Cristomir Stormwell

The Tower of Rorden, the headquarters of the Ranger Order

Jorden

"WHAT YOU'RE SUGGESTING IS TREASON, guardsmen," said Tytus quietly in the firelight that lit the dank and dark room they convened in. They were near four stories beneath the Tower of Rorden, a dungeon dug deep into the earth. Rorden Freemane reserved the dungeons beneath the tower for only the vilest and sinister of villains to the Ranger Order. Tytus was sure that had Ragnar lost the duel to Varrus Freemane, they would have thrown him in these very dungeons. They were certainly fit for an Oathbreaker. The air was thick, black, and cold, much like the stone that made up the walls, ceilings, and floors. Besides the small torch that Tytus had brought down with them, the dungeon was dark and bathed in shadow. It was the only place in all of Jorden Tytus felt safe discussing such matters. There hadn't been a soul within these tombs for many years.

"Not treason, ranger. Justice," Henry retorted. "Justice for our king, the same one we swore our oaths to." The guardsmen didn't wear his usual suit of armor. Rather, he wore only a simple tunic of dark brown wool and a black cloak. Tytus couldn't think of an attire more suspicious. He was certain the guardsmen was as much of a stranger to the whisperings of murder plots as he was.

Cristomir Stormwell was down there with them as well. Only minutes before they descended into the depths of the dungeons had he concluded a meeting with the newly made Arch Ranger, Sir Bayer Wilken. Sir Wilken, alongside Sir Miles Vallyrian and their company of selected warriors, had departed the city of Elderstone to hunt down the elves, and to bring their steel down upon their necks, or so they bellowed as they left the city. Cristomir wished them safe travel, but hoped in his heart Miles had listened to him, and would lead them astray. "They're innocent, you know they are," Cristomir had said to him, but Miles shrugged him off.

"My orders are my concern, not their innocence, Sir Stormwell." A grim look came over him, and it seemed as if the shadows of fire danced on his face. "I'll do my best to bring them back alive, but...I won't do it at the cost of the lives of my brothers. I have a duty to my men and my king. Good luck to you, Sir Stormwell."

"And to you, Sir Vallyrian," he said, though he hoped luck would favor the elves more.

The memory slipped away, and Cristomir found himself once more in the deep and unholy depths of the dungeons, the only place suitable to speak of death and justice. "How do you plan to exact this justice, guardsman? By shoving a dagger into his back in the dark of the night? We'd be no better than the Prince and his conspirators."

Henry shook his head. "Do you take me for a fool, ranger? We don't have elves to pin the murder on, our route must be one more discreet."

"Your route," Tytus clarified. "We have no stake in this plot of yours."

That seemed to irk the guardsman. "Ranger, listen to me. I know you've long had your suspicions before I came to you, I could see it on your face when they stripped your rank away. I can see it on your face now. Aldrien Freemane is no better than the Oathbreaker. His reign will spell naught but chaos, and Joras Freemane will have died unavenged. "

Tytus studied him with his dark eyes. He didn't trust this man, not yet at least. He could be a spy sent by Aldrien, one to see if Tytus had intentions of murdering him and ending his regency. It was thin ice they were treading, and Tytus only had to wait for him to crack it first. "Why do this guardsmen? Why speak these traitorous words? Is it truly in the name of vengeance for your king that you put your life in jeopardy?"

"It surely can't be for the sake of the elves," Cristomir chimed in. "You know nothing of them, not like how we do."

Henry shook his head. "You've named me only a guardsman, and yet you forget I truly am one. It was my sworn duty to protect the king and his own, to defend his castle from intruders and assassins." His look turned dour, and he rolled his fingers into fists. "I failed my duty. I let the king be slain by one of his own kin. You know what awaits kinslayers after death...I have no other choice but to send him there."

A silence hung thick and the air as Henry paused. "And as for the elves...I stood sentry outside their door for days. The way they spoke, what they spoke of, you'd think I was guarding mere children, not these murderous creatures they've been named to be."

"What did they speak of?" Cristomir asked with genuine curiosity.

A faint smile came across Henry's lips as he recollected their innocent conversations. "They spoke of things like the blueness of the sky, or the strange words they found in books. Of birds that flew outside their window, of this uncle of theirs, or how bright the sun shined. I could hear it all, every little thing. There is nothing in my heart that believes they murdered the king."

Whatever doubt there was within Tytus was slowly fading away. He had heard men speak truly, and he had heard men lie through their teeth, and over the years, he had learned how to tell them apart. This Henry Braxton was a man who spoke true, Tytus could feel it in his bones. If his bones were wrong, then this Henry Braxton was a skilled and gifted liar.

Tytus gave Cristomir a glance as he collected his thoughts. "What would you have us do Sub Ranger?"

Cristomir was not used to giving orders to the Black Baron. It was a queer feeling, and one he hoped wouldn't last long, though something nipped at the edge of his mind, something that told him it would last forever. The days of Arch Ranger Baronstone went as quick as they came. Hopefully, Arch Ranger Wilken's will be even quicker...

Cristomir wore the face of a commander as he said "I'd have us help him. I'd have us avenge Joras Freemane."

Cristomir sent Henry away soon after, and he himself made rounds at the Tower. He'd been down in those dungeons longer than he liked, and for a reason he didn't care to share with anyone outside of Tytus and Henry. Not even his soon-to-be lady wife. He would miss her dearly when she left, but he knew deep within him it was for the best, to send her away with her Uncle, for her to spend time with her family. She always spoke so fondly of Arnland, of the summers that lasted longer than winters, of the sweet red wines from Aldergate, and the thousands of roses that gave the Rosewood its name. He never had the chance to visit, but perhaps once his battles were won, he would. And if they are lost...

He had died once, and didn't much care to die again. "You've been dead for some time," Tyren had told him when he woke from what he thought would be an eternal slumber. He remembered touching the scars on his neck, teeth printed in his skin. It sent chills down his spine. It was only black, that much he remembered. The priests of Ellmen spoke of Everrund, a glorious kingdom made of gold awaiting them, should they live a true and faithful life. They spoke of banquet halls that were filled with brave men and beautiful maidens, all of whom lived true and faithful lives and would dine on the fattest boars and drink the sweetest wines in return for their faith and service. Cristomir came to know no such kingdom. Perhaps I wasn't dead long enough...or perhaps I've lived a life not faithful or true...

Instead of a kingdom made of gold, he awoke in one made of shadow and death, and there were only monsters and elves in place of brave warriors and lovely maidens. He couldn't tell if he had returned to the world he once knew, or if he was in the Abyss itself. At times, he wondered where Danticus was. Maybe he had found the golden kingdom of Everrund, and he was dining on meals fit for a king. Maybe he was dancing with the spirit maidens, laughing and singing, drunk and stupid but happy, like he had been at the feast the king held for their victory over Ragnar Oathbreaker. Cristomir had never seen his cousin so happy, or his eyes so wide when they laid themselves upon Adelyn Granmund. Cristomir was sure they would marry, and give him nieces and nephews as lovely and brave as their mother and father. The Gods saw fit to take him instead...

The sun was dim outside when he retired to his office, chambers not as large as the Arch Ranger's office, but one suited for a second in command. With Sir Bayer off hunting elves, he was left to command the Order, and to oversee the affairs of the Tower. Only four years ago they made me a ranger, and now I command them...is this a jape? Are the Gods laughing at me?

He knew that the senior officers laughed behind his back. He was only a Captain, an infant in their eyes, one who must be kept under a careful eye lest he wanders off too far. Sir Garryn, Sir Chamberlain, all men of high rank and wounded pried, seemingly mocked by the appointment of a common-born man risen high enough to command them. Cristomir wasn't born a Granmund, a Thornshield, a Garryn, or a Wilken, he was born a Stormwell. The others came from gold and glory, from ancient houses that traced their lineage to the first men who took up swords against Elvenkind. His was the blood of fishermen, stewards, and stablemasters. The officers scoffed and brayed at the appointment of Tytus all those years ago when Gallador elevated a Valdorian man forged by the arena. It shook the order to the core, much like how Cristomir's own appointment has. The wounds of Tytus' ascent through the ranks still festered, and with Gallador, the only man keeping treating the wound, perished, the wounds would soon lead the Order to fall ill, and it wasn't a matter of if. It was only a matter of when.

A short time later, Cristomir summoned Tytus to his office, and when the ranger showed, he took a seat opposite Cristomir, a grand desk between them draped in red cloth and covered with scrolls and maps of the city. Cristomir offered him some wine.

"Thank you," Tytus said as he sipped the fruity red drink. Cristomir could see his face was troubled. His was as well, of late, or so Jenna told him. She'd ask him what it was that bothered him, but Cristomir would turn her away, and say it was nothing that concerned her. He wanted to tell her, to lay his head in her lap and spill out his heart and soul to her, maybe while she ran her fingers through his hair and told him all would be well, but they were his burdens to bear, and not ones to plague his lady with.

"I'm sorry you were posted on watch duty again," said Cristomir after he took a sip of wine. "I'd sooner have you back as the Arch Ranger again, if I could, but with-"

Tytus interrupted him. "I understand, Cristomir, this isn't your doing."

Cristomir nodded. "There will come a day when the Prince will-"

Again Tytus interrupted him. "It's not his either."

Cristomir stared at him, confused. "Tytus, the entire court was there to witness the Royal Squadron strip you of your rank. This was Aldrien's doing, no doubt."

Tytus shook his head. "It was my own doing. The Prince saw right through me, he caught me in his trap. I should have played his game. We argued much, him and I when Joras was deciding what to do with the elves. He said time and time again to take the axe to their necks, to let the issue be, to finish the work of Jorik Freemane himself." He sighed. "And I'd say that there were reasons they were alive, reasons my brothers died for. Reasons Joras would die for..." he took another sip of his wine and sat there in silence.

"Why did you name me Sub Ranger?" Cristomir asked him. "Why not Sir Norwood, or Sir Garryn, or Sir Chamberlain? They are all better men than me, men I served under and fought for. They would have made fine Sub Rangers."

Tytus managed a weak smile. "The same reason Gallador made me his Sub Ranger. I had no one else I could trust. When Gallador named me Sub Ranger, the days of the Black Baron weren't far behind me. When I came to him and the Order, I was hungry, tired, and ashamed. Hungry for meaning, tired of mindless bloodshed, and ashamed of my past. He gave me my mantle, and it wasn't long after he named me his second, after Sir Baynard died and he became the Arch Ranger."

Cristomir remembered that day. It was the day he himself became a ranger, and the day he first laid his eyes upon Jenna. How beautiful she had been that day...

Tytus resumed. "After I swore my oath, I asked him the same question you asked me just now. Why me? Surely there were better men than a former gladiator. He told me that when he looked around at his Order, he saw it for what it was. An order of boys of proud old men. Boys looking for glory, to make their lord fathers happy, and lord fathers only looking to gain social capital. Boys and men who wanted songs written about their deeds and their victories. Boys and men he couldn't trust the Order to if he were to die...but then he saw me. Quiet and humbled, he'd say, a man not hungry for valor, but for meaning. A man who knew the price of taking a life, of what came when you shed one's blood. He named me the Sub Ranger the next day." Tytus met Cristomir's eyes with his own. "I saw the same in you, Sir Stormwell. I saw it in that accursed castle, and I see it now. If your command is for us to avenge Joras Freemane, then I will follow your command."

Cristomir nodded his head slowly. "We'll meet again with Braxton on the morrow...and we'll speak more of vengeance."

*****

Cristomir chose a different place to meet this time, one not as dank and dark as the dungeons beneath Rorden. Their small fishing boat rocked on the waves that reflected the blue morning skies above them, and they were some ways away from Red Water Bay. The three of them were dressed in fisherman tunics that Cristomir bought from a seaman at the marketplace. Once he rowed them out far enough to be out of earshot, he let the oars dip into the water and surrendered the boat to the mercy of the waves. Henry's cheeks puffed as bile crept up his throat. His brown skin turned green, and he retched over the side of the boat. A chuckle escaped Cristomir's lips, despite his attempts to stifle it. "Are you ill, guardsmen?"

Henry shook his head miserably. "I told you, the waves don't sit well with me. I've never loved the ocean. I'm a guardsmen of the Order of Defense, not a sailor of the Order of Ships."

"My cousin wasn't fond of the ocean either," said Cristomir. He recalled the day they sailed for Valadel. Danticus somehow managed to keep the contents of his stomach within his stomach, though not without struggle. Cristomir teased him for it, and wished he could tease him still.

"Your cousin sounds like a reasonable man," Henry said as he went back to gripping the sides of the fishing boat. It was large enough to fit the three of them, but with as wild as the waves were, it may have been better to opt for a bigger ship. Though bigger ships make for more ears...

There was sadness in the smile Cristomir gave. "He was." He didn't wish to speak of Danticus, not while they spoke of dark things, like assassinating a regent. "Yesterday, you told us we needed a more discreet route to deal with our problem. What did you have in mind?"

"Poison," Henry said through puffed cheeks.

Tytus snorted. He sat at the bow of the ship with a fishing rod in his hand, his line cast into the salty blue waters beneath him. Cristomir asked him if he actually meant to catch fish while they were out on the waves, but Tytus smiled and shook his head, and said someone had to look like they were fishing, otherwise they'd look like fools just sitting out on the water. "Poison is a coward's weapon. I'd sooner challenge him to a duel than poison him."

"And would you sooner be the King of Jorden? If you invoke the ancient law of the duel for the crown, you'd best be ready to assume the duties that come with the crown. You cannot simply kill a man without consequence. The Kingdom of Jorden is not the same as the pits of the Arena, Sir Baronstone."

Tytus snickered, and reeled in his fishing line just to cast it out again. "Would that it were, life would be much simpler."

"And much shorter," Henry quipped.

"I wish your tongue was shorter."

Henry laughed. "If I had less respect for you, I'd suggest your mother would disagree."

Tytus shot him a glare. "I'd suggest you watch your tongue, guardsmen, or my wishes will become promises." There was enough ice in his voice to freeze the very ocean that rocked them.

Henry's smile faded, and he apologized. "Perhaps we should resume discussing the matter at hand. Where were we?"

"Poison," said Cristomir. "You suggested we poison the Prince."

Henry nodded. "Right, I did. I understand your hesitations, Sir Baronstone, but it is our best option. Some poisons appear only as violent illnesses, and last for near a fortnight. No one would ever suspect he was poisoned."

"I'd rather he'd die quickly," said Tytus.

"There are poisons for that as well, though such a death would be more suspicious."

"How do you know so much about these poisons?" Cristomir asked him.

"My mother was an herbalist. She taught me about all manner of flowers and herbs that were fatal to man. Our best bet for a quick death would be to use the berries from a nightfire flower."

Cristomir knew of the purple flowers that were said to be the bane of creatures of the forest and hungry travelers. They bore berries as sweet as honey, but were as fatal as snake venom. "How quickly could you get these nightfire berries?"

Henry thought about that for a moment. "Nightfire grows fine enough in Jorden. I'm sure I could find some just south of the Emerald Groves. It'd take me maybe five days to collect it and return."

"Lucky for you friend, time is on our side."

Henry didn't seem to agree. "Actually...I've other news for you."

Tytus didn't like the sound of that. "What news?"

"The prince is to take a princess."

Cristomir scrunched up his face. "When? Who?"

"Lady Adelyn Granmund. I heard him conversing with Lord Byron in his quarters during my patrol last night. I didn't linger long, but I heard them say the marriage was to be within the moon."

The same lady who might have once wed my cousin, Cristomir thought. How the times have changed...

"We must dispose of him before then. I would not wish for the regency to fall into the hands of Lady Adelyn. She's hardly a woman," said Tytus.

"A woman could rule just as fine as a man could," said Henry. "Something I'm sure the Valdorians aren't unfamiliar with."

"The key word there was hardly, guardsman."

Henry grew a slight shade of red. "I see your point. Forgive me. But I thought perhaps we'd not poison him before or after his wedding, but maybe during."

Cristomir recoiled at the notion. "What kind of man poisons someone at their wedding?"

"The kind of man who seeks justice."

"There is no honor in it...in any of this," said Cristomir.

"But there is wisdom in it. There will be hundreds at the ceremony. If he fell sick that very night, he wouldn't be able to consummate the marriage, and no one would have the slightest clue as to who soiled his wine. With all the lords and ladies there, they'd never imagine a guardsman and two rangers were behind it. They'd likely point the finger at Lord Byron himself, wanting to control the throne through his daughter."

There is wisdom in this, Cristomir could see. "I suppose you're right, Sir Braxton. How soon can you leave to obtain these nightfire berries?"

Henry looked back to the docks of Red Water Bay. "As soon as you get me off this boat."