Fantasy The Betrayal (Reboot)

[Owl Knight]

Mordin stamped his feet and rubbed his gloved hands in a vain attempt to banish the cold the gnawed at his old bones like a starving wolf. For thirty miles the cold had been seeping deeper and deeper into his body until even the fur lined tunic he wore did little to preserve him from the chill.

The land of Bremmerlund was hard. As hard as the iron scraped from the mines that gave her her name "the iron land". And his knees felt every bit of that hardness as he made his way along the trail ahead of the carriage. He pulled his horse behind him by her lead. He didn't mind riding, so much. But there came times when he just needed to feel the ground beneath his own two feet.

The prince had been quiet for some time, hidden away in the carriage. But then, he supposed, who could blame him, being delivered this way like chattel in his brother's political game. He deserved far better than what his position had forced his life to become. Mordin only hoped that the royal family of Lyria were a better people than Ethred, the boy's hateful bastard of a brother, and he would be there for him in whatever capacity he could. All the same, the old knight's heart grieved for the child he had all but raised and the uncertain future that lay before him.

"Woah!" came a call from the rider at the head of the train. The young soldier whirled his mare around and rode back towards Mordin's position by the carriage.

"What is it?" the bodyguard asked, raising a hand to stop the carriage. The driver pulled up the wagon horses.

"A tree fell across the road up ahead," the young soldier replied. "It's not very stout, we should be able to do away with it quickly."

Mordin frowned. He had seen enough treachery in his life to know that mysteriously felled trees were not always the result of unfortunate happenstance. Indeed, they were a favorite method of highwaymen and other unsavory types that were all too common along these deserted roads, far from the nearest town.

"Alright," Mordin commanded. "Take three men with axes from the rear wagon and clear the way. Set the rest of the guard along the sides of the road. The longer we are delayed the greater the risk to his highness."

The young soldier nodded and rode back to inform the rear guard of Mordin's orders. Mordin ground his teeth as he pulled his horse back to the carriage and tied her off to an iron bracket on the side. The king had only offered him a dozen men. Twelve members of the castle guard to make the journey as quiet and expedient as possible. Mordin had argued for more men, but Ethred, the prattling little gobsmack couldn't be swayed.

Everything about this stank to heavens high.

Three soldiers, axes in hand, strode past him from the rear of the caravan, on their way to clear the blockage. Mordin watched them go and then rounded to make his way to the carriage door. His cold eye scanned the forest that rose on either side of the sunken road, the rough pine trunks wreathed in chill mist.

He knocked gently on the carriage door.

"Your highness?"

 

[Grammatic]

The journey so far had been uneventful, something that Callan was thankful for in all honesty. The carriage provided for his journey was not one of the more extravagant ones in the Bremmerlund employ; a simple wooden design without any of the comforts Callan's older brother would have demanded for such a journey. It suited Callan well enough though. He had sprawled out across one side of the carriage, his boots propped up on the bench across from him, and a book lay open on his lap. It was one he had read before, one of the first ones he ever read in fact. It brought him some comfort to reread it over the years, and now, during such a huge time of change for him, that comfort was something he desired.

When he had been told of his marriage, Callan had done his best to hide any reaction. Any overt emotional displays had often gotten him days of torment from his older brother, the now King of Bremmerlund, and Callan had learned it was best to show nothing in the presence of others. Many called him bland, a few called him dim witted, but it was a survival mechanism that had allowed Callan to survive with his sanity intact so far. It had been one of the hardest things in his life to not show the elation he had felt about the prospect of leaving the palace for, in a very literal sense, greener pastures.

He did not know who it was he was to marry. Relations between Bremmerlund and Lyria had rarely been anything but distant, but Callan had never heard the dark stories from Lyria that lurked every hall in the palace in Bremmerlund. He doubted he would find love, a word that meant almost nothing to Callan, but had read often enough about in the books he had to keep hidden from his family. He could be ignored, left to his own devices and paraded out every few months for some royal event, but that was fine with Callan. It was an escape from the hell that was the world Ethred had created in Bremmerlund, and that was enough for him.

He glanced up from the book at the carriage came to a halt. Curtains covered the windows of the carriage, the one comfort afforded to Callan, so he was unable to look out at what was happening. He did not have to wait long, though, before there was a knock on the carriage door, and the familiar voice of the one man Callan could consider a friend called out. Callan gently creased the edge of the book, marking his place, and put it into the small cupboard usually reserved for drinks. Callan had gifted the drinks to the small guard detail not long after they had left the palace, on the condition they were careful with their consumption, and stuffed the now empty cupboard full with books.

Leaning across the carriage, Callan pulled the small latch that kept the door in place, pushing it open and nodding his head in greeting to Mordin. "What seems to be the problem, Mordin? I am not the best judge of time, but certainly we can not have arrived already?"

Owl Knight

 

[Owl Knight]

Mordin scowled as he glanced back up the road towards the cloaked soldiers as they gathered around the fallen tree. The stench of treachery hung over the secluded stretch of road like stink around a battlefield corpse cart.

"Pardon the interruption, your highness," he said gruffly. "There is a pine fallen across the road. I've dispatched some of the men to clear it away. I shouldn't delay us more than an hour." He stared up at the boy. A boy...nearly a man... he thought, wistfully. The years had blinked by so fleetingly. "All the same," he added, "It may be best if you remain in the carriage, even with this crew about, there are dangers out here on the road." With a brief reassuring smile, he turned and stomped off towards the front to check in on the soldiers clearing the cart. They had retrieved axes and were busy hacking away at the gnarled bark of the tree in tandem, their blades thumping out an uneven rhythm that danced out through the quiet pines.

Everything around the little caravan was still. Aside from the hushed conversation of the rear guard, the thumping of the axes, and the impatient whickering of the cart horses, all was stillness and dull snowy silence.

He heard the creak of the drawstring just before his eyes turned to the peak of the ridge that ran along the northern side of the road some twenty paces away. The hooded figure crouched in the shadow of a pine near the crest of the ridge, the short thick bow in his hands drawn back, the point of his arrow aimed at Mordin's heart.

Even with the space of fifteen years between the old knight and the battlefield, his instincts were as strong as ever. He threw himself into the dirt and snow just in time to hear the shaft hiss past him like a viper. He pressed himself upwards, feeling his left shoulder scream with the sudden burst of movement. He scrambled, scraped at the sort and hard packed snow. There was a second hiss and a third and a scream from the direction of the rear guard.

"Ambush!" Mordin roared, rising and running as fast as he could towards the carriage. "To the Prince!" More hissing shots and a second and third scream of pain joined the sudden chorus. Three dead, Mordin calculated as he dove towards the first packhorse. Nine remain.

Grammatic

 

[Grammatic]

"There are dangers everywhere, Mordin" Callan said, pushing himself up from his seat on the carriage. He stretched as best he could in the carriage, his hands pushing against the roof before he sat back down. He ached to get out of the carriage, but he had been told, in no uncertain terms, that he was supposed to remain inside during the trip. Callan enjoyed horse riding; it was one of the few times where he truly felt free and the master of his own life. It was a nuisance, but Callan had learned long ago it was better to comply than to argue, sometimes, with Mordin.

He was just reaching back down to the drawer when he heard the first snap of a bow string. It was a sound he was used to, though bows were limited use in the colder environments. The bows strings would snap from extended exposure to the wind, a lesson Callan had learned the hard way. He still had the scar on his upper arm from the recoil. Perhaps one of the soldiers was taking the chance to do some hunting while the log was cleared? The thought of fresh meat with their rations that night was a welcome one. Then he heard the screams, and the barked voice of Mordin that sent a shiver running down his spine.

Ambush.

Callan leapt to his feet, reaching back behind him to where his sword and belt hung on the wall of the carriage. He hastily worked to strap them on, his fingers fumbling for a few seconds as the adrenaline rush of the situation began to hit him. He did not immediately fling the door of the carriage open, though his instincts screamed at him to get out, get moving. In the event of an ambush by bandits, the carriage would be the last target to hit. Filled with the spoils the bandits truly wanted, they would clear out the guards before coming to claim their hard fought bounty. Callan also knew that the soldiers, handpicked by Mordin no doubt, would already be moving to surround and defend the carriage. It was a central location, it was where Callan was. Getting out and moving around would make their jobs much more difficult.

Still...

He was ducking down to grab one of the daggers he stored in the drawer when an arrow shot through the cloth covering the window. It embedded itself into the wall of the carriage, vibrating for a few seconds as its motion came to a rest. Callan stared at it stunned; his head had been in the path of that arrow just moments before. With a strangled gasp, Callan made the decision. It could have been a stray shot, but the sound of other arrows striking the carriage gave the clear indication that the carriage, or more likely, the individual inside the carriage, was the target.

Throwing open the door on the opposite side of the carriage, Callan stumbled out into the snow covered landscape, the sounds of battle echoing all around him. He reflexively drew his sword, his hands itching to grasp something as his heart pounded in his ears. This was not supposed to be happening.

Owl Knight

 

[Owl Knight]

Mordin fell to the earth again just behind one of the stout carthorses which bucked and whinnied anxiously at the sudden outburst of commotion about them. Rolling to avoid a stomping hoof Mordin managed to get a knee and drew his broadsword. He wondered briefly if archers had been stationed on the other side of the road, but glancing around he couldn't tell. A fourth scream rang out and a body fell at the rear of the caravan.

As Mordin looked back to see who had taken the shot he saw the door of the carriage burst open and Callan nearly bound out into the snow, sword already in hand.

Bloody hells, Mordin groaned. He rose, ignoring the arthritic ache in his knee as he drove onward towards the lad. He took the prince by the coat and threw him hard against the side of the carriage.

"Your highness, it's an ambush. They've killed four already! We have to--"

One of the horses was struck in the side. With an agonized cry the beast charged forward, it's partner following suit, pulling the cart on towards the fallen log. Mordin just barely pulled the Prince away from the crushing wheels as the cart careened away, both men falling hard to the snow.

 

[Grammatic]

Callan did not respond at first as Mordin rushed towards him, pushing him against the cart. His eyes were staring into the distance, not focusing on any one detail for longer than a moment. He was having trouble processing what was happening all around him; the shouts and screams, the agonized cries of the dying. It did not make any sense. This was supposed to be a safe trip, a journey of escape from the hell his life had been to a better future. Hell was apparently unwilling to let him escape its clutches so easily. It had followed him, a curse that would always linger and bring strife to him, and those around him.

Maybe he deserved this.

He was about to talk when Mordin grabbed Callan once again and threw him to the ground. The cold slap of snow against his face shocked him, and he spluttered as he tried to push himself up and away from the freezing ground. "Mordin," Callan gasped out, his voice shallow and breathless, "this should not be happening. We were supposed to be safe, it was supposed to be over." Callan trailed off, beginning to rant to himself as he brought his sword up in a guard position. He faced no enemies, but he stood ready to strike down any that got in his path. So he thought anyway, the reality was likely a different story.