by Rick Dearman
Adderand
By Rick Dearman
Copyright 2011 Rick Dearman
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Deren the squire struggled behind Bron in the darkness. A backpack larger than he was pulled him off-balance. Oil lamps lit the street but the wooden planks on the sidewalk where he walked were in semi-darkness, the light blocked by the overhanging roofs. The rough-hewn boards were treacherous underfoot forcing him to watch each footfall with care.
Two days ago he and Bron had been heading for the front lines with Bron’s father and the King. The King wanted to encourage the morale of the troops. Deren had been newly assigned as Bron’s squire which although it was an advancement wasn’t the best assignment. The King had knighted Bron only last month and because of the lack of eligible squires the sword master had postponed Deren’s knighthood. Deren supposed he should resent being Bron’s squire since Bron was only one month older than himself, but he couldn’t seem to drum up the energy.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead was Baron Adderand. Deren was excited about meeting the newly-appointed Baron, it was said around the brothels of the town centre the King himself had promoted him from a commoner. Bron O’Gleofa was a knight of the realm and the future Earl of Gleofa. He had snorted when told he would be returning to the city of Varta with Baron Adderand.
“The man may well be the biggest traitor of this war! He was the only survivor of all the men sent into the enemy cities,” Bron had said. “Many people are interested in knowing how he managed that. As for that story of escaping from the slave pits, a load of rubbish!” Deren had often heard people accuse Baron Adderand of treason, but never within ear shot of the King.
Deren looked to the street, watching his master’s horse. Bron and his four retainers rode their armoured mounts through the empty street. The other four squires followed Deren each with a backpack of slightly smaller dimensions. One more humiliation for not having the killer instinct the swordmaster demanded.
“Hold!” Bron commanded, holding up a mailed fist. Deren stopped, thankful for a reprieve from the heavy bag, which he had immediately dropped to the ground.
From the darkness of a side street a man had emerged. The man carried a small backpack and was dressed in worn leather armour. Deren looked to see if it was Baron Adderand. The dim light from the streetlamps shone on his silver hair and salt-and-pepper beard. Deren was disappointed. This didn’t look like a Baron, or a famous sword fighter for that matter.
The man wasn’t very tall. Deren estimated that he was less than six feet tall, much smaller than Deren’s gangly seven feet. The man was very muscular, his forearms bulging to twice the size of Deren’s. The face under the beard was wrinkled and old. The man’s nose was flat across his face; it had obviously been broken in the past.
“Which of ye fools be Bron O’Gleofa?” the man asked. His voice reminded Deren of the sound of a wood rasp in a carpenter’s shop. The man had a thick mountain country accent, certainly not the voice of an upper-class duke.
“I am Bron O’Gleofa. I suppose that you must be Adderand. I’m ready to depart, you may lead on,”
Deren saw the man clench his jaw. He doubted this man suffered fools gladly.
“Aye, I’m Baron Adderand. I see ye dinne follow me instructions te bring the barest of necessities for travel,” the Baron said, sweeping out his hand in an arc to indicate the entire group. “Dinna ye get my message?”
“Yes of course. I brought only a few men and some squires, with provisions,” said Bron.
Deren watched Adderand clenching his jaw. Adderand took three deep breaths and walked over to Bron’s horse. He reached up and grabbed the reins, his voice low and menacing.
“Listen, pup. Get down off the horse and we’ll go. It is only thee and me going to Varta. If ye are too lazy to carry your own provisions then ye may bring a servant, but the rest go,”
“Deren! Gather the supplies and come with me. The rest of you are dismissed,” Bron said.
Adderand turned and marched down the street. Deren struggled to put the heavy pack back on and Bron spurred his horse forward. Before he’d gone far Adderand turned and saw Bron riding his horse.
“Leave the horse,” Adderand stood with his hands on his hips staring at Bron.
“No. A Cavalier does not go forth without his steed. I will not walk like a commoner. Although you seem to prefer it Baron Adderand,”
Deren could hear the sneer dripping from Bron’s voice. Involuntarily, Deren took a sharp breath. Bron looked nervous, perhaps sensing he had overstepped the line with this dangerous old man.
“Tomorrow ye will walk, boy,” Adderand said. The Baron turned and continued on through the quiet streets with Bron and Deren trailing along behind.
Deren was breathing hard by the time they reached the city gate. He had fallen behind and could barely see Baron Adderand talking and laughing with one of the gate guardsmen; Bron sat on his horse moodily.
“Where have you been?" Bron asked. “We have been waiting. Now let’s go,”
“Hold on boy, I have something to do first.” The Baron walked over to Deren and pulled the backpack off. He turned it over, dumping the contents on the ground. Immediately, Deren stooped to pick up the scattered items but the look Baron Adderand gave him stopped him cold.
The Baron put the food back into the bag but left Bron's clothes and personal items on the ground. He picked up a dagger from the selection of weapons and a pair of stout boots. The boots he put into the backpack and gave Deren the dagger.
“Strap that on ye and take care of it,” he said. When Deren had finished buckling on the dagger the Baron handed him the lightened backpack.
“What are you doing?” demanded Bron. “Who is going to carry my belongings?”
“That rubbish stays here for the guards to split among themselves. Ye’ll not need that. Nor would the boy be able to run if an enemy sees us,”
“This is an outrage. I’ll be telling my father about this, you can be sure!”
“Aye, I’ll not be sleeping I’m so worried ,” the Baron replied sarcastically.
Deren pulled on the backpack. He was glad to have a weapon. The dagger would at least give him a small chance of defending himself. The journey to Varta was going to be bad enough. Varta had fallen to the enemy three months ago and rumour had it that Bron was at fault. His father had left him in charge when the Earl had travelled back to the capital to report to the King.
They left the city and travelled down the road in the moonlight. Adderand led the way, never faltering and always seemed to know exactly what was ahead. Deren had heard it said that the Baron could see like an owl at night. The rumours about the infamous swordsman seemed to be firmly based in reality.
Even with the lightened load, the backpack was heavy, but he knew it would be much lighter by the time they got to Varta. As he walked along the road, he found himself looking down at his feet, calculating the amount of time it would take them to walk to Varta. Before the war a mounted man could make it to Varta from the Capital in just three days. It would take a fortnight to walk.
Adderand informed them curtly, they would have to leave the road and avoid the enemy patrols. Now Deren knew that it would be about a month before they got there. Why they were going he didn’t know. Neither the Baron nor Bron were likely to take him into their confidence.
At dawn Adderand led them off the road. They made camp wordlessly in the woods.
“From now on we travel only at night.” Adderand said, moving over to a tree and sitting with his back against it. He drew out his sword and laid it across his knees, and seconds later he was asleep.
<
br /> Deren took care of the horse as Bron lay down his blankets to sleep. Using a bundle of grass Deren wiped down the horse and let it graze before lashing it to a tree and going to sleep himself.
***
Deren was awakened by shout and a crash. He jerked awake, looking around desperately for the source of the noise, the sun was setting over the horizon. They’d slept the entire day away.
Bron was on his feet shouting at Adderand. Deren could see Adderand standing over the bloody corpse of Bron’s horse and wiping his huge bastard sword.
“I’m going to kill you, you stupid old man!” shouted Bron. “You’ve killed my horse!”
“Aye,” said Adderand coldly. “I told you that you would walk today. From now on, ye will listen to me,”
Bron snatched up his sword and pulled it from its scabbard. Deren hastily moved out of the way as Bron approached Adderand, both men with naked steel in their hands.
“I’m going to run you through, you bloody peasant,” said Bron as he charged.
Adderand stepped lightly away at the last minute, stepping in from the side and smacking Bron hard in the side of the head with his hilt. Bron dropped like a stone. Adderand took Bron’s sword from his hand and threw it toward Bron’s blankets.
“Since the magic release is keyed to ye voice, I cannie cut ye throat like I should. But ye don’t need hands to speak, so if ye ever raise a sword to me again I’ll cut off your hands and bollocks. I’ll not be taking any of ye sass boy. Remember my words,”
Deren walked over and helped Bron to his feet. The saw was an ugly bruise swelling up on the side of the knight's face, but he had to turn away when he saw the tears streaming down Bron’s face. Deren had no wish to shame him anymore than the Baron already had.
Silently, Bron walked to his weapon and began to buckle it on. Seeing no need to do anything more, Deren picked up the backpack. Adderand stood watching until the pack was on, then he motioned Deren to come over.
“Take the boots from the pack and give them to him,” the Baron said gesturing toward Bron. “We’ll be taking a shortcut to Varta, going north across the marshes,”
Bron looked up and opened his mouth, but it was Deren who spoke first.
“But sire! No one has ever crossed the marshes. We must take the road or we will surely die in the quicksand,”
“I have crossed the marshes. Aye, it isn’t an easy journey, but it can be done. Ye need to listen and watch. I’ll not be ye mother and I’ll only tell ye once. But I’ll get ye through,” Adderand looked at Bron and said. “I have no grudge against ye, don’t cross me and we’ll all get back in one piece,”
“Very well,” said Bron, he sighed and stood looking at the man before nodding. “Baron Adderand,”
“Remove your armour. In the marshes it is more likely to kill ye than save ye. Put on those boots. Ye need to split the provisions between ye to spread the weight. I’ll be back in a half hour or so,”
The Baron Adderand left, leaving Deren and Bron to split up the provisions and roll Bron’s share into his bedroll. The darkness had fully set in when Bron broke the silence standing over the remains of his horse.
“My Father gave me that horse when I was knighted. It was one of the best horses ever bred on our lands,”
“Sire,” Deren stopped not knowing what else to say , shuffling uncomfortably. Just then Adderand walked back into the camp carrying three staffs. He handed one to each of them.
“Ye’ll need these in the marshes. Once inside the marshes always push the staff in the ground before ye step on it. There is quicksand everywhere. We’ll travel at night so we’ll rope on to each other,”
Bron and Deren both nodded and they set off, following Adderand.
***
Deren was sick of the marshes. There was no respite from the constant buzz of the insects around his head, mosquitoes stabbed every inch of exposed flesh, the bites leaving his hands and face swollen. They had been travelling through it for three nights.
For the most part he tried to ignored the mosquitoes, they were only a nuisance not life threatening. More horrible were the leeches, that attached themselves to his legs and feet. Every few hours they all stopped to clear the black slimy things from their bodies, searching each other to find the ones that had crawled on to their backs and necks unseen.
Even so the worst thing about the swamps was the fear. The splash of water as another crocodile launched itself into the water. The dread as Deren waited to be seized in the teeth of reptilian killers. Sometimes they had to trudge through neck-high water, sputtering and floundering along.
Bron and Deren were forced to help each other through the water, dragging each other from under the murky water when one slipped or fell. They had developed a grudging friendship over the last few days, due to the trials and hardship they were suffering together. It broke down the barriers of squire and master. In contrast Adderand was aloof and Deren was more afraid of him than anything in the swamp.
The Baron hadn’t said much to them as they travelled other than to give directions. The night Adderand had killed the horse they reached the edge of the marshes. They had roped themselves together with Bron behind Adderand and Deren in the rear. He could see Bron holding his hand over his sword handle as they walked. He figured Bron was still smarting at his humiliation, the swollen knot was purple and horrible to look on.
Deren’s lanky seven feet stood him more than the others in the swamp. Pulling Adderand from the water after he slipped had earned him grudging thanks. Gradually Deren came to take the lead while Adderand gave him directions from behind.
On their first night in the marshes, Adderand had looked over at Bron and said. “Never stab a man in the back with a sword, it’s too unwieldy and he’ll have a dagger in ye guts before ye can spit,” Bron had said nothing.
“What do you make of that?” said Bron, jerking Deren from his reverie. Deren looked up to see faint lights moving around in the night, darting in and out of the trees.
“Will-o-wisps,” said Adderand. “If ye follow them, they’ll lead ye to ye death. Best to ignore it,”
As dawn broke pink across the sky they could see Adderand had managed to lead them to a piece of land higher than the surrounding swamp. Adderand took his customary place against a tree, the bastard sword across his knees, closed his eyes to sleep.
“Do you think he really fought in the slave pits?” Deren asked Bron as he pulled a particularly huge leech from the back of Bron’s neck.
“Yes, the King told me Adderand and his friend had fought there after being captured while spying. Of the thirty spies sent into Tarisland only Adderand survived, and he returned blinded to the daylight,”
“Sire, why are we going to Varta?” Deren asked. He had been curious, but only now had managed to pluck up the courage to ask.
“I can’t tell you. It is a secret I’m sworn not to reveal,”
“He risks his life as well. He has a right to know why,” Adderand said. Both young men jumped, they had thought him long since asleep.
Bron looked at the older man then to Deren.
“We travel to Varta to retrieve the Scythe Crystal. I left it locked in the vault under the fortress when we retreated from the enemy. I couldn’t take it with me so I had a spell caster lock the vault. It can only be opened by the sound of my voice saying the password,”
“What is so important about this crystal it can’t be left where it is?” Deren asked.
“It can be used to see a small distance into the future, allowing the viewer to see an hour ahead. You can imagine the usefulness for a general commanding a battlefield. My father had left it in my possession, but I foolishly left it at the fortress,” Bron fell silent then looked at the ground.
Deren lay down on his blankets and watched Adderand, now wondering if the man ever truly slept at all.
***
Two nights later, they emerged from the marshes into hilly woodland only a few miles from Varta. They had run out
of supplies yesterday. Adderand stopped beside a short knotty tree and pulled out his dagger. Deren watched him as he cut off three of the larger branches and stripped off the outer bark. He handed each of them a branch.
“Chew it into a mush then eat it. It tastes bitter to start but it’s filling and will keep ye alive,”
Deren put the branch into his mouth and chewed it. Thanks to the swamps, he’d learned to listen to Adderand without question. The taste was bitter but after some chewing it began to taste much the same as broccoli.
Being this close to the enemy this might well be my last meal, he thought morbidly.
Adderand moved forward scouting in the darkness and returning to show the others the way. For Bron and Deren's part they moved on mechanically, making almost no sound on the mossy ground. Deren looked about as the moon rose and it’s light brightened the woods.
Adderand had been gone for ten minutes when suddenly Bron grabbed Deren’s arm and motioned him quiet. Deren stopped and looked to where Bron was pointing. There was a light flickering in the distance, probably a campfire, he thought.