10-02-2024, 06:07 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-04-2024, 02:35 PM by frenzied67.)
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.
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.