Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1)

by MJ Blehart

  Andim and Kallan agreed with that.

  “Dak, he knows our plans. Let us make certain if and when he returns, we question what he has been about. He has less than a week until we march to Mintarn.”

  “Something tells me we will not see him again,” Dak stated.

  Lyrra-Sharron smirked at that. “I cannot agree with you, Dak. He and I are linked, somehow. I can feel it. His task will effect the whole world. His presence amongst us, even if it will no longer be, has been a good omen.”

  Her second seemed a bit perturbed, none-the-less. “After all we’ve been through, you would think he’d have said farewell?”

  Lyrra-Sharron shrugged. “That is another reason I do not believe we have seen the last of Cam Murtallan.”

  They moved on, gathered the Falcon Raiders, and split into two groups, beginning the march to Tarmollo, where they would gather everyone they had.

  The question of the whereabouts of the Sorcerer became insignificant in light of the task before the Falcon Raiders.

  *****

  Varlock-Sharron Anduin arose early, as he customarily did. He’d spent the night alone, but had slept better than he had in a long time. He dressed, and went to his study. He again took on the facade that the King of Sharron presented for the world to see.

  He studied reports from the front lines, increasingly distraught. No exact knowledge of the Medaelian forces. No real idea their numbers. No clear sign where they would push. Likely, they’d direct one hard strike on one front, to make the most effective use of their massed army. It was always possible they’d split up, but the uncertainty of numbers and opposition made this less likely. One large push.

  Of course, it was also the Cordianlott and Lirdarran armed services that were out there. This made the situation less predictable. How big a militia did Wilnar-Medira have at his command? How strong was this union of armies? Was there a breach in the chain-of-command the Sharronians could take advantage of? There was not a simple question to be had.

  General Bodrir had decided the attack would come likely before the start of the new year, despite Sir Garvol’s intelligence. While he understood the superstition of the Medaelian King, he did not trust the opposing general, nor his allies, to wait. He expected as soon as they were ready, and their forces fully assembled, they would attack.

  So General Bodrir wanted to oversee what was being done on the front himself. Once the Falcon Raider problem was resolved, Varlock-Sharron planned to join him.

  Unlike his brother monarchs, the King of Sharron would not leave his men to fight a major battle without him. Dangerous as this might be, it was a long-standing tradition. The monarchs of the House of Anduin had always been war leaders. They’d not send soldiers to engage in mass combat they were unwilling to participate in themselves.

  Varlock-Sharron looked about his study. He found himself restless, and so he decided a walk was in order. He stepped passed the usual pair of guardsmen at the door, and chose to walk down the hall.

  The royal castle was divided into many sections, and was home to not only the royal family, but most of the servants and upper level bureaucrats as well. The royal family had a large number of private apartments, taking up about a third of the space in the palace. There were guest rooms for ambassadors and other diplomats, and the members of the Council had large private chambers in a separate area. Of course, there were also the dungeons for ignoble guests.

  There were multiple kitchens, storerooms, armories for the Royal Guardsmen, dining halls, conference rooms, and even hidden passageways reserved for the crown and select others. Unlike many royal abodes, the quarters of the servants were not bunkhouses, but rather private rooms or suites, depending on position and rank, with communal washrooms.

  At this hour, there were numerous valets, messengers, attendants, cooks and domestics going about their business. Floors were swept and mopped, linens were changed out and laundered, food was prepared and taken to the mess halls and dining rooms, and other general business was being seen to. From time to time the King would directly cross someone’s path, and they all would quickly bow or curtsy. Some looked rather shocked, since Varlock-Sharron was not often seen in this part of the castle.

  The King took a moment to glance behind. Not surprisingly, the Guardsmen from his study were a few paces in his wake.

  It occurred to him where he wished to go. For the first time in months, Varlock-Sharron approached the stairwell to the ground level, and the hallway that led to the library.

  The servant currently serving as Bibliothecary was not at her station yet, probably still having breakfast with her family, as her husband was an officer of the Guardsmen. But Varlock-Sharron was King, so he produced his key, and entered the massive library.

  Gara-Sharron boasted one of the most incredible, rich, and diverse libraries in the world. The number of scrolls, books, codices and other documents numbered in the tens of thousands. Varlock-Sharron had personally added several thousand to that number, collecting rare volumes from wherever he could, when the opportunity presented itself.

  The ceiling was a dome ending twenty feet up, and there were rows upon rows of shelves, stacked neatly with their documentation. The room was kept very clean, to protect the texts within.

  One section was gated off and locked, a private section that could only be accessed by permission of the King. There were volumes to be found in there that were completely one-of-a-kind. Varlock-Sharron treasured these above any other wealth that had come into his possession over the years he had worn the crown.

  Not wanting to disturb his private collection, he moved towards the shelves with historical texts. Scanning them, he found one he had only glanced at before, and reached up to take the leather-bound codex.

  Pallantir and his Conquest of Afpar – The Undoing of History by Professor Vexol Nojeng. This book had been written by an instructor from one of the legendary universities of the island empire, only a few years after Pallantir’s fall. Varlock-Sharron recalled that the author had had unique insights on the Estarian continent before most of the current nations had arisen.

  The King took the text to a table, and sat. He opened the volume, and began to flip through its pages, stopping to read when a chapter’s title caught his eye.

  Within minutes, there was a knock on the door jamb, and Tulock entered.

  “Your Majesty,” he bowed.

  “Good morning, Tulock,” responded the King, gently closing the book before him. “Interesting news?”

  Tulock brought the King a few scrolls. “Nothing terribly exciting, no. General Bodrir expects to arrive tomorrow. Sir Garvol has dispatched extra people to the border, hoping to get a better count of what we’re up against. He’s also working his network amongst your brother monarchs.”

  “Good. At least we are doing all we can to be ready for this. What of the snare for the Falcon Raiders?”

  Tulock handed him another scroll. “The pieces are all in place. Constable drey-Sharron says Constable ril-Sharr has everything ready. Black-Knight Company is prepared. Sir Garvol’s people are there. The ambush is set. All we await is the Princess and her rabble to spring it.”

  Varlock-Sharron nodded his head solemnly. “Very well, then.”

  Another knock on the door, and Lady Ara and Lady Marna came in.

  “My liege.” intoned Lady Ara.

  “You Majesty,” curtsied Lady Marna.

  “How do you all manage to find me when I have wandered from my normal haunts?” queried Varlock-Sharron with a hint of mild amusement to his tone.

  Lady Marna blushed, and Lady Ara looked slightly abashed.

  “Report,” said the King gently.

  “I have juggled a few things around, and the Council has agreed to a pay freeze until this current crisis is over. We should have enough funds to hold us over another couple weeks.”

  “Without increasing taxes further?” questioned the King.

  “Yes,” Lady Ara replied.

  “Lady Marna?” que
ried Varlock-Sharron.

  She curtsied again. “Your Majesty, a report from Sir Garvol given to me by one of his staff this morning indicates troubles along Medaelia’s other borders.” She unrolled a scroll. “Nevarna is once more protesting Medaelia’s management and conquest of Anaria, which they delight in doing annually. The Empress of Rannora has also signed this statement, and again increased tariffs on goods passing through her nation from Medaelia, bound for either Garrock or Ontseer.”

  “This means what to us, Lady Marna?” asked Lord Tulock.

  “We might be able to persuade them to do more than simply lodge protests. Perhaps we could negotiate another strategy.”

  “Such as?” questioned the King, looking at her more closely.

  “If they threaten Medaelia, specifically Anaria...” she left it hanging.

  “They’re not that bold,” snorted Lord Tulock.

  “Perhaps not normally. But are they aware that almost the whole of the Medaelian Army is on our border? Along with pieces of the Cordianlott and Lirdarran forces? We could send ambassadors from here across southern Cordianlott, then over the Sea of Pallantir into Rannora. We could sail another set towards Lirdarra, where they could either take a chance and cross over the Anar Province or take the Cilrin Sea to Nevarna.”

  Tulock whistled softly. “That would pull Wilnar-Medira up short.”

  The King shook his head. “It is an intriguing notion, but it is too late, as it would take several weeks, even at the fastest possible speed, to get anyone to either Nevarna or Rannora. And anyone we send will have to travel very stealthily. Besides, the Nevarnans have a weak military, and are constantly on guard against the Lirdarrans and the Enkirans. The Rannorans still have not fully recovered from the Ontseerian invasion all those years ago, now. The Daimyo have not been united since.”

  “Even if the Medaelians attack us, we could make their lives more difficult if we persuade the others to threaten. King Wilnar-Medira’s not foolhardy enough to fight two wars on opposite fronts,” stated Lady Marna.

  Varlock-Sharron let out an exasperated breath. “If the Medaelians are bold enough to attack us, with the largest nation and military on the continent, the Nevarnans and Rannorans would certainly not choose to oppose them. They will likely fear them even more.”

  “I’d still research the idea, your Majesty,” Tulock interjected. “We stand a decent chance of holding our own against the Medaelians. A threat on their eastern border might be enough to make them split forces. That could turn the tide in our favor.”

  “Of course it could,” responded the King. “But the Nevarnans and Rannorans would then be attacked, and what could we offer them plausible enough to make them ally themselves with us? We could not help them after that. And let us say, for arguments sake, they overrun and capture Anaria. Do any of you believe that they would set Anaria free, as opposed to taking it over themselves? I can hardly imagine how much worse the Rannorans or Nevarnans would care for Anaria. And more to the point, it is too late to make such arrangements.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re correct, Sire,” conceded Tulock.

  “How will the Medaelians cross the Mendanaria?” queried Lady Marna. “Isn’t it rather deep?”

  The King shook his head. “From the point where it runs into the ocean to where it forks, it is, and continues to be so where it originates in the east, near Penkira. But where it runs northwest, from its origins west of Vantir, it is quite shallow. There are points it is no deeper than a man’s shin. Not something you would know, if you have never been there.” He looked at his Seneschal. “What further business, Lord Tulock?”

  “Sire, the Council meets this afternoon. You hold court tomorrow afternoon. Fortunately, I don’t believe it will be long, as the Barons are out gathering their forces to bring you for Royal Commission.”

  The King looked at Tulock with a gleam in his eye. “You just love doing this to them, do you not?”

  Tulock’s grin was malicious. “I confess that I do, your Majesty. They make more trouble than they are worth...”

  “And the lack of respect they give you sets your teeth on edge?” questioned the King. “I do understand, Tulock. Lady Ara, Lady Marna, please see to it all nobility and Council members here are in court tomorrow.”

  “Yes, my liege,” they responded.

  “Anything else?” asked the King.

  “One last thing,” said Lady Ara tentatively. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and began. “I know it is tradition that you go to the field of battle. But with your current plans, and the probable fate of your daughter and only heir, were anything to happen to you, the throne would be vacant.”

  “We have gone over this before, when my children were younger,” commented the King.

  “But then you had a definite successor,” replied Lady Ara. “If Lyrra-Sharron is...killed, you have none. Your death will bring the throne into contention.”

  “Without an heir, who is next in line?”

  “The, uh, Seneschal would be installed as Regent,” she said, looking to Lord Tulock.

  The King turned again to his old friend. “Well, then, Tulock, I believe you will be staying here.”

  Tulock frowned. “With all due respect, I don’t like that idea at all, your Majesty! Lady Ara has a point. You should remain here. I can go to battle in your name, for your honor, in your place.”

  Varlock-Sharron shook his head. “Every monarch of my line has participated in the major battles we sent our soldiers into. It is an example to the others that we lead in place, as well as in name. And this is by no means my first combat experience. This battle shall not be fought without me. You will remain here, in charge of the affairs of the palace.”

  “Varlock-Sharron...” Lord Tulock protested.

  “My lord Seneschal, my orders stand. You will remain in Gara-Sharron, in command of the Kingdom as Regent until my return. If I do not return, it will be seen to, as I wish it, that you will be made King by Common and Council.”

  Lord Tulock was shaking his head.

  “I know you have never desired such a thing, my friend, but of all those that could ascend to my throne, you are the only one I would trust not to destroy the Kingdom. I suspect, if I do die in this battle, you are going to have no easy time, I am afraid.”

  “So be it, Majesty,” stated Tulock, with the tone of a man simply accepting his fate.

  “Very well. You are all dismissed. I will see you in Council in a few hours. And, just for appearances, ready your finery for court tomorrow.”

  *****

  Even sitting upon his throne, Dariana Balgrun noted, King Aldo Wilnar-Medira was not much of an imposing figure, certainly not in comparison to King Varlock-Sharron.

  She waited near the servant’s door, ready to jump if called upon. She was such the dutiful servant.

  “So we have no idea who killed the guard, or released the prisoner, then?” questioned the King, addressing the commander of the Elite Guard, General Nor Criv-Kurlirra.

  “Not at all, my liege,” stated the dark skinned, muscular man who served as head of the King’s personal guard. “We are still trying to find a lead, some evidence. The guard was strangled, his keys taken. No sign of who did this, how they accessed the dungeon, or anything. No one saw the detainee leave.”

  “I want that man found, and killed,” stated the King matter-of-factly. “Understand, General?”

  The man bowed, and exited.

  The Prime Minister stepped around the throne.

  “Majesty?”

  Wilnar-Medira looked to him. “What business is on your mind?”

  “All forces are nearly in place, save the last from Cordianlott and Lirdarra,” stated Lord Gelva. “They await your attack order.”

  “The Sharronians are still totally unsure of what is arrayed against them?” Wilnar-Medira queried. “No idea what sort of force they’re facing? General Kiran has quite the strategy in place. The Vann Region will be Medaelian again, and then we shall deal with
the rest of Sharron.”

  “It’s an ambitious plan, your Majesty,” stated the Prime Minister with some concern.

  “Sharron has been too strong for too long, now. Medaelia has been a second-rate power for long enough,” remarked the King. “I will see my nation as the strongest, largest, and most powerful in the world. My father was passive, and weak. As were most of my predecessors before. Letting the Sharron crown hold the Vann Region, and that damnable title of second prince, it is shameful! We are setting it right, now. We are destined to be remembered, Lord Gelva.”

  The Prime Minister nodded his head in agreement.

  King Wilnar-Medira stood. “We have things to do that cannot be completed here. Much as I am loathe to do so, we shall retire to my study, and I’ll write up the attack order. How long until we have everything in place?”

  “Six days. Though the marching armies, once they arrive, need a day or two to be placed, and rest will make them better prepared to fight.”

  “Ah,” stated the King. “You know, I was half tempted to go to the front myself, for once. But matters of state will keep us here. We attack on New Year’s Day.”

  “Begging your pardon, Majesty,” interjected Count Vular-Murtona, who had just come from around one of the tapestries disguising a hidden passage. “But that would be foolish.”

  “Care to explain why?” queried the King with a note of obvious annoyance.

  Dariana took a half step closer into the room. This was something she knew she could not miss.

  “I have reason to believe, Your Majesty, that that is precisely when they expect our forces to attack,” stated the Intelligence chief without further ado.

  “You have something solid to back this up with?”

  “Not exactly,” Count Vular-Murtona confessed. “But something was said the other day, which led me to this conclusion.”

  “I am in no mood for this, Tamno…speak your peace,” said the King with finality.