4 - Morgraves #2
“You bastard… You damn bastard! No, take me away! Please, don’t leave me with him… With them!”
Tariel lowered his head, his shoulders slumping as the soldiers laughed in his face. He should’ve been used to humiliation by now… But he wasn’t, and his heart, his pride, were in shambles.
A soldier stepped forward, seemingly to rough him up a little and tie him to the back of a horse, but the brute was hit squarely in the face by an invisible blast.
The man was thrown backward, which startled the elf as well. He definitely hadn’t done that, since he was deprived of his magic. Tariel’s gaze fell briefly on Cassian’s lifeless body, lying a short distance away, still bleeding from his poisoned wound. Was that him?
The elf remained lost in thought for a moment before letting out a sigh and obeying the orders being shouted into his ear—after the stunt he’d just pulled, he didn’t need to rile the guards up any further.
Accompanied by charming insults and delightful threats, he allowed his hands—already bound by Cassian’s restraints—to be tied to the ropes attached to a horse’s saddle.
Cassian’s massive body, utterly unconscious, was tied by the ankles to another mount, condemned to be dragged across the cold, rocky ground.
Amid the most unpleasant clinking of buckles and chains, the group set off, forcing Tariel to walk ahead, dust whipping against his face.
“Brynjar,” he murmured to himself, his voice muffled by the wind, “how am I supposed to remain patient?”
No answer came to him, and he mistook his familiar’s silence for uncertainty. Time stood still, his world shattered, and no one could do anything about it. And it was all that man’s fault—that wretched mercenary who was being dragged through the dust beside him, poisoned by his own negligence.
“It seems he’s sealed his magic within you, Tariel Elenion,” the prince commented as he rode up alongside them, a mocking smile on his lips.
Phineas, perched on his steed, gazed down with a face of offensive ugliness at the unconscious mercenary whose blood was washing across the trail.
“Pray that he survives until we reach our destination, or you’ll be bound to his magic forever.”
The road they took was exactly as Cassian had predicted: scorched, charred, buried under ash and dust. Life had been ripped from this corner of the kingdom; the villages were nothing more than extinguished fires, and the harvests were nowhere to be seen.
An almost suffocating stench rose from the land of Morgraves.
In the distance, the royal castle loomed—black, massive, perched on top of the hill and surrounded by thick clouds.
“My Prince, look behind us…!” one of the guards at the rear of the procession suddenly blurted out.
The group came to an abrupt halt. Cassian’s blood, which was flowing profusely from his open wound and trailing across the ash-covered ground, was flowing in a mesmerizing way. Where the drops hit the ground, youthful vegetation began to sprout, tearing through the dead soil.
Prince Morgraves shot a hateful glance at the elf, searching for the culprit, before turning away and barking orders at the guards. Tariel, for his part, had stopped listening, his gaze fixed on the strange greenery.
The flowers blooming in their wake were beautiful, their vivid petals standing in stark contrast to the darkness of the scorched earth.
Driven by his never-ending curiosity, Tariel leaned forward despite his bonds and dipped a trembling finger into a trail of that warm blood that was already soaking his own shoes. He examined the scarlet substance, rubbing it between his fingers as if searching for a secret, an answer…
But none came. He grimaced—ugh, he was touching blood. What am I thinking?!
Magic pulsed through it, though, but he was unable to explain its exact nature. He felt like an idiot, even though he knew one thing for certain: he, Tariel, knew an exceptional amount about magic. But this force right here surpassed everything he had been taught in Caelendor.
The fortress’s imposing iron gates slowly swung open, welcoming the group under the cries of the vultures circling above the ramparts.
As they crossed the outer courtyard, Tariel was struck by the atmosphere there.
The inhabitants of Morgraves they passed did not look miserable or emaciated; the kingdom was clearly prospering, enriched by shadowy pacts, but the mood was…
icy. Their faces were closed off, austere, almost hostile.
No one smiled. Yet these people, some dressed in fine fabrics, ignored them completely, barely casting a distracted glance at the elf and the mercenary who were being dragged through the dust like cattle.
Tariel frowned, somewhat concerned. The corruption of the royal family seemed to have seeped even into the indifference of its people.
In Mistvale, in his own city, the elf had never witnessed such indifference.
On the contrary, the elves had a reputation for sticking their noses into everyone’s business.
It was true that judgment ran in their blood…
but had anyone ever spoken of such cruelty among the elves?
Of supposed enemies being dragged across the ground and publicly humiliated?
No, Tariel thought, the elves are dignified, unlike this farce of a kingdom.
The elf sighed, lowering his gaze. He could never bring himself to look away from Cassian’s motionless body for very long. The brute wasn’t moving at all, his massive silhouette dragging onto the ground in time with the horse’s stride.
Is he dead? the elf wondered, a twinge of panic tightening his throat.
Cassian did look terrible. If he kicked the bucket now, Tariel would remain a prisoner of these anti-magic ropes forever.
But he said nothing. He swallowed his pride and his fear, remaining silent as the group finally came to a halt at the foot of the grand staircase.
A courtyard filled exclusively with women dressed in dark finery awaited them there. Prince Phineas dismounted and bowed deeply. Tariel rolled his eyes.
Amidst the courtesans, a figure stood tall and commanding.
The Queen, Phineas’s mother. At first glance, Tariel noticed the beauty in her features, but it was a beauty tainted by a stern expression.
Very thin, almost skeletal, she wore heavy garments of a black so deep it reflected bluish hues, as well as long leather gloves reaching up to her elbows.
Tariel quickly understood why: the entire right side of her body, from the base of her neck down to her hidden hand, was a remnant of burned and distorted flesh—a scar from the war against the dragons.
A realization sent a shiver down the elf’s spine.
The Morgraves were human. Yet the Dragon War had taken place more than two centuries ago.
How can she still be alive? he wondered, terrified.
The truth soon hit him like a ton of bricks: Malveth’s dark magic did more than just nourish their lands—it artificially prolonged the lives of their corrupt rulers, keeping this corpse of a queen on the throne alongside her husband.
“Mother, I have found two beings who might be of use to us,” Phineas announced.
“An elf? Who is that skinny one?” asked the Queen, eyeing Tariel with obvious contempt.
“He is a mage sent by Caelendor to slay the Dragon. Tariel Elenion.”
“Elenion, you say?” The Queen paused thoughtfully before continuing. “And what is this body your men are dragging through the dust?”
“Cassian, a mercenary—we’ve enlisted his services in the past. He managed to counter a necromantic spell I cast, and he sealed his own magic around the elf before succumbing.”
“You’re lying, Phineas. What wine have you been drinking to imagine that a mere mercenary could block your spells?”
“See for yourself.”
The prince turned to Tariel, who couldn’t help but stare at the Queen. Phineas raised his palm toward him and gave free rein to his impulses, projecting a spark of dark magic toward the prisoner. The moment the spell drew near, it struck the invisible barrier and promptly dissipated.
Tariel flinched at the impact, his white hair flying around his face as he shot the prince a murderous glare.
The queen narrowed her stern eyes, and a heavy silence fell over the court.
“I see… Elenion. I recognize his father’s name. What cruelty to send one’s son to kill the monster… We asked for an army, not a councilor’s scrawny son.” She sighed before turning away, the courtesans close on her heels.
What cruelty—Tariel had never agreed more with a statement in his life, which drew a bitter snicker from him. Presumably, cruel enough for a father who no longer wanted his son.
As she withdrew, the queen ordered in a steely voice, “Take them to a doctor. Have the wounded man treated and do not separate them under any circumstances.”
Cassian’s lifeless body was finally hoisted onto a makeshift stretcher. Four guards grabbed the handles, lifting him without the slightest care, while others seized Tariel’s ropes to force him to follow.
As the locals avoided him like the plague, the elf followed the escort inside the castle itself. Once past the entrance gates, Tariel held his breath.
Directly across from him, at the far end of an enormous entrance hall, stood the massive door leading to the throne room: two monumental silver works of art, engraved with the tragic history of the Morgraves kingdom.
Although the place was dark, its architecture was unexpectedly splendid.
It was not the rough, unpolished stone he had expected: delicate, almost organic ornamentation ran along the supporting pillars, and tall stained-glass windows cast shades of blue and red across the floor tiles, bathing the hall in a unique and unusual atmosphere.