by MJ Blehart
They came from all walks of life. Sailors, merchants, ex-soldiers, criminals, peasants, even a few noblemen, like Nadav Rivarr. They weren’t accepted into their ranks and just sent out on raids and patrols, either. Every man and woman of the Falcon Raiders had spent time being trained in the use of multiple weapons, and hours were devoted daily for drilling and practice bouts. They were well armed and well skilled.
Getting them to join often took very little. Small bribes sometimes, veiled threats, the occasional indecent proposal, but most often it was the story of the simple truths she had learned. Lyrra-Sharron had a purpose and a goal, and nothing would stop her from achieving her objective.
Her mind returned to the passageway as Dak stopped. Lyrra-Sharron held up her hand to halt and silence the others. He passed her the torch, then drew a long dagger. He slowly pushed open the service door, then stepped out.
She waited. This always made her nervous. Moments later, he came back in, nodding his head to affirm it was safe.
He strode out again. She passed back the torch, then did the same.
One by one, they left the service passage, walking into a narrow alley. Dak still had his knife drawn, and looked apprehensive. Andim was the last to come out, leaving the torch inside. Some light came into the alley from the windows above. The rain continued, but was not as heavy as it had been.
Lyrra-Sharron had not been inside the capital city of the Kingdom since she had struck out from it two years ago. The alley stank of rotted foodstuffs and other garbage, but the rain that reached them did cleanse things somewhat.
Everything was more or less as she remembered it.
The merchants came forward. “Are we ready to proceed?” asked one with obvious apprehension.
She ignored his discomfort, and gave an affirmative gesture. “Lead on, my lords.”
Kurr Vangam and Max Parcall showed the way, moving east towards the street. They pulled their cloaks more tightly about them. The rest followed in small clusters, close enough to not lose one another, but distant enough to not seem like a single group.
The party came to the nearest street, which was lit by tall, encased lanterns. Small pipes ran underground in most of the city, and at night oil would be channeled through. Each district of the city had a noble overseer, who would be sure at sunset to ignite the lanterns. It was a very efficient way to keep the city out of the dark.
The capital was new. Gara-Sharron had only been built two hundred years ago by King Gara-Loros Anduin. Its predecessor, also in this place, had been invaded and demolished by the King of Medaelia.
It had been a bloody war, and was the result of several smaller houses taking up arms against the King, which the Medaelians took advantage of. Gara-Loros, after the burning of the capital, was finally able to convince the nobles to cease their petty war, and with their renewed support led an army into Medaelia, capturing its capital, Penkira.
A treaty eventually had been worked out, after months of negotiations. Gara-Loros withdrew his troops, taking with him an eighth of his eastern neighbor’s territory, and the title Second Prince of Medaelia.
He had gone on to spend the rest of his life overseeing the reconstruction of the capital, and after his death it was named for him.
Gara-Sharron was laid out more-or-less along a grid. It was circular and walled, split by several small canals that ran throughout. Recognizing that these canals could not be kept clean, potable water was brought into the city via aqueduct from mountains in the north and west. Gara-Sharron was divided into fifteen districts, each overseen by a Baron-Administrator. Order was maintained by Royal Guardsmen, Sharron Army soldiers, and an independent Constabulary.
To the west, the circle was broken. The municipality was on uneven terrain, and the west end backed up against the beginning of the western mountain range. Rising above the capital itself stood the royal palace, a small city within. Separately walled, the palace was virtually impregnable. But then, no army had made it very far within the borders of the Kingdom of Sharron proper since the time of King Gara-Loros Anduin.
The northern district, Gara-North, was almost entirely residences. Industry labored in the south, making armor and weapons for the military, carving stone and preparing wood for construction, turning wheat into flour, and so forth. Merchants sold their wares all over the metropolis, but were centered around the markets in the East and Center. The Bureaucracy, aristocracy, and courts were in the West, near the palace.
It was only about two hours past sunset, the merchants and laborers were returning home to families and supper. At this time of night, most guards were centered on the labor areas, where they could keep an eye on things as the various businesses were closed for the night. In a few hours, they’d shift back here, to protect the sleeping citizens. This was the safest time to go about the community unnoticed.
As they moved away from the outer wall, Lyrra-Sharron noticed the quality of the buildings increasing. They were coming into a better neighborhood. She was not really concerned, but if anyone recognized her, they would have to flee.
The merchants paused at a street corner, and Dak signaled the others to wait. Lyrra-Sharron moved up beside him, taking his hand. She noted that he seemed almost to freeze up, for the briefest instant, but then was himself again. She decided it was probably her imagination.
The merchants went first. After counting silently to twelve, Dak and Lyrra-Sharron went forward. Counting to seven in her head, Lyrra-Sharron could hear bootsteps as Andim and Kallan came up as well. The others would all be separated as individuals, and a few minutes behind.
As they traveled down the street, a group of three deputy constables were at the corner, mounted. They were chatting quietly, all with identical grey jackets and breeches. Each had a sash across the left shoulder, two dark red and one blue, all with a silver five-pointed star, the device of the constabulary.
“This sword I began to fashion today was incredible,” Dak began as they were walking. “This is probably going to be the finest weapon I have ever crafted. I believe we already have a dozen buyers lined up, so the bidding should really elevate the price.”
Lyrra-Sharron nodded her head casually at Dak’s chatter, though she found it hard not to smile, as this was the most she had ever heard him speak. As they strode a few yards away from the constables, she identified two Second-Deputies and a Gara-North District First Deputy. They appeared to be paying no attention at all to the cloaked figures passing by, the hoods of their own dark grey cloaks pulled up.
If they did look, all they would note was a pair of merchants quietly heading home, and following them a couple, a craftsman and his lady, talking quietly. To the rear of them, a pair of men casually walking and joking around, probably father and son.
As they strode down several more blocks, they encountered only a couple more constables, and no soldiers or Guardsman. Finally, Kurr and Max entered a large house with a painted sign indicated Kurr’s business before it. Lyrra-Sharron and Dak walked around the block, then down the alley. The door was open, and light poured out. Checking first down one way, then the other, Dak and Lyrra-Sharron walked in.
Kurr and Max were hanging cloaks on pegs by the door, a large cooking fire roaring in the fireplace, warming the room. This time of year, the rain was cold, and chilled the air. Several pots hung over the fire, no doubt tea and coffee, and a small cauldron with a pleasant smelling vegetable stew. Dak and Lyrra-Sharron removed their cloaks, placing them on the pegs.
There were several others in the room around a table, two women, the merchants’ wives, and three other men. Their contacts in the city of Gara-Sharron.
“My lords. Thank you,” Lyrra-Sharron said, taking the seat offered her by Kurr. Max and Dak took seats as well, Kurr joining them. One of the women stood, getting a pot and pouring an herbal tea for everyone.
“I shall explain everything when the others arrive. How long till we have everyone here?”
Max checked the clock over the fireplace. Timepieces
were expensive and rather rare things. Lyrra-Sharron had almost forgotten about them in her two years out in the country.
“A couple hours. The party was called for nine. We’ll even have our friends, the constables, outside guarding the place. Invitation only, you know. We’re known for throwing private parties, celebrating holidays, extremely good business, hangings, that sort of thing. We’ll have no trouble getting everything into place.”
A short, wiry man Lyrra-Sharron had not noticed before opened the door to the alley, and Andim and Kallan came in.
“That was easy enough,” said Kallan, smiling brightly has he removed his cloak.
Andim made a low noise in his throat. “Getting in isn’t the problem. It’s getting out that’ll be tricky.”
“Will we have everything in place?” Lyrra-Sharron asked, as she accepted a bowl of stew proffered to her.
“I believe so,” Dak replied. “But I am still concerned that this will risk over half our contacts in the city.”
“If we get the Sorcerer, it will be worth it. And even if we do not, the embarrassment we shall cause the King will not be something easily shaken.” She grinned at the lady who had passed her the food. “Thank you, my lady, this stew is wonderful.”
The merchant’s wife made a quick curtsy, blushing. She quickly laid out bowls and spoons for everyone else, serving all. Lyrra-Sharron waited until the others were eating before continuing herself.
“You do realize, that if you get caught in Gara-Sharron, our plans will all be for nothing,” stated Dak, picking up the same argument he’d begun in Tarmollo.
She glanced towards him thoughtfully. “Fair enough. If I am caught, I have failed. But if I succeed here, we finally turn these plans into actions. I know what a risk this is. But it is all for naught if we do not act. It had to happen sooner or later.”
“I would have preferred later,” Dak muttered.
“We are all with you, my Lady,” Kurr murmured, chewing on a fingernail fretfully.
Most of the others around the table indicated their assent.
Lyrra-Sharron observed them. Her soldiers. Following her because they believed in her and what she stood for. It was not an easy burden to carry sometimes.
“I would not let you down. Not a one of you.” Lyrra-Sharron turned to the lady of the house. “Now then, I believe, Lady Areiana, that you have a wig for me? Let us fit it before the party begins. We have a lot of plans to set in motion. Time is short. Let us get this right the first time.”
Chapter 6
The Sorcerer lay upon the bunk, staring out through the barred window into the courtyard. It was a perfect sunny day, without a trace of cloud. Even the air in the musty cell smelled somewhat fresher than before. A pleasant day to die, he thought.
He had slept fitfully that night. He could not concentrate enough to work on the webbing that held in his power. He admitted to himself that it could not save him. It was simply too little, too late. Nothing could save him.
Just after dawn they had come, offering food. Anything he wanted. He did not speak. They brought him eggs and chicken and bacon and fresh bread, the best food he’d seen in years. For all his resistance, he found himself ravenously hungry. He ate it entirely. His final meal.
He would be dignified. He would not speak, nor cry out. He would never show an expression upon his face. He would be hanged. To his way of thinking, a far less unpleasant punishment than the King had promised.
He would be dead in a few hours. Everything he believed would be a lie, if he died now. When he had come to Sharron, he had been so confident, so arrogant, so completely certain nothing could get between him and his destiny.
It was only the loss of his power that allowed for his capture.
The sorcerer let his mind wander, remembering how they had taken him.
It was a typical tavern, no town within twenty miles in either direction. Inside was a large open space, broken only by the occasional unadorned wooden column, stained a dark brown. Small tables were all about the dusty wood floor, just enough room between them for the serving wenches and patrons to pass through.
The room was dim, with only a few narrow windows emitting sunlight, and half the candle chandeliers lit. The smell of sweat and grease and roasting chickens and ale filled the room, mingling with the smoke of pipes and cigars. The space was well worn, not unclean, but scuffed and littered with the signs of nearly unending use.
A small group of musicians on a raised platform, with a lute, a mandolin, a recorder, and a drum called a bodhran, played a pleasant popular dance tune, though there was no room for dancing. It was an altogether noisy place, filled with the sounds of music, laughter, and the dull roar of the various cartmen, travelers, and others taking a moment from their journeys for a pint of ale, or a quick meal.
His mind returned to the present time for a moment. He found it hard to believe he recalled all of these details now. He had barely noted them at the time.
He had become extremely disheveled, and very very drunk. Three days prior, he had been a powerful sorcerer. But he could not touch the power anymore. He had sat alone at a table in a corner, drinking his umpteenth pint of cheap ale. Almost three days had passed since his encounter with the soldiers.
He drained his current full tankard, and banged it down upon the table, demanding more.
It was still there, as it always had been, but he could not tap into it. He would often try for hours, without success, finally giving in to his terror, loss and grief, crying uncontrollably for quite some time after. As he thought on it once more, he could feel himself being overwhelmed again, and he took the ale the serving wench set before him and began to gulp it down, trying to keep control.
The girl went to the next table, where a pair of cartmen lounged, drinking. As she served them, one spoke too loudly. “What the ‘ell’s ‘is problem, eh? Scrawny pansy weepin’ for ‘is lost love? Too weak to fight the bloke ‘oo stole ‘er?”
His temper was quick when he had no control of his emotions. He arose swiftly, stumbling to his feet, spilling his ale all over the table and the floor. In an angry voice, he cried out. “Bastard! I could turn you inside out with the power I possessed! I could destroy you without laying a hand on your stinking hide! And I lost it! I damned well lost it! You worthless cretin, I had the greatest force in the universe, and I lost it!”
Without even thinking, he lashed out with his anger and frustration. “Bastard!”
For the briefest instant it had returned, and the cartman was unexpectedly tossed across the room, slamming into the wall. Following surprised shouts from the various tavern patrons, and the screams of several of the serving wenches, the room became eerily silent. The music stopped, and he had felt all eyes turning his way to stare at him.
He slowly sank back into his chair, trembling, nauseous. The briefest moment of sheer ecstasy, and again it was gone. He could not move, he could not think, he only sobbed, folded in on himself, drunk, became unaware of the tavern around him.
In his drunken, delirious stupor, he had only half noted their presence. A pair of soldiers summoned by a hastily dispatched serving wench.
“This is the one,” he recalled hearing. It had been as if the voice came from a long ways off. He had nothing to say, no fight left, no will, no strength. “The King is looking for you. Don’t try anything, he’ll take you dead or alive.”
Twice more the soldier had addressed him, but the Sorcerer could not recall what he’d said, had not heard him, only his tone. There was only a slight moment of pain as the pommel of a sword had been slammed down upon the back of his neck. He had slumped onto the tabletop, unconscious, but alive. When he next awoke, he was a captive in chains.
The noise of his cell door opening brought the Sorcerer back to the present once again with a start.
Though he hid the surprise from showing on his face, King Varlock-Sharron stepped in. The door remained ajar behind him.
“Well, lad, you look far better than last we spoke
,” he said. The Sorcerer sat up, never looking away from the King. He was able to keep all emotion from showing, even from within his eyes. But endless questions flooded his mind.
“You lie upon your deathbed, and still do not speak? Do I seem such a monster to you?”
He made no move, only continued to look towards the King blankly.
Varlock-Sharron did not even flinch. “Very well. I had hoped you may finally be willing to speak to me. I decided to let you simply be hanged. At first, we were going to have you tortured publicly, then beheaded. But I think this simple execution will get the point across. Your kind do not belong in this Kingdom.”
The Sorcerer said nothing, keeping his expression unchanged. It took a great deal of will to not demand answers from this man, or to plead for his life.
“Do you know why we are having you killed? You broke our most ardent law, a law known throughout this part of the world. I could not let you go free, even if I wanted to. I have to make an example of you. You are the first Sorcerer to openly walk these lands in over twenty years. I cannot ignore that.”
The King turned away from the sorcerer, and started pacing. “Yes, you were tortured. Yes, my methods are rather harsh. I do not deny that. I am a strong King, and, I believe, a good King. We have peace. We have stability. Other than a few bandits and outlaws, these lands are safe. Safer than any of my predecessors made them,” he spun back to face the condemned man. “Had you come to my lands, and kept your power to yourself, or even come before me, perhaps things would have gone differently. I am making no apology for what I do. I wanted you to know, from me, why you must die.”
The Sorcerer was taken aback. This man was King. He need not justify his actions. Why did it matter? He struggled inwardly, yet kept his face a complete blank.
The King seemed to be looking right into him, but turned abruptly away. Before leaving, he turned back. “Paper and quill are being brought to you, so you may leave messages for loved ones. They will be sealed, and delivered. I will see to that. I am no tyrant, Sorcerer. I hope your last meal was satisfactory. Your time is short. Use it well.”