Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (37 page)

“This is rather sudden, your Majesty,” commented Ov Callan, his tone still argumentative.  “I’ll prepare the guard.”

“No, you will not,” said the King gently.  “I go with Cam, alone.  It is the only way I shall be able to get close to Lyrra-Sharron.  I will have to trust my life to him, and his abilities.”

“His abilities?” questioned Ov Callan.  “I thought he was without his powers, and that was why you had chosen to have him hanged?”

The King gestured to Cam to answer that.

“During my time amongst the Falcon Raiders, I worked to recover my abilities.  I can easily protect the King.”

“I don’t like this,” stated Sir Garvol plainly.  “None of my spies said anything of this man joining Lyrra-Sharron’s rabble.”

“Pardon me, but from what I’ve heard, Sir Garvol, none of your spies have succeeded at infiltrating the Falcon Raiders,” Cam said pointedly.

Sir Garvol opened his mouth as if to speak, but remained silent.

“Be that as it may, I still doubt you can protect the King,” commented Ov Callan.

Cam took a look across the table, and noted a goblet at Lady Marna’s hand.  He took a breath, and began, clearly, “Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight:  Make the goblet fly to my hand, through the air at my command. With this spell, let it take flight.  The goblet aloft like a bird on its way, by my power come to me as I say – Fly!”

The goblet arose and sailed across the table to Cam’s outstretched hand.

Gasps and curses went about the table, ending in silence as all eyes were on the goblet now in Cam Murtallan’s hand.

Lady Ara had never seen a sorcerous act before. The mix of fear and wonder she felt left her mouth dry.

“As you can see, the Sorcerer is no longer without his powers,” remarked Varlock-Sharron, breaking the tense silence.  “This is, as I have said, our best hope.”

He let that sink in a moment, before issuing further orders.  “In the mean time, remove the Black Knight Company and all other needed Army forces from Mintarn.  Send them to the Medaelian border.  Do so with all the rest of our forces not yet so positioned.  I want you, Constable, to see to this, in the absence of my Generals.”

“Immediately, your Majesty,” responded Constable drey-Sharron.

“Even if you do this, your Majesty, she may still march to Mintarn,” commented Sir Garvol darkly.  “Best we keep the Black Knight Company in place.”

“It will not matter,” stated Varlock-Sharron matter-of-factly.  “With this new course of action, no matter the outcome, everything changes.”

The King turned to his Seneschal.  “Sir Tulock.  As of tomorrow morning, you will be in charge here.  If I fail...” he paused, took a breath.  “If I fail, we shall be as ready as we can for war.  Sir Garvol will go to Mintarn today and prepare to address Common.”

  He looked to Sir Garvol.  “If Lyrra-Sharron arrives in Mintarn, you must address Common, and tell them what has happened.”

“What am I to tell them, exactly?” Sir Garvol questioned, clearly not happy with this new plan.

“Everything,” replied the King.  “Tell them everything.  When Lyrra-Sharron presents herself to them, she will already have lost.  If I fail, Sir Tulock will take the crown.  You will place that before them as well.”

“If you don’t fail?” asked Sir Tulock.

Varlock-Sharron grinned wryly.  “If I do not fail, an envoy will be sent to you in two to three days.  I will ride to the Medaelian border, to meet the Generals, and prepare to face the invading forces.  Likely the envoy will be my daughter, if I do not fail.”

“I still do not like this,” stated Sir Garvol despondently.  “It’s too unpredictable.” 

“True enough,” remarked the King.  “But it gives us a chance to stop the Falcon Raiders, without needless waste of resources, and without bloodshed.   If I can reconcile with my daughter, we no longer face conflict on two fronts.  Perhaps, that resolved, we will be more than ready to face the Medaelian onslaught, and stop them.”

“We can only hope,” remarked Lady Marna, still staring at her goblet in Cam Murtallan’s hand.

“Make ready, then,” commanded the King, rising.  “We are through here, for now.  The Falcon Raider crisis, one way or the other, will soon be done.  We have other business to attend to.”

Lady Ara found herself on the verge of tears.  Hoping beyond hope that the King might succeed, and Lyrra-Sharron would continue to live.

*****

Even during the Season of Stillness, she arose with the sun.

She had been up for a number of hours, now.  After preparing her morning breakfast, she was ready to walk the short distance to her barn.

She was a middle-aged woman, and she and her husband had purchased this farmstead more than three decades ago. 

Her children were grown, her youngest daughter had married two years ago, her middle daughter was still in Afpar, teaching at a university there.  Her son was a traveling merchant, and usually spent the winter in Nevarna, where he was ranked as an Esquire. Her son owned lands near the Cilrin Sea, where bamboo, his best product, was cultivated.

During the middle of the last Season of Growing, her husband had been working in the orchard, picking apples from the trees, and had apparently collapsed.  When she found him under the light of the moons, he was already dead, most likely from a heart attack.

She had grieved for him, and her youngest daughter and son made the journey for the funeral. 

Her daughter lived in the town of Penidir with her husband, at the mouth of the River Mendanaria.  They had tried to persuade her to sell the orchard, situated just off the river very near the border with Sharron, but this had been her home a long time now. 

She refused to uproot herself, and would hire hands to pick the apples when they ripened.  Her son had been more understanding, and offered to send her funds to assist.

Normally, since the children had grown, she and her husband had hired a dozen workers to pick their apples.  This time, she had also hired a merchant to collect and sell them.  He was an old friend of her husband, and had worked with him to market their produce during the Season of Harvest. 

Unfortunately, he showed a different side of his personality, chose to be greedy, and turned over barely half of what the produce was worth. 

She was no fool, but he pulled a knife on her when she threatened to involve the local Count.  She relented, and he was gone.  Once the workers were paid, she would not have enough money for wood to fuel her fire during Stillness.

So she had chopped down several of the oldest trees, and turned them into firewood.  There would be less to tend come the new year, and she would need to find a new, honest merchant to take her apples to market.  Otherwise, she would need to trust the hired harvesters alone on the farmstead, while she went to sell the fruit herself.

She pulled a cloak over her shoulders, and stepped out.  It was surprisingly warm, given the season.  All winter had been mild, which pleased her.  She headed for her barn, where she planned to take one of her chickens, to be prepared for soup.

She glanced down the road, which was currently empty.  She had watched a number of soldiers march from Penlorka over the past couple months.  She never would leave her house to watch them pass, for even the most disciplined company might choose to take advantage of a widow.  More than that, she did not recognize the armor and uniforms of several companies that had passed. 

Clearly, they were setting up for another conflict with their Sharronian counterparts.  Politics did not interest her, and the local Count did not tax her lands at all.  So long as she was left alone to live as she chose, she could care less about the nation in which she lived.

She paused when she reached the barn.  The door was slightly open.  She remembered, when she had gone in yesterday to collect eggs from her chickens, that she closed it tightly. 

Cautiously, she stepped in.  Glancing to her right, she found a pitchfork.  She took it, and moved silently in further.

Just ahead and to the right, on a pile of hay, there was a disheveled looking girl, fast asleep.  She looked ragged, her blonde hair a tangled mess, and she was clearly slender, under a tattered cloak and ill-fitting tunic and breeches she wore.

Her foot crunched an eggshell, which had clearly been placed there by the girl.  Before she could blink, the girl had jumped up, brandishing a knife.

“Have no fear, girl, I won’t harm you,” she said, letting the tines of the pitchfork touch the ground.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said.  “I’ve been on the run for days, now.  The horse I had…well he dropped in the middle of the night.  I walked til I saw the barn, and I was exhausted.  I need to get home.”

“And where is home, dear?” she asked.

“Not here,” was the girl’s answer.

“Put down the knife, dear, I won’t harm you,” she said gently.  “It’s alright, you are safe here.”

The girl nodded, and returned the dagger to wherever she had it hidden.

“Is someone trying to hurt you, lass?” she asked her.

The girl shook her head.  “Not exactly.  It’s just really important that I get home.  I have…I have things that my…family needs to be made aware of.”

Clearly the girl was not telling her the whole truth.  But she looked somewhat like her own daughter, and she found she felt nothing but sympathy for her.  “I won’t keep you.  I was just a bit concerned when I saw the barn door was open more than I had left it.  But tell me, when was the last time you ate?”

The girl sighed.  “Day before yesterday.”

She shook her head.  “Tsk.  Come, let me fix you something to eat.  No offence, dear girl, but you look like you need it.”

The girl grinned at that.  “My momma would not like to see me this thin, I don’t doubt.”

“Come with me, then.  Help me catch one of the chickens, and then I will prepare you something to eat.  Then you can be on your way.  Sound good?”

The girl began to bob her head.  “Surely.  And thank you.”

She smiled at her.  “I’m glad for the company.  I haven’t spoken with another since the end of Harvest.”

“I will be glad to share a meal with you, then,” the girl said, with obvious sincerity in her tone.  “Again, I thank you.”

She went and propped the pitchfork back where she had taken it from.  The girl had climbed off the hay pile, and was standing near.

“What should I call you, dear?”

“My name is Dariana.”

Chapter 28

Dak paused at the edge of the wood, peeking out at the road.

There was no mistaking this.  A whole company of soldiers, Sharron Army, marching to the East.  He quietly slipped back into the woods.

Dak tread slowly.  He wore muted brown breetches, a dark green tunic, and a brown cloak.  He watched the ground for twigs and roots, making no excess noise, avoiding tripping himself.

He was near.  Three times he gave the call of a local bird.  Three similar answered.  He moved on.

They were hard to see, but scattered all around were nearly a hundred and twelve Falcon Raiders.  They hid among the trees, several paying special attention to horses, working to keep them calm and quiet.  Dak admitted to himself he almost envied the horses.

Acting as his second for the time being, Delann approached him.  Another, Torra, was at his side.

Delann was about the same age as Dak.  Thin and muscular, short of stature and bald, Delann was a tough man.  His prowess with the sword was remarkable, as he’d been a farmer when he’d joined the Falcon Raiders.  Torra was in her late twenties, the widow of a Sharron Army soldier.  A waif like build, but she was unmatched with a crossbow, her auburn hair was cut short, and her eyes were brown and hard.  A deceptively tough woman.

“There’s a company on the road,” Dak told them quietly.

“Looking for us?” questioned Delann.

Dak shook his head.  “I think not.  They’re marching east.”

“Maybe those rumors are true,” remarked Torra.

“Maybe,” Dak agreed.

They waited quietly.  Three more bird calls, three more in response.  A moment later, another Falcon Raider, Mikar, joined them.

Mikar was a very big man.  Over six feet tall, and more than three-hundred pounds.  His hair was thin, but dark, his beard thick.  He was deceptively agile, though, and impressive with the quarterstaff.  He was breathing a bit hard.

“They’re gone, Lord Dak,” he said, catching his breath.  “But I couldn’t find a path of any sort through the woods.  We gonna have to stick to the road.”

Dak found himself nodding his head.  “Let’s get Mikar, here, some water.  We need a plan.”

Another raider presented a water skin to Mikar, who drank noisily of it.

“We need to make Tarmollo no later than tomorrow, preferably by morning,” stated Dak.  “We’re being slowed by all this military movement. Suggestions?”

“We could split up,” breathed Mikar.  “If we make ourselves smaller groups, we might arouse less suspicion.”

“The trouble with that, though, is we’re well armed, and we have no wagons,” remarked Delann.

“That does present a problem,” commented Dak.

“I might have an idea,” Torra offered.  “I grew up not far from here, in the Town of Shartu.  It might not be of any importance, but it’s near enough the border to be in danger from invasion.  We could get away with at least a quarter of us moving west.  Scared, armed townspeople, getting clear of any potential fighting.  Even if they didn’t pass through Shartu, they’ve passed near enough to be noticed.”

“We could do this somewhat better,” said Mikar, breathing more easily now.  “All our horse, circled around another quarter of the group on foot.  On guard.  The rest of the foot slinks along at our sides, in the trees.”

“That’s not bad,” agreed Dak.  “Torra, you know Shartu.  You’ll speak for us if anyone stops us.”

Torra gestured her ascent.

“Let’s do it.  Unless there’s another suggestion?”  No one said a word, as Dak eyed them.  “Torra, Delann, split ‘em up.  Find who’s going to do alright with the underbrush and such.  Delann, the woods group is yours.”

The former farmer bobbed his head.

“Let’s move out!” Dak ordered.

They were soon on the go again, continuing on their way to Tarmollo. 

*****

              Nadav and Torman, along with Neva Alcarra, rode ahead of their band of Falcon Raiders.

They looked, to all appearances, like a wealthy and large merchant caravan.  Torman, by agreement, would do all the talking.  They were now approaching a platoon of soldiers.  It was unavoidable.

Torman, nose in the air, looking haughty, raised a hand, and Nadav and Neva halted. He rode a bit ahead, and the leader of the platoon, a sergeant, stepped forward.

Nadav observed the other four men of the platoon.  They were nervous, glancing back and forth at one another, Torman and company, and the wagons of the Raiders behind them.  Nadav was certain these were Sharron Army reserves, not regulars.

“Sergeant!” called Torman, sounding regal.  “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’m sorry, m’lord,” said the sergeant uneasily.  “We’re patrolling for Falcon Raiders and other bandits.  Reports have indicated the presence of some in this area over the last couple months.  State your business.”

“State my business?” questioned Torman, becoming haughty again.  He turned to Nadav and Neva.  “He wants me to ‘state my business.’”

Feigning good humor, Neva and Nadav laughed.

“My business, Sergeant, is with the honorable Lord Mayor of Natarn, Bran Il-Sharron.”

“I need more than that from you, m’lord,” stated the Sergeant, crossing his arms, feeling his authority.

Torman made a dismissive gesture, blowing out his lips.  “Ah, such is the mind of the military type.  Very well, then, Sergeant.  I am Torman An-Farrat, Lord Merchant of the Staple and Spice, from Anzarna.”  He did as much of a flourish and bow as was possible while mounted.  “I travel with my nephew, there, Nordav, and my lady, Neva.  And this,” he made a grand gesture of the wagons behind him, “is my caravan.”

The Sergeant was clearly unimpressed.  “Papers?”

“You are a bore, aren’t you?” questioned Torman with a hint of amusement.  He snapped his fingers, and Nadav rode forth.  He presented a scroll to Torman, who handed it to the Sergeant. They’d planned ahead for this contingency.

The soldier unrolled the scroll, looked it over.  He looked up, and it was obvious he counted the wagons.  He nodded his head to himself.

“Would it be too much trouble if I have some of your wagons searched, Lord Torman?”

Torman blew out his lips again.  “Of course it would be too much trouble!  We were delayed leaving Anzarna, and your border guards were quite thorough already.  Here,” he was handed another scroll from Nadav, which he gave to the sergeant.

There were many advantages to having ex-soldiers among the Falcon Raiders.  Two had served as border guards in the Sharron Army, and had forged the necessary papers.

“It does all seem in order, then,” the sergeant conceded.  “Be wary, Lord Torman.  Bandits are plaguing this region of late.  Be on your way.”

Torman tossed the man a couple silver coins.  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he turned.  “Nordav?”

“Move out!” Nadav called.

“Sergeant,” Torman bowed his head as they rode off, the wagons coming behind them.

They rounded a bend, and heard the sergeant and his platoon gallop off in the direction they had come.

Neva practically giggled.  “That worked far better than we’d thought.”

Nadav grinned.  “Yes.  ‘Lord Torman’ put on a good show.”

Torman smirked.  “My mother always wanted me to be an actor.”

They shared a laugh, and continued along the way to Tarmollo.