Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  “That’s something you don’t see in the trios. There’s no time for it.”

  “So it is legal?”

  “Anything’s legal,” S’tryil replied, smiling, “except of course poisoned blades…” He quickly appended his statement, adding, “and throwing dirt, like that man just did. He’ll be thrown out if others saw it.”

  “Does the crowd always cry for blood in the finals?”

  Seth stepped back. S’tryil did likewise, saying, “Sometimes, sometimes not.”

  The two watched as the bout progressed. A short while later a new match was called, with single long blades chosen as the weapon. Seth’s eyes went to the fifth floor balcony of the garrison building. “None of them were there yesterday.”

  “That’s because yesterday didn’t matter. The man seated up on the high balcony… He is Lord Geoffrey… He was the best throughout the land until last year, when our good friend Captain Brodst defeated him.”

  The clanging of steel on steel rose to a powerful din. Seth nodded. He probed further with his eyes. “The others?”

  “The three to the right I don’t recognize, but the three to the left I know. They likely will be who we’ll be up against if we make it to the trio championship match. Shalimar is the first man. I’ve seen him win five matches in one day. He is good, really good. The man in the middle is the Lord’s son, Nijal—the test of steel lasted six days for that one, a record. He teaches the meaning of the word defeat. The one on the end is Shchander, quick and sharp. His attack is his best skill, not very good on the defense. He’ll get at least two extra thrusts against any opponent, myself included, though perhaps not against you. Would be an interesting pairing, you and he.”

  “You know your foe well.”

  “Valam did not mean to slight you.”

  I know this, directed Seth.

  “No, let me finish. The championship match is different from the others. It allows for one replacement should one of us get seriously injured. Valam figures one of us will get injured…”

  “It is all right, friend,” Seth replied reassuringly, “I truly understand.” He understood the concept now of winner take all and he really did understand how much these competitions meant to everyone involved. He had seen riots break out when a favored competitor lost. He had seen carts of the dead piled high. Valam had been right about other things as well. The spectators were fanatical followers. Gossip did spread like wildfire—and there was hope.

  Hope for him and his people. If they could win. If Seth could reveal himself. If men could accept that he wasn’t of the same darkness as those before him. If, if, if. So many if’s, but oh, so great a hope.

  Majestic mountains loomed before them. Emel paused, took survey of the wagons and men weaving their way up the trail to Fool’s Pass. The stones of the mountains, rich with ore, glistened purple in the early light of the day. A purple that was as deep and striking as the mountains themselves.

  Ridemaster Etri Hindell was mounted to Emel’s left. The great gray charger he rode was very different from the show horses his men rode, and the difference said more about him than Emel had learned from their idle conversations.

  Etri was surveying the path, and, like Emel, was not pleased about the prospect of spending days in the mountains. The caravan would reach Fool’s Pass after two days of climbing, up, up the steep trail. As the name implied Fool’s Pass wasn’t the wisest of choices for travel—a fact not lost of Etri or Emel, or anyone else for that matter—but it was the most direct route into the Kingdom of Zapad and the lands beyond.

  Emel stroked Ebony’s mane as Galia approached, riding her king cat. Days of traveling together had taken away some of the unease when the big cat was around, but Ebony would still snort and rear sometimes. “Going to be a long climb,” he said quietly.

  “The snows will come to the mountains soon,” she said. “No turning back once we hit the pass. Understood?”

  Emel said that he did, but he knew she was talking about more than she said. She resented him, disliked him because he was a Kingdomer and because she’d been commanded to be his guide. She was telling him in her way that he was taking her away from those she loved and things she knew. She wanted him to understand that and bear the weight of the burden. She couldn’t have known that he already had the weight of many burdens on his shoulders. “The book?” he asked her before she turned away.

  “The Book of the Peoples?”

  It was one of the books Keeper Martin had shown him. Emel nodded as if he understood. He had assumed it was a book of Kingdom lore, now he wasn’t so sure—and if the book wasn’t penned by Kingdomers, then what about the things he had read? What did they mean then? Were they lies? Was it true they were secrets kept from commoners to guard the past?

  She continued, “It holds truths no few wish to know.”

  “Or lies,” Emel shot back.

  “Subject to interpretation, yes.”

  “Whose interpretation?” Emel waited. Galia smiled, didn’t reply. He could tell she liked this verbal sparring. He pushed. “Do you know of the elves too?”

  “There is little I don’t know,” Galia said proudly.

  Emel couldn’t tell if she was bragging or lying. “What is King William to you?”

  “What is he to you?”

  Emel didn’t have to think about his answer. He said immediately, “A friend.”

  Galia was agitated with the turn of the conversation. Her mount apparently felt this too, and reared. A king cat on its hind legs with front paws outstretched was more than enough to spook Emel’s Ebony.

  To regain control Emel charged up the trail. He didn’t look back, though in that moment he knew he may never see what he was leaving behind again. As he climbed the mountain trail he thought of Galia and the book. Soon after his thoughts went to Adrina and Myrial.

  He loved them both in his own way. Adrina was the princess he’d always dreamed of marrying as a boy, but knew from experience, his father’s condemnation of their friendship in particular, that someone of his station could never marry a princess. Myrial was the loyal friend who had endured hardship and stayed true. She had a simple beauty, a purity of heart that attracted him.

  “Goodbye,” he whispered to the wind and to them, gripping the orb in its leather pouch. “Goodbye.”

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Losing Touch

  Myrial started, bolted upright in bed. Sometimes it seemed she had a preternatural connection to Adrina. This was one of those times. Adrina was in trouble. She knew this somehow. She grabbed a robe from the corner bed stand, and ran from the room.

  As she ran into the hall, she wasn’t surprised by Garette’s absence. She had been the one to send him away. “Sleep,” she had told him. “No need to send the night watchman.” Suddenly she regretted the decision. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what. A thousand panicked thoughts raced through her mind.

  The lower level of the palace was strangely quiet. It was early morning. The change of the guard couldn’t have been more than an hour away. So where was everyone?

  She raced up the stairs to the main level of the palace. The strange quiet continued. She found guard posts vacant, hallways empty. She cut through the kitchens, hoping to find the usual early morning frenzy as the cooks prepared the morning meal. Her panic became terror when she found the kitchens were empty as well.

  She reached the door to Adrina’s chambers, nearly out of breath. The door was open. There were no guards posted within or without. She screamed as she ran into the bedroom, “Adrina? Adrina?”

  Finding she couldn’t breathe, she gulped at the air. But there was no air. “Help me,” she cried, her voice a muffled whisper, “help me…”

  She opened her eyes. The screams and the dream fell away. She was left with stark reality—the stark reality that she couldn’t breathe—and the person pressing the hand over her nose and mouth had every intention of not letting her screams escape her lips, not letting her lungs find air.

&nb
sp; She struggled against the weight on her chest and shoulders, stared up into the intent, wild eyes of Sedrick Bever. “Dogs should know their place,” he hissed at her. “Bark for me little doggie?”

  Myrial blinked, attempted to nod her head. She’d do anything to be able to breathe, to end the fire in her lungs. The fat former housemaster outweighed her several times. He was kneeling on her, pinning her to the bed.

  He removed the hand. She gulped at the air, started to scream but before the scream escaped her lips, the hand was back over her nose and mouth. He slapped her with his free hand.

  “Bad dog,” he said. “Don’t know your place.” He pushed her to the floor, grabbed her by the back of the head, pulling so hard she thought her hair would come out by the roots, and all the while he maintained the viselike clamp over her nose and mouth with his other hand.

  The fire in her lungs grew so intense that the rest of her body seemed numb. This was perhaps a good thing, as Sedrick pounded her head into the floor.

  “Not so fast, not so easy,” he whispered to her as he removed the hand from her nose and mouth.

  Myrial sucked at the air, struggled to say, “Why?”

  Sedrick laughed. She felt his hot heavy breath on her cheek, smelled the heavy scent of wine. She started to gag.

  Sedrick clamped a hand over her mouth, made her swallow the vomit. Her throat burned as the sour liquid slid back down.

  She threw up again. The vomit wasn’t allowed out of her mouth. He seemed to enjoy the moment.

  His left hand groped along the floor.

  All Myrial could think of was that he was trying to find something to club her with. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. She was terrified, had never been so terrified in all her life.

  He was going to kill her; she knew this. It didn’t seem fair. All she wanted was a better life—the life that should have been hers.

  Surety of death brought clarity. Briefly, she thought of Adrina. Adrina needed her but she couldn’t get there—wouldn’t get there in this lifetime.

  Sedrick found what he had been looking for. He doused Myrial with wine. “Drink,” he said laughing. “Drink.”

  Myrial blinked up at the blood red liquid pouring over her face, running down her chest and back, pooling on the floor all around her. She tried to shield herself with her hands, but Sedrick was kneeling on one hand, his weight crushing her fingers, and holding the other hand at bay. It was a game to him; she knew it. Everything was a game to the former housemaster.

  “Kill me,” she begged.

  “In time,” Sedrick whispered. “You don’t want it bad enough yet. You will, trust me.”

  She nodded at the large, horrifying face staring down at her. She spoke in a tiny whisper, “I’m dead already.” She knew she was. That was the scariest thing of all.

  The final trio match had been underway for two full hours. The square was darkening as evening approached, and ever more onlookers pressed into the square to get a look at the competitors. Once word spread that Prince Valam and Captain Brodst were participants the square erupted. The city garrison was called in to clear the circle, and now they protected it with their lives—for the press of the masses pushed ever inward.

  Bladesman S’tryil continued despite the re-opening of his earlier wound. Valam was drenched in sweat and judiciously matched his opponent. He had taken Shchander despite the warnings otherwise. He was nearly exhausted. His opponent on the other hand seemed to have boundless energy.

  Ansh Brodst circled Nijal, catlike. His blade danced back and forth between his hands. Mid-length blades had been chosen, which meant that a combination of defensive and offensive styles was called for, and the use of the body, legs, and fists, mandatory.

  Switching tactics S’tryil, Valam, and Brodst circled along the inside. Their opponents on the outside. Neither side attacked.

  Torches were raised around the square and mounted in iron racks along the balconies as dusk shadows deepened. Shchander lunged at S’tryil while Shalimar took him from the side. It was a lightning attack and neither Valam nor S’tryil was able to move fast enough to counter.

  S’tryil was hit and went down. The two retreated from the three, Valam jumped over S’tryil as the other fell almost taking them both down.

  “Call it, damn it!” Valam cursed as he waited for the call to relief, defending heroically.

  Brodst kicked out laterally and hit Shchander in the side as the other spun around to face Valam. Valam rotated to the right. He knew they were stalling on purpose. Three-two wasn’t much of a match. He lunged recklessly at Shchander who was already off balance.

  He scored a direct hit. The fine edge sank deep into Shchander’s chest. Relief was called then, but it was too late. Valam grinned.

  Geoffrey of Solntse replaced Shchander. Seth stepped in for S’tryil. The crowd erupted in cheers. “Geoffrey is matching!” went the chant that started out singly and then was joined by many, many others who carried along the growing echo. “Geoffrey is matching!”

  As Prince Valam had done, Seth removed his mask after stepping into the circle. It only took one person who recognized Seth as an elf of legend—Seth without the usual hood and guise—to bring the crowd near riot. Trumpets blared. Garrison reinforcements stormed into the square. Hundreds fell in the ensuing clash. Cries of “Kill him! Kill the elf!” were everywhere. Everyone wanted to catch of glimpse of the elusive figure. And everyone tried.

  A hush came when Valam raised Seth’s sword arm saying, “He fights for Great Kingdom. Any man that wants to kill him must come through me first.”

  The crowd was agitated. The day had been long. More than a few were drunk; as many, perhaps more, were brave—or foolish—enough to try to get past Prince Valam. The crowd wanted blood, and would settle for nothing less.

  Valam, Captain Brodst, Nijal, Geoffrey, and Shalimar worked together to fend off the attackers—all of whom were intent on getting to Seth. Seth watched the five men circle him, surprised that three strangers would put their lives at risk to defend him.

  “What have you started here?” Geoffrey screamed at Valam through the din of the attack.

  “Only what I must,” Valam replied. “The Elves of the Light, of the Reach, are not our enemies of old. Our peoples were once united in the fight against the dark elves of Under-Earth.”

  Geoffrey scoffed, blocked with his blade, used the flat edge of the sword to bash one of the attackers as Valam had done a moment before. “What proof?”

  “For now only my word.” Valam looked directly as Geoffrey as he spoke.

  “Blasphemy, you have no respect for this circle.”

  “And yet you defend alongside us?”

  “I have the deepest respect for your father. If you were to die in the match, then so be it. But to die at the hands of this mob is not fitting.”

  “Then accept my word.”

  Geoffrey sidestepped an assailant, regarded Valam meaningfully. “I’ll accept that you are bewitched, enthralled as may be the case.”

  “I’m in full count of my faculties, I assure you.”

  It was the thought of Adrina in danger that Myrial clung to. It was what kept her sane as Sedrick did what he did. She was shaking, covered in sweat and wine as he backed away from her for a moment.

  Her voice was hoarse from screaming and her throat hurt. She thought she had won when Sedrick finally allowed her to scream. She hadn’t won, and he relished every moment as terror sank deep into her mind.

  She didn’t know why no one answered her screams, but she could guess why. Sedrick had always been good at bribing the guards to get what he wanted. Those who couldn’t be bribed could be coerced in other ways. She doubted that anyone knew what was really going on. Still, the fact that they had turned a blind eye in the first place made her angry enough to want revenge, and the need for payback ran deep in her mind. She’d repay them all. Every last one.

  Sedrick stared at her. His eyes seemed like dark holes. Her h
eart raced. He was going to kill her now. She knew it, but was too full of rage to let it happen.

  He stamped a black-booted foot down hard. Bones broke. Myrial didn’t feel pain, only rage. The rage was a shield.

  He flared at her again. “Don’t you dare try anything! Don’t you dare.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she crawled backward using her hands.

  He chased after her. “I have to do this… It’s the only way. You understand, don’t you?”

  She sensed what was coming. She knew she had to do something. She prayed for strength, but wasn’t sure if the jumbled words escaped her lips or if she only imagined they did.