Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

“The pageantry, the parade, I suppose so.  The hanging?  No.  But it must happen.”  Varlock-Sharron paused a moment.  “I hope that by my example today, we will keep the rest of his kind from this land.  After today, Sharron will be a Kingdom practitioners of Sorcery will fear to tread once more.”

*****

The procession approached the square.  Her patience was just beginning to wear thin, and she found herself more apprehensive than she had thought she might be.  Lyrra-Sharron took firm grasp of her resolve, and moved closer to the gallows, watching the parade. 

As she had predicted, entertainers of many sorts led the pageant.  Andim and Kallan were right behind her, ready to defend her if necessary.  The King and his ring of Guardsmen were yet to reach the square, but both men were taking extraordinary measures to avoid notice.  Being former Guardsmen, they wanted to careful not to be seen, even disguised. 

Lyrra-Sharron was armed only with a few knives, though one of the two men behind had a rapier for her use.  Being so lightly armed only added to her discomfort.

She observed the coming spectacle more closely.  One of the jugglers stumbled, disappearing from view for a few moments.  When he stood up and began again, no one noticed it was not the same man. 

Lyrra-Sharron could not hide the grin that crossed her lips.  It had worked, precisely as planned.

The drums played a tremendous marching beat, and soon the cart bearing the Sorcerer was driven up to the gallows, after circling the square twice.  Lyrra-Sharron watched closely as a group of Guardsmen, seven total, opened the cage.  The Sorcerer stood on his own, a determined, but calm look upon his face.

She scrutinized him closely, now.  She was not so far away.  He was about average height, with long dark hair pulled back severely and tied off with a leather cord.  His face was unremarkable but handsome.  His bearing seemed surprisingly regal.  He wore simple wool garments, dark grey tunic and breeches, and plain brown leather boots.  Typical prison fare.  But it was his eyes, piercing and blue, that struck her.  They were bold, sad, and completely distant.  A man resigned to his fate.

The drummers played out a short roll, followed by two sharp beats, which repeated.  As they did so, she looked to the end of the cavalcade, and saw King Varlock-Sharron and his Seneschal, Lord Tulock, dismounting from their horses. They quickly climbed the stairs to the top of the platform set up only a few hundred yards from the gallows.

The jugglers continued to throw colorful balls and belaying pins, as the puppets milled about the thick crowd.  A man in a maroon cloak with a leather mask stepped up to the gallows.  The executioner. 

King Varlock-Sharron raised his hands, and the drums abruptly stopped.  The people gathered for the hanging turned to look at the King, standing with Lord Tulock beside him and mounted guards all around.  In addition, another half a dozen guards stood behind him on the platform.

Lord Tulock banged his staff upon the dais three times.  “My Lords and Ladies, good people of Sharron all!  Pray attend his Royal Majesty, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin.  Eleventh Sovereign of the House of Anduin, Guardian of the Kingdom of Sharron, Keeper of the Keys of Justice, General-Master of the Army of Sharron, Baron of the Anduin Province, and Second Prince of Medaelia!”

The reaction through the crowd varied; bows, curtsies, other gestures and signs of respect.  Gritting her teeth, Lyrra-Sharron curtsied with those around her.  All attention was focused towards the dais. 

The King took a step forward, and spoke.

“People of Gara-Sharron: It is well known from Medaelia to Ontseer that the arte of Sorcery is forbidden in the Kingdom of Sharron.  Yet one has come to our fair lands, practicing this art in the most flagrant manner.  Today, you will witness my judgment passed.  This man, a sorcerer by his own actions, is to be hanged this day.”

Cheers and applause followed that.  Lyrra-Sharron observed Lord Tulock clearing his throat, as a guard took his staff.  He produced a scroll, and unrolled it.  “The statutes of the Kingdom of Sharron are fair and just, to keep and protect its people.  Thus this day, the third of Exaran, of the Five-Thousand and Fourth year after The Falling, do we carry out the edict of the land.  The law clearly states hence: In section thirty-one, paragraph two, ‘The art of sorcery is hereby forbidden within the borders of the Kingdom of Sharron.  Thus any found practicing the forbidden art are to be captured, questioned, and killed, lest we allow chaos to overwhelm our beloved nation, as did nearly transpire before’.  Sealed by the ring, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin, sovereign-protector of Sharron.”

A roar went up from the crowd.  Approval of the law, no doubt.  Lyrra-Sharron was feeling anxious, but ready.

“Thus do we carry out the sentence, on this man, who names himself Sorcerer by his actions,” continued Lord Tulock.  More shouting, and as if on cue, assorted garbage and rotten fruit were tossed at the Sorcerer. 

“Move him into position!” ordered the Seneschal.

Just as Lyrra-Sharron had known, it was Lord Tulock who would unwittingly give the signal.

The juggler placed within the parade let his balls fly.  Within seconds of one-another, three thunderous detonations, along with puffs of flame and smoke, erupted within the crowds.

“Protect the King!” cried a guard, as those upon the platform moved in and surrounded the King and his Seneschal, drawing their weapons.  The King was also shouting, his own sword drawn.

Several more small explosions, and the crowd attempted to disperse, running in terror, trampling one-another.  The crowded square left very little room for movement.

Lyrra-Sharron, with Andim and Kallan at her back, pressed forward to the gallows.

Moments later, arrows flew from no-where apparent, taking out most of the guards around the Sorcerer, as well as the executioner.  One arrow struck the Sorcerer in the thigh, causing him to fall upon the gallows floor.  It had been deemed necessary, to prevent the King’s Guardsman from killing him in some other way.

She reached the gallows, and was pushed onto the raised base by Andim.  She knelt beside the Sorcerer, who looked stunned.  He threw a punch at her, but she grabbed his arm.  “Lie still, fool, I am here to rescue you!”

Seconds later, Guardsmen swung off their horses onto the gallows, four of them total.  Lyrra-Sharron rose up, drawing a long knife from a place of concealment.

She sliced at the first Guardsman, and he fell, clutching at his bloodied throat.  She spun around, driving the dagger deep into the chest of another. 

As a third swung a blade at her, she dropped beside the Sorcerer, drawing two more knives.  But she wouldn’t need them.

Kallan had gotten atop the platform, and rose quickly, swinging his heavy blade.  The Guardsman fell, missing his head.

Before the last Guardsman could reach them, a blade swept out from beside the raised gallows, removing one of his legs.  Andim was with her.

Horses thundered up close, but as she readied her weapons, she recognized Dak and the merchant Kurr leading them.  They had obviously succeeded in getting through the crowd to the gallows.

“Now!” cried Dak.

Lyrra-Sharron arose, and as she did so, she turned to look at the other dais, where The King now stood shoulder to shoulder with his men, looking out into the crowd.  She caught his eye.  The look that crossed his face made the whole thing worthwhile.

She leapt to her horse, and Kallan helped to toss the Sorcerer upon it behind her. She glanced at Dak, who nodded heavily, while Kallan leapt upon horseback as well.

“GO!” Dak shouted.  They needed no further encouragement.  Arrows whistled past them, and Lyrra-Sharron heard Kallan cry out as one grazed his left arm.  But he still spurred his horse, and took off. 

Lyrra-Sharron and company galloped away, arrows flying after them, ignoring the crowd running in terror all around.  Guardsmen still mounted tried to give pursuit, crushing the crowd as they attempted to charge after the Raiders.

*****

Varlock-Sharron watched as the Sorcerer was moved into position.  Suddenly, explosions rang out within the crowd.  Instinctively, the Guardsman encircled the King and his Seneschal, as someone cried out “Protect the King!”

The King was not amused, to say the least.  He shouted at his guards, as he drew his sword.  Lord Tulock had his sword out as well. 

Varlock-Sharron could not see what was happening.  The chaos around him was infuriating.  He roughly grabbed a guard by the shoulder, pulling himself into the circle.

It was pandemonium.  The crowd ran all about, shouting and screaming in terror and confusion.  The thunder from more explosions died away.  The King turned his eyes to the gallows.

A woman rose up, and turned to look at him.  She had blonde hair, and very light skin.  And it was clearly a disguise. 

He would know his own daughter anywhere.

              A moment of shock, he found himself staring in disbelief.  Varlock-Sharron watched her leap upon a horse, another man tossing the Sorcerer behind her.

He recovered from his surprise.  “Archers!  Do not let them get clear!  Chase them down!”  he cried out.

Discipline was not broken, but the stampeding crowd got in the way.  His soldiers did their best, firing off arrows and crossbow bolts at the retreating raiders.  A company of mounted Guardsmen began to mow through the crowd.  But the Raiders were already clear of the marketplace.

He turned to his Seneschal.  “Tulock, send messengers to the gates now!  I want the gates sealed.  No one gets in or out without being thoroughly searched.  Hurry, before they can get away!”

Tulock turned, and called out for the Captain-General of the guards.  He barked orders at the man, who in turn shouted terse orders at his men.  Horsemen thundered off, carrying the message to the gates.

A breathless Guardsman rode up alongside the dais, and spoke to his Superior and Tulock.  Varlock-Sharron was fuming, looking off in the direction the rescuers of the Sorcerer had ridden off in. 

Tulock turned to address his King, reclaiming Varlock-Sharron’s attention.

“My liege, the crowd has mostly dispersed.  We’ve captured a few suspected conspirators.  What do you want done with them?”  Lord Tulock asked.

The King sheathed his sword, taking a moment to reign in his emotions.  “Bring them to the Palace.  We only need a platoon to accompany us home.  Send messengers ahead to deploy the rest of my Guardsmen, as well as the Constabulary and Army.  I want the city sealed.  Send out heralds throughout town.  All shops are to be closed, and the citizens are to be in their homes within one hour.  Taverns must be closed as well.  Anyone found on the streets in two hours will be arrested, and brought in for questioning.  Is that clear?”

Lord Tulock nodded his head in assent.

“See to it.  When we get back to the Palace, I want the prisoners questioned immediately.  I also want the Council convened by sunset.  No more underestimating Lyrra-Sharron’s abilities, she has gone too far, now.  I want my daughter captured, and her Raiders broken.”

“Does the original order of her capture stand?”  Lord Tulock asked.

The King looked at him a moment, then shook his head slowly, sadly.  “No.  She is no longer protected, I want her brought in by any means necessary.  She will not humiliate me again.”

Darkness was descending upon the city of Gara-Sharron.  It was eerily quiet and deserted, not a citizen dared walk the streets.  Taverns and theatres and shops and factories were closed, each and every one. 

Only squads of the Royal Guardsmen, Sharron Army Soldiers, and the Constabulary moved about the boulevards of the capital.  The gates were sealed. 

The various militants on patrol would deal with any persons they found disobeying the curfew assertively.  They had orders to arrest anyone they encountered, but not treat them harshly, unless they met resistance.

The people knew better than to test the will of their King.  No one wanted to be detained and questioned.  For the first time in memory, Gara-Sharron was silent and still.  The people knew their leader, and met his edict without question, comment or complaint.   

No one would leave their homes, go for a drink at the local pubs, open their businesses, return to their jobs, enter or leave the city, until His Majesty granted leave to do so.

*****

The sub-basement beneath the merchant’s shop was an ancient storehouse, underneath the foundations of the current building.  The room was lit by a single oil lamp, atop the table at its center.  It was an unpleasant place, being fairly cold and dusty, but dry.  The stench of long dead rodents, soil, and mothballs permeated the space.  Every now and then the squeak of a mouse or rat could be heard. 

Lyrra-Sharron sat at the small table.  Cold stew, dried meats and slightly stale bread had been left for them.  The Sorcerer lay
upon a pallet, with Dak Amviir in a chair beside him.  Even after being here several hours, the Sorcerer had not spoken.

They had abandoned the horses, discovering the gates already sealed.  So they went to their fall-back plan.  Dak led them to the shop of the other merchant, Max, where he waited for any trapped within the city.  The merchant was surprised they had not escaped, but they were taken in.  Now all waited.  The tension, Lyrra-Sharron could not help but notice, was so palpable that it nearly had a flavor to it.

The stone panel doorway creaking open broke the near-silence.  Lyrra-Sharron drew a knife, readied to throw it, but quickly relaxed her tensed muscles when she saw it was only Nyra, the wife of Max.  The woman carried a small bowl, a knife, a candle, and bandages.

“I’m sorry it took so long.  My neighbor, she’s a healer.  I had to convince her I only needed the supplies, not her services.  It’s fortunate for you I was not caught outside.  ‘Tis also fortunate Max is often clumsy, so she be used to my need of her tools.”

Lyrra-Sharron swallowed her annoyance from being startled at Nyra Parcall’s abrupt entry, and nodded her head in gratitude as Dak took the supplies from the woman.  “Thank you.  Your help in this matter is very much appreciated.”

Nyra gestured to the supplies.  “I’ll return for those later.  They’ve not yet begun to search houses, but it will happen, eventually.  I must seal the stairway till morning.  You have enough blankets and food?”

Lyrra-Sharron arose.  “Aye.  Thank you, Nyra.  I hope we shall not need to inconvenience you long.”

Nyra gave a sad curtsy, then turned to leave, closing the stone door behind her.

Dak looked to Lyrra-Sharron.  “You realize, if they decide the bounty on our heads is more valuable than our ideals, we’re well and truly caught?”

She eyed him warily.  “Max is your contact.  You said he could be trusted.”

Dak bobbed his head down once at her answer.  “Good.  At least you’re thinking straight.  We should have gone for the aqueduct.”

She shook her head.  “With his wound, minor though it may be, we would have been slowed down too much.”  Lyrra-Sharron turned and walked over to the Sorcerer.  She had left him to Dak once they abandoned the horses, and this was the first time she was this close to him in hours.  “Will you speak to me, Sorcerer?  Or are you a mute?”

He had been lying on his side, favoring the swollen thigh with the arrowhead and bit of shaft that remained imbedded in it.  He rolled over onto his back, and turned his head to look at Lyrra-Sharron.  “I only speak if I have something to say.”

His voice was a bit hoarse, from disuse.  It was not harsh or disagreeable.  “Who are you?” he continued.

She sat beside him upon the cot.  “My name is Lyrra-Sharron.  This is Dak.  We are a part of a group known as the Falcon Raiders.”

He sat up, and winced in discomfort.  “I’ve heard of the Falcon Raiders, while I was imprisoned.  That was the regular topic amongst my guards.  Why?”

Her brow arched to show her puzzlement over the question.  “Why what?”

“Why would a group of outlaws go to the trouble of rescuing me?”

“We did this to humiliate the King.  Your freedom was more of a secondary objective.  No one should have to die in such a manner.”

He eyed her warily.  “So I have gone from being a prisoner of the King, to a captive of the Falcon Raiders?”

“No.  We are not detaining you.  But from the stories I have heard, you are now powerless.  Is this not so?”

He was silent again, only gazing at her with a sort of cold fury behind his eyes, oddly mixed with curiosity.

“Dak, see to his injury,” she said, rising.  Dak took her place.

“I am an accomplished field medic.  Will you allow me to examine the wound?”

The Sorcerer glanced over to Lyrra-Sharron, who stood beside Dak.  “With all due respect, if the lady could, ah, turn away.”

She laughed.  “Modesty, Sorcerer?  Very well.”  She turned her back.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyrra-Sharron saw the Sorcerer untie his breeches and pull them down enough to expose his wounded thigh.

“It doesn’t look too bad.  I can remove it completely.  Unfortunately, I have no pain-killers.  This will hurt,” stated Dak plainly.

Lyrra-Sharron observed the Sorcerer nodding his head solemnly.  “Remove it, please.  I’ve suffered far worse pain by the hand of your King.”

“You were tortured?”  Lyrra-Sharron asked, not turning to face him.  She saw that Dak was heating a metal poker over the candle.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” the Sorcerer replied.

She heard the Sorcerer give a grunt of pain, and glanced to the side to see Dak holding the arrowhead and bit of shaft.  “That was too easy.  The point hardly pierced past the surface.  I would have thought an arrow wound would be deeper.”

“It was.  But I’ve been working on freeing the arrow from the muscle tissue with a little magic.”

“You have what?”  Lyrra-Sharron turned, startled, then turned back, embarrassed.  “I thought you were without your powers?”

The Sorcerer made a low noise in the back of his throat.  “Not entirely.  But I can do very little with what I still have.”

Dak took the red-hot poker, and touched it to the wound to cauterize it.  The Sorcerer hissed in pain, but a moment later he was silent again.  Dak began to salve and bandage the wound.

“It should heal completely, now.  Stay off the leg for the night.”

“I should thank you, then,” said the Sorcerer, not sounding the least thankful.

Dak stood, and went to the table to wash his hands in a small bowl of water.  Lyrra-Sharron turned to the Sorcerer.

“Why did you come here, Sorcerer?  Why did you risk your life?”

The Sorcerer sat completely upright.  “That’s my own business.  If and when the situation warrants, I will explain myself.  Now let me ask this:  Why are you unwilling to tell me the whole truth?”

“About what?” she asked cautiously.

“Who you are.  Your name is spoken all over the palace.  Even a prisoner hears it.  Lyrra-Sharron Anduin, renegade daughter of the King.”

“Well, that puts you at the advantage,” she remarked, without a trace of surprise at his knowledge.  “You know my name.  You know who I am.  Now that we have reached this point, I cannot go on calling you Sorcerer.  Will you tell me your name?”

He smirked.  “My name?  I never revealed it to the King, not even under pressure of torture.  Since you claim that I am not
your
captive, and you did save my life…my name is Cam Murtallan.”

“Murtallan?  Then you are Anarian?”

“There is no Anaria now,” he replied with a dispassionate snort.

Lyrra-Sharron understood that reaction.  The Kingdom of Anaria had been annexed by Medaelia in a well-documented massacre some twenty years ago.  It remained a sore subject among the ranking officials of most of the nations on the continent, and the continued Medaelian occupation never sat well with the prideful people of the conquered land.

Dak was standing beside Lyrra-Sharron now.  “He should be ready to move tomorrow.  What do you propose?”

“Do you think Max can provide us with new disguises?”

“Probably.”

She crossed her arms, tilted her head up and to the side, tapping her right foot.  “I believe we should move out in daylight.  We can head for the aqueduct then.”

“What about horses?”

That problem had crossed her mind previously.  “What can we do?  We shall hope maybe Max or another of our contacts will be able to send them out to us after our flight.  Do we know if the others escaped?”

“No.  There’s no way to tell.” Dak paced towards the table.  “With the curfew in place, we have no lines of communication.  And we have another concern.”

“What concern would that be?”

Dak turned to the Sorcerer.  “Our new friend, Cam Murtallan, here.”

Lyrra-Sharron also turned to him, following Dak’s lead.  “Ah, yes.  Cam Murtallan.  While he has been freed by us, and we continue to harbor him, he is not obligated to come with us.  He may decide for himself.”

Cam, showing clear consternation, crossed his arms as he looked to them.  “So what is it you want?  What’s the price for my freedom?”

Dak’s look was as unreadable as usual, she noticed.  Lyrra-Sharron put on a look of disbelief.  “I am appalled that you would suggest such a thing,” she stated.  “Setting a price for your freedom?  Why would we make you pay?  And just what do you think you have that you could pay us with?”

Cam Murtallan smirked bleakly a moment, his expression turning frosty as he spoke.  “I do thank you, for saving my life…but one thing I have learned is that nothing comes without a price, Princess.  Do you think I trust you?  I’ve never trusted anybody.”

“Not necessarily an unwise way to live,” Dak opined.

Lyrra-Sharron shook her head.  “I must disagree with you both.  But I do confess that I can follow how you think.  You do not trust me?  Well, I suppose I can understand that, too.  Let me state this plainly: there is no price.  We shall even take you out of the city with us.”  She paused, and her expression became one of curiosity.  “But what will you do now?  Where will you go?  As you have not denied so, you are without your powers, correct?”

A flash of anger crossed Cam’s face, but was quickly gone.  “Are you making me an offer?”

She could not help but grin at his impertinence.  “Cut right to the heart of the matter, Cam Murtallan?  Very well, then.  Yes.  I am offering you a chance to join the Falcon Raiders.  I suspect that even without your abilities in sorcery, you can offer us a great deal.  I can only imagine that you have learned things, seen things, studied things that could be useful to us.  And perhaps we can help you as well.  We shall teach you how to fight with a sword.  We will...”

Lyrra-Sharron trailed off, stunned as she was interrupted by Cam’s laughter.  “Ah, yes.  A chance to fight someone else’s battle.  Always a good choice, that.  Recruit more volunteers for your righteous struggle against, what, tyranny?  Oppression?  Your father the monster?”

Lyrra-Sharron became rather incensed.  “You are mocking me.  You have been saved from death, and show no gratitude at all.” 

“So I should just throw in my fortunes with your lot in thanks?”

“Have you a better offer, as you are a powerless sorcerer on the lam?”

He did not answer, but the look he gave her might have frightened Lyrra-Sharron, coming from an uninjured man.

She paused, and recollected her thoughts.  The words of a text she had read a long time ago came back to her clearly, now.  She decided to try something to test that memory.

Lyrra-Sharron’s eyes bore into the Sorcerer.  “Why should I think you would be of any use to us at all?  You are nothing.  A waste of time.  A waste of life.  You are a pathetic, purposeless, worthless man.”

He turned his face away, but she persisted, expressing her irritation remorselessly, letting it fly.  “I think we made a mistake with you.  You are no good to us, no good to anyone, truthfully.  In fact, I do not know why we even bothered saving a useless, pitiable so-called sorcerer stupid enough to use his skills in the one place everyone knows it is forbidden to do so!”

Cam angrily stood up, an enraged look on his face.  “I am not useless!  I am a sorcerer!” he nearly roared.  “Damn you and your self-righteousness.  I don’t need your help!  I am not powerless!”

On his last angry word, all light in the room was abruptly extinguished.

*****

Cam sank back onto the pallet, shaking all over.  From nowhere, he had somehow called up his powers again.