Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  Viktor had nearly lost his balance. He straightened himself once again and looked back into the fiery eyes of his king, who stood a mere foot from his face. As he wiped his chin he realized his lower lip had busted open, traces of red beginning to dribble, and his greasy hair had been brushed over his face. But he kept his gaze fixed and his stance firm.

  “Explain yourself,” the king said bitterly. “Now.”

  Sir Viktor cleared his throat. “The attack was unprecedented, sire…”

  “There were dozens of you, Crowley…”

  “I’m afraid there were more of them, sire… We don’t know how they got in. But there were men blocking nearly every path. We did our best to draw them out, but…”

  The king’s eyes spoke of more than just disgrace. There was a shimmer that wasn’t there before.

  I trusted you, they said. I trusted you with her life.

  “What he says is true, your majesty,” Jossiah Biggs added. “I was there when th-”

  “Shut your damn mouth, Jossiah,” the king interrupted, his eyes still fixed on his right hand knight.

  The silence lingered a bit longer.

  Sir Viktor’s eyes would lower and rise repeatedly, like a scared child being lectured by his father. Only it was a lifelong friend he was facing, and somehow Viktor found it to feel worse.

  “Your majesty,” Sir Hugo Symmond broke the silence. “If Sir Viktor says they were outnumbered, I trust the royal guard did everything in their power t-”

  “Fuck my royal guard!!” the king shouted with a sharp brusqueness in his voice, breaking his stare with his right hand knight and turning back towards everyone else in the room. “Seems I’m in dire need of a new royal guard if they can’t be trusted with the safety of their future queen!”

  “Your majesty,” Lady Brunylda spoke. “While Sir Viktor should be certainly held accountable, I believe we should focus on th-”

  “You will speak when spoken to, Lady Clark,” the king shouted, shifting his attention back towards Viktor. “You! Where have they taken my daughter?!”

  “I-I’m afraid I…”

  “Quit stammering, you old fool, and answer me! Where have they taken her?!”

  “I’m not sure, sire. She was led to safety and we thought sh-”

  “You thought?!” the king interrupted. “To hells with your fucking thoughts! I need answers! Why can’t anyone in this room tell me where these bastards came from or where they’ve taken Magdalena?!”

  “They held no crest, your majesty,” Sir Viktor spoke again. “A great part of them were members of a guild of mercenaries known as the Rogue Brotherhood. They operate within the Woodlands, but it seems they were open to foreign contracts as well.”

  The rage in the eyes of King Rowan suddenly turned into horror. “The Brotherhood…?” he asked.

  The long silence that followed seemed to sting by the second.

  A knot grew in the king’s throat; the king hadn’t felt a knot so painful since he heard word that his third wife died during labor. But even then, the king had had a shred of hope. He was given a daughter, a piece of his queen. And with the child he’d found the will to continue.

  “Is she…” King Rowan struggled to speak. “Is my daughter dead…?”

  Viktor had no answer for his king. He simply stood there with an uncertain frown as he observed his king’s eyes grow diluted and weak. The only sound in the room came from the crackling in the fireplace. King Rowan, the most powerful man in Vallenghard, found himself defenseless; his forces weakened and his only kin taken. He sighed, and his silence spoke of despair and hopelessness. His hands tightened into fists and his face began to redden. Though the man was heavy and of middle age, he had the strength and energy of a lion and would often fight alongside his men in combat. Suffice it to say, had the table at the center of the room not been as grand, the king would have torn it to shred with his bare hands.

  “Sire… I’m truly… truly sorry,” Sir Viktor said as he stepped forward. “I… I’ve failed you… And I don’t deserv-”

  “Leave…” the king said abruptly.

  Sir Viktor’s discomfort was insufferable. He knew there was nothing left to say, for any words would only anger his king further. “Yes, sire,” were the only words he could muster, before heading for the door.

  “The both of you…”

  Both Viktor and Jossiah glanced back at King Rowan.

  “Leave my palace…” the man said. “Now.”

  The two knights looked at one another briefly and turned back to their king.

  “Sire?” Viktor asked, perplexed and thrown aback.

  The king took another step towards them, the fury vivid in his glare.

  “My daughter may be dead because of you,” he said. “You haven’t just failed me… You have failed your kingdom. And you don’t deserve to wear that crest… Now the both of you… Remove your armor, return your weapons, and get out of my palace…”

  Sir Viktor felt a pressure building up in his chest. There was pain in his eyes; so agonizing he could hardly ignore it. “Sire, I can assure you I-”

  Suddenly and without hesitation, King Rowan unsheathed his sword and swung it over his head. He plunged the sharp edge onto the headrest of his own chair and it sunk about three inches deep into the oak. He looked at the Golden Eagle, breathing heavily with rage.

  “Listen here, Viktor Crowley,” he said. “If you were any other man, that sword would be on your neck at this very moment. The only reason why it isn’t is because of what you did for me… A life for a life… Consider our debt settled… Now do as you were ordered and get the fuck out of my sight…”

  And with that, the golden knight’s legacy was shattered, his reputation diminishing before him. There was nothing he could have said that would have changed his king’s mind. Viktor Crowley left the assembly room, his friend Jossiah Biggs following behind him.

  Two men. Not knights, nor even soldiers.

  Only two men inside a royal palace they would never set foot in again.

  * * *

  John hardly felt the sting of the needle by the time the handmaiden was stitching the last wound on his arm. As reckless as the lad was, he had grown used to bruises and cuts over the years. And it certainly helped that girl had a gentle hand. The stitches were carefully and skillfully sewn, so much so that the young farmer couldn’t help but remark upon her skill.

  “My sincere thanks,” he said to her. “Was your mum or dad a healer?”

  Brie, the princess’s handmaiden, couldn’t resist the cackle under her breath.

  “Never knew my dad,” she said. “And my mum was a seamstress.”

  “Oh… She must’ve been a very good one, then.”

  They sat in a room that was unlike the rest of the elegant palace. There was no paint on the walls, only bare brick, and there were wooden rectangular tables all around. John felt more at ease there than he did in the palace courtyard. Yet something about having his wounds tended to in the same place where the servants ate supper made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Where did you learn to fight?” Brie asked curiously.

  “Mister Abner Beckwit of Elbon,” John replied, biting his lip and grunting as Brie sunk the needle into a part of his forearm that was still sensitive. “He, um… He actually used to be in the king’s royal guard, Mister Beckwit… ‘Til the day his parents died from the Plague and he had to choose between selling his family’s farmland or tending to it.”

  “A noble act, I’d say.”

  “Yes, well… Why anyone would prefer to wield a pickaxe over a sword baffles me.”

  “Is there something wrong with not wanting to wield a sword?” Brie asked, causing John to stammer suddenly.

  “N-No, I… I only meant… It doesn’t get much better for us farmfolk, is all,” he said. “Many can only dream of having what it takes to be in the royal guard. He was lucky. Anyhow, I’m sure the scarred muscles in his leg might have had something to do with his decision.”
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br />   “How was he wounded?”

  “Don’t know. He never would tell us that particular story. But don’t let the old man’s limp fool you. He’s as quick with a sword as he is with an insult. All in good form, of course.”

  Brie chuckled, cutting the remaining string at the edge of John’s wound. But her smile did not last very long. Her lips curled back down faster than John could examine the damage on his arm.

  “Is it true, what they say…?” asked the handmaiden. “Has Princess Magdalena really been taken?”

  John had nearly forgotten about it all. The exhaustion was keeping him from focusing on more than one thing at a time. His frown returned, and with it the dread of having failed not only Sir Viktor Crowley but, in a sense, the entire kingdom. The handmaiden waited patiently for an answer, but she knew what that answer would be based on the farmer’s expression alone.

  At that moment, there was a pulsating echo heard throughout the corridor just outside the kitchens. A door had been swung open in the distance and the voices of two men, one seemingly angrier than the other, were approaching. At first, the voices were muffled. Slowly, however, John’s ear began to pick up traces of a frenzied discussion.

  “What a fucking disaster… The nerve of the man,” the first man spoke.

  “Simmer down, old friend.”

  “I’ve got three words to say to you. King Rowan’s Curse. Same deed, just two decades late.”

  “I said hold your damn tongue!”

  Brie set aside the sewing kit. Her hands were moist from the blood on John’s wounds, and so she wiped them on her already tainted dress. “My apologies, I’ll shut this,” she said as she headed for the door.

  “Wait,” John stopped her, his head in a tilt and his attentive ear held out.

  At the end of the corridor, the two men walked briskly along the servants’ quarters.

  Viktor Crowley had removed most of his armor but the steel plates on his boots remained, having had them made especially for him by a Val Havyn blacksmith whom Viktor could only remember as bearing the family name Rexx. The man wore a brown shirt that was wrinkled and stained with sweat and traces of dry blood that wasn’t his. He looked less regal this way, like a well-built peasant.

  Jossiah Biggs, on the other hand, still wore his armor entirely, just the way it had been left after fighting off the invaders, as if the denial of his expulsion was keeping him from removing it. Both of them still carried their swords, however, for once a soldier was knighted their weapons were commissioned and gifted to them, and they would become almost a part of them.

  “How can you ask me to do such a thing after what just happened?!” Jossiah spoke heatedly and unreservedly. “Come to your senses, Viktor, this isn’t just an outburst. This is real!”

  “I am perfectly aware of our circumstances, old friend,” Viktor said, coming to a halt and facing his once second-in-command. “And believe me, I’ve lost just as much as you have today. But there are eyes and ears behind every one of these walls!”

  “Ahh, let them hear it!”

  “Now is not the time to act rash, Jossiah. Now is the time to pull ourselves together and figure a way out of this.”

  “There is no this, Viktor. What part of that do you not understand?!”

  There was a soft thump as a nearby door tapped against the brick wall.

  The two men turned towards it suddenly, both gripping their swords as was usual of them for the first two or three hours after a battle. A wounded young man stood at the doorframe of the servants’ dining room, his blue eyes glistening under the lantern above his head.

  “The farmer…” Viktor said, the incredulity vivid in his eyes.

  For a moment, John thought the man would attack him, blaming him for the capture of the princess. Instead, Viktor’s gaze was one of surprise and perhaps even a hint of deference towards the young farmer’s endurance.

  Viktor turned back to face Jossiah. “You didn’t tell me he lived…”

  There was a sudden spark radiating from Viktor’s eyes, as it would often happen whenever he was blessed with an idea.

  * * *

  “I’m not hungry,” Margot protested.

  “I don’t care. Eat your stew,” Robyn responded, silently admitting to herself that she had indeed performed poorly; the stew was thick and somewhat overcooked, but she had certainly done worse before.

  “I hate stew,” Margot said, throwing her wooden spoon on the table.

  Her brother Melvyn ate without objection, more out of loyalty to his older sister than out of hunger. “I don’t mind it.”

  “I do,” his sister stuck out her tongue.

  “Remember what mum said. You mustn’t be ungrateful,” Robyn lectured her. “Somewhere out there, there’s a poor bastard locked in a cell that would give anything to have that bowl of stew.”

  “This stew? Then he truly is a poor bastard,” Margot said.

  Robyn threw her own wooden spoon at her sister, who just managed to duck before it struck her. Melvyn giggled. But the commotion did not last long, as a heavy knock on the cottage door silenced the three of them.

  Robyn leapt to her feet first.

  The twins hid behind their older sister, as she approached the door.

  “Is it mum?” Melvyn whispered. And Margot hushed him with a pinch in the arm.

  “Shut up, both of you,” Robyn hissed at them.

  The moon had risen, bringing with it the chilly winds of the late evening. The only warmth and light was coming from the fireplace and a few lit candles around the cottage. Visitors were not so rare in the evenings, but after the news of the attack on the royal palace Robyn hesitated to turn the doorknob.

  She came back to her senses when a familiar voice called out for her.

  “Robyn? Are you there?” it said.

  And immediately the girl closed her eyes and sighed with relief. When she opened the door, there was a loud shriek and a black shadow flew into the room, startling them all. Robyn’s yelped loudly, and then the twins giggled and mocked her.

  “Damn it,” Robyn straightened herself. “I hate that crow.”

  Mister Beckwit walked inside the cottage and closed the door behind him as Robyn took his coat. “Ahh, don’t fret over old Nyx,” he said, as Melvyn pulled a wooden chair closer to him. “He means well.”

  “For others, perhaps. Doesn’t seem to like me very much,” Robyn mumbled.

  “And how do you know? Have you ever gotten a chance to know him?”

  “I think befriending someone old enough to be my grandfather is odd enough,” Robyn smiled. “I can only imagine what mother would say if I started talking to animals.”

  “Have you heard from John?” young Melvyn asked eagerly.

  “I heard Missus Aelyn say he killed a thief!” Margot said, sipping on the last of her stew with no objections, out of fear of seeming childish to their mentor.

  “He did no such thing,” Mister Beckwit answered honestly. “I’m sure our John is fine. All there is to do is pass the time until we hear word from him or your mother.”

  “But he did fight him, didn’t he?” Robyn asked.

  There was a pause, as Old Man Beckwit noticed the look of wonder and amazement in the girl’s eyes. At only 17 years of age, Robyn had a quality about her that spoke of greatness; she was a defiant soul, and more capable than anyone, including her own mother, would give her credit for. And she was fearlessly loyal, the kind of friend that would rather risk death before leaving you behind.

  “He fought Blackwood?” Robyn asked again, as if the old man had forgotten the question.

  Mister Beckwit couldn’t help but smile. “That is what they’re saying, yes…”

  “That’s bloody brilliant,” Robyn’s eyes seemed to glow from the enthusiasm.

  Margot and Melvyn moved closer to the fire, sitting merrily side by side, petting and feeding breadcrumbs to the one-eyed crow. In truth, Old Man Beckwit had heard word of the invasion in the palace, but he remained unsure if Jo
hn Huxley was alive or dead. Yet he could not find it in his heart to say a word about it to the children.

  “Look at ‘im,” Robyn said, glancing over at Nyx and the twins. “Stupid crow just hates my guts.”

  “Give him time,” Mister Beckwit chuckled. “He’s friendlier than you would think.”

  “That’s exactly what mum says about Robyn,” Margot said, to which her sister scowled.

  * * *

  A splash of pumpkin juice stained the wooden table in the servants’ quarters, as Viktor Crowley slammed the tankard down in anticipation. John Huxley sat eating a plate of leftover duck and steamed vegetables, slowly regaining his strength. He took the pumpkin juice and gulped it down as Viktor took a seat across from him.

  “Tell us everything you know, Huxley,” the golden knight said, leaning in with a tankard in his own hands, only this one smelled of something much stronger than pumpkin juice. “Every moment counts, every detail matters.”

  “What good will it do, Viktor?” Jossiah Biggs asked bitterly, sitting near the fire with his legs resting on a wooden stool. “The lad’s half-dead. He’s probably tired and delusional.”

  “You’ve been tired and delusional for nearly ten years, old dog,” Viktor replied mockingly, the ale beginning to show traces of the man behind the title. Jossiah didn’t take the comment lightheartedly but Viktor hardly took notice, focusing instead on John’s words as if his life depended on it.

  “I tried to fight them off,” John said. “But… there were so many of them.”

  “I’m sure there were, lad,” Viktor said. “Did you recognize any of their faces?”

  There was a crumb of marinated duck skin on John’s lips but he was far too distracted to notice, his eyes drifting away as he recalled every bit of the incident, now that he had the energy for it. The two men waited patiently, both of them eagerly looking to him for answers. And it was making John feel sicker by the second. “It all happened so fast,” he said. “But I do believe I saw…”

  “Yes?” Viktor leaned closer, his eyes narrowing.

  “Ser Harrok Mortymer,” John said. “The Butcher of Haelvaara.”