by MJ Blehart
Tentatively, the fire dimmed. Soon, it was less intense, clearly affected by Varlock-Sharron’s spell.
“I did it!” Varlock-Sharron exclaimed.
“Now bring it back,” said Cam.
Varlock-Sharron tried twice, but was clearly too excited. Feeling the chill, Cam took over, and brought the flame back up.
“I did it once,” said the King in his defense after.
Cam nodded his head, grinning. “You did indeed, your Majesty. Not bad for one who has denied his power so long.”
The rest of that night had been uneventful. The next day, they spoke quite a bit as they rode, traveling along the well maintained highway, crossing areas with rolling fields, patchy woodlands, and occasional farmsteads.
Sharron was a nation of many terrains, and thus had a source for nearly every kind of product a strong nation might need to produce. The road itself was dirt and stone, serviced along its path by the Kingdom itself at some intervals, other times by the local infrastructure.
The following night, they worked a little more on Sorcery. While Varlock-Sharron began to learn has sorcerous capabilities, Cam learned a lot about the politics of the Estarian continent, which he’d never given thought to before.
As they shared their different knowledge bases with one another, their friendship grew stronger bonds.
After the second night, Royal Guardsmen, led by Captain-General Ov Callan, met with them upon the road. The Guardsmen were clearly exhausted, having ridden hard from Gara-Sharron even during the night, taking turns resting and leading one-another. Varlock-Sharron was pleased that the Baron had reached Gara-Sharron so quickly, and went over scrolls sent by the Regent, Sir Tulock.
It was quite obvious when they’d crossed into the Vann Region, as the land became flat, fertile fields broken only by marshes as far as the eye could see. Cam learned that to the south, where the Mendanaria was broader and deeper, much of the land would be flooded during periods of heavy rains.
Before the sun set again, they reached Vantirr. Cam had seen it on the horizon, standing out on the level plain. Wooden walls rising above the field, appearing to present imposing defenses. Clearly this was an outpost, the first line of defense against a pending attack, rather than a place of refuge to be held up in during a siege. As they neared, there were clear signs that it had been attacked before.
As they rode into the gate, a pair of important looking men met them. Each saluted, fist to heart.
“Your Majesty,” the taller of them intoned, his long salt and pepper hair pulled back and tied off. “Welcome to Outpost Vantirr.”
“General Bodrir, General Sopirr,” the King acknowledged them. “Glad we could join you. We have many things to discuss.”
“Your Majesty…I don’t mean to pry, but isn’t this the Sorcerer you had planned to have executed?” queried the one Cam presumed to be Bodrir.
“Indeed. He has been granted an amnesty, and has been instrumental in events of the past week.”
“I can hardly wait to hear,” the General said, looking at Cam with a curious eye.
Their horses were taken, and they were led to a conference room by the Generals, where they were offered food and drink, and rested from the road.
Varlock-Sharron explained the presence of the Sorcerer. He then told the Generals of the outcome of the Falcon Raider crisis, and the mission his no-longer rebellious daughter had undertaken. They were clearly thrilled with the anticipated arrival of the Black Knight Company, and that Lyrra-Sharron was not dead, and might be helpful against the Medealians, in the end.
The following day, Cam had remained at the King’s side, at his request. The King, Guardsman Captain-General and Army Generals and their staff went over troop placements, probable enemy soldier locations, and contingent battle plans. During the course of the morning, Cam had learned much about military strategy. He asked questions, and found answers. He never made a suggestion, save when the King asked if he had any.
At first, the Generals and other officers seemed to resent the presence of the Sorcerer. But as the morning wore on, they came to a grudging respect. Cam had learned much from his time with Lyrra-Sharron and Dak, and now became aware of even more from the King and his generals, noted to be among the greatest military strategists in the world. His contributions were few, but important. Over all he simply gained a deeper perspective about a great many things.
As the day wore on, Cam found a pair of soldiers who claimed to be adept with the rapier. Observed by Varlock-Sharron and General Sopirr, Cam had gone through the motions with a practice blade. Though he’d only fought with rapier for a few months, Cam bested his opponents four out of five bouts.
An hour later, with only four defeats against three opponents, Cam had earned the respect of the officers, and a majority of the soldiers. His place at the side of the King was no longer questioned. Cam pondered quietly what they would think if he showed off his skills with his staff.
More often than not, Cam simply observed. He studied. He watched soldiers drill. He overheard some passing conversations, knew they were nervous. He saw the uncertainty over the forces they would face. He listened to the plans laid out, altered, and laid out again.
Another two days passed, the morning found Cam Murtallan sitting upon the battlement, legs crossed, having just come out of his trance.
The sun was rising in the mostly clear sky, apart from wispy clouds here and there. It was a perfectly crisp, end of Stillness morning.
He was clad in heavy black boots up to the top of his shins, a dark green tunic, covered in studded leather armor. His rapier was belted at his side. His hair was pulled back and tied off with a leather cord.
Not far away, presumably, out of sight, the Medaelian Army and its allies were gathered. The various Sharron military commanders had pondered if Wilnar-Medira’s superstition would keep them at bay until the start of the Season of Planting, or if the attack would come sooner.
Cam sensed another presence, and turned to see Varlock-Sharron approaching him.
“Your Majesty.”
“You are up early, Cam Murtallan,” remarked Varlock-Sharron.
Cam grinned. “My room is small. Kind of cramped, not that I’m complaining, mind you. I just wanted the space, and the fresh air to meditate this morning.”
“I understand,” Varlock-Sharron replied. “I take it our scouts have not returned as yet?”
“I’ve been up here over an hour, and would’ve noticed. No sign yet.”
“Can you...” Varlock-Sharron began, pausing, collecting what he actually wanted to say. “Can you see further? I mean, can you use sorcery to enhance how well you can see? Could you look out for the enemy?”
Cam thought about that. “Likely, yes. Though I’ve never tried before. I doubt, though, that I can see far enough out there to observe their hiding places. The scouts will have to earn their pay.”
Varlock-Sharron bobbed his head at that. He changed the subject. “Beautiful sunrise, is it not?”
Cam agreed. “It is indeed, Majesty.”
Varlock-Sharron glanced at Cam. “We are alone here, Cam Murtallan. I think it would be alright with me if you called me by name, when it is just you and I.”
“It’s easy to forget that you would prefer that,” remarked Cam. “It just seems too familiar, a man of my stature, calling a King by his first name.”
Varlock-Sharron laughed. “It may be, at that. But I prefer those I consider friends to address me less formally.”
Cam had no response to that.
“Are you surprised a King would speak of friends?” pressed Varlock-Sharron, as if reading Cam’s thoughts.
“Not at all,” Cam responded. “I’m just not used to having any. Especially when a friend tortured me and planned to have me killed once.”
Varlock-Sharron frowned. “We cannot be friends, then?”
Cam looked at the King. “I didn’t say that. It simply comes as a shock to me, still. I am in fact quite honored you consider me
as such. I far prefer having people I can call friends to the way I lived before.”
“No longer desiring the vagabond life, Cam Murtallan?”
“I could get used to my presence being accepted, certainly,” replied Cam with a hint of bemusement in his tone.
Varlock-Sharron smirked, but said nothing further.
He paused, his eyes went distant, and his expression turned serious. “It will not be long now.”
“How can we know?” asked Cam.
Varlock-Sharron leaned on the battlements. “I am a veteran. I have experienced many campaigns now. You get a sense for it. You can feel a battle coming. Watch Bodrir and Sopirr, or almost any of their staff. Veterans can sense it. Like birds sensing a coming storm.”
Cam made no comment.
“I will tell you, Cam Murtallan. I grow tired of these constant battles. Every few years, I go to war. Over thirty years, since my teens. Always they want to rob me of my stability. Always they want to break us apart. Sharron is like a thorn in the side of our neighbors.”
“I must confess, I really don’t understand why they find peace and prosperity in Sharron so offensive,” remarked Cam honestly.
Varlock-Sharron laughed a short, humorless laugh. “Many reasons, Cam. Many reasons. Long ago, Sharron was two separate Kingdoms. They merged, became Sharron. It was civil, without warfare, and offensive to our neighbors, as it made us far larger than any of them. Over the years, the various nations on this continent have fought constantly. The borders had been broken and changed with the conquests of Pallantir. In the aftermath of his death, disputes over them were never-ending.”
Varlock-Sharron let out a sigh, and continued. “The lands of Sharron, once of two Kingdoms, were constantly in question. To the north, the mountains provide a good source of ores and water. In the south, the beaches are of fine sand for glass. The bogs have good game. To the east, here, is the River Mendanaria. Fertile cropland is nearby. Sharron could isolate itself, and would need not import anything, save oil, the diversity of our terrain being what it is.”
He changed his tone somewhat. “These used to be in the possession of neighboring Kingdoms. They wanted the nearby lands, to further secure what they had. They would strike. They would invade. They never would succeed, though, and Sharron took pieces from its neighbors as buffer zones occasionally. This infuriated them even further, and as Sharron became more and more stable, those lands were sealed to the Crown and Kingdom.”
“They’re simply holding a grudge?” questioned Cam.
Varlock-Sharron chuckled mirthlessly. “I suppose so, yes. The loss of the Vann Region particularly infuriated the Medaelians.”
“I’m told their King is a terror. While I do not know of him personally, I saw first hand his treatment of Anaria,” remarked Cam.
Varlock-Sharron made an angry rumble low in his throat. “Aldo Wilnar-Medira. Defiant to the last. Always so sure Medaelia deserves a better reputation and more glory than they have. For centuries, Anaria has been more or less protected. It was an unwritten law of sorts, the oldest Kingdom in the world remains untouched. Anaria was the only Kingdom to survive the Falling of the Skies, and later the conquest of Pallantir.”
“My homeland,” remarked Cam quietly.
Varlock-Sharron acknowledged him, and continued. “A small army for protection, none ever believed their neighbors would strike. Scholars, diplomats, peaceful men and women from Anaria roamed the world, proud of their heritage, but always willing to help in other lands, to trade with all the world. The libraries, the museums, the universities, they were magnificent, and were open to everyone.”
Varlock-Sharron’s face grew sour. “Wilnar-Medira could not stand to have that little Kingdom, so well respected, practically within his borders. As his Father lay dying, he took command of the military, and swept into Anaria. They were outnumbered, and outfought by a viscous army.”
“I was there,” said Cam quietly. “I saw how the Medaelians make war.”
Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam. “I know. I wish we could have done something about it.”
“It’s the past,” remarked Cam, still somewhat bitterly. “If she succeeds, Lyrra-Sharron will take care of the situation. Wilnar-Medira will pay for his crimes.”
“I truly hope you are right, Cam,” replied the King. “Her mission will not be an easy one.”
Cam took a deep, calming breath. Talk of the destruction of his home, so long ago, always unnerved him. “Lyrra-Sharron is clever, resourceful, and devious. Wilnar-Medira has met his match.”
Varlock-Sharron chuckled again. “I cannot fault that opinion. I just hope Lyrra-Sharron exercises caution. He should not be underestimated.”
Something in the distance caught his eye. Cam started looking out towards the river to see it more clearly.
“The scouts are returning,” he said.
Cam followed Varlock-Sharron from the wall to the courtyard below. The portcullis was raised, and the horses thundered in.
Various soldiers grabbed the horses, and Cam observed without comment the spectacle before him.
Five men had ridden out the night before. All five horses were here, but one was riderless, and three held soldiers who were slumped over, likely dead. Only one stirred. He was helped from his horse.
General Bodrir and General Sopirr were there. The soldier was laid to the ground, panting. Blood arose from his throat.
“Sergeant Alseer?” questioned General Sopirr, kneeling beside the wounded soldier.
The young man coughed, shaking. “General, sir,” he wheezed.
“We need a medic here, now!” cried General Bodrir.
“No time,” whispered Sergeant Alseer. “We found...” he coughed several times. The medic was there, leaning on his other side. The young Sergeant waved him off. “We found them, sir. In trenches, well hidden. I...I estimate twenty thousand, just to the south...southeast.”
His breathing was becoming more labored. The medic leaned in, but the Sergeant weakly waved him off again.
“No. No time. Th...think there are...more...more forces. N...n...n...northeast, near...Penlorka.”
A tear ran down his face, as he hacked again. This time the medic leaned in, stripping away his armor. General Sopirr stood.
“I think that’s the last scout party we send out,” he said quietly.
Sergeant Alseer erupted into a terrible coughing fit. When it subsided, he lay still, his eyes glazed over.
The medic examined him, then reached out and closed his lids. He stood, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, sir. He was too grievously wounded.”
General Sopirr just wore a sad expression. “He was one of my best.”
General Bodrir glanced about. “See to the horses. Get those men.”
Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam. “Could you have helped him?”
“I doubt it. There is a limit to healing...I can do much, but I would not have even have known where to begin. Maybe, in time, as I learn more...” he left it hanging.
“Well, your Majesty,” General Bodrir started, walking over to The King. “Not the best way to begin the day. Are you ready to meet the staff again?”
Varlock-Sharron nodded. “It will not be long, now. You do not wipe out a scouting party so thoroughly if you are not preparing to move. Let us get ready for them. Cam?”
Cam joined them, heading for the room where the maps lay, prepared and marked, and battle plans were made ready.
Cam admitted that he could sense it now. The battle was coming...and it was coming all too soon.
Chapter 34
Lyrra-Sharron Anduin stood at the bow of the large frigate upon which she and a third of the Falcon Raiders were embarked.
The ride from Tarmollo to the River Mendanaria had felt very strange, foreign. After two years of sneaking about, looking for hidden trails, and avoiding patrols, it was odd to ride openly, pennants flying, to ships of the Sharron Navy.
Hastily, Lyrra-Sharron had dug out the banners sh
e had had in her possession since her original departure from Gara-Sharron. She had saved them with the intent of riding behind them, victorious, back to the capitol after removing the King.
Now, she traveled with those banners flying in support of her father and an operation sanctioned by him. A change she had not expected.
She had been quiet during much of the ride to the river, choosing by-and-large to keep to herself. Analyzing all that had transpired. Examining her own startling and unexpected change of heart.
Lyrra-Sharron had planned so much. Anticipated nearly every possibility. None of them had ever included admitting she might be wrong...none ever found her leading the Falcon Raiders in the service of the Crown, her father.
Hard to believe that, deep down, all Lyrra-Sharron had most craved was the simple knowledge that her father did, in fact, care. Hard to believe it took so little, and changed so much.
Her struggle had nearly destroyed what she most prized. It was a bitter pill to swallow for her, as Lyrra-Sharron had always been deeply prideful. Alone with her thoughts, she considered all who had suffered, all who fought, all who died, in the interest of her misguided crusade.
It was her fervent hope that this current action might begin to atone for the lives she had irrevocably altered, for good or ill, along the way.
She had taken the time, over the course of the past year, to have special favors made, by those with the necessary talent, with the soaring silver falcon on a black field.
These were originally meant to be added to the outfits of the Falcon Raiders, after they had toppled the King, for the victorious return to Gara-Sharron. This had been their calling card, after all, once the personal sigil of Karlock-Sharron. Now, they all wore it upon the left breast of their vests, a uniform. They had become true soldiers, no longer a force of outlaws and rebels.
Altering the ranks again, she had taken the rank of Captain to herself, a gold cord hanging from the left shoulder of her uniform vest, making Dak her First Lieutenant, a blue cord on his shoulder. Nadav, Torman, Andim, and Kallan were Second Lieutenants, with green cords. Neva, Darak, Varnon, Torra, Delann and Mikar, Third Lieutenants, wearing red cords.