The towers resemble in style those of the ruins that the travelers had passed by and through, save that these towers are, on the whole, fully intact, only covered in creeper vines and showing some slight signs of decay and erosion. The larger mystery of the towers comes from the fact that the higher levels have doors and entrances yet no visible means of accessing them from the ground.
Alastor brings them to a large building in the center of the town, an inn from the looks of it, with a man wearing a grey cloak waiting just outside it. Alastor dismounts, gesturing for the others to do so also. Alastor and the grey cloaked man embrace like old friends, talking in hushed tones to one another. Although dusk has closed in around them, with only the faint light of the moon and the light of the inn to illuminate, this could not hide the fact that this cloaked man is strange to say the least. He stands nearly a full foot taller than Alastor and, although hooded, what is visible of his face seems different in an indescribable way. It is these things that keep the trio on their animals. Alastor takes notice of this.
“Your Highness, you and your companions may dismount now. We are safe here.”
They do so with the utmost caution. Morion steps forward, as do the bards, unsure of what to expect. The man bows reverently and motions for them to enter the inn. At that moment the inn doors open and two women, dressed in similar garb as the man, emerge. They, with kind faces, take the animals to the stable at the side of the inn. Alastor also motions for them to enter first. They do.
Many is the number of things which is to be seen within the inn, but the first and most prominent is an entire smorgasbord which has, presumably, been prepared for them, with plates and silverware and wine already set. Morion, Cale and Amy take the seats prepared for them, ready to eat their fill, looking around in fascination at the inn as they do so. The walls are painted delicately by the hand of an unbridled master with scenes of the various forests and cities of the Old Kingdom. Alastor and the tall, cloaked man come in soon after. Alastor is placed across from Morion, but no plate is before him. The tall man signals to someone in the kitchen beyond, and another woman comes bearing a large platter of roasted meats and vegetables made especially for Alastor. What is special about this food cannot be determined. Morion looks up from her plate just as the woman sets the platter down and unintentionally finds herself staring at her hands. The thumb and last finger on the servant woman’s hands look almost identical, set on the side of the hand and of near equal length as the rest of the fingers. When the woman finally walks away, Morion looks up at Alastor wide eyed. Alastor smirks and makes a dismissive wave of his hand.
Once finished eating, the two women who had taken care of the animals return, and are joined by the third which brought Alastor’s food. The cloaked man also returns. Standing at the head of the table, he speaks.
“Honored guests, we shall now show you to your rooms, but do not think that in your rooms you must remain. As it is still early, feel free to wander about the inn, where on every floor you will find many works of art, unseen by the eyes of men and women for many a year, that in truth rival those already seen here, in this very room. Also, if you are in the mood to read, there is a study on the second floor with many novels from numerous cities as well as books of history.
“That said, a word of caution: both your guide,” he motions to Alastor, “and I recommend that you stay in this building. We who you see shall remain, functioning as your protectors while you are here. Are there any questions?”
“Where is everyone else? This town seems a tad sparse,” Cale blurts out.
“In their homes, for the most part. This inn, and the town itself, rarely sees travelers. I and my people live a quiet life, so not seeing our people on the street is normal, for us anyway. Is there anything else?”
Cale does not care for the answer, but cannot argue. Seeing that no one else has anything to say, the tall, grey garbed man motions kindly for the three women, each guiding one of the group, except Alastor, individually to his or her room.
Up the stairs to the second floor they go, each of them, Morion, Cale and Amy, granted with separate, albeit nearly identical, rooms. Even more than promised, the rooms are themselves filled with beautiful works of art, paintings and sculptures. They are also luxuriously furnished with articles of untold age. They are also extremely clean and orderly, showing signs of being rarely, if ever, used. Morion’s room is distinctly larger, set at the rear of the inn, with an ornate window overlooking a small lake encompassed by stone benches along the closer shore.
Morion drops her packs, those filled by Alastor, gently upon the floor beneath the window before falling on to the bed itself. The Queen smiles as she sees that even the ceiling is decorated, a wide scene of a kingdom set before a mountain range, the sun shining like a light from heaven upon it. It takes a moment to realize what she sees; the painting is none other than that of her home, Halvard, as it was when it was first being built. Becoming lost in the sight is by no means difficult, but the spell is unfortunately broken when she is roused by the clamor of heavy footsteps and voices moving down the hall outside her room.
Alastor and the grey cloaked man pass her room on the way up to the third floor. Curiosity strikes the Queen, so she rises up from the bed and stealthily follows the two. At the stairs, she ascends them as carefully as she can, constantly looking over her shoulder for signs of anyone who might catch her, not that what she is doing is by any means wrong. Rude, but not wrong. The third floor is designed similarly to the previous, except rather than art showing picturesque landscapes of cities or nature, they are images of war, battle and conflict.
She, however, does not stop to look.
Slinking up to a partially closed door at the end of the hall, Morion peeks in, spying Alastor sitting on a raised table in room full of plants and jars of medical compounds. The cloaked man searches through various vials whilst Alastor removes his outer cloak and shirts. Morion restrains a gasp as she notices Alastor’s torso covered in bloodied makeshift bandages, and many visible scars. They continue a previous conversation.
“Twice you say? Highly odd.”
“The first attack was at night and expected, but the second was before dawn and...” Alastor trails off.
“And?” the other man asks, concerned.
“And within the Corheim ruins. After the night attack, I led Morion and the other two into the refuge of the Corheim, but even there they attacked.”
The cloaked man spins around to face Alastor, astonishment etched on his face.
“He actually had the audacity to attack you there?”
“It would seem so.”
The cloaked man goes back to his search.
“He has become far too powerful in far too short a time.”
“That he has,” Alastor says slowly.
“So, what does our young Queen intend to do? She is to play an important role in all this, that much is certain, yet only she can decide which role that is.”
“Morion plans on enlisting the aid of the Knight, of course.”
“And this frightens you more than you can express, does it not?”
Alastor sighs and lowers his head while the cloaked man mixes herbs in a mortar.
“Yes, Mikha’el, it frightens me. I dread every moment that leads to her choice. Each step toward that castle becomes harder and harder to take.”
“Quite understandable. I would be wary of returning to that castle as well, if it were my father murdered within those walls.”
This revelation stuns Morion, bringing back that feeling of disbelief when Alastor told of his father being murdered in the first place. Mikha’el removes Alastor’s old bandages, discarding them with indifference. He then applies the paste he made to the scab covered wounds. Alastor does not flinch, silent as a grave. Mikha’el lets the paste set for a moment.
“These wounds were very deep, from the looks of them,” Mikha’el observes.
“The wave that attacked in Corheim were far more feroci
ous than the first.”
“They caught you by surprise?”
“Somewhat.”
“Not likely. Something else was on your mind.”
“Stop prying.”
Mikha’el wipes clean the paste, revealing the wounds closed, but leaving behind fresh scars. The process is repeated a few more times. Then, the blade wounds dealt with, Mikha’el moves his focus to Alastor’s right shoulder, bruised a deep purple.
“And how did this happen?” Mikha’el asks darkly.
“I wish I knew. I usually do not take to bruising.”
“This combined with the wounds give me cause for worry. It is good that you came when you did.” Mikha’el then takes leaves which had been soaking in liquid and applies them to the bruised area. “She is more than I expected,” Mikha’el continues on their discussion of Morion. “To be honest, I had for some time suspected her to have grown far slighter and fragile than the woman who has arrived here with you.”
“She is her father’s daughter, of that there can be no doubt. If she had been so inclined, I believe she would have fought tooth and nail with the Necromancer then and there.”
“A quality that seems to be shared by more than a few people this day in age.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing at all.”
Morion looks away for a moment, cheeks reddened. Not so much for what was said, rather because she just came to the realization that she has been staring at Alastor’s body. Turning back, she watches as Mikha’el removes the leaves, revealing Alastor’s shoulder to be almost completely healed.
“I have done what I can, Alastor, but please avoid fighting twenty men at once when your mind is obviously deeply pre-occupied.”
“I had told her of what happened in Judeheim. Recalling those days unnerved me.”
“Understandable. Did you kill all of your attackers?”
“I honestly do not know.”
“Even if not, it should be days before he learns of their failure.”
“And by then, we shall be at the castle.”
Mikha’el raises Alastor’s left arm, inspecting the bones and joints.
“What of her companions, Alastor? I do not recall Gawain’s letter mentioning the use of bodyguards, beyond yourself of course.”
“They are bards she came into contact with before I found her, before I was able to speak with her.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Do I trust anyone?”
“Then why allow them to follow?”
“The Queen ordered me to.”
Mikha’el’s eyes move from Alastor to the door. He and Morion share a glance briefly before Morion panics, swiftly and quietly running back to her room. Mikha’el smiles. Alastor notices.
“What is it?” Alastor inquires.
“We had an eavesdropper.”
“One of the bards?”
“Not at all. None other than Our Lady.”
Alastor sighs, standing and stretching. Taking up his shirts, he is nauseated by the idea of putting back on his torn and bloodied clothes.
“Do you still have my room here kept?”
“Of course, still bearing a rather full wardrobe.”
Chapter Seven
Dreams of Shadows and Echoes
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Morion gently closes her room door, falling on to her bed unnerved by her short sneaking quest. Without intending to, she comes into the clutches of a deep sleep, finding a dream. Not a dream as she is used to, no, but a new one. A far more dismaying dream.
~-~~-~
Alone in a dark forest she walks. Morion looks down to discover that she wears silver armor, and in her hand she carries a sword which bears the image of a lion near the hilt. Returning her gaze back to the path before her, there stands a bright, shining figure. Immediately she understands the figure as being the Ice Fairy told of by Alastor. The Ice Fairy signals for Morion to follow, guiding her through the trees. The Queen loses sight of the Fairy. She panics, running in the direction where she last saw her but the Fairy is nowhere to be found, leaving Morion to find her own way amidst the now pitch black oppression of nature around her.
Slowly prowling on, she comes to note another light. She wheels about, searching for the origin of this shine. Bewilderment strikes the Queen as she finds that it comes not from an external source, but under her armor. She pulls out her necklace, the pendant becoming a guiding light, illuminating the way. She follows the path lit by it, her hope growing. The sound of rustling leaves fills the forest, like wind blowing through them although the night is still as death. The report of twigs loudly snapping underfoot is added to this. Morion stops to look down. She has been walking on soft grass since the light of the pendant helped her along. The leaves and the twigs become louder, more violent.
Morion swivels around and there, behind her, stands Hector, familiar yet changed. Not the man she knew, but a wraith-like shade in the shape and form of her cousin. Morion attempts to raise her sword arm, except she is too late. Hector shoves her viciously, sending her falling backward. When Morion expects to hit the ground, she does not. The forest, and Hector’s glowering face, fall away, then... nothing.
In her descent, she sees her father, Gawain. The two reach their hands out to one another, but Morion’s fall is faster. Her father also fades wordlessly away into the black above. She brings her armored hands up to her eyes, trying to hide the gush of tears. Without warning the fall stops. Morion slams onto a stone floor, knocking the breath from her and causing dust to billow up. She cannot suppress a yell of pain, laying there in a daze.
She rolls onto her hands and knees, discovering that she has made a crater in the floor. The fallen Queen crawls out of her pit, still holding her sword. Looking up, she finds herself in a strange room, a throne made of still living bone stands high on a dais, blood flows from the high back of the chair, becoming like a small river and pooling at the base.
The clamor of a duel is heard around her, rousing her from the fall induced stupor and bringing her to her feet. There in the throne room, two men do battle fiercely. As they near, one is easily discerned as being Alastor, the other Morion also knows, but does not want to believe her eyes. It is the Black Knight, as her father had always described, but at other times, as if by a trick of her eyes, he is more villainous; his armor brutal and sharp.
They are locked in combat, inattentive to the Queen’s presence. With each attack, a deep voice comes from within the armor. A voice that makes Morion cringe.
The voice of a demon.
Alastor defends himself, but he is clearly tiring. Soon he can no longer parry the Black Knight’s attacks. Each time the Black Knight draws blood from Alastor, it grows stronger, the armor becoming increasingly more and permanently menacing. Eventually the Black Knight has become a giant, and Alastor is brought to his knees, near death.
Alastor finally is made aware of Morion, their eyes meeting, both unable and unwilling to turn away. The Black Knight readies his sword to kill Alastor, but at last takes notice of Morion, its eyes burning with rage as she looks into them. Morion freezes in terror. The Black Knight grunts in disgust.
“Whore!” it screams.
It runs toward Morion at full speed, bringing sword to bare. She closes her eyes in the instant before the Black Knight brings the sword down.
Thunder explodes in her ears.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes violently, rising up in her bed with a gasp. It takes a moment for her to remember that she is safely far, far away from that dream. Calming down, she is soon overwhelmed by the dream, buries her face in her pillow and begins to cry uncontrollably.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes again, just before dawn. Her second sleep was, much appreciated by her, free from any more nightmares. Standing up, walking over to the window, she observes Alastor and Mikha’el in discussion. Recalling the horror of the night before, she needs no time in deciding to go down so that she may
speak with Alastor about it.
Out of the room, down the hall, descending the stairs. The dining room is in the process of being prepared for the morning meal by the three women. One sees Morion and quickly shuffles over to her.
“Awake so early, My Lady? Surely after such a rough journey a few more hours of rest would do you good, would it not?”
Morion smiles and hesitates.
“I have slept enough,” she says. “I need to speak with Alastor.”
“Master Alastor is with Lord Mikha’el by the reflecting lake. Let me show you the way.”
The woman takes Morion’s arm in hers with a polite smile, walking her through the lower floor to a rear door. As the woman opens the door, Alastor and Mikha’el turn to it. The woman guides Morion to them, almost as though she is presenting a bride.
“Our Lady must speak with our Master Alastor,” the woman says with the utmost respect and a nod toward Alastor himself.
Morion cannot hide the despair growing in her as she forces herself to remember in full that most horrid dream. Neither Alastor nor Mikha’el can miss it.
“What is wrong?” Alastor kindly asks.
The Queen looks deep into the eyes of Alastor.
“I need to speak to you about the Black Knight,” she says in a hoarse whisper.
Alastor and Mikha’el share a brief look. Mikha’el nods before he begins to walk back to the inn, the woman catches the signal as well and, releasing Morion’s arm, follows. Alastor gestures for Morion to sit on one of the stone benches. When she does, Alastor sits opposite her.
“I had heard you crying last night, so I decided against bothering you,” he says while staring at the lake.
“You were coming to speak with me?”
“Yes. Mikha’el thought that since you were listening to our conversation, I should explain about and probably clarify some of what you happened to hear.”Alastor faces Morion and smiles; she cannot help but smile in return. “However,” he continues, “that can be discussed later. You said you need to speak of the Black Knight.”
“If he has succumbed to the darkness in the time since my father knew him, would not going to him be a fatal error on our part?”
Alastor sighs, hanging his head low. Sullenly, he speaks.
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