Blood on the Moon, A Journey of Discovery Options

[treydog]

Here is the link to: Treydog's Other Stories

Prologue

“But sir, if you would only give me a little more time, I am certain you would be interested in my proposition.”

“The answer is still ‘No’, Mr. Beauchamp. I have no desire to listen to anything you have to say. You may leave now.”

“If I gave offense by my earlier remarks, I apologize. It is simply that one sometimes hears things…. I know that financial remuneration is not important to you, but I thought that perhaps the spirit of adventure might be enough to entice you.”

“Mr. Beauchamp, I have everything I need right here. My family is here, my home is here, my life is here. I have no interest in the ‘spirit of adventure’. I have found that ‘adventure’ is simply another way of saying ‘a desperate attempt to survive the situation in which one has stupidly placed oneself’. You will leave now. That is not a request.”

I heard the front door open and close with a finality that punctuated those last words. Then another voice spoke up:

“Weren’t you perhaps a bit hard on him, dear?”

The response was a growl:

“You heard what he said as well as I did- ‘…your well-known talent for getting into and out of tight places….’ He called me a thief, is what he did.”

“Well, yes, but after all, you were a thief, you know. And he did come to you directly, not lurking behind some intermediary.”

“Perhaps I used to be a thief, but I hoped I had put all that behind me. And besides, he came to me arrogantly and rudely, just as if he were a bloody Imperial, instead of a fellow Breton."


“ ’A bloody Imperial?’ ” I could envision the raised eyebrow that accompanied that innocent question.

The voices moved away to another part of the house, and I could not make out the muttered words that I was sure were an apology. But that wasn’t important; I had already heard everything I needed to know. I had a name now and a goal. Louis Beauchamp- and Solstheim!

Leaving home is rarely easy, or at least so I have heard. But I felt as if I had to, as if I was slowly smothering. If I was going to do the things I wanted to do, I must get away. There were places I wanted to explore- places he had never been. How typical of him to disparage the idea of adventure- after he had lived the kind of life others only dreamed of! And then to just…stop. As if he could pretend that none of it had ever happened if he did not speak of it. But others spoke of it- oh yes. Louis Beauchamp certainly had that right- one did “hear things”. It was easy enough to tell others that the meat was no good when you had eaten your fill. But I had tasted nothing but the scraps of someone else’s greatness for my whole life and I could stand it no longer. I would leave that very night- but not for Solstheim, at least not yet. It would not do to arrive in that far place as a penniless beggar. Although we were comfortable, and never wanted for the necessities, money was not given to me in any quantity. And though I knew the location of the family treasury well enough, I would not steal. I would not be named a thief, no matter who my father was.

Once the house had quieted, I gathered a small pack of clothing, the few coins that were my own, and a well-worn quarterstaff. How I longed for a bright blade to hang at my side! How could a ready fellow such as I set off on a grand adventure without a trusty sword? But of course I had never been trained in the use of swords, and I recalled the answer when I asked:

“Violence is the result of a mistake. If you avoid mistakes, you can avoid fights. A good walking stick will serve you better. Anything that cannot be dealt with by a sharp rap on the snout is best avoided.”

As if I had never seen the scars that marked his body, never heard the stories that everyone knew by heart, never gazed at the virtual armory hidden throughout the house.
Most of the hidden weapons appeared to be no more than well-used examples of the crafter’s art…. But some of them seemed to… whisper among themselves and to move of their own volition. I know it sounds foolish, the overheated imagining of a child, but I swear it is true. He had never gotten those swords or those scars sitting in front of the fire, reading books. And yet, when he went to the corner club for a solitary drink, and the other men related their exploits, he said nothing. Instead, he simply sat in the shadows with a glass of wine. Even so, if ever a stranger came through and became too loud or boastful, someone would nod toward the quiet figure in the corner and whisper a few words. And then the braggart would fall silent, perhaps even turn a bit pale.

All of these thoughts and more tumbled through my head as I waited in the pre-dawn darkness for the silt-strider to arrive. Perhaps it was foolish to use such a public means of transport, but I wanted distance. And going to Balmora first would help throw off any pursuit. In any event, I doubted that there would be much concern, at least not for several days. When the strider driver saw me waiting, he grinned and said,

“Going on a trip are ye, young sir? I’ll have you in Balmora before you know it. Just sit back and relax.”

He waved away my offered fare with a jovial snort.

“Oh, no charge for you, young sir. Get yourself on up and we’ll be on our way.”

I took his generosity with bad grace, because I knew that it was not for my own sake that I did not have to pay my passage. I was nobody, nothing- just another who stood in the great man’s shadow. He was the hero of the age- everyone said so. Books and ballads had been written about him. And why not? After all, he was Trey of High Rock, Nerevar Reborn, savior of Vvardenfell. And I was his son.

This post has been edited by Burnt Sierra: Jan 4 2009, 07:10 PM

[treydog]

Once we got outside the barracks, the angry Legionnaire continued to shout at me. As I juggled helmet, cuirass, greaves, and so on, he paced back and forth bellowing.

“Let’s start out easy. Pull the chain mail cuirass over your head and put one arm through each arm hole. Try not to get lost inside of the armor. Now, put the helmet on your head. You can do that, I hope?”

When I managed that feat, he adopted a mockingly prayerful attitude and intoned,

“Oh, thank you, great Talos, for sending me a recruit who can locate his own head without needing both hands and a torch. I am truly grateful. Strap the greaves onto your legs and place your feet inside the boots.”

Once the armor was secured to his satisfaction, he had me stand straight, with my chin tucked into my chest while he walked slowly around me. At last he gave a heavy sigh and said,

“Well, you don’t look completely like a sack of dung, so I guess that’ll do. If you have not guessed yet, I am Trooper Carbo. The General, in his infinite wisdom, has placed you in my tender care. You will call me ‘Trooper Carbo.’ I will call you whatever it pleases me to call you.”

He picked up the long iron spear and slapped it into my hands. He then resumed his pacing, shouting all the while:

“If you are fortunate, and manage not to do yourself a grievous injury in the following weeks, you may achieve the rank of Spearman. As you are a lowly recruit, and therefore too stupid to pour water out of a bucket with the instructions printed on the bottom, I will explain what that means. It means you will learn to use that spear. You will learn to love that spear. You will sleep with that spear, eat with that spear, and take it to the latrine with you. If I ever catch you without that spear, you will discover depths of misery you have never imagined. Do I make myself clear?”

I was so shocked that I just stood there, hands white-knuckled on the haft of the weapon.

Trooper Carbo leaned into my face and shouted,

“What, recruit? Are you mute? Or just stupid? I asked you a question- do I make myself clear?”

I squeaked, “Yes, Trooper Carbo,” and he stepped back with another heavy sigh.

“According to the General, you have never worn armor, never used a spear or sword, and never been in a fight. I can see why the Legion was so anxious to acquire your talents. This is apparently a test of my ability to train someone who is completely useless. But perhaps it is barely possible that you can run. We are about to find out. You will step out on your left foot- you do know which one is the left? You will step out on your left foot and begin running up to the eggmine. I will count cadence. Don’t worry- you will be able to hear me, because I will be running with you.”

I had considered myself moderately strong, even though I had inherited my father’s slender build. But once I was strapped into the fifty pounds of rusted, smelly ironmongery, I was unsure if I could walk, let alone run. But I had a feeling that if I did not try, Trooper Carbo would surely find a way to make me sorry. Therefore I began a lumbering waddle, being certain to start with my left foot. Between the tremendous weight, the chafing of the straps, and the helmet that kept slipping down to bang against the bridge of my nose, I thought that my misery was complete. But that was before we reached the uphill section of the path that led to the mine. Even worse was the fact that a man who was twice my weight and at least twice my age was able to carry the same armor and run backwards- all the while hurling terrible abuse at me. I decided that, if there were any gods, they were sadists of remarkable depravity.

After we had run for what seemed like hours, Carbo called a halt and took up a spear that leaned against the barracks wall. He waited impatiently for me to stop gasping for breath and then stepped back several paces. Holding his spear in a guard position, he continued his lecture:

“You have some experience with a staff and that will help. It’s barely possible that you will manage to learn enough to keep from getting yourself killed.”

With that, he demonstrated a series of basic thrusts, parries, and blocks, counting out the sequence as he went. Then he drilled me on those same moves, adjusting my grip and stance occasionally. At last, as still more sweat poured off of me, he called a halt and said,

“It’s all about footwork, recruit. That’s true of the spear, the sword, the axe, and even the bow. You have to have a solid base to use any weapon properly. If you overbalance or trip over your own feet, all the fancy swings in the world won’t save you.”

He sponged off with a wet towel and then put his helmet back on, and allowed me to do the same. Then he brought his spear back to the guard position and challenged me:

“Very well, recruit. You know the moves. Now try to stick that spear in old Carbo.”

When I hesitated, he sneered at me.

“What’s the matter? Scared to use a real weapon? Or would you rather sneak up on your opponent from behind- like a thief? Like your precious daddy?”

He saw from my reaction that that last barb had struck home and continued,

“Oh yeah, I know all about the great thief of Vvardenfell. Supposed to have bumped off Dagoth Ur in a fair fight, when whole armies had tried and failed. Only thing is, nobody else was there. So maybe Dagoth Ur is dead, and maybe he isn’t. And maybe that fight- if there was a fight- didn’t go exactly the way your sneaking Breton daddy says it did.”

Goaded to unreasoning fury by his taunts, I lowered the point of my spear and launched myself at the smirking Legionnaire. And then a number of things seemed to happen all at the same time and I found myself sailing through the air. My flight came to a sudden and painful stop against a stone wall and darkness closed over me.

This post has been edited by treydog: Apr 18 2008, 04:17 PM