The Treasure of Gwenlais, page 119
part #1 of The Rienfield Chronicles Series
“Seeing as this has taken all day, we shall have to postpone our visit to the Gallery for tomorrow dearest. I need to go meet with Argon, Father, and Aiden, at the Council chambers. I shall see you at dinner,” Caleb said with an impatient tone, as he kissed her once more before turning and walking out of the room.
Laurel looked over and smiled at the Queen, who was smirking at Caleb’s demeanor, as Eavan giggled good naturedly.
“Well, at least he stayed for the entire time,” Laurel sighed and smiled, appreciating Caleb’s efforts to remain as long as he did.
The outsider rode into the city of Heathwin, with trepidation, finding the abundance of trees and the higher altitude of the Highlands of the west to be very disconcerting. He had left his traveling companion a few short hours ago telling him he felt confident the mission would not fail, but if he did not return at the appointed time, to leave without him. He stopped his horse for a brief moment, to reach into the folds of his tunic for the small vial that had given him comfort on his long journey. Putting his head back and sipping the last of its contents, he closed his large golden eyes, and sighed deeply as the warm liquid flowed soothingly down his throat. Taking another deep breath, and pulling his hooded cloak tighter around him, he urged his horse forward as the forest seemed to open up in front of him. Suddenly there before him, stood the Great Lodge, in all its rustic beauty and glory. He looked about the vastness of it, unable to hide his surprise and captivation, of its beauty. Just then a Sentry walked up to him.
“Excuse me. May I be of assistance? I notice you are visitor. Are you perhaps lost?” the Sentry asked, not unkindly, but not over friendly either.
“This is my first time to the famous Heathwin. I have traveled far to visit your most impressive Kingdom. Would this be the Great Lodge, so widely spoken of?” the outsider asked in a soft silky low voice, almost a whisper.
“Yes it is. Where would you be coming from stranger?” the Sentry asked, as two others joined him.
“From the far borders of Gwenlais,” he replied with a charming smile.
“What would your business be here in Heathwin?” the Sentry asked again, looking at him suspiciously, as he was unable to make the stranger’s features out clearly from underneath the hood he wore.
The outsider reached in his cloak slowly, causing the other two Sentries to draw their short swords. The outsider then put both of his hands up to reveal in one hand a chain with delicately carved copper charms hanging from it, of various shapes of different objects.
“I am but a simple craftsman, hoping to find a place to sell my wares, during the time of the wedding of course. I was told many vendors would be coming here,” he said in a pleasant, silky smooth voice, once again.
The Sentries looked at his necklace then sheathed their swords.
“Perhaps you could tell me where I might find a place for a meal and where I could spend the night,” the outsider requested in the same pleasant tone.
“If you go down the main roadway here for a half mile you will see the roadway leading off to the left. Take that way and you will find a pub, just a short ways down. It is called The Standing Bear. It will be quite busy as it is the midday meal. They will direct you to a place for lodging,” the Sentry replied.
“Thank you. You are most kind,” the outsider answered bowing his head slightly as he turned his horse in the direction given.
When finally reaching the pub, he hesitated slightly for a moment, not comfortable with all the loud talking and fiddle playing going on, the food also did not smell all that appetizing. The delectable smell of meat, overpowered by the smell of roasted vegetables and ale, which caused him to wrinkle his nose in distaste. He walked into the pub to find it filled with people of every description, laughing and talking much too loudly for his liking, yet it would be necessary for him to try and engage in conversation, in order to get the information he required. He sat down at one of the long tables, a few seats between him and the other customers, and just listened to the various conversations of others around him for a few moments. Then unexpectedly, yes there it was again, the name he had been waiting to hear, ‘Laurel’. He turned in the direction of the name being spoken, looking intently at those who were speaking. Yes, they were most definitely speaking of this Laurel. He walked up to the table and sat down next to the others, smiling in a friendly manner.
“Tell me friends. Would Princess Laurel, be interested in perhaps purchasing some new jewelry for her wedding day?” he asked, pulling out the necklace with the charms once again.
“Damned if I know. You will not be getting close enough to ask. We have all just heard, the Prince himself has decreed the wedding will be strictly family and invited guests only, apparently they made that decision only yesterday and word has gone out all over Heathwin. Seems he is keeping his Treasure well guarded,” the burly man said, with a laugh.
The young woman who was serving ale at the table, looked over with concern, and walked into the kitchen hurriedly. A few moments later, Marcus the Scribe, who was the owner of the pub, walked out of the kitchen glancing over quickly at the table as the outsider continued with his questioning. Marcus walked outside, only to return a few moments later with two fully armed Sentinels, who approached the outsider, quickly but cautiously.
“Excuse me sir. We wish to have a word with you please. If you will come with us,” the tall man with piercing blue grey eyes said, in a quiet, but stern voice.
The outsider looked at them both guardedly, but decided it best to go along with them, at least for now. When they escorted him out the door, his hopes for a quick escape were dashed, when he saw that six other Sentinels were waiting outside as well. He quietly went along with them, allowing himself to be led away, though the whole time his mind racing with how he could escape. Angry at himself for underestimating the barbarians caution and ability to apprehend him, putting a damper on his mission.
25: WENDELL THE SCRIBE
Murtagh, a young Sentinel, who was part of Aiden’s Patrol, was intently watching the men brought to the Council Chambers. Most of the group had been rounded up yesterday, and divided, as this group of twelve had been placed in a smaller room adjacent to the main Chamber. The majority were walking about grumbling loudly, not understanding why they were being detained. Murtagh had been told by his uncle, Chieftain Argon, to look for those who seemed to stand out, and look more suspicious, to be questioned first, the Princes as well as Phineas were on their way. One man in particular, did indeed stand out, as different. He was quieter and standing off slightly away from the others, yet not too far, so as not to be noticed. Murtagh, assumed this was his reasoning, and watched him closer. He was of average height, except for a hooded cape, his clothes were nondescript in style, yet his physical features were indeed unusual. There were many different people in Heathwin at this time from territories far and wide, but this man was rather exotic looking. His features were very uncommon, almost cat like in appearance, his eyes were quite large and gold colored, and his skin the color of ripened wheat. When walking about, his movements were fluid, and graceful. He made eye contact with no one, and spoke to no one as well. Murtagh watched him closer, as he seemed nervous and anxious to be in the large chamber with everyone else.
“You there,” Murtagh suddenly called out to him, as he approached the man slowly. “We wish to have a few words with you please,” Murtagh said, in a non-threatening voice, so as not to cause alarm.
The man turned suddenly, as he stopped his nervous pacing, his eyes narrowed as Murtagh began to walk up to him. Murtagh was less than an arm’s length away, when he suddenly heard the quiet hiss of metal hitting metal. He looked down quickly and saw the glint of a steel, near the man’s wrist, the man suddenly lunged at him. Murtagh was already on guard and caught and blocked his blow, yelling out to the other Sentinels as he did so. Within a heartbeat’s moment, more than a half dozen Sentinels, sprang upon them. The man was thrown to the ground, yelling and cursing in a language unknown to them. The man continued to fight and struggle, then realizing he would not escape, clenched his jaw and then began to spasm violently. Unseeing eyes, rolling into the back of his head, foaming bloodily from his mouth, letting out one last guttural scream, fell silent, and unmoving. The entire room had gone completely quiet, except for Murtagh’s heavy breathing from his struggles, there was no other sound. Everyone stood staring in shock and disbelief, looking down at the man’s body, grotesquely contorted from his seizures. Heavy footsteps could be heard, hurrying over to where the man’s body was lying.
“What just happened here?” Caleb suddenly demanded, with Aiden, Argon and Phineas right behind him.
“I went to single this fellow out to question him first, when I came towards him he attacked me. It all happened so fast, the next thing we all knew, he screamed out, began to convulse and then died,” Murtagh explained, still slightly breathless.
Caleb got down on one knee to examine the body briefly as well as Argon.
“Looks to be some kind of poison,” Argon said, as he looked at the man’s mouth.
“He was certainly not from any nearby city or district. His features are quite unusual and foreign to Heathwin or Gwenlais. Look here, at his wrist. It is a stealth dagger of some sort. I have not seen one so detailed and expertly designed, but it is similar to those worn by raiders we have encountered. He was most definitely an assassin. Though I have never seen such loyalty so as to kill himself, rather than expose who he was working for,” Caleb looked over at Argon, with a concerned expression.
“Perhaps he belonged to some obscure cult. Not wishing for the Olden Scribes words to come true. We may never know now,” Argon replied shaking his head.
Caleb stood up and looking over at Murtagh, placed his hand on his shoulder. “Murtagh. You are bleeding. You must go to the Infirmary and see to your wound.”
As he glanced down at the blood staining his forearm, “No need, it is just a flesh wound Sire. I have received worse during our training,” he replied with a tone of reassurance.
“Very well, Murtagh. I am approving your promotion to Lieutenant. It will be finalized by the week’s end,” Caleb said to him, with a grateful smile.
“Thank you Sire, I am most appreciative,” Murtagh said, with a slight nod of his head.
“As am I. Now let us get this nonsense over with shall we?” Caleb asked, as he looked over at the rest of the stunned group, with narrowed eyes.
As three Sentries approached to search the assassin for other weapons, one of the Sentries pulled out from the folds of the assassin’s cloak, a small hollow metal tube. As he examined it closer a tiny barbed dart fell from the tube, and pricked the young man’s finger. No sooner did he pull it from his skin, then he began to cough and sputter, clutching his chest and falling to his knees. Caleb moved forward grabbing the young man’s shoulders, before he hit the floor, as he began to shake and convulse for a moment, as everyone watched with helpless alarm. When his spasms finally stopped, the Sentry looked over at Caleb with frightened but relieved eyes, struggling to catch his breath.
“Are you all right Blane? Can you stand?” Caleb asked quietly, his hands still on the young man’s shoulder.
“Aye Sire. I think…I will be able to in a moment,” Blane answered, beginning to breathe with ease now.
“What is it that you touched?” Chieftain Argon asked, noticing Blane’s finger purple and grotesquely swollen.
“A small barb fell out of that metal tube there. Be careful when you pick it up,” Blane cautioned, still shaken from his experience.
Caleb and Aiden pulled their leather gloves out of their coats and putting them on, Caleb then picked up the tube and barb carefully. Aiden then searched methodically, through the assassin’s cloak and tunic.
“Obviously this was poisoned. It appears as if this would be blown through this tube then into the target,” Caleb spoke in a grating voice, as he handed the weapon to Argon, who was now also wearing gloves.
“I have read of weapons of this type used by foreigners, for assassination, but I never thought I would actually see one,” he looked with intrigue at the delicate barb and slender tube. “He would have been able to shoot this from a slight distance, being undetected in a crowd,” Argon, stated with chilling acknowledgement.
“Caleb, look here,” Aiden spoke up with concern, as all turned to look at what he was holding up.
Aiden held in his hand a fine thin silken cord, with two hand grips at either end. It was very easily folded and made to be hidden.
“A strangle cord,” Caleb stated with certainty, the nerve in his cheek pulsed, as he clenched his jaw. “He is most fortunate he killed himself, for I would have made it last much longer,” Caleb spoke in a low and dangerous tone, looking at the body with anger and loathing. “Piran, Curran, bring Blane to the Infirmary. Be sure and tell Master Elphin we will be bringing him a body to examine soon. Blane you are to have the rest of the week off, rest and get well my boy, good job,” Caleb said with a smile, as he patted the young man’s shoulder.
“Thank you Sire,” Blane replied in a weak voice, as the two other Sentries helped him to his feet and walked him out of the large room.
Caleb then stood up and looked angrily at the now silent nervous group, watching them.
“What do you plan on doing Caleb?” Aiden asked in a hushed voice.
“Thinning out the herd,” Caleb answered back, in a low threatening voice.
Caleb continued watching the anxious group and then leaned over and whispered to Murtagh.
“Who was the one that was complaining the most? Make sure he sees you pointing him out,” Caleb directed, in a low voice.
Murtagh did as Caleb instructed, as Aiden looked over and smiled sardonically at a very nervous looking, short stout man, who was overly dressed. Caleb narrowed his eyes and walked over menacingly to him, as the others standing close by, moved hurriedly away as Caleb approached. Caleb stood in front of him and grabbed the man’s shirt front roughly, leaning down into his face.
“So what is your business here and why are you so interested in seeing my betrothed? In league with the dead wretch on the floor are you?” Caleb asked in a threating tone, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“No! No Sire! I most assuredly am not! I….I have never seen him before today,” the man answered, in a panic stricken voice.
“You still have not answered my first two questions. If I am not satisfied with your answers I shall save you the trouble of killing yourself,” Caleb replied, grasping the man’s shirt front tighter.
“Please, please Sire! I am but a humble merchant from the village of Alderwood, just outside of the city of Gwenlais. I only wished to catch a glimpse of Princess Laurel in her wedding gown, so as to make a sketch of her. I was then going to make smaller ones to place in these lockets, here, and sell them at my shop,” the man said frantically, as he reached in his pocket to pull out a silver locket. “The women of Gwenlais are most interested in seeing what her Highness will look like on her wedding day. It will be a keepsake for them,” the terrified merchant explained, trying to smile.
“Are you not aware of what Princess Laurel looks like?” Caleb asked, in the same threating manner.
“Oh, why yes Sire, quite aware. I have seen her at the House of Healing, several times. I supply the Ollams with their apothecary bottles,” the merchant answered, beads of sweat, now on his forehead.
“Well fine. Use your imagination then,” Caleb growled back in reply, shoving him away roughly.
“Is there anyone else who wishes to turn a profit on seeing my Princess on our wedding day?” Caleb asked, in an angry loud voice.
The remaining ones in the room all answered at once, with frantic replies of ‘no’, and ‘certainly not’.
“Murtagh. You and the rest of the Sentinels, escort these gentlemen out of Heathwin. If you all wish to have your heads remain securely on your shoulders, then I suggest you do not return,” Caleb ordered, as he turned and walked back over to where the body was still on the floor.
“That was truly the most stunning performance I have ever seen,” Aiden said, smiling slyly as Caleb walked up to him, looking over and watching the group being led out of the room.
“Well you will no doubt enjoy this next performance, as I intend on making our dead assassin here a very useful prop,” Caleb said, as he reached down, and grabbed the dead man by the scruff of the neck.
“What do you plan on doing with him Prince Caleb? Should his body not be brought over for Master Elphin to examine, so as to determine where he came from?” Phineas asked with concern.
“He will be, when I am finished with him,” Caleb answered, with a slight grin.
He then began to drag the body with him, walking out of the room into the main Chamber area.
“But Caleb, we did not kill him,” Aiden said, smirking at his brother’s use of the corpse.
“No, but they do not know that,” Caleb answered, gesturing to the next room.
The remaining group of fifteen, turned in horror as Caleb threw the body on the floor. The dead man’s face now gray and swollen, his mouth gaped open and still bloody.
“Does anyone else have any more questions concerning her Highness?” Caleb asked in a menacing shout, his voice echoing in the Chamber.
Again came the chorus of no, and terrified gasps. Caleb then had Tolemais and another half dozen Sentinels escort the anxious group out of the Council Chamber. To Caleb’s and the other’s surprise, there remained a lone small figure, standing against the wall, trembling in fear. It was a young man not much more than twenty seasons, thin and frail looking, not much taller than Laurel. He wore a brown robe, with red trim, and held a large satchel, that seemed filled with books and papers. He raised a trembling hand and then spoke in a small and shaking voice.
