“I’ve come to see my brother. It’s clear to me he needs help, despite his abundant capability. I’m told Prince Orion is ahead, tending to the plagued,” Argrave spoke to the Waxknight before him, staring at the man’s dead eyes barely visible behind his bandages.
“Do you mean to say our Holiness is your brother?” the leading knight demanded, taking a step forward.
“Half-brother,” Argrave removed his hands from his horse’s reins, holding his palms out. “But a brother nonetheless.”
The loose bandages wrapped around the leading Waxknight’s face slacked, blocking his vision, and he corrected it while pulling it tight.
“Prince Induen?” one at the side questioned.
Argrave shook his head. “No prince at all, elsewise I might have an escort gleaming as you knights do.”
“Argrave, then, the bastard,” the leading knight said.
“All are equal before the gods’ eyes. That’s what Orion says, at least,” he smiled warmly, defusing the situation.
The Waxknights sized Argrave up, then glanced back towards his companions, examining them in turn.
“For your own sake—the waxpox abounds here,” their helmetless leader informed him. “We will take you to Orion if you wish it to be so, but even our Holiness struggles to combat the disease, and more refugees show up daily.”
“I have an idea of how bad things really are,” Argrave turned his head, looking through the trees from whence they’d come. “Things get worse beyond these wetlands every day. Not all refugees had the good fortune to be tended to by my brother. And that’s precisely why I came here—to help him, and to help those that suffer,” he said seriously.
“Then we will take you,” the knight gestured. “Orion accepts all comers. Whether you are truly his brother—that will be for him to judge.”
Argrave nodded. “My companions and I will follow you.”
With this, Argrave rode back and rejoined his party. At once, he directed Anneliese and Durran, “Drink your super juice, you two. I know you drank it this morning, but this is the heartlands. Disease flows through this place like blood through the heart.”
Anneliese obeyed without complaint, removing her backpack from her shoulders and fishing within to fetch the drink. She took off the white, solemn Humorless Mask covering her face, and imbibed the liquid, wincing from its bitterness. Durran cursed too quietly to be heard, and then drank as well, washing it down with some conjured water.
“Let’s go,” said Durran, voice tight from his grimace. Anneliese nodded, then put the mask back over her face.
The Waxknights led them through the northwest, though it was less leading and more so resuming the path they had already been taking. With three of these knights acting as ostensible escorts, Argrave was not worried about anything coming to kill them, so he kept his Brumesingers close. Argrave could not say with confidence that Galamon was these knight’s superior in combat. They were some of the most dangerous warriors on the continent at this stage, exceeding the royal knights they branched from by a large margin.
Anneliese watched them curiously, eyeing the exposed parts of their flesh where one might glimpse the warped, waxy skin. Argrave had long ago described these knight’s capabilities to his party. Their entire body was affected by the waxpox. This made them immune to pain, and their skin was near as hard as stone. In addition, Orion had blessed them—they ignored all of the disease’s negative aspects barring the change in appearance.
Obviously, Anneliese’s curiosity was not satisfied, but with the knights so close in proximity she had tact enough to avoid asking shameless questions. Durran looked discomforted with the knights, transfixed with an expression of horror and disgust both. Galamon watched them as though they were dangerous.
It took no more than thirty minutes for the abandoned fortress, occupied by Orion and his gigantic camp of refugees, to come into sight. The wetlands of the northwest were tenacious and aggressive, and much of the fortress had been torn asunder by growth—trees, roots, fungi, and vines all consumed the gray stone. People lay in tents en masse. Despite the seclusion of this place, the vast majority of these people seemed better fed and better treated than those Argrave witnessed in Veden.
The knights led them past all of that, heading for a keep in the corner of the fortress. Once at the door, the knights directed them to a makeshift stable that they’d been using, and Argrave left his horse there without complaint. Durran seemed hesitant to leave his mount there, and his eyes glanced from side to side as though paranoid, watching each and all of the disease-ridden inhabitants like coiled rattlesnakes.
The Waxknights took measured and disciplined steps into the keep where more of their colleagues abounded, guarding the man that lay within. Orion received a vast host of the common people, standing a foot and a half above most.
Orion wore dark plate armor, nearly black, but it was covered by a loose-fitting white toga. His black hair was all bound into a thick braid that descended to his knees. His eyes were gray, with thick and bushy black brows giving him a fierce gaze that might remind most of a stern, if loving, father. He grew an unruly beard that was still sharp despite its wildness.
Argrave waited in the back while the Waxknights went ahead to speak to Orion. They spoke to him, and then pointed. Orion looked at him. He pushed past the crowd, coming to stand a fair distance away from Argrave.
Argrave was nervous, recalling every experience he’d had with this man in ‘Heroes of Berendar’ all at once. A great deal of them ended poorly. Even still, Argrave held his arms out and said, “I came to help.”
Orion took long, rapid strides towards him, each step seeming to shake the earth. His presence was intense—he outsized even Galamon—and he hurtled towards Argrave like a bull. Despite himself, he took a step back. Galamon looked ready to advance, but Argrave stopped him.
Prince Orion tackled Argrave, lifting him up into the air. His chest screamed out in protest as he squeezed Argrave tight, embracing him. Argrave felt that he’d grown a lot the past month, but now he was being treated like a small child. After a moment of rib-crunching embrace that very nearly triggered his armor’s protective enchantments, Orion put him back on his feet and stepped back, holding both hands to Argrave’s face.
“Brother! Look at you,” he said, laughing heartily. “Tan, strong, hardy!” he gripped Argrave’s shoulders as though feeling his muscles, and then laughed again. “And your eyes…” he paused, all of his mirth disappearing at once. Argrave tried not to show his fear in wake of the volatile shift. “Gold inside. Black without. Much like our house colors.”
He turned, pulling Argrave forward effortlessly. “Everyone!” he shouted. “This is my brother, come to help!”
Argrave was met by exultation he’d not been expecting to receive. Orion heralded him proudly before the crowd. Even despite their sickness, they mustered cheers. Orion’s Waxknights changed their disposition entirely.
“I never expected you to come here from that tower of old owls. You were mired in misery last I saw you. Now your back is straight, your gait is steady, and your will…” he whispered into Argrave’s ear, barely audible above the cheer of the crowd. “I see light in you, now. Gold amidst the dark, like Vasquer’s heraldry… and your eyes. Your strange eyes… that vex the voices.” He pulled away, wiping his face free of tears. “Family… we unite in despair. Three of us, all the stronger by bound blood,” he looked around.
Just then, someone else stepped out. They stood above the crowd, too, another dark-haired figure. It took Argrave not seconds to identify the man.
Prince Magnus was tall like all of the Vasquers, though he was the shortest of all save Elenore. Standing at six-and-a-half feet, he stood eye-to-eye with Anneliese. He dressed more like a prominent mercenary than a prince and had a lithe, tightly muscled build to match. His armor was light and scarce at the joints to enable free movement. None of it was especially grandiose—indeed, the only thing identifying him as a royal was a patch of silken cloth hanging from his belt bearing the Vasquer heraldry: twin golden snakes coiled around a sword on a black field. He had dark, small gray eyes that made him seem tired and angry. All his features were angular and sharp, lending him a suffocating, almost unapproachable atmosphere. His medium-length black hair was lighter color than most in the family and kept bound in a short ponytail.
Magnus of Vasquer walked forward, heading for Orion and Argrave.
#####
Prince Induen spared a glance back at the city of Elbraille from atop horseback, flanked by his royal knights. They wore unmarked gray steel, covered by heavy burlap robes.
“Not what I had intended. But it’s foolish to hold onto something once it’s rotted. Nothing more than fighting for fighting’s own sake, if we stayed there longer,” Induen gave commentary to his knights, though none of them answered. “At the very least, my parting gift was well-received. Such a shame to lose such a nice dagger,” he noted, hand gliding near where he had once kept it on his belt. “The south… it succumbs to the plague. Much more deadly than I—indeed, than perhaps anyone—anticipated.”
“Elenore thinks it was spread—”
“I don’t need to know what she thinks!” he shouted, causing his horse to shift uneasily. “Do you think I’m ignorant of the world around me, that I cannot come to my own conclusions? My father did this—he must’ve.”
Induen calmed himself, taking deep breaths. “I have little doubt Elenore will intend to use this as a wedge against my father. That he’s done something like this… it’ll be his downfall, I’m sure of it. So many things are moving against him.” He shook his head. “But Elenore, Felipe, everyone… everyone save Orion, perhaps, that holy fool, barricading himself in the northwest… everyone underestimates the severity of this plague.”
The prince stared out across Elbraille, then ran one hand through his long black hair. “It’s time for us to move. Time for us to abandon this long venture, painful though it might be to return with nothing. Elias will rot. Even if he lives, he’ll be forever changed—a cripple, a mutant. The people think less of the deformed, no matter who they are. He won’t be as well loved.” Induen smiled. “And Margrave Reinhardt will have to look upon his son’s waxy body, dead or crippled. Another of his family, beaten and broken.”
Even the knights were taken aback by the severity of Induen’s words, but none dared to add a word of protest.
“We head north,” Induen concluded, pulling his horse away. “Perhaps northwest. Far away from the south, back into the safety of the northern lands. Safety—hah,” he laughed. “Scheming nobles at every turn, plague in every corner… and the plague is to be our priority. We must stop its spread. Isolate it in the south, keep the north separate. This was a huge blunder by my father, but it can still be turned into an advantage. I care not if we must butcher and burn refugees, cast their body to the earth… the north will stay strong.”
The prince was the first to move his horse, riding away into the winter-ridden plains ahead. His knights followed seconds later, ever removed from their fickle master’s whims and desperately struggling to keep pace.
