by Steve Barker
The Power Within
The Chronicles of Hollyglade Wayrender
Steve Barker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Steve Barker
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2017
ISBN: 978-1-7750284-0-6
Published by Steve Barker
Canmore, AB Canada
T1W 1R1
Meet the Author at
www.facebook.com/Stevebarkerauthor
stevebarkerauthor.blogspot.ca
Cover Illustration by Brayden Sato
Cover design by Taylor Sato
www.satodesigners.com
E-Book Edition also available
I : Flight
The ground was cold, and beginning to freeze with the approaching winter. As she ran, the rough terrain scraped the skin from the bare soles of her feet, mercilessly grinding her down. Yet Hollyglade would not let herself slow the pace of her flight. She had to keep moving as fast as possible. The goal was to put distance between herself and her pursuers. Desperately, she scanned the edge of the forest for somewhere to hide, and take some much needed shelter. She felt incredibly exposed, having been running at this pace, and in her state of nakedness for far too long.
The sound of hoofbeats, most likely the armed men in pursuit of their prey, could be heard ever closer. She pushed herself to quicken the pace. The onset of an unusually dark night gave her hope she might lose her pursuers, even though it was getting more difficult to navigate as she approached the untracked forest. She feared he effects of the cold as night continued to close in, and her fingers, her feet, and most of her body began to go numb despite the exertion of running. Though her feet had been toughened by many years without shoes as a young child, she had known the comfort of boots in recent years. Now she was suffering greatly under her relentless retreat across frozen ground.
The solidity of the winter-hardened earth was also both helpful and harmful. She would not leave tracks that would easily be followed. Only the most skilled trackers would be able to find the minor disturbances of the dust she left behind, but her feet were being cut with every stride. Now she was bleeding. Blood was easy to see. Easy to follow. She knew that she could not outrun men on horseback indefinitely, but a certain trepidation made her hesitate to leave that hard plain for the forests.
Hollyglade slowed, and decided that one place was going to have to be as good as any other. She had been running for what felt like an hour. Though she was a fit teenager, whose seven and a half foot tall frame made for long strides and therefore a very quick pace, she was naked, cold, and her feet were bleeding. She knew she could not keep this pace any longer.
Taking an abrupt left off the road, she moved into the thick undergrowth along its edge. The bushes scratched the skin from her feet all the way up to her collarbone. This was the time of night when many of the more foul and dangerous creatures roused from their daily slumber. Though she had no fear of bears, wolves or feral dogs, Hollyglade did not wish to meet any crocottas, shug monkeys, wyverns, adanncs, or any other magical creatures. Dealing with magical creatures required magic, and such power was not something Hollyglade was keen to use. Still, she hoped to avoid both classes of predator, as there was a much more immediate threat she needed to focus on.
Though the giantish half of her heritage lent her extremely good vision in the dark, this was a cloudy moonless night which left her feeling for a way through the dense undergrowth. Finding her way through the first few strides into the underbrush, she heard the approach of the men on horseback. Two at least, from what she could tell. Her elvish half lent her a sense of hearing to be envied. The cold air, the thunderous beating of her own heart, and the fight to control her own breathing made it difficult for Hollyglade to decipher exactly how many pursuers were nearing. They drew closer by the second, and she feared they would be upon her at any moment. Hollyglade looked about her immediate surroundings and found that just to her right there were several small bushes bunched tightly together which might conceal her. She made for the clump of foliage as quickly as she dared move, fighting not to make a sound. As she crouched, she tried to slow her breathing and relax her heart rate, hoping she would not be heard. She began to shiver, fighting to stop her teeth from chattering as the riders approached.
Hollyglade began to feel a panic creep in as the riders slowed their pace. She feared they had spotted her trail. Slow your breathing Holly. Relax and don’t let your teeth knock together. She struggled to calm herself. In all her days of living on the streets of Magnaville she had never been in such exposed peril. She had lost her weapons, and here there were no back alleys with back doors to escape through, no corners to disappear around.
She was naked and freezing, numb and slowed by the cold. She couldn’t hope to fight two armed and armored men on horseback. Is this really it? I’m to be raped and slain naked in the night on some gods-awful road in the middle of nowhere? Dammit Holly why did you have to take that bath? She began to fight with herself, within her own mind. She possessed a terrible power. Power she had been born to, but feared. You can’t, Holly, You can’t. How far will it spread? Who else would you harm? It had been many years since she had used that power. It had been in self-defense. It had been an instinctive reaction, wild and uncontrolled, and it had cost her everything.
As Hollyglade crouched in the thicket, the two riders came to a stop on the road. Turning their horses to either side, they began searching the area. “Eh! This looks good! As good as anything we seen so far,” the shorter one shouted to his companion as he dismounted. “Come ’ave a look closer and light that lantern of yours.”
The tall rider turned his horse back toward the side of the road where Hollyglade was squatting in the bushes, and trotted over to see what his partner had discovered.
“Looks promising. Let’s walk in a bit and see what we ’ave. I’m tired of all this chasin’ ghosts,” replied the tall rider, as he too dismounted.
“We’ll ’ave to walk the ’orses in, but it looks like we might not ’ave to far to go,” remarked the short one.
Hollyglade braced herself. She could feel power rising up within her, begging to be released. She fought it, battled within herself to control and contain it. Breathe Holly. There will be another way. You can find another way.
She felt the the intense pain of cold in the mangled soles of her bare feet, and now lamented pushing her pace to the point of causing the skin to break. As a result of running at a pace beyond what her bare feet could handle, she had left a trail of bloody foot prints which could easily be followed. She could not tell if her feet were still bleeding, because in the darkness she could not see them. Neither could she feel any blood through the numbness taking hold in her fingers. The two men were only a dozen yards from her now and she was sure that the light of their lantern would soon fall on the bushes where she hid. As she peered through the leaves still clinging to their branches in this first cold spell, it became clear that the men were following a narrow path. She could not yet tell how far off that path she might be.
Hollyglade tensed up, ready to spring out of the copse. Her hope was to use surprise to her advantage and somehow incapacitate these men. She had b
een forced to defend herself many times in Magnaville’s filthy Red Lanes, when the occasional soldier, drunk tradesman, or traveller thought they might try being with a tall girl. She had always been just quick enough to get away, but usually not unscathed. This was different. This was going to be worse.
Magnaville was warm. Like most towns on the coast, the poor children could run through the streets mostly naked. They would never have to feel the roughness of the frozen ground, never worrying about the cold making them slow and weak.
Here and now though, it was cold, and unlike Hollyglade, these men were clothed and in footwear.
Half a dozen yards now.
Hollyglade gritted her teeth, and clenched her fists. She stepped back slightly with one foot and prepared to launch out of the bushes once the moment presented itself. She had learned how to pick pockets from others who had grown up in Magnaville without parents. Every orphan in the Red Lanes knew that when picking a man’s pocket it is best to do so from behind. When picking the pocket of a man with a friend, it is best to take from the man who brings up the rear. Hollyglade was not looking to pick either man’s pocket, but she assumed the same principle applied when attacking two armed men in the woods at night while naked and weaponless. She waited as the two men approached, praying she had concealed herself well enough.
Three yards now.
Suddenly, the short one turned slightly to his right, followed by the taller one, and both moved into a small clearing. They stopped, walked around the edge of the clearing and nodded to each other. “This looks fine, fine indeed Hern,” the short one said.
“Aye. It’ll do. Well spotted, my dear Tom. Let’s tie the ’orses ’ere and get a fire goin. I’m starvin,” replied the tall rider. “I'm tired of ridin’ after someone or something that some farmer we posted at that crossroad thinks ’e saw. It's been near an hour, I reckon, and we ain't seen no sign of that girl that was at that cottage. She's disappeared, and we’ll probably find her naked and frozen to death someplace tomorrow.”
Hollyglade began to see stars whirl about her. She could feel the anxiety rushing through her body, sticking in her muscles. Could she have been so lucky? She nearly fell over, and had to put a hand on the ground to stop from plunging into the bushes. The tension in her muscles refused to release. These men were so close, yet to Hollyglade’s amazement, seemed not to have found her. What could she do? She could not move, and was in no state for stealth. Any movement would surely be heard. There was no choice but to wait.
“Hern. Pass me them fire irons will ya? It looks like someone’s camped ’ere before and left us a nice ring o’ stones. I’ll get this set up with a pot.” said the short one as he examined the fire pit. “Grab us a bit of wood, will ya?”
The tall rider nodded and handed the short one a set of two iron rods. “‘Ere,’” offered the tall rider “You get that set up, but I’m cookin’. I’ve ’ad enough of yer burnt porridge on this endless ’alf-breed ’unt already. If that Dancer fellow wants us to ’unt day in an’ day out, the least ’e could do is feed us a decent meal at an inn before ’e puts a knife to the innkeeper, for once”. He turned to set about securing the horses.
The Dancer, thought Hollyglade. In the gods names, how am I being hunted by him? She had heard him mentioned as a bounty hunter of sorts. The stories were not good. They invariably involved a trail of blood and death. Hollyglade knew that as a half giantish, half elvish girl, she was less welcome in Loria now than she had been only a few months ago. She had heard that King Harford was less tolerant of non-humans than his father had been. So far, he had only directed his soldiers to encourage those from the Elder races to move along when they encountered them on routine patrols or during other duties. She had not heard that they had started hunting the Elder Folk, and bounty hunters were not the kind of people a king hired. They have the army and garrisons for finding people. But why me? she wondered. Why hire him?
While on the streets of Magnaville, she had occasionally drawn the ire of an upper class citizen. Stealing bread or eating a meal at an inn and not paying for it, were among her survival driven indiscretions. She had never been violent unless defending herself, and had never left anyone any worse for wear than with a black-eye or a bruise.
She didn’t like violence. It was too intimate in the wrong way. She was capable of knocking most men down and taking their change purse if she caught them by surprise, but slight of hand and a bit of misdirection seemed far more palatable. She also preferred to be far away when rich men discovered they had one less coin purse than when they had left home.
“Ahoy old Hern! I’ve made us fire, and soon we’ll ’ave some warmth,” cried the short man. “What ’ave you got in mind to feed us?”.
“I,” replied the tall man, “‘ave some meat!”
“You wut, now? Where’d ya get that!?” exclaimed the short man.
“I pocketed it in that inn we was in this mornin’, while The Dancer was inside with that new recruit of ’is, ’avin’ at that lady innkeeper. I reckon it’s pork. She ’ad a few pigs out the back of ’er place”.
The short man grinned widely and pulled something out of a saddle bag. “A carrot and an onion!” He smirked as he replied.
“Right,” offered the tall one, “you get that fire goin’ nicely, and I’ll get the stew in the pot.” The tall man took the pot, emptied a water skin into it, and began to cut the meat and vegetables.
Hollyglade’s legs were beginning to cramp from squatting in her clump of bushes for what seemed to her like hours. She knew it had not been more than ten minutes, yet without the willingness to sit or lay down and expose more bare skin to the frozen ground, she was left in an extremely taxing position. To make matters worse, the fire the two men had built was glowing invitingly, yet she was too far from it to feel any heat. The pot the men had placed on the fire was just starting to simmer, and the smell of food wafted toward her, making her stomach growl.
Why the feet? She groaned inwardly. Why not the nose, or the stomach? Why did it have to be my feet that went numb? She thought about sitting on her hands, just to lift her feet a for a moment. Anything had to be better than letting the numbness slowly creep up past her ankles. She thought better of it, knowing there would be a need to keep the feeling in her hands if she planned on engaging one or both of these men in a fight. She questioned whether or not she could even stand up, let alone fight.
Cold, cramped, shivering, and starting to feel light-headed, her lips were going numb along with her knees, buttocks, elbows, hands and feet. She had to wait, believing that her only hope was for these men to eat, drink, and fall asleep quickly. If she could make it until that happened, she may have a slim chance.
“What ya reckon this one done?” Hern asked his companion. “I mean, why is it we’re chasin’ a tall girl through the night? I ’eard she burned someone’s ’ouse down. Must ’ave been someone important.”
“Dunno for sure,” Tom grunted. “But I did ’ear it was more than an ’ouse. I ’eard it was an entire village,” he remarked while chewing a mouthful of stew. “It still don’t fit the usual kind of job The Dancer takes. I ’eard ’e usually don’t go for somethin’ that’s not a payback for some kind of killin’. Like, killin’ of someone important. I ’eard that village she burned down was just some farmin’ village.
“Last job The Dancer ’ad was findin’ whoever it was that killed prince what’s-his-name of Loria ’ere. The Dancer was ’ired by this king ’ere, and went down to Demaria and brought back some nobleman or other, and turned ’im over to King ’arford. I ’eard they tortured ’im quite a while looking for some information er other.” He paused to drink the last of his stew. “That there Dancer never fails to get ’is man”.
Hern looked down at his bowl, and drank the remains of his meal. “Well, ’e’s an ’arder man than I ever met before. I worked for a few bounty ’unters in the past. Usually goin’ after some bandits or other been botherin’ some villages, or who bedded some nobleman’s
wife, but none of them’s used quite the same tactic as the Dancer.
“Whatever,” he sighed, “as long as ’e pays me, I don’t rightly care too much who we nab. Maybe we’ll ’ave a bit o’ fun with ’er first before we take ’er to ’im, if we’re the ones lucky enough to catch ’er,” Hern mused.
Tom chuckled in response. “I’ll drink to that.” He smirked as he raised his mug. “I’ve never ’ad an elf, nor a tall woman. Ha ha! I can ’ave both at once! You reckon she’d put up a struggle? I like it when they put up a struggle. Makes it more interestin’.”
Both men drained their mugs and chuckled to themselves. “Now then, my dear Hern,” Tom continued, “let’s get some rest. We’re supposed to make it to that town by first thing tomorrow and report back by midmorning. We’ve got a fair bit o’ ridin’ to be done, and I’m ’opin’ there’ll be a trail to find in the light. And if we plan on ’avin’ a little fun with this ’uge bitch you’re gonna need some rest!” They both howled.
“Aye,” Hern replied, “I’ll be dreamin’ of tall ugly women!” He snickered.
As Hollyglade watched the two men roll out their sleeping packs, she felt dizzy from the anxiety caused by all she had overheard. She squatted with her arms hugging her knees, trying to conserve what little warmth was left in her numbing torso, and hoped her pursuers would fall to sleep quickly. She felt her anger begin to swell as she observed these men who had come upon the cottage where she had managed to find a room earlier that day. They had murdered the woman who lived there, who had allowed her, a half-breed non-human, to rent a bed for the night. For Hollyglade, their timing had been impeccably bad.
Again, she cursed herself for having been so careless as to take that bath. She knew better. She had always found a stream, pond, lake, or river and bathed in the dark of night where she would not be so likely to be set upon by a stranger whose intentions were less than honourable. But she had been dreading this year’s turning of fall to winter, and the idea of a warm bath enticed her when she had learned that the innkeeper was blind, and would not have been able to discern that she was renting a room to one of the giantish, elvish, dwarvish, or a half-breed.