Cinders of the Past: Of Wine and Oleanders

A month had passed since the city, Drubain, was consumed by the raging fires of Sulfuryon. Besides the orphans, there were few citizens who had escaped the extermination. The sky was smothered in a blanket of thick grey clouds. A large table and many chairs had been placed in the square where Luren and Kurst fought Metasterix. Several of Nealonders briar dolls were decorating the table with a fine cloth and vases filled with white Oleanders whilst others readied jugs of wine. With arms crossed, Luren leaned against the remains of a tavern in the Drubain square as he waited for others to arrive. Pacing nearby was the werewolf, Crethan. Luren watched the man and smiled to himself.

“I hope you can keep your cool during this meeting,” Luren said.

Crethan glanced at Luren then away as he continued his steady walk back and forth.

Luren sighed. “I’m just as worried as you but we need to put trust in these people if we’re going to stop my sister and Metasterix.”

There was a hard look in Crethan’s eye when he turned his gaze back to Luren. “There is no trusting these people. Not when they’ve used my child as leverage against me, not when men like Kurst are serve in their ranks, not when they hold dominion over people who they claim to have liberated.”

“And there will be worse to come if we don’t band together to stop it now. I’m not asking you like these people, just trust the Saint’s Swords enough to fight alongside them.”

The corners of Crethan’s mouth pulled into a frown. “I trust them to stick a knife in my back when it suits them.”

“Now, now, that’s no way to be thinking going into such a delicate matter,” Nealonder said as she approached the pair. “I had hoped Luren would have conveyed the importance of our party when he found you.”

“I’m aware of the importance. I’m also aware of the risk.”

Smiling, Nealonder shrugged. “Take heart knowing if they don’t work with us or worse, betray us, they’ll face an unspeakable, painful death at the hands of Metasterix and Elentia.”

Should we win, what comes after? The Saint’s Swords will have no one to contest their rule besides a few petty warlords, they’ll go on to hunt and destroy those like Crethan and I. Perhaps in their struggle against the Primeval Gods they’ll push more people to form cults like Arnek Relan’s. Luren smiled at the irony and couldn’t deny some small part of himself would like to see that happen.

Nealonder noticed Luren and eyed him. “What are you grinning about?”

“Just amusing myself.”

“Wishing something terrible on our soon to be arriving guests?”

Holding his grin, Luren turned his gaze to a ruined building in the distance then said, “yes.”

Crethan snickered as Nealonder rolled her eyes. “At least you both aren’t as dour as you’ve been lately,” Nealonder said.

Enthusiasm shone in Luren’s eyes. “For the first time in ages we’re doing something for the good of the continent and the people on it, why wouldn’t we be in better spirits.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m here because Kurst promised I wouldn’t answer to him anymore if we succeed,” Crethan said.

A thick cloud passed over the square, bringing a cold shadow with it. Luren shivered. The faint sound of hooves smacking against stone could be heard echoing down the empty streets. Within moments a dozen riders entered the square. Kurst and his companions comprised most of the company, beyond them, Luren recognized three others: Sen’dol, clad in the armor of the Saint’s Swords marshal which shone as bright as the sun even in the grey gloom of the day. The crest of Sen’dol helmet was shaped into the head of a desert hawk whose sapphires eyes cast a predatory gaze over the city square.

The second figure whom Luren recognized was a man named Zand Erntrast who was built like an ox, his freakish height and muscle mass gave Luren pause. The horse that Zand was atop of reflected the size of its rider. Although Zand had the brutality and efficiency needed to be a holy knight of the Saint’s Swords, he lacked the fanaticism they desired. Instead, Zand was a servant of King Arayas - the king’s royal enforcer and butcher. Zand’s armor was a thick carapace of black steel which he had worn at all times so none could see his face. Zand Entrast’s weapon of choice which he named Andkorag was a viscous axe that could cleave a man in two, opposite to the axe head was a powerful spike that could pierce any breastplate.

The final person that Luren recognized shocked him the most - a hairless woman covered in burn scars. As he gazed upon the ruined flesh of the rob clad figure, Luren knew it could only be Ce’linia. She had challenged him to a duel on the ramparts of his castle but was cast into the burning remains of the castle stables by one of Luren’s guards. Though her flesh was a hideous ruin, Ce’linia did not seem to be hampered by it.

Luren stared at the woman in wonder. No doubt the Saints were watching that day. For what purpose did they spare her life? Luren felt guilt grip his heart. It would have been better to have given her an honorable death than to have her thrown to the flame.

The riders dismounted their horses as Lady Nealonder moved to greet them. “Welcome and thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

“The only reason I sanctioned this meeting,” Sen’dol began, “is because Elentia and an elder demon pose a far greater threat. Once this issue is dealt with, we will turn our attention to the matter of your continued survival, witch.”

Nealonder smiled, “My dear marshal, I applaud your pragmatism. Please, let us sit and discuss these matters as sensible people.”

There was a subtle warp in the air that prickled Luren’s skin and made his body tense.

“You sense it too?” Crethan said.

“She hides her ire with polite words, but she still doesn’t take well to being threatened. No doubt the rest of them took notice of the difference in the air.” Luren nodded to the table, “let’s take our seats.”

As the pair made for their seats Luren could feel all eyes fall on him as if he were still the ruler of the continent and everyone waited to follow his lead. It was a strong, intoxicating feeling that threatened to seduce him. Luren swallowed, ignored his pride and stood by his seat holding his gaze on Nealonder for her blessing to sit on the far side of the table prepared for them.

“That would indeed be your seat, Luren," Nealonder said.

Luren sat in silence and met the burning gaze of Sen’dol. There was an unseen tension between the pair that settled in the square. The rest of the group took their seats, not daring to break the silence and disturbing the pair. Luren fought the instinctual need to place his hand on his black blade, Ulnath. Luren failed, feeling his hand envelope the hilt of his blade. “Sen’dol, you appear to have become quite the marshal,” Luren forced an awkward smile.

Sen’dol’s eyes flicked from the blade to Luren, “Nowhere near the marshal as my mentor was, whom you slew. I wonder, would you slay another.”

Luren forced his hand from the hilt to a nearby wine glass and raised it, “I would much prefer to treat with an ally than sit across from an enemy.” Luren offered a toast, “To your mentor.”

Knocking his glass to the ground Sen’dol said, “De’tharn. A man far more deserving of life than you, monster. Cease your pathetic attempts at diplomacy, it is plain to see that it is a skill quite foreign to you and to be frank, it’s insulting.”

Luren glanced to Nealonder who sat to his right.

“I appreciate the attempt to be courteous, Luren. Allow me to speak with our guests.”

Ce’linia scoffed, “as if the words of a witch would be more endearing. I wonder, how you try to lead us astray of the Five Saints?”

A small snicker escaped Nealonder, “my dear, there is no need to be so defensive. If I truly plotted against you then you would never know of my existence until my brambles strangled the life from you.”

The burned woman moved to speak but was silenced by Sen’dol’s hand on her shoulder.

“We seek a resolution that benefits everyone present. With your help we can remove the greatest threat to the efforts of the Saint’s Swords and give Luren his sister back.”

To the surprise of several at the table, it was Kurst who spoke next, “and when he has his sister back, what will he do then?”

Luren scowled. “I have no intention of trying to rule again if that is what you’re wondering. We know how that story ends, zealot.”

“And how does it end, Tyrant?”

“With your leaders slaughtered alongside countless men,” Luren paused, letting his words settle in everyone’s minds before saying, “and with a castle brought down on my head.”

The scarred flesh of Ce’linia’s face pulled into a tight frown. “You would so casually threaten us?”

It was Nealonder who spoke next, “Luren is merely stating a fact. That is indeed how your invasion ended. You’re afraid of a man that no longer exists and that fear has paralyzed you.”

“Paralyzed?”

Nealonder shrugged at the burned woman. “You refuse to move against Elentia and Metasterix, what else am I to call it?”

“We refuse to move against them with you lot,” Sen’dol said.

A cold wind whipped the tablecloth and threatened to take the contents of the tabletop across the town square. Luren stared at the white petals of the oleanders decorating the table in front of him. Memories of his wife, Tania, began to flood Luren’s mind. He could see her clear as the flowers in front of him walking the castle garden with their son and a young Nealonder who had taken to the flower that now sat on the table since she first laid eyes on it in the garden.

“Then, I’m afraid you will never win,” Nealonder said.

Sen’dol scowled. “What would you know of it, witch?”

“You would have already dealt with her if you were capable of it. Now that she has an elder demon who is also one of the Undying at her side you don’t stand a chance.”

Ce’linia cocked her, “and you have a means of winning?”

Turning her gaze to Crethan, Nealonder smiled, “We have something that can turn the tide.”

“Of what use is the beast?” Kurst said. “All he has is his claws and an axe made of steel, neither will be enough to harm Metasterix.”

The shadows around the square darkened. Luren felt a chill as an unseen gaze fell upon the table. So, it seems the Lady Wanderer will help us after all. A shame that she won’t sit at the table with the rest of us, though one could hardly blame her considering the current company.

“With some help, I can arm him with a weapon that can harm the elder demon. I think that with the three of you seasoned warriors, Metasterix will die and Sulfuryon will lose one of his greatest assets.” Nealonder turned to Sen’dol, “that certainly sounds like a a good deal, doesn’t it?”

Sen’dol was silent as he processed the woman’s words. Of everyone at the table, it was the mound of meat, Zand Erntrast who spoke next, “Where are the two traitors?”

Surprised, Luren blinked. “What?”

“The two king’s daggers. Where are they?”

“Does that really matter considering the topic at hand?”

There was a groan from Zand’s gauntlets as he clenched his fists. “The topic at hand is of little consequence as everything appears to be handled. Now, tell me the location of the traitors.”

“Safe and sound, my dear, and under the watch of Vellemy,” Neolonder offered the giant man an assuring smile before turning her attention back to Sen’dol, “will you work with us?”

The marshal rose from his seat, followed by the others on his side of the table. Sen’dol cast his gaze on the three that remained in their chairs and said, “I hope, for your sake, that we are victorious because if we lose, you’d best hope you die in battle.”