Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  She savored the tart huckleberries, though her stomach rumbled for real food. Her mind went to the last meal she could remember, before the drugged haze in which Xavien's men had transported her. The Citadel’s cooks had made roast pork, with applesauce, and roast potatoes. At the time, she barely touched the meal and she distinctly remembered feeling disappointment because she had pork for lunch as well.

  The thought made her grit her teeth. Her mouth watered at the thought of such a feast. Or a glass of hot chocolate to sip as she sat in front of the fireplace with a book. She remembered her warm, comfortable chair, the blankets warmed by her maid, and the broad selection of dresses, petticoats, and other clothing available to her.

  She looked down at her dirty feet and the rags of her nightgown. For a moment she had to fight back melancholy tears. She wished she had the strength to fight off the men who abducted her. She wished, even more, that none of this had ever happened.

  She felt the ache twist inside her again, a stabbing pain that seemed to start at her gut and work downwards. Amelia let the berries fall to the ground and buried her face in her hands. She clenched her jaw on the scream of rage and pain that threatened to erupt. Again and again she remembered the hands that had struck her and the other actions of the men who had raped her. She hated them all and a part of her wanted to find each of them and make them suffer just as much. Dark thoughts of knives and painfully slow deaths for each of them.

  Amelia hated those thoughts, but not as much as she hated the part of her that wanted to submit, that said not only had she deserved it, but that she should just lay down and die. That part of her said she must have done something terrible to deserve it. That part blamed her for what had happened. Had she not been the one too weak to fight them off? Had she not betrayed Xavien to her father when she discovered his actions?

  Amelia slowly let out a deep breath. She pushed both those thought patterns to the back of her mind. The fight seemed to take an eternity. She almost wanted to peel back her skin and claw at her insides to clean out the filth that she felt in every pore.

  Eventually, however, she regained her composure.

  She looked up, and this time she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

  She stood and spun to face the empty forest. Amelia peered into the shadows, and she felt her heart race. Her hands trembled and her knees felt wobbly. “Who's there?” Amelia asked. She winced at the sound of her own voice, hoarse and unused for the past few days. She took a deep breath, and tried again, “Show yourself, you watched me for the past few days.” Her voice sounded better, stronger. She felt foolish as she saw no movement in the trees. Had she finally lost her mind or did she only imagine the feeling? She felt her face flush and her trembling hands clenched into fists. “I said show yourself!” Amelia shouted.

  The forest went silent. The chirping birds and humming insects all stilled themselves at once. A man seemed to melt out of the shadows only a dozen feet away. His sudden appearance drew a startled yelp from Amelia. He stood tall, as tall as her father, at six feet, but his slender form lacked the bulk she'd associate with a man of such height. His garb blended perfectly with the trees, mottled earth tones that made it hard to see him even at such a short distance. He knocked his bow but did not draw it back yet. Amelia felt her heart stutter a bit as she realized the arrow pointed directly at her chest.

  Black hair crowned his lean reddish-bronze colored face. His face was lean, predatory, with exotically slanted eyes. His green eyes seemed like those of a great cat she'd seen at the Ducal Zoo in Boirton, feral and intelligent. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Amelia felt her spine straighten, as his words brought back her own knowledge of herself. This man might kill her, but she refused to give in to despair even so. She would go to her ancestors standing tall. “I am Lady Amelia Tarken, daughter to Lord Christoffer Tarken and cousin to Grand Duke Becket of Boir.” Very distant cousin, but I doubt he tracks lineage, she thought.

  The man's eyes narrowed a bit. He cocked his head, “How have you come here, and how did you spot me?”

  Amelia started to speak and almost choked with how dry her throat felt. She had to clear her throat twice more. “Men kidnapped me, servants of a wizard called Xavien,” She said. Amelia hesitated to name him as her brother, both from her own revulsion of his actions as well as simple caution. “They...” She cleared her throat yet again and felt tears well up in her eyes. “They used me for a ritual of some kind, on the coast, then left me for dead. I came inland looking for help.”

  “And how did you see me?” the man asked.

  Amelia shrugged, “I... I felt someone watching me for the past few days. I thought I saw movement and I'm tired of being toyed with.” Amelia focused her gaze on the man's face. He had shown no reaction to her words so far, yet she saw some emotion stir in his eyes as he met her gaze. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  He lowered the bow, “No.”

  Amelia slumped a bit in relief as he put the arrow into a quiver at his side and slung the bow over his shoulder. He stepped forward and offered his hand, “I am Simonel Greeneye, King of the Eastwood, and leader of the People of the Eastwood.”

  Amelia stared at his extended hand for a long moment. Tentatively she extended her hand. He took it, and his long, slender fingers held her hand like a trapped dove. He bowed low over her hand, a florid, graceful gesture, “I welcome you, Lady Amelia Tarken, cousin to Grand Duke Beckett of Boir.” Amelia blushed, and she saw a faint smile on his reddish-bronze face as he released her hand. “If you accept my welcome, you will be my guest here. If not, I will escort you to the boundaries of the Eastwood.”

  Amelia gulped. She suddenly remembered childhood tales told by her nanny about the Eastwood. The strange beasts and spirits which lived there and the Wold, the People of the Eastwood, who called it their home. They were tales that had both frightened and interested her, for it was a place not even her well-traveled father had visited. “I thought the Wold did not have guests.”

  He frowned and his green eyes flashed, “We do not like that... name, it is one attached to us by the Maghali Khalakuri, the Viani. We call ourselves Kalakhi Salvet Khis, People of the Eastwood.” His expression returned to neutrality, “As for our... reputation, we do not appreciate those who trespass on our lands, nor any who invade our home.”

  Amelia shivered at his words, the stories of her nanny echoed in her ears, tales of children who left the forest to find a century had passed and of their powerful, immortal Enchantress. “I would be a guest... and not a prisoner?” She asked.

  He straightened to his full height, “I swear to you on my sword, Medis Khmali that you will be my honored guest, free to leave whenever you like, and that I shall allow no harm to come to you while you travel my lands.”

  She stared at this strange man, his reddish-golden skin and black hair and odd clothing. She realized, yet again, that the most likely explanation lay in her own madness. Yet under such circumstances, if she had truly become lost in her own mind, why not take this chance? She nodded as graciously as she could manage, “Very well, King of the Eastwood, I accept your invitation.”

  ***

  King Simonel Greeneye

  Simonel led the woman through the trees. He slowed his normal stride to something that she could keep up with in her current state. He walked in silence, content to listen to the sounds of the forest around him, even as he reviewed every word of their conversation. He felt a shadow of unease at how quickly he decided to offer her an invitation.

  Yet, he had spent three days watching her. In that time, he had seen no sign of taint or of any possession at all. She clearly had suffered and he could sense the psychic wound. Anyone with eyes could see she suffered still from physical and mental trauma.

  He saw her weaken over the days as well and even with the few berries she found, he doubted she would have survived another three days without food and shelter. Any woodsman worth the name would find both plentiful in the Eastwood, e
specially here so close to the Heartwood. The noblewoman of Boir clearly lacked such skills.

  “Where are we going?” She asked, as he led her onto a trail.

  He glanced over at her. She clearly had tired and her question had many levels. Despite her acceptance of his offer, he doubted she truly trusted him. Probably wise of her, given what she must have heard of my people and what she has already gone through, he thought. “There's a camp, not far, of my people. The wizard who kidnapped you also attacked us and my people have marshaled to defend our lands. Many of the hunters and some of our enchanters as well as some people to care for weapons and equipment are gathered there to recover.”

  “Oh,” She said. She looked around at the trees again, “How do you find your way so easily?”

  Simonel looked around and and tried to see the forest as she did. The towering oaks rose high on all sides, their massive trunks lush with green growth. He watched a pair of jackrabbits chase each other through the grass. The signs of the trail seemed so obvious to him, the footprints of the others who'd passed before, the overgrown stone markers, placed every few hundred paces. “It's my home,” Simonel finally said. “I suppose I might be lost in your Boirton, but this is where I grew up and this is what I know.”

  She had no response for that and Simonel continued to lead the way. He couldn't stop himself from glancing at her, now and again. Her blue eyes seemed drawn to the sights and sounds of the forest. Despite her exhaustion, she seemed interested, eager to understand. Despite himself, Simonel found his gaze drop to her body.

  Beneath the dirt, bruises, and abrasions, he could see her beauty. She wasn't lean like most of the People and not nearly so tall, though he would guess she would be short even for her people. She had rounder curves to her body than most women of the People and her blonde hair, a color so different from that of his people, dropped in natural curls in an exotic manner very different from how the women of the People wore theirs.

  Simonel brought his gaze back to the trail. He had no right to turn his gaze on her in such a manner. She had suffered horribly and no doubt had much healing to do before, if ever, such thoughts would be appropriate. Besides that, despite just reaching his majority, he had centuries of age compared to her.

  Simonel turned his mind to the information she gave him on the wizard who'd so abused her. She provided a name, far more than he ever hoped to receive. From her expression, she knew more than that, but a name would give his enchanters and the spiritwalkers someplace to start.

  Simonel slowed his pace as he came closer to the camp. He glanced at the woman, then gave a series of bird calls both to announce his presence and to signal that his companion was a guest. A moment later, Nanamak emerged from the trees. The Ancient nodded politely at Amelia, then gave a deep bow to Simonel, “My King returns.”

  Simonel frowned at the formality, but then he saw the others emerge from the trees. Nanamak's words froze them, some of them with weapons drawn. He saw Ceratul first, the warrior had his blade drawn, face twisted into a grimace. “My King, what is the meaning of this?”

  Simonel straightened and he drew his sword, the King's sword. “I offered this woman, Lady Amelia Tarken of the Grand Duchy of Boir, guest rights in our lands.” He heard some of them cry out. Voices began to speak, but Simonel spoke over them. He projected over their words, “She says she had no willing part in the ritual that the wizard used to attack our land. Moreover, she provided a name for the wizard who kidnapped her and attacked us, he is Xavien.” The others grew still, and he saw reason return to some of them. He watched several of them sheath their weapons. Ceratul however, still bore his blade. Some of them whispered to one another in low tones.

  “Furthermore, I swore on Medis Khmali that she would not be harmed while she is my guest.” The muttering ceased. The very forest seemed to still, the leaves didn't rattle, and the wind didn't blow. None of the People would violate an oath sworn on the King's Blade.

  “Then, might I welcome Lady Amelia to the Eastwood, and to Camp Willow?” Nanamak said. He gave her a low bow. Simonel bit back a smile at the innocent expression on the Ancient's face. His calm acceptance of such a declaration forced even the most hotheaded of his people to do the same... publicly at least.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said, her voice shaken. Clearly, the sight of so many people willing to spill her blood had given her a fright, yet she hadn't completely lost her composure.

  “Well, then, shall we return to camp?” Nanamak asked innocently.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  Captain Janner

  Lower Debica, Duchy of Masov

  Fifteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Captain Jannar kicked in the door to the barracks door and gave a bellow, “What are you lousy gutless, gutter-scum drawing pay for!”

  His men looked up with expressions of surprise and shock. He saw that at least a pair of them had drawn weapons at his sudden entry and others had overturned a card table when they jerked to their feet. Good, the lads got too complacent, something men in our line of work can ill afford, he thought.

  “Sir?” Sergeant Morris asked. The sergeant had served with Janner for the past five cycles. Janner half expected him to go and found his own mercenary company after they finished their current contract with Lord Hector.

  “I'm tired of garrison bullshit,” Jannar said, loud enough to reach all of his men. “We ride out tomorrow at dawn, patrol routes are posted in my office. Time to separate the men from the boys. Pack light, men, they're real long patrols.”

  He smiled as his men scrambled to make preparations. He stepped to the side as the supply sergeant rushed out. Sergeant Morris moved up to stand nearby, “Sir, what's this about?”

  “The men have got lazy with this garrison shit and I'm tired of staying here and listening to Covle Darkbit whine about how expensive we are.” Jannar said. He purposely left any title off of Darkbit's name. He dropped his voice, “And Captain Brig's cavalry may pretend to carry out their patrols, but I've noticed his men have returned far too quickly from the Tucola Forest. The reports of banditry there has me worried. So we'll split the lads up, six patrols, all across the southern area of the Duchy.”

  “Eight man patrols?” Morris asked, uncertain. Janner knew that Morris wasn't very familiar with the Tucola Forest, whose name translated from the old tongue meant 'golden sea.' Still, he could become familiar with this patrol and a few others, Janner knew.

  “Mostly just to show our presence,” Jannar admitted. “Though we may get lucky and stumble across some bandits or some particularly stupid rebels.”

  Morris grimaced, “Your definition of lucky differs from mine, sir, especially with only eight men, mounted or no.”

  Jannar grinned, “What, Sergeant, you want to live forever?”

  Morris gave him a thoughtful nod, “Yes.”

  ***

  Lady Katarina Emberhill

  Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov

  Fifteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  “This is all your fault, you know?” Gerlin said, his blade only inches away from Katarina's face. She grunted and shoved with her own blade and forced him back a few feet.

  It gave her room to maneuver against him. “How is that?” She panted.

  “If you'd only laid down and died, none of us would be in this position,” Gerlin said, his voice mocking. “Bulmor would be at home, with his family, I'd be drinking myself stupid somewhere, and Lord Hector–”

  “The Usurper could sleep sound knowing that no one would oppose him?” Katarina asked as she lunged. It was a well-timed blow, set for when Gerlin was just off his balance. The halflbood only barely blocked in time. Even so, the thrust put her off balance and her opponent took advantage of that.

  Gerlin's off hand dropped his dagger, clasped her wrist, and pulled her forward into a knee strike. Katarina grunted in anguish as she fell to her knees, unable to draw breath.

  “Careful,” Bulmor
growled.

  It took Katarina several long seconds to force her paralyzed diaphragm to draw air. “He pulled the strike there at the end,” Katarina gasped

  “Or he'd have done more than take the air from your lungs,” Bulmor said. He turned a glare on her, “That was a dangerous attack, if you'd failed, as you did, you left yourself wide open. I thought I taught you better.”

  “Sometimes you have to take risks to win,” Gerlin said. “Though, I'd admit, it was a rash attack against someone with my skill.” He said it with a tone of arrogance that Katarina's teeth on edge.

  “So skilled with blade... and humble too,” Katarina grunted. She rolled onto her side and then slowly sat up. She didn't look forward to the struggle to her feet.

  “Along with my skill for words, truly, I'm very skilled,” Gerlin smiled. He offered her a hand. Katarina smiled at him sweetly. When she took his hand, she kicked out at his feet and pulled. Gerlin gave a startled squawk and toppled forward.

  “Ah, the mighty have fallen,” Katarina laughed as he landed next to her.

  “Funny,” Gerlin muttered. “It's a good thing for you that I'm above retaliation.”

  “Funny, you don't look to be above anything just now,” Katarina retorted.

  “Enough,” Bulmor said. “If you two are done playing?”

  Katarina sighed, but she nodded her assent as she climbed back to her feet. “I wanted to get away from the others for a chance to discuss our new allies.” She looked between Gerlin and Bulmor. “You've both had some more time to form impressions... and we're trusting them all, quite a bit. If even one of them gives into temptation and betrays us...”

  “Yes,” Bulmor nodded.

  Gerlin sighed, “I'm a cynic, I assume all men will give into temptation.”

  Bulmor cocked his head, “All men, even yourself?”

  “Most of the time I try to beat them to it,” Gerlin said. “Though in truth, I think you won't find a more dedicated bunch. It's almost like they were chosen for this.”