HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir)

HONOR

BOUND

Volume I of

The Spare Heir

Michael G. Southwick

Chapter I

Lightning flashed through the gray sullen clouds.  Booming thunder rolled across the surrounding hills.  A light mist fell through the swirling smoke and fog.  Blackened tree trunks gave evidence of a sprawling forest that once stood here.  Scattered flames still licked at the base of several of the burnt out trunks.

Jorem stood silently as droplets of water trickled down the scrolls and swirls of his polished armor.  Even in the dim light filtering through the clouded sky his armor shone as if it had a phosphorescent magic about it.  In his hand he held a sword like none other.  Polished to such a luster it looked as if he held the sun by a string.  He waited, listening and watching.

He knew they were out there hidden from view.  They were hunting for him but soon they would be the hunted.  A twig snapped in the distance.  A shadow within the shadows came into view.  How many were there?  He sensed them all around.  They would find him and when they did he would be ready.

Finally they came out of the mist.  A sodden, un-kept, motley bunch they were.  Their greasy hair was plastered to their brows.  For clothes they wore filthy rags and furs.  Their stench alone gave away their presence.  Some bore swords.  Others had clubs and spears.  Tightening his grip on both sword and shield Jorem braced himself for the attack.

They came in a rush, their voices raised in battle cries.  His sword flashed before him downing foes with every strike.  When their numbers threatened to overwhelm him he vaulted with acrobatic grace over them disarming some while still in the air.  So ferocious was he that several turned and fled rather than face him.

He did not bother to count their numbers.  He would fight until there where none left to raise weapons against him.  His keen hearing warned him of impending attacks from behind.  His lightening reflexes blocked attempted strikes from all sides.  As he disarmed the last of the horde thunder peeled across the sky.

With none left to carry on the battle against him he sheathed his sword.  Gazing out he surveyed the wasteland before him.  Crumpled bodies lay strewn about the landscape.  The blood of his enemies would soak into the ground and enrich the soil bringing new life to this land.  A prickling sense warned him of a presence behind him.  Something evil and malevolent came for him.  No sound did it make, not even a whispering of wind.  He was chilled to the bone as he felt its approach.

Firmly grasping his sword he wrenched it free as he spun around to face this new foe.  As he spun around something clung to his legs grasping and binding them together.  Unable to free himself from the tenacious grip seizing his legs he began to fall, and fall and fall.

When he struck the ground his breath was knocked from his body.  Opening his eyes he saw the smooth polished floor of his room.  Looking up he saw his bed sheets wrapped tightly around his legs.  While untangling himself from the sheets he glanced to his side and saw a thick tome on the war strategies of an ancient race beneath his bed. “
Light reading indeed”
he thought to himself.

Standing up he shook his head to clear the last remnants of the dream from his mind.  He brushed back his hair with his hands to get it out of his face.  There, across the room, mounted on a stand was his armor.  It was a birthing gift from his father the night before.  The first rays of sunlight streaming through the window reflected off of the gleaming surfaces of the polished metal.

As he took a step toward his precious gift his foot caught in the traitorous sheet sending him sprawling headfirst.  In an attempt to catch himself he crashed against the stand of armor.  The armor teetered and fell against his nightstand.  Armor clanged down onto the nightstand sending the metal washbasin and pitcher to the floor.  Wash basin, pitcher, pencils, paper, candles and armor crashed to the floor.  Clanging and banging they rattled about until they lay scattered all around the room.  Nothing broke or shattered as the servants and maids had learned long ago to leave nothing breakable anywhere that he might chance to be.

Standing up Jorem picked up the sword that had come with the armor.  He drew the ornate sword from its scabbard.  It made a feathery hiss as the blade slid free.  The grip and pommel were scrolled with silver and studded with gems.  As Jorem gripped the sword in his hand he could feel the gems press in the palm of his hand.  The blade was not as long as those carried by his brothers, but it suited his size perfectly.  Slicing the air before him Jorem could see himself battling brigands and slaying monsters in his shining armor.  With every stroke of his sword a foe would fall, trumpets blaring and crowds cheering wherever he went.

For as long as Jorem could remember, he had wanted to be a warrior, a knight, a hero.  Every morning he had watched his four older brothers, dressed in their shining armor, leave the castle.  Mounted on the finest horses in the kingdom, they looked magnificent as they rode to their daily weapons training.  Every morning he was left to sit in his room to dream of what they were doing in the arena where only the weapons master Gregorio ruled.

Last night, for his birthing day gift, his father had presented him with his very own armor.  Today he was fourteen years old.  Today he would finally be allowed to enter the weapons arena.  Jorem gently ran his fingers over the gleaming surface of his breastplate.  Almost reverently he traced the golden patterns of the dragonhead inlaid so artfully into the gleaming silver surface.

Jorem closed his eyes and envisioned himself sitting with his brothers at supper, finally accepted as one of them.  They were the best swordsmen in the kingdom.  It was all they ever talked about—the duels they had fought and the battles they had planned.  None of them had ever lost a bout except to one another, and they had challenged every guard in the castle.

All night he had tossed and turned, too excited to sleep.  To finally be allowed to enter the weapons arena and stand beside his brothers.  He would be joining with the other nobles who were allowed to train with the royal weapons master—to finally prove to everyone that he would be useful for something.  With a sword in his hand and armored for battle, there was no way that his clumsiness could interfere.

This would be the first time he actually got to see his brothers at arms practice.  All weapons training for the royal family was held in the arena, a large wooden structure whose only windows were up near the rafters.  Jorem had asked his father once why they were not allowed to practice outside.  “Arms practice can be very dangerous,” his father had said.  “I’ll have no harm come to my sons, the arms master will see to that.  The day your mother passed away, just after your birth, I promised her I’d keep you boys safe.”  Although the answer had made sense, something about it hadn’t quite sounded right.

“My Prince.” A harsh voice cut into his daydream.

The words startled Jorem and he whirled toward the sound.  “Ah, Pentrothe, you startled me.”

Pentrothe stood in the doorway nodding his head.  “You must have been very deep in thought, my apologies for disturbing you.”  As he spoke he stroked his long, gray beard.  He had confided in Jorem, after singeing his beard in one of his “experiments” that the only reason he kept the thing was that no one would take a wizard seriously if he didn’t have a beard, the longer the better.  His voice was a grating whisper and you had to listen carefully to hear all of his words.

Some said he was a charlatan, others that he was nearly as powerful as a dragon mage.  To Jorem, he was just Pentrothe, a very wise old man who, several years ago, had found a sad and lonely child sitting in the royal gardens feeling sorry for himself because no one had time for him.  Pentrothe had led Jorem up to the wizard’s quarters and shown him many wondrous things: shining globes, bits and pieces of bizarre creatures, bubbling liquids and a myriad of colored powders.  But what most caught Jorem’s eye were the shelves and shelves of books.  More books than Jorem had ever seen.  After that, there was seldom a day Jorem didn’t spend at least a portion of his time in the wizard’s quarters.

“Will you be coming by my rooms today?” asked Pentrothe.

“Of course. Zensa is coming today, isn’t she?” replied Jorem as he lay the sword on his bed.

“Indeed the Dragon mage should be here before noon, but I thought that with weapons training you might not have the time.”

“My training with the weapons master is only in the morning.  I should have plenty of time afterward.  Besides, it’s Zensa, how could I not find time for her?”

“Indeed, how not,” said the wizard, one eyebrow rising slightly.  “I shall expect you later, perhaps after the noon meal.  Speaking of time, when is it that you are to meet with the weapons master?”

Glancing at the sun mark on his wall Jorem jumped to his feet.  “Shades, I’m going to be late.”  He grabbed the sword off of his bed and slid it into its scabbard.  He turned to bid Pentrothe good day, but the wizard was no longer there.  “Right, I’ll just put all of this stuff on as I go then.”  With that, Jorem gathered his newly acquired armor from the disarray of the floor and stuffed it into a large bulky bag and dashed out the door.

Taking the servants’ stairs down through the kitchen would save him some time, though Jorem nearly collided with a maid carrying an armload of towels.  The scowl on the cook’s face was warning enough not to linger in the kitchen.  Jorem’s bag of armor clanked and rattled as it banged against the walls and doorways all the while he was trying to remember which bit of armor went where.

Reaching into the bag as he trotted down the path to the arena he pulled out a chain mail shirt and stopped in his tracks.  “Of course, chain mail goes under all of the stuff I’ve already put on.”  He could almost hear Pentrothe’s words after another disaster on the experiment table.
“Taking the time to do it right will oft save more time than you know.  If something needs doing, do it right or leave it to someone who will.”
  Spotting a group of bushes near the path, Jorem ran behind them, dumped out the remaining items in the bag and began stripping off his armor.  He was just buckling the last strap when he heard voices approaching.

“’Erd?  We got another of the Royal snobs joinin’ us today.”

“Ay, this’n be the last o’the brood.”

Realizing they were talking about him, Jorem crouched lower and remained silent.  He was used to people talking about his clumsiness, but this sounded different.  The two men weren’t just talking about him, but about his brothers as well. He’d never heard anyone speak ill of his brothers.  Who would dare take the chance of them finding out?

“Another poppin’ jay in shiny new armor thinkin he knows everthin already.  D’ya ‘spose this’n will be all decked out for war like the last one?”

“If’n he doesn’t he’ll be the first o’the lot t’show a lick o’sense.  Beginner wearin armor fer the first training, be like tyin’ rocks t’a babes feet.  Never learn t’crawl, let alone walk.”

“Don’ help none that them Royals’ never seen a days work.  Least them farm boys we get got some muscle to em.”

“Tis not but the truth.  Gotta admit though, I’d not mind ‘avin the armor, all shiny an new.”

“Oh, aye, thas just what ye need.  A great big target strapped on ye.  Perfect target fer any fool with a bow.  Let em ‘ave their pretty armor, keeps the eyes off’n us.  Best we remind the younger lads not t’make this’n look bad.”

“Right you are, poor Gorn is still mucking out the stables for getting a touch on his Lordship Brenton.  And that was a year ago or better.”

“Just you pray that they never have t’lead us t’war.  Not a bit a sense in any of em.”

Jorem sat frozen in place as the two men past beyond where he could hear them.  Never had he heard anyone speak so of his family.  Father would be in a rage should he hear of it.  And to think of sparring with swords without armor sent a chill up his spine.  Surely the men were mistaken.  But, why would they say such things?  Obviously they were but guardsmen, speaking in confidence of not being overheard. 
“Listen to what people say, especially when they are amongst their friends.  When you hear something that could be important, think about it.  Reason it out.”
  That’s what Pentrothe was always saying.

Okay, reason it out.  What had they said that bothered him the most?  The comments about the shiny armor definitely stung.  Looking down at his arms encased in bright silver metals, Jorem could see why it would catch everyone’s eye on a battlefield.  But if the enemy was looking at someone in bright armor that meant not all of their attention was on the fight.  A distraction at the right moment gave room for an effective attack.

Was wearing his armor for practice unwise?  Surely he would have to get used to fighting in it at some point.  And the thought of someone swinging a sword at him without some protection was crazy. 
“Think it through,”
Pentrothe would tell him when the answer to a problem was eluding him
.  “List the facts and their circumstances, then match your problem to the circumstances.”