by 5kops
Baron Marqel stopped in front of another set of inlaid doors, these with various medallions emblazoned on the wooden surface. As the party passed inside, Areck noticed the room looked like an officer's war chamber. The room was lit by four globes that winked into being upon a given command, illuminating ashen desks, chairs, and shelving units containing dozens of ancient texts.
"Still looks like the last time I was here." Lord Silvershield broke the silence with a grim smile. Holding up a plump finger, he traced over one of the tomes. As the knight-captain pulled away his hand, he looked down to see his name written in elder script.
"Not much use for a war-room at the moment, lad," the baron said cheerfully. "Not much use for the library, either, though Thomas still comes to fetch maps for trading disputes."
"Then the rumors are true, my lord?" Bowon asked. "There has been no activity in these last ten years?"
"Who in their right mind would attack this place?" The baron shook his head. "About the only action we get around here these days are tavern brawls!"
"That may change soon enough, Lord Marqel," the knight-captain sighed. "If I may cut our civilian talk short, I would like to discuss why we are here.
"Of course, Bowon, go ahead," the baron said with chagrin at having sidetracked the conversation. "Do not mind an old man's memories; there will be time for that later, I'm sure."
"My lord, what news have you heard out of the east?"
"Boy," the old man retorted, "I do not have time for Bre'Dmorian half-talk. Be out with it, if you have something to say."
"This is a treacherous time," Arawnn blurted out. "I think ... I mean . . . Lord Silvershield is trying to say . . ." The outburst brought deep scowls from the Bre'Dmorians. Arawnn snapped his mouth shut and added, "Forgive me, sirs. Please continue, Baron."
"Since our fine young friend has put it so bluntly, Bowon, I have heard much by way of Natalinople. The worst being that our king has met an untimely death. However, I am sure you were not sent here to inform me of this."
"I think you underestimate that information, my lord," Lord Vinion said.
"And I think that I have spent twenty years overseeing this outpost," Lord Marqel boomed.
"Lord Vinion means no offense, Baron," Lord Silvershield interjected, shooting a meaningful glance at Vinion.
"What he means is that the information this royal courier carries will play a great role in how this our kingdom moves forward," Bowon finished.
After some minutes closely questioning the courier, the baron tapped his forefinger against his chin in thought. "So you fear that there may be trouble brewing, eh?"
"Duke Hawkwind thinks as much—enough to request an escort for this young man." Bowon motioned to Arawnn. "Of course, in times such as these it is very hard to know where a noble's loyalties lie and whom to trust . . . excluding our current company, of course."
"You expect foul play, then?" Lord Marqel asked.
"I don't know. You know our customs; we usually stay out of politics," Bowon explained. "However, it is my duty to make sure this messenger gets to Natalinople alive. I had planned on asking you for a night's shelter in your keep, but it seems we might have a problem. Several nights ago, I sent a small party of my men—"
A guard burst into the room, followed by another man drenched in blood.
Areck barely recognized Lord Malketh. The wounded knight held his right arm limply and had several deep gashes across his forehead that could only be from a bladed weapon. He was alone.
The knight was near collapsing as he tried to speak. Lords Silvershield and Vinion ran to the man's aid, noticing the deep cuts that ran beneath the knight's scaled armor. The baron shouted for the guard to fetch some water and send for his personal physician.
Lords Vinion and Silvershield eased the wounded knight into a chair. The man gulped as much water as he could handle. He looked as if he had suffered from dehydration; his hair was matted from sweat and smeared with blood.
Finally the man spoke, "Baron. Commander," he nodded at the baron and the knight-captain, "I have dire news."
Lord Malketh pulled a small piece of parchment from one of his many pouches and handed it to Lord Silvershield. After giving the knight-captain a moment to open the document, he began. "As you can see, my lord, we have a traitor in our midst."
"Where did you get this, Lord Malketh?" Bowon asked.
"It came from Willim and Kenly, my lord," Malketh responded. "They waited less than half a day's ride before attacking me from behind. Had it not been for Starsgalt's grace, I would not have survived."
"They are dead, then?" Lord Vinion asked.
"It would have been me!" Lord Stephen Malketh cried. "However, the younger squire, Kenly, was unprepared when my mount kicked backward. The blow must have stunned the boy and sent his horse into Willim's. It was by God's grace that I was able to slay the traitorous slime!"
Doing his best not to look, Areck watched Lord Vinion place the note on the nearest table. Sighing, he silendy read the words:
Make sure the royal courier does not arrive in Natalinople. Do whatever is necessary to attain his head. I expect to see you soon. D.O.T.
The blood drained from Areck's face. They had found the traitor; or rather, a pair, it seemed. His mouth dry, Areck picked up the letter and handed it to a gaping Arawnn.
15
AFTER HIS last demotion to the lowest rank a veteran of twenty-three seasons could hold, Knight-Captain Bowon Silvershield never planned on leading again. It was not that he lacked the capability, nor was it a lack of faith in the One True God. It was the sweet taste at the end of a bottle which had led him down a sinful path; liquor had become his savior.
After nine long years of public drunkenness, excessive womanizing, insubordination, and several infractions for missing evening prayers, Bowon had never suspected that the High Lightbringer would require his service again. Thus, when he had been asked to lead a small escort of men including Messenger Arawnn to Stormwind Keep and beyond, he was skeptical. Maybe it was that it had been so long, or that he doubted himself, since his fall into disgrace. Then again, maybe it was neither of those reasons. It could have been that he questioned the High Lightbringer's methods. Why would his lordly commander take such a chance?
It made no sense until now.
God is giving me another chance, Bowon thought. He knew that many of his brethren questioned his faith and the information he had brought back from a journey he had made over fifteen years ago, a prophecy that foretold of coming doom. In truth, after being beaten by inquisitors coundess times, Bowon had accepted that they were right. He had convinced himself that he was mad and unworthy. It drove him even further into the bottle.
Then, out of nowhere—midway through the first part of their trip— things changed. His personal squire, Areck, had shared a premonition regarding the death of the courier from the blade of one of his own order to his attention. Though Bowon had not realized it at the time, Areck's news was something he had known would happen long before it did. He had just not accepted it until now—and for good reason. It had been years since his last visitation by God, since he, Bowon Silvershield, had seen this exact event take place.
In his visions a lone knight always came through wooden doors, bloodied and betrayed by . . . well, he had never seen the betrayer. However, he had clearly seen the aftermath. No matter the outcome, war would come upon his land, and then he would . . . then he must make the final sacrifice: his own life.
The thought was a terrible one. He realized that it was not the thought of war that had led him off the path, nor the bottle, nor his lack of faith. It was a thing worse than anything he could imagine; worse even than the death of a king. Bowon had been shown the destruction of the order. He could no fathom such a nightmare; yet, here it was. Through all of these years he had held it at bay, burying his divine character in strong dwarven ale and potent apple brandy. He had told himself that the vision was one of several possible futures; not a
true foreshadowing of what would happen.
Bowon absently heard the gasp of the royal courier and the soft flutter of air as parchment fell softly to the ground. Baron Marqel was speaking anxiously as were his fellow knights. His mouth felt parched and he wished he had a malted beer.
When he looked up to see all eyes upon him, Bowon frowned. There was nothing he could do at the moment. It seemed fate had chosen him once again to follow down a dangerous path.
His first duty was to Arawnn, then his men, and finally the campaign. He would stay at Stormwind for the night. In the morning he would address the issue with a clear mind.
****
Areck was too tactful to state the obvious: If the knight had been attacked from behind by anyone who knew how to use their weapon, why were all of his wounds on up front? He apprised the rest of the room and waited for one of the senior members to point it out. Everyone wore a controlled mask of calm and said nothing.
Areck heard Arawnn's startled gasp at the news that his death had been planned by one of his escorts. He could see the words forming on the royal courier's lips. The parchment implicated D.O.T, whatever that meant.
Although the confirmation of his vision had partially fulfilled itself, Areck's conscience remained burdened. He did not like being so restrained regarding the vision which portrayed his friend's death, but the Code was rigid. It was meant to prevent mortal judgment and fear from guiding action. He knew that discretion had been wise in this instance, proving once again that he was flawed, even in basic understanding. He considered talking to Lord Silvershield again; his inadequate logic needed some closure on the matter. Something just wasn't right about this.
I do not want to be penalised again, Areck thought. It is better to know my place and keep my mouth shut.
Areck sighed. There was no honor in staying silent; he needed to consult Lord Silvershield regarding some inconsistencies, to understand the implications of things that had not come to pass.
Areck glanced at Arawnn. The courier stared intently at the baron and the knights, who were caught up in conversation. The look on Arawnn's face bespoke betrayal and disgust.
In all the commotion Areck had not paid attention to Lord Malketh. The knight's right arm hung against his archaic gladius, a weapon rarely used by Bre'Dmorians. Areck had never used such a weapon, but in his studies he had come across history that depicted the accuracy of the gladius' killing blows.
Areck condemned himself for being so cold. He was paying more attention to the man's weapon then he was to the knight's grievous wounds.
Conversation raged for several hours while lodgings were arranged. Lord Silvershield sent Lord Vinion to ensure that a suitable shrine was near Lord Malketh's room so that the knight could find basic healing from God through stringent prayer.
Finally, the baron, looking tired, held up his hand and released the men to their barracks.
Areck followed a staggering Lord Malketh, who had been bandaged and retained during the questioning, out of the room, watching as Arawnn pushed past the knights. Nowhere in the questions had anyone asked what the royal courier thought about the matter. Areck decided that his friend needed space to clear his mind, so that he could cope with being the mark of an assassin.
He considered going after Lord Malketh and then after Arawnn; he knew his friend would have been there in his time of need—until Lord Silvershield called for him. As for his friend, he would check on him later and offer whatever support he could.
****
The crisp morning breeze whipped through the mountain pass, swirling the bright banners attached to all military buildings.
A pair of squires rubbed their eyes and stood in loose ranks, waiting for Squire Areck to rouse the rest of the company. They were not surprised when he exited the barracks followed by three more sleepy-eyed squires.
Areck ordered the young men to form ranks then he counted each man, going down the line making sure that each squire looked appropriate. His morning orders had been to rouse the men at dawn, work out any kinks, and bring them for morning prayers, their first since leaving Aresleigh a week earlier. Satisfied that the five young men were awake enough to begin their morning exercise, Areck ordered them to perform maneuvers to get the blood pumping. Areck then moved the men toward the small chapel located within the courtyard, a task often done after spending more tban one night on the road. Beds sapped the will of a man, given the chance.
As he knelt and closed his eyes in prayer, Areck felt exhaustion wash over him. For the sixth straight night he had gotten fewer than four hours of sleep. No nightmares had visited him, yet he felt uneasy. The story of Lord Malketh's return was on even-one's lips. Several of the squires approached Areck with questions about their commander's return. It seemed that news of the traitors had spread from the keep to the small company of riders, which seemed odd since no one outside of nobility had been in tbe room. More important, none besides Areck had slept outside of the baron's personal wing.
Due to rank and title, Areck, as the junior commanding officer, was expected to stay in the barracks with his men. It was common for a military company, in this case, squires, not to be invited as guests. However, considering that the keep was underutilized by the current garrison, Baron Marqel had given the squires their own wing, dinner, and private chapel.
Areck had expected Arawnn to sleep with his small company of squires, as his friend seemed to prefer the life of those without privilege. Yet, that was not the way it turned out.
Arawnn had asked to be removed from any dealings with those of squire rank. Areck knew the courier wished to sleep with people who had not betrayed him.
He had just finished prayer the following daybreak and was about to start his morning meal when an irritated voice cut through the air.
"It was your duty to make sure the squires were prepared before the morning meal, Squire Areck," Lord Vinion snapped, looking at the circle of young men gathered around a large rectangular table, eating dripping sausages. "Most still look like they are half asleep."
"I woke them at dawn, my lord," Areck said, snapping to attention. "My orders were to work the blood and prepare them for the day's journey."
"You were to organise them, squire," Vinion growled, "in a way that worked them out and readied them for the next leg of their journey. It will take them another hour to be ready to ride." The man stood and walked away, barking orders. Six squires formed a stoic line, chins held high, eyes straight ahead, but hanging on each word the knight said. Areck stood to the side, taking the brunt of anger directed at the men.
"I refuse to tolerate the lax attitude this company has adopted!" the officer said. "If the under-lieutenant cannot handle his duties, perhaps it is time I again advise the knight-captain to remove his rank." Lord Galwen Vinion walked down the line until he stood in front of Areck. Lord Vinion stated several things not quite insulting but effective enough to initiate the questioning of the Areck's ability to lead. He turned and moved down the line, stopping long enough to point out flaws of each young man. "Since we have left Aresleigh, this entire company has broken from the path of righteousness. You, Anton," he said and pointed at the youngest squire, "look unkempt. Kaadin, you look as if you are still sleeping."
Areck had never seen a knight so angry in all his years of schooling. It looked as if the second-captain had not slept, his anger from the previous evening magnified. Areck guessed that the man was having trouble believing that one of the Bre'Dmorian Order would betray his escort, let alone his country.
"Mark my word, squires, when I return from Natalinople, the High Lightbringer will hear of the unprepared nature of his future knights." Galwen whispered to Areck: "It makes me sick that one of common blood could wear this rank. It is even worse that the knight-captain protects you from proper punishment. If it was me, your rank would be removed and you would be sent to the tables with the rest of the first year squires. If it were up to me, another ten years of service would be required
."
Areck's mouth tightened but he remained silent.
"Say it, boy. I can see you wish to confront me in front of these men," Lord Vinion hissed.
With restraint, Areck kept his composure. It had taken six days for the Galwen to admit his problem: Areck was common.
"It is not my place to question you, my lord," Areck whispered, still declining to meet the other's eyes. "If you wish to have me removed, then by all means, bring it to Lord Lightbringer's attention."
"It is not your actions that have me concerned," Knight-Captain Vinion said in disgust. "Under-Lieutenant, you will run these men until one sickens," he continued as he walked towards the stables. "It should take you no less than one hour. When you have fulfilled my orders, I want them mounted and ready for today's ride."
It did not take long for the sausage to find its way out of the squires' stomachs but Areck did not stop the exercise until an hour had passed. Seeing the boys exhausted, dripping with sweat and vomit, he allowed them to rest momentarily before issuing orders to return to the barracks. Their workout had attracted several common soldiers, laughing and betting on whether or not the officer in charge would ever end the exercise. When it ended before noonday, several of the soldiers gave cheers as silver coins changed hands.
As Areck followed the squires, a barracks sergeant came over to discuss methods of whipping his own men in shape, which turned cheers into scowls. Areck found it almost amusing. Part of him hoped that those men who had wagered on the morning's punishment would be run into the ground.
I cannot blame them, he thought with resignation. If I were a soldier watching this ridiculous workout, I might laugh as well.