by MJ Blehart
He spoke calmly, quietly, but all knew he had a voice that could shake down the palace if need be. “My soldiers report that no one matching the description of Princess Lyrra-Sharron, with or without the disguise she was wearing, or the Sorcerer, were seen near the gates. Her horse was found, abandoned, not far from the palace. In the unlikely event that she may have found her way out of the city, I have two regiments of soldiers patrolling the area within a ten mile radius of the walls. They have been ordered to search houses, fields, barns, villages, and everything else most thoroughly within that area. I can order in more within a few hours if need be.”
“All right,” The King responded. “Did any of her conspirators escape?”
“It is possible one or two may have left before we could seal the gates, though unlikely. No resistance was encountered by any of my people,” stated Sir Malov.
“Nor mine,” added in Constable drey-Sharron. “My people haven’t met resistance, either.”
The King considered this. “How long will it take word of this incident to reach any of the surrounding kingdoms?”
Lord Tulock appeared to give that a moment’s thought. “That depends on whether the people leaving the city before it was sealed knew of the incident. Sir Garvol?”
The King turned to look at the man who sat just one seat to the left of him. Sir Garvol Dorran was Warlord, his chief spy. Sharron Intelligence, to the casual observer, was a disorganized entity that barely existed or functioned. As it was supposed to appear. In truth, it was very well organized, and run quite efficiently. Sir Garvol Dorran was the same age as his king, with bland features, green eyes, light brown hair, and very plain attire. Never a soldier, it was rumored that he’d either been a Guardsman, or perhaps a Sheriff or constable from an outer village or district. No one but he and the King knew his past, nor when he’d been knighted, nor even just how many spies he paid.
Merchants. Soldiers. Constables. Peasants. Laborers. Guardsmen. Thieves. He had spies in every walk of life. Never before had a King of Sharron had so strong a spy network. Never before had its head been a man of so little notice, that few believed he was who he claimed to be. But he was the best.
“Well, at high speed, word could leak out of the Kingdom at the earliest in two days. That is when news of the sealing of Gara-Sharron will likely reach the ears of the other monarchs,” even his voice was very non-descript. “Less then forty-eight hours, now.”
The King considered this. “So I can only keep the city sealed tomorrow. Then it must be reopened, or our security may be breached. Is that right?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Sir Garvol.
“Why should it matter if this news leaves Sharron?” asked Constable drey-Sharron.
“It could make Sharron look weak,” replied Lady Ara Wiram.
The King glanced at the woman directly to his left. Once, quite a long time ago now, this place would have been occupied by the Queen. But Kyrra-Sharron Oroyaq Anduin had passed on many years ago. Varlock-Sharron’s queen had acted as an advisor, councilor, and to the surprise of many, Minister of the Exchequer.
With the death of Queen Kyrra-Sharron, the King was hard pressed to find a replacement. But Lady Ara Wiram, the Queen’s best friend, lady in waiting, and chosen head-of-house, was the perfect choice. She was clever, wise, and in her mid forties like the King, quite attractive. Dark hair to the shoulder, soft cheek bones, deep brown eyes, and medium build, she had taken over the duties of the office long ago now. In many ways, she took the place of Varlock-Sharron’s dead wife. Though Lady Ara had never taken to the King’s bed, as did so many other women of the palace.
Probably the reason the council trusted her.
“Ara is correct,” said Varlock-Sharron. “We cannot appear frail in the eyes of the other nations. The stability of Sharron is a thorn in their side as it is. Many of them will take any sign of weakness as an opportunity to strike. We will not give them that chance.”
Heads were nodded in agreement all around the table.
“The city can remain sealed through tomorrow. Fine. Constable drey-Sharron, I want your men to take to the streets and announce that the curfew is effective throughout the day tomorrow. No one is to walk the roads unescorted. Anyone caught outside is to be placed under arrest, but not treated harshly, just held and questioned. Let them know we lift the curfew after tomorrow night.”
Constable Val drey-Sharron acknowledged.
“Tomorrow morning, we begin to search house by house. The Constabulary will search the Northern districts and the western districts. General Bodrir, your soldiers are to search the southern and eastern districts. Lord Tulock will show you both how we will divide this up. Ov, I want all my Guardsmen, save my personal company, to patrol the streets. Double guards at the gates. Any questions?”
There were none, or at least none that would be voiced in the open.
The three others in the room had been completely silent. General Sir Portav Sopirr, Sir Malov’s deputy, and Chief of Operations, Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron, commander of the Sharron Navy, and Lord Mika Forkuln, Minister of Foreign Affairs and chief diplomat of Sharron. It was known that Lord Mika and Lord Tulock did not see eye to eye, and that Admiral Trem-Sharron was not fond of General Bodrir, Constable drey-Sharron, or Captain-General Callan. General Sopirr rarely spoke, except when he had something poignant to add.
King Varlock-Sharron was often annoyed by the petty bickering. There had, fortunately, been little of that lately.
Lord Tulock asked if there was any further business. But the King’s attention was drawn elsewhere. An old sensation came to him, like a repressed memory, and he tried to recall what it meant. He found himself distracted, his eyes unfocused as he stared off into space.
“Your Majesty? Your Majesty?” Lord Tulock prodded. He coughed, reclaiming the King’s attention.
“What was that?” Varlock-Sharron had been gazing blankly out a window, and turned to look at the Seneschal. “Oh, Tulock, I was...just thinking a moment. We must begin our search tomorrow in the Gara-Northwest district. That is a good place to begin. Pass that along,” the King tried to recall the sensation a moment longer, then returned to himself. “Very well, then. Anything else?”
General Sopirr cleared his throat. “My liege, the Medaelian Army continues to position itself about ten miles from the border, near to the village of Vanntu. The outpost at Vanntir has expressed concern. We believe they are reinforcing the town of Penlorka, modifying the walls and outer perimeter. This is where they began their last invasion, you may recall, your Majesty.”
The King could not hide his displeasure. “King Wilnar-Medira has been scheming to take back the Vann Region since the day he ascended the throne. He has been a witless imbecile all his life. His father was at least an honorable man. Lord Mika, perhaps it is time to press our claim as Second Prince.”
Lord Mika sighed rather dramatically, almost like a yawn. “Your Majesty, I know that is an appealing notion. But that title has been considered spurious since King Wilnar-Medira took the throne. He will not recognize you and the title. His diplomatic corps agrees that it is unwise, but in many circles he has all but declared war upon Sharron. I even heard a rumor somewhere that he may have allied himself with Juron of Cordianlott. But even then, the army they could raise would be no match for ours.”
King Varlock-Sharron leaned forward. “Mika, how long ago did you hear these, ‘rumors’? What have you done to prove or disprove them?”
Lord Mika Forkuln looked decidedly uncomfortable. “The Falcon Raider issue within our own borders seemed far more pressing. Besides, Your Majesty, I only heard this a couple of weeks ago. Pure hearsay, from a traveling merchant or some lower diplomat of the Medaelian...”
“Sir Garvol,” the King interrupted a bit too loudly, “find out for me if King Juron of Cordianlott has some sort of alliance with Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia. Immediately. General Sopirr, reinforce our garrison at Vanntir, and place more lookouts at Vanntu. Send scouts right u
p to the border, but do not cross it. And make damn sure no one from my army starts anything with the Medaelians. Let them start this.”
Varlock-Sharron turned to Lady Ara, continuing to ignore Lord Mika’s offended sputtering. “Ara, please see to it funds are allocated for these operations as appropriate. I trust you to approve only what is necessary, but do not wait for me to sign off on it. Things may get a bit complicated for a while.”
The King then looked around the table at the others. “Thanks to Lord Mika’s latest error, we have no choice but to move now. I want all the plans laid out for tomorrow morning to go into effect immediately.”
“But, your Majesty,” Lord Mika interjected, sputtering still. “There is no proof, and if there were anything of consequence, surely Sir Garvol would be aware.”
Varlock-Sharron ignored the interruption. “We cannot have the city sealed tomorrow. I want this search begun within the next hour. The gates must be opened by morning.”
“Your Majesty,” Lord Mika cut in again, his tone syrupy, patronizing. “There is no need for such a course of action. If we take this in stride and…”
He trailed off as Varlock-Sharron threw him a withering glare that spoke volumes.
“Lord Mika, this is a rather disturbing pattern,” spoke Tulock, glancing at Varlock-Sharron for approval. The King inclined his head in the affirmative. “Not for the first time have you failed to report everything you come across. At the least you should have told Sir Garvol. If they have some kind of alliance, and word reaches them that we have been forced to seal our own Capital, they will presume we are vulnerable, and pounce.”
Lord Mika seemed to swallow his own tongue as he began to take a breath to speak, and stopped as though frozen, as glares reached him from a number of the Council members. An uncomfortable silence came over the room.
Varlock-Sharron let his fury over Lord Mika’s bumbling pass, and continued as though he’d never been interrupted. “We will double the normal guard, and we will also double the numbers sweeping inside Gara-Sharron as planned. General Bodrir, send word to your soldiers. Constable, I want your men to be quick and efficient. Do not panic the citizens, but let them know the danger we are protecting them from. Do not use force unless it is an absolute last resort. Captain-General Callan, the Guardsmen are reserves and back-up tonight. They make sure no one is on the streets. Does everyone understand their role in this?”
The assembled acknowledged the orders of their King.
“Good. General Sopirr, go to Vantirr and take personal command of the Garrison there, for the time being. Let us make sure the Medaelians do not try to take advantage of our current situation. I will make certain you are relieved as soon as possible.”
Varlock-Sharron shifted his attention. “Admiral Trem-Sharron? I want you to dispatch a small battlegroup up the river Mendanaria. Keep them close to our shores, but have them ready. They may need to ferry troops at a moments notice. Have a second group at the mouth of the river prepared in reserve. Keep the rest of the Armada at normal stations.”
“As you say, my liege,” replied Admiral Kol Trem-Sharron.
King Varlock-Sharron turned finally to Lord Mika Forkuln, who seemed to have shrunk in his seat. He spoke in a low tone. “Lord Mika, I am very disappointed, to say the least. As my Foreign Minister, I expect you to recognize and identify a potentially embarrassing situation immediately. You failed me here. You should have brought this up when you heard it, or tried to confirm it if possible. This is not your first mistake, Lord Mika. You were appointed to this position because your father served my father and myself well before he retired, and he spoke highly of you.”
The King paused a moment, letting that sink in. “I am a patient man, but this is your last mistake. You will send diplomats to Cordianlott directly, your best, and find out what Juron is up to. You will then, in two weeks, go to Medaelia yourself, and press my interests there. I want the Council and the Order called together, to meet at Penlorka. Work with the Chivalry and Nobility if you can. Do not fail me again, Lord Mika. I expect you understand?”
“But, your Majesty? One of my chief diplomats, perhaps a high ambassador, would be better suited to...”
“Are you contradicting my orders, Lord Mika?” King Varlock-Sharron asked menacingly. He looked at the man across the table from him. Medium height, curly hair, fancy doublet, and oversized paunch. Lord Mika Forkuln was a loudmouthed fop. He was also a coward. “I certainly hope not. This is your last chance to redeem yourself. Try not to fail once more. Are we clear on this matter?”
“Uh, yes, yes my liege. Perfectly clear.”
“Very well. Your diplomats will depart tomorrow. You will proceed in exactly two weeks. Make all the necessary preparations.” The King stood. “We all have work to do. We will meet again tomorrow night to further our discussion on this situation. For now, though, we have a search to commence. Does everyone know what has to be done?”
The question was met with silence, but the looks Varlock-Sharron received told him they did.
“This Council is dismissed. Carry out my directions. It is time to restore order to Sharron, and make certain our enemies know that we are not a fruit ripe for the picking.”
The King turned, and faced out the window. Yet he knew their attention remained on him. “Sharron has always been, and will always be, the strongest nation in the world. I have sworn to keep it that way. So shall it be.”
Chapter 8
Lyrra-Sharron tossed about on the hard pallet. She could not get comfortable. Dak was across the room, seated at the table, sharpening a knife by a single candle. Cam Murtallan was asleep, as far as she could tell.
Things had not gone as planned. She had intended for them to get out of the Capital in the ensuing chaos. But her father had proven too prepared even when surprised so.
Lyrra-Sharron had additional doubts about the Sorcerer, and her plans for him. She’d studied forbidden books, and learned many things about a power she could not possess. But now she wondered if she knew enough to help make this man a Sorcerer again. The beginnings of his reclamation of that lost power caught her up short as well, though she was loathe to admit that even to herself.
It was very late now. She knew the primary reason why she couldn’t sleep - it was difficult to get over the feeling of being a caged rat. She hoped Dak was right about Max. If he panicked now, they had nowhere to hide. She was also certain her father no longer wanted her returned strictly alive.
This came as no surprise. Death had long shadowed her life. Her brother had died when she was very young. The cause of his death had remained a mystery, buried deep and forgotten by her, until only a short time ago, when the details had reemerged from their long slumber.
There were now no mysteries in her life. Lyrra-Sharron knew sorrow. Her brother slaughtered, her mother dead supposedly from grief, her twin sister murdered. She had shed her tears long ago, and the only thing that remained was her resolve, and the blame she threw whole-heartedly to her father.
Shuffling upstairs caught her attention, and made her sit up. She noticed Cam Murtallan also upright in his bed. Dak looked to the door, then up as the sounds of boots on the floor far above came to them.
Dak extinguished the candle, and the small room was plunged into a cold darkness. Lyrra-Sharron calmed herself, slowing her breathing. Cam could hardly be heard.
“How many?” she whispered.
“I didn’t get a count,” Dak admitted in a barely audible breath.
“About seven,” said Cam quietly. “Make that nine. Though it may be the merchant and his wife.”
They listened intently. Lyrra-Sharron drew out a long knife. She thought she sensed Dak near the door.
The footsteps were louder now as soldiers entered the basement above them. Lyrra-Sharron barely breathed.
“Three,” Cam whispered softly, scarcely audible.
They were all tense as the soldiers above moved things around, banged on walls and floors in search of hidden ca
verns and passageways. One such banging was at the door to the sub-basement. It was repeated. Muffled voices were heard above. Lyrra-Sharron was ready. But nothing happened, and the guards moved on, going back up the stairs.
There was total silence in the room as they listened to soldiers shuffling above. Eventually the sound wore out. Lyrra-Sharron felt ready to pounce at a moments notice.
“They’re gone,” Cam stated softly. “I just heard the door close behind the seventh. Only the merchant and his wife remain.”
“Are you certain?” asked Dak.
“Indeed. I may not have my powers, but I have worked hard to sharpen even the natural abilities we’re all born with. My ears are quite sensitive. They’re gone. Your merchant didn’t give us away.”
Lyrra-Sharron felt herself breathing easier now. She hated when she got tense like that. “Keep the light off, Dak. I doubt I can sleep, but I think we should be ready. They may return.”
“Isn’t it unusual for them to sweep at night like this? I thought The King did not like to disturb his citizens,” said Dak.
“That is true. But he is probably concerned that his enemies might see him as vulnerable if he seals the city for too long. That damned Wilnar-Medira has practically declared war upon us. My father is a great many uncomplimentary things, but a fool he is not.”
“You almost sound fond of him,” said Cam, amusement in his voice.
“Bite your tongue, Cam Murtallan,” said Lyrra-Sharron acidly. “The man is a political genius, else he would not still be in power. Take your rest, Sorcerer. We may have quite the busy day ahead of us.”
Lyrra-Sharron heard the Sorcerer chuckle lightly as he shifted around on his pallet. Annoyed, she tossed herself onto her own. Before she could think on their situation more, she was soundly asleep.