The Power Within: The Chronicles of Hollyglade Wayrender

by Steve Barker

  The taller man had a long knife in his scabbard, which Hollyglade had retrieved from the blankets where he had been sleeping. She took the largest of the blankets, cut a hole in the middle and slipped it over her head. She took the other blanket, and cut a strip from the length of it, about a foot wide, which she then cut in half to use to wrap each of her feet. As she did so, she inspected the damage to her hands and feet. The soles of her feet had suffered numerous scrapes and impact wounds during her run along the road and through the bush. The necessary haste with which she had fled left her feet so battered that even the prospect of standing made her cringe.

  The skin on her right knee had been torn nearly to the bone. Another sleeve torn from one of the now subdued men’s shirts would have to serve as a bandage until she could find some clean cloth. Her hands radiated with pain as the heat from the fire restored some warmth to her body. With each incremental rise in the temperature of her body came the return of feeling, and with that she discovered new sources of pain. Her right hand had the remnants of several twigs buried in the palm, and was missing a layer of skin over a larger area. Her left was only marginally better, having several scrapes on the palm. She took the long knife from its sheath and began the painful process of removing splinters.

  After a short while, one of the riders she had tied to the tree began to rouse. Hollyglade gave a dispassionate glance across the fire at the man as he let out several muffled groans. He became quiet as his gaze caught her eye. She raised an eyebrow and went back to cleaning the splinters from her hands. Moments later, the second man regained consciousness with a jerk and a muffled cry of pain. Hollyglade pretended not to notice.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  “Welcome, Trenon Var Toran. Congratulations on your successful capture of our Demarian friend Lord Casterin of Downwater. The King was very pleased with the information I was able to extract from him. The Lorain people loved their prince, and were glad to see justice served to Lord Casterin by the hangman. It seems you have served many, by the capture of one man.” Ni’Morstrom, the old Sorcerer, did not look up from his work table spread with vials, flasks, jars and bowls of various mixtures, as he addressed his guest. He kept his face mostly hidden beneath the hood of his grey cloak, which he wore over black robes, cinched at the waist with a brown cord. His hands, which could be seen pouring liquid from one vial to another, were white, gnarled, and spotted with age.

  “I appreciate the gratitude of his excellency the King, and of those in his service. I quite appreciate the opportunity to continue being of value, and the opportunity to earn the compensation that comes with it. Tell me, how does our young and excellent King believe his Demarian counterpart, King Dermond, will take the news of the execution of one of his Lords? Is it not customary for Kings to offer the return of hostages, at least hostages in positions of or greater than Lordship, for a price? Was it not the good King’s own grandfather who returned the Demarian prince, now King of his land, for compensation in the form of the counties of Shoreford and Clearvale, which our good King now rules as part of our beloved Loria? I wonder who advised such a sudden and trial-free execution of Lord Casterin, to our good King. Well, in truth that’s none of my business and not why I’m here, is it?”

  Trenon Var Toran was known for such elaborate ponderings. Maybe it was the sound of his own song-like voice, or the game of making salacious claims or guesses as to people’s motivations with the intent of provoking a telling reaction. He enjoyed looking the part as well, with his cream white trousers, shirt and Jerkin, covered by black short cloak, and his riding gloves hanging neatly from one pocket. He spoke with a wide smile, and eyes that appeared genuinely pleased with himself, regardless of the content of his monologues. He enjoyed the way this approach would unnerve those whom he interrogated.

  “Yes, Mr. Var Toran, your work was appreciated, as was your discretion. So will be your continued discretion.” Ni’Morstrom ignored the subject of what fallout may come from the morning’s public execution. “I have asked you here for something more than to simply settle your fee.” The bounty hunter continued to smile as he raised an eyebrow, allowing the Sorcerer to continue.

  “I wish to offer you another contract. A personal one this time. You came very highly recommended, and have proven yourself worthy of the high praise which preceded you. I hope I can count on your reputation for never failing to fulfill a contract continuing to build with this contract.”

  “Yes, my Lord Sorcerer, reputation is everything, which is why I’m careful which contracts I accept, and from whom I accept them. In that regard, I must inform you that I have tentatively agreed to take another contract, hired men necessary for its completion, and am thus previously engaged.”

  The Sorcerer did not look up as he responded

  “I respect your desire to keep your word, but if I read correctly your use of the word ‘tentatively’ I assume that you have not signed anything binding. And in that case, I would suggest you hear hear my offer before you commit elsewhere.”

  Var Toran smiled, acknowledging the Sorcerer’s assessment “Tell me, what is the nature of the contract? I must hear some detail before I agree to put myself, and the few men I employ into any binding agreement.”

  Ni’Morstrom finished pouring the mixture, set the vial down and stood up from his work table. “While I certainly understand your desire to measure the risk and determine if the odds favour your success, this is one task which must remain secret. I am, as you are aware, someone who values discretion. Should I present the offer of, and details for, a contract to someone who decides not to accept that contract, I may find that the knowledge of the nature of the task which I have commissioned spread to places I would not like to have it spread.” The Sorcerer turned from his table of experiments, and faced Trenon Var Toran directly. “Unless you agree to take this contract, one which shall pay you triple what the King contracted you for, I can tell you only this: I desire that a certain girl be brought to me alive, intact and relatively unharmed, in less than a fortnight.”

  Var Toran’s smile did not waver as he clasped his hands behind his back and stepped to look out the window over the city. The sun was low in the sky, and the sounds of the city market closing up for the evening floated up toward the tower which housed the Sorcerer’s chambers. Trenon Var Toran gazed across the cityscape as he pondered the Sorcerer's offer. Six thousand gold crowns was an enormously rich price, one that would make great risk seem worthwhile, but it was also a price that indicated the size of that risk.

  Var Toran was intrigued. Who might this girl be, that a Sorcerer in service to a king as naive as this one would pay as much as the monthly earnings of a handful of Lords to capture her? He had to know. The test she might provide could be interesting.

  “My Lord Ni’Morstrom, the price you offer entices me as much by its allusion to intrigue as its sum total. As such, I shall accept your offer of this contract. Now, as you have declared the need for haste, I suggest we discuss the details. Tell me about this girl with three times the value of a foreign Lord.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  dGerrie Theurbeault approached the two men standing at the side port to the main castle gate apprehensively. dGerrie had never been inside the gates of Whiterock. He found himself somewhat in awe of the implied importance of the man he was sent to meet here, one who now met with someone in the Royal court.

  It was an oddly hot day for this time of year. As fall turned to winter, the days grew shorter, and the air grew cooler. It was rare to experience the desire to remove a layer of clothing as the sun began to lower in the sky. As he looked up and down the street at the vendors and shoppers in the central market, no one else appeared to feel the heat as he did.

  dGerrie was also experiencing a measure of trepidation over the way he had found himself in this situation. He was not entirely comfortable with signing on with one employer, only to leave several weeks later for employment with another, but this was not wholly his own doing. He had been in the empl
oy of the King’s city garrison in Magnaville for less than one month. That job would have paid steadily and was not easily secured. This morning his commander had informed him that his contract had been purchased by someone named Var Toran. dGerrie had given mild protest, but when the wage that came attached to the new assignment was mentioned, he stopped questioning it.

  One hundred gold crowns was more money than he could make in a year with the garrison, but he did wonder to himself why it had been him the commander offered up, rather than someone higher ranking or more senior. Either way, dGerrie was not complaining when he was sent to meet the other men he would be working with.

  Still dressed in his city garrison's uniform, dGerrie stood out on the crowded street. He generally did so anywhere he went, for at age 20, he was nearly 7 feet tall, had shaggy blonde hair, a light brown beard, and was somewhat skinny. He strode with confidence, which when combined with his stature, usually led to the crowd parting in front of him as he walked. He carried a short sword and a long knife on his hip, a longsword along with a mid-sized archer’s bow and quiver on his back, and various other blades hidden about his body. dGerrie was fond of having plenty of options when it came to weaponry.

  As he reached the side port, he cleared his throat to get the attention of the two men, who seemed engrossed in some private conversation.

  “Excuse me lads, might you be Var Toran’s men? I’ve been sent by the city garrison’s commander, who informed me I’m to meet you here.”

  “Aye” replied the taller of the two men. “We been told ’e ’ired some new blood. You ain’t small, is ya? This here’s Tom, and I’m called Hern.”

  Hern, was slim, taller than the average man, clean shaven, and wore a fairly plain, brown leather jerkin over a long shirt and trousers. He appeared to keep himself fairly neat and clean, carrying a sword and knife on his belt.

  “And w’o might you be called?” asked the shorter, stocky man, whom the first one had called Tom, seeming slightly disinterested in dGerrie. dGerrie noted that Tom seemed much less concerned with his appearance and cleanliness, had numerous scars and pockmarks on his face, and more than a few missing teeth. He was glad his height prevented the chance of a close face to face.

  “The name’s dGerrie. When might I speak to Mr. Var Toran? I’d like to know when we’re leaving and what we’re contracted to do.”

  “Heh.” Chuckled Tom. “Don't be impatient boy. The Dancer never really gives out much detail before we actually ’it the road. Tends to be due to the nature of most of ’is work. We’ll be on the road soon enough. ’E never gives us much notice when we’ll be ’eadin out on a job, so you can be sure we’ll be leaving tonight.”

  dGerrie looked to the west to find the sun only slightly above the horizon. The Dancer, thought dGerrie. I’ve heard that name before, and I don’t remember feeling warm about it. His sense of discomfort remained. “The Dancer? I’ve heard him mentioned as a bounty hunter, but that’s about it. Have you two worked for him long?”

  “I’m as new as you, but Hern ’ere ’as worked for him a couple of times.”

  “Aye, I’ve worked for ’im these last couple of months. ’E’s an ’ard man in many ways, but ’e pays well. And, ’e don’t put on you the same kind of rules as that garrison you been slaving for.”

  dGerrie was not fond of the idea of working for someone with a disquieting reputation. Though he was beyond proficient with any weapon he picked up, he had only ever seen fit to use violence in self defense, the defense of a friend, or more recently, apprehending someone the garrison was ordered to pick up. Now though, he could not afford to be picky about the work he chose, owing to debts he had with several of the city’s less law-compliant citizens, but he was still curious. “What kind of work did you do with The Dancer, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Ah, my towering friend...” dGerrie did stand head and shoulders above everyone on the street “If I told you that, ’e’d ’ave me ’ead. The Dancer, ’e usually takes the kind of job that requires a certain amount of desc…. Descre… of keepin’ yer mouth shut”

  As dGerrie absorbed the tone of warning in Tom’s reply, he told himself to think about the money. With it, he was sure that he could clear his debts, and quite possibly find someway to improve his station in life, even if only marginally.

  “Ah, I see. Then tell me, why The Dancer? Seems like an odd nickname.”

  Hern also looked at Tom for a reply.

  “Well, I can tell you that, as I’ve seen the why of it me’self. ’E ’as an ’abit of takin’ people by the ’and, people he’s askin’ questions of, and twirlin’ them around like one of them fancy dances they do in Lord’s and Lady’s parties and weddings and such. I found it a bit odd myself, but it seems to make people real nervous, which I guess is ’is point.”

  Hern cocked an eyebrow as he looked away pensively. “And I ’eard he don’t tend to leave them living neither” he added.

  “No. ’E don’t” Tom agreed.

  dGerrie drew in a long breath and sighed. One Job, dGerrie. Just one. He sat down against the wall beside the door and waited. The two men traded stories about various conquests, both as mercenaries, and of women they tried to make the other believe they had been with.

  dGerrie’s mind wandered back along the path that had led him here. It had not been that long ago that he had been living in the Red Lanes, dressed in rags, and plying his trade as a pickpocket. He found himself missing certain aspects of that life. Though it was difficult in many ways, and there were plenty of days on which he had gone without a meal to speak of, he had always loved the company of the other boys and girls who had shared his plight as an orphan. It was a tight knit group, that gave meaning to the term honour among thieves. They often shared food when one had enough, though dGerrie was never under the illusion that certain scores weren’t kept secret by the one who earned it, or more aptly, stole it.

  dGerrie was glad to finally be earning a living more or less honestly. One of the things most of the orphans learned how to do well was fight. dGerrie, most of all. With his near seven foot frame, he often found that he could use his length to keep other men at distance, and thus avoid any real damage in a fight. Eventually, he found that he had a knack for weapons. So far, there was not yet a single weapon, neither blade nor bow, that he had any real difficulty wielding well.

  Maybe the life of a hired sword suits me. His unease returned as he noted to himself that neither of the two other men The Dancer had hired had been in his employ very long. You just hang back and do as you’re told. Don’t be brave, don’t be stupid, and you’ll be in the clear soon enough. With that, he sat and waited.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Ni’Morstrom motioned for him to sit, and Trenon Var Toren accepted.

  “She is special in a number of ways I highly value for my work.” The Sorcerer picked up a decanter and poured Var Toren a goblet of wine. “Have you heard the tale of The Great Destruction?” The Sorcerer spat out the word Great as though he did not like the term. Var Toren nodded.

  “Well, I am sure there are some details, finer points that matter in this instance, that you likely do not know.” He watched Var Toran for a moment to gauge his reaction. There was none, and so the Sorcerer continued.

  “What most people are aware of, is that there was a great fire, preceded by an explosion that bent trees to the ground for nearly twenty leagues in each direction. The explosion seemed to originate at a small farming village in the centre the area of the Destruction. There were no known survivors, and many men of learning, wise and long lived members of the Elvish race –even the wizard Artache– who could not give reason for the calamity. Some theorized that this was a natural phenomenon, like a previously unknown volcano, though in the absence of any evidence, that theory quickly faded from discussion.

  “Others theorized that it was the work of a dragon, that perhaps this signaled the awakening of a member of their race. Though this theory gained some traction, the absence of any
sightings or further activity suggests that their kind still slumber, as should be expected. Though the Golden Race has slept for near two hundred years, and the next stage in their usual cycle does draw near, this would be the earliest, in the recorded histories of men, that they would have ended their time of slumber.

  “Some blamed the alchemists, suggesting that they were testing some sort of weapon commissioned by King Jerold. Another easily dismissable theory based on, if nothing else, the late King’s personality, character, and predisposition to be disinclined to the arts of war.

  “An explanation, I may have, but for now that is not of your concern.” He kept to himself the knowledge that he was sure of the fact that is was an immense unleashing of magical power, and not a large version of the kind of explosion the alchemists make with their mixing of powders.

  “What will be of special interest to you,” continued the Sorcerer “is that there was a survivor. One single girl was found by a convoy travelling from the western plains while en route to the city with grain for sale at the central market. This girl was brought here to Magnaville, and then shortly after that, when the man who had taken her under his protection was killed in some tavern dispute, she slipped away and no-one can say with any certainty what happened to her.”

  He did not elaborate on the tavern brawl. He did not admit that he had heard the story from a witness to it, one who said that it was in fact, the young girl herself that killed her once saviour, when he tried to sell her to a less than scrupulous army commander for the night.

  Var Toran showed a look of recognition “I have heard talk of this survivor, over the years. There are many terms used to describe her.”