by R J Hanson
Kullen took up his staff and held it level with his shoulders.
“Good,” Battarc said. “Now, like I showed ya’.”
Battarc brought the practice axe, a simple tool with a wooden head, in a slow over head chop. Kullen pushed his staff up into the air to catch the swing and parry it to the side. Battarc caught the staff with the head of his wooden axe and pulled the staff free from Kullen’s grasp with one quick move.
“You’ve gotta keep your grip on it, lad,” Battarc said. “Now, think about the move. Think about a way to defeat it.”
Kullen nodded and picked his staff up from the ground where it had fallen. He raised it again and held it with one hand wrapping over the top of the staff and the other hand wrapping under. Battarc’s overhead swing came again. Kullen pushed the staff up and caught it again. Battarc snagged the staff with his axe and jerked.
Kullen let go the staff with his right hand and swung the staff wide and to the left; freeing it from Battarc’s axe. Battarc, who had clearly underestimated the boy, was thrown off balance by the sudden give in the staff and stumbled backward. Travelin’ Jack, ever within a few yards of Kullen, was there to catch Battarc’s heal causing his stumble to escalate to a fall. Battarc struck the cold ground of winter with his hard dwarven behind.
Travelin’ Jack leapt around the two, barking and wagging his tail. Kullen started forward with a look of concern plainly expressed on his face. His worries were put to ease almost immediately when Battarc began to laugh. It was a full laugh that shook his pronounced belly and heavily muscled shoulders vigorously.
“That’s good, lad,” Battarc said as he began to get his laughter under control. “That’s good. That was a smart one.”
“It was JJJJJJ… Jack’s idea,” Kullen said.
That sally brought another belly shaking bout of laughter from Battarc.
Harriette watched them from the window in the kitchen. She could also see Whit practicing with his bow just beyond the barn and Clowie walking with Lady Claire as they collected herbs along the edge of the meadow. Lady Claire’s son would be coming soon. She had become increasingly more restless. Clowie had been spared all other chores and tasked with staying at Lady Claire’s side should the labor take her by surprise.
Harriette’s heart ached over what had been lost; who had been lost. She smiled with sadness in her eyes as she looked out on her family. Lawrec had taken so much from her. It had taken her years of toil, her home, her father, her oldest son, and her husband. Yet, it had given her much as well. Whit and Clowie would now have the advantages of an education thanks to the kindness of Lady Claire and Sir Roland. It had given her this place where her children would be protected. It had given her a chance for true prosperity. It had given her this new family.
Harriette placed three more towels in the steaming water on the iron stove in the kitchen. The dwarves would pick today of all days to take Whit and Kullen on a ‘rock hunt.’
“Clowie,” Harriette called out the window. “Clowie I’m going to need more snow.”
Clowie worked in the front yard shoveling the fallen snow into a bucket. Melting the readily available snow was much easier than walking all the way to the river and all the way back with a pail full of water.
Lady Clairenese laid in her bed, a sheet of cold sweat layered her face and neck. Her belly was fully swollen with the growth of her son. The time had come. Harriette hurried into the room with the warm towels and placed them on Claire’s forehead and thighs.
“Rest easy, my lady,” Harriette said. “I have brought more than my own children into this world. All will be well.”
Lady Clairenese struggled to maintain her meditation. She forced her mind to focus. Harriette prepared a freshly cleaned blanket for the baby and laid a sharpened kitchen knife nearby, just in case. Harriette had the misfortune of having seen a child strangled to death by the mother’s cord before.
Clairenese’s beautiful eyes glazed with concentration and her always voluptuous lips were now drawn tight with strain. Muscles spasmed and Harriette watched as the top of the baby’s head came into view. Another contracting of muscles and the child’s head was clear of the birth canal.
Harriette positioned the ample blanket underneath the baby and held his delicate head in her work worn hands. Clairenese’s breathing halted as she pushed again. The baby’s shoulders were on the cusp of freedom from the womb. Clairenese took another breath and willed her mind to focus. Harriette held the child as he continued on his path into the world.
Clairenese lost all track of time, space, and thought. It seemed that she had known nothing but this struggle since before the birth of the Father of Time. She forced her mind to a needle point of attention. She felt the tear of her skin and heard the cry of her son.
“Octavion,” Lady Clairenese breathed into the hot, tight air of the bedroom. “Octavion.”
Lady Clairenese passed out from the exhaustion. It was no easy thing for a woman of her stature to give birth to the son of a Great Man.
Harriette took the child into the folds of the blanket and cut the cord from his stomach. She tied the cord in a tight knot and wrapped it securely with a wet strip of raw hide. She made sure that the newborn’s nose and mouth were clear and rejoiced in the healthy cry that came forth from the child’s lungs.
Clowie came into the room and stood there frozen in place.
“Come on in, dear,” Harriette said. “This is a natural thing. I want you to meet Octavion.”
“Mommy, there is a man here,” Clowie said haltingly between sniffles.
Harriette turned toward Clowie to see that the side of her face was red from a fresh slap, a tendril of blood ran from her nose, and her eyes were rimmed with tears. Then a large man in shining armor stepped into the doorway with a falcon on his forearm.
“I’d like to meet Roland’s son,” the man in armor said as he stepped into the room.
Clowie ran to her mother’s side. Harriette placed a comforting hand on Clowie’s shoulder and cradled young Octavion in her arm.
“Our dwarven friends will be returning soon,” Harriette said attempting to sound confident.
“Your dwarven friends won’t make it back here until some time tomorrow at the earliest,” the armored man said. “My feathered companion confirmed their whereabouts for me. Forgive me, I have not introduced myself. I am Sir Fynyll. It is too bad that our Lady is unconscious. I suppose we’ll have to wake her up.”
“She won’t be responsive for hours,” Harriette said. “This child must weigh well over twelve pounds. It was almost too much for her.”
“Very well,” Sir Fynyll said. “We will just wait for her to wake. I want to see her face. I want her to see who kills her son before she dies. I want her to know who is going to kill her.”
Sir Fynyll untied the leather straps that bound his hunting falcon’s feet. He walked back to the door and released the bird into the winter air.
“Be in the clouds,” Sir Fynyll commanded the bird. “Watch.”
Sir Fynyll turned back toward the three females that occupied the warm bedroom.
“You will prepare a meal for me. Make sure that it is something worthy of a Knight of Lawrec. I am hungry.”
Harriette placed Octavion in a cradle that Battarc had carved for him. She finished cleaning him with the warm towels and then moved the cradle close to Lady Clairenese. Octavion would need his mother soon, and would need the nourishment only she could give him.
Harriette then went into the kitchen. As her hands worked at preparing the meal her mind sought a way to rescue Lady Clairenese and Octavion.
Sir Fynyll walked to the cradle and drew a dagger from his belt. He traced the edges of the baby’s face with the point of the blade.
“What I would do to see your father’s face when he finds your bodies,” Sir Fynyll said. “That should resolve his problems of pride.”
The sun went beyond the western edge of the sky and a clear night had begun. Sir Fynyll sat at a table
that he had moved into the bedroom. He ate the last of his meal of eggs, bread, potatoes, and ham and was now drinking out of a very expensive bottle of wine he had found in the kitchen. He began to feel the effects of the wine and decided to take a few precautions.
Fynyll emptied one of the pantries in the kitchen and pushed mother and daughter inside. He secured the door with the lock and, although it might be redundant, piled several heavy stones against the door as well trapping Harriette and Clowie inside. It occurred to him that it would be even more work to get the stones back outside, but then again, he planned on burning the house down anyway. No need to go to all of that work to free two peasants.
The labor had made Fynyll thirsty and he helped himself to more of the wine. Clairenese drifted toward wakefulness like the body of a drown sailor floating toward the surface of the sea. She eventually came awake but realized that she was still very weak. As she began to open her eyes, she could hear Clowie’s muffled crying coming from somewhere in the house.
Lady Clairenese knew that Harriette would not leave her side unless something was wrong and Clowie was not a child given to crying. In fact, Clowie had been very quiet since the day the dead took her father from them.
Clairenese remained still, eyes closed. She focused her mind and released the boundaries of her senses. She used her supernatural powers to take in her surroundings. Exercising these powers taxed her strength severely, however, it may have saved her life.
She discovered that Harriette and Clowie had somehow been locked in a closet in the kitchen. She also learned that there was a man at a table near her bed drinking. Clairenese knew that man well. Claire reached even further out with her mind. The distance would not usually have been so difficult for her but now it was an excruciating task. She pushed her arm under the covers on the bed and placed her hand on Octavion’s cradle. The cradle that had been carved by Battarc. She reached into the dream world.
“Well, that’s fine stuff,” Sir Fynyll said placing the bottle back on the table. “I think, however, that had better be enough wine for now.”
Clairenese heard the thick tones in Fynyll’s voice. The wine had already begun to work on his faculties. She had one more task to perform. Sweat beaded again on Claire’s forehead as she pushed her powers to their limits. She pushed gently into Sir Fynyll’s mind.
“What the hell,” Sir Fynyll suddenly exclaimed. “I am a Knight of Lawrec. I have nothing to fear from a feeble woman and an infant.”
The last sound Lady Clairenese heard as she slipped out of the world of the conscious was the sound of a wine bottle being uncorked.
A screeching, piercing pain brought Sir Fynyll from sleep. He awoke to a headache that seemed as though it could have split his helmet, if he had been wearing it. Then realization slowly began filtering into his mind; he did not recognize his surroundings. Fynyll leapt from his chair and glared around the room. The quick movement set the heavy slosh of pain in his head in tidal waves against the walls of his brain.
Sir Fynyll was staggered by the pains of the hangover. He made his way to the door and opened it. His lungs drank deeply of the winter morning air, and then he heard it again. His falcon was crying an alarm. Large Red Lizard came into his mind from his winged companion. That must mean a demon. Then Sir Fynyll, Knight of Lawrec, vomited unceremoniously.
Fynyll started out the doorway when he saw the creature coming from the edge of the tree line. Hide, I must hide, Fynyll thought to himself.
Clairenese watched as Fynyll staggered for the door separating her bedroom from the kitchen and general sleeping quarters. The dwarves must be returning, she thought, he must be hiding because the dwarves are returning.
A Lesser Shrou Demon. Claire’s shock at seeing the fallen champion come in through her door was only surpassed by her dread. She was almost frantic with fear for she knew what the creature had in mind for Octavion. Clairenese knew better than most what uses demons had for the infant children of powerful warriors.
“Kleta yu kell spou don Shyeld Roland, Kleta yu keel imt (I have been sent to kill the bride of Roland and take his child),” the demon said in its own foul language.
“Coo keel ta coo muerka yo (you will not have him, nor I),” Lady Clairenese responded in the demonic language.
The fallen champion was shocked to hear his native tongue spoken by this woman flesh.
Claire attempted the speech of command but this creature was too strong for her. She had not yet recovered her strength from her labors.
“Ckeen shoo YO (you are too feeble to command me),” the creature said as his confidence began to return. “Shoo ta ben uul (your child will serve us well).”
The Lesser Shrou Demon walked across the room to the crib where Octavion slept. The unholy being leaned over the child and extended a black tongue that was nearly two feet in length and covered in soars. The fallen champion stroked Octavion’s ear and tasted his throat with its diseased tongue.
Clairenese’s mind raced for a way out. She focused her thoughts and forced her will into the mind of another. Although the Shrou Demon was a Lesser creature, and not as mighty as the sort that Roland had defeated during Prince Ralston’s rescue, it was still too powerful for Claire’s commands.
“I challenge you to a duel!” Sir Fynyll was shocked to hear those words forced from his own mouth.
He felt his head nearly split apart as the dull hurt of the hangover became a searing point of force in his mind. He found himself stepping through the doorway into the bedroom to face the demon.
“I challenge you to a duel, one on one,” Sir Fynyll unwillingly said. “You cannot refuse.”
Clairenese knew that the Greater Shrou Demons usually did not refuse the challenge of a duel. She also knew that the Lesser ones had no choice but to accept. She had forced Fynyll to become her rescuer.
The Shrou Demon whirled on Sir Fynyll.
“What weakling dares challenge me?” The fallen champion asked in the common speech of humans.
Sir Fynyll only managed a whimper. The demon hoisted its black shrou-sheld and started across the room toward the retreating knight. Fynyll barely managed to get his sword out in time to block the demon’s first attack. Sir Fynyll retreated through the doorway and out into the yard in front of the small home. The demon followed him out into the snowy field.
The Lesser Shrou Demon knew it had a job to do, however, it could not continue with its desires for the infant until this man was killed. It had to answer the challenge. The demon began attacking Fynyll feverishly, trying to finish the fight quickly. Fynyll scrambled to parry, block, and retreat.
Despite his cowardice, Sir Fynyll was an accomplished swordsman. After getting over the initial shock at his loss of self-control, Fynyll began to battle the creature with more than parries and blocks. Some of Fynyll’s arrogance returned as he scored three strikes against the Lesser Shrou Demon’s red skin.
His arrogance grew until he saw a clear opening in the demon’s defenses. This fallen champion was no match for his superior skill. Oh, the stories they would tell of him! Of how Sir Fynyll slayed his own Shrou Demon. No one needed to know it was of the lesser sort. Sir Fynyll thrust hard for the open area at the demon’s lower abdomen. The demon pivoted precisely and brought the edge of its unholy shrou-sheld down upon Sir Fynyll’s extended, thrusting arm. The creature was very satisfied to see the irritating man’s right arm fall free from his body. The man’s screams were delightful.
The twisted champion turned back toward the house. It had suffered a few wounds that would slow it down, but nothing that could not wait to be cared for later. It had children to steal. This one and the other, leagues away on the continent of Hunthor.
Battarc had remained behind with the Tall Walker’s wife to oversee the laying of the foundation for the house and the stone smithing. He had led the other dwarves out in a search for an outcropping of stone sufficient to finish the foundation and cellar below it. Whit, excited about the idea of traveling with the warriors begge
d to go along. Kullen hoped to meet a new creature, maybe a fox, and hear of its adventures.
Battarc was not usually given to nightmares. He certainly was not one to put much faith in the omens of bad dreams. However, the dream that came to him the night before struck him to his core. He had felt a great fear for the Tall Walker’s son and wife. He had also felt great shame for allowing them to die in such a horrible manner.
Battarc awoke to find that those feelings were from only his dreams, yet, those emotions continued to trouble him. The band of dwarves, along with Whit and Kullen, were roused from sleep more than three hours before sunrise. They ran until the sun was well into the sky.
Now all their pains, from the long run and Battarc’s constant increase in pace, left them as they looked across the yard of Roland’s home, their home. They all saw what must be a Shrou Demon limping toward the house. The sight of the unholy creature gave each warrior new strength. It was not only their battle lust that drove them across the snowy meadow with such speed. It was also a deep dwarven emotion. An instinctual need to protect all those that lived in a dwarven home, whether the home be finished, or not. Whether those brethren that were in danger be of dwarven blood, or not.
The Lesser Shrou Demon saw the dwarves running toward the home but knew, if he acted quickly, he could be gone with his loot before the short dwarven axes could touch him.
The charging dwarves were almost as surprised as the demon when one of Whit’s arrows struck the fallen champion. The demon had reached the doorway to the home when an iron arrowhead bit deeply into its left shoulder. The reflexive hate toward a possible foe stopped the demon at the door and turned him toward the dwarves. Perhaps he had time to kill a few more before he took the pleasures of torturing Sir Roland’s wife. After all, two among them were mere boys; he did so love the taste of the tender ears of children.
The fallen champion took his pose, black sword in hand. Battarc charged in, rage burning in his heart. The emotions from the nightmare the night before now sparked brightly in the sturdy dwarf’s soul. Battarc’s axe was slapped aside with ease and the follow up thrust took Battarc high in the chest.