The Guards of Gaia

Okay, so... maybe I am a little bit into Game of Thrones. Give this GoT inspired piece a read and let me know what you think.....


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Despair had fallen over him as the night's shade had blanketed all of Gaia; as a Lord's Guard, Alain Denarth expected a soldier's death, an honorable death. He never expected to perish with his arms bound above his head, any feeling in his fingers having long since drained away. The air he breathed was as dank as his captor's soul; rife with excrement and decay. At first Denarth had tried to count the days of his imprisonment by measuring time with the rising sun. He'd lost count at twenty when Autumn's Night finally arrived to cast the countryside in perpetual dusk. There was no sense in counting anymore. Why they fed him and kept him alive was a folly of a guess he'd abandoned, though he began to suspect that his ascension to the Gods was nearing when the food waned, and then ceased completely. Denarth was barely conscious when he heard the iron bolt that secured the moss-covered, oaken door of his cell slide away.

Though foul was the air he breathed, Denarth found the dungeon keeper's disgusting odor far more revolting. A combination of sweat, blood, dirt and Gods knew what else made him smell more of beast than man. Denarth's stomach had been empty for days, yet it took much of his remaining strength to keep from retching as the keeper approached and the stench nearly overwhelmed him. His senses roared back to full faculty as the keeper heaved Denarth from his hook and dropped him to the straw-covered, earthen floor. Blood rushed back into his extremities. The keeper kicked him brutally in the ribs.

"Get up, dog. The Master wants to see you."

Weakly, Denarth rose and stood on shaky legs. "You do know that once I'm free of this place, I will kill you, don't you? Surely what little brain resides in that massive, repugnant skull of yours can comprehend that."

The keeper ignored Denarth's derision and jabbed the butt end of his axe into the small of Denarth's back, thrusting him forward. After stumbling a few steps, Alain Denarth regained his balance and marched forward, vowing silently that, when the time came, he would end the keeper's pathetic existence with his own axe.

"Move. Master is waiting."

Denarth climbed the slippery, circular stones that led from the dungeon up into the castle proper. With each step the air warmed and sweetened until the only wretchedness that crept into his nostrils emanated from his own, unbathed body. Once he wore a suit of armor forged from impenetrable steel, thick leather and dragon's scales; now he wore a burlap sack with hole cut through it for his head and arms. Humiliation was a key component of the Master's rule; fear and ruthlessness the others. He had no business sitting on the Lord's throne; he'd taken it while Denarth led the armies of the south to quell an attack from the Separian Sea. A hundred vessels sailed into the seaward city-state of Barton's harbor, a key entry point into greater Gaia. Less than two hundred men commanded them the attack force. Tethered together like children's toys, the enemy ships clogged the harbor and prevented any Gaian vessel from sailing outward. The siege on Karana, Gaia's capitol, began shortly thereafter. Within five days, as Denarth and his soldiers trekked vainly and laboriously northward through the rocky countryside in an effort to reach and protect their Lord, the city had fallen. Lord Jarren's body was displayed atop the city gates, ropes pulling his arms and legs taught such that his corpse formed an "X" in honor of the city's new ruler by siege.

Gareth Xander sat upon Lord Jarren's throne, one leg draped over the arm, and puffed from a clay long-pipe. A narcotic glaze had dimmed the man's eyes, though some semblance of recognition crept into them when the keeper led Denarth into the chamber. Xander stood and rose to his full 6'2" height. Many found him intimidating. Black leather boots encapsulated his feet, calves and shins, and only a hint of the heavy, dyed cloth that shielded his legs peeked from beneath the black, leather, studded and armored kilt that draped over his lower torso. The armor that covered his upper body and arms matched that of the shin guards and kilt; all black leather, heavily armored with gilded steel plating.

His thick, black hair he pulled back into a ponytail and slicked with flax oil, while the beard he wore was cropped and trimmed neatly along his jaw. A dangling, golden earing containing dragon's blood in a hollowed wolf's fang hung from each ear. His emerald eyes could pierce through most people's souls; not Alain Denarth's.

"Either kill me or send me back to my cell. I've no time for your opiate–enraged nonsense," said Denarth defiantly after the keeper shoved him forward and to his knees before Xander.

Xander laughed and clapped. "Insolent to the end. I see your condition has done nothing to weaken your resolve."

"And I see your station has done nothing to strengthen your character."

Xander unleased a backhand strike across Denarth's face, opening a gash beneath Denarth's left eye.

"I am your Master now, Lord's Guard Denarth," said Xander derisively. "I'm offering you a choice. Agree to lead my men, as commander of my Lord's Guards, and you'll be restored to your position post haste."

"I'd rather die."

"Well good luck for you that death is your second option."

"Get on with it, then." Denarth lowered his head and expected the keeper's axe to fall across the base of his neck. No blow would come, however; the chamber instead filled with the echo of Xander's drug induced cackling.

"Oh my Gods, Alain, must you be so dramatic?" Gareth Xander squatted down and stared into Denarth's eyes. "Were we not friends, once? Did we not serve together as members of the Guard?"

"We were, and we did. Right up until you succumbed to your delusions of grandeur and left Gaia. I remained loyal to my Lord and my duty; you betrayed both, murdered Lord Jarren, and took by force that which you swore to protect."

Xander stood and paced angrily. "Jarren was a fool! The peace he forged with the Farash Clan was as weak as he was. Had I not seized control and protected this city, Karana would be overrun by those fair-skinned creatures by now."

"I take it back, Gareth, I don't want to die. I want some of what's in your pipe."

Gareth stormed back from where he'd strolled and struck Denarth again. "You will not mock me in my own castle!" Denarth spit blood from his cracked lip and glared upward at Xander.

"This isn't your castle."

Xander met Denarth's gaze and breathed as if his lungs would expel fire. He rushed back to the throne and inhaled deeply from his pipe; his demeanor shifted, and he spoke again.

"So what say you, commander of the Lord's Guards? Will you serve, or will you die?"

"I will die as you address me – commander of the Lord's Guards, loyal servant of Lord Willem Jarren, King of Gaia."

Xander scowled. "Very well. Keeper, take him to the gallows at the docks, and dispose of him." The keeper pulled Denarth to his feet and forcefully led him from the throne chamber and out of Xander's sight. From high above, a pair of amber eyes watched intently from a stone-arched window before darting away into the twilight.

Sadly, the spectacle that was the keeper leading some lowly figure to his doom had grown so commonplace that, aside from those with a general lust for blood, there were few in Karana that turned their heads at the dungeon keeper's passing by. Perhaps, had he been recognizable, some might have objected or even intervened; now, however, the former commander of the Lord's Guards' identify was sufficiently concealed by the dirty hair of the unkempt beard that grew across his face. His long, brown locks were chopped here and there, furthering the effects of his unwanted disguise.

The keeper led Denarth to the gallows that occupied the end of the makeshift pier Xander had commissioned to be constructed just for the purpose – his enemies were hung to the death, whereupon the keeper would cleave their heads from their bodies and cause them to fall into the sea below. From time to time the corpses would find the shore, but the heavy riptides of the Separian Sea most often carried the dead unceremoniously into oblivion.

Four guards parted to allow Denarth and the keeper to pass. Derisive shouts followed from those who mistakenly believed that pledging their allegiance to Xander would somehow elevate their societal status. And why wouldn't they? Xander had promised them, after all. As they would with most of most Xander's despotic promises, however, the people of Karana would soon find them unfulfilled.

The wooden planking upon which he stepped creaked and swayed under the men's weight. Nails protruded everywhere, one slashing the flesh of Denarth's left foot. He numbed himself to the pain and continued until they reached the gallows, where his blood mingled with the rest that stained the pier. The keeper moved him into position atop a trap door and below the noose that would ensnare Denarth's fate. Alain Denarth closed his eyes; a futile endeavor as the keeper placed a burlap bag over his head in any event. For a moment Denarth breathed slowly and deeply as he prepared himself to meet the Gods. His introduction into the afterlife, however, would wait.

He heard the screaming first. Angry, boisterous shouts played a cacophony on the seaside wind. Then a thunk, and another, as arrows struck the wooden posts that flanked Denarth on either side. He heard the keeper shriek as a bolt made a decidedly softer sound as it struck flesh. More shouting, then shrieking, then the sounds of boots on rotting wooded planks. Suddenly, he fell to his knees as the rope that held him upright gave way, and he was yanked from the darkness when the burlap sack was lifted from his head.

 

His eyes adjusted to the dim evening light quickly, whence upon he saw four men standing before him. Two held the keeper at bay, on his knees, with an arrow protruding from the man's back. Another guarded the approach from the shore, while the fourth man offered his hand to guide Denarth back to his feet.

"Commander," the man said respectfully. Denarth rose to look into the eyes of his second in command of the Lord's Guards, Kellen Farr. "I'd embrace you commander, but you reek of piss."

Denarth laughed. "You were always the most honest of my guard, Kellen. Thank you. But we must move quickly. I'm sure word is getting back to Castle Karan as we stand."

"Of course, commander. We've a ship waiting to take us back to Barton. What shall we do with him?" Farr asked, nodding to the keeper. Denarth walked over to the man and knelt upon one knee before him.

"You remember what I told you, don't you?"

"Dog. I do not fear you."

"No, I suppose you don't. Though never again will you instil fear in another, either. You are about to realize that I always keep my promises." Denarth rose and another of his rescuers handed him the keeper's axe. "Any last words?"

The keeper parted his lips to speak but Denarth didn't wait for the sound to escape the jailer's lips. He swung his shoulders and hefted the axe above his head. With a singular motion, the blade came down with all the strength Denarth could muster, cleaving the keeper's skull in two. The blade came to rest imbedded in the man's chest. Denarth released his grip on the axe's handle. The body wavered for a moment before falling forward into its own pool of blood and gore. Denarth nodded to Farr, who pulled back the handle and released the trap door. The keeper's body fell to the water below.

"Let's go."

Once they were safely away from Kanara's short, and after bathing below decks and eating a meal of cured bison meat and mead-bread, Alain Denarth donned the armor his men had brought for him. All at once he felt whole again. The silken tunic that separated his flesh from leather and steel felt foreign compared the abrasive burlap he'd worn in captivity, though the sword that hung at his side felt all too welcomingly familiar. He unsheathed it and stared at its intricately hand-stamped blade. King Jarren had such blades commissioned for all of his commanders. Farr had retrieved Denarth's from the battlefield and held it for his commander until the two could be reunited. Its handle culminated in a dragon's head forged of pewter, with eyes of ruby and scales of black onyx. He returned it to its scabbard and joined his men on deck. The salty sea air washed over him and he reveled in what little light the dusky sky had to offer.

"It's good to see you well again, commander."

"Thank you Kellen. For everything. Tell me know, how is it you came to know of Xander's plan for me? Not that I doubt your skills; I did teach you. But still – Castle Karan is well guarded, and I saw no evidence of infiltration."

Farr smiled. "Let's just saw we had help from above."

Most would assume that Farr referred to the Gods; Alain Denarth was not amongst the most, and knew exactly of which Farr spoke. His face lit up with glee as Farr nodded upwards. At first one would have though a flock of birds had perched among the vessel's rigging, but they were no birds. One of the creatures squawked and barked excitedly as it swooped down from its perch to Denarth's extended arm.

"Grannus, I've missed you, old friend."

The amber-eyed dwarf dragon squawked again and extended its wings as puffs of flame shot skyward from its nostrils. Its iridescent scales appeared indigo in the pale light, and shimmered more brightly as Denarth caressed the creature along its jawline. The rest of the dwarf dragons in the rigging screeched happily with the knowledge that their master had returned.

Grannus climbed up Denarth's arm and perched on his shoulder, his talons finding the custom-made holds in Denarth's shoulder armor that had been created for just such a purpose. The dwarf dragon's tail flitted back and forth across Deanrth's back, scoring the steel armor with its scaly barbs. Denarth turned and looked out upon the sprawling sea before him.

"Who controls Barton, William or Randall?" he asked.

"Crown Prince William holds court at Barton, commander," replied Farr. "Prince Randall has ventured west with the red garrison to seek alliance with the Malek Clan.

Denarth scoffed. "He'll need that garrison just to get an audience with Baron Malek. This should be interesting. And what of you when we arrive in Barton, Kellen? I'm assuming you command the Lord's Guards for Prince William."

"Not any more, commander."

Farr winked, patted Denarth on his free shoulder, and stepped down to the main deck, leaving his commander alone. Denarth turned his attention back to the sea. Grannus squeaked on his shoulder.

"We've a long journey ahead of us, my little friend, and an arduous one at that, I'm afraid. Are you sure want to stick around for this?" Grannus screeched and bumped the blunted top of his nose against Denarth's temple. "Ouch! Alright then. For Gaia we fight."

Grannus leaped from his shoulder and flipped end over end in a loop, letting the wind catch the leathery expanse of his wings to propel himself. With a howl and a snort, a line of flame converged in front of him from his nostrils and dissipated into the humid, sea air. Denarth watched the loyal dwarf dragon fly back up to the rigging, where it perched again and barked to its companions. Though he couldn't communicate with the creature directly, he'd grown to recognize certain sounds and gestures over the years such that he could muster a general understanding of the diminutive dragon. Right now it was issuing a battle cry to its kind. They, like Denarth, were loyal to a fault. Despite wishing, at times, that Grannus was a full sized dragon and not a dwarf, Denarth nevertheless accepted and welcomed the creature's companionship.

"For Gaia," Alain Denarth repeated aloud.  "For Gaia."

 

(To be continued….)

 

© 2016 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.