by MJ Blehart
Every three or four days, since he had ordered Sir Garvol to design a trap for Lyrra-Sharron, the one or more of the oddly-matched trio of the General, the Constable, and the Warlord would lay out another ludicrous scheme. And every time, Tulock and Varlock-Sharron ripped it apart. They were improving with each attempt, but still had nothing without too many flaws to be made manifest.
“It is a fragile situation, Tulock.” His tone became dark as he let his anger out. “I swear, before I die I will have Wilnar-Medira’s head on a pike, and we shall take it on a parade through Aldara. Then we will mount it on the battlements of his own palace in Penkia.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “Enough of this, we have business to attend to.” Varlock-Sharron let it go, and his voice returned to its natural timbre. “Have someone fetch our state robes and accoutrements, and we shall go to court from here.”
“Yes, my liege,” replied Tulock, turning to go.
“Tulock?” the Seneschal turned back. “Thanks for the sword practice this morning.”
“My pleasure, your Majesty,” he replied.
Varlock-Sharron began to go through the scrolls, parchments, and other papers on his desk. Duty could only be held at bay for so long.
Chapter 16
Torman ApCrill surveyed the hiding places of his soldiers. Falcon Raiders were dispersed all along the side of the road, awaiting the caravan spotted a few minutes ago by his scout, Corlan.
Of course, they didn’t much look like Falcon Raiders at the moment. All wore mismatched outfits, mostly browns and greens and greys, and hoods pulled up to hide their faces. They also were less armed than usual, and some even used weapons left out in the rain, uncleaned. It would not be difficult to pose as common brigands.
Torman paused a moment, considering the last couple of weeks. He was actually relieved to be clear of Tarmollo, and had sent Neva and some of the younger, less trained raiders ahead to the new camp.
They were now located along a deserted beach, a mile or so off the road, on the most inland point of a small bay. There was a town at the most southwest tip of the land, Horvan, only a few miles south. But aside from fishing trawlers and a ferry to Garwiln Isle, the town had little going for it, and did not draw much attention. Certainly there was only a small military presence.
Torman grimaced as old memories crossed his mind. He’d joined the ranks of the Sharron Army as a lad of sixteen, son of a not too terribly successful merchant. He’d risen through the ranks, and during a particularly nasty border skirmish with the An-Quarvan Army, he’d wound up in command of his company, all the officers having been killed. He was made a Lieutenant for his actions that day, but soon found he’d tired of military life. He gave up his commission and based himself in the Town of Natarn.
Then one day it happened. A group of Falcon Raiders, led by Dak Amviir, came to Natarn, tired, hungry, hunted by a platoon after hitting a patrol. He hid them, and as a reward was introduced to Lyrra-Sharron. She told him what she was about, and he sold what was left of his business and joined up.
The best thing to come of his joining the Falcon Raiders was meeting Neva Alcarra. It had taken them weeks to admit what they were feeling for one another. Circumstance had brought them together, and when they stopped fighting the attraction, they were both content at the outcome, and ensuing relationship.
He came out of his reverie, hearing horses approach. They were just off a main highway that led from the Port of Anduin to Gara-Sharron. A lot of traffic passed through this area, so it made the perfect target, and Torman knew a dozen places to stash what they took between here and the new base.
The caravan, six wagons total, was escorted by a dozen Sharron Army soldiers. Some merchants hired private guards, but the Sharron Army often provided for the larger, state-supported merchants. Three rode ahead of the caravan, a trio behind, the others dispersed amongst the wagons.
Most likely they guarded specialties from one of the kingdoms across the ocean, maybe granite or precious gems from the mountains of Vilcarr, or perhaps coffee beans and citrus from Jennorrit.
The lead guards passed his position. He gave the call of a local bird three times. Counting to five, Torman arose, drawing back his bow, arrow knocked, aiming for the nearest soldier.
Almost perfectly synchronized, arrows shot out from the woods from all kinds of hiding places. Soldiers toppled from their mounts. A few were spared, and drew swords, issuing challenges.
They broke clear, a band of masked bandits. They outnumbered the soldiers, and quickly captured them. Crossbowmen held the merchants at bay.
“Tie the soldiers! Put them off the side of the road,” called Torman, disguising his voice.
The Falcon Raiders obeyed his orders swiftly, and soon the soldiers were taken care of. Five had survived the initial attack. They were all tied around a tree, just far enough off the road that they’d not be immediately noticed. Swathes of cloth were tied about their eyes to blindfold them as well.
“Bring the merchants here!” called Torman.
This too was done, and soon eleven men and four women stood before him, looking nervous and scared.
Torman chose to really throw them off the trail, adding archaic language and unreal dialect to his speech. “We have what we came for. I give you your lives. Continue walking east. Ye will come upon a village, about seven miles from here. Ye should be able to make it by sunset. Walk, mind, don’t run. We’re keeping an eye on ye. Any tries runnin, we shoot ‘em. Got it?”
Each indicated their understanding.
Torman gestured with his knife. “Go.”
The merchants began the slow walk east, throwing back nervous glances. As ordered, Corlan followed off the side of the road, letting himself be seen to keep them aware of his presence. It wasn’t long before they were out of sight.
Torman and the others wasted no time turning the wagons around. It wouldn’t be long before the road would cease to be empty. Soon they had removed their disguises, and with half posing as merchants, half in Sharron Army uniforms, they mounted the horses and wagons, and looked like a caravan returning from Gara-Sharron to Anduin.
It had gone very well indeed. Almost too well for Torman’s liking. But then, no one had assailed such a caravan in almost a hundred years. The Sharron Army had gotten very good at finding and routing out groups of bandits and brigands. The few in existence were poorly organized, and easily overpowered.
The Falcon Raiders were well screened, and as yet no spies had infiltrated. But the Falcon Raiders were something else entirely, and Lyrra-Sharron knew her father’s tactics better than nearly anyone else.
The complete plan was simple. Soon they’d leave the main road, and dispose of the wagons and supplies therein. They’d return to their base, and be finished with it. Eventually, Torman was sure, this would be heard by The Common, and once that happened, the Falcon Raiders would quietly ‘find’ and return these items, making the Sharron Army appear weak.
When it was all said and done, Torman was certain, Lyrra-Sharron would be Queen on the throne of Sharron.
*****
They rode in small groups, moving south steadily. No group was larger than seven or eight, and they’d done what they could to conceal weapons.
As often as possible, they stayed off the main roads. The Falcon Raiders did their best to avoid any villages, or roadside taverns. They were working hard to go unnoticed.
Kallan Val-Sharron scouted ahead, along with Andim Noros. The duo picked paths, and looked for everything they might need to avoid.
They were, in all, ninety-five. Each small group had various weapons, and a different leader.
Cam remained with the lead group, while Lyrra-Sharron and Dak circulated amongst the others, keeping them inline and in order, to hit their mark by sunset. It would be close, but they were certain to make it. The only thing holding them up were those not mounted on horseback.
It would not be an easy attack. The barracks at Brivarn could hold anywhere from a
few dozen soldiers to almost two-hundred. With rumors reaching the Falcon Raiders, just before they departed, of some sort of pending border conflict with Medaelia, in addition to the search for themselves, it was thought the barracks would be more empty. Or so they hoped.
Cam steeled himself to the task. He wore all black, his tunic, breeches and the leather vest with small, blackened metal studs like the other raiders wore. Not that it was visible under his grey cloak. In addition, he wore his new rapier at his left hip, a long knife at his back, and his staff was being carried by one of the raiders walking in this group.
He was expected to use sorcery once they were ready. It was not a complex spell, and Cam was fairly certain even with his weakened power, he could make what was desired work. Or else he’d be awfully embarrassed in the attempt, and Lyrra-Sharron would be thoroughly displeased.
They looked like other pilgrimage or merchant groups to any that might see them. Just outside the actual town of Brivarn was a small stream, said to have been blessed by a long-dead Sorcerer King, thousands of years ago. It was said miraculous healings had occurred in some who drank of its waters. Cam didn’t believe in such tales, though in his current state, he was half tempted to get away at some point and try for himself.
He grunted at the thought. The raider walking beside him tapped his leg. “Lord Andim returns.”
Cam looked up, saw the grizzled veteran soldier riding to him. They were on the road at the moment, and Andim and Kallan had been seeking a point where they could again walk the woods.
“Cam,” Andim addressed him. “Kallan is up ahead, awaiting you. He’ll show you the path we found. Hurry some, there’s a merchant caravan coming this way, and they got soldiers with them. They might catch up to us if we aren’t off the road quick.”
“Right,” replied Cam. He looked at the others, and pumped a fist into the air three times. He spurred his horse, and moved from a decent walk to a fast trot. Those on foot jogged with them.
Shortly, he saw Kallan next to his horse, just off the road. It was not an obvious path to the woods.
Kallan pushed back some of the undergrowth. “Through here, Cam. Go about three minutes. You’ll find an abandoned, overgrown highway. Follow it when you get there. We scouted ahead, and it should take us most of the rest of the way to Brivarn.”
“Got it. The others should be just behind us,” said Cam.
Kallan remounted. “I hope so. That merchant caravan is only about twenty minutes down the road. Second group’s coming up now, though.”
Cam turned a moment, and saw them, led by a raider named Jolun, trotting up. “Ok. We’re gone.”
He moved into the underbrush, his horse exhaling a protest. It was a decent animal, and though his experience was limited, Cam found himself to be a natural rider. But he did still prefer his own feet.
Cam reached the derelict highway. Not a tremendously wide space, probably why it was abandoned in favor of the current road. Sharron itself had been a kingdom a long time, though another had been here before The Falling. There were many overgrown paths such as this throughout the countryside.
Cam led the group to the southwest, down the path. After a while, a pair of horses came thundering along from behind, Andim and Kallan, retaking the lead as scouts. Soon they were out of sight, down the road.
Cam glanced back. They were closer together now, each group. From the glimpses of the sun he got above the treeline, it appeared to be only an hour or two from nightfall.
He noticed a rider coming forward. On closer inspection, he realized it was Dak.
Dak rode up to him at a trot, reining his horse in an even pace alongside Cam.
“We’re not too far now,” Dak informed him.
“Good. I was noticing the time,” Cam responded. “We’ll make it about sunset, I’m guessing.”
“As planned,” replied Dak.
“Kallan said we should be able to stay on this path most of the rest of the way,” Cam added casually.
“I imagine so,” replied Dak.
It was never easy to start a conversation with the man. Odd as that was, from the time of his rescue Cam had felt a sort of kinship with Dak Amviir.
Cam felt like talking. “If I may ask, Dak, where did you learn to fight with the sword? You’re very good, from what I hear.”
Dak shrugged. “I picked it up along the way.”
Cam twisted in his saddle and looked at him, noting the fine hand-and-a-half sword strapped along his back. “‘Picked it up along the way’? C’mon, Dak. You learned somewhere.”
“I don’t care to talk about it,” replied Dak coldly.
Cam thought about that a moment. “Why not?”
Dak turned and glared at him.
Cam returned his look with an equally glaring one. “You know my secrets, Dak Amviir. And, what little I know, we’re not all that different, you and I. I bet we have similar origins.”
Dak just faced forward, muttered darkly, “You know nothing, Cam Murtallan.”
“So, enlighten me, Dak. I recognize you don’t come from Sharron,” Dak turned on him at that, looking angry. Cam held up a hand to forestall the next remark. “Look, I’ve traveled several kingdoms now. I was born in Anaria. I grew up there. You learn to observe things, to stay alive, when you live on the streets. I always knew the foreigners, theirs were the easiest pockets to pick. You don’t have the look or attitude of a Sharronian, or the haughtiness of a Medaelian. Unless I miss my guess, you probably come from Garrock or Ontseer.”
Dak was very quiet now. Dangerously so. He didn’t look at Cam, but said softly, “You surprise me, Cam Murtallan.”
“Is that a compliment, or an insult?” asked Cam.
Dak expelled a frustrated breath, the tension broken. “A compliment, I suppose. You’re going to make me talk, aren’t you?”
“It passes the time,” Cam commented. “Or you can always ride ahead and join Kallan and Andim, or wait to take up the rear once more.”
Dak said nothing. Cam had to work hard not to smirk. The Sorcerer was as stubborn as the Falcon Raider Second.
Cam continued from where he’d left off. “As I said, I think we might have a lot in common. So...Ontseer or Garrock?”
Dak shook his head. He paused another moment, as if seeking a way out. He reached a decision, though, and still not looking at Cam replied, “Ontseer.”
“You know, I watched a kid once try to pick an Ontseerian’s pocket,” Cam explained. “This outsider looked so lost, so clueless, so easy. The kid was a foot and a half away when the man reached out, grabbed him by the wrist, and put a knife to his throat. I’m sure he’s still rotting in a prison somewhere in Medaelia.”
“Ontseerians are noted for giving nothing away,” Dak commented. “Which apparently gives more away than it should.”
“Only someone who really watches these things would ever notice,” Cam said. “Funny, I keep finding all these interesting benefits of my misspent childhood. My prowess with the quarterstaff, my abilities to read and observe what isn’t obvious about people. My distrust of pretty much everyone.”
Dak looked at Cam. “Your parents?”
Cam let his thoughts drift back to his childhood. “Dead. My father was killed when the Medaelians invaded. He never had a chance. They raped and beat my mother. When she recovered, she was always sick, and took me to Aldara. My father had a sister there, but she’d been killed when they took the city. We were penniless, and my mother died within a month, leaving me to fend for myself.”
“How old were you?” queried Dak, a note of curiosity obvious in his tone.
“About five or so,” replied Cam. “I ran with the packs for a while, but I was small, so I got beaten a lot. How I survived to my adolescence I can hardly guess. Then, when I reached the age of twelve or so, I discovered...my abilities.”
Cam was silent now, as was Dak. They rode on like that a few minutes, before Dak cleared his throat.
“I was an officer in the Ontseerian Defense Fo
rces. I joined at fourteen, enlisted. Became a master of swords at seventeen, an officer at eighteen. Served long and hard. I was a Colonel, commander of my battalion. We were the elite forces.”
Cam hadn’t expected Dak to tell him this, and let him continue uninterrupted.
“We were a leading element of the invasion of Rannora, after King Doliir’s assassination by their ambassador. His son, King Foliir, ordered us to invade, and burn everything. He wanted Rannora left a smoldering ruin.”
Dak took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “We came upon a village near the edge of the Sea of Pallantir. There were no men there, only women and children, in hiding. They had no defenses. My men were out of control. I did everything I could to prevent them from decimating the place. We left it intact, but my subordinate, Captain Telliin, falsely reported the incident to my superiors. I was removed from command and arrested. The Captain took command, and turned around. They raped and killed most of the women, and razed the village.”
Dak was silent again, and still Cam said nothing.
“When we returned to Ontseer, we left Rannora devastated, the Imperial household eliminated. It would be years before they’d be able to rebuild.”
Dak inhaled sharply, the first time Cam had ever seen him really emotional. He let it go, though, and continued. “I was brought before the King, and allowed to speak. Captain Telliin, thinking himself right, just confirmed my story. King Foliir, appalled, had Telliin arrested, and executed. It was that incident, I think, that actually led to the peace with Rannora. I was acquitted, but Telliin’s lies had made me many enemies. Worse, I had lost the respect of my peers, and embarrassed my superiors. So to protect my life, and to keep discipline in the military, I was exiled from Ontseer.”
Cam didn’t know what to say. It was far more than he’d expected to learn from the man. They rode on a while, before he finally found words.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize...”
“I don’t speak of it much,” Dak stated. “It happened over ten years ago. I wandered around the continent, without a purpose. Then I met Lyrra-Sharron.”