Fogle Eric - Forge of the Gods 01 - The Last Knight (V1.0)

by 5kops

  The duke frowned at the silence. He had known Lord Orbury for thirty-five years. The man had been his closest friend and advisor for nearly twenty-seven of those. It was not like the man to be so formal, nor so quiet.

  The duke pulled his friend close. He could see Orbury's brow furrowed in nervous sweat. He noticed the dark circles under his friend's eyes. This was no practical joke.

  "Leave us," the duke announced, turning to the captain of the guard.

  "Your highness?" the captain asked, surprised at being dismissed after being commissioned to retrieve his liege lord.

  "I said leave us, Captain," the duke rounded on the man, eyes dark with warning.

  The captain took the hint. With a quick series of orders the small con­tingent of men allowed their commander past before following him back down the long hallways and back to their previous duties.

  "Captain Barret is a good man, your highness," Orbury said, watching the last of the guardsmen disappear. "However, I thank you for dismissing him."

  "What is so urgent that you needed to summon me at such a late hour, Lord Orbury?" the duke asked, curious.

  The seneschal paused, considering his choice of words. "It is your sons, my lord," Orbury began but was cut off by a royal snort.

  "Damn it, Orbury, if you have called me here to tell me that my hellion sons have been gallivanting across the landscape—"

  "If your highness would let me continue . . . On their hunting trip, they were come upon by a war-band of bandits. There were . . . casualties."

  The duke was overcome by a moment of speechless candor as rage turned to dread. His face lost its reddish hue and became pale. Questions boiled in his mind, and fear of answers. The duke did his best to remain composed.

  "Were any of my sons among the dead?"

  "I think we better go inside, your highness," Lord Orbury said.

  "Answer my question, seneschal."

  The seneschal took a deep breath. "Prince Arturius was among the slain," Lord Orbury said, "as was your youngest son, Lord Calvius. If you will enter the room, sire, I will escort you to Lord Davius. He has asked for you."

  The duke did not move.

  "Your highness." The seneschal placed his hand upon the duke's shoul­der. "I can not imagine your pain, but this is not the place to despair. You need to come to come with me; Davius does not have much time left be­fore he too passes into Heaven."

  "You said only two of my sons are dead," the duke said, gripping the seneschal in a painful grasp, tears blurring vision.

  Lord Orbury did his best to offer comfort. "Lord Davius yet lives, your highness. However, he has suffered many extreme wounds. Please, my lord, come inside."

  "Yes, of course," the duke dropped his hands and stumbled into the stench of death.

  In the middle of the room, lying on separate tables covered by white sheets trimmed in the royal red of Hawkwind family, was a pair of bodies. Each sheet bore brown stains where the blood of fatal wounds had seeped through.

  The duke went straight to the bodies, reaching gingerly out to the first one, rubbing his fingers over the smooth silk, stopping at each blood crusted stain. By the size of the body, he recognized the final resting state of his oldest son, Arturius, heir to the Hawkwind throne.

  The duke pulled back the sheet and looked at his son's alabaster skin, blighted by wounds. The fatal wound had been an arrow to the right of the heart, lodging in and collapsing the lung. His son had drowned in his own blood. The thought sickened him. The duke was a grizzled warrior of many battles and he had seen death—was even unafraid of it—but he had never imagined outliving his sons. He caressed the cold face of Arturius.

  The seneschal waited patiently as his duke grieved his fallen sons. He tried not to hurry him, but it was likely that Davius would not survive the night. It was imperative that the young man not die before his father could say goodbye. Although Lord Orbury's first duty was to the duke, his second was to the City of Aresleigh; more precisely, to the duchy. If the duke did not escort his son into death's embrace he would never recover, leaving Aresleigh defenseless against political intrigues. It would be the beginning of the end.

  Lord Orbury waited another agonizing moment before placing his hand on the duke's arm. "There will be time enough to grieve the fallen, your highness," he said. "But the living still require your attention."

  "A man should never outlive his sons," the duke whispered, pulling away from the table. "Starsgalt please grant this old man guidance."

  "Please, my lord, come with me," said Orbury. "I am afraid there isn't much time."

  "How many?" the duke asked, pushing himself away from his youngest son's corpse. "How many of the sixteen survived?" The duke wiped his eyes. "How many deaths will I need to explain?"

  "There were only four survivors, sire. I am afraid that we must hurry to find that number the same."

  The duke nodded.

  It took several minutes to arrive at the infirmary through the castle's in­tricate network of tunnels. As the pair entered, several pairs of soldiers snapped to attention. The royal physician glanced up then bent back over his patient.

  The duke went to the side of Davius, his middle son, the new heir to his throne. The duke knelt next to the table, massaging his son's hand, easing a cool cloth across the young man's forehead. He did not notice the sene­schal dismiss all but two guardsmen and move to his side.

  The duke looked up into the weary blue eyes of the young physician. "Have you done everything you can, doctor?" the duke asked, gazing upon his unconscious sons face. "Everything? I will hold you responsible if he dies this night."

  "I have done everything that can be done without using divine magic," the physician said cautiously. "Without proper aid, this man has at most, a few hours. However, I recommend two things, if you are serious about sav­ing his life."

  "Anything," the duke pleaded, his eyes burning with hope.

  "I would start by erecting a shrine in this room, so Starsgalt may look over him . . . and a prayer wouldn't hurt either," the physician began. "I would also advise that you send for a priest. It is said that they can repair damage done to a faithful servant of God."

  "Make it so," the duke said to Lord Orbury, giving him his signet ring. "Take this, Orbury, and hand it over to whatever church official it takes to get someone here."

  "My lord, the Bre'Dmorians are not likely to come without proper documentation," Lord Orbury offered.

  "I do not care how it happens, seneschal, just make sure you get a holy man here," the duke said as he looked upon his dying son's blood-smeared face.

  "Yes, my lord," Orbury replied, leaving the pair of guardsman and the physician awaiting orders.

  "If you don't mind, your highness, I have been waiting on several heal­ing unguents to assist Lord Davius," said the physician uncomfortably. "It would be a shame if our young lord regains consciousness with nothing to soothe the pain. With your permission . . .?"

  "He has been awake?" the duke cut the young man off.

  "If you would like to call it that, sire," the physician said, spreading his hands helplessly. "He is in a delirious state. He asks for you but the pain is more than his body can bear, sending him nearer to death's door."

  "I will watch over him while you go collect the healing salves," the duke replied. "Please hurry."

  The duke watched the physician rush from the room. As the door closed, he laid a damp cloth on his son's forehead, willing himself to remain strong.

  The duke knew that it would be awhile before either man returned. He was not a religious man. He had turned from Starsgalt's embrace long ago, upon his wife's death while birthing a stillborn fourth child. Now he counted on the One God's loving nature to save his youngest son. A hand weakly gripped his own, causing him to jump.

  "Father," the young prince whispered, eyes closed, his voice rasping.

  "Shh, lad, you mustn't speak." He remembered vividly what the doctor had said about his son's life growing shorter each t
ime he awakened.

  "Stayed alive . . . long . . . as . . . could," Davius said, his face contorting in a pain. "Needed . . . to . . . warn . . ."

  "There is no need greater than your life, son," the duke replied, squeez­ing his son's hand. "You need to rest, Davius, what you need to tell me can wait."

  "No time . . . father . . ." Davius said, his voice weakening, a milky film forming over his green eyes. "We . . . were . . . betrayed . . ." the words trailed off as Davius shuddered with pain. His chest rose unevenly several times, and his heart stilled.

  "Get Physician Korl back in here now" the duke screamed at the guardsmen, toppling a small table.

  Several moments later Korl soon rounded the corner, out of breath, fol­lowed by the guardsmen. The duke had positioned himself over the dead prince, trying to resuscitate him. The doctor pushed him off the corpse, defdy trying to find a pulse, checking for any sign of a whisper of life.

  Lord Orbury entered the room with a disheveled Bre'Dmorian priest, an elderly man wearing the red robes of a prelate. The man looked quite dis­pleased, but being in a position to gain the kingdom and church's favor he did not speak but approached the body.

  The duke watched in horror as the two men tried for an hour to bring his son back from the void. Finally, Lord Orbury placed a hand upon his shoulder.

  The duke spun around. "How did this happen, Lord Orbury? I need to talk to the other survivors."

  "That can be arranged, my lord," Orbury replied. "However, before you start questioning the men, Lord Edelin also lies severely wounded. You may want to look in on him as well."

  The remark stung the duke. The reason the man brought up Lord Ede­lin was something the duke had already considered but was not ready to admit. In one night his entire line had been decimated, his family destroyed.

  Edelin Hawkwind was the next in line for the Hawkwind crown.

  19

  2021 A.D., Year of the Sword (Mortal Timeline)

  THE SMALL company of squires rode in a double file line, following the King's Road west. It had been more than a day since they had left Storm-wind Keep with orders to move towards Brenly where they would await Knight-Captain Bowon's return. The squires were quite morose, as was their commander, a tall squire with blond hair and deep set blue eyes.

  Areck did not try to lighten the company's spirits. He needed time to further contemplate his own guilt, guilt over the fact that he was cause of their sour mood. He let the men brood over their personal beliefs, riding for most of the day in quiet recognition of the traitorous events that had preceded them.

  Doubt crippled his mind. He could no longer comprehend his place in the grand scheme of things and why, with all of his misconduct and ill luck, Lord Silvershield had made him the commander of his own company of men. It worried Areck. He could hardly keep himself out of trouble. Now, an entire company of squires relied on him, and he did not know what to do.

  Areck sighed. Was it the thought of leadership that troubled him, or the fact that Lord Silvershield had called him a Champion of God? He believed that to be a true champion, a man could not be limited by his sins or a per­sonal lack of conviction, which he was. It worried him that he had misrep­resented himself so much that Lord Silvershield, Baron Marqel, and Captain Thomas would sacrifice everything with the claim. Areck knew he was a bumbling boy who had done nothing but make mistakes. Why couldn't the others see that?

  I am no champion of anything, Areck thought sourly to himself. I am not even worthy of being a tyro. I must tell everyone that if they insist on giving me such a title, then it should be the Champion of Limitations.

  Areck knew it was be only a matter of time before Lord Silvershield came back and told the High Lightbringer of the event.

  How long until they realise their words are a mistake? Areck thought. He knew that although his infractions had been swept away with the death of Lord Vinion, another, more terrifying penalty awaited him should Lord Silver-shield's claim prove false. The penalty for impersonating a Champion of God was a severe beating, possibly even banishment. To impersonate a holy warrior when you were nothing more than a heretic would result in the death penalty.

  I must make Lojrd Silvershield believe nothing unusual happened, Areck thought. I want nothing to do with making myself anything more than I am—a squire.

  That Lord Silvershield was no longer with the company of men only served to increase Areck's worry. The knight-captain had chosen to leave his command in Areck's care with orders for him to carry on as the senior officer.

  He groaned, trying to forget how the two riders had flown from Storm-wind Pass—one a mad friend, the other his fatherly mentor—but could not. He was, after all, the reason that Arawnn of Almassia was babbling mad with the indecipherable phrases of angels. He was also the reason why everyone thought of him as a ... a champion!

  Areck frowned and tried to think of something else. The first thing that came to mind was the trip to Brenly.

  What if there is trouble along the way? he wondered. It would take Lord Silvershield two weeks to make the round trip from Natalinople back to Brenly, assuming no more mishaps occurred during the commander's quest. Could Areck truly to take responsibility of these men?

  The distant pounding of hooves brought his attention back to the road as a single armored rider appeared in the distance. He recognized that the rider wore Bre'Dmorian colors, the colors of a fledgling squire. Areck noted that the squire was the man who had been ordered to ride to Brenly and inform the local magistrate of the mutilated bodies.

  With a slight squeeze from his knees and a deft maneuver with his hand, Areck brought the column of riders to a halt. His second-in-command, Redmon Thelluvin, a noble-born eighth year squire, appeared on his left and maneuvered his stallion next to Areck's, awaiting instructions.

  Areck shivered and his stomach clenched. This was something he had been expecting since the departure of Stormwind Keep—that the young man sent to Brenly would backtrack upon reporting to the town's com­manding officer. This was his first chance to act like a commanding officer.

  "It looks like Squire Lysen, Under-Lieutenant Redmon," Areck said casually, adjusting the angle of the charger with his knees.

  "It would seem likely, sir," Redmon said, his calm voice belied by the excitement burning in his eyes.

  Areck shrugged off of the fact his second-in-command referred to him as "sir," rather "captain." He was just happy to be recognized.

  Areck peered sideways at Redmon, a tall young man with hazel eyes and short cropped brown hair. Though he had his doubts, Areck had chosen the man based upon his ability to reason out problems, an invaluable tool in an officer. Areck did not doubt the young man's razor sharp mind or the religious zeal with which Redmon fought. The only real issue he had with his under-officer was that he had been under the tutelage of Lord Vinion as the deceased knight's personal squire. Areck could only hope that Redmon would not hold a grudge or use his keen military sense to take over com­mand.

  "Are we to rest while the rider approaches, sir?" asked Redmon, turning in his saddle to look at the other four riders lined in a perfect column.

  "No, Lieutenant," Areck said, noticing a small animal trail breaking off into the forest. "We have been riding for several hours; this is as good a place as any to take food while we wait for our information to arrive."

  Redmon merely nodded, pulled on his charger's reins, and faced the company. Soon, backpacks were undone, canteens were unzipped, and horses were moved off into the shade.

  Nodding in satisfaction Areck swung his leg over the charger and dis­mounted in a single move. He knelt to check the stallion's fetlock where a small sore was forming. Concerned that his injured mount might not make it to Brenly, he moved it into the shade.

  After attending to his mount, Areck turned his attention towards the rider, who was now bearing down at a hard gallop and less than a mile away. He could discern that the mount was too long and sleek to be a war-horse and decided that the breed wa
s thoroughbred, meaning speed was paramount.

  The rider was upon the small company within five minutes, his mount's nostrils flaring and its sides in a thick lather. Areck frowned at the rider, who kept his mount in stride and apparently did not recognize the Bre'Dmorian company until too late; he galloped past the squires.

  The rider shouted commands and yanked on the reins, nearly standing in the saddle. The horse responded by shortening its strides undl it circled back around with a gaited walk to where Areck stood.

  Wow, Areck thought, admiring the beast as the rider brought it to a halt. This steed must of cost some noble a lot of gold.

  His initial assumption had been correct. It was a thoroughbred, appar­ent by the mount's skittish nature. Areck could tell that the beast was a no ble stallion, fifteen or so hands tall, with a long sleek body meant for speed. Though he didn't recognize the exact breed, it was most likely imported from the great deserts of the far south where horses were bred for long distance marathons. It was a beautiful horse, superior in looks to even the best charger.

  "Sir?" The squire started, recognizing Areck's previous under-officer stature in confusion. "Where is Lord Silvershield?"

  "It is a long story, Squire Lysen," Areck said, unfolding a piece of cloth that contained the knight-captain's insignia of rank. "To sum it up, we ran afoul, had casualties, and the commander thought it best if he personally escorted the messenger back to Natalinople."

  "You have assumed command, then, sir?" Lysen asked with a small frown, noticing that the company was short two squires.

  "As you can see, Lord Silvershield has given me his personal badge of rank until he can meet up with us in Brenly," Areck explained, trying to bite back his irritation.

  "Then I am here to deliver dire news, sir," replied Lysen, handing a small piece of parchment to Areck. "Count Gustafson sent me to deliver this."

  Areck took the parchment, unsheathed his dagger, and unsealed the note:

  Dear Commander,

  Thank you for sending the report. It is hard to believe that our Lords Ulwyth and Helwyth have been murdered. However; our town has more severe problems on the hori­zon. I am sure that you are aware of the reports I have sent Lord Lightbringer? My scouts have reported a large group of orcs wbo have been burning and pillaging the outly­ing thorpes.