Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter 8

C
hamz was happy to be relieved of his chores at Hammond House. The proprietor was not so happy.  Chamz was reliable and hard working and the owner counted on him for a number of things.  Jarlz's offer of gold coins eased his pain and after a satisfying lunch, the three of them went searching for a training site.  Gant wondered why they needed a new place, but Jarlz insisted they go away from town where there would be fewer distractions.  By mid-afternoon they located a quiet hilltop meadow east of town overlooking the road to Maltic City.  It was close enough to the road so they could reach it quickly but far enough away that they were not easily noticed.  It was also the highest elevation around so people had to look up to spot them and, as Gant noted, travelers hardly ever looked up.

The grass was thick and lush making footwork more difficult.  Training started with exercises and specific sword movements that Jarlz said were designed to increase the strength and flexibility of the wrist, arm and grip.  Jarlz repeated them over and over for more than an hour.  Gant and Chamz got so tired they nearly dropped their swords.  After the exercises, Jarlz took out his sword and had each of his students attack him.  Both Chamz and Gant were easy targets now, too tired to effectively defend themselves. 

Finally Jarlz called an end to practice. Exhausted, Gant and Chamz dragged themselves back to Hammond House.  They washed up and flopped onto a bench in the main room for dinner.  Everything smelled extra delicious, though Gant was so tired he thought of skipping the meal.  But the food came, the ale washed it down, and Gant was reenergized.

Chamz looked up from his meal and said, “Now that was a workout.  Are we going to work that hard every day?”

Jarlz chuckled.  “Are you ready to go back to work at Hammond House?”

“Well, no,” said Chamz.  “I just thought, well, we trained pretty hard before.  Compared to today we were just playing.”

“Combat training should be as tough as possible and still it won’t be as tough as when it's for real.  No matter how hard you push yourself now you'll still need to find unknown reserves when the time comes.  And Gant doesn’t have much time.”

Gant lurched alert.  “You keep saying that.  What am I training for?”

“The world is changing.  Evil grows and we'll need every available swordsman to defend against it.  I think you will be an important part of that.”

It was an answer without being an answer.  Gant would have asked more questions but fatigue clouded his mind.  “Okay,” he said, “but right now I'm ready for some sleep.”

“Yes, and sleep is what you should be doing,” said Jarlz, rising from his bench and heading for their rooms.

They all went directly to bed.  Gant was asleep instantly.  His dreams were of sword fights, duels with evil men and then with a black, formless monster.  In the morning he couldn't remember if he'd won or lost.

One day ran into another.  The training was endless.  At first a few curious onlookers came from Blasseldune to watch.  But Jarlz made the boys work solo drills whenever anyone was watching.  Eventually the curious left and then the sparring started again.  Soon no one bothered to come.

Both swordsmen improved quickly. Gant began to score an occasional point on his uncle.  And the fatigue they'd felt that first day faded.  Now they trained even harder and still had energy at the end of the day to sit in the main room at Hammond House with an after-dinner pint and listen to the stories and gossip that circulated. 

After barely a month Gant finally had a day when he scored more points than his uncle.  And even Chamz scored twice on Uncle Jarlz. 

The next day Gant faced his uncle.  Gant tried to circle until he had his uncle facing the sun.  Jarlz knew that trick and constantly maneuvered to get Gant facing the sun.  As a result, neither ended up with the sun at their back.  Gant measured the distance between them.  Uncle Jarlz hefted his sword, smiling with the pride that comes when a pupil has learned their lessons.

“One more flurry,” said Jarlz, “then we head back to Hammond House and talk about your future.”

Gant nodded.  It seemed early to be leaving the meadow.  The sun was still high in the sky.  But if Uncle Jarlz said it was enough, then it was enough.

Jarlz rushed in, his sword poised high for a down stroke.  Gant parried deftly and counter-thrust to the ribs.  Jarlz blocked but before he could attack again Gant arced his sword skillfully overhead and brought it to a stop with the softest touch at Jarlz's neck.

Uncle Jarlz grinned and said, “You've learned all I can teach you.  Let's go get some lunch.”

Jarlz clapped Gant on the back as they walked back to the road.

Chamz hustled along beside them.  “Now are we going to start a real adventure?”

Jarlz laughed.  “I think the adventure started a long time ago.  For you, I think it's time you went home.  Your father has his hands full and he's worried about you.”

“When Gant can go home, I'll go home.”

Gant turned to his friend.  “Chamz, I'm the one exiled.  No reason you couldn't go home for a bit.”

Chamz ignored Gant. “Where is Gant going?” he asked Jarlz.  “You seem to know and won't tell us.”

“Wait until we're back at the inn.  There'll be plenty of time for talking then.”

Once they reached Hammond House they took their usual table.  Today the inn was lightly attended.  Gant knew everyone except for the stranger sitting at an empty table in the corner.  His dress and the lute propped against the table suggested he was a traveling minstrel.

“Ale,” shouted Jarlz once they were seated.

He leaned back slightly and rested one heavy boot on the unoccupied stool between himself and Chamz.  He looked at Gant for a moment, considering, and then motioned with his big right hand for Gant to lean closer.  Gant obediently leaned in.  Jarlz smacked him hard on the ear.

“Never be so eager to obey another,” instructed Jarlz through clenched teeth.  “Follow your own mind else someone take advantage of your good nature.”

Chamz tried to hide his laugh, but couldn't.  Gant smacked him on the shoulder.  “What are you laughing at?”

Jarlz frowned.  “Both of you,” he snapped.  “This is no kid's game.  You are men who will be counted on to do what is right despite our enemy’s best efforts to deceive you.  You must judge what you hear and see by your own yardstick.  Not what someone else tells you.”  With that Jarlz leaned back and relaxed.

“I don't understand,” said Gant, “I'd do anything you say.”

“Me, too,” added Chamz.

“I know, lad.  It's best if you trust people less.”  A softness crept into Jarlz's voice.  “You've been the best pupil ever, and Chamz, you've been a close second.  But there is little more I can teach and you need to go your own way.”  He paused a moment.  “I'm only holding you back.”

The ale arrived.  Gant grabbed his and took a sip.  He'd forgotten how thirsty he was and the cool liquid felt good.

“How about something to eat?” asked Chamz, reaching for his mug.

Jarlz nodded.  “Yes, a platter of the roast meat and bread will do.”

Gant stared into his mug for a few moments.  If training was over what was he going to do? Before he left Netherdorf he had worked in the smithy, regardless of his sword training.  He wasn’t going back to a smithy.  And he didn’t want a job in Blasseldune as a guard.  He'd heard that the King of Mulldain was hiring troops but Gant had no desire to be a foot soldier.  He'd also heard of the free town of Kittenspenny’s plea for help to fight off outlaws.  The pay was small but the cause was just. Perhaps that dispute was already settled.

While Gant pondered his future, Jarlz serenely sipped his ale.  A smile grew slowly on Jarlz's face, broadening with Gant's growing frustration.

Chamz finally couldn’t take it.  “All right.  What is it Gant's supposed to do?  You keep talking about our enemies, and the like.  Let us in on it.”

Gant looked up.  “Yes, let us in on it.”

Jarlz nearly choked on his ale.  “Okay, okay.  I had a feeling once I announced school was out you'd be at a loss for direction.  And with the answer so obvious.  You've got to think farther ahead, lad.”

Chamz fidgeted with his mug.  “Okay, Uncle Jarlz, quit stalling.”

“You can only have one goal.”

Chamz thumped his mug on the table.  "Yes!  The games of combat at Devonshield.”

“By the Great Dragons' Fire, you're right,” roared Jarlz, slamming his fist on the table so hard the mugs jumped with a spray of foam.

“Are you kidding?  They're hardly games.  People get killed.  And only the very best even dare enter.”

Chamz grabbed Gant by the shoulder.  “Don't you see?  If you win at Devonshield, it isn't just the prize.  You're famous.  Kings and nobles seek you out.  You can choose your adventures.  You're a hero.”

“I'm not sure fate will allow Gant to choose his adventures, but otherwise Chamz’s right.  You need to enter.”

“Who will sponsor me?  I'm exiled and not even a noble.”

“That doesn't matter.  I'll post your entry fee and you can pay me back with your winnings.”

“What makes you think I’ll win?”

“You forget I fought there once.  Almost won, except for the injury to my hand.”

“Sorry.  I didn’t forget.  It just seems impossible.”

“Well, I say you're ready.  For Devonshield or anywhere else.”

“Then I'll go to Devonshield.  But only if you go with me.”

“And me, too,” piped in Chamz.

“Try to keep me away,” said Jarlz.  “Chamz, I don't know.  I promised your father that I would send you home.”

“And you also just told us to think for ourselves.  I'm going with you.”

Gant grabbed Chamz's arm.  “And I say he comes with us.”

“Okay.  Before we go I'll have to outfit you properly.  You'll need a breastplate, helm and shield.  It won't be fancy just serviceable.”

“When do we leave?” asked Chamz.

“Tomorrow.  Early.  We'll get what we need this afternoon.”

The food arrived and the three of them dug in.  They didn't pay any attention to the dark-haired minstrel.  They didn't notice him hurry off immediately after overhearing Jarlz say they would leave in the morning.

Gant thought about the games at Devonshield.  It was unnerving.  Fighting the best swordsmen was worrisome enough, but what if he killed someone?  Not that he'd mean to, just that those things happened.  He'd heard the stories.  Maybe he shouldn't have agreed so quickly.  Too late now.

Chapter 9

T
he next day dawned clear and wintry cold.  Yellow and red leaves clung stubbornly to the trees.  Gant, Jarlz and Chamz put on furs, heavy boots and pulled their hoods up to cover their ears.  Gant wore the breastplate and mail shirt his uncle had purchased for him.  It was uncomfortable and made carrying his pack harder.  Jarlz led his horse, preferring to walk along with Gant and Chamz.

They said goodbye to the innkeeper and headed north.  A stiff wind blew straight into their faces forcing them to keep their heads down.  They marched briskly, the cold kept them moving.  Despite the frigid air, despite the gray skies, they walked with buoyed spirits.  Finally they had a goal and were doing something. 

The wind made talking difficult and so the threesome tramped on in silence.  It wasn’t long before Gant’s armor started to rub his chest raw under his light shirt.  He endured it quietly for as long as he could.

Finally, he said, “Uncle Jarlz, this armor is cutting into me.  Can't I take it off at least until we reach Devonshield?”

Jarlz chuckled to himself.  “All the more reason to keep it on.  That armor must become a part of you, as natural to wear as your pants.  Otherwise it will hinder you in battle instead of protect.  Better get used to it.”

“Hey,” said Chamz, a mischievous smile on his face, “if you don't want it, I'll take it.”

“No doubt,” said Jarlz, “but Gant is the one entering the games.  Maybe you can have a go at it next year.”

“Really?  Do you think I’d be ready?”

“Probably as long as Gant doesn’t decide to enter again.”

“And Gant can sponsor me after he wins this year.”

Gant said nothing.  It was presumptuous to talk of winning when he'd never fought anyone except his uncle and his friend.  And that was just practice.  No, the tournament was going to be a lot different.

The trio continued steadily until midday when Jarlz pointed out a glade of young oak trees ringing an opening in the forest.  A well-used fire pit sat in the middle of the clearing.  Around it the trees formed a thick barrier and Gant couldn't see more than a few feet into the forest.  At least the trees cut off the wind.

“I'll make a fire,” said Chamz.

“Don't bother,” said Jarlz.  “We won't be staying long.”

Gant slumped down on his pack.  His legs were tired.  More than that, he was cold through to his bones.  “What's the hurry, Uncle?” he asked.

“I've a spot in mind for our evening camp and we are still a long way from it.  There’s no place worth staying between here and there so we need to keep moving.”

Jarlz tied his horse to a sapling.  Chamz sat down and started rummaging in his pack when the first volley of crossbow bolts struck.  One hit Chamz in the chest, another deflected off Jarlz’ mail shirt, another stuck in Gant's pack.

In one smooth motion, Jarlz pulled his sword, dashed to his horse and yanked his shield off the horse’s back.  Gant rolled over drawing his sword.  Chamz fell backward blood flowing from his wound.  He groaned and lay still.

A violent rage swept over Gant.  He leaped up and dashed toward the unseen shooters.  Jarlz advanced more cautiously, his shield up.  Three more bolts flashed toward Gant.  One went wide, one glanced off Gant's mailed sleeve, the third stuck in his breastplate just below the floating ribs.  The tip poked through the layer of metal and leather and dug into Gant’s skin.

“After them,” shouted Jarlz, and sprinted headlong toward the attackers.

Gant grabbed the crossbow bolt lodged in his armor and, with a twist and tug, pulled it free.  Tossing it aside, he ran forward and shouted “What about Chamz?”

“We'll tend to him after we’ve dealt with them,” said Jarlz.

Jarlz disappeared into the thicket, forcing his way through the perimeter of oak saplings.  He plunged in among the widely spaced trees of the older forest.  Gant followed close behind using the path that his uncle had wedged open. 

Another volley of iron-tipped bolts zipped at Gant.  This time the bolts glanced off trees.  Gant lunged ahead.

Moments later, Jarlz and Gant broke into a clearing in time to see three men on horses gallop away southward.  In an instant, they were gone.  Gant recognized one of them.  Talth!  He had finally made good on his vow of revenge.

“No use chasing them now,” said Jarlz.  “Let's get back to Chamz.”

They hurried back to the campsite.  As they ran, Gant said, “One of them was Talth.  I tangled with him the first day we came to Blasseldune.”

“Just like that coward to attack from ambush.  We'll deal with him later.”

Back at camp they found Chamz in a pool of blood.  Gant fought back tears. 

Jarlz leaned down, lightly touching the bolt in Chamz' chest.  “I don't know if I should pull it out or leave it in.  If only Uric was here.”

Gant knelt beside his fallen friend.  “I should have given him the armor,” he muttered. 

Bent over as he was, Gant didn't see Uric enter the clearing.

“Did someone call my name?” asked Uric, his soft voice filled with a strange power that gave Gant shivers.  The sage stood tall, majestic in his amethyst robes.  His eyes were two pools of green that hid many secrets.

Jarlz jumped up his hand going to his sword.

“No need for that,” said Uric.  “I reached Blasseldune only this day looking for you.  They told me you'd left for the games at Devonshield.  I was worried that you weren't going to get there in time and so I followed up the north road.”

“Can you do anything for Chamz?” asked Gant.

“Let me see,” said Uric, bending down for a closer look.  “He's taken a bad shot but I think I can put him right again.”

Gant stepped back to give the sage room.  “Can I get anything?”

“No,” said Uric.  “I have what I need in my cloak.”

Uric wrapped his hand around the shaft of the crossbow bolt and eased it out.  It popped out like a cork from a champagne bottle, blood spurting freely.  Quickly, Uric placed a dressing of clean white cloth over the wound and pressed firmly.  “Here,” he said to Gant, “hold this in place while I prepare some medicine.”

Gant knelt next to Chamz.  His friend's face was ash gray, his breathing shallow.  “You're going to be all right,” Gant whispered as he placed his hand over the dressing and held it.

Uric retrieved a couple of bottles from pockets concealed within his robes along with another pad of soft cloth.  For the next few minutes the sage mixed liquids from this bottle and that and blotted the cloth with the result.

“Okay,” he said finally.  “Let me in there.”

Gant moved back.

Uric kneeled down, replacing the bloody dressing with the medicine soaked pad.  He mumbled a few words that Gant couldn't quite make out, and then stood up.  The medicine-soaked dressing stuck to Chamz.

“Now what?” asked Jarlz.

“I've got to get him back to Hammond House, a warm bed and some rest.”

“Is he going to be all right?” asked Gant.

“He'll be okay.  But it will take time.”  Uric's smile was reassuring.

“Okay, then let's get going,” said Gant.  “I'll help carry him.”

“No,” said Uric.  “You and Jarlz must go on to the games.  I'll see to Chamz.”

“Don't worry, Gant,” said Jarlz, “Uric will see that nothing happens to Chamz.”

Gant's mind swirled.  “He's my friend.  I can't just leave him.”

Uric put a hand on Gant's shoulder.  “Gant, you must go to Devonshield.  Chamz will be fine.  I'll send him north as soon as he's well enough to travel.”

Gant looked at his uncle for reassurance.

Jarlz nodded.  “We need to go.  And so does Uric.”

“Okay,” said Gant.  He reached out, touched Chamz on the arm.  “Get well,” he said.

Jarlz untied his horse, slung his shield over the saddle and started toward the road.  Uric lifted Chamz in his arms.  Gant took one last look at his friend, shouldered his pack and followed his uncle.  At the road, Uric turned south toward Blasseldune. Gant and Jarlz went north.  Before he’d gone far, Gant looked back.  The road was already empty as far as he could see.  Uric must indeed be in a hurry.