Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  Shayth took a wider berth than necessary on his way out of the cell, causing the guard to take another step back. The implication was clear to both of them, and Shayth grinned cynically.

  Rhoddan glanced at Ilana. Was Shayth cracking? What had happened in Tarlach’s office?

  Fifty-Nine

  When Seanchai felt Sellia’s hand shaking him awake, it was already well after sunrise. He had never covered any distance at such a fast pace and was surprised at the toll it took.

  He chewed on some dried goat meat and recalled how Sellia had killed one for Rhoddan and himself when they had fled from Rhoddan’s group towards Uncle’s camp. It felt like an age had passed and he reflected on how much his perception of Sellia had changed these past few days. She had been so aloof and intimidating to him before, in Uncle’s clan. Perhaps she had changed. Perhaps he had.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long,” he grumbled.

  “You needed it to restore your strength,” Sellia argued. “You’re going to be quite busy in the next few days. Anyway, I only woke you now because the road is packed and we should use the chaos to slip into the city.”

  He nodded. “Any ideas on how we can pass that checkpoint ahead?”

  “Yes. With them.” She gestured to an ostentatious caravan of brightly painted wagons, performers of all sizes and colors, and exotic, foreign animals.

  “Who are they?” Seanchai asked in wonder.

  “It’s a circus troupe. They travel to different towns and perform tricks, acrobatics, and magic. Have you never seen one?”

  Seanchai shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard about them. What’s your plan?”

  “We join them. If necessary we’ll talk with the owner. But I can see a few elves in their party. Let’s try them first.”

  They packed their bags and tied their horses to the trees. Sellia hid the saddles between rocks. Seanchai turned to Snowmane. “We’ll be back soon, old friend,” he said as he patted the horse.

  Sellia thought to contradict him, but decided against it. She was worried about the young elf’s feelings, not those of his horse. She noted that Seanchai took the bags with the book and the herbs with him.

  They walked toward the road. Sellia still limped, but it was less noticeable. As they approached the circus caravan, she suggested that Seanchai hold back. She approached a group of elves gambling with cubes on the ground and crouched down by them.

  “What do you want?” a stout elf asked , his eyes darting around. “We have no food to share.”

  “I don’t seek food,” Sellia answered. “My husband and I are traveling without papers. We want to join you and enter the city with your caravan.”

  The elves glanced at each other, back at Seanchai and then to Sellia.

  “Why don’t you have papers?”

  “We’re from Northshot. The baron there does not appreciate his tenants going anywhere that doesn’t bring him a profit. He would rather we work his fields until we die.” She drew back her hood and looked at the three elfes in the group. “The baron also has a taste for elfes. Those he takes usually don’t return. If they do, they are broken. He…” she looks down at her feet, embarrassed. “He has taken an interest in me.”

  The elfes all tensed at Sellia’s story, “We’ll help you,” one replied without hesitation, but the nervous elf slammed the cubes on the ground in frustration.

  “They could put us all in danger,” he said.

  “And if this baron had set his eyes on me, Fredrich?” the same elfe replied, looking at him with what Sellia took to be a firm but loving expression.

  He shook his head and sighed, defeated. Then he turned to Sellia. “What do you seek in Galbrieth?”

  “We plan to find the baron,” Sellia replied. “My husband will arrange for a little accident in the crowded streets. With all these people, and many of them drunk at that, there’ll be chaos. We won’t give up our little farm to him, and I won’t let him abuse or torture me.”

  There was a nod of solidarity among the elves. Only Fredrich seemed troubled. “No one must see him.” He nodded at Seanchai. “He’ll hide in our wagon. You’ll stay with the elfes. Can you dance? Sometimes the soldiers have their own price to relieve the boredom.”

  “I can,” she replied, laying her hands on her slim hips and arching her waist.

  “Good. If the soldiers find your husband, we can’t help. We will act surprised, as though he smuggled himself in. Do you understand that?”

  Sellia nodded.

  “Take him to that wagon over there. I will meet him in a few minutes.”

  Sellia did not need to dance. The soldiers at the checkpoint were overworked and expecting the circus caravan. They paid no more attention to the women and elfes than what equipment was packed in the wagons. Seanchai lay under a sheet between two long boxes. He was concealed well enough to be overlooked by a cursory glance.

  When the entourage reached their destination, the lead elf and Sellia uncovered Seanchai to let him out. As he struggled to get up, his hood fell back, and Fredrich gasped.

  Sellia had a knife at his throat before he could react. “Don’t do or say anything that we will all regret, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Fredrich replied. “It was a shock, that’s all. Are you–?”

  Seanchai smiled and replaced his cowl, but didn’t answer. The circus elf stared wondrously into his bright blue eyes until Seanchai grasped his hand. When released, Fredrich’s hand held some coins.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Seanchai said, “but I want to thank you for taking a risk and, I hope, to encourage your discretion.”

  “Thank you,” Fredrich said, nodding in awe. “This isn’t necessary, but will be put to good use.”

  “Not in the ale house,” Sellia warned. “Alcohol can loosen an elf’s tongue, make him careless.”

  “The ale houses here don’t welcome elves unless it’s to lose their money gambling,” Fredrich stiffened. Then he glanced again at Seanchai and smiled. “Go now. I’ve forgotten we ever met, but I’ll always remember meeting you.”

  “We should have asked him where the inn is,” Sellia remarked after they had wandered aimlessly for a time without locating it.

  “No,” Seanchai replied. “I don’t want him to know where we are going. Mhari said the inn is in the rough quarter. It looks like we’re getting near.”

  Thieves no doubt took in their ragged clothes and Seanchai’s imposing size allowed them to make their way unbothered until a drunken elf grabbed at Sellia and attempted to plant a kiss on her lips. He found himself spun around and the knife she poked in his back kept him at a distance and prompted him to kindly offer to escort them to the Galbrieth Arms.

  “Ain’t no good of an inn, ‘specially for us elves. I know a –”

  “We aren’t staying here,” Sellia interrupted. “We just need to deliver something to someone. And you will forget we ever met. Understood?”

  The pressure of the knife’s blade ensured that his memory was already slipping. When they saw the sign for the Galbrieth Arms, they let the drunkard go. He melted quickly into the crowd.

  They went inside, hoods up and hands on their knives. The main hall smelled of pipe smoke and stale alcohol and had a low ceiling with heavy beams crossing it. Several people were drinking in an anteroom where a band played.

  Sellia asked a waitress for Jalkieth and was directed to a table in a shadowy corner. “The one in the yellow waistcoat. But he ain’t hirin’ right now, dear.”

  They approached the table and waited until Jalkieth’s companion finished his business and left. Seanchai approached the table, leaned down and whispered, “I was sent by my master, Mhari.” The man brushed him off, but Seanchai was prepared. “You will know me when I reveal myself.”

  Jalkieth stared at him and nodded slowly. Then he rose and led them out of the inn into a one-story courtyard. He turned to his left along a row of doors, stopping and unlocking one at the very end. He offered for Seanchai to enter.<
br />
  Seanchai walked in and Jalkieth moved into the doorway to block him from view outside. Seanchai turned around to face him and removed his hood. The innkeeper gasped and involuntarily brought a hand to his mouth.

  “I trust that this room is safe?” Seanchai confirmed. “We don’t plan to stay long.”

  Sixty

  Ilana, Shayth and Rhoddan followed the staff sergeant and two soldiers out of the dungeon. Ilana realized she was actually glad to be leaving the stale air of the cells, even though it was to see where she would die. A thought occurred to her.

  “What about the Tutans?” she asked.

  “Didn’t hear them request to join you,” the officer said without turning round. The other soldiers laughed and it sounded particularly evil rebounding off the rock walls.

  The stony path proved difficult to maneuver, and she tripped twice on the cobblestones. The second time Shayth caught her, she glanced up to thank him and saw his eyes dart from her to something above.

  Ilana straightened and surreptitiously glanced up. Was that movement or wishful thinking? She locked her gaze on the stony path before her, wondering if Shayth, clearly blazing with fury and itching to vent his frustrations on someone’s face, would stay disciplined. Not much, she thought, was preventing him from exploding?

  They turned left into another corridor–this one with no windows or ceiling beams. Ilana sensed activity behind her, but kept walking so as not to draw attention. A grunt, a thud, and then a muffled yelp, which she tried to cough over. Not loudly enough–the sergeant swung round. There was only darkness behind the prisoners.

  “Bolt? Grimwitch?” The sergeant strained to control his voice.

  His remaining soldiers shoved the prisoners against the wall and rushed into the blackness, meeting a big, cloaked man with a long knife in one hand and a short one in the other. He killed both guards in one fluid movement, his short knife slicing one’s throat and circling straight into the other’s stomach.

  The sergeant, instead of drawing his own sword, reached for a whistle around his neck. It never reached his mouth. Rhoddan’s punch sent the officer crashing against the wall. Shayth was right behind him with fist raised, too. He glared at his friend.

  “That was inconsiderate,” he hissed. Ilana would have liked to see the comment accompanied by a smile.

  “Next time,” Rhoddan murmured.

  Their rescuer was dressed all in black: boots, trousers, shirt and scarf that fully covered his head and face, leaving only his eyes revealed. He strode past Shayth and Rhoddan, put his boot on the fallen sergeant’s throat, and stepped down. The sickening crack of bones echoed through the tunnel.

  Then the figure turned, ran ten paces back down the corridor, stopped and nodded his head for them to follow. Shayth bent down and grabbed the sergeant’s sword.

  “Seanchai,” Ilana whispered, a thrill coursing through her body.

  They ran after him, down one corridor, up another, and through a door hidden in a wall. He was too agile, too fast, for them to catch up to, but they didn’t care. They were escaping.

  Still, Ilana couldn’t help thinking: Why didn’t Seanchai acknowledge them–her, especially? Doubt flooded her mind. This person was bigger than Seanchai. Though he used elven weapons, he was far more fluent than Seanchai. And he knew every inch of the garrison’s underbelly–even that they would take this route at this particular time. Was there a resistance cell in Galbrieth?

  When they next caught sight of the figure, he had dispensed with two more guards, and blood dripped from his blades. He threw a sword to Rhoddan, but didn’t deliver the other to Ilana. Seanchai knew she could fight. Her heart sunk as she finally accepted that this wasn’t Seanchai. It was ironic. She had spent her time in captivity praying he would stay away, and now she was desperately disappointed that he wasn’t their rescuer.

  “You’re wounded,” Shayth said to the figure. Blood leaked from a gash across his forehead, and he reached up briefly with a gloved hand before continuing up the tunnel.

  Fresh air. Or, as fresh as it could be, given that it was in the middle of the city, but after underground incarceration, it felt rich. They entered the square teeming with people preparing for the celebration.

  But they ran straight into a regiment of soldiers going through drills. An officer reacted quickly, drawing his broadsword and booming to his infantry: “The prisoners! Take positions. Light the beacon!” He pointed his sword to the group. “Don’t move!”

  Archers drew their bows as a fire roared up next to them. Shayth braced to fight, and Rhoddan and Ilana closed in. But their rescuer turned and fled back into the caverns.

  A sixer went after him and disappeared into the dark tunnel.

  “Follow him,” Ilana cried to Rhoddan and Shayth, but, blinded by flames and smoke, they could not react faster than the two-dozen soldiers who surrounded them, soon joined by those who had run into the tunnel and returned empty-handed. The prisoners stood back to back, a ragged triangle, swords at the ready.

  “We fight,” Shayth roared. “We take as many down as we can.”

  “It’s as good a day as any to die,” Rhoddan answered his voice strangely serene. “It feels right with a sword in my hand.”

  But Ilana stepped forward, took Rhoddan’s sword, and threw it on the ground, where it clanged on the stone. Then she turned to face her friends.

  “No,” she said, voice quavering. “It’s not as good a day as any. It’s just a waste. Save yourselves. Live another day. Who knows what could happen tomorrow?”

  She was sure Rhoddan and Shayth could hear her disappointment that their rescuer was not Seanchai. But the possibility of seeing him again had filled her with a desire to stay alive as long as she could.

  “Come on,” she said and reached for Shayth’s sword. “Please,” she begged, and her voice broke. Shayth let go and Ilana turned back to Rhoddan and fell into his arms, sobbing quietly. “It wasn’t him,” her muffled voice whispered.

  They were marched into the square and to the executioner’s platform, where thick gallows with five rope nooses swung slightly in the breeze.

  “We should string ‘em up now,” growled a soldier near Ilana. “Save a lot of trouble tomorrow.”

  “After what they just pulled,” another added, “I’m sure the Emperor wouldn’t care. Bolt and Grimwitch are dead.”

  Tension was high as Shayth glared at the soldier who had just spoken. The man, realizing he was referring to the prince, averted his eyes. But the tension remained.

  “Actually, I believe the, um, Emperor would take great exception,” a pleasant voice said from behind them. Bortand shuffled up the stairs. “He was most clear concerning when and how he wants the executions to take place. I read the orders myself. Does anyone wish to take issue with the, um, Emperor?”

  No one spoke, and the soldiers shuffled awkwardly. Bortand turned to the commanding officer. “You reacted very quickly. I will make sure the general hears. Have you finished here? I suspect General Tarlach would appreciate a chat with the prisoners. I don’t think we should keep him waiting, do you?”

  “Sir,” the officer saluted, “the rescuer escaped and might be around with allies. We need more soldiers to move the prisoners.”

  Bortand looked around, quickly counting the soldiers. “I should hope you can handle three scrawny prisoners, Sergeant, with your, um, twenty-six well-trained men. Don’t you post them forward in stages or something?”

  “Yes, sir. Strategic advancing, sir.” The soldiers stood a bit straighter, smirking at Bortand’s failure to know their terminology. He knew they assumed that a fat bureaucrat would not understand their tactics, but they were wrong. Bortand knew the exact terminology. He also knew his intentional blunder had both diffused their anger and boosted their confidence. He smiled back.

  “Very well, Sergeant. Please strategically advance the prisoners to, um, General Tarlach’s office.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant even saluted. “Men, surround the pr
isoners.”

  General Tarlach was not in his office when Bortand arrived. He was probably looking for those who had attempted to aid the prisoners. Bortand peered out of the window. The garrison was lit as soldiers ran with torches, many yelling orders. Hopefully the general would run a lot too, Bortand thought. Otherwise he’d be doing a lot of yelling when he returned.

  Shayth was angry as it was, but having to wait outside Tarlach’s office again was infuriating. He thought of their last conversation here and how it had affected him. That wouldn’t happen this time.

  It was two hours before the general appeared, breathless and sweating. He walked into his office and, pulling off his helmet, went to a bowl in the corner to splash water on his face.

  Shayth, Rhoddan and Ilana stood waiting. With his back to them, General Tarlach growled, “Who helped you?”

  Met with silence, he yelled: “I said, who helped you?” He threw his helmet across the room, and it bounced on the stone floor. He turned slowly.

  “We didn’t have time for introductions,” Shayth replied, “and he was masked, before you bother to ask.”

  Determined to maintain his composure, Shayth glanced up into the general’s eyes. There, he saw something he hadn’t expected. There was dried blood crusting over a long cut across Tarlach’s forehead. Shayth opened his mouth to speak, but Tarlach eyes went wide and he smashed his fist into Shayth’s face, sending Shayth flying across the room.

  The interrogation was over.

  Sixty-One

  Seanchai fell fast asleep immediately. They had traveled hard these last few days, and he appreciated the luxury of sleeping within walls with no need to post guards or fear intrusion. Mhari had vouched for the innkeeper, and that was good enough for him.