by R J Hanson
Roland, on the other hand, had no time for the prattling of thieves or cut-throats. In his mind, if they had wisdom to share, then they likely wouldn’t be in jail. Roland’s views on wisdom, and where to find it, would soon be on a different course. They would soon change as a boy must if he is to become a man.
Roland changed from his one good shirt and trousers back into his deer skin pants and padded coat. He went through the now automatic steps of strapping on his plate armor. Once fully armored, well armored in what he had anyway, Roland took up his helmet and six-foot long practice pole. Roland walked to the small clearing behind the jail and began his afternoon exercises.
After three hours of executing several attack and parry routines with the large sparing weapon, Roland slung it over his shoulder and started his five-league run. His lungs were burning for air by the time he returned to the jail.
Roland regained his breathing pace, and then stepped back inside the jail. He stored his sparing weapon and most of his plate armor in the armory. He kept his breastplate out, and took out two hand axes. He placed that armor and those weapons next to the cot he would sleep on.
Roland looked in on the prisoners again, some of whom had drifted off to sleep. He walked across the street to the tavern again and retrieved a meal fit for any three men and a gallon of goat’s milk. He returned to the jail and devoured his meal at his father’s desk.
Roland slept an uneventful sleep and awoke the next morning to find the drunk to be released standing at the cell door waiting on him.
“That drink is no friend to you, old man,” Roland said to the sobering sot as he rose from his cot and stretched. “I’m sure that we will see you later.”
The old man smiled and bowed to Roland as he left the jail. Roland re-secured the cell door, and conducted another head count. All seemed as it should be. He then went across the street to the tavern for his breakfast. He ate well. Once finished, he escorted one of the cooks from the tavern over to the jail to feed the prisoners.
Roland checked them all and did another head count. They were all present although a few were still sleeping in the back. He left them in the care of a deputy, Tobert. Roland then stretched, and went outside to begin his morning exercises.
He could hear Velryk’s voice in his head, as he often did during training. ‘You don’t train to save your life, boy. You train to save the life of the man next to you. You train to save the lives of your family far away. You train to save your lands. Those, and in that order. Your life is farther down that list.’ This rang as a litany in his head during the repetitions that burned his muscles and forced fire into his lungs.
The day passed without event. Roland checked in on the prisoners at noontime, and returned again at dusk. Tobert reported that the only incident of the day had been the re-arrest of the drunk that had been released just that morning. Roland nodded and relieved Tobert of his duties.
Roland took a thick book from the shelf, ‘Arto’s Thoughts on War.’ Roland began his reading by the light of twin candles. The candles were only half melted when Roland’s weary head slumped to the hard wood surface of the desk. Sleep took the boy deep into her arms.
‘Awake’ screamed in Roland’s head and he awoke to find the candles burned to the dish and the jail only lit by the faint light of the ever-glowing lamp from the tavern across the street. He lay very still, as his father had taught him. ‘Never jerk awake, boy,’ Velryk had said. ‘When you are startled from sleep it is for a reason. Don’t let your enemy know you’re awake until you are ready to strike him.’
Roland tried to control his breathing as he slowly scanned the room through one cracked open eye. He had slept facing the doorway to the iron cell. His first thought was the cell door, he visually checked it and it appeared to still be secure. Then he began scanning the shadows within that cell.
Roland found the source of the noise that he assumed had called out to his honed instincts. He watched as the female warrior worked with some sort of tool at freeing the collar around the wizard’s neck.
Roland rose swiftly and stepped out of the path of the doorway. He pulled the breastplate over his head and strapped it on to cover his chest and his back. He took up his hand axes and prepared himself. He considered calling out for help, but what warrior needs to call out for help, he thought to himself in his own prideful voice. Velryk’s voice was now far from his thoughts.
Roland stepped into the doorway to find the wizard preparing what Roland assumed was a type of elemental attack. Roland saw the wizard conjure a ball of black, glowing energy that frosted in the air. Much to Roland’s surprise the wizard’s target appeared to be the slight man the wizard had been captured with, who was still asleep.
The female saw Roland, and he barely had time to register the fact that she was throwing something before he felt it lodge in his hip just below his armor. Roland felt the stab of the weapon deep into the muscle of his lower abdomen just above his hip, and then a searing pain as the dagger revealed its magical properties. Roland knew it to be a fire blade when he saw the rune glowing on the hilt. If this had been one of the long daggers that the elves favored it would have easily pierced his gut as well.
‘Always search them for yourself, boy,’ he heard Velryk’s voice again calling to him from memory. ‘Never trust to someone else what is yours to be sure of.’ In his anger at Sanderland, and his own foolish neglect, he had not thought to search the three ‘spies.’ Now he paid for his stupidity.
The other occupants of the cell did their own personal bests to become holes in the air. Each man melted out of the path between Roland and the wizard by crawling to the corners of the cage.
Roland dropped one of his axes and pulled the blade free from his hip as he had been mentally conditioned to do. He did so without thought. A blade left in the body was never good. As long as it was there it would continue to wound. He was also conditioned for the pain that would accompany the move. However, agony tore through his gut just the same. The burning blade stopped any bleeding, but the jolt of pain caused him to side step and lean briefly against the door. He took the keys from the wall and unlocked the cell door, intent on attacking the wizard before he could unleash his deadly spell.
As Roland swung the door in the wizard wisely changed his target from the sleeping victim to the armed man approaching him. Roland continued forward as the wizard focused three fingers from his right hand and uttered the word ‘dactlartha.’
The dark bolt of cold energy struck Roland hard on the chest and knocked the wind from his lungs. He felt his left shoulder tighten from frost and half of his face went stiff. He powered his way through the blows and continued toward the young woman and the old man, single minded in his objective. He had learned over a few, but very tough, years to put pain in its place.
The woman, surprised at the hard determination discovered in this boy-jailor, stepped in front of the old man and cried out, “Get us out of here!”
Strong though she might have been, and skilled, she had no desire to face Roland having hurled her only weapon into his gut.
Roland made a sweeping cut at the female, but she managed to slap the blade wide with her bare hand as she dodged to the side. Roland had never seen such speed!
Roland called on his left arm to attack, but it would not respond. She struck him hard on the side of the throat, which would have disrupted his breathing if he hadn’t still been trying to regain his breath from the magical bolt hurled by the wizard.
Roland prepared for another attack, accepting the idea that the female warrior would get another free swing at him with his left arm out of action.
As he began his attack, he heard the wizard speak again, ‘sectlartha.’
Roland swung his axe blade through thin air as the wizard and the fighter disappeared from his sight and beyond his reach.
Roland turned for the cell door and saw the slight man making his way toward the main office of the jail. His weapon was slick in his hand from his own blood and his
shoulder and arm hung at his side like that of a puppet with some of the strings cut. He forced air into his chest.
“Halt or I will hollow your skull!”
The small man’s movement went ridged and he slowly moved his hands out to his side and then above his head. Although the two spies he arrived with seemed to have vacated the area without him, the Shanks appeared to also have a desire to depart. The frosted muscles began to thaw, and then to scream in Roland’s shoulder.
Roland stepped out of the cell and approached the slight man. His left arm was a beacon fire of pain that he put on a ship and sent to a distance shore.
“Get back in there!” Roland roared.
The young man complied and walked swiftly back to the cell.
Roland secured the door again and then rang the alarm. He did not know the capabilities of the wizard, but Roland knew from what Velryk had taught him that some could teleport only a short distance while others could cover leagues with a single spell. Roland was hoping they would still be in the area.
“I can help you track them,” the small man said. “That’s what I do. They were preparing to kill me, I owe them nothing. I’d be glad to help you track them down.”
“Quiet,” Roland said as he worked the stiffness out of his frosted shoulder.
“My name is Ashcliff, I am known as the Shanks,” the small man said. “You are Sir Roland, right?”
“I said quiet!”
“Very well, sir,” Ashcliff said politely.
“I am just Roland, no Sir to it, not yet.”
“Very well, Roland,” Ashcliff said in his most compliant tone.
Roland stood in the road in front of the jail. He had worked the soreness out of his arm and Eldryn’s mother, Shaylee, had prepared a poultice for his hip wound. Between that and a tea she made for him he was on the mend quickly. Five days had passed since his brief battle in the jail. The scouts had found nothing of the two escaped prisoners. A traveling merchant had brought word that Velryk was on his way into town with the three prisoners that he had set out for.
Velryk rode to the packed earth in front of the jail and dismounted his war-horse. A deputy came from the office and took charge of the three criminals.
“Well, tell me of your reading, boy.”
“Father, there were three prisoners that Sanderland brought here about six days ago,” Roland began quickly. He hoped to explain and make his case before Velryk’s anger went beyond the bounds of reason.
“I said of your reading,” Velryk said through clenched teeth. “I did not raise you to disobey my every word. Tell me of your reading.”
“’Arto’s Thoughts on War,’” Roland began. “’Only the dead have seen the end of war. No man in the wrong can remain against a man that defends the weak who will not acknowledge defeat.’”
“Any speaking bird from Janis can mimic sounds,” Velryk said. “What does it mean?”
“War is inevitable as long as men are tied to earthly things. Only the spirits of men will be without strife. No one that fights for the wicked can be victorious over a man that fights for the weak who will not quit. A man that fights for the weak and humble must not quit, because surrender is the only thing that can defeat him.”
“Good,” Velryk said. “Now what of these prisoners brought by Sir Sanderland.”
Roland told Velryk the story from the beginning to the point of the last scout who had returned with no signs or tracks to report.
“Sanderland’s prisoners would still be secure if he had done a decent job of searching the woman,” Roland said, hoping to gloss over his own failure.
“Do not lay blame, son,” Velryk said. He thought of the lessons he had taught the boys about captives, and considered reminding his son. However, the look on Roland’s face told him he need not. “A warrior accepts his responsibilities, and takes the scorn with the glory.”
“Yes sir,” Roland replied with his head lowered.
“They wore no emblem, and possessed no weapons with their symbol or mark?”
“The woman concealed this,” Roland showed Velryk the dagger.
“A flaming blade you said?”
“Yes sir,” Roland replied, indicating the rune on the handle. “It ignited when it struck my hip, a lucky throw that hit just below my armor.”
“I taught you better than that,” Velryk said. “Luck did not guide this blade. A man can dodge with his head, or limbs. But to move his hip requires the movement of the whole body. You are a large boy and were in a confined space. She went for the sure strike and did not risk the killing throw at your throat.”
“Yes sir,” Roland replied, his head bowed.
“Still,” Velryk continued, “a magic dagger is no trinket. Sander…, Sir Sanderland also should have taken greater care. Spies from Tarborat are not known to travel with magic weapons, nor do they keep the company of wizards.”
“Your wound has been properly treated?” Velryk asked, his thoughts returning to his son.
“Yes sir, Shaylee saw to it.”
“Then go home. I will handle the ordeal with Sir Sanderland and the Church.”
“Father, it was my mistake. I should be the one to have to tell them.”
“The mistake began with me. I left you here to do my job.” Velryk realized the harsh nature of what he had said, but too late. As he had been taught in his own youth so many years before, and as he had tried to teach Roland, a word spoken is as an arrow loosed…it cannot be called back.
Roland’s anger was only outweighed by his shame. His father would have to accept the blame from the church and Sir Sanderland, and the debt. No doubt they would expect a payment in gold as retribution for allowing the escape.
Roland led his horse from the stable but walked the twelve leagues to his home. To possess a horse, much more a horse for only riding, was an honor. He did not feel honorable this day. He walked those leagues with shame heavy on his shoulders as his mount trailed behind him.
Eldryn was sleeping soundly when his warrior’s mind alerted his snoring body. He had been taught, as Roland had, by Velryk. Eldryn smelled the air and knew that his window had been opened. He also noted the scent of oil on armor and leather. He maintained his breathing, and slowly allowed dim light into one eye.
“I wondered how long it would take you. How could you not have heard me open the window?” Roland noted that Eldryn had done a fine job remaining still. He also observed that Eldryn quit snoring quite abruptly.
“Roland? What are you doing outside my window?” Eldryn asked incredulously.
“Waiting for you to wake up,” Roland said. “I assume you’re awake now. You quit snoring moments ago. Get dressed, you’re going with me.”
“With you?” Eldryn asked, avoiding the snoring topic altogether.
“Yes, we are going after the two prisoners that escaped me.”
“Exactly how do you plan to track them?”
“I have that worked out,” Roland said. “Just get up, get your equipment, and let’s go.”
“I should leave mother a note,” Eldryn said as he rolled out of bed and put his feet on the cold stone floor.
Eldryn had been following Roland his whole life. He was a strong young man of a genuine and good heart. He had always relied on Roland for the mischief and trouble in his life. He had never gone without for it seemed Roland always traveled with plenty of both. What Roland called ‘adventure’ most referred to as trouble.
“Very well, but make it quick.”
Eldryn pulled on his spun trousers and boots, collected his equipment, and wrote a short note addressed to his mother, Shaylee.
Roland sat on his horse chewing his smoking leaf and waiting patiently. Eldryn dropped his bastard sword of iron and shield, both gifts from Velryk, out the window to the soft earth beneath. He climbed out the window behind them hauling his breastplate and change of clothes over his shoulder.
“Do you have time for me to get my horse, or should I saddle myself up and go as your pack anima
l?”
“Would you quit with the joking?” Roland asked, pleaded.
“Very well,” Eldryn said as he started toward the barn with his gear.
Both young men rode away from the stone home toward Fordir with the midnight moon hanging over head.
“So, what exactly did you have in mind?” Eldryn asked after the two had traveled for a few leagues.
“I have a tracker,” Roland began. “We will use him to track them down. Once we have them in custody we will return. Then as a warrior I will have corrected my failure and redeemed myself.”
“Did I ever tell you that you take yourself too seriously?” Eldryn quipped.
Roland smiled a little.
“I know, but I have to make up for this,” Roland said dropping his officious tone. “My father is going before Sanderland to tell him it was his mistake to leave me to handle things for the few days he was gone. How can I let my father do that, bringing shame on us both, without doing something about it? My father trusted me and I have disgraced both our names before Sanderland and the lord of the land.”
“I see your point, but do you really think your father’s opinion of you is so low?”
“What else could he think of me? It was my first test in real combat other than hunting down a few purse snares and slaying the wolves that come after our livestock. I failed. I won’t face that sneering Sanderland again until I have proven myself.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
Eldryn had often questioned Roland on his motives and his plans. However, those questions had always been asked after he had happily joined him. From stealing cookies from the kitchen jar at the age of five, to sneaking off to trap wild boars at the age of eleven, to ‘procuring’ ounces of smoking leaf from Velryk’s bag at the age of thirteen Eldryn had always followed without any hesitation.
Roland had always counted on Eldryn without even realizing it. Eldryn had always been there for him and always willing. Eldryn had a steadfast friend in Roland. Roland had always come to his defense without question or hesitation. Each young man had a great friend in the other. It would be years before they realized just how deep and strong their friendship was, and by then it would be too late.
