Read Online Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) by MJ Blehart - Free Book Online
Authors: MJ Blehart
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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 had 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 present once 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
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 had 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 present once 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
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