Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  The boy turned and fled the room as fast as he could. He closed the chamber doors behind him and took a moment to catch his breath, pressing his back against the doors as if to keep the horrors locked inside. For a boy of twelve, he had seen far more than his curious mind could bear. And once his breathing was back to normal, his feet did something unexpected… They ran.

  Through the empty black halls of Drahkmere’s citadel, he ran, his eyes scanning for anything and everything that could possibly aid him in his escape. It was a rare instance, for his hands and feet to be free of ropes or chains. There was no way of escaping the citadel grounds undetected, he knew. Guards and recruits lurked around every corner. Patience was his best virtue, and he had used it before to seek out imperfections and possible hideouts. At that moment, however, the pounding in his chest wasn’t allowing him to think.

  Down a set of stairs, he hopped. Across an empty hall, he ran.

  Further away from the prison chambers, the citadel became more and more unfamiliar to his eyes. Eventually, he had forgotten where he was or what direction he’d come from. He entered a large dining room with wooden tables and chairs that were falling apart, ceilings and crystal chandeliers that were riddled with spider webs, and an awfully putrid scent in the air, a blend of humidity and death.

  He ran through the first set of doors he could find, only to come across a tower of spiraling stairs. He heard voices about two floors above, the grunts of two men hiding and drinking somewhere in the darkness. One of them must have heard him, for he snorted and shouted, “Who’s there?!”

  Thomlin sped downstairs as fast as he could, hopping over sets of steps and nearly falling every time. His knees became weak, the soles of his feet started to ache, and eventually one of his heels slipped on the edge of a step and he stumbled forward. When he fell, he scraped his wrists against the black stone and began bleeding, sharp pebbles sinking into his tender skin. Had his hands not eased his fall, his jaw would have smashed against the stone and his first thought was that he would have probably ended up like the Butcher.

  The boy groaned from the pain, silently so as to not be heard by the drunken men above. He pushed himself up with a weak hand, but the sting made him wince and the blood started to spread. While face down on the floor, however, something caught his eye.

  He noticed a glow, a subtle spark of light coming from the wall to his left…

  He craned his neck and realized there was a hole in the stone. It was small, about the size of two fingers, but it was there. The glow was coming from the other side of the wall, a crystal-like blue glimmer like that of a sapphire.

  Thomlin’s eyes widened…

  There were spider webs everywhere on this side of the citadel and there were no men to be found, save for a few drunks or rogues that snuck away and lurked in the darkness like rats among ruins. It was an entire section of the citadel, the boy realized, that was utterly unguarded. And the room he was staring into appeared to have no door leading to the inside, at least not from the hall of spiraling stairs. Still, he was sure of what his eyes told him. For a downtrodden peasant, precious stones like these were hard to miss. Those were sapphires he was seeing, all right.

  “Hey!” a sudden voice startled him.

  Thomlin glanced up with a twitch. A drunken man and a green orc were standing high above the set of stairs, glaring down at him.

  “Wha’ in all hells are you doin’ down here, boy?!” asked the man, a mercenary in his thirties with black hair and an excuse for a beard.

  “I-I got lost!” Thomlin lied, rising to his feet and wiping his bloody hands on his shirt.

  “I bet you did,” the man grinned menacingly. He glanced at his orc companion for a brief second before spitting and walking down the stairs towards Thomlin. “Got any coin on you, boy? Anythin’ we can sell?”

  “We can sell him,” the orc suggested.

  “I, um… N-No… Lord Baronkroft sent me to the kitchens for more ale, sir!” Thomlin lied again, his chest pounding with fear.

  “That so?” the man laughed. “Got any food on you?”

  “We can eat him,” the orc suggested again.

  “N-No, sir. I really must be going now…”

  “Slow down there, littl’ bugger,” the man stepped forward, cornering the poor boy. “Y’know this is exactly why you shouldn’t wander off. Who knows who you’ll bump into down ‘ere.”

  Thomlin was terrified. He had no weapon, nor anything he could use as one. And even if he did, there was no way he could outrun a man and an orc at the same time, not unless he was running upstairs. He was trapped.

  “Something you ain’t tellin’ me, boy?” the man asked.

  “We can beat it out of ‘im,” the orc said, once again his suggestions leaning more towards the violent side.

  Suddenly a door slammed open just a set of stairs beneath them, and a large husky man with a shaved head and a red bush of a beard stepped out. He had a bottle of mead in his hand, as if he was seeking a place to drink in silence, but he frowned when he noticed the boy and the two figures.

  “What the fuck are ye doin’ out here?” Hauzer snarled, but much to his surprise Thomlin appeared relieved to see him. The boy nervously slid his way around the man and the orc and ran towards him.

  “S-Sorry, sir!” Thomlin hid behind Hauzer’s towering frame. “I got lost…”

  “You lose something, Hauzer?” the drunken man asked.

  “Piss off, ye dirty bastard. Shouldn’t ye be standin’ guard somewhere?” Hauzer spat.

  “We was just havin’ a drink with the boy, Hauzer. Let ‘im stay with us a bit longer,” the man snickered.

  “N-No, sir!” Thomlin immediately yelped. “I prefer to go back now…”

  Hauzer gripped the boy’s arm and pulled him away, giving the two drunks one last glare as he brushed past them. “Get the fuck back to work, both of ye! Or Baronkroft will have yer tongues…”

  The man and the orc both snorted and made their way back up the stairs.

  Hauzer left the tower and closed the door behind him, dragging Thomlin across an outdoor corridor with a pleasant view of the sea. It was dusk, and had Thomlin been anywhere else it would have been beautiful. But even a warm sunset could do nothing to fix the morose sight of the ruined city.

  “They try anythin’ on ye?” Hauzer asked all of a sudden.

  “No, sir…”

  “Ye got lucky, then… What in hells were ye thinkin’, lad?” the large man closed his eyes and sighed as if he was exhausted, as if his job had started to take a toll on him. He bit off the cork on his bottle and began gulping it down as they walked without a care if anyone saw him. Though Thomlin may have been frightened of the man once, this time he wasn’t. If anything, the boy was thankful for Hauzer’s timely arrival.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry, lad. Be smart. ‘Round these parts, if ye ain’t smart, ye get killed. Plain ‘n’ simple.”

  “Y-Yes, sir…”

  They walked on for what felt like an hour.

  Hauzer kept his grip tight around the boy’s arm as if his hand was a steel cuff.

  Slowly, Thomlin’s surroundings became more and more familiar. He was silent for the rest of the walk, ready to be reunited with his only friend, Princess Magdalena. He was ready to greet her with an embrace, the way they became used to greeting each other, ready to tell her what he had seen in that hidden chamber next to the spiraling stairs… A chamber full of sapphires…

  * * *

  Darryk Clark sat in the king’s study, silent and preoccupied as he signed his name at the bottom of a newly drafted parchment. He lifted a goblet to his lips and, like the previous three sips, he’d forgotten there was nothing there but water. After several nights of heavy drinking, the man could hardly lift his head that morning. He’d stayed in bed until noon after vomiting twice and spent the rest of his day drinking water and prune juice. Then, after hours of contemplating, he began drafting the same contract o
ver and over again until it was to his satisfaction.

  Once he finished signing his name, he used the tip of his dagger to prick his thumb. He stained the parchment with a drop of his blood and pressed the Clark seal next to his name. And then he simply sat there, revising every word for the hundredth time.

  Lord Regent Darryk Clark, he silently mocked himself. Champion of Roquefort’s Spring Tournament at the age of seventeen. Sworn into knighthood at the age of nineteen. Betrothed to the princess of Vallenghard at the age of twenty-five. The embodiment of success, father called you once… If only the man could see you now…

  He sat back and rubbed his left temple with a mild groan.

  Be careful in Val Havyn, he’d been told. They’ll eat you alive up there.

  If only you had listened, Darryk… If only you hadn’t been so careless…

  Darryk Clark had grown accustomed to praise his whole life. From the moment he wielded a sword for the first time, he was told he’d been born for it.

  Born to fight, born to lead, born for victory, his father would so arrogantly boast.

  But that was in Roquefort. And Darryk was far from home.

  Had it been up to him he would still be back there, patrolling the city streets, the streets he called home, and being gawked at with great regard simply for being himself. But all he could think about for the last two days was the chaos he had witnessed in Merchants’ Square. Never had he felt so weak and powerless. He’d been so naïve and foolish to think he would be accepted as Lord Regent simply for his house name. Had it not been for the Lady Brunylda, only the gods knew what would have happened to them all. The lack of control he had over the city made his head throb.

  He was not fit to be a lord, he knew…

  Not two weeks had passed and already he was sick of it…

  As he rolled the parchment carefully, his ear caught the echoing footsteps approaching from the hallway. They were heavy and anxiously hurried, and he could almost feel the tension in his neck rising, dreading whatever news those footsteps were bringing to him.

  “My lord?” he heard Hektor call from the outside.

  “Come in,” Darryk replied.

  Hektor opened the door but remained in the hallway, looking more distressed than ever before. “You must come at once, my lord!”

  “What is it?” Darryk rose to his feet. He was no longer wearing his royal blue tunic. Instead, he wore the black leathers and steel plates he’d brought with him from Roquefort. He looked more like himself again. And though the armor was much heavier, his back was a lot straighter than it had been in previous days.

  “The peasants, my lord!” Hektor said worriedly. “The peasants, they’re…”

  Without thinking twice, Darryk began strapping his blade onto his belt. “Yes?!”

  “They’re rebelling again, my lord…”

  Darryk began panicking. Not a minute later, they were dashing through the courtyard and into the main hall. It was quite dark inside, darker than most evenings; every lantern had been unlit and every curtain had been purposely shut. Many of the palace servants were hiding behind the windows, glimpsing through the cracks in the curtains at the mob outside the palace gates. There were a good number of guards there, fully armored and weapons strapped to their belts, awaiting instructions from their Lord Regent.

  Darryk spotted Lady Brunylda Clark among the crowd, standing there in her elegant teal gown, her face stained with a hardened grimace, and just behind her was her timid bookkeeper Brie. Adelina Huxley and her children were also there, but they were secluded in the dark, somewhat ashamed to be at the center of the impending revolt.

  “What in all hells is happening out there?” Darryk pulled the curtain open slightly and took a gander. The gates were a mere silhouette, darkened by the light coming from all the torches, and through the bars he could see the mob shouting angrily and throwing garbage over the black steel railings. The gates were holding them all back, but the crowd was massive enough that it made Darryk panic all the same. Even Lady Brunylda appeared somewhat out of sorts; behind her cold expression, her eyes couldn’t hide the unease.

  “Stand back,” Darryk told the servants; they retreated into the shadows of the corridors but their prying eyes and ears remained close. The light of the torches was beaming through the stained windows, through the cracks between the curtains, illuminating their troubled faces with a bright orange glimmer.

  “They’ve gone mad,” said Lady Brunylda as she took a sip from her flask.

  “They demand to speak with you, my lord!” Hektor said. “They refuse to leave until you remove the orcs from the city grounds…”

  “But she’s dead,” Adelina Huxley felt the need to speak up, out of panic. “Aevastra died this morning…”

  “Yes, well… tell that to them,” Hektor replied nervously, and then turned back to his Lord Regent. “Orders, sir?”

  But Darryk could say nothing in return. Instead he glanced towards Lady Brunylda for guidance. And just as he was expecting, she was scowling before he even said a word.

  “What do we do?” he asked worriedly.

  “We?” the Lady raised a brow.

  He looked at her as if he was pleading to her with his eyes alone.

  “You wouldn’t just throw me into the fire pit alone, would you?”

  “What else am I to do? Burn with you?”

  “Help me!” he said, his voice nearly a shout.

  “Help you how, exactly?!”

  Darryk was panicking again and she could see it; the mere image of him was enough to make her scoff. She turned her back on him and began walking away, but Darryk sprang and followed her like a frantic dog.

  Don’t do this, he begged her silently. Don’t abandon me now… I need you now… You can’t be this heartless. But as they walked swiftly down the corridor, Darryk found himself struggling to keep up with her rapid pace.

  “Wait… I… What do I say to them?!” he asked desperately.

  “What do I know?! You’re the Lord Regent. Figure it out!”

  “I’m not a Lord Regent, my Lady,” he admitted out loud for the first time, a bit somberly at that. “I never have been a Lord Regent. I’m a soldier!”

  “Then tell them that!”

  “I-I can’t! They’ll shun me!”

  “They already shun you…”

  “Yes, but surely y-”

  “For fuck’s sake, boy!” she came to a halt and confronted him, her voice echoing throughout the dark hallway loud enough that all of the palace servants overheard. “Pull yourself together and do your duty! I am not your mother, I am your advisor!”

  “Then advise me!” he raised his own voice, accepting the fact that the servants might lose whatever respect they had left for him.

  “You want advice?!” she stepped closer, her eyes fuming with rage and her words once again stabbing at his chest like a dagger. “Here’s some fresh advice for you… Wake up! Open your bloody eyes and look around you!”

  He hesitated to talk back, for Lady Brunylda Clark had never been so terrifying.

  “This isn’t Roquefort, you arrogant child! You won’t be praised and coddled here simply for being who you are,” she said bluntly. “The world is not your playground. If you haven’t figured that out on your own, it’s time you learned the hard way. The world is a cruel shit-heap of a place… It will deceive you and it will defy you. And if you aren’t strong enough, it will break you, until you’re nothing more than a walking pile of forgotten dreams, drinking the pain away while awaiting death… The only thing that separates you from the rest is your will to keep fighting. And if you don’t have the nerve to walk out there and speak to your people as a proper leader then you shouldn’t be one!”

  With that, the Lady walked off into the darkness, towards a set of spiraling stairs.

  Darryk Clark had never felt more shame than he did at that very moment. He’d been a fool to think he could take on the task of Lord Regent. And when matters had gotten out of hand, he’d
been an even bigger fool to expect compassion from a woman that had none.

  Just before he walked back towards his guards, however, something unexpected happened. Lady Brunylda Clark came to a halt just before the palace steps. She appeared hesitant, as if fighting back the bit of empathy pricking at her chest.

  “That preacher has caused enough trouble for you as it is, my Lord,” she said, once again with that added weight on the title so as to spite him. “If I were in your place, I would take the opportunity to silence him once and for all…”

  The Lady then walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the staircase.

  Darryk sighed… He knew then exactly what he had to do…

  “M-My lord?!” Hektor called from afar. “They’re beating the gates down! Orders, sir!”

  “Damn them all,” Darryk cursed under his breath. His ears were ringing from the shouts outside the palace walls. Something strange happened to him right then and there. He felt the weight lift suddenly from his shoulders. If he was alone in this, he was to handle it the only way he knew how… Like a knight… Somehow, the thought of it made the pressure a bit more bearable. He approached the front doors, his chin up high and an expression on his face that conveyed both sorrow and rage.

  “Orders, sir?!” Hektor asked again.

  “Round up every man we’ve got,” Darryk ordered, slightly surprised at his own grit. “Send twenty of them out through the western gates and have them surround the crowd from the outside. Have the rest stand in formation at the gates.”

  “Yes, my Lord! Right away!”

  “And Hektor…?”

  The man looked back. “Yes, sir?”

  “Come back at once… I need you by my side, should anything happen…”

  “Gladly, sir.”

  Adelina Huxley could do nothing but watch, her twins hiding behind her dress, guarding River as if he was their own sibling. Darryk tried to give them a head nod of encouragement, but it in no way calmed their nerves. He then whispered something into Brie’s ears, and the young woman ran off hurriedly towards the king’s study as if to retrieve something.

  “Very well,” Darryk glanced at Bogden, the only guard left inside. “Open the doors.”