“What weapon did you wield?” Arabella asked stiffly, afraid her voice would betray her emotions to the others.
“The Dagger of Night,” Wynn whispered, watching the last of the flames die from Braelyn’s arms, the name made bile rise in her throat, a weapon that had taken countless lives at Procel’s whim.
“That is impossible,” Arabella replied, “it is a legend, a myth; the dagger was wielded by the first Magus and Mages in existence, beings of true power.”
Wynn studied the dagger, like the swords the Shadow Army had wielded it was not made of metal, or any man made material. It was made of darkness, swirling night made whole and hard by a magic more powerful than seemed conceivable. She did not know how she held it, certainly it had tested her but the thought of leaving it here, in the mountain made her suddenly overwhelmingly upset, with purpose she sheathed the dagger on her belt and felt instantly better for it.
The traveller’s fell silent once more, defeat smothering them to their knees.
***
Byron’s mouth was gagged. He could feel the rough, frayed material rub against his teeth and it made him want to retch. He was lying down, on his back, in something that was moving from side to side jerkily. He could see nothing and was unsure whether he had been blindfolded. He tried to move his hands but found them shackled to the floor; the chains clinked against each other on every bump. He strained to hear anything but only the sound of carriage wheels grinding on stone filled his senses. He was heading somewhere fast. They moved that way for some time and Byron almost relaxed into the rhythm.
“Halt!” A voice called from outside, and the carriage stopped violently. Byron hit his head against the floor at the sudden stop and gritted his teeth, pain darting through his skull. There was the sound of wood splintering and the lid of Byron’s prison was lifted. The smell of the sea drifted towards Byron, and the sound of water crashing against the docks. Light flooded through the open roof and Byron squinted against it. His captors lent over the edge, silhouetted in the bright light, one lent in and grabbed Byron by the shirt and shook him, Byron groaned, his aching body screaming in pain.
“He’s still alive,” the man grunted letting go of Byron’s shirt. Byron watched them carefully, his eyes slowly grew accustomed to the light and he could now see the faces of his captors. Two men, rugged and scarred, hair long and greasy, scraped back with a leather bind; their clothes soaked in sweat and beer. Men of the army; Woodstone’s army. They were working out of Byron’s line of vision. There was a loud grunt and the walls of Byron’s prison fell apart, the wood shattering with the force. He glanced around quickly, knowing this may be the only chance to memorise his surroundings. He was at a dock. The sea danced far across the horizon and the azure sky met it brilliantly.
The sound of men shouting rushed around Byron, it was as though he had been deaf; everything seemed louder and clearer after his long journey. One of the captors struggled to unlock the shackles that held Byron, his fingers too large to hold the key correctly. Byron’s eyes darted for an escape; the carriage was in an alley, out of the way of the bustling crowds. Houses lined the walkway. Opposite, several small boats rocked gently on the water, the rope keeping them from drifting off into the distance. To the left sat four ships, each one made entirely of wood and steel. All lay silent save one, men were carrying cargo up the gangplank and throwing things they did not need into the water.
“Hurry up, let him walk by his self but keep a firm grip on his arm,” the hairier of the two hissed as the shackles popped open with a small click. He grabbed Byron’s arm and set him onto the cobbles. The ground shook under Byron’s feet and he found he was glad of the arm supporting him. They discarded the carriage and walked into the crowd, blending in skilfully. The smell of the sea was crisp and fresh compared to his captivity and he found himself appreciating it, even though he was sure he walking to his death. Seagulls cried out above them, begging for food. The water lapped against the wooden walk way, Byron wanted to jump, to take his life before it was taken for him, but the hairy man had his arm tight and was not about to let go.
“Walk quicker,” the other man hissed at Byron. Byron started, he had not realised he had been dawdling. Realisation suddenly dawned as he walked alongside the soldiers. He was in Southern Terra, at one of the ports where criminal’s banished to The Rune were taken. He felt suddenly ill at the thought. He wanted to create a commotion, for someone to help him but he knew what he looked like, another criminal banished to The Rune. So he quickened his pace and kept up with the men, even though his legs shook with exhaustion and his lungs howled for air. He was right, no one looked at him, and if they did it was a fleeting glance to see the face of a criminal.
He reached the gangplank; the men that had been lifting the cargo nodded to his two captors and motioned with a jerk of their head to take Byron onto the ship. The deck was awash with commotion, supplies lay discarded against the masts and railings. Byron studied each man as they passed him, muscles strained against their clothes. Compared he was helpless and weak; if death was his destiny he had no way to prevent it.
“Take him to the Captain’s quarters,” a man called to the hairy soldier that held Byron, as he walked past carrying a wooden box full of swords. Byron took a deep breath and allowed his captor to take him down the steps and along the corridor to the Captain’s quarters. Light poured through a large glass window opposite the door. A table sat in the middle of the room, a desk to the left and a small bed to the right. It was cold and unlived in, everything was immaculate. The man holding Byron let go of his arm and walked out of the room silently, locking the door behind him.
“Well, don’t you look weak,” a voice mocked from behind Byron, Byron jumped forward and from the shadows stepped the General. His face was cold, a few fading bruises lined his eyes, bruises Byron had inflicted on him. Byron felt sure death lay moments away; he took a deep breath and stared at the General.
“Aren’t you going to speak, did my men beat you so badly that you have lost the ability to defend yourself?” The General snapped, circling Byron, the sound of his footsteps resounded in time with Byron’s beating heart.
“Speak!” The General commanded grabbing Byron’s shirt and balling it in his fist.
“I am not weak,” Byron hissed, his shirt pulling at his body uncomfortably, “what you call weakness is merely mercy and what you call power is just fear, it takes a pitiful man to confuse them.” The silence stretched between them, Ricedon stared into Byron’s eyes, searching them, he then let go of his shirt and turned his back to him. Byron stood motionless, waiting. Ricedon suddenly turned and punched him as hard as he could across the face. Byron fell disjointedly, his head smashing against the floor. Ricedon brushed his hands as though dusting something dirty from them, then raised his foot and placed it on Byron’s side.
“You dare to insult me boy,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “I am the General.” Byron moved under his foot and Ricedon pushed down harder.
“You are no leader,” Byron gasped as his ribs bent under Ricedon’s weight. Ricedon yelled in anger and grabbed Byron by his shirt and flung him onto the table, it wobbled from the impact but held.
“It would give me nothing but pleasure to kill you in the slowest and most painful way possible,” Ricedon whispered close to Byron’s ear, “but you have a much more excruciating fate awaiting you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Byron hissed.
There was a knock on the door and the hairy man entered. Ricedon stood up straight and brushed himself down. “One moment,” he told the man, and picked Byron up off the floor as the man closed the door.
“Why did you let our prisoners escape?” Ricedon questioned.
Byron looked down “You were going to hurt Wynn.”
7
King Dianis stared distractedly ahead, whilst the man who knelt before him continued to babble nervously; oblivious of his King’s absence. Whilst he spoke the man shuffled from knee to knee, the cold marble floor uncomfortable on his old, work-worn joints. His eyes flickered from the white floor to the King’s blank expression, and his voice shook slightly as he spoke. The King viewed the man before him unseeingly, he had gone through his situation many times before and knew to nod every so often, to keep up the illusion of listening, but his eyes were empty and he dreamt of a happy time with his wife beside him and his baby daughter in his arms...
“What say you, your Majesty?”
The King jumped slightly at the interruption, and smoothed his jewelled jerkin slowly whilst he regained his composure. What had the man been saying? Something about his farm. The King took a deep breath and looked intently at the figure before him for the first time since he had begun speaking. A farmer to be sure, old, worn and yet loyal.
Why?
The King thought. Terra, and its capital Cairon especially, had not been free for almost two decades, the Kings title was merely that, he had no power anymore; he was merely a prop, an illusion of authority.
King Dianis remembered when Terra had been a proud and rich land. Its capital, Cairon, where his palace resided, was the centre of trade within the Nation, it was a port town and so had become a thriving shipping and trading empire. Inlo and Terra were not separate lands anymore, despite the wall which ran around the whole of Inlo. Inlo had invaded seventeen summers past and that day had been a dark day for Terra. After the attack of the creatures – King Dianis called them creatures because they did not feel and die like normal men; he had never known anything like them, they were struck and yet did not bleed, they did not tire, they fell and still stood to fight again, the image of them flashed before his memory and he shuddered – Inlo had invaded. Rule in Terra had changed almost instantly, hard work for the poor and a life of luxury for those who could afford it.
The King thought bitterly how his health had failed him that day, the day his wife died, his daughter was kidnapped and his kingdom invaded, and how it kept failing so that he grew weaker with every passing summer. He did not have the strength to oppose the army, or their rule. Lord Oprend had had such a hold on the lands that even in his death his rule still remained because there was no one there to stop it. The King knew that his life was kept alive for the flimsiest of reasons, if his people knew the extent of his failing health and the ever growing hold of the army a riot would soon follow and the army was not stupid, the inhabitants far outnumbered the soldiers. So he knew that if he died the land would be thrown into chaos, and he had no kin... except for Aerona. The King blinked hurriedly as he tried to remember his connection with Aerona, but every time he thought of her his memory became fuzzy. She was blood related, a cousin maybe? He could not remember.
“Majesty?” The farmer questioned again. The King snapped his eyes back to the man and nodded wearily, agreeing to whatever he had asked. He watched the figure retreat, still bowing and finally close the door behind them. He waited for another to enter, but the door remained shut and he breathed a sigh of relief. These meetings were tedious and tiring and he found his mind wandering too much these days. He wished he could leave but knew others may eventually require his assistance and the Throne Room was the only place the townspeople were permitted to enter. They had been coming less and less over the years, knowing the King was beyond saving them.
The Throne room was large and beautifully decorated. Large windows behind the thrones lit the room, and hundreds of candles fixed to the wall cast their golden glow over the floor. The floor was white marble, and the walls were whitewashed stone, tapestries and paintings hung around the walls but for all its glory the room was cold. This room used to contain so much laughter, the King mused. His wife had sat beside him, the people’s sweetheart, kind, compassionate and loved by all. Now the room was empty, just the King, with his sad eyes and failing health. The room seemed darker somehow, although the King knew it wasn’t, it still held the golden candles and still let in the brilliant sunshine through its huge windows. It did not matter; every room was dark without his wife.
“Your Majesty?” A voice whispered beside him, the King jumped slightly, he had not heard anyone enter, and turned his head to the servant.
“You are wanted in the Great Hall, sir,” the servant continued. The King pushed himself up from his throne and followed the servant slowly, his footsteps in time with his dull heart. He passed through his many corridors in silence, they were beautiful, gold inlaid in every door frame, tapestries woven by the finest weavers, but the King walked past them indifferently, he had walked these halls many times, and each time he grew more weary of his beautiful possessions. Nothing was beautiful anymore. He did not wonder who summoned him, the King, he had no patience with the affairs of court these days, he went because he was summoned and that was that.
The servant stopped suddenly and the King almost walked into him, he had not been paying attention. Embarrassed he stepped back and waited while the servant opened the door for him. He walked into the Great Hall and scanned the room, ambivalently. The vast room, lit only by candle light, gold ornaments sparkling, crystal cutlery dazzling in the amber glow was vast and arched. The table was laid for guests that would never come. It had been set the day his daughter was born for a celebratory feast. The King had ordered it be left, for if his daughter was ever to return they would eat at this table. Windows lined the east wall, but curtains were drawn across it and made the room seemed dark and menacing. In the corner, half concealed in the shadows, a woman stood, bathed in darkness, hooded and cloaked. Aerona.
“Your Highness,” she bowed deeply and walked into the candle light. The King nodded his head in greeting. Aerona slowly lowered her hood; her hair was now a striking blonde, braided atop her head, a garland of wildflowers woven delicately into it. She was startlingly beautiful, if the King had cared to notice, he did not notice many things anymore, but if he stared at her close enough he would see her eyes, as grey as a storm and just as dangerous.
“Why have you called me?” The King questioned, he stood awkwardly, his face worn and his body slumped in defeat, he wished to leave this room and not have to keep up his royal pretences. The day was wearing on him already and he could feel his heart flutter wearily. Aerona bowed again.
“To enquire about you sir, it is no secret that your health fails you and as your only kin I worry for you.”
The King started and his eyes widened, it was no secret? Did his people know he was dying? The thought seemed to crush his body even further and he did not see Aerona’s quick smirk as she felt her words hurt him. He did not answer for some time, and was glad then that being King allowed him social freedom, free of manners if he so wished. Aerona waited, forcing her face into a mask of concern.
“It is most...” the King struggled to find a suitable word, “pleasant of you to feel the need to visit it me. But as you can see I am not dead yet and there really is no need to worry.”
Aerona’s lip curled and she forced it into a small smile, “Then I am glad sir, and your people will be glad that you are still full of life.”
The King looked at her again, feeling something strange. Suspicion? He had had no need to feel anything for many years but standing before Aerona always left him uncomfortable and he wished more than ever he could excuse himself and be free from her piercing eyes. He nodded his head in thanks and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Well,” Aerona said after it was clear the King was not going to reply, “I hope you continue to feel so well, divine one,” Aerona bowed deeply, her black cloak billowing in the process, “you do not know how the news has affected me.”
The King narrowed his eyes at her words, again they felt wrong but in a way he could not place. He studied her to the point of being rude, her dazzling blonde hair, her pale ivory skin and her grey eyes as bright as steel. She resembled his wife, the same hair that used to sway in the breeze, the same skin that would blush involuntarily at a compliment... but she would never replace his wife.
“You are excused,” the King said coldly, regaining for a moment his old self, and walked quickly out of the room, leaving Aerona to angrily disappear into thin air, encased in flames.