Wycaan Master: Book 01 - At The Walls Of Galbrieth

by Alon Shalev

  Shayth nodded. They extinguished the torches, and all but Rowan slipped through the hole into a large stone tunnels. Wall torches lighted the passageway.

  They moved silently, hugging the walls, until they reached a junction. They saw cells in one direction and an alcove in the other. Shayth slipped over to the cells, and there was harried whispering. He returned and pointed toward the alcove.

  They approached the opening carefully. Shayth looked up, though he could not see ten feet beyond where the torches ended.

  Two men were chained to the alcove wall. One was clearly dead and emaciated. The other was Rhoddan. He was stripped to his waist, his feet bare and his body covered with bruises and cuts. Dried blood clung to his cracked lips.

  Shayth approached and put his hand quickly over his friend’s mouth. He gently woke Rhoddan. It took several seconds before recognition spread across the wounded elf’s face.

  Rhoddan shook his head, and a solitary tear dripped down his cheek. An order was barked and a ring of torches lit above them. Ilana drew her long knife and felt Shayth assume a defensive crouch with his back to her. The two Tutans backed up into a square.

  As Ilana’s eyes adjusted to the torches, she saw above them a narrow ridge where a dozen archers stood poised, bows strung and taut. Their short-range weapons were useless.

  Soldiers entered the alcove and surrounded them. One spoke. “I suggest you submit quietly. You are surrounded and outnumbered.”

  Shayth hissed under his breath, his head jerking from side to side, but Ilana put a hand on his arm. “There are archers above us,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. Her weapons clattered eerily on the stone when she tossed them away.

  The soldiers took no additional action. Reinforcements arrived, followed several minutes later by a tall, uniformed man in boots that clacked in staccato on the stone floor.

  “Well, well,” he gloated. “We didn’t catch the prize the first time, but the elf proved to be good bait, after all. Now, which one of you is the so-called Special One?”

  The officer stepped forward and swept back the captives’ hoods, one by one. “Tutans,” he said in surprised recognition. “I’m impressed.”

  The two Tutans stared back at him impassively. Ilana noted that the officer evidently knew who the Tutans were. He now turned to her.

  “An elf! We’re getting closer, I think. But alas, you are apparently female.” He leered at Ilana’s body and she pulled her cloak tighter, making him laugh.

  Shayth’s hood was last.

  “General Tarlach,” he drawled with as much disdain as he could muster. “What a pleasure.”

  The general frowned and stroked his chin. “Very familiar,” he said, clearly intrigued. Shayth drew back his own hood, and General Tarlach’s face lost its composure.

  “Well, now,” he said after a few moments. “We don’t have the elf that the Emperor wants so much, but you make for a close second.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Mhari stretched. “That’s enough for tonight. I’ll continue tomorrow. We’re both weary.”

  She lay down and was snoring almost immediately. Seanchai, however, couldn’t sleep. Though he was tired, his mind raced. He rose and sat on a rock nearby to think. The moon had risen and was poking out from behind a cloud.

  Seanchai’s thoughts raced between what he had just learned about the past and how what he had become would impact the future. Somewhere in between was a lot of knowledge that he needed in order to connect the two.

  There was so much to digest and so much to learn. He needed time and wasn’t sure he would have enough with Mhari.

  Time. How long had he been with the master? Seanchai realized that he had not kept track from when Ilana and Shayth had left. He grew uneasy. If they were in trouble, how would he even know? He shifted on his rock and sighed.

  “What is worrying you?” Mhari’s voice made him jump. She was standing just behind him.

  “You’re not sleeping?” Seanchai said.

  “Neither are you. I, at least, can’t be faulted for not trying. Why such long sighs?”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you. I was wondering about my friends. I don’t know how long it has been since they left. I don’t know if any of them are even still alive. What if they are in trouble and I’m sitting around here studying?”

  “What would they tell you to do?” his teacher asked.

  Seanchai snorted. “Oh, that my life is more important, that they are willing to sacrifice themselves for me–stuff like that.”

  “Have they told you that in the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you listen to them then?”

  “Generally not.”

  “So,” Mhari asked as she smiled broadly. “Why listen to them now?”

  Seanchai turned and faced the old woman. He had assumed she would agree with his friends and try to keep her student studying with her.

  “What motivates you, Seanchai? When you acted in battle or when you cast a spell, what gave you the power? Was it a higher moral code? A philosophy? Was it a superior’s orders?”

  “No,” Seanchai replied after a moment’s consideration. “Whenever I did anything like that, my friends were in danger. I guess I was driven by friendship and loyalty.”

  “And these run deep within you. You should not fight them, for I suspect they are your strongest weapons. Just know that, even with such strong loyalty for friends, sometimes you will need to make difficult decisions that contradict everything you hold so dear.

  “Tomorrow, we will rise early, walk faster, and camp earlier. Then I will finish the story. The day after that, we will stop near a small hamlet where I am known and trusted. I shall seek information. That night we will scry so you can try and see how your friends fare. Now, let’s go to bed so that we can be fresh in the morning.”

  She returned to her bedroll. Seanchai followed and, as he settled in, he spoke again to his teacher.

  “Thank you, Mhari.”

  “For what?”

  “For understanding and accepting what is important to me.”

  “Hmm,” said the old woman. “I do because we are very similar.”

  “You have had to make difficult choices?” Seanchai asked.

  “Yes, too many times.” Mhari was despondent. “And one hurts more than the others.”

  “What happened?”

  “Look at me. I am alive, but I’m also very much alone.” And she turned her back on her student.

  “No,” Seanchai replied. “You are not alone. Not anymore.”

  Seanchai woke to the enticing smell of food cooking and scrambled to his feet. His teacher had made danseng tea with grain.

  “What have you added?” Seanchai asked as he sniffed the broth in his cup.

  “Even the blandest of food can become special with the addition of a few spices,” his teacher replied and pulled out a small bag. “This is cinnamon, a bark that warms us in the morning.”

  They ate quickly and Seanchai felt the tea, warm in his stomach. Once walking the descent was slower than Seanchai wanted with Mhari determining the pace. Since leaving the lake, Seanchai was ready to do everything faster than before.

  At the bottom of the mountain, they followed a narrow river. Seanchai saw some bubbles emerge where the current was quelled and would have liked to catch some fresh fish, but there was no time. He used to enjoy fishing and wondered if he would ever have the time to fish again. It was something he had done with his father. That would surely never happen again. He felt terribly sad.

  They rested at midday, snacking on stale bread and tough dried meat. Even river water couldn’t save it.

  “Will they have food at the hamlet?” Seanchai asked as a road come into view.

  “Only a little to spare for us. Their food is sparse. They make some money as an inn, but not much. And anyway, I think you had better stay out of sight, or in the mountains.”

  “Why?”

  “You have become very … disting
uishable. Word will get around soon enough. I would prefer it be later rather than sooner. We should cherish any time left for you to remain anonymous.”

  They found a small cave secluded from the road. Mhari went on alone while Seanchai settled into his standing exercises. With those completed, he practiced summoning energy and tried to move nearby stones. He was still not very good at this. It required an iron temperament, and he still found it difficult to attain such focus.

  Mhari returned in the evening with a sack that had Seanchai licking his lips in anticipation. As they prepared a feast of fried eggs, soft bread, and vegetables, Seanchai tried to quiz his teacher.

  “Let me rest and eat, Seanchai. There was no news about you. It seems they have caught someone near Galbrieth. A trader passing through last night said that there were many guards out on patrol. The captive is someone important–a high-ranking rebel or criminal. This might work in our favor.”

  “Why?” Seanchai asked.

  “It’s a distraction for the army. They might lower their guard for a while and make it easier for Shayth and Ilana to rescue Rhoddan. I think this is good news.”

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Seanchai thought of his friends and the news Mhari had delivered. And he became increasingly despondent.

  Thirty-Eight

  General Tarlach paced the length of his office. It was a sparse room with thick, bare walls, and a huge, imposing desk and chair. Anyone sitting on the opposite side was dwarfed by his presence. There was a smaller table where he met with his officers to look over maps and models.

  General Tarlach had moved up through the ranks of the Emperor’s army. He was not the son of a rich noble, nor had he caught the attention of the Emperor with some daring, random feat. He had earned his place with an astute tactical mind, an unfaltering obedience to orders, and a ruthlessness many feared.

  He rarely spoke, never boasted, and had self-serving connections with anyone who could influence his advancement and the future of the Empire. He was respected, feared, and generally given a very wide berth. He never raised his voice, preferring instead the quiet fury of a man not to be trifled with by anyone–even his superiors.

  He was pacing now because he was unable to make a decision–something he was very unused to. It had been ten days since they captured the boy and his elfe friend. Tarlach had sent messages to the capital for the eyes of the Emperor alone, requesting direction. Now that he had received the answer and read his orders twice, he was still not prepared.

  General Tarlach had sent thousands of soldiers to their deaths. He had indirectly killed tens of thousands of enemy soldiers, razed villages to the ground, and murdered countless women and children. He was not squeamish.

  But this was different. In another ten days, it would be the Emperor’s fiftieth birthday, and the whole kingdom would celebrate. Tarlach’s staff was preparing a huge feast for the nobles of all the neighboring provinces and another in the streets outside the garrison for the commoners. They had procured fireworks from the East and circus performers the likes of which most had never seen and never would again.

  Now there would be an additional event. An hour before dusk, the boy and his elf friends would be hanged on a stage for all to see. To the ale-drunk, full-bellied peasants, as well as the nobles of the Galbrieth region, this would drive home an unforgettable point: The Emperor is benevolent to those who serve him. Now they would cheer as the enemies of the Emperor were publicly hung.

  And Tarlach would ensure that everyone saw how the Emperor’s own nephew, for so long the heir to the throne, received the same punishment for treason as anyone else in the kingdom.

  General Tarlach summoned his secretary. A rotund middle-aged man shuffled in almost immediately. Tarlach turned to him from the window as he entered. “Mr. Bortand, what is happening with the preparations for the Emperor’s birthday?”

  Bortand nodded emphatically. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a complex set of instructions to implement such as these celebrations. He had an amazing propensity to remember even the smallest of details, and he was fiercely loyal to General Tarlach.

  “Um, everything is going to plan, sir–um, right on schedule. The fireworks will arrive the day after tomorrow from our supplier.”

  “Very good. Please send him a crate of our finest ales in appreciation.”

  “With your permission, General Tarlach, I think he would prefer, um, wine. May I send him a crate from your cellar?”

  “Of course,” Tarlach waved a hand to indicate he was unconcerned with the subject. Bortand had probably already selected the vintage.

  Bortand sensed his superior had something on his mind. “You have something else that needs to be added to the preparations?”

  “Yes. It concerns the prisoners.” Tarlach handed his secretary the scroll with the Emperor’s orders.

  Bortand read the order and frowned. “Um, my Lord, are we sure these orders are genuine?”

  “It bears the Emperor’s seal.”

  “With your permission, I will send an, um, trusted aid to verify in confidence. The Emperor’s secretary and I are old friends. Just in case, sire. The Emperor trusts and values you as one of his closest confidants. There are many who would like, um, to loosen the ties between you.”

  “Very good,” said the general. “In the meantime, however, make the necessary plans. Have the scribes prepare scrolls to hang on every notice board in every village throughout the land. “

  “My Lord. By doing this, we will be alerting those who might be, um…sympathetic to the traitor. They might get ideas–”

  General Tarlach nodded. “I believe that is intentional. Would you not otherwise expect the Emperor to send for his nephew to be executed in the capital? Doing it here may bring to light the special one that we are hearing rumors about.”

  “The Emperor is wise,” Bortand said.

  The general turned to him and frowned. “You don’t have family, do you, Bortand?”

  “Yes I do, sir. But they are scattered and I, um, serve only the Emperor.”

  Tarlach stared. Bortand was being serious.

  “Very well,” Tarlach said. “You know what must be done. Order my officers to a meeting in an hour. We must plan for every possibility.”

  “You don’t believe in this special one, do you sir?”

  “No. But I am expecting some kind of insurgency, maybe from the elves.”

  “The elves? But they are so weak and subservient.”

  General Tarlach turned and looked out the window. “Don’t be deceived, Bortand. The elves were once the noblest of races. They were proud and wise. The same blood flows through these elves. The stories have been passed on, and the memories survive. Never underestimate an elf.”

  Bortand nodded. “And if he exists, this, um, special one might be an elf?”

  Tarlach hesitated and this was more telling to his aide than any words. “Possibly just a charismatic young ideologue. But…”

  The sentence was left unfinished and as the general stared out of his window, the secretary knew his master’s mind was far away.

  Thirty-Nine

  Mhari woke to the welcome aroma of food. Seanchai had been busy making porridge with the danseng root, and the old woman smiled at the extremely pungent scent of cinnamon. She had a feeling that she was about to eat a rather spicy breakfast, but she was pleased her student was trying.

  She found Seanchai practicing his standing exercises. Mhari took a few meditative breaths herself before focusing on the periphery of her student. There was a strong light emanating from the young elf. He looked so different, with his white hair, deep blue eyes and chiseled upper body. He was definitely not the scrawny youth who had come to her only a few weeks ago.

  Mhari helped herself to the hot breakfast and flinched, as she tasted the spicy cereal. When she was finished, she left the cave and found four branches. She peeled the bark away and cut each to the approximate length of a broadsword.

  Upon her ret
urn to the cave, she found Seanchai concluding his exercises. The young elf stretched and yawned. Mhari served him a portion of the hot grain. He caught her watching him eat.

  “A bit spicy,” Seanchai admitted.

  “A bit,” his master responded and they both laughed. “Remember, Seanchai, that you can always add more of an ingredient to a dish, but it’s very difficult to take out when there’s too much. It is the same with plans and strategies. Move slowly and surely, a little bit at a time.”

  Seanchai nodded.

  “But thank you for breakfast,” Mhari said. “Come, we will begin a new practice.”

  “Are you not going to continue the story?”

  “We will talk in a while. But first I want to begin teaching you the art of Bushido Dao. It is a form of martial fighting from a region in the east, one not far from where I was born. Bushido means warrior, and Dao means two swords. They live by a code, and students usually learn with curved swords with blades thin at the hilt and thick at the tip.

  “The swords you have are Win Dao swords. They’re very rare and we know them primarily from pictures. I have only seen one other warrior with such swords. He passed through my village a few times when I was young and put on exhibitions for money.

  “I will teach you Bushido Dao, as this is what I know. You will need to adapt it for your swords. Perhaps your next teacher will be able to show you more, but the foundations for swords are the same, and for Dao swords, doubly so.”

  She laughed at her own pun, but Seanchai was too excited and focused to find much humor. “Oh, Seanchai! I can teach you many skills, but I’ll never have enough time to teach you a sense of humor.”

  Mhari shrugged and stood. She picked up the four branches that she had prepared earlier and gave two to Seanchai. “Come stand behind me and follow what I do. Pay attention to the way my arms move, the way my feet move, and the shifts in my body weight.”