The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Sweat broke out across Ty’s forehead as he rushed to follow his brother back down the side of the hill, careful to avoid any loose twigs or branches that might give away their presence to whatever was out there.

  Without a word, the brothers moved backwards along the path, retracing their steps, before Breen angled them west in the direction of the noise they had heard earlier. Ty’s eyes darted in all directions for any sign of movement, and their pace slowed the closer they drew. Every hair on his body was standing on edge. The hunger for blood this creature possessed was anything but natural. There was magic involved. There had to be. He only prayed that whatever bit of power he possessed was enough to protect them.

  They were close.

  Breen raised his arm, and with an open hand motioned them down to their stomachs. Ty maneuvered himself forward with his hands and knees as they crawled through a thick patch of undergrowth. The clicking was coming from somewhere on the other side. Sliding alongside his brother’s large frame, he peered through the brush, but there was nothing there. His eyes darted from one side of the small clearing to the other. He could feel it. Whatever it was, its hunger was growing.

  On the other side of the bramble lay a hidden alcove of rock with a tunnel-like structure at its center, burrowing deep into the earth. Ty wrinkled his nose. The place smelled like rotting flesh and moist fur.

  He lay there in silence, completely immobile, for what seemed like an eternity, waiting and watching until finally he received a slight nudge in the side. Slowly twisting his head around, he noticed a single finger raised off the ground and pointing to the left of the giant burrow. From the darkness of the trees just beyond, there was movement. Something stepped out of the shadows, revealing eight hideously enormous legs as it made its way back inside the hole.

  Ty tried to swallow but his mouth was as dry as the sands of the Wengoby Desert. He felt a tapping on his arm and realized he had been holding his breath. Releasing it slowly, he followed Breen’s example and edged his way backwards. Neither so much as blinked an eye as they crawled their way out of the undergrowth and back the way they had come.

  The clicking noise, and the creature producing it, faded into the distance. They quickened their pace. Once safely back across the river, Ty helped Breen drag the boat onto the south bank. “We need to warn the townsfolk and the outlying farming community to stay out of the forest.” Breen was slightly out of breath as he gulped down a large swallow of his water. “Once we get back to the house, I’ll saddle Acorn and go north of town. I’ll start with Fraya and her family and then work my way back toward Easthaven from there. Make sure to keep Adarra out of the woods. You know how she gets when it comes to searching out new plants and animals for her studies. She’d likely crawl down that creature’s hole just to have a look at it.” Breen shook his head.

  Ty wiped the water from his mouth and stoppered his bladder before placing it back in his throw sack. “We need to let the council know.”

  Breen replaced his water-skin and pulled the thick protective canvas back over the small boat. “I’ll stop by there on my way back from Fraya’s. Hopefully they can come up with a way to combat this new threat before more people end up like Dorbin.”

  Ty grimaced as the image of the old hermit lying there on his front porch replayed in his mind. Hefting his bow, and senses on highest alert, Ty followed in his brother’s footsteps as they sprinted south toward home.

  Chapter 57 | Valtor

  VALTOR STOOD MOTIONLESS at the center of a large circular chamber.

  With his arm outstretched, he concentrated on the smooth stone resting loosely in the palm of his hand. It was quite cool to the touch. Calling out in the ancient Fae tongue, Valtor watched as the rune etched into the top of the oval rock glimmered. Its pale green ambience lit his face as well as a small section of the central platform where he now stood.

  Surrounding the stage were thirteen rune-covered pyres, each holding a thick layer of coal and ash at its pedestal. The symbols stretching down the front of each pulsed to life. He lowered the stone back to his side, but took care to keep it pressed against his skin. The Scrying Stones would only work when in direct contact with the inductee.

  He waited.

  One by one, each of the thirteen pyres burst to life. Flames of the same pale green rose into the air and filled the room with their light. Shadows danced across every wall. The flames eventually abated, stabilizing after their initial discharge and taking on more definable shapes. The robed figures of the bulradoer were now clearly present within them, each a translucent body atop one of the pyres.

  “Why have you summoned us, Valtor?” Mangora was the first to speak. Her raspy voice at the head pyre was unmistakable. It had always reminded him of a lonely swamp toad croaking for a mate. The sudden thought of her mating sent a deep-seated chill through his body.

  “Remove your hoods,” he demanded. “We have no secrets here.” Each of the dark wielders pulled back the cowl of their black robes and stood facing him. “For those of you who don’t know, the faeling has been found.”

  There were a few whispers among the others.

  “Where is he?” came a demanding voice over his shoulder. Valtor shifted slightly and locked eyes with a woman on the fourth pyre to his right. She had a rather definable scar on her right cheek, but it was mostly covered by her full head of frizzy red hair.

  “Ah, Lenara, I understand why you of all people would have an interest in the child’s whereabouts. However, given your colossal failure in retrieving him the first time, I have another task in mind for you.” He watched her cold raspberry eyes glower in his direction. He didn’t care how much she hated him, only that she obeyed. Idle hands and idle minds tended to give underlings time to conspire, and he was having none of it.

  “I will have need of your services here at the Tower. There is a particularly interesting wielder that I would like your help with.”

  “Who is this wielder?” another of the bulradoer asked from directly behind him, bringing Valtor fully around.

  “He is a metallurgist who, more importantly, happens to be a gifted weapon-smith. And we have need of his abilities in the armament of our troops.”

  Some of the others nodded their approval, a few merely shifted their feet.

  “Speaking of,” Valtor said as he turned his attention to a small weasel of a man on his left who never seemed to cease rubbing his hands together. “How goes it with our recruitments?”

  “Ah, Your Eminence, it goes well. Yes, it goes very well indeed.” He even sounded like a weasel, Valtor thought. “The numbers are up, up, up. We are seeing a steady flow of enlistment from three of the five kingdoms, although we are definitely seeing the largest influx coming out of Cylmar. I don’t think the citizens much like the way their overlord treats them like second class citizens, you know. Sidara, however, is proving to be the most difficult of the five.”

  “Pah.” Valtor waved a hand. “Sidara is nothing more than a kingdom of backward woods folk. I believe we can survive their indifference.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I see your point, indeed I do. However, it is their open indifference I believe that encourages many of the ven’ae to seek sanctuary within the Sidaran borders.”

  Valtor’s lips pursed in thought. “Hmm, you have a valid point.”

  “What do you need from me?” Lenara asked, interrupting his train of thought.

  Realizing she was asking about the metal wielder, he responded, “I will need your help with a possible purging if we can’t get the smith to cooperate.” Valtor turned back around to the front. “I’m also going to send five of you to Easthaven to help Mangora root out this wielder council who has been protecting the faeling child.”

  “What do you want done with them, once they are found?” asked a large man to the left of Mangora. He had dark skin and a strong face.

  “Extract as much information as you can and then kill them. I want a permanent Black Watch contingent in Easthaven. As Horvah has so
graciously pointed out, it is the only kingdom so far in which we haven’t been able to build ties. Overlord Barl hasn’t been the most receptive of hosts. Let’s see that we change that. I hear he has a rather beautiful daughter.” He raised both arms in a questioning manner. “I’ll let you use your own imagination there.”

  All around the thirteen pyres, bulradoer chuckled with excitement, especially the men.

  “And what is it that our illustrious leader will be engaged with during this time?” Mangora groused from the front.

  “I will be accompanying our young prince to the battlefield.”

  “So, your war has finally come to fruition,” Horvah said, coming out more as a question than a statement. “And what is to be gained from this maneuvering, Your Eminence?”

  Valtor turned. “A new king.”

  Chapter 58 | Ayrion

  THE TRAVEL FROM Aramoor to the front lines had taken less than two weeks, and considering the sizable caravan escorting their forces toward the Elondrian border where the skirmishes had already begun, that was saying a lot.

  Ayrion rubbed his hands together. There was a slight chill to the morning air as the last of the leaves had relinquished their stubborn hold on life. Autumn was coming to an end and winter was just around the corner. Stepping from his tent near the center of the encampment, he let the front flap fall back into place, his breath visible in the early morning mist.

  On his left was Commander Tolin’s shelter, a bit larger than his own, but then again, the pavilion was the central command post for the entire army. At any given time, a steady stream of officers and runners could be seen entering and exiting with their orders, making preparations as to the next engagement with the enemy.

  Directly across the heavily trafficked pathway was the temporary shelter for the High King, with Prince Dakaran’s on the king’s right. To his credit, the king had never been one for requesting elaborate furnishings. He had always resigned himself to sleep with no better accommodations than the officers serving under him. This, along with the fact that he would frequently be seen taking his meals with the common rankers earned him the respect of his men.

  Aryion made his way through the bustling city of canvas, weaving in and around the bivouacs and small cook fires already lit for the lancers’ morning rations. The encampment was a city unto itself. Apart from the ranks of fighting men and the cooks to keep them fed, there were wranglers to tend the horses, healers to patch the wounded, wagoners to transport the provisions, as well as an entire supply train of craftsmen and tradesmen alike, all of which were necessary to meet the needs of an ongoing campaign.

  There was a small rise in back of the Elondrian forces where they had set up a staging area for the king. The crimson and gold shelter with its entire front tied open permitted the king a perfect view of the Cylmaran army on the other side of the valley. The height allowed for optimal planning and swift tactical decisions.

  At the base of the rise, positioned as a safeguard to the king, was the High Guard encampment. Ayrion’s men in their black and silver uniforms were preparing their breakfast as he passed through. Those closest stood at attention and saluted.

  Ayrion nodded and moved through the ranks, stopping briefly at a small outcropping of rock about halfway up the steep mound. From the edge, he glanced out across the two opposing armies. The open expanse of borderland between them lay in peaceful silence at the moment, which was a rare occurrence of late as men clashed from one battle to another, culminating in this final confrontation just south of the Black Hills and west of the small town of Belbridge.

  How did we get to this point? He watched the trails of smoke rise above the vast expanse of their army and mix with the low hanging clouds above. Cylmar had been pushing to extend its borders for years, but had never been this aggressive before. They would raid a few of the outlying villages, mostly pilfering the crops, cattle, and the occasional farmer’s daughter. The raids would continue, until the closest detachment of lancers could be summoned to drive them back across their borders.

  Everyone knew Saryn, the Overlord of Cylmar, held a lustful eye on the Black Hills. They were rich in iron-ore, something heavily used for military purposes as well as for profiting trade. The iron mines were located near the northwest border of the two kingdoms, but on the Elondrian side. A garrison of lancers had been established within the Black Hills to protect their miners, and the ironworks, from falling into Cylmaran hands. As tempting as those mines were, Ayrion still couldn’t understand what would make Lord Saryn decide to engage in a full-scale confrontation now.

  Reaching the peak of the rise, Ayrion walked out toward the edge and took a moment to close his eyes and let the early morning sun warm the back of his neck. The conglomeration of noise rising from the forces below reminded him of a wave battering itself against an unrelenting bluff. Taking a deep breath, he turned around and stepped through the front opening of the large canvas awning where the High King and commander stood, overlooking some parchments with hand drawn battle plans for the upcoming skirmish.

  Passing Dakaran on the way in, Ayrion tipped his head in acknowledgment, hoping to pacify his royal obnoxiousness, at least for the time being. Dakaran merely sneered from his seat in the corner as he nursed his glass of wine. Like his father, Dakaran had donned his royal battle armor, including a chest plate finely engraved with the Elondrian crest—a high sun overshadowing a golden crown.

  Ayrion couldn’t imagine why the prince had chosen to come. It had been a shock to both Ayrion and the king. Ayrion could see the glint of joy it gave Rhydan to have his son at least passively involved in Elondrian affairs, but Ayrion couldn’t help wondering if that involvement would have a positive result.

  The king and commander looked up as Ayrion stepped inside. “Guardian, I’m glad you’re here.” The king motioned towards the table. “We were just looking over the plans from last night.” Ayrion stepped to the opposite side and looked down at the well laid blocking. “What are your thoughts?” The king’s arms rested on the table while he stared intently at the inked drawings in front of him.

  Ayrion scanned the scrolls of vellum. “I believe our cavalry, right here—” His finger circled an area on the map. “—and right here—” He circled another. “—are going to play a heavy determinant in this conflict. I also believe, as I stated last evening, the commander has done a remarkable job in designing a realistic offensive.” He paused as if to say more, but instead continued perusing the drawn out plans.

  Tolin cocked his head to the side. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

  “To be honest,” Ayrion admitted with a little reluctance, “I find myself asking, why?”

  Both heads shifted in his direction, waiting for him to expound.

  Ayrion turned to face the opening and raised his arm toward the battlefield. “Why all of this? Why now? Saryn has allowed his people to cross our borders for years, there is no denying it, but he has never risked an all-out confrontation with Elondria. He knows he would lose. Furthermore,” Ayrion continued, stepping back toward the table, “Saryn has never been known to actually make an appearance in battle before. He prefers to keep to a safe distance from any and all excursions, and yet, here he is, on the front lines, fighting a battle hardly in his favor.” He paused to let what he was saying sink in. “So again I ask you . . . Why?”

  No one moved, except the prince as he leaned forward in his seat with an uncomfortable look on his face.

  “Saryn is no fool,” Ayrion continued, tapping a finger on the table in front of him, “and I can’t imagine he would be here if he didn’t believe that somehow he stood a chance of winning.”

  “Perhaps Saryn has finally reached the point of desperation,” Dakaran said, motioning with his glass. “It’s no secret his people are starving, and he knows the Black Hills could produce enough reserves to support his kingdom for years to come.”

  “My son brings an interesting observation,” Rhydan acknowledged. “Most animals would rather run
and hide than fight, but you back one into a corner and . . .” He shrugged.

  Tolin crossed his arms. “Our scouts have reported no hidden armsmen. No extra recruitment. No reinforcements of any kind.” He gestured out the front of the shelter in the same direction Ayrion had earlier. “What you see lying before you is the extent of their offensive.” The others followed his gaze out across the battlefield toward the opposing army.

  Ayrion turned around. “All the same, I would feel better if we kept the king here, behind the lines.”

  “I will not sit idly by and watch as my men fight and die while I do nothing.”

  “We do not consider your presence here as nothing, Your Majesty,” Tolin said with a proud look. “Having you with us is a show of strength for our men.”

  Dakaran stood from where he had been reclining, “I agree with the commander, Father.” He laid his glass aside. “You need to be kept safe. If something were to happen to you, it would be just as great a tragedy for the kingdom as losing the battle.”

  For once Ayrion agreed with Dakaran. “And I will be here to see to that protection, my king,” Ayrion said, nodding his agreement.

  Dakaran appeared hesitant. “Do you think that wise, Guardian?”

  All three turned to look at Dakaran.

  “What I meant to say is, I would have thought your talents would be better used to see a swift end to this conflict on the battlefield.” He moved a step closer to his father and smiled. “My guards and I can protect the king.”

  “The duty of the Guardian Protector and High Guard has always been to the king and his safety alone,” Ayrion said, leaving no room for argument. “Commander Tolin and his lancers are more than capable of handling the offensive.” He offered a polite nod in Tolin’s direction.

  Dakaran smiled and graciously bowed his head. “Of course, you are correct.”

  “Enough of this bickering,” the king said, gathering the attention of those around the table. “It’s settled then. I will direct from here, Ayrion and his men will guard the rise, and the commander has the field. Now, Commander, how about showing me once more what you had planned for this third division here.”