Erosan’s Tears
Jason Scott Gleason
Please Note:
Erosan’s Tears is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, places, ideas, or objects, whether they be living, dead, real, or imagined, are completely coincidental. Anyone who thinks that one of the characters in this book is a thinly veiled metaphor for a real person should seek the advice of a professional.
This book is sole property of the author, Jason Scott Gleason. Nothing contained within may be reproduced, either whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author. Express written permission can usually be granted by an email explaining what one would want to reproduce and why. And offerings of beer wouldn’t hurt.
A cast of characters, a glossary of terms, and a number of maps can be found at the end of the book. As well as the sort of self-aggrandizing “About the Author” blurb that you’d usually find on the back jacket of a book in print.
Enjoy.
For my Grandmother, Aba.
When I was sixteen, you told me I should become a writer when I grew up.
I think you told me I was a dumb-ass if I didn’t.
I remember distinctly that you threatened me with bodily harm.
I’ve never forgotten your words of encouragement,
And I’m only sorry it’s taken so long.
And for MaryJane.
Please never stop pushing me to write a page a day.
Acknowledgements:
I would like to thank Gary Anderson, who spent countless hours working on the cover art and the maps with me. Without your help, the maps would have been half-formed, hand drawn sketches, and the cover art would have looked like it was drawn by a five year old with a fat yellow crayon. And a couple of broken thumbs.
I would also like to thank my brother Luke and my dear friend Joan for your help in providing feedback on the first draft of this book. Both of you provided valuable advice and helped me trim this up into something coherent.
Furthermore, I would like to thank Gene Spears, author of Inferno’s Window, for all your help in peer-reviewing and editing the almost-final draft of Erosan’s Tears. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your feedback, and thank you for giving me a good sense of what worked—and more importantly, what didn’t work.
Also, thanks to everyone at the Online Writers Workshop who took the time to review any of my posts. This is a great resource we have out here, and it helped me improve both the final draft and the process by which I wrote it.
Thanks is also due to the dozens of people who helped me develop and refine the Realm of Elria over the years. Without the creative feedback of the storytellers, writers, gamers, and other ne’er-do-wells who helped me hone my imagination, this world would be devoid of the detail and the life I’ve tried to breathe into it.
Finally, I’d like to thank my mom. You’ve always been my biggest fan.
Chapter One
Raelyn stood on the cobblestones and squinted across the courtyard at his adversary, his steel smallsword hanging loose in his hand. The summer sun was hot overhead, and his tongue felt swollen and dry in his mouth. Thick blood pounded in his ears, the familiar throb of his headache intensified by the dazzling light. He cursed his lord for scheduling the training late enough in the day for the heat to have risen on the hill, but not so late for his hangover to have passed.
A pitcher of water sat on a table on the other side of the courtyard, inviting him from a distance, even as a steady trickle of sweat made its way down his cheek from his brow. He knew it was placed there on purpose, to taunt him. All I have to do is slay the boy and I can walk right over and help myself, he thought, not without a touch of irony.
He still felt unsteady from the night before as he looked at the youth before him. At eighteen years of age, Trevan was already as tall as his father, standing a full six feet. His eyes were dark gray, also like his father’s, and hawkish in their gaze. Their color and set were unusual, and spoke of a bloodline running back to the old kings of the Empire of Lashkon, if the legends were to be believed. He wore his dark brown hair cropped short, as was the tradition of the priests rather than the fashion of the nobility, but it had begun to get a bit unruly over the past few years. Although he still had the lanky, unfilled body of youth, his movements were graceful and certain. Raelyn knew he was well practiced in communicating the aura of authority that his father had taught him, the air that characterized all of the men of the Altorin family.
Trevan’s clothing was finely made, but suited for dueling; linen shirt, padded woolen vest, and soft leather breeches, all well worn but immaculately cared for. His black leather gloves matched his boots and belt, all stamped with his family crest—a crest that he planned to inherit one day. And at his side in a leather frog hung his sword, a well balanced steel smallsword favored by the Oervan for dueling. It was finely crafted, but blunt for practice.
Trevan had been ignoring him since he had entered the courtyard, even while he stood at attention. Raelyn was wryly amused at Trevan’s pride, knowing that the young nobleman’s lack of respect was directed towards him. That lack of concern for anything but status and station was one of his greatest flaws, and his arrogant assumption—that he was the superior man because of his noble birth—would be his undoing. The aging master of arms felt himself sway in the sun, as the young man before him took his time getting ready, checking his blade, his boots, his fencing gloves, all the while casting glances his way. Good. See me sway. Look at how unsteady I am. Pay attention to my squint, the sun in my eyes. Take it all in, boy.
“You were late this morning,” the young man admonished, as if speaking to a child. Raelyn felt his back tense, anger playing at the edge of his mind. He forced himself into his calm, willing the anger away. “You have no respect for my father, what he has done for you. You have no concern for yourself either, or you would not have spent last night drinking and whoring.” His words were haughty and imperious, spoken in the cadence used by the noblemen of Oervan society rather than the street Oervan he would have used if he were being friendly. The contempt in his voice was evident. Raelyn wanted nothing more than to shove his gloved fist down the boy’s throat; the image of that made him smile, and he checked himself too late.
“You find this funny, do you?” Trevan stopped buckling his sword belt and stared at the man. “You think it amusing to keep waiting the man who ensures that you can continue to afford to live in such an ungodly way? You poison yourself, regardless of the consequences to others, even at the expense of your own health and your own purse. My father puts too much regard in you.” Raelyn bristled at the accusation, but kept himself in check. “No matter,” he said. “I would have you fined or beaten for your impertinence, if you were my bondsman. My father’s affections for you baffle me.”
Raelyn stood in silence, still at attention. I’m not his bondsman, he thought, but you’ll never realize that. You don’t pay attention to what’s around you. All you see is what you want to see, and you dismiss everything else. I bet you wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss me smacking you up and down this yard, but you’d just go crying to your father. It was only his respect for the boy’s father that checked his hand, or kept him from just walking away. If it weren’t for Perinor I’d smack you senseless and make for the pub. He looked at the pitcher of water again. But not before killing this gods-awful thirst.
Trevan finished buckling his belt and adjusted his gloves, walking with a slight swagger towards Raelyn. In one quick motion he drew his sword, assuming a neutral fighting position. “To arms!” he exclaimed, his voice reverberating off of the stone walls of the outer courtyard. Raelyn shivered, in spite of the heat; he felt his stomach threatening to retch up what little bile it still contained
after the morning. He drew his sword slowly, squinting in the sunlight at the younger man, evaluating the stance that he himself had taught him. Trevan had learned it well. He continued to watch as he narrowed his eyes, shifted his stance. Raelyn’s posture was relaxed, apparently unfocused, the point of his blade low as he raised his left hand to block out the worst of the sun; his adversary was tense, catlike, ready to pounce. I would have you already, he thought to himself, even now, still broken from last night.
The youth came forward, lashing out with his blade, which the tip of Raelyn’s sword tapped harmlessly to the side. Two jabs and an advance, a lunge to his abdomen, all in rapid succession. Raelyn had not expected the lunge, saw the gap that it created in his opponent’s defense, and almost mistimed the parry and counter. But the young man had overreached, confident that he would penetrate Raelyn’s defense or cause him to retreat. Instead, Raelyn stepped in, blocking hard and grabbing across his opponent’s body at his wrist, bringing his forehead low toward the young man’s nose. He stopped himself, mere inches from contact, and then disengaged.
“You underestimate me, Trevan.” Surprise had flickered over Trevan’s face for only a second, quickly replaced by his customary look of disdain. “You still advance too boldly. I’d have landed a blow to your nose in that exchange. Never underestimate an opponent who seems drunk or sick.” He stepped back, assuming a fighting stance, feeling the blood pumping in his arms and legs. The sudden motion began to clear his head, his training banishing the fatigue. I’ve killed men in battle in worse condition than this, he thought with a smile. Age may have made it harder to feel fresh the morning after, but it hasn’t dulled my reflexes. The young man before him dropped into a fighting stance, his eyes more wary than before.
They engaged again, thrusting and slashing with the Oervan smallswords, their dull blades cutting swiftly through the air. Trevan could find no advantage in Raelyn’s defense, and Raelyn soon found himself slipping into the easy rhythm of the match. He fought conservatively, small cuts aimed at his opponent, easily parried. Trevan was fast and strong, much like his father, but he suffered from a quick temper that was easily exploited. His brow soon furrowed in frustration, and he began extending himself, switching from a defensive to an offensive stance. A quick stab was followed by a slash; he overreached again, and Raelyn slapped the blade high, dealing him a cut to the abdomen, his dull sword sliding across Trevan’s shirt.
“There. I would’ve disemboweled you. In armor you might have weathered that cut, but on the street, your life would have ended. A flick of the wrist would’ve changed the cut to a stab, and then even in mail you’d be in sore shape.” Raelyn stepped back. His tempo had returned, and Trevan had abandoned the look of contempt and slipped back into his role as a student. Good, Raelyn thought, appraising the younger man as he moved back into ready position. Put aside your self-righteousness and come learn something.
“Do you see what you did wrong?” Raelyn asked.
“Yes. I swung too high, extended my reach in the cut. You were able to slip under my swing and cut beneath, to my belly.”
Raelyn shook his head. “No, the height of your cut wasn’t bad; it was aimed at my neck, a good target. Your timing was off. You didn’t cut too high, you cut too far. A real smallsword is brutally sharp. If you’re aiming at someone’s throat, a light cut will kill. The artery is exposed; you don’t have to cut so hard. A hard slash, parried high, will throw you off balance. The light cut is faster and doesn’t open you up to a counter.” Raelyn saw the frustration return in Trevan’s eyes.
“You know I’m a better swordsman,” he said, hoping to alleviate some of his irritation. “When you’re fighting someone and you think you may be outmatched, you have to be defensive. Wait for me to make the mistake, then capitalize on it.”
“You aren’t making any,” Trevan snapped, his temper flaring up. Raelyn saw his grip on his sword tighten, the tendons in his forearm standing up angrily. “I keep on attacking, but you stick to that damn tight guard. You won’t counter for fear of exposing yourself, so you’re not giving me the opportunity to get inside. How am I supposed to learn how to counter if you don’t give me any openings?” Trevan threw his sword on the stones of the courtyard, striding across the flagstones to the pitcher on the table. His tantrum both amused and irritated Raelyn—Was I so brash as a youth? No, I had to earn what respect I found. Trevan drank deeply, his back still to Raelyn, who was immediately reminded of how thirsty he was. The thought of simply taking the water returned, followed quickly by the image of him standing over a beaten and bloody young lord.
The young man turned, placing the pitcher back on the table. Raelyn picked up the fallen sword and carried it over to him, a smile playing on the edges of his mouth. “You expect me to make this easy on you? Very well.” He handed the blade back to Trevan.
“You mock me.” Trevan dropped into the ready position, the tip of his blade hovering at chest level. Raelyn did the same.
This time Raelyn took the initiative, coming in with a series of cuts, timed slow enough for Trevan to parry and counter. “Good,” he said when Trevan scored a touch, stepping back to ready. They began again, Raelyn keeping the tempo high enough to get a response from Trevan, but leaving obvious holes in his guard. Trevan stabbed at his chest, his blade coming within a finger-length of his sternum, an obvious touch. “Good,” Raelyn said again, stepping back. He could sense Trevan’s frustration mounting.
Raelyn attacked a third time with a pattern he used against beginning students, one to which Trevan had long become accustomed. But this time, Trevan did not check his swing. His counter was a cut to the neck. He turned the blunt blade and caught Raelyn across the jaw with the flat, sending him reeling. The world pitched up as Raelyn’s hand dropped to steady himself, and he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He lunged forward, dodging the second cut that would have come down on his shoulder, crouching low and spinning away. His sword leapt up to parry a third cut, knocking the blade away and giving them each a moment to drop back and assume a ready position again. Fury was in the boy’s eyes as they stood there, a yard separating the tips of their swords. Raelyn felt his body run hot and he pushed down with his mind, forcing the icy cool of his will to spread through his limbs. A sense of weightlessness, timelessness entered, and the world focused to a single point.
This time Raelyn attacked in earnest, his blade moving in a tight circle around Trevan’s. The younger swordsman moved to parry, but Raelyn’s motion was too clean. The tip of his sword drove against the boy’s wrist. The point was dull, but the strike was strong and swift. It tore the stitching in his glove and gouged the skin beneath in a harsh furrow, drawing blood and making him release his blade. Raelyn moved in, one fluid motion as he cast his own sword aside, grabbing Trevan and driving his fist into his face. His hands grasped Trevan’s vest, tearing his tunic as he levered his hips low and threw the boy over his body, driving his shoulder into the ground. In an instant he was on top of his felled opponent, his arm around the boy’s throat. They struggled for a moment, just long enough for him to ensure that Trevan could not escape. He released—but very gradually, and only when the fight in the boy began to fade.
Raelyn stood up, crossing the courtyard to the pitcher of water on the table. He drank deeply, draining it, his back to Trevan. The water flushed out the taste of blood and foam from his mouth, dulled the throb in his jaw and head, rejuvenated his limbs. He stood tall, stretching his back, and turned. Trevan had risen, and was picking up his sword in his left hand, gingerly holding his right hand at his hip. A sullen, angry look was on his face, but it was a defeated look. He couldn’t bear to meet Raelyn’s gaze.
“Lesson’s done for today,” Raelyn said, trying to let go of his anger. Trevan still would not look up. For the sake of the gods, are you going to start sulking now? Raelyn wondered. He crossed the courtyard, walking back to Trevan, and reached out his hand. “Let me see your wrist.”
Trevan held out his arm,
and Raelyn peeled the ruined glove from his hand. The wound was purple and black, a gash from a dull blade with a deep contusion. Blood had welled up, but it was thick, slow blood, already tacky in the summer heat. “Take this to the Temple of Erosan. His women will give you herbs to soak in beer. You should be able to use it without pain in a few days.” He looked at Trevan, who had finally looked up. His eye was swelling as well, and he had a small cut on his cheek from where Raelyn had hit him. “Go to his temple and pray, and burn incense there; I could tell you what supplications to perform, but it’ll be better if you ask his women.”
Raelyn turned and walked back to the table, where he had left his things. He placed the practice sword in its case and buckled his dress sword back onto his belt. A souvenir of his first campaign, it was an Oervan longsword of fine steel, kept well oiled and razor sharp from daily care. It bore the mark of a Sergeant at its hilt, his rank when he had left the Regulars and entered Perinor’s mercenary company. He had killed his first man with a sword just like this one, in the cold winter of his first year on the Calishari Plains. This one had tasted the blood of uncounted others. It was his daily companion, his closest friend. He had named it Tempest, in the fashion of the Slovani. He drew the blade, looked at his reflection in the mirror shine as he had done so many times before. His hazel eyes looked back at him, distorted by the soft hammer marks from the blade’s forging.
All of those campaigns, all of that blood, so many dead brothers. Why was I spared? What do the gods have in store for me, that I remain when so many worthier sons lie dead on the field?
He glanced over at Trevan, who was looking at him with a mixture of anger and guilt. “You have to learn to keep that temper in check,” he said. “If we had been using live steel, you’d have been butchered.”
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