NOVEL NEXT Chapter 14 – Merrick – Contention
Merrick waded through the thick crowd of soldiers, paladin noviciates and the usual camp followers before his eyes caught the gaudy form of Lord Lucille T'Fyrestok nervously twitching his anxious fingers. Despite the man's eloquent claim of being born and bred for war, Merrick held his reservations. Perhaps, a decent opponent for duels, but not for war. An opinion that the nameless Merrick kept to himself. He briskly came up beside the lordling as latter paced back and forth in front of the long table laden with dishes of finely sautéd chicken soup and small pastries.
"Merrick! I have a question!" A childlike voice cut into his thoughts, bright with excitement. He looked down, seeing the small face of a girl dressed in nondescript and well-abused peasant clothes.
She beamed up at him, and he smiled in reply.
"And what might your question be?" He leaned down to catch her words. "I'm afraid I don't know."
The little girl flushed at his jest. "Well, you do," she said indignantly. "It was -- you know --" And she giggled. "-- about you hunting the evil woman and that big bad wolf -- her pet. Did the big wolf really turn into a man?"
Awe and amazement spilled in equal measure with her childish words.
Merrick glanced sideways at Lord Lucille T'Fyrestok, who had stopped pacing and was listening to the conversation with feigned politeness.
"Not only can the big beast turn into a man, but he also sneaks at night and snatches nosy little girls in their sleep," replied Merrick with no obvious attempt to conceal his contorted mirth.
"You are silly, dummy." The girl's shoulders shook in giggles. "We have all these guards and knights -- and we have you."
Merrick had to fight off an amused grin.
She pouted and made fists of both hands. Punching him twice playfully, she ran off, all giggles and smiles.
Watching her small form disappear among the crowd, Lucille asked, "A werewolf was it?"
"Yes," replied Merrick, straightening up again. "And not just any. An alpha Lord, even possibly a very nascent primal."
His companion gave him a sardonic look, then nodded. "I suppose it falls on me to tell you that going after her was a huge risk. The Grand Paladin Champion has explicitly forbidden the move, and His Most Highness does not appreciate of it either."
Merrick felt his eyebrows rise, almost impressed by the scrupulous accuracy of Lucille's words. The Lordling before him, despite his title, was hardly a talented diplomat, yet when things just needed to be communicated, without embellishment or contortion, he did it.
Merrick was acutely aware that he was treading a hazy line drawn on thin ice. So many moving pieces in this game. It seemed there was always another side waiting to act, and he should just know them better than anyone else did.
"What other path stands before me, Lord Lucille? Lord Ellandor forbids it. The Archduke requests inactivity, and yet Lord Korvanor demands blood."
Lord Lucille leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And what does your own heart seeks?"
If there was one thing more frustrating than finding yourself backed against a wall with no exit in sight, it was finding oneself backed against a wall with two exits in sight and not knowing which is the correct one -- Merrick’s dilemma.
Merrick considered, briefly rubbing his jaw, thinking over his options.
Eventually, with no sound of protest, Lucille watched with interest as the man shrugged. "Come, we must go. Can't have Lord Ellandor waiting."
Sighing, Lucille turned away and led Merrick.
When Merrick found Zelaphiel, The tall High-elf paladin was carving an intricate pattern on a wooden figurine with serene tranquillity, undeterred by the din of rushing attendants and servants. The Grand Paladin was clad in a bland linen shirt with a sturdy pair of breeches, and Merrick wondered at his choice of attire. Outside the requirements of his station, as Merrick learned, Zelaphiel preferred the style of simple and functional clothes. Not that the Paladin required those gleaming golden armours and embroidered surcoats. Light poured around his strong frame --irrespective of what he was clothed in -- emphasizing his lean muscles and sharp lines. Zelaphiel's fair deep brown hair and cool light hazel eyes gleamed silver in the lamplight, and he moved with an unusual grace towards a basin filled with water. Splashing it on his face, then laying a cloth on his brow. Only after an interminably long moment did he speak.
"I would require someone with a non-elven perspective." Zelaphiel regarded them both silently. "Would you take the task, if I offered it to you?"
His eyes -- almost possessing light of their own -- darted towards the empty chair, urging them to sit. So much compulsion contained in those calm bright eyes, such a thorough and searching assessment. Merrick pondered the implications for a moment, scratching a finger on his chin.
"That depends on the interpretation of perspective," he answered, considering the possibilities.
Zelaphiel smiled -- a heart-warming smile born of his heritage -- at the slight shift of resistance. "Perspective comes from an elevated vantage point."
Merrick began, watching the water dribble from the cloth between his fingers. The silvery shimmers sent ripples across the surface, making patterns in time to the beating of his heart. Attempting hard to meet the Grand paladin’s gaze.
"Such an elevation often yields different views, but not without itself imbued with personal meaning. So, would you care to elucidate what honour one attains by lancing an ally in the back?" Again that brilliant smile. Zelaphiel spoke softly, picking his words with care.
Merrick understood the subtext. He paused, watching the nerves in the Paladin's neck bulge out of his linen fabric. There was a thoughtful silence while Merrick allowed himself the liberty to contemplate the supposed offer -- except there was nothing to contemplate about the offer. Zelaphiel wants to restrict his interloping behaviour.
"Where are my services required, Lord Ellandor?" asked Merrick, meekly and resigned.
"Please," continued the Grand Paladin softly, his gaze still intent upon Merrick. "No need for titles among friends."
Glancing in each direction, cautioning silence, Zelaphiel raised his hands to stop his men. Asking them not to disturb the evening. But there was something in the way he did that, a certain intensity behind the relaxed body language, that told Merrick that he didn't want the servants hovering nearby.
As soon as the servants vacated, another figure, a High-elf clad in the armour of a scout yet shrouded in the demeanour of a knight, strode in casually. A subtle aura of pale grey silk of death followed him, creating a stir, like a second breath of air on the edge of a heavy-hanging fog. The lean face with taut jaw muscles under the helmet of hardened steel wore an impassive expression. Piercing grey eyes flicked from Merrick to Lucille, unblinking. Finally, those eyes settled upon Zelaphiel, abandoning all caution.
"Please, make your acquaintance with Oroniel Solinaire, one of my trusted followers and oldest friend."
Lord Lucille bowed slightly in acknowledgement to the presence. Merrick did likewise, nodding gravely to the newcomer.
Oroniel raised an eyebrow. Turning his head slowly, his lips curled up in barely concealed disdain. "Mirnovian, must we involve them?" Spoke the newcomer, ignoring them both.
With fluid movement and graceful footwork, Zelaphiel slid closer to Oroniel. He inclined his head towards the corridor outside, as if drawing attention to a closed door, waiting for quiet voices from beyond to be heard. None came.
Slowly, with barely perceptible hesitation, Zelaphiel addressed. "Oroniel is my herald, entrusted with spreading my good tidings. I could only request that you provide the same respect that you harbour for me."
Oroniel's granite features cracked at Zelaphiel’s words, softening slightly, though never so much as a hint of humour left his otherwise handsome face.
"Your report, Oroniel," asked Zelaphiel, turning to address him directly.
"There are only the three of them in the Manor and a domestic maid. The rest were all dismissed," stated Oroniel. “Antilorwe has made the decision to not avail even a skeletal staff. The Manor is defenceless."
"As it should be," acknowledged Zelaphiel surprising all. "Antilorwe knows the significance of reticence during such negotiations."
"I have posted Gryphon knights patrolling the region -- discreetly," said Oroniel.
Merrick, though unfamiliar with the custom of High-elves, recognised Zelaphiel's mein of intense concentration, set in stone. The same was true of Oroniel. From both their lips flowed words carefully chosen, weighed and judged.
"Shouldn't the new Orc Overlord bring her own retinue of warriors?" proposed Lucille, breaking his silence for the first time since their arrival. "With powerful warriors to count every ambush fail?"
"Had there been a retinue pig fighters, I wouldn't have spent my Gryphon riders to watch an empty Manor for the boar woman -- apologise, the Orc Overlord," replied Oroniel, one side of his mouth quirted in disgust, slightly.
Zelaphiel stifled his own emotions smoothly and gestured Oroniel for silence.
"The Orcs place a lower value on sophistication. Choosing other virtues instead. Their Overlord is expected to fight their own battles on the frontlines," said Zelaphiel.
"As it should be," acknowledged Lucille.
Both Oroniel and Zelaphiel gave Lucille identical looks as if searching for some middle ground. Both the high-elves barely tolerated Lucille’s interruption, but for different reasons.
Turning his head sharply, the eyes of the Grand Paladin Champion flickered over Lucille and Merrick with a hint of censure. With a barely audible sigh, Zelaphiel continued, "Except gracious Lord Lucille, when you are a general leading an army, the chain of command ends with you. Every decision beyond the abilities of your officers gets passed; higher and higher, till it reaches you. While you might be proving your valour, your army is plagued with inactivity."
Without any further words, Zelaphiel took a step away, deliberately distancing himself, lingering closer to Oroniel.
"It is a grave insult for an Orc Overlord to have bodyguards and more to be guarded by elven or human soldiers," completed Zelaphiel.
For several moments, Oroniel said nothing. If anything, the strange quality of that silence intensified. There was a subtle hardness in his demeanour as if he knew that he was staring at the wide-open maws of a ravenous dragon.
Zelaphiel took a slow, deliberate breath and patted his herald's back. Then said, in a clipped tone. "Irrespective of your personal prejudices, Oroniel, the orcs have raised their blades against a common foe and I would expect you to provide the Overlord with the respect deserving of a sister in steel."
Oroniel's eyes flared with anger -- suppressed anger. A flicker of rage crossed his narrow face. Before he could reply, however, Zelaphiel's stony silence reigned the intervening space. Oroniel glanced briefly at Lucille, grovelling in silence. For reasons undisclosed, the High-elf appeared displeased with Zelaphiel's response.
"The Justiciars assure me that the mage is more than capable of handling any threat. Something to do with banishing a cabal of demons outside Sarenthill with the snap of fingers. And the Overlord is a consummate combatant by all reports," continued Oroniel. As he spoke, the grey shadows of contempt showed themselves fleetingly on his face before returning to ice-cold indifference. His sharp features morphed into forced resignation.
"Mirnovian," Oroniel said, voice leaking with hesitation, "It is Antilorwe who concerns me the most. Nothing to do with the fact that she is an orphan but there are no records of her birth."
"Oroniel, we do not place value on the circumstances of one's birth but rather on the individual themselves," responded Zelaphiel.
"Mirnovian, you should see it. Our pregnancies cannot be hidden. Our birthing is always assisted by midwives and surgeons. If anything otherwise, the newborns do not survive. Despite extensive investigations by the oathvogts, her heritage is all but a hidden mystery."
"Oroniel," prompted Zelaphiel gently, eyeing the unmoving form of his herald in a speculative light, "Even our culture has its fair share of children born otherwise."
"Maybe she was a product of rape or incest, -- or perhaps both," worded Lucille, with extreme caution.
"Lord Lucille," addressed Oroniel with his title prefixed for the first time, a very delicate hint of acknowledgement passed over his stubborn features, "I did pursue that line of reasoning. Her features are too perfect to be born of incest and we neither shun nor blame victims. There should have been some record or procedure."
Oroniel shifted uncomfortably. From within his chest, he reached inside for strength. For a moment, the light in his gaze dispersed subtly, allowing faint glimpses of trepidation shackling his mind.
"Which leads me to strongly believe, her identity is being hidden, purposefully. Someone wants her, disappeared. No trace of her records," added Oroniel, speaking carefully now, with cautiously measured words, "Someone with means to evade our system, is covering her."
Zelaphiel took a silent breath, but tried to remain stoic and, failed. Whatever was passing behind Oroniel's wide eyes, he perceived it clearly.
A second scent of caution hit the back of Merrick's neck and his own anxiety grew. He felt frozen at the harsh expression darkening Zelaphiel's features. Forcing his full awareness through the unexpected revelation, Merrick pressed his own serenity into his will.
Zelaphiel's hand flashed out, fingers closing firmly around Oroniel's wrist, surprising his oldest friend slightly. "Say nothing. Jump to no conclusions until all the facts are assembled." With a touch, a whisper, like a bee humming, he moved further closer, close enough to hear Oroniel's heartbeat. "Ignore this futile venture of digging the past." The hand tightened ever so slightly on Oroniel's wrist, making a firm statement.
"Lord Solinaire seems to have too much on his plate. I would gladly assist him in any capacity that you need me to," uttered Merrick, breaking the heavy oppressive atmosphere.
"Something strikes me odd," said Lord Lucille as they strutted outside, walking casually but still concerned about what transpired. "Why go through the trouble of hiding and covering when there are far more efficient ways to erase someone's existence."
"Because it is her identity they want hidden," replied Merrick through the maelstrom of thoughts swirling within him.
"What is the difference?" asked Lucille.
"Wish I knew," responded Merrick.
Merrick could not discard the thoughts that swirled inside him. Deep in the tumultuous recess of his mind, one thought triumphed over all else. Crashing, retreating and crashing again, relentlessly, like waves on a rocky shore. It was not mundane curiosity that held his interest. The motivation, not too difficult to grasp, but the dismissal against the unknown High-elf -- a situation mirroring almost his own. The persecution and the wrongs of the fully self-righteous perpetrators were so similar that each thread of reason seemed to bind Merrick. Those High-elves have wronged Antilorwe -- probably even before she was born.
"Lord Lucille, we need to steady our stance," said Merrick. Without any dint of hesitation, he took another deep breath and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. "I have reasons to believe the High-elves are secretive about Antilorwe."
"But she is one of them," replied Lucille.
"She has been mistreated in many ways and wronged by them," responded Merrick with a sibilant hiss that surprised Lucille. "And Lord Ellandor is acting as an enabler."
"What they do with their own does not concern us," shrugged Lucille with tired resignation.
"Think about it Lucille. She is one of their own and they hid things from her. What about us? We are just allies."
Lucille's eyes slowly hawked on Merrick. Wordlessly, the Lordling nodded.
"What are they hiding from us?" Merrick asked no one in particular.
Merrick's arms slowly clasped around the nape of Lucille's cloak, pulling the noble closer. Merrick's emotions were somewhat unpredictable -- obviously perturbed by emotion outside their recent discussion. And, Lucille did not make Merrick feel entirely uncomfortable. On the contrary, he found Lucille to be a welcome burden at times.
In the end, Merrick pulled away slightly, looking to find Lucille, regarding him with a sharp focus.
"My turn to ask you something, Merrick," he said, with mirth, "What do you plan to do, now? They have an army of Paladins, Mounted Gryphon knights and a radiant phalanx"
"If we could beseech Lady Sirenia and her chrome-shelled Dragoons...." said Merrick, not completing his sentence, teasingly.
"Merrick," concern laced in Lucille's voice as it dropped to a dangerously low whisper, "His Most gracious Archduke cannot convince the Margravine. Even the imperial court has little hold on her. The Kuhnhofers prefer to stay away from politics and precisely, due to this reason, they are allowed the title."
"Lord Lucille, I am aware that they were not bestowed a military rank to be commanded but rather an acknowledgement of their power. In return for a covenant to stay away from political matters. After all, at the heart, they were not nobility, just hunters and trappers who gained fame by slaying vicious beasts," said Merrick in passing.
"The Margrave turned down when Archduke approached him of the alliance," said Lucille. "The Margrave loathed the idea of being under Lord Ellandor's command and the Margravine hated waiting in Fort Halcyon."
"Lady Sirenia would have very much preferred the heated pursuit of her foes than to bait and wait," replied Merrick with mischievous humour. "But the fact is Lord Caelan and Lord Korvanor were acquainted during their younger days. Between the two of them, there is a solitary oath to come to each other's beckoning."
Lucille's eyes widened at Merrick's calm words and noting his companion's expression, his own anxiety only grew.
"Lord Korvanor has summoned Lord Caelan due to my inability to deal with a certain dark elf. In fact, I am about to meet with Lord Caelan now. Perhaps, we do have a fighting chance," revealed Merrick.
Merrick followed by Lucille slowly slid; into the secluded room of an overly-priced inn. It was the sort of inn that made its revenue by providing its clients with expensive services of ensured privacy and secrecy. The proprietor, a man who was more a weasel in an expensive velvet waistcoat with a penchant for golden rings, made every measure to treat their high-ranking guest with unwavering courtesy and definitely with a lack of any questions. His loyalty, being bought with a generous pouch of gold, but it was the threat of a painful and unenduringly slow death that bought the allegiance of his tongue.
The room they were ushered in was lined with tapestries, thick curtains hung and rugs -- exquisite and expensive, matching the station of the two men in the room -- were draped across the floor, while extra padding between the walls lined and tempered with arcane runes made the room soundproof. The sound of sword against sword echoed off the walls of the room, as the two men fought their mock duel with fervour.
At the far end of the room, stood Lord Caelan brandishing a long duelling sword. Seeing Merrick, he extended his arms in a good-intentional welcoming gesture. A seemingly genuine action at which thick cords of muscles sprung from his neck and billowed out like clouds against an ancient mountain range of shoulders. His hair -- with a sharp hue of grey invading otherwise dark -- flowed loose around his bare right shoulder, showcasing the top half of a strong jawline where curved beneath a sharp scar. Then, as if an invisible force had separated the immaculate part of his face from his body, an impressive left brow drew upwards into an arched, cleanly etched brow, and added shadows in between his heavy eyebrows. Everything about Lord Caelan exuded deadly prowess and intimidating power. Even darkness itself seemed to roll away from the steely-nerved man.
Lucille felt undistilled terror cascade through him in waves when Lord Caelan's gaze, eventually, settled on him. Only the glacial blue eyes of the Margrave, with its cool calmness, held his feet arrested, preventing him from fleeing. But even then, fear crawled its icy tendrils up his spine and seemed to halt at his very brain, alerting him of the very horrific fate awaiting him should he falter.
"Merrick, I was not made aware that Lothmar is involved," said Lord Caelan, his voice saturated with primal rawness, and echoing like the roar of a dire beast.
"There has been some development, Lord Caelan," uttered Merrick.
"Of course, there would be." Lord Caelan gave a hearty chuckle. "What was Lothmar thinking? Running to those high-nosed spellslingers. And now he wants to extend his hands to the pig people."
He sneered with disdain and waved a dismissive hand towards Merrick. But there was also.... something else... in his tone, almost as though he wanted something to happen -- just so -- he could prove his words.
"Your most gracious grace, forgive me, but if I may," began Lucille.
"Mere formalities only serve to shackle us. We are not in a pompous court where the worth of a man is valued by the shape and colour of his headdress. Speak your mind," commanded Lord Caelan.
"His most Highness found it in his infinite wisdom to forge an alliance to save the lives of his subjects," said Lucille.
"We men should learn to solve our problems with the strength of our own resolution. Not run to beardless bastards and sty dwellers. Tempered steel means nothing if the hand that wields it lacks conviction." Lord Caelan declared sternly.
While Lucille recoiled at the Margrave's words, and the person at whom it was directed, Merrick felt no discomfort.
"Could we expect salvation from the Margravine's Dragoons should the elves thrust our soldiers into a precarious situation?" asked Merrick humbly.
Another hearty chuckle came from the Margrave followed by an equally resonant laugh from the younger man beside him. His very form, mirroring a striking resemblance to the Lord Caelan showcasing his identity for all. With the exception of those green eyes -- an inheritance from his mother -- his steely jaws, mauled forehead and even the twitch of his muscles all bore the tell-tale signs of Lord Caelan's blood. Where his sire commanded raw power in his steps, the younger one had a more refined grace of death about him; like the agility of a stalking panther mingled with the celerity of a striking ophidian.
"The valiant white steed upon which Sirenia sits will ride in whatever direction she chooses. Her blade obeys only one will and her own," proclaimed Lord Caelan.
But the younger Kuhnhofer leaned forward -- eyes filled with hidden mischief -- closing his mouth with his callous palms, almost as if telling a secret except not really bothering to.
"Father does not control mother. It is the other way around," he said with contorted mirth.
For a brief heartwarming moment, both Sire and Offspring laughed. Eventually, Lord Caelan acknowledged.
"As it should be. Pledge your heart to one woman and stay true to your vow till the end."
They both chuckled again. So, too, did Merrick -- though his emotions were harder to pin down.
It was like the Margrave had suddenly become a more jovial person at the mention of his wife. Merrick could now see why Lord Caelan was attractive to many women. Not the raw power surging through him, or the piercing gaze of glacial blue eyes, but it is his open declaration -- uninhibited and pure -- of his commitment to his true love.
"I cannot speak for my love, but I will send my other son with a contingent of the Cuirassiers and Stahlknechte under his command. It will be a while before I could muster the rest of my own men," offered the Margrave.
"Father, you can't possibly send him. let alone giving command. His madness spikes. He rambles in throngs of delirium," argued the younger man.
At those words, spoken true and direct, Lord Caelan threw his duelling sword to shatter and gripped his son's throat. Force, enough to break a raging minotaur's horns, tightened around the neck.
Both Lucille and Merrick winced helplessly, as Lord Caelan squeezed until his son's eyes bulged -- almost losing his grip on sanity for time being.
"Have you forgotten what family means? He is your brother, how could .... how could you, how...!" choked out Lord Caelan and there was nothing merrier in his manner as he lifted his son from the ground and hurled him to the darkened corner, flailing around his writhing body with almighty kicks. Only lights of madness flared in his eyes. Those fateful colours in his eyes......
A monstrous grunt tore from his sanguine stained lips as he uttered, slowly, with fiery breath, "Our ancestors did not achieve those impossible feats by bowing to royalty nor by obeying generals. We did it by our own strength and our own will guiding our blades. The same blood flows. He will pull through."
"Daeran," his voice saturated with the hue of command that only a sire could muster, "I will repeat again. Drive it into your very bones. Rely on steel and your very hand that wields it and not on Magic. We, men, look after our own; avoid colluding with lobeless freaks and pig people. Pledge your heart to one and stay true to the one alone. And finally, never, violate the natural order."
And Cyrene, soon, very soon, was about to break all sacred tenets of her family.