by Paul Latham
Velar blushed.
Colmar shrugged. "Then again some would say it adds character. Never know with women and I would personally rather not know. It only confuses the situation."
"Yes, Sir."
"You have a woman, Velar?"
His mouth was full again, so he merely shook his head.
Colmar nodded and drank.
"And to the hells with the Secultariates as well," the General stated. "Do you know of the Secultariates?"
Velar swallowed. "Yes, Sir. They guard and keep civilization."
"Ha!" Colmar interjected. "They guard and keep themselves. But the Chancellor believes in them and therein lies my dilemma."
"I thought the Secultariates were well respected."
"They are. That's what makes them dangerous."
"But-"
"More ale!" Colmar shouted.
"But, Sir-"
"I should dissolve the contract and light towards Eshlex. Let Chancellor Rolarik waste his own men searching for the Secultariates' pretty cup."
Velar frowned. Pretty cup? Secultariates? "The Chalice, Sir? Will I be sent to find the Chalice?"
Colmar smiled grimly. "Excellent, Velar, excellent. Yes, the Chalice. Will you speak the legend, or should I?" The woman came forward with a pitcher, filled the General's tankard and scurried away. Colmar drank long.
"Sir, I only know that the Secultariates have always spoken of the Chalice as a savior of civilization and that great things would happen if it were found. I know nothing else of the legend."
The General belched and swiped white foam from his goatee. "Then allow me to enlighten you, Velar. I can't preach this as well as a Secultariate but you'll get the idea. Let's see, " He looked to the ceiling in thought. "How does it go?" He dropped his gaze to Velar. "Before the last Melleniac Cataclysm that brought destruction from the skies by gods unknown, the Secultariates, knowing the end approached, imbued a chalice with the essence of the last warrior king so that his experience and wisdom could someday be recovered when civilization again found itself. The end came, and man suffered, and the Chalice was lost. The Secultariates have searched continuously since believing that if the Chalice is found and the wisdom of the last warrior king is delivered into a host, civilization and man will enter a glorious age." Colmar sighed. "That's it. Almost word for word. I personally think the entire concept is a cartload of horse shit, but the opinion of a hired soldier means little. More ale!"
"So, I must find the Chalice," Velar stated.
"Yes, you must." The General met Velar's eyes. "I will tell you. Three others have gone before. Two did not return. One came back in pieces."
Velar slowly nodded as a spur of excitement pierced his chest.
"I am honor bound to provide an agent to the Chancellor, Velar."
"I understand, Sir."
"You are honor bound to serve as I tell you to serve. We took you from the streets. We have made you into something unique. But if you cannot serve in this capacity, remove the armor, give me your sword and leave."
"I wish to serve, Sir."
The General leaned forward. "Then I tell you now, young knight, that you can serve me best, not by bringing back the Chalice, but by coming back alive." He stabbed the table with a finger to emphasize each word. "On your honor, Velar, come back alive."
Velar blinked. "On my honor, Sir."
Colmar nodded and worked his hands together. "I'm sick of this," he hissed. "The enemy's blood should stain my hands, not the blood of my own."
"I won't fail, Sir."
The General sadly shook his head.
"That's what the last one said."
Chapter Four
The chamber was cavernous with tall carved pillars, polished stone floors and arched ceilings. Velar resisted the urge to stare but managed sidelong glances at ornate furniture, tapestries and burning braziers that provided light and a perfumed smoke. He had never seen such opulence.
"Velar, keep up," Colmar whispered harshly and Velar skipped forward and fell into step with his commander who, considering the volume of ale he had only recently consumed, seemed very focused and steady.
"Speak only when spoken to," the General hissed.
"Yes, Sir."
Two men emerged from the shadow of the pillars. One was elderly and supported himself with a black staff. The other was tall, thin with white hair, dark eyes and gaunt features. Both wore robes of black trimmed with red.
Colmar stopped at a respectable distance.
"Lord Chancellor," he said. "An agent, as promised."
Velar bowed and rose quickly.
Chancellor Rolarik shuffled forward, his staff clicking sharply on the stone floor.
"He looks young," he wheezed.
Colmar almost shrugged. "It's a young man's quest, Sire."
The other man stepped forward as he gathered his hands into the sleeves of his robe. "I believe the Chancellor questions this knight's experience and abilities."
"So, you speak for the Chancellor, Jocaris?" Colmar spat.
"You will address me as Lord Minister!"
"I will address you however I wish, Priest!"
Jocaris bristled and stepped forward. "You arrogant-"
"Enough!" Rolarik ordered. "I have no time for this. You!" He pointed a gnarled finger at Velar. "You will find me the Chalice."
"As you wish, Sire," Velar responded.
Jocaris turned toward the young knight, his expression smug. "Do you even know of the Chalice?"
Velar nodded. "Yes, Sir."
Jocaris lifted a white eyebrow. "Really? Tell me of it."
Velar cleared his throat. "It is the vessel that holds the essence and experience of the last warrior-king."
"Is that all?" Jocaris' grin became feral.
"Lord Minister," the Chancellor interjected. "You will leave us now. You as well, General Colmar."
"But, Sire," Jocaris began. "I must-"
"I said leave, Secultariate. Both of you. Go to the gardens and bicker or something."
"Sire, I protest," Jocaris said.
"Continue and you will protest from a dark cell."
Colmar spun on his heel and marched away. Jocaris looked from the Chancellor to Velar and back again before offering a curt bow and a hiss of disgust as he stormed away.
"Generals and priests," the Chancellor commented sadly as he watched them go. "One offers means as the other offers justification." He sighed. "Could probably do without both."
Velar frowned. "An interesting notion, Sire."
The Chancellor snapped his gaze to meet Velar's. "Yes, it is." His eyes narrowed. "You have steel in your eyes, boy. How old are you?"
"I've seen nineteen harvests, Sire."
The Chancellor nodded. "And the scar?"
"A fire when I was young."
"Not by combat."
"No, Sire."
"Still it is interesting," the old man commented. "You stand before royalty." He rubbed his chin. "I may be sending you to your death. And yet? " The Chancellor slowly nodded. "You may be the one."
Motioning for Velar to follow, Rolarik turned and hobbled towards a cushioned winged chair. Once there, he looked left, then right ensuring no one was near, then presented his free arm to Velar.
"Help me down, boy," he said, and Velar gripped the frail, thin arm and eased the Chancellor into the softness of the short couch. Rolarik sighed.
"You may be the one, Sir Knight," he said. "You know others have gone before you?"
"Yes, Sire."
The Chancellor shook his head. "Colmar talks too much to be a soldier."
"I needed to know, Sire."
Rolarik looked up, apparently somewhat surprised. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, Sire." Velar folded his hands together behind his back. "Extreme caution is now warranted."
"You don't consider defeat or failure as an option," Rolarik asked. "Do you?"
Velar stood silent for a moment before responding. "Sire, I was trained that defeat only happens
in the absence of options."
"So, it’s a waste of thought to consider defeat as an option?"
"Not only that, Sire, but foolish as well."
Rolarik chuckled. "I could argue this, Knight and possibly argue well but I have no desire to douse your confidence."
"Sire, I would-"
The Chancellor held up a hand. "Enough. We haven't time. My enemies are posturing. I am aging. I need the Chalice not only to defend my regent but to bring all the regents together under one crown as they were before the First War of Kings. Not that you should even know that. Your sole purpose is to find the Chalice and return it to me. Nothing else matters. Help me up."
Velar gripped the bony arm as Rolarik rose to his feet, leaning heavily on the staff. Panting, the Chancellor lifted tired eyes to Velar's.
"I'm running out of time, Sir Knight," Rolarik said. "Swear to me. Swear to me on your life that you will not fail."
"Of course, Sire."
"Say it."
Velar squared his shoulders slightly as a knot formed in his throat. "I swear to you, Sire, that I will not fail."
The Chancellor nodded. "Remember that, Sir Knight. The honor and duty are yours." He turned to move away. "The Lord Minister and Colmar will give you the information you need."
"Yes, Sire."
Rolarik nodded and continued, staff scraping against the stone of the floor.
"Your name," he said suddenly, but then shook his head. "No." His voice was nearly a whisper. "I think it's best . . . it's best that I not even know."
Chapter Five
Did he know everything now? Could he allow himself to react?
A tremor racked his body, almost comically rattling his armor as a pent-up wave of emotion exploded in his chest and swept downward into his loins. He had done it. He had passed their tests. He was a member of the Order.
Velar looked about the small room he had been assigned in the barracks and caught himself longing for star-filled skies and a canopy of trees. Room to breathe. The air in the tiny room seemed thick and a bit rancid. He needed the comfort of a gentle fire and a thick pallet of furs and blankets.
But he was a member of the Order now. He had the small bed he sat upon and the warmth of the candle burning on the table.
He wanted to talk to Teacher.
Velar shook his head. He was on his own now. He was proven.
Proven? You sent five knights to the ground who were merely trying to subdue you. What have you proven?
And the Chancellor had entrusted him.
The Chancellor would have entrusted a stable boy if he promised to bring him the Chalice.
He felt so alone. At first light he would strike out on Akeil in search of the Chalice. Alone. Towards a spot the Lord Minister Jocaris had pointed to on a map, the same map that lay unfurled beside Velar on the bed.
"We believe the Chalice is here," Jocaris had said, indicating an area of mountains in the regent of Morcre which lay north of Aylos. "There are ruins there that date to before the creation of the Great Waste."
Ancient ruins. That meant little. Crumbling remnants of a lost age lay scattered across the continent from the southern jungles of Shippar to the northern plains of Eshlex. Velar wondered why the Secultariates suspected these ruins in particular.
Other questions abounded. The Chancellor thought the Chalice was the key to power over all the regents. Wouldn't others come to the same conclusion? Wouldn't agents of other realms be sent on this selfsame quest? What would he have to do if he encountered them?
He had to think. He had to contemplate. Three others had tried and failed. Caution was definitely warranted. Velar decided quickly that the best course of action would be to question people along the way to discover the fate of those who had gone before him. Perhaps he could discern the mistakes made and avoid them.
Someone rapped sharply on the door. Frowning, Velar stood.
"Enter," he said, a bit forcefully. The door swung inward revealing two knights. Velar recognized them from the test. The shorter of the two was Bokril. The other was Quanain.
Revenge, Velar immediately thought and steeled himself.
"Um," Bokril said. "We just . . ." He looked to Quanain who frowned a bit and held up his hands in almost a helpless gesture.
"We just wanted you to know," he said. "It was an honor to participate in your initiation. And, if you’re not busy, of course, we were wondering if you would care to join us for food and drink at the Blue Anvil."
Velar blinked, then slowly relaxed. "Well, yes, I would."
Jocaris and Colmar had both given him small pouches of gold for the journey. And he owed an ale to Olad, the huge knight who had directed him to the compound. The Blue Anvil. That was where Olad had said he would be.
"Yes," Velar said again. "The honor would be mine."
* * *
He needed this distraction. A more rational part of him demanded rest and sleep before his journey began but Velar ignored it.
The Blue Anvil Tavern stood two stories tall on the edge of one of the larger market squares. Light and noise poured from its windows and open door and Velar felt his spirit lighten. He had visited such places before but and only during daylight hours.
"I was to meet one called Olad here," Velar said as they entered. Bockril and Quanain smiled.
"He's here, no doubt," Bockril replied, "and we will sit with him."
Tables filled the large room though most of the patrons apparently chose to stand. Knights and soldiers laughed and talked as they heaved huge goblets and snatched food from passing trays carried by serving girls. Minstrels played near the hearth at the far side room while a fight ensued and quickly finished with the help of the hefty fist of a rather plump woman.
"There's Olad," Quanain said, pointing to the center of the room. There the burly knight seemed immersed in conversation with one of the city guard. Bockril pressed into the crowd weaving his way between tables. Quanain and Velar followed.
"Velar!" Olad bellowed as they approached. Quanain and Bockril settled onto benches. Olad rose and extended his hand to Velar. "I heard of the initiation. Well done."
"Thank you," Velar replied.
"Have a seat." Olad looked to the guard who wavered, sullen eyed, on the edge of consciousness. Olad shrugged, pushed the guard to the floor and indicated the vacated place on the bench with an open hand. Velar carefully stepped over the snoring guard and sat down.
"They say you took eight," Olad said.
Velar frowned. "Who said?"
"It's the word on the street, man."
"But-"
"He took down five," Bockril offered. "And he can image."
Olad cocked an eyebrow, pulling open the lids of the missing eye. Velar fought down an impulse to look away.
"You know the powers of command?" Olad asked.
Velar frowned. "Don't we all?"
'We' felt strange to his tongue. Some part of him still seemed unsure perhaps because it all happened so quickly. The strangeness of it struck him again and a feeling akin to fear flared briefly in his gut. But it wasn't fear or apprehension. He could call it a kind of desperation. The desperate desire to be accepted by his brother knights.
"No, we don't," Quanain said. "I would say at least a third of us do. But by no means all."
"But Teacher implied that it was required."
"They all do," Olad interjected. "I know mine did. It's a way of pressuring you to see if you can."
"And even then," Quanain offered. "The initiates that arrive can usually manage to make light and that's all."
"You have to have the talent is all," Olad said and took a pull from his goblet. "Damn," he said. "We need ale."
They caught the attention of a serving girl and she quickly retrieved ales for all and left with a generous splay of coins across her tray.
"You haven't heard the best, Olad," Bockril said, swiping his lips dry with the back of his hand. "Young Velar here has a mission. From Colmar himself."
"So s
oon?" Olad looked to Velar. "And what would this mission be?"
Velar felt Quanain and Bockril watching, waiting.
"To find the Chalice," Velar said flatly and took a sip of bitter ale.
"What?"
"The Chalice. The sacred vessel that holds the essence of the last warrior-king."
"I know what it is, boy," Olad seethed. "What ignorance is this?"
"It's Colmar," Quanain said. "and the Chancellor."
"Gods, I'm sick of this," Olad said. "Sending good men after nothing."
"But if the Chalice does exist?" Bockril began.
"But it doesn't," Olad sneered. "Or, if it ever, did it's long destroyed. Entire cities were obliterated in the First War of Kings and one pretty cup is expected to have survived? Nonsense. Utter nonsense."
Velar listened intently. This was what he needed. Opinions. Observations. Anything that would give him direction or insight.
Bockril leaned forward. "But listen, Olad. What if on the off chance that the Chalice did survive and one of the other regent lords came to possess it. What then? The lands are divided but an ancient artifact of a glorious age would bring them all together."
"Why?" Olad interjected. "Why would some dusty old cup bring the regents together?"
"The regents fear what the Chalice represents to the people," Bockril said, slapping his hand on the table for emphasis. "And the Chancellor has a right to defend his lands."
"By sending us to die one by one?"
Bockril shrugged. "We are soldiers. What else would our purpose be?"
"To kill," Olad spat. "To conquer. To crush our enemies on an open field of battle. You would brand us to be sacrifices designed to enhance the Chancellors ambitions."
Bockril stiffened. "I would brand us to be warriors who willingly give our lives to the causes we owe allegiance to."
"Politics," Olad snarled.
Bockril threw up his hands. "I can't argue anything with one so stubborn and obstinate!"
"Hey, now, watch your tone, pup," Olad warned. "Else, I'll be wiping this place clean with your politic-loving carcass."
"Gentlemen," Quanain said, extending his hand to the center of the table. "I don't think this is the time."
"No," Olad said after a moment. "It isn't. Apologies, Velar."
