Highland Stronghold
Hogarth pressed his face up against the bars watching everything as the wagons bounced and lurched their way down into the box canyon. The horses strained and snorted against the resistance, as the wagon wheels cut sharp lines into the deep snow. Gradually their decent lessened and the slope flattened out into a field of snow.
Hogarth nudged Kelverin and pointed. Kelverin squinted and saw a dark blue moss clinging to the sides of a rocky outcropping.
"What is it?"
"Azure blessing."
"That's azure blessing? The healing herb?"
"Yes. That's what it looks like before it's been cooked or boiled or whatever you wizards do to it. I didn’t' expect to seen any. We're higher up than I thought." he said grimly.
As they got closer, they got a clearer look. A castle stood surrounded by the steep peaks about it. A moat of sorts surrounded the castle, and yet not a moat. A gaping chasm of nothingness. Only an arrow loosed from an orgish thunderbow could traverse it's great distance and only a madman would dare peer over the edge. So steep where the walls of this chasm that the castle seemed to stand upon a pedestal of rock.
Hogarth and Kelverin could see many tracks in the snow, from both booted feet and wheels, that converged into a road of slush and mud as they approached the castle. The road ahead was flanked on either side by tall poles It was difficult to make out what they
Kelverin looked up and horror met his eyes. On either side of the road, mated as if in wedded suffering, rotting corpses and skeletal remains hung on the crosses, crucified as if ornaments to ward against visitors.
The entourage finally arrived at the gate house. Two guards peered down from the battlements while another pair on the ground flanked the huge wooden doors as they opened. The wagons rolled through the gatehouse. Kelverin could see murder holes above and archers slit on the sides. The gatehouse opened up on the far side with a large opening and ended in a stone lip overlooking the chasm. From the far side, the drawbridge began to descend, stretching across the chasm to touch the stone lip forming a bridge.
After conversing briefly with a guard, the leader nudged his horse into a trot and proceeded across the bridge. Kelverin listened to the hollow sounds of the pounding horses hooves and creaking wheels. The wagon seemed perilously close to the edge of the bridge. He peered over out into the chasm. How could such a thin bridge of wood support all this weight. He closed his eyes and shuddered.
As they traveled across the bridge, the castle loomed up large before them and Hogarth got a good look. The thing was a mass of grey stone with ledges, balconies and other architectural protrusions breaking along the face of it. The stone was craggy and broken. A sense of dread clung to it. Crumbling stones, cracks and vines clinging to the rock attested to the great age of this fortress.
The wagons passed into the castle and the drawbridge was brought up quickly behind the wagons and riders. The interior hall of the castle was surprisingly dark after the bright snow. The wagon came to a halt just inside the portcullis. The darkness was punctuated by flickering torches. Before Kelverin's eyes had adjusted, he heard a loud metallic clang and two hands roughly hauled him out of the wagon. The manacles were removed and he was finally able to rub the bloody, tender flesh.
From behind a pair of doors, a figure appeared... a frail old man wrapped in a deep, hooded cloak slowly hobbling toward the party. He leaned heavily on a gnarled oak staff about which was coiled a snake which bobbed its head and hissed at the prisoners. The old man stopped before the prince and raised his head to meet the young man's questioning gaze. It was then that they saw his true power. Cold, glittering eyes, as hard as steel, shone out of a wrinkled mask of evil. Twin beacons of cruelty bore into the young prince, who fell back a step under the penetrating gaze.
"Welcome, my young friends". The words were a poisonous whisper, the voice a creaking purr. He spoke with an oddly precise enunciation making the listener hang on every word. "I have waited long to make your acquaintance. I hope, that during your stay, you come to appreciate the preparation that went into it."
The man half turned and made a dismissive gesture.
"Ellison,” the old man said, turning to a guard holding a ring full of keys, “you may take them away."
Ellison, a fat man with long stringy hair, led the guards in herded the prisoners along the corridor and down a flight of stairs into the darkness below. The lower corridor was damp and smelled of decay. They stopped outside a pair of large oak doors which swung inward to reveal another set of stairs proceeding deep into the bowels of the fortress. The oaken doors closed behind them with an ominous, echoing boom and they proceeded down into terrible, cold darkness.
Vision Quest
"What did you mean back there?"
Sinjin and Caspian were riding at a slow trot, side by side, following a rugged trail. They had been riding along for some time in silence. Caspian turned his head toward her.
"About searching for me." she said.
Caspian turned his head back to the road. The wind tossed his hair about his shoulders. It's soft whoosh mixing with the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves. She began to wonder if he was going to answer her. Finally, he spoke.
"There is..." he paused, considering his words, " a great quest before me," he said softly. "I have seen it... in visions."
"You are a seer?" New found respect was in her voice.
"I would not call myself such. Scattered images, I see. Fragments, mostly. Like a half remembered dream. I have spoken with seers... studied with wise men. But I have yet to learn to control my visions. My visions have aided me in the past, with decisions and uncertainty. They have led me to victory in battle. Even when I do not fully understand them, they often reveal subtle, hidden truths."
She thought she detected a note of frustration in his voice. "One should always act upon a vision. Gifts from the spirit world they are."
"It is because of my visions that I travel to Myranor. I have seen the home that I left so long ago, battles between orgs and men.
And this is why you ride east… to return home because of a vision?
“I do not do this thing lightly. It was many years ago that I left and I am sure that I was not missed.”
Then why do you return?
I have no choice in this matter. I must return. If only to be freed from these visions. These waking nightmares.
Sinjin sensed his pain and let it be.
And then there is the dream of the animals.
"What animals?
"I see six animals.
“What are these animals that you see?”
“A strong and proud horse with a mark upon it. A small grey rat with glittering eyes. A cat holding a heart in its mouth. An ox covered in scars. A grey wolf and a white raven."
Sinjin nodded, considering the animals. "Beings from the spirit world often appear to us as animals. In dreams. In visions. Bathyn mythology holds that each animal has it’s own unique strength or gift.
"What strengths?"
She thought back to the many times she had sat with the other children before the clan father and the other elders, listened to the many stories and legends she had heard told. How those old men seemed to grow ten years younger in the telling. How their eyes sparkled with the fire of adventure. She had been bound away to other places and times in those stories. She remembered them well. The stories of her people.
"The rat," she began, " is a cunning survivor while the cat is stealth and grace. The wolf is a warrior. The ox represents strength and loyalty. And the raven is wisdom.”
"And what of the horse?"
She paused. “The horse... the horse is a special animal in bathyn tradition. It is strength and speed and skill. But it also represent courage and honor and nobility.
She paused. "I.. I don't know. I don't think the white raven is among our spirit guides."
Caspian smiled a broad smile.
"What are you smiling at?"
"You." he said. "The horse in my vision. It is you."
"Nonsense! I'm not in your vision."
"On the crown of the horse's head was a mark. A crescent moon with two lines through it. The same mark that is upon your horse and on your breast."
She glanced down to the many runes that covered her body. The glyph most proudly displayed over her heart was her spirit glyph. It declared her identity, her bloodline, her very identity in bathyn culture. An identical glyph was tattooed between the eyes of her horse. The bathyns believed that this bonded rider and steed in spirit.
"But how-"
"I'm right... aren't I? You have such a mark as does your fine steed."
She grunted her displeasure.
"And what of it."
Fate moves in ways which are beyond the ken of mortal men. Often times we are guided to meet those who will affect our destiny. We are fated to do so.
"A you will affect my destiny?"
"We shall affect each other."
"Am I to be bound to your quest because of a dream?"
"A vision. Of the future. Join me. Join my quest. Why free a few slaves when you can save an entire duchy? And perhaps affect the course of a war.
Sinjin snorted derisively and stared straight ahead. "I cannot help riding through your dreams, seer. But my destiny is mine to choose. No one has preordained my future. Not spirits, not gods, not you. I have already taken a quest. The slavers Guild waits for me in Kitar. I thank you for your company and your food. But I cannot join you." In silence, they rode on.
The twin suns had climbed high in the sky when Caspian and Sinjin came over the top of a hill and into sight of Myranor. It was a large city being both port and capital of Kitar. Its impressive wall was surrounded by farmland while grazing herds of fat sheep fed placidly about the valley. The city itself stood at the mouth of a great river where it emptied into the bay.
The two rode down into the valley and across the farmlands. The sweet smells of freshly baked bread and pine fires were carried to them on the morning air. Dogs barked as Sinjin passed by. Midwifes, doing their laundry and tending their gardens, hurried in doors at the sight of the strange woman, her sleek, muscular body covered in tattooed glyphs. A farmer, splitting wood with an axe, paused in his work and wiped his brow, watching the two strangers trot by.
They ignored them and kept their eyes on the city gates that lay ahead. Bathynia had no huge walled cities. Stone houses which housed several families, but nothing like this, and so Sinjin looked about in wide eyed wonder. She noticed that armed guards stood watch of the main gates . The gates and city walls were impressively large. Two huge bronze doors that swung out flanked on either side by circular towers. These, in turn, connected to long stone curtain walls that wrapped around the central city. Sinjin could make out archers atop each tower. As she looked about she was struck by the large number of guards. It seemed to be abnormally strong defenses. Then she remember what Caspian had said. Affect the course of a war. She wondered who the enemy was.
Reigning their horses in before the gates, Caspian and Sinjin joined a small group that was already there. Sinjin noticed that as the guards looked on, each patron was confronted by a man before they were allowed to enter. A few quick words and coins were exchanged and each traveler entered. The man who seemed to be conducting the questions and taxes was a small, shrewd faced man with spectacles perched on his nose. He did not wear a soldier's uniform, rather a well-cut, expensive looking outfit.
"Who's that?" she said, turning to Caspian.
"The Gate Master. He works for the city government assessing taxes and fees for city patrons. "
"Taxes. To enter the city?"
"Most people entering the city do so for business. Farmers, merchants, craftsmen. Inside these walls is safety, civilization and opportunity. It's a privilege that one must pay for. And the taxes are always heavier in times of war."
"One should not have to pay for such things." She spat.
The dusty traveler before them moved into the gates and it was Sinjin's turn. The gate watchmen looked her up and down admiringly. She placed her hands on her hips in a defiant stance and glared back at them. .
He examined her briefly. "Five copper commons," he said.
"Five? That last man only paid two."
"There's a fee for bringing weapons and animals into the city," he said looking over her horse and sword.
She thrust her hand into her satchel and fished out a few small coins. She handed over the four coins. The Gate Master inspected them and a frown crossed his face. He had never seen the strange markings adorning them.
"What manner of coins are these?"
"Copper fyrkins." she said. Seeing his frown deepen, she added "That's good solid copper there."
The Gate Master looked up at Sinjin. "I don't think I've heard an accent like yours before. Where are you from?"
"Bathynia... to the west."
He jingled the coins in his palm, feeling their weight. "Better make it eight copper."
Sinjin threw up her hands in disgust. "Robbery-" she began.
"-is what we would suffer at the hands of an Ormekian Gate Master," Caspian quickly cut in." But here at Myranor we know travelers are always treated fairly." Caspian dropped three copper coins into the Gate Master's hand with a smile. "And a silver noble for your trouble," he said. He pulled out a large silver lozenge which gleamed in the sunlight. The Gate Master took it and smiled broadly. He bowed slightly and stepped aside with a wave of his hand. "Welcome to Myranor, my lord."
Inside the city, Sinjin was assaulted by countless new sights, smells and sounds. It was hot and smelly in the city. And noisy. Especially to someone who spent most of her nights out on the cool open steppes of the western lands. Everywhere people. In bright colored clothing, mirror polished armor, sparkling jewelry, face paints and more. She saw
[A magician's show]
[tavern]
[hears a cryer declaring open invitation to join the ranks of the militia or the scouts]
[small market]
[finds and hires a guide to take her to the slavers guild]
[use Sinjin's point of view to show off some of the spectacular elements and characteristics of Khoras]
[Caspian and Sinjin say goodbye and wish each other well]
Prince Of Thieves
Sendel blew the smoke out from his pipe and carefully packed the polished mahogany piece away in his vest pocket. Raising his eyes, he took in the vast expanse of grey stone that was his target tonight. Dark green ivy crawled thickly up the walls from the garden. The great cobble stone wall surrounding the grounds was tipped by barbed iron shafts, giving the impression that a thousand spearmen stood vigil about the home.
Sendel looked upon the sight with smug contempt. His father's barony was far superior. A grand castle whose spires stretched twice the height and walls were twice the girth of this poor man's city shack. But his smile slowly faded as he looked about. He had no one to share his contempt with. No one to whom he could boast. Well, perhaps afterward in the taverns he might find an eager listener. But for now...
With a skilled eye, he swept his gaze across the surface of the house, probing for weaknesses in defense. He mentally identified, analyzed and checked off every possible entrance to the place. The upper level windows were not the way. Too much light from the city lamps below. A shadow across the wall might be seen by passerby or city guard making their patrols. Especially in this part of the city, the Merchant's Quarter. Patrols were much more frequent here, many of the residents paid for it. Such corruption in this city. Not like his homeland.
Sendel glanced down the street. The patrol was coming, right on time. He reviewed them carefully. Four guards, one officer, standard equipment. He had timed them. Thirty two tolls from the night bell in the guard tower. Thirty two minutes in between rounds which gave him more than enough time for a clean infiltration. He had planned out every contingency, researched his target well. For Sendel, that was the robbery. Knowing the target better than the owner did. Attention to every conceivable detail. He enjoyed the planning, the preparation. Knowing the defenses, the obstacles and the rewards better than those who owned and defended. This home was a mansion compared to the slums in distant parts of the city, but still he would gather more than a few baubles from its chambers. And rumor hinted at a trophy room, well guarded and with splendid riches. But those same rumors told little else. Curiosity made this job that much more interesting.
Sendel slowly shifted his position, clenching and unclenching muscles slowly so as to not let them stiffen and watched from his small nook as the guards approached. Sendel patted the gargoyle that he hid behind. His position afforded him excellent cover while it provided him with a perfect view of his chosen target and the roads in three directions. The guards came to a stop in the moonlight. Sendel watched as a passing peddler, probably on his way home for the night, managed one final sale before retiring, rothka weed to fill the guards' pipes. The guards gladly accepted and, stuffing the dark, foul smelling stuff in their pipes, lit up. The rothka weed helped to keep out the cold. They still stamped the feet and wrapped their cloaks more tightly about them, though. Sendel waited for them to move on.
Finally, the officer barked a quick order and the guards grudgingly followed him. Listening to the night breeze, Sendel looked about ensuring that the street was deserted, at least for the moment. With a light foot, Sendel dropped to the silent street below and slipped through the shadows, comfortable in the knowledge that his dark suit, woven of the finest black cotton, was virtually invisible in the gloom.
The main wall surrounding the house was of cobblestone and stout. Its sharp, rough hewn stones would have cut his hands to ribbons but for the leather palmed gloves he wore. Those same stones provided excellent foot holds. Sendel was up and over the wall in a few seconds. He landed in the midst of large purple flowers and broad leaves drooping to the ground. Sendel searched his memory. The lord of this keep had a garden well known in the city, but Sendel couldn't remember the name of this particular flower. Motionless, Sendel gave a cursory glance of the garden that he crouched in, looking for movement. Silence. Darkness. Just as he expected. The lord and most of the servants were gone. It couldn't have been a more perfect time to execute this robbery.
Sendel moved slowly through the garden, weaving between large ferns, treading lightly across cobblestone pathways. Sendel knew of the rare herbs and exotic flowers (some kept alive out of the natural environment with minor magic) could have caught a high price at the local apothecary, but plants were for lesser thieves and bumbling alchemists. Outside of an herbal poison or two, he wasn't interested in flowers. No weed was worth enough money for him to go digging around in the soil with his bare hands!
Sendel's thoughts on the garden ended as did his journey through it. He came to a stop at the great outer wall of the home, near to the main entry.
He glanced up at the three story structure before him. The walls could have been climbed, perhaps without being spotted, but he wanted to traverse the chambers... and opening the front door displayed more showmanship. A wonderful way to taunt the owner. To show how easily this home had been violated. With a smile, he moved round to the front of the house.
The main entry was a double set of large oak doors stained and glazed with a resin. The polished iron hinges shone in the dim moonlight. Even the moons were perfect. Thrykar was full, Mektor was cloaked in shadow and Night's Jewel shone half her beauty. Just enough light to work by, not enough to give him away.
With confident hands, he plucked his tools from his belt and went to work on the lock, dismantling the outer cover and manipulating the large mechanism within. A few satisfying clicks and the bolt slid freely. Before opening the heavy door, he placed a few drops of oil on the great hinges. It swung open silently. The darkness covered his smile.
Sendel stopped dead in his tracks inside the door. Not because of any guard or trap.
Quite simply, he was shocked at the memories this roomed evoked. It seemed as if he was walking into his father's house, so similar was the entry hall. A suit of full plate armor, polished to a mirror finish, stood in the corner with sword and shield. A large fiber woven rug covered the floor just inside the door, a tapestry of purple cloth and gold thread detailed a pictorial battle. The image was broken when he looked at the floor. A large symbol was built into the floor with small colored stones... a hammer and gauntlet clenched into a fist, each crossing the other, forming an X. The standard of this house. A small statue of a burly bald man sat ensconced in an alcove in the side wall. Three open passageways led into the keep. Neither sight nor sound of any other living creature anywhere met Sendel's attentive ears and eyes. He was alone. With a smile of satisfaction, he moved on.
A dozen paces straight ahead brought Sendel into a large circular chamber filled with the opulent luxuries that wealth commands. Sendel caught his breath and then mentally scolded himself. He had seen such trinkets and baubles before. In his father's keep as a child, and in the Normidian palace when he had visited there. He concentrated on observing the objects with a disinterested air and a critical eye.
The statuette of the bookcase depicted a fierce looking humanoid figure. Despite its diminutive 12 inches, its array of weapons and the pile of skulls at its feet made Sendel keep a safe distance. Sendel didn't recognize the figure. Although he liked to research his targets, religion was a touch too boring for him. Judging by the weapons and such, it was a god of battle. 'Kael' the inscription read. 'Scourge of Battle'. Tiny Kael watched over a large assortment of books in the bookcase. Most seemed dusty and of ill-repair. The master, apparently, was not as interested in the written word as he seemed to want visitors to believe.
The room also sported a small ornate box carved of richly stained dark wood with a sweet smell. Sendel gingerly opened it up. A pair of pipes and two elegant glasses. For entertaining guests, no doubt. Sendel appraised them with a practiced eye. Good quality. Jevani craftsmanship. It would fetch a nice price, if he decided not to keep it. He tossed them in his sack.
Sendel ignored the large golden spun rug on the floor, similar to the other, but with more elaborate designs. He was more interested in the two tapestries that hung on opposite sides of the room, challenging each other for the eye's attention. The one depicted a battle with some nether fiend crawling from a pit. It's burgundy threads shimmered across a velvety black surface. The other depicted a beautiful, towering castle with a crystal at its center. Sendel gazed at them longingly. He was not awed by beauty or art. But either tapestry would have stuffed his purse with gold coins. He knew they were far to heavy to carry out by himself. And he would never be able to get about the city with such a beast. With a sigh, he turned away.
His eyes glided about the room as his feet did a slow walk about. Table, chair, wrought iron lantern. He passed a platter of fruit and snatched an apple (he was hungry). The silver candle holder would also be worth the weight and found its way into his bag. Nothing else of value. He moved on to the next room.
The dining room sported silver cutlery, crystal bowls, glassware and more. Most of it was too heavy and fragile to take, but Sendel carefully wrapped up a few choice pieces and tucked them in his sack.
Wonderful, herbal scents assaulted his nose in the kitchen. Various herbs, spices and such, all of which were probably worth something, but Sendel wasn't interested in them. He made a mental note to binge at his favorite tavern, the Silver Goblet. After tonight's foray, he'd be able to afford it.
Sendel came to the stairs and proceeded up without stopping. He knew from the map he had paid for that he had completed the ground floor.
The first door led into the master's library and office. It was filled with the musty smell of books. Dim moonlight filtered through the window faintly illuminating an open book. Sendel sifted through the volumes and found two books worthy of the sack. Bending over the desk, Sendel perused through various notes, performance reports, inventory lists, requisition forms and other such stuff. All quite dull to Sendel, but then his eyes came to rest on a letter. A love letter. Signed only with Yours, it might not be worth a bribe, but certainly it would unsettle this home's master.
The bed chamber was rather spartan for Sendel's taste. He had expected to see silk and satin cushions, crystal goblets and such. His own bedchamber back in Normidia had been replete with such luxuries. But this one had none of the frills. A large bed, a sturdy writing desk and chair, a lantern, a heavy cloak.
Sendel passed by what he knew from the map to be the training room. He was familiar with the sweaty odor that clung to the weights and wooden weapons. Nothing of interest was stored therein. He headed for the small den at the end of the hall. He knew from his studies that this way lay the trophy room. The true value of this mansion would be behind this door.
He came into a small office with several bookshelves along the left wall. A thick carpet covered the floor and a small writing desk sat against one wall. A single door on the opposite wall held Sendel's interest. The trophy room. He gazed longingly at the door and then fell upon the lock. He carefully lay his tools out before him and went to work. The inside of the lock felt unfamiliar, parts seemed out of place, but after several minutes he felt and heard a click. Success. He was sure. He casually repacked his treasured thieves' tools, especially his favorite, the long tooth, and tucked the kit away. With a grin, he gripped the handle and pushed. Nothing. The door wouldn't budge. Frustrated, he gripped with both hands and put all his strength into it. It didn't even rattle for all his effort. Impossible! How could this be! He dropped back down to the lock and again inserted tool after tool. After twenty minutes of frustration, he was rewarded with only sore fingers, a cut thumb and several broken tools. Sendel packed up his tools and fled quietly into the night. Stopping by a window, he crawled out onto a balcony and dropped lightly into the garden below. He slipped out into the city, never looking back. Angry at himself, he set off for a tavern to meet his fence. He needed a stiff drink.
From the shadows of night, a pair of soft green eyes watched him disappear.
Garamand
A single flickering candle lit the large chamber, reflecting off of tapestries, a shield, a sword. A small table, next to the bed, was filled with bottles of pills, flasks of healing draughts and wet towels. A single figure sat at the edge of the bed. The shimmering sammite sheets of the bed contrasted with the dark folds of his robes and the rich colors of his hem danced in the light giving the illusion of a butterfly hovering near a naked flame. The room was silent except for the rattling, wheezing breath of the frail body lying before him.
With trembling hand, Garamand extended a steaming cup of beef broth. The fumes passed unnoticed by the king's nose, and so, spoonful by spoonful, Garamand fed the aging man, quick to dab at drool or gravy with a napkin. He did not look up when he heard the door open. Few entered here unannounced. He knew who it was. Soft footsteps padded up to the bed and stopped. Garamand continued about his task.
"How is he?"
"Our king is a strong man," Garamand replied, trying to sound confident, at ease. "He will recover."
"Really? I was informed that you have doubled the amount of that blue herb there, what did you call it... Azure Blessing? And this is on top of the bloodroot extract and the bitter berries. Does twice the medicine indicate twice the sickness?"
Garamand paused in his dabbing. He looked down at the bowl of stew. The odor of the bloodroot was noticeable, even over the beef."
"I-I had no choice. This... this sickness... ravages the body. His body wastes away before me and," his voice broke, "... and I can not even identify the cause."
"Trust in yourself, Garamand. You are the most skilled healer we have. He will receive no better care than from you."
"Kind words. Especially from one who is usually too wrapped up in political business to offer them."
"And I am afraid it is business I must discuss with you now. The Council grows restless. Belisar is eager to seize upon certain legal contingencies in the King's Canon. He fancies himself leading the kingdom through a military dictatorship during the King's illness. And with the rise in border activity with Duthelm, the Merchant Clans may side with him... I need something to tell them, to calm their nerves. I have had to remind them more than once that the prince will settle these matters upon his return."
"Should not the prince have returned from Borell by now?"
"Harsh weather delays them, no doubt. The Borrellian peninsula is regularly swept by winter storms much worse than any we see here and such a storm may be forcing them to wait in port until the seas calm. However, I don't believe we need worry yet. They will return and when they do, many will be looking to the prince to take his proper place upon the throne."
"while the king still lives??
"-as is proper," admonished Darian. "The King's Canon clearly states in Subsection Twelve, Paragraph fifty seven that if the king is incapacitated through wounds, disease or some other means, the crown rightfully passes to the heir apparent until the king's faculties are fully restored. It is a honor and duty that every heir has born proudly since-"
"-but, at this moment, we are with out a king..."
Darian opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it, waging some inner battle. "Perhaps I should have not allowed the prince to go," said Darian after a moment. "The Borrellian peninsula is distant. Too far... yes, too far and too harsh. Especially for one accustomed to court life."
"Come now. That is not your true concern and we both know it. The prince has served well as an ambassador and enjoys the journeys." Garamand looked up at Darian and smiled. "You could not have known. The illness came upon the king swiftly. And only after the prince had left. You wear a worried brow these days. Fret not, old friend. The prince will return. And in the meantime," he said with a impish grin, " I haven't run out of herbs yet".
Garamand smiled.
"Very well. For now, the Council rules and I will do my best to keep the Council on a short leash. But in my heart, I know the Prince is rightful ruler. And, if Lady Fate smiles on us, he will return soon."
"The High Council is scheduled to convene in just a few hours and I think you should be in attend-"
A gargling moan cut him short. The King stirred and fluttered his eyes weakly before snapping them open in a look of open terror. He starred at Garamand intensely not seeming to recognize him and struggled to rise.
"Your Highness?" Garamand began hopefully.
The King sat back down and looked about him. "Garamand," he said in a hoarse voice, "where am I? What are you doing here? Am I not well?"
"No, your Highness, you've been ill for many days now," Garamand explained patiently as he had several times before. The King often awoke confused.
The King's eyes focused on Garamand's and suddenly seemed clear and calm.
"I had a dream, Gar. A terrible, frightful dream. A devil wearing a mask sitting on a throne. And a blind man searching for six bone keys. And a hole in the world."
"It was just a dream, your Highness, nothing more."
"A hole in the world..."
Garamand looked up at Darian helplessly.
"A simple dream, Highness. The fever makes you see things."
The King's eyes searched the ceiling as if he might find the answers to his questions there. He began to speak and Garamand was forced to lean down to catch the words.
"I fear the darkness is upon us again, Garamand. And my son must face it alone. Must... face... himself..."
The King closed his eyes and seemed to relax, a gentle breath eased out of his chest. Garamand bowed his head and prayed. Tears began to fall on the King's pale hand.
[Caspian and Sinjin at the Ruins of the Duchy of New Storming Glen]
“You’re worried. I can tell”
“About what?”
“Don’t give me that. You Easterners are always hung up on social niceties. Etiquette and protocol.” She spat. “You’ve been gone awhile and now You’re worried about whether or not your family will welcome you back”
Well, it has been seven years! That’s a long time. Too long, I think.
I say don’t fret. You’re their son. How can they not welcome you back into the family.
You don’t understand. They think I’m dead. They must. I vanished in the middle of a battle seven years ago. There can be no doubt that they assumed me dead. And now, to show up at the castle without warning-
-back from the dead, like a lazarus.
It’s more than that. I’ve changed. A lot. You didn’t know me before, but believe me, I am nothing like the boy that marched off to battle so many years ago.
“Your blind, for one thing. And also -
Caspian stopped Sinjin abruptly with an upraised hand and stopped his horse. Sinjin stopped hers as well and looked at him puzzled.
“Why do we stop now. Didn’t you say it was just over the next hill?”
Caspian didn’t answer but raised his head, sniffing the air.
“Do you smell something?”
Sinjin paused and breathed in the breeze slowly. Crullen berries she smelled, sweet and ripe. The sweat of her horse and the air thick with pollen. But she didn’t smell any - wait, the breeze changed direction and a new scent wafted before her. Sickly sweet. She had smelled that before.
“Bodies.” She said. “Burning,”
“Mixed with pine. A funeral pyre perhaps? But that can’t be.”
“And why not? Are Kitarans immortal such that they have no need of funeral pyres?”
Caspian ignored her sarcasm. “No. But Kitarans don’t burn their dead.”
Caspian dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and trotted forward. Sinjin followed. As his horse followed the winding path up the hillside, memories came flooding back to him.
At the top of the hill sat a fat, bulbous tree with drooping branches. The tattered remains of a thick hemp rope clung to the bark of a high branch, wound tightly around the limb, one end hanging down a few feet. The rope cut deeply into the bark, seeming to choke the branch.
Caspian paused beneath the tree, looking up at the rope. He had tied that rope there himself long ago and played and swung here on this old tree many times as a boy. But now, the rope was moldy and all but shredded by countless storms. It’s limp end hung severed. Someone had long ago cut it off. After a moment’s reflection, he urged the horse on.
As the two riders made their way down the other side of the hill, the scent of burning flesh was more pronounced. Sinjin could make out a thin trail of smoke wafting up from the trees below and dispersing on the morning breeze. The sounds of wood being chopped sounded below.
Caspian’s mind recoiled at the feeling of the place. All about him was the specter of death. He could feel it. The loss of this place. The suffering. Many had died here in this valley. He had no doubt of that. He could feel the anguish of lost souls reaching out to him. They had died horribly and without reason and the fragments of their shattered souls permeated the valley even as the stench of their burning bodies filled the air. It was times like these that he wished he wasn’t able to sense such things.
As the two riders reached the bottom of the hill, a scene of devastation opened up before them. A small keep stood at the center of the clearing, though there was little of it left. It’s walls and upper floors had collapsed into a mixed up pile of rubble and broken timber that still smoldered quietly. Throughout the clearing, as far as Sinjin could see, there was evidence of similar destruction. Rubble and garbage was strewn about. The burned out husks of farmhouses littered the valley along the winding river. Crops and gardens had been dug up. Dozens of slain farm animals littered the ground. Blood stained the soil crimson.
Thirty paces from the ruins of the keep, a stooped man in stained and dirty leggings and tunic was wiping his hands with a rag as he watched a fire burn. A dozen bodies, shrouded from head to foot in black cloth, burned in a pile. Pieces of chopped wood lay all about and were intermixed with the bodies in the pyre.
At the sound of horses, he turned about, startled and then quickly picked up the axe that lay at his feet.
“Keep you distance,” he called out, hefting the axe, “or I’ll split your heads clean open.” Sinjin and Caspian stopped their horses.
“Stay your weapon, sir,” replied Caspian. “We are no threat to you.”
Sinjin appraised the man before them. He was an old, stooped and frail with age. His watery grey eyes glared angrily at them from beneath bristling grey brows. A scar on his cheek was visible beneath the grey stubble which matched the color of his thinning hair.
“Who are ye?” the old man asked.
“I am a… friend,” said Caspian, “of Lord Criton and his family. I’ve come a long way to see them.”
“Then you’ve come for nothing. Lord Criton and his family rest in the graves over there,” he said with a nod of his head. The old man slowly set the axe down. “I put them there myself five days ago.”
“Is this what you saw in your dream?” whispered Sinjin.
“A battle I saw, but not this devastation.”
Caspian slowly dismounted and began walking toward the ruined keep. The old man kept an eye on him, but when back to his work, dragging another body to the fire. Sinjin dismounted and began walking about, inspecting the carnage.
“What happened here? Was this an attack from Duthelm?”
“Aye. Bandits and brigands on horse, a hundred strong at least. Men, orgs and at least a dozen half breeds. But that wasn’t the worst of it?
What do you mean?
They had something else with them too. Something right out of a children’s bedtime story. But you wouldn’t believe me if I told ye.
Try me.
The old man scratched his chin and looked up to the clouds, trying to figure out how to put it into words.
“Well, there was three of ‘em. Shaped like a man, but big. Eight foot, ever’one of ‘em. But they weren’t no men. They had thick, muscled arms and legs. Grey skin and ugly faces. At first, I thought I was looking at a huge man in some sort of dark grey armor, but when I got up closer and got a look at em, I seen it was their skin. Thick, plated scales on the body, everywhere. Not like a snake scales like the saurians have, these were big thick scales, thicker than a clay plate and much harder. Saw more than one arrow glance off em. Never seen anything like em. Hope to never again.
Sinjin had wandered over and was listening to the exchange.
Did they fight with weapons.
No, bare hand. More like claws though. They was catchin’ swords in mid swing and snapping em in twain. Two of the creatures tore down the wall of the keep and went in that way.
“Sounds like they may be stronger than the orgs.
“Aye, saw one of em pick up a cow and toss it like a sack of flour.
Caspian was quiet a moment, as he considered this. Was Duthelm using magic to alter some of their troops. Or perhaps these creatures were summoned from the nether regions of the ether by dark and twisted magic. Who knew?
This page last updated Wednesday, December 24, 2008. Copyright 1990-2009 David M. Roomes.