A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1)

by Michael S. Gormley

  Alathain glanced down at the halfling briefly, keeping his well-trained eyes on the path ahead of them, dimly lit from the torch in his hand. “No,” he said. “On the contrary, I’m quite happy. And you would be as well if you only bowed willingly before the Dark Lord.”

  “I’m a prisoner,” said Biddledur. “I’ll take no pride and find no happiness in that. Not for any master.”

  Again, Alathain could only laugh. “Your heart is strong, little one,” he said at last. “Much larger than mine, that’s for sure.” He then stopped and knelt beside the halfling.

  Biddledur hadn’t realized, mesmerized by the goblin slayer’s words, that they were now before the door of the Dark Lord’s chambers.

  Alathain brought his face an inch away from Biddledur’s. “It doesn’t matter if you lie, or if you follow your heart with pride. If you’re to live, you must kneel. Kneel before those who’ll win.”

  With that, Alathain rose, and with no hesitation forced open the heavy door to the Dark Lord’s chambers and strode in.

  Biddledur remained on Alathain’s heels. He knew nothing of the man other than two things: he was quick with his blades, and he knew how to remain living.

  Alathain walked quickly to the center of the room and fell to a knee. “My Lord.”

  The halfling had no plan, hadn’t thought of what he was doing, but followed in the goblin slayer’s footsteps.

  As they both knelt, Alathain turned his head slightly to look at the halfling, giving Biddledur an agreeing smirk. The halfling indeed had a good mind, something many lacked. It was a good mind that had kept Alathain alive for all his years.

  Biddledur waited for Alathain to rise, and soon they were standing, side-by-side, before the Dark Lord.

  “The young halfling is starting to learn,” said the necromancer, standing from his throne and walking closer to them.

  Grizlok, his sharp teeth jutting from his thirsty grin, bounced down past his master, and pranced in front of the halfling and the goblin slayer. “The little one finally kneels,” he sneered. “Watch, master.” He laughed to the Dark Lord. “Kneel, halfling,” Grizlok spat at Biddledur.

  And, already tiring of his so common fear, Biddledur dropped to a knee.

  Grizlok smiled yet again. Then he turned to Alathain, fluttering his wings, lifting him to eye-level with the man. “Kneel,” he whispered.

  Alathain returned the demon’s grin, but he stood still. “What will you have me do next, my master?” he said to the Dark Lord, not breaking his stare with the demon.

  “I said kneel!” Grizlok hissed, and, as he did, the acidic mist began floating from his mouth, the green flame burning brighter in his eyes.

  As quickly as Alathain had slain the two goblins, a sword cut through the air, slicing through one of Grizlok’s already mangled wings.

  With only one and a half wings remaining, already filled with holes and scars, the demon faltered in the air and fell to the ground.

  Simultaneously, a dark purple aura formed around Alathain. His body stiffened upright, arms to his sides as if he were frozen in place, and his sword fell from his hand, landing at his feet with a dull clank.

  Biddledur, in awe, looked at the Dark Lord. His hand was outstretched, the Black magic emanating from his fingertips, and the master, cloaked in black, carefully approached Alathain. As he did, he clenched his open hand into a tight fist, and Alathain fell to both knees.

  The master caressed his hand against the demon’s disfigured wing, and it slowly began to regrow. While Grizlok writhed, wiggled in pain, the Dark Lord slowly pushed him aside with a boot.

  “Grizlok is a loyal servant to me,” the master said, looking down at Alathain in his new-found state of paralysis. “I am beginning to question whether or not you are as well.” He did not unclench his magic-binding fist.

  Alathain forced his neck upwards, the dark static crackling as he did. “I come from a long heritage of fealty to the Dark Ones,” he said, forcing each word through the crippling, dark field surrounding him. “An entire ancestry of lives given to their service, my Lord.”

  “Yet, you draw blades in my chambers?”

  “I swear no loyalty to demons and goblins,” Alathain spat out, choking on his words, the energy strangling him. “Only to the Dark Lords themselves.”

  The necromancer raised his free hand, lifting Alathain into the air, a foot off the floor. “You swear loyalty wherever I command it,” he growled, and, with a quick opening of his clenched, black-gloved hands, Alathain fell to the floor.

  Freed from his enchanted grasp, Alathain quickly took up a knee. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

  The necromancer spun on a heel and walked back to his throne. As he did, Alathain shot Biddledur a quick scowl, and Biddledur had understood, fully now.

  Alathain was out of line, he’d been so purposefully. He’d shown the halfling that to stay alive, he’d hidden his pride.

  The goblin slayer was using the Dark Lord.

  ***

  Once the Dark Lord’s chambers had finally settled—the Lord himself reseated, the angered demon perched at his side, and the goblin slayer and the halfling standing in the center of the room—the necromancer was back to business.

  “It is time for your second chance,” he said to the halfling. “Are you prepared?”

  Biddledur fidgeted where he stood. “My…” he began, and forced a cough to rid the lump in his throat. “My Lord,” he began again. “Alathain has surely proven himself an extraordinary fighter. And me…” He paused.

  “And you?” the Dark Lord pushed, a curious grimace growing within the shadows beneath his hood.

  “Well…” continued Biddledur. “Well, I am but a whimpering halfling. A failure to the Dark Lords, as I’ve proven. Surely Alathain wouldn’t fail where I have.”

  “Surely, he would not.” The necromancer laughed. “And that is why he has a greater burden to bear.”

  “The stone?” questioned the halfling. “You said it was of the utmost importance.”

  The Dark Lord rose. “It is, little one. You would never be trusted with retrieving it, only locating it, if even that.” He walked back down his stairs and unveiled his great mirror. With merely a wave of his hand, the lights around the circular frame began to glow, and the glass rippled, revealing a stunning image. It was a rustic, wooden port city. A small fishing vessel floated towards the shore, preparing to dock, as the sun fell beyond the edge of the ocean. Through the dusk, a heavy snowfall fell upon the city.

  Alathain bowed before his master. He turned to Biddledur, nodded in such a way that sent shivers coursing down the halfling’s neck, and stepped into the mirror, vanishing from the Dark Lord’s chambers.

  Biddledur, shaking away his hesitation, lurched forward to follow the goblin slayer, but the necromancer stopped him with his magic grasp.

  “Such new-found enthusiasm!” said the Lord, stepping closer to the halfling. “I admire that. Though, you’ll not go unpunished for your failures.”

  Biddledur winced with each step closer the necromancer took. It does not matter if you follow your heart with pride, he reminded himself. If you are to live, kneel before those that will win.

  He fought through the necromancer’s magical grasp the best he could.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Chapter Eight

  Skinny’s Lodge

  Three days had passed since Kyrn left Aldir at the hands of the vicious beasts in the mountain pass. He couldn’t shake the weight from his shoulders, couldn’t lessen the guilt from his mind as he walked on. Each step, muscles burning in his legs, Kyrn reminded himself that he was much closer to fulfilling his promise to Aldir, a man that taught him to fight, to respect Ulzrich not only as a king, but as a father and a leader. Kyrn was convinced that he’d left Aldir to his certain doom. Continuing forward was the least that he could do for him.

  He kept the mountains, fading as they were, to his back, continuing northeast as the mountain path had spat him out. For the first
few days, Kyrn had been entirely preoccupied with finding the river Aldir had mentioned; it wasn’t until the third day Kyrn realized the snowfall was lessening, the temperatures slowly rising. Though there was still a thick snow beneath his boots, it was now soft, and the ground beneath was spongy and muddied.

  He thought back to the struggling farmlands of Grimmrich. The city is cursed, he thought. A walk less than a week’s travel and the snow begins to fade.

  He looked at the sky, and let the slow falling snow land on his blued-cheeks. What has Grimmrich done to anger you so?

  On he traveled until the sun began to fall through the sky. As night approached the snow had entirely ceased, and the ground was warm enough that most of the snow had melted away.

  Kyrn looked through the darkening sky for a place to rest. He didn’t feel safe even traveling through the day, and wandering at night, holding a torch, would prove even worse.

  As he did, he heard the sound of trickling water. No, it wasn’t trickling. It was a distant, rushing stream. He pressed on, hoping he could cross the river, maybe even seek refuge in the forest before darkness had fully taken over.

  Climbing the hill ahead of him caused his legs to feel as if they had caught fire. Close to the crest, Kyrn fell to all fours and climbed the rest of the way. At the top, he fell flat on his belly and dropped his cane beside him.

  Kyrn’s mouth hung wide as he looked over the welcoming landscape beyond. At the base of the hill, a wide river stretched across the grassland (in which the grass alone made Kyrn giddy) as far as the eye could see, cutting off Kyrn from the new lands set before him. Across the river, Kyrn saw a small, wooden cabin, puffing black smoke from a teetering, stone chimney, darker than the night sky itself.

  He could find a good night’s rest there, fresh food, he hoped. On his stomach, Kyrn watched the sun fall behind the horizon, so far in the distance. Beneath it, like an endless sea of green, lay the forest of Castrolyl.

  ***

  The shackle around her neck chafed her skin. She couldn’t recall how long she’d been trapped in the dank cellar, but it was long enough to force her to stop in her attempts to break free from her chain. She felt if she were to tug even one more time, the force alone, around her throat, would be enough to kill her.

  She’d been warned countless times of this situation, but it had happened so quickly. That’s what they always say. One moment she was gathering herbs in the forest, the next she woke, bound in this cold, damp dungeon.

  From what was the roof of the basement, a cellar door flung open, and a clobbering of feet stomped down the wooden stairs. It was a pudgy dwarf that approached, the one that the captive had come to see was the nicer of the two.

  She exhaled a sigh of relief, seeing the dwarf carrying a small, metal platter with bread and soup.

  He neared her quickly, his mind ostensibly fixed on something else, she could tell. She studied him briefly. Not seeing any keys on his belt, she realized, even with his noticeable distraction, this was not her moment.

  The amber-haired dwarf placed the platter on the ground before her and looked at the girl wide-eyed. He shook away whatever thoughts floated through his head with a grumble and turned, rushing back to the stairwell.

  “Thank you,” the captive whispered through her hoarse voice.

  The dwarf stopped and turned his head, though he did not face her directly. “I know,” he started, but he quickly looked up to the top of the stairs before beginning again. “I know this be hard on ye.” Then, he did turn and look into her small, watering eyes. “It’ll be over ’fore ye know it.” And, with a forced smile, he headed back up the stairs.

  ***

  Skinny stood behind the bar in his secluded tavern, listening to a soft rain drone upon the roof as night fell. He raised the bottom of his mug, finishing off what remained within—a new brew he’d recently concocted. Even for a dwarf like himself, large, strong, a gut round enough for three or four dwarves, the ale made him wince, and he smiled ear-to-ear as he wiped down the mug with a dusty handkerchief.

  The ground at his feet began to shake, the wooden floorboards moaning. He took only a small step back, and the planks burst open, revealing the concealed, wooden hatch that led down into the cellar.

  Dralf stood halfway out of the floorboards, still standing on the stairs, glaring up at Skinny. He admired the large dwarf’s strength, the weathered wrinkles in the corners of his dark eyes, and, as much as he feared the dwarf, Dralf was beginning to fall apart.

  “We can’t be keepin’ this up much longer,” Dralf said.

  Skinny went back to drying his mug. “Didn’t know I put ye in charge.”

  Dralf remained on the stairs, standing awkwardly with one hand on the floor for balance, the other holding the door above his head. “Ye didn’t, Skinny,” he grumbled defeatedly. “But, if they’re not comin’ for her—well, there’s no reason to be holdin’ her.”

  Skinny laughed. “They’ll be comin’. Ye’d better believe that.” He slammed the mug proudly on the bar and looked down at the cowardly dwarf. “Me father made his money this way,” Skinny spat.

  “I know.”

  “And me grandfather, and his father before him.” His voice grew in size as he went on. “And his father before…”

  Skinny’s eyes widened as the front door to the tavern shot open. He quickly snatched Dralf by his stained, white shirt and pulled him to the tavern floor, slamming the hidden door back into place.

  Standing in the open doorway stood a young man. His long, dark hair was, at one point, braided finely, but the rain had soaked it against the sides of his head. He tapped his walking stick upon the wooden floor and hunched in exhaustion.

  “I’m sorry,” said Kyrn. “I tried knocking, and then I heard shouting.” His breath staggered, and he felt as if he’d collapse, now that his legs stood still.

  For a long moment, Skinny stared at Kyrn, eyes still bug-like. Then, at last, he clapped loudly and laughed. “Me boy!” he shouted. “Welcome to Skinny’s Lodge. Ye aren’t intrudin’.” He waddled impressively to Kyrn and pulled him, one arm on his lower back, further into the lodge, slamming the front door to keep out the rain.

  Skinny stretched a hand towards Dralf as he stood from the floor behind the bar. “Meet me accomplice, Dralf. We be here to care of ye. I assume you be needin’ a room.”

  “Just for the night,” Kyrn answered, thankful that he was welcomed so easily. “Thank you.”

  “Aye. Not an issue for a great tavern like Skinny’s,” he said. “Dralf here’ll show ye to yer room, and I’ll be getting’ a warm meal and fresh ale ready for ye, once ye dry off.”

  ***

  When Dralf left him in his room, Kyrn flung his pack onto the bed and let out a sigh of relief. He’d come so close, and as he stared out the window of his room, through the heavy rainfall, he could see the tall, dark shapes on the border of the forest of Castrolyl.

  He turned from the window, fearful he’d see shadows other than the trees. Had the hunters followed, he wondered?

  As he dried off, he calmed himself the best he could. He was no longer alone, at least for the night, and he’d use that to his advantage. Kyrn had seen how quick the hunters had been and, if they truly were tracking him, they would have found him long before he reached Skinny’s Lodge.

  He dressed himself in the change of clothes Dralf had brought to his room. They were slightly large, like the times he had worn his father’s clothes as a child. Kyrn hadn’t expected much else from the two dwarves, so far on the outskirts of any city. It was strange, now that he thought of it, a lodge so far off the beaten path.

  Kyrn’s stomach rumbled. He hoped dinner was ready. A warm meal would tear his mind off everything else like a pleasant dream. For a little while.

  Before he left his cozy room, Kyrn pulled his amulet from beneath his shirt and held it tightly. The scarab looked so different now; a finely-etched stone, no longer illuminated. He waited as long as he could, yet the wings didn’t flut
ter. As he tried to move them with his scraped and bruised fingers, he found them fixed in place. He knew then that it really was an enchantment that caused them to quiver so, a magic controlled by his sister.

  He hoped Abellia was all right.

  ***

  Kyrn found his way through the upper floor of Skinny’s Lodge rather easily. There were only a handful of rooms, all of which were unoccupied, at no surprise.

  He stopped halfway down the flight of stairs, hearing the same griping he had before he entered the lodge.

  Skinny was talking in a loud, demanding tone. “I grow tired of yer questionin’,” he said.

  Kyrn could tell that Skinny had been trying to keep his voice low, but his anger cut through the quiet lodge.

  “Now,” Skinny continued. “She stays down there long as I say. ’Til they come for her. Then ye can sissy on away. For now.” There came a loud slamming of a door. “Yer in this with me. We get the gold, ye take yer cut, and ye do whatever yer soft heart bids ye to.”

  When Kyrn made his way back into the main room of the lodge, Dralf was setting the table. To Kyrn’s discomfort, it was being set for three.

  Skinny stood behind the bar, which stood low for the dwarves’ stature, and filled three mugs until they overflowed with suds.

  “Ah,” grumbled Skinny. “Master Kyrn. Apologies for the clothes. It be all I could find for ye.”

  “It’s no problem,” Kyrn said, ensuring his amulet remained tucked beneath his shirt as he sat.

  Dralf had already seated himself, and Skinny brought the three ales to the table and took his seat. “I hope ye don’t mind us sittin’ down to eat with ye,” he said.

  “Not at all,” Kyrn lied.

  “How empty we’ve been as of late!” Skinny shouted, looking at Dralf. “We don’t want ye eatin’ all alone.”

  Kyrn answered by grabbing a fresh roll from the center of the table. It was soft and hot in his hands, so used to the snow and ice, and smelled like the rolls Abellia would make in Grimmrich. He found his other hand grasping at the necklace through his shirt. It remained still.