Day 336, 06:05 AM
“Treason doth never prosper; what's the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.”
― John Harington
I open my eyes. It’s still dark outside, and I take a split instant to recall what’s happened.
Last night, I was so excited, I went celebrating with the boys and took way too long to realize the obvious problem of me drinking without getting drunk. Fortunately, during a lucid moment, I recalled someone somewhere somewhen talking about drinking like a fish and the drink catching up only once he stood from the table.
So, I slurred about having to see my daughter, got up, and feigned passing out. Four grunting men carried me to my temporary room and left me there to sleep it off.
It was a good save. The boys kept grumbling about how heavy I was, and how absolutely hammered I got, guzzling down half a barrel of wine. They never suspected I was awake, let alone sober.
Sober and starving.
“Martha, breakfast, please.”
“Yes, Noble Sir,” she replies immediately and hurries away.
Is she even human? Which skills did a sixty-year-old maid accumulate during her years of servitude for her to function the way she does?
Half a year of Phill’s careful instruction allowed me to catch the basics of several weapons and fighting styles. I can’t imagine what you get after forty-fifty years of diligent service.
What Martha’s effort yields for me is the breakfast of champions, something which would clog up a bunch of arteries if this world’s residents knew about cholesterol. Since they don’t, they enjoy wonderful, greasy meals and succumb to unjust whims of fate, such as heart attacks and strokes, which they label as curses and old age.
I enjoy my mostly meat meal and leave the room.
“Martha, I know winter has just passed, but, if possible, could you please arrange for some leafy greens, fresh herbs and such with every meal.”
I expected she’d look at me like I was a rabbit, but her gaze doesn’t change a whit as she nods. “I’ll do my best, Noble Sir.”
“Thank you. Could you have Gomer compile a list of things I need to do to make up for my wife’s absence? Also, I believe I will require a meeting with Master Dorigund.”
“Yes, Noble Sir, I’ll notify Master Dorigund first. He should be awake.” Martha leaves my side, and I head out to the practice yard.
“Have someone fetch me when he’s ready.”
She doesn’t respond, but I know she heard me.
The early spring’s predawn air bites at my cheeks and torso as I take off my tunic. I can’t help glancing at my withered forearm, the ugly scar, and the sizeable chunk of muscles missing. Exercising is pointless. I have permanently deformed her, and despite my bicep being as big as a size nine football, the arm itself is weak, lacking some crucial muscles.
Thankfully, I have retained some limited use of my hand. I can wield the spear and the staff just fine, but pinching tiny objects and tasks requiring normal dexterity, such as threading needles, will remain beyond my ability forever. A deal of a lifetime, considering I sacrificed it to save my wife and daughter.
On the other hand, my right is a thing of beauty, found on Ancient Greek sculptures depicting Hercules. The bicep is more massive than that of my left, and my forearm is hard like cast bronze. My strength training revolves around one arm, as do finesse weapons.
Today, I decided to forego finesse and practice throwing axes and hatchets of various sizes. I toss them from tricky angles, at concealed targets, and from awkward positions, hoping the variety would allow me to acquire a new skill or even better upgrade an existing one.
Stolen story; please report.
I’m really curious what skills beyond the “Initial” label look like.
A two-pound hatchet strikes the log with a thud when I hear footsteps.
“You wanted to see me, Sir.” Master Dorigund came in person.
“I did, thank you for coming here, Master Dorigund.” I heft a four-pound ax, which is my next random missile, and take two long steps back, increasing the distance from the target to twenty-seven yards.
“As you know, my wife will be indisposed for a short while, and I wish to resolve all currently solvable problems we are facing before she’s back at the office.” I grunt, and swing the ax. The skill could do everything automatically for me, but I focus on the motion, using my best judgment, rather than letting BSD control my body. It still corrects the angle of my wrist, and I release it a moment earlier than I wanted.
The ax whirls through the air, shaft spinning around the head. It flies right where I wanted it and thuds just above the hatchet I threw a minute ago.
Master Dorigund gulps. I glance at him, unease or fear painted all over his face.
That’s an interesting reaction. Holding audiences while performing intimidating feats should cow the petitioners.
“Relax, Master Dorigund, and please answer my question.”
“What was the question?”
“How do I help Manny’s smooth return to the office in the coming weeks? Are there any problems which need to be eliminated.” I punctuate the word by pulling a small hatchet from the bucket and swing it once to get the feel of its weight. “I am a master of eliminating trouble.”
Dorigund coughs, reminding me of a startled rabbit.
“We have no real trouble at the moment,” he says. “Duchess Eagleeye’s popularity is very high within the city, soldiers are training, and you have shaped them into a real army. The supporters and non-citizen volunteers are living in the army camps outside the city. While they do have a right to enter at will, they must sleep outside to prevent incidents. All in all, Eaglegord is peaceful, our vassals either loyal or cowed.”
I nod. If you only heard Dorigund’s report, you would think we are living in peace and bounty.
“Did anyone else try to free the devils? What of the king?” Did someone leave a trail of steaks or fish-food to lure griffons or deep ones to Eaglegord?
“The tomb remains undisturbed ever since we bricked up the cell doors, per our duchess’s orders. Just in case, four men stand before the entrance day and night. As for the king, we have received no new reports, and the route we guessed based on the crown’s conscription orders remains unchanged. As for the royal army, they may have set off already, or they might wait another week or two for the weather to improve. Spring rainfalls can last days, and men often catch colds when marching in poor conditions.”
So, nothing new there either. The king’s winding path here means we have six to eight weeks before they reach us.
We can’t brace for a siege, the king will outlast us while conscripting our vassals against us. Manny, Phill, Vatten, and I have agreed that hitting them sooner, before their ranks swell, is a superior choice, but I would have to leave Manny and Victory behind. They are in no condition to march, and bringing a carriage is too risky.
Enemy soldiers might run into them, and I don’t even want to consider the disastrous outcomes of that encounter. Manny might be a saint, but if something happened to them, and I can’t redo the event, I might turn into a demon and just exterminate all humans.
“Noble Sir,” Dorigund’s voice shakes, “you are breaking the ax.”
I look down and realize I’m warping the shaft. A nervous chuckle escapes me, and I fling the ax behind my shoulder. It whistles and strikes stone, probably wide off mark.
“We need to hurry. Victory is two weeks late. I’m afraid Manny will have to return to the throne sooner than we wanted, and the army will have to head out later than we planned.”
“You should speak with the duchess, Sir. I believe she would prefer for the army to leave on schedule, even if it will inconvenience her. Sir Vatten certainly will not tolerate delays.”
Right, Vatten’s troops. Whatever possessed me to agree to his army guarding the castle while I’m out campaigning? I naturally know what possessed me. Manny insisted, I tried to convince against it, quoted Warfare and what it had to say regarding alliances with foreign powers, but she persisted, claiming she trusted Vatten almost as much as she trusted me.
In the end, I yielded, but I should have argued more. As the day of departure draws close, I grow more and more convinced the villainous goat will pull something in my absence, I don’t know what.
“Noble Sir?”
“I’ll go talk to her in an hour or two, after she gets the chance to wake up properly.” I draw another ax. “You may leave.”
“Thank you, good luck, Sir.”
So, Dorigund speaks more politely when he’s nervous. That’s good to know.
I keep practicing until the soldiers shuffle in for their training.
“Work hard today, boys. I’m leaving my wife and daughter in your care,” I say, and they shout an “Oorah” as I leave the yard to wash myself before I head to speak with Manny. I would like to change our plans and troop deployments a bit.