Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  He felt useless and unprepared. And so, as he wiped the sweat from his brows one last time, he took a deep breath. He knew the right thing to do, even though he also knew it might be the end of him. He simply couldn’t abandon them… If he did, they wouldn’t survive the night and he knew it…

  “Take them inside,” he said to his guards, and it was followed by a few protesting mutters. “We will give them shelter until we figure out the best solution for the situation.”

  Six guards remained in place. The other two, Hektor and Bogden, moved towards Adelina Huxley and her companions and lent them a hand.

  “Thank you,” Adelina said, a tremendous relief vivid in her eyes. “Thank you, m’lord!”

  Even Lady Brunylda Clark was looking at him differently.

  Good, she thought. For once, the bloody child says the correct answer.

  And so they marched… Step by step through Merchants’ Square, towards the palace gates that stood just yards away, surrounded by intimidating and angry eyes but quiet tongues. Lady Brunylda Clark and her bookkeeper Brie led the way, followed by Adelina Huxley and the orc child, the twins Margot & Melvyn, and Mister Beckwit. Hektor and Bogden carried Aevastra and Evellyn towards the palace gates. And finally, there was Darryk… The man looked like anything but a Lord Regent. He may have been dressed in fancy clothes, but his expression was one of defeat and humiliation.

  They stepped inside the gates. Adelina Huxley looked up at the immense height of the grand royal palace. She could fit every villager in Elbon there and still have plenty of space, she knew. It felt foreign to her, odd and unfamiliar, and yet it was the only place for miles where she and her children would be safe.

  Now that she had been seen carrying an orc child, the rumors would soon spread and her name would be cursed by every mouth in Val Havyn and perhaps even some in Elbon. And yet when she looked down at the child, she felt a strange feeling in her chest, as if none of it mattered. She felt everything but regret.

  When she heard the gates closing shut behind her, the tension left her shoulders.

  At last, they were safe…

  * * *

  “All it takes is one strand of lotus root,” Cedric said, rather lively and enthusiastically for a young man that was nearly crushed to death the night before. “You mix in a cup of vinegar and half a spoonful of black pepper and there’s not a single belly in the world that can fight it. It’s quite vile and painful, but it won’t kill you.”

  Gwyn couldn’t help but burst with laughter. For a woman with such a robust demeanor, her laugh was overly vigorous and with a higher pitch than Cedric had expected. “That’s bloody brilliant,” she said. “And a bit bold for a lad like ye.”

  “My mum taught me the trick. Said to only use it when the person deserved it.”

  “Smart woman, she was.”

  “Quite so,” Cedric smiled. “Unfortunately, I’m rubbish at scheming. Mister Nottley found the rest of the lotus root in my rucksack and beat me with a lash 5 times for it. I still got the scars in me back. I had to tend to ‘im for three days until he was better.”

  “Yellow bastard,” Gwyn grunted, the expression on her face shifting instantly.

  “It was worth it,” Cedric said with a shrug.

  “Is he the one that gave ye that thing there on yer lips?”

  “U-Um…” Cedric stammered and covered his lower lip with the tips of his fingers. The scab had managed to open yet again and he could feel the moisture of the fresh blood oozing out.

  “Don’t lie to me, toothpick. I know wha’ a bludgeon to the jaw looks like,” she said. Something in her tone conveyed a certain amount of concern, and Cedric felt a tug in his chest at the thought of it; having never had any family aside from his late mother, he couldn’t help but become anxious at Gwyn’s demeanor, like an older sister caring for a brother.

  “Was it him, then?” Gwyn asked a second time. “For that matter, how’d a scrawny lad like ye get all ‘em scars? Don’t tell me it was in battle. Ye couldn’t even hold a blade right.”

  Cedric made his best attempt at a chuckle, so as to ease the tension. “Y-Yes, that would be his doing,” he confessed. “But it was also worth it, if you ask me. He called my friend a stupid farm wench and she’d done nothing to deserve it.”

  “A friend, eh?” Gwyn asked, and Cedric felt a relief as the woman’s tone eased into a warmer one. “Didn’t know ye had any of those.”

  “I’ve got friends,” he tried to protest, but loosened himself when he saw that she was only teasing him. “Granted, not many… Mister Nottley makes me work late evenings and early mornings, I hardly have any time left for myself. But I manage.”

  “Why stick with the old schmuck, then? Sounds like the type o’ man I’d like to meet.”

  “Oh?”

  “If only to see the look on ‘is old face when I kick ‘im between the legs. Twice.”

  The two of them shared a laugh, loud enough to turn a few heads around them. It seemed like ages since Cedric had even smiled, much less laughed aloud; so long, that he had forgotten what that feeling in his throat and gut felt like when he laughed too excessively. For a moment, he found himself forgetting exactly where he was and for what purpose. It soothed him.

  They had reached the western border of the Woodlands by dusk and stopped to rest on the wrong side when Sir Percyval Garroway sent soldiers to scout the area and make sure an ambush wasn’t waiting for them. Cedric would never have guessed the Woodlands to be a safer place than Halghard and yet there they sat, waiting for the word to either continue or deviate from the road they were traveling through.

  “What’s ‘er name?” the question caught Cedric off guard.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your friend,” Gwyn clarified. “The farmgirl?”

  A shade of pink rose to Cedric’s cheeks and he stammered to speak. His right hand gripped the dagger on his belt again, though this time Gwyn hardly noticed. It had become as natural a trait as Cedric’s soft murmur of a voice.

  “Robyn,” he said. “Robyn Huxley… She lives in Elbon. It’s a village not too far fr-”

  “I know where Elbon is, lad,” she said, friendlier than the comment sounded. “I may be a mercenary, but I ain’t stupid.”

  “N-No, I didn’t mean to-”

  “Relax,” she chuckled.

  “I’m sorry,” his gaze lowered, a hint of shame in his eyes.

  Gwyn lifted a dagger at him as if it was her finger. “Apologize again ‘n’ I’ll actually be angry at ye.” They smiled at each other again.

  Nearby, there was a commotion. Two figures approached the brigade as they hid within the darkness of the trees. Viktor Crowley stood next to Percyval, along with a crowd of about ten men, all dressed in different attire. They held no torches, out of fear of giving themselves away, and their tense stance was the only thing they all shared commonly, as if ready to spring into battle at any moment.

  “What do you see, Crowley?” Percyval asked.

  Viktor was dressed in his undergarments and borrowed leathers, looking more like a mercenary than a knight. “No sign of any fires,” he said. “The Rift of Halghard is just two miles north, I doubt there’s any threat approaching from there. Not one we can’t handle, at least.” He squinted and managed to make out the incoming shadows in the dark. He grew tense at first, but then realized that one of the shadows was massive and had horns sticking out of his head like a bull.

  “They’re back,” he said with a smirk. “Standby.”

  Percyval echoed him and the tension broke, but the conversations seized almost instantly. Skye, the elf mage, was faster than they appeared to be; Toro, the minotauro, had to walk faster to catch up. When they finally reached the rest of the troop, Percyval stepped towards them both. “Report?”

  “No signs of a troop anywhere,” Skye said. “Just a scouting party of about eight or nine men camped at about a mile east of Grymsbi.”

  “Banners?”

  “Morganna’s.”
<
br />   Sir Percyval took a moment to breathe it in. Then he nodded and turned towards his troop. “All right. Listen up!” he shouted. “King Alistair’s camp is just six miles ahead… There will be food and shelter waiting for us when we get there. If we march quietly and carefully, we should avoid any unprecedented attacks. Now gather your horses and weapons. We march!”

  The troop obeyed. No one lit a single torch despite the darkness consuming the place.

  “Finally,” Gwyn said under her breath.

  Cedric said nothing. The anxiety in his chest had returned and it wouldn’t allow for any words to rise up to his lips. He took a moment to hop down from the cart and give his bruised legs a good stretch when suddenly a man in dark armor approached him.

  “You there!” said Sir Antonn Guilara.

  Cedric had only seen the man from a far and he was horribly frightened of him; then again, he was frightened of nearly everyone. “Y-Yes, sir?” he stood up straight all of a sudden. Gwyn stood nearby, in case the ill-tempered knight became too aggressive.

  “You’re Sir Viktor Crowley’s squire, yes?” asked Sir Antonn. In his hands, he held the reins of a pony and was dragging the poor thing along despite its protesting neighs.

  “Yes, sir… that would be me, sir…”

  “Good. Here,” Sir Antonn threw the reins at Cedric. “We found this thing about a mile back. It was frightened half to death. Doesn’t look wild, it’s tame as an old hound. Reminded me of you.”

  And with that, the knight walked away. Cedric stood there eyeing the frightened farm pony up and down. It was roan-colored and had a few braids on its mane, and there was a handmade saddle on it that looked rather familiar, only he couldn’t make out where it was from. There was also an old quiver of arrows tied to the saddle but no bow, as if the arrows were there in case the archer that previously owned the pony ran out.

  “Guess today’s yer lucky day,” Gwyn gave him a pat on the shoulder.

  “Y-Yes,” Cedric nodded, caressing the pony as if he somehow knew it from somewhere. “Yes, I guess it is…”

  Gwyn walked some distance away, presumably to gather some things she had misplaced. The young squire kept a close eye on her, hoping she wasn’t planning on leaving him alone for the rest of the journey. Out of the whole troop, she had been among the few people he felt comfortable and safe around. And speaking to her, though mostly as a distraction, was keeping him sane.

  Thaddeus Rexx, on the other hand, was more than wary… His eyes examined Cedric, and then they would move towards the woman. There was a mild discomfort in his chest, something like doubt, if not distrust towards her. He tried to tell himself to back off, but he simply couldn’t help it. Before he knew it, the blacksmith was walking after her, trying his best to keep up with her brisk pace.

  “Oi! You!” he said, his voice gruff and rigid.

  The woman turned to face the towering figure of Thaddeus Rexx.

  “Gwyn,” she corrected him.

  “I don’t care,” Thaddeus remarked, the hostility more than vivid in his stance alone. “What’re you up to?”

  “What?” she curved her brows, thrown aback by his sudden interrogation.

  “You know what I mean. The lad. What’ve you been telling ‘im?”

  “What are ye, his warden?” she asked with a scoff.

  “What if I am?”

  “Ye ain’t. His warden’s an old limp bastard with muttonchops, he told me so. And ye don’t strike me as the fatherly type either. So what’s yer deal, then?”

  Thaddeus felt his discomfort grow into resentment and he tried his best to keep his stance. “I’m the closest thing the lad has for a friend,” he said sternly. “You’ve known ‘im for two days, I’ve known ‘im since he was a pup.”

  “And ye think ye know what’s best for him, do ye?” Gwyn took a step towards the blacksmith, not a single trace of fear in her bright green eyes.

  “I’m only lookin’ after the lad,” said Thaddeus. “He’s a squire… He’s already more naïve than is good for ‘im and he’s gonna get himself killed if you encourage ‘im to be a hero.”

  “Calm yerself, tiny. I was just gettin’ to know the lad… I wasn’t manipulatin’ ‘im, if that’s what ye’re getting at.”

  “Good,” Thaddeus said. “No need to be hostile, now, I was only-”

  “Hostile?” Gwyn’s tone began to change into a more menacing one.

  “Do ease your tone, there.”

  “Hostile?! So you approach me and start to accuse me of-”

  “Sister…” Daryan approached them, placing an arm around Gwyn’s shoulder.

  She shook him off and turned her glare at him. “Piss off! This ain’t yer mess.”

  “No, but it is my sister’s mess, and thus it will become my mess if I don’t calm you,” he said, his voice much more calm and composed compared to his sister’s.

  “I don’t need calming!”

  “There, there, now Gwyndolyn… Do you remember what happened back in Yulxester…? We don’t want another incident on our hands now, do we, dear sister?”

  Daryan’s eyes overpowered Gwyn’s, and she felt her tension lower almost instantly as she recalled in her mind the incident to which her brother was referring to. She nodded, much more calm and at ease, before turning back to Thaddeus Rexx.

  “If ye really are lookin’ out for his safety, ye shit… keep a better watch on ‘im during battle, will ye? I won’t always be ‘round to save the lad meself,” she said disdainfully, and proceeded to walk back towards her mount.

  Thaddeus hardly knew what to say. He allowed for his distrust to guide him and there was something like regret that was giving him the knot on his throat. He turned towards Daryan and asked, “What happened back in Yulxester?”

  “That might be a story for another time, Mister Rexx,” Daryan said, giving the man a tap on the arm.

  “Well… at least that rage of hers will be useful during the battle. Since it appears to be approaching, that is.”

  “A battle is inevitable, Mister Rexx,” Daryan said. “If not tomorrow, then in a week, perhaps a month… A scouting party isn’t as much a concern as King Balthazar’s army is. Five thousand men, they say he has. It’ll take a hell of a strategy to defeat an army that large.”

  “You seem to know a thing or two about wars, then?”

  “Regrettably so.”

  In the distance, a thin line of smoke was rising into the night sky, where King Alistair’s army had set camp. Something in Percyval’s gut urged him to send a group to kill the scouting party, but he stopped himself upon examining the condition of his recruits. They had fought and they had done it bravely, and many had even died for him.

  The Rogue Brotherhood had come for him, there was no doubt.

  The lives of the fallen recruits were in his hands and there was no turning back now.

  Tonight we march, Sir Percyval thought to himself.

  Tonight we eat and rest… For there may not be a chance for it tomorrow…

  * * *

  The Woodlands were the last place in all of Gravenstone that Robyn Huxley expected to find a tavern, and yet she did. Like a tumbling wave, she was struck with a scenery unlike any she had ever seen in Vallenghard. If her eyes were not deceiving her, the tavern looked as if it had been built inside the massive base of a tree, and surrounding it was the most diverse cluster of beings she had ever seen.

  A band of human sellswords, a woodland elf with skin the color of the ocean, two orcs sitting in the fruitful garden with a sleeping goblin lying still between them, or rather she chose to believe it was sleeping…

  About six or seven gnomes vanishing into a wide hole in the dirt, one after another…

  Another woodland elf wrestling a restless goblin in the mud…

  An ogre, nearly identical to the one that had attacked her that morning, sitting comfortably by the tavern door biting into the raw leg of what may have been a deer…

  The more she watched, the more overwhelmed sh
e became. She hid among the shrubs between Nyx and the Beast. Quiet and cautious, they had been hiding for a couple of minutes, thinking of the proper way to approach the strange tavern.

  “D’you think it’s safe?” she asked.

  “For you, perhaps,” Nyx said, sniffing about doubtfully. “Not so much for me, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure they can make an exception.”

  “You don’t know much about life outside of Elbon, Lady Robyn.”

  For a moment, she turned to the Beast as if expecting him to contribute, only he appeared more aggravated and inpatient than anything else. Over the span of ten hours, the Beast must have spoken about three words, and all of them had been under his breath. Robyn tried to make casual conversation with him, but it was always to no avail.

  “How hard can it be?” she asked. “You’re only a fox, not a bear… I can talk to them!”

  “There is another option,” Nyx said, glancing at her bow.

  She hesitated. “What…?”

  “It is a more immediate solution,” Nyx said, and Robyn felt a knot in her throat at the sound of him speaking so casually about death.

  She glanced at the Beast again, hoping for some form of effort.

  Are you not gonna say anything? Not even a single word?

  “N-No,” she said. “That is absolutely mad. I’m not killing you.”

  “It’s either you do or we find somewhere else to rest for the night, Lady Robyn.”

  “No… I-I won’t do it,” she said. “There must be a better way.”

  “Need I remind you that I can’t actually die?”

  She shook her head nervously, glancing at the silent Beast for the last time.

  Still nothing? I don’t think I’ve ever gone that long without talking myself… Say something, damn you!

  She cleared her throat. “What do you think, Beast?” she decided to ask.

  The ill-tempered orc grunted and rose suddenly to his feet. With a crack of the neck, he stepped towards the tavern leisurely, as if he had grown tired of sitting about.