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Scribe
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: UK
Gender: Male
Posts: 81
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Fantasy WIP
This is the second chapter of my ongoing project.
CHAPTER TWO
The Weimaron ocean, a vast blanket of sun polished saphire thrown wide and taut across the western horizon, lapped languid at Hests storm chiseled bay. What small vigour the gentle waves did possess was defeated at the out-thrust harbour wall, pocked seawards by past winters’ turgid, storm tossed assault. A brutal, unforgiving sea intolerant of human treaspass, this summer the Weimaron had prooved uncharacteristically clement. Its temperate caress, warmed under the glaring suns piercing gaze, idled about the docks timber legged piers, setting black headed gulls bobbing listlessly.
Tepid swells sleuced between knots of tightly packed fishing boats which rocked at their moorings, their skeletal masts waving like a reed bed swaying in a breeze. All across the north of the harbour the citys Rilt fleet sat idle, robbed of fair winds to fill their ivory sheets and bear them west. The fat hulled vessels rode high in the placid waters, exposing barnacle pebbled flanks to the overbearing sun. Salt holds emptied, the white encrusted catch long since carted to smokehouses beyond the city limits, the crews lounged around the docks - those not frittering their hard earned coin away on rotgut gin in the shabby hostelries and taverns. Or sampling the seductive charms of penny whores who plied their splay legged trade along Hests bustling highways, knees grazed and scabbed from their rutting in secluded alleys. Those fisherfolk remaining diced, the yellowing bone cubes making a rattling music atop sun-bleached, worn pier planking. Many swapped implausible tales with rival crews, gesticulating extravogantly over the minutae, the insignificant details. One pair fought, bareknuckled, stripped to their waists and sheaved in a sweaty sheen, beyond the rope ring shouting men wagering on the outcome.
All awaited a return to the high seas, to the Gielin Sweeps’ rich Rilt reserves. To walk a heaving deck and toil at the nets and hooks, vieing with Anghad’s fleet for that lucrative catch. Shore leave was an illusion to such men, incidental to the reality of storms and sharks, howling winds and raging waves.
To the south of the bay, Hests second harbour was also crowded, the timbered piers choked with vessels of a different sort; broad beamed carracks of the Ducal navy, decanting the tools of war. Horses swung from deck by harnesses, wooden cranes at the railings growling in protest, the animals eyes bulging and legs flailing. Officers strode the boardwalk bawling for order, cuffing those too slow, disorientated or lazy to form detachments. Infantry marshalled in groups at the foot of clogged gangplanks, weighted down by kit and baking in their long hauberks, their polearms shouldered. Men long confined to stuffy holds pitching with the Weimarons ungracious movements, bent with hands on knees, spewing barely digested hard tack into the silty waters, an unexpected meal for darting whitebait.
The Hesti legion, returned home from the Anulac campeign far to the south. Harder men than the fisher folk, bearing deeper scars - both physical and mental. Grim faced veterans of the seige of Marlin, of the fall of Narad.
As the sun scribed it’s blazing trail through the cirrus boned azure heavens, nearing it’s noontime zenith, the legion had formed a marching line, pennants unfurled to catch the gentle sea breeze. At the van, here as in the heat of battle, strode the Longshields. Clad in tight linked, knee length steel Hauberks which rippled silken as they moved, they shone like mythical knights - Sainduimuns warriors ressurected to march in the host of Thar Huien, to hold the ground before heavens gates. Their teardrop shaped shields were draped in linen covers, bearing Duchess Avaline’s device - the argent griffon charge rampant against a black field, surmounted by a crescent of swooping doves. Each clutched in gauntleted fist the haft of his battleaxe, the broad headed weapon resting against black pauldroned shoulder.
In the wake of the heavy infantry came two companies of Aranic longbowmen, kilted yeomanry from the bracken shrouded heaths north of Hest. Lightly armoured in their iron studded leather gambersons, pot helms and bracers, they were peerless masters of their trade; trackers, outriders, foragers and scouts. Disgorged on the battlefield from swift, long legged mounts, they could rain volley after long shafted volley upon a foe, thinning slow moving formations in readiness for the longshields axe edged charge. At their hips swung leaf bladed shortswords, their Brennic yew bows wrapped in oilskins and slung by baldrick across cloaked backs.
Thirty companies all told, infanrty, cavalry, sappers - snaking in disciplined ranks through the citys winding streets. Two years previously eighty full companies had left the harbour, green recruits. Boys really, their eyes screwed shut against the brutal realities of war, who had sung of valor and glory with no perception, no point of reference save misplaced ideology. To throw back the encroaching tide of Bethicanism, the phrophets murderous avengers who assailed the frontiers of Auld Arandor. To place upon the throne in Tyracant a king once more, some pretender who had raised his standard in defiance of the church. Some pretender whos pallid corpse now adorned the golden gates of Indelfin, flayed and stretched as a reminder against shaking hollow fists at the north, his false crown nailed to his maggot bloated head.
Two years and five thousand dead, their bowels opened on the walls of Narad, their demise paving the streets of Marlin with hewn flesh. Naivity had been expunged, replaced with hard experience which no songs could match in the bredth of their sentiment. Grim men now, boyhood butchered on a score of battlefields, marching home to a triumph undeserving of the name, a tradition meaningless with the fall of the southern Duchies.
Along weavers row crowds had been gathering since dawn. The return of the legion had generated a palpable excitement, a sense of celebration, evident in the symphony of forty thousand voices. Too long the Duchy had remained neutral, paying lip service to Indelfins honey tongued diplomats; impotent in the war against Bethicanism as city by ravaged city the north had succumbed. Brusfeld, Faeramar....Bruhad razed, it’s citizens scattered or pressed into the Theocracies armies. Bartenburgh had ceased to be, destroyed stone by stone, it’s fertile soil sown with salt and every second citizen beheaded, man woman and child. Now Narad, it’s stout walls laid low, the cathedral of Rebecca despoiled and dedicated to a new lady, a crueller phrophet. Marlin, the ancient capital, in enemy hands, its shipyards supplying the Bethican’s their first true fleet - a fleet whose sails would carry it north, into Hesti waters.
The legions defense of Muad had saved Manveirs Island Marlins fate, securing the seat of House Vane and earning general Ceoldagar this triumph through Hest. In the eyes of all save the most malcontent Hestinians - those covert Bethicans who sowed insidious dissent, the legion were prodigal heroes deserving the traditional accolade of a triumph. Few in the throng voiced concern about the implications of Hest’s alliance with the southern Beccensian Duchies, the rumours of Bethican hosts gathering beyond the Maethron hills. This was a day of celebration, of reawakened glory. Of the sons of Hest tried, bloodied and victorious. Tommorow the day to gnaw lips, to worry over enemies baying in the hills.
Fewer still dwelt on the inescapable fact the legion had sailed home with the Anulac campeign unresolved. To the south battles were still raging, every inch, every gore stained furlong bitterly contested as Tyracants leaderless armies were pushed back. Had the Hesti considered this, the difference three thousand seasoned warriors would make, an irrefutable truth would have been leant to rumour: war was comming to Hests walls, an eruption of blazing pitch, sword and spear at the very threshold of the port city. Those few with such insight stood silent, pondering within the crowd, measuring the worth of the marching colomns appraisingly. Would thirty companies be sufficient?
Down the broad birch lined boulevard which coiled up Hests solitary batholithic hill, the first companies appeared to the timultuous exultation of the crowd. Jostled at the front of the press, Davyda lost himself to the beat of a legion marching, three thousand pairs of ironshod boots forcing their own applauds from the hard packed street. The clap and thump of their footfall was taken up by the crowd and magnified, along with cheers and whistles, whoops and chants. A military triumphant was a rarity, this the first honouring of the tradition in the four years he had lived in Hest. An experience to boye the spirit, to dream of living, of being an integral part of. In his mind he imagined himself leading the legions home, to the adoration of howling crowds. Eyes tightly shut, he revelled in the unadulterated ceremony of the moment, drinking it in with all his acute senses. His sensitive nose caught the scent of waxed leather and he breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring, the smells conjuring images as vivid as sight, telling their own unique story. This was a habit he had developed of late, to reach out with all his senses to map the widest gamut of his experiences. He still wondered that his peers possessed none of this talent, that they could not taste rain coming in the wind, or hear a lie through the quickening of a heartbeat. He had learned too, through harsh lessons, that it was provident to hide his talents - for with lack of acumen soon came suspicion, and with suspicion ,hostility.
Other scents mingled with that of beeswax and leather, forcing him to gag and his eyes to water. He flexed nasal muscles and his inner nostrils sealed tight, shutting them out. Salt air, the aromas of a thriving city. Sweat wafting tangy or sitting stagnant against unwashed bodies, with stomach turning pungence. Nearby the unmistakable stench of a fullery with it’s reeking vats of urine. A leather tanners a street or so over, ripe in the still air, smelling of excrement and rotting meat. Sometimes his Anamide senses were a curse, a burden confounding his ability to function. Especially in the closeness of a city with it’s limitless library of scents, sounds and sights, it’s tastes and textures
Coughing he opened eyes to the broad back of a burly stevedore. Others had pushed their way to the front, obscuring his previously unobstructed view. A tall boy for his eleven years, he could not compete with the tight knot of people around and before him and no amount of worming or prising could open a route back to the front. Even stood on tiptoes, levering himself to the fullest height using the convenient shoulder of an indignant elderly scribe, afforded no clear field of vision. A sea of heads. The tantelising whiff of horses, their distinct aroma, and the noise of hooves clattering on the street, caused him to utter a dockers oath, courser for the innocence of his years. His shameless expletive earned him a disapproving frown and backhand cuff from a richly dressed ladies maid stood at his other side, an exasperated sigh from the scribe.Davyda paid them no more than cursory attention. Loosing himself to his senses and fruitless daydreaming had cost him a look at the wild Norralic horse archers, those painted savages from beyond Harronica who weaved grisly fetishes into their unkempt hair and beards. Maybe - and he nearly cursed again despite the threat of further repremand - maybe even cost him a glance at the general himself at the head of the lancers, bedecked in his ceremonial armour and waving imperious to the crowd as he passed.
He shouldered his way out of the crush into the narrow margin beyond. An appraising glance up the street dashed any small hope of discovering a new vantage point further along. Hest had emptied itself along the processional route, the whole city congregated for the spectacle. Scowling, Davyda wondered at who was left in the city to perform the daily work. Along the boulevard he marked bakers, hawking their warm loaves from wicker trays; weavers, dyers and labourers stood cheering in groups, side by side with stevedores, pinmakers and street whores. The day was not officially a public holiday and no notices had been posted , yet beyond this hub of excitement Hest seemed deserted, the buildings and streets silent..
Sighing, he prepared himself for the mile walk down weaver street and along the harbour front to the small appartment Faern had bought. A modest dwelling which suited their need for anonymity. Davyda hated the place, it reeked of spoiled fish and was infested with harbour rats, their skittering passage keeping him awake at night. Other than glorious sunsets out across the bay, there was little to endear the place to him. It did not feel like home.
As he made the first downcast steps, mood black, something caught his eye further along the boulevard, distinct from the malaise of the crowd. A man, standing watching him. He leant against the black scarred bole of a birch, hand shielding eyes from the sun’s glare. One man alone in his purpose against a gathering of thousands, their attention on the legions march.
Watching me!
He gave a good account of nonchalance, pering about himself as though Davyda were not the sole victim of that piercing scrutiny. The boy was not so easily fooled. Faern had drummed into him a caution over strangers bordering on the paranoid. Especially concerning outsiders, as this man obviously was. His garb was drab - soiled linen shirt cross-laced at the breast and calf length breeches, travel worn and dusty. Greasy silver-grey hair was tied at the nape with frayed cord, braided Lindoni style. No Hestinian wore his hair so plaited, it’s lank tail brushing between broad shoulders as his head moved in it’s search.
A burning in Davyda’s sinuses made his eyes water. A warning of danger, some intuitive sense he had long since learned to pay heed. As peculiar to his Anamide heritage as his other heightened senses. The raggedly dressed man disappeared momentarily behind the wiry frame of a balding ratcatcher as he backed from the throng, empty ratting pole slung across his shoulder. A moment Davyda made good use of, slipping back into the tight knot of people. Threading his way up the pavement with difficulty, he sought out the watcher, finding him twenty paces ahead peering about himself..
Looking for me? Davyda wondered, intrigued beyond his caution. The possibility was all too real and it payed dividends to be wary. This would not be the first occasion men had been sent to seek his whereabouts.
Three years previously, churchmen had come in the night, the sounds of angry voices rousing him from slumber. He and Faern had settled in Brusfeld and for a time been happy, the giant content in his work as taskmaster for a logging team. Faern had fought the Bethicans in the small rooms of the hovel they rented, cold steel ringing in the darkness, blood spraying against it’s rough walls. They had fled, armoured corpses laying twisted in the hall, pursued north into untamed Arranic woodland by mounted churchmen. Davyda remembered his gaurdian leaving him trembling in a ditch as he vanished into the night. Returning in the morning he had noted the blood caking the giants homespun tunic, the open wound weeping at his side. Pursuit had ended though and they had fled the borders of the Theocracy, wandering before finally settling here, in the great port city. In Hest, Davyda had felt safe, secure. Hiding and running had become a distant memory. Until now.
The man appeared nothing more than any other city beggar, his clothing sweat marked, frayed and faded. Another downtrodden tramp out amongst the crowd, cutting pursestrings or scavaging for a discarded crust. He was tall and thin, gaunt in fact, though well proportioned with wide shoulders and thick wrists. Davyda watched him ease away from the birch and stalk down the street. His movements were fluid, gaurded. A walk incongruous with his dirty, unkempt appearance. A swordsman’s walk full of deadly grace.
" Like a serpent, coiled for the strike." Davyda muttered to himself. No! Not a serpent he mused. A hungry wolf. Lean, strong and lethal, prowling it’s range for a lost spoor, an elusive prey.
" Let that prey stay hidden!" He said from between clenched teeth, secreting himself deeper in the gathering, watching the man slink past him.
The question remained though, which Davyda mulled over as the beggars’ departing back became lost in the sea of bodies. Was he prey or was it mere happenstance the beggar watched him? A beggar with the gait of a seasoned warrior.......It was not unheard of for such a man who knew the blade to fall on hard times. In a world blighted by warfare though, Davyda thought it unlikely. There was always work to be had for a veteran, amongst one of the free companies or as part of a garrison. Other possibilities ran through his mind. Beggars and street toughs sometimes took an interest in city waifs for nefarious ventures, where slim fingers were highly prized. Clipping, burglary, petty thievery. Or sometimes for activities more sinister, pleasures Davyda had heard spoken of yet balked at comprehending. He shuddered, telling himself to not be so melodramatic.
Deciding he was safe, that the man was othing more than the beggar he appeared to be, Davyda once more stepped out of the crowd which, with the legions passing, had begun to disperse. A voice close behind made his blood freeze.
" There you are, you filthy feckin’ maggot!"
A voice he recognised from harsh experience. Without turning, he bolted, his long legs carrying him into an alley between the fullers yard he had smelled earlier and a dyers workshop.Even with his inner nostrils sealed, the stench threatened to overwhealm him. Behind, bullying their way out of the throng, came a band of older youths lurching after him. A gang who took great pains to seek him out, delighting at the adolescent art of peer torment.
What had begun as catcalls and base insults had progressed over a year into pushing, poking and finally open violence. Davyda had taken several severe beatings, when his legs could not outrun them. Why they had chosen him as the target for their unwelcome attention, Davyda had no idea. Boredom, a misplaced sense of superiority. Or inferiority. The truth of it was, he realised suddenly as he sprinted down the stinking alley, he did not make friends easily. Other children never sought him out for their games, which made him the perfect victim; he had no allies.
The alley was narrow, angling into a warren of other byways all cluttered with the debris of industry; wooden crates, coils of rotting hemp rope, rat infested refuse. Vaulting a stack of mouldering hessian sacks, he slipped, tumbling through the rotting mat of the alley floor. Impact and friction tore at his skin, grazing knees and elbows as he skidded through the rubbish. Scrambling upright he sprang forwards, grunting against sudden, sharp pain, his left ankle protesting as he shifted weight to it. Cursing his clumsyness, he hobbled to the rear wall of the fullery, flinging himself around it’s corner where a jitty bisected the main alley. Here the maze was a junction of three paths forming a narrow stemmed Y, with a small yard at the meeting of ways.Pressed tight against the pitted bricks of the wall, he calmed his breathing as his senses strained to pick up hints of the gangs approach. No hope of outrunning them now, though maybe if he stayed still, tucked against this wall......
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