Chapter 3: A familiar face

  "Nearly there," I grunted, adjusting my grip on the tower shield.

  "Aye, let's get this over with," Grog grumbled, sounding slightly winded from the long trek carrying the lion’s share of the bundle’s weight.

  As we approached our destination, the grandeur of Guar Castle loomed before us. The ancient structure, with its towering walls and formidable fortifications, was a testament to the runic mastery of the ancient phoenixes, standing nearly unscathed after almost three millennia.

  Originally constructed to safeguard the southern borders of the Royamue kingdom, the castle came under Eldorian control after the fall of that ancient phoenix kingdom and had since changed hands multiple times within the nobility.

  Nearly two centuries ago, Count Aplistos secured sole dominion over Guar Castle and its surrounding territories, forging a formidable reputation through his blend of ruthlessness and guile.

  Recognizing the castle's strategic position on a vital trade route, Aplistos would go on to establish a city at its base. This city, which borrowed the name of the iconic landmark, eventually grew to encompass the castle itself, flourishing under his influence and enhancing his wealth, power, and prestige greatly.

  As I idly mused on its history, we had travelled deep inside this vast complex. There was something about the place that felt oddly familiar, like a shadow of a forgotten memory. Yet, I couldn’t be sure if I had been here before or if my mind was simply playing tricks on me. All I knew was that an inexplicable sense of anxiety lingered within me.

  Thud-Thud

  My heart gave a sudden, unexpected lurch, nearly throwing me off balance. Grog didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t comment on my momentary stumble. Fortunately, our remaining slow, plodding journey through the castle was uneventful, though my uneasy feeling continued to linger.

  We reached the castle manor's icebox, a cavernous chamber built into the basement to store perishable items. The frigid air rushed out to greet us as we entered, a stark contrast to the stifling heat outside. Grog visibly relaxed, but I braced myself against the sudden chill. We hauled the heavy golden boar carcass onto a thick stone slab, letting out involuntary groans as our tired muscles finally found release.

  "Done," Grog muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  As we were about to leave, the steward, a reedy man with a perpetual frown on his face, appeared seemingly out of nowhere. His eyes flicked towards the boar before settling on the mercenaries. "His Excellency wishes to speak with you," he announced, his voice clipped and formal.

  Grog and I exchanged surprised glances at the unexpected summons. Judging by Grog’s reaction, I could tell this was an unusual occurrence, even for him.

  "Alright then," Grog said with a nod. "Lead the way."

  The steward turned sharply on his heel and led us through the manor's winding corridors. Sunlight streamed through tall, stained-glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the stone floors. The walls were adorned with ancient tapestries depicting battles and legendary divine beasts, interspersed with ornate pottery and intricate sculptures. Suits of arcane armour stood at attention in alcoves, their polished surfaces gleaming in the dappled light. Elaborate candelabras, chandeliers, and gilded mirrors added to the grandeur, reflecting the vibrant hues and creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow.

  As we were about to leave the manor, I stopped, captivated by a beautiful marble statue nestled in the corner of the hallway. It wasn’t the intricate details, or the sultry clothing and pose of the ethereal figure being depicted that had caught my eye but the nagging sense of familiarity as the statue vaguely resembled the black-haired woman from my dreams and nightmares.

  I’d dreamed of her many times in the last few days, always alongside me fighting on some hopeless battlefield. I was sure that I had treasured that raven-haired lass deeply. But I had felt my heart clench painfully when I tried to recall anything further about her. Had something happened to her? I was unsure if I was prepared to face that answer.

  My trance was broken by Grog's voice echoing through the corridor. "Hey, sparky! Hurry up! Let's not keep the boss waiting." I turned to see him and the steward waiting, both sending curious looks my way. With one last glance at the statue, I hurried to rejoin them, the sense of déjà-vu lingering in the back of my mind.

  “What’s wrong? Grog asked curiously when I had caught up with the group.

  “It’s nothing,” I replied, tilting my head slightly towards the statue. “I just thought the statue seemed familiar, that's all.”

  Grog’s expression softened slightly. He glanced at the steward, then back at me. “Did it, uh, did you recognize it from somewhere?” he inquired, carefully avoiding any direct mention of my memory loss.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted, deciding to shelve the matter for now. Dwelling on it any further right now wouldn’t help me.

  The steward, noticing our lingering curiosity, spoke up with a hint of impatience. “His Excellency is a connoisseur of the arts, an avid collector, and a trader of exquisite sculptures and art pieces,” he explained, his tone formal but brisk. “The statue you were admiring was acquired long ago by His Excellency from an Elvish sculptor of some renown from the far west.” He shot a pointed look at Grog, clearly eager to move on.

  Grog, getting the message, said, “I’ll see if I can petition the Count for information about it later. We really should get moving; he won't be happy if we keep him waiting.”

  Grog’s promise lingered in my mind, as we pressed on. While I appreciated his willingness to help, I remained sceptical about the outcome. The Count was known for his self-serving nature, rarely extending favours unless it benefited him. Even if we received his assistance, how would I reach out to someone on the opposite side of the world?

  Given the longstanding mistrust between humans and elves, the revelation about the Count’s dealings with an Elvish craftsman was truly perplexing.

  As we neared the southern courtyard, where Count Aplistos was presently holding court, the air buzzed with the murmurs of numerous attendees, hinting at the many people who had come to seek an audience with the Count.

  Stepping into the southern courtyard, we found Count engaged in a deep conversation with a courtier, oblivious to our arrival. Grog, following the appropriate protocol, knelt a few paces behind the other audience seekers. I quickly followed his lead, mirroring the posture of the other petitioners.

  The steward gave us a slight nod and then made his way to the Count, whispering something in his ear before turning to leave, his duties elsewhere in the castle no doubt calling him back.

  This was the first time I had met The Count in person and the rumours about him did not do him justice. He was a man whose immense girth rivalled Grog's own prodigious size. Given that the giant easily weighed as much as ten average adults, that was no small feat.

  The Count was reclining lazily in a sumptuous hammock, being attended by a bevy of beautiful, nubile girls of indeterminate age and species. They were fanning him and feeding him delicacies while his retinue, seated on luxurious carpets, was bringing the day’s important business to his attention. A full complement of sentries, resplendent in their arcane armour and weaponry, stood neatly in formation, guarding him.

  An attendant approached holding a long parchment scroll. "Your Excellency," he began, bowing low, "as per your command, I am here to give an update regarding the grand celebration you are hosting. We have managed to secure the services of the renowned musical troupe ‘The Sangeet’ from the capital. They will be enacting a play recounting the life and the legendary exploits of the heroic 'Saintess of the Storms’. Their performance is sure to enthral and delight all who attend."

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  The Count nodded approvingly, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well done. We are pleased," he declared. "See to it that everything is prepared to perfection. Our honoured guests must not find our hospitality to be wanting in any way."

  “Your will shall be done your excellency.” The attendant excused himself and left to oversee his given task. A lull settled over the courtyard, broken only by the gentle rustling of the tree leaves in the wind. The Count's gaze, sharp and discerning, slowly shifted from his retinue to the two of us, ignoring the rest of the attendees. A dark shiver momentarily ran down my spine as though my skin itself was rebelling against my body.

  "Approach," the Count commanded, lazily pointing towards us with a gesture filled with quiet authority. The remaining attendants and audience seekers, recognizing the command, dispersed silently, leaving a clear path between us and the Count. With a barely perceptible nod from Grog, we rose and approached cautiously.

  As we stood before him, I had to resist the urge to fidget uncomfortably. It was easy to see why he had earned the sinister reputation of a bloodmonger. His cold and calculating eyes raked over us, as if he were appraising goods rather than people. The way his lips curled slightly at the corners, subtly conveyed his disdain for us common folk and that he was weighing our worth and utility for him.

  He waved a pudgy hand, momentarily dismissing the maids who had been diligently serving him. "You have done well to find and hunt an elusive golden boar for the grand feast we are hosting," he proclaimed, his breath wheezing slightly. "But we now require your services elsewhere."

  The Count pretty much had Grog and his wives under his thumb, as he was paying for Eliza and her unborn child’s care. They had no choice but to obey his every command. I just found it peculiar that the Count had chosen to meet with us personally to assign this mission, rather than delegating the task to his steward as he usually did.

  Grog and I exchanged a fleeting glance, his taut expression mirroring my own unease, before reluctantly nodding. "What do you want from us, your Excellency?" rumbled Grog. Even as he addressed the Count, Grog kept his gaze averted in deference.

  “We wish for you to remove a pair of interlopers from one of our establishments in the east plaza. They are hindering our workers from tearing it down, and our patience with their obstinance is wearing thin,” the Count intoned, his irritation bleeding through. "We have plans for that space, and those commoners are delaying our progress."

  An uncomfortable silence had enveloped the area. To my knowledge, this was the first time the Count had asked Grog to undertake such a task. My suspicions were immediately raised due to this. Normally, the Count would have sent his guardsmen or private forces to handle such domestic affairs. Sending us instead was a significant departure from the norm for him. It implied that there was something unusual or particularly delicate about this situation which he didn’t want to be associated with directly.

  Or I was misreading the situation entirely, which could be entirely plausible. But a nagging feeling wouldn’t let me discard my suspicions.

  “As you wish, your excellency.” Grog hesitated, his jaw tightening as he reluctantly accepted the given task. “I'll handle it.”

  “Good, very good. We require your utmost discretion in this matter,” he uttered sharply, a clear warning in his tone. Waving his hand dismissively, he added, “Meet with our steward to receive the specifics of your assignment. We shall not tolerate any delays.” With that, his focus shifted away from us, already engrossed in the hushed conversation with a subordinate who had approached and begun whispering in his ear.

  We had clearly been dismissed as Grog started to turn around to leave but I stood rooted to the spot. A rebellious part of me wanted to protest the count's decree. Everyone here could see there was more to the story than the count was letting on but the rational part of me realized nothing I said would change his mind.

  He had likely found a more lucrative arrangement than the one he had with the poor tenants we were being asked to forcibly evict. My conscience rebelled at the thought of being complicit in such injustice.

  Thud-Thud

  My thoughts churned with unease as I hurried to catch up with Grog as we left the courtyard behind. “This doesn’t feel right,” I uttered almost silently, trying to make him see how uneasy this situation was making me.

  “I know it doesn’t, but I have no say in it,” Grog replied, his voice heavy with resignation. “Even if I could say no, the Count’ll just find someone else to get it done.”

  As we walked in tense silence, a strange unease began to cloud my thoughts, creeping in like an unwelcome fog. It was almost imperceptible, like a whisper at the edge of my consciousness, blending seamlessly with my own feelings of anger and frustration.

  I felt an irrational urge to stamp out the Count's tyranny, to reduce him to nothing like he had done to countless others. Simultaneously, a dark, cynical thought started to creep into my mind whispering that Grog's willingness to tread over others to keep his own happiness meant he was not fit for receiving any mercy. After all, hadn’t father always told me that ultimate responsibility of any actions taken by someone whether commanded to or voluntary was their own? Hence even the consequences of those actions would also be their own.

  I shook my head, trying to dislodge the invasive thoughts that had begun to cloud my judgment. The world around me seemed to snap back into focus, the oppressive fog lifting just enough for clarity to seep through. It felt as though I was awakening from a trance, my mind regaining its usual sharpness.

  I glanced at Grog who trudged along the path, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. What had prompted these unsettling thoughts? Grog and his family had been very kind to me. I owed them a lot. I was confident they would have gone out of their way for me, even if they hadn’t found me to be all that useful.

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  Two hours later found us approaching the eastern plaza. The early evening sun had started to dip towards the western horizon and acquire its characteristic reddish hue.

  Nearing our destination, my thoughts were consumed by the inevitable confrontation awaiting us. We had every reason to believe these poor souls were the rightful tenants of the premises, which is why the count hadn't sent his private forces to seize it.

  Even though we had been given our marching orders, Grog and I thoroughly discussed the situation and agreed to negotiate with them first, seeking an amicable solution. I would personally ensure they received enough help to get back on their feet if the worst came to pass. It was the least I could do.

  As we made our way towards the plaza the crowd thickened. People were lining up in advance to try to get a glimpse of the retreating parade. Progressing forward was becoming increasingly challenging as we had to muscle our way forward through the raucous crowds. The loud cacophony made conversation impossible.

  When we finally reached the plaza, we found that the crowd remained dense, though somewhat less chaotic than the throngs along the main road. People milled about, chatting animatedly or admiring the surroundings, but there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air.

  At the centre of the plaza stood a striking black granite monument, its polished surface gleaming in the fading light. The monument depicted the Saintess, captured in a moment of valour, her cloaked figure carved with such precision that it seemed almost lifelike. At the base of the monument, large flags depicting the fiery Samsara lay spread out, their vibrant colours stained by the dirt of the streets.

  When we reached the designated location, we found the building situated quite close to the main east road. This bustling thoroughfare, alive with the constant flow of merchants, travellers, and locals, served as a vital artery connecting the city to the capital.

  The building was a ratty old wooden thing and stuck out like a sore thumb amongst her neighbours which were newly erected multi-storeyed stone marvels with their gleaming marble pillars and red terracotta tiled roofs.

  We first scoped out the place and found back entrances which were much more secluded. We had also managed to locate the only room in the building which looked to be occupied. I donned my facemask as I had been instructed and then asked Grog to wait for my return. I didn’t want his imposing form to alarm the occupants.

  With a deep breath, I approached the back entrance. “Father, guide me toward a solution that honours your name," I prayed in a soft whisper as I knocked on the door.

  After a few moments I heard the door unlatch and found a mature copper-haired woman looking at me questioningly. She was dressed very plainly in well-worn but clean clothes.

  "Is there something you need, sir?" she inquired, her gaze lingering on my unusual attire.

  Well, she was certainly made of sterner stuff than I imagined. She was barely ruffled by an unsolicited visit from a dubiously dressed man.

  "Good evening, madam," I began, my tone polite. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. Are you, perhaps, Ceryla?"

  Seeing her nod hesitantly, I struggled to find words that would cushion what I was about to say next. I was drawing a complete blank; this really wasn't my forte. “I have some unfortunate news from Count Aplistos,” I finally managed, wincing internally. So much for being delicate.

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Are you... one of the Count's men?"

  "We're... associated with the Count," I explained, avoiding her gaze. I could feel my palms growing clammy. "But we're not exactly his men." I knew the Count hadn't intended for this encounter to go this way, but I refused to resort to threats. The only way to resolve this peacefully was to negotiate with the tenants.

  Her eyes narrowed, suspicion etched across her face. "What does the Count want?"

  "He wants you and your daughter to leave," I mumbled, my face burning with shame.

  An uncomfortable silence stretched between us. My mask felt suffocating, and I felt the urge to apologize to her. However, I knew that such an apology would not only fail to make up for the Count’s unreasonable and harsh demand, but it would also come across as hollow and insincere.

  Her expression was inscrutable, leaving me uncertain of her next move. This was not going as planned. A moment later, she offered, "Would you like to come inside, sir?" Her voice was neutral, revealing nothing.

  I hesitated, my unease growing. Her calm demeanour was unsettling. Still, I couldn’t refuse, especially with Grog counting on me. With a determined nod, I followed her inside.

  Inside, I found a well-lived-in, neat, and tidy accommodation. Clothes hung to dry from lines, and a small earthen stove occupied a corner with firewood stacked beside it. The residents must have taken great pains to transform this rundown space into a comfortable sanctuary, which made me feel worse because I was here to snatch it from them.

  I saw few material possessions in the room though, but I found my attention being drawn towards the two other occupants of the room. I found the two curiously staring at me. One of them was a freckled little girl with dazzling copper coloured hair and oceanic blue eyes. The girl had certainly inherited her mother’s most eye-catching features. The other was the raven-haired woman from my dreams dressed in knight commander armour. Her hair was tied in a tight bun and her attractive ruby red eyes were locked onto mine.

  The little girl I had dismissed after a cursory glance. It was my acquaintance, dressed in knight commander armour, who had my undivided attention. I was overcome by an overwhelming desire to rush to her side and envelop her in a tight hug, but I found myself rooted to the spot. Even my voice betrayed me, leaving me mute and unable to utter a single word. It was as if my body was paralyzed.

  In a last-ditch effort, I tried to reach towards my face mask and pull it down, but my arms felt like lead, refusing to budge. My heart pounded in my ears, my breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. A wave of dizziness swept over me, and my chest constricted painfully. Something was terribly wrong.

  Am I… afraid?

  I heard a chiding whisper, “Tsk, tsk, little sun.”