LYRIC’S CURSE
DRAGONBLOOD SAGAS:
BOOK ONE
Copyright
Copyright © Robyn Wideman
Published: June, 2015
Publisher: Robyn Wideman
www.robynwideman.com
1
LYRIC WATCHED THE WINDOW with hawk-like intent. It was just past dawn and the morning baking was done. Mathew the baker often left a chunk of fresh bread on the window sill for the crows. If Lyric timed it right, he could steal the bread from the birds before they could tear it apart into small chunks and fly with their prizes. Patiently, Lyric stared at the building wall, watching the sun creep up the wall turning it from a dull grey to a dusty golden brown. The warm coastal sun illuminated the alley one ray at a time.
A shadow crossed the room, Lyric’s mouth started to water as he thought about the fresh bread. This bakery had the best bread in the city, soft and fluffy with tiny pinera seeds on top. A loaf of the bread cost more than Lyric could steal in a week, which said more about his poor pickpocket skills than it did about the price of bread. Luckily, Lyric didn’t need money to get the delicious bread, he just needed to beat the crows. Lyric watched as Mathew came to the window. The portly red-haired baker, clothes dusty with flour, scanned the sky seeking his feathered friends. Cawing from the rooftops told Mathew the crows were indeed there and waiting for their morsels.
Sticking to his time honored tradition, Mathew placed a large chunk of bread on the sill and walked away.
Lyric smiled. The gods were good this morning. It looked like a corner of the loaf had gotten too brown and would not be for sale. Mathew had offered up the crows an especially large chunk of his bread. Lyric hobbled around the corner of the building, creeping along the wall until he was under the window sill. Lyric waited a moment to see if Mathew came back. Often, Mathew would leave the window to check on his ovens and then come back to inspect his offerings. Mathew took pleasure in watching the crows fight over the bread he left them. He would rant and cheer each bird on as it pecked another, trying to get its piece of the morning offerings. Mathew’s morning hobby, watching the crows fight for his offerings, was one of Lyric’s main sources of food. Lyric thanked the gods Mathew was so generous towards his feathered friends.
Hearing nothing, Lyric reached up and grabbed the still warm loaf of bread. Almost a whole loaf! His mouth watered. Lyric quickly slid the loaf under his tattered and dirty shirt. He didn’t want the crows trying to steal it from him.
The squawking of the birds grew louder as they watched Lyric take their mornings prize. Several of the feathered scavengers swooped down at Lyric, determined to take back their prize.
Lyric swatted the birds away. No way was he going to give up his prize! Hurrying along, Lyric made his way back to his alley, his gait unbalanced and almost a hop. Lyric smiled as he walked. He would eat good today. But first, Lyric reached under his shirt and snapped off a chunk of the bread from the darkest area. It was almost burnt and a fair offering to the birds to keep them occupied while he escaped with the lion’s share of the morning prize. If he didn’t leave them something, the persistent birds would follow him all the way back to his home. Lyric broke the piece of bread into several small chunks and threw the pieces in front of the window sill. If Mathew came back, perhaps he would get to watch the crows fight for the smaller pieces. Either way, Lyric was satisfied. The crows got some bread and so did he.
Lyric’s home was a narrow alley. Between the backsides of a warehouse and a brothel, he lived. Lyric was the son of a whore. Born into poverty and left at an orphanage before he could talk, he was a child destiny seemed content to abandon. Lyric had hated the orphanage. He was different from the other children. A dark-haired child with olive-colored skin, Lyric stood out immediately from the sea of light-skinned freckled faces that filled the orphanage. Anyone could see that whoever Lyric’s father had been; he had not been of their Isle. So the children bullied and picked on Lyric mercilessly. As Lyric had grown up bigger and faster than the other children, it just gave the older boys more reason to beat on him. Bruises and broken bones had become a way of life for the boy. Finally, at the tender age of twelve, Lyric had taken one beating too many and decided he needed to escape the orphanage before the older boys finished him off for good.
For years now, Lyric had called this alley home. It really wasn’t a bad place, the warehouse had a large roof with an overhang so when it rained, Lyric could stay dry. And other than to add more junk to the piles outside, no one ever came out the back doors of the warehouse. The brothel had no doors on this wall, only a few windows on its second floor that overlooked the alley. Lyric knew that no one could see him from the windows as long as he stayed in certain areas. Lyric had the path to his secret lair mapped out in his mind so that he was always invisible. It didn’t matter what part of the city he was coming from, he always had an escape route planned out that kept him out of view. The shadows and dark corners were his friends. Once Lyric was in his alley, no one could see him. If no one could see him, no one could beat on him.
The streets weren’t much better than the orphanage when it came to getting beat up. The street kids were no different than the orphanage kids. They saw him as strange and different. Olive skin, dark hair, and eyes that were a purple hue were not seen often and marked him as the son of a foreigner. Lyric was not welcome to join any of the street gangs, nor was he allowed to panhandle in the markets. The other boys jealously defended their territories and would not allow Lyric to encroach on their grounds. Even among the outcasts of Winport, Lyric was alone and unwelcome.
Sneaking into his alley, Lyric make his way along the brothel wall until he reached the pile of junk between the two buildings. Moving an old rug and a chunk of broken door frame, Lyric slipped into his hidden shelter. In the year since he had discovered the alley, Lyric had been rearranging the junk pile into a home. Behind the chaotic piles of discarded materials was the tidy little area Lyric called home. Like a beaver builds a dam out of broken branches, Lyric had made a hollowed out area big enough to live in. In fact, Lyric’s secret alley hideaway was bigger than the orphanage room he had shared with five other boys. Besides, no one stuck bugs down his pants while he slept in the alley.
Lyric broke off a chunk of the freshly baked bread and from a jar, he poured honey onto it. A farmer on the outskirts of the city raised honey bees, and once every couple weeks Lyric would sneak in and steal a jar’s worth of honey. Each trip cost him several bee stings, but on mornings like this where he could have honey on freshly baked bread, it was worth it.
At first, when Lyric left the orphanage, he had almost starved. But as he learned the city, Lyric found that he could eat somewhat better than he ever did at the orphanage. Not that that was a particularly high standard to aim for, but more often than not, Lyric ate almost every day. Between the poor meals served, and the other children stealing his food, eating everyday was something that didn’t always happen at the orphanage.
Lyric savored the sweet taste of the golden honey on the freshly baked bread. When he had finished his chunk of bread, Lyric stashed away the honey and wrapped up the remaining loaf of bread. There weren’t many rats in the alley, but if he left food uncovered, the opportunistic vermin always managed to find it. Sharing with the crows was one thing, rats were another entirely. Lyric didn’t like rats.
Done with his morning breakfast, Lyric once again left his alley for the damp and dirty streets of Winport. The morning sun was fully up now and it was time for school. Lyric had discovered the school one day while wandering the city. A school dedicated to training the highborn youth of Winport, it was a favorite place for Lyric t
o sneak to and watch. Often there were classes outside in the school’s courtyard such as combat classes. Lyric could hide in the shadows and watch. Lyric took pleasure in watching the instructors and students beating on each other. Every grimace from a student brought a smile to Lyric’s face. Of all the children that beat on Lyric, highborn brats were the most vicious. Other than the school, Lyric stayed away from places where highborn children played. The students had no time to notice a street rat like Lyric watching from the shadows. It was much safer getting pounded on by fellow street kids. They only injured to prove a point. They didn’t want Lyric working in their territory, whereas highborn kids beat him for their own twisted pleasure. But the school was safe. Here Lyric could watch with glee as they pounded on one another all in the name of becoming soldiers, or for the really rich, becoming knights.
Lyric liked to imagined himself as a warrior. A brave and powerful warrior so skilled, he was never beat on. So intrigued by the school was Lyric that he spent every day sneaking to and from the highborn school. Hungry for knowledge, his mind treasured every stolen lesson. Sometimes at night, he dreamed about the moves the instructors taught the students. The footwork, the way they held a blade, Lyric absorbed it all. However, his favorite days were when the magic students came outside to practice. Lyric loved watching the students try telekinesis and fireballs. Not very often would a student succeed, but when they did, Lyric enjoyed the show. When there were no outside classes, Lyric would sneak up to a window and watch from there. The language and math classes confused Lyric as he had no book knowledge and could not read. But whenever the instructors offered up practical examples, Lyric understood exactly what they were asking. Often, Lyric knew the assignments better than the students. While most cared little for the classes, Lyric was drawn to them, learning was his favorite part of the day.
When the classes were almost over, Lyric would sneak back to the slums, not wanting to be caught by the highborn students on their home turf. Once back in the slums, Lyric would start searching for his evening meal. Several of the pubs and inns around the docks chucked their scraps into the garbage bins. Lyric had a system where he snuck reasonably clean rags into the garbage bins just before dinner time. When the evening scraps were added to the garbage, they would hit the clean rags, giving Lyric a decent meal without having to worry about what nasty things were mingling with his meal. One had to be fast at recovering the scraps as the rats also knew when food was likely to be tossed out. It wasn’t much more than just enough to survive on, but it was enough.
It was a meager life, but still much better than the orphanage life he had escaped.
2
THE SWORD SLICED THROUGH the air, Sibylle ducked and swung her staff at her opponent’s ankles. Her staff skimmed the grass of the large and well-cared for estate courtyard. The private gardens of Redfall Estate were a peaceful and pretty background for the violent practice.
The tall and graceful man jumped over the flying staff and continued his attack, bringing his sword up and then down in a chopping motion that would split her head open like a block of wood.
Sibylle quickly raised her staff to block the downward strike. As her staff raised above her head, Sibylle lunged up and forward. When his sword struck the staff, Sibylle lowered her left hand, tilting her staff. The sword bounced off the staff, its momentum carried the blade in the direction of her tilted staff. Sibylle then turned her right shoulder and brought her elbow up into the man’s chest.
The man staggered back after the heavy blow.
Sibylle lowered her hands until she was holding her staff like a long sword, and then she whipped around in a circle and used her momentum to strike her opponent.
The man, off-balance from her elbow hitting his chest, tried to block her attack but his awkward positioning and the force of her blow sent his sword flying. The man took a knee, signifying his defeat.
Sibylle grinned at her opponent, Robert Godefrey. It took years of sparring before she could best him. Now it happened far more often than the old knight cared to admit. Age was slowing him down while his teachings had her skills brought to a fine point.
“Sibylle, stop that sparring nonsense and come to my office at once!” said a voice from behind her.
Sibylle stopped grinning and turned to see her father standing there shaking his head in disapproval.
As Lord Lamar left the courtyard, Robert Godefrey spoke, “I told you it was a bad idea to spar in the courtyard. Your father hates that you still do. He really hates it when you do it in places where people can see you.”
“If he didn’t want me to spar, then why did he allow me to do it in the first place?” said Sibylle. It annoyed Sibylle to no end that her father had started to curtail her training.
“When your mother died, your father didn’t know what to do. It was easier to allow you to act like a tomboy and receive training with your brothers. Now that you are older and becoming a young lady, he wants you to act like one,” said Robert.
“You still let me train,” said Sibylle.
“I am your sworn protector, and as long as you command me to, I will assist you in any way necessary. As long as your training doesn’t bring bodily harm of a severe intent, it’s within my mandate to train you. Even the king himself can’t command me to alter how I protect you, only you can. The same goes for your father. He knows the training is your doing and will punish you accordingly, I am merely a humble knight doing his sworn duty.”
“Blah! I don’t want to be a stupid lady. Sitting around sewing and organizing parties. It’s dull and boring,” said Sibylle. Training with Robert was much more fun, and she longed to join her brothers who were knights in the king’s army.
“You know there is more to being a lady than that, now go see your father.”
Sibylle knew Robert was correct, there was much more to being a lady than sewing and parties, but it mattered not. Sibylle wasn’t willing to forego her dreams of action and adventure just yet.
Sibylle made her way through the courtyard and into the spotless interior of the house. Maids kept the large estate house spotless. She made her way down the wide art-filled corridor. Normally, Sibylle liked to admire the art as she went along, but her father’s summon had her in a foul mood. Determined to make him see things her way, Sibylle walked into her father’s office and stood tall at attention, waiting for her father to look up from his highly-polished oak desk.
Lord Lamar looked up from his work and admired his only daughter. Like his sons, Sibylle was tall and strong. But unlike her brothers, Sibylle had dark red hair, and piercing green eyes, traits she got from her mother. Another trait Sibylle had gotten from her mother was a strong will. Lord Lamar loved his daughter very much, but she could be exasperating. Sibylle was growing to an age where she needed to start acting like a lady and not a mindless warrior. It wasn’t the training that bothered Lord Lamar as much as Sibylle’s disdain for anything else required of a young lady. It was his duty to find her a suitable husband and yet she refused to consider the possibility. However, the matter would soon be out of his hands. The king himself was now involved. Lord Lamar now had the unpleasant task of telling Sibylle that. It promised not to be a pleasant conversation.
“Sibylle, sit down. We need to discuss marriage.”
Sibylle groaned, the one thing worse than getting yelled at for training with Robert was the ongoing discussions of marriage. Sibylle dreaded the day when she would turn seventeen, the day when her father would be able to marry her to anyone of his choosing. “Please, Father, do we have to? You know I don’t want to get married. I want to be a warrior, or the very least, I want to train as a warrior and when I meet the right man, I will marry.”
“And I want a pet dragon to carry me around the kingdom. We can’t all have what we want. Now sit down. This is important.”
Reluctantly, Sibylle sat down. Already this conversation was headed in a bad direction. Normally when her father brought up marriage he was easily maneuvered into accepti
ng her argument. Today it seemed likely that she would have to work hard to get him to see it her way. “Who is it this time? Please don’t say Lord Harper’s boy, Tomas. He is a snob and smells terrible. It would be cruel to force me to marry such a lout.”
Lord Lamar ignored his daughter’s arguments. “Sibylle, as you know, I have just returned from the royal palace. I met with King Gramalt. He asked who I intended to marry you to. I explained to him I was having troubles finding a suitable match, someone who I felt worthy of your hand.”
Sibylle smiled at her father. He might be a pain and always pressure her to do things the traditional way, but at least he supported her when it came to the royal families. Marriage was something Sibylle wanted nothing to do with, and when lords came calling to offer up a union between Sibylle and some young noble, Lord Lamar, with ample prodding from Sibylle, politely declined.
“Sibylle,” continued Lord Lamar. “The king decided that since I was unable to find a suitable match, he would do it himself. The king has declared there will be a royal tournament. The winner will receive your hand in marriage.”
Sibylle recoiled in dismay. A tournament to decide her future husband? That was a terrible idea. The thought that her father was choosing her husband was bad enough. Now to find out that some barbarian good with a sword would be her lawful husband without her having any choice in the matter was horrendous. “Oh, Father, no! Please convince the king not to do this.”
“I’m sorry, Sibylle, but I warned you. We needed to have a marriage arranged before your sixteenth birthday or it would become a royal matter. You told me you wouldn’t accept anyone I chose so I left the matter alone, hoping you would understand what was at stake before it was too late. Now, there is nothing I can do. There will be a royal tournament. I do have a say in the tournament rules, but only to a certain point. I cannot fix the tournament to favor anyone. The most skilled warrior shall win your hand in marriage.”
Lyric's Curse (Dragonblood Sagas Book 1) Page 1
