Year 3234, Salcost 1st
One Thousand Seventy-Eight Years Before Present
Thirteen years ago, I was chosen as The Bard of Jastiv, and was praised as the next great storyteller; taken to the Castle of Memories where, I spent ten years in an intense regiment of instrument practice. Including how to properly write a memory scroll to my patron god's exacting demands: when is the right time to influence, and when is the right time to be just a silent observer of the world. Every moment was a learning experience: the time went by quicker than I would ever have imagined. At the end of it all Jastiv informed me that our contact would be sporadic; that my writings would automatically be sent to him as soon as a story was finished.
"How will I know when a story is done?" I asked before leaving.
"The scroll will disappear," His voice was all that remained, as I found myself in Dhent.
After a festival to celebrate my return, I was immediately commissioned by High Queen Myria IV's cousin, Countess Aeres, to put on a performance for her upcoming wedding-a show that made my reputation in the entire kingdom. I became the talk of the nobles: invited to every castle, keep, and manor that the gentry seem to have a never-ending supply of. Living well without spending a single sovereign over the next two years.
Harel is a small but extremely rich city thanks to it being the only source of mithril and mithglin in all Valsen. The precious and utilitarian magical metals are used in both jewelry and ornamentation to armor and weaponry. The families are old here-as is the money and traditions, so when I was invited to put on a performance that tells of Prince Galdwen who liberated them from their longtime rivals of Oudergem hundreds of years ago, I will say that I was a little nervous to say the least, as nobles' tensions are at an all-time high.
A small, but richly decorated theater, that doubles as a tomb and mausoleum, as the Harelan's have several odd beliefs concerning their dead, is the venue. Despite this, I am more than happy to perform, as that is what I am to my very core: a performer. Everything is banded with the silvery-blue mithril and blue-specked mithglin: the distinctive high and wide arches keeping the thick ancient stone up, bas-reliefs of various local heroes and legends-of which there are two dozen at least.
All the local noble families attend; filling the stone benches covered with velvet-covered purple pillows. Dressed in their finest outfits, along with their most expensive accessories, with most men sporting gem-studded, mithril-capped canes as the women wear ridiculously ornate hair ornamentation, most of them ending up having to sit in the back so everyone can get a good view of the stage.
There's a loud slam, followed by yelling from behind the large wooden doors, beyond the seating. Muffled noises of fighting: metal upon metal as people scream for their lives can be heard. The door is slammed open as a contingent of soldiers in the familiar, Raven clasping a short sword in its claw, heraldry of the Duke of Oudergem's men, filter in as housecarls intercept them futilely. Which, after a short skirmish each one is killed in a brutal display. The nobles run towards the stage, but most of them are too slow, as several men with crossbows run into the room. I look towards the backstage, but the same sounds of slaughter come from within: the few stagehands, porters, and playwrights meeting their end in an unceremonious display of inhuman violence.
Nobles, even the Duke's own cousin, are cut down like wheat by the scythe. Shot with bolts before they are killed–-men, women, and children alike. Soldiers come from the backstage area where I deflect a sword with my mandolin before crashing it over the man's head, sending him down to the stone stage. Pulling out my rapier in one quick motion, I deflect another blade before driving the diamond-tipped sword into my adversary's chest, piercing through the ringed links of his chain mail.
"The Bard doesn't die!" Comes out a commanding voice through the brutality that has slowed to a crawl.
Several soldiers, more than I could ever hope to fight, take my sword and drag me by both arms off the stage. Passing bodies missing heads, limbs, with swords and daggers stuck into their bodies, crossbow bolts in the backs of ladies-in-waiting. With the few survivors being dragged up on stage, past me as they sob, begging for their lives, and shouting out curses and invocations. Looking over my shoulder, I watch in abject horror as they are forced to their knees, before a quick sword slash decapitates them.
"The Duke wants to see her personally, and unharmed! Now!"
I am dragged out of the building and my wrists are bound with a leather strap, tied in an unyielding knot. Duke of Oudergem's men and Baron of Harel's men fight in open battle. The Duke's men have the advantage of surprise and are pushing into what will undoubtedly become a rout for the defenders of Harel. Hoisted onto the back of a horse with a rider already waiting, the soldier spurs the steed and it sprints through the battle. Men of both sides kill each other in a vicious, intense fight, with one side fighting with everything they have in defense of their home. Whilst the other uses a level of vile, grotesque barbarism, that people forget what war truly is, and not the honorable battles played out in epics.
An intense pain shoots through my left arm as an arrow strikes me directly in the bicep. I cry out against the back of a man that I've never met before, but the pain seems to fade as my mind focuses elsewhere. We sprint through the city and out into the hilly countryside, past a group of dismounted cavalry men fighting a small group of the Duke's men; but they can't mount quick enough to catch us. I am not sure if I would be safer in their hands anyways, as they are clearly losing.
Clutching the arrow wound helps to slow the bleeding but not my mental state, as it retains the fatigue of the events that happened so quick in front of my eyes. Sleep threatens while we make it into the thick forests separating Harel and Oudergem, and once we cross over the border the horse is slowed to a stop.
"We need to fix that," The middle-aged man grunts, getting off the horse.
Helping me down, I am placed upon the cold earth and I watch the man pull out a flask. An astringent smell fills the air around us.
"This is going to hurt," He informs me, as a strong hand holds me down.
Watching him while he pours a clear liquid onto my wound causes a crimson foam to bubble up, an intense pain forces me to close my eyes, as I fight losing my consciousness from the shock. It seems to ebb for a moment before another wave of pain courses through me and I feel the arrow being yanked out of my flesh. Then, the stinging pain returns as I feel the cold liquid poured back on my arm. My breath shortens as I fight through the pain. Closing my eyes and trying to pretend that I am anywhere but here fails, yet, after several moments it has already begun to fade away.
"It didn't go in that deep. Your flesh will be healed, and the pain will be gone soon. You got lucky, or I guess unlucky," The soldier says as he helps me up to my feet. "Up you go, got to get you back on the horse."
By the time Castle Ustengov comes into view, I can't help but see the beauty of the fortification and its place upon the ancient giant boulder that has fallen into a ravine not quite wide enough for it, allowing the castle to rise out of it with an almost unnatural stability through innovative and cutting-edge engineering techniques. Making the castle only accessible from one side by any sizable force with rumored, and expected, escape tunnels through the rock leading down to the caves and caverns within the mountains.
"Open the gate!" A voice yells from atop the battlements.
A large mithglin gate rises up as the whirling sound of gears pulls several chains. After many minutes, the large wooden gate lowers across the ravine, separating the castle and the giant rock to the actual mountain. The horse trots over the gate, and as we come into the courtyard, a couple stable boys grab the horse's reins.
"The Duke is waiting for you," Informs an old veteran housecarl, clad in plated armor with a fur cloak covering him. He offers a hand to me in a gesture to help me down.
Looking at the man for a moment, I slide off the horse and straighten out my outfit. The man lowers his hand, and I raise an eyebrow.
"Well I would be amiss to decline such a polite invitation," My voice is as cold, hard as the mountains and rocks surrounding us.
He gestures for me to follow and I do so in the same brisk pace the man keeps. A chill wind gusts, and threatens to push me over, and perhaps I would if I was a delicate flower. Several small squads of soldiers are put through training, despite it all. Several archers stand upon the battlements, and I can't help but wonder how hard it is for them to hit anything in this brutal environment.
Into the large keep, and through the royally decorated foyer, I am led to the great hall. Dark wooden floors, covered in a burgundy rug, lead up to the throne from where the Duke would sit. The coat-of-arms of Oudergem is carved into the back of the large chair. Several shields cover the walls with the same insignia upon them, along with a couple giant bear and boar heads. Two guards dressed in a standard kit flank me as I enter the room.
"The Bard," A commanding, almost inherently regal sounding voice comes from behind the throne. A middle-aged man dressed in the finest of silks, with a heavy velvet cloak draped on his shoulders, jewelry covering his hands, his expression reading as if he is the master of the universe. Within these walls, he is the closest thing to it.
"Duke of Oudergem," I reply.
"It has been some time since we last met," He says taking several steps towards me before heading to his throne. Sitting upon the burgundy-colored pillow, he crosses his legs and folds his hands within his lap. The man's features are almost as dignified as he acts: with sharp, piercing grey eyes that bore directly into my being. His graying beard stands out against the dark brown hair on his head, both are neatly trimmed short. He is clad in a silk shirt that is ruffled at the cuffs, along with a pair of matching pants, and I can't help but feel that he looks the part of what he plays and does it well. "You are my guest: please make yourself comfortable. Geir, get her a chair and something to drink."
"Yes, sire," The man replies, before heading through a door on the far side of the room.
Looking around me, I notice the marble columns supporting the ceiling and the weight of everything above it. Carved by talented-hands, the tops and bottoms showing various scenes from what appears to be the history of the ancient kingdom this city was once capital of.
After a moment, several servants come out, bearing a chair and two carafes of a deep red wine. The chair is placed off to the side of the throne, facing slightly towards it. Once I sit down, I am handed a carafe as well as a wooden cup. I watch the Duke have his wine poured into a mithril goblet, gilded with delicate gold, silver, and platinum metals.
The wine is strong, fruity, with hints of a cinnamon undertone that masks the alcohol quite well, as I find myself downing most of my cup in one drink. Which causes The Duke to chuckle for a moment of time.
"Don't be nervous."
"Pardon my manners, but I would be lying if I said tonight's events didn't leave me a…bit unnerved, my lord," I reply.
He lets out a sigh, and takes a long drink from his goblet, before the Duke says, "I shall be quite honest as well. Tonight's events unnerve me likewise, but it had to be done. They were plotting against their rightful Queen and had to be eliminated. I am just happy you survived. Most soldiers are…low born and lose themselves in their blood rage."
I finish my cup of wine and am well into my second cup before he continues, "You are quite valuable. Do you know that?"
"I would honestly doubt I am worth much in anything outside of performing," I say, not even close to convinced of his sincerity in all things.
"Don't be naive. You have the power of influence. The common people love you, as do most nobles. The most famous and loved woman in all the kingdom, even more so than the Queen," I grip my cup tighter at his words. "You are a loyal subject to your Queen, are you not?"
Without hesitation, I reply, "Of course, my lord. I was born and raised a loyal subject. My mother was a great admirer of your father. I am too young to remember him so well, but the stories are already legends."
"They are, aren't they?" He replies, finishing his goblet of wine. A servant scurries over to refill it. "That is why I brought you here. Stories influence people's thoughts. They can turn tyrants into heroes, and mere wars and political rivalries into epic legends, that define an entire culture. Power of stories-the power you wield-are beyond measure. You know this, as you spent so much time with Jastiv. How many stories, legends, epics, tales, and poems did you read about this kingdom? How about the histories of the multitudes of kingdoms that came before this great one?"
"I hate to go off on a tangent, but it leads up to my point. I want to commission you for a story-one concerning the history of my family. Something I can unveil to Dhent come the next season. You'll have access to the libraries here or anywhere else within my blood relation."
I look down at my cup, for a moment, stalling the man. After some time, I look back at him and say, "You didn't have to kill an entire theater full of people to ask me for a commission."
"They were enemies to the crown, as are their subjects!" He stands up his voice booming. "All of that rabble is lucky that I deemed their leaders to die and not them! You should get used to the lives of those not worth living being cut short. Count yourself lucky that you are deemed worth living, despite your mouth. This is my home, and you are under my roof. You will not disrespect my decisions again. Otherwise, we can find a better use for you! By week's end, I want a verse done. While working on my story, you will be my guest with all the benefits that incurs. Geir, take her to her room."
"As you say, sire," The loyal servant replies, walking up to my side. "Milady, if you please."
Placing my cup down upon the floor, I stand up.
"Good night, milord," I say in as nice a tone as I can force out without sounding farcical.
He says nothing as I am led from the great hall, and through a series of hallways that lead towards, and up, the northeast tower. We take a spiral staircase, illuminated with braziers, filled with coal, and topped with some type of herb, as a pleasant smell fills the castle. Servants, even at this late an hour, scurry back and forth like scared mice.
Once at the top, my escort finally speaks, "This is the guest room reserved for the liege's most respected visitors. Use the servants as you please. I shall leave you to it, milady." He tips the pinched hat upon his head, before leaving.
I watch him walk down the stairs for a moment before I turn my gaze to the door, carved with the same coat-of-arms plastered everywhere else, within the keep. Opening the door, I am taken aback at the room fit for a king. The finest silks, in the rarest of purples, draped as a canopy, over the top of an ebony four-post bed. Each post is carved with the creatures that are endemic to this area–-the great stag, horn tail wyverns, and various imps and faeries. A matching armoire with clawed feet and an open velvet-lined jewelry box, as if I am some lady-of-the-court, who drapes myself in jewels and perfumes to the point that no one can see past that. Set beside that are a gold-framed mirror and a marble bowl within a wooden stand. There is a porcelain pitcher of water set upon the ledge.
But what interests me the most is the large desk with parchment, quills, sharpening knife, and a couple of inkwells specifically prepared for me, I would assume. Removing my satchel from around my torso, I set it down beside the desk and grab a fresh piece of parchment. Inhaling the musky smell causes me to relax a little at the familiarity. Sitting down upon the overstuffed chair, I grab the quill blessed upon me by Jastiv and I set out to chronicle the events of the evening.
Tonight, as it were, has just been the culmination of building tensions between two rival houses, but what does it really signify? War is just around the corner and Jastiv taught me how to know when it is coming. The Duke has been making strides to solidify his claim to the throne of the entire kingdom with the nobles, but the people fully support the High Queen. His little charade at retrieving me is just his way to sway the people. Couldn't have been more transparent if he was made of glass.
The house of Oudergem is one of the oldest, proudest, and has claimed the throne for the past four hundred years. Their reputation for ruthless tactics on the battlefield and their shrewd traders have brought them fame, fortune, power, and influence. If the Duke goes for the throne, it will destroy the house, and more than likely, drive the entire kingdom into chaos.
Eight months ago, The Duke laid siege to house of Bertelsen's stronghold of Vejia. This was the oldest family with a traceable bloodline back to the original six kingdoms formed before there was even written records. The few ancient surviving scrolls show them having an ancestor. He sacked the town, and the Queen allowed it, and the family could leave before he burned it to the ground. Unlike now, one of the Queen's strongest supporters and allies massacred. No wonder he now needs me to spin him such a tale, as half of the nobility are going to be out for his blood, as soon as word spreads. Which I suspect, he is trying to delay if he possibly can.
As the sun's rays create a beautiful display across the ravine, and the ice-capped mountains just a stone's throw away from my window, is quite breathtaking. A cooling breeze causes the room to drop in temperature as the small fire from last night has long since died. Loud, banging knocks comes from the other side of the door.
"Milady, the Duke wishes to take his breakfast with you," The man's gruff voice has an odd tone to it.
"Does he?" I ask.
He cocks an eyebrow, saying, "Have you started composing the story?"
"Blunt and direct to the point, housecarl," I say to the man. "But, no, I have not. I do not intend to and I wish to tell The Duke this and then leave. I am not here for your propaganda." My sense of confidence and boldness reach an apex as I finish.
"Very well," Is all the man says.
Within moments, soldiers appear at both of my sides, clearly ready for this, and take hold of me, to the point I'd be a fool to try and resist. Not a single word of protest exits my mouth as I am dragged down the stairs and out of the tower. Through a hall that borders the kitchen, mess hall, and barracks for the soldiers, their inane chatter filling the air. The clicking of a heavy lock comes from a large barred gate that leads down into the bowels of the stone below.
Shadows dance among the low light from the single torch that illuminates the area-shimmering rays off the wall catches my eye, as I try to not think about the dull pain from their rough hands gripping me tight. Anguished screams echo off the walls, as some poor soul suffers at the hands of the sadistic torturers, inquisitors, and interrogators down below; the same fate that I am about to face.
I close my eyes as the smell of excrement; piss, blood, and decay fill the unpleasant atmosphere that lingers over these dungeons. Squeaking of rusty hinges forces my eyes open out of curiosity, a cage barely big enough for me to stand in lies in front of me, and with one forceful push, I am thrown into the cage. Catching myself against the bars, just before my face is brought up close-and-personal to them.
"Be quiet, don't try to escape, or you will suffer," A burly man, with a hood over his face, says. He accentuates his point with his thumb, gesturing towards the poor soul behind him.
The poor man's arms are tied together behind his back and he is lifted at least twenty feet into the air by a chain attached to the ropes binding him. Hair disheveled, and his beard overgrown, I can't imagine how long he might have been here. The man's shoulders are twisted showing the bone and ligament below it, as if the hands of a master, sadistic artisan, shaped a grotesque, marble statue.
I don't have any concept of time here, as I sit with my knees against my chest. Leaning against the cold iron bars. I listen to the various interrogations, questionings, conversations, and torture going on around me. A pit of suffering, despair, and death, and here I sit in the middle of a cage waiting my turn. Most of these men are peasants who didn't have enough sovereigns or goods to pay tribute to the Duke, or soldiers in the burgeoning civil war that will tear this country apart. Not that it matters to me at this moment.
I'm given a bowl of gruel and a piece of stale bread, as I assume night time has come by the lack of light streaming through the grates. The torches being the only source of illumination in this dark place, tears fight at the edge of my eyes as the night wears long. The prisoner in the cell beside me is sobbing quietly as I notice the young lad missing the tips of his fingers, causing me to bury my face in my hands, wanting to be anywhere but here.
"Bard," The same burly man from before comes up to the cage's door. "The Duke wants to know if you have changed your mind?"
Looking up at him, I say, "I would rather die. Our stories, our histories are not for one man's ambitions. Do with me, as you will. Matters not to me." I'll be damned if I give myself up to them.
"I was really hoping you would say that. The Duke doesn't care what happens to you now, you know? I can do whatever I want," The hideous man is barely a half-step away from me as he unsheathes a pair of shears. "First I am going to make sure you can never write again. After that, I am going to rip that tongue out, and I will keep you down here as my personal slave. As it amuses me to no end that you won't be able to write or talk at all."
I take several steps back as he opens and closes the shears, in a way to intimidate me, and I must say it works, as I find myself backed against the metal bars. The sounds of running feet is followed by the appearance of two men dressed as guards and a woman clad in black metal-reinforced leather armor. All three of them are armed to the teeth, and before the jailer can react, the woman stabs her dramatically-pointed narrow short sword through the man's chest with such force I can see the tip of the blade pierce through his front. In an instant, she pulls it out and slashes his throat in one deft movement from behind.
"Come with us, now!" the older of the two men commands.
"We have three, maybe four, minutes before we are swarmed. Come on," The woman's lyrical lilt to her voice affirms my suspicions of their elven heritage.
Nodding, I am led over to the chest, where they stored my possessions, and then follow the trio towards an old crack in the wall, barely big enough for one person to fit in, if they take small breaths of the musty air. After several minutes of this, I drop down into a dark tunnel where the ceiling is just a hair's breadth from the top of my skull. The female fighter picks up a solitary torch, and she leads us down the tunnel. It twists and turns, all the while heading downwards through old carved stairs, and almost impossibly steep ramps.
"We have four horses, so we are just going to follow the river," The man informs me. "My bodyguard is Sten, and I am Meine, fifth son of Baron Arnoud of-"
"Meerbeke and Rivaln," I interrupt, "He threw me a feast the day I returned to the lands, it was fortuitous that he was in Dhent at the time. You and your brothers were absent, unfortunately."
"Aye, my apologies, we were most eager to meet you, but the bandits needed culling and my brothers always seek more honor-as do I, which is why we are here: to save you from the Duke's influence."
"Who are you?" I direct towards the woman, as she scurries ahead of us.
"The reason you are out of there," She replies, cold and indifferent.
Freezing air rushes in as we get close to the exit, and as expected, the light of the moon illuminates the mouth of this old cave. Once into the dim moon's light, I spot the four horses tied off to an old stump within the forest glade, which the cave opens out to. Each horse has a small pack filled with gear but is largely unequipped with tack. Three guards lie dead off to the side.
"Just keep up with us. We'll explain more once we are safe," The woman says as she mounts a brown-spotted white horse.
The three of them sprint off and I make sure to keep up their pace, happy to put the castle, and dungeon, behind me.