09-28-2024, 04:36 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-04-2024, 02:37 PM by frenzied67.)
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.
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.
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.