Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  “We’ve enough currency in silver to send to you every seventh day,” Lady Brunylda went on. “We propose 500 yuhn to start, with a gradual increase over th-”

  “All right, enough,” the count snapped his fingers. It was as if it gave him joy to interrupt others. “I’ve no use for money, Lady Clark, I’ve plenty of it.”

  Something in the count’s eyes was disconcerting to Brunylda; his attention had drifted away from the negotiation and was now solely on the princess’s former handmaiden sitting to the side. Brie did not dare look back; instead her eyes were on the thick book, now opened widely on her lap with a never-ending list of names and numbers on its brown pages.

  “If you want to conduct business with me, you’ll have to offer me something better,” the count added, his hungry eyes still gawking at Brie.

  “What did you have in mind, Count Jacquin?” Darryk asked him.

  The woman in robes held the spittoon up again but the count sent her away with finger snap, hardly even giving her a glance.

  “What’s your name, my dear?” he asked.

  Brie’s hands shivered as she held a quill ready in her hand. Her worried brown eyes moved back and forth from Lady Brunylda to the drunken graceless count.

  “What’s the matter?” the count asked, more at the Clarks than at the girl. “You’ve a mute bookkeeper? You lot really are on the verge of falling to shit, aren’t you?”

  “Brie,” the handmaiden exclaimed suddenly. “My name is Brie…”

  The count’s eyes lit up again. “Ahh Brie… Now there’s a proper name. Fit for beauty,” he grinned, his attempt at flattery falling flat. He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers again, after which the robed woman brought over a sophisticated red robe, similar to the color of the private room’s wallpaper except without the golden lining. The count lifted himself to his feet, soap and water dripping from every inch of his naked body, and took his time sliding into his robe. The smirk never left his face, as he examined the disgusted reactions of the Clarks and their new bookkeeper.

  “Er… Would you, um, perhaps prefer to be paid in supplies and mounts?” Darryk asked, his wide eyes suddenly finding the golden pattern on the carpet exceptionally interesting.

  “We’ve enough farmland in Elbon and other villages up north to transport crops as payment,” Lady Brunylda added. “Furthermore, we happen to have a contract with your friend Lord Helmuth of Raven’s Keep. Everyone knows the fastest horses in all of Gravenstone are bred in Raven’s Keep. If I send a letter today, we can arrange f-”

  “Fuck the horses,” Count Jacquin grunted. “And fuck the crops.”

  As he slouched himself into a chair, he beckoned the robed woman for his pipe, which she then brought over and held a lit match to. “Leave us,” the count said, and the robed woman headed for the doors. The count managed to graze her posterior one last time before she left and once again there was no reaction on her behalf.

  The doors closed…

  The count took a drag from his pipe and blew the smoke out carelessly.

  He grinned again, this time at the Lady Treasurer of Val Havyn.

  “May I be blunt with you, Lady Clark?” he asked.

  “I expect nothing less, sir.”

  “Good. Now,” he sighed and rested his dripping feet on a cushioned stool. “I know very well that you lot look at me and can’t help but have your judgments… You look at me and all you see is a man that pretends to be what you are. Only… What are you? You wear your pretty jewels and your fancy clothes, savoring the wealth you were born into like a pig splashing over a pile of shit. It’s all you’ve ever known. I earned the money I have, I didn’t inherit it. And now look at me… I’m no Sir Darryk Clark, I’m well aware, but with enough money I can be the most handsome man in all of Val Havyn. And you? You’ve absolutely no power over me and it drives you mad. Funny, the way power works, isn’t it?”

  He took another drag from his pipe.

  “I can see that we haven’t much to offer that you desire, Count Jacquin,” Darryk said with a sigh. “Perhaps you’d care to enlighten us with a request?”

  The count blew the smoke out in front of him, grinning like a hyena. The Lady Clark kept her gaze firm and unyielding, despite the reeking scent of red spindle filling the room.

  “I’ll take your offer,” the count finally said. “I’ll send word to my contacts in Kahrr… You can have three dozen men for the price that you offer. I’ve more silver than I can spend now, but perhaps after I win this wager with my old friend Helmuth I could use the coin for my vineyard.”

  With a rush of thrill, Brie began to write on the thick book, her very first inscription as bookkeeper for the Lady Treasurer. And there was also the hint of a smile on Brunylda’s lips, and a much wider one on Darryk’s.

  “Thank you, Count Jacquin, that is most generous of you!” Darryk said.

  “On one condition,” the count added abruptly, before taking one last drag from his pipe and blowing the smoke out through his words. “I get to keep this one.” He glared at Brie… The girl’s lower lip quivered again, her hand suddenly unable to finish writing the count’s name on the parchment.

  “Pardon me?” Lady Brunylda asked, her eyes hardening.

  “You heard me, Lady Clark,” the count grinned. “I will agree to this contract if the girl comes with me, back to Kahrr, where she will serve as my new accountant… among other services.”

  Brie’s face hardened into a frown and her eyes began to swell with fear. “I-I…”

  “No,” Lady Brunylda said firmly as she stood from her seat. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid our offer is not negotiable.”

  “Then I feel disinclined to accept it…”

  Darryk Clark was at a loss for words. He didn’t have the nerve to accept the count’s condition, but neither was he particularly inclined to leave without a signed contract. “N-Now wait, let’s not bicker over such-”

  “There’s no bickering, my Lord,” Lady Brunylda interrupted, maintaining her glare on the vile, grinning man. “I’m afraid the count’s demands are unreasonable. The girl is no slave to be traded, she is my bookkeeper… And she will be treated with respect, like such.”

  Immediately, Brie felt the weight leave her shoulders and she couldn’t help but sigh.

  “I never called her a slave. She’ll be paid for her services,” the count chuckled.

  But there was no change in the Lady’s expression; she turned to Darryk, as if waiting for him to rise from his chair. And so he did…

  Before leaving the room, however, the Lady picked up the goblet of wine, full and untouched, from the table between them. She took a great sip, upon which the count grinned profoundly.

  It didn’t last very long, however…

  The Lady scowled and proceeded to spit all of the wine back into the goblet.

  She then set it down on the table so harshly that some of the wine spilled out.

  “Well,” she said, wiping the red tint from her lips with a handkerchief. “It’s still shit, just as I remember it… Good day to you, Count Jacquin.”

  * * *

  What few supplies and mounts the Wyrmwood troop recuperated were hardly enough to sustain the amount of survivors. For the sake of efficiency, horses had to be shared, gnomes were paired up with others, and some of the sellswords rode in the back of carts. Once they’d regained their senses, Sir Antonn Guilara had gathered them all for a head count.

  One hundred and nineteen had survived.

  Thirty-nine were soldiers from Wyrmwood.

  Forty-two were human archers and sellswords from the Woodlands.

  As for the nonhumans, there were twenty-six elves, eight gnomes, and one minotauro.

  And then, of course, there was Viktor Crowley and his squadron, which now consisted only of one hired muscle and one inexperienced squire. They had fought alongside Sir Percyval Garroway’s troop and for this, the knight was grateful and allowed them to stay.

  But at this point, they
were fighting for a lost cause. Three men traveling alone to Drahkmere with hopes of breaking a princess out of a dungeon? They were hopeless and Viktor knew it, almost as hopeless as Sir Percyval Garroway if he thought his Woodland recruits would be openly accepted into his brother’s army…

  Sir Percyval was riding ahead, leading the way down a vast green hill, surrounded by a stretch of trees that were smaller in height and had blue-green leaves that looked almost like clovers. For once, the dirt road in which they traveled appeared to have an actual destination rather than leading them deeper into an endless maze.

  Viktor Crowley rode alone, lost in his thoughts. He sat on a borrowed horse that felt strange to him; it wasn’t only its brown hair, it was the way it walked and the grumbled noises it would make, so unlike his majestic white stallion. There was a brown wool blanket over Viktor’s shoulders and still the wind gave him shivers. He hadn’t yet dried up after having washed all of the mud from his body in the river. His armor was off, safely stored in the cart behind him, and he was wearing only his trousers and white undershirt. And without that layer of steel, he felt exposed and weak; it was almost unnatural for him.

  Once the thrill of the fight was over, Viktor felt an invisible weight overcome him. He began to realize the bleakness of his situation, and it made him sink into a solemn daydream.

  The Davenport Brothers were both dead. John Huxley may have been alive, but it had been a half-day since Zahrra had the vision, however right or wrong it may have been. And many things could go wrong in a half-day, he knew. And the same went for Hudson Blackwood and Syrena of Morganna, if he could even trust that they followed through with their word at all.

  Then, of course, there was Jossiah Biggs… The mere thought of the man’s name made Viktor’s jaw clench and his fists tighten. He refused to allow Jossiah the courtesy of a single thought. Instead he sat and rode on quietly, concentrating on his path ahead and shoving the dark thoughts aside.

  His eyes were heavy and glum, his cheeks had sunk, and there was a thick layer of scruff on his face. It was not at all the image of the handsome and valiant Golden Eagle.

  He felt empty now; a former hero, a fallen warrior, a soon-to-be-forgotten legend…

  Surely, he would live to see the day when people eventually questioned whether he was actually real or if he was merely another story…

  “All’s well, I hope?” a soft voice suddenly startled him.

  Viktor tried to respond with a smile, but it was a rather morose one. Skye, the pale elf, rode beside him on a spotted grey mare with a scar across its furry cheek.

  “Would you like the honest answer or the rubbish one?” Viktor asked.

  “Honest.”

  “Well,” Viktor sighed. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, I haven’t slept well in days… My company is down to a fourth of what it was, and my back may have been injured during the battle. If you can call that great… Then I’m doing just swell.”

  Skye allowed for a brief moment of silence, before saying, “Sounds like a hell. Wish I could do something to help, but… all I can really offer is wine.”

  Viktor glanced at the elf with a raised brow. “You don’t say…?”

  With a smirk, the elf reached into one of the pockets on the mare’s saddle and pulled out a winebag. Viktor took it instantly and poured it down his throat as if it were apricot juice.

  The elf then took the opportunity to examine the former knight… There were several scars on his arms and chest, some of them fresh, and his scruffy face was ruggedly handsome yet drained of most of its life. Back in the cart his silver armor rested, dented and scratched, the golden lining on it hardly noticeable save for the design of the eagle on the chest plate. That eagle there may have been the only thing holding on to the regal image that was Sir Viktor Crowley, for the rest of him was merely a shadow of him now.

  “Thank you,” he said at last, holding out the winebag for the elf.

  “You keep it,” Skye said. “I’ve no need for it.”

  “Oh… thanks.”

  They rode in silence for a moment, before Viktor ultimately decided to give in to his impulse to pry. He cleared his throat and asked, “Where did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “Right… care to indulge me?”

  Skye exhaled through their nose and grinned, a beautiful subtle grin it was, marking a perfect dimple just beneath their left cheekbone. “Why would Sir Viktor Crowley suddenly have an interest in a Woodland elf?”

  “Please,” he chuckled. “Just Viktor.”

  “Right. I’d forgotten.”

  “And besides… Where I come from, I don’t often cross paths with the likes of you… N-Not that I’d exactly protest,” he stammered subtly. Even after watching the elf in combat, he had no idea what to make of them. The softness in their voice, that smooth glowing skin, that thin body frame and those luscious pink lips, all were traits he often considered to be feminine in nature… But the way the elf carried themselves, their mannerisms, and the sharp shape of their nose and jaw seemed almost masculine…

  But he couldn’t ask, he knew. His lips wouldn’t allow it.

  “Well if you must know,” Skye smiled confidently. “My clan hails from the ice-capped mountains northeast of Merrymont. So cold and high, no human has ever traveled so far without freezing or starving to death.”

  “Are they still up there? Your people?” Viktor asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “Can’t ban us if your people never set foot in the land to begin with, can you?”

  Skye’s accent was rather interesting, a blend between the exotic accents from overseas with perhaps a decade or two of Halghardian influence. The warmth and softness in the elf’s voice was pleasant to Viktor’s ears, that much had been evident from the start. But the former knight noticed a hint of sadness in the elf’s eyes, as if touching unwelcoming territory in their mind. Still, Viktor’s curiosity grabbed hold of him, and so he chose his words carefully.

  “Why did you leave?” he asked.

  “I had a… disagreement with my clan. Ultimately decided it was time to part ways.”

  And that was that. Viktor knew better than to ask further. For a moment, he thought he saw Skye’s mare pick up its pace by a step and he ran through a hundred questions to ask so as to not end the conversation there.

  But he had hesitated blindly… The mare slowed down again and before he could choose what question to ask, Skye turned to him and said, “You know your men were asking about me.”

  “Oh?” he asked, unsure how to react. “What exactly were they asking?”

  Skye then glanced and locked eyes with the former knight. It was only for a brief moment, but Viktor swore it felt like minutes.

  “The same thing you’re asking yourself now,” Skye said.

  There was no point in hiding it, but Viktor tried all the same. He cleared his throat and attempted a look of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean…”

  Skye chuckled. “You’re a bad liar, Just Viktor.”

  They rode in silence again, but unlike other sporadic conversations, Viktor hardly felt any discomfort. And if he did, Skye had a talent for easing his nerves with simple words. Viktor allowed the elf to lead the discussion wherever they felt comfortable leading it to, and Skye’s direct way of speaking only continued to surprise him.

  “Rather curious for a bunch of peasants, aren’t they?” Skye asked.

  “Curious in what way?” Viktor raised a brow.

  “Brute honesty? They wanted to know what was between my legs…”

  Viktor felt a drop of sweat run down his left temple, and he silently thanked the gods it was on his left, safely out of Skye’s view. “Sounds like them,” he cleared his throat for the hundredth time. “Try not to pay them any mind.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  Another silence, this one longer. Both the former knight and the elf felt the mild tension between them and yet neither one of them appeared e
ager to ride away from the other.

  Perhaps it was mere stubbornness. Perhaps it was out of respect.

  Or, perhaps, it was the fervent heat in both their chests…

  “Did you know him very long?” Skye took a risk. “Your, um… Your friend, the knight. The one you traveled with when w-”

  “Don’t,” Viktor interrupted, somewhat coldly yet attempting to remain calm.

  “Don’t?” Skye arched a brow, suddenly noticing the sadness in Viktor’s eyes.

  “I don’t w… I don’t wish to speak of him,” he replied. There was a profound tension there that was causing him a great distress. His teeth were grinding against each other and his brows had inadvertently lowered on their own.

  “Keeping it in will only haunt you further,” Skye said, trying to help in whatever way possible. And somehow it worked… Viktor sighed, closing his eyes briefly, allowing for the rage to take over and preventing his tongue from speaking in any way but candidly.

  “He was m…” he began, fighting through the knot in his throat, exhaling through his nose as his eyes blinked furiously to fight back the dampness. “He was my second-in-command for nearly a decade… I vouched for him. Over and over again, I did… Years of service, years of friendship, and still he… he left me. When I needed him the most, he abandoned me… Like it all meant nothing…”

  Had they been sitting and not riding, Skye would have placed a hand the Viktor’s back. The look on his face was one of betrayal and sorrow, but it slowly began to change into a more hardhearted one.

  “Jossiah was the closest thing I ever had to a brother,” he said. “It’s a pity he didn’t see it that way.” Viktor paused there for another sip of wine, welcoming the bitterness as if it fueled him. “If I ever see him again,” he said, “I’m going to stab him in the heart.”