The Tonisian Distillation - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The small fort stood surrounded by a gray, soggy heath covered in a soft pale blanket of mist. Only an hour north of the capitol by horse, it gave the impression of total isolation. There was very little movement in and around the bleak structure; here a stableman removed some of the refuse the few beasts present produced, while there one of the house servants, a tired young maid, stooped to pull fresh water from the tower well. There were only a few lights dancing in the windows, most of which were shrouded in heavy drapes and shutters. The road leading to it was unoccupied; no one ever came to visit.

Within the structure, deep below the moor in the sub-sub-basement, isolated by a number of levels and closed, if not locked, doors, Sir Gerard de'Boril paced a fully stocked laboratory. The man, tall and erect in spite of nearly thirty years in the service of Lord Gherris de'Hlavand, Prince of Tonisia, glared about at the paraphernalia scattered about him. Months he had spent working on this! Countless riches had been spent, his own and that of those he could convince to support his efforts. Lives by the score had been lost to recover the priceless components. Now, when he was right on the edge of perfecting his formula, now he discovered one last missing ingredient! How could he have missed it after perusing these tomes from cover to cover so many times!

De'Boril slammed his fist down on the lab table, sending numerous beakers, crucibles and vials dancing. If only he had caught the reference earlier! His hands trembling with anger, the nobleman, one of the Prince's most trusted advisors and closest friends, reached for and started to carelessly flip through an ancient manuscript laid out on a side desk. Now, what could this last ingredient be!

He had once been one of the prince's elite guards, captain of the royal musketeers. Now, at a time when the prince needed him most, he was going to fail! All because of one forgotten line in a worn book that might be centuries old! The noble peered intently once more at the faded text.

... and with the last pin--- of fr--- --men will the stre---- of ten be achiev--

Damn! He could not decipher the faded words of the text! One last ingredient, and the Prince would have an elixir that would give his soldiers the strength to defeat any that stood before them, specifically the army of Cardinal Jordan Tel'brin who was even now making warlike noises on the northern border. The Principality could not face another war so soon after the last one. He had to find the key!

A faint knock disturbed his angry pacing. He looked up quickly at the interruption. Gretel, the young maid that kept the ground floor of the tower, was tentatively standing in the door, looking completely out of place in the dank sub basement.

"Yes, girl, what is it?" Sir Gerard was still distracted by the dilemma he had just discovered, but as he watched the young maid shift nervously before him he could not help but once again notice just how beautiful she was. One lock of her brilliant auburn hair floated almost gracefully down one side of her pale face, while the rest remained confined in a rather severe bun. Her peasant dress was pulled tight at the bodice, and Sir Gerard could well imagine the soft charms hidden there. A fine sheen of perspiration sent tiny reflections of light from the exposed skin of her neck and shoulders. Ah, if only he were twenty years younger!

"My lord, there is a messenger here, a musketeer from Tonis. He asks to see you right away." Gretel's gaze never met Gerard's. From the day she was indentured to him, her rather imposing master had intimidated the girl.

Gerard pulled his thoughts back from his present difficulties and scowled. Some great misfortune had probably overcome the prince, he thought cynically. A hangnail, or maybe a bee sting. The years, while hardly touching Sir Gerard, had not been as kind to the prince. Gherris had become more and more childish in the last few months; his wits leaving him as old age finally took its toll. On one level, it pained Gerard to see his friend so completely unmanned, but on another, he saw a path to glory. Personal glory!

Gherris was without heirs, after two marriages and three sons. The first born had died at the age of eight, falling through thin ice on the small lake on the palace grounds. The guardsmen had been able to pull the boy out, but he had died from the lung flux within weeks. The second had died nearly ten years past, a young man in his prime. He'd led a combat patrol into the borderlands, where a rebel sniper had taken him cleanly out of his saddle with a musket ball to the head. The third, the youngest and the son of the Prince's second wife, was foully murdered one evening after a great ball held in the aging prince's honor. No one had ever discovered the perpetrators of the crime.

Who better to sit the throne after Gherris passed on than his most loyal friend and confidant, the hero of the Third Justicar War, Sir Gerard de'Boril!

The lord once again surreptitiously ran his eyes over the young maid, before nodding. "Very well, have him wait in the study. I should be up in a few minutes." He'd already turned back to his lab, and hardly noticed the girl's mumbled acknowledgement.

'Fr--- --men.' What could that be!

Gerard paced, frantically racking his brain. Every now and then the image of the young girl would swirl teasingly through his thoughts. He pictured her again, the softly glowing skin and the bright auburn hair. He wondered what it would look like if it ever escaped that bun she kept it in. The old man was mildly surprised at the effect his wandering thoughts had taken. He rarely experienced an erection any more, having seen over sixty winters pass. Though he was still a vigorous man, hunting with men decades younger, there were some things that even he had accepted would pass in time. He hadn't experienced a swelling in his groin since the end of the last war, against the Justicars of Rindale far to the east. A small grin flashed across his features. He guessed he had a little more time left in that arena too. The thought of masturbation seemed more immediate than the messenger awaiting him upstairs. After all, how often would he experience this from now on? The only thing that withheld him was the thought of cleaning up the discharge afterward. Now if he could find a rag to catch the semen...

Gerard went cold. Spinning back to the ancient manuscript, he once again read the last line.

... and with the last pin--- of fr--- --men will the stre---- of ten be achiev--

Damn, could it be that simple? Gerard sat, staring at the words before him, unable to come to any other conclusion. The words fit. If he was wrong though, it could take another two months to gather the components needed to prepare another dose. Did he have that time?

Almost completely absorbed in the possible breakthrough he had just made and deeply involved in trying to verify his conclusions with some of his other sources, Gerard was startled when Gretel once more tapped lightly at the door. "Milord, the messenger has been waiting for almost half an hour."

Gretel flinched back when her master glared at her, obviously very angry at the interruption. When de'Boril saw this he felt a bit shamed. "Ah, girl, don't worry, I'm not mad at you. I've just found something that may be the key to all this," he waved about, taking in most of the lab, "and the last thing I wish is to take visitors. Come, let us go see what Gherris wants of me now."

Gretel backed out of the door and stood aside as de'Boril swept past. She did not know what the old man was working on, but whatever it was, she knew he devoted a large portion of every day to pursuing it. As she trailed along behind her master, she hoped whatever he was working on was successful. Without this thing driving him, he might be a little less demanding!

When Lord de'Boril swept into his study, he watched with a bit of amusement as the young musketeer sprang to his feet. He had not commanded the Prince's House Guard in almost five years, but the men of the detachment still accorded him the respect of a commander. They even continued to address him as such. In their eyes, Commander of the Prince's Own Musketeers far outstripped any other title a man might hold. This honored Gerard, for he tended to feel the same way.

The young leftenant waited politely, still standing at attention, while Gerard helped himself to some Hessian bourbon. After a quick sip at the fiery beverage, the nobleman gestured for the young officer to sit. "So, what can I do for the Prince this day, Leftenant?"

The young man settled stiffly on the settee. De'Boril suppressed a smile when the man continued hold himself erect, sitting at attention. Someone had obviously given him instructions on how to conduct himself in the 'Commander's' presence.

"Sir," the leftenant began, "On the orders of the Prince, Commander Reginal dispatched me to inform you of the upcoming gala to be held next fifth day. Your presence is requested, as the Prince wishes to bestow honors on the men whose service to the crown during the war proved pivotal. Your regiment was vital to the outcome; many of your men will be receiving medals. The Prince expressed his desire for your presence."

As soon as Gerard heard the word 'gala' he suppressed a groan. A damned award ceremony! The Third Justicar War had cost the Principality over thirty thousand men. De'Boril's Regiment alone had suffered a casualty rate of more than fifty percent! The only thing the people of Tonisia wanted was to mourn their fallen sons and husbands and get on with their lives. And here was the Prince, getting ready to pull the pain and hurt out in front of the grieving families again!

De'Boril swallowed his anger. The Prince was becoming more and more feeble of wit. Even five years ago he would not have suggested such a thing. Recognition was due, that much was true, but it should be done at the Regimental, or even the Battalion level. Throwing a festival to 'honor' the 'heroes' was going to cause a lot of needless pain. Gerard sighed. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He felt a flash of sorrow at this further sign of the prince's decline.

"Leftenant, please convey to your Commander that I will be there. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to attend to. Gretel will see to your needs. Please, I would consider it an honor if you would stay the night. The sun is already down, and the road can be difficult at night." The Leftenant jumped to attention as de'Boril stood, and de'Boril had to hide yet another small grin. He turned to the door of the study, where Gretel was already waiting. "Lass, see that Leftenant..." with a bit of chagrin, de'Boril realized that he did not know the young officer's name.

The young man was quick to offer it though. "Leftenant Lyle, sir. My father served in your regiment during the war. He fell at Denn's Falls."

De'Boril sighed. "The Falls. We lost a lot of men there. Lyle you said? Sergeant First Class Stefan Lyle? It was his platoon that held the ford for the rest of us. Without the sacrifice he and his men made, we would not have carried the day. I'm sorry it had to happen that way." De'Boril hated thinking about the men he lost. Every last one of them had been dedicated to Tonisia, but more importantly, they were committed to de'Boril. If he had told a three-man team to fix bayonets and charge a column of Justicaran Cavalry, they would have been attacking in seconds.

Leftenant Lyle was truly honored that Lord de'Boril truly did recall his father's sacrifice. The old man was one of the greatest Commanders the Tonisian Army had ever seen. Friedrich Lyle had earned his commission only a couple months before, so he was not involved with the war, but he knew of de'Boril's reputation. You could not be a part of the military in Tonisia and not have heard of the older man's exploits.

De'Boril shook off the unpleasant memories Leftenant Lyle had unwittingly unleashed. "Ah, lass, take Leftenant Lyle here and see that he gets settled in for the night. I'm sure Anne," Anne was the maid that maintained the second floor of the tower, where the majority of the bedrooms were located, "will have a room ready for visitors. And let me know when Cook will be serving dinner. I may be a while down in the lab and I do not wish to be disturbed for at least an hour. Understood?"

Gretel curtsied as she said, "Yes, Milord. While you were talking with the leftenant, Cook told me to tell you that the meal will be served at eight bells." Her usual nervousness she felt around her master was compounded by the dashing young musketeer leftenant. The girl couldn't help but think he was very handsome!

"Very well then. I may be a bit distracted, so please come for me fifteen minutes before eight." Turning once more to the young officer, de'Boril nodded farewell. "I will see you at dinner, Leftenant. Dress is informal, so you needn't worry about that. Please, use this time to refresh yourself."

"Yes sir."

Continued in Chapter 2