The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1]

by Christopher W. Wilcox, Sr.

  "Ilara, when do we get to eat? I have had no food or water in almost two days now."

  "I'm sorry, I forgot. There is some water in that pot behind you. I will see if there is anything left at the cook tent. What you need to do is what I did; scavenge anything left after the men finish before we return the dishes.” Ilara slipped from the tent and returned a short time later with a small cloth, enclosing some slivers of meat and some dates. “These are all I could find. I'm sorry. Now eat up and then rest."

  A call from outside the tent woke Bethany hours later. The hot still air in the tent was stifling but she remembered to wrap the veil around her face before she ventured outside. There was much bustling about as the women began pulling the carpets and pillows out of the tents. Neatly rolled, the carpets were then tied to the saddles of large dromedaries. Soon the tents themselves were brought down and also strapped to other camels. The men were all mounted on camels to which the laden ones had been fastened in long lines of beasts of burden, carrying the entire camp on their backs. A small group of warriors led the strings of horses off in a different direction than the lines of camels were heading.

  Ilara came up to her and said, “Don't just stand there, girl. Pick up one of those packs and follow the camels.” Suiting her actions to her words, Ilara swept up a large pack and settled the weight on her back. After watching Bethany do the same, the two women started to follow the camels deeper into the desert.

  "Where are we going, Ilara?” Bethany asked.

  "Deep in this desert is an oasis where the chiefs of the nomad tribes gather. We are going there. From what I overheard, you are to be a gift to the chief of all the tribes. This is a great honor for you. If he likes you, you may become part of his harem and be pampered for life. If he doesn't, you'll be no worse off as a slave there than you would be here."

  * * * *

  Rory and Swiftstalker backtracked to the road that led into Solange. Skirting the deep desert, the road would take them to the banks of the Solange River and then to the city itself. While most people in Aluria thought of Solange as all desert, the areas around the Solange River were much like Aluria itself, fertile and cultivated, green with crops and trees. There were date palms, citrus trees of many types, and some hardy scrub pines that somehow survived. The people along this region were like those in the other duchies; peasants for the most part who tilled the land and grew the crops, harvested the fruits, and made it possible for the aristocracy to survive.

  The city of Solange seemed to be made entirely of white stone, but as they neared the buildings, Rory could see that most were whitewashed mud brick structures. There did not seem to be any sense of order around the outside of the city and it reminded Rory of the outer ring of Aluria, except cleaner. As they neared the markets, they found swarms of people, all haggling at the top of their lungs, with the vendors for various things. Most wore the traditional desert robes over trousers very similar to the Westfell trouser, except they gathered at the ankles. The women were all veiled, covered completely by shapeless robes.

  "Do not stare at their women, Rory. To do so would be considered an insult, and the men have been known to kill anyone who looks too hard at their women. Not that you can see anything except their eyes,” Swiftstalker said.

  As they rode through the market, many stopped to stare at them. Not only were strangers rare in Solange, but few had ever seen anyone as tall as they were. Their style of dress, even the simple leathers of a common soldier, was also unusual. Rory drew Storm to a halt as a group of mounted nomad warriors thundered up to them.

  Swiftstalker said, “We come in peace. I am Lord Swiftstalker of the Forest and this is Lord Rorrick of Westfell. We have come to see the Duke of Solange.” He addressed his words to the center rider, whose more elaborate scimitar inferred he was their leader.

  The leader spat into the dust. “You don't look like any lords I ever saw. You just look like trouble. You will surrender your weapons and come with us."

  Rory said, “No, we won't. As Lord Swiftstalker said, we have urgent matters to discuss with the duke. You will stand aside and let us pass."

  The leader said, “You are not in Westfell now, nor Aluria. This is Solange where we bend no knee to a foreign king. Surrender or die. It matters not to me."

  Rory knew that he and Swiftstalker could easily cut their way through the small group of nomad warriors, but the sounds of additional mounted men coming from behind him made him realize the odds were rapidly changing. Just as he started to reach for his swords, a voice spoke behind him.

  "Are you having a problem, Lord Rorrick?"

  Rory glanced over his shoulder to see about thirty of the King's Own, led by the same captain of the guard who he had delivered his erstwhile assassin to back in Aluria. The king had banished the captain and his men to Solange as punishment for allowing the assassin to be killed while in their care.

  "Just discussing our need to see the Duke of Solange, Captain.” Turning his attention back to the leader of the nomad patrol, Rory said, “I believe you were about to lead us to the duke, were you not?"

  With ill grace, the nomads wheeled their horses and led Rory, Swiftstalker, and the King's Own deeper into the city. As they rode down the narrow streets, Rory observed the surroundings. The mud brick walls had changed into dressed stone and the streets became wider. Small parks with date palms and fountains came into view as they were led up to a large fortified gate in a truly massive wall that stood at least fifty feet high. The opening was narrow, permitting no more than two horses to pass side by side, and led through a long sally port lined with arrow holes in the walls and a grated ceiling through which boiling liquids could be poured. Another set of heavy doors stood open at the end of the sally port, and Rory could well imagine the killing zone that entry would become if those doors were closed and the defenders held the walls.

  Exiting the sally port, the street made a hard left turn, still narrow, followed by another one to the right. This passage would limit the number of mounted warriors who could travel between the walls and prevent them from moving with any speed. When the passage finally emptied out into the grounds of the fort, Rory found himself faced with hundreds of nomad warriors.

  "Your weapons, please,” the leader of the nomad patrol said again, holding his hand out. Rory lipped the strap of his scabbard over his shoulder and passed his swords to the man. “I will expect those back. You do not want me to come looking for them."

  "The dagger, too.” Without another word, Rory handed over his dagger.

  Swiftstalker and the King's Own were also disarmed, although not without incident. One of the King's Own at the rear of the column tried to break away but was shot down by several arrows before his horse had moved more than a few feet.

  "Regrettable,” was all the nomad patrol leader said.

  With a gesture to follow him, they rode the rest of the way across the square to a stout door in one of the stone walls. “If you would come with me?” said the patrol leader as he dismounted.

  As they walked through the door, Rory realized they were not being taken to see the duke. They were in fact being taken to the dungeon.

  * * * *

  The caravan traveled all through the night and into the morning hours. Calls of nature were made behind a dune along the march and then having to catch up with the others who had kept plodding long beside the string of camels. Even in these moments, Bethany was not left alone; Ilara always watched over her. It was not for her protection or to keep her from becoming lost, Bethany realized. Ilara would be held responsible if Bethany ran away.

  At last the caravan came to a halt and the women quickly built fires using dried camel dung as fuel. Water was boiled and tea was made. After the men had been served, the women ate what was left; Ilara made sure that Bethany received a share of the food. It was important that Bethany reach the oasis in good condition so she would be pleasing to the caliph.

  Everyone wrapped themselves in their robes and veils, then bedde
d down on the sunward face of the dune. That made no sense to Bethany.

  "Why aren't we lying on the shady side of the dune? Wouldn't it be cooler?"

  "As the sun moves overhead, that shady spot will be in full sun during the hottest part of the day while this place will become shady. Now rest, because we will resume walking as the sun starts to set once again."

  * * * *

  The guards had been quite excited when they found the mithrail mail. It, along with all their other possessions, had been taken from them once they had been brought into the dungeon. This prison was not actually a dungeon since it was not below ground; and all the prisoners had been placed into a common room where they had been shackled to the walls and to the pillars in the center of the room. There were small grated openings along the tops of the walls to admit air and sunlight, and torches lit the room during the night.

  The guards had taken one of the King's Own to the center of the room and amused themselves by cutting off parts of the man's fingers, one joint at a time. His screams had echoed off the walls of the cell, and many of the others had shouted curses and other imprecations at the sadistic nomads. In the end, the man had finally passed out from the pain and blood loss so the guards cut his throat, leaving his body to hang there as a lesson for the others.

  Several hours later, the door to this room opened and the Duke of Solange walked in. He was accompanied by another man wearing a hooded robe of strange design, covering him so completely none of his features were visible. Rory suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of evil that came off the man like a miasma. “What an unexpected pleasure this is!” said the Duke of Solange. “The impetuous Heir of Westfell and an elf lord."

  "What have you done with Lady Bethany?” demanded Rory.

  "Was that her name? I merely transported her as cargo. A gift from the Duke of Eastfell to the Caliph of the Nomads. The caliph has a taste for young exotic beauties, you know."

  "You will pay for this. I will personally cut your throat."

  The duke laughed. “Will you? I think not. We have taken away the enchanted mithrail and swords, the sources of your much vaunted strength and speed. You hang chained in this room where you will watch each of your companions die before your eyes with this elf saved for last. I will have him flayed and we will see how long he can live without his skin.” The robed figure whispered something to the duke. “What? Oh, yes. My friend here has asked for the pleasure of torturing you so he can learn about the Veil and the Heart within. His masters are very curious about them for some reason.” The duke smiled. “I think you will regret his interest in you."

  Chapter 22

  Once the duke and his companion left the cell, the guards withdrew, locking the door behind them. Rory closed his eyes and reached outward for the life force. He drifted along in spirit, watching where the guards went and noting that his mail and swords were still lying in a pile in the guardroom. The nomads, convinced the weapons were enchanted, were afraid of them and none would touch them. The same held true of Swiftstalker's weapons. All they needed to do was get out of the cell, overpower the ten guards in the guardroom, and they could rearm themselves. First, he needed to deal with the manacles that held him to the pillar.

  "Rory!” came the whisper from Swiftstalker.

  "What?"

  "Would you mind explaining why you let us walk into this trap?” Swiftstalker asked. “You evaded every ambush the elven warriors ever set, you detected ogres and orcs at great distances, yet you rode into this fortress like it was Westfell Keep."

  "How else could we have seen the duke? He wasn't likely to invite us for tea."

  "This is the dumbest, most idiotic idea I have ever heard! Your father is going to be really mad at me if I let you get killed."

  Rory smiled at his uncle's grumbling rant even as he concentrated on the material the manacles were made from, seeking any flaw that he could exploit. The bands were pinned together with a steel pin. He altered the composition of the pin, making it brittle. The slightest strain would shatter the pin and release his hands.

  "Swiftstalker!” he whispered.

  "Yes?” came the whispered reply.

  "Whatever you do, do not put any strain on your manacles or the pin that holds them closed will shatter."

  "Good lad,” came his reply.

  "Captain, did you hear what I said?” Rory asked.

  "Yes, my lord. I will pass the word to my men."

  "Make sure they understand we will only get one chance. If they suspect we are free, they will never open that door and we'll die here."

  Once all had been briefed on the plan, Rory once again concentrated to change the rest of the pins. Once he finished, he leaned his head back against the pillar to wait for morning.

  * * * *

  Six guards entered the cell the next morning, laughing as they passed Rory and reached for one of the King's Own to torture next. Rory snapped his hands down, breaking the pin, freeing his hands. When he shouted, “Now!” the King's Own and Swiftstalker surged free of their chains and swarmed over the surprised nomad guards. While the King's Own dealt with the guards, Rory and Swiftstalker picked up the dropped scimitars and raced through the door into the guardroom.

  His senses shifted into the familiar time expansion and the four nomad guards seemed to move in slow motion. Not interested in finesse, Rory's first slash decapitated the closest guard, the arterial spray temporarily blinding the second. He never saw the blade that pierced his heart. Swiftstalker had taken care of the other two with a slash across the throat of one and disemboweling the second.

  The King's Own came into the guardroom brandishing the dead guards’ swords. While Rory and Swiftstalker donned their mail and clothes, the others searched the room for other weapons. Their scabbards and daggers in place and swords in hand, wearing the concealing desert robes they stripped off the least bloody dead warriors, Rory and Swiftstalker led the way out of the guardroom into the courtyard, which was luckily deserted at the time. Rather than head for the heavily defended gate, Rory led the small party up one of the exterior stairs to gain access to the main building itself.

  Letting his senses find a route that bypassed any roving guards, Rory led the group deep inside, searching for the duke and his mysterious companion. He followed the pervading sense of evil, knowing it was just as important to find the man in the shroud as it was to get his revenge on the duke. He would have expected to find the source of evil in some dark hidden place but the feeling was drawing them upward, into one of the minarets that topped the fortress building. The narrow winding stair was only wide enough for one person to pass at a time, so Rory led the way. At the top of the stairs stood a lone warrior, scimitar held across his chest, watching Rory advance.

  Rory stopped and waited just beyond the warrior's reach, baiting him. When the warrior just stood there smirking, Rory leaned slightly forward and spat on the man's foot, knowing this to be a grievous insult in the Solange culture. The warrior sprang forward, enraged, using his height on the stairs to come down at Rory. He'd failed, of course, to take into account Rory's superior physical height, swift reflexes, and the fact Rory's swords were two feet longer than the scimitar he carried. Rory's first slash took the man's hand off at the wrist, spinning the scimitar out into the center of the stairwell. His second sword took the man's head, which followed the weapon into space. A large booted foot redirected the corpse into the void. The entire struggle had taken less than ten seconds.

  Rory entered the chamber ready for anything, but what he found made him halt in his tracks in sheer disgust. The room was an abattoir, the walls splashed with blood—some old, some fresh and still dripping. The body of a young girl was stretched across an altar in the center, her chest torn open, and the shrouded man clutched her heart in his hand. Pointing one hand at Rory, he began to chant an invocation in a language that Rory had never heard before but before he could finish, Rory threw his dagger with unerring precision, hitting the man in his open mouth and punching thro
ugh the back of his skull.

  "So much for getting any answers from you. That just leaves the duke."

  They retraced their steps out of the minaret while Rory let his mind search for the duke. He located the man, still in bed, one of his many slave girls at his side. Killing anyone who got in their way, the group broke into the duke's private quarters. His sword at the duke's throat, Rory said, “I believe we had an appointment, Your Grace."

  The duke opened his eyes, gazing up at Rory in shock. Swiftstalker shooed the naked slave from the room and the King's Own took up positions to defend the chamber.

  "We have several things to discuss, Your Grace. First, of course, is your part in the abduction of Lady Bethany. You will tell me all about it and how I can find her. Next, we will talk about your strange companion and what he was doing in the minaret. Oh, don't expect him to help you now because he is quite dead. And finally, we will discuss your treason against the king."

  "I have nothing to say to you,” the duke replied. “You'll never get out of this fortress alive."

  "I will surely live longer than you will, Your Grace, and I can assure you that your final minutes will be excruciating. I learned much watching your men in the guardroom and Lord Swiftstalker has assisted General Gustav in questioning people before. I think that between us, we can make you want to tell us everything we wish to know."

  * * * *

  The fortress resembled an anthill that had been kicked over. Nomad warriors raced everywhere and large patrols surged through the gates looking for the escaped prisoners. The confusion enabled Rory, Swiftstalker, and the others to slip out by mingling with the outgoing warriors in their purloined robes, scarves over their faces, riding their own horses. No one seemed to even notice that two of the warriors racing out of the fortress where taller than the rest, or that one of them wore two swords on his back. They rode at the rear of a nomad patrol and when the time was auspicious, broke away as if patrolling in a different direction. Finally, they came to a halt.