by Adam Bishop
The outer wall was much higher than he had expected. The stone curtain surrounding Havelmir stood nearly eighty feet tall. Arnion couldn’t help but commend its construction. The artistry was something of a foreign, more simplistic nature—but it existed just as it was meant to. There were no etchings or illustrations of any kind. The stone was flat and featureless in every manner. It stood high and strong, grey and plain, like a mountain chopped down by the hand of a God.
“There you are,” Arnion whispered, spotting the storehouse Gus spoke of.
Just as he was about to make a run for it, he noticed a Braxi soldier patrolling the wall walk high above. He waited for the armoured guard to turn his back, then he sprinted toward the towering stone wall looming in front of him. With his back now firmly pressed up against the castle’s outer wall, he mimicked a bird call with a series of whistles, waiting for the guard to take notice. When the patrolling guard leaned over the edge to see where the noise was coming from, a single arrow tore through his throat. He plummeted to the ground below. His armour clinked upon impact, but the sound was mostly silenced by the waves hitting the docks.
“Thanks for not screaming,” Arnion said, taunting the dead man. “Now, where to put you?”
The answer revealed itself, and Arnion hauled the guard’s body over to the docks. Then he rolled the body into the sea. “Your armour should do the rest of the work,” he said, watching the soldier sink beneath the surface of the water.
The trapdoor was easy enough to find, just as Gus had said. He lifted the hatch and saw a flight of steps leading down into the darkness below. Arnion nocked an arrow and silently made his way down the steep steps. Here was the underbelly of the kingdom, meant to lead him to his prize.
To his surprise, the dark hallway broke off into a series of tunneling passageways. They grew into a lightless, underground maze.
***
“The Prince of the People. It’s a shame things had to be this way. You were my favourite, you know?” Aleister said as he tended to Fordro’s wounds. “You would have been a fitting king. This city could have flourished with a ruler whose words came from the heart first and the sheath second. Your brother was born to conquer, and conquer alone. You on the other hand … you were born to rule. Alas, that is the very reason you’re lying here, unconscious, in front of me today. But you’re not unconscious, are you? Not fully at least … I know part of you is listening. I felt it only fair that you know the truth. Dadro has a simple mind, easy to bend, control, manipulate. I can’t say the same for you though, no. You would be a threat intellectually and politically. unfortunately, I can’t have that. I do hope there are no hard feelings between us. I would have liked to work with you. I really mean that. Unfortunately, your loyalty to your brother was too strong. At least you’ll die an image of your former self.” Aleister said looking rather pleased with the recovery of his patient. He took an ointment from his desk and started applying it. “This salve is working wonders for your skin, wouldn’t you agree? Unfortunately, I can't say the same for your health. Ironically, the very thing healing your burns is also slowly poisoning you. I’d appreciate it if you kept this between the two of us though. Your brother is under the assumption that I am the only one capable of keeping you alive. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your brother, would you?” Aleister said with a sadistic grin.
Quickly, the echo of approaching footsteps wiped the smirk from his face.
Moments later, King Dadro entered the room.
“How is he?” Dadro asked. His glare held no room for bad news.
“Better than ever, Your Grace. Soon it’ll be hard to tell he ever suffered from burns.”
Dadro walked over to see for himself. He was pleased with the recovery of his brother. “Such efforts won’t go unnoticed. The dedication and aid you have brought to my house only further proves your loyalty. You forever have my thanks.”
“As you do mine,” Aleister replied. “To take in a foreigner and treat him like one of your own … I must admit, I was nervous when I first travelled here. I feared you would label me a spy and throw me in the dungeons to rot with the others.”
“That thought did cross my mind. Fortunately, your actions have put such ideas to rest. You and your people knew it was just a matter of time before the Braxi name came into power. But you were the one who decided to take the risk. Bravery and courage—that’s what it took for you to come here. I respect you for both. Soon I will rule over all, and you will be there standing at my side.”
“I look forward to the day, Your Grace. May such glory come sooner rather than later,” Aleister said bowing his head.
A loud knock at the door interrupted their conversation. “Enter!” Dadro shouted.
Darith the Bastard came lumbering in with a broken nose and a hand dripping with blood. “I found someone I think you’d like to meet. Crafty little bugger, here. He put up more of a fight than I would’ve thought for someone his size. Can’t even remember the last time I was cut this deep,” he said holding up his wounded hand.
“It’s late. I haven’t time for such distractions,” Dadro replied. “Toss him in a cell. I’ll see to it on the morrow.”
Darith stood silent for a moment. He felt as though his King was being unappreciative—which angered him—though he knew this would soon change after he explained himself further. “The someone I speak of is Lord Brannor’s son.”
These last few words drew Dadro’s attention like a raven to a ruby “Take me to him at once!”
***
Darith led his King to Arnion’s cell. They hardly exchanged a word—Dadro’s tongue was terse and sharp in both question and reply. He was thankful that at least one of his men was able to subdue the intruder, but the fact that an Elf had managed to sneak this far into his kingdom vexed him a great deal.
“So, you’re the one responsible for killing three of my men,” Dadro said upon entering the gloomy jail cell. “I thought I killed all of you when I burnt your home to the ground.”
Arnion lunged forward and grasped the cold iron bars separating him from the Northern King. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted, with a bloody snarl. “You killed my family, my friends, everyone I loved. I came here for you, not your guards. Fight me! Face me, you coward!”
Dadro laughed in Arnion’s face. “My friend here beat you bloody with his bare hands. Imagine what my hammer would do to that pretty face of yours.” Dadro looked at Darith and studied the swelling bruises beneath his eyes. “It looks like you managed to get in a few shots of your own. That’s no easy feat, I’ll give you that. But to kill a King—that’s a feeling you will never know.”
“You killed my father! I deserve a chance to avenge his death! You owe me that much … or have you no honour?” Arnion wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Dadro’s neck and watch as he squeezed the life out of him. However, his current situation forced him to practice at least some semblance of restraint. He knew his only chance now was to prod at the bearded brute standing before him. He thought maybe if he struck the right chord, Dadro would grant him his request for a true fight.
“I can’t say I disagree with you. But there’s one problem. The boy’s sword, please,” Dadro said holding out his hand to Darith. He took the Elven blade in hand and unlocked the cell door.
For a brief moment, Arnion thought he had managed to persuade the Northern King. However, this changed immediately. Dadro used the hilt of the sword as a battering ram. Arnion felt his nose shatter from the impact. He crumpled to his knees.
“Move and I’ll thrust this sword down into your lungs, boy!” Dadro said, pushing the tip of the Elven sword into the soft spot between Arnion’s shoulder blade and collarbone. “As I said, I don’t disagree … but there’s one problem. Bring him in,” Dadro beckoned.
Darith dragged in a prisoner whose face was covered with a burlap sack. He dropped him at Dadro’s feet. “I never killed your father,” Dadro concluded.
Arnion looked on in disbelief as Dari
th removed the tattered sack. He couldn’t move, could hardly focus for a second. There, in front of him, sat his father. Or rather, what was left of him. His sword-arm was shriveled and black. His face was a pale hallow husk covered in dry blood. He had been starved and beaten. His eyes held a stranger’s gaze, lost and distant, almost like he was somewhere else entirely.
“FATHER! It’s me! Your son … father, what have they done to you?” Arnion asked.
“Your father is a tough man. He hasn’t said a word since he’s been here. Though, I have a feeling that’s about to change,” Dadro said with a look of guile. “Lord Brannor! Wake yourself. You have a visitor today.”
Brannor’s eyes fluttered open. “My … my son … no … what are you doing here?” The little life Brannor had left seemed to flow back into him at the sight of his son.
“Ahh, yes. There you are. So, you can speak after all,” Dadro said sarcastically. “Now that I finally have your attention, let me ask you once again. Where is the book?”
Brannor said nothing. He could hardly breathe.
“I’ll ask you again. Where is the book, you fool!?” the king roared.
Arnion’s gaze was fixed on his father. It was hard to accept the reality of such cruelty. The man he knew, and the one person he had looked up to all his life, now struggled to stand on his own two feet. It broke his heart more, even after he had thought it already broken. To see this once sturdy man, the handsome Lord who had raised him, now reduced to a broken-down hull of his former self … it brought on a feeling of melancholy Arnion did not know existed.
“The book, Brannor! Where is it? Will you really let your son die to protect the pages of No Quarter?” Dadro asked, inching the sword deeper into Arnion’s skin.
Lord Brannor’s eyes filled with tears. The words lingered on the tip of his tongue. “Let my son go and I’ll tell you … I’ll tell you where to find The Book of No Quarter.”
“I’m the one with the sword,” Dadro replied. “Consider this before you choose your next words.”
During that moment, Arnion realized something. This war was far more than just a vengeful act of hatred. He had thought the Braxi’s main goal was to eliminate the race of Elves, and the race of Elves alone. But now he knew there was more to it than that. His wish is to reign over all. To have ultimate power … the power of the Gods. Arnion’s heart raced and slowed at the same time. “You mustn’t tell him, father! Thousands more will die, millions even!”
Brannor looked into his son’s eyes. He knew what he said to be true. But the thought of watching his son die in front of him tore at his soul. Tears slowly trickled down his cheeks. He fought to keep from answering the question he was burdened with. “If I tell you … will you let my son live?” Brannor asked.
“I swear it on my brother’s life,” Dadro replied. “You have my word.”
Arnion could see the pain in his father’s eyes. He knew he was about to talk. He knew all the pain and suffering that would come if he allowed him to.
“I love you father, but I can’t let this happen … may The Four Corners have me!”
Arnion took in a deep breath and then swiftly stood up into the cold steel of his own blade, welcoming its sharpened edge in a bloody last stand. He attempted to say bye to his father, but his lungs had already filled with blood.
It was a clean death. A fair death. And in his heart, he knew it was the right choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
A Long Awaited Reunion
William sat at the edge of the docks, hoping the day would bring him more luck than yesterday. Although cloudy, the autumn winds were barely present, resulting in a calm warmth. William gently skimmed his toes across the surface of the Nine Tail River as he waited for something to grab his line. He was trying out the last of the lures he’d purchased in the Golden Breast. He’d enjoyed all of them thus far, but there were two he favoured over the rest, and he hoped after today there would be a third. Of all the lures he had purchased, only two were plugs. The one he was using today was a little bigger than the other, with a longer lip and vibrant shades of green and red. He jerked his slackline every fifteen seconds or so, to make sure the weak morning current wouldn’t affect his lure’s full potential.
Come now, fish. Don’t let me down two days in a row, he thought.
The idea of going without a catch rarely bothered him. But he had promised to make dinner for Baldric and his new friend, Elia, and he didn’t want to let them down. He wasn’t surprised that Baldric had taken a liking to an Elven girl in the Veil; especially since she had proven to be a better archer than he was. He knew Baldric had always found Elven woman to be far more attractive than mortal girls—which until recently, he hadn’t believed possible. And although Elia was undeniably beautiful, there was more to it than that. He saw the way Baldric looked at her, how he smiled and hung on her every word and let his guard down whenever she was around. He teased Baldric about such things, taking advantage of his friend’s new weakness. But at the end of the day, William could not have been happier for him.
A sudden series of weighted tugs brought his attention back to the line. Yet when he reeled in, he quickly found that his hook had snagged a sneaky piece of driftwood. He chuckled to himself and worked his line free.
The day dragged on, and eventually the sun hid behind the clouds. The wind picked up into a proper autumn breeze. William wondered if the change would heighten his chances of catching the bounteous meal he had promised—and, to his surprise, it did.
Two fish were caught with ease. Then three, then four, and before he knew it a pile of fresh fish was spilling out of his wicker basket. He smiled as he admired his haul—it seemed a sign of good luck.
Just as he was about to call it a day, the prow of an approaching Elven ship caught his eye. He turned his head to get a better look, and he found that it wasn’t just one, but rather an entire fleet of Elven longships.
“Thinduill’s army has returned,” William muttered under his breath. He started counting them as they drifted forward—but he lost count somewhere around twenty-two. The ships themselves were great works of art. The planks of wood used to craft each ship fit together seamlessly, creating the illusion that the entire fleet had been carved out of a single giant tree. The gunwale, along with the strakes of each ship, had been painted in proper Elven fashion. The design complimented the green, blue, gold, and white of the sails, which held the same fallen leaf pattern as their Kingdom’s banner.
William watched as Elven soldiers poured out of each ship. A seemingly infinite line marched across the docks and uphill into the forest behind him. They all wore emerald cloaks, and almost every soldier carried a bow. Their lack of armour shocked William. The only protective steel he saw were greaves, bracers, and the odd pauldron. Aside from that, the only thing protecting them was leather.
They don’t even carry shields! he thought. I guess Baldric wasn’t joking when he said they were unrivalled in the art of combat.
Once the ships had emptied their cargo of warriors, William picked up his hefty basket of fish and started walking towards the forest. Then, halfway across the pier, he saw something that forced him to drop both his fishing rod and basket. He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him … it couldn’t be true, could it? But the longer he stared, the more he believed in what he saw—or rather, who he saw.
“Gus?” he said in disbelief. “GUS!”
“Oy, William! Is that you, laddie!?”
Gus ran toward his dumbfounded friend with a magnificent smile. He scooped William up in his arms, lifting him off his feet. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, let me tell ya. I thought you were dead, I did!” Gus said as he shuffled his hand through William’s curly brown hair.
William was at a loss for words. A pleasant shock had overcome him. He let loose a short laugh and snapped back to reality. Then he hugged Gus with all his strength. “How is it … how did you … ?”
Gus let out a raspy snicker. “Gus always finds a way!
You know that!” He briefly paused to gauge William’s reaction to his vague explanation. “Alright, alright … I may have had a little help. Truth is, I met your friend, Arnion, in a small town outside Havelmir. He was lookin’ for a way inside the castle. I told him all I knew and he told me where to find you.”
“My friend? What do you mean? We’ve never met. I know who he is though, everyone’s worried about him. Is he in good health?”
“Never met the lad? Well, that’s strange. He sure knew who you were. A fine-lookin’ lad. He seemed tip-top when I last saw him. Has he returned yet? I mean to thank him for trusting me and all.”
William shook his head. “Lord Thinduill sent a tracker a few days ago, but he has yet to return.”
“I hope the poor boy’s alright. He seemed like the fearless type to me. I’m sure he’ll be back any day now. I heard you escaped thanks to some lad named Baldric. I look forward to meeting the crafty bugger.”
Faron approached them. “It seems I owe you an apology,” he said bowing his head to William. “Not only did you come to our forest bearing the truth, but you came on account of trusting a friend you had just met. Here stands another man who calls you friend. He too kept his word. It seems you have the intuition of an Elf. You have both my thanks and respect, little one.”
William was honoured, although the little one comment bothered him a hair. “Thank you, Faron. I appreciate you saying that, I really do. One thing though. I know the Elves are all pretty tall, and I may seem short to you—but I’m of average mortal height.”
“Well, I do apologize if my saying that offended you,” Faron replied. “Shrub it is, then. A tall tree, a short tree—I know none who dislike plant life of any kind. Follow me, please. Thinduill must speak to both of you immediately.”
William shook his head, “Shrub is … better, I guess?” He said under his breath.
“This way, you two,” Faron urged.