Alaric turned as a creaking hinge announced the door of the tavern’s common room swinging open. The room, now dimly lit by a handful of flickering candles on tables, hanging oil lamps, and the hearth’s soft glow, held an air of quiet anticipation for what was to come. The windows had been shuttered to keep out the chill, as the night had come on in full force.
Besides Ezran and Thorne, who were standing just behind and flanking him, Alaric was the only other soul within the walls of the tavern, as his recent companions had returned to their ship. Bramwell and Caxatarus had preparations to make for their ship’s departure come morning, when the tide changed.
Soon after Alaric accepted them into his service, they had only been too eager to sail and link up with the rest of their small fleet, which was anchored in coves along the coast of Dekar. Bramwell had told Alaric he wanted to consolidate his ships before war began, which he thought would be soon. At least that was the excuse given. Though he’d said otherwise, Alaric suspected Bramwell intended to get a head start on his raiding of Averndale’s shipping.
Both men promised to return for a few drinks later in the evening, once the departure preparations had been attended to, and to bring a small barrel of grog—a prospect that filled Alaric with a mixture of dread and resignation. The potent drink was far from his favorite, but tonight was not a night for preferences, especially with the poor-quality ale available. In truth, it would be a night for relaxation and friendship—that was, after he dealt with some business first.
The two knights that entered were the same ones Alaric glimpsed earlier in the day, out amongst the crowd. Both men were statuesque, their broad shoulders and upright stances betraying years of military training, along with confidence. Their faces were marked by lines of experience and time in the field. Their eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to miss nothing as they both scanned the room before moving toward Alaric.
As they approached, their boots thunking on the floorboards, the dim lantern light caught the gleam of the pommels of their ornate and well-polished sword hilts. Upon reaching him, they executed a practiced kneel, their heads bowed in a gesture of deep reverence. After a moment, still kneeling, they straightened, gazing up at him.
“You wished to speak with me?” Alaric asked. “In fact, I believe you insisted upon it, said it was a matter of grave importance.”
“They did insist, my lord,” Thorne said.
“We seek to swear our loyalty to you, holy lord,” one of the knights declared, his voice resonating with a deep, grave timbre that filled the quiet and empty tavern. “We desire to enter your service.”
“We would join you, holy lord,” the other knight said, his voice just as deep and confident, but tinged with a slight foreign accent, as if common was not his first and native tongue. Alaric could not place where the man hailed from.
The repeated invocation of “holy lord” echoed uncomfortably in Alaric’s ears. He shifted his stance. The title, though meant to honor, dredged up old worries—and potential dangers.
“Rise, sir knights,” Alaric commanded, his tone carrying an edge of formality and authority, not to mention irritation, which he was doing his best to conceal. He really did not need this, not now.
Obedient yet deliberate, the knights rose to their full height, their movements fluid and synchronized, as if they had practiced in advance. The air between them crackled with tension as their eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed upon Alaric. The knight to the left briefly allowed his gaze to drift past Alaric, landing on Thorne for a heartbeat, and then Ezran, where it lingered a few moments longer. His eyes narrowed, a flash of undisguised hostility betraying his thoughts when it came to the ash man, before his attention snapped back to Alaric.
“I would have your names,” Alaric demanded. “I would know who I am speaking with.”
“I am Sir Marcus Eld,” replied the knight with the piercing gaze. His eyes flicked back to Ezran for a heartbeat’s more scrutiny. There was a dangerous and hateful gleam within them. Alaric did not turn to see Ezran’s response, though he imagined the former ash man was staring straight back at Eld without shying away. Ezran had never been one to back down from a challenge.
“And I am Sir Dengarven Torrin,” added the other knight, the one with the accent, his tone slightly warmer, but, unlike his companion, his face remained an unreadable mask. Whatever feeling he had toward ash men was thoroughly concealed.
“And you both are of the order of Saint Vinthus?” Alaric asked, though he already knew the answer, courtesy of Bramwell.
“We are,” Eld replied, his eyes briefly flicking to Torrin in a silent exchange that did not go unnoticed by Alaric. “You have heard of us, of our holy order?”
“No,” Alaric responded flatly, maintaining his composed demeanor. “At least, not until today, not until the man who transported you here told me.”
“Ah, Bramwell. It is understandable you have not heard of Saint Vinthus,” Torrin said. “Our association is small. We are mostly a closed order and not well-known. Few are admitted to our holy ranks. Those who are must prove their faith in the old ways, and that is not an easy thing to do. Many do not make the grade or pass the tests of faith and are turned away.”
The mention of the old ways piqued Alaric’s interest—a reference to ancient customs, ones likely unique to Saint Vinthus. Alaric wondered what those tests involved, then decided he did not much care. What he was more concerned about was why they were here and desiring to enter his service. In truth, he knew the answer to that question, but wanted to hear it in their own words and judge their real intentions.
“I take it you both have traveled far?” he ventured, seeking to uncover the lengths to which their convictions had driven them.
“From the Southern Isles, holy lord, where our order is based,” Eld admitted, a trace of weariness seeping into his tone. “It took many months for us to come, to find you, but we came nonetheless for duty, not to mention a higher calling commanded it.”
Alaric’s gaze lingered on the two knights, assessing the determination etched into their features and the fatigue hidden just beneath the surface, which he recognized. His mind raced with the implications of the length of their journey, one of many months, the dedication of which it spoke, and the possible ramifications of swearing allegiance to him.
With war on the horizon, Alaric understood he would be a fool to turn away men, two knights, clearly trained and experienced warriors, and their men-at-arms. However, the consequences of accepting them into his service were also an important factor to consider. It was not something he desired, for they were clearly true believers, fanatics, and in Alaric’s experience, such people had a real tendency to cause trouble and headaches, for not everyone thought or felt the faith the way they did. Most others were more liberal in their beliefs. Alaric had learned that lesson in the holy lands the hard way. The experience taught him to be cautious around such people.
“So,” Alaric finally broke the heavy silence that had grown inside the tavern, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and caution, “why me?”
“You well know why we are here, holy lord,” Torrin stated firmly, “why we have come.”
“I would hear it, your reasoning,” Alaric insisted, his tone indicating that no half-truths would satisfy his demand. “Have it out in the open between us. That way, there can be no misunderstandings later.”
“You are the heir to the Ordinate,” Eld revealed with unflinching directness. “The rightful successor to the throne.”
“Am I? Are you so sure?”
“We are certain.” Eld nodded firmly. “You are the one we seek.”
“Our order is dedicated to seeing the restoration of the old order, the true order, the one that the gods ordained,” Torrin added, his voice laden with a zeal that matched the intensity of his stare. “That goal is what we work toward and why we have traveled so far, why we are now in your very presence.”
Behind Alaric, Thorne shifted uncomfortably. Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he digested the weight of their declaration. The Ordinate was a term steeped in ancient power, now whispered only by those who clung to the past, thought it held some overarching glory, or sought to revive its long-lost dominance. It was something Alaric was loath to attempt.
“And if I am not the one you think I am?” Alaric challenged, his question not just a test of their conviction, but a probe into their preparedness for disappointment, how they would handle it if he decided to turn them away. If things went badly, he might need to kill them and their men.
“You are the one we seek, the one we have dedicated our lives to finding,” Eld responded without hesitation. “Long have we searched for the heir to empire, and now we have found him.”
Alaric’s skepticism did not wane. “How do you know, then? How can you be so sure the one you seek is me? I would hear your reasoning.”
“In the Malden Desert to the far south,” Eld said, “deep in the sands, after months—really years—of our order searching, we found the Great Library of Thanis. Though buried, it was nearly intact.”
“What?” Ezran exclaimed, clearly rocked by the revelation. “You found the library? How about the Temple of Sepherus?”
Alaric looked back at the ash man and scowled at him for the interruption. Ezran’s eyes narrowed as he stared back at Eld. He paid no attention to his sworn liege.
“I will do the talking here,” Alaric said.
Ezran almost jumped, but looked over at Alaric and gave a curt nod.
After a moment, Alaric turned back to regard the two knights. What they said had registered. The mention of the great library sent a chill down Alaric’s spine. It meant they’d found not just the library, but the capital of the Ordinate, of which the library was legendary, something that had been lost to the ages.
At the time of its height, the library contained an accumulation of the world’s knowledge, a repository so vast that it was said to hold the histories of entire worlds, not just those referring to men, but the other races as well, those that were now more myth and legend than anything else.
That these knights had not only found the lost capital but also the library and unearthed something within its ancient texts that led them directly to him was more than concerning; it was outright worrying, alarming even. It was a revelation that could not be taken lightly.
Then again, the library had been lost for centuries. Were they telling the truth? Had they actually located it? Or had they found out the truth in some other way, as Bramwell and a handful of others had? Alaric took a moment to collect his thoughts, his mind racing with the implications of their claim. The weight of a destiny he never asked for seemed to settle upon his shoulders with the heaviness of the ages.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“Yes,” Torrin added, “we found the lost city, the first capital of the Ordinate, a place the gods themselves buried and have long kept hidden from mortal eyes.
“We were led there…” Torrin’s voice held a distant tinge. His hand went to a pocket, feeling something held there. “Most important of all, we found the Archive of Souls, the accounting of the purest of pure, and there we studied the bloodlines of the great houses of the empire, tracing the lines down to the last days of the empire with great care. It took further research, delving into the records of the nobility kept in Bashier, but an heir, a true heir to the throne, yet lives.”
“You,” Eld said plainly, gesturing at Alaric, “and you know it too. I can see the truth in your eyes.”
“I do not seek this,” Alaric stated plainly, his voice a calm counter to the fervor he faced, “that which you want, desire, and work toward. I want it not.”
“I can read that truth as well,” Eld said.
“It is not what we want,” Torrin corrected him gently, yet with an intensity that suggested there was no room for negotiation. “It is what our god demands—commands of us, the god I know you follow as well. He has led us to you. And soon, the rest of our order will follow. I suspect in time others will come as well, drawn by the holy spirit to your doorstep.”
Feeling a terrible unhappiness, Alaric’s eyes narrowed slightly. He did not want this, not in the slightest. “I am not convinced.”
“We are,” Eld persisted. “And we already know a lumina and Luminary have taken sanctuary with you, serve you. That knowledge is spreading. It is proof enough you are the one we seek, the one we have come for.”
“That proves nothing,” Alaric countered sharply. “You may still have the wrong person.”
“We do not have the wrong person,” Torrin said, “and, holy lord, you know it. Do not insult our intelligence by denying it.”
“You ask me to accept a crown, a mantle I never sought, one I don’t want, on the word of an ancient text,” Alaric continued, his tone growing colder. “You’ll need more than old scrolls and fervent beliefs to convince me.”
“We have that as well.” Torrin reached into his pocket and withdrew a golden compass, much like the one Alaric had taken from Kemm and given to Father Boatman, but this one was larger and more ornate. There was a sigil on it, which the man’s finger partially covered. Alaric felt the ring on his finger begin to warm, even as, like a moth to flame, his eyes were drawn to the compass.
With a flick of his wrist, Torrin snapped the compass open, revealing the dial, arm, and hand, which pointed directly at Alaric’s chest. The compass began to glow with a light all its own, softly at first, as Torrin held it out toward Alaric. Its luminous glow intensified, casting eerie shadows on the worn wood of the tavern’s tables and the walls. Then the light began driving back the darkness.
“A miracle.” Thorne’s gasp echoed slightly, a sound of awe and fear mingled together, resonating deeply in the suddenly thick atmosphere of the room. “A bloody miracle. Our god is speaking…”
“Tucked away in a corner on a sandy and dusty shelf, we found this relic in the library, one that responds only to the Eldar,” Torrin explained, his voice filled with reverence and conviction as he took a deliberate step closer to Alaric, whose gaze was still fixed upon the glowing relic. The compass in Torrin’s hand blazed even brighter, fully illuminating the tavern. “It called to me, as it now calls to you, speaks even.”
Alaric felt something within him. He wasn’t sure what that was, but it was a tug, a pull to take the compass from Torrin’s hand. He resisted the urge, pushing back against it.
“As you can see,” Torrin said, “we were led directly to you, holy lord, for the blood of the Eldar runs in your veins. This holy talisman pulled us to you.” The knight hesitated a moment, then extended his hand closer to Alaric. “It may even be meant for you.”
Gaze fixed upon the compass, Alaric swallowed, his skepticism clashing with the undeniable reality unfolding before him. Eldanar’s power was blazing forth before him in all its radiance. He could feel it against his skin, a slight tingle and a warmth in his heart, which had begun to race.
It was then the murmur of indistinct voices caught his attention next, as if the very air around him whispered secrets long held. Alaric shook himself. He could hear the voices, as if several people had been hiding and were now quietly whispering amongst themselves.
Scowling, Alaric glanced around, searching for the source of the voices, the whispering, half-expecting to discover hidden figures lurking in the shadows or standing just outside the windows, gazing inward with an ear pressed to the pane. Only, there was no one else present in the common room and the windows had been shuttered. The door to the kitchen stood firmly shut as well. On Alaric’s request for this meeting, Vertax and his wife had even left for an hour. Less than a quarter of an hour had passed and no light was coming from under the kitchen door.
As the whispering continued, Alaric’s attention was drawn back by a subtle warmth encircling his index finger. It was growing warmer with every passing heartbeat. He looked down to find the ring he wore—another artifact of unclear and mysterious origins, his family ring and signet—beginning to emit a pale light, as if responding to the compass’s proximity and energy, Eldanar’s power.
The interaction between the two was unsettling, suggesting a connection between his fate and these relics of a forgotten and lost past. He turned his gaze to the compass again, its glow now a brilliant radiance that pulsed in time with his own racing heartbeat. It was calling to him, demanding he reach out and take the compass.
Alaric’s hand twitched. He almost reached for it. Only with effort did he stay his hand, keep himself from taking it. He shook his head.
“I don’t want this,” Alaric stated firmly, his voice carrying strong defiance. The declaration was more than a refusal of the crown; it was a rejection of a destiny that forces beyond his control sought to impose upon him. “I don’t want to become trapped by this—this fate. If I pick up the banner, raise it, it will see killing on an unprecedented scale… I’ve seen enough already to last me a lifetime.”
“Whether you desire it or not is immaterial,” Eld said with unwavering certainty, his voice firm and resonant. “You have been chosen.”
“That is yet to be seen,” Alaric retorted.
“In our minds it has, and this proves it.” Torrin shook the compass before Alaric and then snapped it closed, abruptly extinguishing the light. The urge to take the compass died almost instantly. The knight tucked the now inert object back into his tunic. Alaric felt the warmth of the ring fade. The light emanating from it died off too. It took Alaric a moment to realize the whispers were gone.
“I will hold this compass until you ask for it,” Torrin said.
“We have come to serve,” Eld said simply. “And soon, the rest of our order will join us.”
Alaric took a deep breath, then let it out as he regarded the two men for a long moment, his mind racing. His heart was still hammering away in his chest from the experience. He took several more breaths to slow it. What was he to do with them? If he turned them away, would they leave? He seriously doubted it.
No, Eld and Torrin would remain and make a nuisance of themselves, drawing even more attention to his heritage, something few knew, especially his king and fellow nobles. If they did, he would become a target, and an immediate threat, one to be dealt with swiftly.
“If I accept your service—”
“You will,” Eld interrupted with a firm tone of voice.
Alaric felt his anger fire. “That may not come to pass. I get to choose who serves me and who does not. As lord of my domain, do you not agree?”
Eld inclined his chin slightly. “I do.” The two words had been said grudgingly.
“If I accept your service, you must not speak of who you think I am or will become, until I tell you to,” Alaric said with firmness. “And that includes your men. There are far too many who would fight that which you seek…” Alaric found himself hesitating. “The restoration of the empire.”
Eld and Torrin exchanged a look filled with silent meaning. Torrin gave a nod of acceptance as he looked back. “We find that agreeable.”
“That said, I do not think I am the one you seek, nor do I want to be. I may be blessed more than others, but it doesn’t feel right to me… it just doesn’t.”
“Not yet,” Torrin said.
“Feelings have nothing to do with it. You are the one,” Eld affirmed.
“As I said, that is yet to be seen,” Alaric said, hardening his tone. “If I am not ultimately the one you seek, I will release you from service and do all I am able to find the one who is. If you can abide by those terms, I will accept you into my service. If not, I would ask you to move on and trouble me no more.”
Eld and Torrin exchanged another look, then turned back to face him.
“We also find that acceptable,” Torrin said.
“Our ultimate lord and master moves in mysterious ways,” Eld said. “Perhaps now is simply not the time for you to act, for you to embrace your destiny.”
“That is a good point,” Torrin said with a nod. “When the moment arrives, HE will show you, convince you.”
Alaric scowled again at the two knights. He had to concede they might be correct. But—he prayed they weren’t. After a moment, he placed both hands upon his hips.
“Now that we are in agreement,” Alaric said, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, “kneel and swear your fealty to me. Say the words before these witnesses, and God.”
Torrin knelt first and bowed his head. “Before the eyes of God and all assembled here, I, Sir Dengarven de Torrin, do solemnly pledge and bind my service and loyalty to you, Alaric, Earl of Dekar, as your faithful vassal. With my heart and my blade, I vow to uphold your dominion, protect your lands, and honor your name. I swear to bear arms in your cause, to stand steadfast in the face of adversity, and to pursue justice under your banner. My sword and my counsel are yours, as are the swords and service of my loyal men-at-arms. In peace, I shall be your shield; in war, your spear, an extension of your sword. From this day until my last, I bind my fate to you. This oath I swear before the holy, so may God and HIS saints bear witness to my words.”
Eld knelt and, like Torrin, bowed his head before Alaric. “Under the watchful gaze of the Almighty and this gathering, I, Marcus of Eld, do hereby commit my loyalty and service to you, Alaric of Dekar, my true and rightful lord. With devotion and steel, I promise to defend your honor, assist you in the governance of your lands, and uphold your causes. I vow to carry your standard into battle, to shield the weak under your name, and to execute your will with unwavering faith. My allegiance and that of my men-at-arms are now bound to your command. In times of tranquility, I shall be your counsel; in times of conflict, your vanguard. From this moment ‘til death parts my spirit from this body, I am yours. This oath I pledge with a pure heart, before God and witnesses.”
Alaric was silent for a moment. The oaths uttered were a serious commitment, formal even, and also a responsibility, one that required a suitable response.
“In the presence of the divine and this assembly, I, Alaric and Earl of Dekar, accept both your oaths, and do hereby acknowledge you as my loyal vassals and guardians of my realm. You have pledged your swords and wisdom to my cause, and in return, I vow to uphold your rights and grant you the protection of my power. Your men-at-arms shall be honored under my banner and their valor recognized in my court. Together, we shall strive for prosperity and justice within our lands. In times of peace and in times of challenge, I shall be your liege as you are my shield. Let our bond be strong and our endeavors be righteous in the eyes of our ultimate lord and master. As God is our witness, may this oath bind us in mutual respect and duty.”
Alaric paused, the weight of the moment settling. “Rise.”
As the fire in the hearth crackled in the background, both men came to their feet. There was a moment of silence.
“Command us,” Eld said, breaking the silence with a voice both resolute and expectant.
“We leave at dawn. Have you secured lodging?” Alaric asked.
“No,” Eld replied, his tone slightly apologetic. “We are still living aboard the ship. Our gear and mounts are housed there as well.”
“Bramwell is sailing with the morning’s tide. Seek out Mayor Brakenhill and inform him you are now under my protection and, more importantly, in my service,” Alaric instructed. “He may only be able to offer you tents, but it will suffice, at least for the night. Get your gear and mounts unloaded immediately. Be prepared to depart by first light, for we are headed to Dragon Bone’s Rest. Understood?”
Both Eld and Torrin nodded.
“Then get moving,” Alaric said. “I would have you rested come morning, for it is a long way. We will speak more later.”
“As you command, my lord,” Eld responded.
Together, both knights bowed formally, the gesture a silent acknowledgment of their newfound allegiance. They made their way to the door, which Torrin opened and stepped through. Eld stopped at the door, a hand on the frame, and cast a lingering glance back toward Ezran, his expression a complex tapestry of what appeared to be dislike, regret, and resolve. Then his gaze flicked to Alaric and his expression hardened. With a quiet determination, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him, the soft click of the latch echoing the finality of the moment.
“That,” Thorne said, “might become a problem.”
“It already is a problem,” Ezran said, his gaze still on the closed door.
Alaric’s expression darkened as he turned away from the door, the gravity of Thorne’s words and Ezran’s reply weighing heavily on him. Thinking about what just occurred and what he’d done, a profound unease settled in his chest. Moving across the room, he approached a sturdy oak table. There, he had earlier placed a jar of ale and a mug.
Alaric poured the amber liquid from the jar into the mug. He took a hearty swig, the ale’s bitterness mirroring his mood. Setting the mug down with more force than necessary, he exhaled deeply. He looked back on Thorne and Ezran. Both also wanted what Eld and Torrin desired of him, the raising of a fallen banner. It was something his father and grandfather had cautioned him against pursuing. Like those who had come before him, Alaric had worked to conceal his heritage, to actively hide it. His father had even killed to keep the secret.
He could still feel the power radiating from the compass, the pull it exerted on him, his heart hammering in his chest, the whispers in the background. His god wanted something of him, desired him to accept a destiny he most certainly did not want—for it would be one drenched in blood.
“You are correct,” Alaric began. “This already is a problem.”