As the spring thaw broke winter’s grasp on the castle, the city and the surrounding countryside, everyone was abuzz with news: a messenger from the border outposts brought word that an emissary from Klaav was on the way to Falkaria City.
The castle quickly became a hive of activity as the Steward directed the small army of servants employed there to prepare for the mysterious emissary’s visit. The throne room was scrubbed, polished and cleaned to a degree most of the castle residents claimed not to have seen in their lifetimes. Scullery boys were even sent up on ladders to clean the dust from the topside of the room’s high rafters.
Similar treatments were given to other prominent spaces in the castle, including the Feast Hall, where the tables that had been pushed to the sides of the room were repositioned for additional seating, tripling the room’s capacity. A story circulated that a crew had been sent to clean the library, but the librarian was having none of that and sent them away with a stern warning not to return.
The messenger had also brought word that the emissary’s retinue was small, only a handful of guards and attendants traveled with him. Armed with this information, the steward was able to prepare the guest quarters they would require on arrival.
From Turgeon’s perspective, the emissary’s impending arrival had little impact on his day to day life in the castle, and for that he was grateful. The castle servant’s lives had been completely upended and he did not envy that.
His unconsidered choice of Ideal in his meeting with the Swordmaster had, however, altered his days significantly. Simply having made the choice opened a door in his training, and the Swordmaster continued to work with Turgeon to advance his knowledge of the Fiorian arts.
Part of his advancement was learning his first sequence of plays, the Klaaverius’ primary grappling sequence. These plays, which the Swordmaster taught him chained together in a sequence, could in fact be executed in any order depending on the context in an actual fighting scenario. In addition to the plays, he also began to learn many basic arm locks and limb breaking actions that could be executed in addition to the throws he had previously learned. The sequence could be done solo or with a partner, and the Swordmaster encouraged him to practice it on his own in addition to working through it during his training.
When they trained together Turgeon acted as both the agent executing the plays in the sequence against the Swordmaster and as the recipient of the plays, executed on him by the Swordmaster. He learned that executing many of the throws and locks from the plays required close physical proximity to his grappling partner, with no space or light between them. It was close and sweaty work.
Through practice, Turgeon realized that as he moved through and executed the sequenced plays he was also moving through the guards he had already learned. The sequence moved him from blowing wind to flowing river, from flowing river to stone wall, from stone wall to grasping flames and so on. Many of the plays were counters to other plays, and they often changed the order of plays and counters in practice.
Eventually the grappling sequence became entirely mindless: it became something his body alone was able to perform without conscious thought. Each time they trained, the Swordmaster had Turgeon begin the session by executing the sequence repeatedly, as many times as he could without making a mistake.
On the day he was able to execute the entire sequence perfectly ten times in a row, the Swordmaster nodded approvingly.
“You are now ready to train with my other student,” he informed Turgeon.
His other student? His master had another student? This was news to Turgeon – he had previously assumed he was the Swordmaster’s only student, as his apprentice.
“You look surprised, did you not know I had another student?”
“No, master, I was not aware. I suppose I made the mistake of assuming I knew, but I was clearly wrong.”
“Yes, you were. As I said, you are now ready and so we will be changing things up tomorrow. From now on, you will study in the library with Master Jesphat in the mornings and train in the afternoons. Please inform the Librarian when you visit him this afternoon.”
*****
Discussions and lessons with Master Jesphat had focused on understanding his chosen Ideal, Freedom. Despite counseling him against this course, now that it had been chosen the librarian had been doing his best to help Turgeon understand it.
Their first conversation about his choice had not gone well, however.
“What on Atenla were you thinking?! Oh, you foolish boy…” had been the librarian’s initial response when Turgeon had informed him of his decision.
“We discussed this! The risks of choosing an Ideal outside the High Five Ideals are well documented. Not only do you choose an ideal outside of the canon, you choose Freedom of all possible things. Freedom! What are we going to do with you?”
“I understand your concern, Master Jesphat,” Turgeon had spent most of the intervening night after his discussion with the Swordmaster considering how he would handle this conversation and he was well prepared, “But I have made my choice, and for good reason,” a slight lie, “now I must walk the path I have chosen.”
“A mature and considered approach. In all seriousness though, what is it about the ideal of Freedom that made you choose this path?”
Again something he had considered and was prepared to address, “Freedom is what I seek in life, for myself – Freedom from this place and the life that has been forced upon me – and for others, Freedom from oppression, Freedom to live their lives as they see fit.”
Similar to the Swordmaster upon hearing his choice, this statement caused the librarian’s eyebrows to climb higher on his forehead than Turgeon would have thought possible and he let out a low, quiet whistle of breath.
“Turgeon, I would suggest you keep that motivation to yourself and not share it with anyone else,” the librarian stated seriously.
From there they had spent their time discussing ways for Turgeon to live this ideal without running afoul of the strict societal structures of Falkaria. The inherent power of the noble class over the Kingdom’s commoners made living his ideal particularly challenging in a place like Falkaria. Together they discussed how he could strive for his own freedom, which they concluded would occur through completing his training, acquiring the skills he would need to fight for himself and others.
*****
On a bright, clear, spring morning, a day when the last remnants of the winter snow were disappearing literally before everyone’s eyes, the emissary from Klaav finally arrived at the castle.
As reported by the outpost messenger, the emissary’s retinue was small. He had a valet that traveled with him, and a small squad of five guards. The envoy numbered a mere seven men and women in total. All of them were dressed in the traditional garb of Klaav, consisting of thick, warm furs and cloaks suitable for the nation’s northern climate.
From a distance, as the small band made their way through the Heights towards the castle grounds, it was impossible to distinguish the emissary himself from the guards, but as they drew closer it became clear that his furs were richer and darker, and – even on horseback – the man towered over his companions.
Life in the castle ground to a complete halt as they approached, and the majority of the castle’s noble and otherwise independent residents took to the outer curtain wall to supervise the arrival. Suzette and Brigitta conferred quietly, giggling and pointing at other observers. The Swordmaster, the castle Steward and the Royal Librarian – a remarkably odd trio – talked and laughed together like old friends, with an almost unhealthy amount of backslapping, especially for a man as old as the Librarian. Y’grathen and the Thoth twins blustered together as they all sought the courage to approach the princess. Even the king could be glimpsed observing the proceedings from his high tower overlooking the courtyards.
So Turgeon was not surprised when Daelrud arrived as well, greeting him heartily and taking up position by his side to look out over the crenellations. When he caught sight of the approaching emissary his breath escaped through his teeth with a sharp hissing sound.
“What is it, friend?” Turgeon inquired, curious what would motivate such a response from his usually mild mannered dining partner.
“That emissary is the Crown Prince of Klaav, Gyuszki, heir to the throne, and nephew of King Ambrus.”
Turgeon was impressed. How did Daelrud know so much about Klaav? Despite his own study of Falkarian history, he knew little of their neighbors in Klaav and Summor.
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“How do you know that’s Gyuszki?”
“Prince Gyuszki – take care not to leave off his honorific, he does not take kindly to being disrespected – is said to be a giant among men, with a dark personality and a wardrobe to match. Would you not say this man meets that description?”
It was impossible to deny the truth of that.
“What does it mean? Why would the King of Klaav send the heir as an emissary? And with such a small guard?”
“With such a small guard indeed. A man like Prince Gyuszki should be travelling in the company of at least a battalion of soldiers, not a mere squad.”
Something was clearly afoot, and Turgeon did not like the look of it. Fortunately for him, it was going to be mostly someone else’s problem. More specifically, it would be a problem for the King to deal with.
The emissary approached within earshot of the castle gate and drew his band to a halt.
“I demand a formal audience with the King,” he stated simply in a booming voice that echoed in the castle courtyards.
Turgeon, along with most of the other observers on the castle ramparts, turned his attention to where the King had been standing atop the tower that held the royal chambers a moment ago and was surprised to find that he was no longer there.
In what was clearly a planned response, the Steward called down to the emissary, “We welcome you to our halls, please join us and share our bounty.”
With a nod, the emissary – the Prince, Turgeon reminded himself – spurred his mount onward towards the castle gate, which began to open at a gesture from the Steward, observed by a guardsman and relayed to the gatehouse with a shout.
“Come, Turgeon,” the Swordmaster approached, “I would have my apprentice attend me for the audience. Your presence will be requested as well, Duke Ko.”
The last confused Turgeon initially, there was no one else around, certainly not the Duke of Ko. Who was the Swordmaster talking to?
When Daelrud responded, sounding resigned, Turgeon’s surprise was honest, “Of course, Swordmaster. I shall attend our King.”
They walked together from the ramparts to the castle throne room, which gave Turgeon the opportunity to needle his friend with questions, starting with the most obvious question.
“Duke?” was all he needed to say.
Daelrud, looking abashed, started with an apology, “Turgeon, I’m sorry. I should've told you, I know. But I liked that you didn’t know, and you still liked me. That we were friends because you wanted to be my friend, not because I’m a Duke.”
“So, you are a Duke?’
“Yes, I’m the Duke of Ko. I have been Duke since my father died when I was a boy.”
“I’m … sorry?”
“For what?”
“Your father’s death. My dad was also killed when I was a boy.” He thought sharing that much of his background with a friend would be safe.
“I was a boy, and my father was an ass. I’m over it.”
“Why do you sit in the corner of the dining hall? Surely you could sit at the main table if you wanted?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to. I don’t like many of the people in the castle.”
“Then why not stay at your estate in the Heights? Surely it is magnificent.”
“By tradition, Dukes do not keep an estate in Falkaria City. The early kings of Falkaria found the idea of the most powerful families in the kingdom having what would inevitably become fortresses threateningly close to their own stronghold … unappealing. In exchange for agreeing not to build an estate in the City, the Dukes were promised lodging in the castle when they attend to court.”
They had arrived at the throne room at this point, having caught up to the Swordmaster who had let them lag behind to talk but now awaited them.
“A word with my apprentice, if I may, your Grace.”
Flushing, Daelrud nodded and headed into the throne room.
“I take it you did not know your friend is a Duke,” he stated, Turgeon simply nodded once, brusquely.
“Well, you’ve acquired a powerful ally it seems. Congratulations,” he paused dramatically, eyeing the door to the throne room and appearing thoughtful. “Say nothing. Stand behind me and to my right, away from the King. Do your best to look … strong. Mind your stance.”
With that the Swordmaster gestured for Turgeon to enter the throne room, and followed. He assumed the lead and guided Turgeon to his place on the dais; it felt strange to be up here with the royals for the first time.
The King clearly thought it odd as well, as he raised a questioning eyebrow in the Swordmaster’s direction.
“A show of strength, your Majesty.”
That reply received an approving nod, and Turgeon stayed.
In the next moment, the doors to the chamber were slammed open and the emissary of Klaav – the crown prince Gyuszki – followed two of his guards into the room. His attendant was a step behind him, and the remaining guards brought up the tail of their small party.
Up close, they were even stranger than they had appeared to be from a distance. The prince himself was as tall as he had appeared to be on horseback, towering a full head above the tallest Falkarian guards in the room who were already the tallest humans Turgeon had ever seen. From this closer perspective, however, his stature seemed somehow frail, as if his bulk was made up of the dark furs he wore and underneath those he was barely more than a skeleton with skin. He even seemed to move cautiously, as if tripping and falling could result in a fatal injury.
The soldiers that accompanied him were all grizzled specimens of humanity: even one of the two women amongst their numbers appeared to have a scruffy beard, and despite the bulky boiled leather armor and furs covering most of their bodies they all bore visible scars. The axes and swords these men and women carried were battle tested weapons with rough leather handles, not bejeweled court toys like the fine blades worn by the Falkarian nobles in the room.
Even in this strange company the prince’s attendant stood out as singularly odd. His skin was the palest alabaster white Turgeon had ever seen, and he was completely hairless. But his eyes were perhaps the most disturbing: a pale milky white with no iris or pupil, they somehow gave the impression of focusing on everything and nothing in the room all at once. Turgeon felt as if the man’s sight was boring through him and searing his soul, to a point of almost physical pain.
They approached the dais, and while the prince’s attendant and guards kneeled before the King to show respect, the prince himself did not kneel, remaining standing with his hands behind his back.
“You come into my hall, demand an audience with me, and are not even willing to show me the proper respect in my own keep?”
Even the politically naive Turgeon could see that with the King’s opening salvo this meeting was not off to a good start.
In response, Prince Gyuszki bowed, though not deeply, and spoke, “You are not my King, your Majesty, my uncle would be most displeased if he were to learn I forsook Klaav’s sovereignty and kneeled before the King of Falkaria.”
Everyone present seemed to have expected that response, indeed even the King nodded.
“Your position is acknowledged. Why have you come?”
“Straight to business, your majesty?” The Prince had lowered his voice and it no longer echoed in the chamber, but now it was dripping with venom, a thin veneer over a threat.
“You know magic is banned in Falkaria, and yet you bring that thing into my castle anyway. I would have you gone from here by nightfall.”
“So much for sharing the bounty…”
No, this was not going well. What was the ‘thing’ the King was referring to? Did the prince have some sort of magic item with him the King could recognize somehow?
“I repeat my question: Why have you come to Falkaria?”
“My liege has an an offer for you: Join us in making war on Summor and share in the bounty we shall reap from conquest.”
“No. Falkaria has no interest in joining your conflict with Summor.”
That Klaav and Summor were at war was news to Turgeon, but it appeared as though the King and other senior members of his court were already aware of this.
“This is the only path to true Peace, Your Majesty. Summor will always seek to bring war to Atenla, it is all they know. Falkaria has fought with Summor how many times now since the fall of the First Empire? Three? Four? How many times has Summor laid siege to this very city? The only way to permanently end your wars with Summor is to end Summor. If you join us, we can do so together.”
His initial reaction was disgust at hearing this man invoke one of the High Five Ideals – Peace, no less – to justify war with all its attendant death and destruction. It was shocking to Turgeon, but the argument appeared to be at least somewhat salient with the King and others in the room. The King’s expression had softened and his initial anger was turning slowly to thoughtfulness. Turgeon looked to his friend Daelrud, or perhaps he should start thinking of him as ‘Duke Ko,’ and he appeared thoughtful – as though he was also seriously considering this proposition. If only he could see the Swordmaster’s reaction…
“I will consider your offer, Prince Gyuszki,” came the King’s reply. “In the meantime, however, you must leave my castle and take that thing with you. My Steward can arrange suitable – and discreet – lodgings for you outside of the city.”
“My thanks, your majesty,” was the prince’s verbal reply, but he did not sound thankful for this offer and the King’s consideration of his own.
Turning on his heels, he stormed out of the throne room to the sound of amazed gasps from the present courtiers. Everyone seemed to think the King would not tolerate this disrespect and would order the prince executed on the spot, but perhaps unsurprisingly the King demurred. This wasn’t just another of his subjects, and executing the Prince would obviously be tantamount to declaring war on Klaav.
Following the emissary’s departure, the King dismissed the court and hastily proceeded to exit the throne room, beckoning the Librarian, Steward and Swordmaster to follow him for counsel. Turgeon took his leave of Duke Ko and began to make his way to his lodgings in the Swordmaster’s tower.
It wasn’t long before he was far enough away from the throne room that he found himself walking alone down a long hallway along the western wall of the castle. It was late afternoon, but despite the high windows that should be allowing bright afternoon light into the hallway he noticed it was actually quite dim. He became immediately wary.
When the attack came, it came so quickly he was caught completely off-guard. The creature that leapt at him from the hallway’s shadows was similar to a man in general stature: bipedal, with two arms and about the height of an average man. Its features were not at all human though: the face of the creature was gaunt and rotten, with strips of flesh falling away from a mouth filled with pointed fang-like teeth. The creature’s fingers ended in sharp claws, and the scent coming from it was nauseating.
Later, when he reflected on his reaction to his first sight of this horrible creature he would be embarrassed by how he froze on the spot like a stereotypical foolish boy in the stories, rendered lame and futile by shock and completely forgetting the art of defense he studied.
The initial attack was furious and sudden though: the creature knocked him to the ground and his head hit the stone floor hard, knocking him unconscious, prone and vulnerable.
