Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  The dim atmosphere allowed for the concerned expression on Sir Hugo Symmond’s face to appear less drastic than it actually was. Furthermore, the few drops of sweat on the knight’s face were hardly noticeable compared to the drenched face of one of the guards.

  “Anything to report?” Sir Hugo asked out of habit.

  “Just the usual, sir,” said the husky guard with the bad breath. “Beggars and others of the sort asking for an audience with his majesty.”

  “Well,” said the sweatier guard. “There was the woman…”

  The husky guard shot his companion a glare, as if urging him to keep his mouth shut.

  “What woman?” asked Sir Hugo.

  “Well, you’re looking at her, sir,” said the sweaty guard.

  At the center of Merchants’ Square there was a tall elegant fountain made of ivory, and it was surrounded by wooden benches. There was the usual beggar woman feeding pigeons on one of the benches and another two women took the bench facing the palace. The younger red-haired woman was comforting the older woman, who was dressed in farmer’s clothes and a wool coat the color of the sea.

  “She was looking for her son, Sir… Said he was inside the palace. I figured she was bluffing, but then she refused to leave. She’s just been sitting there since his majesty arrived.”

  Sir Hugo gave them a head nod and a sigh, before he cleared his throat hesitantly. “Gentlemen, I’ve a special task for you both. Head to guard barracks and gather weapons and supplies, enough for a dozen men. Have them ready within the hour.”

  “Yes, sir!” the foul-mouthed guard said.

  “Has a scouting party been arranged?” the sweaty guard asked.

  “That is none of your concern,” Sir Hugo replied. “Now go. I’ll stand watch in the meantime.” The two guards scurried away, both of them perplexed at the idea of a knight taking over gate duty. Neither of them had the authority nor the nerve to question it, however, unwilling to risk being released from their duty permanently.

  Sir Hugo glanced around cautiously, before approaching the center of the Square. Before he could even greet the two women, they were both on their feet and had already given him a bow.

  “Greetings. May I be of some assistance?” asked Sir Hugo, his conduct as gallant and kind as it always was.

  “I’m looking for my son,” the older woman said. “Please, I haven’t heard word of him since the attack.”

  Sir Hugo paused, skeptical about the situation. What he heard in the assembly room, he could not reveal to any peasant. And he didn’t even want to think about what he heard in the servants’ quarters. Yet leaving the woman in the dark about her own son was something he found he was incapable of doing.

  “What is your son’s name?” he decided to ask.

  “John,” Adelina said. “John Huxley of Elbon.”

  Sir Hugo turned from one woman to the other, each of them with desperation in their eyes and an apparent vivid love for the young man.

  “He’s alive and well,” he said, carefully choosing his words, and immediately both women smiled and sighed with relief. Adelina couldn’t help but weep as Evellyn embraced her once again, allowing the woman to lean against her shoulder. “He’s being tended to at the moment,” Sir Hugo went on. “I suggest you go home and rest, now. Your son could not be safer, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you,” Adelina suddenly threw her arms around Sir Hugo, who did not protest to it despite a moment of hesitation. He patted the woman’s back and smiled at her.

  “Come Missus Huxley,” Evellyn said, smiling through her tears. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Sir Hugo Symmond felt a rush of comfort, knowing perfectly what it felt like to lose a loved one. And knowing that he had given her that feeling of relief was comforting enough for him. Before returning to the palace gates, he turned back one last time.

  “Ma’am?”

  Adelina shifted her now joyous gaze back towards him.

  “Your son is a very brave man,” he said.

  And all she could do was smile.

  * * *

  “Cover your ears, darling,” the thief said.

  “And just how do you expect me to do that?” asked the witch, rattling the chains on her wrists.

  “Oh… Right. I forgot.”

  Hudson took a good strong sniff and with an almost painful force he spewed out a slimy bundle of snot into the wooden bowl, which was now overflowing with his own slobber and mucus. Syrena groaned in disgust and she swore she could smell the bowl even through the brick wall.

  “Listen now. I’ll be needing your help, if you don’t mind,” the thief said. “I need you to moan. Loudly.”

  “You need me to do what?”

  “Moan and cry as if you were in pain, darling. I’ll do the rest.”

  “Moan?” she mocked him. “This is your brilliant plan?”

  “Do you wish to get out of here or not?”

  “Fine,” the witch sighed.

  She positioned herself sideways on the cold floor and began to wail gently, unsure of what exactly the thief was expecting to hear.

  “Put some lung into it, come on!” Hudson whispered through the crack.

  Syrena scoffed at first, and then she moaned louder and much more convincingly. Through the dungeon doors, the snoring guard was suddenly scared awake, so abruptly that he barked with surprise and had a fist up, ready to strike.

  “Hey! Something’s wrong with the witch, mate!” Hudson shouted, after which he pressed his face as far through the bars as he could and whispered to himself, “Come on, big mate… That’s it…”

  He heard grunting, and some moments later the steel bars on the other side of the door were removed and the door swung open. The mute guard looked tired and hazy, the thin brown hairs on his head untidy as if he’d been resting against a flat surface. He walked towards the witch’s cell, keys in hand.

  “Good grief, mate, do they ever let you take a piss break?” Hudson asked.

  The guard was wearing leather trousers and a studded vest over his bare chest. He had no need for armor; his arms and neck were exposed, as was his unfortunately unpleasant face.

  “Or do you simply pick a corner?” Hudson grinned. “It would explain the smell.”

  Furiously, the guard placed both of his thick meaty hands on the thief’s cell and roared at him, long enough for Hudson to notice the guard’s tongue had been severed, thus accounting for his muteness.

  “Relax, mate. Just making small talk. Something’s wrong with the witch there,” he aimed two fingers at the brick wall. “Might’ve been that lovely stew of yours,” he added.

  The guard looked at the witch curled up in a fetal position with her back to the bars. He grunted a few times and tapped the bars with the tip of his boot. Syrena was shaking; she had her hands pressed against her chest and had shriveled into a corner, whimpering softly. When she didn’t respond to his grunts, the guard began fumbling with the keys. And he was so distracted that he failed to notice the hand extending out of the bars of the next cell over, right next to his feet.

  Carefully, Hudson emptied the bowl of slime on the brickstone floor…

  A strong swift pull was all it took, and the thief had his arm through the bars, wrapped tightly around the guard’s neck. The guard tried to stand up straight, but his boots slipped against the puddle of slime and he sunk right back into the thief’s clutch.

  Syrena leapt to her feet instantly and tried to squeeze her head through the bars as far as she could. She could see the guard struggling and she could see Hudson’s arm shaking and tightening around the guard’s neck.

  “Bloody hells, you’re a stubborn one,” Hudson grunted through his gritted teeth. The guard dug his sharp nails into Hudson’s arm, but the black coat eased the pain enough for the thief to hold his grip.

  The witch couldn’t help but grin at the cleverness of the thief’s plan. An average crook would have given up after not finding a way to pick the lock on his cell. Never in
her life did she imagine she would meet a man who could escape a cell merely by salivating.

  That, she admitted to herself, was talent.

  After about a minute of struggle, the guard gave in. His boots slipped against the slimy brick one final time and Hudson lowered the unconscious man to a sitting position. The keys had slipped from the man’s fingers, fortunately within the thief’s reach. The clinking sound they made as he searched for the right key caused Syrena’s heart to skip a beat. The snapping sound of the lock and the screech of the cell door as it opened was music to both their ears. And as the unconscious mute slouched against the bars, the thief stepped out into the dungeon corridor.

  Hudson Blackwood was free.

  “Thanks mate,” he said, tapping the guard’s thigh with his boot and walking over to the next cell. “Now… let’s get those chains off y-”

  The thief froze, gazing for the first time into the young witch’s stunning eyes, the color of a warm autumn sunset. Her thick, greasy, raven-colored hair flowed down to her shoulders in knots, yet it gave her a strikingly appealing quality. Her lips were bright red and nearly gleamed in contrast to her milky white skin, and she couldn’t have been older than thirty.

  “Whoa,” Hudson accidentally said out loud. The witch wanted very much to smile, but the thief’s reaction had worried her, seeing as he was in a position of power that she didn’t have.

  “What?” she asked nervously.

  “Nothing. It’s just… You hear ‘witch’ and you paint a certain picture in your mind. Never would have guessed you’d look so…”

  The pause lingered on and Syrena felt compelled to finish his sentence, “Ordinary?”

  “I was going to say human, but… same difference, right?”

  He smiled and gave her a wink, which she found mildly amusing. He unlocked the steel door to her cell and she stepped out, feeling a rush of relief upon regaining her freedom. Had her wrists not been cuffed together, she might have hugged the thief. He proceeded to try every key, but none seemed to work on the cuffs on her wrists.

  “Not a problem, darling. Come with me.”

  He pulled her by the arm towards the door from which the mute guard had entered. It led to a small chamber, with an assortment of used clothes and weapons hanging along the walls. And at the end of the corridor there were stairs that appeared to lead them to the outside. Syrena hadn’t been in nearly as many dungeons as the thief presumably had and so she allowed him to take the lead. She looked at him with mild astonishment as he sifted through the weaponry until he found the stolen rapier from the saloon and his collection of knives.

  He looked rather exultant, his eyes already anticipating his next move.

  But after strapping his weapons to himself, his eyes broadened like an owl. He mumbled something under his breath and began sifting through the hooks again.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Hang on,” he said, shoving old clothes aside and causing a mess.

  Then his eyes came to a halt.

  There, hanging on a high hook along the brick wall, was his beloved black hat.

  “There you are, you beautiful bastard,” he said, kissing it and placing it on his head.

  This was the image Syrena had seen in nearly every corner of Val Havyn. The image of a longhaired man with a stubbly face, wearing a hat with a rim that nearly covered his misunderstood eyes.

  “All right,” he said, stepping in front of the witch with his trusty petite knife at hand.

  Suddenly, the wooden door opened at the top of the stairs and two members of the royal guard looked down at them. One of them drew his sword and the other ran back out, shouting for backup.

  “Oh shit,” Hudson said, rushing to pick at the lock on the witch’s wrists.

  They heard grunts coming from the opposite side of the room and saw that the mute guard was waking up, rubbing his neck and jaw as he stumbled to his feet.

  “Get on with it!” Syrena urged him.

  “Give me a moment, love!”

  The guards approached, weapons drawn and fury in their eyes.

  “Hurry! They’r-”

  Then there was a clink…

  A loud, crisp, beautiful clink and Syrena’s cuffs snapped open…

  The cuffs fell on the brick floor and the decaying ogreskin with it. The witch’s pale hands felt the cold breeze for the first time in days. She felt strong and liberated, like a lioness being released from her cage. She paused for a brief moment and locked eyes with the thief.

  She could have kissed him.

  He would have let her.

  At that moment, three more guards approached them from the stairs and the mute guard had entered the room from the other side. And she looked down at her sweating palms, soft and free. They were surrounded, but there wasn’t a hint of concern in the witch’s eyes, only a grin.

  She extended her arms out in both directions, her hands in a fist.

  “Get behind me,” she said, and the thief obeyed.

  And then she opened her palms and, like a gush of wind, a roar of flames shot outward. The guards shrieked with fear and surprise, and shriveled into a corner. The room was scorching hot within seconds, as the flames soared in both directions. One of the guards by the stairs caught fire, and the other three tended to him, rubbing their gauntlets against the flames until they died.

  “Stay back,” Syrena warned them, her brows lowered as she beckoned the flames back to her palms.

  Hudson Blackwood stared in astonishment. He placed his hands gently on Syrena’s shoulders, as if using her as a shield. And the witch did not seem to mind it. The thief had gotten her out of the cells and, in return, she was to get him out of the dungeons.

  “The keys,” Hudson ordered them with a snap of his fingers. “Quick, now.”

  And one of the shivering guards tossed the keys his way.

  They moved slowly towards the stairs together, and the guards moved out of their way, their swords still drawn. Syrena released a small wave of fire in warning, which made them all cringe in fear. Her hands were smooth and undamaged within the coat of fire, and her power over it was astonishing to see.

  “What did you say your name was, darling?” Hudson spoke softly into her ear.

  “Syrena,” she said to him, and it was the last time she ever had to remind him.

  Hudson’s gaze shifted back and forth from the witch’s strikingly orange eyes to the flames above her fingers. “Syrena,” he whispered passionately, as if admiring her name. “Remind me never to leave your side…”

  The witch grinned and shot him a wink, just as he had done moments prior.

  And they fled the dungeons together, locking the doors behind them and trapping the guards inside.

  * * *

  The stars began to fade and the black sky dissolved into a calming shade of blue, announcing the approaching sunrise. Another day of hard labor awaited the farming villagers of Elbon, as if the disastrous events of the previous day had never taken place.

  A pot of fresh water was boiling over the fire. A middle-aged woman with somnolent eyes scooped a mugfull and stirred in some tea leaves, as was her morning routine. She looked serene and at peace, despite the few hours of sleep that she had.

  There was a familiar sound outside, the mild grunts of a young woman and the swift sound of an arrow being released into the air. The woman walked to the window, her tea at hand, only to see her daughter holding her bow firmly in hand, aiming another arrow at a chipped and splintery wooden board.

  Adelina smiled.

  Robyn Huxley hadn’t slept at all. All night she’d spent either practicing or carving more arrows to add to her quiver, but she refused to go to bed until her brother returned home. She looked exhausted; her big round eyes were struggling to stay open. And the wet breeze in the air was making a mess of her hair. Robyn had thick black curls that reached her shoulders. She would often cut it herself so that it wouldn’t get in the way of her training, but it would grow back so fast and
she swore that the curls would return with a vengeance.

  Unruly, her sister Margot would call it, and she wasn’t entirely wrong; Robyn could not run her fingers through her own hair without finding a knot. All of the Huxleys, aside from John, had inherited Adelina’s black hair. Robyn, however, was the only one to inherit her father’s curls, and she both loved it and cursed it regularly.

  The girl didn’t notice she was being watched. Instead, she loosened the grip on her bow and dropped the arrow where she stood, gazing into the dirt road in the distance. She saw an old mule, dragging along a wooden cart. And its rider was a young man with short wheat-colored hair. The cart approached slowly, the rider’s arms could only move so much. And before Adelina could set down her tea, Robyn had already thrown her bow on the grass and was running to meet her brother.

  John had just managed to hop down from the cart when Robyn threw her arms around him. She was at an unfortunate age, truly. Her mother still saw her as a child, and she was often belittled because of it. And she would often withhold herself from embracing her siblings in front of anyone, out of fear of being seen as infantile. In that moment, however, she found that she cared very little.

  John welcomed the embrace and tightened his arms around his sister.

  “John,” she wept into his vest. “I-I’m… I’m so happy you’re back…”

  Hearing about the attack on the king’s palace while her brother was within its grounds had frightened her to an extent she didn’t think possible. When she was reassured of his safety, the relief was indescribable; and even then she could not sleep, longing for her brother’s safe return home.

  John closed his eyes and sighed, resting his chin on the girl’s black locks. Adelina Huxley, tears streaming down her face, ran and threw her arms around both her children. There were no words to be said; the peaceful silence of dawn surrounded them, shielded them within the comfort of the farm.

  “Are you all right?” Adelina asked as she carefully lifted her son’s sleeves and examined his wounds, stitched carefully and with precision.