The Power Within: The Chronicles of Hollyglade Wayrender

by Steve Barker

  Sliding off the table, the soldier nearly fell all the way to the floor as his wounded leg did not hold him as he expected. Pulling himself up against the table, he regained his balance and limped over to the pile of clothing and weapons the medic had pointed to. Taking his boots, he pulled on one at a time, using a stool to prevent having to bend all the way to the ground. One by one, he placed each of the blades in its customary position on his body, though some of his hiding spots remained empty of their usual blade. He took the bow and quiver of arrows from the table, slinging them across his back.

  “Yoric,” the soldier called to the medic, “I had two swords. Do you know where they might be?”

  “Ah, friend. I do not. But look there, behind that crate of bandages. There I place weapons belonging to soldiers who do not regain their verticality, in order for the garrison to reclaim and reassign them. I believe you may find a few blades there still.”

  Limping over to the crate, the soldier slid it along the workbench, and found several blades in sheaths lying wrapped in their scabbards. Taking a look through them, he found two that he felt comfortable with, one longer and one shorter, and tied them to his waist. Wincing with discomfort, he turned back to the medic, to see him begin the process of amputating a leg. With reluctance, he moved closer to the medic to make an inquiry.

  “Yoric, can you tell me if the King’s new Sorcerer’s guard detail remains with him? I was assigned to him before I left for a short expedition, and would like to resume those duties now that I have returned.” He did not tell the medic that in fact it was something like a dream that had run through his mind while he had been unconscious, that lead him to want to find the sorcerer, and that he had never been assigned to any part of Whiterock itself.

  “I can’t say. I’m not up to speed on who is doing what now that the siege is on. I’ve got plenty of men out that door there that need some kind of work done, so best you find a commanding officer and ask him.”

  “Right, sorry to bother you,” he apologised. “Mine should be with his detail. I thank you for your care, Master Yoric.

  “Hey,” the soldier continued hesitantly, feigning embarrassment “I’m a bit turned around, which way to his quarters from here?”

  “Out the door, through the triage room, up the stairs at the back, across the soldiers’ mess, and then through the courtyard into the tower. You should know your way from there.” The medic did not look up as he began to saw through bone. Not wanting to see any more of the inside of the poor man’s leg, the soldier turned and let the room.

  Outside the Medic’s operating room, the soldier found the triage room full of wounded men being tended to by women volunteering as nurses. The sounds of pain and suffering, accompanied by the smells of blood, urine, and the contents of men’s bowels and stomachs inspired an instantly nauseated reaction as he waded through the casualties. Seeing the stairway at the far end of the hall, he made his way through the mess of injured men, limping around the suffering troops while trying not to jostle anyone along the way.

  The stairway seemed imposing now, with the injury to his leg, but the soldier pulled himself up it with one hand on the railing, wincing with every step. He pressed on through the pain, as he was now determined to find whom he was looking for. His duty and allegiance were no longer to the crown, no longer to his temporary assignment, no longer to just himself. For the first time in a long time, he felt compelled to protect and care for someone who needed him, someone who would not survive on their own. This renewed sense of singular purpose drove him to push past the injury and pain, to block it out of his mind, and forge ahead in search of his friend.

  Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he turned toward the door to the mess hall, and shuffled his way over to it. Pushing the door open with both hands, he entered the hall and found it empty. Seeing the door at the far side, which led to the courtyard at the base of the Tower of Whiterock, he began to weave his way through the tables and benches that had been left in disarray by the troops rushing to the defense of the city.

  He wanted so badly to stop and rest at one of the tables, but his goal drove him onward. About halfway through the jumble of dining tables, he heard a voice call after him.

  “Mr. Theurbeault! What a surprise this is! Oh, what fun!”

  Stopping to turn and see where the voice called from, he spotted the bounty hunter entering the mess hall from the same door he had used.

  “Var Toran,” dGerrie cursed as he looked the bounty hunter over. “You’re still here. I thought you would have crawled into a cave somewhere, what with all those skilled men out there holding swords.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy a good jest, Mr. Theurbeault. I’m glad to see you are well. I was disappointed that you and I did not have the proper chance to spar while we were both in Greenfield.”

  “Spar?” dGerrie spat, as his eyes narrowed. “Crossbow bolts are not a tool with which honest men spar. You are a coward, who now comes ready to spar with a man whom he has hobbled with arrows.”

  dGerrie gingerly stepped out into the centre of hall, where there was a space free of tables, and stared at the bounty hunter, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw in a silent snarl.

  “Yes, it was unfortunate that I had to expedite things so rapidly, but you must remember that I was on a tight schedule, and I felt that further conflict would have endangered the health of the girl. If you recall, she was to be delivered free of injury, and I did not wish to jeopardize the contract further by playing with you, Mr. Theurbeault.”

  “What did you do with her?” snapped dGerrie.

  “I did as I was contracted to do,” replied the bounty hunter flatly. “I delivered her to the Sorcerer Ni’Morstrom, as promised,” he explained, obviously no longer concerned with keeping the contractor’s identity a secret. “I assure you, if anything untoward has happened to her, it is not of my doing.”

  “It will be on your head,” dGerrie sneered as he drew his swords. “Come, coward. Let us dance.” Feeling the burning in his shoulder, it took dGerrie all the effort he could muster to keep from showing on his face what he felt in his arm. With a smile, and a slight bow, the bounty hunter stepped into the centre of the mess hall, and drew his sword and dagger.

  “Tell me,” inquired the bounty hunter “with whom did you train at sword play? I must say, that the style you employed in Greenfield was quite interesting.”

  “I’ll tell you what, bounty hunter, if you kill me, you can ask me all the questions you want. But until then, you’ll just have to communicate with your blade.”

  Trenon Var Toran sighed.

  “So be it.” He took several steps toward dGerrie, raising the tip of his sword. In response, dGerrie began to circle to his right while facing his right side toward his opponent, effectively walking backwards, in order to keep his injured shoulder protected. Raising his right arm to shoulder height, and pointing the tip of his longsword at the bounty hunter, dGerrie’s thin yet towering frame presented an imposing form.

  The bounty hunter moved first, throwing a high lunging feint which was easily parried, and then following up with a swipe at dGerrie’s lead leg. Having kept most of his weight on his back leg, a simple back step was enough to avoid the slash, though dGerrie felt the deep twinge of pain that came from flexing his injured right thigh. His counter to the slash was quick, yet direct as he spun the tip of his longsword downward from left to right. The bounty hunter managed to bring his blade back around from the follow through of his attack to parry the blow. dGerrie continued to circle as he noted the speed with which his opponent recovered.

  Feeling a shooting pain with each step of his circling, dGerrie stopped and faced the bounty hunter head on. Seeing the change in tack, Var Toran altered his stance to present his left side, and brought his sword high. Again, the bounty hunter made the first move, stabbing at dGerrie’s right shoulder, allowing the stab to be parried outward, and spinning with the force of the deflection. He continued the pirouette and came about with a sla
sh at waist level. dGerrie moved his left hand to bring the short sword around to block the slash, but his shoulder did not respond well to the command, and only caught the blade partially, resulting in a cut just above his left hip. With a rasp, he stepped back to protect his left side again.

  Seeing the successful touch, the bounty hunter pressed his attack, this time making a swipe for dGerrie’s lead leg. Seeing dGerrie make the same step back counter, the bounty hunter then returned with a slash toward the right shoulder. Grunting with the strain of the effort, dGerrie brought his longsword up to block the slash, but having only one leg planted, he was only able to partially arrest the force of the strike, resulting in the bounty hunter’s blade impacting his bicep. The thick leather of his jerkin prevented the sword from cutting deeply, but the impact was painful, and broke the skin slightly.

  dGerrie could feel blood trickling from both fresh wounds, but did not let them take his attention from the fight. He could see that he was a step slower than his opponent, due to his deteriorated condition, and knew that he would have to adjust his tactics. His usual speed and precision were not available to him now, and some other strategy would have to take their place. He pivoted his body, to show his left side, and aimed his short sword at the bounty hunter.

  When his opponent made his next move, an outside-in slash at his left shoulder, dGerrie flicked the tip of his short sword upward, using only his forearm and wrist. The blow pushed his sword inward and allowed the slash, although diminished in strength, to connect to his injured shoulder. As the blow was coming, dGerrie loaded up on his good front leg and countered with a half turn forward and a neat stab at chest level. The bounty hunter moved with his dagger to parry, but was not able to completely deflect the thrust. The tip of the longsword found the flesh of the bounty hunter’s ribcage, beneath his right shoulder. With a yelp of pain, the bounty hunter sprang back and grabbed the hole in his cream white tunic as the blood began to flow and stain it red.

  “Ah, a clean touch, Mr. Theurbeault!” exclaimed the bounty hunter. “I am indeed scratched.”

  dGerrie did not press his attack, instead resetting his stance to continue to show his left side. Waiting for his opponent to make the first move again, dGerrie felt the third wound seep under his sleeve. His left arm was screaming in pain, yet he knew he could not allow it a reprieve. Saying nothing, dGerrie watched the bounty hunter set himself for the attack. It came quickly.

  With a step forward, Var Toran thrust at dGerrie’s left shoulder again, and this time the stab was parried with the short sword. With a quick recall of the blade over his head, the bounty hunter shifted his back leg forward and then brought his weight to his front leg again as his blade whirled over his head. In a fraction of a second, dGerrie recognised the move as one the bounty hunter had used in the clearing in the woods to cut down one of his men.

  With both legs, dGerrie hopped to his left and simultaneously leaned back, brought his longsword around behind his head from right to left. As the bounty hunter’s blow angled down to dGerrie’s right, where his leg had been a moment earlier, he watched the sword whip by within a fraction of an inch of his face, as he continued to bring his longsword around past his left shoulder and down toward the bounty hunter’s torso.

  Var Toran reacted quickly enough to step back and evade the shaft of the longsword, but dGerrie’s length made up the difference, as the tip of the blade dug into his chest below the collarbone and sliced diagonally to his belt. The leather of his tunic decreased the depth of the cut, but did not stop it completely, as a gash was opened up along the length of the swipe.

  Seeing the success of the counter, dGerrie followed up with a stab from his left with the short sword. The stab was not accurate, nor firm, as the bounty hunter stepped back with a half turn and slapped the thrust downward with his sword. With the feeling leaving his left arm, his grip failed, and dGerrie dropped the blade. Feeling it fall away, he cringed and stepped back, not wanting to expose himself in an attempt to regain the weapon. Placing both hands on his longsword, he took a stance with his right side slightly forward.

  Kicking the short sword aside and under a table, the bounty hunter sheathed his dagger and placed both hands on his sword, leveling it toward dGerrie.

  “Now, Mr. Theurbeault, we move into uncharted territory. I have noticed that you are fond of carrying a multitude of blades, and I desire to find out how you handle yourself with but one,” quipped the bounty hunter with a smirk.

  Watching him carefully, dGerrie could see the slightest hitch in the bounty hunter’s movements now that he was dealing with two fresh wounds. Though neither wound was on one of his limbs, the bounty hunter seemed affected by them. dGerrie suspected that he too was hiding the seriousness of his injury. With a quick flick of the tip of his blade, dGerrie shifted both feet forward, and let the bounty hunter parry his feint. Observing with which technique, and how quickly his opponent responded, dGerrie contemplated his strategy. Though he still felt slower than his opponent, dGerrie was sure that the gap in speed had narrowed. Hearing the sound of the battle raging outside, dGerrie felt some urgency to get on with his search for Hollyglade.

  With a slight upturn of the corner of his mouth, dGerrie stepped forward and flicked the tip of his blade in a small circle, tapping Var Toran’s sword, and making him adjust his stance. Again, he tapped his sword downward and shuffled both feet a half step forward. Again, and once more he provoked the bounty hunter with the obviously non-threatening move.

  Then, the fifth time he made the move, the bounty hunter put more force into his parry, and sneered in annoyance as he did so. Seeing the added effort, dGerrie knew that he had received the counter he was looking to provoke. With an added flick in the opposite direction, dGerrie reacted to the bounty hunter’s parry with a counter of his own, siding his blade along that of his opponents until it hit the cross guard of the bounty hunter’s weapon. Then, with a roll of both wrists, dGerrie popped the tip of his blade over the handle of the bounty hunter’s cross guard and drove his blade beneath the sleeve of his tunic. His blade found flesh, and dGerrie forced it forward into the bounty hunter’s arm.

  With a scream of agony, the bounty hunter dropped his sword, recoiled while grabbing the wounded arm, and reached for a dagger. Holding the dagger out in front of him while retreating out of dGerrie’s reach, he cursed violently.

  “What kind of cheap street tactic is that, you filthy gutter rat?” spat the bounty hunter.

  “The effective kind,” dGerrie smirked. “I must say, your eloquent and aristocratic demeanor vanishes quickly under duress, coward.”

  “You have no honour. I take my leave of you, plebeian cheat.”

  The bounty hunter backed several steps away, and then turned and made quickly for the door. Watching him go, dGerrie felt a righteous indignation swell in his chest, feeling that this was too little retribution. Sheathing his sword, he took his bow from his back, plucked an arrow from his quiver, knocked it and fired as the bounty hunter put one foot through the opening of the doorway.

  With the weakness in his left arm, the shot was not his best, and the missile did not find its target. However, it found a mark slightly to the right of its target, and buried itself to the half shaft in the bounty hunter’s right shoulder. With a scream, Var Toran slipped around the door frame and out of sight.

  Letting out a deep breath, dGerrie retrieved his dropped weapon, sheathed it, and again headed for the tower.

  VIII : Contest

  “Your Grace, the Demarian forces continue to press their siege of the North gate. Though our archers rain arrows upon them, they are well shielded and seem not to be suffering significant losses as they employ the ram. The enemy has many skilled archers of their own, and a seemingly unending supply of arrows. Many of our archers on the wall have been wounded, and we have begun to rotate infantrymen onto the wall to continue our barrage against the enemy.

  “Had we not signalled for the second and fifth legions to retreat to within the
city walls, I am sure that they would have been overrun by the enemy. Your Grace, I must inform you that it is likely that the Demarians will enter the city, and if they do so we must be prepared,” reported the Master of the Royal forces. He had been, up until now, confident that the walls of Magnaville would withstand any siege for months.

  This confidence had been formed from the study of The Histories of the Sieges of Magnaville, and several other texts on siege warfare. But nowhere in his reading had he come across a siege anywhere near the magnitude of the one taking place outside the walls where he now addressed his King. The largest siege ever undertaken against the city of Magnaville, was done so by a force less than half this size, and with a mere handful of catapults. Quentin Wendal was now feeling the consequences of overconfidence.

  “My L..L..Lord,” began the young King with a stammer “I thought you said we could withstand a siege for months. Why are we losing?” Confusion and despair flooded Harford’s face as he tried to grasp the gravity of the situation.

  “Your Grace, there was no way for us to know that we would face such a force, until they were seen on the march some days ago. It was our belief that the second and fifth legions would outnumber our enemy, and would defeat them on the field, or at least turn them back, preventing a siege altogether. In all the history of war in our Kingdoms, theirs is the largest assembled force to have set out to war,” quavered Lord Wendal as he desperately tried to think of some way to salvage at least a stalemate with the Demarians.

  “Are they going to get in?” asked the King directly.

  “It now appears likely, Your Grace. They employ some new kind of device with which to ram our gate. It appears that they shall eventually break the gate, though our builders try their best to reinforce it. I suggest we make preparations to evacuate you from the city, in the hopes we might regroup.”