The Seven Kingdoms of Audelas

[Lakin_of_DpN]

“Get dressed. It is time for you to leave.” Deana, Queen of Coremas declared as she crossed from the bed to a large dresser and removed a bottle from its small compartment.

A beautiful young girl sat up, and the sheet covering her fell away baring her nude form. The lamps soft glow washed her in a golden veil, revealing glorious bare breasts. Deana’s eyes gleamed at the sight of each voluptuous globe angled deliciously upward. King Rymas kissed one roseate peak, and then tasted the other. Her maiden flavor eliciting a final groan of pleasure from him. “Go,” he ordered, as rolled away on his back.

“Now my darling,” Deana crooned, as she ran her fingers over a smooth green bottle, “I think Eriam wine is in order, to relax you and help you sleep.” Turning away from her husband, she was busy a few moments over the glass before handing it to him. “Drink,” she enticed, sounding like a fabled siren.

Obedient, Rymas lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. He blinked as his wife’s flamboyant beauty receded from view, and his thick lashes sank lower and lower until they closed.

“Tired,” he muttered drowsily.

“Sleep, my love,” insisted his wife softly.

Moving quietly, the sweet young maid with scorching red hair slipped away. Moments later Deana opened the door to admit a woman whose soaring height, faultless figure and hard, perfectly black eyes demanded instant respect.

“Glad you could come so quickly,” said Deana by way of greeting.

“Where is the diamond?” Trirea asked, casting a raised eyebrow around the candlelit room.

With one graceful movement Deana set aside a cloth covering a sparkling white jewel.

Trirea drew in her breath sharply, and then let it out slowly, “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” Her luminous coal eyes sparkled as she rubbed her hands together.” The sixth Seal... ” Trirea whispered favorably.

“Did you replace it?” queried Trirea, becoming short and businesslike.

“It’s done; he will never know that this isn’t the original diamond.” Deana placed her husbands diadem carefully away.

Satisfied Trirea nod as she made to leave through a secret passage hidden behind a pale green wall panel. “Payment will be waiting at the Black Garter.”

~~~

The rest of Malagen’s entourage formed in the wide, obsidian pillared hallway at the end of his father’s residence. Lord Hydont a venerated Savion Knight joined the party and led the way to the first level, his long stiffly gathered cloak conical around his legs, his sword skimming the floor in an arc behind him. “I was told that the first council session went exceptionally long and that you, Your Majesty, in particular were greatly admired for the way you conducted yourself.” Filled with pride Lord Hydont strode out in front. “I have attended these assemblies for years, since your father was a young man and his father King. It has never been easy. I commend you my Lord—but still—you must be very careful.” Through narrowed eyes, Hydont took in the crowded plaza outside and gauged the risks to Malagen—to his king. “Your safety is paramount, at all times.” A barb of uneasiness he’d felt many times in the past re-emerge and rippled along the hair at the nape of his neck.

“The palace seems secure enough,” Malagen insisted.

Lord Hydont objected, “It is never truly secure Your Majesty, look at the crowds.”

Malagen stood before the west wing gates that lead back into the central courtyard; he indicated that they should be opened. But before his order could be carried out, Lord Hydont stopped the guard from flinging wide the high wrought doors.

“Hold!” He demanded. A harsh wind whistled through the thick iron lattice and groaned down the palace hallways. “I must make sure it is safe.” He slipped through the narrow opening and crossed the broad colonnade at the top of the onyx-colored steps leading down to the expansive square. He wasn’t shocked by the amount of people even in this bitter cold. The annual meeting was important to everyone, it was no surprise that Tigan would turn out in such multitudes, but the hype—it never ceased to amaze the veteran knight. From the crowd there emanated a constant low-level roar. If the halls of the palace were as packed as this domain, the path back to Malagen’s residence would be a nightmare. A Cenyth Monk embellished in bright red robes waited at the foot of the jet black steps. The crowd around the Monk was a noisy one, but it appeared peaceful.

Hydont signaled the guard to release the gates. Although he had his back to the doors he knew exactly the moment when Malagen became visible to the mass in the square—the young women at the front of the mob reacted brazenly. “How attractive the King is? Is there anything I can do for you Your Majesty, anything your heart desires,” one yelled out.

She was pushed aside by a woman with matted blond hair. “I’ll take you home and keep you company, My Lord. I promise you, you will never be lonely again.”

“I saw him first! “

The blond attacked the first woman and the crowd around them broke into a raucous of cheers and excitement, urging on a cat fight.

“Forgive them your Majesty,” pleaded the Monk who had pressed forward in an attempt to shield the unruly pair. “There is always some who get out of control on these occasions.”

Malagen turned to meet him, working hard to dispel the anger he felt rushing up from his neck at the vulgar comments of the women. The Monk was old, spindly with no hair. He stood straight and tall, holding himself well for his age. Malagen recognized the him as the High Monk and sole survivor of the grisly wyrm massacre in Ciamar. He nod his head and turned his gaze out to the crowded court, the masses broke into frenzy, praising the King, they expressed their approval. Malagen stood like a grand bronze at the top of the steps. Cool, he raised his outstretched hands to the crowd, which reacted by shouting their acclaim still louder—a boisterous roar swept through the square with the force of a whirlwind.

Lord Hydont felt it was time to move on. “Your Majesty...”

“There is another way,” the Monk exclaimed, his very dark eyes became round and bright with anticipation. Lifting his pale, drawn face to Lord Hydont, the Monk raised his voice and repeated his claim. “My Lord, I know of another way.”

Known to the King and posing no visible threat Lord Hydont permitted the High Monk to approach.

It was the closest the Monk would ever come to a smile—his brow furrowed—his mouth creased as he climbed the first step picked up his heavy red-colored robes and knelt. “Will you allow me to show you,” the Cenythian asked.

“Yes... yes lead the way,” Malagen said hastily, gesturing for his personal guard to follow.

“Through here,” the monk urged, quickly slamming and latching a nearby door behind them just in time, for the crowd pounded on the thick wood causing the door to quake on their side of the threshold. Lit wall scones lined the way, leading them deeper into the palace. A gentle glow beckoned faraway down the narrow passage; with his guard close Malagen began the long descent.

~~~

Every nerve quivered as Lakin entered, she took a deep steadying breath and glanced speculatively around Letho’s private chambers. A movement in the corner of her eye snagged her attention. She observed as a young maid with fiery red hair descended the steps from the residences, disappearing into the hallway leading down to the servant’s station. Genth, Letho’s personal guard darted into the hallway after her, but Lakin doubted he would catch her too soon. She had quite a head start on the eager young squire. Lakin smiled as the door to the chamber closed behind her. Lifting the hem of her gown in one delicate hand, she followed Letho’s invitation and moved toward the welcoming fire. The practicality of the chamber seemed to emphasize the grandeur of two, tall backed chairs embossed with roses and fine crystal goblets set on a smooth mahogany table. She presumed from the studious surroundings, that they must have been set up for just this occasion—for her. “I have...”

“Please,” Letho interrupted, “make yourself comfortable.” He bowed formally in recognition of her presence. “I suggest we start with a glass of wine?”

“A wonderful idea,” Lakin agreed. Slipping her hand inside the lapel of her cloak she pressed the lining and a secret pocket opened. She removed a well-worn book from the hiding place and sat, her cloak fanning out like a silvery-white shell. “Why did you keep your identity from me?” She asked, peering down at the frayed and slightly torn binding of the book in her lap. Her hand gently smoothed over the soft leather cover.

Letho glanced sideways at her, “Because the diary you carry probably contains things about Kristiniel that even I did not know about. And I am not certain that I am ready for such a revelation.”

Letho poured her wine and the fragrance filled the room, reminding Lakin of the Inn in Savion and its owner Marcus Georan, the man who had entrusted her with the precious book, Kristiniel’s father.

“But it is a diary—handwritten by your wife,” Lakin pressed. She sat forward modestly gathering the cloak she wore around her. “Are you not even a little
curious?” she asked, feeling a sudden thrill of excitement in the pit of her stomach at the idea of Kristiniel’s journal brought full circle.

“You are here, are you not?” Letho responded, his eyes on her the entire time. He took a long hard drink finishing his goblet of wine in one impatient swallow. “I have my own memories of her Lakin and I was content with them,” he confided.

Lakin looked away, but when she turned her face back to Letho, his brown eyes were steady.

“I realized very quickly after meeting you that you would not be satisfied until either my son or I claimed Kristiniel’s journal.” Letho stood up, strode back to the carved wooden desk illuminated by the fire burning in hearth and poured himself another drink. ” So here you are.”

Lakin trembled a little beneath the intensity of his gaze but did not withdraw and in a deceptively calm voice persevered. “The book reveals Kristiniel as a woman who loved deeply, a woman who believed in her family and her people. It tells of a beautiful romance between a young Prince and an ordinary peasant girl who were destined to be together.” Lakin turned a page halfway through the book. “Let me read to you what she’s written.”

Watching her half-reclined, Letho nod and sighed deeply. "Fine, I suppose by this time you have read the book in its entirety."

Lakin began slowly, her heart racing strongly as she sank down in her chair only a few feet from Letho.
“He is so handsome. Tall and perfectly made, with rich brown hair and beautiful skin. His eyes are a delicious shade of brown, his full lips mouth-watering, and when he looks at me my heart beats wildly. After I served him some ale to ease his fatigue he gave a smile that shook me as if the earth moved. His hand brushed mine and it was sweet indeed...”

Throwing open the door suddenly a young maid burst in, disheveled and shaking. The abrupt, unannounced appearance brought Letho instinctively to his feet. He used the split second it took for him to react. In an instant he was standing above the intruder. At that moment the girl raised her face from her hands and Lakin recognized the tear-stained face as the redhead in the hallway.

“Oh Sir... Genth.” She burst into a storm of renewed weeping. Based on the last thing Lakin saw, it seemed that what was wrong involved Letho’s young squire.

“What has happened?” Letho growled, holding the maids heaving
shoulders. It looked as if she had been weeping on and off for sometime.

The young girl sobbed more loudly.

“Let me talk to her,” Lakin suggested, unsettled by how distressed the girl had become.

“Calm down,” Lakin urged as she wrapped her arms around the young servants shoulders to comfort her. “Take a deep breath and tell us what has happened.” It was a tremendous effort to keep the girl on her feet.

“They... he... took him away. It was horrible,” she choked out through her sobs.

“Who took him?” Lakin questioned urgently.

“I don’t know, I was too afraid to look,” the maid answered, her eyes red rimmed from weeping

“Where?”

“Down in the tunnels they use to enter the dungeons.”

“Take me there,” Letho demanded, “quickly girl!” He strode forward wearing the Audrin Sword in a thickset leather sheath across his back. He sensed Lakin’s determination to help him well ahead of time. “No way, we can’t risk it. I don’t want to have to rescue you as well.”

She sighed, understanding. “Never-the-less I am coming with you, the girl can barely stand." Lakin made to move with the trembling maid.

“It is too dangerous,” Letho explained, with a shout of anger.

Headstrong, Lakin assured the girl that everything would be alright. “We are wasting time Letho.” The sobbing stopped and the maid nodded her readiness to Letho who stood behind them.

Not accustomed to hearing Lakin use his name, Letho paused for a moment. He shook his head and lifted his hand indicating that the girl should start forward.

As they descended Lakin felt it, a chill that penetrated her skin as a steady heavy throb flowing through her veins, through her bones until the insistent pulse, dark in force reached her mind. It came like a veritable whisper, chanting and rising in volume. The black power overwhelming. Everything faded away to an eerie silence, leaving only the blackness of the hypnotic enchantment that rolled over her and the unnerving emptiness in her eyes. Lakin was helpless to turn away, once again Trirea’s essence entwined with hers—once again she was sucked into darkness. A picture of murder, Letho and the ivory-handled dagger pressed against her waist manifested in her mind.

A dark figure moved from the shadows into the wedge of light his fingers pressed to Genth’s throat. Shock and pain racked through the young squire’s body as he dangled—helpless—consciousness fading as the steel-strong digits around his neck tightened.

Letho grabbed at Lakin, he deliberately brought her to his side, although he never took his eyes off the silhouette waiting. He tensed preparing himself and stepped forward into the cold dank dungeon first.

“Kill him,” shrieked the voice boring into Lakin’s mind. It came from behind her, but no one was there. Earsplitting, it destroyed any resistance Lakin could rally. She stared emotionlessly into Letho’s back.

[Letho]

Surprisingly (or not) enough, the first thing that went through his mind – other than the jolt of searing pain that sliced through between his temples as the blade penetrated skin, muscle and lung – was Lothirgan. Good old Lothirgan and the good old lesson on trust. Letho remembered partially because it was quite possibly the shortest lesson the old man had ever given and partially because it befitted the current situation. “The first and only rule about trust is don’t,” his mentor had said once upon a time, when the skies were still endlessly blue, the life was simple and all was right with the world. “And that goes twice if we’re talking about a woman.”

Letho never forgot that lesson. He didn’t adhere to it strictly during his life – a person couldn’t without growing to be an utterly bitter bastard – but those words were always there, at the edge of conscious thought, reminding him of the dangers every time he’d go against this simple pearl of wisdom. But today that whispering voice had been silenced, snuffed out by the winds of time that, with the introduction of Kristiniel journal, brought back a whiff of the years long forgotten. And he wound up trusting Lakin. He wound up believing that she was this truly amicable woman whose sole purpose was to reunite him with some of the memories that had been collecting dust in the dark corners of his mind. He wound up believing that there was no ulterior motive behind those clear, azure eyes, that she travelled all those long miles just to give him some sort of a closure with his long dead wife.

Such a foolish assumption. A rookie mistake, Lothirgan would’ve chastised him, had he been in that dank basement. Only he wasn’t. Other than the hand emerging from the darkness, flailing Genth it was clinging to, the treacherous wench behind his back and his gullible self, there was nobody to see him fall. And fall he did. He shouldn’t have – the wound hadn’t been a mortal one and he should’ve been able to turn around and break the bitch’s neck – but once the blade dug into his flesh, he could feel as if all life has been drained out of him. “Dark magicks,” a distant thought passed at the forefront of his mind as he first sunk to his knees, one quivering arm reaching for the knife in his back while the other struggled to keep his bulky physique up. It turned to jelly as second afterwards, the mighty muscles refusing obedience to their master, allowing the great Letho Ravenheart to collapse.

And even as his consciousness started to depart, making room for the dark clouds that started to dim his vision, he could’ve sworn he saw a familiar face emerging from the darkness. And there was a satisfied smile stretching its aging lines.

***

Fifteen minutes later – or at least it seemed like fifteen minutes to Letho, like it seems like fifteen minutes when one oversleeps a waking call – a punch to the gut brought the Savion hero back to the world of the living. And soon enough he wished that it hadn’t. His head was throbbing with pain in rhythmic unison with the bleeding perforation in his back, his perception was all blobs and blurs, and he felt as weak as if he had walked through the desert for a week without as much as a drop of water. And then there was, of course, the beating as well. The giant black blob in front of him seemed to have a vicious jab, and he kept slamming it into Letho’s plexus. It perhaps wasn’t the worst awakening he had ever experienced, but it was cutting it pretty damn close.

“Enough for now,” a bodiless voice spoke. Cold like the wall behind his back. Cold like the sweat that dripped down his forehead. Cold as the bitch of a land they were in. “He’s coming to.”

After a concluding hook to Letho’s jaw, the violent blob moved away, leaving the man with a lot of shades of dark gray and a chance to breathe again. Letho did, or at least tried to, but wound up coughing instead, coughing like an old man with cancer. His extremities did the instinctive thing, but their attempt to move only produced the jungle of heavy chains that kept him pinned to the wall. Not that they could do any good anyways. The legendary swordsman, famous for his endless might, was feeling that even standing up without the help of the chains would’ve been an effort. But at least his vision was clearing up. And the first thing his squinted eyes were able to recognize was a familiar face.

“You snake!” he growled at the sight of Lakin Le Comte. On any given day there would’ve been enough strength in his muscles to tear free of his restrains and break her neck. But right now all he could fling at her were words, and even they sounded feeble. “I should have known that yours was a forked tongue. I should have ripped both it and your heart out. I should have...”

“What you should do, oh noble prince Ruben,” that same frigid voice from before interrupted. Only it wasn’t coming from the woman before him. In fact, once he strained his eyes a bit more, it looked as though Lakin wasn’t moving at all, her eyes staring blankly forward and through him, as if she was sleepwalking. No, the voice came from behind the treacherous woman. And soon Letho met its owner. Trirea’s face appeared just above Lakin’s shoulder, emerging from the surrounding darkness as if it was magically conjured. “is direct your curses in the right direction.”

“You? You did this?” Of course she did. Now that he wasn’t being beaten to a pulp and actually had time to think straight, he remembered that face from just after the betraying stab. Now she moved before him serenely, almost as if hovering an inch above the ground, with a smug smirk on her face. It was still a fair face, he thought as he always did, pretty in a way a royal garden was in the middle of the winter with everything trapped in ice and snow. “Why? Is it because I...”

“Because you rejected me all those years ago?” again she cut him short. “Please, don’t be ridiculous and put a leash on your vanity. This isn’t about you. You are just a puppet that needs to play his part. Just like Lakin was. And she did her task exceptionally well.” When Trirea’s hand reached towards Lakin’s face, the paralyzed woman did not move, did not even acknowledge the pale fingers tracing her cheek line.

“What do you want then?” Letho asked. With his vision back and his senses returning, he was able to put the rippling pain under some degree of control and his mind did the hero thing as Myrhia once dubbed it. In truth, what he did was no magic and had nothing to do with heroics. All the years of experience turned Letho’s mind into somewhat of a machine, a clockwork mechanism that almost acted on its own accord. In situations such as this one, it worked on ascertaining everything and anything, any detail that might help him get out of the pickle he was in. But there was little information to gather. According to the narrow barred window just above Lakin’s head, it was still night outside which most likely meant that nobody would come looking for him for quite some time. And according to the cell he was in, it would probably do no good even if they did. They were in what looked like an abandoned dungeon, where the cobwebs were so thick that they hung from the ceiling like draperies and where the dust was so thick it felt like he was standing on half an inch of it.

“Nothing you can give me,” Trirea replied, leaving the statue made of flesh that was Lakin and approaching her chained prisoner. “Nothing that can be given. What I want can only be taken from those who have it in abundance. What I want, my dear, is power. And there is so much of it amidst these walls these days.”

“The kings. You plan to murder them?”

Trirea smiled. It was a smile that made her look ugly, a tear in her visage that revealed the darkness it hid. “Possibly. But not right now. Right now I mourn for the death of my dear brother. You see, poor old Ethiep has passed away, and I simply must bring you to justice.”

“What the hell are you talking about, wench?” Letho asked, and the woman in black was more than happy to answer.

***

King Ethiep lounges on the plump silk of the pillows spread over the majestic sofa, plucking grapes from a nearby platter and finding them unsatisfying sour. He thinks it fitting, though, for this entire trip northward to the Council is turning up to be quite sour and bitter. In all truth, he doesn’t want to be here. His claims and disputes are rather trivial ones and he doesn’t plan to gain much from the Council. But he has to be here, is obliged to be here because every other king is here and it would do nobody good if he stayed home in the arms of his paramours. It would’ve sent the wrong message, he thought.

Trirea thinks it would’ve sent the right one. It would’ve discovered to everyone just how weak of a king he had become and how uninterested he is in ruling his kingdom. Age caught up with him, she thinks, and it bestowed upon him a carelessness that a kingdom in the Warlands can ill afford. Royalty here is like blood hounds; the second they smell weakness they are snapping at your throat. She knows this, but also knows of a perfect way to remedy this situation.

“Did you find the Council as utterly dull as I did, Trirea?” Ethiep asks his sister, who is busy with pouring wine at the nearby laden table. “I swear, it was more interesting when we were at war and everybody just disliked everybody. It made for interesting arguments, if I do say so myself.”

He laughs a forced laugh, but Trirea doesn’t join him in the jape. Instead she brings him a goblet of wine and sits at his side. “Well, then you should be happy to know that Audelas will be caught in the fires of war once again. Quite soon as well.”

“Oh really?” the king, still smiling, asks, taking the cup from her hands and taking a few sloppy swallows. He fails to notice the sinister tone of her voice or the disgusted look on her face as she sees the wine dripping onto his tunic. “And you know this how? Did you listen to that old prophet lady back home? Because I tell you, she’s full of...”

“No, my dear brother,” she cuts him short and this time he notices the frown on her face and the malicious sparkle in her eyes. He also notices the sudden tightening in his chest and the rising pain in his stomach, making him feel as if something was eating away through his intestines. All of this changes his expression to a befuddled one and that makes the woman before him smile at last. “I know this because I shall strike the spark that starts the fire. I shall be the wind that would make it grow until it devours entire Audelas.”

He tries to speak, to shout, to call for his guards standing on the other side of the door, but the poison she used is a tricky one. It seems to cut off his vocal cords, making him open and close his mouth like a fish on dry land. When he tries to get up, all he manages to do is fall to his knees and clutch to his stomach. By then, Trirea is towering over him with a blade in her hand. She brings it to her brother’s neck and whispers in his ear.

“Sadly enough, you won’t be around to see it all happen. Goodbye, brother.”

***

“Wretched thing! Your own brother,” Letho spat at her, but she seemed unaffected, as if no emotion could get in or out that icy shell. His arms tugged on the chains, slightly rejuvenated but still far from being able to do some serious damage. “And for what? You think others will go to war against you because you killed him?”

“No. But they will if you did.” She walked around like a prowling cat, her eyes never leaving his, her moves slow and calculated. “See, my dear Ruben, once we kill you and deliver your body to my brother’s chambers, I will make sure that everybody knows that you murdered the poor king in his sleep. And that my personal guard...” At the sound of these words, a mountain of a man stepped out from the shadows. Letho didn’t know him, but he was rather certain that those monstrously large hands are the ones that held Genth a foot above the ground. Those same hands were now wrapped around the Audrin Sword. “...arrived just in time to bring you to justice. Unfortunately, you resisted so they had to end you as well. Leaving poor old mourning me as the only witness. And I’ll make sure they proclaim war on Savion come morning.”

“A clever plan.” The voice, belonging to neither Trirea nor her barbarian, made every person in the clammy room flinch, nearly cutting the woman’s last word off. It too was cold and calculated, but in an unnerving, unnatural manner, as if whoever owned it cared for nothing whatsoever. Stepping out from behind one of the columns, king Malagen came forward with his saber drawn and a chill in his eyes that made the winter in Trirea’s feel like mild spring. “Shame it will never come to pass. Now release these two and I might let you live.”

[Lakin_of_DpN]

The High Monk who had acted as a guide to Malagen had not uttered a word. He simply stood in behind the group, his lips curled in a slow calculated smile, hypnotized by a pair of black deadly eyes in a slender, porcelain face. Obediently waiting in the dappled shadows of the passageway.

“Let me live!” Trirea mocked in a hiss, the words spraying with spittle from her lips.“Do you think you are here by chance?”

Malagen had no illusions. The moment he heard Trirea’s voice emerge from the darkness he concealed the sinking feeling slowly draining his face. His body tensed, and his mind was alert. Only Letho would recognize his struggle to remain in control. Malagen was a seasoned soldier and would not display one inkling of weakness to the enemy confronting him. “I will thank your traitorous Monk at the first opportunity Trirea,” Malagen responded, his eyes flashing with spirit.

Draque moved the razor sharp edge of the Audrin sword toward Letho’s neck with one hand, and yanked Genth close, pulling him with him across the room with the other. They silhouetted as a foreboding shadow against the torch light that Malagen’s party brought into the dungeon with them. Genth’s groaned response to the iron fingers around his throat was instant and pain-wracked. He was rewarded with a clout to the head that knocked him out cold. “It is you who will lay down your weapons or I will cut your fathers throat,” Draque said in a lazy, drawling tone.

“I can not allow you to do that,” Malagen replied calmly, clenching his right hand around his saber. Leaning close, the young King spoke with Hydont, but his eyes were wholly focused on Draque. “Can you handle Trirea?”

“With pleasure,” Hydont whispered. “But to tell the truth I am a little worried about the Lady—Lakin. She has little chance of coming out of this alive.”

“I will do everything I can,” Malagen murmured, aware that events had taken a completely ill-favored turn.

“Dram filth!” Hydont raged, stepping forward so that his body protected his Kings.

Trirea grinned evilly. “His name is Draque,” she volunteered. “The last and most powerful of the Dram Lords, as you will soon come to find out.”

Malagen was silent, but his eyes narrowed and his muscles bunched and tightened in reaction to the Dram name, he stood easily inside the curved, stone doorway, his gaze fixed on the blade at his father’s throat. “You know that is not going to be the answer, because as soon as you do that we are going to be all over you,” he warned low and menacing. His attention was taken with his father’s welfare, so he wasn’t watching as a horde of unnatural darkness curled up behind the cloaked Trirea delivering four heaving wyrm beasts.

“But you will not have your precious Savior Prince, will you?” Draque snarled, pinning Malagen with a wild look, “he will be gone forever.”

~~~

In the light filtering from between the iron slats of the window, Letho could see his blood drenched shirt, the dagger and other sundry items littering the floor, indicating that Trirea’s plan was almost complete and that she had been using this dungeon as a meeting place for some time. Outside the darkness was a mantle that covered the land in a thick, black shroud and from somewhere amidst the gloom his son had found him and advanced on Trirea. Letho drew in a ragged breath; he wrestled with the iron chains and despite his struggles remained tied to the wall bound across his entire body. When he growled in protest, Trirea tore a strip of cloth and stuffed it into his mouth.

Gagged as he was, Letho was determined to fight. He bent his head and closed his eyes gathering the little strength he had—calling his power to him. This was a power of his that he seldom used, a concentration that defied the dimness of the tiny space that held him. A power that stirred kernels of life so strong, that the surroundings melted away, along with the stale smells and the dank air, leaving only the faintly familiar sense of Lakin’s presence within his reach. His attempt to help her would be short, because he couldn’t sustain the effort for long, he wasn’t even sure he’d survive when it was over. What he was sure of was that she would not end up like his Kristiniel, he could not save his wife from death at the hands of the Dram, but he damn well would save Lakin.

He brought the power to himself, condensing it all into one pulsing body of raw force in his mind, until it was so vivid, so dense that the luster burned beyond the human eye. Staring directly at Lakin, Letho sent all that manifested energy out, aiming straight as a spear at her mind. He sought her essence exactly where he thought it would be and immediately created a barrier, shielding her protectively from Trirea.

After a moment Letho opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath, which made a muffled sound deep in his throat.

~~~

Out of nowhere, illumination burst through the dark mist hovering over Lakin’s mind. It was like a stream of energy flowed straight from Letho into the heart of Trirea’s now fading black possession. At first nothing happened, then waves of light rippled out—it’s radiance intensifying, and in a whisper Letho’s voice came from beyond the brilliance. Instantly, Lakin could discern shapes and substance around her. Her eyes that held a deathlike glance, flickered, and the thin black veins that streaked her forehead revealing the bold tracks of Trirea’s poisonous influence, faded. Her pale drawn skin and expressionless face glowed and the carven, lifeless figure she once was in the prison of Trirea’s enthrall, diminished.

Stiff with cold, she forced herself to stay on her feet, her legs felt leaden but she knew her life depended on her ability to move. Her soft white gown was torn and stained with grime and in a few places with blood—Letho’s blood. She shivered thinking about the long shocked look in Letho’s eyes when she’d stabbed him in the back. The most horrific part was the fact that the entire time she was caught in Trirea’s pitiless enchantment, she was fully aware, unable to resist, unable to protest. A moan of exhausted anger shuddered through her. She had no real idea of how long she’d been down here. The chore of calculating was beyond her in her present state, her mind was still a haze—all she knew was that she had to do something, anything. Hoping to distract Draque and Trirea long enough for Malagen to strike, Lakin lunged forward for the dagger lying on floor in front of her.

Trirea whirled around just as she opened her mouth to speak, catching Lakin out of the corner of her eye. “Stop her,” cried Trirea, shattering the tomblike silence of the dungeon

In two giant bounds a wyrm devil was there. Lakin heard the screech of something; she felt its claws bite deeply into her flesh, the glacial chill of its breath on her skin and its crushing grip as it hauled her up by the neck suspended in the air above its head. Emptiness above her, below her, to either side of her. Pain closing in.

Compelled by survival she swiftly raised her hands above her head and plunged downward with the dagger (she’d barely snatched up) lodging the blade deep in the creature’s weak spot, at the back of the neck. The beast roared in pain. It dropped back on its haunches, shoulders slumped, and at that moment, it did not look like a vicious living thing, it just looked like a tired old soldier.

[Letho]

Commotion caused by Lakin and her newfound vigor was all the distraction Malagen needed to make his move. Draque's eyes darted sideways. Trirea's locked on her renegade thrall and the vanquished wyrm. Lakin's stared blankly at her own hands as if they failed to recognize them for what they were. Only Letho's saw the lightning fast advance of the Savion King. Malagen swept down on Draque like a hawk unleashed, smooth and fast and almost soundless, a blurry shadow in a theater of shadows. His thrust was perfect, his saber moving almost like an extension of his arm, sliding in the minimal space between the threatening Audrin Sword and Letho's defenseless throat. It was more than enough to draw Draque's attention back to the task at hand, but before the Dram got the chance to execute his prisoner, Malagen bounced his blade away with what looked like no more than a flick of his swordarm, then followed it up by slamming his shoulder into the barbarian's chest. The strike would've sent a lesser man sprawling, but Draque only stumbled back a couple of steps, more surprised than harmed.

Malagen positioned himself between his chained father and the Dram warrior, his pale face as still as if it was chiseled out of stone. “Dram Lord you are not, lout,” he chastised Draque in an icy cold voice, swiping his blade sideways before bringing it to a complete halt. His words seemed to strike his opponent harder than any sword, causing the hulking man to tighten his grip on his blade, stubbornly defying the truth. The Dram Lords had perished many a century ago, they both knew, victims to their own combative nature and endless conquests. But the stories of their might remained, tales to which no warrior of today could live up to, not even the legendary ones such as Letho Ravenheart. “A true Lord of the North meets his opponents in an open field of battle, not some dank cellar. A true Lord buys his steel with blood, not by bedding whores and backstabbers.” Trirea's jaw clenched a bit tighter as Malagen's pale eyes stabbed at her own with an almost lazy glare. “A true Lord fights for honor, not power.”

Draque spat, a faintest trace of a grin appearing on his unshaven face. “And that is why there are none of them left,” the savage replied, giving his newly acquired sword a twirl. “I shall take the whores and the cellars and the power. You can keep your stinking honor, oh great king.”

He came at Malagen like an avalanche, a hunk of mountain that broke off and came tumbling straight at him, swinging his weapon in a wide, chest-high horizontal arc. Such was the might behind the blow that it probably would've cleaved Malagen in half had he not dropped under it. His saber didn't rise to meet the savage blow, though; instead Malagen struck at the flat side of the Audrin Sword from below, sending it further upwards. The blade missed Letho's head by less than an inch before it clanged against the shackles that kept his left hand chained to the wall, shattering the iron links. And before Draque managed to get his bearings, Malagen was on him again, springing from below and tacking the large man. This time they both went down against the hard stone, but even as they did Draque shoved one knee upwards, flipping Malagen over with what seemed like no effort at all.

Despite the tumble, Malagen never really lost footing. He landed in a roll, then rose as calm as still water. Not even his hair seemed to move, the long black threads coming down around his face like a perfect black curtain. Draque did a rising handspring, his own hair as wild as a forest, and just in time to fend of a barrage of strikes from his opponent. Steel met steel over and over again as Malagen pushed the larger swordsman back with a fury of blows, each strike faster than the last one, forcing him to defend.

“Beasts!” Trirea shouted, her voice a deep echo in the clangor amidst the dungeon walls. The three wyrm warriors, keen on tearing Lakin apart for ending the life of one of the kin, reluctantly turned their heads to the black-haired aristocrat. “You two, help your master,” she commanded, sounding more a battle commander and less a lady of the court. “You, bring me the head of the stubborn bitch!”

“Not bloody likely, whore,” a gruff voice said, heralding Lord Hydont who came in between the scaled beast and the awoken beauty. His longsword was drawn, his cloak tossed over his shoulder, his eyes full of aged wisdom looking down at Lakin. “Go! Help lord Letho, get him out.” Lakin hesitated for a moment, still struggling with the surge of power that pulsed throughout her every muscle, but then the claws came at them and the old knight met them with his longsword and she knew better than to linger.

She dashed across the room, giving the center a wide berth and doing her best not to get caught in Malagen's struggle against Draque and his two bestial lackeys. The Savion King seemed so small in comparison that she feared every crush could be the end of him, but he could move. It was as if he could predict every movement, as if this was all a dance to him and he knew the steps by heart, never missing a beat. Looking at him at that moment, Lakin thought him invincible. Letho knew better. Nobody was faultless. His son was the best swordsman he ever met, but he was still just a man. His calculated mind might be able to keep the pace, but the body had its limits, and once that line is crossed he would fall.

With so many things going on around her, it seemed to Lakin that it took minutes for her to reach Letho when it was only seconds. “My lord? Letho?” she asked, half-fearing that he would regard with the cold blank stare of the dead and half-fearing that she would find fury there, just before his free hand snapped her neck. “I am sorry, Letho. I am so sorry. I... I did not know... I could not...” she tried feebly to apologize for something she had no control over, her fingers fumbling with the shackle around his right wrist. When his left hand moved she gasped, certain he would wrap his fingers around her throat. Instead he merely placed it on her shoulder, the weight of her body pressing her down. The poison and the beating took a toll on him, and the outburst of power he sent Lakin made him more fatigued than he ever felt, making even standing upright an effort. His world was filled with pain and struggle against unconsciousness. The fighting just beyond Lakin seemed in an another dimension right now.

The cuffs refused to give in no matter how hard she jammed her dagger into the keyhole, but the chains were rusty, ancient things, probably of the same age as the dungeon itself. She pushed her blade into one of the links closest to the wall, the tip scrapping against the stone as she used it as a lever. It took a few tries, but eventually the iron gave way. Without the chain supporting him, Letho's weight pressed down on her even more, so much so that she almost felt her knees bucking beneath their combined weight. She held on, though, Letho's own power giving her strength to push him back against the wall while she freed his ankles.

By the time she was done, Malagen was saying: “Get out of here” and Hydont echoed his liege with “We shall hold them” and other things that couldn't be heard in the midst of all the fighting. But it was no use. She couldn't carry Letho. And even if she could, where would they go? By know Trirea probably had them all labeled as traitors and the entire castle guard would be searching for them.

“Where? Where should we go?” She was desperate, inching away from the battle with Letho leaning heavily on her shoulder.

“Two rooms back,” Malagen managed to utter in between a parry and a pivoting spin. Draque seemed in a blood craze, growling as furiously as the beasts that fought at his sides. The barbarian himself didn't seem harmed, but the two wyrms bled from several places across their scaled bodies. They came at him doubly hard it seemed to her, so much so that their shouts and curses nearly drowned his own voice. All she could hear was: “grate... back....... room... sewers...” and then a clawed fist punched him in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. “GO!” was the last thing she heard, a vibrant shout uncharacteristic for the composed Savion King. And then they were alone in the darkness of the dungeon.

It took some searching and backtracking and stubbed toes and a lot of tapping in the dark, but eventually they came upon what Malagen had tried to direct them to. Letho was still with her, his voice growling into her ear that they should go back, that they should help his son, that they should bring Trirea to justice. But even if his mind was stubborn, his body seemed to know better, his feet following Lakin's lead willingly enough. The iron grate that covered the hole in the stone tiles was half eaten by rust, surely a trap for anybody who would step onto it in the dark. It took a couple of firm kicks of Lakin's foot before it went clanking trough the sewage chute, splashing in a river of waste a moment later. They both knelt before the opening, readying themselves for the plunge.

“We came here as lords and ladies,” Letho said, suddenly sounding fully awake and himself again. “And we leave as traitors and murderers. Fate, such a fickle thing.” And then he went tumbling down like a sack of apples, headfirst.

Neither of them was aware for how long they were carried by the current that coursed through the intricate pipework beneath the castle. Several times they found themselves shoved against the stone as the canal forked, but by the time they were spewed out into the harbor with the rest of the waste it was still dark and the moon still dominated the skyline. Letho floated in the dirty water like flotsam, his eyes gazing at the stars above as his bruises throbbed and his cuts stung from the salty water. The water was ice cold, wrapping him in a blanket of glass that stabbed at him with its cool jagged edges, and yet he was so jaded that he was almost content to remain right there until he either drowned or froze. But soon enough Lakin was at this side, looking almost as miserable as he with her wet hair clinging to her face in thick black locks. Together they managed to make their way to the shore, Letho a little more than dead weight she had to lug in her wake. By the time they struck shore, they were both wet and spent and shivering, their drenched clothes so cold it made them hurt all over.

They probably would've died right then and there, turned into human icicles by the harsh winter night, had not a familiar face appear above them, hovering like an apparition. “Boy, how many times do I have to snatch you from the hands of death?” the gray-haired man asked, tossing his cape over Letho's shirtless body. The rough woolen cloak felt as soft and warm as if it was made out of sunbeams. Other faces appeared as well, some Letho recognized as those of his own men, others he couldn't link with correct names (though he suspected one of them was Baltham, Lakin's guard).

“Lothirgan,” he tried to say as he was picked up by two pairs of hands. “Malagen... We must...WE MUST AID HIM!” he shouted, but whether he actually gave voice to those last words he couldn't say with certainty. Because reality finally slipped away from his eyes, replaced by the darkness, warm and hollow and inviting, like the embrace of a seductress.

[Letho]

In his dreams, a great direwolf stood alone in the middle of a clearing. The forest was dark around it, the night descending like a foreboding mist that threatened to erase the world. But there were things in that blackness that were darker still, shadows made corporeal, nightmares with crimson eyes that prowled in the night. The proud beast sensed their approach, dropping its head low and barring its razor-sharp fangs, but the threatening growl of the wolf did nothing to scare off the demons. "Flee!" Letho wanted to shout at the solitary beast, but only his mind's eye made it into the dream world and his voice couldn't be heard. But even if it did, Letho knew it would make little difference. This was a Savion wolf, a creature too proud to tuck tail and run, too stubborn to yield to its enemies. It would emerge victorious or it would perish in the attempt.

When the monsters finally closed in on the lone wolf and swooped towards it, however, Letho knew there could be no victory against them. The beast bit and pounced, but the claws made of inky darkness tore more of its flesh with each deadly pass they made. And for every shadow the wolf tore apart, two more sprang to life. The dark grey fur was soon black with blood, the wolf limping as it turned towards the next attacker, but still it growled, still it was defiant. Though little more than a disembodied presence, Letho tried to will himself to move and aid the beast. And to his surprise, he did move forwards, gliding as if he had wheels instead of feet. But when he looked down toward his own hands, he could see they were not hands at all. He stared at the claws made of night itself, and when he charged at the wolf, those claws did their vicious work and tore through fur and flesh as if they weren't even there. The beast finally lost ground and stumbled, its clear blue eyes staring at the monster that dealt the deathblow. There was no fury in those eyes anymore, no pain, not even sadness. Only... regret?

The wolf lifted its head one last time and howled at the sky, its wail low and mighty and somehow terrible, and then closed its eyes for the last time.

***

Letho woke up with a startle, sitting up in his cot and shouting his son's name. His mighty fists were curled around something, squeezing it tight, and for a brief moment a scare passed over him that he would look at his own hands and see those black claws again, digging into the fur of the wolf from his dreams. But when his eyes dropped down and his vision came into focus, the swordsman could see only his old calloused hands, clenching for the rags that might've been the bed sheets once. He shook his head once, then immediately regretted doing so when a spear of pain stabbed through his temples. Still, despite the horrendous headache, he swung his legs sideways and pushed himself up, pausing for the world around him to stop rocking back and forth. It failed to do so and after a brief inspection, Letho understood why. He was on a boat, somewhere below deck, and the sea was anything but calm around them, sending wave after wave crashing against the hull of the ship.

"Back amongst the living?" Lothirgan said, drawing Letho's attention. His old mentor was sitting in the far corner of the room, with an oily cloth in one hand and a sword hilt in the other. The blade that rested on his lap Letho recognized even in the dim light of flickering candles. It was his own.

"Where are we?" Letho asked.

"On a boat," the gray veteran replied. When Letho cast a piercing glare at him, the one that warned the old man not to be coy with him, Lothirgan elaborated. "We are on a course back to Savion. It appears we wore out our welcome in Tigan."

The groggy swordsman wasn't surprised, not after the mess they've gotten themselves into. "Is the king safe?" was his next question, spoken as he moved towards a pitcher and a basin. When he splashed some water on his hand and the answer didn't come, he wasn't worried; Lothirgan was never a hasty man. He talked slowly and thought slowly and read slowly. But when he was done washing his face and Lothirgan still remained silence, a sliver of fear appeared. "Where is he, old man? Where is your king?"

"Savion has a king no more," he said dryly, dropping his eyes back to the adamantine blade. The silence that ensued was almost palpable, a wicked, hanging thing, like a corpse on the gallows.

"What? Has he been captured?" Letho demanded, hoping beyond hope for a positive answer, refusing to acknowledge the most obvious explanation. Lothirgan said nothing. "Surely he cannot be... Not by the likes of them. Answer me, damn you? Where is my son?!"

Still Lothirgan said nothing. His hand kept sliding down the length of the blade, his wrinkled hands shivering minutely. Only when Letho grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up did he speak again. "Savion has a king no more," he repeated.

"To hells with you!" the legendary swordsman shouted, dropping the man back in the seat. He went towards the door, struggling against the constant motion of the floor beneath him, but reaching the hallway nonetheless. To the yeoman that stood next to the entrance of the room he said: "Go to the captain. Tell him to turn us around! We are going back to..."

"Belay that order!" came a shout from the room.

"Back to Cenyth," Letho concluded.

"I said, belay that order!" Lothirgan again, this time from just behind Letho, his commanding voice so powerful that it made the green seaman reel backwards in an instant.

"Give me my sword, Lothirgan," Letho said to the veteran, his hand outstretched. Lothirgan eyed it, then the sword, then finally Letho, his eyes never sharper, never more incisive.

"To what end? There are no enemies aboard."

"Unless you turn this ship about, I have one in this very room."

The words stung the ancient weaponmaster more than Letho could possibly imagine. Lothirgan had sworn to serve the Ravenheart family the moment he was knighted, sworn an oath that confined him to the lifelong servitude. And never in those long years has he done anything to bring harm to the Ravenheart family. He had sacrificed everything for their protection, dedicated his entire life to serve as a shield against the enemies of Savion. And even now, despite what Letho thought about him, he was protecting the Ravenhearts. He was protecting Letho from himself.

He sheathed the sword in a single smooth motion and offered it to his prince, hilt first. But even as Letho wrapped his fingers around the blade, Lothirgan's hands grabbed at him, his left locking on Letho's wrist while his right dipped beneath his arm. In one spry move, he spun and lifted Letho over his back, tossing him across the full length of the room. The bulky warrior landed back on his cot, crashing the supports with his weight. And when his eyes reopened, Lothirgan was towering over him. But his old mentor looked down at him not with eyes filled with wrath or self-righteousness.; instead there was a look of compassion. A look of remorse. He understood loss as well as anybody. Two kings he had outlived now, two kings and most of his family and friends. Yes, he understood grief, for it seemed to be the theme of his life.

"Listen to me, boy." The old man knelt next to Letho's sprawled figure, the eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows brimming with tears, an occurrence so rare that Letho witnessed it for the first time in all his years. "You are all that is left now, the last Ravenheart. I cannot lose you as well. Savion cannot lose you as well." His hand, still fast enough to surprise even the likes of Letho Ravenheart, now rested calmly on Letho's shoulder. "You have two choices now. You can cut me down and go seek death in Tigan, or you can grieve with me and lead Savion to victory against its enemies."

For the briefest of moments, Letho actually considered the first option; it would've been so easy to go on a mad rampage and die on foolish quest for vengeance. There were certainly worse ways to perish. But it was the selfish choice, he knew, a coward's choice. And while Letho was many things, coward he was not. So when Lothirgan offered an open hand, Letho accepted it. "Aye, let us grieve, and plot the downfall of our enemies."

***

Standing at the stern of the ship with hands crossed before his chest, Letho gazed at the wake their vessel made in the black sea below. The storm had finally quieted down, the black clouds blown off their course by a strong southern wind, leaving them to relatively smooth sailing. Every once in a while his eyes would lift upwards, directed where the horizon was supposed to be, staring into the benighted distance. Somewhere in that direction, beyond the veil of darkness, his son has died. The king of Savion was burned at the stake, as was Tigan custom, which meant that they were robbed of even a proper funeral. There was some comfort to be found in Lothirgan confession which stated that Malagen never screamed, never even registered his executioners, refused them the pleasure of hearing him cry out. It wasn't much of a comfort, that stoic bravery, but it was a step in the right direction, one which didn't lead to immediate doom.

"Letho?" a coy voice inquired, and the swordsman recognized it without turning around. Last time he heard it, he had been chained to a wall, she was trying to set him free and Malagen was still alive. Alive and magnificent in his battle with the wyrms. He greeted Lakin with a courtesy nod and a dry "my lady", then returned his gaze to sea. For several moments the two just stood there in silence, gazing at the emptiness around them, with only the sloshing of the waves and the low whistle of the wind to accompany them. Lakin Le Comte knew that she was probably the last person Letho wanted to see right now, but she felt the need to say something, to apologize, to do anything to rectify the situation. And so she was the first one to break the silence.

"I... I am sorry. About Malagen. Lothirgan, he told me what happened," she started, her voice unsure, breaking up, closer to tears with each word spoken. "It’s all my fault," she finally said, turning away from him and seeking some solace in the sea. She found none, nothing that could take this burden off of her heart, this weight that threatened to crush her very soul.

Letho wanted to blame the woman. It would've been so easy to do so, to lay the responsibility for the death of his son on someone else, to reach for the sword at his waist and end her right then and there. But easy and right seldom coincided, and he knew that even if he did that, he would find no justice there. Lakin might've been at the center of it all, but she was but a pawn, Trirea's way of getting what she wanted. Her only fault was trying to do something for him, and he couldn't blame her for that. Not even if her doing so led to the death of his own son.

"No," he said after a silence so long and heavy that she almost decided to depart from his side. "The blame for Malagen's death rests not on you, Lakin Le Comte, for you are probably the only one faultless in all of this. I can no more blame you than I can blame a sword for being a sword. Trirea used you, and if you had not come along, she would have used someone else."

Lakin didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't even imagine how difficult it must've been for him to say those words that eased some of the guilt that threatened to crush her, and thus couldn't find a way to respond to that. How exactly were you supposed to respond to someone forgiving you for getting their son killed?

"What are we going to do?" the woman asked, barely even aware of the pronoun she used that implied they were in this together.

"I am going to destroy them," he responded.

"But the other kingdoms... What if they join Tigan and Trirea?"

"They killed my son," Letho said, his eyes meeting hers. And though his tone was calm and his posture relaxed, there was such anger in his eyes that she felt as if the storm was raging around them still. "I shall slay them all."

[Taskmienster]

The Seven Kingdoms of Audelas :: As requested, commentary where necessary for both of you. Also, I took note that your thread is only 15 posts, but each post is much longer due to the way it was written. I’ll take that into effect when rewarding exp. No other rewards were requested, so as to gain something bigger in the next one, and that’s fine.

Continuity 8

Setting 8

Pacing 6

Dialogue 7

:: At times the dialogue was somewhat difficult to figure out who was talking, because it was one line followed by someone else speaking one line, and again. Sometimes it was easy, such as when two people were talking obviously a while before that. At other times, I thought two people were talking, but there was about three lines of dialogue that would make me wonder if one person said two different single lines and there was a response… or if there were two people talking and one other responded. Be careful to keep things clear.

Action 7.5

Persona 8

Technique 7

Mechanics 7

:: Lakin :: Be careful with your overuse or missing comma’s, they’re prevalent through your writing. For example; from the first post; “she moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on, just how hard her journey out to the Kingdom of Tigan would really be.” – after and pondered on you shouldn’t have a comma, because then it reads like two clauses that don’t fit together. “She moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on just how hard…” flows much better than “She moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on [pause] just how hard…”

Clarity 6

:: Lakin :: From Post 1; “Her mind unshackled, and she flew like a bird through the pure, white twilight, that she had been encouraged to accept by the Cenyth monks.” – This is one of the sentences that you have scattered here and there in your writing. It’s a bit difficult to understand, as it is not grammatically incorrect on Word, but it is definitely an incomplete sentence. First thing that would make it clearer would be removing the “and” before “she flew”. Also, “that she had been encouraged” and that clause doesn’t fit in. I tried to think of how to re-work it so that it would make sense, but can’t seem to. Maybe “, [in the way] that she had been…” but not sure, that’s about the only thing I could think because it’s unclear as to the intent of the clause.

Wild Card 7


Score: 71.5


Rewards:
Letho :: 6,019 exp | 0 gold and no spoils as requested.

Lakin of DpN :: 1,028 exp | 0 gold and no spoils as requested.

[Taskmienster]

Exp and GP added.

Lakin is now level 1!