by MJ Blehart
As they left, talking quietly amongst themselves, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin remained. He gazed off into space, lost in thought.
Lord Tulock approached as if to speak with him, but paused, then turned to leave. Lady Ara Wiram waited near the door a few moments after the others had gone, and then departed herself. Varlock-Sharron knew they both contemplated speaking with him as a friend, knowing that when he was like this, he could only be a King.
Varlock-Sharron had impending war on a third front, within himself. He knew his laws, carried them out as had to be done. Not even he, nor his family, was above them.
He did not want to see his daughter die. The King knew that he had no choice, knew that her rebellion had to be stopped. But the man could not bear the thought of his own child being murdered.
As always, Varlock-Sharron Anduin, King of Sharron, would see to the defense of his kingdom, and his right to the throne. His heart and mind set, he arose from his seat. War was his only option.
Chapter 11
His stomach rumbled. It had been hours since he’d had his supper, and hours yet til sunrise. Not that it mattered, and not that his supervisor cared.
Sure, he had volunteered…but how was he to know he would wind up working so late into the night? He recalled exactly what they’d been told.
“Okay, lads,” the boss had said, making a rare appearance in the Third Degree Mason’s Berth. “The crown has passed us an emergency job. I need five volunteers for a work shift tonight. You won’t be paid time and a half, but you will make your hourly for however long it takes.”
“Does the time count towards practical for Second Degree?” questioned Char, always a pragmatist.
The boss considered it a moment. “Sure, yeah, why not?”
So he had volunteered. His wife was due to have their second child in a matter of weeks, and they had been eyeing a new, larger residence down the block from their own. He was only ten hours from clearing the needed time, and he had already passed the tests to be advanced to a Second Degree Mason. The extra Gold Crown per work day, and the guarantee of more work time as a Second Degree would allow them the resources to upgrade their home.
His father would be proud. Raised on a farmland east of Shartu, near the Medaelian border, originally he had hoped to take over the family lands.
But years ago, when he was in his teens, a Medaelian Army platoon had crossed the border, and razed their farm. The barn, the house, and the fields were completely devastated before the nearest fire brigade had reached them.
The local Baron had paid out minimal compensation, not enough to rebuild, and too late in the season to replant, so his father had taken them to Gara-Sharron, in the hopes of finding better opportunities.
His father discovered the local public works was nearly always hiring, and the steady, though low salary was enough to get his family a small apartment. His younger brother could attend a school, and his mother found work as a seamstress.
In a short time, he too sought out work, and became a Mason. As a Fifth Degree Mason, he had barely made enough to buy food, but along with his parents’ salaries, they lived decent lives.
When he made Fourth Degree, he moved into a new apartment with Char and a couple more co-workers. His younger brother went off to join the Army. His parents continued to work, and he saw them once a week for supper.
Then he met Alya-Sharron, and his life would never be the same. Before the season was out, they were married, and moved in to a tiny loft together. At the end of the year, she was six months pregnant with their first child.
So he alone earned a living, and he worked diligently and hard to support his family. Every chance he got he worked to advance to the next degree, and was considered one of the most reliable of the Masons employed by the City of Gara-Sharron Public Works.
So here he was, in the middle of the night, bricking up the entranceway to a never-used service tunnel for the aqueduct.
When they first started to work, the sun setting, a group of three men from the Waterworks arrived, complaining bitterly about the sealing of this passage. They had argued with the supervisor, a First Degree Mason, until he had sent one of the other Third Degrees’ to find the boss.
The supervisor agreed to stop the work til the boss arrived. Ten minutes later, when he did, there was a lengthy argument that ensued, ending when the boss produced a writ, claiming it came from the Seneschal of the Kingdom himself.
They read it a few times, muttering to themselves, then departed, making it apparent they remained irked.
“Boss, we still get paid for this hour?” asked Char.
The boss chuckled. “Not yer fault, lads. Yeah, you’ll be paid.”
So the work had continued. Eventually, special portable oil work lamps were brought out, illuminating the alleyway almost brighter than a mid afternoon sun could.
The owners of the nearest homes complained, until the supervisor showed them the writ the boss had left with him.
They worked on, pausing only to drink from a water-flask the supervisor offered now and then.
He had lost all track of time, but Char had just passed him the last brick, which he set in place. Another Mason held aloft a tub of mortar. He put some on the trowel, and worked it into the joints between the bricks, and the top of the passageway’s concrete.
Soon, it was finished, and he took a step back. The other two masons and the man mixing and providing the mortar had only three or four bricks left to go. He and Char had always been a phenomenal team.
“How late ya think it is, Jak?” Char questioned.
He shrugged, feeling the tightness in his shoulders from the hours of work at various angles. “Dunno. Gotta be tomorrow, by now.”
The supervisor stepped in front of them, checking their work. He ran his ungloved hand over the brick and joints, checking for imperfections of improperly mortared areas. He began to bob his head up and down in approval, and turned.
“Char, Jak? As always, nice work. Clean up your tools, but leave ‘em here on the cart, I’ll get ‘em back to the workshop. Go home, get some sleep.”
“Uh, Jarick, we get paid until they finish?” asked Char.
The supervisor rolled his eyes. “Char ApDornn, you will squeeze every silver piece out of every job you can, won’t you?”
“Can I help it if Jak and I work too fast?” Char asked, feigning indignance.
Jarick said nothing more, pointed to the tools lying off to the side, and went to observe the work of the other three.
Jak and Char picked up their trowels, went to the water buckets near the cart, and cleaned them off.
Jak paused to look up for the moons, and found them. Judging from their position in the skies, it had to be a couple hours past midnight.
“How many hours to Second Degree you think remain for ya?” Char questioned.
Jak considered it a moment. “We just worked about eight hours. So that leaves me two. I’m back on the retaining wall project in the west tomorrow, so I qual at the end of the day.”
Char grunted low in his throat. “Lucky bastard. I need another seventeen hours myself. How did you pull that far ahead, anyhow?”
Jak grinned. “I take less work days off to recover from a late night at the pub with you and the boys since I became a father.”
Char just grunted again, and finished cleaning his trowel.
Jak’s grin broadened. Thinking about his wife, his son, and his unborn child made him feel like the luckiest man in the Kingdom.
He had his work, he had his family, and he had his friends. Jak didn’t care why they needed to close off a dingy passageway through the north wall, under the aqueduct. He worked to support his family, and so long as he made a living that could keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, life was good.
He put the trowel into the cart, emptied his water bucket and placed it their too. A yawn crept up on him, and he had to acknowledge how sleepy he was. He made certain nothing was left where he’d been worki
ng, and started down the alley, towards the street and home.
“’Night, Jak!” Char called. Jak turned, saw his friend walking slowly, backwards, the other way down the alley.
“G’night, Char,” he responded. He checked the dagger at his back, not that he’d need it. The streets were crawling with constables, Soldiers, and Guardsmen all day, and more than once down the alley during the night. He didn’t know, or frankly care, why.
Char had mentioned something about the public hanging yesterday going badly, but Jak had been with his wife and son all day, enjoying a day off alone with the people who were his whole life.
His special work permit was in his pouch, so if he was stopped along the way, he could produce it as explanation for why he was on the streets so late into the night.
He yawned again. Dismissing all other thoughts, Jak wanted to get home, and climb into bed beside his wife, and get as much sleep as he could, before returning to work tomorrow. The unusual late night work shift would hardly make a dent in the routine that was Jak’s life. He didn’t care in the least just how regular and ordinary his life might have been.
*****
The sun was beginning to rise. Lyrra-Sharron, Dak Amviir and Cam Murtallan rode their horses at a slow walk along the quiet, obviously seldom used road. The night had not been completely uneventful, for they had encountered two patrols. But each time Dak had succeeded at convincing them that they, too, were a platoon of Sharron Army soldiers.
They hardly spoke during their ride. Lyrra-Sharron suspected that Cam was in a nearly meditative state. Conscious enough to stay in the saddle, but folded within himself for some other purpose. And she suspected he was still cross with her, too.
They were all tired, but very alert. After everything they had been through, getting caught now, at the end of so long a journey, would be not only humiliating, but completely unacceptable.
A twig snapped just off the road, and Dak raised a hand, calling a stop. They paused, not drawing weapons, listening.
“I hope the birds aren’t feeling vengeful this morning,” Dak called, somewhat over-loud.
A slight rustling off to the right, and moments later three men stepped out of the woods along the road. Two had crossbows, the third a short recurve bow. Each was additionally armed with swords of varying types and knives. They wore the same attire, black breeches, colored tunics, and black, studded leather vests. And their weapons were aimed at the three on horseback.
“No one has ever called a hungry falcon vengeful,” stated the man with the bow.
“Then we are mistaken,” replied Lyrra-Sharron, dropping her hood.
The Flacon Raiders lowered their weapons, and each bowed their heads to acknowledge the riders. “Your Highness,” intoned the man with the recurve, “we did not know when to expect you back. Word came that Gara-Sharron was sealed.”
“It was, Darak, it was,” said Lyrra-Sharron. “How many of our people are here, and who is in charge?”
“We have thirty-five at this base, with Torman in command. Nadav is still with the main group, but has sent Varnon and a platoon to set up a third base. We were unsure about your safety, and decided creating a third place you were ignorant of might be prudent.”
“Very good, Darak,” replied Lyrra-Sharron, pleased. “I presume, then, that Nadav retains overall command?”
“Aye, your Highness,” he concurred. “Torman is acting second of the whole of the Raiders. I’m Torman’s deputy here, and Varnon is Nadav’s. As you ordered.”
Lyrra-Sharron turned to Dak. “I was correct in my choice of Nadav, it would appear.”
“I told you that one had talent,” Dak stated. “With our return, we’ll have to continue to put him to good use.”
Lyrra-Sharron addressed the Raiders on foot. “Darak, have Andim and Kallan returned?”
“No. We’ve gotten very little out of Gara-Sharron since it was sealed. Torman thinks we’ve lost a lot of our informants there.”
Dak responded, “If Kurr talked, that may be. I’ll look into it once we get reorganized.”
Lyrra-Sharron tapped a finger against her chin. “Perhaps. We are going to have a lot of work to do. The King is not at all pleased with what we did. He will certainly redouble his efforts to find us, now. Let us get into the village, rest our horses, and continue from there.”
“If I may ask, your Highness, who is this man?” questioned Darak.
Lyrra-Sharron looked to Cam. “His name is Cam Murtallan. He was instrumental in our escape from the city.”
Cam inclined his head slightly to the man.
“I’ll run ahead and tell Torman you’re here.”
“Very well, Darak,” replied Lyrra-Sharron.
“Magan, Corlan, return to your pickets. I’ll be back soon, and bring some food,” said Darak. The crossbowmen saluted, then walked back into the woods. Darak turned, and jogged up the road, away.
“It’s fortunate I taught them not to shoot Sharron soldiers on sight,” commented Dak.
Lyrra-Sharron smirked slightly at that, “Indeed.” She turned to Cam, “Considering your present state, I thought it best not to make an issue of your, shall we say, vocation. Besides, only a couple of my people know the whole reason we went to Gara-Sharron in the first place.”
Cam just looked at her, but made no response. His eyes did not reveal his mood, either.
They rode ahead slowly. After just another five minutes, before them arose the walls of the abandoned village of Tarmollo.
On first glance, Tarmollo appeared to be a normal, walled community. But past that, it was hard to miss the obvious disrepair of the ramparts, and the scorch marks along their tops. No smoke rose from the village, and an eerie silence seemed to emanate from the town. All three on horseback shivered.
“What happened here?” asked Cam quietly.
Dak answered, in a hushed tone. “Six years ago, plague ravaged this village. Guardsmen quarantined it, then burned it to the ground. It has been vacant since.”
“I can believe it,” remarked Cam. “The souls of the dead still linger.”
Lyrra-Sharron twisted in her saddle towards the Sorcerer. “You believe dead souls can hurt us, Cam Murtallan?”
He grunted low in his throat. “Of course not. But I’d bet no one sleeps soundly within those walls.”
They rode on, approaching the gate. Several men with bows and crossbows stood atop the ramparts, barely noticeable, except at closer range. There were many advantages to sixty feet of stone.
Two men and a woman stood just inside the gate, clearly awaiting the group on horseback. One of the men stepped forward as they drew to a halt. He looked tired, but alert.
“Your Highness,” he intoned. His tunic was green, his studded leather vest open. He wore a sword at his hip, along with several knives. He had strait, dark brown hair cut close to the scalp, and dull hazel eyes. He bowed slightly, the others doing so as well. “Welcome back. We heard nothing, and were concerned.”
“It is good to be back, Torman. Our return was…complicated. Things are agreeable here?”
“Yes, excepting that no one has been sleeping too well.”
Lyrra-Sharron turned and looked at Cam. He responded with a shrug of his shoulders.
Torman continued. “But that’s of little consequence. What happened to you?”
They swung down off the horses, and Lyrra-Sharron began to tell him of everything that had transpired. The other man led off the horses, and the woman walked away, only to return a few minutes later with water and bread for the three travelers.
*****
Cam stopped paying any attention to Lyrra-Sharron as he quietly ate the bread he’d been offered, and drank his fill of water. He was far more thirsty than he realized. It had been a long night, and try as he might, Cam had only barely been able to meditate on horseback. Between his scattered thoughts, the movement of the horse, and his continued ire with Lyrra-Sharron, finding his center was almost impossible.
He looked a
t his surroundings. The only buildings standing were severely damaged and charred, having barely survived the decimation of the village. Several pavilions and smaller tents stood, though, and men and women walked about them. Only thirty five in all were here, or so Darak had claimed. There was certainly plenty of room for them.
After his surge the day before, once more Cam found he had reduced the opening he’d made in his power. But rather than let that frustrate him, he considered it, focused on it. In anger, he could call it up, as though it had never left him. But when he did that, he paid a price. It was not an easy task, opening the webbing that held his power.
For many years now, his power, his self-perceived status as a Sorcerer, had been the absolute center of his being, the complete focus of his life. Once he’d accepted it, he had made it himself. Now, without it, he had to focus on who he was as a man. All his life, Cam Murtallan had avoided that very notion.
Growing up an orphan, living among the rubble and decay of a dying city, Cam was always defined either by the pack he ran with, or the simplicity of day-to-day survival. After discovering sorcery, he made this the focus of his attentions. Now, Cam was forced to focus on himself. The time had come to discover whom exactly was the man named Cam Murtallan.
Against all odds, he had another chance. Cam would work to restore his powers, even though he knew it would not be easy. Cam realized that if he wanted his abilities back, it was his only option.
With the loss of his powers, Cam would have to put his mission aside. He had no choice. His only alternative now was to cooperate with Lyrra-Sharron and her Falcon Raiders, and to discover how he could get his abilities back.
He shook his head to himself. While he was grateful to be rescued, the Princesses’ senseless execution of those soldiers yesterday just did not sit well with Cam. He debated with himself if making any mention of this to her was worth it, in the long run.
Cam came out of his reverie, and noticed Dak leaning against the wall. His wound was clearly bleeding again. Cam’s own injury had been rather superficial.