Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  Every soul present was growing impatient and restless, sweating ruthlessly as the warm humid wind blew into the chamber from the outside. The balcony had no windows. It was hardly a balcony, the old thing. Many of the bricks were missing, as if it had been struck by catapults long ago and never fixed. The view, on the other hand, was quite impressive. Or it would have been, had the rocky fields in the distance not been as dark and rotten as they were.

  The moon had risen at just the right time, it seemed.

  It was full and vibrant when the footsteps came.

  The men’s chattering diminished into faint whispers when their ears caught the tapping of the boots echoing down the hall. The gnome woman that had been serving the drinks headed for the wide doors and opened them.

  And then the room fell silent…

  Lord Yohan Baronkroft entered, wearing a freshly sewn coat made of black ridged velvet, stripped of any decoration except for the collar, which was embroidered with a dim silver prickly vine. The rest of his clothes were graceful and stainless, a neat white shirt beneath a smooth black vest and leather pants. His black boots had steel plates over them that clinked with every single step. And his hands, pale as his face was, were replete with silver rings, one of which covered his entire forefinger.

  He looked like a Lord, that much was certain.

  All that was missing was a crown…

  “Greetings, gentlemen!” he began with his usual grin. “What a pleasure it is to have you all here this evening.”

  The eerie silence lingered for a while. Every man in the room was exasperated and angry, and they were baffled at the sight of the Lord walking in entirely alone, with not a single guard at his side. Baronkroft instantly recognized the man in charge; he was the only one that genuinely seemed dangerous, compared to the rest.

  “Well, cursed be my eyes,” Baronkroft approached the end of the table, towards the chair closest to the balcony. “I half-expected you not to show up, knight commander.”

  The knight commander was in his fifties, easily. Rugged and strong, with a black beard that was greying at the roots and a grey head of hair that he kept tied behind him as any proper warrior would. His armor was black and silver, and unlike the rest of the men, he had steel-clad spikes on his shoulders and the face of a wolf crafted onto the silver on his chest.

  “Lord Yohan Baronkroft, at your service,” the lord bowed.

  The man rose to his feet, but he did not bow in return. “Sir Gerhard Vandelour,” he introduced himself, his hand on the hilt of his blade.

  “Oh, I know,” Baronkroft grinned. “The Wolf of Qamroth, himself. It’s quite an honor, truly. It isn’t every day one meets a gentleman of your talent.”

  “Where’s Weston?” the commander asked, not a trace of affability in his glare.

  Baronkroft took a moment to examine the rest of the men. All of them were dressed in armor, and it was clear that they had seated themselves in accordance to their ranks, as further down the table the glares became less firm and the hairs on their heads less grey. But there was one thing all of them had in common… they were armed and prepared for a fight, if necessary. Somehow, this pleased Baronkroft further, for his grin grew wider and his eyes hungrier.

  “Patience, Sir Vandelour,” he said. “We’re on the same side, you and I.”

  “Horse shit,” the knight remarked. “I’m loyal to my king. You are not. And I ran out of patience decades ago, so I will ask again. Where is Sergeant Weston?”

  Baronkroft glanced at the gnome woman.

  “Magda?” he called. “Would you be a darling and fetch Harrok for me? Have him bring the sergeant at once.”

  The gnome woman took a bow. “Yes, m’lord.”

  As she left the room, there was a moment of silence in which some of the men glanced at one another in confusion upon hearing the name Harrok.

  “Feel better?” Baronkroft gave Sir Vandelour a friendly tap on the shoulder. “Now, please. Sit! The sergeant will be here soon. Sit and help yourselves to a drink!”

  Sir Vandelour eased his shoulders a bit, but he kept his eyes locked on the lord, watching for any sudden unexpected movement. Baronkroft casually poured himself a drink. And soon after, a few of the men felt comfortable enough to do the same.

  “You’re probably all dying to inquire about the purpose of tonight’s gathering,” Baronkroft said, his goblet in hand, pacing around the room as if it was his playground. “Mark my words, gentlemen, tonight will mark a very important record in our history.”

  “Madmen do not make history,” Sir Vandelour interrupted. He was the only one in the table without a drink and he very much preferred it that way.

  “I beg to differ, knight commander!” Baronkroft remarked with a grin. “In fact, our history is rather replete with people who were once regarded as madmen and radicals. Ridiculed, scorned, shunned for their ideas… Sir Kristoffer Bahr was only a beggar when he led the rebellion of Kahrr. A century and a half later, it remains a free city thanks to him… Captain Genevieve Van Gault was called a traitor of the crown when she began smuggling goods and merchandise to neighboring countries for profit. Now her legacy lives on through the Merchants’ Guild… Dare I even mention the stable boy that saved King Ulrik’s life over thirty years ago? People laughed at the boy for thinking he could ever be more than a dung-sweeper. Now he is widely known throughout the country as the Wolf of Qamroth.”

  Baronkroft gazed over at Sir Vandelour, though the man did not seem at all impressed.

  “Enough,” the man said. “If you’ve a point to make, I suggest you get on with it.”

  “My point, knight commander, is simple!” Baronkroft grinned. “There is a very thin line between a madman and a legend. The one thing that distinguishes the two is the will to follow through with their plans.”

  “And what is it you need from us?” asked another one of the men at the table. “Weapons? Armor? Coin for your venture?”

  “I’ve no interest in your riches, sir,” Baronkroft said. “I only need your men…”

  There was a brief silence; Sir Vandelour broke it with a scoff.

  “And why in all hells would we comply?”

  “Why…?” Baronkroft kept pacing, staring aimlessly into space. “Tell me, Sir Vandelour… in your many years of service, how far east have you traveled?”

  The knight commander lowered one brow and raised another, as if trying to figure out the purpose of the lord’s questioning.

  “And I don’t mean Ahari,” Baronkroft added. “That old shit heap means very little to me. No, the place I’m speaking of is a little place north of Ahari… A little place called Gravenstone…”

  “I’ve been there,” said another one of the men. “Riddled with humans, it is.”

  “Ahh, but it isn’t, you see,” Baronkroft went on. “It’s only riddled with humans because they’d kill you if you were anything else… You see, not many people are aware of the horrors that take place in this land. And those that are aware would much rather turn the other way if it meant their trade contracts and treaties with the kingdoms of Halghard and Vallenghard remain intact.”

  “What in all hells are you getting at?” asked Sir Vandelour.

  At this point, Baronkroft unveiled a map he had hidden within his coat. He unrolled it on the table near Sir Vandelour, placing a candle and a jar of wine on each end to keep it from rolling back up. Using his right forefinger, the lord tapped the center of the map with the sharp end of his silver ring.

  “See that patch of land there?” he asked, and then backed away for the rest of the men to catch a glimpse. “Any civilian would take a gander and see nothing more than a vast stretch of forest. And they’d be right, for the most part. I’ve been there a few times myself. It’s hauntingly beautiful, in fact. They call it the Woodlands.”

  Sir Vandelour began to comprehend where Baronkroft was headed. And he was growing rather impatient with the man’s rambling.

  “What I see, however…” Baronkroft came to a
halt just before his balcony, his eyes drifting towards the darkened distance, “…is a prison.”

  A few of the men began mumbling to one another, raising brows and scowling.

  “Nothing more than a filthy prison, gentlemen,” Baronkroft sighed, his voice softening, his ghostly grin suddenly fading. “It is a land riddled with magic and horror. Ungodly beasts lurking around every corner, trees that come to life at night... It is a land with no boundaries and no rules. A land of death and misery. A place where the strong prey on the weak and the unlucky suffer unimaginable losses…”

  Baronkroft had to fight back any sentiment, not only because it disgusted him to show any but also because he knew Sir Vandelour was not the type of man to succumb to emotion.

  “Gentlemen, I would never wish upon you any of the horrors that exist in this forsaken land. I wouldn’t wish it for any of you. To have to survive in this place, to have to fight for your lives every minute, to have to look over your shoulders or risk being enslaved… That isn’t life, and we all know it. This place, it’s… it’s a cockpit of mayhem, where the good die young and the bad survive only to wreak havoc on those who seek only to survive…”

  At this point, Baronkroft had nearly everyone’s attention; everyone except the knight commander Sir Vandelour, who remained at guard out of instinct. The atmosphere in the room was eerie and abnormal, as if there were ears listening behind every wall. Little to their knowledge, however, there were…

  The doors from which Baronkroft had entered had been left wide open, revealing a long torch-lit corridor. And in the corridor adjacent to it, hidden by the black stone wall, were two figures waiting for their moment to arise. Princess Magdalena of Val Havyn was one of them. And she had heard everything. The humans that Baronkroft was referring to were her people. The map that Baronkroft had revealed to them was her home. She wanted desperately to scream for help, to tell them all that Baronkroft was a madman. But two things prevented her from doing so.

  One was the fear. Baronkroft was not the kind of man to make empty threats.

  The other was curiosity. The tone in the man’s voice when he spoke about Gravenstone was not a vindictive one. In fact, it was almost a tone of admiration.

  “All right,” Sir Vandelour stood from his chair, the wood scratching against the stone floor. “I think we’ve all heard enough of your nonsense. I demand to see Sergeant Weston at once.”

  “Patience, Sir Vandelour,” Baronkroft attempted to stall. “The point I’m trying to mak-”

  “I know the point you’re trying to make,” the knight commander interrupted. “I simply don’t care for it, sir.”

  Baronkroft’s grin lost some of his charisma. He placed one hand over the other in front of him, listening attentively to the knight commander, his expression becoming more intimidating after every word.

  “Foreign laws are none of our concern, Mister Baronkroft,” said Sir Vandelour. “Above all, not the laws of a country that we’ve been in quarrel with for the last two centuries. My brigade serves King Ulrik of Qamroth. Not you!”

  “I suggest you take a seat, knight commander,” Baronkroft said calmly.

  “I suggest you cut the shit and deliver us our man!”

  “I said take a seat, sir…”

  “If I have to ask again, it won’t be nicely!”

  “Take. A. Seat.”

  “Where is Weston, you sick bast-”

  “I said SIT DOWN!”

  The room turned suddenly icy cold. Sir Vandelour felt a blow to the chest, as if someone had struck him with a warhammer. His knees bent unwillingly and he fell back heavily against his chair. His hands were suddenly gripping the armrests as if holding on for dear life. He looked at his body as if it was no longer his, as if something had taken control over it. The entire room turned towards Baronkroft, whose expression had changed from affable to frightening.

  “I must say I’m rather disappointed,” the lord sighed, rubbing his temples as if he was suddenly tired, as if a severe headache had come out of nowhere.

  “W-What on earth have you done to me…?” Sir Vandelour asked somewhat desperately.

  “I did ask nicely, did I not? But men often tend to challenge me, gods know why. Do you not see what I am trying to do, here?” Baronkroft paced around the room again. “I’m not the monster here, gentlemen. The real monsters are out there!” He aimed a finger at the map on the table. “Whatever atrocities I’ve committed are nothing compared to what they’re putting people through in that place! Elves and orcs banished to a land of death, gnomes building civilizations underground for the sake of survival, and anyone who sets one foot outside of those borders gets decapitated simply for not being human…”

  “It is not our concern!” Sir Vandelour argued through his fear, seeing as the rest of the men were too stunned to do so.

  “Ahh… so you prefer to sit by and do nothing while injustice carries on just a few hundred miles from here?”

  “And what can we do to change that?!” Sir Vandelour asked, rather honestly at that. “Slavery is still practiced in Ahari! Beyond the Draeric Sea, in the Noorgard Isles, women are scarred at birth, they call it ‘purification’. Do you expect to fix all of their problems as well?!”

  Baronkroft gave it a moment’s thought. It wasn’t that Sir Vandelour was heartless, but he was a man that cared only for the justice of his homeland.

  “Well,” Baronkroft sighed. “We must start somewhere now, mustn’t we?”

  As the lord paced, Sir Vandelour felt the warmth returning slowly to his body. It became clear that Baronkroft was not strong enough to hold whatever curse he had placed on the man for too long, at least not without it taking a physical toll on him. And, smart as the knight commander was, he knew better than to continue dragging the attention back towards himself.

  “So tell me,” Baronkroft went on. “Exactly how many men have you out there waiting beyond the hills at this moment?” The question caught all of the men off guard, so much so that the lord had to raise both arms out into the air as if awaiting an answer.

  “Little over a thousand, sir,” one of the lower ranking officers finally spoke, his entire body shivering with fear.

  “Excellent!” Baronkroft’s grin returned. “Now… here’s what is going to happen next, gentlemen. You are going to bring in every single one of those men. They are going to walk through my gates willingly and with their weapons down. And then you are going to ride back to your city and bring me a thousand more. You will ask no questions, you will give no explanation to your superiors, and you will follow these orders in a timely manner. I will only wait for so long before I get impatient, I must warn you.” He chuckled for a moment, but no one else in the room was in a jovial mood.

  “And what if we don’t comply…?” asked Sir Vandelour.

  Baronkroft looked at the knight commander with a menacing glare. Before he could open his lips, however, two frightening figures walked into the room all of a sudden. They brushed past Hauzer and Magdalena along the way, and the young princess shivered at the sight of the bloody man that was being dragged in.

  There were gasps and mumbles inside the room. Sergeant Weston was beaten and cut beyond recognition, and the monstrosity that was dragging him in looked pale and dead behind his studded mask.

  Baronkroft chuckled again. “Well… I could not have timed that better if I tried.”

  The Butcher threw Weston onto the floor. Two of the men leapt from their chairs and ran to tend to the broken man, helping him up with their jaws hanging open. “Weston! By the gods, what have they done to you?!”

  Baronkroft appeared almost pleased by their reactions.

  “You’re a monster…” one of the men muttered.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that many times before,” Baronkroft replied with a chuckle. “Frankly, after all I’ve lived through, I just don’t see it…”

  They carried Weston over to a nearby chair. Sir Vandelour remained in his seat, trying his best to hide the dagger he had dr
awn by his leg while Baronkroft was distracted.

  “Now, gentlemen!” Baronkroft brought his hands together in a clap. “I believe we’ve stalled long enough… It is my honor to present to you the spectacle of the night!”

  Outside the doors, Hauzer’s hands grew sweaty, his fingers slipping against the rusty chains that were locked to the princess’s wrists. Magdalena’s heart had already been racing, only now it felt as if it was going to implode from her chest.

  Calm yourself! Remember what you’ve learned!

  “Gentlemen,” Baronkroft grinned, a hand aimed out at the doors. “Her majesty, Princess Magdalena of Val Havyn…”

  Hauzer took the first step. Magdalena followed closely at his side. She didn’t recognize a single face in the room and yet they all seemed to have known her name. Their eyes examined her from head to toe; Hauzer even stood against the wall next to the fireplace so that the light illuminated her face like a portrait.

  “Isn’t she just breathtaking?” Baronkroft asked them all.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked one of the men at the table, his eyes gripped by the chains over the princess’s wrists. “What in hells have you done, you bloody fool?!”

  “Is something the matter, gentlemen?” Baronkroft asked nonchalantly. “You all look rather odd… So weak and feeble… So unlikely for gentlemen of your ranks…”

  At that moment, Baronkroft walked past Hauzer and held out his hand. Almost reluctantly, Hauzer handed his dagger to him. While he did have it out and aimed at her, Hauzer did not worry the princess much, not the way Baronkroft worried her. At least Hauzer seemed much less impetuous.

  “That can’t be!” shouted one of the lower-ranking officers. “She… Blessed gods, that is her!”

  Sir Vandelour was now sitting quietly, unwilling to draw the attention towards him again. Luckily, the rest of his men appeared willing to speak their minds now, which was buying him some time.

  “Don’t you touch her, you monster!” another man rose from his seat.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Baronkroft glared at him with menacing eyes. “Take a seat, sir… Before you make me do something I’ll regret…”