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

by Kal Spriggs

Grel sent his beady-eyed gaze around the mercenaries and he saw few of them able to meet his gaze. “You consider yourself hardened mercenaries... but how tough will you be when some Noric shaman goes to carve your heart out and feed it to his pet demons?”

  Henderson spat, “So we are to ally with them? The savages who are as much a scourge as the Armen? There are some things that even I find offensive.”

  Xavien looked over at Grel, “I warned you that we needed killers.”

  Grel gave him a nod. He sidled his horse next to Henderson and spoke in a low voice, “I warn you, that your life and those of your men are at stake here. Lord Hector has entrusted this wizard–”

  “Has he?” Henderson asked, his voice loud. “What proof do you have? Even your title of Hector's Hound bears a seal... and your reputation proceeds you. The wizard has nothing but your word... and we have come deep into these accursed mountains on that. I say that you are deceived, at best, and an oath-breaker at worst. I say let the Norics have these rebels and that my men and I shall return to–”

  Henderson broke off, and a spasm of pain crossed over his face. Grel saw the older man clutch at his chest and then pitch from his saddle. The old mercenary writhed on the ground and Grel heard his men give shouts of alarm and confusion.

  Those shouts died off as Henderson's mouth opened wide and he coughed smoke. A moment later, an unholy green glow burst from his open mouth. Henderson tried to scream and Grel watched as the mercenary clawed at his chest, as if to pull the fire out of it. Smoke burst out a moment later, followed by a baleful green flame that burned up through his skin and ignited his leather armor and clothing. The entire time, Henderson bucked and thrashed.

  Grel saw Sergeant Narash turn his mount, sword drawn, and ride at Xavien. Without a thought, Grel moved his own horse in the way and swung a sharp blow at the sergeant. His own heavy sword caught the other man in the shoulder and despite the other's armor, Grel heard bones break. Sergeant Narash toppled from the saddle with a scream and Grel turned his horse in a tight circle around Xavien. Some of the other mercenaries had drawn blades, but most remained frozen, eyes wide with terror.

  “That was unfortunate,” Xavien said. “We have lost not just one, but two fighting men, warriors that will be useful in the next few days.” He gazed around the mounted men. “Let me make this clear to all of you... so that I don't have to waste any more time or energy. Do not fear what Lord Hector might do, should you return without Grel, do not fear what the Norics might do if you kill me.” He gazed around at the mounted men, and the stink of burned flesh carried to them all. “Fear me.”

  Xavien looked down at the smoldering pile of ash and scorched bones, “Henderson irritated me. Do not make the same mistake. He looked over at the wounded Narash, “And this other one tried to kill me. I will tell my allies that they may collect him. Let his screams tonight remind you of the price of offending me.”

  Grel shivered. Not at Narash upcoming painful demise, but at the thought of the power that Xavien casually wielded. He could taste the fear on these men, and their almost pathetic willingness to follow his every command.

  “We ride on,” Xavien said. “The Norics are without horses, so they will slow us, yet I have other allies ahead who will cut our quarry off and keep them at bay.”

  Grel looked around at the gathered men, “You heard the man, get moving!”

  The speed with which they leaped to obey his own command gave him a most satisfying feeling. He looked over at Xavien, “How much farther ahead are they, my Lord?”

  “I'm not certain,” Xavien said softly. “Their wizard hides their presence from the Noric's spirits and my own means of tracking them have proven ineffective. There are too many ruins, too many ancient places with old magic that distorts my senses.”

  “Like the tower over there?” Grel pointed at the ruined stone cone of a tower which rose atop nearby bluff.”

  “There are many,” Xavien spat. “This area was once the center of power for the Dragon Kings... their cities and fortresses litter the mountains, as do their sleeping allies.”

  Grel paled, he could barely bring himself to whisper, “Dragons?”

  “Yes... ancient ones, old and tired, and some quite mad,” Xavien said with an almost girlish giggle. “Be grateful that the line of Dragon Kings has long ended, else the Norics would be the least of our worries.”

  Grel wiped a runnel of sweat off his face, “Not something I want to face, my Lord. How do you want me to... use the men, once we bring the prey at bay?”

  “I have other allies, besides these superstitious savages. We'll use the Norics as fodder, wear them down, and then finish them with your men. My other allies will dispose of them then,” Xavien said. His dark gaze swept the mercenaries, “These others too, I think, they'll have seen too much to be of further use.”

  “Do you want any prisoners?” Grel asked.

  “I would prefer Katarina alive. Her usefulness to destabilize the Duchy of Masov will only improve with time,” Xavien said. “This wizard that Moratha mentioned as well, though that will probably expend many resources to accomplish. Other than that, I don't really care, not beyond ensuring they don't tell tales.”

  “Of course, my Lord,” Grel said. “I'll make certain that the rest are made silent.”

  ***

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  The Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov

  Tenth of Seraph, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Aerion stretched and held back a groan as his bruised body sent him messages of pain. He looked up at Nakkiki who stood near the small cook fire that Josef had started for their group.

  “Food will be done soon, big guy,” Aerion said and patted Nakkiki on the shoulder. The strange man gave him a broad grin, but he showed no sign of understanding.

  “You know, I think I could teach him our language,” Quinn said.

  “Oh?” Walker asked. “Given up on studying magic?”

  “No, but it would pass the time until I have a real opportunity. It seems easy enough, at least to teach him some words, maybe to communicate a bit,” Quinn said. “I mean, how hard could it be?”

  Aerion frowned, “Go ahead, but I think it will be more difficult than you think.”

  Quinn shook his head, “Now you're just getting worried over nothing. Like with what I said before about magic, it doesn't hurt to try, right?” He walked up towards Nakkiki, “Hey big guy, how you doing?”

  This earned Quinn a response by Nakkiki that seemed to consist of a string of vowels that emanated from somewhere near the center of the earth.

  Quinn nodded, “Okay, now we're talking. So I'm going to try to teach you to talk so we can understand you or maybe even learn some of your words, alright?” He looked around and his gaze centered on the fire. “Okay, lets start with something simple.” He pointed at the fire. “This is fire. Fire. Can you say fire?”

  The big man stared down at Quinn with a puzzled expression.

  Quinn bit his lip. He pointed at the small cook fire, “Fire.”

  The big man pointed at the cook fire and rumbled a long string of words.

  “Think that means fire?” Walker asked, a smirk on his face.

  Quinn rubbed his face in his hands, “Okay, this will take a little while, but once I get the idea across, I'm sure he'll get it.” He went over to a nearby bush. “Look, Nakkiki, this is a bush.” He pointed at it. Then he walked back over to the cook fire and pointed at it. “Fire.” He pointed at the bush, “Bush.”

  “I think that is sage actually,” Josef said helpfully.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said dryly. The printers apprentice looked a little frustrated.

  Nakkiki pointed at the fire and then at the bush. He rumbled off a string of his native tongue which seemed to include only vowels as far as Aerion could tell. At the end, he held up his hands, as if asking a question.

  “Yes!” Quinn said. He beamed at Aerion and the others, “See, I think he gets it.”

  He pointed at the fire,
“Fire,” and then at the sage, “bush.”

  Nakkiki pointed one large finger at the cook fire and muttered something in his deep voice. Then he pointed at the sage and said a single word.

  The sage bush burst into flames.

  Quinn gave a yelp of surprise and jumped back. Aerion stared at him for a moment, his mouth wide open in shock and then looked at the big stranger.

  Nakkiki stood with a broad grin on his face. He gave a big happy nod and then dusted his hands off and looked expectantly at the others.

  “This might take a little longer than I thought,” Quinn said.

  ***

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  Not long later, Aerion passed Quinn a bowl of stew. “I think you should probably give it up, if only for the night.”

  The other man gave him a stern glare. His missing eyebrow and singed hair ruined the effect. Aerion carefully restrained his smile however. Quinn took the bowl and he gave a frustrated look at where Nakkiki sat with his own bowl of stew. The big man sat in a ring of scorched earth.

  “I think I almost had him understanding when I tried with names,” Quinn said.

  “Right up until he thought you wanted him to light you on fire,” Aerion responded and could not maintain a straight face. Behind him, he heard Josef guffaw.

  “I don't understand!” Quinn snapped. “It's so simple. I mean, how hard can it be to teach someone a language!”

  “Maybe he doesn't realize that's what you want to do,” Aerion said. “And to be honest, treating him like he's a child or a pet is probably the wrong way to do it. Maybe you should get with someone who speaks a shared language, like Vendakar, and explain what you want to do first.”

  Quinn frowned, “Uh... I hadn't thought of that.”

  Aerion smiled, “Something to remember. Just because you are smart enough to understand what needs to be done, it doesn't mean that everyone else understands what you are trying to do.” Aerion looked over at where Nakkiki sat, “Sort of like what the wizard said, about just because wizards have power, it doesn't mean they should rule.”

  Quinn sighed, “Okay, I guess. Though it would have been helpful if you'd made that suggestion before the big guy there lit my blankets on fire.”

  Aerion shrugged, “Something I learned from Taggart when I worked the forge. Sometimes letting someone fail a bit works better than teaching them how to do it in the first place. And who knows, maybe you would have succeeded?”

  Quinn nodded. “I wish I knew how he does that though,” he said. “I mean, it's not like the wizard or like what Arren said runic magic involves.”

  “Might be some of that on his club,” Aerion said. “Though it looks mostly like decorations.” He looked again at the club that Nakkiki had set to the side. The five foot long club had a sharp curve near the end, where it formed into the likeness of some sea creature. Elaborate carvings covered the surface, though Aerion could not tell if any included any magical inscriptions.

  “No, I don't think so,” Quinn said. “He hasn't touched the club, not the whole time. Do you think he might be a shaman or priest of his people?”

  “It fits with what he told my mother,” Aerion said. “But I thought those kinds of spirits grew weaker over distance. He's a long way from home.”

  Quinn frowned, “It's a puzzle.” He smiled then, “Another thing for me to try and figure out. At this rate, Nakkiki keeps me pretty busy.”

  Aerion shrugged. He just hoped his friend did not wind up in greater trouble than a singed eyebrow.

  ***

  Marjak Pren

  Ryft Watch Harbor, Boir Sea

  Twelfth of Seraph, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Marjak Pren paced the deck of the ship and cursed the too-warm weather and the strange bugs which harassed him on his guard shift. He longed for the cool nights of his village Tengary and for the nights spent boasting about fighting in distant lands rather than actually doing it. He hated the deck of these monster ships, too large by far, and so ponderous to move without the southern wizards who knew the proper care of their magic creations.

  He finished his turn and then restarted his circuit of the ship as he headed towards the bow. He could see the cook fires of the Norics and he doubted any of the savages even bothered with organized guard duty. More likely they had a fewer than a dozen warriors sober, the rest enjoyed the alcohol they looted on the last merchant ship to come close enough for capture.

  Marjak grinned a bit at that thought. The handful of women aboard had gone to the Armen, by right of them capturing the ship first. Marjak felt pride that his tribe had not fought over them, but that their commander had ordered a roster for the men.

  Better than the Norics. They raped both the boys and men in a rut that lasted several hours. What they'd done to the captives afterward made even Marjak feel ill.

  Though he felt tired from his shift, he knew he would rather take his turn with the women than sleep and his turn came up in the morning. He missed his slave girl, back home, though his share of the loot they took so far would almost certainly allow him to buy a good Armen wife and a nice plot of land.

  Marjak gave a slight nod at that thought. I'm too old to run around on raids any more. It was why Marka Rusk had left him behind, he knew, along with most of the young, unblooded warriors and the other seasoned veterans too old to make the fast march. Only a hundred of them remained, scattered between the picket ships and aboard the ships docked in the small harbor in the shadow of the ancient tower.

  He glanced at it, a black presence against the light of the stars. Marjak wondered at its position. In his lands, no single tribe had the power for such a construction, but he couldn't think of a threat that the Southerners, so gone to fat, might have built it for, not here in the south, so distant from his lands.

  Marjak looked up at a faintly heard sound, almost like a groan... or a snore. He snarled, “Brejik, if you're sleeping again I'll cut your throat myself.”

  He raised his lantern and stalked over in the direction of the sound. As he rounded the corner, his boot slipped on a deck that glistened under the light of Aoria.

  Before he could let out a shout, he felt a powerful hand grasp his long hair from behind and draw his head back. A trail of icy pain washed across his throat.

  Marjak's hands went to his throat. A spray of blood gushed out and the hot fluid slipped through his fingers with no resistance. He tried to cry out, to pass a warning to his fellow warriors asleep below decks. All he could manage was a gurgling moan. His hands seemed to lose their strength. The hand that held his hair lowered him with an almost considerate gentleness to the deck.

  Marjak watched the bare feet of warriors slip over the side of the ship. He counted those feet, as his world slowly darkened.

  He counted ten before the darkness took him.

  ***

  Lady Katarina Emberhill

  Southwatch, Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Fifth of Seraph, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Lady Katarina gave a gasp as she rounded a bend in the road and got her first glimpse of the Southwatch.

  “Quite impressive, eh, my Lady?” Arren asked. His old voice sounded pleased, as if the sight was even more welcome to him than to her.

  “Yes...” Katarina said softly. The fortress rose from a hilltop several miles away. The last hundred feet of the hill seemed almost sheer and walls looked sharp and crisp over the distance. It seemed almost organic in appearance, as if the mountain had bloomed some strange stone child to ride its back. “It looks intact, why abandon it?”

  “The men who guarded it were soldiers of the High King and a handful of the King's Guard who survived the Sundering,” Arren said, his old voice soft. “They didn't abandon it, they all died, abandoned by the rest of the world. They were felled by siege and battle... and the last of them by assassin's poison.”

  Katarina shook her head, “But certainly the Duke of that time must have known of them and would have sent them aide.”

  “Wh
o did you think besieged them, my Lady?” Arren said. “During the High Kingdom, this fortress collected tolls and guarded the road against bandits. The soldiers of the High King also guarded the Ryft Watch Towers and the Ryftguard.”

  “That's impossible!” Katarina shook her head, “Why, Duke Ivan fought for the High King at the Plains of Sorrow! Why would he turn on the King's Guard?” She looked over at Bulmor, but her Armsman just shook his head.

  “Fear, ambition, and uncertainty brought down the High Kingdom, just as much as Moral's betrayal of his father,” Cederic said. “Your ancestor, Duke Ivan, saw the Duke of Boir seize the Ryft Watch Towers. In all likelihood, he feared that Duke Oswald sought to invade, to carve his own kingdom out of the ruins. So he sent his army to seize the Southwatch as a buffer, just as he had his son seize the Ryftguard to prevent invasion through that route.” Cederic's voice was sad, as if the story were one familiar and painful to him, rather than very distant history.

  “But why didn't the King's Guard and the soldiers here just surrender? They had no part in it then,” Aerion asked. “Why would they die for something that had already vanished?” Katarina could hear the frustration in his voice and she empathized with it... even though she understood the answer before Arren spoke.

  “Because they swore oaths, that they would defend these lands and hold them in the name of the High Kings. Just as they opposed Moral and just as they had served the High King before, they stayed loyal to the concept of the High Kingdom,” Arren said sadly. “They had no other choice, as men who had lost everything else. Many of the men who came to this fortress would have been survivors from the rebellion against Moral. Most had seen their families murdered in retribution to their resistance to his reign. They had already seen everything else they believed in crumble. These were the greatest of that generation and they died to a man in that place.”

  “Perhaps, if we succeed, I will return here and restore it... make a monument to their service,” Katarina said softly. She had never thought of the Sundering as Arren described it. To her, if she thought of it at all, it seemed a sharp demarcation, from the golden age to their current fallen times of chaos and war. His description of borders crumbling and bitter betrayal seemed all the more real to her than the legends of the mighty nation that crumbed over night. She thought back to when she and Jarek had played at being heroes of the High Kingdom as children... and she wondered if she would have been on the right side if she had been born in those last days.