“The evil uses King Jarom’s lust for power just as it uses you and many others. He sees himself seated in the throne room of Imtal Palace. He means to plunge the kingdoms into war. To be sure, he will use the death of Charles and the fears of the heir to his own ends.”
“Can I not rid myself of this evil?” repeated Adrina.
“Please leave us now,” said the woman to Emel, “go to your watch fire. The soldiers are near. I would speak to Adrina alone.”
Emel hesitantly turned away, his pace just slow enough to hear their continued whispers.
“The evil brings the change you so wished for. It has found a home in the emptiness of your heart. You care too little for those around you. You see not the servants who toil for you, workers in the fields on their hands and knees with the whip at their backs, drudges scouring the kitchen floors—”
“I am not heartless,” protested Adrina.
“Did I say heartless?” asked the woman. “Tell me, what is the name of the servant girl who cares so much for you that she remains awake through the night to re-stoke your hearth only to feel the lashings of a whip at her back the next day for laziness?”
Adrina fumbled for a name. “She is a servant girl, nothing more.”
“Myrial,” whispered Emel.
“Queen Alexandria, your mother, would have shed tears at the hearing. Your position has made you forget there are others in the land that suffer. Your father is not the strong and caring king he once was. Fault him not; there are those who use his grief to their own ends. You must open your eyes.”
Adrina tried to raise an objection. The lady continued. “Go now. Look for the two strangers, find the son of Charles, beware the traitor and those that are not what they seem. Say nothing of our conversation to anyone.”
“But what can I do? I cannot rouse the southern garrisons to arms.”
“I did not say to rouse the garrisons. Would you so foolishly provoke war?” The woman paused and stared into the shadows. “And Emel Brodstson, if you have heard enough, continue on your way. Remember, there is always a heavy price.”
Chapter Nine:
Ambush
What do we do now Brother?
We die, Brother Galan, Seth said coldly, simply, but not until we fight honorably and die honorably.
All eyes keyed to the hulking masses of multi-sailed vessels that hungrily approached.
Cagan? Seth directed the thought to the mind of the ship’s captain. We must get through. We cannot fight them all at once. Can we make it to open water?
“Perhaps, if we use the escort ships as decoys while we break through—a hard strike to the right side of the blockade should do it. We can try to circle them and make for open seas. Once there, with the wind in our sails, this ship can outrun anything they can throw at us.” Cagan spoke aloud as was his chosen fashion.
Running is pointless, Br’yan said. It would only show that we are cowards. We should strike the enemy head on, with our eyes wide open.
I agree, Galan said.
After a tug at his grizzled beard and a scratch at his large rounded head, Sailmaster Cagan said, “We are not running, but surviving.”
You are wrong, Br’yan said.
Cagan’s open thoughts streamed to Seth who stood beside him. Seth had passed more than a few nights sailing the canals of Kapital with the kind sailmaster. They knew each other well, he knew no one whose love and respect for the sea was greater. It was Cagan’s life. He also knew the venerable captain would not let them down, would not let him down, would not let Queen Mother down. No, Seth said, Sailmaster Cagan is not wrong. Go ahead with your plan. I trust your judgment.
Sailmaster Cagan passed instructions to the ship’s broadcaster who in turn relayed them to the escort ships. A maneuver was dealt out to their small, honest fleet—one that would cost them greatly. The escort ships turned sail from their current position, and headed directly into the enemy blockade. They struck hard and to the right side as instructed and in a few terrible, fate-filled minutes, they were overswept. A heavy toll would be brought for their fall, Seth knew this.
Sailors from both sides were washed over the decks. Tiny specks leaping from tiny ships, images that floated farther and farther away. Seth looked down to the deck of the Lady L. Those of the Red were lost in silent meditation, a thing Seth did not presently allow for himself. He knew well why they closed their minds to the screams they perceived—screams of pain, anguish and demise. He knew they were preparing for battle, a battle they must win.
Dark pillars of smoke and flames rose into the air far behind them. Seth saw tiny white sails engulfed in those deadly, dark flames and dark shapes, the broken hulls of fallen ships, sinking into the waiting, black waters. They found open seas, but at what cost?
Of the many enemy ships that had formed the blockade, only two were able to raise full sails and remain in proximity to them. The chase was on.
A master at the helm, Cagan turned sails to catch maximum benefit from the winds. He guided the ship into the head of the gull, a maneuver that would eventually steal the draft from the sails of the pursuers as they closed in, and force them to scramble to catch a fresh breeze.
Clever, Sailmaster Cagan, very clever, said Seth.
Cagan’s retort was swift and his eyes never broke away from the sails or the wheel. “I had some help did I not?”
The forces of the Mother are at the call of all who know how— A peculiar sight caught Seth’s eye and for an instant his thoughts broke off. —who know how to use them.
The wind ebbed on the fore-and-aft rigged vessel, which forced them to lose some much-needed speed. Meanwhile, the enemy cutters had finally found their sails and were gaining.
“They will not catch us, they cannot catch us,” said Cagan as much to himself as to Seth, “not a chance, not a chance.”
“Bo’s’n!” he yelled, “Tighten that riggin’, attend to that rope, check the trim.”
The boatswain’s response was loud and shrill. In brief, precise thoughts, he spit out the orders and, in short order, the swift craft lurched forward under proper sails.
Cagan, to the east, look!
A single ship grew from a speck along the horizon in front of them to a dot on the water. They could not afford an engagement now. The pursuers were too close behind.
“It is over, my friend,” Cagan said, “one way or another, we must move to engage, either to the rear or front…” The wily sea captain paused. “Yet, perhaps—Yes, if we tack directly toward them we will surely catch them off guard.”
Yes, maybe we can gain the upper hand before the others join the match, said Seth with twisted hope.
Cagan ordered the vessel turned against the wind, their nimble sloop could cut well in the tack. The cutters behind them, on the other hand, were much slower in the turns.
Cross-winded the Lady L rapidly approached the ship that a short time ago had been but a mere, distant speck. All on board readied for the inevitable. Silent prayers were sent to Father and Mother to protect and watch over them and to keep them.
Seth looked down at his small group of dedicated followers. He knew that each prepared their mind and spirit for the end. Death was not a fear, but failure was. To pass in such a way would mean dishonor and disgrace. Therefore, they must succeed.
Readily their nimble sloop approached the oncoming vessel with expectant hopes that its captain would not expect a direct assault.
“Captain, she has square foremasts and two lateen rears,” yelled the lookout from his perch.
An expression of dismay and fear passed over Cagan’s face. He had not expected so great an adversary. The speed with which the vessel had moved through the water had led him to believe it was another cutter. He had not expected a full-sized galleon. His fears permeated the air, and flowed to Seth.
Seth was also worried. King Mark was better prepared than they had thought. He only wished he could contact Brother Liyan and warn him—galleons were not quickly or easily built. M
any skilled craftsmen had labored long on such a vessel as they now faced, which, as they drew closer, loomed larger and larger against the pale blue backdrop of the waning day. There could be no turning back now. Fate was locked in.
The two ships, galleon and sloop, were nearly within striking distance of each other. They were dead on course for the galleon, with the other enemy ships reduced to unseen dots along the horizon to the distant rear. For now, it would be just a one-on-one engagement.
Seth was proud of Cagan’s sailors. They held no fear in their thoughts, only determination which was strong and growing with each passing moment. They followed Cagan’s orders and kept the sails perfectly trim and rallied for the coming fight.
A questioning voice came into Seth’s mind, Brother Seth?
Yes, Everrelle, responded Seth curtly. He was angry at the untimely interruption.
Do you mark any of our kind on board their ship?
… I do… not. Seth paused then gasped.
Nor do I, said Galan.
Yes, that is it, my Brothers! There may yet be hope. The enemy may be well prepared but they may also have underestimated the lengths Queen Mother would go through to ensure success. Mere numbers are no match for the power of the Brotherhood.
What if they are merely shielding their thoughts? Br’yan said. We should probe to make sure.
Seth agreed. Br’yan cast his will into the wind. Cagan continued on a direct course for the galleon.
There is no trickery, Br’yan said.
Seth smiled, thinking that perhaps the day was not lost.
The galleon captain began to scramble to turn the large ship. He barked out orders, which carried across the darkening waters even above the sound of rising frenzy from both sides. He tried gallantly to fill sails for maneuvering speed though it was a useless effort.
Cleverly, Cagan turned toward the galleon’s broadside, the bow of his ship locked straight on the exposed side. With a resonant rending, sloop and galleon collided. The air filled with the cacophony of crunching timbers and shrill screams as the battle was joined.
The galleon had received a potentially lethal blow and was gaining water fast. Still, her sailors would not go down alone. Grapples were swiftly set and tied off tight. The two ships would go down together if the sea had its way.
Cut lines were cast back relentlessly, yet this alone was not enough. Over the bow the enemy forces swept with blades readied in angry hands.
“They do not stand a chance against us!” cried Cagan to his sailors as he swung across to the galleon’s low side on a rope tied to the upper rigging.
With a cheer, his men returned his chant and charged, their blades clashed with the enemy, and drew crimson blood.
Still one small group had not moved nor did it seem they had registered the attack. They were the members of the Red and they waited until the mournful screams in their minds reached a crescendo. Then Seth took charge of his fellows and as one they screamed in fury their chant of war, the chant of their ancient brethren.
Blood bathed in rage, they raced forward to the bow, pouring forth like a deadly red rain. A blur of brutal force, they dropped the enemy, each where they stood, with but a single precise touch. Such was their evident anger and the might of their invoked will.
Yet with a cry of ironic agony, their charge ended. Feet no longer tread solely upon enemy dead. Seth felt vivid torment in his soul. The first of the Brotherhood fell, a blow from behind piercing the brother’s heart.
Seth vowed to spare no suffering on the one who had delivered the deadly blow. With a jump and a kick, the guilty was knocked stunned to the deck, his demise not instantaneous like the others before him. He would be forced to lie and watch with eyes that were purposefully allowed to move as life slowly dripped away. Seth’s blow struck the spinal cord just below the neck on the right side.
Nine and one trudged onward toward the high deck where Cagan now battled the enemy captain. Three sailors were all that remained of his once proud group and they protected his rear as he struggled against the galleon’s surly captain. Although thick lines of evident fatigue held to his countenance, Cagan persisted. For now his determination could not be extinguished. Yet the numbers were not on his side and soon the enemy would overwhelm Cagan and the last of his sailors.
Desperately, Seth continued the assault. The enemy was strong and skillfully wielded their weapons. Two more brothers fell.
Seth pushed onward with regained ferocity, as did his companions. He and seven others reached the stairs to the high deck and surpassed them. Only Cagan remained standing, all around him were the dead and the dying, and his sword lay deep in the enemy captain’s chest. With the heel of his boot, Cagan smashed downward, and retrieved his cold steel blade. In disgust, he spit into the dead man’s face.
Drained, Cagan stumbled. Seth rushed to his aid, and cradled him in still strong arms. “It is only us at the last.” Cagan choked on his own blood and weakly added, “… my friend.” His clothes blood splattered and shredded revealed multiple lacerations beneath.
There was no time to attend to Cagan’s wounds, Seth knew this. The two remaining ships were near, and within minutes their ranks would sweep over the decks toward the place where the last few survivors stood. The middle decks of the sinking galleon were already being claimed by the yearning sea and their own small ship was beginning to founder under the yearning weight. The end was surely near.
Seth spoke to the seven yet fated to remain, words that exited his mind with powerful intent, words that he truly meant. They are what stand in the way of our victory. We cannot fail! We will not fail! Do not still your fervor, nor your fury. We shall make them pay well beyond their expectations. Eight against the many shall be triumphant!
“There are… nine!” shouted Cagan.
Chapter Ten:
First Lessons
Vilmos bolted upright, unsure what had awoken him. Thoughts from the previous day came flooding into his mind. The shaman. Midori. The drums, he heard the drums again. And voices.
Then for an instant all thought stopped. No dreams, he realized, no dreams. He had slept peacefully during the night and nothing had awoken him, until just now. The drums, he heard them again.
He was about to speak when Xith clamped a hand to his mouth. The shaman stared meaningfully into his eyes. “Not a sound. Take my hand.”
Vilmos nodded. His knees were trembling. He sat as Xith indicated he should. Quietly the two waited. The sound of voices and drums grew steadily clearer and closer. Soon it became readily apparent that whoever was out there was in the hills just beyond their clearing.
Vilmos was ready to run but Xith sat very still, his eyes closed, his face pale and drawn, and his hand clasped tightly to Vilmos’. From high overhead came the distant call of a hunter. Staring long, Vilmos caught sight of the grandest eagle he had ever seen. It was circling lazily over the hills and as Vilmos peered up at it, it turned a glistening black eye in his direction.
Suspicious, Vilmos stared at Xith.
The eagle called out again, a long piercing call, and then it folded its powerful wings and dove from the heavens. Vilmos held his breath as he watched it fall. It soared over the cliff’s edge and down into the depths of the deep valley.
Color slowly returned to Xith’s face and he released Vilmos’ hand. “Huntsmen and trackers,” he whispered, patting Vilmos on the back reassuringly. “They are from your village and the neighboring two.”
Vilmos turned a watchful eye to the hills. “Are they looking for me?”
The shaman shook his head. “As far as I can tell, they hunt an animal of some sort.”
“The bear, the black bear,” said Vilmos, wide-eyed. “Is it near?”
Xith asked Vilmos to explain. Vilmos told the shaman of the bear attacks, the death of the girl from Olex Village, and his own encounter with one.
“Bears you say,” Xith said, “that is interesting. Bears are not easily stirred, nor easily angered. Animals of the forest
have a keen sense about them. We will have to keep our eyes open as we move north. To be sure, it would not be wise to travel north through Vangar Forest, and a descent into the valley from here shouldn’t be too bad.”
Vilmos saw a puzzled expression cross the shaman’s face and his eyes darted toward the hills. “You weren’t expecting hunters and trackers were you,” said Vilmos, sounding suddenly older than his years. “Who were you expecting, shaman?”
Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches Page 12