Rise of the Retics

by T J Lantz

  Rosehaven

  Rise of the Retics

  T.J. Lantz

  Copyright © 2012 T.J. Lantz

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1477683461

  ISBN-13: 978-1477683460

  Contents

  1. A Child’s Nightmare

  2. Mischief and Mayhem

  3. All Bark and Some Bite

  4. From Hell to a Cell

  5. Breakfast in Bed

  6. Father Knows Best

  7. Just Like Fish in a Barrel

  8. And the Crowd Goes Wild

  9. The Wild Rover

  10. Regret

  11. You Can Lead a Horse to Water but You Can’t Make Him Fly

  12. A New Home

  13. A New Direction

  14. Gnomes and Other Things That Go Boom In the Night

  15. No Running In the Halls

  16. Cliffhanger

  17. May the Rivers Run Red

  18. Quiet as a Mouse

  19. Midnight Rendezvous

  20. Courage Within

  21. A Hairy Confession

  22. Shifting Perspectives

  23. Friends in all the Wrong Places

  24. Doctor’s Orders

  25. A Tail Gone Wrong

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  A Child’s Nightmare

  Tyranna

  Lipkos, Poland

  October 25, 1503

  A scream of agony pierced through the cold, quiet night, jarring Tyranna from her work. Without hesitation, the young girl jumped up from her chair and reached for the handle of the door intending to see what the commotion was all about. Just before her fingers could grasp the wooden hand-bar, the doors flew open toward her. She lurched backward as quickly as she could, reflexes taking over for thought as she avoided the swinging form of the heavy, oak door. Tyranna stumbled, unable to catch her balance, and landed rump first on the stone floor, her thick wolf-skin cloak barely cushioning the fall.

  Looking up, she saw three strange men standing over her in the doorway. She knew that the intruders were definitely not from the monastery, as no one there would ever enter a lady’s room without knocking. While she might not have qualified as a lady in most places, she was as close as they had here.

  Two of the men were dressed in simple soldier’s attire—plain mail hauberk and coif. The shiny metal, wet from the drizzle outside, glistened in the moonlight of the small room. Each man wore a white linen tabard over his armor, sleeveless and unadorned except for the front. There the fabric was blazoned with the image of a blood red heart engulfed in flame and pierced through the top with crossing sword blades. It was a beautiful symbol, and one that Tyranna would have loved to learn more about had her attention not been stolen by the objects the two men carried with them.

  In one hand each brandished a large steel sword—one which dripped a deep crimson liquid that she could only assume was blood.

  Despite the intimidating armament of the two soldiers, Tyranna’s gaze fixated upon the third man, standing directly behind them.

  The man wore no mail, instead opting for a white leather jerkin over a crimson doublet. Golden studs covered the ridges of the garment, as if the man wished to scream to the world that he was rich and powerful but instead chose his dress to accomplish that task for him. On top of his head he wore a silver helm with inlays and a plume of gold.

  At his side was perhaps the most lavish of the man’s accessories— an ornate gold-handled rapier. It had a blade so sharp that just looking at it made Tyranna feel like she was being sliced open from head to toe. He too wore the flame-heart, though far less ostensibly than his counterparts. It sat exactly where his own heart did—a small patch sewn onto his left breast.

  “Get up, girl!” demanded the well-dressed man, as the two soldiers parted to let him enter further into the room. “You are coming with us.” He spoke the common tongue, but with a strange, deep accent that she had never heard before.

  As the man with the accent took a few steps closer to Tyranna, the light from the fire illuminated his features allowing her to get a clearer view of his face. It was thin and gaunt with a long pointed nose poking out of the center like an arrow that had just hit its target. Even though most of his head was covered with his helm, she could see that deep black hair peeked out from under the silver brim. Above his thin lips curled a long oily moustache, which matched the ebony color of his hair. Tyranna looked up into his dark brown eyes as he stared down at her tiny body, frozen on the ground in fear. He motioned to his men without uttering another word, and walked out of the room.

  “Who are you?” Tyranna finally managed to murmur, completely unaware as to why three armed strangers would come into her room in the middle of the night. “Brother Tychus isn’t going to like you coming in here while I’m trying to work.” The soldier carrying the bloody sword, much taller than his counterpart, let out a muffled laugh at her comment.

  After returning his sword to its scabbard, the shorter of the soldiers bent down and placed his gauntleted hand upon Tyranna’s arm and yanked her back to her feet. She winced as the feel of the cold, heavy metal seeped right though her cloak and woolen night clothes. It sent a vicious shiver down her spine.

  “Where are you taking me?” Tyranna asked nervously as they followed the lead of the other two men back toward the guest house stairs. None of the three acknowledged her question. She tried to squirm and struggle, but she was no match for the soldier’s powerful grip.

  She took a deep breath. Maybe this is all a mistake.

  As they turned the first corner that lead to the circular stairs that would take them to ground level, Tyranna gasped.

  “Brother Tychus!” she screamed. She peered down at the limp pile of flesh draped across the stairs. The plump, bald man had been stabbed through the center of his chest, and his brown robes were now stained a deep red from the blood spurting profusely from his body. A few feet to his side lay one of his arms, cut straight though, as if he had tried to use the appendage like a shield to deflect the incoming sword stroke. The remaining stump squirted blood across the floor, steam rising where the hot liquid met the cold granite. Tyranna cringed when they forced her to walk barefoot through the warm, sticky puddle of liquid that used to belong to her teacher—his open eyes staring up at her as she passed through.

  Tears began to run down her face as she reached the main courtyard of the monastery. She was greeted with the sight of another body in every direction she looked. Finally, with nowhere else to place her eyes, she looked up at the bright, full moon hovering in the skies above. Cold rain splashed down on her face, washing the salty tears onto her lips. She could taste her own fear as the soldier dragged her out through the monastery gates, scraping her bare feet against the rocky ground.

  Though a jumble of questions, her mind only managed to allow her to repeat one thought over and over again – Why me?

  Chapter 2

  Mischief and mayhem

  Jaxon

  Rosehaven

  October 16, 1503

  “Hey, Wayde, do you see what I see?”

  “I believe I do, Bull,” answered Wayde “I thought those things weren’t allowed at the market unleashed?”

  “As did I,” Bull responded. “What is this city coming to when half-bloods can just walk around unchained and free? It’s like a zoo out here.”

  Jaxon Miniheart clenched his fists.

  “Tough words, Bull—especially with Wayde and Fhart standing behind you.” Jaxon glared at the three of them. Fhart, a small green-skinned goblin placed his right hand inside his vest, revealing a black knife handle.

  Seeing the weapon, Rigby bared her teeth, lowered her front paws, and let out a low growl.

  �
�You think I need these two, mongrel?” Bull snapped. “I should rip that tail of yours off and choke you with it just to show you how to treat a pureblood retic.”

  “Go ahead and try it, Bull,” Jaxon responded with a smile. “She’ll tear your oysters off before you can even touch me.” He pointed to the dog, her hair raised along her back, as he stared up at the minotaur. Bull was at least a foot taller than he was and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds. While Jaxon tried to act calm and collected, his heart was pounding with nervousness.

  “What’s going on here, boys?” The deep voice of Deputy Copperbuckle snapped them all to attention. Each boy tried his hardest to look innocent, though all of them failed. The large centaur limped gingerly down the road toward them, careful not to put much pressure on his right front leg.

  “Oh nothing, Deputy,” replied Bull. “We’re just giving Jaxon directions on how to go back where he came from. Apparently he didn’t realize he didn’t belong here.”

  Bull’s two companions tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter.

  “That’s enough. All of you get out of here. We don’t need any of ya’ hanging around causing trouble, especially you Miniheart. I’m not in the mood for your antics today.”

  Bull, followed by his two cronies, nodded in agreement and slowly walked past Jaxon as they left, making sure to roughly nudge his shoulder as they passed him.

  As Bull went by, he leaned in and whispered into Jaxon’s ear. “You’re lucky Deputy Lame-Leg was here to save you. Next time, you might not be so fortunate.”

  Jaxon took a deep breath, nodded a goodbye to the Deputy, and continued his walk into the market. There was no one in town he hated running into more than Bull and his friends, and it had put a large damper on his mood. As he walked, his thoughts of revenge and vengeance were interrupted by a loud gurgle from his stomach.

  He had skipped breakfast this morning and was starting to greatly regret that decision. It wasn’t that there hadn’t been food in the house, quite to the contrary actually. His foster mother, Saan, always made sure the pantry was well stocked with his favorite items, and she had a standing order with one of the town bakers each week for a plethora of fresh baked delights. No, food options were definitely not the issue.

  The real problem was that he couldn’t stand to be around his house for any longer than he had to. Everything about the place irritated him.

  First, there was the horrible odor of the building, like what it would smell like if a barnyard and an outhouse got together and had a disgusting little baby. He had tried holding his breath for the first few weeks he was living there, but he got sick of losing consciousness every few minutes.

  The smell wasn’t everything though. He might have been able to figure out a way to make do with the place if that was the only problem. No, he also had to deal with the sounds. Mostly it was the unnecessarily happy voices of his foster parents as they aggressively tried to talk to him about his day. His foster mother especially was always asking him stupid questions like, “How are you?”, and “Would you like a snack?” Jaxon breathed in deeply, getting annoyed just thinking about their incessant interrogation.

  But even that part wasn’t the biggest annoyance about living there, not by a longshot. No, the absolute worst had to be the flowers. They were everywhere! Saan had them outside in the garden, inside in ceramic pots—she even tried to put a few in his bedroom. He hated them more than anything else. They were always so perky and colorful, constantly taunting him with their patronizing blooming. Jaxon wished he could just go around and slowly pick the flower petals off each one, chew them up really well, and spit them right back out. They all deserved it. Actually, they probably deserved much, much more, but Jaxon didn’t want to take things too far.

  Needless to say, pretty much everything about living with the Hoofstomps made him sick to his stomach. He’d been with them for three years now, about two years and 364 days or so longer than any of the other fourteen foster families he had lived with over the years. For all the bad things people say about satyrs, and there certainly were a lot bad things said about them, Jaxon had to give them some credit. They were, without a doubt, a magnificently stubborn people.

  Jaxon stopped for a moment to take in the sights and sounds of Market Row, Rosehaven’s busiest trade area and Jaxon’s favorite place to spend his time. Here, he was free to enjoy his life without anyone telling him what to do, which was all he really wanted. Ever since he was an infant Jaxon was always surrounded by idiot foster families trying to teach him right from wrong and good from bad. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t just accept that he understood the difference, and that some days wrong just seemed like the better choice. It was, after all, far more entertaining.

  Off to his left side Jaxon could hear the highlights of excited conversation—one deep male voice countered by an equally squeaky female one, haggling over the price of a loaf of fresh baked bread. The man seemed to be trying to overcharge her, but the woman was far too savvy to accept it. Jaxon grinned as her shrill little voice informed the merchant where she would be shoving the freshly baked delight if he didn’t stop trying to take advantage of her good nature. He would have to remember that haggling technique for later.

  At about the same time, Jaxon’s right ear collected the sounds of a fruit vendor shouting above the raucous crowd about the freshness of her wares. Her voice was also shrill, just like the bread buyer on his left, but with some very noticeable differences. The first woman sounded a bit like a small field mouse, high pitched and squeaky, but not too offensive to the ears. The fruit vendor, conversely, sounded more like a street cat that ate the squeaky mouse, found out someone had sprinkled poison on its fur, got horribly sick, and was now screaming out in pain between stomach convulsions as it lay vomiting in an alley.

  Luckily for his ear drums, Elmira Applebottom, the fruit vendor, had stopped screaming about how “fresh” everything was and was now deeply engaged in less boisterous conversation with an old dwarf. At first glance he did not seem to be returning the favor. He was far too busy inspecting a green pear like it was a precious emerald as Elmira rambled on about how “no trees had been harmed in the collection of this fruit.” Jaxon tried to figure out what he was thinking, as he wore a deep scowl on his wrinkled, white-bearded face. That, in itself, however, gave little clue to his actual feelings, as a smile was as rare to a dwarf as a bath was to a cyclops[1].

  Elmira was a nice enough creature, from the little of what Jaxon knew of her. Almost every day she was selected by the rest of the dryad community to take the orchard harvest into town and sell it. Dryads were creatures of nature, deeply attuned to the plant world, with a penchant for cultivation that was unrivaled by any other species on the planet.

  They were a beautiful race for the most part—although Elmira Applebottom was a definite exception. While the rest of her people embodied the beauty of the forest, Elmira appeared more like nature’s biggest mistake. She was an extremely plump young woman, with blotchy skin and stringy auburn hair so disheveled and dry that recently a small robin had taken up residence in it. Many of the townsfolk found it cute. Jaxon hated cute.

  There was only one notable exception to Jaxon’s ire toward the adorable—his faithful canine companion, Rigby. He had found her when she was a puppy—beaten, starved, and left to die in the back alley behind the Scarlett Day Inn[2]. He had spent weeks nursing her back to health in a barn behind his house before she was strong enough to even walk, caring to her wounds and feeding her goat milk from a bottle. After a few long months, she had made a full recovery and they had been inseparable ever since.

  As Jaxon approached the fruit stand, Elmira continued to go on and on about the pear, her searing voice breaking through the air like a rock through a window. Despite Elmira’s best sales pitch, it did not seem that her dwarven customer was paying her even the slightest bit of attention. Instead, he had taken out a fine glass hand lens and was examining the pear for bruising. Dwarves were w
ell known for being a bit cautious about anything that involved spending their own money. Regardless, Jaxon couldn’t figure out how he was able to completely ignore the horrific sounds coming out of Elmira’s mouth, yet the diligent customer continued to give his full and complete attention to the fruit in his hand.

  “I think I understand why the other dryads send her off to the markets each day, Rig,” Jaxon said to the young dog as she trotted next to him, “they must just need a break from her voice.” As usual, Jaxon’s joke made him laugh. Of all the things in the world that Jaxon hated, his own sense of humor was definitely not one of them. Rigby cocked her head and gave him a questioning glance, as he slowed to catch his breath from laughter.

  Suddenly, Jaxon was snapped away from enjoying his humorous comment by another intense gurgle from his abdomen. He decided that now would be a fabulous time to strike. As he passed by the fruit stand he checked one last time to make sure Elmira was still completely engaged in her rant to the dwarf, who now had the pear on a tiny scale while he measured its dimensions with a tailor’s tape. Convinced that she was sufficiently distracted, Jaxon let out two quick, high-pitched whistles in succession.

  Understanding her master’s command, Rigby’s ears perked straight up. The young dog threw her head back and let out a huge roof that grabbed the attention of everyone in the immediate area. It even caused the dwarf to take his eyes off his possible pear purchase to check out the commotion. It was lucky he did so, as Rigby’s pouncing form heading directly toward his chest was far more interesting than any fruit[3].

  He tried desperately to put his hands up to defend himself, but Rigby’s speed was unmatched by any elderly shopper. While that wasn’t a bit of information that anyone was going to brag about, it was a fact nonetheless.

  She hit him square between the shoulders, her thick skull[4] violently colliding with the bottom of the dwarf’s bearded jaw, and sending him sprawling backward into a basket full of bright green prickly pears.