Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  Tor’asion flicked a glance down the hallway and entered the room. Niallerion ran past on silent feet and climbed the servant staircase at the end of the hall. He opened the small panel in the casement wall and reached into the gap, pulling the listening cup towards him. He uncoiled enough of the wire to reach the deep window seat and slid the panel shut.

  Installing the contraption had taken but a matter of moments the previous week, once he had had discovered the room the Ascendants tended to meet in. It was a simple cone-shaped collecting bowl placed over the communications crystal he had repurposed to become an amplifier and connected to a wire, which transmitted the voices.

  Settling himself on the window seat, drawing the curtain enough to shield him, he tucked the listening cup into his ear and leaned back, staring out the window. The ranks of grey stone ridges and spires rising from palace roofs blurred before him as he concentrated on the voices rising from the Ascendants chambers. His hand slipped into his pocket and caressed the onoff that Birlerion had created for him. The smooth ball of acquiescent energy, a reminder of the Lady’s magic, which they had used to provide light instead of candles, was a comfort in this strange new world they lived in.

  Tor’asion’s voice floated up through the crystal, as clear as if he was sat in the same room. Niallerion wriggled his shoulders against the hard wall to get more comfortable and listened.

  “Kabil should be in position now, with the Second Chevron. I just need him to get moving across the plain. He is reluctant; too exposed he says. He’s dug in just south of the Summer Palace.”

  “I thought you had him enspelled?” Var’geris’ voice was hard and clipped.

  “His military knowledge is interfering. He knows it’s suicide for about half his men, so he’s baulking,” Tor’asion replied. Niallerion smiled at the edge of frustration in his voice.

  “Then you’d better get down there and get him moving.”

  “I thought maybe you should go. I need to stay here with Sul’enne. He’s struggling to keep Randolf under control. I need to reinforce his suggestions.”

  “That is my strength, you know that. Don’t put our plans in jeopardy because of a woman, Tor’asion. She’ll still be here when you come back. They are showing no intentions of leaving; she hopes that Haven will come back.”

  “I’m not. Taelia was a way to get to Jerrol; he always liked her. I can use her. She is weak and timid, and bereft, of course. She is vulnerable, willing to depend on Torsion. If she hears anything about Jerrol, she’ll tell me. I wouldn’t bother with her. But we do need to find him.”

  Var’geris snorted. Niallerion recognised the huff of breath he made when he laughed, or pretended to. Var’geris never laughed, not like he meant it. “Randolf said he died. So he must be dead. I thought he came up with quite a good story for Vespiri; gives us a little more time to get ready.”

  “If we can get Kabil moving.”

  “Then you’d better go make sure he does move. You can check in on our dear chancellor while you’re at it; ensure he hasn’t fouled that job up.”

  “Pev’eril will have them under control, but I’ll make sure,” Tor’asion said.

  “Good. I will assist Sul’enne with Randolf. We just need to make sure we have the Watch Towers. Without the Captain, they are our best chance.” There was a slight pause. “I might see if I can find where they are holding Mer’iteras; we need him. If we’d had him at Adeeron, we might have got something out of that Sentinal before you beat him senseless.”

  “He was stubborn. But he’s lost now. I didn’t expect to beat it out of him; my intent was to soften him up.”

  Icy shivers ran down Niallerion’s spine. Beat what out of Birlerion? Lost? What did they mean he was lost? He fumbled for the essence of his friend, but he couldn’t find it. No vibrant spark hung like a bright star in his awareness. The voices continued in his ear and he bit his lip. Concentrate, you fool.

  “You get carried away, Tor’asion. You need to learn restraint. We lose too many informants through your anger.”

  “What about you?” Tor’asion asked, an edge to his voice. “Is it worth the risk to find Mer’iteras? We can’t afford to lose you, too.”

  “You concentrate on Kabil. Remember, he must be marching by Maru; you’ve got two months to get his army in position.”

  Tor’asion heaved a deep sigh, and the crystal vibrated. The floor creaked as the Ascendant stood. “This is not the time of year for manoeuvres, you know. The snow is a good four to five feet thick around here.”

  Var’geris gave his huffing snort again. “Tell Kabil it’ll be warmer down south. He’ll soon get them moving.”

  Niallerion removed the ear cup and listened intently. He dropped to the floor, coiling the wire. He knelt to slide the panel open, returning his device to its hiding place. Footsteps started up the stairs and he darted down the gallery to the stairs at the other end and descended. He made his way back to Taelia’s rooms, and silently entered.

  Leaning against the door, his lips twitched as Taelia stared right at him.

  “Don’t just stand there, come and tell us what you found out. Marianille make notes,” she said.

  Niallerion summarised what he heard, pausing to let Marianille catch up.

  “And you’re sure they didn’t know what happened to Jerrol?” Taelia asked, a little breathlessly.

  Niallerion nodded, even though she couldn’t see him; he kept forgetting. “They were annoyed. They need him for something, and without him to do it for them, they have to get the Watch Towers back.”

  “They are after the Veil,” Marianille said, looking up from the report she was writing. “They are moving on Stoneford. It’s the only way they’ll get the towers.”

  “But if they don’t have Jerrol, who does?” Taelia asked.

  Marianille wrinkled her brow and sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Niallerion hesitated, staring at Birlerion’s sister. Even with her face shadowed with sorrow, she was beautiful. She had such smooth, creamy skin; so pale, it reminded him of the delicate shells found on the beaches in Birtoli.

  Marianille lifted her head and smiled at him, her complexion smoothing as it lightened. “Tell me. We said we would report everything, no matter what we heard. We both know the Captain and Birlerion are still alive, even if they are in trouble. The more we know the better chance we have to find them. What did they say?”

  “Var’geris said Tor’asion beat Birlerion senseless. Var’geris wants to go and get Mer’iteras; he said they could have got what they wanted to know out of Birlerion if they’d had him there.” Niallerion hesitated. “They said he was lost, Marianille. I am so sorry.”

  “At least we know Birlerion didn’t tell them what they wanted, not that I ever thought he would,” Marianille said, her eyes glittering with tears. “But now I know who is responsible, and he will pay for what he has done to my brother.”

  Taelia reached over and squeezed her hand. “Then it’s a good job he’s leaving for a while, much as I’d like you to kill him. I doubt the duke would appreciate dead bodies in his palace.”

  Marianille wiped her tears away and looked down at their next report in her hands. “Then he shouldn’t consort with Ascendants. Anything else before I call Ari to take this to Alyssa?”

  “They said Birlerion was taken to Adeeron,” Niallerion said with some reluctance.

  Marianille stilled and closed her eyes. “The one place we can’t go,” she whispered. She opened her eyes. “It’s the home of the Third Chevron, and no one knows where it is.”

  22

  Adeeron, Elothia

  Finn blearily opened his eyes and stared up at the men gathered around him. He grimaced as he sat up, stretching his jaw. His face felt stiff and tender. He was sure it was bruising spectacularly, yet again. He observed the men as he moved to stand by Owen’s shoulder. They looked lean and mean. They’d need to be to survive here, he thought.

  “Well?” Owen asked, his voice cold.

 
; “Think you could take us, do you?” A broad-chested man with a crooked nose and a full beard spat. His beady eyes inspected them and found them lacking.

  “Preferably not all at once,” Finn said from behind Owen. He really wasn’t in condition for a fight. He rubbed his temple. He wasn’t in condition for anything. He had no idea who he was or how he had ended up here. His head hurt; a deep dull ache that made it difficult to think.

  “Ah, a scholar, eh? A scholar who can fight,” the man sneered.

  A scholar? Am I? Finn wondered. He had been travelling through Elothia, according to that innkeeper, so maybe he was. “Only if necessary. I prefer not to,” he replied, keeping his voice calm.

  The blonde-haired man at the recruit’s shoulder laughed. He too wore a thick beard. “A man in the Third Chevron who prefers not to fight?” he said in disbelief.

  “Well, not by choice,” Finn said. “I guess we’ll see if any of you are worth fighting for.”

  “There are few worth fighting for,” a soft voice said from the doorway, and the men parted to reveal a gaunt man, taller than the rest, but more battered. His left arm was splinted, the bandage grubby and ragged. He sported a nasty wound bisecting his eyebrow, though his dark blue eyes were sharp. His chin was covered by a neatly trimmed black beard, but it didn’t conceal the unnaturally pale skin or the bruises beneath. Finn’s memory stirred just out of reach at the sound of his calm voice. The man walked through the others and lay down with a grunt on the bed at the end of the room.

  The dark-haired man with the broken nose brushed past Owen and poked Finn in the chest. “I think you’ll find you are the one under scrutiny, grunt,” he said as he pushed Finn up against the wall. Swords clattered to the floor around them.

  Finn smiled. “As you wish.”

  “’Ware Tasker,” a voice hissed from the doorway, and they all fell back to their beds and stood to attention. Finn slipped into place and watched with interest. This environment felt familiar; he had been in a barracks before and enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow soldiers and good friends. He didn’t remember being conscripted, though.

  “Good, getting to know each other, eh? No broken bones, understood?” the Tasker rapped, looking intently at the apparent leader of the group. The dark-haired man swallowed and responded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he repeated, his long black coat swirling as he turned and stared at Owen and Finn. “Our new recruits.” He pointed at Owen, “You will be called Centa OneOne, and you,” his gaze inspected Finn, “Centa OneTwo. Welcome to the Third Chevron. You will be tested, but then,” he smiled coldly, “the grand duke only expects the best. Get them some uniforms. I expect you all out on the track in thirty minutes.” His eyes drilled into the dark-haired man’s eyes. “Understood, Centa One?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Tasker’s eyes narrowed as his gaze paused on the battered man at the end of the room. “I will be watching.” His harsh voice echoed in the room long after he had left.

  “You heard him, take them to the storage room.” Centa One’s lips twisted as he watched them leave. “Like lambs to the slaughter,” he murmured under his breath.

  “Are you so sure about that?” Centa Two asked.

  Centa One curled his lip. “Oh yes,” he replied.

  They were out on the parade ground within half a chime, dressed in rough spun cotton trousers and a loose shirt. The arms master, Krell, strode down the line of men, pausing as he reached Owen and Finn.

  “So,” he snapped. “Looks like you came off worse.” He lifted Finn’s face with his stock.

  “Yes, sir,” Finn mumbled. His face had stiffened painfully.

  The master leaned in. “What was that?” he asked. “I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Finn barked, wincing as his head throbbed in time.

  “Ah, sir?” Owen interrupted him. “Centa OneTwo was knocked unconscious earlier today. If you want to get any use out of him, it would be wise not to hit around the head.”

  Krell turned his head in disbelief. “And who might you be?”

  “Centa OneOne,” Owen replied.

  “Really? And what makes you the expert on Centa OneTwo’s health?”

  “Well, I knocked him out, and I think he’s suffering from a slight concussion.”

  “A healer, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well then, I suggest you get on the floor and give me fifty, now,” Krell snarled in his face. He turned back to Finn as Owen dropped to the dirt and began counting.

  The arms master circled Finn before returning to stare intently at his face. His face tightened, obviously not liking what he saw. He pursed his lips. “Stand there and don’t move,” he said, turning back to the others, who were watching with interest. They snapped their eyes forward.

  He started counting them off and sent them on circuits of the training field that Finn wished he could join. He missed running.

  Owen was now gasping out numbers. The master stood over him as Owen’s arms trembled and wavered. “Twenty-eight,” he gasped before collapsing in the dust.

  “Don’t leave until you reach fifty.” The master hissed in Finn’s ear, “You, hit the dirt and help him.”

  Finn dropped to the ground and started pumping. Counting out loud, he closed his eyes as his head began to thump in time. He kept pumping. “Six, seven.”

  Owen gasped beside him.

  “Nine, ten.” Finn thought he might throw up, and he concentrated on swallowing between counts. “Twelve.” His arms were shaking; he’d never felt so weak. He gasped out, “Fifteen.”

  “Enough,” Krell said. Finn wavered as his arms trembled.

  Owen collapsed to the ground beside him, chest heaving. “Centa OneOne, join your colleagues on the circuit. Centa Six take Centa OneTwo and report to the infirmary to get him checked out; get your splint taken off as well while you’re there.”

  Finn levered himself to his feet, sweat running down his face. He swayed in front of the Arms master.

  “Now,” barked Krell. Finn winced as the command reverberated through his skull. He managed to make it to the exit of the training ground before his stomach betrayed him, and he threw his guts up. He retched painfully as his head thumped.

  Centa Six stood next to him, patiently waiting as Finn wiped his mouth. He took a deep breath and turned to the man next to him. It was the battered, soft spoken man from the barracks. Sharp blue eyes observed him from under straight black eyebrows, one of which was bisected by an angry scar.

  “Lead on,” Finn said. He staggered out of the training ground, following Centa Six, and peered at the walls rising all around him. The basalt stone of the central square structure was oppressive and the narrow corridors leading into its depths, confusing. The walls wavered, and Centa Six offered an unexpectedly strong arm. He held most of Finn’s weight by the time they came to a halt in the doorway of a brightly lit room.

  Finn thought he heard an exclamation before strong arms took hold of him and forced him down on a bed. The blinding lights were shaded as his chalk-white face, glazed eyes, and trembling limbs were assessed. He flinched as a bright light passed over his eyes before a cold compress was placed over them. He sighed with relief until a vile draught was forced down his throat and the room faded away.

  When he awoke, he lay still, trying to remember where he was. His head no longer felt like it would explode, and he gingerly opened his eyes to a dimly lit room. He sensed it was evening. The room had a muted feel about it as if everyone went about with hushed voices so as not to wake the sleeping. Somehow, he had found the infirmary, though he didn’t remember getting there. There was a lot he didn’t remember, including getting changed into the loose gown he was now wearing.

  A severe-looking man paused at the end of his bed. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his deep voice at odds with his fierce appearance.

  “My head has stopped thumping.”

  “You should have come here immediately. Leaving a concus
sion will only make it worse,” he said, irritation colouring his voice.

  “I don’t think the choice was mine to make,” Finn replied.

  “Name,” the man asked bluntly, watching him closely.

  “Centa OneTwo.”

  The man grunted, making a note on his pad. “Well, you’ve been in the wars, so I guess you know what your body can or can’t take. What happened to your hand?”

  Finn looked down at his right hand and flexed it thoughtfully. He was missing two fingers. “I don’t remember.”

  “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

  Finn looked up and shrugged. “I had an accident. They were gone when I woke up. I don’t remember what happened.”

  “Very well, Centa OneTwo. Get dressed. Return to your barracks. Light duty for two days and no sparring, understood?”

  “Yes sir,” Finn said, doubting that would be his decision.

  The man looked at him from under his thick black eyebrows and grunted again making another note on his pad.

  “Off you go, then,” he said, turning away, his sudden movement betraying his impatience more than his voice.

  Finn rolled off the bed, feeling clear-headed as he stood. Grabbing the clothes on the chair beside the bed, he dressed.

  “Thank you for your care,” he said as he left the room. The healer watched him leave.

  Finn hurried down the corridor, not sure if he had lost a day. He followed the stairs down to ground level, not remembering climbing any stairs. Frowning, he entered the central courtyard, which he recognised with relief. As he crossed it, he wondered what the healer had given him to make him feel better so quickly. He hurried across the courtyard and into the training grounds, where he could see the rest of his unit being put through their paces.

  “So kind of you to join us,” Krell said, glaring at him. “Five circuits, now,” he barked and turned back to the other men. “No slacking or I’ll add another ten on each set,” he shouted, striding down the row of grunting men. “Once you finish, obstacle course,” he said as the men slowly stood, shaking out sore arms.