The Lady's Man

by Greg Curtis

  THE LADY’S MAN.

  Greg Curtis.

  Copyright 2014 by Greg Curtis.

  ebook Edition.

  Dedication.

  This book is dedicated to my mother Ruth Curtis and my sister Lucille Curtis, my biggest supporters, harshest critics and all round cheer team, and without whom this book would not have been written. It’s also dedicated to my father Allen Curtis, gone too soon but not forgotten.

  Chapter One.

  Cautiously approaching the smoke filled clearing, his men circling around behind him, Avenall stopped suddenly as he saw what he had never expected to see. Far from a trader with a badly lit fire or a group of elves wandering the woods what they found was a human. A human riding through elven lands no less, or at least on their border. A human accompanied by three full wagons of elven traders.

  A human, armed and dangerous, here in the Hammeral forest! That should not normally be. A few wandering priests perhaps, the odd trading wagon or emissary, but not this. Humans had their own realms, places where no self-respecting elf would want to live. Although sometimes the traders did go there it was true. Then again traders went everywhere. Such was the way of the world. Each of the races had its own realms and most of them had been decided not by the people but by the land itself.

  Where there were great wild forests elves and dryads and sometimes satyrs lived. Jungles and swamps were home to the satyrs and toadmen. Where there were mountains the giants – those few that still remained – dwelt above. Meanwhile, those foul verminous creatures the humans called dwarves burrowed beneath them, despoiling the world. And finally, where the lands were flat save for a few grassy rolling hills, or close to the sea, there one would find the humans and the gnomes.

  It was how it had always been. How it was meant to be. The Mother had made the world as such. A different place for every race.

  The nearest of the human realms was New Vineland to the north. A province of half a dozen huge and ugly stone cities built along the banks of the mighty Shassa River. While there were farm lands and smaller market towns there, in Avenall’s view there were not enough trees.

  It being the only human province that bordered Hammeral, he guessed that that was where the human had come from. But he was clearly neither a farmer nor a city dweller.

  There were some humans living in Hammeral. They were mostly refugees, outcasts and a few hermits and traders who had crossed the border. Those who were not at home among their own kind but who could live among the civilised peoples. But Avenall knew that this human was not one of them. In truth he was the very definition of uncivilised. However that was not the reason he froze in his tracks nor why he felt cold feet running up and down his spine. Far from it. For the man was no ordinary human.

  He was in fact a wild heart barbarian. Of that much at least Avenall was certain. Some called them savages, berserkers and wild hearts. Some called them worse. But no matter what they were called they all described the same thing. Danger.

  Covered as he was in great ragged furs from head to tail, wearing a gigantic horned helmet on his head, with a messy black beard covering his face, and long greasy hair running unkempt down his back, there was little else he could be. While all wild hearts were dangerous by definition, his sheer size at something over six feet tall, and weighing well over two hundred and fifty pounds meant that he was likely even more dangerous than most.

  By nature wild hearts were generally immune to reason and most forms of spirit magic, which Avenall presumed owed much to their almost animalistic life style. The fact that they also possessed the berserk strength of the forest's most dangerous creatures, seemed to be toughened against most mortal weapons and also seemed to be resistant to most forms of elemental magic, meant that they were fearsome warriors. They were also savage, fast and unpredictable beyond all others, and cunning, though many had lost even the power of speech as they lived in the wilds like animals. Wild hearts could perform acts of incredible ferocity and savagery without warning or even cause. With cause they could be worse; far worse. They had no concept of mercy, no thought of law, nor any of surrender either. They never ran, choosing instead to fight to the very end. And if that wasn't enough, they would fight some more.

  Best left alone. That was the rule when dealing with wild hearts. Certainly approaching them wasn't considered wise. More than one party had been slaughtered by a wild heart as they attempted to speak with him, and often those few who had survived such attacks could tell them nothing as to why the wild heart had attacked at all. No more than they could explain why a bear or a lion had attacked.

  Given his knowledge of wild hearts Avenall found it particularly strange that this wild heart was accompanied by elven traders. He should have either killed them or left. But he'd done neither, and that seemed very wrong.

  Then too, unlike the very few others Avenall had seen or even heard of, this one made no attempt to either leave or attack them. Instead he just sat there on his hugely oversized horse, and waited for him to approach. Waiting impatiently from the way he was tapping his fingers on the saddle horn. In fact that looked like being the only reason he'd lit the fire. There was nothing cooking on it, no camp surrounding it, and the vast amounts of smoke it was generating was the result of the damp fronds he'd thrown on top of it once it was well alight. It was obviously a signal fire. But why would a wild heart want to draw elves or anyone else to him? Why would one light a signal fire? And why would he simply sit there waiting – as if he wanted to speak with them? Assuming of course that he could.

  Not all wild hearts retained the power of speech. It was probably not much use to them, isolated as they chose to be in their own little realms in the forests, but then most never left their homes either. How or why they became what they did no one knew, but it was clear that the change was profound – both to the wild heart and to the land they called home. As the wild heart gave up more and more of his humanity, so too did the forest seem to start welcoming him. In time it was said that many wild hearts no longer regarded themselves as human. They were simply creatures of the forests, much the same as any wolf or bear. Except that they were a lot more dangerous and armed with good steel, while the forest itself seemed to lend them of its own special magic to hide and protect them.

  But why would a wild heart travel with three full wagons of elven traders? Traders who also appeared to be waiting there silently, calmly watching the wild heart and his soldiers. The drivers made no attempt to flee, or even to interfere in the meeting between the two of them.

  Still if a meeting had been called for by the wild heart it was his place to attend.

  Silently ordering his soldiers to tighten their positions around the clearing where the wild heart and the elves waited for him, Avenall approached the fire cautiously, looking for the first sign of an attack. There was none. The wild heart simply waited for him, still impatiently tapping his fingers against the saddle horn. He even somehow managed to look oddly bored by the whole thing.

  “Hail?”

  It was an odd greeting to give to a wild heart; it was probably foolish to greet one at all, but in truth Avenall could think of nothing else to say. Fortunately the wild heart didn't seem bothered by it. Just impatient.

  “Hail.”

  The wild heart raised his hand in a perfunctory gesture, and dropped it back down to the horse's back far too quickly for politeness' sake. But at least he'd responded, proving that he could speak and for the moment didn't seem to be interested in killing them all. And he was speaking Elvish not New Vinnish Avenall realised. Most humans couldn't.

  “I am Yorik. These are your people elf. Rescued and kept safe from bandits three days ride east of here. They wish to go to Hammeral, and they need you to escort them there in safety.”

&nb
sp; His voice was nothing like the barely legible grunting that Avenall had expected, though the man was direct to the point of rudeness. He hadn't even given a proper greeting; another sign perhaps of his impatience. But neither had he attacked, which had to be considered a boon. Surprisingly, despite his curtness and his accent, Avenall would have thought him an educated human. Something no wild heart had ever aspired to be. But then Avenall gradually realised, neither were his weapons typical of a wild heart.

  Instead of a brutal war axe, club or massive broadsword, a great sword hung from his fur belt, and judging by the ornate hilt an expensive one. A pair of crossbows were draped over his horse's neck. They were both twin bolt/twin strand weapons, which were costly to purchase and required a lot of practice to use well. Meanwhile a pair of rapiers were slung across his back, and a flail adorned his other leg. All were in seemingly perfect condition, having obviously been oiled and rubbed down every day of their lives. Such were the weapons of cavalry and foot soldiers, and they required training to use. A lot of training.

  “I am Avenall Alloeshall, Captain of the fifth Hammeral rangers, and if they need safe escort to our home, we will certainly provide it. But first, I have some questions for you wild heart. Your kind is not welcome in our woods. Why are you here?”

  Avenall regretted the words almost as soon as they came out of his mouth – challenging a wild heart was madness – but it was his duty.

  “Are you slow elf? I have escorted these elves to you. I have come in peace, at great personal cost, allowed my quarry to get further ahead in the process, and now I will leave in peace as well. I care nothing for your woods, and less for harming your people or causing trouble.”

  Avenall was almost knocked back in shock by the human's first words. That – “thing” dared to call him slow! He almost couldn't believe it. But as surely as he knew it had happened, he felt his hackles rising.

  “Wild hearts do not do such things. They don't rescue elves.”

  If it was good enough for this wild heart to make disparaging remarks about him, then he felt equally free to be blunt. Yet even as he tried to deny the wild heart's words, he saw all three wagon drivers nodding at him, agreeing with Yorik's words. It was true.

  “I do.”

  If his question had been blunt to the point of rudeness, the answer was more so and Avenall almost stepped back in surprise. He shouldn't have. It was almost a miracle the wild heart could speak at all, let alone well, not to mention the fact that he hadn't attacked on sight. A little unwelcome directness was nothing by comparison.

  “And you intend to leave our lands?”

  “Have I not just said that?”

  Avenall could actually hear the frustration in Yorik's voice, but at least he seemed willing to explain.

  “I am on a hunt for one who has done great evil. It is a matter of blood, and I will not be denied my quarry any longer.”

  Yorik tapped the reins and his horse turned to go back the way they had come, until Avenall stopped him, suddenly remembering his duty. There were still things he had to know.

  “Hold! Who is it you hunt? And where does he flee?”

  “Enough of this! He is not elven and he does not flee within your woods. Your people are returned to you. Their attackers are dead or have fled. And you are wasting my time with your pointless questions. With every second you delay me elf, my quarry gets closer to Haldesfort. Beyond even my reach. I cannot allow that.”

  If the wild heart had been cool before, suddenly his words had become ice-water and Avenall knew that he meant them all, and the implied threat. Worse, his troop – all two dozen rangers – would have a hard time fighting this single human, and if they did, it would be dishonourable in the extreme. He might have approached elven lands without permission – not that such a creature would ever have been granted it – but he had done it only to return their people whom he had rescued from bandits and then escorted home. It was impossible but apparently true.

  Then there was the claim that his quarry was heading to Haldesfort; a name that itself inspired dread in all.

  Haldesfort. The magical prison home of the Dark One and his endless lesser demons and minions. A place out of nightmare, and one which no one would ever enter willingly, unless his heart was as black as those that already dwelt within. Or unless he too like the Dark One himself, had been banished there.

  “I only -” But that was as far as he was allowed to go.

  “No!”

  With a single word and a slight gesture of his hand the wild heart, his horse and pack horse suddenly vanished and Avenall realised with horror that not only was this human some sort of wild heart warrior, but a wizard with a true spell of concealment as well. That was not only wrong – for any humans let alone wild hearts should not have such powerful magic at their call – it was also deadly. An invisible warrior was something he and his people were ill-prepared to face. An invisible, heavily armed wild heart was worse.

  “I have always been told your people are honourable. Do not disappoint me in that.”

  The words came from the thin air directly in front of Avenall, but he knew the stranger was already leaving. He could hear the hoof beats as the horses trotted away. At a guess more magic had simply allowed him to cast his voice so that it sounded as though he was still where he had been.

  “Go in peace friend.”

  Finally realising he had no choice, Avenall called out the traditional parting cry after the retreating wild heart, or at least in the direction he thought he was heading. South west, towards Haldesfort, and the home of the Dark One. It wasn't just that he knew he had no choice – though they couldn't hope to fight the human without taking a lot of casualties – it was as the human said, a matter of honour. Had he or his soldiers attacked him, they would not have been able to hold their heads up among their people ever again.

  Naturally he got no response; he hadn't expected one. What was the point in being invisible if you gave away your position with your words? But he was sure at least that the wild heart heard him. No matter his impatience he couldn't be that far away so quickly.

  The wild heart having departed Avenall turned to meet with the wild heart's wards; the elves he had apparently saved from bandits. With a mixture of hand signals and commands he called his two dozen soldiers out from the surrounding forest where they had taken up positions, and made them set up a small camp while he went over to speak to the elven traders. It was time to get to the bottom of the matter.

  They were typical traders’ wagons which the elves used to market their wares throughout the human and dwarven lands. Each highly polished wagon was drawn by a pair of dappled mares, exactly as an elf would use, and covered with a round canvas hoop tent to keep the rain out. The drivers too – all three of them – were elves of advancing years, their hands calloused from the long years of holding the reins and the plying of their trades, while short swords hung from their belts, exactly as elven traders would carry them. But there was something in their eyes that said all of that was a deception. They were not what they appeared, any more perhaps than the wild heart had been.

  There was also injury and pain among them. As he approached Avenall realised that the drivers had all been beaten. He could see puffiness around their eyes and faces, bruises on their skin, and bandages on their arms and legs. The bandits had not been kind to them, but at least they were alive, which was a surprise. Bandits were not usually so kind. Then again if they truly had been slavers, a barbaric custom found only in a very few cities a long way hence, they would not have wanted them dead. Dead they were not worth anything. But live elves weren't worth much either. Not to slavers. They were a little weaker than their human counterparts and they did not do well in captivity.

  “Hail and welcome to Hammeral friend elf.”

  Avenall used the traditional greeting as he approached the nearest driver, unsure quite why. Normally no more than a simple ‘hail' would be required when meeting new elves. But there was still something stra
nge about them, something that made him unsure. And they had been led or protected by a wild heart.

  “And greetings to you friend elf, from the traders of family Brial Lon.”

  The elf's response was equally traditional and yet the name gave Avenall pause. Brial Lon? It was an elven name for sure, but not one found in the Hammeral province. In fact if memory served, Brial Lon was one of the ruling houses of the Saravaile Forests far to the east. Hundreds of leagues in fact. If they were from there, then they had come a very long way to trade and be attacked by bandits.

  “My wife, the Lady Ammelia would have words with you when you are ready.”

  Ammelia Brial Lon? The name gave Avenall pause, as he recognised the name from somewhere. He just couldn't quite remember where. Instead of asking though – already the conversation was becoming too formal and he knew he had been politely dismissed until the leader was ready to speak with him – Avenall simply nodded and returned to his soldiers. They were busy setting up the camp, enlarging the wild heart's fire, which he had apparently only used to signal them, and placing a pot of water over it. Tea would be welcome. Others were arranging all the small boulders and flat stones which they could find nearby around the fire, and mats for the children to sit on as well. Helos was already busy preparing the stew, some rabbit and leek left over from the previous night. And with a few more potatoes and some good honey rye bread, Avenall knew there would be enough for them all. That was good. It was nearly midday, and lunch had been well earned.