Stronger than Bone (3 page)

(Present Day: 237 Cycles into the Light)

“Damn it! This cowardly bastard is afraid to make a bloody decision!”

Lieutenant Corvis Brente, normally quite level headed and patient, turned beet red standing at attention in front of the acting Garrison Commander, Major Tisley. With every non-committal word and lame excuse as to why no-one could be spared to search for their captured comrade Lieutenant Martin, the veins on Corvis’s neck and forehead stood more pronounced. His lips pressed tightly together and his brow furrowed. The hulking Corvis looked positively menacing. Of course, the self-absorbed and much smaller Major was oblivious to how dangerous this predicament was becoming.

Minutes later Corvis stormed out of the Major’s office. He managed to exit without doing anything to end his career or the Major’s life, though it had been a toss-up until his boots actually crossed the threshold. Muttering to himself, Corvis strode determinedly to the stables to find his horse. Along the way several of his men, carrying gear and weapons, fell into step behind him. Six in all, Corvis and his men quickly loaded and mounted their horses. Within five minutes they were cantering past the garrison gates toward the northern mountains. Each of them knew they were disobeying a direct order, and none of them could care less. Corvis turned back toward the garrison for a moment, spit angrily, and sped north at a gallop.

High in the northern mountains, Lieutenant Chase Martin grinned fiercely and shifted his weight forward, lowering into a crouch. He was stripped to the waist, covered in mud, blood, and sweat, and his chest was heaving from adrenaline and exertion. Three rough men cautiously approached the seventeen year old Lieutenant with swords drawn, spreading out and trying to find a weakness as they closed with him. Chase had no sword, just the dagger he stole from one of the two guards he killed during his escape from the rebel camp that morning. Still, the men who sought to re-capture him were not fools. The rumors about men like him, men of the Royal Guard, were enough to make three sword carrying, battle hardened men nervous about getting too close.

The center man, the smallest of the three and possibly their leader, stepped straight in and raised his sword to strike high. Almost simultaneously, the man to the left, by far the biggest of the three and the only lefty, lunged deeper left and swung his enormous sword in a low, sweeping arc toward Chase’s legs. The man to the right made no move, whether by design or by indecision, but kept his sword raised and ready. For Chase, time slowed and the scene opened up in sharp detail. He had measured each of the men as they approached and saw their movements almost before they happened.

In a blink, Chase’s dagger was sticking through the neck of the center man while the man’s sword was still raised above his head. With his left hand, Chase blocked the downward swing and wrenched the sword out of the dying man’s grip. He jerked the dagger free and shoved him toward Lefty. Lefty’s swing caught the center man’s legs, chopping clean through the first and lodging firmly in the femur of the second. That was bad luck for Lefty. Chase appeared to be flying through the air as he launched above the center man and took Lefty’s head off with a powerful down stroke.

Spinning as he landed, Chase squared off with the remaining soldier. This soldier, like his late companions, was a regular in the Rebel army. Decades ago, revolution split the kingdom into those that remained loyal to the crown and the rebels who now lived beyond the borders. After the rebellion was put down, their army disbanded and they became more of a nuisance than a real threat. Now as the kingdom weakened, the rebels found the will to reunite into a combined army, and their bothersome raids increased in size, effectiveness, and frequency.

There were rumors that King Lawrence, a cruel old man with an appetite for vice and debauchery, was dying of a wasting disease. His impending death prompted in-fighting and jockeying for position because the King, try as he might, had no living heir. One son had been born when the King was still a young man, but Prince Thurmond had died long ago. If he lived, the people would have hope. Thurmond had been everything his father was not. He was a kind and honorable man. He was a leader of men that earned the respect his position demanded. But he had died. Now corruption ran rampant and the people were suffering.

Chase had no love for the King, but he was fiercely loyal to the King’s Royal Guard. He was not born of nobility or involved in any of the myriad political skirmishes across the kingdom. He was a soldier, plain and simple, and he was one of the very best. His admission into the Royal Guard academy was purchased by a well-to-do uncle after his mother and brother died when Chase was just a boy. His older brother, Guy, was the fighter, not Chase. It was Guy who intended to be a soldier and a Royal Guard, and it was Guy that Chase lived his life in honor of now.

The man who faced Lieutenant Chase Martin bared his brown teeth and spat. He was no spring chicken. He was old and grizzled, and stunk of tooth decay. Chase wondered for a brief moment how the man had come by the puckered scar running across his scruffy neck. Chase feinted high and right and closed in to the right. Pucker-scar stepped left and swung at Chase’s left torso hard. Deflecting the blow with a downward thrust of his dagger, Chase drew his sword back and to the left lightning fast across the man’s pucker scar, re-opening the old wound forever. He let the man fall silently.

Knowing that more rebels than these three were on his trail, Chase quickly stripped what useable gear and food he could from the corpses and continued north, higher into the mountains.

(Twelve years earlier: 225 Cycles into the Light)

“But I want to go with you, mama!” cried Chase. Guy, Chase’s big brother sighed patiently and took his hand.

“Chase,” he said with a smile as he knelt in front of the boy. “A man has to be here to guard the house and all of mother’s belongings. That’s you little brother.”

Chase swallowed, and looked from his twelve year old brother to his mother and back. He nodded silently. Still smiling, Guy messed up his brother’s hair and rose to his feet. Chase instinctively smoothed his hair back down with his free hand and smirked. He loved his big brother and although he didn’t completely comprehend time, he understood that ten years was an awfully long time. He was afraid that he would never see his brother again and his eyes began to well with tears.

“Son” his mother said firmly. “I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day; as soon as your uncle has fulfilled his promise to your brother. Until then, you will conduct yourself as a responsible young man. You are five years old. Prove to me you can be brave. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Without another word, his mother took Guy’s arm and turned toward the waiting carriage. Guy winked a gray-green eye at his brother and traded Chase’s smaller hand for a leather bag that held all of his belongings. Chase watched as the carriage took his mother and brother away. As the sounds of the horse’s hooves faded away, the silence grew as big as the empty house behind him.

It was the last time he saw either of them. The boat that was to take them to his uncle’s home near the capital sunk shortly after leaving the harbor.

(Twenty years ago: 217 Cycles into the Light)

Corporal Lynn Hayes shot his Platoon Sergeant a hard look but kept his mouth shut. He looked at each of the Privates standing at attention in front of them and saw the same disbelief on their faces that he wore when he first heard the news. Some of them drew a cross in the air in front of them, others dropped their heads in silent prayer, and a few even began to weep. Their beloved General, Prince Thurmond, had fallen in battle on the western border fighting against another enemy.

The kingdom was under siege from all sides but the north, and had been for many months. Lynn knew the truth had to be told before rumors spun out of control sowing even more discord, but this was not place or the time! Hope was already diminished out here on the border between their great kingdom and the wastelands to the south. The men were already half in numbers and half starved.

They had just received orders to rally once again and lead an attack against the enemy’s left line. They were to leave in minutes. This put the Great River to their right and made retreat all but impossible if they didn’t break through. Now, the Platoon Sergeant, Sergeant Blackburn, had sapped what little hope and motivation that lingered in their empty bellies.

Sergeant Blackburn, obviously finished with his ill-planned speech, just stood there as if wondering why his men looked so defeated.

Lynn glared at the Sergeant, willing him to say something to bolster the men’s spirits, anything! The Sergeant, as if hearing the unspoken message turned to the Corporal and quietly said “Get ‘em ready.” He walked away with his shoulders slumped, looking like a beaten dog. Lynn did not know where he could be going just before battle, but he didn’t care. He honestly hoped the Sergeant would just keep walking. Men like him were poison in the midst of difficulty. They bred fear and doubt in others, fed it and let it fester, as if doing so would bring some sort of peace within their own soul.

Standing ram-rod straight and clenching his jaw so hard he was sure his teeth would break, Corporal Hayes turned sharply to face his men.

In a loud and commanding voice he shouted, “Listen to me brave men of our homeland!”

Eyes started to raise and meet with his as men fought within their own hearts to defeat fear and despair, and to prepare for what they knew was coming.

“We have heard the news! But so have they!” he bellowed as he pointed over the cold wet ground toward the enemy lines. “They are rejoicing! They are relieved! They are ecstatic that he’s dead, and laughing at our weeping!” And he turned toward the enemy and spit. He turned back to the Platoon, to HIS men.

Now every eye was on him, holding his gaze. He choked back his emotions and shouted even louder, “We will turn their laughter to tears!”

The men had turned from despair to anger and shouted agreement, “HURRAH!”

“We will turn their rejoicing to cries of terror!” In unison they shouted louder, “HURRAH!”

“We will kill every last one of those evil bastards!”

“HURRAH!”

“FOR THE PRINCE! HURRAH! HURRAH! HURRAH!”

“RIGHT, FACE!” commanded the Corporal. The entire Platoon snapped to attention at once, and turned sharply to the right.

The Corporal shouted “FORWARD, MARCH!” and turned sharply, stepping off with his men toward battle, and to almost certain death.

The main force attacked just right of the enemy’s center. The Field Commander, a Colonel named Hall, made a show of sending a company sized element swinging wide and wildly charging at the enemy’s right flank as a grand diversion. The hodge-podge company was made up of cooks, livery boys, and supply soldiers. The charge began in a fierce manner, terrible for any enemy to behold. But as they closed with the enemy, their resolve withered away and many slowed or simply turned back. Even so, their half-hearted attempt on the right flank was enough to pull reserves from the enemy’s left line giving the shock troops led by Corporal Hayes just the spark of hope they needed to keep their inner fires stoked.

Where the diversionary troops had lost their resolve, the men with Corporal Hayes gained even more. While the enemy facing the company of cooks gained courage as their foes got closer, the enemies facing the Corporal’s shock troops faltered as his howling war-hounds grew closer and more menacing.

When they finally met, Corporal Hayes was on the front line, in the center where all of his men could see him and gain courage from his bravery. He thrust and parried, smashing helmets and severing limbs; and as the blood splashed across his face and the stink of men dying filled the air, he thought of his father. He only knew of him from the stories his foster father told him. The man who cared for him when he was orphaned at four years old knew his father, but didn’t speak of him often. It was only when the old man was drunk, or when Lynn was particularly sad that he would relent and tell him something about his father.

William Hayes had been a natural leader who refused to take charge or lead until forced by circumstance. And circumstance did force him to on several occasions. He had been known as a man who spoke very few words, but men listened when he did. His background was a mystery until the day that he died. He simply arrived in the small village next to the coastal river one day, and along with his infant son, he started a new life.

The usually peaceful village had no soldiers or law keepers, and occasionally a band of roaming thieves or thugs would target the village. Those were the days when William’s leadership and unique “skills” were needed, and those were the days that circumstance forced him to act.

His son, Corporal Hayes wanted, at this moment, to be back at home near the river, and not here in this filth, covered in the blood and spit of other men.

Yet, here he was, and bloody he was.

Hayes shouted commands that could be heard above the ugly din of battle. His men heard him and obeyed. He fought hand to hand beside them, covered in blood. They cheered and yelled his name as they pushed through the bewildered enemy line. He cut through each man he faced mercilessly. The screams and cries, the foul smells and grizzly sights were all a blur.

Through it all, not one of his troops left his brother’s shoulder or turned his back on the enemy. Not one of his men died as a coward or a traitor. They hacked and stabbed and chopped their way forward, leaving mangled corpses and blood soaked mud in their wake.

That was the day that a starving and worn down platoon broke through the enemy’s left line on Bloody Beach. That was the day the tide of the battle turned in their favor. That was the day that Corporal Lynn Hayes, at only 17 years old, won the rank of Sergeant and earned the respect of an entire Army.

(Twelve years ago: 225 Cycles into the Light)

‘Oh my God! Please!”

“I’m not going to make it!”

Guy’s lungs felt as if they would burst as he kicked and pulled his way ferociously toward the surface. He was in full panic.

The boat he and his mother boarded was viscously attacked as soon as they reached open water. The pirates employed a terrible weapon against them that ripped a hole in the merchant boat’s hull below the waterline, and the overloaded craft sank within minutes.

Guy’s mother was pushed overboard along with several others during the initial confusion, and her heavy clothes dragged her to the bottom. Guy tried to jump overboard to rescue her, but just as he was launching himself over the rail he was struck down by a powerful blow to the back of his head. He awoke, plunging to the bottom of the river, tangled in a length of rope still attached to the sinking vessel.

He immediately drew the knife from his belt and after some difficulty, was able to cut himself free. Frantically, he began to kick his way to the surface.

He broke the surface and drew in what he expected to be a lungful of brown river water. Instead, to his incredible relief, his lungs filled with air!

“Help!” He spluttered as he struggled to keep his head above water.

A strong pair of hands gripped him from behind and dragged him upward, out of the water. He almost cried, he was so grateful for rescue. As he cleared the side of the small boat, he turned to thank his rescuer. He glimpsed a screwed up faced and an approaching fist just before everything went black.

When he awoke, his head was pounding and the ground was moving. No, he was on a boat.

“God that hurts!”
he thought as the pounding in the back of his head grew more powerful.

Guy slowly opened his eyes, careful not to move or make a noise. He was lying on his side, curled up next to the starboard hull of the boat. His wrists were shackled and chained to a ring fastened to a beam above his head that ran the length of the small craft. He was not the only captive aboard. It looked as if only there were four men crewing the boat, two rowing and two standing guard over the prisoners. He could see another captive, a woman. She was sitting up, so he risked changing his own position. He carefully sat up, not so much to avoid drawing attention to himself as to minimize the pulsing in his head.

No one bothered to look in his direction, so he chanced a better look around. He was one of six captives; there were four men and two women. All wore chains like his own. The other men were much older than he was at twelve. One of them was quite elderly and had a full head of wispy white hair. The woman sitting up appeared to be near his mother’s age. The younger woman was little more than a girl. She was still unconscious and lying down, but he could tell she was thinner than usual. Perhaps she was sick or simply built with a fragile frame. A strand of her dark hair fell across her beautiful pale face. She looked quite peaceful considering the circumstances.

Guy began sizing up his captors. He was positioned toward the aft of the boat, so only the two rowers were facing him. They were bigger than he was, of course, but they were sitting and it was hard to judge their size from his perspective. The other two were standing up and he was certain that they were each at least four to six inches taller than he was and outweighed him considerably. It struck him as odd that the larger men would not be rowing.

As evening drew near, the boat began heading toward land. The larger men finally took over rowing about mid-day, and were still at the oars now as they glided silently toward a hidden cove. During the whole trip not a word was spoken, not even when the old man was discovered to have died and one of the big men freed him from his chains and unceremoniously shoved him over the side into the ocean.

At the dock, a big man with unruly chest hair looked pissed.

“My God!” he bellowed. “Why have you chained these poor people?”

The crew suddenly seemed confused and one of the smaller men began to stammer, “I thought, I, I, I thought…”

Without waiting for an answer Curly thundered, “Release them at once!” And he hurried toward the boat, looking mortified and a little ridiculous, having the appearance and gait of an upright bear.

Everyone had raised their heads to look at the man who seemed to be rescuing them, but no one dared move. Guy felt a pang of hope strike his chest and tears welled in his eyes, threatening to escape. The older woman and one of the men were crying openly with relief. He instantly thought of his mother and swallowed the lump in his throat.

He looked at the girl who showed no emotion; she just watched quietly. As if aware he was looking, she turned her head toward him and held his gaze. Her look was serious, maybe even foreboding. Guy felt ashamed of his own emotion and wondered what she was thinking as he stared at her cold blue eyes. He wasn’t sure he liked the nervous feeling her hard look gave him, yet he also felt a chill of excitement and attraction as he realized she was even prettier than he had first thought. He furled his brow and looked back toward the shore. Inwardly, he scolded himself.

Curly made his way down the dock and angrily shoved the first crewman aside. The bigger men on the boat suddenly looked much smaller, and the smaller men looked like children next to this huge man.

“I said unchain them! NOW!” he shouted in an even deeper, more commanding voice. One of the smaller men scrambled to obey. He fumbled the key with shaky hands, and tried to look focused rather than afraid. The other men worked to tie up the boat and unload their gear and provisions.

Guy held his hands out to the key-man, eager to be freed. “Thank you” he said with relief as the restraints were removed. The man grunted and gave him an evil look, but said nothing. He rubbed his wrists and stood up, anxious to get off the boat.

As he helped the older woman onto the dock, the big bear-like man wore a comical grin and gestured grandly as he spoke. “My sincerest apologies to all of you.” He said. “Please, come to my house and rest while I get to the bottom of this disaster and coordinate your safe return home.”

Guy could not help but notice that Curly’s dark eyes seemed anything but warm or friendly. They were sharp and hard, in stark contrast to the welcoming smile plastered on his face.

They walked one after the other, into the sturdy building Curly directed them to. Guy was in the back, watching and listening as the others entered ahead of him. He didn’t think there was much he could do, but he wanted early warning to what lay ahead anyway. He wished he had something, anything to use as a weapon. He touched his pockets and felt his belt, but as expected, nothing useful had magically appeared. His knife lay in the mud at the bottom of the river.

As he stepped through the doorway, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The others had slowed and everyone was bunching up. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light Guy looked around cautiously.

He stood on a bristled rug covering the entry area. The rest of the floor was well-worn wood and swept cleaner than most floors in the city. One side of the room had comfortable looking furniture and low tables suited for conversation and relaxation. There was an old book and a lamp on one of the tables. The other side of the room had a few sleeping mats and blankets stacked in one corner. Half way back there was a longer and higher table than those on the other side of the room. There were several chairs around it with the largest at the head. It was a fancy, paisley patterned wingback chair, and more than a little tacky for a dining chair thought Guy. The only ambient light was coming in from small, narrow windows near the roof. Straight ahead toward the back wall there was a small room with a heavy looking door hanging slightly open.

“Not too bad eh?” Curly said with black eyes and a toothy grin. “Please, sit and rest while I arrange for a meal and then we will talk.” The huge man walked out the front door and closed it behind him.

The other men and the older woman sunk into comfortable chairs and seemed to relax a bit, but the girl stayed still, staring at the back room.

Guy cringed. He instinctively knew something was not right. There was no way they were simply guests.

He turned and reached to open the door and froze. There was no handle on this side of the door. He pushed on it. It was locked. He turned his head to see that the girl was watching him with that same cold look. He walked past her quickly, to the back room and looked inside. It was darker in there. The room had no windows and smelled musty, like body odor. He looked at the heavy door and saw that it also had no handle on the inside. Then he saw the marks on the door. Scratches, and dark stains.

He felt movement next to him and realized the girl followed him to the room.

“Blood.” She said flatly.

“…Slap your sister.”