The Power Within: The Chronicles of Hollyglade Wayrender

by Steve Barker

  As Harford Peaksoul drifted deeper into his own despair, the sound of the crumbling tower increased in volume. The young King and the Master of his Royal forces, turned to look out the window facing the tower. As they did so, to their shock and dismay, the roof of the tower gave way and collapsed in on itself, sending a sound wave that echoed loudly throughout the throne room.

  Immediately panic filled the Keep, and those assembled began to take defensive positions around the exits. After a moment, it was clear that the sound did not originate in the throne room, and soldiers were sent to find out where the sound had come from. Quentin Wendal was quick to arrive at Harford’s side.

  “Your Grace,” he said in a hushed tone, “this may be the distraction we need.” Wendal took a quick look around the room to see if anyone was paying them direct attention.

  “What do you mean?” Harford asked, his voice betraying his trepidation.

  “There is still a chance to get you out of the capital.”

  “How? To what end?”

  Quentin Wendal placed and hand on the young King’s shoulder and leaned close.

  “You are still the rightful King, and we may still be able to regroup over a short time, and retake this kingdom. But we can not do it with you imprisoned.”

  Harford was numb from his disheartenment, and did not know how to reply. He had been through so much is such a short time. The loss of his father, brother, friends, and now his throne, piled high upon his small shoulders. The weight of all his failures, all that he had been responsible for, everyone he had let down, pressed him into a malaise. He had lost the ability to care about himself, having had everything and everyone else he cared for ripped from him. He sighed, and looked at Quentin Wendal, who was eyeing exits and the distribution of Demarian guards.

  “I guess,” Harford mumbled. “What difference does it make? Take me wherever you like. One place is as good as another.”

  With a look of apprehensive concern battling urgent incentive, Wendal nudged Harford toward the back of the plinth where large tapestries hung adorning the rear wall of the throne room.

  “Your Grace, we must be quick. When, and if, the opportunity presents itself, we must not hesitate.”

  Harford shrugged. There was nothing left within him that he could call upon to respond to the urgency his Master of the Royal Forces conveyed. As they stood and watched for someone to return with a report, or some other indication of what had caused the explosive sound wave, the tension in the room was palpable. Several of the Demarian commanders, along with King Dermond himself, gave repeated glances at Harford and Wendal as they took part in some serious looking discussion. Harford turned his attention to the windows at the side of the hall, taking in the starlight of the new moon’s night, wishing he were somewhere far away from where he stood, a defeated and deposed unprepared ruler.

  As the young King looked up at the the tower, to where the Sorcerer’s apartment had been, to where he had supposedly worked on his promised solution to the Kingdom’s woes, Harford remembered something odd.

  “Lord Wendal,” he whispered “did you see that light that was coming from the tower? There was never a window there before.”

  Quentin Wendal stepped around the deposed king, and looked up at the tower, to see if what the King was describing could still be seen. As he did so, the remaining levels of the tower began to crumble with increased momentum, and the entire tower began to cave in upon itself. In a matter of seconds, what remained of the tower collapsed to the ground, sending debris and and dust in all directions.

  The accompanying sound was deafening, and the rumbling vibrations that rippled through the floor as a result sent everyone in the hall scattering in fear and panic. Without hesitation, Quentin Wendal shoved Harford behind one of the large tapestries depicting his father Jerold, kneeling before the King of Demaria, the very man who now occupied the Lorian throne room, in a gesture of peace and friendship.

  Once behind the curtain, Wendal drew something small from within his sleeve, felt along the wall for something hidden within it’s texture, and slipped the key into a tiny keyhole. Silently, a hidden door opened inward, and Quentin Wendal turned to the King with a finger to his lips, pulling him to enter the hidden passage. Without a word, both the young King, and the Master of his Royal Forces, slipped out of the throne room, while the sounds of panic, and the echoes of the booming crash of the crumbled tower filled the hall.

  Once inside the tunnel, Wendal picked something small off the wall and sparked a torch to light. Lifting the torch from it’s sconce, he took Harford by the hand and pulled him along the pathway.

  “Where are we? I did not know this was here.”

  “No one knew this was here. Not even your father. There is a series of secret tunnels throughout the palace and the city, the knowledge of which is passed from one Master of the Royal forces to another. Though some of the older tunnels beneath the city are known to others, the ones in the palace itself are kept secret for unlikely events such as this. We will take this passage here, and follow it until it joins one leading out of the city. There, we will meet Lords Marnon and Ventrent, and a small contingent of guards, who will join us in escorting you to Stonehome.”

  “But how will we get past the Demarians who are outside the city?” asked Harford, expressing genuine concern.

  “It will be a risk, Your Grace, but we will disguise ourselves as merchants, and travel incognito. We must assume covert dress and names, and we must travel lightly. We must not refer to each other by any titles.” He stopped, and looked the young King in the eye. “Until the time is right, I am no longer a Lord, and you are no longer a King.”

  Harford’s jaw dropped slightly as he grappled with the gravity of the sudden change in position. As he fell into his own thoughts, Wendal once again urged him along. Harford was unsure of how he felt. He had never wanted the responsibility of ruling, never been prepared for it emotionally, nor practically. Now that it had been taken from him, he was feeling both a relief and a profound sense of loss. What would his people suffer under the rule of a foreign invader? Would they be enslaved, or worse? Was there any chance at all of mounting a resistance, a rebellion? These questions rolled around in Harford’s mind as they wound their way through the narrow passageway, and progressed downward beneath Whiterock.

  After several twists and turns, they came to a transition of sorts, where the stone masonry of the castle’s interior foundations gave way to rock. They descended several rough hewn stairways, Wendal occasionally turning back to give Harford a signal to remain quiet. Finally, they came to a wooden door set in the stone, where Wendal signalled for them to stop and remain silent. The lord pressed his ear to the door, and listened for several moments.

  After a long pause, he placed his hand on the door, and scratched it lightly, and then waited. A scratching sound came from the other side, and Wendal turned to Harford and nodded. Taking hold of the latch that hung on the inside of the door, Wendal lifted it and pulled the door in toward himself. As the door opened, Harford noted that the outside of the door looked like it had been cut from one piece of stone, with lines of moss running through its crack, giving it the appearance of something old and untouched.

  Wendal stepped out through the opening and waved for the young King to follow. Upon stepping out from the tunnel, Harford found himself in the forested area just outside the city walls. They were greeted by Lord Marnon, who shook Wendal’s hand in a silent greeting, and passed him a scabbard with a sword and dagger. Lord Marnon bowed to the young King, and indicated which direction he desired him to head.

  “Have you secured transportation?” Wendal inquired of Marnon in a low whisper.

  “Yes, though it is a little ways away. We dared not risk the sound of wagon wheels in the night.”

  “How many men have we?”

  “I managed to round up only nine. The rest of those who had been assigned to escort us, should we have had need of it, we can assume have either been killed or ca
ptured. We will need to rely on some stealth.”

  “What of Lord Ventrent?”

  “I know not,” Marnon replied, with a look of dismay.

  “Have you some change of clothing? We dare not be seen dressed as we are.”

  “Yes. Just here,” Marnon indicated a sack held by one of the men, who was dressed rather shabbily, and without any visible weapons.

  Wendal nodded and took the sack, reaching in to pull out an assortment of brown and grey pants, tunics, shirts and other rough looking clothing. Handing a pile of clothes to Harford, Wendal began to undress. Taking the bundled raggedy costume, Harford wrinkled his nose at the smell and dropped the clothing on the ground, stepping back from it.

  “I am not wearing that!” he said in a voice dangerously over a whisper.

  Marnon brought a finger to his lips, and a put hand over Harford’s mouth.

  “We are not secure here, young man. And in truth, if you want to live, you are not wearing that,” he said, pointing to Harford’s finely tailored suit in the royal colours of white and blue.

  “Young man?” retorted Harford, raising his voice further against the hand attempting to quiet him down. “I am your King, and you shall address me as ‘My King’, or ‘Your Grace’ as it pl…”

  Marnon had heard enough and grabbed Harford around the shoulders, spun his back into his chest, and covered the young King’s mouth. Into Harford’s ear, he whispered

  “You are no King. You have no Kingdom. The land you stand on now belongs to Demaria. If you ever want to get it back, to become King once more, you will shut your mouth, and do as you are told, boy. There is no room here for the etiquette you previously enjoyed. We are all farmers, on our way back to our fields now that the battle is over. Do you hear me, boy?”

  He let go of the young King’s mouth for a moment to let him answer. Harford was overwhelmed. He had grown up in the finest of riches, clothing tailored freshly every week, food plentiful and cooked to his liking, servants to attend to his every wish. Having done much to remain separated from them his entire life, the prospect of spending a single moment appearing as a low born serf, pushed him over the edge of reason. He began to flail against the lord’s grip, kicking, and screaming into the hand that clamped back over his mouth. He felt someone pull off his boots and stockings.

  In a fit of rage, Harford bit down on the hand covering his mouth and jerked himself loose from the hold Marnon had on him, turned and looked for somewhere to run. He took one step back toward the castle he longed to go back to, which contained the rooms he yearned to go seal himself within.

  Harford felt something hit the back of his head.

  Everything went black.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  After several moments listening to the sounds of debris settling beyond the tight opening they had squeezed through, Hollyglade felt around herself to find her bearings. She felt for the wall behind her, and pushed herself up to lean her back against it while sitting on the floor. Feeling herself over to search for injury, she found several new sore spots, but none that seemed to be bleeding, nor any bones that seemed broken or bruised.

  “dGerrie, Jeron. Are you there?” she whispered, praying there would be responses from both of them.

  Jeron responded quickly

  “I’m here. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine. A little bruised, but nothing serious. Where’s dGerrie?”

  “I’m here too. Though, I’ve felt better,” he responded with clearly audible difficulty.

  Hollyglade’s hearing told her that he was just a few feet away, and she felt her way over to him.

  “Do you have anything we can make some light with?” she asked him as she found him pulling himself up to sit against the wall.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe we can get a spark from some of this stone with a dagger, but what might we put the spark to?”

  Jeron responded through a cough, fighting the dust in the air.

  “Most of these tunnels have torches along the wall every so often. If we can locate one, we may be able to light it.” He stood up, braced himself on the wall, and started to feel his way along it searching for a sconce.

  Hollyglade felt dGerrie over, finding several obvious wounds.

  “We have to patch you up. You’re losing blood.”

  “I’ll be fine.” he replied as he tried to push himself up off the floor and into a standing position

  “Let’s just get moving.”

  It was a tremendous struggle to gain verticality, and as dGerrie fought to get to his feet, the many injuries he had sustained in the last days made themselves known. He cried out in agony as he straightened his damaged leg, felt shooting pain course through his body, and though the tunnel was pitch black he saw stars. As his strength left him, dGerrie faltered and began to sink to the floor. Feeling him swoon, Hollyglade grabbed hold of him under his armpit, and steadied him with her hands, leaning him against the wall.

  “Jeron!” she rasped in a low, yet urgent voice “He needs help, and we can’t stay here. Either you need to find us a torch, or we need to move in the dark.” She heard the sound of cloth tearing, and then metal striking stone. Turning to the sound, she saw sparks jump from one of the blades Jeron was using to try to light something on the floor. In the fraction of moment when the sparks flew, she could see the size of the tunnel, and the rubble blocking the way they had come.

  Another spark. Nothing.

  Again.

  Finally, the piece of cloth Jeron had ripped from his sleeve caught, and began to glow. He picked up the cloth by the far end and lay it over the dagger’s blade, turning the dagger in his hand to roll up the cloth. Holding it sideways, he lifted it above his head to cast light about the tunnel.

  In the low light, Hollyglade could see as well as if it were a bright summer’s day. She turned to dGerrie, and examined him head to toe, taking a closer look at the several wounds oozing blood.

  “We need to cover those wounds, Stilt. Otherwise you’re in for an untimely slumber, and maybe worse.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted.

  “You’re not. And besides, we have a few moments. No one’s going to come digging us out anytime soon, so we might as well patch you up before we try to sneak out of Magnaville.” She turned to look for Jeron, finding him visually searching the tunnel.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Jeron under his breath, “the genuine article.” He pulled a torch from a sconce on the wall, and transferred the flame to it. Dropping the cloth off the end of the dagger, he returned to where Hollyglade and dGerrie leant against the wall.

  “You look a little rough, my friend,” Jeron confessed as he examined dGerrie, “but we owe you our thanks, and I wish to return some help to you, as I am able”

  dGerrie nodded in reply, and looked to Hollyglade as he attempted to seat himself on a chunk of stone which had landed next to him. Looking up to Jeron, he extended his hand.

  “dGerrie Theurbeault,” he said, introducing himself.

  “Jeron Jeroldsen Peaksoul, at your service,” replied the Prince, taking dGerrie’s hand in his.

  “Who? What? The!?” dGerrie stammered.

  Jeron smiled and took hold of dGerrie’s other arm to help steady him in his seat, as he knelt down beside him. Hollyglade took off the ground blanket she had been using as a makeshift jerkin, and set it on the floor of the tunnel. Taking the dagger from Jeron, she made a cut at the shoulder of her shirt, and tore off the sleeve.

  “Yes, that Jeron,” she said, as she cut the sleeve into several lengths.

  “I heard you were dead.”

  “I heard I was dead, too,” he replied with a smirk. “I only found that out a day or so ago. I was somewhat surprised, as I had felt rather alive. But for now, that rumour will have to stay the truth.”

  dGerrie looked up at him as Hollyglade began to bandage his open wounds.

  “Why would you let that stand? You are the rightful King, are you not? Couldn’t you just go upstairs and show yo
urself to gain the throne?”

  Jeron chuckled at the thought as he switched sides with Hollyglade to allow her to tend to dGerrie’s side and arm.

  “If I knew what the outcome would be of such a bold play, I may just take your advice. The reality is, as far as we can tell, that Demaria now occupies Loria. I heard the city bells, and the Demarian horn of truce. That could only mean that King Dermond was successful in taking the castle, and therefore the capital. My appeal would need to be to him if I were to take such a risk, and though I know he and my father loved each other, one can never be sure that such love is not secured by mutual military might. No, I must flee, regroup, and wait for some sign that the time is right to reveal myself.”

  Hollyglade finished tying the last bandage, and placed a hand on dGerrie’s cheek, turning his face to hers. She looked deep into his eyes in an effort to determine his lucidity. He seemed diminished, but still present, and so she let out a small breath of relief. Taking his hand, she held his gaze.

  “Political aspirations can wait, you two,” she said, not taking her eyes off him. “dGerrie, I thought I’d lost you. Again. I can’t take anymore worrying. Let’s get out of here before the sun comes up. We should still have some hours with which to put some distance between us and this place.”

  “Can you stand?” Jeron asked

  “I will stand, and I’ll walk. Just try to stop me,” he declared as he pushed himself up. “Now, your royalness. Lead the way,” he said with a hint of joviality, trying his best to lighten the mood and take his own mind off the pain he was dealing with.

  “Just Jeron,” he replied with a smile. “At least, until we get outside the tunnels, and then I’ll have to come up with something less conspicuous.”