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"Devon and Damien"Chapter 6: Act 1
Down the hallways of the Old Shoe Inn, amid the sounds of quarreling couples, clanging pots and pans, and the faint melody of pan flute, the rattling noise of Reklaw’s armor was unmistakable. Garamont was a peaceful city, inhabited mainly by seasonal foreigners with no interest in personal conflict – it wasn’t good for business. Military conflict, however, was another matter entirely. Dead babies, bloody fields and damned souls were the lifeblood of the Garamontian vendor. Some stopped and turned, wheeling on their callous feet, soiled bags of gold in hand, to take notice of the mercenary. Reklaw was not simply an oddity – he was an investor in this city’s debauchery. To the layman, war was a glamorous sport, the stage of great heroes. For the spectator, war brought the prospect of change, the promise of wealth and the pursuit of power. For the actual combatants, there is no glamour. A soldier is a great sword, wielded by hands that have never been stained with the blood of an enemy. Damien Reklaw once knew this feeling, for he had lived on both sides of this plain – gambling the lives of men he would never know, and dealing death to good men. “This is it,” the innkeeper groaned, coughing and waving a flask of spirits towards a now open door. “Don’t break anything,” he said, eyeing Reklaw, whom did not acknowledge the comment. Devon was the last to enter, watching his host stumble down the hallway and descend down a small, worn flight. “Have you been here before?” “No,” Reklaw replied, tossing a long bag onto the floor, which was long and heavy enough to hold several weapons, possibly another set of light armor. The room was decaying, shards of wood littering the floor, the beds nothing more than dozens of cloths piled onto the floor. Devon had resided here before, but on the eastern wing of the building. The accommodations there were far from stately, but were certainly presentable. “Then surely we have both been blessed until now.” Reklaw unfastened the belts on his satchel, carefully placing the broadsword he had been carrying on his back inside. The action was almost ritualistic. “You know,” Devon began, “something struck me as peculiar about something you told me during our first night at Everson’s mansion.” “You’re seemingly always brimming with inquisitive leanings. What is it this time?” “You said that night you were changing weapons because you expected armored opponents. I ignored it before, but a broadsword is hardly the weapon of choice against an armored opponent.” “How perceptive. However,” Reklaw groaned, laying down on his pile of rags, “it depends on the sword.” “True,” Devon nodded, “but I think there’s something more.” Reklaw groaned and sat up. “If it will silence you for the night, I suppose it’s fine to tell you something so minor, but… the armor I changed into, and the sword I now wear are analogous to certain people. I wear a certain garb or wield a certain weapon to attract the attention of, or avert the hostility of otherwise potential meddlers.” “And who-” “Men who may not like our presence otherwise, Devon. Let’s keep our revelations of secret cadres to one a week from now on, shall we?” Devon forced a laugh, rubbing a hand through his messed hair, beginning to eye his so-called bed with contempt. Reklaw seemed content to wallow in the filth, its contents dubious, its origins unknown. Thoughts of what other minor horrors may lie waiting for the pair coursed through Devon’s mind. “I have to say, Reklaw…” Devon said, waiting for Reklaw to interrupt. “I consider myself an intelligent man, if I may say so, possibly a little rough at times. These past days’ exercises, however, have left me feeling… out of practice, one might say; feeling very uninformed.” “Some are not so lucky, blacksmith,” Reklaw replied, his eyes now closed. “Lucky?” Devon replied, spreading the soiled rags before him. “Knowledge, I will always maintain, is overrated as a means of assuming intellect.” Devon chuckled slightly, almost forcefully out of what he felt might be a reaction. “No matter how much knowledge you possess, you will never possess the entirety of knowledge. Neither can you invest in what knowledge is held in the hearts and minds of men. If a knowledgeable man is hurled upon an unknown land, his vast knowledge is useless. True intellect, perceptive reasoning, the ability to see through a man’s words and into his mind… these are the true measure of genius. While you have vastly noted your own ignorance, you have still displayed a manner of brilliance in adapting nonetheless.” Devon felt complimented yet strangely offended at the same time. It was a sensation he was beginning to expect when having any manner of discussion with Reklaw. “So,” Devon wondered aloud, “which would you say you are?” Reklaw sighed, pulling his stained covers over his head. “I’ll let you decide.”
Atop a balcony, across an enclosed courtyard, Prince Jerrod stared down, across the way at his intended. She sat, solemn, amidst a gathering of doves, occasionally tossing down a handful of seed. “It pains me to see her this way, Master Faddon,” he said, turning towards Devon’s old friend. “She does not deserve this pain.” “Few do, young sir,” Faddon replied, stroking his beard. “Why do you not attend her?” he asked, probingly. “To be honest, because she won’t let me. Or rather, I know she would ignore me. It may be solely the result of our forced marriage, but it is rather obvious how she denies me. Our union shall be in name alone.” “Even if she was to abjure, it is your duty as her intended to comfort despite.” Jerrod sat upon the edge of the balcony, glancing back down to his future wife. “Joanna… She still loves that man.” Faddon did not respond; he knew the obvious truth just the same. “It was the first time seeing him, at the banquet that is. For the longest time, it was as though he did not exist, like he was a phantom. He has haunted these halls for as long as I have walked them.” The Prince ran his palm across his face, groaning. “Five years… five since she had last been involved with him. Nay, five years since she had last seen the man. Love is a device of the soul, Faddon. It must surely diminish after such a time.” “Not if that love is true.” Faddon shook his head. “How I forget. Sir, I must ask you…” “Yes, Master Faddon? We have scarcely known one another for but a few days, but indeed, any friend of the king, I shall help utmost.” “Thank you, lad. My business with you is the force rumored to come to Holden Downs from beyond the Golden Sea.” “I too have heard that rumor. It seems, oddly, to have spread from the East. I would have expected, if I may say, your leave earlier.” “I am prepared, yet I tarry to ask you… to ask you if you know of any link between this faction and the force rumored to be amassing near Boria.” “The war that may be brewing in my home kingdom is of little consequence to me. I will be honest with you – I question my father’s choices in matter of state. He is a good man, I think, but... arrogant, perhaps simply overconfident.” Faddon recoiled slightly. “Hardly a reason to abandon your-” “No,” Jerrod interjected, “No. It is not. I mean, simply, is that I consider this land a sort of fostering. My home concerns me, but my father is too full of pride to deny himself. I am unsure how to approach him, so here I abide. “To answer your question, sir: it is rumored that this potential invading force is of one of the many foreign unnationalized tribes beyond the Great Sea. As you know, the nations beyond the expanse are scarcely involved in our own little world, here in the Southlands. However, they have, since their induction, pushed into the barbarian territories. It is assumed these tribes have begun to flee across the Sea to our land, either out of desperation, or of overconfidence in their ability against our less technological world.” “Unknown tribes,” Faddon muttered. “I would describe them less as barbarians and more as wastrels. Their land has been raped by nations that have no claim. They believe their union under a state gives them some authority. These Northlanders are an arrogant lot.” “I may agree, if I knew more. Few do, however.” Jerrod averted his eyes back to Joanna, who had vanished during their conversation. “Jerrod, it is rumored that the invading force of Holden Downs is, as well, a foreign, unrecognized tribe. They are dark-skinned men, red-haired and blue-eyed, clad in loose olden wear; men born of another time.” Jerrod nodded in thought, his stare still directed to where Joanna had once sat. “I sought to be prepared before I left, sir. I shall, if you wish, send word to you as I learn more, if indeed we share the same foe.” “Yes, if you will, sir,” Jerrod said solemnly, unmoving. “Devon… Devon Tristam and another man, some old dog merc, are in the field searching for information about the assassination, along with Hessean guardsmen.” “The mercenary I know of – a funding towards such a service was recorded in report earlier in the week. His identity, however, or incentives were not recorded, merely a single sentence of obligatory jargon. The King must wish his involvement downplayed. However… Tristam is not mentioned in the official papers. How…?” Faddon sighed uncomfortably. “Honestly… the young princess requested his services, off the record. He does not work towards a financial gain.” Jerrod raked a closed fist across the balcony stone. “Think of him what your will allows, young master, but no better man there may be to discover the secrets of our enemies, in this or any other kingdom.” “Of that,” Jerrod sighed, “I am certain. It’s why she loves him.” “You still have much to learn, young Prince.” “I admit that. Despite, you must know that… I have grown to love her as well.” Devon’s old Second mumbled in concern, bowing slightly as he turned, already late in departing for home. Jerrod continued to stare down at the empty bench, the doves Joanna had once attended now absent as well. “Damn that man.”
“Father Hugh?” “My daughter!” The old man arose from one of the many benches in his chapel, hands outstretched, stumbling towards the door. “Calista… oh dear Calista.” The young woman, the widow of the late son of the King, Prince Nathan, choked on her own words as she spoke. “Father, I’ve… come to beg forgiveness.” “Oh, child,” Father Hugh chided, “what have you to be forgiven? Whatever it is, I will listen; but you do not need me if it is sin you wish-” “I-I know, Father Hugh, I know. I just want you to listen.” Father Hugh nodded, sitting with what undoubtedly was the latest member of his flock to seek counsel after the tragic death of one of the kingdom’s most-loved. “I just have to tell someone. The pain is unbearable.” “Go on,” he nodded. “It’s about my husband. I knew, or I felt, something would happen that night. I can’t help but feel responsible.” “No, no! Don’t say such things, Calista! I’m sure you’re just imagining things. Hindsight is a funny thing. We tend to orchestrate our memories into something they’re not. You may think you could have prevented this, but…” “It’s not like, Father. It wasn’t a feeling; it was prior knowledge. I was told he… well, I was told by another to… I can’t say much, Father, but I should have seen it coming, I should have…!” Father Hugh sighed, having grown weary over the years, feeling increasingly unable to guide his own fellow church members. “Just tell me what happened, dear.” “I have… other obligations aside from that of a Prince’s wife, Father. In these, I was told to inform another of the imminent death of… someone important. I was not told whom, but I was scared, I denied my senses.” “Calista, I don’t understand.” “Father!” she began to sob, “ I hired him! I hired the man that killed my husband!” |
