3 - Troubles #2
He had seen him summon various familiars—was the golem one of them?
In his long life, Cassian had never heard of such a thing—a familiar golem that seemed so alive, so intelligent…
Usually, those creatures weren’t gifted with free will or the ability to think for themselves.
And yet, the small thing had seemed perfectly capable of doing all of those things, and maybe more.
Cassian let out a long sigh and shook his head before reining in his mount and sliding down to the ground with a thud, offering one of his companions the chance to take his place.
He needed to walk, to burn off some nervous energy.
He could feel the instability of the Philosopher’s Stone within him; he had to remain cautious.
And what better way to relieve that tension than to take it out on the enemy? A cruel smile stretched across his lips as he approached the elf, one hand on his dagger in its sheath.
“I hope the journey lives up to His Highness’s expectations,” Cassian mocked.
The elf startled at the sound of his voice before shooting him a glare. Great, he thought, go ahead and take the bait—entertain me. Much to his delight, the white elf retorted, “I’m not speaking to you—”
“You just did,” the older man said with a chuckle.
“I’m not speaking to you anymore,” the elf corrected. “You’re not worthy of hearing the sound of my voice, you filthy brute.”
Cassian mock-pouted, his long strides allowing him to keep up with the rolling cage with ease.
“Ouch. Come on, princess, are you really going to turn down the little bit of company I’m offering you?”
His words might have sounded sympathetic, if he hadn’t had a broad, mocking smile on his lips. But Cassian had apparently underestimated the elf’s sharp tongue, as said elf retorted, “Go to hell! I’d always choose crushing silence over having to endure your low-level criminal talk.”
“Low-level?” Cassian laughed, tapping a metal bar with his dagger. “And yet I managed to capture a honey-licker of your stature. Or… could it be that you are that easy to capture, elf?”
The man snorted, lifting his chin. Was he puffing out his cheeks? Cassian’s wry smile widened, his amusement obvious.
“Of course, not, I—ugh, go bother someone else, mercenary.”
With that, the smaller man turned away from him, arms crossed and eyes closed. Cassian was about to press him further when Cyrus beckoned him over with a gesture, pointing toward the sky, a somber look on his face.
When Cassian saw what he was pointing at, he muttered a curse. Damn it…
“A vulture,” he spat bitterly, “the Morgraves won’t be long in showing up…”
“Should we avoid the trails?”
Cassian took a moment to think before shaking his head with a sigh.
“No… there’s no point. If the vultures have seen us, the royal family knows we’re in the area. We have nothing to hide anyway. Let’s just keep moving toward Veylaris and pray that they leave us alone.”
Cyrus nodded before stepping aside to pass on the information. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the elf’s gaze; a look of concern was etched on his face. The mercenary didn’t show his own worry and gave him a sardonic smile and a wink that was anything but affectionate.
Silently mouthing the word “princess” earned him another dirty look, and he laughed.
Cassian’s gaze was drawn to the hill on his right—imposing, covered with dead tree trunks and blackened soil.
Upon it stood the very thing he would have preferred to avoid encountering: the Morgraves Castle, a colossal structure of dark brick with ramparts lined with sharp spikes, where the occasional animal carcass lay.
Above, gigantic vultures dominated the skies, circling and circling, seemingly never stopping.
The Kingdom of Morgraves was no longer what it had been in Cassian’s youth, so many years ago: lush and green, teeming with life, a true mediator among the Alliance.
Ever since the Bloody Banquet, when the dragons, in their desperation, had attempted to reach Caelendor, scorching Morgraves in their wake, the lands had struggled to come back to life, and their rulers had grown ruthless, corrupted by the dark magic offered by Malveth, drawn by the scent of blood and desolation.
It had been barely two days since they’d spotted the first vultures of the Morgraves. The terrain was becoming more rugged, giving way from vast plains to rolling hills—they’d left the cattle cage behind a day earlier to relieve the horses of its weight.
It went without saying that their prisoner was much calmer when he was being pulled along in a cage by a horse.
Ever since he’d been back on foot, he hadn’t stopped complaining: the air was too hot, his feet were too heavy, the chains pulled at his wrists…
But Cassian had patience for days and whenever the elf pushed, the mercenary simply pushed back with a mocking smile.