by Timothy Ray
“Do you know how full of it you are?” John responded, cutting through his train of thought. It took him a moment to remember what it was John was referring too; like his brother had just now come up with a response to something he said twenty minutes before. He hadn’t even been sure his brother had heard him, but the scathing look he was being given told him how mistaken he had been. “No one is waiting with baited breath.” John said the last in a poor attempt to mimic the younger boy’s voice; he failed.
Well, maybe John hadn’t heard the part about the wine.
Tristan had to cut short a laugh. “Now who’s full of it? There’s no way father will allow any of the stewards to even think about starting dinner until word comes of the favored son’s return.”
“Are we back on that, really?” John sneered. “I thought we were past that shit. Look, I only asked you to come along today because it may be the last chance you and I have to spend together before your wedding. I know you don’t like to hunt, but I don’t know of any other way to get you away from the palace and on our own.”
He fidgeted for a moment, uncomfortable with the sudden warmth emanating from his brother. How could he sustain his anger after that?
“I appreciate that, I do,” he returned, forcing himself to meet John’s gaze. “I just don’t get the same pleasure that you do out of all of this.” His motioning arms indicated that he was talking about more than just the hunting they’d done that day.
John smirked. “Well, not like you’re going to have to put up with me much longer.” His brother slapped him on the shoulder and turned back to the dirt road they had transitioned too. “Soon, you’ll be alone with your elven sweetheart, where you’ll probably choose to read a book rather than take advantage of that beautiful body of hers.”
His face flushed. He was about to make a retort when a howl erupted in the distance, causing him to come to another stumbling halt. His eyes widened as they searched his shrouded surroundings with refreshed anxiety, a hand reaching for the sheathed bow on his back.
They were in farmland now. Corn flowed slightly on his left and he could barely make out the silhouettes of cattle on their right. Wooden fences lined both sides of the road, but it would not bar a determined creature from getting through. He could see a couple of raised heads from the cattle, also scouring the countryside for the source of the predator, but that was the limit of their reaction. Only his brother’s continuing footfalls could be heard on the now silent landscape and it gave him the jitters.
He glanced at his older brother, but saw that John hadn’t missed a step nor slowed his pace. Had he even heard it? Tristan glanced at the deer and was suddenly wary of having such an enticing snack in his presence. “Uh, wolf?” he offered, incredulous.
With a huff, John came to a stop and turned, a lack of concern apparent on his face. “It’s far off. If it weren’t, those cows would be bolting, not simply twitching their ears. You want to go traipsing in the dark after it? Go ahead. I’ll let the patrols know where to find you,” his brother mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he whipped around and continued towards the looming castle walls in the distance. The nearness of his home made his insides groan; the thought of the madness that awaited him erased all else from his mind.
The wolf temporarily forgotten, he forced his feet into a trudging advance, reluctant to reenter the world and his place in it.
For months now, traveling merchants had been spreading rumors of conflict from the northern borders. There were never specifics, or evidence to support their tales. Most of the repeated stories had been handed down to them from the other merchants they’d encountered. He kept hearing the phrase “no one survived”. If so, who began these tales of destruction?
Whispers of war echoed through every tavern, and civil unrest had grown substantially as a result. It was unnerving, the fear he saw in the darting eyes of the people around him. The abruptness in how they treated him had become more pronounced and he couldn’t understand why; he had nothing to do with it? Yet he felt his actions constantly scrutinized and questioned openly; like he was the one running around personally destroying villages and slaughtering innocent people single-handedly.
Matters had been inflamed further by the sudden appearance of a raving dwarf on their front doorstep. It had been a long week and even though only a few had seen his arrival; the whole castle knew every word spoken with an uncanny precision. From what the guards had told him, the creature had been a horror to behold from the moment of his arrival. The usual stoutness of the race had been stripped away. The obviously tortured and starved creature screamed absurdities from a pile of rotten soiled clothing. His mind had been torn away by the abuse inflicted upon him. Falling to his knees on the castle drawbridge, he had pleaded with the guards to give him sanctuary, claiming demons were close behind.
Reacting instantly, the dwarf had been ushered in, the drawbridge raised, and the guard increased in expectation of an imminent assault—which never came.
Raving at anyone that drew close, the dwarf had been finally knocked unconscious with a severe blow to the head by the captain of the guard. The commanding officer had seen the reactions his men had to the screaming lunatic and didn’t want to chance further chaos by marching the dwarf through the town square on their way to the keep beyond.
It didn’t matter, the news had already spread like wildfire.
By nightfall, despite the admonishments and vows given, every poisonous word had been repeated until the entire castle had heard it “first-hand”. Destruction was upon them and every attempt at calming them—failed miserably. Assurances that the returning patrols had seen nothing to cause such an alarm, did little to lessen their fears, and the air had been heavy with heated panic. The army had been ordered to muster, more for crowd control than demons breaching the walls. Men poured in from the countryside, tents were erected, and the show of force began to slowly quiet the masses. The patrols had been doubled, but still; nothing.
The dwarf had lit the match on the pile of straw that had built up over the previous months and set blaze to the fiery doom that preyed on everybody’s minds. He had been privy to the reports coming in and felt frustrated that they had all been riled up over nothing. There were no demons, no approaching army. All had been as it always had—quiet. His voice was nothing when compared to his father’s and brother’s, and their lack of success made him feel better for his own perceived failings.
If they couldn’t do it, how could he?
Clerics had been called to tend to the dwarf and heal his wounds, but his mind remained fragmented and destroyed. There was little to be done to restore the raving lunatic to his sanity. They let the mental state of their charge known, but it didn’t quell the perceived threat from beyond. Merchants still trickled in, stories were still embellished, and the tension refused to go away, despite no evidence or proof that any of it were true.
On the flipside, something had tortured the dwarf to the point of insanity. But that could just mean that they had a lone sociopath out there with a taste for the sadistic; not a horde of demons intent on killing them all.
Soldiers were restless, eyes constantly following those around them; ready to respond in an instant to any sign of danger. A curfew had been enacted and the once lively streets became swiftly deserted at nightfall. In the imposed silence, it seemed the madman’s screams, echoing from the castle’s dungeons, could be heard more clearly by every citizen; the words chilling them to the bone.
So, when his brother had proposed a hunting trip, he had quickly agreed despite his misgivings. He had welcomed the opportunity to get away from the castle and lose himself in the woods, with only his thoughts to occupy his time. The quiver was only for show, he had no intention of using it. He could, if he absolutely had too, but his limited training and lack of enthusiasm diminished its purpose.
He shook his head and tried to divert his mind from the recent unrest, but felt the familiar impatience boil once more concerning the lack o
f reports from their scouting parties. He made a concerted effort to drive it down and looked to his surroundings to once more quiet his mind.
They were leaving the farmland behind and cottages had begun to appear sporadically around him. There was an orange flicker of firelight between drawn shades indicating life, but not one soul appeared to take notice of their trek home. He could spy torches ahead, moving in multiple directions, the town guard on their appointed patrols.
Two guardsmen appeared in the darkness ahead, their swords out and ready to greet the two unknown shadows approaching. They relaxed when they saw that it was their sovereign’s sons stepping into the feeble torchlight. John spoke to them quickly, relaying that they’d heard a wolf hunting near their livestock. He ordered them to get a search party formed and seek out the source of the howl, lest they began losing cattle and panic the farmers further. They snapped to and jogged west, eager to do anything to break the monotony of their patrol.
John moved forward once more and Tristan struggled to keep pace, not wanting to encourage another wave of his brother’s wrath, or worse, another awkward moment of brotherly affection.
His mind drifted to the only attempt he’d made to see the crazed dwarf in their dungeons. The guards had tried to thwart him, and when that didn’t work, they had called his brother. They were sure that just the sight of the tortured soul would be more than he could handle. He had stood his ground; he knew that he was capable of more than they gave him credit for. He wanted to hear firsthand the madness that had caused so much havoc, to judge for himself the veracity of the lunatic’s testimony. They had finally relented, though John insisted that a guard accompany him to ensure that he didn’t approach the bars of the cell. A useless gesture, as the dwarf was shackled to the dungeon walls and incapable of reaching him.
Eager at the sight of an audience, the chained madman retold his tale with a conviction that gave him chills. He spoke in a heavy Dwarfish accent, spit spraying with every uttered word, eyes darting around like the shadows themselves were going to rise up and eat him alive.
An army was marching from the northwest; goblins and orcs driven south by demons from the depths of hell. They would come for him, and they’d kill every soul they encountered along the way. If he stayed there, they were all doomed; assured that their goal was his retrieval. Forces were massing in the Deadlands for a future assault on all the free people of the world and nothing could resist their inevitable march. He raged on about the tortures he had suffered and ensured that they would all get to experience it firsthand themselves. It was enough to flare his mind with nightmarish images of degrading torture and he left the dungeon more shaken than he would admit to his awaiting brother above.
He had gone to see one of the attending Clerics and the man confirmed that the creature’s ravings hadn’t changed a single syllable since his arrival. The man had tried to reassure him that the dwarf’s mind was gone, that he was nothing but a tortured soul venting his inner demons, but the feeling of foreboding refused to lift from his clouded mind. He was told that only time would heal the dwarf and he knew that was one thing his father would not allow. The refugee was a powder keg and had done enough damage already. He would have to be handled quickly if they were to soothe the panic he had caused.
Constantine had sent envoys to the Dwarves relating the prisoner’s state, and requested that they send an escort to bring him home. He had checked before he had left that morning, but no response had yet to be received. He feared that his father’s patience in keeping the tortured madman was fast running out.
Lancaster stood as a nexus point to the surrounding lands. The castle had been built after the Freedom War, when all the races had united in opposition of a common foe, and saw Lancaster as a united fort in which to occasionally meet and share in the rebuilding of their world. Over time, each of them had withdrawn, the differences in culture driving them apart. The races had their own portion of the land and guarded their borders against intruders ferociously. Tensions between them had been high as of late, as if the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation of another oncoming apocalypse.
Envoys had been sent in every direction, seeking information from their neighbors, but it would be weeks before they returned. He didn’t have high hopes that anything useful would come of it.
In the meantime, the blacksmiths were working to provision the army, hammer blows ringing long after curfew. Drills were being performed as the veterans worked tirelessly to train the new recruits quickly. As no time table on their impending doom had been confirmed, all would have to be ready at a moment’s notice. The castle’s defenses were being reviewed for improvements and trenches were being dug in the surrounding countryside to deter an enemy’s approach. It had been a long time since Lancaster had seen war and the constant struggle for readiness created tension amongst his father’s advisors.
The recent decline of his father’s health had forced him to increasingly rely on his older son for assistance. The generals listened to their ailing sovereign, but looked to John for confirmation of their orders; something that was not lost on the aging King. It had brought back some of his father’s fire and the old man’s temperament was growing shorter by the day. As time had passed, he had seen the exhaustion on his father’s face deepen and he feared that it was shortening the time he had left.
John had seen this as well and had involved himself in every aspect of the preparations, despite his father’s resistance. His brother had been groomed for this and the confidence he exuded had a calming effect on all those he approached. He deferred to his father when needed, but shouldered most of the responsibilities without complaint or argument.
Despite their differences, he had always been close to his brother, and knew that the calm was just a mask hiding the nervous wreck John had become. There were occasional slips, unseen by others, but noticeable by those that knew him intimately. The hunting trip had been as much a respite for John as it had been for him.
The increased torchlight illuminating their path made him aware of the proximity of their home. He glanced at the towering battlements above, banners whipping in the wind, and watched the occasional sentry pass by on their appointed rounds. The stone walls felt oppressive, yet welcoming. The guards both above and below marked their progress, and he felt reassured by their presence. The jitters began to slip away with the safety and security they provided.
Movement to his left caught his eye. He saw a brief flash of purple and his flaring nerves began to subside.
Though he had grown accustomed to the protection of the royal bodyguard, he had taken it for granted that the Guardians had been with them every step of the way. He reflected on that moment exiting the forest, when the feeling of being watched had been so powerful, and acknowledged what it must have been. Though he’d felt a chill, he had to admit, it was probably one of the Guardians that had been watching them; not some nefarious villain. No one else would have been able to slip past them unnoticed.
They kept their distance to afford the brothers privacy, but not enough to allow harm befall them. The Guardians were superior in their training than other branches of their military, their stealth tactics so refined that they were unmatched in all of the lands; or so they boasted. It was a reputation well deserved as no member of the royal family had ever come to harm while under their protection.
They broke from the shadows as they approached the drawbridge and formed a protective ring around the brothers; their vigilance not diminished within the confines of their home. He looked to the guards standing at the gate’s entrance and nodded. The guards relaxed their hands from their weapons as they recognized the brothers and their escort. They saluted as they passed, the brothers’ boots thumping softly on the wooden drawbridge. They crossed through the outer gates and into the space before the inner ones. Their family crest, a lion on a shield, was emblazoned on the worn cobblestones below.
They passed over it unceremoniously and into the castle beyond.
> Although nightfall had only recently fallen, the streets were empty of life. The market square, usually filled with peddlers hailing passerby, was completely bereft of their cries. The enforced curfew was the main reason, another that only a few merchants had trickled into town as of late. Their absence had been noted and it increased the uneasiness that all of them felt.
Patrols passed them and they nodded absently in their direction. After so many years of peace, the contradiction to the way things had become, pained his spirit. Though he wasn’t loved by his people, it did not decrease the love that he felt for them. He hated the thick tension that hung in the air and wished that it were within his power to disperse it.
The keep was drawing closer and John greeted the commander awaiting them on the stone steps. Word of their return had been sent ahead. He felt the burden of his station refreshed and sighed heavily in response; they were home.
They ascended to the heights above and the Guardians left them as they passed through the palace doors, fading back into the shadows from whence they came. The commander was talking to his brother, but he tuned it out. If it were important, he would’ve been included; regardless of his standing in the hierarchy. The bits he picked up seemed to bear on the dispersion of their forces and training reports; nothing new.
He shook his head and suddenly missed the quiet the woods had provided. Growling under his breath, he broke away and headed towards his chambers. He wanted to bathe, to be free of the sweat and grime before joining his family for dinner. In obscurity, he rounded a hallway and disappeared, back into the boring routine of his mundane life.
II
His right hand reached up and adjusted his cloak wider; the blazing fire had made the wool insignificant against the projected heat. He briefly thought of taking it off, but it was fast becoming a cool night and it was best not to tempt fate. Too much rode on what he was about to do, to take a chance at becoming ill at such a crucial juncture.
