“My guardian? You?” Christopher chuckled, unbelieving, and shook his head. I must be dreaming.
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You are not dreaming, son. The angel standing before him stretched his wings wide and pulled them back to his sharply toned body. I have always been around. That is why there was… The angel turned his head as the captain and the soldiers returned from hunting the one responsible for almost killing Christopher. I must go now. I will be in touch.
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“Wait! What?” Christopher laughed, bewildered. “I’m dreaming. I’m crazy. I’m going crazy. I-” Christopher’s arms were grabbed and he was turned around quickly. The man he faced was indistinct.
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“Lord Wymond! Christopher, HEY!” The voice was familiar and the strong grip on his arms brought the young noble from his vision. Christopher stared at the soldier holding him. “Sir?” The captains’ eyes asked the unasked question.
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“Didn’t you see the- the- him?” Christopher turned back to where he had seen the angel. “He was standing right there! He was… he…” Christopher stammered and shook his head, clearly confused. He turned in a circle, nearly smacking the captain in the head. The soldiers around who weren’t already watching turned from their posts to watch in amusement. It wasn’t every day that the commander of the Corps was crazed and unstable. Christopher looked around helplessly.
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The captain stared at the noble in front of him and shook his head, “Round the horses, it’s time to get home.” The soldiers all jumped to action, not wishing to be caught staring. “Sir,” said the captain quietly now. “What’s the matter with you? Get a hold of yourself, these soldiers look up to you. Deal with it later.”
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For a moment, the noble glared at the captain. He felt unstable and unsure of anything. Christopher planted his boots, looking into his captain’s eyes. “Let’s go,” said Christopher, curtly. He turned away and swung up onto Bartholemew, petting the horse’s mane. Christopher waited for the soldiers around him to get into formation before shouting a crisp “Hyah!”
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When the cluster of soldiers rode into the city, the men and women sat on the sides of the roads, waiting. Most were whispering to a neighbor or staring at the cobbled road. Those who couldn’t be seated leaned against the walls of the main street. Everyone snapped to attention the moment the group trotted in through the gate. Christopher pushed to the front. He called a halt, the captain coming to a stop just to the right of him.
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“What’s going on…” whispered the captain.
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Christopher shrugged and looked across the road. “What’s going on, men?” He asked, loudly. His voice echoed twice in the silent street. A commotion to his left caught his attention and he saw a man, dressed in a loose white shirt and light brown trousers, mostly covered in dirt. The man nodded to a partner and stepped into the street, walking the short distance towards Christopher. “Speak up, lad,” Christopher commanded.
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“Sir,” he said. “We heard the gunshot. Some kind of cold wind whipped through the streets, sir.” His voice was lightly accented. “We thought that maybe…” The young man looked up at the noble, his meaning clear. He motioned his arm at Christopher’s torn clothing. “ Obviously, we were right.”
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Christopher looked down at his tunic. “Yes. It’s true. Another assassination attempt has been made on my life.” Christopher blew out softly. “They did not succeed. I appreciate you all for worrying, but truly, I will be fine. I’ll let you all know,” he continued. “That more guards have been stationed around the city. I will now be having personal guards.” The wind gave a sudden gust, whipping Christopher’s hair into a mess. He reached up with his hands to smooth it before he continued. “There will be a city meeting soon. Listen for the bells. You may express concerns and ask questions.” With a nod to the crowd, the cluster started forward again, riding to the stables and heading inside. Immediately once inside Captain Fyte welcomed him back, flanked by four soldiers.
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“My lord. These four men are the best of the best. I have assigned them to you as your personal guard.” Fyte stopped, looking like he wanted to say more.
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“Thank you, Captain.” Christopher stepped past, followed by the men.
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“Sir,” the Captain said, grasping Christopher’s arm. “The king has demanded that we travel to the capital. He has called a mandatory council meeting.”
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Christopher stared at the Captain, his stony glare piercing the soldier. After a while, he told them, “Fine. Collect your soldiers. Be ready by tomorrow.” Christopher tugged his arm from the Captain’s grasp, his eyes no longer lingering as he stormed through the door.
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The soldiers faltered, hesitating before rushing after their commander and falling in step with him. They walked through the castle in tense silence. Eventually one of the soldiers spoke up, “Sir, may I ask you a question?”
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“Speak.” Christopher replied, gruffly.
“Sir what happened in the woods?” The soldier asked, quietly.
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“Isn’t that pretty obvious? I got shot. I lived.” Christopher paused, turning to look at his guards. “But that isn’t what you’re asking, is it? What did you hear?”
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“One of the Demere Royals was talking about you acting unstable and delirious.” The soldier paused, nervously shifting his weight. “I’m sorry, my lord, for the inquiry.”
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"You're doubting your lord's stability?" Christopher watched the guardsmen intently.
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“No, my lord, I'm not. I wouldn’t.” The guard glanced at his partners.
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“What’s your name?”
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“Staff Sergeant Maxwell Borruh, Wymond Corps 1st Sharpshooter Regiment of Guards.”
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“Well, Sergeant Borruh, your concern is right.” Christopher smiled, softly, and began walking again. “I am, in fact, leading an insane lifestyle. That’s what, two assasination attempts in a couple of days? I may need to start being less established in the community and become someone else.”
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The guards gawked at him. He paused, smirking at them, and shook his head. “Are all my soldiers this dull? Do you know me at all?” He stared at their blank faces. “Unbelievable. I’m joking, I’m not going to cower. I am Christopher Wymond for the Angels sake!” The guardsmen looked at each other and smiled, realizing they’d been played.
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Christopher laughed and waved his hand, “come on, let’s go prepare for the city meeting.”
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< - - - >
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The bells rang sharply throughout the town, vibrating through the townspeople's chests. They filed quietly between buildings towards the town hall. Lining the walls soldiers stood erect in their formal meeting uniforms, their black cloaks hanging loosely from their shoulders covering their metallic plates and giving them a sincere aura.
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The seating, much like a church, quickly filled, the quiet talking rising as the men and women grew more comfortable. The ringing echo of the bells died away and the doors were shut quietly as the guards took their spots throughout the hall, watching.
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A servant walked to the front and held his hands up for the attention of the audience. Once quieted, he announced, “I am a servant of his lord the King. The king will not be available to attend this meeting, as he is wrapped up in business of his own.” The servant bowed politely towards the audience before turning on his heel and walking hurriedly out of the hall. The audience quietly started speaking again, theorizing about the reason for the king’s absence.
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A door, located in the front of the hall, opened swiftly and Christopher strode towards his seat. As he entered, everyone stood until he sat, then taking their seats after him. A silver elk secured the black cape that hung from his shoulders, its outline shone white in the torchlight, his dark armor straightened his form, making him look distinguished.
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Christopher sighed heavily, “Welcome, gentlemen, ladies, may this meeting begin. If you have a question, stand and ask. You all know the drill, be courteous to your fellows, one at a time.”
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Nobody moved, some bowed their heads in thought, others glanced around, wondering who would stand first. Nobody did. They sat in silence, looking to their lord. He glanced around, before standing. “No questions? Someone speak up.” He crossed his arms, daring them to meet his challenge.
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Finally, reluctantly, an older gentleman in the middle of the audience stood. “Lord Wymond,” he said, “what sort of sorcery is this that you get shot and you heal? You’re not supposed to be alive. That shot in the woods, the arrow as the Demere Royals arrived; all enough for you to at least be stuck in a med-bed. Yet here you stand, addressing us. We have a right to know what’s going on!”
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The young lord stepped backwards, the outburst unexpected. “Yes. What you say is fair, you do have a right to know.” He swept a hand through his hair, surveying the reaction from his people. “I believe that-”
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Another voice interrupted from behind him. “His Lord will not be responding to that question. He must report directly to the king. I apologize, folks, but you’ll have to wait.” Christopher’s brows knit together tightly before a gloved hand gripped his forearm and dragged him back to the door before he could respond.
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Christopher ripped the hand off his arm and slammed the invader into the wall. His eyes flared in recognition.
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He spluttered, “Galbian?”
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