Shard

by Wayne Mee

  ‘Shard’

  Cursed Blade

  of the Kirkwean

  a fantasy by

  W.Wm.Mee

  Dedicated to my newly born

  grand-daughter,

  Zoe Choi Mee

  (Zoean Ithilian

  of Oma-Var)

  Copyright 2011 W.Wm.Mee

  Smashwords Edition

  Chapter 1: 'THE GLITCH SLATH'

  A white, wet blanket of mist hung over the river. The current, sluggish in mid-stream, tugged against the dragon ship as it moved up the watery road. Through the swirling whiteness only the dim shapes of tall, ancient pines could be seen, and then only by squinting.

  But it was not the distant pines that drew the man's gaze. Looking out from the carved bow of the Glitch Slath, the trees and river banks interested him not; rather, it was what they might conceal that caused him to cast about with his fierce, dark eyes.

  Ragnol Halfhand was hunting 'Wee'ns'; 'Wee'ns and their 'black gold'!

  Ragnol stroked his beard with his left hand. The missing three fingers no longer seemed strange to him. Such was the price of staying alive in a cruel world. The crack of a whip cut through the fog. Groans from the straining slaves made him smile. Their sweat and back-breaking labor at the oars only brought him that much closer to his goal. Behind him, like a pack of hungry dogs, two score of Slathland's elite killers waited to do his bidding.

  He was close now. Something deep in his mercenary heart cried out that it was so. As 'leader of the forward thrust', Ragnol intended to be the first one to reach it!

  The faint glimmer in the east hinted that dawn was near. Overhead the pinpoints of cold, white light slowly gave way to the rising of the sun; just as those smaller, weaker realms to the east had given way before the dazzling brilliance that was Slathland. Like the burning orb itself, none could long withstand the power of All-Mighty Slath.

  And now he, Ragnol reg Das, wanderer, mercenary and hated foreigner, was leading a Glitch Slath of his own. Soon he would grasp the legendary 'Wee'ns black gold' with his own hands! The fact that the captain of the ship, a bloodthirsty bastard named Nex, hated him, bothered him not a bit. After all, the King of Slathland, the High Gnash Alexus V, had named him leader of the expedition. Ragnol didn't give a damn if Nex liked him or not --- as long as the fool followed orders.

  ***

  For the tall, lean man chained to the oar of the Glitch Slath, the coming of a new dawn meant only the beginning of yet another day of misery. Awakened by the sting of the whip, Erin ap Conn and the other slaves greedily broke their fast on moldy bread and rancid cheese, all of which was served up with generous helpings of kicks and curses. The anchors were soon hoisted and the long, sleek ship prepared to push even further up-river.

  For Erin, life had been reduced to an endless round of straining, sweating and pain --- only to be startled awake to start the straining and sweating all over again.

  But today would be different. Erin could sense it all about him; in the way the bastard foreigner with the crippled hand watched the river; how the Slathers jumped to obey the pox-ridden captain's barked commands. Even the other slaves could feel something was amiss --- and though Erin didn't know what it was, when it came he would be quiffing well ready!

  ***

  Around a bend, some distance up the river, a little boat floated on the still waters near the bank. It was occupied by three small creatures, about half the size of an average man. They were Kirkwean, or 'Wee'ns' in the Common Tongue. Two sat holding paddles, while the third stood in the prow, a fish spear poised in his tiny hand.

  "Erg strike you, Timin!", the one in the front called. "Hold the skiff still!"

  Timin, kneeling in the stern of the little craft, fumbled the large wheel of cheese back into his pack and slung it over his shoulder. Grabbing his paddle, Timin thrust it into the swirling river, trying his best to hold the small boat steady.

  Sighing, Timin attempted to swallow the piece of cheese he had shoved into his mouth. He would do what his cousin Thorn had told him to --- he always had, ever since they were just tads. He would do it simply because Thorn was Thorn. No other reason was needed.

  The second paddler, Norgi, was another matter. Norgi resented Thorn's commanding ways. Oh, he seldom came right out and said it, but Timin could see it in his eyes. 'No-Smile Norgi' the rest of The Root called him, and as Timin watched the uncommonly thin Kirkwean in the middle of their little boat, he couldn't help but agree. Norgi could be a real sourpuss.

  Then Thorn hissed at him again and all thoughts of 'No- Smile Norgi' vanished as Timin bent to his work. It didn't pay to make his cousin angry, and Thorn had already missed a large river trout once this morning because they had not held the boat still. Timin was determined that it wouldn't happen again.

  ***

  The tall, dark haired slave know as Erin ap Conn glanced quickly around. Something was indeed wrong --- and this pleased him greatly. Checking to see that none of the Slathers were looking, Erin once again began to work on the iron ring that held his chain fastened to the keel of the ship. Three weeks of working on it had twisted the ring almost free --- yet 'almost' was not good enough. The muscles of Erin's thick arms and broad shoulders bunched as he strained with the ring. In his mind he spoke to the rusted metal, the rich burr of his Loamin accent rolling off his inner ear.

  'Be not timid, lass. Open yer tender arms for me now. Ah, there's my darlin' girl!'

  Nothing --- then, with a sudden 'snap', the ring came free. A smile, not unlike that of a cat lapping cream, spread over Erin's lean, chiseled features. Then it was gone, replaced by a look of grim determination. Today would be the day. He could smell it in the wind the way a hound could smell a hare!

  Then a Slather with a bushy beard and foul breath bellowed down to them to 'rash!' Though he knew little of their course tongue, 'rash' was a word Erin understood well. Quickly he pushed the pin of his chain back into the keel and grasped the long oar.

  'Aye!', Erin thought to himself; 'I'll 'rash' for ye, but not for long, you great gutted by-blow!'

  The long Glitch Slath began to move further up-river.

  ***

  "Steady now. Steady ---" Thorn, poised on the bow of the little Kirkwean boat, held his spear ready. His over-large blue eyes followed the river trout swimming lazily in the slack current. Just as he was about to cast his spear, Timin gave a startled yelp from the stern. Torn jerked around, causing the fish to dart away into the depths.

  "Erg shatter you on His anvil, Timin!", Thorn cursed. "What ails you now?!"

  For an answer the wide-eyed little Kirkwean pointed a pudgy finger towards mid-stream. Thorn just had time to see Norgi's thin jaw go slack before he himself looked out over the river. What he saw caused him to nearly tumble backwards into the water --- for there, emerging from the river mist not two bowshots away, was a long, fog-shrouded dragon!

  The three Kirkwean looked on in stunned silence. The sight before them conjured up all sorts of tales and fireside stories, none of which had any place in the bright light of day.

  Yet there it was; a mythical beast out of the distant past. And it was coming their way!

  It was Thorn that broke the spell. "A Glitch Slath!", he whispered; then, turning to the others, continued in a somewhat firmer tone. "It's a Slather slave ship! One of their 'Great Worms or Dragon Boats' --- and they're on our river!"

  This last was said with such anger that both Timin and Norgi dragged their gaze away from the misty apparition and looked at the slender young Kirkwean, seeing for the first time the true metal that lay beneath Thorn's flippant nature.

  Over the years Timin had often glimpsed in his cousin a wild, smoldering fierceness, but not until the terrible Glitch Slath came had Timin imagined its depth. But Timin had little time to pond
er such things now, for the hated 'Dragon Ship' was moving ever closer, and Thorn was once again giving orders.

  "Back into the shadows --- quickly! We'll watch to see this 'Great Worm' go by!" Thorn's voice then took on a low, almost whimsical tone. "Aye, and maybe we'll put a shaft or two into its flank to speed it on its way."

  Norgi's wide eyes opened even wider at this, but Timin was already backpaddling for the trailing branches of the willows that grew along the bank.

  'Ah, Thorn-lad', Timin mused inwardly as the deep, cool shadows covered them; 'You've found the 'biggest fish of all' this time --- I just pray to Erg that you don't get us all three killed in trying to land it!'

  ***

  A howl of pain from below deck made Ragnol Halfhand turn away from gazing at the mist shrouded bank. 'Quiff! What now?!', he thought to himself as he moved back towards the main mast. 'Another whining slave causing trouble again?'

  Ragnol's mind's eye suddenly brought him a mental picture of the tall, dark slave they had captured soon after starting up river. 'That bastard cut up two of my best men before we finally dragged him down!', Ragnol recalled. 'Just lucky for him that neither one of them had died --- or the dark haired bugger would have paid with his life! Slath's Law is very clear on that point: 'For every son of Slath that is slain, ten 'others' die.'

  Ragnol’s harsh features twisted into something akin to a smile as he thought upon the Slathland Motto: Show no mercy, give no quarter!' 'A good quiffing rule to live by', he mused; 'And die by!'

  Yet Ragnol reg Das, bastard son of a bastard son, had no intention of dying. He had come too bloody far to let it all slide through his hands now. Years of sweat, blood and living by his wits had brought him to where he was, in charge of the First Advance into this unknown land, chosen by the High Gnash Himself to seek out the legendary 'Wee'ns' and their much sought after 'black gold'!

  Not that Ragnol actually believed the stories about the Wee'ns --- tales of them being 'half a man's height' and capable of 'striking an enemy down by just pointing a finger', or any of the other bullshit about them being somehow 'magical', able to 'change shape' and 'vanish into the quiffing air'!

  But the 'black gold' he did believe in. With his own hand he had held a weapon made from it. A strange, eerie thing it was; oddly beautiful, yet at the same time repulsive. Ragnol had bought it from an old drunkard in the Slath Council of Reagents, the aged body of degenerate 'elders' that served to enforce Slath's Law in the distant realms of the empire. It had cost him much, but it was a price he had gladly paid, for in all his years as a wandering mercenary, no keener edge nor stronger blade had he ever seen! An iron blade could neither break nor dull it!

  Yet Ragnol had not keep it for himself. Instead, he had made the strange little weapon a present to his new master, Alexus V, the High Gnash of Slathland. Quick to see the military advantages such weapons, the High Gnash had commissioned Ragnol to lead an expedition in search of the legendary 'Land of the Wee'ns'. Ragnol's orders were to present, as soon as possible before the Royal Person, several suitable examples of these mythical creatures --- and, above all else, to bring back to Glorious Slathland large quantities of the strange black ore.

  Ragnol intended to do just that, to take back boatloads of the black gold, all to be lain at the royal (and hopefully generous) feet of the High Gnash Himself. Then let his quiffing enemies snicker at the 'foreigner with but half a hand'!

  But first there was this obstinate slave to be dealt with; the tall one with the defiant eyes. Ragnol's mouth attempted a smile, yet it only made him look the more cruel. Slowly he unfastened the heavy whip he carried at his side. 'If that goat-quiffing fool Nex can't control the slaves', Ragnol reasoned; 'then I will!'

  ***

  Nex, captain of the Slath ship, cursed as he pushed Erin from behind. A burly crewmember clung to each of the slave’s arms, while a third held Erin by his chain --- the same Slath-cursed chain that the slave had somehow pulled out of the keel! It was only luck that it had been discovered before the bastard made good his escape! The fact that a fourth Slath guard had just had his nose broken by this black haired sonovabitch was further testament as to just how dangerous a bloody quiffer he was!

  Nex, always prudent, drew his sword and slammed the flat of his blade across the slave's shoulders. Expecting to see the tall man go down, Nex was disappointed. The slave staggered, turned and swung his shackled wrists into the mouth of one of his captors. The man fell to the deck, his hand going to his ruined mouth.

  Then came the crack of a whip. A scarlet line opened up on the slave's left cheek. White bone showed briefly Ragnol reg Das, Commander of the Advance Thrust, had just made his presence known.

  For several heartbeats the two men glared at each other; the slave with fierce hatred in his wolf-grey eyes, the dark foreigner with mocking cruelty. Then Ragnol spoke. "I am accustomed to having slaves kneel before me. Do so, filth." Ragnol used the Common Tongue, his voice as sRooth as ice.

  For an answer the Erin spit at Ragnol's feet. Rough hands made to force him to the deck, but a barked order caused them to cease. Erin felt the thick handle of the whip pressed against his windpipe. Ragnol's face was less than a handspan away.

  "You will do as you are bid, filth, or I'll strip the skin off your back!"

  "Brave words --- with a score o'nbum-boys at your back n' me in quiffin' chains!" Erin's lilting accent added extra sting to the insult. He followed it up with yet another. "Or have you the balls to be facin' me man to man?!"

  Like one great beast, the crew sucked in their breath. Even those who didn't understand the Common Tongue, knew that Ragnol had just been insulted. No one spoke to the foreigner 'Halfhand' like that --- not and lived to tell about it. Even Nex, a veteran of many a bloody campaign, had often had to swallow his words. And yet this tall slave with the odd speech had dared to both spit at and challenge Halfhand all in the same breath!

  "The fool must be fey!", a crewmember muttered.

  "Either that," growled another, "or the pox has rotted his quiffing brain!"

  One Slather offered a silver armring against a copper one that Ragnol would kill the slave outright. No-one took the bet. All eyes now turned towards the hated foreigner.

  Ragnol's face had flushed red. His cold eyes blazed. A vein in his forehead began to throb. Then his features changed and a strange sort of calm settled over him.

  "Glark na," he said in Slath, the harsh words rolling off his tongue like honey.

  When Nex and the two crewmen were slow to move, he repeated the order, adding to it this time both in length and volume. "Glark na arn stuten! Free him you idiots! And then stand clear! I'll flay alive any disease ridden son of a whore that interferes!"

  The shackles were quickly struck from Erin's legs. He stood there all but naked, his feet freed but his hands still bound by a long length of heavy chain. Facing him was a powerful man in mail; a long whip in his hand and blood lust in his eye.

  Nex spoke to Ragnol. Erin could not make out what was said, for they spoke in Slath, but it was clear that the second-in-command was arguing the prudence of leaving the slave's hands bound.

  'Ah, Nex me lad', Erin said to himself; 't'is a wondrous cautious man you be --- but if the Fates be kind, I'll be takin' a wee piece of you down with me as well!'

  Ragnol at last saw the wisdom of Nex's words, for Erin's hands were left as they were. The crew moved to give them space, for none wanted to be over close to the long leather snake that Ragnol held ready in his good hand.

  ***

  "Timin! Norgi! Look there! Do you see?!" Thorn's voice had risen to a whispered shout. The three Kirkwean were still in their little skiff, deep in the shadows of the overhanging willows. Thorn stood in the bow while the other two sat huddled on the floor.

  "Aye", Timin replied, feeling his stomach rumble, though for once in his life not for want of food. "I see it. Looks like one of their own getting a lesson in manners!"

  Norgi, his pale face now even paler, tugged at Thorn
's woolen sleeve. "We've got to warn The Root! Slathers on the river! The Warders must be told!"

  Thorn looked down at the thin Kirkwean kneeling in the skiff. Norgi had never really been a 'close' friend, not like good old Timin; but Thorn had come to like him none the less. Most of the young Kirkwean made sport of him, calling him No-Laugh Norgi and playing pranks on him. Most of it Norgi brought on himself, for he was the sourest creature under Erg's blue sky that Thorn had ever met! And Kirkwean loved nothing better than a good laugh --- except perhaps a good story! But sitting there with his frightened, dog-like expression on his pale, narrow face, Thorn felt a pity stab at his heart.

  "In a moment or two, Norgi. We'll warn The Root and alert the Warders, but first we watch. Then we'll have something to tell other than we ran home with our tails between our legs!"

  Norgi seemed about to say something, then just sighed and slumped back down in the skiff. He knew from experience that once Thorn had made up his mind about something, nothing would change it. Norgi sighed again, resigning himself to waiting for 'the end', which he firmly believed would come any moment.

  Across the clear, blue water there came the stinging 'crack' of a whip.

  ***

  Chapter 2: THE BID FOR FREEDOM

  The pain knifed through Erin like a red-hot poker. His chest and shoulders awash with blood, he'd lost count of the times Ragnol's whip had found him. Six, maybe seven. It felt more like two dozen!

  The crew had gathered to see the 'smart-ass' slave get his stones cut off --- and it looked as though they would see just that, for the poor bugger was taking it right, left and center.

  The long, leather tail of pain flicked out yet again, wrapping itself in a crimson line around the slave's left forearm. Then something odd happened. The crowd gasped as the blood covered bastard grabbed hold of the whip’s end --- and pulled!