#twice i’ve seen him described like a serpent and you know who else is shaped like a snek? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kyndaris · 8 years ago

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Sneak Peek

A sneak peek into the second chapter of my story. It’s been a couple years in the making but I hope all those that follow me will find it enjoyable. Or not.

Kiralt skimmed through the report one last time, a heavy scowl decorating his mien. Reaching the end, he rolled up the parchment and roughly shoved it back into his saddlebags. Two patrols lost in just as many days. What had seemed a simple reconnaissance mission had now taken on a direr tone. These were not simple bandits. At least, Kiralt did not think so. Yet the other possibility sent a chilling shiver down his spine. He had his suspicions. The Aethali that had been found in the north quarter was only the beginning, concluded Kiralt. If the beastman’s ramblings held even a grain of truth, it meant that disaster was spiralling towards Winchesa.

At first, they had questioned how the Aethali had managed to elude the guards stationed at the gate. The second mystery came from the beastman’s wounds. He had been all but dead when they had found him, sequestering the suspicious creature into the Wards.

Why had he accepted this commission, Kiralt quietly chided himself. Gods knew he had a comfortable and steady position as master-at-arms for the Ylsven branch of the Protectors. A glorified instructor, perhaps, for the recruits that flocked to join its cause but the pay was decent, he had his own quarters and a freshly minted badge of office. What else could he have asked for?

Alas, the thrill of danger, the promise of something greater, had beckoned. Kiralt should have known and yet he had cast a blind eye to the cravings that drove him. Even though he had abandoned the mercenary life, he knew a small part ardently hoped and wished like a constant whisper in the back of his mind. He had learned to ignore it. When that failed, Kiralt had found it effective to rationalise the few joys he found with the risk of a knife in the abdomen or contracts drying up after a bad run. The thought he would return to a similar lifestyle was laughable.

Yet here he was. The ‘Captain’s’ silver tongue had proven to be as sly and cunning as any serpent.

With a sharp kick, he urged his mettle bay mare on.

Alistair snorted at the command and pulled lightly on the reins. Absentmindedly, Kiralt leaned over to pat her gently on the neck, sensing that the sedate pace he had set only served to aggravate the fiery horse. He ducked under a branch as the road dipped and meandered through the King’s Wood.

“How curious. I believe I spy the lieutenant lost in the glorious memories of yester year,” said a voice, accompanied by the clops of hooves. Kiralt looked up and spied the beastwoman as she rode up on her black mettle bay mare. He gave her a wry grin as she came astride him. The horse nipped gently at Alistair, who huffed but allowed the familiarity. Snowboots, the beastwoman had named her own mettle bay, for the white socks that marked all four of its legs. “Divined any new information after the last twenty times you’ve gone through it?”

“Only that it’s added to my frustration,” replied Kiralt. “If I didn’t know the man, I would have thought he actually preferred vague non sequiturs.”

“Looks like someone has had their feathers ruffled,” observed the Aethali, her dark hazel eyes glinting with mirth. “The promotion not to your liking, sir?” She teased out the last word, placing special attention on the honorific.

Frowning, Kiralt said, “I’ll have you know that I never asked for the promotion, Kulori. I had never hoped to be an officer and I doubt a love for paperwork will suddenly flourish under the guiding hand of the ‘Captain.’”

“A valid reason,” said Kulori though she was fighting back a laugh. “Why be trapped behind a desk when there’s excitement to be found in the wilds. Oh come on Kir, you must be revelling in the power you’re holding over us.”

“Indeed corporal,” he drawled. Kulori flinched and the look on her face could only be described as mutinous. Kiralt bit back a snort as he chuckled quietly into one hand.

He had known Kulori for only a couple of years. She had been a reluctant sparring partner when he had first enlisted with the Protectors. She had managed to disarm him twice and cap out a knee before the day was through. Her injuries, however, had been far more severe and he had treated her to a drink out in the Jewel as an apology. The bruises could be seen for days, darkening her rich sienna dusting of fur.

“Aye, aye,” Kulori finally conceded.

“No jibes?” asked Kiralt as he managed to arch a brow.

Kulori flashed a wolfish smile before a deep furrow appeared on her forehead. “While I’m chomping at the bit for another go, what little you’ve told us is concerning. The Red Suns are nothing but thorough it comes to jobs. Last I heard, the bandit camps stationed from the outskirts of the Jewel to the Gladstone River had been swept clean. The smoke could be seen from miles.”

“We shouldn’t have lost those men.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“And it’s no secret that the Protectors are spread thin. What had once been the royal guard has evolved into a policing force for the entire kingdom,” added Kiralt. “Who do you think could be responsible?”

The beastwoman simply shook her head, “I wish I knew.”

Unsatisfied but unable to press further, Kiralt settled back into the saddle and allowed his mettle bay mare to set the pace, his gaze wandering to the forest paths he had known since he stood as tall as his father’s knee. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, bathing the leaves golden and refracting from the early morning dew. A rustle in the underbrush drew his attention. Tension hunched his shoulders forward and one hand crept to his blade.

Before he could cry out a warning to the men behind, a small creature leapt out before darting beneath the overhanging fronds of another fern, its fluffy tail the last to vanish into the surrounding shrubbery. His lips tugged upwards at the sight. Perhaps when his good days were behind him and he finally settled down with a family he could take his son and teach them how to hunt. Or perhaps abscond from city life altogether and take on the life of a ranger with the freedom it entailed.

The King’s Wood bordered the north of the Jewel, serving as a veritable hunting ground for the nobility as well as trackers. And while the aristocracy saw it as a game, it was a livelihood for those so blessed by Orthrox.

For Kiralt, the hunt was a test of skill. Often in his youth, he had ventured into the forest with his brother at his side and a bow slung across his back. Together they had brought down deer, trapped rabbits and collected what herbs mother had needed for her simple remedies.

Caught in his memories of the past, Kiralt did not notice when the burnished copper Aethali slip behind. He kept his focus on the mare beneath him and when she quickened into a canter, he was ready, freeing up a little of his tight control on the reins. The mare leapt forward, eager. Besides, rationalised Kiralt, they could not afford to wait any longer. For close to two bells, they had tarried in the King’s Wood, hoping that the ‘Rogue of Ylsven’ would join them.

As the trees began to thin and the gravel path, worn smooth by wagons and the thundering hooves of horses, disappeared into the rolling plains beyond the arched exit of canopies, Kiralt slowed Alistair to a brisk trot. Kulori rode up, flanked by two others. One was a hulking giant of a man. His skin was a dark tan and his scarred face was flanked by stringy strands of light brown. Just from a glance, it was clear he was from the Southern Bay. It was clear from a glance that this particular Protector was more familiar with the deck of a ship, though he rode his dappled stallion with ease.

The second was a grizzled beastman that had seen better days. What had once been black fur was now greying at the tips. A scar traced the Aethali’s down from his left eyebrow to his snout. He kept a tight hold on the reins of the feisty mare. From the distinctive head shape to the high tail, the Protector rode a kaendar, if Kiralt knew his horse breeds correctly.

Arnath and Nyris, respectively. Both had been mercenaries in the past and it showed in how they carried themselves to the way they gripped the pommel of their blades. Kiralt was no different. The mercenary guilds trained their men well. Since he had joined the Protectors, he had come to know the two quite well, oft times sharing a drink after a beat through the winding back alleys of the Jewel or a particularly dull watch at the city gates. When he had heard they had both been assigned to his squad, Kiralt had felt both a sense of trepidation and a flare of excitement.

“From there, it’s a straight road down to Bronstone,” said Kiralt, pointing towards the edge of the King’s Wood. “If memory serves, it’ll be at least two days ride.”

“Kulori was just telling us that we might be fighting off more than just bandits, sir,” said Arnath. Kiralt thought he could detect a hint of worry in the large man’s voice. “Do you suppose it could be the Movement?”

“A possibility,” dismissed Kiralt with a wave of his hand, injecting a confidence he did not feel into his voice. “We’ve lost two patrol teams in the area, that’s true. Recent reports, however, indicate that they’re in Berallgor, recruiting for the cause.”

Nyris grunted in agreement. “It’s a fool who would pick a fight with an armed squadron of Protectors. Ain’t that right, Dithe?”

“I wouldn’t put it past any brigands to attack a supply convoy out of necessity or risk a merchant escort,” answered Kiralt. “But I do acknowledge attacking a patrol would be highly irregular.”

Satisfied, Nyris turned to Arnath. “Just as I told ya, Arnath. For a great ol’ shifter, I’m surprised you’d be nervous.”

“Shove off Nyris. A family man like me should be worried. I’ve a wife and three kids to think about back home in Ylsven.”

As the beastman was about to retort, a different set of cadences overlayed their own soft tattoo of hooves. Kiralt pulled on the reins and held his fist out for silence. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the depths of the King’s Wood. The short banter between Nyris and Arnath ceased. Kulori reached for her unstrung bow that nestled just beneath the saddle. The remaining four members of the squad also tensed, reaching for their swords.

Minutes passed as a heavy atmosphere descended over the party. The beastman’s ears twitched at the slightest break and rustle. Finally, Kiralt caught a flash of familiar auburn hair, tied into a messy ponytail, amidst the fresh green buds of green. For a moment, fear seized his throat and he prepared for battle. The command was on his lips before he managed to spy a kaendar stallion racing through the abandoned paths of the King’s Wood, dodging past heavy pines. At last, both horse and rider were visible on the main road, slowing down to a trot.

Seated atop the midnight black creature was Lathin. From the leather coat that fluttered in the wind to the pair of braod swords strapped to the man’s back. With a grin, Kiralt called out a greeting. Chest puffed out, he brought the proud horse to heel even as it snorted heavily, invigorated from its gallop. Where once there had been an old cantankerous palomino the mercenary had kept for years was gone, in its place was a young gelding.

“What? No welcoming party?”

“I’m afraid you just missed it. We’re the only ones left after you spent the bells before dawn negotiating for your pay. I’m actually surprised you caught up with us so quickly,” retorted Kiralt. “We’d just finished the biscuits and wine.”

“A shame,” said Lathin. “I had so wanted to taste that delightful vintage you had hidden under your bed.” The smirk he had first sported now transformed into a frown of dismay. On any woman, it might have moved them to pity. Kiralt, however, had seen it far too many times.

“Perhaps next time,” replied Kiralt, arching an eyebrow. Amused contempt clearly visible for all to see.

He had always envied his friend’s simple charisma that oozed from the chiselled jaw to the high cheekbones. While Kiralt had always been known as the ‘Whirlwind,’ Lathin had been simply termed the ‘Rogue.’ It was an apt moniker even if Lathin had proven his inability to steal anything but the hearts women everywhere in the kingdom.

“Not even a little sip?” wheedled Lathin.

“If you’ve forgotten, we’re on patrol,” said Kiralt, digging his spurs into Alistair’s side. “I may occasionally play the drunk when I’m off-duty but I’m afraid when the ‘Captain’ personally assigns you command of a little soiree in the back-ends of the Kingdom, you’ll do it sober or by Trebessia’s grace, you’ll die trying.”

“Liar. You just want it all to yourself,” said Lathin with a knowing look.

Caught, Kiralt offered a sheepish grin as an apology. “I suppose you brought yourself a healthy dose of brandy for the trip.”

“Whiskey. But are you sure you have nothing hidden in those saddlebags of yours? You know, in case there’s cause for celebration?”

“Bitter herb poultices, if you’re interested,” interrupted Kulori, riding Snowboots between them. She cast Lathin a scathing look, steel grey eyes flashing. “We also have some distilled ethanol to serve as a disinfectant. Care for a taste?”

“I-I. Kulori—“

“Lieutenant,” said Kulori tersely. Despite his best efforts, Kulori pointedly ignored all of Lathin’s contrite overtures. “Shall I scout ahead?” Her tone was cool and she barely battered an eyelid when Kiralt finally gave his consent, glancing up at Lathin who desperately shook his head.

With a nod, she brushed forward on her mare without a backwards glance. As she passed, the mercenary flinched, his entire body tensing up as if he expected a blow. None came even as a palpable silence took hold. Finally, Lathin drudged up what little remained of his courage.

“She’s still mad, isn’t she?”

Kiralt grimly nodded. “After what you did the night before last? I’m afraid so, Lathin.”

“Durnham, strike me down. You know, she kicked me out of her quarters when I even brought her flowers. And a platter of the finest cuts from the Jolly Dwarf.”

“Give it time.” Kiralt shrugged. “Besides, the two of you are the only trackers we have. I would have preferred it if we rode with a small company of soldiers to this godsforsaken town but I’ll play the hand I’m dealt.”

“You know as well as the ‘Captain’ that sending out a search party would only bring unwanted attention,” chided Lathin. As they reached the edge of the King’s Wood, they ducked under a few low-lying boughs and emerged onto the rolling plains that the city state was infamous for. Known as the breadbasket of the Kingdom, it was home to the bustling metropolis that shared its name. Ylsven.

In the distance, Kiralt watched as Kulori crested a hill like a speck of shadow among the green. He had never been one to judge his friends but it was clear from the Aethali’s recount of the events that Lathin had hurt her deeply. The infidelity had cut something deep within the beastwoman. A small part, however, rejoiced though he gave it little voice.

He looked back over at Lathin and the beast he now commandeered. A question rose to the fore of his mind and begged to be asked. “What happened to Jyll?” he finally asked. “Granted, my memory may not be as sharp as it once was but I doubt she was a kaendar, let alone a gelding.”

Enthused by the change in topic, Lathin sat up in his saddle, his lips twisting into his patented debonair smirk as his eyes glinted. “Curious, Kir? This here is Varhn. Bough him off a horse merchant who couldn’t tell the difference between a bridle and a horse shoe. Let alone realise he had a kaendar on his hands.”

“I suppose you sold Jyll then?”

Lathin nodded. “The last time I was out on a mission for the Black Steels, she went down. For a moment, my heart was in my throat and I thought I’d lost her forever. Still, it was a nasty break but instead of putting her down, I’ve put her out to pasture. The old girl deserved at least that much.”

“At least she’ll be free from your corrupting influence,” said Kiralt.

“I resent that remark, Kir. I loved Jyll as much as my own mother.”

“You rode her like a possessed daemon. And I’ll bet Varhn here will be treated no different.” At his words, the young gelding snorted. Kiralt thought it sounded much like agreement and pitied the proud creature. “A kaendar’s wasted on you.”

“Ha,”Lathin growled playfully. “You just wait Kir. One of these days, I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Of course,” Kiralt said with mock deference. “Should we bet now or later?”

Tents were pitched as dusk has fallen. At first the hills had shone a vibrant gold. By the time the last one had been hammered into the soft mud, the hills seemed like misshapen purple lumps as the sun crossed beyond the western horizon. Kiralt had allowed the men to light a fire and even inside the small cramped tent he had claimed as his own, Kiralt’s mouth watered at the whiffs of roasted rabbit. A welcome surprise when Kulori had finished scouting the surrounding area with three rabbits in tow.

The fire also served a second purpose. Though spring had come to the breadbasket, the nights still held a chill. Wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak, Kiralt relished the warmth of the flames as they permeated through the thin canvas. As he unrolled his bedroll for the night, he could not help the intrusive thoughts of the morning creeping into his mind. What had been a lax afternoon on the plains of Ylsven, questioning villagers as they passed through small hamlets, presented itself in a new light.

Yes, they had seen the blue and gold of the Protector’s colours. No, there had not been word of any recent attacks in the region, bandits or otherwise. The only unusual wrinkle in their daily lives had been the two patrol parties passing through in quick succession.

Again, Kiralt found his thoughts circling the puzzle that had presented itself. The information they had pieced together made no sense. If the men were alive, why had they not sent word? Yet, if they were dead, why had no curious shepherd stumbled upon their bodies? He wished he could have accepted Lathin’s offer for a drink but the promise he had made to himself still held sway. The tremor in his hands had all but subsided though there had been many a day that did not go by without him craving one. Sobriety would have to see him through this particular obstacle.

For all he knew, the men had simply forgotten to report in. Why waste good ink and parchment to send a missive? He had done it a few times back during his mercenary days, especially on long expeditions where the tedious journey lulled them into a sense of security and boredom. Their clients had been furious but at the time, Kiralt had brushed off their concerns with a warm drink and a laugh.

But that had been then. The Vipers had not been beholden to a city state or a kingdom. If they had failed to return, clients would have cursed and grumbled on good coin going to waste before seeking out another company. The Protectors, however, were men of the realm, loyal and steadfast in their service to the Crown. He could only pray that the men were hale and hearty. Perhaps they were holed up in a tavern, enjoying a glass of the finest brandy.

Kiralt could only dream it would be so simple.

He was interrupted from his musings by the casual grumblings of his stomach. Pushing out of the tent, Kiralt found his way to the fire pit.

Keeping an eye on the rabbits was Nyris. The old Aethali looked up at his approach, stirring the pot a final time. Kiralt could feel his mouth salivating as the scintillating smell of broth wafted over.

“Smells good,” he said, wiping his hands on his sweaty tunic.

“Nearly ready,” grunted the beastman. “Give it a few more minutes, Dithe. Need to let it simmer.” Despite Nyris’s appearance, he was an excellent cook even as he grumbled over his assigned duty.

“I’ll take your word for it, Nyris.”

“Kulori has a good eye. These rabbits are fat enough to be a good meal,” said Nyris. Leaning close, the beastman continued in a whisper, “And, between the both of us, that woman also has good taste. I raided her personal stores for a few spices. Adds just the right amount of kick. What would make it better is if we had a good vintage of red wine to go with it.”

“Alas,” agreed Kiralt with a grin.

With a friendly nod, Kiralt left the Aethali to tend to the fire. Instead, he negotiated the haphazard camp to the pinions where they had hitched the horses for the night. In the flickering flames of the fire, Alistair’s coat shone red. The mare snorted as he approached. She impatiently nudged at his arms as he drew level, snuffling at his hands for a cube of sugar or treat. With a smile on his face, Kiralt gently patted the mettle bay mare, cooing out platitudes. He brushed one hand down through her mane.

“Sorry Ali. No apples today,” he said. “You’ll just have to make do with the oats, like the others.”

Whether or not she understood, Alistair backed away, tossing her head as she did so and let out a sharp whinny of disappointment. Kiralt allowed a smirk to cross his features. He always did spoil her rotten. It was funny, now that he recalled their first meeting, that he had drawn his sword on the sweet animal. Fingers trembling with sweat cascading down his forehead, rendering him all but blind.

Out of the darkness, she had emerged. Back then she had been a young curious filly. To Kiralt, she had been a monster from the depths. Kiralt remembered Lathin laughing along with Adur. He had awkwardly followed suit once his nerves had calmed, trying to diminish his embarrassment and fear with mirth. That had been in his younger years when the mercenary life still had its appeal.

From there, he had come to trust in the horse and found enjoyment from both her greedy ways to her independent spirit. In turn, she had come to know his moods.

Two years after he had acquired her, they had become nigh inseparable partners. She had been with him through thick and thin. Kiralt would be hard pressed to envision another horse to replace Alistair.

He watched as the mare joined the others as they grazed. She took particular care around the unfamiliar kaendar gelding though it was clear that she accepted the young stallion into their midst. With a knowing smile, Kiralt left Alistair to her own devices and returned to camp, this time accompanied by the saddle bags he had removed.

As he negotiated his way back to his tent, Kiralt greeted all the Protectors he passed, from the fresh-faced sergeant Dresdin to Arnath. He knew all of them by name, even if he might not be able to place each face. The men assembled had been handpicked by the ‘Captain.’

“Dithe, over here,” called out an Aethali. Though he looked fairly young with burnished copper fur, Kiralt knew the beastman had seen his fair share of battle, stationed in the Southern Bay during the skirmish with the corsairs.

Kiralt hesitated for a brief second. Swiftly, he sifted through his memories for a name. He was certain the Aethali shared a name with one of Winchesa’s heroes of old. Finally, he acknowledged the beastman with a nod. “Rolad.”

“It’s Ragast,” the Protector corrected with a suffering sigh.

“That’s the one,” Kiralt said, quickly recovering and hoping to hide his error with a cocksure grin.

The Aethali refused to bite. Instead, Ragast seemed amused at his attempts. “Whether or not you have the head for names, I just wanted thought it might be best to bring up that your friend over there,” at this he nodded towards Lathin who was struggling with his solitary tent on the far side of camp, “tried to smuggle in some moonshine. He’s a mercenary so I gave him a bit of a pass. I did confiscate a bottle of the 1452 he had. Should have seen how he mouthed me off for that one.”

“Are you cracking it open for a drink later on?” asked Kiralt, a little curious.

There was a knowing smile on the beastman’s lips. “Think I’ll save it for a special occasion. Just tell him that if he had only been one to share I would not have thought twice about it. We’re all King’s men here.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Kiralt said over his shoulder, a chuckle in his voice as he entered his tent, ducking under the flaps. He threw the saddlebags atop his bedroll and as he was preparing for dinner, he heard the rustling of canvas. Lathin poked his auburn covered head through, a half-empty skin of wine in his hand. Cheeks flushed, he all but stumbled inside, ready to divulge the day’s woes.

#attempt at writing #storytelling

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