The Troven (Kingdom of Denall Book 1) (35 page)

Just before he released his arrow to deliberately sail wide, an idea came to him. Trae flexed his muscles and tapped into the power of the Strength Stone. From behind him he could hear Dune’s robe shifting as he moved in his seat. Trae continued to pull power from the stone, hoping that it was enough to attract the attention of every nearby seeker. Then, after holding the bow for much longer than was necessary, Trae sighted down the arrow and released a perfect shot.

As if on cue, and reading his thoughts, Dune stood to leave the stage.

“Good match, archer.” He reached out and patted Trae on the shoulder at the same moment that Trae subtly handed him the small bottle of poison. Then, for the first time since they were on the stage, Dune briefly looked into Trae’s eyes and gave a slight incline of his head and what Trae thought looked like a smile. Dune then disappeared off the stage and into the crowd. He hoped that by drawing the seekers’ attention he had salvaged what he could of their plan.

While the announcer called for Dune to come back, and the archers on stage were all watching the hooded figure leave, Trae looked out into the crowd to see that the seekers had no interest in Dune. They were all looking intently at him. Apparently the stone had done its job. Trae smiled broadly and waved his hand slightly to the crowd, again playing the part of a noble contestant who was about to be announced winner of the archery tournament. He just needed to keep up this act long enough to ensure that Dune had the time he needed.

After the announcer calmed things down, Bull’s Eye Bebe took her place on center stage. She looked nervously down range at the distance and drew her bow. Her bow was grossly underpowered for a one hundred yard shot, so she aimed in an elevated arc. When she released, the arrow soared and it stuck into the wooden edge of the target. As the arrow flew the crowd cheered, then as it hit the target, there was an audible, disappointed gasp. Bebe raised one hand to the crowd as she returned to sit on the bench with the other archers.

Kaz was next to shoot, and he confidently strode to the center of the stage. While most of Trae’s attention was focused on what he would do with a mob of angry seekers, he was interested to see how this youth fared at this range. Kaz smoothly nocked his arrow and drew the bowstring, he raised it to the perfect elevation and released. Trae was surprised at how quickly he drew and released, knowing all the factors that he must be considering before making such a vital and challenging shot. Despite the quick release, the execution was flawless. Kaz’s arrow hit the only place on the target where he could earn not one, but two extra points, his arrow had grazed the colored feather of Trae’s perfect bull’s eye. The audience went wild with excitement.

“Never in the history of this event has someone hit the colored feather on the hundred yard shot,” the announcer bellowed. “We have a new champion!” The crowd cheered and Kaz stood on the stage with his arms raised. He waved to the people and inclined his head to his competitors, and bowed to his trainer, but then he turned around and stopped his celebrating. Maggie was standing, ready to fire her final arrow.

The announcer chuckled slightly, then began to speak, “Don’t you see…” as the announcer spoke, Maggie drew her bow and took aim. Before releasing her arrow she turned to look over her shoulder at the announcer. With a look of complete defiance in her eyes, she released the arrow while looking away from the target. She dropped her longbow, stalked across the stage, grabbed the prize money, and walked away, pushing her way through the crowd.

Trae was shocked by this display.
What was she thinking?
Then, from beside him he heard a whisper,

“She won.” Kaz had spoken to himself in a voice so quiet that only Trae could hear.

“What was that?” Trae asked.

“Her arrow is touching my colored feather and yours as well. She just hit a spot that was hair thin in both directions from one hundred yards. I don’t know how she did it, but she won.”

Without knowing what else to do, Trae sat back down, allowing the judges to take all the time they needed to come to a decision. Once they announced Maggie as the winner, he began to clap his hands loudly.

“Bravo!” He continued to cheer for longer than was necessary, trying to extend the celebration and delay his meeting with Edgar.

* * * * *

After Mylot and Farin were sitting together on the wooden bench, the judge stood up in the ring and addressed the crowd. The presentation was unorthodox, but he seemed unable to resist the chance to stand and speak before the king.

“I present to you two young men who have proven their great skill…” Mylot ignored the small speech and looked over his shoulder. When he turned he cringed. Standing by Farin’s trainer was the tall boy who had stopped him from reaching Maggie. The young man smiled widely at Mylot while waving like a buffoon. If that farm boy was back, that meant the archery tournament was over. He hung his head and let out a groan, feeling the weight of failure pressing down on him.

“Are you all right?”

Mylot turned and looked in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. It belonged to his opponent, Farin. He sat up, took in a deep breath and replied, “I’m fine.”

“Okay, you just looked like you lost something very important.”

Mylot raised an eyebrow as he looked at Farin. Mylot was surprised, confused, and not sure how to respond.

“I … well … let’s just say that hopefully I haven’t lost it forever.”

Farin smiled warmly, “I sincerely hope that too.”

Mylot nodded to Farin. “Thank you.”

He knew the feeling of people being nice because they were forced, or because they had something to gain, but this was different. Mylot felt sincerity from Farin.

Before he had time to consider this strange turn of events, the judge finished his speech and called them to the ring for the final round.

“This round has no time limit. You will face each other until there is a victor.” Then, with a flourish and a dramatic pause, the judge announced loudly, “Begin.”

Mylot and Farin met in the center of the stage with a crash of their steel blades as they began a fourth round. After the extended break they were both rejuvenated and moving more quickly than before. They attacked, parried, dodged, and moved perfectly from stance to stance. Mylot began forcing Farin backward, then Farin found an opportunity to press him back. When Farin was moving forward, Mylot defended automatically, and while he was moving backward he remembered what Sir Theodore had taught him at his estate several months ago. Maneuvering an opponent into a vulnerable position was more important than making a deathblow. Up to this point in the match, Mylot had been trying to make a quick victory by hitting Farin with a powerful strike, and the younger man had successfully dodged his way through the match. Mylot stopped moving backward and stood his ground while Farin attacked.

He shifted from stance to stance, blocking Farin’s regular attacks, until he finally understood something else Sir Theodore had taught him. He could feel Farin’s rhythm. Strike, strike, strike, lunge. Strike, strike strike, lunge. He added a variety of attacks into this pattern, but it always ended with a strong forward, right side lunge. Mylot just needed to throw off his rhythm.

As Farin was moving to make another lunge forward, instead of parrying the attack and trying to make a counter attack, as he had done before, knowing the attack was coming, he twisted his body to the side, allowing the sword to slide harmlessly past him, and he struck out with the hilt of his sword in a quick jab that caught Farin in the chest. It was not a hard strike, but it jarred him enough that Mylot was able to make two more quick strikes that brought the match to a close. The audience ruptured in applause and Mylot looked past them up to Sir Theodore who inclined his head knowingly.

The announcer and judge stepped out into the ring and proclaimed Mylot the victor of the final match. In his previous years of fighting he had not given his opponents a second thought after defeating them, but this time was different. After being pronounced the winner, Mylot walked over to Farin and called his name. Farin reached up and took Mylot’s outstretched hand. Mylot pulled Farin to his feet.

“I have competed in this tournament the last five years, and won the last three.”

Farin nodded, but still looked sad. Mylot wondered what he could do to help the young man feel any better, then he saw the boy make a subtle glance at the girl sitting by his trainer. Mylot smiled inwardly as he realized the boy felt bad, partly because he was trying to impress this young woman. Mylot placed his arm to his chest in a sign of great honor and spoke loudly so everyone near the ring could hear.

“You are a very talented swordsman, one of the best I have faced.” He then raised Farin’s arms into the air and turned him to the crowd.

The crowd cheered loudly for Farin, and Mylot could see the boy filled with a sense of pride. Then he turned Farin to face King Robert. Mylot and Farin both fell to one knee before the king motioned for them to stand. King Robert then rose to his feet and applauded both fighters, nodding in approval. Mylot looked up at the King and inclined his head,

then winked and mouthed to him, “Thanks, Uncle Robbie.”

Chapter 33

After leaving the archery tournament, Dune made his way quickly through the crowd to the southern gate. Dressed as he was in a full magician’s robe, Dune easily passed through town as the people parted to give him space. Before exiting the south gate, he ducked into a secluded alley and quickly took off his robe to reveal a sturdy pair of woolen pants and a nondescript, rough wool shirt. He tucked his robe into his satchel, fastened a small falchion on his belt, and left through the gate on his way to the green tent.

The outskirts of town were very quiet and eerie compared with the boisterous crowds at the tournaments. While walking to the tent, Dune looked around and found that he was the only person traveling this road. Hopefully his luck would hold and he would find an abandoned tent. He continued to walk quickly down the main street out of town until he could clearly see his destination, then he began to walk more casually in case there were any unwanted eyes following him.

As he passed the opening of the tent he took a sideways look and was disappointed to see three women in it guarding the merchandise and the barrels. Dune continued to walk past the tent. When he was out of their line of sight, he ducked into the ditch beside the road and waited. He cautiously watched and listened until he was satisfied that nobody was following or watching him. He then silently transported himself from the ditch to directly behind the tent, right next to the barrels.

Standing outside the tent he could hear the women talking.

“That fool better come running right back here when he has it,” spoke a first woman with an old, tired sounding voice.

“I think you scared him too much to do anything else,” came a second voice, also old and ragged.

The third voice spoke with a smooth and young tone, “You will give him the Han’Or when he comes back, won’t you?”

“Why should I?” Again, the first woman spoke. “He is far too aggressive, and threatens all that we are trying to do.”

“He is very…forward, but he also gets answers when
some
are too timid to ask.”

“Some? What are you trying to say, Genea?” the second woman shot back quickly.

“Just that he is an asset;
he
at least tries to find the Stones of Power.”

“I’ll tear out your heart, you…” Although hidden behind the thick canvas, Dune could practically feel the tension between the women.

“Now girls, stop bickering.” The first woman clicked her tongue at them before continuing, “We have much to do, and this petty behavior is not helping.” A silence fell between the pair that stretched on. “If he comes back with a magical stone, then yes, I will give him some Han’Or.”

“If we’re keeping Edgar, then who will we eliminate? Mordyar didn’t send enough elixir for everyone.”

“We’ll weed out those who are least productive; perhaps some of the older seekers can make room for the young.” Dune could hear them clearly through the canvas as they discussed the strengths and weaknesses of several seekers. A
lthough he suspected it was not made in Denall
,
i
t was a revelation to hear that this Han’Or came directly from Mordyar. He wondered what methods the sorcerer was using to import the elixir.

“We need to figure out something quickly,” the young woman said. “Many of the seekers are down to their last drops of Han’Or. Some are losing their sight already. It won’t be long before they begin to lose their connection with reality.”

“Maybe it is best to see who runs out first,” came a suggestion. “We’ll see who has chosen to squander their gift.”

“They have gathered here to refill their supplies,” she argued.

“Wrong!” the older woman interrupted in a shout that silenced the argument. “They have gathered here to show who is most capable! It would be ludicrous to think that this tournament could proceed without attracting a single stone holder. The people of Denall are weak and vain. They desire the petty prestige of loosing an arrow at a colored target better than the next fool, or smashing an opponent off a horse with a stick. I am certain that one, if not more stone holders will be tempted to use their enhanced gift to win some glory. These seekers are here to show me who among them is valuable and who is not. When they retrieve a Stone, I will reward them with a supply of Han’Or and present the Stone to Mordyar myself. Once a Stone is found, we won’t need the others anymore. It doesn’t matter what we do with the Han’Or or what we do with Edgar. The Stone is all that matters.”

Although he was pleased that there was a general shortage of Han’Or, and therefore less for the seekers, he needed to focus on reducing it more drastically. With their magically enhanced jewelry and weapons he could not openly face three seekers alone, and he could not teleport the poison he had acquired on his detour into the barrels from his position unless he knew exactly where the barrels were. Without any better solution forthcoming he decided to do something very rash. He drew the falchion from its sheath and with a quick stroke of the curved blade he sliced cleanly through the green fabric to reveal three very surprised and angry seekers.

* * * * *

Trae stayed on stage as long as possible after the archery tournament was ended, but with Maggie gone, and Kaz running off toward the sword fighting, he could not avoid Edgar any longer. He collected his winnings from the third place award and walked down the stairs.

“Hello, Edgar.”

“Sir Trevor,” he began with an incline of his head and a flourish of his hand, “that was a magnificent display. A perfect bull’s eye from one hundred yards. Simply stunning.”

“Yes, thank you,” Trae said in a condescending tone. “So where can we go to speak of this stone?”

“Anywhere you feel comfortable,” Edgar replied, failing miserably at trying to not seem too anxious. “We could go to my tent, or perhaps a more secluded place where we can openly talk.”

“I’ll stay here in public, if that pleases you,” Trae replied.

Edgar began to shake his head. “Well, it does not please me.” Edgar dropped all polite pretenses as he motioned for his seeker friends to gather near. When they had formed a tight circle surrounding Trae, Edgar stood within inches of him. “I want that stone, and you’re going to give it to me one way or another. I don’t care if we have to drag you down an empty ally and hide your body later.” As he spoke, Trae was almost overwhelmed by his foul breath and the crazed look in his eyes. “Or would you rather go to a more familiar place? Perhaps we could meet with you in the magic shop. I’m sure your magician friend would be more than accommodating to have us pay him a visit.” Edgar let the implied threat hang in the air while he waited for a response.

Trae struggled to keep his voice steady as he addressed Edgar and fought to ignore the tight circle of seekers. “I suppose right here would be a fine place to conduct our business.”

“Wonderful!” Edgar announced. “I did tell them you were a reasonable man,” he said, pointing to his friends. The circle opened a little as the seekers backed up to give Trae some more space.

“I assume that
you
are also a reasonable man, and willing to offer a fair price.” Edgar nodded at the implied question. “So what are you willing to offer for it?”

“I’ll start with an offer of your life,” Edgar smiled wickedly, “and I will also restate my offer from the other night: three gold pieces for the stone.”

Despite being intimidated by the circle and Edgar’s threat, Trae needed to act the part of a noble. “I doubt you would kill me here in front of all these people, so a threat on my life does not strengthen your position. As for the gold, if you recall, I have already refused that offer. I believe it is worth fifty gold pieces.”

“That is a bold proposal, my friend, very bold, and don’t be too sure what I will and will not do in public.” Edgar gave a moment for his threat to sink in, then made his counter offer. “Ten gold pieces is a fair price. We don’t even know what the stone can do.”

“I like this stone. I think it helped me hit that direct bull’s eye in the tournament. Perhaps it is a Luck-bringing Stone; they are very rare, and very valuable. Forty gold pieces for the chance at a Luck-bringing Stone is a bargain price.”

“If this was a Luck-bringing Stone, it would be worth one hundred times that amount, but we both know that it is not.”

“How can you be so sure?” Trae asked, trying to keep the seekers occupied for as long as possible.

“Because, Sir Trevor, if this stone brought luck, you wouldn’t be here,” Edgar gestured to the circle surrounding Trae, “would you?”

Despite the desperate situation, Trae smiled, “You have a solid point. I’ll settle for thirty.”

Edgar raised his hands in the air and let out an audible laugh, “I like your style! I think in another lifetime we could have been friends. I want to pay ten, you are offering thirty, let’s say we meet in the middle. Fifteen gold pieces.”

Trae made a questioning look, as if to ask if the man was joking. After no response he stated his concern outright, “Meeting in the middle would be twenty pieces of gold.”

“Well, I’m not so good with math. Besides, I felt like rounding down. So what do you say?”

“I say twenty pieces of gold and a promise that I will never see you or any of these friends of yours again,” Trae countered. He wanted to keep pushing Edgar, but the seeker seemed to want the negotiations to end quickly.

“Deal. After today you will never see any of us again,” Edgar reached into a small leather purse and carefully counted out twenty pieces of gold.

Trae pulled the white stone from beneath his plate armor and placed it into Edgar’s outstretched hand. Edgar quickly handed the gold to Trae, closed his hand around his treasure and dashed away into the crowd. Trae breathed a deep sigh of relief and watched closely as the seekers disappeared into the crowd, all moving in the general direction of the southern gate—all but one. One young seeker in a deep maroon tunic began heading south, then unexpectedly veered East. Suspicious, Trae followed at a distance to see what was more important to a seeker than the possibility of having found a Stone of Power.

* * * * *

The three women glared at Dune through the opening in the canvas tent, then quickly grabbed some weapons and lunged at him. He parried and dodged as quickly as he could, drawing the women away from the tent. It was clear that these women had little skill with the short swords they hefted, but the swords’ magical enchantments were quickly making up for the bearers’ ineptitudes.

The oldest of the women had a bright steel sword that unnaturally gleamed in the sunlight. She lunged forward ahead of the younger women and Dune sidestepped, moving his sword to intercept hers. Just as the weapons were about to meet, a brilliant beam of light reflected directly from the sword into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He jumped backward and moved to block another attack, and the same light momentarily blinded him. Each time their swords were about to meet, her sword sent out a blinding light into his eyes. It was a frustrating enchantment. Dune stepped back, trying to dodge rather than block the sword as he blinked his eyes back into focus.

The second woman had emerged from behind the leader. Dune dodged a wild swing and then shoved her, knocking her off balance. Dune lunged forward, and much to his surprise, the woman spun and her sword clashed with his, completely blocking the attack. He turned his blade quickly and attacked with an underhand. The sword, more than its owner, moved into another perfect defense. Dune smiled to himself as the sword jerked from side to side, blocking a series of attacks. He was sure that if he could continue striking at this woman, the sword, enchanted to defend her, would tear her shoulder from its socket. Unfortunately, he could not just focus on this woman as he had two others to deal with.

Dune dodged a wild swing from the older woman and struck her with a backhand that sent her sprawling onto the ground. He then turned to face the third. She approached with her sword held awkwardly in both hands and pointed it at him. She was no killer, her eyes told him that much. The sword shook as she approached.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

“You must be Genea,” Dune began kindly.

“How did you know my name?” she yelled angrily.

Dune put up his hands in a gesture of nonviolence and addressed the girl. “You don’t have the look of a seeker. Have you made the oath yet?”

“Don’t say a word!” The older woman had regained her footing, and the three seekers stood together in a line. “I don’t know where you heard about us, but you will take your knowledge to the grave right now.” With this declaration the three women advanced on Dune.

Dune was overwhelmed trying to avoid having his sword making contact with the older woman’s sword, while keeping the second off balance, and he was not quite sure what to do with the youngest. He was retreating farther from the tent, leading the women away when a motion on the road caught his attention. Edgar was running full speed from the southern gate. Dune had run out of time.

He needed to end this fight quickly, so he turned his full attention to the oldest seeker and began advancing on her. He faked attacks, while ensuring that he avoided contact with her magically enchanted blade. While he tried to gain an advantage on her, she swung wildly to keep him at bay, and the two other seekers advanced from behind.