As they approached the dining hall, they came upon a very large, very muscular man standing outside the door waiting for them. The man automatically sized each of them up, and his hand twitched toward his dagger as he studied Swiftstalker. His hair was a pale shade of grey which blended to white and there was an ugly scar that stretched from just below the corner of his right eye, across his cheek, and reached the tip of his chin; it was made more noticeable by the fact no hair grew along its length and it divided the grizzled beard like a furrow in a field of winter wheat. The man's leathers were thick and bore evidence of being worn under chain mail in the form of small spots of rust brown and worn impressions of where the mail would bind against them. He wore a sword at his hip with a familiarity that spoke of decades of experience. Here was a man meant for the battlefield.
"Gustav!” the duke bellowed. “It is good to see you!” Turning to Rory, he said, “Gustav is the head of our army. Gustav, this is my grandson, Rorrick, and his weapons master, Swiftstalker of the Forest."
The gravelly voice was in keeping with the man's appearance. “My Lord Rorrick, welcome to Westfell.” There was no warmth in the voice as he said, “It is not often a Lord of the Forest comes outside the trees, and I cannot help but wonder what you are really doing here."
"As His Grace said, I am here to train Lord Rorrick in the use of weapons. While I am at it, I will serve as his personal bodyguard to prevent anyone from harming him. Nothing more, nothing less.” Swiftstalker looked him up and down. “Your legend precedes you, General Gustav. While you may not really be eight feet tall as some say, I can see you have earned your formidable reputation. Perhaps we can find the time to spar with one another, purely for the edification of the young lord, of course."
A small smile touched Gustav's lips. “I would enjoy that."
"Good!” Duke Richard said. “It is important both of you are involved in training young Rorrick, for he needs to learn more than just how to handle weapons; he needs to know how to handle men, as well. Join us as we dine, Gustav."
Once the four had been seated, Mistress Margaret watched as the serving staff brought in the repast she had prepared. There was roast venison, several roasted ducks, potatoes and greens, baskets of bread, and flagons of wine. She watched carefully as each was served their choices and then sent the serving staff to the kitchens while she remained in the background in case something more was desired.
The duke tasted the duck, turned to the housekeeper and said, “Delicious as usual, Mistress Margaret, as is the venison. My thanks to the staff."
Mistress Margaret curtsied in acceptance of the duke's compliments.
General Gustav said, “Well, Lord Rorrick, from the look of you, I would say your previous weapons training has been solely with a bow. We'll need to build up those shoulders and arms before you can do much sword work."
"It is true that I have never held a sword, General. There is not much call for one hunting in the woods. I can, however, hit what I aim at with a bow or a sling,” Rory said, as he picked up his goblet. Finding the wine not to his liking, he asked Mistress Margaret if he could have some water.
"My grandson has spent his entire life living in the Great Forest, Gustav,” the duke explained. “Since he was around eight, he has been providing the daily food for his mother and himself though his skill with a bow."
General Gustav looked troubled. “Your Grace, I have heard it said that Lady Abigail was murdered by Eastfell's men."
"Unfortunately, that is true, although none of the men escaped the Great Forest to tell Eastfell of their success,” Swiftstalker responded. “I am quite sure the Duke of Eastfell will learn of it just before he dies on the sword of Prince Brightblade."
"And why would the son of the elf king do such a thing?” Gustav asked.
"Because he's my father,” Rory replied quietly, “and he loved Abigail."
Swiftstalker said, “It was he who hunted down and killed the four Eastfell soldiers after interrogating them to see who was behind it. He will accept Eastfell's death at no hand other than his own. In his own way, our prince is quite ... determined."
Duke Richard said, “We will leave the punishment of Eastfell to Prince Brightblade, for now. It will remain a matter of the honor of Westfell, however, that we extract our revenge in some fashion down the road."
"How will we do that, Grandfather?"
"By that time, it will be up to you, lad. Let us be honest with one another. You have perhaps five years to get ready to take control of this duchy.” The duke held up his hand to forestall any comments. “No, we must face facts. I am over sixty years of age. While I am strong enough at the moment, it is a certainty that will change as the years go by. You can be certain I will do everything I can to delay the inevitable, at least until you reach your majority. I want no regency in Westfell.
"It is up to you two to teach him how to fight, both alone and as a member of a team. Once he has learned that, you must teach him how to lead men in battle. At the same time, I will instruct him on how to govern. We have much to do to ready Rory to be the next Duke of Westfell. Fortunately, he has no really bad habits we must break."
"Rest well tonight, young lord,” Gustav said. “Tomorrow, we start building some muscle on that frame of yours. Wear old sturdy clothes you won't mind getting dirty."
Chapter 4
Rory was so stiff and sore he was not positive he could move. Never before in his life had he done such hard labor. Before the sun was even up, Swiftstalker had dragged him from his warm bed and had him dress in the worn leathers of a common soldier, complete with a pair of heavy boots on his feet. It was still quite chill outside with a brisk wind that cut right through a man, but Swiftstalker assured the shivering young lord that steady exercise would soon warm him up.
First, Rory had to split firewood for the kitchen. He had a lot of practice doing that but he soon discovered that the kitchen for the keep used much more wood than he had ever chopped before. Cord after cord, he chopped and split stacks of firewood until his arms were too sore to lift over his head and he began to lose control of the axe. “Not bad. But you will do better tomorrow,” was all Gustav said.
Next, after a short break for some hot tea and toasted bread with jam, they made him move rocks. All kinds of rocks, from small pebbles to ones the size of a pig. If he tried to move one incorrectly—like when he tried to pick one up the size of a cartwheel—his erstwhile trainers would laugh at him and then show him ways to accomplish his task using levers or ropes or some other tool that happened to be lying about. “The point to this is not just to move the rocks, but to move them smartly."
After moving rocks, he helped the groomsmen tend the stables. Actually, he mucked out the stalls and then put in fresh straw. Before he could spread the straw, he had to first move the hay bales from the loft to the stable floor using a small platform and a block and tackle arrangement. He started the task a bit skittish around the animals but by the end of it, he was finally comfortable around horses.
After a brief lunch, they took him to the training arena. At one side of the arena, there was a thick log, standing a good six feet high, imbedded upright in the ground. Lines were painted on the pole, one at five feet above the ground, another at three feet. Gustav said, “Okay, lad, this is about the same height as a man. This top part here is his head, and underneath that is his chest. I want you to practice hitting him in the chest, alternating sides, with every fourth hit to his head on the opposite side. I want you to start out slowly until you get the feel for it and then pick up speed. Watch me.” Gustav picked up a blunted sword and stepped away from the pole until he stood slightly more than an arm's length away. “Remember, if you can touch an enemy with your hand, you are in knife range rather than that of the sword. Step back and let the sword reach out to him. Smack him on the side.” The sword swung in from the left, hitting the pole with a backhand swing. “Then on the other side.” This time it struck the right side. “Back to the first side.” Anothe
r backhand blow to the pole. “Then up to the head.” The sword came in from the right, striking midway through the space for the head. “Now you do it all over again on the opposite sides.” Gustav began slowly but soon moved to almost a blur, the clang of the blunt sword on the wood sounding one after the other, faster then faster again. Suddenly he stopped and flipped the sword to Rory.
The first surprise to Rory was how heavy the sword was. The way Gustav had whipped it around made Rory believe it was lighter than a normal sword. If anything, this one was heavier and out of balance, with more weight toward the tip. It required much more strength in the forearm to keep the tip up. His first swing at the chest area was almost acceptable but his backhand swipe at the other side came in very low, just above the waist line. “Keep swinging, lad. You'll get the hang of it after you have had some practice,” Gustav said as he watched. Swiftstalker then walked over to one of the racks and picked out a pair of balanced practice swords. He flipped one end over end to Gustav as if it were a throwing knife. Gustav snatched it from the air and swung it down in time to parry a strike from Swiftstalker. The speed and ferocity of their parries may have distracted Rory, but it didn't disturb them for they each shouted at him to practice even as they traded blows.
By the time they had taken each other's measure with a sword, Rory could barely move his arms. Every muscle he had was screaming in agony and he could no longer keep the sword tip up. “That's enough for today, lad,” Gustav said as he pried the sword out of Rory's clenched fist. “Go along with Swiftstalker and soak those muscles loose again."
So that was where Rory now lay, soaking in the large copper tub in very hot water with some kind of oil that smelled like evergreen trees. It was as close to bliss as he'd been and he drifted off to sleep since he was more exhausted than he had ever been before. He awoke to a slap on the back of his head. The water in the tub was now chilled.
"Get out of the tub and lie face down on the floor,” commanded Swiftstalker.
Still too tired and sore to object, Rory stretched out on his towel. Swiftstalker knelt beside him and began to massage an aromatic oil into the stiff and sore muscles of Rory's back, shoulders, and arms. The release of tension under Swiftstalker's kneading fingers was incredible and Rory drifted back to sleep. He awoke hours later and staggered to his bed.
* * * *
This was his routine every day for the next several days. Firewood, rocks, stables, and smacking a pole with a dull sword. After the first week, a slight variation was introduced. Instead of moving the rocks, he now had to sort those he'd already moved according to size: large rocks in one pile, medium rocks in another, and small rocks in yet a different one.
Once he had them all sorted, he was joined by a stonemason and together, they began using the rocks to build an extension to one of the storage buildings. This was a labor he could appreciate for he could see a positive result forming from his work. The walls took shape slowly as the mason showed his new young lord how they fit together, placing medium and small rocks in the gaps between the larger ones. A mortar made of limestone and rock chips was used to fill in all the gaps and to seat the stones. Day by day, the height of the walls grew until it became an effort to move the larger rocks into place. The final rows were set using several other men to assist; no one would take the chance that a slip might injure the heir.
Once the walls had reached the desired height, Rory joined a group of men sent to fell trees to make the timbers for the rafters and joists. They would ride out on empty wagons in the morning and then work until noon cutting down tall trees. The limbs were lopped off, the trunks cut to the desired lengths, and then it was all loaded into the wagons. Once again, Rory enjoyed the task. The rhythm of the axes, the crash of the trees as they fell to the ground, all struck a chord within him. He was always the first to start cutting and the last to stop. He was always there to help load the tree trunks or to gather and load the branches. The people of Westfell soon knew their new heir was not afraid of hard work and that he enjoyed the simple pleasures found in getting dirty while making things better for his people.
Once the trunks and branches were back at the keep, the branches were piled in the area for firewood while the trunks were taken to be trimmed into the crossbeams, joists and rafters for the expanded storage area. Here, Rory worked with the woodcrafters to trim the trunks with adzes and chisels, hatchets and lots of hard work. Hand awls were used to bore holes at strategic locations in the wooden frame parts. Once all was cut to fit the demands of the master crafter, the pieces were taken to the newly finished stone walls and hoisted into place, one by one. As each piece was seated in its final position, wooden pegs were pounded into the holes drilled in them to lock them together. The joints were then doused with water to make them swell, further locking the pieces in place.
The roof supports now in place and planking applied across the rafters for additional storage, it was time to put a roof over the shed. Rory joined the others in scything the long grasses, which he then helped gather into sheaves. In the late afternoons and evenings, he would assist the women of the town in plaiting the grasses into long flat panels, to which other layers were stitched using a sturdy vine. The panels were then fastened into place on the joists in overlapping layers starting at the bottom. This panel technique for thatching was unique to Westfell, but it was clearly more efficient than the old way. It resulted in fewer leaks, more resistance to wind, and trapped heat within better than the old way, too.
* * * *
Throughout this entire process, Rory continued to strike at the pole with the sword every day. He now could maintain a respectable rhythm in his strikes, and was slowly gaining speed. All this work had also filled out his shoulders and chest. No longer was he sore in the evenings when he finished his labors.
Joining his grandfather and Swiftstalker in the dining room one night, he realized three weeks had passed since they had arrived at the keep. Much had changed in that time, and most of those changes had been within himself. Not only had he gained in strength, he also had an appreciation for the skills necessary to work this land. He had met most of the people in the town and had grown to understand their concerns.
As they were eating, the captain of the guard returned from his mission to Aluria. “Your Grace, forgive my intrusion."
"Nothing to forgive, Captain. How were the roads? I had expected you back long ago,” the duke asked, handing the captain a glass of wine.
"The roads were fine, Your Grace. When I arrived at Aluria, I found the king and queen had departed for Eastfell to attend the state funeral for the Duke of Eastfell. When I handed the king your letter, he wanted to know when you had returned to Westfell. When I explained you returned the same day as the date on the letter, he seemed much relieved. After the funeral and the confirmation of the new Duke of Eastfell under the regency of his mother, the king bid me ride here with the news. The king and queen will arrive in Westfell in three days."
"The king is coming here? How much of the court is coming with him?"
"The king is accompanied by the Duke of Kendrahl, who is on his way home, and the queen has one of her ladies-in-waiting as a companion."
"I imagine the Duke of Kendrahl will remain for at least a day or two. So we will need chambers for the royals, the duke, and for the lady-in-waiting. How many of the King's Own accompany him?"
"His escort numbers thirty mounted, Your Grace."
"What can you tell us about the Duke of Eastfell's death?” asked Duke Richard, sensing there was more.
"The Duke of Eastfell was murdered, Your Grace, by an assassin who entered his chambers in the dead of night. No one saw the actual killer, but he was taken from his bed and butchered without disturbing anyone else in the castle."
"When did this happen?” Swiftstalker asked.
"The night after Your Grace and the others arrived in Westfell. The fact you were here that night has taken suspicion off of Westfell, especially when I reported the duke's heir was a stri
pling of a lad of barely sixteen seasons.” Glancing at Rory, he said, “Your pardon, young lord, but it was the truth, although I can see you have added some muscle in the time I have been on the road."
"Through the dint of hard labor, Captain. That I can assure you of,” Rory replied.
"Of that I am sure, Lord Rorrick. General Gustav's techniques are well-known among the duke's men-at-arms."
The duke smiled and then asked, “And what of the wayward chamberlain?"
The captain smiled. “When I reported that you were hale and back at Westfell, and the king read your message, he summoned the chamberlain. When that worthy arrived before the king, the King's Own placed him under arrest to be brought before you in judgment. Your chamberlain has walked the whole distance from Eastfell in chains. He is a much chastened man."
"Very good. I thank you, Captain, for your excellent report and your haste in bringing me all this news. Ask Mistress Margaret to step in, if you would, and get yourself some food from the kitchen,” Duke Richard said.
A few moments later, the housekeeper entered the dining room. “You sent for me, Your Grace?"
"Brace yourself, Mistress Margaret. The king and queen, accompanied by one lady-in-waiting, plus the Duke of Kendrahl, will arrive in three days. There will also be thirty members of the King's Own. It's been almost twenty years since His Highness visited Westfell, so we'll have to do our best for him."
Mistress Margaret was unflappable. “Very well, Your Grace. Lord Swiftstalker, can I count on your bow to bring us enough venison?"
Swiftstalker grinned. “That you can, Mistress Margaret, along with a nice fat boar if I can get General Gustav to go hunting with me."
"By your leave, Your Grace, I will get started. I will notify the townsfolk so they can prepare as well.” With a swift curtsey, she departed from the room.
The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1] Page 4