Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  As he planned movements in his mind’s eye Seth focused on Valam. His thoughts fixed only on Valam’s intentions. The thoughts that flowed into his mind helped him easily counter the prince’s attacks and the expression on Valam’s face became one of utter surprise.

  Each time Valam attacked, Seth blocked. Valam found no openings and it seemed he was being pushed into a corner, making defense his only option. Only one other person could best him with such skill and that was the one who had trained him, Timmer. Out of breath from guarding, Valam yielded. He called a halt to the match.

  “Are you two conspiring against me?”

  “No,” Seth said honestly.

  “You weren’t giving him private pointers, Timmer?”

  Seth put the tip of the heavy training blade to the ground and leaned his weight against it. “Your mind is so open.”

  Valam thought about Seth’s words before he replied, “By open, what do you mean?”

  “Your thoughts flowed to me without effort. I used them to decide how to block and attack you.”

  Valam looked to Timmer who in turn stared back blankly. “How do I protect against that?”

  In jest Valam plopped down beside Timmer, put a hand on Timmer’s shoulder, and said through exhausted breaths, “Your turn, old friend.”

  I’ll teach you. It is easy.

  Teach me? I don’t know how to use will, thought Valam, allowing Seth to read his mind.

  “I only instruct now,” replied Timmer softly, belatedly, “My sword arm isn’t what it used to be.”

  You don’t have to. Will is in everything—and besides, I’m not talking about reading minds. I’m talking about defending from a mind probe—a simple clouding of thoughts.

  “You are still the best swordsman I have ever seen,” Valam said replying to Timmer as he sheathed his weapon and waved for Seth to follow him.

  “An unused dagger rusts,” Timmer mumbled as the three walked through the entryway into the palace proper.

  “Nonsense,” added Valam as he turned toward the armory.

  Chapter Five:

  Stark Reality

  Vilmos braced himself, clasped his hands to his ears. The screams, the screams. He couldn’t take them anymore. Why didn’t it end? Why did they still scream? Why couldn’t it be quick—and over? Why? Why? Why?

  He begged, pleaded with himself to let it end, to ebb the flow of magic. Then he realized that he wasn’t hearing desperate cries of dying men. What should have been screams of pain had turned to raucous laughter and as he opened his eyes, he saw the dark priests standing within the flames, untouched by the fire.

  The one who laughed the hardest was the one who had abducted Vilmos, but he was not a man like the others. His eyes were milk-white with blindness and yet he saw. He saw with the second sight of his kind. The sight that was inborn to those of his demon race.

  The demon’s scaly hands agilely stroked a medallion that was suspended on a thick, gold chain around his neck. His voice boomed with laughter as he spoke. “He is the one,” the demon said. “He has the mystic power of the keeper to be certain, and perhaps more.”

  Vilmos turned in a tight circle. His eyes wild, wide.

  “Did you honestly think that we were unprepared to fulfill our duties?” scoffed Talem. “I assure you, you are not the first. You will not be the last.”

  The priests pounced on Vilmos. Two held him while others bound his hands and feet, put a gag in his mouth. Then they slipped a large sack over him, propelling him into a sightless world of darkness.

  For a time he relied on his sense of hearing. He listened to the fall of footsteps that were circling him and the muffled voices debating angrily. Then a smell, potent and sour, found its way to him. Afterward only darkness and unconsciousness.

  Adrina paced in her room. It had been a long day. So much had happened. She was upset, but happy for Emel, because he had appeared to be happy. Everything seemed so wrong though. Why was the caravan train leaving Imtal now? Why was her father sealing the city? Why did Emel have to go?

  The trail was muddy and wet from rain. The mud would make progress along the road slow. Wagons could get stuck. Pack mules could become reluctant or agitated. The rain could return. Passengers and crew wouldn’t be happy.

  The rain was only the beginning. It was late in the day. Caravans normally left early in the morning or at least by midday so they could make progress along the road before nightfall. So why was this caravan leaving the city when only a few hours of daylight remained? Did the caravanmaster know something she didn’t? Was he planning on driving the caravan through the long night?

  Myrial touched Adrina’s arm, partly to remind the princess that she was there and partly to get her attention. Adrina turned to Myrial and frowned. “You know what I’m thinking. Don’t you?”

  “Sealing the city against the night isn’t that unusual, especially with all that has happened recently. Besides, I’m sure there is good reason.”

  “Then why does it all seem so wrong?”

  “Go see your father. Talk to him.”

  “He told me nothing last time, only that he was pleased to see me. Like I was some prize toy that he had requested the guards to fetch.”

  Myrial touched a hand to Adrina’s, then filled two cups with tea. “Sit, drink. It’s one of your favorites. Strong spice and tropical fruit from the southlands. The aroma is wonderful, soothing.”

  “And the biscuits?” Adrina asked with a soft laugh.

  “Fresh-baked, with a hint of lemon. I spoke with the baker, just as you asked.”

  Adrina took a sip of tea, then bit into a biscuit that seemed to melt in her mouth. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Myrial didn’t reply. She sipped her tea quietly, concentrated on the biscuits. She hadn’t eaten much all day and was hungry.

  Adrina watched Myrial eat as she nibbled on a biscuit and sipped her tea. “He shouldn’t have dismissed me like that,” she said, breaking the silence. “I’m not a child.”

  “It was for the benefit of the council I’m sure.”

  “For a bunch of old men that care nothing about anyone but themselves. They could care less if I were alive or dead.”

  “Exactly,” Myrial said looking directly at Adrina. “I’m sure that’s the truth of it. Your father couldn’t act pleased or surprised to see you. He only wanted to see that you were well. Oh, don’t you see? That’s what it was about.”

  “You know something, don’t you?” Adrina put down the tea cup, stared intently. “Tell me what you know, Myrial. Please, I beg of you.”

  Myrial said quietly, the tone of her voice so low Adrina had to lean forward to hear, “You don’t want to know what they say in whispers Adrina, you don’t want to know. The whispers are hurtful, they always are. You are better—”

  “Whispers?” Adrina pushed, though she could see Myrial was frightened.

  “The word in the hall, in the city, in the land. Things you shouldn’t know or hear, Adrina.”

  “What do the whisperers say?”

  Myrial turned away. She couldn’t look at Adrina as she spoke, “If the whispers were even half true, I would tell you. The whispers don’t have a spark of truth. Your father is a good and just king. Your family is strong and will rule for many generations to come. I know this as I know no other thing.”

  “Does my father know the things the whisperers say?”

  “I’m sure he does,” Myrial said quietly, turning back to her tea and acting as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

  Adrina knew then that Myrial was hiding from the truth of the whispers. Myrial didn’t want to face painful truths anymore than she did and the truth was in Myrial’s words. The whisperers must be saying that the House of Alder was weak and that it’s time had come and gone.

  Adrina didn’t like the stark reality that she was faced with. She was frightened and hurt. If such whispers had spread throughout the land, very dangerous days were ahead. She knew her history, how monarch
ies were toppled, how kings were born, bled, and died.

  The people rewarded good kings in word and deed. Good kings could rule with open hands, but that hand must be ready to clench into a fist, to strike, to defend, to keep land and people. A weak king was no king at all. He was a puppet on the throne who would bow to the will of the strong. Was her father weak?

  Light filtering into the thick burlap bag caused Vilmos to wake. He could tell that he was outside. He couldn’t tell where he was. Every now and then those carrying him would switch shoulders, jerking him around violently as they did so. He tried to struggle, to fight, to free his hands or at the very least find a comfortable position. His legs were cramped and he ached. His wrists stung where the ropes bit into them. His back hurt where bruised shoulders swelled.

  Through it all, the shadow walker was there with him, whispering that he should calm himself and not worry, for they followed Stranth’s trail back to Pakchek Daren where they would find safety. But Vilmos didn’t want to listen to the voice in his mind. He wanted freedom and so he struggled.

  Suddenly movement stopped. Vilmos was dumped onto the ground. He heard a creaking sound, perhaps that of a warped door being laboriously opened.

  He was picked up again. Still in the burlap bag he was deposited in a box of sorts. He couldn’t tell what kind of box, only that he heard the cover close over him and a lock being set in place, felt the walls about his shoulders.

  Shrouded in total darkness now, Vilmos guessed the box was completely sealed. The air became stuffy and warm, hard to breathe. His listened, but the movement of those around him became the least of his worries. He fought to keep his eyes open. He was suddenly so tired. Sleep called out to him.

  He beat against the box with his elbows, struggled to maintain consciousness. He knocked his head against the top of the box until it hurt. The last time he did so he saw a crack of light enter the box. A puff of air followed. It brought life to his burning lungs.

  He pushed up with his head, fought to keep the top of the box open. The air. He needed it desperately.

  Time slipped away. His neck became stiff and sore. He twisted his head from side to side but this didn’t help. He began to wonder if air was more important than the need to relieve the pain? Or if the pain was the only thing keeping him here in this reality? Why were the priests being so cruel? Why didn’t they just kill him and get it over with?

  Then he thought that maybe it wasn’t their intention to kill him. Maybe they wanted him to suffer.

  The box jerked from side to side as it was picked up. Vilmos listened intently. He couldn’t tell where he was going. The movement, lasting only a few minutes, came to an abrupt end when the box was thrown onto a wooden floor or platform of sorts.

  The sensation of movement returned though no one had picked up the box, or at least he hadn’t felt them do so. He listened against the side of the box. He could hear a faint creaking. A rolling sound. He was in a wagon, he suddenly realized.

  The road became rough and rocky. The box was thrown up with each bump, landing with a thud. He felt each and every movement. His body felt battered and bruised. He was so weary, felt he couldn’t keep the top of the box open any more, but knew he had to. The constant swaying back and forth, up and down, gave him motion sickness. He started to gag, stomach acids burned the back of his throat but there nothing in his stomach to throw up. The dry heaves continued until he passed out.

  A hooded bastion marked the entrance to the courtyard in which the central armory was housed. Seth had never been in this section of the castle-palace structure and it struck him as different from what he had seen. Out of place, old. The walls and gates. The columns of men practicing with swords, bows, and spears. All out of place with everything else he had seen in Imtal Palace.

  “Seth?” asked Valam. “Do you really think you could teach me how to… block… my thoughts?”

  “It would be a grand hope,” Seth admitted. The grinding of the portcullis wheel drowned out further words. His thoughts grew distant. He looked to Swordmaster Timmer as he awaited his turn to pass through the protected entry.

  Two gated stairwells led from the small, square chamber. Valam told him the stairwells worked their way gradually upward to the roof and were the only access to the upper battlements for this section of the palace—the innermost keep of the ancient castle from which the palace and the city had grown over hundreds of years.

  Valam’s face grew long and earnest. “Seriously, do you think you could teach them?” he asked, waving his hand, pointing to the columns of men training in the armory yards.

  I never thought about it. Where I come from it is such a natural thing.

  “In a land where the elite warriors speak with their mind, I guess it would be useful.”

  Very useful among the Brotherhood indeed. It helps to keep thoughts you want locked away private, and if you want someone to know your thoughts you allow them access to those thoughts… Children chosen to the Brotherhood are fast learners of this trick, or else they are always getting into trouble. The inner gate withdrew and the three entered the main armory yard. Soon after they came to the training grounds. Seth continued. It is simple. In your mind you form a wall, a barrier, and inside that barrier you keep your thoughts.

  Valam stopped mid-stride and turned to Seth. “I don’t understand.”

  Valam’s sudden stop was what saved him from an arrow that ripped across the training yard. A second arrow followed but this time Seth was ready. He snatched the arrow from the air, turned quickly, catlike, in the direction that the arrow had come from.

  Timmer’s high-pitched whistle called out to his training masters. All eyes in the training yard were suddenly on him. “Halt!” shouted Timmer. “Cease training!” His training masters quickly relayed the order to the hundreds of men in the training yard. Weapons turned from the ready as many eyes turned to regard the prince and the elf.

  Valam looked to Timmer then to Seth. Timmer was racing toward a huge mountain of a man who could only be the lead training master. Seth stood still, staring out into the training yard. Was it an accident? he wondered in his thoughts to Valam.

  Moments later two burly training masters came from the corner of the yard. They dragged a smaller man between them. As they approached the prince one of the training master’s grabbed the small man’s hair, pulling the head back so that Prince Valam could see the face clearly. They forced the man to his knees. The man spat at Valam.

  The training master drew a wide blade from his belt. He handed it to Valam with the hilt forward. Valam took the blade. He stared intently at the assailant.

  Duty and honor required that he kill the man on the spot, letting his blood spill on the training field as a sign to all who watched. To serve and protect was a soldier’s duty. To do otherwise, to bring harm to those you served, was to betray all that a soldier stood for.

  The assailant’s eyes became a window to his soul. It was in that moment—the moment when Valam was gripped by honor and duty—that Seth learned the deep love Valam had for his subjects. The love Valam had for life, all life. More importantly Seth learned something about himself, and was finally able to understand Valam the man. The fears and apathy that were carefully tucked away in the far reaches of his mind slipped away. Men in many ways were very much like elves.

  “My life before your hands,” whispered the attacker, accepting his fate and falling on Valam’s outstretched blade.

  The man did not move afterward. Valam withdrew the blade and handed it to the training master. His expression never betrayed his true feelings—the feelings that only Seth could read.

  The training master wiped the bloody blade in the dirt. “My life before your hands,” the training master whispered as he handed the blade back to Valam. “I have failed you. Let a rebel into our innermost sanction.”

  Valam took the blade that was thrust hilt first into his hand but he did not move for a few long heart beats. He made sure the blade was not accessible to the t
raining master. He understood all too well the need for duty and honor among soldiers, especially when those soldiers were the King’s Knights. The elite soldiers newly recruited to serve under King’s Knight First Captain Brodst.

  Valam knelt beside the training master. His eyes showed tears. His face betrayed a deep sadness. This emotion was reflected on the faces of those in the fields as surprise and veneration. “Training master, what is your name?” Valam asked.

  The training master answered without looking up, “Dead men do not have names.”