Legacy (Daughter of War #2)

Chapter 4: Out of the Gates...

Music is Black Song, White Scales from the Drakengard 3 OST, composed by Keiichi Okabe. Play it!

Media is Sir Isaac. No beard though!

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"Horses are saddled up and ready to go, sir," bellows one of the soldiers in the King's Army. From the medallion he proudly pins onto his tabard, he has the rank of Constable. Quite a name he's earned, as he's probably of common blood and doesn't look to be over the age of twenty-five.

"Excellent," Sir Kendrick bellows in return. His tall, erect form looms all over us. Even if his cloak clasp doesn't have the insignia of a dragon curled around a bonfire—Perinus's official seal—one would immediately know that he's the leader here, from a quick glance.

It's the day of our leaving Cordair. It had taken one week in total to prepare for this journey. Captain Eldric mainly did the planning; all I had to do was to go about running his errands. I suspect that he may have included several things that weren't quintessential on the list of supplies I had to obtain. One of them was a sackful of onions. Needless to say, the kitchen staff were baffled as to why an apprentice to the Captain of the Guard wanted a sackful of onions.

Snow shivers down from the sky. Winter is already a difficult time to travel, with its cold days and freezing nights; I can't imagine having to slough through snow. The horses might not even be motivated to move, stubborn beasts they are. In addition to that, we have to make do with limited supplies. Perinus is still weak from Diomedes's attack, after all, and that includes our very own capital city.

Worries upon worries pile upon my head. Nerves are shredding me into a mess. Not that I show it outwardly.

It's been a long while since I'd last left Cordair, and that had been because Diomedes's army had forced me to leave. Two years ago. Now this is happening due to my own choices, and at the end of the journey, I'll be meeting the maternal half of my extended family.

Almost idly, I flick a hand at the shadows by my feet. They respond sluggishly, as though they're reluctant to heed my commands. But they ripple ever so slightly. Something inside me calms in satisfaction at the sight.

I wonder if the Lorelays dabble in necromancy too. I wonder if they know of my heritage as Deathslayer; I wonder if they even know of my existence. There's so much about them that I don't know. I feel half-fearful, that they will instinctively know who I truly am; I also feel half-eager, to learn more about the side of me who lives in darkness.

It's the second half that's agonising me.

"What now? The Champion of Pst. Bronicus looking pale under the weather? Is it because of nerves?" Gilbert's voice abruptly rings in my ears, and I give a small jump. I've been entirely warped in my thoughts.

I wheel around to face him; he gives me a mocking bow. "And I have successfully frightened you. That, my friend, is a true feat worthy of Maximus the Kingslayer," he says.

I shoot him a glare. "Your attempt at being hilarious is failing," I say.

"Pity. I thought I succeeded at last." His lips split into a grin. "But you do look rather pale. You all right?"

I fold my arms across my chest. "I suppose I'm as all right as I can be for one who is just about to head out into the unknown. That, and probably because I"—I drop my tone here—"tugged on a few shadows just now."

"That explains the paleness." He drops his tone as well: "Did you push yourself a little too hard?"

I shake my head. "It was more of an experimental pull."