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Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
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ewancummins
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Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
PLEASE READ THIS FIRST:
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
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Brock Marsh Runoff
- Evil Genius
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- Joined: Sat Jun 28, 2008 5:49 pm
- Location: New Haven, CT
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
CROAKER NORGE
Fifteen men, lean as sinew and tough as old oaks, ride into the village of Croaker Norge. They are folk of Ghonallison to a man, yet each has spent more than his fair share to the South, guarding the streets of Haes from criminals, traitors, and enemy soldiers. Each has fought—some near to dying—for the sake of that town. With peace rearing its uncertain head and some semblance of order restored to the streets of Haes, they now travel north. Furloughs in hand and gold in their pouches, the guardsmen travel for their homeland in Ghonallison to at last visit their loved ones. To tend to their ravaged lands, rebuild their homes, and bury their dead.
And at each tavern and inn, camp and bivouacked caravan, the men tell of their exploits, and of the scarred young man who leads them. Rennault Ghonallison does not tell the stories himself; he leaves that to his entourage, especially Sevet, who has proven to have quite the gift for speech. They tell of how they had they had whipped green city folk of Haes into a fighting force to beat back the Alamiens. In lurid detail, they speak of how Rennault had met Lynwerd in single combat to uphold his sister’s honor, and how he’d cut the treacherous Alamien to ribbons with only a pair of dirks. There was more to it than the story told, of course—Rennault had been fairly ribboned himself at the end of that fight. But who was he to interrupt a good tale with facts? And when they sang of how Rennault’s blades had laid Carilon Alam low, and his sneak attack had led to the former Duke’s capture, well, there was more than a ring of truth to that boast. And even if it had been a lie, Renn would have let it slip unchecked.
After all, his main spoil from this war is reputation. At the end of the fighting, despite his cleverness, despite his ruthless cunning, despite his skill with bow and blade, he remains a younger, unlanded son. Perhaps if Montros’ talk of a marriage into his house proves true, there would be gainful land. But Renn is far too clever to take another clever man at his word. No, if he wants more influence he’ll have to carve it himself, with his wits, and better yet, his reputation.
Of course, there is the gold. And the thought of that salves his raw ambition somewhat. What’s more, Renn knows he’ll need that gold for what must come next. Even loyal men only followed where gold would lead, and he wagers he’ll need more than gold to get men to follow him where he planned to go.
As the evening wears Rennault and his sergeant slip from the tavern and make their way to the yawning chasm that gives the town its name.
“Good to see the lads in high spirits again, Captain,” Sergeant Gilly says, and begins idly fishing for a pipe full of tobacco. “But I dare say, some of them act like they miss that bloody city now. I think Jonacker might be gladder when we return to Haes than he’ll be to see Fox Run.”
“Heh.” Renn thinks it best to keep his own opinion to himself, in part because he barely knows where he stands on that topic now. “But the rest may not like what they see when we finally reach Ghonallison.”
“Until then, Captain, no reason to fret.”
“Not till then,” Rennault agreed, then cast his eyes down the gorge.
Gilly finds his tinderbox, and in the soft glow of his lit pipe, he looks somehow even older than his years. “I’ll only ask this one more time, Captain. You sure this is for the best?”
Rennault doesn’t even bother nodding. “Most of those fools probably think Carilon Alam got a death sentence out there in Five Peaks. But I don’t trust the gobs to do the job proper. You should have seen him after we caught him, tried to sweet talk every one of us into getting his freedom. Damn near almost succeeded a few times. Imagine if he uses those charms on the beasts of Five Peaks. The last thing we want, the last thing we need, is a crazed old conjurer with a gob army breathing down our necks. Carilon Alam must die, and it must be a man of Ghonallison who does it.”
“And you have to do it his way?”
“I’d rather sneak him on him and put a dagger in his throat, but he’s no feeble codger, even if that’s what he wants us all to think now. No, if we’re to do this we have to do it proper. And we’ve got a better chance of that wit –her- help.”
“Then let me go with you, Captain.”
This time, Rennault shakes his head, and in the darkness he almost smiles. “Not you, Sergeant. If I bollocks this up, I’ll need somebody to lead the men back home. I’ll come up once I have my answer. Take care, Gil.”
And with that, Rennault Ghonallison begins the long trek down to the bottom of the gorge, seeking out the one they called Mad Mauve, to ask her assistance in his hell bent, self-appointed mission to Five Peaks. Gilly stands there for a few minutes in the darkness, until he hears a rustle in the bushes.
“Might as well come out, Watchman.”
The bushes grow still, then Watchman Gatt emerges, clad in charcoal gray, a cloth over his mouth, saying nothing.
“Go on then,” Gilly says, and gestures down the gorge. “Better you than me. Don’t cause too much trouble down there.”
Gilly almost thinks he sees Gatt grin with his eyes, then the laconic watchman is gone, another soul traveling down the gorge. The old sergeant stands alone in a blackness illuminated only by his pipe, and wonders what his loyalty to the Hero of Ghonallison will cost him next.
Fifteen men, lean as sinew and tough as old oaks, ride into the village of Croaker Norge. They are folk of Ghonallison to a man, yet each has spent more than his fair share to the South, guarding the streets of Haes from criminals, traitors, and enemy soldiers. Each has fought—some near to dying—for the sake of that town. With peace rearing its uncertain head and some semblance of order restored to the streets of Haes, they now travel north. Furloughs in hand and gold in their pouches, the guardsmen travel for their homeland in Ghonallison to at last visit their loved ones. To tend to their ravaged lands, rebuild their homes, and bury their dead.
And at each tavern and inn, camp and bivouacked caravan, the men tell of their exploits, and of the scarred young man who leads them. Rennault Ghonallison does not tell the stories himself; he leaves that to his entourage, especially Sevet, who has proven to have quite the gift for speech. They tell of how they had they had whipped green city folk of Haes into a fighting force to beat back the Alamiens. In lurid detail, they speak of how Rennault had met Lynwerd in single combat to uphold his sister’s honor, and how he’d cut the treacherous Alamien to ribbons with only a pair of dirks. There was more to it than the story told, of course—Rennault had been fairly ribboned himself at the end of that fight. But who was he to interrupt a good tale with facts? And when they sang of how Rennault’s blades had laid Carilon Alam low, and his sneak attack had led to the former Duke’s capture, well, there was more than a ring of truth to that boast. And even if it had been a lie, Renn would have let it slip unchecked.
After all, his main spoil from this war is reputation. At the end of the fighting, despite his cleverness, despite his ruthless cunning, despite his skill with bow and blade, he remains a younger, unlanded son. Perhaps if Montros’ talk of a marriage into his house proves true, there would be gainful land. But Renn is far too clever to take another clever man at his word. No, if he wants more influence he’ll have to carve it himself, with his wits, and better yet, his reputation.
Of course, there is the gold. And the thought of that salves his raw ambition somewhat. What’s more, Renn knows he’ll need that gold for what must come next. Even loyal men only followed where gold would lead, and he wagers he’ll need more than gold to get men to follow him where he planned to go.
As the evening wears Rennault and his sergeant slip from the tavern and make their way to the yawning chasm that gives the town its name.
“Good to see the lads in high spirits again, Captain,” Sergeant Gilly says, and begins idly fishing for a pipe full of tobacco. “But I dare say, some of them act like they miss that bloody city now. I think Jonacker might be gladder when we return to Haes than he’ll be to see Fox Run.”
“Heh.” Renn thinks it best to keep his own opinion to himself, in part because he barely knows where he stands on that topic now. “But the rest may not like what they see when we finally reach Ghonallison.”
“Until then, Captain, no reason to fret.”
“Not till then,” Rennault agreed, then cast his eyes down the gorge.
Gilly finds his tinderbox, and in the soft glow of his lit pipe, he looks somehow even older than his years. “I’ll only ask this one more time, Captain. You sure this is for the best?”
Rennault doesn’t even bother nodding. “Most of those fools probably think Carilon Alam got a death sentence out there in Five Peaks. But I don’t trust the gobs to do the job proper. You should have seen him after we caught him, tried to sweet talk every one of us into getting his freedom. Damn near almost succeeded a few times. Imagine if he uses those charms on the beasts of Five Peaks. The last thing we want, the last thing we need, is a crazed old conjurer with a gob army breathing down our necks. Carilon Alam must die, and it must be a man of Ghonallison who does it.”
“And you have to do it his way?”
“I’d rather sneak him on him and put a dagger in his throat, but he’s no feeble codger, even if that’s what he wants us all to think now. No, if we’re to do this we have to do it proper. And we’ve got a better chance of that wit –her- help.”
“Then let me go with you, Captain.”
This time, Rennault shakes his head, and in the darkness he almost smiles. “Not you, Sergeant. If I bollocks this up, I’ll need somebody to lead the men back home. I’ll come up once I have my answer. Take care, Gil.”
And with that, Rennault Ghonallison begins the long trek down to the bottom of the gorge, seeking out the one they called Mad Mauve, to ask her assistance in his hell bent, self-appointed mission to Five Peaks. Gilly stands there for a few minutes in the darkness, until he hears a rustle in the bushes.
“Might as well come out, Watchman.”
The bushes grow still, then Watchman Gatt emerges, clad in charcoal gray, a cloth over his mouth, saying nothing.
“Go on then,” Gilly says, and gestures down the gorge. “Better you than me. Don’t cause too much trouble down there.”
Gilly almost thinks he sees Gatt grin with his eyes, then the laconic watchman is gone, another soul traveling down the gorge. The old sergeant stands alone in a blackness illuminated only by his pipe, and wonders what his loyalty to the Hero of Ghonallison will cost him next.
Last edited by Brock Marsh Runoff on Thu Jul 25, 2013 10:41 am, edited 2 times in total.
"You said I killed you--haunt me, then!...Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” -Wuthering Heights
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Varrus the Ethical
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- Joined: Wed Jul 29, 2009 3:21 pm
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
CATHEDRAL OF HAEYLN, CRYPTS.
The crypts were lovelier than Roald had expected. He thought that they would be more...grim. There was a somberness, yes, but mostly it was just beautiful.
The chamber was well lit by ensconced torches, revealing the fine stonework that matched that of the cathedral above. There was also a profound emptiness. Only five sarcophagi occupied the space, a testament to the relatively youth of the Flaetes line. Each sarcophagus had a statue resting supine upon its lid, each carved in the exact likeness of its occupant.
Roald first passed between the sarcophagi of Dalton and his wife Lanelle. His great-grandparents. For a moment, Roald was taken by sense of revere. He had lived most of his life as a man with no history, now he was staring down at the faces of his great-grandparents. And across the water, there were even older ancestors buried in the crypts of Lofton.
He stared down at Dalton's slumbering likeness for a moment longer, and wondered if his baseborn ancestor felt the same things he did, growing up without knowing that the blood of a god coursed through his veins.
He continued on, coming upon the grave of his grandmother, Telaena, who had died at the hands of the Manslayer. He liked to think she'd approve of the time he spent fighting the Hunt of Elves.
Passing his grandmother, he reached the freshly carved grave of his father, Gilgaed, and the older grave of his elven wife, Fiarelle. It was the elf that he allowed his eyes to linger on the first. He thought he'd feel some anger, or resentment, or perhaps even hate at the sight of the woman who displaced his mother. Here she was, after all, buried under a cathedral next to his father while his own mother lay in an unmarked grave that he had dug with his own hands. And she was an elf to boot. But looking down at her, he felt...nothing. It hadn't been her decision to send him away. He doubted she was ever aware of the existence of him or his mother.
So, finally, Roald turned to look down at the face of the father who sent him away. Wrought in stone, the likeness was remarkable. It was as if the stonecarver had made a statue of Roald and just decided to omit facial the scars. As he looked down, the words of the Arcprelate echoed through his mind.
Gilgaed's statue, as was expected, said nothing in return.
"Well, you don't need to say anything. I just need to get a few things off my chest. I thought you should know that I don't blame Devlin for what happened to me. He bears no responsibly and has done mostly right by me so far." His face hardened. "But I also will never forgive you, or the men who you allowed to pressure you into sending my mother into exile." He leaned forward, as if to whisper into his sleeping father's ear. "You should know, that when you started collecting your toys, the mother of your firstborn son died of a flux. And I had to become a killer to survive."
He steps away from the grave, still glaring down at it. "You, and Sir Rory, and the Archprelate may have cheated me out of my birthright, but in the end, I got it back the way Dalton got his. I earned it."
He stood there quietly for a moment, as if to let his words sink in.
"I will be going now. I promised to help an ally rescue his ward from some elves." He smirks. "It's all rather heroic. I think your mother would've approved."
He turns and walks for the stairs leading up, never sparing another glance at his dead father.
The crypts were lovelier than Roald had expected. He thought that they would be more...grim. There was a somberness, yes, but mostly it was just beautiful.
The chamber was well lit by ensconced torches, revealing the fine stonework that matched that of the cathedral above. There was also a profound emptiness. Only five sarcophagi occupied the space, a testament to the relatively youth of the Flaetes line. Each sarcophagus had a statue resting supine upon its lid, each carved in the exact likeness of its occupant.
Roald first passed between the sarcophagi of Dalton and his wife Lanelle. His great-grandparents. For a moment, Roald was taken by sense of revere. He had lived most of his life as a man with no history, now he was staring down at the faces of his great-grandparents. And across the water, there were even older ancestors buried in the crypts of Lofton.
He stared down at Dalton's slumbering likeness for a moment longer, and wondered if his baseborn ancestor felt the same things he did, growing up without knowing that the blood of a god coursed through his veins.
He continued on, coming upon the grave of his grandmother, Telaena, who had died at the hands of the Manslayer. He liked to think she'd approve of the time he spent fighting the Hunt of Elves.
Passing his grandmother, he reached the freshly carved grave of his father, Gilgaed, and the older grave of his elven wife, Fiarelle. It was the elf that he allowed his eyes to linger on the first. He thought he'd feel some anger, or resentment, or perhaps even hate at the sight of the woman who displaced his mother. Here she was, after all, buried under a cathedral next to his father while his own mother lay in an unmarked grave that he had dug with his own hands. And she was an elf to boot. But looking down at her, he felt...nothing. It hadn't been her decision to send him away. He doubted she was ever aware of the existence of him or his mother.
So, finally, Roald turned to look down at the face of the father who sent him away. Wrought in stone, the likeness was remarkable. It was as if the stonecarver had made a statue of Roald and just decided to omit facial the scars. As he looked down, the words of the Arcprelate echoed through his mind.
After staring down for several heartbeats, Roald said, "Hello father. I hope you're not too busy being dead and all, I thought we could talk."“Don’t judge him too harshly, my son. A man may love a fairy dream from afar, but most men, noble or baseborn, have need of more earthly comforts as well. Gilgaed was fond of your mother and would have done more for her, and for you. I know he sent gifts, a little money. When you came of age you were to be given more, I think. But his mind slipped, grief over Fiarelle’s murder broke him. He became forgetful, confused. His collection of child’s toys grew and grew, and eventually it became apparent that he could no longer rule.
"A few weeks before he was assassinated, the duke mentioned, in a rare moment of lucidity, that he meant to correct a past mistake. Before I could learn more, he went back to playing with his little wooden knights and dragons.”
Gilgaed's statue, as was expected, said nothing in return.
"Well, you don't need to say anything. I just need to get a few things off my chest. I thought you should know that I don't blame Devlin for what happened to me. He bears no responsibly and has done mostly right by me so far." His face hardened. "But I also will never forgive you, or the men who you allowed to pressure you into sending my mother into exile." He leaned forward, as if to whisper into his sleeping father's ear. "You should know, that when you started collecting your toys, the mother of your firstborn son died of a flux. And I had to become a killer to survive."
He steps away from the grave, still glaring down at it. "You, and Sir Rory, and the Archprelate may have cheated me out of my birthright, but in the end, I got it back the way Dalton got his. I earned it."
He stood there quietly for a moment, as if to let his words sink in.
"I will be going now. I promised to help an ally rescue his ward from some elves." He smirks. "It's all rather heroic. I think your mother would've approved."
He turns and walks for the stairs leading up, never sparing another glance at his dead father.
"Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."
George R.R. Martin.
George R.R. Martin.
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
Filbert looks at the map of Anuire one more time and passes his hands at his curly hair one more time sighing. As ambassador he has decided to visit the main capitals of the lands at Tuornen borders trying to get better trading deals and fortify the alliances. Now that Duke Carilon isn't the ruler of Alamie and the war is coming to an end ,Filbert's task to make Tuornen look stronger than ever and Duke Devlin wise and capable ruler is of crucial importance.
Looking at the map the halfling makes up his mind and makes a mental notes of where to go and with what order. His first stop will be Seaharrow, where Aeric Boeruine is living. Filbert was impressed the other time he has been there and met the Archduke. There is no doubt why he is one of the two to contest the Iron Throne. But Filbert doesn't want to get into that just yet even if he knows that having the Archduke as ally will make Tuornen's enemies think it twice before trying to do anything.
His next stop will be Daulton in Avanil even if his last meeting with the Prince Darien wasn't as he expected it to be. The rumors he has heard could pass as a hidden deal between Avanil and Alamie. Filbert was unable to verify the big movement of troops over the border in Avanil and nothing about any payments from the Prince to Carilon Alam but he trusted his instinct and what he has heard at the inns. There was something fishy at the Prince's behavior, he knew that for the first moment he met him. That's why he asked a second meeting. Now that Carilon isn't Alamie's ruler anymore, the halfling wants to figure out where the Prince Darien stands and if is up to something.
After Avanil the halfling plans to go to the City of Endier and meet for the first time the ruler of this land and try to get an alliance with him offering him the intelligence that Baubb the toymaker might hide at his land. Filbert doesn't believe the rumors that Baubb has drowned to the river, not after he came to know that curious mechanical toys and gadgets of fine workmanship show up on the auction blocks in the Free City of Endier... But the halfling has also a second goal in Endier. He has heard that there is a powerful wizard in Endier and wants to ask him if he wants to help Foerde, Cormac and Roald at their quest against the Manslayer. Filbert knows close to nothing about magic, but still he knows enough to figure out that his friends have way better chances if they have another wizard with them.
His last stop will be Lofton of course. Filbert knows that the son of Duke Carilon will not be very pleased to meet one of the kidnapers of his father, but at the end of the day there was a war and during a war sometimes who plays dirtier wins. Even if Filbert's and the others of the strike team motive was to free Cormac the Duke Carilon's kidnap tipped the balance at their side. Filbert wants try to smoothen if possible the relations between the two duchies so they have at least diplomatic deals.
With a last glance at the map Filbert exits the room and goes straight to the kitchen, he needs a really good meal before his long journey!
Looking at the map the halfling makes up his mind and makes a mental notes of where to go and with what order. His first stop will be Seaharrow, where Aeric Boeruine is living. Filbert was impressed the other time he has been there and met the Archduke. There is no doubt why he is one of the two to contest the Iron Throne. But Filbert doesn't want to get into that just yet even if he knows that having the Archduke as ally will make Tuornen's enemies think it twice before trying to do anything.
His next stop will be Daulton in Avanil even if his last meeting with the Prince Darien wasn't as he expected it to be. The rumors he has heard could pass as a hidden deal between Avanil and Alamie. Filbert was unable to verify the big movement of troops over the border in Avanil and nothing about any payments from the Prince to Carilon Alam but he trusted his instinct and what he has heard at the inns. There was something fishy at the Prince's behavior, he knew that for the first moment he met him. That's why he asked a second meeting. Now that Carilon isn't Alamie's ruler anymore, the halfling wants to figure out where the Prince Darien stands and if is up to something.
After Avanil the halfling plans to go to the City of Endier and meet for the first time the ruler of this land and try to get an alliance with him offering him the intelligence that Baubb the toymaker might hide at his land. Filbert doesn't believe the rumors that Baubb has drowned to the river, not after he came to know that curious mechanical toys and gadgets of fine workmanship show up on the auction blocks in the Free City of Endier... But the halfling has also a second goal in Endier. He has heard that there is a powerful wizard in Endier and wants to ask him if he wants to help Foerde, Cormac and Roald at their quest against the Manslayer. Filbert knows close to nothing about magic, but still he knows enough to figure out that his friends have way better chances if they have another wizard with them.
His last stop will be Lofton of course. Filbert knows that the son of Duke Carilon will not be very pleased to meet one of the kidnapers of his father, but at the end of the day there was a war and during a war sometimes who plays dirtier wins. Even if Filbert's and the others of the strike team motive was to free Cormac the Duke Carilon's kidnap tipped the balance at their side. Filbert wants try to smoothen if possible the relations between the two duchies so they have at least diplomatic deals.
With a last glance at the map Filbert exits the room and goes straight to the kitchen, he needs a really good meal before his long journey!
Last edited by VAN on Thu Dec 05, 2013 5:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
- The first 2 Feats a wizard should take are "point blank shot" and "Precise shot"!
- W H A T ! ? !
- Or they should NEVER memorize rays!
- W H A T ! ? !
- Or they should NEVER memorize rays!
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
VIEW CONTENT:
"Seven Seals...Seven Rings...Seven Brides for the Scarlet King..."
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
VIEW CONTENT:
History prefers legends to men. It prefers nobility to brutality, soaring speeches to quiet deeds. History remembers the battle and forgets the blood. What ever history remembers of me if it remembers me at all, it shall only be the fraction of the truth.
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ewancummins
- Evil Genius
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- Joined: Tue Oct 25, 2005 1:35 pm
Re: Birthright Tuornen: Epilogue
Gwenevier staggered though a narrow gap in the smoking brush with the small bundle held close to her beast, wrapped under the hem of her cloak. Howls and shrieks rang out through the smoke-dimmed woods behind the young woman. A hot blast blew blazing leaves from trees down the game trail, and whipped her unbound hair in her eyes. She stumbled forward, caught her feet on something in the undergrowth, and fell hard on her knees.
The baby screamed under the cloak and kicked at her chest.
Wolves answered the little boy’s shrieks with howls, the sound coming closer as the baby cried louder. She heard the enemy calling on all sides now—surrounding her.
Gwen cast about, spotted a great dead tree trunk, hollowed by rot. She scrambled for the hole, pressing the infant close.
Squirming into the shelter of the dead tree, Gwen ripped her tunic open at the neck. Working by feel, she moved the baby’s mouth near her exposed right breast. Tiny teeth clamped down hard on her nipple; she bit her lip, stifling a gasp. The little mouth sucked for a moment; but without milk the infant began crying again, louder.
Sounds echoed down the big tube of decaying wood; cruel goblin voices laughing, taunting, and teasing in ill-natured fun like the gang of bullies who terrorized the smaller children of her home village.
The trail of scars burned and itched all down her back, and if she could not guess if she heard goblin whips snapping in anticipation or only the crackle of fire creeping through the undergrowth.
The boy pitched his cry higher than she had thought possible. She risked muffling him, feeling his naked sides for movement of breath.
The rotten wood shifted, rolled, burst open. Gwen fell out and saw them all around her; grinning yellow goblin faces, wolves with red mouths hanging open.
The fire fell from above.
Wolves’ howls drowned in the furnace roar. Goblins ran in all directions, shrieking as the skin peeled off their lithe bodies in stinking rolls. All about Gwen saw only fire and earth, yet no finger of flame touched her or even singed her garments.
As quickly as it had fallen round her, the fire sank back, flowing away like a living thing. She heard a few last dying shrieks of wolf and goblin over the rush of flames, and then nothing. The smoke above rolled away with the shifting air, showing the silvery crescent of the moon and the cold pinpricks of stars.
The fire gone and the trees about her all burned to short black stumps, she felt the chill mountain winds across her skin.
The baby boy stopped crying, and lay still, calm at last in her arms.
A cloaked and hooded figure stepped through the charcoal ring and held out a left hand armored with dull black mail. A finger pointed at her breasts.
“Did the goblins have their way with you?”
Gwen stammered,
“I..I was trying to quiet the boy. But he only wants his mother and she's dea...
It didn’t work.”
She shifted the baby to the crook of her arm and pulled her ripped tunic closed.
“Ah, that's good to know. Filthy creatures are probably ridden with lice, maybe the pox, too.
I wonder if they find our women ugly? I never bothered to ask one of them about that.
Hmmm...
if the little one won’t have a nibble, I will.”
Her rescuer pushed back his hood. Pale eyes stared at her from a gaunt face. A cynical smile played across the old man’s gray-whiskered lips.
Gwen drew back a little, sucking in her breath, trying to hold her body still.
The man watched in silence for a moment, and then he laughed.
“A virgin? Ah, well then you should thank me twice; once for saving your life and once for granting you the rare honor of being deflowered by a duke.”
...
After he was finished, the old man got up from beside her and pulled his cloak about his lean body.
Gwen heard the baby crying in the bundle of her clothes, closer to the campfire. She felt sticky blood on her thighs. Alarmed, she dabbed at the red streak with her fingertips and held them up in the glow of the burning heap of sticks.
The old man looked down and said, "Don't fret over the blood, girl. That's normal.
Here--"
He reached into his pouch, drew out something that gleamed and clinked in his hand.
"In case you get thick in the middle."
He tossed the two coins.
She caught them-- and stared in wonder at play of warm light on the yellow gold.
The old man turned away to look down the slope of the mountains, facing south into Tuornen.
"I feel younger. Stronger.
It must be the mountain air."
FINIS
The baby screamed under the cloak and kicked at her chest.
Wolves answered the little boy’s shrieks with howls, the sound coming closer as the baby cried louder. She heard the enemy calling on all sides now—surrounding her.
Gwen cast about, spotted a great dead tree trunk, hollowed by rot. She scrambled for the hole, pressing the infant close.
Squirming into the shelter of the dead tree, Gwen ripped her tunic open at the neck. Working by feel, she moved the baby’s mouth near her exposed right breast. Tiny teeth clamped down hard on her nipple; she bit her lip, stifling a gasp. The little mouth sucked for a moment; but without milk the infant began crying again, louder.
Sounds echoed down the big tube of decaying wood; cruel goblin voices laughing, taunting, and teasing in ill-natured fun like the gang of bullies who terrorized the smaller children of her home village.
The trail of scars burned and itched all down her back, and if she could not guess if she heard goblin whips snapping in anticipation or only the crackle of fire creeping through the undergrowth.
The boy pitched his cry higher than she had thought possible. She risked muffling him, feeling his naked sides for movement of breath.
The rotten wood shifted, rolled, burst open. Gwen fell out and saw them all around her; grinning yellow goblin faces, wolves with red mouths hanging open.
The fire fell from above.
Wolves’ howls drowned in the furnace roar. Goblins ran in all directions, shrieking as the skin peeled off their lithe bodies in stinking rolls. All about Gwen saw only fire and earth, yet no finger of flame touched her or even singed her garments.
As quickly as it had fallen round her, the fire sank back, flowing away like a living thing. She heard a few last dying shrieks of wolf and goblin over the rush of flames, and then nothing. The smoke above rolled away with the shifting air, showing the silvery crescent of the moon and the cold pinpricks of stars.
The fire gone and the trees about her all burned to short black stumps, she felt the chill mountain winds across her skin.
The baby boy stopped crying, and lay still, calm at last in her arms.
A cloaked and hooded figure stepped through the charcoal ring and held out a left hand armored with dull black mail. A finger pointed at her breasts.
“Did the goblins have their way with you?”
Gwen stammered,
“I..I was trying to quiet the boy. But he only wants his mother and she's dea...
It didn’t work.”
She shifted the baby to the crook of her arm and pulled her ripped tunic closed.
“Ah, that's good to know. Filthy creatures are probably ridden with lice, maybe the pox, too.
I wonder if they find our women ugly? I never bothered to ask one of them about that.
Hmmm...
if the little one won’t have a nibble, I will.”
Her rescuer pushed back his hood. Pale eyes stared at her from a gaunt face. A cynical smile played across the old man’s gray-whiskered lips.
Gwen drew back a little, sucking in her breath, trying to hold her body still.
The man watched in silence for a moment, and then he laughed.
“A virgin? Ah, well then you should thank me twice; once for saving your life and once for granting you the rare honor of being deflowered by a duke.”
...
After he was finished, the old man got up from beside her and pulled his cloak about his lean body.
Gwen heard the baby crying in the bundle of her clothes, closer to the campfire. She felt sticky blood on her thighs. Alarmed, she dabbed at the red streak with her fingertips and held them up in the glow of the burning heap of sticks.
The old man looked down and said, "Don't fret over the blood, girl. That's normal.
Here--"
He reached into his pouch, drew out something that gleamed and clinked in his hand.
"In case you get thick in the middle."
He tossed the two coins.
She caught them-- and stared in wonder at play of warm light on the yellow gold.
The old man turned away to look down the slope of the mountains, facing south into Tuornen.
"I feel younger. Stronger.
It must be the mountain air."
FINIS
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)