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The Sword and the Staff
Posted: 02 Nov 2005 03:22 PM |
Chapter 1 - The Gathering in Ladriel
Argus Filliman had made the trip along the Ladriel shoreline many times since he was a lad, following his father on the trade route. His father, Brutus Filliman, was a barrel-chested man with a long moustache that tickled Argus as a child when he kissed his father. The
As an adult, Argus wore his moustache as his father had, long and well-groomed and gracefully upturned, much like a swan's neck reflected in the water. Like his father, Argus was barrel-chested and beefy. But unlike his father, Argus’ shoulders were broad with muscle, not fat. Argus loved his father dearly, but he refused to share the laziness that softened the body of the elder Filliman.
The trip was now second nature. First to Midor, to pickup forged steel farm implements, then to Brandibuck, where most of the farm tools would be sold to halfings eager to till the soil with a strong Midoran plow, or cut the wheat with a sharp Midoran scythe. He would purchase good Brandibuck weed by the bushel, and proceed past the tower of Ladriel. He had never even considered stopping there to see if they wanted any trade. The stern, yet distant, look of the guardians was more then enough incentive for Argus to give the tower a wide berth. From the Ladriel coastline, Argus would take a boat to Ferein, where he would haggle with elves at the gates over the Brandibuck weed and what remained of the Midoran steel, mostly trinkets, really, but things that seemed to interest the younger elves, at least. Argus, of course, never entered Ferein proper. He was quite sure that humans would not be welcome, and even more certain that human selling compasses, sextons, and a rather stimulating drug would be welcome even less. So he did his trading at the gates, always with the same five elves supervising the transactions. He only knew the name of one of them: Qu’inal, and that was fine, as Qu’inal was the only one of the guard that would even speak to him.
Argus would sail away from Ferein after five days; the elves would allow no more. His destination was Port Royale, loaded with the sundries of Ferein, which always fetched good prices from the Port Royale nobility and Gigglesnort's Auction House. There was always some daft noblewoman who simply could not live without an authentic Ferein blanket, or a real Ferein wood sculpture, or some other blighted thing.
Trade was good for Argus, but it kept him on the road for most of the season. And the road seldom changed, from Midor, to Brandibuck, to Ferein, to Port Royal, and back to Midor, with the occasional stop over at the Buckshire trading post in the hopes of finding some magical item that would be contraband in Midor, and perhaps fetch a hefty price from someone who did not care about the law, or who felt themselves above the law. Midoran priests were particularly avarice in their desire of these items.
And so it was that Argus found himself trudging near the Ladriel shoreline. He had just passed the queer tower, with its eerily stoic guards, and was pleased to note the sun was almost at its highest point in the day. ‘Just in time for the boat,’ he thought to himself with a chuckle. As he made his way, voices, unfamiliar with both the area and situation, found their way to Argus’ ear. He squinted against the bright fall sun and looked north. He could see the white smoke of several campfires against the darkness of the forest that engulfed most of the northern shoreline. The sound of axes chopping wood mingled with men and woman shouting to one another. “Looks like someone’s setting up shop,” Argus muttered to himself. He urged his oxen to the north, and at first they resisted. They were accustomed to following the trade path, not going off on an unfamiliar path. In the end, Argus’ reins and encouraging calls worked, and the oxen grudgingly turned northward.
The unfamiliar camp became clear fairly quickly. It looked like a logging camp, an impression reinforced by the large gap in the trees where the forest once stood. But no, though Argus, the trees aren’t all gone. Just some of them. And this was true, the trees were cleared enough to allow the framework of a fairly large structure to be laid on the ground. A deep pit had already been dug into the dirt, but even this did not seem to disturb the trees around it. Argus mused, Looks like something an elf would make. And this too was true; the trees that were not cut down to make room for the house were quite undisturbed. The house itself was in the Midoran tradition, at least, older Midoran tradition. The fusion of Ferein landscaping and Midoran architecture was, to say the least, rather disconcerting.
But there was something else that drew Argus’ attention. He supposed later that he noticed because of the year in his youth he spent in a Midoran labor camp, a prisoner for a small misunderstanding he encountered between himself and a Midoran deacon. The priesthood had not taken kindly to one of their own being resold his own chalice and had arrested Argus without hesitation. Argus, of course, had not known the chalice was stolen when he tried to sell it to the deacon. Fortunately, the wheels of Midoran justice were accurate in the end, though not very swift. High Judge Griffin had signed his release papers after 10 months in the labor camp. But during that time, Argus had learned something. One did not make a work crew unless one intended to work. And out of the fifty or so people in the camp, only ten or so were actually working. The rest were gathered in a semi-circle around a small fire. A man in gold and black armor stood addressing the crowd.
Argus pulled back on the reins and the oxen stopped obediently. They immediately began to graze on the lush grass; their soft chewing noises were barely distinguishable in the mild afternoon breeze. The man in the armor was tall, well over six feet, thought Argus, and looked powerful. His armor made him look as wide at Argus, but then, Argus reasoned, most armor made people look as big as he. The man's blond hair caught the sun, making it appear brighter then it actually was. Argus could hear the occasional peal of the tall man’s voice over the chopping wood, but he was still to far away to distinguish his words.
Shaking his head, Argus pulled on the reins and directed the oxen back to the trade route. He would miss the ship if he delayed, and a man gathering his neighbors to help build a house was not out of the ordinary. Well, Argus corrected himself, it is out of the ordinary here, so close to Ladriel. But the man in gold and black armor was not his concern, and if he stayed to find out what was happening, Qu’inal may think Argus had decided not to come this time. The thought of Qu’inal fading into the forest like a wraith fading with the dawn caused Argus to whip the reins a bit harder then he intended. He would talk to his father when he returned to Port Royal. Brutus was slatted to go to Brandibuck, and it would be an easy thing to suggest he take the Ladriel route.
Back at the camp on the edge of the forest, Byron Lorian surveyed the people around him. He had counted sixty-four in all; most of the men and women were from Buckshire and Port Royal. There were even a four halfings and, much to his surprised, two gnomes from Paws. They had come three days ago, and the work clearing the forest had gone rather quickly. Byron reasoned that the house would be built much more quickly then he had anticipated.
But that was not why they were gathered. No, the month Byron had traveled around Vives had not been spent looking for laborers to build a house. Far from it. What he had spoken of, and what drew the sixty-four to this remote piece of land so close to Ladriel, was not payment for their labor, or the desire to see lands most had only heard of, or even altruism. Byron looked at the forty or people sitting in a rough semi-circle in front of him and drew another breath. He had heard more were coming, and needed to work quickly.
“We are on the verge of a new time. I have told you the truth of Aristi, the truth that Midor has corrupted. I will teach you Code of the Heralds, the paladin-knights of Aristi whose fire still burns in this armor,” he touched his shoulder plates, “And this sword,” he touched his sword hilt, “And this heart.” He touched his breastplate last, just over his heart.
"And this is the Code of Aristi..."
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My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
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Re: The Sword and the Staff
Posted: 04 Nov 2005 06:26 PM |
((My thanks to Pdwalker for giving me the opportunity to once again write about Vidus for Vives.))
Chapter 2: The Justification of Filliman
"What is it, Brother Riley?" Vidus sounded annoyed, but Riley knew better. He was simply under too much strain these days. "What do you want with me?"
With great effort, Brother Riley stopped himself from cringing. He had learned quickly it was not wise to show weakness in front of the White Bishop. "The report you requested, Your Eminence."
The lines at the corner of Vidus’ lips deepened into a frown. He looked older than he had just a few months ago, before the return of Midoran. Dark circles painted his eyes as if he had been punched, and the wrinkles on his forehead never left, as if his brow were constantly furrowed in concern or agitation. Riley noticed these, but said nothing. Vidus did not appreciate anyone pointing out his condition, even if the observation was the result of genuine concern. "What report?" he spat.
"The report about the gathering in Ladriel." Riley kept his tone even. "The one Filliman spoke of."
"Ah yes, Filliman. Tell me, Riley, was he Justified?"
"Ah..." Riley faltered. Argus Filliman came to Midor three days ago on the ship from Port Royale. His first night in town, he had taken a room at the Unicorn Inn, which was a little more expensive then his usual fare. Argus, as it turned out, had much to celebrate. He had been able to trade three rare elven statuettes in Ferein, all of which had fetched a significant price at the special auction held at Gigglesnorts. Though flush with new wealth, Argus came to Midor to resume his trade route rather then retire, which he certainly could have done.
His actions showed a certain lack of creativity, Riley thought, though the merchant’s desire to continue working was admirable. It was unfortunate that Filliman’s passions were for gold and commerce. Such base pursuits were, after all, the downfall of Men. Better to direct ones eyes towards the True God, towards Midoran, and be happy as a humble servant of the Just Hand. "Was he Justified?" repeated Vidus in a low, cold voice that startled the priest out of his reverie.
"I... no, Your Grace," Riley spoke quickly, barely avoiding offering Vidus a muttered apology for his lapse of attention. The White Bishop did not take kindly to weak offers of remorse. Better to be efficient then mewling. "Mr. Filliman did not stand up under Justification. The Inquisitors have made arrangements for his body to be buried."
"Send it to the Pauper’s Grave," interrupted Vidus. Riley resisted the urge to blink in surprise. The paupers' grave was reserved for criminals and malcontents. To be buried there was to be forgotten by all. An unmarked graved tended by few and remembered by none outside of its rusty iron gate.
Riley pretended not to have heard correctly. "The Pauper’s Grave?" He asked. "But Filliman was no criminal, he…"
"Do you seek to question me," asked Vidus knowningly. "Do as I command. There is no room in a proper cemetery for anyone who cannot stand up to Justification."
"Yes, Your Grace." Riley intoned automatically. If the Lord Bishop commanded the merchant be forgotten in the Paupers Grave, then it would be done.
Vidus leaned back in his chair, his steepled fingers touching his top lip. "And now, Riley, about the gathering in Ladriel."
Riley started; yes, he had to talk about Ladriel. "Of course, Your Eminence. Filliman did inform us of a gathering of several people in Ladriel. This alone would not be news, after all, people could have gathered for any number of reasons. But the location, near the Tower of Ladriel, made this one suspect." Riley paused, but Vidus remained silent. After several moments, he continued, "Filliman also reported a man in black and gold armor. He said it looked as if the man was," Riley read directly from the report in his hands, "'teaching the people there.'" He looked up, "There were signs of a logging camp, or some sort of construction. It could just be a foreman giving directions to his work crew."
"In black and gold armor?" asked Vidus, his raised eyebrows made him look even older. "Perhaps it is simply a nobleman looking for a summer home." He looks out the window that overlooked the temple courtyard. "Perhaps, perhaps...."
Silence reigned for several seconds before Riley spoke again. "Your Grace, this is a happening in Ladriel. It is far away, and does not concern us." He took a deep breath, and then plunged forward, speaking quickly so as not to lose his nerve, "We should not involve ourselves with the Lady of Ladriel. Our efforts are better spent continuing to try and find a way to seize the White Maiden from her Tower and end any idea of continuing the Rebellion."
Vidus' gaze never left Riley. It was unreadable, like sand after the tide goes out. Finally, he spoke, "You are right, Brother Riley. Black and gold armor alone, reported from one merchant, means nothing." Riley looked away, unable to bear Vidus' piercing eyes. They were intelligent in a way that made Riley uncomfortable. It reminded him of wickedly sly cat, eyes that knew a secret no one else could understand.
"Leave me, Riley," instructed Vidus. "Go tell the High Captains of this report, then make sure it is filed appropriately. We will do nothing now, but this will not be ignored." Riley turned to leave, but Vidus spoke again, "One more thing, Riley." Riley turned back to face Vidus; the red of the dusk had given way to darkness causing their shadows to bog and flicker against the lit fireplace. Shadows hid half of Vidus' face, "The senior Filliman resides in Port Royale. Make sure you inform him of his son's situation. I am sure he will want to come down and see to his son."
Riley nodded, then paused. “My Lord, there will be no body to claim. You have just ordered it to be thrown into the Pauper’s Grave.”
Vidus ignored Riley. "The younger Filliman had recently come into a bit of money, correct?"
"Yes," replied Riley. He had no idea why Vidus mentioned this, "Forty thousand gold. But what do you..."
Vidus interrupted, "The gold has been sent north by caravan, which departed Midor six hours ago. This was arranged by Filliman before he met Justification. Send a detachment of Righteous Swords to the docks to claim the gold."
Riley spoke before he could stop himself, "But...my Lord, that gold belongs to the elder Filliman.
Vidus waved his hand, "Of course it does, Brother Riley, and who better to hold onto the gold while he makes the journey to Midor than the Church?" Riley nodded; of course that is what the White Bishop meant. What had he been thinking? "Now go, Brother Riley, and may Midoran bless you." Vidus made the sign of Midoran in Riley's direction. Riley bowed his head and departed.
Vidus sat alone in his study. The darkness gathered, but he made no effort to light a candle, or call an acolyte to light the lamps. He sat, unmoving, for several hours. One looking into the room would have thought him dead. After several hours, he moved with a suddenness that caused his desk to buck.
Vidus rose quickly, “Guide me, Lord Midoran. I must know if this is the Last Son. I must know, so I can make sure he does not interfere.” He prayed with a forceful voice that betrayed his aged face. “Tell me, oh holy Midoran…is this the Last Son of Aristi?
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Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Sword and the Staff
Posted: 07 Nov 2005 11:40 PM |
((A special thanks to Aranel, who edits these stories and makes sure I don't come off looking like a fool. The content is mine, but the style hers.))
Chapter 3 – The Vigil
The last rays of sunlight danced over the sea, reflecting fiery orange and deep purple. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, the sunlight peering from behind them in sharp contrast to their menacing profile. Byron stared into the horizon as the last bit of sun slipped behind the storm cloud. A flash of lighting blinked in the distant darkness just as the wind, warm and salty, gusted from the sea. It would be a bad storm, he thought.
Tonight he has forsaken his black and gold armor for a simple white wool robe. He gave a moment's wry thought to how much the robe reminded him of Blanche, who almost always wore robes as white as her hair. The image of Blanche in her white robes was quickly replaced by Eliana, clad in her usual black robes.
Eliana... Ceela, he called her, even in his private thoughts. She had not been the same, not been right since they had been reunited. For four months, while Byron was lost at the cusp of Nethar’u, Eliana faced her own hell. She had not spoken to Byron about it, and he did not press the issue. But the promise he made stood prominent in his vision, even now. “We will go back there,” he had promised her, “We will go back there and kill him. He will not hurt you again.”
Byron had promised her. He had promised....
He knelt before the small shrine, the grass cool on his knees, even through the wool robe. The shrine was a simple thing he had found among the things Sir Tonan left at the Hall of Champions: a white marble pillar with a carved eagle perched on the top, wings outstretched as if in flight. Byron had recognized it almost instantly as the Eagle of Aristi, a symbol of the Heralds and the Prince of Aristi. He had taken the shrine when he left the Hall of Champions, certain that Sir Tonan would not mind, and had kept it stored away until now.
Byron remembered what Sir Tonan had told him, “On the evening before an Accepted (that is, a Herald in training) is to be knighted, the Vigil occurs. The Accepted removes him or herself to a quiet place. There he dons a white robe, to symbolize the purity he has spent the whole of his training to achieve. The shrine the Accepted kneels before is different for each person. It is usually made or purchased by the Accepted's families and loved ones.” Byron had resisted asking Sir Tonan about his wife. He was tempted, but somehow it did not seem appropriate.
“The Accepted spends the night before the shrine, in meditation and prayer. Meditation on the Code of Aristi and the awesome responsibility he is about to accept, and prayer that he will have the strength to take the burden that is the mantel of ‘Herald of Aristi.’”
Byron placed his sword on the right side of the shrine. He did not know if this was part of the ritual; it just seemed the right thing to do. The wind gusted again, ruffling his hair and causing his robe to ripple. He looked to the west; again he did not know if direction meant anything, but facing west felt right, and saw that the clouds were closer than before.
“The Accepted would not leave the shrine. Not for rain, or hail, or storm, or snow.”
He continued to stare into the west, his gaze fixed on an undefined point in the distance. Sir Tonan’s words echoed in his mind.
“It is not supposed to be comfortable. It is not supposed to be easy. The Vigil is a test of the Accepted’s merit.”
The storm clouds darkened the sky. Byron looked down just as the wind died down, and there was a moment of perfect stillness. Then rain began to pelt down, hard and fast, driven by a renewed wind. He looked up and allowed the rain to stream over his face, his vision shifting suddenly.
Lightning flashed.
He saw Claudia, and Eliana, and Coretta, his family, together around the fire in their own home. Eliana stepped back from the hearth, holding a tea pot, with a look of peace and a genuine smile on her face unlike any she had worn since her return. Claudia’s perfectly petite lips were turned up in her own warm, open smile as she thanked Eliana for refilling her cup. Eliana placed the teapot on the table and curled up next to him, laying her head on his shoulder and sighing contentedly. Then there was an abrupt crash outside, and a scream. Eliana was on her feet first, followed quickly by Byron and Claudia. Coretta was no where to be seen. There was another scream, louder this time, and with a crash the nearby window exploded. Two flaming arrows flew into the house, spreading fire to the drapes and blankets decorating the room.
Almost instantly, another window crashed, and more flaming arrows flew into the house. One struck Eliana just above the heart, and she sank to the ground, limp and silent. Another exploded into Claudia’s chest, and she promptly fell, her eyes sightless and frozen in shock before she hit the ground. Byron stood between them, a powerless spectator to the sudden and utter devastation, in silence broken only by the soft roar and crackles of the flames.
Lightning flashed.
He was in the Tower of the Mists. Blanche stood over her husband. Philippe did not look well; it was readily apparent that much more than his knee ailed him. Angelius was nowhere to be seen, and Blanche was crying. He tried to ask what was wrong, but he could not speak, and in truth, he knew what Philippe's ashen gray face meant. They both did. And as Blanche sat in silence, her face empty save for an endless stream of tears, Byron knew she would never speak again. Grief had consumed her and killed the White Maiden. He turned and walked away, leaving Blanche and Philippe to themselves.
He knew he was now alone.
Lightning flashed.
He was in a dark study. An old man with white hair was hunched over a desk before him, writing furiously. Rain pelted the windows, and the burning embers of the fire combined with two small candles to cast a weak light over the room. The man looked up, directly at where he stood. The White Bishop Vidus Khain smiled as he stood. He was unable to move as the old man stopped in front of him. Vidus stood silently for a moment, and then uttered a single incantation: “Disintegration.”
Lighting flashed, red and painful, and Byron felt he would fall over. His muscles strained against his senses, all of which told him that kneeling like this was making him sick, that he needed to fall over, to lie down, to make the dizziness and pain end. He opened his eyes and saw the Eagle, wings outstretched, immutable against the pounding rain. He focused on the Eagle, and slowly, slowly, his surroundings stopped spinning, but the knowledge and insight of his darkest fears remained.
Lightning flashed, and the rain stopped. The east was growing light with the first pregnant signs of dawn. Though he was soaked wet and shivering, Byron remained kneeling. “The Vigil does not end until the sun once more shines on the Accepted,” said the ageless knight.
Dawn broke, and when it did, Byron finally was free of the vision and the Vigil. Fear still tickled his senses. A shiver ran up his spine, making him shake in a manner totally unrelated to morning cold. His heart beat fast, and despite the dewy morning he could feel the sweat trickling from his forehead and into his eyes. He wiped his eyes, partly to remove the sweat, but mostly in a vain effort to block the memory of the vision burned into the back of his eyelids. The images, they were just images, right? He stood before the shrine for several minutes without moving. He looked to the west and the retreating darkness. Yes, he decided, it was a vision, nothing more.
The Vigil is a test. Sir Tonan’s words returned to him, and he understood.
An hour later, he slipped into his makeshift room quietly, so as not to disturb Eliana's reverie, only to find she was not in bed. Byron striped off his damp robe and began to dry himself with a fresh towel. Eliana was not there... he was past being surprised. It was not that she had been avoiding Ladriel, but her comings and goings seldom coincided with Byron’s own these days.
"He stared at the empty place where Eliana would have otherwise been resting. He realized he did not know where she was, and the thought struck him with more force THAN he had expected. Eliana was able to take care of herself, but the vision from the night before still lingered. He reached out with his mind, calling on the Bond they shared, but could not sense her. He knew, logically, she would return when her business was finished. He also knew that she most likely was with Claudia, and as such was most certainly safe from anything.
Byron wrapped the towel around his midsection and begain together his clothes for the day. He knew he was to speak about Aristi and the Heralds at Ladriel that evening, and so he tried to prepare himself. But the strain of the Vigil was too much, and weariness washed over his body like a warm breeze. He fell into the empty blankets strewn haphazardly on the ground. Eliana’s smell was still strong on the sheets; she had left not long ago. He thought again of Eliana, of the time they first met, of the night they were Bonded, of the awful day they almost lost one another. It did not take long for him to drift to sleep. The vision and the Vigil did not intrude on his dreams. For now, at least, Eliana was in his dreams, to keep those visions away. |
My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
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Re: Interlude
Posted: 21 Dec 2005 07:00 AM |
Chapter 4 - Realizing the Herald
The crossbow bolt hurdled towards its target. Allios had always been a good shot, having learned when he was very little how to fire a crossbow. His father had taught him, thinking that the boy would live off the land as a woodsman, like his father. Little had Enios known that his son would be selected for training by the Academy, or that he would eventually be a full paladin of Midoran. The only thing that didn’t surprise him, Enios would often think when he reflected on his son, was that Allios was one of the best marksmen of all paladin. He did, after all, learn everything from his father.
The bolt penetrated Byron’s thick boot and plunged into his foot. It continued through to the wooden floor, effectively pinning the Aristi to the ground. He yelped in pain and surprised. “Lower your weapon and lay down on the floor,” Allios shouted as he leveled his crossbow as the man in black and gold armor.
Blood quickly pool on the floor. Byron swayed for a moment, the pain had made him dizzy, and he could not afford to pass out. He did not remember drawing his own sword, but it was in his hand. He looked at the paladin of Midoran, who was now telling him he was under arrest for spreading lies and heresy about Midoran. “You are out of your jurisdiction,” quipped Byron without expecting to sway the paladin, “You have no authority here.”
The crossbow never wavered. “Drop your sword,” he repeated. Right, thought Byron dryly, this is serious. He looked around, but the Broken Mask was empty except for Margaret, who stood behind the bar watching the confrontation unfold. Margret was a smart woman. She knew that it was always easier to clean up other people’s blood after a fight then it was to clean up her own trying to stop a fight. “On the ground,” insisted the paladin.
Byron slowly dropped to one knee, taking far longer then necessary. He was barely able to stifle a grunt as he pulled the bolt from his foot. Blood spattered onto his chest and face as the bolt came free, leaving a hole in his foot. In a normal situation, Byron would have simply broken off the bolt, leaving part of the shaft in his foot, in an effort to stop the blood flow. But this was not a normal situation, and Byron had one tool only a paladin possessed. He covered his foot with his free hand and allowed the warm, tingling sensation to rise inside. He directed the warmth to his foot on which he had laid his hand, and the healing power closed the wound. This happened in less then ten seconds, but it was enough. The paladin spoke again, “Drop your sword.”
“You are a paladin,” Byron said, hoping to sway the paladin to at least listen, ”Surely you can see the evil that has fallen on Midor since Vidus Khain came to power? The rise of the Righteous Swords? The execution of innocents?”
“I follow the orders of the Word of Midoran,” said the paladin by rote. Great, Byron was not surprised, but he was still disappointed, this one is a true zealot.
“Just listen to me, try to see the truth in my words.” He knew before he finished speaking that the paladin would not listen.
“But your sword down,” ordered the paladin. Byron could not help noticed the crossbow was aimed at his forehead.
“This does not have to end in violence,” said a voice from behind the paladin. Talion, one of those that accompanied Byron on the ill fated journey into Nebwood, stood several paces from the knight. Byron spared him a glance, but no more. His entire world was focused on the paladin of Midoran, and the crossbow set to put a bolt into his brain.
“The ideals of the Aristi are about restoring justice, not destroying it…”
“Allios did not hesiteate. “One.”
“It does not have to be this way. Please, just listen.”
“Two…”
Byron made to put his sword down. “Good,” said Allios, who relaxed at the apparent surrender. The crossbow wavered, and for an instant, the crossbow was pointed away. He charged forward, slamming his body into the paladin. The dull thud of metal on metal echoed as their breastplates clashed. The crossbow flew from the paladin’s hands and clattered on the floor several feet away. Byron’s grip failed, and his sword dropped heavily to the floor.
The two paladins wrestled for the upper hand, their arms entwined and heads close together. Byron’s first punch landed squarly on the paladin’s chin, causing him to stumble backwards. His grip did not slacken,a nd both were pulled over a chair and onto the nearby table, splintering it as they fell. They were quickly on their feet again, weapons forgotten, as Allios closed on Byron. Another swing, and Allios’s head snapped back.
It was as if the white knight did not feel the punch. Almost immediately after being punched, Allios struck Byron hard, his gauntleted hand smashing into his face. Blood flew backwards as Byron’s head snapped back. In this instant, the knight pulled the sword he still had in his scabbard. He slammed into the Aristi, causing him to fall onto his back.
“Now you will surrender,” breathed Allios, pointing his sword towards Byron. Without thinking, the prone knight rolled awkwardly, his armor restricted his moment, but it was enough. Allios brought his sword down and cut into the wood floor where Byron had been only a moment before. Wood chips splitered outwards, and Margret, for the first time, voiced her protest. Tables, after all, were easy to replace. The floor was not.
Byron reached blindly and…YES! his hands fell on the hilt of his sword. He rose to his feet into an akward, but effective, defensive stance. The two knights faced one another, swords drawn. “Do not make me to this,” Byron pleaded. “I do not want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”
Allios did not hesitate. Their sword clanged together in the awkward combat that always happens when longswords meet. Blows glanced off armor, but some penetrated, and soon the Midoran paladin was bleeding profusely. He fell to the ground, gravely injured.
Byron kicked away Allios’ slong sword and kneeled beside him. “I was forced to lay my hands upon myself to cure my foot,” he said to the knight, though he was not sure he heard him, “But I will see what we can do.” He looked to Talion, “Go to the temple. Bring a priest.” Talion nodded and rushed out the door.
Bandages and savles were all Byron had, but it would have to be enough. He unrolled a particularly thick bandage and began to dress the worst of Allios’s wounds. It happened so quickly that there was no time to react. The knife appeared to have been conjured in the paladin’s hand, and before Byron could react, it had plunged deep into his body, where the neck meets she shoulder.
Pain exploded in his head. He fell backwards, clutching the dagger as yellow and red lights danced in his eyes. By instinct he pulled out the knife, which made the bleeding worse. This time there was no blessing to cure the wound, and the blood flowed freely down his chest and side.
Allios rose shakily, his sword drawn. Byron had no choice, his right arm was useless due to the wound, so he raised his sword with his left hand. The battle was in slow motion, both warriors were wounded and fatigued. They did not notice Talion return, except for the fact that there was no priest with him.
The battle was short, and soon the paladin of Midoran lay on the floor barely clinging to life. “Can you carry him,” asked Byron shakily. He was loosing blood fast, and he knew it. The heavy bandage he had intended to use on the paladin was not pressed hard onto his shoulder. It was already drenched with blood. Byron quickly used a new bandage from the already open kit. Talion nodded, and without a word picked up the knight and began dragging him outside.
Byron staged to the bar and grabbed and open bottle of whiskey. He took too long drinks, then smiles weakly to Margret, “Put it on my tab,” he said quietly, and carrying the bottle moved to follow Talion and Allios. His first priority was to save the paladins life. His own wound would be healed, when it needed to be healed. He knew this, and had faith. The path of the Aristi was mercy, and the reward blessings in good time. |
My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
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The Sword and the Staff - Chapter 5
Posted: 03 Feb 2006 04:45 PM |
Chatper 5 - This is the Novus Aristi
The crowd was small when he first started speaking. “The Novus Aristi,” he started, “is not for those who want to be comforted.” The few people in the crowd shot one another questioning glances. He continued, “It is not for people who wish to be told that things will be made right. It is not for people who dislike work, or who cannot stand on their own feet.” More people joined the edge of the small crowd. “The Novus Aristi have much in common with the original intent of Midor,” he paused as even more people gathered around.
“The Midor of old prided itself on the fact that their god did not directly interfere. The task of justice, and holiness, rested squarely on the shoulders of the faithful of Midor. Guidance was provided by ancient holy texts, not from a god himself, and the White Bishop was merely a facilitator of justice, not the source.” Still more people joined the crowd’s low murmuring hum.
“The Novus Aristi believe it is possible for Man to direct his own fate. We are not hostile to religion, or to the gods. On the contrary, we welcome insight and advise from the faithful of many, from Elbereth to Vastaldoriun:. Yet while we are all one spirit in Vives, we are not all one body.” He raised his voice so it could be heard over the crowd,
“Midor was once justice for faiths sake. Now it is law without justice for faiths sake. Midor was once righteousness for faiths sake, now it is order for orders sake, and righteousness is lost.” He raised his hands, and moments later the crowd was quiet save for a few trailing voices. “The ideal of Midor is good. The Novus Aristi do not stand against the Midoran ideal, or against the people of Midor.” Surprise crossed many faces. Hadn’t they all heard how the Aristi, and Byron Lorian, wanted to overthrow Vidus Khain? He continued, “We stand against Vidus Khain, and his New Order, and his Justification of Midor. We stand against the perversion that he has made of the Midoran ideal.
“And,” he added, ignoring the crowd noise. “We stand as a new path. The Novus Aristi are justice for justices sake. We are righteousness for righteousness’s sake. We do good, not because it is mandated by holy texts, or by gods, but because it is the right thing to do.” The crowd grew silent again at this statement.
He smiled, “Justice and righteousness form a heart, just as a heart defines justice and righteousness. When the heart is in harmony, the path is obvious.”
“How do you know,” came a voice from the crowd.
Byron smiled, “There is a constant in the world that tells of certain things being right, and other things being wrong. It is obvious that murdering an innocent is evil. It is equally obvious that saving a child’s life is good.” He forestalled another question by continuing, “This constant does not apply to everything. It will not us if stealing a loaf of bread to feed a family on the brink of starvation is good or evil. But when a person, and a people, have their hearts aligned to the true moral constant, the laws and judgments they make will be true.
“This is the Novus Aristi. This is our faith, and the Code is our compass:
"Uphold Justice, for it is your strength
Fight inequity, for all are part of the Greater Good
Protect the weak, for who else will defend them
Be humble in all things, for pride brings the fall
Be merciful to all, even your enemies. Vengeance begets evil
Be peaceful to the peaceful
Walk with honor and uphold all good things."
“We do these things because they must be done; because it is the right thing to do.
“We speak to our brothers and sisters in Midor who know this truth on their hearts. Not those under the sway of the New Order, but true Midorans. To our friends in the Order of Midoran, who have resisted the call of Khain’s Red Guard. We call on you as friends, no enemies. Our enemy is the New Order of Midor. Our enemy is the hate and fear and misguided zeal that has enveloped Midor. Our enemy is Vidus Khain, and all who have helped him pervert the Midoran ideal.
“We are the Novus Aristi. We have not come to destroy Midor. We seek not to conquer land, but to restore the true nobility of the Man’s spirit, once exemplified in ancient Aristi. We shout a rallying cry to all people who yearn for true force for good in Vives. All are welcome to the Novus Aristi. Race and creed do not matter. Only a commitment to the Code, and a love of justice. Together, we will bring new light to Vives, and new renaissance for Man. |
My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
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Chapter - Missing, and the Old Paladin
Posted: 23 Feb 2006 08:40 PM |
"Lady Lillian’s gone missing.”
"Parties are continuing to search the Hush Tunnels." Trias stood at attention before the silent Byron Lorian, High Paladin of the Novus Aristi. "But we have already searched the commonly used areas," he offered. The High Paladin was silent. Trias did not continue to speak, he knew the High Paladin was not one to apprecaite unnecessary talking. He picked that up from Lady Lillian, he thought.
Finally, the High Paladin spoke, "What about Connaver, Willom, and Iris? Have we made contact with them?"
"We should have contact shortly, sir." Trias thought for a moment, then ventured, "What will you say to them?" The High Paladin smiled a tight, humorless smile. "Sir?" asked Tries.
"We will find out what they know," he answered. "When contact is made, tell them to meet in Ladrial. They know where."
"Yes sir," Trias saluted crisply and, after receiving a handful of other orders from Byron, quickly departed. Byron sat alone in the command tent. Lillian was gone. He had to believe she had been captured, or killed. It was too out of character for Lillian to abandon her post, no matter the reason.
He was so lost in thought that he did not notice the tent flap open. Blanche ducked into the tent, her expression one of fatigue and great sadness. She walked quietly over to Byron and placed a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing," she asked.
He could have lied. He could have said he was doing fine, and the weight of command was not weighing heavy on his head. He could have told Blanche everything was fine except...except it wasn't fine. "Not good," was all he could muster.
"Why?" she asked.
"You heard. Willom, Iris, and Connaver compromised the security of Haven. Lillian has gone missing. And we still have not cured Rayinor."
"It cannot be all that bad," she said helpfully. "We have plenty of Heralds in training. We have helped lots of people in Paws." She forced a smile, "We have done good, Byron."
"We have," he replied, "but it is not enough."
Blanche looked sternly at Byron, "What do you mean?"
"There is still so much we need to do, and..."
"And any great movement," she interrupted, "does not start quickly. It takes time, Byron."
"She could be dead, Blanche," Byron snapped. "She should have been safe here, but now she is missing. She was my responsibility. Don't you understand?"
"I know, Byron," she cupped his cheek, "I know."
He shook his head, "I...I'm sorry, Blanche. I should not have shouted."
Blanche said nothing, but he knew she forgave him.
~*~
Sir Tonan stepped away from the entrance of the Command Tent. He knew that two leaders. Even so, he could not avoid over hearing part of the conversation. "We have done good Byron," the Priestess had said.
"We have," said Byron, "but it is not enough."
Sir Tonan slipped away quietly. He knew what he had to do.
~*~
"Sir Tonan," Byron blinked in surprise, "I did not expect to see you tonight." He had been about to retire to his tent in the hope of getting at least a few hours of sleep. He had not expected to see the ancient Aristi standing at the Command Tent enterance. Blanche had left an hour ago, and they were alone in the pre dawn hours.
"You have not slept," observed Sir Tonan. "Come, walk with me." Byron did not argue. Soon they were both walking along the mountainside that lead from the Command Plateau. "You know, Byron," started Sir Tonan after a half mile of walking in silence, "the Aristi I knew were a religious people."
Byron looked to Sir Tonan, "I know that."
Sir Tonan continued, "They were loyal to their Priestess. They loved her, and they loved what Aristi stood for." The gravel crunching under their feet was the only sound in the pre-dawn air. "You have good people here," he observed. "And they love their Priestess."
“I do.” It a statement made with conviction. He did have good people, the Novus Aristi was lucky. And Lillian was one of the best, even if she did not fully understand the Novus Aristi.
“The Priestess alone could never have galvanized the Aristi,” continued Tonan. “She was the uniter of the people. But the Prince,” he paused and turned to Byron, “could move the people to action.”
Byron knew where this was going. “Blanche is wrong. I am not the Prince.”
“The Priestess has named you as the Prince.” Tonan looked critically at Byron.
“But I am not the Prince. I can’t be.”
“It is good you do not accept the responsibility lightly, Byron.” Sir Tonan stopped and turend to Byron, “It shows you do not seek power. But the Priestess has spoken. You are the Prince of Aristi.” He tilted his head, “Let me see the sword.”
Byron pulled the glowing blade from the scabbard. The sword had only recently come into his possession. The blade was slightly longer then most, and the entire length was bathed in white light. The hilt was finely crafted with a formed lion and eagle sculpture serving as the hand guard. Tonan’s eyes lit up as he saw the sword. “Do you know what you are holding?”
The sword pulsated with white light, and even Byron could feel the holy energy radiating from the blade. He knew what he held; a sacred relic of an ancient faith. An Aristi Avenger. “It is a symbol of leadership,” said Byron, remembering Luther’s words. It was Luther who had found the sword and, in turn, gave it to Byron. That was not entirely accurate, though. The sword had found Byron. It has chosen him the moment he had touched the hilt. “A leader must have a symbol,” Luther had said. “This is your symbol.”
“Avengers were rare, even in my day,” said Tonan. The only one I had ever seen was wielded by the Lord Artimas.”
“Lord Artimas?” asked Byron.
Tonan smiled, “Lord Artimas was a Knight-Captain of Aristi when I was sent to guard Nethar’u. The Avenger he wielded was the symbol of his office.” Tonan’s eyes grew unfocused, a sure sign, Byron knew, that his mind was drifting to the past. “Lord Artimas was the head of my Chapter when I was a young Herald.” He drifted into silence, and Byron allowed a few minutes to pass while Tonan communed with the past. Finally, Tonan started, as if he had been abruptly woken. “Have I ever told you about the Blade of Marcus Aristi?”
Byron nodded, “You have. The Blade will be found by the Prince if it is ever needed again. It is like the Heart of Aristi.”
“A symbol of the Prince,” finished Tonan. “Your sword is an Avenger of Aristi. It is impressive. But it pales compared to the Blade of Marcus Aristi.”
“Have you ever seen it?” asked Byron.
Tonan answered quickly, “No. But I believe it exists. It will be found by the Prince when it is needed.”
“Then perhaps I will find it,” said Byron half jokingly. “Do you think that will happen?”
“I do not know. Possibly. Does it matter?” Tonan looked to Byron, “What matters is that you use what you have now wisely. Make this,” he motioned to the Avenger, “the symbol of your leadership. It is your connection to the past.”
Byron looked from the sword to Tonan. “The past is not enough anymore,” he said. Tonan looked questioningly at Byron, “It is not enough to simply bring back Aristi. That is why Lillian could never believe what the Novus Aristi offered.”
“What do the Novus Aristi offer,” asked Tonan in such a flat tone that Byron was reminded of Lillian.
“A new way,” Byron paused, “no, not a new way. But a different way.” Tonan gave him a curious look. “The Novus Aristi are not here to bring back the past.” He looked skeptically at Byron. “The ancient Aristi taught a doctrine of inclusion. The Code does not distinguish between race or creed. What we must do now is show a new way while respecting where we have come from.”
“Where we have come from?” questioned Tonan. “You mean Aristi, then.”
“And Midor,” continued Byron. “It is something Sir Von Maistlin said to me once. He questioned how we could throw away a thousand years of history as if it were nothing. The answer is, we cannot. The Novus Aristi must become a way to serve the Greater Good without forcing a single path. There are many paths to the Greater Good. One was the path of Midoran, as practiced by the paladins of Midor before it became corrupted.”
Byron knew this was what had to be. Lillian could not follow the Novus Aristi because she could not separate the Heralds belief in inner divinity through service to the Greater Good from the needs to simply serve the Greater Good. The Novus Aristi, Byron understood, needed to be more then the Code. It needed to embrace all paths to the Greater Good. The Heralds would always serve the Code; they were defenders of the Novus Aristi. But their belief is not the only belief with value. It is not the only way.
“We must unite all who wish to serve the Greater Good.” Images of Lillian flashed in Byron’s mind as he spoke, “Any person that seeks to make the world a better place.” He looked at the Avenger he held. “This is how we will unite them. Through the sword and the staff, the the two gateways to Alarian, which guides the faithful to the Greater Good.”
“Through war and peace,” offered Sir Tonan. “They are the gateway of the Aristi, my Prince.” Byron blinked. It was the first time he had been called that by anyone. “The paths are not new. They remain true to what is means to be Aristi.” Byron did not know what to say. Tonan continued, “I will be, as always, by your side, until I am no longer needed. You and the Priestess have already begun the task.”
“We have at that,” Byron conceded. “I only wish Lillian where here to see it.”
“She never would have seen it,” the old paladin said. “Her soul was too old, her path too set.”
“No,” said Byron, “I do not believe that. I will not give up on her. I cannot.”
“That is why you are the Prince,” said Tonan mildly, “you never stop fighting for what is right.”
And to this, Byron found he had nothing more to say. Because, no matter how he looked at it, he knew that Tonan was right. |
My name is Byron Lorian....I am the Last Son |
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