The Bringer of War

Crown moved nimbly about his tiny hut, whistling cheerfully. Nearly a dozen candles cast dancing shadows on the walls and floor. His own shadow was distended and grotesque, something he took note of and found amusement in. Outside his recently-replaced window the crescent moon shone.

He did not act alarmed when his new front door suddenly burst open, aided by a kick from Aven’s hoofed foot. The assassin barely even blinked when the angry faerie tromped across his floor and seized him by the robe. The maid’s emerald eyes were narrow and fierce, her lips trembling as she strained to contain her rage.

“Tell me now, ‘priest,’” she said in a guttural voice “why I should not kill you now and be done with it.”

Crown relaxed and smiled at her, which Aven found quite unnerving. He seemed to be a man on familiar ground.

“That would hardly be wise, my dear Allison,” he said with a light chuckle “you see, a man in the business that I find myself engaged in learns to prepare certain...contingencies.”

“More foolish prattle,” she said, giving him a rough shake. Crown’s eyes widened a bit at the unexpected display of strength, but otherwise he was undaunted.

“I may be a fool,” he said with some amusement “but I never prattle. I have certain...parties that are sympathetic to my cause. They are here, in Ravensford.”

“Where?” she said, shaking him again. “I do not see them about. I see nothing, in fact, that prevents me from snapping your neck like a wounded rabbit!”

“Ah,” he said “they may not be present in this quaint little hovel, but they are about. If I am not seen performing my usual ablations tomorrow, I am afraid that they will have to take action.”

Aven grinned, getting her face quite close to Crown’s.

“Do you think I fear the blades of mortal men?” she said with a sinister glint in her eye.

“Oh, of course not,” said Crown “I would never dream of trying to take your life lady. No, if I am not seen, healthy and well on the morrow, they will kill Brutus...”

Aven gasped, her limbs feeling weak. Her gut was suddenly wrenched with sickness as the man spoke.

“...the little squire, maybe even that young boy who fishes off the bridge...the one whose hair you like to muss?”

She released him, her eyes tightly shut and her mouth a thin line. Seething, she turned and began to leave.

“Oh, Allison,” he said, causing her head to snap back around “there’s one more thing. The Templar? Sir Bruno? You are going to help me kill him.”

She turned back towards him, hands clenching into fists. Her hooves clopped hard on the wooden floor as she stalked over to tower over him.

“What makes you think I will do such an atrocious thing?” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Crown smiled and folded his hands behind his back.

“Other than the innocent blood that will be spilled?” he said. “Consider this; The Templar will die, and it must seem as if the king’s enemies did the deed. If you do not cooperate, we may be forced to burn the village to the ground with Sir Bruno still inside it.”

Aven sputtered, grabbed Crown once more, this time around his throat. He gasped, eyes bulging out as he felt her grip tighten. The assassin began to feel true fear, thinking he had perhaps pushed this mark too far.

Then he was landing hard on his rump, air rushing back into his starved lungs. Aven put a foot upon his chest when he tried to rise, staring down at him. Looking up her inhuman leg and peering into her fierce countenance, replete with sharp canines and curling horns, she appeared truly monstrous. A force of nature that he could not hope to understand much less control.

“I agree to your terms,” she said coldly “and here are mine; Once Sir Bruno is dead, you and any ‘associates’ you may have about must leave Ravensford, immediately. That is my price, priest.”

“Absolutely,” said Crown from his place on the floor. “As soon as the good knight breathes his last, you can consider us less enduring than the morning dew.”

Aven turned once more and stalked towards the door, her shoulders slumped with resignation. Crown smiled at her retreating back, then picked himself up off the floor and began trying to repair his door.

** *

Seamus and Fennick stared hard at the ugly, smelly mess that was Port Gar. They stood upon a hillside overlooking the city, the sea shimmering in the distance. The buildings were well maintained near the outer edges of town, but it appeared the further one went towards the center the wear became more and more apparent. Then, the structures became larger and better constructed as one moved towards the docks. It seemed that the merchants who stored their wares near the water wished to overlook them from their bedchambers. The city had no wall, though a ring of intermittent low stones seemed to indicate there had been one long ago.

“What a piss hole,” said Fennick, shaking his head. “I mean, I’ve seen worse, but...”

“I’m not sure,” said Seamus, scratching under Roikza’s chin “there don’t seem to be many folk with a lot of coin.”

“Bah,” said Fennick as he snapped the traces “trust me, there’s someone with some coin to spare. You’d best get her back in the cage and cover it up. Wouldn’t do to have people see us coming into town with the very beast we intend to save them from.”

“Wouldn’t do indeed,” said Seamus, turning to open the cage door “in you go, love.”

Roikza crawled off his arm and into the cage, closing and latching it with her prodigious fore claws. Fennick watched in wide eyed disbelief while Seamus looked on smugly.

“Told you she was smart,” said the big man before tossing a light green cloth over the cage.

Fennick urged the mule onward, and soon their wagon was rattling down the hill towards what laughingly passed for the city gates. Two tired looking watchmen leaned heavily on their spears next to a crude wooden redoubt. They did not challenge the brothers, barely looked up at them. One of the guards spoke in a listless voice.

“Welcome to the free city of Port Gar,” he said, mopping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“Our thanks,” said Fennick with a grin as they passed. He glanced back at Seamus and smirked. “Look at what passes for the watch in this town. That quilted armor was once someone’s quilt, I think!”

“Seems strange,” said Seamus, shaking his kercheifed head. “I mean, what if they are attacked?”

“I would expect,” said Fennick “that there is some sort of militia, perhaps funded by the merchants. Nevertheless, there seems to be a great deal of opportunity to be had here.”

They passed through the streets, spending a bit of their recently acquired coin on a pair of mince meat pies. Seamus surreptitiously stuffed a few tidbits through the bars of the cage, prompted by a low hiss from Roikza.

“She really, really needs to be quiet, brother,” said Fennick, glancing around nervously.

“Just a little hungry, she is,” said the big man, frowning. He looked about the crowded streets at the milling throng of humanity. It seemed unlikely that anyone could have heard the feathered serpent over all the other racket, but he kept the notion to himself.

Not wishing to part with much of their ill gotten gains, the pair found a run down little inn near the center of town. The innkeeper, a man of middle age who boasted an epic mustache and bald pate, looked up at them when they first trod on the dirt floor.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a slight lessening of his scowl. “You two didn’t happen to see a little wisp of a woman out there, did you? Wears a pointy hat, spectacles...”

“We are just recently arrived in town ourselves, good sir,” said Fennick sweeping into a bow. “Allow me to make the proper introductions. I am Fennick, and this good man is my brother Seamus. We happen to be licensed Dragon Slayers, fully accredited by the Academy in Fort Drakken...”

** *

Roland strode into the magnificent marble-floored hall of house Mannix. A servant took his traveling cloak, which was sodden with rain. The seneschal was dressed impeccably in a gold and burgundy laced doublet which concealed his middle age spread adroitly. Fine silk hose covered his legs, and satin shoes dyed to match his garments adorned his feet. Another servant hastily bent low to clean the mud from the soles, lifting them one at a time much to his amusement.

“Sorry, master Roland,” the old woman said with a forced smile “but Lord Mannix does like the tile to shine...”

“Think nothing of it,” said the Seneschal, offering her a warm smile. “My shoes could use a good cleaning anyway.”

Once she finished, he offered her a shiny silver, which caused her to become somewhat fawning. He ignored her gushing pleasantries and scanned his environs. Before him lay a short hallway which terminated in a pair of double doors. To his left was an elegant staircase, its wooden rail gleaming with polish. He assumed it led to the second and third floors of the residence. To his right was the grand entrance, the tall doors made of polished ebony. Everything seemed to gleam in the bright light of dozens of oil lamps and candelabras.

He was led through the double doors and into a well appointed ballroom. The maid led him across it’s checkered surface, their reflections shining back at them. From there they passed through another set of doors and into the Mannix dining room.

Lord Mannix rose from his seat as Roland entered, moving around the long table to clap the seneschal on the shoulder.

“Welcome, master Roland,” he said, gesturing to an open chair. “I hope this humble repast meets with your approval?”

Roland snapped his gaze away from the elaborate coat of arms hanging on the far wall to the food laden table. Fluffy potato mash and jellied beets were joined by a whole roast pig, apple still steaming in its mouth. Mannix had also had a brace of yard bird prepared, the soft meat stewing in a red wine sauce. Unlike at many tables, Lord Mannix provided each guest with their own set of silverware. This pleased the seneschal, because he did not favor using his own knife to slop food messily into a bowl.

Once Roland was seated, Lord Mannix gestured towards Kate, who was sitting across the table from the seneschal.

“Of course, you remember my daughter Katherine,” he said with a smile.

“She is impossible to forget,” said Roland with a pleasant smile. The woman was a striking sight. Her curly brown hair had been brushed into relative straightness, the auburn color complimenting her large, expressive eyes. Mascara and rouge enhanced her considerable natural beauty, and from what he could see of the dark green satin gown she wore, it was no less elegant.

“Well met, master Roland,” she said pleasantly, though he could see the trouble in her eyes.

Their converse revolved around the dinner fare, with Lord Mannix going on at great length about how to choose the perfect spirits to accompany different dishes. Roland listened politely, asking questions to prove his interest. Kate by and large sat silently, picking at her food upon occasion.

At length, Roland cleared his throat and set down his dessert spoon. Once both of his hosts had their eyes upon him, he spoke.

“Of course,” he said “I did not come out in this dreadful weather to speak about cuisine, however fine.” He toasted Lord Mannix with his wine glass.

“Of course not,” said Mannix “though I do appreciate the compliment.”

“As you know,” said Roland “the Harvest Festival will be arriving soon. His Majesty would like to request the use of your home to host the Masker’s Ball for the nobility.”

“Anything his majesty desires,” said Mannix with a bow of his head.

“Why does his Majesty not hold the ball in the castle, as he has oft done?” said Kate, her brows coming low over her eyes.

“Katherine!” said Mannix with a scowl.

“It is a fair enough question,” said Roland, offering her a smile. “His majesty’s castle was built more for defense than comfort. Quite frankly, it is cold, drafty, and smells of mold. Your palatial estate is a far more...elegant choice.”

“You do me honor,” said Mannix, shooting a last angry glance at his daughter.

“Excellent,” said Roland, standing up and wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I shall inform his majesty immediately.”

“Will you not tarry a bit?” said Mannix, standing up as well. “Katherine was going to play her harp for you, and she is quite skilled. Could have been a minstrel, had things been different.”

“I make you this proposal,” said Roland with a smile “when the ball has convened, I shall make a point to avail myself of her musical talent.” He nodded towards Kate, who tried to smile.

“Very well,” said Mannix, accompanying his guest to the door. Soon Roland was standing in the light drizzle while a weary servant swung the tall iron gates open for him. The Seneschal claimed his mount from the Mannix stables and clopped over the cobblestone towards the castle.

Once he left their estate, a pair of miserable looking soldiers flanked him. Roland did not notice the dark looks they gave him as they escorted him home. His mind was too full of machinations both large and petty. He did notice the lack of a salute as they broke off from him when they arrived at the castle gates. A bit miffed, he vented his fury on a herald who was not quite fast enough in opening the passage for him. Wiping the blood from his knuckles with the napkin he had pocketed from Mannix, he stepped lightly towards the throne room. Poking his head into the chamber, he found it to be empty. Perturbed once more, he checked the King’s bedchambers and garden. He finally caught up to his sovereign out on the castle walls, unmindful of the rain that plastered his white hair atop his head.

“You will catch your death, my king,” said Roland, offering the man a bow.

“A little rain in one’s face is a good thing,” said Drakken with a smile “reminds one of how fine it is to be inside and warm near a fire! Let us go back inside, old friend.”

“Why are you out here, if I may be so bold?” said Roland as they walked along the high walls. To their left was a sheer drop of nearly a hundred feet, while to their right was the castle courtyard, not much closer. They entered a tower near the east wing, stopping to warm their hands by an iron stove kept stoked for just such a purpose.

“Hoping to catch a glimpse of the evening sky,” said Drakken, squeezing the water from his long hair. “The stargazers say Charon’s Torch will return this year.”

Roland swallowed hard.

“Your majesty,” he said “you may want to...downplay your obsession with omens and portents. After all, the Torch is often said to foretell the fall of a leader-”

“Bah,” said Drakken, brushing out his full locks with his fingers “a comet can mean many things, and the legends often disagree as to what. I only hoped to see it, as my grandfather often regaled us with tales of how it lit up the night sky like a second sun.”

“It may not be so brilliant this time, your majesty,” said Roland “the glory of both kings and comets fades with time.”

Drakken stopped his grooming for a moment, fixing the rotund man with a pointed stare.

“Must it?” he said, his eyes glittering in a way that said he already knew, or thought that he knew, the answer.