The Mercenary's Path part 14

Three days later Thom awoke. He pushed the blanket back and looked at his knee. The bruising had subsided to a mild purple and shrunk to the area just around the knee. There were yellow splotches still on his shin and thigh, but it was easy to overlook them. He bent his knee, slowly at first, but realized it didn’t hurt a bit. He swung his legs around to the floor and stood.

“The old man did it!” Thom exclaimed to no one in particular.

Thom marched in place a bit without issue. He then walked around the room some, still doing fine. He squatted, and his knee played along. There was one issue though, his leg was noticeably heavier. He would need to go outside to check, but this did not bode well for running and jumping. Still, he could walk normally, just with some extra effort.

Hunger bit and Thom’s attention shifted from his leg to his stomach. He looked around, but saw no food. He didn’t know this building very well, but he decided to look around anyway. He’d probably find someone to help point him to the kitchen.

Thom opened the door and found the hallway deserted. The floor was covered with a thin rug that was covered in dust. Thom didn’t think anything of it, but he probably should have. Looking left and right, both directions seemed equally fine. Without a coin to flip, he let his feet decide and found himself going left. Thom passed several doors that looked like the one he had come from. He considered opening them, but he didn’t want to disturb any recovering patients. He decided to just keep going until he came to a more important looking door. Several minutes later he came to the end of the hall. There was no special door, just a wall with a crest on a banner. Alright, he would turn back and go to the other end of the hall.

Thom turned and noticed a single set of footprints on the the rug, which he figured were his own. That struck him as strange, that there would be only set. He decided to backtrack over them and keep watch for a second set. Having reached his room, he saw no other tracks. Now he was concerned. He ducked into his room and looked for a weapon. Finding nothing suitable, he decided to break the chair and take a leg with as a club.

Back in the hall, Thom decided to go right this time. Surely he would find someone to explain all this and they would laugh at his actions. He passed a door like his own. He stopped, then turned back to the door. He put his hand to the knob, but stopped. He put his ear to the wood and listened. There was no sound, save his heart beating in his ears. He put his and on the knob and turned.

The room was empty, with a layer of dust like in the hall. There was a bed, chair, chamberpot, and simple candelabra. Thom crossed the small room to look out the window. He saw a courtyard littered with debris. There was a fountain in the center, but it was broken and dry. He thought he saw bones in the distance, but couldn’t be sure. The sky was gray, which was unexpected for this time of year. He backed away from the window and made his way to the hall.

Thom half-ran (for he could not yet trust his leg to fully run) from room to room and found them all similarly empty and dusty. Reaching the other end of the hall, he found a large wooden door. He gripped his makeshift club and then pushed the door open.

Thom found himself in a large foyer with the same crest on the floor. He looked at the crest for some time and realized he did not recognize it. This was not his king’s crest. It was not even a crest of a monarch he recognized. It looked like a snake’s open mouth surrounding a shield with a flame on its face. This foyer was very dusty as well, and Thom spotted a set of footprints leading between two of the large doors.

Thom wasn’t sure if he wanted to actually find someone in this weird place. He looked around and found what looked like a door out of the area. He decided it looked too desolate outside and decided to take his chances with who - or what - ever he found inside. Knights were supposed to be fearless; but squires were not held to quite such a level, and for that he was grateful. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and walked toward the closer of the two doors with footprints.

Thom was about to push it open when he heard someone speaking behind the door. It sounded like they were getting closer. He ducked to the side with the hinge and hoped to avoid confrontation for now. The door swung open and out walked a young man wearing travelling clothes. He carried something in his hands in front of him as headed for the the other door. When he reached it, he kicked the bottom of the door. It opened a few seconds later and he walked in. Thom released his breath that he realized he had been holding.

The man’s clothing threw Thom. He thought he was in a castle, but if he was, why was that man dressed for being on the road for days or even weeks. He expected a guard’s uniform or simple finery suitable for a servant to someone important. He looked down at his own long bed shirt and realized that he wasn’t properly attired either. No matter, he needed to continue looking. He stood and pushed the door open.

There was a long corridor that branched off in the distance. The hall was lit by light rocks, some set into the wall, others on the ground. Thom had seen them at the castle before. From his understanding, when they were mined from the earth they looked just like any other stone. But when left in the sun all day, they would glow at night. Very large light rocks were very valuable, as they could glow for longer - some up to a month it was said. These were small, and would easily fit into the palm of his hand. There was a door to his right.

Thom walked to the door and opened it slowly. The room was too dark to see into. Thom looked around the hall and grabbed a light rock from the floor and went in the room, closing the door behind him. There were shelves lined with jars and boxes, but of what Thom could not determine. Some were labeled, but he could not read. None of them smelled like food. Shaking his head, Thom headed back to the door. He listened intently, but heard nothing.

Back in the hallway, Thom walked to the next door. He could hear someone speaking. Not yet. He went to the next door and heard nothing behind it. He pushed slowly and found it was lit with light rocks. He closed the door behind him and looked around. It seemed to be a library of some sort. Books lined the walls and shelves. He went back to the door and listened. A door opened and closed, foot steps receded, another door opened and closed.

This whole hall was probably more learning stuff, it just made sense to Thom. That was always his weak spot. Not that there was much money for schooling, but he just didn’t have the head for letters. Numbers were a little better. He had learned to count to twenty, which seemed plenty. It was conveniently also the number of arrows that would fit comfortably in a quiver.

Thom headed down the hall back to the foyer. He didn’t want to be caught deep inside just in case... something happened. In his haste, he forgot to listen at the door first and ended up crashing into someone. Before he could gather his thoughts, Thom found himself running out the main door. The awkward weight of his brace didn’t hold him back in the slightest.

Thom ran several hundred feet before finding himself in a strange fog. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but suddenly his vision was restricted to only six or seven feet. He turned back to look at where he came from and it was clear. Danger alarms rang in his head, and he made sure he still had the chair leg - he did. The light rock seemed to have been dropped somewhere along the way, probably when he ran into that man. He looked around for a hiding spot while he made a plan, but the grounds surrounding the building were barren and void of man-made structures. He decided to run further into the fog and lay down. At least he would be harder to spot that way.

I miss bookstores

It’s weird. It’s been gone for a month or so now, but I still can’t believe it’s gone. No, that’s not right. I can, I just don’t want to. Of course, I certainly didn’t help. And apparently enough people also didn’t. Oh sure, I enjoyed going, but not buying. I’d browse, peruse. Hell, I even went three weekends in a row to read a book. Seriously, I’d go to Borders, read for an hour or so, head next door to the sushi place to get an eel bowl and some sake, then head back for another hour of reading. I never bought the book. Even when I started to really get back into reading, I wouldn’t buy anything except the cheapest of bargain buys. The Wise Man’s Fear (amazing, btw) came out and I bought it from Amazon. It was half price (hard cover for essentially paperback price), and shipping was free (thanks Amazon Prime trial). How many hours did I spend in there, killing time before a movie in the last eleven years? More than a hundred? I wouldn’t doubt it. How much money did I spend there over the last eleven years? Probably five hundred. Most of it on non-books. I’ve read some people blame it on the rise of the e-reader. I’m sure that contributed, but I really think it started with the internet offering HALF OFF. There are few things I need immediately. And even if I absolutely desired getting a book today, there’s no guarantee that a store would have it in stock. I recently ordered a bunch of books from (you guessed it, Amazon) and just selected the free shipping option (I didn’t keep the Prime, but I’m sure it’s a great deal for some) and waited 10 days.

Fuck, where’m I gonna get Secret Santa Christmas gifts now?

BTW: This is an old blog entry from 2011 or so that I had saved before the host went away. I am presently very happy with my Amazon Prime. Speaking of Amazon, have you checked out my  zombie e-book on Amazon?

Writing on Writing

So this blog is like an ongoing first draft of this story. I realized that the commander gets referenced entirely too much to not have a name, but I didn't want to go back and update multiple entries to correct it. Should I ever consolidate and publish, I will definitely give him a name.

I feel like I've run into a dead-end right now. There's more story not yet published, but it may take more than a little handwaving to get the characters past where I have them right now. I'd rather not, but I'm just not sure where else to go. And that sucks, because I really like Stephen King's approach of always writing the truth. Sure, there's magic and a pseudo-medieval world going on, but still, there's an internal logic to the story. Or I might go GoT, which could potentially solve the issue. Maybe that's why they all die in his stories?

In my zombie story (available now on Amazon) I kill off a character pretty quickly and I had some backlash from some of readers. Others liked it, but I get not everyone wants to get invested in a character only to see him or her die.

Any thoughts from you, the reader at home? Let me know in the comments!

The Mercenary's Path part 13

Zand noticed a rather strong presence of city watch in the area. The caravan was outside the walls, but it was not uncommon for there to be some guards watching over the merchants and travelers camped outside. But there were far more now, and it looked like they were waiting for something. He started counting, but after reaching fifty it seemed unnecessary.

Zand ducked his head into the wagon, “Flonk, get out here. Something is going on.”

He may not like the man, but at least they wore the same color. Figuratively, at least, as their actual robes were of varying hues. Zand kept watching as the number of guards increased. Flank exited looking like he had dressed in the dark, his robe was twisted and his head wrap was loose.

“What? You see a butterfly and wet yourself? I keep telling you they’re harmless,” Flask said.

“I… Just look over there,” Zand motioned to the walls. “What do you suppose they need fifty or more guards for? I’m gonna go tell the commander that something weird is going on.”

Fork turned to look where and saw the sheer number of armed men. They were easily identified by the yellow flourishes on their armor, and some wore yellow capes. His eyes went cold and narrow. His breathing changed and he reached for his sword, only he wasn’t wearing it while in costume.

“Yeah, you better let him know. I’m going to notify some of the other men to be on alert. I’ll say that some suspicious characters have been walking around. Don’t want to start a war if I don’t have to,” Fernk said to Zand.

Zand was surprised by the change in the man’s demeanor, but didn’t have time to study him. Triple-checking to make sure his armor wasn’t showing, he walked as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run. He found the commander’s tent soon enough, but the commander was no where to be found.

***********************

The commander neared the gates, but stopped when he saw the city watch filing out toward the caravan. There were other groups out there, which would buy some time. Unfortunately, going out the same gate would arouse too much suspicion as all non-guard traffic had stopped. There was another gate, but he worried he would be too late. He broke into a trot and headed for the other way out.

He wound his way through the crowds, past vendor stalls, between buildings. The wall was close, he could see it in the distance. He crashed into a portly, older man wearing what might be finery (it was hard to tell these days), knocking him over. The commander mumbled his apologies and continued.

“Come back here! I demand restitution! You have ruined my finest silk robe! Guards! Guards!” the old man yelled from the ground.

The commander had no time to waste, his men were depending upon him. Finally, the wall. He looked back and forth. Where was the gate?

“Excuse me, I seem to be lost. Where is the gate? I was told it was this way,” the commander said to a child playing in the dirt.

The child looked up at him and said, “You look funny,” before resuming his game.

The commander looked about and spotted a woman and her child walking with some wrapped packages. He approached and asked about the gate. The woman told him that he was on the wrong side of the town. She pointed toward the main gate which he was avoiding and to the beggar’s gate across town. He thanked her and began his trek. Suddenly he remembered the old man yelling for the guards. While there was the issue outside the gates, surely some would remain inside to maintain order. He took a wide path around where he last saw the old man, just in case.

***********************

What looked like the captain of the guard appeared and began addressing the city watch that had gathered outside the wall. After a few minutes, he turned and headed back behind the walls, while the rest fanned out and began inspecting wagons and questioning people. Fisk balled his fists and swallowed hard. He didn’t know why, but he had a bad feeling.

Zand asked everyone he saw about the commander’s whereabouts. Finally, he found someone that said the commander had gone into town to obtain supplies. Zand found it weird the commander would be the one to procure supplies. He figured there must be someone else to handle such mundane tasks.

“Zam, I got a bad feeling about this. Maybe they think we’re an invading army, like scouts or sabotagers, or something,” Frik said to Zand.

Zand was about to correct the man on his name, but then felt a little hypocritical as he didn’t know his name either. But bonehead was right, that must be the problem. Somehow it must have gotten out that they weren’t actually merchants but rather a militia, but they left off the part about being on the hunt for bandits. Oh, if only the commander were around to sort out this mess.

“I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. We just need the commander to explain our presence and it’ll blow over,” Zand hoped out loud.

Flavor, texture, breakfast

I read this article online from a man that had lost his sense of smell in an accident and explaining how it's changed parts of his life that we normally would not discuss in polite company. The article itself was interesting enough, but it's the comments I care about right now. Someone asked him various questions about food, and he remarked that without his sense of smell, food had lost its nuance. He finds colors and textures more interesting now. I had enjoyed textures in my food before, crunchy taco shells, soft pudding, crisp lettuce, etc. but they were not the primary reason for me eating something.

I'm at breakfast this morning with my lovely girlfriend at one of my favorite diners and she asked how my food was. I say everything's wonderful. Then I noticed that while the hash browns are indeed great, it's really the texture I'm referring to. They have almost no flavor, but I don't care. They are crispy on the outside - audibly crunchy, no less - and soft (in a good way) in the inside. It's not something I've ever articulated or thought about until after reading his comments. But there I was, enjoying flavorless texture.

As I'm telling her my thoughts, she hears the passion in my voice. She says I'm excited about hash browns, and I murmur I like food. She laughed and said I should write about it. So here I am.

The whole breakfast was wonderful. They do a variation on eggs Benedict with a biscuit and sausage patty instead of the traditional English muffin and ham. The biscuit is fluffy, though structurally unsound. I found myself needing to use a spoon to eat my meal after the gravy soaked in. The sausage patty was particularly spicy this morning, which may be due to my cereal Renaissance at home. Seriously, I haven't eaten this much cereal since I was ten (Tiger Flakes, yo). The hollandaise and poached eggs were marvelous, if not terribly unique.

The other gem on my plate was the jalapeño bacon. I've bought a few different brands of jalapeño bacon over the years, but they are often not spicy in the least. Also, I've yet to master getting bacon crispy when I cook it. It's always good, but a little disappointing to pick up. Anyway, this bacon is spicy, meaty, and crisp. As we're talking, we both fall silent each time one of use takes a bite. I even reflexively close my eyes and my head drops a little. She's similarly enjoying her own strips of paradise.

My food starts to grow cold and I hurry to eat it before it turns inedible. The biscuit is losing all identity, the previously runny yolk is congealing, the hollandaise loses its zest, the hash browns cold and limp. But the jalapeño bacon, oh that glorious jalapeño bacon remained delicious even in that final bite.

The Mercenary's Path part 12

Thom spent a week waking only long enough to eat something, fill his bedpan, and take more medicine. On the eighth day he awoke to find he had a visitor sitting in a chair facing his bed. It was Master Grahm, but this time he had only food and water for Thom. He spoke while Thom ate.

“Your pain should have subsided enough for us to try something experimental. That M’kesh did some serious damage to your leg. Normally such an injury would leave a man unable to do little more than hobble the rest of his life. But you are lucky to live in such an age,” Master Grahm smiled to himself just as much as to Thom as he stood and walked out of the room.

A few minutes later Master Grahm returned with a metal contraption with leather straps. He set it on the table next to the bed and pulled Thom’s blanket back. Thom pulled at the edge of his nightshirt to cover himself before remembering that Master Grahm had seen more cocks than a chicken baron and was wholly unfazed by such matters. Thom let his eyes wander to his knees. The right one was the same as always. The left one was swollen and didn’t have the right angle it should. There was dark bruising halfway up the thigh and midway down his calf. At the edges it was yellow, but most was an angry blackish purple.

Master Grahm traced a line from the top of the bruise on the thigh to the knee, shifting his angle as he went to the bottom portion on the shin. Thom knew the damage was bad, but seeing the bend in the line like that made it seem all the worse. Master Grahm reached into his pocket and pulled out a long needle and a small bottle.

“You are no doubt familiar with splints, yes? They are a handy thing to have been invented. But your knee is meant to bend. Were I to fix a splint to it, your knee would heal, but the joint would heal stiff and you would walk with a terrible limp the rest of your life. Fine for an inn keeper, but a shite deal for a knight.”

He pricked the skin in several spots. Thom winced in pain, but did his best to not move. Master Grahm pressed on the skin around the pricks and a dark liquid seeped out. This he wiped away with a clean rag he produced before pouring the liquid from the small bottle into each small hole. Thom’s pain abated almost immediately, his face showing the relief. Master Grahm noted the change in expression and smiled. Reaching over, he grabbed the contraption and set it on the bed next to Thom’s leg. He lifted the battered leg slowly and slid the contraption beneath it, then lowered the leg into place. Next, he began lacing the straps. Thom steeled himself for the inevitable pain. It arrived, though was less than expected. Master Grahm snugged each lace tight, pulling Thom’s knee into place.

Looking at his leg, he wondered why Master Grahm had gone on about the problems of splints when it seemed that’s what he just gave him. Master Grahm seemed to sense this question and lifted a hand to stop Thom from asking.

“Right now, your knee is held secure and you cannot bend it. But…” Master Grahm trailed off as he fiddled with the contraption, pulling and flicking at it, “There you go.” And with that, Master Grahm grabbed Thom’s knee with one hand and the ankle with the other and bent his leg.

“To the seven!... That didn’t hurt. Why didn’t that hurt?” Thom asked.

Master Grahm began to laugh, softly at first, but it grew louder and louder.

“It worked! Oh thank the seven gods, it worked!” Master Grahm exclaimed. “I mean, I read that it should, but to see it with your own eyes is different!”

Thom could see that the old man needed a minute.

Finally Master Grahm calmed down enough to explain, “You see, this is no mere steel and leather. The metal is called mythril. Dwarves mine it, or so the tales tell. I really don’t know the specifics. And the leather is made from wyvern hide. They’re a nasty creature, similar to a dragon - though don’t ever tell a dragon that! If the legends are to be believed, hoo boy, they do not take such comparisons well. Anyway, these materials, along with the sap of the yggdr tree - which as you know is unique among trees for healing itself when woodsmen attempt to cut it down - have bonded to your leg and take the place of your natural knee. Your knee is still there of course, but as far as your body is concerned, the device is doing all its work!”

Thom looked at his knee, which was still as dark and painful looking as it had been. When he touched the skin, the pain was minimal. He pushed on the skin and a wave of pain cascaded across the knee as well as the brace. He was confused as to how he felt the brace. He pressed on the metal and he could swear he could feel the tip of his finger through it. Master Grahm laughed again.

“I told you, it’s bonded to your leg. There were also some strange runes carved into the mythril, though they face your leg so they cannot be read by others. I think that’s part of the magic. To be certain, I have no idea how it works, only that it seems to.” Master Grahm pulled another small bottle from his pocket and handed it to Thom saying, “Well, I think this is enough excitement for today. Drink this and sleep. You will awake in three days and we can begin teaching you to walk again.”

With that Master Grahm exited the room. Thom looked at the bottle, and then at his knee. He uncorked the bottle and drained it in one swig.

###########

I hope you're enjoying this story. I also have a zombie e-book on Amazon that I'm rather proud of.

The Mercenary's Path part 11

Zand spent the next several days trying to create cheese, bread, sausages, and even rat meat. None of it seemed to work. His headaches took longer to subside, which worried him. There was nothing in their supplies for pain. Plenty of springthyme had been packed, as it would provide valuable energy during a fight. Also packed was nightshade, which did have numbing qualities, but it was poisonous and brought along to give to dying men to ease their final hours.

When the food was down to the last meal, the commander had a tough decision to make. He was responsible for the safety of his men, and decided to risk the mission in favor of their all dying. Hunting teams were allowed to bring back one striped rat or crow per man, as their bags would still look unchanged. Additionally he proclaimed a hankering for some wild pig, so they were permitted to hunt them as well. Still, it wouldn’t do to have everyone off hunting, so he hoped the few men that went out found plenty of pigs.

Several hours later the hunters returned with a pregnant sow. While it was standard practice to avoid killing pregnant animals, these were dire times. The extra meat inside would be helpful, too.

The mother was roast on a spit, while her entrails and the unborn were boiled in a stew that was mostly water and meat with just a few pine needles added for flavor. No one complained when dinner was served, but nobody referenced what was in the stew.

***********************

The commander decided to push on to the destination city, and hope that they could re-supply on credit. Thankfully, the bandits did not attack the caravan during the trip. That’s where the commander’s luck run out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You want supplies for thirty men, for two weeks. On credit. That’s preposterous enough, but you don’t even live here. No. No. I can’t do it. I won’t do it,” the merchant practically laughed in his face.

He realized when he was beat. Why should this man offer what amounted to charity to total strangers? The men could hunt on the way back and abandon any pretense of their being an actual merchant caravan. It was not ideal, but it was an option. They could also try to accompany actual caravans as guards, but adding their own wagons would make the train too large to be believable.

Or they could join the problem.

The commander was aware that he brought an army he could not feed. An army capable of taking what they wanted by force if they chose to. That would be bad.

He looked into the merchant’s eyes and laid it bare. He explained the reason for the men, and why they had been unprepared and unfunded. He told how there were thirty armed and formidable men that needed food and had no civil way to obtain it. And while it is very effective, no one wants to accept steel as payment.

The merchant did his best to keep his face from showing alarm. He maintained a mostly steady voice as he said that maybe he had some low-quality grain he could part with, though he would need to review his books. He excused himself to fetch them from the back room, but could maintain his composure no more and bolted for the door, slamming it shut and barring it from the inside. A loud clanging noise came from the other room and the commander realized he had been bested a second time. There was no time to hang around, the town guard would come running soon.

The commander exited the shop and made his way to another building before any guards could spot him. Thankfully it was a clothing boutique and he had a few silver coins in his boot. He found the cheapest robe and headwrap and haggled the price for both to a single silver coin. He removed the boot, fetched the coin, and slipped his purchases on. He hoped it would be sufficient to make his way to the caravan outside without being recognized.

***********************

Zand pulled half of last night’s portion of crow from his pack and created a small flame to heat it before gulping it down. What he wouldn’t give for even a piece of stale bread right about now. The commander had ordered the men to maintain the appearance of a caravan, so no one was hunting. If the commander came back empty handed, he didn’t know what the others might do. He wondered if he should have stayed on at the inn. He got lost in thought of stew and fresh bread.

“What’s that smell? It smells like meat in here!” accused Flunk or Flink, or whatever his name was.

“You’re hallucinating,” Zand played it off. “Hunger can do strange things to a man.”

Flank looked around once more before turning over and going back to sleep. Zand realized he should be more careful with his food. Just because they were his rations last night didn’t seem to mean much to these men. He wrapped the last bit of meat in a rag and stuffed it to the bottom of his pack. He then made sure his dagger’s sheath was secure and that his dagger could be retrieved easily, while keeping an eye on the sleeping bully.

Zand stood and made sure his merchant garb was covering his armor. Some of the men wore iron, but that was too heavy for him. He finally settled on a leather cuirass. It covered his vital organs well enough, though he was warned that it wouldn’t keep him as safe as iron would. He countered that being stuck on his back was dangerous in its own way. At least this allowed him to move about without too much trouble. He even managed to levitate while wearing it. After double-checking that he was covered, he exited the wagon to get some air.