Ty punched him in the shoulder. “Quit it, Breen! That’s not funny.”
His brother smiled and slid his way back down the large limb of the old white oak and grabbed his bow. He slung it across his back and glanced at Ty. “We need to move if we plan on making it home by supper. Don’t forget that tonight’s Performance Night.”
Ty rolled his eyes. “How could I forget?”
“You’ll do great, little brother,” Breen said as he swung out of the tree. “They say the first time is always the hardest.”
“I’m not so sure I want to do this,” Ty admitted. His fingers instinctively ran across the wooden pipes of his homemade flute resting in his jacket pocket. “You know I don’t like playing in front of people.” Ty followed Breen’s example and dropped from the limb, not quite as gracefully as his older brother but at least he didn’t twist his ankle this time.
Running to catch up, he fell into step. “Sorry about the deer.”
His brother reached over and put his big arm around him. “That’s alright. We’ll get ‘em next time.”
Without the added difficulty of carrying fresh game, Ty and Breen made good time in getting back to the main road. They had barely made it through the dense foliage and onto the single dirt lane when they could feel the vibrations in the hard clay. Ty could sense the horses even before the sound of their hooves had taken form. There were at least nine or ten, he thought.
Stepping off the road to allow for clear passage, they spotted the riders in the distance. The hairs on Ty’s arm shot to attention. They were wearing the distinct white mantles of the Black Watch. And they were heading directly for them. Ty never did see the point in calling themselves the Black Watch if all they ever wore was white, but he wasn’t about to bring it to their attention.
“Don’t say anything,” Breen warned. His hands reached for his bow to loosen its grip. “If they stop, you let me do the talking.”
Ty didn’t say anything, only nodded. Everyone knew of the Black Watch, but living this far out from the White Tower, few had ever seen the white riders before. This was a first for Ty.
“I mean it, Ty! Don’t you say a word.”
“Fine.” Ty was getting flustered. Unlike his brother, the only weapon he carried was a large belt knife. Not much use against an armed contingent. “What do you think they’re doing out here?”
“Same thing they do everywhere, I reckon . . . Look for wielders.”
Ty counted ten riders as they reined in beside them. The cloud of dust from their passage blocked his view temporarily. He noticed a hidden rider at the center of the group, a woman. Her hands were bound and her mouth gagged.
“Saleena?” Breen mumbled half under his breath. He looked shocked.
“Saleena? Who’s Saleena?”
“Hush before you get us both killed . . . or worse.”
Ty wondered how it could get much worse than being killed. He also wondered why it was that his brother appeared to recognize the Black Watch’s prisoner. He had never seen her before.
“How far to the nearest town?” asked a rough looking man at the head of the group. His nose seems to be a mite crooked on his face. Ty noted the guard’s posture—as stiff as a newly dried tunic, fresh off the line. With back erect and nose in the air, Ty thought he had all the mannerisms of a bull-deer in rut and probably just as dangerous.
“The nearest town is Easthaven,” Breen said, pointing down the road in the direction they were headed. “Take this road to its end and then head north. Can’t miss it.”
The dark-haired man in front noticed Ty staring at their prisoner. “Get a good look, boy.” He sneered, one hand resting on the hilt of a large broadsword at his waist. “It’ll be the last time you’ll see this one. Chased her halfway across Sidara we did, finally caught up with her just east of Reed Marsh.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Have to gag ‘em like that to keep ‘em from using their dark powers on you.”
“What’d she do?” Ty asked, forgetting his promise to his brother as his curiosity got the better of him. Breen clearly didn’t share the same sentiment as his eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened near the corners.
“She’s been accused of practicing magic on children.” The big guard leaned forward, the rough leather of his saddle creaking under the weight of his movement. “Some townsfolk say they’d seen her offering unnatural healings and unholy charms.” He took a hard snort and then spat into the road before wiping a gloved hand across his rough goatee.
The lady fidgeted in her saddle. The tears rolling down her cheeks soaked into her cloth gag. She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but one of the other guards backhanded her across the face.
Ty started to move forward but Breen grabbed his arm and held him back. The sight of these paid hunters bloodying the woman’s face sent a shiver of rage down his back. There was also a strange warming sensation building from somewhere deep inside. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt as though it was growing. Biting down on his tongue, he fought to hold it back.
“Don’t get any wise ideas, boy!” The rider fixed him with a dark stare. “This one would sooner kill you as look at you. And we’re here to round up any of her cohorts.” Leaning back in his saddle, he wiped his forehead with the back of his glove where the dirt from the road had dried from previous sweating. “Either of you seen or heard of any magic being practiced round these parts?”
“There’s no one at Easthaven with magic,” Ty blurted out. The sleeve of his faded blue tunic nearly ripped at the seam as his brother’s grip tightened on his arm.
“Is that so?” The large man studied Ty’s face. “And I’m sure that two upstanding citizens like yourselves would be more than willing to do your duty and report ‘em if there were, correct?” He turned and winked at his comrades. Their snickers did little to help calm Ty’s anger. He could feel his forehead breaking out into a sweat. He took a deep breath. Something didn’t feel right. It was nothing he’d ever felt before.
“Yes, sir,” Breen interjected, not giving Ty the chance to open his mouth again. “We are good citizens of Aldor. We don’t hold to those who practice the dark arts. Dangerous folk they are. We’re mighty thankful to have the protection of the Black Watch.” Ty’s brother bowed his head toward the man, an obvious show of contrition which Ty found revolting, but unfortunately necessary.
Ty attempted to mimic his brother.
The man held Breen’s gaze for a moment longer before turning back to Ty. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You sick or something?”
Ty could feel Breen shaking his arm, but the strange heat building inside of him was keeping Ty from responding. He closed his eyes and took another gulp of air. What’s wrong with me?
“Don’t mind him, sir. He gets, uh . . . He gets nervous around strangers.” Breen cast a harsh glare in Ty’s direction.
The white rider stared at Ty a moment longer before grabbing his reins. “Well, you wouldn’t want us to get the impression you was keeping secrets, would ya?”
“No, sir, we wouldn’t want that,” Breen said.
“You know what happens to those who harbor wielders, don’t you?” The man lifted his thumb to one side of his neck and made a slow slicing motion across it.
Ty couldn’t help but quiver at the thought of what they had in store for the poor lady. He took another deep breath and the heat finally abated.
The lead guard raised his gloved hand and pointed in their direction. “I’m sure we’ll be seein’ the two of you again.” With a hard snap of his reins, the man’s horse leaped into action. The soldier’s dark hair flapped in the breeze as he headed down the road, his posse trailing right behind.
Breen waited until they had disappeared around the next bend before turning on Ty. “I thought I told you to let me do the talking!” he snapped. Ty could see the veins in his forehead start to bulge. It was never a good sign when his brother’s blood pressure rose to those levels.
“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.�
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“Obviously.” Breen pointed in the general direction of where the white riders had just been. “You don’t mess with the Black Watch. They have complete autonomy to do whatever they want. They could have taken you right then and there, locked you away in the White Tower, and there’s nothing any of us could have ever done about it. You of all people need to be more careful.”
Ty’s head rose. “What do you mean ‘you’ of all people?”
Breen looked surprised by his own comment. The stuttering didn’t help. “I . . . I just mean that . . . that you tend to get overly excited and let your gums go to flapping before you use your noggin.” Breen swiped a nervous hand back through his hair as he cast a sidelong look at Ty, no doubt hoping to see that what he was saying wasn’t just going in one ear and out the other. “I’ve heard it said the White Tower has more power than the High King himself.”
Ty didn’t respond, not because he was incapable of chasing down a new line of argument, but because he knew his brother was right. He had to learn to control his temper and his actions, especially when he knew he happened to be one of those very wielders they were searching for. He was not some great wizard, but he did possess a small ability when it came to communicating with other living things.
With the way people seemed to fear those with magic, his decision to keep his gifts hidden, even from his family, had proven to be the right one—at least so far. But with the Black Watch now threatening to eradicate Easthaven of all wielders, his days of going off into the woods to experiment were coming to an end. Worse yet, he had no idea what was happening with the sudden bouts of pain in his arm, or the growing mark on his shoulder.
If he couldn’t learn to control it, whatever it was, he was going to be in real trouble.
Breen picked up the pace. “We need to get back to the house. Father needs to hear about what just happened.”
Ty scrunched his nose. “Why? What’s he going to do? For that matter, how did you know that lady back there? Who was she?”
Breen didn’t respond.
“Breen, what’s going on? How do you know that woman?” Ty was growing more anxious by the moment. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
Breen never slowed. “We just need to get home.”
Chapter 4 | Valtor
THERE WAS A HUSHED silence to the room as all eyes rested at the head of the white stone table.
All thirteen seats were filled. The heads of the Bulradoer, the Legate, and the Inquisition shifted nervously as they waited for the man seated at its crown to speak.
Valtor slammed his fist down on top of the polished stone. Backs stiffened in stone seats all along the perimeter of the long table. He enjoyed watching them squirm. “Sixteen years!” He scanned his audience, catching each eye in turn. “Sixteen years and what do you have to show for it? How hard is it to find one single child?”
“Apparently, pretty toad-sucking hard with you calling the shots,” one of the bulradoer near the end of the table mumbled to himself, not having expected anyone to hear.
“What was that, Medarin?” Valtor asked as he leaned forward in his seat and glared down the left side of the table. He could feel the mitre on top of his head tilt ever so slightly downward.
The short bulradoer sneered. “I said . . .” he glanced around at the other faces looking for support. “I said I’m tired of sitting on my hands. When Bezaleel was chancellor, you wouldn’t have found us sitting around here coddling each other. We would have been out there getting things done.”
The other members’ heads bobbed back and forth as they looked from Medarin to Valtor and back again. They were waiting to see what their chancellor’s response would be to such a blatant accusation.
Medarin had been an avid supporter of Chancellor Bezaleel back before Valtor had taken his seat, following the former chancellor’s untimely demise. The circumstances surrounding the passing of Valtor’s predecessor had been called into question by Medarin, and on more than one occasion, the bulradoer had attempted to gather those to his side who would be willing to denounce Valtor’s position as the new head of the Tower.
Medarin had one thing right. The time for doing nothing had long since passed. It was time to lance this abscess before it festered into something truly nasty. The last thing Valtor could allow was to have his authority undermined.
Valtor reached for his staff where it leaned against the arm of his throne-like chair. His fingers stroked the smooth, dark wood. Carved into the top and layered in silver was the head of a wolf with its maw spread wide. Securely wedged between its fangs was a bloodstone that had begun to pulse a deep red.
The little man’s eyes darted back and forth at those seated closest to him.
Not waiting for an answer, Valtor whipped out his arm in Medarin’s direction. The sleeve of his crimson robe retreated far enough to reveal Valtor’s thinning frame. He clenched his hand as if gripping an invisible object, and latched on to the bulradoer’s neck. Valtor raised his arm and Medarin was suddenly lifted into the air, his seat shifted backwards from where his feet kicked out under the strain. The man’s hands fought to tear away the undetectable clamp around his neck.
The others around the table quickly scooted back.
Valtor’s anger seethed. He held the black-robed wielder out over the table and watched as the little man danced the hangman’s dance in front of the others. Like a marionette on his master’s strings, Medarin’s legs flexed and kicked as he struggled to breathe, his body naturally convulsing from the lack of air. His face whitened and his lips turned a pale blue. He looked like a little fish with his puckered mouth opening and shutting as he tried crying out, but nothing came. The only sound to escape the bulradoer’s lips was a gurgling noise that was followed by a bubbly white paste.
A few more spasms and Medarin’s body went limp. His eyes were open and filled with fear, but Valtor could see there was no life within.
He released his grip and the dark wielder landed on top of the marble slab. Harsh grumbling could be heard around the entire table. The others passed judgmental glances, but no one dared speak loud enough to be heard.
“Does anyone else want to question my authority?”
The room fell silent once again as heads slowly shifted back to the front.
Valtor took a deep breath and rubbed the tips of his fingers down the soft gold-threaded seams of his chancellor’s robes. He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of his movement readjusting his hat. Now he was going to have to find another wielder to replace Medarin. Maintaining the bulradoer ranks was becoming quite tedious. “As I was saying, I want that faeling child found. Aerodyne has special plans for him.” The very mention of the first wizard’s name caused the others to squirm in their seats.
From the center of the table on the right, the Legate Superior leaned forward. “Is it true that the confinement spells have begun to fail?”
Valtor studied the woman as he determined the appropriate response. Her long graying hair boxed the sides of her round face, making her pudgy cheeks appear even more pronounced. Her eyes were drawn with dark rings. Clearly, she hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep in a while. From the span of her waist, though, she had obviously spent that time rummaging through the Tower’s kitchens.
Still, he couldn’t see a reason for not answering her question. Aerodyne had been locked away for nearly a thousand years, after all. It had taken the sacrifice of nearly two dozen wizards during the Great Wizard Wars to assure his imprisonment. And now, after almost a millennium, the dark wizard’s presence was being felt once more.
Valtor was giddy with excitement, especially after his recent discovery of the Waters of A’sterith. They allowed him the ability to directly communicate with the ancient wizard. A lot had happened since that first meeting, and there was still a great amount of work to do in order to ready himself and the White Tower for Aerodyne’s return.
“It is true,” he said and then sat back to watch their reactions.
The room buzzed with whispered conversations. Faces animated to the numerous possibilities of their master’s return and the promised rewards for their faithfulness.
“The time is coming when we shall take our rightful place in this world,” Valtor said. “No longer will the ven’ae be the outcast. No longer will we have to skulk and hide amongst the dregs of society for being what we are. When Aerodyne returns it will be the jun’ri who bow to us.”
Echoes of acclamation filled the large chamber as the members resounded their ovation.
“What of Aramoor and the High King, Your Grace?” a bulradoer asked from the front. “Rhydan has never trusted the White Tower, and I don’t foresee him sitting idly by as we move to overthrow his rule.”
Valtor leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of the table’s cold surface. “There is more than one way to defeat an enemy. A strong leader would raise a force and engage them in open combat. However,” he added, punctuating his words with a raised finger, “a smart leader will manipulate his adversaries from the inside, and lead them to destroy themselves.” Valtor shifted in his seat. “Why fight an unnecessary battle when you can allow others to do it for you?”
There were more than a few raised brows and nodding heads as the others passed eager glances.
Valtor enjoyed playing the game. It suited him. He loved watching the pieces fit together as he manipulated the board. It was one reason he had always appreciated a decent hand of Batmyth, as long as he had a worthy opponent. It was a game that required cunning, skill, and sacrifice.
“How is our recruitment faring?” he asked as he turned his attention back to the Legate Superior. The members of the Legate were in charge of keeping the books for the White Tower. They were the oil that kept the gears moving in stable fashion.
The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1) Page 4
