The Dark Horse

Diarmuid, Fritjof & Chancellor Camlann of the Core Council (The Dark Horse, image by James Goudie)

If the ashes could speak… the Valdus thought, …the dead would have much to say to you, Fritjof.

Much indeed.

The Valdus adjusted her waistguard as voices began to come from down the corridor. She stared ahead, both nervous and excited for her first watch. The towering Chancellor, Camlann, approached with a brown-furred Ursian she did not recognize. Nestled between the two was another Valdus lady, her figure nearly lost between the Chancellor and his other companion.

And the way you just act like it doesn’t matter.

She watched as Fritjof laughed with Camlann.

To have done so much, only to deny your title in the end…

She sighed as they neared, watching bird’s feet dance and stretch out from Fritjof’s eyes, all the while smiling.

What was it? The Dark Horse? That’s what they call you? Pathetic.

“You.” Camlann growled. “You be the new bodyguard.” His eyes grew stern under his bushy eyebrows. “Lyova, be it?”

The Valdus gasped, her breath stolen for a moment. “Yes,” she quickly recovered and straightened her posture. “Lyova is my name. Forgive me, I’m just surprised you know of me.”

Camlann nodded, turning away seemingly satisfied, “Fritjof told me much about your abilities and has assured me that I will be in excellent hands.”

Fritjof nodded. “I’ve never seen someone so swift and methodical with a blade before," she marvelled, making a cutting action with her arm, a jovial smile on her face, "- and at your age!”

Yeah, right, thought Lyova. “Thank you, though I’m sure I still have much to learn.”

“Don’t we always?” Fritjof chuckled.

Interesting words from a member of the Evigkaste. How easy it must be… to be so humble when one is so close to eternity.

“Something wrong, my dear?”

Lyova shook her head, bringing her awareness back. “Yes, sorry... my head has been a bit off this day.”

The Chancellor half-turned towards her once more, frowning. Before he could speak, the smaller Ursian strode between them, placing a paw on her shoulder.

“Not to worry!” he chuckled, his voice gentle. “We’ll have plenty of wine and great food. We’re just on our way to supper. That'll restore your spirits!”

With that, Camlann strode onwards. Fritjof and the other Ursian exchanged a smile then followed.

Hesitating, Lyova trailed behind them, unsure of whether the weight she felt was the armor she’d been issued or her newfound position. Regardless, she began going over procedures in her head, remembering her duties.

Stay close.

Remain vigilant.

Be ready.

Camlann looked over his shoulder to see Lyova thinking to herself. “Still here with us?” He asked sternly.

“Huh? Oh, y-yes, yes I’m here… was just thinking is all.”

“Thought we lost you…” he continued walking. “A little worried my new guard is going to let me die while daydreaming.”

Was that meant to be a joke?

“The tongue is like a sword, my dear Camlann,” Fritjof sighed. “Best to keep it sheathed sometimes.”

“Something to take notes on,” she said, looking back to Lyova with a wink.

I don’t understand you.

Lyova followed, adjusting her waistguard again.

Glorious smells, and low chatter welcomed the group as they entered the great hall. Lyova took the inhabitants in with a quick glance.

Focus.

Old hunched Maratasen, leaning on staff.

Low threat.

Charian.

Left hand obviously a prosthetic.

Gervian

Long crooked no-

"Octavian, you rascal! " the brown furred Ursian bellowed in greeting, "I heard that Lataru dropped the case against you. Got away with another one!"

The Gervian sent a glance towards the call before lifting his nose, his mouth twitching with disgust, and turning back to his companions.

Octavian?

Lyova froze.

Octavian Degervian?

The old Maratasen with the staff must be Tomislav. The Charian, Eve.

This is the Core Council!

She watched as they laughed and cleaned their plates.

“Come, sit.” The Ursian gestured toward a seat near his with a great, big smile. Lyova realized that this must be Diarmuid, the Ursian core councilor. She slowly made her way over, offering a weak smile to him and taking in the situation.

Lyova took a deep breath and relaxed her posture as she made her way to the seat Diarmuid had motioned towards-across from Fritjof. The wonderful scents wafting into her nostrils began to register. She sat, ready to eat, but the pressure from her waistguard heightened as a result.

“Ugh.” She groaned, her stomach churning.

“No worries! Spirits, be on the way!” Diarmuid cried out.

A Gervian steward approached the table with a cart of glasses and bottles. He setup beside Camlann, carefully selected a large round glass and retrieved a decanter from the lower shelf, raising an empty jug. The Chancellor gave a soft snarl. The steward gave it a quick shake to make a show of the problem, then checked the rest of the cart but no luck. “My, who checked this? No one, I imagine. My apologies, everyone. The other night must’ve left the cart dry.”

Diarmuid smiled, tilting his head as he recalled their recent celebration.

“I’ll be back with a different one right away.” And he was gone.

Another Valdus steward entered the room, and Diarmuid cheered while Camlann tapped his glass on the table impatiently.

“Not to worry!” The new steward said cheerfully, pushing a new cart along. “We caught the mistake a little late, but we’re on top of it.”

“Oh, good! And what’s your name, dear?” Fritjof asked the other valdus.

“Jareb, the third, ma’am.” He said, filling Camlann's glass with a dark pour. He then prepared to do the same for Diarmuid, but was stopped by an interposing paw.

“You know any good mixes? Gimme something with a little more life than the old bear!” Diarmuid asked with a big smile, nodding towards Camlann and raising a giant mound of food to his face with his other paw.

“In fact, I do!” The valdus said. He began taking various bottles and concocting mixtures.

Lyova looked to Fritjof who watched the valdus steward with a smile.

“Ooooh, that does look good!” Fritjof said.

Wait. I should be more serious. Look at her.

This is all too merry. You never know when something could happen.

Stay close.

Remain vigilant.

Be-

“Oh sh-!”

A couple of the bottles knocked over on the steward’s cart. He hastily tried to situate things. “S-sorry about that.”

“No rush, friend.” Diarmuid laughed it off.

“Guess I’m just a little nervous. It’s my first time serving the Council.” Jareb said as he soaked the mess up.

Bleh, that smell.

Lyova tried hard not to focus on the tightness of her waistguard, but her stomach refused it. The slight odor from whatever the steward had spilt wasn’t helping either. She’d always had a sensitive stomach.

She looked up to see Fritjof’s smile gone, her demeanor was different for a moment as she stared at Lyova.

“You’re not the only one!” Diarmuid declared happily. “Lyova here is on her first watch with us.” He looked to her, only to see her struggling face.

“Everything alright, dear? You seem ill.” Fritjof asked.

“It’s my waistguard. They gave me one that’s too small.”

“Oh, no! What a pain. Here, I’ll take it.” Fritjof offered, seemingly returning to her previous mood.

Lyova hesitated, yet couldn’t help but to give in. She removed the waistguard with a sigh of relief and handed it over. “I’ll fetch you a different one.”

“You’re not the only one,” Diarmuid winked. “They make stuff too small for me all the time.”

The smell had passed, but Lyova wasn’t quite feeling completely better. Still, she couldn’t help but smile at Diarmuid.

Everyone is too kind. This can’t truly be the way things are… not at the top. Fritjof made her way past the steward and stopped to peak into the delicious concoctions. She gave it a strong sniff. She then raised her face from the glass cheerfully. “Smells wonderful!”

The steward sighed with relief. “I’m glad you think so! Here, try it.”

Fritjof took the glass from the steward and gave it a sip. “Mmm!” She said, smacking her lips. “Yum!”

She looked down at another glass and peered into it. She lifted it and took a closer look. “Ah, thought I’d seen something floating in that one.”

“I’ll take it!” Diarmuid joked.

“Okay, here.” Fritjof said, squeezing past the steward. She offered a glass to Diarmuid, laughing. He took it with a big, pleasant smile.

“But I really shouldn’t.” She said handing her glass over to the steward. “It’s very good, and I’d hate for it to go to waste. How about you have it, dear?”

“Yes, join us in the toast!” Diarmuid said.

Lyova began to feel somewhat better as her appetite started to set back in.

“Here” Camlann grabbed another glass, handing it over to Lyova.

“A toast to what, exactly?” Lyova asked, glancing at the Chancellor in surprise.

“Why, to the both of you, of course!” He said with his first smile of the day. He raised his glass high as Fritjof left the room. Everyone else in the room lifted their glasses too. “May your hard work continue to bring you wherever you so wish.”

Lyova sipped from her glass. It was delicious! She felt the cool liquid run through her and grow warm within her chest.

Diarmuid looked to the steward. “Wow! You have to tell me how to make this!”

The steward pulled the glass from his lips with a fading smile. “I’d love to, sir.” His lips trembled as he smacked them, looking into the glass.

He peered out of the room and tugged at his collar.

“I’m- ”

cough

“I’m, afraid I’m going-

cough cough he stopped, his drink shaking in his hands.

Crash!

His glass shattered on the floor.

The steward knelt down and lifted his pant leg, revealing a gun.

“-to have to-“

cough Specks of blood sprayed onto his clothing. He quickly stood, his loaded hand slow to follow.

“K-“

Everyone stood, gasps all around.

Lyova reached for the handle of her sword, the gun raising toward Camlann.

“K-“

She drew her blade and watched the gun now point at her chancellor. But before a single move could be made, the gun fell to the floor and the steward began to gargle as he collapsed.

“We need help in here!” Diarmuid cried out, hurrying to cover his Chancellor.

Lyova looked across the table at Fritjof’s empty seat. All of the commotion seemed to drown out.

“The tongue is a sword.”

Her words echoed through Lyova’s mind.

Had Fritjof drawn her sword?

Fritjof’s voice faded in to Lyova’s awareness. “Arkali.”

“Huh?” Lyova turned around to see Fritjof standing behind her with the waistguard still in hand.

“An acid known for its corrosive nature.” Fritjof looked to the group trying to help the dying steward as she sat the waistguard down.

“Good thing I’d been stationed on Utraeus all those years ago, or I may have never thought twice about that slight smell it can initially give. Otherwise, it’s practically imperceptible within a drink of anything that isn’t clear- that is, until you’ve tasted it… or given it a good whiff!” The valdus winked to the other.

“’Course I may not have even suspected a thing if it hadn’t been for that funny walk of his. Clear as day he was concealing something.” She laughed. “Tsk tsk. Someone should’ve told him to never focus on what you’re hiding.

“Likely why he even had the gun for a back-up plan in the first place. Doubt was his downfall.”

Lyova stared dumbstruck into her drink as Fritjof now happily poured herself one of her own.

“Some people believe they know what’s best for others…” Fritjof said, taking a gulp.

“…for their people.”

Fritjof placed a hand on her shoulder, leaned in and whispered in her ear. “But there will always be those of us who know better.”

The Dark Horse, huh?

I can’t think of a better title.

By Chet DeLano