by Levi Samuel
Erik dismounted his horse and approached his father's. “I'm told you'll know what you're looking for when you get there. I'd guess it’s something only the owner of the cornet would recognize.”
The fair-haired man threw his leg over the steed and jumped down. His armor shifted under the weight of impact. Adjusting it, Remle stood to his full height and grabbed the crown from atop his head. Spinning it between his fingers he looked into the colored gems, seeing the reflection of his aging face. “Erik, I'll do this one last thing.” Pausing, he glanced up to look into his son's eyes. “When it's done we return home. At that point I plan to retire. I've had too many years. It's time you take my place.” Remle placed his hand on Erik's shoulder, giving him a light shake. Spinning around he marched toward the sealed gate, replacing the cornet.
“Baron Remle, what brings you this far north?”
“I made a promise to my boy. Would you open the gate for me?”
The guard paused for a moment. Keeping his eyes locked on the towering man, he yelled his command to the wall. “Raise the gate! Baron Remle requires entry!” He stepped aside allowing access.
Remle approached the portcullis, watching the reinforced steel lattice raise into the stone and out of sight. He stared into the empty tunnel faintly seeing the opening on the other side. It had to have been at least a quarter mile to the other side. Why anyone needed such a wide wall was beyond him, even in times of war. It did have some logic to it. Its size made in nearly impossible to scale with any real force of number. It would be next to impossible to destroy even the smallest section. Despite the amount of resources its construction had taken, it was a valuable tool when facing an invasion. It could limit the largest army to little more than a handful at a time, turning an otherwise impossible battle into one of endurance.
Taking a deep breath, Remle marched into the dark passageway watching the closest torches flare in response to his approach. The sound of his men standing idle faded, replaced by the echo of his leather soled boots against the stone floor. Reaching what he guessed was the middle, Remle removed his crown and searched for any sign of his query.
Erik watched his father fade into the distance. He was little more than a speck in the middle of lingering shadow. A familiar thud echoed to his left. Glancing over, he spotted the red and black fletching of an arrow protruding from one of his knight's chest. The man toppled from his saddle and landed in the grass.
Roars echoed from the ancient bastion and dense grass around the army. Men sprang up from nowhere, lashing out at the unsuspecting caravan.
Erik drew his swords, looking around for the closest attacker. “It's a trap, be on your guard!” He parried a sword, bringing his offhand around to run the man through. Spinning, he stabbed into another, saving one of his knights that hadn't gotten off his horse yet. He quickly surveyed the numbers. The ambush was well laid out, but they lacked the man power to overrun such a large force. Had they just been the original riders perhaps, but they'd picked up many from Aldridge and Marbayne. His mind raced. Did they have a mole? How else did they know how many left Shadgull?
Retreating from his thoughts, Erik blocked another attack. He looked into the face of the man. I recognize him. Recalling where he'd seen him, the visions flooded his mind. There it was. This was one he'd arrested not a few months back. He was caught cutting purses in the market square. Yet he was dressed as one of the wall guards. The young prince ran the man through. Pulling his weapon free, he glanced around to see the fading battle coming to its end. The bandits never stood a chance against so many, yet they were well organized. This meant there had to have been a higher plan to all of this. A distraction maybe?
Erik squinted into the tunnel, finding his father. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. His heart sank seeing a shadowed figure in the tunnel behind him. There was no way to get there in time if the figure was a threat. Abandoning all tact, Erik charged, rushing into the stone archway.
Lythus watched the deceived baron search for the doorway. The man was off by several feet, though he'd never know it. He didn't know what he was looking for. Seeing his opportunity, he quietly made his way behind the man, raising his dagger to finish the job. Blade in hand, he selected the perfect location and plunged the weapon toward its mark.
No! You will not kill him!
Remle ran his fingers across the stone unable to find the slightest marking. The clink of blades echoed along the dark corridor, reaching his ears. He froze, listening intently. He turned toward the entrance, seeing the signs of battle outside. His son stood in the distance, frozen in fear. He had to get there. Their men needed to be commanded. Taking his first step toward the exit a sharp pain shot through his spine. Remle crumpled to the cold, stone floor, unable to move. Staring up at the arched ceiling of perfectly aligned brick he saw the pale, orc-faced mask step into view.
Kane struggled against his body forcing the blade lower than it was aimed. He was too late. It sank deep into its target, burying itself to the hilt. He slowly approached the dying man, feeling remorse for what had happened. Kneeling beside the dying baron, Kane propped him up, hoping to make his final moments comfortable. Pulling the mask away he stared into the fading eyes, seeing a mixture of emotion in the gaze. “I'm sorry. I tried to stop him.” Kane pleaded, hoping Remle could forgive him.
Remle silently wept. He couldn't find the strength to speak. His body was growing cold with each passing moment. Lip quivering, he wished he could tell the noble warrior that he forgave him. The words couldn't reach his mouth. Fear and nervousness flowed through him, claiming a bit more of his conscious mind. He knew he wouldn't last much longer.
Holding the man tight, Kane watched the life leave his friend. He wished there was something he could do, but even he was a prisoner to all of it. Anger flooded him. How could he have allowed himself to be trapped as he had?
You shouldn't be able to do this. You're mine. I did the ritual. You cannot power through it!
The enraged prince ran as fast as he could. He was out of breath, but he had to keep going. He watched his father fall, unable to do anything about it. Seeing the prefect opportunity to claim vengeance, he brought one of his swords overhead and flung it at hard as he could. The weapon flipped end over end, flying toward its target.
Lythus forced the rebellious warrior back down. Glancing up, he noticed the incoming sword. Timing it, he flung his dagger, knocking the sharp weapon off its trajectory. The wild blade flew past him, sending a sharp pain through his side. He glanced down, realizing it had grazed him. What was worse, the orc-skull mask lied broken beneath the blade at his side. Sighing his irritation, Lythus snatched up the crown and stood, peering down the tunnel at the approaching prince. A sadistic smile came to his lips. Twisting the coronet he aligned the reflected torchlight off the colored gems. The focused beams reflected on the wall, finding their mark. He listened to the hidden doorway open and turned to face the prince, knowing the shadow was too dense to reveal his face. “I told you such pursuits came with a heavy price. You should have listened.”
Erik couldn't make out the man's identity. He was human, that much was clear. But the distance and shadow made it difficult to make out details. He had one chance. Exhaling, he brought his remaining sword up and threw it, hoping he could right all of his wrongs with one fatal blow.
Lythus stepped into the open doorway hearing steel on stone behind him. Glancing at the unarmed prince he smiled one final time. “Thanks for doing all of this for me. I might have had a difficult time with it by myself.” Stepping through the threshold, the stone shifted behind him and sealed the hidden tunnel away.
Dark green moss clung to the jagged stones and aged mortar of the abandoned keep. The wooden ceiling was torn open revealing an array of deep blue clouds and twinkling stars in the distance.
Ravion felt the cool air rush through the crumbling room, biting into his thin clothing. He watched the lantern flicker, its glow dancing across the warped table. The wood was solid but weath
ered, leaving deep grooves where the grain had dried. Dipping the tip of the feathered quill into the tiny vial of ink he scribbled words onto the rough parchment, watching the black liquid soak into the page. Dotting the final line containing his name, Ravion laid the quill in its stand and gently blew across the lettering, letting it dry. Tearing the parchment to size, he rolled it and lifted the shield on the lantern, exposing the orange and yellow flame. Grabbing a stick of red wax he twisted the melted end into the flame, watching it turn from a solid stick to a dense, glossy fluid. Wiping a corner of the melted wax over the loose end of the miniature scroll, he quickly pressed his seal into it and watched it retake its solid state. Approaching the window, Ravion let out a sharp whistle.
A moment later a raven flew into sight, taking perch on the rotted sill. Ravion carefully tied the scroll to the bird's leg and held out his finger. The raven climbed on, balancing himself.
Staring into the bird's beady eyes, Ravion held a silent conversation. Raising his hand out the window, the raven took flight and disappeared into the night sky. A shadow took form on the wall beside him. He turned to look upon Senaria leaning against the worn and warped door frame. The door had long sense fallen off its hinges, but the frame seemed to be in good shape despite the moisture it had obviously suffered. “Lady Senaria, I trust you're finding everything to your liking?” He let out a light smirk, assuming she held similar opinions.
“You weren't lying when you said it needed work. Though it will suffice. We have trees and stone nearby. Given a few months I believe we can rebuild good as new.” She paused a moment, staring at her friend. “Do you believe he'll help us?”
“He's a good man. I believe he will, though it may not be in the most direct manner. His type prefers indirect action. At least that's how they like to make it seem. I'm sure we'll know something by morning.”
“I'm grateful for all the help you've given. I don't believe we'd be in as good of shape as we are without your guidance. Recent events considered.” She smiled.
“You honor me. Though I believe you'd do the same were our roles reversed.”
“I'm not so sure. You forget the pain we caused before the breaking. Were I in your shoes, I don't think I would have been so lenient, let alone taken action to aid the creatures responsible for so much death.” Senaria's tone shifted, recalling the memories that tortured her.
Ravion stepped forward and took her hand. “When you've seen as much as I, you learn to forgive easily. It doesn't do any good to dwell on the past. The only thing that matters is how you proceed into the future.”
“Some things can never be forgiven.” She stared at the floor, solemn in her words.
Ravion slowly reached out, pressing his finger against the bottom of her chin. Gently lifting her head he stared into her almond-shaped, brown eyes. “Anything can be forgiven. The trick is never forgetting. The two go hand in hand.”
Senaria smiled and stepped close to him. His warmth felt good in the cool air. Staring into his eyes she felt his arms wrap around her. “And you think we can be forgiven?”
“I know you can. You've already started down the correct path. It's up to you where you go from there.”
“Will you be there to right me when I'm wrong?”
A smile breached his lips. “I'll be around whenever you need me. Though I've faith you're strong enough to find your own—.”
She pressed her lips against his, cutting him off.
Rays of sunlight beamed through the open roof landing on Ravion's face. He opened his eyes feeling their warmth on his skin. Coming to his senses he recalled the night's events and studied the beautiful woman lying next to him. Her skin was perfect in the morning light. She was curled up beside him, buried in the fur blanket. He felt lost in her sight. Her light silver hair was scattered about her face and split, revealing a single slightly pointed ear. He didn't want to get up and risk waking her. This was the first time he'd slept in an actual bed in as long as he could remember. That was reason enough to stay. He took a deep breath and carefully climbed out of bed.
“Trying to sneak away?” Senaria opened her eyes, smiling at the naked man.
“Not exactly. You looked comfortable and I didn't want to wake you. I need to see if my message was received.” Ravion pulled his clothes on and leaned over the bed, kissing her softly.
Quickly making his way back to the study he found a scroll lying on the worn table. A familiar stamp rested in the green wax. Ravion snatched up the message and broke the seal. The fine parchment unrolled, pulling itself from his hands. Floating in front of him words echoed in their author's voice.
“Son of House Santail,
I appreciate you reaching out to me with news of these findings. I would like to know more detail when time permits. As per your requested information, I'm afraid only the Lord of Krondar has the ability to grant such deed. Fortunately for your needs, no man currently holds such title. Krondar is unique in the sense that it has no noble lineage. Its populace is comprised entirely of refugees and outsiders. Therefore any plot of land that has not been claimed is available, though there are no legal proceedings to its true ownership in the absence of a lord. I will tell you the barbarian people hold one sacred law higher than any other. Strength rules supreme. If someone is not strong enough to hold onto what they have, they don't deserve to keep it. This has both benefit and penalty, depending on which spectrum you fall. Thank you again for reaching out. It's been far too long and I look forward to meeting you in the near future. Additionally, if one desired to claim lordship over Krondar one must simply evoke the Rite of Godrick at the city heart of Fender's Spear. Though do not do so lightly. Rarely, does one make it past the first day.
Sincerely,
Perrimen Sarandar, Former Arch-Magus of the Tower, Former Baron of Dalmoura”
Ravion watched the scroll burst into flame and gently float to the warped floorboards. The red embers disappeared in the flaky ash, breaking apart from the light breeze. “Huh. Is that all?” He chuckled at the thought, wondering how far this endeavor would take him.
Senaria approached, wrapping her arms around his chest. Resting her chin on his shoulder she quietly spoke. “You're going to do it, aren't you?”
Ravion placed his hand atop of hers, feeling her warm, soft skin. “I fear I have to. Your people could make a home here, and chances are they'd be just fine for many years. But people are greedy. One day someone could come and demand you leave. I know the outcome of such an order. There's no sense in future bloodshed when I have the ability to staunch it now.”
Senaria kissed his neck, whispering into his ear. “You're a noble man, Ravion Santail. This land is lucky to have you. I'm lucky to have you.”
Spinning around to keep her arms in place, Ravion pulled her close and kissed her. “I think I may be the lucky one. I've wandered this realm longer than I can remember. Never in all that time have I found someone quite like you.”
Chapter VIII
Proving Ground
Broken wagons lined the sides of the road, strung together with wooden planks into makeshift stands. People pedaled their wares, dressed in little more than rags.
Ravion walked along the isles eyeing the less than desirable merchandise on display. He couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Most were malnourished and covered in dirt. They were far from the worst he'd seen in this nation, but they clearly weren't the best either. How they could live this way was beyond him. It seemed so primitive compared to the comforts he'd grown accustomed to in Shadgull. Even Marbayne, small as it was, had paved streets. This was little more than a glorified village acting as a capital city. Perhaps if all went according to plan he could make some changes and improved these people's lives.
Making his way to the city square, Ravion climbed a stack of wooden crates and turned to face her citizens. Clearing his throat he spoke, letting his voice carry over the chatter. “People of Fender's Spear, hear me! My name is Ravion Santail. I've seen the quality of life the people o
f this land face. I wish to make a difference. I believe I can help to ensure your families are fed and clothed. I can establish trade routes with the rest of Dalmoura. I can ensure the protection of your homes from the frequent orc raids. I do not seek to rule you! I simply wish to make your lives easier. You do not need a ruler. You need someone who knows a thing or two about economics and government. Though I don't expect you to take my word for it. I'm aware of the customs this land holds to the highest value. With that knowledge I wish to enact the Rite of Godrick. Any who wish to oppose me, please step forward.”
Every man, woman, and child within earshot turned to face the dreuslayer. They were captivated by his words. Never before had one addressed the issues they faced on a daily basis. Many had come to claim the rite, but never one so educated. It was usually some kid fresh out of training and seeking to make a name for himself. Unfortunately the only name they ever made was on their headstone.
One of the citizens, an elderly woman, hobbled to the front of the crowd and extended her wrinkled hand to the young dalari. Ravion took the woman's hand and stepped from his stage. “What may I do for you, Ma'am?”
She spoke in a weak, yet sweet voice, only heard due to the silence of the world around them. “Young man, the Rite of Godrick grants you room and meal during your trials. I'd be honored if you'd stay at the inn.”
“It would be my pleasure, though I hope you'll do me the honor of allowing me to compensate you for your hospitality during my stay. If you feel the need to show charity, please apply the meal toward someone in need.”
She bowed as deep as her frail body would allow. Pushing against her walking stick, she pulled herself up and made way for the inn a step at a time.