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

by Kal Spriggs

  The Princess of the Eastwood gave an eloquent shrug, which made her dark hair move in a cascade. “She is hurt, but she welcomes my friendship.” She sighed, “It is so tragic, their short lives. I like her.” Her rose-gold face looked sad.

  Simonel nodded, and rested his hand on hers, “All lives end, dear, even ours, as we've both come to learn.”

  They sat in silent remembrance for a long moment. Young for their race of men, they still had spent centuries with their loved ones and friends they'd lost in the attack. Such a loss left painful traps in every thought and jagged wounds in every memory. At last, Simonel gave a deep sigh, “Will she recover?”

  “Such concern for our guest, Simonel?” Tirianis gave a slight, knowing smile.

  The young King of the Eastwood shrugged, though he could not prevent a slight blush, which he hoped would not show against his own reddish-bronze skin, “I swore no harm would come to her, and that she would be my honored guest. I hope that she can be healed in mind and body.”

  “And spirit,” Tirianis said, her voice soft and sad. “That is the crucial area.” She stood from the soft carpet and moved to stand near the open side of the tent, where she stared out at the trees. “She thinks herself mad and I think in some ways, that comforts her. If she is mad, she need feel no guilt or sorrow, need only enjoy life as it comes and live without regrets.”

  She turned and Simonel saw the tears in her eyes, “And who can blame her? Kidnapped from her home, told that her family is most certainly dead, raped and used in dark magic, torn of spirit, I think I would wish for death, much less the madness she seeks to embrace.”

  Simonel stood and put his arms on her shoulders as she wept. It was foolish of him to expose her, her mind magic gave her many advantages, but also opened her up and made her more vulnerable to emotional trauma. “Tirianis, we have both suffered terribly too. I had not realized the danger of putting you through such a trial after-”

  She gave a small, fragile smile and waved her hand in negation. “No, I am not so close to my own pain that I am truly affected by hers. I just feel for her,” Tirianis's smile turned sad, “It is my curse, for I cannot help but feel for her and all those who so suffer.”

  “I know,” Simonel said, his voice soft. “And I love you for it, as do the People.”

  She gave a soft laugh and patted him on the cheek, “Simonel, always the charmer. Just use caution, I feel the emotions you hide even from yourself.”

  Simonel stepped back, with a frown. He brushed a stray lock of his straight black hair out of his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, my King...” Tirianis gave him a knowing smile, “Sometimes you seem so young... even to me.”

  ***

  Lady Katarina

  Tucola Forest, Zielona Gora Barony, Duchy of Masov

  Nineteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Lady Katarina shrugged her shoulders to settle the chain armor. She shot a glance over at Bulmor, but he showed no emotion. She'd called him paranoid and worse when he insisted on packing her personal armor with them for the journey, rather than to have one of their mercenary guards carry it.

  Not the first time I can be grateful for his paranoia, she thought. Though his over-protectiveness chaffed at times, she could admit, if only in her own private thoughts, that he had much reason for it and his dedication and loyalty humbled her at times.

  “As you can see, Lady Katarina,” Arren Smith said, “The boy's idea has merit. I count seven soldiers and three drovers.” He shrugged, “They're headed for the village of Myrtall, after which they should return to Lower Debica by this same road.”

  Katarina frowned, “Why not continue on, this road goes...” She tried to remember the villages further down the road.

  “The road goes on to Dawnspring, and then to Watkowa Pass,” Gerlin said, his voice low so as not to carry. “Dawnspring's abandoned, the locals claim a dark spirit haunts it. And Watkowa...” Katarina shot a glance over at where Aerion had concealed himself nearby.

  Of course, she thought, how could I forget his village? She hoped he hadn't heard her words, for she'd seen enough pain in his features when he thought no one watched. “ Well then, we strike them on their way back, I presume?”

  Bulmor nodded. His gaze remained fixed on the three wagons. He grimaced, “It's a perfect target, really. Too open if you ask me,” he sighed, “Even your father's tax caravans had more of an escort. Either Hector's men are spread more thin than I thought or...” He frowned and shook his head, “I'd almost say its a trap, but...”

  “But how could they know what we planned?” Arren said, his old voice gruff. “The lads and I haven't become more than a nuisance, yet. They must know that Lady Katarina has, at most, three or four bodyguards and they have no way to assume we've joined forces.”

  “Yes...” Bulmor frowned deeper and the worry lines on his face made him seem almost as old as Arren. “But I become uneasy when the enemy does what I want them to do.”

  “It does seem convenient,” Gerlin said, his voice low. “But Hector's focus is still on the Armen. It would surprise me to find he even thinks Lady Katarina a threat, beyond a political piece.”

  Arren frowned, “I could have some of our men sweep the woods behind them, make sure they haven't any hidden force...”

  Gerlin shook his head, “No, they're good at what they do, but I have the training of a scout. I'll go out and do a sweep of the northern section of road... with your permission, milady.”

  Katarina nodded, “Of course, Gerlin. Be careful.”

  He gave her a slight smile and then crept away into the trees.

  “So we wait?” Katarina asked.

  “Yes,” Arren said. “The wagons will make Myrtall by evening, load up the goods and set out in the morning. The villagers said that Hector's men want everything ready to be loaded and inventoried.”

  Katarina looked around the woods, “What goods does Myrtall provide, lumber?”

  Arren looked over at her, “A good guess and they do make use of the forest during the winter, when they can drag the trees through the snow by sledge or sled. They have some farming, pigs mostly, which feed on the acorns. Mostly they make charcoal, which feeds the forges in Lower Debica.”

  “We bought our charcoal from here,” Aerion said. “The oak makes for long lasting, quality charcoal.” His voice, though kept low to avoid carrying, carried with it a painful ache. Katarina wanted to say something to comfort him, but she didn't trust herself to speak.

  The small caravan continued along the road, unaware of those who watched it.

  “There will be some coin, some livestock as payment, and some charcoal to be sent north to the Lonely Isle for heating and the forges,” Arren said. “I would suggest we return the livestock to the villagers, short what we need to feed ourselves. The same for the charcoal. We can use the coin to buy weapons and information.”

  “We shouldn't give the coin back to the villagers?” Katarina asked.

  “Hector will be suspicious about the entire thing and his captains more so. The first thing they'll do is question the villagers and search for sign of weapons or coin. Most of these villages barely scrape together enough coin for the taxes. They could probably hide it well enough, but it's a risk that will put the village in jeopardy.”

  “But... we are claiming responsibility,” Katarina said.

  “And there are villages that have gone bandit as a way to augment their income,” Arren said. “Travelers disappear all the time. Tax men are unpopular. It wouldn't be a hard stretch for the village to invent some rebels in the woods to blame it all on or for rebels to take credit for the actions of bandits. Why, did I ever tell you the story about when I hunted a tribe of Noric raiders up in the fallen Duchy of Taral? It was a few cycles ago when I worked for Lord Madrigal...”

  “So we keep the coin and weapons, what of the wagons and horses?” Bulmor interrupted. Katarina frowned, the story sounded interesting, as most of Arren's had proven, and the
old man's stories always seemed to have lessons that made her think. Then again, the old man's stories tended to become loud... perhaps a quiet watch of the caravan would be better.

  Arren muttered something to himself under his breath.

  “What was that?” Bulmor said.

  Katarina blushed, “It sounded like-”

  “Just getting old... talking to myself,” Arren said quickly. “The horses we would be best to keep, the wagons as well. There are trails here in the forest we can use to conceal them, and if this rebellion gets off the ground, we'll need means to move supplies such as that.”

  Bulmor nodded slowly, “An army marches on its stomach, that's true.”

  Katarina sighed, “I hope to do this without an army.”

  “Me, as well,” Bulmor said. “But best to plan for the worst.”

  ***

  Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken

  Aboard the Ubelfurst, the Boir Sea

  Nineteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Admiral Christoffer Tarken looked up at the knock at his cabin door, “Come in.”

  His steward opened the door, “Lieutenant Jonas to see you sir, with an update and the day's reports.”

  “Thank you, Nikolas,” the Admiral said. “Send him in, please.”

  The steward stepped out of the way and Lieutenant Jonas, now the acting First Lieutenant, stepped in. He was a stout, brown haired young man, with a ruddy complexion and brown eyes. Younger even than some of the midshipmen, the Lieutenant rubbed at the spectacles he seemed to carry more often than he wore. He saluted, his pale face nervous, “Sir, Captain Elias's reports, as well as those we received from Lieutenant Gunnar.” He extended the packet of reports almost immediately.

  “Excellent, Lieutenant,” Admiral Tarken accepted the packet and then gestured at the chair, “Take a seat.”

  The young Lieutenant gulped, but complied. Christoffer remembered times he had felt as nervous, but it seemed a very long time ago. He remembered the calm, businesslike manner of the young man in the fight to capture the Mircea. Evidently, he feared embarrassment more than death.

  Christoffer looked over the various reports. He would discuss many of them with Captain Elias later, after he had time to read through them all. “Anything of particular note, Jon?”

  The Lieutenant straightened, almost like a student called to answer some question in class. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Gunnar notes in his report that he's put the female Armen to work aboard the Mircea and that he suggests his translator be moved aboard here, to facilitate questioning the prisoners we have aboard. He says that most of the women speak at least some of the trade dialect, so he can do without her.”

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Christoffer asked.

  The young Lieutenant looked down at the floor for a long moment, before he finally brought his gaze up to meet that of the Admiral. “Sir, he makes a good case, but I... well, I just don't trust any of the Armen, sir. Not their women, not their children, and definitely not any of their men. Don't get me wrong, I'm certain that most of those women are willing to work, but it only takes one bad one in the wrong place to do a lot of damage.” He frowned, “I especially don't like this female that he's got as a translator. She claims she's the daughter of Marka Pall, and if that's the case, she's the next best thing to nobility. I don't know what she was doing on that ship, sir, but her father is a warlord and if she has any loyalty to him...”

  Christoffer nodded, “You make a good point, Lieutenant, I'll take your words under advisement.” He held the Lieutenant's gaze for a long moment, “But let me be understood, if I decide to let Lieutenant Gunnar hire those women on as crew or Captain Elias to do the same, they become crew, just like any others, and they will be treated as such.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Lieutenant Jonas said. His brown eyes showed no sign of guile.

  “Very well, thank you, Lieutenant,” Christoffer said. He watched the young man leave and gave a satisfied nod. He enjoyed working with such officers, men who not only did their jobs and followed orders, but actually thought about those orders and how to best execute their missions.

  The Admiral gave a long sigh and opened up the first of the reports. Most had exhaustive detail on all manner of supplies, the readiness state of both ships, and a myriad of other details that made the reports both vital and dreary reading.

  He knew the importance, the small details often made the difference between survival and death at sea. And sometimes, in losing himself in those details, in the reports and in the planning for the future, he forgot to worry about his daughter, trapped in Boirton or his son, dead at the hands of some Armen raider.

  He finished the first report, took some notes down in his logbook and started on the next. Perhaps, if he completely exhausted himself with the papers, he wouldn't have the nightmares again.

  ***

  Cederic of the Shrouded Isle

  Near Mathew's Cove, Duchy of Masov

  Nineteenth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  The ancient oak tree had stood strong against countless storms. It and its brethren had grown up from from one original acorn into an entire grove and ruptured through the ancient flagstones of the ruin over decades and centuries, until the trees had all but erased any sign that humans had built atop the hill that overlooked the ocean bay.

  Yet the storm that approached from the east did not act like the storms the tree had previously weathered. Its gnarled branches swayed in the fretful gusts even as the evening sky turned an unhealthy shade of green.

  Then, heat began to emanate from the stones long buried by the tree's roots. Those stones formed a circle... and even the oak's growth had not shifted them... merely grew around and over them. A moment after the heat, the storm broke, and lightning bolts cascaded from the sky in a rain that shattered the trees along the hilltop. Bolt after bolt struck the trees, and the ancient oaks shattered and exploded under that barrage.

  The energy release ended as suddenly as it had begun... though it left the hilltop engulfed in flames. The ancient oak alone still stood... until a single, soundless, flash of light heralded its doom. Out of this sphere of energy two figures staggered, their arms clasped to one another as they emerged. They staggered out of the portal and then stumbled through the flames of the dying oak grove. The taller ones name was Cederic. As they drew clear of the blaze, he turned and looked back. The fire illuminated his white hair and short, stocky appearance. He leaned heavily on a stout, metal staff, whose deeply inset runes blazed with heat.

  His companion leaned just as heavily upon him and he barely supported her weight. He looked over at her and gave her an exhausted smile, “Well, Seraphai, I guess we know that they haven't kept up the Waygates.” His voice was cheerful, but gruff. She didn't respond, which worried him. Still, she didn't collapse on him either, which was something at least. “We've made it here, at least, and from here...”

  His companion sagged against him, and in a voice that sounded low and pitiful, she murmured, “We will fail... I will fail.”

  “No,” Cederic said, his voice suddenly hoarse with emotion. “No,” He repeated, “we don't know that... not for certain. And we must try.” He pulled her face around and stared into her green eyes. “Promise me that you will try!”

  She tried to look away... but he held her until she finally met his determined gaze. “I...” She took a deep breath. “I will try.”

  “Say it like you mean it,” Cederic snapped, near the end of his patience.

  She pushed him back with sudden strength and stood tall, “I will try!”

  “Good,” Cederic said. He stared at her and part of him felt good to see strength and passion return to her face, even if that passion was anger at his behavior. She stood taller than him and she still wore her blue cloak with its white lion fur lining. Her right hand had dropped to the ornate hilt of the sword that she wore on her hip. Cederic tore his gaze away from that and stared at her face. Her lean, fox-like face and pale skin
stood out from her closely cut fiery red hair and her green eyes blazed with anger.

  Careful now, he thought to himself, I don't want her that angry. Cederic had found that it required a fine balance to keep her going... one that threaded between a number of dangers... not least of which was the one she posed to him. “Remember,” Cederic said, his voice level, “The future is what we make of it... we can change it.”

  She gave him a level look, “My doom is already sealed.” She patted the hilt of her sword. “Remember?” The look in her eyes challenged him to argue with her.

  Cederic grimaced. Still, he knew better than to argue with her at this point. Truthfully, he had little enough energy to do anything. It had taken hours for him to activate the runes that brought them here, away from the Shrouded Isle. Hours of concentration and effort and mental focus... the slightest lapse of which would have released his stored energy in one, fateful, burst.

  He glanced again up at the inferno atop the hill. “If they'd kept the wardstones intact, I might have got some of my energy back,” Cederic said.

  “Why would they?” Seraphai asked with disdain. “No one has used a waygate here in almost a thousand cycles... since my father withdrew to his island. Most of these people think the High Kings are just legend and they have no experience in wizardry beyond stories and legends.” She sneered, “Half of these people are probably illiterate and wouldn't know the slightest about energy transmission and storage. The handful that know more squabble for shards of knowledge that might give them an edge over one another.”

  Yes, he thought, the curse is definitely affecting her mind more.

  He gave her a tight lipped smile, “Still, it would be nice if I had some power to draw upon while my reserves replenish.” She didn't respond and Cederic looked around. Further down the hill, he saw the forms of a village, as well as docks and a number of what looked like fishing boats drawn up on the beach. “Best we get going. It won't be long now before someone grows curious and comes to check this out.”