by MJ Blehart
They had abandoned the horses, discovering the gates already sealed. So they went to their fall-back plan. Dak led them to the shop of the other merchant, Max, where he waited for any trapped within the city. The merchant was surprised they had not escaped, but they were taken in. Now all waited. The tension, Lyrra-Sharron could not help but notice, was so palpable that it nearly had a flavor to it.
The stone panel doorway creaking open broke the near-silence. Lyrra-Sharron drew a knife, readied to throw it, but quickly relaxed her tensed muscles when she saw it was only Nyra, the wife of Max. The woman carried a small bowl, a knife, a candle, and bandages.
“I’m sorry it took so long. My neighbor, she’s a healer. I had to convince her I only needed the supplies, not her services. It’s fortunate for you I was not caught outside. ‘Tis also fortunate Max is often clumsy, so she be used to my need of her tools.”
Lyrra-Sharron swallowed her annoyance from being startled at Nyra Parcall’s abrupt entry, and nodded her head in gratitude as Dak took the supplies from the woman. “Thank you. Your help in this matter is very much appreciated.”
Nyra gestured to the supplies. “I’ll return for those later. They’ve not yet begun to search houses, but it will happen, eventually. I must seal the stairway till morning. You have enough blankets and food?”
Lyrra-Sharron arose. “Aye. Thank you, Nyra. I hope we shall not need to inconvenience you long.”
Nyra gave a sad curtsy, then turned to leave, closing the stone door behind her.
Dak looked to Lyrra-Sharron. “You realize, if they decide the bounty on our heads is more valuable than our ideals, we’re well and truly caught?”
She eyed him warily. “Max is your contact. You said he could be trusted.”
Dak bobbed his head down once at her answer. “Good. At least you’re thinking straight. We should have gone for the aqueduct.”
She shook her head. “With his wound, minor though it may be, we would have been slowed down too much.” Lyrra-Sharron turned and walked over to the Sorcerer. She had left him to Dak once they abandoned the horses, and this was the first time she was this close to him in hours. “Will you speak to me, Sorcerer? Or are you a mute?”
He had been lying on his side, favoring the swollen thigh with the arrowhead and bit of shaft that remained imbedded in it. He rolled over onto his back, and turned his head to look at Lyrra-Sharron. “I only speak if I have something to say.”
His voice was a bit hoarse, from disuse. It was not harsh or disagreeable. “Who are you?” he continued.
She sat beside him upon the cot. “My name is Lyrra-Sharron. This is Dak. We are a part of a group known as the Falcon Raiders.”
He sat up, and winced in discomfort. “I’ve heard of the Falcon Raiders, while I was imprisoned. That was the regular topic amongst my guards. Why?”
Her brow arched to show her puzzlement over the question. “Why what?”
“Why would a group of outlaws go to the trouble of rescuing me?”
“We did this to humiliate the King. Your freedom was more of a secondary objective. No one should have to die in such a manner.”
He eyed her warily. “So I have gone from being a prisoner of the King, to a captive of the Falcon Raiders?”
“No. We are not detaining you. But from the stories I have heard, you are now powerless. Is this not so?”
He was silent again, only gazing at her with a sort of cold fury behind his eyes, oddly mixed with curiosity.
“Dak, see to his injury,” she said, rising. Dak took her place.
“I am an accomplished field medic. Will you allow me to examine the wound?”
The Sorcerer glanced over to Lyrra-Sharron, who stood beside Dak. “With all due respect, if the lady could, ah, turn away.”
She laughed. “Modesty, Sorcerer? Very well.” She turned her back.
Out of the corner of her eye, Lyrra-Sharron saw the Sorcerer untie his breeches and pull them down enough to expose his wounded thigh.
“It doesn’t look too bad. I can remove it completely. Unfortunately, I have no pain-killers. This will hurt,” stated Dak plainly.
Lyrra-Sharron observed the Sorcerer nodding his head solemnly. “Remove it, please. I’ve suffered far worse pain by the hand of your King.”
“You were tortured?” Lyrra-Sharron asked, not turning to face him. She saw that Dak was heating a metal poker over the candle.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” the Sorcerer replied.
She heard the Sorcerer give a grunt of pain, and glanced to the side to see Dak holding the arrowhead and bit of shaft. “That was too easy. The point hardly pierced past the surface. I would have thought an arrow wound would be deeper.”
“It was. But I’ve been working on freeing the arrow from the muscle tissue with a little magic.”
“You have what?” Lyrra-Sharron turned, startled, then turned back, embarrassed. “I thought you were without your powers?”
The Sorcerer made a low noise in the back of his throat. “Not entirely. But I can do very little with what I still have.”
Dak took the red-hot poker, and touched it to the wound to cauterize it. The Sorcerer hissed in pain, but a moment later he was silent again. Dak began to salve and bandage the wound.
“It should heal completely, now. Stay off the leg for the night.”
“I should thank you, then,” said the Sorcerer, not sounding the least thankful.
Dak stood, and went to the table to wash his hands in a small bowl of water. Lyrra-Sharron turned to the Sorcerer.
“Why did you come here, Sorcerer? Why did you risk your life?”
The Sorcerer sat completely upright. “That’s my own business. If and when the situation warrants, I will explain myself. Now let me ask this: Why are you unwilling to tell me the whole truth?”
“About what?” she asked cautiously.
“Who you are. Your name is spoken all over the palace. Even a prisoner hears it. Lyrra-Sharron Anduin, renegade daughter of the King.”
“Well, that puts you at the advantage,” she remarked, without a trace of surprise at his knowledge. “You know my name. You know who I am. Now that we have reached this point, I cannot go on calling you Sorcerer. Will you tell me your name?”
He smirked. “My name? I never revealed it to the King, not even under pressure of torture. Since you claim that I am not your captive, and you did save my life…my name is Cam Murtallan.”
“Murtallan? Then you are Anarian?”
“There is no Anaria now,” he replied with a dispassionate snort.
Lyrra-Sharron understood that reaction. The Kingdom of Anaria had been annexed by Medaelia in a well-documented massacre some twenty years ago. It remained a sore subject among the ranking officials of most of the nations on the continent, and the continued Medaelian occupation never sat well with the prideful people of the conquered land.
Dak was standing beside Lyrra-Sharron now. “He should be ready to move tomorrow. What do you propose?”
“Do you think Max can provide us with new disguises?”
“Probably.”
She crossed her arms, tilted her head up and to the side, tapping her right foot. “I believe we should move out in daylight. We can head for the aqueduct then.”
“What about horses?”
That problem had crossed her mind previously. “What can we do? We shall hope maybe Max or another of our contacts will be able to send them out to us after our flight. Do we know if the others escaped?”
“No. There’s no way to tell.” Dak paced towards the table. “With the curfew in place, we have no lines of communication. And we have another concern.”
“What concern would that be?”
Dak turned to the Sorcerer. “Our new friend, Cam Murtallan, here.”
Lyrra-Sharron also turned to him, following Dak’s lead. “Ah, yes. Cam Murtallan. While he has been freed by us, and we continue to harbor him, he is not obligated to come with us. He may decide for himself.”<
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Cam, showing clear consternation, crossed his arms as he looked to them. “So what is it you want? What’s the price for my freedom?”
Dak’s look was as unreadable as usual, she noticed. Lyrra-Sharron put on a look of disbelief. “I am appalled that you would suggest such a thing,” she stated. “Setting a price for your freedom? Why would we make you pay? And just what do you think you have that you could pay us with?”
Cam Murtallan smirked bleakly a moment, his expression turning frosty as he spoke. “I do thank you, for saving my life…but one thing I have learned is that nothing comes without a price, Princess. Do you think I trust you? I’ve never trusted anybody.”
“Not necessarily an unwise way to live,” Dak opined.
Lyrra-Sharron shook her head. “I must disagree with you both. But I do confess that I can follow how you think. You do not trust me? Well, I suppose I can understand that, too. Let me state this plainly: there is no price. We shall even take you out of the city with us.” She paused, and her expression became one of curiosity. “But what will you do now? Where will you go? As you have not denied so, you are without your powers, correct?”
A flash of anger crossed Cam’s face, but was quickly gone. “Are you making me an offer?”
She could not help but grin at his impertinence. “Cut right to the heart of the matter, Cam Murtallan? Very well, then. Yes. I am offering you a chance to join the Falcon Raiders. I suspect that even without your abilities in sorcery, you can offer us a great deal. I can only imagine that you have learned things, seen things, studied things that could be useful to us. And perhaps we can help you as well. We shall teach you how to fight with a sword. We will...”
Lyrra-Sharron trailed off, stunned as she was interrupted by Cam’s laughter. “Ah, yes. A chance to fight someone else’s battle. Always a good choice, that. Recruit more volunteers for your righteous struggle against, what, tyranny? Oppression? Your father the monster?”
Lyrra-Sharron became rather incensed. “You are mocking me. You have been saved from death, and show no gratitude at all.”
“So I should just throw in my fortunes with your lot in thanks?”
“Have you a better offer, as you are a powerless sorcerer on the lam?”
He did not answer, but the look he gave her might have frightened Lyrra-Sharron, coming from an uninjured man.
She paused, and recollected her thoughts. The words of a text she had read a long time ago came back to her clearly, now. She decided to try something to test that memory.
Lyrra-Sharron’s eyes bore into the Sorcerer. “Why should I think you would be of any use to us at all? You are nothing. A waste of time. A waste of life. You are a pathetic, purposeless, worthless man.”
He turned his face away, but she persisted, expressing her irritation remorselessly, letting it fly. “I think we made a mistake with you. You are no good to us, no good to anyone, truthfully. In fact, I do not know why we even bothered saving a useless, pitiable so-called sorcerer stupid enough to use his skills in the one place everyone knows it is forbidden to do so!”
Cam angrily stood up, an enraged look on his face. “I am not useless! I am a sorcerer!” he nearly roared. “Damn you and your self-righteousness. I don’t need your help! I am not powerless!”
On his last angry word, all light in the room was abruptly extinguished.
*****
Cam sank back onto the pallet, shaking all over. From nowhere, he had somehow called up his powers again.
As always, the sensation was indescribable. There was nothing like the feelings he experienced when he committed an act of sorcery. But he knew instantly that the webbing remained, and this display of power was a freak occurrence.
For a second time, he’d been able to use his gift as though it was not damaged. At least this time, he didn’t kill anyone.
*****
Dak was relighting the lamp, as Lyrra-Sharron sat upon a chair next to the pallet. Her memory had not failed her, but she knew she’d just taken quite the risk.
Cam was hunched over, head on his chest, arms over his head, quaking from the exertion.
“I am sorry, Cam Murtallan. You are correct, you are not of no use. But I had to push you.” Lyrra-Sharron spoke soothingly, now. “I have read a lot of books about Sorcery. I read once about a man who lost his powers, but could still do things when he was made angry. I pushed to see if you could do the same.”
“Why?” Cam whispered.
She sighed, taking yet another approach to this complex man. “We need you. Maybe we can help you get back your powers. And perchance you can help us. I know your kind, Cam Murtallan. Wanderers. Vagabonds. Men without homes or families or possessions. Men driven by powers and passions only they can understand. I have read a lot about your sort. You are not the first Sorcerer to come to this land since the edict banning your practice. You will not be the last. But perhaps, with your help, we can create a place where your kind can find those things you live without.”
“You’re an idealist, Lyrra-Sharron Anduin,” Cam said quietly.
“That may be. But what else do you have? Is there some other choice you can make? Where else can you go?”
Cam was silent for several minutes. Dak simply sat at the table in the center of the room. No one spoke.
“You have a point,” Cam finally said. “I suppose I have no better option.” He raised his head, met Lyrra-Sharron’s gaze. “I’ll come with you. I’ll sign on with you, for the time being. But I will not take any kind of oath, nor will I be forced into any operation or raid I do not wish to participate in. I will choose how I will assist you,” his voice was growing with increased conviction. “I may have found a way to reclaim my powers, but I need time. And you should know up front, there will be a price.”
“You would set a price, Cam Murtallan?” Dak asked.
Cam sat up, looking in his direction. “Yes, Lord Dak. If you want my help, yes. You need me more than I need you, whether you choose to believe it or not. And my price is not unreasonable.”
“What is that price?” asked Lyrra-Sharron with all the patience she could muster.
Cam looked into her eyes again. “It’s simple. When you overthrow the King, and take the throne for yourself, I want you to allow the practice of Sorcery in Sharron.”
Lyrra-Sharron did not answer for quite some time.
*****
King Varlock-Sharron Anduin stood at a window, looking out as darkness settled over the city of Gara-Sharron.
This tower held several conference rooms, and was high enough to look over the palace walls. He had been here a while, and watched as lamps ignited one by one all across the streets below. The King knew there would be nothing for him to see, but he knew she had to be out there...somewhere.
The members of the Council, more formally known as the Sharron Council of Military, Civil and Foreign Administration, were just taking their seats. They spoke quietly among themselves, leaving Varlock-Sharron alone with his thoughts. Some were friends, some rivals, though all were the most powerful in their respective positions.
Time to return to duty. The King did not wish to delay this further, moved away from the window and took his seat. Directly to his right, Lord Tulock cleared his throat loudly. Silence fell upon the room.
“My Lords and Ladies, you all know why his Majesty has gathered us here ahead of schedule, so let us get down to business.” He inclined his head towards the King.
Varlock-Sharron looked about the table. “I do not want excuses, nor explanations of the failings that led to this. To begin, I want reports of our status. What do we know of today’s disaster?”
Two seats to the right of Lord Tulock, Captain-General Ov Callan, high commander of the Royal Guardsmen, spoke first. “My liege, we captured about a half dozen possible conspirators. Of that half dozen, only three could be confirmed as a part of today’s attack. The other three are still being...questioned.”
King Varlock-Sharron looked to the Captain of his Gu
ard. Ov Callan was not a tall man, only standing about five feet four inches or so. But he was extremely muscular, with hard grey eyes, short, close-cut blonde hair, and trimmed beard. He wore his formal uniform, without armor, a maroon coat with the device of the Kingdom of Sharron on the front, and crest of the House of Anduin on the back. A sash over his left shoulder of gold trimmed in blue with six silver slashes near his chest indicated his rank.
“And these three conspirators?” asked the King.
Ov Callan’s expression never changed. “A couple of laborers and a merchant named Vangam. The merchant, it would seem, is of some rank. All have been turned over to the Inquisitors for further questioning, your Majesty.”
The King bobbed his head in response to that.
Next to Ov Callan, Constable Val drey-Sharron shifted in his seat. A big man, with a heavy gut, large eyes and bushy eyebrows. Val drey-Sharron was deceptively strong and agile under the overweight, flabby exterior. He was normally boisterous and loud, but not today. Most of the blame for the scene in the square had fallen to his shoulders. “The gates are sealed, your Majesty, and no one enters or leaves. Anyone caught out on the streets is immediately arrested, and I have double my normal constables on duty right now. We are fairly certain that your daughter and the Sorcerer never left the city. We can begin a house to house search as soon as you give the word, my liege.”
The King looked at Constable drey-Sharron. “Are you certain she did not escape the city?”
Val drey-Sharron shifted again. “As far as my people can tell, yes. But the gates are General Bodrir’s responsibility.”
The King turned to look at the man seated between Lord Tulock and Captain-General Callan. General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir was a living legend. He was a rough and ready man, over sixty, but still perhaps the best two-handed swordsman in the world. Tall, rugged, with handsome, chiseled features un-marred by age, and long, salt-and-pepper hair worn loose, he had an unreadable look on his face. Only Lord Tulock and the King himself outranked this man militarily. He was commander of the Sharron Army, a seasoned veteran and skilled tactician. He had become second in command of the Army just before the death of Varlock-Sharron’s father. He had helped to train Varlock-Sharron in strategy. The King and Lord Tulock were among a very small number considered this man’s equal.