Lyndon Thornshield

The Streets of Elderstone, Jorden

    LYNDON HATED THE FEELING of having a knife in his back. He told Canton he would come willingly to wherever it was they were taking him, and yet, the disgraced Lord insisted on having two of his thugs escort Lyndon with firm hands on his shoulders, and sharp knives prodding his back. What did they expect him to do anyway? He wasn't a warrior, he didn't carry a sword, Blast it all, he paid men to do that for him. Regardless, Canton wouldn't listen.

    They left the church some minutes ago and were certainly taking the scenic route to wherever it was Canton was taking him. They avoided all the main roads and opted for the backroads and alleyways of Elderstone, passageways forged by the shadows of tall looming stone buildings. A traversal network more suited for the slimy underbelly of an otherwise upstanding society; for thieves, cutthroats, and common thugs.

    The irony was not lost on Lyndon.

    They rounded a corner, and were now traveling up a cracked and seldom traveled staircase. The only people there were beggars and drug-riddled lowlifes, hiding in the shadows, far away from the eyes of the people. Some of them had a green tint to their fingertips, a sign that Jade was racing through their bloodstream, a most welcome but toxic visitor. So these are my clients? Lyndon thought. His stomach felt upset suddenly, and he turned away from looking at the disheveled cretins high on the drugs he helped peddle.

    "Where are you taking me, Canton?" Lyndon asked curtly.

    Canton snorted. "We're almost there, don't get your knickers in a twist."

    Lyndon sighed. He supposed that was the only answer he would get. He was certain it was somewhere quiet and dirty, where his screams wouldn't be heard and his body wouldn't be found. A derelict warehouse, a rotting basement, a lonely and secluded dock, all places where low-lives gather and conduct business. But then again, he supposed he was one of those low-lives, only he dressed far better for the occasions.

    Finally, the staircase ended, and they were moving down yet another road. Only this time, Lyndon started to realize they were going up, not down. That was puzzling. Usually, the further up you went a city, the more noble and wealthy it's citizens. The lower parts of the city were where the commoners, peasants, and criminals made their homes. Where was Canton taking him?

    They made a left, and were moving up yet another stairwell, cramped and hidden between two tall stone buildings with slanted wooden rooftops. Lyndon's legs were starting to burn and ache, and a thin sheen of sweat formed on his forehead. If all of this ends with me dead, why can't they just kill me now? At the end of this stairwell was a gate that led into the back entrance of some establishment. Perhaps this was where Hardgroves, Brock, and Doyle met when they discussed business? Which streets to peddle one, which sections of the city to push the Jade through? Lyndon came to realize how little he knew of their operations in Jorden. All he did was provide the Jade itself. They asked him over and over again, but he never revealed where it came from. Why would he give up his only leverage? That was the only sure method he had of preventing a knife in his heart while he slept. Well, that and the pseudonym of "Alister Boulson". He knew it was risky, coming here and gallivanting about, but no one knew what he looked like, and no one knew he was truly Lyndon Thornshield. How did Canton figure it out?

    They were in a dark basement now, filled with barrels and bags of flour. There were racks of bottles of vinegar, sacks of potatoes, and cloves of garlic hanging from the ceiling. Are we in someone's pantry? He was allergic to shellfish, maybe they meant to force lobsters down his throat and leave him in the gutters, red, puffy, and covered in hives. Canton led them up a wooden staircase, opened a hatch, and daylight rushed in to disperse the darkness. They were in a kitchen now, as evident by the scents of the culinary arts. A couple of kitchen maids and chefs looked at them dumbfounded, but went back to slicing and dicing their vegetables and roasting their meats. They kept moving, and were now in some hallway, a very wealthy hallway. The polished stone floors were lined with a thick red carpet, gold embroidery running along the edges and meeting occasionally in the middle to form some beautiful design. There were gold and crimson tapestries depicting lions, fierce and proud, roaring mightily. Exotic and lush plants lined the walls, and there were fully armed Guardsmen patrolling about. Are we in the royal keep? Lyndon thought, bewildered.

    Finally, they came to a door, two guardsmen posted outside. The door was smooth, paneled, and the color of chocolate. Chiseled into the door were patterns and scenes depicting what Lyndon assumed were kings in moments of glory. They each looked triumphant and fierce, like the Freemanes of myth. There was a panel missing, however, at the bottom, suggesting the door was incomplete, awaiting another glorious scene to join the others. One of the guardsmen came forward. "State your business with the Prince," the guard said, his voice deep and stoic.

    Lyndon's jaw nearly dropped. The Prince? What? Why are we here?

    "He's expecting us. Lord Perrelister and Lord Thornshield," Canton replied.

    The guard nodded. "Yes, he was wondering where you were. You may enter. Your friends, however," the guard said, pointing at the two goons with their knives pressed up against Lyndon's back, "have to wait outside."

    Canton smiled respectfully. "Of course. Thank you, my good guardsmen."

    The guardsmen opened the door, and Canton strode through, and Lyndon reluctantly followed.

*****

    The room was beautiful, so much so that Lyndon was almost thankful Canton brought him here. The walls were painted a pewter grey, the moldings above and below the color of gold, inlaid with beautiful complex carvings. There was a window to the right, and it took up almost the whole wall, displayed between two thick maroon drapes. Bookcases of leather-bound books lined the walls, their golden pages forming together to create a dull, but shiny mirror.

    At the center of the room was a desk, the legs carved to look like paws at the bottom, and lion heads at the top. There was a man sitting at the desk, wearing crimson and golden royal garments. He shoulder-length black hair, a thin goatee, a sly smile, and a thin band of gold that wrapped around his head. Sitting to his right was an older man, wrinkly and grey, wearing the white and red robes that marked him as a man of the faith and clergy. He had a tall white hat, centered with a small gold ornament, and Lyndon recognized him to be a bishop, a leader of the church. By the door was another guardsmen, ever vigilant with empty dark eyes, like shards of obsidian. He stood in full armor, helm and all, still as a statue and silent as a breathless evening.

    The prince stood up as they entered, and held out his hands welcomingly. "So nice of you to join me, gentlemen," he said with a pleasant voice. "I've been looking forward to this meeting for some time. Please," he gestured to two chairs at the desk opposite of where he sat. "Have a seat."

    Canton nodded to Lyndon, and they both sat down. Canton shuffled around a bit as he tried to get comfortable. Lyndon didn't blame him. He was incredibly uncomfortable as well.

    "Thank you, Prince Aldrien," Canton said with a bowed head and the utmost formality. "We are humbled to be in your presence." Canton shot Lyndon a look, and raised his eyebrows, gesturing for him to do the same.

Lyndon bowed his head as well. "Yes, it is a pleasure, your Grace."

Aldrien smiled and waved away the compliments. "Please, I am not the king, only the Regent, until my nephew comes of age, though that will be some time from now." His cold blue eyes met Lyndon's. "You are Lord Lyndon of House Thornshield, I presume?"

Lyndon nodded. "Yes, your grace. Son of Lionel and Bethany, and the Royal Treasurer for the Arnish Court."

Adrien nodded, pleased. "Excellent, thank you for agreeing to see me. I know you're a busy man, with all that gold to count and those marriages to attend. A shame Lord Gallador could not be there to see his little girl get married. I remember when young Jenabelle and my nephew, August, used to play together in the gardens when they were children...until August passed, of course."

The Prince seemed to sense himself rambling on, and shook his head, as if to rid himself of thoughts about a time long past and irrelevant. "But I digress." He suddenly remembered the Bishop sitting next to him. "Forgive me, where are my manners! This," he said, gesturing to the old man in the white robes, "is Bishop Virgil of House Brondsen. He's a dear friend, a wise mentor, and a devout follower of Ellmen."

Bishop Virgil sat reclined in his chair, sporting a lazy smile and sleepy eyes. "Gentlemen," he said with a gentle tilt of the head.

Aldrien turned in his chair and gestured to the back wall, where a table full of various alcoholic beverages resided. "Lord Perrelister, can I offer you a drink? A thank you for your services?"

Canton politely declined the offer. "No thank you, your Grace."

Aldrien suddenly frowned and creased his brow. "Are you sure, Canton? You look rather thirsty."

Canton shook his head and broke out in an uneasy smile. "I'm fine, my Prince, truly."

Aldrien turned his frown into a grin and shrugged.  "Suppose it is a little bit early, so fair enough. That's a shame though, I was hoping to do this rather civilly. A drink would have been much easier and far less messy." He looked to the guard standing at the door. "If you wouldn't mind, Sir Skalbeck."

Aldrien looked down at some papers on his desk as Sir Skalbeck went to stand behind Canton. The disheveled Lord turned quickly in his seat to see the guard coming towards him, steel sabatons clanking against the stone floor, a dagger flashing in his hand.

Panic filled Canton's eyes. "No, no, what are you- this wasn't part of the-" Sir Skalbeck grabbed a tuft of Canton's hair, yanked his head backward, and plunged the blade into the man's throat. Canton writhed and wriggled in his chair, spurting blood from his lips and neck, grasping and clawing at nothing, only disturbing the thoughtless and indifferent air above. Finally, his body went limp, and his corpse slumped out of the chair and crumpled onto the ground.

Lyndon felt the sudden urge to retch. He had seen men die, he had ordered men to die, but this was different. He was usually the one in control, he was the one that had the protection of some of Arnland's finest swordsmen. He found himself suddenly desperately wishing Owyn was there. Lyndon was able to keep his bile down, but that did little to quell his trembling fingers or untie the knots in his stomach.

"Sorry about that," Aldrien said, his gaze still cast on the documents on the table. He and the Bishop both just sat there in nonchalance, as if this were a normal everyday occurrence for the two. Lyndon's heart sank in his chest as he realized it probably was. "But certain measures must be taken when it comes to the confidentiality of cleaning up a Kingdom. And to be honest, I never really enjoyed his company." Aldrien looked up from the papers and leaned back in his chair. "Besides, he's outlived his usefulness. Why settle for a pail of milk when I have the cow itself?"

Lyndon wasn't sure if that were a compliment or a threat. He also had never thought of himself as a cow either.

Aldrien looked down at Canton with a loathsome gaze. "There's also no use in crying over spilt milk, so I'm certain no one will ever hear another word of Lord Perrelister, yes?" He looked to Lyndon as if he were waiting for Lyndon to say something.

Lyndon realized he probably was. "Yes, of course...of course. Not a word."

Aldrien smiled. "Excellent. Now," he slid the papers over to Lyndon for him to view, "these are your other associates that we have found so far; Lords Brennon Hardgroves, Jasper Doyle, and Nathaniel Brock. I don't know if you've heard, but Lord Hardgroves was executed last moon, Lord Doyle is to be hung in a few short weeks, and Lord Brock has come down with a horrible fever. My physicians tell me he is likely to die soon. They are all lesser Lords, one's who will not be missed, and I must say, that was very clever on your part, Lord Thornshield. Men of the sort will do anything for power."

Lyndon's face was of stone. Aldrien was not the first man of power to try and intimidate him with death or other horrible fates. It was important to not give anything away, to remain unreadable, and to let your interrogator try and figure you out. They might say or do something they later come to regret, and Lyndon would be sure to use that against them.

"Anyway," Aldrien went on, "you're probably wondering where I'm going with this, I imagine." He waited for Lyndon to respond, but the Young Thorn said nothing.

"Well, Lord Thornshield, your other friend here," he gestured to Canton's corpse, "was the only one of them who spoke, the only one to drop names, places, and information. You can thank him for sitting where you are right now."

Yes, thank you Canton, you fucking idiot, Lyndon silently fumed.

"We heard so much about 'Alister Boulson', my brother and I. A Lord from Arnland, the supplier of the Jade, the one who we really wanted. It was one of Joras' biggest tasks as king; to dismantle the Jade network that plagued Elderstone. So many of our citizens, sick with green fingers, dying in the streets. It was horrible...or well, at least Joras thought it was. I for one never truly found it to be a bother. There were fewer beggars for us to worry about with them dropping like flies because of Jade. I suppose I ought to thank you for that."

"You're welcome," Lyndon said dryly.

Aldrien smirked. "I'm not my brother, Lord Thornshield. Joras never had the heart to rule. An iron fist and a steady hand were what Jorden needed, to guide and steer it as we sailed into a new millennium. And rather than focusing on expanding our borders or strengthening our militaries, Joras worried more about those afflicted with Jade.

"He spent his time among the commoners rather than the Lords of our Kingdom, tending to each and every one of their trivial needs. He was a man who sought peace, and I admire him for it. However, my brother failed to realize that peace can only be maintained through strength. He was much like our father in that respect. It's the same reason they're both dead, and before their times. In Joras' final days, all he talked about was Elven Restoration. I soon began to believe that he was mad."

"Mad beyond help, my Prince," the Bishop chimed in.

"Indeed, good Bishop," Aldrien said.

"Why am I here, Prince Aldrien?" Lyndon said before the Regent could continue again. Lyndon cared little for Jordein politics, and he knew his life was no longer in danger. If it was, Aldrien wouldn't have gone on as he did, and he surely would have had him killed already.

Aldrien smiled, seemingly unfazed. "A man straight to the point. Very well. I imagine you're curious as to what I want from you, aren't you Lord Thornshield?"

Lyndon nodded. "Yes. Quite."

"Trust me, Lord Thornshield, I don't plan on asking for a Kingdom or mounds of gold, I have plenty of my own. What I want from you is simple. I want a favor."

A hook appeared in Lyndon's brow. "What kind of favor?"

The Prince shrugged. "Just a favor. Nothing more to it. There might come a day that I could be in great use of a favor from a man of your station. The Freemanes and the Thornshields have close ties, I'm sure this isn't lost on you. Gallador and Joras were great friends, and I don't see why we can't pursue a close friendship of our own."

Because their friendship wasn't built on murder and lies, thought Lyndon. Still, he knew exactly what kind of game he had been made an unwillingly player of, and he would play it the best he could. He forced a friendly smile. "If a favor is all you need, I'd be more than happy to help you, Prince Aldrien."

Aldrien seemed delighted at that. "Excellent! I sense a beautiful friendship beginning to bloom, Lord Thornshield."

"As do I, my Prince."

"We ought to drink a toast to this, though I don't find myself in the mood for a sweet red at the moment, given..." he trailed off as he gestured to Canton's corpse, slumped and lifeless on the ground in a pool of his blood.

"I couldn't agree more, your Regency. Perhaps a handshake could suffice? There will be plenty of times to propose a toast later."

Aldrien smiled as he held out his hand. "That there will be my friend, that there will be!"

Lyndon shook Aldrien's awaiting hand. The two men stood, and gave each other a courteous bow. "That's all I have for you, Lord Thornshield. You may leave."

Lyndon wasted no time in turning for the door, so eager to leave he almost found himself sprinting out of there.

"Oh, and Lyndon!" Aldrien called after him before the Young Thorn could cross the threshold of the Prince's chambers.

Lyndon turned on his heel uneasily. "Yes?"

"Please do your best to avoid ending up like our friend here," he said, nodding to the dead lord on his floor. "I'd hate to see a beautiful friendship cut down in its infancy."

Lyndon nodded, and turned to leave without a word.

As the Young Thorn's steps trailed down the halls with the soft sounds of leather soles on crimson felt, Aldrien stood from his desk and went to the door, close to Sir Skalbeck's ear. "Ensure he is constantly followed. He'll make an effort to leave as soon as he can. When he does...you know what to do."

Sir Skalbeck gave him a grim nod. "Of course, your Regency. Your will shall be done."

Aldrien smiled wickedly. Let's see what happens to a Rose when you strip them of their thorns...

*****

    It was Owyn who first spotted Lyndon when he approached the gates of Thornshield Manor. The gates swung open at Owyn's command, and two of Lyndon's guards rushed out to meet him. Owyn left the ramparts and joined them soon after.

    "Where have you been, my Lord? I had guards patrolling all of Elderstone looking for you," said Owyn.

    "Well they didn't do a good job, did they now," Lyndon said with words laced in sarcasm. "Where did you even have them look?"

    Lyndon saw only the slightest twitch in the Captain's face, gone just as soon as it appeared, and all that was left was his usual mask of professionalism. He was always so good at that, and Lyndon did have much respect for him in that regard. "I had them search all the brothels, taverns, and gambling dens in the nearest proximity of the church."

    "What?" Lyndon snarled. "You'd think that I'd just leave my niece's wedding in the middle of the ceremony to go gamble, whore, and drink?" Lyndon paused after he said that. To be fair, it was an entirely plausible assumption. He fell quiet and sighed. "Forgive me, Sir Bellerdyn...it's been a rather eventful day."

    "I beg your forgiveness as well my Lord. We should have been tighter in our security...but if I may ask, where did you go? What happened?"

    Lyndon waved away the question. "Another time, Owyn. I made either a very troublesome friend or a powerful enemy today, and both warrant me having a drink. Have one of the guardsmen fetch me an Aldergate merlot, please. I believe I saw one in the cellar the other day." Normally, Lyndon would fetch his own wine, as there wasn't a single one of his guardsmen or serving staff that knew wine as well as the Young Thorn, but the idea of being in another cellar today was not one he wished to entertain, even with the promise of wine.

    Lyndon sulked across the estate grounds into the manor itself. Neither the bride nor groom were home yet, likely still at the ceremony reception there. It was a shame he was missing it, Lyndon was supposed to give a toast and read a prayer for the groom and have a final dance with Jenna before giving her away to Cristomir. How could he do that with the image of Canton crumpled up dead burned into his mind?

    Owyn and another guardsman approached from behind, carrying a glass bottle of dark liquid. Lyndon took it, read the label, and sighed. It was a cabernet, not a merlot, and once again a reminder for Lyndon that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. But he'd drink it, for now. The wrong type of wine was better than no wine.

    "Is there anything else you need, Lord Thornshield?" Owyn asked politely.

    Lyndon nodded. "Yes, actually. Have everything packed and ready to go. We're leaving Jorden tomorrow."

    Owyn frowned. "I thought we weren't supposed to leave for another week."

    "Change of plans, Owyn."

    "Lady Jenna surely won't be pleased."

    "She'll have to live with it."

    "My Lord, are you sure that-"

    "Damn it Owyn, enough!" Lyndon yelled so loudly, he nearly strained his voice. Every one of the servants bustling about the manor stopped, eyes directed warily toward the confrontation between the two Arnish men. They slowly went back about their business as Lyndon shot them all a look.

    Lyndon dismissed them and turned his head back to Owyn. Too frequently, the Captain spoke to Lyndon far above his station. He would have to remedy that. "Have everything in order by tomorrow morning. We are leaving Jorden. That is final."

    Owyn bowed. "Yes my lord." Without another word or glance, the captain turned on his heel and left, his pace just short of storming off.

    Lyndon sighed, and turned to walk up the stairs to where Jenna had a room made for him. He hadn't stayed here once during his visit here, and yet Jenna had it properly made for him the entire time. Instead, he opted to stay in the Golden Griffin near every night, tossing away gold, downing liquor, or playing cards, and those were the nights he wasn't torturing Canton or inquiring after his supply of Jade. And now he was here, fingers wrapped around yet another bottle of wine in a room his niece had made for him, when he should be dancing with her at her ceremony. I'm really a piss poor uncle, aren't I?

    "Gods, I fucking hate Jorden," Lyndon said to himself as drowned himself in his wine.