Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  “Fire!” yelled Albaran, and a dozen arrows loosed from their bows.

  There was a moment, like a breath, as a barely perceptible pressure rippled down the alley. Arrows whizzed towards the horse and rider, and although every shot was excellent, they all somehow managed to miss. The soldiers ducked as the horse sailed overhead, landing with a clatter on the other side.

  Elhan clambered quickly onto an adjoining roof as the archers scrambled to reload. She leaned down to the rider.

  “Thanks! Who the hell are you?” said Elhan.

  “It’s me! Seris!”

  Elhan squinted at the panicked-looking young man.

  “Some help?!” cried Seris as the archers took aim.

  Elhan reached down and grabbed Seris by the back of his shirt, hauling him onto the roof. She slammed him onto the tiles as another rain of arrows sailed past.

  “Love a good rooftop chase,” grinned Elhan.

  “Rooftop wha—Aargh!”

  The ground became a blur as Elhan bolted across the slate, dragging Seris behind her like a rag doll. Grey slate, thatching, terracotta tiles. Shouting rose from the street, following them like a rolling wave.

  Seris hoped that Elhan had a plan, since his hadn’t worked out so well. His intention had been to ride to the rescue, possibly wielding something impressive, and then to gallop away dramatically. However, the only unattended horse he could find had been a bad-tempered mare, who’d taken full advantage of the fact that Seris wasn’t much of a horse person.

  “What happened to your clothes?” said Elhan as they landed on the roof of a cake shop.

  “Had to take off my robe…” Seris’s head lolled around like a bobble-headed toy.

  “Did you lose a bet?”

  “Conspicuous.” Seris closed his eyes as they sailed over another gap.

  “Where are your rations?”

  “I was hoping you would share.”

  “Hope ain’t gonna fill your stomach, buddy,” said Elhan, heading for the city wall.

  “I just saved your life, possibly.”

  “If it wasn’t for my curse, you’d be a pincushion right now. I’m good with arrows. Never been hit by an arrow. Knives are trickier…”

  Seris blanched as the city wall loomed closer.

  “You’re not going to…” said Seris.

  “There’ll be a blockade at the gate.”

  “Aahhh…” said Seris weakly as the world turned upside down.

  Elhan picked up speed and then leapt upwards, reaching out with one arm, holding Seris with the other. Her hand caught the top of the wall and her body continued arcing upwards, flipping over into a one-armed handstand. In that suspended moment, hanging upside down, Elhan changed her grip on the stone. Her fingers dug into the crevices as they began to swing downwards, the world reversing in a dizzying spin. They slammed into the wall on the other side, dangling ten feet above an expanse of shrubbery.

  “I’m gonna let go of you now,” said Elhan. “Try to avoid that thorny bush.”

  Seris felt a brief rush of air before crashing into the greenery. He lay stunned for a moment while Elhan landed lightly beside him.

  “They won’t follow us into the fens, but we have to get there first,” she said.

  Seris dragged himself out of the bushes, struggling to walk in a straight line. He pulled his robe back on as he trotted after Elhan, wondering how their quest had gotten so messy. Rescuing Prince Valamon had somehow turned into running away from the Talgaran Guard, stopping an insurrection, and breaking a monstrous curse.

  As they headed for the dusky horizon, the evening shadows seemed to cling to Elhan like a vapour, and Seris had the feeling that they were running out of time on all fronts.

  The hostility had been palpable, like a wave of heat prickling Valamon’s skin. There’d been dozens of nations represented, from the southern islands to the northern plains, from the unmapped western belt to the eastern kingdoms. There’d even been emissaries from the Circle of Olcet, a diplomatic ally of the Talgaran Empire, or so Valamon had thought. And all of them had looked at him with glaring animosity.

  This was far more than a haphazard rebellion or even an organised uprising. This was a coordinated alliance on an unprecedented scale. He reeled at the thought of such a force marching on Algaris, cutting a path through his people, his homeland.

  Valamon had never wanted to be king. He’d never wanted to be a hero or a leader. He’d been reasonably content to just fade into the background, letting others make the tough decisions he never could. Letting others do the things he never seemed able to do.

  All he ever did was watch. Stare and watch and wish. And look where it had gotten him. Unless he wanted to watch his homeland burn, unless he wanted to see the tide of war engulf the people he cared about, it rested on him to stop it before it was too late.

  Now was the time to act.

  Qara rode down the silent street, her horse going at a tidy trot. It’d been a hell of a day. Make that a hell of a couple of weeks. With King Delmar away, Valamon still gone, and now the queen unwell, the nobles had been in a frenzy. Falon had been swamped with back-to-back requisitions, proposals, disputes, and formalities.

  Qara had gently suggested on several occasions that it might be helpful for him to have someone assist him in his duties, say, one of those nice princesses who kept on sending him polite letters. She pointed out that King Delmar certainly couldn’t have spent so much time away campaigning if Queen Nalan hadn’t been confidently running the empire.

  While on various diplomatic assignments, Qara had discreetly inspected the field of candidates. She’d privately made a shortlist of princesses who had demonstrable administrative skills, enjoyed equestrian pursuits, and seemed capable of holding an intelligent conversation. She wouldn’t be so bold as to present this list, as she knew Falon could be quite recalcitrant when he chose. However, she was certainly of a mind to firmly guide him towards the correct choice.

  Unfortunately, it seemed to be a touchy subject for Falon, and the last time she mentioned it, he’d sent her on a two-week assignment to judge a tea-cake competition in the Holas Villages. She’d avoided the topic for some time afterwards, but she couldn’t keep ignoring it. He couldn’t keep ignoring it.

  His people needed him, and he was fraying at the edges. Sooner or later he was going to—

  Qara stopped abruptly, turning her horse around in the empty street. She was suddenly aware of several shadows where there shouldn’t have been shadows. There was a sharp buzz, and Qara dodged as something flew past her. Another buzz, and her horse screamed, rearing up violently. Qara was thrown from the saddle, landing hard on the cobbles as hoofbeats clattered away. She rolled quickly to her feet, sword drawn.

  The shadows formed a loose circle around her, their faces hooded, blades gleaming in the moonlight.

  “We’d like to send a message to the prince,” said the first shadow.

  “Join the queue,” said Qara.

  “We seem to have found our way to the head of the line, haven’t we, Lord Qara?”

  Qara shifted, trying to keep as many of the figures in her sights as possible, but they were circling in the darkness, drawing closer.

  “I think you’ll regret not walking away.” Qara gripped her sword.

  Where are the patrols? Where are the damn patrols?!

  The first shadow drew a second sword.

  “Prince Falon is quite fond of you, Lord Qara. I think our message will be quite…clear.”

  No one liked delivering bad news to Falon. The soldiers drew straws sometimes, and sometimes they took turns. They used to do paper, scissors, rock, but Qara had caught them at it once, and no one liked to talk about what happened next.

  But this wasn’t bad news; this was…

  Falon strode down the castle corridor like the kind of avalanche that took half the mountain with it, and soldiers skittered desperately into side passages. He didn’t slow as he reached the wide oak doors, and he slammed them o
pen with such force that a hinge popped, the rivet pinging onto the stone floor.

  There was absolute silence as Falon stepped inside, filling the room with a tangible menace.

  “Who was on patrol?” Falon’s voice was low and dangerous.

  The cluster of guards stood frozen in the long stone room.

  “Don’t make me ask again,” he said.

  There was an audible gulping.

  “Hettor’s squad on the eastern route,” said a guard quietly. “Pyle’s squad from the southern side.”

  “Both squads in the isolation brig. One soldier to each cell. Now.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The guard glanced nervously at his companions.

  “And the rest of you, get out,” said Falon.

  “Are you—”

  “I said get out!” bellowed Falon with eyes that promised unimaginable suffering to anyone not gone by the time his echo died.

  As the door clanked shut unevenly, Falon turned to the row of beds lining the chamber.

  “Was that quite necessary?” said Qara, sitting up painfully in a nearby cot.

  “I think that was quite restrained.” Falon’s eyes were still hard with anger. “They should pray I’ll be that calm when I’m questioning the patrols.”

  Falon glanced at the olive-skinned cleric sitting beside Qara. A hint of disapproval emanated from the woman as she finished bandaging the wound on Qara’s arm.

  “Thank you, Morle,” said Qara, pulling her tunic back over her shoulder.

  Morle nodded, rising to her feet.

  “I’ll have someone bring a donation to the temple in the morning,” said Falon. “You lot like vegetables, don’t you?”

  Morle gave a gracious bow, but she shot a small frown at Falon as she left the room.

  “I don’t think she likes me,” said Falon as the door scraped shut.

  “You’re a soldier; she’s a cleric,” said Qara. “Opposite sides of the injury process.”

  “You’re a soldier, too,” said Falon, not quite convinced it wasn’t something personal.

  “You should’ve seen the look she gave me when she came in.” Qara tried not to wince as she laced up her jerkin. “I think she feels that there are enough people getting sick and injured without people like us adding to the workload.”

  Qara reached across the bed for her chest plate, and Falon pulled it firmly out of reach.

  “Your Highness, they’re only flesh wounds,” said Qara. “I can—”

  “How many of them?”

  Qara paused.

  “There were seven assailants. I injured four, incapacitated one. The patrols have him in central lockup.”

  Something calm and vicious breezed through Falon’s eyes.

  “I hope you left enough to hang. I’m thinking perhaps drawing and quartering. The eviscerated body to hang in the forecourt for ten days. I’m sure it won’t take long to find his family—”

  “Your Highness,” said Qara sharply. “I strongly recommend against such action.”

  “I’ve already lost a brother. They’ll strike at us again and again, emboldened every time we do nothing. Now is not the time to show weakness, Lord Qara.”

  “Now is not the time to show cruelty. The people who attacked me weren’t petty thugs, or mercenaries, or soldiers. They were just people—well trained, but anyone looking at them would see a farmer, trader, father, sister. If dissent rises from the populace, then you walk a dangerous path.”

  “You were almost killed tonight. I think the time for treading carefully is over.”

  “They’re just flesh wounds, Your Highness,” repeated Qara, a little annoyed. “Do you have such little faith in me?”

  Falon turned away, staring coldly out the window.

  “Twice now in the heart of the capital, twice against those dearest to the king. Payment must be made for that.”

  “Justice, Your Highness,” said Qara. “Not vengeance. People are afraid and uncertain. Protect them, show them that you rule for them, and they will rise to defend you. Show barbarism and cruelty, and you give every mother, brother, and child more reason to hate us. As fear and hatred grow in a population, your grip on power becomes less stable, and in the end, they will tear you down themselves.”

  “When did you become a politician, Qara?”

  “I’ve been watching you for twenty years, Your Highness.”

  There was a long silence, and Falon continued to stare intensely out the window.

  “Did you say something, Your Highness?” said Qara.

  Falon scooped up Qara’s chest plate and tossed it towards her.

  “I’m putting you on castle duty until further notice,” he said briskly, heading towards the door.

  “Your Highness—”

  “If there are infiltrators within these walls, I want them found.”

  NINE

  On the bright side, Seris’s feet had callused to the point where he could probably walk over iron nails and the nails would file down to stubs. On the downside, the sight of his own feet now made Seris feel unwell.

  “I hate bogs,” said Elhan. “You know what I hate more than bogs? Enchanted bogs. Where you end up going round and round in circles until you run out of food, and then you have to draw straws to see who gets eaten first.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “I’m kidding,” said Elhan.

  Seris had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t kidding, and he wondered whether he should stop leeching rations from her.

  The fens were proving to be the most unpleasant leg of their journey yet, which, for Seris, was saying a lot. It was swampy territory, liberally covered with half-decayed vegetation. Occasional trees loomed, massive, from the waterlogged ground, like the remnants of some gigantic forest. Other plants rose like spindly, blackened fingers, clawing out of the mud.

  There were expanses that looked like moss-covered land, which turned out to be algae-covered water, and to Seris’s irritation, Elhan didn’t always feel the need to point out the difference.

  “How big, roughly, are the fens?” Seris pulled his leg out of the deep, sucking mud.

  “I usually go around the fens, what with hating bogs and all that. From Thalamir, it’s maybe eight days’ walk to Lirel on the other side of the fens, but I usually go around Lirel too, what with the weird stuff that goes on there.”

  “Weird stuff?”

  “And then there’s the Koltar Mountains another five days away, and the rest of the free lands. The Belass Ranges to the south, the remains of Fey to the north. I usually avoid that, too. There’s poor foraging when the land’s so badly salted.”

  “Salted?”

  “So are we just gonna wander around until Lemlock makes an appearance?” said Elhan, sounding fidgety.

  “Actually, I’m hoping to find out where all these mysterious supplies are going before Lemlock makes an appearance.”

  There was an irritable pause.

  “So we should be trying to lose those guys following us, I assume?” said Elhan.

  Seris could feel a faint throbbing in one temple, like a small vein trying not to burst.

  “If you had a plan, you should’ve said something,” said Elhan. “I thought we were waiting for someone to jump out and say, ‘Behold! I am Lemlock!’”

  “Waiting for Lemlock to jump out is not a plan! It’s assisted suicide! They put heads on poles in places like this!”

  It was at this point that the muddy lumps around them detached from the landscape, turning into a group of heavily armed, rangy men and women.

  “I thought you said we were being followed,” muttered Seris. “Not completely surrounded.”

  “I only saw the three following us. I’m afraid I missed the other forty-five, being distracted by you throwing yourself into the swamp every five minutes.”

  Before Seris could snap a reply, one of the figures stepped forward. She was tall and wiry, with coppery hair woven into a long plait. She wore two long, curved dagge
rs over patched leather armour.

  “If you’d kindly come with us,” said the woman. “Lemlock’s been waiting to see you.”

  On the bright side, the brigands generally prevented Seris from falling into deceptive pockets of bog. On the downside, he’d been captured by brigands.

  Lemlock’s foot soldiers were lightly armed—a vambrace here, a chest plate there, the occasional mismatched set of greaves. They were sure-footed and fast as they escorted Seris and Elhan through the fens, moving easily across the uneven terrain. It was as though every stunted tree or mouldy mound was as familiar to them as the corridors of the temple were to Seris.

  For hours, they seemed to be going around in circles, and Seris was certain they’d passed the same fallen willow four times. It was only when the ground became firmer that he noticed the landscape changing. Patches of grass poked through the mud, and some of the huge, towering trees sprouted thick leaves at their tips.

  Finally, his captors relaxed slightly, and Seris could smell the faint aroma of cooking fires, and something unfamiliar, sharp and acrid. They finally pushed through a curtain of decomposing trees, and it became immediately clear where the supplies Sulim mentioned had been going.

  The camp was completely camouflaged. Leaves covered the ochre tents, small fire pits were shielded from the sky, and nets of woven grass and branches covered carts of equipment. It was impossible to guess at the size of the camp, as only the nearest tents could be discerned from the background. Looking up as they passed beneath the massive trees, Seris could see platforms erected high in the branches, pavilion tents tightly secured to the wooden planks.

  The area swarmed with industrious activity, and every person had the same aura as the copper-haired woman. From the woman beating dents out of a helm to the portly man ladling broth from a cauldron, they all had an unforgiving purpose in their eyes. Like wire under snow. But all these details receded sharply into the background when Seris noticed the pole.

  In the centre of the clearing, beneath the overhang of a towering sequoia, a roughly hewn wooden pole stretched upwards. It was the thickness of a man and rose to about thirty feet. At the top of the pole was a wooden crossbar, and from one side hung a man, or the remains of one.