Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  “I understand that,” Lady Katarina said and Aerion turned to face her as he heard something catch in her voice. He felt a shock to see tears in her eyes. “The same bastards killed my brother, my father, and my mother. And I've dodged their assassins ever since that day.” She closed her eyes. Her face seemed set in pain and Aerion felt some of his anger at her ease. She too had lost everyone. Still, she had guards and she had her exile in Marovingia where she had lived in comfort. What does a noblewoman know about suffering, he thought.

  Still, she knew enough, perhaps, for Aerion to let go of some of his resentment. He took a seat on a nearby rock. “I understand, Lady Katarina.”

  “Yes, I think you of all people do,” she responded. She gave a sad smile.

  They sat in silence for a moment and Aerion devoured the bowl of porridge. After he'd finished, he moved over to the fire for seconds. He frowned as something bright caught his eye. He glanced down and noticed a pair of thin sticks or metal rods setting in the edge of the fire.

  As he leaned down to look at them more closely, Lady Katarina stood and stepped over. “Don't worry about them, I'm just topping off the charge.”

  She reached down and plucked them out of the fire and Aerion winced. He'd seen and received enough burns around the forge to know better than to take anything from a fire. Lady Katarina must have seen his expression, because she gave a light laugh, “Nothing to worry about, see?” She held up her hands, which showed no sign of burns.

  “What are those?” Aerion asked. He couldn't help but to smile back. It felt good to smile, like it eased some of the pain.

  “Wands.”

  “What, as in magic?” Aerion asked. The idea fascinated him. Taggart had many stories about magic, but he'd been more than vague about the details at times.

  Her smile grew sardonic, “Yes, magic. They're heirlooms, my mother's family had them for over twenty generations.” She plucked them out from where she'd tucked them in her belt and twirled them between her fingers. Aerion could see now that they looked like engraved hairpins, each five inches in length. “They are made with High Magic runes, relics from when the High Kings still ruled. They're only good for a single use each, then they need to be recharged, but they're lethal in that one use.” She went back to her seat near the fire.

  Aerion bent down and refilled his bowl. He sat down again and frowned, “Have you ever had to use them?”

  She met his troubled gaze, “The night Hector's men killed my parents and my brother. Some men had just come from my brother's room, I'd just missed saving him... or death by their hands, I suppose. I killed three of them with the wands.”

  Aerion looked down at his hands. It took him seven cycles to learn the tools and methods of the forge. He learned how to build things, create things with his hands...

  Do I really want to take a life with them? He wondered.

  “How did that feel?” Aerion asked, finally.

  He looked up at her sigh. “I could say it was hard or that I regretted it, but in the end... I don't.” She clenched her jaw, “Those same men had just come from the murder of my brother. I killed them before they could kill me and the only regret I have is that I couldn't kill them before they killed my brother.”

  Aerion looked away from the electrical glow of anger in her blue eyes. His head throbbed and his stomach roiled at the crimes against his village. Again and again he saw the houses engulfed in flames. Again he heard the coarse laughter of the mercenaries as they cut down men, women and children. “I think I understand that,” Aerion said, his voice rough.

  “I thought you might,” Katarina answered.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  Captain Elias Wachter

  Aboard the Boir Ducal Naval Ship Ubelfurst, south of Noriel

  Twenty-Ninth of Silnak, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  The tall thin man who stepped up onto the bridge deck gave one sharp nod of acknowledgment to the sailors who immediately braced to attention. As they returned to their duties he stepped up to the side of the ship’s Captain. “Any sign of Guntor and his damned windship?” Admiral of Ships Lord Christoffer Tarkin scowled up at the overcast gray sky.

  “No, Admiral,” Captain Elias Wachter answered. “No sign of the Fleet yet, either.”

  Admiral Tarken gave one slight nod, then his icy blue gaze turned from the overcast sky to the deck of the vessel below them.

  Captain Elias nervously looked over the same sight. He knew, not just believed, but knew, he had the finest fighting ship of the Boir Fleet. Even so, he felt like a schoolboy brought to the front of the class as Admiral Tarken’s cold eyes searched his ship for flaws.

  Captain Elias saw no flaws in the sparse rigging, reefed with the strong north wind blowing in their faces. He heard no flaw in the harsh grumble of the chained elemental below decks which sent the powerful ship along. Along the deck lurked the shapes of the war machines covered in heavy canvas tarps against the weather. Here and there sailors scrubbed areas of the deck or carried about their daily tasks. The Ubelfurst was the latest and largest of her class, the great iron-hulled warships of Boir. She carried more heavy casters and a larger crew than any other vessel in the fleet and Captain Elias still felt a surge of pride that he commanded her.

  As the silence grew, Captain Elias began to wonder if the Admiral’s frustration that he couldn't be aboard his own son’s ship meant he would continue his study until he found something worth complaint. Elias turned his gaze to the Admiral, in turn, as the older man studied his ship.

  The Admiral of Ships was the newly appointed Commander of the Northern Fleet. A prestigious position, but one which, rumor had it, he had not sought. The tall, thin Admiral was a nobleman, though Elias had heard he was of a minor house, loosely connected to the Grand Duke's by distant relation. He had thin, graying brown hair and a gaunt, almost skeletal appearance. His pale blue, almost gray, eyes and beak-like nose gave him a hawk-like demeanor. Though his hair had started to go gray, Elias knew the man to be of Starborn blood, so it was most likely from stress rather than age.

  At long last, the Admiral broke the silence. “The Ubelfurst is a fine vessel, Captain,” Admiral Tarken spoke, “My commendations.”

  Captain Elias could not withhold a slight sigh of relief. “Thank you, Admiral.” Rumor had it that Admiral Tarken had been pulled from his slot aboard his son's vessel just before the rest of the Fleet shipped out. No one had any guesses what he and the Grand Duke had discussed or why the Grand Duke had called him up to the Citadel. Whatever the reason, the Grand Duke had kept him at the Citadel for almost a full week and he'd missed the departure of the Northern Fleet. Only the fact that the Ubelfurst's refit had taken longer than expected had meant that he had any chance to join the expedition.

  The whole point of the punitive expedition still sat uneasy with Captain Elias. The entire Northern Fleet might form a significant force, but it would still be heavily outnumbered by the Armen sloops. Raids against the scattered Armen camps and small ports were difficult at best, especially given the magic of their shamans and holy men. Rumor had it that Admiral Tarken had opposed the plan as well, though Elias hadn't found a way to bring that topic up on the few occasions where the Admiral had left his quarters thus far. “We've made good time, I'd estimate we've almost caught up to the Fleet, my Lord,” Captain Elias said.

  Admiral Tarken gave only a slight nod. His icy blue gaze had turned to the northern horizon. “Strange we have seen no sign of the Armen.”

  The men believe they’re afraid, Admiral,” A young voice said from behind them. Captain Elias grimaced. The young Lieutenant Henning had a propensity for putting his foot in his mouth. If not for his father's title and connections, Elias doubted he would have made Lieutenant.

  “It is fine if the men are optimistic, Mr Henning,” the Admiral said. He didn’t have to turn to see who’d spoken. “Officers of the Grand Duke of Boir, however, must have their feet set firmly in reality.”

  Out of the corne
r of his eye Captain Elias saw Lieutenant Hennings open his mouth in response. He also saw one of the other Lieutenants jab Hennings in the ribs to shut him up. The Admiral spoke again, “The Armen are a warrior people. Savage and violent, but not stupid... and never cowardly. That we haven’t seen them yet means someone or something has given them reason to wait.”

  “Do you think that they’ve learned patience from their wars with Duke Hector, Admiral?” Lieutenant Gunnar asked.

  A slight sneer flashed across the Admiral’s face. “I’m not certain what the Usurper ‘Duke’ has taught them, besides that men of the Five Duchies can become as savage as them.” He shook his head, “But something has made them hold. I expect we shall learn soon.”

  Elias shot a glance across the three Lieutenants and the cluster of midshipmen behind them. He hoped some of the Admiral’s words might spawn some deeper thought. As expected, he saw the most concentration on the faces of Gunnar and Jonas. Hennings merely scowled at Gunnar and rubbed his sore ribs. You can lead a horse to water... but not force him to think, apparently, Elias thought with one part amusement and another exasperation. Elias said, “Well, Admiral, if things go to plan we should link up with the Fleet in only a few hours. In the meantime, perhaps—“

  “Smoke sighted, two points off the bow and low on the horizon!” The lookout called from above.

  “Battle stations,” Captain Elias snapped. “Bring us to flank speed.”

  “Flank speed!” the helmsman bellowed into the sound tube. A moment later the construct’s chug turned into a solid rumble as the ship's wizard wizard stirred the elemental below to life.

  The ship’s bells began to ring as sailors boiled out onto the deck. They moved with machine precision as they readied the vessel for war.

  A moment later the lookout’s voice pierced the ordered chaos. “Captain, I see dense black smoke, several points.”

  Captain Elias felt his stomach twist in sudden unease. Black smoke, visible along the horizon meant ships ablaze. At this distance, they would be large ships... and the Armen didn't build large vessels. “Lieutenant Gunnar, get up there, take my spotting glass.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Master Lorens!” Admiral Tarken said.

  The ship’s wizard turned from his instuments, “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Try to contact the Mircea. If they are engaged, inform them of our approach.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” The wizard already moved to his position. Elias couldn’t hear the man’s softly spoken words over the bustle of the ships crew, but he could see the man's lips move and his hands flicker across his arcane instruments.

  “Captain!” Lieutenant Gunnar shouted. Captain Elias looked up. The tow-headed young lieutenant hung from the peak of the mast well above the crows nest by one stocky arm like some odd fruit. “I see five ships afire! A dozen more columns of smoke!”

  Captain Elias winced. Fire was ever the fear of a sailor. The iron hulls of the ships might not burn, but everything inside would. The wizards runes of protection could only ward against so much. And for the ships to be visible at this distance they must be Boir vessels. No one else built vessels of that size.

  “Admiral, I can’t get through to the Mircea,” Master Lorens said, his voice nervous. “Or any of the other wizards for more than a moment. There’s powerful magic at work.” The old man’s face was drawn.

  “Understood,” the Admiral said. He turned to Elias, though his gaze never truly left the faint smudges of smoke on the northern horizon. “Captain, proceed with caution.” The grimace on his face spoke of his own desire to be in that fight.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Captain Elias moved up to stand next to the helmsman. His own gaze went to the growing smudge of smoke in the distance. He just hoped the Ubelfurst wasn’t late.

  ***

  The chained elemental below decks no longer grumbled.

  Captain Elias’s mouth tasted of ashes and soot. A hollow void replaced his stomach. “How many survivors Lieutenant Hennings?”

  “Fifty-eight so far, Captain.” The dark-haired Lieutenant answered. For once, his voice lacked its normal sulk.

  “Their stories remain the same?” Admiral Tarken asked.

  “Yes sir,” Lieutenant Hennings said. “The Armen fleet seemed to appear out of the very air, the first that they knew of the ambush was when they began to swarm over the sides,” Lieutenant Hennings seemed shaken. Captain Elias felt the same way himself. The Armen must have used powerful magic to conceal their ships. Their shamans never worked deceptive magic like that, they most often used their abilities for brute force effects. Someone must have helped them, someone with skill and power.

  Immense power.

  Elias’ gaze swept across the tangle of scorched timber, floating wreckage, and skeletal hulks. Directly to the east loomed the western coast of Noriel, its jagged peaks and deep coves home to the Armen and their inhuman allies.

  “Any sign of the Mircea or her crew?” Captain Elias asked.

  Lieutenant Hennings shot a nervous look over to where Admiral Tarken stood, back straight and gaunt face stern. “No, sir. No sign of crew or ship. But some of the survivors mentioned heavy fighting aboard her. They confirmed several ships captured. Mircea might be among them.”

  The Admiral gave no sign that he heard the Armen had most likely captured his son’s ship. That his son might now be dead or, worse, the captive of a Armen, left no visible impression upon him. “Any news of Lord Admiral Osvald?” Admiral Tarken asked.

  “No, Admiral. He was still aboard the Mircea before the ambush.”

  The Admiral turned away from the ghastly sight. “Very well. Once your men have finished rescuing what survivors remain, we must make all speed towards Port Riss.”

  “What about the ships and prisoners taken by the Armen?” Lieutenant Hennings said, his voice angry. “We must avenge our dead!”

  “Yes, and we must protect our living, Lieutenant,” The Admiral said. His cold eyes bored into the young Lieutenant. “The Armen know we came to sack their ports and burn their ships. Where do you think they’ll head with their newly captured warships now that they know our fleet is gone?”

  “By the Starborn, you can’t suggest they could do an outright attack on Port Riss?” The First Lieutenant seemed stunned.

  “Until today, Lieutenant, no one would have suggested they might best our navy,” Admiral Tarken said. For a moment, the Admiral looked tired. “Captain Elias, inform me when we may get underway.”

  ***

  Lady Amelia Tarken

  The Citadel, City of Boirton, Grand Duchy of Boir

  Twenty-Ninth of Silnak, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Lady Amelia Tarken squinted into the darkness beyond her balcony and wished, not for the first time, that she had been born a man. If so, she would have long since joined the Fleet. Then she could serve with her father and older brother. At least she might have shared in the risks they faced.

  She shivered as she thought of their voyage. The Armen raiders had grown more and more savage. Their raids struck all across the northern coastline, some had even slipped past Port Riss to rape, pillage and burn within the limits of Boir Bay. The Grand Duke sent the Fleet to burn the pirate ports along the southern coast of Noriel. Amelia somehow doubted that another retaliatory raid might end the threat, but they must do something or see the coastlines burn.

  She felt nausea when the fleet set forth. Her unease had grown to the point that she’d remained in bed for the past two days. She hadn’t felt so uneasy since Xavien…

  Amelia blocked that thought out. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block the imagined smell of burning flesh out of her mind. Her brother Xavien’s fate, as horrible as it was, was one he brought upon himself.

  Amelia turned her attention back to her older brother and father. She grimaced in remembered guilt at her father’s delay at her illness. The Grand Duke had graciously allowed him that delay, in part, she knew, to his prior service, and in p
art from the political favors he gained from it. Either way, her father had waited until the Ubelfurst sailed before departing. Even then, she’d only grown more ill.

  Until now.

  She awoke hours ago, suddenly certain something terrible had happened, yet her illness, her unease was gone. It was as if whatever dark event loomed over her had come and gone. The certain knowledge that something terrible had happened left her empty and cold. It was not the first time such a feeling had come, but the worst by far.

  The faint sound of cloth on cloth behind her made her smile slightly, “Adel, I promise I will return to bed momentarily. I just needed to get some fresh air.” The nagging maid did not trust her young mistress’s sudden good health. Especially after so many of her own herbal remedies had failed to elicit even a slight improvement.

  Amelia frowned, she’d expected a biting remark on flighty young noble women, or at least a response of some kind. She turned away from the dark and stepped into her apartments. She felt a sudden spike of unease as she saw her bedside candle had gone out. The familiar bedroom seemed suddenly sinister in the unexpected darkness. “Adel, are you here?”

  She stepped into the room and felt something warm and sticky on her bare feet. Before she could so much as open her mouth, a heavy hand clasped over her mouth.

  Training from her father and older brother kicked in. She lashed back with her elbow and bit down hard on the hand. She heard a coarse male voice swear. The hand came away and she began to shout for help. A moment later rough hands pulled a rag around her mouth and someone else pinned her arms behind her.

  Amelia bucked and thrashed. She tried to get free, tried to shout around the gag. “Moral’s black heart, just knock the bitch out.” Someone grunted.

  Something heavy struck the back of her head. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Time seemed to slow, and Amelia's world disappeared into a sea of pain. She could barely cry out as the bag came down over her head.