The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  Breccyn did not think long on it; he understood too perfectly. He was hooves over halter for a girl, and she lived hundreds of leagues distant. He wasn’t quite sure how duty played into it, but his was a special circumstance. Either way, to not love? “Gods damn you if broken. Still, it’s a shame that service to my family deprives you of such happiness.”

  Wyn was aware of the young lord’s romantic interests. There were few in Cairanthem who weren’t.

  “No worries, my lord. You Starling children leave little time for else.” Twenty years of age and Breccyn was counted in the man’s assessment as surely as the twelve year-old archer standing in the ring. In an instant, Wyn’s manner changed. “Look the part my lord, it appears our opportunity meets us.”

  Like tall grass before a rolling boulder, the throng was parting for a sizable man who had either won a fortune or lost one – it was difficult to say from his crooked expression. Whichever way his luck fell, he had had enough. A scant dyed vest provided the only elemental protection for the man’s upper body, and he ushered Gabryel forward with a meaty bare arm.

  “Give the boy another round and let him go again,” one man shouted. The words rolled off the larger man like rain off an actual boulder. They had him drinking too? Mother was going to have more than words with Gabryel this time around.

  The ruffian’s enormous size proved more effective at preventing further resistance than Breccyn’s golden stallion ever would. The crowd gave way until the man stood before the two mounts, holding a very drunk Gabryel by his coat collar. The boy held the heavy purse to his chest with his few remaining faculties.

  “Evening, lord,” said the man when it was clear the riders wouldn’t move from his path. It was the first anyone had acknowledged Breccyn’s status. “What say you move that fancy horseflesh before I add it to my haul.”

  Breccyn’s blood simmered, but whether for the boulder not recognizing him beyond nobility, or not treating him as such, he couldn’t say. How would Wyn respond? Certainly not with peevish indignation.

  “Your haul? Are you referring to the boy? It appears the haul is all his,” Breccyn responded. The man’s grip on Gabryel’s scruff tightened visibly. Breccyn was unsure whether the man’s robust grasp or his brother’s legs were providing more support to the intoxicated boy.

  Tall as he was, the boulder’s level gaze lay even with Breccyn’s breastbone. His daunting build more than compensated for the remaining distance to the young lord’s eyes.

  “Been a long time since someone of your stature came round ‘ese parts.” The man spat. “Just like a spit-swallowin’ fine-coat to crawl from the ground for their piece of the pie.”

  Simmering blood intensified to full-on boil forcing Breccyn’s hand to hilt, when Wyn stepped Dhaneb forward into the lantern light.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” Wyn stated. “You’re propping up the latest there. I suspect he showed up sometime this afternoon.”

  “Wyn Fellsword,” the man breathed with childlike awe. He glanced down at Gabryel then back to the mounted men and just like that, his temperament stood on end. “The young master was in a bad place with all these muggers about. I was simply ‘elping ‘im ‘ome.”

  The boulder’s words lacked any titles, but gushed with previously absent respect. He even stood a little straighter. How could the liegeman argue greatness? He was recognized where nobility was not - granted his otherworldly features were very recognizable - but more importantly, he was respected where nobility was not. How was fame insignificant when Wyn could have every last Ward idler dancing on their hands if he commanded?

  Faster than a four-legged Feral, the ruffian released his grasp on Gabryel.

  “Up you go, Master Gabryel,” Wyn said, hoisting the oblivious boy in front of him. He turned to Breccyn quietly. “Let’s take our leave before the wrong man whispers cheat.”

  “Did you see, Wyn? Did you see?” Gabryel managed. Wyn slipped the purse from the boy’s clutch and tossed it to Breccyn.

  “Aye, young master. As skilled at the bow as your echo with the book.”

  “And as talented at the mug as a tavern full of troublemakers, no doubt,” Breccyn added, never removing his raging eyes from the boulder.

  Gabryel in hand, Wyn wheeled Dhaneb in the opposite direction only to find that Breccyn had not followed suit.

  “My lord,” Wyn said, gathering Breccyn’s attention. “I’m of the mind to avoid brawling tonight.”

  Breccyn’s anger held fast to its bubbling state. “Pick a less troublesome, more dignified path from the Old Ward and we may achieve that aim.” With that, Breccyn pushed Anchor forcefully through the mountain of muscle, and tossed the open purse into the watchful crowd. An uprising of competing vultures ensued. The large man was torn between want of coin and want of reprisal. Breccyn had found that in situations of choice, coin always won out. Flexing his arms and spitting once more for effect, in the end, this occasion proved no different.

  “I make no promises on dignity, my lord, but I’d take an oath that our captive will offer no trouble.” Gabryel’s head rolled lifelessly from side to side between Wyn’s caring arms as both men urged their horses into motion.

  CHAPTER 3

  On the edge of the Old Ward near Shorefeld’s southern entrance was a large, open square, and on that square was an inn. The Gambling Jester occupied the perfect location to attract the worst of the worst with yet a little coin, and that’s precisely what it did. Affluent debauchery it was said to purvey. A place where anybody that was nobody could become somebody - and conversely - if only for a time.

  The walk had been quiet. Gabryel, who could blend quite well amongst the Jester’s patrons at the moment, was drunk beyond words. Wyn was his usual wolfish self, preferring to observantly slip through the environment in silence. Breccyn’s blood had cooled somewhat, but he remained wrapped in an internal conflict between glory and honor, and the contrary words of a man who clearly had both.

  Every last idler in the Ward had recognized Breccyn’s status, and every last one had ignored it. Until Wyn made himself known, that was. Even the boulder backed down then. Everything the liegeman did spoke of greatness, and everything he spoke did otherwise. What good was catering to loved ones? Influencing those that loved you was easy. Influencing those that did not was both the weathervane for greatness, and the purpose behind it. Like a roof overhead or three square meals a day, Breccyn supposed greatness was something easily discounted once firmly secured.

  To the young lord’s glory-seeking mind, there were two ways to achieve the commanding status he so desired; Wyn’s route, or his father’s. Regrettably, neither path was without its shortcomings. Obtaining a moon-marked blade and becoming a Fellsword would certainly do, but only eight of the magnificent blades were said to exist in fable. Only three of those were known in reality. With one held by his father’s liegeman, one by the Lord Captain of the King’s Lance, and the last carried by his prince, befriending a Grayskin was more likely.

  The second path was that of most great men, and Breccyn considered his father firmly among them. The problem here was time. Years in service to his people, decades negotiating amongst his contemporaries, a lifetime responding to calls from his superiors; it was no wonder Ryecard Starling was seen as a great man. It was a wonder he was still alive to see it. Ambition, true ambition, had no respect for time, yet its fruits upon fulfillment did. It would do Breccyn little good to finally achieve the heart of his desire as his own heart whimpered faintly upon his deathbed. Not to mention that his current romance demanded greatness. With everything Breccyn desired sitting in the saddle next to his, its human embodiment casually indifferent to it all, it was a wonder that jealousy never crept into his thoughts.

  The conflict did sour his mood however. “I loathe this place,” he muttered, eyeing the multi-storied inn with disdain. Lantern light filled every window, and wild laughter poured from the open door. “Always filled with foreigners playing at what they’re not, with what they
should not.” Brothel was certainly too strong of a word, though coupling-house was not far off.

  “Travelers translate to currency, my lord,” Wyn offered thoughtfully. As the men passed the adjacent alley, the distinct sounds of scuffling rose above the otherwise ambient laughter. Two or three men, it was difficult to say given the darkness, were laying into each other as only drunkards could. “Though it can sometimes cost more than it’s worth,” he admitted. “Focus forward if you would please, my lord. Would be a shame to escape the giant only to be captured by a few barflies.”

  Breccyn had reined in and was peering intently down the unlit corridor. Something had his hackles standing on end and it wasn’t the skirmish itself. Such things were plainly too common in these parts to put him on edge. He now gathered that the fight was one-sided, two of the men were working together in their pummeling of the third, but it wasn’t that either. A blow landed squarely to his ears, followed shortly by soft groans, and all at once it occurred. The third wasn’t a man at all.

  Both men were off their horses in a flash, the added responsibility of lowering Gabryel to the ground not hampering Wyn in the slightest. The liegeman even had time to pull a lamp from the inn’s terrace, skillfully leap its railing, and match Breccyn stride for stride down the alley. Rushing forward, it struck Breccyn as odd that the two louts made no sign of retreat before the oncoming and visibly armed men. They did release the girl, however, and as she stumbled into the halo of light, then into Breccyn’s arms, his anxiety was confirmed. Bruised and bloodied, with more tears in her fitted garments than a storm-battered sail was not just any old bar-honey. Aryella, the only daughter of House Starling and the next oldest after Breccyn himself, placed her damaged face into her brother’s shoulder and wept.

  Rising to a steady boil deep in the Old Ward, then settling on the ride out, Breccyn’s blood was a feverish and entirely irrepressible vapor now. Before giving thought to his sister’s comfort, he passed the girl to Wyn who hurriedly tucked her beneath arm and cloak. Naturally, Wyn remained in control, though gritted teeth told of more emotion than the man let on.

  “Should I call for the watch, my lord?” Wyn’s voice was stressed as well, but the detail was lost to the furnace of Breccyn’s thoughts.

  “I’ll handle it,” Breccyn snapped. Wyn could not order his battles forever. For honor and greatness, he wouldn’t let the man. “Take Ary home and see that a physician has a look.”

  “I’m fine, really. I would see these men arrested first.” This was Aryella’s sixteenth spring, four greater than the twins, four less than her older brother, though she had always found a way to surpass all three in the usual misadventures of boyish adolescence. When the cook’s larders were raided, Lady Starling turned first to her daughter. When the hayloft went up in flames, the lord steward sought Aryella for answers. Most importantly she could handle herself, and Breccyn took her at her word. Besides, he wasn’t of the mind to argue.

  “No one will be arrested. Not yet.” His body burned, yet his words were colder than a northern freeze.

  “You won’t win your moon blade in a bar fight, my lord,” Wyn spoke hurriedly. Some shadesayers claimed to see the future, others, the inside of people’s minds. Wyn was working his hand at both and was much closer on both accounts than Breccyn had ever witnessed from the Five-fearing loons. “Remember the bear’s den, my lord. Remember greatness.”

  The forge roared. Honor was a part of greatness; Breccyn remembered that well.

  “Do you beat women often, or just in darkened alleyways on cold nights?” he growled. Now that he could see them, the men were closer to his father’s age than his own. Perhaps closer still to Wyn’s. Both wore swords but weren’t concerned enough to draw.

  The heavier of the two stepped forward as if nothing about his conduct was questionable. “That loose-skirt has a mouth on her that needed closing.” Slurred speech pointed to the night’s prior activities, partially concealing the man’s accent.

  “A woman should be welcome everywhere a man is,” Aryella shouted through blood and tears. Wyn’s solid arms were the only thing holding her from the fray once again.

  “You’re welcome where my little man is,” said the second, a disgusting sneer parting his peppered beard.

  “Be careful with your exaggerations, little man, the word presently exists for tiny,” Aryella fired back. The man’s grin was wiped clean without retort.

  The bearded lout’s accented speech was crisper than his hefty friend’s, though Breccyn paid little attention to the color and more to the repulsive content. It was everything he could do to not skewer the man then and there.

  “Wyn, take her to the horses.”

  “My lord-” came the beginnings of an objection.

  “Now, Wyn.” The young lord’s sharpness left no room for argument from the sworn man, Fellsword or not.

  Wyn sighed. “Remember the bear’s den, my lord.” Leaving the lantern, he and Aryella withdrew into the darkness.

  “You assail and insult a lady of the province, and more concerning to your immediate welfare, my sister.” Every word was forcefully extruded through clenched jaws.

  “Lady? She ain’t no lady of mine.”

  “Ain’t no lady,” added the heavier man. “A rabid dog, maybe, who thinks it can eat off the table when it should be picking the scraps from beneath. And you should take care who you’re addressing, lord.” Breccyn’s title was complete mockery and disdain.

  “I have taken care and could hardly care less. Two spineless leeches require no attention until they begin feeding, then I’ve found a flick of the blade does the trick.” Breccyn’s provocation had the bearded man taking an aggressive step into the shaky glow, unsheathing his sword in the process. He handled his weapon surely despite the drink in his belly.

  “You’re an ignorant man-”

  “And you a crude one, though I refuse to provide any label suggesting manhood for fear of association.” Both men opened their mouths, but Breccyn continued right over them. “Since my sister and I diverge in our wants, only one of us will be contented tonight. Drop to your bellies and beg her lady’s forgiveness and I’ll see her merciful call for arrest satisfied. Refuse, and it will be I who is satisfied as I collect your blood on my blade and your heads in my hand.”

  The bearded thug seethed visibly. “When we’ve done your monger parents’ job and taught you the overdue lesson your ill-mannered harlot of a sister just learned, we’ll catch up to her and show your entire monger city the meaning of satisfaction.”

  The steam erupted.

  Breccyn’s father had drilled honor from the boy’s birth, and it was this unconscious facet that had the young lord striking first at the bearded man whose blade was hitherto on guard. This offered the heavier man a chance to draw steel and prepare himself. Given the disparity in skill however, it mattered solely for honor’s sake and not a breath more. Lord Steward Starling had drilled the sword into his son as deeply.

  Three slender mirrors echoed the dancing lantern in the otherwise impermeable darkness. Wyn was right, he wasn’t going to win the title of Fellsword here. But to earn a moon-marked weapon required extraordinary skills with one that wasn’t. This was simply one more session to learn his craft - and his beloved blade - that much better.

  The telltale ring of clashing steel was carried down the narrow alley by the stiff wind. The two rounded and closed, deflected and withdrew, always attempting to gain the upper hand and never succeeding to do so. Breccyn countered at each point, gracefully ordering body and blade in near-perfect unity.

  The vulgar men were surprisingly sharp for the amount of drink intermixed with their blood – undoubtedly a result of years of conditioning – though not sharp enough to realize this was a fight they could not win. They fought as most did, with the belief that strength and speed were everything. While they were something, as his father had instructed, they were merely brushstrokes on a much larger painting. The victor was not always the strongest or swiftes
t. It was the person who could anticipate accurately, predict his opponent’s moves, and effectively slow the passing of time so that planning, reactions, and counters were precise and exacting. Never block an incoming strike simply to save your neck. Block an incoming strike to aid your momentum, throw your enemy off balance, and sting their hilt-hand in unison. While they were fixed on a single brushstroke in real-time, you were five exchanges ahead, trusting your body to paint the entire image as your mind began organizing the sixth.

  Much like painting, the technique took years to learn and more than one lifetime to master. Wyn could slow a dozen men at once. Breccyn couldn’t match that, but today he didn’t need to.

  It was the heavier man who fell first. Breccyn redirected the bearded man’s point into his friend’s throat, then finished with a reverse thrust to the abdomen. The second man’s death, like his speech, was less clean, though less for Breccyn’s want of revenge, and more for the half-filled chamber bucket his wilting frame upset upon collapse.

  Wyn returned a short time later with horses in hand. He made no judgment in voice, though his expression was dimmer than the alley.

  “Are you alright, sister?” Breccyn asked. Aryella sat atop Wyn’s mare, steadying her drunken brother with one hand and probing her damaged head with the other.

  “Better than those men. Are you well?”

  Breccyn nodded. “What a perfect mess the three of us are. Father will have our skin.”

  “If there’s any left to be had after mother’s through,” Aryella added.

  “All decisions, good or bad, are rewarded with consequence,” Breccyn replied, repeating a phrase their mother often repeated.

  While the Starlings spoke, Wyn set about searching the dead for information leading to next of kin. He stopped suddenly, his face draining white even for his unusually pale skin. The liegeman recognized trouble and likewise recognized he could do nothing for it.