Chapter 5: Mourning

         Grom awoke to the sounds of muffled voices and distant movement. He lay with his eyes closed, trying to gather the fleeting thoughts that floated around his mind. The darkness of his psyche began to shift and take shape. The swirling colors amassed into an image of the interior of the castle. He saw himself and the others from a distance running down the hallway and into King Gregory’s throne room. He watched the orc bring his axe down across the king’s chest and each fiber on Gregory’s face twist with the rush of pain. The king fell as a feather, slow and silent, to the ground beneath the foul beast’s feet. The axe’s razor sharp blade dripped with blood, which fell and disappeared among the red carpet leading to the king’s throne.

         Grom forced himself upright with shaking arms and pried open his eyes. As the memory of the king’s death faded from his mind, he realized that someone had taken him back to his guest room in the castle. He raised his hand to the side of his face and felt a swollen imprint where the same axe used to murder King Gregory had crashed into the side of his skull. He winced and let out a slight groan at the light touch from his fingertips. A throbbing pain bombarded his brain and forced him to close his eyes to escape the torment; however, the moment his vision returned to the darkness, the nightmarish scene of the throne room returned. He could see the large axe flying at him and hear the sound of metal meeting bone. Unable to escape both the physical and emotional pain, he quickly opened his eyes.

         He pulled himself from the bed and stood on wobbling legs. Once he regained his balance, he staggered away from the bed toward an open window. He squinted at the flash of bright light as he drew back the dark lace curtains covering the window and gazed out into the heart of the town.

         A literal sea of people gathered in groups outside the castle and along the roads into town. The bloody bodies of the men and orcs that gave their lives in battle no longer covered the ground, but the remnants of their destructive conflict remained scattered all about. Guards worked around the villagers, diligently trying to clear the debris from the attack. Commoners stood in different groups, talking to one another with mournful expressions. Many women cried, either down on their knees alone or being held by a loved one. A smaller group of nobility gathered away from the rest of the villagers, all standing silent as if waiting for something to happen. Most of the members of the crowd wore dark-colored, formal clothing. Grom scanned the crowd and did not recognize many of the faces, but his searching stopped at a gaunt half-elf and tiny halfling.

         Abandoning his thoughts, Grom turned away from the window and rushed out into the castle hallway.

*                    *                    *

         Cloey watched the crowd from a distance. Her eyes danced along each shaking coin pouch and glittering jewelry among the crowd, but her hands stayed at her sides. Even the thought of unbelievable potential wealth failed to bring a smile to her solemn face.

         Prescott stood beside her and glanced down at her from time to time to make sure she kept her wandering hands to herself. Although they were surrounded by townspeople, Prescott, who’s eyes reflected an aura of unease, kept to himself and spoke to no one. Instead he simply observed those around him; his exceptional elven hearing picking up bits of floating conversation.

         “I can’t believe this has happened.”

         “What have we done to deserve this? Why would anyone attack our small town and murder our king?”

         “Daddy? Please make mommy stop crying.”

         “Someone needs to do something before these beasts kill anyone else!”

         Prescott heard the same things repeated over and over again; confusion and heartache dominated the people of Oneria. He felt a poke against his side, stirring him from an almost trace-like gaze.

         “Where’s Isac at?” Cloey squeaked. Like the rest of the sullen crowd, the liveliness of her voice had diminished.

         “Last I saw of him, he slipped off into the tavern. I am sure he thought I did not notice. Then again, maybe he just does not care,” Prescott replied.

         “Don’t you think you should . . .”

         The bellowing of horns interrupted Cloey. She had expected horns to be blown upon their triumphant return with Princess Anne, but she never dreamt that they would be the elegiac sounds of lament. She had imagined all the townsfolk dressed in suits and gowns. She could even taste the plates filled to excess with fresh, sweet-smelling fruits for all to eat. There would be song, drink, and dance the whole night through. The chiming of a church bell drove all her colorful visions into the shadows beyond reality.

         The crowd moved away from the road as soldiers emerged from the castle gates. The doors of the nearby church opened, and out walked six men, three on either side of a white casket. The noise of the crowd fell into a solemn silence, save for the despondent cries of a few women and children.

         Sir Jonathan led a line of soldiers from the castle along the road into the heart of Oneria. He walked with a noticeable limp and pressed a hand to his side. With every step forward, his face twisted in excruciating pain. When he and the other soldiers finally came to a halt, his face fell still and emotionless. Cloey watched him and saw all the pain and suffering he felt inside hidden deep within his eyes.

         The men carried the casket to a raised platform, which had been constructed early that morning. As they reached the top of the steps, they lowered the casket onto its rightful place and moved back down the stairs with bowed heads.

         All eyes fell upon the casket, a gleaming beacon of bright white in a contrasting sea of darkness.

         A man dressed in long, white robes walked up the stairs and stopped before a podium just in front of the casket.

         Cloey, Prescott, and the rest of the town watched and listened as the priest began to speak.

*                    *                    *

         “You’re a damned drunken fool!”

         Isac didn’t respond to the loud and upset barmaid standing before him. She stared at him from the other side of the empty bar, arms crossed over her ample chest. Aside from her and Isac, the establishment was empty. Broken remnants of tables and chairs littered the floor, and the red stains of blood became a lasting reminder of the struggle the night before.

         “Are you even listening to me?” she asked, uncrossing her arms and slamming both of her palms on the bar top. She refused to take her stare from him until she received an answer.

         Isac did not respond.

         “You know what?” the dwarf began, “Yesterday I saw a completely different side of you. You were brave in stepping up to those monstrous orcs. You saved my life, Isac! So why are you in here drinking with your normal depressed face? You should get your ass out there and pay your damned respects to our king!”

         Isac raised his head and looked at the still stern face of the tender. “What does it matter? We couldn’t save him.”

         The barmaid’s face twisted and contorted as if she caught the scent of something rotten. As she opened her mouth to continue the verbal onslaught, her eyes widened at something moving behind Isac.

         A massive hand clasped onto Isac’s shoulder. He cocked his head to the side and caught a glimpse of hairy, pale green skin. Jumping off his barstool, Isac threw both hands up in defense. He looked upward at a looming, muscular figure.

         “Orc!” the barmaid shrieked.

         The massive creature spun around, letting out a surprised gasp, “Where?”

         Isac’s tense stance loosened as the beast’s head thrashed about from side to side. He felt that something wasn’t right about this ‘orc.’ His facial features, though still resembling an orc, held some very human qualities. His skin had a green tint, but it was pale like that of a man. His short black hair looked well kept and freshly washed, and his teeth gleamed a somewhat healthy white.

         Shooting a glance back to the dwarf, who stood frozen in fear, Isac cleared his throat and spoke to the newcomer, “Who are you?”

         Realizing that he was being addressed, the orcish fellow turned and grinned. He reached forward and patted a still weary Isac on the shoulder. He leaned his face in close, and Isac took a whiff of his horrid, warm breath as he spoke. “Well gosh! That’s awful nice of you to ask. I’m Shenk! What’s your name?”

         “Uhh,” Isac began, taken back by the sincere softness of his voice and goofiness of his smile, “My name is Isac.”

         “It’s great to meetcha!” Shenk bellowed. He swung his leg up and over the barstool and took a seat next to Isac at the bar. He threw his arms over Isac’s shoulder and let out a loud laugh. “I like you! Barmaid, how about an ale for me and mah new best friend!”

*                    *                    *

         The crowd of people stood silent as one by one they made their way past the ominous casket of the king. Prescott stood in line, his head lowered. Cloey and Grom stood silently beside one another and kept their distance from the crowd.

         Grom wanted to stand in line with everyone else to pay his respect, but he could not bare the thought of seeing the king’s unmoving face. Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Grom turned to leave. As he did, he caught sight of Princess Anne standing by herself. He wanted more than anything to go comfort her, and the thought of going to speak with her crossed his mind. What was there to lose? He mustered the strength to move toward her, but found it all sapped away as Jonathan stepped to her side and led her back to the castle. Grom’s shoulders slumped low in defeat. A tiny hand patted the middle of his back.

         “Cheer up, Grom,” Cloey said.

         Grom grunted and strode away, leaving Cloey standing all alone.

         Grom moved away from the gathered townspeople and toward a large oak tree. He stared at the knotted bark and narrowed his eyes at two hollowed holes. They returned their eternal stare and reminded him of the menacing gaze of the orc that had caused the town and Anne so much pain. With a guttural howl, he smashed his fist against its bark-covered face. The blow shook the branches, and two young robins took flight from their perch amongst the leaves. He raised his fist and slammed it against the wood again. Sinking to his knees, he lifted his blood-smeared hand and covered his face.

         “It wasn’t your fault,” came the voice of Prescott. Grom turned back to see him standing there. Cloey peeked out from around his leg, fear and worry flickering in her tiny eyes.

         “If we were here, we could have helped to stop this.”

         “If we were here, Princess Anne would have never been saved.” Prescott took a step forward and gently touched Grom’s bleeding hand. “Let us focus our efforts now on restoring the city.”

         Grom pulled his hand away from Prescott. Anger flashed in the deep brown pools of his eyes. “Focus on the town? How can we possibly do that when the king’s murderer is still out there somewhere? What good is it to restore the city when the threat of yet another attack looms? What if they come back with the intent of hurting Anne next time? No Prescott, I will not remain here and wait for this to happen again. I leave first thing next morning, and I shall not return until whoever are responsible meet their end.”

         Grom pulled himself to his feet and lumbered away. Cloey raised a hand to stop him, but Prescott touched the top of her head. She looked up at him and noticed the melancholy gaze that followed Grom as he went off into the distance.

         “Give him time,” Prescott said. He turned and walked away, leaving Cloey standing alone once again.

         “Time,” Cloey whispered to herself. She turned her head in Prescott’s direction. She then turned to the path Grom had taken. “Just how much time does he need?”

*                    *          *

         Later that night, Prescott took it upon himself to help with the restoration of the town. He spent hours patching up broken doors and windows for the people of Oneria. With each gracious person he helped, it brought with it a genuine smile to his face. He walked along the streets with an armful of splintered and broken-up wood from tables, signs, and fences. Ahead of him, the doors of the Black Dragon Inn burst open. Isac stumbled through and landed face first in the dirt. A monstrous orcish figure lumbered after him. It swept down beside him and reached out to clasp Isac’s arms in its crushing hands.

         “Brother!” Prescott yelled, dropping the wood and diving in a complete panic. Shenk turned his head just in time to be plowed over by Prescott. Prescott’s eyes flashed with seething hatred as his hand reared back to grasp his sword. Shenk cried out and threw his hands over his face in defense.

         “Idiot, stop!” Isac hollered as he pulled himself up. Prescott drew his blade and pressed it against Shenk’s throat.

         “Return to hell, you damned beast!” Prescott shouted.

         Pouncing like a lion, Isac barreled full force into his brother, tackling him to the ground and sending his sword from his hand. Prescott took a sharp and painful breath after having the wind driven from his lungs. His eyes focused on the angry face of his younger brother.

         “What are you . . .” Prescott began to ask, but the stench of ale on his brother’s breath caused him to gag.

         “How could you almost hurt my new friend?” Isac questioned. He pulled himself off Prescott and swayed to a shaking Shenk. Isac turned his head back to his brother and stared in disgust.

         Prescott sat up and tried to mask his perplexed face. “Your friend? You have befriended an orc? You have gone mad!”

         “No, Prescott,” Isac began, “I have not. I’m merely not blind like you.”

         Prescott’s ready response lodged in his throat. Isac offered Shenk a hand, and the two swaggered down the road toward Isac’s home.

         Sighing, Prescott began to gather the wood scattered along the road.

*                    *                    *

         Grom could not manage to find sleep that night. He spent most of the late hours lying in his guest bed at the castle and staring at the ceiling. He attempted to distract his mind by counting the number of stone bricks that lined the walls. By the time he had finished an entire wall, he decided that his attempts weren’t working.

         Unable to remain still any longer, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Making for the door, he pressed an ear against it to listen for any sounds. Hearing nothing, he cautiously opened the door and peered down the hall. No one in sight–the perfect chance to sneak away.

         Grom took slow steps down the length of the hall. Torches lining either side provided the only light, sound, and warmth as he wandered by himself. He crept along until he found his way to the stairwell that stretched down to the main hall.

         Before he could take his first step, voices stirred him. He crouched down behind the banister and peered at the floor below. Two soldiers whispered to one another as they made their nightly rounds. When they had moved out of sight, Grom stood and decided it best to head back toward his room.

         Moving back down the torch-lit hallway, he stopped at the sight of movement. He thought about turning back until the person decided to leave, but he remained frozen in the middle of the hallway. Someone wearing a flowing white nightgown stood in front of his guest room door. Instead of stopping or hiding, his feet drew life of their own and brought him closer.

         The figure turned toward Grom, and his gaze fell upon her face. She was the image of pure beauty, even with her sullen expression. His feet turned to lead, stopping him a few feet from her.

         “Princess Anne,” he whispered, lowering his head in a bow.

         “No, please don’t do that,” she said.

         Grom lifted his gaze toward her sapphire eyes.

         “I just wanted to thank you for saving my life. I am eternally grateful for all you and your friends have done,” she said, forcing a half-hearted smile.

         “You are most welcome,” Grom said, still staring into her eyes, “I am sorry that we could not save your father.”

         The smile she had mustered faded away. She nodded and whispered, “Yes, you did all that you could. I could ask no more than that.”

         Realizing that he still hadn’t removed his stare from her saddened eyes, Grom lowered his head and cleared his throat. He felt a rush of heat on his face as color rushed to his cheeks.

         “It is late, and I do not wish for the guards to catch me out of my room,” Princess Anne said at length. She placed a hand on his shoulder and forced a new smile. “Good night to you, Grom.”

         Anne lowered her head, and she made her way down the hall and out of sight. The length of her gown followed her and gave her the illusion of a pale ghost haunting the hall. The sounds of the soldiers walking up the staircase forced Grom back into his room. He shut the door as quietly as he could and moved back to his bed.

         “I promise to make things better,” Grom whispered. He fell back on the bed and began counting bricks once again.

Chapter 6: Separate Paths  (13+) The heroes travel different paths. Prescott, Isac, and Shenk are left to investigate. #907972 by The Lemon