Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1)

The Source Chronicles

Seeker

MJ Blehart

The Source Chronicles : Seeker.  Copyright © 2008 and 2014 MJ Blehart.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published 2014 by MJ Blehart and Argent Hedgehog Press

Published in the United States of America

www.mjblehart.com

For Christine, Kristin, and all the other dreamers seeking along their way.

To set the world upon a course,

to free these lands of War and Strife,

Comes the finding of The Source,

for which The Seeker comes to life.

- An excerpt from the
Prophecy of The Source

Chapter 1

His world was only darkness.             

Eyes opened or closed, nothing changed.

How long had it been, now?  How long since they had brought him here in chains?  How long had his only companions been pain and fear?

He sighed…and heard nothing.  The numbness was complete, his torso, his limbs, his lips, his ears.  He could feel nothing anymore.

A shiver, not from cold, passed through him.  Nothing was actually a welcome change.  He had felt intense cold when they chained him in an ice locker.  The heat had seared and blistered when they shackled him to the innards of an oven.  His body had been bruised by fists and chains and rods of wood and iron.  They had cut his skin both shallow and deep, to elicit nothing more than a scream.

They still knew nothing more of him.

To his mind, his act had not been criminal.  Though he had willfully broken the law, rules known throughout the world, he considered himself above such restrictions.  It was only through his own error in judgment that they had managed to take him, in the end.

His thoughts did him no good, they only intensified the fear and uncertainty that had become his life.  There was no telling when they would come for him again, or what they would do to him next.  He would continue to be at the mercy of his captors.

He came to a choice, then.  He could give in to it all, answer their every question, meet every demand…but if they believed his answers, they would end his agony, his fear, and that ending would be his death. 

He could, however, attempt to calm his mind, try to find some kind of inner peace, find his center…but the longer he defied them, the more they would inflict upon him, the greater would be his suffering.  Though that ending would continue his life, provide for more time, more chances.

He reached a decision.  He took in a deep breath, the deepest in a long, long time…and nearly regretted it, as only his skin was numb, and the stench of vomit and urine and feces nearly overwhelmed him.  He let it out through clenched teeth, avoiding adding to the terrible odors.  When he took his next deep breath, he ignored the bitter tang of blood and the acidic bile threatening to overwhelm him once again.  To further calm his mind, he focused on his heart.

He had not realized how fast his heart beat, how hard it felt like it was pounding against his chest.   Fear drove the racing rhythm, but he continued to breath, to find calm, to control his terror.

For the first time in what seemed like eternity, he sank into a meditative trance.  Never before had he gone in this deep, used such conscious deliberation.  Only in this void could he find and analyze his center, his courage, all that he considered himself to be.

In the void, he again found strength, power he’d believed to be gone forever.  Not at all what it had been before, but it gave him an emotion he’d never thought he would feel again.  Hope.

The thunder and lightning that returned him to the cell was the door slamming open.  Even with his eyes closed, the light was almost blinding.  A voice that hurt his numbed ears like a shout stated, “It is time.”
              Hands grasped him roughly under the arms, sending an intense flash of pain through him.  He did not resist, went limp as they raised him and dragged his bruised and beaten body from the cell.  What horrors they dragged him to he did not know.  But the fraction of spirit he clung to provided enough hope, perhaps, to keep him alive at least a little while longer.

******

He was seated, reading a scroll that did not please him.  All the scrolls he’d read of late seemed to bear only bad news. 

He sighed in disgust, sucked air through his nose loudly, releasing not only the breath, but the underlying anger.  He calmly set the scroll upon the table beside him.  No crime upset him more than betrayal.

A pair of soldiers marched into the room, followed by another pair, dragging between them the limp prisoner.  A final two guards brought up the rear. 

He arose, and gestured to them.  Placing fist to heart, the first two stepped to the side, as the next pair dragged the detainee to the flat, splintered wooden plank.  As they heaved him upon it, the condemned man did not react, but remained limp.

Two men in maroon robes stepped to either side of the plank, and took the man’s arms.  They used ropes to lash his limbs, tightening the knots about his wrists.  They moved down to his legs and repeated this, lashing him about the ankles.  Masks of leather hid their faces, no expressions of emotion clouding their simple work.

When they stepped back, a third masked and robed man, standing beside a crank, turned the wheel, until the ropes pulled the prisoner’s arms and legs taut, though not tight.  The first pair of masked men checked to be certain he could not get free.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

All six of the guards and the first two masked men departed without comment, shutting the door behind them.  He gestured to the remaining man standing beside the wheel, who responded by moving towards the plank, tilting it upright.  The prisoner winced as his arms and legs took all of his weight, but didn’t make a sound.

He took a few steps towards his captive.  “I had wanted to have the liberty to address you myself, and this seemed the perfect opportunity.  Open your eyes, please.”

The prisoner appeared to squeeze his lids more tightly closed.

“Come now, my lad, do you not wish to speak in your own defense?  Will you not look upon the man questioning you and your actions?  You violated our most stringent law, a rule known all about the world, and you had to know the consequences when you would be caught.  Exacerbating your situation further, you are responsible for the deaths of nearly three score soldiers, and one merchant cart driver.  Will you not account for yourself at this time?”

No sound, and no change of expression came from the man lashed to the plank before him.

Only slightly deterred, he sighed.  “Very well then.  Allow me to introduce myself.  I am Varlock-Sharron Anduin, King of Sharron, 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.  And you are?”

The statement of his person was obviously enough to pique the interest of the captive, who slowly opened his eyes.  The deep blue of his irises did nothing to offset the obvious pain he clearly had to be feeling.  But he did not utter a sound.

The King met the gaze of the prisoner for a time, and said nothing.  They blinked at one another, the only sound in the room was a muffled cough from the man standing beside the wheel.

Varlock-Sharron finally turned away from his prisoner.  He walked over to the table beside his chair, took up a decanter, made a show of pouring a glass of water.  He turned back to the man upon the rack, holding the goblet in his fist.  The captive ran his tongue over his parched lips, and the king raised his cup and took a long, noisy draught.  He took up the pitcher and refilled the goblet. 

Deliberately, the King looked to his captive.  “Care for a drink?” he asked, holding the goblet out towards the man.  The only response he received was a stare.

Sighing, Varlock-Sharron set the cup down, and walked towards the rack.  “Will you at least tell me your name, lad?”  He paced slightly, watching his prisoner’s eyes following his movements.  “Come now, lad, what can be gained by your silence?  No harm shall come to you, if you just answer my questions.  I should prefer to address you properly, and not continue to insult you further.  Your name, please?”

Varlock-Sharron met his prisoner’s gaze.  Those blue eyes hardly blinked, and the King felt he could see through them to the man’s soul.  He found this disturbing, for he felt nothing, save a kind of detached, unwavering determination.

The King hardened his face, and inclined his head to the masked and hooded man.  Without a word, he responded by turning the crank. 

The ropes wrapped about his wrists and ankles pulled, and the racked man winced, his eyes squeezed shut and face drawn.  But he did not make a sound.

Varlock-Sharron waited, and after several moments silence, his captive again opened his eyes.  “Very well then, lad.  I shall continue to belittle you by improper address.  I shall refer to you as lad, or boy, so long as you refuse to even give something so trifling as your name to me.  What harm may come from speaking to me your name, boy?”

The prisoner just looked upon his face, and blinked, but continued to say nothing.

“Fine.  We shall continue in this manner, as you have chosen,” remarked the King.  “Tell me then, lad, why have you come to my Kingdom.  What drew you here, Sorcerer?”

******

The racked man fought the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.  It took every last bit of effort he possessed to remain passive and unresponsive.  He had certainly not expected to meet the very man whose edict he had violated.  But the King’s line of questioning forced him to look back to the answers he sought.

Of course he had known the most ardent statute of the Kingdom of Sharron, but he considered himself above the law, did not care, and had entered a town one night with an impossible ball of light floating above him, guiding his way.  He was, after all, a Sorcerer.

It was known from every corner of the t’Thera that the Kingdom of Sharron forbade the practice of sorcery.  As poor as his upbringing had been, even he was aware of this law.  But he knew his own destiny, believed himself to be unassailable, so he’d blatantly ignored the ban, and went about his quest.

Fearful people had gone to the local constabularies when he entered their hamlets.  These officials were unwilling, of course, to contest with a sorcerer, so they sent word to the Army.

Individuals had been dispatched to capture him, and when they failed, small platoons.  On his departure from the third or fourth town he’d visited, a whole company gave chase. 

After more than an hour on the run, he paused near the center of a broad meadow, and made ready to show them what a true Sorcerer could do.

He had cast the incantation softly to himself, nearly whispering the archaic phrases.  But the final word to unleash his power had to be his own.  As he stood upon an elevated mound above the field, arms raised dramatically over his head, he chose something he knew they would remember him by.  In a booming, arrogant voice, he cried out “Tremere!”

The earth all around him exploded with incredible force, tossing men and horses and stones and dirt aside like dust thrown to the wind.  The force rippled out, rolling away from the ground upon which the Sorcerer stood, untouched by the power he unleashed.

He heard men howling in pain and terror, while the horses whinnied and bolted as the very ground they tread upon flung them aside, as if it could no longer stand their weight.  And yet the Sorcerer remained where he was, trembling, as the dust settled.

It all seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago.  Yet hardly more than a few weeks had passed.  How could he have made such a terrible mistake?

The Sorcerer returned to the moment, steeled himself for the coming pain, and met the gaze of the King without a word.

******

Varlock-Sharron paused, allowing his detainee a moment to consider an answer.  The briefest flash of deep sadness crossed his face, though it vanished almost instantly, as the prisoner met his eye without response. 

The King continued.  “Was there something of importance that drew you here?” 

Varlock-Sharron stopped, waiting again.  “Are you here seeking apprentices?”  He paused for an answer.  “Seeking scrolls?”  The King waited further.  “Seeking allies?” he pressed.  “Trying to raise an army for one of my fellow monarchs?” he paused once more.  “In search of companionship, or perhaps love, even?”

He continued to mark his time.  The Sorcerer hardly blinked, barely changed the expression on his face.

The King shook his head with clear disappointment and disapproval, then nodded to the robed and hooded man.  His response was a turn the crank. 

The Sorcerer winced, squeezed his eyes shut, but did not make a sound.

“Again,” the King said. 

The robed and hooded man turned the wheel with slow deliberation.  The Sorcerer grimaced silently, clenching his teeth.  But still he did not cry out.

“Once more,” King Varlock-Sharron said calmly.

Another turn of the crank, and the Sorcerer’s eyes remained tightly shut, his teeth clamped together, tears streaming down his cheeks.  But not a sound came from him, not even a grunt.

Varlock-Sharron felt disgust raising his ire, but he spoke without emotion.  “You violated the law of my land, lad, and ignorance of the law is no excuse.  You flagrantly waved about your power, making a mockery of my statutes.  You leave me no other options, boy.  I will make an example of you.  This is your only chance for leniency.”

He waited, watching.  The captive’s eyes remained closed, though still they leaked silent tears.

“Answer my questions, and I will kill you now, quickly, without additional pain or suffering,” Varlock-Sharron stated, then paused to let that sink in.  “Continue your defiance, and I will see to it you are humiliated further, and your death will be agonizing, and slow, and public.  You will be a lesson to others.  The choice is yours.”