Tytus Baronstone

The Tower of Rorden, Jorden

    THE DUST FLED from his broom like rabbits from a hungry wolf, quick to scatter into the shadows and into safety. Tytus didn't mind sweeping all that much, and it was certainly better than watch duty. To be honest, he somewhat enjoyed it. It was simple, something he never knew he was in desperate need of. Simplicity was as foreign to him as the mead halls of Farrenhelm, and yet, here he was welcoming it like an old friend. Between sweeping and being in the company of dozens of swords and shields, he felt as if he was at a reunion of some sort. Countless of his friends here to celebrate something with him, to drink and toast to his newfound companionship with simplicity. He would dance with swords, flirt with the shields, and maybe he'd even buy that double bladed axe a drink.

    Tytus stopped sweeping at the notion, and shook his head. Gods, what am I even thinking of right now? Buying an axe a drink? Am I this bored?

    He sighed, and went back to scrubbing the floor of dust and grime with his bristly utensil. Cristomir had been kind enough to post him to this duty, he supposed. At least now he was out of the eyes of the people, and in the company of steel. Even better, he was out of the eyes of those other cocky ranger bastards, rangers he used to command. Just the other day while he was on watch, three of them approached him, stinking of ale and sex, and looking for some sort of altercation. He knew them as well, all lordly sons of Jordein nobles, entitled to their positions and demanding of respect. Men of the sort tended to make shitty rangers, Tytus had come to learn time and time again.

    "Look at this lads, the bloody Black Baron, posted on watch duty like some fucking mangy mutt!" he remembered one of them guffawing. It was Ranger First Class Hollis Garryn, the youngest son of Lord Cornelius Garryn, some Jordein noble Tytus knew little of. All Tytus did know of the man was that he had gold, and lots more of it than he had, and that was all anyone needed to know about the two men. Tytus wondered what it would have been like to have grown up surrounded by servants and nobility, with more gold in our pockets than there were treats to buy. To have everything handed to you, while others out there struggled to merely eat. Tytus had half a mind to ask Hollis Garryn that very question, but he had made enough enemies among the Jordein nobility, and he didn't need any more.

    At least, that's what he thought, until he was standing over the three cocky rangers as they laid on the ground, bruised, bloody and broken. He didn't even remember the fight. He remembered them taunting him, shoving, and spitting their spoiled rotten saliva in his face. The spitting is what got to him, he was sure of it. There was a sudden flash of red, a mere moment of a crimson haze, and after it passed, there he was standing over them, other rangers and concerned citizens lingering around the scene as if they'd just witnessed a murder. He hadn't killed them, praise the Gods, but he was damn near close. Whatever stopped him was just as powerful as whatever rage took over him. It frightened him sometimes, his temper. His ability to lose all control, to fly off the handle without a single recollection of how he came to. He was lucky Cristomir was there and whisked him away before anyone else could identify him. Well, anyone of importance, at least.

Cornelius Garryn stormed the tower the next day accompanied by ten of his household guard, demanding the man responsible for beating his son into a pulp, but Cristomir refused him any answers, and said the matter was a matter concerning rangers, and no one else.

"A proper investigation is ongoing, Lord Garryn, and I assure you, when we find who is responsible, we will ensure he is disciplined accordingly," Cristomir told the seething lord.

"You bloody better," said Lord Garryn, "or I'll have the Royal Squadron tear this Tower down brick by brick!"

Tytus doubted Cornelius Garryn had that much influence, but still, even the lowest of lords can muster enough friends and plenty of coin to see their threats through. What he did not doubt, however, was Cristomir. Stalwart and unmoving in the face of a scorned nobleman, the young commander did little to show any sign of intimidation or fear. 

He is turning into a fine leader...a better one than I could have ever been.

Tytus was sure that had he been the one to suffer the wrath of Lord Cornelius Garryn, he would have been standing over yet another near lifeless nobleman, broken and beaten down without any memory of how that came to happen. He stopped sweeping suddenly, and rested his hands and head on the end of the broomstick. He let out a sigh, and felt his anger bubbling inside him once more, like water near boiling over the brim of an iron cauldron. He didn't know why he was angry yet again, he had no reason to be. There was no one around who had recently wronged him.

In fact, there was no one around at all. Maybe that was the problem. Who did he have here in Jorden? Or in the world, for that matter? There was his brother Jaymis, but he spent more time with his ship than he did with anything else. No woman or person could ever come between Jaymis and the Wrath of Nadja. Tytus supposed he understood. Sailing ships was not nearly as complicated as trying to understand women. They were all so complex and mysterious, and seldom told you what they want or desired. It was a guessing game, and Tytus hated guessing. Sometimes no really meant yes, and sometimes, it really did mean no, and the whole ordeal would turn his brain into mush. Tytus couldn't think of one woman he had any sort of understanding of, not one that made sense to him.

Well, except for whores, they made sense to him. He was quite fond of them in his youth. Pay them, bed them, and be on your way. There was no guessing involved, and as long as you had the gold, there was no such thing as "no".

Hell, I've known whores who were better women than my own dear mother...

Tytus couldn't even conjure her face anymore. How old had he been when she left them? He knew he had less than ten years to him at the time, and that was all he was sure of. He hadn't found it in him to forgive her, and he doubted he ever would. Why didn't she take me with her? Would I have ever known the pits of the Arena, would I ever have become the Black Baron? Would I have come to don this mantle, and wage wars in the name of a land that wasn't even my own? And would I have come to know the Kingdom of Valadel, and the troubles the elves have come to bring upon us?

    His grip tightened around the broom handle, and he felt his fingernails embed themselves in the wooden shaft. Suddenly, he picked up the broom with both hands and slammed the cleaning utensil over his knee, snapping it in two, and hurled the broken pieces over into the corners of the armory. He didn't know if he wanted to scream, shout, laugh, cry or run a sword through his gut. The world never made much sense to him as it was, but now it
seemed to lack any sort of cosmic logic or universal principles. The rules he had played by his whole life, broken and bent at a whim for reasons he was sure he could never come to understand. Days like these made him yearn for the days of the Black Baron. At least there was some sense to being a gladiator.

There certainly isn't to being a ranger nowadays...

    "I take it you're not fond of sweeping?" said a voice from the entrance of the armory.

    Tytus snapped to meet whoever it was there. As luck would have it, it was Cristomir, donned in his dress uniform with that red mantle hanging from his shoulders. He had a sad smile, as if he meant to comfort Tytus. The smile had the opposite effect.

    "Sir Stormwell," said Tytus slowly. "How are you, sir?"

    Cristomir sofly chuckled. "Better than that broom, I must admit, though I feel I might snap in two myself certain days." Cristomir gazed over to the corner of the room where the broken broom made its final resting place. "I imagine that broom was looking for a fight, wasn't it?"

    Tytus couldn't help but laugh, and quite heartily too. It was a sputtle at first, but it sooned turned into a hysterical laughing fit, and Tytus felt the anger slowly retreat to whence it came.

Cristomir joined him center in the armory and clapped him on the shoulder. "I hate to see you like this, Tytus. Sweeping the armory is no such place for a warrior like you. I...I had no choice, Lord Garryn wanted your head when Hollis spoke your name. I'll see to it that Hollis and the other two rangers that provoked you are punished, but I have to keep you out of sight for the time being."

"Has Braxton returned yet?" Tytus asked quite impatiently. He wished not to spare another thought to Hollis, Cornelius, or any other spoiled lordly prick. Cristomir had apologized enough on their behalf, and Tytus would hear no more of it.

Cristomir didn't seem fazed by the sudden inquiry. "Yes, he returned this morning. I spoke with him, and he has the berries, enough to poison the whole feast if we wanted to."

"It's just the prince we're after, though I could stand to see a few of those rich assholes choke on their wine as well..."

Cristomir nodded at the grim remark uneasily, and was quick to avoid an awkward silence. "We should meet with him as soon as possible. The coronation feast will be here sooner than we realize, and we must ensure everything is in order. We cannot afford even the smallest of mistakes."

Tytus nodded. There is no room for error when one desires to kill a king. "Let's meet with him after your wedding. You should enjoy this time with your lady while you have it. Once she's gone, we'll have plenty of time to shape this plot of ours."

Cristomir nodded. "We are to marry next week. It's strange, isn't it? It seemed our marriage was always this fairytale, something we dreamed up, and now it's almost here."

"I can't think of anyone more deserving. You'll make a fine husband and father, my friend."

Cristomir smiled, heartily. "I do hope so. Jenna deserves nothing less."

"How has it been with her uncle in town? Lawrence, was it?"

"Lyndon," Cristomir corrected him. "He's been kind enough, I suppose. I haven't had much time to talk to the man. He's hardly ever at the manor with Jenna. He's been staying at a fancy tavern in the noble quarter, oddly enough. Can't say I blame him though, with money like that, I'd buy the tavern if I were him."

"Not with a rangers pay," Tytus chuckled. "You're lucky to even afford one drink at a nobleman's tavern. I've heard they serve the strangest food at places like that."

Cristomir laughed. "If it's strange to a Valdorian, I shudder at the thought. I bet they serve griffin steaks and manticores a la mode."

    "Maybe that's where all the beasts of myth have gone. The nobles have them locked up for fine dining," Tytus chortled. It did him well to laugh. Cristomir joined him in his laughter, and his smile grew genuine. Tytus hadn't seen a smile like that from the warrior in ages, and he supposed the young ranger commander needed that laugh as much as he did. Their laughter subsided, and Cristomir gave him a pat on the shoulder.

    "I hate to leave my friend, but I have a meeting with the Commander's Circle at the end of the hour. Feel free to head home, I'm sure I can find someone else to finish cleaning the armory."

    Tytus shook his head. "I'd rather be here than at my quarters. At least here, I have the charming company of the blades. Besides, I could use the distraction."

    Cristomir nodded understandingly. "Well, in that case, have fun sweeping Sir Baronstone. If you ever tire of sweeping the tower, I know your services would be much appreciated at the manor."

    Tytus punched his shoulder jokingly. "Piss off, I'd rather empty the prince's chamberpot than clean up after you. Off with you, Sir Stormwell, I've work to do."

Cristomir smiled, gave him a nod, and left for his meeting. Tytus smiled back and shook his head, and went back to sweeping. He couldn't remember the last time he had a conversation with someone, and with someone as funny as Cristomir Stormwell. He supposed he did have at least one friend in this world.

*****

Cristomir willed his nerves to settle as he climbed the spiraling stone staircase that led to the lion's den awaiting him. The Commander's Circle was a place he seldom enjoyed spending his time in and assured him that the company of actual lions would be far more preferred than the company of the men that were waiting on him.

As he came to the last step that led to the heavy wooden door, the two ranger guardsmen there popped to attention and rendered a salute by crossing their arm over their chest. "Sir!" they both exclaimed in unison.

Cristomir waved his hand. "At ease." He took a breath as one of the guardsmen opened the door for him, and he let his feet mindlessly shuffle him into the grand circular room.

The Commander's Circle was no different from any other room in all of the Tower. There were mounted decorative weapons along the walls, banners, and sigils of the Kingdom of Jorden, stuffed lion heads and suits of armor evenly spaced and stalwart as ever. But even more fearsome than the weapons and animals that decorated the chamber were the men that awaited him.

They were sitting at the circular table center of the room, and each of them looked like they'd rather be elsewhere. Not necessarily that they'd rather be in a different place at a different time, but rather that they'd wish they were sitting elsewhere. Where one sat in the circle was indicative of their position. The closer you sat to the commander, the lesser in rank you were. The further you were, the more responsibility you carried, and the more respect you commanded. It was the opposite for many years until Gallador Thornshield came to command the Order, Cristomir learned when he assumed the responsibilities of the Arch Ranger. Apparently, the Old Thorn was tired of craning his neck to speak to his deputy commanders.

As Cristomir came into the room, the guards shouted "Attention!" Most of the men stood, though there were three of them that didn't, as Cristomir noticed. He wasn't surprised, they hadn't stood for him once since Sir Bayer Wilken left to hunt the elves. He knew their names, and they were names that drew equal amounts of loyalty and fear. Perhaps if his name carried the same weight, he might punish them for their disrespect. Maybe it does...

As he came to his chair, he looked at the three men that didn't stand. Sir Eugen Norwood was sitting to his left, his thin face troubled, and his gaze cast upon his hands through his spectacles as he fidgeted with them nervously. Something was eating at him, Cristomir could tell.

Opposite of him sat Sir Matthias Chamberlain, his red hair forked to the front, and his meaty arms were crossed as he stared at Cristomir with an arched eyebrow. He seemed to suggest that he was growing impatient with Cristomir taking his time to render them at ease, but that would keep them at attention longer.

And lastly, just directly opposite of where Cristomir would sit was Sir Jonas Garryn, the younger brother of Lord Cornelius Garryn and the uncle of Ranger First Class Hollis Garryn, the poor ranger that found himself as the victim of the fury of Tytus Baronstone. He was scribbling away at some document and hadn't even looked up to greet Cristomir. It was no wonder he didn't stand for Cristomir, but it would be an equal wonder if Cristomir didn't say anything to the man. Ranger politics, Cristomir sighed.

"Sir Norwood, Sir Chamberlain, and Sir Garryn," Cristomir said with the deepest and mightiest voice he could muster. "Must I remind you of your customs and courtesies?"

Each of the men looked at him for a brief moment, and then each of them stood. That surprised Cristomir somewhat, as he was expecting at least some sort of disrespectful remark or gesture. Once every man in the room was standing, to include the three who weren't at first, Cristomir finally sat down in his chair and rendered them at ease. The men all loosened from their stiff positions of attention and promptly sat.

Cristomir gazed around at them. He had yet to learn all of their names and titles, but he did know that they all had many of them, and they all had them longer than he had been a ranger. They were smug and passive in letting him know as much.

Cristomir wasted no time in starting the meeting, as he desired to be there no longer than he had to. He had important places to be afterward. "Thank you all for your attendance. I see no point in introductions, as I'm sure each of you are well familiar with each other. It is a small Tower, after all." He looked to his left at the balding bull of a man that sat to his left. Shit...what is your name again? "Report...sir."

The man with the thin crop of hair nodded and looked around the circle. "Sergeant Grom reports."

Grom...that's it...

"Good to see you all again," Grom continued after a bow of his head. "This marks the seventh meeting of the second summer moon. Acting Arch Ranger Stormwell presides, and this meeting is now in session."

"Thank you, Sir Grom," said Cristomir half-heartedly. "Before we discuss the usual business, is there anything substantial or urgent to report?"

Sir Norwood's uneasy gaze caught Cristomir's, and he stood from where he sat, his chair scraping across the stone floor as he did so. "Arch Ranger Stormwell, Lieutenant Norwood reports. We have received word from-"

"Shut up and sit down, Eugen," said Sir Garryn. He looked up from his document and eyed Cristomir from across the table. "The Arch Ranger said there would be no time for introductions. We've important matters to discuss."

Eugen looked as embarrassed as a man could get, but said nothing as he returned to his seat. Lord Garryn continued on. "Sir Stormwell, my scout division has received an update from Arch Ranger Bayer regarding their hunt for the elves. It requires immediate action."

Cristomir felt his throat tighten. "And what have we heard, Sir Garryn?"

"Greensfield is gone," he said nonchalantly, as if he simply informed them his pantry was out of bread, and that he would leave for the market in the morrow to purchase more.

Cristomir furrowed his brow as confusion commanded his face, and he was the only one to do so. Every other man there looked as if the news were old to them. "What do you mean gone?"

"The town has been completely frozen over. There are no survivors. Sir Bayer and Sir Vallyrian have surmised it to be the work of the male elf named Valyn."

Cristomir felt as if his stomach was filled with iron, pulling him down into the depths of the world. "I don't understand, how could-"

"What is there to not understand?" Sir Chamberlain chimed in. He leaned forward on the table, on his beefy arms made a loud thud as he did so. "They murdered King Joras, fled north, and now they've frozen an entire town over! Lord Byron Granmund is furious. Greensfield was the seat of his family. Any of his residing relatives are dead. A furious Granmund is a dangerous enemy."

"We must act, Sir Stormwell," said Sir Garryn. "I'm afraid a six-man team, even if they are six of the most skilled men in Jorden, is not enough to bring to justice such dangerous creatures." He looked down at his papers once more, whatever it was scribbled upon them seemed to draw his attention. "They are just men, after all," he said as an afterthought.

Cristomir let out a deep breath and swallowed the ball of nerves that rested at the back of his throat. "What is it you recommend I do then, my fellow rangers?"

Sir Garryn looked up from his papers and scoffed. "We don't recommend you do anything, Sir Stormwell. We've received word from Sir Bayer what it is the Ranger Order is to do. The 5th Ranger regiment is to be mobilized under the command of Sir Mathias Chamberlain, and sent north. They will section off the town of Greensfield and lend support to Sir Wilken in his pursuits of finding the elves. They are no longer to attempt capture. The elves are to be killed on sight."

"What? No, those weren't our orders, the team is to-"

"Orders change, Sir Stormwell," interrupted Sir Garryn. "We cannot risk another town falling victim to their destruction."

Cristomir shook his head. "That can't be what happened, there must be more to it than that. The elves aren't the dangerous creatures they've been made out to be. The 5th regiment is not be mobilized without proper authorization, and I command that-"

"You are not in charge here!" Sir Garryn near shouted. "The Order is not yours to command. You are simply sitting in a seat meant for men far greater than you, boy."

Cristomir's mouth fell open slightly as the words dug into his skin. All the other rangers there looked at him, but none of their gazes were friendly. They all seemed to share the same sentiment. He shook his head. "I am the Sub Ranger of this order, I was trained by Gallador Thornshield himself, and I will not-"

"Do you know what happened to Gallador Thornshield, Sir Stormwell?" Lord Chamberlain cut him off.

"Excuse me?"

Sir Chamberlain met him with a stoic face. "Do you know what happened to Lord Thornshield? Did you read Sir Vallyrian's report?"

Cristomir shook his head. "I would remind you that I was there, Sir Chamberlain." Unconscious for half of it, but there nonetheless.

Sir Chamberlain met him with skeptical eyes. "Then you should know that he was burned alive by an elf named Tyren Levell. Tell me again how dangerous these creatures aren't." He looked to the rest of the men sitting there. "It would be my honor and pleasure to lead the 5th north and bring these creatures to justice."

That sentiment received many nods of approval and gestures of goodwill. Sir Garryn nodded as well. "Thank you, Sir Chamberlain. May Rorden watch over you. If there is no more business to be discussed, this concludes the meeting." No one else had anything to say, and with that, Sir Garryn stood and left. The others followed suit, and Cristomir was left alone at the table, his head in his hands and his thoughts out of control.