Orders

Warning: This story contains an instance of strong language.

The castle at Elvia sat on a small rise on the east edge of the city, with a good view over the approaching road from Teraditha. It guarded the east gate into the city, joining the high walls seamlessly by the work of master stonemasons. To the south, the clear sea glittered in the sunlight, giving the impression of summer despite the chill air. The road became busier as farmer’s drove animals to market, and tradesmen of the surrounding towns and villages headed for the city to stock up on supplies for the winter months.

Luthar breathed in the salty air as they left the main road to the city and approached the castle gate to their right. The horses’ hooves banged against the wooden drawbridge as they crossed the moat, it was low for the time of year owing to the hot summer they’d had with little rain. As they reached the parched grass on the other side, a guard clad in chainmail and bearing an oak on a field of argent approached them.

‘Good morning sirs, what brings you to my gate?’ He was well presented and spoke politely with a ready smile, more than Luthar had come to expect from professional soldiers addressing a man of the guild.

‘We’ve come to seek out Lord Wedderburn’s court mage. We have something that he should see.’ Flint replied with his best manners on show.

‘Our Lord and his staff are very busy this morning, perhaps I could take a look instead?’

Flint glanced at Luthar before dismounting and pulling the bundle free from the back of his horse. He carefully unwrapped it before holding it out for the guard to see. He peered at it for a moment, marvelling at the sheer length of the blade.

‘Who could’ve been strong enough to wield this I wonder?’ He mused, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve seen plenty of black steel in my life, but this is far beyond that.’ He reached out and touched the blade with his finger, evidently trying to see how sharp it was. In an instant, he pulled away yelling and clutching his arm. Luthar could see Flint grappling with the bundle, desperately trying to tie it back up. Luthar dismounted to give him a hand, but by the time he reached the ground, all was still.

‘He touched it and the blade turned into a fucking snake!’ Flint panted at him, the colour slowly returning to his face.

Luthar knelt by the guard who was now whimpering, and clutching his bleeding hand. Two small marks blemished his skin where the fangs had penetrated, they oozed blood, mixed with some strange black liquid that reeked of death.

‘I guess we both need to see the court mage now.’ Luthar said as he offered him a hand up. ‘What’s your name friend?’

‘Patrick, and you?’

‘I’m Luthar, this is Flint. The two lads are Lucas and Ed.’ He pointed at each to identify them, they each returned a nod before Patrick turned and led them through the gate.

They passed through the barbican and into the outer ward which basked in the autumn sun. It seemed every square foot of land was covered with either canvas tents, or carts containing shields, pikes, and all manner of other supplies. Patrick led them down a makeshift road through the camp’s centre towards an array of larger, more comfortable tents that were heavily guarded.

‘You can stable the horses over there lads.’ He pointed to a stable in the shade of the high castle wall, a few hundred yards where they were staying. ‘Ask for Nolan and tell him Patrick sent you.’

Lucas and Ed took two horses each and their bags and set off for the stables. Luthar could see Lucas chattering to Ed, who simply stared off into space as if he didn’t exist.

As they followed Patrick through the camp, Luthar could see the swelling begin to rise on his right arm as it hung limp at his side. He stopped outside the second largest tent and addressed the guard on duty as he struggled to regain his breath.

‘Two men here to see Mage Edryg sir.’ No sooner had he spoken, he collapsed on the ground in front of the officer. He twitched violently as black bile sprayed violently from his lips.

Luthar and Flint starred at the fallen man in stunned silence. Even their will to help him could not for their bodies into action.

‘What happened to him?’ Roared an assertive voice from the tent opening.

Out stepped a man, impossibly old, yet still moved with the purpose and strength of a mighty warrior in his prime. He wore simple, pale green woollen robes, tied about his waist with a brown leather belt. Plain leather riding boots protruded from the muddy hem of his robes. The only adornment about his person was a golden star stitched into his robe over his heart.

‘He just collapsed, Your Munificence.’ The officer cried, trying to hold Patrick down and prevent him hurting himself further.

The old man pushed the officer aside with his left hand, whilst his right settled on Patrick’s chest, pushing him into the ground. One of his hands was evidently stronger than the officer’s two. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes and muttered indistinguishable words as Patrick continued to writhe. More seconds passed and Patrick began to settle, until the only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

‘You two! Get a stretcher and take him to the healer’s tent. Tell them he needs plenty of water and whatever poison antidotes they can find.’ He barked orders at the officer and a second soldier who had rushed to help him up. Without a moment’s hesitation they sprinted to another large tent in search of the stretcher.

The old man turned to Luthar and Flint, pale blue eyes scouring every inch of them both, until Luthar felt he could see right through them.

‘You’re not Peccothian soldiers. My guess is Warrior’s Guild?’

‘Aye sir, we came to see the court mage. Am I right in assuming that would be yourself?’ Flint replied, assuming his best manners once more.

‘Indeed, you are. With that being said, I’m not a sir. Your Munificence is the correct form of address for the mage of a noble court.’

‘Forgive me, Your Munificence, you’re the first court mage I’ve ever met.’

‘Let’s not stand about out here. I’ll take a guess that what you have to tell me is better kept private. Follow me.’

Without waiting to see if they’d followed his instruction, he strode back into the tent without a moment’s pause. Luthar followed on behind Flint, always keen to observe the rules of seniority in front of strangers. Inside the tent there was a small entrance hall made from pieces of canvas hanging from the roof, boots stood by the flaps and cloaks hung on a wooden stand in one corner.

The mage held open a parting in the wall and stared at them both even more fiercely as they ducked through it and into what looked like a makeshift study. A small wooden desk faced them, with a padded leather chair behind it. Papers held down with rocks and all manner of instruments Luthar couldn’t name covered the desk’s surface. A bookshelf and chest stood along one wall, giving it the look of a typical mage’s quarters. In the far corner, behind the desk stood an armour stand, however it only held another pale green robe, woven from much finer material.

Luthar and Flint stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be offered a seat. The old mage lowered himself into his seat gracefully and waved a casual hand at Luthar and Flint. Luthar sat whilst Flint removed the bundle he’d slung over his shoulder and place it carefully across his knees.

‘So, what is it that is so important you sought the opinion of Edryg, court mage to Lord Wedderburn of Elvia?’ He asked them, placing his elbows on the desk, and touching his fingertips together.

‘We were making our way down the coast road a few nights back, two days ride west of Stormhaven. We’d camped in the trees a few hundred yards off the road to avoid any unnecessary meetings whilst we slept. All of a sudden, our fire goes out and it gets cold real quick, so cold the grass froze solid before our eyes. Luthar here tries to wake up our squires, but they were as good as dead.’

As Flint recounted the tale, Edryg kept his gaze firmly upon him without uttering a sound, taking in every detail.

‘We knew something was up, so we get in a defensive position, back-to-back to cover the treeline around us. I thought I saw something and went for it, but I slashed only air. Then Luthar sees the same thing and we both go for it at once, he attacked low, I went high. Whatever the thing was, it just swatted us away like flies.’

‘It was shaped like a man, but enormous. I’d say near on eight feet tall, and it wore armour as black as night with spikes on. Anyways, we had a bit of a dust up, and I think I managed to wound it as it staggered off back into the trees and left its sword behind.’ Luthar finished for Flint and gestured to the bundle.

Edryg stood silently and held his hand out across the desk in an imperious command to Flint, who duly obliged and placed the bundle in his hand. Edryg frowned as he unwrapped the leather cords around it and laid it down on top of his papers. Flint edged his chair back as the black sword was revealed with no snake in sight.

‘What happened to our guard?’ Edryg asked, eyes still firmly fixed on the blade. His left hand rested on his hip as his right stroked his long white beard.

‘He touched the blade and it turned into a snake that bit him.’ As soon as Flint answered Luthar began to realise how ridiculous it sounded. However, Edryg remained solemn.

‘A snake? Hmmm, of course it must be.’

‘Do you know what this sword could be, Your Munificence?’ Luthar ventured, eager to know what they’d got themselves into.

‘I have a theory at least. Is there anything else you feel I should know?’

‘The thing that attacked us. It spoke to me.’ Luthar said. The memory of that hissing voice was burned into his mind forever. Thinking about it now sent chills down his spine.

Edryg’s head snapped upwards, and his eyes narrowed. His gaze assaulted Luthar like a battering ram on a castle gate.

‘He spoke to you? What did it say? Speak quick boy, this is important.’

‘Tell your masters the seed of Lazmurol lives again. That was when I got my blade into his neck, and he ran.’

‘The seed of Lazmurol?’ The colour drained from Edryg’s face, and he sounded frightened as he spoke. His right hand was still firmly tangled in his beard as his eyes twitched. ‘Lazmurol was the King who united Averleon in the early second age. To my knowledge he never sired children as the crown there has never passed to kin, the next King must always be decided after a meeting of the chiefs.’

‘Do you know what this could mean?’ Flint asked, his face a picture of bewilderment.

‘History is not my area unfortunately so I will need assistance with that. However, my skills are best suited to the here and now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He walked to the entrance to study and called into the tent. ‘Oliver! Fetch Scholar Hamed at once. If Lord Wedderburn is available, ask him to attend aswell.’

He made his way back to his desk and picked up the sword by its handle, turning it this way and that.

‘You may wish to stand back.’

Luthar and Flint both stood and took a couple of steps backwards, away from whatever Edryg was planning. An uneasy feeling creeped up into Luthar’s stomach, making him grab for his sword which had been left at the gatehouse. Instead, he grabbed the back of his chair with both hands, his knuckles turning white.

Edryg had his hand no more than a couple of inches from the blade when the canvas ruffled behind them, and two men entered. The first strode in with the kind of confidence only Lords and Kings possessed. He stood straight-backed with his shoulders square and peered around the room, taking in Edryg holding the sword, and Luthar and Flint stood well back looking edgy.

‘You wanted to see me Edryg?’ The newcomer asked, his deep voice like thunder rumbling on the horizon.

‘I did my Lord, please take a seat, I have something you need to see.’

The second man entered came into view as Lord Wedderburn sat. He could not have contrasted more with him; he was stooped and frail and leaned heavily on a stick as he walked. His wispy white hair stuck out in all directions, reminding Luthar of pale straw.

‘Scholar Hamed.’ Said Edryg curtly, waving his hand at the second unoccupied seat. ‘My Lord, this is Luthar and Flint of the Warrior’s Guild. Gentlemen, you are now in the presence of Lord Clifton Wedderburn of Elvia.’

‘My lord.’ Luthar and Flint said in unison, inclining their heads to show deference.

‘Now that we’ve all been introduced’ Edryg shot a nasty look at Hamed. ‘I will begin.’

He picked up the giant sword once more and held it out for them all to see.

‘This is a sword that was retrieved by Flint and Luthar a few nights ago on the road between Stormhaven and Elvia. It was wielded by some giant, armed man who claimed to be the seed of Lazmurol. I was hoping you may shed some light on who this might be, Scholar Hamed, this is your area of expertise after all.’

The tension between the two man was palpable. Scholar Hamed stared at Edryg before getting to his feet and turning to the room and clearing his throat.

‘Lazmurol was King of Averleon in the second age and bore no true born sons. However, during one of his ill-fated attacks on the city of Shavan, it is said he kidnapped the daughter of High Chancellor L’Cris and forced himself upon her. She escaped, but not without a child in her belly. Nine moons later, she gave birth to an ungodly large baby, nearly 10 pounds some say. The effort killed the poor girl and so, the babe was given to the temple of the sun. Not five days later, A’Kel, the self-styled prophet of reckoning was found dead in his rooms. Some jealous priest spread word that the child had brought shame on the temple, and that the moon god had slain the prophet in revenge. The poor child was cursed and left to die in the desert, never to be seen again.’

The old scholar sat himself back down, apparently worn out with the effort. Edryg turned his attention back to Lord Clifton and carried on.

‘My Lord, Luthar claimed to have wounded this thing that attacked him, causing it to flee and leave its sword behind. They saw fit to bring it to me, and now I see fit to destroy it before it can hurt anyone else. One of my guards has been grievously hurt by it and I have no appetite for any more bloodshed.’

‘Hurt? Who swung it?’ Lord Wedderburn rumbled in reply.

‘Not swung My Lord.’ Edryg touched the blade with his bare hand as Patrick had done earlier. The blade turned back into the snake in the blink of any eye and lunged for Edryg. The man responded before Luthar knew what was happening and grabbed the snake around its neck mid-strike. It fought violently, but the old mage held firm, seemingly not breaking a sweat.

Lord Wedderburn looked as surprised as Flint had done earlier. He scratched his close-cut black beard with his hand before making his decision.

‘No. Study it, and learn its secrets, we need to know how to act if there are more of these swords about, or that thing Luthar fought comes back to claim it.’ He stood and turned to Luthar and Flint, eyeing them closely, but not unkindly. ‘You two will feast with me tonight and tell me all you know of this thing and its sword. By the way, that’s not a request.’ He gave them both a generous smile before taking his leave.

‘You two best make yourselves look presentable; his lordship doesn’t appreciate scruffiness at his table.’ Edryg said to them before looking back at the sword, engrossed in his new task.

Luthar held open the flap for Flint as they made their way outside into the camp. A cool breeze shot through them as they started down the path to the stables.

‘I thought you told me nobility was a sign of being a bollock brain?’ Said Luthar, unable to keep the grin from his face.

‘We don’t know him that well, he still might be!’ Replied Flint, clearly stifling a laugh.