Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  “Like me?” asked the woman. “And what’s that mean, then?”

  “It means he’s never seen a mercenary with breasts,” Thaddeus answered for him, standing next to Cedric like a loyal guardsman.

  “Watch yer mouth there, tiny,” the woman said menacingly. “Ye don’t scare me just ‘cause ye’re a foot taller. Only makes ye that much slower.”

  They glared at each other for a moment, until a sophisticated voice interrupted.

  “Relax there now, dear sister,” the man next to her placed his hand on her shoulder. He strapped his sword back to his belt and began twisting the top off of a drinking sack. “The little squire’s just in a bit of a shock, that’s all,” he said. “Why, he’s probably never left the comfort of his village. He’ll need some time to get used to new sights.”

  “He bett’r hurry on then,” said the woman.

  She turned to Cedric and, to her own surprise, she found his ignorance and discomfort a bit entertaining. She eyed him up and down, and the first thing she noticed was the small dagger strapped to his belt. The handle appeared to be made of ivory and it had a red stone embedded on it.

  “Is that a toothpick, then?” she asked him mockingly.

  “W-What’s that?” Cedric replied nervously.

  “That wee thing strapped to yer belt.”

  “Um, no, miss. It’s a dagger. Given to me by me mum”

  The golden-haired man held the drinking sack up to his lips and gulped on what Cedric thought to be water. It wasn’t until a few drops ran down the man’s chin that Cedric saw the red color. The man had never been one to like ale. Wine, however, he carried with him everywhere; often he would even refuse to fight without it. Cedric could somehow see all of this in the way the man licked his lips so as to not waste a single drop.

  “That’s awfully endearing,” the man commented. “You wouldn’t want to lose that in battle, little squire. I mean, what would mother think?”

  “Actually, um… she died,” Cedric said; this was followed by a moment of silence.

  The golden-haired man had a sense of humor and he embraced it, but was not exactly known to be rude either. In fact, he would often pride himself in giving honor to his enemies just as much as his friends.

  “It happened back when I was just a boy,” Cedric added.

  “My apologies, lad,” the man said, his smile now gone. “I didn’t know.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Cedric looked down at the dirt in embarrassment. He had not spoken about his mother since childhood. The last time he even said her name out loud was the same night he was found knocking on the doors of Jasper Nottley’s tavern, begging for food and shelter. He often missed her, however, and his silence only led to a greater sorrow, which then resulted in his hostility towards anyone other than Mister Nottley, the man who had taken him in when no one else would, or Thaddeus Rexx, who was one out of two people he could genuinely call a friend.

  “Hey,” the woman beckoned Cedric’s attention.

  Cedric turned to her, to her lively green eyes.

  “It’s not the size or edge of the blade that matters, it’s the way ye use it,” she said. Her mouth then curved and she found herself smiling at Cedric, who was too surprised to smile back. “Anyway, it’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” Cedric replied nervously, noticing he was instinctively holding on to the dagger. He didn’t grip it, however. He was simply holding it, as if it was giving him the courage to speak to the woman and her brother.

  “I’m Gwyn,” she said.

  The nervous squire looked back up at her, a sudden glow on his face. “Cedric,” he muttered.

  Gwyn’s brother then jumped to his feet and addressed them all, “And my name is Daryan, gentlemen. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “A mercenary with manners,” Thaddeus Rexx said, drinking from a wooden tankard full of ale. “There’s a sight you don’t see every day.”

  “Everyone must pay their dues one way or another. That’s got nothing to do with one’s manners, sir.”

  “I suppose,” said the blacksmith. “The name’s Thaddeus Rexx.”

  Cedric cleared his throat. With Thaddeus joining into the conversation, he managed to build up the courage to continue. “So you all serve King Alistair, then?” he asked.

  “We don’t serve anyone,” Gwyn replied. “We’re fightin’ for the pay ‘n’ the land.”

  “Aye,” Daryan said. “My sister Gwyndolyn and I w-”

  “Gwyn!”

  Daryan rolled his eyes and continued, “We were promised a share of land in the city of Morganna.”

  “Once King Alistair sacks it, that is,” Gwyn added.

  “All in exchange for our services and the services of our merry little clan of raiders. We figured a home in the city was better than rummaging all around the Woodlands for stable land.”

  “How many of you are there?” Thaddeus asked.

  “At the moment? Two,” Daryan said. “We had more before we decided to join forces with Wyrmwood.”

  “You both work alone then?”

  “Bett’r than followin’ an arseling with an unquenched thirst for power,” Gwyn said as she continued to sharpen her knives.

  “Unquenched, eh?” Daryan grinned. “Fancier word than you’re used to, dear sister.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Anyhow, we were affiliated with a clan of bandits a few months back,” Daryan said, this time to the company. “Unfortunately, the clan was led by a rather immoral man who was more concerned for his own well-being than those of his comrades. Ultimately, we decided to part ways due to our differences.”

  “Fuck that crazy old sack,” Gwyn mumbled angrily.

  “Manners, dear sister…”

  “Fuck manners. He was a crazy old sack. He ‘n’ that bloody monkey of his.”

  Cedric couldn’t help but smile and Gwyn couldn’t help but notice it. She didn’t know whether it was empathy or pity she felt towards the young squire. But one thing she was sure of is the kid did not belong there, regardless of how much he wished to.

  Then there was a scoff. It came from the back of the cart that Cedric and Thaddeus were leaning against. The scoff caught the attention of both Gwyn and Daryan.

  “Who’s the mute, then?” Gwyn asked.

  “That there’s Wyll,” Thaddeus answered for him.

  “Ahh. And who cut his tongue out?”

  “Piss off,” Wyll muttered sourly, to which Gwyn wasn’t sure whether to react angrily or shrug off. Wyll seemed to be lost in his thoughts, or rather his mind was elsewhere and not in the conversation.

  “Oh look, he talks,” Daryan mocked him.

  “Leave him,” Thaddeus said.

  “Why so somber back there, lad?” Daryan went on. “Too good for a conversation with a couple of mercenaries?”

  “I said piss off!” Wyll shouted, his voice then lowering to a whisper. “Bunch o’ freaks.”

  “What was that, then?” Gwyn stood up suddenly. “Didn’t hear ye. Say it to me ear, yes?”

  “Hey!” Jossiah Biggs suddenly approached them, after having been gawking around the camp for several minutes. “Have we got a problem here?”

  “No problem,” Thaddeus said.

  “Littl’ shit back there thinks he’s almighty,” Gwyn snapped. “Come again, lad. What’d ye call us?”

  “You’re freaks, all of you!” Wyll shouted angrily at them.

  “Hey! Enough! Sit your little arse down, lad!” Jossiah snapped.

  Wyll obeyed, though stubbornly so.

  “And you!” Jossiah turned to the two raiders. “Why don’t you both go and sit among your rabbit friends and leave us the hells alone.”

  “Pardon me,” Daryan said grimly. “What did you just call them…?”

  “Oh piss off, you. You don’t scare me for a second,” Jossiah spat. “I’ve killed men twice your size.”

  “I don’t doubt you have, sir,” Daryan approached him. “But have you ever crossed bla
des with one of our elven friends?”

  “I’m a knight of the kingdom of Vallenghard!” Jossiah snarled. “I wouldn’t stain my sword with elf blood. Filthy little bastards… The only thing worse than a greenskin is a bleedin’ rabbit. They’re crooks, all of them! All they wanna do is either kill you or steal something from you.”

  “Allow me to understand, Sir…”

  “Jossiah.”

  “Jossiah,” Daryan began. “It is your belief that our forefathers were unmistaken in their principles, that humans are superior, and that segregation of the species is the answer to our conflicts…?”

  “You’re damn right. And I will not be questioned by a bl-”

  “So you believe that we should segregate folks to this land of death and despair… and then you’re surprised when they raid and rob and do what they must in order to survive in a world where all of the wealth and power exists in a land forbidden to them…?”

  Jossiah opened his lips, but no proper answer would come out.

  His face twisted and turned with confusion, before he grunted and walked away.

  “I figured so,” Daryan sat back down.

  An uncomfortable silence lingered in the air, filled only with distant chattering and laughs among the soldiers and recruits.

  “Typical, brother,” Gwyn scoffed abruptly. “Usin’ words to get rid of a man ‘nstead of yer blade.”

  Daryan grinned at her and proceeded to drink from his winesack again.

  Suddenly there was a thud nearby.

  The androgynous elf from the trees hopped down, carrying with them a long straight wooden stick about as tall as a person. The elf had silver hair that was combed neatly away from their pale and perfectly symmetrical face, and a strand of it was dyed purple right above the right ear.

  Cedric, Thaddeus Rexx, and Wyll Davenport all gawked as the elf walked by, too close for Wyll’s comfort. Cedric wiped the sweat on his brow with his sleeve nervously, as he made eye contact with the mysterious elf, who was dressed in a grey hunting outfit except without a single weapon strapped to it.

  “Amazing, don’t you think?” Daryan asked, and then the three men stopped staring and turned around. “Wonderful, majestic creatures, really… It’s an honor to even meet one of them, let alone forty of them.”

  “King Alistair really has gone soft,” Wyll scoffed. “Who in their right mind would recruit freaks?!”

  “There he goes again with that word,” Daryan shook his head grimly.

  “Someone oughta teach this one some manners,” Gwyn said, the hissing of her knife against the stone in her hands only adding to her threat. “He been spendin’ a lot o’ time with that Jossefus bloke?”

  “Jossiah.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “Young Wyll,” Daryan walked closer to him. “Allow me to relay a bit of unwarranted wisdom… One thing you must understand when you do what we do… Is that when you are at war with an enemy who is much stronger and powerful than you, you will find yourself making unexpected allies…”

  “I’d never ally with a freak,” Wyll said coldly. “What is it anyway?

  Daryan tipped his head with confusion. “I believe it’s quite obvious that Skye is an elf…”

  “I know, but I mean… What is it? Is it a lad or a she-elf?”

  By then, the shadowy elf was too far to overhear. From what the company had seen, it wasn’t entirely clear what the elf’s gender was. To begin with, there was not a single hair on the elf’s pale face except for their thin brows and long curved eyelashes. There was a certain femininity there, no doubt, but the elf’s jaw looked strong and firm and their voice, though rare, was on the slightly deeper side. Skye had been a mystery since day one, and made some of the soldiers uneasy at not knowing how to properly address the elf.

  “You know… I don’t actually know the answer to that question,” Daryan said.

  “Why don’t ye go ‘n’ ask for yourself?” Gwyn muttered under her breath.

  “Piss off,” Wyll hissed.

  “I always figured it rude to inquire about such things, but you seem too eager to find out,” Daryan remarked.

  “Let it go, Wyll,” Thaddeus said.

  Wyll scowled at the two raiders, before he spat on the earth and walked away towards the cook for another bowl of stew. “Whole world’s gone down the pisser,” he whispered angrily along the way.

  Daryan found himself a bit baffled at the young man’s reaction. “I’ve known men to want to steer away from beings that are not human,” he said to Cedric and Thaddeus. “But I certainly can’t say I’ve known one to hate them as much as you folk.”

  “Jossiah can be a bit hard on you, but y’get used to it,” Cedric said. “And Wyll’s brother was, um… Well, he was killed by tree nymphs… Just the other night.”

  “Shut it, Cedric,” Thaddeus said to him, with a bit of harshness in his voice. “It ain’t anyone’s concern but his, lad.”

  Suddenly they felt the dirt beneath their feet shake…

  Cedric’s eyes went wide all of a sudden.

  A large beast walked past them, holding an iron pot of soup so naturally as if it was light as a leaf. The creature was nearly seven feet tall and was covered in a thick black pelt; an upright being nonetheless, with sharp claws for hands and hooves on his feet. He was dressed in rags that covered only his chest, waist, and upper legs.

  What caught everyone’s attention, however, was the creature’s head…

  It was the head of a bull, with two massive curved horns rising out of his forehead.

  A minotauro… the only minotauro in the camp… He walked onward towards his resting place, which was a pit of dirt he’d dug himself and bordered with rocks, with a small fire burning at the center.

  “What in the name of the gods…?” Thaddeus said, baffled at the sight of the horned beast.

  “Toro,” Gwyn said with a smirk.

  “A minotauro from the great plains of Belmoor,” Daryan added. “Last of his clan, we believe he is. Quite a magnificent creature, don’t you think?”

  “You seem to fancy anything nonhuman,” Thaddeus said to the man.

  “I’m a man who adores diversity, Mister Rexx, that much I willingly confess,” Daryan replied. “And if you paid them enough mind, sir, you would soon realize that they’re just as ‘human’ as you or me.”

  Cedric found himself gripping his dagger once again, his knee jumping up and down as it usually would when he became anxious.

  Daryan threw him a friendly grin. “Perhaps to some of them, we’re the monsters,” he said solemnly. “And dare I say, sometimes I can’t help but agree…”

  * * *

  From the moment her feet touched the earth, Princess Magdalena knew she was far from home. It felt nothing like the smooth brown powder-like sand on the shores of Vallenghard. The sand beneath her feet was a somber gray and gravelly to the point where she could feel the pebbles through her torn shoes.

  From the shore she could see the abandoned city… Or what was left of it, rather…

  Once the soldiers Hauzer and Jyor had unloaded them all, they began dragging the prisoners in formation like chained hounds. The walk took the better half of an hour, the prisoners marching with what little energy they had left, surrounded by armed men at every side. Magdalena no longer stood out among the prisoners. She was filthy and sweaty, her blonde hair was matted and greasy, and she reeked almost as badly as everyone else there. She had torn a piece of cloth from the hems of her dress several times to help clean someone’s wound, as her dress was the closest thing to a clean garment they could obtain. Thomlin walked beside her, clutching her wrist for dear life as he observed their surroundings, his innocent brown face smeared with dirt, and his clothes itching all over.

  “Y-Your majesty?”

  She glanced down at him, noticing his eyes were just as swollen and wet as hers.

  “I’m scared,” he said.

  She held his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  In
chains, it was the closest they could get to an embrace.

  When they reached the walls of the fortress, they came across a massive moat. The stench coming from beneath was insufferable; the air was hot and damp and smelled of a thousand rotting corpses. A loud horn echoed from high above the wall and a wooden bridge began to lower over the moat, slowly and carefully, old rusty chains rattling, on the verge of breaking. When the bridge was nearly flat, Magdalena and Thomlin could see the abundance of life inside the city walls. Soldiers and prisoners began making way for the incoming troop, some of them spitting and chuckling at the sight of the princess in chains.

  As if the stench wasn’t already bad from afar, it was even worse within the walls.

  “Stay close,” said the princess, and the boy remained pressed against her side as the commotion and life resonated all around them.

  Metals were being melted down and forged into weapons and gear…

  Hot steel was being struck, bricks were being carried, bows and arrows were being carved…

  There must have been a thousand men there, over half of them with gauntlets and weapons in their hands and the rest in cuffs. Most of the towers and dwellings of the city were half destroyed, bricks missing from walls and roofs with gaping holes left behind after a battle many decades past.

  Magdalena had seen many cities in her life.

  Drahkmere, she felt, was no city… But merely the ghost of one…

  And the soldiers and prisoners were like rats crawling on a carcass…

  There was so much smoke everywhere that it was difficult to breathe. Many of the prisoners began coughing violently through the dust and fumes, Magdalena and Thomlin included. The soldiers, however, did not wince, as if they were used to it all… The stench, the smoke, the countless hordes of flies…

  With her free hand pressed against her mouth, the princess looked up and noticed the only dwelling of the city that wasn’t entirely wrecked, a grand citadel made of black stone, rising for what appeared to be a hundred feet into the sky. One of the towers was missing its head and another tower had holes on its walls as if they had been attacked by catapults a long time ago, but the rest of the citadel looked sturdy and upright.

  “Come on, move it!” Jyor barked at the prisoners, tugging harshly at the chains.