Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  © 2015 DK Mok

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without

  its cover is unauthorized.

  Spence City

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spence City, an imprint of Spencer Hill Press,

  PO Box 243, Marlborough, CT, 06447, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencecity.com

  First Edition: April 2015

  DK Mok

  Hunt for Valamon/by DK Mok–1st ed.

  p.cm.

  Summary:

  Description: When the crown prince is impossibly taken from the heart of the castle, a reclusive cleric and a cursed woman must find him before simmering tensions in the empire erupt into war.

  Cover design and interior layout by Errick A. Nunnally

  978-1-939392-26-8 (paperback)

  978-1-939392-45-9 (e-book))

  Printed in the United States of America

  HUNT for VALAMON

  DK MOK

  For my family, who taught me the truth about heroes.

  ONE

  Change is a cunning thing. By the time you see it, hear it, quash it, you’re only stabbing at its shadow. Change itself has already slipped past, into your kingdom, crawled into your house, and put on your favourite pair of slippers.

  Sometimes, if you’re lucky, change will welcome you home. But sometimes, change is a hungry thing.

  Tomorrow, everything would change.

  Valamon, crown prince of the Talgaran Empire, stared at the crisp speech in his hand. The rest of the castle lay deep in slumber, but in Valamon’s bedchamber the candle had burned down to a crater of wax.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the speech, aside from the fact he’d finally been entrusted to deliver one. It was covered in copious notes from the royal speechwriter, including “remember not to smile” and “look regal”.

  Valamon glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His dark hair kept falling into his eyes, and while he was reasonably tall, he had the inconspicuous build of a worried philosopher. Judging by the portraits in the banquet hall, “looking regal” involved brandishing a bloodied sword while crushing a corpse beneath your boot, which Valamon had always hoped was artistic embellishment.

  Valamon wondered what would happen if he deviated from the script and told the crowd what he really thought of his father’s expansionist policies. It would probably involve a very high, very cramped tower with a deficiency in doors.

  Still, Valamon was twenty-eight this summer, and something had to be done. He folded the speech into a small, intricate lotus and left it beside the dying candle.

  When he looked up again, there was a contorted shape in his bedroom window, pressed against the glass. By the time Valamon lunged for his sword, it was already too late.

  It was supposed to be an easy night. For the average castle guard, patrolling the royal quarters was the safest part of the duty-roster cycle. It involved infinitely fewer fatalities than the dreaded gatehouse duty, and it was significantly safer than guarding the treasury, the armoury, or the surprisingly hazardous kitchen. In fact, the only guard in the past fifty years to have died in the royal wing was Old Horricks, who had suffered a fatal case of Too Much Pudding. It should have been an easy night.

  It was just gone one in the morning when the crash of breaking glass shrieked through the corridors. It wasn’t the kind of crashing that spoke of stumbling in the dark or too much to drink. It was the kind of heart-stopping, gut-wrenching noise that guards prayed wouldn’t happen on their shift. Especially just before retirement.

  The first guard to reach the prince’s door could still hear the skittering of glass. Taking a deep breath, he crashed into the darkened room, prepared for the kind of fate that usually awaited generically uniformed henchmen. It took his eyes a few moments to register what his instincts were already screaming at him.

  There was something in the window.

  Hulking and misshapen, involving folds and folds of shadow. There were curves and angles that spoke of wings and membranes, talons and scales. In the depths of the silhouette, phosphorescent green eyes rippled like infernal flames.

  A seemingly lifeless body was draped in its arms, barely recognisable as Prince Valamon, his skin almost translucent in the starlight. Desperately wishing he’d drawn kitchen duty instead, the guard gripped his sword and charged.

  The creature gave a smile that included far too many teeth, and there was a hush like silk slithering over stone. The shadows bunched, and the creature leapt into the sprawling night, the prince still clutched in its arms.

  The guard skidded to a stop at the window, leaning over the narrow ledge with a growing sense of nausea. The city was still sleeping, but tomorrow it would to wake to a world irrevocably changed.

  At the Temple of Eliantora, it was an unholy hour in every sense of the word.

  Dawn was still hours away when Seris woke to a loud knocking at the main doors. For a sleepy moment, still wisped in visions of glistening buffets and ominous skies, he was tempted to ignore it. Being a cleric of Eliantora was notoriously challenging, and one of the few perks was being able to honestly claim that sleeping in was a religious observance.

  Seris blinked blearily at the starlit ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t fall back asleep. There was always a chance that the person at the doors was here for the most devastating possible reason, and Seris had seen enough of that to know he had to be there. There was also something about tonight’s knocking that suggested it would only get louder and possibly turn into a splintering noise.

  Seris grizzled to himself as he padded through the cold, narrow hallway. At twenty-five, he was the youngest cleric in the order, and it fell to him to deal with the drunkards, the knock-and-runs, and the midnight emergencies. He occasionally found himself mildly resenting the fact that he’d probably remain the youngest member well into his sixties, although he mostly had these thoughts at four in the morning while trying to convince an intoxicated local that he couldn’t cure hangovers, especially while in a headlock.

  The banging grew more insistent. Still grumbling, Seris swung open the door and narrowly avoided being punched in the face with an armoured fist. Fortunately, years of dealing with unpredictable visitors had given Seris good reflexes for someone who divided most of his free time between reading and sleeping.

  The gauntlet stopped in mid-air, and Seris dragged his gaze from the fist to the woman attached to it. She was lightly armoured, in her mid-twenties, and had the air of someone whose job it was to clean up messy situations while looking effortlessly graceful. Her dark hair was pulled back and bound tightly down its length with a distinctive strip of red fabric. Seris recognised her as Lord Qara, Marquis of Corwen—she seemed to crop up regularly at ceremonies and parades, and when she was in charge of crowd control, people knew not to throw things unless they wanted those things thrown back at them with painful accuracy.

  The fact that the marquis was here, on the doorstep, in the predawn murk was enough to make Seris nervous. This would have been the case even without the dozen royal guards flanking her. Qara calmly lowered her fist.

  “Seris, cleric of Eliantora. You have been summoned to the castle by His Royal Highness, Prince Falon,” said Qara.

  “Is someone hurt?” said Seris.

  There was the briefest pause.

  “No,” said Qara. “Your presence has been requested.”

  The way she enunciated the word “request
ed” strongly implied that this request involved a dozen armed guards and, if necessary, a very large sack.

  Seris was briefly tempted to refuse. If there was no injury, it was probably a visiting dignitary, curious to know if something could be done about a poorly placed mole or a receding hairline. Then again, Seris had a feeling the marquis did not make house calls for receding hairlines.

  It was then that he noticed the expression in Qara’s eyes. Buried deep beneath the calm composure, behind layers of guarded sangfroid, Seris could see the ghost of something familiar.

  He’d seen it before, in the face of the woman whose son wouldn’t stop bleeding. In the eyes of the man who’d walked for eight days with his dying daughter in his arms. In the achingly lost expression of the old man kneeling beside his wife, who wouldn’t wake up. They had all looked at him with that same expression.

  Please do something.

  The night sky was just beginning to blush rose on the horizon.

  “Let me get my coat,” said Seris.

  It was like an underworld.

  Algaris Castle had been built centuries ago as a fortress, steadfastly withstanding sieges, wars, raids, and the occasional plague of wild elephants. The interior retained the design of a defensive fort, with winding stone stairwells, cavernous halls, strategic turrets, and massive curtain walls that shut out the world. It wasn’t the building, however, that gave the castle its grave air tonight.

  Seris felt increasingly unsettled as he followed Qara through the twisting passageways. Every person scurrying past seemed stuck in some kind of personal hell, as though fearfully contemplating a horrible and uncertain fate.

  It occurred to Seris that his own expression might appear similar, as he tried desperately to recall whether he’d done anything to offend the royal household recently, aside from not attending their public announcements. Seris wasn’t a fan of crowds or long speeches, but he was fairly certain this wasn’t treasonous.

  Qara stopped at an iron-bound door and knocked once.

  “Enter,” called a voice with a hint of a tired growl.

  The spacious study was lined with broad desks, cluttered with territorial maps and strategically placed military tokens. Sconced lamps studded the walls at varying heights, casting disorienting shadows, which Seris suspected was the intended effect. An oak desk stood at the back of the room, polished to a soft sheen. Prince Falon sat behind it, looking as though he were casually waiting for an excuse to throw someone out of a window.

  Falon was a few years younger than Prince Valamon, but his reputation preceded him like a tide. A confident, competent, and often rather angry tide. Seris had managed to avoid the younger prince until now, despite the man’s fondness for hunting, swordplay, and dangerous volumes of paperwork.

  Falon looked up from his papers with the kind of expression that suggested he’d been expecting someone taller and without bed hair. Seris shifted uncomfortably as Qara stood to attention.

  “Presenting Seris, cleric of Eliantora,” said Qara.

  Falon swept his gaze critically over Seris.

  “You’re sure he’s the one?”

  “He’s the youngest of them,” said Qara.

  Seris suddenly had the odd feeling that he was standing in a one-man line-up. Falon looked at Seris with a mixture of disdain and resignation.

  “So, you’re the sane one.”

  Qara gave what sounded like a reproachful cough.

  Seris was, in fact, the sanest member of the Order of Eliantora. However, Eliantora wasn’t a popular deity, and she did have a fairly small following. Three, to be exact.

  “Does the castle require our services?” said Seris.

  Falon gave a humourless smile.

  “Prince Valamon was abducted tonight.”

  Seris’s first thought was Don’t laugh.

  Seris’s second thought was Oh, gods, he’s serious.

  Seris’s third thought involved the realisation that he hadn’t been called here to remove a fork from someone’s thigh. Although it was amazing, the stuff that went on in the kitchens.

  “Do you know who was responsible?” asked Seris carefully.

  “There was sorcery involved,” said Falon.

  King Delmar was notoriously mistrustful of sorcery, to put it mildly, and its use was forbidden in the capital. It had required a great deal of urgent wrangling by Seris’s predecessors to convince the king that there was a distinct and meaningful difference between a sorcerer and a cleric. Seris hoped that Falon hadn’t come to an alternative conclusion.

  “You spend a lot of time in the temple, Seris,” said Falon. “It’s almost like a separate world in there, isn’t it?”

  Seris wasn’t sure why Falon was singling out the Temple of Eliantora. As far as temples went, it was very modest and not in particularly good repair. It was only a handful of cosy rooms and a small but productive garden, surrounded by rough, whitewashed walls. You certainly couldn’t hide a prince there, unless he happened to resemble a basket of potatoes.

  “The Temple of Eliantora serves the king,” said Seris.

  He felt this was a fairly safe answer.

  “Do you serve the king, Seris?”

  Seris interpreted this question to mean “Do you want to stay alive?”

  “Of course,” said Seris.

  “We don’t see you at many public events,” said Falon. “One could easily assume that the clerics hold themselves somewhat separate from the rest of the empire.”

  Seris’s heart skipped several beats. Surely they hadn’t noticed one cleric missing from the crowd of thousands?

  Seris glanced at Qara, who continued to gaze steadily ahead. He had the sudden feeling that perhaps it was her job to notice such things.

  “I, uh, have sensitive skin,” said Seris. “Too much sunlight—”

  “And garlic?” said Falon.

  “No!” said Seris quickly. “I mean, I have to meditate a lot. And the noise—”

  Seris suddenly wondered whether this was some kind of impromptu trial.

  “To whom do you swear allegiance, cleric of Eliantora?” said Falon.

  A distant memory stirred in Seris. The clash of shields. The roar of burning banners against a setting sun. And it didn’t matter which side you were on—all the dead looked the same.

  “Anyone who needs it,” said Seris firmly. “The sick, the wounded, the dying.”

  Falon’s gaze was needle-sharp.

  “You would give succour to an enemy of the empire?”

  What the hell, thought Seris. If I’m their prime suspect in the kidnapping, they’re in a lot more trouble than I am.

  “My oath is to the sick, the wounded, and the dying.”

  Falon looked steadily at Seris for a moment, then steepled his fingers.

  “Prince Valamon’s abduction has created a great deal of additional work. I would like you to assist Lord Qara with her duties, just for the next few days.”

  Seris blinked, wondering if he’d dozed off and missed a chunk of conversation.

  “A hero will be sent to recover Prince Valamon,” continued Falon. “This hero will be selected through a tournament to be held in three days’ time.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to send several heroes? Maybe even a battalion?” said Seris.

  “Politics is complicated, isn’t it? Let’s just say the prince’s abduction has come at an exceptionally inconvenient time. With King Delmar and his troops occupied in the south, we can’t afford to send soldiers away from the capital.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least send someone straight away?”

  Falon looked at Seris dourly.

  “Politics?” said Seris.

  “Logistics. It will take some time for contestants to arrive. Three days is already quite short notice.”

  Seris knew he was treading on thin ice, but he couldn’t help giving it a tentative stomp.

  “The public might misconstrue these delays as a lack of motivation to recover the prince.”

&nbs
p; There was a frosty silence.

  “You mean,” said Falon coolly, “that the younger, more competent prince might feel that this is his chance to become heir to the throne?”

  “I’m just saying that people talk.”

  “Did you know that Prince Valamon was supposed to give a speech tomorrow? Now, not only will I have to give that speech, but I will have to amend it to explain how the Crown Prince of Talgaran managed to get himself kidnapped from his bedroom, in the castle keep, in the heart of Algaris, capital of the Talgaran Empire.” Falon pressed his fingers to his temples. “And just so you’re aware, I don’t need to get rid of Prince Valamon. It was decided long ago that he will never be king. In a year or so, Prince Valamon will join the Order of Fiviel, and I will become the heir apparent.”

  “Does Prince Valamon want to join the Order of Fiviel?”

  “Prince Valamon wants pancakes for breakfast,” said Falon. “Anything beyond that is a bit much for him.”

  There was another sharp cough from Qara. Falon sighed and shot her a tired look before turning back to Seris.

  “And no, we’re not just sending one person. You’ll be accompanying the hero on their quest.”

  Seris wasn’t sure whether to laugh or gasp, and he ended up making a noise like he was regurgitating an eggplant through his nose.

  “But I’m not—I can’t—”

  “We could send Petr or Morle,” said Falon casually. “But Lord Qara recommended you.”

  Seris took a slow, deep breath. They wouldn’t dare send Petr, the elder cleric of Eliantora. The poor man barely knew where he was these days and had probably forgotten who he was quite some time ago. Petr whiled away most of his hours in the vegetable patch out the back, happily tending to his remarkably therapeutic potatoes. Petr’s potatoes always bartered well with the locals, but the man needed help putting on his shoes in the morning.

  And Seris would be damned if they tried to send Morle. The temple was her sanctuary, as it had been Seris’s.

  “I’m sure the clerics of Thorlassia would be better equipped for such an assignment,” said Seris coldly.