At the forest's edge, he was cast out by the enchanted trees, much like a penniless drunkard thrown from a tavern. He landed in a heap, paralyzed by the arrow's poison. Though his body was immobilized, his mind remained sharp, and his metal arm functioned. Using it, he dragged himself back towards the forest, only to be met by a thicket that had woven itself together, barring his entry. After a futile attempt to breach it, he resigned to wait for the poison to wear off.
The foggy morning gave way to an overcast day, the sun obscured by thick, gray clouds. Soon, a light drizzle began. Seeking shelter, he used his metal arm to pull himself upright against a tree, hanging there like a forgotten coat.
Gradually, feeling returned to his extremities. After an hour, he could move his fingers and toes, and soon after, he managed to stand, albeit unsteadily. He floundered to the forest's edge again, determined to find Azure and access the cave.
"Is she alright?" he managed to croak, his jaw and tongue still unwieldy. "I need to reach that cave. It might be our only hope."
But the forest retaliated. Thorny vines and briars pulled and scratched at him. As he persisted, three arrows narrowly missed him, a clear warning from the forest's guardians. He realized that pressing on might mean his death.
"I'm trying to save you!" he shouted, but the forest remained silent. Frustration bubbled within him, but he knew he had to retreat and find another way.
"I'll be back," he growled, adding silently, "I'll be back, Azure."
Without his horse and supplies left at the Glade, he began the long journey back to the capital on foot. His pace was slow initially, but as his strength returned, he quickened his steps. Hunger gnawed at him, but the urgency of the looming threat propelled him forward. His unwavering dedication to duty was well-known in Coldwood. It was this very dedication that had led King Devon to choose him as the leader of the Seekers of the Artifact.
"You are a man who sees the greater good," King Devon had once told him. "In these times, many are self-centered, thinking only of their immediate circle. They hoard, steal, and isolate, hoping someone else will handle the Malignant One. But we both know that unless we unite, it will destroy us all."
"My liege," he had replied, "I am needed in Coldwood. I've never ventured far. Surely there's someone better suited?"
"I understand the sacrifice I'm asking of you," the king had said. "But I see no other way."
Buren had stood on the balcony, overlooking the vast expanse beyond, with untouched platters of meat, fruits, and wine beside him.
"What is this mission you speak of?" he had finally asked after a contemplative silence, aware that with those words, his destiny was sealed.
Shaking off the memories, Buren trudged forward, the sound of puddles splashing beneath his boots echoing in the quiet. The monotonous rhythm of his steps on the lonely road allowed his mind to wander. He pondered on how he might gain access to the Dryad's sacred grounds. But every plan seemed like a mere fantasy. Stealth was not an option; the Dryads' dominion over the forest meant every shrub or tree could be an observer. And smuggling in the necessary manpower and equipment to excavate the rock seemed impossible. He would need to negotiate, make promises, incur debts, and perhaps even resort to threats. This would require more political savvy and resources than he alone possessed. He needed an ally in a high place. "It was either that or".... "No," he would not consider the other option. "Not yet. Not when there was any other way."
He journeyed deep into the night, intending to rest only during the darkest hours and resume his trek at dawn. But when the tripwire he'd set tugged at his finger, it felt as though he'd just closed his eyes. The dew on his cloak, however, told a different story. Fully alert, he quickly freed his finger from the wire and climbed the tree he'd been resting under. From his vantage point, he observed three rugged-looking men with grimy clothes inching closer to his previous resting spot, daggers gleaming faintly in their hands.
"Someone's been here," one murmured, noticing the flattened grass.
"Maybe a beast got to them first," another speculated. "Did you hear those screams?"
Buren realized he must've cried out in his sleep. "I need to be more careful," he thought.
The men rummaged through his belongings, pocketing rations and squabbling over the coins in his purse. Buren's heart raced when one of them examined the flower Azure had given him, but to his relief, it was dropped back into his sack without much interest. As they prepared to leave, one of the thieves slung Buren's bag over his shoulder, much to his chagrin.
From his perch, Buren called out, "That doesn't belong to you."
The men spun around, brandishing their daggers, eyes scanning the surroundings for the source of the voice.
"Leave the bag and go," Buren commanded, his silhouette casting an imposing shadow from the tree. Only then did the men locate him and craned their necks to look up.
One of the men retorted, "Why don't you come down and take it?" Recovering from their initial shock, they sized him up, realizing he was outnumbered. "How do we know it's truly yours? Maybe you're the real thief here," one sneered, eliciting chuckles from his companions.
With a swift motion, Buren descended from the tree, landing gracefully. He extended his metallic right arm, fingers flexing in a clear gesture of demand. "This is your last warning. Keep what you've pocketed, but leave the bag. I'm being more generous than you deserve."
Their amusement faded upon seeing his arm, replaced momentarily by surprise, then avarice.
"The Gauntlet!" one gasped. "Imagine the fortune we'd get for that!" Their eyes gleamed with greed as they began to encircle him.
Buren widened his stance and kept his eye on the men. The man to his left lunged, closely followed by the one on his right. With a swift motion, Buren caught the left attacker's wrist with his metal hand, crushing it effortlessly. As the man screamed in pain and dropped to his knees, Buren deftly slapped the weapon from the other man's grip, sending him sprawling with a forceful open-palm strike to the center of his chest. The third man, clutching Buren's bag, charged with a raised dagger. Buren extended his arm fully, striking the man's forehead with his iron middle finger, deliberately turning away the sharp point as not to skewer his brain. The strength packed into that single finger was enough to crack his skull, and the man crumpled, clutching his head in agony.
Surveying the scene, Buren noted the sheer terror in the eyes of the defeated men. He approached the one with the fractured skull, who cowered in fear and screamed in terror when he saw Buren reaching down. But Buren simply retrieved his bag, leaving the man unharmed yet shaken.
By afternoon, Buren reached the capital's gates. A restless crowd pressed against the closed entrance, their pleas and demands echoing off the stone walls as guards atop the battlements tried to maintain order.
"We're full!" the head watchman bellowed, trying to rise above the cacophony of pleas, but his words were largely drowned out. Buren navigated his way to the entrance, where a guard addressed him through a small porthole.
"The city has no room for more drifters," the guard stated, his tone dripping with practiced indifference. Buren's gaze dropped to his attire: his tattered cloak, mud-caked boots, and the weariness etched on his face made the guard's assumption understandable. However, a brief display of his metallic hand shifted the guard's demeanor, and Buren was discreetly ushered in through a side door. As he entered, a few desperate souls tried to follow, but guards swiftly intervened, pushing them back and securing the entrance.
The streets of the capital were more congested than Buren remembered. Refugees and the city's destitute occupied every available space, while guards patrolled, attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Yet, as he approached his castle, the guard presence dwindled, replaced by makeshift tent settlements and the stench of human waste. The dilapidated houses seemed to overflow with dispossessed inhabitants. Buren's worn appearance allowed him to blend in, though a keen observer might notice the superior quality of his gear.
Upon reaching his castle, he found the courtyard and stables occupied by squatters. These individuals, however, seemed to be the city's own displaced residents, their attire and speech hinting at a once-better life.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Inside the castle, an eerie perfection prevailed. Everything was meticulously arranged, as if on display in a museum. The staff moved cautiously, their postures rigid, their expressions tense. Their surprise at seeing him was evident, or perhaps it was the state of his attire that shocked them.
"Master Buren!" Flynn exclaimed, having been alerted by the servants. "You've returned so soon. Here, let me assist with your cloak." Swiftly, he unfastened the garment, careful not to soil the pristine floor.
Buren raised an eyebrow, "Has she truly got everyone tiptoeing over a bit of dirt?"
Flynn replied, "When she can impose penalties for the slightest misstep, you'd be cautious too."
"What?"
"In your absence, she's become the highest authority here. She brought enough men to ensure her directives are followed. But it's not all bad. She just has... finer tastes. We'll adapt, and once we do, she'll be content." Buren noted the faint hopeful smile on his face as he momentarily dreamed of this happier lady of the house.
"And indeed, the poor maid who misplaced her cosmetics still struggles to sit after her public caning. But that is the least of our problems," Flynn added, a hint of frustration in his voice.
Buren, however, was consumed by the urgency of accessing the Vault and averting the impending disaster he sensed looming. He barely registered Flynn's words. Gesturing to a nearby maid, he curtly ordered, "Dinner," before heading to his chambers to change.
Flynn hastened to match Buren's stride. "Sir, the Eastern district is more volatile than the rest of the capital."
"I have graver concerns right now," Buren replied dismissively.
"But, sir-"
"Notify the King. I need to speak with him tonight."
"There's a royal banquet tonight."
"I'll address him there."
"You weren't on the guest list."
"Doesn't matter."
"Sir, I believe-"
"Prepare our horses. We depart in an hour."
Flynn hesitated, "Wouldn't it be wiser to formally request an audience and await the court's response? Why the urgency?"
Buren's eyes darkened, haunted by visions of destruction. "Just do as instructed." Without another word, he entered his quarters, the door echoing a resounding thud behind him.
Flynn, in a bid to ensure he had Buren's ear, had opted for the wagon over horses. The enclosed space meant Buren couldn't easily dismiss him.
"Since your departure, the other lords have been redirecting all the displaced and refugees to the Eastern district. It's become a cesspool of despair. Crime is rampant. Men who vanish are found dead by dawn, while women... they simply vanish," Flynn explained, his voice heavy with concern.
"The guards should handle it," Buren replied dismissively.
"We're short-staffed. The Eastern Watch has always undermanned as long as anyone can remember."
Buren's expression hardened. Having people under his protection, although it was a position that had been thrust upon him without any desire on his part, did not sit right with him. Still, such small matters could not distract him from his primary goal.
"Figure something out. Once I have what I need, I'll be off again."
Flynn tried to formulate a counter-argument, but he knew it would be futile. Buren's determination was like a fortress wall, impervious to any pleas.
The Central Citadel was a spectacle of lights, with countless torches and braziers illuminating the night in a myriad of colors, thanks to the exotic powders mixed with the flames, as well as kaleidoscopic glowstones. The King's guards stood resplendent in their ceremonial attire, their armor gleaming with intricate designs of flora, fauna, and the emblems of the noble houses they served. As they crossed the flower-strewn drawbridge, the crushed petals beneath their feet were a testament to the evening's extravagance. The lively tunes of a band filled the courtyard.
Buren strode past a queue of nobility, all waiting for their turn to be announced. Since King Duriel enforced rank in everything pertaining to the court, those of lesser rank had to wait for their superiors to arrive before they could enter.
A young lady, dressed in finery, lamented to her companion, "Can we not depart? My feet ache from standing so long."
Her companion, a nobleman, swiftly reprimanded her with a slap. "Silence," he hissed. "Imagine the consequences if the King heard we didn't value his invitation. Our reputation would be ruined!"
Majestic gryphon statues, with braziers nestled between their talons, flanked the grand entrance. As Buren approached, the guards at the doorway crossed their ornate, gem-encrusted halberds, blocking his path. Firelight glittered off their flamboyant weapons.
"Marquis of Coldwood," the usher announced, recognizing Buren instantly. "You're not on the guest list."
The Gauntlet's claws produced a grating sound as Buren clenched his fist, a noise that sent shivers down the spine of the rotund usher. The guards shifted from their formal stance, their bodies tensing in anticipation of a confrontation.
Flynn, ever the diplomat, stepped forward, positioning himself between Buren and the King's men. "Haven't you heard? The Bearer of the Gauntlet moves as he pleases. He stands outside your hierarchy and therefore cannot be confined to any list."
"I have my orders-" the usher began.
"Can you fathom the King's wrath when he learns of your grievous oversight?" Flynn interrupted, feigning shock. His theatrical display drew the attention of nearby guests. He turned to Buren, opening his eyes wide and spreading his arms. " To bar your entry after what the King personally told you the last time you sat in the same table! And this man thinks he knows what the King would prefer? Unbelievable!"
"Please, sirs, it's a mere oversight," the usher stammered, his face pale and glistening with sweat. "Proceed, and accept my apologies for the error."
Flynn shot him a withering look, pointing an accusatory finger. "See that it doesn't happen again." With the path cleared, they entered with an air of authority.
"Duriel hates me," Buren remarked as they moved further into the palace.
"Yes, but the doorman doesn't need to know that," Flynn replied with a smirk.
They made their way to the throne room, the epicenter of the evening's festivities. The majority of the guests had already arrived, and the atmosphere was thick with merriment and intoxication. The herald, upon seeing Buren, hesitated momentarily before announcing his arrival, his voice barely audible amidst the din.
King Duriel, in a state of inebriation, lounged on his throne, wine-stained and surrounded by two young women. One, with raven-black hair, clung to him, her dress carelessly undone, revealing her breasts. The other, a blonde, with the look of a snared rabbit, trying to distance herself from the King's advances without getting up from his knee and breaking her orders. Buren's determined approach towards the throne sent a ripple through the crowd, parting the sea of nobles as he advanced. When he reached the foot of the dais, the King, in a fit of drunken rage, stood abruptly, causing both women to tumble. The blonde quickly regained her composure and vanished into the throng.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" King Duriel bellowed, silencing the room. The guests retreated from Buren, leaving him isolated in the vast hall. Even Flynn had chosen to remain at a distance.
"King Duriel," Buren began, his voice unwavering amidst the tense silence, "A grave threat looms over our lands, far surpassing the recent horrors we've faced. I seek your assistance in combating it." His words echoed, magnified by the hushed atmosphere.
The King's visage was a tempest of inebriated fury and befuddled confusion. "What?" he managed, the word escaping him like a hiccup, causing him to spill wine upon his royal shoes.
"In the Ancient Forest lies an artifact of immeasurable value," Buren began, his voice steady. "I require the kingdom's resources and your consent to negotiate with the Dryads for access."
A palpable silence enveloped the room as the King's expression transitioned from anger to a contemplative calm. He took a moment, then erupted into raucous laughter, his belly shaking with each chuckle. The courtiers, ever eager to mirror their sovereign, soon joined in, filling the hall with their mirth.
As abruptly as it began, the King's laughter ceased, and the rest of the room followed suit. "How dare you," he began, his voice dripping with disdain, in the again silent room, "presume to make demands of your betters?" His words, though slurred, carried weight.
"I would not be here if it weren't of utmost importance," Buren retorted.
The King's demeanor shifted from anger to a languid indifference. "And what, pray tell, is this impending threat you speak of?"
Buren hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I cannot describe it precisely, but I sense entities of immense malevolence rising from the darkest abyss."
Murmurs and mocking scoffs spread through the crowd, the faces of the surrounding people were turning from tense agitation to derisive sneers. A voice called out, "Is this the Second Flood? The very one my grandmother warned of?"
Mocking laughter and sneers rippled through the assembly. The King, sensing an opportunity for jest, inquired, "And from whom did you receive this dire prophecy? Your grandmother?"
The courtiers awaited Buren's response, their amusement evident. Through clenched teeth, Buren replied, "The Gauntlet grants me visions in my dreams."
The hall roared with laughter once more. The King, wiping away tears of mirth, quipped, "You can find my help at the same place as this threat: in your dreams!"
The jest was met with uproarious laughter. The court jester, clad in a garish ensemble of green and orange, mimed waking from a nightmare and crying, adding to the crowd's amusement.
Buren's face contorted with frustration. He advanced, only to be halted by the King's guards. The room fell silent, the tension palpable.
"You may mock now," Buren growled, "but you'll rue the day when my visions become reality. This might be our only hope."
The King's rage returned tenfold. "Enough!" he thundered, spittle flying. "You are not above our laws, nor can you demand anything of me. Speak no more of this."
Taking a deep breath, the King continued, his voice simmering with restrained anger, "Were you any other man, I would have had you executed on the spot. However, doing so would risk breaching the Treaty. Still, we had intended to summon you here for another matter, so it's fitting we address this now. Treasurer!"
At the King's beckoning, a tall, slender man stepped forward. He began to recite a speech that had clearly been rehearsed, perhaps even dictated to him verbatim. "The most recent census, conducted mere days ago, reveals that the population of the Eastern District has surged beyond the previous count. Moreover, the tax contributions from the Eastern District's master to the throne have consistently fallen short in past years, with this year reaching an all-time low."
Buren's gaze bore into the man, his patience thinning as he awaited the crux of the matter.
Seizing the moment, the King interjected, relishing the weight of his words before the gathered audience, "This means you have failed in your duty to the throne, and in such dire times, this is tantamount to treason."
Buren's eyes sharpened, his gaze shifting from the treasurer to the King, a storm brewing behind them.
From his elevated position, the King declared, "Marquis of Coldwood, you are to procure the coin we are owed. Fail, and in one month, you shall face execution."