The Counterfeit Crown - Chapter 22
WAIT, WHAT?
“Yes, actually,” Alaric lowered the scroll.
“Who are you people?” Duke Fairshield bellowed, eyes scanning Alaric and Elara up and down before settling on the Brushmaster. “Kethryll, what are you doing in here? Don’t tell me. It’s too hot? No, no, it’s too cold. No, that’s not it. Oh, I know. For the last time, you cannot have another goose feather pillow. Hey, you’re the one who broke the general’s hip. Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? No matter. He can still give orders to his troops. Wait, what’s that in your—”
The gasp from the duke was the sound of twisting metal—high-pitched and grating. Galen Fairshield’s face paled as his eyes widened in horror. He raised a trembling, bedazzled ringed finger that waved like a ball at the end of a spring and pointed to the scroll in Alaric’s hand. His mouth moved at a frantic pace, but no sound came out.
Alaric frowned. He saw Elara spin around and freeze from the corner of his eye. He turned slightly towards his companion, her eyes fixated on the golden sealing stamping. Kethryll started muttering and shifting on his feet between Fairshield and Alaric, as if unsure what to do.
“To answer your first question,” Alaric started to move around the desk. “I am Alaric, Hero of the whatnot and so forth. It doesn’t matter. I’m here on behalf of the crown to put a stop to whatever it is you are doing here. As for your second question, your guards are no match for my—.”
Kethryll put his hand out to stop Alaric from walking passing him.
“Yes, yes,” the duke spat. “It’s hard to find good help. Now give me that!”
Alaric tightened his grip, and the scroll crunched in his hand. Fairshield gasped again, then lunged at Alaric, snatching the end of the scroll. Kethryll wheezed as he clutched the hand that held the sealing stamp.
“Let go.”
“You let go.”
“Never!”
With the clump of bodies clambering over the scroll, Alaric thought he saw the flash of a blade. Instinctively, he drove forward with his shoulder, knocking both the Duke Fairshield and Kethryll to the ground. Gasps of air released from both men, then the familiar whimpering of pain.
“Not again,” Alaric winced.
Elara leaned down to take the sealing stamp from Fairshield. He wrapped both hands around it and squeezed it close to his chest.
“Mine,” the duke’s legs thrashed about, like a toddler learning how to swim, and struck Elara in the stomach. A darkness washed over her face the likes of which Alaric had never seen, even on the most vicious demons that he’d battled.
“Stop!” Alaric roared.
Three sets of eyes turned to him in unison. All burrowing into him.
“On your feet,” Alaric continued. “You’re under arrest.”
“What did I do?” Kethryll moaned as he got to his feet with great exertion.
“Not you,” the words stumbled from Alaric as he shook his head in confusion. “The duke.”
“Under whose authority?” Duke Fairshield rose to his feet, the sealing stamp still pressed to his chest, then angled his back, hunched over, toward Elara. “Are you a constable? Do you have a warrant? A writ? Or even a clue?”
“Uh,” Alaric scratched his head. “Technically, no. But that’s not the point.”
“Oh,” the duke’s eyebrows rose. “But that is the point. The point of all of this. The legality of it all. Of what you are doing, what I’ve done. And the world that resides in carefully crafted words.”
Fairshield’s eyes flicked to the scroll in Alaric’s hand for a moment. Alaric moved the scroll closer to the oil lamp’s flame on the desk.
“Let’s not be too hasty,” the duke stepped forward. “I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
The flame licked the edge of the scroll.
“Do you even realize what you’re holding?”
“Then tell me,” Alaric waved the scroll back and forth above the flame. Thin grey tendrils webbed to the ceiling. The acrid scent of burnt paper lingered in the air. A delicate hint of ash crumbled from the edge.
“No,” Fairshield’s jaw set in place.
“The sealing stamp for the scroll,” Alaric offered.
“Let me read it first,” Kethryll wiggled his fingers at Alaric. “We can’t make a blind trade.”
The duke took a step backwards.
“The seal, Duke,” Elara blocked the doorway. “Now.”
Fairshield looked at all three, slowly, sizing them up. Alaric’s eyes tightened on the duke.
“Fine,” The duke held the sealing stamp to his side. “I won’t need it after tonight.”
Kethryll stepped forward to take it, but Elara snatched it first. The duke lunged at Alaric and grabbed the scroll. He inspected the burnt edge and let out a sigh of relief.
“Uh, Alaric,” Kethryll said.
Alaric took Fairshield by the collar. “Now, you’re going to answer a few questions.”
A high-pitched sizzling filled the air.
“Alaric, a word,” Kethryll tugged at Alaric’s sleeve.
“Not now,” Alaric shot Kethryll a glare, then turned his attention back to the duke in his hands. “Why were you flooding the realm with counterfeit coins? Who are your accomplices? Why don’t the kitchen staff have a standardized break time? What were you planning to do with the new seals?”
“Alaric!” Kethryll cried out.
“What?” He looked up to see Elara’s face half-shrouded by her purple hooded cloak, the air around her glistening. In one hand, she held the sealing stamp; in the other, she held the missing ball from the workshop. The end of the wick was covered in a glow of sparks that crackled as it edged closer to the ball.
“Elara?” Alaric frowned.
She gave him a wicked smile.
The spattering flame was on the precipice of entering the ball. She lobbed the black clay ball into the middle of the room. Alaric traced the arc of the ball. A sharp, acrid whisper of burnt sulphur and charred earth struck his nose. Eyes widened. Time slowed down as he saw the sputtering flame enter the ball.
Elara phased into a purple light and then streaked out of the room as a rolling wave of white flame expanded in all directions from the ball, its roar like a thunderous tidal surge.
Hi guys, Andrew here.
Thank you for reading.
If you’ve recently joined my little corner of Substack and are interested in seeing how Alaric’s troubles started, you can find the prologue here
For those who have been here from the start, we’re coming close to the conclusion of ‘The Counterfeit Crown’, which is, I’ve found, the most challenging part of a story. So, with this being a draft, the finished product might change a bit or become more detailed.
That’s the great thing about posting a draft version: you, the reader, can see in real time how a story evolves.
That’s what I’m telling myself anyway.
Until next week!