by F. P. Spirit
“I thank you for your concern, Sir, but we were in good hands, I assure you.”
“Really?” Fafnar arched an eyebrow, his voice taking on a snide tenor. “If this were Dunwynn, those rogues would have never made it past the gates.”
Lloyd felt his anger rise. He nearly stood up, but then remembered he was being healed. With a great effort, he forced himself to remain still.
Andrella on the other hand, did not refrain from responding. “Is that so? Tell me, Sir Fafnar, where were you during all the fighting? I did not see you out on the battlefield.”
Fafnar’s cheeks reddened slightly. He pursed his lips, his face taking on an even more sour expression, if that was at all possible. “Ah, yes. It seems that some varlet thought it would be amusing to tie my bootlaces together. By the time I had them undone, the battle was over.” The nobleman looked pointedly at Lloyd, and then over at the next bench where Glo still sat. Lloyd followed his gaze and noted that Elladan and Shalla now sat with the elven wizard.
A short laugh escaped Andrella’s lips. Lloyd spun his head back around and saw the young lady had her hand to her mouth, her head turned to one side. Lloyd found it hard to contain himself. He gazed down at his boots in an effort to hide the grin on his face, however, his body spasmed with silent fits of laughter.
“Lloyd, you must remain still if I am to heal you properly,” the Lady Gracelynn admonished.
“Sorry,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice even.
Andrella recovered her composure, responding to Fafnar’s plight in a placating tone. “I’m sure the prankster, whoever he was, meant no real harm.”
Sir Fafnar’s tone turned haughty once more. “That’s quite alright, milady. I will prove my prowess at tomorrow’s tourney, then you will see some real swordsmanship at work.”
Lloyd glanced up. The arrogant noble stared directly at him. This was not some veiled accusation. That was a direct challenge.
Lloyd met Fafnar’s gaze, his own voice cold as ice. “I look forward to it.” The two glared at each other unflinchingly, the tension almost palpable between them.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” the fop finally responded, his tone dripping with conceit. He turned toward the Baroness and gave her a curt bow. “Lady Gracelynn.”
The Dunwynn noble next turned toward Andrella and put out his hand. The young lady paused a moment then courteously extended her hand. As the noble bent to kiss it, she turned her head away. Lloyd watched the entire exchange with interest. When Fafnar stood back up, his disappointment was obvious. He quickly turned on his heel and strode away, his boots clicking sharply on the stone floor as he marched off. When he passed Elladan, Shalla, and Glo, he glared at them briefly, then continued down the hall.
Once he had passed, Elladan rose from his seat. The bard came over to join them, placing a hand on Lloyd’s shoulder. “Lloyd, you better kick his butt tomorrow.”
Lloyd nearly choked. His eyes moved from Andrella to Gracelynn, his face turning a light shade of red. Andrella’s reaction surprised him.
“Please do!”
“Andrella!” Gracelynn chided her daughter.
Lloyd swung around to face the Baroness, yet she did not seem upset. In fact, there was the hint of a smile on her lips. Lloyd found their reactions heartwarming. Underneath all the titles and finery, the Avernos were just plain folks. They reminded him very much of his own family. For the first time in over a month, Lloyd felt like he was home again.
Wins and Losses
These folks are ruthless and will stop at nothing.
Ashort while later, Lloyd’s ribs were healed. The Lady Gracelynn took her leave, off to check on the rest of the wounded. Lloyd and Andrella turned to face each other, his mind quickly wandering back to where they had left off when last alone. He reached over and grasped her slender hand, holding it gently in his own. Andrella smiled softly as he began to lean in toward her. She tilted her head up slightly and closed her eyes as their faces drew nearer.
“Lloyd!”
He froze just inches away from Andrella’s lips. “Come join us!”
That was Elladan’s voice.
Lloyd reluctantly pulled back from the lovely young lady. He turned to see the bard standing in front of the bench where Glo and Shalla sat. He waved Lloyd over. Lloyd turned toward Andrella and sighed. “We probably should.”
Andrella hesitated a moment, mixed emotions playing across her face. She sighed in turn. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
The duo stood up, still holding hands, and walked over to join the others. Elladan was in the midst of a vivid recounting of the battle with the Serpent Cultists. Glo and Shalla sat quietly, rapt in the bard’s description of the clash.
“Lightning flared and thunder boomed. Yet another dark mage fell, his serpent mount sizzling. Lightning was met with fire. The crowd threatened, the elven wizard made the supreme sacrifice. Everyone held their breath, but in the end, the fierce ball of fire was stayed; but not without cost, for the wizard fell, charred and broken.”
Elladan’s voice grew soft at the end. Shalla reached over and patted Glo’s hand. After a momentary pause, Elladan’s voice rose once more.
“Yet the battle was not over. Swords danced, and serpents writhed. Fang and steel, coil and muscle, the fierce battle pressed on. And behind it all, two giant behemoths vied for supremacy over the field.”
Lloyd found himself completely absorbed by this retelling of the clash. He had just lived it, and it had indeed been brutal and deadly. Elladan, however, made it sound like an encounter of near-epic proportions. The bard went on with his vibrant narration, until he reached the climax of the battle.
“The last dark mage, Voltark himself, hung suspended over the battlefield, threatening the host below with yet another magical barrage. A flash of lightning, a lance of light, and a rain of arrows, all bombarded the evil mage. The villain reeled, unaware of the red-clad warrior rising up from below, his swords alight with the fire of vengeance. There, high above the battlefield, he clove the dark mage in two with his fiery wrath and thus ended, once and for all, the threat of evil that hung over the keep.”
When Elladan finished, silence fell over them. Lloyd was half honored and half embarrassed to be painted as a hero of such grand proportions. Andrella was the first to break the silence. She began to applaud.
“That was magnificent.”
“Yes, it was indeed.” Shalla stood up and kissed Elladan on the cheek.
“That does make quite a tale, doesn’t it?” Elladan’s lips parted to form a half-smile. “I’ll have to make it into a song.”
“You mean we’ll have to make it into a song,” Shalla corrected, elbowing him in the ribs.
Elladan grabbed his side but quickly recovered. He took Shalla by the hand, his smile widening. “We will write it into a song.”
Shalla’s feigned irritation quickly melted away. A wide smile spread across her lips as she eyed the bard fondly.
Lloyd suddenly remembered something that had been bothering him. He turned to Glo. “If you were that hurt, how did you manage to fire off that last bolt of lightning at Voltark?”
Glo peered at Lloyd, a perplexed look upon his face. “That wasn’t me.”
The response caught Lloyd by surprise. Not just anyone could cast a bolt of lightning. You had to be a fairly experienced magic user to do so.
“If you didn’t shoot Voltark, then who did?” Elladan asked.
Glo’s brow furrowed. “That is a good question.”
Any further discussion was cut off when a voice rang out from down the hall.
“Gentlemen! Ladies!”
Lloyd spun around to see Donatello strolling up to them. Alongside the artist strode the redheaded lady knight, Dame Alana.
“Donnie!” Elladan stepped forward to greet hi
s old friend. The slight elf walked up and grasped hands with the bard. “That was some fancy footwork out there.”
“Indeed,” the lady knight concurred. “His timely distraction saved Sir Craven and me from quite an unpleasant situation.”
“From what I’ve heard, he makes a habit of saving fair ladies in distress.” Shalla wore a thin smirk across her full lips.
Alana turned toward Donnie, her expression darkening as she folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, really?”
Donnie raised his palms up in front of him, his face flushing with sudden discomfort. “Well, not so much a habit”—he swiftly changed the subject—“but where are my manners? Everyone, I would like to introduce you to the Dame Alana Benefilla. Alana is a Guardian in the order of the Knights of the Rose.”
Elladan peered at Alana with clear admiration. “The legendary Knights of the Rose—tales of their valor date all the way back to the Thrall Wars and beyond.”
Alana turned toward the bard, her expression brightening. “Why thank you, Elladan, is it?”
“Elladan Narmolanya, at your service,” he replied with a low bow.
Alana turned to face Shalla. “And you are the Bardess Shalla, also from tonight’s performance?”
“Shalla Vesperanna,” the songstress responded with a curtsy equally as graceful as Elladan’s bow.
“We must talk more,” Alana said, moving closer and placing a hand on Shalla’s shoulder.
Donnie cleared his throat and once again redirected the conversation, pointing toward Glo. “And this is Glolindir Eodin, acting town wizard.”
“We were indeed lucky to have you and Sir Craven by our side this day,” Glo said as he rose and bowed to the lady knight.
Alana nodded to him. “Thank you, good wizard. I could say the same of you.”
Donnie continued introductions around the circle. “And this is the Lady Andrella, first daughter of Ravenford.”
Andrella executed a graceful curtsy of her own. “As our good bard has already stated, the Knights of the Rose are well renowned. Your presence on the battlefield today was our good fortune.”
A wide grin spread across Alana’s face. “It is our pleasure to serve and protect your ladyship.”
Donnie pointing toward Lloyd next. “And this is Lloyd Stealle, of the noble Penwick House of Stealle.”
Lloyd stepped forward and extended his hand to the lady warrior. “You and Sir Craven were truly valiant out on the field today. It was an honor fighting beside The Knights of the Rose.”
Dame Alana took Lloyd’s hand and shook it vigorously. Her grip was rather impressive. “You are all too kind, Lloyd Stealle. You handle those swords as if you were born with them in your hands. It was our honor to fight alongside a warrior of such prowess.”
Lloyd cheeks reddened at the praise. “I try my best, good Dame, but I am no knight.”
Alana’s entire face lit up at Lloyd’s humble reply. She opened her mouth to respond, but their conversation was abruptly interrupted. Another familiar voice rang out across the large hall.
“Attention! Attention! The Baron of Ravenford would like to say a few words.” Captain Gelpas, the head of the Ravenford guards, stood in the center of the hall. Behind him were Baron Gryswold, the Lady Gracelynn, and Abbot Qualtan.
Gryswold Avernos was dressed in his typical spartan military attire, a dark grey outfit with a longsword strapped to his side. The only decoration on his jacket was a small heraldic in the upper left corner. It was multicolored, with a background of red, white, and blue overlaid by a large black figure representing the dragon that he had slain to save the seaport town some ten years ago. Gryswold’s powerfully-built shoulders appeared tense, his expression pensive—his dark brown hair, mustache, and beard making him look positively grim.
The Baron and Baroness stood amidst a crowd of party guests. Behind them were a mixture of Ravenford guards in their black and white uniforms, and Dunwynn men in the powder-blue outfits. Everyone in the hallway hushed as Gryswold began to speak, his deep baritone voice reaching across the area, thanks to the superb acoustics of the main hall.
“I want to thank all of you, Knights of Penwick, Knights of the Rose, and our very own Ravenford guards. Your swift rise to arms and prowess in battle has won the day for us.” He paused a moment as cheers and clapping ran through the crowd, then continued, his voice rising over the throng. “But most of all I want to thank the Heroes of Ravenford. Had they not uncovered this foul plot and prepared us for it, the day might have turned out far differently.”
More cheers broke out, accompanied by clapping this time as the crowd turned to face the companions. In lieu of Aksel, who had not yet rejoined them, Elladan stepped forward and spoke for the group. “It was our pleasure to serve.”
The crowd clapped even louder and a few cheers of Heroes could be heard interspersed among those gathered. The Baron let it go on for a bit, then again raised his own voice above the assembly. “There is one sad note.” The crowd quieted down, the mood turning rather somber once again. “Sir Calric, the valiant knight from Penwick, was killed by those accursed mages. He died with honor, protecting us with his very life. Gryswold swiveled to face the Abbot. Therefore, I would like to ask our good friend Qualtan if he could attempt to restore this brave knight back to life.”
All eyes fell upon the middle-aged, white robed cleric. Qualtan eyes flickered around the waiting throng, his eyes shifting back and forth and his hands twitching slightly. After a moment or two, he turned toward the Baron. “Well then, I may be able to restore his spirit in the morning. That is, with proper prayer and donations...”
A few gasps went up through the crowd. Gryswold’s jaw dropped, his mouth hanging open. He attempted to speak, but no words would come out. Finally finding his voice, he cried out in dismay. “Qualtan! Whatever has come over you?”
Qualtan averted his eyes as more murmurs sprang up amongst the gathering. Gryswold’s face grew red, his eyes turning dark with anger, but before he could speak further, the Lady Gracelynn grabbed him by the arm and pulled him aside. Their exchange was rather quiet and could not be heard over the crowd, but Gryswold was fuming, his hands clenching into fists and unclenching. Somehow, Gracelynn managed to calm him down, and when he looked up again, he seemed in control once more. The crowd hushed as the Baron turned toward Qualtan.
“Very well. The town of Ravenford will pay for Sir Calric’s resurrection. After all, he died defending us.”
“Excellent,” the Abbot simpered, “I’ll head back to the temple at once to prepare for the morrow. Please have the good knight’s body sent over so that we may preserve it until then.” The white robed cleric quickly spun around and disappeared into the crowd.
“That was a less-than-divine attitude,” Donnie observed.
Andrella’s voice was rather subdued. “Abbot Qualtan is usually quite amenable. He has seemed rather distant, though, as of late—almost as if something were preying on his mind.”
The Baron addressed the assemblage once more. “Very well then, we are done here. Once again, thank you all.” Gryswold and Gracelynn adjourned themselves from the main hall, followed by the town guards and the Dunwynn contingent.
As the crowd dispersed, Sir Brennon came over to join the companions. “I wanted to personally thank you for your help today. It was an honor fighting beside you.” The others responded in kind. A short discussion ensued about the day’s events, at the end of which he said, “My apologies, but I must take my leave. Sir Duncan and I will be accompanying Sir Calric’s body to the temple, where we will remain in vigil until they attempt to raise him on the morrow.”
Alana nodded. “As I would do for one of my fellow knights.”
Sir Brennon’s gazed at her briefly, a look of understanding passing between the two. “Thank you.” He then turned to Lloyd. “A moment if I may, young M
aster Stealle?”
Lloyd whispered to Andrella, “I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered in return.
Sir Brennon led Lloyd a short distance away from the others. “Lad, it is now up to you to represent Penwick at the rest of this gathering.”
Lloyd suddenly felt as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”
The trace of a smile passed across Sir Brennon’s otherwise grim countenance. “Of that I have no doubt. I must say that was quite some display of swordsmanship out there today. I’ve fought beside your father before, and you looked just like him on the battlefield.”
Lloyd was honored. His father was the best swordsman he had ever seen. That was quite a compliment coming from the Penwick knight. “Thank you, Sir Brennon. That means a lot.”
Brennon actually smiled this time, but his expression quickly turned serious again. His eyes briefly swept the area, then he stepped even closer to Lloyd, speaking in a very soft voice. “A piece of advice—the Lady Andrella seems to have taken a fancy to you. Just be warned that there are those who seek her hand for more than reasons of the heart. Watch your back, son. These folks are ruthless and will stop at nothing. If they see you as a threat, the next attack may not be on the battlefield.”
Lloyd nodded. He had already experienced Fafnar’s attempt to discredit them. He would not put it past the noble to try again. “Thank you for the advice, Sir Brennon. I will heed your words.”
Sir Brennon placed a hand on Lloyd’s shoulder. “Very good. Stay safe, young Lloyd Stealle.”
The fortune Teller
Sometimes I can even divine the future
Seth Korzair had watched the entire battle with the Serpent Cult from the roof of the keep. He had gone up there to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. That is indeed what the dark-haired, black-clad little halfling found. Sitting quietly on the rooftop near the front of the keep was Ruka, one of Ves’s younger sisters. The sandy-haired girl had hidden up here to avoid the pageantry below. She and Seth were of a like mind in that respect and in many others. Neither trusted anyone, both expected the worst from a situation, and they tended to hide their feelings behind a veil of sarcasm. Thus, when the serpents and their riders first exploded out of the ground, both of them played it cool.