NaNo WriMo Day 11: Holding

Chapter 11: Holding

Enlil sprinted through the open field as arrows skipped along the ground behind him.  He was covered in a thin layer of dust, dulling the freshly oiled sheen on his leather armor. He reached the small stone wall and cleared it in a single jump.  The adrenaline surged through his body and his voice came alive as he spoke to the small group gathered in the grove.  “The bloody cunts.  They brought the entire clan.”  He leaned against a nearby fruit tree and worked on catching his breath.  

It had only taken two days of searching the rugged hills to find what they had thought to be the remnants of the long hidden hill tribe known as the Black Crows.  It was suspected they had been coming out of the hilltops and raiding among the foothills and plains.  Sure enough, here they were invading the simple farmlands of a rightful citizen of Alb.  However, remnants wasn’t a proper description.  Enlil had spotted an entire tribe traveling together; women, children, and warriors.  Many warriors.

Enlil’s party had worked its way back down from a pair of twin hill tops that the  locals had grown fond of calling the “humps”.  The farmstead had taken hold near the creek that split the hills.  The Alb farmer and his woman had been hospitable the first night.  The second he seemed irritated when he learned of the presence of the Black Crows.  

Had it been Enlil’s decision, he would had let the farmer be and set a hard ride for the camp, but it was not Enlil’s decision to make.  His feathered sergeant, Caedmon, had ordered the men to hold fast deep in the grove out of site.  Enlil suspected he meant to gather more on the Crows as they passed and favored a slower journey back to the main force instead of a frenzied escape with or without the farmer in tow.  

Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for the Black Crows to prove the plan folly.  On the morning of the third day, a shout had come from the farmhouse.  Caedmon had sent Enlil and another unfeathered soldier, Turin, to investigate.  The two found the farmer split open from ear to ear on the back store room’s floor.  Knocked over foodstuffs trailed out of the room mixed among bloody foot prints.  

Turin was the first to follow the trail and catch site of the thieves cresting the far hedge row, black feathers streaming from their hair.  Turin agreed to head back into the grove while Enlil surveyed the stone house for the farmer’s lady friend.  The scream had definitely been that of the farmer.  Either the woman was dead as well, hidden elsewhere in the house, or she was deaf.  

His and Turin’s entrance into the house meant that they had cleared the main dwelling.  All that remained was the stable outside the low stone wall of the orchard.  Enlil closed the distance between the two buildings quick and silent enough.  A peak through the closest door revealed nothing.  A pig waddled in the corner while the plow horses whinnied at his sudden presence.  Hens pecked the ground as they passed in and out underneath the rough wood doors.

Enlil did not care much for the mystery of the missing woman.  She may have been carried off in the night or played an excellent game of hide and seek.  Yet, he knew Caedmon would question him, so he figured a look into the pasture down was warranted.  It was through the hedge row, so he would most likely get a glimpse of the retreating thieves.

He approached the hedge row with caution as he trotted down the path at a slight jog.  The first arrow whizzed by before he could react.  The second nearly caught him in the groin.  By the third arrow Enlil had begun his retreat.  The thieves hadn’t meant to escape at all.  They were going back to advise of clearing the house.  A line of Black Crow warriors popped up like rodents from a city sewer as Enlil looked over his shoulder.

The distinctive whooping cry known to the eastlanders as an order for battle among the hill tribes chased Enlil as he ran.  More arrows loosed in his direction as he made the wall.

At first the thrill of the moment drove a smile across Enlil’s face, but as Caedmon appeared from the thicket of trees Enlil knew something was wrong.  The Crows had already sent scouts into the grove and the blood streaked across the sleeves of Caedmon’s white sergeants doublet spoke silent confirmation of the danger they faced.  

The hefty nature of the fruit trees provided a natural barrier preventing the threat of arrow fire throughout the grove.  Caedmon’s band worked it’s way along the rows back to their horses.  Having finished the scout in silence had given them enough of a head start to mount up and choose a route for escape.

As soon as the mounted men broke through the long gap in the stone wall the air buzzed to life.  Arrow fire cascaded from all directions as the Crows revealed themselves.  Horses screamed and threw riders.  Enlil found himself as the lone rider as he watched as Caedmon’s horse crumpled.   He spurred his mount and made for creek knowing the creekside hills were his lone chance.

Enlil had only enough time to look back once.  The Crow warriors descended upon the downed men in a frenzy.  The fight was over before it started with only Caedmon able to bear his sword long enough to trade blows one for one.  Enlil turned back forward concentrating on his flight.  He needed to get back to the Alban camp.  

Cold water splashed up from the creek and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves thundered upon the stone of the creek bed.  Enlil was shocked to realize the horse was racing on without him.  Pain caught up with the sensation of water grabbing at his armor.  He struggled to get to his knees as dark spots began to obscure his vision.  The blackness consumed him and he toppled, limp-bodied into the creek.

Enlil awoke with a grogginess reserved for the worst of nights of drinking.  He shot up hoping to keep his head above water.  However, Enlil realized he was back in the dark room somewhere hidden within Castle Black.  Memories of his previous captivity amongst the Black Crows flooded his mind.  He did not much like being a prisoner, but at least it was not a new experience.

***

Orten slumped in the small fishing skiff, it’s small sail fighting the edge winds of the storm.  The pain ate into Orten from all directions.  A sleep came over him as smoke trailed the boat. The skiff cut a course northward and entered the storm.  The storm responded with a whipping of wind and the attack of rain.  The waves grew and crashed into the skiff, yet it held course powered by the vary winds that worked to destroy it.


Word count: 11070

NaNo WriMo Day 10: Brother

Chapter 10: Brother

“I am not his brother.” Gurley’s tortured speech bounded around the dank cellar walls.  “He would not want you calling me that.”  Orten did not treat him like a brother.  There was no point in admitting brotherhood.

“You are of the same mother are you not?”  The obscured light and shadows cast by the stone restraints prevented Gurley from identifying his questioner.   

“You do not understand.”  Gurely protested.  The question had seemed odd.

“Oh I think I do.” The man slipped his gauntlet off.  The strike was harder than the previous, but at this point Gurley did not notice.  He lay limp, strung like a puppet from the stone pillars below the grate in the ceiling.  He could hear the click of boots on the floor above.

His captor motioned in the shadows.  “Splay him open until he talks.”  A crowd of hooded figures crowded into the cellar.  “Slowly.”  As the speaker passed out the door way torchlight lit his face just enough for Gurley to make out a smirk on the man’s face.

You fool. You will get nothing. Gurley prepared himself as the cold smoothness of a blade pressed against his inner thigh.

***

Orten hated the feeling.  He had hated it as much that day outside the jailers yard so many years ago as he did now.  Pain; it was not something he was accustomed to.  He grasped his leg as the sensation cut into him.  He cursed his mortal form taking no solace in it’s nearby end.  It only troubled him slightly as he thought it over.  His path was set.

“Mister you aww right?” the little boy asked snapping Orten back to the fact he was standing on the beach on the outskirts of a small fishing hovel.  Smoke clouded around him and flames spurted from every crevice of his body.  His clothing no longer disguised the effects of being so far away from the castle.

Not long at all now. “A boat.”  Orten coughed.  He watched as the little boy pointed towards a row of skiffs.  Smoke trailed as he cut his way across the beach.  Looking up the coastline, he hurried himself as the outer edge of the storm blackened.  

***

Enlil could hear the screaming from down the hall.  He wondered where Govad was.  Was he alive?  Were these his screams that tormented this night?  He did not have time to linger on the question as the pounding headache wracked him again.  Wincing in pain he slumped in the chair before bunching into a ball.  

“We can do this all night Captain.”  The Thunderer sat behind a simple wooden desk adorned at the corners with raised pillars.   The chair back reached just enough with matching pillars to exceed the height of the man sitting there.  He spoke again. “It is very simple.  What did the Wind Lords charge of you at this camp.”

“Again, nothing.”  Enlil did not lie.  “The camp was fake.  A show.  That is how it was when I arrived.”  Enlil found it easier to speak to the facts without the looming threat of violence standing next to him.  It was apparent the Thunderer had a different interrogative style and motive than that of Clydas.  Enlil could not help but feel like he was suddenly needed, as if some key was locked away in his knowledge.  The only problem was he didn’t know what it was and therefore could not leverage it.

A meal was brought in as Enlil covered the details of his siege and his attempt to cut off the cliff-side supply line.  This seemed to intrigue the Thunderer momentarily as he inquired about the details of what was pulled over the castle walls.  As far as Enlil’s recollection, it had always looked mundane, food crates and barrels of drink.  

Enlil continued into the downfall of the camp after the bloody siege.  He hadn’t really thought about the aftermath much.  The camp had fallen into chaos quickly.  Quicker than even he had imagined.  He began to piece together a picture bigger than what he had paid attention to at the time.  The more he spoke to the Thunderer, the more he found the signs of something greater at work.

First there had been the delayed influx of new recruits, shortly followed by the first late gold shipment.  Then there were the paymaster visits and wage cuts.  Then the supply shipments disappearing without word, communication break downs to the southern most Albian strongholds.  What he had first assumed was punishment for his poor judgement started to feel suspicious.  It was clear from the force that the Thunderer brought upon Castle Black that it was important.  Yet, not important enough for a force from the midlands to contain until now.  Enlil had assumed this was due to the proximity.  Alb was directly north of the land bridge that Castle Black sat upon.  It only made sense for the Wind Lords to pledge troops to the cause.

More details sprang to mind as Enlil spoke with the Thunderer.  The conversation turned towards the arrival of the Fravashi and his unfortunate treatment at their hands.  The Thunderer had seemed amused at the situation though, which disheartened Enlil slightly.  Chewing ate a piece of boned meat, Enlil spoke about the storm.

“I was knocked out as it passed, but the bloody thing was beyond spectacular when it first anchored.  It felt like we were surrounded by solid walls of gray.  No one dared pass through the storm initially.  It took a day or so for the men to realize the Fravashi were gone and for the storm to break enough for travel.”  Enlil quite enjoyed the fruits that abounded a bowl that had been set before him.  He sipped again at the reddish liquid in the goblet he had been given.

“That is good for now captain.  I am going to take my leave for the night.”  The departure of the Thunderer had almost saddened him.  Enlil had started to enjoy the talk, but that enjoyment was cut short as the headache returned.  He faded back into his chair as the door clanked shut.  The solid click of the lock echoed through the room as darkness crowded in.  At least Enlil wasn’t hungry.  The screams continued.

Word count: 9897

NaNo WriMo Day 9: Back to Castle Black

Chapter 9: Back to Castle Black

Gurley was surprised when Jacco cut his restraints.  He would have stood if his legs would cooperate, but pain still burned deep within his crippled leg which was now probably broken.  Yet, the feeling of a miniscule freedom of movement washed over him like the cool water of a mountain spring.  His momentary rejuvenation was interrupted by the sudden cracking sound of Jacco’s whip.  In the broken silence, a  stinging sensation across Gurley’s back.

“Get tup.” Jacco’s splintered speech rubbed Gurley’s anger.

“My leg.” Gurley tried not to plead.  “My leg you slant-eyed fucker.”

“You midlanders, always wit ta curses.”  Jacco strutted around Gurley as if he was a prized pig, prodding and examining him.  The look on Jacco’s face seemed to confirm Gurley’s complaint.  The word midlander stuck in Gurley’s mind.  He was tempted to reveal the fact that he was not from the midlands, or the east, or anywhere Jacco would know of, but the moment passed while Gurley reflected on the naivety of Jacco.  Why or how Orten withstood such stupidity was beyond Gurley.

“Tis is tow tis gonna work.”  Jacco went on to explain how Gurley was to act the part of a runaway slave that Jacco had been sent to retrieve.  As those within Castle Black probably did not know of Orten and the boys departure nothing would seem suspicious.  After all, Jacco had made a habit of coming and going unseen from the castle for years.  It would not be the first slave he had returned with.  Maybe the first male slave, but that was not of concern at the moment.  What worried Gurley was why Jacco wished to return to the castle.  Worse, why did he need him when he did return.

***

Enlil did not know quite what was transpiring.  The days and nights had spiraled about him in a patchwork of flashing colors and a web blurred talk.  He could sense things taking place but his mind lacked control of his physical self.  It was not long before he felt his mental state slipping into the void as well.

So when he opened his eyes and felt the cool roughness of wet beach sand clinging to his cheeks he did not question it.  He felt his fingers first, then his toes.  The directness of the midday sun forced him to squint.  The beach stretched about him in all directions.  He could tell immediately that he was a good distance from the camp as the cliff which Castle Black sat upon loomed over him like an angry god looking upon a damned sinner.  The sheer cliff face that had so tormented him stood clean of it’s normal ropes and pulleys.  He took mental victory of this fact.

However, when an itch came across his nose he realized he couldn’t raise his hand.  Terror struck him as he realized he had been buried up to his neck in the beach sand.  The tide was out, but Enlil knew that was the point. A slow and painful death at the hands of tide awaited him.  Enlil broke into a furious struggle which turned on him as he became further entrenched in the sucking mud.

A cacophony of metal and men brought his attention upwards.  He knew these sounds well from his many days as a soldier.  A siege had set upon the castle above him.  Ladders and orderly lines of men poured over the castle walls.  A crumbled tower could be seen collapsing in on itself.  

What Enlil saw next stunned him.  Thunder slammed through the area as bolts of lightning streaked into the castle.  Generous plumes and wisps of smoke rose from the inner walls, a new one appearing with every bolt.  The Thunderer.  Stories and children’s tales ran through his mind.  Years of service, dozens of bloody battles, and his time at the Academia.  Nothing compared to seeing the truth.  Had these great powers been kept secret from the nation of Alb?  What else had this midlands King held from the eastlanders?

Time passed slowly as a she-crab skittered across the sand before being consumed by the hungry waves.  Enlil had given up following the battle above as the sounds of men dieing trailed off and the sky grew silent.  Enlil surmised that the castle was taken.  Not even the finest cavalry in the land would have survived the force the Thunderer rained from the heavens.

The longer Enlil watched, the slower the waves seemed to encroach.  Death sat an eternity away choosing to punish him slowly.  Enlil slowed his breathing after realizing the harder he breathed the more the sand pinched.  Hope was fading, but his instincts failed to allow his body to quit.  

Enlil was on the verge of fading when the shadowy figures appeared at the range of his blurry vision.  It had seemed hours had passed since the crab, but the distance of the waves told him it had not been long.  

“Dig him up.”  The smooth voice cut through Enlil’s labored breathing.  It wasn’t long before Enlil could feel his body being escorted across the beach.  Wet sand faded into dry sand.  The late afternoon sun became hidden beneath a tent’s roof.  Slight comfort was found as he was propped into a padded chair, yet his vision had not fully returned.

“First the Fravashi and now that bastard Orten.”  Enlil could just make out the one speaking.  Golden brown hair stuck at ear level in knots of sweat.  “We have much more to discuss than I had thought Captain.  Our little ruse here seems to have escaped your minuscule understanding.  Years of planning wasted.”  The man paused.  “Do you know who I am?”  Another pause.  “What I am?”

“The Thunderer” It came out more of a question than an answer.

“Yes, Thunderer.  This is what you eastlanders call me in your stories. Stories no doubt until today you knew as nothing but fiction.  A man who calls upon the power of the gods to strike furious destruction from the heavens.”  The words flowed into Enlil.  “I am no story Captain.  I am the justice of the gods manifested in man.”

“My scouts saw no one leave the castle and only saw two men enter.  From the accounts of your paid man and smith, and those paltry fellows back in town who likened you more to a fart in the wind than a feathered Captain of the winded ranks, no one has left Castle Black in years.”  The Thunderer continued.  “I find it hard to believe a man as fat as Orten Fareen escaped unnoticed.”

“Not all is lost.  We have taken captives, two of interest above the others.  One of those being his brother.  When we have the garrison placed in the castle proper, you and I will be having a very long talk about things.  I suggest if you wish a better fate than the rest of your nation you start remembering some things.”

Word count: 8848

NaNo WriMo Day 8: The Sentinels

Chapter 7: The Sentinels

Orten had found the Sentinels just outside the reach of the storm’s edge. The smooth marble pillars hovered above the tree tops and stood silent, uncaring of his approach. Each was evenly spaced from the next one in a line as far as the eye could see, a visible barrier to the lands of Reichland to the south. He knew he was at the right location when he saw the jagged stones that criss-crossed the top of the hill. A single Sentinel pillar popped over the tree tops and overshadowed the area. The sudden realization that it had been almost twenty years since his last visit hit Orten with a saddening relief.

The ride through the storm had worn on Orten and as he dismounted the signs of exhaustion draped him like a cloak. A crackling sounded as he stepped through the dry leaves and tied his massive mount to a nearby tree. The beast stood eerily silent. He propped himself against a nearby stone and eased himself down. Streams of water cascaded off his outer clothing as he removed it. The hiss of steam could be heard escaping into the air as his rear settled neatly into a newly created puddle that had taken resident in a crevice between two stones. Orten knew the farther he went the worse it would get. The rising smell of smoke closed in on him. He drifted off to sleep as he waited for the boys to come through the storm and meet him.

***

It wasn’t often the hunter moved north beyond the protection of the Sentinels unless something interesting was to be found. The presence of the six women on the other side of the border had definitely scratched at his curiosity. He followed them slowly as he worked his way through the underbrush. He watched as their dresses flapped in the wind and they pointed this way and that. They seemed visibly uncomfortable standing in the open, yet none of them spoke or voiced a complaint. No horses or other mounts followed them. The women were traveling by foot.

At first he had assumed the group was lost, traveling on the outskirts of the storm to the north in the vain hope of staying dry. It wasn’t obvious at first, but the more he observed of the women the more he realized they were actively searching for something. While the women were interesting, the hunter figured it was best that he did not become that which they searched for. Once they had gone from the immediate area, the hunter worked his way back through the Sentinels to the south.

However, out of the corner of his eye, his curiosity was peaked again. A plume of smoke rose from the top of a nearby hill at the edge of the forest with a peculiar stone outcropping. Again, it was on the other side of the Sentinels. The hunter worked his way to the trees and Sentinel overlooking the area. The source of the smoke stopped him from crossing the Sentinel line. The rancid smell of burning flesh attacked him as he surveyed the scene.

At first it was a single burnt skeletal carcass propped up like a child’s doll against the rocks. More remains could be seen scattered throughout the stones. The hunter couldn’t put a solid count on it, but several doomed souls had met their demise here. A darkened circle on the ground crept outwards as more of the forest floor caught and the fire spread. A wide-shouldered horse stood tied to the tree nearest the stones, seemingly unphased by the fire and corpses.

The hunter turned and broke into a sprint. He headed south, not looking back. Sentinels save me he prayed silently as his lungs sought to keep up with his rapid pace.

***

Orten caught a second wind as he passed another marble pillar. A mental click turned over in his head noting the number of Sentinels he had passed. He knew the momentary burst of energy that the boys had provided him would only allow him to maintain his guise for a short period and the blasted storm whores had cut him off from his horse. Which may have been for the better as on horseback his guise would not have worked at all. His speed afoot sufficed to see him safely away.

Orten knew he couldn’t head back into the storm, their storm. Heading south was not a viable path either. First, there were the Sentinels to cross and secondly there were the Reichland forces. Not that the Reichs were particularly of concern, but he did not need any delays. And it did not matter as the presence of the Sentinels deterred any further movement south. He couldn’t be sure why that was the case; passing the Sentinels may be inconsequential or it may be disastrous. Orten was not a gambler at this stage and lessons taught long ago echoed in his mind. Mother had always warned of the Sentinels. Your kind is not meant in the south she was fond of telling him.

So Orten worked eastward towards the sea. The storm visibly curved back north towards Castle Black and it was very likely a boat could be found amongst the numerous fishing villages along the coast. He looked down at his hands and for the first time realized that years of hiding his true self were near their end. Streaks of crackling fire began to burst from the pores of his skin with tiny wisps of smoke disappearing into the air around him. Not long at all he thought to himself.

And on the 7th day he rested, #nanowrimo

Ran out of juice today and didn't get more than a couple hundred words in which will roll over into tomorrow.

NaNo WriMo Day 5 & 6

Note: I didn't get a good chance to edit this as I typed it offline and while away from home, so my apologies for any incompleteness if I left off anywhere.

Chapter 5: The Guildsman

Rodhero was the first to notice the rider as he approached.  It did not take Enlil and Govad long to follow the smith’s gaze up the road.  Govad fanned out, away from Enlil, as he put his left hand upon his sword hilt. He did not draw his blade.  Enlil took the lead and raised his hand to wave the rider in. 

As the rider brought his horse to a stop he reached up and pulled back the hood of a rain-soaked cloak.  Beads of water trickled down the stitched seam, down the laces of his boots, onto the underside of his horse, and eventually raced towards the ground in alternating plops.  The distinctive crimson star upon the white of the band about the rider’s head revealed him as a King’s man.  A messenger no doubt.

“Captain.” The rider nodded.  “I seek the one in command here.  Is that you?”

“I suspect I still command.”  Enlil paused.  “At least the little bit that is left here.” Enlil swept his arm out to point at the destruction that lay about the camp to ensure the rider had noticed.  “Bit of a storm rolled through here a few days past.  Most of my men are back in Gray Court while we survey our losses.”  It wasn’t a complete lie.  The men were back in Gray Court or scattered to the winds.  Whether they were truly his men any longer or whether they ever had been his men was debatable.

“Vigor.” The rider pounded his chest and gave a salute as he procured a scroll of parchment from his undercoat.

“Mortalis.”  Enlil returned the salute, stating his half of the confirmation and acknowledging his station.  He took the ornate scroll from the rider.  A wax seal featuring a crimson star sealed the scroll shut.  Thumbing through the wax, he knew almost instantly that it was not a message, but a writ of passage and supply penned by the King’s own scribes.

“The Thunderer travels from the north by King’s command.   By dark his host will be through the storm.” The rider stopped and handed the scroll over to Enlil.  The rider looked over the miscellany of the camp.  “Where shall he be received?  He requests it be of distance from the latrines.”

Enlil motioned towards his command tent which seemed to be the lone solid structure left.  “Not much left standing.  May I ask his business?”

“That should suffice.” The rider failed to acknowledge Enlil’s question.

“If you can take a message back to your lord, I will draft one quickly.  I would like to prepare him for the state of the encampment here.”  Enlil motioned for Govad to get quill and parchment.  However, something in the reaction of the rider’s face told him it wasn’t necessary. 

“I provided the writ as courtesy.  Not that there is much this camp can surrender in the King’s name.”  The rider again looked over the camp.  He continued, “The host will set camp on the grounds as well.  I’m here to lay the groundwork and plan out the camp.  Do you have a guildsman among you?”  The irony of the question hit Enlil.  He had petitioned for a member of the Guild to oversee the camp months prior and been rebuffed at the request. 

“Rodhero there is probably the closest we have, but he’s a simple smith.  Not a right King’s man either.”  Enlil didn’t bother to point out Rodhero.  It was evident the rider understood Govad was a paid man, leaving Rodhero to be the only possible craftsman among the trio.

The rider dismounted and removed his cloak.  The notches on his sleeve and the bronze crossed hammers attached to his collar revealed his membership in the Guild.  “Rodhero” the rider shook the smith’s hand, “good to meet you.”

Rodhero stepped in and spared Enlil and Govad from the monotony of laying plans for the Thunderer’s arrival.  Rodhero and the Guildsman seemed to build immediate camaraderie as they labored over details and spent copious amounts of time drawing detailed maps on the few dry sheepskins that Rodhero had stashed away.   Chuckles could be heard as the two counted off paces near the former latrine pits which had all but washed away in the storm’s passing.

After observing the pair for a while, Enlil retreated to his tent motioning Govad to follow.  Once inside the tent, Enlil discarded the scroll and dug a cup out of the scattered items at the end of his table.    “Find me a drink.”  The words were depressed.

Govad found a cask of ale nestled near the bedside and worked the stopper out.  He poured it slowly into the glass that Enlil held.  Enlil tipped it back and with an audible gulp emptied the cup.  Govad did not hesitate to refill it.

Enlil took a little longer with the second cup.  Standing near the entrance of the tent, Enlil pulled back the flap and looked out again on the two men he had left out in the camp.  Rodhero and the Guildsman had moved on from the latrines and appeared to be evaluating the stability of the stockade walls that now hugged the earth. 

On his third cup now, Enlil watched through the folds of the tent as the sun began to set.  “We’re right fucked my western friend.”  Friend.  Govad did not much care for Enlil’s use of the word.  The crack of thunder howled in the distance as lightning raced across the interior of the formidable storm wall.

***

Gurley awoke to the rumbling sound of thunder and the smell of fresh horse dung.  Aches throttled him from every limb and muscle.  A distinct and sharp pain emanated from his bum leg.  He moaned as he lifted his head and found himself sprawled across the back of a horse.  A moment later the reality of the situation dawned on him.  His hands and feet were bound, tied crudely together with rope.  A brief moment of struggling convinced him of his predicament.

“Is funny story.”  The voice was familiar to Gurley, but the waning light of early dusk combined with his restraints prevented him from looking his captor in the face. “A funny little man fell down and no fat ben broter around to pick him up.”  Jacco.  Gurley’s heart sunk in his chest.  “Good ting Jacco was dare.” 

Chapter 6: The Prisoner

Gurley didn’t struggle as Jacco eased him off the horse.  The ground was a welcome relief to what had been an uncomfortable eternity on the back of Jacco’s stead.  Tears drew silver lines down his dusty cheeks as his face nestled into a nearby clump of grass.  The silhouette of Castle Black in the distance was barely visible as he looked through the blades of grass encompassing his face.  His eyes slid shut as sleep set upon him like a wave upon the beach.

The looming darkness at the bottom of the stairs did not scare Gurley.  There was a renewed spring in his step as he bound around the final corner in the stairwell.  He felt the darkness wash over and cover him.  “Orten.” He called into the shadows.  No response came.

He continued down the hallway as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.  It didn’t take long before the underkeep’s features came alive to him in the darkness.    It was not often that his sibling chose to play games with him, let alone treat him a brother.  Even though mother had cautioned him to keep away from Orten, Gurley craved Orten’s attention.  He was convinced Orten was drawing him into a game of hide and seek and he was going to take advantage of the rare opportunity.  The crypt was a perfect place to play as long as the boys did not stray near where the prisoners were kept.  The guards did not care much for meddling children.

Gurley cleared the immediate area he was used to before continuing around the final corner before the hall that lead to the cell block.  He meticulously checked every nook and cranny up and down the hallway, each more painstakingly than the last.  Orten was nowhere to be found.

Taking silent footsteps Gurley approached the cell block entrance.  The ancient, heavy oaken door was held open by a stone that had been rolled over.  Curiosity took over and he looked further into the cavernous hall that held the various imprisonment cells.  The guards were nowhere to be found.  Their swords stood idle leaning against the table.  A discarded meal could be seen on the table as well.  Maybe there were no prisoners to watch?  Gurley took another step letting his eyes readjust in the presence of torch light.

What he saw next froze him in his tracks.  Orten sat cross legged outside of one of the far cells.  His voice echoed outwards through the entrance door.  He was talking to someone.  Mother would not be pleased with Orten.  Gurley took a step back, but fear struck him and before he could think he burst into a run.

He scrambled up the stairwell and back into the bright sunlight of mid afternoon.  His eyes could not adjust to the speed at which he exited the underground entrance and he was momentarily blinded.  Before he could see he slammed into the wagon that he knew was near the fence.  With hazy vision he struggled up into the cart and relied on his blind judgment to secure a foothold on the fence. 

He felt a pair of warm hands heft him from behind.  Without time to look he pulled himself upwards and he knew he was cresting the fence.  The hands suddenly changed the direction of their assistance and pulled him sharply backwards.  The screeching rip of cloth made way to the sickening sensation of torn flesh.  Bone grated along the metal of the fence.

Gurley screamed as dark crimson stains sprouted around the impaled fence post sticking through his upper thigh.  He floundered as his body lay stretched across the top of the fence.  He forced his eyes open and searched for his assailant half expecting to see find Orten running from the yard.  However, the yard sat idly by, not a soul in sight.  No one heard his screams.

Gurley awoke in a cold sweat clutching at his upper leg.  You bastard Orten, never where I need you.

***

Enlil looked to his left.  The sour look on Govad’s face told him everything he needed to know.  Bloody Thunderer is all he could think before another fist struck his face.  “I’ll ask you again Captain.  Where are the Fravashi.”  The brusque voice rang in Enlil’s ears as the man standing over him fixed his hand back into his ironed gauntlet. 

“They said…” Enlil spat blood and watched as it congealed in the dirt below his face.  “They said they came for the justice of the Thunderer.  They were not to be found after the storm.”  Enlil shook his head hoping for a moment of reprieve from the pain.  “My paid man here, the truest of trackers could not even find them.” 

“You are not a true King’s man.” This voice was different.  It came from a different direction than the man who had been striking him.  It was neither as harsh nor tormenting as his abusers.  This one had a soothing quality about it.  “No true man for that matter loses sight of the Fravashi.”  A thin grain of laughter coursed through the gathered crowd.

“Albs sir.” His abuser spoke up again.  “Not much more than pretty feathers.”

“Clydas let us not be inhospitable.  It is not often we find much company following a good storm.”  Clydas: Enlil took mental note of the name.  He had saved enough strength to lift his head and look this new speaker in the face.  Swept backward by the wind, the man’s hair shined with a dusty gold coloring.  It was neatly cropped below the tips of his ears.  Solid features highlighted his squared jawbone.  The handsome, powerful man stood at least a half stone taller than any other that Enlil could see.  “Captain, I suggest you start making some sense to Clydas.”

With a wave of his hand, the man disappeared back through the crowd.  Enlil’s head sagged down again, while his wrists continued to burn in the restraints that suspended him between two poles.  He could hear as Clydas slipped his gauntlet off again.


Word Count: 6730

NaNo WriMo Day 4: The Storm Wall

Chapter 4: The Storm Wall

The ominous gray wall loomed over Gurley like a drooling hound staring down upon a pile of discarded dinner scraps.  Wisps of rain sprayed outwards into the dead silence of the eye.   Sunlight drowned in darkness as the storm wall crept forward towards the band of stragglers before it.

Gurley’s horse whined as he struggled to keep his balance.  He pulled hard to the right on the reins and his mare steadied beneath him now that it was not directly facing the wall.  The other boys were having similar difficulty.  In front of the group, Gurley watched as the warhorse beneath Orten stood like a stone pillar, rain splashing against it’s bridle.  Gurley craned his neck and looked up and around the storm wall.  “You sure we need to be riding through that?”

Orten spurred his massive mount forward.  At first it was a slow trot, but he quickly built speed.  “Remember, meet at the Sentinels.”  Orten’s voice trailed off as he disappeared under a vale of fog and driving rain.  

Gurley knew this was not the time to hesitate.  Orten would not be gentle with those that did not follow, so he drove his good leg into the side of his horse.  The beast bucked and neighed loudly, but it obeyed.  Gurley approached the wall.  A quick glance to his side revealed the other boys following.  The bright day turned into dark night as he passed into the storm wall and a sudden cold cut a thousand wounds into his skin.  The horizontal rain sliced at his vision.  Fading pockets of light guided him forward and the occasional peak of the sun ensured he maintained a southerly direction.  He crested a ridge and spurred his horse hard enough to will it down the embankment.

The horse crashed through the undergrowth. Gurley never saw the tree branch.  He hit the ground with a sickening crack of bones echoing out into the fierce storm.  His horse screamed as he locked the reins in a death-like grip forcing the horses neck backwards.  The horse jerked and pulled free.  Come back.  The animal was gone before Gurley could push the thought to his lips.  Darkness consumed him.

***

Enlil looked up at the storm wall as it hovered over the road leading out of the camp. His assumption was Gray Court lay in ruin a short distance down the road, leveled beneath the massive storm.  This brought a smile to his face.  The final coward deserters that had left over the past day would have flocked to Gray Court only to find it in no better shape than the camp.  

Enlil turned and looked back towards the remnants of the camp.  Outside of the blacksmith, Rodhero, no one could be seen.  Rodhero, of stout frame, continued his picking and separating of the pieces of the camp before dragging select pieces back to his makeshift working area.  Rodhero was not part of the army proper.  Enlil had enlisted him after finding him slaving away on pots and trinkets in Gray Court.  Rodhero had proven invaluable during the supply shortages with masterful skill when working bladed weapons.  Enlil mulled over whether to release the smith from his duty.  

The camp was not going to be raised again.  Enlil knew that much.  Outside of a few tents, including his own, the destruction was final and months of supply shortages ensured there was nothing to rebuild with. The debris that lay scattered across the camp’s grounds would be picked clean once the storm passed.  From his estimate, the eye of the storm had situated itself like a prison directly over the castle which he suspected is what kept the castle’s inhabitants contained.  However, it wouldn’t be long before they realized nothing more than the storm held them captive.  The storm was destructive, but it wasn’t washing away a castle anytime soon.  Castle Black would most likely send scouts out sooner than later and at that point, Enlil knew his failure would be final.

The Reichland forces on the other side of the southern wall of the storm would prevent escape in that direction leaving the only route of escape to the north.  Without fear of the Eatern Army there was little to stop anyone that wished to flee.  Gray Court would more than welcome the refugees and their looted plunder from the Castle vaults.  That’s if Gray Court hadn’t been brought down to anything more than stone foundations.

While the events of the past two days troubled Enlil, they did not trouble him nearly as much as losing sight of the Fravashi.  After knocking him senseless for a fortnight, they had all but disappeared.  Not even Govad, with his trusted western senses had taken note of where they had gone.  It seemed that the Fravashi had been replaced by their cursed storm.  Yet, something ate at Enlil.  A gut feeling that told him they were not far away.  Which is why he had sent Govad to find them.

Turning once again towards the storm wall, Enlil let his mind wander.  He thought back to the days leading up to his arrival in the camp.  He remembered how fierce the force had looked that day, aligned in the marching yard.  The elegant organization: a dozen Cadres broken down into perfect formation, the feathers of the Wind Lords flowing in the wind.  The king’s banner: the crimson star upon a white field.  The white uniforms of the officers, punctuating the sections, stood in stark contrast to the leather draped soldiers.

The sight of a proper military force.  One for him to command.  It had inspired him that day.  His soldiery ways were in his past and his climb of the leadership ranks was about to begin.  There was hope in that first day.  However, it was crushed when he had met with the incumbent Wind Captain.  Vico had been his name, of house Katara.  He was young.  Too young to be a Feathered Sergeant, let alone a Wind Captain.  The boy had hardly began growing hair on his baby-smooth chin.

The situation grew cumbersome quickly as Enlil took military turn over from Vico.  The boy had not documented anything.  Supplies were not tracked, discipline was lax, and the camp finances were in disastrous shape.  Vico had done nothing more than ensure the men could form up in neat rows and put on a show.  The camp was meant only for show.  How this farce had kept Castle Black holed up was beyond Enlil.

However, in the despair of what Vico had left him, Enlil had found a mission.  And even though that mission eventually lead to disaster on the field below the castle walls and left Enlil drowning in ale and the handsome clutches of a different whore every few days, he felt accomplishment.  If anything he had shown the king the betrayal that this camp had thrust upon the kingdom.  It was him, after all, who was betrayed by the lack of preparation imparted upon his station.

It was no surprise that Govad had returned without having found the Fravashi.  He opined that they were probably in the storm, if not the storm itself.  Enlil had not been pleased with that assumption.  Enlil shook his fist towards the sky above the storm wall in a silent protest.

Word count: 4630

NaNo WriMo Day 3: The Eye

Chapter 3: The Eye

It was morning when Enlil woke again. Darkened patches encircled his eyes and an uneasy air sat about him. “I’ve heard stories,” Govad was beside his bed talking, “that the Fravashi were sent to the living to tame the wilds of men. That they arouse the inner storms of those they meet before drowning them in the reality of the true storm. Consider yourself lucky.”  

Enlil sat up and eyed Govad.  “I fear no woman.”

“Then you are in luck, there are not any for miles around. No doubt some whores back in Gray Court." Govad smiled. "Do not let the dresses deceive you eastlander. They are spirits of the damned, not women.” Govad stood and walked to the entrance to the ten.  With a sweep of his arm he opened the tent flap and flooded the tent with sunlight.  As he tied the tent flap back he pointed out towards the camp.  “No mere woman does that.”

Enlil’s eyes struggled to focus as the bright light streamed in.  He rolled over and sat up.  Hunched over, he closed his eyes and counted to ten.  Upon opening his eyes he was able to somewhat see out into the camp, but at first he wasn’t sure if he was seeing things correctly.  Tents, supplies, and a variety of wooden debris lay scattered across the ground.  Far across the camp Enlil could see the smith’s anvil standing above a wind-flattened tent.  

“What happened?” A moment of fear caught Enlil as he anticipated Govad’s answer.

“Storm happened.”  Govad said as he avoided looking out at the camp.  “The Fravashi happened.”  Govad moved back over to sit near the bed.  Enlil stood up, feeling every ache in his body ten times over.  His head pounded as he stumbled towards the nearby foot locker.

Storm what?  “They did this?” Enlil felt conflict rising within him.  Were the stories actually true?  Were the Fravashi a destructive force of storms?  A super weapon?  Enlil had not imagined the significance of the power he had summoned upon.  Storms were expected, but this was something far worse.  The camp was all but gone at initial glance.  “How long was I out?”

“Only a night.”  Govad returned.  “Missed the worst of it to be honest.  Probably best for you eastlander.  No man should be made to witness power such as this.”

Enlil gained control of his pain and slid into his proper Wind Captain attire: a ruffled doublet of white, browned leather breaches, and a feathered cap.  He fastened his rank insignia upon the ruffled collar of the doublet. He paced the inside of the tent contemplating the situation.

Govad sat quietly in his place watching Enlil pace.   It had been weeks since he had last seen him in proper rank and attire.  It reminded Govad of the first days of his service to Enlil, back when he still foolishly believed he was free.  Govad was a paid man, a paid slave.  The eastlanders didn’t believe in slavery after all, but that did not stop one man from owning another.  They just had to pay a believed-to-be fair wage for the privilege.  

For the most part, Govad had not minded.  He ate well and had a roof to sleep under most nights.  He had more freedom than most paid men as long as he was around when expected.  To passing observers, Enlil seemed no more than a friend to Govad.  Yet, Govad knew the true arrangement.  He had first hand experience from the time he had lingered a bit too long with the wine and whores of Gray Court.  Enlil had sought him out with vengeance, sending a cadre of men into town to drag him naked through the streets and force march him back to camp.  You are my paid man.  Back then, the fury in Enlil’s words was unmistakable.  The words still rang in his head and the monthly blood money Enlil forced into his pouch left no question.

“If the storm has passed, have we checked the cliff side?  Whats the status of Orten’s supply line?” Enlil fell back into his Wind Captain’s role.

Govad could only chuckle.  “Storm hasn’t passed.  You really know nothing of the Fravashi and their storms do you eastlander.  I had only assumed you knew what you sent me to bring back.”

***

“Storm’s broke Orten.  Whore storms ain’t nothing against a good tree line.”  Gurley’s voice almost seemed excited as he nudged Orten’s mountainous sleeping form.  The night had been difficult as the storm raged upon the landscape.  It had battered the bastard’s boys, as Gurley liked to call the group, but had also concealed their departure.  The group had been able to slip out as the storm wall passed and while Castle Black was still visible on the horizon, they had made it a safe distance from the Eastern Army’s grasp.

“Shut your mouth you damnable fool.”  Orten rolled over, clearly agitated.   “The storm didn’t break.  The eye is passing over.  The worst is yet to come, but we have time. Rest.”  Orten rolled back over, pulling his rain-soaked blanket back over his head.  To Gurley, it seemed as though Orten’s blanket was much drier than his.

Word count: 3422

NaNo WriMo Day 2: The Bastard's Boys

Chapter 2: The Bastard’s Boys

“Orten!”  Gurley shouted as he wobbled down the hallway.  “Orten!” He approached the steps and lifted his crutch by it’s worn handle.  The rap of wooden shaft on oaken door echoed throughout the open yard.  Wind whistled through the inlets flicking torch light across his face.  Hardly time for supper and it was near black as night.  “Open the door you lazy bastard.  Storms coming and I ain’t fixing to get my bum leg wet.”

The door creaked open.  A silhouette of a large man was cast against the far wall by the light of a roaring fire in the fire place.  Orten, with his back turned, was heading away from the open door back towards the fire place.  The distinct smell of burning pine wood permeated the room.  “I should strangle you.”  His threat didn’t seem to register with Gurley at all.

“But who would dance a little hobbled jig for you then?  What laughter you would miss.”  A smirk crossed Gurley’s face.  “And what of mother.  What would she think?”

“We may share a mother, but do not mistake us as family.”  The tone this time seemed to catch Gurley’s attention.  Do not mistake us as family.  Gurley had heard this enough to know something was wrong.  With the aid of his crutch, Gurley shuffled over to a chair at the dinner table.  The scraps of a forgotten meal lay across from him.  Reaching for it, he knocked a silver goblet over.  Left over wine spilled between the cracks of the table and a short roll later, a clanging rang across the room.  

Orten was on Gurley before the last bounce of the goblet.  His hands clasped around Gurley’s neck like a shackle on a prisoner’s ankle; hard enough to prevent escape but loose enough to be a firm reminder of imprisonment.  Orten’s tangled auburn hair fell free from his shoulders and brushed it’s way across Gurley’s face.  The smell of smoke trapped in countless clusters of ragged hair invaded Gurley’s nostrils and a burning sensation chaffed at his collar.

“You bloody fool.”

Gurley saw the ground before he felt it.  Orten had tossed him aside with ease.

“This is not your fault.  Excuse my anger.”  Orten didn’t look forgiving as he hefted the table and slammed it back to the ground sending cutlery bouncing off the stone floor.  Wisps of smoke rose from the tables edge.  “As if it wasn’t enough to suffer the insolence of this new Wind Lord, this Enlil, and his attempt to foul my one luxury in this forsaken by the gods hole, they send this sodden fucker, this, this Thunderer, here with his storm whores.  This foolish king knows not what he is dealing with.”

Orten paced hastely from wall to wall while Gurley recovered enough strength to begin the clean up.  It wasn’t long before the table was back as it was.  With care, Gurley worked his way through the left overs once again.  Hard rain began to drive against the wooden shutters drawn tightly closed across the windows.  A cold dampness crept throughout the room.  Minutes passed into a silent hour before Orten spoke again.

“Get Toots and Jacco to the stable yard and prepare horses for the rest of the boys.”  Orten’s tone was still serious causing Gurley to jump, as best as a cripple could jump.  Orten watched as Gurley fumbled for his crutch.  “We are going to ride out during this storm.”

Bum legs going to get wet after-all Gurley thought as he headed for the door. Halfway there he turned.  “Jacco won’t like this.”  Gurley put a concerned face on.  Orten furled his brow and looked down Gurley’s lanky frame.  “Not riding out in the storm, but the...”  Gurley stuttered.  “Me telling him whats to do and all.”

“That whore son should of thought of that before threatening mother.”

“He did not mean it.  Jacco needs you.  He would never dare touch mother.”

“The boys do not jape about mother.  That bitch is mine and mine alone to curse.  Make sure the boys understand this.”  Orten dismissed him with a wave.

It took longer than expected to reach the bottom of the steps to the yard.  Puddles sprang up in every wind worn crevice, corner, and foothold.  Castle Black was not built with cripples in mind, let alone for cripples tumbling their way through a torrential downpour.  A couple more awkward hops and Gurley reached the door to the lower keep.  A wooden rail aided his decent into the torch-lit room below.

Seated closest the door was Jacco, slant-eyed and olive skinned.  Jacco’s black hair lay taught against his scalp, pulled into an ornamental horn of sorts.  Gurley eyed him uneasily as he took a seat on the bench opposite. He tapped a wooden spoon on the table top.

“Orten says we riding.  Wants you Toots to go get the horses.”  Gurley pointed across the room to a pot bellied man hunched over a half-butchered hog.   The big man laughed.

“Picked a fine time, seeing as how we just caught this hog scrounging the pile below the walls.”  Toots spat on the floor as he spoke.  “Send for the stable hands.  That fat ben ain’t making me into no stable boy.  I cook, he eats.”  Ben.  As if bastard wasn’t harsh enough, to use the slang term for it where word may make trickle back to Orten was a bold statement.  The eastlanders had taken to calling Orten Fareen by this term.  Orten Ben Fareen, the bastard son they said, often dragging out the ben in before pausing after his name.  

“Ain’t my choice.  Orten wants you Toots.  And... “ Gurley turned towards the door to where Jacco sat.  “You too Jacco.  Says both of ya needs to get the horses ready.”

“Ten brother best come down and stit in my dinner bowl if he tinks I’m readying horses for tis fat ass.”  Jacco drawled the h’s as he spoke.  Gurley knew he would not dare call Orten a brother of Gurley in Orten’s presence.  The boys had clearly grown mad over this trouble with mother.  Not that years of imprisonment in Castle Black had helped.  Gurley started looking for a graceful exit.

However, before he could find one the door came crashing open.  Rain bit into the dry cellar air.  Orten’s large frame filled the door way, his blood-red studded leather armor drawing a stark contrast to the pale sandstone steps behind.

“Boys.”  Orten said with a nod of his head.  “We ride.”  

Gurley nearly fell off the back of his bench, but he steadied himself on his crutch as Orten strode across the room.  Orten’s long strides eclipsed the stone tiles beneath his padded boots.  The sweet smell of freshly oiled leather lingered in his wake and mixed with Orten’s distinctive smokey scent.  Orten approached the table with the butchered hog, a half dozen pairs of wondering eyes following his every move.

“Toots, I’m sorry for this son.”  With a resounding thud, Orten grabbed Toots square in the chest.  Lines of smoldering smoke rose from between the two as Toots large, wobbly frame stumbled backwards pulling Orten across the butcher’s table.  Toots, caught by surprise, failed to struggle.  Raw pig meat sizzled as it fell into the cooking fires.  The dagger was nearly invisible as it swept through Toots’ side.  The fat cook faltered, slumped, and with a firm shove from Orten, joined the pig meat in the fire.

“No one can know of our exit.  Toots fat arse wouldn’t make it a league outside of the castle without killing a horse so its best he cooks here with that pig of his.  If I deem that any of you boys can’t keep pace, you will meet a similar fate.”  Orten was dead calm.  He leveled his gaze towards the seat nearest the door.  “Jacco get the fucking horses while I drop my trousers to take that shit you spoke of.”  The room erupted.

Word count: 2764