The Ambersham: Book One of The Lords Of Lynnwood

by Greg Ricker

  Park smiled. He would need some help.

  Having a spare wheel in the bed of his wagon, saved Park from a long walk to Bowenn, and meeting the two southlanders saved him from having to change the wheel himself. In two hours time, the job was done, plus the chore gave the southlanders time to fill in the metal merchant on what had happened. He seemed to believe them now, but just looked shocked, and had nothing to say.

  “Perhaps a trip back to Daylen would convince you.” Said Dalt, as he wiped his hands and face clean with a wet handkerchief. Park had given clothes to both of them, and though the thin, black breeches were a close fit, their baggy, white shirts had to be tucked in to bring them down to size. Anything was better than the blood stained clothes they had worn for days.

  “I have to get to Bowenn as quickly as you.” Said Park. He loaded the last pieces of fallen merchandise onto the wagon and pulled the curtain across the opening in the back of the arched canvas roof.

  “You are welcome to join me.¨ Park invited. ¨You should easily find help there.”

  He looked the two over for a brief moment. They were young men, and the sons of farmers, or a blacksmith, did one say? They could not have traveled much, and would probably get lost in the city.

  “Have either of you ever been to Bowenn?” He asked.

  Taron and Dalt exchanged blank looks.

  “No.” They answered, simultaneously.

  Park revealed a mouthful of fingernail sized teeth. “There are many rules there, that you obviously do not know.”

  “Rules?” Taron asked.

  “For one,” the wagon driver pointed at Dalt’s belt, “you can not wear that sword in Bowenn, without military status.”

  He laughed at the look he received from Dalt.

  “It’s a long way to Bowenn, yet.¨ Park continued. ¨I shall tell you all about the city on the way. Then you’re on your own.”

  They had to use man power to get the wagon passed the remaining rocks in their path, and did not hitch Chassy to the wagon until they finished doing so.

  Taron and Dalt hopped into the back of the wagon as Park took his place on the driver’s bench. He sat long ways with his legs stretched across the seat so he could easily see ahead and behind with little movement. Pots and pans knocked and scraped as the two tried to find room to sit. Dalt cleared off a small wooden box to sit on. Luckily, it held him. After getting a go ahead nod from Park, Taron used the chubby, traveling merchant’s large, lumpy bag of clothing as a seat. They fell back slightly when Park let out a high pitched whistle and snapped the reins to get Chassy moving.

  They climbed out of the large dip, and began to increase speed slightly. Park turned his head to the window at the front of the canvas cover, he had a short stemmed pipe in his mouth, with smoke already rolling out of the end.

  “Where was I?” The merchant asked himself, as he removed the pipe from his smoking lips. “Oh, yes. Rules.”

  Taron and Dalt held on to whatever they could for balance, and listened intently.

  Park puffed twice on his pipe before continuing. “Bowenn is too great a city for the king’s men to watch everyone, so they follow some appointed regulations. Well,” he smiled, with a wide gap between his front teeth, “most do.”

  He puffed his pipe. “Law and order is kept to everyone’s satisfaction. So it seems, at least. Much more so than when I was a lad, i suppose.”

  Park chuckled.

  Puff.

  Puff.

  “In Bowenn,¨ he continued, facing ahead momentarily, then back again, ¨you either work for your family, or for the king. Merchants, like me, pay a heavy tax to sell on the streets, but business is usually profitable. Even the blacksmiths buy my remaining junk, at a bargain price, and even if just to melt it down.”

  He laughed again, then checked the road ahead.

  The mention of blacksmiths brought a sorrowful look to Taron’s eyes as he remembered his father, lost somewhere in the remains of Gerhihn.

  “About your sword, Dalt,” Park changed the subject, and Taron was glad of it, “I’m afraid you will not be allowed into the city with it. Only the highest of military ranking possess them.”

  He looked forward for a moment again as the wagon began a long and steady descent down yet another hill. “No one else can carry a blade longer than fingertip to elbow. A very strictly maintained law.”

  Puff.

  Puff.

  Dalt slid out the black dagger and measured it. He tucked the hilt as far into the bend of his arm as possible, and put the blade in the flat of his hand. No matter how he stretched, or tucked, it was two inches longer than allowed. He quickly put it back in his belt.

  It would just have to do.

  “Soldiers train with swords,” Park went on, “but can not carry them off the training grounds. Castle guards hold swords, but on the grounds they use spears and such.”

  Puff.

  “Lieutenant-Commanders carry swords in the castle,¨ he added, ¨and on castle grounds, but not in the city. Generals, on the other hand, are awarded the Gold Lion Seal, and they may wear their swords to bed with them, if they wish.”

  Puff.

  Puff.

  Park tapped his pipe on the side of the bench to dispense the ash, then dropped it into a pouch at his belt. He shot a smiling eye in Dalt’s direction.

  “Very difficult to receive one of those seals, my friend.” He meant the statement for Dalt´s ears, mainly.

  Dalt sighed, as he unbelted the sword he had already grown to like, and laid it amongst Park’s things. He would leave it as payment for the ride.

  “There is a midnight curfew on the streets of Bowenn.” The wagon driver continued. “Ever since General Malkyr was promoted to High Lord General, a much tighter ship has been kept. He makes the rules, and the king decides whether or not to declare them laws.”

  Park shrugged his shoulders. “I guess, in some way, it all seems to help.”

  The sack of clothes Taron sat on had long ago become hard pressed, and he leaned forward so he could fluff it up a little before he sat back down.

  It would never recover fully.

  “There is no fighting,¨ Park continued, ¨no stealing, dirty gambling, or bad-mouthing nobles allowed at all anywhere in the kingdom. Come to think of it, I don’t even think people feel safe to do so in the privacy of their own homes.”

  He sounded serious.

  People in Gerhihn would fight and bad-mouth each other just for fun, sometimes. Maybe just to pass the time on a dull day. Life would have been boring, in fact, without some risky ingredients. Stealing and dirty gambling, however, were not allowed anywhere they had heard of. Dalt worked on an apple tree farm back home, and had once been caught giving a pretty young girl a free basketful. Master Durandal had only scolded him and made him pay for it. Mistress Durandal, on the other hand, had bruised his knuckles good with a stout stick, then gave him one of those motherly speeches about men turning boneheaded whenever a pretty girl was around. Her punishment seemed to go along with everything he did, but Dalt still had not realized how he always found trouble moments after spotting a pretty face.

  “I feel like I’m wearing a collar when I stay long enough.” Admitted Park. “Gets uncomfortable. Don’t like feeling like a whole city is watching me with it´s untrusting eyes.”

  He looked forward, and did not speak for quite some time, after that.

  Wealthier farms began to appear on the plains, spread out with miles between them, but getting closer together the nearer they drew to the city. By sunset they were following a well used wagon trail, and off in the distance, still far ahead, they could just make out the points of the highest towers of Talbarond Castle.

  III

  Elssamon´s Three Eagles

  From a window in the tallest, but not the largest, tower of Talbarond Castle, the Great High Lord King Nall Talbarond, watched the sun set. His face looked carved from stone. He wore his long, thick, gray hair pulled back tight into a braid that resembled a he
avy rope, dangling past the center of his back. A bushy beard and mustache that hid all but his nose and eyes, still held on to a bit of brown. He stood staring, with both concern, and anger, building inside. Fighting each other, to be the greater emotion.

  Both, were winning, at the moment.

  Nall turned to the room behind him, his bedchamber. He usually retired early, but tonight there would be no sleeping. At least, not until he ordered the men standing about in his room to leave. He passed a large chest of drawers with a wide mirror above it, and sat on the edge of an enormous bed roofed by a flowing white, silk canopy tied to a long pole of twisted oak at each corner. Almost privately, underneath the nearly transparent covering, he read the tiny letter in his hand for, at least, the third time. To his great disappointment, the words had still not changed.

  Patiently the men about him awaited a response. High Lord General Victor Malkyr's eyes never left the King. His face appeared to have been carved from the same stone. A thin, black goatee circled his engraved frown. Long hair, just as equally coal colored, grew past his shoulders. He kept it back, behind his attentive ears. His uniform was quite impressive, and did well to emphasize his position and nobility. Red, loose-fitting trousers were tucked into his heavy, ankle-high boots, and were supported by a thick, leather belt. Golden armored plates covered his shoulders and chest, and most of a black shirt underneath. He wore his fiery cloak over his right shoulder, and his left displayed four golden knots. Most importantly, a Gold Lion Seal on his armored breast. He appeared as an undeniably proud, and brave officer.

  Lord General Nyol Jakard stood only two paces behind Victor. Though not as tall, Nyol was twice as wide as the High Lord General. His uniform was exactly the same, except that his left breastplate displayed only three knots. His hair was brown, and pulled into a short tail in the back. The gray on his temples matched the gray on the chin of his short, curly beard. His round face was sweating profusely, and his patience was wearing thin, but it was difficult not to find Nyol experiencing both. He was not constructed of the same hard iron that Victor was, but his consistent ability to get others to follow orders, made up for the fourth knot he had not yet received. The Gold Lion Seal on his chest, helped him not to think about it.

  Sometimes.

  Those three men alone, made that room a powerful fortress.

  Two nearly silent taps on the door, made only Nyol's head turn.

  "Enter." He said, as quietly as his growling voice would allow.

  The young face of a blonde-haired guard peeked into the room. Then the rest of him slid into view. He was dressed completely in bright, silver armor, with only his head and hands bare. It was standard attire for all guards within the castle, as were the padded slippers on his steel boots to quiet the noise made when walking on the marble tiled floors. The King's bedchamber was floored with dense, red, wool carpeting, though, and only the clatter of his arms crossing on his chest could be heard as he bowed.

  "A maid-servant with my Lord King's evening tea, Lord General." He spoke as well as he held himself, in the presence of such power.

  Obviously, this was a guard due for a promotion.

  Nyol only allowed his best soldiers to perform duties inside the castle, for every breathing moment of his life he designed to impress the King. Sometimes, the lord General could be overly so. He still needed a fourth knot, after all.

  There would be no promotions for anyone, until he received it.

  "Send her in." Said Nall before the Lord General could respond.

  Nyol nodded to the young man, as if the King's word was not enough, but he found it always helped for his men to believe that to be true. Then the guard opened the door for a young woman in a blue dress that swung in loose folds about her ankles. Her black hair was tied into two long braids, with one in front, and one in back, both ending at her waist. She quickly stepped out of her slippers and walked barefoot, with a golden tray balanced in her hands. On it, was a small cup that held two swallows of a warm herbal tea that the King drank every night before bed.

  Nyol's eyes followed the girl to Nall's bedside table, and watched her leave just as quickly. She met his stare while putting on her slippers, and wished she had not. He seemed to look so suspiciously at everyone, one eye always squinting as if trying strenuously to see inside her soul. It was really no wonder why his orders were always followed.

  He made her skin crawl.

  The guard closed the door quietly, and the room was still, once more. As what remained of the sunlight through the window faded, the oil lamps on each wall began to seem brighter.

  Nearly an hour had passed since Nall was delivered the tiny message. He had read it aloud to his two Generals the moment he had finished it himself, then he had been deep in thought, ever since. The others were not allowed to speak on the matter until spoken to. No interruptions. Which was one of his rules for Victor Malkyr, who seemed to always have a different solution for everything. Though being the High Lord General had to say something of the value of his opinion.

  This, however, was a call to war.

  For endless ages there had been battles between men and beasts. The battles that could not be forgotten, were those when the foe's leader could use the power of Dy'Shan, the dark half of the source of magic. The Elves in Ayarlyn possessed Dy'Shin, which was a single talent that each had to discover, and then learn to use. Beasts could possess numerous talents, and would use what they learned to kill, and destroy. However, unlike the Elves, who all were born with some level of Dy'Shin power, evil creatures were seldom born with Dy'Shan. In fact, an average of one every hundred years, and most of those never learned to control it, posing little threat.

  Nall had faced a strong enemy once, Yeenoghu, the Gnoll lord. He had never seen Dy'Shan used before that battle, and never wanted to again. The beast's power was extraordinary. Nall had led an army of men, Dwarves, and Elves, into the Gnoll village of Ryell, where they faced the worst that magic had to offer. Many died, including Elssamon's younger brother, but Yeenoghu fell in the end. Nall had actually strangled the life out of the creature with his bare hands. His reminder of that war, was a paralyzed left arm. The Elves said it was a miracle that he had received so many blows of Dy'Shan, and lived. It had been thought impossible for anyone to achieve, until then. The useless arm was, ironically, a token of his great strength.

  In his good hand, the King held the tiny parchment with a magnanimous warning written upon it in an elaborate hand.

  'Dear ageless friend,'

  -That was a formal compliment for lifelong friends in Ayarlyn.-

  'For three days my eagles have witnessed recent growing activity in the heart of the Blasky mountains.'

  -The King of Ayarlyn had been born with two Dy'Shin talents. He was only the second Elf ever to possess more than one talent in their written history. The power to sense the presence of Dy'Shan was one, and the other, was not as common among the Elves. He could see with the eyes of three different eagles in his dreams. Sometimes he could see what one could see, or up to all three at once, and he could clearly remember everything when he awoke. He was, in fact, the only Elf heard of to possess that talent.-

  'A vast number of Orcs are building a strong and sustainable kingdom there. The use of Dy'Shan has been detected.'

  -That part always made Nall swallow. He only regretted that Elssamon could not detect how strong of a power it was.-

  'I plead for the aid of your gifted army. We shall unite under the law of the Kings' Peace, and destroy this evil before it grows further. May the Creator bless your golden lions, with high honor bestowed, and to Kings' Peace - Elssamon Drennidell.'

  The King of Bowenn set the parchment gently down on the serving tray, and picked up the small, wooden cup of warm tea. He saw Elssamon as an equal. More like a brother, even if a much older brother. Nall was perhaps inside his last ten years at sixty, but Elves could live to be a thousand years old, and King Drennidell was over eight hundred. He had tried once to explain to Nall that me
ant they were near the same age, in a way. Eight hundred! Nall thought of the things he had seen all in his short lifetime, and could not imagine what great wisdom that must be held in a mind eight centuries old.

  With that much knowledge, he probably would not have kept his men waiting so long.

  He shook his head, and then sipped down his tea. He was tired. He was always tired, as of late. Too tired for the long journey to Ayarlyn. Too tired to face the deadly power of a Dy'Shan Lord again. Perhaps it was the evil spreading from his arm. He had not been the same man since.

  Refusing his duty, however, was not an option.

  He had plenty of brave soldiers that would follow him to their deaths without question or fear, but who would they follow if he could not lead them? Victor Malkyr? A fine General, he was the King's first consideration, but Victor sometimes overlooked important details when making hasty decisions. He often failed to put safety before victory, and for that reason alone, he would not do.

  He did not consider Nyol Jakard. Wars were not won by brute fOrce alone.

  Word would spread quickly throughout the kingdom, once the news left his bedchamber, and that was why his men waited.

  Details. Kings could not afford to overlook them.

  Nall set his empty cup back on the golden tray.

  "I will see my son, now." He said, without turning to face his Generals.

  Nyol turned to leave.

  "Alone." The King added. Victor hesitated, for only a few seconds, then followed Nyol, who opened the door for him. Then they were gone.

  Nall missed the comforting arms of his wife. Not just then, but always. Twenty years ago, Queen Morgana Talbarond had died when her horse suddenly bolted and threw her from the saddle. He never married again, but she had given him a son to hand his throne to at the end of his days.

  Danuel Talbarond.

  Danuel was every bit as sublime as his father was, at twenty-five, but Nall had never been so cocky. Danuel had absorbed much of the King's knowledge and advice to ready him for the throne. But was he ready enough? Danuel had finished his military training at a younger age than anyone had ever before. By fifteen he was besting Lieutenant Commanders with a sword, and at games of various battle strategies. He was as good as any General, maybe even Victor Malkyr. The fact that he so easily achieved success, was probably his greatest strength, and his greatest weakness.