Once We Were Kings (Young Adult Fantasy) (The Sojourner Saga)

by Alexander, Ian

  At this, Ahndien stopped asking. Her heart ached for him, the man who reminded her so much of her Ah-Yeh, who had cared for her when her parents were busy with the many obligations of life. Ah-Yeh, who taught her to play the flute, to make silly poems that made fun of mean town officials, all the while maintaining a severe demeanor which she suspected no one but she knew masked the spirit of a little boy.

  Lao-Ying took a deep breath, his chest puffing up, then breathed out slow and sad. "Ah, but you. You are the ray of sunshine breaking through the gray clouds of my life."

  "Why are you so sad?"

  "Do not be burdened, my child. You have much to look forward to."

  "Can you tell me? Since you can see the future?"

  Lao-Ying cleared his throat and took another sip of water. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, "I can only see that which has been appointed for me to see. Such things tend to be for the benefit of others to know. But I bear the painful burden."

  Ahndien gazed into his sagely countenance. At that moment she knew. A connection had been formed, a sort of trust that went beyond age or station. His eyes softened, as though she finally understood something he'd been trying to explain.

  But she understood nothing.

  Except that she would believe whatever he said, no matter how incredible. And she knew that he understood this. "Lao-Ying," she whispered earnestly. "How long have you lived?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Lao-Ying's face seemed to crumble, like the last supporting beam of a collapsing house. The pain seemed to run deeper than the answer to Ahndien's question. He finally turned away and stared at the ground, where a lone tear had rolled off his cheek and fell.

  "I have lived five hundred years."

  Ahndien opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  "I have seen my prophecies come to pass and know my place amongst the Elders, whom soon we shall see. But to have seen the things I have..." He sighed. "I have lived far too long."

  She wanted to ask what he had seen, but didn't quite know if she ought to. Finally, after a long pause, she said, "Were we always like this? Poor farmers and peasants?"

  "Is that how you see your father? A peasant?"

  "He is a scholar. At one time, I believe he might have been a warrior."

  Lao-Ying nodded. "As a people, we did not always live in the outskirts of Tian Kuo. Nor did we exist at the fringe of society. Once we were kings, who ruled the land in justice and mercy. Once we were a people who knew the truth."

  Something came alive in her spirit. "What has happened since?"

  "Four hundred years ago, the forces of Malakandor, by treachery exiled the four powerful Sojourner tribes and gathered them in the valley that lies between the great summits of Handara." He pointed over the top of the range, at whose foot they encamped. "By means unknown to us, they suppressed our spirit potential, our ability to transform and defend ourselves."

  A deep pit hollowed out the center of her stomach from within. Ahndien thought about how helpless she or Lao-Ying would be if either of them could not use their powers. "That's terrible."

  "I saw twenty thousand fall in one day."

  "Could they not defend themselves?"

  "I could only hide and watch. For Valhandra had purposed for me to go on, to strengthen the remnant of His people through the centuries, remind them of the prophecies that the one known as The Great Deliverer, would soon come."

  "Twenty thousand. Killed in one day."

  "They were consumed by the fire of Ashtoreth."

  "What is—?"

  "A force too horrible to speak of." He shuddered. "May you live never to know."

  Gazing into the dying sun, Lao-Ying shook his head and sighed. "The streams that once ran through that valley flowed with blood. I felt like a coward hiding myself, but it was so ordained. My brothers, my children and grandchildren..."

  Ahndien reached over and grasped his leathery hand. "Lao-Ying. I'm sorry."

  "And now, through five centuries, all I wish is..."

  "Yes?"

  "I have served Him with honor. What I wish is not unreasonable."

  "What is it, then?"

  "It does pain me so, going on like this without end, eternally waiting her return, eternally disappointed."

  "Who?"

  His eyes wandered, his lips quivered, and his breath shook. "Ah, the wishes of an old fool."

  "Oh, Lao-Ying, please tell me what it is you wish."

  With a sad smile, he held her gaze. Then, like a grandfather—or great-great-great-great grandfather—he kissed the top of her head. "I wish nothing more than to die."

  Ahndien, full of understanding and sorrow, could not think of what to say. Her eyes blurred with tears.

  Restoring a bold demeanor, Lao-Ying patted her hand resting atop his own. "Well, in any case, that barren wasteland beyond the Handaras is known as the Burial Grounds of the Ancients. While most Torians look upon it as a one merely named after folklore, the older ones remember. It has been quietly passed down to them that this place, where the bones of many an unfortunate traveler dries after being picked clean by scavengers, was the site of a most egregious injustice."

  "Are there any more of us?"

  "The remnant has been scattered. I know not how many we are now, but as a people, we no longer have a home, a kingdom." Lao-Ying sniffed and shut his eyes. "But all that is about to change. I have seen the signs and the time of deliverance draws near." He stood up, stretched his arms and popped his neck a few times and smiled. "And for that reason, we must rest so that tomorrow I can fly us both to the top the mountain, and meet the Sojourner’s Council of Elders."

  "And what of my father?"

  "He will be there, if—" Just then, a like a rain cloud, a flock of ravens flew out of the mountains cawing and fluttering excitedly. Lao-Ying fixed his eyes upon them and his complexion turned white as rice. "—if he has escaped the Torians and survived."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hot tears rolled down the side of Render's face. He tried to wipe them, but his mail glove only spread the wet anguish across his skin.

  Kaine stood over him for a while before he removed his helmet and gazed straight down at him. His labored breath and flashing eyes suggested a savage excitement Render had never before seen in his brother.

  "On your feet," Kaine said. He reached down to help him up. "You fought valiantly."

  Not only did this defeat confirm what Render had known his entire life: that his brother Kaine had always been the stronger of them, it meant that Render had failed one of the most basic, but compulsory courses in his training,

  His arm ached almost as much as his heart as he staggered to his feet.

  "Why so downcast, little brother?"

  "I'll be sent back to Bobbington," Render said, removing his armor and throwing it to the ground. Kaine regarded him with pity, which to Render felt like the point of his sword between the ribs. "Or else, if I'm fortunate enough, I'll be mending your shoes or baking bread in a year or two."

  A weighty hand pressed down on his shoulder. Sir Edwyn's. His eyes betrayed more than a hint of disappointment. "We should go."

  Render's mind was a spinning miasma. He shook his head as white specks danced before his eyes. To his right, his brother Kaine stood triumphant. To his left, Sir Edwyn urged him on, but couldn't seem to face him. Edwyn pulled Render's arm over his shoulder and helped him off.

  As he limped, Render heard a sound far off in the distance. Beyond the citadel walls. He couldn't be certain, but it sounded like thunder. Yet, the sun shone bright and hot through clear skies.

  Just then, a flash of black raced across the ground. Something brushed his legs, then dashed before him. Render squinted and stopped. There, two or three steps ahead on the cobblestone road, stood the black cat. She turned her head and eyed Render with intent. How she had found him in this vast citadel was beyond him, but for some reason, he was glad to see her.

  "What is that accursed cat doing
there?" Edwyn swung Render's sword at her. "Yah!"

  "Sir Edwyn, don't!" But the cat merely stepped out of the way and continued to stare. Then it continued up the path.

  Passing the rear of the fountain, they came upon a withered man, his back hunched over, dressed in sackcloth and waving his hands wildly. "...is coming, and is indeed here. For behold, the ordained son of heaven!"

  Edwyn grasped Render's arm and tried to pull him along. But Render became too transfixed to move. The citizens gazed upon the old man with such interest, he simply could not pass this by.

  "People of Valdshire Tor," declared the old man, who some were calling 'The Prophet,' though irreverently, "Citizens of the world..."

  To Render's utter amazement, the old man spun around and pointed to him. "Bow before your true King!"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Treason!" some in the crowd began to shout. Others simply laughed and mocked the old man.

  Oh, it's The Prophet!

  He's lost his mind!

  He's drunk, still others said.

  Edwyn pulled on Render's arm. "Come along, now. Quickly."

  The black cat rushed over to the old man whom everyone mocked. She glared intently at him and he took notice.

  "I don't care," he said to the cat. "I know it is he, so I shall proclaim the truth! You and your perfectly ordained time—we have waited three millennia!"

  The cat flattened her ears.

  "Well lookie here! He speaks with animals, he does!" A woman in the crowd jeered.

  "Do you not see? On his hand?" the old man cried, lifting both hands towards Render. "He bears the sign. The Great Deliverer!"

  Render glanced at the birthmark. But before he could consider the implications, a barrage of half-eaten fruits and tomatoes flew from the crowd. One hit the old man in the cheek. Undaunted, though the muck oozed down his face, The Prophet's eyes flashed indignant. "Wicked, faithless generation! Have you not heard me prophesy from the Book of The Ancients?" And he shall come with lightning in his fist. He shall reign with an iron scepter and dash to pieces the corrupted rulers. Henceforth shall he reign with justice!" He turned and bowed to Render, a strange tenderness in his eyes. "Have mercy on us, O Great Deliverer. Have mercy upon us all!"

  "What?" Render turned and stopped again. The old man fell prostrate and continued to cry out. "In the name of all that is holy. In the name of Valhandra!"

  A deathly silence fell upon the crowd.

  Render stopped, mid-stride.

  Edwyn's hand dropped to his side.

  Not one person moved. But the cat leapt over to the old man. And stood at his side.

  "Traitor!" cried a man from amidst the multitude.

  "He's a Sojourner!"

  The crowd surged forward with a frightful roar.

  Edwyn tried once again to take Render by the arm, but Render pushed him away and slowly approached the old man. Valhandra? He barely heard Edwyn shouting for Render to run, as the crowd rushed the old man.

  Just as a blacksmith, reached him, Sir Mooregaard stepped forward and pointed a sword at his chest. "My good man, you behave as poorly as a Sojourner himself. Resorting to violence? Do you not see your hypocrisy?"

  "But My Lord!" he stammered. "You heard him invoke the name. He's a Sojourner, he is!"

  Mooregaard cast the old man a pitiful look. "So he may be. But we do not indulge in violence as they do. Ours is a government of justice, of due process. He shall be handed over to the King's court, where any evidence shall be weighed for or against him. His fate lies in the hand of His Majesty, the High King Corigan." Mooregaard pointed his sword at the entire crowd. "Is that understood?"

  At this, the crowd murmured.

  "You, Centurion!" Mooregaard pointed to soldier wearing a red tunic with the insignia of the Order of the Scarlet Pendragon.

  The soldier stepped forward. "My Lord."

  "Take this man with all haste to the court of the High King's judge. See that he is treated with all due process and courtesy."

  The soldier acknowledged the command and stepped forward. He grabbed the frail old man forcefully by the arm, causing him to yelp. "Come on, old fool!"

  "Wait!" Render shouted, for something The Prophet had uttered stirred him. All eyes fell upon him. Even Kaine's, which widened with surprise and a hint of anger. But Render ignored them all. "I would like a word with this man."

  "You'll have your chance to hear all at his trial," Mooregaard said.

  But something told Render the trial would be no more than a formality, making official The Prophet's execution. With hastened steps, he strode over to the soldier holding the old man. "Please, I must speak with him now."

  "About what?"

  Render gazed at The Prophet whose countenance glowed far beyond one going to his death. Without taking his eyes from him, Render said, "About Valhandra."

  "Render, no!" Edwyn cried, but was too many steps behind to stop him.

  "Please, sir," Render said to the soldier.

  "Begone!"

  Render grabbed the soldier's arm. "You don't understand, this man—"

  "I said begone!" The soldier struck Render with the heel of his hand so hard that he felt he would collapse. But he didn't. He held fast to the soldier’s wrist.

  A brilliant heat coursed through Render's veins. His teeth clenched at the sheer intensity.

  Instantly, the soldier's face began to change. Indignation melted away, yielding to a grimace of pain.

  Then fear.

  Render's anger did not subside. The soldier shook wildly, tried to back away, free himself from Render's grip.

  And then, before Render could comprehend what was happening, a blinding surge of bluish-white light flashed before him. A crash like a thunderclap filled the citadel. The hairs on Render's neck prickled. He was not prepared for what he found when his vision cleared.

  Neither was anyone else, judging by the looks of sheer terror in their eyes.

  Gasps, shouts and frightened cries flew up.

  "By the scrolls of Malkor!"

  "He's an alchemist!"

  "Murderer!"

  "Assassin!"

  A charred heap of what remained of the centurion lay at Render's feet. His fingers, like claws twitched as smoke and flickering light rose up. Even his helmet had melted into an amorphous hunk of ore.

  "No." Render let go. The arm, light as a twig, dropped dryly onto the blackened remains of the soldier. Even The Prophet blinked with an expression of wonder and dread.

  "By all that is honorable and true," said Lord Mooregard to Sir Edwyn, "What manner of science have you been teaching this lad? Why he—" a sudden look of cognizance fell over his face. He wagged a finger at him and said, "Of course. Of course."

  Render stood, frozen in place, his jaw slack and trembling. What horrid thing caused this? Not even Edwyn seemed to understand. And presently, he seemed too consumed with what Lord Mooregaard was saying.

  Kaine was leaning against a tree for support, the shock in his eyes palpable. Before Render knew it, a row of archers had lined up before him, crossbows drawn and aiming at him. As if he could run from this?

  "In the name of the High King Corigan," said Lord Mooregaard, approaching Render with caution, "I hereby place thee under arrest."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Gossamer veils draped down from the high vaulted ceiling enshrouding High King Corigan's bed in royal crimson. All torches had been long extinguished. All, save for the one above, which filled the area around his immense bed with a rose-coloured hue.

  There, Corigan sat up, legs crossed, back against the padded head board. The train of his abandoned robe dangled to the ground. Before him, rested a wooden table just tall enough to reach his lap. Atop the table sat his goblet, filled and drained more times than he bothered recalling with Fire Orchid Wine, an exotic gift from the Eastern Empire of Tian Kuo.

  "Your majesty has been careless," his guest said. She smiled and took an alluring sip from the goblet. With long, wh
ite fingers, she lifted her horseman piece, moved it across five spaces and captured his partisan. She lifted her eyes, their pupils black as ink, and smiled. Not once had Corigan even noticed her shift while seated in the bed and facing him.

  "Leit is a game of patience, my illuminated one," he said, as he surrendered his piece to her. "Of strategy."

  "Ah, but it is also a game of cunning, no?" Her hand, cold to the touch, sent a shiver through his blood. He quite relished the sensation for it excited him.

  "Nevertheless. A game it is, and a game it always shall be."

  She pursed her ruby lips. "You intentionally permitted me to dispatch your partisan. Was such a sacrifice made in the name of strategy?"

  "Or perhaps, cunning?" Corigan lifted his siege engine, the piece with the emerald jewels, and captured her horseman. And her cleric and her siege tower as well.

  The bed pulsed with her slowly erupting laughter.

  "What now?" Corigan said. "You have lost your final line. And this amuses you?"

  She took his hand, turned his open palm upwards and stroked it with her fingernails. Then she dropped the three pieces she had just lost into his hand, but they were too many to grasp. One of them dropped to the bed.

  "Well?" Half a smile tugged the corner of Corigan's mouth.

  "You well know, by now."

  "Do I?"

  "Apparently less than you realize, but yes. You do."

  "Pray enlighten me then, my elusive, exotic beauty."

  Placing her fan over the top of her bodice, she stared out the window and sighed. Her smile never fading—unnaturally so, but it aroused Corigan all the more—she sighed. "A game of cunning."