Sentinals Rising: Book Two of the Sentinal series

by Helen Garraway

  They had followed the trail, haphazard at times, but they had pieced together the Ascendant's message. They could read it in the stars and now the final piece. The Lady’s Captain, he held the key, and he was almost theirs. He had eluded them so many times. His guards were prescient, and the Captain had proved troublesome.

  The Ascendants were closing in. They would have him soon enough, and then it would all be theirs as their forefathers had ordained. Sacrifices had been and would be made, but it was all in aid of the final commandment. They would fulfil the demand and reap the rewards. It was only a matter of time.

  Tor’asion stood and stared out of the window over the icy landscape of Elothia. His thin face tightened as he considered their hasty retreat. If it hadn’t been for Jerrol, his fists shook as he tried to control his anger. He had underestimated him, not realized what being the Lady’s Captain had meant in time. They would have succeeded except for him. But still, they had one last throw, and they wouldn’t fail this time.

  He turned as one of his brothers entered the room. “It’s time.” Var’geris said, glaring at Tor’asion. “Are you sure this is the right interpretation?”

  Tor’asion smiled. “Oh yes, I’m sure,” he said as he indicated for his brother to lead the way. Tor’asion paused at the entrance to the circular room where four men were already seated around the table. There should have been eight of them. Tor’asion scowled as he remembered the lost brothers, Jerrol and those Sentinals again.

  All the brothers were tall and slender with dark eyes like himself, the mark of a descendant, except the squat ex-Chancellor, once called Isseran on the end, but all were looking eagerly at him.

  “Tor’asion, what say you?” Pev’eril asked.

  “The stars say true; the time approaches, focus on the Veil.”

  “We have been,” Var’geris said through gritted teeth, “but it’s been repaired, and we can’t get in to shred it. I thought you were going to deal with the Captain. Your self-indulgence has cost us dearly. You had him in your grasp, and you let him escape.”

  Tor’asion raised his hand. “The Lady is not to be underestimated, nor her minions. We know we succeed as we gain more power. We still have some control of the Watches, enough for our purposes at least. And Terolia has met our needs, let them be a distraction for the King; our allies will harass them. Elothia will provide what we need to prepare. In the end, we will have all. We can wait.”

  “Haven’t we waited long enough?” Iss’aren to his right was whining.

  “My dear Iss’aren, you shall be reinstated, never fear.” Tor’asion smiled. “Your talents will not be wasted. It’s time you returned to court. I have someone for you to entertain.”

  “My talents would be better spent ruling Vespiri. It should have been ours by now. Instead, we are freezing our arses off up here. Why are we here, Tor’asion?” Iss’aren snapped.

  Tor’asion tutted. “You seem to have forgotten the bigger picture, Iss’aren. Vespiri is but the stepping-stone. Why not rule Elothia as well?”

  “A stepping-stone for you maybe,” Iss’aren muttered under his breath as he glared around the table.

  Tor’asion kept face calm. “We will capture the Captain, and he will unseal the Veil. He will come to us, never fear. I expect to hear of his arrival in Elothia daily. Var’geris, return to Retarfu you need to join Sul’enne and spend some time with the Grand Duke. He must be prepared for the Captain’s arrival. I will return to Old Vespers and ensure the Captain performs as expected. The rest of you focus on the Veil. There must be a way in.”

  “If there was, we would have found it by now,” one of the brothers murmured.

  Tor’asion glared at Ain’uncer. “Focus on the Towers, you know them well; there has to be a way in using the Watchers.”

  “You and Ain’uncer spent months there, Tor’asion, was your time as a Scholar not well spent? Why return there now? What did you miss?” Pev’eril demanded his face cold and cynical.

  “I didn’t miss anything,” Tor’asion snapped, his black eyes flashing. “The Captain woke the Watcher. He must be the key. We will return the Captain to the Towers, and he will shred the Veil. Make sure we are in control when we do.”

  “What about the Sentinals? We have one now; what have you found out? You’ve spent enough time with him.” Ain’uncer glared at Tor’asion. Tor’asion knew he was still smarting from his close call with the Sentinal who had been so determined at the Watch Towers. He had only survived because Tor’asion had helped sweep the Sentinal away, and in doing so they had lost the Captain.

  Tor’asion grimaced, flexing his hands in memory. “They are troublesome and difficult to overcome. They seem immune to Mentiserium. It has no effect. Var’geris, now you are here, you should try. He has resisted me, but he is weak; he can’t hold out forever.”

  “It takes too long. He wasn’t the one we wanted. We don’t have time for this,” Ain’uncer argued.

  Tor’asion scowled. “I know. You will kill them at every opportunity. The Captain is the key, and he is the only one we need alive. If Var’geris can work his magic, maybe we can use the Sentinal to trap the Captain.”

  Pev’eril stood. “Is that it? The Kirshans have failed to capture the Captain; you had him in your hands, and you failed. What makes you think you can force this Haven to do what we need this time, even if you do trap him?”

  Tor’asion stood tall. “He will pay for the loss of our brothers, but he has weaknesses like any other men. If you all play your parts, Remargaren will be ours! The time approaches, our ancestors will return and take up their rightful position, and we will all bathe in their glory.”

  “You had better make sure your plan works this time, Tor’asion,” Pev’eril bit out. “Our ancestors grow impatient. We have one chance at this, don’t fail.”

  “I won’t,” Tor’asion said his black eyes glittering as he watched his brothers leave to do his bidding.

  Chapter 2 King's Palace, Old Vespers

  Jerrol Haven, Captain of the Lady’s Guard, Commander of the King’s Justice and Keeper of the Oath sat behind his desk and eyed the large pile of paper awaiting his attention. He had forgotten the amount of paperwork that went with a desk job. Well, if anything drove him back into the field, it would be the paperwork for sure.

  He pulled the pile towards him and began sorting it into priorities. Without thinking, he reached for the quill and came up short as the quill slipped out of his remaining fingers. He flexed his hand; the skin pulling tight. Francis would be nagging him to exercise it more. He would not forget his last run-in with the Ascendant called Ain’uncer who had attacked him and mutilated his right hand.

  With a huff of frustration, he stooped and picked the quill up in his left hand. It just didn’t feel right. He wondered how his sword would feel. He stood, awkwardly drawing his sword. He would have to get Jenkins to adjust the belt to his right hip

  Jerrol gripped his sword in his left hand. The grip fit perfectly, and it vibrated gently. He just didn’t have the strength to feel in control. Strength, he needed to strengthen his left side in general; he would be as good with his left as he had been with his right, he vowed to himself.

  He sheathed it thinking about its previous owner. Guerlaire had been the Lady’s Captain before him. He had been lost with the Lady nearly three thousand years ago when she had sundered the Bloodstone and banished all magic from the world, including herself and her family. She had sacrificed herself and drawn a Veil of protection down around the world of Remargaren. Leyandrii had bestowed the sword on Guerlaire, and Guerlaire had passed it to him. Only he had lost it at the Watch Towers. Ain’uncer had taken it along with two of his fingers. He was fortunate Leyandrii had returned the sword to him, pity she couldn’t do the same for his fingers or his Sentinals. He stilled as the loss of two of his Sentinals shivered though him and he heaved a deep sigh and returned to his paperwork.

  Ten minutes later, he threw the quill across the room and stood. It was impossible
. His writing had never been particularly neat, now it was illegible; a spidery crawl across the paper.

  He eyed the vacant desk outside his office. He needed a scribe, an aide, and he needed him now. He had expected young Private Deron to be fit for duty by now. Deron had been struggling to cope with the life-altering injury he had suffered defending the palace a few months before. Jerrol had been keeping an eye on him since he had returned from his own life-altering experience in his defence of the nomadic people of Terolia and the subsequent ambush at the Watch Towers. He needed hands, not legs to help him, and Deron had two of those.

  As he left his office, Niallerion took position behind his right shoulder. The thin, dark-haired Sentinal guarded him religiously, and although Jerrol trusted him, he missed Birlerion. There was just something reassuring about having Birlerion behind his shoulder, but he had been lost at the Watch Towers along with Serillion; two Sentinals lost when they had so few.

  All the Sentinals were vocal in their belief that Birlerion lived, though he was out of reach in the hands of the Ascendants. Jerrol was deeply concerned about what they were doing to him. Serillion, he had truly lost. He had died protecting Jerrol, and although Jerrol knew he was safe with the Lady, his loss still hurt. The Sentinals were also adamant that the Captain should be more careful and should not be gallivanting around the Kingdoms of Remargaren without protection.

  Since Jerrol’s return to duty, Niallerion had appointed himself in Birlerion’s place. He and Birlerion’s sister Marianille had remained in Old Vespers. Their sentinal trees now stood in the palace grounds having relocated from the Marchwood nursery since Jerrol had rescued them from the rock strata under the neighbouring territory of Terolia.

  Jerrol was still amazed when he thought about the fact he had awoken these men and women from a three thousand-year-long sleep and recruited them back into the Lady’s Guard. They were all tall, silver-eyed and very well trained, if a little enthusiastic on occasion. They took the preservation of the Captain’s health as their priority between them. If he was honest, Jerrol was relieved that they had, considering he had a target on his back with assassins popping up wherever he went.

  Jerrol set off for the infirmary on the other side of the parade ground. Arriving, he paused in the infirmary doorway and watched the healer’s assistant, Ewan, trying to encourage a very young-looking private to take a few steps using a pair of wooden crutches. The boy didn’t look old enough to be a soldier. He had messy black hair and his normally deep brown skin was the washed-out complexion of a convalescent. His balance was all over the place, and he was twisting his body unnaturally to compensate.

  Murmuring to Niallerion to remain outside Jerrol stepped forward. “Private, you look like you’ve been drinking too much,” he said as he approached. He prodded the private’s gut. “Tighten up your core. You’re all over the place.”

  The private instinctively straightened up as Jerrol entered. Letting go of his crutch, he tried to salute and overbalanced into Jerrol’s arms. Jerrol steadied him while Ewan retrieved the crutch. “Forget the salutes, private. I will understand, alright?”

  “Yes, sir,” Deron replied, a blush staining his cheeks. He straightened up, pulling in his stomach.

  “That’s right, it’s about control; you control your body not the other way around.” Jerrol glanced at Ewan who was watching closely. “My aide is derelict in his duty. I was expecting him at his desk this morning. Is there any medical reason why he can’t come with me now?”

  “He needs to keep practicing with the crutches, as you say he needs to build strength in his core; otherwise he is fit for office duty,” Ewan replied with a grin.

  Jerrol nodded and waved his bandaged hand. “Me too, we can work on it together,” he said as Deron’s brown eyes widened as he realised the Commander’s disability. Jerrol grinned wryly. “I need someone who can write you don’t need legs for that. Come with me, private. Your duty awaits you.”

  “Yes sir,” the private gasped, and gripping his crutches he slowly stomped after him. Niallerion close behind.

  Ewan turned as Healer Francis entered the main room of the infirmary. He gave Francis a grin. “At last, I thought we’d never winkle him out.”

  Francis nodded thoughtfully. “Keep an eye on both of them, make sure they don’t overdo it; the commander especially.”

  Ewan grimaced in agreement and left the infirmary to follow the commander and Deron down the corridor. They made slow progress, Jerrol adjusting his stride and explaining what he needed as he went. Deron perked up; his eyes bright with interest.

  Deron faltered, steadying himself on the wall as they neared Jerrol’s office. Jerrol smiled at him. “Well done lad. We’ll build up your stamina don’t worry.”

  “About that.” Ewan stepped forward. “Slow and steady both of you, don’t overdo it. Commander, make sure you and the private report into Healer Francis every day.”

  Jerrol grinned. “Yes sir,” he said with a mock salute.

  “I mean it. You don’t want Healer Francis tracking you down.”

  Jerrol shuddered. “Not if he’s anything like Healer Tyrone from Stoneford we don’t,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper to Deron.

  “Well then, you’ve been warned.”

  “Yes, yes, I am sure you have more important things to be doing than harassing us,” Jerrol said, shooing him away.

  Ewan laughed and left them to it. They would do each other good he was sure.

  “Right,” Jerrol said, sweeping the papers up from his desk and dropping them on Deron’s. He stooped and picked the quill up from the floor. “Only I am allowed to throw quills. Please make sure there is a sharpened quill on my desk every morning. A chore I am currently incapable of performing.” Jerrol held up his hand; a touch of frustration in his face.

  The boy grinned. “Yes, sir.”

  “This lot needs sorting into categories and priority. Priority one messages from the king; the chancellor, Prince Anders; or Commander Nikols; priority two, messages from the Watches; three, personnel; four requisitions and so on. Once you’ve sorted them, we’ll go through them together, and you can get an idea of how to manage them. Eventually, I expect you to manage everything and only escalate the things I need to deal with. If in doubt ask; there is no wrong question, alright? Corporal Jenkins will be your runner for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Deron said.

  “Good, call if you need me.” Jerrol returned to his office and sat behind his empty desk.

  He reached for Zin’talia, his Darian mare. Stretching his mind out as far as he could, but it was just an echoing emptiness; their telepathic connection silent. The Ascendants had absconded from the Watch Towers not only with Birlerion but with her as well; they had much to answer for. Jerrol rubbed his temples in frustration. Where had they taken them?

  Jerrol was frowning at the wall when the private stomped back into his office; a bunch of papers scrunched up in his hand as he gripped his crutches.

  “We need to come up with a way for you to carry things,” Jerrol said as he turned towards him.

  “Yes sir, I’ll add it to my list.”

  “List?”

  “Yes sir, list of things to do. Sir, these documents need your immediate attention,” Deron said as he carefully sat in the chair in front of Jerrol’s desk and put his crutches on the floor. He leaned forward, pointing at the papers. They worked their way through the documents discussing options and occasionally Jerrol just dictating orders. They were interrupted by Corporal Jenkins poking his head around the door.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon sir, but I’ve been instructed to advise you that is it lunchtime,” he said with a swift grin as he prepared to leave.

  “Jenkins, stay a moment,” Jerrol said, easing his shoulders. Jenkins was his latest recruit. The corporal had helped rescue Jerrol from the Watch Towers and subsequently had assigned himself as the commander’s aide, probably to make sure Jerrol did as he was told. He was surrounded by mother hens. He smiled at
the thought.

  Jenkins quirked an eyebrow at him. “Yes sir.”

  “I want you to run as messenger for me. Deron has the orders. I want you to observe how the orders are received and whether there is an immediate response or not. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Of course, sir, whatever you command,” Jenkins responded.

  Jerrol nodded. “Excellent,” he said, turning to Deron. “Time for lunch, as the good man says. Come on,” he said rising. He waited as Deron retrieved his crutches and offering a hand helped lever the boy upright.

  “Get some lunch, Niallerion. You need feeding up; you still look far too thin. I am not going to be attacked in the dining hall,” Jerrol ordered as Niallerion began to protest.

  Deron hung back as they approached the hall.

  “Stout heart,” Jerrol murmured. “Most will treat you as a hero, glad to have you back.”

  Deron swallowed and entered the hall, head held high. There was a general hum of conversation and the clatter of crockery as they made their way down the hall. Long wooden tables crossed the room, leaving a walkway down the centre and at either end. The serving hatches lined the far wall; the kitchens behind them.

  Jerrol scanned the tables looking for familiar faces, but he was preempted by a gruff voice off to his right. “Bob, lad it’s good to see you up, come join us.”

  Deron’s face lit up. “Sarge. It’s good to see you. Where are you sitting?”

  “Over here, lad,” the man stiffened as he saw the commander beside him. “Sir,” he saluted.

  Jerrol nodded. “At ease, sergeant, carry on private. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jerrol continued into the room as the men crowded around Deron; they seemed to be in good spirits. He tried to avoid the men’s eyes so they wouldn’t have to acknowledge him; he had forgotten how awkward it became as you rose up the ranks. Maybe he would lunch in his office going forward.