Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  “Bad?” Viktor asked. “Execution bad or banishment bad?”

  Skye shrugged. “I don’t think King Alistair will kill his own brother for trying to help.”

  “Banishment, then,” Viktor said with a nod. “Been there… To be honest, it’s not as bad as I expected it to be.”

  Skye tried to chuckle, but what came out was no more than a loud exhale. “You’ve been banished for what? A few weeks? Less? These recruits have been banished their whole lives. How do you suppose they feel?”

  Viktor wished he could take back his words. “I’m sorry. Truly, I meant no offense.”

  “I know… I’d never expect an offense from the noble Golden Eagle of Vallenghard.”

  “How many times must I say it?” he replied with a smirk. “It’s just Viktor…”

  Skye said nothing, only smiled back and nodded.

  Viktor’s gaze shifted back towards the horizon. So much open space, there was. So much rich and fertile land all around them, enough land to fit and establish every nonhuman being from the Woodlands and more. And yet it seemed as if no amount of land would suffice, for when it came to politics humans were as stubborn as they came.

  “Skye?” called a voice from afar. “Skye the Frost-Hearted, is that you?”

  The elf glanced back and rose to their feet when the shadow emerged. Viktor glanced as well, and then instantly wished he hadn’t. He felt a pain his gut from the resentment.

  Not now… For gods’ sake, not now…

  Zahrra approached them, stepping carefully over mud-riddled patches of grass. “There you are,” she said to the elf. “Been lookin’ everywhere for ya. Come. Now.”

  “What is it?”

  “What isn’t it?” the witch replied. “There’ve been threats. Rumors, cold stares, mockery. Soon enough, there will be a revolt if we don’t get the bloody hells out of this camp.”

  “Who threatened you?” Skye sounded worried and defensive, as if Zahrra was a close relative of some sort.

  “No one,” the witch said. “Not yet, that is. But I can hear them all. The voices won’t stop, it’s making me sick.”

  Viktor had heard enough. He gave in to his temper and leapt to his feet, charging towards the witch with a cold stare. She looked at him as if he were a madman, as if she had done him no wrong, and it only angered him further. “You!” he called, despite the fact that he already had her attention.

  “Zahrra,” she reminded him, but he cared very little for her name.

  “You said they’d be here!” he accused her indirectly. “They travel to Wyrmwood, you said to me! Ahead of you, they are. Well?!”

  Zahrra’s eyes narrowed. “Well…?” she asked back.

  “Well?! Where the bloody hells are they?!”

  “Calm yourself, Viktor,” Skye said, but for the first time the elf’s voice was not enough to soothe Viktor’s rage; it was a rage he’d been building up since he left Val Havyn.

  “I said they were traveling to Wyrmwood,” Zahrra said, standing her ground as best as she could. “Maybe they encountered some trouble along the way.”

  “Or maybe you were lying,” Viktor accused her, this time directly.

  “I never lie,” Zahrra shot a cold stare right back at him.

  “Please, calm yourselves! The both of you!” Skye stepped in between them.

  “Ahh that settles it then!” Viktor said loudly and sarcastically, fueled by his hot temper. “So I’m to believe every word you say simply because you dreamt it?!”

  “I do not dream anything, you arrogant fool.”

  “I was a fool when I chose to listen to you!”

  “You live in the dark, old knight… I don’t expect you to understand, it is a matter too complicated for your small mind.”

  “You can hide behind your words all you want,” Viktor clenched his jaw and his breaths turned into hisses. “But I know what you are. You’re a cheating crook!”

  Skye held back a gasp. “Viktor…”

  “You’re a fraud!”

  Suddenly, Zahrra’s eyes went pale, her green pupils fading into nothing. Skye took a step back, gripping their staff nervously, should anything unprecedented happen.

  Viktor’s expression began to change. He began to tremble as a cold chill ran up his back. It was as if Zahrra had crawled into his mind uninvitingly and Viktor could feel her there. For a moment neither one of them was truly there, only their bodies were.

  “You wish to test me, Viktor Crowley?” Zahrra hissed coldly, her pale unblinking eyes locked on the former knight. “Go on then… Test me…”

  Viktor felt the air turn suddenly icy cold, but this time it wasn’t Skye’s staff that caused it; this was entirely Zahrra’s doing. Images began to flash through his mind, dark images that he had purposely buried deep within. He became lost, immersed in a daydream, locked in a trance in which he had no control.

  “Loyalty, valor, a broken legacy,” the witch muttered, as if reading every single one of Viktor’s thoughts out loud. “And what is this I see…? A lost love…?”

  Viktor’s face went pale, almost as pale as Zahrra’s eyes. It was as if the man was both conscious and not at the same time. He was aware of his surroundings but he couldn’t move a single muscle. And when he tried desperately to speak, his lips could manage no more than a shiver.

  “Ahh… not lost, no… A love left behind,” Zahrra delved even deeper into his thoughts. “It haunts you to this day, I can see… You fight only to fill that gapin’ hole in your heart…”

  “That’s enough, Zahrra,” Skye tried to intervene, but Zahrra was not willing to yield so quickly, not until she made sure Viktor Crowley would never doubt her again; she kept her spell intact, waiting for the opportune moment to break it.

  “You left behind a part of you,” she said; for a moment, her voice sounded almost sad. “You don’t fight for honor, Viktor Crowley… You fight so you can forget…”

  The spell had frozen Viktor’s eyes, but the tear that escaped him was quite real. The air left his chest and he was unable to breathe when the image flashed before his eyes… He could see her suddenly, the love he had left behind. 25 years it had been, and yet the image of her was perfectly clear.

  Hair as golden as wheat, lips like red petals, eyes as blue as the ocean…

  For a moment, she felt real… He thought if he reached out, he could touch her face…

  Only she couldn’t be… He knew it all too well, as much as his heart held on to the image of her. He knew that he was latching onto nothing. A mere memory, she was. Nothing more.

  Suddenly there was a sharp hissing sound…

  Viktor felt the witch release him, he felt the warmth surging through his body as if he’d fallen into an overflowing tub of boiling water, and within seconds his face became drenched in sweat. It was then that he realized he’d involuntarily drawn his sword while he was lost in the trance.

  There was a long silence. It was obvious from Zahrra’s expression that nobody had ever moved while locked in one of her spells before, much less drawn a weapon. Skye glanced back and forth between the two. Zahrra’s eyes had gone back to their normal green state and she also began sweating and heaving as if she was exhausted.

  With a crack of the neck, Viktor took a step towards the witch with a menacing stare that left her stunned. “Never do that again,” he said. “Or I’ll sink my blade into your heart…”

  He walked away, back towards the camp for a drink. He didn’t slide his blade back into its scabbard until he was a good distance away.

  Skye and Zahrra were left alone for a moment. The witch seemed almost ashamed for having allowed her own anger to consume her, or perhaps she was simply too exhausted to be angry. She wasn’t particularly fond of jumping into people’s minds, more so because it would often take a bigger toll on her than it did on the victim. But she was also not fond of being called a liar, much less by an average human. Skye took Zahrra by the arm and guided her towards the nearest sitting log, making certain the
witch wouldn’t pass out from the lightheadedness.

  “How did you do it?” the elf asked abruptly.

  “Do what?”

  “The vision you had before…”

  Zahrra chuckled. “You doubt me as well, Skye the Frost-Hearted?”

  “You know I would never do that,” Skye said with a gentle smile. “It simply puzzles me how you were able to see his companions without a vessel.”

  They reached the log at the camp’s entrance. Zahrra’s feet had been dragging against the dirt as if she’d been drained of all her energy, and she was relieved to be able to sit despite the cold stares the Wyrmwood soldiers were shooting at them. “Yes, I suppose it is puzzling,” she said. “I’m not quite sure I fully understand it myself. But either way, it’s best not to dwell. Some matters are simply better off left in the past…”

  XVII

  Riders in Red

  Nyx hardly spoke, his muscles ached so much. A few words here and there, but it was enough to amaze the younger of Skinner’s wardens. They huddled around him, asking him all sorts of questions. In their inquisitive youthful minds, they imagined some ancient witch must’ve cursed an innocent snake with sentience because she was sick of talking to herself or something along those lines. Robyn wondered if she should’ve shattered their curiosity with the truth but she chose to let Nyx decide.

  Instead, the girl remained close to the Beast. They were being fed so much, she felt almost at home again. As she sipped her tea, the Beast munched on a plate of chicken that Gibbons had served him. Skinner joined them at the table, his boots resting on a wooden footstool, chatting with them about all sorts of things as the ale began to kick in.

  It was pleasing for Robyn to know that not everyone in the village was prejudice or cruel. Skinner, however strange he might have seemed at first, had turned out to be a kind man; a strict one, sure, but only when he needed to be and always to protect his fellow wards. He was one of the few that allowed folks of any race into his home. Others had to either seek refuge in taverns or inns, or else resort to sleeping outside in some vacant alley with enough roof to stay dry. A “sanctuary village”, Grymsbi had been declared, but it soon became obvious that it wasn’t much of a sanctuary after all. There was no safety for the Woodland folk; the word itself was starting to lose all meaning. But Skinner and his band of misfits refused to give up hope; they were like the one rusty nail holding up the roof of a shabby old cottage, stubbornly refusing to yield.

  “I’ve trained kids of all sorts,” Skinner shared with them, at some point between his third and fourth ale. “Orphaned children, wild elves, orcs seeking shelter, you name it. The Wardens of Grymsbi, they call us.”

  “Who calls you?” the Beast asked doubtfully, his mouth drooling with chicken grease.

  “The townsfolk,” Skinner elaborated. “In a vile place like this, the people need something to cling onto, you see. So we give them that. When the village guards fail to protect them, we’re there. When the village is on the verge of a raid, we’re there. Of course, once the kids come of age they go on about their ways. The names and faces change but the Wardens have always been here. It gives the people hope, you see.”

  The Beast responded, as he usually did, with a simple grunt. He then bit into the meatless chicken bone on his plate, crushing it as easily as if he were biting into an apple. The cracking of the bone made Skinner raise a brow with amusement, as the man eyed the orc up and down.

  “That’s quite an interesting pelt you got there, friend,” Skinner said, referring to the red fox skin the Beast wore around his waist as a belt. “Did you kill it or was it already dead?”

  “Didn’t just kill it,” said the Beast. “I ate the fucker.”

  “I see,” Skinner smirked, and then turned to Robyn as he finished his last ale of the night. “So what’s the plan now, then?”

  There was a sudden silence. Robyn became nervous, her mind suddenly snapping back to reality. “I dunno,” she said hesitantly. Skinner glanced back and forth between the girl and the orc. Robyn didn’t know what the Beast’s intentions were, and if he were being honest the Beast was rather unsure himself.

  “You could join us, Beast,” Robyn said, her eager eyes conveying a hint of hope. “You could be granted a pardon, even. If you came with us.”

  “Where…?”

  “Overseas,” she said. “To rescue Princess Magdalena of Vallenghard.”

  After a brief moment of tension, Skinner decided to interject. “I’m taking the girl south, first thing in the morning. King Alistair of Wyrmwood is an old friend of mine. He’ll be glad to lend a hand, I’m sure.”

  “My brother’s in Sir Viktor Crowley’s company,” Robyn added. “If we can find them, I can talk to them. Convince them to let you join the cause.”

  “The girl’s right,” Skinner said. “The world’s changing… Every day, folks of all sorts are migrating into our kingdom. This could give you a chance for a different life. Saving the king’s daughter could perha-”

  “To hells with the king’s daughter,” the Beast grunted suddenly, but his tone was far more somber than it was angry. “What’s the king’s daughter ever done for me? Or for any other orc?”

  Skinner gave it a moment’s thought before responding. “I understand your mistrust…”

  “Do ye?” the Beast scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he shook his head. “Is that all we are to ye? Just another blade for yer cause?”

  Another silence. And no one, not even Robyn, dared to challenge the Beast, for his was a sentiment they couldn’t possibly fathom.

  “Ye say we’re welcome here… Ye tell us that we can flee that cage of ours ‘n’ start again,” the Beast went on, and it was clear how painfully difficult it was for him to share his thoughts on the matter. “We come here lookin’ for a better future, a future where we don’t have to run… Instead we find nothin’ but wars ‘n’ conflict. And then ye try to rope us into a war that isn’t ours to fight? That’s not freedom… That’s just another fuckin’ cage…”

  Robyn felt the guilt settling in her gut. After all, had it not been for her the Beast would never have set foot in Halghard to begin with.

  “I’m sorry the world is shit,” Skinner said somberly. “It’ll take quite some time before we can fix it.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t start now,” Robyn added. “One day at a time, one orc at a time.”

  The Beast said nothing further, only contemplated their words. Part of him wanted to join Robyn in her venture, but truthfully he’d never seen the sea in his life and sailing it terrified him. It would take more than an hour’s conversation to persuade him otherwise, especially knowing what lurked within the black waters of the Draeric Sea.

  After a long silence, Skinner cleared his throat to break the tension. “Well,” he said to Robyn. “Looks like it’ll still be a trip for two, then.”

  “Three,” Nyx said from afar, and Robyn couldn’t help but smile.

  Well, she thought. It’s the start of a plan, at least…

  She relaxed, feeling for a change that the odds were finally in her favor. After all, if she had survived the Woodlands, what dangers could she possibly face in a kingdom of humans that would be worse than what she’d already seen? If anything, she felt more capable than the typical peasant in Grymsbi, and this eased her nerves quite a bit.

  But some of the wardens were not too happy about their commander leaving them again. One in particular had her eyes on Robyn and her companions like a vigilant hound.

  Even when she had guard duty, Ayisha stood on the cabin balcony peeking inside through one of the windows. The breeze was chilly that evening and yet the young warden fought through it without her coat. Skinner refused to let anyone go on guard duty without a partner, and the only volunteer that night had been the smart-mouthed curly-haired Milo, despite Ayisha’s protests. They sat together, daggers strapped to their belts and bows resting nearby. Milo was still obviously intrigued, even smitten with their new visitor. Ayisha, on
the other hand, was as distrustful towards her as she was with any stranger.

  “What do you make of the orc?” Milo asked, biting into a fresh kiwi.

  “What does it matter?” Ayisha remarked. “They’ll be gone come mornin’.”

  “I know. But what do you make of him?”

  Ayisha gave it a moment’s thought, staring into the distance with resentment in her eyes.

  “I would never trust a bloke in red leathers,” she said, and Milo knew better than to challenge her on such matters. Instead, he remained pensive.

  “The girl’s something, isn’t she?” he eventually said. “Very pretty, she is.”

  “Please,” Ayisha scoffed. “Ye say that about any girl that even looks yer way, lad.”

  “No, no, this one’s different, I can tell. She’s got nerve.”

  “Nerve, my arse.”

  “She had the pluck to confront you. I’d say that’s quite nervy.”

  “Wha’ in all hells does that mean?” Ayisha glared at him aggressively.

  “It means that I would never cross you,” Milo confessed. “Not truly, at least. But she did. Shows that she doesn’t scare so easy.”

  Ayisha said nothing in response. She was staring at the empty road that led deeper into town when suddenly something caught her eye. At night, Grymsbi always became hidden within a cloud of fog. Even from the balcony, all Ayisha and Milo could see were a cluster of thatched rooves and smoking chimneys, nothing more. But, amid the fog, the shadow of a boy began to form. He was running hastily towards them, boots splashing over the mud. Ayisha leapt from her seat instantly and stepped towards the edge, her eyes widening and her palms growing sweaty. The boy was distraught and out of breath, and he was shouting Ayisha’s name.

  Out of precaution, the woman reached for her bow. “It’s Ethan,” she realized.