Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  Viktor scoffed involuntarily, hoping Percyval wouldn’t take offense.

  “I hate to sound dull, but… After everything that’s happened, I don’t really think the gods like me very much.”

  “It’s not about liking you or not,” Percyval said as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a winebag. “The gods are kind to those who serve them humbly. And I see plenty of humility in you, Crowley. You need only embrace it.”

  “I’ve spent most of my life following orders,” Viktor said in a grief-stricken tone. “I’ve fought and killed men simply because I was told they deserved to die… I’m sorry, but I don’t see how that qualifies as serving the gods humbly.”

  “Never too late to start serving them humbly,” Percyval shot him a friendly smirk.

  Viktor said nothing in return, only gazed into the distance at the verdant fields ahead. Meanwhile, Percyval drew from his pocket his list of recruits and read them in silence, a wave of guilt and sorrow overcoming him. For two men sulking, they both appeared unprepared to quit. Some of the recruits had even started to gather nearby when they saw Percyval.

  It felt like they’d been sitting silently for several minutes when Percyval finally lifted his head away from the parchment. “Could I ask you something, Viktor?”

  This was the first time Percyval Garroway had addressed Crowley by his actual name.

  “Go on?” Viktor replied, caught off guard by the abruptness of it all.

  Percyval’s face was suddenly a lot less jovial than before. “Is it true?” he asked.

  Viktor raised a confused brow. “Is what true?”

  “You know what,” Percyval looked him in the eyes, not a single hint of banter in his expression. “Is it true that you’re no longer a knight of King Rowan’s court?”

  Viktor sighed. He felt a tug in his chest, a wave of both anger and grief overwhelming him.

  “Well?” Percyval pressed him, and it was clear that Viktor was not in the mood to speak much about it at all.

  What do you want from me? Viktor contemplated. You want me to say it out loud? You want me to tell the world how I failed my kingdom? You want me to tell you that my knighthood was revoked by the very same man whose life I saved two decades ago? Why don’t you just kill me now and spare me the grief?

  He wanted to say it all out loud and more.

  But instead he poised himself up and stood his ground. “Yes…”

  Percyval remained silent at first. He had heard the rumors already, but was thrown off when he met Viktor Crowley in person and saw him wearing that famed armor of his with the golden eagle embedded on his chest, spreading its wings against the steel.

  “Yes, it’s true,” Viktor said again, this time loudly and fearlessly, much more at peace with himself than he thought he would be.

  “I see,” Percyval gave him a nod. He allowed for a brief moment of thought before he cleared his throat and changed the subject abruptly once again. “Where is it you’re going, again?”

  Thrown off by the question, Viktor raised a brow with mild confusion. “What?”

  “Princess Magdalena,” Percyval clarified. “Where’s she been taken?”

  Viktor cleared his throat. He was so surprised by Percyval’s casual response that his mind went blank for a moment. “Overseas,” he managed to say. “To the ruins of Drahkmere.”

  “I see,” Percyval nodded again, and then suddenly asked, “Any chance you could use a hundred and sixteen soldiers for your endeavor?”

  Viktor glanced suddenly at him, puzzled and thrown aback. “Pardon me?”

  “Well,” Percyval took a sip from his winebag. “A hundred and eighteen if you count me and Antonn. I’ve yet to speak with him, but… He’ll warm up to the idea, I’m sure….”

  Viktor was bewildered beyond reason. “Did you not just hear what I said? I’m not a knight anymore. I’m not even a soldier. Other than my blade and a few hundred yuhn, I have nothing to my name.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Percyval said solemnly, but there was something about his expression that gave Viktor hope. “I’ll tell you something, Crowley,” the man said with a deep and sorrowful sigh. “I don’t know about you, but… I’ve grown sick and tired of listening to kings… Sick and tired, I tell you… Sometimes one has to simply trust their instinct and do what needs to be done. It isn’t enough to believe. Sometimes you have to make the world notice. Force them to hear what you have to say. And I can’t think of a better way to make that statement, can you?”

  A hint of a smile began to form on the edge of Viktor’s dry lips.

  He waited… Percyval appeared to be concocting some sort of scheme in his mind…

  As they sat, the recruits from the Woodlands had started to gather around them, closing in on them as if they were awaiting orders. Percyval turned to Viktor one last time, holding his hand out for a handshake.

  “To Drahkmere?”

  Viktor grinned. “To Drahkmere…”

  They shook hands.

  “Listen up, ladies ‘n’ gents!” Percyval shouted as he rose to his feet in the back of the cart. “Sir Viktor Crowley has a few words to say to you all…”

  * * *

  Cedric held his dagger up as if ready to jab forward, barely able to grip it in his sweaty palm. His eyes were fixed on a wooden target a good fifteen feet away. He would have been more confident if Gwyn, the mercenary woman that he’d befriended, wasn’t standing right behind him, glancing over his shoulder and whispering suggestions into his ear.

  “Am I holding it right?” he asked.

  “Hold it however ye damn well please,” she said. “It’s yer aim I’m worried about. Ye couldn’t hit a rabbit’s arse if it was painted red.”

  Cedric wiped the sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry…”

  “Don’t be sorry, lad. Be focused… Now take aim ‘n’ throw the damn thing.”

  Stumbling over his fretfulness, Cedric threw the knife. It did not hit the wood. Instead, it grazed it and fell into the mud. He sighed with disappointment, as did Gwyn.

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  “Oi. What’d I say before?”

  He smiled. “Apologize again and you’ll actually be angry?”

  “Ye learn fast,” she grinned back. “Now go fetch yer littl’ blade ‘n’ take a rest.”

  Cedric picked up his dagger and wiped the mud off of it with his coat. Gwyn took a seat on a wooden bench nearby and poured herself some ale from one of the barrels, all the while getting cold stares from King Alistair’s soldiers. They had been left alone for almost an hour now. Her twin brother Daryan had wandered off to practice with Thaddeus Rexx, and Viktor Crowley was sharing a drink with Percyval Garroway and Antonn Guilara after his big speech on the impending voyage. The only other souls nearby were gnomes and elven recruits, but after the cold welcome they’d received the day prior they seemed wary of any humans, even those within their own troop.

  Cedric did not mind Gwyn’s company, however. He found her much more amiable than anyone else in the camp, despite her bluntness and rough demeanor. He took a seat next to her and she handed him a tankard of ale. He took it willingly and followed her eyes; she was staring at the Wyrmwood soldiers with something like awe. He knew she wasn’t very trusting towards them, but something about her eyes spoke very differently. It was as if she was envisioning herself in armor, training amongst them all.

  Cedric wanted to speak out. He wanted to ask Gwyn about her past, about where she had lived before she became a Woodland mercenary and why she became one in the first place. He wanted to ask how she’d learned to fight so well. She was as quick with her knives as she was with her tongue, and despite her being Daryan’s twin sister their manners were vastly different, as if they had grown up on opposite coasts of Gravenstone.

  Instead, he said nothing and waited for her to choose when to speak.

  “So what’s Val Havyn like?” she asked him suddenly. Even with her hardy demeanor and the black paint on her eyes and ch
eekbones, the woman had a rather striking smile. Cedric couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Loud? Crowded? What d’you mean, exactly?”

  “Is it true tha’ ev’ry road is made o’ stone?”

  Cedric chuckled. “Um, yes… Yes, that is true. And the rooves are made of brick.”

  Gwyn looked bewildered. Little to Cedric’s knowledge, she had grown up in Grymsbi, a place where roads were nothing but mud and every dwelling was made of wood with thatched rooves. Grymsbi and the Woodlands were essentially all that Gwyn had ever known.

  “I’ve heard rumors ‘bout it,” she said. “But I nev’r been there meself.”

  “Oh?” Cedric took a sip of his ale. “What sort of rumors?”

  “Like… d’you actually have the number o’ people tha’ live in yer cities written at the gates?”

  Cedric couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, you mean the population count… Yes, that’s true.”

  Gwyn lowered her brows but kept her bewildered grin. “So… Wha’ would happ’n if I killed someone there? Would they send some bloke with a pick ‘n’ hammer to change the number?”

  Cedric laughed again. “I’ve no idea. Never thought about it.”

  “Well someone’s gotta do it,” Gwyn laughed with him.

  Percyval’s Woodland recruits were all sitting on the outskirts of the camp, away from the abundance of tents at the center. Gwyn preferred it that way, and so did Cedric; King Alistair’s soldiers were treating them more like intruders than allies. Some recruits were growing restless by the hour and others had even started whispering about returning to the Woodlands. They were waiting for Viktor Crowley to give the order to march south, only the man seemed hesitant to leave, and so they passed the time the only way they knew how, training and drinking and laughing amongst themselves.

  It wasn’t yet noon when the travelers arrived.

  Cedric’s ear caught the sound of horse hooves approaching before the guards even started to gather at the camp’s entrance. When he gazed over the horizon, he leapt suddenly to his feet, his eyes wide with disbelief like a gentle hound that just spotted its owner.

  Gwyn got up as well, somewhat startled by his reaction. “What is it, toothpick?”

  But the squire was far too stunned to answer her. He blocked the sunlight with his hand and narrowed his eyes for a better look.

  Three horses approached… The riders were two men and a woman… One of the men, the more mysterious-looking one, wore a black hat with a rim and a long coat. The woman had raven-colored hair and eyes that seemed to glimmer with the sun’s light. And the other man was blonde, and he was dressed in farmer’s clothing.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Cedric mumbled, his lips curving into a smile.

  With a tremendous amount of enthusiasm, the young squire started running down the hill, nearly stumbling twice. He hopped over the muddy grass and brushed past soldiers and Woodland recruits, mumbling ‘excuse me’ at every few feet. He could hear Gwyn running behind him, except she was shouting ‘watch it’ or ‘out of the way’ at everyone. In the distance, Cedric saw the camp guardians speaking to the traveling trio, and there seemed to be some subtle tension between them already.

  John Huxley had dismounted his horse first and stepped forward to try and reason with them. “We’re not looking for trouble, sir,” he was saying. “We’re just here to speak with King Alistair.”

  “The king’s busy, boy!” one of the guards barked unpleasantly. “We’re at war. I suggest ye head right back to where ye came from.”

  “Yes, but we’ve important matters to discuss with him…”

  “I said move it along, boy!”

  “We’re friends of the crown, sir! I assure you!”

  “The hells ye are,” the guard spat on the ground and then glanced at the farmer’s two traveling companions. He recognized the man in the black hat and coat from somewhere but he couldn’t quite figure out where. The woman, he didn’t have to recognize; he could tell by her eyes that she was a witch. “We don’t want her kind here,” he said. “We’ve enough trouble with the rabbits and moles as it is.”

  John grimaced at the guard’s comment. He felt the urge to punch the man but he held himself back, seeing as there was a swarm of soldiers lounging nearby with their hands on the hilt of their swords.

  “Wait!” someone shouted in the distance.

  The guards did not wince; their eyes were fixed on the three strangers. But John recognized the young squire from afar and smiled. Cedric was out of breath by the time he reached them, but the expression on his face was no less joyful and eager.

  “It’s all right, sir! They’re with us!” the squire said. “They’re our friends!”

  But the guards did not respond as kindly as he’d hoped. One of them drew his sword and stepped towards Cedric with a menacing stare. “Back off, ye freak-loving littl’ bastard,” he growled.

  Cedric shivered and took a step back, raising both his hands into the air. “B-But…”

  “Back. Off.”

  “He’s telling you the truth!” John tried to protest, but neither guard seemed willing to yield. One of them blocked John’s path while the other threatened to jab the young squire with his blade.

  “Scram, boy! Before I send ye to meet the gods!”

  Cedric stumbled backwards, gripping his dagger, wishing for the courage to unsheathe it. He didn’t have to, however. Before he could even conjure up a response he heard another hissing sound behind him, like two blades being drawn at once.

  “Oi,” Gwyn stepped between Cedric and the guard. “Ye wanna threaten someone, threaten me!”

  “This ain’t yer business, lass!”

  Gwyn’s eyes lit up with rage all of a sudden. “Call me tha’ again, I dare ye…”

  “Wait, stop!” Cedric yelled. He wouldn’t have been nearly as confident had Gwyn not arrived just in time to save his skin. “There’s no need for this! I’ll go get Sir Percyval and Sir Viktor and they’ll explain it all!”

  “Sir Percyval?” John asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Cedric said, the smile returning to his face.

  The guard raised his sword threateningly again. “If yer lyin’ to us, lad…”

  “But I’m not!” Cedric argued, once again his confidence driven by the fact that Gwyn was at his side with her knives out. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask for. I’ll be right back!”

  The guard grunted, glancing back and forth between Cedric and the trio of strangers. Gwyn did not yield either, but rather she waited until the guard sheathed his blade first before she slid her knives back into their leather scabbards.

  “Five minutes,” the guard said. “If yer not back by then, I’ll force ‘em away with my blade.”

  There was a sudden snicker that broke the tension. The guard glanced over and saw Hudson Blackwood grinning beneath the rim of his hat. “You call that rusty thing a blade?” the thief whispered.

  “Five minutes,” Cedric walked backwards towards the tents. He gave Gwyn a glance and said, “Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”

  Gwyn gave him a grin and a head nod. “Get on with it, lad.”

  John Huxley could hardly believe this was the same timid squire that he’d been traveling with. There was a new layer of confidence there, along with a few bruises and scars that weren’t there before.

  “It’s good to have you back, John,” Cedric smiled at them one last time before leaving, even at Hudson and Syrena. “It’s good to have you all back… Five minutes! I’ll take care of it!”

  * * *

  Princess Magdalena walked silently down the corridor towards the prison chambers. Hauzer was escorting her, quiet as he usually was, and this time she had no questions for him. She could hardly conjure up any words at all, she was so stunned from the night before.

  Her father had taught her that when fighting a battle, even if the odds are greatly against you, there was always a way to overcome it all. But she hadn’t
the slightest idea where she could even begin to challenge a man with such power. All she could do was walk and try to find some reason behind it all. She bit at her lip nervously and scratched at her wrists, now reddened from the rusty black cuffs.

  She came to a halt before the steel door as Hauzer fumbled with the keys.

  The man looked tired and dreary, the look of a man who wakes only to struggle through the day. Before he unlocked the door, however, he turned towards her, eyeing her from head to toe.

  “Ye hurt?” he asked as he tried to catch a glimpse of her neck.

  Unsure of how to respond, she nodded gently. He placed a hand on her chin and moved it so as to get a better look. There was no blood at least, only red marks left there by Baronkroft’s tight grip.

  With a sigh, Hauzer grabbed the cuffs on her wrist and began unlocking them. He would always wait until the prisoner was inside the chamber before setting them loose. This time, he did not. And when she heard the clink of the lock, her heart skipped a beat.

  “Sorry ‘bout last night,” he said abruptly, and the princess looked up with a twitch. “Didn’t mean to press that dagger against ye…”

  She had no words for him, nor did he expect her to. But the look they shared was strange. It was the look of a man whose mindset wasn’t entirely clear. And hers was the look of a frightened captive searching desperately for a way out. It was a look the princess desperately needed in that moment, for before she knew it her mind was reeling with possibilities all over again. He opened the door to the chamber and made way for her. When she walked in, the prisoners dispersed, allowing for the princess to be at the center of attention. Finely dressed and clean, she stood out among the prisoners like a gleaming silver locket among a pile of rust.

  Once Hauzer locked the steel door and walked off, the questions began.

  “Are you all right, your grace?”

  “What happened out there?”

  “Did you hear anything?”