by Jason Jones
“The Caberran Prince as well, then that must be…”
“King Richmond?” One of the guards whispered and began to take a knee. Realizing he was the only one, he quickly stood back en guard.
“My loyal guards, it is me, your---“ Richmond started to bow in his drunken state.
“Richmond is dead, we all were on duty for his funeral. This is an imposter.” Another spoke up.
“I thought the body was stolen, how was it at the funeral?”
“True there, but they said these men are the ones who stole it, killed the priests too. Send for a captain, now!”
“I would not do that if I were you. Everyone just stay calm now, I can explain everything.” Sebastian looked to the men, some of which he had seen before, but he did not remember any names.
“These men are enemies of the crown, of King Phillip. They killed the king, but who is…?”
“I said go fetch a captain, private, that means now! These are wanted men.” The sergeant demanded.
“If you take one step from here, you will leave us with little choice but to kill each and every one of you. If you value your lives, ignore that order private, Sir Sebastian is---” Balric had him stopped, eye to eye, then the sergeant yelled over him and took a step closer with his blade.
“Silence! By order of King Phillip of Harlaheim, you four men are under arrest! Lay down your blades and no harm will come to you.” The twelve men drew closer.
“Such promises sergeant, but I feel we are obliged to decline.” Lord Rodgeigo bowed slightly, smiling from his handsome mustache and trimmed thin beard, then resumed his stance.
“Take them!”
Just as the guards took their first steps in, Balric dashed ahead, chopped his saber across two blades, and drove his shortblade into the sergeant’s chest. He quickstepped back, deflecting rapier slashes as he went, and then crossblocked and lunge meant for his neck.
Rodreigo spun his shoulders into a twirling dance, his dagger leading with parries as his shamshir crosscut the lunging points of the guards. Steel rang on steel as he weaved, then he stopped. Both his edges cut low then high, and the shamshir sliced two men down in a silver flash.
A guard screamed as the point of Sebastian’s rapier claimed his life through the heart. Another dropped from a slash through the thigh, yet two points came right for the former knight of Harlaheim. One he ducked, only receiving a nicked earlobe. The second drove deep into his shoulder and hit bone.
“Richmond, go!” Sebastian yelled as he parried and ducked more blades.
Balric sidestepped and slashed his sword across a guard’s neck, ran toward the wall, and kicked off of it. As he turned in midair, he dove both his blades past the collarbones of his two remaining opponents. He rolled across the alleyway, grabbing a rapier from a fallen soldier, and was up on his feet in the blink of an eye. The rapier flung from his hand, a brutal overhand throw, and went end over end until it landed into the private that had decided to run for a captain. Balric stepped over to his weapons, drew them from the dying men, and watched the young guard fall to his knees with the rapier clean through him.
The feinting of a dagger and then the dancing slashes from the shamshir were dizzying to watch. Two rapiers seemed to only think of attack before being parried and riposted. Both guards backed up three steps, feinted long swings, then lunged point first at Rodreigo. As their rapiers reached where he should have been, the one on the right felt the sting of steel under his ribs and through his mail shirt. His cohort turned and swung high, his blade met the curved dagger, and then the air rushed out his lungs as the curved sword ran him all the way through. Rodreigo went back en guard.
Sir Sebastian kept his back to the wall, his parries were slow, and he was losing blood. The guard with the thigh cut had gotten up, and the two others had him pressed hard just deflecting mortal stikes. He feinted to back up more, then quick cut twice, gashing the neck of one guard and disarming the other. A lunge from between them, from the injured man, landed in Sebastian’s stomach and nicked the wall behind him. He dropped to a knee, yet drove his point into his wounded adversary, up through the throat. The guard that was disarmed grabbed a rapier from the street, raised it back, and plunged it down at the helpless Sebastian Caunrenier.
Clang!
Swish!
“Aaarrhhh…”
Thump, thump
Sebastian, bleeding from his abdomen, ear, and shoulder, looked up to the guard that should have been his end. He watched a golden rapier, in a perfect parry, stop the blade he was incapable of blocking himself. He saw it riposte with a horizontal slash that started high, then went low last second, and cut clean across the neck of the guard. The exact cut he would have used, perfectly timed. The man fell to his knees, then his body fell across Sebastian, draining blood all over his armor and legs. Sebastian looked up and saw Richmond guarding over him, holding his golden rapier with a white knuckle grip, trembling as he watched the blood drip from the edge. Sebastian smiled, and fell to his side on the cobblestone.
“My king…”
He saw Balric over him, then Rodreigo as well, they were talking to him. He did not hear a word, just smiled as they stuffed torn clothing on his wounds. He saw serious looks on all three faces above him. He saw Richmond tearing his velvet clothing and trying to help. Sebastian could not feel his legs, nor his arms, and Harlaheim had grown very cold all of the sudden. As they carried him, his head fell back limp, but he saw the bodies in the alleyway.
They had won, three on twelve and the victory made his smile so wide it should have hurt. But all went dark, there were stairs now behind him, they had made it inside the hidden sanctuary. Now he was on a table of wood, and everyone was moving fast around him.
Torchlight now, but very dim it was, and still the men did not smile as he did. Something was not right and Sebastian spoke.
“Why…such troubled faces…after a noble…victory for our…king?” Sebastian forced himself partway up with his elbows, then he saw.
The table in this dingy warehouse was covered in dark blood, his blood, all over his waist and legs. He fell back on the wooden table, Rodreigo and Balric working hard at trying something to stop the bloodflow, but he could not hear it. He saw Richmond’s head lay down on his chest, yet he could not move to embrace his king.
“Alden be… praised… you.. are safe. I go… to meet… God now, your… majesty, …Balric, protect him. By… your… leave…sire… Long…live…the…”
His eyes remained open, brown orbs staring at the ceiling while His once king remained holding him. His mouth was open as if he had more words, yet no sound nor air came forth. Balric stopped working on his injuries after another minute, Rodreigo as well. Both men took a knee, bowed their heads, and made the symbol of the feathered cross upon their chests.
Richmond the Second would not move, and remained with Sir Sebastian Caunrenier, his tears falling onto his most loyal knight, loyal long after any loyalty would have been expected, until his end.
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“Well met, Larens of Guidance, I assume you know me from my visits here?” Kalzarius bowed as best he could, his age allowed half bows to anyone. “Now, what sort of name is Larens? Kivanite?”
“Western Armondi, yet my father came from Kivanis, yes. Perceptive and wise, as your reputation commands.” Larens smiled as he spoke.
“And the of Guidance part, hmmm?”
“Now there, my old sage and professor, I cannot help you. Secrets and vows and the sort, you will have to divine that on your own.”
“Oh I likely could. You know I am the master of the tower, named for myself, and you know that name?” Kalzarius rose his bearded chin to the smiling challenge of this man half his age.
“I do, you are the great mage of Harlaheim, Kalzarius himself. Ansharr speaks highly of you, and often. It is good you visit her.”
Larens helped the white and gray robed man on his left arm, while Kalzarius used his staff with
his right. Birds flew past them from overhead in their southern migration. It was warm by the pool at the top of Soujan Mountain, and the breezes at this height were more than pleasant. Larens smiled, admiring the old mage for such travels in his late years.
“I wish your place had less protections against the arcane though, then I could transport myself all the way up you see.” He smiled back, just as much from reaching the entrance to Ansharr’s cavern as to the mysterious man with bright eyes and a neverending care on his face.
“I wish it had more, truth be told on the matter.”
“Be that as it may, just make sure you and yours have someone down there to help old men like me up.” The old master of the arcane chuckled.
“How is it I get so lucky every time I teleport here, to have one of your secretive order passing by?”
“It is not luck, great Kalzarius, we sense you coming. My blade told me this time, perhaps a moment before I sensed you myself.” Larens corrected as his hand caressed the longblade at his side. The topaz stone set in a dragons claw sparkled from the pommel.
“Is that so? Hmmm, takes me all of less than half a minute to get from the top of my tower to below your little lake, via arcane powers mind you. How could you get there so fast from inside the mountain?”
“Ansharr, the great dragon of Soujan Mountain, told us once that you have many secrets.” Larens smiled, touching his blade, Guidance, as if it had spoken to him and he was politely letting it know not to interrupt.
“She did? Well I do, I suppose I do, yes.”
Larens placed his hand on the shoulder of old Kalzarius. “As do we, my friend.”
“Ha, well put Larens, well put indeed. May I?” He gestured to the mouth of the cave with his hand.
“You are awlays welcome, your spirit holds a kindness to it that makes me smile for no other reason than being near you. Besides, a close friend of Ansharr would never be given less than our protection and hospitality. But, she is weary now Kalzarius, so do not expect long conversation.” Larens bowed to the old visiting legend of magick from Harlaheim.
“Why is she so---“
“Come in, my young friend. Let us talk of me where I can see you at least.” Ansharr’s warm but deep voice, befitting a wyrm of her age and size, resonated throughout the cavern and its perfectly crafted entrance. The glow of red and orange flames, both real and arcane, still shone out despite the sun high overhead.
“Two thousand apologies, dear Ansharr.” The old man walked in, upright and proud, his long gray speckled beard and whisps of hair flowed then stopped as he rounded the corner.
“Ahhh, awe inspiring as always, your cavern and treasures are…”
Kalzarius stopped his flattery, his enormous friend was chained at each hind leg, each forearm, and around the neck. The iron links glowed with a golden arcane radiance and were fastened into the walls of her chamber, then she raised her neck as high as she could and smiled down to him. He froze, at first in shock, then anger, and then he felt his left eye tear a bit.
“It is at my request, remember? Do not look at me that way, it is why I asked for your help on the matter.”
Ansharr lowered her head, nudged her nose toward Kalzarius, and finally received a patting hand on her scales. Her red eyes with silver flecks and streams were taller than the old mage by three feet, her claws as long as two of him, yet her gentle nature was evident beyond her red and black scales and intimidating span.
“I know, I just assumed this was precautionary, was all. It is serious then, it is true?”
“My mother calls, calls to her children and all of her blood. She is ancient, vengeful, and in great pain. I hear her every waking moment, it is hard to resist.” Ansharr let her head and neck rest on the dark stone, flames reflecting in her eyes from the chamber in the mountaintop.
“You cannot simply refuse, she is that powerful?” Kalzarius reached in his robes and produced a scroll of green leaf parchment with a golden band of vines holding it rolled shut.
“She is, she is one of the five remaining of her age, the oldest of our kind. It is part of our heritage, a draconic issue, yet should I go to her…I may be at her command. And that, I cannot do.”
“Perhaps you could assist her, talk with her, something of---“
“No. Kalzarius, have you ever seen a litter of kittens born?” Ansharr interrupted.
“Why, yes, when I was young I suppose. Why?”
“In that litter, some looked as the father, some the mother, and some mixed, correct?”
“Yes, and then there was always one that was different, that went on his own and…” Kalzarius smiled as he thought of kittens, then looked to the massive dragon before him in awe.
“Exactly. I know not of my father, surely he is gone for I feel him not. My mother, is of the northern blood, vengeful and full of hate. And so it is with her children, all but me. I have the conscience, the emotions, and love for things that few of my remaining kind have. Surely, as my father was of western heritage, my spirit and odd coloration come from him. I believe, that odd cat or runt of the litter as you would call it, is what would best describe me and my children far to the west of here.”
“So you hide, resist the calling, and keep here to protect …whoever it is you protect down there. Your mother…” Kalzarius prodded.
“Rynnth, her name is Rynnth. The dragon of Willborne she was for thousands of years, long ago. She desired worship, and sacrifice for her children and their children as well. I had thought her dead for the last millennium, until just a few moons past or more. I felt her awaken, felt her anger, and now she is returning from the west in great need of her offspring. I know the calling, I know she would have me burn cities and kill and feast. That is why I sent you to Gualidura.” Ansharr was drifting, her eyes focusing on nothing, her words slowing as if something were drawing them away.
“I believe that my time with Queen Ganidaea Chaldre was invaluable to us both, and to our friends that seek the lost cities to the west.” Kalzarius raised his voice, without yelling, but to get her attention back.
“Yes, you saw them then?”
“I did indeed, through her pools and mists. I say, the interwoven threads of her powers with the fey, the arcane, and her savage worship to the Goddess are remarkable. She had visitors that asked many questions of me, some I could answer, some I could not.” The old wizard flicked his fingers and brought a sparkling rocking chair into existence, and then sat with a smile.
“And who were these visitors?” Ansharr focused, the questions were helping keep her mind off the distant sounds of her mother.
“Samiya and Lael T’Sarrin, the younger sisters of Shinayne T’Sarrin. They were searching for answers about someone named Lavress, a hunter and the beloved of our highborn friend. Supposedly, Shinayne left her homeland to find him, and now her family is involved in the search as they have not returned in many years. Caliun Tilaniun, the younger brother of this Lavress, is the emissary between Gualidura and Kilikala. It was a very interesting meeting.” He rocked back and forth, keeping her attentions on him and the motion.
“I was aware of her search for her lover, she nearly left her friends to begin that journey once more. That was until the relics of old Kakisteele came into common knowledge. Now, they all have passed beyond my vision, far into the Misathi.” Ansharr recalled the promises upon her mountain.
“Mine as well, I could not find them at all. Yet, Queen Ganidaea could see them, we all could, for she has a gift. Where exactly they were in that vision in her pools, none of us knew. But, they are alive, somewhere cloaked in storms and darkness. I have sent message across Shanador, to Master Lassado of Eisel Ine, he will inform all the kings of Shanador of their need for safe passage.” Kalzarius nodded to Larens as he passed into the far back stone stairwell that his order or brotherhood went in and out of quietly, and often.
“So you told them then, of what you knew of the scroll of Annar and all that happened that brought them to you and I?” Ansharr lo
oked to the scroll from the wood elven queen, in the hands of Kalzarius, the enchanted ring upon it, and then closed her eyes as the pain of her mother entered her mind once more.
“I did, you know I am not one for deceptions or anything less than the truth.”
Ansharr raised the scales over her left eye and looked at Kalzarius conspicuously. “Ahh…hmmmm.”
“Well, all Harlaheim politics aside then. You know I have little choice in the rulers that lay siege to me and corrupt that kingdom, and I only do what is necessary for the betterment of the people.” He tapped his staff to the stone in a bit of defensive retort.
“And our agreement then, our trade for the assistance of the Gualiduran Queen? How will that old chest of bloodstained relics appear, in such truth, to those that rule Harlaheim?” Ansharr grinned.
“Ahhh…your pokes deflect harmlessly from my honor, great dragon. I have three different men that would see Harlaheim restored above the corruption, all they need is a little guidance, something common to believe in.”
“And the fourth? You told me that the former king lives. Did he not lay siege to you, wish you gone and banished?” She grinned even wider now.
“He did. Following the kings before him, and to no avail in turn, like all the rest. Richmond the Second, what I do with him beyond hiding him under my tower, I know not. Perhaps he will have to answer that query himself, in time.”
“So, the chests for the ring. I agree, of course. Just be careful, young friend, I feel your involvement is deepening in the goings on of a kingdom that loves you not.” She rested back down, nodded toward a set of glowing keys in her organized treasures, and then closed her eyes.
“Someday, hopefully before my end, Harlaheim will realize I am but a permanent fixture there. My tower is as Castle L’Herrim, the Library Fastine, and just as important.” He stood and hovered over to the large darkwood chests cornered in gold, picked up the keys glowing upon one, and waved his hand. The chests rose from the uncountable piles of coins, jewels, paintings, and treasures beyond three kingdoms combined.
