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

by Kal Spriggs

  “But... there are no mages in Watkowa, we don't even have any priests for healing,” Aerion said. “And, no one would trust a sorcerer.” The idea seemed preposterous.

  “Sorcerers don't...” Arren shook his head, “Sorcerers don't necessarily ask people if they can do some magic on them. They do what they want... and damn the consequences. Did I ever tell you about when I was younger and joined some treasure hunters who went into the Black Fortress...”

  “Some other time,” Aerion said. As interested as he was by the possibility of the story, he was still confused by this revelation about himself. “What else does mageblood mean?”

  “It means you could have a mage put some spellgrafts in you or some sorcerer might take it into his head to do the same. It also means that you might activate some magical items designed to draw on that power. Most importantly, right now, it means that if you let me, I can draw on that energy to help me heal our wounded.” Arren said, his voice intent. “And, for that matter, drawing on that energy is how I managed to heal you as well as I did when you first arrived.”

  “You... you're a mage?” Aerion asked, surprised.

  Arren smirked, “Like I said, I know some things.”

  They'd arrived at the wagons. Aerion looked away from Arren and felt his stomach twist as he saw Lyle. The older man sat with his back against a wagon wheel. His jaw clenched so hard that Aerion saw the tendons clearly against his pale skin. The spear stuck out from his belly, and the stink of ruptured bowels made Aerion gag.

  Lyle's gray hair ran with sweat and beads of it ran down his face.

  “Lyle, I'm going to try to heal you, but we need to get the spear out,” Arren said, his voice soft.

  “Not worth it,” Lyle grunted. “Hurts. Let me die.”

  “Not if we can save you,” Arren said. He looked over at Aerion. “I need you to lift him up. Jasen, you know how to draw the spear out?”

  “Like an arrow, sir? Got to pull it through?” Jasen looked pale, but his calm drawl stilled the unease that Aerion felt.

  Aerion knelt next to Lyle, and he met the older man's gaze with his one eye, “Lyle, I know it hurts. We're going to try to help you. You need to live, we need brave men like you, to help set things right here.”

  Lyle stared at him, his face drawn tight against the pain. “Fine. Do it.”

  “Aerion, help hold him still first, we need to cut the spear shaft off, so we don't have to draw the whole thing through.” Arren said. The old man held his hands above the bloody wound, and his eyes closed. “I'll do what I can to prevent any more damage, but try to prevent him from moving.

  Aerion nodded, and he clasped his hands on Lyle's shoulders. He saw two other men hold Lyle's waist and legs. “Jasen, start cutting.”

  The soldier clasped the spear in one hand, and took a small wood saw in the other. “Glad I brought a saw,” Jasen said softly. He began to saw at the wood. Aerion, his face only inches from Lyle's, saw the man choke down a scream as Jasen began. Aerion felt tears well up in his eye as Lyle's grunts and moans became little more than animal sounds.

  After an eternity, Jasen pulled the shaft of the spear away. “Alright, Aerion, you need to lift him up now. You others, hold him still.”

  Aerion lifted the older man and winced at the whimper of pain. He forced his arms to hold him steady, even as he saw the bloody, barbed spearhead that stuck from Lyle's lower back.

  Jasen grabbed it, and he slowly began to draw it out. Lyle bucked and tried to writhe. “Hold him steady, damn you!”

  The two men held Lyle still. Aerion watched Arren's still face, which seemed to age even as he watched. He saw Arren's hands tremble as they continued to draw the spear out, until finally Lyle gave one last shudder, and Jasen let out a deep breath. “Alright, it's out. I don't see any splinters and it looks like it's a clean tear in his clothing, nothing inside the wound.”

  “Set him down Aerion,” Arren said, even as Jasen helped Aerion shift the wounded man over onto a blanket someone had laid on the ground.

  “It's done?”Aerion asked.

  Arren shook his head, “The spear did some severe internal damage. He'll already face infection from what happened with his intestines. I burned up everything I had to prevent any further damage. I need your help now. I need to use your energy.”

  Aerion wanted to ask how much it would hurt, but the thought of what Lyle had suffered made him swallow the words before they came out. “What do I do?”

  “Take my hand,” Arren clasped Aerion's left hand, “And relax.”

  Arren placed his right hand over the wound. A moment later, Aerion felt his left hand grow warm, and his entire body tingled. He felt the hair on his arms stand on end.

  Arren's strong grip held his hand tight, yet Aerion's eyes focused on Arren's other hand and the wound that closed into a puckered scar before his eyes.

  Arren released his hand and fell back on his heels. The old man gave a long sigh, “It's done.”

  “Will he live?” Jasen asked.

  Arren looked up, “I think so. I may not have cleaned out all the corruption. That's my greatest fear. But I managed, he should survive.”

  Aerion stared down at his left hand. It still tingled.

  ***

  Lady Katarina Emberhill

  Katarina stepped up onto the back of the wagon and gave a nod to Quinn. Arren had chosen the stocky young man to guard the coin chest in the wagon, just as he suggested Shannon, the band's only female, and Doug to guard the enemy wounded.

  Katarina moved up next to Gerlin, who had just knelt near the chest. “What have we got?” After Arren had chased her away from the wounded, the pay chest seemed the next best place to go to work. She worried though, about the men who took wounds and she felt the familiar ache as she added the names of the dead to the list of those who had died for her.

  He shrugged, “A locked box. No sign of the key yet, but Arren said he can probably pick it, if Bulmor or his group don't find it on one of the bodies.”

  Katarina looked over at the five men Bulmor had selected to help him in his grisly task. The six of them moved from body to body. They stripped Hectors mercenaries of valuables, weapons, and equipment. “I wish there were some other way to do this.”

  “It happens in war, my Lady,” Gerlin said. “Even the best men realize that the enemy dead no longer need their finery or their weapons. Keeping it organized like Bulmor has gives it some dignity at least. I've seen Armen war bands break into squabbling corpse-pickers over some gold ring, once.”

  He looked up and met her gaze, “What bothers me is those riders who attacked.”

  “I wanted to ask about that,” Katarina said. “What happened?”

  “I talked with one of the prisoners, the one with the broken arm. Their leader, Captain Jannar, split his men up into several patrols yesterday. He was the one with the mace.”

  Katarina remembered her shot from earlier, and the near-panic she felt when she feared the man would kill Aerion. “Ah.” Her wand had made that particular mercenary very, very dead.

  Gerlin nodded, his face solemn, “Yes, no way to find out why he sent his men out on patrol. None of his sergeants survived, either, so if he gave them any more detailed orders than he gave to the two we captured, we can't know.”

  “Thank the High Kings, we stopped them.” Katarina said. She found her eyes drawn to the clump of injured, and she realized that she had started to stare at Aerion where he helped Arren. She watched his slow, uncertain motions as he assisted Arren and his healing efforts. Katarina almost wanted to laugh at the look of intense concentration on his face. He was such an odd mix, at times so uncertain and inexperienced, yet he picked up the skills of combat so quickly. In looks, he reminded her of her childhood friend Jarek, who she hadn't thought of in cycles. I wonder, she thought, if he still lives and if he does, what he must think of me. Aerion's minor resemblance to Jarek seemed to settle her feelings about him in her mind. She must like and trust him because of that resembla
nce, she realized.

  “Lady Katarina,” Bulmor called.

  She turned. Bulmor had moved to stand next to the wagon. He had a vaguely disapproving look on his face, and despite herself, she found a blush form on her cheeks. She cleared her throat, “Yes, Bulmor?”

  “Found some interesting equipment on a couple of them,” Bulmor held up three weapons in his right hand. “Runic weapons,” he said. “I recognize the runes on the mace, its a simple power enhancement.”

  Katarina nodded, and she took the three weapons. She looked at the mace first, and her own limited knowledge of High Magic Weaves confirmed Bulmor's statement. She had studied High Magic in Marovingia, where such relics were slightly more common than her homeland. The ax bore similar weaves and she puzzled through what each of them meant for a long moment, “Its more complex, but I think its something similar.” She frowned, “I could be wrong, but it seems to be an enhancement designed around armor penetration.” She passed the mace and ax back to Bulmor.

  Bulmor nodded slowly, “That makes sense.”

  Katarina turned the third weapon over in her hands. She frowned down at the sword. She recognized the small, sharply angular patterns as dragon runes. She counted at least eight different types of runes on either side of the blade, and one more in the pommel, as well as some crest or symbol on the crossguard. She hadn't studied dragon runes, mostly because of the rarity of wizards who practiced that form of runic magic. That also meant their items tended to be just as uncommon. “I think this has dragon runes, but I've no idea what it does,” Katarina said. “Which is unfortunate, it looks complex and valuable.” Neither had to say what they both knew: to use any magic item, especially a weapon, without knowledge of its abilities was extremely dangerous.

  “Might I have a look?”

  Katarina turned, and found that Arren had evidently finished his work with the wounded. “You know dragon runes?” She asked. On top of his other abilities, it seemed preposterous.

  “Just a very basic understanding I picked up as a youth,” Arren smiled. “I can recognize some of the most common runes.”

  Hesitantly, Katarina passed over the blade. Arren took it almost reverently, and he gave a long whistle as he stared down at it. “My, this blade is... quite valuable. I wonder if the man who bore it knew even a fraction of its history.”

  “Do you?” Katarina asked sharply.

  Arren smiled slightly, yet he seemed distracted. He pointed at a crest on the crossguard. “The makers of this blade crafted it for those who served the High King.”

  Katarina peered down at the small eight pointed starburst crest. “Truly?”

  Arren nodded slowly, “Truly. It's a light blade, probably crafted for a Herald or maybe even a spy. The runes suggest that too.” Arren turned the blade over in his hands, and he pointed at a couple of the runes, “This one here is a rune of strength, to enhance the material. That one on the pommel is a rune of holding, for storing energy.” His fingers traced some of the other runes. “Truly, it's amazing to find such a weapon in the hands of a common mercenary. I doubt he knew what he had in such a prize.”

  “I thought most of the items from the High Kingdom used High Magic?” Katarina asked with a frown of puzzlement. She was vague on the specifics, but she thought that Dragon runes predated the High Kings, that they came from the Dragon Kings in the era between the Viani's Empire and the arrival of the Starborn.

  “Yes that's partially true, except for a handful of practitioners of Dragon Magic,” Arren said. “The most famous, of course is Noth.”

  “You can't be serious,” Katarina said. “You think this sword could be the work of Noth?” She stared at the old man with consternation. The thought that the greatest wizard who ever lived had worked on a weapon she held in her hand... “Why, he crafted the Starblade of the High Kings!”

  Arren shook his head, “I have no idea. I can name a half dozen wizards from that time frame besides Noth. Dragon Wizards are rare, but the High Kingdom lasted for two thousand cycles. Even so, this sword has survived since before the Sundering. It is a priceless artifact.”

  Katarina nodded reluctantly. She looked over at Bulmor, “Do you...”

  “No, my Lady. I have my own blade,” Bulmor said, as he patted his sheathed sword. “It was good enough for my father and his father. It has guarded many Dukes and it will continue to guard you.”

  “Might I keep it?” Arren asked, his voice seemed young, almost like a child asking for some gift. “I'll need to study it, anyway, it may take some time before anyone can properly use it.”

  Katarina frowned, puzzled at why the sword meant so much to the old man. “Of course, Arren. You have been a vast help. If it means that much to you... then keep it.”

  The old man smiled, “My Lady, I cannot tell you how much I am indebted to you. This... well I can't properly thank you.” He let out a deep breath. “But back to what I intended to tell you when I first came over. Lyle and Brenner will both live, though I think Lyle has a long road to full recovery.”

  “I am glad to hear that they will live,” Katarina said. “The loss of any of our people is hard. How is Harold’s arm?”

  “It will be fine,” Arren said. “Though he insists he will be swinging a sword in a day or two, I think it better he rest a week at least.”

  “If we have a week,” Gerlin said. “This patrol will be missed by nightfall. We need to get off the road and to get the wagons, livestock, and prisoners separated. I think we could keep the prisoners in a glade–”

  “No,” Katarina said. “We'll release the prisoners.”

  “What?” Gerlin asked.

  “When Hector's men come searching for the patrol and the tax caravan, they'll find them. And they'll deliver my message to them.” Katarina took a deep breath. “I will make very certain they understand, that Lady Katarina Emberhill has returned to the Duchy of Masov... and she will no longer tolerate the Usurper or his army in her lands.”

  ***

  Captain Kerrel Flamehair

  Fort Isolation, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Fifth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  The early morning seemed even colder with the gray fog that blanketed the land. Kerrel shivered and tried not to notice the spirits that moved the fog in ripples.

  “I've heard of how many spirits haunt this place...” Baran said, his voice soft. “I thought them exaggerations.” He bit off a chunk of hardtack and washed it down with water. “They say that more people have died on this island than any other place in Eoriel.”

  “I don't know about that, we've a pretty bloody history in our own homeland,” Kerrel said. “And for less reason, I think. If anything, you would assume the spirits back home would be more active, what with all the betrayals and such.”

  “The spirits in the Duchy of Asador do not have the weight of priests, shamans and witches stirring them up,” a woman's voice spoke from behind them.

  Kerrel turned with a start, shocked that someone had come up behind her without sound. She found her hand on her sword and only the polite smile from the woman a few feet away prevented her from drawing her blade. “And you are?”

  “Well... I'm one of the witches that stirs the spirits to fight,” The woman said. Like most of the islanders, she clearly had mixed blood, though hers blended into a look of dark and exotic beauty that Kerrel instantly envied. The witch stood much shorter than her, probably only a few inches over five feet. Her dark complexion and chocolate brown eyes mixed with her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes gave her face a striking appearance. Her hair hung in a thick, curly, black wave that extended well down her back. She wore a low-cut gown of a deep green, which ended just below her knees. The gown looked both uncomfortable and unseasonable, what with the chill in the air and the amount of flesh she showed. Then again, she's the assets to wear it well, Kerrel thought with a mental grimace.

  Kerrel also noted that the witch wore a pair of perfectly functional boots, so she had at le
ast some practical side to her. “That doesn't really answer the question,” Kerrel said.

  “Well then,” the witch said. “Captain Kerrel and Sergeant Baran, my name is Veruna Nasrat, and I greet you.”

  “Nasrat?” Kerrel asked suspiciously.

  “Yes, my father is Commander Zabilla Nasrat,” Veruna said. “And the questions you've had your men ask about made it to the ears of one of my spirits. Not that I mind, but I thought I might shortcut some of the rumor mill and introduce myself.”

  “I didn't know there were witches among the locals,” Kerrel said.

  “You don't know much about us at all, I'd imagine,” Veruna said. She stepped over and took a seat on one of the camp chairs. “So, while we wait for the fog to clear, I could tell you a bit about us.”

  “That would be very helpful,” Kerrel said cautiously. After the Commander's attempt to provoke her anger, his daughter's attitude of polite helpfulness made her uneasy.

  “My pleasure. You see, your friend is right, Captain Flamehair, more men have died fighting over this island than anywhere else in the world,” Veruna said. “The first men to come to Eoriel, those who became the Viani those many cycles ago, migrated south through here. This has always been the gateway to Eoriel and, as such, the place where every tribe and race has come through.”

  “Captain Flamehair shows the lineage of the Manach, with her red hair and pale skin.” She nodded at Baran, “You are of the Camber, though fairer than most of your race, you probably share blood of the Manach as well. Both races came after the Armen and Norics, and long after the Viani.”

  “So?” Kerrel asked.

  “So you must understand, that my people have lived on this island since the beginning. We are the people who came to love this land. As each tribe passed through, in the ancient days... well they left their marks on the people and the land. The Norics, the Armen, and the younger races of men,” Veruna gestured out at the fog, and at the spirits that danced in it. “And many of my people died. When the Armen followed Andoral to the north, they swept through and more of my people died. When the Manach and Camber suffered from Armen raids, they conquered this land and still more died. I have heard that you sorrow for the handful of centuries of civil war within your homeland Captain... how do you think we feel about seven thousand cycles of invasion and bloodshed?”