen bombarded the village for fifty hours.  The screams and cries had ended during the first day.  No move was made to extinguish the flames.  They remained on guard, watching the gate and the walls in case any tried to escape, shooting and burning any that made it to the outside.

For nearly a week, there was no true night for the Guardsmen.  The burning village inside the walls glowed eerily, flickering light that made the shadows dance from the trees of the woodlands surrounding the isolated community.  Andim would not sleep properly through the night for nearly a year after that.

The Guardsmen were themselves quarantined, at the clearing less than a quarter mile from the village walls, where they’d set up camp.  After a full month, they were allowed to return to their barracks at Gara-Sharron, none showing any signs of plague.

Over fifteen-hundred had been incinerated.  But it was deemed an acceptable loss, as the plague never left Tarmollo.  Hundreds of thousands had been spared from the grisly torment of the worst disease any knew of.

Kallan charged back up the stairs, and took a deep, staggering breath.  It would be a couple more before he looked at Andim.  “Nothing.  Lots of dust, some rat-eaten burlap sacks and droppings, but the place hasn’t been touched by any man in a long long time.”

Andim glanced about.  “Ok, then, that takes care of this section.  Let’s get back to her and report.”

Kallan nodded eagerly, and started back towards the main square.  Andim was at his side as they walked through the broken ruins all about them. 

Once more they had fallen into step together, perfectly synchronized.  Guardsmen training or no, Andim again marveled at how much of himself he saw in the younger man beside him.

Kallan was only eighteen, with short, spiky blonde hair and deep blue eyes.  He was tall, and very thin.  He appeared too delicate to be a soldier to Andim’s thinking.  But his prowess with a blade was exceptional.  Whether by his training as a Guardsmen or years of practice with his father and brothers, no one would question the young man’s natural skill.  When Andim had, he was pleasantly surprised.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” Andim had taunted him that morning.  It was only a few months ago Kallan had joined them, but he recalled it like it was yesterday.  “Let’s see if you have the slightest idea how to wield that blade.”

A huge grin had crossed Kallan’s face.  “I’d hate to tire you out, old man.”  He had drawn his sword.  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Andim wasn’t about to be called out by a boy less than a third his age.  He, too, drew his sword.  “Just try and keep up with me, lad.”

Given the time of day, they had attracted a decent crowd.  To his surprise, every swing of Andim’s sword was met by the young Kallan, and answered.  Soon it was clear that not only was Kallan a capable swordsman, but his skill was equal to Andim’s.

Both men had finally paused, breathing hard, sword points touching the ground.  “I guess you might have some idea how that blade is used after all, lad,” Andim conceded.

Kallan chuckled.  “I guess you were up to the fight after all, old man.”

The two had become fast friends after that, and eventually Kallan’s youthful enthusiasm found a mentor in Andim’s veteran wisdom.  More than once they had proven to be a resourceful, reliable duo.

Andim returned to the present as they left behind the last broken structures, entering the large, char-marked former village’s central square. 

She stood alone near its center, her heavy dark green wool cloak drawn about her against the chill fall air.  But she had left the hood down, and her long, thick auburn ringlets danced about her head in the occasional gusts of wind.  She glanced towards the pair, then turned to face them.

Andim and Kallan stopped together within conversation distance from her.

“What do you have for me, my lords?” she asked.

As usual, Kallan looked to Andim.  Without further prompting, he responded.  “My Lady, we’ve found nothing in the south quarter.  It was a newer part of this village, as I recall, and was almost all wood.  A few foundations, but no stores.  We could burn the foundations out, and clear the grounds for tents.  The walls seem in excellent condition as far as we could tell.”

Andim glanced to the younger man at his side, who twitched nervously.  She noticed Kallan shivering, too, and must have instinctively known it was not from the cold.

“Kallan, I told you the plague was no more.”

Andim observed as his protégé shook his head.  “Plague or no plague, m’lady, this place is haunted.”

Clearly, she was forcing herself to be patient.  “The ghosts, be there any, will surely leave us alone.  We certainly will not disturb them.  But this place will make an excellent base of operations.  Anything else?”

“No, my lady,” Andim responded for them both.

“Alright.  Then I will ask you both to take your horses and ride down the road a ways.  Make sure if we have any neighbors, we know where they are.  If you come across anyone, try to avoid them as best you may, but do all you can to be certain they are not locals.  Let us not ruin the hideout before we can use it?”

“As you command, my lady,” Andim again responded for them both.

Falling into step once more with Kallan, Andim began to head back towards the gate and their horses.  Though he was loath to admit it, his haunted memory of this village was starting to get to him.

Without a word, Andim picked up the pace, Kallan remaining in stride beside his mentor without missing a beat.

******

They were walking away too fast for her liking, certainly. 

She kept her minute annoyance in check, though, and considered what lengths she might have to go with those even less educated than the former Guardsmen to convince them that the plague was no more.  This place was too close to Gara-Sharron, and too often avoided, to be ignored.

The wind blew an auburn ringlet too close to her left eye, and she absently brushed it away from the hazel iris orb.  She began to turn about, taking in the obviously scorched stone remains of this burned out village, pausing at the backs of the pair she’d last addressed, moving away quickly towards the picket area where their horses waited, stepping out of sight.

Her thoughts rested a moment on Andim and Kallan.  Andim Noros was a brave, hardened veteran, just over sixty years old, the strength and stamina of a man a third his age, with long grey hair worn tied back by a leather cord.  Andim had been a good soldier, but had never risen far in the ranks of the Guardsmen, and was forced into retirement by his immediate superiors without fanfare.  He was one of her earliest recruits.

Kallan Val-Sharron was an eighteen year old with spiky blonde hair, and a baby face with delicate features that belied his prowess with the blade and physical strength.  Kallan, like Andim, had been a Guardsmen, but only for a few months out of basic training, kicked out for a crime he denied committing. 

The two had become an inseparable pair, however, the eager youth and enduring elder, working together as an incredible force to be reckoned with.  More proof, as if she needed any, that her plans and goals were on the right path.

Suddenly, a shout came from one of her sentries atop the walls.  It was quickly echoed by the next.  Without hearing what it was, she drew both of her rapiers from the scabbards on her left hip, taking a ready stance, blades pointed up to about chest level.  It was a very intimidating stance, and she had proven again and again how lethal her swords could be.

Seconds later, a rider came thundering towards her.  She brought her guard up instinctively, till she realized who the rider was.  She lowered, but did not drop her guard as he slowed, then reined in before her.

The rider swung down off his horse.  He wore his usual gray tunic and breeches, plus heavy riding boots.  He had his hand-and-a-half sword slung across his back, and wore a heavy leather vest with steel plates sewn into it.  He walked towards her calmly, and she carefully re-sheathed her swords.

“Lyrra-Sharron,” he greeted her, bowing slightly.

“Dak,” she responded, noticing he was breathing a bit hard.  “Are you on the run?”