by Alon Shalev
Seanchai had been aware of Sellia’s beauty since she had first intimidated him when they had met in Uncle’s camp. As the only two young elfes in the camp, she and Ilana were natural best friends. Sellia was an incredible archer and hunter, but had also proven herself ruthless in close combat when they had defeated General Tarlach’s army at Hothengold.
Staring at the dark-skinned elfe in front of him, Seanchai felt the anger rise. She had promised they would leave him alone if he allowed them to track him. He glanced around, trying to sense if Rhoddan and Shayth were nearby. They weren’t. Something had happened.
“Hungry?” she asked, looking up for the first time.
He approached and took the steaming bowl she offered. The soup was thick and dark. There were some roots in it and thin slivers of mushroom. He felt the warm liquid flow through his body and didn’t refuse a second or third bowl.
They sat together in comfortable silence. When he saw her rub her arms, Seanchai added some more wood to the fire and stared into the flames. He found he appreciated having her with him and, oddly, his silence made him feel guilty. He looked up. Sellia was watching him as she sat on a log across from the fire.
“Thank you for the soup,” he said.
“You’re welcome. What’s our next move?”
“Our? You think one bowl of soup makes me yours?”
Sellia smiled. “I counted three bowls. Rhoddan and Shayth have returned to Hothengold. The province of Ulster has been attacked. The king requests your presence.”
No reply.
“Seanchai,” Sellia’s voice was mellow and rhythmic. “You need to take action.”
“Why?” He snorted and immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. You can go back and report that I’m not much in the way of company.”
“I’m not going back alone,” she replied. “Either I stay with you out here, or we go together to Hothengold.”
Seanchai was on her in a flash, knocking her from the log to the ground. He had the dirk he kept in his boot at her throat, which he had exposed by yanking back her long, curly hair. She was breathing heavily, but made no attempt to stop him.
The elf could feel his eyes bulging and summoned all his strength to pull the knife away. He rose and offered her a hand. As he pulled her up, he took her tightly in his arms. He was shaking.
“I don’t want to harm you,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s good that Rhoddan and Shayth have gone back. You must leave, too.”
Sellia pulled him closer. Her voice quavered. “Not without you. I can’t.”
“You must. I might kill you.”
“Either way, then, my destiny is to die.”
He pulled away from her and stared.
Sellia took a deep breath. “I gave my word to Ilana. I swore in the ancient language. Ashbar.”
She slowly pulled out the green stone that hung around her neck. Ilana had insisted she take it. It was half a dwarf-stone. Seanchai had the other half, and the old dwarf priestess had told Seanchai and Ilana it would help them find each other even over great distance.
“You cannot fulfill your destiny alone, Seanchai. Ilana knew that, and she knew that I care strongly enough for you that it would not be a burden.”
He took a step back and shook his head, still staring at the stone. “I-I release you from your oath, Sellia.”
The elfe’s laugh was throaty. “You have many talents, my Wycaan warrior, but that’s not one.”
“When did she give you the stone?” he asked, his voice shaking.
“Before the battle for Hothengold,” Sellia replied. “She knew then. I don’t know how–”
“The old priestess foresaw it. Ilana made me swear to continue to struggle to free Odessiya and even to open myself to finding a mate if something happened to her.” He pulled out his own green stone and brought the two halves together. They connected perfectly. The sobs erupted, so violent that a flock of birds launched themselves from a nearby tree. Seanchai fell into Sellia’s arms and stayed there until his crying subsided. When he finally drew back, he saw the rivulets Sellia’s own tears had carved in her cheeks.
“You mourn her, too,” he whispered, realizing for the first time that Ilana’s death hadn’t affected only him.
“We all do,” she replied, “everyone who knew her.”
Seanchai turned and crouched by his bags. He withdrew a thin, metallic shirt and fingered it. Then he looked up at Sellia. “I will return to Hothengold, but won’t go with them to Ulster. I must return this Kings Mail to Thorminsk’s family.”
“But it was given to you freely,” Sellia replied. “Kings Mail is almost impervious to a blade or arrow. Quite handy, given your propensity for combat.”
“Yes, but it’s extremely valuable, and Thorminsk’s children are without a father. He died for me and this was meant to be his son Orenminsk’s inheritance. Orenminsk won’t ever know his father, but I will ensure he knows his father’s handicraft.”
Sellia decided not to pursue it. “What then?” she asked. “Will you go to the elves and finish your training in the west? Wasn’t that what Mhari counseled you to do before you came to rescue us in Galbrieth?”
“I can’t,” Seanchai replied. “They won’t accept me, not like this. There’s no point.”
“Won’t accept you?”
Seanchai sighed. “If they even exist, and if they even still practice the powers of old, the Elves of the West will not blindly accept me because my hair is Wycaan white. They’ll see my instability and refuse me.”
“Even if that means the downfall of Odessiya?”
“Have they shown any concern for our people up ‘til now?”
Sellia was quiet for a while. She took a stick and played with it in the fire. “Then what?” she asked.
Seanchai took a deep breath. “I will go to Ilana’s father. I must apologize to Uncle.”
Chapter Three
As Seanchai and Sellia entered Hothengold, the giant cavern buzzed with activity. Where houses had stood before the Emperor’s army had razed them to the ground were now tents. Having lived out in the wild by himself for months, the sounds of an army preparing to move seemed deafening to Seanchai.
He walked slowly past the encampment without acknowledging anyone, even Shayth and Rhoddan. In his peripheral vision, he saw dwarf soldiers steal furtive glances at his long, flowing white hair and massive build.
He and Sellia passed through the stone gates of the exterior wall, and then the second and third gates. Each time, Seanchai felt his lungs constrict even more. This was where Ilana had made her last stand, leading the dwarf army and hoping to hold out long enough for Seanchai and his troops to return. He had not returned quickly enough. He had failed her.
He climbed the steep, narrow streets, struggling not to stop as he passed the hall where Ilana had been held prisoner and fatally poisoned by General Tarlach. He clenched his jaw and resisted the desire to demolish the building with his bare hands. He could have done it and flexed his hands as he felt the power rise within him. But deep inside he knew it was a power borne of rage, and that could become the first step on a long, dark path.
He entered the hall of council and approached the guards standing outside the king’s chambers.
“I desire an audience with the High King of Hothengold,” he said tonelessly, his eyes locked forward.
Seanchai didn’t move a muscle as one guard disappeared inside and returned minutes later. “Please enter and take a seat,” the guard said stiffly.
They obliged, and Seanchai stood before an empty dais. Sellia took a pitcher of water and filled two glasses. She sipped from one and brought the other to the Wycaan, who took it without a word.
A dozen dwarf soldiers entered and flanked either side of the throne. The King entered, his crown on his head and golden axe in hand. He walked slowly and settled on his throne. Seanchai stared at the guards’ unsheathed axes.
“I must take the necessary precautions,” King Hothen said unapologetically. “B
ut know we are deeply in your debt, Wycaan, and consider ourselves as friends.”
Seanchai nodded. “You are wise to take such steps, Your Majesty.”
There followed a silence in which King Hothen seemed to want Seanchai to speak. When he didn’t, the King cleared his throat. “I would ask after your welfare, but you wear your grief plainly, and I suspect words could not do it justice.
“I will not lead your army to the Ulster province,” Seanchai said flatly.
“Are you capable of controlling your emotions and leading troops into battle?” the young king asked, concern clear in his tone. Seanchai stared at him mutely, and King Hothen nodded, his crown shaking slightly. “Then I reluctantly release you of your duty.” When Seanchai frowned, confused, he continued. “As a member of Clan Den Zu’Reising, you swore fealty to me as king. But Ballendir will lead our army, and I am glad that Shayth and Rhoddan will ride at his side.
“However, I will not pretend that I am unconcerned for your state of being–or what it means for ours. There is a path before you, and, while we can hold out for a while, we will need you to lead us in the end.”
“And what if I can’t?” Seanchai’s voice was sharp, and the soldiers bristled. This was their monarch he was addressing.
But King Hothen only smiled. “Then we will all die gloriously, and you will live the rest of your life with the guilt.”
Seanchai glared at him, but the King met his stare without flinching. “Why did you return, Wycaan, if not to lead our troops?”
Seanchai nodded, took the King’s Mail from his bag, and stepped forward. Immediately, four soldiers closed in front of him, denying him access to the king.
For a fleeting moment, Seanchai considered drawing his blades and slaying them, but Sellia’s hand was already on his shoulder and he stilled his anger. He handed the mail to the nearest soldier.
“What is this?” King Hothen asked.
“This is the King’s Mail given to me by Thorminsk of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster. It was his, and he refitted it for me to wear in battle. Thorminsk died fighting the pictorians, a small, talented artisan against eight-foot killing machines. I saw him fall to their First Boar, Umnesilk. As Thorminsk drew his final breaths, I promised to make sure his son would learn of his father’s skills. The King’s Mail should return to Ulster so that Thorminsk’s family may have the resources denied by his sacrifice.”
The King took the chain mail and examined it closely. “This is indeed fine work. Thorminsk’s death is a loss to our entire nation.” He handed the mail to the soldier and signaled with his head that it should be returned to Seanchai. “This gift was given to you freely so that you might serve a higher purpose than Thorminsk could ever have hoped to achieve, even with his considerable talents. I am sure the sight of you wearing it helped him pass smoothly to the halls of our ancestors.
“I will not dishonor him by taking it back. You will wear it and fulfill your destiny so that Thorminsk’s family can live in freedom. I will ensure that his family receives a tribute from my treasury to ease their financial burdens.”
“But–”
“But nothing,” he replied. “I am your king, and I have spoken.”
Seanchai bristled and, again, Sellia squeezed his shoulder. He nodded, and then bowed his head. “Then, with your majesty’s permission, I will take my leave.”
“Go rest,” the King said. “I do not want you to leave in front of my troops as they prepare for battle. Tonight you will set forth under cover of darkness. I will order four horses and adequate supplies prepared.”
“Four horses?” Seanchai knew the dwarves did not have vast numbers of horses at their disposal.
“You will travel as hard as you physically can. Alternate the horses and keep them fresh. Do what you must and complete your training. But remember, the longer you take, the more innocent people like Thorminsk will perish.
“You carry a heavy heart, Seanchai Elf Warrior. But you also carry the hopes of all who live in servitude. Wherever your destiny takes you, it takes us all. Go find yourself and return to us as the Wycaan Master that all Odessiya cries out for.”
Chapter Four
Phineus, the Crown Prince, heir to the Empire of Odessiya, retreated under a storm of vicious blows. He parried with his sword and shield as he took one step back and then another. The flash of the broadsword as it whistled through the air in another deadly arc brought the prince to one knee, and a wave of panic stirred and immediately dissipated in his stomach.
The next blow splintered his shield, so he threw it at his adversary and rolled away. As he sprung to his feet, Phineus heard the Sword Master’s whistle to stop, but his opponent came on, oblivious to the order.
Phineus crouched, his breathing heavy and his sword before him. As his adversary whirled his sword for another attack, a huge man crashed into the soldier, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The prince watched as the soldier rolled fluidly back on his feet, but this time a sword tip at his throat stopped him advancing. The soldier stood, panting, then ripped his helmet off and flung it to the ground. It rolled to Phineus who stopped it with his boot.
The Sword Master lowered his sword and slapped the soldier across the face. “Are you mad, Ahad? Do you think killing the Crown Prince will avenge your father? Would the great General Tarlach have approved of such behavior? When you are in my academy, I don’t care if you are the Emperor’s favorite, or the Crown Prince’s best friend. I don’t care if you spar the Crown Prince or a common soldier. You will obey my orders. Is that clear?”
Still panting heavily, Ahad nodded and slid his sword into its sheath.
“I didn’t hear you, soldier,” the Sword Master bellowed.
The young man just stood there, his chest heaving, a dark scowl marring his face. The Sword Master slapped him again, and Ahad’s face whipped to the side. Phineus made to intervene, but the Sword Master flashed a hand at him.
“I am the Emperor’s Sword Master, entrusted to train his finest. I will have order in my academy. I will have discipline. When I tell a soldier to stop, he stops. When I tell him to jump, he jumps. You will obey my orders. Is that clear?”
Ahad turned his dark eyes to the burly, gray-haired man.
“Yes sir,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “You are correct. I apologize.”
Phineus watched the veteran officer’s shoulders relax. Now his raised hand went to the boy’s shoulder.
“Ahad,” the Sword Master’s voice was softer now, “your father, General Tarlach, was a great man, the finest soldier I ever trained. Perhaps he was the greatest fighter that passed through my tutelage, but that was not what made him the Emperor’s most trusted officer. Your father possessed a brilliant mind. He could out-think his enemy, whether it was one man or a whole nation. He brought the Galbrieth province to heel–not with bloodshed, but with strategy. He brought enemies to the court and turned them into allies.
“I see your skill with the sword. It’s impressive. You may yet surpass your father’s ability. The gods alone know that with your continual growth spurts, you will certainly surpass even his statue.
“The Emperor has shown his faith in you. He has allowed you to train nonstop with the finest teachers. He has allowed you to study with the assassins and, most of all, he has trusted you to spar with his only son, the Crown Prince of Odessiya.
“But if he were to ask me today, I would have to tell him that you are not fit to serve. Even the greatest warrior must have calmness and perspective inside of him. He must have self-control at all times. Your mourning for your father, your hate for the scum that cut him down. . .”
“Shayth,” Ahad hissed, and even the Sword Master was momentarily stopped by his virulence.
“. . . and your very desire to kill Shayth is preventing you from advancing toward that goal. The Crown Prince here is your equal with the sword, yet he defends and retreats so that you can vent your rage. But he could finish you off because, in your rage, you ex
pose yourself.
“Perhaps that is how Shayth defeated your father, by preying on whatever loyalty and emotions the venerable general still held for Prince Shindell.”
“I’ve heard all this,” Ahad snapped.
“You have heard it, but you have not accepted it. You want the Emperor to let you ride out and find Shayth and the elf, but you will only be allowed to go when you are ready.”
“I am ready,” Ahad jerked his head, and his hand moved to his scabbard.
“You are not. Hear the words of an old, experienced warrior. I tell you that you are not. You have the skills that I have taught you, and, in another month, you will conclude your training with the assassins. Then you will need to prove that you are ready here.” The Sword Master tapped Ahad’s head. “You still have plenty of work to do. You are dismissed.”
Phineus noticed that, though the Sword Master had dismissed Ahad, it was the old man who turned and walked away. As Ahad stormed off in the other direction, Phineus sighed. He knew that the Sword Master was correct.
He had met Ahad a year ago. General Tarlach’s son was a scholar then, an academic, and possessed only a passing interest in combat. The Crown Price was the opposite: a fine soldier at the age of fourteen, but a terrible student. When General Tarlach had gone in pursuit of Shayth and the elf, and Ahad’s mother had left the capital to tend to her ailing mother in some remote province, the Emperor had brought Ahad into the palace to study with and tutor his son.
Phineus had initially resented his new babysitter, but Ahad had been creative in helping the prince find new ways to learn that worked for him. In return, Phineus had arranged for Ahad to study under the finest trainers in weapons, horsemanship, and strategy. Now they were nearly inseparable as they studied and trained together, and the Crown Prince conceded that Ahad had grown into a formidable soldier.