by Cyle Young
The tide had turned.
A horse whinnied loudly. The Lisin leader hadn’t attacked. He’d stayed back with two other warriors. The trio rushed forward, heading straight toward the bridge.
The first charge had cleared a path. They were going to make it.
Hoshminiah tore across the cobblestones below. He had to intercept them.
Jagson was positioned closest to their path. He moved in front of the horses and raised his sword.
“Jagson, no!” The riders had the advantage.
The young wardsman prepared to strike at the horse. It was the correct technique, but Jagson hadn’t notice that the Lisin leader had prepared for the maneuver. He never saw the spear flying through the air. It stung him like a desert scorpion, freezing him in mid swing. The warhorse trampled Jagson on its way to the bridge.
Hoshminiah would make him pay. He tossed his sword at the closest rider. It found its mark, digging deep into the Lisin’s thigh. The horse bucked, throwing the rider off. He retrieved his sword in time to watch two other wardsmen down another horse and rider—but not the leader.
He wanted the leader for himself.
The horn blasted again. The other float was close. He had to end this, but it was too late, the leader beat him to the bridge. Citizens jumped from the bridge to escape. Splashing far below in the shallow moat.
Without stopping the Lisin rode to the closest support rope and sliced it clean in two. The rope went slack. Never before had they lost the bridge. A lump formed in Hoshminiah’s throat. Askadan was going to fall.
A fire ignited in his belly. He darted forward, eager to introduce the Lisin to his blade.
9
Time cannot bind love
Kethian Proverb
Hoshminiah scrambled to find a weapon. A sword lay near the bridge. It had belonged to one of his men. He retrieved it and hurried to block the Lisin from cutting the last support rope to the drawbridge. If he failed, Askadan would be lost. His family would be enslaved.
He couldn’t let that happen. Not while he still had his vigor.
With a maniacal flurry of footsteps, Hoshminiah placed himself between the Lisin rider and the support rope. The ugly creature would have to go through him first.
The horse backed up, but the width of the bridge offered no ability to maneuver.
If the warrior wanted to cut the rope, he’d have to dismount—and earn it.
The leader bared its teeth before sliding from horseback. Its scaly tail balanced behind it.
The horn bellowed the arrival of the remaining float of Lisin. Arrows whizzed past. They lodged in the bridge, barely missing his head.
The leader pressed forward. He forced a high-cut with a poorly crated axe. Hoshminiah blocked it. The powerful blow forced him against the support rope. It steadied him, but his foot slipped over the edge of the bridge. His body would have plummeted to the water below, if he hadn’t managed to clasp the rope under his arm.
The Lisin recoiled, but not before smacking its heavy tail into his abdomen. Hoshminiah couldn’t breathe. He huffed, hoping to regain his composure in time for the next strike.
The warrior pressed. It ripped a sideways axe toward his head.
Hoshminiah ducked. He’d anticipated the move.
The Lisin fell off balance. Still clutching the rope, Hoshminiah adjusted all his weight to one leg. He furiously twisted at the waist and flipped his free leg into the air. A vicious kick connected with the back of the Lisin’s neck. Hoshminiah transferred the full measure of his hatred for the Lisins into the move.
The leader couldn’t stop his momentum. It grasped at nothing then careened off the bridge. Suspended by nothing but his grasp on the support rope, Hoshminiah watched the flailing creature smack into the murky water under the bridge. The Lisin would live to fight another day.
A searing pain tore through Hoshminiah’s calf. The surprise almost forced him to release his grip. An arrow protruded from both sides of his leg. Mustering every bit of strength, He pulled himself up and dropped prone on the hornwood. The arrow snapped when his leg made contact with the surface.
It wasn’t gracious, but he was alive.
Arrows rained around him. Pushing up to his knees, he attempted to stand, to no avail. Another terrible pain ripped through his shoulder. The arrowhead sticking through his chest forced him back on all fours. If he didn’t get out of here, it wouldn’t be the last to find its mark.
“Clear the bridge.” Yergun’s voice approached. “It’s too heavy, clear the bridge.”
Screams from the gatehouse merged with his Yergun’s, creating a cacophony of demands. It seemed as though the entire castle called for the bridge to be cleared.
A shadow overtook him. He looked up to find his second-in-command crouched next to him under a shield.
“Let’s go commander. We have to clear the bridge.” Yergun flinched when arrows ricocheted off the metal shield. “It’s too heavy.”
Even if one support rope could raise the bridge, it wouldn’t hold. The Lisin were too close. If the enemy managed to get troops onto the bridge while it rose, the rope would snap. They had to repair it.
“Help me to the other side. I’m going to fix he rope.” Hoshminiah crawled forward quickly. Yergun moved with him, protecting him from the waves of arrows.
He scuttled to the nearest section of the cut support rope. Taking hold he shuffled on his knees until he acquired the other section. His plan had been to tie them together, but the pieces wouldn’t connect. There wasn’t enough slack.
Nothing was easy.
Hoshminiah arranged his body between the two ends of the rope. He wrapped a rope around his wrist a few times, securing his grip. He repeated the twisting motion with the other end. If he couldn’t tie them together, he’d splice them with himself.
“Commander what are you doing?” Yergun furrowed his brow, driving a concerned gaze deep into his soul.
“Protect me.”
“But—” The wardsman reached for one of his hands.
Hoshminiah snapped, “I said protect me.”
Yergun pulled away, never breaking eye contact.
“Protect us all.” Hoshminiah arched his back. His head heaved in reverse with a bloodcurdling command. “Raise the bridge!”
10
A hero’s valor is never found in a tale
Kethian Proverb
A pit of hopelessness opened in Sizanne’s stomach. Chills ran down her neck and back. She leaned on the parapets extending across the top of the gatehouse. Her arguments with the troops had left her face stinging and knees scuffed, but she’d managed to stall them.
They’d have to kill her before she’d let them raise the bridge without Hoshminiah safely across. It was worth the painful slap to the face.
Now all she could do was watch the terrible scene. More than once already she’d thought her husband had perished. But Ol protected him. She couldn’t believe he survived the Lisin attack at the bridge edge. But he did. Hoshminiah was such a skilled warrior. It pained her to watch the arrows strike him. She was helpless. All she wanted was for him to return to the castle.
And soon he would. Her husband had issued the command to raise the bridge. The troops would oblige with haste.
Hoshminiah knelt at the edge of the drawbridge with arms extended like a taught bowstring. Yergun held a large shield over both their heads.
She squinted.
What were they doing? Why hadn’t they turned back to the gate?
The clacking of wooden gears signaled the soldier’s obedience. They were saved.
Come on Hoshminiah. Go to the gate. Get out of there.
The support ropes pulled taught. Each clack of the gear drew them tighter. Her husband screamed in pain. She’d never heard him make such a noise.
His body contorted.
What had he done? The ropes were tied around his wrists. He’s insane. No one could ever hold that kind of weight.
Sizanne’s vision wavered behind unshe
d tears. The bridge began to raise, causing her husband to writhe in agony.
The Lisin horn sounded. Three warriors ran down the street. Each had axes in both claws. They reached the bride only to meet Yergun’s shield. With a mighty shield bash, the wardsman managed to force one into the moat. Drawing his sword, he readied to defend Hoshminiah from the other two.
Please Ol, let him live. Sizanne didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away.
“Hoshminiah.” She tried to shout out, but her voice was nothing more than a broken whisper.
Bile crawled up the back of her throat. She couldn’t bear watching this slaughter.
The hornwood bridge moved steadily away from the street. The surface tilted upward. Yergun’s feet slid, as did the Lisin’s. The wardsman thrust forward. He swung his sword in wide arcs. The move kept the warriors at bay for a moment.
Hoshminiah’s arms stretched. His knees rose off the surface. He dangled in the air. Sizanne watched his shoulders pop out of socket, one at a time. She bit back a sob rattling in her chest. Her husband was dying. He wasn’t going to survive.
Guilt rolled through her like an uncontrolled flame. She should have told him she loved him. Before she realized it, her feet carried her down the rampart. She would tell him now, before it was too late.
Two young soldiers, both holding crossbows, stood in her path. Why weren’t they helping her husband? They should be firing.
She pulled up. “Shoot them. Shoot the Lisin.”
They snapped to attention and raised their weapons. In only a few sil, two quarrels punctured the emerald hide of the Lisin nearest to Yergun. The creature lost its footing. The steep angle of the bridge sent the warrior careening toward the gate. Yergun drooped to his side to avoid a collision.
Sizanne was sure the Lisin would meet an unpleasant end, but the thought didn’t comfort her as she’d hoped. Her husband’s body suspended above the moat, a permanent grimace had overtaken his face. She moved into his view.
The last Lisin slipped. It slid adjacent to Yergun. Digging its claws into the wood, it slowed its descent. The wardsman took advantage of the slip. He rolled over and tugged on the warrior’s leg. Both of them lost hold and skidded to the gate.
Growls erupted below her. The evil Lisin had met their fates.
“Hoshminiah.” Frantic, Sizanne called out. “Hoshminiah.”
Her husband’s arms were stretched so far it looked as though they rip apart any minute, but his grip never faltered. Hoshminiah held tight.
His head rolled in her direction. Blood poured from his mouth, also filling his right eye.
He groaned.
“I love you.” She proclaimed at the top of her lungs. “I love you.”
Hoshminiah grunted in response. She could swear his mouth cracked a smile. Her brave husband had sacrificed everything to save Askadan. He was a hero—her Hero.
She repeated herself until the life faded from his face. Then she sobbed.
With a loud thud, the drawbridge sealed to a close. Sizanne hadn’t bothered watching the soldiers collect Hoshminiah’s body. She already knew her wonderful spouse had passed on from this world. Instead, she ambled through the castle. She didn’t want to face the children, not yet.
Maycel and Fohn were left without a father to hold them. Their young minds would find it hard to comprehend that their father was never going to return from the battle. They wouldn’t understand what happened. Not for a long time.
But she would tell them of Hoshminiah’s heroics—every day.
Sizanne would tell everyone she met about her husband’s bravery. His legacy would live on in the hearts and minds of the people. Askadan would celebrate his sacrifice, and she would make sure the whole kingdom knew of Hoshminiah’s Hold.
Bonus First Chapter:
The Last Waveson
* * *
The sludge between Avortovar Maligtonay’s teeth tasted like wet sheep runk. Face down in the mud, he wished he didn’t already know what that tasted like.
Sucking sounds burped from the dark mire as he pulled his head free.
His normally free-flowing hair stuck to his chin. Thick globs coated the ends of what used to be golden hair. Cheers from the crowd echoed in the depression of muck and slime, but they didn’t cheer for him. Some of them had to be snickering at him while he lay prone in the mud on the final obstacle of the qualification event.
He pushed to his feet searching for any clean spot of his shirt from which he could wipe the grime from his eyes. A group of other twelve-cycle-old boys almost knocked him from his feet as they bumped past.
Avo eyed the steep hill on the other bank of the tar-like pit and took off. Dropping to his knees at the bottom of it, he crawled on all fours up the bank. He knew he looked like a moving lump of bog peat, but he didn’t care.
He’d already failed. The fall had cost him everything.
Once he reached the top, the sight of a large group of boys gathered at the finish line spurred him onward. He hustled down the straight path to join them.
When he crossed the finish line, a trumpet blared near him. His heart jumped and instinctively he covered his ears.
The qualification was over.
He searched the area hoping to locate the recorder of points for Coldcreek County competitors. Once he located the scribe, he handed him his final leather marker, and stated his name, “Avortovar Maligtonay.”
“Thank you.” The scribe never looked up at him. Instead, he scribbled in his ledger and turned his attention to the two other boys who walked up to turn in their markers.
Movement at the finish line caught Avo’s attention. A silver-haired man dressed in a fancy gold-trimmed shirt walked to a wooden podium situated atop of a platform some five feet off the ground.
He cleared his throat before belting, “Lord Gundersop is proud to announce the completion of the first of three qualifications in cycle 1145. All twelve-cycle-old qualificants, and at least one parent or supervising family member, must report in one hour to the town center for final selection.”
Avo waddled away from the start. The moist dirt had already hardened on his skin. He surveyed the crowd until he heard a familiar voice call out.
“Avo, Avo, over here!” Papa waved his arms from opposite a large section of onlookers.
His stiffening legs carried him towards his father’s smiling face. People darted out of the muddy boy’s way opening a path in the crowd. He shuffled through the gaps. A couple of children sniggered and pointed at him. But it didn’t matter, as soon as Papa approached, he swooped in like a dusk eagle and wrapped him in a comforting hug—crud and all.
“I’m sorry, Papa.” He buried his head in his father’s shoulder. “I failed.”
Papa squeezed him tighter. “Avo, I love you. You did your best, and that makes me one proud papa.”
His heart sank.
Avo wanted nothing more than to be a draka rider, but his terrible athletic ability was like the mud that encapsulated him—slow and useless. Papa’s hug had also transferred the soiled badge of dishonor to his clothes.
“I’m never gonna qualify, Papa, am I?”
“I will tell you the same thing I told your brothers. No shepherd son of Coldcreek has ever qualified.” Papa pressed his mouth close to Avo’s ear. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t be the first one.” He placed his son back on the ground before kneeling low enough to look under his low hanging brow. “You still have two more attempts before you turn thirteen. You have the heart of a great draka warrior.” With a playful slap, Papa smirked. “We just have to hope your body catches up to it.”
Avo didn’t want to compete again, just to lose again. “I’m not as good as Tovar, and he never made it.”
“Your brother placed eighth and was passed over for selection, but as athletic as he was, he never really wanted to be a draka rider. His life is the farm, and he’s happy.”
“But what about Palto?” Palto wasn’t as athletic as Tovar, but everyon
e knew he was physically a much better candidate for selection than Avo.
“Palto tried hard, but it wasn’t his fate to be a draka rider. Ol has a different plan for your brother Palto, and he will discover it in time.”
“But Papa, if they couldn’t make selection, how can I?”
“Avo, if Ol has plans for you to be a draka rider, he will make it happen. All you can do is try your best in each qualification, just like today.” Papa stretched his back and grunted. “Let’s go get this filth off of you.” With a light nudge, he pushed Avo and proceeded toward the city.
* * *
The walls of Hiffendale towered over the countryside. The dull gray stones stood in stark contrast to the lush green of the surrounding lands. A series of defensive towers peppered the long expanses of mortared fortifications. An imposing metal portcullis hung suspended above the entrance to the city. Avo hastened underneath it. He didn’t want to be under it if the ropes holding it snapped. That would be the end of him—no one would survive that impact.
Papa directed him down a cobblestone side street where amidst brick houses packed closer than hay in a bale, they found a public water cistern.
“Don’t muddy up the water. People drink out of this,” Papa said.
Avo examined the murky water. How could anything make the disgusting water any less drinkable?
They used a small wooden bucket next to the cistern to collect water. With careful pouring, Avo washed the caked-on symbol of his defeat off their faces and hands.
The cold liquid soothed his frustrated spirit. His chance at selection was over, and in truth, he was somewhat relieved. At least no one but himself would be disappointed. No shepherd’s son had ever been selected.
“Much better.” Papa examined his clean face.
“Mama’s gonna be mad about the clothes.”
“You let me worry about Mama.” Papa winked. “Let’s get to the selection ceremony. We don’t wanna miss it.”
