Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  She wanted to speak out. She needed to.

  But treason is treason. And she had loaned the king’s silver to a man the king himself had disbarred from his court… Men were known to be hanged for much less…

  “Once we get to the Isles, we will devise a plan of att-”

  “Drahkmere…” the Lady blurted out loud.

  Every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. She was the only woman present and though she was accustomed to it, she felt as if it was the first day all over again.

  There was something burning in her chest. Something like panic.

  It was foreign to her. Bitter. She loathed it.

  Not only would she have to lie to the king, but she would have to make it sound convincing to a hoard of men… And she knew how challenging that could be. She had to fight back the disgust in her expression.

  “What was that?” King Rowan asked.

  “They are making sail for Drahkmere,” she corrected him.

  The king glanced briefly at the letter in his hands.

  “This message from Roquefort’s harbourmaster says the Noorgard Islands…”

  “I know what it says,” she replied. “But I’m telling you it’s a diversion… The enemy sails for Drahkmere as we speak.”

  There were doubtful murmurs in the room…

  Then again, there almost always was whenever the Lady spoke.

  “Where did you come up with a thing like that?” the king asked.

  She fought back the knot in her throat.

  Not now, she told herself. Don’t you dare shrivel now.

  She cleared her throat. “John Huxley… The farmer that captured Hudson Blackwood… He was in the palace grounds when the attack took place. He heard them say they were taking the princess to Drahkmere…”

  The king walked towards her, his steps heavy and stern and slightly menacing.

  “You withheld information from me…?”

  The knot in her throat returned. She was done for, and she knew it.

  But she breathed, tried her best to appear relaxed…

  She would be damned if she allowed herself to be seen as the villain.

  She had allowed it too many times before…

  “With respect, your grace… your condition over the last few days did not suggest you would be willing to hear anything a farmer had to say…”

  “You couldn’t possibly know this for a fact,” the council member of the Merchants’ Guild accused her, just as he almost always did in the king’s presence.

  “I know this from experience,” she corrected him, and then turned back towards the king. “Had I gone to you days ago and told you a farmer overheard something, you wouldn’t have given him the time of day and you know it, your majesty… So I took matters into my own hands and hired a scouting party to seek these men out and find some form of proof, in case the farmer was telling the truth. Now we have proof. What else is there to argue about?”

  “Who…?” the king asked suddenly.

  “Pardon me, your majesty?”

  “These scouts that you hired. Who were they?”

  She hesitated. The king’s stare was nearly frightening.

  Her lips opened, ready to say the first thing that crawled into her mind.

  “Common mercenaries, your majesty,” an unexpected voice interrupted. Sir Darryk Clark rose suddenly to his feet. “If there’s anything we’ve learned in Roquefort, it’s that often the best way to face an enemy is by consulting with their enemy. And the Rogue Brotherhood has plenty of them.”

  The king stood in silence, his glare firm but slightly less angry.

  “Have you heard back from these scouts?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” the Lady said. “But they are traveling to Drahkmere as we speak…”

  “Oh please,” one of the noble advisors scoffed, trying desperately to undermine the Lady. “Drahkmere has been abandoned for decades. You can’t possib-”

  “Which makes it the perfect place for a foreign threat to make a lair of, does it not?” the Lady interrupted, fighting to keep her stance on the matter.

  The king gave a subtle nod, slowly falling for her words.

  “You expect us to believe these scouts were willing to risk their lives for this?” the Merchants’ representative asked. “Drahkmere may be abandoned but it is Qamrothian territory. Our people aren’t welcome there, everyone knows that.”

  The Lady glanced at nearly every pair of eyes in the room…

  So clever, you all think you are… But you’re sheep. All of you.

  “Let’s just say they had a conflict of interest in this matter,” she said.

  There were a few murmurs, but much quieter this time. The king himself even appeared convinced. And that was all she needed. “Where is this farmer?” his majesty asked.

  The Lady lowered her head. After many decades of being a diplomat, she was an expert in deceit. Never did she dream, however, that she would be using those skills against her own king. And at this point, it was useless not to continue.

  “He died of his wounds days ago,” she said.

  The king nodded. One simple nod, and then turned and headed for his chair again.

  “Very well,” he said. “We will make sail for Drahkmere.”

  The chattering continued. Lady Brunylda Clark felt the tension leave her shoulders instantly. She felt lighter than air. She glanced at Sir Darryk briefly, gave him a much friendlier nod this time, before they both took their seats together.

  Maybe he’s not entirely useless after all, she pondered.

  “Your majesty, with respect, how can we be sure this scouting party can be trus-”

  “Gentlemen, if any one of you interrupts me again, I’ll have you removed from my council. Is that clear?”

  The silence returned. This time, it stayed for a while as the king spoke.

  “Now… I will be appointing a Lord Regent while I’m gone. Someone to speak in my name while I’m away and look after our city.”

  Lady Brunylda Clark felt her heart begin to race…

  While the king was away before, princess Magdalena had been left in charge…

  In the Lady’s opinion, the princess had behaved more like a child than a true ruler. With the princess gone, the list of people that could possibly rule in the king’s name was rather extensive. The Lady was confident, however, that she was somewhere near the top of it…

  “The Clarks have served me for many decades,” the king said. “And they have proven their loyalty to the crown time and time again.”

  Her brow grew sweaty… This was it, she realized…

  She heard her family name come out of the king’s mouth…

  All there was left to do was sign the contract…

  “Therefore,” the king went on. “After careful consideration, I’ve decided to appoint the title of Lord Regent… to none other than Sir Darryk Clark of Roquefort, himself.”

  The silence was far greater this time.

  The Lady felt her heart slow and sink deeply.

  Him?! You would trust this bloody child over me?!

  Sir Hugo Symmond unrolled the parchment over the table. It was signed by the king himself, and a drop of fresh blood bore his crest at the bottom of the page.

  “Let’s cut formalities for a moment, Darryk,” King Rowan spoke across the table. “Your father has always been a trusted friend of mine… He has proven himself to be a faithful and reliable ally, and has held his title of Lord of Roquefort for over 30 years, ruling the city in my name.”

  Sir Darryk struggled to keep his attention on the king’s words as he realized every pair of eyes in the room had turned to him all at once.

  “The question here, young sir, is do you take after your father?” the king made a pause before going on, trying hard to figure the young knight out. “I can’t leave just anyone to rule the city during my absence. It has to be someone worthy of my trust.”

  The feeling in Lady Brunylda’s chest grew from sorrow to rage in a matte
r of seconds.

  “I trust your father,” the king continued. “And the man may be rubbish at holding his drink but his judge of character, I trust completely… And may I say, he sure happens to think the sun shines out of your arse, lad.”

  There were chuckles among the nobles. And it only made Sir Darryk more anxious.

  “I’d say it’s about time to put it all to the test, don’t you? Sir Darryk Clark of Roquefort… can I rely on you to rule Val Havyn in my absence?”

  Lady Brunylda could no longer resist. She had to speak out.

  “Pardon me, your majesty,” she cleared her throat. “With respect, surely you must consider that a city like Val Havyn requires someone with a bit more… experience governing it?”

  “Nonsense,” the king scoffed. “I can’t think of anyone more experienced than Sir Darryk.”

  The words stung her… Broke her, even…

  She felt like an unwanted rusty blade in a well-stocked armory…

  Decades of loyal service, she pondered. And for what…? For shit, that’s what.

  Suddenly, she felt a strong crave for a fresh bottle of Roquefort liqueur.

  “What say you, Sir Darryk?” the king asked.

  The sensation in the young knight’s chest was a mixture of honor and fear.

  As the son of Lord Augustus Clark of Roquefort, he had known nobility and power all his life, but never the chance to practice it solely. He knew very little about the city of Val Havyn and even less of his own king. The one and only familiar face in the king’s council of advisors was Lady Brunylda Clark’s. And one familiar face among a city of strangers was not enough to give him the necessary self-assurance.

  But the privilege of it all overcame the fear. He refused to allow for the dishonor of his family name. And knowing very little of what it meant to rule a royal city, he took a bow before his king.

  “I am your majesty’s humble servant,” he said. “I will serve you to the best of my ability and will see to the protection of Val Havyn until your safe return.”

  King Rowan nodded and smirked at the fortitude of his future son-in-law.

  “Good, lad,” he said. “Your kingdom depends on it…”

  IX

  Soldiers & Recruits

  It was two hours past midday, and the forest air was growing warmer. The chirping of the birds was more melodic than John Huxley was accustomed to, as if they were harmonizing with each other from across the river, and every now and then a wild animal, often a fox or a hare, could be spotted among the shrubs. Even in the daylight, the greenery in the Woodlands was so vast and overgrown that it gave one the feeling of being inside of something, a mystic realm of some sort, rather than outdoors. Had John not been aware that he was surrounded by death, he would have considered slowing his pace to enjoy the scenery.

  Hudson Blackwood was as stubborn as an old mule. He walked a few paces ahead, pretending to be more upset than he was, unwilling to pay John any more mind than was necessary. But John did not mind, he would take anything he could get. At least the thief had agreed to follow through with the voyage; that possibility had seemed a shot in the dark at first. In fact, it would have been had it not been for Syrena of Morganna.

  She walked next to the farmer, unbound and free, and she could see him sweating through the corner of her eye. She also noticed how he would wince nearly every time she lifted her hand to remove her greasy hair from her face. But rather than be offended, she found it somewhat amusing; she felt intimidating, which was slightly better than feeling shunned.

  As they walked along the river’s edge, she would move back and forth between the two men, making casual conversation with them one at a time, like a courier fetching and delivering messages. It was almost comical, the way John and Hudson were avoiding each other, like two children forced to make peace yet silently objecting to it. Though Hudson appeared to be at odds with himself about the whole situation, the witch had hope that they would eventually warm up to one another. She wouldn’t have taken the risk had her faith in unlikely friendships not been recently rejuvenated.

  John was rather silent. And the more Syrena glanced at him, the more she pondered.

  “You look unsettled,” she decided to say.

  “Sorry,” he cleared his throat. “I-I’ve never actually met a witch before.”

  “You met me days ago,” she said.

  “Yes… Quite so, but… I must admit I had my doubts.”

  “About me?”

  “About your, um… gift.”

  She glanced at him with a raised brow. “Gift?”

  “Well, you know what I mean,” he chuckled nervously. “W-Which reminds me… Thank you, miss. For saving my life back there.”

  “My name’s Syrena,” she smiled.

  “Right. Syrena.”

  They walked in silence for a brief moment. They could see the black figure of the thief ahead of them, getting smaller, and so they picked up their pace.

  “So how’d he do it?” John decided to ask her. “How’d he get the cuffs off you?”

  “You’re asking how a thief managed to pick a key out of someone’s pocket?” she smirked at him.

  John smiled back. “He’s full of surprises, that one.”

  “Surprises?”

  “Stealing from Sir Viktor Crowley to save his own skin? That, I can see. But stealing from him to save someone else’s skin…?”

  She glanced forward, at the thief strolling just yards away, picking berries out of shrubs when he came across any. It was quite a walk he had, she admitted. So suave, with that mild sway of his, like a sly cat on the prowl for trouble simply because he was confident he could handle it.

  “That man freed me from my cell in Val Havyn,” she said. “I didn’t even have to ask him, he just… did it. Because I was there. Because I was trapped just like him. He could have left me there. He would have avoided the guards, even. But he stayed by my side until I had my freedom and I owe that to him.”

  “He needed a way out, that’s all,” John said doubtfully.

  She gave him a glance, the smile fading away quickly. “Doesn’t explain why he refused to leave you behind.”

  John slowed his pace involuntarily. “What…?”

  “Back there with the nymphs… He was the one who asked me to save you.”

  John’s lips moved, but no words would come out. His brows raised and lowered over and over again, as he tried to wrap his mind around it.

  He said he would kill me someday… Instead, he saves my life?

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  “Believe what you want,” she remarked. “Won’t make it untrue.”

  And so she picked up her pace, leaving John behind to ponder.

  He was somewhat staggered, thinking about the thief’s words that morning.

  Everyone’s looking after only one skin and that’s their own, he had said.

  And yet he’d already proven himself wrong. More than once, in fact.

  John quickened his pace again. It wasn’t exactly hope he was starting to feel in his chest. Optimism, perhaps… With a mix of guilt, certainly.

  You can do this, John… Just try not to draw your sword at him again…

  * * *

  It may have been the hunger, but the stew was damn near perfect.

  The temperature was just right, the pork was tender and savory, the potatoes were soft and exquisitely seasoned. Jossiah Biggs was nearly done with his bowl by the time they were serving Cedric, and he considered asking for a second one. The cook, a slow-moving elderly man with a permanent frown, offered Viktor Crowley a bowl but the man refused, his mind occupied elsewhere.

  The Wyrmwood camp was a great deal more diverse than Viktor was expecting…

  Men and women, soldiers and raiders, humans and elves and gnomes; all of them were sitting side by side sharing stories and meals and laughter as if it were as normal as breathing. There were no orcs in the camp, which Percyval blamed on the orcs’ lack of trust towards humans,
not that anyone could blame them.

  Still, Viktor was sure he’d never seen so many non-humans in the same place all at once. Elves made up at least a third of the camp, if not more, and there were at least a dozen gnomes roaming about cautiously so as to not be trampled by drunken lumbering soldiers.

  Gnomes may as well have been human in Viktor’s eyes. They had plenty enough in common, if it weren’t for their much shorter stature. Most of them had heads and torsos the size of the average human, only their limbs were much shorter and pudgier. The gnomes in the camp, even the younger looking ones, appeared tough and seasoned and riddled with scars. Viktor knew they lived only about half as long as humans, but he underestimated just how strong and capable they could be in their prime.

  Elves had less in common with humans, their skin varying in shades of blue, from a dark ocean blue to a pale hue the color of the sky. Their body shape was perhaps their only humanlike quality, except they were always on the more slender side and had longer than average limbs that gave them the advantage when it came to climbing. Their ears were always sharp and long like the tip of a spear, even longer than an orc’s, which is why people often called them ‘rabbits’, a term that elves despised.

  Viktor’s eyes were fixed on one particular elf… Sitting high above a cypress tree, much higher than Viktor himself would have been comfortable with, was the beautiful pale elf he’d unintentionally caught bathing in the Spindle River. The elf was sitting calmly, taking bites out of an apple, legs dangling and back resting against the tree’s trunk, keeping watch so as to allow the recruits in the camp to eat and drink peacefully.

  Brilliant, Viktor thought. Expert climbers make for expert watchmen… Or watchwomen…

  Viktor’s company stuck together like a pack of children in a crowd of strangers. As friendly as the Wyrmwood recruits may have been, the men preferred not to sit among them. Instead, there was an old cart filled with barrels of ale sitting in the middle of the camp. And there they leaned, sat, climbed on top, anything to avoid mingling with the odd assortment of recruits.

  Cedric appeared the most alarmed of them all. Alarmed, yet fascinated.

  “This is a Wyrmwood camp?” the naïve kid asked, his jaw dropping involuntarily. “It’s…”