The Twin Princes

by J. M. Topp

  Elymiah nodded as Theodric took a turn from the main hall into a string of corridors. The tight brick corridor was drastically less spacious than the main hall. At one point, Elymiah had to duck to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling.

  ‘Apologies, Elymiah. I thought I had lost you.’

  ‘Robyn?’ Elymiah gasped. No, that wasn’t Robyn. Bertrand said that in Khoryl Castle during the hunt for the wyvern.

  ‘What?’ Theodric turned his head to look at her, and when she gave no response he gave a curt nod. ‘I said, apologies, Elymiah. This corridor is new and not very tall. Engineers didn't build it, I’m afraid.’

  Elymiah shook her head. Perhaps she was more exhausted than she’d thought.

  ‘The castle was built with anti-siege strategies more than five hundred years ago during the First Age of Fog. Since then, Artus and the headmaster decided that some shortcuts were necessary, since…’ Theodric paused and cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself.’

  Theodric led her from the corridor into a half-grotto. The grotto was as tall as the main hall had been. Knee-length evenly cut grasses decorated the sides of the stone path before them. Lanterns flickered on the sides of the cavern, but they glowed distinctly blue. A slow but strong breeze blew through the grotto. Bricks and bits of stone dotted the edges. Parts of the walls exposed their innards of wooden beams and steel fixtures. Bags of grey paste and piles of rock lay strewn around them as if someone had meant to fix the walls and mend the path but never had. A few trees the colour of the sea dotted the almost field-like cavern. It was clear that no ordinary fauna grew in the grotto beneath Karagh Muín.

  Men and women stood before each other with wooden training swords in their hands. They wore clothes and armour like Theodric’s. They lunged at each other, uttering words Elymiah didn’t understand.

  ‘These are the Initiate Grounds.’

  The wide field called the Initiate Grounds was almost eighty meters in length. Elymiah stopped walking and stared at the men and women swinging sticks, but when she took a closer look, she realised they weren’t men and women at all.

  ‘They’re children,’ she said, nearly dropping her jaw.

  Theodric nodded but didn’t say a word. Elymiah noticed a man standing atop a balcony with arms folded across his chest. He wore armour like the other Veledred in the Initiate Grounds, but there was a distinct difference. His armour was coloured dark crimson, and his cloak was black. The man stared at Elymiah with a piercing gaze.

  ‘That’s Castellan Zignumerand Kaathe, but most of us call him Zigi behind his back. Don’t ever let him catch you calling him Zigi though; it gravely upsets him. Castellan Kaathe is how we all address him,’ Theodric said, careful not to catch the headmaster’s gaze. The headmaster turned from the edge of the balcony and walked into the darkness of a room with hands folded behind his back.

  ‘He’s ready for you,’ Theodric said, walking into another hallway and up a set of coiling steps. Elymiah’s feet pattered behind him. Finally they reached a wooden door. A torch flickered on a sconce as they approached. Strange words were carved into the wooden door and painted black. Elymiah touched the indentations of the carvings.

  ‘It’s an ancient tongue. No one can speak it anymore save for the castellan and a few others. Not even Commandant Farnesse knows much about it,’ said Theodric, staring at the words. ‘Commandant Farnesse meaning your father, not you—’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ interrupted Elymiah. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Loosely translated: With the power of lords they challenged daemons and their cursed gods,’ Theodric said, closing his eyes as if paying respect to what the words meant. The strange words written on the door captured Elymiah’s interest. She felt like she understood them, yet she could not say what they meant. Theodric opened the door and allowed Elymiah to enter the room.

  ‘I will wait until you are done and then take you to your quarters,’ he said, closing the door behind her.

  Elymiah scanned the room. No fire was lit, giving the room a chilling, empty feel. A single torch hanging on a sconce on the wall beside the doorframe gave light to the room. Banners with all kinds of sigils hung from the ceiling, and in the four corners of the room stood sets of knight armour. Elymiah recognised them. One was the black plate armour Weserith used. In another corner was Uredor’s blue steel armour and Alder Isle’s red leather armour. Elymiah froze when she saw the set of steel plate armour standing in a corner. It was an Aivaterran holy knight-captain’s armor. The angel emblazoned on the chest stood out as belonging to a Silver Angel knight. The scratching sound of a quill writing on paper echoed in the chamber.

  ‘You were not summoned here to gawk at armour, Elymiah Artus Farnesse.’

  The voice was deep and clear. Elymiah shuddered away from the Aivaterran armour.

  Castellan Zignumerand Kaathe sat at a thick oak table with parchments and books stacked on top of one another. The largest of the banners in the room hung above him. Three black wolves on a green field swayed in the light breeze from some unseen hole in a wall yet to be mended. A high window behind the castellan cast in a grey light from the bay. The castellan held a quill in his hand and scribbled words onto parchment with precise movements of his wrist. Elymiah walked up to his desk and squeezed the wet blanket on her shoulders. Zignumerand stopped writing and looked up at her. His hair was short but messy, and his face was lined with scars, giving him a permanent look of distaste. His red, puffy eyes and the grey bags underneath, made it seem as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Zignumerand looked at Elymiah through the tops of his eyes. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken time and time again, much like Theodric’s.

  ‘As a matter of fact, you were not summoned at all. Your father was determined to bring you here,’ he said eloquently. Zignumerand’s frame was rather large, his belly extending well past his pants. He was tall even as he was sitting in his large red chair. ‘Who knew that this is what would stand before me?’

  His words caught Elymiah off guard. She stared at the man and half-bowed. ‘Castellan Kaathe.’

  ‘I see Theodric has already introduced me. Very well, it saves me time.’ Zignumerand set his quill on the table and folded his hands before him. ‘You are a guest at Karagh Muín under the invitation of our Commandant Farnesse, your father. That, however, gives you no special privileges. There are a few places that are off-limits, such as the dungeons, the library, and the Initiate Grounds. While you may walk along the path of this mountain-hid fortress to your delight, you may not grip a staff or sword on the training grounds or any other area. That is reserved for acolytes alone. You will be severely beaten if you even step foot on those grounds. I have assigned Theodric to you as a personal guard for the remainder of your visit. Your father wishes you to join our ranks…’ Zignumerand coughed spittle from his mouth and licked his lips. He glared at Elymiah. ‘…but what place does a sparrow have in the company of wolves?’

  Elymiah bit her tongue for fear of lashing out at the castellan. She had never been treated so disrespectfully and had half a mind to shout at him, yet what would that accomplish? She was no longer a knight-captain, nor did she have any legitimate power. She stood with eyes steeled on the castellan.

  ‘Meals will be served in the Hall of Uldvarog twice a day. There is a room for you in the Chamber of the Initiates. That will be all, Miss Farnesse. You are dismissed.’ Zignumerand picked his quill up and resumed writing on his parchments. Elymiah walked down the stretch of the room and was about to open the door when he coughed. Elymiah knew what it meant. She turned slowly.

  ‘You Aivaterrans stormed the gates of Weserith. You led the charge most likely. I had friends and vast interests in that city,’ Zignumerand said, closing his hand over the quill. ‘If you think you got away with it, you have yet to learn what real penance means.’

  Elymiah turned to face the headmaster. ‘You will soon understand that there will be difficulty in taking anything away from me, Cas
tellan. I have lost it all already.’ She bowed once more, and before Zignumerand could respond, she walked out the door and closed it behind her with a soft creaking of wood. Theodric stood on the other side, his lips pursed.

  ‘You must take care in talking back to Headmaster Zignumerand Kaathe, sparrow. He could make a very dangerous enemy.’ He folded his arms before his chest. ‘You might save yourself some pain.’ Theodric sounded more bored than annoyed. ‘When I heard you were here, I was elated. A holy knight-captain from Aivaterra to lead us out of the dark.’ He smirked. ‘I hate being wrong.’ Then, torch in hand, he led Elymiah away from the castellan’s quarters into the dark stone halls.

  Old Incense and Mulled Wine

  MUD STUCK TO Eymeg’s boots as he led his grey broodmare along the road. A grunt behind Eymeg made him turn to his companion. ‘Not so loudly, Tiebalt; we don't want our presence known unless we have no other choice,' he hoarsely whispered. The mud clung like oily honey, only black and far less tasteful. Tiebalt spat but said no words. He was struggling to stay atop his scrawny and starving brown thoroughbred. Eymeg brushed his greasy brown hair up off his face. He made a mental note to cut it before too long—if he ever had the coin. He scanned the road ahead. Dark red-and-yellow light began to shine on their path as the sun dawned in the distance. He twitched his crooked nose as he studied the putrid town growing closer.

  No, not as putrid as Flodden, that much was true. At least our road leads away from that shithole of a place.

  Eymeg shook his head and tried to breathe through his nose, but it was beyond stopped up. His forehead was beginning to feel warm, but not in a comforting way. Perhaps a fever or a disease was crawling over him. Tiebalt had warned Eymeg about travelling in the rains that were beginning to fall perpetually through the Khahadran and the Eldervale. Eymeg hadn’t listened, but it wasn’t like he wished he had. He snorted.

  ‘Not funny.’ Tiebalt’s deep voice rasped in the air.

  ‘I’m not laughing at you—’ Eymeg suddenly slipped but held onto the reins of the horse, trying to gain his balance. His broodmare didn’t think it comical in the least. She whipped her head and tried to bite Eymeg in the shoulder.

  Eymeg dodged the snapping teeth, found his footing, and patted the horse’s head softly. ‘There now, Vos. You little shit.’ The mare shook her brown mane and gave a soft whinny. Tiebalt’s chuckle rose above the dwindling commotion. Eymeg turned to see Tiebalt’s jagged smile sparkle in the moonlight.

  ‘That is funny,’ Tiebalt said as he guided his horse along the muddy road, careful to avoid the place where Eymeg had slipped. Tiebalt Isynmerys was a daemon hunter just like Eymeg had been, but to say they were alike would be like saying a sword was a spear. Tiebalt Isynmerys was neither human nor daemon, but something in between. A grey shuck from the Quiet Valley, he had come to the Veledred during the First Age of Fog. Almost ninety years older than Eymeg, his skin was grey, and rows of short jagged teeth like a shark’s filled his mouth. His iris-less eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. Tiebalt preferred to wear a hood over his head, especially outside of Karagh Muín, to avoid unwanted attention. Sometimes Eymeg thought to himself that Tiebalt looked like a grey frog on the shoulders of a man, for Tiebalt was indeed built like a man. His arms were grey but strewn with muscle. He had only three fingers—if one could call them fingers. More like thick, fleshy stubs really. Eymeg remembered the first time he met Tiebalt. He’d been a boy then, and Tiebalt had certainly scared him, especially with those teeth, but Eymeg had quickly realised that Tiebalt was kind and patient, in complete contrast to the harsh instruction of Zignumerand Kaathe. As Eymeg grew older and stronger, the grey shuck had begun to trust the young hunter, and after a dozen ranging missions together, it had become rare to see them too far apart from one another—especially after the event that had seen Eymeg banned from the Veledred. He was glad Tiebalt was still his close companion.

  Mud was so thick and abyssal on the narrow road that Eymeg and Tiebalt were forced to approach the town on foot, guiding their mounts behind them. Before too long, however, the two daemon hunters trudged out of the muddy road and onto the sturdier footing of the surrounding fields. They mounted their horses. Eymeg urged his broodmare Vos to a trot as they entered the town of Duren. Wooden houses sat side by side crookedly, but the structures themselves seemed like they had been crumbling for ages. Eymeg spotted three dead men hanging from the support of what had once been the roof of an abandoned blacksmith shop. Their rotting bodies turned in the soft wind coming from the ruins of the castle Uredor, which loomed black and crooked in the distance.

  ‘That's the one,’ said Tiebalt, pointing to a small hut. They guided their mounts to a house, the walls of which seemed ready to collapse with a single breath of wind. They dismounted and Eymeg glanced at the house. The door had been broken down into the house, and pieces of glass lay about the floor. Eymeg frowned and put a hand to the shortsword on his hip. He stepped over the splintered door and entered the house, glancing to his sides.

  The house was small, allowing room only for a bed, a small stove, and a table by the window. A metal pan lay on the floor, as did a small dresser. Clothes had been taken out and ripped apart. Someone had broken in looking for something, but whoever it was, they were long gone.

  ‘This was Cedarskin’s house, wasn’t it?’ asked Tiebalt, peering into the dark of the hut. His eyes seemed to glow yellow in the shadows. Eymeg nodded as he looked around into the dark corners.

  ‘If he was here, he must have left long ago. No one’s been here in a while—Eymeg, look,’ grunted Tiebalt. Eymeg turned to see him pointing to something on the bed. A lump underneath some blankets was in the middle of the tiny cot. Eymeg pulled the sheet back, and a swarm of flies flew into the air.

  ‘Ah!’ Tiebalt jumped and swatted the air.

  ‘Shh. It's just a few bugs. Relax,’ said Eymeg, shaking his head.

  'I hate this place,' spat Tiebalt.

  A skeleton lay still in the centre of the bed. It seemed as if the bones had been picked clean of flesh. A gold tooth stood out from the skeleton’s mouth. The old man must have been dead for months.

  ‘Damn. I didn’t know elfen…’ Tiebalt said, hesitating to find the right words.

  ‘Died?’ Eymeg cut Tiebalt off and stared at the dead body.

  ‘No,’ said Tiebalt, casting an annoyed glance at him. ‘I didn’t know they rotted like the rest of us.’

  ‘They do apparently.’ Eymeg tossed the blanket over the corpse and held his hand over the dead body for a moment. ‘No matter how proud and mighty their race is, they dissolve into nothing just like the rest of us.’ He let out a long, deep sigh. ‘Shit, Cedarskin, what the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Old man might have left a message to where she went. Let’s look around,’ said Tiebalt.

  Eymeg knelt to look underneath the bed. Nothing but dust mites and mice. They searched through the small hut, but there was not much to look through. Cedarskin had lived a relatively humble lifestyle in Duren. Why an elf would have chosen this shithole of a place to live in was beyond Eymeg.

  ‘She’s not here, Eymeg,’ said Tiebalt finally.

  Eymeg bit his lower lip. ‘We’ll have to try Sigwaard’s Ale.’

  ‘Fuck,’ grunted Tiebalt, baring his teeth.

  Sigwaard’s Ale was farther along into the town. The houses that lined the sides of the road seemed as if they were occupied only by ghosts. Eymeg spotted a candle in a window and a man staring at him from behind it. Eymeg nodded and put a finger to his forehead, but the man gave no response except a cold stare. Tiebalt tied a black cloth over his face, leaving enough room to see over. No need to attract any more attention than necessary from the locals.

  The old sign above Sigwaard’s Ale swung in the wind. Eymeg glanced up at the rotting, crudely cut wooden sign before entering the establishment.

  Inside, a few men surrounded a table in the corner of the inn. One of them had a prostitute in his lap and had one hand squeezing a
breast and the other deep in between the girl’s legs. She gasped quietly and touched the bearded face of the man. They didn’t even notice Eymeg and Tiebalt as they entered the quiet inn. But someone did.

  ‘Holy shit. Eymeg? I never expected to see you again,’ said the innkeeper with a nasty grin on his face. Eymeg turned to the innkeeper. His hair was neatly parted, and his cheeks showed signs of bristly white hair. He kept biting his thick, dirt-covered moustache. Eymeg had to force himself not to grin. It looked like the innkeeper had dunked his head into a dustpan.

  ‘Rollo, I wouldn’t wish your sight on my worst enemy,’ Eymeg said with a smile. He neared the counter and put his elbows on it. Rollo’s smile died on his face, and he spat and chewed on his moustache.

  ‘You want a drink, pissant, or are you here to gawk?’ Rollo pointed upstairs. ‘I have a fresh pussy that you missed last time. Or perhaps your mate would like a sample?’

  Tiebalt coughed through his wrapping, but Eymeg shook his head.

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Eymeg, slamming his elbows on the counter.

  Rollo looked Eymeg up and down and then frowned. ‘Well, are you going to tell me who you are looking for?’

  Eymeg’s gaze turned dark, and he looked up at Rollo. ‘My daughter. Where is she?’

  A look of fear flashed over Rollo’s face. He hesitated and looked down at his boots. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘What do you mean she’s gone?’ A hint of warning hung low and menacing in Eymeg’s voice.

  ‘Ask Olavia. She was taking care of her,’ said Rollo with a curt shrug.

  Eymeg spat. ‘What do you mean she was taking care of her?’

  ‘I assume you’ve been to Cedarskin’s house?’

  ‘We’ve been.’

  ‘Then you know he’s dead—long dead. The cold took him one night. The little girl had to be cared for by someone else,’ said Rollo, twitching his moustache.