The Blind King (10 page)

K
al proved to be
an eager student, and he absorbed the information quite well. With the help of
his manservant, Efren had already studied the topic of potion creation and sent
a stack of notes to aid in Kal’s training. Arden found himself fascinated by
the Enlightened Elves and helped Kal to adopt their mannerisms.

“These elves seem an arrogant bunch,” the duke
commented.

“Their sailors aren’t so bad,” Kal replied. “I
mean, they do consider themselves our superiors, but they can be friendly
enough. I admit I’ve never met any of their sorcerers.”

“All of these illustrations show them scowling—the
men at least. There are no pictures of their women.”

“I doubt we’d find them attractive,” Willem cut
in. “Still, they’d be more interesting to look at than these books.” Willem had
not found the studying particularly exciting. None of the books had offered
information on magical armies. The closest he had found were rules of dueling
between sorcerers. It was unlikely Na’zora’s mages would be using any of those.

For days, Kal studied the king’s notes on potion
making. Most of them centered on magic restoration potions for humans, but some
of them spoke of remedies, antidotes, and potions that would increase a
soldier’s vigor. Kal wondered if losing its potion supplier had cost Na’zora
more than just its mages’ fighting abilities.

He spent so many hours poring over the material
that he almost believed he could truly craft these potions. Most of the
ingredients were unavailable in Ra’jhou, but he did practice using a mortar and
pestle to crush various leaves, funneling flour into vials as if it were a delicate,
magical ingredient, and eyeing his mixtures closely to make it seem he was
being meticulous. He doubted any Na’zoran would be able to tell he wasn’t actually
crafting potions.

He prepared a satchel full of various brightly colored
powders and leaves. Among them was a large vial of arsenic that he had tinted
pale blue. On the vial, he marked a rune similar to a symbol he had seen in his
studies. This vial was the most important item he would carry. If it was lost,
he had no way of carrying out his task.

When he finally felt he was ready, he approached
General Willem. “I’ve learned all I can,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Willem nodded approvingly. “There is a lightly
guarded camp to the southwest where I believe you’ll have your best chance of
entering without a fight. You won’t be able to travel on horse when you get
close. In all those books, I saw nothing about sorcerer elves on horses.”

Kal could not recall talk of horses on the Isles
either. Still, he would be able to ride the majority of the way. He would need
to walk only the last few miles.

General Willem presented Kal with the clothing he
would need to wear. The king’s personal tailor had crafted a dark green robe
based on the illustrations Arden had supplied him. The cloth had to be
expensive, as the poorer elves were not allowed to study magical arts. They
were given the more mundane tasks and permitted to perform only the simplest
spells. If he was to present himself as a skilled potion maker, he would have
to look the part.

It was a few days’ ride to the campsite, and Kal traveled
alone. Companionship was impossible on a mission of such secrecy. The silence
made each day drag on, and he found it difficult to sleep at night. Every time
he closed his eyes, the same scene played over and over. He was crafting the
poison that would rid Ra’jhou of its magical enemies. Each time, he was
discovered before he could finish, and the guards would drag him away. He would
wake just as their hands touched him, and he would have to shake the uneasy
feeling the dream had given him.

If he succeeded in this mission, he would return a
hero. Assuming he was able to return. The plan was to craft the potions and see
that they were sent off before slipping out in the middle of the night.
Hopefully he would be long gone before anyone discovered what he had done.

Finally Kal arrived within three miles of the
camp. He dismounted the horse and rubbed its nose to say farewell. Turning it
back toward Ra’jhou, he swatted its flank. Kal watched it run away for only a
moment before beginning the final leg of his journey. It was now just a matter
of steps between him and his enemy.

Kal felt confident in his abilities as he slipped inside
the Na’zoran encampment. The task had been surprisingly easy. It seemed they
weren’t expecting anyone to walk into their camp alone. An army would have
certainly drawn their attention, but one solitary “elf” drew no attention at
all.

Kal stood perfectly erect, holding his head high
in the air. With confidence he strode to the nearest guard.

“Who goes there?” the man asked, eyeing Kal
suspiciously.

“A friend,” he replied, speaking with his
Ral’nassan accent. “I hear you are in need of a potion maker, and I’ve come to
offer my services.”

The guard nodded and grinned. “I was told to
expect you.”

A chill ran down Kal’s spine. How could this man
be expecting him? Neither the king nor the general had made mention of sending
word ahead to fool the guards. He swallowed hard and remained silent.

“Follow me,” the guard said.

With little other choice, Kal followed. Running
would only increase suspicion. Perhaps a patrol had spotted him, and that was
what the guard had meant by expecting him. He resisted the urge to panic and
flee, but his heart was pounding in his chest as he walked behind the armed man.

The guard led Kal inside a tent where men were
gathered around a map table. “I’ve brought an elf for you, Lieutenant,” the
guard said, grinning.

Lieutenant Jak looked Kal up and down before
waving to dismiss the guard. “So you’re the elf we’ve been waiting for. Come to
make some potions for us, have you?”

“I have,” Kal replied, standing tall with false
confidence.

Without another word, Jak drew his sword and
slashed open Kal’s midsection. Kal crumpled to his knees, grasping at his
wound.

Jak leaned down, raising Kal’s chin with his
finger. “King Tyrol sends his regards. Your plan has failed.” With a second
swipe of his sword, Jak removed Kal’s head. Turning to the soldier on his
right, he said, “Get a message to the king that the matter has been dealt with.
The princess, it seems, was telling the truth.”

O
ne week later
as King Efren sat in council, a messenger burst through the doors. His
expression was somber as he placed a rolled message in the First Advisor’s hands.
Bowing low to his king, he exited the room without a word.

Arden stared at the letter in his hands, failing
to find his voice. After several moments, he finally spoke. “Majesty, it is a
message from our enemy. It would seem Kal has been slain.”

“Read me the letter,” Efren replied, his face
showing no emotion.

“To King Efren of Ra’jhou, I send you back your
servant. His attempt to poison my mages has failed, and I will soon sit upon
your throne. Regards, King Tyrol of Na’zora.”

Efren drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out.
How could things have fallen apart so quickly? What had given Kal’s identity
away? This was a bitter defeat.

Ryshel sat at her husband’s side and maintained
her silence. In her heart, she could already guess what had happened, and she
intended to get to the bottom of it. Patiently she waited while the men
discussed other matters of war. Once they had finished, she rushed down the
stone corridor to confront Aubriana.

Throwing open the door to her chambers, Ryshel
stepped inside. “You gave away my husband’s plan,” she said accusingly. “Admit
it.”

Aubriana lay unmoving upon her bed, her arm laying
across her eyes to block out the light from her window. Her mind had been in
torment since sending the message to King Tyrol, but she still felt as if there
had been no other choice. “Yes,” she replied in a whisper. “I admit it.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Ryshel demanded.
“You have ruined what little chance we had for survival!” She was visibly angry
to the point of shaking. All of her nightmares might now come true, thanks to
the interference of the woman she had pitied and pledged to help.

Aubriana slowly sat up to look at Ryshel. Her eyes
were red, her face pale, and her golden hair was in disarray. “I did it only to
save my son. I hoped to prove my loyalty to Na’zora.” Tears streamed down her
face as she looked away.

Ryshel halted a moment, pitying the grieving
mother. Would she have done the same for one of her children? Could she trade
the lives of an entire kingdom to save one child? “You may have doomed us all,”
she said. “You owe your brother an explanation.”

Aubriana nodded slowly and found her way onto her
feet. Two maidservants helped her dress, and she walked beside Ryshel to the
throne room.

“Your Majesty,” Ryshel said. “Your sister has come
to bring you news. You will want to hear what she has to say.” She took her
place in the seat next to her husband.

Aubriana fell to her knees before her brother.
“Forgive me,” she begged through her tears. “I have betrayed you.”

Confused, Efren asked, “What have you done?”

Though choking on her words, she managed to say,
“I sent word to Na’zora of your plan. I wanted them to think me loyal so they
would no longer suspect me or my son of wrongdoing. Forgive me.” She buried her
head in her hands and wept. “I did it for my son,” she said between sobs.

“Sister, you have traded the lives of my children
for your own child’s sake,” he said quietly. “Na’zora will not spare my family
when they arrive, and I doubt they will ever allow you to return there.” He
could hear her distress, but he felt no sympathy. His own sister had cost him
everything.

Aubriana continued to weep. “I know it was folly,”
she replied. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“How did you come across the information?” he
demanded. “I told no one but Arden, Kal, and Willem.”

“I sent a servant to listen in,” she admitted.
“The girl is innocent. She only wished to please her mistress. Please do not
punish her. You may do as you wish with me.” Doubting that any punishment could
be worse than the life she was currently living, she resigned herself to her
fate.

“What punishment is fitting for such a crime?”
Efren asked, mostly to himself. This was his own sister who had betrayed him,
and her betrayal might cost him his life. Execution would be the punishment for
anyone else, but could he truly sentence his own sister to death? The idea was
unthinkable.

“You shall be confined to your chambers,” he said.
“I will have to decide on a fitting punishment.” He waved his hand to dismiss
her, and she backed away. In truth, there was no punishment that could match
her crime. Her actions might mean the end of Ra’jhou and everyone who Efren
loved. Nothing could possibly make up for that.

Fearing what her husband might ultimately decide,
Ryshel pleaded with him on the princess’s behalf. “My love,” Ryshel said. “I
know her crime is severe, but I do understand her love for her son. She has
suffered greatly since she was sent away from him, and I do not believe she is
in her natural state of mind. Surely she did not realize the consequences of
her actions.”

“What would you have me do?” he asked. “Should I
just forget about it? Do I give her the freedom to betray me a second time?”

“No,” she replied. “I would only ask you to be
merciful. She has suffered much, and she is ill.”

Efren shook his head. “I have no intention of
executing my sister,” he stated flatly. “I am not unfeeling, and I know she
suffers. Still, I cannot allow her the opportunity to betray us again. She must
be placed under guard at all times.”

“You are a wise and merciful king,” Ryshel said,
laying a hand on his arm.

“Summon the war council,” Efren said to Arden. “We
must revisit our plans. Our efforts to contain the mages have failed, and we
must decide what to do next.”

Arden bowed and hurried away to carry out the
king’s command. Ryshel escorted her husband to the council chambers to await
the others. Once everyone was assembled, he informed them of Aubriana’s
treachery.

“We may all die as a result,” he stated. It was
time to devise a new plan if his kingdom was to survive.

K
ing Tyrol
convened a meeting of his most trusted lieutenants. He was pleased that the
situation with Ra’jhou’s fake potion maker had been dealt with swiftly and
cleanly. There had been no chance for him to harm any of the mages. Had such a
plan succeeded, Tyrol’s victory might have been in jeopardy. A vast portion of
his resources had gone into training and supplying the mages. Now that he had
no potion supplier, it was time to escalate the action. Otherwise, he might not
have enough potions stored to see them through to the end.

“I have called you
men here today to discuss preparations for a siege,” he explained. “I know it
isn’t anyone’s favorite type of warfare, but it is a necessary thing when your
enemy is holed up in a castle, fearing for his life.”

“We’ll need to make
sure supply lines are protected from our border all the way through Ra’jhou,”
one of the men suggested. “It might not be an easy task. It will take a large
portion of our troops.”

“Nonsense,” the
king said dismissively. “Ra’jhou’s army grows smaller and weaker by the day. We
can post scouts to look for any sign of our enemy’s movement along the line and
send troops when necessary.”

“In that case,
Majesty, we should use a portion of our forces to construct a wall around our
camp. We wouldn’t want Ra’jhou flanking us.”

“That is unlikely
as well,” the king replied. “By the time we’ve reached the castle, all of their
cities and villages will be under Na’zoran control. Whoever is left alive will
be inside that castle. There won’t be anyone left to flank us.”

The men looked
around at each other, waiting for the next suggestion to be made. It was clear
that Tyrol had an answer for everything, and their input wasn’t truly needed.

“Is there nothing
else?” the king asked, surprised. “It seems I don’t have the best military
minds in front of me after all.” Tyrol waited a few minutes, but none of the
men spoke up. “Very well,” he said. “I will need one of you to determine where
Ra’jhou is getting their supplies. We must put an end to it now before they can
stockpile a vast amount of goods. We wouldn’t want the siege becoming overly
long.”

A red-bearded man
said, “We’ve already taken out their central city where much of their grain is
produced, so that should be a good start. We need to find where they get their
meat.”

“I have heard tales
that they let their cattle roam the mountainside,” a blond-haired man stated.
“That would involve going behind the castle.”

Tyrol tapped his
fingers against the arm of his chair. “We can’t risk going around the castle.
They are not so weak that they can’t defend themselves if we get too close. We
will have to forget about the cattle for now. Meat won’t last long in a siege
anyway.”

“We currently have
no siege engines,” a younger man said. “Is there time to construct such
things?”

“We must begin
immediately,” the king replied. “I want every able-bodied citizen building
catapults, towers, and at least one battering ram. We’ll also need as many
extra horses as we can find. I don’t want my troops using all of their energy
moving things about.”

“Your Majesty,” the
red-bearded man said, “there is not enough wood to build more than two or three
of these items at best.”

King Tyrol slammed
his hand against the table. “There is a vast forest on our doorstep! Cut it
down!” He shook his head in frustration. “I swear, I’m surrounded by idiots,”
he muttered. “Do as I’ve commanded, and do not let me see your faces again
until I have at least five catapults prepared to move out. Their construction
is our top priority. I expect work to be done around the clock!”

With those words,
the men stood and bowed to their king. They eagerly scampered away to carry out
his orders. Tyrol watched them walk away and huffed. He missed the old days of
battle when he rode with brave leaders. Those men were all gone now. In their
stead, he had these wretches, who knew little of battle. When his history was
written, Tyrol was determined to include how he single-handedly planned
everything. Credit for Na’zora’s success would be his alone.

Within days, the
entire kingdom had ceased to produce anything other than timber. Even the artisans
were enlisted to chop and haul wood. The forests surrounding Na’zora, which
once stood beautiful and serene, were now wastelands of stumps and burnt foliage.
Tyrol did not care.

As the first of his
catapults was brought into view of his palace, he looked upon it in amazement.
Stepping out into the courtyard, he ran his hands over the smooth wood which
had been sanded to perfection. “This is a thing of beauty,” he commented.

The engineer
responsible for its design bowed before the king. “It’s an honor to serve,” he
said.

“Load it,” the king
demanded. “I would test it to be sure it works.”

“Of course, Your
Majesty,” the man said.

A handful of
servants were enlisted to position the device, and a boulder was rolled in to
load in the bucket. Once it was ready, the king himself pulled the lever,
releasing the stone toward the ocean. It flew with marvelous speed, and the
king clapped his hands as it splashed into the water.

“Excellent!” he
cried. “Simply excellent!”

The engineer dipped
his head and placed his hand over his heart, taking pride in a job well done. “Your
armies will lay the finest siege N
ō
l’Deron has ever seen,” he declared.

“Indeed we will,”
Tyrol replied. “I shall be remembered for the scale of it as well. Tell me, how
many of these could we have prepared in a month?”

“At our current
pace, I believe we could have a dozen, Your Majesty.” The engineers estimate
was generous, considering production of all other goods needed for war,
including food, were at an all-time low.

“See to it then,”
the king replied. “I will rain chaos upon Ra’jhou!”