The Source Chronicles - Seeker
© 2006 M.J. Blehart
Chapter 3
“C’mon, lad, this place has long been abandoned, now.”
“I know, I know,” his younger partner sighed despondently. “But after what happened here…”
He remembered. He had been here, then.
All around them, only stone and concrete foundations, and the charred remains of brick and rock walls, marked the homes and shops that had stood here. Almost six years had passed, and the little that remained was devastated.
He remembered the flames. He remembered the screams of the dying. Disturbingly, he remembered the stench of charring wood, searing cloth, and most horrifically flesh and hair. He found himself glancing up, looking for the thick, acrid black cloud that had marked Tarmollo’s passing. But his eyes found only the grey overcast, threatening rain.
“Andim?” the younger man called him back from his reminiscing. “I’ve found stairs…they don’t look like they got flamed.”
Andim fully returned to the here and now, and passed through the two foot tall remains of a door post, into the blackened ruins of someone’s former home. The younger man was standing above the wide opening, nervously looking into it, as though something might leap out.
“Can you see all you need to from there, lad?” Andim queried.
The boy’s head jerked up, and he could not hide the fear in his eyes. “I can see down to the bottom, and it looks like it didn’t get too burned. But it goes a bit to the left, and I can’t see what’s there.”
Andim looked at his young partner sympathetically. “C’mon now, Kallan. It was half a decade ago. We left no one behind, the plague has long been gone. The village has stood untouched since. Anything we find that is usable will be safe.”
Kallan was shaking his head. “I understand that. I do. I just…I just don’t like the way this place feels. It’s so…eerie.”
Andim nodded knowingly. “I recall what happened to this village, lad. It was terrible. But we need a new headquarters, and she thinks this abandoned hamlet will do. Nothing has touched this place in over five years, but we have to be absolutely certain of that, we don’t want any surprises. If you think it would help, take a deep breath, hold it, and go down the stairs quickly. Make sure no one has disturbed anything recently, and if you find anything of use, come back up and tell me.”
Kallan started to bob his head up and down, feeling the reassurance from his recently adopted mentor. He began to take deeper breaths, clearly preparing. Finally, he took an extremely deep draught of air, and, clearly setting his resolve, charged down the stairs.
Andim began to glance about, and shook himself a moment. For all his brave talk, this place made his skin crawl. Even after his years of service, and all the education he’d received with that, the recollection of what had overridden this village was powerful, and still haunting.
Specialists among the Guardsman had pieced together the evidence, a few months after the razing of the village. They presumed a poor excuse for a trapper, the kind that scarcely sought out company of any non-animal, had entered the village, probably attempting to sell the skins of a woods-rat or other less-than-desirable prey. Flea bitten, and none-too-clean, he had probably been in a tavern when the plague overcame him. From there, it would spread across the village faster than a lightning bolt could split a tree.
Tarmollo had been one of the oldest communities in the Kingdom, once a simple fur trading outpost. It had grown to a small village, where the fur trade added the wool trade to it. Eventually, it expanded even more, and a strong stone wall had been built around the municipality, protecting the commercial interests there. It also isolated the community, which had been its downfall.
Andim had been posted at the door to the conference room when the report reached the King. Unwilling to allow either the rumor or actual plague to spread further, Varlock-Sharron had dispatched his own Guardsman to Tarmollo to quarantine the village.
Andim was never of any station where he would learn how, exactly, word had reached the King as swiftly as it did. But by dawn the next day he found himself besieging the walled village, and preventing any within from departing.
The next two days were abysmal. There was only one gate in and out of the village, and they blocked and barricaded that immediately. Any who attempted to breach the quarantine was duly warned, and if successful, riddled with arrows. The bodies had hardly hit the ground before they were doused in oil and burned.
Villagers went so far as to attempt to leap from the walls, which stood nearly sixty feet high. Those who succeeded were soon shot full of arrows and crossbow bolts. All were burned.
On the third day, orders arrived from Gara-Sharron, along with siege weapons. The catapults and trebuchets were loaded with orbs composed of pitch and naphtha, which were ignited and lobbed over the walls.
Nothing he had heard before or since was as terrible as the screams and cries of the burning villagers of Tarmollo. It was even said they could be heard from miles away.
Just when it seemed their supply of flammables was used up, more arrived. The flames could even be seen licking the tops of the walls.
The Guardsmen bombarded the village for fifty hours. The screams and cries had ended during the first day. No move was made to extinguish the flames. They remained on guard, watching the gate and the walls in case any tried to escape, shooting and burning any that made it to the outside.
For nearly a week, there was no true night for the Guardsmen. The burning village inside the walls glowed eerily, flickering light that made the shadows dance from the trees of the woodlands surrounding the isolated community. Andim would not sleep properly through the night for nearly a year after that.
The Guardsmen were themselves quarantined, at the clearing less than a quarter mile from the village walls, where they’d set up camp. After a full month, they were allowed to return to their barracks at Gara-Sharron, none showing any signs of plague.
Over fifteen-hundred had been incinerated. But it was deemed an acceptable loss, as the plague never left Tarmollo. Hundreds of thousands had been spared from the grisly torment of the worst disease any knew of.
Kallan charged back up the stairs, and took a deep, staggering breath. It would be a couple more before he looked at Andim. “Nothing. Lots of dust, some rat-eaten burlap sacks and droppings, but the place hasn’t been touched by any man in a long long time.”
Andim glanced about. “Ok, then, that takes care of this section. Let’s get back to her and report.”
Kallan nodded eagerly, and started back towards the main square. Andim was at his side as they walked through the broken ruins all about them.
Once more they had fallen into step together, perfectly synchronized. Guardsmen training or no, Andim again marveled at how much of himself he saw in the younger man beside him.
Kallan was only eighteen, with short, spiky blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He was tall, and very thin. He appeared too delicate to be a soldier to Andim’s thinking. But his prowess with a blade was exceptional. Whether by his training as a Guardsmen or years of practice with his father and brothers, no one would question the young man’s natural skill. When Andim had, he was pleasantly surprised.
“C’mon, pretty boy,” Andim had taunted him that morning. It was only a few months ago Kallan had joined them, but he recalled it like it was yesterday. “Let’s see if you have the slightest idea how to wield that blade.”
A huge grin had crossed Kallan’s face. “I’d hate to tire you out, old man.” He had drawn his sword. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Andim wasn’t about to be called out by a boy less than a third his age. He, too, drew his sword. “Just try and keep up with me, lad.”
Given the time of day, they had attracted a decent crowd. To his surprise, every swing of Andim’s sword was met by the young Kallan, and answered. Soon it was clear that not only was Kallan a capable swordsman, but his skill was equal to Andim’s.
Both men had finally paused, breathing hard, sword points touching the ground. “I guess you might have some idea how that blade is used after all, lad,” Andim conceded.
Kallan chuckled. “I guess you were up to the fight after all, old man.”
The two had become fast friends after that, and eventually Kallan’s youthful enthusiasm found a mentor in Andim’s veteran wisdom. More than once they had proven to be a resourceful, reliable duo.
Andim returned to the present as they left behind the last broken structures, entering the large, char-marked former village’s central square.
She stood alone near its center, her heavy dark green wool cloak drawn about her against the chill fall air. But she had left the hood down, and her long, thick auburn ringlets danced about her head in the occasional gusts of wind. She glanced towards the pair, then turned to face them.
Andim and Kallan stopped together within conversation distance from her.
“What do you have for me, my lords?” she asked.
As usual, Kallan looked to Andim. Without further prompting, he responded. “My Lady, we’ve found nothing in the south quarter. It was a newer part of this village, as I recall, and was almost all wood. A few foundations, but no stores. We could burn the foundations out, and clear the grounds for tents. The walls seem in excellent condition as far as we could tell.”
Andim glanced to the younger man at his side, who twitched nervously. She noticed Kallan shivering, too, and must have instinctively known it was not from the cold.
“Kallan, I told you the plague was no more.”
Andim observed as his protégé shook his head. “Plague or no plague, m’lady, this place is haunted.”
Clearly, she was forcing herself to be patient. “The ghosts, be there any, will surely leave us alone. We certainly will not disturb them. But this place will make an excellent base of operations. Anything else?”
“No, my lady,” Andim responded for them both.
“Alright. Then I will ask you both to take your horses and ride down the road a ways. Make sure if we have any neighbors, we know where they are. If you come across anyone, try to avoid them as best you may, but do all you can to be certain they are not locals. Let us not ruin the hideout before we can use it?”
“As you command, my lady,” Andim again responded for them both.
Falling into step once more with Kallan, Andim began to head back towards the gate and their horses. Though he was loath to admit it, his haunted memory of this village was starting to get to him.
Without a word, Andim picked up the pace, Kallan remaining in stride beside his mentor without missing a beat.
*****
They were walking away too fast for her liking, certainly.
She kept her minute annoyance in check, though, and considered what lengths she might have to go with those even less educated than the former Guardsmen to convince them that the plague was no more. This place was too close to Gara-Sharron, and too often avoided, to be ignored.
The wind blew an auburn ringlet too close to her left eye, and she absently brushed it away from the hazel iris orb. She began to turn about, taking in the obviously scorched stone remains of this burned out village, pausing at the backs of the pair she’d last addressed, moving away quickly towards the picket area where their horses waited, stepping out of sight.
Her thoughts rested a moment on Andim and Kallan. Andim Noros was a brave, hardened veteran, just over sixty years old, the strength and stamina of a man a third his age, with long grey hair worn tied back by a leather cord. Andim had been a good soldier, but had never risen far in the ranks of the Guardsmen, and was forced into retirement by his immediate superiors without fanfare. He was one of her earliest recruits.
Kallan Val-Sharron was an eighteen year old with spiky blonde hair, and a baby face with delicate features that belied his prowess with the blade and physical strength. Kallan, like Andim, had been a Guardsmen, but only for a few months out of basic training, kicked out for a crime he denied committing.
The two had become an inseparable pair, however, the eager youth and enduring elder, working together as an incredible force to be reckoned with. More proof, as if she needed any, that her plans and goals were on the right path.
Suddenly, a shout came from one of her sentries atop the walls. It was quickly echoed by the next. Without hearing what it was, she drew both of her rapiers from the scabbards on her left hip, taking a ready stance, blades pointed up to about chest level. It was a very intimidating stance, and she had proven again and again how lethal her swords could be.
Seconds later, a rider came thundering towards her. She brought her guard up instinctively, till she realized who the rider was. She lowered, but did not drop her guard as he slowed, then reined in before her.
The rider swung down off his horse. He wore his usual gray tunic and breeches, plus heavy riding boots. He had his hand-and-a-half sword slung across his back, and wore a heavy leather vest with steel plates sewn into it. He walked towards her calmly, and she carefully re-sheathed her swords.
“Lyrra-Sharron,” he greeted her, bowing slightly.
“Dak,” she responded, noticing he was breathing a bit hard. “Are you on the run?”
He took a deep breath. “No.”
As per usual, Dak Amviir answered monosyllabically. After all this time, she was still not used to having to ask direct questions of him in order to get complete answers. “How did you learn where we were? You were scouting when I brought this detail here.”
“I encountered Nadav and his platoon,” he replied.
Lyrra-Sharron had left Nadav with a small outfit when they’d made their way to Tarmollo, in order to stage a raid. Apparently, they had been successful, and later met up Dak on the road.
“What brings you to Tarmollo, then?” she queried.
“I have news. You heard rumors of the Sorcerer wandering the land?”
Lyrra-Sharron nodded an affirmative.
“He killed or seriously injured an entire company of the King’s soldiers nearly a month ago, and they were beginning to tear villages apart in search of him. I have learned that they captured him at a roadside tavern a half-day’s ride from our primary headquarters. He was wounded, apparently, so they took him without further incident.”
“I had hoped perhaps we would find a way to meet him,” Lyrra-Sharron remarked. “A Sorcerer would make a fine ally.” She paused to consider a moment. “Get word to the lurkers. If he is put on public display or any such thing, let us find a way to take him. If the King does not kill him outright, of course.”
“There’s the rub. The Sorcerer is to be hanged tomorrow afternoon. It would seem his Majesty is through with him.”
Lyrra-Sharron crossed her arms. “Drat! This is unusual. The King generally has dealt with sorcery far more dramatically.”
“Rumor further has it, he is without his powers.”
She had not expected to ever hear Dak volunteer information like that. Lyrra-Sharron was continuing to ponder his news. “How many ‘friends’ do we have in or near Gara-Sharron?”
Dak deliberated a moment. “A couple dozen at best.”
“We only have thirty with us here,” she remarked, calculating. “I do not have to tell you how valuable a sorcerer could be to our cause. We may be able to take him. But it would not be easy.”
Dak was never ruffled, but he eyed her suspiciously. “Lyrra-Sharron, without his powers, he’s worthless. What’s the point?”
She paused momentarily, and studied him closely. After the death of her original second, Lyrra-Sharron had taken months to decide on another. Reliable, quiet, deeply intellectual Dak Amviir stood out time and again. Never speaking unless he had something intelligent to say, and able to blend into any crowd with his dark eyes, straight brown hair and simple, clean-shaved face, it was easy not to notice him. This of course caught Lyrra-Sharron’s attention.
He had refused at first, oddly avoiding her for a time when she initially asked him to serve, but she finally wore him down and convinced him. He was, to her continued satisfaction, an excellent spy and outstanding counselor, questioning her only to be certain they stayed the course of their mission, like a good second-in-command should.
To him, she would explain her thoughts. “The point, Dak, is that I cannot let that man be killed simply because his Majesty fears his power. No, I would not let any be killed by that villain if it were possible. This presents to us a unique opportunity. Tell me, how do you usually enter the city?”
“Through the north aqueduct. There is a service tunnel below the water-level that is nearly forgotten.” Dak paused, clearly changing his line of thought. “I don’t entirely understand how this will work for us. You may be exposing our operation too much. This could be suicidal, Lyrra-Sharron.”
She considered that. He wasn’t mistaken about the danger, but there had to be a way to spare the man. Even without sorcery, he still was certain to possess knowledge she could use. She paced some, weighing the risks and the rewards.
This was also the most her second had ever raised objections to one of her plans.
“I have a few thoughts on this, Dak. I think it can be done with minimal risk, but positive exposure for our cause. And even if we cannot save this sorcerer, this would certainly send a message the King could not possibly ignore. That alone plays directly into our objectives. Yes, my mind is made up…let us prepare to go to the Capitol.”
Dak took hold of her arm, turning her towards him. His deep brown eyes, always thoughtful, of almost unfathomable depth, bored into her. It was the first time he’d ever touched her, and even he seemed surprised as he dropped her arm like it was a burning ember in his hand.
He took a breath, composing himself. “Lyrra-Sharron, you know I rarely disagree with you. But I can’t let you commit so much of our resources on a chancy mission like this. Going into Gara-Sharron is too risky. Without his powers, can this sorcerer be worth it?”
She was surprised by his reaction. Dak had never shown that kind of emotion or unbridled concern before. She found her mood, if not her resolve, softened by that. “Sorcerers usually have a great deal of knowledge gained from all their study, so yes. I think it imperative that we at least try. Besides, even if we fail to get him, we can do something that will really make the King take notice. This is a good opportunity to publicly embarrass him, Dak. We had to do something like this to further our ambitions at some point. The opportunity is upon us now.”
Lyrra-Sharron changed her tone as she reached a decision. “In fact, let us bank on that, and make rescue of this Sorcerer a secondary objective.”
Dak took a clearly self-conscious step back. “As you say, Lyrra-Sharron. I’ll have them ready your horse. You’ll need a disguise, too. I’ll ride ahead and assemble my contacts. We’ll meet at the North checkpoint we established last month.”
“Agreed,” she replied. “I shall send Torman back to the others, and have them dispatch a body to this village. Nadav has become more certain of himself, and I believe can handle command until we return. Torman shall take charge of a group to set up camp here. I shall join you at the checkpoint soon.”
Lyrra-Sharron watch as an almost tender expression momentarily seemed to pass over Dak’s face. He appeared to catch himself, and his usual air of total indifference returned. “As you say, Lyrra-Sharron. I’ll see you at sunset.”
Without another word, nor leave to do so, he swung into his saddle hastily, and rode to the next raider. Lyrra-Sharron watched as he spoke briefly to him, and the raider ran off. Dak glanced back, gave a hasty salute to her, then spurred his horse towards the gate, and was away again.
The reaction he caused in her was somewhat surprising, and a little disturbing, too. It was only a moment before Lyrra-Sharron shook herself. Dak Amviir was her second, nothing more. This kind of tension had never passed between them before, and she did not want to deal with it again. Her mission was all that mattered.
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