The soft breeze blew across the skies. The forest rustled quietly, the hunting band moving stealthily through the undergrowth. They wore the knighted clothing of the Wymond house. Black tunics, breeches, and hard shin-high leather boots. The insignia on their right breast as well as the back of their left shoulder consisted of two sharp purified white stripes and a silver one, both behind a gold elk skull and horns. They wore thin, yet strong breastplates and armor on their shins, thighs, shoulders, hands, and forearms. The helmets made these disciplined knights stand out profusely. They were painted a thick black with minor slits on the front for eyes and breathing. The soldier's eyesight remained perfect, though keeping protection of the greatest kind. Bore on the cheekbone and above the eye signifying rank, were white stripes. The helmets were made out of a strong metal, and made the knights look like eagles.
They moved skillfully through the brush and trees, watching for movement and anything to catch. The men made barely a sound, their breath leveled. Suddenly, the man in the lead held his hand up in a fist. Everyone stopped in unison. The hunting band held perfectly still and silent, watching their leader.
The arrow fletching touched the leader's cheek for only a second as he drew, aimed, and released in one fluid motion. He heard the soft thrum of the bow as his arrow flew straight and true at his target; a beautiful buck grazing in a field. Hit.
Nice.
"Let's round it up boys, it's getting dark. Let's head home." His voice held a smoothness that was shaped gently with a great amount of authority.
"Yes, sir," resounded from all the men as they jumped to work. They quickly wrapped up the golden-furred buck into a cloth, careful of its velvety horns. Slowly but surely, they carried it back to the wagons. They worked in perfect unity, communicating as they hoisted it.
"Load it." The man commanded, taking his helmet off and running gloved palms through his bronze hair as the men loaded the carcass on. "Good hunting today men."
Nods responded to him.
"Lord Wymond. To home, I'm guessing?" The driver turned, doffing his cap. The bronze-haired man turned at his name, his gold-silver eyes catching the driver.
"That's correct. Home."
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The castle walls loomed out of the trees, its dark and uninviting look loomed amplified by the guards walking along the tops. The message clear; don't even try. The stone had been specially covered and painted in coal dust mixed with oil. The lord of the castle, Lord Wymond had thought it up as an extra protection defense. Home. The gate creaked and groaned as it was lifted, the sharp points at the end glinting like hungry daggers.
Like every time that Christopher and his guards went out, the villagers were standing in crowds on either side of the road, waiting and watching as their lord liege came home. The men would respectfully nod their heads or hold the Wymond salute, hand curled into a fist, covering the heart. Then women would curtsy, smiling and clapping their hands. All the children would clap, laugh, and excitedly wave their hands. Christopher would smile respectfully as he walked along with his wagon to his castle.
As he walked once again, though today without joy or a smile, he stared ahead, the clapping of the crowds died out as they saw his sullen face. They watched with confused faces as their lord walked purposely to his castle and disappeared inside, while never looking anywhere else. Something was off.
Christopher walked straight to the council room. He paced the length of the table whilst waiting for his officers. What was it? Why was it here, on my land? What was it...
The doors opened, and Captain Timothy Fyte with Lieutenants Joshua Malan and Marcus Goode. "Sir?" The captain asked. His blonde hair was freshened up, as was his uniform.
"Captain, Lieutenants, thank you for coming upon such short notice," Christopher took a deep breath, remaining hesitant. "You all were there, you know why you are here. What are your thoughts about the fires? They were repeated. And we found no evidence of someone on the road." The officers looked at each other, thinking, though Christopher knew they had no explanation.
The lord recalled the strange scene. The dirt and foliage had been trampled and the obvious remains of travelers being there. It hadn’t been the first camp they’d found on their week trip. They’d come across a fair amount of small camps, found not too far from the main road. Nothing seemed suspicious at the time, travelers and traders often made camp in his forest. The fire had been left, mostly ashes and crackling pieces of wood. They were still warm when the hunting party found it. The fifth fire. The curious camp hadn’t caught their attention much until he probed the ashes further. He saw, then, the burnt note. The note that mentioned Christopher by name. It also, in the still burning remnants, had the words, “Upon reading this message, destroy it.” The note itself hadn’t survived much longer. It crumbled to ash. Christopher alone had lain eyes on it. He’d left three of his guardsmen to investigate and return to the wagon.
He was growing impatient. "Answer!" His words almost at a yell. He longed only for some answer to his question. The officers recoiled a bit. They all started speaking at once until it was a mashup, "I thon't itow, miybe haeen...."
"ONE. AT. A. TIME. Captain, speak."
"Yes, sir, s-sorry sir." The captain stumbled over his words slightly. He rarely heard his lord yell or get angry. "I think that the fire might have been from travelers, but that wouldn't make sense, they could have just come here or made it to one of the other villages... Or it could be some kind of......." Fyte hesitated, his words fading out until his jaw was left open, nothing coming out.
"Badger got your tongue, or are you just trying to catch flies, Captain?" Christopher stared at his Captain, "Lieutenant Malan, anything?"
"N-n-no sire, my lord, uh, sir. I haven't the slightest idea."
"Fine then, Goode got anything for me?" Christopher was getting increasingly agitated and confused by the second.
"Yes, sir, I think I might have a possible answer." The confident lieutenant stood straighter, coming to a tight position of attention. "Sir, the fire could be something like what Captain Fyte said, possibly travelers. My thought was that... well, we know that political tensions have been exceptionally high the last few weeks." The lieutenant's brown hair was slicked back, giving him an almost snake-like appearance, as if he were injecting a deadly venom into the conversation.
"So what?" The tone of Lord Wymond's voice had softened in volume, yet had taken on a sharper, more intense sound.
"So, sir, I'm suggesting that perhaps there is some sort of assassin or bounty hunter. Just a thought, sir, but, I think it's something we should at least consider."
Christopher's eyes narrowed, he stood silently for many moments. "Thank you. Lieutenants you are dismissed, Captain stay." The officers saluted, then filed out, making sure to close the door tightly.
Captain Fyte stood rigidly, his fingers fidgeting with his breeches seam. "Sir?"
Christopher watched the Captain with cool eyes. He didn't need to say anything, the Captain knew that he should have finished his sentence. "What I was going to say, sir, uh, was that it may be a trap. Someone may have sent or hired some kind of assassin, bounty hunter, or maybe a spy. I don't know. What I do know, my liege, is that many of the noblemen don't like you right now. They hate that you have the power of the angel Raziek, Gabriel, and Raphael. I think we both know the one claiming that hates you."
“What are you talking about?” He scoffed, “Power of the angels. Sure.” Christopher shook his head, turning away, dismissing the officer. He heard the door quietly open then shut behind him. Christopher struck the table with his fist. Christopher sat down at the head of the table, his head in his hands. He groaned, “What the hell.”
"My lord, are you alright?" The quiet feminine voice startled the young noble.
"Wha- what?" His eyes immediately whipped around, his body tensing into defense.
The woman came into view, she was standing in front of the door, her figure was smooth and soft, her blonde hair coming halfway down her back twisted into a neat braid. She wore a clover-green dress made of fine silk. Her blue-green eyes watched Christopher with kindness and interest, though there was something else that he couldn't decide on. She repeated, "Are you alright, my lord?"
"I-" Christopher hesitated, "Yes I'm fine, uh, what are you doing here..?"
"My apologies, my lord, my name is Caitlin Demere. I am the daughter of the king." Caitlin smiled and clasped her hands in front of herself.
Christopher immediately stood and kneeled before her, his head bowed. "Forgive me, highness. I did not recognize you."
"Stand, Lord Wymond. I did not expect you to. I came as a simple messenger and diplomat for my father." Christopher stood, now recognizing the golden rings on her fingers, that explains the expensiveness of her dress.
"So Madam Demere, what has the king commanded?"
"Caitlin, please. Just Caitlin." She smiled, "The king has a matter of importance, hence why I am here. He has been experiencing some strange tension between his noblemen, though not uncommon, he believes that you may be the cause." Her voice held a note of authority now.
"Why?" Christopher took an unsteady breath, this is the exact thing that Captain Fyte said. Can’t be a coincidence, could it?
"Well, he has quite concrete proof, provided many of the noblemen have sent my father letters expressing their... feelings. They want you well, dead." Her voice sharpened at the end.
Christopher simply sighed and closed his eyes, "What did I do now?"
"Nothing, and that's the problem. They just want your land." Caitlin's face contorted with disgust. "Greedy bastards, though I think we both already knew that."
Christopher nodded, taking in the gravity of the situation. Only weeks before he had attended a council meeting and had gone against the majority of the council. The king had been inclined to agree with him. Throughout the rest of the meeting, the other men had been casting him dirty looks. After the meeting one of the other noblemen, Keith Galbian, had confronted him, pushing him into the hall's wall. He yelled at Christopher, making the claim that he didn't deserve to be a noble for doing something he didn't even remember. That Christopher was a simply unintelligent fighter. The king had been walking out, speaking to another one of his nobles. When he saw what was happening, he criticized Lord Galbian, getting enraged, and threatened him. Then he had formally apologized to Lord Wymond. The councilmen who had seen scowled at Wymond, and ended up flocking to Galbian's side when the king had left. “Who’s your father?” Galbian had asked, smiling wickedly. “Didn’t he want to keep you? No? That’s too bad, you could have worked for me as my servant! After all, he wasn’t a royal, now was he? Just a lowly street sweeper, until he became what he became, under the most lucky circumstances. You never did learn what happened to him, did you? Sources say he led his army into that trap and sickened himself so as not to be suspected. Alas, you would know. You did watch him die. Tell me, Christy, did he tell you of his traitorous actions?” Christopher stiffened, clenching his fist, setting and unsetting his jaw at the memory. His head lowered as he pushed it away.
“Lord Wymond?” Caitlin whispered, reaching out and grasping his hand. He flinched away, his head snapping back up. He met her confused eyes with his pained gaze.
“My apologies, my lady,” he replied, his voice dry. “I became distracted, please continue.”
Caitlin watched him, quietly, as his hands trembled. Her face softened, remembering what her father had told her about after the last council meeting, of which she couldn’t attend due to a biweekly meeting that she couldn’t miss. “Kit,” she whispered, leaning gently towards him, “Galbian is, and will always be, wrong. You know that, don’t you?” Her eyes searched his face, watching his tension relax.
“You just called me Kit.” He remarked, a smile creeping into his lips. “You haven’t called me that for years, Cait.” They laughed together, briefly, before returning to their prior serious aura. “Milady, we were speaking about something, I believe.”
"Ah, yes,” she replied, her mind returning to the topic at hand. “We believe that Galbian signed multiple contracts with bounty hunters, assassins, robbers, anyone willing to kill a noble for lots of money." Caitlin took a breath, contemplating how to put the next part. "They are to kill you, and we know it. The king has commanded 100 royal guards here. They should be arriving anytime now."
Christopher bowed his head over her hand, "Thank your father for me. Though it may not be necessary, I appreciate the gesture."
"Of course." The princess turned away, but not before Christopher saw a slight pink form on her face, or at least that’s what he thought it was. He followed her out, heading to the castle entrance. He watched as Caitlin mounted her brown steed, riding out of the city. He saw them then, the guards marching in four straight lines, staring straight ahead. Their poleaxes threatened as they marched through the lining-up villagers. They formed up in the square between the castle and the houses.
"Guard, HALT! Guard, SALUTE!" The captain called out to the company. They followed with precision, first halting in their neat lines, then rendering the Wymond salute, their poleaxes tilted forward in a hail of their new temporary lord. Christopher saluted back, his glove curled sharply against his chest.
"Thank you, captain, what's your name?"
"Captain Teale, sir." The man responded, standing straighter. "We swear our utmost loyalty to you, Lord Christopher Wymond of the King’s Court."
"And I to you, Captain Teale. Continue." Christopher was satisfied with the performance of the guard, even if they were a wee-bit too show-offish.
"Yes, sir," the captain turned on his heels to face the royal guardsmen again. "Guard, move ou-"
The black-fletched arrow thrummed straight into Christopher's shoulder. He cried out in pain, the blood spurting from the wound. The pure white dripped from the arrow as he pulled it out.
Ouch.
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