The Lords of Valdeon

by C. R. Richards

  "Are you well, Seth? What do you think you're about staying out so late?" Paddy cradled the musket in his arms, still watching the door. "You'd better stay here for a time until those drunken fools get to their ship."

  A haggard old sailor approached them, his knit cap held in his hands. He rested tentative fingers upon the cabin boy's head. Cracked lips offered the boy a smile full of helpless pity.

  "I’ll take the boy to the ship’s doctor. Tubs is a killer, though no man would dare try to prove it. I thank you just the same."

  "You can’t take the boy back to your ship. What if they try to hurt him again?"

  The older sailor shook his head at Seth and gripped the cabin boy’s slumped shoulders. "Don’t have a choice. The boy’s indentured to the Captain."

  "He’s a slave you mean."

  "Some aren't as lucky in our life situations as you are, son. He has to go back. Got his Mum and other little ones to think of."

  They made their way slowly out of the common room back to their ship. Seth was helpless to stop them. For all the troubles he had in his own life, he'd met someone worse off. It was his mother's war cry against poverty. Seth understood what she'd meant a little better after tonight. He'd been such a fool charging like a madman into a fight he couldn’t win. Seth was no warrior, not like the two Valdeonian men.

  "Paddy?" Seth touched his shoulder. "Those two cloaked men. Have you seen them before?"

  "They came looking for rooms a few minutes after you arrived. I’m surprised you didn’t run into them on your way from town. Forget them. Listen, Seth, you better have a care until those ships leave. It might be a good idea if you spent the night in the back room. I can drive you home in the morning."

  Seth heard snickering from the corner and turned to glare at the group of sailors sipping their tankards. They turned back to their drinks again.

  Paddy pulled him roughly to the bar. "Are you so certain those sailors just happened by? I told you not to mention Pavel Sandor’s name."

  "I’m sorry I did."

  "So is the old sea dog. The militia found him hanging by his jaw on one of the docks. Someone had relieved him of his heart. Sergeant Gunn and Constable McTavish are calling it a drunken brawl, but we know otherwise, don’t we?"

  Seth stared at Paddy as the words sunk in. He'd been so certain the Tslavian had been Sandor. The evidence, his nationality, and his familiarity with the D’Antoiné family had been simple coincidence. Their clumsy attempts to investigate had gotten an innocent man killed. Well, perhaps not quite so innocent. One thing was certain, Pavel Sandor was still on Marianna and very close.

  "Have a care. I plan to take this with me when I’m out in the open." He patted the musket.

  "I’m not afraid. Let him face me. Sandor is going to pay for what he did to my mother."

  Paddy rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "Sit down, boy. I have mutton stew in the pot. Eat slowly. Hopefully those drunken bums will be well aboard their ship by the time you finish."

  Three bowls of stew and a few hours later, his pride was satisfied enough time had passed. In the darkest time of night — just before the sun's rays began to penetrate the black — he stepped onto the front steps of the inn. No sign of anyone waiting out in the darkness as far as he could see. Those sailors were probably sleeping off their drink by now.

  He slipped quietly down the steps and onto the Main Row. Stopping under the comforting glow of Paddy’s hanging lanterns, he looked again into the trees where he and Riley had hidden earlier. Still no sign of movement. Now he was just being foolish. It was getting close to the dawn. Emma would be waiting to scold him as it was. He'd better not show his face after she had started the breakfast.

  Hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him toward the darkness. The stench of stale brew and old fish stuffed his nostrils. Rough hands covered his mouth and held down his arms against his body.

  "This don't seem like such a good idea to me. You know who was onboard ship with us. He seemed interested in this boy."

  Tubs's friend, the lanky man from the common room, held up a small ship's lantern before Seth's face. Yellow teeth chattered in the chilly air. A dirtied leather eye patch covered heaven only knew, while the other eye darted wildly about them.

  "He's no concern of ours." Tubs! His rough voice was one Seth would well recognize for a long time.

  "Are you, barmy? Missing all this time and he just happens to pick Marianna as a vacation spot?"

  "Shut it." Tubs pressed chapped lips against Seth's ear. "Your people won’t recognize you when I'm done, farmer."

  A rock solid fist thrust into Seth’s abdomen, knocking the air out of his lungs. Eyes watering, he collapsed toward the ground. Several arms held him in place. Another strike hit his face with an explosion of pain. Laughter buzzed in his ears like a swarm of angry wasps. He began to wonder if he'd breathed his last.

  Someone grunted close to his face. Thud. The many pairs of hands holding him suddenly let go of their grip. Seth fell to the ground, trying to get his breath back. He was alone beside the back wall of Paddy's. The group of mischief makers stood in a circle several feet away from him.

  "Mercy!"

  The call started from one sailor and was quickly taken up by the rest. Then a shadow moved through his attackers, deadly and swift. His movements were graceful and perfectly executed. Each raised fists sent another man to his back in a flash of movement. Seth had never seen anyone move so fast! He shivered, realizing the sailors could have been killed as quickly. One would not be joining his friends when they woke. Tubs's lifeless eyes stared up at the morning star.

  A form approached him. It wasn't a shadow or some warring angel from the beyond. The cloaked man from the tavern reached a hand out to Seth. He took it and was pulled to his feet as if he were a sack of yarn. Strong arms helped Seth under a small circle of light from one of the pub’s lanterns.

  "Beware the anger of fools, my young friend."

  Though the man spoke in the common tongue, his words were accented by the musical tones of his people. He held Seth’s face up to the light and chuckled at the cuts. His laughter was warm, not unkind. The bandaged hand pulled the hood from his head, revealing a handsome face. His hair was a fading chestnut overtaken by gray. A wave of citrus and exotic spices floated about him. Remarkable though the man may be, his eyes captured Seth’s attention. They were a deep brown with specks of amber in them. A strange sort of power held Seth in their gaze.

  Those dark eyes moistened as they scanned every feature of Seth’s face. Gentle fingers smoothed around the bruises, stopping to cup his chin. The Valdeonian took a sharp breath and swallowed hard.

  "His eyes do not lie, my lord." The other Valdeonian came to stand beside them.

  "Have a care, Dante. Do not forget why we’ve come," his rescuer rebuked in the musical language.

  "You have fire, my young friend. What is your name?"

  "I'm Seth McCloud, sir."

  He answered in the common tongue. Perhaps it was wrong, but a new instinct for mistrust made Seth hold back. He didn't want to let them know he spoke their language quite yet. The other man, Dante, may yet slip to reveal who they were. He was intrigued by the man standing before him. Why would such a cunning and skilled warrior be visiting Marianna? According to Tubs and his friends, this man wasn't here by chance.

  "Well, Seth McCloud. You are safe now. Those men will not harm you again."

  The two Valdeonians climbed the stairs, leaving him to go on his way. They reached the tavern door before Seth had the sense of mind to call after them.

  "Sir! Do I know you?"

  The warrior's eyes grew sad once more. He looked down at Seth for a long time, before answering.

  "No. But you may call me Leo."

  The Valdeonian entered Paddy’s, leaving Seth staring after him in the dark. The scent of citrus and spices remained in the early morning air. He took one last sniff and turned toward Haven Bay.

  Chapter Fourteen


  San Leonora, City of Kings and capital of Valdeon, glistened in the afternoon sun like a treasure trove waiting to be seized. Beneath their descending vessel, merchants haggled with their customers. Young horses kicked against the corrals separating them from freedom. This deafening boom was the music of commerce. It heralded the Prince of Valdeon home.

  Julian turned away from the bustling streets and markets. Waiting breathlessly for just the right angle, he marveled as the sun sent its beams in a halo around The Palace of Kings. Towering above the city, it rose like mighty peaks of stone and glass. Tiles of brilliant gold blanketed the roof. Endless mosaic arches formed supports to lift its massive structure. It was his childhood home and, as such, remained very dear to him.

  A rotunda, built centuries before by the Ancients, stood at the southeast corner of the palace. Formed with rare white stone from their distant country, the very nature of the stone had been infused with the Jalora's magic. Andara’s greatest treasure and symbol of power — the Altar of Providence — was kept within, safe from invaders. It was said that even the most powerful cannon could not blast through the walls of the mighty Lion’s Den. Julian's lips formed the tiniest of smiles. The Altar could not be taken by force. This treasure must be won by other means.

  "It is a great city, perhaps a little too flamboyant for my tastes."

  The changeling, ever at his side, took delight in provoking Julian's anger. He wouldn't succumb to the creature's game this time. His temper, already strained from another failure to recover the Lion Ring, was close to breaking free. This creature was waiting to report every misstep, every moment of weakness to Gorman. Soon Julian would arrange an unfortunate accident for his annoying new companion. Perhaps someone would expose its true nature to the Lords of Valdeon. They were the great champions of the Jalora, after all. In his eagerness to defend its honor, the changeling's life would be forfeited at the Wolf's blade. Lord Gorman couldn't blame Julian for such a loss. No one could stand against a ranger.

  "You will find the Palace of Kings distasteful then, Changeling. Please allow me to show you its every corridor."

  The Great Inland Wall cast shadows upon them as they walked down the ramp of the airship port. Thousands of stone lion heads were carved across the top of the wall, teeth bared in warning. Running across the stretch of land between Lake Leonora and the Leonora River, it had protected San Leonora for centuries against invaders. His new allies, however, could not be thwarted by mere walls. He scanned the massive base for signs of the Dirge. They'd already dissolved into its shadows.

  Marcellus De Costa stood awaiting Julian. He was a thick young man, built for battle and hungry for killing. A scar stretched from his right eye to the indentation in his cheek where a stone had pulverized the bone. He'd been caught indulging in his favorite gruesome pastime. Dissection of human bodies wasn't a crime unless those humans had been alive during the procedure. The villagers and his own father had found Marcellus too homicidal for prison. Putting this killer to death had been their best option. Julian tended to agree, though he'd never let Marcellus see his revulsion. The Sarcion had coerced Julian into rescuing Marcellus from the stoning. It assured him the madman would be of great value one day.

  "Welcome home, my lord prince." Marcellus bowed low, eyes twitching in constant reminder of the damage his face had endured.

  "You are a welcome sight, my dear friend." Julian forced his hand to remain steady as Marcellus took it up and pressed his lips against the glove.

  Fevered eyes shifted to the changeling. "You've brought someone back with you, my prince."

  "This is Armando, my new valet."

  The changeling flashed an angry glare at them. Evidently it had expected to be treated as an equal. Marcellus noticed the look. He straightened and returned the sentiment with a hate-filled look of his own. A brief fluttering of hope came to Julian as his two irritating burdens sized each other up. Perhaps he could be rid of both of them as he played the two against each other.

  "Fetch my luggage, Armando." Julian waved a dismissive hand to the changeling. "The other servants can guide you to my chambers when you're done."

  Not waiting to see the resentful glare, he turned toward the street where an ebony carriage awaited them. A lion of gold, emblem of the D'Antoiné royal house, silently roared from its door. His little sister, Zoya, gave a delighted cry when Julian entered. She threw her arms around his shoulder and pressed her lips to his cheek.

  "I've longed for your return, Brother." Zoya's smile twisted into a mischievous grin. "It has been frightfully dull with the Lords of Valdeon marching about the palace, keeping the peace. Their devoted worshippers praise them night and day. It turns the stomach."

  "I do hope, my darling sister, that you haven't been provoking the Wolf. He is rather single-minded where you are concerned."

  She shrugged and gave him a secret smile. He knew her well enough to suspect she'd gone against his word. One day she'd choose the wrong man to play with, and then her games would end permanently.

  "The Orb of Valdeon is black with death." Marcellus changed the subject as he always did when Julian's anger with Zoya began to brew. "I knew you would not fail, my prince. What a battle it must have been! The Leo is…was a challenge."

  Zoya's eyes glowed with desire as she leaned forward. "Let me see the Lion Ring, Brother!"

  "I don’t have it."

  His dark glare weighed the look upon their faces. Bitter disappointment. Shock. Frustration. He couldn't fault them, having experienced each emotion upon the boggy shores of North Marsh. Understanding was one thing. Tolerance was quite something else.

  "Have a care before you question, Zoya. My father still lives, but he severed his own finger to manage it. The ring is sleeping. It is powerless as long as it does not rest on a human finger. Leo is nothing without it, and it is nothing without the right bearer."

  Their carriage moved through the massive arch in the Inland wall, and soon they were making their way up King’s Row. The historic street had once been adorned with mosaics. Now, dirt and old bricks were the pathetic remains of the city's glory days. Two-story buildings lined either side of King's Row, blocking his view of the palace. They rode on in silence for a few miles. Any words spoken could only make matters worse.

  The buildings ended abruptly, and they entered a large courtyard at the center of the city. Leo's first queen had commissioned a large garden with pathways and a bandstand for the people of San Leonora to enjoy. Now the garden was a weed patch and the bandstand a crumbling relic. Even the massive fountain had fallen into disrepair.

  Valdeon had been grand once. Its power could not be rivaled by any on Andara. Of course those days of glory were before the Great War with Tslavia — Valdeon’s fiercest enemy. A century ago, Tslavian soldiers plundered San Leonora. The city was almost lost, until a Jalora Master had come among them to protect the people. This Red Heart created the United Realms, claiming such an alliance between the nations of Andara would keep the peace. In truth, the fool had given away Valdeon’s power over the continent, setting their once-great nation upon the path of mediocrity. It would take a strong leader to see Valdeon's power back again.

  "What of the Regent Medallion?"

  Marcellus and Zoya exchanged uncomfortable looks. She gripped the hem of her dress, lifting it to her chest. The unfortunate habit gave Marcellus a good look at her naked thighs. Julian slapped her hands and pulled the dress back down to the floor.

  "Please try to behave like a lady, Zoya." He ignored her pouting face and stared hard at Marcellus. "What has happened? Why am I not holding the medallion in my hand at this very moment?"

  "Your trinket wasn't where you said it would be, Brother." Zoya brushed at the front of her gown. "I had to spend a few evenings with one of the curators. Horrid little man. He helped me find the medallion. I've seen it with my own eyes. We were making plans for a midnight visit, but the Lords of Valdeon arrived in San Leonora before we could take it."

  "Have I not made
it clear? I must have the medallion!"

  Gorman would be delighted to hear of this latest failure. Julian had underestimated his barbarian allies. Their hunger for Andara was keener than he had first supposed. In fact, he was beginning to suspect Whisper might be behind Julian's failed effort somehow. The medallion was his last chance to take the throne peacefully. He wanted to avoid the slaughter of his people by the hands of these barbarians if possible. Let them quench their thirst for blood on the rest of Andara. Valdeon belonged to him.

  "Our country stands alone and unguarded at the very center of her enemies."

  "What do you mean, my prince?" Marcellus, eager to avoid Julian's anger, grasped hold of this new talk of enemies.

  "My informants tell me that Southbay plans to strike our eastern border. They seek revenge against our people for attacking one of their towns." Julian gave Marcellus a well-practiced look of concern. "Naturally, Valdeon would make no such attack. They falsely accuse us."

  "Naturally." Zoya sat back, her eyes laughed at him.

  "I fear they've been goaded into this by a powerful enemy. My informants brought back the broken sword of a Tslavian soldier. Don’t you see, Marcellus? Tslavia believes Leo is dead and would take advantage of this to storm Valdeon! They concocted the raid on the Southbay town, knowing it would turn our neighbor against us. The fools would naturally go running to Tslavia for help."

  "What are we to do, my prince? Has Chancellor Benito been warned?"

  "The chancellor will not listen to my warnings. His ear belongs to the Lords of Valdeon. They refuse to heed the evidence."

  Rumor of violence surrounding a few dead pawns would certainly spark outrage among the Tslavic court. He turned his eyes back to the window, letting Marcellus absorb the information. Andara was a powder keg waiting to explode. Tensions had been mounting since the day Leo had disappeared. Valdeon wouldn’t be the victim of events this time. It would be the victor!