The Keeper's Sons: Brothers in Arms

Fate was a fickle thing, for both the black-robed mage storming the keep, but also for the young guard-captain who had entered into Sirraven from its main gate.  He had heard the horn in the distance and had quickened his pace, but only now was Lethaat witness to that which had been done in his absence.  Two guards were strewn in the doorway, crumpled over each other.  They were bloodied, and broken, but alive.  One of them, the senior, had vicious-looking gashes scratched into his throat, and his companion’s arm was broken.  Several other guards were gaggled at the entrance to the keep, men and women, veterans and initiates, new to the service.  Lethaat spotted the disarray and was immediately fearful for the Circle, and for the safety of Sirraven’s wise leaders and counselors.

He broke into a run, stopping short of the two fallen guards, kicking up dust and dirt from the ground thick with old tree roots and lichen.  He glanced up at the eldest-looking of the guards still standing, an elf with tied, long red hair carrying the sword and spear that was the mark of the guard.

“What has happened?” Lethaat barked, his heart racing, “What has happened here?”

“I am uncertain,” remarked the soldier nervously, eyeing the door with hesitance, not himself willing to lead his soldiers inside.  “A beast, I warrant, a servant of the death-god’s.  A creature from the mouth of the under-world.  I’ll not lead more inside.  We should leave the citadel - surely, it cannot be saved.”

At this Lethaat was deeply angered, and he stepped closer to this guard, infuriated.  His fists were drawn tightly around the shaft of his spear, and the handle of his spear.

“Then leave!” Lethaat spat, inches away from the face of the man, who was in senior in years but not in rank, “And keep your cowardice with you!”

The shocked red-haired soldier stepped back, and Lethaat glanced through the rest of the soldiers.  Two women and three men, each of varying ages, but each well enough to hold a spear and shield.  Lethaat motioned towards the two elder men, for while their arms appeared frail their eyes were sharp, and he knew there was wit behind them.

“You two!” he barked, to them, “Your names!”

“Farralis, captain,” the first spoke.

“And I am Sarralen!” called the second.

“Farralis and Sarralen,” Lethaat commanded, “Tend to the wounded!  Quickly!  And take whatever healers you can find, and escort them inside - we may require their aid.”

The two elves immediately nodded and slammed the butts of their spears on the ground, with a cry of “Aye!”, the response that was proper, and converged immediately on the fallen.  They did not mourn that they would not venture into the keep, nor did they take offense at this task; they were better suited to this task, and knew, as did their commander, that they would take better care of the wounded than any of the others immediately present.

The remaining three guards stood, two of them inexperienced and lost, but the third, a lass formerly a scholar and scribe, had the look of a tempest on her brow, and a firm grit in her teeth.  He marked her manner, and smiled, glad that such a spirit was present.  Lethaat approached them, his face stern, and his spear firmly in his hand.

“Listen!” he called, “Whatever we see in that keep, we do not stop!  We fight!  For Sirraven!”

“For Sirraven!” the three responded, raising their weapons.  

Lethaat turned to the old red-haired guard, his face firm but forgiving.

“Will you come with us, guard of the citadel?” he asked, special emphasis on the soldier’s proper title.

After a moment’s hesitation, the old guard nodded, invigorated and inspired by the fire in the eyes of Lethaat, and the three younger guards.  That same fire now burned in his own heart, and he would fight alongside the others, and do honor to his name and his post.

“Aye!” the guard agreed, “For Sirraven!”

“Come with me!” Lethaat barked, charging into the doorway, past the two wounded and unconscious guards, “Guards of the citadel, come!”

Tobaias, who heard the horn and shouting from near the hill he’d just descended, had curiously crept his way up the path through the gates to observe.  He came upon the scene just as Lethaat and the four guards at his side disappeared swiftly into the blackness of the spyre’s single entrance, and two other guards tended to two wounded, armored men.  

Immediately, his blood, too, rushed quicker through his veins, and he found himself glancing up at the tower’s summit, in fear, wondering what possibly could have transpired here, and whether this was an omen of things to come.  

Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to become a guardsman, after all.

*    *    *

The Circle, all twenty-six present, as well as the scribes and the vassal at the chime, stood as if to give their complete and undivided focus to the newcomer in the room.  His entrance was foreshadowed by a sharp crack of stone, followed by the sound of rock crumbling and falling as the doors gave way.  Elessar himself reached for a blade, and several of the others who possessed small knives or dirks reached for them instinctively as well.  Ellistra herself possessed a pair of daggers, holstered at her heels, and she wasted little time in producing them.  

Many of the Circle, though, had nothing with which to defend themselves, nor the heart.  The coming of the black-robed menace was frightful, and many were stock-still with fear for what he intended of them.  

“Stand tall!” Elessar declared, glancing at each in turn, “And let us face our foe as elves do!”

Some did, some quaked in fear, raising their hands to their faces in fear.  Elessar himself waited for the scourge to produce itself, and rise from the stairwell.  Accordingly, up the menace came.  There was a wicked smile beneath his hood, gracing his visage as he stepped up the stairs, and came into view of the assembled room.  His presence was dark, and awful to behold, and the Circle shrunk to the far side of the room in response.

He laughed, softly and wretchedly, and raised both his hands in a forward-sweeping motion.  A gust of air rushed through the room, out of nothingness, toppling the counselors over onto each other, and the ground.  The room was chaotic, and all were afraid, save for wise Elessar, the queen, and Ellistra.  Then, from the rear of the chamber, the stairwell, there was a sound of metal and the pattering of elven leather soles on the ground of the keep.

The black-robe smirked.

“A most convenient development,” he mused, turning to face the new defenders of Sirraven, “I was so hoping that you would join us, guard-captain.”

Up the stairs charged Lethaat, and the four elves who followed him.  He ran in first, as had the previous captain that the mage had dispatched, but this time Lethaat seemed ready for the strike before it came.  White light shot from the black-robe’s fingertips, and Lethaat caught the streams of white with his shield.  He recoiled violently against the impact, though, for the force of the blow was great.  The four elves behind Lethaat seized the moment and charged, but were swiftly also swept aside by a gust of wind.  

Lethaat lunged, his spear ready and true, aiming squarely for the robed figure’s heart.  The spear passed without resistance through the mage, and the form dissolved into blackness, reappearing a second later just feet away, unscathed.  It was at this moment that Elessar, full of zeal and heart-fire for the defense and safety of his people, barreled forth, his sword raised.  Though his back was turned, from beneath the robes the mage produced a long, fine blade of silver, which he swept as he turned, parrying the strike.  He swept his sword up, colliding with the king’s steel with such ferocity that the king could not longer keep it in his grasp.  The weapon clanged harmlessly to the ground.  

From the left sleeve of his robe, the mage produced, then, a dagger.  He kicked out his foot, knocking the king to the ground, violently.  He descended upon the king, dagger pressed to the hierarch’s throat, and silence gripped the room in that few seconds when none were certain whether the king would live or die.  Even Lethaat, despite his courage, was frozen in place, afraid for the life of the wise king.

The mage laughed, darkly and deeply.  He elected to raise his right hand, and stand upright, tugging back the hood that hid his face.  

It was at this moment that Alastair of the Vale, mage and twenty-seventh of the Circle, chose to address the gathered assembly, still with the dagger that had threatened the king in his hand.

“What you have all witnessed,” Alastair declared, sharply and tritely, “Is months of tactical preparation that you have failed to invest.  The result should be plain.  Were I truly a threat to this city, or to the king, your ruler would be dead, and all that you hold dear would be in chaos and ruin.”

The outrage on Lethaat’s face was plain, as was the shock on the faces of his guards.  The king was furious, and scrambled to his feet, eyeing his sword with vengeance in his eye.  The queen had almost collapsed from fear for her husband’s life, and Ellistra, the king’s sister, held the daggers in her fingertips, the digits twitching violently as she wondered whether she should bother casting them towards the wizard or not.

“Is this your idea of jest, mage?” Elessar growled, viciously, “Assaulting my keep, attacking my guardsmen, threatening my life?”

Alastair watched the king blankly, and raised an eyebrow in fascination and amusement.

“Frankly, I find your reaction to all of this a thing of jest,” Alastair smirked, “You people, one and all, should be down prostrate, thanking me.”

“Mind your tongue - !” Lethaat hissed.

“Oh, and thank you, Lethaat,” Alastair remarked, “For helping me demonstrate my point in an even more poignant manner.  I couldn’t have done this without you, and your men.  I thank you all.”  Alastair made a mocking bow at the guard-captain, and the still-furious Elessar whirled the mage around by his sleeve, his face now only inches away from Alastair’s.

“Are you mad?” Elessar cried, “Have you lost your senses?!?”

Alastair paused, counting the senses down snidely on his fingertips.

“Hmm...sight, sound, smell, taste, touch.  Yes, I think my senses are intact,” he spat, “But think to your own, Elessar king!  You have seen the ancient texts, and your ignore them!  You have heard my warnings, heard tell the things which I have forseen, and that my predecessors have forseen, and you ignore them as well!  Fire burns beneath your feet, consuming you alive, and you cannot smell the smoke!  Snakes aplenty are already here, in this Circle!” he spat, pointing out Ellistra, Caellas, and Kaemmera, “They feed you poison!  And you, Elessar king, have failed to taste it!  The serpent’s fangs are buried deepest in you, of all elves, Elessar, and you do not struggle against his grasp because you cannot feel his teeth upon your heart!”  He stepped, furiously, past Lethaat, brushing the guard aside.  Lethaat and his soldiers immediately raised their spears up towards Alastair, threateningly, and the mage whirled around again, motioning defiantly at the leader and king of Sirraven and the Circle.  “How dare you, king or not, presume to doubt my senses!  Think to your own!  And may your complacent ways not damn us all!”

He waved his hands, forcing the guards and Lethaat back with a sudden short gust of wind, and descended the staircase swiftly and furiously.

Offense was written out in sweat, paleness, and strain in the faces of each counselor of the Circle.  None were so offended, though, as the queen.

“The madman!” she spat, “The fool!  How dare he question your authority, in the eyes of your people and of this council?”  She hurried to her husband’s side, taking his arm and stroking it reassuringly, the fury of a lioness for Alastair and the tenderness of a lover for Elessar present in her each and every step.  “Dwell not on these things, Elessar, my love.  He is an idiot, and should long ago have been put to death for his wicked tongue.  He is without sound mind.  If anything, this Circle should recognize your clemency in allowing him on this council, and your great patience for his errant ways.”

The king was in a state of some shock, and reflection.  Indeed, Alastair’s words troubled him because they demonstrated truths of the situation that wise Elessar had come to accept long ago.  He could not make preparations for the serpent’s year, because it would indeed undo the manner of life and love for all things that the elves had made for themselves over two thousand years.  His reign would be undone, were he to suggest such a thing, by the serpents that Alastair rightly identified in the room of Elessar’s throne.  He saw the storm approaching, but could not move to stop it.  Elessar was indeed wise, but despite his power, he found he no longer held sway in this court.

“If he should be put to death,” the king remarked, “Then let me step first from this spyre, my wife, to death of my own.  Let my body be cast on the stones.  He speaks words that long have occupied my own heart, and I am troubled.”

Before the king could speak again, Ellistra stepped forward, waving away the remainder of the Circle.

“The king is unwell!” the king’s sister called, “Council adjourned, and let us reconvene tomorrow, following the celebration!  Let us all rejoice in the harvest!”

She ushered them, hurriedly, towards the stairs, leaving only the king, the queen, Lethaat, and Lethaat’s guards in the chamber by the time she was done.  Lethaat turned towards his four charges, soberly.

“Tend to the wounded,” he whispered.  Without a second thought or glance, he descended the stairs, anger and intent in each footfall as he sought out the man who, in the course of minutes, had done the greatest offense to the guard, the city, and the king in the citadel’s history.