"You must know you are not the first to try, whomever you may be."
Elba's Collection
Lord Firok's Undoing, Part 2.
"Firok le Noire, traitor of the Uprising, fugitive from the law of Forestaine, criminal of the Royaume, I have come to bring thee to justice!"
The voice was deep, clear and strong enough to have startled most anyone. Not Firok. He turned to face his latest adversary.
"You must know you are not the first to try, whomever you may be."
The would-be-capturer was a surprisingly thin man, who did not cut an impressive figure. Most of the previous bounty hunters were of the stout, muscular variety. You know: strong as an ox, smart as a bush. This one wore a white, silken surcoat upon which was embroidered a resplendent golden griffin clutching a sceptre. His hair, long and wiry, fell about his shoulders loosely. He wore no armour (another rarity among his predecessors), but a foil dangled almost forgotten from his belt. Yet despite the rather unimpressive appearance of this lithe man, there was an implied menace about him. It was the casual stance and the eyes which bore the greatest strength. Burning black eyes, wide and fixed upon the Lord-in-exile.
"I know that I am not the first to come," the thin man stated flatly, "But I am to be the last." It was all said matter-of-factly. No threat. No arrogance. Just spoken as though it were an obvious truth. An unavoidable eventuality easily foretold. It was a confidence Firok had not seen before, a confidence without bluster or ignorance. Quiet and strong.
It was then that Altrian returned with Firok's chosen weapon. He walked into the room as if he hadn't heard the spoken exchange between the keep's visitor and it's resident. It did not take him long to notice, however. The old chamberlain stood agape at first, then came to his liege's side with head bowed in sullen shame, voice filled with apology.
"Milord, I swear to you that I-"
"I know, old friend, I know. No need to apologise, I suspect you could not have stopped this man if you had tried. If he is skilled enough to elude my defenses, he would have probably slit your throat as well. His trouble is with me."
"Yes, Milord," muttered the old servant. With a resigned sigh, Altrian straightened his back (as best he could at his age), handed over the long sword and turned to the intruder.
"And who, may I ask, is calling?"
"I am Tearidin Areal, the Magus of Sharringdale."
Seemingly unimpressed, the old servant shuffled away to the study to record the name.
"A wizard?!" exclaimed Firok. "You look like no wizard I have ever seen. You dress as a warrior, or perhaps a thief, who is full of meaningless bravado. You, you are no wizard."
"I suppose I am a warrior, as are you."
At this, Firok snorted in derision.
"Can you be so narrow-minded," asked Tearidin, "As to believe that battles are only fought with sword and shield?"
As he spoke, the thin man walked casually around Firok, in a circling manner. He strolled through the large room, careful to keep the distance between them fixed. Having seen similar tactics to flank him, Firok unsheathed his large sword and gripped it with his powerful, warrior's hands. While this garnered him a brief smile from Tearidin, the magus appeared unphased by the reaction, and continued.
"You see, Lord Firok, there are so many battlegrounds of which the mere soldier has no inkling. Wars of the heart, of the mind, of emotion and of the spirit are waged as frequently as those of the flesh." Tearidin came to a stop directly opposite where he began and set those smoldering black eyes upon the fugitive.
"There are warriors of love, warriors of hate, warriors of the soul and warriors of the mind."
"They have all come for me!" cried Firok, surprised that he was shouting. He had always prided himself on his calm, but he had to fight the urge to rush at Tearidin. No, he thought, they had always come to him. Let this boy prattle on with his pointless little speech. He would come to Firok in good time. They always do.
"And you have slain them all." Tearidin finished for him. "I know. I always study my quarries. You, you are indeed fearsome, Lord Firok, but your time of stolen freedom has ended. I will give you the entire day to set your affairs in order before we leave. Altrian will see to them as faithfully as always. Of that, I'm sure. There are some Crusaders who would like to have a word or two with you."
He hadn't taken a single step in Firok's direction since 'arriving', and had made no move for his foil. Damn this skinny peasant, Firok cursed to himself, one quick chop would end this infernal conversation. The boy must know this, but he makes no move to draw his weapon. It's as if he doesn't even know it's there!
"Don't fret over my affairs, little man." Lord Firok, victor of the Battle of Etrand, Knight of Companie Corbeau, slayer of hundreds and ruler of Byssal Keep had had enough. "You've got troubles of your own. For. I. Will. Not. Go. Willingly!"
Firok flashed his heavy sword with practiced ease, cutting a demonstrative swath of sharp fury in the air around him. With a determined scowl fixed on his care-worn face, he strode with impressive confidence towards the short, skinny man.
Tearidin only smiled sorrowfully and said: "Pity."
When he was brought before the Conseil de Commandement Supreme and sentenced to hang for his crimes, some said the punishment was too kind. You see, during the entire trial Lord Firok could be seen looking to and fro with furtive, terror-stricken glances. He never said of who, or of what, he was afraid. Some thought the surviving relatives of those he betrayed had plotted to have him assassinated. Others said he'd simply lost his senses. He was, afterall, of the age. Tearidin knew what terrified Firok so, but that was a secret they would both take to their graves.
Of course, Firok much sooner than he.
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