Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “Return the scepter.”

  “What scepter?”

  “The scepter of the Helgardian tribe must be returned.”

  Sari puts the bronze weathervane between herself and the assassin, hoping to think of an idea to cure the man. “I think you mean ‘us’ instead of ‘them’. Unless you’re nothing more than a hired, and obviously betrayed, assassin. Though I didn’t think the nomads would hire an outsider. Where would they even find one if they’re out in the desert?”

  The assassin hisses like a cornered beast and charges up the domed roof. Sari waits for him to get close and puts all of her strength into shoving the weathervane. The metal decoration spins and hits the man in the nose, sending him stumbling away. He trips over his foot and flails wildly, hitting himself in the head with the spear. For a second, his eyes lose their insane glint and Sari sees a look of confused terror on his face. Before she can reach the assassin, he falls off the roof and lands with a sickening crunch.

  “Something isn’t right here,” Sari whispers as she stars at the crumpled form below. She turns to the distant dunes, hoping in vain to see a familiar form on the horizon. “I wish you were here, Nyxie. We could really use your help.”

  *****

  “This isn’t very hospitable,” Delvin mentions while he examines the handcuffs keeping him to the wooden chair. “Is this how you treat your guests?”

  Asher glances up from the map of Bor’daruk and the surrounding desert, meeting the other warrior’s grin with an amused chuckle. He grunts and scowls when Wayland grabs him by the ear and forces him to return his attention their plans. Figurines are scattered about the map with most of them outside of the wall. Whispering to his father, Asher moves several pieces back into the area denoting the manor, which is not very far from the city’s towering defense. The older Grasdon rolls his eyes and puts the pieces back, slamming them down with more force than necessary.

  “I’m not feeling very welcomed here,” Delvin interrupts while he tries to move his tingling arms.

  “You were welcomed into our home, Mercenary Prince, but you’re pushing your luck with me,” Wayland angrily snaps, smacking three of the pieces over. He leaves his son to fix the small mess and storms over to the warrior. “I can handle a guest arguing with me and being defiant in the face of my polite requests. My wife and I draw the line at one who knocks out five of our guards and tries to ride one of the elephants through the outer wall. Do you realize how stressed that beast is because of you? They aren’t like horses and camels.”

  “I apologize to you, your wife, and your elephant. I’ve only seen them once and they were aggressive mounts used by orcs,” Delvin says, bowing his head. Exhaustion sets into his body and he tries to lean forward, his arms wrenched by the handcuffs. “Please understand that I’m in love with one of the women who is out in that desert. I’d give anything to save her and you have me contained here. You would do the same if your wife was lost out there.”

  Wayland appears taken aback by the warrior’s words and coughs uncomfortably. He coils his beard around his hand while his mind drifts away. The sound of Asher’s sword clunking against the table jolts the merchant out of his thoughts. Grumbling incoherently, he tosses his son the key to Delvin’s cuffs and heads for the exit. Both of the young men notice Wayland’s slumped shoulders as he leaves them and softly closes the door.

  “What did I say?” Delvin asks.

  “My father understands how you feel, but it’s hard for him to face such emotions,” Asher replies while unlocking his guest’s cuffs. Returning to the map table, he offers the warrior a cup of coffee, which he leaves on the desert section. “You heard him mention his wife, but mom died ten years ago. He gets confused when under stress and acts like she’s still alive. When he’s reminded that she died, he wanders off like that. It’s been very bad since this mess with the nomads started and my little sister has taken the brunt of it. I’ve heard him call her my mom’s name instead of Kira twice in the last month. That’s really rough on her since she still slips and occasionally says parents instead of father when talking about the family.”

  Delvin takes a sip of the warm drink, enjoying the aromatic scent. “I’m sorry to hear about it. I know it’s ten years too late, but you have my condolences.”

  “You’re a very kind man for someone who has repeatedly tried to break out,” the nobleman mentions. The wide-eyed look of caution on his guest’s face causes him to smile. “I know of all your attempts. Scaling the wall yesterday and being sent back down by the guards. My favorite is trying to bribe the night watch with an apple pie, which your little friend ate before you could finish your negotiations. I’ve kept all of them secret from my father since Kira told me the reason for your agitation. I couldn’t do anything about the elephant since you knocked over a few trees and scared the peacocks.”

  “At least nobody got hurt.”

  “I’ve been told that you’re a talented tactician. Care to look at this and give me your opinion?” Asher politely requests while he pours himself a glass of wine. The armored nobleman runs his hand along the map, his eyes constantly examining the terrain. “I can only place my own forces on the map since I don’t know exactly what the Helgardians will do. My father’s agents have gathered some information, but it is nothing that I didn’t see coming. They approach from the northeast and we have word that most of the other tribes have made camp far away. Nobody wants to risk their trade agreements with my family or the wrath of the Helgardians. Only a few smaller tribes have joined our enemies in the hopes of earning more reputation from the battle.”

  “The Helgardians don’t trade with you?”

  “They do, which is why this war is very delicate and troubling.”

  Delvin nods as he thinks about what Asher has told him, his eyes falling on the detailed map. Stroking his stubbled chin, he remembers the times he was hired to defend a walled city or attack a fortified area. The layout of Bor’daruk is refreshingly simple compared to some of his past jobs as a mercenary. Symbols on the ocean side of the city tells Delvin that a wall can rise up and the docks become either a combat vessel for soldiers or a large escape raft for the citizens. He frowns when he notices that only a few tiny figurines are scattered about the city proper. Most of the Grasdon’s forces are outside the wall and lining the top, which he assumes means archers. Stifling his laughter, he gets a closer look at four knights standing alongside a dragon and a princess within the manor.

  “I’m going to guess that these are my friends and I protecting Kira,” Delvin states, tapping one of the knights over. “Your father wants to use us as a final line of defense in case your forces can’t hold the wall. I’d rather be in the city since the only ways into Bor’daruk are the front door and the ocean. Our object should be to prevent the Helgardians from getting into the manor because once your outer wall is breeched, we have to worry about noncombatants. At least in the city, people can hide in their homes and the nomads will leave them alone.”

  “I agree, but my father swears the city will handle the streets,” Asher explains, drawing his curved sword to shift figurines around. After moving the knights to the street, he pushes a few archers and desert forces into the manor. “This is what I keep proposing. The manor guards would be defensive only to give noncombatants time to escape into tunnels that lead to a safe house in the desert. We also set up archers to slow down the enemy advance. I have no idea why my father only wants archers on the city wall. In fact, I don’t understand any of these tactics.”

  “Is he a military man?”

  “My father is a merchant, but he’s studied the old wars.”

  “That isn’t the same thing.”

  “I respect my father, but I’m forced to agree with you.”

  Crouching to stretch his legs, Delvin finds a basket of figurines under the table and a red caster catches his attention. He takes the wooden statue and turns it over in his hands, the short hair and pointy ears reminding him of Nyx. The warrior’s concentrat
ion is broken by Asher coughing and he looks up to see if his companion is choking. When he turns his attention back to the piece, he realizes that the figurine is really of a long-haired human. With a heavy sigh, Delvin places the caster in the desert and inches it toward the city.

  “My recommendation is to let your dad think he’s in charge and make sure you’re the one to give assignments in the field,” he tells Asher, raising his hand to stop an argument. He taps the nearest warrior figurine while imagining the battle. “There are too many men out here, so move most of them to just within the doors. Utilize your archers to weaken the approaching forces and eliminate as many enemies as possible before melee combat begins. If you can use several of the swordsman forces into crossbowmen then do that, but make sure they know to draw their blades when the nomads reach this spot outside the wall. Once our enemies get this far, it will turn into a melee within the confines of the entrance and the streets, which should give you an advantage over warriors who are used to fighting in open desert. My friends and I will handle things our way, but it will depend on if this caster is here or not.”

  The nobleman picks up the figurine and turns it over in his hand. “What difference would this woman make? I guess she could handle any more monsters that they send our way. We’re still afraid that there are more creatures on the way.”

  “If there are beasts then we’ll handle them,” Delvin states, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. “My hope is that she can show a display of power to scare the nomads into agreeing to a peaceful negotiation. I’d use Fizzle, but a dragon might be too much. Then again, Nyx isn’t known for restraint and might scare some people to death. By the way, have you figured out why the Helgardians are attacking you?”

  “Nothing confirmed,” Asher states with a tired sigh. He sits in a nearby chair and signals for a butler to bring him a warm cloth to wash his face. “For a few weeks, there have been rumors that my family stole some relic from the Helgardians. Some people say it’s a scepter while others say a staff. It holds a religious significance to all of the nomad tribes, but it is carried by the Helgardians. Such an item would explain why they are treated like royalty out there.”

  Delvin drags his chair across the floor and sits in front of the noble. He takes the towel offered to him and presses it to his face, massaging his forehead through the soft fabric. The soothing warmth nearly puts him to sleep, but he shakes his head clear and rubs his neck until the cloth has cooled off. Leaning back in the simple chair, he watches Asher for any sign of anxiety, but all he sees is fatigue on the nobleman’s face.

  “Did your family take this relic?” the warrior asks, leaping to his feet when the other man stands. He puts his hand on the other man’s sword, stopping him from drawing it. “You know I had to ask. I don’t know you or your family, so I can’t jump to conclusions. It could even be someone in your organization that did it. So please tell me if it’s possible.”

  “Anything is possible, but I doubt it,” Asher states, removing Delvin’s hand from his scimitar. “We don’t trade in stolen merchandise. Timbre and Quill are ruling members of an organization that my father founded to punish those who steal cultural relics. If someone in our household has done it then they would not have stayed on the grounds. We’ve had no disappearances or firings among our staff in years.”

  “So you were framed by an outside party?”

  The dark-haired nobleman takes his seat and stares at the map table, the clean depiction of war turning his stomach. “It would be the most likely scenario, but my father has proof that the relic was never stolen. Apparently, he had one of our clerks traveling with the Helgardians and contacted this man to see if the stories were true. The relic was said to still be with the nomads, but our employee was found dead at the front gate two days later.”

  Delvin groans and drapes the cool towel over his face. Both warriors are falling asleep when a strange scuffling from outside catches their attention. They are already heading for the door when a gurgling scream erupts from the courtyard.

  *****

  Timoran’s sapphire eyes sparkle at the sight of the exquisite decanters on the table, each one filled with a different alcohol. He can smell rich Dwarven ales and expensive Calican liquors, their aromas seeping through the corks. Eileen gingerly hands him a large glass and claps her hands for one of the halfling butlers to bring a basket of warm bread. She bows to the barbarian and goes to politely sit next her mistress, who is relaxing on a low couch. Kira lazily runs her finger along the marble railing of the balcony, her eyes on the sinking sun and the pinks of the sky. She can hear the peacocks calling out to each other, but her thoughts are so far away that she would believe she is imagining them.

  “I am unclear as to what we are doing,” Timoran admits as he pours himself a cup of dark green liquor. The drink is tart and has the faint taste of blackberries and mint. “This is a halfling mead from Canst’s Fields. I have tried some once before, but I never thought I would get to taste it again. Thank you for the treat.”

  “My pleasure,” Kira says with a casual wave of her hand. She looks over the railing to where Luke is practicing in the courtyard. “You and I are strangers, Sir Wrath. We know each other’s reputation, but nothing personal. Our common ground is Luke and I wish to speak with you about him. As per your people’s traditions, I’ve supplied alcohol for our discussion. Though I’m not in the mood to indulge.”

  “Has he been distant?” the barbarian asks. He takes a quiet sip of his drink when Kira shoots him a withering look. “I will take that as a yes. This is what he did when he was confused about starting a relationship with Sari. Luke is rather . . . terrible at handling his conflicted feelings. You will have to take the initiative with him.”

  The heiress moves to the table and dips a piece of soft bread into a dish of olive oil. She listens to the distant sound of movement, imagining her fiancée’s every motion. Her heart beats faster when she remembers sparring with him at the academy. It feels like a lifetime ago that they were together and in blissful ignorance of the looming disaster. Kira knows that Sari has fought alongside Luke more times than her and the champions would continue to do so after they leave Bor’daruk. She chews on the bread and cringes when she bites her inner cheek.

  “I’ve made the first few moves and he’s been attentive the last few days,” Kira explains, sitting on a pillow and curling her knees to her chest. “I can’t even say he’s been very distant since we talk and are falling into old habits. It’s when he thinks I’m asleep or not paying attention that things go wrong. I see the pain in eyes as he turns back to me. He spends the night sitting in the window instead of in bed. I know he doesn’t really sleep any more, but he goes so far away.”

  “It is a difficult decision that he will have to make.”

  “You don’t think I’m aware of that?”

  The barbarian sighs and claims some bread to sop up half the oil. “I can tell you want to hear specific answers, but I do not have them. The truth is that Luke loves you and Sari, which is tearing him apart.”

  “I shouldn’t have let it get this far,” Kira whispers, shaking her head. Part of her regrets the words and she clenches her empty hand into a fist. “But declaring Sari as bad for Luke wouldn’t be right. She’s good for him and I’d betray the traditions by denying her. It’s only supposed to be done if the person is obviously a poor choice or dangerous. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Your culture has a law that says a primary partner can turn away a rival on the grounds of danger or proof of poor compatibility,” Timoran replies, pouring himself a cup of frothy Dwarven ale. “The danger is that if you use this law incorrectly, you could damage your relationship. Perhaps it could even lead to you being replaced by your rival, who would inevitably use the law to remove you completely.”

  “You catch on very quickly. Do you have any advice for me, Sir Wrath?”

  Timoran grabs the bottle of ale and goes to the railing, the sun nearly hidden by the distant dunes. He
notices several forms moving in the shadows below, but Luke is nowhere to be seen among the palms and flowers. A large creature lumbers out from behind a building, the fully grown elephant grabbing leaves with its trunk as it makes its way to the drinking pool in the far corner. The night is very quiet, which makes him wonder if this serenity is being shared by his missing friends.

  “Do not push Luke for a decision or you will cause him to make a mistake,” Timoran says as he turns around. He takes a long swig of his drink and smacks his lips in admiration of the crisp taste. “The best thing for you to do is make him realize how much you love him. I do not mean to prove you love him more than Sari because that will make you appear as the weaker choice. Something that I have come to notice in cities is that people fight romantic rivals in a method that is rather self-destructive. Avoid that by focusing on being the best Kira that Luke has ever known.”

  “And if he rejects me?”

  “Then it was not meant to be and the gods are cruel,” the barbarian bluntly states. A rumble of thunder causes him to mutter a quick prayer to Gabriel and Kerr. “I apologize, but you wanted the truth. As one who has seen Luke and Sari grow as a couple, I cannot guarantee that you will be chosen. Yet he has not given up on you, which is a good sign. Take his conflicted heart as an opportunity to rekindle what you had long ago.”

  “So I probably shouldn’t confront Sari,” Kira softly mentions as she finishes another piece of oily bread. She gestures for Eileen to bring her a damp towel to clean her hands and face. “I don’t even know what I would say to her. There are times I feel bad about ignoring her and keeping Luke to myself. She’s never intentionally done me harm, but I’m treating her like an enemy.”

  Timoran puts down his drink and leans forward to look Kira in the eye, holding his hand out to stop her maid from drawing a dagger. “In this arena, Sari is your enemy. Remember that a person can treat an enemy with kindness and compassion, which is what makes them a rival. By doing this, you increase the chance of retaining a friendship and not creating ill will when the final decision is made. In the end, you are the one who decides how to deal with her and our mutual friend. I would offer to help, but I do not wish to get involved any more than I already have.”