Mordon of Widley

by M. C. Stiller

  MORDON OF WIDLEY

  M. C. Stiller

  Copyright © 2017 by M. C. Stiller. All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art Copyright © 2017 by Tara Stiller

  Book published by Clifford Sonnentag, BOBE

  Illustrations © 2017 M. C. Stiller

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAPS & ILLUSTRATIONS

  PREAMBLE

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART II

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  EPILOG

  Other books by

  M.C. Stiller

  MAPS & ILLUSTRATIONS

  PREAMBLE

  Near the base of one of the high wooded hills north of the sacked city of Widley, a slight man emerged from the last grove of oak trees, waiting for the moon to set before he crept from the oaks. Constantly suspicious and ever wary, the man moved with stealth across the uneven ground. The lack of concealment bothered him to such extent his movements were circumspect. His vigilance increased until he was practically crawling. He had crossed nearly two hundred leagues on foot in search of the woman. Poltarc didn’t know he had left the city of Glouster, at least he hoped the man didn’t know. If Poltarc found out he was here, he’d probably send someone to fetch him back. To return to Poltarc in chains would mean his life was soon to end in an unpleasant manner. The woman would be coming back this way, and he wanted to be here when she arrived. The thought of the woman made him quiver and drool with pleasurable thoughts. He had spent the last two years desiring her. Many others had had her the way he wanted, but Poltarc had refused him the pleasure. Here in Widley, he would wait and then take pleasure when he found the wench. First, he had to meld into Widley’s rubble with one of the groups of men Scatley was trying to kill; he would do some killing of his own. When the man gained the first piles of fallen stonework, he smiled and moved deeper into the shadows of the fallen city. Cratty would consider a name for himself later.

  CHAPTER 1

  Mordon was one of the three king’s soldiers who had survived; his having to hide beneath this scorching pile of rubble infuriated him as it would any real swordsman. Sweat dripped from his nose and chin, irritating the nicks where his keen-bladed knife had taken more than the hairs of his beard. He could feel a pool of sweat forming on his hot lower back. Dust filtered down through the tumble of stone above his head, he felt as if he were about to choke. Hiding with the rats and other vermin was not his style, but at the moment was his only prudent recourse.

  The enraged mercenaries stomping around this pile of collapsed building seemed as if they were never going to stop looking for him. There were fewer now than an hour ago, but still they searched. Mordon had given them sufficient reason to be angry. He had been pilfering their larger supplies for a week. But a man needed to take what food was available in this place. If they were dumb enough to hide their food where it was accessible, they deserved to have it stolen. A large portion of their supplies was now safely hidden in Mordon’s secure bivouac. If these buggers would just leave . . . . He had suitably angered their leader, Scatley, to cause this concentrated search. Staying down here in this sweltering heat was a small price to pay for several months of rations, so he endured.

  At present, the hirsute and overweight Scatley was enduring his own hardships. The passing of hot spices he had engorged with his meal yesterday was causing him undo pain. Scatley hadn’t been successful in his attempts to water down the effects of the peppers. The large volumes of ale from one of the barrels they had found in the tumbled buildings hadn’t helped in the least. He whined as remains of the hot peppers passed from his body into the hole his men had dug for him. He had had enough of this ghost stealing their goods. The unseen thief had to be one of the survivors they were trying to eradicate like the vermin they were. This time he had sent out a full squad of his men in search of the culprit. The shade of his awning was too compelling for him to join his hard-working men. The shade and the peppers were filling his day with all he could handle. The thought of explaining his failures once more to his dissatisfied and fuming commander, or the men he sent to check on his progress, was tiresome. Could Poltarc not see he would do anything for him? The rabble lingering in Widley’s ruins were a thorn deeply embedded in his side.

  Mordon’s left leg was beginning to cramp. Twinges of over stressed tissues were cycling about within the large groups of muscles in his upper leg. A succession of stinging ants commenced perusing a trail on his sweat-soaked arm; crossing in front of his face after departing. Mordon almost laughed. The longer this torture continued, the more likely he might crack and give away his hidey-hole. He knew every place of concealment within the rubble of Widley’s west and east sections, as well as most of the south. This dark cubby was little different than a hundred other places to hide.

  He tried to think of how it had been before this craziness became his life. Two long years had passed since he had been forced to live like a ghost within Widley. The city had been almost pleasant. People were always laughing as they went about their daily lives. Waifs and family children played together on the safe streets. The same streets he had spent a great deal of time ensuring safe passage for any who strode their cobbled surface. Only the seedy part of town had any clutter on the sidewalks and in the gutters. Business was too hurried for pub owners to maintain the inside, let alone the outside of their establishments. The main smooth cobble stone roadways ran out from the castle like spokes of a wheel. Baskets of flowers had hung from lamp posts lining the active mercantile streets. When Mordon thought of the destroyed places where he used to eat, his stomach roiled from hunger. The last time he had anything to eat had been early in the day. It was high summer, and these stones had been accumulating heat for over two months. In the press of stone and heat, Mordon’s mind kept shifting back and forth from the present to the past. The food had been good no matter where he had eaten in the city. And ah yes, the women . . . they had been nice to him as well.

  Mordon’s reminiscences distracted him from the confining space into which he had scrambled. He had been a soldier in the castle, located at the center of Widley, for nearly as long as he could remember. The garrison had adopted him when he was only a runt living in the streets, dressed in discarded rags. He had no memory of his parents. Mordon could have grown to a man working side by side with his father and would never know. His mother could have been any number of women who plied their wares in the city and could not spare the effort or time to raise a child. Mordon carried no resentment for either of his mystery parents.

  On the streets as a waif, Sag and Marcy had been only twelve but they were the most mature of the kids living there; they had seemed so old at the time. Mordon seriously doubted that without their constant help he wo
uld have never survived his early years. Neither Sag nor Marcy survived the crushing wave of the conquering army sweeping through Widley. Mordon just now, hiding under these stones, realized how lucky he had been back then. There had always been ample food. For a street waif, it was like heaven living in the garrison among the regular soldiers. Old King Widley had made sure his defense force was well fed. The rough spoken men treated him as one of their own. They had never abused him in any manner, except for Nolton on the King’s guard side.

  The thought of the effeminate Nolton made him cringe. A moment of pure hatred washed with guilt swept through his mind. With an effort Mordon wrenched his thoughts from the man.

  After living in the lower guards’ barracks for a month, no one on the street ever gave him any guff. All the children living as he had, and the ones with decent families, recognized him as the chosen one. Street kids came to him for the stolen fruit he managed to hide in his clothing as he left the castle gates. Mordon tried to be as generous to them as he was allowed. Both Sergeant Wicliff and Sergeant Simper knew what he was doing, but never stopped him.

  Mordon thought of both sergeants with fond memories. Ah Wicliff, he had been a father to Mordon and a fine man. He had learned much from the grey-eyed, sandy-haired swords master of Widley’s soldiers. The man spoke with an accent clearly defining his ancestry. Sergeant Wicliff stood less then Mordon’s shoulder, but he was a wizard with any weapon he took to hand. Wicliff had not only taught the young Mordon how to fight with weapons, but had taken the time to school him in the ways of life. Sergeant Simper always treated him kindly; as kindly as a rough soldier could treat a homeless kid. Simper would fill in for Wicliff whenever the older Wicliff’s duties called him elsewhere. Both men tried to keep him fed, warm and safe.

  Not only Wicliff, but all the regular soldiers, had put their arm around his shoulders and Mordon had thrived. It would have been unthinkable for Mordon to choose any other livelihood than soldiering.

  Hidden in his claustrophobic cubby, Mordon smiled thinking about the old garrison. Initially the elite guard had cuffed Mordon about believing he had somehow snuck into the castle on his own. Ol Sergeant Wicliff had to do some yelling and pushing before the polished bastards would let him stay. The King’s guard had tolerated him after Wicliff stood up for him and dressed him with clean clothing. Oh, he had had his limits and restrictions set by Captain Marteno, but he got to stay with the regulars. Life with the rough men had been an eye-opening experience for Mordon.

  While he grew up, the regular guards would take him along with them to the taverns and pubs of Widley. Mordon was served apple cider while his guardians swilled tankards of ale or mead; port was an extravagance. It was loud and smelly and fun for a growing boy. Wicliff had provided him with clothing and miniature armor, including a wooden sword and shield. All the regular soldiers would take him whenever Wicliff or Simper would allow, and treated him as if he were a good-luck charm. The low cut dresses of the barmaids and ladies-of-the-night always made him blush, but they found him adorable. They always wanted to hug him or kiss his cheek, at least, as his memory served him. He drew the more gentle sex to him like flies to sugar. It wasn’t until years later, when he was wearing his own well earned uniform, Mordon found out some of them could be less than gentle.

  Mordon heard a faint grunt. The muffled challenging voice of one of the mercenaries filtered down to where he lay. There was a cry of pain and then silence. What the hell was going on up there? Little could be heard through so much debris, but he knew when a man had voiced his last cry of surprise and pain. Mordon had been in too many life-and-death struggles not to identify that sound.

  He waited until he could no longer endure the silence and the ants. It felt like the struggle had taken place hours ago, but being a ghost in Widley demanded extreme caution. Mordon moved his muscular frame, dragging the cross-guard of his sword against the cut stone where he lay. The scrape and clank was overly loud in his ears, hopefully no one above connected the sound to him. If the bastards were still out there, they might just be approaching the entrance as he lay sweltering in the heat. He waited with learned watchfulness until he felt there was not going to be a response from beyond the bright slanted opening within the rubble. Mordon felt tension seeping through his muscles as he neared the dazzling entrance to his much darker place of concealment.

  When his head came clear of the opening, the fear of having someone remove it from his body made him scuttle crab-like until he could look up to the bright blue sky. It was as quiet as the stone around him. No one rushed him with quick steps. The pent-up breath he had been holding came out in a silent rush of relief. Mordon relaxed the grip he had on the much-used sword hilt at his side. Waiting a few additional seconds, he stood and stretched his left leg; loosening the strands of muscle insisting but not actually cramping.

  No matter which direction he faced, centered in this slight depression within the rubble, there was no one in sight. He filled his lungs full of great volumes of fresh air, grateful it was not burdened with dust. The blue sky and the fresh breeze made Mordon feel as if he just might live another day. Mordon climbed higher within the low swale of tumbled stone. His cautious maneuver allowed his eyes to search beyond the shoulder high pile of broken walls. As quickly as he looked above the rim, he ducked back down.

  Just below him lay two bodies. Their stillness and position certainly did not give any indication of life. He peeked once more and knew immediately they were past worrying about anything in Widley. Mordon recognized them both. Trabor and Qxental were underlings, but tough men. What could have taken them both out so quickly? He would swear there had not been much of a struggle, at least, detectable from where he had been hiding.

  Mordon crept to the highest point of rubble and looked down. The twisted and bloody forms of the two dead mercenaries had taken many wounds. Slaughtered was the feeling Mordon received. Who, or however many, had killed the men were quick and efficient.

  Mordon searched the partially rubble-filled street and the area around him. There were not any windows anyone could be peering from in this area of Widley. There was nothing but mounds of debris. After looking all about him once more, Mordon jumped down next to the two bodies. Their weapons were still sheathed. They did not even have a chance to draw them before meeting their end. Qxental had a superior Wilson blade in his sword sheath. The pommel was of a singular design he had seen only once before. Bending down, Mordon withdrew the bright double-edged sword from the man’s side. It came free with a faint hiss of blade against sheath.

  There was a rush of sound as the wings of a covey of quail lifted from the base of a shattered tree. Mordon tensed and went into a slight crouch; ready to run or fight. Nothing, nothing at all moved besides the escaping birds or anywhere else he looked.

  His time spent under the rubble, two nearly silent killings and this unseen band of men was becoming a little disconcerting. Mordon had given whoever did this plenty of time to disappear from the street. But a presence lingered, as if someone was standing in front of or at his side, but no one was there. Mordon thought he was the only ghost in Widley. Dust began settling where the birds had taken to the air. Still no movement anywhere he searched.

  Mordon shrugged his heavily muscled shoulders and moved with tentative steps to the center of the path between the destroyed buildings. He left the two fallen men forgotten behind him or, at least, trying to forget them. After being in the space beneath the slab of rock, this street made him feel completely exposed in the bright sunlight.

  This ragged and winding path had once been Taylow Avenue. Like all the other main thoroughfares, it stretched from the castle to the old wall surrounding the city. The mounds of debris kept him from seeing the castle, nearly a half-mile to his right. But it was there he had his bivouac and as much comfort as Widley could provide now days. Mordon started off with a brisk step. The motion helped to relax the muscles of his leg. His thoughts left the t
wo men behind him where they lay. It had been a much longer day than he had counted upon. He could have taken the two mercenaries, but why fight if you can hide? Besides, there could have been more of them close by, close enough to appear if one of the two men had called out before they could be dispatched.

  Scatley’s men had never seen him, at least as far as he knew. All the while he had been pilfering small amounts of their goods, he had moved only when prying eyes looked elsewhere. It made him smile thinking he had unnerved the seasoned mercenaries. They could not fight something invisible. Mordon had made a game out of depleting their stores from beneath their very noses. He had probably pushed them more than necessary. But it was a certainty it would be easier for them to replenish their supplies than him.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mordon entered a straight section of the path. He could see the upper portions of the outside wall and the ramparts of the castle roof from here. The closer to the castle he moved, the less damage had been done to the buildings. The invading armies had used the stone from the surrounding farm fences separating the cleared farm land to batter down the outside wall ringing Widley. When the fences disappeared into the city, they had used the stone in the thin outer wall that had rapidly crumbled for their catapults. Here in this section there were still partial walls left standing; gaping sections of rooms were left open to the weather. Old bedding was tangled among crushed metal bed frames, half hanging from broken floor planking. In some places, half or more of whole building fronts and sides had been torn from the structures. The bombardment of catapult stones had rained down on Widley and its population for nearly a month before the invading armies had set a single foot inside the city. Skeletal remains were how Mordon thought of this thick ring of buildings surrounding the castle.

  The strange sense of being not alone still lingered, but no matter how quickly he looked about him there was nothing to see, beyond the devastation. He had been through here a multitude of times the past two years. Never had he felt so spied upon as he did today.