7
Dec
The tenth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
Gwyth was breathing heavily now, his blade stained with the blood of many foes, and exhaustion was slowing his sword and shield, making each parry feel as if it took an age, each counter unbearable in its ages. It was a bad situation to be in, and the only reason he was still standing with no more than minor nicks and cuts was that those Lianese he faced were just as tired as he was, and for that Gwyth was thankful. He pressed forward all the same, letting his sword and his shield continue to do the work. For that was combat was to Gwyth, nothing more than work. Oh, perhaps if he had apprenticed himself to another, it might have gone differently, but at a young age, he had joined the army, and been there ever since, and so, this was a task to be completed. It involved killing, yes, but that was a minor part of all the marching and the practising and the rest, and so he moved forward behind each stroke, as unfeeling and unstoppable as an avalanche gathering speed down the hill. Rhy and Locsyn were dragged along in his wake, each standing to one flank, their weapons and shields protecting the mountain that stood between them. Rhy had seen Gwyth like this before, when he began bowling over and through enemies, and knew that if the squad was not careful, they would be pulled ahead and isolated, and then only luck and skill could rescue them. It had worked in the past, when the three men had been younger and more full of life, but now that they had grown older, the edge of their temperament, their invincibility, had slipped away. Well, slipped away from Locsyn and Rhyfelwyr. Locsyn didn’t think Gwyth would ever lose that, he wasn’t bright enough to realise he shouldn’t be able to do this.
As Rhy had feared, soon their attachment to the rest of the army became tenuous, as fighting began to spill around behind the squad, and the six of them, for Rhocas had recovered and rejoined, had to turn into a circle, moving as a slow unit through the Lianese forces. Thankfully, this close to the front line, most were already engaged, and so the fighting was no more hectic than it had been in the shield wall, and so Rhy’s squad continued to drive their way through, although Locsyn had succeeded in altering the course of Gwyth’s path so that it now cut across the battlefield, instead of straight through it.
An arrow clipped off Taflen’s shield, and he turned to his left to peer, and saw a small band of archers and javelin throwers gathering themselves to strike the squad’s huddled mass. “Shields!” came the cry, and the initial volley skittered away across the armour, leaving scrapes and nothing more. Seeing them ready another volley, Rhyfelwyr called “Charge!”, and the six men thundered down on the skirmishers, their shields held out in front to ward any incoming projectiles. There was only time for one more volley before the charge was upon them, but the archers stood their ground, and Rhocas screamed and began to fall, an arrow piercing him through the calf. Llofruddiwr slowed his charge, grabbing the recruit by the arm, and dragged him into a hopping run, only capable of using one leg. Using his free arm, Llofruddiwr began to fling daggers at the archers, daggers that had been sequestered somewhere on his person. Two archers fell beneath the flying knives, while one of the javelin throwers countered by whipping his weapon towards the Veryan soldiers. Gwyth caught it on his shield, but the throw had been so hard that it slammed straight through, the bolt coming to rest with its tip touching the soldier’s arm. Growling, Gwyth tossed away his shield, and taking his sword in a two-handed grip, fell amongst the skirmishers, his blade rising and falling as one after another died to that onslaught.
Bereft of his shield, Gwyth took several countering blows, but shrugged them off and continued to kill as Rhy and Locsyn arrived, their matching styles working through the lightly armoured and armed foes with ease. Soon all who stood near the squad had fled or been killed, and Llofruddiwr began the process of retrieving his knives from where they stuck in various foes. Surveying the field of battle, and the state of his soldiers, Rhy nodded once, then gestured back towards the advancing lines of soldiers. “We’ll rest, and get Rhocas here to a medic. If they need a pursuit, well, we’ll be in for it. Otherwise, we’ve done our work for the day.” Llofruddiwr and Taflen between them took Rhocas’s weight, and the squad began limping through the shield wall, although any such name was long since useless, for it was now mopping up the retreating and broken army of Lianese soldiers. Rhyfelwyr wondered how the battle had fared on a larger scale, but for now, he would take his soldiers back to where they could be treated, and then listen about, see what was being passed around the campfires tonight.
30
Nov
The ninth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
The next morning’s dawn saw the vanguard pulled up in the centre of the line of battle, with the main bulk of the army spread to the left and right in flanking wings, serried blocks many men deep. Across from them was the thinner, yet still large, line of the Lianese army, their banners and gear of a much more motley array than the cold, insectoid, armour of Bhreac Veryan. It looked to be an easy day, from a strategic view, for both sides had arrayed their forces in such a way as to state they wished to roll up one end of the opposition, crumpling them from the outside in, and at that Taflen nodded. It was the most basic, and the most common, strategy, especially when one force outnumbered another. He wondered what the Lianese might have in store to change the balance in their favour, but dismissed those thoughts when the horn sounded ‘Slow March’.
With the tramp of measured feet, the army of Bhreac Veryan surged into life, a rippling motion all along the shield wall as soldiers took their first step in time with the comrades to the left and the right. The whole great mass trundled forward, closing down the gap between them and their foe. A trumpet blew from amongst the Lianese, and they in turn stepped out, their banners cracking in the high breeze, the snap of a flag audible even over the rumble of marching troops. Soon there was but a quarter-mile between the two forces, and the horn for ‘Quick March’ rang out. Rhyfelwyr picked up his feet, and felt those around him do the same. As he did so, he let his hand draw out and cradle one of the glass globes that hung in leather pouches at his waist. Filled with glass dust and broken shards, they would fracture and spray their contents across those near the point of impact. These weapons were to be the opening salvo in the battle, much as they had been in wars past. All around, he sensed the unlimbering of weapons, as that quarter mile shrank away, and only a few hundred yards separated one foe from another. Across from him, he could see javelins and bows being pulled from their cases, held high in throwing hands in anticipation of the moment of release.
The cry came for ‘Assault’, and the battle was upon them all.
Arrows and javelins flew through the air, and Rhy and those around him lifted their shields to catch the incoming darts. Most skipped off of shields and armour, but some found their way around, and the screams and groans of the injured and the dying began to fill the air. Locsyn and Rhy both felt the old sensations again, the weight of all their previous battles come forward to claim this moment as their own, to add it to the tally that they each carried within. A sigh escaped Locsyn’s lips at the sadness of it all, but he lowered his shield and threw his momentum into the toss, sending the glass sphere flying to burst in a cloud of painful dust across the enemy line. Others from Glanhaol Fflamboethi had done the same, and up and down the Lianese line, soldiers coughed and cursed and scratched at their throat and face, and some began coughing blood as the razor-edged clouds ripped apart their breathing.
The Veryan army paused its headlong rush, bracing itself to take the impact of the disorganized Lianese charge, the order of the front ranks ripped apart by the salvo of spheres. A quiet descended on the field for a moment, a quiet as if all the sound had been pulled away, only to return with a mighty crash as the thundering attack crunched into the shield wall of Glanhaol Fflamboethi. The shield wall bent, pushed back by the momentum of the attackers, but soon righted itself, and slowly began driving into the more lightly armoured Lianese soldiers.
Slightly to the right of centre, Rhyfelwyr’s squad was set three in the front of the line, and three backing them up. Rhy, Locsyn, and Gwyth stood solid in the front, warding blows with their shields and striking back with short sword thrusts, no room for the extravagant motion of a cutting attack. Reaching over their shoulders or around where they could, the other three soldiers sought to strike and strike hard, making the Veryan wall a forest of stabbing swords.
Rhocas stood very pale, his face twisted as his arm rose and fell in the mechanical motions of the training ground. He was the youngest of them, had only seen the few brief moments of fighting in the skirmish the day before, and this cacophony of noises and sounds, overwhelming his senses, had in some ways turned off his conscious mind, and he stood wondering at the why of it all, for this battle was against those who had been friends mere seasons ago, and who would be considered so again, should Glanhaol Fflamboethi win. Rhocas could feel his youthful optimism about life being stripped away with each stroke of the sword blade, for how could this be some grand adventure, standing his ground and stabbing people when they weren’t looking? It was a sordid type of battle, and the groans and the shrieks of each sword blow made his stomach roil and churn, until he bent over and threw up on the battlefield. Another soldier stepped around Rhocas and into his place in line, and the war continued, not missing a beat.
Shaking his head, Taflen continued his slow, methodical strikes over the arms of Gwyth, waiting until he had a wide opening. The historian had seen many battles and read countless more, and not the sanitized reports that appeared in publications and histories, but rather the personal accounts of the soldiers who had been there, the heartfelt and gruesome stories of trying to survive. He used those now to build a wall about his mind, composing his tale of the battle as he swung, his eyes open, observing all that he could from where he stood. Later this night, he would venture around to the various campfires, asking the soldiers for their impressions of the day, before sleep robbed the ideas of reality and changed them into something else, the mind coping with the horrors of what it had seen.
Their blades hacking and slashing, stripped of any grace but brute efficiency, Rhy, Gwyth and Locsyn fought their enemies backwards, driving the Lianese soldiers, grinding them with the mass of the army behind. The shield wall had begun to break, the organization lost as the battle became more muddied, a long spate of conflict where encirclements in miniature took place. The Lianese were getting the worst of that, and Llofruddiwr wondered at that, for their army had ever been better used for skirmishing, for the fast moving and withdrawing style that their open plains favoured. This stand and brawl combat was much more suited to Veryan temperaments, and it was showing on the field that day, as many of the Lianese soldiers began to lose heart, dropping their weapons to the ground and fleeing over the rise towards Miath Mhor. Llofruddiwr shrugged, for those who fled would likely be caught before they reached the city, and those who weren’t would just put an undue burden on the resources there. Either way, it was good for the soldiers of Glanhaol Fflamboethi.
23
Nov
The eighth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
Rhyfelwyr started awake at shouting and cursing, grasped his sword and dove out of his tent. On the other side of the camp lay a burning tent, smashed by a barrel of flaming pitch. More cries went up as another barrel arced high overhead, slamming down into a cooking fire and splashing flames across the tents nearby. Rhyfelwyr rushed in and beat at the flames, where he was soon joined by Llofruddiwr and Gwyth, using bedding and boots to stamp out the burning. No more attacks came as the fires were put out, but Rhyfelwyr was cursing all the same. Tonight, Niam Liad had stolen the mental edge from Glanhaol Fflamboethi, and soldiers would fall back asleep wondering if their tent was to be next. A small attack, but a large damage to moral. Still, he managed to sleep easily.
Several days passed without incident, as both sides took stock of their foe. The Lianese forces stayed in front of the Bhreac Veryan army, but withdrew at a safe pace. Occasional skirmishes took place between scouting parties, although one or the other would withdraw as the fighting started, and so it was this strange battlefield, of two sides staring at one another for days on end, yet no fighting taking place. Taflen worried over what this meant, and wondered if the Lianese sought to draw the army into the jaws of a trap. Rhyfelwyr and Locsyn waved away that notion, not though bravado, but because it seemed unlikely the Lianese could create a trap against a force such as Glanhaol Fflamboethi. Still, to ease all their minds, Rhy sent Llofruddiwr on a solo scouting mission.
The assassin returned late that night, sneaking in through the sentries and arriving outside the cook fire. A few questioning glances answered his arrival. “If there’s something going on, the line soldiers don’t know it. They’re wondering why no raids are taking place.” After his longest speech in months, Llofruddiwr disappeared into taciturnity again. Gwyth grumbled and grabbed a sharpening stone, grinding it down the edge of his axe with a loud squeal. “So they’re planning something. Bugger.”
The other veterans nodded at that, while Rhocas piped up. “Well, if they don’t know what they’re planning, we’re fine aren’t we? After all, it can’t happen soon.”
Rhyfelwyr shook his head, while Locsyn answered. “Doesn’t need to be ‘soon’. Just needs to happen. Later might be worse for us, longer to retreat. Just hope our officers have their heads out where they can see.”
Taflen shuffled through the scrolls in his mind, retrieving information. “There are a few possible options in a military conflict that only take place when used on the defensive. There’s also the possibility of drawing us into a pincer trap. Our biggest problem is that their small force keeps retreating at the same speed as we move ahead. It allows them to block our scouting attempts ahead of them, and so we are blind to what we walk into. Overall, we are acting as they wish us. Confidence is good, but I think our commanders might place too much faith in the strength of our soldiers. Brilliant soldering can’t overcome foolish leadership.” With Taflen’s words of encouragement ringing in their eyes, the squad settled down to sleep.
A week passed, and the land around them changed, growing green and fertile, with cool breezes and clouds scudding high overhead. They had reached the edge of the great plains north of the peninsula, and a week’s march ahead of them stood the city of Miath Mhor. It was to be the first target in Bhreac Veryan’s reconquest of Niam Liad, and the first place where the Lianese army would be forced to stop and fight. Grim eagerness swept through the ranks of Glanhaol Fflamboethi, as each man in turn sensed the coming battle. The morning air filled with the sounds of stones shrieking on swords, armour being buffed and polished, and the clash of weapons sparring. After more than two months of marching, the soldiers wanted to fight, and all their building anticipation had hearkened to this moment.
Three days of marching passed, and then the enemy gave notice that it would stand firm before them, turning and briefly slicing at the vanguard and the scouts, before withdrawing with undue haste. Rhyfelwyr had bloodied his sword for the first time in that fight, catching a skirmisher in the thigh with his blade. It had not been a deep cut, and the man had fled, but the strike had reminded Rhy of what combat felt like, and how everything would change in the coming battle. No others of the squad had bloodied their weapons, although, from Rhocas, a tongue of flame had seemed to reach for a foe as part of a blow. Taflen and Locsyn both said they saw nothing, and so Rhyfelwyr discounted it as a glint from the sun. Either that, or a firemage had been near the forefront and he hadn’t noticed. Either was possible.
That night saw one last round of checking gear, testing straps, sharpening, and then the long, hard time of waiting. Gwyth examined and tugged on each strap till it seemed they would burst, repeating his actions over and over, until Rhy laid a hand on Gwyth’s gear and tugged it away. Taflen had fallen into a meditative state, running through each and every possible contortion to the battle that might occur on the morrow, and readying those ideas that he felt most useful for the likely situations. Llofruddiwr and Locsyn had fallen asleep hours ago, able to withstand almost any nerves. Locsyn’s moustache bounced and buzzed as he snored, a loud rumble cutting through speech. The last of the squad, Rhocas bounced and burbled, never sitting still, standing, pacing, going through the training cuts with his weapon, jogging out to the sentries to look towards the enemy camp, then coming back, always to report that there was no change. Even Gwyth tired of the skipping energy, and bade Rhocas sit and sleep. He would need the energy on the morrow, not tonight.
16
Nov
The seventh installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
A week south of Falna, and the first minor skirmish took place. A troop of scouts came back, holding several riders onto their horses. They had been caught out by a series of spear and arrow using ambushers from the top of a hill, and were forced to retreat, although not before taking several casualties. That attack set the pattern for the next several days, as scouting parties were attacked and harassed wherever they went. Sometimes the Veryan soldiers got the better of the skirmish, other times those of Niam Liad, but the army pressed on, almost catching up with the scouts as the generals and officers pushed the pace of the march, determined to get out of the constraints of the desert and into the freedom of operating in the lush grasslands of the southern peninsula.
Two days of peace followed the week of skirmishing, and then the scouts brought back news that a small force waited some ten miles ahead, situated atop a hill on the main route south. Accepting the news, the soldiers marched on, until they stood on a corresponding hill further north along the route. Over an intervening distance of some two miles, the forces stared at one another. Locsyn twisted his moustache in one hand and muttered. “Not a lot of armour on those boys. Means hit and run. Either that or the real force is hidden somewhere nearby. I hate this.”
Taflen spoke. “It’s why we brought mages. We can use them to out-range those bows, and that allows us to force them off of the high point without much danger.”
“Only if they didn’t bring any of their own. If they did, no advantage.”
“You’re always a pessimist Locsyn. Look on the bright side of things for once.”
“I did, once. Lost my sight for a few days from staring at the sun. Pessimism’s safer.”
Taflen shook his head. “Orders come through?”
Rhy responded. “Yeah. Wait and see.”
Horns sounded, and the vanguard of Glanhaol Fflamboethi began to creep forward as certain unremarkable soldiers carrying large shields slipped amongst their ranks. There were only a few of them, perhaps ten or twenty dotted about. Taflen nodded at that. It meant most of the firemages were being held in reserve, lest anything go wrong. With the forces on the hill, the number here should suffice. Reaching the depression that sat a mile away from the opposing forces, the vanguard locked shields to form a wall, and then began a slow pace forward to two-thirds of a mile distance. Now, the mages were well within the range at which they could strike, and after a brief moment, strike they did. Ten giant balls of fire rolled up from the ranks, arcing over towards the Lianese positions. As they reached the peak of their arc, winds howled and tore at the balls, pulling some to pieces, deflecting others to land short of their goal. Only one got through, landing with a thump amidst the enemy soldiers. Most had scattered from the area, but the splashing impact and slow responses caught several who hadn’t run far enough or fast enough.
By the time that first strike impacted, another was in the air, and the bombardment had begun. Again, winds tore at the spheres, breaking and diverting their course, but two more got through, and these struck tighter clumps of troops than the first. Bodies screamed as the fire engulfed them, and within seconds, charred skeletons were all that remained of many who had been burned. Above those cries of pain rose the sound of a horn, and the soldiers who manned the ridge slipped backwards behind the crest, pulling their dead and wounded with them. Glanhaol Fflamboethi had won this day, the first fight going their way. Rhyfelwyr made a little note in the mental scorecard that he kept, wherein lay all of the battles, skirmishes, and other conflicts in which he had been involved. This was a mostly empty victory, for little harm had been done either way, but at the least, the route was clear for the next day’s marching. A horn sounded from within the Veryan army, and once more the vanguard picked up their feet, and moved to the top of the hill, where they could see the soldiers retreating before them. Retreat it was, not an undignified flight, and over the distance between the two, gestures and shouts were exchanged, crude and inventive alike. The Lianese disappeared into the gathering dusk, and orders came down to form a stockade, a fortress ring around the camp tonight. That would be the normal from now on, always expecting attack in the night.
8
Nov
The sixth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
The final month of training passed quickly, and the first bloom of spring began to show over the desert and oasis of Bhreac Veryan. What little snow was on the ground disappeared, sucked away by the voracious sand, and as the wind whipped and tore at the standards, the soldiers of Hymerodraeth Heula stood at attention to hear a speech by Ymerawdwyr, blessing them in the name of the fire, naming the army Glanhaol Fflamboethi, the Cleansing Flame that would burn away the infectious rot of Niam Liad. Orders had come that the city was to be punished for its presumptions, and punished harshly, and today that retribution would strike forth.
Rhyfelwyr and his squad were in the vanguard of the army, given pride of place for their veteran status, for it was months before the army would first encounter opposition. The army would march south, across the great desert, until it reached the oasis at Falna, where it would turn southeast, and strike towards Miath Mhor, the city that dominated the mouth of the peninsula upon which Niam Liad sat. There, Glanhaol Fflamboethi would begin the process of cauterizing the wound that had been slashed into the side of Hymerodraeth Heula.
The speech over, a roar went up from the crowd gathered to see the army off, and an answering cheer echoed back from the assembled soldiers. At a grand gesture from Ymerawdwyr, the vanguard faced forward and began to march, each step churning up the dust and the sand. Soon, the army was enveloped in a cloud of its own making, as they wended their way down the string of oases towards Falna. This part of the journey would take them almost a month to complete, and during that time, the final training and preparation of the army would take place. It was expected that the arrival at Falna would be contested, although by how many was unknown, and that every step from there on would be fraught with danger, traps, and ambushes, as the rebellious soldiers used every inch of their land to advantage.
For his part, Rhyfelwyr felt only a little tingle of anticipation at the thought of once more going into battle, into a war. He was too old, too experienced, for the excitement that coursed through the younger soldiers. Even Rhocas’s normally bubbly personality had ramped up, and his energetic personality had nearly brought him to blows with Gwyth and Locsyn. Rhyfelwyr knew that passion would ebb across the many miles of near-featureless desert, only to resurface once more in nervous form as actual battle approached.
Days passed in a cloud of dust, and the squad was thankful for their position at the front of the army, ahead of the billowing clouds that caused coughing and covered gear and men in a brown cloak. Rather than march during the heat of the day, the army moved at night, using firemages and their heat vision to guide the soldiers along the right path. Every morning, before the sun came up, the army would dig itself down into the desert, disappearing and leaving an almost featureless wasteland, scattered with what looked like the discarded remnants of a battle. And every night, as the sun set, the army would appear once more, crawling out of the sand and the dust to arise as new men. Training was conducted whenever the army stopped for a meal, with half an hour or an hour beforehand given to marching in formation, swordplay, and all other manner of exercise.
As the army forged south, scouts would be detached ahead, ranging for days in front of the main body, searching, searching for that first contact with the enemy. True, Glanhaol Fflamboethi was in land considered safe and inhospitable to invaders, but there was little cause to be sure of anything. Word from Niam Liad had ceased entirely over the winter months, and so the army marched blind of information, the last it had heard some six months previously. Thus it pushed forward its own feelers, seeking out every scrap of knowledge it could find from traders, desert nomads, or the few villagers who lived around each oasis.
The army strode into Falna, caught within the dust storms of its own march, and there spent the next two days provision and resupplying. Falna was a walled city, wrapped around an oasis, a hidden jewel lost in the middle of the desert, and the only green that showed within hundreds of miles. When they arrived Rhyfelwyr heard word of probing attacks that had tested the defences of Falna, but none had come in such strength as to force a breakthrough. Still, it was word that they would need to fight soon, and he passed it around amongst the troops. Rhocas bounced about like a young puppy at the news, while the rest of the squad simply grunted, and went back to what they had been doing. Rhy understood that attitude: fire burns, soldiers fight, it is the natural order of things.
Provisioning and a final round of training over, Glanhaol Fflamboethi forged south once more, the scouts doubled and pulled in closer, weaving a net of eyes in front of the vanguard of the army. Rhyfelwyr and his squad still marched within the vanguard, and their eyes too spread across the countryside, looking for any imperfections that might mark a hidden ambush. Soon, the army began coming across traps built into the route, mainly covered pit traps with some spikes at the bottom. These seemed designed not so much to harm, but to delay, to make the army ever slower, but their design left the soldiers wondering if something more ingenious was waiting.
4
Nov
This is the final entry in a short #FridayFlash serial based in The Four Part Land. Events that take place here will have a large impact in upcoming TFPL novels.
Then the council bade Annwyd Arwedda and his travellers fair well, and told them to expect a messenger before the autumn time. Doubts and worries crept into the thoughts of all of those from the Fferedig Ddynion that resided in that place, for they saw the land they had worked on for the last year being taken from them, and forced to return to the land of cold, of want, of short days and long nights hunting herd animals in a snowstorm. These thoughts angered the young men and women who had come with Annwyd, and they spoke to him, and asked him what he might do to insure that they lived here. Annwyd replied to them that there was little that they could do, for to protest by remaining would mean that they would be a lonely thirty here, cut off and alone from the rest of the people, and none of those who remained on the frostbitten plateau would know of the betterment of their lives that could be had, and so Annwyd Arwedda bade that if he and his travellers were called to return, then return they would, and spread the word amongst the youngsters and friends, of what a boon it had been to live under an open sky and a gentle sun.
Soon enough, autumn came, and with it a messenger from the council, that very same man who had carried the first news to Annwyd Arwedda. Annwyd greeted him as an old friend, and waited for the message to be read forth, and when it was as he had expected, he told all those who had travelled with him that they must gather their things, for this was the ending of their time under the open sky. Grumbling and groaning, murmuring discontent and anger, they did as they were asked, and soon assembled themselves on the outskirts of the village, where they took partings from those of the village, and Annwyd spoke to them and said that one day we will return, and we will remember with kindness what you have done.
And so, when years later the Fferedig Ddynion swept down from their hills under Annwyd Arwedda and sought to make a kingdom of the western plains, one small village was spared any ravishment, and indeed, was bestowed with such gifts that the farmers there became wealthy men. But the kingdom of Annwyd is a story that shall be told at another time.
Annwyd will return in the 4th book of The Four Part Land, the 2nd book of the Chloddio trilogy. I’m also thinking of writing a novella from his point of view for Unfolding a New Continent, as the final anchor story for that collection.
2
Nov
The fifth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
“Okay, sarge, who’s the snotnose standing over there? He’s looking all bubbling and expectant, and it’s getting on my nerves.” Gwyth growled at Rhyfelwyr when he arrived.
“That’s Rhocas. He’s replaced Gwewyr.”
Gwyth looked at his feet for a second, then nodded. “Like that, was it? Yeah, we all saw it. Still, this fresh-face? Really? You couldn’t get us anyone worthwhile?”
Rhy shrugged. “Taflen recommended Rhocas. We’ll see if he’s worth anything. If he’s getting on your nerves enough, duel him, find out how good he is with a blade.”
“Worthless, just look at him. His posture’s wrong.”
“Well beat it out of him then.” Rhyfelwyr paused. “Just not too hard, he’s only got a month to heal.”
Gwyth grinned, and pulled his axe from over his shoulder, then unlimbered the shield onto his left arm. “Oi, Rhocas, we’re supposed to duel.”
The recruit looked up at that, then grabbed the sword from his belt and hefted his shield. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Oh yeah, positive. Just spoke to Sarge about it.”
“Oh, very well then.” Rhocas attacked, without waiting for Gwyth to get into position. The veteran was barely able to get his shield up, and grunted at the presumption of the recruit. Catching three more successive blows onto his shield, Gwyth decided that it was time for him to go on the offensive, and leapt forward, bullrushing Rhocas with his shield out in front, then spinning into a slice at the ankles with the haft of the axe. A solid thunk sounded from the impact, and Rhocas fell to the ground, surprised. He struggled to his feet on a sore leg, and peered at the standing Gwyth.
“How do you use that when you’re in a shield wall?”
“You don’t. Or you pray the man next to you keeps his shield up.”
“Right. Again?”
Gwyth growled again. “Presumptuous lad.”
The two exchanged blows for a few seconds, and then Rhocas spun into the same ankle-breaking strike that Gwyth had just used. Gwyth had to jump high and back to stay out of the way of the sword, and nearly fell on the landing. Forced onto the defensive, it took him a little while to recover and push back against the recruit. Eventually, though, Gwyth was able to use his strength to knock the recruit down again.
Rhocas popped back up and assumed the stance once more, and Gwyth sighed. He’d just been looking to teach the recruit a lesson for looking so flaming cheerful, not get caught into a long running duel. The fighting continued for some time, during which the others slowly gathered. Rhyfelwyr leaned over and whispered to Taflen. “Is Rhocas really a recruit? He’s got some moves in there that only the veterans know.”
“The boy is a sponge. Sucks up knowledge from everyone. Just needs to be shown a strike once or twice to learn how to do it. Given him enough training on the march, and he’ll fit right in with the rest of us.”
Nodding appreciatively, Rhy watched the fighting continue, until both combatants called it off due to exhaustion. “Rhocas, I’m sergeant Rhyfelwyr. This is Llofruddiwr, Locsyn, Taflen, and you’ve met Gwyth. Rather a few times, I think. If you’ve moved into our room in the barracks, that’s all there is to it, just follow one of us around and train as best you can. We’re all teaching various squads at the moment, trying to make them worth something.”
“I look forward to it, sir.”
“I’m not a ‘sir’, that’s for your officers. Just call me Rhy.”
“Yes, Rhy, sir.”
Rhyfelwyr shook his head. “You’re dismissed.”
Rhocas trotted off, while Rhyfelwyr turned to the others in the squad. “So, he worthwhile?”
Llofruddiwr answered first, uncharacteristic of such a silent man. “He’ll do.”
The next answer was from Locsyn. “Still a bit rough, and his striking isn’t smooth enough. We’ll polish him up.”
Still panting, Gwyth followed. “I beat him every time, but he made me work for it by the end. We’ll keep him.”
Rhy grinned. “And I know how you feel, Taflen. So that’s sorted. Good. Back to being trainers, now.”
The soldiers grumbled as they departed. Any more training and they’d be ready to turn on their own officers. Especially the young, know-it-all ones who seemed to get every lieutenant spot in the army.
28
Oct
This is the fifth in a short #FridayFlash serial based in The Four Part Land. Events that take place here will have a large impact in upcoming TFPL novels.
Annwyd Arwedda bent his head to look at those behind him, then ostentatiously rammed his spear into the ground, tip downwards. Those behind him did the same, and there they left the spears, quivering and upright in the ground, a mark of their peaceful approach. Upon this meeting lay the hopes of Annwyd, for to venture forth from his frozen home, he knew he must learn the secrets of agriculture, of the turning of the seasons and the coming of the rains, of when the plants are to be harvest and when they are to be interred. Hands open and apart from his body, he approached alone the farmers and their nervous tools, and let a smile crack his face as he looked at the children beyond. It was for his children and the children of all the Fferedig Ddynion that he was here, and he would accept many things on their behalf, for his people mattered more than he did.
The smile did little to reassure those standing apart from it, for the rest of the man was too terrible to be leavened by a mere pleasing expression. All men knew that some smiles were meant to show nothing but the teeth behind them, and their hands gripped tightly about the old wood of their tools until one, braver than the rest, stepped forward in partial gesture of greeting. This farmer spoke in questions, his words searching the reasons behind the appearance of these travellers, and Annwyd answered, his accent thick but his words intelligible. And so the farmers learned that these men sought to tie themselves to the earth, to give up the ways of hunting and of gathering, and to acquire the secrets of agriculture. To these people of the earth, where even a small child could see when to harvest and when to plant, it seemed strange that there would be men in this world who did not have this knowledge, and so, when faced with the prospect of extra hands in the fields, they readily agreed to share what they knew. The population here was thin, and the land could easily support the numbers of the travellers. Why, every few years the villagers would move their homes, letting the fields recover and moving to new and brighter pastures. To speak of their lives gave them great pleasure, and to Annwyd, the speech they made was of great importance. He would bide here awhile, absorbing the knowledge of these lands.
Each sextile, a messenger would depart, and the original thirty slowly dwindled in number, but those there became more at home with the grasp of the seasons, and as the months passed, they fell into the rhythm of the plants. The hard work and long hours bothered them little, for to people where even staying warm was a hassle, and to walk across the village meant bundling in clothing of heavy fur, being asked to stand outside under a warm and gentle sun was reward enough for what little hardships they had to endure. The year went onwards, and the harvest came, and the travellers learned the secrets of bringing in and bundling the plants, and finding the wheat amidst the chaff, and how to separate one from the other by means of beating and grinding, and they were pleased, for soon there was fresh baked bread being made amongst all the houses, and the smell brought a warm glow to the faces of the tundra-born. Spread thick with butter made from the milk of the small animals kept about, it provided the nourishment for many days, and it was taken to be a great travesty amongst the travellers when the fresh-made bread was no more, and they could only eat the hardtack that was put away for the winter.
The cold weather and blowing storms that struck the plains here felt mild in comparison to that which they had endured on the high plateaus, but when spring came again and lightning crashed and thunder split the sky, they quaked and made warning signs against the god of the skies above, begging that the air would see fit not to strike them with its mighty fingers. Soon after the springs rains, a year had passed of their time in this land, and Bwrw Eira Ddyn and two other council members arrived, led by those six members of the original thirty who had been sent away as messengers. Annwyd Arwedda was less than pleased to see their forms arriving upon the horizon, for it reminded him that he abided here only by the pleasure of those men and their council, and that he might find himself recalled to the homes upon the high plateau, and to a life he no longer wished to lead.
When the council members strode into the village, Annwyd greeted them as the ritual demanded, performing all of the steps as asked and making his home available to his guests. Bwrw Eira Ddyn shrugged the offer aside, preferring instead to sleep within the yurts and blankets that had long been his home. Affronted at their rejection of his hospitality, Annwyd Arwedda let anger cloud his thoughts and stormed away, walking out amongst the fields and letting his mind wander as he checked upon the plants and the pastures, seeing where the animals roamed and how the grain faired, before he came back into the circle of houses that comprised the village. He was of a better a mind from the walk, having let his feet carry him where they would, while his mind sorted out the nature of things for itself.
So armed, he greeted the council that next morning, and lead them around amongst the fields and the furrows, showing them which had been made by the travellers, and which were made by the farmers, and how alike they were, and how within a year those who had made the pilgrimage with Annwyd Arwedda had learned farming, and could support themselves on this great flat grassland. It was his statement that the tribes and clans should make their way down from the cold hills to the warm plains, and that the council should listen to him. The councillors asked many pointed questions, and Bwrw Eira Ddyn wore away at Annwyd, hunting through his mind for the answers to every question that strode forth from his lips, and they stayed until the plantings were over, and the doldrums of summer set in upon the land.
26
Oct
The fourth installment of a 30k word short story set in The Four Part Land. It takes place 400 years in the past from the time of Tarranau and Chloddio, and details the collapse of Hymerodraeth Heula, the Empire of the Sun.
It was some few days before he was fit again to return to training, and when he arrived, Taflen had pulled Llofruddiwr aside. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” And the simple reply was “Yes.” Saddened at that, Taflen had hunted down the other three, finding them tucked into the shade of a small building. “Gwewyr’s back, but his soul has fled.” Rhyfelwyr cursed under his breath. “He’s staring out from dull eyes?”
Taflen nodded.
Locsyn spoke up. “Better we go short then, or take a fresh-face. Like that, Gwewyr will be looking for a spear point.”
“Don’t tell the officers, we’ll handle this. Taflen, who’s been the best recruit?”
“Probably Rhocas. Want him?”
“Get him assigned to our squad, I don’t care how. Forge the papers if you have to, you’ve got the eye for it.” A quick wave and Taflen was off.
“And now I need to talk to Gwewyr, and get him back on the retired lists. And if he won’t listen, well, there are other ways.” Locsyn patted Rhyfelwyr on the shoulder at that, and the two men rose and headed their separate ways. Each had a task to do.
Rhyfelwyr found Gwewyr in the quad, watching recruits at formation practice. There was little of the light in his eyes, and, indeed, as they looked out over the field at the younger soldiers, there was even sorrow, at what had been, and what might happen to all of those who stood before him.
“Gwewyr, I’ve got a few things with the squad to talk to you about.”
The veteran looked over, his eyes taking the measure of Rhyfelwyr, then shook his head and began walking away. Rhy was forced to hurry to catch up. “Look, you and I need to talk, is all.”
Gwewyr glared over at the sergeant. “You’re going to tell me I’ve lost it, that I should be walking away from all of this and just going home. I can’t, not after everything I went through just to get to this point again. No, I’m fine, and I’ll be coming with you, even if you disagree.”
“No, Gwewyr, you won’t. Not just for you, but for everyone. The skill is still there in your arms, but your heart isn’t, and once that’s gone, there’s almost no way for a soldier to get it back. In some ways, its why the rest of us can’t quit being soldiers. We know nothing else, and our hearts are too well trained for just one thing, and that’s fighting and killing. You’ve moved beyond that, Gwewyr. You’re a civilian with the skills of a soldier, not a soldier. Not any more. And I don’t want to always be on the lookout for you in the melee, and I don’t want you to cost someone else. But most of all, I don’t want to have to come home and explain to Menywod why she’s got no husband, why I let a man fight who I thought shouldn’t. I’m not letting you march to your death, not on my conscience. You’re staying.”
The life fell from Gwewyr’s face, and he sat down on the ground, a sad puppet with no strings. “You realise what you’re telling me, Rhy? That I’m too old to be useful. That I’ve reached the stage in life where everyone just nods and waves at me as they go past, and expects a few stories and an occasional visit, and otherwise I’m just supposed to moulder quietly in some corner. I think I’m more afraid of that than even of dying. At least there, I get carried home on my shield, a warrior of many battles. This way… I just fade.”
Rhyfelwyr knelt by his friend, smiling. “You haven’t been home often enough if you think you’re going to fade with that lot around. You’ve got five families, kids, and grandkids all running around in the largest damn house in town. Just trying to keep that mayhem in check should be enough to keep you on your toes for years. Plus, don’t worry about the campaign. We’ve seen raiders and skirmishers before, and they aren’t a problem for us. It’s not like we’ve let Niam Liad have anything resembling a real army in centuries, they won’t have the troops to stand against us. One season, then we’re back, and it’s all the way it was before this mess started. No, you’ve got no reason to worry about fading. Flame’s breath, you want to keep on your toes, just start training some of the younger ones with a blade. You’d have your own mercenary corps going in no time.”
Gwewyr brightened at that. “I could… provided Menywod lets me. She can get pretty hard at times.”
“What, she’s worse than Sessenagh? That old warhorse could chew leather of your armour from twenty feet away, and you managed to stand up to him.”
“In some ways, she is. But I see what you’re saying, and it’s something I’ll think about. Probably too much, now. You’re right though, I should try some other things. Even with the retirement, I’ve been a soldier for so long I’ve forgotten how to be a father or a husband.”
Rhyfelwyr patted Gwewyr on the back. “You’ve got a lot of new experiences ahead of you, there’s no reason to worry about reclaiming old ones. Those are always with you. Anyway, lets get you back to the training ground, if you want.” Rhy turned to go, then turned back. “And one last thing: if I see you in the troops leaving for war, I will beat you over the head and drag you back to your house myself. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Gwewyr looked rueful. “I had gotten that from your words.” He stood up and looked around, brushing the dirt off as he did so. “I think I’ll head home, if you don’t mind. Better not to keep grasping at being a soldier.”
Clasping hands with his old friend, Gwewyr turned and left, his feet taking him out of his old life and into his new. Rhyfelwyr watched as the old veteran marched away, his feet still coming down in time with the beat of a drum long silent. He was glad that Gwewyr had made the decision he had. It was the right one, and it made everything easier. Now Rhy wouldn’t have to worry about Locsyn’s part in this. A sad smile across his face, Rhyfelwyr headed back to the barracks, looking for Taflen and the forged paperwork. That, they’d still need.
21
Oct
This is the third in a short #FridayFlash serial based in The Four Part Land. Events that take place here will have a large impact in upcoming TFPL novels.
Annwyd stared eastward, as a green tinge struck the horizon, and he called “Canfydda!” to those behind him. Waving others to the small rise upon which he stood, Annwyd pointed east, the tip of his spear angled at the thin strip of deep green that marked the horizon. As his companions crowded about, he glanced to the sky and then back at that distant line, and guessed that the distance was now no more than thirty miles, only a day or two of walking to arrive at their destination. That was good, for water tasted brackish and poor, and little more than dried meat now fed their stomachs. Grinning, they marched down the small rise and off towards the home of the morning sun.
That first moment that Annwyd Arwedda stepped onto green grass may well have been the happiest of his life. Those who had never lived outside of the cold lands slipped their boots from their feet and sunk their toes into luscious grass, kneeling to touch the strange fronds as they reached upwards. Even Annwyd, who had seen this before and wished to maintain his composure, knelt and placed his face to the dirt, breathing deep the scent of fresh greenery.
The travellers rested for a while in this first expanse of lush scrub, laying on their backs and looking at a sun full of warmth, no longer the cold white sphere of their high mountain home. Soon enough, though, they struggled to their feet and continued their journey, as Annwyd looked for land ready for the taking, and yet near to farmers. He knew little of farming, but enough that he would rather learn from those that did than make himself a starving fool. Annwyd would never forgive himself if he and his kind did not learn the basics of agriculture, and thus lose the right to live here.
Day followed day, as Annwyd stepped across the scrub lands and his people followed. Each stride brought him closer to the hallowed lands of green grass and swaying wheat, where he would make a home of pleasant aspect and long duration. A grin floated across his face for but a moment, then disappeared beneath his placid exterior. There was little enough to smile about until he arrived at his destination, but its nearness teased at the edge of his mouth.
A tinkling sounds came to the ears of Annwyd Arwedda, and his pace quickened, and then stopped, as he beheld a placid stream, wending its way across the plains. On the far side grass spilled forth, drinking from the flowing waters and emerald with the bloom of the season. He had found his first stopping point, and raised his hand, gesturing at the soft ground. Those with him spread their pack upon the ground, sinking their bodies to the earth and stretching their fingers through the damp soil. For men of the frozen tundra and hidden plateaus, this was a change almost beyond their reckoning. Years passed for them with little more than brief summers of scrubby plants, and yet here they lay amongst the soft terrain of a welcoming earth.
It was bliss, and two days they spent beside that stream, drinking the crystal water and dipping their bodies into the ghyll, letting limbs trail in the cool liquid. Only the desire to push onwards drove Annwyd Arwedda from that place, that, and the food supplies that dipped low into the empty bags of the travellers. They would need to barter or hunt soon, for despite the gentle climate and abundant water, they knew little of how to harvest grain.
When the expedition saw smoke curling into the air from the far distance, they looked about in glee. They had found the first inhabitants of this land, and they would speak and trade with them, their skills and some tools for food and the knowledge of farming. Annwyd led his troop towards the thin tendrils, and presently they stood upon a small rise, looking across the plains at houses of earth and woven grass, and fences of the same material holding livestock. It looked idyllic to men used to moving daily, their homes strapped upon their back, never able to enjoy a sedentary life.
To Annwyd Arwedda, opportunity stood before him. The first small step in freeing his people from the confines of ice and winter lived within that enclosure, and he strode forward, planting his spear tip down into the earth in a gesture of friendship as he walked.
Men turned their eyes from the fields and looked at the approaching travellers, and wondered if the spirits of the land had birthed these creatures, for they wore garb outlandish and foreign, and they moved in a way that no plains dweller had ever done, hunched forward, as if always fighting through a strong wind. Holding close their pitchforks and shovels, the men of the village gestured at their women to hide in the houses, and to gather the children away, while the men went to form a line before the march of the travellers, implements held at the ready. The farmers of this village had travelled little, and all but a few had been no further than the nearest town to buy supplies. They had never heard of Fferedig Ddynion, nor know of places where the lands grew high and cold, and snow was the eternal presence. And so it was with great trepidation that they watched these approaching warriors, these people from a land beyond the boundaries of the world.