Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (45 page)

Not far away, presumably, out of sight, the Medaelian Army and its allies were gathered.  The various Sharron military commanders had pondered if Wilnar-Medira’s superstition would keep them at bay until the start of the Season of Planting, or if the attack would come sooner.

Cam sensed another presence, and turned to see Varlock-Sharron approaching him.

“Your Majesty.”

“You are up early, Cam Murtallan,” remarked Varlock-Sharron.

Cam grinned.  “My room is small.  Kind of cramped, not that I’m complaining, mind you.  I just wanted the space, and the fresh air to meditate this morning.”

“I understand,” Varlock-Sharron replied.  “I take it our scouts have not returned as yet?”

“I’ve been up here over an hour, and would’ve noticed.  No sign yet.”

“Can you...” Varlock-Sharron began, pausing, collecting what he actually wanted to say.  “Can you see further?  I mean, can you use sorcery to enhance how well you can see?  Could you look out for the enemy?”

Cam thought about that.  “Likely, yes.  Though I’ve never tried before.  I doubt, though, that I can see far enough out there to observe their hiding places.  The scouts will have to earn their pay.”

Varlock-Sharron bobbed his head at that.  He changed the subject.  “Beautiful sunrise, is it not?”

Cam agreed.  “It is indeed, Majesty.”

Varlock-Sharron glanced at Cam.  “We are alone here, Cam Murtallan.  I think it would be alright with me if you called me by name, when it is just you and I.”

“It’s easy to forget that you would prefer that,” remarked Cam.  “It just seems too familiar, a man of my stature, calling a King by his first name.”

Varlock-Sharron laughed.  “It may be, at that.  But I prefer those I consider friends to address me less formally.”

Cam had no response to that.

“Are you surprised a King would speak of friends?” pressed Varlock-Sharron, as if reading Cam’s thoughts.

“Not at all,” Cam responded.  “I’m just not used to having any.  Especially when a friend tortured me and planned to have me killed once.”

Varlock-Sharron frowned.  “We cannot be friends, then?”

Cam looked at the King.  “I didn’t say that.  It simply comes as a shock to me, still.  I am in fact quite honored you consider me as such.  I far prefer having people I can call friends to the way I lived before.”

“No longer desiring the vagabond life, Cam Murtallan?”

“I could get used to my presence being accepted, certainly,” replied Cam with a hint of bemusement in his tone.

Varlock-Sharron smirked, but said nothing further.

He paused, his eyes went distant, and his expression turned serious.  “It will not be long now.”

“How can we know?” asked Cam.

Varlock-Sharron leaned on the battlements.  “I am a veteran.  I have experienced many campaigns now.  You get a sense for it.  You can feel a battle coming.  Watch Bodrir and Sopirr, or almost any of their staff.  Veterans can sense it.  Like birds sensing a coming storm.”

Cam made no comment. 

“I will tell you, Cam Murtallan.  I grow tired of these constant battles.  Every few years, I go to war.  Over thirty years, since my teens.  Always they want to rob me of my stability.  Always they want to break us apart.  Sharron is like a thorn in the side of our neighbors.”

“I must confess, I really don’t understand why they find peace and prosperity in Sharron so offensive,” remarked Cam honestly.

Varlock-Sharron laughed a short, humorless laugh.  “Many reasons, Cam.  Many reasons.  Long ago, Sharron was two separate Kingdoms.  They merged, became Sharron.  It was civil, without warfare, and offensive to our neighbors, as it made us far larger than any of them.  Over the years, the various nations on this continent have fought constantly.  The borders had been broken and changed with the conquests of Pallantir.  In the aftermath of his death, disputes over them were never-ending.”

Varlock-Sharron let out a sigh, and continued.  “The lands of Sharron, once of two Kingdoms, were constantly in question.  To the north, the mountains provide a good source of ores and water.  In the south, the beaches are of fine sand for glass.  The bogs have good game.  To the east, here, is the River Mendanaria.  Fertile cropland is nearby.  Sharron could isolate itself, and would need not import anything, save oil, the diversity of our terrain being what it is.”

He changed his tone somewhat.  “These used to be in the possession of neighboring Kingdoms.  They wanted the nearby lands, to further secure what they had.  They would strike.  They would invade.  They never would succeed, though, and Sharron took pieces from its neighbors as buffer zones occasionally.  This infuriated them even further, and as Sharron became more and more stable, those lands were sealed to the Crown and Kingdom.”

“They’re simply holding a grudge?” questioned Cam.

Varlock-Sharron chuckled mirthlessly.  “I suppose so, yes.  The loss of the Vann Region particularly infuriated the Medaelians.”

“I’m told their King is a terror.  While I do not know of him personally, I saw first hand his treatment of Anaria,” remarked Cam.

Varlock-Sharron made an angry rumble low in his throat.  “Aldo Wilnar-Medira.  Defiant to the last.  Always so sure Medaelia deserves a better reputation and more glory than they have.  For centuries, Anaria has been more or less protected.  It was an unwritten law of sorts, the oldest Kingdom in the world remains untouched.  Anaria was the only Kingdom to survive the Falling of the Skies, and later the conquest of Pallantir.”

“My homeland,” remarked Cam quietly.

Varlock-Sharron acknowledged him, and continued.  “A small army for protection, none ever believed their neighbors would strike.  Scholars, diplomats, peaceful men and women from Anaria roamed the world, proud of their heritage, but always willing to help in other lands, to trade with all the world.  The libraries, the museums, the universities, they were magnificent, and were open to everyone.”

Varlock-Sharron’s face grew sour.  “Wilnar-Medira could not stand to have that little Kingdom, so well respected, practically within his borders.  As his Father lay dying, he took command of the military, and swept into Anaria.  They were outnumbered, and outfought by a viscous army.”

“I was there,” said Cam quietly.  “I saw how the Medaelians make war.”

Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam.  “I know.  I wish we could have done something about it.”

“It’s the past,” remarked Cam, still somewhat bitterly.  “If she succeeds, Lyrra-Sharron will take care of the situation.  Wilnar-Medira will pay for his crimes.”

“I truly hope you are right, Cam,” replied the King.  “Her mission will not be an easy one.”

Cam took a deep, calming breath.  Talk of the destruction of his home, so long ago, always unnerved him.  “Lyrra-Sharron is clever, resourceful, and devious.  Wilnar-Medira has met his match.”

Varlock-Sharron chuckled again.  “I cannot fault that opinion.  I just hope Lyrra-Sharron exercises caution.  He should not be underestimated.”

Something in the distance caught his eye.  Cam started looking out towards the river to see it more clearly.

“The scouts are returning,” he said.

Cam followed Varlock-Sharron from the wall to the courtyard below.  The portcullis was raised, and the horses thundered in.

Various soldiers grabbed the horses, and Cam observed without comment the spectacle before him.

Five men had ridden out the night before.  All five horses were here, but one was riderless, and three held soldiers who were slumped over, likely dead.  Only one stirred.  He was helped from his horse. 

General Bodrir and General Sopirr were there.  The soldier was laid to the ground, panting.  Blood arose from his throat.

“Sergeant Alseer?” questioned General Sopirr, kneeling beside the wounded soldier.

The young man coughed, shaking.  “General, sir,” he wheezed.

“We need a medic here, now!” cried General Bodrir.

“No time,” whispered Sergeant Alseer. “We found...” he coughed several times.  The medic was there, leaning on his other side.  The young Sergeant waved him off.  “We found them, sir.  In trenches, well hidden.  I...I estimate twenty thousand, just to the south...southeast.”

His breathing was becoming more labored.  The medic leaned in, but the Sergeant weakly waved him off again. 

“No.  No time.  Th...think there are...more...more forces.  N...n...n...northeast, near...Penlorka.”

A tear ran down his face, as he hacked again.  This time the medic leaned in, stripping away his armor.  General Sopirr stood.

“I think that’s the last scout party we send out,” he said quietly.

Sergeant Alseer erupted into a terrible coughing fit.  When it subsided, he lay still, his eyes glazed over.

The medic examined him, then reached out and closed his lids.  He stood, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, sir.  He was too grievously wounded.”

General Sopirr just wore a sad expression.  “He was one of my best.”

General Bodrir glanced about.  “See to the horses.  Get those men.”

Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam.  “Could you have helped him?”

“I doubt it.  There is a limit to healing...I can do much, but I would not have even have known where to begin.  Maybe, in time, as I learn more...” he left it hanging.

“Well, your Majesty,” General Bodrir started, walking over to The King.  “Not the best way to begin the day.  Are you ready to meet the staff again?”

Varlock-Sharron nodded.  “It will not be long, now.  You do not wipe out a scouting party so thoroughly if you are not preparing to move.  Let us get ready for them.  Cam?”

Cam joined them, heading for the room where the maps lay, prepared and marked, and battle plans were made ready.

Cam admitted that he could sense it now.  The battle was coming...and it was coming all too soon.

Chapter 34

Lyrra-Sharron Anduin stood at the bow of the large frigate upon which she and a third of the Falcon Raiders were embarked. 

The ride from Tarmollo to the River Mendanaria had felt very strange, foreign.  After two years of sneaking about, looking for hidden trails, and avoiding patrols, it was odd to ride openly, pennants flying, to ships of the Sharron Navy. 

Hastily, Lyrra-Sharron had dug out the banners she had had in her possession since her original departure from Gara-Sharron.  She had saved them with the intent of riding behind them, victorious, back to the capitol after removing the King.

Now, she traveled with those banners flying in support of her father and an operation sanctioned by him.  A change she had not expected.

She had been quiet during much of the ride to the river, choosing by-and-large to keep to herself.  Analyzing all that had transpired.  Examining her own startling and unexpected change of heart. 

Lyrra-Sharron had planned so much.  Anticipated nearly every possibility.  None of them had ever included admitting she might be wrong...none ever found her leading the Falcon Raiders in the service of the Crown, her father.

Hard to believe that, deep down, all Lyrra-Sharron had most craved was the simple knowledge that her father did, in fact, care.  Hard to believe it took so little, and changed so much.

Her struggle had nearly destroyed what she most prized.  It was a bitter pill to swallow for her, as Lyrra-Sharron had always been deeply prideful.  Alone with her thoughts, she considered all who had suffered, all who fought, all who died, in the interest of her misguided crusade. 

It was her fervent hope that this current action might begin to atone for the lives she had irrevocably altered, for good or ill, along the way.

She had taken the time, over the course of the past year, to have special favors made, by those with the necessary talent, with the soaring silver falcon on a black field. 

These were originally meant to be added to the outfits of the Falcon Raiders, after they had toppled the King, for the victorious return to Gara-Sharron.  This had been their calling card, after all, once the personal sigil of Karlock-Sharron.  Now, they all wore it upon the left breast of their vests, a uniform.  They had become true soldiers, no longer a force of outlaws and rebels.

Altering the ranks again, she had taken the rank of Captain to herself, a gold cord hanging from the left shoulder of her uniform vest, making Dak her First Lieutenant, a blue cord on his shoulder.  Nadav, Torman, Andim, and Kallan were Second Lieutenants, with green cords.  Neva, Darak, Varnon, Torra, Delann and Mikar, Third Lieutenants, wearing red cords. 

A few others, like Alran, Khelvan, and Bormann, had been named Sergeants, and wore cords of black.  A convenient way to increase order and organization.  They were acting as a real military force.

She glanced back, noting again the lowered sails.  The oars were out, hauling the large ship upriver.  Behind were three more ships, another frigate, a cutter, and a snow, with the rest of the Falcon Raiders. 

After much discussion among her officers, Lyrra-Sharron had selected a total of three hundred for this mission.  The remaining two hundred were sent to Gara-Sharron, to be at the direct disposal of the Regent to assist in maintaining order while the Army was away.  Most of those were newest among the Falcon Raiders, but still accepted their mission without argument.

Lyrra-Sharron wore a tunic and long, heavy skirt.  They were disguised as merchants, a caravan from Dulvaln, sailing up the Mendanaria to Penkira.  The Sharron Navy officer in command, Captain Zid Grovarn, had been born in Dulvaln, and knew much of the workings of the merchant class and their ships.

One of her father’s best ideas, long ago, had been to make the naval vessels of Sharron inconspicuous.  A casual observer would easily mistake them for merchantmen, until close examination revealed naval officers and the like on deck.  This strategy had fooled enemy ships more than once, and had virtually ended piracy around Sharron. 

Thus they rowed upriver, virtually ignored.  Wilnar-Medira was so focused on his upcoming battle on the Sharron border, that he had no patrols along the riverbanks, or on the river itself, for that matter.  With only a small coast, however, Medaelia did not have much of a navy to speak of.

The sound of someone clearing his throat brought Lyrra-Sharron out of her thoughts, and she turned to face Dak standing behind her, in his non-descript browns and greys.

“Dak,” she intoned.

“Lyrra-Sharron.”

“What has you up so early?” she asked.

He approached, crossing his arms.  “I’ve always been fond of sailing.  My grandfather was a fisherman.  He’d take me sailing with him sometimes.  I always wake with the sun as is, but there is something special about it when I’m shipboard.”

Lyrra-Sharron grinned.  “This is only my second time on a ship.  Once, when I was very young, I went with my mother and father and sister to Kelfarn, where my father took us on a brief trip in a newly commissioned battleship.  I believe it was a galleon.  This is smaller, of course, but equally impressive.”

Dak was bobbing his head at that.

“Something troubling you?” she asked.

Dak actually shrugged.  “This whole thing is just so...”

“Odd?” she finished for him.

He glanced towards her, but said nothing.

Lyrra-Sharron was glad she was not the only one feeling like that.  “I know.  I have been thinking about where we have come, since we began.  It is hard to believe we reached the resolution we did.  You could never have told me things would work out this way.  I also cannot believe how close we came to destroying my Sharron.”

“You’ve been very quiet since you and your father parted company.”

She turned from him, looking out over the river.  “I know.  I have been doing a lot of thinking.  So much has changed.”

“Care to talk about it?” questioned Dak.

Lyrra-Sharron shrugged.  “It is…just in the back of my mind, nagging.  The people we touched, in ways both good and bad.  Everything I planned, everything I prepared…all for naught.”

“You feel you failed?”

“No, it is not that.  It just…it is all different.”

Lyrra-Sharron could feel Dak’s eyes boring in, waiting for her to continue.

She frowned.  “I guess...I guess I never realized how selfish my plans were.  How narrow my vision had become.  My perceptions were clouded, so deluded.  All my plans, based on years of misconceptions and misunderstandings.  It all changed so fast, became clear so quickly.  I would not think something so simple as hearing the words ‘I love you’ from my father could convince me I had erred.  On top of all that, I have also found myself thinking about Cam.”

Dak stood beside her now, looking out over the river.  “He’s played quite a part in all this.”

Lyrra-Sharron snorted.  “In all this?  You realize the destiny he has?  If he truly is The Seeker...”

“You doubt?”

“No,” said Lyrra-Sharron instantly.  “After everything that has happened?  No.  He
is
The Seeker.  No other Sorcerer has ever regained his power, once lost.  All of the books I have read that make reference to the loss of that power only mention the death of the sorcerer involved.  The world is changing, Dak.”

“War is coming,” replied Dak.

“Is that not why we go to Penkira?” asked Lyrra-Sharron ironically.

Dak turned to her.  “I don’t mean this skirmish.  I mean the world will face terrible war soon.  ‘
And only The Seeker will know it discovered, for only The Seeker may wield The Source.  Knowledge of Wizardry will be recovered, returned to the world with great show of force
.’”

She faced him.  “That does not necessarily mean war.”

“No?” asked Dak.  “I think it does.  ‘Great show of force’ implies some kind of conflict, and conflict, especially that of a prophecy, is usually war.”

Lyrra-Sharron considered that.

“I know I haven’t really commented on our current situation,” continued Dak, “but you did the right thing.  His Majesty brought with him to Tarmollo the truth.”

She eyed him curiously then.  Saw something in his face she’d never seen before.  “I am glad you approve, Dak.  I do not say so often enough, but your opinion is important to me.”

“I’m with you to the end, Lyrra-Sharron,” replied Dak, suddenly looking uncharacteristically uncertain.

She found herself leaning towards him, lost in his eyes.  The look there was something she wanted, something she craved.  She found herself wanting very much to kiss him.  She leaned towards him, found him leaning down towards her...

“Your Highness!” called Captain Grovarn.

The moment broken, Lyrra-Sharron and Dak both spun rather quickly, facing astern towards the ships’ captain. 

He was a short man, slightly bow legged, bald, with sun-dark skin and ropy muscles.  He wore a plain vest and baggy breetches, a simple enough disguise.  He walked with a slight limp, coming closer.

“What is it, Captain?” asked Lyrra-Sharron, trying not to sound disappointed.  She felt somehow cheated.

He was just before her, and bowed his head, first to her, then Dak.  “Your Highness.  Lieutenant Dak.  As ye well know, we have passed the fork of the river now, and my look-out reports there are troops along the south bank.  However, they seem to be ignoring us.  They are marching at a good clip, westward.”

“No real surprise, that,” Lyrra-Sharron acknowledged.  “Tell the lookout to keep us posted if any approach the bank.  Anything else?”

“Nay, your Highness.  We shall be at the point of disembarkation late tonight or early tomorrow.”

“Very good.  Thank you, Captain.”

He bowed once more, and walked off.

“Well,” Dak began, sounding uncomfortable.  His next words tumbled out in a rush.  “I’m going to see to the others, make sure they’ve been watching for rust on their weapons, with the damp air about the river and all.  Maybe set up drills in the galley, clear the tables and such.  Check the horses below decks.  At any rate, we’ll speak later.”

Before she could respond Dak was walking away.  Far too quickly for her liking.

              Lyrra-Sharron was torn between shouting at him to turn back to her, and stomping her feet upon the deck like a petulant child who did not get what she wanted.  Instead, she turned back to contemplate the river before her, feeling the motion of the ship. 

She found her feelings regarding Dak Amviir were mixed, and complicated.  Yet she had no choice but to set them aside for the time being.  The Princess had a difficult mission before her.

They were ready.  The task ahead of her and her Falcon Raiders was more clear than it had ever been.  She was an agent of the Crown, now, rather than a rebel set against it.  She had a bigger, more important goal.  Her objective truly was the salvation of Sharron.