Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  The youngest of the Huxleys were the twins Margot and Melvyn who, even at their age, had an unmatched thirst for knowledge. So intelligent, they were, they could outwit even some of the adults in Elbon. In fact, Adelina swore that if the twins one day learned to read, their tongues would be nearly as dangerous as Baryn Lawe’s, the mad preacher of Val Havyn. The Huxleys were not by any means wealthy, but Adelina made sure they never had to skip a single meal. She’d raised her children on her own and she’d taught them to survive; taught them that even in the darkest moments, there was always hope, it took only a little effort to find it.

  John approached the cottage that morning, after his squabble in the barn, only to find his mother hauling a pile of vegetable sacks onto a wooden cart tied to their finest mule.

  “There you are,” she said to him. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “You know what. The clutter.”

  “Oh ‘twas nothing,” he kissed his mother in the cheek and took the vegetable sacks from her arms, then proceeded to do the hauling himself. “Just a littl’ bat scaring the horses,” he lied.

  She glanced at his bandaged arm. “A bat did that?”

  John shrugged and attempted a smile, but his mother was not very pleased.

  “When will you learn to leave that wretched blade of yours alone?” she asked, her eyes full of worry. “It’s gotten you into enough trouble.”

  “Nothing wrong with learning to use one,” he insisted. “Besides, it was only Larz and Henrik. They couldn’t hurt a wounded sheep if they tried.”

  “Someday, John,” she said, shaking her head in subtle disappointment. “You’ll find yourself crossing blades with someone who won’t play as nice as Larz and Henrik.”

  “I’m sure I will,” he hauled the last of the sacks. “Which is why it’s best to prepare, yes?”

  Adelina crossed her arms, unamused. Truthfully she was thankful for the guidance that Mister Beckwit gave her children when it came to self-defense. She only wished her eldest wasn’t so bloody reckless. “I need you to haul the produce into the city this morning,” she said to him.

  “Is it my turn?”

  “It isn’t. But your sister Robyn’s refusing to wake and help. One of these mornings, she’ll be waking up to a bucket of ice water and gods know I’ve warned her far too many times.”

  “I’d say give it 5 minutes and if she doesn’t wake, give it a go,” he said in a teasing manner.

  “Go on now. We’ll be working late today, it looks like,” she said as she went and fetched a wheelbarrow. “If we don’t get these crops out now, the rodents will get to them first.”

  The young farmer gathered his things and prepared to leave for the city.

  “And John?” his mother called. “Leave that cursed blade of yours here, will you?”

  * * *

  Val Havyn was a city of great reputation and even greater beauty. Every street was made of cobblestones. Every dwelling was made of stone and wood, painted white, with red bricks lining every roof, and cleverly designed lanterns hanging from every corner of every street.

  It was like stepping into an entirely different world for John Huxley. He left his mule and cart tied in the usual stable by the city gates. Before walking away from it, however, he noticed a parchment nailed to the wall of the stable with the word ‘Wanted’ painted in red. Below it was the black and white portrait of a mysterious-looking man with long wavy hair, a black hat with a rim, and a pair of unfriendly eyes.

  Another wanted thief, John thought, and shrugged it off, seeing as no wanted man in their right mind would step foot in such a distinguished city.

  And so, as he walked through the lively streets, John took in the fresh air and the daily sights the city had to offer. It was a tendency that he told no one about and yet his mind couldn’t help but yield to it. As leisurely as could possibly appear, John observed.

  A woman selling fried sweetened dough in the corner of a traffic circle, across from which an elderly puppeteer staged shows for bystanders, children, and vagabonds.

  A dog pacing and sniffing the ground near a vegetable stand where there sat a woman with a sea-colored dress drinking a cup of hot tea spiked with rum.

  A merchant selling blankets shouting his lungs away into the ears of onlookers, tourists, and peasants going about their day.

  A boy carrying a basket of baked goods, who may or may not have been having a shouting contest with the blanket merchant.

  By the time John finally reached the crossroad where there stood the old but well-admired Nottley’s Tavern, he had seen four dogs, nine children, a knight eating a fried pig’s foot, a woman chopping firewood, three men that all swore their venison meat was the best in the city, and six peasants that claimed to have been robbed and needed 10 coppers for a carriage ride back to their village; a request John found absurd, considering carriage rides never costed more than 5 coppers.

  Nottley’s Tavern was on the corner of Dreary Lane and another street whose name John never made a note to remember. Dreary Lane was known for being a street in which sellswords and mercenaries, thirsty for a good fight, would loiter with hopes of being hired for a job, typically by a tourist in need of protection or a merchant looking for an escort off to a place where they probably shouldn’t be eyeing to begin with.

  Any time John traveled to the tavern, his mind was elsewhere reminiscing on the countless moments in which his father would make the same comment about the notorious Dreary Lane and how though it was tied to a certain reputation, it was in reality named after a man known as Patryk Dreary who was merely the proprietor of every business in that particular block about a century prior.

  It was nearing noon when John walked through the tavern doors and already there were herds of men staggering about with a pint of ale in their hands. It was hard to construe who had recently arrived and who was still there from the previous night.

  “Good day, Mister Nottley,” John said to the man behind the wooden counter.

  “Is it now?” replied Nottley.

  John placed the brown sack of vegetables on the counter with a smile. “Delivery for you.”

  Nottley took a peek inside, so as to inspect there was nothing missing. He then looked up at John with an unfriendly look and said, “Tell Missus Huxley I’ll pay her in a couple o’ days.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry,” John cleared his throat as he took a moment to find the proper words. “But we can’t really allow that… We require payment up front.”

  Nottley continued to clean his silverware, as if John was no longer there.

  There was a loud burp. It had come from a man sitting at the bar, a few feet away from John, gulping down the last of his ale. The man had on a long fading grey coat and a black hat with a jaggedly round rim, covering up his unkempt grey hair and thick, bushy beard.

  John cleared his throat, reminding Nottley of his presence.

  “Mister Nottley,” he called. “I said we require immediate payment for a share of crops…”

  Nottley looked back up at John. “I heard you the first time, lad,” he said, “And I said to tell your mother I will pay her soon.”

  There was a loud tap. The very obviously inebriated grey man nearby slid his cup over to Mister Nottley, who was able to catch it just in time before it fell off the edge of the bar. “One more,” the man said, and John could smell the foul stench coming from his breath.

  “You sure you have the coin to pay for it?” asked Nottley.

  “I said one more, mate.”

  John took the opportunity to reach for the bag of vegetables still sitting on the bar. But before he could retrieve it, Mister Nottley slammed his hand down and held on tightly to the brown cloth. At that same moment, a lanky young man approached the bar. He had short fuzzy brown hair and was dressed in raggedy brown clothing and an apron tied around his waist.

  “We have a bit of a situation, sir,” the young man said to his warden. “Mister Rodrick just vomited all over him
self. Whole corner reeks like rotten pork now. At least I believe it was pork…”

  “Then take care of it,” Mister Nottley responded with a glare so sharp, it made John wonder whether the man would have slapped the lad had it not been for the crowds in the tavern.

  “I will, sir. But he claims it was the duck we served him that made ‘im sick.”

  “Bloody hell, boy…”

  “I know, I thought the same. How could it be when it so obviously smells like pork?”

  “Get out of my bloody sight!” Nottley snapped at him. By then, the man may as well have been shouting.

  “R-Right,” the young man stuttered. “Morning, John.”

  “Morning, Cedric,” the farmer said, before the boy scurried off with a wet towel in hand.

  Suddenly, John preferred the smell of the grey man’s breath to that of the approaching fumes of the Rodrick man’s vomit.

  The boy’s right, John thought silently. The rotten fumes do have a more pork-like scent.

  The boy known as Cedric was an orphan that Mister Nottley had taken in as his ward. Cedric thought very highly of his warden, with him having been the only guidance the boy had while growing up. He was lodged in the basement of the tavern, and worked as a servant to the clientele, consisting mostly of merchants and beggars who made enough for a pint of ale. Cedric didn’t know his age and Nottley cared far too little to keep track, but the young man was in his late teenage years and his innocence and naivety unquestionably showed it. His warped, chipped front tooth, along with the brown scar running down the left side of his lip and chin were evidence that the lad had faced his own deal of troubles in his short life. That, or his guardian was keen on physical discipline when there was liquor involved.

  “Anything else I can help you with?” Nottley asked John, who remained insistent that he wouldn’t leave without payment. He was prepared to confront the old tavern keeper, but not the loyal crowds surrounding them. And the fact that he had left his blade at home did not help either.

  “You know,” the grey drunken man sitting at the bar spoke suddenly, breaking the silence. “You ought to just pay the boy…”

  As the man sat up in his stool, Mister Nottley and John glanced at him; there was both bafflement and a slight but very noticeable awe in the tavern keeper’s eyes.

  “You ought to mind your own business, you old bum,” Nottley said. Two very obviously inebriated men suddenly approached the bar, standing over the shoulders of the grey man.

  “A problem, Mister Nottley?” one asked, his breath far worse the grey man’s.

  “None at all,” Nottley replied. “Seems like the man’s had enough, that’s all.”

  “You heard the boss,” one of the drunks placed a heavy hand on the grey man’s shoulder. “Pay up what you owe ‘n’ get goin’.”

  There was a long pause, as the grey man looked up at Mister Nottley. Cedric watched from a distance, nervous that his guardian would release his anger on him, should anything in the tavern become damaged. In fact, by then, many eyes around the tavern were looking in their direction. John wondered whether it was wise to make an attempt for the bag again and walk out. It wouldn’t have mattered to him if he didn’t need the money for the week’s supplies.

  When he finally decided to reach for it, he was startled by the sound of wood screeching against wood. The grey man stood up from his stool, causing it to slide back as he struggled to stand straight from the many pints of ale he’d consumed.

  “I decide when I’ve had me share,” said the grey man, with a threatening expression on his face. “Now I asked you to serv-”

  He was silenced by a glass bottle shattering against his skull. He fell unconsciously on the wooden floor, right upon the feet of a large, heavily-built man in his forties, with a dark complexion to his skin and short bushy black hair on his scalp. His name was Thaddeus Rexx and he was a blacksmith in the village.

  After a brief silence, Mister Nottley gave him a nod. “Thank you, Thaddeus…”

  Thaddeus Rexx nodded back. “Not in the mood for a riot this morning,” he said, throwing what was left of the broken bottle of whisky on the floor and walking back to his table. He was a rather intimidating man, and while he had no particular alliance to Mister Nottley, he did share a bond with the orphaned Cedric.

  Nottley stood there silently for a moment, part of him envious that his moment was stolen. “Cedric!” he shouted across the room. “Clean up this mess.”

  “We’ll drag ‘im out of here for a pint of ale each,” one of the drunken men said.

  “No,” Nottley grunted.

  “Half a pint each?”

  “Done.”

  They began by emptying the grey man’s pockets. Then, one of them pulled out a brown coinpurse and threw it at the tavern keeper before dragging the old man’s unconscious body out of the tavern doors. Nottley pulled 5 coppers from the stolen purse and tossed them at John.

  “Now get the hell out of here,” he said, and John obeyed.

  The young farmer couldn’t help but feel a shred of guilt upon seeing the two drunks landing continuous punches on the old man just outside the tavern.

  “For your sake, we best not see your face in Mister Nottley’s tavern again,” one of them spit on the beaten man’s back before heading back inside. The old man had by then regained some consciousness and despite his age, he appeared to have taken the punches rather lightly.

  John should have helped, and he knew it. The remorse in his chest urged him to approach the man, now lying filthy in a puddle of mud and feces near a row of horses that had been tied up for a rest.

  “Are you all right, sir?” John leaned in nervously.

  The old grey man lifted himself to his knees, spitting out chunks of blood.

  “Just taking a rest,” he said with a chuckle.

  John held out his hand to help the man up, but he refused to take it. He simply remained there on his knees, chuckling softly like a madman. Then, with a surprising amount of energy, the man leapt to his feet and gave his neck a good crack.

  “Bloody hells,” he groaned, and then stretched his arms up until they also cracked. “Ahh, that’s the spot.”

  Unsure of how to react, John eyes the man up and down. He looked like a typical vagabond and he smelled like one too. But there was something peculiar about the man, something that wasn’t entirely clear at first glance. “You took quite a beating there, friend,” John said to him. “I thank you for what you did back there.”

  “Didn’t do it for you,” said the man, chuckling once again. He removed the hat gently from his head and set it down. Then he gripped the grey hair on his head and gave it a good yank, pulling it right off. John was stunned for a moment.

  A tumble of black wavy hair fell onto the man’s shoulders. And with the same approach, the man pulled off his feathery grey beard, revealing a thin layer of black scruff on his cheeks and jaw. It was as if he had shed off thirty years of age in a matter of seconds. He turned his grey coat inside out to reveal the black leather lining on the inside, clearly sewn on that way purposely.

  He had transformed himself into a completely different man, no older than thirty. Looking back at John, with a bleeding lip and a swollen eye, the man held out his arms on his sides as if presenting his final appearance and asked, “How’s it look, mate?”

  The man had a particularly suave accent and a voice that was moderately deep but with a sharp edge to it, which seemed to fit perfectly with his provokingly mischievous tone of voice. “Thought I’d switch it up a bit,” he said. “The ‘old man’ get-up was starting to itch something awful.”

  John knew he had seen that face before, though he didn’t quite remember when or where. The swelling from the beating the man took had perhaps made him harder to recognize. And so John stood there in awe, as he watched the man in black fade away into the city streets.

  Val Havyn had many blacksmiths, but only two worth remembering.

  One of them was Thaddeus Rexx, who was a
skilled yet rather unmotivated man, the type who’d settled with something he was good at rather than something he loved. Having never had a family of his own, he made his living by day and spent nearly every evening drowning in ale at Nottley’s Tavern.

  The second blacksmith most renowned, mainly by merchants, was an older gentleman of lesser status. His weapons and armor were molded from the finest iron and steel and handled with such care, for which he was well compensated. His name was Willem Amberhill, and he was a good man. But life hadn’t been too kind to him, and after having nearly died during the Plague of Red Tears, he had grown weaker and more prone to disease over the years. He had three daughters and a son who was killed by bandits on the outskirts of the city many years past.

  Evellyn Amberhill, at 23 years of age, was his eldest daughter. She loved her father and she loved the care he would put into his work. Since she was a girl, she admired his work and assisted him in any safe way possible. It was not until the day she burned her left hand with a scorching hot blade that she heard him raise his voice for the first time.

  “I told you never to touch anything!” he had said. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  But, as clever as the girl was, she responded with, “Then show me how…”

  The man was blinded by pride at the time. His son, who was expected to continue his legacy, died before learning to craft anything, not that the boy ever cared. And so eventually, the girl’s persistence won her father over.

  By the age of 13, Evellyn Amberhill could forge her own daggers. By 15, it was gauntlets and boots. And by the time she was 18, Evellyn and her father could garner merchandise at twice the usual rate, for there was nothing the woman couldn’t craft or find a way to craft.

  However, fate would not be so kind to the Amberhill family.

  The old man had recently fallen ill and business had slowed once again. There was no mother, at least not anymore; the Plague of Red Tears had taken her. The middle sister, whose name remained unspoken in the Amberhill home, had run away with some squire boy at 15 and was never heard from again. And Alycia, the youngest of the sisters, ran the household and tended to their father’s care, while Evellyn worked day after day to provide for them.