Wycaan Master: Book 02 - The First Decree

by Alon Shalev

  FIFTY FOUR

  Rothendir, Clan Leader of Clan Den Zu’Reising, was the first to enter the small room adjacent to the Great Hall. It had nothing more than a small table and several stone cubes. They were identical save the King’s, which was slightly taller.

  She chose the seat directly opposite the King. She would need his help here, she feared, for whatever shift was about to occur. She would need to respond quickly and flawlessly, and she was about to discover what kind of king sat upon the throne.

  As the room filled, the King’s own clan leader, Renggal, sat next to him, but to the other side of the raised chair sat the leader of Den Zu’Chantague, the clan of traders who stood to lose the most. To his other side sat the black-clad priest of Clan Dan Zu’Reiltan. If this was indeed a coalition, it was a powerful one.

  Dugenminsk, the leader of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster sat between the priest and Rothendir and Ziskagen, the leader of the scholar clan sat on her other side. The priest immediately held his axe up, but the King signaled for him to lower it.

  “Let me speak first, clan leaders,” the King said. “I address you all as one. In this room, we sit as equals and will talk without formalities. Time is of the essence and with each hour, our options narrow. Speak your mind and hold your tempers. This might not be the most foremost of our abilities, but we must rise to our responsibilities.” This was met with polite laughter.

  “The enemy nears, if enemy they are. We have two choices: to negotiate or to fight. Allow me to lay out both options as I see them. If we negotiate, we show weakness in the face of an approaching army. This is no respectful diplomatic delegation coming to open exploratory talks.

  “We may be able to barter by handing over the Wycaan and Emperor’s nephew. But they will insist on taxation and might even demand back taxes. And I believe they will demand to patrol our cities and force us to lower the defenses designed to keep them out.

  “To follow this route feels painful, but would save much bloodshed. Be mindful that Hothengold might fall and that Clan Den Zu’Garten has the most to lose if this happens. If we stand together, then it must be everyone and the support must be a permanent coalition, no matter what.

  “It is hard to imagine the capital of the dwarf nation being patrolled, taxed, and subjugated. It is not our way. We are a proud and independent race. Moreover, the presence of the Wycaan reminds us that once so were the elves. I look to their broken villages and shudder. If we open our gates without a fight, I fear for our future.

  “If we fight, we must immediately create a war cabinet with the clans’ best military minds. There, we’ll devise our strategy. We shall go around the table and each clan will speak in turn.”

  He turned to his own clan’s leader. “Dear Renggal, it is your right as host and representative of the largest clan to speak first.”

  But before Renggal could speak, Rothendir struck the table with her axe. As the only dwarfe in the room and the leader of the clan that had called the Clansfelt, she needed to take control. All eyes went to her.

  “Your Majesty, with the greatest respect, you said that we sat here as equals, so clan size and host city should not dictate speaking order. In the end, each clan’s vote counts the same. I called the Clansfelt, but my own kingdom could not host since the Emperor’s army destroyed it. And so I invoke the Shingalla, the right of first address.”

  The King stared at her, and she questioned the wisdom of her move. Renggal, however, turned to the King. “I concur, Your Majesty, and freely yield to Clan Leader Rothendir.”

  The King’s smile was tight. “So be it. Speak your mind, Rothendir.”

  The dwarfe leaned forward and put her hands on the stone table. Its coolness and solidity offered purpose and comfort. It occurred to her that Renggal might be relieved that he would now not have to reveal his position so early.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty, and to you, Renggal, for your graciousness. My lords, you have already heard my account of the battle at Mount Zu’Reising. True, Tarlach’s forces were tracking the Wycaan and the Emperor’s nephew, and that, had Seanchai not saved our priestess, our clan’s existence might have remained intact.

  “But also remember how quickly a trained and ready force was assembled, one fully equipped to attack dwarves underground. This must have been in the works for a long time. There was no offer of negotiation, no hesitation, no mercy. Why should we expect any of those things now?

  “I, also, believe we have two options. We can stay and fight here, leveraging the defenses of Hothengold against Tarlach’s army to cost him mightily. This would be my preference.

  “Alternately, we can lead them away. They have come prepared to siege Hothengold. We don’t offer them this opportunity. We attack them as they enter the passes to this mountain range, and we force them to follow us away from this city and its people. If the Wycaan and the Emperor’s son are with our forces, Tarlach will surely follow them. I want to be clear, however, that I do not believe this will distract them from Hothengold forever.

  “But, my dear King, do not consider negotiation. In this situation, it is just another word for surrender or massacre. Even if they do not attack this time, it would only be so they can even better prepare to take Hothengold. They will take their time so that they can attack with an entire army of dwarves, backed by better explosives and more than the three cave trolls they brought to our mountain. Mark my words: they will come. You can postpone bloodshed, but not avoid it. And if we do not join the Alliance now, when the Emperor’s armies return, we will fight alone.”

  Rothendir sat down. There was a heavy silence in the wake of her speech, and each clan leader was deep in thought. Here, behind closed doors, there was no more posturing. It was the head of the trader clan, Den Zu’Chantague, who broke the silence.

  “I came to Hothengold intending to prevent a war, to persuade the Clansfelt to negotiate, offer some ground in trade, accept taxation. If the dwarf nation goes to war, the loss of trade with the empire will change everything for my people. But as I listen to Clan Leader Rothendir, I begin to realize that it is not so simple. I cannot vote for war because of what this means for my clan, but neither can I vote against a war that in my heart I know is coming.” He stopped a moment and cleared his throat. “Clan Den Zu’Chantague will, for now at least, abstain.”

  FIFTY FIVE

  More than a day had passed since the Clansfelt had withdrawn to a council of the clan leaders. There was no word about how things progressed. If the clan chiefs had broken during the night to sleep, no one knew. Ilana felt the tension descend all around her, a sense of heavy foreboding. Seanchai had been so insufferable that even she had decided to give him space.

  He passed the time training with swords and exercising to build his strength, endurance, and store of energy. Without his standing exercises and the sword training, she wondered if he might have lost his mind.

  Shayth, Jermona, and the other dwarf scouts returned late into the night, and the report that they brought was chilling. The three units of dwarves they had seen at Mount Zu’Reising had now grown into a full-fledged battalion. Jermona had crept as close as he could to General Tarlach’s camp without being detected by the rangers he had left behind.

  Along with this battalion of well-armed and highly disciplined dwarves, there were two battalions of pictorians and a number of cave trolls. Shayth mentioned that it seemed the cave trolls were craving a fight and didn’t care too much who they were fighting.

  Shayth’s ultimate conclusion was this: There were a lot of them, and they were two days from the pass that entered the mountain range.

  This increased sense of urgency only served to darken Seanchai’s mood even more. Shayth tried to alleviate it somewhat by offering to spar with him. While Rhoddan, Ilana, and Sellia were all solid swordsmen, only Shayth could push Seanchai enough to make him feel that he was getting a good workout. Seanchai in turn forced Shayth into sparring at his highest level.

  Without shirts they soon each wore a she
en of shiny sweat on their muscled bodies as they took turns to attack and defend. They trained in the courtyard of Clan Den Zu’Reising’s housing and soon attracted a large crowd. Word spread outside the courtyard, and young dwarves scrambled onto the walls of the surrounding houses to watch.

  Ilana also watched, mesmerized, both with the art of the duel and Seanchai’s drastic transformation from the scrawny wood elf she had first known. She glanced over and saw that Sellia was watching with a similar intensity. She moved closer to her friend and took her hand.

  “Please, a word in your ear.” She guided Sellia to a stone bench nearby.

  “You trying to stop me from staring at your boyfriend?” Sellia taunted, flashing her beautiful white teeth. “How do you know I’m not salivating over Shayth?”

  Ilana, despite her heaviness, laughed. “How well you know me, Sellia. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember.”

  “We grew up as the only two elfes in Uncle’s camp without wrinkles and with all our teeth. How could we not?” Sellia grinned.

  “Then we are fast friends?”

  “Yes,” she replied, but Sellia was not smiling anymore. “What is it, Ilana? Are you really threatened because I flirt with Seanchai and make fun of him? I do the same to Rhoddan; only it’s not much of a challenge since he blushes if I just look at him. Your elf is more of a challenge, but I know he’s your elf.”

  “I trust you, Sellia,” Ilana said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind a pointed ear, “and this is why we’re talking. Are you really attracted to Seanchai?”

  “Do you think there is an elfe with two eyes who wouldn’t be?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay,” Sellia sat up straight. “Yes, I’m attracted to him. How many elves have you seen pursue me to be their mate? I have lost count, as have you, probably. Dyrovas was a special elf, and I lost him. He could have been the one. I wait for someone who is just as formidable.”

  “Dyrovas was special,” Ilana agreed. “I grieved him even though I was still young and already grieving my mother.”

  “We have lost many good elves,” Sellia sighed.

  “And we have survived because we find new partners and move on, always seeking to go beyond survival and live in happiness.”

  Sellia turned and saw the tears brimming in Ilana’s eyes. She put an arm around the younger elfe. “What is it, little one?” she whispered.

  “I want you to do something for me,” Ilana said, her voice going quiet. “If I die–”

  “Ilana!”

  “No, please listen. The old priestess saw something when we were with her. It’s possible – very possible – that I will die before this is all over, maybe here.”

  “Okay,” Sellia said warily.

  “If so, I want you to mate with Seanchai, if that is something you both desire. My death mustn’t be an obstacle. If I die, you have my blessing and my wish. Seanchai is strong with his blades and powerful with the energy, but he’s weak and sensitive at his core. He can’t be alone. He craves his friends and he craves love.”

  She turned to Sellia and grabbed her arm, fingernails digging into Sellia’s dark skin. “If I die, will you let him find comfort in your arms? For me?”

  “You’re really worried by the priestess’ premonitions, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Ilana. You have to focus on the present. You need to play your part supporting Seanchai in the approaching battle. You cannot allow something like this to distract you. That, my dear friend, is what might kill you.”

  Ilana didn’t hesitate. “Then help me not be distracted. Tell me that you’ll take my place if I die.”

  Sellia stared into her friend’s eyes, searching for a sign that this was a joke or paranoia. She saw only sadness. “Okay. I’ll let Seanchai find solace in my arms and, if he is so inclined, I shall willingly be his mate.”

  Ilana’s eyes welled, and her body tensed. When she spoke, her voice was but a whisper. “Swear to me. Bind yourself in the ancient tongue.”

  Sellia looked at her friend, concerned. She grabbed Ilana and pulled her into a fierce embrace. They held each other tightly as silent tears fell down both their cheeks.

  “Ashbar,” Sellia whispered, and Ilana’s body relaxed.

  They loosened their grips and stared into each other’s faces. “Thank you,” Ilana said.

  She took Sellia’s hand in hers, put something in the palm and closed her friend’s fingers tightly. When Sellia opened her hand, she held half of the green stone fastened on a leather cord.

  “Ilana,” the dark elfe’s voice quivered.

  “That stone will enable you to find him if you are separated,” Ilana said, smiling with relief. “He carries the other half.”

  Before Sellia could respond, a mighty horn trumpeted from the palace, filling the entire cavern. The Clansfelt was ready to vote.

  FIFTY SIX

  General Tarlach was furious, and his soldiers were well aware of this. They avoided him like a plague, and when his officers were summoned for meetings, they came with pits of fear in their stomachs.

  Their progress had been slower than planned. A storm had stalled them, as wagon wheels got stuck in the mud. The rain also seemed to irritate the pictorians, even though they lived in the north. Truth be told, it didn’t take much to anger a pictorian, and Tarlach was aware that the dispositions of his troops’ various backgrounds could easily lead to friction, a hair-breath stage from violence.

  The incident with the cave troll had been unfortunate, even though it had worked out. General Tarlach didn’t know how the fight had begun, but when the raucous cries had reached his ears, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a question of who was right, but who was standing.

  He took his time as his guards pushed their way through the crowd, but when he arrived, everyone froze. Tarlach saw that a pictorian and cave troll were fighting. The pictorians maintained a discipline and order, whereas the cave trolls were wild individuals. The pictorians were an integral part of his army, but the cave trolls a luxury. He quickly made up his mind.

  In one swift movement, Tarlach drew his sword, propelled himself up off a rock, twisted in midair and decapitated the cave troll. The giant’s head rolled off and its severed neck spurted a fountain of yellow blood.

  Landing smoothly on his feet, Tarlach addressed the pictorian most engaged in the fight.

  “Where is your commander?” the general ordered.

  A huge pictorian pushed through the ranks, a massive, double bladed axe strapped across his back. Tarlach turned to him. “First Boar Umnesilk, I will not tolerate fighting among soldiers within our camp. Given that cave trolls can be difficult, I will overlook your indiscretion this time. I trust you will make this clear to your boars?”

  The pictorian officer met his gaze, but General Tarlach didn’t flinch. Understanding crossed the huge boar’s face. In one smooth movement he released his double bladed axe from his back and swung at his soldier. The flat side of the axe smashed into his soldier’s face with a sickening crush of bone. Tarlach noted that even in the cloudy light, the axe glistened and the sound as it cracked the bones of the soldier’s face echoed around the camp.

  The boar went down in a heap. Tarlach didn’t know if he was dead or not. Frankly, he didn’t care. As he began to walk back toward his command center, he purposely veered closer to the other cave trolls. They slunk back and stared from him to their headless comrade, blood still bubbling out of its neck.

  Message received, Tarlach thought, but waited until he was back in his tent to smile.

  Ahad left his grandfather, wondering, as always, if this might be the last time they would see each other. He mounted his horse and began to ride back to the palace before remembering that Phineus had invited him to the waterfall.

  Ahad hesitated. He wondered, as he often did, whether this invitation was actually an invitation, or an order. It was unclear more often than not. He turned his horse around. If he did not join Phineus, the
re might be some suspicion concerning his visit to his grandfather.

  It was an easy ride to the waterfall. He left his horse with the Prince’s escort and walked through the trees. Already, the roar of the waterfall was helping him to relax. He found the Prince and his retinue near the bottom of the thirty-foot wall of water. Other people picnicked further down from the waterfall, kept away by deference to the Prince, as well as two burly bodyguards.

  There were two young women with the Phineus. The one not in his arms was from Ahad’s science class. His grandfather had been suspicious of her, thinking she might be a spy. Ahad had never had the chance to find out, but her presence, despite her beauty, was now disconcerting.

  When Phineus saw Ahad, he waved him over. “Come, Ahad. We have wine and fruit here, though you will need to earn them. Ginette and I have been in the water. You and Tarica have not. No wine for Tarica, as yet.”

  The Prince wanted a show? So be it. Ahad continued on his way, unbuttoning his loose shirt and throwing it on the ground near the Prince. He was suddenly proud of his hardening body, a result of the intensive military training he was receiving. Still walking, he awkwardly managed to take off his boots and socks, determined not to flinch at the sharp pebbles under his bare feet. He unzipped his breeches and stepped out of them at the water edge. Then, only in his undergarment, he strode out into the water.

  It was freezing, and he had to struggle not to turn and run out. Finally, he got up the gumption to dive under the water. When he surfaced, he turned and began to swim back. He wasn’t sure whether the water was warmer than he thought or his body was numb.

  Tarica was waiting for him near the water’s edge. She was in the river, with the water up to her thighs. She wore undergarments and a tight, white shirt that exposed her stomach and arms. Ahad couldn’t help but notice her curves and felt a thrill of excitement.