Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  “Why did you leave him?” the elf snapped.

  Shayth didn’t answer, but an older elfe interjected. “Trust his decision, Cheriuk. Where are we going, Prince Shindell?”

  “To the pictorians,” Shayth replied, accepting the use of his linage. “We must bring them with us as we retreat.”

  The Weapons Master nodded and led the group on. Rhoddan watched, mouth agape, as the elfe’s blades became a blur. The ones called Cheriuk and Shathea were beside her, synchronized in deadly precision and leaving Rhoddan and Shayth with little to do.

  Twenty yards from the first pictorians, who were standing in a stunned group, the three elves veered around and in front of them. Umnesilk was wounded, bent on one knee.

  “We head north,” Shayth called to Umnesilk. “We’ll defend further along the plain where it’s narrower.”

  “Arrows!” someone warned, and the pictorians raised huge shields to protect from the aerial assault.

  A scream. The arrows had been a distraction from three huge crossbow arrows shot from a line of ballistae. The first impaled the Weapons Master. The second grazed Umnesilk’s shoulder and sent him sprawling. The third was meant for Shayth. Cheriuk dove across with incredible reflexes, and knocked him to the ground. Rhoddan fell with them.

  When Rhoddan rose, Shathea was kneeling, cradling the Weapon’s Master’s limp body. He went to try and still the blood, but it was no use. The wound was huge and had gone through her stomach, but the old elfe was smiling.

  “Tell Seanchai, I will send. . . his regards,” she wheezed. She coughed, and blood dripped from her mouth. She tried to grab Rhoddan, and he leaned in. “Tell him not to mourn . . . I only ever wanted to be with her again.”

  The old elfe went limp, and Shathea hugged her momentarily. She looked at Rhoddan. “Take her swords,” she said quietly, “and remember her message to the master.”

  Rhoddan was stunned by what had just happened. “Seanchai? A Wycaan Master?” He stared then at the elder as Shathea closed her teacher’s eyes. “Who’s she going to see?”

  “Mhari was her lover and soul mate. She joins her now in the great forest forever.” Shathea looked past Rhoddan. “Oh no,” she gasped.

  Rhoddan tuned his head, and saw Shayth bending over Cheriuk, his ear close to the elf’s mouth. After a moment, he rose and another elf took Cheriuk’s swords. Shayth put a hand on Rhoddan’s shoulder and another on Shathea’s.

  “I don’t understand. His dying words were to tell the Wycaan Master that he was ready to follow him.”

  Shathea nodded. “Not now,” she said.

  They headed north, two pictorians supporting Umnesilk. More elves arrived and surrounded them as they continued to fight their way through the valley. Then a mighty roar shook the ground around them, and the soldiers pulled back, staring into the sky.

  “Keep going,” Shayth cried. “Don’t stop.”

  Another huge roar echoed in Rhoddan’s ears. If the Emperor was coming, they couldn’t get caught in the open. Then again, if the Emperor was coming, all was lost, anyway.

  Chapter Eighty

  Seanchai slowly drew his Win Dao swords. They produced a fine rasping sound which bounced off the rocks. For a moment he hesitated, a pit of fear forming in his stomach. He took deep grounding breaths, trying to pull energy from the arid, sandy ground, but it was scant. He felt the Emperor doing the same, and braced himself.

  The Emperor flew at him in two unnaturally large strides. Seanchai raised his swords, and the two sparred. Gradually, the Emperor sped up until Seanchai felt he was fighting harder than ever. His adversary clearly surpassed even the Weapons Master with the sword.

  Sweat dripped off Seanchai’s face, and his muscles began to ache, but he matched his opponent blade for blade. As the axe swung toward him, Seanchai rolled and swung at the Emperor’s back, dropping him to the ground, too.

  The roll brought back on his feet, and Seanchai found himself standing over the Crown Prince’s body. He stared down at the boy’s face. “He’s no older than I am. Why did you let him come?”

  “What makes you think he came with my consent? He wanted to test himself, to make a name, to impress me. He failed.”

  “Does your heart cry for him? Do you even have a heart?”

  The Emperor screamed and leapt forward, again covering ground at a supernatural speed. His blows were faster and harder, but also more erratic.

  Seanchai fended them off with considerable effort. “You couldn’t even protect your own son,” he cried. “What makes you think you’re fit to rule?”

  The broadsword and axe rained blows upon him, and Seanchai was forced to retreat. He stumbled, and the Emperor sent him crashing into a rock. Seanchai extended his hands and pushed with his mind.

  The Emperor was lifted off the ground and shot back thirty paces, but rolled effortlessly back to his feet. Seanchai breathed heavily from exertion and took a moment to realize what he had just done. He had never mastered the use of the Empty Force.

  The Emperor rose and sheathed his sword and axe. “Nicely done,” he said. “But why do we fight as common soldiers? You have some skill as a warrior, I admit. But it takes more than that to become a Wycaan Master.”

  As he spoke, the Emperor began to shimmer and blur at the same time. His skin stretched, and he snarled with both pain and exhilaration. The intense brightness forced the elf to shield his eyes. Dust swirled around them, and, as it settled, Seanchai found himself facing a scaled, reptilian creature with a huge, spiked tail. It was a deep red but its eyes were still a cold, Wycaan blue.

  The creature rose on its hind legs and flexed massive claws. A long, forked tongue flicked from its mouth, and a voice spoke in Seanchai’s head. This is the level that distinguishes the Wycaan Master from a Wycaan Warrior. The Elves of the West should have taught you if they could, or at least warned you. You shall feel my bladed claws before I incinerate you into dust. Prepare to go meet those who have died before you. They will know your failure even as they live with their own.

  Seanchai tried to block the voice and focus on transforming into a bear. He tried to recreate the tension with the forest of Markwin, but nothing happened. The firebreather sprang forward, and Seanchai slashed with both blades. The swords met impenetrable scales, and the consequential reverberations forced him to drop the blades.

  “No,” he gasped.

  The creature sprang again, and Seanchai pushed out his hands. At the last moment, he ducked to his left and leveraged the creature’s own propulsion to blast the firebreather into the rock.

  The firebreather roared in pain and anger, but was soon up on its feet again. Seanchai strained to change himself into his own animal form before the creature leapt at him and smashed a huge maul into his side, sending Seanchai spinning across the ground.

  Feel my breath, feel my fire.

  A column of fire burst forth, and Seanchai instinctively rolled out of the way. Fire. Pyre. The young elfe’s face filled his mind. Just be yourself, she had said. Her face was joined by others: Shayth, Sellia, Rhoddan, Mhari, Master Onyxei, the Weapons Master, and finally, Ilana. She was smiling, her eyes twinkling. Just be yourself, the voices said.

  Seanchai exhaled a long breath and, as the firebreather leapt, he felt his body stretch. The grizzly bear roared and swatted the firebreather away just in time. It stood back up, astonished. Seanchai bared his teeth and snarled.

  A grizzly! What hope does a bear cub have against a firebreather? Do you know the stench of singed fur?

  Seanchai rolled away from the fire and sprung off powerful back paws, aiming his claws at the reptile’s throat. It turned, and its massive, spiked tail smashed into Seanchai, catching him in his flank and sending him sprawling against the rock face. A sickening crack echoed, and Seanchai gasped, his side split open and he lay panting. He felt the cold rock, saw a ledge protruding above him, could smell his own blood, and, when he tried to rise, a sharp pain stopped him.

  He grunted.

  You had suc
h potential, little cub. I could have made you into something spectacular.

  Seanchai tasted blood in his mouth, and his vision began to blur. This was it, then. He would join Ilana, burdened with the knowledge that he had failed to form their Alliance–that he had not freed Odessiya.

  “I’m sorry Ilana,” he said, unsure of whether he had spoken out loud or not. He could feel his consciousness slipping away.

  What did you say? An alliance? Such sentiments are your weakness. Only one can rule, and there can be no alliances.”

  The firebreather rose on its hind legs. My claws will rip the life from you, but first, you will acknowledge that the Alliance is forever dead. There is no Alliance. There never will be. A Wycaan stands forever alone and now you die alone.

  Seanchai stared up at him, panting. The Emperor drew a set of long, sharp reptilian claws back, ready to strike. Say it. Your final words will be an admission of defeat. Say it.

  The sun shone around the fire-breather’s great body, making its giant stature even more imposing. Rays of strangely beautiful sunlight shone through the spaces between the claws. Seanchai took a deep breath, and, with all his strength, roared in defiance: “The Alliance! The Alliance!”

  And suddenly, two moving blurs, one white, the other brown, blotted out the sun. Seanchai heard the growls, the roars. He felt the Emperor’s pain and forced himself onto his haunches to watch, mouth agape.

  The great white bear from the land of snow and ice sunk its teeth in the firebreather where its tail connected to its body. The grizzly clamped its jaws around the firebreather’s throat. Blood spurted as the firebreather tried to shake his attackers. More bears appeared and entered the fray: two black bears, and a red–Denalion?

  The firebreather shot out a ring of fire, emitting roars of pain. It shook off the grizzly and rained fire into it. It turned on the white, and blood smeared its snow coat. But a brown bear smashed into its back leg, and there was a loud snap.

  Seanchai forced himself onto his paws and mustered his remaining strength for one last attack. The firebreather had freed itself, but was limping, and blood was spurting from its side. Seanchai roared and leapt. With all his might, he smashed into the firebreather and struck its jaw. A crunching sound, and the creature’s mouth hung awkwardly.

  The firebreather turned on Seanchai, blood flowing from its side, leg and mouth. It jerked its head, trying to summon the fire, but its broken jaw prevented the act. The firebreather raised its wings and, with a labored grunt, pushed off the ground. Blood splattered like rain, but the beast flew awkwardly into the sun and out of view.

  Seanchai felt his legs give way. The sun disappeared, and darkness engulfed him.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  When Seanchai opened his eyes, his vision was blurry, but he heard sounds around him. Wood crackled on a fire, and a warm bandage was easing his pain on the left side of his rib cage.

  Someone moved close to him, and he moved his head slightly, waves of pain riding over him. He used all his power to suppress the nausea, but through it, he could smell Sellia’s hair.

  “Stay still, my love,” she said.

  Seanchai thought he saw red hair, too. “Denalion?” he whispered.

  “I am here, my friend, as I told you I would be. Now, stay still and let the healers close your wounds.”

  “The bears. . . and you.”

  “Me? A bear? No, I just walk in dreams. I’m no Wycaan. Why, my hair would be white, and how could I possibly live with that?”

  Seanchai tried to laugh, but it turned into a wince.

  “Don’t make him laugh. I need to sow this up,” a stern–yet familiar–female voice instructed. Seanchai frowned, trying to place it, but couldn’t. He turned to other matters.

  “Who lives?” he whispered. “Rhoddan? Shayth?”

  “Both are alive,” Sellia said. “They will join you soon. Umnesilk is badly wounded, but Maugwen is trying hard to keep. . .”

  “Maugwen?”

  “I am here, Wycaan. You rescued me at Galbrieth. Now I can return the favor.”

  “She’s a healer now,” Sellia said. “She has considerable skill and uses energy. You won’t recognize her.”

  “Who died?” Seanchai said again.

  “The Weapons Master,” Denalion said, “and Cheriuk by her side. He sacrificed his life to save the young prince’s.”

  “If they want Seanchai at this council, then you will all need to stop talking,” Maugwen said. “Here, Seanchai, bite on this cloth. I don’t want you turning into a grizzly and mauling me.” He tried to laugh, but it was too painful.

  “I can take the pain,” he said softly. A moment later, he was unconscious.

  Seanchai woke with the distinct feeling that someone needed him. He opened his eyes, and it took a moment to accustom himself to the darkness. Shayth sat by his cot, and he thought he could make out Sellia asleep on a chair.

  “How are you doing, my friend?” Shayth whispered.

  “I’ll be fine. How long have I lain here?”

  “It’s been two days. Can you walk? I need to talk with you.”

  Seanchai reached up, and Shayth took his hand and put his other arm behind Seanchai’s back. Seanchai clenched his teeth to avoid gasping from pain. When he was standing, he leaned on Shayth’s shoulder.

  “Slowly,” Seanchai whispered, and they moved out of the tent and toward a fire on the camp’s periphery.

  A few soldiers in tattered uniforms sat chatting quietly. When they saw Shayth and Seanchai, they jumped to their feet.

  “I need to talk to my friend privately,” Shayth told them. “Please make sure no one knows we’re here.” The soldiers nodded stiffly, and Seanchai thought they were trying hard not to salute. “Please also bring my friend some ale,” he asked of one soldier.

  “Yes, my prince,” the man said, beginning to bow, stopping himself, and apologizing as he scurried after his friends.

  Seanchai looked at Shayth and arched an eyebrow. “Soldiers?”

  “Once the Emperor was gone, the battle ended,” Shayth began. “Many soldiers lay down their arms and went back to their villages. Others came here, and, well, I guess are our prisoners, though no one is guarding them or making them stay. I have Shiftan and a couple of his officers in a tent and the pictorians are guarding them. Rumors abound that the Emperor is either dead or badly wounded.”

  “What will you do with Shiftan?”

  The soldier returned with a flask of ale and a plate of bread, cheese, and some roots that Seanchai didn’t recognize. He wasn’t hungry, though he nibbled on the bread. The ale, however, gently dulled the pain.

  “No one will disturb you, my prince,” the soldier said. “We guard your perimeter.” He disappeared into the shadows.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think of Shiftan as a bad man. He was in my father’s secret society. I would rather have his experience helping me.”

  Seanchai smiled at his friend. “You have grown, Shayth. Do you feel the weight of responsibility upon your shoulders?”

  “Very poetic,” Shayth said. “And yes, I do.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “In the old days, the Wycaans served the kingdom by advising the ruler. You all seem to think I can be king, but I’m not so sure. I’m still the wild, young kid you met all that time ago. I dread returning to the capital.”

  Seanchai nodded. “We were all young not so long ago, my friend. Life never allowed us to finish our childhoods. You barely got to experience any of it to begin with. But we still have roles to play. What do you ask of me?”

  “Ride with me to the capital. If I’m to become king, help me formalize the Alliance we formed with the other races into a peacetime alliance. Be there to advise me.”

  Seanchai took a swig of the ale and nodded. He stared into the fire. “We must find others to advise you how to rule, older and wiser politicians. I don’t have the knowledge, the experience, or the desire.

  “But I can help you unite the ra
ces. Now, tell me. What do you think happened to the Emperor?”

  “Those who saw say he was badly wounded. He could not fly straight, and blood fell from the sky in his wake.”

  “Do you think he is dead?”

  Shayth hesitated. “No, I don’t. And I think assuming so would be at our peril. I do not want you to go after him in the state you’re in. Why not send other Wycaans? Shathea said there are more in the West.”

  Seanchai sighed deeply. “They are old, young, or not fully trained. I would like to create a school for Wycaans of all races, one where we not only train with weapons, but also delve deeper into our own potential, into the world of healing and leadership.” He looked at Shayth. “That’s not going to happen, is it?”

  Shayth smiled. “Not immediately, but it will do no harm to begin planning. First, though, we must establish an order of rule, and then go hunt down the Emperor. Maybe there can be some other form of government, where the races all send local leaders to the capital and make decisions together.”

  Seanchai laughed. “So I’m not the only dreamer.”

  Shayth put his hand on Seanchai’s shoulders. “The dwarf king will be here soon. We will hold council together with the Elves of the West, and Umnesilk will represent the pictorians. Humans, dwarves, elves and pictorians, will all sit together in council.

  “I want you to stand by my side when I formally request their support to transform the Alliance into a civic society. Can I count on you?”

  Seanchai put his hand on top of Shayth’s. “This is something I’ve dreamed of all along. How can I refuse?”

  They sat together and stared into the fire. Eventually, Rhoddan, Sellia, and Maugwen found their way over. Ballendir brought more ale and some fine pipe weed. Umnesilk joined them, limping, and a short while later, Shathea completed the circle.

  Members of four races, for so long alienated from each other, sat together around the fire. In the ensuing weeks, there would be much to discuss and negotiate. Agreements would be brokered, and pledges and alliances solidified.