The Vlakan King (Book 3)

by Jim Greenfield

  He wasn't sure when the change happened, but he knew now that he wasn't alone in the hall. Hal opened his eyes and looked around the room. The light of the torches flickered against the walls, dancing their dance of mystery. Hal never knew cowardice and despite the chill that ran through him, he did not know it now.

  "Is someone here? Come forward so I may see you."

  He glanced from side to side and listened to the unrevealing silence. In the center of the room he thought he saw a faint shape. It was a human shape and glided forward. It stopped ten feet from Hal. The shape gained more detail and Hal felt some familiarity but he couldn't define it.

  "Who are you?"

  The shape appeared to be a tall young man in the prime of life.

  "Do you not know me? Has it been so long?" The voice was faint and strained.

  "James? It's not possible."

  "I don't know why, but it is possible. I've had time to think about it and I believe it is some residual magic of the Menaloch from my fight with Tag Makk. It does not reassure me."

  "But you are here, James. And you speak to me? I do not understand. Have you been trying to reach me all this time?"

  "No. I confess I have not tried to see you. I walked with the Talos Company for many years as I reclaimed my memories. Now I fear my time is drawing to a close. I did not want to bring more pain to you so I chose not to come to you. However, circumstances have changed and I am here to tell you that your granddaughter is safe."

  "Merie? You've seen her? She is well?"

  "Yes. I was with her when she left this place. She is with Raeind Arayr who is not a kidnapper. They are trying to help Princess Krysta. She is under Raeind's protection too. Merie is safer with Raeind than here. It is Lockwell that means harm to the Princesses and he moves through this city at will. You could not have protected her."

  "Lockwell? He is a deceitful man."

  "He is of Celaeri blood and aided them in their battle against the Men of Cresida."

  King Hal absorbed that information and nodded.

  "How can this artist protect Merie?"

  "He has abilities that he does not reveal. She is safe with him. I sense you have other questions to ask me." The image did not stay sharp and faded several times only to brighten again.

  "You are really James? My son?"

  James stepped closer and reach out his hand but unable to feel Hal's touch.

  "I think I was. The Talos Company believed I was and when I gained the ability to speak they called me 'Prince James'. I know the memories of James but in a detached manner. I did not come to you for fear that I am not James and bring more sorrow to you."

  "I think I understand. You have his appearance exactly."

  "Yes, Kerreth Veralier said that immediately. I followed the Talos Company without knowing why and they told me it was many years before I had a conscious thought. Then slowly I began to interact with my companions and could even touch them, but it has faded in recent years. I believe the lingering effect of the Menaloch's magic is fading. Soon I will not be able to speak and eventually fade away."

  "King Hal are you all right?" asked Prince Jahnn who stood in the doorway. "Grandfather? Whom are you talking to?"

  Jahnn approaches the ghost and walks slowly around him.

  "I can see him. Is he real?"

  "I am real Prince Jahnn," said James. "I have delivered my message and shall depart."

  "James wait!" said Hal. "Can you just sit for a while?"

  "This is Uncle James?" said Jahnn. He grinned. "I've always wished I could have known you." Jahnn was nearly as tall as James.

  "Alas, time is precious, Prince Jahnn, I cannot linger. Take care of your grandfather and when your turn comes to be king, use King Hal as a model for your rule. Rare has been the king to match your grandfather." He turned to King Hal and appeared to exhale deeply.

  "My time is far too short and I have other urgent tasks to complete. I am sorry for the brevity of my visit, but one must accept gifts as they are. Farewell, Henry Islen. You shall not see me again."

  "Farewell, James Islen. I am thankful for the visit. My spirit feels lighter than in many years. Go and find the rest you deserve. I was blessed to have such a son."

  Prince James bowed and faded into the shadows.

  Hal closed his eyes and was still.

  "Grandpa? Are you okay?" asked Jahnn.

  Hal opened his eyes and smiled. "Yes, Jahnn. I am better than I have been for some time. Go and tell King Kalen we have word that Krysta is safe but hidden from Lockwell."

  "No, need Hal. I heard everything," said Kalen. He stepped out of the shadowed doorway. "Seems no one sleeps in the deep of night under my roof. I was coming out here to pass the remainder of the night. Prince Jahnn, you should retire. Your grandfather and I have much to discuss."

  "Good night," said Jahnn, clearly wanting to stay. When the kings said nothing more to him, he left.

  "So, James was here," said Kalen. "He looked exactly as I remembered him. He was a tremendous fighter. Once I stopped to watch him engage the Turucks rather than wield my own sword."

  "I did the same on occasion. It was good to see him if for a moment."

  "Yes. I can see it in your face."

  "It was something I needed. I did not know such resolution was lacking. It made all the years since his death worthwhile."

  "I am glad for you, my old friend. Now, we are told the girls are safe, but are they really? What do we know about Raeind Arayr other than his great talent for glassmaking? How can he protect them better than we can with the soldiers at our command?"

  "We know we cannot keep Lockwell from entering this building no matter how many guards we have. I would take James' cryptic comments to mean Raeind has abilities normal Men do not have."

  "A legacy of the Arayr family?"

  "Perhaps. We can do little but have faith in Raeind Arayr and the resourcefulness of the Princesses. We do not know where they are or how to contact them. We do know Raeind got them out of the castle without much problem; perhaps even out of Dael."

  "I will instruct the guards to search the city and post descriptions of Lockwell," said Kalen. "If we are lucky we will discover his movements."

  "It is all we can do. Is there any more wine in that bottle under your chair? I'm a little thirsty now. I haven't plotted for years."

  Numbly Kalen handed the bottle to Hal who drank without wiping the neck. The two kings sat in silence waiting for the dawn. Hal thought back to James as a boy and the tall young man he became. Smiling, he wiped a tear from his eye.

  The cave intrigued him but he was wary. The man standing outside the entrance had a sword and carried it expertly. Ian did not want to get too close but he had been alone so long. The sound of their voices drew him closer but he could smell their blood and craved it. He wanted to rip into their flesh. Another part of him remembered things; things out of reach and unclear, but things that soothed him and held back his attack. Jaele's voice came to him for a moment then suddenly eluding him and he felt rage, rage that wasn't his own.

  He tried to remember how he came to this place. Somehow he crossed the wide water, in a boat perhaps. He stowed away in some boat. The Wolfen had chased him. He killed one but there were many so he ran. He could not remember clearly the time before the magic forest. The forest watched him and wanted him but he did not enter the forest and kept out of its grasp. He ventured too far west into the hills and the Wolfen caught his scent. They came down from the high places and pursued him all the way to the sea. A young Wolfen caught up with him and he killed it. He couldn't remember how but he knew he tasted its blood. Greasy foul blood, the Wolfen were unnatural creatures and unworthy. He fled their greater numbers and reached a port city. Gliding through the shadowy streets he had found the docks and slipped aboard a merchant vessel-weighing anchor. The smell of fish and salt overpowered him. He kept hidden in the darkness below deck listening to the creaking of the wood. He slept.

  The sailor who found him d
ied with a cry in his throat. He bounded out on deck and up the dock while terrified people dove out of his way. He was in the forest before the horns of the hunters sounded. They would never find him.

  The man emerged from the cave and looked in his direction. He was hidden so the man couldn't see him, but how did he know he was there? The breeze was not blowing toward the man. The man held up the sword, pointing at him. He growled deep is his throat.

  "Leave here," said the man. "You shall not have them. I will end your life with this blade. It is ancient and holds its magic still."

  He growled again. He felt the magic of the sword but hadn't known what it meant. Now he knew it meant his death. He turned away. The call was still strong and would lead him far to the east. He could let these ones go, for now. But he would find them again. He roared to the man and began to run. The freedom was exhilarating.

  Chapter 12

  Blackthorne the sorcerer is a man of mystery. His history is largely unknown because he never speaks of it and his arrogance and conceit shield him from friendship. He began life a Man but the paths that led him to magic are shadowy and how he developed his talent has not been revealed. Men have no natural talent for magic so his mentor must have been extremely powerful to enhance a Man to such levels. I know of few wizards with the necessary power but the darkness around Blackthorne worries me. He is very old and I fear the taint of a Jungegud is on him but I can prove nothing and he has been a productive member of the Talos Company since before my birth.

  From Gerrand's Histories of Landermass.

  The long white fingers gently held the vial and poured the green liquid into the hot mixture. Vapor rose from it immediately and the liquid swirled in the container never mixing yet bringing it to a boil. The fingers were back and dipped the tip of a dagger into the bubbling mix. The dagger tip remained for a full minute and then was withdrawn. The tip glowed faintly and was set on a counter next to other blades. Another dagger was chosen.

  "Why do I think you are ignoring us, Blackthorne?" asked Vicare Dimont, a mage and representative of the High Mage in Wierland. High Mage Artus Endria was the leader of the Council of Mages; a most ancient and noble order founded centuries earlier by Gerrand, a renowned sorcerer and chronicler of Landermass history. Dimont was past middle age, thin with thinning red hair. He was one of the few mages who could claim friendship with the irascible Blackthorne.

  "Because you have no patience," said Blackthorne. He sat at his worktable leaning over his project. He did not turn toward the speaker. "I didn't ask you here. I had no foreknowledge of your arrival and you expect me to drop everything for you?"

  "I represent the High Mage."

  "I know who you represent. Forgive me for not prostrating myself," he snapped. "I am not bound by your covenants and shall not offer more respect than I would for any unwanted interruption."

  "That I can see. At least your servant served beverages. That was thoughtful of you at least."

  "Wasn't my idea. Wotba served you by his own choice. He gets lonely for civil company and he has already read all of my books."

  Dimont looked over at the goblin, waiting patiently for another duty. His wild green hair had been brushed and he wore a man's jacket that dragged on the ground partially hiding his deformed leg. His left eye was white and scarred.

  "Yes, he does appear to worse for your company. Do you beat the poor creature?"

  "Vicare let me finish my work! Another five minutes and I can set this aside. Wotba, take them to the veranda."

  Wotba jumped to Dimont and reached for his hand. Dimont had the good sense not to pull away thus insulting the creature. Although his leg was crippled, Wotba had a full set of yellow goblin teeth protruding over his lips. Dimont got to his feet and his assistant Berlo, followed. The goblin led them over the polished stone floors to the veranda. A lush garden surrounded the stone patio and the view of the valley was spectacular.

  "Lovely view," said Berlo. Berlo was around thirty, overweight with black hair tied behind his head.

  "Yes. You're not been here before Berlo?"

  "No sir. This is the first time."

  "Ah. Then you will see that Blackthorne's estate is in stark contrast to his moods."

  "Please do not speak so of my master," lisped Wotba. "He found me when I was cast out from my tribe and left to die."

  "It talks!" said Berlo.

  "Berlo!" snapped Dimont. "Your manners are not becoming."

  "I am sorry, Wotba. I meant no offense."

  "I am used to it, Master Berlo." Wotba grinned, extending out his teeth. "Men always abuse goblins. Except for Master Blackthorne who gave me a purpose for my life. Would you care for a snack?"

  "What do you have?" asked Berlo.

  Dimont put out his hand.

  "Not for us, I'm afraid, Wotba. We do not mean to stay long."

  "As you wish." The goblin bowed and left them. Dimont glared at Berlo.

  "I thought you were cleared to make journeys outside the castle. You were approved by the council?"

  "Yes, I was."

  "Was the High Mage in attendance?" asked Dimont.

  "Not that day."

  "Ah, perhaps that explains it. Who led the ruling in your favor, Garval?"

  "How did you know?"

  "Politics, Berlo. Beware of politics even in the Mage Council. Ah well, nothing for it."

  "Should I not have been approved?"

  "I do not think so. You are too trusting and open with strangers. Taking food offered by a goblin! Keep your thoughts to yourself when in uncertain company. I believe Garval is undermining the High Mage's leadership. He has been chipping at it for years."

  "A play for power?" said Berlo. "How common."

  "Ah, well spoken," said Dimont.

  They walked around the garden enjoying the flowers and their scents. Later, Dimont became aware of being watched. Blackthorne stood on the veranda, arms folded. The sorcerer was of medium height, pale skin, black curly hair and a long black mustache. Berlo thought he caught a flash of red in the black eyes of his host.

  "Well Vicare? You have ten minutes to tell me why you are here and then you and your apprentice must go."

  "I am not an apprentice," said Berlo. "I am a full mage."

  "Really, well I am sorry for that. The Council used to be more discerning in their decisions."

  "You insult me!"

  Dimont put his arm on Berlo's arm. "Take it no further," he hissed.

  "You are incorrect," said Blackthorne. "I do not insult you. You are what you are. It is the council I insult. They no longer have the capacity to determine who has achieved the skills necessary to be a mage."

  "That is why we are here Blackthorne," said Dimont. "The council has recognized this shortcoming and need to improve the Academy of Magic. You have always kept yourself apart from other mages and sorcerers, but it is your knowledge that would get the Academy to where it needs to be once more."

  "You are asking me to teach? No."

  "Not specifically to teach students, but to teach the teachers. As you said, Berlo is not a strong mage, but there are so few who can provide the training necessary."

  "What about Artus?"

  "The High Mage is called upon to advise the kings of Anavar and has little time to offer."

  "How about Gerrand?"

  "Gerrand passed on long ago," said Berlo.

  "Another fallacy from your leaders," said Blackthorne. "I'm sure even Vicare knows where to find Gerrand."

  Berlo turned to Dimont.

  "Is this true, Master Vicare? All the students are told Gerrand is dead."

  Dimont sighed and glared at Blackthorne. Then he looked at Berlo.

  "He lives, but is very old. He instructed the Council to say he was dead so he could live out his long life in peace."

  "Yes, he and Faeya Ryr are still together and within three days journey from here."

  "Blackthorne, that is enough," said Dimont.

  "Why Vicare? If your Academy needs hi
s knowledge so much why not go to him?"

  "Because we are here asking you."

  "But I do not want anything to do with you or your council!"

  "Do you like to see mages die in battle because they lack the skills to defend themselves?" asked Dimont.

  "Why are mages in battle? It is no place for them."

  "Weren't you in battles with your Talos Company friends?" asked Berlo. "Seems you are always fighting for some cause."

  Blackthorne stared at Berlo as if editing his responses before uttering them. At last he seemed to compose himself.

  "The Talos Company is a mercenary company," said Blackthorne. "We fought for money not ideals. All that mattered to me was payment. And if noble Kerreth Veralier decided there was an ideal involved it didn't matter to me because I was paid. Do not lay lofty pursuits at my door. I will have none of them. Now I think this conversation is over. Wotba! Show them out."

  "Wait, Blackthorne," said Dimont. "We want your help and we need your help. Many of our prize students are leaving to work on their own because we do not provide battle training. They leave and they dig into the arts on their own with no guidance. Three died in the past season from their studies and one appears to have discovered the black arts and is setting himself up as a power."

  "Where is he?"

  "North of Curesia, near Arda. There is rumor of gods in the area. We don't know who but Arda is a dead place since the Daerlan left."

  "It is an evil place," said Blackthorne. "The stench of the Menaloch permeates the entire region. Any magic attempted becomes tainted and prolonged exposure is ruinous."

  "That is the type of instruction our students need! We have no one who can teach such topics with conviction, and no one has the experience in dealing with the dark arts. Hobran, Bartheous and even Brevin do not have a tenth of the experience of the High Mage."

  "Whose fault is that? Not mine certainly. Let Artus teach what he wants."