That was Luthan’s cue. He walked to her. “May I?” he asked, then he took the weapon in his hands and unwrapped it.
The claymore brandished in his hand, he took a short moment to examine the weapon, letting his eyes follow the brightness of the gold-engraved steel blade. The hilt strapped in leather was still as white as snow, just as he remembered from the war of decades ago. Well, decades ago for him, centuries for most people here. After that, he placed the weapon on the table so everyone could look at it.
“Holy...” Noah could barely say, his eyes open wide.
“That’s...” Cayne uttered, unable to finish her sentence.
“That’s the Royal Claymore,” Jules said, instantly rising from his chair. He walked to it but had to lean on the table so as not to fall himself. He then raised his head to Luthan. “Where did you get this? It was lost at the Battle of Orgna. Joshua...our commander died with it.”
Helena came closer, still frowning, unsure of what this weapon was supposed to be. “Will someone tell me what this means?”
“It’s the weapon of kings,” Jules explained. “Well, the weapon of the king’s protector. The Great General. Don’t you guys know?” He said this as if it was evident but quickly remembered that the Great General and the Bravan King were men of two centuries ago for these people.
“It’s a legend,” Noah replied, running his fingers through his thick black hair like he was still stunned. “That weapon was lost, as you said.”
Cayne smiled awkwardly, biting her lip, thinking. “What General Corax wouldn’t give to get his hands on this weapon.” She paused for a minute, then looked at Luthan with solemn eyes. “So this is what you found.”
Luthan nodded. “It’s what I was meant to find.”
Before Cayne could respond to that, they heard angry shouts coming from the hall. There was some commotion beyond the door. Cayne quickly hurried out, followed by the others. Luthan picked up the claymore before rushing out of the war room.
It was a quarrel between two groups of fighters that had attracted everyone’s attention in the hall. Tensions had risen here, Cayne realized. What did she expect, gathering Wolves of different clans who had never once united in the same room? She stepped in between two men who were about to switch from words to fists.
“What is this about?” she asked, shouting louder than the two.
The left one said something about supplies being scarce. The right one barked about not wanting to spend any more time near, as he put it, a Dalgon criminal.
Seriously? Were they really at it, spewing hateful words like they meant nothing? Cayne’s voice resonated across the hall. “Are you being serious right now?”
Pause. “Do you think we have time to waste on pathetic feuds while the city is literally blowing up?” she challenged.
Everyone amassed in the main hall, observing this display like it was some sort of spectacle. Cayne looked around her, both shocked and offended, checking on her Wolves, but also shaking them awake.
“Tomorrow at dawn, we take the Castle of Gold,” she announced.
Voices quavered. Some people muttered inaudible words. Cayne felt the evident tension in the room rise some more.
“They’re pulling all forces to the castle,” one of the mercenaries declared. “We’ve seen them retreat. I think they’re expecting us.”
“They have blacksteel weapons!” another soul shouted across the room.
“As do we,” Cayne responded. “And we have cannons, pistols, windlances. We have the best marksmen of the whole empire.”
She then turned to Jules, who leaned against the wall to stay standing. Seeing him in this state slowed her down in her vigor. But the stern light of his blue eyes denied her all pity. There was no way he would not fight tomorrow.
“Bravoure was once the Kingdom of Gold,” she began. “The beacon of a racial alliance that preached faith and unity. These values have become so distant, we barely know the meaning of it.”
“Spare us the history lesson, she-wolf!” a woman shouted. It was someone from Cayne’s own clan. “We all know how shitty Bravoure has become. You’ve told us that over and over again. Tell us something new.”
Cayne was confused. Everyone had followed her here. Now, they were questioning the mission. Why were they backing off now after they had come this far?
“It’s madness!” someone shouted.
Another followed, “We’ll never take that castle!”
And another, “This is foolish!”
The Bastion’s hall was about to blow.
“What do you expect us to do now, then?” Cayne asked and shrugged. “We’ve come this far. We have the Bastion. Do you expect us to stay here locked up forever? Do you think one victory is enough?”
No one responded.
She raised her voice so everyone in the fortress could hear. “The Bastion is the gut of the capital. Now, we need to conquer the heart. The Castle of Gold. This is what we were meant to do. All our efforts, all the work we’ve done to preserve our values, has brought us here.” She paused and lowered her head to think. She then took three steps to Luthan, who held the claymore and took the weapon out of his hand.
“This,” she began. She brandished it in the air…
And then everything stopped.
Luthan was the first one to notice, then the awes of the crowd prompted Cayne to look. The sound that came with it was nothing she had ever heard before.
As Cayne brandished the Royal Claymore and raised it in the air, its golden veins began to glimmer, engulfing the steel blade in a bright halo. An incessant ring came with it, one that spurred a powerful wave of mirth and courage inside everyone’s heart. Cayne had no idea what was happening. She still held the blade, unsure of whether she could move it. That is when she realized how light the sword actually was. It had the weight of a feather. No, it actually felt like it was part of her, somehow. Like it extended from her hand and belonged there.
She turned to Luthan again, her eyes asking thousands of questions. He had little explanation for this display, only the words from the Mother Superior of a particular convent in Dalgon which chimed in his mind.
The power of influence.
A power that had gone dormant after Godfrey Brave’s death but was now blazing with might. It did not feel dangerous. It did not scare him. It was as if the sight of this weapon spurred an innate sense of duty, like a divine fervor. Intrinsic zeal that freed the minds of even the most frightened fighter. Jules recognized the weapon—he had seen it held by his heroes long gone, but he had never seen it like this. That weapon was the emblem of the Resistance of legends. And that weapon was now in Cayne Falco’s hands, with unknown powers unleashed.
When she got the confidence to speak again, she lowered the weapon and addressed the crowd. Words came flowing like a tidal wave of courage. Everybody listened, but not because they were under some sort of spell. It was because of an intriguing spark of energy that spread through the Bastion’s hall, like a glimmer in the darkest of nights.
Hope.
“This weapon was wielded by those who fought for our freedom,” Cayne said. “Those who died for it. It carries their legacy with it.”
“It’s the Royal Claymore,” whispers in the hall said. “The legendary weapon.”
Cayne used this new energy she felt with candor and audacity. “It is time to end the reign of terror. People have suffered for far too long. A nation suffered because of Bravoure’s descent into madness.” She turned to Anir, the chieftain of the Iskalan tribe of Angao, who had seen far too much death at the hands of the Bravan Army. “Tomorrow will be the day we say no more. No more hate, no more fighting, no more fear. Our kingdom still deserves redemption, I can guarantee you that.”
There was no more tension. No more friction. Everybody listened, and everyone understood. Cayne’s words rang not with their deepest desires but with their smallest of hopes. The hopes they had repressed in fear of them being false.
Cayne raised the weapon above her
head. Now the Royal Claymore’s song echoed fully. “Whatever we face, we will fight. Whatever comes our way, we will fight.” She howled the war cry of the Wolf Pack.
All Wolves howled back in unison.
* * *
Jules almost collapsed on the bed after Luthan had carried him back to his assigned dorm in the quarters. He wanted to stay in the Bastion’s hall, to prepare with the rest of the Wolf Pack, but he was too hurt. Cayne insisted on him staying in the Bastion during the battle to come, but everyone knew Jules would never let that happen. He was going to fight. And he was going to be right at the frontline where he belonged.
Luthan lit a torch with a wave of his hand, so Jules could rest with the soothing light of the flames.
“I did miss that in all the months you were gone,” Jules said between clenched teeth.
Luthan chuckled silently. “And I missed you too.” He smiled, surprised that he felt so much joy seeing this man again. A man he had not known long but had survived a deadly adventure with.
“Oh, Luthan...” Jules hesitated. Something had hit him. He had just realized that Luthan had no idea Ahna was back. Should he tell him? Should he tell him where she had gone? He had to. He had just started his sentence—he could not back down now. “Ehm...”
“What is it?”
“Ahna...”
Luthan’s eyes snapped wide open. He instantly knew what Jules had wanted to say. He looked around every corner of the room like he was searching for someone.
“She’s back?” he urged, just to make sure. All he felt in that one split second accounted for the pain of the past ten years without her.
Jules nodded. “She’s been back for a couple of weeks now.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s...”
“Tell me!”
“Come on, father,” Berius said with a hint of disdain as he walked into the room. “Let our soldier rest.”
“It’s fine,” Jules assured. He looked to Luthan, ready to tell him the truth. “She went to the Dwellunder.”
“What?” Luthan roared. “Hva faen? Why? Why would she do that? Why would you let her do that?”
“Hey!” Jules raised his hands in the air to claim his innocence. “It’s Ahna. You know what happens once she gets an idea in her head. She knows about the undead problem, and she knows of a way to fix it. That’s all I know.”
Luthan sighed with all his might. How could she do this? How could she put herself in a situation like this, going back to the place he had protected her from? He had been there to help her heal from all these memories. And now, she was going back! For what? What could possibly be there that would help? Luthan waved his arms around as he played a monologue in his mind, then he cast one last glance at Jules and stormed out of the room. He had to drown his face in cold water to process this revelation.
Berius whistled to express his disconcertment. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked rhetorically.
“A lot!” Jules exclaimed. “But I get him.”
“I have to admit that I do too.” Berius came to sit next to Jules. He was not shy in taking Jules’s face in his hand, examining his bruises. “Are you okay?”
Jules spotted those golden flickers in Berius’s eyes again. He could have looked for much longer, seeking stars, but Berius let him go.
“Take some rest,” the high elf advised. He stood up again, but Jules caught his wrist.
Jules cursed himself. Why had he done that? It was compulsive, and most of all, very stupid. What would Berius think? But Berius smiled and sat back. Jules felt a strange spark in his chest, like an odd sense of relief. Or maybe it was something else. Because right here, Jules felt safe, close to a man who looked at him like no one else did.
“If you want me to stay, you just need to ask,” Berius said with a sly smirk.
Jules cleared his throat, embarrassed. He felt so awkward it was insurmountable. “I...”
“It’s alright. I don’t mind staying. There’s not really anywhere else for me to be.”
It took but a few minutes for Jules to fall asleep. His face was already looking much better. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed. A boy-lynx surged out of the door and curled up to the handsome man on the bed. Luky had no wish to leave Jules ever again. Berius stayed with the two, looking at them with tender eyes. He sensed a warm feeling settle in his heart. Perhaps this felt a little like a home.
The Circle’s Tower stood at the southern edge of Daranak. While every city of Mal had a Circle building, Daranak’s was the one where they trained battlemages. Ahna had spent countless years there, after moving from military service into arcane academics. It was a more favorable place than the barracks, but it was still Mal, and pride and rivalry were like poison in this place.
Everybody had heard of Meriel Ahn Sharr’s return, and now that she walked the streets with the Duke of Mal, they marched with an escort of imperial guards in red armor. All eyes were on them. It was at that moment that the reality of her standing in her birthplace really struck her. Like she had been sleepwalking ever since she had walked the Frontier and was now slapped awake. The air was thick. The flames reflected in cobalt walls almost blinded her. She was too short of breath to speak and too anxious to think.
People fell to their knees as the Duke of Mal passed. They held feverish stares and squirmed if he looked in their direction. Ahna noticed how they did their best to glance and look away at the same time. What had gotten to her father, a man whose madness had taken him this far? What had he become? The veins on his twilight blue face pulsed like they ripped through his skin. The ambers of his eyes carried shadows all too familiar.
And then she realized it, as they entered the Tower’s walls. Every soul in there let them pass without greeting, without moving. Karlus’s presence was like a trap in a perpetual time. Those who looked upon him were ensnared by the power he had become.
But not Ahna.
Not her, nor Thamias, and there was the best of reasons for that.
Karlus had succumbed to demonic powers bound by blood, which meant family carried the only immunity.
Down the endless coiled staircase was an underground vault that had not changed in two centuries. Ahna did not care to look around. She was focused on one and only one thing: get to the Orator and the gates of the Hollow Earth. She had been there, once, a long time ago. This should not be too hard. At the edge of the vault was a long cobalt corridor going down, deeper into the ground. It was guarded by six mages in Circle Keep armor, all posted on each side. Beyond where the light reached was a heavy steel door designed not to close people out but to keep the monsters in.
Ahna stood still in front of this massive gate for a moment, letting herself be swamped by an eerie feeling of doubt. She had not noticed Karlus’s gaze on her.
“This is where I leave you,” he said, hauling her back to reality.
Ahna turned to him, hesitant, seeing only his guards preparing for him to make a move. “Why all this?” she murmured. “Why did you join me here?”
Karlus grinned. “I thought a stroll with my daughter would do me some good.”
His hand came to meet the side of her face, showing the unsolicited affection Ahna used to fear. Her gut clenched on itself, but she would not let it show.
When he pulled his hand away, his smile had faded. “Why have you come here?”
Ahna knew she had no choice but to tell him. What would it matter anyway? It was not like Karlus could have any influence on the surface. He was never after that. Her father wanted an answer and an answer he would get.
She finally relaxed her stance a little. “There are undead about to wreak havoc on the surface. I think the way to stop them lies in the Hollow Earth.”
“And what could that be?”
His question caught her by surprise. He had heard the word undead, but he just did not care at all. He wanted to know what she was going to do. He was hungry for that piece of information.
Because she did not give
it to him, he pursued. “Demons? Banes? Lost souls?”
“Someone’s soul,” she said.
“How do you plan on finding it?”
Ahna fell silent. She turned around, stared at the gate like she was thinking, while in reality, she was cursing herself. How could she have been so rash?
Her barriers began to crumble. Her headstrong imprudence brought her here, to the gut of Mal, with just a goal but no plan. Nothing near an idea of how she would find what she needed to find. She would get to the Hollow Earth, and then what? Ahna had been obsessed with reaching the gate, not thinking further, not considering how she would find him. Not even how she would bring him back.
She was clueless. And she felt so lost.
Before Ahna could say anything, Veraniel, who had been silent this entire time, approached her and motioned for her attention. “Meriel, if I may, when you enter the Orator, they will feed on your doubts.” Veraniel saw right through Ahna’s insecurities. “But if you justify your presence, they will let you in. And they may even guide you.”
“I need to bring him back,” Ahna murmured, unconscious that her resolute tone sounded more desperate than she wanted. “I can’t afford not to.”
“Whatever life you have on the surface, is it worth stepping through a realm of evil?” Karlus injected. “Is it truly worth that kind of sacrifice?”
She did not want to respond. She did not want to heed that condescending and patronizing tone. She knew what her father was doing, challenging her judgment, fueling her doubts even more.
“Meriel, you have a power inside you. I can feel it.” He inhaled so deep it was like he gorged himself with her aura. “You have no idea how alike you and your mother are.”
“Then tell me,” Ahna said. She’d had enough of his cryptic words.
Karlus exhaled, and his vile eyes deflated with his breath. “You are just like your mother, chasing impossible things.” He paused, remembering something too distant, then he returned to the moment present. “I will send my army to the surface to help your cause.”
Ahna opened her eyes wide, mute, unsure of how to react. Had she heard the words Karlus had just said?
Tempest of Bravoure Page 18
