by Jason Jones
The Captain watched as the away boats, six of them carrying twenty men each, rowed toward the Bronze Harpy. All were armed in heavy steel plate armor and with shields raised to protect whoever was aboard. These were not regular navy, no, Dennilar recognized that they were army, royal guard from Loucas, by how well polished they were and how uncomfortable they seemed on the water.
“Royal guard from the capital. Don’t s’pose you five have anything ye wish to tell me before I get boarded!?” He stomped the deck, far less charming in the first hours of the day.
The crew stood at a loose attention with anchor weighed, all having heard that the multiple sets of flags symbolized the royal ships of the King of Chazzrynn.
Saberrak held the scroll in his hand tightly and then placed it in his belt. The minotaur waited next to James, who had placed a golden falcon’s head emblem on his tabard once more and had shined it. Shinayne, accustomed to royalty all her life, stood calmly next to Gwenneth and Azenairk, all five hoping this had nothing to do with them. Every one of them, even the crew, knew that it did, but silence was kept save for the irritated captain, still grumbling over being boarded by official vessels.
“Bastard Prince of Valhirst raises port taxes, then the lousy ass first mate hides out on me, then this shit of royal goddamn boarding! By Alden’s bloody wings were you not worth the bloody coin!” Dennilar grumbled, pointing at each one, especially the elf who had set passage a few days back. “That attack at the docks, I shoulda’ left ye all then, I should have.”
Shinayne thought to retort, her lips moved, then decided not to protest his ranting. He was right, from the moment they hit the docks until this morning, they had indeed brought a shadow of danger over his ship.
The sound of men in armor climbing the ladders extended down to their small boats reached their ears and the crew of the Harpy looked nervous yet curious as to what this was all about. One by one, the armored guard, capes of blue with black falcon emblems and silver armor and helms, lined up and set crossbows loaded atop their tall steel decorated shields. Twenty, then forty, then sixty, boarded the ship, leaving few crew armed on their away boats. A young man with long brown curls, dressed in fine armor and clothing of regal quality, stepped aboard, his hand on his exquisite falcon head broadsword.
All breathing stopped from the crew of the Harpy, knowing that this was the Prince of Chazzrynn, and the last man that they waited for must be his father, King Mikhail. The young noble drew his blade, raised it high, and shouted over the men present.
“All hail Mikhail, King of Chazzrynn!” The crew of well over a hundred, the soldiers, even the prince, hit a knee and bowed their heads. Shinayne and Gwenneth bowed deeply, as they knew that ladies do not kneel, and James and Zen both followed the men in respect. Only Saberrak stood, back to the mast, leaning on his double edged axe, hand resting on the other one he had lifted in Valhirst.
“Minotaur, get on yer knee!” the captain whispered, glaring in anger at this horned beast that would scare many a child.
“Doubtful, Captain,” he snorted, keeping his gaze on the young man who had announced the king.
The King of Chazzrynn arrived and removed his open faced helmet topped with a battle crown of golden spikes and rubies. His neatly trimmed black and silver beard showed his age, along with thinning hair and wrinkles about his deep blue eyes. His helm he handed to his only remaining son, who readily accepted it, tucking it under his arm as he stood behind his father. Mikhail strode through his lined men and to the captain of the ship, noting those he wished to speak to.
“Captain, your manifests, logbook, and an inspection journal if you will. Your compliance with my boarding is most appreciated.”
“I’m all in order your highness, simply trading to the north. Your men may check all me things if ye find it necessary.” The captain stood respectfully, eye to eye with the King of Chazzrynn.
“Do you know why I am here, Captain?” the king breathed out, motioned his son and men to inspect the ship, which they marched to quickly. “Not the slightest inkling, my king. But me curiosity be itchin that yer gonna tell me.” The captain had a feeling it was the five he had picked up, but was surely not going to offer any information.
“Valhirst. Plain and simple. Too much moves in and out of this port city that escapes the eyes of the throne. Routine inspections from the Prince of the city seem to occur seldom. I am simply checking his thoroughness.” The king was also lying, partly, having heard of many encounters with a minotaur and something from the Aldane priests about an historical relic they had with them. He was hoping they were agents of Johnas.
“Understandable and an unfortunate duty that ye have there, your highness.” The captain played along with the banter, seeing that the king, and definitely his son, had eyed each and every one of the five fugitives from the emerald city.
“Dennilar, yes?” Mikhail took a step back, thinking he recognized the man from long ago.
“Aye, your majesty.” The captain bowed again. “I was first mate on the command galley, one beside your father, in Caberra. This ship also fought in Harlaheim, Battle of the Blood Tide, next to you, against Richmond the First, my king.”
“Your service is honorable, and now you own your own ship. I offer a king's thanks.” Mikhail remembered this one, a sharp tongue, with a taste for dwarven drinks, and a bit odd.
“You can keep that there thanks, my king. Let me be off then, since I’m a few days behind, as it were. We had to leave Valhirst without some supplies, likely we will go hungry a few days o’ this here trip, as it stands.” Dennilar took advantage of the moment, then took a swig of the harsh mountain whiskey, and coughed with a smile.
“Most unfortunate. Captain, would you do me a great favor. I normally do not ask this of a captain on his own vessel, however, I am the king,” he leaned in quietly, so that even his own men would not hear.
“Of course my king, if I said no, would it matter to ye?” Dennilar, the old sea crab, laughed, the king smiling at the gesture.
“I suppose no, good captain. Could you take your men and yourself below deck for assistance with the inspection? I wish to speak to the elf, the priest, young Lazlette here, the knight of Southwind Keep, and the minotaur who refuses to kneel. Alone.” Face very stern, his voice low and demanding, he expected for the captain to do as he wished quickly.
“Certainly, my king. Men, let's head below to help these royal saps with findin what they be needing to find sometime today, shall we! Your highness.” Dennilar bowed after the slight insult to the royal guard. He walked below to waste time with men trained to protect royalty, not inspect ships or read logs.
The king, still with forty men above deck, paced, walking toward the minotaur. His hard black leather boots kicking back his blue and gold cape as he strode, his arms he folded across his chest. He looked up at Saberrak, a foot and a half taller than himself, and then to the greataxe, then back up to the fierce stare of tattooed horns under dark eyes, the shadow of its horns casting down across his own shadow on the deck.
“You do not kneel, minotaur?”
“Why should I?”
“I am the king of Chazzrynn.”
“This looks like a ship on the water. It does not look like Chazzrynn to me.”
“It is. We are still in Chazzrynn waters, beast,” Mikhail stared at the minotaur.
“I have been on the surface of your kingdom for just over a fortnight. I have had to kill ogre, trolls, assassins, and a great horned cat, been shot with arrows, and chased by men wearing your emblem through your own city streets. I have not the energy, nor desire, to kneel. Simply to leave this place, and not return.” His gaze did not flinch, his eyes looked directly at the King of Chazzrynn, feeling neither fear nor error in his words.
“And if I command it?”
“Better bring more than forty men.” Saberrak chuckled. “I was owned and commanded once, and never again, no matter what title you may claim.”
“I see.” Mikhail grinned, t
hen squinted his eyes toward the minotaur. “Many kings would have a man or beast flogged, for such words, even killed.”
“I knew a king like that, once.”
“You did? Then your respects should be better tended to. Which kingdom did he rule?” Mikhail fondled the pommel of his blade, smiling, testing this minotaur, trying to bring out the deceptions they would attempt to placate him with. “Who was this king?”
“Avegarne.” Saberrak glared down to the old human man, but did not move a muscle as he saw the anger brew at the comparison.
“Ah, I see.” Mikhail turned away, enraged inside at this beast, yet he kept his composure intact.
“And you, young Lazlette, you realize there is quite a search for you in my kingdom. Your mother, the Lady of Vallakazz has sent people to find you, and yet you leave for the north.” Turning, not fearing the beast behind him, the king eyed Gwenneth Lazlette. Rarely did he interrogate people who did not bluff or beg for his favor and mercy.
“I am not held by any law to my mother’s city, your highness. I seek knowledge in Harlaheim, and with all respect, that is not a crime the last time I checked.” Gwenneth bowed deeply again, respecting the ruler of the kingdom, unlike Saberrak.
“No, no it is not.” Mikhail turned to the elven noble.
“Lady Shinayne T’Sarrin of Kilikala, what honor is it of Chazzrynn that you be here among us? Royalty from so far, why would the elven nations send you here?” The king maintained his composure, despite the obvious lack of information he was receiving. He noted the others remained quiet. A deep bow with eyes closed was given from the elven woman.
“I was in search of a friend who has found another path, your highness. Nothing more. I pray we meet again soon, perhaps to the north.”
“And your business with these folk is what?”
“Meeting by chance, pure and innocent, your majesty.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“I have heard nothing of you, priest. Why does a dwarf from Boraduum travel with such a mixed lot?”
“God has all the answers to that, great king, I merely follow, one day at a time, his guidance.” Zen took a knee again, respecting the man’s position, and hoping to make up for the minotaur’s lack thereof.
Mikhail felt it now, anger brewing, thick as thieves, he thought. He walked up in that anger, right into the face of James Andellis, whose bowed head remained low. The king grabbed his bearded chin with force, and lifted the man's gaze to his own. Tears from the knight's blue eyes surprised the king, not expecting anything of the sort.
“And you, deserter of Southwind Keep, what is your purpose here? With a stolen Medal of Bravery, a tarnished uniform, and a stolen lords sword…” he whispered, analyzing the man’s garb. He knew a lord's blade when he saw one, and this man was no lord he remembered.
“You should be ashamed soldier, for carrying yourself in such false fashion. You have no honor in carrying that lordly blade or the medal of another while you conduct yourself as a thief. I am well informed on all of you, I know who you are, and what you are doing.”
“The medal is mine, your highness.”
“From whom! From my nephew Johnas!? Are you an agent of the Prince of Valhirst!?” The king yelled now, his emotion seeping up through the cracks of years in a troubled country full of deception.
“No. From you, my king. Though we have never met, this medal was presented to me for the battle of Arouland, thirteen years ago.” His tears at first meeting his king, memories of his lost men, and his wasted years washed over him as he choked out his words. James hit his knees.
“No one survived that battle! What is your name!?” Mikhail now put his hand on his engraved broadsword, feeling more a sense of injustice than anger toward this false knight. He pulled the man back to his feet by the tabard with his other hand.
“I am James Andellis, of house Andellis, Knight of Southwind Keep, formerly. I served Lord Arlinne T’Vellon as his Captain at Arouland, his right hand. I was there at his death, and I carry his sword in memory. I was presented with a medal of bravery after my release as a hostage to the ogre king, Avegarne. From that day forward, much I do not know.” His voice was shaking, full of regret, fear, and sadness at speaking words he had never spoken before, and to the man he had always wished to meet, more than anyone in his entire life.
Gwenneth stared at James, then quickly turned away. Hers were eyes full of sorrow, of things she cared not to know, but now knew. She had always hoped that her father had survived, had been ordered on a secret endeavor that her mother had not been able to inform her about. She had hoped he would return one day, and she would get to see him one last time. James had been there, and as much as she wished to speak with him, she buried her feelings in anger and pity, which was easier than showing them.
The King of Chazzrynn was speechless. He had no words, yet he wanted proof.
“So then, James, why did the battle suffer complete loss, if you were really there? Tell me, no, prove to me that you are the only survivor of that day. Since your name is on a stone on the hill above the western waste with all the men that died that day, how is it that you are here?”
“I am not sure that you will want to hear what I have to say, your highness.” James tried to regain his composure before the king, and tried not to answer the question either.
“You may speak freely, I wish to know. Now.”
James Andellis paused, took the medal off of his tabard, and handed it to the King of Chazzrynn. “I have carried this for far too long, your majesty.” The king accepted it, and watched James muster his breath to speak.
“As I thought, you are a desserter.” Mikhail attempted to cool his temper, then the man spoke.
“Your scouts were drunk more than sober, celebrating the victories of your war with Harlaheim, despising their duties here in the south. They relayed only sightings of the outside of the lost city of Arouland, they never saw the inside. Their reports to you and the church were false, and from then on, the populace pushed to retake the west. Since a hundred loose ogre in various hunting tribes are easily crushed by an army, you sent the best in your kingdom, two hundred knights of Southwind, backed up by footman. A thousand men, yes, but a reserve army that had never seen anything but formations and training.”
“These men were expendable, poor soldiers, and not ready to face the trained ogre army of six hundred or more that emerged in ambush. They tried to flee, they surrendered, they died, leaving us of Southwind to die, and die killing as many as we could. We accomplished that, your highness, for there are few soldiers that can kill an ogre without four others beside him, and we laid waste to hundreds. We decimated over half their number. But when Lord Arlinne fell, the remaining men were captured, tortured, ripped apart, and murdered, all save myself.” James was trembling, his hands shaking. He had never spoken candidly to anyone about what happened in Arouland, let alone anyone important.
“I was the ogre king's message to you, not to return to the west, ever. I know now that the preachings of victory from a church, the peoples’ rallying of men in your name, and simple hope and bravery, will seldom lead to victory, no matter who orders the attack. Who may be behind you, as a soldier, is of little consequence. It is being ready for the enemy in front of you that will decide if men live or if they die. I watched twelve hundred men die, some quickly, some not so. Many were my closest friends and family. I saw heads torn from bodies by ogre warriors. I even healed Avegarne's arm, in hopes he would release the prisoners. I cursed every ogre there, and still do, every morning I awake. I remember the men every time I sleep, I can not escape them. Had we known the truth and been prepared, it would not have happened so.” James felt numb, relaying what had happened so long ago, directly to the man that ordered it.
A long silence followed, with stares from all present. Even the king had to look at the deck to gain his composure as great regret and shame washed over him.
“I was mentioned to your court, by Arlin
ne T’Vellon, to become a knight of the black falcon, in the year three thirty one. There was nothing, nothing, in my life I wanted more than to be a knight of the king. Most knights of Southwind, lower bred that we are, they feel that same desire. That dream was crushed, and I have never forgotten it.”
“And where have you been the last thirteen years, James Andellis?” Mikhail recalled the mention now, the official document never came, but he recalled this mans name when he had dealt with the aftermath of that battle.
“My king, I have been drinking wine, and slaughtering ogre for pay. I barely remember anything, as I drink more than I kill anymore. I have killed ogre men, warriors, scavengers, women, and children along the western borders, and have not stopped except to drink and sleep and drink more. The wine is the only thing that lets me have a chance at not seeing the visions of that battle.” His words, humorous as some of the guards found them, were gaining no response from his friends, and neither James nor the king smiled in the least.
“Why would I believe you?”
James looked to Mikhail with a stern glare. “All the men I grew up with are dead, long gone. I have a tomb overlooking the west, and I have longed to be truly buried with my friends, in honor. Strike, your majesty, strike now if even one of my words is untrue.”
The king pinned the medal back on his tabard and thought hard, as creases ran across his brow in the morning sun. This was the last thing Mikhail had expected to hear today.
“And you leave to Harlaheim, with the scroll that everyone from temple to tower is speaking of?”
James paused, feeling the gaze of his allies, the pressure to lie, but he could not, not here, not now.
