The Source Chronicles - Seeker
© 2006 M.J. Blehart
Chapter 6
The Sorcerer lay upon the bunk, staring out through the barred window into the courtyard. It was a perfect sunny day, without a trace of cloud. Even the air in the musty cell smelled somewhat fresher than before. A pleasant day to die, he thought.
He had slept fitfully that night. He could not concentrate enough to work on the webbing that held in his power. He admitted to himself that it could not save him. It was simply too little, too late. Nothing could save him.
Just after dawn they had come, offering food. Anything he wanted. He did not speak. They brought him eggs and chicken and bacon and fresh bread, the best food he’d seen in years. For all his resistance, he found himself ravenously hungry. He ate it entirely. His final meal.
He would be dignified. He would not speak, nor cry out. He would never show an expression upon his face. He would be hanged. To his way of thinking, a far less unpleasant punishment than the King had promised.
He would be dead in a few hours. Everything he believed would be a lie, if he died now. When he had come to Sharron, he had been so confident, so arrogant, so completely certain nothing could get between him and his destiny.
It was only the loss of his power that allowed for his capture.
The sorcerer let his mind wander, remembering how they had taken him.
It was a typical tavern, no town within twenty miles in either direction. Inside was a large open space, broken only by the occasional unadorned wooden column, stained a dark brown. Small tables were all about the dusty wood floor, just enough room between them for the serving wenches and patrons to pass through.
The room was dim, with only a few narrow windows emitting sunlight, and half the candle chandeliers lit. The smell of sweat and grease and roasting chickens and ale filled the room, mingling with the smoke of pipes and cigars. The space was well worn, not unclean, but scuffed and littered with the signs of nearly unending use.
A small group of musicians on a raised platform, with a lute, a mandolin, a recorder, and a drum called a bodhran, played a pleasant popular dance tune, though there was no room for dancing. It was an altogether noisy place, filled with the sounds of music, laughter, and the dull roar of the various cartmen, travelers, and others taking a moment from their journeys for a pint of ale, or a quick meal.
His mind returned to the present time for a moment. He found it hard to believe he recalled all of these details now. He had barely noted them at the time.
He had become extremely disheveled, and very very drunk. Three days prior, he had been a powerful sorcerer. But he could not touch the power anymore. He had sat alone at a table in a corner, drinking his umpteenth pint of cheap ale. Almost three days had passed since his encounter with the soldiers.
He drained his current full tankard, and banged it down upon the table, demanding more.
It was still there, as it always had been, but he could not tap into it. He would often try for hours, without success, finally giving in to his terror, loss and grief, crying uncontrollably for quite some time after. As he thought on it once more, he could feel himself being overwhelmed again, and he took the ale the serving wench set before him and began to gulp it down, trying to keep control.
The girl went to the next table, where a pair of cartmen lounged, drinking. As she served them, one spoke too loudly. “What the ‘ell’s ‘is problem, eh? Scrawny pansy weepin’ for ‘is lost love? Too weak to fight the bloke ‘oo stole ‘er?”
His temper was quick when he had no control of his emotions. He arose swiftly, stumbling to his feet, spilling his ale all over the table and the floor. In an angry voice, he cried out. “Bastard! I could turn you inside out with the power I possessed! I could destroy you without laying a hand on your stinking hide! And I lost it! I damned well lost it! You worthless cretin, I had the greatest force in the universe, and I lost it!”
Without even thinking, he lashed out with his anger and frustration. “Bastard!”
For the briefest instant it had returned, and the cartman was unexpectedly tossed across the room, slamming into the wall. Following surprised shouts from the various tavern patrons, and the screams of several of the serving wenches, the room became eerily silent. The music stopped, and he had felt all eyes turning his way to stare at him.
He slowly sank back into his chair, trembling, nauseous. The briefest moment of sheer ecstasy, and again it was gone. He could not move, he could not think, he only sobbed, folded in on himself, drunk, became unaware of the tavern around him.
In his drunken, delirious stupor, he had only half noted their presence. A pair of soldiers summoned by a hastily dispatched serving wench.
“This is the one,” he recalled hearing. It had been as if the voice came from a long ways off. He had nothing to say, no fight left, no will, no strength. “The King is looking for you. Don’t try anything, he’ll take you dead or alive.”
Twice more the soldier had addressed him, but the Sorcerer could not recall what he’d said, had not heard him, only his tone. There was only a slight moment of pain as the pommel of a sword had been slammed down upon the back of his neck. He slumped onto the tabletop, unconscious, but alive. When he next awoke, he was a captive in chains.
The noise of his cell door opening brought the Sorcerer back to the here and now again with a start.
Though he hid the surprise from showing on his face, King Varlock-Sharron stepped in. The door remained ajar behind him.
“Well, lad, you look far better than last we spoke,” he said. The Sorcerer sat up, never looking away from the King. He was able to keep all emotion from showing, even from within his eyes. But endless questions flooded his mind.
“You lie upon your deathbed, and still do not speak? Do I seem such a monster to you?”
He made no move, only continued to look towards the King blankly.
Varlock-Sharron did not even flinch. “Very well. I had hoped you may finally be willing to speak to me. I decided to let you simply be hanged. At first, we were going to have you tortured publicly, then beheaded. But I think this simple execution will get the point across. Your kind do not belong in this Kingdom.”
The Sorcerer said nothing, keeping his expression unchanged. It took a great deal of will to not demand answers from this man, or to plead for his life.
“Do you know why we are having you killed? You broke our most ardent law, a law known throughout this part of the world. I could not let you go free, even if I wanted to. I have to make an example of you. You are the first Sorcerer to openly walk these lands in over twenty years. I cannot ignore that.”
The King turned away from the sorcerer, and started pacing. “Yes, you were tortured. Yes, my methods are rather harsh. I do not deny that. I am a strong King, and, I believe, a good King. We have peace. We have stability. Other than a few bandits and outlaws, these lands are safe. Safer than any of my predecessors made them,” he spun back to face the condemned man. “Had you come to my lands, and kept your power to yourself, or even come before me, perhaps things would have gone differently. I am making no apology for what I do. I wanted you to know, from me, why you must die.”
The Sorcerer was taken aback. This man was King. He need not justify his actions. Why did it matter? He struggled inwardly, yet kept his face a complete blank.
The King seemed to be looking right into him, but turned abruptly away. Before leaving, he turned back. “Paper and quill are being brought to you, so you may leave messages for loved ones. They will be sealed, and delivered. I will see to that. I am no tyrant, Sorcerer. I hope your last meal was satisfactory. Your time is short. Use it well.”
Varlock-Sharron departed, and a moment later a guard brought forth the promised writing implements. Setting them down on the end of the bunk, he took his leave and closed the door.
The Sorcerer finally allowed his emotion to come out, a look of consternation crossing his face. It was strange that the King, so cruel in his torture, so cold in his letter of the law, saw fit to come to him. He sensed something more, something nagging at the back of his brain, but could not put his finger on it.
There were no letters to leave. He was alone. No one would mourn him. It was of no consequence. Not even the destiny he believed to have led him here could save him now.
His time on this world had been short. For all he had learned, for all he had seen, it was not enough. He concentrated, trying to let the little power he could hold suffuse him with calm and strength, so he could die with dignity.
He did not want to die.
******
“M’lady, that piece is handcrafted, one-of-a-kind,” he said in a soft, melodic voice. “Like the others on that rack, ‘tis three silver chaplets.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said with genuine appreciation.
Lyrra-Sharron was with Andim and Kallan, examining a cotton scarf. They stood just behind her, acting as guards. She wore a blonde wig now, the hair pulled back tightly, covered by a head-scarf. Her face had been lightened with make-up by the merchant’s wife. She wore an unadorned but fine riding dress, and a short coat. She appeared as a minor noble, with a pair of guards, probably father and son.
The others were scattered about the marketplace, moving around the crowd, blending in.
As per usual, there were carts and wagons bearing samples of the complete wares of the local merchants ringing the central market square. There was nothing manufactured or grown that could not be purchased in Gara-Sharon. The goods on display ranged from clothing to spices to the last of the fall fruits to paper and writing implements to weapons.
Often this square was crowded, but never to the extent it was on a feast day, Solstice celebration, or public execution. The crowds were just beginning to truly fill in the area, awaiting the coming spectacle.
In an hour, the Sorcerer would be paraded out.
It would be her job to grab the condemned man, if she could. The gallows, which has been erected around dawn, along with a dais for the Crown and other ranking officials, was guarded for now. Timing would be everything.
Their borrowed horses were picketed nearby, among those of the other spectators. They were ready. Or so she hoped.
******
He was placed in a cage, tall enough for him to stand in. He was not chained. The cage sat atop a cart, drawn by a pair of large workhorses. Guardsmen were all around him.
It was a parade, with jugglers and larger-than-life puppets and drummers. They were in the courtyard before the main gate of the palace, awaiting the order to march.
He could see the King himself at the rear, atop a large warhorse. Varlock-Sharron was dressed in colorful plate armor and a cape with the seal of the House of Anduin, a pair of falcons in flight with a sword in their talons, over the crescent moon. Beside him sat another similarly attired, younger man. The only differences were the lack of cape and crown, and he held a long, ceremonial staff. The Sorcerer guessed he was some sort of important advisor.
The pair were surrounded by men in maroon leather armor, with square steel plates mounted upon it. Every one of them were riding atop fine war horses, and wore burgundy tabards with the device of the Kingdom of Sharron upon them, a proud falcon, talons extended, attacking the crescent moon. Upon the back of the tabards was the crest of House Anduin. These, he had learned, were the elite Royal Guardsmen.
He could do nothing with the little power he held, except to suffuse himself with calm. He was a man with no time.
A signal was given, voiced by a loud sergeant-at-arms. Banners were raised, bearing the device of the Kingdom. The gates were opened. The drummers began to beat out a rhythm for the march, and shortly the cart bearing the Sorcerer began to roll forward.
He knew his fate was sealed. He resigned himself to face death with every bit of dignity he could muster.
******
King Varlock-Sharron sat atop his faithful steed, watching as the procession marched out of the gates before him. It was a slow but steady pace, which would parade the Sorcerer to the center of the city over the course of an hour or so. He looked to the condemned man, who sat cross-legged within the cage, no expression upon his face.
The King spurred his horse forward, his guard spreading out some around him, a solid ring of protection. Lord Tulock was at his side, wearing a somewhat amused grin on his face.
“Word has it, my liege, that the crowds gathered in the marketplace far exceed any from celebrations of Solstice over the past five years. This will be quite the show.”
The King glanced over at his Seneschal. “I shall be glad to be done with it, Tulock. We have a lot of things to take into consideration. When this is over, we have to finalize plans to deal with the Falcon Raiders.”
“Aye, my Lord. Do you wish me to convene the Council tonight?”
The King shook his head. “No. Let them all enjoy the celebration this day. We will deal with this band of outlaws tomorrow. Let us take care of the business at hand, for now.”
“Admit it. You enjoy this like everyone else does.”
“The pageantry, the parade, I suppose so. The hanging? No. But it must happen.” Varlock-Sharron paused a moment. “I hope that by my example today, we will keep the rest of his kind from this land. After today, Sharron will be a Kingdom practitioners of Sorcery will fear to tread once more.”
*****
The procession approached the square. Her patience was just beginning to wear thin, and she found herself more apprehensive than she had thought she might be. Lyrra-Sharron took firm grasp of her resolve, and moved closer to the gallows, watching the parade.
As she had predicted, entertainers of many sorts led the pageant. Andim and Kallan were right behind her, ready to defend her if necessary. The King and his ring of Guardsmen were yet to reach the square, but both men were taking extraordinary measures to avoid notice. Being former Guardsmen, they wanted to careful not to be seen, even disguised.
Lyrra-Sharron was armed only with a few knives, though one of the two men behind had a rapier for her use. Being so lightly armed made her only added to her discomfort.
She observed the coming spectacle more closely. One of the jugglers stumbled, disappearing from view for a few moments. When he stood up and began again, no one noticed it was not the same man.
Lyrra-Sharron could not hide the grin that crossed her lips. It had worked, precisely as planned.
The drums played a tremendous marching beat, and soon the cart bearing the Sorcerer was driven up to the gallows, after circling the square twice. Lyrra-Sharron watched closely as a group of Guardsmen, seven total, opened the cage. The Sorcerer stood on his own, a determined, but calm look upon his face.
She scrutinized him closely, now. She was not so far away. He was about average height, with long dark hair pulled back severely and tied off with a leather cord. His face was unremarkable but handsome. His bearing seemed surprisingly regal. He wore simple wool garments, dark grey tunic and breeches, and plain brown leather boots. Typical prison fare. But it was his eyes, piercing and blue, that struck her. They were bold, sad, and completely distant. A man resigned to his fate.
The drummers played out a short roll, followed by two sharp beats, which repeated. As they did so, she looked to the end of the cavalcade, and saw King Varlock-Sharron and his Seneschal, Lord Tulock, dismounting from their horses. They quickly climbed the stairs to the top of the platform set up only a few hundred yards from the gallows.
The jugglers continued to throw colorful balls and belaying pins, as the puppets milled about the thick crowd. A man in a maroon cloak with a leather mask stepped up to the gallows. The executioner.
King Varlock-Sharron raised his hands, and the drums abruptly stopped. The people gathered for the hanging turned to look at the King, standing with Lord Tulock beside him and mounted guards all around. In addition, another half a dozen guards stood behind him on the platform.
Lord Tulock banged his staff upon the dais three times. “My Lords and Ladies, good people of Sharron all! Pray attend his Royal Majesty, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin. Eleventh Sovereign of the House of Anduin, Guardian of the Kingdom of Sharron, Keeper of the Keys of Justice, General-Master of the Army of Sharron, Baron of the Anduin Province, and Second Prince of Medaelia!”
The reaction through the crowd varied; bows, curtsies, other gestures and signs of respect. Gritting her teeth, Lyrra-Sharron curtsied with those around her. All attention was focused towards the dais.
The King took a step forward, and spoke.
“People of Gara-Sharron: It is well known from Medaelia to Ontseer that the arte of Sorcery is forbidden in the Kingdom of Sharron. Yet one has come to our fair lands, practicing this art in the most flagrant manner. Today, you will witness my judgment passed. This man, a sorcerer by his own actions, is to be hanged this day.”
Cheers and applause followed that. Lyrra-Sharron observed Lord Tulock clearing his throat, as a guard took his staff. He produced a scroll, and unrolled it. “The statutes of the Kingdom of Sharron are fair and just, to keep and protect its people. Thus this day, the third of Exaran, of the Five-Thousand and Fourth year after The Falling, do we carry out the edict of the land. The law clearly states hence: In section thirty-one, paragraph two, ‘The art of sorcery is hereby forbidden within the borders of the Kingdom of Sharron. Thus any found practicing the forbidden art are to be captured, questioned, and killed, lest we allow chaos to overwhelm our beloved nation, as did nearly transpire before’. Sealed by the ring, King Varlock-Sharron Anduin, sovereign-protector of Sharron.”
A roar went up from the crowd. Approval of the law, no doubt. Lyrra-Sharron was feeling anxious, but ready.
“Thus do we carry out the sentence, on this man, who names himself Sorcerer by his actions,” continued Lord Tulock. More shouting, and as if on cue, assorted garbage and rotten fruit were tossed at the Sorcerer.
“Move him into position!” ordered the Seneschal.
Just as Lyrra-Sharron had known, it was Lord Tulock who would unwittingly give the signal.
The juggler placed within the parade let his balls fly. Within seconds of one-another, three thunderous detonations, along with puffs of flame and smoke, erupted within the crowds.
“Protect the King!” cried a guard, as those upon the platform moved in and surrounded the King and his Seneschal, drawing their weapons. The King was also shouting, his own sword drawn.
Several more small explosions, and the crowd attempted to disperse, running in terror, trampling one-another. The crowded square left very little room for movement.
Lyrra-Sharron, with Andim and Kallan at her back, pressed forward to the gallows.
Moments later, arrows flew from no-where apparent, taking out most of the guards around the Sorcerer, as well as the executioner. One arrow struck the Sorcerer in the thigh, causing him to fall upon the gallows floor. It had been deemed necessary, to prevent the King’s Guardsman from killing him in some other way.
She reached the gallows, and was pushed onto the raised base by Andim. She knelt beside the Sorcerer, who looked stunned. He threw a punch at her, but she grabbed his arm. “Lie still, fool, I am here to rescue you!”
Seconds later, Guardsmen swung off their horses onto the gallows, four of them total. Lyrra-Sharron rose up, drawing a long knife from a place of concealment.
She sliced at the first Guardsman, and he fell, clutching at his bloodied throat. She spun around, driving the dagger deep into the chest of another.
As a third swung a blade at her, she dropped beside the Sorcerer, drawing two more knives. But she wouldn’t need them.
Kallan had gotten atop the platform, and rose quickly, swinging his heavy blade. The Guardsman fell, missing his head.
Before the last Guardsman could reach them, a blade swept out from beside the raised gallows, removing one of his legs. Andim was with her.
Horses thundered up close, but as she readied her weapons, she recognized Dak and the merchant Kurr leading them. They had obviously succeeded in getting through the crowd to the gallows.
“Now!” cried Dak.
Lyrra-Sharron arose, and as she did so, she turned to look at the other dais, where The King now stood shoulder to shoulder with his men, looking out into the crowd. She caught his eye. The look that crossed his face made the whole thing worthwhile.
She leapt to her horse, and Kallan helped to toss the Sorcerer upon it behind her. She glanced at Dak, who nodded heavily, while Kallan leapt upon horseback as well.
“GO!” Dak shouted. They needed no further encouragement. Arrows whistled past them, and Lyrra-Sharron heard Kallan cry out as one grazed his left arm. But he still spurred his horse, and took off.
Lyrra-Sharron and company galloped away, arrows flying after them, ignoring the crowd running in terror all around. Guardsmen still mounted tried to give pursuit, crushing the crowd as they attempted to charge after the Raiders.
*****
Varlock-Sharron watched as the Sorcerer was moved into position. Suddenly, explosions rang out within the crowd. Instinctively, the Guardsman encircled the King and his Seneschal, as someone cried out “Protect the King!”
The King was not amused, to say the least. He shouted at his guards, as he drew his sword. Lord Tulock had his sword out as well.
Varlock-Sharron could not see what was happening. The chaos around him was infuriating. He roughly grabbed a guard by the shoulder, pulling himself into the circle.
It was pandemonium. The crowd ran all about, shouting and screaming in terror and confusion. The thunder from more explosions died away. The King turned his eyes to the gallows.
A woman rose up, and turned to look at him. She had blonde hair, and very light skin. And it was clearly a disguise.
He would know his own daughter anywhere.
A moment of shock, he found himself staring in disbelief. Varlock-Sharron watched her leap upon a horse, another man tossing the Sorcerer behind her.
He recovered from his surprise. “Archers! Do not let them get clear! Chase them down!” he cried out.
Discipline was not broken, but the stampeding crowd got in the way. His soldiers did their best, firing off arrows and crossbow bolts at the retreating raiders. A company of mounted Guardsmen began to mow through the crowd. But the Raiders were already clear of the marketplace.
He turned to his Seneschal. “Tulock, send messengers to the gates now! I want the gates sealed. No one gets in or out without being thoroughly searched. Hurry, before they can get away!”
Tulock turned, and called out for the Captain-General of the guards. He barked orders at the man, who in turn shouted terse orders at his men. Horsemen thundered off, carrying the message to the gates.
A breathless Guardsman rode up alongside the dais, and spoke to his Superior and Tulock. Varlock-Sharron was fuming, looking off in the direction the rescuers of the Sorcerer had ridden off in.
Tulock turned to address his King, reclaiming Varlock-Sharron’s attention.
“My liege, the crowd has mostly dispersed. We’ve captured a few suspected conspirators. What do you want done with them?” Lord Tulock asked.
The King sheathed his sword, taking a moment to reign in his emotions. “Bring them to the Palace. We only need a platoon to accompany us home. Send messengers ahead to deploy the rest of my Guardsmen, as well as the Constabulary and Army. I want the city sealed. Send out heralds throughout town. All shops are to be closed, and the citizens are to be in their homes within one hour. Taverns must be closed as well. Anyone found on the streets in two hours will be arrested, and brought in for questioning. Is that clear?”
Lord Tulock nodded his head in assent.
“See to it. When we get back to the Palace, I want the prisoners questioned immediately. I also want the Council convened by sunset. No more underestimating Lyrra-Sharron’s abilities, she has gone too far, now. I want my daughter captured, and her Raiders broken.”
“Does the original order of her capture stand?” Lord Tulock asked.
The King looked at him a moment, then shook his head slowly, sadly. “No. She is no longer protected, I want her brought in by any means necessary. She will not humiliate me again.”
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