Cristomir Stormwell

Elderstone, Jorden

CRISTOMIR WAS BEGINNING to worry. Near an hour or so had passed since the time they were supposed to meet, and Henry Braxton had yet to arrive. Cristomir blamed caution at first, but the guardsman was nothing if not punctual, and his delayed absence only spoke of grim tidings. The night was cold and dark, and the wind blew about whispering secrets in his ear. He always felt like he was being watched as of late. It was a dreadful feeling, as if something or someone were breathing hot and rancid air down his neck. When he looked around to see if anyone was there, hiding away in the shadows, he saw no one, only Tytus Baronstone a few short paces away. The former gladiator was just as disgruntled as he was and seemed to take this plot of theirs personally. For Cristomir, their treason seemed only to be justice for a king fallen at the hands of his ambitious kin. For Tytus, it seemed like vengeance, and that worried the Sub-ranger. Tytus was known for his hot head, and hotheads tended to give way to foolish actions. Cristomir looked around the port again with desperate eyes. Where are you, Henry?

Tytus dispelled the silence. "What if he's been found out?" He had iron in his voice.

"He hasn't, he's too careful," Cristomir said that more to convince himself than anyone else.

"You told me he was keeping notes. What if they fell into the wrong hands?"

"Even if that were the case, he said they were encrypted. Only he could make sense of them."

"What if they've found the poison? A journal full of nonsense with only vague ideas of treason is one thing. Pair that with the method of doing so, even a man born without wits could put two and two together."

Cristomir sighed and shook his head. Beneath the docks they stood on, waves the color of ink lapped up against the stone walls of the port, and the light of the moon cast everything in shades of pale silver. Cristomir pulled the collar of his hooded robe tight. He was suddenly cold, despite the warm air of a midsummer's night. "If he's been found out, it won't be long until they realize he wasn't working alone."

Tytus frowned, and clenched his jaw. "We shouldn't have brought him into our plans."

"He's the one who had the plans," Cristomir pointed out.

"We could have made our own," Tytus snapped back.

"Like shoving a sword in the prince's gullet? That's what you said we should do, if memory serves me faithfully."

Tytus snickered. "Your memory serves you ill, I never said anything of the sort." He turned his gaze out to the midnight ocean, dark waves bringing with them dark tidings. Cristomir shook his head. If they had Henry, there was no doubt they were interrogating him, spilling him of his secrets as well as his blood. Cristomir didn't think there was enough love between the rangers and the guardsmen to have him spare them of a similar fate. What if they offer him a softer punishment on the condition he names us in his plot? The punishment for treason was death, anything else was lesser. He imagined Henry chained to a grimy wall in the dark dungeons of Castle Elderstone, rusted iron shackles tearing into his flesh, his imminent death looming over him like a black twisted shadow. The thought sickened him. Would I confess, if the roles were reversed? He liked to think he wouldn't, but deep within himself, he knew he would. Even if it only meant he could look upon Jenna's beautiful face just one more time, he would sweetly sing them the tune they wanted to hear. Cristomir was only thankful that Jenna was safely away with her uncle, treading water and heading home to the comforts of her family. She'll be safe...they won't be able to touch her when she's home. Not with the name Thornshield.

"We need to leave Jorden," Tytus said, his eyes still cast out far into the black skies.

"That isn't wise," said Cristomir.

Tytus turned back to face him. "Is it wiser to wait around for them to figure it out? Once they do, they'll parade us around the streets as traitors and rebels. I'll not sit here and wait for them to take my head."

"And where would we go if we left?" Cristomir asked. "I wouldn't go to Arnland. I would not bring these sins upon my lady wife, or her house."

Tytus was silent for a moment, his eyes far away. "Valdor," he said at last.

"Valdor?" What was there in Valdor for him? For either of them? Tytus had forsaken his life there long ago.

Tytus nodded. "We could go to Valdor. I have kin there. They'd see us fed and cared for. We could bide our time as we plot our return."

"Tytus, there is no return. If we fail here, we're done. We could never return to Jorden, not while Aldrien or those loyal to him still rule." He took a breath. "Besides, we're not certain they know of our involvement. We're not certain they've found out anything about us or Henry. If we betray our oaths and run now, we might as well profess our guilt from the castle walls. They'd know us as conspirators without a doubt."

Tytus ground his teeth. "How did it all get so complicated?"

Cristomir looked back out to sea, where once the Kingdom of Valadel made its home. He remembered the day it resurfaced, lurking out in the waves, like a creature on the prowl. "It all started with that damn castle..."

*****

The next day, Cristomir made his rounds at the Tower. With the departure of the fifth regiment, nearly a quarter of their force was gone, and the Tower felt empty, in a way. There were less red mantles running about, empty offices, and quiet barracks. He had a meeting with the Marshal of Training, Marshal Clenden, in the morning, a sparring session with Major Garryn in the afternoon, and an induction ceremony for the newest made rangers shortly after that. As the newly made rangers spoke the words that bind them to the Order, Cristomir found himself thinking back to the day he said the words himself. Gallador stood in the center of the room in his grey and black dress uniform beneath the coveted crimson mantle, stalwart and fearsome as if he were in his mail instead, his hand raised and his voice dripping with pride as he recited the oath. Cristomir and the other recruits said the words back, words that made them rangers, words that made them brothers. For a time, it was the happiest day of his life. It was the day he swore to protect Jorden and her people from all threats, to lead the country in war, and bring an end to those who would see them harmed. And now I stand to betray it all...

After the ceremony, he retired to his office. A stack of unread papers and documents awaited him, towering over his desk ominously, faithful to remind him that there was always work to do. He took the top paper off the stack as he sat at his desk. He hardly had time to read even the title when there was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Cristomir said while keeping his eyes on the paper before him.

A ranger entered with a man in a grey and black doublet, clasped together with a golden mantle. A knight herald?

The Knight-herald came forward, a scroll in his hands. "Captain Cristomir Stormwell, Sub-Ranger of the Ranger Order and acting Arch Ranger, you are hereby summoned by Prince Aldrien to attend a Royal Squadron meeting within the hour."

"A summoning?" Cristomir said under his breath. Prince Aldrien has summoned the Royal Squadron...

A deep pit of unease settled in his stomach. He had yet to attend a Royal Squadron meeting. The last one was called when Bayer Wilken held office as the Arch Ranger, before he left to hunt down the elves with Miles Valyrian. A summoning of the Royal Squadron was often serious business. King Joras had one when Valadel arose, and Aldrien called one upon Joras' death.

Cristomir cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you, good herald. I'll leave at once."

The Herald nodded. "It would be my honor to show you the way, Sir Stormwell."

Cristomir nodded. "After you then, good herald." He followed the golden mantle out the door, out of the Tower, and into the bowels of Elderstone.

The Royal Squadron awaits...

*****

Not once in Cristomir's life had he ever seen so many important people in just one room. The Knight-Herald led him to the royal palace, up a few stories of stairs, and into a chamber with a view that captured the whole city of Elderstone. By the window was Commander Georund Wilken, the commander of the Orders of Defense, conversing silently with Edric Granmund, the head of House Granmund and the commander of the Royal Squadron, the second most powerful man in the Kingdom of Jorden. Commander Wilken wore a grim look and looked guilty in a way, as if he was at fault for something, and something terrible.

Seated at the council table already were the Lords Byron Granmund, father of Adelyn and Ander Granmund, and Edric's younger brother. If Cristomir remembered correctly, he was the Lord of Commerce, responsible for the treasury of the Kingdom, the income and wages of Jorden's citizens, and the King's taxes. The man must be gifted with numbers, I've never been able to understand them. Jenna's uncle, Lyndon, held a similar position for the Arnish Court, Cristomir remembered the man saying, though he had only been half-listening. He didn't spend near enough time with the man, and he regretted not doing so. Hopefully, there would be a time the two of them could share an ale and pleasant conversation.

Across from Lord Byron was the Bishop Virgil Brondsen, head of the Church of Ellmen. He looked splendid in his robes of white and crimson, and his head was adorned with a circlet of moonstone, emblazoned with rubies as red as fire. He was a wrinkled mass of flesh, old and fat, with eyes that drooped so low that one might mistake him for sleeping. He yawned lazily and fanned himself with his wrinkled spotted hand. Cristomir remembered the day they sailed for Valadel, the Bishop blessed their expedition and drew upon their foreheads in the sacred oils the ward of Ellmen, to protect them from evil spirits and shield them within the light of their lordly Father. It wasn't even ten minutes after they stepped foot in Valadel that they were attacked by cursed ones. Darius' head was ripped from his spine, Balamar was torn apart, and he himself was dragged into the shadows with teeth in his neck. Little good that ward did for us, Cristomir thought bitterly.

The rest of the chairs at the table were filled with men with more titles than Cristomir knew or cared to know. They were all dressed splendidly in velvets, silks, furs, tunics, capes, and gold. Cristomir felt out of place in his military dress uniform, though this is what Gallador wore to these summonings. You're in your head, fool, relax...

He had just taken his seat when the doors blew open, Aldrien's trail blazing fire behind him as a herald announced his arrival.

"All rise for Aldrien Freemane, Prince Regent of the Throne, and uncle to our King, Kristofer Freemane, the First of his Name, and Protector of Jorden."

Cristomir and the rest at the table rose to their feet and bowed as Aldrien took his seat at the head of the table. "Please, sit," the Prince said.

Cristomir returned to his seat, as did the others at the table. He gave the prince a quick glance. Aldrien had a subtle pleasant smile on his lips, but his eyes held a secret. Cristomir didn't like those eyes. They seemed to be able to see past flesh and bone, eyes that bore into the soul.

"This meeting is now in session," Edric Granmund boomed. "Aldrien of House Freemane, the Prince Regent of the Throne, presides. It is the eighth day of the third summer moon, and all the members are present." He looked at Aldrien. "Please proceed, my Prince."

"Thank you, Lord Edric." He glanced around the table, taking in faces, remembering names, and sorting through his thoughts. "Thank you for being here gentleman. You have been a tremendous aid to the King and House Freemane as we navigate these difficult times. The King is healthy, and sleeps contently in a safe and sound Kingdom. For that, you have my deepest gratitude. When he comes of age, I've no doubt he will see uncles and friends in all of you. Joras would be proud."

Cristomir felt a flare of anger travel through him. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you...

Aldrien continued. "We have important matters to discuss. Firstly," he turned his gaze to a man Cristomir didn't know at the end of the table. "Lord Brightspire. I hear your son Neven was recently knighted."

Lord Brightspire smiled warmly with thick lips between fat rosy cheeks. "That is kind of you, my Prince, thank you. We are all quite proud. He squired for Sir Harwood for years now, there was no one better to do him this great honor."

"The rest of us can sleep a little easier knowing men of such caliber have taken up arms to defend our Kingdom. Commander Wilken," said Aldrien.

The old warrior sat up straight as he was called upon. "My prince."

"Your nephew, Sir Bayer Wilken, has been given command of the Ranger Order. I have no doubts he will guide the rangers wisely as we navigate this new era."

Commander Wilken beamed with pride. "Thank you, my Prince. Bayer has done House Wilken proud."

"Your House has reason to be proud, and many of them." He then met eyes with Cristomir, and Cristomir felt them burrow into him. "Sub Ranger Stormwell."

Cristomir cleared his throat. Play the part, and mind your tongue. "My prince," Cristomir said graciously.

"I heard you were recently wed."

Cristomir nodded. "I was, Your Grace."

Aldrien smiled. "Lady Jenabelle is a beautiful and kind young woman. I remember her running about Castle Elderstone with my nephew August when they were children. Joras and Gallador always marveled at the idea of wedding the two of them. Had August survived his sickness, young Jenabelle might have one day have been queen. I'm sure Lord Gallador would have been just as happy to know she wed a man like you."

Cristomir found himself at a loss for words. Was that to be an insult? Did Jenna settle for him only when the idea of a throne was lost? She mentioned August once or twice, but in the same vein that Cristomir spoke of Danticus; as if the two were family. There was no love there, just childlike enamor. Not like the love we bear each other. Around the table, all the lords were looking at him, awaiting his reply. That angered him, feeling as if he were on stage for their amusement in this game of words. He forced himself to smile. "Thank you, my Prince."

Aldrien gave him a nod. "I pray she has a safe journey home, Sir Stormwell."

Cristomir felt his breath catch in his throat. She had left only yesterday, and he hadn't told a soul of her departure.

Aldrien interrupted his train of thought as he went on. "Gentleman of the table, I thank you all for being here, and in good health. It warms my heart to know my sworn lords and their families are not only surviving, but thriving. Joras chose men like you to help him rule our beautiful kingdom for a reason." That drew many grateful nods of approval from the many men at the table. Cristomir found the words to be hollow.

Aldrien continued. "You have sworn to take up swords against all terrors...even the terrors from our own people."

"Has something happened, Your Grace?" asked Edric Granmund.

"No, and thankfully so. We stopped them before it could."

The lords of the table grew curious. "Stopped what, Your Grace?" inquired Byron Granmund.

"What are these terrors you speak of?" said Commander Wilken.

Aldrien frowned. "A plot was uncovered. My lords, men of my kingdom, there are those that would have me poisoned."

Cristomir felt as if he might retch all over the table. He knows...gods above, he knows...

"Treason?" Lord Brighstpire cried incredulously. "Who would dare poison our Prince? This must be the work of the elves!"

The elves are long gone from this city, you fat oaf, Cristomir thought with boiling blood.

"Not the elves, my good lord, but those who sympathize with them. This plot belonged to a guardsman, a man named Henry Braxton. He was charged with guarding the elves, allowing no one in or out."

"A fine job he did there," said Lord Byron in words soaked with sarcasm.

"The elves must have bewitched him," said the Bishop Virgil in a voice softened by age. "They used their dark arts to muddle the man's mind. He's in league with them, I reckon."

Lord Edric nodded. "They did murder King Joras in cold blood after the man took them in and gave them bread and wine. Perhaps this guardsman meant to finish their work for them."

Aldrien acknowledged the remark with a nod. "He meant to poison me. We found a journal of nonsense and three vials of poison in the man's boots. My scribes and clerks read the journal till their eyes went dry, and we are certain I was to be the victim of this evil."

"Did this journal make mention of when or where you were meant to be poisoned, Your Highness?" asked Lord Edric.

Aldrien shook his head. "It made no mention of such details. Many of the pages were filled with quantities and calculations which we suspect to be the amount of poison needed to be lethal."

"From what substance was this poison born, my Prince?" asked Lord Brightspire.

"Nightfire berries," Aldrien replied.

The Bishop Virgil tsked as he shook his head, his wrinkled jowls swinging carelessly. "Dreadful, truly. To use Ellmen's blessed fruits of our land for such evil purposes...one shudders at the notion."

If they're blessed, then why are they poisonous, good Bishop? Cristomir thought but wouldn't dare voice. Men of the faith were a prickly sort, he'd come to learn. Any slight against Ellmen was a grievous offense, and one members of the church were not quick to forgive.

"Was the guardsman acting alone?" asked Lord Edric.

Aldrien shook his head. "The man had fellow conspirators. The notes make mention of a 'turtle' and a 'chicken'. We believe these to be monikers for the other men involved." His eyes met Cristomir. "Sir Stormwell."

Steady, you fool. Be steady. "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Some time ago, I made a visit to the Tower of Rorden to apprehend the elves. Sir Tytus Baronstone was the acting Arch Ranger of the time, and let the elves escape before we could bring them to justice. He was a known elven sympathizer. Tell me, and tell me true. Do you believe Sir Baronstone could have been in league with this guardsman?"

"No," Cristomir said firmly. "I do not believe so. Sir Baronstone would not stoop to poisoning a man, Your Grace. He has more honor than that." Forgive me, Henry.

Aldrien nodded, but Cristomir could see his eyes were still skeptical. "Fair enough. Thank you, Sir Stormwell."

"We should question this Sir Baronstone, Your Grace," said Virgil. "Any man who might have once sympathized with the elves cannot be trusted. There might be a whole conspiracy beneath our noses. We must destroy these notions of treason, root and stem."

Commander Wilken frowned. "I know Sir Baronstone. He is a man of honor. Many men of the Orders look up to him."

That made Lord Edric scoff. "You mean the Black Baron? The man was a low born gladiator before he made his way to our kingdom from Valdor. The Valdorians have raised a blue flag in support of elven restoration. He might be working as an agent of theirs to destabilize our monarchy. The Valdorians are creatures of low cunning, I would not put poison and assassination past them."

Bishop Virgil nodded his head, his lips drawn in a faint smile. "Well spoken, my Lord. The Valdorian will face Ellmen's wrath soon enough. Theirs is an ungodly kingdom."

"We should march on Valdor," said Lord Brightspire. "We should show those filthy snakes what happens when you prod the lion."

"Our fleet could be at their shores within the moon, Your Grace," said Commander Vernon Tarrow, the commander of the Order of Ships. "Just say the word, and we will set sail."

"My son Ander would love the honor of command, Your Grace," said Lord Byron.

"Neven would serve you well in battle, Your Grace," said Lord Brightspire.

Aldrien shook his head. "Gentlemen, I appreciate your fervor more than you know, especially in these dark times. However, we must hold off on these talks of war, not while we wage war in our own kingdom. If indeed Sir Baronstone and Sir Braxton are in league with the Valdorians, then we will show the people of the sand the strength of the lion. Besides, the North came crashing down on them not long ago. Let them fight the bear while we gather our strength."

Commander Wilken bowed his head. "Our Prince shows great wisdom. Your father would have been proud."

Lord Edric visibly disagreed. "King Varrus was good at avoiding wars, Your Grace, until war showed up on his doorstep. His policy of appeasement brought about his downfall and gave rise to the Oathbreaker. Forgive my harsh words, Your Grace, but proactivity would suit us well here. The Valdorians may very well be behind these treasons."

"We do not know for certain, Lord Granmund," said Commander Wilken.

Lord Byron shot him a glare. "I would have thought that our Royal Battle Commander held more enthusiasm for war."

Commander Wilken returned his glare with one of his own. "It is a foolish warrior that seeks out battle."

"When did your blood turn to milk, Commander Wilken?" said Lord Byron.

Commander Wilken's neck turned red. "Watch your tongue, my lord."

"My tonuge is a greater weapon than your sword, or so it would seem, Commander."

Before Commander Wilken grew an even darker shade of crimson, Edric interrupted their spat.

"Enough, Byron. Show the commander some respect." He turned to Aldrien. "Your Grace, you are not the only one here who has lost family to the elves. They murdered my sister, Victoria, and they froze over the seat of my family. My son, my grandchildren, they are all dead, and Greensfield is an icy ruin. Even if these Valdorians are not behind these plots of treason, we would still do well to march south and crush their notions of elven restoration. Why should Farrenhelm receive that glory? That elven kingdom arose in our waters, not theirs. The lions should boast of this great triumph, not the bear."

"It was your ancestor that united mankind all those years ago, Your Grace. We would make Jorik Freemane proud," said Lord Byron.

This is all wrong, thought Cristomir. If Valdor were to be his and Tytus' place of asylum, it would do them little good to have the lions of Jorden lurking about. "If we are to march on anyone, it should be the North," said Cristomir. "Let us not forget it were northmen who followed the Oathbreaker into Jorden. We should not be so quick to forgive that transgression."

The men at the table considered that for a good few moments. "The ranger speaks true," said Commander Tarrow. "King Joras was quick to forgive the North it's crime of following such scum. We should invade the North now, while their strength lies in the south. There can't be many thanes left to defend the homeland. They still never suffered the consequences of setting the Wolfswood to the torch. Now could be the time to remind them of the lion's fury!"

Lord Edric shook his head. "Enough blood has been shed over the Wolfswood, let the past stay in the past. The matters of the present are more concerning. It was the Northbound that followed the Oathbreaker into battle, not any of the Twelve. We cannot hold the entire North responsible for the actions of a north-born mercenary group."

"Just as you cannot convict an innocent man of a crime committed by his kin," Lord Byron chimed in. There was hardly anything the brothers disagreed on, Cristomir noticed. A house divided cannot stand. He would have to remember that whenever he dealt with a Granmund.

"Silver runs in your families blood, Your Grace," Lord Edric reminded Aldrien. "You are cousins with Nolan Whitelocke." 

"I'm aware of my family lineage, Lord Granmund," Aldrien said dryly.

Lord Brightspire eyed Edric. "Does Nolan have you in his pocket as well, Lord Granmund?"

Edric's nostrils flared. "I am in nobody's pocket. Mind yourself, Lord Brightspire, or I will have you removed from the Royal Squadron."

The threat seemed to have had an effect on Lord Brightspire. "Forgive me my lord, I would never-"

"Enough!" Aldrien snarled. "I have heard enough talk of war and invasions. I summoned the lot of you to discuss a plot of treason. That is our priority. I will consider all that has been said here today once the traitor is dealt with."

"Agreed, Your Grace," said Lord Edric. "Forgive me."

Lord Brightspire gave a deep nod of the head. "I would beg of you a thousand pardons, Your Grace. What's to be done with this traitor?"

Aldrien looked thoughtful for a moment. "As we speak, my inquisitors are wringing from him every bit of information regarding his plot. The guardsman proves to have an iron tongue, but iron rusts eventually. He will give us the names of his conspirators, and when he does, we'll execute every last one of them."

"A most deserving fate," said Lord Brightspire. "We should mount his head on the castle walls as a warning to those who would follow in his footsteps."

"Ellmen will send him and those who follow him to the Abyss, where he will rot for eternity," said the Bishop.

Commander Tarrow approved of that notion. "And there is no better way to send him there than with a swift stroke of the sword."

Aldrien smiled softly. "I would agree." He locked eyes with Cristomir. "And I know just the man to swing the blade."