Tales of the Sword: Short Stories of a Fantastic Nature

by Todd Shryock

  “I assigned you a task, but yet you failed,” said the man to the two boys. “You will be punished. That is our law. The baker is paying us for a service, and to fail in that service means we fail our reputation. Without our reputation, we will be nothing.”

  The youths showed a flash of fear at the mention of punishment, but their faces quickly turned to anger as they stared at the boy.

  “Now,” said the sandy-haired man in a slow, methodical voice, “show this lad what happens when you steal from someone protected by the Fly Guild.

  Quinton recognized the threat in the man’s voice and made one last desperate move. He had felt out a small foothold in the wall with his hand while the man was talking to the boys. Making a move so fast that even the sandy-haired man was surprised a bit, the boy put his foot in the small hole, reached up the wall and desperately reached for the top edge to pull himself over. Feeling the edge of the wall, he shoved up with his foot and almost got his knee up to the top that would have allowed him to swing over to the other side.

  But the man was quicker. He grabbed the boy’s other foot just before he pulled it up and yanked him down to the hard stone street. Pain shot through the boy’s shoulders and head as he landed with a thud, sending the air from him once more. Before he could even think about what to do next, the two boys were on him in a flurry of fists and feet. He felt blows striking every part of his body and the pain was soon overwhelming. They dragged him to his feet, his back to the wall, and while one held him up, the other unleashed another round of fists to his head and chest, and then would pause to kick him in the groin and legs.

  After a while, the pain just went away. With every part of his body damaged, the overload of signals to his brain became too much to sort out and almost all the pain was turned off. Both of the his eyes were swollen shut to the point he could only see darkness. He was having trouble breathing because every time he inhaled, several parts of his chest retaliated with what felt like daggers stabbing into his lungs. His arms and legs were bruised and aching, and he was having trouble feeling anything in his left leg. He could hear the boys trying to catch their breath. They had pummeled him to the point that they were exhausted. He couldn’t tell whether the man was there or not, but suspected that he was. Quinton knew he was finished. One way or another. If they didn’t kill him, he would be unable to survive in his broken condition. The rats would eat him tonight in a slow tortuous death.

  “Shall we finish him?” asked the thinner of the two boys who was recognizable by his higher voice spoken between heavy breaths.

  There was silence. The broken boy assumed the man would end his life with the simple signal of his hand. It didn’t really matter. No one would miss him. There was no one left to miss him.

  “Sir?” asked the boy’s voice again.

  There was another pause, the broken boy listening for any sound of his final verdict. The only sound he heard was the other boy exhaling loudly and footsteps coming near him again. He wanted to turn his head to protect his face from another kick to the nose, but was unable to move. He was helpless.

  He felt the thinner boy pick him up for another round, the final round, of punishment. His arm snaked around his back and he placed his arm around his shoulders. He then felt the bigger boy do the same on the otherside. Together, they dragged the boy down the street, the tops of his feet being torn and cut on the rough stones of the street. The broken boy strained to see through his swollen eyes, but could only see darkness. They would throw him in the river and that would be the end of him. He took one more conscious breath, then passed out.

  In the darkness of despair, the boy felt a warmth and saw a blue glowing light before him. He walked towards the orb, feeling the pain drain away from his body as he did so. Quinton walked into the orb and the light shone so brightly he had to close his eyes to shut out the blinding rays. With a whisper, the light was gone. He opened his eyes and saw himself in the past, a past that seemed nothing more than a dream. He was on a ship with his parents, their faces fresh and clear here in the dream, unlike the fuzzy memories they had become in his life of survival. The ship docked at a ill-kept wharf in a city situated with the ocean on one side and a great swamp on the other. He knew this place, it was his home, Star Gleam City. They had fled religious persecution to this new land of promise and freedom, but the city didn’t look like anything they had heard. They had been told of a beautiful city at the mouth of a river with buildings that sparkled of gold and silver where people were free to do as they pleased. But what they found instead were ramshackle huts, broken stone buildings, filth and disease.

  It was the sickness that first claimed his father, who had taken work on the wharves, for there wasn’t much demand for a scholar in a town where few people read. He went with his mother as she dragged his father on a makeshift litter to the steps of the nearest church, but there were so many pleading for aid that the priests would only lend their healing hands to those who could afford to pay. Dejected, they took their father and husband home to die.

  And die he did, six days later. His mother went off to find work and told him he would have to do the same. She found him a job running errands for an invalid old woman who lived in one of the better homes in town, a three-story town home supposedly owned by a local crime boss. Why she was there, who could know. But the boy earned some much needed food and an occasional coin for his services along with some clothes. He would fetch bread for her from the baker, keep the place tidied up and help her walk to the balcolny on the third floor to watch the city’s bustle below. Eventually, he was allowed to sleep in the kitchen, curled up on a small blanket the woman no longer used. His mother worked all night, but she wouldn’t tell him doing what. Whatever it was, it aged her rapidly. Her bright young eyes quickly faded and her smile was replaced with a blank stare. She hardly talked to him, and when she caught him looking at her, she quickly turned away as if in shame. The old woman wouldn’t allow her to come into her house, so each morning the boy would wait for his mother at the front door and then walk with her for a bit before starting his daily chores. One day, she never appeared. The boy felt a great sadness in his heart and knew that she was never going to come again.

  Time passed, and he continued his existance helping the old woman. He was happy for the roof over his head and the scraps of food. She was grateful to have someone she could depend on to help her. Then one day, the boy came home from his errands and found the woman face down on the floor. Her heart had stopped. He dragged her out to the street, and several men with a cart came along and took her body away to be dumped in the river where it would be washed out to sea. There wasn’t enough solid ground in the swamps to bury anyone. If you interned someone there, the spring floods would just wash them right back up again, so the dead were fed to the sea. No one had the ambition to bury anyone anyhow.

  Quinton lived in the house alone. He found a small stash of coins that he used to buy some food when needed and the house kept him warm and dry and away from most of the disease carrying insects and vermin that were thick in the lesser parts of town. One bright fall day, a man came to the door and inquired about the old woman. The boy told him she was dead. The man’s puzzled look turned to one of understanding and he left and returned the next day with several other men. As the boy watched, the men emptied the house of all the furniture and rugs and loaded them onto several ox-drawn carts, their long tails swatting at the flies, patiently waiting on their masters to finish. When the men were done, the man who had come to the door gently guided the boy out the door, pulled the door shut behind him and locked it.

  “Don’t ever go into my house again, do you understand?” he asked in a soft voice, but one that carried threatening authority.

  Quinton nodded and watched as the men got on the carts and slowly trundled down the street, the carts wobbling back and forth over the cobbles with rickety wheels. He turned around, gave the house that he had known as home for almost two years a final glance and headed out into the stre
ets with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a few coins in his pocket.

  The coins were quickly spent on food, and as the winter rains came, his clothes deteriorated into rags. He learned to steal and hide from the soldiers and the thugs who walked the streets at night. There were other children on the streets too, but no one lasted long. Where they all went, who could know, but he was a surivivor. At least until today.

  “It’s a sad story, in a city filled with sad stories,” came the voice of an older man from the glowing light that had now returned to obscure his visions of the past. The voice seemed to come from both sides of him and behind him at the same time.

  “I don’t care about his sad story, Grubbs,” said the voice of the sandy-haired man. “The boy has talent. Natural talent. Maybe the best I’ve seen. Maybe even better than me with the right training.”

  “Better’n you sir?” said Grubbs, his voice incredulous. “Never thought I’d ‘ear you say that in my living days. A young lad as good as Sands? Hard to even think it.”

  “If he survives, that is,” said Sands. “The boys roughed him up pretty good, but he had to pay for his crime. That’s our law.”

  “That it is, sir, that it is. But I think this one is a survivor. I think he’ll pull out. He survived the tellin’ orb, didn’t he? In his state, he should have reached the light and let himself go for good.”

  “Perhaps, Grubbs, perhaps. When it comes to healing, I yield to your judgement.”

  “I’ll fix him up, but no promises now.”

  There was a muffled laugh. “You just said he would pull through. Hedging your bets are you?”

  Another laugh came, this time from Grubbs. “Sitting on the fence allows you to flee to one side or the other as need calls for, sir.”

  “Just don’t fall with one leg on each side of the fence or you’ll be hurt worse than if you chose one or the other to begin with.”

  Grubbs heartily laughed for a few moments before regaining his composure. “Where shall I put him once my work is done?”

  There was a long silence before Sands answered. “Put him in the crimper.”

  “Ooh, starting out a little rough aren’t we?”

  “Mind your business Grubbs. I don’t want an apprentice. It’s bad enough watching over Milky’s two losers while he’s laid up with the fever. If this lad is for real, he’ll be fine. If he’s not, we’ll be rid of him right soon.”

  Grubbs snickered. “That we will sir, that we will.”

  The light faded from the boy’s eyes and the sounds of the men’s voices became clear. He tried to open his eyes, but they were still swollen shut. The pain in his body had subsided, but the aches remained and he was unable to move his limbs.

  Grubbs waved his hand over the orb near the boy’s body. It’s glow turned a slight shade of red then faded away completely. The boy wouldn’t remember anything about the experience now.

  “Relax boy,” said Grubbs. “The pain is gone for now, but don’t worry it will return. You’re banged up pretty good, and it’s not going to get much better for ya. I’ve pulled you through the worst of it, but it’s up to you how much longer you want to live. You’ll have to decide whether the pain in here,” the boy felt the man tap his chest, “is greater than the pain out here with us. If the pain inside is worse, then anything we throw at you will be survivable. But if out here is tougher, then you’ll be feeding the fish with your dead daddy real soon.”

  Quinton faded back to darkness once more. Dreams came to him unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He saw visions of glorious castles glowing white on the shores of a great ocean, of a dark rocky tower standing defiant in the middle of a raging sea and of fantastic creatures with wings and horns and shimmering scales. Everything he had ever heard of in a story or tale was suddenly alive before him in a dazzling array of images and sights so clear he could touch the rough skin of the flying beasts and smell the salt spray as it rebounded from the dark tower back into the sea. A sense of wonder and joy flooded his body as he felt himself flying along the edges of the world, seeing everything there was to see and being free from everyone and the pain they brought with them. As his vision soared along a high cliff along the sea’s edge, as white trees with golden leaves shimmered in the distance, his thoughts turned to his long lost parents, the only family he knew that left him what seemed so long ago. His thoughts turned to sadness as he thought of his mother’s eyes and how they had faded away from the hopeful spirit they had once held, and how his father’s body had to be dumped into the river like so much garbage. When he looked out across the plain that stretched from the sea, he saw two people standing together. They were too far away to make out any details, but he recognized their forms.

  Could it be possible in this incredible place that his parent were here too? Some how alive and well and waiting for him? He turned toward them and watched the landscape speed by and focused everything on them. As he got closer, he could make out his mother’s hair and his father’s hand waved in greeting. He could see their smiles. A wash of joy raced through his heart.

  Then everything was gone. The air was stale and blackness was surrounding him. His hopes faded as he could feel the lingering pain in his limbs return. He could feel himself breathing. Whereever he had been, that place was gone now. He took a deep breath and took inventory of his aches and pains. The memory of the beating came back to him and he whinced at the thought. But things were better now. His eyes were still tender, but he could tell they weren’t swollen shut anymore. He opened them but saw nothing. He could feel the coolness of stone under his cheek and arms and he knew he was lying face down on a floor somewhere. He tried to raise his head to get a better look at his surroundings, but his head hit stone before he had barely moved. In fact, it was so low he couldn’t turn his head to look the other way.

  The boy momentarily paniced. He quickly flailed about with both hands grasping for openness but they only confirmed what he had first feared. He was in a stone space barely tall enough for him to fit into. His hands and legs couldn’t find any defined edges, but whereever he was, he was wedged in pretty good.

  The boy’s heart raced. Was he entombed? Had the two boys left him here to die? He forced himself to take deep breaths and relax. He felt around with his fingers and carefully dragged himself to his right to try to find some way out. The stone was cool and slightly damp, so he figured he was underground. After a few feet, his hand found a wall. His fingers danced across it. He could feel the mortar lines among the stones. He was in something manmade, so maybe it was a tomb. The boy worked his way along the wall until he found another wall a few feet further on. A few minutes of further exploration revealed he was in a space about two body lengths square with no apparent doors or other openings.

  Despair sunk in. He was trapped. Entombed to die a slow miserable death. His hands searched for solace in the cool stone beneath him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear as it rested on the rock. Slow and steady it beat. But for how long? He knew that about three days was all you could survive without water. So he had three days to wait. And after that, he hoped that he could return to the place that he saw in his dreams and find that plain with the two figures once more.

  The boy found himself dragging his body over to one of the walls once more. He began pushing and pulling on any stone he could feel, hoping to find a weak spot. He worked his way around the entire chamber, but could find no escape. Worn out and already starting to get a little thirsty, he gave up. He laughed at his own folly. What if the chamber were buried in the earth? Knocking a hole in the wall would only reveal a mountain of dirt to be moved. The darkness and tightness of the space was disorienting and he was already getting confused as to which way was up. He might knock out the wall and only end up digging deeper.

  Couldn’t this just end now? Why did he have to wait through three long days of suffering? A wave of sadness rocked his young battered body. Sobs came from his throat but he stopped them. He hadn’t allowed himself to c
ry since the day his mother didn’t show up and he wasn’t going to start now. He would wait out his time and hopefully rejoin her on the other side. He calmed himself by taking a few deep breaths and drifted off to sleep.

  No dreams came. No majestic plains; no fantastic creatures; no visions of beauty. He came out of his slumber and wished he could go right back in. His face hurt from lying on the stone and the skin was rubbed raw from the coarseness of the rock. His neck ached from being in the same position and he was finding it harder to breathe as his ribs hurt from the continued weight of his body pressing down on them. He had no idea whether it was day or night for his black tomb gave no clues. His ragged clothes weren’t providing much warmth and the cool underground air was beginning to give him a chill. Thirst burned in his throat and his mouth was dry. Hunger began to knaw at his stomach. Quinton knew that he might crack up mentally long before his body gave up physically. There was nothing to do in his hole except think about his predicament and that led to a deep melancholy that kept begging the question, why me?

  As the time slowly passed, he became acutely aware of every ache and pain in his body: The coldness of his fingers, the dull pain in his cheek, the sharp throbbing of his elbow, the aching of his head. Every smell had been identified and catalogued in his mind. The cool rock smelled of damp earth and sand. Small bits of what must be some sort of underground moss or mold gave off an odor that unfortunately reminded him of bread.

  As he lay there perfectly still, his finger occasionally tracing the mortar line around a stone to his right, his left leg sensed what felt like slightly warmer air. He concentrated on that ever-so-slight sensation trying to determine if it were real or imagined. It wasn’t much of a difference, but he believed it was real. He pulled himself around to face the other wall and began carefully feeling along the stone for its source. He held his hand just in front of the wall trying to sense any change in temperature. As he neared the corner, he felt it. A slight change in temperature and even a hint of air movement. He touched the wall with his right hand and felt around the rough stone searching for its source. His fingers traced every mortar line and his palm glided across every stone. Finally he found it. In between two smaller rocks were two round holes. Not natural openings, for they were pefectly round – these were man-made and had been put there on purpose. He took his finger and stuck it in first one hole, then the other. They were small tubes through the stone. How long they were he couldn’t tell, for they were longer than his finger was. The boy slipped his hand under his head to try to ease the pain in his cheek. His head pressed up against the ceiling as he pondered what the significance of the holes was.