Young Writers Society

The last fifty yards to the stonewall gate grew steep enough that even Devlin was sweating and heaving breaths by the time he and Malcolm stumbled to the entrance. With hands on his sides, Devlin gave a half nod to the massive guard at the raised portcullis who looked down on them with raised eyebrow. Devlin thought he saw his mouth twitch a repressed smile away.

Taking a deep breath, Devlin stood up straight. He tried his best to hide the fact that he could barely get out words.

"Seems you never get used to the elevation."

The guard, resting on his spear, spat out a thick glob of red tobacco. It splashed on the ground where Devlin noticed a small splattered puddle had formed. He had apparently been at his post for some time. The guard spat again, adding to the puddle.

Maybe not.

Devlin wiped his brow. "Sir, my name is Devlin. I'm a private from the Mountain Regiments. I had a meeting with the Magistrate last night, and am here to discuss the matter with him again today."

The guard nodded slowly, or perhaps he was just scratching his forehead on the spear. When he spoke it reminded Devlin of General Vokoun. It was deep, strong, in command of the situation "Where's your uniform, private? Where's the rest of your regiment?""

Devlin laughed. "I swear, how many times do I have to have this conversation? Don't you soldiers gossip?"

The guard stood straight, wiping his stubbled jowls of spittle from the tobacco. He wiped it on the stone wall. "You know how many people are here to 'speak with the magistrate'? How many are armed with a stolen knife, a vial of acid? Now, answer the question or I'll run you through and make your boy-servant mop up the mess."

Devlin took a step back. Apparently, humor was not a strong personality trait for this beast of a man. "I lost my uniform, and my regiment was slaughtered at Hoden's Pass. And before you ask, yes it clearly is not as impregnable as we thought."

The guard's eyes widened at the mention of the pass. "Ah. Sent a rider out this morning to Hoden's Pass to see the state of the camp."

"I suspect Magistrate Xerdex likes to verify the information he receives. He always has kept tabs like an accountant." Devlin said.

The guard seemed to accept the inference between those two pieces and information. He waved for Devlin and Malcolm to come forward, then turned and was walking past the gate, hooking a left. Devlin hurriedly matched his pace and Malcolm did his best to keep up. There was a small wooden structure, just about ten by ten feet with a pointed roof and a door that swung open at the halfway point. The bottom half was closed and another guard, maybe twenty, with a smooth shave and curly brown hair, was resting across the ledge of the bottom half while the top half of the door had been hooked to the side on a small lynch pin. At seeing the trio round the corner he straightened immediately.

"Captain." He said.

The large guard grunted. "You take over the gate. Got to take these gentlemen to the magistrate. Where is he?"

"Last I saw he was in the Smith Yard."

The captain nodded and turned right into the main area of the keep courtyard. Devlin took in the surroundings, relieved that they had gotten in without too much hassle. The keep, made of cold stone blocks rose at least fifty feet into the air. There were narrow slits spaced out from the first floor to the top -places for an arrow to be shot down without exposing a defender- and a balcony wrapped around the highest floor. The red-tiled roof hung over the balcony, speckled with lumps of snow that made a similar pattern to those of the Astorian guard coats.

Devlin looked from the tower to the captain, noting that there was a rather similar build to the both of them. Large, cold, red-and white adorned, and unapproachable. The whole courtyard was surrounded by large buildings. To the right of the keep, about fifty feet back, was a row of two-story barracks, stone on the first floor with a second story made of thick wooden slats. The rooves had matching red tile, something that Devlin notived was lacking throught the rest of Atheron. Perhaps it was an expensive material to get in.

Devlin couldn't see what lay behind the keep, but as quickly as they had entered the courtyard they were now turning to left where several blacksmith shops stood resolute. Forges bellowed, smiths sharpened blades on grinding wheels in showers of sparks, blades hissed as they were dunked into troughs of water and tubes of oil. The clang of hammer on metal rang out. It took Devlin back to his training in the Royal City, the sounds, the seriousness, the power of it all.

Off to the right, closer to the twenty-foot walls that enclosed the whole facility, Devlin could see some of the troops practicing. They were spaced out in uniformed lines a few feet apart, working through what was likely a preset list of moves, parrying, thrusting, blocking, and the like. The symetry of it all was a bit hypnotizing as line by line, row by row, they moved in unison almost like a wave rather than a group of individuals. That was always the goal of course, as Vokoun had said over and over. The soldiers did not move, the regiment moved, each man like a part of the body.

"Did you do that?" Malcolm asked from behind.

Devlin nodded, then ducked as they passed between two large wooden posts where a wooden carving arched overhead: Smith's Court.

A few of the blacksmiths looked up with intrigue from either side, eyeing Devlin up and down quickly. Devlin noted that, unlike the troops in the town, the smiths all looked older. They had probably been working the craft for decades. Many had beards, speckled black and white, both from age and the fires of their forges. The whole thing smelled like smoke and sweat, something Devlin was quite familiar with.

Devlin noted that Malcolm was taking it all in with wide eyes. He didn't seem phased by those staring right back at him, too interested in the fire, the swords and ax heads, spear shafts, and farther in the back the breastplates and helmets.

"Impressed?" Devlin asked.

Malcolm shrugged. "Never seen so many smiths all together. They must be making hundreds of pieces a week!" There was an excitement in his voice, a slight tremble of wonder like he was trying to not let his voice crack.

Devlin laughed. "Yes. You should have seen the Royal City. Entire city blocks were designated for armor and smithing. Whole fields around the outskirts were filled with army tents and fields for training."

Devlin turned to the captain who lumbered ahead through the armor section, barely fitting between work benches and tool racks as smiths and armorers split like a school of fish when a predator swims through. "Preparing for the spring campaign, no doubt? This has got to be one of the closest armories that can supply the army."

The Captain nodded. They breached back into open space. Where before everything had been cobblestone and brick, the ground now broke out into dead grass. A courtyard spilled out fifty feet in diameter, lined with dead garden beds. Around the outside of the courtyard there was a stone walkway that encompassed the whole thing with a stone roof above it all.

A well sat in the center, raised on a white stone slab. The stones around the well itself were laid four feet tall. The metal roof and wench framework across it held a thick rope that swayed ever so slightly.

A large statue faced the well on the opposing side. It was a bronze statue of a smith, hammer raised up with his right hand, a blade held on an anvil with his left. The whole thing was mounted on another stone cube with a black and gold inlaid plaque that was too far away to read.

Snowflakes now fell from the sky, swirling high above, but settling as they reached down into the courtyard where the wind was unable to penetrate effectively because of the walls and buildings. As Devlin tracked flakes through the air his eyes caught movement to the left of the well. It was the magistrate, dressed in a floor length coat, a deep royal blue with gold hemming and swirls of white thread along the buttons, bottom hem, and neckline. The coat was buttoned up with a set of white pearls from the knees to the neck. Devlin felt his heart beat faster. He inhaled sharply, gripping his hands into fists.

He dares wear that. Even now.

The magistrate was carrying a pile of books and leather binders. The one on top was open and the magistrate was reading it line by line, fingering following the words from left to right. He had two men with him, dressed in a similar style of coat, but these were the traditional Astorian Red and White with black trim. They both had on hoods while Xerdex had foregone that, letting his short hair ruffle in the breeze, his burnt face exposed to the cold.

Malcolm tapped Devlin's side as they followed the captain to Xerdex. "You didn't tell me his face was half-melted."

Devlin's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, well let's not lead with that point of interest shall we?"

Malcolm nodded. "Obviously. Just saying, a heads-up would have been nice. And are you sure you don't know this man?"

"Why would you ask that when I already said no?" Devlin snapped.

Malcolm stood back. "Whoa, easy. You just act like you've met him before, or he did something to you. Was he in the Royal City with you?"

"No." Devlin straightened his jacket. "Now, let me do the talking."

Malcolm let out a sheepish grin. "I'll just be backup in case you need my help." He paused, then added: "Again."

The Captain was now hailing Xerdex with an outstretched arm that looked big enough to be a full-grown tree trunk. The magistrate looked up, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed, but he closed the binder with a thud and approached, accompanied by the two companions. He made quick eye contact with Devlin before looking up to the Captain.

"What is it, Captain Redling?"

Redling jammed a thumb back at Devlin. "This man says he knows you? He's the one from Hoden's Pass?"

Xerdex nodded, handing off the binders to the companion on his left who was scouring Devlin up and down beneath his darkened hood and hidden features.

"I don't think that entering the Red Keep is the most subtle way of convincing these barbarians that you are one of them, Private."

Devlin shook his head, steadying his breathing. "You would be right, Magistrate. However, I fear our timeline may have been advanced for us."

Xerdex raised an eyebrow. He clasped his arms behind his back. "Why do you feel this way, just a day after arriving?"

Devlin circled his finger toward the grey, snowflake-filled sky. "This storm. It could be Eridan. If he is already here, then there is no time for surveillance. "

Xerdex let out a short bark of laughter. "You expect me to believe that a typical wintery storm is the power of our legendary warrior? I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that."

Devlin nodded. Strong-arming Xerdex would never work. "I understand your disbelief."

Redling cut in. "Then why are you here, wasting my time?" he growled, crossing his arms.

"Devlin nodded. "Good question. I still believe that if Eridan is to arrive, he will do so in secret. He needs to be seen as the Black Bull, not as some thief sneaking in. I'm looking for ways that he can sneak in. You said that every waterway and entrance is guarded?"

Xerdex sighed, beginning to walk past Devlin. "If you aren't going to provide new information I will be on my way. I have plenty of real problems to deal with today that don't involve the security system that has not failed my city in over two years."

Devlin stood his ground, without spinning to face Xerdex and his two companions as they walked by. "What about that well?"

Xerdex stopped. Devlin heard his feet shuffle in the grass. "What of the well?"

Devlin gestured across the courtyard. "I don't see any guards here."

Xerdex sighed. "You really are a cut above the rest. How observant," he spat out. "So observant that you failed to see the hundreds of soldiers and smiths surrounding this area. Only a fool would attempt entry through the Red Keep."

Devlin was about to speak, but Xerdex put a hand on his right shoulder and leaned in. "Before you speak anymore and embarrass yourself further, I would also tell you that this well was dried up during the siege and blocked off with boulders in the caverns below. Any further questions?"

"Could we see the layout of the waterways into the city? "

Xerdex sighed. "Redling, take this man to the first floor records in the Keep. And don't let him leave your sight. Tell Master Kenway to give him access to the architecture and water systems of the city. nothing more."

He began to walk away but stopped and raised a single finger. "Mind you, Private Devlin. If my rider finds nothing amiss, and this supposed legend makes no appearance, you will spend the duration of the war in a prison, or more than likely will be executed for desertion. For your sake more than my own, I pray that you are not wasting our time."

"What of me?" Malcolm said, stepping beside Devlin.

Xerdex laughed. "I could not care less what becomes of you, child."

Devlin put a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. He could feel that Malcolm was tensed up.He gave him a reassuring squeeze. Xerdex exited with his companions, leaving Redling, Devlin, and Malcolm alone in the courtyard. Devlin strode to the well, peering down the dark hole. It was deep enough that he could not make out where the shadows ended and the ground began.

"That would be quite a long way for him to climb," Malcolm offered.

Devlin bit his lip. "That's the problem. We don't know what's too much. We don't know much of anything, Malcolm."

"I suppose we'll have to stick together and figure it out as a team. What's with the big statue?"

Devlin pulled himself away from the well and walked to the front of the statue. "The plaque reads as follows: Euron Mastersmith - Father of The Smithing Guild, Father of two chi-"

Devlin's blood ran cold and chills ran down his arms into his very fingertips.

Malcolm noticed it and hurried over. "What is it?"

Devlin simply pointed to the plaque. Malcolm let out a small gasp.

Devlin began reading again. "Father of two children, daughter Willow, and son Eridan."

Redling, who had remained quiet in the background now walked forward. "That's the name of your walking legend, no?"

Devlin shook his head. "When was this plaque put up? "

"Ah, was a ceremony about a year ago. Magistrate did it in what he called a 'token of generosity' as a reward to the Sadorians in the city not rioting since the occupation. I suppose the Euron fellow was quite respected before the war."

"And did he and his family survive?"

Redling scratched his stubble and looked to the ground as if the brown grass held the answer. "As I recall, the daughter, wife, and Euron all died. No one knows what became of the boy. The statue had been conscripted and was already built by the time we broke through the last defenses of the Red Keep."

Devlin ran his hands over the names on the plaque. How many innocent lives would Astoria take before this whole war was over?

Redling stepped forward, tapping the Eridan on the statue. "That name though. It's a common name among the Sadorian folk. It could be a coincidence." He shrugged.

Devlin shook his head as he rose. "No. Perhaps this storm is, but that," he jabbed a finger at the plaque, "is no coincidence. And it means that he isn't just coming to take back the city or recruit an army. He's coming for revenge. He's not going to leave survivors."

Redling scoffed. "He can try. It took us nearly a year to breach this Keep. Would take him ten times that."

"No!" Devlin yelled. "You don't understand. He has a weapon that's unlike anything you've ever seen." His words sliced the frigid air like a knife, echoing in the empty courtyard. "He will breach these gates in ten seconds, not ten years. He's already destroyed two places on the way here."

Redling stared, dumbfounded at the outburst.

Devlin wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He noticed that Malcolm's face had gone as pale as the snow. Perhaps he was thinking of Potter's Creek and the swiftness of Eridan's destruction and power.

Devlin jabbed a finger at Redling. "The one thing we do know is that he isn't some mythological manifestation." Devlin shook his head, convincing himself. There was no other option if he was wrong. "He's a son to a father. And that means we can kill him."