Post by GeneT on Dec 30, 2003 18:40:12 GMT -5
Chapter 3: Jirrian
Laginir brought them southeast through the Lac’And mountains as soft snow veiled a bleak gray sky that hung ominous and unyielding overhead. Their progress was miserably slow and they shivered under shallow cloaks, stumbling upon frozen feet while angling eastward toward Jirrian and King Sollien’s Castle through snow dusted hillocks that crowded the rising peaks low and humble like beggars. The Lac’And mountains coursed through the northern countries and eventually dove south through Puintu, dwindling as they went thousands of leagues to meet the sea, spawning children at their end and casting them off into blue-green waters to create the Sparkling Coast and its untamed islands. Gil stopped and turned, his scowl deepening. Laginir, second along the line, grasped him under his elbow and bid him to continue with a silent nod, not wanting the others to see his concern.
“They’re not far,” Gil said quietly so only Laginir could hear. “I can smell those infernal weapons.”
Laginir chanced a fleeting look back toward the mountains and silently chided himself. Finral had caught his eyes and the dismay that lay hidden in them, but the youngest of them by five years simply bent her head and continued on, limping with injury and exhaustion, calling no attention to her new captain’s momentary stutter of composure.
“You’re imagining things Gil,” Laginir said. “The air is damp with snow and not even the King’s hounds could tease a scent out of it.”
“I’m no hound,” Gil said, suddenly chuckling. “Only Hilksin.”
Laginir glanced at the taller man and grimaced. “Can we stay ahead of’em.”
“Possibly, with a little help of weather and chance,” Gil said. “They’re spirit is stronger than we both think,” he said indicating those that wearily followed them, glancing at each in turn, Aranen, Maengoth, Finral, and Daeren, until they looked up and on seeing his eyes each nodded resolutely.
Laginir smiled weakly and Gil gripped his shoulder before jogging away to scout ahead. The Hilksin’s longer legs and untiring stride took him quickly out of sight and Laginir, sighing quietly, wondering why the larger man deferred to his leadership. There were but a few days that separated Gil’s apprenticeship from his. Hardly worth counting, he thought. They were the Lion Guard, or at least apprenticed, all of them, despite age, sex, or race, and would follow a worthy Captain unerringly unless fault or folly intruded and demanded another to assume leadership. Gil should be Captain, he thought grimacing, wishing he could remember what had happened. It was hard enough to endure the way the others began looking at him in the days that followed Safmir’s death without that damnable melody that whispered in his head, nagging him during his hours awake and tormenting his nights with horrid restless dreams. Laginir tested his footing in ankle deep snow and they followed behind him in a jagged uneven line, shuffling through the snow, pulled forward by the force of their oath and both his and Gil’s will.
They pushed eastward and the wind assailed them, obscuring the horizon with icy snow and freezing rain until they sought refuge in brooding restless woods that bracketed the Jirrian border. Bare branches cackled to each other in the storm, commiserating over the lose of sun and warmth, their sap thick and indolent beneath rough moss laden bark. Like unwanted guests, the company huddled shivering within a thick stand of leafless trees that gladly allowed wind and stinging ice to attack them. Unable to sit still for long, they marched for hours and followed the wood’s gentle southward turn, refusing sleep, stumbling forward until the white turrets of the Jirrian castle materialized out of an oppressive sky and they were suddenly ringed by a gauntlet of brightly armored guards that appeared out of the gloom like shining ghosts, mesmerizing and indistinct in their sleepless haze. Passing under the main gate’s arch, Gil whispered a word to each of them and they straightened, standing as tall as they could muster. Laginir led them as they were diverted to a barracks along the outer ring’s courtyard and half-heartedly attempted to secure an immediate audience with the King. The guard’s captain yelled against the growing wind and Laginir conceded that no audience would be forthcoming at so late and hour, so they shuffled into the barrack's fiery warmth and fell into their beds without undressing, oblivious to the angry storm's attempts to prevent sleep.
Chapter 4: Captain Talikor and the Gallows
All morning they had waited, hours waisted cleaning their armor and weapons, removing the dirt and caked blood that had festered in joints and rivets, tarnishing blades and buckles. Gil hovered near the door, his weapons and armor encrusted with filth except for four brilliant places; the golden lion head symbols embossed on his scabbard, his gauntlets, and the right shoulder of his pleated leather breast plate. Laginir had known Gil since the beginning of their apprenticeship and his lips sealed in a thin line of worry. Gil was unpredictable when in such a state and the man’s impassive stand had been unmoving for more than an hour now, unstirred as the heavy wooden door to the barracks shuddered and whined on its hinges as gusts of wind attempted to breach it. As if sensing his attention, Gil turned and caught Laginir’s eyes. A silent word passed between them and Laginir muttered “agreed” while standing and buckling his sword along his right hip. Finral, Aranen, Maengoth, and Daeren needed no orders and fell in place, eyes silent and faces quiet.
The wind hissed at them as they opened the door and exited. They passed under an open rusted gate of the inner wall and entered a small muddy courtyard that connected to the city’s main road. Lazy ill kept guards sat squatting in a corner of the wall’s formation, dicing and laughing under a morbid swollen sky. Laginir ignored them and walked toward the main road, boots sinking into the ground with each step. Almost through the courtyard they were surprised by a clear strong voice that commanded them to halt. A dark figure detached from the stone wall like an apparition, flowing towards them with lithe purposeful strides, barely disturbing the sodden ground. The other guards took notice, stopped gaming, and appeared to look alert, although obviously unhappy. Laginir knew at once that this man was out of place, his armor was well kept, his stride easy and fluent with a sword at his hip, and he approached them with lips curled in a subtle challenging smile.
“I’m Captian Talikor and the King’s not sent for you yet,” he said.
“Unfortunate,” Laginir replied. “But nevertheless we’ve important business and grow tired of waiting.”
“This is not,” Captain Talikor started before being interrupted.
“No, and it never will be,” Laginir said, menace and impatience creeping into his voice. “Will you let us pass or shall it be another way.”
Captain Talikor actually considered latter option, even if briefly, and Laginir, noting his indecision, knew he was a man to be respected. Bored though, and fed up with his new liege, the captain yearned for the forests of his home in Verdun and was tired of shoddy soldiers. No amount of money was worth the humiliation of his present post. Even if he could hold them off, the ill disciplined soldiers the King had given him for defense of the gates would die or run with little effort.
“An escort for you on your journey,” Talikor said laughingly, giving orders to the milling guards around them, and setting one man, none to happy at being singled out, as their guide.
Twenty guards escorted the company down the main road and cut through the stormy crowd like the bow of a ship, casting eddies of people to the side, turbulent with curiosity. They entered the large main square, recently renamed the Courtyard of Judgement by the newly installed King, and each of them stopped, assaulted by the sight of a huge gallows in its center and the nine bodies tethered to it, swinging listlessly in the wind. A pall of greasy black smoke bellowed from a huge fire to its right in which the arm and leg bones of recently reeducated citizens poked out accusingly. The lead guard snickered.
“None of ya wizards I hope,” he said sneering, nearly laughing while placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Laginir and Gil turned in unison toward the guard and he almost tripped while trying to back away from their menacing glare, eyes gliding over the bright lion head emblems on their armor. Gruffly, he regained composure and led them out of the square, occasionally looking nervously over his shoulder. Laginir cursed and nearly rebelled against Safmir’s last orders. This kingdom wasn’t worth saving, he thought. He should let them all rot.
Laginir brought them southeast through the Lac’And mountains as soft snow veiled a bleak gray sky that hung ominous and unyielding overhead. Their progress was miserably slow and they shivered under shallow cloaks, stumbling upon frozen feet while angling eastward toward Jirrian and King Sollien’s Castle through snow dusted hillocks that crowded the rising peaks low and humble like beggars. The Lac’And mountains coursed through the northern countries and eventually dove south through Puintu, dwindling as they went thousands of leagues to meet the sea, spawning children at their end and casting them off into blue-green waters to create the Sparkling Coast and its untamed islands. Gil stopped and turned, his scowl deepening. Laginir, second along the line, grasped him under his elbow and bid him to continue with a silent nod, not wanting the others to see his concern.
“They’re not far,” Gil said quietly so only Laginir could hear. “I can smell those infernal weapons.”
Laginir chanced a fleeting look back toward the mountains and silently chided himself. Finral had caught his eyes and the dismay that lay hidden in them, but the youngest of them by five years simply bent her head and continued on, limping with injury and exhaustion, calling no attention to her new captain’s momentary stutter of composure.
“You’re imagining things Gil,” Laginir said. “The air is damp with snow and not even the King’s hounds could tease a scent out of it.”
“I’m no hound,” Gil said, suddenly chuckling. “Only Hilksin.”
Laginir glanced at the taller man and grimaced. “Can we stay ahead of’em.”
“Possibly, with a little help of weather and chance,” Gil said. “They’re spirit is stronger than we both think,” he said indicating those that wearily followed them, glancing at each in turn, Aranen, Maengoth, Finral, and Daeren, until they looked up and on seeing his eyes each nodded resolutely.
Laginir smiled weakly and Gil gripped his shoulder before jogging away to scout ahead. The Hilksin’s longer legs and untiring stride took him quickly out of sight and Laginir, sighing quietly, wondering why the larger man deferred to his leadership. There were but a few days that separated Gil’s apprenticeship from his. Hardly worth counting, he thought. They were the Lion Guard, or at least apprenticed, all of them, despite age, sex, or race, and would follow a worthy Captain unerringly unless fault or folly intruded and demanded another to assume leadership. Gil should be Captain, he thought grimacing, wishing he could remember what had happened. It was hard enough to endure the way the others began looking at him in the days that followed Safmir’s death without that damnable melody that whispered in his head, nagging him during his hours awake and tormenting his nights with horrid restless dreams. Laginir tested his footing in ankle deep snow and they followed behind him in a jagged uneven line, shuffling through the snow, pulled forward by the force of their oath and both his and Gil’s will.
They pushed eastward and the wind assailed them, obscuring the horizon with icy snow and freezing rain until they sought refuge in brooding restless woods that bracketed the Jirrian border. Bare branches cackled to each other in the storm, commiserating over the lose of sun and warmth, their sap thick and indolent beneath rough moss laden bark. Like unwanted guests, the company huddled shivering within a thick stand of leafless trees that gladly allowed wind and stinging ice to attack them. Unable to sit still for long, they marched for hours and followed the wood’s gentle southward turn, refusing sleep, stumbling forward until the white turrets of the Jirrian castle materialized out of an oppressive sky and they were suddenly ringed by a gauntlet of brightly armored guards that appeared out of the gloom like shining ghosts, mesmerizing and indistinct in their sleepless haze. Passing under the main gate’s arch, Gil whispered a word to each of them and they straightened, standing as tall as they could muster. Laginir led them as they were diverted to a barracks along the outer ring’s courtyard and half-heartedly attempted to secure an immediate audience with the King. The guard’s captain yelled against the growing wind and Laginir conceded that no audience would be forthcoming at so late and hour, so they shuffled into the barrack's fiery warmth and fell into their beds without undressing, oblivious to the angry storm's attempts to prevent sleep.
Chapter 4: Captain Talikor and the Gallows
All morning they had waited, hours waisted cleaning their armor and weapons, removing the dirt and caked blood that had festered in joints and rivets, tarnishing blades and buckles. Gil hovered near the door, his weapons and armor encrusted with filth except for four brilliant places; the golden lion head symbols embossed on his scabbard, his gauntlets, and the right shoulder of his pleated leather breast plate. Laginir had known Gil since the beginning of their apprenticeship and his lips sealed in a thin line of worry. Gil was unpredictable when in such a state and the man’s impassive stand had been unmoving for more than an hour now, unstirred as the heavy wooden door to the barracks shuddered and whined on its hinges as gusts of wind attempted to breach it. As if sensing his attention, Gil turned and caught Laginir’s eyes. A silent word passed between them and Laginir muttered “agreed” while standing and buckling his sword along his right hip. Finral, Aranen, Maengoth, and Daeren needed no orders and fell in place, eyes silent and faces quiet.
The wind hissed at them as they opened the door and exited. They passed under an open rusted gate of the inner wall and entered a small muddy courtyard that connected to the city’s main road. Lazy ill kept guards sat squatting in a corner of the wall’s formation, dicing and laughing under a morbid swollen sky. Laginir ignored them and walked toward the main road, boots sinking into the ground with each step. Almost through the courtyard they were surprised by a clear strong voice that commanded them to halt. A dark figure detached from the stone wall like an apparition, flowing towards them with lithe purposeful strides, barely disturbing the sodden ground. The other guards took notice, stopped gaming, and appeared to look alert, although obviously unhappy. Laginir knew at once that this man was out of place, his armor was well kept, his stride easy and fluent with a sword at his hip, and he approached them with lips curled in a subtle challenging smile.
“I’m Captian Talikor and the King’s not sent for you yet,” he said.
“Unfortunate,” Laginir replied. “But nevertheless we’ve important business and grow tired of waiting.”
“This is not,” Captain Talikor started before being interrupted.
“No, and it never will be,” Laginir said, menace and impatience creeping into his voice. “Will you let us pass or shall it be another way.”
Captain Talikor actually considered latter option, even if briefly, and Laginir, noting his indecision, knew he was a man to be respected. Bored though, and fed up with his new liege, the captain yearned for the forests of his home in Verdun and was tired of shoddy soldiers. No amount of money was worth the humiliation of his present post. Even if he could hold them off, the ill disciplined soldiers the King had given him for defense of the gates would die or run with little effort.
“An escort for you on your journey,” Talikor said laughingly, giving orders to the milling guards around them, and setting one man, none to happy at being singled out, as their guide.
Twenty guards escorted the company down the main road and cut through the stormy crowd like the bow of a ship, casting eddies of people to the side, turbulent with curiosity. They entered the large main square, recently renamed the Courtyard of Judgement by the newly installed King, and each of them stopped, assaulted by the sight of a huge gallows in its center and the nine bodies tethered to it, swinging listlessly in the wind. A pall of greasy black smoke bellowed from a huge fire to its right in which the arm and leg bones of recently reeducated citizens poked out accusingly. The lead guard snickered.
“None of ya wizards I hope,” he said sneering, nearly laughing while placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Laginir and Gil turned in unison toward the guard and he almost tripped while trying to back away from their menacing glare, eyes gliding over the bright lion head emblems on their armor. Gruffly, he regained composure and led them out of the square, occasionally looking nervously over his shoulder. Laginir cursed and nearly rebelled against Safmir’s last orders. This kingdom wasn’t worth saving, he thought. He should let them all rot.