The village lay quiet, mute by the weight of tension covering the village like a dense, uncompromising fog. There had been rumors floating around which marked the quaint town suspect of theft and murder against the state, which constituted acts of treason and would certainly bring down the wrath of Westmarch. It was late in the afternoon of a rainy spring day, and the periodic rolls of thunder beckoned a storm later. The wet ground made this not a day for work nor play, serving to further amplify feelings of foreboding within the townsfolk. Without a task to occupy the mind, fear that such rumors held truth fermented in their minds. Even the children who knew naught of such political matters felt the ominous aura linger in the air. Meanwhile, a legion of armed soldiers were bound for that same quaint village, charged with "investigating" a rumor that had reached the capital. Whether there be evidence of such a crime or not to be found, it was sure that seven sheep disappeared from within a royal herd grazing in the proximity of the accused. Regardless the veracity that the animals were stolen by any number of residents from the village in question, King Leoric was out to make an example for any who would follow in their supposed footsteps. Although the very notion would never have struck the once kind-hearted king only months ago, the disappearance of Prince Albrecht perverted his judgement to such an extreme that burning a village over seven sheep was not only feasible, but was only moments away from becoming reality.
The sound of the warning bell echoed throughout the village, followed by the frantic chorus of commotion amongst the villagers. Some men ushered the women and children to the secret refuge beneath the largest barn's floor while others grabbed their pitchforks and took stalwart positions in the path of the quickly approaching soldiers. Most of the women and their children had been concealed away beneath the ground, but some felt it more secure to remain hidden in their small thatch-roofed houses, especially those with young children who might be prone to cry and compromise their safety. Lightning ripped across the heavens, as though painting the perfect theatrical backdrop, as the entourage of soldiers bearing the Westmarch crest on their armored torsos.
"Two weeks ago," the commander issued, "three men from this village stole from the King's Royal herd seven sheep and murdered their shepherd in cold blood."
He paused, perhaps awaiting a response. None came.
"In reprisal, we shall burn your village." Following his decree came the raise of his arm, commanding the soldiers to carry out his task.
Orange flame lit up the dark storm-cloud sky. The blood of the brave townsmen stained the soil red. Thick volumes of black smoke throttled the spirit of the village. A woman fled her thatch house, desperately imploring a torch-bearing soldier to show mercy to her and her baby inside. Before her words could escape from her lips, she lay slain on the ground, an arrow sticking from her back.
Another soldier watched as her murderer tossed the torch upon the roof and move on to the next, apparently phasing him none. A feeling of intense guilt flooded him as he watched people he knew to be innocent perish at the hands of his comrades. In an instant he felt so disgusted that his knees fell weak and he almost became sick to his stomach. An odd emotion swept over him, and as though he had no control over his actions, he rushed into the smoldering house, tracking the heard cry of an infant from within. He picked up the orphaned child and rescued him from the slaughter.
That child was Gates.
Day was bright, weather warm, sky blue. The smell of spring was fresh in the air, suspended in the humidity left behind by the rain a day prior. The sound of vernal birds echoed through the newly-leaved trees. Fresh green grass lined the road and grew in between the bits of gravel. Along that road traveled a knight and his young squire.
"Master, why must we go to Abernath?" The boy questioned, turning to look at his horse-backed mentor.
"Because the king so ordained it." He responded without breaking his gaze at the horizon.
"But Master Raymond, why..." the boy began, but was unable to finish before he was interrupted by an aggravated voice.
"Do not ask such questions if you ever wish to become a knight, boy. Have I taught you nothing? Part of knighthood is to obey absolute the word of his Majesty. To ask such questions presumes to insinuate that you were to know better, and to be wiser, than your King. Such insolence would not be tolerated from me, and it shan't be from you, either." Raymond explained, turning to look at his young page.
"I don't mean to offend you, or his Majesty, Master. It's not that I don't believe the King knows best, it's just.. his orders seem strange to me," persisted the boy.
"They seem strange to me as well, but orders they are. His Majesty only wishes to find his son, although if you ask anyone, Albrecht is long gone, and at times..." Raymond paused, thinking silently to himself, "...at times I think he's lost his mind as well."
"At times, Master?"
"Nothing, nothing. Soon we'll be entering deeper into the wood. Keep a steady eye; there have been recently reports of attacks against merchant caravans by creatures less human than our average brigand," Raymond warned, patting his sword reassuringly.
They continued their journey, the boy's eyes scanning the trees and road ahead perpetually, until fifteen minutes past he became bored, and distracted. He withdrew from a leather satchel at his side a heavy book almost too big for the boy to hold in his arms and leafed through it to the page he had previously left off. They were now enclosed on two sides by thick forest, and a cumbrous fog had settled between the trees. The gravel was sparser here, and the road's dirt was clearly damper here. In fact, there were even a few standing puddles swollen in the ruts of old-passing carts.
"Boy, did I not instruct you to pay attention to our surroundings, not that silly book?" Raymond turned, impatiently frustrated with his page's lack of attentiveness.
"I am watching, but reading too. Anyways, this book is not silly. Antares gave it to me. It's a magic book," the page responded brightfully, unaware of his master's lack of similar cheer.
"Magic? You're a knight's page, not a wizard's apprentice. And how can you be looking about with your nose stuck in a book?" Raymond took obvious offense to his page's interest in the arcane arts.
"I am, honest. See?" he looked briefly to the right and left sides of the road and in a flash had his eyes glued again to his tome. "Nothing's around. Sometimes I think you take things a little too-"
Again, the boy was cut off by a hand gesture of silence from his master.
"There's something... there." He said, pointing to his side opposite the boy.
"I don't see any-"
"Hush! There's something .. moving.." Raymond's experience showed itself in the furrowing of his brow. He spoke in barely audible tones, as if mumbling to himself.
"Master?" The boy's concern began to grow. He closed his book over his forearm, marking his page with his hand should his master's suspicion turn to nothing more than a paranoia episode.
Before either of them could draw another breath, leaping from the both sides came screaming beasts no bigger than a house cat. Like a storm they appeared from the trees, and with the force of thunder they struck, clinging to the flesh of Sir Raymond's horse and the leather of his armor with their razor claws. Before the boy could make out what was happening, he felt two burning sears of incredible pain in his leg and shoulder, simultaneously. Flaling his body by instinct, he turned to see two of these creatures expelled from his body, taking tears of his flesh with them. To him, they looked to be nothing more than balls of fur, scales, teeth, and claws, screaming their bloody cries of attack. He watched as his Master's horse reared up and writhed it's body in a similar manner as did the boy in attempt to remove the attackers from his side. A gurgled shout of desperation came from Raymond as he frantically reached for his sword.
"Run boy, run!"
Overcome with fear and too young to understand honor, the boy turned to run. He heard the crash and clang as Master Raymond hit the ground. He vaguely remembered hearing his master command him one last time, ushering him not to look back. As he began to flee the gory theater, he let his arms fly free, losing grip on his beloved magic book.
The book fell into a puddle below it amongst the chattering demons, pages soaked in ruddy mire.
The boy never looked back.
"Concentrate! You must concentrate, boy!" The old wizard uttered in foul temper, inspecting the bits of burning wax scattered on the table, pieces of an exploded candle, the result of a poorly executed spell. "At this rate you'll never learn magic!"
"I'm sorry, Antares. I just can't seem to get this right," the teenager sighed, resting his head on folded arms.
"Sorry, sorry, always sorry, but never willing to put in extra time against your studies. Bah, listen to me, extra time. You barely show up for your scheduled lessons. Why, thrice this week you were late or lost altogether. Spending time with that village wench, are you?" The old man hobbled around the table pointing fingers. If one could not tell from his wrinkled face and long white beard his age, the bend in his hunch-back would be enough to ascertain it. His dress and signature tall pointed hat were faded red and moth-bitten.
"Her name's Caitlyn, and she's not a wench, and no, it wasn't just her.." His lie clearly did not hold water with the wise old mage by the expression on his ancient face. "Okay, okay, so it was her. It's not like I missed anything, anyway. I'm terrible at magic, there's no changing that."
"Bah," the wizard muttered his signature saying in disgust, "you young apprentices are all alike! Always thinking they can learn in a few months, or never. I swear, sometimes you make me so mad, I .." He paused, relevated, and sighed. "'Tis youth, I suppose. Don't be frustrated, my boy. You were too old when you began the training to be at the level of other apprentices your age. Do not worry, you have a natural talent for sorcery. Aye, I always said you should have been trained, but that old buffoon Raymond insisted in teaching you silly swordplay."
"Don't talk about him that way!" The boy shouted. "My sword will save my life quicker than this!" He said, pointing to the waxy mess on the table before him.
"Hah. How little you understand of things. True, your sword is stronger than your magic, but is it stronger than mine? The Archimage's Fireball is more powerful than the world champion's blade." Antares explained calmly.
"Maybe, but I'll never be more than a court's jester, should I rely on my magic," the boy grumbled.
"Give it time, give it time! But I can see that you have no intention of devoting enough attention to be a true apprentice. An apprentice wishes to learn. You wish only to know enough to get by. If you think you're doing me a favor by receiving my instruction, you're not."
The boy sighed. "No, it's not that, it's .. it's just that I feel like I'm betraying Raymond's memory by studying magic. It was always his wish for me to become a knight."
"Ahh, 'tis understandable. Raymond raised you like a son, and he was a good man for it, but like any father, he would wish you follow your own path. If magic be that path, then follow it you should. I can sense that it's not, however, nor has it ever been." Antares sighed, and shrugged his shoulders as he admitted what he'd known even before he began to teach the boy.
"Right now I honestly don't know what I want. What I really want.. no, nevermind."
"Ahh," the old man chuckled, smile creasing his withered countenance, "Methinks 'tis that girl, hmm, what's her name, Caitlyn, yes."
"That's not what I was thinking.. what I was thinking was.. that what I really want is to find the commander.. the one who burnt my village."
"Never. Revenge should not cross your mind, boy. Like Raymond, he had his orders from the King. Vengeance will only lead to your own ruin."
"I know, I know. I've been told that hundreds of times, but I still... I don't know."
Before the wizard could impart any more of his wisdom on the lad, a girl's voice interrupted the awkward silence, calling the boy's name. Without needing to ask, the wizard nodded and the boy got up from the table, quickly grabbed his cloak and sword, and went to meet his friend.
Antares watched as the two walked off down the road.
It was months since Antares and Caitlyn, my only two friends in the world, had been killed by a band of brigands looting the village. I barely escaped with my life; I was hit with two arrows in my leg and side, wounds which were quickly infected in the unsanitary conditions where I was hiding, a forest glen near a small waterfall. It was quaint, even picturesque, I suppose, but I was too devastated and scared out of my mind to appreciate it. There I stayed for a month and a half, silently suffering my wounds, scrounging for food and pouring over the past in my head.
Before I go on, perhaps I should share with you a little of my past. I was orphaned as a boy, the result of King Leoric's madness. A legion of soldiers burnt my village to the ground, killing nearly everyone in it. My mother and father, and likely me, if one soldier hadn't rescued me. His name was Raymond, a Knight of Westmarch. I never quite could figure why he saved me from the carnage he himself had wrought, since he never appeared very pleased with me as his page. I was raised in much a military lifestyle, constantly accompanying my surrogate father on his journeys around the land. Consequently it was that which saved me after sustaining my recent wounds, as I was aware of what to do with myself and how to tend them, and how to eat. At any rate, Raymond was killed by a pack of demons in the Shadow Wood, a region of Westmarch known to harbor minions of evil. I was almost killed as well, but escaped before they got to me. About this my mind churned for days on end while in my forest seclusion, and I have come to conclude that there was nothing I could have done had I stayed, but still the pangs of guilt haunt me.
After I was orphaned a second time, a court wizard whom Raymond and I were well acquainted with took me in. His name was Antares, and if you could picture the most stubborn, feisty curmudgeon ever to grace the earth with his attitude, you'd conceive an accurate picture. He was very difficult to live with at times, but for the most part was kind. He was even gracious enough to learn me the ways of magic, or at least to try. I was never particularly good at it, which frustrated him. He was convinced I was the next Merlin of Camelot, filled to the brim with "natural talent for that sort of thing," but my heart was never really set on becoming a wizard. It interests me still, but I propose to leave sorcery to the sorcerers. I was more interested in girls, to be honest. One girl.
Her name was Caitlyn, the most beautiful, charming girl I've ever laid eyes upon. She wasn't like the other girls I knew. A poor peasant, yes, daughter of a serf, yes, but her optimism never faltered. Always happy, laughing, smiling, and it was contagious. I really liked being with her, a whole lot more than messing around with magic in a musty study room, at least. Her death devastated me, and to this day it tears my heart to think of it.
I shan't go into excessive detail about what went on that day, but I was not in time to save her from the brigands, and the only thing my valor earned me was two shafts. I fled like a coward, back to Antares, only to find his house ablaze. Scared out of my wits, I began to run into the woods, which is when I caught the arrows. Thankfully, the brigands didn't follow.
That brings us back to where I was, hiding in the forest like an outlaw, images of recent events burning in my skull like two fiery embers, mocking my very soul. I dare not think of what one might have thought of me should they have stumbled upon me in my semi-comatose mediating state. An asylum escapee, no doubt. It took me almost a whole month for my wounds to heal, which gave me quite a bit of time to think about things.
Finally bereft from my injuries, I set off for my destination. I had chosen to cross the mountains into Draconia, a sort of pilgrimage, if you will. I decided I needed to start over again, leave the past behind, and all those other clich�s. Of course I had heard of the Knights of Draconia, and the Druids, and the legends of the Dragons, but joining their ranks hadn't even crossed my mind. That changed, not too long after I arrived on Draconian soil.
I had spent the day before resting from my trip across the mountains. Although my wounds were for the most part healed, the flesh in my thigh had not yet recovered fully, and my muscles were weak and tender. By the time I had finished the long tread through the slopes, my leg was aching bitterly and I could hardly stand up straight. My muscles were still stiff and achy the next morning despite my extensive quietude the day before, but it was bearable. I resumed my travels, guided by a roughly drawn map I had acquired in Westmarch before leaving. My destination was Drak Llellwyn, a city I knew nothing about. It was situated near a lake, and I had grown accustomed to the sight of water, so it made sense. Although I could have cut my travel time by a few days by choosing Drak Tauros, I had heard that it was one of those military type cities, and hailing from Westmarch as I have, I was unsure of how I would be reacted to by the people there. So, Drak Llellwyn it was. A fine choice, as I would later find out.
I was nearing the border between my old home and my new one, my spiritual crossroad, when I spotted what appeared to be an abandoned camp. I could make out what looked like a few bodies, arrows sticking out of them like flags of victory. Although it appeared that whatever had happened here was at least a day old, I couldn't be certain. I casually lay my had to rest on my sheath and began to cautiously move to inspect. The camp site was around one hundred yards distant and a probably about ten down from my vantage on the hill. Suddenly, with my next step I felt something catch my leg. In a frenzy I drew my sword and looked around with severe unease, but upon inspection, what had caught my leg was nothing more than a ragged piece of leather. In fact, ragged leather rags were all over the area, may carried stains of blood. There was evidence of blood in the dirt all around, and it was clear a fight had taken place here. I couldn't be sure since my tracking skills were less than professional, but I noticed what looked to be hooves, leading along my course. Glancing to the sides of the small clearing I found myself in, my eyes were revealed a very grizzly scene, something I wasn't quite prepared for.
Laying bottom down in the dirt was the corpse of a plate-clad warrior, bloodied and swarming with flies. I was accustomed to the sight of death, as I had scene Raymond kill many, but what I saw next almost made me sick to my stomach. Juxtaposing the body, the slain warrior's helmeted head lay, vertebrae exposed, a brood of maggots squirming in his read throat. I was thankful that his helmet concealed his face, because I'm sure I would have lost it there and then. I began to think that maybe my trip wasn't such a hot idea.
It took a few minutes to regain my composure, and after the macabre sight of whatever carnage had been wrought wasn't so shocking anymore, the sun's glint on the warrior's blade caught my attention. I took a closer look, and it was truly a finely crafted weapon, much more worth than my mere short sword. My greed got the better of my gag reflex and I took the sword from the dead warrior. To be sincerely honest, it was more out of fear that this man's killer was still around than personal want. I knew how to handle a sword, but was no expert. I wasn't even confident I'd be able to wield this fine-looking bastard sword, but take it I did, sheathing it promptly.
From then on I was even more deliberate as I had been about keeping quiet. When I finally had the nerve to step boldly into the center of the camp, my earlier suspicions were confirmed: the area was totally abandoned. I counted numerous dead bodies, mostly by arrows of matching style, which shocked me. I couldn't imagine that just one man had been responsible for slaying an entire camp of armed soldiers. I salvaged a few gold pieces and some food supplies from the wrecked arena and without much more thought about it was on my way.
The rest of my trip was fairly easy going, thankfully. I found a road with sign telling me to follow its course to reach Drak Llellwyn, and fortunately for me, I had managed to wander around and miss Drak Tauros altogether. It was close to three days on foot, but what I saw when I arrived on the shores of the Lake of Visions blew me away.
Drak Llellwyn was like nothing I'd ever laid eyes upon before. I'd never been to a large city before, in fact, I'd never been to anything larger than a peasant farming village, so to me it seemed huge. From the moment I set foot on the cobble stone, I was in love with Drak Llellwyn. The people there were in a way different than I'd ever known them to be before, as if they were more alive, somehow. Whatever the rhyme or reason, they served to immediately lift my spirits, directing me to a comfortable traveler's inn where I could kick back and sleep in a comfortable bed for the first time in nearly two months. What surprised me was the furnishings of both the main room and my own private one. They appeared to be very expensive, yet rooms were very affordable. The walls were covered in tapestries, pictures, and ornamental torches. The floors were covered with fine far-eastern style carpets, the beds canopied and fit for nobles. I was almost intimidated by its luxury, and felt the need to consult the inn-keeper how he could have afforded such extravagance on such a small room fee.
"It wasn't always this cheap," he laughed. "Long ago this was a noble's inn, but to be honest with ye, most of these furnishings were purchased within the last five years, on your wee small room charge."
"How is that possible? Everything is so lovely. Is life really this cheap in Draconia?" I asked, two steps short of shocked.
"If you call fine art life, then yes, my boy. In Drak Llellwyn, at least. There are more than enough artists around, so competition keeps their fares low. 'Sides, most of the artesians here work more for the love of their art and their city than for fattening their purses," he informed, matter-of-factly.
"I see. Most interesting..." I was ready to disengage the chat and go back to my room, however, the innkeeper persisted.
"You see, this here is the art city. Fightin' types like you belong in Drak Tauros."
"What makes you think I'm a warrior, and not a poet?" I slyly asked.
"Poets tend not to carry swords with them, son."
Clearly defeated, I returned to my room with a book I had borrowed from a local library, although I couldn't concentrate when I tried to read it. I kept thinking about what the innkeeper had said to me, that I belong in Drak Tauros. I was offended that one who barely knew me could presume to tell me where I belonged. But in some way maybe he was right. I had always denied magic and pursued martial studies. I felt anything else would be a betrayal of my surrogate father's memory. I thought about who the Draconians were right against - the same brigand bands that had destroyed my life two months prior, and something inside me felt I should be helping in some way, whatever way I could. I had after all been raised with the presumption that one day I would become a Knight. I didn't quite think I'd fit their high standards, but I could become a soldier, at least. Or could I? I didn't know. I had been in Draconia only a few days, and I wasn't sure if I would be allowed to sign up, without proper citizenship papers, and all of that. I let the ideas swim in my head as I read a dog-eared copy of "The Chronicles of Draconia", recommended to newcomers like myself by the friendly librarian there.
Later that week, my novel read and tired of poking around in my room and around the inn, I decided to explore my new city. I knew I'd need to be out of the inn soon, since I certainly couldn't live there forever. I asked a few people around the block where a newcomer to the city should visit for a good time. Almost everyone I asked told me to visit the Museum of Art and History. After stopping several times to ask directions, I arrived at the beautiful building. It's tall marble pillars and distinctively Roman look gave me the impression of a very noble and educational place, for lack of a better word.
I was asked to check my weapon at the door, which I was a tad reluctant to do at first, but after observing the totally relaxed environment inside the great hall, my mind was set at ease. It was distinctively quiet, more so than even the library I had visited days before, no one speaking in tones above whispers. Near the entrance where I stood, I found myself before a Museum map. There were three main sections outlined in the colors red, purple, and blue, representing the three halls within. My aesthetic side got the better of me and my first choice was purple - the Hall of Images. It was clear the Museum was still in constructive phase, as there was much more space than there were exhibits to fill it. They were well spaced so the hall didn't look too barren, but it was still clear there would be more to come.
Browsing the works with the other visitors, I felt a little out of place. Most of the people here were clearly artisans of some sort, although I did notice several commoners like myself. In the center of the hall was a huge finely painted map of Draconia. I briefly compared it to my own rough sketched map and made a few corrections where necessary. I walked around the other side of the stone spire on which the map was hung and found another map, this one outlying the six provinces, called duchies, of the Empire. Lining the sides of this somewhat smaller map were six maps of the individual duchies. I briefly scanned them all, but when my eyes passed over the Lakelands, Drak Tauros caught my attention. My mind returned to my conversation with the innkeeper for a moment, but I quickly dismissed it. Pouring over a potential decision was not something I wanted to do; I was here to enjoy myself, and enjoy a bit of culture while I was at it.
On one wall there hung a banner which read, "Images of Imagination." Interesting use of words, I thought, and strolled over, careful not to make too much noise. There were four paintings hanging, with small captions. There were portraits of the High Priestess, a generic Barbarian of the North, and the Dragon Lord; also, a portrayal of the famous Battle of Dragonspire, of which I had heard bed-time stories from Antares during my youth. It was an interesting moment of deja vu seeing it in vivid color in the land where it happened.
On various picture stands scattered throughout the hall were portraits of various people. The first one I took a look at was titled, "Paladin of Virtue," which the caption told me was a symbolic image of the Paladins of Light, an ally organization of the Empire.
There were two portraits of members of the Forgotten Order, and one of an Archdruid of the same Paladins of Light, one Magus Quelan. I didn't know who any of these people were, but made sure to remember their names and their backgrounds, in case by some rare circumstance I would one day meet them.
In a row in one section of the hall were three portraits of Draconian Nobility. One was the Lady Velera, the Baroness of Drak Nineva in the Coastlands, one of a Druid and Baron of Tol Brandir, known as Blooded Wolf, and finally in there was a portrait of the Duke of the Lakelands, Midnight. Good to know one's new ruler, I suppose. Little did I know I would soon be face to face with him. The caption had stated that he in fact only begun his service as Duke a tad more than a week ago.
I had seen everything to see in the Hall of Images, so I made my way over to the Hall of Writings. In the very front of the Hall, most impossible to miss, hung a tapestry with the title, "The Emperor's Writ." It detailed all the rules of the Empire, none which I thought I might have a difficult time following. This hall had quite a bit more material in it than the Hall of Images, and I browsed as much of it I could before tiring my eyes and mind. Surprisingly, many of the works had been transcribed by the Duke himself from the Great Library of Soliath. I made one last stop to the Hall of Science, but was gladdened to see at present only one exhibit. It was fairly interesting, but it confused me a bit. I'm not exactly the science type, after all.
It was late when I returned to the Inn, and after a brief sup, I went to sleep, exhausted and fat-happy. I probably could have slept well into the next afternoon, if I weren't woken up by a bit of racket outside. The Inn I had chosen was proximal to the city's main southern gate, and from there seemed to be the cause of the racket. After a quick shave and a comb through my hair, I dressed and went out side to see what all the commotion was.
Gathering around a chain of horse-drawn carts were nearly fifty men and women, with a common bond - they all appeared to be the same artist-types I had seen all over the city. This was clearly a caravan, but heading where, I did not know. There were a few armored men wearing the seal of Draconia, presumably escorts. I made my way through the mass of people and asked a man a few years my senior where this caravan was headed.
"Drak Tauros, it is," he responded, needing to shout to be heard.
"Drak Tauros? I thought that was a fighting man's town," I shouted back.
"It is. Duke Midnight's got some plans, though. He hired these artists for something down south."
In a flash of spontaneity, I asked him if I could join the caravan.
"You'll have to talk to the caravan master. He's the big one, over there," he told me, pointing.
It took me close to five minutes to weed through the crowd. The caravan master was shouting in his booming voice, issuing orders right and left. I was afraid to confront him, but my desire to travel to Drak Tauros overcame my qualms.
"Excuse me, sir. Would it be acceptable for me to join the caravan? I want to go to Drak Tauros."
"What?" He turned and shouted at me, appearing slightly angry. I repeated myself.
"Is that a sword you have there, boy?" he was pointing to the weapon I'd lifted off that dead warrior a week and a half ago. I was frankly getting a little tired of being called boy, too.
"Yes, sir."
"If you want to go to Drak Tauros, you'll serve as an escort." That was blatant enough.
"Fine with me," I responded, happy to be given the chance at all.
"Then go over there with the others!" He pointed to a congregation of armored men, including the one I had talked to before, standing some fifty yards from me. It took me nearly ten minutes to get through the crowd. I felt a little out of place, but soon was sharing banter with the other men.
So there I was, my first duty of service, unofficially, anyway. I was travelling back towards Westmarch by way of the same road I had traveled a few days ago. The trip took longer than it had me alone, but we got there in good time. Along the way I had conversed with several writers and poets, who were kind enough to share with me a bit about their arts. I decided that one day I'd have to give it a shot.
When we arrived, the writers, and poets, and artists were all quickly ushered off to what I found out later would be their project, a "Grand Arena" of sorts. I and the other escorts were given board in the Barracks until we would return to Drak Llellwyn, although I had no idea at that point if I had any intentions at all of returning in the near future.
The funny part is that I was immediately assumed to be Draconian military personnel. A Knight, no, but I was addressed as "Soldier" by more than one man, mostly higher-ranking officials barking orders. It was then I realized I had no idea what I meant to accomplish while here, in Drak Tauros. I knew I wanted revenge against the Brigands, but how was I to volunteer? I decided to give it some thought, but I had a hard time doing so in the noisy dormitory, so I took a walk around the barracks. There were small paintings of lesser quality than what I had seen in the Hall of Images decorating the walls, mostly portraits of military people whose names I was wholly unfamiliar with. There were also a few animal heads and less-than-animal heads, presumably of demonic nature, with plaques crediting their slayers beneath them. The barracks had a wholesome, rustic smell, a combination of tobacco, warming fires, and stale brew.
I wasn't paying attention to anything in particular, but as I passed one room and glanced in, I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, busy writing something at a desk facing away from me, was the very same Duke Midnight I had seen on canvas at the Museum. Of course, I couldn't be a hundred percent sure it was truly him, but all evidence I had seen supported it. I saw the sword, bow, and cloak at the end of his bed, all reminiscent of the portrait.
I stood there for nearly a minute, wondering. I felt that perhaps I should speak to him, voice my wishes to fight against the Brigands, or something, but I couldn't will up the nerve. He was, after all, a noble. I felt that perhaps it would be out of place for a lowly civilian to bother him. I knew nothing about him yet, and couldn't know how he might react, so I kept walking. Besides, I had my doubts to his identity in the first place. What would a Duke be doing in military barracks? Or in Drak Tauros? What I had learned in the Museum indicated Drak Llellwyn as the capital city of the Lakelands, which is traditionally where the Duke resides. All these considerations were made and I decided it would be best to wait and find out a little more before confronting him. As it would turn out, the opportunity would be forced upon me the very next morning.
I had an unrestfull sleep, since I was unaccustomed to sharing a room with so many other people. One man was snoring so loudly it made it near impossible to get much rest. I had awoken at least an hour before sunrise, and I was brutally frustrated with my insomnia, so I decided to take a walk. I threw on a cloak and headed outside. The air was cool, the night calm, moon full. I walked around the barracks and made my way toward the "Grand Arena." It wasn't looking like much at present, but the tools to improve it were scattered upon the ground. As I walked, I looked up and watched the stars. Seeing the same ones I had grown up gazing at in Westmarch made me start to think about my past again, something I had been trying to avoid since I arrived. I made a few circles about the lands around the barracks before I decided I'd better return. The sun was close to half an hour from rising by now, and I don't think prowling around the grounds before first light would leave a good impression on anyone who found me.
My inhibitions were very well fed, because as I turned the corner to the front of the dormitory building, I caught the image of someone who had just come out, apparently. I kicked a rock with my next step, causing the dark figure to call out.
"Who's there?"
"Uh, no one, I'm .. I was just taking a walk, and.." I responded, caught red-handed. I feared the worst.
"I didn't ask what you were up to, although rest assured that would have been my next question. Identify yourself."
"My name is Jonduras Gates, I was an escort for the caravan of artisans." I'm sure I sounded ridiculous. My heart was pounding. The last thing I wanted was to leave a bad first impression on someone.
"A soldier, then?"
"No, sir. I'm just a citizen, well, I'm not even that.. I'm from Westmarch, I just came to Drak Llellwyn a few days ago, and now I'm here."
"Do you have intentions of staying here, in Draconia?" He took a few steps forward, but I was still unable to make out his appearance.
"Yes, well, I'm not sure, anywhere but Westmarch. It's a long story, see, and.."
The man began to walk towards me, letting his bow at ease, no longer about to fire a shaft into my chest, and when he was close enough to identify, I was stunned. It was clearly the man from the portrait in the Hall of Images. It was Duke Midnight!
"Then a citizen, you are." He put his hand on my shoulder as he spoke.
"Duke Midnight, your grace, I, umm.." I didn't know what to say. I hadn't exactly planned on introducing myself like this.
"Spare the formalities. You'd better head inside, it's rather cold this morning."
"Might I ask where you are headed, your Lordship?" How rude I was! Asking a Duke where he was headed?
"The Borderlands have been lawless long enough. Besides, there's something I'm looking for. I'm not quite sure.. what exactly it is, but it's out there." He pointed south, to Westmarch territory.
"Fighting brigands, Lord?" I was anxious to fight them myself, and equally anxious to make a good impression on my very own Duke.
"Aye, if there be brigands to fight."
"May I, well, I mean, would it be alright if I.." I was stuttering. I knew this request was outrageous, but I finally got it out at his silent urging. "May I accompany you, Lord? I wish to fight those bandits, as well."
"We may find more than just brigands, out there. Likely to be demons, too. It won't be easy. Are you sure you want to put yourself at risk?" I was relieved and encouraged by his response. I was expecting something a little different, to say the least.
"I'm ready, and willing, sir."
"May I ask why? Personal matters, no doubt, by the sound of your voice."
"You're perceptive as you are wise, my lord. You are right, but it's a long story."
"I'll have time to hear it then, although not right now. If you're coming with me, then please get your equipment together hastily. I want to leave before anyone misses me."
"Aye, my lord. I shall be quick."
With that, I rushed back to the dorm, although careful not to wake any of the others. I grabbed my military issue studded leather armor and cloak, and of course my sword. I was back with Midnight in less than three minutes.
"That was fast," he noted.
"Thank you. I tried my best. Shall we?"
"We shall."
With that, we set off into the Borderlands of Westmarch, I and my Duke. Thinking about it while watching the sun rise over the horizon, I was stunned at how these events had turned out. One minute, a poor homeless wanderer in a foreign land; the next, on a journey through the wilderness with the Duke of my new land. It blows my mind still how everything fit together.
Unbeknownst to me, there would be even more intriguing twists ahead.