Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  But both the princess and the boy couldn’t help but gawk at the citadel. There was a glow of light coming from the highest tower… Something was happening inside…

  “That’s gotta be it, right?” Thomlin said. “His lair…?”

  Magdalena said nothing. She was far too busy plotting a strategy in her mind.

  That’s it, all right… I’ll bet this lord is hiding somewhere up there…

  And he was, though he was doing anything but hiding.

  * * *

  Lord Yohan Baronkroft sat in his chamber in front of a boiling cauldron.

  In the distance, he could hear it, the heels of a military man’s boots tapping against the stone. The dark lord grinned, feeling his heart begin to speed up from the thrill. His guest had arrived…

  Sergeant Havier Weston, fully armored but unarmed, walked through the halls of the ancient citadel heading for a chamber he had been directed towards. When he was about 5 feet from it, two gnomes hopped from their stools and opened the doors for him. This was not new for the sergeant, as all species shared the land of Qamroth. It was, however, peculiar to see gnomes on guard duty; that was unspeakable among his ranks.

  He entered the empty chamber made of brick and stone, old and filthy and reeking of dampness. The gnomes closed the doors behind him, echoing so loud it startled him a bit. At the center of the room there stood a long rectangular table, large enough to sit two dozen people, with elegant goblets and plates, all of which were empty, and lit candlesticks lined up along the center.

  At the very end of the table there was a parchment laid out with a vial of ink and a standing quill next to it. The Sergeant walked towards it, his curiosity rising, feeling as out of place as the graceful wooden table. He knew it had to have been stolen along with all of the tableware and candles. It was far too much elegance for a forgotten place like Drahkmere, even within the grand citadel.

  And there it was… When he saw it, both of his brows raised with confusion…

  His name was written at the very bottom of the parchment.

  Next to it was a blank space, left there for his signature and a drop of his blood.

  A contract, clearly. But a contract for what?

  He leaned closer and began reading as fast as his eyes would allow it. His heart was racing, knowing very well he was in an unfamiliar place surrounded by questionable men and women. The only thing that brought him to Drahkmere was the name Baronkroft, for it was far too worthy of anyone’s respect to ignore.

  Suddenly, his eyes came to a halt…

  His eyes came across the words “three thousand soldiers” and “at once” in the same sentence. It was a contract for troops. Though it was a number that the sergeant definitely had, it wasn’t exactly a number he could afford. The doors opened again suddenly, and the sergeant straightened his back and stood firmly next to the chair with the parchment.

  A large monster of a man walked in… A man wearing black leather pants, a brown vest over an exposed chest, and a mask lined with wolf teeth over his massive jaw. He stepped two feet inside and then one to the right, standing guard next to the torch hanging over the doorframe.

  Then another man walked in, this one smaller yet strangely menacing, dressed in elegant attire and a long black coat lined with a dim silver pattern along the edges and sleeves.

  “Sergeant Weston,” Baronkroft said, taking slow steps with his hands crossed behind his waist. “What a pleasure to have you here, sir! Welcome to the once-magnificent city of Drahkmere… Do forgive the smell. You notice it less after a drink or two, I assure you.”

  The sergeant was confused. He was expecting a much older man.

  The man that stood before him was not yet in his fifties.

  “Pardon,” he said. “I was expecting Lord Baronkroft…?”

  “Do I not meet your expectations? You break my heart, sergeant,” Baronkroft grinned as he took a seat in the chair adjacent to the chair with the contract. He then snatched one of the empty goblets from the table, held it out into the air, and gave a smooth loud whistle. This was then followed by footsteps coming from outside the chamber, echoing with the stillness of the place and the cackling of a small fire that burned in a corner chimney.

  In walked a very short woman whose approaching shadow was quite deceiving. A gnome woman, about half as tall as anyone in the room, with a raggedy dress and smeared paint on her eyes and lips, approached the table holding a bottle in her hands. She reached the two men, popped the cork out and began pouring the wine on Baronkroft’s goblet.

  The sergeant’s eyes moved from the gnome woman to the monstrous man standing guard.

  “Oh, don’t mind my dear friend Harrok,” Baronkroft said, noticing the sergeant’s discomfort. “I’ve never met a man more loyal than him. He won’t hurt you, you have my word. Please! Sit, sit!”

  The sergeant took a seat, quiet and disturbed. “I can see I must have misunderstood,” he said.

  “Why is that, sir?” the lord asked.

  The gnome woman poured wine into a separate goblet and slid it closer to the sergeant, who took it doubtfully. “Well… If I’m honest, when I read Baronkroft, I was expecting Lord Armund Baronkroft,” he explained.

  “Lord Armund?” Baronkroft snickered. “No, no. That was my father, you see… No, he’s been dead for… How long has it been now, my dear Harrok?”

  “Seven years,” the Butcher replied, a deep growl of a voice muffled behind the mask.

  “Dead…?” the sergeant asked, slightly startled by the Butcher. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite so,” Baronkroft said. “I was the one who stabbed the dagger into his heart.”

  The sergeant’s eyes grew wide with a sudden fright.

  “Don’t look so startled,” Baronkroft took another sip from the wine. “It was an act of mercy, I assure you. He was struck with the plague, unfortunately. And a man thinks quite differently when blood is oozing from every hole in his body… He practically begged me to kill him.”

  The sergeant wasn’t entirely convinced about the man’s intentions, but seeing him sip from the wine gave him a feeling of slight relief. And so he took a sip of his own before saying, “My condolences. Now… If I may ask, what is the meaning of this here contract? I don’t believe I agreed wi-”

  “Tell me, sergeant, have you ever been to Kahrr?” the lord interrupted. His hostility was slowly becoming clearer, and Sergeant Weston realized he might’ve made a terrible mistake coming to this dark corner of Qamroth.

  Distraught and thrown aback, the sergeant stammered, “N-No, I don’t believe I have. Anyhow, about the contract, si-”

  “Incredible place, really,” Baronkroft interrupted again. “The best steel in the world comes from Kahrr… The city’s moat is practically impassable… Its walls, indestructible… Far better than this filth, I’ll dare even say. Only thing Drahkmere has is a cliff at its back and a half-moat that smells like death.”

  The sergeant took another sip of his wine, uncomfortable with the lord’s persistent change of topic. The wine was bitter, but it was warm and sharp and, most importantly, it was easing the sergeant’s tension.

  “Really, there’s only one thing wrong with the city of Kahrr,” Baronkroft said. “It’s in the wrong side of the world.” Upon his last remark, the lord’s expression changed into a more serious one, his eyes squinting and face softening.

  Sergeant Weston, still perplexed over the discussion, sighed and asked, “You brought me all the way to Drahkmere to talk to me about some free city in the east?”

  “Oh the city is the least of our concern, I just happen to be fond of it,” Baronkroft said. “Quite honestly, I brought you here for a very simple reason, Sergeant Weston. I need your signature.”

  “My signature?” the sergeant set his goblet down. “What for?”

  Baronkroft rose to his feet and with his hands crossed at his back again he paced around the chamber, calmly and nonchalantly. “I’ll be needing your men for a little venture, you se
e… You are to sign the contract and have them march to Drahkmere at once.”

  “Are you mad?” the sergeant felt the heat of the wine give him the confidence and vigor he thought he’d lost. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because it is the right thing to do, I’m afraid,” Baronkroft kept pacing. “You’ve heard quite a bit about my father, I take it… After all, the man’s name was enough to bring you a hundred miles east. He had a reputation, my father. He was daring, ruthless, hard-edged, you name it… But he was also a fair man. Might even be the fairest man I’ve ever known to live. You see, he believed a man should earn things in life. Money, wealth, power... A title means shit if the man bearing it doesn’t deserve it. This is what led him to build an army as grand as his, many decades ago. This is what led him to try and invade the land to the east… A little land called Gravenstone.”

  “Yes, and like many before him, he failed,” said the sergeant, taking another gulp from the wine as if it had hooked him. “I respected your father, my lord. And thus I respect you for keeping his cause alive, but King Ulrik will never agree to provide men for y-”

  “I’m not asking King Ulrik,” Baronkroft paused and glared at the sergeant. “I’m asking you, Sergeant Weston. Just a mere signature, that’s all it would take… What’s it to you anyhow? Losing a few thousand men?”

  “They are not your men to dispose of!” Weston said, his voice rising.

  “Neither are they yours… And yet you dispose of them any way you see fit.”

  The two men stood in silence. Sergeant Weston nearly felt an impulse to attack the man. After all, they were about the same size and the sergeant had the advantage of armor. Then, of course, there was the monstrosity standing by the door. Even with armor, the sergeant knew he’d be crushed by a single blow.

  “At least this way, they’ll be dying for a good cause,” Baronkroft added. “What say you?”

  The sergeant scowled.

  “This is obscene,” he said angrily, his chair scratching against the stone as he rose to his feet. “I am a Qamrothian soldier and I serve King Ulrik! You, my lord, I’ve never met, much less heard of. Your father may have been a fair man, but you are not your father nor will you ever be.”

  Baronkroft did not appear hurt by the man’s words… Quite the opposite, in fact, his grin seemed unmoving, as if he had gotten the response he was hoping for. He stared at the sergeant with those glowing eyes of his and something in them appeared off. It was as if Baronkroft’s mind was no longer in the room and he had sunk into a trance, all the while his eyes remained locked on the sergeant.

  Weston scoffed suddenly and headed for the door.

  “I’ve no time for this,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse m…”

  He came slowly to a halt… He felt his throat start to close together, his eyes slowly turning red from the lack of air. He grabbed the nearest chair and sunk into it, both of his hands pressed against his neck. He was shaking. He felt his limbs start to grow numb and cold.

  Baronkroft stepped closer, his eyes red and swollen and aimed at his guest…

  “You’re right, Sergeant Weston… I’m not my father,” he said.

  At the same time, the Butcher walked towards the table with a roll of leather.

  The sergeant watched as the monster of a man unrolled the leather and revealed a set of glistening knives strapped side by side, lined according to size.

  “Thank you, my dear friend,” Baronkroft said, and the Butcher responded with nothing but a grunt and a head nod, after which he headed for the doors and closed them behind him.

  This was it… The sergeant and the lord were alone…

  Though the sergeant could no longer feel any part of his body, he was quite awake. His eyes wouldn’t even blink, they were paralyzed with the rest of him. The only thing he could do was breathe, and even with that he struggled. Baronkroft had somehow gotten a grip on him without even touching him.

  “You know, it’s funny, sergeant,” Baronkroft said as he caressed each of the knives gently, one by one, as if he were stroking the petals of a rose. “I’ve spoken to many men of power recently. They all appear reluctant towards me. Hostile, even. It’s rather horrid, the way they force me to act rash. They don’t quite seem to grasp what I’m trying to say here… You see, I will get what I want. One way or the other, I always do.”

  The sergeant’s eyes were moving, the only part of him that could, back and forth, examining the lord’s every movement. He was stiff and vulnerable and petrified.

  Baronkroft then unstrapped one of the daggers from the leather. It was of average size and the handle was made of wood, carved beautifully into the shape of a dragon’s head. The steel of the blade was damn near perfect, smooth and glimmering against the light of the fire. And the way Baronkroft looked at it was startling.

  “You see this blade, sergeant?” he held it up. “It’s quite dear to me… Kahrran steel, forged within the finest wielding dungeons of the city’s bastion. As you can see, I have an entire collection of them… But this one… This one, I find, shines the brightest…”

  Baronkroft gave the man an eerie grin, gripping the dagger with his hand delicately.

  “Do you know how I’m going to use it on you…?”

  The sergeant felt the sweat dripping from his face. He was paralyzed, but he swore he could feel his skin crawling, a faint feeling, like the prickling on a limb when it has gone numb.

  “I always like to start with this one,” Baronkroft said eerily. “It works beautifully, I tell you… It truly manages to expose a man. Break him. Make him reveal his true nature.”

  He paced slowly towards the sergeant’s chair.

  “I can’t wait to see who you truly are, sergeant,” he said, his grin slowly fading into a grim stare. “I hardly know you from shit… But I’m sure by the end of the night we’ll be much better acquainted. And by the time I’m finished introducing you to my entire collection… you’ll have wished you signed that contract…”

  * * *

  “Drahkmere?” Sir Percyval Garroway scratched his head with doubt.

  “Horse shit,” said Sir Antonn Guilara, standing guard by Percyval’s shoulder as he had been for the last hour. “That place is nothing but ruins.”

  “It’s where they’re taking her,” Viktor said.

  “Says who?”

  Viktor hesitated for a moment. The witch Zahrra was rocking back and forth in her chair, her eyes pale once again, as if she was lost in a distant dream.

  “Says an ally of ours,” Viktor chose to say. “An ally who single-handedly fought and captured the notorious thief Hudson Blackwood… He was there during the attack on the royal palace.”

  “Did you say Blackwood?” Percyval raised an eyebrow.

  “I heard that bastard’s wanted for 1,000 yuhn in Halghard,” Sir Antonn said.

  “I also heard he slept with Balthazar Locke’s aunt once,” Percyval shrugged. “Good lad.”

  “Yes, well…” Viktor cleared his throat. “My ally caught him. And he heard the enemy say the princess was being taken to Drahkmere… I’m not asking for much. All I ask is for a couple of dozen men. 15 at the very least, if possible. If we don’t reach Drahkmere before the next full moon, her majesty’s life might be in grave dang-”

  “I have no men to give you, Sir Crowley,” Percyval said brusquely. “Halghard has enough to deal with than to worry about the problems of a neighboring kingdom. Besides, doesn’t King Rowan have any men to spare for the rescue of his own daughter?”

  Viktor’s lips opened, but he hesitated to speak, alarmed by the man’s words.

  Percyval’s face hardened, as he nearly saw through Viktor’s lies. But then Zahrra startled everyone with a sudden gasp, her head twitching as her eyes glimmered from the light of a candle. “They march,” she said worriedly. “The army with the red shield banners. They march south as we speak.”

  Sir Percyval leapt to his feet instantly, rushing towards the witch and kneeling in f
ront of her. “Yes?” he asked eagerly. “Yes? What else, Zahrra?”

  “Catapults. Oil. Fire. They plan to torch your brother’s army.”

  “Bastards!” Percyval grunted, sweating with a driven torment. “We must go to him… we must go to my brother at once! He needs every able-bodied soldier he can get!”

  “We have nearly thirty recruits already on their way here,” Sir Antonn said gravely.

  “To hells with them! We must move now!”

  “The Great Rift,” Zahrra said, grasping Sir Percyval’s attention once again. “The Great Rift is to their left… They march around it…”

  “The mountain path?” Sir Percyval asked.

  “That’s a long march,” Sir Antonn reassured his knight commander. “There’s still time, Percyval… Better to wait and grow our numbers. Better to send him a raven.”

  “And tell him what?! That I dreamt the information?”

  There was a sudden silence, after which Viktor understood why his questioning the knight had been so provoking. He doesn’t know, he realized. King Alistair Garroway doesn’t know that his brother is recruiting non-humans…

  Percyval looked as if he was mere seconds away from breaking something, he was so restless, his mind trying to come up with a proper solution. And at that moment, another figure entered the tent, bringing with them an aura of splendor, and making the tent significantly colder than before…

  Viktor Crowley was the first to glance at the figure, and immediately he became flustered.

  The elf from the river…

  His heart began racing, his hands became warm and clammy, and he was sweating tremendously underneath his armor… He’d never been this close to the elf and he could see every detail in their face as clear as day. The elf was tall and beautiful and riddled with ambiguity. Their hair was thin and straight like a sleek brush, silver with a dash of purple dye on the right side; their nose was long and sharp, and their purple eyes gleamed with a majestic beauty, like gazing upon the eyes of a wild caracal…

  “May I have a word, Sir Percyval?” the elf spoke.

  By the gods…