Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  “No, I meant betraying your father’s name and how you left things with your uncle, the Emperor.”

  “Uncle?” Shayth spat the word venomously as he turned and slowly walked to the general’s desk. “Yes, I have regrets. I regret that I’m to die here and will never get the chance to slit his miserable throat or drive my sword through the place where his heart should be. Is that what you mean?”

  Shayth leaned forward, his fists on the desk. When he spoke again, he struggled to keep the rage under control. “What about your regrets, Tarlach? Do you have any? Can you even sleep at night? My father was your best friend.”

  The general’s face tightened and he stared stonily into Shayth’s eyes. When he did not reply, Shayth turned and walked out.

  Forty-Nine

  Seanchai woke at dawn. He was stiff from his training the night before but credited the strenuous routine with easing his anxieties and allowing him to fall asleep. Without waiting to eat, he led Snowmane down to the lake. Seanchai reminisced when he had come here with Mhari in the early mornings and watched the wisps of mist rise from the water as the sun warmed it.

  He smiled to himself as he recalled the first time Mhari had brought him here. She had instructed him to bathe and, when he had protested about the cold water, had thrown him in, together with his clothes. This reminded him that he should probably bathe again while here.

  About an hour later, he arrived at the small grove, where they had harvested the danseng root. Seanchai guided Snowmane into the trees and unsaddled him. The horse seemed happy to graze. Seanchai looked up and down the shore of the lake for signs of life and, seeing none, he left the glade and walked down to the water.

  He undressed, cut some soapwort stems, and entered the water to bathe and wash his clothes. This was the first time that he had been in the water since his initiation in the cave. He began his exercises and submerged underwater. It felt safe. Chilly water rushed through his body, and embraced it into his lungs as he walked out into the lake.

  He hadn’t been under long when he sensed distress on the surface. He walked back toward the shore and cautiously peeked above the water. Snowmane stood at the edge neighing, having seen his rider go under and not resurface. Seanchai hugged the horse’s neck, enjoying the warmth emanating from the steed, while Snowmane vocally chided him.

  “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Next time I’ll warn you first.”

  Seanchai dressed in the grove and looked at the earth where the danseng root had been harvested. He wondered if he could scry for the plant. He didn’t need any now as Mhari had a supply in her camp. But it might be useful to learn for the future.

  He sat and closed his eyes, summoning the energy to fill himself. He relaxed his body and, after filling himself with energy, began to reach out with his mind to the young plants near him. When he recognized their signature, he began to reach out further.

  He could see into the gorges that entered the mountains nearby and followed them with his mind seeking plant life. The plant signatures he found were weak and definitely not that of the danseng.

  His mind began to follow the path that he would take to Mhari’s camp and was about to withdraw when something red and hot caught his attention. His natural reaction was to retreat, but he took a moment to collect himself and then probed cautiously.

  There were several figures, neither human nor elf, but rather wolfish: heavy-boned and covered with fur. They were unarmed, bipedal and wearing tattered clothes and boots. Weapons or not, Seanchai had no doubt they were dangerous. As he watched in horror, the pack attacked one of their own, viciously ripping it to pieces. Seanchai watched the carnage with horror, the vivid images filling his mind.

  Thank goodness Mhari had gone south, or she could easily have walked straight into her death. Seanchai would have to pass these creatures one way or another, but at least he knew what was ahead.

  They devoured their dismembered pack mate while the biggest one gave orders. The creatures fell quickly into line and moved out–heading straight for the lake, and Seanchai.

  He withdrew his mind and decided he would wait in the grove and wait for the pack to pass him by. There was a faint breeze coming from the lake, so they shouldn’t pick up either his or Snowmane’s scent. He just had to keep his horse quiet.

  He didn’t wait long before he saw the pack enter the basin and approach the lake to drink. Seanchai felt a chill rise up his spine as he suddenly realized that he had left a trail of footprints from the lake where he had bathed back to the grove.

  He took a deep breath and focused his mind on the sand between the grove and the lake. A calm feeling went through him and a word seemed to appear in his mind. He began chanting Moriarhtur, Moriarhtur, Moriarhtur.

  As he did he felt the breeze pick up and move in an easterly direction. Grains of sand tumbled across and began to cover over his tracks. He continued to whisper the word with increasing intensity. Moriarhtur, Moriarhtur, Moriarhtur. The breeze became a wind and more grains moved across the footprints he had left. In moments, he had created a sandstorm.

  The pack leader looked up, puzzled by the sudden change in weather. They tightened their formation and all moved on four legs. The pack passed right in front of Seanchai. He was shielded from sight by the sandstorm his chant had created, but they stopped too close for comfort to sniff around the now-covered tracks.

  Seanchai kept murmuring Moriarhtur, Moriarhtur, but the pack’s attention was diverted away from his tracks to further down the lakeshore. Something, or someone was there.

  Seanchai hurriedly reached out with his mind, balancing his scrying and holding the sandstorm. He saw three figures on horseback headed toward him and the beasts, hoods drawn over their heads to protect them from the whirling sand.

  Though he could not see them with his mind, he was sure that they were elves. They were riding into a trap; oblivious to the danger because of the windstorm he had created. A wave of panic rose inside of him as he realized he would be responsible for leading innocent elves to their deaths.

  Fifty

  General Tarlach could not sleep that night. He had known that Shayth would not give up information easily–definitely not without Tarlach being able to use torture. He could have broken him, he could break anyone, but he had a feeling that even then Shayth would take quite a beating before relenting. Still it was only theoretical. The Emperor wanted Shayth to look physically fit when he walked to his execution.

  He should not have summoned the boy. Nothing good could have come from it. He had known that and yet was driven to speak with him alone. He had known Shayth since he was a baby crawling. Tarlach had trained in the academy with Shayth’s father, Prince Shindell, and they had been close friends with sons around the same age. The boys grew up together much to the delight of their parents. General Tarlach was a young officer then and didn’t know or understand the politics of the time. Or perhaps he had allowed himself to be oblivious until tragedy had forced him to put the pieces together later.

  None of the Emperor’s wives had bore him a child, so he showed great interest in Shayth–his potential heir–as he grew. But the Emperor was known for his temper and when Tarlach returned on leave from a very successful campaign in the Galbrieth region, he had sensed the growing tension in the capital.

  Prince Shindell would never share anything with Tarlach concerning palace politics, and that was as much for Tarlach’s safety as traditional loyalty among royal families. But Tarlach’s wife had told him that she and their son, Ahad, had not been invited over as often as before. When she did spend time with Shayth’s mother, the beautiful woman seemed depressed and distant. There were also rumors that the Emperor had sired a son with another woman and this was a source of tension within the royal family. But Tarlach was loyal to his Emperor and his best friend. He would not listen to the whispers and suddenly wanted to be back with his troops, something he understood.

  On Shayth’s fifth birthday, a party was held, first for children and then in the
evening for the adults. Tarlach’s wife had taken their son and later, she and Tarlach were invited to the evening festivities.

  Though there were many guests, the Emperor was not one of them. He had surely been invited, but chosen not to attend. Neither, from what they could discern, had he sent a gift, as it would surely have been the most opulent.

  The next morning, Tarlach received orders to return to the Galbrieth passes. He was surprised as he had just led a great victory there, and had crushed any resistance. The Emperor himself, only a few years older than Tarlach, had decorated him. Now he wanted his general to return with some of the Emperor’s own regiments. Though Tarlach was perplexed, he could not ask questions. Still he was happy for these reinforcements meant Tarlach’s own troops would be relieved and they certainly deserved a break.

  What excited him, however, was that the Emperor’s brother was to lead the company. He and Tarlach rode side-by-side, exchanging stories around the fire at night and smoking their pipes together. Away from the formalities of court, Tarlach found his old friend to be the same funny and raucous companion he had treasured during their time in military academy.

  Four days after arriving at the fort, Shayth’s father led a routine patrol. His lifeless body returned with two arrows protruding. The soldiers, all members of the Emperor’s regiment, swore they had been ambushed. Three of them had returned lightly wounded, though none had been killed.

  However, along with the Emperor’s brother, Tarlach’s two scouts had been killed in the ambush. He found this disturbing since his scouts were so accomplished. In ten years of service, no scout had ever lost his life in this way.

  Tarlach was furious and led his own troops out from the fort to find the renegades and kill them. But they found no resistance or even tracks. Tarlach terrorized the already broken villages, but gleaned no information. He tapped the smugglers and the men of commerce. Usually it was just a matter of price as the businessmen, in particular, would not risk the comfortable arrangements they enjoyed with the Emperor’s lieutenants.

  Tarlach decided to tell the Emperor himself what had happened. He bore responsibility for the Emperor’s brother and feared for his career and maybe his life. But he was a man of honor and fiercely loyal to his Emperor. He would face him and suffer the consequences.

  He had ridden through the night and was brought straight before the Emperor as dawn was breaking. He recounted all that had transpired. Only two generals were present and they asked many questions. Tarlach was a good officer and had taken all the correct steps: the right number of scouts, enough soldiers in the patrol, the follow up. There was nothing he could be faulted for and the generals both told the Emperor this in front of him.

  Tarlach had stepped forward before the Emperor and went down on one knee. “Your Majesty. Though the generals exonerate my actions, I have failed you. Know that I was a close friend of your brother, that we trained together in the academy, and that our sons play together. I wish I had taken his place and that the arrow had found me.

  “I’m sorry for failing you, my lord. I will accept any punishment you deem appropriate.”

  He lowered his head and waited. The Emperor sat on his throne, his head resting on one arm. There were black rings around his eyes and his pallor was gray. Tarlach felt even more wretched. At length, the Emperor sighed and spoke.

  “Get off your knees, Tarlach. Stand up. Though I mourn the loss of my brother I can see no way to blame you. He was a fine warrior and knew what he was doing.”

  The Emperor rose and walked to a window. Though his back was to Tarlach, the latter was sure his liege was wiping away tears.

  “My brother was a good man, Tarlach. We had our differences but I will miss him. The generals here speak highly of you as a soldier and an officer, but my brother spoke highly of you as a friend and a father.”

  The Emperor turned, his face now composed. He came and stood opposite Tarlach and put his hand on the young officer’s shoulder. Royalty usually never touched their subjects, and this was not lost on Tarlach. The Emperor’s face was sad and drawn.

  “As your Emperor, I order you to grieve for my brother but not to blame yourself. My brother believed that you would rise through the ranks and my advisers here concur. Let us be bonded by my brother’s memory.

  “But I will ask a favor. I have no experience or time to father his son, Shayth…”

  A sharp knock rapped on the door and the Emperor withdrew quickly from Tarlach. One of the generals opened the door and a woman pushed past him and threw herself on the floor at the Emperor’s feet.

  “My lord,” she cried. “Your brother’s wife…”

  The woman wailed. The other general stepped forward and pulled the woman effortlessly to her feet. He had to hold her to stop her collapsing. “What is it?” he boomed. “What has happened to your mistress?”

  The woman was shaking her head. “My lady is dead. She hung herself during the night.” She screamed into the air and her voice echoed from the high ceiling.

  There was a blur of shouts, orders given, and the woman was dragged out. Tarlach stayed where he was as a flurry of activity swirled around him. When things quieted down, he went back onto one knee. The Emperor stared at him, his face an impassive, blank page.

  “My lord,” Tarlach said, his heart tight. “Let me go to the boy. I will take Shayth into my house. He knows my son and wife. We can be a comfort for him. Let me serve you in this way.”

  The Emperor nodded and then looked at Tarlach. His stare was icy. “Never forget, Tarlach, that until such time as the Gods give me my own son, he is the heir to the throne of Odessiya, of this entire empire. Train him well.”

  Tarlach nodded, he had nothing to say. As he exited, he glanced at the general by the door. The old man’s face was impassive, void of emotion, but Tarlach caught a furtive look in the direction of the Emperor.

  Stunned at the scene he had witnessed, Tarlach walked down the long corridor from the throne room. Something was missing, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks, a cold shiver went through him. When the woman had burst in bearing the news of Shayth’s mother’s suicide, the Emperor had not appeared shocked or surprised.

  Fifty-One

  The pack crouched close to the ground, ready to spring as one unit at their leader’s command. The ungainly creatures were single-mindedly focused during the hunt. Muscles strained, claws dug into the sand, and they waited.

  The elves stopped uneasily when their horses began simpering. A dark-skinned elfe took two arrows and latched them onto her bow. The others drew long knives and moved out to flank the archer. They continued forward slowly, bracing themselves for an attack.

  It came when they were only twenty yards away, still blinded by the sand. The pack leader was at the forward horse’s throat when a long knife javelined into his side. The elfe quickly brought down another attacker with her bow before she fell, trapped with her leg under her wounded horse. Her two companions each fought and slew another beast each.

  A white-haired warrior leapt into the fray, two long, curved swords held high. He fell upon the remaining four beasts as they charged the fallen horse and elfe. His swords were a blur and it was all over within seconds.

  Stillness. Only the heavy breathing of the survivors could be heard. Steam rose from the hewn bodies of the beasts, and Seanchai ensured each was dead before turning to the travelers. Her companions were helping the trapped elfe out from under her fallen horse.

  Her horse struggled to rise, but its gaping wound kept it on the ground. The elfe walked unsteadily and then knelt by her baying steed. One of the elves gently helped her rise and offered her his horse’s reins.

  “Move away,” he said softly. “Let me.”

  “Head over to the grove,” Seanchai pointed in the direction. “My horse is inside. You can feed and settle yours. I will stay here and help.”

  The third elf took his horse and led the elfe in the direction of the grove. When they had m
oved away, Seanchai watched the remaining elf nock an arrow and aim at the horse’s heart. As he pulled the bowstring taut, he murmured: “Thank you, Amanith, brave steed. You have served us well. May you find green pastures to ever graze on.”

  His arrow did its job quickly and quietly. Almost immediately, the elf bent over and cut the dead horse open.

  “What are you doing?” Seanchai asked, consternated.

  “Horse meat is good to eat. It will feed us for a few days. Longer, if we could take the time to dry it.”

  “But … that’s her horse,” Seanchai objected.

  “Yes, and she will honor him. Eating his meat is not a sign of disrespect, but quite the opposite. He continues to serve us even in death. What honor is there in being picked to the bones by vultures and other scavengers?”

  Seanchai looked up and saw the black birds already circling. Still, he didn’t have the stomach for this. “I’ll head back to the others, if you don’t mind,” he grimaced.

  “Very well. Thank you for coming to our aid. Are there others at your camp?”

  “No,” Seanchai replied, “I walk alone.”

  When he reached the grove, the elfe was lying down with her leg elevated on a rock.

  “Are you okay, Sellia?” Seanchai asked.

  The elfe jerked and stared at him. “We’ve never met,” she said. “I’d remember an elf with white hair and two swords. Chamack must have told you my name.”

  “No, but you once saved my life and fed me on a number of occasions. Now I repay the debt.”

  She looked hard at him but then laid back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone terse. “Who are you?”

  Seanchai smiled but didn’t answer. He was happy to have company, but Mhari had cautioned him about revealing his identity. He rose and watched Chamack dragging a heavy cloth sack toward them. Deep red blood had soaked through and left a trail on the sand.