Chapter Eight: Duty’s Calling

“From this day forth, my blade and soul shall belong to the Sovereign. I swear it in the name of Wyd and the Pantheon, and should I break this Vow, may my life be forfeit and my blood be forever stained.”

—Vow of the Kingsblade

Roars of disbelief erupted from the Wydlings, claims of “liar”, “fraud” and “senile” slung about like heavy stones. Garax sat through it all without a single attempt to defend himself. It wasn’t until Herod raised his hands that the troupers stopped, and even then, they did so reluctantly.

“I find it hard to believe you’ve been walking the earth for several thousand years,” Herod said.

“Believe what you will. I speak only the truth.”

Herod looked to the old storyteller and then to Koth, whose face had whitened to ash, and Alend who betrayed not a single emotion.

Then, he threw back his head and laughed.

He laughed for a long time, his hollow voice bouncing around the walls of the inn, his lean frame shaking with each intake of breath. Aren stared at his father in puzzlement, an unspoken question on his lips.

“I had forgotten what it was like to hear a story for the first time,” Herod said, still struggling to catch his breath. “I must say, whether or not you tell the truth, you spin a fine yarn.”

“It is the truth,” Garax said again.

“Father, surely you can’t—”

“Quiet, son.” Herod placed a hand on Aren’s shoulder. “I will honour our agreement, storyteller. Talberon will put on his best display yet come tomorrow eve, as thanks for this wondrous and ridiculous tale you’ve shared with us.”

“But he’s a liar—”

“If the Wind wills it, then it will be so.” Herod looked around at the rest of the troupers. “Come now, we’ve stayed awake for longer than desired. A long day awaits us, and I will not soil our reputation for putting on a fine show. Mereth, Aren, Baird, you three stay.”

“Yes,” Koth said, waving around at the Felhaveners. “It’s time to leave. We’re closing early tonight.”

Complaints and shouts of protest rose around the room, but Alend silenced them with a clap of his hands. “We have important matters to discuss,” he spoke. “Only the Mayor and the village council is to remain.”

A few more voices cried out, but for the most part people obeyed. As troupers and villagers bitterly left their seats and went out the door, Alend approached Ein and the others.

“You too,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Can’t we stay?” Evaine asked. “I’m not tired yet.”

Alend remained impassive. “If that’s the case, I’m sure the Mistresses in the kitchen could do with an extra pair of hands for the washing up.” He jerked his head toward the splash of water and the clatter of wooden plates. Evaine blanched.

“Come on, Evaine,” Ein said. “Let’s go. Unless you want to help?”

Evaine scowled but said nothing.

It was pitch black when they stepped outside, Ein, Bran and Evaine, weaving their way from the inn’s entrance. The evicted patrons continued to grumble among themselves, their voices carrying into the night long after they were gone. Ein couldn’t shake the story from his mind. He couldn’t forget the way Garax had told it, as if he actually believed it had happened, and he couldn’t forget the glint in his golden eyes as he’d brought the remains of his right hand to the firelight. Evaine had already made her way around the side of the building by the time he realized she was gone.

“Evaine, what are you doing?” Bran hissed. He waved frantically, but Evaine ignored him. She peeked through one of the windows behind the inn, lifting her skirts out of the dirt and snow.

“Father won’t take kindly to eavesdropping,” Ein said. “Neither will Master Kinley.”

“Come on,” she insisted. “You want to listen, you know you do. Besides, the relicts hurt my parents. If anyone has a right to listen in, it’s me.”

Ein sighed. There was no use arguing with Evaine; he would only end up with a headache. Besides, she was right—Garax’s story had only heightened his curiosity about the relicts.

“We really shouldn’t be here,” Bran mumbled. “What the village council decides is none of our business.”

“Really?” Evaine looked unimpressed. “Who was it that was saying we were adults now and needed to do our part for the village?”

Bran flushed and glanced around nervously, though there was no one else nearby. Ein knew some of the village boys—men, he corrected himself—who became more courageous after a round of ale, but Bran wasn’t one of them.

“Fine,” he said, taking his place beside the two, though the way he kept looking over his shoulder said it wasn’t fine at all. “Don’t blame me if we get in trouble.”

The adults had settled around the inn, seating themselves at one of the central tables next to the counter. While Koth straightened the chairs and helped pack away the mugs and plates, Alend fed another log into the blazing hearth. Four men donned the green and gold—Herod and his son Aren, the injured Baird who looked the worse for wear, and a grey-haired woman who Ein assumed was Mereth. From the village council there was Sanson and Helda, Koth and Alend, Maisie the baker and Caurin the tanner, and of course, Mayor Walmsley. All the other Masters and Mistresses were either cleaning in the kitchen or had already left, save Garax who sat in a corner with an empty cup before him.

A terse moment later, a wizened old man emerged from the staircase and stopped at its base, leaning with his back against the wall. Ein’s eyes swam when he tried to follow the shifting greens and browns of his cloak, and he was eventually forced to looked away before his head started to hurt.

“Come and take a seat, Talberon,” Herod gestured. “There’s no need to stand.”

“I’ll be fine,” Talberon grunted. There was only one free stool and it was next to Alend. Talberon glanced over at Garax, noting the storyteller’s missing right hand.

“So,” Koth said, surveying the room. “Let’s get to business then.” He stared directly at Herod, and with a hesitant glance towards Alend and the Mayor, voiced his question. “We’ve had a number of attacks happen around the Sleeping Twins, and we were wondering if you knew anything that might help us.”

Alend cleared his throat. Koth sighed.

“There’s a rumour going around that it’s the work of relicts,” he added.

What followed next came as no surprise to Ein. Mayor Walmsley and the rest of the council were sceptical, but Alend and Koth presented the evidence for their theory. Herod confirmed their fears and recounted the troupers’ own run-in with the relicts on their journey, showing them Baird’s injury as proof. It was the same story they’d told Ein and Evaine earlier; mistaking the relicts for wild game, provoking them, killing them and burning them to ensure they stayed dead. Mereth produced a wooden carving from her pocket and held it up for all to see.

“Move over,” Evaine whispered. “I can’t get a clear view.”

She nudged Ein to one side while Bran peered over their shoulders. At first, Ein thought the carving was of a buck—with four legs and antlers, he could see how the Travelling Folk might have mistaken it for one. However, as the statuette was passed around, he realized it was the wrong shape. It was too squat, with legs not quite as thick as a mammoth’s but thicker than a deer’s, and antlers that were too sharp and straight, lacking the branching grace of a stag’s.

“A Celadon,” said Garax. “And a male one at that.” He didn’t look up from his drink.

“How can you tell?” Koth asked.

“The horns.” Talberon spoke this time, twirling the wisps of his beard between his fingers. “The females have curved horns, like rams. The males have straighter, longer ones on either side of their head.”

Aren snapped his fingers. “I remember where I’ve seen this before, Father. In the Encyclopaedia of Daemons, that book we traded away several years ago.” Herod’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of recognition. “According to the book, the relicts used—”

“They used the females to track their prey, and they rode the males to war.” Garax propped his chin on his good hand. “The females have a greater sense of smell since they hunt meat for their young. When the males grow up, they become herbivores. The humanoid relicts rode them since there was no risk of them turning on their masters in times of hunger—though they’ll become aggressive if they’re approached by those they don’t know.”

“I thought all the relicts were blood-thirsty savages,” Koth said. “That’s how they were portrayed in the stories.”

Garax laughed. “If all the species in a world ate meat, what would the weakest eat? They would starve to death, and then those that fed on it would starve too.”

They finished passing the carving around. Mereth tucked it into her pocket.

“How do you know all this?” she asked, looking over to the storyteller. “Don’t tell me you wrote that book in addition to being a survivor from the Age of Legends.” She wrinkled her nose in disdain.

“I didn’t write it,” Garax said. “I knew the person who did, though.” He gazed into the fireplace. “She died a long time ago.”

Another silence ensued, and this time Talberon made no attempt to hide his scrutiny towards the balding storyteller. Alend and Koth asked more questions about the attack, how the Celadons had behaved, whether they’d seen anything else, and the troupers did their best to answer. As the night grew colder, Evaine and Bran huddled closer to Ein, the three warming each other against the window. Sometime during the discussion, after the Masters and Mistresses in the kitchen had cleaned up and left, Mistress Caitlyn emerged with a platter of drinks and joined them. The council was still dismissive of the idea that relicts had returned, but Ein could sense their dispositions shifting. It was in the uncertainty in Caurin’s voice, the uneasy looks that Maisie threw, the increasing amount of questions that Koth asked. One by one, they were opening themselves to the idea.

“The Celadon attack doesn’t match up with the attack on the Tamelyn farm,” Alend murmured, asking the question that had been on Ein’s mind for a while. “The tracks belonged to a bipedal creature, and the method of slaughter was different.”

“Another species of relict,” Garax dismissed. “The ones in control of the Celadon, no doubt. Worgals or Bloodmanes.”

“Speaking of which,” Mayor Walmsley said, “have there been similar things happening outside of the valley? We don’t hear much in the way of news around these parts.”

Herod exchanged a glance with Talberon.

“There’s been some unrest,” he said. “Not just because of relicts. People as a whole are reaching their wit’s end.”

For the next half hour, the village council listened as Herod and Talberon summarized the goings-on of the world. The winter was taking its toll on the smaller settlements in the Far Reaches, slowly but surely wearing away their supplies and morale. Taxes were left unpaid, or rather, could not be paid, and as a result the bigger cities and towns also found themselves in strife. Trade was still alive, but the price of food and services had skyrocketed. Bandits had taken to the highways, and there were increased sightings and reports of monsters attacking lone homesteads and settlements. For the first time since the Rondo of the Three Kings, the Royal Road had been deemed unsafe for travel.

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That wasn’t all, Aren continued. Shortly after they’d left Aldoran, a series of earthquakes had ripped through the mountains surrounding the Summit of the World, and their tremors had continued for several weeks. Faengard was unravelling before their very eyes.

“Winter will come, and it will not end,” Talberon murmured. “Brothers will kill brothers. The bonds between father and son will be rent, and the mountains will shake with each breath of the world. As the Ward Tree wilts, so shall the Oathbreaker return.”

The villagers whispered uneasily among themselves.

“I still can’t believe it,” Koth shook his head. “It just sounds so… ridiculous.”

“To think they’ve reached us as well,” the Mayor’s face was as pale as a sheet. He’d been one of the last to be persuaded. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Believe me,” Talberon said. “Something is very wrong for the relicts to have business in a place like this.” He eyed Alend as he spoke.

“What should we do then?” Helda asked. “What can we do?”

“Well, the same thing is happening across all of Faengard,” Herod said. “Word has it that Aedrasil is wilting and that’s what’s allowing the relicts to escape from Nephilheim. But the King’s business is none of our own; only he knows what the best thing to do is.”

“I guess we have no choice,” Koth sighed. He turned to Alend. “We’ll have to take the fight to the relicts, just as you suggested. Garax, didn’t you mention you’d fought them before?”

“You can’t be serious,” Maisie said. “You’re actually going to do it? Are you out of your minds?”

“What do you suggest, then?” Alend’s face was a mask of grim determination. “Would you sit back and hide beneath your covers while they continue to ravage our home?”

“No…” the baker took a step back, shrinking slightly. “Surely there must be another way.”

“There is no other way.” Alend slammed a fist into his open palm. “We’ll make preparations during the festival tomorrow. After that, I’ll head out with a group of others and we’ll try to track down the attackers.”

There was a sudden thump from the stairs next to Talberon, followed by a slow sliding of shoes against floorboards. He quickly moved to help whoever was coming down.

“You can’t,” a voice said. “It’s suicide.”

Evaine gasped. Valeesha Tamelyn staggered into the room, one arm supported by Talberon. Her hair was dishevelled and she held one hand to the bandage around her head, but she was alive, awake and moving. There was a scuffle of motion as the Felhaveners all rushed to her aid except for Alend, who had snapped his head toward the window and was peering out into the night.

Bran swore and tried to run, but Ein’s father was at the window in mere moments. It took him another moment to slide it open, and one more to stick his head through. Ein found himself pressed against the ground, just out of sight—even though he had no memory of ducking into cover.

“Evaine,” Alend scowled. “And Bran. I’d suspected we were being eavesdropped on.”

Evaine looked around, realizing Ein was gone. Bran apologized profusely.

“Well, come in. Now that you’ve been found, you may as well sit by the fire.”

Alend looked out the window for a moment longer before pulling it shut. It wasn’t until Evaine and Bran had stepped inside the inn that Ein crawled from his hiding place. He was surprised he hadn’t been detected—Alend had quite a keen sense of hearing. Hugging himself more tightly against the cold, Ein continued to watch.

There was a brief refractory period as Evaine rushed to her mother’s side, all the while being scolded by the adults. Bran hung his head as Sanson cuffed him behind the ears and sent him to refill their empty mugs.

“Go easy on the drinks,” Koth called. “Else we’ll have none for tomorrow.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Garax said with a wink.

“What do you mean?”

Herod chuckled. “Your storyteller saved you almost a barrel’s worth of ale with his story. In case you didn’t notice, your customers were too busy listening to remember to drink.”

Koth gaped at Garax with a newfound look of surprise and grudging admiration. Garax simply winked.

As the excitement died down, the village council turned their attention to Valeesha. The tale she told matched up with her daughter’s—they’d been attacked on the farm while Evaine had left to take care of the groceries. The Tamelyns had fought back and managed to wound the enemy badly enough for it to retreat, but had almost paid for it with their lives.

“Did you see the attacker?” Alend asked.

Ein held his breath by the window. Valeesha nodded.

“I’d never seen anything like it before,” she said. Evaine sat beside her with her hands in her lap. “I thought it was a lion at first. Like the crest of the Leonhart family—but it was tall, and it stood on two legs.”

Alend mumbled something under his breath.

“It had a mane of pure red,” she continued. “Like it was stained in blood. And it wielded a sword, though it wasn’t anything forged by a man.” She shivered even though she was sitting beside the fire. “We were lucky that morning. By some stroke of luck, Nath struck it a heavy blow and drove it away. But before that… before that, it tore through the house like it was nothing. Through the gates, the poor sheep…” Her voice fell away to a whisper.

Alend angrily rose to his feet. “If there was any doubt in my mind before,” he said, “there isn’t anymore. It’s clear what the path is from here.” A few of the other villagers nodded in agreement, and they broke off to discuss finer details.

Little else was spoken that night. Whether it was because everything that needed be said had been said, or because they were in the presence of Bran and Evaine, Ein wasn’t sure. Alend confirmed the course of action with the council before they adjourned. The hunt would go ahead as planned, the day after Founder’s Eve.

Following the conclusion of the meeting, Mistress Tamelyn returned to her husband’s room to watch over him while Bran and Evaine were forced out the door by an annoyed Koth. Ein lay in the shadows, contemplating whether or not to reveal himself when he realized the inn had already emptied during his hesitation. Even Garax had left, humming to himself as he trotted across the village square.

Alend and the man named Talberon remained in the room, sitting across each other by the table. Koth called out to them as he climbed the stairs.

“You’re not heading back?” he asked.

Alend shook his head. “Talberon and I have some things we need to discuss.”

Ein decided then and there that he wasn’t going to leave after all. His interest sparked once more, he drew closer to the window and pressed his ear as close to the wall as he could without it freezing solid.

“Alright, then. Make sure you put the fire out before you leave. And only water, you hear me? I won’t have you ruining Founder’s Eve.”

Alend and Talberon relocated to another corner of the room where their voices barely rose above a whisper. Ein slunk to another window, one that was almost right next to where they sat, and warmed his palms up against each other. He’d never seen Talberon before in his life, but his father appeared to know the man. What was so important that couldn’t be said in front of the village council? And what was that expression on Alend’s face? Could it possibly be fear? Ein frowned. His father was never afraid.

“We’re alone,” Alend said, as soon as Koth’s footsteps faded. “You mind telling me what’s really going on now? I take it you had a hand in getting the Wydlings to come here as well.”

“Any travelling troupe would have done,” Talberon said. “They were simply in town at the right time and place. Though, they do charge a pretty penny.” He swivelled in his seat. “You need to come back to Aldoran.”

Alend didn’t so much as flinch. “I gathered that much. What use does the King have for a Deserter like me?”

“This has nothing to do with what happened back then,” Talberon said. “Kingsblade or not, Deserter or not, you’re needed.”

“Needed for what? So I can be shamed and executed? I broke the Vow, Talberon. I turned my back on Aedon—”

“The Vow be damned,” Talberon interjected, knitting his brow. In that moment, his face suddenly became much older. There were more lines of worry than age, creasing the skin around his eyes and mouth like a piece of leather left under the sun to dry. “The High King doesn’t care about that. He has a kingdom to fix, and he needs you. He needs the blood of Kings.”

Ein’s ears pricked at the phrase. What did Talberon mean? There was no way his father was a king.

“What does that have to do with me?” Alend snapped. “I’m not the King, am I?”

“Kings,” Talberon repeated. “Not the High King. The Three Kings born from the Ward Tree. Aedrasil is wilting, Alend. She needs to be saved, to be reborn, so we can put an end to all this madness. The blood of the Uldans runs strong in Aedon, but it’s not enough. The Thorens are needed, and the Lachesses. Aedrasil has spoken to the Princess herself—she needs the blood of the three Kings.”

“You can’t be serious.” Alend studied Talberon’s face. “The Protector is really wilting?”

“She is, and the world is paying for it. You heard the troupers, Alend. You’ve seen what the relicts have done. You’re living the winter. What more proof do you need?”

“What about my brother?” he asked. “The same blood runs in Edric’s veins as mine. I don’t see why you had to come all the way to Felhaven when you could have just taken it from him in Aldoran—”

He broke off. Talberon cast his eyes downwards.

“Edric is dead. He was sent to Darmouth to slay a relict, and he didn’t come back.”

“That’s—”

Talberon drew his hand into one of the pockets in his cloak and pulled out a ring of pure gold in his palm. Ein squinted; there was an insignia on the ring, what he thought might be a sword and a crown—the symbol of the Kingsblade. He had to clamp his freezing hand over his lips to stay quiet.

What’s the ring of a Kingsblade doing here? Why does that man have it? I have an uncle? There were so many questions swimming inside his head, yet all he could do was watch.

“How can I be sure that’s his?” Alend asked. “There are always seven Kingsblades in the land. When one ring is lost, another is forged in its place.”

Talberon pulled his cloak aside and brought his hand to his waist. There was a sword there, a hand-and-a-half sword bound in hardened leather straps. He placed it on the table between them, and Alend took it.

“This sword...” he muttered. He drew it from its sheath and angled it against the light of the hearth, watching shades of red and orange dance along its length. The blade was pure gold, with a fiery tint which remained even when Alend moved it back into the shadows. Ein was no blacksmith, but he knew enough about his father’s craft to recognize the metal.

“A Rhinegold sword,” Talberon said. “The weapon of a Kingsblade. Your brother’s name is scrawled into the crossguard.”

Rhinegold was one of the strongest and most beautiful metals in the land, and it made the sharpest blades and the hardest armours. A single bar of refined Rhinegold could buy you an entire year’s worth of supplies in one of the bigger cities… or a small forge in a quiet village.

“Aedon really wants me back, doesn’t he,” Alend murmured. “To waste an entire blade’s worth of Rhinegold just to trick—”

“Listen to yourself,” Talberon hissed. “Stop denying the truth. Edric is dead! His ring and blade are before your very eyes—what do you want me to do, bring you his dead body? What benefit would I gain from lying? We may not be on the best of terms anymore, but I’d never wish harm upon you!”

Alend sheathed the sword and took the ring into his hand.

“Edric is dead,” Talberon repeated. “You are the last of the Thorens. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. Only with the blood of the Three Kings can Aedrasil be saved.”

“What then?” Alend asked. He slumped against the back of his chair, chin lowered. Ein had never seen his father so defeated.

“Nothing,” Talberon said. “The world will be saved, the relicts sealed and the winter ended. All you have to do is come to Aldoran and the Ward Tree—then, your work will be done.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Then you can go back home to your wife and children.”

“What about the relicts? What about the village?”

A shadow fell across Talberon’s face. “The relicts are here for you, Alend. I’d stake my life on it. As soon as you leave, they’ll go after you.”

“What about my children? Won’t they be in danger if I leave?”

“I can give them a charm to conceal their presence. Once you begin your journey, the relicts will go after you. The ones hunting for your blood, at least.”

Alend closed his eyes and exhaled. Numbness crept into Ein’s legs, and he realized he’d been still for too long. Taking care not to make any noise, he shook the blood back into them.

“There really is no other way?”

“If there was, I wouldn’t be here.” Talberon stood up. “I’m well aware of the consequences of breaking the Vow. I didn’t tell Aedon about you for sixteen years; I wouldn’t place your life in jeopardy unless the world itself was in danger.”

Alend took the ring and weighed it in his hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve worn one of these.”

“You don’t have to wear it. You’re a Deserter, remember? Just keep it as a memento of your brother.”

Alend shook his head. “No. I’ll wear it.”

He eased himself out of his chair and also stood, slipping the ring over his thumb. It fit perfectly, as if it had been his all along.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Talberon said. “The Horses of the Wind should be able to take us—”

“Not tomorrow. The day after.”

Talberon frowned. “Why? The sooner we depart, the sooner you can return.”

“My son’s first Dance is tomorrow. I want to be there when he becomes a man.” Alend set his jaw and folded his arms. Although he towered over Talberon, the older man stood his ground. They regarded each other for a moment, before Talberon nodded.

“In that case,” he said. “The day after tomorrow it is. Herod needs me to put on a fireworks show for the festival, anyway.” He grimaced. “But just remember, Alend. You can’t keep putting things off forever. Sometimes, you just have to steel your will and do what needs to be done.”

Talberon pulled his cloak around him and moved towards the door.

“I’ll arrange for the troupe to provide us with horses,” he said. “With a party of only two, we should be able to make good time. Once we reach the Royal Road, it shouldn’t take more than a week’s worth of travel.”

Alend nodded.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Talberon said. “Enjoy your festival.”

With that, he shut the door and stepped out into the night.

Ein’s father remained standing for a long time, turning the sword over in his hands. It wasn’t until he looked up that Ein remembered where he was and where he was supposed to be. Scurrying to his feet, he left the inn and raced back towards the forge, his head swimming with tales of gods, relicts and Rhinegold blades.

Kingsblade, he thought. My father is a Kingsblade.

He shook his head.

No… my father is a king. And I’m his son.