Apologies, Monty Python fans, but I wouldn't know where to begin writing about the series or the films.
Five weeks ago, I posted "
Thinking Outside The Box" a humorous introduction to my
Tree House Tales collection of shorts.
Confession: humor is not my strength.
Fantasy, either high or sword & sorcery, is.
Those are the subgenres in which I began writing back in 1979 and in which I continue to write today--about a million words later.
So now for something completely different,
Here are the first few pages of "The Last Battle", my 13,000 word fantasy novelette written expressly for Tree House Tales.
The Last Battle
The Old
Woman
Everyone was
passing me by on the dirt road, gifting me with dust and the stinks of sweat
and animal droppings. I was so tired, I woke now and again from a nap the
length of a single stride. My feet hurt. It was all I could do to dodge the obstacles
on the path.
I stopped and drew
a breath through cupped hands, chiefly to look behind and then ahead of me. In
the seconds before someone grumbled and elbowed my back, I glimpsed massive
sandstone walls proclaiming the proximity of the king’s summer citadel. Only
the weekly market booths stood between me and the twenty ell high bronze-braced
entry doors. Just before dusk, praise to the One!
The light of the
setting sun caught on the armor of warriors pacing high above us across the
parapet or circling slowly behind the machicolation in the closest towers. Peddlers, customers, gawkers, beggars and weary
travelers were shifting into the restless shadows cast by surrounding trees and
a handful of outlying merchant tents. Soon, the market would begin its slow plunge
into the denser dim of the great edifice.
I limped as
quickly as I could into the midst of the market, dodging others where possible
or waiting impatiently for a way to clear. Sweaty filthy bodies, bodies choking
in a miasma of drink or cloying perfume surrounded me.
A single trumpet
sang one golden note. The first of three warnings, or so I’d been told, before
guards and draft animals began closing the gates. Already within sight of the
gates and hearing only the first warning. I grinned, the movement of facial
muscles puffing caked dust into my nostrils.
Hawkers cried out
to me whenever I slowed my pace.
“My lady! My lady!
Fresh! Strong as iron! Savory… Precious… A bargain…” Their claims blurred into
the common plea for a full day’s profit.
Lady. My
lips curved at the word, tugging at skin where splashed mud had dried hours
ago. A word only a flattering hawker would use, clad as I was in a mended cape
& the piebald patched clothing of a spent fighter.
I blinked and drew
a breath.
Cobbler. I was
looking for a cobbler.
Would a cobbler
have a booth out here on market day? Those with imported satin slippers and
tooled leather boots did. Importers, crafters of fine shoes meant for nobles would
likely live as close to the courtiers’ manses and the royal palace as they
could afford. One who lived by repairing shoes and boots might expect his
custom to seek him out somewhere in the narrow interlacing streets just within
the walls.
I stopped,
realized I’d done so again, and limped forward lest the second warning trumpet
find me this far from the gates. Newly-massed peddlers and beggars shoved
others aside to clutch at me and gabble meaningless words. Buzzards shrieking a
warning to any who might disturb their feast.
I grumbled and
clutched at the haft of my smaller dagger. Street patter laced with flattery
transformed into curses and a couple half-hearted kicks. I snarled and pulled
the dagger free. The buzzard-spawn scattered.
Now to get through
the gates lest lingering catch me hungry and without shelter. Merchants were
thrusting small objects into lined bags. Others, their eyes on the crowds,
reached beneath their tables and carts fumbling out folds of rough canvas sacks,
even as they kept up a steady patter for one last customer.
I turned and took
a few more painful steps toward the gates.
“A moment, my
lady!” whispered near in the soft cracked voice of an old woman.
Not a
peddler—unless her voice had given way from a day of hawking.
Reluctant to hang back from the gate, I glanced
over my shoulder without stopping.
Somewhere bundled
within a clashing collection of tunics, trousers, a skirt far too short, a hood
and two shawls each claiming a shoulder was a small dark woman. Her black
eyes--reflecting light borrowed from the setting sun—were a compass to her
features. Too thin, cheekbones too prominent but she was smiling like a doting
granny.
I offered the
briefest of nods.
Like quiet water
reflecting paired stars, the sparkle of her eyes greeted my gaze.
A breeze crept
through the torn patches of my tunic. I shivered and shifted a step backward
with my good foot. My hand froze between dagger and sword hilts, echoing my
thoughts torn between pity and terror.
The woman’s face
crinkled into a smile. “No danger here, my lady. But peril lies within if you
are not careful. I have something for you.”
Just another
peddler. I allowed my hand to drop.
“Something you
will need. Alas, my granddaughter refused my gift and my protection. But you
won’t, will you?”
My head shook of
its own—making a decision in which my thoughts had no part. Already dismayed at
making one choice before considering it, I held out my hand. My sword hand.
Fool!
She smiled--the
smile showing the gap of a missing tooth—and lifted the strap of a small bag
from one shoulder. Surely only the russet shawl had been there a moment before.
Blended dirt and
old sweat obliterated what once might have been intertwined flowers on the
bag’s padded strap. Wandering past where the strap ended and the bag began, the
intricate design laid gentle claim to the ovoid surface of the silk bag.
The flowers—if
they were flowers—were varied in hue, bright then shadowed as if caught in turn
by noon rays or misted moonlight. No light varied near us except when vendors and
beasts passed with their heavy packs.
The woman turned about
and scurried away. Yet her voice came clear. “Open it when they think you
sleep…”
A growl and a
grunt warned of a brawl about to start. I stepped away from the sound but kept
my gaze fixed down the twisting empty path beyond the crowds hurrying toward
the gate. Shorn of the sun’s light, the garish hues of her clothing deepened
into evergreen, violet and the midnight inkiness of the sea on a moonless
night. Then nothing.
The second warning
rang out over the babbling crowds and the protests of donkeys and oxen.
I hurried toward
the city gates, one person caught up in the slow jostling of a multitude. A man
clutched my left elbow and forced his way through a gap barely big enough for a
child. Had he had a mind to steal the old woman’s gift he might have succeeded.
I slung the lightweight bag up on my left shoulder, clenching its strap between
my arm and side.
A whisper echoed
by many whispers crept within my ears. “The cobbler lives in the third street.
Turn right at the shrine. Look for a thicket of sticks once a fence and a green
light in a window.”
The
Cobbler
Once past the well-lighted
gates and guard posts, night took possession of the thoroughfare. Wary of any
cutpurses, I adjusted my grip on the gifted bag the better to use it as a
shield. I probably appeared more threatening than the travelers searching for
shelter or the city people hurrying from workplace to a beckoning meal and
sleep.
In spite of my new
grip on the strap, the silken bag swayed and bounced on its shortened tether in
rhythm with my uneven steps. I knew nothing of its value but then neither did
any would-be thief. Perhaps small loss if it were taken. Perhaps not. Thieves
were sometimes known to incapacitate their targets before they knew what prize
they might gain.
No longer in the
midst of a crowd, I took note of those behind me and to either side.
Many had taken
advantage of the first inn we had passed and departed from the group. I should
have joined them. The corner of a common room beckoned in my thoughts. Dozing. Warmed
by even the scant fire a tin-pinching goodman would permit. Filled with something
warm and soothed by the inn’s best brew.
I faltered a step,
and blessings that I did! The shrine’s roof peeped over a crumbling stone wall
on my right. Just beyond it lurked smoky chapel candles in three arched
windows. Gentle song—accompanied by the familiar lilt of a pipe—sounded from
the darkened yard. I saw no one.
I looked as far as
I could see around the corner. Those still hurrying up and down the crossing
street could scarce be deemed a crowd. Had I left all the shops and inns behind?
With a second glance
about, more careful than the first, I turned right as instructed. Suppose the
shop were no longer open? Had all the city’s proprietors given up on further
profit for tonight? Not worth staying open for custom intent on an inn, tavern
or brothel.
Just to my left,
firelight flared and heavy boots clattered. I spun toward them. My attacker cried
out and backed up, sprawling half in the road and half on the shallow steps he had
just descended.
A shadow blocked
out most of the light. A woman screamed, “Don’t hurt him, I pray you!”
My sword was out.
I didn’t remember drawing it. Instinct rarely left memory. I took a backward step.
Two. And finally remembered to sheathe my sword.
Amidst a flood of
imprecations, the man heaved himself back to his feet. The woman, likely his
wife, asked if she should run for the watch.
He shook his head.
“Back inside! Just a misunderstanding.” He didn’t look me in the face. Too
intent on seeing if my hand would keep its distance from my hilt?
“My apologies,
sir! I…”
“…came from the
wars recently.” He finished for me. “Where were you?”
Scattered memories
of our last battle lurked behind clenched teeth. I shook my head.
“Well, we were in
Itera…”
“…the peninsula
battle? I was up-river. Thanks for keeping them downwind.”
The man chuckled. “Wilderness Ward, huh? Actually,
I missed it.” He lifted a cane and briefly pointed the end at me like a sword.
I thought his leg
was intact but the dark and his cape left me unsure. We both drew back another pace—beyond
the range of bladed weapons. Twin apologies echoed between us. Why he offered
one I couldn’t guess. Then he hurried on the way I had come... SNIP
[See Amazon, The Book Depository or Barnes & Noble for the rest of this tale--Free with any purchase of the THT collection!]
Other Fantasy Stories in Tree House Tales
A Sailor’s Tale; Circles (SF); Daisy and the Paper-Mice; The Windowed Door;
The Dragon’s Tail Tale; No Substitutions; Winter’s Season; The Smashed Fairy Song Cycle;
The Queen of the Tor Sidhe; Shadow Harper; The Pumpkin Smasher;
Gajit’s Research Expedition (SF)
Plus short extracts from forthcoming fantasy novels: Seabird, Earthbow, Marooned,
The Gryphon & the Basilisk, and Da Boid, da Tree-Rat, n Da Loser
Send email to The Daily Scroll or to The Scroll Chamber Press
scrollchamberpress@gmail.com
