Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  Their departure from Horizon’s Gate had been hurried but thankfully devoid of shouting and chasing of any kind. As the soldiers mopped up the remains of the resistance, Qara had insisted on escorting Seris and Elhan to the capital immediately. She and Albaran had exchanged some tense words, but it was eventually agreed that Albaran would follow with the cavalry, reaching Algaris two days later. The commanders and their infantry would follow.

  It had proved a complication when none of the horses allowed Elhan to go near them, despite Elhan’s claims that she usually got on well with animals. Sometimes. Well, mostly if they were dead.

  Surprisingly, the only horse that had allowed Elhan to approach was Albaran’s. It was a dark brown mare with unsteady eyes and knotted muscles rippling under its skin. It gave the impression that it was the kind of horse that liked to sidle up behind other horses and neigh creepily. Albaran had reluctantly offered his steed, but not before chatting to it quietly, and Seris was certain they’d both glared meaningfully in his direction.

  Still, it hadn’t tried to bite him, although it did seem to be weaving through the fields to hit every possible ditch between here and Algaris.

  “You still think it was me, don’t you?” said Elhan suddenly.

  “What?” Seris tried to turn around without his head jolting off.

  “Horizon’s Gate up in flames. You still think it’s all me.”

  “Elhan, I found Olrios and I think I understand what’s happening. It’s not just the—”

  “I think I can control it,” said Elhan. “I’ve been getting these visions, and I think they’re trying to tell me I can use it.”

  Seris had a decidedly bad feeling about this development. Seeing and hearing things that weren’t there was almost always a dangerous sign, and those sorts of illnesses were very difficult to alleviate. Once the mind had been claimed, there was little even Eliantora could do. Eliantora herself was a good example of that.

  “What kind of visions?” said Seris.

  “It’s like remembering something I can’t even imagine when I’m awake. Like there’s something I’m supposed to know. Something I have to do, but I can’t remember what.”

  Seris couldn’t ignore the possibility that, if Elhan knew about her destiny, she might actually try to fulfil it. Then again, she might be well on the road to fulfilling it already.

  “Olrios didn’t mean to hurt you with the curse,” said Seris.

  “Sure, whoops, just damned some kid to a lifetime of people fleeing in terror and accusing her of arson.”

  “There are complicated forces at work—” said Seris defensively.

  “Stop being cryptic and just spit it out.”

  Seris paused, aware that he’d probably look back on this later and wonder if he’d said the right thing.

  “You can’t control the curse, Elhan,” said Seris. “It’s only going to get worse, and things are going to get really, really bad unless we break it.”

  Elhan said nothing, and the only sound was the whisper of barley rushing past. She remained silent for the rest of the journey.

  Falon had grown up with a reputation for fearlessness. Not the kind of heroic fearlessness that sent people charging into burning houses to rescue adorably sooty children. It was the kind of fearlessness that stared death in the face and said, “Go on. Try it. And when you’re done, I’m going to have my turn.”

  Some found this supreme confidence reassuring, while others found it perturbing. It seemed to go down well with the soldiers and with certain kinds of princesses—usually the kind Qara frowned upon.

  However, far from being a genetic legacy of his father, that fearlessness had been carefully cultivated over the years. Falon had learned from watching the king that a ruler couldn’t afford the common luxuries of fear, doubt, trust, or love.

  Weak kings were quick to fall, and their kingdoms often followed. When your kingdom depended on you, you had to be impervious. You were never really safe. You were never really loved. Your people—your duty—always came first. Sentimentality and affection clouded your judgement. They distracted you. When you failed to build the walls around your heart high enough…

  The queen had refused all visitors but the king since his return. She’d been moved to her favourite room in the castle—the sunroom at the summit of the keep. Queen Nalan had overseen its construction herself, and it stood perched atop the central tower like a glittering half-bauble. The room was panelled with arches of glass curving from the floor to the centre of the ceiling, like the petals of a lotus.

  The only other person who’d been allowed to see the queen was the cleric, Morle, and no one spoke of what this boded. Falon tried to regard the situation with numb detachment, as befitted a prince of Talgaran. There was a certain comfort, a certain clarity, to purging himself of all those restless emotions, all those things he tried not to feel. Without those, you could walk into the halls of death without fear of what lay ahead, without longing for those you might never see again, without grief for all that might have been.

  It had been difficult to find neutral ground in the middle of the Talgaran Empire, but Lord Haska had proposed they meet in an empty field halfway between Algaris and the army encampment. It was late afternoon by the time Falon arrived, slowing his horse to a trot as he approached the designated spot. An open pavilion stood in the middle of the field, and Falon glanced around for signs of ambush. Or anyone, really. However, all he could see was open countryside surrounding the makeshift structure. The pavilion itself was little more than a dusty awning hanging over a desk and two chairs.

  He rode carefully closer, wondering if perhaps this was the military equivalent of holding out a welcoming hand and then humorously pulling it away at the last second.

  Then he saw the body on the grass.

  At first, he thought perhaps they’d left a body for him to find, as some kind of gruesome prank. And then he realised it wasn’t just any corpse lying on the grass, it was—

  Falon slid from his saddle, the green landscape fading into the distance, the body in sharp relief like a scarlet poppy on a field of snow. He took a step towards the motionless figure, pushing all thought and feeling further and further down, until there was nowhere left for it to go.

  He froze in mid-step as the body suddenly shifted. It sat up and caught sight of Falon, scrambling to its feet with a broad smile.

  “Falon!” said Valamon.

  Falon took a step back, his hand closing on his sword.

  “What is this?” He glanced warily at the empty fields.

  “I know you’ve been busy, but you do recognise me?” said Valamon reproachfully.

  Falon dragged his gaze quickly over Valamon. He was much paler, rather gaunter, and oddly more toned than when he’d seen him last. He wore a neat blue tunic and black riding trousers, and he had pieces of grass in his hair.

  “Of course I recognise you,” said Falon, “if for no other reason than you’re lying in the middle of a field while our city is about to be attacked.”

  Valamon’s expression became subdued and slightly sad.

  “How are Mother and Father?”

  “In a city about to be attacked. So, what the devil’s going on?”

  “Did you want to sit down?” said Valamon.

  “No.”

  Valamon looked wistfully across the grassy slopes towards Algaris. When he turned back to Falon, his expression was calm.

  “I’ve come to negotiate the Talgaran surrender,” said Valamon.

  Falon fought the urge to draw his sword and do something that younger heirs were traditionally inclined to do to older siblings.

  “What did you say?” said Falon softly, in the dangerous tone of voice soldiers heard before everything went dark.

  Valamon’s gaze was steady.

  “The Teset, the Erele, the mountain clans, the Goethos, the Belass, the Fey. And countless others. Never has an alliance of this breadth and magnitude formed against us.”

  “And once def
eated, there won’t be another in our lifetime. Or our children’s lifetime. Or our children’s children’s lifetime.”

  “But they’ll rise again and again, from without and from within. And each time sooner, stronger, more bitter.”

  Falon forced himself to take a deep, slow breath.

  “Valamon,” he said, “you’re my brother. You have…thinking difficulties. Why don’t we go back to the castle, and we can discuss this philosophy of yours?”

  Valamon looked at Falon with a hint of sorrow and a tonne of immovable purpose.

  “I have until sunset to return with conditions of surrender. Walk away from this and there’ll be nothing left of Algaris by the time your reinforcements arrive.”

  Falon looked at Valamon in grim disbelief.

  “I didn’t give you enough credit, brother,” said Falon. “What has she offered you? A scattering of dominions? A place at her side?”

  Valamon’s eyes were cool and dark.

  “If you can’t see that this era draws to an end, then you’re not the man I thought you were. I’ve managed to stay Lord Haska’s hand by offering a bloodless resolution, and wisely, she gave me this chance. What I offer you now, Your Highness, is a chance to end this empire’s reign with a peaceful transition, not a bloody defeat.”

  A faint breeze carried through the pavilion, and the two brothers faced each other—the skyline of Algaris at Falon’s back, and the dark encampment sprawled in the distance behind Valamon.

  “What are Lord Haska’s demands?” said Falon disdainfully.

  “A permanent cessation of expansionist aggression against sovereign lands. A staggered return to self-rule for all nations conquered in the last fifty years. A third of the Talgaran ruling lords to be replaced by alliance members. And exile of the royal family.”

  Falon looked at Valamon coldly.

  “You would exile your own family?”

  “Compromise. Sacrifice. You know these things,” said Valamon. “Violence begets violence. Hatred breeds war. And we must choose wisely for the sake of our people, not our pride. Join me in this, brother, and we can lead our kingdom through this transition together. The cost is great, but the cost of war is greater, and generations to follow will pay the price.”

  Falon could feel the steady pounding of his heart. He couldn’t believe that Valamon was giving him the “Join me” speech. They always said it was the quiet ones you had to be careful of—the peculiar ones who hid in strange places and stared at things no one else could see. But Falon had never thought Valamon to be dangerous—after all, his brother was so helpless, so harmless, so pathetic. However, he supposed he should have done something about Valamon a long time ago.

  Then Falon realised, the pounding wasn’t coming from his heart.

  He looked across at Valamon, then beyond him. Valamon turned to follow Falon’s gaze, and his expression turned to one of confusion and horror.

  The army was moving.

  Entire battalions peeled away from the camp, charging towards Algaris in a menacing tide. Falon backed away towards his horse.

  “You were always a fool, and now a traitor also,” he said. “Don’t come back to Algaris, Valamon. You’ll find no welcome there.”

  “Falon! Don’t let this be your legacy. It’s not too late to stop it, Falon!”

  Falon leapt onto his horse, turning towards the capital.

  “The flag of Talgaran falls only when the castle itself is taken. Enjoy the company of your new friends, Valamon.”

  Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.

  Haska ran through the corridors and grabbed a frantic soldier by the chest plate.

  “Bolter! How many battalions?” said Haska.

  “I don’t—” began Bolter.

  Haska shook him and there was a rattling of teeth.

  “Five!” said Bolter. “I think five!”

  Haska released the soldier and raced down the stairs, leaping six at a time. She landed on the flagstones without breaking her stride and grabbed another soldier.

  “Rema! Get Damel to form a break on the eastern front. Wylen to back it up with archers! Now!”

  Rema raced away, and Haska continued through the castle gates. She emerged into a scene of chaos, with soldiers shouting and jostling in confusion. Barrat towered over the troops, sitting astride his grey mare, yelling instructions as he waded through the sea of helms and weapons. Haska swung herself onto a waiting Ciel and headed for Barrat.

  “General!” called Haska. “How many battalions?”

  “Jaral has taken his three. Joined by the Teset’s one, and the mountain clans. The Dorset are breaking away, and the Kumer are trying to follow.”

  Haska watched as the formations began to waver and pull apart. In the distance, dark row upon dark row marched across the fields, moving in a solid mass towards Algaris.

  Gods, Jaral was going to massacre the city.

  “You may need to consider the possibility that Prince Valamon isn’t coming back,” said Barrat tactfully.

  Haska bristled, looking at the slowly sinking sun.

  What are you fighting for?

  “It’s time I ended this,” said Haska.

  The sun was just melting onto the hills when they crested the last rise and saw the Talgaran capital spread before them. Seris felt a wave of relief, almost unable to believe he was finally home. Looking at the haphazard sea of slate and thatching, it was easy to imagine that the past few months had been some traumatic delusion caused by too much time in the sun.

  “At least it’s not on fire,” muttered Elhan.

  “Elhan,” said Seris. “Please, can we just—”

  “Oh, gods…” said Qara, and there was something terrible in her voice, like a mother watching her child’s slipper bobbing to the surface of a silent lake.

  There was something wrong with the city.

  Seris strained his eyes in the fading light, and there was something about the shadows that didn’t sit quite right. They fell at odd angles, from things that shouldn’t be there. The city…the city was crawling with things. And then he heard the screaming, drifting over the fields like the distant cry of birds.

  Qara rode towards Algaris like a heart in freefall, her horse tearing up the grass. Albaran’s mare followed, charging with the fervour of a barbarian horde. Seris could feel everything slipping away from him, as though he’d just managed to stanch a leg wound, only to discover there was no body attached. Dark shapes poured into the city from across the fields, and against the far horizon was the answer to a question he hadn’t wanted to ask.

  Framed against the sinking sun stood a towering fort, looming from the hills like a giant walking the lands. An enormous army lay pooled at its base, rippling in the dying light.

  “Why aren’t they all attacking the city?” said Elhan. “I’d feel cheated if I was one of those guys just sitting on the grass.”

  “Lord Qara,” called Seris. “What are they waiting for?”

  Qara’s gaze remained locked on the capital, cold agony in her eyes.

  “Notice anything?” she said, her voice tight as they came into view of the perimeter, the broken stone walls brushed with the last rays of the sun.

  Aside from the screaming? thought Seris. Aside from the thousands of darkly armoured soldiers flooding into the city? Aside from the sound of people being slaughtered and—

  Seris suddenly realised what he was looking at. Or rather, what he wasn’t looking at.

  “Where are the Talgaran soldiers?” he asked hoarsely.

  Not a single red tunic stood against the invaders, not a single patrol sounded the alarm. Seris stared at Qara in confusion, not even beginning to understand.

  “They’re waiting,” said Qara flatly.

  Seris opened his mouth to frame the obvious question, and then he saw the look in her eyes.

  It was a soldier’s duty to fight for their kingdom and, if necessary, to die for it. However, most soldiers preferred to avoid the dying part where possible, and a sig
nificant proportion also hoped to avoid the fighting part as well.

  But Qara, she felt it. She believed it. She would fight, she would kill, she would die for king and country. Such devotion left so little room for her own happiness, and yet she barely seemed to notice.

  As they bore down on the broken city walls, Qara turned suddenly to Seris and gave him a small smile.

  “Take care, cleric of Eliantora. You’re a Champion of the Realm now.”

  Seris felt a stab of fear as Qara began to pull away.

  “Lord Qara! What are you doing?” said Seris, his voice drowned by the growing cacophony of clashing steel and desperate yelling.

  “My job!” called Qara.

  She drew her sword and charged into the churning mass of enemy soldiers.

  “Qara!” screamed Seris.

  They galloped through the gates of the city and into a blaze of swinging swords and flying arrows. An armoured horse crashed into Albaran’s mare, and Seris found himself thrown from the saddle into a jungle of trampling hooves. As he staggered to his feet, Albaran’s horse began to kick and bite madly at all comers, frothing at the mouth with an expression of deranged delight.

  “Qara!”

  “Get over it already,” said Elhan. “We’ve got bigger problems.”

  Seris looked through the shifting figures, the city bathed in a dull red glow. Bodies were starting to pile on the streets, houses rushing up in flames. Ragged townsfolk armed with kitchen knives fought against armoured soldiers wielding battleaxes.

  “What do we do now?” said Elhan.

  The endless war had come full circle, but this time, so had he. This time, he was the man in the threadbare robes, kneeling in rivers of blood.

  “What we can,” said Seris.

  The sound of slaughter chased him across the city, like a tide at his heels. Falon galloped across the rising drawbridge and leapt from his horse in mid-flight, landing in the courtyard already at a full run.

  He pounded up the wide stairs and threw open the doors to the grand hall without slowing.