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"So, the scum is capable of work."
Tristol brought the heavy iron head of the axe down on another block of wood to split it in twain then turned his head slightly to regard the speaker with one eye. Horac smirked at him from where he leaned on the fence the surrounded the Baxlell property before he taunted, "Bet that's just the first one you've done. Scum doesn't have the muscle to do that kind of work."
The pile of freshly split logs underneath the nearby lean-to told the story of how much wood he had cut but the bully wasn't going to acknowledge that. He had his idea of what Tristol was and that would never change.
Horac hated him for humiliating him and for leaving the scars on his forearms that he kept covered. And that was piled on top of the age-old hatred of Feloinain kind that was rife through the world.
Tristol turned calmly back to his work, not rising to the bully's bait. He tossed the two pieces of wood onto the pile then tugged another log onto the old stump they used for a chopping block. As he lifted the axe again a small stone hit the back of his head and he growled softly before bringing the tool down onto the piece of wood. Despite the small distraction the axe struck true and as he tossed the wood into the pile he heard Horac snort derisively.
"Lucky shot," he called out mockingly as the younger boy heaved another log onto the stump. Horac leaned slightly over the fence then with a sneer. "Bet'cha can't hit me with that axe though. Huh, catman, I bet'cha can'."
Tristol rolled his eyes with his back turned to the bully and took aim again with his axe, testing the swing to make sure it was straight. He wasn't about to let Horac get to him right now in his uncle's yard, the one place the older boy didn't dare tread for it was risking life and limb to take a shot at his nemesis on his own territory. If the Constal didn't catch him, then the Constal's swordwoman wife was liable to.
"Come on, demonspawn!" hissed Horac, using one of the more common names of the priests for Feloinains. "Try and hit me. Just try!"
"And dull the blade of my axe on your thick skull?" quipped Tristol as he turned his head to smirk at Horac's angrily flushing cheeks. He then lifted the axe again and brought it down on the fresh log, sending wood chips flying as it split down the center. As he picked up the two pieces to toss onto the pile, he added, "No, I think I'll pass on striking you today, Horac. Perhaps tomorrow."
The bully's face darkened further with anger and by the way his hands clenched suddenly on the top rail of the fence it seemed he was debating jumping it. But let him come - he'd survived far worse than anything the older youth could do to him.
Horac tensed like he truly was about to leap over the fence into the yard and Tristol grasped the haft of the axe tightly. His lips pulled back from his teeth instinctively at the looming threat, his eyeteeth bared. The first few sure, death dealing swings of the axe blurred through his mind before a flash of him tearing the bully open with his claws came through. He spun the axe around so the first strike - if there were one - would be along the blunt end and tensed his legs, ready to strike if...
"AHNALL!"
Tristol blinked as a well-thrown apple flew over his shoulder and hit Horac dead on in the forehead, knocking his head backwards and causing him to fall in surprise. Turning, he saw the scowling figure of his aunt in the doorway of the house, one flour covered hand planted on her hip as she held a wooden bucket in the other hand. Long blonde hair was pinned up atop her head in a messy bun and she looked like any other woman of the home in her flour-dusted dress with her wraith-like frame. The fury in her gray eyes, however, spoke an entirely different story and Tristol knew how truly fierce she was.
He had a very clear memory of when he'd first come to live with his aunt and uncle of her holding his small form close amongst her skirts and giving a woman who'd called him a beast a tongue-lashing that had yet to be forgotten.
"The hell was...!" exploded Horac as he got back onto his feet rubbing his forehead. He reached for the apple that had fallen near him then he looked up and realized who had thrown it at him, his face going pale. "Ma'am!"
Amely Baxlell glowered at him imperiously then said in cool, clipped tones, "I would suggest you go home now, Horac. My husband promised me that he would be home for dinner tonight from Iven and I do not think he would be very pleased to find you harassing our nephew so soon after the last time. I don't think your father would be happy to have to negotiate you out of the Lock."
Horac blinked a few times then bowed his head slightly as he murmured, "Yes, ma'am," before he turned to walk away. He glared at Tristol briefly over his shoulder before he broke out into a sprint, his gaggle of minions joining him from where they had been hiding nearby watching. As he watched him go, the youth let loose of his white knuckled grip on the haft of the axe and breathed a sigh of relief. If his aunt hadn't come out of the house right then only the gods knew what might have happened.
It was just luck that she had. And that she was just as respected a fighter as his uncle was, being the only child of one of Lord Leveles' personal guards.
"Are you alright, Tristol?" asked Amely from behind him, her cool tone gone the moment Horac had disappeared. He turned to face her and smiled in response even though he didn't feel the least bit cheerful. Not when the killing urge was still racing through his blood, singing out for him to finally finish what he had started with the bully years before.
"Just fine, Aunt Am," he replied, "just fine. You know how Horac is."
She scowled at that, her blue eyes clouded, and nodded slowly. "So I do. Someone needs to take that boy in hand before he becomes a vagabond or some killer in a Lord's guard. But I suppose that is too much to ask for since they let Wilkin become such a terrible man."
"If they haven't raised their hand to stop one, they won't raise their hand to the other."
"That's just the problem," said Amely in a sad tone. "I'm afraid that father of theirs may have taken his hand to them one too many times." She shook her head then and continued, "Enough about those vagabonds! Take a break from chopping, Tris, and help me with dinner - I need some water from the well but I can't go get it while the bread is on the fire."
Tristol smiled and pulled the leather cover for the ax from where it was tucked into his belt, sliding it over the iron head before winding the cords tightly around it. He leaned it against the pile of cut wood under the lean-to then walked over to his aunt, taking the bucket she held with a nod.
She smiled at him then turned to retreat back into the house, leaving him alone outside again.
Glancing around once to make sure Horac wasn't going to circle back around and seeing nothing, Tristol headed towards the well that sat at the back of the house. Latching the handle of the bucket onto the hook at the end of the rope, he tested its hold twice before letting it swing over the dark maw of built up stones. As he unclipped the latch that held the lever closed and heard the bucket descend to land with a splash in the water below he heard something snap behind him.
Turning, with one hand on the lever, he found one of Horac's little posse starting over the fence with another playing lookout towards the house. He knew both of them well: Konal was a dark haired wisp of a lookout who only attacked the groups victims when they were surely beaten or held down; the other was Garth, a flame haired brute who was usually the one holding the victim down. And their goal appeared to be the axe he had left against the woodpile.
Tristol narrowed his eyes and clipped the latch back so the rope wouldn't entirely loop out to lose the bucket in the well. Bending over, he picked up a loose stone the size of an apple that had been chipped away from the top of the well during a sword practice with his uncle and gripped it tightly for a moment. Then he raised his arm and threw it towards Garth as hard as he could.
The stone struck the other boy's shoulder first, throwing him off balance to crash back into the fence, and then bounced upwards towards his face. It hit hard enough to break skin on his cheek and as blood ran down his rust colored skin, he turned to glare at Tristol.
"Wretched scum!"
"Wretched scum I may be," said Tristol as he folded his arms, "but you are on my family's land, Garth. And trying to go after a weapon, tsk, tsk. Even with my Feloinain blood, the law would convict you if you struck me."
Garth snarled, baring yellowed teeth, and spat, "Little shit, hiding behind your uncle! We'll get you someday, I promise you that. Someday when you don't have him to protect you!"
Amber eyes narrowed and Tristol replied, "We’ll see.”
The redhead began to snarl something else but Konal’s expression turned to horror at the sound of a horse in the distance and he dashed to the fence. “Gar!” he exclaimed, plucking at the older boy’s sleeve through the fence. “It’s the Constal!”
Garth’s expression turned to horror and he vaulted back over the fence with a last glare at Tristol with Konal at his heels. Huffing out a breath, the youth shook his head then turned back to the well and released the latch on the rope to continue hauling the bucket of water up. As he turned to walk back to the front of the house, he found his uncle sitting in front of the latched gate on his horse.
The big war charger’s dark coat with his flanks and mouth sprinkled with the gray of age was coated with sweat and Warrek sat on his back in dusty travel leathers. Tristol noticed that his uncle’s dark eyes were focused on the edge of the house Garth and Konal had disappeared behind and slowly walked towards the man. Resting one hand on the fence, he leaned forward slightly and called, “Uncle, leave them be. Nothing happened.”
Warrek turned towards him and the war charger stomped one of his plate-sized hooves before tossing his head. He swept his gaze up and down his nephew’s form then grunted and swung down from the saddle with a cloud of dust billowing around him as it shook off of his clothes upon the impact of his boots with the ground. As he slid the reins over his horse’s head, he growled, “Those boys had best be glad they weren’t here when I came up. I am in no mood to deal with their mischief today.”
The tone of his uncle’s voice sent alarm bells ringing in Tristol’s head and his gut reflexively tensed up. His grip tightening on the handle of the bucket he asked, “What happened in Iven, Uncle?”
Warrek didn’t meet his nephew’s eyes as he replied, “That’s not something to be discussed in the yard, Tris-lad. Now take that water inside as I wager Am needs it so she can finish dinner. I’ll be inside after I wash the dust off Verth here’s hide.”
Not something to be discussed in the yard.
Those words were ones that Tristol knew well – ones he had heard often enough in the past few years. They meant the matter to be spoken of should be only mentioned into the safe walls of the house because it concerned him.
Whatever had happened in Iven involved him.
Slowly Tristol nodded and said, “Yes, Uncle,” before he turned and went into the house. Amely looked up from where she was leaning over the fireplace to watch the bread and smiled.
“Bring that over here, Tris,” she said. “And can you chop up the vegetables on the table for the stew?”
“Of course, Aunt Am.”
Handing off the bucket to her, Tristol moved back to the table, picking up the knife and one of the potatoes lying amongst the group of things. As he sliced off the skin then began to cut it into pieces, Amely moved to stand next to him at the table as she sliced pieces off a haunch of deer meat. They worked quietly in concert as the bread rose and the water boiled and she only moved once to take the bread away from the fire.
“Is something wrong?” asked Amely as she moved the bread to the table, leaning on it to peer at her nephew. “Tris, did that boy come back?”
Tristol grunted then looked up at her as he paused in cutting up one of the roots she used to flavor the stew she was making for dinner. “It was Garth, not Horac. And Uncle scared them off when he arrived.”
She frowned at that, glancing to the front door that should open anytime now to allow her husband inside. Then Amely dropped her gaze back to her nephew and murmured, “That’s not all of it.”
With a sigh, he looked up to meet her eyes and hissed, “Uncle…something happened in Iven when he was there, Aunt Am. Something involving me.”
“Oh, Tris-lad, it can’t be that bad.” She moved around the table to wrap her arms around his shoulders and added, “You know Reck and I would never let anything happen to you.”
Tristol bowed his head at that, eyes closed tightly. For a moment he took comfort in the words and his aunt’s embrace.
Then he softly said, “Mother said that too. And look what those words got her. Constal Ramwal too when he promised to protect me. Nothing good comes from protecting me, Aunt Am. Not a damned thing.”
“Tris,” began Amely and then they both turned as the door opened to let Warrek enter in his travel stained closed. His mud-encrusted boots disgraced a rug as he took off his coat and hung it on a hook next to the door before he turned to face them. A feeling of grave seriousness hung about him like a heavy winter’s cloak and it quickly permeated the room, causing Amely’s grip on her nephew’s shoulders to tighten.
“Reck?” she breathed, her eyes set in a wide-eyed gaze on her husband. “Gods save, Reck, tell us whatever has happened and stop standing there looking so grim!”
Warrek ran a dirty hand back through his sweaty hair then fixed a gaze as dark as an open grave on the pair of them. “It is that grim, Am,” he said with a voice rogue with a multitude of emotion. “Wilkin Ahnall rode out a day ago to Iven, telling anyone in his path and on his way there that would listen that I threatened his brother because the boy only did his just duty by scorning a catman half-breed. The fool then proceeded to drink himself half to death on Lčvin ale and got in a knife fight with two young lads at the tavern. One of the lads is dead because of it and the other was expected to follow not long after – poor boy likely was gone before I was out of sight of the township.”
“What about Wilkin?” asked Tristol, well remembering the elder brother of Horac. He was the equal of his sibling in all things except he didn’t take as much pleasure out of torturing those younger and weaker than him. In egging on his brother’s hatred and bullying, however, Wilkin had been an artful craftsman and he had been the one to truly shore up Horac’s hatred for Tristol.
Warrek smiled coldly in response to the question, the dirt encrusted in the lines on his face making him seem older than his fifty-six years and more menacing at the same time.
“Dead. Crawled off with a knife wound in his side and managed to make it as far as the stable door before he succumbed to the alcohol and the blood loss to die.”
Amely gasped at that, her free hand flying to her mouth, and Tristol went deathly still at this news.
Wilkin, the eldest son of probably the most prominent member of their township and fifth cousin twice removed to Lord Helbain himself, was dead. Dead all because of the scuffle the Constal had broken up between Horac and Tristol. And though it was no fault of Warrek or Tristol’s, they were likely to be the ones to be blamed for Wilkin’s death.
All because of what Tristol was – what his father had been.
The young man shuddered as he felt a quiver of anticipation well up in his belly, effectively killing any hunger he had felt. And he could only cringe because he knew something horrible would be coming soon because of Wilkin’s death. He tried to ignore the sure knowledge, to hope with a child’s hope that it would not come.
But he was a fool to think such things.
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Posted Sep 12, 2008
The dialogue was very good - not only did it build the atmosphere, but it also built the characters very well. The tempo of the dialogue was good too - depending on the situation, you varied it well.
The story 'read well'. It was logically presented and progressed at a nice pace. T... (
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