Black Hart

To Kill A King

Chapter 2 - Aftermath

Eloi’s head pounded like a Euroz war drum, and the room span as he opened his eyes, sure from the screams that he was in the Nine Hells, as he deserved to be. Tormented souls howled in this dark place, twisted limbs, gaping wounds, but as his eyes quickly adjusted, his keen senses told him that he was not yet dead, but, perhaps worse, in a field hospital.
A human at his side tended to a man with one arm, and Eloi tried to ask him what had happened. Only a rough, hoarse croak came out of his aching throat, and as he raised his hands feebly to it he could feel the bandages there.
The man heard him strain, and turned, saying, "Rest, friend. Even a hero must recover from wounds such as yours!'.
Drained, Eloi lay back and again drifted into unconsciousness.

Aranon lowered his staff, and walked over to the door, locking it. Even in the Royal Palace one could not be too careful, especially with one as unpopular as Emarill would be.
He checked the sobbing woman over, removing some of the smaller splinters of the magical standard she had destroyed. He had cast his spells that day in the DemonWeb during the battle with Lolth, and would need rest and prayer before curing her properly.
Over and over, Emarill asked him for her forgiveness, not saying for what she wanted forgiven. Aranon was unnerved, and uneasy, and he could tell she sensed this, becoming more upset at the distance he kept.
She babbled constantly about the horrors she had seen and done. When he moved away, she watched him intently, as if afraid he would run suddenly away from her. When he got close enough, Emarill would often stop him from tending to her by holding him close and tight, bursting into fits of sobbing from time to time.
Most damage seemed to be emotional - her entire world had been turned upside down. Tough as this woman was as a warrior, the truth Aranon had revealed to her, of her father’s part in killing her mother, had made her snap. Killing her own brother, and partly being the downfall of Iuz at the battle was a substantial burden for anyone. She seemed so vulnerable now, nothing like the fearsome Leader of the DragonKnights he had first encountered in Dorakaa.
But there were larger problems here. As an enemy, there would be many people only too willing to end her suffering for her past crimes, lacking Aranon’s insight and forgiveness. He was even unsure how his friends and companions would react, particularly Thoggin, now the King’s spymaster. He and Aranon had always had a fairly rocky friendship, to understate things mildly. They had fought often, usually with words, but at times they had come to blows. Things had come to a head within the Glacial Rift of the Frost Giant Jarl, where they had duelled, and as the loser, Aranon had been left dead there for over a year.
His mind returned to the present. No, it would be better if she were dead, so that would be the way she would remain. With her DragonKnight mask, there were not many who could recognise her face, but he would have to think out an explanation for who she was. Thoggin was shrewd and cunning, and not much got past the gnome these days.
But where to take her? She needed complete rest, and time to think even more than she needed his healing magic. Then it dawned on him - Count Fimuth’s Palace at Axewood. Just over a day’s ride away it would be ideal, and was untouched the last he heard. Now, to get there unnoticed was his main concern.

As his vision cleared, Akhan was aware of the smell of incense in this dimly lit room. He realised that he was not alone. Vague, confusing memories of the past few days flooded back to him, but he was not sure exactly how long he had been unconscious, or even where he was. There was a dull pain coming from his right eye, and try as he could, he found he could not open it.
"Where am I?" he rasped, his throat dry and painful.
Someone arose from a seat on Akhan’s right, and walked around the bed he was lying on. As he moved into Akhan’s line of sight from his open left eye, he was relieved to see it was Sir Thanoin, out of armour but still oppressive in his oversized frame.
"Try not to speak, my friend,” the giant man said softly. ”You were gravely wounded."
Akhan instinctively reached up to his face. The right eye felt cold, and when he touched it, he
could feel a stiff leather eye patch there.
"My, ...my eye!?" Akhan stuttered.
Another figure moved over from the right into his sight. He was tall, thin, Olven, and dressed as a mage would be. Akhan felt as though he recognised him.
"It was lost," Thanoin said, with a tinge of guilt in his voice. "But the mage has helped you my friend."
"I am Zarn Varnt, court magist to Duke Fimuth Celanil of Axewood," the elf announced. Akhan remembered him, an Arch-Mage of great repute. Zarn continued. "Yes, the eye was lost, but your friend has enlisted me to your aid, and I have given you a replacement with magical powers, at no little cost I might add. You must rest a few days before using it, but in time I am sure you will come to be grateful."
“My eye!” Akhan thought woefully as he drifted back into the deep, fevered sleep. ”My beautiful eye...”

The fevered dreams continued, and when Eloi roused next he found himself in a soft, warm bed in a room with stone walls. From the window a fresh gentle breeze blew in, and beside the bed there sat a tall dark-haired human, dressed in blood-crusted full plate armour, his long dark hair matted with blood and other vile substances. He was dozing, but as Eloi turned the man awoke, and a huge smile came to his unshaven face.
"You live my friend!" the man declared.
He stood up and fetched a fresh cup of water from a nearby bedside cabinet.
"Do not try to speak, the monster did his best to mash your throat,” the knight said. “You would be as dead as he is, had it not been for the skills of our blessed healers."
He raised the cool water to Eloi’s lips, and his throat was unbearably painful as he swallowed.
"I am Sir Jean-Paul Pascal d'Appignon, Knight of the Holy Shielding, and your servant, sir" he said, making a sweeping gesture with his right hand.
"I was chasing that beast, you were most noble to attempt to defeat it unaided sir. You scouts may have different concepts of what is honourable, but your bravery is unquestionable and you have my utmost respect!"
“If only you knew,” Eloi thought.. Were it not for his pain, he was sure that he would be unable to prevent himself from laughing out loud.
"I took you on your donkey to a field hospital...,” the Jean-Paul went on.
“My treasure!” thought Eloi.
"...and there they had all but lost you, but you are made of sterner stuff, eh? Don't try to talk, it'll be a few days, but the healers are much in demand for poorer souls than you, so you will have to let nature take its course."
"Your belongings..." he said, rising again from his seat.
“At last, to the point,” Eloi declared to himself.
The knight pulled a pack from under his seat and placed it at Eloi’s bedside.
"...I'm afraid I had the sacks loose from his donkey so it could carry you back, but at least you're alive!"
“Aaaaarrrgggh!,” Eloi thought.
"I'll return in a couple of days my friend, when you are better, and we'll get you out and about for some fresh air. Bye for now!"
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggghhh!”
The knight left the half-orc rogue to sleep, but he was not fated to rest well. After checking that it was still safely hidden in his underpants, he found himself drifting in and out of a fevered sleep, dreaming about giant sapphires and diamond-encrusted platinum brooches, slipping from his firm hands and into a deep, dark, endless chasm...

Late on, the day after the battle, Bermen set off as best he could to find the whereabouts of Lord Aranon. Despite his rank he was getting nowhere fast - Aranon, if he was still within the Keoish capital, was not to be, or did not want to be, found. Plodding wearily around the streets of Niole Dra, he was also desperate for news of any other Darullan soldiers who may have survived the battle. He found none.
It did not, however, take him long to discover his dwarven friends - the deep sound of Dwarven voices coming from the Dark Hole Inn being the give-away. This sombre stone inn was unusual in the poorer Tarskling area, where most of the ramshackle houses were built of wood.
Stooping to enter the place, Bermen was either unaware or untroubled by the fact that he was the only human in the place. A few moments silence greeted him, then he was recognised and those who were not greeting him and forcing strong ale onto him went back to their business and forgot him.
Next morning, despite the inevitable hangover that went with a night with the Dwer, he returned to the inn, and after breakfast with Euch’tir and his men, they set off back to the battlefield to bury their dead.
Bermen was not pious in even the loosest sense of the word, but he thought his friend Jebru was a brave lad and he at least deserved a warrior's last rites. He did not know if the boy was a worshipper of any God, but the Dwer priests words were fitting to his end. Luckily, after the last week’s exposure to the Dwer, his once-rusty Dwer was now more fluent than ever.
His duty over, Bermen Zladek set about finding his superior officers, and on doing so was told the Grand Duke’s army was granted leave, to reassemble in two days to the west of the city. He then retired to his room and perused the book his drow lover, Eldrave, had given him before her mysterious disappearance.
'Ag Ichurak Neskdura' (‘At the Edge of Darkness’ in Drow), was the tale of the Drow descent into the world of Underdark, and had been the way Eldrave had taught him the strange Drow alphabet. The resolute nature of the Drow, despite their persecution by their ‘Elgarchin’ cousins, inspired him often, and he drew strength and comfort from her book.

They had never been physically close before, but the feelings that stirred for Emarill bothered Aranon. He thought deeply about his daughter, Elouera, in far off Fax, where he had left her in the care of Farravel, one of the priests at the Rustic Hostel. And of her mother, lost in a storm off Woolly Bay as she left Aranon to return to her home in the Valley of the Mage. Perhaps it would have been easier for the girl to perish with her mother.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “I mean it would be easier for me!”
Pushing thoughts of Elouera to the back of his mind, he returned to thoughts of the journey to Axewood. Horses were a rare commodity in the city right now, at least, living ones were. However, from the tales and songs apparently being sung by the bards in the taverns of the ‘heroic deeds’ of his party, he doubted that he would have too much trouble getting mounts.
He had heard that his friend and one-time adventuring companion, Teuch’tir, had arrived in the city with his Dwer kinfolk from the mountain-fortress of Gilmorack. Perhaps he could help with an escort for the journey, as Aranon trusted none like the Dwer for the ability to keep a secret.
He had slept most of the past few days, and after praying, had set about curing Emarill, who was still asleep, until her wounds were completely healed. About eight o'clock on the third day after the battle there was a gentle knock on his door.
Cautiously Aranon answered it, finding it was his fellow adventurer, Sheyr Bn'Griz. A peaceful man, but a fierce warrior, Sheyr’s massive frame almost blocked out the light from the corridor. Aranon noted he had untied his long black hair, and was unarmed. Not that men such as he needed weapons about town.
"Aranon, we were just worried, nobody has seen you,” Sheyr said, “but the guards at the gate swore you had entered yesterday".
“The fewer people who know of Emarill for now, the better,” Aranon thought. Still, he felt somewhat guilty lying to his friend, telling him he had been praying to regain his spells and start healing his wounds.
Sheyr nodded.
"Healers are much in demand," he said, turning to leave. "We will see you after you are done."
He walked off and Aranon thankfully closed the door.
Returning to the room, Emarill had awakened. She seemed a hundred times better, more confident, more resolute.
"Are they looking for me?" she asked.
“No. Nobody knows you are here, or even if you live.”
"Did you...did you do this?" she asked, pointing to her healed wounds.
Aranon nodded.
She looked at where her wounds were, then mumbled, "I could never do such things as that - all my life, all I have done is hurt, maim, kill. I do not understand you, Aranon of Fax. You can fight and kill when needed, then turn around and stop someone from dying. My father tried to destroy you. My people tried to wipe your kind from the face of the Oerth. And yet, when I am at my most vulnerable, when you could end it all, you heal me, ready to continue in my evil ways. Why?"
A lone tear ran down her cheek as she spoke - not the frenzied hysterics of previous nights, but a solitary, confused trail of emotion.
"You knew I would not kill you when you came here," Aranon answered. "And you know the answers to all your questions - you just don't want to accept them. I must go out again, get us food, and arrange for us to leave. I will lock the door, so do not open it for anyone."
He felt good at leaving the room, to escape Emarill’s constant questioning, to relieve himself of her pain.
Heading towards the kitchens, Aranon was not across the courtyard when he saw Teuch'tir himself. He smiled as he recognised the priest. It had been many years - too many years.
After a few typically Dwarven jibes at Aranon’s expense, Teuch'tir seemed to sense that he was in a more serious mood. He quietened, but still did not ask.
Quietly, lest twitching ears should hear, Aranon confided in him, making him swear on his beard not to tell a soul. He wandered over close to the nearby fountain.
“Clever,” Aranon thought, “for no-one will overhear us above the rush of the water.”
They sat by the fountain's edge.
"Difficult one," the dwarf said. "My brother, you know Euch'tir, he is commanding a troop of Dwarves in the ranks of Sterich -so like him to want his own glory! I am sure I could arrange for him to get a few trusted men to escort you to Axewood. Just leave it with me - I will arrange it all. It could take a few days, but we will get you there. Until then, Aranon, I will have my best man nearby at all times - the slightest hint of trouble and he'll be at your side."
His heart felt somewhat lighter as Teuch’tir took his hand, almost crushing it with his immense strength.

With great sadness, Jean-Paul returned to the copse and retrieved the bodies of his fallen brothers-in-arms. He could not help but feel a little guilty at the fact that he had sent these knights into the woods after the Ogre Mage, moments before their death, while he waited at the other side for them to flush it out. Even if it was for the right reasons, he had still made a bad call.
His anger then turned to sheer rage, as he discovered that their bodies had obviously been pillaged for wealth. In fact, it appeared that the ogre mage's riches, plus the sacks he cut from the Scout's mule, had been taken too.
Returning to the city, their funeral was a brief and spartan, yet worthy, affair. His four remaining fellow Knights of the Shield, and other acquaintances, attended for the short time it took to send them on to the afterlife, even though they knew not his companions. Looking around Jean-Paul realised that all those attending were recovering from injuries, remembering that the able-bodied would be pursuing the Dark Hordes, driving them as far away as possible. In fact, once his own wounds healed he too would be setting off from this place to hunt them down.
His horse, Canterbury was in almost perfect form. Even after only a day’s rest, Frederikson's enviable skill with horses had returned him to his former glory. He was, however, unable to replace the other horses killed in the battle, as horses were quite a scarce commodity at the moment! And since Canterbury was still mildly lame after the battle, he would need to be rested before setting off.
Asking around, Jean-Paul realised it was perhaps too early to hear news of the Shield Lands, and his beloved Monastere d'Appignon, for they were so far away. Undoubtedly the Shield Lands were still overrun by evil beasts, and it would be some time before any effort could be made to regroup and force them back to their dark nests. The enormity of the task and apparent hopelessness weighed heavy on the paladin’s heart.
Gradually he could see the noble city of Niole Dra working its way back to normality. The daily markets once more started to open, but the prices had more than doubled, and the city seemed full of crippled and homeless beggars, products of this evil struggle. Walking through this moral prison, Jean-Paul soon found his purse empty from his generous donations to the hopeless - but at least he now felt as though he had achieved something.
His heart was somewhat lighter, for the meantime anyhow, as he returned to visit the Scout within the temple hospital.

Akhan’s strength returned greatly over the next few days. Over this time, Zarn and his assistant, the mage Mordekei, helped him to learn the powers of his magical eye, called the Eye of the Beholder. It took some getting used to, but it seemed a wondrous device, apart from the occasional headaches it caused!
Zarn warned him that these may even get worse, if using the major powers it held. But even without these, being able to see flawlessly in the dark alone made up for the inconvenience. Despite his half-Olven heritage, Akhan had found several flaws in his innate night-vision, and this device almost made it worth losing the eye in the first place.
Sir Thanoin had fetched him a black leather eye patch to cover it with, although one look and Akhan vowed to get a fancy jewelled one as soon as he could. The barbarian knight kept him company over the days he needed to rest, and Akhan was grateful for his cheer, which helped him recover, although the Eye did hurt when he made him laugh so!
After three days rest and practice, Akhan felt strong enough to arise, and Sir Thanoin came for him in the early afternoon.
Akhan has never been to Niole Dra, apart from his short stay at Sheldomar Palace before being magically transported to the Vaults of the Drow.
Leaving the temple into the mild heat of the afternoon in the summer month of Goodmonth, Akhan found himself standing in a small square. There was some activity as people returned to their normal business, although most of the people here were womenfolk, children, the elderly and the infirm, and veterans of the recent battles. Most able-bodied menfolk were armed and dressed for war, many in formations, clearly on their way out of the city.
Sir Thanoin had never been there either, but he had spent the past three days exploring his surroundings while Akhan recovered. He told Akhan of this strange place.
"The city of Niole Dra is the capital of Keoland, and usually home to over 20,000 menfolk. It has swollen its numbers with the war, for it is temporary refuge to those lucky folk able to escape the Dark Hordes' advances."
"We are within the inner walled city, known locally as the Keisling, which means 'safe place' in Keoish. In here, many of the richer folk live and work, but most of the business here is of a professional nature. The officers of the King's Army, the City Guard, the lawyers, judges, scribes, accountants, architects, courtesans and many other professions live and work here, and many rich merchants live here too. The Royal University, most temples, including the towering Temple of Velnius, and the majestic Rychskurt are found here.”
Akhan had heard of the Rychskurt, a feared place for those of his profession. The judges presiding there were not known for their lenience and understanding.
Thanoin continued as they walked across the square.
“The bulk of trade, however, undoubtedly takes place in the canals and waterways of the unwalled outer city. The canals start at the docks on the Sheldomar river, to the south-east, where most major river traffic stops. The commercial canal district and the docks themselves are collectively known as the 'Weyrkling' or 'water place', and there is much money, legal or not, to be made there. The two areas meet at the guarded 'Weyrstaff' or ‘water-gate’, which merchants use to take goods into the Keisling."
"To the north-west and north-east quarters of the Keisling lies a fertile farm area, wherein much of the food that the city buys is grown. These lands are so fertile that the first farm starts less than 100 yards from the city walls, and it is between here and the wall that the daily food market is set up. The area about half a mile from the walls to the north-west is inhabited by many halflings, who have burrows there. Halbsrych they call it.”
“The south-east quarter, however, is the largest and perhaps the most interesting to you. Here the poorer people live, and there are many slum areas. It also houses most of the migrant workers and foreigners who come to the city in search of jobs, adventure or whatever they dream of. It houses many hidden dangers, and also the major necropolis. Not a good place to get lost!”
“Currently, the armies have encampments at various points around the city, although from yesterday many of them were beginning to move out for the chase! Hopefully, my elven friend, we will soon be able to join them!"
Akhan had listened enough to the geography lesson.
“Right,” he thought, “ I've had enough of the serious side of life for the moment. Time for some petty pilfering and fun. I think I really need some readies if I'm going to get a proper patch. Maybe a spiral design of gems with the emphasis on emeralds.”
He swung his arms around a bit, then stretched them up into the air, taking in a gulp of the city air. He looked around affectionately, but before he could think how he was going to get rid of the knight, his squire, Jeremius Brak, comes running over to them.
"My lord, it is a message from the Earl of Walworth, he wishes to see you immediately. You are to report to him at the Palace with a sturdy mount and packed for a journey of a sennight or so."
Akhan walked with Thanoin into the Palace courtyard, where he saw, efficient as ever, Jeremius had already packed Thanoin's belongings, and had his warhorse, Ragarakk, waiting and ready to leave.
Thanoin turned to Akhan, handing him a small pouch, which felt as though it had coins in it. Before he could protest, although the thought never crossed the thief’s mind, Thanoin said, “"Take this money, friend, you will need it until you recover. I will be in touch in good time."
Without further ceremony, the knight told Jeremius to keep Ragarakk ready to leave, and strode over to the main keep to meet the Earl.
Jeremius led Ragarakk back into the stable, allowing Akhan to check the pouch. There was a tidy sum therein, fifty gold orbs, or Merkke as they were called in the Sheldomar. That at least should help with the night’s entertainment, some new clothes, and a gaudy new hat with a bright red feather, to replace the one he lost in the woods.
This Tarskling place sounded a bit promising, and he reckoned that with a bit of luck, and the right card game he could end up with more money, enough to buy the kind of eye patch a man of his station deserved.
Yes, this Tarskling certainly sounded like the place for Akhan.

Frederikson had met Jean-Paul at the temple gates, before he had even a chance to see the Scout.
“The Earl of Walworth has sent for you, sire. And the other knights - it seems he has a mission for you, battle to the west.”
Jean-Paul was cheered greatly at the thought of a return to the fray. He glanced toward the rear door of the temple as Frederikson handed him the reins of Canterbury, now healed and ready for battle. A reunion with the Scout would have to wait - if the Knight Commander needed him, he must go.
“Let him know,” Jean-Paul said, nodding towards the Temple, “that I am gone, but shall return for him.”
Jean-Paul turned and walked off, leading Canterbury toward the Royal Palace, where his master waited. As Frederikson left the courtyard into the Temple itself, he did not see the shadow hovering by the stable door, watching him, waiting for him to leave before leading a donkey into the courtyard and out onto the streets of Niole Dra.
Eloi had only been to Niole Dra once, it was not his sort of town, much like the paladin was not his kind of companion, but he knew where he was headed for. The Tarskling area was hardly up to his usual standard of cosmopolitan slumming areas, but it would certainly do the trick until he could get enough money to leave this place.

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