The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 9.2: into the Forest

The Telgeisis was cold, fed by melted ice from the Eisden Mountains and, for much of its length, ran fast and powerful. The river flowed north from the mountains for a hundred miles, rushing over a jagged rocky bed. Then, the watercourse bent and followed an easterly direction, eventually draining into the Medvian Sea. Thus, the Telgeisis formed both the western and northern borders of Dannik.

The ford lay only three miles downriver from the bend and was one of the few places were the water ran calm. Just after the bend, the land rose, forcing the river to push the water up a gentle slope. The river broadened and ran slow, which created the ford in the Telgeisis. A few miles to the east, the terrain sharply dropped toward the shores of the Medvian Sea, and again the river ran swift and deep.

The path over the Telgeisis was an important tollbooth for Cal’s father. The ford was the gateway to a small group of Baronies to the north. The Trader intended to stop at Bregoth, the trading hub of these Baronies, and eventually make his way to Cheldran, a small port on the Medvian Sea. From there, the Trader planned to meet a ship from his merchant house, which would sail south for Selinger. The guard captain had told Cal that he could either take his pay in Cheldran or embark the ship to Selinger.

The journey the Trader intended to make was a dangerous one. Much of the land to the north was wild, covered with small, slow-moving rivers that flowed into the Medvian Sea. Goblin raiders often penetrated the Northland by sailing up these shallow channels in their longboats, burning and pillaging human settlements throughout the area. The goblins ravaged countless homesteads in these raids, forcing many displaced men to resort to banditry in order to survive. Between the goblins and the bandits, a perpetual state of unrest plagued the region. The Barons fought a constant battle to protect their lands. Despite the risks, there was profit. The Baronies bordering the Mahdiren Wood's northern edge traded in exotic furs and dyes difficult to obtain in the south.

“Conradin Mara? Conrad Mara,” called out the Guard Captain. Cal started when he realized Naedros had shouted the phony name he had given when he signed on with the caravan.

Cal grunted, “Yuh.”

“Wake up! Lend a hand where it’s needed,” snapped Captain Naedros, pointing at a wagon stuck in a muddy rut.

Cal slouched resentfully. He did not fail to notice that five other guardsmen stood closer to the fouled wagon. Under normal circumstances, even Cal knew it was not a guardsman’s job to push stuck wagons; there were “hands” for that chore. Today, however, a recent rainstorm had softened the ground. Four wagons were mired in a low swag of the path, and the hands were busy. He was the new boy in the guard, so he got the dirty job.

As he put his shoulder to the stuck wagon, a guardsman with a thick blond beard taunted, “Show us them muscles.”

“That’s pr’bably where he got ‘em all. Push’n wagons,” chimed in his stubby, bald-headed companion.

“Naw, he’s so dumb they probly had him a’pull’n them.”

The squad answered this last sally with a general laugh.

Cal grinned. The caravan guards act just like the soldiers back home. They’ll challenge me in every conceivable way until I establish my place in the guard.

In an odd way, the ribbing made him feel at home.

“What’s that metal thing across his back?”

“He thinks it’s a sword.”

“The only thing he’s gonna stick with that chunk of metal is his foot!”

The guardsman with the blond beard pantomimed drawing a sword and dropping it point first on his foot, then flapped his arms and squawked in imagined pain. More men laughed.

When Cal had assembled his disguise, he had congratulated himself for looking like a typical guardsman. His compatriots had great fun telling him otherwise. Swordsmen in the guard were few; swords were the weapons of nobles. Designed to crack armor, swords were forged from expensive metal and shaped by the art of skilled armigers. Not only did their cost prohibit use by peasants, but also it took considerable training to swing a sword with reasonable skill. Instead, most of the men carried a war hammer, or a spear. Cal, on the other hand, had breezed into camp with a five-foot long great sword.

Guardsmen, being both men and people who fight for a living, refused to leave the issue alone. Just by wearing that great big sword, eighteen-year-old Cal proclaimed, “Not only am I better than you, I am better than you’ll ever be.” The caravan guards resented this silent assertion, which made him a target for their ridicule.

Cal forgot about the jeering of his fellows and concentrated on the job at hand. He and two hands tried to push the wagon free, but its back wheels were hopelessly stuck. They rocked the wagon back and forth, hoping to use momentum to pop the wagon loose. Nothing worked. Mud covered Cal’s clothes. With an insane scream, a big, black-haired guardsman launched himself toward the wagon.

The big man ran down the path and rammed his shoulder into the wagon with a tremendous crash. Startled by the noise, the horses at the other end bolted and dragged the wagon free, given new strength by panic.

One of the hands fell face-first into the mud when the wagon lurched from underneath his arms. The wagon-driver cursed and desperately jerked the reins. He barely stopped the horses from smashing into the back of the wagon ahead of them.

The guardsmen roared their approval for their fellow’s success, and laughed. The burly man grabbed Cal’s wrist and held both their hands in the air in joint victory. The guardsmen cheered again. For a moment, Cal felt like he was one of the gang.

Cal extended a grateful hand to the man, and said, “I’m Cal.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “M’name’s Aubert. I thought your name wus Conrad.”

He instantly realized he had given his real name. Hastily, he tried to cover, “Conrad is what people call me. Cal is what my mamma called me.”

Aubert nodded his mane of black hair, seeming to accept his explanation without a second thought. Aubert then pulled a skin of mead from beneath his tunic and took a long swig, then offered it to his new friend.

Cal hesitated.

“Take it, lad! The Trader don’t care. Drunk men march better.”

He could not believe the Trader was so lax, but Aubert almost shoved the skin into Cal’s mouth. The young man took a deep drink, glancing around like a guilty child sneaking a treat behind his mother’s back. No one even looked twice.

The black-haired guardsman slapped Cal on his heavily muscled back, “See lad, I tol’ you.” He then snatched back the mead and took yet another drink.

The caravan plodded onward. As the day wore on, the mead numbed the ache in Cal’s legs and warmed his heart. The men finished the first skin; then wiry Molestis pulled another from one of the wagons, the guards roaring with approval. The men passed the new skin around and Cal drank as his comrades cheered. He felt enveloped in friendship.