Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  Gruul grunted. He hardly ever liked anyone, even his own kind, and so he was much less intrigued by the Beast. “We ain’t here to make friends,” he said to his comrade. “Just stick with the plan. We keep our heads down ‘n’ slip away when we find the chance.”

  “I know the plan,” replied Murzol, a lanky orc with a lazy eye and a trace of snot underneath his nostrils. “But we don’t know these lands.”

  “Neither does he. Look at ‘im. He’s a wild one.”

  “Yes… I s’ppose he don’t talk much,” Murzol mumbled distractedly. When Baronkroft decided to hire the Brotherhood, they had expected a company full of humans. At no point had it crossed their minds that they would have an orc riding with them. Not to mention Murzol, while often dull, was well aware of the growing tension between Gruul and their defiant comrade, Okvar. And he was starting to seek desperately for another plan, should the first happen to fall apart.

  “But what if we need another sword by our side?” he insisted.

  “You want ‘im so bad, you go talk to the big bastard,” grunted Gruul, as he sat and bit into a roasted oversized squirrel.

  Suddenly, there was a sound coming from a row of shrubs nearby, like that of rustling leaves. Murzol noticed it, but Gruul had no more interest in talking. Instead, the lanky orc observed as the Beast stood up and walked towards the sound, his freshly sharpened axe held ready.

  There was movement within the tall shrubbery. The Beast sniffed the air but caught no scent, and his yellow eyes were squinting for a better look. And it wasn’t until he was some ten feet away that he saw them, a pair of eyes staring at him from within the leaves.

  A pair of worried yellow eyes… They were begging him to keep quiet…

  The Beast came to a halt, his red-laced boots sinking into the mud.

  There was hesitation in his eyes. From such a close distance, whatever was hiding in the bushes would have made an attempt at his life by then. Except it didn’t. And so the orc softened his grip on his axe. The pair of eyes blinked slowly and carefully at him.

  What are you…? He wondered.

  He released a brusque sigh. He felt his shoulders ease from the tension and his breathing had slowed again; that was, until he heard the snort behind him. It startled him and he raised his axe into the air, ready to strike.

  “Oi! Easy… easy there, big fella,” said the lanky orc Murzol, cowering down with his hands raised above his head. “I just wanna talk to ye…”

  The Beast said nothing. He kept his stance and gave Murzol a ferocious glare.

  Then there was a rather unexpected sound. It was high-pitched and shrill and it was coming from the bushes. It was the sound of a crying infant.

  Murzol’s eyes lit up like wildfire. Both him and the Beast glanced towards the sound and followed it… There, crouched within the leaves, was an orcess. She was pressing her child against her chest, wrapped in a bundle of cloth, and she was dressed in robes that covered her from neck to toe and a grey shawl that enclosed most of her hair, save for a flew traces of black around her forehead. She was terrified; it was obvious in the way her sharp fangs were quivering against her upper lip as her jaw shook with distress.

  “What have we here…?” someone asked. Gruul was suddenly standing there behind Murzol and the Beast, his eyes determined and hungry. “What a beauty,” he said, and he gave his lips a lick. He tried to step forward, but then a heavy red-laced boot sunk onto the earth in the way of Gruul’s path.

  The Beast said nothing still, only faced Gruul with a hostile glower.

  “Step aside, lad,” Gruul said, but the mercenary orc said more with a stare than he could have with words. Meanwhile, Murzol saw an opportunity and took it. He ran and grabbed hold of the orcess, who in return swung her arm to punch him, nearly dropping her weeping child.

  The Beast growled and stepped towards Murzol, his axe ready to strike.

  A voice, however, caught them all by surprise. “Hey! What’s goin’ on here?!”

  A hand seized the orcess by the arm, ignoring the fact that she needed it to properly hold her child. It was a hand that was dark blue in color, like a starless sky at midnight.

  “We saw ‘er first,” Gruul argued.

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” the elf replied. Though his skin was darker than most elves, his hair was just as silver and his bright luminous eyes were as red as blood.

  “Stay out of this, Jyor,” Gruul warned him.

  “Or you’ll do what exactly?” the elf taunted him.

  “She’s my prize! You’ve no right.”

  “Baronkroft’s orders were clear… All of the prisoners stay together,” replied Jyor, his hand still gripped tightly around the shivering orcess’s wrist.

  “Please,” she suddenly yelped. And everyone turned to look at her at once. “I-I… I go to city of Kahrr,” she said, and it became clear that she wasn’t used to speaking their language. “I go… Please…”

  But Jyor, the elf, showed no sign of mercy in his eyes. He may have been shorter and much thinner than any of the orcs, but he was also faster than they were. And he was as fierce as a wildcat when challenged. “I’m locking her up with the rest,” he said, locking eyes with Murzol. “Now let go of the bitch.”

  He then glanced at the Beast, who by then appeared more like a bystander.

  “And you… Put the axe down, lad. It’s no use causing trouble…”

  The Beast walked away. He held his axe still, just in case, but he retreated into the darkness of his tent. And when he did, the orcess became even more flustered, having seen something in the eyes of the Beast that she hadn’t seen in the eyes of the other orcs or the elf. Something like compassion.

  “N-No… please,” she kept begging.

  “Talk again and you’ll earn yourself a lashing,” Jyor warned her, and then pulled her towards the rest of the prisoners. Gruul and Murzol tried to protest, but something in the distance caught their eye. At the top of the hill, a company of horses approached them. And standing at the very front was the hooded figure of Lord Baronkroft. To his right was the monstrous man known as the Butcher, and to his left was the Captain of the Rogue Brotherhood, Malekai Pahrvus.

  Gruul and Murzol stepped back and allowed for Jyor to drag the orcess away.

  They walked back towards their fire and sat on the dry grass.

  “I want that elf’s head,” Gruul muttered softly.

  “Baronkroft will have yours if ye try it,” Murzol snorted.

  “To hells with Baronkroft. That orcess is mine.”

  “Hmm… What about the bloke?” Murzol asked again, his narrowed gaze aimed at the Beast’s tent. “I think he’s got some pluck, don’t ye?”

  “Fuck the bloke,” Gruul said with growl. “He ain’t true… Trust me, I sees it in his eyes.”

  “His eyes?”

  “He’s soft… You’re blind if you don’t see it. He may as well be a human.”

  IV

  A Rescue Brigade

  The princess’s handmaiden sat nervously in a wooden stool, rocking back and forth. When the attack happened, the royal servants had retreated to the nearest common room and locked themselves in. There was nothing for them to do but wait. Wait and hope that the royal guard could successfully drive the invaders away.

  The king and his troops had journeyed to the southern coast of Vallenghard two weeks prior to the attack, where the city of Roquefort had been under threat by Aharian forces from overseas. Vallenghard prevailed and what little enemy forces had been left retreated and sailed back to their homeland. And as a show of gratitude for the king’s aid, Lord Augustus Clark of Roquefort had offered his only son’s hand in marriage to Princess Magdalena.

  Sir Darryk Clark was a known man in Roquefort, but not really anywhere else. Princess Magdalena had never met him, and had little interest in marrying him. And when the letter had arrived in Val Havyn, she had not taken it lightly. Her father, in a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom intact, had agreed to the proposal
without her consent. And he had sent word that Sir Darryk was to journey back to the royal city with him to start the arrangements for the grand ceremony.

  The circumstances, however, had changed. King Rowan had no idea that he would come home to a missing daughter. And Sir Darryk had no idea of the cruel trick that fate had played on his bride-to-be.

  The palace kitchens were cold that day, but that had very little to do with why the princess’s handmaiden was trembling. There were rumors circulating all around. The optimists swore that the royal guard had drawn the invaders out. The rest of them knew better, well aware that the palace was dangerously unguarded and the odds did not favor the small force the king had left behind.

  When Sir Jossiah Biggs barged into the kitchen to announce both the retreat of the invaders and the arrival of the king, there were sighs of relief all around. “You may return to your duties,” Jossiah said.

  The chattering began instantly. Smiles grew on the servants’ faces but Brie, the princess’s handmaiden, frowned still, examining the unusually stern expression on Sir Jossiah’s face. Though his presence had the tendency to make her feel uneasy, she grew just enough courage to speak to him.

  “Is the Princess back in her chambers?” she asked.

  His reaction was not a pleasant one. He simply glared at her, his eyes speaking more than his words ever could. You abandoned her, they said. And the handmaiden couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. She turned and headed for the door.

  Thump.

  She came to a halt. The kitchen was now empty, save for the knight and the handmaiden. And the sound was coming from a steel door on a far corner of the kitchen floor. The knight drew his sword and motioned Brie to follow him.

  Thump. Thump.

  “Where does that hatch lead?” Biggs asked softly.

  “The kitchen cellar, sir,” Brie replied.

  “And?”

  “The sewers…”

  She placed her petite hands on the handle and gripped it. She and the knight made eye contact, as if to confirm they were both ready. Biggs nodded, his sword at the ready, and then the handmaiden lifted the steel hatch.

  A pair of blue eyes was looking up at them.

  Though Jossiah Biggs had his sword high above his head, the young man did not wince, mostly due to his lack of energy. He was wounded and exhausted and could hardly stand straight.

  “Mister Huxley,” Sir Biggs said, uncertainty in his eyes. “Well I’ll be damned…”

  * * *

  Sir Darryk Clark waited patiently outside of the king’s assembly room.

  He was a decent man; a young handsome swordsman with brown skin and black curly hair. His armor was made of black steel, distinctive of Roquefort’s army’s uniform. And he looked confident in it, knowing very well that his skills were limited to being a knight, for he was a rubbish diplomat.

  He sat in that elegant palace corridor, shaken from the news of the princess’s capture and feeling more out of place by the minute. He could hear the rage in the king’s voice inside the assembly room, a muffled yet thundering voice that nearly shook the paintings along the walls.

  Suddenly a loud tapping approached from around the corner.

  A middle-aged woman in an elegant turquoise gown walked past the young knight. She wore silver jewelry in her fingers and wrists, and her thick black hair was brushed away from her face, tied with a silver pin at the back. Her skin was just as smooth and brown as Darryk’s, and her eyes were just as vibrant, only hers were as wide as an owl and horribly intimidating.

  Sir Darryk stood from his seat out of respect, and it was obvious that he was both flustered and pleased to be meeting her. “My Lady,” he said with a bow.

  The Lady looked at him as if she had only just noticed he was there, as if she was not used to knights reacting so affably towards her. And it wasn’t until she saw the crest of Roquefort in his chest that she realized who the young man was.

  “You’re Sir Darryk Clark,” she said, her austere voice just as intimidating as her glare. “The one who was promised to the princess… Are you not?”

  “Yes, my Lady,” he replied, attempting a friendly grin.

  Her name was Lady Brunylda Clark, the Treasurer of Val Havyn, and she was the only blood relative that the young man knew in the entire city.

  “What a pity,” she said, her face blank and her eyes firm. And then she turned and headed for the king’s assembly room. Sir Darryk, unsure of how to respond, simply sunk to his seat again.

  King Rowan’s temper had always been short, but the fury in his eyes on this day was strong and vivid. His royal advisors sat around the long rectangular table at the center. And when the door to the assembly room opened, every pair of eyes turned to gaze at Lady Brunylda.

  “Where is he?!” the king shouted.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you too, your majesty,” she replied fearlessly, bowing her head and walking towards her chair. “He should be here shortly…”

  The king slammed a heavy fist down into the table. “Where in all hells is Crowley?!”

  Three knight of the king’s court were sitting on one side of the table. Lady Brunylda sat across from them, next to the palace minister. The rest of the advisors consisted of nobles and township lords, most of whom had never held a sword in their lives and all of whose names the king would often interchange unintentionally.

  For this, along with the fact that most of the advisors were merely interested in gaining profits from neighboring cities rather than the safety of their own, the king valued highly the opinions of his knights over those of his court, including the Lady. But on this day, King Rowan could hardly stand to look at his knights. He’d shouted at them all for the better part of an hour, as he waited for the two knights that he had left in charge of guarding the palace.

  “How could you let this happen?! All of you?!” shouted the king, his voice resonating throughout the assembly room. He was a large man, on the heavier side, with a thick coat of brown hair that flowed neatly to his back and a rich beard that was fit for royalty. Traces of grey were beginning to show on his scalp, and his skin was rough and dry from days on the road.

  “It was an unexpected attack, your majesty,” Lady Brunylda replied. “I suggest we keep calm, an-”

  “Keep calm?!” the king stepped towards her, his voice rising. “Calm?!”

  “Fending off intruders is the duty of the royal guard and its knight commander,” the Lady argued, her voice rising along with the king’s. “If anyone is to be held accountable here, it’s Sir Viktor Crowley and certainly not your advisors.”

  “I believe we should wait to hear what Sir Viktor has to say before anyone holds anybody accountable,” said Sir Hugo Symmond, a tall thin knight with chestnut-colored hair and a remarkably impressive mustache.

  “So where is he, then?!” the king shouted, slamming his fist down again. “Where in all hells is Sir Viktor Crowley?!”

  Outside the assembly room, at the end of the corridor, a door swung open and in walked a knight of middle age and rough demeanor. Sir Darryk Clark rose to his feet again impulsively. The knight, who appeared to be heading towards the assembly room, came to a halt when he reached Darryk.

  “Who are you?” Jossiah Biggs asked abruptly.

  “Sir Darryk Clark of Roquefort, sir,” the young man answered in a nervous stammer.

  “The lad that was to marry the princess? My condolences,” Jossiah grunted. “Head to the servants’ quarters, lad. Ask for a young woman named Brie. She will show you to one of the guest chambers. We might be in for a long night.”

  “Yes… If it’s all the same to you, sir,” Darryk interrupted. “I would prefer to stay here in case his majesty requests my presence.”

  “His majesty is far too concerned with other matters, lad.”

  “Right… But if it’s all the same to you.”

  Biggs made a gesture that wasn’t of approval but not entirely of displeasure either. He examined the young man. Inexperienced, perh
aps, but he had a firm posture and eyes that conveyed determination, if not confidence. “Sir Darryk, you said your name was, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be careful where you place your loyalty, lad,” Jossiah said. “Your devotion’s admirable, but sometimes a man must make his own decis-”

  But Jossiah didn’t have the chance to finish his thought. The door at the end of the corridor swung open again, and in walked the majestic figure of the Golden Eagle of Vallenghard, Sir Viktor Crowley, only his stern demeanor had changed into a more brittle one. He looked less regal and more human than before. He breathed deeply and approached the assembly room door.

  “I expect he heard the news,” Viktor said, perturbed by the muffled screams just behind the door.

  “Good thing you kept your armor,” Jossiah muttered.

  “What a bloody disaster,” Viktor sighed, after which he glanced quickly at Darryk as if he hadn’t seen him when he entered the corridor. Sir Darryk had never met the renowned Viktor Crowley in person; now there he was, a mere three feet from the legend, and yet he might as well have been invisible.

  “Very well,” Viktor said, taking one last deep breath as he stepped towards the assembly room. “Into battle…”

  The two knights slipped into the assembly room, and instantly all eyes turned to them.

  King Rowan’s shouting ceased all of a sudden, and there was a silence in the room that nearly hurt to listen to.

  “Your majesty,” Sir Viktor Crowley took a bow, and soon his second-in-command Jossiah Biggs did the same. The king took slow, heavy steps towards the two knights. Sir Viktor stood at the front, while Jossiah stood behind him trying his best to look hardhearted while inside he had shriveled like a pup.

  Viktor straightened himself.

  “It is an honor to have you back in Val Havyn, your maj-”

  King Rowan landed a heavy blow to Viktor’s jaw.

  The golden knight felt his neck crack as his head was knocked to the side with the punch. The advisors in the room suddenly lowered their gazes with discomfort. The only eyes that couldn’t bear to look away were those of Lady Brunylda Clark and Sir Hugo Symmond.