Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

“You have been assigned to supervise the arrangement of troops at Horizon’s Gate. You will be assisted by Captain Albaran, who is already coordinating the intake. I found Captain Albaran and his men trekking through the borderlands for some reason, but he seems to be a soldier of exceptional organisational talent. You should have no trouble in your task…with him behind you.”

  It was at that particular moment that Qara realised that King Delmar Did Not Like Her. Qara glanced at Falon, whose calm gaze remained fixed on the knotted table.

  “Your Majesty honours me with his confidence,” said Qara, bowing deeply.

  “You leave tonight,” said King Delmar.

  Qara hesitated only a moment, and then bowed again before leaving the deathly silent hall.

  He woke on sun-warmed grass, windswept leaves caught in his hair and robes. Seris pushed himself upright, feeling the blood still crusted around his nose. He knew that she was gone this time. Really gone.

  He couldn’t remember much of what happened last night, aside from the looming fist. He probably hadn’t phrased things as persuasively as he could have. He might even have sounded accusatory or patronising. Seris touched a hand to his bruised cheek. She’d let him off lightly, he supposed. He wasn’t missing any teeth, or eyes, or limbs.

  He sagged slightly, combing the leaves half-heartedly from his mussed hair. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do now. He was stranded in the wild lands, without food or money or survival skills. He’d failed in his quest, and he’d be lucky to get back to Algaris alive, if there was anything left of the capital by the time he got there.

  Seris thought of Morle and Petr pottering about the temple. Perhaps Petr would be playing his lute, and Morle would be curled on the rug, dreaming of happy places. He found himself thinking of Qara and that quiet, secret pain in her eyes, buried so deep that he wondered if she remembered it was there at all. Finally, his thoughts turned to Elhan, streaking through the fields and forests, across deserts and mountains, forever running, unable to rest.

  Seris stood up, shaking the grass from his clothes. He wasn’t entirely sure where the Plains of Despair were, but he knew which direction was west, and that was a start.

  For an inconceivably long time, the only sensation was the pain. Not pulsing, not ebbing, but a steady, solid wash of agony. It seemed that entire universes formed and died, and still he lingered in this tormented plane of existence. After a long while, a new feeling crept in, and he became aware of an unbearable cold.

  When thoughts finally took shape through the icy paralysis, one of the first to emerge was:

  Why is it taking so long to die?

  Then again, Valamon had never died before, although in his youth, he’d twice been resuscitated by Qara after inhaling too much pond water. However, he was embarrassed to admit, the second time, he’d been faking it. It had been a very emotionally confusing time, and he’d since been quite ashamed of himself. And a little frightened that Qara might one day find out.

  Valamon wondered if perhaps this was the afterlife, his reward for an existence distinguished only by privilege and inaction. All his good intentions, his complex aspirations, had been far too little and irrevocably too late. Thankfully, this theory lost some of its weight the morning he finally regained consciousness and discovered that the afterlife looked a lot like an empty room in a ruined castle.

  Awareness came in ragged waves, like the remnants of a shipwreck being washed onto the shore. His first sense was of the throbbing ache radiating through his torso. Then the feel of rough woollen blankets on his skin. He opened his eyes weakly, and a stub of candle illuminated the pocked walls of a poorly maintained bedchamber.

  He was alive, which meant Haska had either been so moved by his gesture that she’d repented of her evil ways, or she’d dismissed his childish stunt as a poor substitute for a public execution. Valamon had to admit, Haska seemed to have her heart set on that whole head-rolling-across-the-flagstones thing.

  He experimented with moving his arms and discovered that he was still wearing the same tattered shirt as before. It had been freshly laundered but still flaunted a graphic slit in the stomach region. Valamon wondered if perhaps he should have unbuttoned his shirt before impaling himself, although he felt this would have significantly decreased the dramatic impact and possibly sent a slightly confused message.

  He let his head fall back onto the chaff pillow, turning his eyes towards the iron-bound door. He was actually a little disappointed he wasn’t in the dungeons, as he’d been getting quite good at escaping from them. To be fair to the prison guards, after his first escape, Valamon had hidden small pieces of wire and metal in every cell on his level. He hadn’t anticipated being imprisoned in one of the bedchambers, but he was certain he could improvise something between the wooden pail and the rickety bed.

  He pushed aside his blanket, trembling as he tried to sit up. It was then that he saw the heavy manacle around his ankle, the other end secured to a rather incongruous iron ring protruding from the floor. Valamon quickly noted that the chain fell just short of allowing him to reach the door, although perhaps if he could remove the handle from the bucket, and loop his shirt around the end…

  Shaking with the effort, Valamon swung his legs from the bed. With mild puzzlement, he noticed a depression at the foot of the mattress, as though someone had been sitting there for some time.

  Before he had a chance to speculate, the lock in the door gave a rusty click. Valamon hurriedly flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. The door scraped open, and familiar boots rasped across the stone, coming to a halt beside the bed.

  “I know you’re awake,” said Haska. “You’ve stopped mumbling.”

  After a pause, Valamon opened his eyes warily.

  “You’ve been muttering incoherently for weeks,” said Haska. “The physician was on the verge of suffocating you himself.”

  “Weeks?” said Valamon faintly.

  “You’ve woken just in time to see the world change. In mere days, the Talgaran Empire will be wiped from the earth. King Delmar will finally face a reckoning for his sins.”

  Valamon’s heart sank. She’d learned nothing, seen nothing, felt nothing, despite all his efforts. His life was as worthless to her as it was to the king.

  “It will be a war like any other,” said Valamon. “Each as devastating and indistinct as the last. Everyone believes they’re deposing a tyrant, but conquering through violence seeds only more violence. My father never learned that, and it seems that neither have you.”

  Haska’s eyes flared.

  “Say you’re nothing like my father,” taunted Valamon. “Go on.”

  “And what would you do? Free the conquered lands and let your people starve? Or continue on your father’s path of slaughter and subjugation?”

  “You see only two choices, both a strength and a failing in a leader. Being a leader is about doing what’s best for your people, which is not necessarily the same as doing what’s right. But I see things that a leader doesn’t, things they can’t, because to consider those things would stay their hand, stop things from getting done. But I see more than two stark choices. And I see what you are, behind the mask.”

  Haska’s mouth twisted into a mocking smile.

  “And what am I?”

  Valamon looked steadily into Haska’s eyes.

  “Lonely.”

  The expression that flashed across Haska’s features was partly ridicule, partly derision, but partly something else that cloaked itself quickly in the former two.

  “Naturally,” said Haska. “I’m a lonely, evil overlord who could have been so good if only I’d been loved.”

  Haska gripped the headboard, bristling with menace as she leaned in to Valamon.

  “The problem is, I was loved,” said Haska. “And the people who loved me were murdered before my eyes. My home was burned, my city razed. My father, my people, my land, and half my face were taken from me by a man who lives in wealth and adulation. So, no, Pr
ince of Talgaran, I’m not lonely. I’m angry.”

  Valamon’s gaze remained steady.

  “If you’re not lonely, then why are you talking to me?” said Valamon.

  The headboard creaked slightly, as though under intense pressure, but Valamon kept his gaze on Haska.

  “To tell you that you have only days to live,” said Haska, her voice low and soaked in hostility. “To tell you that you die on my terms, at a time of my choosing, in a manner your people will remember for generations.”

  Valamon moved quickly, for someone with a gut wound. His hand closed around Haska’s collar, yanking her so close that their faces almost touched. Her gauntlet flew to his throat, but Valamon maintained his grip.

  “Look me in the face and tell me that you’ll kill me,” said Valamon. “In front of my family. In cold blood.”

  Haska’s fingers tightened around his neck.

  “I have faith because I see something in you that you pretend you don’t have,” said Valamon.

  A heartbeat passed, then Haska shoved Valamon backwards, his head slamming into the headboard. Valamon slumped back, but his eyes remained on Haska. She glared at him for a moment before leaving the room, the door thudding shut behind her.

  THIRTEEN

  As it turned out, the Plains of Despair were just west of the Stony Deserts of Agony, beyond the Moors of Brooding Desolation, past the Hills of Creepiness, the Meadows of Misfortune, and the Valley of Lost Shoes.

  Seris finally reached the rocky coast at the edge of the continent, barefoot and exhausted. His trousers were shredded halfway to the knees after a narrow escape in the Meadows of Misfortune. Beneath his ragged robes, his shirt was missing an entire sleeve after a confusing mishap involving Animals That Look Like Things You Can Sit On.

  However, despite all this, Seris felt surprisingly good. He suspected it was akin to the delirium experienced by castaways who hosted tea parties for sticks spiked with coconuts. Nonetheless, he suspected those parties were much more fun than the parties he’d experienced.

  Seris felt strangely invigorated as he looked out across the grey, choppy waters, breathing in the blustery salt air. It was desolate in a beautiful way—the glassy grey rocks sweeping into a crystalline shore, leading out to an endless sea.

  His mood blunted slightly when he noticed what appeared to be an enormous funnel cloud several hundred yards off the coast, spinning like solid grey thunder. He sighed, harbouring little doubt that the island he sought lay within that whirling funnel.

  Seris padded down to the water’s edge and dipped his feet into the softly lapping waves. He’d never been much of a swimmer—he wasn’t fond of situations that became fatal if you dozed off. However, the last few weeks had been, one could say, character-building. One could also say gruelling, bruising, and traumatising. Nonetheless, he’d discovered that, when absolutely necessary, he could swim very, very fast.

  Seris couldn’t help feeling a degree of suicidal stupidity as he paddled through the cold surf, towards the roaring funnel cloud. He hoped it was indeed an enchanted funnel cloud of some kind, rather than just a funnel cloud. However, by the time he reached the edge of the whirling spout, it was really too late for second thoughts.

  Seris plunged into the side of the funnel, and to his surprise, found himself swimming through a thick, silent fog. The soupy mist rose like steam from the suddenly warm water, and Seris paddled blindly, trying to maintain a steady bearing. He hoped he wasn’t going round in circles, and he had a brief, panicked vision of mice and custard.

  Suddenly, he pushed through the grey fog and swam into brilliant sunshine. The water was tropically warm and azure blue. Schools of brightly coloured fish darted around him in the startlingly clear water, vanishing into reefs of delicate coral before bursting out again in clouds of orange, blue, and yellow.

  Seris staggered onto a shore of fine white sand, the ground pleasantly hot beneath his feet. He wiped the water from his eyes and stared around at the island. Coconut palms studded the coastline, and trilling birds of paradise fanned out their glorious feathers from atop clusters of mango trees. Hermit crabs scuttled across the sand, and vibrant starfish clung to shallow rock pools.

  Only yards from the shoreline, a large tower rose into a blazing blue sky. The building resembled a giant sandcastle, complete with seashells studding the walls. Strands of seaweed draped from window ledges, and crystal water lapped gently at its base.

  The front door appeared to be made of rather jolly-looking driftwood, the doorframe studded with pearlescent seashells. Seris’s fist hovered over the warped wood, ominous tales of wrath and curses rushing back to him. However, he hadn’t trekked all this way for the mangoes. Seris knocked tentatively, then wondered what he’d do if no one answered.

  Footsteps approached and the door swung open, revealing a clean-shaven man in his forties wearing an open-necked shirt and colourful shorts.

  Olrios grinned broadly.

  “You look like hell.”

  Haska marched along the parapets, inspecting the humming activity of the camp below. Starlight cast a silver wash over the weathered stone, and her footing was unthinkingly steady over the narrow, crumbling walls. A lifetime of guerrilla warfare made you very good or very dead. Barrat thought it was unnecessarily showy, but Haska saw their expressions as the troops gazed up at her—the Half-Faced Lord stalking the rim of the castle. Strategy and righteousness were well and good, but a little fear and legend could go a long way when you were trying to maintain a hold over this many troops from this many nations.

  She scrutinised the battle formations, the condition of the weapons and armour, the general morale of the camp. The forges were going day and night now, and the training sessions had intensified as battalions polished their tactical manoeuvres. Supply lines streamed back and forth across the camp as they rushed to set everything in place. Everything had to be perfect. Preparation would make the difference between once inconceivable victory and unforgivable defeat.

  Everything hung upon these last few moments, and then, hopefully, the world would be changed. Haska had worked all her life for this, for her moment of bloody justice. Now, she stood above a seething army braced for war. She had only to say the word, and Algaris would be no more. Without Delmar, the empire would soon follow, picked apart by the other nations like a dying animal beneath a cloud of vultures.

  This was therefore the worst possible time for her to be having doubts, no matter how small and incomprehensible. Her convictions hadn’t changed, her resolve hadn’t weakened, but for some reason, a little of the anger had gone. A little of the fire had died. Haska told herself it was just pre-apocalypse nerves, but she suspected it was more than that. She’d spent almost her entire life consumed by the thought of the battle, of the glorious moment of victory. But now, she found herself thinking increasingly about what would happen after the war.

  Things like burying the dead. The inevitable upheaval in the wake of the sudden power vacuum. The mundane details of life after the collapse of an empire. Previously, Haska had seen those as someone else’s problem, but lately, she’d been wondering if something could be done to make the world, well…work better.

  She had no one but herself to blame for letting the ravings of an idiot get under her skin. Valamon had proved to be quite a talker while unconscious, although most of his mumblings were stream-of-consciousness ramblings. Haska had sat beside him with a wad of parchment in case he happened to start talking about castle fortifications or military weaknesses. He didn’t seem to spend much time thinking about those things. However, he did talk a great deal about agricultural development, industrial diversification, revising trade agreements, and modifying the feudal system to respond to flexible market forces. Admittedly, Haska had jotted down some of these points.

  Valamon had also said some rather…confusing things, which were nonetheless incredibly beautiful. Haska had secretly jotted down some of these as well.

  Haska drew a deep breath of chill night
air. The sound of anvils and voices, horses and marching, rose into the night. It was the wrong time to be thinking about these things. Distractions would lead to mistakes.

  She heard Barrat’s heavy stride approaching across the flagstones. Haska swept one final look over the camp before leaping lightly to the floor.

  “General, how are the final preparations?” she said.

  “The timing is tight, but we should be finished on schedule. Amoriel will be ready in less than an hour. Once the cloak is gone, we will have to transport immediately.”

  “Then in an hour, we are at war,” said Haska.

  Barrat gave a nod, and there was a brief pause. He cleared his throat.

  “Lord Haska, at the risk of sounding repetitive, Prince Valamon has escaped.”

  Haska took a slow, deep breath.

  “Liadres must be running out of room for volunteers by—”

  Haska stopped abruptly, her mind suddenly flashing back to a moment—

  Gods, you have to be joking.

  She reached for the keys on her belt, and there was a Silence.

  “Bastard,” said Haska under her breath.

  And she’d thought Valamon was just being melodramatic. She should have just gone ahead and strangled him. Damn her humanity.

  Barrat cleared his throat again, and Haska turned glowering eyes to the general.

  “And he took your horse,” said Barrat.

  Olrios wasn’t exactly what Seris had been expecting, but Seris supposed that, in his current state of mind, he should be thankful that Olrios didn’t appear to him as a giant carrot.

  Olrios proffered a chair wrangled together from bleached timber and frayed rope, and Seris sank onto it gratefully. The interior of the tower resembled what Seris imagined the inside of a sandcastle would look like, if the sandcastle had been built by a sorcerer with a penchant for delicately whorled seashells and vivid corals. Sunlight glittered on the sandy floor, and pretty oil paintings of seashores, mountainous forests, and prosaic towns decorated the walls. Most of the furniture in the small kitchen had been built from things that had washed up on the island, and faded shipping brands scored the table.