Arden
10-18-13, 10:24 AM
Prologue
Van Hildegard, Knight of Brae, was long dead. He rested in the Mausoleum of the Swan, a vast, marble building next to the royal palace. A century’s worth of dead men, heroes, and martyrs rested alongside him. His tomb was overwrought, ornate, and unrivalled in grandeur. In the day, vigils held at his feet drew crowds of hundreds. In the night, candles burnt in his honour until dawn.
Arden Janelle and Rouge DuBoe watched the mourning with bewilderment. Neither grasped the forces at work. Neither could idolise a man they knew to be corrupt. Not all the Knights had their pockets lined by the Empire, but Van Hildegard had put Corone first, and Scara Brae second. He, in the eyes of the Scourge, was a monster.
“I just don’t get it,” she said with a sigh. Her cold, calculating intellect came undone when faced with such free-flowing emotions.
Arden folded his arms over his chest, rested his weight onto his left leg, and tapped the cobbles with his right boot. In the midday sun, he was ablaze, every inch of his red tunic and cloak danced with flame. He chuckled.
“Hey, it’s not funny,” she ribbed him with the pommel of her dagger.
“Oh lighten up Rouge, you know I mean well.” He pointed to the northern apex of the mausoleum’s roof. Up in the lifters, gulls flocked back and forth in frantic droves. The eaves they nested in had once been a rich mahogany, now they were dull, washed out grey. “Leper’s ready.”
Sure enough, when Rouge craned her neck and focused the lens of her goggles, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow and a single, piercing white dot. Their companion, man werewolf and well-dressed orator, clung to the rock as though his life depended on it. Fortunately, for Leper, the three hundred foot drop to the solid slate floor would only prove painful, and not fatal to his metallic body.
“When’re we making our move?” she asked. She looked up at Arden expectantly.
With a long, drawn out series of movements, he unsheathed his sword, the Fang. Its single-edged blade flared white in the sun, and then clashed its tip against the cobbles as he dropped it to his side. He lengthened his cloak so it touched the ground, and extended the cloth around his shoulders, and over the mastiff shaped moulding on his pauldron.
“Wait until the bell tower convenes the council.” He gestured up through the stained glass dome. Through the orange and red mosaic, the tallest spires of Valeena’s palace shone like a torch in the midday sun. There, in the Zenith Chamber, the Court of the Knights of Brae were donning their armour and rehearsing their regalia and pomp.
“Are we to proceed as the Maester planned?”
He nodded.
“Proceed as planned,” he said flatly. Rouge would never know of his deviation from the Maester’s stratagems.
“Good,” she clucked. She skittered after him, her quirky bodice laced tight, and her bug-eyed face examining every inch of their environment.
Come sunrise, another of the Knights of Brae Provosts would be dead. This time it would be a starkly public death, to serve as the Scara Scourge’s declaration of war. They would be a principality no longer. They would be free come winter’s end. Valeena would be a true Queen, and Scara Brae a worthy throne.
Van Hildegard, Knight of Brae, was long dead. He rested in the Mausoleum of the Swan, a vast, marble building next to the royal palace. A century’s worth of dead men, heroes, and martyrs rested alongside him. His tomb was overwrought, ornate, and unrivalled in grandeur. In the day, vigils held at his feet drew crowds of hundreds. In the night, candles burnt in his honour until dawn.
Arden Janelle and Rouge DuBoe watched the mourning with bewilderment. Neither grasped the forces at work. Neither could idolise a man they knew to be corrupt. Not all the Knights had their pockets lined by the Empire, but Van Hildegard had put Corone first, and Scara Brae second. He, in the eyes of the Scourge, was a monster.
“I just don’t get it,” she said with a sigh. Her cold, calculating intellect came undone when faced with such free-flowing emotions.
Arden folded his arms over his chest, rested his weight onto his left leg, and tapped the cobbles with his right boot. In the midday sun, he was ablaze, every inch of his red tunic and cloak danced with flame. He chuckled.
“Hey, it’s not funny,” she ribbed him with the pommel of her dagger.
“Oh lighten up Rouge, you know I mean well.” He pointed to the northern apex of the mausoleum’s roof. Up in the lifters, gulls flocked back and forth in frantic droves. The eaves they nested in had once been a rich mahogany, now they were dull, washed out grey. “Leper’s ready.”
Sure enough, when Rouge craned her neck and focused the lens of her goggles, she caught a glimpse of a black shadow and a single, piercing white dot. Their companion, man werewolf and well-dressed orator, clung to the rock as though his life depended on it. Fortunately, for Leper, the three hundred foot drop to the solid slate floor would only prove painful, and not fatal to his metallic body.
“When’re we making our move?” she asked. She looked up at Arden expectantly.
With a long, drawn out series of movements, he unsheathed his sword, the Fang. Its single-edged blade flared white in the sun, and then clashed its tip against the cobbles as he dropped it to his side. He lengthened his cloak so it touched the ground, and extended the cloth around his shoulders, and over the mastiff shaped moulding on his pauldron.
“Wait until the bell tower convenes the council.” He gestured up through the stained glass dome. Through the orange and red mosaic, the tallest spires of Valeena’s palace shone like a torch in the midday sun. There, in the Zenith Chamber, the Court of the Knights of Brae were donning their armour and rehearsing their regalia and pomp.
“Are we to proceed as the Maester planned?”
He nodded.
“Proceed as planned,” he said flatly. Rouge would never know of his deviation from the Maester’s stratagems.
“Good,” she clucked. She skittered after him, her quirky bodice laced tight, and her bug-eyed face examining every inch of their environment.
Come sunrise, another of the Knights of Brae Provosts would be dead. This time it would be a starkly public death, to serve as the Scara Scourge’s declaration of war. They would be a principality no longer. They would be free come winter’s end. Valeena would be a true Queen, and Scara Brae a worthy throne.