Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  “And you haven’t set foot inside once?”

  “We tried, m’lady. But when we did, he’d shout and throw things.”

  “For gods’ sakes,” the Lady grunted. She placed a clammy hand on the golden handle, took a deep breath, and opened the door…

  The smell overwhelmed her almost instantly.

  It was a mixture of liquor, incense, and either excess of sweat or urine, or both.

  She held a handkerchief to her nose as she allowed herself inside.

  Carefully she walked, having to step around worn clothes, silver goblets, and puddles of what she hoped was white wine. Two silver trays were on the floor, one of them flipped upside down with the old roasted duck still lying underneath it, hardly even touched. A mixture of food and juices that the king had refused to eat were scattered all around the chamber, covered in flies, and near the king’s bed was a red puddle with chunks that reeked of both vomit and wine.

  “Unbelievable,” the Lady grunted under her breath, before turning towards Brie. “Gather the servants and have this place cleaned up immediately.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Brie closed the doors on her way out so as to keep the stench in.

  Lady Brunylda walked towards the bed, which had been neat once but was now untidy with foul-smelling sheets and the figure of a motionless man lying naked underneath. His arm hung over the edge of the bed, and there was an empty goblet in between his stiff fingers that was just seconds away from slipping.

  “Your majesty?” the Lady called, clearing her throat.

  There was no response from the pallid man, not even a snore.

  “Your majesty?” she called again, stepping closer towards him. She sat on the bed, slightly panicking. “Rowan?!” she shook him gently.

  The king groaned softly, though it wasn’t enough to calm Brunylda’s nerves.

  “Rowan, are you all right?!” she tried to lift him, but the man was twice her size.

  His eyes remained closed as she pulled him up to a sitting position. The king’s appearance was corpselike, his skin pale and his lips dry and purple. There was another groan, this one louder, and the Lady began to shake him and pat him in the back. “Rowan!” she called again, the concern in her voice growing.

  Then there was a splash. The king opened his mouth and leaned forward, throwing up yet another red puddle onto the floors. Brunylda felt sick and nearly gagged, using her handkerchief to protect her nose from the reeking fumes.

  But the king was alive, if only for the time being. He coughed and gasped for air for a few moments, before his bloodshot eyes looked up at his trusted treasurer sitting beside him. “Br… wha… Brunylda…?”

  “Good to see you still live, your majesty,” the Lady said, rising to her feet and taking a step back out of respect. The king kept panting and rubbed his eyes, his senses slowly coming back to him.

  “What the bloody hells are you doing in my chambers?” he asked, realizing he was entirely nude underneath his sheets in front of one of his loyal advisors.

  “Pardon the intrusion, sire,” she replied. “A raven arrived this morning from Roquefort.”

  The king noticed the opened parchment in the Lady’s hands, only he hadn’t the energy to be angry at her for it. Instead he grunted and sighed with displeasure. “I’ve no interest in hearing any more about the Aharian threat. The battle was won.”

  “It isn’t about the Aharian threat,” the Lady said. “An unknown troop made sail last night from Roquefort’s port. They bore no crest and held no banners. Yet they had enough to pay for a ship and the secrecy of the harbourmaster.”

  The king wasn’t entirely convinced, but he hesitated to shrug away the message.

  “And this, you think, is the same troop that invaded the palace?” he asked.

  “I don’t think. I know so.”

  “I thought we had no leads…”

  “We do now,” she said, and then handed the parchment to the king. “The gold and the jewels they used for payment were the very same that were stolen from your palace, along with your daughter.”

  King Rowan’s eyes widened. The parchment nearly slipped from his anxious fingers as he looked up the Lady Clark. “Are you certain?!” he asked.

  “As the Treasurer of Val Havyn, when have I ever been wrong on any matters regarding finances?” she replied with a question of her own.

  The king felt the life returning to his chest. The hunger he had lost returned suddenly to his belly with a vengeance and his throat was instantly dry and thirsty for water. He even felt something like slight hope crawling into his consciousness, and with it a pounding headache that made him regret every goblet of wine he had consumed in the last three days.

  He gave the Lady a nod.

  “Gather any advisors we have left. Have them meet in the assembly room in an hour.”

  “Right away, your majesty,” she replied and headed for the doors.

  “Brunylda…?” he called out.

  Her hand was already on the golden handle when she stopped and turned around. The king’s eyes were glistening, though she wasn’t sure if it was due to the wine or the aching in his gut. He said nothing at first, only took deep breaths and allowed for the news to sink in. He gave her one last head nod, along with a look of admiration and gratefulness.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No need to thank me for doing my duty,” she remarked, before she left the room and headed to her chambers for a celebratory drink.

  * * *

  John Huxley woke up to a splash of cold water on his face.

  He felt a rush of shivers, an overwhelming fatigue, the sun’s aggressive light piercing his eyes…

  A dark figure in a hat was squatting nearby in front of the river, ridding his hands of the dirt and muck. “Thirsty, farmer?”

  John grunted and managed to raise himself up to a sitting position. His throat felt like sandpaper and with every breath he took he felt a deep painful pressure in his chest. “What happened?” he asked weakly, crawling towards the river and dipping his hands and face in.

  “You fainted,” Syrena said, sitting next to the thief with one leg over the other, pulling ripe black grapes out of a vine.

  “Your timing was awful, might I add,” Hudson said mockingly.

  Syrena handed Hudson half the grapes, to which he replied with a grateful smile; if one could somehow kiss another with their eyes, this was the way. He poured the grapes into his coat pocket.

  “You almost impressed me back there, mate,” he said to John. “Should’ve known it wouldn’t last. Who even faints over a few dozen tree nymphs? Tsk tsk.”

  John ignored him, instead examining their surroundings. They appeared to be alone, nothing but the sounds of the river’s current and birds chirping nearby. He wondered how long he’d been unconscious. The last time he was awake, it was disquietingly dark.

  With this much light, the Woodlands seemed… peaceful. Beautiful, even.

  He tried to stand but the ground around him was still spinning, and so he took his time.

  “W-We’ve got to go back,” he said faintly. “We should find the others…”

  Hudson scoffed. “We, eh?” he mumbled as he splashed a handful of water on his face.

  John rubbed the sides of his head with his fingertips, as if trying to force himself to regain full awareness. “They can’t have gone too far… There may still be a chance, if we jus-”

  “Stop with this we, mate. There’s no we,” Hudson said, wiping his dripping face with his coat and rising to his feet. For a moment, he shrugged away the jousting tone he often carried and looked sternly down at John. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways, farmer…”

  John frowned all of a sudden, looking about as vulnerable as a lost pup.

  “But you gave your word,” he said.

  “I’ve given many things to many people, mate. What have I ever gotten in return?”

  “Y-You swore in the name of your king!”

  “You’re right
, mate, I did,” Hudson said with a tone that could’ve been friendlier. “I swore that I would guide Sir Viktor Crowley and his company to the abandoned city of Drahkmere and help him sneak into its dungeons… But, tell me, where is Sir Viktor now? Dead in a ditch somewhere, I presume… Quite sorry, mate, but I never signed up to be the man’s nursemaid either.”

  The thief shook the dirt from his coat and threw it back on.

  Syrena was rather quiet. Her eyes appeared distracted by the silver blade near John’s legs, a weapon far too sophisticated for a farmer. Something in John reminded her of Viktor Crowley, except she didn’t feel that hostility that she’d felt towards the knight. She felt a shred of warmth, even, for the young farmer, and his devotion for the mission. And she even appreciated the way he would talk to her and Hudson, cautious yet civil, not like the rest of the men in Viktor’s company. And being cautious was certainly no crime, particularly when you’re unaware of a person’s intentions.

  “Not sure about you, love, but I’m famished,” Hudson said to her, holding his hand out. “What d’you say to a warm meal and then off to Yulxester? I’ve been in cities with recently lost lords, it’ll be chaotic. We’ll be the least of their concerns.”

  Syrena placed a hesitant hand on Hudson’s and rose slowly to her feet.

  “You’re just going to leave him here?” she whispered, but John was well within earshot.

  “You say that like he’s a child, darling… I know he acts like one, but he’s a grown man. He’ll be just fine.”

  She wasn’t entirely convinced… It had been the plan all along to sneak away from the company when the opportune moment came. They had gotten lucky, however, and managed to separate without having to sneak. And yet the guilt overwhelmed her when she saw the look on John’s face, a look of desperation and uncertainty. A look that was all too familiar to her. And ignoring it was near impossible.

  “Hudson,” John called, yielding to his helplessness, pleading to the thief with his eyes. “They were going to hang you… They promised you a pardon. They trusted you… I trusted you.”

  The thief was never one to feel much guilt. Something, however, was making him hesitate.

  Perhaps it was the mutual muddle of dislike and respect that he felt towards John.

  Perhaps it was his subtle empathy towards his inexperience and naivety.

  Perhaps, however, it was the look that Syrena was giving him, the bright autumn color in her eyes somehow fading to a dimmer brown. For a moment he thought the witch might have been casting some form of spell on him, preventing him from walking away. Truthfully, he preferred that to the idea that he could possibly give in to the guilt.

  He sighed, the frustration subtle yet still there.

  And he took slow steps towards John with that typical sway in his walk.

  “Listen, mate,” he said. “You’ve got guts, I’ll grant you that. Too much for your own good. Hell, I might even dare say I admire it. But you have one major flaw… D’you know what that is?”

  John said nothing, only held his stare.

  “Your honesty,” said the thief. “You do see that, right? Or are you just too bloody naïve? You’re alone in this world, mate, wake up! If you haven’t figured it out on your own, it’s about bloody time someone told you. Everyone’s looking after only one skin and that’s their own. They’d sell you to slavery for ten coppers and an old mule and still sleep soundly at night, d’you understand that…? You won’t gain a single thing in this life by being honest, mate. Not anymore, anyhow.”

  John took a moment to take it all in. The austere expression on the thief’s face was one of brute sincerity with perhaps a hint of pleasure at knowing he was right.

  Now, the farmer may have been a naïve young man, but he was also an optimistic one… And while he was aware that the world was imperfect, he held out the hope that perhaps it could be better than it was. “I’m sorry that we disagree,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Hudson said with a shrug.

  Syrena’s silence spoke louder than words. Everything she longed to say was piling up inside. Her whole life she hated humans for the horrors they were capable of. She had seen men hang witches and slay elves and orcs for the mere fact that they could… But John Huxley seemed incapable of such horrors. And part of her was urging her to take a risk…

  “You did your best, farmer,” Hudson added. “And I mean that. You fought like hells, mate. But there’s not much point in fighting anymore. It’s a lost cause.”

  “So what do you suggest, then?” John asked, trying his best to maintain his stance. “Because the world is deceitful, I should be more like you? A lying, murderous thief?!”

  “Murderous?!” Hudson said with a burst of laughter. “So your reluctance towards me is due to the fact that I’ve killed, eh? Then answer me this, mate... This man, Sir Viktor Crowley, the noble and courageous, the Golden Eagle of Vallenghard, your hero… Have you any idea how many men he’s killed?”

  John’s brows lowered suddenly, his eyes drifting into space, his throat aching with a heavy knot…

  “The world is full of killers, mate,” said the thief. “Your only choice is whether to be the man who kills to survive or the man who kills because he’s told to.”

  There was a silence… The kind of silence that made a person think…

  And then the thief chuckled, nodded his head, and began walking away again.

  “Come along, darling,” he said to the witch. “You’re going to love Yulxester.”

  At that moment, John felt a burning impulse that he couldn’t resist… He picked up his silver sword from the dirt, unsheathed it, and aimed it up at Hudson… And the hissing sound, like a deadly challenge, made the thief stop in his tracks. And John swore he could hear the bones in Hudson’s neck cracking as he looked back.

  “Put that sword away, mate.”

  But John simply couldn’t allow it.

  He thought of Viktor Crowley, of his loyalty towards him.

  And it helped him keep his glare firm and his weapon straight.

  “If you’re not with us, then you’re a fugitive once more,” he said, swallowing back the hesitation. “Which means I can’t let you go…”

  Hudson rolled his eyes and sighed, the frustration more vivid this time.

  “Put the damn sword away…”

  “Why?” John asked, unwilling to yield. “What does it matter? You said you’d kill me one day, did you not?”

  “Aye. And I meant it,” Hudson replied. “Just… not today. The time’s not right.”

  John stepped forward, bold and determined.

  And for a moment, Hudson swore he was looking into the eyes of Viktor Crowley.

  “Do as you must,” John said. “But as long as I’m here, I can’t let you leave…”

  Hudson rolled his eyes again. And he turned to the witch with a grin.

  “My apologies, darling,” he said. “We should’ve let the fucking nymphs have ‘im…”

  With a ferocious speed, Hudson drew his sword and clashed it against John’s.

  They fought… But only for a split second, before the witch’s fire startled them.

  “Stop!” she shouted, her hands aflame.

  The two men paused where they stood, their swords still crossed, scraping against one another.

  Syrena took a long look at the thief, at his eyebrow raised in curiosity, at his fickle and unpredictable eyes. They had not left each other’s sides since they met blindly in Val Havyn’s dungeons, and yet when the moment came, the witch could not quite figure out whether or not she could genuinely trust the man. Then again, she hardly ever trusted anyone. It was her way of life, to live in isolation.

  But she simply couldn’t deny that feeling in her gut… That feeling of guilt, urging her to finish what had been started, for both John’s sake and her own, if only to gain some form of respect, if only to force the world to let her be and accept her for who she was…

  And rescuing the daughter of a king w
ould surely accomplish that…

  But the thought of doing it without Hudson at her side made her feel troubled, perturbed, and horribly uncertain…

  He had freed her from the chains. Twice.

  And she, in return, saved his life. Twice.

  There was no debt to be paid and yet there was a certain loyalty there that she couldn’t overlook. She had heard many things about the famous Hudson Blackwood, but when she looked at him in that moment she found herself staring into the eyes of a simple man… A man who, much like her, was shunned by the rest of the world… And being away from that familiarity worried her, and she was willing to do anything to keep the thief nearby for as long as she could.

  “Sapphires,” she said suddenly, her voice warmer but firm all the same.

  John began to lower his blade, yet his eyes watched the thief with caution.

  Hudson, on the other hand, appeared distracted and, as always, intrigued by the witch.

  “Sapphires…?” he asked.

  Syrena’s hands swallowed back the flames, and her skin was left red and smoky, and she looked at Hudson with both grit and affection, hoping it would somehow convince him to stay.

  “I knew a witch once,” she said. “A mind-reader who was held captive in the city of Drahkmere many years ago, when the ruins were taken over by Aharian pirates… She escaped, hardly alive. But she lived to tell the story…”

  She stepped closer to Hudson, locking eyes with him, refusing to let go.

  “She spoke of a secret chamber, deep in the dungeons of the castle’s ruins,” she said, her words charming him. “A chamber full of sapphires…”

  Hudson raised a brow, looking into those dazzling eyes of hers.

  The orange hue had returned… And it both startled and mesmerized him…

  His knowledge of witches was limited. He had only met two of them in the flesh before Syrena, and both times they were killed before he could really get a sense of their true persona. He knew only what he’d heard from other mouths, the evils that witches were capable of, the death they would bring, the wretchedness of their hearts.

  But Hudson was never the type of man to succumb to others’ opinions on any matter; in fact he often opposed them for the mere sake of an argument. But as he looked into the eyes of the woman that stood in front of him, he saw perhaps only a dash of wickedness, the kind that was there out of habit rather than will. But he did not see evil… and the thief had a fair idea what evil looked like, he’d seen it all his life.