Chapter 1 Gilserand pt1

[frenzied67]

When the man turned right to enter the business of a cooper, Gilserand was able to see the market beyond. The square below the inner keep was filled with stalls, wagons, pavilions, carts, and more people than seemed able to fit in the town. I’m almost there, I’m almost safe. To verify whether his thoughts were true, Gil chanced another peep over his shoulder. Again he was not certain what he saw, but he thought he glimpsed Gurick’s flat brown hair in the distance. A woman’s pink sun parasol dipped to interpose with Gil’s vision, denying him a chance to truly ascertain the truth of that glance. This time Gilserand noticed how other people were watching him, had been watching him. Hungry for drama they sensed his association with interesting happenings; his haste and desperate glances seemed to guarantee a tale to witness.

Becoming self conscious of the scene he must be presenting with his near trot and paranoid looks at his back trail, the boy forced himself to slow down. Fighting the urge to look back as often as he had been was the hardest part, but he managed. Images of Carlin and Farlin racing up behind him, Gurick in tow, did not help. When his imagination did not prove true, Gilserand gave one last glance back before entering the market square. Even though he did not spot any of the bullying trio, Gil decided he needed to take precautions.

He turned right until he was out of sight of the road entrance, then he darted east before squirmed through wagons and between stalls heading left. Waiting for a dense knot of people to form did not take long. Gilserand used the cover they provided to move over to the northern half of the market, hoping he would remain unseen from the road entrance. A hefty woman in country attire shouted at him as he weaseled passed her cart full of pecans trying to get behind the stalls facing the main thoroughfare. To forestall the woman’s ire before it became a caterwaul, Gil held up his hands while back stepping away from her goods. The Burning Spirits take her if she gives me away, he thought uncharitably darting west to crouch behind empty barrels between two stalls near to the road.

Fortune favored him at that moment. Walking slowly behind a father and two son’s whose jackets did not coordinate with their pants or hosen, Gilserands tormentors entered the market. The three of them were obviously in search mode, heads turning this way and that. Carlin Starling walked with a limp and grimace, and though he too looked about, his questing eyes lacked the fervor Farlin and Gurick put into the effort. I really should find a way to fight them when they are not working as a pack, Gilserand mused, only feeling this confident since they did not even notice him. Thinking of them having to fight in a group emphasized how cowardly they were, but realizing this made Gil see his own cowardice in wanting a knife to scare them with.

A big knife would still look cool, he began to reason, but I can’t lower myself to their level by thinking of using it as they would. Surprised at himself for coming to this determination, Gilserand knew he would never have come to this sort of conclusion a few months ago…. Fingers gripped his ear and twisted, the sudden pain wrenching a squeal out of him.

“Gilserand, you faithless wretch! Why aren’t you in school?” He was pulled about by his pinched and twisted earlobe, the agony forcing him up to his tippy toes as he voiced another wordless protest.

In equal parts Randera the Widow’s face held hints of youthful beauty and the future ravages time had allocated for her. Her gray eyes were large and lovely, the crows feet at their side were smile and worry erosion lines set on human features. Her nose was long and straight with narrow nostrils and perfectly proportioned too the rest of her features. Wide cheek bones capped expression lines around her mouth, the future’s wrinkles showing hints even though her smile still made men do a double take. A small beauty mark sat above her still full lips atop the right recurve of the cupid’s bow curvature of her mouth, her teeth were a little off true white due to all the tea she drank through the day. She seemed fragile in her frame because she had never lost her teen age slenderness, nature had denied her the robustness motherhood would have bestowed.

Instead of the love and pride she showed for him with her usual greeting smile, Randera’s face was set in a frown of rare anger for Gilserand instead. Those gray eyes were like steel spear tips aimed his way, and he knew the words she was waiting to unleash were meant to stab him deep. A strand of her dark hair had come undone from the towering mass of curls defying gravity atop her head; Randera’s last attempt at coloration was fading from her tresses as a few gray strands could be seen. Just like the hoops ballooning her skirts, a tiered frame was used to keep her coiffure aiming at the sky. Not waiting for his response she tugged his ear forcing him behind her. One delicate slippered foot kicked the barrels he had hidden behind aside.

Towing him like a farmer towed an ox, Randera the Widow pulled him in her wake, her plum colored dress swinging about like a clapperless bell. Her steps led away from the market and the big knife he had coveted. Gilserand protested again, his voice cracking and breaking as he begged her to let go. Her grip was relentless though, and he could not step closer to her to relieve the twist she had on his lobe; her skirts forced Gil to lean, and the Lords of Light help him if he stepped on her hem. Forced to stumble behind her, Randera the Widow almost hauled him an entire block before she let go and rounded on him.

In the middle of the walk in front of an inn, she stabbed Gilserand in the chest with one of her perfectly crafted finger nails. “I don’t know what you are playing at, young man, but I am simply tired of having Miss Hollobrand visit OUR house after school lets out! I raised you to NOT be a problem in this community!” Her face was tight with barely suppressed anger, her voice bristled with rage, but her eyes flashed between veiled violence and the worst thing of all; disappointment. The explanation he wanted to give withered unspoken as he physically deflated. Inanely he thought, I’m taller than her. Gil had missed the part in his growth where he had over topped the woman who had given all to raise him.

Stamping her slipper encased foot, Randera the Widow snapped a pointing finger out in the direction of their little house. That finger quivered with her emotions, though her arm was as rigid as her furled brow. In the four block walk, Randera listed off a litany of punishments he could expect. What Gilseran noticed more than her words was the knowing looks stranger and neighbor alike cast their way. He was certain that the two of them would be what was talked about in the neighborhoods north of the west barbican for the next few days. That would be something more The Widow would hold over his head; she claimed that she hated being the object of gossip, just not when it came to the extra attention men paid her and the jealousy this aroused in nearby women.

Their little iris colored house, with the exposed studs and beams painted the same dark brown as every building in Alren, hove into view. The city wall blocked the sun shortly after it reached it’s nadir every day that the sun shone, and the two story houses north, south, and east of them kept the glowing orb off of them almost until that same midday. After the winter just passed the rack they used to hold firewood was all but empty. It needed swept out of dirt, leaves, and pulverized bark. Her husband had acquired the house shortly after he had married Randera, though the bank still held the note of ownership. She claimed that they had planned to add an additional story to the place after their family grew. He had died a week before she had miscarried their one and only child.

Gripping his arm just before he reached the threshold, Randera the Widow directed him with her grip. For a moment Gilserand wondered what would happen if he just stopped. Would she have the might or mass to move him? I’m in deep enough trouble right now, he acknowledged letting her propel him into the humble little home. She tried to shove him into the interior even as she reached to close the door, his feigned stumble passed the little fire oven and it’s diminutive range top came a tick too late. Ire faded from The Widow’s eyes for a moment as she assessed that interaction. Her arm had folded while trying to apply the force, but the misery in his eyes and playacting was an act of contrition that also weighed in on the situation.

Just north of the cooking/heating stove was the large rectangular dining room table, which took up too much space so also performed many jobs. The southern half of the table was used for food prep, the middle of the table was used for dining, and after it was cleaned up, allowed Gil to do his homework. The northern half of the table was strewn with fabrics, thread, thimbles, and the other esoteric sundries used in sewing. Two of the four matching chairs were piled high with bolts of fabric and scraps. A basin that had a drain poking out of the southern side of the house sat just east of the wood fed stove.

About twenty dummies filled the space east of the table. They were outfitted with sewing projects in various stages of completion. Most held client clothing that required repair or adornment, but quit a few of the mannequins held Randera the Widow’s own creations. Two thirds of these projects were for women’s clothing. To the north east side of the house was her wardrobe, full to bursting with clothing she had made for herself. This sat next to her bedroom. South of her room was their toilet closet. It did not have a drain to the street, which meant they had to haul their bodily waste buckets three blocks to the communal midden. Gilserand’s room took up the south east post in the house, the door behind dummies and stacks of satiny cloth bolts.

Though still angry, a lot of the ire in The Widow’s eye had departed.

“By the Lords of Light, Gilserand! What made you skip school this time? You just finished the punishments of that little prank you pulled last week!” she demanded. Again that disenchantment with him was in Randera the Widow’s eyes. That look always made his heart sink. He always swore to be her vicarious object of pride, yet he always seemed to bring about the opposite these days.

“I didn’t mean to skip. I was going to go to class….” Gilserand started, trying to find words that would mollify the woman who had lovingly raised him. He had been an infant when the woodsmen had brought him to her almost twelve years ago.

Seeing Gil cast about trying to find something to say made her rest a hand on her hip; one slippered foot began to tap under her ballooned out skirt, a dangerous sign that began to reflect in her riveting gray eyes. “I left for school early this morning, right after I ran our slops to the midden,” he began again, hoping admitting to doing his chores would score him some points. “I wanted to do some fishing before class.” He had done this many times before, The Widow knew where his fishing hole was. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” The heat that filled her gaze made Gilserand worry that she was about to break out the switch she used to spank him with.

Surprisingly she seemed to reconsider her anger altogether, the fiery scourge seemed to lift away and her foot stopped tap tap tapping. Why? Gil asked himself. He found himself worrying that this was a trap. Oh, she knows I try to go fishing when our money gets real tight. Our payment is almost due. I tried to do the right thing and she sees it. Randera the Widow’s eyes narrowed as she cast about him, looking for his line and wicker basket. Because those items were missing, she began to feel as though he were lying. As the simmering light began to rise in her eyes, Gilserand desperately shoved a hand into his pocket. Though he had wanted to keep a couple of silvers for himself, he did not divide the coins. All the coins were in his hand which he held out.

Equal parts astonishment and relief entered The Widows gray orbs as she took in the pentamark and single marks balanced on his palm. Knowing his window of latitude would be narrow unless he reinforced his offering with an explanation, Gilserand began to rush words out. “I caught a big old bass for us, but one of the guards offered me money for it. We can get more meals with this coin than we could have gotten off that fish. I know you skip eating altogether for a few days after you pay the bank, I know you give me what little food we have. We don’t have to do that this time.” Randera’s indignation stiffened body deflated as she began to cast about between his right and left eyes.

Wilting a little bit more she glided up to Gilserand. Joy exploded in him when she gathered him into her arms.

“Just when I’ve had enough with your antics you pull something like this and make me realize how hard you try to please. I wish I could have given you a better life than the one we have, Gil….”


Gilserand had no ploy, no reasoning that would have swayed Miss Hollobrand, his teacher. As a repeat offender of her rules, Gil was given two weeks of laboring for the little school house. He was to haul wood eight blocks to refill the wood bin, which held four cords. Before class he would be expected to either take down the shutters or put them up, all depending upon the temperature; that meant feeding the stove through the day if it was cold. After school he had to sweep the floors and carry scraps to the midden. On top of that, the chalkboard always needed cleaning. Fortunately he had help fulfilling these responsibilities, three bullies had also been busted for truancy. They all had to write a paper on the prehistory of the city states, when Human and Gachtler had broken free from the Faeloran empire and the betrayal wrought by the fur clad Gachtler.

1972 years ago

Five tall Faeloran women bent over a child of their kind, who was seated before a large mirror set on a pale wood vanity. All four of the women had waist length straight hair green in color, yet not a one of these women had the same shade of green. As were the women, their one shoulder draped togas were alike yet unalike. Though the attire was designed the same, each series of clothing had it’s own coloration, and either a belt or delicate chain to cinch the waist. The Empress had a gold fringe at the hems and seams of her lilac toga, that matched the gold chain with the dangling emeralds adorning her waist. Like his mother the prince had a long refined nose with eyes that seemed overlarge with an up tilt at the far corner. They shared narrow lips on serene faces, yet his mother had higher cheek bones. All Faeloran had pointed ears, not too tall, and double peaked ear lobes. Unlike Human and Gachtler skulls, the structure of Faeloran craniums was somewhat elongated.

At one hundred fifty Prince Lorinlil was still but a child, with a child’s height, and the autumn orange colors in his hair still. Looking in the mirror on his vanity, he wished there was more green in his long straight tresses. Unlike the prince, the empress quite enjoyed the leaf orange his head sprouted. She and her ladies were currently brushing that hair, exploring various styles they thought looked good on him. Lorinlil was looking forward to his riding lessons this afternoon. He dreamed of the day he would be old enough to ride his elk in formation with the Faeloran cavalry… or better yet, with the famed Osprey Guard; the soldiers protecting the imperial family. He only had another century and a half to go, those years couldn’t pass swiftly enough. One day his father, the emperor, would put Sansilar in his hands, the sword and symbol of his family’s power.

That would be better than this female clucking and fussing, he complained silently. He loved his mother, but ladies had no time for the things Lorinlil himself loved. He dreamed of sword fighting, of being old enough to go on hunts with his father, of playing with his friends in the shadow of their palatial tower. Knowing what clothes to wear, when and where, and styling his hair was not manly enough for this prince.

“I think this amber bracelet and necklace set goes great with your hair, Lorinlil. What do you think?” his mother asked draping the jewelry around his neck.

Dutifully he looked into the mirror. His hair was orange and the gem stones were amber. He could not see how a honey tone blended with his bright hair at all, the ladies in waiting were all cooing about what a nice match it all was. The prince could not see it.

Somehow, miraculously, his mother saw his distaste, and his expression had not changed a wit. “Lorinlil, I wish you wouldn’t be like this. In a weeks time we will be hosting some of the most prominent noble families from southern Tanabror. You would be well advised to know that, though we are this nation’s rulers, we still need the nobles to project our power through the world for us. One of these days you will have to choose a bride from one of those families, so you had better behave.” Mother is using her ‘reasonable’ tone on me, but her arguments seem meaningless.

“I am not ‘being like this’,” he protested. “I do not think this amber matches my hair at all. If I had honey colored fur like some Gachtler slaves have, then it might suit, but this jewelry does not match my hair color.” His outburst did not sit with the ladies in waiting at all, they drew back with shocked expressions shifting looks between himself and his mother. For her part, the empress laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and bent a little as if to whisper in his ear from behind him.

Her voice was gentle but set in a conversational volume, not near a whisper at all.

“My son, the idea is not to match you hair, but to provide a subtle contrast. Contrast, when used correctly, can draw attention to a feature, rather than blend with it. Never doubt the power of contrast, because it does not lend itself to certainty in a viewers mind.” Prince Lorinlil saw her reflection smile at him, her eyebrows raised oh so slightly to lend weight to her statement. That meant that his mother thought this was a very important lesson for him to learn. Subtly he let his left brow twitch a little, as well as the left side of his mouth, as though a smile wanted to form. In the secret language between mother and son, he was acknowledging that her lesson was important, but he would need more tutoring to fully understand. The fondness that momentarily infused her smile, and her regal blink assured him that they would talk about this again.

Disturbances never happened on his mother’s visits, but beyond the balcony of his tower room came a crackling boom. Thunder storm? Both the empress and her ladies in waiting parted, turning to face the parted diaphanous curtain draped over the balcony entrance. Through the mirror Lorinlil peeped through the gape in that curtain. The skies were blue, unmarred by any hint of a cloud. He spun in his seat to add his eyes to those directed at the external aperture. Boom… boom, bam, kathoom! This crackling series of explosions preceded the disturbing sound of wails and cries. It would take a lot of Faeloran voices to bring such despair so high up this tower. Excitement charged the young prince and he was suddenly pelting for his open air balcony. “Lorinlil! No!” the empress cried.

He would not be stayed, not for this. This was different, a change in the entropy of his regal existence, and Lorinlil had to know. Another explosion sounded from without before the prince checked his momentum with his arms against the balustrade. In the city below Prince Lorinlil saw several large puffs of expanding dust clouds. Specks, who were actually people, milled and swirled in the street below, their terror sounds a constant in his pointed ears. In one street those small figures suddenly began darting to the south west before a dense wave of figures advancing from further north. A lance of canary yellow light darted from the tightly packed mob into those fleeing. Dozens of those specks moved no longer. Another flash of light two streets up pulled Lorinlil’s eyes.

Dark green, but seeming electric, this flare seemed to punch into a housing structure causing that small building to shatter and explode. Another dust cloud expanded before a dull boom assailed his young ears. Slender fingers grasped the prince’s shoulder and pulled him back with a power he would have expected from his father, never from his mother.

“Lorinlil, get away from there! It is not safe!” Even as she pulled him stumbling back, his mother was looking over the railing, her eyes aghast at the destruction being wrought below. The ladies in waiting were still by the vanity, their large eyes wider than normal, hands held before their mouths as though to stifle the cries of alarm one or another periodically uttered.

For the first time, Lorinlil began to know fear. The fearful looks on the ladies faces, the lack of seeming to know how to act or react, tugged his own terror out. “Stay away from the outer wall!” His mother’s command came out steady, certain that her orders were the correct course of action. Pulling out her wand of mahogany wood, her talisman, the Empress waved it and her free hand at the balcony just as a fresh series of explosions sounded from without. Stone flowed like dense mud, both down from above but also up in defiance of gravity. Swirling flows connected, drew more material, then froze. As though there had never been a rectangular opening to the outside, the wall stood solid in the circular room with a useless curtain draped open before it. Just the fact that his mother was acting, was doing something that seemed constructive, helped Lorinlil to stave off the awful feeling that had tried to consume him.

Taking his hand the Empress pulled him to where the ladies in waiting yet cowered, their whimpers a constant. Those women all looked to his mother, hoping she would continue to act or possibly grant them protection; instead his mother folded her arms around Lorinlil and held him to her belly. Craning his head up and around, the prince was going to see if mother had a plan. Instead, he saw the inner wall to his room begin to flow and thin to his left. One woman wailed her fear even as the whole clutch of ladies darted to the right to take cover behind Lorinlil’s bed. Letting her grip on him go, the Impress raised her wand, fear and determination storming through her eyes, while her face, though pale, lied with a serene facade.

Stone curled and rolled like incoming waves colliding in the middle of the wall, then like waves being pulled back by outflow, the curling flows pulled back from each other up and down. A rectangular aperture appeared revealing a corridor filled with Osprey Guard, in their mirror finished plate armor.

“My lady, my prince we have come to escort you out of the palace, I am Captain Unsalier,” a voice called from without, before a tentative helmeted head peeped in. Seeing the empress with raised wand, the officer showed his empty hands. Scuffing behind Lorinlil drew the princes gaze back, standing from their cower behind his bed, the ladies in waiting rose with hope beaming out.

Since he had not been blasted by the waiting wand, the captain stepped fully into the room with his hands still up and showing. Both his sword and relic bound dagger were still sheathed. “We must hurry my lady, before the tower is breached.” Unsaliers partially concealed features seemed to reflect the empress’s willingness to fight despite the upheaval of certainty in his world.

“Who is attacking us, who is attacking Estanabrill?” His mother demanded, lowering her talisman just a slight bit. In answer the captain indicated the opening in the wall with one hand and waved them to move with the other. Reaching back for Lorinlil’s hand, they both started forward together; that was when he answered her question.

“We are being attacked from within. The slaves have risen up.”

A knot of twenty Osprey Guard opened their formation which seemed to swallow Lorinlil and his mother in the corridor outside Lorinlil’s chamber. Two Lieutenants with golden poppies on their shoulders, waved their daggers and the stone wall began to flow. The ladies in waiting, who were still inside, began to either call out in fear or loft protests onto unheeding soldier ears. Just before the stone waves connected and sealed the opening, those women’s cries turned to wails like those that had risen from the distant streets.

“Which slaves?” his mother asked as the protective formation lurched into motion; weapons and relics bristling threat to anything outside the dome of shields. Through Lorinlil’s short century and a half of life, there had been many slave uprisings; the last near the capitol had come from the silver mines a weeks ride north. The captain’s answer numbed the royal mother and son.

“All of them, my lady. They have all risen up, Gachtler and Human at the same time….”


King Lorinlil’s eyes unglazed from the nearly two thousand year old memory. His hand was gripping the antler hilt of Sansilar so tightly that he might be bruising his own flesh. That was the blow to our empire that we Faelora never recovered from, he admitted in thought, trying to avoid the even less pleasant memories of that long ago day. His eyes looked like cut and polished sapphires set into black schlera. His pupil, a black spot that peered through the facets of the gem that was not a gem. Though he had the long narrow nostril nose his mother had, the same up slanted eyes she had once carried, Lorinlil still could not remember her name.

Emperor Rinlililor, his father who had died after the Second War of Devastation with the alien Osserjuka, had never talked about her after her death that long removed historic day. Lorinlil had been too little himself, his memory unable to recall any moment when anyone could or would have pronounced her name in front of him. With his swift determined gait, Lorinlil moved over to his vanity; the same unfinished pale wooden vanity he had been pimped and preened over on that day. He had his mother’s thin lipped mouth, but Lorinlil had inherited his fathers flat planned cheeks. Both of his parents had the long narrow kite shield like features he himself now sported, but the one thing he did not like about himself was his hair. Faelora did not wither and die like the other races did, he would never grow feeble like those bestial Gachtler or those cloddish Humans. Time wrought different changes in his people.

His greenish blue tresses, like a noble fir tree’s needles in color, were clumping and taking on mineral like consistency. Though the color was unaffected, most of his tresses looked like a chalk parody of his hair, other locks looked like fine crystalline growths; like aquamarine asbestos. These were signs that his last few centuries were upon him, every decade was now a span causing him worry. These ravages he was seeing, these signs of wasting made King Lorinlil wonder if his mother had actually been the lucky one. She had died on that day, shielding him from a pack of relic wielding Humans who had ambushed the Osprey Guards as they had neared the office suites of the Imperial Bureaucracy . That was two thousand years ago, but it still hurts, he thought watching pools form before the gems of his eyes, the liquid quivered then spilled down his aspen tree pale cheeks.

Cutting his wheel barrow in front of Gurick Steinbrook’s, Gilserand stopped the other boy while they were half a block from the wood yard. Gurick stepped away from his hand cart, but unlike Carlin or Farlin, he did not look confused or frightened.

“I guess you know what’s coming?” Gil asked the brown haired boy. Gurick grimaced but did not try to run even as he was being advanced upon.

“The Starlings told me what you did to them.”

Just three days into the two weeks of detention and hard labor punishment Miss Hollobrand had leveled upon Gilserand, the Starling brothers, and Gurick, Gilserand had been enacting his own plan of punishments. Miss Hollobrand made sure her naughty charges worked in pairs, which meant that Gilserand would be one on one with the boys who had bullied him for so long. “In a way I guessed this day was going to come.” Gurick admitted just as Gilserand reached him from around their two wheel barrows. This isn’t what I expected either, Gil thought as he and Gurick raised clenched fists to begin the fight.

Unlike Carlin who had collapsed and began crying after the first punch, or Farlin who had tried to run away, Gurick was going to try and stand toe to toe with him. The shorter boy seemed content to wait, watching Gil from between his fists. The look on his young face was resignation. Not fear, not anger, not denial, just the expectation that he was deserving of what he was about to get. Though stepping into his observer state was not as revelatory as the first time he had done it, Gil was still set aside from his own fears and angers as he feinted with his left. He had enough control of his emotional state that he thought of testing Gurick’s reactions.

The Younger boy tried to power the jab away with both hands, which left the right side of his head, ribs, and belly open. Gilserand exploited that mistake. Though he tried to hit the soft flesh below the ribs, Gurick’s flinch made him contact the lower floating rib instead. Steinbrook staggered back with a grunt, the pain in his eyes did not devolve into either fear or anger; nor did frustration rear up. Just more resignation to the inevitable. Confusion tried to distract him from ‘seeing’ his oponent, wanted him to ponder what was going on with the other boy. Now was not the time. Gil’s revenge was still being served.

Gurick was favoring his hurt side, but he still overreacted to the next fake jab Gil sent his way. While trying to get his hands back into position to protect his face and head, the Steinbrook boy set his hands a little too wide. Gilserands right hand flashed between the other boys paws, popping the head back. Eyes rolling, unable to focus for a second, Gurick fell heavily onto his posterior. The way the younger boy balled his body up reflexively did shock Gil back into thinking and feeling. Does he think I’m going to kick and beat him while he’s down? After asking himself that question, he kind of gawked at Gurick who was scooting and rolling out of kicking distance.

Seeing his downed foe gawking back at him, seeming to ask why the thumping was not raining down, stole Gilserands vindictiveness away; that look made him question what he was doing.

“I’m not like you, I won’t beat on you while you’re down. It feels better knocking you off your feet.” Now that sounded suitably mean, Gil thought, proud of himself for coming up with that on the spur of the moment.

Something seemed to break inside Gurick and the boy was suddenly shouting.

“I don’t want to be like that, I don’t like doing that to people!” Now the tears did begin to flow out of the other boys eyes. This crying was not caused by either pain or humiliation; they seemed to stem from something from long before this moment. Gil’s apathy turned to empathy as realization hit. This boy had been bullied by the Starlings long before the three of them began to act out on Gilserand and other kids.

“Why do you help them, then?” he asked, lowering his fists and squaring up his stance.

Again Gurick looked at him with a question, like a long abused dog wondering why it was not receiving a beating for being bad.

“I don’t want to help them, but they’re the only ones who want to play with me. I have to play their mean games or they hurt me too.” Having his suspicions confirmed was not what Gilserand had really expected. A part of him had hoped that he could continue slugging this boy staring suspicion his way. Now that he knew Steinbrook’s story, continuing to punch the kid would make him the beast. The bully. He breathed a word that Randera the Widow used all too often, a word that made her wash his mouth out with soap when she caught him using it.

“Dammit.”

Shaking his head, Gilserand moved to the boy. At first Gurick thought to move away, but a wall would have stopped him; instead he set his hands to parry or absorb any kicks or punches. Confusion filled the younger boys blue orbs when Gilserand offered him a hand up. Gurick’s wide cheek bones and narrow chin cocked oddly at this least expected of gestures; those plush lips pursed ever so slightly, a bit of blood spilling on the lower swell. “Come on, we have to get wood to the school sometime tonight.” Gil’s words only seemed to spark more suspicion, but Gurick slowly reached up waiting to see when the trap would be sprung on him.

With a heave, Gilserand pulled the other boy up. Gurick just did not seem to realize why he was getting a reprieve. Carlin and Farlin both had black eyes and split lips to show their one on one time with Gil. “You need to find yourself some better friends than the ones you got,” he advised Gurick.

“Who?” Gurick countered. “Carlin would thump on me if I tried to play with anyone else, he would have his brother help.” Now it was Gilserand who was having the dilemma to contend with. He had thought he could leave it at giving Gurick his good advice, but now it felt as if he were being put under some sort of obligation by this kid whom he had disliked for so long.

I didn’t know that Gurick was under duress this whole time, Gil admitted as he pondered. He reached into his past trying to find a reason to dismiss Gurick, but he remembered the rocks and dirt clods that had missed hitting him when the bullies would throw things at him. This boy had always missed with his missiles. Why? Because he’s not like the Starlings, he reasoned immediately. Then Gil remembered how Gurick had stood and been ready to take his licks, he had known he had deserved to be beaten up. That is kind of admirable if I think about it. Still the obligation should not fall onto him.

“You are a better person than either Farlin or Carlin. You have more guts than they do. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find other friends.”

Saying that in passing as he returned to his empty wheelbarrow, Gilserand tried to sound dismissive just to drive his own conscious away. Remaining in place, Gurick had his head cocked at Gil. His face still had that bemused look on it, not understanding the motivations of the older boy.

“Why would you say nice things about me when I’ve been so horrible to you?” Gil found himself muttering Randera’s favored invective yet again after Gurick asked him that.

All he wanted to do was drive this kid away, yet he felt the hooks of responsibility setting deeper into his psyche.

“Unlike Carlin, you knew you deserved to be punished for what you’ve done,” Gilserand started, but he rebelled at his gentle tone. The war in his soul began to boil so his voice harshened and rose in volume. “Because you only hit me when you were forced to! Because you missed me with your rocks and dirt clods! Because no one deserves to be bullied, not even you!” Gil was shouting at the end of his diatribe, and he was near to tears himself. The one that slipped from the pool in his left eye he scrubbed away as fast as he could. Those other tears were blinked away when he turned in the direction of the wood yard, when he was not looking at poor disheveled Gurick.

Just as Gil was regaining his composure, he heard a footfall on the cobbles near him. He turned to find Gurick peering up at him, from their few inches of disparity.

“I’m sorry, Gilserand. I’m sorry for every time I helped them hurt you and everyone else. I wish I was big enough to stand up to them like you are doing.” A new urge to hit this boy welled up, but Gilserand knew he would be striking out to push Gurick’s urbanity away. There was no way that a brute and bully should show such a wellspring of decency. No way! Gil just wanted it to stop.

“Just grab your cart. Let’s get this crappy day over with,” he growled pointing his one wheel cart in the right direction.

Despite his fast pace he heard the other boy’s wheel barrow catching up to him, the wheel pattering quickly over the cobbles. Gurick matched his pace when his cart drew even with Gilserand so that he was slightly behind. Thankfully the Steinbrook boy did not try to converse with him, seeming content to be putting this whole incident behind them. Very pointedly not showing that he was a good kid in a very bad circumstance. They wheeled into the wood yard where stack upon stack of cut and split logs were piled in cords for the city’s inhabitants to buy. A burly man in sap and dirt stained rough spun work clothes took the ticket Gil handed him, fortunately the man recognized the requisition mark for the school and did not ask for coins.

After pointing out the stack of fir wood they were to pick from, the man seemed to dismiss the boys and went into the shack that was the wood yard’s office. Gilserand took the nearest end to begin taking split wood from, Gurick wheeled to the far end of the row eight feet away. Wood began to bang into the metal barrows, but soon the sound turned to wood on wood impacts. The pressure in Gil had to find a way out.

“You don’t have to be bigger than them, Gurick,” he heard himself saying. The other boy stopped swinging a chunk of wood into his wheelbarrow. “I’m smaller and slighter than Carlin, and I beat him. Twice.”

Gurick swung his wooden prize into place before responding.

“But you’re fast Gilserand. I just saw that back there. I’m not that fast.” Gil swung a few more chunks into his neat row, thinking about what he was hearing. I know I’m not faster, but what did I exactly do to change myself into the bully stopper? Fortunately Gurick worked like Gil, he did not stop piling wood while they talked.

“I wouldn’t say I was fast. I think it’s timing, timing your blocks or timing your punches when you see an opening.” The wood was beginning to heap in both wheelbarrows, they were almost done loading. Now all they would have to do was keep their one wheeled carts level the five blocks back to the school house.

How many times will we have to stop and pick up wood that spills….? Gilserand did not get to finish forming that thought.

“I don’t understand.” Gurick stated. The younger boy stacked two more chunks while waiting for Gil to come up with an answer for him. Why am I talking to him? he complained silently. I don’t know why I’m helping this kid. Sighing at his inner debate, Gilserand finally looked at Gurick.

“When we were fighting I threw that feint with my left. You overreacted trying to knock my hand aside. That left your whole right side open for me to hit you. So I tagged you in the side. Then I feinted again and I noticed that you spread your hands a little too wide, so I was able to hit you in your face.”

This time the younger boy did stop working as he pondered what he had been told. Garick started nodding slowly as he returned to grabbing wood.

“I get so scared during a fight, how do I make myself watch my enemy?” Now that is the question, how do I answer that without sounding crazy? Gil was in a quandary now, he did not know how to describe joining with the observer inside. He was not sure if Gurick would even know what he was talking about if he tried to describe the inner observer. Do other people think that way, or is it just me? Seeing that Gilserand was having trouble devising an answer for him, Gurick asked another question that actually helped the older boy formulate his ideas. “How did you stop being afraid of us?”

Gilserand’s answer made the other boy stop in his tracks and gape again.

“I didn’t stop being afraid,” Gil stated. The other boy’s face was so comical at that moment that Gilserand broke into a slight smile; he still was not in the mind frame to actually laugh yet. Still he was happy that he now had the words to work with. “The fear is still with me, but I focus on my enemy… no I force my fear to the back of my head. I force myself to watch them no matter how bad I feel, it is my job… or my duty to do that, no matter what. I just look for that opening that allows me to hit them, block them, or gives me my chance to run away; I tell myself I have to find that opening. I just got tired of running away this time.” Impressed with the explanation handed him, Gurick finished stacking his cart.

Taking the handles of his wheelbarrow, Gilserand waited to lift and begin wheeling their way out of the yard. Instead of taking his own conveyance in hand, Gurick turned to face Gil.

“I don’t know why Carlin and Farlin hate you, you are a really nice person. I’m going to find other friends, but I’ll probably be beaten up a few times. I’ll have to learn how to watch no matter what.” Gurick shrugged then took up his wheelbarrow, then nodded for Gil to proceed. The boys gumption tugged at Gilserand again, a momentary empathy that he shouted down using memories of all those times Gurick had helped the Starling brothers to beat on him.

At first Gilserand was happy that Gurick followed him by a wheelbarrow length, not talking, not giving him compliments. For the first three blocks he tried to convince himself that the silence was a golden gift. The fact that there were no spills should have helped, but…. Turning an eye back, he saw that the younger boy was deep in thought, fear and determination striving unconsciously across his features. Is he really going to go through with leaving the brothers? I bet he chickens out. That uncharitable thought began to dig at Gil. No matter what, he could not keep his wall of contempt in place. Without knowing what to say, he let his pace lag a little until he had let Gurick draw even with him.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and he saw Gurick’s brow furl momentarily, confused by Gil's gesture. Still there were no words that Gil wanted to share, so they pushed their barrows in silence. When there was but a block remaining Gilserand chanced another glance. The shorter boy no longer seemed torn, he wore resolution like a badge. I guess I didn’t need words to help him, Gil mused discovering the power of silent solidarity. He looks like he’s got his courage set…. Well not courage, but determination. I hope he pulls it off and shakes the brothers influence on his life.

Turning onto the road that followed the inside of the curtain wall, they could see the tall narrow two story school house. The shutters had been placed over the windows. Just like Gilserand’s house, the school lived in the shadow of the wall and other equally tall buildings; the sun rarely warmed the place no matter that it was spring. The building and yard looked empty as school had let out over an hour ago. With the sun partially blocked by the wall, it also felt like evening was upon Alren; in truth it was just this part of town taking on a gloom like impending night.

They parked their conveyances before the big old wood bin built onto the side of the house. Outside the bin opened from the top, inside the school there was a pair of false windows that were always shuttered. A person could take one or both shutters down and reach into the wood bin for tree based fuel. The wood stove was just east of the wood bin’s opening. Swinging the bin’s top open, Gil looked at Gurick.

“You hand me sections and I’ll try to stack them in here, a chain gang,” he suggested. Gurick chanced a wan smile Gil’s way as he nodded assent.

Through their work it did not take them long to establish a rhythm which seemed to take some of the onerous nature of their task away. Wood plunked into a neat stack in the bin at a respectable rate, and in no time the first wheelbarrow was empty. Gurick insisted on getting the empty out of the way; he did this by tipping the barrow on its nose and leaning it up on the eastern side of the wood bin. Reestablishing their synchronicity did not take long at all, but the routine was shattered when Carlin’s voice intruded on their silent effort.

“Gurick, are you almost done, I want to get home some time tonight?”

Gilserand felt his face tighten in something more than distaste, but he refused to look up from his work. He didn’t want to look at anyone at that moment, but when a log section failed to smack into his palm he was forced to look Gurick’s way.

“Go on, go home. I don’t want to walk with you.” Gurick was working hard to keep his face looking determined, but his blue eyes reflected the fear held within.

“What?” Carlin managed to put menace into that simple one word question. Turning his head he saw the pale blond capped faces of the brothers, they were looking hard at Gurick. The bruising around their eyes pleased Gil immensely.

He also noticed that neither brother looked at him directly, their eyes slid around him as though they could will him out of existence.

“I don’t want to play with you guys anymore. You are mean, and I’m tired of hurting other kids because of you. Go home.” Poor Gurick’s voice cracked with fear, yet he had gotten the words out. Surprised at the boy’s plucky spirit, Gil turned his head to take Gurick in. Thrusting his chest and chin out, Gurick was the shortest boy in the yard at the moment. This was probably the reason why that chin and Guricks hands shook as he put on his brave showing.

Both the blond boys advanced a step, their piggish faces darkening. Farlin made a show of clenching his fists.

“That’s got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, Gurick,” Carlin challenged, a sneer in his voice and on his face; a dangerous light in his eyes. Uncertainty shook Gurick, and his posture withered a bit. Gilserand could see the boy struggling to remain certain in the sea of threat surrounding him. This is not right, Gurick has the right to be free of their influence, his thoughts thundered. The Starling boys began to advance, certain in their menace.

He could remain silent no more. This charade had to end this instant. Gil moved away from the wood bin and stood beside Gurick. His sudden presence made the brothers crash to a halt, looking directly at Gilserand for the first time.

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” he queried the Starling brothers, his voice even. “Gurick is my friend now, he doesn’t need you.” Why am I doing this, the voice of his lingering resentment asked. The part of Gilserand that admired Gurick for actually throwing off the yoke shushed that silent voice. Watching consternation and confusion overtake Carlin and Farlin buoyed both Gil and Gurick. For his part Gurick gave Gilserand one surprised look, before he once again drew himself up into a defiant stance before the Starling boys.

Not liking how the situation had turned against them, the two blond haired pug nosed kids chose to retreat; fast walking for the corner of the school. Thinking he knew how their bully mind’s worked, Gilserand realized that they might corner Gurick on a day when he was alone. “If you’re thinking of punishing Gurick at some other time, remember this! I will hunt you both down again if you do!” Adrenaline had made him shout, but his secret fear of the brothers was not as great as it had once been. Yet that dread of them was not all the way gone, not even close. The Starling’s rounded the corner without comment, without looking back.

A long sigh of pent up emotion leaked out of Gurick.

“Why did you do that, Gilserand? The things I have done to you, you should be thrashing me for even existing.” In answer, Gil shrugged. There were parts of his own mind asking him the same question. Yet there were parts that knew the answer, and those voices were gaining volume in his internal debate. Gesturing to the few chunks of wood remaining in the last wheelbarrow, Gil moved back to the wood bin. Seemingly content with just getting a shrug to his question, Gurick lifted a section and handed it off. After that one had been deposited the next split round came into Gilserand’s hands.

“It’s because you have decency in you, Gurick. You are not a bully, you just got mixed up with the wrong people.” There was silence between them as the younger boy percolated ideas furiously as shown by the mix of expressions flitting across his mien. The last section clonked into place in the wood bin, stacked as neat as wood could be stacked.

“I don’t feel decent, I’ve done too much bad. But I hope to prove you right someday, Gilserand.”