Valere: Swords of Chaos BookTwo

VALERE

THE SWORDS OF CHAOS, BOOK TWO

By

Alex Cannon

Copyright Alex Cannon 2011

Published at Smashwords

CHAPTER 1

Hamilcar woke and wished he still slept. The drugs he had been slipped worked their magic and flooded out through his pores. His eyes were like dirt, and his insides were clenched up like a rabid dog on a piece of meat. He rolled over and he was greeted with a face full of sunshine. He squinted and his crusty eyes watered. The land flowed by in a slow, jumpy rhythm that made him nauseous.

Hamilcar lifted himself up and inspected his surroundings. He was in a lift of some sort. A makeshift tent had been erected onto the platform and blocked out most of the sun, except for the flap, which had popped open in the breeze.  He looked around and saw Hutch next to him. The old man looked haggard. His face was asleep, but tortured. There were two pillows. Hamilcar had rolled from his.

He pulled the flap back and inspected the road.

They headed north, if the sun told the truth. Distant mesas sat, huddled down in the breath-stealing heat, waiting for the night. Scrubs of brush tumbled by in thorny balls. The wind was sharp and sandy, catching him a few times in the face. He stuck his head out of the makeshift carrier to see what propelled him along. Below, a group of eight men carried him on their shoulders. The air outside the flaps was like an oven.

Hamilcar could not understand why they now carried him and did not make him walk like before. What had changed? Something about this new situation made his insides churn. He grabbed his pillow and stuffed it behind his head as he reclined. Hutch snored lightly.  

Darkness overtook the group, but they kept plodding along. Hamilcar wondered not only how long they could carry him without rest, but also how long Hutch would sleep. He considered killing the older man now, but disregarded the idea. He might still need him.

The loqua stone began to hum in his hidden pocket. It shook him from his musings and brought his mind back like a blade.  He fished the stone out and held it in front of his face.

The dark figure appeared and seemed to be sensing something.

What has happened to you? the figure asked.

Hamilcar shook his head. Something is interfering with my mind.

I have not been able to contact you for days.

Hamilcar tried hard to think about what had happened. I entered into the land of the Zmarly, and they promptly took me prisoner.

Your men stood no chance against them.

Thank you for the timely information, Hamilcar said.

Perhaps if you had done as I said, then you might have fared better.

These were the king’s own men. His best! Hamilcar’s mind cleared a bit. He didn’t need chastising from his partner right now. The Zmarly had taken them like grown men abducting children.

Sicari would tear the king’s men apart in minutes. We digress, where are you now?

My mind is still foggy. Hutch squirmed a bit, moaning.

What is that sound? the figure asked.

My co-prisoner. One of the king’s lead men.

I don’t know why they drugged you.

We are heading north.

Where?

Good question.

Why did they let you live?

Hamilcar thought for a moment. After my tunic was torn, they spotted the marking on my chest.

The figure was quiet for a moment. His ethereal purple form positioned above the stone. Hamilcar wondered if his own figure appeared the same way to his colleague.

Something is happening, the figure said.

Aye, and I need to locate the Sword.

The figure crossed its arms. Do as they bid. Do not anger them.

The big leader looks like he could use me to wash his feet.

Do as they say.

Hamilcar felt there was something his partner was not telling him, but he wasn’t lucid enough to form a valid question. Aye, I will do as you say.

Do and live. I will contact you again in two days.

Luck on your end? Hamilcar managed.

Lots. I will contact you in two days.

The figure disappeared, and Hamilcar stuffed the stone back into his secret pocket.

Moments later two women appeared in the door of the tent. They passed four bowls into the tent, two with some sort of gruel and two with water, not much of either. The gruel was thick and full of powdery lumps. Dirt floated in the water. Hamilcar almost gagged it back up.

He didn’t think about the drugs entering his body. He soon slept again.

CHAPTER 2

Range awoke to darkness.

He could not sense any light and thought for a moment that he had gone blind. He turned and realized that he had some sort of cover over his head. He attempted to move but was bound hand and foot. He struggled, and was kicked in the ribs. Pain shot through him as his ribs creaked against each other.

Is he finally waking up? came a slithery voice from beyond his cover.

Appears so. Shall I remove the cover?

Momentarily. Range heard steps walking away.

Range tried to form coherent thoughts but was unsuccessful. He remembered the battle in front of Garon’s home, but could remember nothing after. The Sword had taken its toll on him. He attempted to move over but was met with the boot of his captor again. He settled down uncomfortably. His breathing came hard and forced, his ribs pressing against his lungs.

He had lost the Sword, all of his friends were captured or dead, and some unknown assailant beat him. His mind quickly spiraled down into a bottomless quagmire. He had failed.

He began a prayer to Ooln, but could not finish it. He would begin but the prayer would die down in his mind as specters of the Sword, his daughter, his wife and friends, continually barged themselves in demanding vengeance for their lives. He reeled. If he could only remove this infernal hood he would have something to focus on and his mind would stop its endless circles.

As if Ooln had heard, the cover was ripped violently from his head, revealing almost nothing.

He saw stars above and the wicked cold air bit into his warm, wet cheeks. Had he been crying? Perhaps Miriam would know. He shook the lethargy from his mind.

He could make out a small fire a distance away, and some tents huddled around it in the darkness.

Ah, at last the thief is awake! came a voice from the darkness. Range could barely make out the four figures surrounding him, blotting out the stars, shadowed by the night.  

His stomach suddenly lurched up in a ghastly hunger pang. Hunger was the least of his worries now. He fought it back down. How long had he been asleep?

Truly he is not much to look upon, Master, came a younger, more virile voice.  

They never are, the older voice chimed.

Range cleared his mind, barely. Lazerek?

A small chuckle, like rocks rubbed together. Aye, it is Lazerek. What have you to say?

Range rolled over to better get a look at the old mage. His rib screamed in protest, but the pain only sharpened his focus.

Why? Range asked.

Why? Lazerek feigned ignorance. His thick robes shuffled about in the night air.

Answer the question, mage. I have a right to know after what you have stolen from me, Range spouted. His mood was as black as the removed hood.

Stolen?  Ahh that is a choice word, Ironstone. Such accusations will only exacerbate an already touchy situation.  He paused for a moment and Range wondered if he was going to continue. Mayhap the Sword is in its rightful owner’s hands now. What if I am the chosen one meant to unite the three Swords of Chaos? Perhaps I am not the one who is meant to have the Swords. I care not either way.  He paused again. I am not accustomed to explaining myself to ones such as yourself. So take what I have given you and choke on it for all I care.

What has happened to my men? Range inquired.

Your men are safe. I would not think of hurting any of you. I have such wonderful plans for you.

I’ll never join you. Range spewed. The pain of his ribs reached up and pulled him back down.

Lazerek grunted. You will have no choice.  He turned and walked away. Three of the other figures walked with him. The guard turned his back on Range and looked longingly toward the fire.

Where are we?  Range asked the guard. Now that Lazerek was gone, his ribs ached again.

The man ignored him.

Range sighed. Lazerek did not forbid you to talk to me. So speak!

Still the man did not turn.

You are a pitiful excuse for a soldier. I could tear your heart out in a fair fight, Range goaded.

The soldier’s pride got the best of him and he turned at the waist and spoke over his shoulder, We are just outside of Jahvel’s School of Battle. We have been here for one day.

How long have I been asleep?

I have guarded you for three nights now.

Three days! He had been asleep for three days. His stomach jumped up into his throat again, bile fought its way up. He forced it down. Three days. What had transpired in three days?  Where were his men?  Where was the prince? His mind reeled with the possibilities. He could not sort it out. His body mercifully wrested control from him and dropped him to the ground in a torturous sleep.

When next he awoke it was daylight. He felt like an animal skin that had been draped across a rough stone to dry in the sun. His eyes were sandpaper, and his head pounded like a mallet. He lay under some makeshift lean-to and shivered. Men milled about. He saw a cluster of tents in the distance and a group of men sitting around a fire talking and laughing. Through the trees to the south he spied Jahvel’s school.

He had heard many things about Cznia Mizrak. Jahvel was a Battle Master. He trained others who would pay for the privilege to be taught. Not only must he be paid, students must commit at least five years of their life to his school. If a student tried to escape they would be hunted and slaughtered in front of the others. Range had heard rumors Jahvel was like a charging elephant in his attack, and like a stinging asp in his defense.  His top trained men were tested to be the Sicari.

The Sicari were Jahvel’s most fierce fighters—men who could easily attack five other non-trained men and easily claim victory. Jahvel hand selected his Sicari from the top candidates. Once the men were accepted into the Sicari training they went through a rigorous two-year advanced training. Training that taught them to be both stealth and night—two things the Sicari excelled at.  Most were up for hire, doing the bidding of people who would rather not soil their hands. Only the rich could afford their prices, however.

The rumor was the only thing that could kill a Sicari was another Sicari. Range had battled more than his share, and knew that was not true. Rolin had killed more than his fair share of Sicari. Where was Rolin? Was he still alive? Was Nicky? Sterlin?

The smell of fresh cooked bacon caused his stomach to churn again. It occurred to him that he had not eaten or drank for four days now.  Maybe four days. He was not certain how long he had slept again. He needed information and he needed it soon. He didn’t know what Lazerek planned on doing with him, but the mage was in for a surprise. Range would not go down without a fight.

His guard stood next to him, facing away.

How long have I slept?  Range inquired.

Not nearly long enough. Came the same slithery voice from the night before. It was not the guard’s voice, but the other one he had heard.

Range was on his side, and he moved to try and sit up more. The flap hanging over the makeshift shelter obscured his view of the man. It was jerked back and Range was face to face with death. The Osaban Priest. His coal black eyes glinted as if they found Range’s current position amusing. His thick eyebrows almost touched. His almond skin was flawless with no blemishes or wrinkles. Haunting black tattoos around his eyes and mouth furthered his gruesome look.

Not nearly long enough, the priest said. Perhaps the eternal sleep would suffice?  Perhaps like your daughter’s eternal sleep? 

Come for me, Range said. His ribs screamed as he tried to get up. I will have your heart Osaban. I will have it on a plate and I will eat it. Ooln is my witness. His own heart hammered in his chest and his mouth had dried up more, if possible. He wanted free now more than ever. He wanted to hit the priest so hard and so often the man’s bones would turn to powder. He wanted to beat the man until he was nothing more than a fleshy lump on the ground. And he wanted to beat him. Not use a sword or a mace or anything to distance the act. He needed to feel every blow.

The Priest ripped the lean-to away and stood up. I may send your wife to be with your daughter tonight.

Range’s breath caught in his throat. Miriam?

Nowata looked down at him. You didn’t think I would let her get away?  Or your handsome son?  No. I had two of my minions follow them to Crompulous and obtain them when the guard you sent left.

Range fought against his bindings, grunting around in the cold earth. His ribs bit into his sides, he ignored them. He had nothing left.

Nothing left but vengeance.

Enhance your calm. They are safe. I was not allowed to hurt them…yet.  The priest leaned over Range again. You thought to outsmart me with a false sword?  It is I who will be laughing while you are being buried.

I will get free from these bindings. When I do, you’d better be far away from me if you hope to live.

Bold speak from a tied up man. I do not take kindly to threats Ironstone, be wary where you toss yours.

Run now, demon-conjurer. If you begin now, you may get far enough ahead of me so that I die before I locate you. Run! 

The priest turned and sauntered away.

Range let himself slump to the earth, beaten. Tears of despair dripped from his eyes. They had his wife and his son. He did not have the Sword, or his family, or his friends. He had failed all those he was to protect. Once again despair reached its cold clammy hand to his insides and stirred. He was beaten and cold.

Steel gray clouds moved in and covered the sky like blankets of bitterness.  

A while later, two guards pulled him to his feet. His legs had gone numb during the long sleep and he was unable to walk. Why should he walk? Who really cared anyway?  He chewed on the despair. Let him die. Just let him die.

They dragged him to a horse and threw him over it like a wet sack of meat. His head lolled uncaringly to the side and his ribs screamed for mercy. Range cried out. Blood rushed up into his ears, ringing.  They were off at a walk; the cold wind bristled past his burning head. Every step of the horse was a clash of agony against his broken ribs. The heat of his body seemed to increase with every clop of hoof. They arrived at a large stone and steel portcullis.

The world zipped by in a blurry, smeared collage. Finally, giving up, he simply closed his eyes.

The horse stopped with an echoing clip on stone. His stomach grumbled for food. As far as he could remember, he hadn’t eaten in four days. He heard people. He ventured to open his eyes and saw figures standing and sitting in the shadows like ghosts.

Pull him down. He heard the young man’s voice who had accompanied Lazerek.

Someone tugged Range unmercifully from the horse and dropped him to the hard stone. His hands and feet were still bound and he landed on his shoulder. The pain in his side threatened to take his consciousness but he fought past it through sheer force of will. Why? He should just pass out. Maybe he would never wake. Someone led the horse away and left Range lying in the middle of a pool of light. Darkness surrounded him on all sides, and he saw no way out.

He was unable to make out anything but blurred figures and patches of hate huddled in the darkness. He attempted to stand, but his feet were bound too tightly, and he merely scrambled on the ground like a fish. Eventually he gave up. The silence of the area accosted his ears like a mad man drumming on his temples.

Someone speak! he yelled through a cracked, parched throat. His voice tumbled about the area and echoed out, falling to the ground.

Silence.

Are you afraid? he whispered.

Master, the thief has arrived, same smooth voice said.

So I see.  Lazerek’s voice crept from the shadows.

The only thief is a mage and his band of fools. His thieving bunch of Sicari, his lone adjutant, and his demon-conjurer, Range said quietly, but the sound carried in the large room. Range began to shake.

He carries himself well, considering his current state, said a strong and powerful voice.

He is a stubborn one. It will avail him naught.

Where is my family?  Range coughed out. He spit out a mouthful of blood that had risen from his throat.

Your wife and son are safe.

Where?

Suddenly Miriam and Mel were thrust into the light. Miriam stumbled and ended up on her knees. Their faces were huddled in the shadows. Mel looked at his father, tears streamed from his eyes.

My son, Range whispered. They were supposed to be safe. Zoë! Ooln help me! 

Father. Please save us, Mel pleaded. His nose was stuffy. He looked bigger than Range had remembered.

Miriam raised her head, and he saw she had a large bruise under her eye. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

My love. Who has done this? he demanded

It doesn’t matter, she said. I love you. Her face was torn in anguish. He felt tears flooding down his face. He wanted to reach out and touch her. He dropped his head to the stone floor.

Out of the darkness emerged the Osaban Priest. He seductively ran his hand up and down Miriam’s side.

Range pulled at his restraints.

Suddenly they were jerked from the light. A wicked chuckle floated from the darkness.

Bring them back! Range yelled and then degraded into a coughing fit. Suddenly he felt like his head was on fire. He got his hands under him and lifted his head from the ground. He peered into the darkness. He saw moving shadows. He knew he had a fever, a high one. His body was hot and unsteady.

You are quite demanding, thief. Your wife and son will live. However, do not think of them as your wife or your son any longer. From now on they belong to me, Lazerek said.

I will die before I allow that to happen. 

You will not. He sensed Lazerek shifting his attention to someone else. See that he is mended and taken care of. Soon we will have the Platen woman make her adjustments so that he is more conciliatory.

Yes Master. It will be as you say.

Range felt his stomach lurch and his bowels cool.  A Platen woman. All was indeed lost. There was no hope. His mind would not belong to him, and he would not remember Miriam and Mel. They would just be another stranger in the crowd. That could not be!

Rough hands grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him into a large squared yard. He made out men dressed in black, sparring in the distance. The clanking of swords and weapons echoed around the yard.

Range. Your alive! came a familiar voice.

Range looked about for the voice and behind him was Sterlin.

Sterlin. I am happy you are alive, he said, through his parched throat. What difference did it make if any of them were alive? They might as well already be dead.

Aye, we all are, came another voice just outside of his vision.

He turned further and spotted the rest of his men.

Cortibis, Rolin, Sterlin, Taelon and Nicky were roped together to a post. They all looked beaten and starved. Their eyes were hollowed out and their faces were full of cuts and bruises. They tied Range to the same post.

All the men were tied by rope around their wrists.  Rolin’s feet were also tied. The men’s wrists were tied above their head and the blood drained out, leaving arms numb. Their wrists were rubbed raw by the rope and it was too short to allow them to sit.

Where are Remmy and Garon?  Range asked.

The Prince has been taken to a different part of the compound.  Garon was killed at his home, Rolin said.

Range lowered his head. Everyone was dead or might as well be. How many more would have to perish because of that damnable Sword. He was furious at himself for not simply giving it up when he had the chance. What difference did that make now?  Everyone he cared about or loved was lost to him. All was lost. He should have just given the Sword to the king of Rommel and let him deal with it.

Sterlin, seeing the look on Range’s face said, All is not lost. Range, we are all still alive, and well. We will find a way out of here and take a long measure of our revenge.  

All is lost, Range said to his friends with his eyes closed. There was no one around them. He opened his eyes and saw one enormously well-built man discussing something with a group.  Range saw the mage’s adjutant step out from the shadows.

They have my family, and the Sword. 

What!  Nicky lunged. They were safe at her family’s home. How are they here?

The demon conjurer left a few of his lackeys about to watch us. They followed you when you left with Miriam and Mel. Once you left, they abducted them and brought them here.

Still, we shall rescue your family and make our way out, Sterlin said with an upbeat tempo in his voice.

All is lost, Range repeated. They also have a Platen woman who will wipe our minds clean. She will simply direct us to follow the vile Lazerek and we will do so, happily.

The group was silent. The Platen woman would make them all hard working minions of Lazerek. They would no longer be Range, Rolin, Nicky, Sterlin, Cortibis, or Taelon.

Nicky sighed the deepest. There must be a way out. We must find a way to be free!

Aye, and you will get your chance! came a strong voice from above them.

There stood Jahvel, the master of the School. He was the huge man Range had seen before.

The colleagues stood on shaky legs and looked at Jahvel in his splendor. He was a perfect physical specimen. His arms shot out of his jerkin in rippling taught muscles. His stance was one of haughtiness and promised action. The skin on his square face was stretched wrinkle free around his skull. He wore a strange vermilion helmet with a golden spire shooting from the top.

Speak your mind, tumasa, Rolin said.

Jahvel smiled at him. I will choose one of you to do battle with me. If he can defeat me in fair combat, he may go free.

Rolin lurched up against his bonds. Coward. He looks to kill one of us for sport.

Range moved to a sitting position, his ribs screamed.

Is this true, Jahvel? he asked of the large man.

Jahvel smiled. It was only on his mouth. For sport?  Nay, I wish to grant one of your men liberty. Is that not desirable?

Rolin stopped fighting against his ropes and glared at Jahvel. Chek Tu Sicka cho, tumasin! 

Jahvel looked at Rolin. What say you? Is that your native tongue?  Speak the common tongue here boy, or I may choose you. All of you are bereft of your lives anyway. Consider yourself dead.

Then pick, weak one, and whomever you choose shall battle valiantly, Sterlin said.

Jahvel walked back and forth for a moment. Range saw the adjutant of Lazerek in the background hiding in the shadows like a fungus. A group of Jahvel’s men had gathered about to watch the spectacle. The pale sun shone down, washing the yard it of its vividness. Range sat on the ground huffing as he tried to get into a better position to alleviate the pressure on his bones.

I select you, Jahvel pointed to Cortibis.

No!  Choose me, tumasa. Battle me or run to your mother. Coward!  Rolin raged at the man. Range had never seen Rolin in such a fit. It was for nothing. Why did the Zmarly continue? Did he not see it?

Jahvel walked over to Rolin and delivered an open handed slap. Rolin took the slap unflinchingly. His eyes never left Jahvel’s.

Bring the chosen one over here to fight! Jahvel said to one of his minions.

Range fought to keep his consciousness. The world spun around him like a crazed dancer. His dehydrated body and mind could not focus. The marrow from his broken rib had seeped into his blood and brought with it, confusion.

The men untied Cortibis while Rolin attempted to attack them. They dragged him into a patch of dirt, some sort of sparring area. His hands were freed and his captors backed off.  Cortibis rubbed his wrists trying to get feeling back into them. He looked up at Jahvel who stood at the far end of the sparring area.

Take your time. I shall wait, Jahvel said.

Do not fight him, Rolin pleaded. Come back over here and get re-roped.

Silence, Zmarly, or I will have you gagged, Jahvel commanded.

Rolin fought his bindings. Range had difficulty staying awake, but a moment of clarity opened his eyes.

Hold, Range yelled. Jahvel and Cortibis turned toward him. Hold yourself, Jahvel. This man was hired by me. He is a paid man and does not deserve to die for simply doing a job. Let him go. I will do battle with you.

Rolin lurched up. Fight me, coward. I spit on your mother!  He spat into the dirt. Jahvel faced Rolin; clearly on the verge of attacking him. He controlled himself and turned back toward Cortibis.

Let us do battle. I shall see why Ironstone hired you to protect him. Jahvel walked smoothly over to the center of the sparring square and positioned himself in a battle-stance.

Cortibis shook his head and stood straight.

 Do it, Cortibis, Sterlin yelled. Show him who has the perfect pugilistic performance!

Cortibis is dead. Rolin stared at the ground.

Jahvel moved like a leaf blowing in the wind. Yet, his movement was purposeful. Cortibis moved around, his limbs working out their kinks. He cracked his neck and began his own positioning. The two men circled each other like cats. Suddenly Jahvel was on the attack, but Cortibis ducked under his movement and punched him in the stomach forcefully. Jahvel spun with a vengeance and struck Cortibis across the cheek with a resounding slap.

They spun apart for a moment, but this time Cortibis came in with a forceful punch to the midsection of Jahvel. Jahvel easily blocked it with a downward fist and stepped back.

He is toying with him. This is an abomination, Rolin yelled across the field.

Cortibis stepped back again.

Defend only. It is your only chance, Rolin yelled to Cortibis. Do not attack, you will be punished.

Suddenly Jahvel lunged at Cortibis causing him to jerk back. As he fell back, Jahvel seemed to bend in the air and planted a foot into Cortibis’s head. Cortibis pitched backward into the sandy dirt. He rolled over and punched the sand with a fist.

Range lay on the ground watching from a horizontal position. The fight ebbed in and out as his consciousness came and went.

Nicky, Rolin, and Sterlin were all yelling. Taelon was watched in his tongueless silence.

Cortibis had gotten back up and prepared for another piece of the melee. Jahvel was not going to disappoint. As soon as Cortibis was up, Jahvel launched a spinning kick to his head. Cortibis was faster though and ducked just in time. He then punched into Jahvel’s kidneys on the turn around. The battle master let out an audible OOF! And spun back around.  

A large group of the school’s students had gathered by now. The area was silent except for the two men fighting.

Jahvel acknowledged the group of men and then nodded to Cortibis with respect.

Cortibis was clearly limbered up more now and more prepared to fight. He danced from side to side. His movements, however, looked like a doe just beginning to walk, when compared to flow of motion from the battle master.  

Here it comes, Rolin whispered.

Range looked at Rolin and to the fight. Was Jahvel really going to kill Cortibis for no more than sport? If Cortibis was killed, it was his fault. Cortibis had just become a baron. He had been taken from a mercenary to a baron in a matter of moment. Now he was about to become a dead baron and mercenary.

Jahvel dropped himself into a strange position. His elbows raised above the side of his head, standing on one leg.

Tumasa!  Are you wicked enough to use that form for all to see?  I spit on your father and your mother! Rolin spat viciously into the dirt.

Cortibis stood at the opposite end of the sparring area. Neither man moved. Cortibis had to be hungry, thirsty and tired from his ordeal, and it had to be taking its toll on him. He could not hold up much longer. 

Jahvel waited.

Cortibis breathed heavily.

Come and taste death, Jahvel beckoned.

Nay, Cortibis said through pants. Come and taste my fire.

Puny man, will you not end it?  I am allowing you a clean death. Much more merciful than undue battle.

Your tongue does more battle than your fists. Come. Let us be done with this. Fight before I get old. He took two steps toward Jahvel.

Indeed, let us be on with it, Jahvel said.

Cortibis had settled into a defensive stance, and at the same time Jahvel opened up his arsenal of battle moves. He punched and kicked Cortibis in every conceivable spot on his body. Cortibis was a piece of flotsam before the waves that crashed down upon him. After a few moments of the beatings, he tried to step back from the onslaught, but tripped and fell backwards. As he did, Jahvel swung out what was meant as the crushing blow but it hit air. Cursing, Jahvel made to jump on Cortibis, who rolled to the side. As