Hunt for Valamon

By DK Mok

When Prince Valamon is impossibly taken from the heart of Algaris Castle, the only clue as to motive or culprit is the use of unknown sorcery. Reclusive cleric Seris is happily tending to his book-infested temple until he finds himself recruited to the politically compromised rescue mission. His sole companion on the journey is Elhan, a cheerfully disturbed vagrant girl with terrifying combat skills and her own enigmatic reasons for seeking the prince. Venturing into the wild, unconquered lands, Seris has no fighting prowess, no survival skills, and no charisma, as Elhan keeps pointing out. Armed only with a stubborn streak and creative diplomacy, he must find a way to survive outlaw towns, enchanted tropical isles, and incendiary masquerades, all without breaking his vow to do no harm. Chasing rumours of rising warlords and the return of the vanished sorcerers, Seris and Elhan soon discover a web of treachery and long-buried secrets that go far beyond a kidnapped prince.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spence City
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781939392459

Book preview

heroes.

ONE

Change is a cunning thing. By the time you see it, hear it, quash it, you’re only stabbing at its shadow. Change itself has already slipped past, into your kingdom, crawled into your house, and put on your favourite pair of slippers.

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, change will welcome you home. But sometimes, change is a hungry thing.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

Valamon, crown prince of the Talgaran Empire, stared at the crisp speech in his hand. The rest of the castle lay deep in slumber, but in Valamon’s bedchamber the candle had burned down to a crater of wax.

There was nothing extraordinary about the speech, aside from the fact he’d finally been entrusted to deliver one. It was covered in copious notes from the royal speechwriter, including remember not to smile and look regal.

Valamon glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His dark hair kept falling into his eyes, and while he was reasonably tall, he had the inconspicuous build of a worried philosopher. Judging by the portraits in the banquet hall, looking regal involved brandishing a bloodied sword while crushing a corpse beneath your boot, which Valamon had always hoped was artistic embellishment.

Valamon wondered what would happen if he deviated from the script and told the crowd what he really thought of his father’s expansionist policies. It would probably involve a very high, very cramped tower with a deficiency in doors.

Still, Valamon was twenty-eight this summer, and something had to be done. He folded the speech into a small, intricate lotus and left it beside the dying candle.

When he looked up again, there was a contorted shape in his bedroom window, pressed against the glass. By the time Valamon lunged for his sword, it was already too late.

It was supposed to be an easy night. For the average castle guard, patrolling the royal quarters was the safest part of the duty-roster cycle. It involved infinitely fewer fatalities than the dreaded gatehouse duty, and it was significantly safer than guarding the treasury, the armoury, or the surprisingly hazardous kitchen. In fact, the only guard in the past fifty years to have died in the royal wing was Old Horricks, who had suffered a fatal case of Too Much Pudding. It should have been an easy night.

It was just gone one in the morning when the crash of breaking glass shrieked through the corridors. It wasn’t the kind of crashing that spoke of stumbling in the dark or too much to drink. It was the kind of heart-stopping, gut-wrenching noise that guards prayed wouldn’t happen on their shift. Especially just before retirement.

The first guard to reach the prince’s door could still hear the skittering of glass. Taking a deep breath, he crashed into the darkened room, prepared for the kind of fate that usually awaited generically uniformed henchmen. It took his eyes a few moments to register what his instincts were already screaming at him.

There was something in the window.

Hulking and misshapen, involving folds and folds of shadow. There were curves and angles that spoke of wings and membranes, talons and scales. In the depths of the silhouette, phosphorescent green eyes rippled like infernal flames.

A seemingly lifeless body was draped in its arms, barely recognisable as Prince Valamon, his skin almost translucent in the starlight. Desperately wishing he’d drawn kitchen duty instead, the guard gripped his sword and charged.

The creature gave a smile that included far too many teeth, and there was a hush like silk slithering over stone. The shadows bunched, and the creature leapt into the sprawling night, the prince still clutched in its arms.

The guard skidded to a stop at the window, leaning over the narrow ledge with a growing sense of nausea. The city was still sleeping, but tomorrow it would to wake to a world irrevocably changed.

At the Temple of Eliantora, it was an unholy hour in every sense of the word.

Dawn was still hours away when Seris woke to a loud knocking at the main doors. For a sleepy moment, still wisped in visions of glistening buffets and ominous skies, he was tempted to ignore it. Being a cleric of Eliantora was notoriously challenging, and one of the few perks was being able to honestly claim that sleeping in was a religious observance.

Seris blinked blearily at the starlit ceiling, knowing he wouldn’t fall back asleep. There was always a chance that the person at the doors was here for the most devastating possible reason, and Seris had seen enough of that to know he had to be there. There was also something about tonight’s knocking that suggested it would only get louder and possibly turn into a splintering noise.

Seris grizzled to himself as he padded through the cold, narrow hallway. At twenty-five, he was the youngest cleric in the order, and it fell to him to deal with the drunkards, the knock-and-runs, and the midnight emergencies. He occasionally found himself mildly resenting the fact that he’d probably remain the youngest member well into his sixties, although he mostly had these thoughts at four in the morning while trying to convince an intoxicated local that he couldn’t cure hangovers, especially while in a headlock.

The banging grew more insistent. Still grumbling, Seris swung open the door and narrowly avoided being punched in the face with an armoured fist. Fortunately, years of dealing with unpredictable visitors had given Seris good reflexes for someone who divided most of his free time between reading and sleeping.

The gauntlet stopped in mid-air, and Seris dragged his gaze from the fist to the woman attached to it. She was lightly armoured, in her mid-twenties, and had the air of someone whose job it was to clean up messy situations while looking effortlessly graceful. Her dark hair was pulled back and bound tightly down its length with a distinctive strip of red fabric. Seris recognised her as Lord Qara, Marquis of Corwen—she seemed to crop up regularly at ceremonies and parades, and when she was in charge of crowd control, people knew not to throw things unless they wanted those things thrown back at them with painful accuracy.

The fact that the marquis was here, on the doorstep, in the predawn murk was enough to make Seris nervous. This would have been the case even without the dozen royal guards flanking her. Qara calmly lowered her fist.

Seris, cleric of Eliantora. You have been summoned to the castle by His Royal Highness, Prince Falon, said Qara.

Is someone hurt? said Seris.

There was the briefest pause.

No, said Qara. Your presence has been requested.

The way she enunciated the word requested strongly implied that this request involved a dozen armed guards and, if necessary, a very large sack.

Seris was briefly tempted to refuse. If there was no injury, it was probably a visiting dignitary, curious to know if something could be done about a poorly placed mole or a receding hairline. Then again, Seris had a feeling the marquis did not make house calls for receding hairlines.

It was then that he noticed the expression in Qara’s eyes. Buried deep beneath the calm composure, behind layers of guarded sangfroid, Seris could see the ghost of something familiar.

He’d seen it before, in the face of the woman whose son wouldn’t stop bleeding. In the eyes of the man who’d walked for eight days with his dying daughter in his arms. In the achingly lost expression of the old man kneeling beside his wife, who wouldn’t wake up. They had all looked at him with that same expression.

Please do something.

The night sky was just beginning to blush rose on the horizon.

Let me get my coat, said Seris.

It was like an underworld.

Algaris Castle had been built centuries ago as a fortress, steadfastly withstanding sieges, wars, raids, and the occasional plague of wild elephants. The interior retained the design of a defensive fort, with winding stone stairwells, cavernous halls, strategic turrets, and massive curtain walls that shut out the world. It wasn’t the building, however, that gave the castle its grave air tonight.

Seris felt increasingly unsettled as he followed Qara through the twisting passageways. Every person scurrying past seemed stuck in some kind of personal hell, as though fearfully contemplating a horrible and uncertain fate.

It occurred to Seris that his own expression might appear similar, as he tried desperately to recall whether he’d done anything to offend the royal household recently, aside from not attending their public announcements. Seris wasn’t a fan of crowds or long speeches, but he was fairly certain this wasn’t treasonous.

Qara stopped at an iron-bound door and knocked once.

Enter, called a voice with a hint of a tired growl.

The spacious study was lined with broad desks, cluttered with territorial maps and strategically placed military tokens. Sconced lamps studded the walls at varying heights, casting disorienting shadows, which Seris suspected was the intended effect. An oak desk stood at the back of the room, polished to a soft sheen. Prince Falon sat behind it, looking as though he were casually waiting for an excuse to throw someone out of a window.

Falon was a few years younger than Prince Valamon, but his reputation preceded him like a tide. A confident, competent, and often rather angry tide. Seris had managed to avoid the younger prince until now, despite the man’s fondness for hunting, swordplay, and dangerous volumes of paperwork.

Falon looked up from his papers with the kind of expression that suggested he’d been expecting someone taller and without bed hair. Seris shifted uncomfortably as Qara stood to attention.

Presenting Seris, cleric of Eliantora, said Qara.

Falon swept his gaze critically over Seris.

You’re sure he’s the one?

He’s the youngest of them, said Qara.

Seris suddenly had the odd feeling that he was standing in a one-man line-up. Falon looked at Seris with a mixture of disdain and resignation.

So, you’re the sane one.

Qara gave what sounded like a reproachful cough.

Seris was, in fact, the sanest member of the Order of Eliantora. However, Eliantora wasn’t a popular deity, and she did have a fairly small following. Three, to be exact.

Does the castle require our services? said Seris.

Falon gave a humourless smile.

Prince Valamon was abducted tonight.

Seris’s first thought was Don’t laugh.

Seris’s second thought was Oh, gods, he’s serious.

Seris’s third thought involved the realisation that he hadn’t been called here to remove a fork from someone’s thigh. Although it was amazing, the stuff that went on in the kitchens.

Do you know who was responsible? asked Seris carefully.

There was sorcery involved, said Falon.

King Delmar was notoriously mistrustful of sorcery, to put it mildly, and its use was forbidden in the capital. It had required a great deal of urgent wrangling by Seris’s predecessors to convince the king that there was a distinct and meaningful difference between a sorcerer and a cleric. Seris hoped that Falon hadn’t come to an alternative conclusion.

You spend a lot of time in the temple, Seris, said Falon. It’s almost like a separate world in there, isn’t it?

Seris wasn’t sure why Falon was singling out the Temple of Eliantora. As far as temples went, it was very modest and not in particularly good repair. It was only a handful of cosy rooms and a small but productive garden, surrounded by rough, whitewashed walls. You certainly couldn’t hide a prince there, unless he happened to resemble a basket of potatoes.

The Temple of Eliantora serves the king, said Seris.

He felt this was a fairly safe answer.

Do you serve the king, Seris?

Seris interpreted this question to mean Do you want to stay alive?

Of course, said Seris.

We don’t see you at many public events, said Falon. One could easily assume that the clerics hold themselves somewhat separate from the rest of the empire.

Seris’s heart skipped several beats. Surely they hadn’t noticed one cleric missing from the crowd of thousands?

Seris glanced at Qara, who continued to gaze steadily ahead. He had the sudden feeling that perhaps it was her job to notice such things.

I, uh, have sensitive skin, said Seris. Too much sunlight—

And garlic? said Falon.

No! said Seris quickly. I mean, I have to meditate a lot. And the noise—

Seris suddenly wondered whether this was some kind of impromptu trial.

To whom do you swear allegiance, cleric of Eliantora? said Falon.

A distant memory stirred in Seris. The clash of shields. The roar of burning banners against a setting sun. And it didn’t matter which side you were on—all the dead looked the same.

Anyone who needs it, said Seris firmly. The sick, the wounded, the dying.

Falon’s gaze was needle-sharp.

You would give succour to an enemy of the empire?

What the hell, thought Seris. If I’m their prime suspect in the kidnapping, they’re in a lot more trouble than I am.

My oath is to the sick, the wounded, and the dying.

Falon looked steadily at Seris for a moment, then steepled his fingers.

Prince Valamon’s abduction has created a great deal of additional work. I would like you to assist Lord Qara with her duties, just for the next few days.

Seris blinked, wondering if he’d dozed off and missed a chunk of conversation.

A hero will be sent to recover Prince Valamon, continued Falon. This hero will be selected through a tournament to be held in three days’ time.

Wouldn’t it be better to send several heroes? Maybe even a battalion? said Seris.

Politics is complicated, isn’t it? Let’s just say the prince’s abduction has come at an exceptionally inconvenient time. With King Delmar and his troops occupied in the south, we can’t afford to send soldiers away from the capital.

Shouldn’t you at least send someone straight away?

Falon looked at Seris dourly.

Politics? said Seris.

Logistics. It will take some time for contestants to arrive. Three days is already quite short notice.

Seris knew he was treading on thin ice, but he couldn’t help giving it a tentative stomp.

The public might misconstrue these delays as a lack of motivation to recover the prince.

There was a frosty silence.

You mean, said Falon coolly, that the younger, more competent prince might feel that this is his chance to become heir to the throne?

I’m just saying that people talk.

Did you know that Prince Valamon was supposed to give a speech tomorrow? Now, not only will I have to give that speech, but I will have to amend it to explain how the Crown Prince of Talgaran managed to get himself kidnapped from his bedroom, in the castle keep, in the heart of Algaris, capital of the Talgaran Empire. Falon pressed his fingers to his temples. And just so you’re aware, I don’t need to get rid of Prince Valamon. It was decided long ago that he will never be king. In a year or so, Prince Valamon will join the Order of Fiviel, and I will become the heir apparent.

Does Prince Valamon want to join the Order of Fiviel?

Prince Valamon wants pancakes for breakfast, said Falon. Anything beyond that is a bit much for him.

There was another sharp cough from Qara. Falon sighed and shot her a tired look before turning back to Seris.

And no, we’re not just sending one person. You’ll be accompanying the hero on their quest.

Seris wasn’t sure whether to laugh or gasp, and he ended up making a noise like he was regurgitating an eggplant through his nose.

But I’m not—I can’t—

We could send Petr or Morle, said Falon casually. But Lord Qara recommended you.

Seris took a slow, deep breath. They wouldn’t dare send Petr, the elder cleric of Eliantora. The poor man barely knew where he was these days and had probably forgotten who he was quite some time ago. Petr whiled away most of his hours in the vegetable patch out the back, happily tending to his remarkably therapeutic potatoes. Petr’s potatoes always bartered well with the locals, but the man needed help putting on his shoes in the morning.

And Seris would be damned if they tried to send Morle. The temple was her sanctuary, as it had been Seris’s.

I’m sure the clerics of Thorlassia would be better equipped for such an assignment, said Seris coldly.

We both know the clerics of Thorlassia can’t do what you can do.

Whereas the clerics of Fiviel were rather good at poultices and medicinal broths, Seris was of the opinion that the popular clerics of Thorlassia were mostly good at wearing fashionable robes and selling accessorisable amulets.

Eliantora, despite her flaws, was the only deity who actually granted her clerics the gift of healing. Assuming you survived her eccentricities.

You’re asking me to follow your hero around like a regenerating medicine kit? said Seris.

There may not be many of you, but the clerics of Eliantora still command a great deal of respect. To send one with our hero gives people confidence that we are doing all we can to recover the prince.

Politics.

You should probably catch what sleep you can before Lord Qara summons you. I imagine things are about to get quite busy for you.

Several of the lamps in the study had burned out, and Falon sat hunched at the desk, flipping through piles of parchment.

He’s trying to kill me, said Falon. Assassination by aneurism.

I doubt those were his foremost thoughts while being abducted, said Qara.

Of all the stupid, asinine, idiotic— Falon struggled with an internal avalanche of adjectives. They probably just tossed a toffee apple into a sack and he crawled in after it. It’ll probably take him a day or two before he even realises he’s been kidnapped.

Your Highness, it might be best to leave that kind of speculation alone.

The townsfolk will be saying it tomorrow anyway. Qara, do we still have that thing where we hang people for making jokes about the royal family, or did we get rid of that?

We still have it, but we try not to use it.

Post up a notice, reminding people we still might.

Valamon regained consciousness surrounded by a spread of stars, cold sparkling lights above and below. Frozen air screamed past, and it took him a few moments to realise that the lights below him were from the city. Or, at least, a city.

He was vaguely aware of a hulking shape gripping him with more limbs than he was comfortable with, but as he looked blurrily at the distant lights below, he decided he probably shouldn’t struggle until they were ten thousand feet lower. At any rate, he was finding it difficult to breathe. His thoughts trailed away from him, and at some point, he passed out again.

After what seemed like a long haze of dark and tearing cold, Valamon became aware of a gradual deceleration, and then a sudden cloud of warm air and light. The creature released its grasp, and Valamon slid across rough flagstones. When he finally rolled to a stop, Valamon continued to lie quite still. He’d observed that carnivorous birds were less likely to bash their prey repeatedly against a rock if they thought the meal was already dead.

In the silence, Valamon opened his eyes a slit. Torches burned in iron brackets, illuminating a sizeable castle hall. Cobwebs draped the rafters, and narrow cracks in the walls spilled with emerald moss. The creature hulked between Valamon and a large, crumbling window, its back to him.

The flickering torchlight revealed a horribly fused mess of human, hippogriff, and harpy, with eyes and limbs and wings in all the wrong places. As he watched, it seemed to draw in on itself, like blood pooling back into a wound. Black folds rippled and fell around the creature, until all that remained was the cloaked figure of a woman.

If you’re pretending to be unconscious, you should close your eyes, said the woman, not turning around.

Sorcerer.

The word raked icy claws through Valamon. His father had drummed into him the conviction that sorcerers were dangerous, unpredictable, and liable to have unpleasant senses of humour. Valamon quickly reassessed his likely fate and decided that he was probably about to become a key ingredient in some unholy blood sacrifice. However, he refused to rule out the optimistic possibility that she was a lonely, evil sorcerer wanting to learn more about humanity, and somehow Valamon could earn her respect and turn her towards the forces of good.

However, as the woman turned to fix burning green eyes on Valamon, he conceded that it was probably going to be blood sacrifices. The woman crouched beside him with a smile that made his blood abandon his extremities.

This is going to be so much fun, said the woman.

Valamon had the distinct feeling that the woman’s idea of fun was violently different to his idea of fun, and that her idea of fun was probably fairly similar to his idea of gruesome.

Maybe we could discuss some kind of compromise, said Valamon quickly.

His gaze skittered around the hall, taking in a long table, several chairs, and a large wooden door, which seemed unnecessarily far away.

The woman gave a soft, throaty laugh.

I don’t think anything you say could save you now. But you’d have to speak to the person in charge.

The person—

The door slammed open, and a bear of a man strode into the hall, dressed in battered plate armour. He looked to be in his late forties, built like a warhorse, and knotted with faded scars.

Lady Amoriel, he said sharply.

The woman stood up, delicately dusting off her robes with an ingenuous smile.

He was like that when I found him. Amoriel swept a slender arm towards Valamon. General Barrat, Crown Prince Valamon.

Valamon rose tentatively to his feet, and Barrat looked at him with the same expression he might wear if he’d just stepped in something inconvenient.

You found him like that? said Barrat sceptically.

Just like that.

No armour. No shoes. Did you drag him from the bath or something?

Amoriel shrugged carelessly. Valamon was dressed in a cotton nightshirt and sleeping trousers, which he suddenly decided were inappropriately thin for mixed company.

General Barrat, would you be the person in command? said Valamon.

No. And I don’t think you want to meet Lord Haska looking like tha—

The door to the hall slammed open.

An armoured figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, and silence seized the room. Lord Haska strode towards them like a pillar of dark fire, moving with unshakeable purpose.

The first thing Valamon noticed was the armour. It wasn’t Talgaran, and it was nothing like the flimsy plate and crooked chain that were churned from the smithies these days. This was carefully crafted from plates of bronze and steel, meshed with flexible leather guards, bearing crests he didn’t immediately recognise. The armour looked as though it had been handed down through generations, accumulating as much history as its occupant.

The second thing Valamon noticed was the grotesque steel half-mask shadowed beneath the helm. The mask completely covered the right side of the wearer’s face and depicted a stylised visage howling with rage.

The last thing Valamon noticed was the armoured fist as Haska punched him hard across the face, sending him crashing onto the flagstones.

Valamon, said Haska.

She said his name like a warning, like a malevolent welcome, like a message of blood carried across the centuries. Growing up in Valamon’s family, he wasn’t a stranger to being struck about the head, but he’d never been hit like that. It was like being smashed in the face with the flat of a battleaxe, and his hand came away wet with red.

That’s so you know I’m not afraid to hurt you, said Haska.

Valamon had actually been acutely aware since childhood that people weren’t afraid to hurt him. One of his earliest memories was of his nursemaid being dragged from the dining hall after serving him poisoned soup. Although he’d tried to reassure everyone that he hadn’t eaten any of the dish, they’d all bemoaned the incident as a contributing factor in his apparent shortcomings. For months afterwards, the screams of his nursemaid stabbed through his dreams, although one of the only words he’d understood was spawn.

Valamon managed to rise to his feet, fairly certain he’d be reintroduced to the floor.

We’re not going to sit down and discuss this like civilised people, said Haska. I cannot be reasoned with, bribed, threatened, or seduced. Any attempt to do the above will result in your stay being even more brief and unpleasant than I already intend it to be.

Valamon decided that his best course of action was to say nothing and to concentrate on breathing quietly through his mouth.

Haska looked at Valamon with what he could only describe as mortal enmity.

General Barrat, take the prince to his cell.

TWO

Seris was ready to crawl under a rock and die in an accusatory manner. To the general population, it was a mild day, with a barley-scented breeze drifting in from the outlying fields. To a sun-sensitive cleric, who’d been sitting outdoors from dawn until dusk for the past three days, it was an exhausting, searing day beneath an unforgiving sun.

Falon’s speech had gone pretty much as expected, and news of Valamon’s abduction had been received with a mixture of fear, horror, amusement, and apathy. News of the tournament and the hero’s quest had been greeted with significantly more interest, particularly the part about the reward. Ten thousand pieces of gold, a plot of prime land, the gratitude of the king, and the title Champion of the Realm. Every barkeep, stable hand, and half-reformed street thug who fancied themselves an adventurer had flocked to sign up.

Seris drooped behind the sign-up table, willing the sun to sink faster into the hills. He slid another full page of names into his wooden tray, drawing another blank sheet from the endless pile. Sitting beside him, Qara studiously organised the names into groups and schedules for the three tournament challenges. It was late afternoon, but a dense crowd remained in the castle forecourt, milling around the specially constructed stand.

Seris rather uncharitably suspected that Qara’s refusal to erect an awning was a ploy to force him into drawing his hood over his face. Certainly, having a mysteriously hooded cleric of Eliantora sitting beside the marquis added a mystical flair to the proceedings. Seris wondered what Qara would have done if he’d insisted on wearing a sombrero instead.

The mood of the crowd shifted suddenly, and Seris squinted towards a commotion across the forecourt. Every new arrival had been greeted with jeers or cheers or the occasional shoe, but this time a taint of hostility spread through the crowd, like rumours before a riot. Mutters snaked from mouth to mouth, and abruptly, Seris caught a word. It was a word you couldn’t miss, a word you wouldn’t use, and it slapped through the air like the first stone.

Without warning, Qara’s hand darted out and grabbed Seris’s robe. In the same motion, she pushed out of her seat and yanked Seris backwards, pulling him away from the stand. Seris caught the briefest glimpse of an overhead shadow before a burly man crashed from nowhere onto the sign-up table, splintering it into kindling.

The suddenly silent crowd drew back, forming a nervous space around a young woman with dark hair.

Anyone else have something to say? said the dark-haired woman.

It was difficult to tell her age, although at a guess she was a few years younger than Seris. Maybe eighteen. Her ragged tunic and trousers resembled mutilated potato sacking wrapped in copious amounts of raw twine. Her short hair was irregularly hacked, as though cut by an opponent during battle. The woman lashed a smile across the watching faces, sending shivers through Seris. He imagined she’d wear a similar smile if your entrails were splattering over her feet.

The woman approached the remains of the desk and stopped in front of Seris.

I’m here to sign up.

Seris glanced nervously at Qara, who was staring at the woman with a tense, calculating expression, her sword half-drawn. If the blade came all the way out, you knew you were in trouble. Seris scooped up a rumpled sign-up sheet and looked helplessly at the broken ink pots smashed around the prone man.

Um, I’ll just need to get some—

Seris stared as the woman carefully dipped her quill into a spatter of fresh blood on the flagstones. Reaching across to the piece of parchment, she inscribed several neat words before tucking the quill into Seris’s sleeve. He stood perfectly motionless, staring at the bloody writing.

Aren’t you going to heal him, cleric of Eliantora? said the woman.

I, uh, we…

The woman continued staring at him, and there was something disturbing about her eyes, as though there were things crawling behind them.

Sure, yes, said Seris. We’ll patch him up. Thank you for signing up.

The woman dragged her gaze lazily around the whispering crowd before sauntering from the forecourt, the mob parting as though around a cart of bubonic corpses. Qara took the sign-up sheet from Seris and looked at the name printed in sticky red, her expression turning stony.

Elhan del Gavir.

That’s why we don’t have an awning, said Qara.

Seris didn’t usually frequent the city’s bars, but tonight he needed the noise. It had been a very long three days, and it had ended with rather more excitement than he cared for. Healing the wounded man had also been extremely draining. The internal bleeding in particular had been…tricky.

Seris laid his head on the sticky table, closing his eyes as he clutched his glass of cold lemon water. Mutterings, exclamations, and the occasional axe bounced around the tables, but almost all the conversations were about the same thing.

The Kali-Adelsa is here.

They say she’s crossed the borders from beyond the annexed lands, in breach of the king’s ban… came a hushed voice from a crowded table.

"Even the Kali-Adelsa wouldn’t break the

Reviews for Hunt for Valamon

[stefferoo · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Hunt for Valamon was recommended to me by a friend, and it is the first novel I’ve ever read from Australian fantasy author D.K. Mok. I didn’t know much about the book when I picked it up so I had no idea what to expect, but I have to say, I came out of it feeling quite impressed.Valamon is the oldest son of King Delmar but was never meant to inherit the throne, due to the fact most people consider him to be a simpleton. However, that doesn’t stop all hell from breaking loose when the prince is kidnapped, sparking a frantic search for a noble champion to help rescue him. They end up with Elhan, a spirited and strong young woman whose skills are unparalleled when it comes to the deadly arts of combat. Unfortunately, she’s also cursed and very likely insane.As if that weren’t enough, accompanying Elhan on the quest to find Valamon is Seris, a humble priest and healer with absolutely no fighting or survival skills whatsoever. Oh, and he’s also hindered by a ton of ridiculous rules imposed on him by his religious order. Despite being polar opposites, Seris and Elhan must nonetheless learn to cooperate as they set out together for the wilderness, embarking on a long and unpredictable journey to bring home a lost prince and prevent a bloody war.It’s probably safe to categorize this novel as epic fantasy, but I was also pleasantly surprised to discover how different it felt from most books in that subgenre. The language is perhaps the most obvious thing that sets it apart. At times the narrative will feel decidedly modern, and characters will frequently use phrases and terms common in our everyday parlance. It is completely at odds with the fantasy setting, but there’s also no doubt at all this was done intentionally. The stylistic choice might not be for everyone, that’s true; but it does mean a lot of opportunities for humor, more so than you would find in other high fantasy works. So if you like a funny side to your epic fantasy, this just might be the book for you.The characters are another factor which makes this book so enjoyable. Seris and Elhan are the main focus of the story, of course. Friendship eventually blossoms between them, but their differences in the beginning are marked by clashes and thorny interactions, giving rise to no small number of amusing scenes. But Valamon, the kidnapped prince and objective of their quest, is also a point-of-view character whose perspective adds much to the tale. It is interesting to me that Valamon’s personality and demeanor, along with how others in the book see him, strongly suggests Asperger’s or a similar kind of autism spectrum disorder, and one of the major themes is how everyone feels he is unfit to rule when in reality, the troubled prince is actually much wiser and more perceptive than he lets on.Other side characters include Valamon’s younger brother Falon, who is the one actually being groomed to rule, as well as Qara, the princes’ childhood playmate who grew up to become a royal confidante and protector. The so-called villains of the novel, the ones who stole Valamon away, also played a big role. The tension created by this balance in perspectives was a good way to show all sides of the conflict and make the book exciting. The story was reasonably well-paced and quite engaging.The plot and dialogue could probably benefit from a bit of fine polishing, but otherwise I thought this was a fun read that offered quite a few surprises. Hunt for Valamon is refreshing and unique, highly recommended for fantasy readers looking for an adventurous journey. I had a lovely time with D.K. Mok’s humorous and down-to-earth style. It’s also worth mentioning that this was my first introduction Spence City Books and it is great being able to put both a new author and an independent publisher on my list to check out in the future.