The Star Of Saree

by A. J. STRICKLER

  She raised her hand to cover her own smile. Her champion was as bold as he was reckless. “You very well know Tavantis is no danger to you. This is nothing but a meaningless waste of my time.”

  “So you won’t mind if I destroy the sorcerer then?”

  Shiavaka’s eyes narrowed. “Tavantis is no threat to you or any of the other gods, but he is one of the most powerful mortals in the world. His kinship with magic is extraordinary, and I have claimed him as my champion. I would take great offense if he came to harm because of a silly quest, and I believe Hesperina would resent your interference. You no longer even have a voice at court. You could find yourself in a great deal of trouble, brother, if you move against my champion.”

  “Hesperina might not be so upset if she knew what your mortal sought.”

  The goddess smirked and rolled her eyes. “The Elven Star is a myth, a fantasy created by a dying race to give their people hope. I thought only Octavian believed that ridiculous tale.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it, only that caution should be used. If the Star of Saree does exist, it could be a threat to not only me but all of us.”

  Shiavaka threw back her head and laughed. “I can’t believe you called me here for this…this senseless fiction.”

  The Beast began to trace strange patterns on the altar with his claw-like finger. He remained silent so long, Shiavaka thought he would not speak again. “Do you even know of what you call a myth, sister?”

  “Of course we all know the tale. When Octavian closed on the last elven kingdom with his army, those elves that still survived created some magical item that possessed the power to destroy us all. The story is nothing but a lie, I assure you. If they would have had such a thing, the elves would have used it long ago.”

  “You know nothing!” He slammed his fist on the altar hard enough to startle her. “It was the last cabal of elven sorcerers that came up with the idea,” he went on more calmly. “Instead of fighting our bloodthirsty brother till the bitter end, the archmages of King Tathar Celebrindal abandoned the last of the elven forces and joined together in the last elven city, Sarval. Combining their magic, they began to draw power from the very world itself. Without hesitation, Saree bled its magic freely into their hands and when they could hold no more, they poured all that power, along with their own magic, into an item they had taken great care to prepare—the Star of Saree, a gem of such uncanny qualities that it could hold the magnitude of the forces those mages emptied into it. Then when they had drained all the power they had so carefully gathered, it is said the elven wizards sacrificed their very life forces to add to the Star’s power.”

  Shiavaka swallowed hard, finding herself mesmerized by the tale. “So what happened? The Reaper wasn’t destroyed; did the damnable thing fail to work?”

  “The story is that Octavian destroyed them before the elves could finish the ritual that would have unleashed the Star’s power. As you said, Octavian believes in the Star, but our brother has never spoken of the last days of the war and we can only guess at what he knows.”

  “If what you say is true, then why hasn’t anyone sought out this gem? With something like that, one could rule the world of gods and men.”

  “Who said no one has looked?” He chuckled. “I searched for it after the war myself, and though he might not admit it, I know the Reaper did as well. What he found out I can’t say, but all I ever heard were unlikely accounts and rumors.”

  Despite her misgivings, the Beast had garnered her interest. “What did you hear?”

  “I was told that the elves placed several powerful concealment spells on the Star that were designed to kept immortals from finding the gem, and after the war, their servants hid it in the mountains north of Sylonia. If the story is true then it still rests there today, though I could never find it. So you see why I am concerned about your pet searching for the Star? Can we take the chance that it is just a myth, and what would happen if that fool accidently stumbles upon it?

  She shook her head. “I still think the story is just a fable. If Tavantis wishes to waste his time seeking it, then so be it. But if it makes you happy, I will keep a close eye on him.”

  “That will satisfy me for now, but I warn you, if he doesn’t give up this quest soon, I will destroy your mortal with or without your permission.”

  Shiavaka lifted her chin and vanished without a sound.

  * * *

  The King of Sidia walked across the stone bridge while the Beast looked on. Clad in an ornate, bronze-colored breastplate, his powerfully built arms were left bare for all mortal men to envy. His dusky face was bearded and his black hair had been oiled and pulled back in a small bun. The menacing sword Soulravager rode at his side, a gift that the Beast had bestowed on his most stalwart servant for all the coldblooded deeds the king had committed in his name.

  Aram Shahmoon was as great a warrior as any that walked the world, and one of the only men strong enough to rule Blackgate, but the strength of his body and unnatural skill at arms was not what pleased the Beast the most. It was the power of the king’s mind. Few of his predecessors could claim Aram’s intellect or his ability to grasp the nuances of the evil god’s designs. Of all his minions, the Sidian king was his favorite.

  “How may I serve, great one?” the king asked as he knelt before his god.

  The Beast waved him to his feet. “Rise, Aram. We have much to prepare.”

  The king stood, but kept his eyes lowered.

  “Command, mighty one, and your will shall be done.”

  “Double the guard inside the palace and alert our agents though out the city. The trap has been set, but I don’t know when the rat will take the cheese. From the sparkle in my sister’s eye, it won’t be long.”

  “She believed you?”

  “Shiavaka has always craved power; she will scurry off to her half-breed wizard and tell him all I have said. A great search will commence for the Star of Saree. Then Tavantis will come against me and I will have no choice but to destroy him without mercy.”

  “What if he brings the Slayer, great one?” the king asked soberly.

  “So much the better, I can kill them both without risking any retribution from those arrogant fools on Shadow Dragon Mountain. They don’t see the danger those two could pose, but I do. Of course my brothers and sisters don’t possess the knowledge of the half-breed’s lineage that I have acquired. Their deaths will be the first step to taking the throne, Aram, and when I rule this world, you will be greatly rewarded for your loyalty.”

  The king bowed his head reverently. “I live only to serve you, great one.”

  The god chuckled. “One day all men shall, Aram.”

  Throughout most of the night, Pepca eluded her pursers—hiding in sheds, under porches, and even in a haystack for a time. The residents of the hamlet inadvertently aided her evasion. Scrambling out of their homes, the sleepy-eyed crowd demanded to know why they were being roused from their beds in the middle of the night. The commoners caused quite a ruckus, wandering to and fro, checking on their animals and meager belongings, threatening to report the sellswords to their local priest if anything was amiss.

  Not long after the moon had reached its zenith, the mercenaries tired of the irksome peasants and the princess’s game of hide and seek. They set the tiny village ablaze. As the terrified villagers fled the inferno, Pepca slid from her hiding place and melded in with the frightened refugees as they disappeared into the night.

  The ruse had worked for a while, but near morning, she saw that the mercenaries had discovered her deception and resumed their pursuit. Not wanting to endanger the innocent villagers, she chose to break away from them. After all, she had already cost them their homes. She wasn’t going to let them suffer any further on her account.

  The horsemen closed on her as the first rays of dawn broke the sky. Out across the stony pastureland she ran, tears filling her eyes when she realized her capture was inevitable. Steeling herself, she wiped the wetness away with
the back of her hand and promised herself she wouldn’t let Serban’s men see how scared she was. It made no sense to try and be brave. Though for some reason, the thought of them catching her made her angry. She wasn’t going to give the mercenaries any satisfaction in taking her. Lips pressed together, Pepca swallowed her fear and sprinted on.

  A quick glance over her shoulder revealed that one of the horsemen had broken out ahead of the others. She looked on as the rider slid out of the saddle, placing their left foot in the stirrup on the horse’s left side and clutching the saddle with one hand. The mercenary’s nimbleness was astounding. Hanging from the side of the animal without the warhorse ever breaking stride was a feat Pepca had not even seen at the Tinker carnivals.

  The sound of the animal’s heavy breathing filled her ears as the agile horsemen reached out for her.

  “I have you now,” she heard her pursuer yell.

  Pepca’s eyes widened in confusion when she realized the rider was a woman. The female mercenary leaped from her horse, her full weight slamming into the princess’s back. The impact took the wind from Pepca’s lungs as she crashed awkwardly to the ground. Rolling on to her back, she held her stomach and gasped for air. From the corner of her eye, Pepca saw that the woman had already come to her feet and held a dreadful looking shortsword in her fist.

  Pepca could tell the woman was thin and not many years older than she, even dressed in the dark leather and chainmail. Greasy brown hair hung loose on her shoulders and the young woman’s mouth was turned up in a smug grin. If not for her unkempt appearance, Pepca would have thought the female sellsword very attractive.

  The remaining mercenaries pulled their horses to a stop some distance away, many of them dismounting and coming her way. Pepca tried to rise but the woman brought her boot down heavily on her chest.

  “Don’t move, princess,” the female mercenary said, pushing her heel down between Pepca’s small breasts.

  A stocky man advanced from the company. He wore the same armor as the woman, except for a terribly dented, horse hair-crested helmet strapped on his head. “Damn it, Ash, you’re not on stage anymore,” he barked.

  “I know that. You wanted her caught, didn’t you?” the woman called Ash spit back as she removed her foot from Pepca’s chest.

  The stocky man grabbed Pepca by her tattered shirt and pulled her to her feet, though his attention was still on the young mercenary. “That foolishness is going to get you killed. You’re not the Fabulous Falcon anymore and you will learn to follow orders.”

  The woman sheathed her sword with a sharp snap. “Kiss my ass, Rufio.”

  “A task many would die for, young lady. I’m just not one of them.”

  “Shut up, you two, and bring her here,” a deep female voice commanded.

  The stocky mercenary took Pepca by the arm and pulled her back to where the other warriors waited. The mercenaries were a murderous looking lot, but they parted before the man called Rufio with practiced regard. In the center of the frightening band of killers, a woman sat on a large black warhorse. Their leader sported the same armor as the others except for a dark cloak that hung from her shoulders. It was hard to keep her mouth from falling open. The woman was easily the most beautiful creature Pepca had ever seen. Waves of thick hair, black as the night, cascaded down her shoulders. Her skin had been darkened by the sun, yet no wrinkles or blemishes marred the smoothness of her face; only a few tiny white scars broke the contour of her perfect completion. Full lips and fierce dark eyes set off her inhuman beauty. The woman’s features and commanding demeanor made Danika seem like an awkward peasant girl, and the thought that gave her a brief moment of delight.

  “You are Pepca Lasota, Princess of Trimenia?” the woman asked.

  “I am,” Pepca said, unconsciously fiddling with her hair.

  “You are our prisoner. If you try to escape, your trip back to Brova will be an unpleasant one,” the woman said with a scowl.

  “I will give you no trouble, if you’ll be so kind as to answer me one question.”

  “You are bold, Princess. You do realize you are in no position to ask for anything.”

  “It is of a personal nature.” Pepca lowered her eyes.

  The woman raised a brow. “What do you want to know?”

  “There was a young man traveling with me last night, he… Is he…alive?”

  “Young man?” the woman scoffed. “We saw no one last night.”

  Pepca’s shoulders slumped in confusion. What happened to Julian?

  “Now I answered your question. Keep quiet and do as you’re told till we reach Brova.”

  “There was a young man named Julian. I— Wait…” Pepca didn’t get to finish. The woman turned her horse and rode away.

  The day warmed little as the mercenaries moved back north. Soon the winds would sweep down from the mountains and winter’s frozen hand would squeeze Trimenia in its icy fist. People would stay indoors, only going out when necessity forced them. Even the Tinkers would cease their wandering and travel to the south where they would make camp until spring’s thaw came.

  Pepca didn’t mind the bitter season, but she doubted she would live to see it. It was clear the mercenaries planned on returning her to Brova and Baron Serban, which would be her end. She just wished she knew what had become of Julian.

  They set her on a horse led by one of the grim-faced sellswords. She tried not to show it, but these men scared her. The way they ogled her was unsettling. One even rode up alongside her and flicked his tongue in and out. Pepca wasn’t sure what the gesture’s meaning was, but it must have been offensive. The man called Rufio had quickly ridden over when he caught sight of the man’s display and slapped the mercenary in the back of the head.

  Shortly after midday, another group of warriors were spotted to the north with a large wagon trailing behind their column of horses. The dark-haired woman turned her band toward them with a wave. These men were clad in the same armor as those that had captured her, but they were led by a large man in black armor with one arm encased in red steel. His hair was cropped close to his head, as was his beard. He met her gaze, but his hard stare made her turn away. Pepca’s attention moved to the warrior that rode beside him. Long hair hung in large oiled ringlets from his head and a horrible scar crossed the breadth of his face. It was clear what was in his eyes: hate.

  The wagon that followed them creaked its way to where the mercenary commanders sat. Its bed was ringed with iron bars and it had a top of heavy wooden beams. Inside the rolling cage, she could see her former companions. Vladimir and Grigore seemed alright, but panic seized her heart when she looked at Julian. The young man laid deathly still, with crude bandages wrapped around his body. Vladimir put his hand on Julian and gave Pepca a slight nod. She looked up to the Heavens and gave silent thanks; he was alive, though she wasn’t sure how long any of them would remain that way.

  * * *

  Endra breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be back with the rest of the company. Command was not something she relished. K’xarr, Kago, and the others were welcome to it. The Sons of the Reaper’s numbers had grown since they had left Masaria, their ranks swelling with every village or port they visited. K’xarr had made her an officer when the company had taken the job in Trimenia. K’xarr had told her there were few he trusted with command among their brotherhood, which was not surprising, since their captain was not one to rely on anyone.

  The men that seemed to flock to the Sons’ sinister banner were less than virtuous. Many were violent and cruel, wanted men, bandits, murders or worse. K’xarr and Kago had weeded through the hard-eyed warriors over the last year, quickly teaching them what it meant to join their brotherhood. Those who would not conform were quickly turned out or killed at the hands of their newfound comrades.

  The company was now nearly seven hundred strong, and the warriors that filled its ranks were all men who could be counted on in a tight spot. Most were pleased with the way things worked and the direction K’xarr led.


  Though she hated to admit it, Kago Kattan had made a good addition to the small core of company officers. The former general’s knowledge of training and tactics had been of great help to K’xarr in turning his gang of rogues into a real fighting force. The band was no longer just a bunch of unruly cutthroats and killers, now they were a well-disciplined company of villains. The Sons were unafraid to die and more than ready to kill.

  Her eye caught Cromwell pushing his way through the throng. The young woman that had been riding at her side leaped from her horse and ran to him. The massive Toran pulled Ashlyn into his huge arms and kissed her on the head, his great bulk nearly swallowing the small woman’s entire frame.

  It still amazed her how circumstance had let the two become so close. Ashlyn Sweet, the former circus performer, was a lost soul after her childhood love Lucan was killed and her city all but destroyed. She had been heartsick and broken when she took the ship with them out of Masaria.

  Cromwell had felt guilty about the young man’s death and took Ashlyn as his Matea, a Toran custom that made the young woman a daughter to him of sorts. At first they had all been skeptical of the crude warrior’s gesture. No one thought Ashlyn would want anything to do with the bloody-handed barbarian. Even Endra had advised Cromwell against it, thinking it would only make matters worse, but the pair had surprised them all. Ashlyn clung to Cromwell like a child in the dark. The girl had needed someone to love her, and Cromwell needed to satisfy his honor. The two came from different worlds but they shared a common interest in fame and glory. The two lapped at it like thirsty horses at a trough. No doubt she was telling him how she had ridden the princess down and single-handedly captured the girl.

  Endra worried for Ashlyn. Her flamboyant style was dangerous and foolhardy, though Cromwell trained her and encouraged the behavior wholeheartedly. Endra thought Ashlyn’s fearlessness and wild ways had more to do with the despair in the woman’s heart than anything else.