by Alon Shalev
Seanchai hesitated.
“I am your master,” Mhari roared and she grabbed her apprentice even tighter. “Swear to me, Seanchai. Swear you will reforge the alliance.”
Seanchai’s body shook. “But I came all this way to rescue my friends, and we are so close. You helped me achieve–”
“Not them,” Mhari yelled and Seanchai felt a massive wave of power growing inside his teacher. Then he knew. Mhari was not referring to Ilana, Rhoddan, and Shayth.
“Not you,” the young elf pleaded. “Please.”
“Yes,” Mhari’s eyes were wide, her skin glowing red. “I failed the Tutans once before and, still, they answered my call. I have dedicated my life to this moment. You accepted me as your master. Swear to me. Let me fulfill my destiny, and swear that you will fulfill yours.”
They stared at each other. Seanchai shook his head, but couldn’t avoid Mhari’s iron gaze. He felt the intense heat emanating from his teacher’s body and knew then what was about to unfold.
“I swear,” said Seanchai, tears welling in his eyes. “Ashbar,” he whispered the binding oath in the ancient language.
Mhari released him and strode out to the others. “To Seanchai!” she boomed. “To Seanchai!”
And as the desert men and the elves gathered around Seanchai, Mhari cried out to them. “THE ALLIANCE! REFORGE THE ALLIANCE!”
Then she turned and strode toward the great walls of Galbrieth. Arrows rained down on her. Some missed, others seemed somehow to be repelled, but too many reached their marks. With arms outstretched and palms facing the wall, she continued forward, summoning the elements of earth and wind.
The ground let out a mighty shriek as a crack appeared near Mhari. Rock plates, dormant for millions of years, yielded, and the power of the land of Odessiya herself flowed up from the bowels of the earth and through the Wycaan Master. Her body was bathed in yellow and gold as the power released through her palms smashed into the great stone walls. The wind howled above them and people clasped their hands over their ears in terror.
Mhari walked on.
Most soldiers fled, but a few remained frozen in terror on the battlements. The old woman reached the wall and the huge stones dissolved at her touch. A flash of golden light left her fingertips, followed by a second, and a third. A mighty groan came forth from the rocks in the wall, where stones at the top, battered by the wind and the hewn blocks at the bottom crumbled as the earth beneath it buckled and gave way.
And the mighty walls of Galbrieth collapsed in a colossal explosion. Soldiers screamed and fell, and the huge rocks crashed down on Mhari, Wycaan Master of Odessiya.
Sixty-Six
Seanchai felt his teacher’s life energy dissipate. He screamed and whirled, looking for someone to fight. Rhoddan grabbed him and shouted into his ear. “Now. We must leave now.” Seanchai threw him off and the elf flew back. Seanchai saw only white, hot, pure fury fueled by the image of Mhari crushed under the wall, as she died to save them all.
He wheeled around, both swords held high. He needed an enemy to kill. Those surrounding him shrank back in fear. Only Ilana stood her ground, tears streaming down her cheeks and her arms held out wide.
“For Mhari,” she said, her voice shaking. “Don’t let her sacrifice be in vain. Fulfill your oath for your teacher, your people, and for us, Seanchai.”
The white-haired elf glared at her, his chest heaving as he struggled to contain the boiling rage. Time froze. Then Seanchai turned and stepped over the rubble that was once the great walls of Galbrieth. Soldiers caught outside the wall fell swiftly under his swords and his grief.
They fled into the Vale, turning toward the mountains and running through a plantation of trees planted by General Tarlach as a gift to the city after he had conquered it. When they came out the other side, Seanchai saw the gorge that would take them up into the mountains. But as they ran into the open, a horn blew and a line of cavalry charged down on them from the north. General Tarlach’s reinforcements had arrived.
The Wycaan looked around for a path to take, or even a defensible area. There was nothing. As the warhorses thundered toward them in unison, Seanchai ordered everyone to form a wedge behind him at the point.
“Together,” he cried. “Elves, humans, and Tutans. An alliance. We stand as one. Be brave. Hold strong.”
Just then, another horn blew, this one he recognized was hewn of elven craft. More horsemen poured out from the gorge itself. “Elves!” someone cried, and as the two cavalries clashed, Seanchai raised his swords above his head and roared.
They charged forward and attached Tarlach’s cavalry from behind. Seanchai tore through his enemy, sorrow fueling him like a flame as he cut down countless soldiers.
A bearded officer jumped from his wounded horse and charged Ilana. She backed up and braced herself, but tripped over a body lying on the ground behind her. The soldier laughed and raised his sword. But as it came down to deliver the final blow, a huge body crashed into him.
“Get up, girl,” a voice roared. “I tasked you to look after Seanchai.”
“Father!” she cried.
But there was no time to talk. Uncle turned and killed the officer he had sent sprawling, then disappeared into the melee.
The battle did not last long and when it was over, Uncle led them deep into the mountains. As the sun set, it bathed the valley in blood red light. Seanchai stood on a rock and stared down at the dust cloud that still hung above Galbrieth. He could think only of Mhari, crushed beneath the huge stones. Shayth and Rhoddan came to stand on either side of him. They were cut and bruised, but victorious, and together. A huge elf strode toward them, one muscular arm circling Sellia’s shoulders and the other around Ilana.
Seanchai stared at him in disbelief, using all his energy and discipline to focus. When the Wycaan spoke, his voice was soft, his physical and mental fatigue washing over him. “I didn’t think you’d arrive on time or even heed my call. Thank you, Uncle. Your help was critical.”
Uncle beamed at Seanchai and then bowed his head. “How could I not come to rescue my daughter? Or refuse the call of a Wycaan warrior?”
“Your daughter?”
“Seanchai,” Ilana smiled for the first time in ages, “meet my father.”
Seanchai stared at the huge elf, who laughed and then pulled Seanchai into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry for the death of your master,” Uncle said once they had disengaged. “But now is not the time to mourn. You must decide your next move.”
Seanchai nodded, and his gaze went back to the city where his teacher lay. In a commanding voice he called to the elves, men, and Tutans around him. “Bear witness. Many brave friends died today so that we might be free. Under the stones of Galbrieth lies Mhari, Wycaan Master and Teacher. She died fulfilling her destiny. May we all have the honor to die as she did.”
There was respectful murmuring and nodding of bowed heads. Then Uncle asked again. “What now, Seanchai. Where will you go?”
Seanchai addressed Uncle, but his voice carried to all. “I will fulfill the wishes of my master. I will head into the west and, with the free elves, rebuild an alliance that will stand for ten thousand years. With their aid I will return and liberate the people of Odessiya.”
Rhoddan stepped forward and drew his sword into the air. As the blade left its scabbard a rasp filled the dusk air. He thrust it into the air. “And I offer you my life to fulfill your task.”
Shayth joined them, raising a nicked and bloodstained broadsword. “And you have my sword, Wycaan.”
Ilana glanced up at her father. He sighed deeply and nodded.
“And my heart,” she said, leaving her father’s side to stand beside Seanchai.
The Wycaan drew his swords and held them up with the others, a many-pointed arrow reaching into the sky. The setting sun cast one final bright beam and, as it bathed the swords in a rich, red glow, Seanchai cried: “The Alliance!”
As one, all present answered his cry.
Epilogue
General Tarlach stood on the dusty rubble that had once been his fortifications. Bortand approached with a scroll and quill. No one else dared come close.
“My general,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “We must, um, send a message to the Emperor.”
“Yes,” Tarlach replied without looking.
“Sire. What should it say?”
Tarlach stared out to a distant hill, where a flash of sunlight on metal momentarily blinded him. He sighed. “Tell him the Wycaan elf is real. Tell him that I believe he will try and reforge the alliance. Tell him,” the general hesitated, “that his nephew rides with the Wycaan.”
Bortand scribbled and then asked. “Anything else, my lord?”
“Yes. Tell him that his worst fears have been realized. Tell him…it has begun.”
WYCAAN MASTER: AT THE WALLS OF GALBRIETH
END OF BOOK ONE
Author’s Note:
Dear Friend,
If you are reading these words, you have probably arrived with Seanchai, Rhoddan, Ilana, Sellia and myself to Galbrieth. I hope you didn’t get wounded in the battle. These characters have become firm friends and I will continue the journey with them into The First Decree.
I know your time is valuable and am honored you decided to share some of it reading At The Walls Of Galbrieth. Please consider leaving a brief review if you purchased this book online. Feel free to contact me at [email protected] or sign up for my weekly blog post at http://www.elfwriter.com. I also tweet at @elfwriter.
Thank you, again,
Alon
Non-fantasy novels by Alon Shalev:
A Gardener’s Tale (Three Clover Press, 2011)
The Accidental Activist (Three Clover Press, 2010).
The Story Continues:
Wycaan Master, Book 2: The First Decree
by Alon Shalev
ISBN: 978-0-9884428-4-9 (paperback)
Tourmaline Books, Berkeley, California
Coming out in 2013
When history inscribes its impassive judgment on what transpired after the fall of the Great Alliance, let it include a chapter about the dwarves. For though men and elves will dominate its pages, the story of those who dwell underground should be known.
It was I, King Hothen the Elder, who led his warriors from the battlefield, at least those who survived. Our numbers were small and the prospects harrowing. We left our dead to the vultures and the crows, including my own father, King Goldenore. For all I knew was that I must keep our people alive.
Dwarves are brave warriors and when the armies clashed, our battalions fought in the fiercest encounters. So it was that when the piles of bodies grew, many, too many, were of noble dwarves.
With our armies decimated, I took our people to a deep cave far away and there we built mighty Hothengold. When completed, and with our numbers beginning to recover, I sent out the leaders of the six clans, ordering them to secure other such underground fortresses and seek mining opportunities as only we understand.
But also I instructed our leaders to hold faith, for as he lay on the battlefield, his soul precariously balanced between life and the great halls of our ancestors, the Wycaan Master Perridor, shared with me a vision. The Wycaans, he revealed, was massacred but not obliterated.
“Hold fast to our ways,” he whispered. “Bide your time underground in the shadows where the greedy eyes of men cannot see. Rebuild our nation and wait. For with this promise I leave you. A Wycaan will come to lead us. And he will find friendship among the dwarves, and return us to our rightful place.”
And so I took my people underground. The first law we passed was one of survival and became known as the First Decree. Following the great treachery, no man, elf or any save dwarves were allowed under the mountains. Those who wandered our way fell to our axes, and the great dwarf nation drifted out of sight and mind of ambitious Emperors.
But hearken to my words. The land of Odessiya will never heal itself until the dwarves, elves and humans are reunited. Whether with promises or blades, the alliance will one day rise and the dwarf nation will take its rightful place alongside the other great races.
Until then, my people, I counsel patience, never a strong trait among dwarves. Let us grow our clans and our wealth away from the sight of the empire, but let us never forget. Be vigilant, be patient, and wait the coming of the Wycaan.
These are the last words of Hothen the Elder, High King of the Dwarves.
From the Chronicles of King Hothen the Elder