Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  And then they saw him… A man dressed in black stepped valiantly out of the tavern and pressed his back against the wall of it, the only wall that wasn’t yet swallowed up by flames. He wore a dark leather overcoat and a black hat with a rim, covering most of his slightly unclean face. He showed no sign of fear of the fire; in fact, he appeared to be smiling.

  “Is that… who I think it is?” asked Thomlin, flustered at his inability to recall a name the way he was so keen on doing. John said nothing, but recognized the man instantly as the stranger that had taken a beating the previous morning.

  “Out of the way!”

  A group of guards sped by, shoving John and Thomlin aside and sprinting towards the tavern. At that same moment, a large peasant was running out from inside the tavern with an axe in his hand and a lit cigar in his mouth. The man in the black hat stood by the doorframe and surprised the running peasant with a punch in the face, before giving him a chance to swing his axe. The peasant was knocked unconscious immediately. Somehow, however, the man in the black hat managed to snatch the lit cigar from the peasant’s mouth. He took a puff and then flicked it out in front of him. It landed on the cobblestones and a roaring trail of flames burst into the air, creating a barrier between him and the incoming guards.

  John then saw the dripping oil lamp on the ground nearby and realized the man in the black hat was no common crook; he knew exactly what he was doing. The guards walked around the barrier of fire, but by then the man was nowhere to be found.

  Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves began to ring in their ears.

  John narrowed his eyes and noticed, in the distance, a group of knights galloping towards them up Dreary Lane. And then, through the smoke, he saw the figure of the man in the black hat crouching on the tavern roof, dangerously close to the flames.

  The first guard galloped at full speed into the scene; the man in the black hat hopped down and landed on his horse. The guard was knocked off the saddle and the man took his place behind the reins.

  “Whoa,” young Thomlin couldn’t help but say. “He’s good.”

  The man in the black hat rode past them on the stolen horse. He locked eyes with John for a mere second before he turned onto one of the city’s busiest streets. And it was at that very moment that John realized where he’d seen the man’s face. It was drawn on the ‘Wanted’ portraits all over the city.

  “Stop that man!” Cedric yelled as he stumbled out of what was left of the tavern.

  John Huxley felt the world slow down all of a sudden.

  He watched as the man in the black hat rushed to his escape.

  He thought of his mother, of all the times she’d lectured him about his mischief.

  He thought of Robyn and the twins, and the kind of example he’d set for them.

  He thought of Mister Beckwit and of all the times he’d said ‘Think before you draw your blade’.

  And yet there he stood, watching as this criminal dodged and outsmarted every guard that crossed his path. And he simply couldn’t stand by and watch it happen…

  John’s feet decided to move before he gave them permission to.

  Before he knew it, he was running back to his cart.

  “Sir?!” Thomlin shouted. “Sir, where are you going?!”

  The young farmer hopped on the cart and began sifting through the produce, onions and ears of corn scattering all over the ground.

  “Sir?!” Thomlin approached him.

  Suddenly John pulled his rusty grey blade out of the pile. He unsheathed it and gave it a good twist with his wrist, his lips curving into a smile.

  “By the gods,” Thomlin’s eyes widened. “You’re not going after him, are you?! He’s dangerous!”

  But John Huxley was well aware that the man was dangerous; it was what drew his attention to begin with.

  “Sir?!” Thomlin shouted. “Sir!”

  “Go home, kid,” John said, and then darted towards the danger like an eager swordsman.

  Many yards north, in the heart of the city market, the thief rushed through the streets and alleyways on the stolen horse, desperately trying to lose the guards that were trailing him. He startled many of the citizens, galloping through the stands and causing a mess to deceive the guards.

  John Huxley climbed onto the red rooves of the city dwellings, using the height to his advantage, just as Mister Beckwit had trained him to do since childhood. He ran, jumping from roof to roof, following the thief’s tracks as best he could.

  He found him near Merchants’ Square, galloping towards the western city gates.

  But a swarm of guards had gathered together and formed a shield wall, blocking the road. The thief, however, did not slow down by any means. He appeared to be enjoying himself. With a grin, he held his right hand out and somehow managed to snatch a tankard of ale from a nearby table; the man sitting there was knocked back on his chair, his bowl of stew splashing all over his chest.

  As John ran closer, he couldn’t help but observe.

  The thief drank what was left of the ale and threw the tankard over his shoulder. He then removed one foot from the saddle and raised it up onto the horse’s back. He did the same with his other foot and began to stand little by little as the horse continued to run at full speed.

  No man should be able to do that, John thought to himself.

  And yet there it was.

  The thief held tightly onto the reins as he approached a nearby dwelling with a balcony. He jumped off the speeding horse, grasped one of the bars on the balcony and hoisted himself up. The guards began to shoot arrows, but the thief vanished into the windows of the premises before any of them struck him.

  John looked ahead, realizing the thief was in a dwelling that was about ten roofs away. He smiled and picked up his pace.

  The thief closed the balcony windows and took a moment to catch his breath and observe his surroundings. He found himself in a dusty old room that may have been used for lodging guests at one point but now appeared to be used for storage. The walls were bare, save for the spider webs on every corner. There were no stairs, only a small latch on the wooden floor that was raised open and a wooden ladder connecting the room to the first floor of the dwelling, which happened to be a saloon. Without thinking twice, the thief closed the latch and dragged a large cabinet over it. The music and the chattering voices beneath his feet continued as if nothing was happening above them.

  Think, now… No distractions…

  As he scanned the room, he looked for anything that could possibly aid him.

  He saw a lit lantern on a wooden nightstand.

  A bundle of rope in the corner of the room atop a wooden chest with a steel lock.

  Empty wine bottles on the floor, most of them broken.

  About a dozen pieces of furniture covered with old, moth-ridden sheets.

  A lumpy old bed in the middle of the room with a single filthy pillow.

  On the floor was a pair of steel cuffs connected by a four-foot long chain, and several rats brushing past it, scavenging for food and crumbs.

  Suddenly his eyes found what he was looking for. Something shiny drew his attention from atop a hefty wooden cupboard. It was a rapier with a double-edged blade and an acute tip.

  He reached for it, unsheathed it, examined its roughness and stability…

  It’ll do, he thought.

  And then a sharp noise suddenly startled him. The window he’d closed a minute prior shattered into pieces. The thief turned and saw a young man hopping in through the broken glass. He had short hair the color of wheat and was dressed in raggedy farmer’s clothes. The cleanest thing he wore was a brown leather vest with mismatching buttons sewn onto it. They said nothing at first, only locked eyes with one another, as the young man shook the crumbs of glass from his shoulders and began to pace slowly and carefully around the room.

  “That’s not yours to take,” John Huxley said.

  With a smirk, the thief caressed the glistening blade as if it were made of the smoothe
st silk. “You mean this?” he asked. “But it sure does bring out my eyes, don’t you think?”

  The way he held the blade was almost admirable, gracefully and delicately, as if holding a docile yellow-tailed dove; if one could use a dove to kill a man, that is.

  “The saloon is surrounded,” John said, trying his best to look like a proper swordsman. “Put your weapon down and you won’t be harmed.”

  The thief’s smirk then faded into an ominous glare that sent a chilling rush up John’s spine.

  “Is that so?” he asked, sliding the stolen blade back on its sheath and tying it to his belt as he spoke, remnants of his smirk still lurking in the corner of his lips. “So… Indulge me, mate. You mean to tell me that the royal guard is on the hunt for a fugitive and when they’ve finally got him ambushed, they send… a peasant to fetch him?”

  John couldn’t help but feel a sting in his chest upon the thief’s disdainful question. It wasn’t his words, exactly, but rather the assumption of his lack of skill based merely on his profession. “I’m a farmer,” he said, attempting a threatening glare of his own but coming across as more perturbed than anything else.

  “Oh, a farmer!” said the thief mockingly. “Well forgive me, your highness.”

  “Put the sword on the floor,” John ordered him.

  “Yes, your grace, would you like it sheathed or unsheathed?”

  “Don’t mock me,” John said, becoming more alarmed by the second. He realized there was a possibility that he’d made a terrible mistake. The thief did not react kindly when confronted. And yet here John was, not only confronting him but doing so while the thief was armed.

  Suddenly, the mutters beneath the floors grew into muffled shouts and persistent thumps.

  “Listen, you,” said the thief, taking slow backward steps toward the window on the opposite end of the room. “I’d love to stay here and listen to some of your breathtaking farming stories, I’m sure they’re a hoot. But I’m afraid I’ll have to be trotting along now.”

  As the thief opened the window to escape, John’s rebellious hand succumbed to the temptation and unsheathed his rusty blade. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I… I can’t let you…”

  The thief froze. The pounding under the cabinet grew harder and harder, and the angry voices appeared to be growing in numbers. There was no doubt anymore. The royal guard had taken over the saloon. And it was starting to agitate the thief.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked John, stepping away from the window.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Yes, it does,” the thief’s tone was serious once again. He had this way of keeping his mockery locked in place, ready to release it at the spur of any moment. John knew he was dealing with a dishonest man, and although he believed there existed men whose dishonesty had some reasoning behind it, the thief’s eyes appeared almost impossible to read.

  “You’re Hudson Blackwood,” John said. “You’re the wanted thief.”

  “Is that what they call me here?” Hudson snickered. “That’s rather disappointing. They call me a wanted murderer in Halghard.”

  “You were the one who set fire to Mister Nottley’s tavern,” John accused him.

  “Oh, that place was falling apart on its own anyhow. It reeked of piss and vomit. I reckoned I was doing the city a favor.”

  “That is not for you to decide…”

  The whacking on the wooden hatch grew louder as the guards began to splinter through it.

  Hudson began to feel a rush of unease, as he knew his time was running short.

  “Listen here, mate,” he said hesitantly. “In a moment, one of two things will happen. Either I will jump out that window and go on about my affairs and we’ll pretend we never had this conversation.”

  John stood his ground, at times seeming even slightly intimidating.

  “Or we can go the alternate route,” Hudson continued. “Which will end with me killing you and then jumping out the window and going on about my affairs. And let’s face it, mate. I will kill you, given your profession, given mine, and given the fact that you’re threatening me with that sad little kitchen knife.”

  John felt his hand shiver for a moment. His mother’s words echoed in his mind all of a sudden: ‘Someday, you’ll find yourself crossing blades with someone who won’t play as nice as Larz and Henrik.’

  And yet he couldn’t help but yield to the thrill of the challenge.

  “If you’re so sure, why don’t you draw your weapon?” John tempted fate for a bit, and during the two seconds of silence that followed, he felt something he hadn’t felt since the night of the raid on the Huxley farm; the uncertainty of whether or not he would live to see another day.

  Hudson Blackwood sighed and with an eye-roll, said, “Have it your way, then.”

  The thief was faster than John anticipated. He grabbed the first moth-ridden sheet to his left and threw it at John, briefly blinding him, then jumped atop the old bed and drew his sword.

  Their blades crossed for the first time, and the hissing steel echoed throughout the room. The thief was dangerously quick and his strikes were robust and powerful. John felt a sting in his wrist with every attack he blocked. He stepped back, and the thief hopped down from the bed and kept swinging. John had never moved so quick in his life. Mister Beckwit’s farmhands Larz and Henrik could never match the thief’s speed, even if they fought him together.

  They pressed their blades against one another and paused for a second, locking eyes once again as each one tried to outgrip the other. When their blades slid loose, John took the chance to swing first and managed to rip a two-inch gap on the front of Hudson’s coat.

  The thief paused for a moment and gave the farmer a look that spoke more threateningly than any words he could possibly invoke. Then, with a loud growl, he swung with an even greater force, causing the farmer to duck and move away rather than try to defend himself.

  Thinking so quick was impossible. After every attack, John was already dodging another. He realized then that he was no match for the thief, and still he refused to run away from the fight. Suddenly, in an unlucky moment, the rusty blade slid from his hands and fell to the floor. He ducked, slid on his knees to fetch it, and nearly lost an eye as he managed to block the thief’s downward swing, the rapier reaching just an inch from his face. Their blades collided several times again before Hudson’s skill overtook John’s and he disarmed him again.

  And this time, John’s reach came too late.

  Hudson held his blade up to the farmer’s neck.

  “You did this to yourself, mate,” he said, then prepared to cut.

  But the sudden sound of splintering wood startled them. The cabinet was pushed aside and the small hatch on the floor creaked open. A guard peeked his head inside. Hudson kicked with his right foot and the guard ducked back down.

  The thief then felt a sudden cold sting in his right hand, followed by the sound of clanking metal. When he turned, he saw that his wrist had been cuffed to a chain, and on the other cuff was the farmer’s left wrist.

  “It’s over, thief,” John said. “You’ve got no way out.”

  Hudson Blackwood was known for many things. He was not, however, known to surrender under pressure. With the strength of a wolf, he swung his fist and struck John in the jaw, right at the perfect spot so that he would faint from the blow. Hudson caught John before he fell to the ground, and then hoisted his unconscious body over his shoulder.

  “The thief’s getting away!” one of the guards shouted from under the hatch.

  Hudson grabbed the lantern from the nightstand and dropped it a mere foot away from the guard’s head. The lantern shattered and the oil splashed all over the floor, catching fire instantly. The guard backed away from the open hatch and Hudson made way for the window.

  The window led to an alleyway between dwellings. There was another swarm of guards marching in from one end of it. But the thief then noticed a wooden cart just ten feet underneath the wind
owsill and the peasant that owned it was preoccupied conversing with a beautiful seamstress. The unattended cart was full of hay and had two horses tied to the reins.

  What a bloody convenience, Hudson thought with a grin.

  * * *

  In the vast green hills of Vallenghard, a mere five miles west of the royal city, a company of about two hundred riders had gathered, awaiting orders from their commanders. Half of them were dressed in matching red leathers while the rest wore furs, suggesting they were accustomed to warmer climate. For many miles, they had ridden together, and yet they refused to interact.

  The Rogue Brotherhood was simply following orders, but they were kept in the dark through most of the journey. Who was this foreign company of humans, orcs, elves, and goblins? Why were they in Gravenstone and how did their commander manage to sneak them past the cities at the shores? Other nations had granted freedom to nonhuman races, but the law in Gravenstone was strict and the penalty for breaking it was death. And yet here they stood, in the kingdom of Vallenghard, a kingdom of humans, fearlessly marching through the open hills with an army so diverse it could have been spotted from a mile away.

  Whoever this Lord Baronkroft was, there was one thing they knew for certain…

  The man had no fear… None whatsoever…

  Malekai Pahrvus, the new captain of the Brotherhood, was discussing the plan of attack with the Butcher of Haelvaara while the company waited impatiently at the base of the hill. Among them, a trio of orcs from Lord Baronkroft’s troop grumbled and snickered among one another, eyeing the Brotherhood mercenaries up and down as if they were of lower ranks.

  “What in all hells are we waitin’ for?!” asked one of them. “We’ve been sittin’ for hours.”

  “I thought we was here to attack. What’s with all the yappin’?”

  “Lower yer voices, will ye?”

  The largest of the 3 orcs was the smartest of the bunch. He kept quiet at the appropriate times and talked only when he had to. The other two, on the other hand, were impatient and crude and had no clue how to be subtle.