The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Tameel swiped the long ends of his purple headband back over his shoulder as he stopped his perusing to answer his wife. “I would say we have today and maybe tomorrow before they start burial.” He took a moment to scratch the top of his head. His feathery white hair poked out and over the silk wrap, like water bursting from a small fountain. Unlike his wife, Tameel had no rings on his fingers. Instead, he bore two copper-plated bracelets, one on each forearm. They were engraved with a single word. The right arm read Rivahnni, and the left, Dar.

  Tameel and Zynora’s odd assortment of colorful garments blended in with the range of colors worn by the dead soldiers. Zynora’s white hair was covered in part by a silk scarf bound to her forehead with a gold chain. There were a number of small charms woven into the chain that dangled as she moved.

  Tameel struggled to maneuver around another of the monstrous creatures to get at a rather nice looking dagger hanging from a lancer’s belt. Unlike the other scavengers from Belbridge who were now combing the field of dead men, Tameel and his wife had been careful in selecting their areas of exploration, making sure they managed to find the richest hauls.

  They had scouted the location a few days prior to the battle, marking on a simple hand drawn map where the main tents had been organized, where the officers and royalty slept, and where the armory had been situated. So far, their efforts had paid off with a nice selection of weapons and clothing, including a large assortment of belts and boots, and even a good purse or two worth of spare coinage. Altogether, it had been a fortuitous blessing to have been passing through town when they had.

  Tameel studied the small parchment that held their map. “Once we finish here, we need to make for that rise.” He pointed behind them on the east side of the valley. “The king spent most of his time near the top. We need to see if they left anything of value behind during all the ruckus of his death.”

  After scouring the bodies of the fallen High Guard and keeping well back from the hor’hounds that spotted the ground, Tameel and Zynora finally reached the apex where the High King had kept his royal command post. To their disappointment, the grounds were completely devoid of all loose items. Not so much as a single tent wedge had been left.

  “Surely they had to have left something?” Tameel scanned the surrounding area for any sign of debris. Apart from a rather enormous black stallion, which couldn’t be coaxed away from the thick underbrush on the far side of the rise, he couldn’t find anything of worth. “I can’t understand why this place has been so thoroughly cleaned while everything else lays in ruin.”

  “Maybe someone beat us here.”

  “Impossible.” Tameel stood at the front of the rise looking out over the dead fields below. “We were here before they finished breaking camp. There’s been no one else.” He turned around and pointed at the stallion. “Make sure to grab him. I guarantee he’ll be worth a hefty bag of gold. He looks bred for royalty.”

  “I wonder why they left him?”

  Tameel shrugged as he continued scouring the open ground. “Aha!” he exclaimed with excitement. “At last, we have our first artifact!” He held up a broken piece of quarrel. “Looks to have come from a crossbow.” Tameel examined it further. “Look here. There’s a bit of torn cloth,” he said as he pulled the frayed piece of black material from the barb. “When was the last time you saw a hor’hound wearing a silk shirt?”

  “When was the last time you ever saw a hor’hound?” his wife called out from somewhere in the overgrowth on the far side of the rise.

  “Good point.” He tossed the broken head back on the ground and was about to begin one final sweep when his wife’s shriek startled him.

  Dropping his carry sack into the mud, Tameel ran toward the back side of the rise. His wife was digging around in some of the thicker shrubs directly behind where the command tent had been. “I believe we know where your arrow came from,” she said looking down at a small pile of bodies shrewdly tucked out of sight. They had been carefully covered with cut branches.

  Tameel scratched the top of his head. “This makes no sense. Why would these men have been shot by their own people, much less hidden away for no one to find?”

  “Why else would you want to hide dead men?”

  “To cover a crime,” he said under his breath as if making sure no one could hear his theory. Instinctively, he glanced around the top of the rise just to make sure they weren’t being watched. “I think it’s best we were going,” Tameel confessed as he started to crawl back out of the bushes. “Whatever intrigues are being played here, we shouldn’t get involved.”

  “Hold on, I’m almost done, you old coward,” Zynora said, as she started riffling through another of the fallen guard’s pockets.

  “Better a live coward than a dead hero, I always say. Just look at all these—”

  “Ahh!”

  Tameel turned in time to see his wife stumbling backwards over some of the loose branches where she landed on her backside.

  Tameel rushed back through the undergrowth as fast as his knobby legs would carry him, snagging his loose trousers on a sticker vine and ripping off a small hunk of material in the process. “What happened? What’s wrong?” His eyes darted in all directions. “Are you alright?”

  “Sorry, I was just startled.” She lifted her hand and pointed back to the pile of dead men. “He . . . he moved.”

  Tameel walked over to take a look at the fallen men. “I don’t see anything.” He knelt down and took a closer look. “Which one?”

  Before his wife could respond, Tameel noticed a slight twitch from a hand sticking out from the bottom of the pile. Dropping to his hands and knees, Tameel started rolling back the bodies. “Quit playing in the dirt, old woman, and give me a hand.”

  By the time Zynora made it back to her feet and over to where he was, Tameel had shoved the last of the corpses out of the way, revealing the owner of the moving arm. Quickly, they worked to remove the thick leather overcoat he wore in the hopes of getting a look at the wounds. “Here, hand me your knife.” Zynora drew the small dagger from her waist and handed it to him. With a steady hand, Tameel cut open the back of the man’s black tunic.

  “Careful now,” she scolded. “We could sell that, you know.”

  Tameel rolled his eyes. “And who do you reckon is going to buy a shirt with three sets of holes? At least we know where the arrows came from.” They stared at the three similar holes in the man’s back. The blood seeping out of the wounds was clotted and dark. “Cut me some cloth from one of the other tunics. We need to slow the bleeding enough to get him to the wagon.”

  “How is he not dead?”

  Tameel pursed his lips. “If I was to guess, I’d say the pressure of the other men on top of him held back the bleeding long enough for him to survive.”

  “The Great Father must be looking out for him.” She instinctively touched a few of the gold charms dangling from her headdress.

  “Aye. That He is.”

  “We need to get him back to the wagon so I can work on him,” Zynora said, handing him a couple pieces of cut cloth.

  “He won’t make it that far with his wounds unattended.”

  Zynora looked around at the surrounding foliage. “Here, use the mud. It should be enough to stopper the leakage till then.”

  “Wife, you have a stout mind in that beautiful head of yours,” Tameel remarked with an affectionate smile. He thrust his hand deep into the water-logged soil and pulled out a fist of dark mire. It oozed between his fingers as he squeezed. He gently packed the three wounds before firmly applying the cloth bandages on top.

  Using the stallion, which surprisingly hadn’t moved from its position outside the brush, they carried the man’s body back down the rise, along with a couple more purses and an assortment of weapons.

  Tameel had left their covered wagon in a small stand of trees just south of the rise. It was their temporary home while traveling. Its green and gold paint was in desperate need of another coating. Tameel kept p
romising he’d get around to it, but never seemed to find the time.

  It was quite the task getting the wounded man inside. Tameel opened the back door of the wagon and pulled from his end, while Zynora pushed from hers. Once inside, they managed to muscle him onto a small built-in cot they had been using for additional storage space. Zynora started rummaging through some of the glass jars and vials they had stockpiled on some shelving above the cot.

  “Will he live, wife?”

  Zynora clicked her tongue. “He probably won’t last till evening, but at least we can sleep tonight with a clear conscience.”

  The young warrior had indeed managed to hold off death’s sting, if only by a hair’s-breadth. His breathing was shallow and came in spurts, but at least it came. Tameel stood out of the way while Zynora, having cleaned the temporary mud bandages from the young warrior’s back, applied one salve after another as she methodically battled the infection threatening to rip away his life.

  “I am a daughter of the Dar’Rivahnni,” she called out. “A student of the healing arts of Kojzu, and this shall not beat me!” Tameel had no doubt of his wife’s promise. He had seen her work some miraculous healing in his life. “Zintari Freyestra.” She held her hands over the wounds and closed her eyes, drawing on the magical healing elements all Rivahnni women had been instructed in since birth. “Zintari Folduru.” Her palms radiated a soft violet as she sent the simple spell down through the open wounds and into the puss-white infection beneath. The area around his back radiated a soft violet as well, just under the skin.

  The light soon faded and the color vanished. Tameel’s wife slumped down beside the small cot, resting her head on the side of the straw mattress. “I’m getting too old for this,” she sighed, and dozed into unconsciousness. Tameel covered her with a nearby quilt. After stowing the rest of their plunder, he tied the large stallion to the back of the old covered Tinker wagon and climbed in front. The enormous black warhorse didn’t seem to need any prodding. It stayed as close to the back door of the wagon as it could. Tameel wondered if it could smell some of the food they had stored inside, or if it was just happy for some company.

  With a single flick of the reins, Tameel turned them northward toward Keldor and home. He hoped for Zynora’s sake the young man survived.

  Chapter 77 | Ferrin

  THIS WAS IT. It was now or never.

  Ferrin’s hands were wet with perspiration as he wiped them down the backside of his torn trousers. The outline of his plan, what little there was, lay open in the forefront of his mind. His recent confrontation with the Arch Chancellor in the Chamber of Purging had waylaid all hopes of acquiring the necessary time for designing a more solid stratagem. Unfortunately, in Ferrin’s experience, life rarely gave you what you wanted, and only occasionally what you needed.

  “Last chance.” Ferrin cast a sidelong glance at the old man bound in the far corner of his cell. “You can still come with us.”

  “Alas, no, my path is here, my friend. There is another who will need my help, and like you, his destiny is yet to be shaped. We each have our role to play in this pattern of life, and this is mine. But I pray the Creator’s blessings on your journey.”

  Azriel sat slumped over in a dejected heap, his skin blotched, hair falling out, and clothes all but gone. Ferrin choked back the lump building at the back of his throat. “I’m going to miss you, old man,” he admitted, waiting to wipe the moisture from his eyes until he was out in the hall. He didn’t want to show such a strong emotion in front of his cellmate. “Is there anyone I can contact for you? You know, let them know you’re alive?”

  Azriel’s head lifted slightly. “I have a son.” His head lowered. “Or at least I did. He was only a boy when I was taken, and that was . . . Well, let me see.” Raising his hand, the old seer counted his fingers. “I have moved rooms thirty-six, no, thirty-seven times; which means I have been here going on thirty-eight years.” His shoulders slunk with a heavy sigh. “He would be a grown man by now, probably have kids of his own.”

  “What’s his name? Where’d he live?”

  The seer’s posture perked and his tone went from melancholy to borderline jovial. “Well, we had a small place on the eastern side of the Sidaran Forest. Not sure if it’s still there. Quiet little place, you know,” he said as his bushy brows rose over his eyes, “the kind where a man could do some serious thinking and never have to worry about pesky neighbors always wanting to get into your business.”

  Azriel started to ramble. Something he tended to do more often of late, but how could Ferrin fault him? Here was a man stripped of his home, his family, and locked away for his entire life within the walls of this tower of death. He couldn’t even begin to grasp the reality of it.

  “He won’t be there, though,” Azriel continued. “Nope. He never enjoyed the solitude it provided, always wanted to be going into town to see his friends. Of course, he wouldn’t have admitted it, but I knew it were more than just his friends he was going to see. Yep, when a boy his age starts pick’n flowers on the side of the road, and it ain’t for his mother, well, there’s only one other explanation.” The old seer’s mouth split into a toothy grin and he chuckled.

  Ferrin knew he couldn’t wait any longer. As much as he enjoyed Azriel’s company, he was running out of time. He would either make his escape tonight or he would be facing the Purging Chamber as soon as the chancellor returned. Slipping his hand into his side pocket, Ferrin’s fingers tightened around the small familiar piece of rock. Pulling it out by its tarnished chain, he slid the transferal over his head and around his neck, dropping it beneath what little remained of his soiled tunic.

  It had taken a great deal of faith on Rae’s part to relinquish the crystal. He had been the last prisoner questioned that evening, which gave her the slight hope of not being caught without it. He had exhausted every last drop of charm and logic he could muster to get her to agree to his plan. He knew it was a long shot at best, but he also knew he had no other choice and, being unequivocally bound to his fate, neither did she.

  As soon as the transferal touched his skin, it activated. And as long as he kept it within a certain distance of his body, he could use its powers to enhance his natural abilities. However, the opposite was also true. The farther away it was, the weaker its use. Ferrin could already feel the change within himself. Having spent as many endless hours as he had sweating away at his forge, using his transferal to shape iron and steel into weapons of unusual power, he was well aware of its influence.

  He walked over to the seer and knelt down beside him. Grabbing hold of the cuffs digging into the old man’s feet, Ferrin closed his eyes in order to concentrate. He could feel the familiar fires of magic within him building. He had forgotten how much he had missed that sensation. How good it had made him feel as the clarity it gave washed over him. It was powerful. He opened his eyes and rubbed gently around the inner edge of the rusty rings. The hard iron was like clay in his hands. It stretched and formed around his fingers, bending to his will.

  Once finished, he started on the other foot, and then the wrists and neck. By the time he was through, each of the manacles’ diameters had been increased in size by at least a couple of fingers, allowing for a more comfortable fit. As a finishing touch, he smoothed the sharp edges that were clawing into the seer’s skin.

  Azriel laid a shaky hand on the side of Ferrin’s face. “Thank you, Ferrin. May the Creator guide you down the right path and make you a stumbling block to your enemies. Oh, and don’t be afraid to accept help from others, even if it comes in the most unlikely of places.”

  Ferrin stared into Azriel’s green eyes. Was that a prayer or a vision? He shrugged. He left the old man sitting there and headed for the door. In his hand he held a small clump of metal he had managed to extract from the seer’s anklets. He lifted it up to the keyhole and let his magic take over from there. The small metallic ball took on a life of its own and started to grow directly into the lock. He could feel it forming into pla
ce, settling against the inner mechanisms of the tumblers before hardening back into solid form.

  Ferrin flipped his wrist and the lock snapped. He pulled back the inner latch and cracked the door ajar. Peering out into the dark passage, he waited, listening for any sound of movement in the corridor beyond. Satisfied that no guards were patrolling within earshot, he opened the door far enough to slip through. Twisting his head around, Ferrin’s eyes settled on the silhouette of the old man—possibly for the last time. He burned Azriel’s image deep into the recesses of his mind, never wanting to forget the time he had spent in this place or the friend he had made in doing so.

  Taking a deep breath, Ferrin exited the doorway, but before swinging it shut, he turned around and stuck his head back inside. “Oh, I almost forgot. You never told me his name?”

  Azriel’s head pivoted in his direction. “What’s that? Whose name?”

  “Your son . . . there in Sidara. What’s his name?”

  “Kellen,” Azriel said with pride. “His name is Kellen. We had a cottage just outside of Easthaven.”

  Kellen. Easthaven. Ferrin stored the information away for later as he passed one more smile off to the old seer.

  He moved back into the corridor and forced the door shut behind him, locking it into place. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the surrounding light, or lack of it. Proceeding down the hall to his right, Ferrin made for the door he knew would be just around the next corner. He kept to the balls of his feet to soften his passage across the cold stone. Peeking around the corner, he could see there were no guards posted outside the cell’s doorway. Good. At least one part of what they told me was true; now to find the storage rooms.

  Downward he climbed through the dark winding stairwells. The sound of rodents scurrying about could be heard intermingled with the whimpers coming from the locked doors on either side of the corridors he traveled. One more flight down and he would leave the prison ward behind. Quietly, Ferrin stepped off the lower landing and rounded another familiar corner. He started down the bare hallway. There were no prison cells in this section of the Tower’s fortress.