* * * * *
Six hours had past until Grahamas believed himself safe enough to resume without worry. The sun was rising, and the land was clearing. Whatever marks he left now would be random--in the middle of a road that no one ever traveled. He started—this time—with fifteen of the forty-five feet behind him, but it was far too easy. Two shifts of his arm loosened the same number of loops and five more feet were added on.
In a matter of seconds, he scanned back to find the blunt, soft slicing of iron into dirt. Trying to challenge himself, he released four loops instead of two, and was deep in focus when a distraction crept in.
"This was too easy..." He thought. Had he let any of his other skills—strength, his sword, his intelligence—lay dormant as long as this had, it would have taken him months or even years to regain it. It had only been two days and it was as if he never stopped.
That wasn't natural. None of it was. Once more the consideration of magick came into play. Others used their ears to listen, he seemed to be using his mind. Pinpointing it, locking on it and hearing as clearly as if he were standing right next to it. Only spells caused such a manifestation, not just a heightened sense.
It had obviously not worn off, and now curiosity began surfacing as did his talents.
He idly turned his wrist and continued unraveling five feet at a time, focusing, deciphering then taking a break to ponder.
If it had been a spell, who would have cast it? Only one person in all of Highlace had the power to invoke one that would last over three-hundred years—Savados. Yet he had long since given up on being a magick user and instead turned his attention towards documenting and preserving what he believed to be one of the greatest eras in his entire life—one that spanned even longer than Grahamas’.
Savados had enough knowledge to implicate such a spell, lived long enough to find it at some point, and the motivation to make it happen. But why had he not told Grahamas? He was recluse, that was true, but Grahamas and Savados shared a mutual respect, and on his days off and in his free time he spent more time with the Scribe than anyone. All the years he was growing up, the library was just as crucial to Grahamas as the battlefield. While Tallvas was his teacher in war, Savados was his in peace. Graham furthered his knowledge about magick, strategy, logic, language, theory, and so many more from Savados. It was he who first taught Grahamas to read and speak Highlyian, and two other languages after that. Savados was his mentor in just as many ways as Duke Tallvas was. So it seemed silly that if he were to give such a gift, he would not have told him about it.
It was possible it wasn't a spell, but no other answer made sense.
"Magick..." Grahamas muttered, half in question. He tried his best to focus on the now fully extended grapple, was on his way to locking on when he got distracted again. This time not of magick, but of a certain magick user.
Instinctively his hand fell to trace over the onyx bracelet wrapped about his right wrist. He was surprised it had taken him this long to think about her. But, as always, there she was. It had not impacted him until now how much he missed her. Despite what he needed to do, the idea of turning around and racing back to her crept into his mind more than once. It was an all-too-common desire that he'd had for several years now, but until very recently he had only memories and day-dreams. Now, he had a material object to influence him, and it became almost impossible to resist.
The only thing that kept him from it, was the unflinching, ever-burning love he held. He did not want a world where they would run forever, fearing patrols, or being recognized. He did not want to live a life with her where they were hunted. He wanted his freedom. He wanted her freedom, and their freedom.
He wanted peace when he built his life with her.
One day he would have it. They all would. And knowing that was the only thing that gave him the heart to return to a place he swore he never would. It's what gave him the courage to face demons he'd tried to escape for centuries.
He had been so distracted he had not noticed that half the day had left him, or that he was still hearing the sound yards behind him--even though he had stopped looking for it.
He spent the rest of the light trying again to confuse himself, focusing on closer sounds and whirling the grapple about, then drifting back. But no matter where he slung it, it was a matter of seconds until it echoed in his ears.
With a sigh spent of both appreciation and exhaustion, he stopped Feiron and pulled the grapple back, rolling it up and placing it back in his saddlebag. He would find no more challenges from this method, and he again feared catching it on some unseen object.
He regretted, at least temporarily, losing the entire night. But he had at least one more day to ride and the entire journey back to devise another plan and put it into action. He considered shifting to his earlier method of launching a rock in a random direction and trying to locate it with only his ears. In this light, he would have to, and as far as he'd progressed, it may actually work this time. Grahamas had even reached down to pluck a clump of soil from the trail when another sound—one much farther off—turned his body to stone.
Voices. Several of them—murmured but quick.
To him, they sounded like they were right around the next hill. In actuality, they were three over. A fact Grahamas only realized after he crept up and peered over the first two hills. For a moment he relaxed, then emptied his hand of the dirt clump and replaced it with the handle of his sword.
He found his way over the second hill and to the base of the third, hoping for a more defined audio. He wasn't sure from the initial outburst what lay on the other side—thieves, stragglers, or a lost caravan—but there were several varying tones, seemingly each not concerned with being heard.
"....time you spend arguing, the longer it's going to seem." Being the first defined voice Grahamas heard.
Then another "I'm not arguing. I'm simply asking why we need to be out here. No one ever comes this way. They say it's haunted."
"Look. Idimus gave me my orders. And that's not to tell any of you. It's simply to wait, question and apprehended anyone who tries to travel through here."
An annoyed, yet restricted grumble came out before Grahamas withdrew.
"Soldiers." The Champion whispered harshly, before pulling back two more paces and creeping off Feiron. Once, then twice he smoothed the face of his horse, and when it was evident he would not move Grahamas returned to the base of the hill and up its side. Long before he could see them, he heard them breathing, several. He counted three at least.
He could handle three.
Yet decided against charging over—only crept up. Before him was a three-foot wide trail, with hills ten feet high tucked right against the road. Both were adorned with guards, each with weary looks in their eyes. Directly in the middle of the trail were two more, one a blonde man and obviously the Captain, standing defiant and wearing the prototypical sash that high ranking soldiers in Idimus army displayed. He had one hand carrying a torch, the other was clutching a tiny parchment. The final soldier was an elderly gentleman, with thinning hair and a patchy beard, expressing a sour look as he made his way back down the road.
All were heavily armed. Those upon the perch held bows at the ready and swords upon their belts. The older gentleman held a rapier in one hand, a dirk in the other, and he battled an invisible enemy, idly trying to pass the time.
Once he finally regained his post, he turned towards the other soldier, so that all four were facing a different direction. Thankfully, no one noticed Grahamas, who was now crouching even further to implement his safety. Despite his cover he knew he could not stay over here for long. For now, he was secure, but that would fade after the sun came up, or they started to patrol. He would not wait around to see which came first. This was the easiest way to Highlace—directly through the road they were blocking.
He could have treaded through the steep valley on either side, traveled far from the road and headed west, avoiding the guards all together. That seemed the saf
est route, and Grahamas was set to employ that very idea when he caught glimpse of the blonde captain turning to the left, and waving the torch three times in succession.
A moment later, when Grahamas followed the direction, another torch far off in the distance repeated the same motion. From there, the captain turned to face the right, and repeated the gesture.
"Damn..." Grahamas quipped when another orange streak painted the black canvas. He was too far away to see the torches that came from the left and right, signaling again, this time to another group even further from them. He had already decided not to go around.
But what was he to do? Simply charge through hoping he or Feiron was fast enough to avoid the arrows and lose any who chased him? Would he risk fighting and pray that each side that was signaled had only four guards as well, and could he immobilize these before they arrived?
In the several minutes that Grahamas spent debating—three total—he watched the soldier flicker the torch only one time.
Grahamas waited, starting and calculating the distance between the ground soldier and those upon the hill. All the while, a plan was creeping up on him, as the last bit of day light faded.
The Champion headed back and returned to Feiron, leading him up the hill slowly. He however, held back when he reached the middle, using the pause to pull his blowgun from the saddlebag and load it with one dart. He then reached into the right side, retrieved his grapple, only to place it in the left compartment, hanging the hooks over the lip and draping the flap over to conceal it.
As he continued his ascent, waiting until he could barely see, he tucked the blowgun into his sleeve. Then he stilled, watching the soldier; biding his time.
All until he saw the orange flame arc three times, then he rode forward. Not with haste, nor aggression. Simply as any normal traveler would. He needed to look like one. With four visible soldiers, and potentially just as many to his left and right, Grahamas would be in serious trouble without the element of surprise.
Maybe, just maybe, they would let him pass. It was possible they would not recognize him, or it would be too dark for them to see the instructions properly. He had no doubt they were here for him. Idimus would not have sent so many guards for anyone else.
Grahamas took a deep breath, preparing and knowing he was being far too hopeful. With one final well wish to himself, he proceeded down the hill.
The first soldier on the road signaled to the Captain once Graham was in view, and moved to join him between the two hills.
"Halt!" The Captain barked once his back up had arrived, leaning his hand on the pommel of his sword. His voice had caused the other two guards on the hill to turn, aggressively, and now the Champion had all eyes locked on him. "State your business."
Graham remained silent for a moment, and only stared, hoping to prompt the others to ease down without antagonizing the first.
When the soldier advanced, he finally spoke up, saying the first thing he could think of. "Quiv... I'm headed to Quiv." It was a stretch. Quiv was north, that was true, but it was also much further east.
The Captain looked skeptical, but the other guards didn't move. "And where are you coming from?"
"Hensah."
The head soldier thought for a moment, taking his time to wave the torch to his right and left, then turned his attention back to Grahamas. "As you can see, this is not the best place to travel. There's plenty of roads to Quiv besides this one. Take them." He seemed to be growing impatient.
"And there's plenty of bandits on those other roads. This way is safe. Un-traveled."
The guard blinked, and seemed to groan internally. Grahamas couldn't tell if it's because he was convinced, or the soldier realized he would now have more work trying to force him away. No matter, he shook his head, and squeezed the parchment in his hands. "I suppose you're right. But don't be telling anyone you came this way. I'm not about to let anyone else pass through here. Understand?" Graham nodded. He actually bought it. "I'm going to go tell my archers not to fire on ya. Stay here."
At first, the Champion thought it strange, when he could have simply waved him through. But when the last bit of his sentence was cut-off by a sudden series of three thumps that registered in Grahamas’ ear, the Champion knew it was more than odd. He had caught the captain’s heartbeat by chance, and it jumped.
He was lying.
He followed the captain with his eyes, twenty, thirty feet up to the hill and he spoke with one of the Archers.
It wasn't a rock, but it was the best way to test his skills yet.
Grahamas glanced first at the soldier to his left. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself, and he would do that by closing his eyes, but he was running out of time. He had two minutes, if that, before the other parties would go looking for a signal from their captain. The Champion needed to know what was being discussed.
So in the least awkward way he could manage, he turned his head down and away from the soldier, blinked long and slow, then completely closed his eyes, doing his best to focus regardless of his rising adrenaline.
"...all there on the parchment. It's him. I'm going to question him first, then detain him. If he makes even the slightest move, you shoot him." Came the captain's voice.
"Should we warn the others?" The first archer asked.
"And let them have all the glory? Are you mad? I'll signal for them if anything goes wrong, but given how uptight the king was, this man is dangerous. When we catch him, it's promotions for all of us. Just fire if I give the signal."
"Yes, Sir."
The Champion's own heart thumped, he blinked again, several times, and cast his head up slowly. He gazed upon the captain hustling towards him, then both archers knocking arrows and taking aim. The final older soldier realized what was happening and drew his sword.
"Down from your horse. Now!" The captain ordered, dropping the parchment and sticking the torch in the dirt.
"Certainly." Grahamas acknowledged, sliding from Feiron but making sure he was not out of arm's length of his trusted horse.
The older gentleman stepped forward, nudging his sword towards the Champions shoulder. By now the captain was within five feet of Grahamas. "Hands on your head."
Again, Grahamas obliged, simply marking "Certainly" and turning his palms to place them on his head, making his best effort to keep the blowgun in his sleeve.
Without hesitation, the captain strafed around Grahamas' right side and turned to face the Champion's back. The captain locked his right hand on Graham's right elbow, his left on the opposite arm. Three inches inward and he would have felt the blowgun. But the head guard was too busy placing his foot on the back of Grahamas' knee and pushing on his elbows in a weak attempt to get him to kneel.
The other made sure he kept his sword tucked tight to Graham's chest, and the Archers had not even blinked since their sights were locked. Grahamas, however, wasn't worried about them directly. He had seen both to his left and his right the flicker of torches. The other guards were asking for a signal, and if they didn't get one soon, Grahamas would have even more soldiers to deal with. "Can you at least tell me what this is about?" If he played innocent, that may buy him an extra second of surprise. For Grahamas, that was more than enough.
Still struggling to get him to kneel, or even move, the captain grunted "No. The Parchment only had a description and labeled you as fugitive. You're coming with us."
"How do you know you've even got the right person?"
"It was very exact. We're sure." Failing to push him down from his elbows, the captain pulled both Graham's arms behind his back.
The captain lapsed, feeling the tube beneath Grahamas sleeve, and the Champion saw his opportunity. "Exact, eh? Did it, by chance, mention how fast I was?"
"Fast?"
The question had barely ended when Grahamas stretched back with his left arm, stinging the soldier straight in the nose with his elbow. A half-step to his right allowed Graham enough room to continue his arms movement, bringin
g it up and over the now bleeding leader’s face.
Tucking the fold of his arm against the back of the head guard's neck, Graham turned on his toes and pulled the other in front of him.
In reaction, the older soldier thrust forward, but it happened so fast that the captain's side became a shield for the stab. The Champion continued yanking him forward, wrenching the blade free of the other soldier's hand and keeping it stuck in his leader's side.
The archer to Graham's right had also attacked, firing the moment he saw Grahamas move. Unfortunately the parchment indeed did not include how quick and dangerous Grahamas was, and he could only watch as his commander was yanked in front of the oncoming missile.
Seeing his commander with an arrow in his chest and his own sword in the captain's side, the veteran soldier managed a gasp of shock. It was the only thing he had time for, before Grahamas kicked the dying guard into him, and both crashed together and the arrow's knocked end bit into his shoulder. Their heads cracked and each tumbled to the ground unconscious.
Before either had fallen completely, Grahamas’ hands extended in different directions. His right went straight into the air and he flicked the blowgun—still tucked under his cuff—into his waiting palm. The left reached across his chest, and towards his saddle bag. His fingers wrapped around the exposed hook of his grapple and wrenched it free.
The archer to his right attempted another arrow, the one to his left was biding his time, waiting for a clean shot as the captain and the veteran fell to the ground.
It was already too late for the bowman on the right. Grahamas locked the blowgun to his lips and huffed, spiraling a dart out of the tube and into the patrolman's neck while he was still reaching for an arrow. One which he dropped—as well as his bow—to clutch at his throat.
The poison Graham used was strong, but certainly not enough to kill a man that size. It was, however, enough to blur his vision in a matter of seconds, paralyze him within minutes. Regardless of what he tried from here—be it firing another arrow or running for the other guards—he would never accomplish it.
The other archer—some thirty feet away—would be more of a challenge. A test of Grahamas' fortitude, strength and aim. He knew not the power of his bow, but in the daylight could have slipped past any arrow he would have fired. In the light, he could have closed the gap, buried his sword in the man's lungs before he had the chance to yell out. In the dark, he didn't want to risk taking an arrow he couldn't see. Instead, he grasped the end of the rope in his left hand, twirled the grapple twice with his right then hurled it up the hill and across the gap.
The soldier didn't have time to react, nor was it needed. The hooked ends missed by only three inches, the rope now hung harmlessly over his left shoulder.
Thinking himself lucky, the archer did not bother brushing it off'; an act that would be his downfall. He simply steadied himself, took a breath and set sights on a seemingly helpless Graham.
Before the drawstring had been fully stretched, Grahamas squeezed both his hands around the rope, pulling as he took two steps back. Immediately the slack tightened, and as the Champion continued his back stride, the grapple worked up. Three more paces anchored the curve of the hook on the back of the bowman's neck.
One final effort of exertion from Grahamas yanked the soldier forward, off balance and tumbling down the hill.
Unfortunately, with the sudden jolt, in a state of panic and as last-ditch effort, he released his grip on his arrow, sending it searing towards Grahamas.
His instincts allowed him to lock on to it, without even trying, but it was coming too fast to try and pinpoint its exact direction. He saw it moments later, and attempted to roll his shoulder to the left—exactly where it was headed—but it was too late, and the arrow was too close.
He winced, and watched, with no other option than to wait for the pain.
A feeling he never encountered.
The arrow stopped, three inches before it made contact with him. For a brief second, Grahamas thought a sudden gust had pushed it out of harm's way as he dodged. But he watched the tip bite into something, shattering it and blocking it from coming through. A silver, shimmering web flashed in front of the arrows point, at no further a distance from his body than his armor would have been. The tendrils of it stretched out, until his entire shoulder was covered, and they hovered in the air, rippled like waves upon a pond. Then, the entire image faded.
The arrow dropped uselessly to the ground, but Grahamas lost sight of it halfway. His attention had been diverted to his right wrist, the bracelet and the now flaring runes upon it that burned the same color as the barrier.
"Could it..." He began to wonder but shook it off.
Leaping from Feiron, he first made sure no one was going to rise, the last archer in the dirt stung with the pommel of Grahamas sword as a guarantee. The Champion then ripped the torch out, raised it and waived three times to his right, where another torch was waving incessantly, and drawing closer.
Once the all-clear was spotted, it stopped, responded and drew back. And Graham did the same for his left side. That would buy him at least a few minutes, and he would be well into the night before any of them came over. Given his recent progress, he would hear them if any gave chase.
He leapt on Feiron and pushed him forward, though it was not done with a clear head.
Grahamas had lived a long life, and in that encountered his share of strange occurrences. Things he couldn't explain. He once lived in a world where magick was as abundant as swords, and wizards as popular as warriors. He'd seen spells of all kinds—ones as simple as changing the color of a fabric, to turning stone softer than mud.
What he had just witnessed was rare, and something since his days of Highlace had not seen recreated. It was a protection spell, one that was only ever used for a single man—Reiskin. It was far too tedious, and far too dangerous to re-create for everyone—only for the King.
In the early years of Highlace's rebirth, when the Kingdom was still being established, the King and his constitutes feared an assassination by rogues or those still loyal to the old ways. Seeing as it was fruitless for Reiskin to always wear armor, especially in his sleep, Savados and Samsun devised a way to keep Reiskin safe without the constant constraint of chain mail.
It was based on the very same runes that adorned Grahamas bracelet, one of the oldest forms of magick. His language, Highlyian, was derived from that very same design, one that had been around since before even Reiskin.
But Savados was a master of it, and he used that language to protect the King. For the original spell to work, the runes had to be placed directly over the part of the body that required protection. Savados, spent nearly two years sewing each letter into the front, back and sleeves of a light tunic. Then allocated each with a lengthy spell that more times than not caused him to sleep for days.
Yet despite the power and time Savados put into it, it still did not manage the results Grahamas had just seen. Over Highlace's history, only two attempts were made on Reiskin's life once the spell was in place.
One occurred shortly after, during an address to his people when a random crowd member pulled a crossbow and took aim for the King's chest. He had only fired one shot before the guards took him. Grahamas had been too far away to step in front of the attack, but it wasn't necessary. The arrow slowed a few feet from Reiskin's body, enough so that the fabric of his robe and the tunic beneath allowed only the tip of the arrow to go through. It barely broke the skin.
The other came from a knife, wielded by one of the King's long time servants when he was pouring wine. It ended with the same affect. He had thrust the blade quickly, but his arm slowed. Grahamas saw his face turn red, and the veins in his hands bulge. It was obvious he was struggling to break through but it was only the very point of the knife that did. Reiskin, again, was virtually unharmed.
Both times, the spell faded, and had to be re-worked back into the runes. No matter how many times it was done, or how long Savados stu
died after that, he could not create a way to make the runes last, or to allow them to protect the entire body.
Now, Grahamas was left to wonder how Elryia had. He rode on to Highlace, pondering where she even knew the spell. The letters, yes, were most likely in one of the many books he had given to her over the years, and she was one of the few people that could read Highlyian, so she would have known what they meant.
But without the words, without the incantation, they were merely symbolic. Words he believed were lost with Savados.
The strange occurrence that happened during the rescue, and now this. He was beginning to garner more and more evidence towards his long running theory that there was far more to this girl than he, or even she knew. It was a power far beyond anything the Champion had seen. Perhaps, even a power that had never even existed before.
The Welcome, Yet Unexpected Sovereignty Of Closure
Highlace.
At least the path to it. In front of him, a long wide trail inclined slowly up a massive hill. On either side of him were stone stumps and crumbled rocks, leading all the way along. It was broken, burned, and destroyed. But Grahamas remembered what it once was.
The stumps were remnants of large, marble pillars connected to stone arches that canopied over the trail. Long golden ribbons would often hang down over them and torches were placed on their sides, creating a glimmering, illuminated path towards what was the world’s greatest city.
Now, it was simply rubble.
Grahamas sighed then snarled, his hatred boiling over for a moment. He tightened his grip on the reigns, preparing to charge forward—to end this—but he stopped.
He heard something.
Breathing.
It was heavy. He thought at first that it was simply an animal, but when he stopped and focused on it he heard a slight wince and then something say “Ow.” It was a man. Grahamas smiled slightly, the sound reassuring him that his senses were well on their way. But his joy faded. Not knowing who it was now gave him cause for concern. For a moment, Grahamas considered whipping around and confronting them, but curiosity got the better of him. He wanted answers. If he chased whoever it was away, he wouldn’t get them.
Instead, he tugged sword from its sheath and laid it across his thigh. Grahamas turned and twisted it, his free hand dragging a cloth up and down the steel, giving the illusion that he was simply cleaning it—but he was hoping to catch the reflection of his pursuer before he realized it. With one final turn, a glimpse appeared—straining his eyes trying to define the image. The first thing that his eyes locked on was a brilliant white robe. At first he thought it was El and he almost faced her, but as he moved, his blade turned again—revealing dark hair and much broader shoulders than those of his love. There was only one other person he knew that wore white robes.
Jeralyle.
The Champion growled again and shoved his blade firmly in place, keeping his back turned. He knew who it was, but what he wanted was still a mystery, so he wouldn’t attack, not yet. Simply lead him out of hiding and confront him then. Feiron reared his head as Grahamas tugged the reigns and charged him up the hill, driving him to the place he once called home.
Grahamas had anticipated pain since the day he watched Highlace burn to the ground, and every one after he had intentionally avoided returning. Fearful the emotions would overwhelm him; cause him to do something drastic and stupid.
But his past had caught up with him, and he had no choice but to come back.
He took each step drudgingly, past each pillar with angst and rode up the incline with anxiety—fearing that every inch closer would weigh the guilt on him a bit heavier.
Yet, it never came.
At least, not as overbearing as he believed it would be. Even when he passed the initial walkway and gazed out upon the rubble that was once Highlace, he felt only a fraction of what he imagined he would.
There was regret for the choices he made, and distaste for his obstructed, skewered vision on life when he was here. He was proud back then—each member of Highlace was. They believed their unity was untouchable and their lifestyle unanimous. Grahamas, more so than anyone, failed to realize not everyone was accepting of freedom without power. There were still those that sought death and destruction, and use them to gather the spoils of war. There were men that despised equality, and corroded sanctity. No matter how bright they tried to make the world, they forgot that there could still be darkness.
They had foolishly led each one to the same place, allowed them to congregate and plot, all the while Reiskin and the others grew more comfortable, more peaceful and more unprotected. Each forgot that in times of peace, it is then that they had to fight the hardest.
With memories surging, Graham strode forward, first looking upon the ashes and wreckage of Daleforn far off in the distance, every emotion he’d subdued lashed out at him.
No longer a pure white stonewall stood before him, but a piled line of blackened rocks. Beyond that wall used to be rows of villages, all with wildflowers and roses blooming in front. Now it was only grass and empty space. The trade market was one of the most bustling in all the land, rows upon rows of vendors from fine foods to crafted weapons, exotic items, and rare literature, paved the way to the castle. Now it was nothing but broken wood and charred remains.
Once a symbol of peace, hope, and unity, Daleforn’s castle stood: a brilliant structure with white towers and golden banners streaming from the windows. Atop those were royal blue turrets that from the ground seemed to reach into the sky, Highlace’s flag waving proudly from each of them. In the middle of the wide structure was a grand door, royal blue with golden framing—that was always open—leading to a wealth of knowledge, a noble council, and a compassionate King. Now, a broken, shattered pile of stones.
It was then that the longing crept in.
Grahamas had lost so many friends that day. Young men he'd watch grow into warriors, squires who became knights. Members of his council, his king and his best friend and brother in arms—Ristalln.
Of all those lost it was he, Tallvas and Reiskin that Graham missed the most. He found some semblance of peace knowing that Tallvas made it out, and that he had fought on. Though he was curious what happened in the Duke's last years, and wondered on his state, Highlace did not instill Grahamas with regret over Tallvas.
Reiskin was a different story. He had sworn an oath to him long ago, even if it cost him his own life, he would protect him. He had been led away when he was needed the most. He had spent so many years trying to justify it or come to terms with it, but had never garnered a suitable answer. He had never been able to completely absolve himself. Grahamas had tried to convince his own mind that each man played a part in Highlace fall, but that was selfish, and in the end it had been he who trained them. He had considered that no good thing lasts forever, but that was simply a way to run from reality—to admit defeat before one even knows what they're fighting. He had the idea that the plot against Highlace was one that had surfaced from inside the walls, but that never eased Grahamas. It wasn't true, and it was foolish to hide beneath it. Betrayal was so much easier to face than failure. But he did indeed fail. That's what caused his downfall in the first place. It's what drove him to the ends of the earth, to cower in Sharia, disappear in Davaina and rot inside his mind. For years, thinking simply how he had failed Reiskin, and driving himself insane. There were times when he slept for days, lulled by the burning desire to stay there forever. There were other days when he never even closed his eyes, still haunted by the images he saw.
He could not find peace, aside from momentary glimpses, but soon the pangs of a memory—be it one where he was happy in Highlace, or a remembrance of a friend—shoved its way back in.
Over the years, he'd distanced himself from it, and let the past die in some way. But he still drifted back occasionally and was awash for a moment or a day, with shame.
He'd failed his King.
As deep as that went, at his very core was something far wo
rse. Reiskin was his King, and Grahamas had his duties, but that was as far as their relationship went. Reiskin was a humble man, and an honorable man but they had never been great friends. The Champion wouldn't allow it. Graham always saw him as a superior, regardless of how little he wanted to be treated like one.
As Grahamas moved further into the cities, passed where proud walls once stood with homes lined his left and right, the true nature of his pain surfaced.
He had lost his King, lost the people, but he had also lost his best friend.
Yes, Reiskin and Tallvas were major influences on him, but he had never fought alongside either. And there were certain bonds that could only be built on a battlefield. A camaraderie that derives from placing a life in someone else's hands, and asking them to do the same. Grahamas had done that with many, but Ristalln had been the most reliable, and the longest running.
He started out as Graham's squire some thirty years into the Champion's service. During times of peace he was a calm—albeit—jubilant individual and incredibly helpful. Like with his prior aides, Grahamas was eager to share information, tactics and sword techniques. Despite his normally boisterous nature, Ristalln was one of the few people who remained quiet during his tutelage, and he took too it faster than any. He was the best student Graham ever had.
Yet it was in battle that Ristalln truly shined. He was fast, fierce and he never showed an ounce of fear no matter what he faced. Often, squires would fall back when the fray became too hectic, leaving their knight vulnerable. They were usually the first to break the line—too green to stand their ground. Ristalln never did. Where Graham went, Ristalln went, even though he was only holding weapons and had few of his own. If Grahamas was in danger, Ristalln would intentionally draw attention to himself to buy the Champion time. If Grahamas charged, Ristalln was right there with him no matter the risk.
Other squires found it foolish, Tallvas believed it reckless, but Graham saw it as valiant, and the Champion used—and risked—his title to see that Ristalln was knighted two years prior to the required five of service.
In the decades that followed, and in the last three battles Highlace endured, Ristalln proved to be every bit heroic as Graham claimed him. He always held a higher regard for other's safety than he did his own. He loved the thrill of battle, yearned for it, and was the first to charge right alongside Grahamas. He was quick, determined and would have never retreated. He would have given his life to save Grahamas, or any other that lived under the banner of Highlace.
On one occurrence, a newly appointed squire, Lisenum, had broken away from his knight and managed to be surrounded by eight insurgents. He was young and foolish, and certainly would not have survived. But both Grahamas and Ristalln had high hopes for him, and once they saw his plight, they attempted a rescue. Yet by the time they could have worked through the back four, the front soldiers would have killed him.
While Grahamas began to formulate a plan, Rist drew back. Though it was completely unlike him, many believed he was retreating. Graham knew better, but also knew he was about to do something stupid. It was too late to stop him. Ristalln was only gathering more room to run, and before the Champion could advise him of a new idea, Ristalln charged then midway through planted his feet on the saddle, stood up then leapt over the back four. He cleared Lisenum, spread his body and took out the front four—two with his torso, one with his arms, and one with his legs.
His motives inspired the rest, and the back four were cleared before any harm could be done to the young squire.
It was the most insane, irresponsible thing Grahamas had ever seen, but also the most selfless and heroic. That act alone earned the Knight his moniker, directly from Grahamas:
Ristalln The Valiant.
He imagined now, though it pained him so, that Ristalln fought until the bitter end—with arrows sticking out of every limb, ten perhaps twenty soldiers surrounding him, and the Knight still raging on.
The pain lingered, the loss of Ristalln held as Grahamas worked through the front of Highlace, now a scarred stone floor, lined with blackened timbers that once held people's homes up.
With apprehension, he cleared the square and cast his vision onto what once was Daleforn and simply waited for his emotions to overwhelm him.
But the guilt he harbored for so long, and the sting he imagined would be here waiting for him never surfaced.
Perhaps he coddled it for too long. All those years spent running and wandering in Limbo. Watching the land suffer and erode away under Idimus’ rule. Those days where he couldn't help but replay the events over in his mind, foolish as it was, belittling himself for being deceived and the phrase "What if" becoming his only companion.
Grahamas was a logical, intelligent man. He feared what foolish act he would commit if he allowed his emotions to overwhelm him. He imagined coming here would be the catalyst for such events.
He knew one day, he would need to do so. Grahamas had spent the years before preparing, and planning. He studied the lay of Kaldus, where the King was, when his guards patrolled, and the best time to strike. He even learned of a secret passage that led from the King's tower into the black, jagged range behind Kaldus. How easy it would have been for him to use that, and sneak in to slit Idimus’ throat in the one room he felt safe in.
Despite his better judgment, Grahamas thought that he would need that information, for the rage he would feel coming back here.
But it didn’t exist.
That was vengeance. Grahamas had learned long ago revenge is not justice. It wasn't about his feelings, his rage, his pain. The people were what mattered. When Highlace fell, he had forgotten that. It wasn't about bricks or stones, councils or libraries. It was not the castle that made Highlace, but its loyal followers.
Killing Idimus would not free the people. Seeing him die would.
And he now had no other goal.
That, he determined, was why he now could set foot here without crumbling—emotionally or otherwise. Highlace was gone; Hope was not. As long as he lived, as long as anyone with a dream or glimmer of a better life existed, there would always be hope.
In looking at that child those twenty-four years ago he remembered that. A child that would grow to be the woman he loved—a feeling he never even came close to in Highlace—had surged him with an unyielding, unflinching inspiration to take back what was lost. To build again what was destroyed, to raise it up and make it better.
There was no guilt. Had he not lost his home, he would have never met her. He still mourned every life taken, and wished them rest, but as he drew closer to the Castle he protected for so many years, he found peace.
He could finally let the past die, because he now had a future worth looking forward to.
Only, he wasn’t sure where to begin.
Grahamas took one last look around and then closed his eyes, focusing on the footsteps that were creeping up a long way behind him—but silence aside. Content that Jeralyle was not casting anything, he left it alone; hoping to retrieve Hope before he confronted him. He had no idea how powerful he truly was and he wasn’t going to take his chances. Though finding Hope could prove more difficult than a potential fight with Jeralyle.
With the previous pieces, he had at least a general idea of where to look, a specific area. Now he had an entire kingdom to search through. Buried in the ground, covered by rubble—whatever piece Tallvas had hidden could be anywhere. Grahamas however, was not searching for the armor. Instead, he was searching for a mark, or a clue as Tallvas had left previously. Even that, though, could take him weeks to find and he didn’t have that long.
His fingers dug into his pocket, retrieving the last letter. He had left in such a hurry to rescue Rhimaldez, his reading of it was brief at best. He thought, perhaps, that he had missed something. Yet, he found nothing. Only that in his haste to write the letter, Tallvas had obscured his capitalization on both the O and the N when it wasn’t needed.
Grahamas’ mind tumbled in realization. He had not
iced it before in the previous letter and paid no attention to it, thinking that the Duke only made a mistake. But it occurred to Grahamas that his odd capitalization just might be more than that. His hand returned to his bag, almost frantically, removing the other two letters—his eyes scanning them. He found a D, then a U misplaced; and in the second a letter an N and a G. “Dungeon,” Grahamas whispered as he pushed the three letters back into his pouch—thinking he may need them again.
He leapt off Feiron and charged passed the empty field to stand before the broken, shattered steps that lead to the castle. The dungeon was well within the structure, tucked away to the far right corner of the scratched, torched floor. With nothing to block his vision he could see it clearly: A pile of rocks that looked like any other. Grahamas knew that this one, however, hid a secret.
It took Grahamas nearly two minutes to cross the vast, marble slab. When he reached it, the Champion placed his hands on the base of the heap and with a grunt he dug his heels into the dirt, the mound of rubble toppling over. His eager hands scattered the remains until he revealed what he was looking for. The stone door and iron handle that led to the underground holding cells of the city.
Kicking away the last of the debris, he bent down and wrapped his fingers around the bar, yanking with all of his might. The door cracked and creaked as though it had not been opened in centuries and Grahamas hoped that was true. The dank, musty smell overwhelmed him and he stood, letting the dusty cavern air out before he entered. He had kept his ears attuned to Jeralyle since first discovering that he was behind him, and the Mage had yet to do anything but follow. He wasn’t a major concern, at least not yet, so Graham pushed on.
Slowly, carefully, he placed his foot on the first step, not knowing if it would hold. When his right leg was planted, he pushed a little harder than needed. Nothing. So he stepped down into the basement of this once great castle, still overwhelmed by the muggy air.
The hallway was ten feet wide and, on either side, four holding cells spread down the forty-foot hallway. Torches were mounted on the solid-stone walls between the bars. Although old and dusty, they would likely still light.
The Champion reached for one, then stopped as a plan soaked into his mind. If he was going to confront Jeralyle, now would be the best time. With no open spaces and Graham’s speed it would be impossible for Jer to give himself enough room or time to cast anything. With only one way out, Grahamas could trap him and force answers out of him without worry of him running. The only challenge he had would be getting to the door before he ran.
“Then again…” Grahamas thought, taking a step back, “Maybe I won’t need to.” With one wide stride he found himself right next to the first cell, wrapping his fingers around the door—iron scraping as rusted hinges gave way. With one final step he squeezed passed the narrow entrance and into the darkened corner of the cell. There he waited patiently, his eyes locked on the stairs.
In the same cautious manner that Graham had used, he saw a black foot feel its way down—and then another. Jeralyle creeping slowly down the stairs, leaning his hand on the wall to further stabilize himself. The light leaking in from the open hatch covered very little beyond the stairs and the Mage leaned forward to get a better view. Once Jer had gone passed the first cell, Grahamas slid between the irons, drawing his sword quietly. Jeralyle stopped, eyes scanning his surroundings, “Now where did he go?”
“Right behind you,” Graham said, pressing the tip of his blade to the Mage’s back.
Jeralyle jumped slightly, “Graham, it’s me.” He said, moving slightly to show his face, “Jeralyle…Relax.”
Grahamas didn’t move an inch, nor did his blade, “I am aware.”
Jer’s face contorted with confusion, “Then why are…”
“I ask questions, you give answers. Understand?” Graham pushed, keeping the point inches away from the Mage’s spine. The only thing Jeralyle moved was his head, letting Graham know that he understood. “Good. And no spells,” he ordered, “First. What are you doing here?”
Jeralyle swallowed nervously before answering, “I saw you when you first came to Sharia. When you returned I followed you up here.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed, “Why?”
Jeralyle sighed, not answering at first. When he felt the sharp, cold steel press against his spine he was more than eager, “I was curious where you were headed. You left so quickly last time I didn’t have the chance to ask you.”
He sounded sincere but Grahamas continued to dig, “Who are you?”
Again, confusion, “I told you. I’m Jeralyle. Grahamas are you well?”
Graham pressed the sword again, snarling slightly, “Answers!” he barked, thinking for a moment. “Perhaps that is your real name, but you’re not who you claim to be. What are you hiding?”
Jeralyle huffed, bowing his head as his left hand slid up. Graham tensed, watching it closely. But the Mage only rummaged through his satchel, retrieving a leather-bound book and holding it up, “This,” he whispered.
With his free hand, Grahamas took the book and pressed it against his thigh as he undid the clasp. He opened to the first page, flicking his eyes up to Jeralyle, the sword still pressed to his back. Seeing that he wasn’t moving, Graham started to read.
I first met Grahamas when he was young, but even then I could see the hope and resilience in his eyes. I have no doubt that he will live up to the legacy Lornya has foretold. Perhaps even beyond it.
“What is this?” Graham asked.
“It’s a journal,” was all Jeralyle said, causing Graham to get frustrated.
“Where did you get it?”
“My grandfather. Now would you please tell me what this is about?”
This time Grahamas ignored the question, reading further in, the handwriting looking oddly familiar.
I have trained many in my years, but never anyone like Grahamas. At only 18 years, he has surpassed even I. His speed is unmatched, both in Highlace and in legend. His spirit and intuitiveness are astounding and he has something I could not teach him no matter how many years I spent shaping him: heart.
He has taken it upon himself to free Highlace, even knowing the dangers that lie ahead.
He has been like a son to me, and I have taught him all that I can about the world: how to fight and how to live. I trust that Grahamas is the only one who can set us free.
Only he can destroy the Lathlogar.
Grahamas stopped reading, trying to dismiss the name from his head. A groan passed out of his mouth after a long moment, now even more questions charging through his mind. “Your grandfather gave you this?” Jeralyle nodded. “Where did he get it?”
“Get it? He wrote it.”
Grahamas narrowed his eyes, trying his best not to gasp aloud. Perhaps it was a deception, perhaps Jeralyle had killed Tallvas and taken his journal. There was no mistake that it was his. Lathlogar was not a name that had been spoken in ages, and one he chose not to forget. Authentication was not what he needed now, only verification of how Jeralyle had gotten his hands on it and who he truly was.
There was a chance that Grahamas had led Jeralyle exactly where he wanted to be. It was possible that Jeralyle was searching for Hope, that the Mage was a spy—a tool planted by Idimus to retrieve the one thing he had not been able to find. But deep down—even now—Grahamas didn’t feel it. He’d seen, battled, and destroyed evil. If this man before him was, he was excellent at hiding it.
It was only when he read the last page of the journal did it all fall into place.
It still disturbs me at times, giving up on Highlace the way I did. My last duty was fulfilled, yes. Hope is hidden, waiting for the Champion to retrieve her. Yet a part of me still wishes to fight alongside Grahamas to return the kingdom the way it was. I don’t regret giving up my eternal youth to grow old with my love, and we have raised a beautiful family and I am proud of them, everyday. Still, when you’ve lived that way for so long, it is sometimes hard to let go—even if what lies before
you is just as perfect.
Yet when I find myself the most lost from my decision, when I truly wonder if I made the right choice, I simply look at my Grandson, Jeralyle. A brilliant, darling boy with a spirit in his heart and a fire in his eyes that reminds of a young man I met so many years ago; one that taught me as much as I taught him. One that fought and bled, trained and sacrificed everyday for what he believed in. A man that I loved like my own child.
A true hero.
Grahamas winced, fought back a tear, and dropped the blade—awe dancing across his face and playing with his emotions. He grabbed Jeralyle’s shoulders and turned him. Still fearful that Graham was going to strike him or kill him, the Mage winced. Grahamas no longer viewed him as a threat; any man raised by Tallvas had not even the potential for evil. “I’m sorry about that, for reasons I’ll explain later.” Jeralyle still looked skeptical. “Your grandfather…is he still alive?”
Jeralyle shook his head slowly, “He passed away several years ago.”
Although Grahamas had always suspected such, hearing it still tore him. He remained silent before simply handing the journal back to Jeralyle.
“I thought, for a long time, that you were only a myth,” Jer said quietly, “A legend that my grandfather made up to keep us entertained. When I heard your name, a name that is on nearly every page of this, “he held up the journal, “I knew it wasn’t just a tale.”
Grahamas shook his head slowly, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jeralyle shook his own, “I never got the chance. I didn’t want to say anything in front of everyone else and you left before I was able to talk to you about it. So I…”
“Followed me up here…” Grahamas sighed, “And I almost attacked you.” The Champion bowed his head for a moment and then extended his hand, “I’m sorry.”
Jeralyle took it and shook gently, “Forgiven.”
Grahamas nodded, “Good,” relieved on more than one level. He no longer needed to question Jeralyle’s loyalty, but now he had a different list of things he wondered about, as he was sure Jer did. He could see that much by the look on his face, so he waited for it.
“Graham?” The young man finally said after a long pause, “What’s Hope?”
Graham chuckled, remembering the last entry. He walked forward a touch, “Come, I will show you.” Jeralyle nodded as they journeyed down the hallway, “Did Tallvas not tell you of Hope?”
The Mage shook his head, “Grandfather…Tallvas mentioned many things, extravagant stories about distant kingdoms and virtuous rulers but never in too much detail. He failed to mention Hope to me, or even write of it in his journal.”
Perhaps, Graham thought, to ensure it was protected. “How did he die?”
“Old age I suppose, he just went to sleep one night and never woke up.”
Grahamas was still surprised—curious as to how Tallvas reversed the spell—but he kept the question to himself, there was no way Jer knew the answer. As they walked down the hall, Grahamas peered into each cell searching for Hope.
“So everything my grandfather wrote happened?” Jeralyle asked, following Graham’s gaze into each cell.
The Champion nodded, taking a moment to scan the cell on his right, “I would imagine so. Tallvas was a noble man.”
Jeralyle couldn’t help but smile, “I mean about you. You were all he ever documented.”
With a bashful chortle, Grahamas approached the final cell, “Then I would think he exaggerated immensely.” The Champion first grinned, then exasperated as he found only dust and debris. There was only one room remaining at the end of the hall, a massive oak door leading into the soldier’s quarters.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Jeralyle bade.
“Hope,” Graham’s fingers wrapped around the huge iron ring that hung on the door. “We’re looking for Hope.” He leaned back and pulled, the wood creaking and finally giving away as dust showered down on his head.
The moment the door cracked open, a brilliant silver light exploded out of it, illuminating Graham’s face and causing Jer to cover his eyes momentarily. The further Grahamas opened it, the more intense the light became. Finally, both pairs of eyes adjusted to the sudden change. Now able to see, Grahamas went first, and then was nearly overrun by an eager Jeralyle. Before them was a long wooden table, worn and scratched, with benches on either side. On that flat edge was the very thing that Grahamas was searching for, that Jeralyle was curious about.
“Hope,” he whispered, both of their faces lighting up as bright as the room.
“It’s armor,” Jer gasped.
Grahamas approached the table, nodding his head, “Part of it at least.”
Jeralyle bent down, eyes wide as he stared at it like a child seeing the ocean for the first time.
Lying upon the wood was the lower half of Radiant Hope. The boots were the first to catch Graham’s gaze, placed against the edge of the table. Each made up of two plates, the first to protect the foot—smooth metal starting at a pointed toe, wrapping all the way around, covering the ankles and heel. The second piece—hinged to the first—was a shin guard, the front rose up and over the knee, rounding out to protect the kneecap whether standing or riding. The inside of each was smooth to place against a horse’s side without injury. The outer edges twisting and sharpening, resembling the frozen flames.
Behind them, on the table, Tallvas had placed the rest. Another two inches of chain mail led to the thigh plates. One long single piece that wrapped all the way around the leg in the same manner as the boots—smooth along the front and back of the quadriceps. The piece ended near the hip. The outer edge of the thigh curved into several flame tips as it did with the calves. The two plates connected to each other by tight-knit seamless mail that covered his lover half like a normal pair of pants.
“It’s magnificent,” Jeralyle whispered softly, running his fingers over the boots.
Graham smiled, having had almost the same reaction the first time that he saw it. “Aye. That armor has served as a symbol of peace and morale for generations.” He sat to remove his boots, placing them on the bench before he slid one leg into the armor, then the other. He finally stood and drew the armor up until the chain mail fit snuggly over his waist.
“So this is the first you’ve found?” Jeralyle’s wide gaze remained on the boots, even as Grahamas pulled them to his feet.
“Third,” he stated, pointing his toes and sliding the shin guard over them.
“How…” confusion settled on his expression, “Have you hidden the other pieces?”
The Champion, again, could not help but chuckle. “No, but there’s a few things about this armor that make it unique.” Grahamas pulled the boot up to his knee, “Watch.” Grahamas looked down to his thigh—as did Jer—staring at the separated chain mail between the two pieces. The moment the metal touched, it flared and a soft white fire erupted along the gap. It pulsed and burned its way around the line. When it faded, the knee’s chain mail was bound to the thigh’s—creating one single piece.
“How?”
“Magick. But that’s not the best part.” His head dipped and when his mouth whispered, “Remise Yavaldes,” the entire lower half flashed and faded from view, leaving Jeralyle utterly speechless. Grahamas had said even less the first time he actually cast the spell.
On the table was a small, sealed letter but in this light he would not be able to read it so he simply placed it in his pocket. He had made it halfway through the door before Jeralyle found his words again, “Where did it go?”
The Champion slipped between the twin doors, Jeralyle right on his heels. “It’s there, in a sense—beneath my skin. It was how previous Champions rode without being discovered, yet called upon it when needed.” Grahamas raced through the hall and ran up the steps quickly, drawing back out into the fading daylight.
“Now where to?”
Grahamas took a moment to think about how he would answer that. A part of him wanted to learn more about the grandson
of his mentor and friend, but another part of him wanted to protect him and lead him back to Sharia where he would be safe. In the end he decided to leave it up to Tallvas and which way the Duke would have him heading. “Let’s find out,” he said, pulling the note from his pocket as Jeralyle watched.
Grahamas had moved the letter up, prepared to read, but his eyes closed and he took a deep breath long before he opened it. His grip expanded, the letter tumbled from his fingers and his free hand immediately snatched the sword from his sheath. Jeralyle had an instant to react, and he flinched fearing the Champion would attack him again. Instead he brought it over his shoulder and down his back, the blade aligned with his spine—all before the letter hit the ground. Jeralyle barely had time to register it, and still had no idea what happened. In one moment Grahamas had moved, the next the Mage heard metal crash against metal and Jer turned his eyes to Graham’s back, noticing the shadowed figure behind him.
“Return what you found in there or the next strike will not be a warning!” Came a voice from the Champion’s back.
“It wasn’t a warning the first time,” Grahamas growled, holding his blade firm. “You just aren’t fast enough.” Grahamas yanked his arm forward, flinging both his blade and the stranger’s away from his back. Grahamas spun and continued the forward motion with his sword, then turned the blade sideways. He whipped around, and swung the weapon wide. His turn was lead by the sword. It brought him halfway and the horizontal slice caught onto another sword. He snarled and pushed but the other blade did not waver. Graham’s gaze followed, and he finally laid eyes upon his attacker.
“Grahamas?” the stranger, a young blonde man with a deep tan and rugged look, questioned.
Graham stammered, the pressure on his attack loosened and behind him Jeralyle could only look on in confusion. Time was not able to rob Graham of the memory, and the recognition was instant. Before the Champion was the man he had said a prayer for only an hour ago. One of his best friends and most trusted comrades. “Ristalln?”
Both blades dropped and the two stared for another long moment, trying to comprehend how they found themselves here. Ristalln blinked, eventually to smile but he held back any other reaction. Grahamas drew back a step, allowed one more inquisitive scan until finally he hugged the other man. “Ristalln my brother!” He pulled away to look at him, “How is this possible? Samsun told me you were dead.”
Ristalln’s face contorted from elation to confusion, as his focus drew from the Champion to Jeralyle, then back again. “That’s not possible, True.” he stated in a heavy breath, “Grahamas…’twas Samsun that died.”
A Sanctuary Inundated With The Soulless
Graham and Ristalln had made their way from Highlace, only after a brief introduction to Jeralyle, and an explanation of Elryia, the group, and their goals. The moment Grahamas had heard of Samsun, it prompted his quick pace and desire to return. Knowing that the dark aura Lornya spoke of wasn’t Jeralyle had set his mind at ease, discovering that it was someone he trusted—someone that was watching her—brought his worries rushing back.
“Have you a horse?” Graham said, leaping onto Feiron and quickening his movements.
Ristalln grinned, “I have three.”
Jeralyle, behind them both, was still trying to determine if Grahamas had meant Ristalln was his blood brother or a brother in arms. Despite the two being almost the same height, they looked almost nothing alike. First, he had blue eyes not green. Ristalln’s hair, though just as long, was a golden blonde as opposed to the dark brown that adorned Graham’s head. His jowls were stronger, wider. A thin beard grew along his jaw, then up around his mouth. When he grinned, something he had done several times, the lines in the corners of his eyes were more abundant. His nose was thinner, his cheekbones higher, and had a seasoned, energetic aura about him. Ristalln came across as weathered—almost grainy.
Jeralyle remained behind them, continuing to make little comparisons as the trio walked west of the rubble, listening as they caught up and reminisced.
“You’ve lived here this entire time?” Graham seemed somewhat rushed as he turned to address Ristalln.
“Nay, I traveled with Tallvas for most of those years. I actually helped him hide Hope,” the man faced him. “Tell me, have you found it?”
With a nod, Grahamas slowed, allowing the two on foot to catch up, “Aye, all but the torso.”
“’Twas the last one we hid.”
At that point Grahamas realized that he had not read the final letter, “The letter from Tallvas. What did it say?”
Again, the Knight chuckled. “Head West.”
“West? That’s it?”
“Aye, designed to lead whoever found it to me. If it were you, then we would be reunited. If it was not you then I would simply retrieve and return the armor.”
Grahamas quirked, “And if they ignored the letter entirely?”
Ristalln’s face formed the most serious look Graham had ever seen him make, “Then I suppose you would have had a much harder task on your hands.” He laughed and winked, wearing the grin which now seemed permanent. “Here we are,” they approached a tiny wooden cottage on the outskirts of Highlace. It was simple and rundown. Pieces chipped from the logged walls and patches pulled from the straw roof. The door was a rotting, dark oak, left open and seeming as though any movement would cause it to fall off. On the side were three horses corralled in a large fence. “The black one is mine, but you are welcome to either of the brown.” Ristalln spoke to Jeralye and the Mage moved to take his pick.
“This… is where you live?” Grahamas asked, turning Feiron now towards Sharia and waiting.
“Aye, for the past fifty years or so.”
“I had no idea you were so patient,” Grahamas poked.
“And I had no idea you were so slow,” Ristalln quipped as he leapt upon his stallion, leading the other out and handing the reigns over to Jer. “Ready?” he pulled up next to Grahamas as Jeralyle climbed atop the horse, not as elegant or quick as the other two.
Since his meeting with Lornya Graham had wondered about the black aura mixed within the group. His first impression was that Jeralyle was hiding something. Which, he had been, but it was nothing dangerous. Now it was obvious, with the appearance of Ristalln, that Samsun or the man pretending to be him was the taint. Grahamas had only one goal in mind: protect Elryia. “Aye, ready.”
“Do you have a plan?
“Aye, I’m going to reveal him.”
“And if he’s evil?”
“Kill him.”
Ristalln laughed, “Sounds good to me.”
And all three charged forward towards the elven kingdom.
In A Time Of Darkness Page 50