A Soul To Receive - 2. Chapter 2

Turns out Aric was more than he told me. He was Lord Aric af Graye, not plain old Aric. It was a shock to know the kindly soldier came from one of the great families of the old Empire. All the tales told of how the nobility were cruel and heartless but he’d helped me, even read me to sleep.

We were returning to his home, the army able to do no more for Ardmere. It was all in the hands of Lady Celestine now, who had ridden to the capital to demand compensation for the King’s failure. She didn’t really care so much that people had died than that her income had just received a major dent. Ardmere’s bustling markets would be silent for a long time to come now, the caravans moving on to Miral until the flames were extinguished and the ashes swept away.

The carriage creaked under me and I looked over to where Lord Aric sat. He was staring out the window, looking troubled. Curiosity made me wonder what but I figured that after all, it was none of my business. I was still just a commoner, despite his kindness. He had even offered me a home in Graye, bless his heart.

My gaze moved onto our other companion. Aric’s right hand man sat beside him, a thin bookish man whose name I’d forgotten already. Sir something. Frederick? Fredreich? Something with an F. He’d spoken no more than five words since getting on the carriage. He was probably still upset that they hadn’t caught the trolls.

I understood such feelings. Indeed, I seethed inside at the thought of the murderers getting away. The bastards had retreated back to their lands after burning Ardmere, disappearing into the wastelands of the Troll Kingdom. The army dared not follow them and become stuck in their realm, writhing with troll forces. I’d overheard enough of Lord Aric’s conversations to know the King was raging at the embarrassment.

I shuddered in disgust at the memories that flooded back immediately. The burning and smoke … great green monsters smashing down our door while my father raised his sword in a futile gesture. He was a goldsmith, not a soldier. My mother had cowered behind the heavy kitchen table clutching the twins. The monster swatted away my father like a bug …. I closed my eyes, nails digging into my palm as I squeezed my interlocked hands together.

The pain helped me shake the vision from my mind and I pulled the Silver Tales out of my string bag, stroking the cover for comfort. My grandfather, the town historian, had given it to me for my tenth birthday. I squeezed the tears away as I opened the cover. My finger traced the golden words inside on the soft paper, gazing down the index of stories.

I chose the Last Grand Old Duke and began to read. It seemed fitting to the tragedy that had befallen mankind again.

One day, long in the future, people will forget the Last Grand Old Duke, but let me tell you a tale so that shall not be in your generation.

The Last Grand Old Duke was a jolly fellow, his name being Corak. He was quite an old man by the time I, the author, first met him. He’d always, I’m told, been a jolly fellow however, known for his laughter and kindness since before he could walk.

In reality his title was Grand Duke of the Golden Plains. He was the right hand of the Emperor, governor of the eastern half of the empire. The fist of justice, patron of the wise, the merciful ruler. Many people had called him many things, most of them good.

For in this age the Empire was crumbling. He was the light of the people. The priesthood had grown fat and greedy, the Emperor corrupt, the great generals lazy, the Diet petty. They had no where else to look for hope.

Hope, you see, keeps us all alive. Without hope, anything will fall. The great walls still yield to the enemy if the defenders despair. And so the Last Grand Old Duke can be said to be the hero of the Empire. Sadly not all would agree with me. Jealous gazes followed him wherever he went, criticising all he did. Perhaps you now know where this tale leads us.

The great shadow of a castle once towered above Goldbern. It is not there anymore, that awesome marvel of architecture fallen to the ravages of time but when this tale is told it was the greatest fortress in all of Veneration. The Grand Duke slept soundly this night, though the window howled and thunder crashed outside the walls.

Witnesses recount how a shadowy figure slipped in a window high on the walls of the Castle of Gold. An androgynous entity, clad in black, silhouetted against a flash of lightning for a tiny moment. The being slunk down the length of a tapestry depicting ancient battle, dropping to the cold wood floor without a sound.

The door to the Grand Duke’s bedroom creaked quietly as the figure stepped through, the thick wood swinging on bronze hinges with the lightest sound. It could have easily been mistaken for the noises that plague all old buildings. The deep breathing of the occupant remained steady as the assailant raised a blade, coming to a stop beside the richly decorated bed.

A flash of lighting and there came a scream as the figure staggered sideways, a kicking, hissing body attached to its back. The Grand Duke sat up in bed with wide eyes as the bloody body of an imp flew past him, crashing against a side table with a sickening crunch. He gasped, rushing to the side of his bleeding guardian.

The assassin, dripping blood, stepped closer. The lightning flashed again as the blade fell.

I gasped, dropping the book and clutching my beating heart. I’d forgotten how horrid that story was. Aric cocked an eyebrow at me and I mouthed a reply, dismissing his worries. Instead I held onto the book as I leant back, my head touching the cold wood as I simply waited for the trip to finish. A flash of excitement burnt inside me at the prospect of seeing my new home, though it felt traitorous to those who were no longer with us.

Thanks to BlackInkRain for editing Hope you guys enjoy