The Ambersham: Book One of The Lords Of Lynnwood

by Greg Ricker

  The King knew what he had to do. His son would make the journey for him. The Talbarond name was on the Kings' Peace document, and he would honor it.

  The door opened, and he heard padded feet walking across his carpeting. Danuel was usually not so prompt.

  "My Lord King," it was Victor returning to the room, "your son has left the castle. Nyol has gathered word that he went down to..."

  "Find him." The King growled. He knew where he was. Danuel had a habit of stripping off his nobility and heading for town at night.

  Most nights.

  Bowenn was divided by wealth, as much as by rank. The castle sat alone in the middle of a hundred acre circle of land with very few trees. The area north of the great structure was sectioned off for military training. To the east and west of the castle, were the homes of wealthy lords and those of noble blood. Circling the entire grounds was a wall of stone eighteen feet high, with only one, but very large, gate for passage. Merchants' Square, where the commoners lived and worked, did not circle that wall, but instead was a collective mass of its own formed just outside of the wall gate. It had become a maze of streets and buildings of different shapes and sizes that had grown until the King put a stop to it. Too far from his sight was unsafe. The square had continued its growth to the east and west, now, a very large kingdom, in all. Where men and women worked hard for a living, while their sons trained to be soldiers. Life was happy, and peaceful.

  Nall did not notice when Victor had left the room. He was off to give the order to Nyol, of course. Then the prince would be found shortly after. He stood and walked over to the window, his long, red robe with gold edging and belt touched the floor behind him. He gazed upon the square outside of his wall. Lamps lit all the streets and windows. His citizens were still quite active.

  He would have a long talk with his son, but for now, he was the one that would be waiting.

  Victor Malkyr had indeed delivered the order to Nyol Jakard, and then climbed the stairs of another tower to his own bedchamber. Leaving the lamps off, and his uniform on, he sat on the edge of his bed, and then fell back, staring up at the dark, redwood ceiling. He needed some rest. The King would no doubt ask for his opinions on the matter in the morning. It had taken all he could muster to keep from opening his mouth before the King, and it had made him irritable, in return.

  Victor was born to be a leader. He could feel it in his heart and soul. If not a king himself, then he demanded to always be the next highest official. He supposed he lacked the patience that Nall had, but not all situations allowed the time to think for so long. Answering a call to Kings' Peace, meant that they had ten days to reach the Elven kingdom of Ayarlyn. Then the Elves, Dwarves, and Men, would join armies, and travel to the home of the Dy'Shan Lord, to destroy it. They had to act fast, if the best possible men were to be chosen. It was his unvoiced opinion that the King should begin preparing his army that night. By morning, he would have those men fully ready for both travel, and battle.

  His opinions would have to remain his own until morning. For now, the present day was enough to think about. Even though it may have seemed ludicrous, or even insane, he was not surprised that he felt happy about the matter. He knew that with, or without the King, he would be the most influential leader, and the Creator would count his deeds. He knew that a castle in the heavens would be waiting for him.

  For the first time in his life, and only in the dark privacy of his bedchamber, he was smiling.

  Wide.

  As far north as any map had ever been drawn, and even farther still, was where the Blasky Mountains were. It was a land of vast despair. Its bleakness was due to its searing hot days, and equally abusing nights of windy, biting cold. The only growths in the endless maze of cracked rock and clay were scattered, brown weeds. They had somehow managed a short life in a harsh land, where not much more could be expected. It appeared as if a large piece of the earth had been turned upside down.

  One mountain, far to the north, did not appear on any map, despite being the tallest among them. Its peak was long and narrow, much like a tower. A Dragynn circled it, the way a giant hawk would. Slowly it descended to a large, flat area of rock about two hundred feet below the peak, where it sat on its haunches, allowing its rider to step down.

  That rider, was General Nysin.

  He dusted off his crude uniform with several brushes of his hands, and buffed his dented, armored vest with his sleeve. Then shook the dust free from his black cloak. Before him, was the door that led him inside the peak of the mountain. If he had been standing before any other door, he would not have bothered to even check his uniform. That mountain peak, however, was the home of the Orc Lord, Sawl.

  Nysin's Dragynn settled down for a nap, where it would wait for his return. Riding the halfling dragon was the only way to the top of the mountain. Either that, or climb the steep, sharp, and jagged rocks for two days and nights, suffering in the merciless weather.

  He raised a gloved hand to knock...Gloved? He removed his riding gloves, quickly tucked them away in his belt, then knocked. Four knocks, hard and evenly spaced. Another's knuckles would have been skinned on the thick, rough, wooden door. He did not have to wait long before a tiny panel in the door slid open, and though he could not see in, he knew that a pair of eyes inside, were seeing out. Then the panel was shut, and the grinding and squeaking of gears turning erupted from the mountain, as the door slowly began to rise.

  No doubt his soldiers would greet him, respectfully. In the tower, however, he was not their leader. They would all take pleasure in killing him, if Sawl ordered them to do so.

  Though, many would fail.

  When the door was fully raised, General Nysin was as straight and sure as an arrow. He stepped inside. The walls of the great foyer were lined with saluting Orc soldiers. Spears upright in one hand, the other closed in a fist against their hearts.

  If an Orc even had one, that is.

  He marched through, and arrived at a large room, where Sawl's throne sat in the middle, but for the moment, it was shrouded in darkness. Rays of light, from the tOrches in the foyer, caught the faces of Orc soldiers against the walls standing there, as well.

  Nysin sighed. Sawl would be found in his bedchamber.

  He could faintly see the stairs that lined the carved walls, spiraling up, until they were beyond the reach of the dim tOrchlight. He hated those stairs.

  He hated being alone with Sawl.

  He reached back into the foyer and removed a tOrch from its iron holster on the wall, then started up. A pair of rats ran higher up the steps to get away from the approaching light, but with no way else for them to go at the top but down, he was sure to see them again. The long climb would give him time to think, though. He had been a busy Orc during the past months. His army was ready for departure, and they awaited his command in the village at the foot of the mountain. This was not to be the grand farewell that he had hoped for, but Sawl was not one for throwing parties.

  He threw fear at you.

  Nysin did not fear Sawl, himself. It was Dy'Shan, that terrified him to the core. He knew too little about it to trust anyone who possessed it. The power of Dy'Shan was great, and greater than Dy'Shin, by one terrifying aspect. Unlimited talents. Sawl had discovered many in his younger years, but was still trying to master them. Some things he discovered merely by accident, but he always seemed to remember how he had done them. He had left a trail of death miles long behind him, with his youth. Since then, he had learned enough control to prove his right to claim the throne, and then enough to build the faith that his soldiers lacked. He was their sword and shield to display, proudly.

  The General had erased the day from his memory when he had given his throne to Sawl. He had hoped that the power would have turned the lord mad by then, as it was known to do, more often than not. What bothered him most, was that he had done very well for the Orcs without the aid of any powers, but with his own two hands. He had been responsible for the raising, and training, of the Dra
gynn in the village. He had found a nest of four, when he was a child, and taken them home. With enough food and spoiling, it was easy to build loyalty among them. Now, with the passing years, the Orcs had fifty adult flying fighters, and many young ones in training.

  None of which, had been Sawl's doing. He had ruled with strength and wisdom, but Orcs, as well as all beasts, felt powerless without the leadership of a Dy'Shan Lord, and now, was their time for greatness.

  After half an hour of climbing steps tirelessly, Nysin could see a ceiling above him drawing nearer. When the stairs went through an opening in it, the ceiling became the floor. He emerged into a hallway that led a short distance to another, though much smaller, wooden door.

  Sawl's bedchamber.

  The two rats ran past the General's feet, and down the steps, out of the light, or perhaps, away from Sawl.

  He set the tOrch in an empty holster near the door, and then raised a hand to knock, but before his hand touched the door, it opened, slowly.

  Dy'Shan. It both frightened, and sickened him.

  The room was well lit by a pair of oil lamps, and he could see Sawl sitting in a high-backed chair behind a table stacked with books, reading. That was a talent that any beast could learn, but seldom took the time. The Orcs did not have many books, and most of them were written by former Dy'Shan Lords. The pages were loaded with useful information on conjuring and controlling talents, as well as battle strategies, maps, and advice for receiving obedience, but many were written in ancient languages, and he could not read them, himself. He was presently reading the words of a Dy´Shan Lord that had been taken by the madness.

  Something Sawl expected to happen someday. Perhaps, after Lynnwood was his.

  "We await your command, my lord." Said Nysin.

  The Orcs spoke in a language both scratchy, and rough. Deep, like growling, they used fewer vowels than the common tongues. He followed with a short, and as equally hasty, bow.

  "Nysin." Sawl did not look up from his book. Instead, he turned a page, and continued reading. "I am beginning to notice, how you avoid me."

  Nysin gaped. "I did not come until I was satisfied that my men were ready. I beg your forgiveness, my lord." The latter was so hard to say. He bowed again, but much slower. He had been practicing at avoiding the Dy'Shan Lord, and the entire mountain itself, in fact.

  "I am satisfied, General." Sawl closed the book carefully, and placed it on top of the nearest stack. He looked straight at Nysin with his glowing, red eyes. The eyes Nysin saw in his worst nightmares. "However, you will answer my summons the moment you receive them. Understood?"

  Sawl's voice alone could send chills up and down a rabid grizzly's spine.

  Even with a whisper.

  "Yes, my lord." Followed by quick, multiple bows. Nysin was quite a different creature, when he was around Sawl.

  He hated knowing that about himself.

  There was a moment of silence, as the Orc lord opened another book, and slowly skipped over the first dozen pages or so. They were written in the old language. The General was staring him. Sweat beading on his brow.

  "Ah," Sawl put a finger on the map he had turned to, "Bowenn."

  He smiled, and settled back in his chair, taking the book in his hands. "So weak, and ignorant."

  It felt good to call the city that.

  Laughing overwhelmed him, and Nysin almost joined him, until suddenly, Sawl slammed the book on the table, and dust flew about.

  Joined by Nysin's heart, as he felt it nearly leap from his chest.

  "Succeed tonight, General Nysin," Sawl's tone scratched at the General's bones, "and I shall pay you quite generously."

  Nysin was surprised at what he had just heard. He hoped that Sawl was not going mad now. He saluted. "Power and honor, Dy'Shan Lord Sawl!"

  "You're dismissed, General." Sawl returned to his book.

  Nysin turned and marched out of the room and into the hallway. He felt a breeze from the power that rustled his cloak as the door closed behind him, and he snarled. Then the thought of the night ahead brought a smile to his hairy, pig-nosed face. Tonight the Orcs would be at war. A war where he would not be denied victory, and would do so without the Orc lord's power. It would be saved until it was needed. Then Sawl would be stronger, and more in control. He had to be careful, and kept safe, but action would have to be taken before the madness took him. His books had taught him that, as well. Sawl was every bit as wise as Nysin, and every male Orc in the village had joined his army. The largest, and strongest army the Orcs had ever assembled.

  General Nysin knew what his wish would be when at last this was all over, and Lynnwood belonged to the Orcs.

  His wish, would be that Sawl, would simply drop dead.

  IV

  The Hole In The Boot

  ¨Whoa, Chassy!¨

  At the very moment that the church bell rang in the great city of Bowenn for the twelfth time at midnight, Park Brommul's wagon full of tin came to a clanking halt at the border of Merchants' Square. Guards stood all about the seemingly endless city. Low ranked soldiers stationed where doing their duty well was not of grave importance. They wore frowns that read of disappointment, or perhaps it was humiliation. Even their chainmail armor was far less impressive than the silver plate uniforms of the castle guards. It was a duty given to new recruits, or for punishment. Holding their noses in the air as a practice, made them look a little nobler, however. One patted Park's horse on the neck, while another peeked inside his wagon.

  "He's okay!" Said the guard, as he removed his head from inside the canvas cover.

  "Have a nice evening." Said the other, but Park sensed the guard could not care less if his evening was nice or not. He gave a quick snap on the reins, and Chassy slowly got the wagon rolling again. The horse needed rest. So did Park. He was heading straight for an inn.

  That time of night, there was little action on the streets. People were home, or were headed that way, and the rest occupied the taverns and inns within the square. The streets were dimly lit by oil lamps high up on poles, and light from the windows of nearly half the buildings in view.

  Park noticed the different feel of riding on cobblestones, from the much smoother ride of the grassland trails. The townspeople would never have to walk through mud, but he had to ride very slow, or bounce frantically in his seat. Not to mention what his wagon sounded like already! He almost felt rude, with it being so late. He made his way passed a long line of wagons parked at each side of the wide street, and looked at the buildings around him.

  There were many inns to choose from. The Dancing Maiden, was the closest, where just that could be found inside. The noise of women singing to the music of four-string mandolins, flutes, and harps could be heard. The men cheering and laughing within the great building were overpowering. It was obviously a very expensive place.

  For that reason alone, it would not do.

  Park eyed the street from left to right as he passed the homes and businesses. Every structure was impressive, but homes were much smaller, and less visible. He continued reading the names of inns as he saw them. He had a certain one in mind. He had found it last year, but could not remember exactly where. Only that it was on the main road through town.

  The Old Barn Owl, The Great Oak, Three Homely Hens, and The White Lion, none of them, the one he sought. He looked for a group of soldiers at each door. He recalled that the soldiers liked to hang out there, and he felt quite safe during his last stay.

  More music and laughter exploded from The Merchants' Square Inn, the biggest of all the businesses in the city. He longed to stay there a night, but it would take a large chunk of his savings, and to Park, any bed was a bed.

  Then he saw a long, flat-roofed inn called The Hole In The Boot.

  That's the place!

  He parked his wagon in the first vacant spot that he could find.

  "We're stopping here, Chassy." Park stood, stretched, then hopped down to the road. His large belly nearly pulled his tucked in shirt
free, but he was prompt to adjust it. He ran a pair of dirty hands through his sweaty, black hair, and it stayed feathered back. Surprisingly, improving it. He grabbed a rolled up blanket, to take with him to his room. He had stayed in plenty of inns to know that they never had more than a single blanket to offer. Not in the inns that he could afford, anyway.

  He tied Chassy's reins to a nearby hitch post, and patted her on the head. "Good night, Chassy. Thanks again, girl."

  She licked the long sleeve of his shirt.

  The two southlanders jumped out of the back of the wagon and onto the cobblestone road, their blankets rolled neatly under one arm.

  Park met them with a smile. “Well, I hope you can get the help you need. Avoid taverns, and only speak with military officials.”

  He popped a silver coin out of his pocket, and Dalt caught it. “Enough for a decent room.”

  Park turned to the inn they had stopped beside. “Just not here.”

  “What’s wrong with this place?” Asked Taron.

  Park looked back at them. “No soldiers come here, ever. This is a place where money is spent. Soldiers do not have money.”

  He pointed down the road. “You’ll know the right places. Good luck to both of you!”

  Quickly he left them, and left behind a mild impression that he still did not truly believe their story.

  He hoped they believed the story he had just told them.

  Dalt walked with his right hand on the pommel of his Orc dagger. The sword he left could be forgotten. Taron kept his bow strapped to his back, and his quiver rolled in his blanket.

  In a kingdom of thousands, they felt very alone. Eyeing left to right, they passed the shops and homes that made up Merchants’ Square. There were many inns, with singing, music, and cheering emitting from their doors and windows. Every structure was impressive, with the homes being much smaller than the businesses, but occupied the same streets, though shadowed by their compression. They crossed another street that they ignored. The one they followed possessed enough lighted buildings to find someone who could help them. A balding man with a bushy beard, staggered by, groaning loudly.