Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  But she was certain that she was. The matter was infallible to her.

  And the proof was there, from the birthmark on her right shoulder to the raging temper she had inherited from her father; the only difference was she knew how to control it better.

  “Answer me, you little wench!” the lord shouted. “Are you or are you not the princess of Vallenghard?!”

  Magdalena could feel the tension in her shoulders rising. She knew she would shout back, or even strangle the man if he pushed her further; not that she had ever done such a thing but she’d be lying if she said the thought had never crossed her mind. Certainly, such acts were not fit for a person of royalty, and thus she often held her temper back. But no one had ever confronted her quite so strongly before.

  She had to say something…

  Before she could speak, however, another voice interrupted and silenced them all.

  “What did you just call her?” the voice said; it was that of an older woman.

  Princess Magdalena and Lord Olfur both turned at once.

  The woman was possibly in her late fifties, dressed in torn leathers, strong and agile despite her graying hair. At the thought of being challenged, Lord Olfur’s brows lowered even further, to such an extent that Magdalena thought was not humanly possible.

  “Who the bloody hells are you to try t-”

  “I asked you a question, you old hog,” Valleria said, rising to her feet and approaching the corner of the chamber where Magdalena and Thomlin stood.

  “Ahh,” Lord Olfur groaned and spat once again. “I should have known the princess of Vallenghard would have secret allies everywhere.”

  Valleria stepped even closer, in a way so menacing that Lord Olfur’s knees trembled unwillingly where he stood. “I’m not her ally,” she said. “I hardly even know the girl… I’m talking to you, you old fool. What was it you called her? I want to hear you say it…”

  Lord Olfur groaned crossly and said, “What does it matter? Those blind bastards, don’t they realize who they have in their own dungeon?! They would spare her but take my son?!”

  “What in all hells are you talking about?” Valleria asked.

  “She’s the daughter of a King!”

  “And I’m the daughter of a baker. We’re all the sons ‘n’ daughters of someone, you stupid man. What’re you getting at?”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?!” Lord Olfur shouted.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the dishonor, no.”

  “I’m Lord Olfur Millhurst of Yulxester!”

  “Congratulations. No one cares,” Valleria said, taking yet another step towards him. She was at eye level with the old lord, which meant she was nearly 6 feet in height. She looked stronger than him, in fact; stronger than his son, too.

  “You don’t dare speak to me that way, you old wench!”

  There was a silence. The woman’s jaw tightened and her nose twitched, as she shot the man quite the intimidating glare. “My name’s Valleria,” she said. “You either call me by me name or you don’t call on me at all.”

  “I’ll call on you as I damn well please!”

  “Stop it!” Magdalena interrupted, stepping between the two. Young Thomlin stuck close to her, standing firmly by her side like a faithful knight; if it were common for a knight to latch on to a princess’s sleeve, that is. “We must not fight amongst ourselves!” she said. “We must work together!”

  By then, all eyes in the chamber were on them.

  “You’re not in charge here!” Lord Olfur snapped at the princess. “We oughta give you away to them! I’m sure they’d be quite interested.”

  “If they wanted her, they would’ve taken her by now,” Valleria said. “Are you some sort of halfwit? D’you really think Lord Baronkroft is so senseless to not know the face of the daughter of King Rowan? They obviously need her alive.”

  “Then I say we threaten to kill her and bargain for our freedom!”

  “You won’t touch a single hair on the girl’s head,” Valleria said threateningly.

  Once more, there was a silence. The scared hungry eyes of every prisoner in the chamber were locked on the commotion in that dark corner. None of them had the courage to intercept, of course. They simply observed, like vultures eyeing a prey.

  Lord Olfur took another step closer, the closest he could get without touching the woman, and tried to appear firm and confident. “Or you’ll do what, exactly?” he asked. “Who are you to threaten a Lord?”

  “Careful who you taunt, old lord,” Valleria warned him. “You may’ve been high ‘n’ mighty in Shitchester, or wherever the hells it is you’re from. But down ‘ere, you’re just another captive.”

  “And what are you, old wench?”

  She grew angrier, clearly bothered by the one word the lord was keen on using repeatedly. “I’m a sellsword,” she said calmly.

  The old lord hesitated before saying anything else. He then figured the woman was bluffing and he chuckled out loud. “You? A sellsword? You don’t fool me for a moment.”

  Valleria had fought many men in her life and killed most of them. And the old lord’s words were picking at her nerves so much that she wished she still had her sword at her side.

  “Besides,” Lord Olfur said, spitting at Valleria’s boots. “A sellsword with no weapon is about as useless as an old barren wench!”

  Valleria could no longer resist…

  With all her might, she bashed her forehead into the old lord’s nose.

  The crack may have echoed… Lord Olfur fell to the floor, his nose twisted to the left, blood gushing out of both holes. He moaned in agony, blending with the echoing cries of the prisoners being tortured in the distance. “She broke it!” he cried. “The wench broke it!”

  Valleria towered over him and pressed a boot to his neck to shut him up. “Next time you threaten anyone else in here, I’ll hit you where it will really hurt, you limp hog…”

  No one in the chamber moved. Lord Olfur held on to his nose, struggling to stop the bleeding. Valleria cracked her neck and headed back towards her corner.

  “Wait,” Magdalena called out, and the woman paused where she stood. “Valleria, is it?”

  “It is…”

  “Magdalena,” she gave her a head nod, and the woman stood in silence as if expecting more. “How much do you know about this Lord Baronkroft…?”

  Valleria sighed, deeply and somewhat despairingly.

  “You don’t want to know, girl.”

  “And what if I do?”

  Valleria suddenly found herself half-smirking. She walked over to Magdalena and Thomlin’s corner and took a seat on the black stone.

  “What d’you want to know?”

  “Anything,” Magdalena said. “Everything.”

  Valleria sighed deeply. “It’s quite a long story.”

  “We have nothing but time.”

  “Aye… that’s true,” she said, resting her head against the wall. “I just wish we had a bottle of liqueur for it, that’s all…”

  * * *

  “What in all hells?” John Huxley muttered, his mouth wide with bewilderment like a child.

  In front of him was a tree, if one could even call it a tree…

  It was the most massive tree John had ever seen, perhaps the largest in the world, for all he knew. The base of its trunk was immensely wide, roughly fifteen to twenty feet. A porch had been built into it, as well as a set of three rocky stairs that led to a wooden door. John had never seen a tree with a door before, much less one with windows all around it. There was music and commotion coming from the inside and crowds of drunken individuals of all species were stumbling in and out.

  “What’s wrong?” Hudson asked. “Never seen a tavern before?”

  “I…”

  John couldn’t conjure up any words. His mouth was dry and his eyes felt deceived. He was not as troubled to see orcs and elves there, not like when he saw the orc at the royal palace; he expected to see them in the Woodlands. Wh
at troubled him more was the giant ogre sitting next to the tavern door, guarding it. He must have been about ten feet tall, large and hulking like an elephant, with fists big enough to wrap around a man’s waist.

  “We’re staying here?” Syrena asked.

  “I’m not a fan of crowds myself, love,” Hudson replied. “But I smell a storm coming. We wouldn’t want to risk it. Besides… They’ve got ale in there.”

  The witch smirked.

  A pack of diverse drunkards stumbled out of the tavern, some six or seven of them. Before Hudson could walk around them, however, an inebriated woman with excessive lip paint and a messy head of blonde hair approached them. She placed her hand on Hudson’s shoulder, though John and Syrena couldn’t tell if it was out of coquetry or so the woman could keep her balance.

  Probably both, John figured.

  “Why ‘ello there, handsome,” the woman said, her smile not nearly as awful as her breath was. “Care for a littl’ company tonight?”

  Hudson removed the woman’s hand gently from his shoulder.

  “I’m flattered, my dear. But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline the offer.”

  “Hmm,” the woman giggled. “Ye scared?”

  “Not quite,” Hudson said, fighting the urge to scowl at her breath.

  “What’s wrong, then? Ye ain’t into shagging?”

  “Oh, believe me, I am. You’re just not exactly the type to intrigue me.”

  “Hmm,” she giggled again. “And how do ye like ‘em, then?”

  “Oh, you know… Smart-mouthed, manipulative, clever, hard to please,” the thief took a moment to clear his throat. “…Brunette,” he added.

  John glanced at Syrena, whose cheeks were suddenly red.

  “And yes, everything on that list is a requirement, I’m afraid,” Hudson said, before he walked around the woman and towards the tavern. Along the way, the woman scowled at Syrena, but the witch paid her no mind, she only kept smiling.

  John was careful when he reached the porch. The massive ogre looked at him suddenly and grunted. And the farmer walked nervously up the rickety steps, leaning as far away from the ogre as he could. “Hello,” he said, his lip shivering.

  “Hmm,” the ogre nodded back.

  It’s all fine, John. All fine, he tried to calm himself, rushing through the door when he came to it. Taking the first step inside the tavern was like stepping into an unknown realm, distant from the reality that John had known all his life. For a moment, he was unsure whether the tavern had been built into the tree or if the tree had grown around it, he was so overwhelmed…

  The room was completely round and the floors were slightly uneven. It was as if someone, a gnome perhaps, had carved their way inside the tree, allowing for the natural curvature of the trunk to become the tavern walls. There were several lodging rooms above, just like any other tavern or inn, and a set of spiraling stairs lined along the walls, where leafy vines had started to grow, as if the tree was claiming back its territory. And there was a strange smell in the air, like that of fresh wood and leaves, a pleasant aroma blending in with the awkward smell of sweat and body odor.

  The counter was on the first floor, where tables and chairs had been set up all around, filled with the most diverse handful of beings that John could ever possibly think to imagine.

  Humans, orcs, gnomes… All of them sitting side by side, drinking and conversing amiably with one another…

  An orc playing a card game of Mercy with a human traveler…

  A band of goblins, a pair of elves, all of them sitting next to a minotauro…

  A posse of mining gnomes, next to an open wall where an orc girl sat on a stool, singing happily while playing a wooden harp…

  Syrena noticed the look of perplexity in John’s face and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. “You’ll learn to adjust,” she said, but she was wrong.

  John was besieged and amused all at once. He’d hardly ever encountered any nonhumans since he was born, and seeing them together in the same room overwhelmed him with a strange feeling, one of both angst and joy, like the time he found out he was going to be a brother for the first time. He smiled, knowing that there was so much for him to see and all of his life ahead to see it.

  He didn’t want to adjust.

  He wanted to hold on to that feeling for as long as he could.

  “Leave this to me,” Hudson cracked his knuckles, more out of habit than necessity. It wasn’t clear whom he was talking to, perhaps no one in particular, perhaps it was a sort of impulse, like a knight swinging his blade at the air before a fight. The thief had been avoiding John lately, hardly ever speaking to him directly. And when he did, he didn’t call him ‘mate’ anymore, not like he used to.

  Still, the farmer had hope… And the witch hoped with him, if only for her own sake, so that she wouldn’t have to continue playing the part of the messenger.

  Hudson walked towards the bar where there stood, wiping the counter, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, a red housedress, sharp nails, and more energy than the young drunk merchant snoring and drooling over the counter. “Evening, love,” the thief said. “What’s the cost for the night?”

  “10 coppers,” the woman said gruffly, and out of habit she spat into an empty vase.

  “Let’s make it 5, shall we?”

  “No, let’s make it 15.”

  “I’m sorry,” the thief said, his brows suddenly twisting with confusion. “D’you actually understand how bartering works?”

  The middle-aged woman looked up at him.

  John Huxley, who stood a good distance behind the thief, was able to see it all. The soft wrinkles on her face, marking her age… The darkness around her eyes, signs that the woman had hardly slept recently, or perhaps at all… John realized this was the woman’s life, much like farming was his life. She lived within the Woodlands out of choice, knowing that she could very well be accepted into human civilization whenever she pleased. The fact that she would choose the Woodlands over a kingdom like Vallenghard was baffling to the young farmer.

  “All my rooms are taken, sonny,” the woman snarled. “If you want to steal one, I better get somethin’ extra for it.” She spat into the vase again.

  John and Syrena kept their distance, observing the thief at work… His elbow rested on the bar, his smile was firm, his eyes just a tad bit squinted, as if planting doubt into the woman’s mind, his right leg was held at ease while most of his weight rested on his left…

  Every movement mattered. Every detail was essential.

  The smallest mistake could make all the difference.

  “Miss Rayna!” a voice suddenly interrupted. An elf girl, tall and thin, with indigo-colored skin and a head of silver curls, approached the bar with an empty tray. “Miss Rayna, ma’am!”

  “What now?!” the older woman snapped.

  “Rahl’s been sneakin’ out to smoke that red spindle again.”

  “Damn it, I told the littl’ shit I didn’t want that stuff near my tavern!”

  “I told ‘im that, Miss Rayna, but he seems t-”

  “I’ll handle it later, girl. Now go.”

  The elf girl gave Hudson and his two companions a confused glance before walking away, as if she knew they were outsiders.

  “And Kiira?” the woman added. “If he tries anythin’ on ya, have Edmund deal with ‘im.”

  “Yes, Miss Rayna!”

  The woman began wiping down the rest of the counter, as if Hudson was no longer there. He cleared his throat to get her attention back and she turned to him with a roll of the eyes.

  “What?!” she snapped at him.

  “Listen, darling,” Hudson leaned in closer, still attempting to persuade her. “I can see you’re quite a busy woman, so I’ll make this quick… I’m not sure if your hearing’s quite as good as mine, but since I walked into this room I’ve managed to overhear quite a few intriguing details.”

  “Humor me,” Miss Rayna set the rag down and crossed her arms, keeping the v
ase close for her to spit on.

  “Well, first of all, there’s the group of raiders sitting to my right,” Hudson muttered quite rapidly, as if time was of the essence. “All of them are visibly armed and if I know a raider, I know that there’s only two things on their minds: gold and sex. And when they don’t get one or the other, they tend to get a bit restless.”

  John took a peek at the raiders, but Syrena knew better.

  “Then there’s the twitching goblin sitting at the first table left of the door, who is very clearly suffering from heightened delusions due to the red spindle he recently smoked, hence that awful rotting leaf stench just outside the door. And I do believe I just heard you say you’re not a fan of it either.”

  Miss Rayna couldn’t help but glance at the goblin, more out of curiosity than actual precaution.

  “And finally there’s the enormous orc sitting in the corner next to the bard, staring directly at the blue elf across the room drinking with his goblin friends. I know that look, darling. Believe me, he’s not in love with the elf. He’s just letting him have one last drunken hurrah before beating him senseless, slicing his throat, possibly eating him? I’m not quite sure, has he ordered anything?”

  “What’s your point?” Miss Rayna asked, not quite as amused as Hudson had hoped.

  “My point is that it’s only a matter of time before something goes wrong in this place and we both know it,” Hudson said with a mildly convincing grin. “And when it does, you might just wish you had someone with a few skills staying under your roof for the night.”

  Miss Rayna released an unexpected burst of laughter.

  The thief scowled, having never been laughed at so directly in his life.

  “You think all that rubbish scares me?” she asked. “’Cause I’m some defenseless old wench that has a tavern in the wrong side of the world? Is that it?” Spit.