And now for your reading enjoyment . . . BY REQUEST!

   I am so excited! I actually had a request for more of my fiction. So, here it is . . . Chapter 3. You can read chapters one here and two here. 


I left early one morning, making my way across the fields of wheat stubble in the half-light just before dawn. I traveled lightly, knowing I had a good month before the weather turned really cold. By then, I planned to be far in the south, possibly even out of K’Attor, across the sea. My light pack contained very little, only my cloak, a piece of cheese, and half a loaf of bread. I felt that was all that I could honestly impose upon my hosts for, even though I had left a couple of coins on the kitchen table in exchange for what I had taken. My dagger was in my belt, and my staff in my hand. The pouch dangling inside my shirt from the cord around my neck contained flint and some tinder, as well as the remaining coins I owned. I was prepared for anything, at least anything my farm boy mind of sixteen could think of, preoccupied as it was with the thoughts of guilt that still plagued my conscience.

I traveled well that first day, staying close to the stream that meandered through what had once been my father’s farm, and following its progress toward the river. As evening darkened the sky, I found a copse of bushes in which to camp for the night. I lay wrapped in my cloak, staring at the stars above me for hours. For once, I was not plagued by the guilt that ruled my life at that point. Instead, a single question ran through my mind. Did I have my freedom, or had I enslaved myself? I didn’t answer the question that night, nor have I in the many years since.  

At some point, I did drift off to sleep, because I woke while the sun had not yet warmed the dew off the grass and leaves which scattered the ground near my resting place. I rose, drank from the stream, and set off again, still following its course. By midmorning, I reached the juncture of what I considered my father’s stream and the river. I began following the river, knowing that eventually it would reach the coast, and somewhere along the coast would be a port where I could find a ship on which to leave the land of my birth, the land I had come to curse.  

As I walked, my thoughts again returned to that fateful night, and once more I withdrew into my guilt, so that I no longer noticed the scenery around me. I traveled on for some days, alternating periods of self-deprecation with times in which I was almost happy, watching as the leaves began to turn, waking some mornings to find the dew almost frozen on my cloak. My bread and cheese were supplemented with fish I caught in the river and berries I picked from thickets along the river’s edge.

After nearly a week of traveling, I began to smell the salt in the air and knew I was close to the sea. I camped that night, eager to reach the sea, and be gone from this land of heartache. I rose with the sun the next morning, and continued on my way. In the early afternoon, I approached the seashore and a town simultaneously. I don’t recall the name of the town, but perhaps I never learned it.  It wasn’t much, just some docks where farmers could ship their wheat, along with the associated houses and buildings that would be found near any port, great or small. I had never been to this town before, as my father had always taken his wheat to the market to sell, perhaps believing the port too far away to be reached safely in an age when highwaymen abounded.

As I entered the town, I was somewhat surprised to see no one on the docks. There was a barge, a few fishing boats and dories tied up to the docks, but not a living soul stirred within the vicinity of the river’s mouth. A single tavern and a half-built church were the only buildings displaying any kinds of life. A lone man was struggling to lift large blocks of chuar wood into place on the wall of the church, sweating profusely in his brown cassock. The rest of the town, it seemed, was gathered in front of the tavern. I went to the tavern, not because of the company, but because I was eager to find work on a ship, and figured that this was the mostly likely place to find employment with the docks being deserted.  

I slowly shouldered my way through the crowd, listening to the murmurings, catching snatches of conversations and wondering what was so momentous as to disrupt an entire town during the peak season in which most earned their livelihood. When I reached the door of the tavern, I found by way blocked by two men guarding the entrance. I wasn’t eager to cross any man, but I had slept poorly the previous night, in fact, had slept poorly for an entire year, and was in no mood for any kind of tomfoolery.

“I’d like inside, please.” I stated, addressing the older of the two guards.

“No one is allowed inside while the princess dines.” The younger one growled, shoving me back towards the crowd.

My usual state of self-pity and self-blame vanished when his hands touched my chest, but I held my temper in check. You’ll admit that’s no easy feat for a redheaded K’Attorsman, and one just lately showing the beginnings of a beard. I again addressed the older guard, “Can you tell me how long it will be?”

Again the younger, and in my opinion, more foolish guard shoved me. “That’s none of your concern, boy.”

I bristled, both at his tone of voice and his use of the term “boy.” He was hardly any older than I, with no signs of a beard on his face, only a cruel sneer that lifted one corner of his mouth.

“Friend,” I said, looking him directly in the eye, “I asked a simple question. If you don’t know the answer, simply say so, and don’t let your delusions of authority cause problems where there need be none.” Now I felt more alive than I had since I woke to the news that my family was dead. I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples.

The younger guard started to reply to my statement, but was cut off by his companion, “The lad’s right, Rupert.  Now leave him be.”

Rupert was either hard of hearing, or didn’t know good advice when he heard it. He reached for the cudgel leaning against the wall next to him. “Get out of here, boy.”

The cudgel wasn’t there when he closed his hand over where he thought it should be, probably because I had toed it out of the way when he opened his mouth.

Again the older man spoke, “Rupert, leave it alone. You don’t want to risk the wrath of who’s inside over some imagined slight to your honor.”

“No, this stripling needs to learn a lesson.”

“Aye, perhaps I do.” I admitted. “But I’ll not learn it from the likes of you.” By this time, my anger had seethed through to the surface.

Rupert charged me and I tripped him neatly with my staff, stepping out of his way as he stumbled into the dust. He got up, spitting and pulling a dagger from the sheath hanging off his belt. I glanced at the old man, but he was gazing out into the crowd, ignoring the drama unfolding between Rupert and I.  He seemed to feel Rupert deserved whatever I could give him, or that I deserved any punishment I received for not leaving well enough alone.

A lad of sixteen I might be, but no stranger to the rough and tumble ways of most any child’s education, especially if that child had brothers, as I had. I might have wandered around in a daze for a year, but I was still a farm boy, and probably stronger than this city boy was used to dealing with.

“I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of a crowd.” I taunted. “Answer my questions and we can settle this dispute later, in a more gentlemanly fashion.”

“You may use big words, boy, but you’re no gentleman.” was Rupert’s reply. You’re the one who’s going to be embarrassed.”

I shrugged my shoulders and gripped my staff more comfortably. “If that’s the way you want it, then.”

By now, the crowd had drawn back a few paces, leaving and open area in front of the tavern for my opponent and I to do battle. Rupert paused for a moment and stared, as if seeing something he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps it was my scar, which runs down my forehead from above the hairline, then crosses my left eyebrow before fading out on my cheekbone. I don’t know and never found out what gave him pause. In any case, he advanced slowly towards me rather than charging as he had the first time, prompting the thought, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he can be taught.” While part of my mind made light of it, another part of me realized that this was a man not likely to make the same mistake twice, and a man used to getting his way.

We began to circle, waiting for the other to make the first move, trying to get an estimate of how the other would fight.  I have never been the patient kind, especially in my youth, so it was I who began our melee. My right foot slid forward over the hard packed dirt and my staff fell towards Rupert’s head as I advanced. He jumped back, and tossed his dagger back and forth between his hands. I noticed it only peripherally, watching his eyes for a sign of his coming attack.

I almost missed it, because he attacked with his feet rather than the dagger I had expected him to use. As it was, I managed to knock his kick away with my staff, and then had to twist out of the way as his dagger darted for my belly. I realized then that he meant to kill me, not simply defeat me.

What happened in the next few moments I remember little of. I do know that when it ended, Rupert lay dead at my feet, the handle of his dagger protruding from his chest. My staff was broken into two pieces, and I had so much blood on my hands I remember thinking I must have slit his throat, rather than merely buried his dagger in his heart.

The older guard approached me with his sword drawn. “I’ll have to arrest you lad. You’ve killed the Princesses personal bodyguard.”

“What princess?” I cried out. “What kind of royalty allows her personal guard to provoke and attack one of her subjects, then arrest him for defending himself?”

“I’m sorry, lad.  I . . .”

This time it was he who was interrupted by a soft, melodious voice speaking from shadows of the now open door. “My name is Arianne, and I do not allow my personal guard to provoke attacks by my citizenry, nor do I punish those who defend themselves. I believe everyone has a right to protect their life and the lives of those they love.”

I turned toward the author of those words. “That’s a very pretty speech, miss, but even a poor farm boy from the country knows better than to trust royalty.” I couldn’t help letting the disgust I felt at how I was being treated creep into my voice.

The guard advanced at my imprudent words, emotion finally displaying itself on his face like thunderheads on the horizon. “I’ll not allow anyone to impugn the word of Princess Arianne and live!”

As his sword swung back in what was probably the beginning of an attempt to separate my head from my shoulders, an amazing thing happened. A slight figure, dressed in silks and furs, interposed itself between me and the man who would have been my executor.

“Gavin, stop!” she cried. “He may have reason to doubt my words. I’ll not have you disprove them.”

The guard, whom I now connected with the threat of death, and the name Gavin, lowered his sword only partially, muttering, “Stand out of my way, Highness. He deserves to die. He killed Rupert, and he spoke against the crown. Now let me do my job in protecting you and the crown you are heir to.”

“Nonsense, Gavin.” Arianne responded. “He may have killed Rupert, but I doubt it was in cold blood, or you would have stopped him yourself, or died trying. He is obviously not a ruffian intent on destroying me. I’ve stood here nearly a minute and he has made no move to harm me.” That was indeed true. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but had it; I doubt I would have been able to act upon it. I was too much in shock at the twin realizations that I had actually killed someone and that I was being protected by a mere wisp of a girl from a man nearly twice as large as her, and larger even than my two plus meter height and fifty stone weight.

I finally spoke. “If you give me your word I’ll be fairly tried, I’ll give over peacefully.” Now I thought about threatening to abduct the Princess if she didn’t give her word, but discovered that several other guards, these in armor, had moved through the door and had me surrounded. “I have no wish to die a dishonorable death.”

She turned and faced me then. It was as if the entire world stopped in that moment. I was so transfixed by her beauty that my mind did not comprehend the words she directed at me. When I realized she was speaking, I had to back up in my mind to catch all she had said.

“You shall stand trial for the unreasonable death of the Princesses personal body guard, Rupert, son of Murdoch. If you are found guilty of his slaying, you will receive the maximum penalty allowed by law. In this instance, the penalty is death by beheading. If, however, you are found to have been unjustly provoked, and that his death was the result of you defending yourself from an unwarranted attack, as is your right, you will be freed. Do you understand these terms?”

In response, I merely nodded. I was amazed that any member of royalty would bother to speak so politely to a commoner, especially one that had only moments earlier called her a liar.

She continued, “I trust then, that you will surrender your weapons to Gavin.” It wasn’t a question, but a royal edict. I obeyed, drawing my dagger from my belt and turning it hilt first towards the man who came around the princess.  

He glowered at me, and spoke in a tone too low for the princess to hear, though she was merely two steps beyond him. “You’re lucky the royal daughter is so forgiving. I would have seen you had a fair trial for killing Rupert, but I’d not have let you survive after calling her Highness a liar.” He took my dagger, glanced at it, and whistled in appreciation before tucking it into his own waistband. “I almost hope they find you guilty. This is a nicer knife than any farm boy deserves.”

“It was my father’s, a spoil of the last war which put her Highnesses father on the throne.  He is dead, so it is rightfully mine. I expect it back.” Inside I was seething, and vowed that once the blade was back in my possession, as I had every reason to believe it would be, no one else would ever have it, even temporarily. I have kept that vow to this day.

And now for your reading enjoyment, Chapter 2!

     You may remember a while back I posted chapter one of a book I have been working on since my Junior High years. It's been a while, so you might need to refresh your memory by looking at the older post. If not, don't worry, as this chapter can stand well on its own, being antecedent to the previous posting.

Chapter 2

The story of how I came to be hunted in such a fashion, and by such unusual forces begins several years earlier, in the glory days of youth. I am originally a farm boy, one of those good lads found in so many counties and provinces, who feel they are called to do more than till the earth like their father, and his father before him, ad nauseum. My restlessness manifested itself early each spring, when the blossoming flowers and new animal life began stirring everywhere, echoed by the strange feelings stirring in my soul. I still feel that restlessness come spring, but never so strongly as I did the year I turned fifteen.

I had made some preparations to leave, and was planning to do so after the snows cleared, when my father drew me aside one morning on my way to milk the cows. My father was usually a taciturn man, not given to displays of emotion towards his children or anyone except my mother, whom he lavished devoted attentions on at all times. However, that particular morning the weak March sunlight glistened from a tear caught in the corner of his eye. 

“Cedric, I can see you are nearly a full grown man, and I can see you’re aching to leave.” His voice was rough from years of cleaning chimneys, a profession he had been apprenticed to as a small lad.  “I know these last two winters have been mighty lean, and I won’t deny that having one less mouth to feed would ease the burden considerable, especially a mouth big as yours.” 

He and I both grinned. My big mouth had been the cause of more than a few arguments between us, some of which had resulted in an exchange of blows. Each had ended quickly enough when I landed on my backside. I had to admit that even though I was taller than my father, nearly forty-five years of constant labor had packed his frame with muscles my adolescent body could only dream of, yet.

He continued, “Spring planting’s almost here, and we can’t afford to hire help. I figure we can stretch what food we got left ‘til your ma’s garden gets going, if you can put some game on the table from time to time.” He coughed, spat a glistening glob of phlegm into the snow, and then continued, “What I’m getting at is that I need your help. Since your brother Josiah left two winters ago, it’s been tough. I know I can’t keep you tied here forever, that you want to see more of the world than what you’ll see over a mule’s hind end, but I’m asking you to wait until the fall.” He must have seen some glimmer of defiance in my face, for he quickly added, “I’m not telling, I’m asking.”

I had never before heard my father abase himself this way, not even to the pompous, overbearing land baron who arrived every fall to take a much larger share of my father’s earnings than was rightfully his. This, combined with an unvoiced fear of actually setting out into a future I couldn’t predict, prompted me to agree.

“I’ll wait until the harvest is in, but only if you give me a portion of what we sell at the market.” I closed my mouth down tight, but the words were already out. I feared I had overstepped my bounds in making demands of my father.  

Not so, for he replied, “Agreed, and I’ll throw in my dagger on top of it.”

His last statement clinched the bargain. I had been eyeing his dagger and longing to have it as my own since I was old enough to handle a knife without doing more damage to myself than the object I was using the knife on. It was a Damascus blade, one that had been folded and refolded hundreds of times to give it a unique pattern that I have seen in only two other blades in my lifetime. He had acquired it in battle, when he had left the apprentice’s life he hated and gone to war for a distant clansman, who had battled to set the current king on his throne.

“Sure, Da. I’ll stay, and we’ll have fresh meat at least every other day ‘til I’m gone.” That was a promise I came to rue as the hot days of summer drove game farther into the woodlands away from the clearing containing my father’s farm. I succeeded in keeping that promise, but at the cost of several hours of sleep almost nightly, because that long summer was one of the driest I can ever remember. 

Eventually, that summer wound its way into the early days of fall, and my mood swung wildly between exhilaration and trepidation. The harvest was taken in, less than we had hoped for, but more than we expected. In order to arrive at the market on time, my father and I began harvesting almost a week earlier than we had in years past, as we had to harvest our fields entirely by ourselves. Usually we had the help of a hired hand or two, but with the poor harvest the previous two years, a hired hand was an unaffordable luxury. We managed, but only by rising before dawn and working until after the light had grown too dim to distinguish the details of each other's faces only a couple feet away. 

The annual market usually began on a Monday, with Mass held the day before in the small monastery a few miles from where the market was held. My mother and three younger siblings accompanied my father and me to market, so it was a noisy trip, as well as hot and dusty from the wheat we carried in our two wagons.

The fall market had always been a time of excitement, but that year the colors all seemed muted, the noises muffled. Even when our wheat fetched almost twice as much per bushel than the year before, I was grateful, but more concerned with being able to return my family to the farm so that I could be on my way. Towards the end of the week, the market was winding down. Most of the traders had exchanged their wares for wheat, which they would carry to Darsgood, then across the narrow strip of water to Dar Gishon.

My father gave me my share of our earnings the last day before we began our journey back to the farm, along with the dagger he had promised me. Had I been a thinking man, I would have arranged then to travel with the traders from the market. However, I was a young man and not always given to reason, preferring to follow the plans I had already lain, however rash they turned out to be. Yet, sometimes I believe that I was guided into not making the obvious decision to leave then, that I decided to return home with my family from the market for a reason beyond my control.

We arrived back at our farm just as dusk was falling, all of us tired to the bone. My father and I were especially weary since we had been laboring most hours of the day since the snows had cleared that spring and we had begun tilling the fields around our property. My mother and the oldest of the younger children carried my little brother, Marcus, and the baby inside, while my father and I tended to the animals. We barely managed to put away the kine and carts before sleep overcame us. I didn’t even make it back into the house, but climbed into the hayloft and fell asleep on some of the hay we had put up that June. I wasn’t asleep long before I heard shouts, and then my father’s voice rose in anger.

“Get out of here, you fools. There’s nothing for you here.”

A reply came back, nervous and high pitched, “We know you’re just back from the market, and well off. You took more wheat than any one in the county, and have no help to pay.” The speaker’s words slurred, indicating that the he had imbibed too much ale recently.

I felt something stir beside me, and looked around to see Marcus’ face peering out of the hay, wisps of it stuck in his hair. He had shared my bed often, so I wasn’t surprised to see he had come to the barn when I didn’t come to the bed. “What’s going on, Cedric?” he asked.

I had no desire for him to witness what I knew was occurring, so I told him to go back to sleep.  He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and then burrowed back into the mound of hay he was using for a bed.

“Aye, I’ve earned that money, you evil laggards,” my father’s voice boomed out again. “Now go back home to your families. You’ll come to no good robbing innocent souls of their hard earned livelihood.”

“Innocent souls is it?” came the reply. “There’s word about that you’ve sold your soul to the devil.”

By this point, I had made my way to the door of the barn, where I lurked in the darkness, peering across the yard towards the house. Five or six figures milled about in front of the door. Two of them carried torches, which revealed that all the figures wore hoods made from rough burlap bags. Now I saw the door open and my father stride forth in his nightshirt, his sword clenched in his hand.

The hooded figures advanced on him, and I saw him turn and say something over his shoulder.  The door slammed behind him as the figures rushed to attack. I burst from my hiding place, charging across the hard packed earth between barn and house, my hand upon the dagger my father had given me only the day before. I must have made a noise, for one of them turned and brained me with a cudgel. After that, I knew nothing for many hours.

I woke some days later, lying in a bed not my own, my head pulsing agonizingly. That is an experience I have become most familiar with; waking somewhere I don’t recognize, in pain, but more about that later. I tried to move instantly upon awakening, worried about my family.

A voice I didn’t recognize spoke to me, “Lay back lad, you took quite a knock on your head.”  The voice was kind, and full of compassion.

“My father . . .” I started, but was cut off by that same voice.

“None of your concern now, lad.” I knew then that he was dead, but lost consciousness before the thought fully registered.

The next time I awoke, I maintained consciousness long enough to learn the awful truth. Not only was my father dead, I was the only survivor of my family. My father’s farm was a charred wasteland, set fire by those who had come to steal his money that night. I had been found lying next to an overturned trough in the yard, the hair singed off my head, a cut across my forehead, and my clothes smoldering with the sparks from the fires that had consumed the house, the barn, and even the stubble in our fields. My father was lying not five feet away, dead, as were my mother, brother and baby sister inside what remained of the house I had grown up in. Marcus’ body was never found. It was speculated that the heat of the fire in the barn had been so intense it had entirely destroyed his body.

This information overwhelmed me, and I lapsed back into a sleep, one that was tormented by thoughts of guilt. “Everything is my fault. I could have prevented it. My parents, my brothers and sister were all dead, because I acted like a child.” These thoughts, and the restless sleep continued for months, while my waking hours were spent in a wandering daze.

The family I was staying with tried to reach out to me, to comfort me, each in their own way. The one whose effort I most appreciated was the family’s oldest daughter, Aileen, a buxom lass of fifteen, who tried to draw me out of my silence in the way that only a vibrant young lass can. The rest of the family, each in their own way, attempted to be compassionate and understanding, but my moroseness put them off. Eventually they quit trying to reach out to me, leaving me to wander their home, now also mine, alone with my thoughts.  

At some point, I did realize that I was burdening them with my continued presence, and decided to leave. By then, almost an entire year had passed. I had no place to go, as the baron had claimed my father’s property as his own, saying it was rightfully his, as my father had made no payment on it that last year. I was livid, but could do nothing, as he was the law in my part of the world. I had no one I could appeal to for help, since every one around held their own property only by the baron’s whim, and the taxing amounts they paid him each year.

My scar was healed, and my hair had grown back, at least long enough to allow me to pass in public without frightening the children. I still had the coins I had received from my father’s hands, as well as the dagger he had given me. For some reason, the ruffians who had killed my family and destroyed my home hadn’t bothered to search me.