In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Kendryek

Kendryek was awoken three days after his return to the city by a loud, insistent knock at the door. He groggily got to his feet and fumbled in the darkness until he found his way to the door. Lifting the latch, he opened it a crack. A nervous-looking, young Lancer occupied the hallway immediately outside the door. He held out a scrap of parchment in a shaking hand, and Kendryek thrust his hand through the gap and grabbed it. The Lancer he dismissed with a cursory wave, and the youth all but ran away.
Turning back into the room, Kendryek lit a candle, and bent to read the tight, cramped handwriting on the scrap. He recognised the writing as that of the Lord Princips. It simply said: ‘Liberty Square, come immediately. Wear armour.’
Cursing, Kendryek hastily scrambled over to the simple wooden stand which held his hauberk, leather undershirt, and helm. He tugged on the leathers and then shrugged into the chainmail, struggling to lace it up in his haste. Deciding to forgo his helm, he simply tucked it under one arm while buckling on his sword belt. The bleached, horsehair crest trailed out behind him as he strode through the barracks and down the four hundred stairs until he finally emerged into the early morning sunlight.

When he reached the training square it was nearly deserted. The only people present were the four remaining Colonels of the Lancers, and the Lord Princips himself, along with two rank-and-file Lancers standing holding six horses between them. All five of the commanders were fully armoured, and wore swords at their belts.
The Lord Princips smiled when he noticed Kendryek striding towards the group.
“Trouble getting up?” One of the younger Colonels said with a dry grin. Kendryek scowled, but remained silent, choosing to rise above the comment. He had perhaps expected The Lord Princips to comment and so was somewhat surprised when he saw a slight upturning of the younger man’s lips.

Frowning, Kendryek took the reins of one of the horses and swung up into the saddle. The others followed suit, and the Lancers retreated back inside, leaving the upper command alone.
“Where are we going then? Why are we here?” Kendryek broke the silence which descended once the Lancers had tramped off.
“I don’t know if you have heard yet, but one of our own was killed yesterday. Killed in the street. The watchmen found him with a crossbow bolt through his throat.”
“Where was he found?” One of the other Colonels piped up.
“The Third District.”
“But the Dangerous men? Why would one of us go there?” Kendryek spoke without realising. It was as though his thoughts had simply spilled out of his mouth. Hastily snapping his mouth shut, he nonetheless waited for an answer.
“All will be explained, once we reach the Inner City.”

Kendryek remained quiet, sensing the other man’s mood. The rest of the short ride passed in silence, as the group moved out into the city, and immediately turned left to the gates of the Inner City. There was a smaller door set into the enormous oaken planks which formed the gates, just large enough for one man on horseback to pass through. As they approached, it opened, and a man wearing the deep blue tabard of the Royal Crossbowmen appeared, standing to the side as they passed through.
Kendryek struggled not to sneer as they passed. The man’s uniform was spotless, his chainmail and helm gleaming. Kendryek could tell that the man was bored though, and this had made him lazy. His crossbow lay propped up against the wall a few metres away, not even loaded. Years of combat experience had made Kendryek come to despise the negligent, and he very nearly spoke up, nearly shouted at the soldier to take more pride in his duties, and to take them a little more seriously.

But then they were into the city, and Kendryek was able to appreciate the beautiful, elegant architecture of the buildings. These were the homes of the rich nobility, and even a few merchants, and he very rarely got to see them. As he rode slowly through the tall buildings, he realised he was desperately sorry for this fact.
Before long, the group of Lancers reached the Central Fortress of the Royal Crossbowmen, jokingly called the Empty Fortress among t he ranks of the Lancers. The jest summed up the contempt for the Crossbowmen which was indoctrinated in all Lancers during their training – Lancers considered Crossbowmen little more use than empty uniforms.
At the main gates, they dismounted, handing their horses grudgingly to some Crossbowmen. With this done, they trudged into the imposing structure. What followed was a trial of pure stamina for Kendryek. At his age, he struggled with the stairs in the Lancer Barracks, and so having to climb the countless steps to the room where the meeting was held was torture. He counted as he went, but was forced to stop when he ran out of breath, -somewhere around the two hundred mark - instead focusing on climbing.

Eventually however, they reached their destination. The Lord Princips seemed to know where they were going, and turned off the main staircase at some seemingly indifferent exit. The doorway opened out into a wide, sweeping room, with an enormous oaken table dominating the centre. Most of the seats remained empty, but three men rose from theirs when the six Lancers marched into the room.
The contrast between the three men was almost comical. On one side was an enormously burly man; possibly the ugliest man Kendryek had ever seen. His face was almost entirely taken up by a large, bulbous nose, and a somewhat pronounced jaw, with very little room left for his eyes.
On the other side was a man nearer his own age. He had a steel-coloured crop of hair, and his face showed the wear of a long and active life. In between these two polar opposites stood a distinctly average looking man. Kendryek found it hard to judge his age, as much of his face was obscured by a short beard. The Lord Princips inclined his head a fraction, the man in the middle facing them doing the same, before they all sat down.

“My Lords. Allow me to introduce the Lords Werian and Cadlan of the Royal Crossbowmen. Lord Werian is among the king’s chief advisors, and Cadlan is my second.” The man in the centre spoke, but Kendryek still had no idea who he was, although he was beginning to think he knew.
“I am Lord Agravain, Commander of the Royal Crossbowmen.”
The Lancers inclined their heads as was proper, and then the Lord Princips spoke up.

“We are not here to exchange pleasantries. One of ours was killed three days ago. With a crossbow.” The accusation in his voice was clear, and the square Lord Cadlan shifted in his seat, clearly unhappy. He was stilled with the merest gesture from Agravain.
Kendryek was amazed at the control Agravain was able to exert over his officers. However much the Crossbowmen may have lacked in actual experience, the old Lancer was able to appreciate the rigid discipline imposed on the officers at least. Agravain looked at the table briefly, considering his next words.

“And because it was a crossbow, you think it was our doing, my Lord Princips?” The careful politeness was a strain, as was the forced calmness in his voice, but Kendryek realised it was having its intended effect. Although difficult to see outwardly, Kendryek could tell that the Lord Princips was seething. He realised however that he too was growing angry.
A Lancer had been murdered, and he got the feeling that Agravain knew something about it.
“He was with the elf that morning, and so of course it might have been him, but both horses were killed. Sir Modred did not even manage to draw his sword, so all the evidence points to an ambush, by men with crossbows.”
“What are you saying, Lancer?” Lord Cadlan spat across the table.
“What I am saying, half-wit, is that Crossbowmen killed a Lancer lieutenant in the street, and kidnapped or killed a servant.” The Lord Princips sneered at the young man.

To Kendryek, the conversation had suddenly muted. Only now had the previous words sunk in. Now he felt numb. Modred. He knew the young man had become friends with the elf in the past few weeks. Modred had been like a son to him ever since the boy had arrived twelve years ago to squire for him. Kendryek felt an overwhelming sadness, and was not paying attention to the rest of the room.
He was therefore surprised when he heard the rasp of steel on leather as someone drew their sword. Returning to the moment with a jolt, he realised that it was the burly Lord Cadlan across the table had shot to his feet, catapulting the chair backwards to crash against the wall. The other four Lancer commanders leaped to their feet at this, answering with their own drawn swords. Kendryek rose slowly to his feet, but his blade remained in its scabbard at his waist. There was very little point in getting involved: he would be hopelessly outmatched by any of the other men in the room. His value to the Lancers was in his tactical and strategic mind, rather than any personal fighting ability. Those days were long behind him.
No one moved. Swords were levelled across the table. No one was really close enough to actually pose an immediate threat, but the intent was there, radiating off all five men. Thankfully, both the Lord Princips and Agravain acted quickly. Agravain rose, placing a hand firmly on Cadlan’s shoulder, and the Lord Princips spoke up.

“Come, we have all the answers we need. Let us go.” The four younger officers made no response.
“Now.” Eventually the weight of his gaze, combined with his tone bored into all of them, and the men hastily lowered their swords and returned them to sheathes. With one final dirty look across the table, the Colonels turned and left the room. Kendryek waited for the Lord Princips, and they left together. The stairs down passed in a blur. Kendryek was still numb inside. Modred dead. He could not quite believe it. He also could not understand why his commander had left that particular piece of information out initially. Kendryek supposed it could have been to keep his mind clear prior to the meeting, but he remained unconvinced.
***
Althalos

Althalos came to with a pounding headache. He was expecting a cell of some sort: cold, stone walls with perhaps a straw mattress if he was lucky. When he opened his eyes however, he was pleasantly surprised. He was lying on a real bed, and his surroundings while sparse, were far better than that of a prison cell. There was a chair, a sturdy but plain wardrobe and two doors, which indicated the presence of a separate privy. Compared to his quarters at the Lancer barracks, he considered it luxury.
He carefully sat up, and got out of the bed, glad that he at least had a woollen shirt on. He walked over to the wardrobe quickly, and found a pair of matching trousers. Althalos hastily pulled them on with difficulty, due to his destroyed wrist, and not a moment too soon, for a brisk knock came at the door, and then it opened without a pause for a reply.

In strode two grim-looking men armed with crossbows, swords and matched daggers on each hip. Both men were hulking lumps of muscle, but Althalos still thought he could take them both, if he was quick. They had killed Modred, whoever they were. The recurring use of crossbows made him think that these were the Royal Crossbowmen of which Modred and the other Lancers had been so scathing. Overcoming his initial reaction, and his impulse to attack the two men, he waited for them to make the first move.

They made no move whatsoever, and the only further activity was an older man bringing in a tray of food, and setting it on the bed.
“This is your midday meal. And these:” he left the room briefly, before returning with a pile of old-looking books, “are our histories. Lord Agravain thought you might be interested in the Laternae view of the elves, as well as what has happened since that time. Do not try to escape: you will fail.”
With that, the man left, followed by his two burly companions, and Althalos was alone once more. He moved over to the tray of food and was amazed to see a good quantity of meat, with some bread and butter. The meat appeared to be some sort of bird, and he hungrily ate all of the food, not pausing even to wipe away the grease and melted butter which dribbled down his chin.
When he had finished, he washed his hands in the basin of water in one corner, before returning to the bed, and the small pile of books. In the past he had loved to read, but that had been when he was back at Astypalaea. It turned out that humans tended not to value scholars as highly as elves did.

He selected one of the smaller books, and opened the book to its front page, a task made more difficult by his damaged wrist.  The title was ‘A History of the Time of Oppression,’ and the author was simply written as ‘Anon,’ which he took to mean anonymous.
Turning the page, he began to read.
When the older man returned with his armed companions and an evening meal, his grey brows rose in surprise as he realised that Althalos had already finished the first book, and was nearly done with a second hefty tome, named ‘From Oppression to the Golden Age,’ which detailed the rise of the city of Laternas, and the Republic.
“Finding them interesting are you? Well don’t go through them too fast, they have to last you another day.”
“What’s happening then? Who are you? Why are you keeping me here? And why did you kill Modred?” Althalos was disgruntled at having not been told anything.

The old man simply shook his head, and Althalos began to move forwards in an attempt to intimidate him.
The guards, who until now had seemed relaxed were suddenly alert, and their crossbows were levelled instantly.
Without even loosing, they had the effect of stopping Althalos in his tracks. He had seen what a bolt could do to a human body, and at this range, the crossbows would make a mess of him.
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that. You must wait for Lord Agravain to explain all.”
The odd trio once again left, Althalos ate his meal, and returned to his reading. He read about the rise and fall of kings, about their triumphs and misdemeanours. Only when he completed the second book and had set it aside did he get into the bed and drift off to sleep.

The next day passed similarly to the first one, with Althalos learning about the history of the Cantari Schism, and the first Migration. The old man came and went three times with meals, but other than that, no one visited.
On the third day, he was woken by the old man poking him hard in the ribs. Althalos jerked awake, instantly alert. Sure enough, the two guards were standing over him. The crossbows in their arms twitched as the elf moved, but they then relaxed as their target did.
“It’s time. Get dressed.” The man seemed tense, and Althalos raised an eyebrow.
“Very well, a little privacy?” Althalos was not self-conscious in the least, but he needed some time to gather his wits, and did not want to display any weakness whatsoever before his captors.

The old man looked none too pleased, but nodded and left the room, taking his two companions with him. As soon as the door clicked shut, Althalos got up, moving over to the wardrobe and retrieving his clothes. Once dressed, he simply stood for a few moments, mentally gathering himself, and wiping the sleep from his eyes.
When he was ready, he knocked on the inside of the door. It immediately opened, and Althalos was escorted from the room which had been his home for the last few days.

“Who is this ‘Lord Agravain’ then?” Althalos tried to alleviate the sombre mood by asking about the man he was presumably about to meet.
The old man shushed him, and one of the guards nudged him in the back with his crossbow, causing him to stumble. With that, Althalos quietened, and began to examine his surroundings more closely. The corridors they were walking through were similar to those in the massive barracks of the Lancers, so Althalos assumed he was still in the city of Laternas. There were no windows however, so he was unable to accurately judge where in the city he was.

Althalos judged that they had been walking ten minutes before they reached a large oaken door. In that time they had wound around seemingly identical corridors, and up two small flights of stairs. The old man had never erred however, apparently knowing his way around the building.
Two more crossbowmen stood either side of the door, and they opened it at a gesture from the old man. Althalos was motioned inside, and he was surprised when the others stayed outside.

Swallowing, he turned to face into the room.
*** 
Qira

The next four days went by in a blur for Qira. She tried to phase out of her surroundings as much as possible, something which earned her more than one reproachful look from her father, even as he greeted the seemingly innumerable guests arriving for the tournament on the fifth day. Qira was of course involved in the introductions as well, and she met an endless stream of eligible young men over the four days, all of whom were extremely courteous, and yet none of whom had a detectable personality.

The information she learned while court was in session was far more interesting than any of her suitors. It seemed that the rebellion in the west had been successfully put down by Lord Nahash, or at least in his words it was ‘no longer an issue.’ Lord Heber was present too, and he seemed to have gotten over his  displeasure at the timing of the tournament, and no one made any mention of it.
When the fifth day dawned bright, Qira rose slowly, thanking the gods that her sister’s birthday would be a success. The bright sun would hopefully dry out any of the moisture in the ground, which she thought would make for a much more interesting tourney. Her father had spent a fair amount on the tournament, and she knew he was hoping not only to celebrate her sister’s birthday but also to foster some goodwill with the nobles.
As such, there would be events ranging from the traditional tilting, sword-fighting and archery contests to wrestling and other competitions open to everyone, and not just the nobility. Qira ached to take part in the archery contest, but her father had forbidden it, thinking it might scare away any potential suitors. 

Qira quickly dressed in a simple but beautiful dress, and descended to the hall to find her father. The tournament was to take place on the field outside the city, and they left the hall together, along with the other assembled nobles to mount up in the courtyard between the hall and the inner wall. Many of the noble men were armoured, and Qira realised that a good number of them must be taking part in one or another of the competitions.
The main street through the city was lined with people who had come out to watch the proud colours of the lords of the land move through the city and out to the field. Lord Kang had proclaimed the day a holiday, and so all the spectators were sure to descend on the tourney ground as well before long.

The journey through the city took longer than usual, owing to the need to maintain a sedate walk, and by the time they reached the open field, Qira was itching with impatience. Lillah seemed just as eager on her father’s other side, fidgeting atop her smaller pony.
When they finally did reach the wide expanse, Qira found it transformed from when she had last seen it two weeks passed. Pavillions were dotted around the central lists, with a few smaller arenas set up further out. Along one side of the list was an area of raised seating. Lord Kang dismounted and led the noble ladies up to their seats.

The day started slowly, with the lower-born entrants taking part in wrestling and archery competitions. Qira knew that several of her father’s guardsmen were taking part in both, and she was surprised and pleased when the man who had stood outside her door for as long as she could remember was announced the winner of the wrestling, although his name was drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the herald thrust the man’s hand into the air. The final bout had been incredible to behold. The men had to fight with bare hands and feet, and wearing nothing but roughspun trousers.

Qira’s guardsman was slimmer, although well-muscled, but he possessed a grace and poise that his massively over-developed opponent simply did not. The dumb ox had lumbered forwards straight away, and Qira’s favourite had swayed out of the way, leaving a leg in his wake. The huge man had tripped and crashed to the ground, and his opponent had wasted no time, leaping on to his back and unleashing a barrage of blows into his kidneys. Although the large man had eventually regained his feet, it had been clear that the fight was over.

The archery which followed had been overwhelming in its mediocrity, but Qira knew that all the contestants would not have been trained like her.
After this, the wooden dividers in the field were removed, so that there were simply two lanes left.
The tilting was to be a straight knockout tournament, with intial matches to be decided by drawn lots. Qira had to admit that even the lowliest of knights were resplendent in their plate and mail, blunted lances raised high with pennants snapping in the brisk afternoon breeze. The remainder of the day was lost in the thundering of hooves, the splintering of lances and occasionally the crash as one knight or another was unhorsed.

The most spectacular of these was when Lord Heber rode against Lord Jadhai, who was from the very northern extremity of Cantar. Lord Jadhai managed to time his thrust so that the lance took Heber high on the shoulder and tilted him backwards. The man lost his stirrups and ended up flipping over completely before he hit the ground, where he landed face down. The whole crowd had waited with their collective breath held to see if the tournament had claimed its first fatality, until a loud curse emitted from the heap of armour lying prone. It was as though the single syllable was some sort of signal, for the assembled people let out great shouts of laughter, and the tension was immediately relieved.
By the evening, Qira felt her eyelids growing heavy, and absently wondered if she could sneak off and avoid the bulk of the feast which was to follow. It was at that moment, when she had just remounted her horse that she felt her father’s eyes on her, and immediately reconsidered. He had the look on his face which told Qira that he knew exactly what she was thinking. However tiresome it would be, she did not want to disappoint her
father, so guided her horse over to him, and leant over to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t worry, I will be there. I think I should probably change first though? I don’t want the smell of the tournament all over when you are parading me in front of other nobles.” Qira only slightly meant it in jest, and her father smiled sadly.
Lord Kang whispered quietly, his eyes constantly moving, checking that they were not being overheard. There were none within earshot however, with most people more concerned with their preparations for the short ride back to their quarters in the city.
“I am sorry, but I have put it off as long as I could. The people are growing restless, they want a clear line of succession, and more than a few nobles are publicly sceptical about your desire to rule.”
With that, he moved his horse away from his daughter, and began to ride back towards the city, with the train of nobility in tow. Slightly startled, Qira remained motionless for a moment. She had not really thought about what would happen when her father died. It had never occurred to her that she was in line to rule, or at least be in a position of power.
As her horse began to mindlessly follow the herd, Qira was aware of Lillah falling in beside her. Her younger sister obviously realised that she was thinking and let her be, remaining silent for the whole journey back.

The procession reached the courtyard in what seemed like no time at all, and Qira swung down from her mount at the same time as Lillah. Before they separated to change for the night’s festivities, Lillah moved around her horse and embraced Qira fiercely.
“Whatever it is, you will work it out.” The words were meant to reassure, but Qira only felt an added sense of pressure. Her sister stepped back and beamed at her, before turning and disappearing inside. Qira followed her in, and made for her room straight away, brushing off those who approached her with smiles and polite greetings.
When she reached her room, Qira was surprised to see her guardsmen already stationed outside, pristinely armoured as usual. Gone was mud- and sweat-caked apparition from earlier this morning, to be replaced by the slim, unassuming man now stood before her. The transformation was wonderous to behold.
“Congratulations on your victory this morning.” Qira said politely. The man remained motionless, as was his duty, but she saw a smile break out beneath his helm. Smiling back, Qira disappeared inside her room to change.

Emerging scarcely ten minutes later, Qira was thankful that she had only just started to put back on the condition she had lost while hunting. The corset she had forced herself into was already uncomfortably tight, and Qira was glad that she did not have any extra flesh to fit in.
Even as she was leaving, Qira was still grumbling, and she could have sworn the unknown guard smirked and then winked at her on the way past. She met Lillah on the way down, similarly garbed and, after sharing a joke about how ridiculous they both looked, they made their way down to the great hall. Qira gasped as they entered quietly through the back door. The drinks were only just being laid out as the two of them entered, so Qira knew they were on time.

Their father was already seated, and Qira and Lillah hurried to take their seats on his left. The feast was delicious, with dish after dish of sumptuous food placed on the table before them. It was a noisy affair, with everyone drinking vast quantities of the rich wine from their southern neighbours. Such was rare, and Qira realised just how expensive the event must have been.
One awkward moment came when a drunken Lord Heber stood, hammering one ham-like fist on the table for quiet. All eyes turned to him, and the room gradually grew quiet. Qira noticed her father lean forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. In a somewhat ironic tone, he began:
“My sincerest thanks to my Lord Kang for the majestic tournament, and this: most fantastic meal, though the timing perhaps left something to be desired.”

With that, and a hiccup, the broad-chested man sat down. Qira had seen her father’s eyes tighten at the last, and she was certainly not the only one to have noticed. Across where Heber had retaken his seat, those around were shaking their heads and whispering angrily at him. The lord had the grace to look embarrassed, but the atmosphere was certainly more tense than it had been  before, only alleviated slightly by the entrance of musicians towards the end of the meal. They wielded various stringed instruments, and began to play lively music.
As the debris from the meal was cleared away, people moved to  the clear space at the centre of the room, and began to dance in pairs in time with the music. At this Qira groaned aloud, despite the look she received from her father.

Sure enough, before the end of the first dance, half a dozen of the younger male nobles had approached and asked for a dance. At first they were polite, if somewhat clumsy due to the wine, but just as she was about to leave for bed, a young man detached himself from the crowd to her right. She grudgingly thought he would have been handsome had he not been leering unpleasantly. The man sauntered arrogantly over to her and offered his hand without saying a word. It was as though he expected her to join him, as though he did not comprehend that she might refuse.

Forcing a bright smile, she faced him, but she did not take his hand.
“My Lord, I fear I am too tired for more dancing. I would not want to embarrass you.”
The young man’s features marred in a frown, his words coming out tight with anger.
“I am sure I could never be embarrassed by you.” She smiled in response, ignoring the tone, but maintained her refusal, shaking her head and causing a strand of hair to come free and swing across her face. The man reached out to tuck the errant strand back, and Qira shied away, unsure of both him and herself. He jerked and pulled himself up as if he had been slapped.
“My lord, I...I apologise. Perhaps you would do me the honour of breaking your fast with me tomorrow morning?” She dreaded such an encounter, but was alarmed at the effect she seemed to have had on him. To her relief he smiled, although there was something about it that wasn’t entirely pleasant.

“Perhaps.” With this, he sketched a shallow bow and turned away, returning in the direction he came from. Qira shivered despite the warmth of the hall, and began trying to find a way she could escape the commitment she had just made without insulting the young man.
In a daze, Qira turned and walked at a dignified pace through the crowds, ignoring the crowd of simpering noble ladies she usually avoided on principle. As someone who had spent weeks at a time in the wild, she was utterly disdainful of those who had never known difficulty in their lives. She certainly did realise the borderline hypocrisy of this, and was very thankful for her father’s power, and her affluent home, but at the same time she tried to help those who needed it when she was out in the world, unlike any of those who now flooded her with mindless questions about who she had just been talking to.

She was surprised to learn that he was apparently the son of Lord Nahash, the western lord so hard pressed against the rebels, and one of the most powerful men in the realm, thus making his son one of the most eligible bachelors in the province, someone her father would be trying to marry her to. At this thought she shuddered again, not necessarily realising why. There was something about him which simply unsettled her.
Thinking about it, she was unsurprised Lord Nahash had not been able to attend, what with the troubles he was experiencing in the west. It was only logical to send his eldest son in his stead, to represent him. Sweeping along the corridors, her head began to droop with tiredness, and she paused only to nod and smile to the guard outside her room.

Once inside, she shut the door before stripping quickly down to her smallclothes and slipping into bed. It had been a long time since the morning tournament and, while it was far less active than the endless movement of hunting, it was exhausting in its own way. She had barely settled herself before her eyes closed and she fell asleep.
***