Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  Tor’asion scowled. “I know. Jerrol is the key, and he is the only one we need alive. If Var’geris can work his magic, maybe we can use Birlerion to trap him.”

  Iss’aren stood. “Is that it? The Kirshans have failed to capture the Captain; you had him in your hands, and you failed. What makes you think you can force Haven to do what we need this time, even if you do trap him?”

  Tor’asion stood tall. “He will pay for the loss of our brothers, but he has weaknesses like all men. If you play your parts, Remargaren will be ours! The time approaches: our ancestors will return and take up their rightful position, and we will all bathe in their glory.”

  “You had better make sure your plan works this time, Tor’asion,” Ain’uncer bit out. “Our ancestors grow impatient. We have one chance at this. Don’t fail.”

  “I won’t,” Tor’asion said, his black eyes glittering as he watched his brothers leave to do his bidding.

  3

  King’s Palace, Old Vespers, Vespiri

  Jerrol Haven, Captain of the Lady’s Guard, Commander of the King’s Justice and Keeper of the Oath sat behind his desk and eyed the large pile of paper awaiting his attention. He had forgotten the amount of paperwork that went with a desk job. If anything were to drive him back into the field, it would be the paperwork for sure.

  He pulled the pile towards him and began sorting it into priorities. Without thinking, he reached for the quill and came up short as it slipped out of his remaining fingers. His right hand was strapped in bandages, concealing the damage. He flexed his hand, and the skin pulled tight against the stumps of two of his fingers. A reminder of his last run in with the Ascendants. He would not forget the Ascendant called Ain’uncer, who had attacked him and mutilated his right hand.

  Healer Francis would be nagging him to exercise his hand more. With a huff of frustration, he stooped and picked up the quill in his left hand. It just didn’t feel right. He wondered if his sword would feel any better. He stood, awkwardly drawing his sword. He would have to get his aide, Jenkins, to adjust the belt to his right hip.

  Jerrol gripped his sword in his left hand. The grip fit perfectly and it vibrated gently in his hand. He just didn’t have enough strength to feel in control. He needed to strengthen his left side in general; he would learn to be as good with his left as he had been with his right, he vowed to himself.

  Sheathing the sword, he sat and considered its previous owner. Guerlaire had been the Lady’s Captain before him. He had been lost with Lady Leyandrii nearly three thousand years ago when she had sundered the Bloodstone and banished all magic from the world, including herself and her family.

  Leyandrii had bestowed the sword on Guerlaire, and Guerlaire had passed it to him. Only he had lost it at the Watch Towers. Ain’uncer had taken it along with two of his fingers. He was fortunate that Leyandrii had returned the sword to him; pity she couldn’t do the same for his fingers or his Sentinals.

  The loss of two of his Sentinals shivered through him and he stilled as the guilt roiled in his stomach. Not only had he lost his Sentinals, but also his good friend and mentor, Scholar Torsion, who had been studying the records at the Watch Towers with Taelia. Jerrol had been so focused on rescuing Taelia, he hadn’t spared a thought for Torsion. Why the Ascendants had taken him, Jerrol didn’t know.

  Deliberately, he turned his thoughts to Taelia, and sliding his hand into his pocket, he felt the ring he had purchased. He imagined her beautiful face with those brilliant turquoise eyes brimming with love just for him. He still couldn’t get over the fact that she felt the same way about him as he felt about her. Just thinking about her eased his tension. He needed to hold her; she seemed to alleviate all his worries when she was near. Unfortunately, she was tucked away down at the Chapterhouse in the city. He needed to find time to see her.

  Heaving a deep sigh, he returned to his paperwork. Ten minutes later, he cursed and threw the quill across the room. It skittered across the floor and out his open door. It was impossible. His writing had never been particularly neat, but now it was illegible, a spidery crawl across the paper.

  At the sight of the quill, Niallerion, the Sentinal on guard by the door, left his post and peered into Jerrol’s dim office. Only a small window, high in the wall let in the light. The rest of the walls were covered in maps of the countries of Remargaren.

  “Is everything alright, Captain?” Niallerion asked. His silver-green uniform, identifying him as a Sentinal as if his silver eyes weren’t proof enough, shimmered as he stood in the doorway. A vacant desk stood in the brightly lit outer office behind him, awaiting Jerrol’s assigned aide, Private Deron.

  Narrowing his eyes, Jerrol rose. “I think it’s time Private Deron took up his duties,” he said as Niallerion backed out of the doorway. He needed a scribe, an aide, and he needed him now. He had expected young Deron to be fit for duty by now.

  Deron had been struggling to cope with the life-altering injury he had suffered defending the palace a few months before. Jerrol had been keeping an eye on him since he had returned from his own life-altering experience in his defence of the nomadic people of Terolia and the subsequent ambush at the Watch Towers. He needed hands, not legs to help him, and Deron had two of those.

  He crossed the open space of the outer office, and Niallerion took position behind his shoulder. The thin, dark-haired Sentinal guarded him religiously, and although Jerrol trusted him, he missed Birlerion. There had been something reassuring about having Birlerion behind his shoulder, but he had been lost at the Watch Towers, along with Serillion; two Sentinals lost when they had so few.

  Jerrol tried to recall what he knew about Niallerion as he left his office and walked around the outer walls of the palace towards the parade ground. Niallerion was one of Birlerion’s contemporaries; one of his friends. Birlerion had constantly wished for him to be found, wanting his keen intelligence to help solve their difficulties.

  Remembering a rare evening in the Terolian desert when he had actually been able to talk to his Sentinals, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Have you figured out that onoff yet?”

  Niallerion wrinkled his brow and huffed. “Birlerion was right. There is no solution; it is pure energy.”

  “Well, he did create it out of thin air.”

  “Still, everything should have an explanation, even magic.”

  “Did you all have magic like Birlerion?”

  “No. Magic wasn’t a skill you just picked up, it was inherent, though not everyone used it. I hadn’t realised how much Birlerion could do.”

  Jerrol grimaced as his thoughts returned to the lost Sentinal. All the Sentinals were vocal in their belief that Birlerion lived, though he was out of reach in the hands of the Ascendants. Serillion, he had truly lost. He had died protecting Jerrol, and although Jerrol knew he was safe with the Lady, his loss still hurt. The Sentinals were also adamant that he should be more careful and should not be gallivanting around the countries of Remargaren without protection.

  Since Jerrol’s return to duty, Niallerion had appointed himself in Birlerion’s place. Pale faced and gaunt looking from the recent events in Terolia, his uniform baggier than it should be, he was obviously tougher than he looked.

  As they walked around the building, the newly arrived sentinal trees came into view. They towered over the barracks. The smooth silver trunks gleamed in the bright sunshine, drawing the eye. They were majestic and ancient, and a reminder that the Lady Leyandrii hadn’t left them completely unprotected.

  “How are your trees settling in?” Jerrol asked.

  “Fine. It was a short transfer from Marchwood. It’s good to have them here. Quieter than the barracks.” Niallerion’s silver eyes were bright as he inspected his tree. “Marianille hasn’t been so uptight since her tree arrived, so that is good.”

  Jerrol winced. “I wish I had better news for her, but we just don’t know where to look for Birlerion.”

  “She knows that, really. It’s just frustrating doing nothi
ng. If it wasn’t for Birlerion, she would be fine,” Niallerion replied. “She is taking her frustration out on the rest of us. I recommend you do not go near the sparring ring; you won’t come out again.”

  Jerrol laughed. “I’m glad to see she hasn’t run out of opponents.”

  “No chance. The guards have got a book running as to who will land the first blow. No one’s succeeded yet.”

  Jerrol grimaced. Nor would they, he was sure. Birlerion had often said that his brother, Tagerill, crackled with energy; his sister Marianille was no different. She was a force to be reckoned with, and her anger at not being able to find her brother was honing her skill; making her deadly. Lady protect the fool who underestimates her.

  Rubbing his face, Jerrol led the way across the parade ground towards the infirmary. He was still amazed when he thought about the fact that he had awoken these men and women from a three thousand-year-long sleep and recruited them back into the Lady’s Guard. They were all tall, silver-eyed and very well trained, if a little enthusiastic on occasion. They had a presence about them; you noticed when they were around, and when they are absent, he thought ruefully, and it wasn’t just because of their height, which towered over his measly five feet whatever.

  The Sentinals he had awoken were still adjusting to the new Remargaren. A lot had changed in three thousand years. Their families and friends had lived and died a long time ago. It was impossible to imagine what they were going through, and yet they had sworn allegiance to the king and picked up where they had left off. At least they knew about the Ascendants and the powers they had; information that Jerrol badly needed.

  Arriving at the infirmary, Jerrol paused in the doorway and watched the healer’s assistant, Mathieu, trying to encourage a very young-looking private to take a few steps using a pair of wooden crutches. The boy didn’t look old enough to be a soldier. He had messy straw-coloured hair and his skin was the washed-out complexion of a convalescent. His balance was all over the place, and he was twisting his body unnaturally to compensate for the lack of his left leg.

  Murmuring to Niallerion to remain outside, Jerrol stepped through the doorway. “Private, you look like you’ve been drinking too much,” he said as he approached. He prodded the boy’s gut. “Tighten up your core. You’re all over the place.”

  The private instinctively straightened as Jerrol entered. Letting go of his crutch, he tried to salute and overbalanced into Jerrol’s arms. Jerrol steadied him while Mathieu retrieved the crutch. “Forget the salutes, private. I will understand, alright?”

  “Yes, sir,” Deron replied, blushing crimson. He straightened up, pulling in his stomach.

  “That’s right; you control your body, not the other way around.” Jerrol glanced at Mathieu, who was watching closely. “My aide is derelict in his duty. I was expecting him at his desk this morning. Is there any medical reason why he can’t come with me now?”

  “He needs to keep practicing with the crutches. As you say, he needs to build strength in his core; otherwise, he is fit for office duty,” Mathieu replied.

  Jerrol grinned wryly and waved his bandaged hand. “I need someone who can write and you don’t need legs for that. Come with me, private. Your duty awaits you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the private gasped, and gripping his crutches, he stomped after him, Niallerion close behind.

  Mathieu turned as Healer Francis entered the main room of the infirmary. He gave Francis a grin. “At last, I thought we’d never winkle him out.”

  Francis nodded thoughtfully. “Keep an eye on both of them. Make sure they don’t overdo it; the commander especially.”

  Mathieu grimaced in agreement and left the infirmary to follow them down the corridor. They made slow progress, Jerrol adjusting his stride and explaining what he needed as they crossed the parade ground. Deron perked up, his eyes bright with interest.

  By the time they neared Jerrol’s office, Deron was faltering, and steadying himself against the palace wall. Jerrol smiled at him. “Well done, lad. We’ll build up your stamina, don’t worry.”

  “About that.” Mathieu stepped forward. “Slow and steady both of you, don’t overdo it. Commander, make sure you and the private report into Healer Francis every day.”

  Jerrol grinned. “Yes sir,” he said with a mock salute.

  “I mean it. You don’t want Healer Francis tracking you down.”

  Jerrol shuddered. “Not if he’s anything like Healer Tyrone from Stoneford,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper to Deron.

  “Well, then, you’ve been warned.”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure you have more important things to be doing than harassing us,” Jerrol said, shooing him away.

  Mathieu laughed and left them to it.

  “Right,” Jerrol said, “this is your desk.” He waited for Deron to manoeuvre himself behind the desk and into the chair. Leaving him to sort out his crutches, Jerrol entered his inner office. He swept the papers up from his desk and returned to drop them on Deron’s. He stooped and picked up the quill from the floor. “Only I am allowed to throw quills. Please make sure there is a sharpened quill on my desk every morning; a chore I am currently incapable of performing.” Jerrol held up his hand, a touch of frustration in his face.

  Deron nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “This lot needs sorting into categories and priority. Priority one is messages from the king; the chancellor, Prince Anders; or Commander Nikols; priority two is messages from the watches; three is personnel; four is requisitions and so on. Once you’ve sorted them, we’ll go through them together, and you can get an idea of how to manage them. Eventually, I expect you to answer the majority of requests and only escalate those items that you can’t answer or I need to deal with. If in doubt, ask; there is no wrong question, alright? Corporal Jenkins will deliver any messages for you until you get your strength up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deron said, casting a wary eye at the tall Sentinal standing guard by the door.

  “Ah yes, this is Sentinal Niallerion. You’ll meet the other Sentinals over time.”

  Niallerion grinned, and shifted the broadsword strapped across his back. Deron’s eyes widened and then returned to Jerrol.

  “Good, call if you need me.” Jerrol returned to his office and sat behind his empty desk.

  He reached for Zin’talia, his Darian mare. They were bonded mind to mind, and he missed her snippy comments. Stretching his mind out as far as he could, he searched for her, but it was just an echoing emptiness, their telepathic connection silent. The Ascendants had absconded from the Watch Towers not only with Birlerion but with her as well; they had much to answer for. Jerrol rubbed his temples in frustration. Where had they taken them?

  Jerrol was frowning at the wall when the private stomped back into his office, a bunch of papers scrunched up in his hand as he gripped his crutches.

  “Sir, these documents need your immediate attention,” Deron said as he sat in the chair in front of Jerrol’s desk, drawing the commander’s attention away from the wall as his crutches clattered to the floor. Deron winced, and then leaned forward, pointing at the papers as he began to ask his questions. They worked their way through the documents discussing options. Occasionally Jerrol dictated responses. They were interrupted by Corporal Jenkins poking his head around the door.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I’ve been instructed to advise you that it’s lunchtime,” he said with a swift grin as he prepared to leave.

  “Jenkins, stay a moment,” Jerrol said, easing his shoulders. Jenkins was his latest recruit. The corporal had helped rescue Jerrol from the Watch Towers and had subsequently assigned himself as the commander’s aide, probably to make sure Jerrol did as he was told. He was surrounded by mother hens. He smiled at the thought.

  Jenkins quirked an eyebrow at him. “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to run as messenger for me. Deron has the missives. I want you to observe how they are received and whether there is an immediate response or not. Do you think you can do
that?”

  “Of course, sir,” Jenkins responded.

  Jerrol nodded. “Excellent,” he said, turning to Deron. “Time for lunch as the good man says. Come on.” He rose and waited as Deron retrieved his crutches and offering a hand helped lever the boy upright.

  “Get some lunch, Niallerion. You need feeding up; you still look far too thin. I am not going to be attacked in the dining hall,” Jerrol said sharply as Niallerion began to protest. He was still arguing with Niallerion as they approached the hall.

  Deron hung back as they approached the door.

  “Stout heart,” Jerrol murmured. “Most will treat you as a hero, glad to have you back.”

  Deron swallowed and entered the hall, head held high. There was a general hum of conversation and the clatter of crockery as they made their way down the hall. Long wooden tables crossed the room, leaving a walkway down the centre and at either end. The serving hatches lined the far wall, the kitchens behind them.

  Jerrol scanned the tables looking for familiar faces, but he was preempted by a gruff voice off to his right. “Bob, lad, I’m glad to see you up. Come join us.”

  Deron’s face lit up. “Sarge. Where are you sitting?”

  “Over here, lad.” The man stiffened as he saw the commander beside him. “Sir.” He saluted.

  Jerrol nodded. “At ease, sergeant. Carry on, private. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jerrol continued into the room as the men crowded around Deron; they seemed to be in good spirits. Jerrol tried to avoid the men’s eyes so they wouldn’t have to acknowledge him; he had forgotten how awkward it was as you rose up the ranks. Maybe he would lunch in his office going forward.

  He grabbed a tray and selected a spoon and a bowl of soup. Eyeing the bread, he selected a couple of pieces and, balancing the tray, he made his way to the officer’s table. He slid his tray onto the table and went back and helped himself to a mug of tea before returning to his seat.

  Deron was being joshed by his mates. Colour stained his cheeks as he accepted their rough offers of help more gracefully than he would have accepted Jerrol’s. Jerrol drank his soup and gnawed his bread, resting his right hand in his lap under the table.