Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  “Look down at the square. Do you know what those areas of construction are?”

  “Yes, sir, General Tarlach. The stage, the pavilion, and the stand for the special guests, sir.”

  “Good man. Are you aware that we are planning an execution on the stage?”

  “Yes, sir. The traitor and some elf scum, sir.”

  “Now look around and imagine that you wanted to save them. What would you do? How would you go about it?”

  “Sir?”

  “How would you attack the celebration and rescue your friends?”

  “I wouldn’t, sir. I’m loyal to the Emperor and I’ve served under your command for five years, sir.”

  The general sighed. A good soldier required discipline, fitness, and a single-track mind. Creative thinking was not part of the job description.

  “Just try to imagine yourself in the shoes of the rebels. What would you do?”

  The man stared around and creased his brow in concentration. “Sir. I wouldn’t try here. I’d try to break into the garrison. Like they did before.”

  “Yes, so would I,” Tarlach replied. “But we found their passage and sealed it. We haven’t found any more. What else?”

  “Hmm. How many of them are there this time, sir?”

  “What?” The general looked at the soldier.

  “Well, sir,” the soldier gulped. “Are we talking about a small party like last time or a full assault?”

  “That’s a very good question.” The general stroked his beard. “Good work, man. Now go find Bortand, my assistant, for me.”

  It was ten minutes before the portly Bortand came wheezing up to the general. Tarlach suppressed a smile when he saw that his assistant was winded from climbing the stairs to the battlements and needed a minute to compose himself.

  “Any problems, Mr. Bortand?”

  “No…sir…right…as…rain,” He was panting from exertion and bent over with his meaty hands on his knees.

  “You are doing a disservice to yourself if you fail to keep fit. What would you do if you ever needed to defend yourself?”

  “Me…sir…I would…bury my enemies…under a pile of memos, sir.”

  General Tarlach chortled. “Excellent, Bortand. They would have no chance.”

  Bortand straightened up and took a deep breath. Though his chubby face was red, his breathing was under control. “Aaah. Now, sir, what, um, what can I do for you?”

  General Tarlach pointed below. “What do you think the Emperor was telling us when he mentioned to expect the unexpected?”

  Bortand considered this for a moment before replying. “He knows or fears something that he cannot communicate to you through, um, normal channels. Something secret.”

  “The rumors about this special one. Is that it?” Tarlach asked.

  “I think it might be, my general. But how would he know something that is happening here when, um, we haven’t heard anything, ourselves? Doesn’t he get all his, um, information from us?”

  The general nodded. “What if it’s not information? What if it’s a…a prophecy, or something?”

  “You think a prophecy would spook the, um, Emperor? He doesn’t seem the type to be, um, superstitious.”

  “No,” said the general. “Then what are we missing?”

  They stood in silence for a long time, Bortand fidgeting, doing his best to keep warm, and Tarlach ramrod straight and impervious to the cold.

  “What are we missing?” General Tarlach mused.

  The gathering dusk offered no reply.

  Forty-Seven

  That evening, Mhari watched her student eat in heavy silence, Seanchai was clearly apprehensive at the prospect of reentering the world, finding his way to Galbrieth, and dealing with more humans than he had ever seen. She thought how, since leaving his parents, the young elf had always leaned on Ilana, Rhoddan and Shayth, or now herself.

  Seanchai had said earlier how he had assumed they would go out, two Wycaans together. But instead, he would be alone with the momentous task of rescuing his friends from a heavily guarded fortress. However intimidating his exterior, Mhari knew that inside, Seanchai remained a young, inexperienced elf. And she knew he was aware of this as well.

  Mhari sighed inwardly. There was still so much she wanted to teach Seanchai, and the idea that she would not be there to counsel him through his first steps as a Wycaan worried and frustrated her. Her student had no idea how limitless his power was, and if Mhari could not bring reinforcements to Galbrieth, then Seanchai was going to learn a very hard lesson very quickly.

  Mhari was not confident that she would find the Tutans. The desert was enormous, and even if she found them, she didn’t know if she could persuade them to join her and fight. Last time she had fought with them against the Emperor, Targs, the leader then, had blamed her for not engaging and killing Tarlach. Mhari had counseled them not to fight and then led their escape when everything had gone wrong, saving many lives in the process. But for Targs, this had not been enough. Hundreds of his people were massacred and later, their villages and land destroyed. He wanted Tarlach dead.

  They finished their meal, and Mhari had Seanchai recite back their plan. In the morning they would make an early start.

  They sat down together on the hill looking out at a sky full of stars and a half-hidden moon, where Mhari imparted her final words of wisdom. “Don’t get impatient, Seanchai. Think through every scenario before you make a move. You will prevent many innocent deaths that way.” The old woman cleared her throat. “I also want to discuss what you will do after Galbrieth.”

  “Will we not continue studying together?” Seanchai’s voice betrayed his alarm.

  “Maybe. But I don’t believe it’ll happen. You know your training here has been far from complete. There are also things you must learn from the elves–things I cannot teach you. Each Wycaan wields power specific to his or her race.

  “We spoke before of the Elves of the West and the great forest of Markwin. That is where you need to seek out your next teacher.”

  “But what about the Emperor?”

  “You are nowhere near the level you need to be to fight the Emperor. And, even when you reach your zenith, you will not be able to complete the task alone.”

  Seanchai frowned. “Then how will we do this? How can we defeat him?”

  Mhari sighed. “Remember how an elf formed the Great Alliance that stood for a hundreds of years?”

  Seanchai nodded.

  “There is no army of Wycaans. You must forge a great alliance among elves, dwarves and men.”

  “How?” Seanchai whispered.

  She put a hand on the elf’s shoulders and said in a quiet voice. “I have known you for only a short time, Seanchai. But I am convinced that it will be your compassion, your ability to make friends–not your skill in battle–that will tip the scales of history.”

  Neither Seanchai nor Mhari slept well that night, and they rose with the first hues of dawn. The young elf saddled Snowmane and tied his bags carefully. When Mhari was ready to go, he hugged her tightly. “Be careful, my teacher,” he quavered.

  “You too, Seanchai. Remember to keep yourself covered. You have yet to see yourself in a clear mirror. Cultivate your energy whenever it is safe to stand. Practice your Bushido Dao, but never think of yourself as invincible. Remember, there is always a better swords master out there than you. And Seanchai–”

  “Yes?”

  “If I fail to come to your aid, you may have to make a choice between your friends and your destiny.”

  “My friends share my destiny,” Seanchai retorted.

  “Such an answer,” Mhari replied, shaking her head as she mounted the horse she had been lent from her friends in the hamlet. “That is what I fear the most.”

  “Then let’s hope we meet in Galbrieth,” Seanchai replied. “Ride well, Mhari.”

  “You too, Seanchai. You too.”

  As Seanchai watched Mhari ride southeast a wave of anxiety rose in him. He was an
xious to move on and try to save his friends, yet afraid to put distance between himself and his teacher. He sighed and turned Snowmane towards the mountains in the north.

  The road back to camp was one that led into Galbrieth. Seanchai was tempted to follow it and go straight to the aid of his friends, but the endless stream of people traveling to Galbrieth kept him adhering to his teacher’s plan. Many of the travelers were families or merchants hoping to sell their wares, and all spoke with great anticipation about the Emperor’s birthday.

  Seanchai kept himself hidden inside his hooded cloak. He distanced himself from the travelers as best he could and longed for the solitude he had enjoyed with Mhari.

  On the outskirts of a small town, the road crossed a river that flowed through the Vale of Galbrieth. Seanchai stared into the current for a few moments, deciding whether to heed Mhari’s plan or deviate from it, and then left the road to follow the river upstream into the mountains, as he had been instructed.

  For the next two days, he rode steadily and watched the river become a stream as it neared the mountain range. He was generally alone and able to practice his standing exercises, but he never drew his swords for fear that he would be noticed. Mhari had warned him that the duel swords were not known in this part of the empire and would stand out if he practiced with them.

  He was an alert traveler and scryed often as he tried to see if anyone was following. No one gave him any trouble, though a hooded rider, heavily armed and traveling alone, while not uncommon, was often best left alone.

  Still, Seanchai breathed a sigh of relief when he entered the mountain range. Though the paths were narrower and the possibility of ambush greater, he was relieved when he ceased to pass anyone else traveling. At the end of the second day, he stopped within eyesight of the lake.

  As soon as Seanchai finished cooking his meal, he extinguished the fire. He ate, and went through his standing exercises. He stretched upon finishing and looked around. In the anonymity of darkness, he drew his swords and practiced without regard for time.

  Forty-Eight

  Rhoddan and Shayth watched as both Tutans, apparently unconscious, were thrown unmercifully into the third prison cell in their alcove. They had clearly been beaten, but since neither was the Tutan who could speak, Rhoddan was not worried that they had given away information. It occurred to him that he was not sure what secrets they could reveal.

  “Shayth? Why is Tarlach interrogating them at all? Is there any information that the Tutans might give up?”

  Shayth shook his head, “I’m sorry these peaceful nomads got involved in this mess. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

  Rhoddan lay on his cot and yawned. He often slept during the day, as he exercised at night when the guards almost never patrolled. Even if they did, he would see their torches long before they would see him doing strengthening exercises, stretching or running on the spot. Rhoddan was a warrior; he would be ready to fight if he got the opportunity.

  Something bothered him about the Tutans’ involvement. He turned to Shayth. “I had no knowledge of the Tutans before all this. Did the general know of their existence?”

  “Oh, yes,” Shayth replied. “Tarlach led the army that massacred their people before they fled into the desert. But that doesn’t explain why he’s interrogating them. He must know he can’t communicate with them.”

  “Perhaps it’s to serve as a warning to us,” Rhoddan suggested. “They worked me over pretty badly before I became your bait.”

  “Yes. I’m worried that they’ll go after Ilana next. I doubt they’ll harm me too much. At the gallows, all eyes will be upon me. They won’t want people to see me beaten and feel sorry for me. How come you never broke when they tortured you?”

  “I decided not to try and be the…you know.” Rhoddan’s voice quivered. “I knew I couldn’t keep it up. So I stayed silent as long as possible. When I finally did speak, I had a story planned. I told them I was part of a small group of wannabe rebels who stole, more than anything else, because we were always hungry.

  “When they told me they had been hunting a special one, I told them that I had heard rumors but assumed he was a human. My story sounded plausible enough and they would’ve lost interest completely if not for the fact that I’m an elf.”

  Shayth nodded thoughtfully. “We should make sure that Ilana has the same story,” he said as he closed his eyes for yet another nap.

  It was nighttime when the scrape of boots on the stone floor woke Shayth. The rock alcove glowed with the burning torches of at least six soldiers. Keys jangled in the cell door, and the officer pointed his baton at Shayth.

  “General Tarlach wants to see you.”

  “How convenient,” Shayth sneered, daring them to punish him for insolence. “I just so happen to have an hour open for him right now.”

  The soldiers did not react, and Shayth was mildly disappointed. If any other prisoner, especially an elf, had cheeked up to a guard like that, he would have been beaten to a pulp.

  Shayth walked out of the cell and was immediately engulfed by the guards. Another sixer waited at the edge of the alcove to march him up to the General’s office.

  One soldier knocked on the heavy oak door and a small plump man opened it. Bortand, General Tarlach’s assistant, smiled at the young prisoner and invited him inside as if he were a guest at a dinner party. When the guards tried to follow, the general’s deep voice stopped them.

  “Post guards outside my door and at regular intervals down each corridor. I also want guards beneath my windows. Otherwise, we’re to be left alone.” He turned to Shayth. “If you try to escape, I will kill the she elf, and I’ll do it slowly. The Emperor won’t care if you are down a couple of friends on his birthday. And I can always find more elves.”

  Then Tarlach dismissed Bortand. “You can go to bed, old friend.”

  “Thank you, General. Send for me if, um, the need arises.”

  Tarlach waited for the door to close before he continued. “Please, sit. There’s food and ale on the table. Help yourself.”

  “So what’s the joke?” Shayth had not moved.

  “Joke?”

  “The food, the wine, the hospitality. It’s laughable.” Shayth pushed his hair back from his face.

  “Well, I could do this the unpleasant way, but there seems no point. The Emperor doesn’t want you messed up, and, while we have your friends in the dungeon, we have easy ways to ensure you cooperate.”

  Shayth mulled this over and ultimately rose to take some food. He picked up two plates and offered one to the general.

  “I have eaten,” Tarlach said. “Thank you.”

  “Then me too,” Shayth responded, and tossed everything back down on the general’s desk. The plates spun for a few moments and made the only sound in the room. Then Shayth spoke. “What do you want? And please, don’t offer me a pardon.”

  “There is no amnesty,” Tarlach replied. “So unless the Emperor himself intervenes, my hands are tied.”

  “I know that feeling,” Shayth responded wryly.

  “What I need to know, Shayth, is whether he will come?”

  “The Emperor?”

  “No, your friend,” Tarlach leaned in. “The one we call the special one.”

  “I have no special friend,” Shayth replied. “I have no friends, period. Those elves might have actually become friends in time. But I guess we’re not going to find out.”

  “Making friends was never one of your talents,” Tarlach observed, and Shayth inadvertently stiffened. “Now, what about the Tutans?”

  “Probably hoping to meet you. Maybe they came for a cultural exchange since you have visited their people in the past. I’m sure the Tutans don’t exactly hold you in high esteem…or many others, come to think of it. Making friends wasn’t one of your talents either, was it?”

  Shayth was pleased to see Tarlach’s hand flex into a fist. He was going to enjoy himself since Tarlach was instructed not to hit him. The general was a finely trained and
disciplined soldier. He would not disobey orders.

  “How many of these desert men were with you and how did they join you?”

  Shayth yawned and tried to sound nonchalant. “That was the strange thing. They just kind of attached themselves. Maybe they understand better than they let on.”

  “How many?” The general demanded.

  “I’m not sure …” Shayth thought of Rhoddan’s advice to have a believable story. He was amused by the growing irritation on the general’s face. “Two entered the tunnel with us. But they could have been switching in and out with others and I wouldn’t have known. They all look the same to me.”

  “Are they linked with this special one?”

  Shayth shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if there is a special one. I’ve heard rumors, like you. When I met the elves, they were sniffing around. But they were easily distracted if they picked up the scent of ale or gold.”

  “What I want to know, Shayth, is if they will come together?” The general leaned forward, his voice low and intense.

  “What? Who?” Shayth was suddenly interested. What was worrying Tarlach?

  “Is there some kind of alliance between the elf and the desert men?”

  “Rhoddan? No, he’s a kid. And you would know after what you did to him.”

  “You know who I mean.”

  “This special one?” Shayth parroted Rhoddan’s script. “An elf? I assumed he’s a man, if he exists to begin with.”

  “Maybe. But our sources suggest he’s an elf.”

  “I really wouldn’t know.”

  There was little else to say. Shayth rose from his chair and turned to go. But Tarlach stopped him at the door.

  “Shayth?”

  “Yes?” Shayth turned, wary.

  “Just for my own personal curiosity: Do you regret what you did?”

  Shayth stared intently at the general, debating at length how to answer, or if he should at all. “I regret many of the people I have killed,” he said eventually. “Is that what you mean?”