“Least we have drink,” the taller guard said, sharing his partner’s dreariness. He handed the mug to his partner. They both turned and looked as fireworks exploded overhead. “It’s odd,” he continued, “celebratin’ the king’s daughter and all. Right after the Baron dies.”
“Humph,” was how the short guard answered. “Ye know,” he said, ignoring his partner’s concerns, “we may have the best bloody view in the city.” He took a long swig from his mug.
“Make up yer mind.” The taller guard laughed. As he turned back to his patrol, he dropped his mug to the ground, and, startled, he drew his sword.
“Ye drunk already—” The short guard found his hand on his hilt as his mug landed beside his partner’s on the cobblestone.
Alathain stood facing the guards, his hands clasped over one another at his waist.
“Ye can’t be here, stranger,” the tall guard said, and he took a cautious step closer.
“I’m sorry to have frightened you, but I have been summoned to Baron’s Roost.” Alathain extended both hands to show he’d meant no harm. Truthfully, he hadn’t. But it didn’t matter to him either way.
“Party’s in the square,” the tall guard said, and he lowered his sword ever so slightly.
“Aye,” the short guard agreed. “Yer missin’ the fireworks.”
Both of the guards flinched when Alathain removed his hood. He was glad to know the true bravery of the city guard. The elves, by now, would have dropped more hidden guards from behind, and he’d have been bound and gagged. This he knew from experience. The breeze caught his hair and his ponytail danced.
“The city is unaware of this meeting,” Alathain said calmly. “Tonight, of all nights. I would not be here unless requested.”
The two guards shot each other a quick glance. The stranger hadn’t been wrong. Still, the short guard said, “We be under strict orders.”
“Aye,” the tall one agreed. “Strict.” He stood straight now. “None but the council.”
Alathain re-cloaked himself. “This is what happens when you try and reason with the feeble-minded.” He turned and started to descend the stairs.
“He called us stupid,” the shorter guard scoffed.
“No,” the tall one laughed. “He’s only speakin’ of ye.”
They both laughed. Until the taller guard was choking. Except, oddly enough, he was spewing a deep red from his mouth.
The short one caught a dizzy spell as a glimmer of light reflected from the dagger jutting from his partner’s throat. The handle of the blade was curved majestically, unlike any design he’d ever seen in Stalholm.
The tall guard fell to his knees, his hands clasped at his neck as he tried to suck in air through his clenched teeth.
Realizing what happened, the short one looked up to find Alathain sprinting up the final two steps.
Alathain leaped over the tall guard, now laying still on the ground. As a firework exploded in a mist of color, the short guard was temporarily blinded. With eyes closed, he swung his sword.
Alathain’s left foot met the ground in time to turn away, and the guard’s blade nicked his leather vest.
When the short guard’s eyes opened, he saw Alathain’s hand upon his shoulder, and his dagger had already opened the guard’s throat.
***
Alathain waited on the roof of Baron’s Roost. Hidden in shadow, his grey cloak flitted in the wind. The cloak was a gift, given to Alathain by his true king. Little did Alathain know the responsibility his king was to expect, and the sacrifices it would require from him.
The roof of Baron’s Roost was filled with windows, though there was no glass in them, as the iron bars formed the dome-shaped roof. The structure made it difficult for Alathain to keep his footing. He saw a faint light as the gate from which he’d entered swung open.
“Where are the guards?” Lord Tymlan hissed, as he entered the chamber. The two men walking behind him, Alathain didn’t know. The first was young and handsome. His short, blond hair was clean to match his trimmed beard.
The second was an older, fatter man. “We will see that they are tried for treason!” he burst out, neck flapping as he spoke. “Any men unwilling to protect their superiors deserve so.”
Behind these two entered the young lady Alathain had waited for. Lady Abellia Fellenor, whom he’d studied for days, accompanied by two guards.
The fatter man sat his book upon a pedestal and spread it open. He waited as the other men took their places in a circle. “Welcome, friends,” he said at last. “For generations, our friends and ancestors have met here, on Baron’s Roost, to protect the future of Stalholm. Now, we stand here to welcome our new leader, temporary as it may be.”
The short-haired man laughed.
“Nonetheless, we have received word from our king in Grimmrich, from Lady Abellia, that the great wizard Magmi has summoned our aid in the lands of the west.”
“Magmi the Mad?” the clean-cut man asked, astonished. “I have seen nothing great from that old bat.”
Abellia stepped forward sharply. “You are right, Lord Carus,” she hissed at him. “You have seen nothing at all from Magmi the Great.”
“And have you?” Lord Carus asked smugly.
“I have heard all I need from our elder Northal. If Magmi is in need of assistance, we will help. We will need his support for these dark times to come.”
Alathain, wanting to know more, fought past his curiosity, knowing his time to act was now. As silent as the lower quarters of the city, he dropped from the roof.
On one knee at the floor, Alathain looked up slowly, his face shadowed by his hood, still swaying with the breeze. Everyone atop Baron’s Roost stared at him, mouths agape, still assembled in their circle. Lady Abellia was flat on her stomach, underneath the cloaked man’s twin blades.
Chapter Nineteen
Fresh Meals and Fearsome Tales
Kyrn couldn’t fully shake the dark dreams from his thoughts the next morning. Though, the fresh breakfast that had been set out for him in the dining hall helped tremendously. There were boiled eggs, sautéed peppers, and, certainly not least, hot, seasoned potatoes. He scarfed down his food like he’d not eaten in months, though it’d really been since Skinny’s Lodge that he’d not had a hot meal.
As he ate, he thought of his home. Thought of Abellia and Elrich. He brushed his hand over the still amulet beneath his clean shirt, and pictured Abellia doing the same. The scarab hadn’t flicked its wings, that Kyrn had noticed, in at least two days now. Since it had made aware its presence to Syonne outside of the forest. What had she known of the necklace, he wondered. It was no secret any longer. He’d seen the Black Knights, twice now, and, regardless of their visage-like appearance, the resemblance of the Black Knights’ helmets was too significant to be overlooked.
His travels had begun to feel more like a destiny than random luck. He sat at the table, stuffing his mouth with his hot meal, as he pieced together his journey thus far: Iafi had known that he could have passed through Skinny’s land, enough so that he’d informed his brother, Dralf, ahead of time. Kyrn assumed that Northal had known significantly more than he had told them during their three-day spent in his study, looking over various maps of the lands. It all seemed so irrelevant now. But, even if Northal had truly known what lay in wait for young Kyrn, perhaps it’d only been precaution.
A door on the opposite side of the room opened and two elven guardsmen, so similar to the guards at the River Bridge, walked gracefully to Kyrn’s table and stood at either side. Both of the elves wore their hair braided the same, and Kyrn felt a little uneased. When he had woken, he’d found his hair done the same. And, though it were like how he’d fastened it before setting off from Grimmrich, he couldn’t imagine what the elves thought of him now.
The blond elf tapped his feet on the ground, planting himself straight like a statue. “You will be seen now, Master Kyrn,” he said. “Please, follow us.”
Kyrn glanced at his unfinished food,
wanting just a little more time. His curiosities piqued him, however, and he rose from the table.
“You need not worry about the rest,” the second guard said, his hair blond and wavy. “It will be cleaned up for you.” He smiled at Kyrn. “There will surely be more to come.”
Truthfully, Kyrn hadn’t even thought about the rest of the day. Lately, the future always seemed a rush of daunting tasks and fearsome beasts. Bravery could only get him so far in these distant lands, always something to run from.
“Where is Syonne?” Kyrn asked, following the guards to the door they’d entered from.
They gave him questioning stares.
“The elleinor,” he said, remembering the only elvish he’d learned so far.
The blond elf raised his brows. “Ahh,” he said. “No need to worry. She is with her master now.”
“She did well in bringing you here, Master Kyrn,” the brunette elf said. “Surely you would have died in those wildlands. Her fate will be decided by her master.” He smiled at Kyrn, seeing his obvious distress. “That is the way of the elleinor.”
***
Though it hadn’t been a long journey through the castle of Castreeth, it was an extraordinary one. Kyrn found himself awestruck by the hand-crafted entirety of the castle. Each door, trim, and accessory within the building was unique, whittled to its own perfection. As they walked through, Kyrn felt an aura of ease and clarity force the weight of his travels from his body, as if cleansing him. It was a feeling that he’d not wanted to let go of, but, sooner or later, he knew that he must.
They rounded the corners through a few hallways, left and right, until they reached a long tunnel, leading to a large opening. This was the only doorframe that Kyrn had seen without an attached door, leading directly into a room.
Each of the guards again snapped their feet to order, placing their backs respectively to either side of the doorway. The butts of their glaives tapped the ground and stood perfectly in front of them.
“This will seem an eternity,” the blond elf whispered to Kyrn.
Kyrn saw the dark-haired elf shoot his fellow guard a look of confusion, and he knew that this was not a formality.
“Remember,” the blond guard continued. “There will be more food and drink when you have finished. Keep clarity in your mind.”
Kyrn nodded to the guard and entered.
The room was dark and quiet, save for the two men talking in hushed voices further in.
As Kyrn approached, the elderly man stood from his seat, a sofa facing the other, and bowed to Kyrn. “I hope you’ve rested well, Kyrn,” he said through his long, ragged beard.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good,” he said. The old man extended his hand to the elf seated beside him. His hair was black, but as he turned and smiled at Kyrn, a purple like the braziers in the city shimmered through his hair. Atop his head, a crown of orange branches weaved through his braids. He nodded to Kyrn. “Your travel has been long, surely,” the man continued. “Allow me to introduce you to Glahlan Ezroch, son of Glamlan Ezroch, nephew to the old King Mayhlan Ezroch.” The old man smirked, as he watched Kyrn attempt to keep up with the distorted family tree. “King of Castreeth.”
Kyrn forced himself to remember where he’d come from, his noble etiquette, and knelt before the king of the forest.
King Glahlan laughed softly. “Please, Master Kyrn,” he said, “be seated. You have been through too much to sort out family bloodlines. At least, for now.” He winked at Kyrn as he sat. “I am sure your mind is riddled with questions, hmm?”
Kyrn nodded. He’d never found himself so speechless. His entire childhood was spent around adventures in the woods with Elrich, pretending they’d found the elves. They marveled over the few they’d seen come and go through Grimmrich, few and far between as it was. Now, he sat before the true king of the forest. He was real. “It is,” he muttered.
“Now,” the king continued, looking at the elderly man. “Where to begin, Wylah?”
Kyrn straightened abruptly in his seat. He watched the old man finger his beard, and his eyes widened beneath his pointed eyebrows. He’d noticed Kyrn’s recognition. “Wylah?” Kyrn asked.
“So, you’ve heard of me?” Wylah’s tone was briefly filled with a hint of arrogance, pleased to be recognized.
“You’re an elder,” Kyrn said at last.
“Very old indeed.” Wylah fought to hide his smile, hearing the king chuckle beside him.
“No,” Kyrn stuttered. “I’d not meant it as that.” He studied the old man for a moment. “A wizard,” he said at last. “One of the greats. You’re Northal’s father.”
Wylah smiled when Kyrn pieced together the puzzle pieces in his head. “That I am.” His eyes drifted in thought. “I suspect Northal is doing well for himself in Grimmrich?”
“He is,” Kyrn said, lively as ever. He pondered over how he’d not seen the resemblance at first sight, though, Wylah seemed much older. Kyrn couldn’t hold in his puzzlement. He said, “Is it true? That Northal is over two-hundred-years-old?”
King Glahlan and Wylah looked at one another. They were reminded that, no matter the age of adulthood in the terms of man, they were still seated with a young boy.
“It is true,” Wylah laughed. “Though, you must not ever mention that I’ve given up his secret!”
“No,” Kyrn quickly agreed. “I’d never. But… that means that you’re…”
“Much older,” Wylah interrupted, wanting dearly to avoid the conversation and the question that’d follow.
Kyrn’s mind raced, quicker than the river flowing through the hills of the forest. His eyes darted around the room, studying the elder, studying the bookcases lining the walls. There sat a finely-carved throne at the end of the hall, vines and trees lining the legs. From where he sat, he could make out podling sprouts carved into the armrests. Above the headrest of the throne, a symbol was etched into the wood. It didn’t look to be hand-carved, but more so as if it were imbued by magic. The symbol on the king’s glaive.
“What is the symbol,” Kyrn said. When he looked back at the two sitting with him, he noticed that they studied him as much as he did them. “The one on the River Bridge, on the throne.” He looked cautiously now at King Glahlan. “The one of the blade of the king’s glaive.”
King Glahlan showed his arrant-white teeth as if he’d thought he should. “It is the bane of Ezroch,” he said.
“A bane?” Kyrn questioned.
“Once, it was a symbol of hope,” the king continued. “Forged by the old king Mayhlan himself. It was long before the Great War, which you, and your father, are all too familiar with. No one, young as your father was, should be forced to fight in such battles. No one young as you; however, we cannot fight against the times in which we are born; only what we do with that time. Do you understand?”
Kyrn nodded slowly.
“The old king Mayhlan Ezroch was born into Dark Times as well. Such as they were called. A force fell upon the lands of Einroth, from the Ashen Forests of the western lands. Small in numbers at first, small enough that the old elves of Grimmrich thought them only explorers, raiders, and pirates, come east to conquer new lands. They failed, for King Mayhlan’s forces were too much in number.”
“The Dark Ones?” Kyrn asked.
“Yes,” the king continued. “Though, the forces of King Mayhlan had not known at the time. Eventually, the hordes of ships from the west grew in number, armies of the Dark Hand.” The king noted Kyrn’s cocked head. “An order of necromancers raised an army to conquer the lands of the east. Truly, none still know where they had come from. Five of them. The Five Fingers of the Dark Hand. Ship after ship, their armies fell upon eastern Einroth, though Mayhlan would not let his empire fall to such a foe. He felled the last of their Black Knights with his glaive, forged by his own hands.”
“But he died,” Kyrn said, lowering his head. “How was the war ended?”
“Many of the Dark Ones remained after the king fell,
” King Mayhlan said. “Though, without their Black Knights, the Black Order was no threat to the remaining forces in the east. The old king Mayhlan Ezroch imbued his king’s glaive with his own essence, living through the symbol of Ezroch, which you have seen with your own eyes. Alongside, he forged an amulet of two pieces.”
Kyrn dug his fingers into the soft arms of the sofa. He hadn’t heard Abellia in so long now.
“And, most importantly, the old king forged the Stone of Ezroch. He sacrificed himself to bring Castreeth into this realm, never to again be bothered by the temptations of the outside world, the races of men and dwarves, orcs, and goblins, or,” he said finally, “the Dark Ones. It was with that stone that it was possible, and it was the only remnant never found after his death.”
Kyrn pulled his eyes from the floor, seeing that King Glahlan’s eyes had become watery.
“How did he create the relics?” Kyrn asked.
“With powerful magics.” King Glahlan smirked. “And the help of an old friend, Magmi the Great.”
Kyrn looked at Wylah to confirm the king’s story.
Wylah only nodded, as he ran his wrinkled fingers through his beard.
“Magmi the Great?” Kyrn repeated. “I’ve heard few tales of him.”
Wylah sat up in his sofa. “That’s because the weak minds of men can’t remember a lick of history,” he fussed. “I’ve been called many names, yet that is one that gets me red in the cheeks every time.”
Kyrn stared dumbfounded at the old man. “You?”
“I,” answered Wylah.
“That means…”
“We needn’t talk of my age,” Wylah hissed again.
King Glahlan turned his attention to the old wizard. “Magmi the Great, the wizard of old, King Mayhlan’s elder… Magmi the Mad,” he put in lastly. “No matter the title, Wylah Helning, son of Torh Helning, father of Northal Helning, has been and will remain a tremendous threat to the Dark Ones.”
A Flutter In The Night (Kyrn's Legacy Book 1) Page 14