Wycaan Master: Book 03 - Ashbar

by Alon Shalev

  Wycaan Master: Book Three

  Ashbar

  A Novel

  Alon Shalev

  Tourmaline Books

  Berkeley, California

  1

  Ashbar

  Ashbar

  Wycaan Master, Book 3

  Copyright © 2013 Alon Shalev

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. This book has been published by Tourmaline Books. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means–graphic, electronic, or mechanical–including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Tourmaline Books, Berkeley, California

  http://www.tourmalinebooks.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9884428-7-0

  LCCN: 2013944793

  First Edition: October, 2013

  Published in the United States of America

  1

  Dedication

  Each summer for three years, a family gathered around a campfire, deep in the ancient redwood forests, to hear the story unfold and bare witness to the tales of Odessiya and the summoning of the Wycaan Masters.

  But at these magical moments, the family was not complete.

  It falls upon the elders to pass the stories down. Our elders did not live in the age of elves or dwarves, but they witnessed the rise and fall of tyrannical powers. They saw a society emerge from the ashes of war and claim their freedom. They witnessed the transition into the technological age so many of us take for granted.

  This book was written for my children but is dedicated to their grandparents: Trudy & Harry Fellerman, Sondra & Bernard Krakower–the elders of our tribe, who continue to enrich our lives with their own stories.

  1

  The Wycaan Master Series:

  At The Walls Of Galbrieth–Wycaan Master Book 1

  The First Decree–Wycaan Master Book 2

  Ashbar–Wycaan Master Book 3

  1

  Acknowledgements

  –To Monica Buntin, my editor, for once again making sense of an awful lot of words.

  –To William Kenney, my book cover artist, for your amazing ability to continually transform my jumbled ideas into such beautiful pieces of art.

  –To Jeny Lyn Ruelo and her team at The Fast Fingers, for the interior design and formatting, and always being willing to deal with my tech-challenged questions.

  Prologue

  Hear my words, my people, and hearken to my warnings. For I have seen a vision of the future and it will surely come to pass.

  The Age of the Great Alliance will end with such blood spilt that it will drench the mountainsides, gushing down in a river of despair, and flow from the battlefield into extinction. And it shall be that when all civil society collapses, so, too, will the standings of many races, but none will fall so low as the elves.

  Many of our people will lie still forever on the battlefield, their bodies and dreams decomposing among the weeds, while those who live will become a pitiful people, a social underclass. Dignity will be lost, hope forgotten, and the Elf Code only a myth, spoken in the rambling of fools.

  The Age of Man will be upon the land, its values forged by greed and power; enforced by iron and steel. And the humans will breed and spread, taking all they desire and leaving mere scraps for the other races to carve out a humble and demeaning existence.

  So hearken to my word, proud elves, for you are the most ancient of peoples; the founders and custodians of the Great Alliance. Take your sons and daughters and head into the west, to the great forest of Markwin. Fortify its magical boundaries and close yourselves off from the madness that will erupt.

  Preserve the Elf Code, learn and develop the magic of the earth. And wait. For though many Wycaan warriors will fall in defense of the Alliance, others will survive and pass on their teachings.

  Wait and be patient, my people. For I have seen that one will come from the East–a Wycaan of our own ears, pointed and proud. But he will be young and unstable, all too ready to fall by the way. Teach him, then, our heritage and values. Train him to find the strength at his core and help him prepare for what must be done.

  For it falls to him to reforge the Alliance, and he must not fail. For his failure will be the end of the elves, and the dwarves, and all the races, save man. Then nothing will stand between man and his greed, and the earth will destroy itself rather than be subjugated. Life as we know it will end. . . forever.”

  Wycaan Master Tansu

  From the Book of Prophecies

  Chapter One

  Had it been weeks? Months? Seanchai had no idea–nor did he care. If the sun had risen, it had not reached inside him, for the mourning elf was consumed with darkness.

  Since he had buried Ilana, nothing mattered. He had left his heart with her on the mountainside where she had died in his arms. He cared little for the dwarves’ victory at the battle of Hothengold, and had ignored the pleas of their king to remain and help them raise an army.

  He silently packed his bags and left the dwarf capital while Hothengold slept. Using his Wycaan stealth training, he crept past the sentries and out through the tunnel. In the darkness, he stretched his cramped limbs, though he was numb to the pain. He turned to head north and jumped with surprise, almost colliding with Rhoddan.

  Seanchai glared at his friend, even while knowing that loyal Rhoddan deserved better. But he didn’t care, because to care involved feelings, and Seanchai was numb.

  He saw Shayth, the human, and Sellia, the beautiful, dark-skinned elfe, sitting on a rock to his right, bags prepared next to them. He gave them the same glare, and then purposely tried to circle around Rhoddan on the narrow path.

  “I go alone,” Seanchai growled.

  “Of course you do,” Rhoddan chirped, “and we’re going alone with you.”

  “I don’t want your company,” Seanchai mumbled.

  “We know,” Rhoddan responded, not budging.

  “Maybe you didn’t understand. . .”

  “Oh, I think you’ve made your intentions pretty clear,” the big elf replied. “Now, unless you want to stand here and futilely discuss–”

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!” Seanchai screamed, loud enough that even the usually unshakable Rhoddan flinched.

  Seanchai wiped spittle away from the corner of his mouth and felt momentarily ashamed. Then he unsheathed one of his Win Dao swords and drew a line in the dust.

  “I’m not in control of myself,” he hissed. “It’s dangerous to be around me.”

  “We know,” Rhoddan said again, his tone more guarded.

  “But we’re still coming.” Shayth added, standing and combing a hand through his spiky, black hair.

  “No,” Seanchai said. “Anyone who crosses this line. . .” he raised his blade in front of him and, though it shook, it gleamed even in the hazy light of the dawn.

  Rhoddan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward over the line, and the sword point touched his stomach. His expression was rock hard, his eyes locked on Seanchai’s, who started shaking his head. Sellia moved gracefully to Seanchai’s side.

  “Let’s reach an agreement,” she said into his ear, her deep voice calming him. “You walk alone and camp alone. We won’t bother you until it is time, but you’ll let us track you.”

  Seanchai thought for a while. He began to nod, but stopped. “Until it is time?”

  “You have set things in motion, Wycaan, that c
annot be stopped. All Odessiya awaits your next move.”

  Before he could snap back at her, she put her hand on his shoulder, her long, thin fingers pressing gently. He needed all his willpower to stay his response.

  Sellia continued. “You want space. You want to run, and you need to do this. Go. We’ll follow behind. Go.” She leaned forward and gently kissed his cheek, her voice breaking as she whispered, “This is how Ilana would have wanted it.”

  Seanchai turned and walked, soon breaking into a run. Ilana. Ilana. His breathing fell in with his stride and, as he exhaled, he cried her name. It felt good to run, good to say her name. He embraced the burning in his lungs, and his eyes filled with tears. He let them roll down his cheeks.

  Ilana. Ilana. Ilana.

  Sellia scooped rabbit stew into her bowl and sat on a rock. She blew on the steaming liquid and watched Rhoddan pacing as he looked outwards, halfheartedly guarding.

  “Shayth?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Rhoddan.”

  “How long are we going to let this go on? We’ve been following him for almost two moon cycles.”

  “I don’t know,” Shayth replied.

  “How long did it take you to get over your parents’ death?”

  Shayth abruptly looked up from the stick he was whittling. Sellia could see the human’s glare, ominous in the flickering firelight. His father, the Emperor’s brother, had died suspiciously in an ambush. His mother had supposedly committed suicide shortly afterwards. Shayth blamed the Emperor for what he was convinced were two murders.

  “I still haven’t,” Shayth growled. “You never get over that.”

  “Did killing Tarlach not help at all?” Rhoddan asked.

  Shayth’s whittling became harsher, and the stick snapped. Sellia realized that Rhoddan, with his back to them as he guarded, was unaware of the effect his questions had on his friend.

  “It never gets any easier,” she ventured. “Avenging the death of a loved one doesn’t fill the void.”

  “It helps,” Shayth murmured. “Killing Tarlach was exhilarating if you must know. But I have one more name left on my list.”

  “Even if you do kill the Emperor,” Sellia said, “nothing can give you back what you lost.”

  “How would you know?” Shayth snapped.

  Sellia never flinched. “I had a mate once. Dyrovas died in an ambush on an army convoy a week before we were to be bonded. I have never had anyone since. Do you think I’ve been short of suitors?”

  Sellia was beautiful, tall and thin, but there was nothing frail about her build. Her bone structure was exquisitely defined. Everything about the elfe exuded speed, agility, and ruthlessness.

  There was silence after this, broken only by the burning wood crackling. Sellia thought of her oath with Ilana, to help Seanchai overcome Ilana’s death, and maybe in time to mate with him. Ashbar. She had sealed her oath with the binding word of the ancient language, but she was puzzled how it could ever come to pass when Seanchai was clearly so dedicated to Ilana.

  “I’m sorry,” Shayth broke her thoughts, his voice calmer. “I knew about your. . . your mate. I just. . . I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Sellia replied. “It’s Seanchai we need to be concerned with right now.”

  “He needs time,” Shayth said. “Perhaps he should have been the one to fight Tarlach. Ilana was his mate, and the general the one who killed her.”

  “No,” Sellia replied. “That is not who Seanchai is.”

  Again, they fell into a despondent silence. Though Seanchai had been Ilana’s mate, they had all been close to her and each deeply mourned her loss.

  “But how much time?” Rhoddan persisted after a while. “The Emperor has just suffered a massive defeat–his first ever. He won’t take this easily. He has huge resources at his disposal, and when he decides to strike, it will be devastating. He’ll want to send a very clear message.”

  “Do you think Seanchai is capable of leading a resistance right now?” Shayth retorted. “Can he command the respect of his soldiers? He is liable to charge ten thousand of the Emperor’s finest by himself and kill as many as he can while desiring only that they take him down.”

  Rhoddan turned to face his friends. His muscular arm clenched the pommel of his broadsword, even as it remained sheathed.

  “Seanchai is my best friend. I was with him almost from the beginning of his journey, when he couldn’t even hold a sword. I have stood with him in battle and would die for him without a moment of regret. Such have I sworn upon my sword. All this you know. But he needs to recognize that he has set powerful changes in motion that will impact the lives of all the races in Odessiya. He has a duty. . .”

  Rhoddan stopped at the sound of footsteps approaching. Instantly, he drew his sword, while Shayth and Sellia slipped behind rocks, their bows already strung and taut. A young man ran into the camp, and the three immediately relaxed.

  “Jermona,” Shayth said, standing up and loosening his bow. “How nice of you to drop in.”

  Jermona stood for a moment to catch his breath. Sellia knew that the young ranger was exceptionally skilled at tracking and would have found them even if they had tried to conceal their tracks.

  “Have some stew,” she said, emptying the last drops of her bowl on the ground and refilling it for him.

  Jermona thanked her and then turned to Shayth. He had always been in awe of the young prince. “Word came to Hothengold. The Emperor’s army attacked the province of Ulster. The dwarves of Clan Dan Zu’Ulster have called for help.” There was silence, and Jermona looked around. “What is it? Where’s Seanchai?”

  No one answered, and after a brief moment, Sellia stood up and sighed. Her eyes went to her friends. “You should both return to Hothengold and ride out with the dwarf army.”

  “What about Seanchai?” Jermona asked again. “Won’t he lead us?”

  “No,” she replied. “But I will go to him.” She put a hand on Rhoddan’s arm. “Perhaps it is time after all.”

  Chapter Two

  Deep breaths. In and out. Seanchai’s stomach filled with the energy he drew up from the wiry trees around him and the ancient rocks at his back. He sighed loudly. This was the only time he felt a semblance of control–really, the only time he felt anything.

  When he slept, he dreamed of her. Ilana was everywhere his imagination took him. And only there could he reach out and join her. But no matter where the dream took him–whether to the deserts in the south, the great forests, or underground with the dwarves–somewhere, Seanchai would lose her, his precious Ilana, and he would wake every time to the sound of his own sobbing.

  During the day, he ran and ran. There seemed no other option. His sole goal was to exhaust himself so that he could sleep and be with his beloved. If he saw an especially beautiful tree, lake or mountain, he would imagine seeing it with her. And then he would turn in pain from the beauty and run. Running was the only way.

  In the mornings and evenings, he practiced the standing exercises that replenished his store of energy out of a dim sense of responsibility. This was the break between the physical drive to exhaustion and the brief mental solace of his dreams.

  And when he could tear himself away from thoughts of Ilana, he reflected on the many elves, humans, and dwarves who had died for him. No, he corrected himself. They had sacrificed their lives for their people, for freedom, for the land of Odessiya. Ilana had been his soul mate, his completion, but she had not been the only one who had touched him. Though his mind filled with her face, his nostrils with her scent, and his heart with her love, another voice called to him from the abyss of his grief.

  His teacher, Mhari, the Wycaan master, who had died bringing down the walls of Galbrieth to allow Seanchai and his friends to escape, remained the lone voice of sanity in Seanchai’s raging mind. Mhari, white-haired and resilient, whose sparkling, slanted eyes had garnered enough wisdom to see him through many trials; who could say just the right thing at the right time.

  “
Always return within,” she had told Seanchai so many times. “Go back to your exercises to replenish lost energy and hope. Keep your body and mind clean and vibrant. When you begin to lose yourself, your exercises will be your anchor.”

  So Seanchai broke the monotony of dreaming and running with all that was left to keep him in touch with his inner warrior. It was a branch to grasp in the endless swirling rapids of pain and despair. It was hope, and no matter how desperate he felt, no matter how lost, Seanchai clung precariously to the branch and his sanity.

  Deep breaths. In and out. The energy rose in his body. As he inhaled, he drew the vibrating warmth up through the soles of his feet, fresh from the earth, and, exhaling, sent it up into his stomach, arms, chest, and head. Only his heart seemed to resist. It remained closed, numb, hard as stone.

  He sent a wave of warmth into his head, relaxing the muscles around his eyes and nose. Then a rich, earthy scent brought him out of his reverie, and his stomach rumbled involuntarily.

  He quickly grounded the energy and stretched his cramped muscles, realizing when he saw the sun above the treetops that he had been standing for hours. It was the first time that he was aware of the passage of time, though he cared little for the revelation. But, his stomach reminded him again, it was time to eat.

  He turned at the crackle of wood burning behind him and saw Sellia crouched over a pot, stirring whatever was emanating that seductive smell. Seanchai’s stomach growled again.

  Despite the promise of food, he did not move. He stared at the elfe, instead. She was tall and well-built, her body hardened from a life in the resistance. She was the only dark-skinned elf he had ever met. Her eyes were a beautiful, haunting brown, her ears finely pointed. He knew that her voice, smooth and deep, could calm, and her down-to-earth wisdom had kept the hot-headedness of Shayth and Rhoddan in check.