Complete Kingdoms and the Elves of the Reaches

by William Robert Stanek

  Everything frightened her now, yet it seemed she had never been so alive or so free. The past was a terrible thing to drag with you wherever you went, she knew that now and it felt okay to let go. Jumping from the wall was her way of letting go, letting the past slip away from the present.

  She didn’t forget. She would never forget. But now she could accept that she was alive and her mother was gone. She no longer felt the guilt of every waking breath, the heavy sense that everything in the world around her was dead and dying, the desire to slip away from life.

  “Adrina,” repeated Myrial, holding out a hooded cloak. “Put this on.”

  Adrina saw that they were near a guarded doorway. Heavy bars and thick iron doors on either side of a small space created a secured antechamber. It was a guard post and on the other side of the guard post she saw the strong light of the day. This surprised her because she thought she knew every pathway in Imtal Palace.

  She put on the cloak, fixed the hood about her shoulders. Its thick cowl partially hid her face.

  Myrial moved out of the shadows, nodded to the guard inside the post. He unlocked and opened the heavy iron door. The grinding of rusty hinges as the door opened sent a chill down Adrina’s back.

  When they were inside the chamber the guard closed and locked the rear door. Moments later a different guard unlocked and opened the door to the square. As they passed through the outer door Adrina looked up. The bowmen at their posts high above looked down at her as she followed Myrial into the street.

  The market was bustling with activity. As it was getting late in the day, bargain hunters were out and merchants were competing with song to attract them. A young girl stopped in front of her, looked up at her with wide eyes. She held out her hand, touched the top of the girl’s head as she passed by. Myrial turned to look back; eyes filled with worry told Adrina to hasten her step.

  Her heart beat faster now. She had thought that she was the impulsive one and not Emel. Why was he doing this? she asked herself, and to take the orb without asking… It didn’t make sense. Why now? Why would he do this when she needed him the most?

  One corner of High King’s Square was reserved for caravans. It was to this place that Myrial hastened. As they approached Adrina could see the carts and the liners going about their work.

  A large caravan train was assembling. The job of the carts, apprentice coachmen, was to prepare the coaches for passengers and care for the horses. The liners took care of the supply wagons, packing the goods that would be carted off to faraway markets, checking tents and other supplies needed on the open road, caring for the work horses, mules, and other pack animals. Every action of the carts and liners was watched by those who had endured their apprenticeship and become journeymen in their own right.

  Adrina knew enough about caravan trains to understand what she saw. But such a large caravan train wasn’t without its masters, so where were they? With a file forming and the train nearly ready to leave the city the caravanmaster and his coachmasters should have been mounted and watching. Their brightly-colored robes and matching turbans would be hard to miss, so it seemed that the masters weren’t about.

  She grabbed Myrial by the wrist. The girl stopped, turned. “Where is it bound for?”

  “The Territories,” Myrial said, her voice a half whisper. “We must hurry.”

  Myrial started walking. Adrina followed. They passed beyond the lines of wagons. Adrina saw an eye-catching tent near the far wall of the square. The tent, like the robes of the masters, was brightly colored and stood out from the others around it. “The carvanmaster’s?” Adrina asked.

  Myrial indicated agreement, and continued. The only problem was that the area between them and the tent was filled with hired blades and guardsmen who busily practiced their trade despite the lateness of the day. Adrina heard clashes of steel on steel as blades and guardsmen paired off in mock combat. But that didn’t bother her; it was the scraping of blades on whet stones that gave her goose bumps.

  Clearly the caravan’s protectors knew something that the rest of the caravan’s crew didn’t. Otherwise they’d be packing gear, preparing for the journey.

  Myrial didn’t slow her stride or veer off course. She made a straight line for the entrance to the master’s tent—like she’d done this before, and somehow Adrina didn’t doubt that the girl had. She knew Myrial wasn’t as quiet and meek as she pretended. She was a real fighter. Her life had toughened her and little frightened her, truly.

  Cold, tired, and barefoot, Vilmos collapsed into a stall of the tiny stable. For a time it would be a refuge from the harsh streets of Beyet Daren. He had only been a step behind the warrior but had found only an empty corridor when he had raced into the hall. A fading voice in his mind had told him to find Xith and he had tried, but he didn’t know where to go or how to begin.

  Exhausted, sleep quickly found him. Surreal images played in his dreams. He heard voices, saw masked faces. But the masks could not disguise what was underneath. He knew them.

  The shirt and pants he had stolen did little to keep him warm during the cool night. At first he wriggled deep into the hay-like bedding on the floor of the stall to keep warm. As morning approached an acidic rain came, the rainwater pouring into the stable, bringing with it the stank smell of the city.

  He awoke shivering, his eyes wild and unfocused. It took several long breaths before the vivid night dreams faded beyond the edges of his conscious thoughts. A noise followed by harsh voices startled him. He ran as fast as he could from the stable, slipping in the thick brown-red mud of the yard, nearly landing on his backside.

  He escaped through an alleyway, and wandered aimlessly through empty streets with a vision in the corner of his eye that he could not shake. It was the image of a warrior. The image brought memories yet the memories were not his own. They were another’s.

  Thoughts of the warrior and the lady swept him from conscious concerns. The lady’s beauty created a spot of light in his mind that overcame the darkness and chased his inner demons away.

  His bare feet covered in dried mud, his hair matted and wild, Vilmos aroused to the world around him. He stood in the middle of a thruway. Under-Earth denizens were all around him, single-mindedly going about their business.

  As if through another’s eyes he saw the dark elves. Their gray skin, dark hair, and pointed ears were unmistakable to the one that walked in the shadow of his mind. He saw the goblin servants of the elves. With thick green skin, large muscular bodies, and upturned canines, he suddenly understood why they were such fierce fighters.

  Mixed in with the crowd were human slaves. Vilmos was surprised to see how many slaves the dark elves kept. The slaves, covered in dirt and reeking of disease, walked more like animals than men. Most were shackled and chained as they walked through the streets. A few like Vilmos, however, walked freely. These free humans were the ones Vilmos watched and followed.

  The city seemed so large that he felt hopelessly lost. He shook the rain from his hair, wrung the moisture out of his pants and shirt, and emptied his pockets onto the ground as he walked. The last pocket had a stone in it, a small round pebble no bigger than his thumb.

  Remembering the rock fight he and Xith had had during the magic shield lesson, he smiled. He tucked the stone into his palm, held it there as a good luck charm. He took to tossing it up into the air and catching it again every few steps as he went. Soon after he became lost in his thoughts.

  A darkly robed figure passed in front of him. He let the stone drop to the ground. A sensation touched his mind, gnawed at him. He couldn’t quite place what it was. Perhaps it was telling him to run but his mind was too disoriented to realize it.

  He ran to catch up with the robed figure. The other looked like a priest. The shadow walker in his mind had seen their kind before. Vilmos had feared them once; he did not fear them now.

  Vilmos followed the priest until it became obvious that he was doing so. The priest turned to face him. He shuddered as he glimpsed a
hornmarked face seemingly etched from rough hewn alabaster within the dark recesses of the cowl.

  “Boy, go away. I have no time for you…”

  Vilmos withstood the glare, stared straight back at the priest with unmoving, unyielding eyes. “I wish to serve.”

  “The priesthood has no need of such. Return to your master.” The dark figure spoke tersely but without anger.

  “I am not a slave, I serve Shost,” Vilmos said, the words coming to his tongue as if from another.

  The priest grabbed Vilmos, hiding the boy’s face in the recesses of his cloak as he slipped into an alleyway. The priest didn’t say much more after that and neither did he release his iron grip. When they were several streets away the priest stopped, put Vilmos down. He pulled Vilmos by the scruff of the collar after him then, and through street after street they marched.

  Valam walked rapidly, excitedly through the halls. The disappointment of the morning’s downpour faded. His first stop would be the audience chambers to talk with his father and advise him that the plans for departure were completed, and then he would look up an old friend. He had been so wrapped up in affairs that he had not seen Timmer since his return. He wondered how the old swordmaster was getting along, and more importantly, how the years were affecting his sword arm.

  As Valam was being admitted to his father’s audience chamber he took note of outsiders in the room. Apparently Chancellor Yi saw and understood his confused expression. The chancellor hurriedly excused himself and escorted Valam into the hallway. “They are the delegation from the Minor Kingdoms.”

  “What? When did they arrive?”

  “There is no time for that, young sire. You must find Brother Seth and send a runner for Captain Brodst.”

  “Captain Brodst?”

  Chancellor Yi gripped Valam’s sword arm with his outstretched hand. “Trust me on this, young sire. Do so quickly, tell him to come equipped.” Chancellor Yi turned to return to the audience chambers.

  The urgency sensed, Valam did not delay. He raced through the halls, found Seth, and sent a summons to Captain Brodst. Seth was not far from the place they were supposed to meet for practice. Valam did not have to tell Seth something was wrong. Seth could sense it. The two quickly made their way back to the audience chambers.

  Captain Brodst arrived shortly after Valam and Seth. He replaced the guards who normally stood just outside the door with two of his personal sentinels, while he took a position just within the door. The captain’s timing was smooth and the outsiders only noted the entrance of Valam and Seth. Seth wordlessly told Valam of the naked rage in the minds of the outsiders. He read their hatred and their hatred was not only for him as an elf, it was for King Andrew, Valam, and everything Great Kingdom represented.

  Chancellor Yi made the customary introductions. Valam and Seth were seated near King Andrew. The tension in the air was clear. Something was about to happen.

  The small-statured Chancellor de Vit stood in front of the emissaries from Vostok. He set his sullen eyes on Seth, then with unbroken stride returned to the point of the conversation he had been in before the interruption. “King Jarom will settle for nothing less than a full forum to discuss the issue at hand.” So saying, he turned and spat at Seth. “Remove the elf from my sight at once. I will not be in the same room as one of these.”

  Outraged, Valam would have jumped from his seat and tackled the chancellor if it had not been for King Andrew’s stern hand admonishing him. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw, vowing that if the chancellor insulted his father, the king, he would kill the other where he sat.

  King Andrew spoke openly, “By a full forum you mean a gathering as outlined in the Alliance Treaty?”

  “King Jarom, East Warden of the Word, ruler of Vostok, will not concede otherwise.”

  King Andrew gripped Valam’s left wrist as his face showed his anger. The king’s grip, surprisingly firm for a man of his years, might have crushed the bones in a lesser man’s arm, but Valam barely noticed. “How long will it take Jarom and the others to make the journey to Imtal?”

  “It is King Jarom, and it will take at least another full month,” snapped the chancellor.

  Valam broke free of his father’s grip, jumped from his seat and lunged across the table. Even Seth seemed surprised at the speed with which Valam crossed the eight foot stretch of oak. Valam’s fist knocked the chancellor to the floor, and as the man fell Valam followed him to the ground. Unlike the chancellor, who didn’t move after hitting the floor, Valam landed on his feet.

  His fist poised to strike, Valam whirled around to face the remainder of the delegation from the Minor Kingdoms. “The next insult brings death, make no mistake, you will die by my hand.”

  Captain Brodst dragged the chancellor by the scruff of the collar out the door, telling the guards to shackle him and throw him into the courtyard. King Andrew almost reflexively said something, yet did not. A faint smile did touch the corners of his lips.

  The other delegates babbled apologies. The head delegate from Yug was the first to speak above the others, “I am sorry, that is the word also from King Alexas.” Valam cast angry eyes at the speaker. The man quickly modified his statement saying, “I mean, Your Majesty, King Alexas wishes a gathering to discuss the matter at hand.”

  “How long?”

  Another delegate from Vostok moved into Chancellor de Vit’s vacated place near King Andrew’s high-backed audience chair and spoke, “I am afraid, Your Majesty, that we will require at least a month to make preparations. King Jarom wishes all the kings to make the journey together.”

  “A month?” said Valam angrily, “And you bow to Jarom like dogs?”

  The man sank down in his chair, swallowed a lump that had just welled up in his throat. “That is what I was informed, Prince Valam, Your Royal Highness. I only relay the word. Do not judge the messenger by the words.”

  This is a counter, they know of your plan to journey to the south, imparted Seth to Valam.

  How? thought Valam to himself, using the learned technique which allowed Seth to reach into his mind. We only recently made those plans.

  Valam eyed the delegate from Vostok. It was clear now that Chancellor de Vit had been but the messenger and this man speaking now held the strings. The purple silk of the robe and the gold embroidery from his triangular hat to the tips of his curly toed boots spoke of the delegate’s wealth and standing in the southern kingdom. The delegate was obviously of noble blood and perhaps even a royal cousin of Jarom.

  They’re planning something…

  What? thought Valam.

  Valam pointed a steady finger at the delegate, said coolly, “Action is required and requested, a month to prepare is not acceptable.”

  The audience chamber was still and silent. All eyes were fixed on Valam.

  I see a city… A large city… A square with armed men…

  An attack? thought Valam.

  I’m not sure but I do know they don’t want Kingdomers in the… Seth’s thoughts trailed off. This one, this man. He’s the one, the one who saw to the murders of your envoys. I see it in his thoughts…

  Valam turned to face his father. “With your permission, sire?”

  King Andrew nodded his head.

  “Captain,” charged Valam as he exited. “Kill the next man who dares insult any Kingdomer or elf.”

  He patted the captain knowingly on the shoulder. In a way it was an apology that he granted. In all the excitement and preparations, no one had enlightened the poor captain and now it really did seem that the whole of the kingdom had forgotten his deed. The celebrations had been cancelled and Imtal Proper was in turmoil. Valam lingered a moment, delving beneath the sullen eyes that stared back at him.

  “Gladly, Prince Valam, gladly,” said the captain as if to end the thing that passed between them unspoken.

  Chapter Four:

  Boundaries

  Seth studied the training sword, holding it outstretched. The metal felt cold and
awkward in his hand. He watched how Valam held the weapon, imitated the hold but the grip didn’t feel right.

  “On guard!” yelled Valam as he lunged with his blade. The blow knocked the weapon from Seth’s hand.

  Seth picked up the sword. Valam showed him the correct stance and grip, then took the offensive. He parried inward, striking full against Seth’s blade, which held firm now.

  Valam shuffled back along the floor, parrying in and out, giving Seth a feel for the balance and movement involved in swordplay. Seth was quick to adapt, to change with Valam’s movements, but was still susceptible to harsh thrusts which stung and often ripped the hilt from his hands.

  “Judge how tight you need to grasp. Remember, firm, don’t strangle. Work with it, anticipate your opponent.” Valam moved through the various steps, thrusting high and low. Valam’s thoughts were only on the attack, thrust, parry and block.