Interesting.
“I trust you found your accommodations acceptable?” Lorta’s voice lowered as the two men drew near.
“Once the sounds of battle subsided, I slept quite comfortably.” The Medasylas replied in a perfectly controlled tone, one free of an Aukasian accent.
Emperor Lorta beamed at the man and motioned to the right side of his throne. “Please take your place.”
Without prostrating himself, the Medasylas approached the throne, climbed the dais, and stood at Lorta’s right, followed by his servant. What manner of man could hold such a high station with the emperor? Leadren’s eyes glimmered with envy. He treats him almost as an equal!
The emperor motioned at Leadren. “Sage, this is Prince Hacik Leadren, the very man we have to thank for providing our army access to Lisidra.”
With faux humility, Leadren bowed his head. “I live only to serve the Empire.”
“Leadren, I present to you my chief imperial advisor and the spiritual leader of our people, the Medasylas and his acolyte, Gevan.”
Leadren offered a second reverential nod, this time to the Medasylas. However, before completing the dip of his balding head, he caught a glimpse of something the Medasylas wore beneath the waist of his robe. All sound around Leadren muted as he stared transfixed on an ornate belt, forged of lustrous black metal, inlaid with unfamiliar glyphs, and capped in the center by a perfectly circular, blood-red jewel. A sudden impulse to grab at the thing almost overcame Leadren as he gazed into the dark crimson of the round gem, and he thought he heard a whisper inside his mind daring him to do just that.
“Leadren,” demanded a faraway voice, “Leadren!”
Leadren snapped out of his trance. “Uh… yes. Medasylas?” he struggled to recover from the bewitching distraction, spitting out the first coherent thought to form in his mind. “If I may say, that is a most unusual name.”
The Medasylas gracefully drew down his hood. “It is a title from the ancient language that loosely translates into emissary.”
Emperor Lorta grinned. “Indeed a fitting title, for you see Leadren, the Medasylas is a Sage sent to us from heaven like the ones described in your Istran holy book.”
“A Sage?” Leadren caught a disgusted grunt from General Salache at the mention of that title.
Lorta continued, “He sees visions and utters prophecies. In fact, it was he who prophesied that you would be the one to help us pass through the Sentinel Gate, and approaching you was his counsel. His soothsaying has been most valuable in advancing our weapons and staying strategically ahead of the Amigus forces.”
The Medasylas nodded. “You do me too much honor, Your Highness.”
Leadren eyed the Medasylas with a new sense of fearful awe. A soothsayer?
Lorta went on, sounding to Leadren very much like a spoiled child bragging about a newly acquired toy. “He has been a most trusted advisor for close to three years now, first to my father and now to me. Thus, I have appointed him my chief advisor.” Lorta gestured. “He has been sent to us from Trysta Jiann to restore the house of Aukae its right to rule, not only over our Amigus kin, but over all of Valcoria.” Lorta’s grin broadened. “And…” he shot a sly glance at the Medasylas. “He has given us our secret weapon, one that no army will be able to stand against.”
Bordering on giddy, Lorta almost bounced on his heels. “Show him, Sage!”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The Medasylas turned toward his servant, Gevan, who nodded in understanding before pulling from within his robe another curiosity. Leadren had little time to study the weapon before Gevan raised it, took aim at one of the chamber’s tall, narrow windows, and fired. A blinding flash of emerald light washed over the room as a bullet-sized sphere of green lightning streaked across the chamber to collide with the window in an explosion of glass and stone.
A storm of chalky dust blew over the five men, the worst of it catching Salache and Leadren, who both broke into brief coughing spells ending with Leadren blurting out, “Sorcery! Dark sorcery!” as he stared wide-eyed at Gevan.
The Medasylas, in his first display of emotion, sneered. “Superstitious fool! This is not magic.”
“Then wh-what…” Leadren stammered.
Emperor Lorta cast an irritated look at Gevan as he brushed dust from his raven hair. “What you’ve just witnessed is the reproduction of a weapon used by a technologically advanced people called the Valakyrian, a civilization that inhabited our world over a thousand years ago.” Lorta turned his gaze on the still cowering Leadren. “The knowledge of how to duplicate their technology was another gift from the heavens as given through the Medasylas, who himself has spent the better portion of his life exploring ruins, researching records, and studying the people of that era.”
“Amazing!” Leadren cried, this time with complete sincerity. He had heard tales of how Valcoria was once peopled with an advanced civilization, but had never put much stock in the stories.
Lorta grinned. “All that is left to do is train and arm our forces with these weapons. For you see, Leadren, in order to ensure that our enemies are caught completely unawares, we have gone to great lengths to keep this technology a secret. I had all the factory workers who assembled them executed, and not even our own soldiers are yet aware of their existence. With these weapons and the element of surprise, Amigus will fall before the end of the year, and we will fulfill prophecy by at last uniting our two nations under the rightful rule of Aukasia!”
“Your Highness, perhaps we should proceed with addressing our more immediate matters.” Salache cut in as he shot a baleful glare at the Medasylas. “Else we be here the whole of the day.”
Lorta stared at his chief general a long moment before chuckling. “Well met, General. He is right, gentlemen.” Lorta sat and fixed his gaze on Leadren. “I need not remind you to say nothing of this to anyone.”
Leadren shook his head. “No, Your Highness.”
Lorta nodded. “You met with the nobles of this city?”
Leadren nodded.
“And they will submit to the throne?”
Leadren smirked. “I persuaded them that it was in their best interest.”
“Good.” Lorta turned to the Medasylas. “Sage, are you ready to begin training our men in use of the Niazeride weapons?”
The Medasylas dipped his head. “We are.”
“Then don’t delay.”
“I will go straight away to begin the process,” the Medasylas said, “but first I have a question for General Salache.”
Leadren stole another glance at the kneeling general.
The Medasylas took a step toward the edge of the dais. “You were personally responsible for transporting my things.”
“So I was,” Salache replied. “What of it?”
“I am missing a piece of equipment, a metallic sphere about the size of a child’s ball. Would you know anything about that?”
Leadren watched Salache, eager to see how the general would respond to the veiled accusation from a man he so obviously disliked.
Salache met the Medasylas’ cold stare without flinching. His bass voice reverberated through the room. “What’s the matter, Sage? Can you not divine its whereabouts?”
“You forget yourself, General!” snapped Lorta.
Without breaking his stare, the Medasylas raised a hand to the emperor. “It’s all right, Highness. Sarcasm is often the language of the ignorant. He obviously doesn’t know anything of the matter.”
Lorta let his indignant stare linger on Salache before asking, “You had the Medasylas’ belongings under continual guard as instructed?”
Salache continued to challenge the Medasylas with his proud stare. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Lorta drew in a deep breath in a visible effort to calm himself before turning to the Medasylas.
“Then you must have left it behind.”
The Medasylas continued to stare at Salache. “I must have.”
“You are all dismissed. Be about your tasks quic
kly.” Lorta waved a hand before turning to stare at a gaping tear in the chamber’s outer wall, where only moments before had been a tall, narrow window.
The Medasylas descended the dais, and glided toward the chamber doors, his acolyte trailing him. Leadren rose in time with Salache and was midway to the chamber doors when Lorta called out to him.
“Leadren…”
Leadren took a step back toward the emperor. “Yes, Your Highness?”
“Have this repaired immediately.” Lorta motioned to the breach in the wall.
Leadren dipped his head. “I will go straight to the chief mason’s office.”
The emperor responded to him with a curt grunt, and though he was not looking at him, Leadren bobbed a bow before scurrying out of the chamber. As he entered the corridor, he couldn’t help but grin to himself.
I will be king. He laughed aloud, not caring that the soldiers acting as porters shot him puzzled looks.
Estar Alnenya Lorta, twenty-fourth emperor of the mighty Aukasian Empire and direct descendant of Aukae himself, stared out through the jagged pieces of broken glass hanging precariously from a gnarled window frame. While watching the patrols of Aukasian soldiers herding clusters of Lisidra’s citizens down a street, he commended himself for the flawless conformity of events to his plan. It was his plan, regardless of who may have suggested it, for he and he alone had taken the necessary steps to put it into play, and the glory of his victory would be exclusively his. He would conquer Amigus. After that, the other nations of the world, insignificant kingdoms that were little more than city-states, would easily fall to him.
Lorta turned from the window and was startled to find General Salache lingering at the foot of the dais, eyes cast down. “Something amiss, General?”
Salache raised his gaze to Lorta, his face looking troubled.
Puzzled, Lorta cocked his head. “What is it?”
With uncharacteristic hesitancy, Salache began, “Your Highness, I knew your father very well.”
“I know, Salache.” Lorta flashed a confused smile. “You have ever been the friend of my family and counsel to our house.”
“I know that he loved you very much and before he died, after it became clear that you would be his successor, he made me swear an oath on my life that I would guide and protect you once you ascended the throne.”
Lorta nodded. “And you have faithfully kept that oath thus far.”
“Therefore, what I say now, I say as the man who swore that oath and not as your chief general.”
Lorta’s smile faded. “If you have something to say to me Hakell, then by all means say it.”
Salache lifted his chin and met his eyes. “I do not believe that your father would approve of this campaign.”
Anger smoldered within Lorta and he snapped, “You don’t think so?”
“Your father was no friend to Amigus, but neither was he their enemy. He would not so quickly take up arms, and certainly not in unprovoked conquest.”
Lorta had to work to keep from grinding his teeth. “For almost a thousand years, our people have spoken of claiming our rightful place as rulers over the descendants of Amaeg. Only I was bold enough to turn that talk into action, the only one brave enough to take up Aukae’s legacy!”
Salache shook his head. “Your father would not condone this invasion.”
“My father is not here!” Lorta shouted. “And you are no longer my advisor, you are my general. Your role is to swing the sword where you are directed, not to counsel me as to whether it should be swung! That place now belongs to the Medasylas.”
“Which brings me to my point,” Salache’s tone turned frosty. “I don’t trust that so-called Sage. I fear that he is adversely influencing you and thus manipulating the empire to accomplish his own ends.”
“Do you think me stupid, Salache?”
“No, Your Highness. But he possesses mysterious abilities; powers that we do not understand. Is it not possible that he is using those powers to deceive us?”
Lorta shook his head. “You know what I think, Salache?” Lorta didn’t give his general time to answer, his breath coming faster in time with his waxing anger. “I think this is nothing more than petty jealousy. You are angry that the Medasylas has taken your former position, and now you seek to discredit him.”
Salache took a step toward him. “Your Highness, please hear me. I believe the Medasylas is not―”
“Enough!” Lorta shouted.
Salache fell silent.
Lorta drew in several deep breaths before gritting his teeth and hissing. “Had any other man spoken to me in this way they would be on their way to the gallows.” Lorta’s tone softened. “I will hear no more of this.” Lorta threw a finger at him. “Remember your place, General!”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Salache answered in a tone that was once again strictly professional.
Lorta climbed the dais and threw himself down on the throne. “Now go, Salache, and dispatch three of the Imperial Guard to find Sen and Kiska. I want those cowards to pay dearly for abandoning me.”
Salache snapped a crisp salute before striding out of the chamber. Lorta glowered at Salache’s back, watching his chief general leave. My father would not condone this invasion? Lorta scoffed. Of course he would not. That’s why it had been necessary for him to remove that obstacle―so had said the Medasylas.
Lorta smirked to himself as he remembered the old man’s shock at waking to find a sword in his gut, the look of horror on his face at finding his youngest son gripping the handle of that sword. He remembered seeing the dawn of comprehension in those accusing brown eyes as his father had realized that it was his own son who had been behind the string of mysterious murders that had plagued the nobles of their house. That it was Lorta who’d orchestrated the death of all his rivals for the throne.
Yes, it had been gratifying for him to see that his father had understood before he died, understood that his son had proved his superior―had beaten him. He hated his father for always holding him back, and putting the old man in his place was the first reward on his path to glory. Salatia Taeo would be his next, and if he wouldn’t let his own father stand in his way, then certainly he wouldn’t hesitate to remove a defiant general should the need arise. After all, his cause was just, and so were any means which he employed to achieve that end.
So had said the Medasylas.
The power of the crown was intoxicating to Yaokken, but every time he drew on it he would become enraged in a way that frightened him.
Chapter 8
Awakening
Yuiv raised his left hand to his brow in a futile attempt to keep his soggy, blonde hair out of his eyes. Icy spring rain pounded the tile roofs and paved lanes of Hirath as he led Sitrell’s stallion out of a narrow alley that stretched between two brick buildings. He stifled a sneeze as he paused to survey the connecting streets, vacant on account of the rain and late hour. His effort failed and his head jerked forward thrice as he was taken by a fit of sneezing. He began to worry that the cold rain was making him sick, and called to mind a number of boys he’d known whose fatal illnesses started as seemingly harmless colds. That idle thought of dying prompted Yuiv to halt the warhorse and cast a glance over his shoulder at Sitrell, who slumped forward in the saddle. A torn strip of Yuiv’s tunic kept the unconscious Amigus soldier’s hands bound together around the horse’s neck, and two more strips kept his feet in the stirrups.
Transferring the horse’s bridle to his left hand, Yuiv turned, reached up, and placed an index finger underneath Sitrell’s nose. He was relieved to find that Sitrell was still breathing, although a bit slower than an hour ago when they left Hirath’s surrounding suburbs and entered the city-proper. Yuiv yawned and sputtered as his open mouth caught hard drops of cold rain. Those involuntary yawns came at regular intervals now, and every step he took stretched the limits of his willpower.
Yuiv had ridden nearly nonstop since escaping Lisidra, halting only a few short times to rest the horse and
examine Sitrell, who had not awakened since his collapse. It felt like an eternity since Yuiv had gotten any sleep, but it was worth the price. For he’d accomplished something of a minor miracle in reaching Hirath at midnight, a full six hours earlier than Sitrell predicted, and that without any previous riding experience. He’d also not known where he was headed, Sitrell’s fortuitous comment about riding hard and keeping west on the main road his only guide.
In all actuality, keeping up that desperate pace hadn’t been that difficult of a thing. For whenever Yuiv was tempted to stop for a nap, he needed only to take a look at Sitrell’s pale face or remind himself that there were likely Aukasian soldiers chasing them. That was motivation enough to renew his determination to endure the ride. There was, however, a shadow to Yuiv’s fortune, one that might yet defeat him. By arriving so late in the night, and never having been to Hirath in his entire life, he was lost and alone on the city’s empty streets, unable to find a hospital let alone anyone to help his dying friend.
Friend.
Yuiv scoffed at that thought. He really was pathetic. His only friend in the world was a man who was planning on arresting him the moment he awoke. Yet, in an odd way, it was true. Sitrell had risked his own life, and might yet still die, as part of his helping Yuiv to escape his fate. A fate Yuiv thought he might’ve deserved for facilitating Lisidra’s capture. Olan’s lifeless face flashed through Yuiv’s mind invoking hot tears that cooled as they mixed with the rainwater dripping down his face.
Yuiv glanced down connecting streets at his left and at his right, trying to decide which random direction he should try next. His indecision added to his mounting anxiety, a worry that seemed to whisper to him that Sitrell’s time was running out. He glanced up at the horizon silhouetted by hundreds of brick buildings. Hirath was big, much bigger than Lisidra, and he had no idea where to go to find help. When he’d first arrived in the city’s surrounding suburbs, he’d hastily dismounted and commenced knocking on cottage doors. That won him both angry threats and frightened silence from the tenants within. After that, he decided to ride on to Hirath’s metropolitan center in search of a hospital. Here he’d hoped to run into a patrol of the city guard who might, at the very least, escort him to a doctor. He sobbed a dry laugh as he considered the irony. For the first time in his life, he was not avoiding the police, but seeking them, trying his hardest and having absolutely no luck.
Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1) Page 8
