Defenders of The Sacred Land: Book One of The Sacred Land Saga

by Tyson, Mark

  They were pulling slowly up onto the road when Fadral reined in the four horses. He turned to Dorenn. Dorenn felt uncomfortable, as if the peddler was about to grab him and throw him off the side. He braced himself. Fadral made a move toward him and Dorenn lurched forward, pushing the peddler back.

  “What are you doing?” Fadral asked. “I am trying to tell you something in private.”

  Dorenn pushed him back harder.

  “All right, I will say it from here. There is a coach pulling up the road behind us. I saw it before we got onto the road.” Fadral pushed Dorenn back as well. “See for yourself.”

  Dorenn stood and leaned out to look behind the wagon. Tatrice strained to look also. The coach was drawn by four white horses with two riders flanking both sides. It rode a bit faster than Fadral’s wagon and was painted in the royal colors of gold, blue, and red.

  “They are royalty,” Tatrice whispered.

  Fadral turned to look again at the coach. “The coach is royal, but the person inside is not.”

  “How do you know?” Tatrice asked.

  “Sheyna Namear rides in that coach. She is a wielder assigned to look into the death of the highlord. They think he was murdered, you know.”

  “A wielder here in the Jagged Mountains?” Dorenn questioned the wisdom of a wielder roaming around unchecked.

  “Some think so,” Fadral replied. “She was very fond of the highlord. Some say she was his mistress.”

  “Wielding is outlawed in Symboria; she could be put to death out here,” Dorenn reminded.

  Fadral laughed. “Now, I would pay a good wage to see anyone try to take her against her will.”

  Dorenn’s eyes fixated on the driver of the coach. He was a particularly large man with considerable girth. Not to say the driver had visited the dinner table once too often, but that he was solid, powerful and stocky. The man’s face bore a scar over one eye. At the driver’s side, on the bench and within ready reach, sat a sword so great that Dorenn couldn’t believe anyone could wield it. Beside the sword, strapped to the carriage crest, stood a wicked-looking bow of a design that struck Dorenn as more sinister than practical. It curved like a bow but tilted upward and outward like two giant black wings joined at the center. The drawstring was thick and red in color. The coach certainly appeared to be one in which royalty would travel. He had seen such a carriage before while visiting the city of Symbor. The lower half of the coach door held the same crest as the rider’s armor. The coach stopped ahead of the peddler wagon, and the driver climbed down from the carriage and lowered the coach steps. He reached to open the door as he placed his right foot on the lowermost step, extending his hand.

  Fadral halted the peddler wagon. “Watch what you say and try not to offend her.”

  A long, slender arm extended from the coach, and a gloved hand accepted the guard’s hand.

  “My lady, these are dangerous lands. It isn’t safe.”

  “Nonsense, Rodraq. I can take care of myself. Now stand aside.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” Rodraq said. He helped the woman down the steps and then stepped aside as ordered.

  Dorenn felt his stomach flutter with anticipation. The woman wore a long red velvet dress. Her hair was dark, almost black, and her skin was pale. She looked directly at Fadral’s wagon with a stern, commanding gaze, and then she cleared her throat and strolled toward them. As she neared, Dorenn was particularly taken with her eyes, which were a deep, penetrating sapphire blue. For a brief moment, her eyes met with his and she smiled. Dorenn shivered as if he had just stood up out of a warm bed on a cold morning. Her face was slightly rounded and her features delicate. Her petite nose accentuated her full red lips above a perfectly proportioned chin. He was certain, by her determined expression, that she was accustomed to getting exactly what she wanted. Dorenn glanced at Fadral, who had become visibly taut.

  “What’s wrong, Fadral?” Dorenn asked. “Try to relax.”

  Fadral muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “No noble ever approaches a mere peddler’s wagon, nor does any sorceress for that matter.”

  “I thought you said she wasn’t nobility,” Dorenn said.

  “She is stunning!” Tatrice exclaimed.

  “There is grave danger in beauty, young Tatrice,” Fadral cautioned.

  “Hail, Peddler,” the woman began, “what business do you have with these fine young folk this day?”

  “I-I-I am giving them a ride to Brookhaven. I know them both from that village. Master Dorenn’s father owns the finest inn for miles around.” He motioned to Tatrice. “This young lady is Tatrice; she works in the inn’s kitchen.”

  “Fadral, you are saying far too much.” Dorenn scolded.

  Fadral stammered and Dorenn was aware that out of sheer nervousness, the peddler fumbled on his own words. “Forgive me, Lady Sheyna, I tend to talk too much.”

  The woman’s gentle demeanor faded. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated Fadral a moment, and her expression descended into a soured, irritated grimace. “I prefer to be called Lady Shey, or simply Shey, if you please, my good sir. I am none too fond of the name Sheyna.” Her light disposition returned, but her tone became smug. “It sounds a bit too much like a name one would bestow on a horse.”

  Fadral’s expression changed to uneasy apprehension. “Of course, please accept my apologies, my lady, I did not mean to offend.”

  “Nonsense, my good peddler.” Her tone became warm again. “No offense taken as long as you mind how you refer to me in the future.”

  He bowed his head. “Certainly, my lady, it will never happen again.”

  “Very well,” she said, removing her gloves and turning her attention to Dorenn. “Come down from there, lad, I won’t bite you.”

  “Me?” Dorenn asked as a sharp pang of fear gripped him.

  “You are the only lad sitting on that wagon, are you not? Come down here and let me get a good look at you.”

  Dorenn stepped down from the wagon. He stood face to face with Lady Shey. She took his chin in her hand, turning his face from the left to the right. “Oh yes, I believe you to be Dorenn Adair, are you not?”

  Dorenn froze, swallowing hard. He desperately wanted to ask her how she knew his name, but he could not speak.

  “Well, lad?”

  “Aye, my lady, I am he.” Dorenn was thankful his voice had returned to him.

  “Splendid.” Her blue eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “But I shouldn’t call you lad, should I? You look as strong as a bull.” She boldly squeezed his arm. “I assume you train with a sword, being from Symboria?”

  “Aye, my lady, I train with Swordsman Grint five days a week, sometimes more.”

  “I thought so.” She looked intently into his eyes, and after a long moment, Dorenn wanted to bolt away from her. Surely she had no business with him. Her gaze seemed to enter into his soul, and he started to feel a bit lightheaded, like he might faint.

  “Have you a master then?” she asked pointedly.

  “A master?” Dorenn repeated. “What do you mean, my lady? I do not serve anyone but the king of Symboria and his kinsmen.” He paused for a moment. “And my mother and father of course.”

  Lady Shey laughed. “No, not that sort of master. I mean are you apprenticed?”

  “I do not officially apprentice to a trade, but I mean to be an innkeeper like my father—”

  “Oh, by Fawlsbane’s beard, I know you are not this dense,” Lady Shey interrupted. “I mean do you apprentice to a wielder? Have you any training?”

  Dorenn flushed immediately, first with shock and then with abject anger. “NO! Certainly not!” He spat the words.

  “Take care, boy,” Rodraq cautioned as he gripped his sword hilt. “You address a lady.”

  Dorenn lowered his eyes. “Forgive my outburst, my lady, but in these parts wielding is outlawed. You had better look out for yourself while you are visiting. I mean no disrespect, but I know my countrymen.”

  Lady Shey grinned and Dorenn was
unsure of the source of her amusement, only that it infuriated him. She was flippant with the danger he warned.

  “Forgive me, young Dorenn, but where I come from a wielder is a person of great power, responsibility, and honor. I suppose that the War of the Oracle, fought on your soil so long ago, has somewhat spoiled that notion.”

  “Where do you come from?” Dorenn blurted out without thinking the question through.

  Lady Shey glared at him for a moment and then smiled pleasantly. “I come from a vale not far from here. In Symboria, I might add.” Dorenn ignored Rodraq as he gripped his sword again.

  “The Vale of Morgoran?” Tatrice blurted out.

  Lady Shey’s amused demeanor momentarily abated. “It isn’t polite to ask so bluntly, my dear, but you are correct.”

  Rodraq drew his sword.

  “For the love of the kings, put that away!” Lady Shey commanded. Rodraq sheathed his sword. “And go wait up by the front of the coach; I am quite safe, I assure you.” Rodraq reluctantly turned and stormed toward the front of the coach.

  Tatrice sank back. “I apologize, my lady.”

  “Aye, young lady, I come from the Vale of Morgoran. What do you know of it?”

  “Only that Morgoran Cleareyes is said to live there, doomed to predict the future forever.”

  “It is true that Morgoran Cleareyes lives there and that people believe the mad ramblings from his lips are visions of the future; however, nothing he has said has ever come to pass.”

  “My lady,” Rodraq shouted from the front of the coach, “night will fall by the time we travel to Brookhaven. We must go.” Lady Shey’s eyes turned skyward and she squinted before looking back at Dorenn. “How far is Brookhaven from here?”

  “About a quarter day’s ride, my lady,” Dorenn answered, “It will not be dark, but it will be close to twilight.”

  “Very well, Rodraq,” she answered back. “Make ready to move out.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he responded.

  “You say your father has an inn?” Lady Shey asked Dorenn.

  If only Fadral had not spoken of his father’s inn, he could send Lady Shey to the Grinning Goose instead. “My father owns the finest inn in Brookhaven, my lady, if not in all of Symboria.”

  “Excellent!” Lady Shey said. She straightened her shoulders and tossed her long dark hair aside. “Master Peddler, you will move out ahead and lead my coach to the inn…” Lady Shey stopped and looked at Dorenn searchingly. She leaned in close to his ear. “Go with the peddler. You are right to be suspicious of him, but you are safe for now. We do not want to alert him. Do you understand me?” Dorenn nodded. Lady Shey raised her voice so everyone near could hear her. “What is the name of your father’s inn?”

  “The Tiger’s Head Inn, my lady,” Dorenn replied.

  “To the Tiger’s Head Inn then,” she said, moving back toward her coach.

  “Aye, my lady, I will lead you there,” Fadral said.

  As soon as Lady Shey was safely aboard her coach, Fadral motioned for Dorenn to climb back onto the wagon. “This is troubling.”

  “What?” Tatrice asked.

  “She means to stir up trouble in Brookhaven, and I think she will start first with Master Dorenn here.” Fadral pointed a crooked finger at Dorenn.

  “I hope not,” Dorenn whispered as he climbed into the wagon. Fadral released the rear brake and locked the handle into place with a small leather strap. He snapped the reins and the wagon slowly labored forward. “She tried to name you a wielder, she did. You heard her, and I don’t think she’ll stop at that.” He paused as they passed the coach. “If she is investigating the highlord’s death, she may be pressured to bring back someone to pay for the crime. Just be careful of what you say to her, or you may find yourself in harm’s way.”

  Tatrice gasped. “Do you think she is here to blame Dorenn for the death of the highlord? That doesn’t make any sense; he never ventures any farther than Symbor.”

  “It would not surprise me,” Fadral warned.

  “Well, I’m not going to jump to conclusions, at least not until we find out what she really wants,” Dorenn said.

  The three remained silent for the rest of the trip into Brookhaven. As they approached the village, evening had begun to fade into twilight. Dorenn wondered how his mother and father were going to react. He had no memory of a noble, if she was even considered nobility, ever stopping over in Brookhaven before. Tatrice clutched his arm as if reading his thoughts.

  Lady Shey shifted in her cushioned seat, glancing at the woman seated opposite her in the coach. “The peddler is definitely hiding something,” she said. “You are right; I think he was trying to make off with them.”

  “Aye, he’s not who he pretends to be.”

  “What should we do about it? When we arrive, I should take him aside for interrogation.”

  “No, not yet, I don’t sense he is a threat; besides, if he grows too suspicious, he will slip out of town during the night.”

  “How can you be sure, Sylvalora? I shudder to think of where he might have taken them if we had not come along. I think I’ll put him under guard just as well.”

  “Nonsense, do not waste your time. If I am right, I am sure he will be gone by morning.”

  “And what if he sends word that we have come to Brookhaven, what then?”

  Sylvalora smirked. “You worry far too much, my lady. There is nothing for him to report that is not already known.”

  Lady Shey nodded. “You are right. I just hope I can convince the town elders to let me take Dorenn with us.”

  Sylvalora’s face softened. “The opportunity will arise. All you have to do is recognize it.”

  Chapter 2: The Tiger’s Head Inn

  As Fadral’s wagon and Lady Shey’s entourage appeared over Watch Hill directly above the village of Brookhaven, dusk descended, bathing the hamlet with fading light. Dorenn watched the home fires burning as they cast soft amber hues from open-shuddered windows. Tempting aromas of baking bread mingled with the scent of roasted chicken and slow marinated beef tantalized Dorenn’s appetite. He breathed in the sweet smell of burning mountain pine as it wafted into the crisp evening air. Near the center square of the village stood the Tiger’s Head Inn, towering above all other nearby rooftops. If he squinted, he could glimpse the dark smoke outlined in the dusky sky as it rose from the inn’s two chimneys. Most of the inn’s windows remained dark except for the common room, indicating to Dorenn that the patrons were feasting and drinking. Somehow, the inn appeared strange to Dorenn from this distance, perhaps because the lack of light created an eerie darkness surrounding the streets of the inn. Attendants would soon light the two braziers at both sides of the front double doors to illuminate the entrance walkway.

  As they approached the village gate, Dorenn saw that old Thaq, the city guard, had fallen asleep again. The guard always insisted on using the proper procedure for new arrivals, whether he knew them personally or not, so Dorenn was relieved that he slumbered.

  The temperature dropped sharply after sunset. Tatrice snuggled closer to Dorenn for warmth. He pulled her in tight, resting his chin on her head.

  As the wagon made its way along the main cobblestone street toward the village square, the hair on the back of Dorenn’s neck stood up, alerting him that something unnatural stirred. He nervously glanced about, but, except for a few harmless villagers, the streets were empty. A cold shiver ran up Dorenn’s spine, causing him to flinch.

  “What is it, Dorenn?” Tatrice asked.

  Dorenn suppressed the feeling. “Nothing, I’m just getting a bit chilly.”

  Tatrice settled back under his arm, putting her head on his chest again. “I will hold you tighter then.”

  Many of the villagers tended to their evening meals within their warm homes. Dorenn was thankful it was suppertime. The occupants were too busy to notice Lady Shey’s carriage on the cobblestone streets. She would draw a crowd soon enough, he knew, once word spread around the village of her arriv
al.

  When they reached the inn, the left wagon wheel of Fadral’s wagon made a jolting screech as he pulled the wooden lever at his left and applied the rear break. Durn, the inn’s stable master, hurried beside the wagon to take the reins.

  Fadral handed over the reins to the able stable master. “Now, be careful, Durn. Remember how Tulip bit you the last time you stabled her.”

  “Aye, I plan to be a bit gentler with her this time,” Durn stated. Fadral nodded and winked at the same time.

  Lady Shey’s coach came to a stop outside the front walkway to the inn. Her driver moved with impressive haste to open the coach door as she stepped out onto the street immediately followed by a young woman dressed in a plain stitched, dull grey dress. Dorenn did not realize anyone else had been in the coach. The young woman had middle-back length brown hair, fair skin, and a beautiful but sharp-featured face. Her eyes shined with life, especially in the light of the braziers, which two attendants had blazing now. She dropped something on the ground and bent over to pick it up. As she rose, her hair fanned out over of her eyes, revealing her gently pointed ears. Dorenn blinked with mild surprise. Although he was no stranger to elven kind, other than the village apothecary and his friend Trendan, Dorenn did not see them in Brookhaven often.

  “Tatrice, did you see that? The woman in grey is elvish,” Dorenn whispered.

  Even though she was more than two wagon lengths away, the elven woman abruptly looked up at Dorenn as if she heard him speak.

  “What, Dorenn?” Tatrice asked.

  “I will tell you later,” he said. The elf maiden beamed at him. He nodded back courteously before she followed closely behind Lady Shey and out of view. Lady Shey stopped short of entering the inn and waited for Dorenn to join them at the front doors.

  After assisting Fadral secure the wagon, Dorenn went to help Tatrice down from the high seat.

  A few moments later, he escorted the lady into the inn. “I apologize, my lady, but how do I introduce you? Is there anything I should know or say?”

  “No,” she stated flatly, “I want you to remain silent in the common room. Introduce me to your parents only.” She stopped to allow Rodraq to pass. “I do not wish to draw too much attention to myself yet. There is time for pleasantries later.” Rodraq entered the common room, surveyed it from top to bottom, and deemed it safe enough for his charge. Despite their caution, everyone in the common room fell silent as one by one the patrons noticed the battle-scarred stranger standing at the entrance. Rodraq drew his sword and planted it hard into the wooden floor in a gesture to discourage riff raff. A startled whisper filled the room. He motioned and Lady Shey entered, followed by the elf maiden.