Of Bones and Blood
An original work of fiction by Alek Wise. Any characters resembling real people in this work are pure coincidence, as are any events or situations relating to real life. Please feel free to comment (constructive, positive comments only please. Negative comments will be disregarded) at your leisure by emailing me directly at alekwise84 (at) gmail (dot) com. Enjoy!
Chapter Four Brandyshire and Whatever End
Lanse had been sleeping soundly on the down bed for hours. Adoran did not have to probe his mind to know that Lanse had found a tiny bit of sanctuary in the living hell they had traveled through. Since their arrival in Brandyshire they had enjoyed warm baths, trays of fruit, and refuge in the quiet rooms of a commoner's inn.
Adoran had found some rest, but curious thoughts and senseless theories kept him from succumbing to deep sleep. He resigned himself to suffering consciousness. He watched the young Lord as he slept. Lanse lay clothed in a fresh, albeit hand-me-down, set of clothing and hugged a pillow as one might a lover while he slept.
It was a refreshing and welcome sight to see the young Lord at peace at last. He was clearly new to the dangers of the world beyond the steep walls of Southland. The great fortress was lost to a chilling winter and sharp winds could be felt as far north as the grasslands. While the two had left the snow and ice behind them, a chill and dryness in the air still tickled Adoran's face when he ventured outside.
"It is nice," Adoran thought, "to be free of the cold at last--of the deep snows and raging winds."
Inns among the Great Kingdom would not allow mounts, especially stalkers, to be brought into the bedchambers. Commoners spotting twin sabers unattended in the stables would take the sight as one of natures random acts of violence--beasts searching for food among civilized settlements. More harm than good would come from affording the twins a warm, dry place to sleep. While they sympathized with Adoran's fears, abandoning them left him feeling as shameful this night as it always had.
Adoran quietly left the bedchamber and proceeded down the narrow steps of the inn. He hoped Lanse would sleep deeply in his absence. Passing the innkeeper and several local townsmen who had gathered to celebrate the end of yet another long day, Adoran made his way from the inn to the adjoining stables. He paused to bask in the freshness of the evening air and found himself smiling as he glanced to the stars. They had left the storm clouds of the south behind them when they neared Brandyshire and their absence revealed a familiar, glimmering sky whose luster was veiled only by the last rays of a drowning sun.
Adoran had not ventured far from the inn before Ashera revealed herself from the shadows and crept into step beside him. The few townsfolk that still roamed the streets gasped in shock at the sight of the beast but did not openly convey their thoughts to Adoran. The southern peoples were far less accustomed to seeing the Gael N'Aem, especially those whose traveling companions were large, exotic, man-eating cats. Adoran suspected they would likely have been alarmed even if Ashera were not present.
"How is he?" Ashera asked after establishing a link with Adoran, who drew his attention from a mother who urgently ushered a youngster farther and farther down the cobblestone street. Still, the boy's neck remained craned and his eyes fixed upon Adoran.
"The young Lord is well; resting comfortably as we speak."
Adoran then looked down at Ashera. Her blue eyes sparkled in the starlight and her silky white fur tussled gently in the warm breeze. She looked less anxious than she had in recent days. She was gorgeous.
"You've bathed," Adoran commented. "You truly are a beautiful creature, Ashera."
"Do not change the subject, man-friend." She was blunt, as always. "There are fissure wolves traipsing about the kingdom, and we must know what else the lad has seen. These matters involve all manner of life."
"Of course. You are right," Adoran admitted after a moment. He stared into Ashera's eyes and channeled with focus. "I suspect there are more fowl things than fissure wolves in the coming darkness."
Ashera's tail twitched. She led Adoran out of the street and into a nearby breezeway, where she sat before him. She blinked slowly, deliberately, and reformed her connection.
"Why destroy an entire city?"
"Do not mistake, Ashera, the city stands. It is the people of Southland they wanted to destroy, not the walls of the city."
"Then why leave one behind? One of so many? Surely they know he lives. They do not forget, these wolves. They are similar to your hounds. Once a scent is crossed, their relentless nature drives them to whatever end. It is their deadliest trait."
"Whatever the reason, we must deliver him to the Council of Eight. These are riddles for old men." Adoran put a hand on the silky velvet that lay between Ashera's ears. "We will leave at first light. The sooner we reach the City of Smiles, the sooner we may find the answers to these mysteries."
"Let us hope Brandyshire will provide safety and conceal us this night," Ashera said.
"Yes," Adoran said, his thoughts shifting as quickly as his eyes.
"What else?" Ashera pried.
"There is a fog," Adoran managed, "in the lad's mind. A shroud that hides a part of his mind even from himself." He looked to Ashera. She stared back intently. "I have never before seen anything like it."
"What will you do?" Ashera asked.
"I will do nothing,"Adoran said as he let his concerns subside only slightly. "And you and your brother should take great care in the meantime. Do not stray far from Brandyshire, but you must not wander the streets either. If the townsfolk discover your presence..."
"We are never far away, Adoran."
"You must not been seen without me, Ashera," he said flatly.
"Fear not, man-friend," Ashera told him confidently. "Also, thank you." Adoran regarded her with a curious look. "You, too, look in better sorts this evening."
Adoran watched as Ashera turned and disappeared into the growing shadows as swiftly as she had presented herself only minutes earlier. He felt their link fade and then he turned to tend other errands.
...
The fading light of the sun was dampened further by the towering peaks of the Arishvale Mountains. The peoples of Mystvale had gathered in the court square during late evening at the request of Lord Talis Tholwilde, who sat idly upon a seat high above the square. He looked amid the crowd, amid the young and old who'd gathered before him to witness yet another trial and judgment. The spectators waited in nervous anticipation.
The Lord's black locks dangled in a tangled fashion and tickled the silver armor that adorned his shoulders. The metal upon his breast shimmered as though it had been feverishly polished with Sh'Vak silk. His white robes, elegantly tailored and flawlessly cleaned, flowed down the length of his commanding form and graced the wood beneath his feet.
Silence fell upon the timid crowd when the first of them spotted a man, the accused, being escorted by each arm to a large platform centered beneath Lord Tholwilde's perch. He wore only a gray vending sack over his head. The man, obviously weak and deprived of proper nutrition, struggled to keep the pace of his escorts. A chopping block adorned one end of the platform, and a noose hung limply from a tier at the opposite end. Two men stood atop the makeshift stage, both clad in black. One bore a large ax while the other stood calmly with his hands clasped in a relaxed position behind his back.
Moments later the crowd saw the accused man's malnourished figure poised atop the platform with his back to Lord Tholwilde.
"You are accused of stealing from visiting merchants, commoner," the man with clasped hands said in a loud tenor.
"Remove his hood so that he may look upon the faces of his peers--of his family," Lord Tholwilde instructed as he stood.
The man with the ax walked over to the criminal. He untied and lifted the gray vendor sack from his head. The man let his head hang--his hair falling messily over his face. He could not have lived more than twenty years.
"Do you deny this?" Tholwilde then asked of him. Trembling and shivering from the cool evening air, the man merely shook his head.
"My family was starving, my Lord," he managed. "I meant only to provide for them."
Lord Tholwilde stepped forward and laid his hands upon the balcony railing. "And how shall you provide for them from the nether?"
The man lifted his head and gazed into the crowd. He searched for his family and appeared thankful when he failed to find them.
"Get on with it," Tholwilde barked.
The scene unfolded as flawless as a rehearsed stage play. The man with clasped hands escorted the accused to the oversized chopping block, where he was forced to his knees. The blood stained wood felt unusually warm against the skin of his neck.
As was custom, criminals convicted of lesser heinous crimes were permitted to kneel in a prayer position where their faces were directed toward the ground. Those criminals found guilty of more viscous acts were forced to recline against the block with their heads resting most uncomfortably atop its rigid surface--the fall of the executioners ax being the last sight they beheld before their heads toppled from their bodies.
The townsfolk watched in horror. The young man began to sob as he rested upon the block, and his silent pleas were felt by many in the square. Men hugged their wives and shielded the eyes of their children as the executioner raised his ax to loom high above the boy's head. Its sharpened edge gleamed as brightly as the new moon.
The swift, powerful fall of the ax climaxed with a deceivingly hollow thud as it pierced bone and block. The man's head tumbled from his body and toppled down a long, wooden slide which led from the court square to the nearby Naga River. It splashed into the crystal waters and was washed away by a gentle current. Streaks of crimson poisoned the waters near the banks.
The man's body had fallen limply beside the block at the executioner's feet. Blood dripped from the block, the ax, and the corners of the platform. The man with clasped hands turned to his Lord, likely to keep the contents of his stomach from vaulting upward.
"Let the death of this man serve as a reminder to the people of Mystvale," Tholwilde bellowed to the silent people below. His voice echoed from the balcony and bounced off the cold, stone walls that surrounded the square."We are a better people and petty crime will not be tolerated. Live honest and live well."
The townspeople began to clear the square even before Tholwilde had finished his speech. The executioner and his companion stepped down from the platform as a team of servants climbed atop. They carried buckets of soapy water and brushes made of coarse horse hair. They heard the cracking of bones and a muted thud as the body of the dead man was pushed from the platform to the solid ground below.
"Such barbaric punishment, brother."
Talis Tholwilde turned to see his brother, Brand, standing silently in the inner chamber from which the balcony protruded.
"Brand!" Talis sprinted to his younger brother and embraced him fiercely. "It has been too long."
"So it has," Brand said with a smile as he pulled away to look into Talis' eyes. "Was it really necessary?"
"The trade roads of the south have frozen over," Talis explained with wild eyes. "Merchants hear tales of dark things from the great fissure. Their tales spread like wildfire through the town. The people grow panicked and more hungry by the day, and thieves seem to be the only ones prospering from these trying times."
"The man you had beheaded did not appear so prosperous," Brand said flatly. Talis smiled at his brothers assertiveness and walked past him into the small court chamber.
"If we allow thievery, if we disregard it, our people will surely devolve and madness, not fear, will direct the actions of the townsfolk." Brand said nothing. He took a seat at a narrow table and Talis sat opposite him.
"What news from the Council of Eight, brother?" Talis said as he bit sharply into ripe apple and leaned in eagerly on his forearms.
"A rider was dispatched from the Temple of the Sun to assess the situation in Southland," Brand tapped his fingers absently upon the table top. "So far, there has been no word from him. Roan Vyce has dispatched more riders to ascertain the fate of the first. They will reach the southern jungles in less than a week.
"Lady Ridgewater is reluctant to travel. Her people fear the rumors that are spreading across the kingdom and, as always, Terrek Gok is licking the wounds of his bruised ego in the warm beds of the brothels."
"Do you believe Vyce will truly uncover the mysteries shrouding Southland?" Talis asked and then took another bite of his apple.
"I sincerely hope so, brother. Vyce is nothing if not determined. It is quite uncommon for a Gael N'Aem to break all communication with his order. The council is on edge and it seems as though more disturbing news arrives daily."
"It is as I said earlier, little brother. These are trying times."
The last rays of sunlight set the distant mountains ablaze. It was quite a sight to behold through the open balcony doors, and quite an unusual accompaniment to the grotesque carnage plaguing the square below. Brand stood from his seat and stretched on his toes.
"The night is calling, Talis. I will see you again in the morning." Brand turned on his heel and made for the comfort of his bed chamber.
"Sleep well, little brother."
Talis took a final bite from the apple before launching the core through the balcony doors and into the square below.
...
The large, oak doors of the Brandyshire court swung open but not without heavy resistance from their aged, corroded hinges. Adoran was presented to Lord Plaseharold by a young, studdering cleric lad.
"Ah, Adoran!" Adoran noticed the pungent smell of alcohol lingering in the large room. Plaseharold had been sitting in one of many wooden seats occupying a large, court table. He now stood, staggering however, to greet Adoran face-to-face.
"Greetings," Adoran said in a sincere tone.
A wide smile pointed to the young Lord's ears which burned furiously, a clear sign of his mild intoxication and a compliment to the nest of wild, black curls atop his pale figure.
"I see the wine still flows freely in Brandyshire," Adoran continued.
"A shipment of casks arrived just yesterday from the Barren Isles. Amazing, really, how those islanders manage to cultivate vineyards in their coarse sands," Plaseharold said as he regarded a goblet and the beverage it contained with admiration.
"Quite," Adoran agreed as he waved a dismissing hand to an approaching servant who carried a silver ewer filled with the potent liquid.
"Tell me," Plaseharold began, "how many nights will you grace us with your presence, and what news from the Temple?"
"We arrived only this afternoon, my Lord, and will be setting out for the City of Smiles at dawn." Adoran then paused for a moment as he collected his thoughts. "And news from the Temple comes rarely these days, I'm afraid. Such is the reason I stand before you this fine evening."
"Oh?" Plaseharold appeared genuinely interested. His eyes swam with anticipation.
"I am in need of a dove. I must send a message to the Council of Eight," Adoran confessed.
"I was unaware the Gael N'Aem embraced such lowly practices," Plaseharold said with an unexpected touch of sarcasm.
Adoran smiled and took a seat at the table. Plaseharold peered into Adoran's eyes and stepped closer.
"I must be blunt, Adoran," Plaseharold began lowly, the tinge of alcohol punctuating his every word. "Rumors spread quickly, my friend. I've heard many things these recent weeks--dark things."
"Of what do you speak?" Adoran inquired as Plaseharold leaned in even closer.
"I hear the great wolves roam my boarders, cloaked in shadow and mystery. I hear the Ivory Seat has fallen and yet I also hear the noble Lord Denetress has rallied a dark army within his walls at Southland. I hear the snowstorms of the south will spread like a plague upon this kingdom."
Plaseharold adjusted his posture and then raised his goblet to consumed the last of the wine in one obnoxious gulp. He snapped his fingers and the empty goblet was filled once again by a servant. Adoran waited for the servant to leave before he responded.
"There is no army rallied to any cause by any of the Denetrss line," Adoran assured him. "This much I guarantee you."
"I also hear the Gael N'Aem toy with ancient magics--magics responsible for the breaking of the old world and the fall of the old Gods." Plaseharold took a seat opposite Adoran and set his goblet tenderly upon the marbled surface of the wood.
Shock and a sudden state of defense grew quickly within Adoran. His back straightened and he leaned in toward the table to rest his forearms.
"Ancient magics?" Adoran questioned with a furrowed brow. "I have not been out of touch so long. I would know. Roan would know. The temple would never--"
"Do not be so defensive, Adoran," Plaseharold assured before taking another gulp from his goblet. "Rumors are merely rumors and this court is not so naive."
Adoran felt a easiness settle within him, but his senses remained impeccably tuned to the conversation nonetheless.
"I am relieved that you do not trust these things you hear of us," Adoran admitted. "We are not so foolish as to toy with the Dead Arts."
"No," Plaseharold said. "No, I suspected as much. Still, it is disturbing to ponder. Your presence here no doubt confirms the fate of Southland." Plaseharold paused for a moment and began to slosh the wine his goblet absently. "Tell me what you have seen, Adoran. Tell me of Southland."
Adoran swallowed and cleared his throat. He took a moment to collect his thoughts and then began speaking cautiously.
"I'm afraid the city has fallen, my Lord. The people of Southland have vanished as silently as wisps. All that remain are frozen halls, a dying jungle, and Lanse Denetress." Adoran waited patiently for a response.
"It is true, then." Plaseharold set his goblet aside. "The city is dead, save one. How did he survive?" he asked as he turned his gaze fully toward Adoran.
"I do not know," Adoran responded simply. "I found him wandering the streets. He was hungry, frightened, and ultimately alone." Plaseharold laced his fingers together and learned forward. He wore the expression of a man who longed to speak but had seemingly lost his words.
"My Lord," Adoran began gravely, "there is an emptiness in Southland unlike any I've ever known. The wolves made off with every living creature within those walls."
"Save one," Plaseharold repeated softly.
"Yes," Adoran agreed. "Save one."
Plaseharold stood from his seat and approached Adoran, who in turn stood to greet him.
"You shall have that dove," he said to Adoran as he clasped his shoulder tenderly. "And anything else that will prove useful."
"The dove and shelter this night," Adoran responded. "That is all I ask."
Plaseharold nodded and turned on his heel. He yelled for the court guards and two came running into the chamber.
"See that our guest is escorted to the tower--he requires a dove."
"Yes, my Lord," the two responded succinctly.
"I hope, my good friend," Plaseharold began as he turned to face Adoran once again, "that the next time we meet it shall be under fairer circumstances."
"Indeed, and thank you." Adoran offered a smile and clapped Plaseharold on the shoulder before turning to exit the chamber.
Plaseharold grabbed the goblet from the table but stopped himself from further indulging in its contents. He placed it on the marbled table once again and turned to watch Adoran step trough the doors of his court. He called for additional guards after a moment of thought.
"Double the guard," he instructed once they had arrived to tend his needs. "Post scouts in the towers and archers on the walls."
His servants looked to him in astonishment. Their faces communicated that he had no doubt alarmed them.
"Fear not," he consoled. "These are merely precautions."
"At once," they announced before leaving to see to their duties.
After sending a detailed message to the Council, Adoran started for the inn. He suspected Lanse had woken since his departure and while he was sure the young Lord could fend for himself during a short absence, he dared not temp the fates.
Still, he took an unusual route to the inn. He circled the town square, and wound his way through the alleyways of Brandyshire. The fog he encountered in Lanse's mind still perplexed him. It could be harmless, of course, but the chances of it being insignificant seemed low at best considering the unnatural events that occurred at Southland. As innocent as it first seemed, he wondered what it concealed within Lanse. Old memories? A hidden talent? Perhaps a hidden desire?
Having wandered the streets of Brandyshire long enough, Adoran turned a corner and took a more direct road to the inn. His return prompted immediate interrogation from Lanse.
"Where did you go?"
Adoran detected a tinge of panic in his voice, but Lanse's face was cleverly equipped to conceal it with a plain stare.
"I sought an audience with Lord Plaseharold."
Adoran sighed in relief as he sat heavily on the end of the bed, and again when his aching feet were finally free of the tight, leather shackles that had confined them for so long.
"You seem tense, Lanse," he continued. The young Lord suddenly seemed taken aback. "What is it?" Adoran asked.
"That's my first name," Lanse explained. "You haven't called my first name until this night."
"Let us assume I have reached the end of my tether with formalities on this day," Adoran said as he shed his violet robes to reveal his impeccably tailored cloth armor of gold and ivory color.
"Besides," he added, "...you did not truly expect me to call you 'my Lord Denetress' or 'my young Lord' for eternity, did you?" Adoran smiled a tired smile as fatigue beset his features.
"Truly? I suppose not," Lanse conceded. "At any rate, it seems I will never rightfully hold that title."
Adoran studied his face for a long moment, and Lanse sighed and sat on the opposite side of the bed with his back to Adoran.
"Why Southland? We were peaceful. We kept to our own and posed a threat to no one."
"Of that there is no doubt," Adoran consoled. "The Fates play dangerous games with their pawns. At times we do not understand their reasoning, but we must trust that the events at Southland were a singular sacrifice in their strategy--we must trust that we know our place in the ocean of time.
"This tragedy," Adoran continued, "presents the kingdom with a unique advantage if Darklings are wandering in the south. Your city is lost and your people were taken, but you remain. You and I can warn the Council and cauterize this wound before it begins to fester." Adoran looked behind him to find a motionless Lanse. He had not moved since he sat down moments ago.
"I sent word to the Council via feather only a short while ago. With luck the dove will be received." Adoran turned to recline on the bed. "Rest easy, Lanse. Tomorrow we ride for the City of Smiles to address to the council directly."
Adoran surrendered to the softness of the feather mattress and inviting pillow once again, and Lanse was content to recline on the same bed mere inches from him. Lanse's decision to lie next to Adoran seemed puzzling for a moment, but Adoran suspected that he, too, might seek comfort near another if their roles were reversed. The thought lingered for a moment, but only a moment.
Adoran seemed more content to rest after he had completed his tasks. His mind began to replay the song he had heard in Lanse's dream over and over again--that gorgeous melody that soared unnaturally high, the voice that dove effortlessly to the warmer waters of a darker tenor before bounding broadly upward once again. It was an unnaturally effortless sound and Adoran wished now that he knew the words to the song and its origin. Moments later, he was fast asleep.
It seemed to Adoran that he had been unconscious no longer than a single moment before the enraged cries of his distraught companion jerked him from his tranquil state to a maddening reality.
"We must leave!" Lanse cried. "They've come!"
Adoran bounded from the comfort of his bed. His head was swimming and his vision still blurry with the haze of deep sleep. His eyes and nostrils burned, not due to light or fatigue, but rather the pungent stench of smoke that coiled into the bedchamber. Townspeople fled to the streets, or so their screams seemed to indicate, and Adoran noticed that the inn was not the only burning building in Brandyshire. Neighboring businesses and homes were succumbing to the spreading fires. Adoran heard the commanding voice of a guard somewhere near the inn barking orders to his subordinates.
"Bar the gates! Archers make ready!"
The whistle of arrows and the dry thuds of snapping bowstrings echoed through the cries of the townspeople below.
"The wolves," Lanse began in a muted tone. "It must be the wolves."
The door of their bedchamber rattled on his hinges. Quietly at first, then violently.
"Fates," Lanse said with a visible tremble in a low, nearly inaudible tone.
Suddenly the door shattered into several large chunks of wood and thousands of needle-like splinters. The unexpected force of the impact sent Lanse and Adoran both to the floor. They shielded their faces with their arms as countless splinters rained down upon them like a cruel, deadly rain. Fires from the streets and neighboring buildings lit the bedchamber in a dismal crimson.
Adoran moved slowly to tend to Lanse but instead came face-to-face with a beast masked by the swirling smoke and violet flames which shone through the windows. Eyes that glowed a deep, vile green and rotten teeth that glimmered in the flinching light decorated a terrible, misshapen head. Its ears pinned themselves back when it thrust itself into a standing position as though it were a mountain bear. Joints cracked and bones gnashed.
Adoran stood slowly to shield his defenseless companion. He held his ground despite the foul order and the fear that sprinted up and down his spine. Once fully erect, the fissure wolf stood several hands taller than Adoran. Its mangy fur, black as night, fell in clumps to the ground to reveal gray, sickly skin. Slowly, the beast walked upright in Adoran's direction. Lanse watched in horror from the floor as the beast raised an arm slowly to display its dull, mangled claws before throwing all its weight into a single, deadly blow.
Adoran reacted imprudently, thinking only of defending against the beast before him. He brought both hands forward with impressive speed and slammed his palms together with all the force he could muster. His eyes flashed with a bright light and in one eloquently timed moment he unleashed a torrent of unchanneled energy as raw the flames of the sun. It scorched the beast and sent every nerve in Adoran's face ablaze with torment. Lanse released a cry that made Adoran wish he had pursued another cast--any other cast.
The force of his unfocused release sent the two sprawling apart in a chaotic backlash. The wolf was thrown through the chamber door and Adoran was sent hurling into the opposite wall. The windows of the bedchamber shattered, sending a shower of glass into the street below. The contents of the room were left singed and in utter disarray.
Lanse had buried his head in his arms to escape the pain. The intensity and sheer heat of Adoran's energy had scorched Lanse's clothing. Adoran's cloth armor and robes remained untouched by the turbulent forces and heat, though Adoran himself still lay semi-conscious on the floor.
Lanse crawled to Adoran to bring his only hope of survival back to the grim reality that now consumed them. He heard shrieking from the hall and knew the beast was on the move again.
"You must stand!" he said in a broken voice. Adoran remained nearly motionless before him.
"My friends--" Adoran managed so softly that Lanse barely caught his words.
The beast, now completely hairless and charred to the bone in several places, limped back into the bedchamber in its canine position. One of its ears had been burnt flush with its cranium and its tail, now broken and crimped, appeared unnaturally feline-like in its naked state. Despite the evil that lurked before him Lanse attempted to drag Adoran to a distant corner.
The wolf closed the distance at a painfully steady pace, and then hovered over the two young men with ferocity and blood lust in its eyes. It snarled in torment and hate, and unhinged its jaws to reveal deadly intent.
Lanse caught a streak of white from the corner of his eye mere moments before the wolf decided to strike. Misha darted from the door of the chamber to the corner where the wolf lingered. With one impressive leap, Misha wrapped his legs around the wolf's torso and both crashed through the wall of the inn before plummeting to the streets below.
Screams followed as terrified townspeople fled the scene and one of the city guards began yelling hoarsely for reinforcements. The two beasts sprung to their feet and clashed wildly below the inn. Warning cries from Misha bellowed through the city and were answered only by the tainted howl of the dark wolf, whose temperament appeared only further agitated by Misha's presence.
Moments later, Lanse spotted a second streak of white dash from the door of the chamber and through the massive hole in the wall. Ashera bounded gracefully into the streets and Lanse heard the terrible cries of the wolf as the twins tore it limb from limb. The howling, pining, and desperation of the dying beast invaded his ears and raised every hair on his body.
Lanse's mind began to flood with memories of that dismal night in Southland. He remembered the desperation in the cries of the citizens, in the cries of his family. It was the same desperation he now heard from the people of Brandyshire. He remembered the darkness and cold, the jeweled dagger in his tightened grip, and the certainty of knowing he would never see his kin again.
A flood of tears and fear-wrought tremors overtook him. Lanse wished for clarity of mind and also for bravery, but he was granted only terrible reminders of his reality. Still, he held fast to Adoran who now lay unconscious in his arms. He hoped only that the twins, whose own battle had now become lost amid the sounds of crackling fire and broken cries, would return to them soon.
...
"We have received word from Brandyshire," Chief Counselor Archlald Magebane announced to his seven companions as he stood before the council table, his white beard trembled as it always did when he delivered such grim news. "It appears that our suspicions of Darklings roaming freely in the south have been confirmed." He tossed a thin sliver of parchment onto the long, wooden table before him.
"Southland is lost."
His last statement lingered in the air. Terrek Gok leaned forward and retrieved the parchment to verify the news with his own eyes. He read carefully, then posited, "Who is this 'Adoran'?"
"Let me see that at once," Counselor Vyce demanded. He was surprised at himself and also that Gok appeared to tolerate his tone. Vyce read the words carefully and then appeared to read them again.
"Roan?" Counselor Jin interrupted him. "What does it read?"
"Southland has fallen prey to dark forces," Vyce began gravely. "Speculation suggests the Wolves have escaped the mountain prison. Accompanying me northward is Lanse Denetress--the last of the Denetress line. 09.37.021 -Adoran of the Gael N'Aem."
Wilamm Scuto sat dumbfounded and wore a look of disbelief. The Council waited several moments for him to speak, but he sat motionless instead.
"My friend," Magebane began, "...I am terribly sorry." Scuto did not respond. He simply lowered his head for a moment and then stood and walked to a nearby window where he gazed onto the bustling city below. The counselors watched him go, and no one attempted to reprimand him for leaving the council table during a discussion. Even Terrek Gok seemed at a loss for words.
Several moments passed before anyone dared break the silence.
"This parchment, of noble hand and noble feather aside, requires immediate verification," Counselor Ridgewater offered. "In the meantime we should consider mounting effective defenses."
Sha nodded. "If Southland is lost, we must recall all those sent to offer aide as well," she stated flatly.
"Agreed," said Counselor Theres.
The Chief Counselor cleared his throat to speak once again. "I will send an emissary to the King," he began. "All aide will be recalled post haste. Scouts will be deployed to watch over the borderlands that separate us from our southern neighbors. Counselor Tholwilde of Mystvale must also be appraised of the situation--his absence is most inopportune." He then turned to address Vyce directly.
"Your riders must be deterred at once, Lord Vyce," the Chief Counselor ordered. "They must not continue into the jungles. Your order must see them directed to the Arishvale Mountains, where they will journey to the stone prison. There they will uncover the truth of these matters."
"At once," Roan quickly agreed.
"That is a terrible idea," Gok added equally as quick. The look of shock on the Chief Counselor's face was paralleled only by his sudden fury. Gok raised his voice to cut off the older man before he had the chance to speak again.
"Assuming we are not being led astray," he began. "Assuming Southland has fallen and the beasts have escaped the mountain prison," he pointed at Roan Vyce harshly to prove a point, "a handful of his kind are no match for the darkness they will likely encounter."
Vyce set his jaw. 'His kind.' He replayed the words with boiling anger. Despite his avid hate for the man, he held his tongue firmly where it lay. Though, he shared a glance with Sha Jin and discovered he was not the only one to take offense at Gok's brash comment.
"I see no other choice," the Chief Counselor spat, "unless you would like to accompany their party. You will be sorely missed, Terrek."
Gok hissed beneath his breath.
"The Gael N'Aem are an impressive people, Lord Gok," Robb Theres began calmly. His dislike for Gok's words shone plainly upon dark, full figure. "You would be wise to not question the power the Temple wields. It would do you well to treat their representative with respect and honor, young though he may be." Gok starred at Theres with intensity.
"Before these fires are quelled," Theres continued, "you may require his help to save your kind."
Gok did not respond. His eyes revealed that he actually considered the notion as he reclined in his chair.
The intensity in the atmosphere had built to such dramatic heights since their meeting began that every counselor found themselves wrapped in a cloak of anxiety. The longer the conversation continued, the more tightly the cloak constricted them. There was talk of war, of victory and defeat, of defensive maneuvers and tactics of preparation--and Wilamm Scuto had resigned himself to a distant corner of the room which provided an impressive view of the City of Smiles. There he stayed, silent and motionless for the remainder of the council meeting.
Despite it all, Roan Vyce gazed at the parchment that now sat in a crumpled ball before him. He pondered past events, and the events of a possible future as well. His thoughts soon began to drift to Adoran and the companion who rode with him. There was much to discuss. With luck Adoran would soon reach the City of Smiles.
The note, despite its grim telling of the fall of Southland, brought Vyce some comfort on this day of days. Adoran was alive.