Shieldbreaker: Episode 1: Road of the Sword

SHIELDBREAKER

  Part I of V: Road of the Sword

  The Ursian Chronicles

  by Ty Johnston

  a Monumental Works Group author

  Copyright 2012 by L. M. Press

  visit the author’s website: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

  Table of Contents

  About Shieldbreaker

  Road of the Sword

  Preview: Chapter 1 of the novel, City of Rogues

  About Shieldbreaker

  Readers familiar with my ongoing epic fantasy saga The Ursian Chronicles might recognize the name of Lerebus Shieldbreaker, the main character of this five-part series. Lerebus appears as a minor character in the novel Dark King of the North: Book III of The Kobalos Trilogy, and as a somewhat more influential character in my novel Under the Mountain: Part III of The Sword of Bayne. Funny how Lerebus keeps showing up in the final novels of my trilogies. Also, I do not hide the fact that the Jorsican barbarian known as Lerebus will appear in more of my works in the future, sometimes as a major character, sometimes as a minor one. This has led to a few questions from readers about the character, especially concerning his past. How did he come to serve as a soldier in the Kobalan army when he is from Jorsica by birth? How does he meet with the mighty Bayne kul Kanon nearly two thousand years before the events of The Kobalos Trilogy, in which Lerebus appears? This five-part series of short stories will answer many of those questions, and others, though new questions might be raised. The first story, Road of the Sword, is one of my oldest pieces of fiction, and the first time I wrote about Lerebus Shieldbreaker. For some while Road of the Sword has been available to readers, yet it is a tale of Shieldbreaker’s youth with no hints of the man Lerebus will eventually become. When I began considering this series, I knew I wanted to include Road of the Sword as the first section of this collection, because its events are important in the development of the character of Lerebus. I hope the reader enjoys.

  1,977 years After Ashal (A.A.)

  The stock of the crossbow to his right shoulder, the yellow-haired boy could see the deer’s head above the arrow he stared down.

  The animal was a wonderful creature, muscled and regal with its steps. Its horns sprouted far and wide atop its head, the tips sparkling from dew in the morning sun making it appear as an oversized crown for a king.

  “Careful,” whispered a husky voice behind the boy. “You only have the head. Wait for it to step from behind the tree, then you will have a better shot at its heart.”

  The boy did as he was told.

  But the deer moved no further. It stood there, its slanted eyes wide in the way of its kind and its black nose testing the air.

  It could smell them, both boy and man were sure. The deer was not as dumb a creature as many thought. It smelled them, but could not see them for the animal was not know to have great sight and the boy and man were hidden behind a large, split pine.

  One of the creature’s legs came up slowly.

  The boy’s hand tightened on the handle of the crossbow.

  “Not yet,” the man said.

  The leg came forward as did a few inches of the animal’s white breast.

  “Not yet,” the man repeated.

  Another leg lifted. It, too, came down as the deer moved forward and more of its chest appeared around the edge of the tree.

  The boy’s head lowered even further to site along the body of the bow, the lashes of his right eye almost resting on the arrow’s fletchings.

  The buck’s head spun in their direction.

  “Now,” the man’s rough voice whispered.

  The boy yanked on the crossbow’s bar.

  The bolt darted through the air, seeking the heart of its prey.

  But too late.

  The deer vaulted forward. The arrow caught it low in the side. The animal squealed and kicked at the air, spinning its body around.

  The boy jumped from behind his tree and dropped the crossbow. He yanked a long, bone-handled knife from his leather belt.

  “No!” the large man commanded, putting a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “You do not attack an animal with a blade.”

  The boy looked up in time to dodge the deer’s antlers as the beast charged into them.

  The large man, dressed in wolf skins, fell backward. As he hit the ground, one of his massive hands reached out and entwined the shaft of the long spear he had left there.

  The deer jumped and spun in the air again, its pain driving it to ferocity.

  The boy backed further, seeing how useless was his own weapon against the mad beast.

  The man stood then, the spear before him, its sharpened head pointing at the deer’s heart.

  The animal stopped its convulsions and came face to face with eyes almost as mad as its own.

  “Come at me, then,” the man said, jabbing his spear forward with his right hand while motioning for the deer to attack with his left.

  The animal pawed at the ground and lowered its head like a bull ready to charge.

  The boy’s breath halted as he watched the spectacle of man against beast.

  “Come on, you bastard,” the man said between clenched teeth.

  The deer charged. Its front hooves dug into the ground one last time before launching the creature forward, horns to the front.

  The man waited until the last possible moment, then pounced to his right, stabbing out with the spear.

  The blade bit deep, catching the animal in the chest just behind its front legs.

  There was an explosion of dirt and leaves as the creature’s heavy body crashed into the ground between the man and boy. The body came to a halt, the spear protruding from its still side.

  “That is how you kill a buck the hard way,” the man said as he drew a long curved knife from the belt around his waist, the white of a smile showing between the dark brown hair surrounding his lips.

  The boy was still in shock. He slowly took in a breath as he felt the heart in his chest slowing. “You ... you killed it, with your bare hands.”

  The man knelt beside the dead creature, pulling his spear free before rolling the body over. “No,” he said, looking at the boy through the long, curled locks hanging in his face. “I did not kill it with my bare hands. I killed it with my spear.”

  The blonde-haired lad shuffled forward. He noticed he still had his knife in his hand and sheathed the small weapon. “But still, you killed it at close range.”

  The large man thrust his knife low into the deer’s white-furred stomach and cut up slowly,. “That is why I carry a spear when hunting.” He grunted at the strain of sawing through the tough skin. “A blade isn’t a hunting weapon. A sword or knife is a weapon for killing men.

  “Now get your crossbow and the rope we left behind the tree. I’ll clean the deer as much as possible, but I don’t want to have to carry the whole damned beast all the way home.”

  The boy did as he was told, gathering their equipment and packing what he could. When he was finished with that chore, he began to tie rope around the front hooves of the dead buck.

  The man tossed the innards to one side and wiped his forehead with a sleeve of fur.

  “Why isn’t the blade a good hunting weapon?” the boy asked several minutes later, breaking the silence that had settled upon them.

  Cleaning his knife on the dead animal’s back, the man grunted and stood, putting away the knife. “A knife or sword doesn’t work well against beasts. An animal is too stupid to know you can kill it. That’s why animals always charge, because they want to kill you. They don’t realize you can hurt them. A spear is a long weapon that keeps the creature away from you, so you can stand back and stab at it.” />
  “And the sword?” the boy asked as he finished tying the forelegs and the head together.

  “The sword is a weapon for fighting men,” the man said, grunting as he picked up the loose end of the rope and began to drag the deer through the forest. “A man knows you can hurt him, but he needs to get in close to hurt you, too. A sword is a better weapon against a man because it is all weapon, unlike the spear. A man is smart enough to know he can knock aside the head of a spear, or chop it off, and then come in for the kill. The sword, being metal along its whole length, and sharp, keeps a man at bay.”

  The boy followed behind. “You seem to know what you are talking about.”

  The man hesitated in his steps, but was soon dragging again. “I’m a hunter,” he said. “I don’t kill for kings or gold. I only kill to fill my belly and that of my family.”

  “But you keep a sword at home.”

  The men hesitated again as if the youth’s words had stung, but still he kept pulling the dead animal. “That is for protection. I know how to use it if I have to, but I prefer not to have to.”

  “Have you ever had to use it, father?”

  The man came to a complete halt. He dropped the rope and turned to face his son. “Lerebus, I am not a man who lies often, though I will not be a hypocrite and say I have never lied. So, I will tell you the truth, and that truth is ... yes, I have used my sword. But that was long ago and I was much younger. I had not even met your mother.”

  The boy also came to a stop and looked down at the sheathed knife on his belt, then stared up into his father’s eyes.

  The man looked back into his son’s gaze and felt a mixture of raw emotions flowing through him. He could see the stern and adventurous side of his son in those gray orbs that gave a brief glimpse of what Lerebus would look like as a man in five or more years.

  “Will you show me how to use the sword?” the boy asked.

  Lerebus’s father was so taken back by the question, he took a step back.

  “Will you, father?”

  The man slowly nodded. “If it is what you want.”

  A thin grin grew across the boy’s lips.

  “But we are hunters now,” the man said. “I have learned a few things in this life, and one of them is that it is better to be a hunter or farmer than to be a warrior. Warriors know only misery. I would hope you would take lesson from me and become a hunter yourself.”

  The grin remained on the boy’s face as he did not hear the further ramblings of his father.

  The man growled as he lifted the rope once more, shifted the weight he pulled and his eyes took to the sky.

  It was then he saw the heavy black smoke in the distance. He stopped his trudging.

  Lerebus noticed his father’s hesitation and looked up to see the rolling plumes of darkness. “The village.”

  The deer was dropped a second time. Lerebus’s father was already at a full sprint, jumping over rocks and dodging tree limbs, his spear at his side before the boy was able to follow.

  “Stay back!” His father yelled as he continued forward, the tawny muscles in his legs carrying him faster and faster like a racing horse.

  Lerebus would have disobeyed, but it was then he first heard the screams and the clanging sounds of metal upon metal. He came to a standstill and witnessed the fur-shrouded back of his father escaping through the greenery ahead.

  The man was soon gone as the boy stood there and listened for the first time to the sounds of battle. He had killed animals upon occasion while hunting and was used to their screeches of pain at the point of slaying, but it was nothing as compared to the shrieks and moans coming from ahead of him.

  His legs became numb and would not move. His hands hung at his sides, the fingers quaking. Fear was not a sensation Lerebus was familiar with; shock and surprise, yes, but not true fear.

  The peal of metal striking metal soon came to an end, but was followed by the cracking sound of flames that had grown high enough in the air Lerebus could see yellow tips oscillating above the tree tops. The screaming and moaning also were finished, and for the first time Lerebus could hear the huffing noises of horses at heavy work.

  His legs moved him forward then. Fear had held him motionless for long, painful minutes, but the panic in his heart had quickly been exchanged for worry.

  He ran with as much strength as he could. His legs pumped up and down as he lengthened his strides into leaps.

  It ended quickly. He jumped a narrow creek bed, landed on wet leaves, and his feet betrayed him. He tumbled backward, slamming into the rocky wetness of the creek. His elbows stopped his fall, smashing into the flat stones beneath the shallow water. Pain engulfed his mind, his vision turning black momentarily before his pupils expanded and brought the green of the forest back to him.

  He lay there taking in slow breaths, staring into the bits of yellow sky he could see above the dark pines. He could feel the broken remains of the crossbow beneath him where it had been strapped to his back.

  “Lerebus!”

  It was his father.

  “Lerebus!”

  He sat up, the pain in his arms ignored, and looked around, straining to hear.

  “Run, boy!”

  The voice was coming from the left, Lerebus decided. He pulled himself to the side of the creek and squatted behind heavy bushes.

  “Lerebus, go! Get away!”

  He had never heard his father’s voice in such a way. It was a voice filled with more than fear. It was filled with panic and terror, with doom.

  Lerebus climbed into the bushes and looked to the west to glimpse his father’s running figure.

  The man was not going full speed as he had when he had left the boy. He was still moving fast, but there was a limp to his step.

  As he drew nearer to his son’s hiding spot, Lerebus could make out the red splattered on the front of the furs his father wore, and that the man still carried his spear.

  The boy almost cried out then. The vast shadow that suddenly loomed over his father stopped him.

  It was an image from a nightmare come alive that was above the man. The creature appeared to be a black war horse, but it was much too large to be such. Ram-like horns protruded from the sides of its head and its red eyes danced as if filled with flame. Gray smoke poured from between the monster’s pointed teeth as the beast lunged forward.

  The animal jumped into the air, its cloven hooves crashing into the dirt only yards from Lerebus’s running father when the boy caught sight of the ghastly rider on the horse-thing’s back. The rider had been hidden in shadow beneath the dark branches of the trees, but when the sun’s light splashed between an opening, Lerebus could see the gold-trimmed, skull-shaped helmet and black leather-clad body upon the monster.

  A lengthy black sword waved in the rider’s hand as beast and rider charged forward.

  Lerebus could hear the heavy breathing of his father. It sounded like a wounded doe that had been run near to death.

  The fur-wearing man stopped in his tracks then. Raising high his spear, he spun to face the monstrosity that bore down on him.

  For a moment it appeared he might have a chance of surviving. The rider and monster seemed surprised their prey had turned on them. They hesitated.

  Lerebus’s father swung wide with the spear. The hunting weapon glanced off the black sword the rider held and was knocked out of the father’s hands.

  The rider steered his beast in, going for the kill. Lerebus’s father ducked beneath the horse-monster’s biting teeth and drew forth his hunting knife.

  It was no use. The black sword descended, biting into the gray fur covering the man’s left shoulder. The blow went deep and blood sprayed into the air to fall like morning mist on the forest’s floor.

  The fur-clad body slumped to the ground, the useless knife plummeting from its fingers.

  Lerebus bit into his hand hard enough to taste blood. It was all he could think to do to keep himself from crying out.

  The dark rider sat h
igh in his black saddle as he spun his steed around. No eyes appeared beneath the black helmet, but it was obvious to Lerebus the rider was looking for another target.

  Lerebus could only crouch quietly as tears jogged down his face.

  The rider spun the animal around one more time, then barked and both monsters galloped off in the direction of Lerebus’s home village.

  Lerebus removed his hand from his mouth. He did not feel the pain of the crescent he had cut with teeth into his hand and he no longer felt the sharpness in his elbows.

  He crouched there, staring at his father’s motionless form, ignoring the horrible sounds still coming from the village.

  The sun eventually went down and the moon ruled the skies for some while. The noises from the village faded. Owls made their night sounds above while small forest creatures made their night sounds below. The smell of smoke lingered, but it was not so heavy.

  What seemed a thousand years later, the sun appeared once more in the sky and the forest began to warm.

  It was then Lerebus moved. His eyes were dry and his body was again feeling the pains of the day before as well as the new throbbing sensation cramping his legs.

  He made his way to his father’s body, picking up the spear that had not been able to save the man’s life. He looked down into the still open eyes that had once looked upon him with pride.

  It took him little time to carry rocks from the creek to cover the body. It was the way of his people to burn or bury their dead, but Lerebus could not find it in him to touch the form that had once been his father.

  The village was much as he expected. Most of the huts and cottages had been burned or torn down. Of the thirty or so folk who lived there, Lerebus could find none of them alive. Bodies of men, women and children lay where they had been butchered. A few were missing, and Lerebus could not guess if they had escaped or been made slaves.

  Tracks of the horse-monster were everywhere, even stamped into some of the bodies. Lerebus was enough of a tracker to deduce there had been more than the lone rider he had seen. Twenty or so men on horseback had devoured the village.

  One of the few cottages not destroyed was the one Lerebus had been raised in. The thatch roof had been set aflame, but apparently it had not caught. The door to the one-room building was open wide, slashed cut into the wood.

  Lerebus entered slowly, his father’s spear held before him. He did not expect to find any of the enemy still here, but his hands controlled the weapon more than his mind.

  What little furniture they had had been kicked over and smashed. The heavy furs of bear that had hung on the walls were gone.

  “Mother?” Lerebus said, the sound of his own voice causing him to jump.

  There was no response.

  Lerebus walked through the room of the cottage and opened the door of branches at the back of the place. He looked but no one was there.

  “Mother?” he asked again.

  There was no answer.

  He sat upon the fur-covered log his father had often sat upon at night while telling tales or whittling a pipe or toy. He gripped the spear tighter as his head drooped he he suddenly realized how tired he was. He had spent the entire night awake in the woods.

  He felt as if there was much to do, but he realized there was truly nothing to do. His father was dead. His mother was gone, probably dead. The entire village had been cleansed of life. He did not know who his vengeance should fall upon or why they had attacked. It was not as if the village was known for anything beyond its propensity for rearing good hunters.

  His eyes came up to fall upon his father’s large sword hanging above the stone fireplace. The heavy weapon had been left in place, either unnoticed or deemed unneeded.

  Lerebus stood. He dropped the spear next to the log he had sat upon and raised a hand toward the sword as he walked to it.

  He took the weapon down from its place of waiting and gripped the leather-sheathed handle in both hands. It was too big for him, and it was heavy. But he was young. He would grow into the weapon if it could not grow into him.

  The sun was barely in the sky when Lerebus finished burying the dead. He left his home, a pack on his back filled with what food he could find and a goat skin filled with water tied to his belt. The sword had proven too long to reside on his hip, so he used belts and skins to create a makeshift scabbard to carry the weapon on his back, the handle sticking out above the right shoulder in the fashion of mercenaries.

  There had been no rains, so the tracks of the warriors were easy enough to follow. Lerebus knew not who he was following, and he knew not why they had destroyed everything he had known, but he was determined to find out or himself be destroyed in the trying. Survival must come first, and revenge did not fill one’s stomach, but for the time being Lerebus felt he had some purpose. He had nowhere to go and no one to go to, so he would follow the tracks in the dirt and see where and to whom they took him.

  His father’s spear sat unused in the cottage he had called home.

  Continues in Shieldbreaker: Episode II: An End to Rage

  The following is a preview,

  the first chapter of the author’s novel,

  City of Rogues: Book I of The Kobalos Trilogy