Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1)

by Jason James King

  Valarious shook his head as he checked Sitrell’s bandages. “Not really. I performed the surgery, true, but it was the boy who saved your life.” Valarious turned to smile at the softly snoring Yuiv.

  “He brought me here?”

  Valarious nodded. “Much more than just that, I think, though he wouldn’t tell us anything other than that you had been shot. From his exhaustion, it was clear that he went through an ordeal bringing you in.” Valarious chuckled. “He actually had it out with one of my nurses to see that you were admitted when she was about to turn him away.”

  Sitrell cocked an eyebrow. “Your nurse turns away wounded soldiers?”

  Valarious smiled as he shook his head. “He couldn’t bring you in himself, and she thought he was making trouble. In any case, he got my attention and not a moment too soon. You were literally in the shadow of death when I saw you. He saved your life, Commander.”

  Sitrell turned to look again at Yuiv who slept as though not even the world’s ending could wake him.

  Just then the cloth partition parted and a thick middle-aged man dressed in a white coat and silver sash entered the cubicle. His hair was close-cropped and a thin scar marred his right cheek. “Commander” the man saluted. “I am Captain Klayon of the Royal Guard assigned to Hirath. I came as soon as I was informed that you were here.”

  “Captain,” Sitrell acknowledged.

  “I attempted to question the boy, but he was determined not to speak of what happened until you awoke.” Klayon hesitated. “What did happen, Commander? Where are your men?”

  That question renewed Sitrell’s sense of urgency and he attempted to rise.

  “You mustn’t do that, Commander!” Valarious laid a hand on Sitrell’s chest and slowly forced him back down. “You’re going to need at least a week of bed rest before you can even stand.”

  Sitrell grimaced in pain as he shook his head. “I have to get to the capital.”

  “That’s out of the question.” Valarious said. “You’d risk tearing your sutures just by walking, to say nothing of the rigors of travel.”

  Captain Klayon glanced at the satchel protected by the sleeping Yuiv and then back at Sitrell. “What’s going on here, Commander?”

  Sitrell looked at Klayon and lowered his voice. “My regiment was wiped out by an Aukasian invasion force that has taken Lisidra. They number in the tens of thousands and are led by Emperor Lorta himself. I alone have vital intelligence that could very well decide the fate of our kingdom. So trust me when I say that I need to get to Salatia Taeo.”

  Klayon glanced at Valarious. “Is it possible that he could be delirious?”

  “It could be the fever.” Valarious moved to feel Sitrell’s forehead.

  Sitrell batted the doctor’s hand away and abruptly sat up, his frustration shielding him from the protesting wound in his side. “I am not delirious! The boy can corroborate my story. He was there. He saw everything!”

  “Now, Commander,” Valarious began in the kind of patient tone only a doctor could manage, “You’ve been unconscious for two days. You’re disoriented and confused.”

  “I am not delirious.” Sitrell shouted.

  “Is all true,” Yuiv’s tired voice seemed just as loud as Sitrell’s shouting.

  Valarious and Klayon both turned to stare at Yuiv who was sitting on his bed, still cradling the dirty satchel. “I’as saw’d it.”

  Klayon paled. He stared at Yuiv but spoke to Sitrell. “What are your orders, Commander?”.

  Sitrell glanced at Yuiv, grateful for the timing of the boy’s rousing. “My intelligence suggests that the Aukasian army will strike here in a matter of weeks. We need to evacuate Hirath and send your people north to Micidian.”

  “Is that far enough away?” Klayon asked. “Micidian is no more defensible than Hirath, less so in some ways.”

  Sitrell shook his head. “Lorta intends to strike at Salatia Taeo. Hirath is on his way to the capital, and he won’t waste time diverting to attack a strategically worthless city. Your people will be safe in Micidian.”

  Klayon nodded. “We can have them north in two weeks.”

  “Good,” Sitrell turned to Valarious. “I need to get to Salatia Taeo and deliver my information to the Ruling Council. Can you give me something stronger to dull the pain?”

  “Yes, but I insist we prepare a wagon for you. You need to stay lying down as much as possible.”

  Sitrell shook his head. “Wagons are too slow.” He turned again to look at Klayon. “I need an escort and extra horses so we can alternate them when they tire and keep riding.”

  “I can have them ready first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “No,” Sitrell said, shifting so that his legs dangled off of the bed and touched the floor. He grimaced as a wave of pain rebounded on him. “I want to leave within the hour.”

  Valarious, looking horror-struck, protested, “Commander, you nearly died! You can’t do this.”

  Sitrell ignored the doctor. “Also, Captain, have your most trusted man ride your fastest horse south to Sayel Nen and bring word of this to General Dyon. I will write a missive before I leave. Perhaps he can spare a part of his army to march to our assistance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell no one else of this, understand?”

  Klayon nodded.

  “Now go!” Sitrell motioned. “Time is not on our side!”

  Klayon saluted and then strode away through the cloth partition.

  “That goes for you too, doctor.”

  “I will go fetch you some opiate extract for the pain.” He parted the white curtain and disappeared from sight.

  Sitrell gritted his teeth as he shifted his weight onto his feet. He only managed to stand for a brief moment before the pain forced him back into a sit.

  “Doctor’as right.” Yuiv said. “You’as not supposta walk.”

  Sitrell shook his head, breathing heavy as he worked through the pain. “You know I don’t have a choice.”

  Yuiv offered an unenthused shrug. “Guess so.”

  As the pain faded, Sitrell’s breathing returned to normal and he glanced up at the bloody satchel still held fast in Yuiv’s arms. “You saved my life.”

  Yuiv looked uncomfortable. “You’as saved me. Guess we’as square.”

  Sitrell chuckled. “I guess so.”

  Another awkward silence prevailed before Sitrell managed to ask the question that was harassing his mind. “Why didn’t you leave me to die, Yuiv? I mean, I all but assured you that you would be returning to prison for helping Leadren.”

  “Dunno.” Yuiv shrugged. “Thought ‘bout it.” He hesitated for a moment before concluding. “I’as jes couldn’t.”

  “Well, I thank you.”

  “I’as still gonna go ta prison?” Yuiv asked.

  Sitrell looked at Yuiv and again Kyen’s face flashed before his mind. “I can’t make you any promises, but I will speak to the council on your behalf and recommend that your judgment be mitigated by virtue of your saving my life.”

  “Okay.” Yuiv stared at the floor for a moment. “What’s mid-a-gaeded?”

  To his surprise, Sitrell found himself laughing. At first Yuiv looked irritated, but then he smiled and joined in. Although it invoked several sharp stabs of pain, it felt good to laugh and Sitrell thought he could feel his burden of grief lighten, if only by a little.

  “Come help me stand,” Sitrell motioned to Yuiv who, while still laughing, hopped off of his bed and ran to Sitrell’s side. He ducked under his right arm and bore the man’s weight as he stood. Sitrell clenched his jaw and sucked air through his teeth as the wound in his side screamed at him to lie back down. After the wave of pain subsided, he looked upon Yuiv’s smiling face and said, “You remind me of someone.”

  In time, Yaokken embraced the visions shown to him by the black crown and he believed it when it told him that he was destined to rule over his fellows.

  Chapter 12

  Wormwood

  Rayome Saetala
stood on a balcony overlooking the palace courtyard watching a hundred Aukasian soldiers poorly contain their awe as they were introduced, by way of demonstration, to the superior destructive power of his miraculous creations—the Niazeride energy weapons. Well they weren’t really his creations, the understanding of their construction and function had come from the same source as his clairvoyant knowledge. The “Voice” Rayome called it, though it never really spoke to him, not audibly. No, it was more of a force that would enter his mind to show him things and guide his thoughts. At first it had had to muscle its way in by overcoming his will before it could communicate with him; at first he had resisted. Now he welcomed it, and by listening to the voice, he had accomplished much.

  He looked down at his bare stomach and the black metal belt embedded with the red jewel that encompassed his waist to the navel. It had been when he had first found it that he had started to hear the Voice, when it first started to communicate with him. That was four years ago, a time that felt to him farther removed than only a few years, though he remembered the details of that day as clearly as though it had just passed.

  He had been exploring the massive ruins of a once great city, one buried by time beneath what was now Mount Eralden. It was a rare and remarkably preserved site, containing vast amounts of historical treasure and archeological jewels like the Niazeride weapons, though the units they found there had long since ceased to work. He remembered the excitement he had felt as each step he took into the forsaken city seemed to prove his theory that it was the lost Cestra, a once thriving Valakyrian capital that had met its demise along with the rest of the world over a thousand years ago.

  That excitement seemed amusingly immature to him now. Cestra was not the true treasure under that mountain. No, the real treasure had been the belt, hidden carefully away in what the Aelis would claim was a holy sanctuary to their YaJiann. How had he found it? He remembered being alone, momentarily separated from his son, working on a charcoal impression of some placard when the Voice had called to him. Mesmerized nearly to the point of delirium, he had let himself be drawn inside the temple where he found a kind of vault, one constructed for the purpose of storing holy relics. As though guided by fate itself, he easily overcame the locking mechanism and found the belt waiting for him. Perhaps he hadn’t found it, perhaps it had found him.

  Foolishness. Rayome snorted. Powerful though it was, the belt was no more a magical talisman than were the Niazeride weapons. It had to be some sort of incredibly advanced technology, he had long since decided, a thing made mystical by the simple fact that he did not understand it. He chided himself for being tempted toward that line of thinking, for he had no love for the mysticisms, superstitions, or religions of the world. As far as Rayome was concerned, they were all legends, legitimized only because of the number of their adherents. How many believers does it take before people will start calling their fables a religion? He scoffed. Yet such things did have their uses, for the belt and its clairvoyant Voice had given him the opportunity to pose as a Sage: a prophetic icon to a majority of the Aukasian people a third of who were Aelic zealots. That hadn’t been part of the original plan. He had only started playing into the role once he was so named, but it had seemed the suggestion of the Voice that he do just that, and the reward was a level of credibility that he couldn’t have anticipated.

  Again he reverently ran his fingers over the belt’s blood-red jewel. To him it was more than just a source of knowledge and power. It was the tangible representation of a turning point in his life. That day in the ruins of Cestra he had found meaning again. That day he had become something else. No longer was he Rayome the discredited scholar, a man exiled from his home by those who were his intellectual inferiors. No, he had been reborn. He was strong now, and he would make them understand their folly. Superstitious fools! He gritted his teeth as bitterness rose in his throat. Their pious ignorance had cost him everything. Because of his weakness, they had been able to stop him, but now he returned in power. They would know their mistake. They would see that he was right. They would pay dearly for what they took from him.

  Darcivian.

  Those had been the first thoughts that had come to him after donning the belt; a sense of grave injustice intermingled with an almost overwhelming desire for revenge, and to return to Salatia Taeo to finish what he had begun over twenty years before.

  “Appath,” called an approaching voice.

  “I told you not to call me that in public,” Rayome said coolly.

  Gevan scoffed, “These Aukasian soldiers can barely speak their own language, let alone the ancient tongue.”

  “Even so.”

  “Fine,” Gevan grumbled. “I came to report that the thirty-second division has received training on the Niazeride weapons. If things continue this smoothly, it looks like we’ll finish on schedule.”

  “Any more information on what might have happened to the counter measure?” Rayome asked.

  Gevan shook his head, “I checked the manifests as you asked and searched every wagon in the convoy, but found nothing.”

  “It was in my wagon when we left Dalathial. I saw it with my own eyes.” Rayome turned his smoldering stare on Gevan. Why couldn’t the Voice tell him where his machine had gone? That fact alone disturbed him more than its loss, for it meant that there were limits to the belt’s abilities, rules that he didn’t understand. He had learned that the Voice usually didn’t respond to questions, rather it dictated and arbitrarily dispensed what knowledge he gained, but every piece of intelligence given to him so far had been to the furtherance of his agenda. Did not finding the counter measure, the one thing that could rob them of their technological advantage, fall into that category of necessary knowledge? Something occurred to him. It had not been by the Voice’s direction that he had created the counter measure. The Voice had given him such an extensive knowledge of ancient technology that he was able to improvise. Using that knowledge to create something that would allow him to retain an advantage over Lorta once he gave him the energy weapons was his own idea, inspired by Gevan’s suggestion. Maybe the Voice didn’t want him to have the counter measure. Nonsense! He chided himself again for straying toward the realm of the superstitious.

  “Either it has been lost through carelessness or someone stole it.” He let his frustration escape into his tone. “Were it the former, then we would’ve found it by now. That leaves theft as the only possibility.”

  “That’s absurd!” Gevan snapped. “Why would anyone steal it? Even a common thief would know that it wasn’t made of precious metals, and only you and I know what it is and what it does.”

  Gevan’s strong reaction surprised Rayome. Why was the boy suddenly so defensive? A suspicion crept into his thoughts. No! He wouldn’t do that to me!

  Gevan seemed to have caught himself for he quickly continued in a more amicable tone. “I’m sorry, Rayome.” He sighed before saying, “I just worry that without the counter measure, our position is just as precarious as those factory workers back in Dalathial. Without leverage on the emperor, he is just as likely to execute us when we have outlived our usefulness.”

  Rayome snorted. “Lorta is no threat to us.”

  “I understand that he killed half of his own family just to secure the throne. Do not underestimate his ruthlessness or greed, Father.”

  “I said don’t call me that here,” Rayome repeated, this time in a warning tone.

  “And what of General Salache?” Gevan lowered his voice, “He is one Aelic zealot that does not believe you to be the emissary of heaven. If anyone stole the counter measure, it’s him.”

  Rayome shook his head, “Salache is too stupid for that.”

  “Perhaps,” Gevan said, “But what if he decides to be rid of you in a simpler way? They say he is a master swordsman after all.”

  Rayome glanced down at his belt, “I assure you, Gevan. I am safe from Salache, or any other would-be assassins.”

  Gevan gripped Rayome’s bicep. “This has bec
ome too dangerous. Why don’t we just leave and forget this whole scheme? Let Lorta have Amigus. Is that not revenge enough?”

  Rayome looked at Gevan, the sincerity in his eyes catching him off guard. “I did not ask you to come aid me, Gevan. You are free to leave at any time.” Rayome nodded to himself, “Yes, perhaps you should go. Go back to Tianna and Tamaeon. I’m sure they’re worried for you.”

  “They worry for you too.” Gevan stepped in closer. “Please, Rayome. Can’t we just go home?”

  Gevan’s childlike pleading awakened something inside Rayome, a feeling he had almost forgotten was there. It was stronger than he expected or remembered, fiercer than it had been on that day in Cestra. Yes, it had been there. He remembered, when the belt had called to him, it had reacted to the pull of the Voice warning him not to listen. Now that same feeling screamed at him to listen to Gevan.

  “Gevan, I…” he stammered, the ice of his bitterness beginning to melt. Then it came. The Voice slammed itself against his mind, rolling over his rising mental resistance, which had become too weak from disuse to muster any real defiance. The jewel on the belt ignited into a glow and cold anger flooded into his veins. Gevan must have somehow sensed the change in him for he pulled his hand back and took an involuntary step backward, a worried look on his face.

  “I tire of your wavering, Gevan,” Rayome heard himself saying in a tone that was as cold as ice. “You could not dissuade me from this path before, and you cannot do so now. If you are afraid, then leave. Otherwise, never speak to me of this again. Understand?”

  Gevan stared for several seconds before nodding his assent. “I have some more training to see to,” he mumbled before turning to leave.

  As Rayome watched Gevan disappear from sight, the Voice flashed a picture of one of Lorta’s Imperial Guards into his mind. To his surprise, it lacked the voice’s usual clarity, the image blurred as though something interfered with the Voice’s ability to communicate. In spite of the haze, Rayome could clearly see the black armor-clad knight handing his Niazeride counter measure away to someone in the shadows. Panic threatened to take him as the image sunk in. A member of the Imperial Guard had given away his secret weapon? What if it had been someone from Amigus? What if they discovered what it is or how to use it? His mind raced as he began to comprehend the danger of his situation. He couldn’t inform Lorta that there might be a traitor amongst his most loyal servants without revealing his own disloyalty, and he wouldn’t be able to explain away how the enemy was able to counter their secret weapon should the counter measure be used against them.