Swordsmen of Hyperborea

First Draft

Richard Tongue

Chapter I
It was a perfect day for an ambush. Stephen, Crown Prince of Hyperborea and commander of the Royal Guard, was lying behind a large, verdant shrub, the sweet smell of its leaves an incongrous preparation for combat. To his right, his oldest friend and fellow guardsman, Arthur, hand tensed slightly on his sword, sweat beads running down his close-shaven face. Stephen could not see the other dozen members of his ambush party hiding in the trees, and hoped that his target couldn't either. Speaking of which, he heard rustling from up ahead, the sound of a small party moving cautiously through the wood. There were only a few yards away, and he could barely hear them; if he had not been tipped off about the secret path he never would have found them. Six...no, seven sets of footsteps moving across the damp ground. Two-to-one odds; perfect. He mentally counted down from ten, and as he reached one, looked across to Arthur and nodded almost imperceptably. The pair of warriors sprung to their feet, longswords shining in their hands, their mail armour clanking slightly as they rose. Both of them assumed battle stance, swords raised and ready. The approaching bandits froze in position. Seven of them, just as he had thought, and their leader with a somehow familiar crooked smile on his face, a well-used scimitar held in his green-tinted hands. Next to him was a savage-looking Thalassan, even shorter than most of his people, a crossbow nestled in his hands, raised to point right between the eyes. The other side, a striking raven-haired beauty that impressed even the love-bound Stephen, whose green eyes seemed to be darting from tree to tree, seeking out other targets. Darius, I bear a Royal Warrant upon which is your name; you and your band of cut-throats are to travel with me to face the Arbiters in Carinth, Stephen said, a firm, commanding tone in his voice. The smile on the green-tinted half-breed grew. I think not, guardsman. I see but two of you; my band has yours outnumbered. Instead I think I will have your armour, your weapons, your shillings, and if you tarry, your lives. Arthur looked quick across at Stephen, who shook his head. Bandit, I grant you one last chance to return peacefully to seek judgement. If you value the lives of your comrades, you will change your mind. The seven adversaries drew their weapons, and slowly began to advance on the duo, who held their weapons slightly higher in response. The Thalassan curled his lips in a sneer, and began to squeeze the trigger on his crossbow, only to fall to his knees, cursing in pain, an arrow in his left arm, crossbow dropped onto the mossy ground. The remaining dozen guards advanced out of the undergrowth, some of them from hidden dugouts in the ground, others swinging down out of trees. Four of them were wielding longbows, one of whom was pulling a fresh arrow from his quiver, the remainder were holding longswords of the same design as Stephen and Arthur. The bandits looked around with the gaze of a cornered animal, trying to find a way to escape, but the guardsman had cut off any possible retreat. Orders, sir? the lead Guardsman asked. Take them down, Sergeant. Not the leader! Stephen called out, leaping forward at the nearest of the rogues, sword swinging in his hand. Bowstrings cracked, another four arrows flying through the air; a pair of bandits dropped face down in the mud, from whence they would never move again. Darius' face became a snarl, and he raced forward with his scimitar, closing in on Stephen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur heavily engaged with a tall, brutish Frostlander, one of the savage original inhabitants of the land displaying his mighty strength with a club that looked more like he had torn a tree out by the roots. You will meet your end this day, guardsman! Darius cried out, the clip tones of one not used to the Hyperborean tongue. The first blows were traded off equally, metal ringing against metal. The rest of the clearing faded away for Stephen; his universe considered of naught but his opponent. Darius hacked forward with a flurry of strikes and jabs; Stephen parried the first few and ducked out of the way of the remainder, slicing his blade through and ripping a cut in his foe's armour.

Darius stepped back a couple of paces, scimitar swinging from side to side in a careless yet controlled manner, whispering a savage prayer under his breath. Stephen slowly, cautiously, moved forward, eyes fixed on the movements of the scimitar, mentally noting the half-dozen notches recording the fate of the unwary men who had preceded him to battle. He caught a quick flash of steel from the side, and hurled himself to the ground, just in time for the path of the thrown dagger to miss him and embed itself in a tree, sending splinters flying through the air. Darius' sleeve hung more loosely; a concealed weapon, and a dirty trick for a single combat. No honour, then, bandit? he mockingly called out. Honour is for those with full pouches and superior odds, came the quick reply. Stephen slowly moved forward, feinting with his sword, trading blow for blow; the pair were evenly matched. The archers were watching, waiting for an opportunity to strike, but their orders not to kill Darius restrained them from the critical shot. Move, counter-move, counter-countermove. Neither could get through the other's defences. Stephen! Arthur yelled, and the prince threw himself backward in the nick of time, as a heavy, weighted net descended from the trees, enveloping Darius and pinning him to the ground. Before he could move, four swords were thrown into the four corners of the net, securing him in place, and the four archers moved in closer, maintaining their aim as they advanced. Stephen knelt down on the ground, his knee squelching in a pool of Thalassan blood. Yield, Darius, and you can ride to Carinth like a man. Never, guardsman. He spat at him. Stephen wiped the spittle from his neck, then slapped him around the face with the same hand. Then you ride in the cart like a dog, to be mocked by all who see you. He rose to his feet, then regarded the battlefield. Four bodies on the ground, three of them bandits. A couple of his guards had new scars to memorialise the battle. Where are the others, Sergeant? That Thalassan, and the woman, they ran into the woods. We got a few arrows at them, so I don't think they'll get far. Another stumbled off down the path, but he left most of his arm behind. The wolves'll get all three of them before morning. Who did we lose? Poul. That vixen got him with a throwing axe, right in the back. He never knew what hit him. Stephen sighed, then motioned the men forward. Very well. Sergeant, you and Drogo guard the prisoner and orders or now, kill him if he so much as blinks out of turn while the rest of us bury the dead. Poul, sir? All four of them, Sergeant. I'd want the same done to me if I fell in battle. The men set to work with shovels, digging four holes in the ground. Arthur walked over to Stephen, shaking his head slightly. We lost three of them, my lord. Three bandits without their leader, all wounded. Fodder for the wolves. That's what the Sergeant said. What do you say? Stephen looked into the undergrowth. That three renegades will return home to their fellows and tell them of the day they were bested by the Royal Guard. Perhaps they will be less eager to follow their unwanted profession in the future, discourage others from so doing. Perhaps. Or perhaps we have created three resentful beings who will some day seek revenge. Look at that one. He gestured at Darius, still pinned to the ground. That one would. He'll never walk free again. At best his life will end in the oubliette. The two of them began to walk around the perimeter of the clearing, crunching on the twigs heedless of who might be listening, while the men continued to work, the piles of earth growing around the four bodies. Why were we sent to capture him in the first place? The Sergeant could have completed this mission just as efficiently. My father wanted to make sure that the bandit was captured alive. He wanted someone he

trusted to make sure that there were no 'accidents'. What is so special about this man? Stephen laughed, sending a flock of birds flapping into the air. Since spring returned to the land he and his band have been menacing wagons heading to the north, supplying our fortress in the Giant's Teeth Mountains. Not every caravan on the Old Road can be guarded. It is but seven men, my lord. What are you suggesting? That we brought too many men? It was not a question of besting them in combat, but ensuring that we captured our prey. Yet three escaped. Stephen stood, turned, regarding his old friend critically. What is it you are suggesting? Out with it. That there is more to this 'simple mission' than meets the eye. Perhaps he is working for someone else. Who? Our land is at peace, my friend, our enemies long since bested. The green-skins with the exception of the occasional half-breeds like him, he pointed at the prisoner, dare not show themselves in civilised lands, the Frostlanders are penned into the Great Glacier where the belong. Perhaps one of the barbarian chiefs from the north is preparing to move. You worry too much, my friend. Eight shovels were shoved into the ground, and the three outlaws were unceremoniously rolled into their final resting place. The men stood around the fourth body, looking down at their fallen comrade. One of them reached down, and started to pull something from around his neck; Stephen grabbed his hand and looked up at him. What do you think you are doing, Guardsman? His pendant, sir. It was a gift from his wife; I thought she would appreciate its return. Stephen nodded. Very well. He gestured at the Sergeant, who rallied the men to attention. One of our brave comrades found here his final resting place. He did in glorious combat, facing the enemies of the crown. Darius laughed at that, then grunted as one of his two guards planted his foot hard down on his stomach. This man may rest hundreds of miles from his home, but he will not be forgotten, his name carved into the walls of our barracks, that it may be remembered forever by those who serve, as an example for all who follow him. Rest easy, guardsman. The men saluted, and began to shovel earth over the holes, reverently in one case, hurriedly in another. Stephen watched as they worked, looking up at the slowly setting sun with increasing anxiety. Finally, the last spadeful was dropped, and the ground patted over; Poul's sword was thrust into the ground to mark his resting place. Under close guard, Darius was bound and gagged, and carried slowly up the path. Stephen took the lead, watching for any signs of an ambush. The men moved cautiously but quickly, one eye on the prisoner, one on the undergrowth. Every time a stray foot caught a dry twig, every man's heart jumped, hands reaching for swords. After what seemed an eternity, they emerged onto the Old Road, the long, stone trail leading from horizon to horizon, with a pair of carts and a dozen horses, three guards waiting for them anxiously. Darius who had not moved since he was bound half an hour ago, was thrown into the back of the prison wagon, the door locked behind him. Should we leave him bound and gagged, my lord? asked the Sergeant. Take off the gag, but leave his bonds intact. I may wish to speak to him. The men mounted their horses, formed up into a guard protecting the two wagons. It felt good to be in the saddle again, better to be in open country, even if the woods were too close for comfort. Sensing his discomfort, Arthur gestured down the road, to the south. A good hour's ride will see us safely clear of those woods, my lord. Then we can make camp for the night. Stephen smiled, and shook his head. A good two hours' ride will take us to the Spitted Pig Inn, where we can sleep in proper beds, enjoy good ale and the company of the fairer sex. I think I know how I would rather spend this night. What say you, men?

The guardsman, with the exception of the solemn Sergeant, cheered at the prospect; none of them had been looking forward to another night on the cold earth before returning to the capital. At a nod, they started down the road at a cantor, hooves clattering on the ancient stone road, slowly pulling away from the site of the battle and the final resting place of their comrade. Stephen pulled his horse close to the cart, looking at Darius wiggle in an attempt to break his bonds. He shook his head. It was needless for you to travel in this way; come, give your parole and you can still ride for your judgement. You were a cunning opponent. I will not. I will find a way to escape from you, guardsman, and then there will be a reckoning. The guard on top of the court looked down at the bandit. Know you not whom you are addressing; you speak to the Crown Prince of Hyperborea himself, worm. So, the pampered prince ventures forth with his toy soldiers. I should be honoured to be captured by such a senior member of the noble line. Tell me, were you tired of hunting deer? Come, bandit, such banter does not become you. I found you an excellent adversary. Who betrayed us? A loyal subject of the Crown, who determined where his true duty lay. I shall not give his name; the information was given under condition of anonymity. Besides, my lord, the honorific dripped with heavy sarcasm, by now he is many miles distant with his bribe, yes? Perhaps. The bandit smiled, as he continued to try and work loose his bonds. Somehow it does not surprise me that you are forced to buy loyalty to your Crown. Though it should unnerve you. Stephen looked at Arthur; such had not occurred to him before. He dug his spurs into his horse, moving to the front of the column to join his friend. Does it, my lord? Does it? The jeers of the bandit followed him.

Chapter II

Today's Writing Segment Chapter One (Stephen P.O.V.) Prince Stephen, accompanied by his oldest friend, Arthur, and a group of a dozen Royal Guardsmen, have set up to ambush a group of bandits led by a rogue called Darius, a half-breed operating in the outskirts of the Forest of Wyr. The ambush is set successfully, and Stephen and Darius duel for a time, both apparently evenly matched, before the guards ensare Darius in a net. The remainder of the bandits are either dead or fleeing; there is some verbal sparring and it is made clear that Darius has to be returned to the royal palace alive. Some speculation as to why. Chapter Two (Darius P.O.V.) The group proceed to a tavern, leaving Darius locked in a prison wagon the guard watching him soon leaves, to set up the ambush for Stephen, and Darius begins his attempt to escape. The group inside are drinking and wenching, but at the turn of midnight, they strike at Stephen, attacking him when he does not expect. Darius by this point has managed to escape, and saw the whole thing against his better judgement, he decides to join in the fight, saving Stephen at the last minute. The three of them fight their way to some horses and escape into the night.