Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  “How large is the army?”

  “Valamon said about a hundred garrisons,” said Elhan. “But I think he was being melodrama—”

  Qara drew a sharp breath.

  “You spoke to Valamon?”

  “I ran into him in the forest, but he said he wasn’t ready to come back.”

  “He wasn’t ready to come back?” Qara sounded like she was choking on a small porcupine.

  “He said he was going to stop the war,” said Elhan.

  In the stunned silence, a range of extreme emotions flickered through Qara’s eyes, before being pushed back to wherever it was she usually kept them. Qara swept her gaze around at the smoky columns, the clash of swords still ringing through the city. You could have crushed walnuts with her expression.

  “That…is why Valamon will never be king,” said Qara.

  FIFTEEN

  Haska pounded up the stairs. The ground hummed like a harp string, and threads of blue light sparked through the walls, slithering upwards. A lean figure suddenly stepped in front of her and found itself on the verge of both strangulation and decapitation before it managed to make a noise.

  “Lord Haska,” squeaked Liadres.

  Haska released her grip, sliding her sword back into its sheath.

  “Liadres, shouldn’t you be assisting Lady Amoriel?”

  “She’s ready.” He paused. “Lord Haska, the spell is getting weaker each time. Lady Amoriel has had only weeks to recuperate instead of months. I’ve done all I can, but I don’t know how far we can jump.”

  Haska paused before the door, glancing at Liadres’ expression of concern.

  “It’ll have to be enough,” she said.

  Haska stepped into the Tower Hall, and it was like walking into the heart of a star. Everything pulsed and sparked with energy, wavering as though not quite here, or not quite real. Amoriel and Barrat looked up as Haska and Liadres entered, and Haska caught only the words “destroyed” and “either way” before the conversation stopped.

  “Lord Haska,” said Amoriel, framed in incandescent lashes of energy. “You’re just in time.”

  Amoriel’s hand rested on the stone window sill, veins of blue fire racing up her fingers and arms.

  “Are you ready?” said Haska.

  Amoriel smiled. “Are you?”

  Haska had a brief, powerful sense of déjà vu. She’d asked herself the same question four years ago, the day Amoriel and Barrat had first appeared to her in the mountainous woods beyond Fey. Her mother’s grave had barely grassed over, and the Fey resistance were growing fewer in number every year. Yet Delmar’s reach continued to spread across the land.

  Was she ready? Was she ready to trust the word of strangers and their offers of power and revenge? Was she ready to take her mother’s place, to lead her people to freedom or annihilation? Was she ready to make those choices, to do what had to be done? When the time came, would she know what to do? Would she be guided by wisdom, and not distracted by fear, insecurity, and vengeance?

  Haska traced her thumb over the single word engraved on the hilt of her sword.

  “Take us as far as you can,” said Haska.

  Red tunics flowed through the Algaris War Room in urgent eddies, battered boots clomping across the weathered stone.

  “Open up the East Dungeon; start using levels one through four,” barked Falon. “Fire Team Eleven, report!”

  “Fires have been contained in the north and southeast sectors,” said a brown-haired soldier.

  “Fires in the western sector have been extinguished—no further outbreaks,” added a slim soldier with a dented helm.

  “Sixty-eight arrests so far,” said a tall soldier with a limp. “Checkpoints intact.”

  “Maintain checkpoints,” said Falon. “Squads twenty-four to thirty-nine, begin a sweep. There’s more of them out there.”

  Falon shifted several tokens across a large map of Algaris, scratching a quick tally on a piece of rumpled parchment. A section of the markets had burned to the ground, and two of the message towers had been destroyed. Four squads had been lost to the initial explosions, and spot fires had claimed homes across the capital, but still the damage could’ve been far worse.

  If Qara hadn’t uncovered the half-dozen spies amongst the castle guards before she left, Falon knew they would be looking at a very different situation right now. He felt a sudden tingling in his chest, and it took him a moment to realise it had nothing to do with the subject of his thoughts. He stepped discreetly behind a bookcase and pulled the silver tube from his tunic. He should have made Albaran return the damned thing.

  Falon’s gaze skimmed the words. He closed his eyes briefly and then read the message again. The two phrases that stood out were “imminent attack” and “Valamon’s alive”. He would’ve thought Albaran had finally snapped, except the note was in Qara’s handwriting.

  The room fell deathly silent.

  “Falon.”

  Falon quickly slipped the tube into his tunic and turned to see King Delmar entering. The king gave a barely perceptible tilt of his head, and the room rapidly cleared.

  “Your Majesty.” Falon bowed deeply.

  “How is it that such coordinated violence can occur in the capital of Talgaran?” said King Delmar. “Were there no warnings, Falon?”

  “Your Majesty, there were indications that a resistance was—”

  “Why was no action taken when a patrol was attacked by these same criminals mere weeks ago?”

  “We have been trying to gather int—”

  “What do you suppose has emboldened our enemies to such a degree that they attack us in the heart of the empire?” said King Delmar.

  “Your Majesty, I—”

  “Falon.” King Delmar’s voice was unforgiving. “I know these are not simple matters. But do not confuse weakness with complexity. You have only ever known peace, here in the cradle of the kingdom. You have only ever known safety, prosperity, and Talgaran rule. But this peace came at a bloody price—one paid by kings and soldiers, measured in sacrifice and courage. The courage of our forefathers secured our borders and subdued our enemies, and our courage fortifies this peace and eradicates those who would bring us down once more. Courage can be mistaken for cruelty, but it is a distinction that leaders must make for the sake of their people.”

  Falon swallowed, his mind a strangled knot of guilt and doubt.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Valamon never understood this,” said King Delmar dispassionately. “He would have watched his household burn before raising a hand against his enemies. The oath of kings was just words to him.”

  Falon felt a burning ache in his chest.

  “Father, I think Valamon—”

  There was a sudden blast of light from the window, a shattering bolt of lightning tinged with blue. Falon rushed to the window and saw the night illuminated in a haunting shade of day. To the west of the city, beyond the farms and fields, at the very edge of the horizon, a massive dome of crackling blue light bubbled into existence. It looked like a half-shell of writhing energy, pulsing like a living thing. It flared, rippling outwards in a fading ring of light, finally returning the hills to darkness.

  Falon stared at what remained. A dark, seething mass spread across the fields, like acres of ants encrusting the land. In the centre stood an ancient, looming fort, like a blackened arm clawing towards the sky. Falon’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Now is the time for courage, Falon,” said King Delmar. “Show me you deserve to be king.”

  Credulity was spread so thin that it was snapping all over the place. Confused, angry people could make a lot of noise, and the ruined hall was full of some very confused, very angry, highly armed people.

  “If we’ve landed, why aren’t we attacking?” yelled a furry-hatted delegate.

  “I can see the capital out the window, so I’m damned sure they can see us!” cried an Erele captain.

  “The mountain clans joined this alliance to de
feat the Talgaran Empire, not to negotiate with them,” snarled Ralgas.

  “Our objective is to defeat the Talgaran Empire,” said Haska, her voice carrying through the ruckus, “not to decimate them. Delmar can see what his options are. All of Algaris knows that they stand on the brink of annihilation. If we can end this without bloodshed, then we all start this era with fewer bodies to bury.”

  “You can’t possibly believe that a man responsible for genocide will simply surrender,” said a scarlet-robed monk.

  “Please, allow me to speak in defence of Lord Haska,” said Jaral, raising his hands calmly. “Lord Haska has done an excellent job in bringing us to this point. However, we shouldn’t resent her if her parochial background shows itself; after all, it’s our own failing if we expect a provincial guerrilla fighter to have the judgement of an experienced general.”

  “Experienced generals and their judgement have failed in the face of the Talgaran Empire for centuries,” said Haska.

  “We’ve never had sorcerers,” said Jaral. “Lord Haska, could you have brought us here without Lady Amoriel?”

  Haska clenched her fists, forcing herself to remain calm. If she faltered now, the alliance would splinter and they’d be wiped out by Delmar’s army yet again.

  “Talgaran reinforcements will arrive from Horizon’s Gate in less than two days,” said Jaral. “We must attack now, or everything we’ve fought for will be lost. We have one brief moment to change the course of history and reclaim our nations. Hesitate, and we condemn all our people to slavery and extermination.”

  Haska closed her eyes, a hundred expectant gazes prickling at her skin. A choice stood balanced on an edge so fine that it seemed the slightest movement could sway it either way, to catastrophic effect. Haska felt as though she’d followed her mother’s footsteps through a dark, wild wood only to find that the footprints stopped at a fork in the path, leaving her to journey onwards alone and unguided.

  No, thought Haska. It falls to you to continue her path, her footprints becoming yours.

  She opened her eyes, her gaze shining with serene determination.

  “Power. Fear. Hatred. Vengeance,” said Haska. “What are you fighting for? Every soldier knows you fight only when you have to. Only when there’s no other choice. This is something I grew up with, in my tattered resistance, with the remnants of my people. This is something you sometimes forget once you become a general, and the life on the front line is not always your own. Each one of you joined this alliance under my banner, and I’ll tell you this. We will not go to war for glory or vengeance. If there must be bloodshed, then so be it—I’ll lead the charge to Algaris Fort myself. But if there’s a way to end this without a massacre, then that is how it will end.”

  Jaral rose slowly to his feet, and his generals stood silently behind him.

  “So be it,” said Jaral, and the Goethos contingent left the hall.

  He could see home.

  Once the dizziness and the flashing blots faded away, Valamon could see the lights of Algaris glimmering on the horizon. There seemed to be rather more large fires than he remembered, but he’d been away for some time. He stood by the window with an ache in his chest, wondering what everyone at home was doing now.

  Falon would be grilling some unfortunate soldier. Qara would be cleaning her equipment, going over training schedules in her head. The queen would be leafing through the day’s petitions, keeping a casual eye on who was trying to outmanoeuvre who. The king was probably still away, endlessly campaigning. The townsfolk would be finishing their evening meals, putting the children to bed. And tomorrow, almost everyone would be dead.

  Valamon had done nothing his entire life except wish that he’d never be king, that he’d never be forced to make decisions where there were no good outcomes. He’d almost driven himself mad wanting to believe that everyone could be happy, if only you knew how. That somehow, somewhere, there was a perfect compromise.

  He looked across the encampment eerily sprawled over Talgaran fields. He’d wanted to believe you could get along with people, if only you took the time to understand them, to find out what they really wanted. If you could show them what they already knew but didn’t want to believe.

  He was beginning to realise that life didn’t work that way. You could try until your heart bled, but some people would not learn. Some people could not be moved. And yet it was important that some people be stopped.

  Listening, talking, watching only took you so far.

  At some point, you had know when to pick up a sword.

  The door clicked, and Valamon turned to see Barrat enter, flanked by two soldiers.

  “Lord Haska would like to see you,” said Barrat.

  The message came tied to an arrow, loosed quickly by a scout on horseback before he rode away from the answering fire. It took a little while for the guards at the city perimeter to notice the roll of parchment attached to the arrow. They debated briefly about who should deliver the scroll to the castle, since giving King Delmar bad news was even worse than delivering bad news to Prince Falon.

  In the end, the scroll passed through several sets of panicked hands before it finally reached the grand hall late in the afternoon. Unfortunately, this meant that, by the time the roll of parchment was placed in King Delmar’s hands, the longevity of several castle guards had been reduced to a negligible duration.

  Falon sat beside his father, while rows of generals and advisors lined the hall like shadowy chess pieces. King Delmar placed the parchment on the table as though letting a clod of mud fall from his hand.

  “They seek to negotiate our surrender,” said King Delmar.

  Muted mutterings of indignation circled the hall.

  “Haska’s inexperience is almost embarrassing,” said Duke Rassar. “Certainly, she’s in the heart of Talgaran territory, but then again, she’s in the heart of Talgaran territory. She has no supply lines, no support troops. All we have to do is wait until her army gets hungry, or wipe them out when our reinforcements arrive behind them.”

  “Those reinforcements won’t be here for at least another two days,” said Falon. “Even longer for the infantry. If they attack now—”

  “This fort can withstand a siege,” said Duke Rassar.

  “But the city can’t,” said Falon.

  You could always tell when King Delmar was about to speak—the room became almost supernaturally silent, as though the noise were secretly draining away somewhere.

  “We do not negotiate with the enemy,” said King Delmar. “Particularly from a position of advantage. Their army is no match for the Talgaran army, on Talgaran land, in the fortified capital of the empire.”

  While Falon agreed that Algaris had survived raids and invasions of all kinds, the thought of that sprawling army pouring towards the city like a swarm of flesh-eating insects filled him with grave disquiet. Even if the enemy were soundly defeated once reinforcements arrived, the damage they could inflict before then…

  Falon felt a brief pang and found himself wishing that Sir Goron were still with them. The king’s faithful knight and forthright friend would have spoken out, offering wisdom and tact in the face of pride and sycophancy. And the king might even have listened.

  Falon’s gaze stopped abruptly on the piece of parchment, catching sight of several crucial words.

  “We have until sunset to respond?” said Falon.

  He glanced at the window, the afternoon sunlight slanting in from a day near its end.

  “Your Highness, we hardly need take note of idle threats,” said Duke Rassar. “Let the hour pass and see what they can do.”

  Falon stared grimly at Duke Rassar, and there was a breath of silence.

  “Duke Rassar,” said Falon, “no threat is idle when an army of that size stands hungry at your door. We may have no intention to negotiate, but our reinforcements are still days away, and any opportunity to buy us time is worthy of consideration.”

  Falon rose to his feet, and there was a hushed int
ake of breath in the hall. He turned to King Delmar and bowed deeply.

  “Your Majesty, I recommend that we attend Lord Haska’s proposed meeting. I note that she has requested the sole presence of either Your Majesty or myself, and by your leave, I offer to go.”

  There was a sound like a room full of nobles trying not to bury their faces in their hands.

  “Prince Falon, do you not consider this an immensely foolish move?” said King Delmar, his voice carefully neutral.

  Falon returned the king’s gaze, and there was a sudden awareness amongst those present that, one day soon, they might be forced to choose sides.

  “No, Your Majesty. I believe this is an opportunity to delay our enemy and to sound out their hand. Our victory may be assured, but there’s no need for it to cost us more dearly than necessary.”

  King Delmar’s expression remained unchanged.

  “By your leave,” said Falon.

  There was an unreadable pause.

  “Granted,” said King Delmar.

  SIXTEEN

  They rode hard through the night and well into the day. Their horses would be exhausted by the time they reached Algaris, but that didn’t matter.

  Seris clung to the saddle as they galloped across the open fields, the terrain growing more and more familiar. Exhilaration and dread filled his heart in equal measure, along with the irrational fear that some divine power would find it highly amusing if, after everything he’d been through, he never quite made it back home.

  He could feel Elhan hunched behind him, undoubtedly letting him catch all the bugs, and he wondered where her thoughts lay. For Elhan, this wasn’t a long-awaited homecoming. Algaris was just another city, full of unwelcoming faces and unfamiliar beds. Seris wasn’t even sure why she was headed for the capital—she had found Valamon and clearly let him go again.

  He was jolted from his thoughts as the horse hit another pothole. He glanced enviously at Qara, who moved in graceful unison with her steed, gliding over the landscape like a single, fluid creature. Seris suspected that his own horse was trying to liquefy his organs, and the fact that it was actually Albaran’s mare lent further weight to his theory.