Henry Braxton

Elderstone, the capital city of Jorden

HENREY BRAXTON'S FEET ACHED. Right in the middle of both of his feet was the dull, throbbing ache that came from standing for far too long. His leather boots weren't accommodating either. Whoever had fashioned these boots did so without any care for ones comfort. His hand was cramping too, curled up at his side as if he was making a fist. He wanted to open it up and flex it, to tear off his boots and massage his sore feet, but if he moved a muscle, Sir Caulder would surely scold him like a child.

"You chose this life," he would say, as he did every time one of his guardsmen complained. "You came to the Order of Defense, it did not come to you." Henry near rolled his eyes just thinking of the words. He wanted to man siege weapons and defend the city from beastriders and mercenaries, to be like a hero from all the tales he grew up listening too. But Sir Caulder was in need of guardsmen, and Henry found himself among their ranks.

They were in the Squadron's Hall, the place where the Royal Squadron would convene to settle the matters of the kingdom; settling new villages, increasing trade taxes on imports from other kingdoms, or in this particular case, selecting a regent. The latter had seldom happened before in the history of Jorden's monarchy, and it was a historic decision that drew hundreds to the Hall. They were mostly nobles, lords and ladies from city of Elderstone and it's large surrounding towns, all of whom held some land and title. There were officers there too, seated in the front of the rows. Sir Caulder was among them with some of the higher ranking guardsmen. He gave his testimony of finding the corpse of King Joras and his wife, Queen Victoria. His account was as chilling as when they found them. Henry still shivered at the thought of the red gash that split the Queen's throat.

Sir Grayson, the Commander of the Kingsguard was there as well. He sat with the rest of his order, and they all waited to see whom they would serve next. Henry hoped whoever that would be, that he would fare better than King Joras.

Behind the Kingsguard were the rangers in their gray dress uniforms and their red mantles. They looked every inch of the heroes from the stories. At the front was the Arch Ranger, Sir Baronstone. He was a fierce and mean warrior, or so Henry had heard. His stories were commonplace among the barracks as the guardsmen would drink ale till they were stupid drunk. Henry hoped one day he would have his own stories shared over ale and bread. Next to him sat Sir Stormwell, the Sub Ranger. He didn't know much of Sir Stormwell, only that he was a handsome man promised to Lady Jenna Thornshield.

As lucky as he is handsome

Behind the rangers was the King's Field Squadron, in their white cloaks and black dress uniforms. At the front was Sir Miles Vallyrian, the newly appointed commander. He had recently returned from a trip to the kingdom of Valdor, and brought back with him a fair tan. Seated to his left was Sir Bayer Wilken. His white hair was tied in a knot behind his ears, but his face was too young to sport the color. Henry didn't know what to make of that man. He was there the morning they found King Joras, and he was there rather quickly. Both him and the Prince.

Aldrien sat amongst the Royal Squadron, each in tall wooden chairs behind wooden desks. There were ten of them, and they all had different titles, more than Henry could remember. They had come back from their private chambers to declare who would sit upon the Jordein throne. The room was quiet with anticipation, though there was an occasional whisper or two. The Royal Commander, Lord Edric Granmund, banged his gavel. The whispers ceased, and Lord Granmund cleared his throat.

"After some discussion amongst the Royal Squadron, we have decided who shall now wear the crown and rule as regent until young Prince Kristopher comes of age."

There was a silence brought on by his pause. Lord Granmund looked around the room, to his fellow Squadroners, to his family, and to his people. "Prince Aldrien Freemane will wear the crown until the eighteenth birthday of the rightful heir, Prince Kristopher."

A quiet chatter broke out amongst the crowd, and Henry couldn't make out a single word amongst the sea of whispers. He could still see just fine, however. He saw a smug smile settle Aldrien's lips, and Henry was sure he saw Sir Baronstones face twist into a scowl.

Seems the Arch Ranger has no love for the prince...

Edric Granmund banged the gavel, and the whispering sea was silenced. "There are other matters to attend to as well." He looked towards where the rangers sat. "The Squadron would recognize the Arch Ranger of the Ranger Order, Sir Tytus Baronstone."

Tytus gave Cristomir an uneasy glance, and stood from his seat. He went front and center before the squadron and knelt. He kept his head low and his eyes closed.

"Sir Baronstone," said the Royal Squadron Commander. "After much discussion and deliberation...for aiding and allowing the elves to escape the city of Elderstone, you are hereby stripped of your rank as Arch Ranger."

Tytus gaze shot upwards, and his mouth hung open from shock. He wanted to say something in protest, but the words were caught in his throat. He saw Aldrien stare at him, a glare that told him this was his doing.

"You are hereby named a ranger apprentice. The position of Arch Ranger will be granted to Sir Bayer Wilken, of the King's Field Squadron. The Royal Squadron has found Sir Wilken to be more than capable of holding the office. The position of the Sub Ranger remains undecided. You are dismissed, Sir Baronstone."

There were no whispers that followed the decree. It was as silent as a graveyard in the Squadrons Hall, and no one dared disturb the fragile silence.

Tytus felt his chest burning with rage. He rose slowly, and gave Aldrien a stare, one that told him this was not over. Aldrien returned the stare with a smug smile, and that only made Tytus want to ground his teeth to powder. He turned and left, making for the doors that led to the outside world. They blew open, and Tytus was gone from the hall, leaving only a trail of fury behind him.

Edric Granmund paid the ranger no mind. "The Squadron would now recognize Sir Miles Vallyrian."

Miles felt himself pale, and his nerves unsettle. He stood and went front and center before the Royal Squadron and knelt as well. Was he also to be stripped of his rank? Was all he had done to be for naught? He would find Sir Baronstone later tonight and the two of them would wallow in ale and self pity.

"You may rise, Sir Vallyrian," said the Royal Commander.

Miles' face was twisted with confusion, but he stood. Lord Granmund looked at him with noble eyes. "Sir Vallyrian, along with Sir Wilken, you are being tasked with leading a search party to find the Elves and bring them to justice. You will select two of your Squadroners to accompany you. You will report your team to myself with two days from now, and you will join Sir Wilken and his two rangers when you are ready. Do you understand?"

A grim look came across Miles face. He did not want this tasking. He wanted to be back in Valdor, with Jazmyn, listening to council meetings and eating mangoes. He missed her, and he didn't realize how much he would miss her until he had left her. But he swore an oath, and he was no oath breaker.

"Yes, Commander Granmund," he said with a bow of his head.

Lord Granmund nodded. "Good. Find those elves, Sir Vallyrian. Find them, and bring them to justice." He banged his gavel, and another sea of whispers fell over the hall.

Sir Vallyrian rose, and he went to join his Field Squadron. Henry could see the conflict within him play out on his face. What that conflict was, and which side was winning, Henry wasn't sure of. He looked up at the Royal Squadron, particularly at Aldrien Freemane. He had that smug smile still on his lips, even after Sir Baronstone left the hall.

Henry knew that smile. It was the smile of a man whose plan was falling perfectly into place.

*****

"I should have seen this coming," said Tytus as he poured more wine into his flagon. He swirled the drink around and brought it to his lips. The wine was gone in three swallows, and he poured himself more. He offered some to Cristomir who sat across from him the quarters of the Sub Ranger, but Cristomir decided against another cup. He needed his wits about him when he met with Sir Wilken, the newly made Arch Ranger.

"I should have been stripped as well," Cristomir said to the former Arch Ranger. "I was just as compliant."

Tytus chuckled, and he poured the last of the wine into his flagon. "Yes, but you made less of a show of it. I think at one point, I started choking the prince in the midst of our argument. Gods, I don't even remember doing it. The world was only shades of red at that point. I'm sure that's when it was decided I would lose the rank. Surprised I didn't lose my head as well."

He downed the wine, and wiped what was left of the alcoholic beverage from his lips with his sleeve. "I was never meant to lead. My head was always too quick to heat, my brother Jaymis would say. A man like Gallador Thornshield, that was a leader. I followed that man into hell, and somehow, I escaped and he didn't...I shouldn't have let that damn beast get the best of me..."

"I shouldn't have either, but I did, and there's nothing we can do now, Sir Baronstone. We can only focus on the matters at hand."

Tytus shook his head. "You can, I cannot. I'm a ranger apprentice now, remember? I'm only good for sweeping the armory and fetching ale for the Arch Ranger. I'm no good to anyone anymore."

Cristomir frowned. Where was the mighty Black Baron from the stories of the Arena, the Sub Ranger who led them into the Forsaken Kingdom of Valadel? The man he would follow without a doubt in his mind was gone on leave somewhere, and in his place was a drunk formed in self pity. "Yes, you are, Tytus. Maybe not here, but perhaps elsewhere."

"And where would that be? I can't go anywhere, I'm still a ranger, bound by oath to serve the order until the day I die, which may be sooner than I'd like."

"Oaths are only words, Tytus. We are in a time of war, words mean little. Return to Valdor, fight with them, your people. You're steel will do more good there than your words here."

Tytus seemed to ponder the thought for a moment or two. Cristomir could see in his eyes that the notion spoke to him. But he shut them, and shut out the ideas with them. "I can't. They'd have my head. I'd be no better than Ragnar Oathbreaker."

"At least you didn't kill a king."

"I might as well have, bringing the elves to him. We killed Joras Freemane, Cristomir. We killed him the day we stepped off that ship with the elves in tow." His face turned hard and grim, and for a second, Cristomir caught a glimpse of the Tytus he once knew, not the defeated drunk he had been of late. There was anger brewing within him, and thoughts filled his head, thoughts of malevolence and retribution. He looked at Cristomir with those black eyes, like disks of onyx, deep and unwavering. "I know who wielded the blade. I know who plunged the steel into the king's chest."

Cristomir nervously shifted in his seat, and suddenly felt as if the walls had ears. The only ever listened when they spoke of dark words. That's when they only ever cared. "Who?" he asked in a voice just shy of being a whisper.

Tytus twisted his lips into a sneer, or a smirk, of which Cristomir wasn't quite sure. "You know who, just as well as I do."

Cristomir could smell the wine on his breath, and wondered if the alcohol had loosened his tongue for him. Tytus was never one for speculating or spreading rumors. Perhaps it wasn't a rumor. Cristomir had the same feeling, deep inside him, he knew they both had the same name within their heads. "Aldrien Freemane. It was him."

Tytus nodded grimly. His eyes seemed to soften a bit, as if they weighed less in his head upon sharing their secrets with someone else. "He and someone else. He couldn't have acted alone."

Cristomir thought back to the Squadron meeting. When they stripped Tytus of his rank, they were quick to bestow it upon someone else. That snowy haired warrior of the Field Squadron.

Perhaps the office was a reward of sorts

Before Cristomir could voice his thoughts, there was a knock at his door, and he cursed himself for not speaking more quietly. He looked towards Tytus, who nodded for him to go and open the door. Cristomir stood, and with his hand on the hilt of his sword, went to the wooden door. He didn't know who the man was that knocked. He wasn't a ranger, or a friend but perhaps he would be. He was dressed in the garb and armor of a patrolman, with skin that suggested one of his parents was dark and the other light. "Can I help you?"

"I hope you can," the man said. "And I hope I can help you. May I come in?"

Cristomir glanced back towards Tytus, and he gestured for Cristomor to let him in. The two men went to the desk, and each took a seat.

"What is your name, sir? What is it you can help us with?" asked Tytus. He sat stiff and upright in his chair, a look of authority and menace about him.

The man looked around as if to ensure they were alone before he would say what he came here to say. When he was sure there were no unwanted ears listening, he spoke in a hushed tone. "My name is Henry Braxton...and I know who killed the king..."