Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  On this particular sunlit day, John Huxley approached the Amberhill household with a far too obviously eager expression on his face and a sack of assorted vegetables tugged under his arm. From several blocks away, one could hear the high-pitched echoing stings of hot iron being struck. Evellyn held a wielding hammer in her right hand and was smashing it against what looked like the roots of a soon-to-be elegant chest armor. Sparks flew out of the scorching hot plate with every powerful strike. With her back towards the street, she did not see the farmer standing there, straightening himself up somewhat nervously.

  “Hello there,” he called out.

  Evellyn had the hammer in midair when she turned her head and saw him. There was a hint of surprise in her eyes. “John!” she said, as the hammer slipped from her hand and onto the wielding table.

  “Good day, Missus Amberhill,” John said with a smile and a head bow.

  “Tiring, yes. Good? That remains to be seen,” Evellyn said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. She smiled back at the John, and there was that usual shade of red rushing to her cheeks, which she would often blame on irritation from standing too close to the fire.

  “Any day is good when blessed by your company, Evellyn,” John said.

  Evellyn chuckled as she struggled to maintain eye contact. She removed the pin that was keeping her hair out of her face, and down it came, a tumble of red waves that reached her waist. Her fair skin was stained grey with charcoal residue and she smelled of both iron and lilies all at once. John couldn’t help but lose himself in her luminous green eyes; the only part of her that glistened in the daylight while the rest of her was tainted by that hard morning’s labor.

  “You’re too kind,” she said.

  “Is your father home?” he smiled. “I’ve got some vegetables from this week’s harvest for him.” he held out the brown bag in front of him. A silence followed. Evellyn looked down again, though this time in a way that expressed a trace of discomfort and perhaps even shame.

  “What’s wrong? Does he hate potatoes?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Evellyn muttered, smiling only for a moment. “I don’t think we can purchase anything this week, John… Business has slowed since father’s been ill, and… well…”

  John raised the clip that held the small wooden gate in place and allowed himself into the welding yard. “That’s not a problem,” he said.

  “No, John,” she tried to protest.

  “It’s really quite all right.”

  “No, we can’t take it. We’ll simply skip this week.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “John, don’t,” she said, standing in between him and the door to their cottage.

  The young farmer had known the blacksmith’s daughter all his life. When they were children, John would travel into the city with his father, hoping to see her if only for a mere moment, and for endless spring and summer days, the city streets were their playground. When she was alive, Evellyn’s mother would often pay Adelina Huxley a visit, and young Evellyn would hop in excitement as she and John would lose themselves in the green fields, using wooden sticks as swords and fighting like knights.

  Every moment John looked into her eyes, he saw the same girl he’d known his whole life. And Evellyn, in return, saw the same in him. Their mothers would often mention the possibility of joining their houses by marrying the two. After the deaths of John’s father and Evellyn’s mother, however, the connection between the two families was somewhat lost. All they had left now was this. Occasional encounters, brief conversations, and a lifetime of memories long forgotten.

  “Fine,” John said. “How about you take this now and pay us when you can?”

  Another silence. Evellyn wiped her hands with a wet rag and moved away, allowing John to enter the cottage. She couldn’t help but watch him as he made his way inside. He was a good man, she knew. Had fate not been so ill to them, he would have made a good husband. Part of her did not wish to lose the friendship they’d built over the years, and yet another part of her knew that there were not many good people left in Vallenghard… but John Huxley was certainly one of the few good ones.

  The young farmer set the bag on a wooden nightstand next to the bed where Willem Amberhill rested. His youngest daughter, Alycia, sat nearby. “He just fell asleep again,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” John kneeled in front of the chair and spoke softly, so as to not allow Evellyn to hear. Little did the farmer know that Evellyn was standing close to the doorway right outside the room. John reached into his pockets and pulled out 5 coppers, the very same coins that Mister Nottley had paid him, and wrapped them in Alycia’s hands.

  “Take this and purchase some aloe root from the apothecary on Merchants’ Square,” he said. “A nice tea and he’ll feel much better in no time, you’ll see.”

  Outside, Evellyn waited.

  John Huxley walked past her on his way out and said, “Until next time, Missus Amberhill.”

  “John?” she called out. He turned, but before he could speak she threw her arms around him and held him tightly. As her red hair brushed against the thin layer of stubble on his face, he caught the scent of lilies that he had always known her to have, and he couldn’t help but embrace her back. They held on for a few moments longer.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  * * *

  “Burn the harlot!” shouted a middle-aged man with either a heavy Halghardian accent or plenty of missing teeth.

  “Slice her head off!” yelled another.

  “Throw her in a ditch!”

  A herd of peasants moved in unison toward the wooden platform of the gallows near the city gates. John Huxley was on his way back to his cart when his eye caught the bundle of wavy raven-colored hair being pushed through the crowd towards the steps. People were throwing garbage and spitting on the woman, who remained helpless and held down by ropes at her wrists.

  Among the crowd, a young boy carrying a large basket of baked goods was fighting to keep his balance; he was pushed back by an old man that rushed to the scene as if someone was giving away free samples of liqueur. John was able to catch the boy in time before he dropped his basket.

  “S-Sorry sir!” the boy said nervously.

  “Careful now,” said John. “What is happening here?”

  “A witch, sir,” said the boy, his eyes wide and eager. “The Davenport brothers just got back from a trade in the city of Wyrmwood. They found her resting place not too far from ‘ere. She was practicing dark magic…”

  “Was she?”

  “That’s what they said, at least.”

  John had not encountered many witches in his life. He had encountered none, for that matter, but had seen mere portraits of wanted witches posted around the villages and cities where he had traveled to in his short life. He watched in awe as they brought the woman up to the wooden stand. Much to his surprise, she was a woman who couldn’t have been older than 30. Her dark hair was greasy and slightly tangled, and the choppy ends stopped right at her chest. She was pale and her eyes radiated, even from afar, the color of a warm autumn sunset. She had on a raggedy dress the color of smoke, with traces of crimson red cloth patching up a few tears.

  “She doesn’t look much like a witch,” John said.

  “That’s what makes ‘em dangerous,” said the boy, as he looked up at John. “Have I seen you before, sir?”

  “You may have,” John said, keeping his eyes locked on the witch.

  A middle-aged man stepped up to the wooden platform, where the Davenport brothers were holding down the witch by both arms; her hands were wrapped in what looked like brown leather, with rope holding said leather in place.

  “What’s that on her hands?” John asked the boy.

  “That there’s ogre skin,” the boy replied, and it was clear that it gave him great pleasure to be able to relay the knowledge to an adult. “Ogres are immune to dark magic, ye see? That’s why witches kept them as slaves during the Great War. An ogre’s ski
n will keep a witch from using any magic, they say.”

  The middle-aged man on the wooden platform raised both his hands into the air, urging the citizens to lower their voices. John recognized him immediately. The man was known throughout the city as a prophet of the Gods, more specifically the god of humankind. Many had even said he could perform miracles. His name was Baryn Lawe. He was dressed in grey robes and wore a phony smile that conveyed his pride and vanity, to an extent that John couldn’t help but scowl at the sight of him.

  “My fellow Val Havyans,” the false prophet shouted, and almost immediately folks were clapping and cheering him on.

  “Val Havyans?” John grunted, soft enough to not attract attention. “Since when is that a proper term?”

  “I don’t like him a bit,” the boy frowned.

  “I can’t say I blame you very much.”

  Baryn Lawe paced around the platform, soaking in the attention of the citizens the way he always did on such public displays. “This woman that stands here before us… has been accused of practicing witchcraft on our kingdom grounds.”

  The peasants began ranting once again, yelling insults and spitting at the ground so as to demonstrate their hatred towards the witch, who was so frightened and distressed that her left eye started twitching.

  John said nothing, but continued to watch in astonishment.

  Baryn Lawe raised his arms once more. The villagers slowed to a silence. The man knew plenty of tricks, John gave him that much. He knew the appropriate tone of voice to use and when exactly to pause for a more dramatic effect; a trick he often overused and yet no peasant doubted.

  “The question here remains!” Baryn continued. “Shall we surrender this atrocious beast to the king’s royal guard… allowing for the possibility of their mercy?”

  The villagers shouted their insults once more.

  “Will we allow this monster to walk freely, endangering the lives of our children?!”

  More shouts echoed throughout the city. The crowd started to grow, as more citizens scattered into the scene from their homes.

  “What exactly, I ask you today, should we do with this monstrous being?!” Baryn shouted at the crowds, who responded with only more anger and disgust.

  John felt a knot building at his throat. “They’re not going to kill her, are they?”

  “You’re surely not from around here, are you?” the boy responded.

  Baryn Lawe turned to the Davenport brothers. He made brief eye contact with the witch, who kept a stern look of both hatred and sorrow and said not a single word. Her left eye, however, couldn’t avoid that nervous twitch.

  “The people have spoken,” Baryn said. “Hang the witch…”

  The crowd shouted in a false sense of triumph. John Huxley did not pretend to know what justice was, but he was sure this was not it. The Davenport brothers dragged the witch towards the noose and wrapped it around her neck. She had a terror in her eyes as she looked at the mad crowd, begging them for mercy.

  “We’ve got to do something,” John said, wishing he hadn’t left his blade at home.

  “Careful, sir,” the boy held John back by the arm. “You don’t want to anger them more.”

  And so John could do nothing but watch in agony. He longed for the courage to stop the repulsive citizens from murdering the innocent woman. He could hardly stand to watch, as the noose was tightened and the brothers gave Baryn the signal that she was ready for the hanging.

  “For the good of our kingdom,” the mad preacher said, as he gripped the handle that would release the wooden vent under the witch’s feet.

  Suddenly, there was a loud drumming sound that echoed from afar. The citizens turned, almost in unison, as a pair of guards announced an incoming presence at the city gates. Even Baryn Lawe stopped in his tracks, though John guessed it was mostly due to his loss of attention. There was a long silence; the only sounds in the air were that of iron-plated boots marching on the cobblestones.

  Then, a majestic figure stepped through the gates; a knight in bright silver armor riding atop his white horse as he led a small squadron of soldiers into the city. Every pair of eyes in the crowd was locked on him. He held his helmet at his side as he rode silently towards the scene.

  “That man there is S-”

  “I know who he is,” John interrupted the whispering boy. “Sir Viktor Crowley, the knight commander of the royal guard.”

  Even the young witch had her eyes locked on the knight, her entire body trembling as the noose itched at her neck.

  Sir Viktor Crowley held his head up high. His golden wheat-colored hair was slicked back, just reaching the back of his neck. His face was clean-shaven, and though he had a few scars here and there, the image of him was as regal as they came. A less impressive knight rode beside him, a husky man with short brown hair and a beard that was too patchy to be striking. His name was Sir Jossiah Biggs, and he was another knight of the king’s court.

  They rode into the square, their confused eyes locked on the gallows and the woman standing on them, wrapped in the noose.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Sir Jossiah Biggs.

  The crowd was silent, as if expecting the mad preacher to answer for them all.

  “Sir, it is an honor to be blessed with your presence,” Baryn bowed at the sight of the golden knight Sir Viktor Crowley, ignoring Sir Biggs’s less majestic poise.

  “You were asked a question, peasant,” Biggs snarled at Baryn.

  “Pardon me, sir,” the preacher said. “This wretched woman was caught red-handed in her resting place practicing the dark arts.” The crowd began ranting once more, cheering for their elected representative.

  “And who might you be?” Sir Biggs asked.

  “I’m Baryn Lawe, sir. I stand here before you, representing the people of Val Havyn. This murderous wench is guil-”

  “We heard you, Mister Lawe,” Biggs interrupted again. “And in what way, may I ask, were you granted the authority to make such judgment?”

  “I have the authority of our god, sir. Surely you must understand that in cases such as these, when the safety of our civilians and their children are in danger, we must take necessary precautions to ensure that these murderous beasts will not bring harm to our city.”

  “Has the King been informed of such matters, Mister Lawe?”

  The preacher chuckled derisively. “Surely we mustn’t bother his majesty with such harebrained matters. Nonetheless, the word of our god speaks above any laws set forth by men. Therefore, I believe it necessary to ac-”

  “Pardon me…?” a smooth yet powerful voice asked.

  Baryn Lawe froze where he stood. There was the sound of steel-studded boots hitting the cobblestones as Sir Viktor Crowley stepped off his horse, followed by a long silence. The knight handed his helmet to Jossiah Biggs, who was his second-in-command.

  “What did you just say…?”

  Baryn felt the sweat build at his temples. “I-I said… We mustn’t bother his majesty with…”

  “No…” Viktor interrupted him, pacing towards him. “After that.”

  Baryn struggled to speak as Viktor took slow steps towards the wooden platform. From afar, John noticed the golden crest imprinted on the back of the knight’s armor. The crest was that of an eagle with its wings spread open as if preparing to take flight.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Baryn said. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “He asked you to repeat yourself,” Sir Jossiah Biggs spoke, still atop his own horse.

  Baryn gulped with anxiety before turning his gaze down with shame. Then he opened his shivering mouth and said, “I was merely speaking for our god, sir… Forgive me…”

  Sir Viktor Crowley walked up the steps and unsheathed his sword as he approached Baryn. He held the tip of it a mere centimeter away from the preacher’s chin.

  “Listen here… Mister Baryn Lawe,” Viktor spoke slowly, with a stern and hardening tone. “Never spit on our king’s name in my presence again.” T
hey locked eyes for a mere moment, before Baryn could no longer hold his gaze and shut his eyes, his jaw still trembling anxiously. Viktor removed his sword from Baryn’s jaw and turned his gaze to the young witch. Many had known the knight to be a man of trivial pride, yet he was revered as a heroic figure, not only among the citizens, but all throughout the realms of Gravenstone. Where there was a threat to its people, Viktor Crowley was there. And though his egotism had rendered him vain at times, there was no doubt that the man had honor and stood for justice above all else.

  “The witch will come with us,” Viktor said, sliding his sword back into place. “She will be held on trial before the king’s court.” He gazed back at Baryn Lawe before finishing his verdict, “…the proper way.”

  The crowd began to disperse. The young witch was relieved from the tightness of the noose and was lifted onto the saddle of Sir Jossiah Biggs’s horse.

  Viktor Crowley leapt back onto his white stallion and began to ride away, leading the soldiers to the king’s palace, leaving the people behind to whisper and gossip about what they’d just witnessed. John Huxley couldn’t keep his eyes off Viktor; to him, that was the man he wanted to someday become.

  “That man is a legend,” the boy spoke again.

  “That he is,” John said with a smile of wonder.

  “Why do you suppose they call him the Golden Eagle?”

  “Well… Not many have witnessed it,” John said. “But those that did say that many winters ago, a dragon from the great plains of Belmoor made its way to Merrymont once while the king was there on duty. Viktor was a mere inexperienced soldier at the time. The dragon was destroying everything around him, including the Lord’s castle. There was very little hope the city would stand, and therefore the guards were transporting our king away when the dragon caught sight of them. Viktor was almost 20 meters high above the western tower when he saw the beast below…”

  “Did he shoot at it?” the boy asked.

  “There was no time to shoot at it… He jumped from the tower with his sword unsheathed. At that height, no man could have survived that jump… But Viktor Crowley did… He soared through the air and landed right on the dragon’s head. The blade pierced through its skull, killing it instantly.”