by V K Majzlik
“Ahh, at last! Come, sit. Glona will dish up breakfast for you.” Gomel was tucking into a mound of food, which included fried eggs, and long rashers of wood-smoked bacon, with a side plate of toast. Gladly, Cradon took his seat, the tasty smell making his mouth water. Instantly a similar plateful of food was placed before him.
“So how are we this morning?” asked Gomel with a mouthful of food.
After finishing his first mouthful, Cradon answered. “Well, actually I feel great. I slept exceptionally well and my shoulder seems much better.”
“Good! Because we have much to talk about.”
“Oh must you now? You’ve hardly given him time to even start his breakfast.”
“Glona, my dear, this is important and cannot wait!” replied Gomel, ushering his wife to continue with the baking for the day.
“I don’t mind!” mumbled Cradon as he stuffed a chunk of warm bread into his mouth.
“Well, unfortunately the time has come for you to make a decision. Now you are on the mend we need to decide what you are going to do next.”
“What do you mean?”
Gomel sighed. “War is coming. Even here, under the mountains we cannot escape from it. Our kin has entered into the final stages of preparation by decided to honour the elves request for help.”
“Alright, I understand that, but I’m still not sure what decision I need to make.” Cradon continued eating.
“To put it bluntly, my laddie, you need to decide whether you are going to go to war or whether you are going to go home?”
Gomel’s words hit Cradon hard. He had been so obsessed with getting better that he had not even begun to think about the future. His fork dropped to the side of his plate and Cradon sat back in his chair.
“I see this question has taken you by surprise.”
Cradon nodded.
“Well, you don’t need to decide right now. Winter is very close to cutting of the mountain paths. You will need to wait until the first thawing if you decide to leave.”
Cradon nodded again.
“You are of course welcome to stay with us for as long as you need.”
“Thank you!” muttered Cradon quietly. In that moment he had lost his appetite. His thoughts had been thrown into turmoil, with his brother, Nechan, at the forefront of his mind, alongside thoughts of what could lie in wait for him if he returned home. It was ironic: they had left to escape being drafted into the army, but somehow they had found themselves amidst the gravest battle known.
While in hospital, he had been given a lot of time to think about his brother and possible fate. Somehow Cradon reached the conclusion that if he had survived it was quite likely Nechan would have also survived.
“I’m sorry, I think I need to go lie down again for a short while.”
The clansman took his leave, apologising to Glona for not finishing his breakfast. In the quiet darkness of his little room Cradon continued searching his thoughts.
Chapter 51 Govan’s Trials
Marching on foot was not something Govan was suited to, he much preferred to be on horseback. It was six days since the fateful attack on him and his men; six days of long hard marching through the worst weather imaginable.
The lonesome captain tramped angrily through the clods of thick, viscous mud, slipping and sliding as he tried to free his boots with each step. Late autumn had bought an excess of rain over this region, and now he was paying the toll. The man was encrusted in mud, his black armour now a mouldy brown, his arms and hands encased in brown ooze from where he had reached down into the wells of muck to retrieve a lost boot. It was miserable, and to top it all, he had no one he could shout at or blame. He was alone.
After several more hours the drizzle finally stopped and the persistent captain managed to climb onto slightly elevated ground. Looking across the land lying before him, in between the ground-hugging, grey clouds, Govan could just see a village hiding in the mists.
Govan had no idea where he was, having lost his bearings in the heavy clouds and rain. It also had not helped being unsure of his direction when he left the devil mists of the Elves. In a panic to get away, he had run blindly into the night before composing himself. Although he had retold the story many times in his mind and knew what he would omit and what he would embellish when before his Dark Lords. It was important he save face.
Planning his route, taking note of the faint landmarks that he could just see through the clouds, the captain began a half-paced run to reach the village before nightfall. Driven by thoughts of a warm, dry bed, clean clothes and food, he forced himself forward.
At his quick pace, his long, sturdy legs brought him to the village within two hours, well before nightfall. Disappointedly, it was a mere dust village, with only a small handful of houses set amidst a muddy, grassy plain. Worst of all there was no inn.
In the distance, he caught sight of a farmer ploughing his land, assumable making the most of the brief dry spell between downpours. To Govan, the farmer’s efforts seemed pointless as he and his carthorse were still struggling to wade through the big clumps of clotted mud in the field.
A village farmhand came strolling in Govan’s direction, carrying a large bail of hay and a bucket of feed, several eager chickens in tow, clucking and pecking around his ankles.
“Hey! You there, boy!” Govan shouted. He stood in the centre of the track, one hand on his sword hilt, trying to look as intimidating as possible. The farmhand stopped, turning so he could see the stranger around his awkwardly balanced bail of hay.
“You look like you’ve had a hard trip. Don’t see many folk like you round here. Where’s your horse?”
Govan almost shuddered at the grating sound of the man’s voice. It had a typical backwater farmer’s twang. The Empire paid little attention to these lands, allowing the locals to live and work as they please. The lands themselves were poor, only capable of sustaining small numbers of people, hence they were of no use to the Empire. Only occasionally did he and his troops pass through, merely procedure, checking everything was in order.
“I need food and shelter.” Govan announced, looking at him with disdain.
The farmhand laughed. “Well I can’t help, but I’m sure me Ma won’t be minding!”
“Take me to her.” He was cold, tired, hungry and caked in mud, it was not a good idea to argue with him.
“Yes, Sir!” The farmhand turned, nearly dropping his bucket, spilling feed over the rain-soaked track much to the chickens’ delight. “I can tell you’re the authoritative type, probably not one for waiting round, so I takes you right there!” babbled the young man.
Govan followed several steps behind, his hand still on the hilt of his sword.
They came to a halt in front of a worn, wooden door covered by the flaking remnants of blue paint. Without asking, he handed the bucket to Govan who unwilling took it, not enjoying the thought of being swamped by chickens. The local then opened the door with a jarring creek, shouting as he went.
“Ma! You’ve got a guest! Found him wandering through!”
A warm, friendly voice came from somewhere inside. “A guest! Oh my!”
There was a sound of scurrying footsteps and the door opened to reveal a large woman dressed in plain clothes with a dirty apron pulled tightly around her ample middle.
“Oh my! It’s a delight, sir. Don’t get many visiting folk, or even passing through folk round here these days. Come in, come in.” She beckoned and nodded Govan in, her straggly hair pulled back in a very loose bun which nodded with her. “No, not you,” she scolded, thrustring the bucket back into the boy’s hand. “You’ve still got chores to do before dinner. Once them done, you can come visiting with the man.”
Taking him by the arm, she showed Govan to a high-backed wooden rocking chair beside the roaring fire. Govan felt awkward as she gripped his mud-caked arm; he was not one for physical contact. At first he was not sure he wanted to stay for any length of time, but he soon resigned himself to the fact that there wa
s nowhere else.
“Now then, let’s get you out of those clothes, eh?” she chuckled, fussing over Govan and helping him take off his boots. “Don’t you be worrying. I’ll get these sorted for you. Go get changed in that there backroom. You’ll find plenty of clothes in the cupboard, although I dare say they wont fit! Just throw your dirty clothes out and I’ll get them washed for you!”
Govan did not need to be told twice, he quickly left the woman’s company and shut himself away. Well, at least I will get some hot food, and some clean clothes, he thought to himself. That was all he needed, then he would be out of there as quickly as possible, perhaps even with a horse.
The captain emerged shortly afterwards, washed and dressed, having found a bowl and jug of water. It had taken him some time to scrub the caked mud out of his gristly stubble and beard, but now he felt slightly more alive. The woman had unfortunately been right and the clothes did not fit well at all. Clearly the man living here was short and wide. Part of him could not help thinking that there was some irony to his situation.
The only saving grace was that he was greeted by the sight of his own clothes, washed and already drying in front of the fire, and the woman plating out what looked like stew. A large, wide man, whom apparently did not approve of his wife’s choice in visitors, greeted him.
“Ahh, there you are, washed and dressed, bet that feels better!” Ignoring her husband’s stern look, the wife pulled out a kitchen chair, offering it to Govan. “I hope you don’t mind, it’s just stew. Afraid we don’t have much fancy here.”
“It looks - delicious…..thank you,” offered Govan politely, as he pulled his chair in closer. It looked and smelled awful, but much to his surprise did not taste too bad.
“So, you be passing through then? On what business?” The farmer had taken a seat directly opposite the captain, intent on watching him take every mouthful.
Govan shovelled in another spoonful before answering. “Yes, I am just passing through, no need to worry about that. But my business is my own!”
“Imperial business I suppose, dressed in that there garb!” The man pointed over his shoulder at Govan’s armour and clothes.
Govan responded with a cold look that told the man not to probe any further.
The man stood up, but before leaving turned. “I’m hoping you’ll be on your way soon. Take what you want and go!”
Govan nodded, a small smirk crossing his face. He enjoyed the effect he had on certain people.
“Nathaniel, don’t be so rude to our guest!” Irritated, the woman slapped her wet tea towel on the wooden kitchen table. “Please forgive him, sir. As I said, we’re not used to having folk like you visiting.”
The woman continued to berate her husband, who gave as good back. Govan took another mouthful, unbothered by the marital argument that ensued. He did not care whether the man was happy he was here. He would regret saying take what you want though, as Govan had every intention of finding the best horse in this dust-village and getting out of there with as many supplies as he could carry.
It was several hours later, when night had long since fallen, that Govan, once again dressed in his own clothes and armour, was ready to leave. He had decided not to sleep there, suspecting the farmer could try to do something foolish, such as stab him in the back.
The wife and farmhand had been very obliging in helping him leave with what he wanted, and all without a fee. The son had brought the finest horse out of the stables for him, one belonging to a different family. It was a lanky chestnut, with a stringy mane and tail, but would carry him well enough. The woman had also gathered supplies, a variety of meats, breads, and dried fruit, enough to last him nearly a week.
With a swift kick of his heels, Govan galloped off down the track into the darkness, happy to leave the hole behind. He had more important things to tend to. He knew full well that places like this would eventually get what was coming to them. The small congregation of villagers was just as pleased to see the back of the Empire’s Captain, who taken everything and anything they possibly had to offer.
Now he knew where he was, with the aid of one his many maps in his quarters he would soon be able to calculate exactly where Loreandril and the Elves were. Govan was already savouring the thought of leading out the Empire’s vast armies. The sooner he got back to make his report, the sooner their eradication could begin.
Many leagues away, the elf Nilean was riding furiously on his swift, white steed. Having left Loreandril nearly five days ago, he had made excellent progress.
The weather had been far kinder to him, with late autumn bringing only biting, cold winds without the harsh, driving rain. Even so, the horse and rider had little time to take rest, with many days hard riding before they even reached the Lopthian Mountain chain. Together they would then have to brave the snows of the mountains before reaching the entrance to Ghornathia.
Despite being a perilous journey, the Council was confident that their brave warrior would succeed in bringing their message to the Gnomes.
Chapter 52 – Fighting Skills
“Pull the bow back as tightly as you can. Hold it…..Hold it….Fire!”
The arrow struck its target, narrowly missing the central mark. Nechan smiled, pleased with himself. He had shown a marked improvement just over the past couple of hours under Jaidan’s teaching.
“Try it again. This time, remember, keep your body in line and hold the bow and arrow close as if you were one with it.”
Nechan tried again, taking in everything Jaidan said. This time, the arrow hit its target perfectly.
“Excellent! Well done, Nechan.” It was the voice of Eilendan, from behind. “You seem to have made rapid improvement.”
Nechan blushed, partly with pride, and partly because he felt self-conscious. “Well, I have a good teacher.”
“So, are you ready for your next lesson?” Eilendan held out a sword to Nechan. Jaidan laughed, but tried to hide it, as Nechan’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged with dread at the blade.
“Take it, boy!”
Handing his bow to Jaidan, Nechan reluctantly grasped the sword, holding its cold hilt tightly in his clenched fist. It felt heavy and unwieldy.
“If you are going to fight alongside us you will need to learn to use a sword. However many you slay at a distance with your bow, there are always more enemies who will make it close enough to fight hand to hand.”
Nechan knew they were wise words.
“I think I will leave you both to it,” laughed Jaidan. “Try not to hit him too hard. He needs to be able to walk after his training session!” Nechan could hear Jaidan still laughing as he walked away leaving him alone with Eilendan.
Nechan had attracted a small congregation of young elves who were enjoying watching the clansman learn how to fight. Earlier, as well as handling a bow, Jaidan had started teaching him to use a knife in close combat. He had failed miserably, falling repeatedly on his face, as Jaidan tripped him numerous times. Try as he might, he could not get the co-ordination required to fight Jaidan and he sensed the Brathunder was not even demonstrating his best skills. He was not looking forward to learning to fight with a sword.
The crowd cheered as Eilendan took his defending stance and asked Nechan to demonstrate his skills. Clumsily, Nechan lunged forward, making a wide swing, giving Eilendan plenty of time to spring nimbly out of the way, roll once and trip Nechan, finally finishing by threatening the boy with the tip of his sword under his chin.
“Not bad for a first attempt. I just wanted to see how much you already knew!”
“Not much, as you can see.”
“Yes, there is some room for improvement, but I can already see your potential.”
“The only sword fighting I have ever done was playing with my brother when we were younger, and believe me I was very bad at it then. I always lost!”
“Well, now you have a good teacher.”
Eilendan helped Nechan up and took a defending stance again. Much to the crowd’s
disappointment, this time he asked the boy to stand alongside him and copy his moves. Nechan did as he was told, trying to mimic how the elf was standing. His first attempt was appalling and there were many giggles from the growing crowd, but after some quick advice from Eilendan and a second demonstration Nechan quickly caught on. Finally he was met with a small round of applause, boosting his confidence.
“Well done. You see, I told you I saw potential. Now try it a few more times!”
Nechan did as he was told, playing the moves through three more times. On the fourth time, Eilendan surprised him by stepping in and adding the opposing moves. Nechan conducted the moves perfectly, defending Eilendan’s attacking swings like clockwork. This time the applause was much louder.
“Excellent! Now you can see how these moves work.”
Over the rest of the afternoon, the elf proceeded to teach Nechan a variety of moves, each more intricate than the last. The young clansman struggled to keep up, but remained determined to make some improvement. He knew his life might depend on the skills he learned.
It was strenuous work and soon the weight and movement of the sword made his arms and shoulders ache. Even across his chest and back he could feel different muscles, ones he had not used before, stretch and strain with each swing and clash of the blade.
Four more days passed with Nechan being put through further tests of his endurance and strength. Although the training sessions were gruelling, he was starting to enjoy them thoroughly, and even he could see there was definitely improvement. His skill with the bow was remarkable, piercing his target each and every time, regardless of the distance.
Jaidan was sufficiently impressed to upgrade the training to the Elvish longbow, a more difficult weapon to master. These supple, flexible bows stood nearly up to the height of their shoulders. Even the arrows were different, the Elves having modified them over the centuries to combine multiple spiralling lines of feathers down their shaft. If fired correctly, the arrows would spin rapidly through the air and upon striking their target would still have enough momentum to burrow in, and for the most skilful of archers they could even pass straight through primary targets to hit a second.