Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

He took a deep breath.  “No.”

As per usual, Dak Amviir answered monosyllabically.  After all this time, she was still not used to having to ask direct questions of him in order to get complete answers.  “How did you learn where we were?  You were scouting when I brought this detail here.”

“I encountered Nadav and his platoon,” he replied.

Lyrra-Sharron had left Nadav with a small outfit when they’d made their way to Tarmollo, in order to stage a raid.  Apparently, they had been successful, and later met up with Dak on the road.

“What brings you to Tarmollo, then?” she queried.

“I have news.  You heard rumors of the Sorcerer wandering the land?”

Lyrra-Sharron nodded an affirmative.

“He killed or seriously injured an entire company of the King’s soldiers nearly a month ago, and they were beginning to tear villages apart in search of him.  I have learned that they captured him at a roadside tavern a half-day’s ride from our primary headquarters.  He was wounded, apparently, so they took him without further incident.”

“I had hoped perhaps we would find a way to meet him,” Lyrra-Sharron remarked.  “A Sorcerer would make a fine ally.”  She paused to consider a moment.  “Get word to the lurkers.  If he is put on public display or any such thing, let us find a way to take him.  If the King does not kill him outright, of course.”

“There’s the rub.  The Sorcerer is to be hanged tomorrow afternoon.  It would seem his Majesty is through with him.”

Lyrra-Sharron crossed her arms.  “Drat!  This is unusual. The King generally has dealt with sorcery far more dramatically.”

“Rumor further has it, he is without his powers.”

She had not expected to ever hear Dak volunteer information like that.  Lyrra-Sharron was continuing to ponder his news.  “How many ‘friends’ do we have in or near Gara-Sharron?”

Dak deliberated a moment.  “A couple dozen at best.”

“We only have thirty with us here,” she remarked, calculating.  “I do not have to tell you how valuable a sorcerer could be to our cause.  We may be able to take him.  But it would not be easy.”

Dak was never ruffled, but he eyed her suspiciously.  “Lyrra-Sharron, without his powers, he’s worthless.  What’s the point?”

She paused momentarily, and studied him closely.  After the death of her original second, Lyrra-Sharron had taken months to decide on another.  Reliable, quiet, deeply intellectual Dak Amviir stood out time and again.  Never speaking unless he had something intelligent to say, and able to blend into any crowd with his dark eyes, straight brown hair and simple, clean-shaved face, it was easy not to notice him.  This of course caught Lyrra-Sharron’s attention.

He had refused at first, oddly avoiding her for a time when she initially asked him to serve, but she finally wore him down and convinced him.  He was, to her continued satisfaction, an excellent spy and outstanding counselor, questioning her only to be certain they stayed the course of their mission, like a good second-in-command should.

To him, she would explain her thoughts.  “The point, Dak, is that I cannot let that man be killed simply because his Majesty fears his power.  No, I would not let any be killed by that villain if it were possible.  This presents to us a unique opportunity.  Tell me, how do you usually enter the city?”

“Through the north aqueduct.  There is a service tunnel below the water-level that is nearly forgotten.” Dak paused, clearly changing his line of thought.  “I don’t entirely understand how this will work for us.  You may be exposing our operation too much.  This could be suicidal, Lyrra-Sharron.”

She considered that.  He wasn’t mistaken about the danger, but there had to be a way to spare the man.  Even without sorcery, he still was certain to possess knowledge she could use.  She paced some, weighing the risks and the rewards. 

This was also the most her second had ever raised objections to one of her plans.

“I have a few thoughts on this, Dak. I think it can be done with minimal risk, but positive exposure for our cause.  And even if we cannot save this sorcerer, this would certainly send a message the King could not possibly ignore.  That alone plays directly into our objectives.  Yes, my mind is made up…let us prepare to go to the Capitol.”

Dak took hold of her arm, turning her towards him.  His deep brown eyes, always thoughtful, of almost unfathomable depth, bored into her. It was the first time he’d ever touched her, and even he seemed surprised as he dropped her arm like it was a burning ember in his hand.

He took a breath, composing himself.  “Lyrra-Sharron, you know I rarely disagree with you.  But I can’t let you commit so much of our resources on a chancy mission like this.  Going into Gara-Sharron is too risky.  Without his powers, can this sorcerer be worth it?”

She was surprised by his reaction.  Dak had never shown that kind of emotion or unbridled concern before.  She found her mood, if not her resolve, softened by that.  “Sorcerers usually have a great deal of knowledge gained from all their study, so yes.  I think it imperative that we at least try.  Besides, even if we fail to get him, we can do something that will really make the King take notice.  This is a good opportunity to publicly embarrass him, Dak.  We had to do something like this to further our ambitions at some point.  The opportunity is upon us now.”

Lyrra-Sharron changed her tone as she reached a decision. “In fact, let us bank on that, and make rescue of this Sorcerer a secondary objective.”

Dak took a clearly self-conscious step back.  “As you say, Lyrra-Sharron.  I’ll have them ready your horse.  You’ll need a disguise, too.  I’ll ride ahead and assemble my contacts.  We’ll meet at the North checkpoint we established last month.”

“Agreed,” she replied.  “I shall send Torman back to the others, and have them dispatch a body to this village.  Nadav has become more certain of himself, and I believe can handle command until we return.  Torman shall take charge of a group to set up camp here.  I shall join you at the checkpoint soon.”

Lyrra-Sharron watched as an almost tender expression momentarily seemed to pass over Dak’s face.  He appeared to catch himself, and his usual air of total indifference returned.  “As you say, Lyrra-Sharron.  I’ll see you at sunset.”

Without another word, nor leave to do so, he swung into his saddle hastily, and rode to the next raider.  Lyrra-Sharron watched as he spoke briefly to him, and the raider ran off.  Dak glanced back, gave a hasty salute to her, then spurred his horse towards the gate, and was away again. 

The reaction he caused in her was somewhat surprising, and a little disturbing, too.  It was only a moment before Lyrra-Sharron shook herself.  Dak Amviir was her second, nothing more.  This kind of tension had never passed between them before, and she did not want to deal with it again.  Her mission was all that mattered.

Chapter 4

Varlock-Sharron sat upon his throne, lost in thought.  He wore a well-practiced look of patient understanding as a pair of nobles, Barons, bickered with one another before him.  It was all he could do to not grind his teeth.

His Seneschal stood somberly to his right.  Lord Tulock Oran was a handsome man barely thirty, with close-cropped red hair and green eyes.  He was a tough, strong man, quite nearly as intelligent as he was handsome.  And a marvelous archer as well.

It was quite a while ago they had met, during a border skirmish where the King had led his troops into battle personally.  Lord Tulock, then Captain Oran, had argued extensively with Varlock-Sharron about his proposed plan.  As the other officers and nobles watched, Captain Oran had piece by piece torn apart the King’s plan, summarily showing him its flaws.  The young man, then only twenty, had proceeded to create a stronger plan of attack right before the King’s eyes.

The others present had waited for the King’s temper to explode, and for the inevitable call for the Captain’s removal.  But it would never come.  Varlock-Sharron did not appreciate being told he was wrong.  But when the proof was irrefutable, how could he believe otherwise?  And to find a man willing to put himself at stake, by expressing an opinion contrary to his liege - well, that was what made a man honorable.  So the King rewarded the brash young officer, and together they led the forces of Sharron to an easy victory. 

Varlock-Sharron almost broke into a grin at the thought.  All those years, all those men constantly stroking his ego and saying yes to his every whim, and the second most powerful man in the Kingdom was one who willfully would tell his King no.

As Seneschal, Lord Tulock ran many of the day-to-day necessities of the Kingdom.  He oversaw the various public works, payroll, paperwork, and all other humdrum jobs a King should not be burdened with.  Thus, he was Chief Magistrate as well.

The King kept him by his side for the tedious but necessary affairs of state such as these small disputes, and any other items that were brought before him, but were not necessarily his concern.

The shouting went up an octave, and though it would have amused the King to let the men draw the knives they should not have had in his presence, he raised a hand.  “Enough!  Your Excellencies, cease this bickering and make ready to hear my judgment.”

They stopped, and bowed in concert before him, but did not yet rise up.

He gestured to Lord Tulock, who knelt by his side.

“What is this wearisome mess about, Tulock?”

Lord Tulock’s response held a note of exasperation.  “I did apologize for this, my liege, but they would not take my decision as final.”

Varlock-Sharron growled low in his throat.  “The ruling I read about with your other reports this morning?”

“The very same, your Majesty.”

The King gestured, and Lord Tulock stood up, clearing his throat audibly as he did so.  Both Barons arose as well.

“Hear my judgment,” stated the King formally.  This part he did enjoy.  Every now and then his nobles needed a stern reminder about who they were beneath.  “It shall be thus.  Baron Dovan, you will withdraw your shepherds from Baron Kall’s fields.  Baron Kall, you will withdraw your shepherds from Baron Dovan’s land.  You will then divide the cost for the workers who will be sent forthwith to build a wall between your properties.  You will subsequently proceed to pay the royal treasury an equal fine of one-thousand gold crowns.  Furthermore, if this nonsense should ever arise again, you will have lands and titles stripped, and you will become shepherds of your own territories.  Have I made myself clear?  Are you both satisfied my lord Barons?”

Each man bowed deeply, but neither could hide the scowls on their faces.  “As my liege commands.” they said dispassionately at practically the same time.

The King slightly inclined his head.  “So be it.  My ruling is complete.  And that is the end of this audience.”

Lord Tulock banged his staff upon the dais twice.  “King Varlock-Sharron Anduin, glorious sovereign of Sharron, bids all take leave of this place forthwith, a blessing upon your heads. The next Royal Audience will be convened at his Majesties’ leisure.  Thank you.”

They slowly filed out of the hall, joined by the other nobles, servants and entourage, muttering to themselves.  When the last had gone, a pair of guards stepped out of the room, shutting the large double doors with an echoing metallic clang.

The King groaned slightly as he stood, removing his state robes and crown, placing them in the arms of a waiting servant.  Another took the robes and staff of the Seneschal.  The King stretched his arms over his head a moment, then relaxed, turning to Lord Tulock.

“I do so often wish we could dispense with these audiences all together, Tulock.  At least, it would be nice if the nobility would cease to be spineless louts.”

Lord Tulock chuckled.  “Agreed, my liege.  But then, if the curs had a spine, they’d only find bolder ways to annoy and distract you, while lining their pouches better.”

Varlock-Sharron chuckled without humor.  Tulock Oran was perhaps the only man in the world who could address him with such brevity.  It was to his mind the ultimate luxury, to have an honest companion.  “You speak true, my friend.  Come, all this useless talk has made me restive.  A bit of exercise is called for here.”

Lord Tulock respectfully followed as the King led him from the audience chamber.

“How go preparations for the execution?” Varlock-Sharron questioned.

“On schedule, your Majesty.  We can expect an immense turn out for this one.  It’s not every day a Sorcerer is terminated in public.  The crowds like a good hanging.”

The King nodded his head.  “It is sad that a hanging draws the largest crowds.  No Solstice or Harvest celebration is nearly so festive.  I wish it were not a necessity.  But I learned long ago that Sorcerers cannot be trusted.”

“Sorcery nearly destroyed us in your father’s day.  It has had a direct impact upon your life, too.  It’s fortunate you’ve taken action.”

“I never got anything out of the poor bastard, Tulock.  He only cried out but once, and I learned nothing of what brought him here.”  Varlock-Sharron changed tone.  “Yet another attempt on the part of one of my brother and sister monarchs to discredit or destroy me, I must believe.  Our stability has never sat well with any of our neighbors.  How can it be anything else?”

Lord Tulock only shrugged his shoulders.

Attempts to destabilize Sharron were a constant nuisance.  This had been a regular state of affairs for hundreds of years. 

Sharron was the largest Kingdom in the world.  It bordered three other nations, all of which were far smaller.  Its’ stability denied them any opportunity to annex new lands.  Incursions of military forces were the most obvious of their machinations against Sharron, but this occurred alongside attempted subversion of the nobles.  By sending sorcerers, they had hoped to disorganize and destabilize the Kingdom enough to begin breaking off pieces of the nation for themselves.

Varlock-Sharron’s father had allowed the practice of sorcery within the Kingdom.  He had considered it good luck to have users of such wondrous powers about. And so they came from all over the world, seeking sanctuary and study.  But several came as spies and lurkers, perverting and bribing nobles and others against the Crown.

So it was that over thirty years ago, a pair of conjurers had entered the castle at night, and taken the King’s life before destroying each other. 

Varlock-Sharron had been only twelve years old, but he took up the sword, and quickly took action to prevent his Kingdom from being invaded and torn apart. 

Thus it was that only a few months after he’d been crowned, a small group of sorcerers had attempted to take him unawares in his bed. Long ago he had buried the memories of that night, how he escaped, and captured or destroyed them all.

Though the other enchanters within the Kingdom surely knew of where these assassins had originated, they protected their own.  For fear of his life and the well-being of his lands, young Varlock-Sharron ordered the practitioners of Sorcery and all related arts to leave his country.  When many refused, he charged his army to chase them out.  When they continued to resist, he ordered them hunted down, and taken into custody or slain.

It had been bloody, and it had taken almost five years, but when it was over, not a sorcerer freely practicing remained within his lands.  In the more than three decades of his rule, other then a few minor skirmishes along his borders, he would be able to maintain peace, and to keep the Kingdom of Sharron whole.

Thus a decree had been written, forbidding the practice of Sorcery and all related arts within the Kingdom of Sharron.  And that decree stood to the present day.

“I never even learned his name, Tulock,” the King stated quietly, returning to the present.

Lord Tulock grunted his indifference.  “So be it.  Our laws are not so harsh.  He had to know he could not practice legally.  He had to know the fate he would suffer for such a thing.  Everyone across the world knows our most stringent law.  He ignored your will.  The price he must pay is fair.”

The King said nothing.

The heavy door at the end of the dark passageway was pulled open, and dim light chased away the shadows cast by the torches.

Varlock-Sharron and Lord Tulock stepped out into the practice yard, the steadily falling rain quickly drenching them.  The King pulled his dripping hair away from his face, tying it off behind him with a leather cord taken from his belt.

“A pass at swords, your Majesty?” questioned Lord Tulock, looking to the sky.

The King beamed as the rain poured over him.  “I think so.  A practice sword!”  he called.

As a guard brought out a pair of bamboo swords, the King stripped off his soaked tunic.  Lord Tulock did the same.  Each man took his weapon, and stood bare-chested, facing each other.

“Best two of three, Tulock?”

Lord Tulock snickered with a false glee.  “Of course, your Majesty.  Maybe I’ll even win one this time.” 

Ignoring the heavy deluge, the two most powerful men in Sharron came together for a friendly pass at arms, an all-too-brief respite from their seemingly ceaseless duties.

******

The Sorcerer glanced upwards through the thin, barred opening.  At least he was no longer chained in a dark cell.  Rain spattered against the base, splashing his face and making him feel marginally more refreshed than he’d felt since the start of his incarceration.

He could hear a light clicking in the distance.  He listened intently, then heard occasional grunts of exertion as well.  He knew a practice yard for the soldiers lay beyond the crude window.  Someone was crazy enough to be making a pass at arms in the rain.

He exhaled noisily, despairing, and sat back onto the crude bunk.  A few days ago, they brought him here.  Healers had appeared, working to mend his wounds.  He was given food again, and clean wool garb. 

He knew they were preparing to execute him.  And he realized it simply would not do for the people to see him so grievously injured.

The last thing the Sorcerer wanted to do was put on a show for the subjects of the King.

He had resisted it all.  He was certain his torture would eventually kill him...but it didn’t.  He endured...he survived.  Long enough to be hanged.

He shifted upon the uncomfortable mattress, bringing his knees up, wrapping his arms around them.

He had only lived for twenty-seven years.  While he had traveled much of the continent, there was still more he had hoped to see.  Far more he had hoped to do.  Even here, at the end, he still held onto his belief in his destiny.

He knew what he wanted to do.  Thinking back, he recalled his only successful attempt, just before the King had personally tortured him.  He had not done so since.

Just like before, he closed his eyes.  Before he attempted this again, he replayed that previous success from start to conclusion before his mind’s eye.

He concentrated, began to slow his heart, and sank into a meditative trance.  He sought out the energies he perceived as an orb of pure light, the center of his being, the center of his existence.  His ultimate power for almost fifteen years, though now untouchable. 

It remained visible, but he could only sense and watch, unable to reach it.  He had battered at it and tried all he knew to force his way in, but to no avail.  Before he could try to batter at it again, try to pry his way inside once more, he paused, studying the luminous sphere before him.  It was not the same as it had been before his mistake...but he could not be sure how or why he knew that.

It was like an intense bonfire within him, burning brightly.  It throbbed, in a rhythm he thought familiar, but that he could not yet discern.  Only when he sank this deeply into his mind could he see it like this.  Only here, in the farthest reaches of his consciousness, could he get this close to the power he could no longer touch, and only barely feel.

A thought occurred to him, like a light breath of air at the back of his neck.  He’d been here before, every time he reached for his power.  He’d always glimpsed this briefly, a momentary flash before he released his spell.  But never had he settled down and contemplated his innermost being.