Another excerpt - long. More later

The pikemen's reluctant thumping steps approached from beyond the gatehouse, as Fenryr, to Razael's right and halfway to the center of the yard, scoffed.

Razael allowed himself a passing, weak chuckle an instant before the commoner shouted something about a waiting ambush in the mansion, his voice however, drowned out under the rattling mechanism of the gate and protesting hinges slowly closing the gate's wings.

Fenryr's sword glinted in the sun almost before the hiss of steel on leather underscored the racket from behind. His gaze trailed to Razael, finding the prince's intent glare. “Stand down,” Razael instructed calmly as the arrow struck the stones a step before him, “I've anticipated all of this.” Razael reaffirmed, closing his eyes a moment, a confident smile on his lips uncaring of Fenryr's shocked expression and hundreds of words stuck in his throat.

Fenryr paused for a moment, then his features eased back into a neutral expression. He sheathed his sword, fixing his gaze on the black shaft of the arrow before them. From its position, Fenryr knew the projectile came from behind. His next squinted glance back at the gatehouse confirmed it; a row of twelve archers stood inside the guard post, arrowheads gleaming in the sun, peeking out from the small square openings of the wall.

Razael's gaze, however, remained fixed on the building beyond the dug well, on the oily black entrance of the main building.

“That fool tried to warn us,” Razael explained, indicating the commoner who fell silent since the gates closed, “But we will discuss the finer points of today's events in my studies,” the prince continued with an almost child-like smirk of anticipation and confidence looking up at Fenryr, “Over a game of chess and perhaps some tea.”

Fenryr nodded, his brows still curved upward, bull-like eyes scanning the prince's features, as though looking for some clue to make heads or tails of the situation. “Eyes front,” Razael noted, his expression melding back into a neutral mask of serene indifference, “Our unwanted guests are coming out.”

*

Seven green-robed men, most resembling master mages of the human realm rather than nobility of the heavens, filed out into the yard. Lightly grayed black manes and beards draped down from the rougher features of the men on the sides, while the central figure, matching Fenryr's build, just then pushed back his silver-lined cowl. Razael mumbled his recognition of the figure as the chief advisor to Edelborn. Cheeks reddened by wine, an almost fatherly smile on his face, he opened his arms in greeting toward Razael and Fenryr. “Welcome, good lord,” he gleefully exclaimed, “Let us sit down like civilized men and talk inside. I trust your trip here was pleasant?”

“Yes, quite.” Razael responded with a light nod and measured smile before pacing on toward the figure, with the befuddled Fenryr two paces behind, as etiquette dictated. The six men parted from Razael's path then; the rightmost figure extended his right hand from his voluminous sleeve expectantly toward Fenryr. Razael glanced back at Fenryr's questioning expression, then nodded. “You won't need it,” the prince noted, calm as ever, following their unlikely host into the pleasant shade of the front hall.

Fenryr sized up the man before him, then with naked contempt glinting in his stare, unbuckled his sword belt. A last grimace later, he placed it in the figure's waiting grasp.

*

Seated by the long table, a third of that found in the Dragonsbane dining hall, Razael reclined comfortably in the seat offered to him, crossing his right leg over his left, then undoing the top gold button of his jacket. He sat on the right corner with the yard-side window row behind him, while the chief advisor sat at the head of the table and Fenryr took his position three steps behind the prince. The table had been set for thirty or so guests, as though in preparation for some grand lunch. “Can I perhaps interest you in some wine? It's the finest from the southern lowlands,” the advisor asked as though he'd been hosting some sort of lighthearted celebration. “I must admire your sensibility for coming unarmed, and then I must apologize for my men's slightly misguided greeting, but I believe they've driven the point across, yes?” A brief, serpentine smile flashed across his face as Razael dismissed the servant offering him wine.

“Let's talk about surrender then…” The advisor noted as the all-black dressed, white-gloved manservant filled his goblet.

“Yes,” Razael almost mused as though dismissing some trivial suggestion. His eyes scanned through the deer heads mounted on the wall and the bearskins hung under them, as though pieces of expensive tapestries. “I will accept your surrender without any added conditions,” Razael added, his voice sounding as though his awareness had just been dragged back from some distant, foggy daydream. His gaze touched on the frozen, bewildered expression of his would-be host, then scanned the gold and silver decorated table setting. The prince gestured Fenryr to himself with his left hand. “What do you suppose we'll get for all this?” he asked as Fenryr stepped to Razael's left and leaned forward, the better to hear his master. The advisor's face, a mask of complete confusion, mirrored Fenryr's own before the latter man straightened and chuckled.

*

“I must be a bit more tipsy than I thought...” The advisor interjected with a disbelieving “humph” at the end, to which Razael's icy glare fixed on him. “Worry not, you will have ample time for sobering up in your cell this afternoon,” Razael remarked with such indifference that the advisor jolted up from his seat, the befuddled expression melting into one of outrage, the redness of his face growing closer to a burning crimson red, gasping for air or perhaps trying to sort out what to say first. “Unless you insist on causing a scene before your arrest, that is.” Razael added with a casual tone and transient smirk, closing his eyes as the prince leaned back in his chair.

Long and mournful, from halfway across the city, the cathedral's main bell began its noon toll, one deep echoing ring followed by a pair of smaller ones’ lighter cry, then a third's even higher-pitched melody underscoring the previous two. Razael's eyes glinted an instant as they popped open.

*

Grayed white lime dust cascaded down the wall as the buildings themselves jolted in wake of the deafening boom. A moment of silence stretched into what felt like an eternity before the racket of dozens of men rushing sounded from outside. The advisor stepped to the windows, cursing about Æsir's nether regions, then turned his mad face toward his six men. “Get out there and…” Razael stood up, yawning and buttoning his jacket. “No need, they'll be here momentarily. You may surrender to me now,” Razael stated in a bored tone, “Or you can surrender to my men. Though given the trouble I went through to hire mercenaries for today's game,” the prince continued, glancing out at the hundred or so mercenary soldiers in light leather armor brandishing swords and crossbows, he allowed himself a satisfied hum as he observed his hired troops rounding up Edelborn's meager forces. “I can't guarantee they will extend the same courtesy as my own troops. You see, they tend to be rather… rough with prisoners.”

The chief advisor's bewildered expression lost all color, his knees quivering at the sight of his men disarmed, injured, and rounded up in the center of the yard. A gasp presaged his frantic denials, his body shaking as though repeatedly struck by bolts of lightning. “I was.. Your men… they couldn't… permission from… No…” Razael chuckled as the former noble finally collapsed.

*

Fenryr's eyes remained fixed on the collapsed form of the advisor, even as the lead mercenary entered the room with twenty of his men in tow.

 

*********************

 

 The scent of cherry blossoms oozing in, with a silky touch of soft, cool breeze brushing through Razael's golden hair… 

 

 The gentle patter of chess pieces being moved on the board interrupted the study room's silence. Razael's back was to the window about five paces away, his light blond hair glowing in the blazing orange light of the setting sun.

He'd already cornered Fenryr's king piece twice before and now he toyed with his right-hand man, waiting for him to mount some last-ditch offensive.

“I give.” Fenryr sighed, knocking his king piece over, then reclining against the soft blue fabric of his armchair, sinking away, his gaze darted from the board, past Razael to the wall carvings perpendicular to the window.

The scene depicted in the wood carvings had been taken from the epic, War Of The Gods, one of the final battles prior to creation. Familiar with the tale as any Dragonsbane noble, Fenryr's arm hairs jolted upright whenever he beheld the central image. Perhaps the artisan's skill in depicting Æsir holding back Zydra at sword's length elicited such a reaction, or perhaps it was just knowing the scene's outcome…

“Another?” Razael's soft voice sounded from what seemed like a vast distance, nonetheless, Fenryr's attention snapped back to the moment.

“No, master,” he responded with a brief smile, “I've long since abandoned any hope of defeating you.” Fenryr concluded, returning his gaze to the carvings.

“Something on your mind?” Razael asked again, resetting the board all the same, “Besides the questions that is.” The prince finished, ensnaring Fenryr's gaze a moment.

“I just wondered... They fought so hard for so long…” Fenryr's voice trailed off, his right hand trailing his jawline. He'd exchanged his armor for the dark blue uniform hours ago, but the phantom weight of his breastplate seemed to press him further against and into the plush of the armchair. “And you so casually ended this whole mess,” Fenryr shook his head, a smile playing on his lips, “To think the capital's upper circles had been scrambling in mad panic because of Edelborn…”

Razael's light chuckle hinted at shared amusement. “Yes, you'll find that the higher someone is on the ladder,” Razael mused, crossing his legs, “the easier they are to scare and the sooner they jump on the table at the first sign of rats.” “But how did you…” Fenryr started, but Razael gestured him to silence, then, “In a few moments,” the prince explained, “You'll learn all the details. Now, if you don't care to play, sit on my left side, our guest from the high council should arrive momentarily.” He concluded.

With another sigh, Fenryr rose from his seat, an inexplicable lightness replacing the previous pressure on his chest. “I feel like Lyræ's paintbrush, not knowing…” His statement and pace faltered as the large, rectangular door across the room opened, and Fenryr's azure eyes fixated on Erna's approaching figure in her dark blue maid's dress, then darted to her blonde tresses neatly tucked away under her headpiece, save for two strands framing her forehead. His palms grew moist and he rested them atop Razael's chair, then before Erna bowed to them he'd instinctively backed two more steps away from his master, once again as etiquette dictated in formal settings. “High Councilor Michael to see you, my lord.” She announced in a fluid, almost musical voice, then opened the door fully with one last nod toward the guest. “Ahh, finally, the man I've been waiting for all day.” Razael stated, standing up from his seat.

*

Silver- and gold-lined, short-sleeved white robes framed the councilor's thin but tall figure. He had a full head of light gray hair, and his matching steel-gray eyes gave his strangely smooth face a studious expression befitting a wise old scholar. He seemed to glide above the thick blue tapestry, taking away the distance to the small, round oak table where Razael stood, his steps almost entirely without sound, bony fingers clasping a stack of parchments held before himself. “Good day, young prince.” He stated in a formal tone one would expect hearing in a courtroom, exchanging a brief symbolic nod with his host, then acknowledging Fenryr's bow in the same manner, he sat across from Razael.

“Please, let's dispense with the ceremonies.” Razael interjected in a voice which stirred recognition in Fenryr, the same voice in which his master would invite him to a game of chess, a voice strikingly familiar to how the prince addressed his brother. Fenryr, in slow calculated steps, finally closed in on the seat on his lord's left side and descended into the waiting, soft plush of the armchair. His gaze darting between Razael and the high councilor, Fenryr adjusted his thin blue coat, “Forgive me, I'm not used to sitting at the same table with figures of the highest authority.” “From what the prince tells me, you'd better get used to it,” Michael addressed him directly, locking his steely gaze into Fenryr's, “You are his right-hand man, are you not?” Fenryr nodded, “I am, high councilor.” He stammered on the title a bit, earning himself a lighthearted chuckle from Michael. “Didn't we just agree not to stand on ceremony? We all have enough of that all day long..” Michael concluded, shooting a knowing glance at Razael.

*

Fenryr's gaze remained fixed on the chessboard as the pair played. Michael's gaze never left Razael's as the two executed rapid moves, one after the other. If he hadn't known better, Fenryr would have thought they had rehearsed the six matches they had played in the last twenty minutes, all while exchanging pleasantries about family and vacation plans. “I've heard your brother is quite the prodigy in advanced magic,” Michael steered the conversation back toward the princes again, while moving his queen piece to take off Razael's. “Oh yes, he's gifted with sublime talent for it,” Razael acknowledged, taking down Michael's queen piece with his bishop, “But gods know his sword skills are mediocre and unlike you, he still rarely beats me in chess…”

The pair exchanged light laughter, as Erna returned with a golden tray of refreshments, stopping five paces from the table behind the high councilor. “Care for some wine, or tea perhaps?” The prince asked. “No wine for me, thank you. I'm afraid I've had one too many with the captain of division four.” Michael mused.

“Now, about this matter of property and subsequent… demonstration of force..” the councilor’s measured smile eased back into neutrality, as Razael cleared the chessboard from the table, giving room for Erna's tray. “We'll help ourselves, thank you, Erna.” Razael interjected with a nod her direction, before fixing his gaze back on Michael.

* * * * * * * *

“This.. mercenary group…” Michael started as he browsed the parchments, hunting for a specific one among the dozens of red wax sealed documents, “Where in the nine circles of damnation did you find them on such short notice?” “Taverns in the Eastern district,” Razael's voice held a quality which Fenryr equated with the blazing purple sunset giving way to the encroaching darkness, a subtle change almost unnoticeable.. “The people living there are still a bit.. On edge since the gate incident.” Razael concluded just as Michael's fingers stopped paging the bundle, his mouth hanging open, as though he were phrasing a reply, eyebrows narrowing in focus while he read the top lines of the document

“This is the one,” the councilor announced as though he'd just won a game of chance, then without delay, handed the parchment to Razael, “Yes, that day will not soon be forgotten. It's tragedies such as that, why I value your sharp mind on our side.” Fenryr readied his question, about why his master even hired the gang of thugs in the first place, his inhale was where his question had been answered, by Michael producing another document from the bundle then, “As of the first morning of Lyræ's moon, you will be permitted to move your private troops between your estates, without restriction, until the following night.” Razael nodded then glanced through the parchments given to him, setting aside the deeds to the Edelborn's estate, “We'll need this one with my brother's name on it.” he pointed above the red wax seal, where a space for a signature remained under the last one, then examining the document allowing the passage of his soldiers and transport of weapons through the capital, signed it under Michael's signature then handed it to Fenryr, “I'll leave this task to you.” “So, you are determined..” Michael noted with a glance at the prince, “Enabling your brother's plan and funding an orphanage in place of Edelborn's former estates?” Razael allowed himself a passing smile as the scent of jasmine flowed in with the cool night breeze, “I'm intent on buying up that street for his project. We'll have a lot less to worry about this way.” Razael replied with a sigh at the end.

Michael chuckled lightly, folding his legs and playing with his right hand on his chin, “You never did anything by half measures.”

 

*