Wyckham
Wyckham Abruzzi, third son of the Royal Tribune Count Amedeo Abruzzi and Warden of the Tychus Gate sat cross-legged in the center of his tower suite. He tried to focus his thoughts, but the voice in the back of his mind was distracting.
He'd made the mistake of complaining about it back at the Warden Citadel. And received a thorough telling off about how lucky he was for the gift of the Calling and how most of the recruits there would kill to be where he was. And that he'd get used to it.
In two years he'd not grown used to it.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected. He'd been weaned on stories of the brave Wardens defending the Gates of the Scar from all manner of magical monstrosity. He'd read about their mysterious Volkar-aided rituals, their magics, and their legendary fighting ability. He'd dreamed of one day being able to don their sigil armor and defend his homeland and his people from all manner of evils.
When, at seven, he'd finally worked up the courage to tell his father and older brothers about his dreams they'd laughed at him. Called him a foolish child with no knowledge of the world. Told him the stories were just stories, made up to appease the stupid. And that the Gates were nothing but a hive of villains and Abruzzi blood would never, under any circumstance, be spilled defending them.
He'd tried to argue but his eldest brother, Matthew, nearly twenty years his senior, ended it with the back of his hand. He'd focused on not letting the tears fall, knowing that their appearance would lead to nothing but more violence.
His father had stared down at him from his elevated dias. A throne of sorts in their familial castle. One that even Wyckham noticed had vanished whenever King Balian Balmon came for a visit with his father.
Amedeo Abruzzi was always cognizant of what the Royal Family thought of him and his. What Wyckham hadn't known at the time, and wouldn't recognize until years later when other trainees at the Citadel taunted him about it, was exactly how out of favor his father had fallen.
His father had claimed the dismissal from court was nothing more than a vacation, a break he needed after dealing so well with the squabbling peasants for years. As a child, Wyckham had no idea that it was abnormal for such vacations to last multiple years. He'd had no idea just how much of a slight it was that Wyckham had never been called to court to meet with the Young Prince, Daron.
When he'd overheard his father and brother arguing about it one night he couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong. They were blaming him for never meeting another boy his age? When they so rarely let him out of the castle? What was he supposed to do? He didn't know who Prince Daron was aside from another third son with two much older brothers. It might have been nice to have a friend his own age with similar interests. Did they expect him to sneak out and make his own way to the capitol and befriend the Prince?
Well, it didn't seem that insane. So he'd tried.
His plan had been perfect. He'd spent a week tying together blankets to create a rope, rather than risk giving away his plan by asking one of the servants for one, and he'd stolen his father's map of Calbar so he should know where he was going.
He'd tossed his impromptu rope out of the window of his room, climbed onto the sill, and started down. Only he hadn't bothered anchoring it to anything, so he'd fallen the entire way.
His brother found him and rushed him inside. He'd broken his arm and was rather shaken up but, according to the doctor, was otherwise fine. His father berated him for being so careless, his brothers thought it was hilarious. Even more so when he admitted to why he'd done it.
The talk about the Young Prince died down for a while. At least until shortly after his eighth birthday.
Wyckham remembered the scowl on his father's face when one of the servants interrupted dinner to say a Royal message had arrived. He'd heard his father mutter about how he was important enough to warrant an actual visit, not simply a message. He was a Count! He'd popped the wax sun seal off of the letter and tossed it onto the dinner table in annoyance. Everyone had stopped eating and watched.
His father's lips curled into a smile as he read. By the time he finished with the missive he was positively giddy.
It had finally happened, he practically giggled. King Balian finally realized how much he needed the Abruzzis. They'd been invited, as special guests, to attend the betrothal of Prince Daron!
Wyckham remembered being confused. The Prince was only a few months older than him. Why was he being married already? And to who?
But his questions had gone unanswered. His father and brothers had far more important things to talk about than his childish confusion.
He'd been completely left out of the conversations about their impending trip. At least until the night before. His father had taken him aside before bed and told him his purpose. He'd been bred for one singular goal and he would fulfill that goal otherwise he was tarnishing his mother's memory.
He would ingratiate himself to Prince Daron or Princess Aemelia. Preferably both. He would make himself indispensable to them. He would make them love him. He was the key to their future success.
He'd sent Wyckham to bed after. He'd spent the entire night staring at the ceiling and wondering how he could do anything of that nature. He didn't even know what the two people looked like. Maybe, he thought as sleep finally took him, Daron would like to play Wardens with him?
Wyckham remembered his fathers dismay when they arrived at the Betrothal. It wasn't at the capitol, as he'd initially thought. But rather in a large open field miles south of the Balmon Royal seat. And the Abruzzis were nowhere near the first to arrive.
The 'special guest' portion of the invitation apparently only meant they'd had a space set aside for their tents. Wyckham couldn't help but notice it was nowhere near the Royal suites, which were obvious in their orange and purple splendor, towering over every tent near them. In fact, he wasn't sure it could have been further from the Royal suites. And due to their noble status they wouldn't have to take part in any of the preliminary requirements for the tournament.
His father sulked in his tents, waiting to be addressed or summoned by the King. His brothers joined him. As did Wyckham for the first day. But by the second he was bored and no one was paying attention to him. So he stole some coins from his father and made his way out into the festival.
Sights and scents assaulted him at every angle. He'd never experienced things like chocolate creams, frozen pineapples, lemon sorbets, juices made from fruits he'd never heard of, roasted animals of all sorts. It only took him a few minutes to decide that the Tournament of the Betrothal was, quite obviously, paradise.
He saw his first Kin, their bestial features blending oddly into their human ones. He'd tried to pick out what traits looked dominant, what animals he could recognize, and what he couldn't. He thought of asking a few of them about it but most seemed intent on ignoring him and focusing on the meats available.
He also saw his first Volkar. A small group of perhaps five or six put on a magic show for some children. He watched for a few moments before his father's voice ran through his head. This was children's entertainment to amuse the peasants. He should not be partaking in it.
He frowned to himself as one of the albino women made flowers appear from nowhere and distributed them to some of the girls seated near their small stage. Their white hair and red eyes made them look almost ghostly. He watched for a moment before ceding to his father's imagined advice and left the area.
He overheard conversations about how unlucky Prince Daron the Dutiful was to be forced to bed an animal. How idiotic the family was, how it was a slight against all of Calabar and so on. He listened to the rantings of random people until something else caught his attention.
Melodic singing lured him to another area of the festival. He found a large tent looming over a large stage after a couple of minutes. Three young women were dancing and singing on it before a modest crowd.
He slid onto one of the logs serving as makeshift benches and read the sign on display near the stage stating that they were apprentice Sirens and that the fully endorsed ones would perform later.
He let his gaze wander through the crowd. One of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen was seated not too far away. She was Lorakian and wore a fine dress of Calabarian orange and purple. She was utterly engrossed in the pantomime before her, smiling brightly at it.
She was surrounded by a large retinue and a cadre of Calabarian guards. One of them noticed he was staring and started moving toward him. Wyckham figured that was the perfect time to make himself scarce.
He ducked behind some tents and weaved his way through the sprawling campus of activities. Part of him wondered if he'd even be able to find his way back to his family's tents if he had to. He figured as an Abruzzi such things would be easy to sort if need be.
It only took him an hour to realize that was completely untrue. He continued trying to make his way through the carnival to no avail. The sun was setting behind him and he found himself growing more and more frantic with each passing moment. Part of him had to know he could mention his name to any Calabarian guardsman and they'd have certainly found his family if out of nothing more than fear.
But he wasn't going to let that happen. He needed to prove he was capable, and getting lost proved nothing of the sort. So no matter what happened. He wasn't going to get lost.
He ducked around some Calabarian guards, not wanting to give up yet, and found himself scampering through more and more unknown areas. He ducked into a tent to avoid the glances from some passing guards.
He hadn't intended to stay for long in that new tent but laughter from behind it caught his attention. He walked through it, finding the elaborate orange and purple decorations to be a bit excessive given that it was a tent. Still, he knew his father would have been rather jealous of all the furnishings. A small part of him couldn't help but wonder just who this specific tent belonged to.
He emerged out the back of it into a small grassy alcove. They'd encased it with large tent walls but it was exposed to the sun here. Three laughing youths stood near one of the walls. Two of them were clothed in various reds, oranges, and purples. There was a boy, about his age and his height with fair features and sandy hair. He said something to a girl, a few years younger clothed in similar colors.
The girl had darker features, looking more like a Lorakian than a Calabarian, but despite that there was a familiarity there. It only took him a moment to recognize that she was wearing an exact replica of the dress he'd seen on the beautiful Lorakian woman earlier in the day. Although hers was covered in dirt and rumpled in areas.
The second girl with them looked about the same age as the other. Her race was unmistakable given the large golden ears twitching on the top of her head. She wore at white dress and stood a few feet away from the other two. She had a golden tail poking out from the back of her dress. The only other adornment on her was a golden bracelet with a pink gemstone set in the middle. Her stance made her seem like she wanted nothing to do with joining the other pair as they argued. Even less so when the girl threw a handful of dirt at the boy. But, despite that, her tail twitched excitedly and she leaned toward it.
"Who are you?" the boy spat after a moment and Wyckham realized he'd been discovered. The boy's light eyes narrowed as he stared at him. Wyckham's first instinct was to flee. But an Abruzzi didn't run.
"Wyckham Abruzzi," he answered. The boy's brows raised. The human girl made a face. The Kin only looked curious.
"An Abruzzi?" the boy's face matched the girls as he said it. Wyckham looked away from him.
"Yes," he confirmed. "Third son of the Count."
"Like you!" the girl giggled.
"I am not the third son of a Count," the boy spat again.
"But still third," the girl giggled. "Unlike me. I'm first!"
"Shut up, Lia," the boy countered, eloquently. The girl threw more dirt at him. The kin shifted away from the mess. Before Wyckham could think of anything to say he felt two larger figures walk by him. Neither seemed interested in his presence. They were both dressed like the young boy. One of them was tall and thin and managed to always be a step ahead of the other who was shorter, but still by no means short, and stouter. They put themselves between he and the other kids. When Wyckham finally got a good look at them he forgot to breathe.
The two men were obviously brothers, despite the difference in height. He recognized the small symbols embroidered above their left breasts instantly. The tall one sported a G embossed on a shield while the shorter one a M made out of four spears. The Spear and Shield of Calabar.
Wyckham found himself wondering if there was a joke in there. As looking at them, the man wearing the shield looked far more like a spear, and vice versa. Yet there they were, the Royal Crown Prince, Gareth and his younger brother, Prince Marek. Which would mean, Wyckham thought as his heart started beating faster in his chest. The young boy behind them had to be…
"Who's your friend, Daron?" Gareth asked.
"Wyckham Abruzzi," Daron answered. Gareth raised his brows and focused his gaze on Wyckham.
"Sent by his father, no doubt," Gareth said.
"No," Wyckham answered. He felt himself blush as he refuted the future King of Calabar. Gareth peered at him, his brows raised. Wyckham wanted to cower but there was something in the man's eyes, something beneath the general alertness. It took him a moment to place it.
Kindness?
Surely not.
"No?"
"I got lost," Wyckham admitted, looking down at the ground and feeling absolutely tiny. "I snuck away from my tents to see the festival and I got lost. I heard them laughing and it sounded inviting."
"A clever ruse," Gareth said.
"I doubt it," Marek answered. "Remember us at Lady Caterin's betrothal feast as kids?"
"You were the one that jumped in the well, I had to make sure you weren't hurt," Gareth answered. Daron giggled in the background.
"You were the one who thought you'd dropped that goblet down there. He's a kid," Marek continued. "In an unfamiliar land. With spectacle as far as the eye can see. Sins of the father, brother."
"I suppose," Gareth said, his brows raised. "He doesn't look dangerous."
"He's not armed and he's a kid," Marek repeated, laughing. Gareth sighed and turned around and looked at the girl. Wyckham felt himself blink as he realized who she must be.
"Weren't you supposed to stay with your mother?" he asked his daughter.
"Why would I want to watch some boring apprentice Sirens when the real ones don't show up until after the jousting?" Princess Aemelia of Calabar answered.
"You were supposed to let Daron and Mazara be alone so they can get to know each other," Gareth said.
"But the singing sounded boring," Aemelia countered. The Kin girl's eyes narrowed as she spoke. Wyckham recognized her expression easily enough. She clearly disagreed but didn't think it was her place to say anything. In fact, given her expression, he thought she would have much rather been watching the Sirens with Duchess Aria than in the tent with the other kids.
"I suppose she's still there. I told her I'd find her before the jousting," Gareth said. "Come with me?"
"I want to stay and play," Aemelia whined. Gareth shook his head but smiled.
"Fine," he said. He spared one last glance at the kids before turning to leave.
"I'll catch up," Marek said. "Someone has to chastise the Royal Guard for the intrusion."
"Good idea," Gareth said, leaving the tent. Marek spared one last glance at the kids before leaving as well. Wyckham stood stock still for a few moments before his trained manners came back to the front of his mind.
"I'm sorry to intrude Prince Daron," he said. Daron shrugged and looked confused for a moment before his own manners seemed to kick in as well.
"No intrusion," he answered, clumsily, as if searching for the proper words. "This is Princess Aemelia of Calabar and my wife, Princess Mazara Verperon." He gestured to his companions as he said their name. The Kin girl, the Golden Princess he'd heard her called, as her father was the Golden Kin. Her features certainly matched the name.
"Fiance," Aemelia corrected. Her tone made it clear she thought Prince Daron was quite the dunce.
"What's the difference?" Daron asked, his expression darkening as he looked genuinely confused.
"You aren't married yet. Only betrothed," Aemelia rolled her eyes as the simplicity of it and the stupidity of her uncle. Wyckham wasn't quite sure of the difference either, but he wasn't about to voice that.
"So?" Daron asked.
"So she's only your wife after the ceremony," Aemelia explained.
"So?" Daron asked.
"So that's not going to be until you're both of age!" Aemelia said, sounding exasperated. Daron shrugged his shoulders as if none of it particularly mattered to him.
"It's nice to meet you, Mazara," Wyckham said, bowing slightly toward the Kin girl. She looked startled but curtseyed back more out of instinct than anything.
"You too mister Abruzzi," she answered, mechanically in a slightly accented Calabarian.
"We were going to play Wardens and Monsters," Daron said. "But the teams were uneven. Aemelia needs another Warden."
"I'm not a monster," Mazara scoffed under her breath.
"Wardens are usually outnumbered," Aemelia interjected, placing her hands on her hips in annoyance.
"She really needs help," Daron added, with a knowing nod.
"I'll show you help," Aemelia growled and then hurled herself through the air. She impacted on Daron, her arms and legs locking around him as she forced him to the ground, pounding against his chest. He laughed as they started to roll around in the grass and dirt.
"Are we supposed to join in?" he asked the Kin girl. She managed to look alarmed at being spoken to. Her ears and tail twitched.
"I'm not supposed to get dirty," she said.
"Me either," Aemelia answered as she rolled on top of Daron and kept pounding her fists into his chest.
"My father will be cross with me," Mazara answered.
"Mine always is," Aemelia said. "But if you pout and make your eyes big they always cave."
"I don't think that would work," Mazara answered. Daron took that moment to push his niece off of him. He pinned her to the ground.
"You won't escape, Warden!" he yelled. Aemelia tried to look fearful, but it was largely countered by her giggling.
"Help me, Warden!" she giggled, looking toward Wyckham with pleading eyes. He didn't move.
"No help will come for you!" Daron growled and pressed the attack by starting to tickle Aemelia. Her shrieks and giggles intermixed as she continued to please.
"No no Stop no! Warden! Help!" the princess yelled. Wyckham couldn't resist. He'd always wanted to be a Warden. And to have friends. And play. And so he ran toward them and threw Daron off of the Princess.
"You dare!?" Prince Daron yelled as he glared at Wyckham. For a moment, he thought he'd screwed up. But then Mazara speared him, forcing him to the ground. They rolled and he saw Aemelia tackle Daron once more and before he knew it the four of them were rolling on the ground in a tangled mess of grass, dirt and limbs.
"Gods what are you fools doing?" a stern woman's voice rang through the courtyard. Aemelia groaned. Daron sighed.
"Playing mother," Aemelia said. Wyckham looked toward the source of the sound of the voice and saw the beautiful Lorakian woman from earlier. His manners escaped him as his mind brought forth her identity. Duchess Aria, the wife of Prince Gareth. His father disliked her. He thought she was haughty and nothing more than a pretentious upstart undeserving of her station.
But what he saw was a smiling, plump woman with her hands on her hips. It was clear where Aemelia had learned the gesture. And while her posture made her appear annoyed, her face told a different story.
Her smile was bright and infectious, her eyes shining. And somehow she seemed to almost glow in the evening sun. She shook her head before she spoke.
"Don't you know how to play without ruining your dress?" she asked.
"Of course I do. But that's way less fun," Aemelia said, standing. Part of her dress was torn and she was covered in dirt. They all were, Wyckham realized, as he looked around. The Kin girl was probably the worst of it. Her dress now looked more green and brown than white. She frowned down at it.
"Of course it is," Duchess Aria rolled her eyes. "Come along girls. You didn't do any damage a quick scrubbing and a new dress won't rectify."
"I'm fine," Mazara said hastily. Duchess Aria raised her brows at the Kin girl. Something transpired between the woman and the girl in that moment, although Wyckham had no clue what it could have possibly been.
"Nonsense," the Duchess said. She turned to one of the ladies following her. "Find her maids. Tell them the situation and that she needs a new dress."
"I'm sure Princess Aemelia has something appropriate we could repurpose," another attendant answered.
"The girl is going to have to wear orange and purple for the rest of her life. Let her have some other colors for now. Tell the attendants I enjoy aqua," Duchess Aria said. She walked up to the two girls and pulled both of them to their feet.
"Mom," Aemelia whined. Mazara said nothing, but her ears fell and her tail stopped swishing. She looked far more nervous and embarrassed than the other girl. Wyckham got the feeling this wasn't an uncommon situation between the Duchess and her daughter.
"Clean up the boys," the duchess ordered. Wyckham and Daron found themselves pulled back into the tent where they were stripped, scrubbed, perfumed and redressed. Wyckham found the entire thing rather invasive but Daron shrugged and muttered it was easier to just let them than fight it.
He was rather surprised to find a fresh black and red outfit waiting for him. One of the servants said they'd found his belongings and fetched fresh clothing. He meant to ask about his family but the questions never came as they were led out of the tent.
It was a random stroke of luck, he thought, that he found himself seated in a suite next to Prince Daron of Calabar. The Prince's chair was positioned just before his in the raised stands overlooking the jousting grounds. Mazara Verperson was ushered in and sat on the other side of the prince, wearing a pristine aqua dress. Across the tent he saw King Balmon talking with another large Kin man.
His mind raced through the Kin genealogy he'd been forced to sit through but it was fairly obvious by his bright golden features that he had to be Mikarun Verperon. The man they called the Golden King. Or was it Golden Kin? It had never been made clear. He knew the Kin didn't really have royalty. And that their society functioned far differently than Calabarian. But no one had ever explained it to him properly. Price Marek was at his father's side, toasting something with a large silver goblet.
Further down the way he saw his own father and brothers. They'd spotted him and were staring intently, as if waiting for him to do something. But what that something was escaped him, so instead he looked away as Princess Aemelia entered. She scampered away from her mother and took the seat next to Wyckham.
She started conversing about how much she loved jousting. About how her father was the best in the realm at it. Even if he lost more than he won. That was irrelevant. He was the heir and thus he was the best.
He'd admitted that he'd never actually seen a joust. Which astonished Aemelia. Daron shrugged and said they weren't that interesting. But a sort of excitement in his voice betrayed him. Aemelia decided to spend the next ten minutes before the competition began explaining all of the rules to him.
He knew the rules. He'd been taught them. He'd just never been invited to any of the festivals where jousting occurred. He didn't bother voicing that to the Princess though, finding that he liked listening to her.
At some point Mazara piped in that the Kin didn't really joust. When pressed on why not she explained that horses tended to not like Kin mounting them. And so very few trained in any form of mounted combat. Some had, for this tournament, but it was a rare thing.
The jousting started and he found himself cheering for whomever Princess Aemelia cheered for. The first rounds were some notable Calabarian knights whose names he'd heard but knew nothing more than that.
He remembered feeling sublimely happy for the first time in his life. He felt like it was where he was supposed to be. Which was odd, given that all he was doing was exchanging empty platitudes with a young girl and her brother. But still, it felt right.
He cheered happily with Aemelia as Prince Gareth trotted a large black warhorse up toward his position. His opponent, one of the Kin with stubby rounded ears, seemed less than comfortable on the beige destrier. It was the first Kin to joust. As a show of faith in their abilities the Prince had agreed to be the opponent.
Wyckham watched from the stands, blissfully unaware that anything bad could possibly happen. He watched as the lance hit, the horse reared, the rider fell backward, and the horse followed. Aemelia screamed. And the happy little moment shattered.
Everything changed after that. He'd been ushered away to his family. He'd only caught bits and pieces of the screaming, of the arguments, of the chaos that unfolded. It was all a haze, until they were back on the road heading home.
He waited for his father to yell at him, to tell him it was his fault, to spend his days wondering just what he'd screwed up. But the rage never came. The second tragedy that followed a month later at Katia Hall left him numb to it all.
A year later his father caved, and told him he could leave for the Citadel if he wished to be a Warden. Wyckham saw it as a way out. His father hadn't bothered to tell him he was leaving for the capitol the following week, to retake up his proper post under King Marek. It didn't matter to him. Wyckham took his own way out.
He'd excelled at the Citadel. He'd trained, and studied, and trained some more. He was, according to the current commander, one of the most promising recruits he'd ever seen. And when it came time to take the Calling he hadn't hesitated.
The Ritual of the Calling sounded far fancier than what it actually was. It was little more than drinking a vile potion. Some chose to do it alone, some in public. Wyckham wanted to be alone, but a couple of the senior members of the Citadel insisted on being there when he did.
The Volkar had developed it as a way to sense the magical beings that infiltrated the Scar. But it turned into something more. A sort of presence in the head, spurring the person toward what it perceived as the correct action to them.
Some of the Volkar believed it was a connection to the Gods, others thought that was a silly superstition. But what else could a voice in the head be? Wyckham shrugged and decided it didn't matter, as it wasn't like he had a choice any longer.
When it was new it killed the humans that failed. But after a few decades of tweaking and a better understanding of Humans versus Volkar physiology, they'd developed a version that proved far less lethal.
Which helped, given that the Wardens couldn't afford to kill all of their recruits. Those who successfully took the calling were often primed for more leadership positions, but those who failed were just as welcomed to serve. The current second in command of the Wardens had failed, but had also displayed tactical brilliance and developed new defensive techniques against the monstrosities.
Wyckham remembered drinking the tarry black potion, struggling to swallow it all down as the commander and a few officers watched. He'd swallowed it as pain seared through him. For a while he thought he was choking on it, suffocating. And everything went black.
He woke up in the infirmary, laying on a cot with the biggest headache he'd ever had in his life. They gave him platitudes, apologizing to him for his own failure as pain split through his head. He groaned as they frowned and said they'd thought for sure he'd succeed. He'd have been the first in five years, a ratio that was starting to become frightening.
He barely listened. He'd sat up in the cot and accepted the water they gave him. As he finished swallowing it a soft whisper told himself that he'd survived, and he should pat himself on the head. So he did. The talking in the infirmary stopped as the voice whispered to him, two simple words. Congratulations, Warden.
They'd celebrated then. His calling barely spoke to him. Every now and then it would lead him to something. Sometimes he'd try to get it to say something. Sometimes he'd thought he'd succeeded. But then he'd hear the simple whisper through his brain. Often just one word.
No.
Still, the first time he'd donned the Warden's signature armor after the ceremony stayed fresh in his memory. When the sigils lit up, somehow powered by Volkar magic and the Calling, the only feeling that swelled through him was pride.
The only time it struck him as something important was when he'd finally graduated. Six months previous. As the head of his graduating class he'd been given the choice of which Gate he could serve at. He'd wanted to pick Antilles or Bakirut. One of the northern ones. He thought he'd like the mountains and being closer to Kinland. He'd heard good things about the people at both. They were well run and self-sustaining. When there wasn't a pressing need for defense there was hunting and forestry. Both of which sounded like fun for him. And the local Kin were fair trade partners and often invited them to their paganistic festivals.
When he read about those gates he thought it was exactly what the Wardens should be. A small group of soldiers existing within the confines of the community they protected. To him, it sounded idyllic.
But as he'd been asked for his decision. The voice cut through his thoughts and whispered one single word again.
Tychus.
He'd said it almost instantly after. His eyes going wide as he realized he'd pledged himself to a Lorakian Gate on the opposite side of the world. One with a harsh commander and a reputation of being a punishment more than a promotion.
They'd given him an out. They'd asked if he was sure. He was, he said. He'd go.
He'd left the citadel a month later. But he'd never made it to the Tychus gate. The small contingent heading toward multiple gates was ambushed by bandits in southern Calabar. It shocked him. They couldn't have been that stupid, could they? To attack Wardens was suicide. Except, when the battle cleared, he was the only one left standing.
He dug nine graves for his compatriots. It took nearly all day. He had nothing to mark them with but at least they would have a proper burial. He made note of their names and whatever personal effects they had, intending to return them to their families as soon as he possibly could.
The bandits he piled into a heap and set ablaze. He didn't bother going through their pockets or anything of that nature. He rounded up the three surviving horses, took account of what supplies he had, and stared at the sun, wondering exactly what he should do.
West, the calling rang through his head. So he continued west. Until it told him to go south. He wondered if it was being particularly abstinent by not directing him south-west at the first chance. It hadn't responded to his chiding.
At least until he came to the small Calabarian border town of Zuzu. It was dusty, the residents cowered away from him. It took all of the gold he had, as well as the mention of his family name to arrange for couriers to the various families of his dead Warden friends. After, he sat in an inn, ignoring the songstress on stage, and pondered his future.
Days later he thought of leaving. But the local magistrate, a Lord Millwood, sought him out and offered him employment.
Stay, the calling whispered into his head. And, he figured, he could use some coin for the road to the Gate, when he eventually resumed that way.
So he stayed. He did odd jobs for the Lord, most of which involved intimidating local business owners. It bothered him that the Lord was more or less stealing from the merchants under his protection. But Wardens were not supposed to interfere. They were not Calabarian or Lorakian officials. They were guards. And he was guarding. Albeit the wrong thing. Every time he thought of leaving, the Calling muttered the same word to him.
Stay.
Until he accosted a Siren and her companions. He'd been looking over their transport cart while the performers were gone. It was well cared for, well built, and filled with signs of life and success. Lord Millwood was salivating for it. Wyckham found it distasteful and ignored it.
He'd heard the arguing and turned to see just what Lord Millwood was getting into himself. He had a sense of deja vu as three figures, a Lorakian, a Kin and a Calabarian, stood tall before Lord Millwood. He stepped forward to guard the Calling screamed into his head, the loudest and most commanding he'd ever heard it. Up until that point he'd always assumed he could have disobeyed it, if he wanted to. In that instant he wasn't sure.
Life. It repeated over and over. He blinked, mentally cursing it to quiet down as his head seemed to shake with each word. And then Lord Millwood assaulted the girl, and her companion reacted in the dumbest, most predictable way possible. He threw a punch.
Wyckham threw himself into the middle of it. Taking blows off his armor without any qualms. He subdued them, with help from the guard. There was some blood and some obvious bruising forming on the other men, but no one was any worse for wear.
The Calling said nothing as he escorted them to the cells. It said nothing as the thief's brand was revealed. It wasn't his first time in a Calabarian prison. He'd lost his chance to inspect it more. It hadn't looked right. But someone had almost certainly just done something wrong during the process. It wasn't like Calabarian officials regulated the hot irons they used. He doubted any of them were legitimate but he wondered just what the scam was. He made a note to interview patrons at the bar to see if any possessions were missing.
But after they were locked in the cells he retired to his tower. He'd removed the armor and sat in the center of the room to meditate. His thoughts, though strayed. He wondered if the Calling was needling him about his past. He'd never heard anything like that happening. But most Wardens didn't talk much about what the calling said or did. It was sort of an unwritten rule. The basis for it merely that it seemed less likely to be abused if people didn't mention it.
Wait.
It shot through his head. But the command was clear. He closed his eyes, knowing it was nearly impossible to be patient when he was being told to wait. He focused on his breathing, letting his body rest as he did as commanded.
He fell into a sort of trance, images from his past continuing to flash through his mind as he waited and waited and waited. He didn't know how long it went on for. Part of him suspected far less time passed in the real world than in his mind.
He heard rushed footsteps on the stairwell. He lifted his eyes to the door and waited. They opened it without knocking.
"Warden Abruzzi," One of the younger guards rushed into the room. He was panting. Wyckham rose to his feet and started toward his armor. He lifted it off of the stand and started to don it piece by piece.
"What is it?" he asked. Although he already had a good idea.
"There's a problem with the prisoners," the man said.
"They've escaped," Wyckham answered.
"How did you know?" the guard asked. Wyckham shrugged. There was no need to answer the boy. Some of them thought the Wardens had a sort of precognition. Wyckham hadn't met anyone that could, but he didn't rule it impossible.
As is, there were only two things that could be considered. Either the prisoners were dead, or they escaped. If they were dead, he was sure they'd tell him. But there would be far less urgency behind it.
He finished with his armor and attached his sword to his hip. He grabbed a dagger from his desk and walked by the guard. He could hear the growing commotion as they walked down into the keep.
"Did they free the witch?" he asked. The Volkar had given him a great deal of trouble when they'd investigated her. She'd almost killed him. Part of him thought she could have. But had stopped and let herself be captured. But that was an absurd thought. Either way, he didn't look forward to having to fight her again. He could only hope her time in the dungeon weakened her magic.
"Yes," the guard answered.
Damn it. Wyckham thought.
The guards yelled and screamed while saying nothing. Sure they announced what rooms were clear, where they'd been, where they were going, things of that nature. The exits were all blocked. Lookouts were posted in case they'd made it out. Guards on the stables. While they were out of their cells there was little evidence they'd made it out of the building yet.
The shouting, though, was doing little more than alerting them to where they could or couldn't go. It was helping the prisoners as much as it was helping the guards. He would have told them to be quiet and rely on their pickets.
He followed the noise until he heard Lord Millwood shout that he'd found them. He heard the chase renew in earnest. He heard them cornered, soft voices echoing up the staircase as he made his way toward the noise.
He heard Lord Millwood gloat. He heard the lust in his voice as he referenced how he could spare the Kin girl. He heard the prisoner threaten the Lord. He hurried down the stairs, slowing as he saw the shadows appear on the wall. Lord Millwood could obviously sense his presence as he spoke.
"Warden. Kill the men. Try to save the girls," he commanded. Wyckham could picture his lecherous sneer as he said it. As if they'd happily crawl into his bed after the Warden was done with them. The twisting staircase was too cramped for him to effectively use his longsword so he lifted the dagger and continued down the stairs.
Choose.
The word echoed through his head. He blinked, figuring he imagined it. He shook his head slowly and stepped forward once more.
CHOOSE. It echoed once more, mid-step. He nearly fell into the wall. He'd heard stories of the calling being strong enough to incapacitate a person, but his has never raised its voice like that. He looked up and saw the Calabarian prisoner standing there, a dagger in his own hand, his eyes angry and ready to fight as they flashed between Lord Millwood and Warden Abruzzi.
Wyckham forced his gaze to Lord Millwood, smiling gleefully as his victory was all but assured. He licked his lips and gazed at the cowering Kin girl.
He realized the choice he'd have to make.
On one hand he had a Calabarian Noble. A man he had to vowed to protect. A citizen of the country he was from. A noble of a similar, albeit smaller lineage to his own. On the other he had a prisoner, a dirty, dusty, Calabarian. Trash, more or less. There were thousands just like him. Small, inconsequential, pawns in the game as it were.
But he'd sworn to protect them too.
And the Lord he was serving had done nothing of the sort. Zuzu was in shambles, his fees bankrupting the people. Those who could afford it left. Those who couldn't struggled and starved. All because Lord Millwood wanted finer things.
The choice was easy. He raised the dagger as he stepped by Lord Millwood and with a quick jab the blade sank into the man's neck. He collapsed instantly, gurgling on the blood that filled his throat. Wyckham didn't stop moving. One stunned guard turned to face him. He grabbed the man's spear, forcing the butt of it into the man's stomach and prying it from his hands and turned toward the Calabarian prisoner.
"With me," he commanded. He knocked another guard down before plowing into the third, who was trying to remove the knife from his Lord's neck. He led them back up the stairs. Two guards tried to stop them. He speared one on instinct while the prisoner stabbed the other.
He took a side passage out toward the back stables. He heard the prisoners whispering behind him, debating killing him. But for now he ignored it. Instead he made way to the Siren's cart.
"Take two of the horses," he commanded as he found his own warhorse. Julius, he'd called the beast. It had arrived with his father's congratulations on accepting the Calling. A proper warhorse for a proper Warden. It was, Wyckham thought, the nicest thing his father had ever done for him.
He found the beast's saddle and threw it on as the others argued.
"Take those two," the Calabarian prisoner pointed to two large black horses.
"No," the Kin said with more authority than the Warden would have suspected.
"They're strong and look well rested," the Calabarian argued.
"Give it a rest, Kaden," the Lorakian said. He'd already started toward a smaller pair of horses. They were not what Wyckham would have hitched to the cart.
"Arestes is right. We're only taking Apple and Pudding. We're not thieves," she ordered. They were taking too long though. So he moved toward the Lorakian and helped him get the horses hitched to the wagon.
"We killed the Lord," Kaden argued. "We need more speed."
"The Warden killed the Lord. We're merely opportunists," the Volkar witch said. She was leaning against the caravan as the Kin girl hopped inside. The ghoul climbed into the driver's spot.
"They've gutted it," the Kin said from inside.
"Lord Millwood took most of what was there," Wyckham affirmed as they hitched the horses into place.
"We'll need supplies," Kaden argued.
"You don't have time for that," Wyckham said. "You really don't want to be here when his son gets back."
"You're the one that killed him," Kaden snorted.
"That won't matter," Wyckham countered. "He's malicious and violent. His father is just a lech. He's far worse."
"And yet you serve him, Warden," Kaden spat.
"I served him with a knife to the neck," Wyckham spat back.
"We don't have time to argue," Arestes said. "Save that for when we're out of here."
"You're coming with us?" Kaden asked, looking at the Warden.
Follow, the voice in his head commanded.
"For now I am," Wyckham said.
"I'm not traveling with you or the witch," Kaden argued.
"You are if you want to get paid," the Kin girl opened up a window and peered out at the ghoul that had somehow wound up with the reins.
"Fine," he snorted.
"Can he really drive?" the Kin asked.
"Shambles? I don't know. Ghouls remember bits from their lives," Alisen shrugged. She walked around the back of the caravan and climbed in "I never had him do it."
"Comforting thought," the Kin answered. Kaden climbed onto the front of the caravan and attempted to take the reins from the ghoul. The monstrosity growled at him and he gave up. Wyckham mounted his horse. The Lorakian was in the process of throwing anything he could find into the caravan but seemed to pick up that it was time to go and climbed into the back with the girls.
"Which way?" Wyckham asked as he spun the horse around and out, thankful that the gate was still open for the evening.
"East," Kaden said. Wyckham frowned and looked back over his shoulder at the caravan. The ghoul was slow but the horses were responding to his commands.
"East?" Wyckham questioned. "There's nothing to the east!"
"Exactly," Kaden said. "They'll assume we flee either toward Noha or Lorak. East is a dead end."
"Yes. A dead end. Where we don't want to be," Wyckham argued.
"We'll be fine, I know a path," Kaden said.
"By the cove?" Arestes asked. "There's no way the caravan will fit through there."
"We'll be fine," Kaden said. He pointed in a direction and the ghoul nodded and led the horses east out of the keep.
Wyckham could hear a commotion behind them as they set out. But none of the guards gave chase. He wondered how many of them would desert rather than face Lord Millwood's son come morning. More than a handful, he guessed.
But as he kept pace with the caravan, choosing to keep his horse closer to the ghoul than the Calabarian, he felt oddly lighter. Something in his mind was content. Something felt right about his new situation, even as he moved even further away from the Tychus gate.
The Calling said nothing in his head as he rode away from the keep. He wondered if that should bother him. He had no real idea if he was on the right path. But then again, he thought, no one ever truly did.
Author's Note: The beginning of this story is a bit campaign and lore heavy. Which I always figured might be a bit of a problem. But this chapter introduces the final member of the adventuring party and starts them on their way. The next chapter focuses on the start of that journey before it shifts back to Hogwarts and shows how the characters start to evolve with each other. It may be a bit excessive but I wanted to do a bit more than 'A warden a witch and a foxgirl walk into a tavern."
Author's Note: As always thanks for reading and reviewing. I do appreciate all of the support I receive. If you wish to support me further I am available on PAT RE ON at TE7writes. There's nine additional chapters of this story available there at the time I'm writing this. As well as four of my other WIP CTS. Thanks for you continued support through my years of doing this hobby!