Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note:

  Wycaan Master: Book One

  AT THE WALLS OF GALBRIETH

  A Novel

  Alon Shalev

  Tourmaline Books

  Berkeley, California

  At The Walls Of Galbrieth

  Wycaan Master, Book 1

  Copyright © 2012 Alon Shalev

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. This book has been published by Tourmaline Books. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Tourmaline Books, Berkeley, California

  http://www.tourmalinebooks.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9884428-0-1

  LCCN: 2012950787

  First Edition: November, 2012

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Wycaan Master - The First Decree by Alon Shalev. This excerpt has been set for this edition and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Published in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  Deep in an ancient redwood forest, an 11 year-old boy on his family vacation, craved time with his father. Mighty trees bore witness to the creation of a new world and time, and the summoning of the Wycaan Masters.

  To my son, Pele. I wrote this with you and for you. I hope you never need walk the path of Seanchai, but whether you do or not, you will not walk it alone.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  - To Monica Buntin, my editor, for making sense of an awful lot of words.

  - To William Kenney, my book cover artist, for your amazing ability to transform my jumbled ideas into a beautiful piece of art.

  - To the Berkeley Writers Group, for your patience, honesty, and your reluctant acceptance of elves.

  Ancient stories can change the destiny of the world. They give birth to myths, legends, and prophecies. In dire times, such stories fire the imagination, shape a culture, and alter history. But above all, such stories can provide hope, which is in itself a very powerful force.

  One is told of a bygone age in which man, elf and dwarf lived together in harmony with other races. While each had their own villages, tribes, or towns, they shared the roads, marketplaces, and occasionally governance.

  This story speaks of an alliance that lasted a thousand years before collapsing in a terrible battle. Blood flowed down the hillsides turning the streams red. After such chilling violence and death, peace was shattered. Greed and fear thrived, fueled by an unquenchable thirst of some for power.

  The dwarves retreated deep into their caverns and mines, surfacing only to trade their fine wares of precious metals, iron, and stone, never allowing other races to enter their underground domains.

  Men built cities of stone, with high walls and towers. They consolidated power, first subjugating weaker races and then fighting among themselves. They craved wealth, built great arsenals, and raised large armies. Man’s seed spread through the land in great numbers.

  The elves, the oldest and proudest of races, were decimated. Legend holds that even as the battle commenced, they tried to broker peace among the races and, in doing so, spread themselves perilously thin. They were massacred and the survivors left leaderless. Some disappeared into the mountains, others into the woods, while those who remained became little more than dispirited serfs.

  Of the other races, no one knows. Only obscure scrolls, art, and pottery testify to the existence of aqua-skinned people, trolls, ferocious one-horned pictorians, and small gnomes who smoked pipes almost as big as themselves.

  Thus, the alliance, forged in trust and hope, passed into legend. And, though recalled in universal lore, each race held to a different narrative.

  But storytellers of each race also spoke of a time when a new alliance would be formed. They were laughed at, scorned, and became few and far between. Whispers, however, continued of a golden age that might once again emerge. Stories–good stories–never age.

  One

  The screams pierced his dreams and his eyes sprung open. His body went rigid with fear. Through the window above his bed he saw the first hues of dawn. They had assured him it would never happen, but the shrieks and cries proved them wrong. It was happening right now.

  His father shook him roughly and dragged him out of bed. The young elf pulled on his breeches and boots while his mother quietly stuffed a few more provisions into a backpack that had been ready for weeks. As he took the bag from his mother, he glanced into her eyes. No tears, just immense sadness.

  He slung the backpack over one shoulder, balancing it with a bedroll that hung over his other. His father grasped him with thick, muscular hands. No farewells. No last sentiments. No time.

  “Run, son,” he commanded. “Run and don’t look back.”

  The young elf squeezed his tall, thin frame out the back door. He had practiced this many times in the last five of his fifteen years, always in the hours before dawn. And now he faded quickly into the shadows.

  He felt heat on his back, heard the crackle of burning wood as villagers paid for their defiance. The once-proud race of elves would not passively give up their children to be conscripted as fodder for the Emperor’s boundless ambition. Huts would burn, crops and livestock be confiscated, and those with children–including the young elf’s parents–might suffer injury, arrest, or even death.

  He disappeared into the forest, moving with practiced stealth among the trees and brush. The forest surrounding his villag
e was thick, but he knew it well. He had played here all his life, mimicking the hunters and gatherers.

  Only after several hours separated him from his village did he dare walk on the path that would lead him to the village in the Ardian Mountains where his father’s brother lived. Though they had never met he had been assured his uncle would provide shelter and protection. He tried to imagine what his uncle would be like. His father was slight of build and mild of manner.

  As dusk fell, the youngster stopped to rest awhile, though he was too afraid to sleep and dream of the consequences his parents may face for letting him leave. The gathering darkness made it impossible to recall from memory the woods where his mother had taught him to recognize herbs and roots in the hopes he would become a village healer like her. He instead needed to recognize the landmarks on the map his father had drawn. When the first rays of light found their way through the treetops, he was relieved to rise and continue his journey.

  By the end of the second day the trees had become larger, thicker, and farther apart. The dark-leaved fauna and moss were gradually replaced with flowering plants that basked in dim sunlight. He followed a stream that widened as he neared the forest’s edge, pausing as he stepped out of the trees to adjust to the sunlight. He removed his backpack and knelt to drink some water and replenish his canteen.

  With his thirst quenched, the teenager stretched and blinked a few times. He felt an abrupt coolness cast by a shadow behind him. He gasped and whirled around.

  “Never stop to drink or leave the cover of trees without first carefully checking the terrain.”

  The deep voice was harsh. The young elf squinted into the light, but couldn’t see anything more than the man’s silhouette. He lifted one hand to protect his eyes while slowly reaching for his dagger with his other.

  “Don’t try it,” the man warned, his face hidden in the cowl of his hood. “Our archers will cut you down before your blade is out of its sheath. Anyway, we aren’t your enemy. The army uses that path there to move men and supplies.” The man jerked his head in the direction of the road, “By stopping you here, I saved your life. Now, I suggest you follow me–and fast.”

  The man jogged back into the woods and hid behind a tree; the elfling followed. Almost instantly, a patrol of troops–in groups of half a dozen commonly known as sixers–marched by, oblivious to their presence.

  The young elf observed the army’s crimson clothes and black armor. The banners they flew were likewise crimson, bearing a tower’s dark silhouette with a golden sun peering out from behind. Four sixers marched in this patrol, one composed entirely of huge, horned, bipedal, bear-like creatures, with enormous axes strapped across their backs.

  The young elf gasped at the sight of these huge creatures. When only dust was left in the army’s wake, he looked across to his rescuer.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What were those?”

  The man had also been watching the patrols. “They are pictorians, brought down from the north. They are much stronger than us, and can grow as tall as eight feet. You don’t mess with them more than once.”

  The man turned and whistled. A dozen hooded figures dropped from branches or appeared from behind tree trunks or bushes. One had been perched in the very tree where the elfling had hid.

  “My name is–”

  “Don’t bother, calhei. We know who you are. Your uncle requested that we keep an eye out for a lost pup.” The elfling was surprised to hear the word for youngster in his race’s language. The man and his hooded friends laughed at this last remark. Feeling nothing malicious in it, the elf decided not to take offense. The man continued. “We’re one of a number of resistance groups prepared to help you on your way.”

  As he finished speaking, the man removed his hood to reveal pointed ears.

  “You’re elves?” the youngster asked, relief obvious.

  “Some of us,” the man replied as the rest of the group removed their hoods, revealing more elves as well as several humans. “Others were born less fortunate.”

  The group laughed again at the evident ongoing joke.

  “Elves and men together?” the young elf was shocked. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  One of the men stepped forward and put a big hand on his shoulder. “The world, laddie, splits into two groups: free and enslaved. We don’t have the luxury of hating each other if we wish to remain free.”

  He then turned to the leader. “Yochai. The Emperor doesn’t bring pictorians this far south. Aren’t they usually posted on the battlefields and borders?”

  “Yes,” Yochai responded. “Something’s afoot; something stirred the muck.” He gazed at the young elf for a moment. “We’ll head to our camp at the foot of the Ardians. In the morning, we will take you to your uncle.”

  “I am Seanchai, son of Seantai,” the young elf said between mouthfuls of fish. “My village was raided for conscripts.”

  The others, eating with him around a fire, nodded sympathetically.

  “They were burning everything,” Seanchai said, his voice wavering. “I don’t know what happened after I fled.”

  “Best not dwell on it,” the big man next to him said and mussed Seanchai’s hair. “You did the right thing. Serving in the army would only have meant your death, or by your hand the death of other innocents.

  “Rhoddan,” Yochai addressed a young elf, maybe a year younger than Seanchai. “Watch him, okay” The leader turned back to Seanchai. “Even if you want to relieve yourself in the night, you don’t walk alone. Is that clear?”

  Seanchai frowned and was met with a glare. “This is my camp,” the leader hissed. “I’ll do what I need to protect my people. I don’t want a green-ear wandering off and giving us away, or for our sentry to put an arrow through him. While you’re with us, you follow my orders. Understand?”

  “I understand,” the young elf replied as he tried to stifle a yawn. “Sorry,” he grimaced. “I haven’t really slept since leaving my village.”

  Yochai smiled. “Turn in. You’ll never know how long you’ll be able to sleep.” He turned to a dark-skinned elfe, her cheekbones thin and arched. “Sellia, organize the guard but don’t include the boy. I’ll take the last shift.”

  Seanchai, who had never seen a dark-skinned elfe, watched her nod and then scowl at him. He turned to the leader. “I can take my share. Let me guard.”

  “Not tonight. You have a long walk to your uncle’s village. If you join us again, you will share the burden. Go to bed.”

  “Come on,” said Rhoddan. “Put your bedroll over here. Have your bag packed and closed in case we need to flee. Wake me if you need anything.”

  As they stretched out, Seanchai glanced at the leader who stood near the fire, still barking out orders. “He doesn’t like me.”

  “Yochai doesn’t trust anyone who hasn’t fought next to him,” Rhoddan responded. “It’s that simple out here. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Have you fought?” Seanchai asked.

  Though younger, Rhoddan was broader and more muscular from hard training. His demeanor suggested a calhei growing up fast. When he spoke, his voice was steady. “You don’t live out here long without fighting. Now go to sleep.”

  Two

  Seanchai quickly fell into a shallow, dream-filled sleep, full of voices shouting, of fire, of hands shaking him.

  Hands shaking him.

  “Get up, quick.” Seanchai sat up immediately when Rhoddan jabbed him in the ribs.

  There were shouts and clashes of metal. Seanchai reached for his dagger, but the other elf grabbed his hand. “Not today, greenling. Yochai needs you delivered alive.”

  Seanchai hesitated, but Rhoddan’s grip was as fierce as his glare. He thrust a finger in Seanchai’s face. “Follow his orders, remember?”

  Seanchai nodded and grabbed his bag to follow Rhoddan through the brush. A mounted soldier veered in front of them as they ran, propelled from his horse by an arrow through his throat. Seanchai gasped. Another soldier, anot
her arrow found its mark, and Seanchai cried out when he heard the horse scream. But he and Rhoddan continued running, breaking clear of the forest and scrambling across flat, rocky terrain.

  Seanchai felt the path gently ascend, and then abruptly it became steeper. As dawn grayed around them, Rhoddan pulled Seanchai inside a shallow cave to catch their breath. There were no longer any trees, only tall rock faces. They had entered the Ardian Mountains.

  “Drink,” Rhoddan said, as he raised his own canteen. “We must keep moving.”

  Seanchai looked at his guide in the light of the new day. Though Rhoddan was shorter he had muscles that were clearly the result of hard physical training. His hair was long and dark, held in place by a thin leather thong, as was the way of elves.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Seanchai asked. “Do you know where my uncle’s village is?”

  Rhoddan finished drinking, closed his canteen and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Yochai gave me a place to head to. I doubt it’s your uncle’s village. I would give that information away if I were captured and tortured. No one ever knows everything, not unless they’re willing to kill themselves or die before revealing it. We calhei are never given such an honor.”

  “Honor?”

  Rhoddan glanced up. “When you strive to become a warrior, you must be prepared to sacrifice your life for freedom, for those who remain free, and for those who dream of one day being free. Don’t you understand that?”

  “It’s new to me,” Seanchai shrugged. “My life was quite simple until a few days ago. My father was a blacksmith and my mother a healer-storyteller. I assumed I would follow in her footsteps.”