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    Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter
    Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter
    Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter
    Ebook296 pages4 hours

    Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter

    By W.Wm. Mee

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    About this ebook

    Oma-Var, the land of magic, mystery and living legends. A land of great kings, wise queens and fierce warriors. But now the Fourth Age has arrived, the age of gunpowder! Swords and shields are augmented by wheelock pistols and brass cannon; chainmail and steel helmets have given way to silk uniforms and gold braid and the iron clad knight has become a poet-soldier. Wars, however still rage through the land and are bloodier than ever. Captain Druin Hoyt and his ‘Company of Gentlemen’ are hired to rescue the beautiful Phillipa Harkon, the Duke’s daughter; a simple enough task for Hoyt and his mercenaries --- but then things go amiss, as things so often do and the road back to ‘daddy’ becomes a very dangerous one.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherW.Wm. Mee
    Release dateSep 15, 2017
    ISBN9781310823909
    Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter
    Author

    W.Wm. Mee

    Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at waynewmee@videotron.caHe'll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

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      Book preview

      Druin Hoyt & the Duke's Daughter - W.Wm. Mee

      DRUIN HOYT

      &

      ‘The Duke’s Daughter’

      by

      W.Wm.Mee

      A Fantasy about Forbidden Love

      & the Coming of Firearms

      to Oma-Var.

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2017 W.Wm.Mee

      ***

      INTRODUCTION

      ‘The Turning of the Wheel’

      The fourth age of Oma-Var has finally arrived, and for many it is out with the old and in with the new! There are new ideas about religion, science, and medicine; the equality of the various races, international trade, higher schools of learning, curbing the ‘absolute power of kings’ and even debates about women’s rights!

      And it’s not just ‘ideas’ that are new and exciting, but ‘inventions’ as well.

      A newer, harder metal than iron that resists rust; a hand cranked machine that can create a newspaper in a day and a book in a week; a distilled liquid that lets one sleep through a surgery and a water powered machine that does the work of ten blacksmiths!

      It has been argued my many however, that by far the ‘greatest’ of all the world shaking inventions was the invention of ‘gunpowder’ --- though perhaps ‘greatest’ is not the correct word, as its creation has caused the deaths of so many,

      This is the story of what happened to some of the various barbaric and medieval societies on the fantasy world of Oma-Var when they too began to use the world changing phenomenon we know as gunpowder.

      Yet it is also --- as every good tale should be, a ‘love story’ --- a story about an adventurous young man and a beautiful young woman who, at first glance, are totally unsuited --- yet fate, circumstances and their own secret, inner yearnings, help them ‘discover’ each other.

      A ‘Romeo & Juliet’ for a world that never was and a ‘Tristan & Yseult’ for a world we would like there to be.

      So, Gentle Reader, come along and meet the dashing Captain Druin Hoyt and the beautiful and head-strong Lady Phillipa Harkon --- the Duke’s Daughter.

      ***

      Map of Eastern Oma-Var

      Chapter 1: ‘Captain Druin Hoyt’

      Duke Elgo of Harkon’s military camp

      Outside of Sanling, the capital of Del Lingus.

      Year 53 of the 4th Age of Oma-Var

      Another three bodies had been added to the five already swinging in the tree. The earlier ones had long since been picked clean by the crows, kites and ravens, leaving tattered bits of clothing, off-white, grinning skulls and hanks of matted hair to blow in the wind like last year’s dried leaves.

      The three ‘newcomers’ however were covered with a dark carpet of the feathered creatures, all raucously arguing over each morsel of soft tongue and juicy eyeball.

      Lieutenant Donal Blain, the newest and youngest member of ‘Hoyt’s Company’, drew one of the pair of long, slender fire-tubes from the holster draped over his mount’s neck, set the cock, pointed at the thick mass of glossy black feathers and pulled the trigger.

      Clack-BOOM!

      The striking cock of the handgunn came down, ignited the charge and a ball the size of a thumbnail shot forth, striking the gods knew what, but the sound alone scattered the winged scavengers to the four winds.

      Ho there, Rich Boy! Thin Theo yelled out from the rear of the column, "Be careful there! You might have actually hit the poor man and done him some grievous harm!"

      Little danger of that, Theo! yelled back scar faced Gentleman Dandy. The young lordling can’t shoot any better than he can hold his drink! There was a fair amount of laughter at that, all aimed good-naturedly at the now red faced Rich Boy.

      Ignoring the commotion behind them, the large, thick bearded man riding beside Captain Hoyt pointed up as they past beneath the tree all hung with its grizzly fruit. Tis a grim harvest indeed the duke is reaping, the bearded giant remarked dryly. At this rate, captain, the price of rope will be going up! We should lay in a goodly supply and make our fortunes as merchants, not mercenaries!

      The black humoured jester was Sergeant Granther Rush, often referred to as ‘Sergeant Sharp Tongue’. Before the hard eyed captain could reply, another of the company spoke up from further back down the line.

      Let them swing, says I! grumbled the greybeard of the group, Tomasan Fitch, or ‘Sour Tom’ to his mates. The older man gestured rudely at the slowly twisting bodies. "Rebels all and traitors to our king they be! Look you there at the damned orange sashes round their waists! Followers of that bastard pretender to the throne, Gillham of Bloody Orange!"

      This was followed up by a hawking noise and a wad of phlegm spattering on the grass. If it was up to me I’d weigh down every branch in Del Lingus with the traitorous scum!

      Hence the run on rope, my captain! the grinning sergeant quipped, his gallows humour as thick as his black beard and northern accent. Sour Tom here has made my very point! Buy up all the rope I say and our fortunes will be made!

      Sour Tom launched into one of his righteous arguments for the wholesale slaughter of any and all rebels to King Augustan Tobaris, the reigning monarch of Del Lingus, but he went quiet soon enough when the captain turned his fierce gaze on him. In sullen silence the grey bearded zealot followed Hoyt into the duke’s camp.

      ***

      At first glance Captain Druin Hoyt didn’t seem all that different from the other mercenary captains, majors and various other officers and ‘landless lords’ gathered in the Duke’s tent.

      Half of the men there were dressed in old and worn armour over old and worn wool and leathers, while the other half, mostly the younger ones, wore the newer cuts and colours of striped silk, crushed velvet and frilly lace under their fancy embossed breast plates.

      The ‘old fashioned group’, as expected, wore the older metal helmets of various styles over shaved heads or short cropped hair and beards, while the younger, more fashion conscious tended to go either clean shaven or fully bearded and either wore their hair quite long or the oddly popular flowing wigs, crowned of course with overlarge hats topped off with a feather or two dyed to match their velvets. Hoyt noticed that wide, vertical stripes seemed to be in ‘vogue’ at the moment.

      Captain Druin Hoyt however was firmly planted in neither camp, wearing a mixture of old and modern as the fancy took him. His largest concession to the popular wave of ‘out with the old and in with the new’ was his choice of weapons. Besides the usual sword and dagger, he sported not one but two of the new ‘fire-tubes’ that the younger swains in the group were now calling ‘handgunns’ --- a small one thrust in his sash and another older, larger one clipped to the worn leather baldric across his armour plated chest. Even his choice of sword had changed, having replaced the heavy, thick bladed ‘mortuary’ sword he’d carried for years for one of those newer, longer stabbing swords called a ‘rapier’.

      When asked by the few men that actually called him ‘friend’ why the change in weaponry, Hoyt laughed and replied that: Men in our line of work need to keep up with the times, gentlemen, and more so now than ever! My grandsire, as most of you already know, has been a maker of fire-tubes for some time now. He tells me that it is much more profitable than the blades he used to make. Hoyt then reached into his sash and took out an amazingly small ‘handgunn’. Made of burnished walnut and case-hardened steel, it had a new ‘spring-lock’ instead of the older, more expensive ‘wheel-lock’. The small, exquisite, deadly weapon truly was a ‘work of art!

      The men with Hoyt, friends and comrades that had stepped out for a meal with him at the local tavern, all eagerly fondled the small, deadly piece.

      Fits in your hand like a young maiden’s tit Sergeant Granther Rush grinned, eyeing the pretty young barmaid that had just brought them their second round of drinks.

      Granther was Hoyt’s oldest friend as well as being his first sergeant. They’d been together ever since the border wars with Cymru over a dozen years ago.

      "But will the Duke put up good coin for such --- frivolities?! asked Tomasan Fitch, the oldest and the self-professed cynic of the group. All these bloody new fangled ‘hand-gunns’ go against the Laws of Nature!" ‘Sour Tom’ as they called him, was always eager to extol the glories of the past and bemoan the ‘frivolities’ of the future --- especially when in his cups.

      Like it or not, Tomasan old friend, Hoyt said, the warm feel of Ling brandy flowing freely through his own veins, You hold the future of modern warfare right there in your hand!

      Most of Hoyt’s fellow mercenaries were nodding agreement, especially the younger ones. "For a little over fifty years now we’ve had bronze cannon and various types of long barrelled fire-tubes. All fed by the mysterious and very expensive ‘black powder’; but now that the ‘secret’ of its making is out, every apothecary, chemist and old crone with a cauldron is busy crushing charcoal and collecting batshit! With powder now being much cheaper and more available, every metal worker, blade smith and horseshoe bender is making ‘fire-tubes’!"

      Hoyt again held up the little pistol so that the firelight flickered off the shining metal and burnished wood. "And in the last few years these smaller ‘hand-gunns’ have become as much a part of a ‘gentleman’s attire’ as his sword, fancy hat and buckled shoes!"

      Sour Tom turned the small killing tool over in his rough hands, hefted the weight of it and set his whiskered jaw. Pikes and archers bloody well still get the job done and done right smartly too! the older man rumbled. There’s no need for the Duke to waist good coin on fancy fire-tubes that take forever to load and as often as not don’t bloody work anyway! Too many damn things can go wrong with them. Give me a trained archer or man with swordcraft anytime!

      Captain Hoyt was the first to agree with Sour Tom, but only up to a point. "You’re right, Tomasan, and I’ll not deny it! In any battle there’s always a great need for archers and pikemen, cavalry and lancers, aye, and swords and bucklers too! But there’s also a place for the cannon and the fire-tube! Artillery is needed to blow great holes in castle walls; long barrelled matchlocks for the foot troops to soften up the enemies’ lines --- and these! He unclipped his wheelock pistol from his baldric. Hand held fire-tubes for the charging cavalry and the officers personal protection! Each weapon, gentlemen, the old and the new, moved about like chess pieces on a board --- especially with a commander that knows the strengths and weaknesses of each --- will almost always win the day!"

      "Almost you say, captain? the youngest of the group, Lieutenant Donal ‘Rich Boy’ Blain asked. There was a wide, brandy induced grin of Blain’s handsome young face. Why ‘almost’, captain? I mean, if this wise commander uses all his ‘pieces’ to their maximum effect, why shouldn’t he always win?!"

      Hoyt leaned back and smiled at the youth, seeing much of himself in the lad --- at least, before time and bloody red war had wore away his own innocence. "Fate, lad! Or luck! Or perchance the non-existent gods themselves, eh?!"

      Seeing the half drunk youth blink, Hoyt smiled and continued his tutelage. An errant breeze, a stay arrow, Sour Tom’s damp powder, a lucky thrust, even a lost or late message! All these things and a hundred more can easily turn the tide of any battle! Hoyt, warmed by the fire, the brandy and some bitter-sweet memories, reached out and ruffled the young man’s golden locks. The whims of fate, lad, can in an instant, turn all our hopes and dreams to dust.

      By the gods, Druin, put in burly Sergeant Rush, his bearded face also flushed from both the fireplace and the Ling brandy. You’re waxing philosophical this evening! I thought we came here to drink and carouse, not pontificate on the Three Weird Sisters!

      Though he didn’t look it and seldom showed it, Sergeant Granther Rush was a highly educated man. The fourth son of a northern lord, with nothing left to inherit, had spent the first part of his life studying religion, not warcraft. The monks, however, had taught more than just religion, but history, philosophy, logic and literature as well --- and Granther drank it in like a thirsty man in a desert! When the monastery was later attacked and burned by brigands, Granther was among the few survivors. His study of war began as his numerous wounds healed, and he gave up his monkish ways for the life of a soldier.

      Call it what you will, old friend, Hoyt said. "Every man must follow his own path. I merely choose to believe that I have more say in what happens on that path than some deity on high or some old crone squatting in a cave!"

      More drinks arrived and Granther patted the pretty barmaids passing rump, Tomasan Fitch droned on about the woes of the ‘modern world’ and young Lieutenant Donal Blain continued to hang on every word of his hero, Captain Druin Hoyt.

      I tell you the ‘Old Ways’ are almost gone! Sour Tom’s voice rose in direct proportion to the lowering of brandy in the bottle. "Now a man who has dedicated his entire life to the bow or the blade can be easily snuffed out by any simple minded farmhand who can point a bloody fire-tube! Sword, shield and lance have been replaced by matchlocks, wheel-locks and now, thanks to our own captain’s grandsire, something called a bloody ‘springlock’!"

      But surely, young Donal argued, his face equally flushed from the brandy and youth’s frantic fervour; "the days of sword and lance are not yet over?! The can’t be! If so, where has gone honour and duty?! How can a man still call himself a man if any slack jawed village idiot with a matchlock can easily bring him down?!"

      Gently lad, put in Sergeant Rush with a smile, one large arm draped over the thin, golden haired lieutenant. Fire-tubes are not as easy to master as old Tomasan here would have you believe, as we all saw earlier today when you missed that entire flock of crows!

      There was the usual good-natured ribbing at that and then, with a twinkle in his eye, Sergeant ‘Sharp Tongue’ continued. I see that you’ve got those fine looking pieces with you here tonight. Very pretty they are too! Might we now be having a proper look at them?

      Donal the Rich Boy, unaccustomed to the potent effects of Ling brandy, smiled like the youth he was, proudly produced the two weapons and placed them gently on the tavern’s scarred table.

      The expensive ‘handgunns’ had been a gift from Donal’s father, the wealthy and powerful Count of Rothmar. The count had presented them to his young son along with the newly purchased ‘third lieutenantship’ in Duke Harkon’s ‘Army of Gentlemen Adventurers’ --- an army in which modern firelocks of all kinds were liberally used along with the older, more conventional weapons of bow, blade and pike.

      Originally the ‘position’ his father had purchased for his youngest son had been a relatively ‘safe’ one: a low level job on the duke’s personal staff --- however, having grown up on hearing the many hair-raising tales of Captain Druin Hoyt and his infamous company of hardened killers, young Donal had soon asked to be taken off the duke’s staff and assigned to the Hoyt’s smaller, rather ‘special’ group instead. At first Hoyt had flatly refused to take the youth.

      ‘I neither want nor need any useless, pampered ‘lordlings’ in my group!’ he had told the duke , but when both he and the duke received a considerable ‘donation’ from the boy’s father, Count Rothmar, the lad was begrudgingly been allowed in. ‘But on a trial basis only!’ Hoyt had insisted. I’ll work him nonstop for a month. If he’s still wants in after that, I’ll give him a chance. But either way ‘daddy’s donation’ stays with us!

      After a first week, both the Hoyt and Sergeant Rush had thought that the count’s idea for his son had been a waste of money, but it turned out that the lad had more grit in him than anyone had realized, including himself! By the third week young Donal ‘Rich Boy’ was not only keeping up with the daily regiment of riding, sword work and firelock practice, but managing to hold his own with the rough and tumble band of hardened mercenaries --- at least most of the time. It had helped that his riding and sword work skills had already been excellent when he arrived. The only two areas in which he needed improvement were his ability to hit a target with a handgunn and his lack of ability to hold his liquor. In the past month he’d been working hard on both. So far his drinking had improved slightly.

      Well now, lad, Sergeant Rush said with a twinkle in his eye. I’ve seen your fancy pieces from afar, but never up this close! Dazzle the eyes they do --- but it’s a great mystery to me, lad, that you’re still alive!

      Oh? Why so? the newly minted lieutenant asked, already expecting some sly remark from the sharp tongued sergeant.

      Why, two fine pieces like those will draw every thief and cut-throat for miles around! The wonder is, my boy, that you haven’t been gutted and left in a ditch long before now!

      While the youth pondered the wisdom of the sergeant’s words, the exquisite weapons were carefully handed around the table. Each man there was soon lost deep in his thoughts of how much they could sell them for and what he would do with all the money.

      Slender, quick Theo Talabard saw a small, tidy farm with growing wheat, growing children and a wife with a loving smile waiting within.

      Slim, handsome Benit Dandish saw a tavern at a crossroads, a sign above the door with his name on it and a room full of family, friends and paying customers, with himself dressed in the latest fashion and presiding over all with a lordly smile.

      Tomasan Fitch or Sour Tom likewise saw a sign with his name on it, but it read Sheriff Fitch, ‘Keeper of the King’s Peace’, and his cells were full of traitorous scum nervously awaiting their time on the gibbet.

      Sergeant Granther Rush saw a blackened, burnt out monastery restored, its hallowed halls once again ringing with the sounds of learning, knowledge and friendly debate.

      As for the captain, when he looked at the long, slender fire-tubes, he thought of his grandsire, Tyberian Hoyt. A bladesmith turned gunsmith by trade, an artillery captain by profession and an inventor by inclination. To the captain his grandfather was the most remarkable man he knew.

      Never having known his real father, Druin had been raised by his young mother and her own widowed father. The older man’s gun building skills were not in fancy inlaying or intricate carvings such as the ones the lieutenant sported, but in simplicity of line and reliability of function.

      Druin drew out his own ‘handgunn’. Not the small, newer ‘spring-lock’ that he had shown earlier, but an older, heavier wheel-lock that he’d carried

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