NexLord: Dark Prophecies (3 page)

Kimmerman just stared at him for a
moment.  "Don't blame me someday when you're embarrassed
because you're wearing an inappropriate jacket to an important
dignitary's funeral.  Then we'll see who is laughed
at!"

With a straight
face,
Gandarel said, "I'll do my utter best to follow
your guidelines when it's time for me to go to your funeral, Sar
Kimmerman."

"
Well,
you
better listen if... MY funeral?” the chubby teacher
gasped.  "What makes you say a horrid thing like
that?"

Gandarel looked innocent.  "Well,
everyone dies sometime; I was just trying to reassure you that you
needn't worry about me embarrassing myself at your funeral."

Kimmerman was completely flustered
now.  "Enough of that, let's get on to proper
shoes.  You know well enough that I only have three years
left to pound you into shape before you are required by law to make
the journey to the Great Court and present yourself before the
Regent.  That's no backwater city; it's the
capital
, where all the great Worthy of the court
reside.  Gedin help us if you make a fool of
yourself.  How would you like it if the Regent decided
you were unworthy and sent in one of his Blue Coats to take control
of guarding the border?  What would your father and his
father think of your losing their hereditary post of Warlord of the
Dragonback?"

Gandarel sighed, he was well used to these
threats; he cared little for what was three years away; that was
nearly forever to a bored twelve-year-old.  He went back
to planning his escape.

  He figured with the castle staff
in an uproar over the pigs in the hall, it should be easy enough to
slip in among the crates on the blacksmith's wagon. Tomorrow was
Seconday
, and the blacksmith
always went into the city for new supplies.

Once out of the castle he would have the
whole day to explore the city, and later he could just slip back in
when the blacksmith returned.  Then he could just claim
to have been studying all day. 
 What could they do to
me, anyway?  
 He thought;
 Get a new heir
to the Seat of Stone?

When Gandarel finished his Courtesy and
Protocol lesson he fairly bounded out the door, his emotions
flushed with the excitement of his bold plan of escape and
adventure.  With boyish
energy,
he rounded the corner into the south wing and
suddenly went sprawling forward as his feet were cut out from under
him.  He skinned his elbow on the hard floor and cursed,
"
Gedin's
blood!"

Then Gandarel's own blood ran cold from the
voice that spoke
from
behind
.  "Those that corrupt the ground with anger
in the Lord's name will be tortured by the evil one through all
eternity, so
sayeth
The Hand of
God."

Gandarel looked up and saw Hork, High priest
of The Hand, the church of Humanity.  The crippled man
stood on his good left leg, his large ivory cane helping support
his withered right leg.  He wore the simple white robe of
The Hand's priesthood, and his piercing gray eyes bore through
Gandarel's. 

Hork's eyes narrowed.  "Boys should
take more care with the body Gedin has blessed them with, and not
run haphazardly through the hallways where they might fall and
damage themselves and others.  Go in servitude, young
Gandarel."

Gandarel got painfully to his feet, eyeing
the cane in Hork's hand; he thought he had seen that
cane
for a split second as it darted out and
tripped him, but he kept his opinion to himself. 

"I will be more careful, your Holiness," he
promised in a tight voice, eyes downcast.

Hork
gave
him the church's traditional prattle, "Follow the way of The
Hand."

Anger seethed within Gandarel, but he
swallowed it and nodded to the High Priest and then walked away at
a normal pace.

He could feel Hork's fanatical gaze on his
back.

Chapter Three

“
Warlord and NexLord are lofty titles, yet
during one vision I saw common folk becoming the friends and
bonds.  Before any titles are bestowed, while yet heir to
his post, I saw the Warlord's son meet his closest
friend.  That meeting began with competition and ended in
cooperation, and blood sealed their pact.”

- From the Prophecies of Gold.

Mara's wagon hit a particularly nasty rut in
the road and jerked heavily, but the old woman made no complaint,
her keen gaze was locked on the silent young boy beside
her.  In the day since the Togroth killing party had
slaughtered Aerin’s parents he had hardly spoken a
word.  He still clutched the leather bound book in his
lap.

"What is that book about, Aerin?” she asked,
hoping to get him talking, she did not think this silence good for
him.

"It's the true story of the last NexLord,
Ragol," he answered, still speaking without much animation.

Mara frowned slightly, but almost immediately
wiped it from her face.  "I wouldn't believe all you
read, history is written by the victors, and told as they see
fit."

Aerin's eyes were glued to the leather cover
of the book.  "My father said this is the most accurate
account of the last NexLord."

Mara shrugged.  "That could be
true; it just means it lies a little less than the rest. That all
happened over three hundred years ago… time enough for
exaggeration, lies and falsehoods to be written, but tell me, why
the interest in Ragol and olden times?"

"My father was a scholar, we were on our way
to Strakhelm so he could write the story of the new NexLord," Aerin
explained.

Mara smiled slightly at this.  "And
who might that be?"

Aerin felt she was challenging his father's
word, so he looked at her defiantly, "Gandarel Trelic, heir to the
Seat of Stone, future Warlord of the Dragonback."

Mara laughed lightly at his stern look and
words.  "Relax, boy, I was not disparaging your father's
beliefs. I happen to know he was right, the young heir is destined
to become a NexLord."

Aerin suddenly remembered the
muscle-bound
warrior who had led the attack on
his parents, the one with the golden chain marks of a NexLord on
his wrists.  "You're right, Mara, history has it all
wrong, NexLords are cowards and murderers," he almost whispered,
anger and hatred warring on his face.

Mara lifted her gray left eyebrow and
inspected Aerin briefly. The emotions running deep within him were
easy for her to read.  "Why the sudden change of
opinion?"

"That man, the one who led the Togroths, he
was a NexLord," Aerin explained, tears filling his eyes.

Mara was intrigued; the man Aerin was talking
about had been gone before her wagon had come around the bend of
the forest path.  "Why do you say that?"

Aerin lifted his left hand, pointing to his
other wrist with a forefinger.  "He had the chain marks
of a NexLord."

"Ah, now I see," said Mara, while smiling
slightly.  "If we stop the wagon, and have Tocor come
over with some paints and mark my wrists with some golden chains, I
guess that will make me a NexLord."

Aerin frowned, considering this for a
moment.  "No, that would just be a fake! Besides, you're
a woman and the NexLords were mighty warriors."

"So chain marks are not what makes you a
NexLord?  Then how do you know this man was
one?  Didn't your father say he was going to write the
account of the new NexLord, the first since Ragol?"

Aerin nodded.

"Then," she said, reaching over and touching
his nose lightly with her forefinger to emphasize her point, "what
makes you think that evil man was a real NexLord?  Did he
act like one?"

"No," Aerin agreed.  "So he was an
imposter?"

"Most definitely, and he is not the only one
traveling the lands these days.  It's become quite
fashionable, and more to the point, profitable for men to fake that
title.  They get false respect and deference from the
masses.  
In addition,
they fetch higher money for work as
bodyguards
and other militant endeavors," she
explained.  She watched his face to see if she had been
talking over his head, but her words didn't seem to confuse
him.  She chalked it up to the education his scholarly
father had begun.

"It isn't right," he exclaimed, "they
shouldn't be allowed."

"Who is to stop them?  But don't
worry; they'll get their just desserts in the end.  Most
of these imposters die quickly, as anyone with such marks becomes
the first target in any battle.   Remember, lies
carry their own punishment," she explained, pushing back a lock of
gray hair that the wind had blown across her well-lined face.

"If only Ragol was alive now, he would set
things right!"

"That was a long time ago, Aerin," Mara said
gently.

Aerin glanced down at the book in his
lap.  "It says, in here, that he died alone, without
friends or companions, attacking the Dreadmaster, but my father
said that some people say he was captured and tortured into
insanity.  I like to remember him at the battle of the
Kitrick Wall, ready to take on the Dreadmaster's army, his Bondsmen
at his side."

Mara nodded at the boy and said, "Perhaps
that is best."

Aerin looked ahead, and in the
distance,
he could see large amounts of smoke
rising above the trees.

"Strakhelm," she said in answer to his
unasked question, "we'll be there soon."

"Is it on fire?” he asked.

She laughed merrily, "Don't worry, that's
just the hearths and fireplaces at work preparing the evening
meals.  We're still
a
ways
off so we will make camp out here tonight and enter the
city in the morning."

The next morning Mara's wagon rumbled across
the cobblestones on one of Strakhelm's main city
streets.  The old woman drove the two horse team, slowly
heading for an Inn with a stable large enough to accommodate her
wagon.  Aerin sat on the seat beside her.  The
Quarian had retired inside the wagon before they entered the busy
streets and the lavender man had also disappeared somewhere; as
Aerin had discovered he was often want to do.

Aerin was amazed; he had been to more than
one small city, but nothing like Strakhelm.  It was huge
beyond his imagination.  Buildings were mostly four
stories high, and there were towers even taller!  People
were everywhere; the sheer mass of humanity nearly overwhelmed the
young boy.  Strakhelm was the largest city east of the
Dragonback, and home to the Seat of Stone, the Warlord’s
castle.

Mara noted his wide-eyed look and smiled, it
dawned on her that she had come to like the quiet boy during the
two days they had been together.  "Quite a sight, isn't
it?” she asked him.

Aerin nodded, watching a garishly dressed
merchant pass nearby with four bodyguards flanking him on all
sides.

A squad of ten men dressed in brown leather
armor and sheathed swords filed past with what looked like a priest
in white robes leading the group. Aerin noted the symbol of an open
hand on the left breast of the priest's robe.

Mara scowled, but kept her eyes straight
ahead, not looking at the priest, though he appraised the wagon
from under his dark eyebrows as it passed.

Aerin looked back trying to get another look
at the symbol on the priest's robe.

"Don't stare, Aerin," Mara admonished
softly.

He sat back down.  "What kind of
priest goes around with armed men?” he asked.

"The Hand," she noted dryly.

Aerin heard the scorn in her
voice.  "Why do you dislike them?"

She suddenly smiled at him
slyly.  "Now did I say I didn't like
them?  Can't recall it, but let's just say I don't
believe what they believe."

"And what is that?” he asked with the
curiosity of the young.

"More than I care to get into, but I’ll tell
you this much, they are very
narrow-minded
about a lot of things, like all non-humans
being evil, that kind of thing."

"You mean they think
Yearl
and Tocor are evil?" Aerin prodded.

"Yes, as I said, very
narrow-minded
, but let's not talk about the priests of
The Hand right now, let's enjoy the more positive sights of
Strakhelm!” she said to lighten the mood.

Their wagon ambled over bumpy cobblestones as
Mara guided them through several streets.  
Eventually,
she brought the wagon to a halt and
climbed off and bid Aerin
to
wait
.  She took some food she had wrapped up
earlier and crossed the street to a man who crouched in the doorway
of an abandoned building.  Aerin watched intently as Mara
suddenly crouched down as she neared the raggedy
man.  She scooted forward,
animal-like
, staying lower than he was and placed the
food before him.

Aerin just couldn't understand what she was
doing.

A few minutes later she was
back
and started the wagon on its
way.  From inside the
wagon,
Tocor asked Mara a question.  "How was
he?"

Mara's voice held a note of sadness, "No
change, but it's not time yet."

"I know, but can't we..."

"He won't come, and yes, I worry as
well.  Leave it be… for now," she said, glancing at Aerin
who was looking back at the crouched form of the man in the
doorway.

“Who is he?” Aerin asked Mara.

“Just a mixed up man that I look in on now
and then, don’t worry about it,” she replied.

They passed a few more streets before Mara
turned the wagon into a courtyard of a suitable looking
Inn.  As they entered under the arched gateway she
cautioned Aerin, "Don't you go far from here for a time, big cities
are like jungles," then she joked, "Large carnivores wait to pounce
on weak prey, and for now, you're looking pretty plump and tasty!”
she pinched at his waist as if to test his plumpness.