Tag: Free Books

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Young Orck

Brabak lived to the south, beyond the Irin Mountains, in the range unimaginatively named the ‘Orck Mountains’. Brabak was big for his age, as well as very strong. That didn’t really help him much, in his opinion. Full grown orcks obviously didn’t care about it when they were harassing him. He supposed it must mean there were less other orcks that could best him than if he were smaller, so it was probably better to be big than small. Not that there weren’t enough orcks left who could and did beat him when he got in the way or they wanted a distraction. None of that was unusual, among orcks.

He thought about that from time to time, wondering whether it was useful to be big for one’s age or not. He was a proud orck, with ancestors who had died in big battles the Headcutter tribe had been a part of. The last big horde had been almost thirty years ago now, where his grandfather, Gork had been killed. His great grandfather had died that year too, during events leading up to the battle or something. No one was sure what had happened, not even his mother, who was a half orck wise-woman. None of his great grandfather’s warband had returned from their outing to the north. The orcks had been so decimated then, that they had limited themselves to smaller raids for almost thirty years now. Now, the Headcutters had grown again, their numbers back to the size they had been before the great battle. Surely, they must venture out from the mountains again soon? Brabak longed for the days of glory when the orcks had things to fight other than each other.

Among the orcks you could abuse whoever you wanted, as long as you could survive the reaction. If you couldn’t that obviously solved itself too. The young orcks were distractions to the adults. They couldn’t put up as much of fight, so older orcks made them do whatever they wanted. All young orcks longed for the day when they were full grown. That way there were the fewest possible bigger and stronger orcks around to harass you. It essentially described all of orck society, Brabak thought. Everyone was constantly trying to decrease the amount of other orcks that could bully or dominate them. He was sure it was exceedingly inefficient, that it stopped orcks from achieving the glory and and gaining the plunder they should rightfully have.

Brabak was a popular target for other orcks to measure their strength against because his mother was a half orck. She was even still alive, though she had produced more offspring and mostly left them to fend for themselves. Brabak’s mother, Rawa Haik, even had some small magic. She was a wise-woman, one of the only females in Orck society with any sort of power. To Brabak it was really only another reason to be singled out by bigger, older orcks. Not that they needed more reasons, because Brabak’s father, Babrak had also been a powerful orck, a war leader. No one could get even with him, so attacking his offspring was a popular way to vent frustrations. Brabak defended himself viciously, brutally killing his assailants whenever he could.

When Brabak started to realise he could fend for himself better than most, he also realised it would be useful to have someone to do stuff for him. He observed the other orcks for a time and selected one who wasn’t physically or mentally his equal, but who was still quite cunning for an orck. This orck, Iktok, a few years his junior he selected to protect and make sure he got more than his fair share of the food. In return, Iktok did things for him. It was exactly what Brabak had had in mind. It seemed smart to him, to select a few allies whose best interest it was to be loyal to him and occasionally he added another to their number. Contrary to most orcks, he didn’t rely on violence to control his allies. The only thing he punished was disloyalty and this he did so so brutally that the orck in question always died a painful death shortly after anyway.

The Headcutter tribe mostly moved around a vast mountainous area with craggy peaks that the other orcks just called the Orck Mountains. Little did Brabak know that that’s what the rest of the world called the place too. Day to day life consisted of violence, going down out of the mountains to steal livestock and gain plunder, as well as ranging around the mountains themselves looking for food. An orck will and can eat almost anything, though they prefer the same things humans would rate as good food. In a pinch though, almost anything will do, including other orcks. Daily survival was not to be taken for granted and Brabak learned to excel at it.

Brabak thought he was around twelve summers old. An orck was full grown at fifteen, but Brabak was almost as big as most full grown orcks by then as well as smarter than most and meaner, when needed. Brabak was quite successful in making sure he had more to eat than the other young orcks, making him bigger still. There was also an old warrior orck, one who had survived much longer than was customary. Brabak had a sort of tacit agreement with the older orck. This orck, named Togut, had seen that Brabak was going to be big and strong. When Brabak killed two full grown orcks that winter in a struggle over a goat, Togut had decided that Brabak deserved special attention. Aside from the abuse by Togut, which was rare but brutal, it had made Brabak’s life considerably easier. Togut was actually teaching him things about fighting and weapons too.

It was paradise for Brabak. Other orcks had been getting wary of him already, but no one dared cross Togut. He knew there would be some sort of reckoning, there was no way Togut was doing this out of kindness, but Brabak understood that the more he knew about fighting, the better his life would be among the Headcutter tribe. Cooperating with Togut would be good for both of them, he knew. He swiftly became Togut’s second, in charge of the details when they went raiding in the lowlands. On one of his first raids, he spotted a human employing a bow. Orcks didn’t think much of bows. They were too delicate and required too much practice was the customary opinion. Brabak had seen the human fire four arrows in the time it would take an orck with a stolen crossbow to load and fire just one shot. He took the man’s bow and arrows after he killed him and spent a lot of time learning to use it.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Marchmain

More than two decades after the Battle of Vanidil, Ala was returning from a long patrol in the north of the Westmarch. The intervening years had been her customary routine, with most of her time spent doing militia work. She still split the rest between her other passtimes, mostly extra sword practice, helping out training unruly horses and her mostly nightly forays into the forest for mushrooms and the occasional hunt. She still visited Maiden’s Tower, it was her private refuge when she wanted to be alone. It was an overcast day when she spotted a child running towards her and militia troop, screaming at the top of her lungs. It took her a just a moment to realise that the girl, who was about twelve years old, was screaming for help. Ala spurred her tired mount towards the child and vaulted off the horse when she came close.

“Quiet, quiet. Slow down, it’s all right, tell me what happened?”

“My da and Indi, a boy came from the town…. he hurt them… was doing things to Indi…”

The girl was trying to say everything at once making it hard to understand what she was saying.

“Alright, slowly now, first, what’s your name? And your da and ma?”

“You have to help Indi!”

“Alright, we’ll go, show me where.”

She took the girl with her pulling her up onto her horse in front of her after she had mounted. She signalled the rest of the patrol to join.

“Alright, which way and what’s your name?”

“Over there, I’m Martha…” she said, hesitating as Ala spurred the horse, “My da is Callum Pierson, my ma is Hannah…”

“Tell me what happened while we ride.”

Ala knew the names, it was a small farm about two miles north of Thetwick town, it was just over the next rise.

“A boy came… looking for Indi… we’d talked to him at the harvest feast…”

“Do you know his name?”

“Gordon… Marchmain… the Constable’s son…”

Ala became very apprehensive. There had been trouble surrounding the boy before. It had always seemed to evaporate though, no doubt orchestrated by his father and older brother.

“Then what happened?”

“He wanted Indi to go with him…. for a walk he said… she didn’t want to… we both know not to go with a Marchmain, he became angry…. my da… he came to see what was happening… the boy hurt him… he didn’t get up,” the girl burst into tears.

“Quiet now, we’re on our way to help… try and tell me what happened next, how did you get away?”

“He hit Indi, very hard,” she said, in between sobs, “I took little Jake and hid him… in the attic, between the rafters… then I went to find help… the boy… he was doing things to Indi…”

Ala’s blood boiled and she spurred the tired horse a little harder, they were almost there.

The scene they came upon was grisly. Callum was quite dead, his throat cut. Indi, short for Indira, too. Her body lay with her dress pushed up and her throat also slit. Ala tried to shield the girl from it, but she had already seen as they rode up. She just stood, staring.

“Come, Martha, we have to see if Jake is alright,” said Ala. “cover them with something,” she whispered to Willard, the senior militiaman present, as she passed him. He nodded in understanding.

The boy was unharmed. Ala had to consider for a moment what to do. She might look like she was about seventeen years old in human years, but she still had far more militia experience than anyone else present.

She turned to Willard, “I’m going to try and find him. Take the patrol and the children to Bernard, he will sort them out. Leave some men to guard the bodies.”

“Your horse is already tired and you have little idea where he went, Ala,” said the always sensible Willard. It was why Bernard paired them together. Willard was no genius, but he was sensible and steady, which was a useful counterpoint to Ala’s more volatile nature.

“He can’t think he can get away with this, can he?” She turned towards Martha and called to her, “did the boy from the town see you or your brother?”

It took a moment for the girl to realise she was being spoken to, “err, yes mistress… he saw me at least… I was with Indi…” she couldn’t say more.

“Did he have a horse?”

Martha nodded, unable to speak.

“Look,” said Willard, “his mount will be much fresher… and who knows what the Marchmains may have gotten away with in the past?”

“There are witnesses! He raped and murdered!”

“I know Ala, it’s unthinkable, but you shouldn’t go after him alone.”

“I’m going. Get to Bernard, tell him what happened. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She mounted and rode in the most likely direction, which she judged to be south, towards Thetwick and the river. Even if he planned to lay low for a few days, south would be the sensible choice as he would be able to elude trackers by using the river. It wasn’t long before she realised she would either have to ride the horse to death or give up. She had spotted a few fleeting signs that may have been tracks, but had lost whatever it was by the river. Riding up and downstream a ways looking for tracks hadn’t turned anything up. She rode back to town, frustrated, towards Hank’s farm where Harald the son of the man who had died during Ala’s first skirmish, worked.

“Hail, Ala, what’s amiss?” Called Harald. He knew her well and there was no doubt of her expression. He was about twenty years old now and Bernard had arranged for him to be apprenticed to Hank, one of Thetwick’s most reputable horse breeders.

“Gordon Marchmain has murdered two people. I need a fresh mount to continue the search!”

Harald only considered for a second, before he gestured for her to come to the stables, where he quickly saddled a brown gelding for her.

He spoke as he worked, “you mean to go after him alone?”

Ala sighed, “odds are I won’t be able to even find him. He’d better hope he eludes me… if he doesn’t, I doubt a trial will be needed.”

“Don’t do anything rash, Ala,” he said as he finished saddling her new mount. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” she said as she mounted and turned to ride off, resisting the urge to kick the cold horse straight into a gallop.

She immediately rode back to the town proper. Bernard was gone of course, he would have gone to the farm. She passed by the Marchmain estate too and stopped in front of it a moment, observing, but she saw nothing indicating that a rider might have recently arrived. It was one of the few homes with a paved courtyard and the main street in front of it was also cobbled, making it impossible to make out tracks. It would be foolish to go inside alone, she knew the Marchmains employed guards. She rode back to the Piersson Steading.

Bernard was there, with the Scribe who was looking old and infirm, the Constable, Willard, more militiamen and a cart to transport the bodies. There seemed to be a tension in the air.

“Find anything, Ala?” called Bernard.

She shook her head, “what tracks I found seem to end in the river. No way of knowing if he went up or downstream. Couldn’t pick anything up at the Marchmain Estate either.”

The constable gave her a nasty look, but said nothing. She rode over to Bernard, who was almost eighty but still remarkably fit.

“No doubt it could be anyone but Gordon Marchmain?” Asked Bernard.

“The girl, Martha, identified him immediately. Said they’d met at the harvest feast. Do we know where the Martha and Jake’s mother is?”

“Hannah is visiting family in Larkhill. I’ll send word, but it will be a while before she can get back, I think.”

“Can I take the men and find Gordon?”

Bernard glanced over at the Constable, “that’s supposed to be his jurisdiction…” He shook his head, “he’ll never do it and if he does, they’ll never find Gordon… organise it. No point in going before dawn, you’ll have no luck at night. Probably have no luck at all, but we should still do it.”

They both glanced up as they heard someone approaching. It was the Constable, “Captain, errr, mistress Alagariel, I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this up by morning. We’ll find who ever is involved, probably bandits or the like.”

Ala looked at the man, deciding on the spot that he knew exactly who was involved. The only way he could know, unless it had been premeditated, was if he had seen or spoken to Gordon. She couldn’t imagine the Constable jeopardising his position by condoning something like this, so he must have spoken to Gordon since it had happened, she decided.

“You know precisely who is responsible, Constable,” she hissed, “and probably know exactly where to find him… just so you know, when I find him, I will split him lengthwise.”

The Constable got an ugly expression and only just managed to stop himself saying anything. Ala wondered whether Gordon would make an appearance if she slowly split the Constable lengthwise too, but quickly decided he would certainly elect to save his own skin instead.

“Night, Constable, we’ll have a search party ready at dawn, you and your assistants are welcome to join,” said Bernard as he led Ala away. He knew her look.

Bernard was right of course, about having any chance at night, which irritated her. They all rode back to town though Ala left the group among the first few buildings. She went to ride around the area near the Marchmain estate. She had a hunch that he would have simply gone there, perhaps by a round about route, but it just seemed the sort of thing someone who thought the world existed for their enjoyment might do.

After two hours of it, she realised she wouldn’t make any headway. She’d tried to question some villagers but quite aside from the normal reluctance to talk to her, the people who lived near the Marchmain estate seemed afraid to say anything against the Constable or his house. Frustrated, she rode back to Bernard’s house, who was still up. He was sitting with the two children, one on either side of him. They were both fast asleep. He extricated himself from them, being careful not to wake them and made certain they were well covered in warm hides. It was still chilly this year in Levansbrol. He gestured her into the kitchen so they could speak.

“No luck, I take it?”

She shook her head.

“It would not surprise me if we never find him.”

“What? Where would he go?”

“The Marchmains have friends. In Oakharrow for instance. In Taladaria too. Odds are the Constable will ship him off to somewhere. Gordon went far too far, even for a Marchmain, I think. The Constable won’t punish him for it, but he can’t have his younger son compromising his position. He’s probably also worried you’ll make good on your threat.”

“I fully intend to. You don’t think he’s at the Marchmain estate? We could just go there.”

“That would completely compromise my position and rightly so. Where would Thetwick be then? I doubt he’s there. The Marchmains are too cunning for that. Odds are the Constable sent him off to wait for instructions somewhere the moment he realised something bad had happened.”

“So, I’ll just wait and follow the Constable!”

“Moment’s passed, Ala. Either he’s already had instructions on what to do, or the Constable will have something passed to him by someone else under his sway. We can’t search the whole Westmarch.”

Ala bit her lip, “I can’t let him get away with it!”

“Bide your time, young blade mistress, you’ll catch up to Gordon Marchmain one day I’m sure, if that is what you want. Ride out in the morning, search hard. It will probably be to no avail, but at the very least, it will be good for the town if we are seen to be doing it.”

It was hard for Ala to lay down and rest, though she knew she must. She rode with the search the following morning, which, as Bernard had predicted, turned up nothing. The children’s mother came rushing into town ten days later.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Sitting it Out

Put like that, Ala really couldn’t do anything but acquiesce. The Westmarch men that were sent to the army ended up taking part in a big battle in Taladaria. It eventually became known as the Battle of Vanidil after the fief that lay closest to the battlefield. The orcks never came south into the Westmarch in any number, there were only increased sightings of small bands that were driven off by the hunters and miners that plied their trades in the south of the Westmarch. Only once did she run into a group of orcks with her patrol, near the foot of the Irins. Bernard wanted to be certain the road to Ford Inn was safe so they were riding cross country, a few miles south of the road where the land started to rise into the Irins. She had stopped the patrol. All ten of them, as was customary, sat on some high ground where they had a good view of the Irin mountains. The weather was slightly overcast despite the time of year, but the light was good and she could just make out movement, seeing figures heading down the mountainside quite a way to her east.

“I see movement, over there,” she pointed in the direction. “Perhaps a group of figures.”

“I wouldn’t mind some of that elven eyesight, even half of it seems to work wonders,” quipped Willard. He peered in the direction she pointed. “I can’t make anything out… or… maybe… some movement? Could just be the light, fooling me, though?”

Willard Balderson was her second. He was only twenty-two, but he had proven himself very dependable and was more interested in the affairs of the militia than most and motivated to learn soldiering, too. His father was one of Thetwick’s most successful horse breeders and quite rich by Thetwick’s humble standards.

“Looks like they’re on foot. Setting quite a pace, too.”

“So, you’re saying a group, on foot, moving fast, coming down from the Irins? Sounds like orcks, if I were to guess?”

“Could well be. We’d better take a closer look. Bernard said to be on the lookout for scouts. We prefer not to have them reporting back.”

“Don’t suppose you can see how many they are?” he asked as he turned his horse.

“Even my eyes aren’t good enough for that, sorry.”

They rode hard, making for the next rise that should give them line of sight to their quarry again. They came to its crest, which should put them perhaps a mile from the group Ala had seen, assuming they didn’t change direction. She observed where she thought they should be by now. It didn’t take her long to spot them. Definitely orcks, she counted fifteen of them. Several had crossbows. One or two carried swords and wore some metal armour, the rest had spears and clubs.

“Well, definitely orcks then,” said Willard, with a bit of a worried look. “More of them than there are of us, too.”

“Yes. Too many, I think.” Bernard had explicitly warned her not to think of orcks in the same terms as raiders from Oakharrow. An orck was far stronger and tougher than a human. He’d suggested counting each as two men, to get an idea of when you were outmatched.

“What do you want to do, Ala?”

“You take one of the others and ride to Thetwick. Bring out at least twenty more, archers especially. You must move quickly.”

“Understood. How will I find you?”

“Assume they carry on in the same direction. If they don’t circle back through here, I will mark a trail, you remember how to read the markers, right?”

“Of course I remember,” he said, annoyed that she might think otherwise. “I’ll get moving.”

It had been easy to follow the orcks after she had found their trail. She diligently left markers for Willard to follow when he returned with reinforcements. It was a rough few days. Keeping up with the orcks’ speed wasn’t hard, but they didn’t rest for long. Eventually, Willard caught up to her again and they devised an ambush. The orcks had found the road to the Ford Inn by now and had turned West, heading for Thetwick itself. When Ala and Willard sprung their trap, it was devastating. The Thetwick archers opened fire at long range. They were well practised after so many years under Bernard and Ala’s tutelage and the range meant even the Orcks understood that they would all be killed before they managed to approach their assailants. The orcks turned and ran, only for the survivors to run into Ala’s cavalry unit, now reinforced to forty Thetwick men. She cut down two of the orcks herself in the initial exchange and chased down two more survivors, that had managed to get out of the ambush area. She was very careful about their massive size and strength, but the destrier she was riding more than made up the difference.

When she made it back to the ambush site, she found out that two militiamen, riders, had been killed in the exchange, despite the enormous numerical advantage. Several more men were wounded, a few quite badly. Several men stood guard over two wounded orcks. One of them was older. After Ala had checked on her own wounded militiamen she went on to see the orcks. Bernard’s orders weighed heavily on her mind. He had said she should execute any orck prisoners. They were incorrigible, he said. They were too dangerous to be kept as prisoners and if you released them, they’d be back to kill you next season with their friends, he’d warned.

The two surviving orcks were quite different from one another. The bigger one was clearly old for an orck. Ala wondered whether he might have been the scouts’ leader. The other was young, very young. Adolescent by human standards. She decided that she might as well try and gather some intelligence, however unlikely she was to learn anything.

“Do you speak common?”

The old orck responded in a guttural tongue that she couldn’t make head nor tail of. She pointed to herself, “Ala,” then to him. “Who are you?”

The old scarred orck spat on the ground in front of her, earning him a kick by one of her militiamen. She tried once more, pointing at herself, “Ala,” then pointing at him, gesturing in a questioning manner.

The orck clearly understood what she wanted. He frowned and growled, “Okox.” The amount of hatred and disdain the orck managed to put into one word was impressive.

She thought Okox must be the old orck’s name. Either that, or it was a orckish curse, but the defiance that had been behind it made her decide that a name was more likely. She made several more attempts, trying to find out what the objective of the scouting might have been. The orck would say nothing more though and the rest of the words he used probably were curses directed at her and her patrol.

Eventually, she gave up and focused on her next dilemma. She considered taking the orcks to Bernard, but he often talked about how orcks were completely unintelligible. He would understand nothing more, she was certain. Though she attempted to avoid the conclusion for another hour, she finally made the grim decision to execute both of them. She had to do it herself, she felt. It was unpleasant brutality, no matter how quickly and cleanly her blade killed them. It left her feeling nauseated and dirty. The only thing left was to bury the orcks in a shallow communal grave and prepare the bodies of fallen Militia men for transportation back to Thetwick. With all that done she could finally report to Bernard. She didn’t sleep very much that night.

That was the only thing of note that she experienced in Thetwick during the time of the orck attacks that culminated in the famous Battle of Vanidil. Bernard eventually even sent Willard to join the Duke’s army when a request came for yet more troops. He arrived just in time for the great battle and served with distinction. Eventually she understood that it had been her duty to stay in the Westmarch, but she was still disappointed. Several people from Thetwick had gotten killed either at Vanidil or the skirmishes surrounding it. Gerry Kettle, the friendly smith who had let her use his workshop to restore her blade, was among the men who didn’t return from Taladaria. One of the Williamsons, from the Bullstead, was also among the numerous dead.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

A Bit of a Reputation

When Ala approached Thetwick a few days later, she passed through the fields near the town. There were some farmers out, tending the fields as there always were. She was accustomed to the occasional gruff greeting, though mostly people ignored her. Today was different though, when she came into view, she saw a man tapping his companion’s shoulder and pointing her out. Shortly after, someone gestured to her and waved before speaking to another man nearby, also clearly about her. More people reacted to her passing, people who usually ignored her shouted out greetings or pointed and called attention to her from whoever was nearby. It made her feel self conscious and it took her a few minutes to realise that it must be because the tale of the skirmish had spread around the town. She took Lightfoot straight to Hank’s stables, hoping he would exchange her for another mount so that she wouldn’t have to walk the rest of the way to Bernard’s.

“Ah, Ala, you’re back. You made good time. Lightfoot do well?”

“Aye, she’s a fine one. Hungry, I expect.”

“As you are, no doubt. The missus has some porridge left, if you want some. Why don’t you grab a bowl, while I saddle up Lightning for you?”

Ala was surprised. Hank was generally friendly enough, but offering food out of the blue and saddling up a horse for her was new.

“Thank you. That would be wonderful.”

“Go on then, Gill or Henriette will see to you.”

She went to the farmhouse and knocked, not really knowing what else to do.

“Come on in!” came the call from inside. She opened the door, to be greeted by Hank’s wife, Gillian. She’d never exchanged more that two words with the woman.

“Good morning… Hank said…”

“That you’d be starving! I’ll fetch a bowl for our sword maiden! Have a seat!”

Ala didn’t know what to think. What had the militiamen told everyone about her? Hank’s three children were there too, all staring at her. His eldest, Henriette was in the kitchen, looking over her shoulder, while his two younger sons had come out to look at her too. She sat down and a clay bowl with oatmeal porridge was put in front of her.

“Eat up! I’m sure Captain Bernard is looking forward to your return.”

“Thank you, mistress.”

“My pleasure.”

After a few minutes Hank came in and announced that Lightning was ready and joined her at the table. It was evidently time for a break as he sat down at the head of the long table and his wife set a steaming cup in front of him.

“So, how were things at the Ford?”

“Business as usual.”

“I take it Friedrich was his unpleasant self?”

“Eh… yes. I thought he was only unpleasant to non humans.”

“Perhaps even more so, I wouldn’t know. But it always vexes me how a man completely dependent on travelers can be so unpleasant to them.”

“He seems to be pleasant enough to Bernard.”

“Bernard is a powerful man.”

“I suppose. Say… have… they been talking about me, in town? People were acting odd when I rode in.”

Hank smiled. “The militiamen have certainly been getting their share of free ale in exchange for a tale or two of the skirmish. You figured prominently in the ones that I heard.”

“Then you came home after after having a few and woke everyone up to repeat them,” his wife added.

Hank shrugged, “it was a good tale, wasn’t it?”

“Militiamen… exaggerate, especially when there’s ale,” said Ala.

His wife shook her head, sighing and returned to the task she had been doing.

“Well, I suppose that must be why everyone is acting so strange.”

“Enjoy it, Ala, not everyone gets to be a local hero for a while.”

“I’ll try.”

She was treated differently upon her return. The story of her charge had been spread by the other militiamen. She learned they claimed she had spurred her horse to supernatural speeds, with claims that her exploits varied between cutting down the three men that she’d actually killed all the way up to eleven in another telling. Bernard’s contribution to the fight also varied widely, from the one man, all the way up to as many as she had killed, however many that were in that particular telling. The story grew of its own accord, getting exaggerated further even spreading among the hamlets in the Westmarch. People from surrounding communities coming to the feasts and markets that Thetwick periodically hosted would gawk at her and whisper when they saw her, calling her ‘The Swordmaiden’ amongst each other.

Sometimes people showed up during market feasts wanting to test themselves against her. They were inevitably all young men. She tried to avoid the festivities, but Thetwick was not a big town and the militia still needed to ride patrols and stay organised making it impossible to hide entirely. She simply had chores in town she had to do. Mostly the challengers did not have the right to bear arms though they usually had the advantage over her in strength and weight. She would formally have been within her rights to defend herself with her weapons, but it seemed like a poor strategy to leave a trail of mutilated peasants behind her. She was also more than old enough to understand the silly immaturity caused the behaviour.

When she had no choice but to fight, she won quickly. She tried to be just brutal enough that no one would bother her twice. Bernard had taught her well and even though she tried not to draw arms if they weren’t drawn on her, she was almost always able to dissuade further annoyance quickly by attacking as fiercely as possible. She had learned a lot since being regularly accosted during her market visits. Even the best of them couldn’t make up in muscle and bulk what she had gained in years of dedicated training. She avoided killing anyone, but it was unnerving and she had to be vicious to dissuade them fast enough. She left a lot of bruised genitals and broken noses behind. She had had to draw weapons once or twice when an alcohol fuelled gang decided to give it a try and she kept her sword and armour with her at all times, just as Bernard did.

In the following years she spent more and more time on militia duty as incursions from Oakharrow waxed and waned. Mostly cattle was stolen, sometimes a farmstead or hamlet was raided or a traveller robbed. Occasionally a Westmarcher was killed, someone was abducted or a woman was raped and sometimes murdered as well, but thankfully it only happened rarely. Once, the Westmarch was called upon to supply troops for the army of Iurrak because an orck horde had spilled into Gwael. Ala had wanted to go with them, but Bernard effectively forbade it.

“I’m sorry Ala, I know you want to go, but those orcks came out of the same mountain range that borders the Westmarch. I can afford to be without some troops if they come this way, but I can’t, in good conscience, weaken the militia here by letting you join the Iurrakan army.”

“I’m just one person Bernard. Can the militia really not do without me?”

“In the Iurrakan army you would be just one person, they’ll never be able to judge your capabilities proper. You’d be assigned as a soldier, at best, if they can get over their sexism. Here you’re a critical commander who I can assign complex tasks to. With you here, we can field two units, where we could only manage one otherwise. I can send a hundred men to the King’s army with less effect on my militia’s capabilities than sending you.”

Ala sighed. She sort of relished the chance to get out of the Westmarch, though she also appreciated the compliment.

“Surely you exaggerate?”

“You have been training with single minded dedication for what is it now? More than a decade. You may look like you’re a lass of sixteen summers, but you have a century’s experience. I have no one else on the roster who could replace you.”

“There is really no one else?”

“There reall isn’t Ala. You underestimate your value.”

She couldn’t help but wonder if her was just trying to make her feel more needed that she actually was. He continued his speech though, in a way that almost made her believe what he said might be true.

“I’m not in the habit of forbidding you things, Ala. I don’t mean to start now. But, I am Captain of the Westmarch and it is my duty to keep it secure. I need you here. I will not stop you, if you insist on going, even though I probably should. I’m asking you to stay, in case orcks come south out of the Irins, especially now that we’re sending a sizeable contingent to join the army.”

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Selinus Stirs

Ala eventually grew to fully understand why Bernard had returned to Thetwick when he did. In fact his retirement had been determined by the fact that the Duke had wanted to shore up the Westmarch and improve its capacity to defend itself. Putting a trusted, proven man in Thetwick improved both the quality of the Duke’s militia and his intelligence. It was customary for the Duke to award retiring soldiers with a plot of land. In Bernard’s case, his retirement package had been generous. It had greatly increased his lands in the Westmarch in addition to what he had inherited from his father and brother. It was the Duke’s way of making it very attractive to accept the position of Captain of the Westmarch though Ala doubted Bernard would have turned the Duke down even if it hadn’t been so lucrative an offer.

It was also just good sense on the part of the Duke, a wealthy Captain, dependent on Ducal patronage, had a strong interest in safeguarding the Duke’s authority. The Westmarch was as much an out of the way place for the Duke as it was for all others. He needed dependable agents in the Westmarch and the defences needed to be able to deter anyone who might otherwise think the Westmarch and easy target. It had all started because of the marriage in Oakharrow between Phoebe Sabran and Acanos Botic. That marriage had suddenly put Oakharrow solidly back in Selinus’ sphere of influence. Since it had happened with no warning, it had also brought into focus how little idea the Dukes of Taladaria had of what was going on across the borders they were obligated to defend. For all practical purposes, the County of Oakharrow had been annexed by Selinus as Saskill had been more than a century before. As soon as Lady Phoebe’s father died, Acanos would become Count and he owed fealty to the King of Selinus. It hadn’t taken the Duke long to take action after the marriage as Bernard had arrived in Thetwick only a few months later.

The Westmarch was a buffer region and it was formally one of the Duke of Taladaria’s domains but the fief was the only Taladarian holding west of the Iceflow river. North of Thetwick was the County of Oakharrow which had once insulated Taladaria from Selinus and which was the source of the Duke’s newfound concern. When the County truly fell into Selinan hands with the death of Phoebe’s father, the Duke had to be ready to face increased problems along his borders. Selinus and Taladaria had been rivals for generations. To strengthen the borders, the Duke had offered several senior non-commissioned officers of his regiment a retirement bonus if they would travel to the villages and towns in the border regions and improve the quality of the local militias. Men who had originally come from those towns were given preference. Bernard was one of the senior men that had agreed to such an arrangement, but Thetwick wasn’t the only town that had been assigned a professional Captain in the years after 944. Ala had discussed it with Bernard numerous times.

“Bernard, do you think this really works?”

“What works?”

“Riding patrols? We never catch anyone. It seems like… like the Selinans come and go at their leisure.”

“It’s a numbers game Ala. Eventually, we’re likely to stumble upon some of them that can’t get away. That said though, us riding these patrols is likely more valuable than actually fighting them.”

“How’s that?”

“They need to think about what they might do if they run into us. They make sure they can get away, only come in larger groups. Generally, it’s just slowing them down, just making it harder for them.”

“I had a sister once. She was taken by Selinans. Just after I came to Thetwick.”

“I know Ala. So strange, that was long before I was born. Now, we’ll never know for certain, of course, but if we weren’t a thorn in their sides, they may have raided Thetwick itself again by now. Probably would have, I imagine.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Though it also helps that the people who live in the north of the March had mostly joined together in hamlets. Harder to raid and easier to patrol.”

“Is that going to help us… actually catch someone? I’m sick of them slipping away every time.”

“I would expect so. Be careful what you wish for, though, Ala. It might not be pretty.”

She was silent for a moment. He was right of course, she knew that. She still felt an urge… for what, she wondered? Revenge for Emma? Or was it just an affront that the Oakharrowers could terrorise the Westmarch unchecked. Probably a bit of both, she decided.

“We can’t let it go on.”

“There is that, young lass.”

“Don’t you…”

“What?”

“Feel that the Duke should do more?”

“Taladaria is a big place. He has to weigh how he applies his resources. If his efforts are not here, I trust him enough to feel he has good reason for it. I’ve written to him though, suggesting we need more support. The frequency of the incursions is increasing, despite out best efforts, so, I do agree, we need to do more.”

Ala always felt Bernard had a bit of a blind spot concerning the Duke, but she had to concede she had no way of knowing what else Taladaria had to deal with either.

Bernard had always been riding regular patrols with the militia’s small cavalry section. The frequency had been steadily increasing in the years after Aubree’s death. They only had a few horses available and there was still a lot of ground to cover. Ala was allowed to ride valuable warhorses on those patrols, but the rich horse breeders understandably didn’t trust most other militia members with their valuable steeds. When their own sons were on militia duty they obviously made an exception, but in general getting sufficient trained horses was a constant challenge though the horse they did have tended to be big, strong destriers, far beyond what any normal militiaman could normally afford.

The day’s patrol started much like any other. Ten members of the militia, including Ala and Bernard were ready to go before dawn, fording the Clearflow out of Thetwick just as the sun became visible over the horizon. It was going to be a full day’s riding and they hoped to make it back just before sunset. All the men present were well drilled and Bernard made sure there was enough chain mail to outfit everybody who rode regular patrols with a full suit. Before they were halfway Bernard spotted a group of armed men riding towards them.

“Thetwick! Look alive! Armed riders ahead,” he called, causing everyone to tense and check their weapons and armour.

They were on a section of rough track that led from one of the newer hamlets to the Oakharrow border. The hamlet in question had not had any trouble for some time, which was why they were there. Bernard had had a hunch it might be next.

Ala had been on patrols where they had spotted unknown riders before, but they had always been distant and each time they had managed to disappear or flee back into Oakharrow before they could catch up to them. This group was much closer to them, the terrain in the area had decreased the spotting distance substantially. The riders were mounted and it looked like they were wearing light armour, leathers, padding and one was wearing a chain coif that came over the shoulders. That was the heaviest armour in sight. Their spears and shields were clearly visible though there was no visible heraldry to recognise.

Bernard led their patrol to a position between the intruders and the wide track that led towards the hamlet and on to Thetwick. The group fitted the descriptions they’d heard many times, describing the raiders from Oakharrow. The lack of heraldry was in itself a crime – any who bore arms in Iurrak were obligated to display the colours of the authority that permitted them their weapons. These men weren’t displaying any heraldic markings whatsoever, not even a simple caravanners’ pennant. It was a mark of banditry.

There were eighteen, all mounted, facing ten members of the Thetwick militia. The situation became tense as both groups closed and faced off on the narrow track a few hours ride north of the town. The Oakharrow raiders had almost certainly come to the Westmarch to steal cattle or horses. The cattle raids had been becoming increasingly violent in recent months and a farmer and his wife had been killed near the border just a few weeks ago. Bernard would not let such a thing pass if he could help it, she knew.

The two groups came to a stop when they were facing each other at a distance perhaps a hundred and fifty paces. Bernard roared at the men, “Come forth and be recognised!” It was the customary watchman’s challenge.

Ala could see the two of the men talking quietly to each other, conferring.

Bernard tried again. “By the command of the Duke of Taladaria, turn back to Oakharrow! There need not be any bloodshed this day!”

Their leader responded with a threat and called out, “we outnumber you, Thets. Stand aside and we may let you live!”

Ala detected that the man had a bit of an accent. People spoke a little differently in Oakharrow, she knew.

“I cannot allow you to pass. Produce a right to bear arms and state your intentions or prepare to be held to the Duke’s Peace!”

The Oakharrower shrugged. “Have it your way, fool. Run them down, lads!”

The group lowered their spears and spurred their horses, kicking up clouds of dust as they accelerated.

Bernard called out his orders. “Counter charge, close formation, Go, go, go!”

The Thetwick militia, particularly those who rode the mounted patrols, had been well drilled and the ten of them worked well together, the fruits of many hours of practice. The counter charge drill had been practised countless times. Everyone drew their weapons and knew the part they were expected to play. Ala was behind and to the right of Bernard, on a lithe, fast stallion named Lightning that she loved to ride. She drew her elf blade. She had been keeping its existence secret, so she never used it in group practice, but she had decided she ought to have it with her if she really needed to fight, something which had been becoming increasingly likely lately. She had practised with it for hundreds of hours and it felt like it should be in her hand, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They had been narrowing down which routes the Oakharrowers liked to use to travel into Thetwick. It was inevitable that she would need the sword sooner or later. The weapon felt alive in her hand and she had the distinct sensation that it was eager to be unleashed.

This occasion was precisely why she carried the sword with her. She hoped the blade lived up to her expectations. It felt alive in her hand, as if it was warily seeking a way to strike a blow at her enemies. The two bands met head on. The well drilled, tight formation from Thetwick held fast when it hit the more disorganised, though larger group of Oakharrow men.

Bernard killed the first man with a devastating cut across and into the man’s chest from his Ulfberht bastard sword. It was the man he had been talking to, the Oakharrowers’ leader. Ala found herself instinctively whispering to her horse in elven… it felt as if it were such a very… natural a thing to do. Her countless hours of practice, the powerful horse and her sword that seemed as if it were alive all worked as one. She wove along three of the advancing cattle raiders as if it were a subtle dance, dodging their weapons and placing herself precisely where she needed to be to make effective attacks. Her adversaries were more or less in a line as she bore down on them. Bernard’s hours and hours of drills came to her without conscious thought, the deadly mechanisms she had learned engaged without needing to think. She saw each of her opponents weapons come towards her in slow motion, seemingly giving her aeons to deflect or dodge each attack at leisure as she manoeuvred her blade into the weak spots in each combatants’ defensive sphere. She felt her blade easily cutting through flesh with only the barest indication of resistance. She took one hard hit to her shield from her left, which made her arm ring, but it wasn’t enough to interrupt her charge or disrupt her concentration.

The last of the three men she charged by was cleanly decapitated. His attempt to run her through with an overhand spear thrust was avoided with practised efficiency. She slapped the tip of the weapon lightly with her blade, almost gently guiding it aside, then using the spear’s shaft as a guide to manoeuvre her elf blade into the gap between the man’s helmet and the leather armour he was wearing. She let the weapon find its own way through the man’s neck as she passed him by. She let the speed of the horse pull the blade through his spine as she held it, feeling the angle of the weapon change until it cut itself free of the man’s neck. She pulled the blade back towards her in a low cut, making it ready to attack again if needed.

She was shocked and exhilarated as she brought up her horse and wheeled round, quite prepared to continue the fight, with her sword high. She found she had covered vastly more ground than the others. She wasn’t sure when or how that had happened, she hadn’t intended to stretch the line. There were no more Oakharrowers within threatening range, however, so it wasn’t a problem. Bernard was closest behind her. She had overtaken him in the confusion though she only vaguely remembered passing him by. Bernard brought up his horse, keeping it facing her. He pulled off his helmet and stared at her with a look that radiated a combination of disbelief and pride. As he surveyed the corpses along the route of her advance, his expression changed to shock.

He whispered to himself, swearing, she thought or perhaps it might be a prayer? She looked at the three men on the ground, all quite dead. On the one hand she did not feel much, on the other a she had a sense of disgust. It had been her or them. She’d thought about how she might feel if she was forced to kill long before. She was surprised to discover she was quite at peace with the outcome. She would have preferred not to have killed these men, she decided. They had made their choice however, and she would not be losing any sleep over it. Bernard had given them more than enough chance to turn home. She would also do it again if it was necessary. That decided, she noticed Bernard had a deep cut on his forearm that was dripping blood.

“You alright Ala?”

“I’m fine. You’re hurt though, let me see to that.”

“It’s a scratch. I’m fine.”

He turned his horse to see better up the track to where the remaining Oakharrowers had drawn up.

“Hope those idiots don’t come round for another run. There won’t be enough of them left to carry home the bodies,” he said.

He was despairing of the unnecessary deaths, she realised. It was wasteful, giving her the right word to describe what she was feeling as well. Ala looked back and only now saw that one of their comrades, a man named Peter, had fallen and was lying on the road among the Oakharrow corpses.

“I should go to Peter,” she spurred her horse.

“Wait! If they come again, we have to charge together. You can’t be caught out in the open alone. We’ll be of no use to Peter then.”

She drew up at once, understanding the wisdom of Bernard’s words.

The other militia members were surveying the damage they had done. As each of them realised the swathe she had cut through the enemy formation, their eyes turned to her with an expression of disbelief. One who had ridden up to inspect the decapitated man clapped her on the back as he turned his horse.

“That’s some incredible sword work, Ala. I knew you were good, but gods!”

The other men of the militia closed and turned their horses, reforming their formation, ready to charge once more. Bernard urged his horse forward a bit. The cattle raiders had pulled up their horses around fifty yards down the road, meaning that the two groups had changed places. Now, the militia was in between the Oakharrowers and their way home. They were in disarray. Ala thought they were arguing with one another. Bernard called out.

“If you dismount you may pick up your dead and wounded and go home with no further losses. Accept the Duke’s Peace, or we charge once more. Your choice.”

Their adversaries had begun with an almost two to one numerical advantage, which had been brought down to one to one in a single charge, also losing them their leader. Evidently the Oakharrowers realised this and thought better of continuing their attack. They dismounted and carefully walked towards them to pick up their dead and wounded. Bernard rode a little forward and called for the Oakharrow men to keep their distance while they pulled Peter towards them. He was severely wounded, a spear had pierced his rib cage and lung. He died a few minutes later, drowning in his own blood. There was nothing any of them could do. Ala rounded up Peter’s horse and the others lifted his corpse over the animal’s saddle. Once the raiders had disappeared far enough towards Oakharrow, they rode back to Thetwick. Bernard led the patrols straight to Peter’s house where he dismounted and went straight inside to bring the grim news to Peter’s wife. Ala heard her crying out in grief inside. It was a sound that cut straight into her heart.

Bernard came outside, letting out a great sigh.

“Right lads. Good work, all, today. Oakharrow will think twice about confronting us, I ‘spect. Wish we hadn’t lost Peter, but I’m sure everyone feels that as I do. Get home to you families.”

They couldn’t bring themselves to leave, standing aimlessly outside Peter’s house with the other villagers. Bernard and Ala stayed with Peter’s wife and children until family members arrived. Peter’s two small children were too young to understand what had happened but were clearly frightened. Ala knew the oldest boy, his name was Harald. He was one of the few children that didn’t seem to be scared of her and often came out to wave to her when she rode by. She found herself crying for them, wiping the tears as soon as she could.

Several villagers had followed behind the patrol when they had been seen them returning with a horse with a body draped over it. The villagers solemnly walking a respectful distance behind them had made the scene all the more heart wrenching. Peter had been well liked, a good groom and horse trainer who had made his living on the horse farms of Thetwick. The Duke provided a fair pension to those who fell while serving in the militia. It didn’t temper the tragedy for the family of the man who had been killed.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

Chapter 3: Interesting Times

Recent developments west of the Iurrakan border have renewed concerns over what designs the Selinan Crown has on the region north of the Westmarch. Ever since the marriage in 944 between Phoebe Sabran, heir to the Barony of Oakharrow and Acanos Botic, Lord of Vanskell, the Iurrakan Crown, and particularly the Duke of Taladaria who is responsible for the security of the Westmarch, has been eyeing the County of Oakharrow with growing concern.

Lord Acanos Botic is known to be a trusted advisor and sometime Marshall to Justus V, the King of Selinus. The marriage then, cannot be interpreted any other way than to conclude that the County of Oakharrow is the focus of Selinan influence and a probable target for Selinan expansionism. Indeed, in practice the county may already be a part of Selinus in all but name. These machinations remind one of the eighty years war that was finally concluded in 601.

The Duke of Taladaria has been shoring up the defences of the Westmarch but whether that is enough of a deterrent is all but certain. The Westmarch is poorly fortified and it seems likely that more funds will be needed to secure Iurrakan interests in the area. The historical animosity between Iurrak and Selinus certainly has the potential to erupt into all out war once more. Little is certain, but the events seem remarkably similar to accounts from the time before the last Battle of Oakharrow in 842.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

A New Way to Learn

That year, in Foradmont, a package arrived for Bernard with a caravan. One of the boys from the village always came to Bernard’s house to tell them that a caravan had arrived, they knew that there was always something in it for them. A package was not unusual, Bernard frequently corresponded with Peyrepertuse on matters concerning the militia and often received letters and sometime packages of varying size. Usually it was only a parcel of letters. She’d peeked at them a few times of course, Bernard didn’t tidy them up immediately. They were usually from the Duke’s secretary, the Weaponsmaster and the Quartermaster and seemed to be mostly boring, detailing troop strengths and requirements. All letters she delivered to Caravaneers for Bernard were also always addressed to those same people. Sometimes there would be some special items that could not easily be acquired in Thetwick, but that had only happened a few times, as far as Ala could remember. Ala would usually go with Bernard to retrieve the letters from the Caravan Master who had them in his care. This time though, the package had been much larger than a parcel of letters and it had been bound in hides. She’d joined him to pick up a strong box a few times too and once a shipment of heavy crossbows, but this was the first time anything like this had arrived for him.

“Ah, Master Diettrichson, I see you managed to move my cargo safely!”

“Of course, Captain, our Guildmasters would have it no other way! The Weaponsmaster sends his regards, to accompany it. He personally came to impress upon me the importance of handing it to you.”

“Excellent, here, take this, for your trouble,” said Bernard handing him a small bag of coins.

“Most generous, Captain. You know we guildsmen are always happy to help those charged to defend our lands and of course, our caravan routes,” the caravan master said with a wink, “but the gesture is most appreciated.”

It seemed to Ala that Bernard had paid the Caravan Master a substantial amount of coin for the transport of the package. While it was customary to pay for missives or packages you received and Bernard always did so, he didn’t actually have to, as the members of the Guild were obligated to send messages for the Duke, just as guild innkeepers were obligated to handle them. A caravan day always also became a market day, so after some more small purchases, they walked back to Bernard’s house. Ala was curious what could be so important.

“What’s in there, Bernard?”

“Ah, but that would be telling. You’ll find out, in due time. Patience is a virtue.”

“A silly virtue.”

“Nevertheless, it is time to exercise it. It’s interesting how you can be so patient with some things and so impatient with others. Have you ever thought about that?”

She didn’t offer the courtesy or a response as he was certainly teasing her. She really wasn’t very good at waiting. She resolved to try and shut up about it, that generally seemed to work best. Bernard usually relented when he thought she’d lost interest. That evening after she had cleared the dinner table Bernard asked her to sit down again.

“Sit, down Ala, I have something for you. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.”

“The package? It’s for me? But you paid the Caravaneer a lot for it. I… can’t let you spend that much for me…”

“Thankfully, you’re not in charge of how I spend my silver. Now this is quite valuable which is why I paid the Caravan Master well for taking good care of it. But don’t worry Ala, I can afford it. The Duke’s stipend is quite generous.”

The package contained an actual book. She had been allowed to carefully read a few books at the temple, but she’d never been allowed near anything like this. It was a big heavy thing, bound in hard leather and its pages were covered in beautiful letters and countless coloured drawings and illustrations. The subject of the book seemed to be swordsmanship. She had never seen anything like it, let alone owned such a treasure. She couldn’t help but stare at the massive tome with her mouth open.

“It’s for you, Ala. Take a good look inside.”

Ala dutifully turned the pages slowly studying the colourful images of figures with weapons. Its pages were filled with weapon techniques, mostly sword. She didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a something called a Fechtbuch. I have a friend in Peyrepertuse, one of my old comrades. I knew he had a spare copy of this book and he’d always been interested in a little short sword I once found on campaign, an Ulfberht. We made a trade.”

“Thank you…” she said softly “no one’s ever given me anything like this before… this must be worth a fortune.” She could hardly imagine someone having multiple copies of the same book. Bernard’s friend must be unimaginably wealthy.

“Yes, Ulfberhts aren’t exactly cheap either, so I think it was a fair trade. Books like this deserve to be studied by those who can understand them. I don’t pretend to comprehend everything this man has written down. I thought you ought to have it, you have a passion for swordsmanship like I’ve seldom seen. It goes well beyond my interest in the subject. The only one I know with a similar passion is the former owner of this tome. The questions you’ve been haranguing me with, all those finer points of swordsmanship…?”

“Yes?”

“Well the man who wrote this book was far better equipped to answer you than I am. This particular one is a Fechtbuch from a famous sword-master named Liechtenauer. He served the Duke of Wenland in Konigsberg around a hundred years ago. It’s said he studied with the elves, too. Here, see he even has illustrations of elves included in it.”

She looked down again at the beautiful tome.

“Thank you so much Bernard, this is beautiful. I don’t know what so say… does anyone else in Thetwick even own a book?”

“I’m sure the scribe has some, though perhaps most are not as ornate as this one. The temple too. I’m very happy you like it. Study it well. Liechtenauer definitely knows what he’s talking about, even if I can’t fully follow everything he has to say. I have an inkling you will be able to find a depth to it that is beyond me.”

The book was exactly what she needed to refine her skill beyond the limitations of her exercise partners in the militia. Trying out all the things in the book taught her a lot, improving the quality of her fellow militiamen in the process as well. She’d progressed to the point where she was regularly the one teaching swordplay and weapons to the militiamen. At first, it had been under Bernard’s watchful eye, but now he was more that happy to let her deal with lessons, especially when the subject was swordplay. Among those who regularly practised fort he militia, her expertise, particularly with a sword, was uncontested.

Bernard had also shown her how to make chain mail and she had made her own coat, using her patience and dexterity to make a coat of tiny, seemingly riveted, rings. It was a full coat, from her thighs to her neck with long sleeves and an integrated hood. Initially, she’d had attached mittens too, but in practice she mainly wore leather gauntlets so she eventually decided to separate them for the suit so she could add them if she felt she needed them. She made hose too, which she did wear when they practised on horseback or when they rode a patrol, something the militia’s cavalry contingent did with regularity.

She paid for the wire and tools with the money she made training horses for the breeders in the village. It was another thing Bernard offered to pay for, but she wanted the chain mail to really be hers, not something that actually belonged to the Thetwick militia. It had taken a long time to make her suit and she had changed the cut of the suit many times to perfect it. She had been allowed to use Gerry’s workshop to rivet each link shut. Gerry had seen her working on it and repeatedly shook his head over the patience and precision with which she worked, gently drilling holes in each tiny ring and riveting them shut. It was a show for his benefit of course. The work would have taken much longer if she’d actually been riveting everything. In truth, she’d welded most of the rings shut with her gift, which was much faster and stronger that the rivets.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

The Wraith

A time came when the militia training became tiresome. She was by far the units’ most exercised member, having the most training hours by far. Not being physically very big or strong, she had to focus on technique and principles to be effective. She simply couldn’t afford to solve martial problems by strength or weight like many of the men could. Her technique had to be perfect to prevail and she had every reason to spend day after day perfecting something. Bernard sometimes watched her practice.

“Your dedication to weapons drill is something to behold, Ala. I wish that my men in the Regiment would have had such single minded drive. A few more of them might be alive if they did. It’s almost too much.”

“I don’t know what it is Bernard, it just… feels right. Natural. I don’t know. Like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, most especially when I’m practising with blades.”

Swordsmanship fascinated her, the world of danger and opportunity that a swordsman saw continued to hold her attention and her lifespan meant that she had time to indulge in understanding it. The practice was also her moment of relaxation. A few hours when she had to focus on nothing more than the present. She finished the sword form and turned to Bernard.

“I’m not sure why, Bernard. Ever since I was very little I wanted to know more about swords. It just feels right, in the sword forms, I feel… comfortable. Free. I don’t know.”

“Well little lass, you’re doing alright and you’ll be a great swordswoman, someday, if you keep at it.”

She’d been in the village a century or more by now and she looked like a teenager of fifteen or so. Bernard taught her everything he could think of and she spent weeks upon weeks practising, improving on every detail of every technique with a single minded drive that frequently left Bernard shaking his head as she frequently practised into the night. She would sneak off into the forest or up to the ruins whenever she could.

She would take her own sword with her then, diligently working through sword-forms and drills on her own, again and again, perfecting every stroke, thrust and cut, often till well after dark. She always tried to understand the underlying logic of a form or technique, soaking in the system of exchange and threat that defined the way a sword form was constructed. She learned that the forms that they used to learn weren’t more than vehicles to communicate concepts. Concepts that, once you knew them well enough, needed to come naturally to a swordsman, summoned without conscious thought whenever needed. As hard as she tried though there were some forms and techniques that she couldn’t fully grasp the underlying logic of and even Bernard didn’t always have adequate answers.

The effect of the moonlight on her sword blade at night was so spectacular that she would go out on full moons especially to practice. She discovered that she could completely sheathe herself in the fire she had at her control. Somehow it was especially easy during the full moon. She liked the ruins and she had visited them regularly even before she needed a place to practice sword craft. She’d spent so much time exploring every book and cranny of those ruins she’d even found a fallen stone with an inscription on it. It was broken, but the carving was both in common and in elven. To her surprise and delight, she’d even been able to read both languages, which was a skill she hadn’t really practised in years. She’d almost forgotten she could do it. It made her happy though as it was something solid she remembered from before Thetwick. It was a kind of connection to whatever world or family she’d once had.

The inscription was damaged but she was able to make out that it spoke of a friendship between a human and an elven house. The human house, De Baerle, had a shared ancestor with the elven house of Linhad. She couldn’t really piece it all together, but it seemed that the elven woman, whose first name she couldn’t make out had borne someone called Gerard de Baerle a child and had continued to visit the De Baerle family ever since. She spent some time trying to figure out the elven woman’s first name, but she wasn’t really able to determine much other than that it likely started with a ‘Q’. The inscription had been carved to commemorate the half elf Maximilien de Baerle’s funeral about one and a half centuries before, with the text also engraved in elven to honour his half elven heritage and house Linhad.

The inscription referred to the place where the tower stood by a different name. The hill where the keep was built was called Alator, according to the elven version of the text. It didn’t say anything about why the spot had an elven name that presumably predated the keep. She hoped that one day she would meet an elf that could explain it. The inscription fascinated Ala as she’d figured out it must have been carved somewhere around the time she was born. She wondered if the Linhad lady might have known her parents and whether she might still be alive. She knew it was fanciful, but she enjoyed the fantasy every now and again.

The ruined tower was her own safe little refuge away from Thetwick and she’d go there often to practice sword work or just to meditate. Sometimes she just reread the inscribed stone or sat and watched the animals, coaxing them closer with bits of food.

One day a group of seven men came to see Bernard, the leader, Chad, who had helped drag Bernard’s chests to his house years before, nodded to Ala in greeting when she answered the door. Chad had always been civil to her. She had been busy preparing a meal but she stayed in the common room now, curious to see what the commotion was about.

Chad spoke, “Captain, can I bother you about somethin’?”

“What can I do for you, Chad?”

“Well, Cap, we’re worried. We were out huntin’ round dawn a while ago… and we saw somethin’, way out by the ruined tower, to the north.”

“Something that concerns the militia?”

“Well maybe, I’m not right sure. We saw a fire wraith, large as life, we all did,” he looked round at his companions who nodded and grunted in agreement. “Not close, but in the distance. Unmistakeable, Captain.”

The others nodded and grunted various variations of “Aye, that’s what it was.”

Ala felt rooted to the spot. She knew exactly what or rather who they had seen before dawn. She didn’t need much rest and she often crept out hours before dawn to practice sword forms. She liked to be able to freely apply her fire however she pleased. Luckily Chad and his companions gave no indication that they knew it was her. Still, she kept very quiet and tried to think of a way to get back to the kitchen unnoticed.

“A fire wraith? What’s a fire wraith?” Asked Bernard.

“I don’t rightly know, Capt, but it was like a young woman, completely covered in flame… it looked like she had a a sword and was dancin’, fairly flyin’ around those ruins, like wild fire, trailin’ long sheets of flame, musta been twenty, thirty yards behind her. We all saw it from at least half a mile, more even. It was unnatural, evil we think.”

“I see. I’m not completely sure haunted towers are part of the militia’s brief, Chad.”

“Oh Capn’ I know, but I wanted to ask you to be allowed some weapons and armour to hunt it.”

“I see. You’re not worried that this fire wraith might be dangerous?”

“We’ll bring lots of water, Capn’ I’m sure we’ll be alright. We’re stout lads, you’ll see. We’ve been payin’ attention at you lessons, we have, Capn’.”

“I suppose the militia can offer some support. Come to armoury on the morrow, after the noon meal. We’ll kit you all out. I’ll give you a arms right… say for a week?”

“That’d do us right good, Capn’, thank ya.”

They left clearly satisfied that they had succeeded. Once they had left, Bernard turned to Ala, who was still standing in the same spot she had felt rooted to.

“Want to lay a wager Ala? I bet they come back empty handed except perhaps for a tall story or two? They’ll never find this fire wraith woman thing, ha! I’d bet my beard it doesn’t exist! Probably claim they chased it off!”

Ala decided she had best fess up, before it went any further, “err… they sort of already did find her, I guess…”

Bernard looked at Ala a little more intently, “what are you on about Ala? Why are ya lookin’ so anxious, lassie?”

“Well… you know I don’t need much rest and I like to go out and practice my sword work?”

“Yessss…?” he said apprehensively.

“And… well… there’s eh… the thing with the fire…”

“What of it?”

“I can actually make quite a lot of fire… like really a lot… Mostly however much I want and it doesn’t harm me…”

“You’re the fire wraith?” Bernard burst out in hearty laughter, “truly Ala? You can cover yourself completely in fire? They’re not exaggerating? Thirty yards? Those poor yokels are going out to look for you? You’re their fire wraith?”

He burst out laughing again, unable to continue speaking. When he had finally regained his composure, he said, “that’s hilarious, Ala, but the truly interesting thing here is that you can really do all that with fire. You say you can completely engulf yourself in flames and more? Without an existing fire source?”

Ala nodded self consciously.

“Amazing, that’s some full on magic, right there, beyond anything I think I ever saw. Don’t things… catch on fire around you?”

“Not if I don’t want them to?”

He was shaking his head, “unfathomable depths to you, lass. I shouldn’t be so amazed all the time, but I just can’t help it.”

“But… I mean, I’m happy you’re not angry… or horrified. Overjoyed actually. But… what should I do?”

“Do? Nothing. Or well, find somewhere else to practice your fire-sword-dance things… or maybe just skip the fire altogether for a little while. Be better if we don’t get groups of armed peasants combing the countryside, there’s too much potential for trouble in that. I remember a vampire hunt near Easthall, by the coast, fuckin’ mess that was, the peasants were finding ‘vampires’ at every other hamlet… sometimes stringin’ ’em up or burnin’ them. It was a right nasty business. Anyway, I digress. No fire for a bit, till things simmer down,” he finished with another chuckle which built into another hearty laugh, “…simmering down… yes that’s what we need…” he was seemingly very amused by the idea of a problem with a Fire Wraith ‘simmering’ down.

“That’s it?”

“Well, we can hardly call Chad in here and say ‘oh you don’t need to go out, she’s right here and reasonably friendly too, once ya get to know her,’ can we now?” Bernard couldn’t stop himself from laughing about it again. “Don’t mind the flames Chad, we could say, it’s all good… it’ll… simmer down…” he couldn’t help but laugh out loud again. It took him some time to recover.

Ala was silent for a moment, not quite able to see the funny side, “no I suppose not,” and the she had to giggle a little too, infected by Bernard’s mirth.

“So we’ll just let them traipse around the ruins for however long they want and find nothing. They’ll probably make up a story about having chased it off or something and that’ll be that. You can probably go back to your odd habits in a few weeks. We can go out and you can show me your fire skills then too, I’m mighty curious now. One thing though, I’m not shaving my beard!”

She had to smile about that, too.

Chad and his friends did indeed go out looking for her. They came back after a few days, claiming they had chased off the wraith. They seemed to have convinced themselves that it was true. After that she couldn’t help smiling to herself when she overheard villagers speculating. Weeks later she and Bernard went out into a secluded part of the woods and she showed him the fire. He was truly speechless for once.

“Well Ala, that’s well beyond uncanny. What else can you do? Can you make it so the flames don’t hurt me either? Perhaps cover me in harmless flames too?”

To her surprise, it turned out that she could.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

The Right to Bear Arms

She spent over a year polishing and cleaning the blade in between everything else that kept her busy. She took little extra jobs where she could get them to be able to buy or trade for the materials she wanted. Bernard would probably have given her whatever money she needed for it, but she didn’t want him to. She needed the right wood to make a good grip, and steel wire to wrap around it, which was expensive if you needed good quality. Copper and tin to attach a newly forged pommel. She also saved up money and traded rabbit skins to buy the best leather she could find to make a belt and scabbard. She reinforced the scabbard with pieces of flexible wood. With Bernard and Gerry’s help she made a fairly plain but functional grip and attached it to the pommel. It was a little difficult to do without Gerry noticing, but Ala’s gift gave her a fine control of the temperatures of the materials she worked with, making it easier to do the task well. The result earned heartfelt compliments from Gerry.

“It’s a good thing you’re not meanin’ to be a smith, girl. I’d have me some real competition.”

“Gerry, I’ve been working on this for over a year! I would starve if I were a smith!”

“Yeah. There is that. At that rate it’d be hard to make a livin’ I guess, though who knows when that’s the result eh? Canna argue with it, canna we? It’s mighty fine work, girl. Mighta taken me just as long.”

As she had worked with the blade, she had a strange sensation, almost as if she could feel inside the sword, a sensation of ageless depth and countless battles. It had taken her a moment to shake it off. She didn’t tell any one, she didn’t even know how to explain the feeling to Bernard. The scabbard she fashioned was plain and quite slender. It had been made with Ala’s customary patience and desire to master the craft. When it was complete it looked like a very well made slender sword in a good scabbard. There was nothing on the outside to give away what it was. Only the quillons indicated that it might have once been something special.

“Be best if you keep that scabbard lookin’ nice and plain on the outside,” Bernard had said when she’d suggested decorating it, “that sword would attract far too much interest if people guessed what it was.”

Anything that might make it look valuable was best avoided, he said. In the meantime she kept diligently training weapons as many hours a day as she could. She was very focused on swordsmanship but Bernard insisted she spent time on archery, riding and spears and halberds as well. Very rarely, he praised her improvement. She practised several hours a day by herself or with Bernard as well as with other members of the militia when she could talk them into it or they were called up to practice. She still regularly visited the horse breeders too, as it was her main source of income. Her room and board were at Bernard’s house was free, but she did need some coin for things every now and again.

She was a popular exercise rider, her ability to calm unruly breeding stallions had made the breeders welcome her and trust her with their valuable steeds. When a horse was being particularly difficult someone from the horse farm would always come to find her. Thetwick’s reputation as a place to buy warhorses had continued to grow and she was able to get more work than ever before. Horse rearing had become the most important source of external income for the Westmarch. Despite her services being in high demand she always gave weapons practice and militia duty precedence, even though neither provided an income. She just felt comfortable with a weapon in her hand.

Ala’s skill with temperamental horses allowed her to ride some of the most energetic stallions bareback around the countryside. She didn’t see it as a special skill, she’d just discovered that horses responded very well when you spoke to them in elven. Being able to speak elven, even if it was only to horses, felt nice. The horse breeders found they could entrust their most promising mounts to Ala for exercise and even more and more of the training. She was seldom without a powerful warhorse to ride around on. It made some of the young men in the village very envious. Luckily the breeders she rode for didn’t mind her keeping a horse at Bernard’s over night, which made it easy for her to get around and kept her safe from the adolescents who didn’t think she ought to have the privilege of riding around on a horse worth substantially more than most houses in Thetwick.

She did go out on foot to the market sometimes and she had come to dread it. There was a group, usually led by Jed or Bruce, who delighted in tormenting her if they could catch her alone. Sometimes it had resulted in an altercation she had to run away from. Once, eight of them had accosted her, all bigger and stronger than her. They started off making lewd suggestions and grabbing hold of her, one of them started pulling up her dress. She had no doubt what they had in mind. She kicked one in the crotch and raked her nails across another’s face to get away. She had to drop her basket of groceries, aiming it in front of one of her pursuers legs to trip him and tore and lost her cloak to the laughing boys. It left her with a nasty bloody nose and a blow to her temple that she was sure would become a black eye. She’d been seconds away from using her fire to defend herself, which she knew could have had even more dire consequences. She ran as hard as she could all the way to Bernard’s house. He saw her come in, bloody, out of breath and crying.

“Ala! What happened to you? Are you alright?”

In between sobs, she answered him… “it’s… nothing… just… fell…”

“No you didn’t, did you? It’s those town boys again isn’t it? Which ones?”

“Please… just leave it… it’ll only set me further apart.”

Bernard frowned, “I think we’re past that Ala. I won’t have this happening again. It’ll only get worse.”

Ala looked down. She was worried he might be right.

“From now on, Ala, you’re not going out unarmed, understood? Don’t kill anyone unless you absolutely must to get away, but if anyone leaves a meeting bleeding, I insist it isn’t you, from now on. Do you hear me?”

Ala was silent. She could see he meant it. She nodded, not entirely sure what to think of it. In Thetwick, the right to bear arms was a big deal. Bernard was within his rights to assign it to anyone he saw fit and even just the idea of it immediately made her feel safer, but the people of Thetwick would look at her differently. In a way it delighted her, but it also set her even further apart from the others in the village who at least had the appearance of being the same age. Weapons were something only permitted to soldiers and nobles.

In fact it was such a sign of status that she knew that even noblewomen always included a weapon in what they wore. It was usually only a small dagger, but it weapons were so connected to the idea of nobility that a noble wearing something without any sort of weapon was unthinkable, no matter how ornate the outfit. Being armed was a sign of nobility across Iurrak, Selinus and maybe even further away.

Bernard had been dead serious. From then on, she was never without her sword. She used one of Bernard’s lesser blades for militia practice, he insisted on her own sword remaining hidden. But, she was always armed and when she went out she did always wear her own sword when she went out to do something where only a dire emergency would justify drawing it.

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.

Disclaimer: This is not the final version as it will be available from the usual e-book sellers and eventually, bookstores. Rather, it should be seen as an (almost) final draft. If you are interested in becoming a beta reader, or you have any comments, suggestions or thoughts that you feel I should consider before publishing please drop me a line using the contact form.

The Bull of Thetwick

The sword had made her even more curious about her heritage. Even though it was dead in the middle of winter, Ala went to see ‘The Bull’s’ descendants at their farm. She waited for a break in the weather and took one of the young destriers for an exercise ride. The horse breeder where she went to get the horse was a little surprised but seemed to be confident in her abilities as a rider that his valuable horse would be fine. It was still deathly cold, with snow on the ground, but the skies were only partly cloudy and the sun was out.

The people of Thetwick referred to the farm she intended to visit as The Bullstead. Ala was certain it must be because of the family’s famous scion. It was a very large farm building by Thetwick’s standards. It was of the customary design, a single building occupied by the family at one end and the livestock at the other. The building was a rectangle of low stone walls covered by a great thatched and hipped roof. Considering that it had to be at least a century old, the stone walls attested to the Bull’s standing and wealth when it was built. Even the enclosure surrounding the building was a low, well built stone wall. Almost nothing had been built out of stone a hundred years ago, though the ruins she liked to visit in the woods were far older and had once been keep made of stone too.

As she approached, she saw smoke billowing from the hole in the roof. The mistress of the house was outside, a middle aged woman and wearing a simple though think kirtle over her chemise, with a hide cloak with a fur lined hood and a linen headscarf. Her breath causing white clouds to form as she fed chickens. Ala knew her by face, she came into town sometimes on market days to trade. The woman came to see what Ala wanted as she slid off the big horse’s bare back.

“Well met there, girl. Hell of a weather to be out ridin’ in. Yer from the town, ain’t ya? I think I seen ya ridin’ around on them big horses.”

“Well met, mistress. I live in town, I do the Captain’s housekeeping.”

“Right, right. You’re that half-elf, aren’t ya?”

She said it as if it were a mysterious profession, like a priest of a dubious god.

“Yes mistress, that’s right… they call me Ala…”

“So whaddya want with us?”

“I was wondering whether I might ask you a question, mistress, about one of your ancestors? William the Bull?”

The woman eyed Ala, apparently trying to decide whether she ought to be suspicious. After a moment her look softened a little.

“The Bull? He was me husband’s great granda. He’s long, long dead girl. Way back when… must be nigh on a century now. Was a good man though, I’ve heard. Proud man and a good fighter. The Duke’s man through and through.”

“Mistress, they say that he was with the patrol who found me and brought me to the village when I was small. When I came to Thetwick… you know. Do you know anything about that? Maybe stories that you’ve told your children?”

“Really.. you’ve been here that long?” She looked shocked. “But… you’re just a child…”

“Half elves age more slowly than humans, mistress.”

“That’s unnatural!”

Ala quickly tried to calm the woman down,

“It’s not, mistress, truly, I’m a half elf… we live… and grow a lot slower than humans… it’s nothing special… just takes longer.”

The woman appeared to consider this, her scowl softening again before she continued.

“I dunno, girl. I guess I’ll take yer word fer it. Ya seem normal enough.”

“Do you know anything else at all about William the Bull? I’m trying to find out where I came from.”

The woman clearly considered for a moment whether to continue the conversation.

“I s’pose there’s no harm in talkin’ to ya. It’s possible I guess that he was the one who found you then, if ya grow so slow. I know he rode with the Duke’s army. Famous soldier in the Regiment. That’s also how he died… servin’ the Duke. Guess that sort of explains how you wound up in Thetwick, I s’pose?”

“The lady who adopted me, Palady. She was married to William’s half brother, Jack.”

“It’s an awful long time ago lass, I really know nothin’ of the Bull’s family.”

“Palady said I may have been found somewhere near Seraphim keep?”

“Never been there. Don’t know it.”

“Please mistress, if there’s anything else you know… I’m… I’m trying to find out if I might have any family, or anything at all about myself… I know nothing of my heritage.”

“T’ is the first I’ve heard of it, lass. Suppose I understand wantin’ to know where ya hail from, but sorry, lass, don’t know anythin’ that might help ya.” She turned to her husband, who had come to see what was going on, “what about you, da? Know anythin’ about the Bull that might help her?”

Her husband was a thickset man with a bushy brown beard. He looked like he might be in his mid forties. He’d been silently listening in, he just shook his head and made a sound that might have been a grunt.

Ala tried not to let her disappointment show too much.

“Thank you, ma’am, master. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Take care girl, hope ya find what yer lookin’ fer, not knowin’ who my kin were wouldn’t sit well with me either,” the woman said. “Though maybe wait for better weather ‘fore ya go ridin’ again.”

The man just grunted again as he nodded his head.

Ala hadn’t really believed William the Bull’s descendants would know anything, but she was still disappointed. Somewhere she had had a hope that the whole story would come gushing out. No one knew anything at all, it seemed. Her only hope was the magnificent sword. She would have to travel, one day, she decided. Surely there were elves or half-elves somewhere who could tell her more?

If you wish to receive the weekly installment to this story in your inbox, please subscribe to the newsletter below.