Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  Ebrelle considered this for a moment, and then nodded to the lead warrior.

  “Aubrel, take him to Kinsa.”

  As Seris followed Aubrel towards the healer’s hut, he noticed that all the villagers had the same dot of mud painted on the back of each hand. He wondered if they were clan markings of some kind, but his thoughts were increasingly distracted by the buzzing in his skin, like tiny pinpricks all over his body. He glanced at Elhan, who seemed tired and wary but not particularly discomforted.

  The healer’s hut was a long room lined with windows, and the pungent scent of herbs filled the air. Braided reed curtains were drawn aside to let in the light, and several mats lay on the floor, their occupants covered by rough woollen blankets. An elderly man wrung a cloth over a wooden bowl, the water turning red.

  “Kinsa?” said Seris politely.

  The man glanced up, catching sight of Elhan.

  “Just lie down and I’ll be there in a moment,” said Kinsa.

  “Actually, my companion and I are here to help,” said Seris. “I’m a cleric.”

  “A cleric in the Lirel Lands is just a man in a fancy robe,” said Kinsa.

  “Please, would you let me try?” Seris knelt beside Kinsa.

  Kinsa looked at Seris’s earnest expression.

  “Even with your sorcery, there’d be little you could do for them,” said Kinsa, but he shifted to one side.

  Seris sat beside the wounded figure, placing a hand gently over the deep gash in his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling the man’s sluggish pulse beneath his palm. A severed artery, massive blood loss, broken ribs, a collapsed lung filling with fluid. He hadn’t been fast enough to save Garlet, but he could save this man. Lirel weirdness be damned. He could do it—he just had to try hard enough. Dig deep enough.

  Seris opened himself to Eliantora, reaching out to her, praying for her pity to flow through him into this man. He felt a trickle, a tingle, a strange prickling sensation, as though instead of a river flowing, all he got was a crab scuttling down the dry riverbed. He reached further, deeper, trying to pour himself into the man.

  Elhan yawned, taking a step towards the man.

  “I don’t think it’s working,” she said.

  Seris gasped, a swell of power suddenly washing through him like a flash flood, carrying away entire houses. But it wasn’t Eliantora. Thick, electric, dark, it surged through him into the wounded man, as though Seris were some kind of conduit. Seris choked as the energy tore through him, and he suddenly realised it wasn’t going into the man, it was drawing it out. The man’s eyes suddenly opened, rolling back as he drew a strangled breath, his skin turning rapidly grey. Seris struggled to pull his hand from the man, but the energy still crackled, draining Seris like a glass as it lashed across the room.

  Seris struggled to turn his head towards Elhan, his eyes following the slithering trail of energy. She stood staring at him as the dark tendrils pulled through Seris and the wounded man, flowing back into her. Seris made a strangled noise and blood suddenly bubbled from his mouth.

  “Is that supposed to happen?” said Kinsa, looking mildly alarmed.

  Elhan started backing away, still staring at Seris.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s always doing weird things.”

  Elhan suddenly turned and raced from the hut. The energy crackled and faded as Seris quietly hit the floor.

  He ached and tingled, and the taste of blood was bitter in his mouth. Seris opened his eyes weakly and saw reed curtains stirring in the breeze. He seemed to be lying on the floor, and someone was wiping his face with a damp cloth.

  “This is why healers don’t like help,” said Kinsa. “People who say they want to be useful always end up on the mat. If it’s not a blood phobia, it’s an entrails phobia, or a parasite phobia, or they have a problem with eye injuries.”

  “I don’t have a problem with eyes,” mumbled Seris. “Once had to deal with a cow…had seven eyes…”

  “Nevertheless, you’re the one who’s horizontal.”

  Seris tried to sit up, and then decided horizontal wasn’t so bad. He was throbbing from the inside out, and the tingling in his skin was beginning to hurt.

  “Tell me about this thing that prevents the use of sorcery,” said Seris. “How does it work?”

  “An enchantment covers our land, from the eastern basin to the western border. It prevents the use of sorcery, stifles it.”

  Yet Elhan’s curse is still active here, thought Seris. Possibly even stronger.

  “Is it possible some kinds of sorcery could still work here? Could another sorcerer’s spell bypass the enchantment?”

  Kinsa shook his head.

  “The enchantment was laid by Olrios, before the binding of the sorcerers. No one today could break it. So long as Lirel blood walks the land, the enchantment can’t be broken.”

  “Olrios created the enchantment?” Seris sat up quickly.

  The world wobbled, then grudgingly settled into shape.

  “He had a strange sense of humour, but he was true to his word. Almost a century ago, our people saved him from an angry mob. Decades later, when the Talgaran army marched on us with their sorcerers, we asked Olrios to return the favour. He wouldn’t help us fight, but he granted us this measure of protection.”

  Seris’s thoughts raced. If Olrios created the Lirel enchantment, then maybe Olrios’s own sorcery wasn’t suppressed by the enchantment, perhaps it was even amplified by it. Visions of Horizon’s Gate and Tigrath flashed through his mind.

  Seris struggled to stand, and Kinsa grasped his arms to stop him from falling.

  “I have to find Olrios,” said Seris. “Do you know where he is?”

  Kinsa hesitated.

  “He doesn’t like visitors.”

  “It’s not a social call. There’s a dangerous force growing, and I believe only Olrios knows how to stop it. People have died, and I fear worse is to come.”

  Kinsa looked down at the bowls of bloodied water, the only sound in the room the laboured breathing of the wounded.

  “The last I heard, his tower was on an island beyond the Plains of Despair,” said Kinsa.

  “Thank you.”

  Seris glanced at Kinsa’s wrinkled hands and suddenly noticed that the man’s veins were eerily dark beneath the spots of mud. Seris felt a strange coldness washing through him.

  “Kinsa, what’s the mud for?”

  “It’s a symbol of the covenant Olrios created. The enchantment isn’t just a spell; it’s tied to the land. That’s why it’s so hard to break.”

  Realisation slowly dawned, but the sun that rose was not the one Seris wanted. Elhan’s curse fed on power, twisted it, and if the land itself were steeped in power…

  “The entire land is a spell?” Seris’s voice tightened.

  “We are the spell,” said Kinsa. “So long as Lirel blood walks the land.”

  Seris stared at the patients on the ground. Dark veins crawled across their faces, their skin turning slowly blue. Everything seemed to shift into heightened focus, and he realised he could hear it, the soft thrum buzzing through his skin like tiny knives.

  Gods, the Lirel are all conduits.

  Kinsa suddenly hunched forward, a hand to his face. Several drops of blood spattered onto the floor, and Kinsa looked up at Seris in confusion, a trail of dark blood sliding from the old man’s nose.

  And then they all began to bleed.

  Nothing was stopping her from just getting up and leaving, as she’d done so many times before. He’d be annoyed at first, then relieved, but most importantly, alive.

  Elhan sat by the edge of the pool, the waterfall cascading down the granite cliff. Everyone had told him that sorcery wouldn’t work here, and now he’d gone and given himself an aneurism, and she just knew he was going to blame her for it. In the end, he was no different from the others.

  I’m missing a shoe; it must be your curse.

  My cattle ran away; it must be your curse.

 
The village burned down again; it must be your curse.

  People stopped drawing a distinction between reality and rumour, so she’d stopped caring whether there was a difference. The Kali-Adelsa walked alone and free, and certainly, she’d seen some marvellous things in her life.

  A light tread approached from the trees, and Elhan’s hand closed casually on a rock.

  “Please don’t swim there,” said Aubrel. “Drinking water. Swimming water. We try to keep the two separate.”

  Elhan glanced cautiously at Aubrel. He stopped several feet away, gazing at the glittering spray of water.

  “You were looking for the search party,” said Aubrel.

  “They weren’t Talgarans,” said Elhan. “The ones who attacked you. The weapons Ebrelle had…”

  Chipped swords, bent scimitars, a prayer flail. No army she knew of had a search party armed like a militant cultural festival.

  “Who are you, really?” said Aubrel.

  Elhan wished she had a cup of custard for every time she had been asked that. And some days, she wished she had an answer.

  “We’re looking for Prince Valamon, and the daughter of Ilis.”

  There was a careful silence.

  “Why?”

  “Seris thinks he can save everyone. I’m just his travel guide, I guess. The guy could get lost in a pair of pants.”

  Aubrel turned back to the soothing rush of the waterfall, his expression subdued.

  “We didn’t want to get involved. Ilis del Fey was a hero—her resistance kept Delmar at bay for two decades, but her forces fell silent a few years ago. Then rumours began to rise of a call to arms beneath the banner of Haska del Fey, but it’s not our way to lead a charge to war. I suppose Haska has decided we’ve chosen sides.”

  “Her forces attacked you?”

  “We believe the intruders were from the hidden army. We think they were looking for the prince, but we’re still trying to piece things together.”

  “Hidden army. Sounds ominous.”

  “They say she’s amassed an army to the west, their presence cloaked by sorcery. Unlike her mother, she’s not content to hold her ground, fending off the Talgarans year after year. She’s going to take the war to Delmar. We fear the world is about to change.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Elhan grimly. “Nothing important ever changes.”

  “But if something is important to you, you still fight for it—”

  Aubrel suddenly swayed. He raised his hands to his face, bending over with a groan.

  “You all right?” Elhan rose warily to her feet.

  Aubrel raised his head, dark blood seeping from his nose and eyes. Elhan backed away quickly. She was fairly certain this wasn’t normal, but for a long time now, normal was what happened to other people.

  Aubrel gasped, collapsing to his knees.

  “The land…” he choked. “Something’s wrong…”

  And then the screaming started.

  A chorus of wails and cries spread though the village, rising into the sky like signal smoke. It was a noise that followed Elhan like a shadow, like a stench. The horrified screaming, the anguished yells that always marked her cue to run.

  She sprinted through the village, past staggering figures reaching blindly, their eyes and ears seeping crimson. Elhan raced towards the forest, tearing past their groping hands, leaving behind their cries for help.

  She couldn’t help them. Everything she touched blighted; everyone she touched drew away or died. Her curse never ceased to find new and horrible ways to deliver devastation. It was just how it was, and denying it only led to…well, this.

  “Elhan!”

  She heard Seris calling, but she didn’t stop running, didn’t look back. The trees blurred around her, the grass barely bending beneath her feet. She kept running as the damp undergrowth gave way to open woodlands, the sunlight breaking through the pale green leaves.

  As the afternoon sun stretched the shadows, Elhan finally staggered to a stop in a stand of silver birches. She let herself fall into the long grass, lying curled amidst the musk mallows. She focused on the silence, on the sound of her own breathing, on the soothing sense of being hidden and alone.

  She lay there for a long while, drifting in and out of strange dreams. Ivory boats sailed through dark waters, gliding through caverns of amethyst and fire opal. Haunting voices sung in lonely harmony, the melodies so exquisite, they’d break your heart if you had one.

  Elhan woke abruptly as a shadow fell over her, and she rolled into a defensive crouch, a growl rising in her throat. She didn’t shift when she saw Seris standing before her.

  “Did you just forget about me?” said Seris.

  Elhan unfolded slowly with a disinterested shrug, still glancing warily at the surrounding trees. She sauntered away, pretending not to see the faint hurt in his eyes. She could hear his mind rattling away like a cage full of angry mice, running their wheels with stubborn purpose.

  “The coordinates indicated a location just west of here,” said Seris, trotting after her. “Only a few miles.”

  “The hidden army.”

  Seris looked at Elhan questioningly, but she didn’t turn around.

  “That sounds ominous,” said Seris.

  Elhan glanced at the lowering sun sinking towards evening.

  “I guess we’ll find out soon.”

  The air felt like a room strung taut with garrotte wire.

  “Positions! Positions!” yelled Haska as she strode down the castle corridor. “Damel, check the formations! Wylen, lock down the perimeter! Anyone who fouls up now can expect no mercy! Understood?”

  Echoes of “Yes, My Lord!” rippled through the soldiers as a last flurry of activity fanned out across the encampment.

  Haska bounded up the stone stairs to the Tower Hall, wincing slightly at the vivid blue light that filled the room. Liadres’ eyes seemed luminous with anticipation as he stood behind Amoriel, waiting for her instructions in quiet ecstasy.

  “Are we ready?” said Haska.

  “A quarter of an hour, then it’s at your command.” Amoriel gave a graceful and slightly mocking bow.

  The chalk runes covering the walls and floor glowed faintly, like deep-sea jellyfish drifting through dark water.

  “Lord Haska.” A quivering voice came from the doorway.

  Haska turned to see Leylen standing by the door, his two black eyes still swollen. His expression suggested that he was the most unenviable person alive, and that the latter status was possibly about to change. He was trying to say something, but his lungs weren’t cooperating.

  “Yes, Leylen?” said Haska, her voice like the raising of a guillotine.

  Her eyes narrowed as Leylen slumped quietly to the floor, convincingly unconscious. She turned her gaze to Gilfrey, who’d been standing behind Leylen and who was now also trying to be suddenly unconscious.

  “Gilfrey?” said Haska in a tone that suggested that, if Gilfrey passed out, she would not be waking up.

  “Lord Haska,” said Gilfrey. “Prince Valamon is gone.”

  The silence was eviscerating.

  “We went to make a final check of his cell, and he was just…not there,” said Gilfrey.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t just standing very still?”

  “We got Hoblas and Rexnor to check the cell. It’s exactly the same as he left it before, but he’s just not there.”

  Haska paused.

  “The same as he left it?” said Haska. “You put him back in the same cell? A cell he possibly tampered with the last time he escaped? Did you search the cell before you put him back in, to check that he hadn’t, for example, hidden the key in there?”

  Gilfrey’s expression was reminiscent of a horse who’d just seen what happened to the horse in front of it at the slaughterhouse.

  “Liadres,” said Haska, very softly. “Would you kindly escort Gilfrey and Leylen to your participants’ rooms?”

  Liadres looked like it was the happiest day of his life.
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br />   “Yes, Lord Haska.” He marched Gilfrey from the hall, carrying Leylen easily over his shoulder.

  “You’ll spoil the boy,” said Amoriel.

  Haska stared at the wall, a throbbing vein just visible on her temple, partly obscured by her helm.

  “Shall I…wait?” said Amoriel.

  The edge of the table splintered in Haska’s gauntleted fist. She released the shards of wood, letting them tumble to the floor.

  “No. On your mark, proceed.”

  Everything was ready. Everything was going to plan. Everything but this.

  Haska threw open the door to her chambers, slamming it shut behind her hard enough to crack the doorframe. She tore off her helm and hurled it against the wall. She pushed her fingers through her hair, holding her head in clawed hands.

  She wanted to scream, to cry, to tear down the world and kick its ashes to the stars. But no one could see her like that. She was Haska del Fey, daughter of Ilis, leader of her father’s people. The undefeated, the unbroken, the arisen.

  She was Haska del Fey, who’d thrown Ralgas from Alzafar Peak, turned Lemlock of the fens from brigand to resistance leader, and captured Valamon, Crown Prince of Talgaran. She would be Haska del Fey, vengeance delivered, the end of the Talgaran Empire.

  She couldn’t allow herself to falter again, not like she’d done in the interrogation chamber, when her fists had been hot with the prince’s blood, when he’d stopped her with a look of such wretched compassion. As though she were the one broken and bleeding. Gazing gently at her, his lower lip might even have trembled.

  She couldn’t afford to be distracted now, not here, not this close. She had to focus on the important things—the alliance, the war, the battles ahead. The prince’s fate was a cruel indulgence, but it had mattered to her. Her past, her suffering, it mattered. She needed for the pain to go away, she needed to make someone pay for what had happened to her family.

  Gods, how she missed her mother.

  Haska felt a sudden tug at her belt. Her hand leapt for her sword, but she grasped at empty space. She spun around to find the point of her own blade pressed against her throat.

  She’d never live this down.

  If she lived at all.