Chapter Twenty-Five: Fell Tidings
Jerrod stood on the dock, staring out into the distance. The sun was setting over the ocean, casting the shores in a brilliant amber radiance. The ocean waters sparkled in the sunlight, and a cool, relaxing breeze wafted over the beaches from the west.
The Cleric had thought that he'd remembered seeing a forest, or grassy hills of some sort beyond the shores…but when he looked now, there was nothing but void. Slowly but surely, his world was coming to an end. There was a small ship tied to the pier, and the Cleric had the feeling that he was supposed to board it…but something kept him back, anchored to the dock, staring out into the sunset.
Sometimes he would feel a slight twinge of pain in his chest, but whenever he examined himself there was nothing to see. He felt content, for the most part…but again, there was something holding him back, something stopping him from boarding that ship. He could not explain the feeling, but he did not need to—there was no one else on the shores but him.
He was completely alone.
"Wrong," a voice spoke from behind him.
Jerrod turned around, facing the owner of the voice. "Wrong?" he asked.
Saradomin lowered his hood, basking in the sunlight. He joined Jerrod on the pier, standing beside him. "You were just thinking that you were completely alone. You were wrong."
"Been a few months since we've chatted," the Cleric remarked, turning back to the ocean. "I don't think this place is real, though."
"Oh, it is very real," Saradomin countered. "If something exists in one's mind, it is not any less real than something that exists in the corporeal world."
"So I am dead, then," Jerrod sighed. "I remember being in a forest…and it was raining. Nowhere near any oceans… There was an arrow in my chest, if I recall. I was dying. Now I am here. Smells like Afterlife to me."
"You're not quite dead, yet," Saradomin said. He glanced over his shoulder, looking at the dark mists beyond the beach. "Very, very close, though. Soon, even these shores will be consumed."
"What happens then?"
Saradomin gestured at the ship moored to the pier. "Your soul will continue onward. You have a ship, I see…it varies from person to person. Eventually, you will have to board it."
"And if I do not?"
"You will," Saradomin replied. "No one ever remains behind."
"Well…where will I go?"
"No one—not even I—can answer that."
"So, what, did you just come here to give me a happy farewell in person?" Jerrod grunted, his curiosity subsiding and his old grouchiness rising back to the surface. "What do you want from me?"
"Your work in Gielinor is not finished, my servant," Saradomin cut to the chase. "I have come with an offer. Without my intervention, you will be dead in minutes. I possess the means to heal you…but you must give me permission to do so."
Jerrod found that he really could not remember much of his life. He remembered a burning village, a broad-shouldered, gray-bearded man swinging a runite sword, bits and pieces of battles against monsters, a rainy forest, a lush swamp…nothing but flashes. And as he thought about it, he found that he was feeling extremely tired…perhaps it was time to rest.
"I don't know…" Jerrod sighed, reaching up and running a hand over one of the ship's wooden rails. "I feel weary, so very weary… I've been hesitant for some reason, but maybe taking the ship is the right thing to do. Perhaps my time here is done."
"Avis."
Jerrod froze, the name stirring something deep within the fragments of his mind. "What did you say?"
Saradomin repeated the name. And this time, he pressed his hand to Jerrod's forehead. A tumult of images and memories came crashing back to him, like an electric shock ripping through his brain. A wide, toothy grin; crimson eyes…flying through a burning city on a magic carpet, sparring in the middle of a swamp, a town wall crashing to the ground…an arrow in his chest, blood seeping down the front of his robes…and finally, the crimson eyes closed, and the onslaught of images ceased.
Jerrod was heaving for breath, clutching at his chest. A lump had risen in his throat, and his eyes stung. "I'd forgotten…I'd forgotten everything…"
"When souls pass on, they do so unburdened with the memories of their past lives," Saradomin explained. "I'm sure you still remembered flashes, but even they would have faded with your journey. What is it to be, then? Do you still wish to pass from this world?"
"I cannot leave this world with the boy in Zamorak's hands…" Jerrod murmured. "Yes, I give you permission to restore me."
"You would return for the boy? Not to defeat Zamorak? You grow too attached to the Mahjarrat brat for your own good," Saradomin cautioned. "Your emotions will cloud your judgment if you allow them to rule over you."
"Less talking, more resurrecting, please."
Saradomin gave a faint smile and reached into the folds of his robes, drawing out something small, round, and bright. Upon closer inspection, Jerrod saw that it was a fruit…a yellow fruit, glowing with the radiance of a small sun. He held it out to Jerrod, who took it from him.
"I'm supposed to eat this?" the Cleric examined the glowing fruit. "What is it?"
"A cure for the incurable," was all Saradomin said in reply. "You needn't know more."
Jerrod gazed at the fruit hesitantly…but, having no other choice, he brought it up to his lips.
Decius stared up at the ceiling of the recovery tent he had been stuck in since the night before. It was his first time getting wounded, and it was not turning out to be a particularly pleasant experience. The morning after the day he had been out on patrol, Decius and the rest of his unit had returned to the lines commanded by the IV Legion just in time for the opening assault of the Zamorackian hordes. The attack had been relatively light, comprising mostly of werewolves and undead, led by a handful of death knights.
It had been a death knight that had gotten Decius. The young soldier and his comrades spent nearly ten minutes holding a stubborn shield wall, preventing the attacking undead and werewolves from breaking through, until they were set upon by one of the death knights.
The legionaries had pulled back and encircled the death knight, with all the men playing defense against the monster, striking at it only when its back was turned. Unfortunately, a death knight was always a force to be reckoned with, and it managed to kill three men and wound another four before Calavius—Decius's centurion—was able to strike the finishing blow.
Decius had become one of those four wounded men when he had failed to get clear after scoring a hit on the death knight's leg. The monster had swung its sword around and sliced across Decius's stomach, very nearly disemboweling the young man. Decius and his sergeant, Viriles, had managed to keep his guts from spilling out, however, long enough for the medics to get him into one of the field hospitals.
And now here he lay, his stomach all stitched up, sterilized, and bandaged. He would remain in the recovery tent until a medicus declared him fit for duty, which he hoped would happen in a very short while. It was less of a desire to get back to the fighting, and more of an earnest wish to get the hell out of the hospital tents.
The only surprise of the day—other than staying alive, Decius supposed—came when the young legionary turned to the wounded man beside him, only to find that it was none other than the older man from the woods, the one whom he, Viriles, and the others had rescued from those two Mahjarrat. He was deathly pale and did not even seem to be breathing...but there had to still be some small shred of life within him, else the medics would have taken him away. When Decius asked about the man, the soldier was told that he had been poisoned by the arrow he had gotten hit by, and was not expected to live much longer. In fact, the medics were surprised that he had even made it through the night—it was almost dawn outside.
Everything was quiet. Most of the wounded men were asleep, and the medical staff were resting as well. There were a few medics on duty to continue tending to those who needed attention, who would be able to fetch a surgeon if necessary, but that was it. Decius listened to the heavy breathing, the snoring coming from some of the others. He heard muttering, groans, even some screaming at times—he could only imagine what sort of nightmares the screaming men were having.
At some point, Decius's own eyes drifted closed. When he opened them again, he thought it was daytime, because the first thing he saw was light shining against the ceiling. But as he gathered his wits about him, the young soldier realized that the light was coming from inside, not outside. And it was coming from right next to him.
Decius looked to his left, and his heart nearly gave out when he saw the older man in the adjacent cot. The older man's body was glowing a brilliant yellowish golden light, almost as if someone had shrank the sun and put it inside of him. The light intensified until it was difficult to look at directly…but then it vanished, plunging the tent back into darkness.
The snoring and heavy breathing had not stopped. Everyone was still asleep.
But as Decius continued to watch, the older man's back arched. He gasped, sucking down air with the vigor of a man stumbling across an oasis in the desert after nearly dying of thirst. After a few moments, though, he calmed down, taking slower, steadier breaths.
Then his eyes flew open.
Amphiryon Straume, Fleetmaster of the Royal Centralian Navy, closed his eyes as he drew the bow across the strings of his fiddle. His primus—first officer, Marellus, sat opposite the Fleetmaster, holding his pipe up to his lips. Together, the two officers were playing a piece from Artemidoros's Ballad of a Falling Sky—one of the many great pieces of music conceived during the Unification Wars that ended with Pendragon the Unifier's forging of the Centralian Kingdom. The piece was better performed with a proper orchestra, but Straume and Marellus made do with their own instruments.
The piece had words, too, but Straume and Marellus rarely sang them. Their skill was in their instruments, not their voices. The Fleetmaster contented himself by humming along with the melody, even as he played the harmony from his fiddle. The two of them were just reaching one of the final crescendos, but they never made it to the climax—they were interrupted by Midshipman Feris.
The boy poked his head into the cabin, clearing his throat to get his superiors' attention. "Sirs, you have been summoned by the watch," the Midshipman reported.
The officers put their instruments down, plunging the captain's cabin into an almost uncomfortable silence. "What's the time, Mister Feris?" Straume asked, rising to his feet and grabbing his coat.
"Half past six, sir," the Midshipman replied, forcing himself to keep from fidgeting in discomfort—he had never before seen the inside of the captain's cabin, and he'd been expecting to give the Admiral the message and duck back out…not to be kept lingering at the door.
"Dawn… Thank you, son—you are dismissed," Straume nodded to the Midshipman, not noticing the subtle sigh of relief that the boy breathed as he filed out of the cabin. The Fleetmaster donned his greatcoat and fixed his three-cornered Admiral's hat to his crown. "Your thoughts, Primus?" he asked his first officer.
"Lieutenant Khrios is the officer on watch," the first officer replied. "He's a bit of a jumpy one with the watch, especially during the dawn hours."
Straume gave a hum of agreement. The Resolute had beaten to quarters more than a few times in the past due to phantoms spotted by Lieutenant Khrios, much to the crew's chagrin. Straume himself had to admit that such false alarms were irritating to him, but he did not complain—better to be grumpy and alive rather than surprised and subsequently blown to pieces.
"I pray the watch has only spotted another ghost," Admiral Straume murmured, buckling his saber and pistol to his waist and stepping out of the cabin, his primus right on his heels. The two officers made their way through the top gun deck, where ratings slept in their bunks amidst the warship's cannons. There were still a couple sailors who were awake, and whenever a man crossed paths with Straume and Marellus, he would stop to offer a quick salute before continuing on his way.
The Admiral climbed up one of the ladders onto the deck, trading salutes with the handful of ratings pulling the night's watch. There were hushed murmurings coming from the men, but the only other sound was the steady creaking of the ship's timber, and the lapping of water against the Resolute's hull.
The morning was cold, and Straume found himself wishing he'd worn his gloves. It was early to mid-Wintumber, now. Winter would not officially begin for another week or two, but the weather already felt like a snowfall was just around the corner. There was a light mist about this part of the ocean—not heavy enough to prevent the crew from observing their surroundings, but enough to make spotting anything on the horizon a difficult task.
The Admiral headed up towards the ship's bow, giving a respectful nod to Honoria—the Resolute's figurehead. He singled out Lieutenant Khrios and called over to the junior officer, heading his way.
Lieutenant Khrios walked over to the rail, gesturing for Admiral Straume to follow him. He held his arm out straight, pointing in the direction in which he had seen whatever had given him cause to summon the Admiral. "Three points off the port bow, sir. Alert was given to me by Midshipman Feris," Khrios recounted to his superior. "It was him and Mister Reddick who spoke of spotting flashing lights on the horizon, or something of the like. I took a look myself, but saw no lights… But I thought I saw a shape for a moment."
Admiral Straume extended his spyglass and peered off into the horizon, searching for any signs of movement, for anything that would have given justification for the ship's being brought up to full alert. It was difficult to see anything clearly through the mist that veiled the horizon, but the Admiral was persistent. He remained motionless, inching his gaze bit by bit across the east. Dawn's first light was beginning to paint the skies a soft, light blue. After a minute of searching, Admiral Straume found that his gaze had wandered upwards to observe the early sunlight brightening the sky. He shook his head once and returned his gaze to the horizon, making another sweep…when he froze. Just as he'd started to turn, he thought he'd seen a dark shape in the mist, silhouetted faintly against the eastern horizon.
Straume looked back to where he had seen the phantom, but there was nothing but mist. He lowered the spyglass and wiped the lens off on his jacket, getting rid of any possible moisture fogging up the glass. He looked to the east once again, but still saw nothing.
Still…the seeds of doubt had been planted, and Admiral Straume could not ignore them. It was possible he had seen nothing…but there came a point where sheer probability gave the Admiral the answer he needed. Mister Reddick, Midshipman Feris, and Lieutenant Khrios had all reported seeing something out there, and now Straume himself thought he had spotted something…between four people, the phantom out there was probably a bit more real than most people would have liked to believe.
It was enough for Straume. The Admiral slapped his spyglass closed and stowed it. He left the rail and strode up to the steering deck and ordered Mister Syrio, the helmsman, to change course to the east, moving in the direction of the phantom.
It was only when the sun rose and the morning breeze banished the mists that the phantom was spotted once again. At first, the sailor in the crow's nest pointed eastward and mentioned the presence of what appeared to be another vessel. Within two minutes of that proclamation, the Resolute drew close enough for Admiral Straume to see the other ship with the naked eye. A dark shadow on the horizon, with tiny spokes for masts.
The Centralian Fleetmaster peered through his spyglass once again, in order to get a better look. He instantly recognized the almost bulky curvature of a man-of-war, could even barely see moving figures on the ship's deck. He looked up to the top of the other ship's mainmast, saw the scarlet flag with the golden eagle and crossed gladii. Centralian colors.
"She's one of ours," the Admiral said to Marellus, who was standing next to him, gazing out at the other ship through his own spyglass.
"So she is, so she is…" Marellus murmured, squinting as he tried to get a clearer view. "Coming from the east... We're just southwest of the tail of the Kharidian Desert. What was one of our vessels doing east of the desert? We're not supposed to have any naval presence beyond this area—that's Drakan's territory."
"Blown off-course by the early winter storms, perhaps?" Straume suggested.
"Perhaps," Marellus echoed. "Still… Something does not—hold fast!"
Admiral Straume grunted in surprise as well when he saw the small explosions of light coming from the far side of the other Centralian ship, watched as the other ship started to turn westward—towards the Resolute.
"That was cannonfire, sir," Marellus declared, compacting his spyglass, having seen all there was to see. "We're well out of range, so they're shooting at something else."
"They're under attack," Admiral Straume hummed in agreement. He turned to his primus and gave him a single nod. "Give the order: beat to quarters."
"Aye, sir," Marellus touched his finger to his brow and moved away from the rail, striding right into the heart of the ship's deck, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Beat to quarters lads!"
The Primus's booming voice carried all throughout the Centralian flagship, rousing a good many of the slumbering men even before the royal marine with the large drum started rolling out the drumbeats that signaled the ship's beating to quarters. Ratings churned out of the hatchways from below, scrambling to their posts on the deck guns. Down on the gun decks, the men and junior officers would be readying the Resolute's main battery.
The complement of royal marines, under the command of Centurio Cassian, all thundered onto the deck as well, fully armored and armed to the teeth. They were accompanied by Regulus and Iovis, the two ship's mages. Now, the Resolute was ready for a fight.
The crew remained at the ready as the Resolute plowed through the waves. The wind favored them, today—Mister Syrio was able to hold this course without any difficulty. The flagship's course had not been set directly toward where Straume and the others had spotted the other Centralian ship, either. Mister Syrio guided the Resolute towards the area where, judging by the direction of the wind, the other ship would end up by the time the Resolute's battlegroup reached its position.
By the time the other Centralian ship drew near, Admiral Straume could see that it was being pursued by a larger vessel with black sails. The black-sailed ship seemed to possess bow cannons—every few minutes or so, it would open fire at the Centralian vessel.
Admiral Straume could already spot damage on the other Centralian ship, but nothing that had compromised its speed. As he observed the two ships, the Fleetmaster could see why the Centralian vessel was fleeing the black-sailed ship rather than making a stand. If his countrymen decided to stay and fight, it was likely they would lose their ship in the fight—the enemy vessel had a substantial gunnery.
But with two Centralian vessels—one of them being the flagship of the entire fleet, no less—the black-sailed ship could find itself in some measure of trouble.
Straume could see a flag waving atop the black-sailed ship, as well. This standard bore the image of a bat within a circle of crimson. Admiral Straume instantly recognized the symbol. "Drakan…" the Fleetmaster muttered. The vampyres were, to Straume's knowledge, the only Zamorackian race to field a navy. He had clashed with them many times on the high seas, and he had not enjoyed any of those occasions.
Even as the Resolute approached the two vessels, the Centralian ship suddenly started to change course, turning to starboard.
"Admiral, sir!" Marellus exclaimed from the bow of the ship, pointing toward the other Centralian warship. "Signal flags!"
Admiral Straume raised his spyglass once more. The other warship was close enough for the Fleetmaster to see the individual men crewing it. An officer was standing at the starboard rail of the other warship, bearing brightly-colored signal flags, moving them into the positions that would convey the message he wanted to give to Straume.
"Course correction, Mister Syrio," Straume said to the helmsman. "Thirty-five degrees to starboard. Put us along the vamps' left side. Let's see if we can do this by the book… Larboard battery at the ready!"
"Larboard battery, aye!" the reply was relayed up from below.
"Primus, get below and oversee the cannons!" Straume ordered his first officer. Marellus obeyed, sliding belowdecks down one of the ladders. The Admiral then ordered Lieutenant Khrios to identify the Centralian warship.
Centurio Cassian was barking orders as well, organizing the Resolute's complement of marines into formation. Ratings scrambled to man the deck guns, while other men climbed the rigging to adjust the trim of the sails. Steadily, the Resolute arced toward the vampyre ship while the Centralian vessel turned away.
The vampyre ship saw what Straume was going to do and ceased its pursuit of the other Centralian vessel, trying to turn into the wind to avoid the Resolute…but it was too late. The Resolute drew up alongside the vampyre ship, and Straume gave the order to open fire.
The Resolute and the vampyre ship both opened fire at the same time, raking each other in a textbook broadside maneuver. Broadside maneuvers were where the Resolute reigned supreme. A lesser ship would have sustained significant damage from such an exchange of fire, but the Resolute was no ordinary warship. It was the Centralian Navy's flagship, possessing a much thicker hull. This sacrificed speed for durability, but it was a tradeoff that Straume was content with.
A couple of enemy shots did manage to wreak some havoc down on the gun decks, but the majority of them were repulsed. The vampyre ship slagged to the side, crippled by the barrage. Down below, Straume could hear Marellus bellowing at the gun crews to reload their batteries. By then, the Resolute was drawing past the stern of the enemy ship.
"Hard a'larboard!" Admiral Straume cried, gripping the wooden rail.
"Hard a'larboard, aye!" Mister Syrio wrenched the helm to the left, bringing the Resolute swinging around in the same direction. The gun crews worked at fever pitch, laboring to reload the larboard battery. They had trained for this time after time, so they were able to ready the batteries by the time the Resolute cut across the enemy ship's stern.
Hitting an enemy through the stern was usually the checkmate of naval combat. The weaker hull at the stern allowed a barrage to quite literally gut a ship from stem to stern with minimal effort.
Even while abovedecks, Admiral Straume could still hear Primus Marellus howling "Finish them!" at the top of his lungs, just before the larboard battery thundered once again, tearing into the vampyre ship.
It was the Resolute's lucky day. Sometimes, after destroying an enemy ship, the vampyres would dispatch vyrewatch to assail the Centralians from the air…but either this vampyre ship did not have any vyrewatch onboard…or if there had been any onboard, perhaps the two barrages had wiped them out. Either way, the enemy ship sank without any more protest.
A very easy victory. Straume recalled many duels he had fought against wily vampyre navarchs, but this particular fight could barely even be called a fight. More like target practice. And so, the real highlight of the day ended up being the other Centralian warship, rather than the scuffle.
"Admiral, sir, I've spotted the other ship's name!" Lieutenant Khrios exclaimed, still peering through his spyglass at the stern of the Centralian warship. "It's the Silver Arrow!"
"That's Arald Harcourt's ship…" the Admiral murmured, recognizing the name. Suddenly, a cascade of memories came rushing back through his mind. He hadn't actually forgotten about the Silver Arrow, obviously, but it had not exactly been the first thing on his mind. He had dispatched Arald Harcourt and his crew to transport Iulus Fernandos, the Praetor of Centralia, to the Ainu Empire in the east. There had been no contact from Harcourt for months.
Once the vampyre ship had completely sunk, and Straume was certain that there would be no survivors, he ordered Mister Syrio to bring the Resolute right up alongside the Silver Arrow, also telling his signalist to relay his intentions to Captain Harcourt. Two or three minutes later, the flagship was drawing right up on the Silver Arrow's starboard side.
Sailors on both ships tossed ropes to each other, and the order was given to drop anchor. Now the two ships were moored to each other and anchored in place. A gangplank was run up from below and set down at one of the access points on the Resolute's larboard side. The crewmen of the Silver Arrow secured their end of the gangplank when it was extended to them, completing the linking of the two ships.
Primus Marellus emerged from the gun decks, his face and overcoat splotched with soot, joining the Fleetmaster as he headed to the gangplank. Straume and Marellus crossed over to the Silver Arrow, accompanied by a detachment of royal marines.
They were greeted on the other ship by a familiar man in a heavy blue coat and three-cornered hat—though he was much gaunter and paler, and his beard much scruffier than Straume remembered. "Admiral, sir," Captain Harcourt clasped his fist to his heart in a salute, bowing his head.
"You are certainly a sight for sore eyes, captain," Admiral Straume returned the salute. "We all feared you dead when contact with you was lost."
"Not dead, sir," Harcourt replied. "Delayed certainly, but not dead."
Admiral Straume took a moment to sweep his gaze across the deck of the Silver Arrow, looking for the one person he needed to see, noticing his absence. When the Fleetmaster did not spot the man, he turned back to Harcourt. "Where is the Praetor, Mister Harcourt?"
"The Praetor has opted to remain in Kātayō, sir. The Ainu are in the process of mobilizing their armies, and the Praetor wishes to return home with their fleet," Captain Harcourt explained. "We would have stayed as well, but there was a message of import that Praetor Fernandos needed to get back home…so he sent us across the ocean to deliver it. We barely made it across before the winter storms settled in. And, as you have just seen, we ran into some company along the way."
"And the message?"
"I've kept it on my own heart ever since he gave it to me," Captain Harcourt reached under his coat and into his layers, drew out a small sheaf of parchment with writing scrawled across one side, presented it to the Fleetmaster. "Better it finds itself in your hands—you can report this directly to the King."
Admiral Straume took the dispatches and peered closely at them, reading the words that Lord Fernando had written. When he was finished, a deep frown had creased his brow, and he read it again. He glanced up at his subordinate navarch. "These words are the truth?"
"They were written and given directly to me by the Praetor," Captain Harcourt replied. "To doubt them would be to doubt him."
That was all Straume needed. The Fleetmaster offered Captain Harcourt one final salute. "Then order your helmsman to set a course for Port Sarim. We must get this message to Tethys and to Stellantae with all possible speed, or risk the destruction of our homes."
Osman leaned forward on the rail of his balcony, staring out into the night sky. On another night, he might have gazed up at the stairs, or even the moon. Tonight, however, he gazed into the black void of a stormy night. Every few seconds, the Centralian King would watch the distant eastern skies flash with lightning.
And below, the countless lights and fires of Tethys, the capital city of Centralia, were laid out like a living carpet, stretching far into the distance. The people of the city had gone to sleep, but the revelers would still be up and about. If Osman strained hard enough, he would be able to hear bits and pieces of music drifting up from the taverns in the city below. Osman allowed himself a faint smile, glad that at least some of his subjects still had the ability to be merry. Sometimes he thought about dressing in commoner's clothing and stealing away into the night to visit one of the pubs or taverns, but he never did. During a time of peace, perhaps…but not when the kingdom was fighting for its very survival.
The King tensed initially when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was only reflex. "You're in the wrong bedchamber, milady," Osman remarked, not turning away from the view over the capital, still watching the lightning in the east.
"Sleep eluded me," Lady Aurelia said, slipping up next to the King. "I assumed it paid you the same treatment, and it seems I was right. And you may stop calling me 'milady'."
"Apologies, milady…Aurelia," Osman winced at how awkward he felt using her real name.
Aurelia's reaction was quite the opposite. She broke out into a peal of laughter, gripping the rail and leaning over it herself. "I do love sweet irony," she hummed. "One of the few men who are not required to call me by my title cannot bring himself to do so. Am I really so intimidating?"
"A force of nature is what you are," Osman sighed, grateful that she could not see his reddening face in the darkness. "A force of nature whose words can bring to heel even the most skilled of orators, and make fools of the most powerful of men."
"Oh, I think I am actually quite ordinary," Lady Aurelia countered. "You are simply loath to admit the obvious. Imagine if everyone knew; the all-powerful, almighty King of Centralia…helpless in the grip of shyness, of all things..."
Osman stiffened again, slightly, as Aurelia slipped her hand into his. Thunder growled in the distance, but the King paid it no heed—he focused his attention on his friend, now. She was very close to his own age—perhaps a year older. And what a curious specimen she was…her life as the niece of a Proconsul had matured her beyond her years, but she still managed to retain much of the spark of her youth. Of course, she did not have to deal with the war nearly as much as Osman did.
"I am not shy," was all Osman could think of to say in response, but it came out rather halfhearted.
"Look at me," Aurelia touched Osman's chin, turning his head so that he was facing her. "Nothing can touch us, here."
Osman stared into her face, and something in his heart fluttered. He'd been suppressing his emotions for too long. The death of King Lionel, his father, had dumped a lot of responsibility onto Osman's shoulders. And now, with Athellenas and Lord Fernando no longer by his side, the pressure had become much more acute. And Osman honestly believed he might have suffered some form of mental breakdown if he had not met Lady Aurelia the year before. She was one of the few things—if not, the only thing keeping him sane, at the moment.
But, as he shared Aurelia's gaze, his thoughts were finally turned away from the war and the countless burdens of running a kingdom. A strange sense of resolve entered the King, at that moment, and he leaned forward, touching Aurelia's face, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle kiss.
Aurelia's smile vanished and she returned the gesture. She had been waiting patiently for this for a while. The two close friends—though 'friends' no longer seemed to do their relationship justice—moved back into the bedchamber. King Osman was not aware that they had left the balcony until he found himself falling back into one of his armchairs.
Lady Aurelia lowered herself onto Osman, their kiss still remaining unbroken. The King started to feel a deep passion building up within him, and he matched Aurelia's energy with a renewed vigor as their hands began to slip down from each other's faces.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a sharp series of knocks at the bedchamber door.
"Saradomin's cock…" the King swore, breaking off the kiss. He rarely ever uttered such blasphemy…but this time, it was warranted. "What is it now?"
"Just ignore them," Aurelia whispered, laying her head on Osman's shoulder.
"You know I cannot," Osman sighed, forcing himself to stand up, leaving Aurelia in the chair. He crossed over to his bedchamber door and pulled it open, revealing Quintus Junius Vindex—Prefect of the Old Guard.
The silver-haired, weather-faced warrior exchanged a brief salute with his monarch, not bothering to sink to a knee. "Apologies for the late disturbance, my liege," Quintus gave the King an apologetic glance, noticing Aurelia sitting in the armchair. "Amphiryon Straume is downstairs, requesting an immediate audience."
"The Fleetmaster is here?" King Osman arched an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought he was patrolling the waters southwest of the Kharidian Desert."
"Apparently not, unless my senses are deceived. I told him you were not to be disturbed, but he would not be turned away."
"Very well…" Osman massaged the bridge of his nose, taking a step back and putting his hand on the door. "Send him into my study. I'll be down momentarily."
"Your will, sire," Quintus bowed his head slightly, clasping his fist to his heart and taking his leave.
King Osman closed the door and headed back to his bed, where he had hung one of his coats over a bedpost. Lady Aurelia had not moved from the chair, her disapproval plainly evident on her face. "Will they not give you even a single night of peace?" she asked.
"They normally take great pains to avoid disturbing me when I am at rest," King Osman sighed, pulling his coat from the bedpost. He was currently wearing only an undershirt and cloth sleep pants—hardly a suitable attire to greet the Fleetmaster. "And when they do, it is always something that requires immediate attention."
"Surely the kingdom would not crumble if its monarch were allowed his nightly rest?"
"Perhaps you are right…" King Osman donned the blue coat, buttoning it up to around the bottom of his sternum before deciding that he was decent enough. "But what unsettles me most is the fact that the one waiting for me is Admiral Straume. Never before has the Fleetmaster ever found cause to report to me directly, especially without any prior notice. Something is amiss."
Aurelia still was not convinced, but she had the sense to relent on the King. "Well, then, the fate of the kingdom had better depend on what the Fleetmaster has to say. Centralia will not be better off if its King keels over from exhaustion…"
King Osman stepped out of his bedchamber and headed down the corridor. He took the grand stair down to the ground level of the palace, circling around through the corridors to the throne room. He then moved past his throne and entered his private study, where Quintus was standing with Admiral Straume, the Fleetmaster of the Centralian Navy.
Quintus stepped aside, offering one last bow. "I will take my leave," he said, slipping out of the room and closing the door behind him.
Admiral Straume still smelled of the ocean, but it was not a smell that Osman minded. "Apologies, my liege," the Fleetmaster said as he saluted the King. "I know the value of a good night's sleep, but I bring to you a matter of import that could not be kept waiting."
"I assumed as much," Osman stifled a yawn, stepping behind his desk and inviting Straume to sit.
The Fleetmaster declined, however. "One of my mages teleported me here from Port Sarim, and I would like to return to my ship as soon as possible. I will try to be quick…" the Admiral took a moment to clear his throat before continuing. "I encountered the Silver Arrow while on patrol, six days ago—Arald Harcourt's ship. Know you the significance of this?"
King Osman's brow was creased in a light frown. "The Silver Arrow… Is that not the ship that was tasked with transporting Lord Fernando to the Ainu?"
"The very same," the Fleetmaster nodded. "The Praetor was not on board, however. I will not go into details about this. All is explained in the message given to me by Captain Harcourt—given to him personally by the Praetor," Straume reached into his navy blue greatcoat, drawing out a single piece of parchment and handing it to the King.
King Osman accepted the paper and unfolded it, flattening it on his desk before reading it. Just like the Fleetmaster had done before him, King Osman's face twisted into a scowl when he finished reading, and he went back and read it all again. He looked up at the Fleetmaster when he was finished. "You have seen this?" the King asked the older man.
"I have," Admiral Straume nodded. "Hence my hasty and unexpected arrival. Word of this must be given to the Warmaster immediately."
"Agreed," the King said, though he did not need to—it was already a given. "It gladdens me to no end that the Praetor has secured the aid of the Ainu Empire, but if what the Sun Emperor says is true... Thank you, Fleetmaster, you are dismissed. Send Quintus in on your way out, will you?"
"Sire," Admiral Straume bowed his head and saluted the King, ducking out of the study.
King Osman pulled out a small piece of paper, dipped a quill in an inkwell, and quickly scrawled a note of his own. He then folded his note up with the message from Lord Fernando, sliding everything into a small envelope.
A moment later, Quintus Junius Vindex entered the study. "You requested me?" the Prefect of the Old Guard stepped toward the King's desk.
"Yes, Quintus…" King Osman nodded, mentally noting how Aurelia would have ribbed him for having no trouble being on a first name basis with his Prefect, but not with her. He reached into his desk and produced a rod of red wax. He then pulled out a small candle and lit it, holding the melted end of the red wax into the flame. "Summon your most reliable mage. I need someone with enough skill to teleport to the Stellantae Province. This message must be given directly to Warmaster Athellenas without delay."
The red wax, as it was melted by the candle flame, dripped down onto the envelope. When it hardened, it would seal the envelope shut. Before this happened, however, King Osman removed the royal seal from around his neck, where he always wore it, and pressed it into the half-solidified wax. Once the wax fully hardened, it bore the seal of the King.
"I know a man who would be up to the task," Quintus said. "Dio is his name. Do you wish me to bring the dispatches to him, or shall I bring the man to the palace?"
"Better to bring Dio here, I think," King Osman opted for the second option. "Offense is not intended against you, but I would like to minimize the number of hands that these messages must pass through."
"A wise course of action," Quintus agreed, seeing the reasoning behind the King's decision. "Very well. I will take my leave. Dio is off duty at the moment, so expect my return within the quarter hour."
King Osman waited for the Prefect to depart, waited for the door to close. Once he was alone in the study once again, the King released another long, slow sigh. He sank down into his chair and rested his head down on the desk, folding his hands across the back of his head, taking deep breaths.
"I wish you were still here, father…" the King murmured.
Author's Note
Hello again, readers.
From the last couple reviews, it seems people were afraid I was stopping my work on this story due to the perceived lack of attention this story seems to suffer from. True, I don't think any of my other stories will quite gain the level of attention that my Halo work enjoyed, but I can assure you that I did not stop working on this story. This wait was due to a number of reasons-I had another creative splurge which resulted in the birth of a new story on this site, which I am working on in concert with this one. My first two weeks of my spring semester were also completely hellish-between rehearsals for one production, auditions and later callbacks for another production, school work, a weekend involving an alcohol-themed cast party for that first production, and a subsequent weekend involving an adventure through West Philly that I can't really talk about on here...I just haven't had the time to finish this chapter until now.
The previous hiatus was due to severe writer's block; this wait was simply the result of being busy as fuck. But I already have a pretty good and clear idea of how the rest of this story is going to go, right up until the end. I have no intention of stopping my work on this story until it is complete. Just keep in mind, though, that there may be the occasional dry spell in the future...but don't think I've stopped working on this story.
Because I haven't!
Alrighty, then. Until next time.
-TheAmateur