by Steve Barker
“I thank you for your business, and take my leave of you,” she heard the bounty hunter say as the bag of coin clinked in his hands. From closer to her, she heard him whisper “It’s been a pleasure, my dear.” She listened as his footsteps could be heard heading back along the direction they had come.
After she heard the sound of a doorway open and close at the end of the tunnel, there was only silence. She took a step backwards, and flinched as she met the wall at the edge of the passage. Feeling the cold stone, she tried to move along the wall and away from where the stranger’s voice had been.
“Where do think you’ll go?” came the voice again. “You are now my guest, and I insist you stay a while.” His voice changed its tone, and now conveyed a sinister malice mixed with vindictive satisfaction. Hollyglade tried to feel the wall for anything she could grab hold of, a torch or some other implement she could use as a weapon. Nothing met her searching hands. She stopped and tried to reach out with her mental perception hoping that something would register, even though she knew that this stranger was no animal, her instinct was to try to use her ability.
As she did so, she felt her blindfold loosen, though she did not feel hands upon her face. When it dropped, the person she saw standing before her was draped in dark robes which allowed only the lower half of his face to catch the dim light. The scarred and wrinkled visage stretched into a grotesque smile as a hand reached up toward her. Her mind registered something it had not felt so intensely in a decade. Something she had only previously registered as coming from within.
Power.
Hollyglade tried to back away as everything went dark.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
The Sun was not quite visible on the horizon as the first few rays of light illuminated the assembled forces. Lord Birk reined his horse to a halt as he arrived at the King’s side. The Demarian army had marched at a brutal pace, taking only short stops to rest and eat, all the way from the Capital and Coast fork, in order to gain a day and hopefully take their target by surprise. Though the forces were tired from the march, the thrill of their easy victory over the Lorian cohort had wet the appetites for war of the men making that march. As dawn broke, the Demarian soldiers were fervently anticipating the battle to come. A battle that all of them expected to win in impressive fashion.
“Your Grace, our scouts have returned from the night’s reconnoiter, and I have received word that both Princes’ fleets have reached their destinations on the updated schedule.”
“Good. Let’s hear your report,” commanded the King with eager expectation.
“Scouts report that seven to ten thousand troops are assembled in formation outside the walls of the city. A force half to two thirds our size, but one that could pose some difficulty with the wall to guard their back,” reported Lord Birk.
“Then a true test of Demarian mettle awaits us. I have confidence that our plans shall compensate for any trouble they cause. What of my sons?”
“Prince Dornian’s forces should be starting their assault on Westport as we speak, and Prince Dertron was able to land five thousand men two leagues south of the city during the night, and his fleet should make it within range of the Lorian fleet’s last known positions outside the Magnaville harbour within this hour. Our siege engines are behind us by less than one league now, and will be here in at most two hours, Your Grace. We await your signal.” His report was delivered with a matter of fact resolution that seemed to please the King.
“Thank you Lord Birk. Send the envoy with our terms for surrender, to the gate under the white flag. I will give this boy one chance to save his people from the hardship of siege warfare.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Lord Birk bowed slightly, and left to go dispatch the envoy with the King’s demands, as orders to begin the march to the battle lines were announced.
Word returned from the Lorian Commander within the hour, stating that Lord Quentin Wendal desired a parlance with his Demarian counterpart. Renald Birk bore the reply to King Dermond.
“Your Grace, the Commander of the Lorian Royal Forces asks for a parlance.”
“Good. I like meeting face to face with the man I am to battle against. Let us ride out to meet him. Lord Birk, War Marshall Greln, you shall accompany me to meet Lord Wendal, and see what kind of man he is on the battlefield. Though I have met him under circumstances of peace, I am curious to see his demeanor in a suit of armour.”
“Very good, Your Grace. We are ready to depart at your leisure.”
“Then let us ride. I tire of the anticipation.”
With that, the three men mounted and headed for the front line.
“Your Grace,” Lord Wendal addressed the Demarian King, “I am surprised and honoured to receive you in the Kingdom of Loria. Though I must say that your entourage is rather large on this occasion, much more so than the last time Your Grace visited Whiterock, but I am sure we can arrange suitable accommodation if Your Grace would be so kind as to allow us time to prepare properly for this welcome, yet unexpected, visit. How may I be of service to you?” The Master of The Royal forces bowed deeply as he greeted the king with playful sarcasm.
“Lord Quentin Wendal,” replied the King, with a raised eyebrow “I recall your sense of humour, and I must say you are bold to employ it while facing the odds you do.” The King watched as the Lords’ smiles wavered. “And I respect you for it” smiled King Dermond.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” replied Lord Wendal, with some measure of relief.
“Now, My Lord, you have requested this parlance. I note that my counterpart is absent, do you speak with your King’s full authority?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“What wish you to say for him?”
The Master of the Royal Forces took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as his eyes narrowed slightly, while he chose his words.
“Your Grace, both our kingdoms have reason to be offended at the recent actions of the other, and it is the hope of our King, that some peaceful solution or resolution to our discord may be found. We would ask that you agree not to engage in siege hostilities until negotiations have been given full chance.”
“You wish to talk now, do you?” replied the King in a suddenly severe tone. “Where was the desire to talk when you held Lord Casterin of Downwater in your dungeons? Our request for his return was unanswered. Do you forget that our two Kingdoms have shared traditions concerning the handling of hostages? Do you forget the treaty which brought the counties of Shoreford and Clearvale under Lorian rule? A treaty signed to secure the return of the Princes of Demaria? Speak not of bargains when it suits you unless you can speak of them when it does not.” The King chided the lord.
“Your Grace, with the utmost respect, there was no offer of terms of release made for the King’s brother either. The just execution of his abductor was seen as fair and lawful due process.”
“Ah, there it is. Finally, you come out with it. You blame my Kingdom for the disappearance of your Crown Prince, after you take misdirected revenge for it. Does the boy King truly believe Demaria would throw away a generation of brotherly relations between our Kingdoms for no reason? Believe you that we are barbarians who rape and kill purely to slake our lust for battle? Your King’s so-called vengeance was directed errantly. No Lord of mine would act against another sovereignty without my direction, and I would give no such order.”
“Your Grace denies that the Prince was executed at Downwater and floated out to sea, as our reports confirm?”
“It is denied. No such event took place. Were I to discover that one of my Lords had abducted and murdered the Crown Prince of Loria, I would have taken his head and planted it firmly on a spike myself. I tolerate no such incitements from those I rule. War for the sake of war, or for no reason at all, carries no honour. I mourned the loss of your Prince. His father was a great man, and it was our fervent desire that the young Prince should succeed his father and continue our good, peaceful, brotherly, and profitable relat
ionship. You look to place blame where none belongs.”
Both men stood silently for a moment, as the King’s denial and admonishment hung in the air, and Lord Wendal was unsure where to proceed next. He had expected an explanation, a blame for some wrong or offense, but not a denial. The King was the first to break the silence.
“I’m told that your new King has resurrected the old ways, and has a Sorcerer in his inner circle. Tell me, how long after this practitioner of the arcane came into the King’s service, did the King begin to break with the tradition of his father and the advice of his Vestry?”
The Master of the Royal Forces looked at the King for a moment, and then lowered his gaze as his expression began to show embarrassment. He was here representing his King, yet even he believed that his King was now representing someone else. But to admit that here and now, would be folly. A Kingdom with a puppet for a King could not legitimately come to a negotiating table, and therefore Quentin Wendal could not acknowledge what he believed to be true.
“Your Grace, I know nothing of the details of their relationship, other than that the King seeks advice from the Sorcerer in the same manner as the rest of His Vestry. We advise him, and he rules. Such is the way it has always been.”
The King looked to Lord Birk momentarily before turning back to his adversary.
“Lord Wendal, I reject your King’s request for negotiation. Instead, I offer terms for surrender,” declared the King, watching as Lord Wendal’s look of surprise broke through his seasoned restraint. “They are thus: Your King must vacate his throne and titles to me. Your Royal Forces must clear the field and pledge fealty to me. Your Lords and their houses must pledge the same, and in exchange I shall allow your boy King to retire to his summer home on the Hot Lake and retain the status of Lordship over the Southern Plains. If these terms are not agreed to, I shall bring my army to your gates, including the five thousand that landed not but two leagues south of your city. Including the armada which approaches the harbour as we speak, and including the armada and legion which now invade Westport.”
The King stopped and watched as the colour left the face of the Lorian Master of the Royal Forces upon hearing that the situation was much more dire than he had known. Lord Wendal said nothing, and King Dermond did not wait for him to find the words.
“You have the hour to reply,” the King declared as he took the reins of his horse and placed a foot in the stirrup, pulling himself into the saddle.
He did not want a reply, and did not expect the acceptance of his terms. Now, it was war he desired. The thirst for battle had grown during the march, and he was not to be denied. The King turned without giving Lord Wendal time to respond, and spurred his horse back to the Demarian line. Lord Birk and War Marshall Greln followed closely behind.
Lord Wendal returned with his commanders to the city gates to deliver the Demarian King’s terms knowing that a siege was imminent.
VII : Siege
Hollyglade awoke in the dark, finding herself on a floor of stone. Though her eyes were not covered and her mouth was no longer bound, she could not see anything. She tried moving and found that her wrists and ankles were now free. Feeling around herself with her fingertips, the stone felt rough-hewn and irregular. She moved in one direction trying to gain some sense of the shape and size of the room she was in. Slowly and gently, she explored the space around her until she came to one wall, which she used to steady herself as she began to stand up. With a crack, her head found the ceiling and she let out restrained yelp. Reaching up to feel the top of her head, and measure the ceiling, she heard someone take in a gasp of air.
“Hello? Who’s there?” someone called to her, with a tremulous voice.
Hollyglade’s first reaction was to take up a defensive stance. She tried her best to force her giantish low light vision to adjust to the darkness and show her who had spoken. It was a fruitless effort. Her vision would work in low light, but not the complete absence of it.
“Hello? Can you hear me? Are you alright? My name’s Jeron. Are you hurt?”
Jeron. Where have I heard that name before? She wondered to herself. He sounded harmless enough.
“I’m ok, I think,” she replied. “Where am I? What is this place?” The sound of their voices echoed slightly, giving Hollyglade a sense of the size of the room she was in. It did not seem large, though she could tell now that the person speaking to her was a short distance away.
“I wish I could tell you exactly where we are, but I honestly do not know. I have seen our captor only once, and did not recognize him. I can tell you that he is some sort of sorcerer, but that is all. I don’t even know where in the country this prison lies. Can you tell me your name? You’re only the second person who has shared a part of this confinement with me, and the first who speaks the common language.”
“Hollyglade,” she replied, “and we are somewhere within the walls of Whiterock, or underneath it. I can’t be entirely sure.”
He inhaled audibly
“You’re sure we are in Whiterock? In Magnaville? You’re certain?”
“Yes. You seem surprised. How did you get here?”
“I was ambushed on the road to Westport quite some time ago, though I can’t tell you exactly how long ago, as I have lost track of time while confined in here. I awoke in this cell and saw no one at all for what seemed like days. How did you get here?”
She recognized some of the story as one she had heard gossiped about in various taverns and inns within the villages and towns she had visited over the last month or so. But, she was sure that the stories had ended with the death of the subject.
“Wait, what did you say your name was, again?” she asked.
“Jeron”
“THE Jeron? Crown prince who disappeared and was declared dead a month ago?” she questioned with exclamation.
“The. Wait, dead?” He replied
“Wow. You have no idea what has gone on above you, do you?”
“Correct. No Idea, whatsoever. I don’t even know what day it is.”
“Well, when I came into the capital, it was at night, and I feel like I can’t have been out for too long. The moon was but a sliver, and will be a new moon when it rises next. I was brought here by a bounty hunter and delivered to a man in dark robes with a voice like the grave. I did not recognize him, but I have heard that there was a sorcerer in the capital advising the King, so I must assume that was him. If he put me in here, and you saw him in here, that must mean we have something in common, though I can’t imagine what. Also, the guards at the gate told the bounty hunter that the Demarian army marches here. I’m not surprised, as I heard that King Harford had one of their lords executed not very long ago. Supposedly as a retaliation for your death. It was said that you were abducted by some Demarian Lord and killed.”
“Did you say the King? Have they crowned my baby brother already? And the Sorcerer is advising him? And war is at the gate! This is not good.”
“Yes. They crowned him not long after you died, er, disappeared. And the Sorcerer showed up in court about a month ago, I hear. I’m surprised you did not see him yourself.”
“He must have arrived after I set out to mourn my father in the mountains above Westport. I am surprised he was able to persuade the Vestry to accept him.”
“I don’t think they really did. The talk is that he wedged himself in to the King’s, to your brother’s, confidence against the advice of the Vestry. Many blame him for the odd decrees that followed shortly after.”
“Odd decrees?”
“Yes, I guess you would not have heard. First, the Elder Folk were sent out of Magnaville. There was no explanation for it. Some suggested that it was us Harford blamed for your death, but there was no evidence of that being a fact, nor of Harford believing it. Then the decree was expanded to include everywhere from the Demarian border to along the High Trail and all the way along the Low Road to the coast. Of course, there was no hope of enforcing it above the foothills. The Elvish houses
would not budge now, having defied all four kingdoms for generations, from Ellendor to Sudara, all along the Western Ranges. It was under the guise of that decree that the bounty hunter who captured me conscripted army and garrison troops to complete the job.”
Jeron was having difficulty assimilating so much information all at once, that he felt some of it pass him by.
“I’m sorry, I must ask you to slow down a bit. This is a lot to take in.”
“It’s alright. I understand.”
“There is a war on?”
“Not yet, I don’t think. What was said at the gates was the first thing I’d heard about it, but it sounds like there will be one. That’s all I know.”
“This is bad,” Jeron fretted. “Did you see any sign of the Demarians?”
“No. There was no indication of them from where we were. But we did approach the city from the south. There’s really nothing else I can tell you about it.”
“Alright, let me ask you something else. You’re of the Elder Races?” he asked.
“Yes. My Mother was Giantish, and my Father Elvish.”
“Wait, what? You are half-each of two Elder Races? Is that even possible?”
“It must be. Here I am.”
“I take your word for it that you are here, and that you are real. Do you possess the gifts of either of your parents?”
“I do. Some of each, but I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I thought half-breeds lost their gifts. How is it you did not?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone to ask. My parents died when I was five.”
