“Hey Kronp,” Darnell called out. “You take a dip in a barrel of oil?”
Chapter 5 — The Otter Feast. Mark of the Shadow — Book 1 of the Phantom Lord Saga
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Ned sat in his quarters, taking a final look around. The room was sparsely furnished, reflecting his no-nonsense military life. A narrow bed with a neatly folded blanket stood against one wall. A small nightstand beside it held a single candle and a worn leather journal. The bare stone walls radiated a coldness that mirrored the discipline and order in the room. Caius would have been proud, if he were still alive to see it. Not that it really mattered. Ned was painfully aware that after tonight he may never see this place again.
Rising from his bed, Ned grabbed the journal from his nightstand and retrieved the secret message from General Stone—the same note Caius had thrust into his hand upon his death. Despite the week’s revelations, the author of the note that had lured them into a trap remained a mystery. Although the King may have ordered Caius’s death, the intricate plan had to have been executed by someone else. But who?
Ned rolled and tucked the note into a leather purse strapped to his belt, then stepped before his mirror, meticulously inspecting the joints and fastenings of the Champion’s Royal armor to ensure everything was secure. He had been instructed to wear it for the ceremony—his tunic freshly laundered, his armor polished to a gleam. Thankfully, this armor was lighter and allowed for greater mobility compared to the cumbersome plate mail he was accustomed to, though it was not as dependable. He hoped it would suffice if things went awry tonight.
While his investigation had stalled, preparations for tonight’s coup had progressed smoothly. He had carefully selected a few trustworthy men, discreetly pulling each one aside to reveal the plan. These were individuals he had known for a long time, each harboring some grievance against their lordship. The only exception was Rodney, who, despite his initial surprise at Ned’s proposal, did not reject it.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he did in ol’ Caius,” said Rodney. “If you mean to do this, I’m with you all the way. But what about Darnell?”
Amid all the questions surrounding the coup, this one perplexed him the most. Despite mounting evidence against the King, Ned struggled to place his trust in Darnell. His instincts warned him to remain cautious of his old friend.
“Too much of a rule keeper,” said Ned, shaking his head, knowing that it wasn’t the true reason. “He’d never agree.”
Rodney cocked his head, frowning. “”Fair enough, I suppose...” he said. Then, with a light punch on Ned’s shoulder, he added, “It’ll be like that night in Townshend. Act first and beg forgiveness later.”
At the time, Ned had smiled at the remark. Now, on the eve of the Feast, all of his smiles had vanished. Havashal was sharp and gleaming, freshly honed, though he dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to use it against his fellow countrymen. He admired the craftsmanship one last time before sheathing the blade, feeling its weight at his waist. In an attempt to tame his thick, coarse hair, he had oiled both his hair and beard. Staring into the old barracks mirror, he felt like a child playing dress-up.
It was time.
He exited the room and walked through the dimly lit barracks, the sound of his footsteps echoing off the wooden floor. Darnell, who was off-duty tonight, sat on his bed with one leg dangling and a book in hand. He glanced up at Ned. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he snickered, the corners of his mouth curling up in a knowing grin.
“Hey Kronp,” Darnell called out. “You take a dip in a barrel of oil?”
“Kiss my ass,” Ned muttered with a scowl.
Darnell just chuckled and returned to his book.
Ned, avoiding eye contact with his men, walked past them, concerned that they may sense his intentions. It wasn’t long before he arrived at the main feast hall, the sounds of revelry filtering through the doors. Though a bit late, Rodney stood by the entrance, awaiting his arrival.
“Ready?” Rodney asked, a nervous titter escaping his lips.
“We’ve got this,” Ned reassured, feeling the unmistakeable fear emanating from his friend. He placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and said, “Remember, this is for Elyora.”
Rodney nodded grimly, and the two men entered the Feast Hall.
Ned blinked against the brilliant light. Every sconce in the hall blazed, illuminating the space. Decorative streamers hung from the ceiling, interspersed with beautifully embroidered flags depicting scenes from the historic battle with the Phantom Lord eons ago. Mouth-watering dishes were presented to an eclectic array of guests seated at the feast tables, while servants dashed about, pouring wine. The hall resonated with laughter and revelry. Though tempted to grab a drink and join the festivities, Ned resisted and made his way to the King’s table at the far end of the hall.
As he approached the King’s table, he grimaced. The King, seated majestically at the center of the grand table on his throne, was adorned in the finest silks of Elyora’s colors—red and gold. To his left sat Princess Podostroma, radiant in her red dress. Behind her stood Gamaliel, who gave Ned a brief nod as he drew near. Further down, Ned could see Dornton engaged in conversation with one of the visiting Lords, with Nyra standing behind him. Ned bowed deeply before the King and then took his position at the far end of the table, noting with some dismay that it was significantly further down than where Caius had once sat.
As the clock struck the hour, King Richard rose from his seat, clearing his throat. The grand hall, adorned with opulent tapestries and flickering candlelight, fell into a hushed silence. The courtiers and nobles, dressed in their most ostentatious garments, turned their gazes towards him.
“Welcome fellow countrymen, to the Otter’s Feast, the culminating event of our weeklong otter festival commemorating our ancient victory over the Phantom Lord millennia ago,” proclaimed King Richard. “I trust you have relished the revelry, the food, and the freely flowing wine from my private cellars. And If not, then clearly you haven’t drunk enough wine!”
The King lifted his glass high, then took a long, deliberate sip. The crowd followed suit, raising their glasses in unison.
“To Elyora!” shouted the King, his voice echoing throughout the hall. “To our great kingdom and its people!”
The hall erupted into cheers, as everyone drank to the toast. Ned couldn’t help but smile at the sight — all of Elyora united in celebration, even the ambassador from Inkholme who had been a thorn in their side for years, raised her glass to her ebony lips in a show of camaraderie.
“Yes, yes! Drink up, for the night’s festivities have only just begun. Where is the Master Chef?” King Richard scanned the crowd, his eyes glazed with delight. “Ah there he is? Come hither, boy. I have a word or two to say to you.”
Ned watched as the young chef approached the King, his steps measured and deliberate. The chef held his head high, yet Ned detected the nervousness in his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his calm exterior. Although Ned didn’t know the man well, the prominent brand on his forehead revealed everything he needed to know. Years ago, the chef’s parents had betrayed the King in an attempted coup. Now, Ned stood on the brink of committing a similar crime.
When the King summoned Revilo, all eyes fixated on his approach. He was no stranger to accusatory glances and snide remarks, yet the scrutiny of hundreds bore down on him like a heavy shroud. A chill coursed through his spine, but he steeled himself and advanced towards the King’s Table, determined to ignore their stares. This was the moment he had awaited so long, though now that it was unfolding, a sense of dread crept in.
Revilo glanced toward Adeline. The ambassador stood with her glass raised high, disappointment etched across her face. Unable to meet her sorrowful hazel eyes, Revilo quickly turned away. He had missed their rendezvous beneath the arbor before the feast began, a silent acknowledgment of the choice he had made—a choice that did not include Adeline.
He walked steadily until he arrived at the King’s table, where he bowed deeply. “Your Highness,” Revilo said, striving to keep his voice steady.
King Richard nodded in acknowledgement and leaned forward in his throne, a wicked gleam in his eye. Revilo could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow, but he refused to show any sign of fear.
“Chef,” the King began, drawing out each word for dramatic impact. “Bring on the main course!”
A sinking feeling engulfed Revilo; there was no mention of his appointment, no hint of freedom, only the main course. He felt his dreams slipping away, and couldn’t help but question if they had ever been real.
With a deep breath, Revilo snapped out of his thoughts and signaled for the kitchen servants to bring out the grand platters of roasted meats and vegetables. As they were set before King Richard and Princess Podostroma, Revilo held his breath, waiting for their reaction.
The King took a bite of the tender venison steak, then let out a loud belch. The courtiers exchanged glances and stifled giggles at the unseemly display from their ruler.
“Feast!” bellowed King Richard, and at his command, the court eagerly began to consume the lavish spread before them. Revilo stood before the King, a strained smile plastered on his face, as he observed everyone relishing the meal he had crafted with such meticulous care and dedication.
After a few moments the King glanced up to see him still standing here. “What is he still doing here?” King Richard asked Gamaliel, who stood behind his daughter.
“Your Highness,” Revilo began with a tremor in his voice, “I humbly request a moment of your time to discuss my official appointment as Master Chef... and, um, my freedom?”
King Richard’s eyes narrowed and he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not now, boy. Can’t you see we’re busy feasting? Gamaliel, handle this.”
The court executioner, the very man who had put his parents to death years ago, stared at him with a hard gaze. Revilo was surprised to detect a hint of concern in the man’s eyes, but as ordered, the executioner began to move toward him. For a moment, Revilo froze, the memories of his past bearing down on him. The sound of their screams echoing in his mind. This was a man who deserved punishment, something that Revilo had locked away for a day that would most likely never come.
“Forgive me, sire,” Revilo said. “Thank you for your kindness, I shall take my leave. Enjoy the feast.”
With that, Revilo swiftly exited, stepping away from the head table and retreating to the back of the hall. As he walked, the crushing weight of disappointment and despair bore down on him. He had gambled everything on this one moment, and now, it seemed all was lost. He glanced towards Adeline, expecting an accusatory look, but her seat was empty. Scanning the hall, he found no trace of her. Where had she gone? Revilo shook his head. What did it matter? He had given up on their life together, and she likely had too.
As Revilo was about to leave the grand hall, a surge of anger struck him like a bolt of lightning. No, he wouldn’t surrender so easily. Straightening his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he resolved that although he had lost this battle, the war was far from over. He would find another way to prove his loyalty and worth to the King. Perhaps, one day, he would earn his freedom and be able to be with Adeline without fear or shame.
Revilo instructed one of his staff to fetch his meal, then took a seat at the back of the hall. He would find some way to prove himself tonight. He just needed to seize the right moment.
Ned watched the Master Chef retreat down the grand hall with a curious gaze, feeling a pang of pity for the poor man; he looked like a chicken that had just lost its head. As the feast continued, Ned couldn’t shake off the sense of unease that lingered in the air. The King’s boorish behavior and his dismissive treatment of his servants only steeled his resolve against the king. He exchanged a knowing glance with Gamaliel, who nodded in silent agreement. The time was almost upon them.
The King rose from his throne, and proclaimed to the crowd, “We shall begin the recitation of the familiar tale of how the Phantom Lord was vanquished by the legendary heroes. These valiant souls, renowned for their unparalleled courage and wisdom, transcended from mere mortals to become Gods — becoming mythical beasts with powers beyond our mere mortal imaginings—to liberate us from the chains of captivity and the grasp of impending doom.” He paused as the crowd cheered and applauded. “My daughter, Podostroma, will deliver the recitation this year. Once she is finished, I have a special announcement to make.”
The King settled into his seat just as Podostroma rose from hers. For a moment, Ned was captivated by her long, flowing blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and her piercing blue eyes. Her striking red dress accentuated her figure perfectly, and the soft glow of the chandeliers above cast a gentle light on her, making the jewels around her neck sparkle like stars. She moved with an effortless grace that commanded everyone’s attention in the room. Ned wondered how any man, even Caius, could have broken off an engagement with such a woman. She was a marvel.
“Like a water flowing through a gentle stream, time flows on and on having neither beginning nor end, and while this tale has a beginning and end, we are reminded that our future is made possible by great champions of our past. Lead by the Goddess Inari, these four champions transcended their mortal forms to save humanity…”
Ned forced himself to tune her out. He had heard this story countless times before and couldn’t afford to be distracted in these critical moments of their plan. A knot of tension formed in his gut as he watched and waited for the King’s Guardsman to bring out Ivel. His attention was stretched to its limit, monitoring key areas of the room, noting the guards’ positions and movements, while servants busily topped off drinks and served food to the nobility, who remained captivated by Podostroma’s recitation.
“And so it was that the remaining heroes transformed into the great beasts: a wolf, a boar, a serpent, and an otter.”
The Princess gestured to Nyra, who was holding the ceremonial creature, a rather insipid looking otter sitting upon a puffed up pillow. Nyra stood by her, raising up the creature. Applause erupted all around filling the grand hall. The Princess continued on in grand tones, but Ned’s attention had shifted. The nearby doors had opened, revealing guards escorting their prisoner, Ivel, who looked even more disheveled than when Ned had first encountered him alone in Eradad.
“...And thus we were freed, and we honor their very sacrifice to this day,” intoned Princess Podostroma. She bowed low. Cheers erupted in the room as the Princess smiled sweetly, raising her glass to the adoring crowd.
After the cheers subsided, King Richard rose from his seat once more. Ned tensed, fingers sliding down to Havashal’s hilt.
“It always raises my spirit to hear about the courage and cleverness of the Legendary Heroes,” said King Richard. “They worked together to face insurmountable odds, against a terrible power that was determined to ruin this country–nay, this world. As King,” he cleared his throat. “It is my duty to carry on protecting Elyora with the same valiant courage and cleverness. As such, many of you may have heard of roaming Scav bands, and the tragedy that befell Eradad. A tragedy, brought on by the cruelty of a man. This man.”
The grand hall erupted into a sudden roar of noise and movement as he pointed an accusing finger at Ivel, his eyes blazing with anger and his voice echoing off the ancient stone walls. The gathered crowd shifted uneasily, whispers spreading through the room as everyone tried to make sense of the unfolding drama.
“This man is a servant of the heretic Brahm–worshiper of the Phantom Lord, and is guilty of the unlawful use of dark magic. I cannot condone such wickedness. As such–it is my duty to execute forth the full power of the law. It is with a heavy heart that I must execute this man myself.”
The King’s eyes and smile revealed his true intentions—he took pleasure in the suffering he caused. Anger surged in Ned’s chest, but he forced himself to stay calm and focused on his task. King Richard signaled to Gamaliel, who had been entrusted with holding the executioner’s axe. Gamaliel gripped it firmly and approached the King, casting a glance at Ned. Ned took one final, hurried look around—everyone was in their place. It was now, or never.
Ned rose from his seat and leapt onto the table.
“Wait!” Ned shouted.
The crowd gasped in shock as Ned leapt from the table and ran to Ivel’s side, who was now on his knees cowering before the king.
“I cannot permit this execution to proceed!” Ned declared, positioning himself resolutely between Ivel and the King.
The King narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, his hand trembling with rage as he reached for Gamaliel’s axe. But, before he could grasp it, Gamaliel signaled their accomplices and swiftly overpowered him, restraining him with firm grips. The crowd, witnessing the commotion, began to murmur in confusion, their whispers merging into a rising hum.
“What’s the meaning of this?” King Richard demanded. “Take your hands off me!”
Ned turned to the crowd, his voice rising above the commotion. “Ivel is innocent!” He declared placing a hand on the giant’s shoulder. “This man has been unfairly accused of heresy. The King has no proof, and we cannot allow the senseless killing of innocents in the name of fear and tyranny.”
“Evidence,” scoffed King Richard. “I am the law, and you will obey my commands. It is your duty.”
“The truth must be heard, Richard,” Ned said, intentionally omitting his title. “This is not the first innocent man you have condemned to death. I have sufficient evidence to accuse you of the murder of Caius Tremedian.”
Ned held his breath, silently praying the king wouldn’t see through his bluff. As an audible gasp rippled through the packed feast hall, Ned ignored the murmurs around him. With a swift motion, he unsheathed Havashal and pressed its tip against the King’s neck.
“A crime punishable by death under your laws, yet unlike you, we will not execute without irrefutable evidence. Bind Richard’s hands and escort him to the dungeons.”
The King’s face paled at the accusation, but his gaze shifted not to Ned or Gamaliel, but to his daughter, Podostroma. A gentle smile played upon her lips.
“What have you done?” King Richard said through gritted teeth.
Before she could respond, Ned turned to find an unexpected figure beside him: the lanky chef whom the King had previously dismissed. The chef’s face was pale, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his eyes darted around nervously as if he were expecting to be caught at any moment. Hands trembling, he held a lavish dagger that glinted ominously under the dim light, taunting him. It was a peculiar blade that was both long and thin...
Like an assassin’s blade…
“Let him go,” shouted the chef.
“Where did you get that knife?” Ned said.
The chef lunged with his blade, but his sluggish movements were easy for Ned to anticipate. His eyes caught the glint of the knife in the dim light as it came towards him. Ned seized the chef’s arm and slid a foot beneath him, using the man’s own momentum to knock him off balance. The chef stumbled, his feet flailing as he tried to regain stability. Ned quickly twisted his wrist, causing the thin blade to clatter against the stone floor, echoing through the grand hall. Rodney stepped beside Ned, blade drawn, his eyes cold and focused, clearly prepared to end the chef’s life as he lay vulnerable and frightened on the ground.
“Restrain him, but don’t hurt him,” Ned ordered, shaking his head.
Ned picked up the blade, examining it carefully. Ned recognized it immediately as one of the ceremonial daggers given to foreign dignitaries, unmistakable with its intricate engravings that depicted ancient runes. The hilt was wrapped in crimson leather, inset with small, glistening gems that caught the light at every angle. The blade itself was forged from a rare, dark metal and tapered to an impossibly fine point. This was precisely the type of dagger used to kill Caius. Ned glanced at Revilo and instantly knew that the trembling man had nothing to do with Caius’s death. But how did he come to possess the dagger?
The chef was lifted to his feet by Rodney, who swiftly retrieved the knife’s scabbard and tossed it over to Ned with a quick flick of his wrist. Ned expertly sheathed the blade, then glanced back at the chef, whose eyes were wide with disbelief.
“We need to talk. Now,” Ned said, his eyes fixed intently on the chef.
“Thank you, Champion,” Dornton said, arriving at Ned’s side and seizing control of the situation. He held a hand to his own throat, his voice magically projecting around the room, filling the entire hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. Everything is under control. We could not permit the King to kill Ivel–as he was not to blame for the attack on Eradad. This terrible crime was not the act of a mere heretic, but an attack from the Phantom Lord himself.” Dornton paused to allow the court a moment to process his revelation. “The Phantom Lord has returned, but fear not, Inari has not left us bereft. The prophecies have been fulfilled, and the Goddess has revealed her chosen ones to me. They stand before us.”
Dornton placed a gentle hand on the chef’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce the four heroes destined to defeat the Phantom Lord! As in days of old, we once again witness the emergence of four champions.”
Ned raised a brow. He couldn’t be serious? Could he?
Ned’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by echoing screams in the hall. Panic quickly ensued as several guards and guests collapsed, daggers embedded in their chests, blood pooling around them. The once lively atmosphere descended into chaos, with people scrambling for safety. At that moment, a massive giant shattered the grand hall’s heavy wooden doors with a single blow, sending splinters flying across the room. Dark violet runes, etched into his skin, glowed vibrantly in the dimming light, as he let out a booming laugh accompanied by a wicked smile. It was the heretic, Brahm.
“Forgive the interruption,” Brahm said, brushing shaggy brown hair out of his face. “I heard the King was looking for me.”
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