The Exiled King

“What do we do?” Jason hissed.

Leus took to the situation more calmly, noting the singular door that was the only exit.

“There is no way,” He concluded, “There is only one exit and they are blocking it. Perhaps it might be in our best interests to go along with them for a while—assuming they correctly identify us, of course.”

As if he’d called them over, one of the guards pointed to their table and approached. They were quickly identified and escorted to the town jail—a small, run-down building on the outskirts of the town with only a few damp cells that were seldom used. They were bundled into one cell and the door was shut with a clang.

“Well, great,” Jason sighed and said scathingly, “Now they’ve us locked up perfectly to take us back to Throeyns castle—some great plan, Lord Leus!”

I swear to Pelos, this foolish idea was bound to fail, He thought bitterly, After all, in the end he’s just another of the pathetic noble stock. Still, we’re sure to be executed if we’re sent back to Lord Rowan.

He put on a smile and apologised, “I’m sorry about my outburst—I just feel a bit frustrated,” He explained, “Everything we’ve done will be for nothing if we’re sent back now. We need a plan.”

Lirya nodded enthusiastically and Leus frowned, deep in his thoughts.

He looked up and said, “For our current predicament, there really isn’t much we can do. However, if they plan to load us up somewhere, we will most certainly find the situation more favourable to make a move.”

“But we need a goal—some idea beyond mindlessly fleeing the reach of Lord Throeyns,” Leus continued, “As of now, the best solution would be to leave Sanobar until the situation calms down.”

Lirya sprang up, conflicting feelings dancing in her eyes, “But Sanobar is our home!”

Leus nodded and stopped further protests by continuing, “I know. But as things stand, we will be on the run forever. Lord Throeyns has tremendous influence within Sanobar. Our best chance is to wait it out. My suggestion is that we head to Silvardor and ask the elves for shelter for a few years.”

“Elves?!” Lirya cried, her voice laced with contempt, “They’d sooner turn us out for the sake of saving their own kin! Did you not learn of the atrocities they committed during the Demon War when they turned their backs on our suffering to save themselves?!”

Jason nodded, but Leus frowned, asking, “Where did you hear that?”

Lirya glared at him, “It’s common knowledge! Didn’t you learn that during your history classes?”

Jason added, “They really are scum! My father told me that he had heard that my real father was killed by an elven patrol!”

“I suspect your information, at least yours, Lirya, may be a bit… exaggerated,” Leus said carefully, “Recent chronicles detail that elves and humans live in relative harmony. No attacks have been made since the Demon War.”

“Why the elves?” Jason asked sullenly, “Couldn’t we ask the dwarves?”

Leus shook his head, “They’ve closed their borders off to outsiders—apparently there is a succession issue and they don’t want anyone to meddle. rumour has it that their crown prince ran off after stealing a precious artifact of some sort…”

“Have you finished conversing yet?” A soft voice interjected and a lantern swung into view, illuminating a pale face covered by a hooded cloak.

Jason sprang to his feet and questioned the stranger’s motives in approaching them and who the stranger was.

The stranger lifted a thin, pale hand adorned with a glimmering silver signet ring with a ruby embedded, and removed the hood of the cloak. Wisps of long, silky white hair tumbled into appearance, having previously been hidden inside the folds of the hood. The hair framed a delicate face and a pair of startling blue eyes and startlingly long, white eyelashes.

“My name is Haverik—and I can get you out of here,” He said with a smile.

Lirya squinted at him and frowned, “Are you a ghost?”

Haverik shook his head and answered, “No, I was born this way. My father claims I got my appearance from my mother.”

Leus approached Haverik and eyed him warily, “What way does it benefit you to set us free, Haverik Nerbus? Estion Nerbus runs the town watch—what could possibly benefit you in releasing your father’s prisoners?”

Haverik lowered the lantern, his eyes shadowed.

He hesitated a moment before answering, “Take me with you. I wouldn’t be a burden—I do most of the work for my father’s town watch while he whiles away the hours drunk as a skunk.”

He continued, “Also… I know you’re a guardian,” Haverik looked at Jason, then lifted the lantern up to his eye level, the light revealing a matching silver circlet to Jason’s gold one.

Jason’s eyes widened and he reached his hand up, brushing his bangs out of the way and touching the circlet that had appeared on his head, only a few days ago—in what could be argued as a fated meeting. His fingers felt the ridges of the patterns and inset gems as he peered at Haverik’s.

He looked up slowly and asked quietly, “What does it mean to be a guardian?”

Haverik held up the keys to the cell and said quietly, “I’ll tell you.”

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Contrary to the first time they had fled, one of them actually had a plan this time. Haverik had quickly unlocked the cell and bundled them out of the jail. No one was around to stop them and he passed them each a sleeping roll and grabbed his horse, which stood tied to a post at the front of the jail. Jason led them back to where they had stabled their horses and it was not long before they were riding out of the town. They had met no resistance.

“Where are all of the guards?” Jason asked Haverik as they rode north.

Haverik looked over at Jason and his eyes sparkled as he replied, “I praised their work capturing you and suggested they take the night off in a tavern with drinks on the house. None of them mentioned you guys again.”

Haverik rode ahead and his long hair flew backwards. Looking like fine snow in the sunlight, Haverik’s hair shone brightly, giving him an ethereal appearance.

He really does look like a ghost, Jason thought, Yet he claims he is a guardian like me… I wonder what we are…

Leus, who rode at the front of the group, turned back and shouted, his voice carrying over the winds, “We’ll aim to ride until about an hour until sunset. Then we’ll set up camp—we should be able to cover the distance through the mountain pass in two days, if we keep up this speed.”

True to his word, they were at the foot of the mountains when he called for them to halt. Jason looked up at the mountains, taking in the dominating air as the steep peaks rose high in the evening light. A narrow, winding path cut through the mountain range, darkened by shadows a wind whistled out of the path. It was said that the path had been a strike made by a heavenly sword, though the stories differed on who had wielded the sword. Some said Pelos, one of the founding gods, while others favoured Cassiel, the first archangel prince serving Pelos.

Built by the forest edge—where the forest cut off and steep mountains rose—was a weathered wooden shack and Jason suggested they rest there for the night.

Haverik nodded, but cautioned them, “There have been rumours of bandits in the mountains—we’ll have to check the shack carefully and keep watch. But I agree that it would be much better to sleep until cover.”

First they peered in through the dust-covered and cracked windows, but found no light or indications of habitation. Next, Leus carefully opened the front door with Jason behind him, who leapt into the house, brandishing a sword which had been wrapped in his bedroll. Still silence greeted him as the dust settled and he took in the surroundings. It was a modest dwelling with a small fireplace, a little pantry, and bedroom off to the side and a main room. The entire shack was lifeless and a couple of chairs were overturned.

The wooden floorboards creaked as Jason walked further into the shack. His foot broke through the floorboard and he gave a yell, before sheepishly covering his mouth and inspecting the ground—his foot had not sunken in deeply.

“Be careful where you step!” He laughed.

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The fireplace illuminated the entire room in a warm orange glow and the crackling of the fire gave a feeling of life to the old shack. The companions huddled around the fire, sitting on their bedrolls and enjoying some bread rations. The bread, while not fresh, was undeniably a feast compared to the measly stale rations Lirya, Jason and Leus had sustained themselves on for their previous journey.

As night fell, the wind gradually picked up and a storm began to brew. The windows of the shack rattled and the wind howled outside—so loud, in fact, that they nearly missed a series of rapid knocks on the front door.

“Someone’s out in the storm!” Jason exclaimed and Lirya jumped, rushing to the door. She carelessly threw it open to reveal a heavily cloaked figure. The figure had long red hair—tied loosely around his neck—and red eyes. He coughed and blood dribbled down his chin and he held his side, which was soaked crimson.

In a hoarse voice, he whispered, “Please, may I enter? I seek refuge for the night.”

Haverik frowned and stood up, opening his mouth to say something but Lirya opened the door wider and answered, “Yes, come in quickly! You’re wounded!”

The stranger nodded and stepped in, leaning against the wall for support. Lirya shut the door with a bang and offered the stranger her arm. He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him with inhuman speed and strength, wrapping his arms around her.

Lirya cried out in surprise then in pain as he revealed a pair of fangs, then sank them into her neck.