Yes, finally! :D You know it's odd, every single chapter seems to have some element or other that causes writers block for me. This one especially, I've had quite a bit of creative ebbing. However the result isn't too too bad, so I hope you'll forgive any minor flaws and slight-out-of-character moments... Enjoy!
Chapter 9: In Which Things Are a Royal Mess
Sweat beaded on Mendanbar's brow, droplets sliding down to hamper his vision as the king concentrated on his sword. Glinting silvery in the dense forest, the Sword of the Sleeping King sang through the air as Mendanbar worked his magic. To one side stood Cimorene, looking anxiously at her husband and the ground of dry ash. He traced patterns in the air and all around him seemed to crackle as if the Forest was behind him pushing with all its might. Then finally, the field of charred earth wavered. Like syrup pouring from a jar, moss began to grow from beneath the ash, trees sprouted, slowly congealing and shifting. Vines crept up from beneath the moss and encircled the trees as their trunks thickened and upwards they grew, taller and taller until at last, they equaled the height of their floral kin.
With a groan of exhaustion, Mendanbar crumpled to the ground, his sword thudding softly onto the moss-strewn ground. Cimorene rushed to him and lifted his head onto her lap. She felt his forehead and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. "Mendanbar, what happened?" she asked with concern.
"The forest is being drained of its magic," he whispered, closing his eyes. "It's doing all that it can to keep itself whole but soon it won't have enough to sustain itself. Slowly, the whole forest will become like that ash-filled desert."
"But why, Mendanbar?" Cimorene demanded, choking back a wave of alarm. "Telemain said that as long as the sword remained in the forest, it would naturally maintain the balance..."
"Maybe he was wrong, Cimorene... I - I don't know. But it has something to do with the prophecy; I know it. The Forest is dying." The king propped himself up, and slowly stood. His wife was swift to follow.
"We have to tell Kazul about this," she stated.
~*~
"It's not here!" Morwen cried out, tossing her hands up. Beside her was a pile of parchment and books, all carelessly strewn aside. Telemain sat somewhere in the middle of that pile, a pair of small round spectacles dangling precariously on the bridge of his nose. He was reading his way down a sheet of parchment that stretched the length of Kazul's library, muttering softly. When he heard Morwen cry out, he raised his head, blinking owlishly.
"Of course it is, Morwen," he spoke with some surprise; "your disgruntlement at the apparent lack of the prophecy has abnegated your cerebrum from maintaining its compos mentis."
Morwen's eyes narrowed, "Telemain… are you calling me –"
"My intent was to merely assuage you into a state of requiescence," Telemain said quickly. "And make you aware of the possibility that a complete version of the prophecy may yet exist."
The witch sighed, "But we must find it soon, Telemain. It's like stumbling in the dark, and the only way to see is through the light of the torch."
~*~
Remanan stirred as the sun set on the Enchanted Forest.
Carefully, he broke the crust of dried blood that sealed his eyes. Why am I not dead? The ground around him was stained with crimson and the black blood of the demons. Demon bodies littered the ground, bringing back memories of the battle.
There had been no hope from the start; the demons were simply too many and too powerful. There had been wizards, he remembered, or at least one with dark robes and a twisted black staff. Shera had gasped when she had seen him – most likely she had never seen a wizard before. Remanan had done the best he could but soon the poison of the imps began to make his spells less potent. Shortly after, he had collapsed.
Remanan frowned, where are the others? They can't all be… he avoided that train of thought.
"You're awake," a soft voice spoke. Aerida, the magician thought with a sudden tightening of his chest. He thanked the gods she was alive and closed his eyes in relief. "Remanan? Are you all right?" she spoke with worry. He felt a shadow across his body and a cool brush of her hair. Her hand rested on his forehead. "Prince Jinx… that vampwere-frog thing. He made you swallow a tea of avendascura. Or, well, rather he made me make you drink it…" she cleared her throat, "but anyway… he… I – he showed me how to make a poultice of it too, and I dressed the worst of your injuries. You were hidden under the demon corpses and your wounds had festered..." her voice wobbled.
The magician opened his eyes with a little difficulty. He saw Aerida's eyes shiny with unshed tears. "Where are the others?" he asked with dread. Her face crumpled and she placed her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"I couldn't save them Remanan, I couldn't do a thing! I've always thought I was so brave, but the demons, they terrified me, I – I tried to fight but there were too many."
Lifting himself into a sitting position, he placed a comforting hand on Aerida's shoulder. She stiffened suddenly and stood up, turning her face away from him. She tried to suppress her sobs, and took a deep breath to center herself.
"There was nothing you – or me, or anyone could've done," Remanan spoke barely above a whisper. Grief threatened to consume him as he thought of Shiara's temper, Shera's wit, and Belvio's little quirks. Now… they were all gone. "Did you find their bodies?"
Aerida stayed silent and Remanan thought she wouldn't answer. Then she shook her head. "The wizard would want to take the corpses – them to the demon king. I don't think they knew whether Shera or Shiara was the Chosen."
"They didn't take us," Remanan puzzled aloud.
"Left us for dead," Aerida spoke flatly, in a bitter tone the magician had never heard before. "We are not of the Chosen, therefore could never make any difference in the prophecy."
"Aerida..." Remanan spoke slowly. "We can still help. We must help."
~*~
Gavin came awake with a start, head
jerking up and eyes staring wildly around into his surroundings. A moment later, he sank his head back to the
ground as an excruciating pain lanced through his brain, sending a multitude of
colors and sparks across his eyes. His
tall, lanky body curled in reflex, and the prince let out a soft groan
expressing wordlessly his vehement wishes to be dead right then and there.
"Mi - milord, ser?" a soft voice
spoke somewhere to his left - or was it right?
The pain kept swirling around his head, making it rather hard to
tell. "Are you all right milord?" Left.
The voice had to be to his left.
"Milord?" the voice repeated louder.
That was a serious mistake, as it sent another blast of pain pounding
through his forehead and everything faded.
Gavin opened his eyes, forcing the dull throbbing in his head to the back of his mind. He had lost consciousness again - for how long he did not know. He was staring at an old slanted ceiling; its stone blocks looking rather precarious. There were odd sorts of fungi growing along the corners of the cell; one variation even let out a soft phosphorescent light. Gavin closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them a pair of very large gray-green eyes stood blinking at him in a mouse-like way. Below them was a long pointed nose, with a plump bow mouth leading to a rather weak chin. His face was swollen with purple and red bruises. "Are you awake?" the face in front of him asked.
Gavin meant to say something along the lines of "What the devil do you think?" but his mouth only worked to produce a muffled "ahmuph."
The face in front of him broke into a smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Oh thank goodness ser- er...milord? I was afraid you were done for."
"Mmph," Gavin grunted and closed his eyes. A moment later he was being shaken by the shoulders.
"No er... milord, you mustn't fall asleep! Please!"
"What?" Gavin barked, once he was able to get his eyes to open. His head felt as heavy as the rest of his body for some reason. Then a thought clicked into place, "Why - you think I'm -- lord?" he managed, not without some difficulty.
The tension in the young man's shoulder lessened, assured that Gavin Lleldor wasn't going to turn into sleeping beauty anytime soon. "Despite the eh, tattered state of your clothing, I - I can see it to be of expert quality. And - and I heard cries of - of fearsome fury that made me think perhaps you... are of noble blood? A knight? Or a lord?"
"Mmphm," he grunted once more,
slowly forcing his brain to work and assess his state. His head still throbbed, and he was able to
move his hand to his crown... where he felt a tender and growing lump. Aside from that, he had numerous bruises, a
cut on his lip, his stomach felt like churned butter, and he was highly
disoriented. In fact, he felt as if he
had been banged onto the stone floor on his head repeatedly. "What - who?..."
"Dafyyd Ontrath, if it please you, er, milord. Of the profession of traveling minstrel - bard, and teller of tales... or, well... I was before I came to this honor-forsaken kingdom."
Gavin closed his eyes for a moment. Forcing himself onto a sitting position, his world swirled ominously until clenched his teeth and willed it back into focus. He had no intention of sinking back into unconsciousness. "I'm Gavin," he said shortly.
Dafyyd Ontrath, bard and teller of tales stared at him blankly. Then his eyes widened in alarm. "Your highness! For-for-forgive me, your highness! I am not worthy of your attention. I - I... did not, I did not recognize you!" The young man, already kneeling, folded his arms as if in prayer and bowed repeatedly. "I am a worm beneath your feet - I am ... your kingdom is of breathless beauty and unchallenged splendor, where it's people dwell in peace. I - forgive me!" he sobbed in his strange, halting speech.
The prince scowled and glanced worriedly at the cell door. "Hush, Dafyyd, there could be guards outside." He placed his hand on his shoulder to soften his words, but instead of taking comfort the minstrel gasped and drew back in terror, the whites showing all around his eyes.
"Your - your highness! You mustn't... please, I beg of you, I - I am dust and dirt -- filth! I defile you with my mere presence. I - I have displeased you!" suddenly he started his frenzied groveling. Gavin found it exceedingly hard to repress a scream.
Suppressing the urge to grab Dafyyd by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, he merely whispered sharply, "Shut up! Dafyyd, I'm sorry but you must be quiet! Stop it. Stop bowing to me."
He stopped in mid-grovel, eyes darting around the dungeon like deer intent of flight. Gavin could almost taste the fear in the room. Why is he acting like this? "Listen to me Dafyyd. Listen!" he snapped when the boy started to bow again. He swore inwardly at the stupidity of using his own name in his kingdom. "I am not the prince, do you hear? Gavin is a common enough name. I - look... why was Wark - er… that captain person... why was he torturing you? Did you see what happened to my friend? Did you see a small rock, or a large foggy marble?" Dafyyd was trembling, eyes glazed with terror. "Answer me!" the prince hissed.
"I - I saw them... oh your highness I didn't mean to, don't punish me! I'm a terrible craven - a coward! Useless!"
"I'm not going to bite your head off, damn it. Why are you groveling so much? Not even peasants act this bad."
"The King - his majesty - he, he made a royal decree -"
"What?" Gavin interrupted, "My fa - King Hugo would never do that."
"I - King... King Hornbalt rules in his place. King Hugo is dead, your highness."
Dun dun dun dun! Don't you just love cliffies? I know I like writing them; it's so much easier. Anyways, rant and rave how much you hate me, I want to know. Any guesses on what's going to happen next? Thanks! Stef's chapter coming soon!
~Kool Person