by Jason Jones
“Yes, my king. It is safer there, for we know not its purpose, and Chazzrynn has grown dangerous and corrupt. We are hunted, by whom and how many, I am not certain. I will see them through to Harlaheim.”
“It seems not all your friends are dead then?”
“It would seem I have found new ones, your majesty.”
“Or, they have found you.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“You are honest, in many things, James Andellis. What would you ask of your king, should he offer assistance to you?” Mikhail felt it swell, his past failures, his reliance on information that had led to the deaths of men, even two of his sons, in wars past. The Battle of Arouland had been a black mark upon his reign, he knew it, hence his building of the memorial there after the plague.
James, who had been staring at the man's forehead as a good soldier at attention would, turned to the dark blue eyes of his king. They were tearing slightly like his own, and he stared in disbelief, mouth wide open.
“I would ask that the king of Chazzrynn let us go north, with his blessings. Also, that he ward off the ships of his nephew that follow us, as we know they mean to kill and take what is not theirs.”
“Is that an order to your king, James Andellis, knight of Southwind?” The king drew his golden broadsword, and stepped forward.
“A humble request, great king.” James waited, not knowing if he were about to be run through, be decapitated, or hugged by the man before him.
“Should I need you in the future, to help me lay waste to our enemies, will you answer my call, James Andellis?” Mikhail raised his immaculate and enchanted sword edge to his cheek, a salute of honor, one he had not given since his younger years in the wars with Harlaheim.
James drew his blade, Arlinne’s blade, and returned the salute. “Always, my king. My service is to Chazzrynn, and to you.”
“Then kneel.”
James knelt, placing the tip of his broadsword into the deck. He lowered his head, saying a prayer to Alden not to be beheaded at this moment, for he could not believe that he would be receiving any reward for the life he had lived. The king’s sword touched James on each shoulder, and then lay on the top of his head.
“Oaths to Chazzrynn you took at knighthood in Southwind, to protect this nation. Vows to God Alden you have spoken at fifteen years, to be a devout man and protect the weak. Now a man of the kingdom, of the king, you will swear to me on all that you are, to uphold righteous order and truth unto your last breaths.”
“I swear, your majesty.” James could barely speak.
“Rise, James Andellis, a Knight of the Black Falcon, Guardian of the Realm of Chazzrynn, no longer held to Southwind Keep. You are now a knight of my court, answering only to me and my line. Your orders are to see these allies of the kingdom safe into Harlaheim. Should anyone stand in your way, they are officially standing in the way of the king, and therefore are an enemy of your country. Deal them justice as you deem necessary.”
“Yes, my king.”
As James stood, his heart beating far too fast to breathe, the forty royal guard stood at attention. The deafening sound of steel gauntlet on steel shield in unison echoed across the waters. James felt a pride renewed, a faith restored, and knew that he meant something besides being a drunken reminder of a slaughter from the past. He looked at his shield that lay on the deck below him, all the scratches he had carved, over one hundred on just this shield, each one representing an ogre kill, each one he thought was bringing him closer to redemption or escape. He felt now, knew now, that he was forgiven, and that he had served well and fought well for king and country.
The king felt relief, sorrow, and that he had corrected as best he could a mistake from his past. He could not bring back the thousands, but he could do something here and now, and so he did what his conscience directed. Mikhail nodded respectfully to the travelers and the crew of the Bronze Harpy, receiving an odd amount of applause for the small gesture. Only the minotaur remained still, his façade unshaken by anything it seemed. Bryant then emerged from below deck, shaking his head, having found nothing of concern. His eyes went wide with what appeared to be a royal knighting at the finish.
“Men, we have enemy ships approaching from the south, back to the boats!” Mikhail turned to face the others.
“May God bring you safely to your destination, each of you. Tell Kalzarius that Mikhail sends him a kind blessing, and wishes him well. I will deal with your pursuers. Sir James, this ship will need supplies. There are hidden storage bunkers on the northern beach of Cat’s Eye Isle, two days north en route to Harlaheim. Commandeer them as needed, knight.” The king sheathed his blade, and headed down the ladder back to his boat, followed by Prince Bryant.
“Father, do they have the scroll? Are they agents of Johnas? What did we gain from this boarding?” Wanting more answers than the king was ready to give, Bryant, sole remaining son to the throne of Chazzrynn, pushed his questioning as he followed his father.
“Yes, they have it. No, I did not take it. They are true in purpose and word. I do not know that you found much, but I found peace and forgiveness here. More precious than any holy relic. We have preparations to make, son. You will take the Valhirst flagship, board her and search for Johnas’ men. I will head off the Altestani warship, driving her to deeper waters as to give our allies here a chance to outrun her and make it to Harlaheim. We meet back at port in Valhirst. Godspeed, son.”
The king had much love for his son, being all he had left from his deceased wife and queen, and the other boys long dead from war. He had taken Bryant under his wing, showing him all he could, knowing his days were numbered. He had to make the boy into the king that he wished he had been. Mikhail stepped down the ladder, and was assisted into his away boat. He waited for his son and the soldiers to make the same journey. All was silent as the boats pushed off the side of the ship they had just boarded. Mikhail boarded his away boat and nodded to his men. They began to row for the Persistence.
“And send a writ of knighthood and a blue falconed sash to Sir James Andellis! He is aboard the Bronze Harpy now!” Their boats going in different directions now, the king had to yell across the waters.
“The deserter from Southwind?! Did I miss something, Father?!” Bryant yelled back, confused as to what had happened above deck in those few minutes he was below. He had never heard of a field knighting at sea atop a boarded vessel. His men rowed hard, heading toward the Morninghawk.
“That man is no deserter son, the farthest thing from it, in fact! You have your orders!” The king said a prayer to Alden the merciful for he and his son to fight well in the afternoon to come, and thanked him for the humility and forgiveness His grace had shown him this morning.
“Yes father!” Bryant yelled back as the two boats fell into the shadows of the larger vessels, and out of sight from one another.
Back on the Bronze harpy, James could not move, even minutes later, staring at the deck, not fully comprehending what had happened. His sorrows seem to have been lifted and replaced with something far less heavy and tangible, and emptiness settled in as well. He had not known life without the grudge, the hatred, the resentment of all he had served that had killed so many.
His friends all said something to him, tried to converse, and an hour later a royal sash of the Knights of Chazzrynn was put around him and papers with fresh ink put in his hand by a royal emissary of Prince Bryant. Numb and void of pity or anger, for the first time in thirteen years, he was not able to use those feelings and memories as motivation to move. James Andellis was free, yet did not know what to do with that freedom. James had not dealt with anything sober, not since Arouland, and his mind and body froze with confusion and feelings that had no direction. His feet had not moved, James had not spoken more than a word or two, he just stared at the ships and the sea.
He smiled, trying to admit that this was better than any acknowledgements he had received in the last thirteen years of life. Yet it did not hurt, so therefore
it seemed strange. Sir James breathed the salty sea air atop the Bronze Harpy, still in the moment, as long as it could possibly be held. He whispered, over and over, to a king that could no longer hear him, and to a flag far ahead.
“Black on blue, strong and true…”
Maidens I:II
Carisian Sea
Chazzrynn Waters
Air mixed with salt and spray from the Carisian Sea wafted into her lungs as she drew deep breaths of southern winter winds. Her aqua eyes drank in the view from the ship, her ears the sounds of the seagulls that followed the coastal path, and her heart the open freedom. Lady T’Sarrin’s golden hair and rich skin shimmered as she lay her arms on the starboard edge of the Bronze Harpy, near the molding idol of a naked winged woman that decorated each side of the vessel. Hours passed with the men working the mast and riggings, setting the sails, and checking with the captain. Shinayne stood staring and resting, enjoying the sea. The warmer waters of Kilikala, her homeland, raced back from memory where she had spent much time on the Soltaic Ocean in training with the elven navy, many decades past.
Her daydreams during the times when she closed her eyes were as much of those she had traveled with as they were with Lavress, wherever he may be. She saw James, healing with but a touch and a feeling. She sensed that his God, Alden, had graced him and saved him from the torturous pain he had been putting himself through. Her thoughts of mercy and prayers of life for him echoed in her mind. The swordswoman had deep intuition that this human had been through far too much in his years, and carried great pain and guilt over something that he could not have avoided, yet took it all onto himself. That honor the king bestowed had helped, but not fully healed. The bottles were but the escape, not the deeper root of his agony. James had grown with a family of lost children, lived and breathed with them, then lost it all. Shinayne knew what loss felt like, though hers was very different, but loss and grief were enemies she had encountered.
Breathing and focusing, in touch with her surroundings and at peace, she could tap into much of the emotion that radiated from others near. She felt that James Andellis and Gwenneth were somehow connected, but she could not sense much from the wizard, she was far more guarded than the knight. He was kind, pure, and full of life and duty under his scars of flesh and heart. Shinayne smiled, seeing him care for the dwarven priest's wounds, both men debating over which way a bandage should wrap with laughs and friendship.
Shinayne closed her eyes again, trying harder to sense the aura around the daughter of Lazlette. Gwenneth had great power, it could be felt even if the elven woman had not been concentrating now, deep in her meditation and rest. Gwenne’s focus was on the scroll, on getting to Harlaheim, and on escaping her mother and the academy. Shinayne looked over at her, across to the port side of the ship, and sensed her secrets. She could not determine details or thoughts, but merely that she had them. She was concerned about those that followed, those that waited, and much of her untested skills. She worried much, and her ego was largely a front. Despite her great talents and education, this human woman lacked confidence in herself. That is why she was here more than anything else, the elf felt, to test and prove to herself what she could do without her mother. A craving for more of all she knew, and did not yet know, pervaded her thoughts almost constantly, like a hidden obsession. There was something about her father, something closely guarded, yet not ready to be revealed. Shinayne could get no more from Gwenneth’s aura, and felt the need to stretch and breath with her blades in the wind of early morning sunlight.
Her purple and black clothes whipped around as she pulled and fastened them tight, walking to the center of the bow of the Harpy. The men cleared out of her way as she drew her steel. More peace, a deeper, harmonious peace, overcame her, and she closed her eyes again. She felt the age of her matching blades, the curve of the ancient steel passed down for six long generations in her family, they each sang to her silently. The longblade in her right, shortblade in her left, she went to a relaxed on guard, and began to slowly move, step by step, bringing her arms out and pointing both weapons toward the bow of the ship. Her breath was slow, almost non existent, as she turned on her heels and toes. Shinayne began raising her blades outward as if lunging at the air, then stepping back and dropping them to gentle parries from enemy weapons that were not present. Her blades crossed as she crouched, then cut outward as she stepped up and out, again held high, ready to strike with perfect style and precision at foes that only she could see. She began to hum a prayer to Siril, one that elven weapon masters taught students initially to perfect their timing with strike and step. The hum of that old elven song now brought her and the earth, the sea and breath, the sky and her blades, into a union that reached yet deeper meditation on the steady waves of foreign waters.
The inner peace mixed with worry was not easy to sense on Azenairk Thalanaxe, his feelings buried like precious stones under mountains of faith and duty. Secrets too, he had some much larger than the wizard, and his mind danced with sorrow and prayer surrounding whatever it was he carried with him. Her blades wove low, into parries and short cuts that only moved as she breathed deep of the open air. Many men on the ship now watched this beautiful creature dance with her swords, eyes closed and humming, her motions lingering in the morning sun.
Zen was pious, caring, unselfish, and alone. His cares stretched only to those he traveled with, his cares for home seemed not to exist in his thoughts and glow. Shinayne felt his admiration for James and for the minotaur, and even sensed he thought of her often. A smile cast across her calm face, feeling his eyes upon her from the aft of the ship where he and James were talking, absorbing the loving thoughts he was emitting without even knowing. The dwarven priest had a journey, and his heart hoped he would not be alone more than anything. And he missed his family. The noblewoman sensed great purpose in Zen, and felt he would never be alone while seeking it.
Her longblade turned horizontally across her face, the shortblade low and pointed out. Her hard heeled boots advanced, cutting with her right, then lunging with the left, turning with cuts and slashes. Sensing the edge of the bow, she turned and rolled backwards, springing up slow and full of grace, her blades sheathed as she rose. Again Shinayne turned, eyes closed in deep rest and meditation, and drew her weapons, holding them perfectly still across her chest. Her mind wandered below to the gray minotaur, his silent focus, his unspoken pursuit of something he knew nothing of, freedom.
She felt Saberrak’s spirit had something unusual, unique, that even he did not understand. His strength and skills in battle were beyond confident, but this surface world was strange, and the feelings and company of others he could trust were equally new and alien to the minotaur. Lady T’Sarrin wished she could teach him trust and companionship, yet realized his life had been anything but accepting of such things. She felt he trusted little, and only wished to get far from where he came from, by whatever means it took. The scroll he carried held much fascination for the elf, having an aura almost as powerful as a living being. It was pain and love like a widowed woman at her lover’s grave, its power was like an ancient mystery that had been trapped forever. There was pain in Saberrak, a haunting fear over his shoulder, and a constant insecurity around people. In himself, Shinayne felt Saberrak loved to be free and run and see new things, yet he kept his fascination guarded. Something stood out on Saberrak, as she concentrated in stillness at the end of her kata. The minotaur missed his brother in a place that he could not reach.
Shinayne usually knew this meant that they were dead, but with the gray gladiator, she felt as if they were very much alive, but he had simply accepted that they would never be near him again. Great sorrow filled her chest and brought tears to her closed eyes. Shinayne had very much the same emotion deep inside, having not seen her real parents since she was a young child. She sat down with legs crossed to finish her meditation, and to think of Lavress and cleanse her spirit.
His body was still, much like her own at this exact moment. Lavre
ss was deep in meditation right now, not more than six days from here, she felt him strong. He was in a place of music and safety, and he was thinking of her now. Only two elves, deep in their revered meditations, and sharing love, could possibly see and feel so detailed an emotional bond as to communicate. Lavress and Shinayne had done so many times, and once they had spoken in dreams for an entire night, even on different continents. It had taken many days of peace and serenity to do so, something likely unable here on a ship. She saw his form, standing, his ancient blades sheathed, his tan face was calm with eyes closed. The tribal markings of leaves etched on his face were like a decorated statue of the forest.
His spirit said “Hello, my love,” yet he did not move or speak. “Hello, beloved,” she replied. No language could read or understand it, for their communication was above such things.
She reached out and touched his face, caressing her hand down his finely chiseled features and up to the points of his ears. He returned with a gentle hand to hers, tracing her lips with his fingertip. Warmth entered her body and mind, warmth that he was sending to her and she readily accepted. The two shared moments of laughter that none in the world could possibly know of, deep and private.
“Are you safe, princess?” His emotion carried thoughts to her, the warmth taking form as a vision of an embrace deep underground in a sacred place with the fey. She heard the music clearly now, felt the presence of others around him.
“I am safe and at peace, save for my longing heart.” She kissed him, softly, prolonged, as if it may take years for another one to occur. “And Bedesh of Haven Glen?”
“Here, safe and secure.” Lavress kissed her ear as he felt more relief wash over her spirit.
“I need you here. Find me.”
“I am with you.” The feeling that was conveyed into words began to have the faintest hum to it, a resonating that was undeniably stronger than anything she had felt in decades. He drew his weapons, the forward curved falcata and kukri dagger, smiling, and weaved playfully.
