+- Ravenblade Forum (https://ravenblade.net/forum)
+-- Forum: The Commons (https://ravenblade.net/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1)
+--- Forum: Off-Topic (https://ravenblade.net/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=9)
+--- Thread: Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 (/showthread.php?tid=284)
Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 - frenzied67 - 09-28-2024
Once again the writing bug has taken a nip from me. I love having a story begin to seep from me, gaining shape and taking character on the page; the unexpected turns as the tale takes on a life of its own. After crafting a series of scenes one has to begin editing and refining the words and sentence structures, but there comes a time when the writeres eye refuses to see prose that limps or crawls inelegantly. New sets of eyes are required to point out the flubs and stillborn scrawlings. I have removed the information dump scene, parcing out KIng Lorinlil"s memories while making this racist character somewhat of a sympthetic character. Still, I need other eyes to point out the flaws my mind does not currently see.
Gilserand
Old Beard forest seemed a never ending mass of dark green stretching to the northern, southern, and western horizon. The interior seemed imposingly dark, a place where the sun dare not shine. The deciduous trees, mostly oaks and maples, standing at the forest margins all had the seeming of grizzled veterans standing as defiant guardians over the foggy interior of their domain. Each tree sported some form of moss on trunk and branch, mostly a pale green dangling moss reminiscent of swamp growths. The deeper one traveled into this imposing forest the more mosses and lichens adorned the brooding sentinels.
East of the forest marching thigh high grasses waved to the caress of the breeze, swaying in a unity no other life form could achieve. An abundance of flowers shared the gentle hills with the grass, though a person had to be on top of them to notice they were there. Equally, the odd bush was not tall enough to challenge the waving stems; only a few trees were able to do that, but they were so distantly spaced from one another that their infringement was negligible. Closer to Rularic Creek than to the hoary forest, a few human farmsteads had been carved into the grass kingdom; oddly spaced in the league of grasslands before the little city. Walls and lookout towers around their homes showed that these people were more watchful of the fogbound forest than in tending their fields.
Wheat and hay easily blended with the grasslands, especially this early in spring. The smaller vegetable plots were closer to the houses than any other crop, which meant they were there more to subsidize the farmers diet rather than be used to sell in nearby Alren. Chickens made up the predominate species of livestock, though random goats or pigs were kept on some farms. The more numerous farms east of Alren had a greater variety of both crops and animals, but they did not farm the highly desirable wheat and hay the western farms specialized in; they were also not as threatend by the wild races and monsters of the world. Paths from the farms converged to form a dirt road that ran spear straight at Alren, at the Western Bridge that road became paved with flat topped stones that had the semblance of having been planed before being set into the dirt and gravel. Ruts in the western dirt track showed how often farmer’s wagons became mired in the overlong rainy season, while the rock and gravel just had slight rut lines.
Rularic Creek flowed leisurely by the Town of Alren, taking a break from the rapids north west in the forest; preparing itself for the swifter race it made in the Alren Falls many miles to the south east. The Western Bridge’s brown rails stood over the dirt and stone road grade, the dark brown paint recently applied and thus crisp. The span itself could have been drawn with a compass it was such a perfect half circle over the water. How that pristine arch could have been crafted from cement and torso sized stones stymied many of Alren’s residents and the farmers around the town. A mated pair of crows sat atop the thick wood of the guard rail’s planks, resting from their instinctive drive to build this years nest.
Restively they napped for a few moments at a time, reflexively popping their eyes open to check the area around their painted brown perch; the human youth gently snoring under a cottonwood tree a score of yards away receiving most of the bird’s intermittent scrutiny. This person was in that indeterminate stage of life where they were taking on the aspects of a man, but still thought of themselves as a boy. Sandy hair, bushier over the brow, capped an oval face. Ears, slightly too large at this stage of maturation, sat at each side of his face. His nose was almost tall with narrow nostrils, and a smattering of freckles spread from cheek to slightly chubby cheek bridging that nose as though a painter had flicked a brush to add this feature.
The slight lines around the mouth and eyes seemed to hint at the quick changes of expression this boy had, and if his blue eyes had been opened one would note a clever intellect. Those mercurial expressions his face implied, would be by design and not by the whimsy of emotion. A slight snore was broken as thin lips parted in a sleeping sigh, those lips remained parted through several breaths before closing to allow the purr loud snore to resume. A bronze vest laid open, sprawled out like the man/boy, revealing a once white blousy shirt that covered his torso; open laces exposed some skin from throat to sternum. Though the bronze did not match the almost bright vest, the boy’s breeches were subdued as though dusty; an off or burned bronze. They were grass stained at the knees. White hosen continued on where the pants ended at the upper calf, running down the lower leg until covered by cheap brown leather shoes.
A stick spooled with thin line lay half fallen from the youth’s right hand, a couple of loops around his index finger kept the stick from falling completely out of his palm. Hidden by the grass, that string ran from his finger down through the river grasses along Rularic’s bank and into the water. That finger jerked, pulled by an outside force on the far end of that line. Gilserand’s eyes flew wide as both his hands spasmed closed, his right clutching the string wrapped stick; the loop of string had come off his finger. Again there was a tug on the line, stronger than that which had awakened him. With the speed of a man swatting at bugs, Gil set the hook by sweeping his arm until it was parallel to his shoulder. And the fight was on. The line cut through the water heading upstream as the pre-teen sat up, trying to bring his arm to his sternum, while the fish strained for the far shore; a place Gilserand knew hid large line cutting rocks.
It’s too early in the season for trout or salmon, Gil thought surprised by the fight he was receiving. This early in spring he was angling for the yellow perch journeying back to the lakes in Old Beard Forest, but perch did not have the power this fish was exhibiting. He forestalled the beast’s headlong drive for the submerged rocks by grasping the hand line with his left hand, cocking that hand so the broader surface of his palm was braced against the string. Slowly but deliberately he turned the fishes head, not wanting to apply too much tension this soon. That was a sure way to break the thin but sturdy cotton and horsehair braid. Vexed, the fish took too the air, hinging back and forth in its furious flight. Bass! That is a big old bass! The youth exalted as he recognized his piscine foe.
After splashing side first into the stream the line seemed to go slack. For a second Gil thought the worst had happened, the fish had cut the string or had spit the hook; then he remembered how these fish liked to run at the angler to create slack. Gilserand’s arms worked like pistons as he grabbed his line and pulled it in, right, left, right over and over until he felt the fish’s weight against his hand. Outsmarted again, the bass began to pull downstream. Knowing that trying to pull that fish in now would likely break his braided string, Gilserand let the fish run pulling back some of the line gathered in his lap. As the stretchy filament sped between his thumb and forefinger, he occasionally gently pinched down to apply pressure to make the fish work.
Another jump turned into another run upstream for those rocks. Again he turned the bass’ head, gathering enough line to bring it up short. The next time it ran, it ran upstream toward the bridge that the crows had abandoned when the splashing had begun. Gil let it take line as he cunningly applied his finger brakes to tire the fish, he was prepared when the fish turned and began to dash back his way. This time as he gathered line, Gilserand was able to keep continuous pressure on the bass so that he did not have to race. For the first time he had the fish on his side of the wide stream. With a powerful turn the bass ran for the far shore, forcing the boy to let it take line. He turned it’s head downstream long before it came close to those pool hidden rocks.
Trying to run downstream again, Gilserand noticed that his finger braking did not meet as much aggression as before. His prey was tiring! This time, when he turned the fish’s head, he began to pile line in his lap in earnest. It tried to run three more times, but Gil did not let it get too far, keeping his fingers braking through the whole run, then turning the head as the bass lost steam. Rolling up to his knees, Gilserand felt more trepidation at this moment than through the entire fight. Pulling the fish into the shallows where the river grasses did not grow, he worried that the bass had one great burst of fight left in it. The line’s tension was different than when the creature was in the deeper waters, it could spit the hook with just the right flip of its tail. Though the bass did flap, it did not kick itself up into the air and free itself as many others had before.
Gilserand did not remember getting to his feet, but in a flash he was at the stream’s edge hooking his fingers into the large mouth bass’ maw and hoisting it up out of the mud. Flapping furiously, the forearm long fish discovered the energy reserves it had not expended to this point. Mud droplets spattered the boys attire unheeded. Try as it might, it was now in Gil’s element and in his grasp, the young lad’s arms were jerked about a bit though; a testament to the power of the caught fish. Holding it aloft like the prize it was, he looked the fish over. Black goggle eyes studied him back, as fin and fluke alike was held extended, their spiky edges ready to impale Gil’s flesh. All the healthy green collars, darker along the back and becoming paler along its flanks, all drew Gil’s appreciation. Green/black chevron shaped hash marks formed patches on the flanks and those ran from gill to tail; the bass’s lateral line.
While admiring the healthy tones of the fishes scales, Gilserand had began walking upstream angling away from the water briefly on his way towards his wicker fish basket that lay submerged in a small stand of cattails. The thought of his basket brought him up short. Not only was this fish larger than the container, if the bass struggled it might shake the whole thing apart. Turning back about he carried the trophy fish back to the shade of the tree where he had his palm sized bashing rock stored in a root catch. Though the idea of eating this monster appealed to him mightily Gil did not like the act he was forced to perform; the way the creature’s fins and tailed spasmed tore at his soul. He could not move fast enough to hide his deed in the wicker basket, dropping the lid down so the fishes rock mangled head was was no longer visible.
To stave off the guilt of killing the bass he tried to imagine the Widow’s reaction to having such a fine meal. She will be able to save money for the next couple of nights for not having to buy food, Gilserand thought. The woman who had raised him stitched and sewed for the coin that supported both of them. All Gil’s life had been spent watching Randera the Widow in near desperation trying to make ends meet. She is going to be so happy, he imagined as he looked to the sun to gauge the time. Just that fast, Gilserand ceased believing he had done a good deed. By the burning spirts, how long did I sleep? Moron! I’m supposed to be in school now!
His eyes darted for the north western wall’s towers seemingly at the far extreme of Alren. The stacked flint wall and wooden palisade on top curved toward the north east from there so the squared off wooden towers blocked Gil’s vision of the true north west region of the town. Behind those walls, where the turn began, was where he was supposed to be this moment. For a second he saw both Randera the Widow and Miss Hollobrand glaring at him, the small beauty mark quivering over the right bow of The Widow’s lip as she restrained baring her teeth, while the teacher’s narrowed blue eyes sparkled with the promise of scourges of ice and fire. Though a decade separated the women’s ages, they both knew how to cut a lad with their looks of disappointment; which would come after the cutting words he would receive.
Tying the basket as best he could with the bass’ tail hanging out, Gilserand’s first instinct was to cross the road, parallel the Rularic on the foot path, and enter the town through the sally port near the little school house that served the poor quarter. He even took three or four running steps before he pulled up short. Let’s think about this, he began calculating, his mind in a furious turmoil. He would just face Miss Hollobrand’s brand of anger and guilt tactics early because half the class time had elapsed. Later, he would have to face Randera the Widow’s wrath and worry after Miss Hollobrand stopped at the house to tell on him. I’ll get it from both women then. That is like three punishments.
Now if I take my time going home then I face them both at once, so only two punishments which will only feel like one because of the timing. Deep down he knew he was trying to game the system, but Gilserand, through experience, knew that it paid off for him more often than not. Bending his steps more eastward Gilserand quickly found himself climbing the shallow grade to the stone road, it bent a little south east heading for the great stone gate towers and barbican. I’ll wander around the market until the next bell, he plotted.
Like the bridge, the wall was made of the regions flint boulders, but these were cut and stacked in uniform rectangles. Swooping up like a wave cut off at the top, the stonework was thicker on the bottom and thinned as it rose to its ten foot height, the top was twenty feet deep and twice that at its foot. Atop the wall was a log palisade that added another fifteen feet to the wall’s height. Each of the town’s five gates were flanked by round stone towers and barbicans sporting portcullis that were rarely closed. At fifty foot intervals were square wooden towers looking like the poor provincial cousins to the gate’s protections. The few professional soldiers from the capitol existed in the towers and along the wall only allowing the town’s militia in their domain during the monthly mandatory training drills.
No sooner did Gilserand reach the stone road as it followed the outside wall, than a wagon trundled out of the barbican’s aperture heading his way. Even from where he was he could see residual loose hay shake free of the vehicle’s gray wooden bed. Quickly crossing the road, Gil took to the grass just off the stone and gravel. Bawling what sounded like a complaint, the ox flicked it’s ears as it trudged. The beast sounded as though hauling the empty four wheel cart was just as onerous as pulling it fully loaded. Hidden under his wide brimmed hat, the farmer just flicked the reigns and sat like a fixture in the raised seat.
Just as gray as the old wagon, the farmer ignored Gilserands greeting as they passed, but the boy did see the craggy and grizzled features of a very immobile face before the man was behind him. Most of the people that lived between Alren and the Oldbeard were less than friendly. That frowning forest hid a lot of raiding creatures, and the western farmers were always the first to suffer from the attacks that issued from under those dark limbs. Dangers that rarely reached the town at all. Gil was unable to determine the farmers true age from his glance at the man. He could have been young under the dirt and whiskers, or he could have been as old as the boards of his ride.
After the farmer was clear Gil returned to the road, it provided easier travel compared to the uneven grass along the route. He followed the stone road south until it turned east into Alren, directly into the shaded mouth of the west barbican. Above Gil the front set of barbed spikes from the portcullis seemed like sparse teeth ready to fall and devour. Forty some odd feet away, the inner portcullis was hidden in the perpetual shade of the barbican. Coming in from the outside, Gilserand would not be able to see the murder holes above him until he was almost to the far side of the inner gate house. Professional soldiers would be able to see him while he would be shade blinded.
These musing jolted to a halt in his head with a shout from a familiar voice.
“Dilburd, I caught one of ‘em! I caught me a genuine Trumage spy tryin’ to sneak in!” A slight short man stepped from the shadow with a brandished halberd, an easy sneer marring his face. As the farmer he had passed, this man also needed to shave.
“Graeseed, I see you did. A right ugly spy with some vile burning spirit device meant to maim and kill,” a taller stockier man responded, lowering his halberd to point at Gilserand as he too stepped out of the shadows. Despite the threatening steel aimed at him, and the accusation of belonging to an all but dead seditious movement, Gil let his grin free.
“Ahhh! He ain’t gonna pee his breeches,” the guard named Graeseed complained. Both men raised their weapons, and Gil noticed something that might have been respect flitter over tall Dilburd’s mien. These two men had always been friendly to the boy, though their jokes were rough and seemingly violent at times.
That humor had taken Gilserand years to get used to, despite those times when he had earned a clout upside the head for the many violations he had been caught doing by this pair of men. Their stern features made it hard to tell when they were serious or just playing.
“What do you have there, Gil?” Dilburd asked from his over six foot height, pointing at the fish tail sticking out of the basket.
Both guards were armored in chain mail that was hidden under long dark green and black half and half tabards, only the coif buffering their helms showed the chain links to the world. Graeseed was half a foot taller than Gilserand with a round face marred by a chin scar, he seemed too short to be one of the professional soldiers protecting Alren. His best friend Sergeant Dilburd looked more like a guard, tall and sturdy with rectangular features and deep dimples in cheeks that always sported a five o’clock shadow. Their every gesture was punctuated by rattling chain, or clanking plate; those noises were part of the men’s charm to Gilserand.
Before Gilserand could answer he was interrupted while raising his basket.
“Ain’t ya supposed to be in school or somethin’?” Graeseed queried, easy suspicion clouding his features. The boy could not quell the guilt that question raised up, but he tried to appear as world wise as his two older friends.
“I, uh, fell asleep while fishing and missed class,” he began. A prolonged moment passed as he pulled the monster bass out of the little basket. “This bad boy woke me up when I caught him stealing my grasshopper.” Gil could not help but feel pride in himself at the enlarged eyes of the two men, they were easily impressed at the goggle eyed specimen he held by the lip.
Graeseed swore then whistled his appreciation. Avarice crossed tall Dilburd’s face, his attention glued to the fish.
“Now that is a tasty looking monster. The missus would be right pleased if I brought that home. Gil, my boy, I’ll buy that off of you for a real silver coin.”
Gilserand was not the only one who felt surprised by this sudden turn, even Graeseed peered at his chum in confusion. He lowered the fish staring hard at the tall man. Gilserand had seen smaller fish than this bring a pentamark of silver at the market. Offering a single silver was an insult. Seeing Gil’s expression, and the dawning disapproval on his fellow guard’s face, Dilburd grimaced then changed his offer. “Alright, alright. That is a prize fish,” he conceded. “How about eight silver, a pentamark and three singles?”
Oh my Lords of Light and Life, Gil thought awestruck, his mind trying to do sums and figures. Randera the Widow might earn that much coin with her sewing in a good week if she were lucky, and here he was being offered that much coin for one fortunate caste into the stream. For some reason Dilburd was allowing a grin to grow on his face, as Gil pondered this new problem. The Widow and he could eat well for two nights in a row off of the two fillets he would get from this fish. On the other hand, he and the woman who had raised him could get three or four meals from the coin being offered; though the fare might not be as tasty. He hesitated unsure of what to do, fortunately neither man pressured him, granting him time to reason out what could be the best decision in this stretched out moment.
As though sent by the Burning Spirits, a selfish thought passed through Gilserand’s mind. Maybe I can make him up his offer. If he really wants it he would pay ten silver for this fish. The lure of real money, two pentamarks, in the pocket made him ponder taking this route. Then he looked at Dilburd. Even before Graeseed had become a guard Dilburd had looked out for Gil in his rough way. Dilburd had established the tradition of saving him from the various bullies he knew, as well as other kids he had angered in one fashion or another. No, I can’t do that, Gil concluded. As though he read the passing of greed from the lad’s thoughts, Dilburd settled back on his heels with the expression of a man about to make a deal.
Holding the commodity aloft he nodded at the guard.
“I like your second offer, sergeant.” Dilburd had always preferred people address his rank while he was on duty, rather than being familiar and use his name. He held the fish up as though to pass it off, but the guardsman instead fished out a dark red leather money pouch by reaching through the side slit of his tabard. Instead of pouring the contents of the purse into his palm and then selecting the right coins, Dilburd instead rummaged through the bag; a lot of copper coins were produced then shoved back into the drawstring guarded purse mouth.
“I thought you might have been insulted when I just offered one coin, Gil. I apologize for that. I forgot who I was talking too.”
That admission struck Gilserand, and his guilt reared up.
“I, uh… for a moment I thought about trying to gouge you.” Gil instinctively leaned away expecting a flare of anger at his confession. Instead the two guards exchanged grins with each other.
“A lot of these Alren jackasses woulda tried,” Graeseed growled, his face turning sour just to enforce his statement. Gilserand was glad that anger was not directed his way.
“Sad truth is that a lot of us guards, especially those not born in Alren, misuse their authority on these people first. The thing about you, Gil, is that you’ve always been a straight shooter. My first offer was messed up, and you knew it, but when I gave you a real proper bit of dickering you only hesitated a second before agreeing. We saw that little moment of greed come and go. I appreciate that you didn’t act on it, Gil, and I thank you for this fish.”
As the tall guard beamed proprietary delight at the bass Gilserand found himself thinking furiously. They saw what I was thinking? How did they do that, I was trying to be as…. What is that word Missus Hollobrand used...? Oh yea, stoic. I was trying to be as stoic as these guys are. I can rarely tell what they’re thinking. Sergeant Dilburd offered the four coins, the larger pentamark seemed to dominate the man’s palm. He offered the fish again as he accepted the coins with his other hand. The guard made no move to take the trophy. “I, uh, could I borrow your wicker basket to get it home in?” Gilserand drew back for a moment.
Through the years they had always had a friendly relationship, but he had never been asked to surrender a valuable possession before. Not by either man, not even for a temporary amount of time. Did he know and trust these men enough to let his fishing basket go?
“How would I get it back?” he asked trying to think of some way to deny the request without looking distrustful.
“We got street patrol the next couple a days, in the textile districts,” Graeseed stated, seemingly offering a non-sequitur into the conversation. The taller guard nodded as though this information was important.
The taller man mused for a few moments looking within himself.
“We will have gate duty again three days from now. I can return your basket then. Just pop by this barbican and look for us.” Now that the older man had come up with a solution, Gilserand realized that his trepidation had evaporated.
“That sounds good. I won’t be fishing again for a while after today. Missing school has gotten me in between a rock and a hard place with two women who are going to gang up on me.” Guards loved to talk about women, tales where they either gave the women a tickle or got chased with a broom. Ignoring Gilserand’s effort to start interesting banter, Graeseed instead studied him for a moment; his hawkish gaze becoming intense.
“Maybe we can start having Gil here running us some errands on that day?”
That query made Dilburd snap his attention on the shorter soldier. Gilserand did not understand what was going on with these two men, and this summoned forth a nervousness in the lad. There was an energy, an intensity being exchanged by the two men that was going over Gilserand’s head. The taller guard turned an assessing eye on Gil, the boy wondering if this was how pigs and cows felt when the butcher was considering where to start cutting.
“Really? He’s a year or two away from Gathering age?” Dilburd started, still measuring Gilserand. The Gathering was a kind of right of passage that happened with some boys and girls when they turned thirteen. A lucky few kids would be taken on as apprentices by various artisans and trades folk at that age. Those kids usually grew up to be bosses in their respective fields while the children not chosen would be stuck with menial jobs when they turned fifteen.
Why were these soldiers taking such an interest in him, and what did it have to do with the Gathering? Gilserand was a year and a few weeks away from his thirteenth year, and he was already certain that he, as a bastard orphan, would be overlooked for an early apprenticeship. “He’s too young and he might remain a scrawny runt.” For some reason this assessment hurt Gil’s feelings; Graeseed was not fond of the sergeant’s words either.
“It aint a man’s size that counts, it’s his guts and smarts that makes him somethin’. This boy’s got man sized balls, I know you see it.” The way the smaller man seemed to bare his teeth at his larger friend totally bemused Gil; for a moment he thought Graeseed would launch himself at Dilburd, the heat in his eyes seemed to come from some inner fury.
Is he mad because he is small for a guard? Are they talking about making me a guard? I thought all the guards came from the capitol? Dilburd held up his hands as he shook his head showing he was unwilling to let this conversation become a fight.
“I see what your saying, but it’s too soon for the boy. He’d be marked out by other guards wanting to sponsor, plus any bully who saw him working for us. Let’s see how he comes along in the next year or so.” These words seemed to take the steam out of short Graeseed’s agression; both men continued to look at each other. More silent communication going on between them. Curiosity had it’s hold on Gilserand, but he knew deep down that important somethings were passing between his two older friends.
“Do you guards take apprentices? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Though they held each other’s stares for a moment more, it seemed as if Gilserand’s questions had cut off the silent dialogue.
“Anyone tough enough to survive the training can join,” Graeseed started. The way Dilburd finished the other man’s thoughts made Gil almost double take.
“Most of our noncoms and all of our officers are recruited on Gathering days, though.” Odd how these two men synchronized each others sentences sometimes.
They glanced at each other again before the shorter soldier made his face stony for Gilserand.
“You don’t need to worry about it though, a kid that skips school doesn’t get Gathered.” He almost bought it, then he remembered the hard sense of humor these two had. They are only pretending to be mean to me again, the boy realized.
“You sold your fish, you got your money, why the hell are you still bothering us?” Dilburd asked, his face full of false disdain.
Though their faces showed him negative impressions, the sparkle in their eyes implied joy in their game. Gilserand wanted to grin at the retort that jumped into his head. Throwing up his hands he began to move into the gatehouse.
“Alright, alright, I’m going. It was only the smell of the fish that made you guys tolerable.” Graeseed started laughing immediately, pleased by the insult. Dilburd feigned outrage, he lowered his halberd and advanced on Gilserand as though to spit him. The steel spear point over the ax and spike was aimed at his heart, which did cause him to scamper back a few steps; then the sergeant stopped and joined his friend in laughter. Grinning at the exchange, Gil waved then turned and marched for the light at the end of the barbican.
RE: Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 - frenzied67 - 10-02-2024
At first he was all but blind, the bright spring sun had not prepared his eyes for the almost lightless stretch between the outer and inner gates. A tall shape appeared right in front of Gilserand, causing the boy to leap instinctively to the right. A tall thin man walked by giving him an odd look. Gil had little impression except for height and width, he wasn’t positive that the stranger’s coat was blue; nor was he sure the man was vest-less. Many of the farmers in the outlying fields did not wear vests, but everyone who wanted to be anyone wore a vest inside Alren. Many of the well-to-do women also wore mini vests, a recent fashion trend that had been imported from the capitol, Bollorin.
Gil hugged the wall and waited for his eyes to adjust. The sound of someone clearing their throat in the darkness informed him that there was at least one more man whom he could have stumbled into. Shuffling steps soon coalesced into a figure passing nearby, an elderly man with a fishing pole glanced Gilserand’s way as he strolled by. At last, I am making out shapes more than an arms length away. Though he had made the realization, he remained against the wall for almost another minute. Glancing up, Gil tried to see the murder holes in the barbican’s ceiling. A furtive motion seemed to pass over several lighter patches above, as though someone was trying to hide from his glance. The guards up there can see me just fine, he thought before a flight of fancy took hold.
He imagined a small group of guards preparing to dump boiling water on his head while others took aim with their arbalests. At first he thrilled at the imagining, then the implication sunk in. Unknown men in armor do have the power of life and death over anyone who passes through here, Gil thought as his mental game shattered. All his life he had passed through the barbicans of Alren, had known the use of the grid of murder holes above, but this was the first time he had realized the finality intended by each defense.
Unlike entering the barbican the transition from darkness to light was gradual. Long before he himself was visible to the ambling folk of Alren, Gilserand could see milling people strolling along or through the primary thoroughfare of the town. Even though the last snows had passed a month or so ago, the natives were still eager to be out of their homes, like beasts of the forest waking from a long hibernation. Very few of the throng seemed to have a destination or purpose to their strolling. I only see crowds like this at the market, Gil mused. This was further proof that Alren’s inhabitants were burning off the restlessness winter had imposed. None of the visible buildings beyond the last portcullis were businesses or domiciles, they were barracks or armories for the guard.
However, the young man’s thoughts of the market stirred ideas in his head. I have money! I don’t have to give The Widow all of my coin, Gilserand thought to himself. The idea began to loom larger and larger in his mind, no thoughts presented themselves in argument against going to the market for the afternoon. His day of inadvertent truancy just seemed to be getting better and better. His steps were with purpose when he transitioned from the barbican to the intersection of roads beyond the fortification. The north road, that parraleled the wall. led to both home and school, the road south held no interest for Gil; no he strode deliberately east and slightly north along the wider cobbled road heading for the heart of Alren.
The barracks and other immediate military buildings were themselves minor fortifications. Just like all the houses in Alren, the thick wooden twelve by twelve inch wood frame timbers that supported the building protruded slightly from brightly painted walls. For some reason Gilserand did not know or understand, all the framing timbers were painted brown on every house in town. Like the railing of the bridge, they were painted a dark brown that seemed glossy in the sun. The house wall colors varied from building to building, autumn colored pastels with a few random blue tones thrown in here and there. However the houses did not have three tiers of crenelated balconies facing the gate fortifications. The military buildings allowed archers and arbalestiers to rain missiles on anyone who made it through the murderous structure of the barbican.
Beyond the barracks the only way to tell dwelling from business was the signs over the buildings given to commerce. Across the street from a two story tavern with a sign of a tilted frothy mug of beer was an identical house painted the same marmalade orange, that sign the only thing differentiating the buildings. Most business signage relied on picture renditions of their offered services, since most of those trades had been established before the capitol’s push for education. A majority of Alren’s citizens under the age of thirty knew how to read, the older folk not so much. After ascending the throne in Bollorin, the capitol city, King Uldarnan had decreed education a necessity for the city state and it’s surrounding territories.
As with all the other pedestrians with purpose, Gilserand found himself walking along the cobbled street more than he did on the concrete and river stone walks on either side, which were crowded with the casual walkers. Wagons and ridden horses often forced him to merge and blend with those just strolling along, but after five blocks all the road traffic began to pull aside. Even those along the walks faltered to a standstill for a palanquin born by six burly men who seemed to be heading for Alren’s walls. Seated under the fringed pale blue canopy of the palanquin was the slender figure of a middle aged man dressed in impeccable red silk. Vest, coat, pants, all were embroidered with matching roses made of darker red threads. If the palanquin had not screamed wealth, the clothing surely did.
As the conveyance passed, onlookers all sketched bows or slight curtsies to the figure. Cradled in the arms of the rose adorned man was a staff topped with a distorted looking crystal; the true source of the peoples awe. As the palanquin drew closer, Gilserand was able to make out that the staff was topped with a clear resin globe. A rose bud was encased within the sphere, and just like everyone else Gil’s eyes pulled off the dark haired man’s gray speckled bearded visage to the rose. A spike of agony suddenly seemed to split Gilserand’s head, a piercing stab so fierce that he grabbed his head and stumbled into the man behind him; his body felt both pins and needles in every pore as well as a painful vibration in his muscles. Just like that the pain, in mind and body, was gone but the rose glowed with crimson energy. Smoke like potency wafted like an afterimage of the bud, a crimson banner that just seemed to fade a foot behind the magic infused talisman. Gil gawked wondering why the rose bud had suddenly altered its appearance to him.
Blinking rapidly he tried to clear his vision. This worked after a couple of eye flutters, the encased rose returned to being just what it seemed, with no energy seeming to emanate from within to stain the air with power. However Gilserand saw that the man in the palanquin was now looking pointedly at him. He locked gazes with the vivid dark blue eyes of the narrow faced magister, one of the few people able to shape the magic born in the infused object he carried. That long face with the manicured short beard seemed to glue itself to Gil as the human born taxi slowly passed, the man turning his head to stare strangely at the boy as though waiting for something more. Before the alarm he felt had a chance to fully bloom, the man turned away; almost dismissively. A massive hand fell on Gilserand’s shoulder.
Craning his head around, then up, Gil found himself looking up into a burly man’s face. The brown beard wiggled before the man spoke, giving Gilserand the impression that this individual was actually a bear posing as a human.
“I know yer a kid, but you shouldn’t show a magister such disrespect. Next time bow a little, it won’t hurt ya. These magisters keep our territories safe.” With that the big man released Gil’s shoulder and joined the throngs heading east. Dismissed for a second time in just a few heartbeats time, Gilserand just stood there as people passed going both directions. What just happened?, he wondered mentally questing in his skull for any residuals of the pain that had assaulted him; his body just had a memory of the static affliction he had endured so briefly. Did I actually see that rose glowing with power?
For some reason this idea did not sit well with the boy. An unnerving fear welled up inside Gil. Am I one of the people who can see the magic potential in talismans… in relics and artifacts? Am I a magister? As these questions plagued the boy, a wagon heading west tangled with a coach heading east, the horses and oxen’s harnesses becoming jumbled together. He ignored the swearing and accusations as he mulled over what had just happened to him. I’ve never had such a pain in me before, that was more intense than that time I had fogair fever, he continued to muse. Gilserand had been nine when he had fallen ill with that disease, the body aches had been miserable but manageable; however, the ever present headache had been insufferable. The pain he had just endured had dwarfed that miserable experience in all but duration. If that headache had lingered he would have ended up on his knees crying for surcease.
No, I’m not a magister or a relic hunter, he thought trying to dismiss the episode. That stab of pain just made me see things for a moment. If I was a person able to see the objects where magic gathers then my vision wouldn’t have cleared up by blinking. My eyes just got weird from that headache, he concluded; not knowing, really, if that was how that magic thing worked. As quick as his judgment was rendered there was still a part of Gil that felt changed; like an epiphany where one finally understood the convoluted rules and justifications adults liked to throw about. This false insight, though, Gilserand could not tell if it was mental or physical. He just felt different somehow. Trying to shake the feelings away the boy forced himself to take in the world. The road block was acting like a compression point for all the pedestrians, the walkways on both sides bulged with the amount of people wanting to pass by but could not. Women’s parasols and bell like full length skirts did not help the two way traffic jams.
I have to buy myself something before I have to go home, Gil thought with determination as he turned about. I should buy new shoes but I really want something… something spectacular. Instead of feeling relief over returning to his previous train of thought, he instead felt as though he was hiding from the jarring incident. Relic Hunters, those who could see magic nodes, all lived in fine houses. More numerous, those who wielded the talismans made with or affixed to a node found in nature, was granted a two story house. After them the middle grade magister, numerically and in magical potency, carried relics. Such was the man with the preserved magic rose bud. He was transported by drivers and carters from his two story villa.
Those final alpha level magisters carried the objects where the most potent magic manifested in nature. Artifacts. Top level magisters had power over life and death as long as they served the city state of Bollorin. They numbered fewer than the relic hunters, each city state on this continent were served by less than a double handful of artifact masters. Their lives were almost as lavish as the king’s, but despite this, Gilserand had always secretly feared this becoming his fate. Every since the old teacher in charge of the West Barbican District kids had taught about the Gathering. Though magisters rarely had time for regular citizens, they always seemed to know which kids had the gift… what Gilserand considered a curse in actuality. These kids were singled out and presented with all three grades of relics, and they would have to publicly handle each powered node until a match was made; the artifact, relic, or talisman was said to choose the magister.
Get over it Gil, he snarled in his mind, mentally and physically trying to shake the memory and current thoughts from his head. The residue of that momentary incident refused to go though. In desperation he pulled up his recent memory with the guards. They had inferred that they thought he could join their number. As an orphan it was rare when he was deemed welcome in any social dynamic. That’s it! Gilserand enthused silently. I’m going to buy a knife. A big knife. The idea of being a guard was a far cry better than ending up a magister having to prove himself in front of the entire town. Procuring a knife seemed like the right step to make himself stand out to the soldiers who protected Alren’s citizens.
Turning around, Gilserand walked along the cobbled street so that he would not have to wade through the immobile line of people along the walk. In a matter of seconds he spotted the last juncture he had passed. Unfortunately it was not a road but rather one of the narrow alleyways spider webbed between city blocks. Gil’s steps faltered as he drew nigh. Several months ago he had ignored Randera the Widow’s warning never to walk the alleys, day or night. Dark clad men smelling of cheap wine had chased him for three blocks back past the way he had come, for reasons Gil was glad he had never learned. Now he hesitated, glancing back the way he had come. The last intersecting road seemed like it was way back, almost to the barbican barracks. The alley beckoned him, even with a line of stationary people before it.
Through the wide skirts and shoulders of people slowly waiting to shuffle forward, Gilserand could see a few heads bobbing, heading into the narrow way. It seemed other people had the same idea as he. If other people are going in, it should be safe for me, he reasoned. Still, even as he plowed into the four deep line of men and women using his two arms like a wedge to ease people apart, Gil felt like he was making the wrong decision. A nice new big fighting knife called to his imagination though; his mental placebo propped in his mind to be a paramount goal. Whoever had preceded him were already following a north eastern turn, disappearing into shadows not unlike those in the barbican. I wish Alren’s alleys were not so twisty and confusing.
Not all of Alren’s buildings had been built to face a regular street, houses and businesses that did not require a store front nestled between streets behind street facing constructions; often forcing the alley to bend around where they had been built. Grimacing at the foolishness of his own actions, Gilserand only hesitated half a heart beat before he strode purposefully towards a heedless domicile between him and the next street. Instead of branching east and west, the alley he had chosen only turned right; eastward. If the sun had not been nearing its height Gil would have had more darkness to deal with. He only had to bypass that one house before he found his route divided north and south or continuing east. All of these buildings were three stories in height, blocking even more of the sun than the first part of his daring plunge. There were still no signs in any direction, of the folks he had followed in.
Urine and stale beer made a mad miasma when he chose to follow the northern split. Litter, broken crates, and shabby thrown out furniture made a maze of the boy’s path, this flotsam had not been present before this turn. However his courage began to return as he saw light passed two more tall structures. Vague movement had to be people walking at what must be a normal pace, so Gilserand’s steps sped up just a hair. A cracking sound of stone hitting wood was preceded by a tell tale hum that passed his left ear, then pain exploded in his back just below his right shoulder blade. Arching at the pain, Gil turned south to see what was assailing him.
“Got ya, bastard!” a boys voice exulted. Farlin Starling and the short stalky Gurick Steinbrick stood twenty yards behind him, each of them playing one handed catch with some menacing stones. Those two bullies never acted alone, though. Something wooden hit the cobbles behind Gil. The mastermind of the trio, Carlin Starling blocked his path north stepping from behind some concealing boards.
Carlin and Farlin could have been twins, though they were almost two years apart in age and nearly a hand span in height. Both had plush blond hair with the same left side part and the same exact sweeps and waves over the ears and neck. They had round faces with near set eyes of green, cheeks that needed no cosmetics to supply a constant blush, and the same wide set nostrils on medium long sloped near pug noses. Thin lips seemed to be over long on those look alike faces, like toad grins. Gurick, on the other hand, was another hand span shorter than Farlin, making all three boys seem exact stair steps apart in height. His hair was light brown and seemed to have a caricature side part like his friends; his hair was hopelessly flat and lifeless compared to theirs. Blue sparkled out of his eyes like suppressed merriment, his pale shield shaped face always had a serious expression for the world. His lips were full and would not have been out of place on a girl.
Obviously they too had played hooky, to his detriment.
“Why ain’t you at school, bastard boy?” Carlin demanded, a big palm sized rock of his own went up then fell back into his hand. Carlin was Gilserand’s age, but he was a few inches taller and had more mass on his bones.
“Maybe you should be there too, you might learn the difference between an orphan and a bastard.” If Gilserand’s voice hadn’t broken mid sentence, it would have sounded sufficiently defiant. Another pain erupted just below his right buttock as a thrown stone hit him from behind, a second rock wizzed overhead and made Carlin have to step aside.
“You puke stain!” Farlin shouted angrily. It must have been his stones that had hit Gil the first and second time, Gurick tended to miss with his missiles in these little skirmishes.
Carlin moved back to the alley’s center to interpose his bulk to the distant street.
“A boy with no father is a bastard, turd lips. You ain’t got a father which makes you a bastard.” Gil glided up to the eastern wall, turned sideways so he could try to watch all three boys at once. How am I going to get out of this one? He asked himself, his eyes probing to see an escape route. Gurick and Farlin were both slightly smaller than Gilserand, but they both worked well together. Before a plan manifested, Gil had to duck as Carlin hurled his stone. The rock clicked off a beam taking some brown paint with it, the ricochet cause the duo behind him to shuffle temporarily aside.
The older Starling boy was already plucking a missile from his blue vest pocket. Motion from Gilserand’s left warned him that the other two were trying to peg him with their missiles. Ducking low, Gil started a short dash for the western wall. Even though he avoided Farlin and Gurick’s rocks, Gilserand suddenly did not want to be playing this game. He wanted to fight back. He wanted them to hurt and feel fear. There just was not enough of himself to pull that job off, not against three. Mid step, Gilserand pivoted on the ball of his foot and was surprisingly charging Carlin. Astounded, Carlin hurled his stone but threw wide. The taller boy balled his fist for what was about to come. All Carlin had to do was hold Gil until his little brother and friend could join him for the beat down. They had done it before.
No more! Gil told himself. All the fear and anger beat at Gilserand, wanting to consume his attention, steal his momentum. Yet there was something in him, the part of himself that observed, that now seemed to vie for his attention. This was new. The dread of the beating that the three bullies wanted to deliver was still there but Gilserand handed himself to his inner observer. It was stepping beyond the emotions, it did not head the anger, nor the fear. It just observed and took everything in. Carlin spread his arms wide to grapple Gil, but the lad saw this exposed the slightly bigger boys chest and belly. Using his momentum he charged between Carlin’s spread arms and planted his own hands on the boys torso in a titanic shove. Carlin flew back almost a body span away, falling over an already broken crate.
Inside the calm of his observer self Gilserand realized two things. His exultation was useless at this time, and Carlin’s reactions seemed a lot slower than they had in times past. The patter of running feet behind Gil did not inspire panic in him, not this time anyway. Carlin was already up on his feet, which meant the boy was not really slow, but he saw the cocked fist, the twist at the waist. His foe was going to swing a haymaker at the side of his head. Knowing the punch was coming, Gilserand simply ducked, using his legs. Instinctively he stepped into the taller boy’s reach as he straightened, his uppercut driving up and into the belly and diaphragm of Carlin. The woof of expelled air was satisfying, almost as much as the sudden panic in his tormentor’s eyes. The way Carlin fell away with his mouth gaping open and closed like the bass Gil had caught was oddly gratifying. He had knocked the wind out of the older Starling boy who now lay at his feet fighting to draw a breath.
Yet, inside his observer self, Gil knew it was still not time to realize his victory. Those running feet were almost upon him. His escape route was now open and he was still outnumbered by too great a margin. Yet before he pelted for the promising safety of the street, he looked Carlin in the eye and smiled at him, grinned a certainty that the blond boy’s days of bullying Gilserand were just about over. As he ran Gilserand seemed to separate from the thing in him that watched and observed, and feelings washed over him. I won! he realized. Gil wanted to shout, he wanted to taunt his pursuers. He wanted the world to know. I won! It was not a total victory, but there was now a way out from the torment of these three boys. I can’t beat the pack of them together, but one on one they can’t take me. I just took the toughest of them down. He hit the street, dodged past a baker’s boy hauling an empty tray back to the bakery and bent his steps east.
A sped rock missed Gil, but caused a dapper young teen girl to exclaim angrily as her hooped skirt took a hit; the stretched fabric actually prevented her from taking harm. Speeding away, still heading for the market, Gilserand took a moment to glance back. Gurick, shouting some wordless declaration of rage, pattered out of the alley and caught sight of Gil. The younger boy seemed determination personified as he adjusted to give chase, but Farlin gave a call for help back in the dark passage. Though the distance between them increased with each pounding step, Gilserand thought he saw relief fill the dark haired boys eyes as he turned back to give Carlin and Farlin the help they were calling for.
Again this felt like a victory. Normally the three bullies would be hard on his heels, giving chase and taunting him with the pain they wanted to cause. A block later Gil again took a look over his shoulder. Carlin was leaning against the wall holding his midriff, his brother and lackey were pointing Gil out. There was no hot pursuit. Not that they won’t try to hunt me down, Gilserand admitted to himself. This of course made him wonder how the boys had known he would come down that alley. How was it that they had set an ambush for him? Was the ambush for him, or was it for any kid wandering that way? He would not put it passed that trio to manifest their malice in such a random way.
After running another block he slowed down, then stopped to give a thorough look the way he had come. Breathing hard from the run and shaking from the adrenaline dump, Gil was unable to see the bullies familiar forms in the plethora of people moving about. He continued to monitor his back trail periodically as he continued his quest to the market. His journey to buy himself a knife seemed even more important now than it had before. Would the trio mess with Gilserand again if he was packing a big old fighting knife on his belt? For a moment he imagined the three of them thinking twice about dog piling him every chance they got.
I didn’t need a knife to put Farlin Starling on his ass, Gil realized in retrospection. That calm place I…. Gilserand began trying to ponder the mental adjustment he had undergone in that skirmish. It had not been a calm place. He had still felt the fear, the adrenaline, and the parts of his mind that had once ruled him in those past moments of violence. Did I just surrender myself to the thing that just observes in the back of my brain? Knowing that was exactly what he had done, Gilserand reached for that part wanting to revel with it. This was not a fragment of his psyche he often communed with. His senses continued to feed him sound, smell, touch, and images from his eyes, but it would not sit there and feed his ego; no matter how much he urged it to join in.
I don’t know how this exactly worked, but I am glad it worked. It felt like I was superhuman at that moment, but I wasn’t. Reviewing how he had dodged Carlin’s punches while being able to land his own, without allowing himself to become cocky because of it, Gilserand figured out that he had not become faster or stronger. I saw Carlin prepare to throw his punches which allowed me to react better. I dodged when I had to and… and that allowed me to realize my openings to strike back when he couldn’t block me. Will I be able to do that again? Now that was the question. Gil had liked not giving in to his fear despite being fearful.
Ahead, the towns inner keep seemed to be looming large. The smells of baked goods mingled with strange spices and fish, and of course the ever present smell of manure as oxen, horses, donkeys, and other working animals were quit prolific. Droppings were produced at a rate often faster than people’s ability to scoop it up. All these scents merged with the growing hubbub of human voices. He was just two blocks away from the delightful pandemonium of Alren’s market. Anticipation did not steal away with Gilserand’s sense of self preservation though; not yet anyway.
Looking back, all Gilserand saw at first was the all brown attire of a young man looming just behind him. The clean shaven young man had to dance aside to avoid crashing into Gil, he even used his hands to half guide the boy out of his path while growling a wordless warning. Ivory lace flapped from the brown paisley embroidered sleeves of the young mans cuffs. Lace rarely adorned the garments of men in Alren, and women vied for a hint of it in their outfits. As the hurrying youthful man passed Gil, the boy thought he saw a blond head with wavy hair slip behind a pair of hefty middle aged ladies. This made him quicken his steps to the point that the brown clad man was no longer creating distance with his own swift pace. As a matter of fact, Gil used the swift swing of brown hosen ahead of him to set his own gait, like galley slaves looked to the beat of the drum to pattern their oar work.
RE: Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1 - frenzied67 - 10-02-2024
When the man turned right to enter the business of a cooper, Gilserand was able to see the market beyond. The square below the inner keep was filled with stalls, wagons, pavilions, carts, and more people than seemed able to fit in the town. I’m almost there, I’m almost safe. To verify whether his thoughts were true, Gil chanced another peep over his shoulder. Again he was not certain what he saw, but he thought he glimpsed Gurick’s flat brown hair in the distance. A woman’s pink sun parasol dipped to interpose with Gil’s vision, denying him a chance to truly ascertain the truth of that glance. This time Gilserand noticed how other people were watching him, had been watching him. Hungry for drama they sensed his association with interesting happenings; his haste and desperate glances seemed to guarantee a tale to witness.
Becoming self conscious of the scene he must be presenting with his near trot and paranoid looks at his back trail, the boy forced himself to slow down. Fighting the urge to look back as often as he had been was the hardest part, but he managed. Images of Carlin and Farlin racing up behind him, Gurick in tow, did not help. When his imagination did not prove true, Gilserand gave one last glance back before entering the market square. Even though he did not spot any of the bullying trio, Gil decided he needed to take precautions.
He turned right until he was out of sight of the road entrance, then he darted east before squirmed through wagons and between stalls heading left. Waiting for a dense knot of people to form did not take long. Gilserand used the cover they provided to move over to the northern half of the market, hoping he would remain unseen from the road entrance. A hefty woman in country attire shouted at him as he weaseled passed her cart full of pecans trying to get behind the stalls facing the main thoroughfare. To forestall the woman’s ire before it became a caterwaul, Gil held up his hands while back stepping away from her goods. The Burning Spirits take her if she gives me away, he thought uncharitably darting west to crouch behind empty barrels between two stalls near to the road.
Fortune favored him at that moment. Walking slowly behind a father and two son’s whose jackets did not coordinate with their pants or hosen, Gilserands tormentors entered the market. The three of them were obviously in search mode, heads turning this way and that. Carlin Starling walked with a limp and grimace, and though he too looked about, his questing eyes lacked the fervor Farlin and Gurick put into the effort. I really should find a way to fight them when they are not working as a pack, Gilserand mused, only feeling this confident since they did not even notice him. Thinking of them having to fight in a group emphasized how cowardly they were, but realizing this made Gil see his own cowardice in wanting a knife to scare them with.
A big knife would still look cool, he began to reason, but I can’t lower myself to their level by thinking of using it as they would. Surprised at himself for coming to this determination, Gilserand knew he would never have come to this sort of conclusion a few months ago…. Fingers gripped his ear and twisted, the sudden pain wrenching a squeal out of him.
“Gilserand, you faithless wretch! Why aren’t you in school?” He was pulled about by his pinched and twisted earlobe, the agony forcing him up to his tippy toes as he voiced another wordless protest.
In equal parts Randera the Widow’s face held hints of youthful beauty and the future ravages time had allocated for her. Her gray eyes were large and lovely, the crows feet at their side were smile and worry erosion lines set on human features. Her nose was long and straight with narrow nostrils and perfectly proportioned too the rest of her features. Wide cheek bones capped expression lines around her mouth, the future’s wrinkles showing hints even though her smile still made men do a double take. A small beauty mark sat above her still full lips atop the right recurve of the cupid’s bow curvature of her mouth, her teeth were a little off true white due to all the tea she drank through the day. She seemed fragile in her frame because she had never lost her teen age slenderness, nature had denied her the robustness motherhood would have bestowed.
Instead of the love and pride she showed for him with her usual greeting smile, Randera’s face was set in a frown of rare anger for Gilserand instead. Those gray eyes were like steel spear tips aimed his way, and he knew the words she was waiting to unleash were meant to stab him deep. A strand of her dark hair had come undone from the towering mass of curls defying gravity atop her head; Randera’s last attempt at coloration was fading from her tresses as a few gray strands could be seen. Just like the hoops ballooning her skirts, a tiered frame was used to keep her coiffure aiming at the sky. Not waiting for his response she tugged his ear forcing him behind her. One delicate slippered foot kicked the barrels he had hidden behind aside.
Towing him like a farmer towed an ox, Randera the Widow pulled him in her wake, her plum colored dress swinging about like a clapperless bell. Her steps led away from the market and the big knife he had coveted. Gilserand protested again, his voice cracking and breaking as he begged her to let go. Her grip was relentless though, and he could not step closer to her to relieve the twist she had on his lobe; her skirts forced Gil to lean, and the Lords of Light help him if he stepped on her hem. Forced to stumble behind her, Randera the Widow almost hauled him an entire block before she let go and rounded on him.
In the middle of the walk in front of an inn, she stabbed Gilserand in the chest with one of her perfectly crafted finger nails. “I don’t know what you are playing at, young man, but I am simply tired of having Miss Hollobrand visit OUR house after school lets out! I raised you to NOT be a problem in this community!” Her face was tight with barely suppressed anger, her voice bristled with rage, but her eyes flashed between veiled violence and the worst thing of all; disappointment. The explanation he wanted to give withered unspoken as he physically deflated. Inanely he thought, I’m taller than her. Gil had missed the part in his growth where he had over topped the woman who had given all to raise him.
Stamping her slipper encased foot, Randera the Widow snapped a pointing finger out in the direction of their little house. That finger quivered with her emotions, though her arm was as rigid as her furled brow. In the four block walk, Randera listed off a litany of punishments he could expect. What Gilseran noticed more than her words was the knowing looks stranger and neighbor alike cast their way. He was certain that the two of them would be what was talked about in the neighborhoods north of the west barbican for the next few days. That would be something more The Widow would hold over his head; she claimed that she hated being the object of gossip, just not when it came to the extra attention men paid her and the jealousy this aroused in nearby women.
Their little iris colored house, with the exposed studs and beams painted the same dark brown as every building in Alren, hove into view. The city wall blocked the sun shortly after it reached it’s nadir every day that the sun shone, and the two story houses north, south, and east of them kept the glowing orb off of them almost until that same midday. After the winter just passed the rack they used to hold firewood was all but empty. It needed swept out of dirt, leaves, and pulverized bark. Her husband had acquired the house shortly after he had married Randera, though the bank still held the note of ownership. She claimed that they had planned to add an additional story to the place after their family grew. He had died a week before she had miscarried their one and only child.
Gripping his arm just before he reached the threshold, Randera the Widow directed him with her grip. For a moment Gilserand wondered what would happen if he just stopped. Would she have the might or mass to move him? I’m in deep enough trouble right now, he acknowledged letting her propel him into the humble little home. She tried to shove him into the interior even as she reached to close the door, his feigned stumble passed the little fire oven and it’s diminutive range top came a tick too late. Ire faded from The Widow’s eyes for a moment as she assessed that interaction. Her arm had folded while trying to apply the force, but the misery in his eyes and playacting was an act of contrition that also weighed in on the situation.
Just north of the cooking/heating stove was the large rectangular dining room table, which took up too much space so also performed many jobs. The southern half of the table was used for food prep, the middle of the table was used for dining, and after it was cleaned up, allowed Gil to do his homework. The northern half of the table was strewn with fabrics, thread, thimbles, and the other esoteric sundries used in sewing. Two of the four matching chairs were piled high with bolts of fabric and scraps. A basin that had a drain poking out of the southern side of the house sat just east of the wood fed stove.
About twenty dummies filled the space east of the table. They were outfitted with sewing projects in various stages of completion. Most held client clothing that required repair or adornment, but quit a few of the mannequins held Randera the Widow’s own creations. Two thirds of these projects were for women’s clothing. To the north east side of the house was her wardrobe, full to bursting with clothing she had made for herself. This sat next to her bedroom. South of her room was their toilet closet. It did not have a drain to the street, which meant they had to haul their bodily waste buckets three blocks to the communal midden. Gilserand’s room took up the south east post in the house, the door behind dummies and stacks of satiny cloth bolts.
Though still angry, a lot of the ire in The Widow’s eye had departed.
“By the Lords of Light, Gilserand! What made you skip school this time? You just finished the punishments of that little prank you pulled last week!” she demanded. Again that disenchantment with him was in Randera the Widow’s eyes. That look always made his heart sink. He always swore to be her vicarious object of pride, yet he always seemed to bring about the opposite these days.
“I didn’t mean to skip. I was going to go to class….” Gilserand started, trying to find words that would mollify the woman who had lovingly raised him. He had been an infant when the woodsmen had brought him to her almost twelve years ago.
Seeing Gil cast about trying to find something to say made her rest a hand on her hip; one slippered foot began to tap under her ballooned out skirt, a dangerous sign that began to reflect in her riveting gray eyes. “I left for school early this morning, right after I ran our slops to the midden,” he began again, hoping admitting to doing his chores would score him some points. “I wanted to do some fishing before class.” He had done this many times before, The Widow knew where his fishing hole was. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The heat that filled her gaze made Gilserand worry that she was about to break out the switch she used to spank him with.
Surprisingly she seemed to reconsider her anger altogether, the fiery scourge seemed to lift away and her foot stopped tap tap tapping. Why? Gil asked himself. He found himself worrying that this was a trap. Oh, she knows I try to go fishing when our money gets real tight. Our payment is almost due. I tried to do the right thing and she sees it. Randera the Widow’s eyes narrowed as she cast about him, looking for his line and wicker basket. Because those items were missing, she began to feel as though he were lying. As the simmering light began to rise in her eyes, Gilserand desperately shoved a hand into his pocket. Though he had wanted to keep a couple of silvers for himself, he did not divide the coins. All the coins were in his hand which he held out.
Equal parts astonishment and relief entered The Widows gray orbs as she took in the pentamark and single marks balanced on his palm. Knowing his window of latitude would be narrow unless he reinforced his offering with an explanation, Gilserand began to rush words out. “I caught a big old bass for us, but one of the guards offered me money for it. We can get more meals with this coin than we could have gotten off that fish. I know you skip eating altogether for a few days after you pay the bank, I know you give me what little food we have. We don’t have to do that this time.” Randera’s indignation stiffened body deflated as she began to cast about between his right and left eyes.
Wilting a little bit more she glided up to Gilserand. Joy exploded in him when she gathered him into her arms.
“Just when I’ve had enough with your antics you pull something like this and make me realize how hard you try to please. I wish I could have given you a better life than the one we have, Gil….”
Gilserand had no ploy, no reasoning that would have swayed Miss Hollobrand, his teacher. As a repeat offender of her rules, Gil was given two weeks of laboring for the little school house. He was to haul wood eight blocks to refill the wood bin, which held four cords. Before class he would be expected to either take down the shutters or put them up, all depending upon the temperature; that meant feeding the stove through the day if it was cold. After school he had to sweep the floors and carry scraps to the midden. On top of that, the chalkboard always needed cleaning. Fortunately he had help fulfilling these responsibilities, three bullies had also been busted for truancy. They all had to write a paper on the prehistory of the city states, when Human and Gachtler had broken free from the Faeloran empire and the betrayal wrought by the fur clad Gachtler.
1972 years ago
Five tall Faeloran women bent over a child of their kind, who was seated before a large mirror set on a pale wood vanity. All four of the women had waist length straight hair green in color, yet not a one of these women had the same shade of green. As were the women, their one shoulder draped togas were alike yet unalike. Though the attire was designed the same, each series of clothing had it’s own coloration, and either a belt or delicate chain to cinch the waist. The Empress had a gold fringe at the hems and seams of her lilac toga, that matched the gold chain with the dangling emeralds adorning her waist. Like his mother the prince had a long refined nose with eyes that seemed overlarge with an up tilt at the far corner. They shared narrow lips on serene faces, yet his mother had higher cheek bones. All Faeloran had pointed ears, not too tall, and double peaked ear lobes. Unlike Human and Gachtler skulls, the structure of Faeloran craniums was somewhat elongated.
At one hundred fifty Prince Lorinlil was still but a child, with a child’s height, and the autumn orange colors in his hair still. Looking in the mirror on his vanity, he wished there was more green in his long straight tresses. Unlike the prince, the empress quite enjoyed the leaf orange his head sprouted. She and her ladies were currently brushing that hair, exploring various styles they thought looked good on him. Lorinlil was looking forward to his riding lessons this afternoon. He dreamed of the day he would be old enough to ride his elk in formation with the Faeloran cavalry… or better yet, with the famed Osprey Guard; the soldiers protecting the imperial family. He only had another century and a half to go, those years couldn’t pass swiftly enough. One day his father, the emperor, would put Sansilar in his hands, the sword and symbol of his family’s power.
That would be better than this female clucking and fussing, he complained silently. He loved his mother, but ladies had no time for the things Lorinlil himself loved. He dreamed of sword fighting, of being old enough to go on hunts with his father, of playing with his friends in the shadow of their palatial tower. Knowing what clothes to wear, when and where, and styling his hair was not manly enough for this prince.
“I think this amber bracelet and necklace set goes great with your hair, Lorinlil. What do you think?” his mother asked draping the jewelry around his neck.
Dutifully he looked into the mirror. His hair was orange and the gem stones were amber. He could not see how a honey tone blended with his bright hair at all, the ladies in waiting were all cooing about what a nice match it all was. The prince could not see it.
Somehow, miraculously, his mother saw his distaste, and his expression had not changed a wit. “Lorinlil, I wish you wouldn’t be like this. In a weeks time we will be hosting some of the most prominent noble families from southern Tanabror. You would be well advised to know that, though we are this nation’s rulers, we still need the nobles to project our power through the world for us. One of these days you will have to choose a bride from one of those families, so you had better behave.” Mother is using her ‘reasonable’ tone on me, but her arguments seem meaningless.
“I am not ‘being like this’,” he protested. “I do not think this amber matches my hair at all. If I had honey colored fur like some Gachtler slaves have, then it might suit, but this jewelry does not match my hair color.” His outburst did not sit with the ladies in waiting at all, they drew back with shocked expressions shifting looks between himself and his mother. For her part, the empress laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and bent a little as if to whisper in his ear from behind him.
Her voice was gentle but set in a conversational volume, not near a whisper at all.
“My son, the idea is not to match you hair, but to provide a subtle contrast. Contrast, when used correctly, can draw attention to a feature, rather than blend with it. Never doubt the power of contrast, because it does not lend itself to certainty in a viewers mind.” Prince Lorinlil saw her reflection smile at him, her eyebrows raised oh so slightly to lend weight to her statement. That meant that his mother thought this was a very important lesson for him to learn. Subtly he let his left brow twitch a little, as well as the left side of his mouth, as though a smile wanted to form. In the secret language between mother and son, he was acknowledging that her lesson was important, but he would need more tutoring to fully understand. The fondness that momentarily infused her smile, and her regal blink assured him that they would talk about this again.
Disturbances never happened on his mother’s visits, but beyond the balcony of his tower room came a crackling boom. Thunder storm? Both the empress and her ladies in waiting parted, turning to face the parted diaphanous curtain draped over the balcony entrance. Through the mirror Lorinlil peeped through the gape in that curtain. The skies were blue, unmarred by any hint of a cloud. He spun in his seat to add his eyes to those directed at the external aperture. Boom… boom, bam, kathoom! This crackling series of explosions preceded the disturbing sound of wails and cries. It would take a lot of Faeloran voices to bring such despair so high up this tower. Excitement charged the young prince and he was suddenly pelting for his open air balcony. “Lorinlil! No!” the empress cried.
He would not be stayed, not for this. This was different, a change in the entropy of his regal existence, and Lorinlil had to know. Another explosion sounded from without before the prince checked his momentum with his arms against the balustrade. In the city below Prince Lorinlil saw several large puffs of expanding dust clouds. Specks, who were actually people, milled and swirled in the street below, their terror sounds a constant in his pointed ears. In one street those small figures suddenly began darting to the south west before a dense wave of figures advancing from further north. A lance of canary yellow light darted from the tightly packed mob into those fleeing. Dozens of those specks moved no longer. Another flash of light two streets up pulled Lorinlil’s eyes.
Dark green, but seeming electric, this flare seemed to punch into a housing structure causing that small building to shatter and explode. Another dust cloud expanded before a dull boom assailed his young ears. Slender fingers grasped the prince’s shoulder and pulled him back with a power he would have expected from his father, never from his mother.
“Lorinlil, get away from there! It is not safe!” Even as she pulled him stumbling back, his mother was looking over the railing, her eyes aghast at the destruction being wrought below. The ladies in waiting were still by the vanity, their large eyes wider than normal, hands held before their mouths as though to stifle the cries of alarm one or another periodically uttered.
For the first time, Lorinlil began to know fear. The fearful looks on the ladies faces, the lack of seeming to know how to act or react, tugged his own terror out. “Stay away from the outer wall!” His mother’s command came out steady, certain that her orders were the correct course of action. Pulling out her wand of mahogany wood, her talisman, the Empress waved it and her free hand at the balcony just as a fresh series of explosions sounded from without. Stone flowed like dense mud, both down from above but also up in defiance of gravity. Swirling flows connected, drew more material, then froze. As though there had never been a rectangular opening to the outside, the wall stood solid in the circular room with a useless curtain draped open before it. Just the fact that his mother was acting, was doing something that seemed constructive, helped Lorinlil to stave off the awful feeling that had tried to consume him.
Taking his hand the Empress pulled him to where the ladies in waiting yet cowered, their whimpers a constant. Those women all looked to his mother, hoping she would continue to act or possibly grant them protection; instead his mother folded her arms around Lorinlil and held him to her belly. Craning his head up and around, the prince was going to see if mother had a plan. Instead, he saw the inner wall to his room begin to flow and thin to his left. One woman wailed her fear even as the whole clutch of ladies darted to the right to take cover behind Lorinlil’s bed. Letting her grip on him go, the Impress raised her wand, fear and determination storming through her eyes, while her face, though pale, lied with a serene facade.
Stone curled and rolled like incoming waves colliding in the middle of the wall, then like waves being pulled back by outflow, the curling flows pulled back from each other up and down. A rectangular aperture appeared revealing a corridor filled with Osprey Guard, in their mirror finished plate armor.
“My lady, my prince we have come to escort you out of the palace, I am Captain Unsalier,” a voice called from without, before a tentative helmeted head peeped in. Seeing the empress with raised wand, the officer showed his empty hands. Scuffing behind Lorinlil drew the princes gaze back, standing from their cower behind his bed, the ladies in waiting rose with hope beaming out.
Since he had not been blasted by the waiting wand, the captain stepped fully into the room with his hands still up and showing. Both his sword and relic bound dagger were still sheathed. “We must hurry my lady, before the tower is breached.” Unsaliers partially concealed features seemed to reflect the empress’s willingness to fight despite the upheaval of certainty in his world.
“Who is attacking us, who is attacking Estanabrill?” His mother demanded, lowering her talisman just a slight bit. In answer the captain indicated the opening in the wall with one hand and waved them to move with the other. Reaching back for Lorinlil’s hand, they both started forward together; that was when he answered her question.
“We are being attacked from within. The slaves have risen up.”
A knot of twenty Osprey Guard opened their formation which seemed to swallow Lorinlil and his mother in the corridor outside Lorinlil’s chamber. Two Lieutenants with golden poppies on their shoulders, waved their daggers and the stone wall began to flow. The ladies in waiting, who were still inside, began to either call out in fear or loft protests onto unheeding soldier ears. Just before the stone waves connected and sealed the opening, those women’s cries turned to wails like those that had risen from the distant streets.
“Which slaves?” his mother asked as the protective formation lurched into motion; weapons and relics bristling threat to anything outside the dome of shields. Through Lorinlil’s short century and a half of life, there had been many slave uprisings; the last near the capitol had come from the silver mines a weeks ride north. The captain’s answer numbed the royal mother and son.
“All of them, my lady. They have all risen up, Gachtler and Human at the same time….”
King Lorinlil’s eyes unglazed from the nearly two thousand year old memory. His hand was gripping the antler hilt of Sansilar so tightly that he might be bruising his own flesh. That was the blow to our empire that we Faelora never recovered from, he admitted in thought, trying to avoid the even less pleasant memories of that long ago day. His eyes looked like cut and polished sapphires set into black schlera. His pupil, a black spot that peered through the facets of the gem that was not a gem. Though he had the long narrow nostril nose his mother had, the same up slanted eyes she had once carried, Lorinlil still could not remember her name.
Emperor Rinlililor, his father who had died after the Second War of Devastation with the alien Osserjuka, had never talked about her after her death that long removed historic day. Lorinlil had been too little himself, his memory unable to recall any moment when anyone could or would have pronounced her name in front of him. With his swift determined gait, Lorinlil moved over to his vanity; the same unfinished pale wooden vanity he had been pimped and preened over on that day. He had his mother’s thin lipped mouth, but Lorinlil had inherited his fathers flat planned cheeks. Both of his parents had the long narrow kite shield like features he himself now sported, but the one thing he did not like about himself was his hair. Faelora did not wither and die like the other races did, he would never grow feeble like those bestial Gachtler or those cloddish Humans. Time wrought different changes in his people.
His greenish blue tresses, like a noble fir tree’s needles in color, were clumping and taking on mineral like consistency. Though the color was unaffected, most of his tresses looked like a chalk parody of his hair, other locks looked like fine crystalline growths; like aquamarine asbestos. These were signs that his last few centuries were upon him, every decade was now a span causing him worry. These ravages he was seeing, these signs of wasting made King Lorinlil wonder if his mother had actually been the lucky one. She had died on that day, shielding him from a pack of relic wielding Humans who had ambushed the Osprey Guards as they had neared the office suites of the Imperial Bureaucracy . That was two thousand years ago, but it still hurts, he thought watching pools form before the gems of his eyes, the liquid quivered then spilled down his aspen tree pale cheeks.
Cutting his wheel barrow in front of Gurick Steinbrook’s, Gilserand stopped the other boy while they were half a block from the wood yard. Gurick stepped away from his hand cart, but unlike Carlin or Farlin, he did not look confused or frightened.
“I guess you know what’s coming?” Gil asked the brown haired boy. Gurick grimaced but did not try to run even as he was being advanced upon.
“The Starlings told me what you did to them.”
Just three days into the two weeks of detention and hard labor punishment Miss Hollobrand had leveled upon Gilserand, the Starling brothers, and Gurick, Gilserand had been enacting his own plan of punishments. Miss Hollobrand made sure her naughty charges worked in pairs, which meant that Gilserand would be one on one with the boys who had bullied him for so long. “In a way I guessed this day was going to come.” Gurick admitted just as Gilserand reached him from around their two wheel barrows. This isn’t what I expected either, Gil thought as he and Gurick raised clenched fists to begin the fight.
Unlike Carlin who had collapsed and began crying after the first punch, or Farlin who had tried to run away, Gurick was going to try and stand toe to toe with him. The shorter boy seemed content to wait, watching Gil from between his fists. The look on his young face was resignation. Not fear, not anger, not denial, just the expectation that he was deserving of what he was about to get. Though stepping into his observer state was not as revelatory as the first time he had done it, Gil was still set aside from his own fears and angers as he feinted with his left. He had enough control of his emotional state that he thought of testing Gurick’s reactions.
The Younger boy tried to power the jab away with both hands, which left the right side of his head, ribs, and belly open. Gilserand exploited that mistake. Though he tried to hit the soft flesh below the ribs, Gurick’s flinch made him contact the lower floating rib instead. Steinbrook staggered back with a grunt, the pain in his eyes did not devolve into either fear or anger; nor did frustration rear up. Just more resignation to the inevitable. Confusion tried to distract him from ‘seeing’ his oponent, wanted him to ponder what was going on with the other boy. Now was not the time. Gil’s revenge was still being served.
Gurick was favoring his hurt side, but he still overreacted to the next fake jab Gil sent his way. While trying to get his hands back into position to protect his face and head, the Steinbrook boy set his hands a little too wide. Gilserands right hand flashed between the other boys paws, popping the head back. Eyes rolling, unable to focus for a second, Gurick fell heavily onto his posterior. The way the younger boy balled his body up reflexively did shock Gil back into thinking and feeling. Does he think I’m going to kick and beat him while he’s down? After asking himself that question, he kind of gawked at Gurick who was scooting and rolling out of kicking distance.
Seeing his downed foe gawking back at him, seeming to ask why the thumping was not raining down, stole Gilserands vindictiveness away; that look made him question what he was doing.
“I’m not like you, I won’t beat on you while you’re down. It feels better knocking you off your feet.” Now that sounded suitably mean, Gil thought, proud of himself for coming up with that on the spur of the moment.
Something seemed to break inside Gurick and the boy was suddenly shouting.
“I don’t want to be like that, I don’t like doing that to people!” Now the tears did begin to flow out of the other boys eyes. This crying was not caused by either pain or humiliation; they seemed to stem from something from long before this moment. Gil’s apathy turned to empathy as realization hit. This boy had been bullied by the Starlings long before the three of them began to act out on Gilserand and other kids.
“Why do you help them, then?” he asked, lowering his fists and squaring up his stance.
Again Gurick looked at him with a question, like a long abused dog wondering why it was not receiving a beating for being bad.
“I don’t want to help them, but they’re the only ones who want to play with me. I have to play their mean games or they hurt me too.” Having his suspicions confirmed was not what Gilserand had really expected. A part of him had hoped that he could continue slugging this boy staring suspicion his way. Now that he knew Steinbrook’s story, continuing to punch the kid would make him the beast. The bully. He breathed a word that Randera the Widow used all too often, a word that made her wash his mouth out with soap when she caught him using it.
“Dammit.”
Shaking his head, Gilserand moved to the boy. At first Gurick thought to move away, but a wall would have stopped him; instead he set his hands to parry or absorb any kicks or punches. Confusion filled the younger boys blue orbs when Gilserand offered him a hand up. Gurick’s wide cheek bones and narrow chin cocked oddly at this least expected of gestures; those plush lips pursed ever so slightly, a bit of blood spilling on the lower swell. “Come on, we have to get wood to the school sometime tonight.” Gil’s words only seemed to spark more suspicion, but Gurick slowly reached up waiting to see when the trap would be sprung on him.
With a heave, Gilserand pulled the other boy up. Gurick just did not seem to realize why he was getting a reprieve. Carlin and Farlin both had black eyes and split lips to show their one on one time with Gil. “You need to find yourself some better friends than the ones you got,” he advised Gurick.
“Who?” Gurick countered. “Carlin would thump on me if I tried to play with anyone else, he would have his brother help.” Now it was Gilserand who was having the dilemma to contend with. He had thought he could leave it at giving Gurick his good advice, but now it felt as if he were being put under some sort of obligation by this kid whom he had disliked for so long.
I didn’t know that Gurick was under duress this whole time, Gil admitted as he pondered. He reached into his past trying to find a reason to dismiss Gurick, but he remembered the rocks and dirt clods that had missed hitting him when the bullies would throw things at him. This boy had always missed with his missiles. Why? Because he’s not like the Starlings, he reasoned immediately. Then Gil remembered how Gurick had stood and been ready to take his licks, he had known he had deserved to be beaten up. That is kind of admirable if I think about it. Still the obligation should not fall onto him.
“You are a better person than either Farlin or Carlin. You have more guts than they do. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find other friends.”
Saying that in passing as he returned to his empty wheelbarrow, Gilserand tried to sound dismissive just to drive his own conscious away. Remaining in place, Gurick had his head cocked at Gil. His face still had that bemused look on it, not understanding the motivations of the older boy.
“Why would you say nice things about me when I’ve been so horrible to you?” Gil found himself muttering Randera’s favored invective yet again after Gurick asked him that.
All he wanted to do was drive this kid away, yet he felt the hooks of responsibility setting deeper into his psyche.
“Unlike Carlin, you knew you deserved to be punished for what you’ve done,” Gilserand started, but he rebelled at his gentle tone. The war in his soul began to boil so his voice harshened and rose in volume. “Because you only hit me when you were forced to! Because you missed me with your rocks and dirt clods! Because no one deserves to be bullied, not even you!” Gil was shouting at the end of his diatribe, and he was near to tears himself. The one that slipped from the pool in his left eye he scrubbed away as fast as he could. Those other tears were blinked away when he turned in the direction of the wood yard, when he was not looking at poor disheveled Gurick.
Just as Gil was regaining his composure, he heard a footfall on the cobbles near him. He turned to find Gurick peering up at him, from their few inches of disparity.
“I’m sorry, Gilserand. I’m sorry for every time I helped them hurt you and everyone else. I wish I was big enough to stand up to them like you are doing.” A new urge to hit this boy welled up, but Gilserand knew he would be striking out to push Gurick’s urbanity away. There was no way that a brute and bully should show such a wellspring of decency. No way! Gil just wanted it to stop.
“Just grab your cart. Let’s get this crappy day over with,” he growled pointing his one wheel cart in the right direction.
Despite his fast pace he heard the other boy’s wheel barrow catching up to him, the wheel pattering quickly over the cobbles. Gurick matched his pace when his cart drew even with Gilserand so that he was slightly behind. Thankfully the Steinbrook boy did not try to converse with him, seeming content to be putting this whole incident behind them. Very pointedly not showing that he was a good kid in a very bad circumstance. They wheeled into the wood yard where stack upon stack of cut and split logs were piled in cords for the city’s inhabitants to buy. A burly man in sap and dirt stained rough spun work clothes took the ticket Gil handed him, fortunately the man recognized the requisition mark for the school and did not ask for coins.
After pointing out the stack of fir wood they were to pick from, the man seemed to dismiss the boys and went into the shack that was the wood yard’s office. Gilserand took the nearest end to begin taking split wood from, Gurick wheeled to the far end of the row eight feet away. Wood began to bang into the metal barrows, but soon the sound turned to wood on wood impacts. The pressure in Gil had to find a way out.
“You don’t have to be bigger than them, Gurick,” he heard himself saying. The other boy stopped swinging a chunk of wood into his wheelbarrow. “I’m smaller and slighter than Carlin, and I beat him. Twice.”
Gurick swung his wooden prize into place before responding.
“But you’re fast Gilserand. I just saw that back there. I’m not that fast.” Gil swung a few more chunks into his neat row, thinking about what he was hearing. I know I’m not faster, but what did I exactly do to change myself into the bully stopper? Fortunately Gurick worked like Gil, he did not stop piling wood while they talked.
“I wouldn’t say I was fast. I think it’s timing, timing your blocks or timing your punches when you see an opening.” The wood was beginning to heap in both wheelbarrows, they were almost done loading. Now all they would have to do was keep their one wheeled carts level the five blocks back to the school house.
How many times will we have to stop and pick up wood that spills….? Gilserand did not get to finish forming that thought.
“I don’t understand.” Gurick stated. The younger boy stacked two more chunks while waiting for Gil to come up with an answer for him. Why am I talking to him? he complained silently. I don’t know why I’m helping this kid. Sighing at his inner debate, Gilserand finally looked at Gurick.
“When we were fighting I threw that feint with my left. You overreacted trying to knock my hand aside. That left your whole right side open for me to hit you. So I tagged you in the side. Then I feinted again and I noticed that you spread your hands a little too wide, so I was able to hit you in your face.”
This time the younger boy did stop working as he pondered what he had been told. Garick started nodding slowly as he returned to grabbing wood.
“I get so scared during a fight, how do I make myself watch my enemy?” Now that is the question, how do I answer that without sounding crazy? Gil was in a quandary now, he did not know how to describe joining with the observer inside. He was not sure if Gurick would even know what he was talking about if he tried to describe the inner observer. Do other people think that way, or is it just me? Seeing that Gilserand was having trouble devising an answer for him, Gurick asked another question that actually helped the older boy formulate his ideas. “How did you stop being afraid of us?”
Gilserand’s answer made the other boy stop in his tracks and gape again.
“I didn’t stop being afraid,” Gil stated. The other boy’s face was so comical at that moment that Gilserand broke into a slight smile; he still was not in the mind frame to actually laugh yet. Still he was happy that he now had the words to work with. “The fear is still with me, but I focus on my enemy… no I force my fear to the back of my head. I force myself to watch them no matter how bad I feel, it is my job… or my duty to do that, no matter what. I just look for that opening that allows me to hit them, block them, or gives me my chance to run away; I tell myself I have to find that opening. I just got tired of running away this time.” Impressed with the explanation handed him, Gurick finished stacking his cart.
Taking the handles of his wheelbarrow, Gilserand waited to lift and begin wheeling their way out of the yard. Instead of taking his own conveyance in hand, Gurick turned to face Gil.
“I don’t know why Carlin and Farlin hate you, you are a really nice person. I’m going to find other friends, but I’ll probably be beaten up a few times. I’ll have to learn how to watch no matter what.” Gurick shrugged then took up his wheelbarrow, then nodded for Gil to proceed. The boys gumption tugged at Gilserand again, a momentary empathy that he shouted down using memories of all those times Gurick had helped the Starling brothers to beat on him.
At first Gilserand was happy that Gurick followed him by a wheelbarrow length, not talking, not giving him compliments. For the first three blocks he tried to convince himself that the silence was a golden gift. The fact that there were no spills should have helped, but…. Turning an eye back, he saw that the younger boy was deep in thought, fear and determination striving unconsciously across his features. Is he really going to go through with leaving the brothers? I bet he chickens out. That uncharitable thought began to dig at Gil. No matter what, he could not keep his wall of contempt in place. Without knowing what to say, he let his pace lag a little until he had let Gurick draw even with him.
Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and he saw Gurick’s brow furl momentarily, confused by Gil's gesture. Still there were no words that Gil wanted to share, so they pushed their barrows in silence. When there was but a block remaining Gilserand chanced another glance. The shorter boy no longer seemed torn, he wore resolution like a badge. I guess I didn’t need words to help him, Gil mused discovering the power of silent solidarity. He looks like he’s got his courage set…. Well not courage, but determination. I hope he pulls it off and shakes the brothers influence on his life.
Turning onto the road that followed the inside of the curtain wall, they could see the tall narrow two story school house. The shutters had been placed over the windows. Just like Gilserand’s house, the school lived in the shadow of the wall and other equally tall buildings; the sun rarely warmed the place no matter that it was spring. The building and yard looked empty as school had let out over an hour ago. With the sun partially blocked by the wall, it also felt like evening was upon Alren; in truth it was just this part of town taking on a gloom like impending night.
They parked their conveyances before the big old wood bin built onto the side of the house. Outside the bin opened from the top, inside the school there was a pair of false windows that were always shuttered. A person could take one or both shutters down and reach into the wood bin for tree based fuel. The wood stove was just east of the wood bin’s opening. Swinging the bin’s top open, Gil looked at Gurick.
“You hand me sections and I’ll try to stack them in here, a chain gang,” he suggested. Gurick chanced a wan smile Gil’s way as he nodded assent.
Through their work it did not take them long to establish a rhythm which seemed to take some of the onerous nature of their task away. Wood plunked into a neat stack in the bin at a respectable rate, and in no time the first wheelbarrow was empty. Gurick insisted on getting the empty out of the way; he did this by tipping the barrow on its nose and leaning it up on the eastern side of the wood bin. Reestablishing their synchronicity did not take long at all, but the routine was shattered when Carlin’s voice intruded on their silent effort.
“Gurick, are you almost done, I want to get home some time tonight?”
Gilserand felt his face tighten in something more than distaste, but he refused to look up from his work. He didn’t want to look at anyone at that moment, but when a log section failed to smack into his palm he was forced to look Gurick’s way.
“Go on, go home. I don’t want to walk with you.” Gurick was working hard to keep his face looking determined, but his blue eyes reflected the fear held within.
“What?” Carlin managed to put menace into that simple one word question. Turning his head he saw the pale blond capped faces of the brothers, they were looking hard at Gurick. The bruising around their eyes pleased Gil immensely.
He also noticed that neither brother looked at him directly, their eyes slid around him as though they could will him out of existence.
“I don’t want to play with you guys anymore. You are mean, and I’m tired of hurting other kids because of you. Go home.” Poor Gurick’s voice cracked with fear, yet he had gotten the words out. Surprised at the boy’s plucky spirit, Gil turned his head to take Gurick in. Thrusting his chest and chin out, Gurick was the shortest boy in the yard at the moment. This was probably the reason why that chin and Guricks hands shook as he put on his brave showing.
Both the blond boys advanced a step, their piggish faces darkening. Farlin made a show of clenching his fists.
“That’s got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, Gurick,” Carlin challenged, a sneer in his voice and on his face; a dangerous light in his eyes. Uncertainty shook Gurick, and his posture withered a bit. Gilserand could see the boy struggling to remain certain in the sea of threat surrounding him. This is not right, Gurick has the right to be free of their influence, his thoughts thundered. The Starling boys began to advance, certain in their menace.
He could remain silent no more. This charade had to end this instant. Gil moved away from the wood bin and stood beside Gurick. His sudden presence made the brothers crash to a halt, looking directly at Gilserand for the first time.
“Are you deaf or just stupid?” he queried the Starling brothers, his voice even. “Gurick is my friend now, he doesn’t need you.” Why am I doing this, the voice of his lingering resentment asked. The part of Gilserand that admired Gurick for actually throwing off the yoke shushed that silent voice. Watching consternation and confusion overtake Carlin and Farlin buoyed both Gil and Gurick. For his part Gurick gave Gilserand one surprised look, before he once again drew himself up into a defiant stance before the Starling boys.
Not liking how the situation had turned against them, the two blond haired pug nosed kids chose to retreat; fast walking for the corner of the school. Thinking he knew how their bully mind’s worked, Gilserand realized that they might corner Gurick on a day when he was alone. “If you’re thinking of punishing Gurick at some other time, remember this! I will hunt you both down again if you do!” Adrenaline had made him shout, but his secret fear of the brothers was not as great as it had once been. Yet that dread of them was not all the way gone, not even close. The Starling’s rounded the corner without comment, without looking back.
A long sigh of pent up emotion leaked out of Gurick.
“Why did you do that, Gilserand? The things I have done to you, you should be thrashing me for even existing.” In answer, Gil shrugged. There were parts of his own mind asking him the same question. Yet there were parts that knew the answer, and those voices were gaining volume in his internal debate. Gesturing to the few chunks of wood remaining in the last wheelbarrow, Gil moved back to the wood bin. Seemingly content with just getting a shrug to his question, Gurick lifted a section and handed it off. After that one had been deposited the next split round came into Gilserand’s hands.
“It’s because you have decency in you, Gurick. You are not a bully, you just got mixed up with the wrong people.” There was silence between them as the younger boy percolated ideas furiously as shown by the mix of expressions flitting across his mien. The last section clonked into place in the wood bin, stacked as neat as wood could be stacked.
“I don’t feel decent, I’ve done too much bad. But I hope to prove you right someday, Gilserand.”