-or-
An Interesting Study on How A Gentleman May Further Employ His Lackey In Ways Hitherto Un-Thought
Humbly Presented to
The Dear Reader
by
The Author
for
the Delight and Instruction of
The Latter
My Sweet Prince,
It has come to my Attention that Your Grace has been disgracefully Deprived of the True Historie of that gentleman Lord Taryl dar Alklawi and his Varied and Divers adventures; Adventures that, if they each Failed in some Inexplicable Way to enrich that good lord who Performed them in terms of Base Lucre, have enriched Thy Realm in terms of Honor and Glorie, for it is by the Fruits that sprang from this Magnificent Soil that our Heroe was Nourished, it was this land’s Crystal Springs that slaked his Thirst, and this Kingdom’s unparalleled Tailors who Ensured their Patron Champion performed his Mightie Deeds in Presentable Attire. And if Your Terrible Magnificence and Thine Friends find in the Lord Taryl a Pattern by which One might guide One’s own Actions, Thy Humble Servant can Think of Few Better Templates.
I thus humbly Present, as the First of Many Installments, this the Earliest Tale now Extant of that, regrettably, Departed Hero, Lord Taryl dar Alklawi; titled by Those who make a Study of such Legends as: “The Knives of Deceit”
The rugged, ice-clad peaks of the Atlan Mountains that spiral out of the rolling forests of Wolfsguard (or, Wolffesgaard as the ancient ones would have it) have been celebrated by legions of poets and dreamers before this humble chronicler ever dreamed of lifting a pen, and the reader is thus referred to those noble works if assistance is needed in forming a scene in one’s mind in which we can place our players as they enter our lives for the first, but certainly not the last, time. For it is to this majestic stage that we must first turn to be introduced to that paragon of virtue, courage, honor, and youthful spirit; he who is sweet day-dream to his lovers, steadfast rock to his friends, and terrible nightmare to his enemies; the last and favorite son of the ancient and noble House of Alklawi: Lord Taryl.
We have begun our tale in the shadow of the Atlan Mountains for it is Wolfsguard that that vibrant line of Alklawis call home and demesne, entrusted to their care by ancient decree of the crown of Corynth in an era now so long past that even the mists of time are yellowed with age. And on this bright crisp morning in which we meet Taryl, we find his heart healing from sorrow, for it has been less than three new moons since the elder dar Alklawi, Taryl’s progenitor and the husband of Taryl’s mother, had regrettably passed from this world after an accident while mucking the stables that involved a shovel, thirty horses, and a mislabeled rope-pull that regrettably released a certain hatch.
Our dear hero had thus found himself in the position of Lord of Wolfsguard, and as a dutiful son should, allowed his mother to indulge her quirky predilection for involving herself in the estate’s businesses, thinking that it would distract her from her grief. Nor were his efforts in vain, for after a few chaotic weeks of turmoil, Wolfsguard’s beet production was considerably higher, criminal activity (that is, Lucky Larson’s proclivity to drink from mugs of beer other than his own at the Druze’s Head tavern on Saturdays) was drastically reduced (Lady Alklawi banned Lucky from the Druze’s Head on Saturdays), and the mention of Taryl’s father’s name would bring at first only a blank, confused look from his mother.
Taryl’s own heart yearned to fly, to voyage beyond the horizons of Wolfsguard, and as in the bed-time stories he had heard as a child to earn his fortune by the strength of his sword and the sharpness of his wit. Though he knew it would be a difficulty to those who now depended on him for leadership, he did not feel he could reside another week within the walls of Lupine Hall, the Alklawi ancestral seat, walls that drew closer about his ears and whispered to him of the horrors of middle-age, of marriage, of stability, and of prescribed days stretching on throughout the cycle of seasons punctuated by no more strenuous test of his mettle than how to keep the crows out of his grain field. With a heart perfectly balanced by being both heavy at the thought of leaving his home and his people, yet light with the prospect of the adventurous road before him, he ordered a few things packed into the Trunk and sought an audience with his mother. Once he was admitted into her presence, she proved herself to be a true Alklawi by the fortitude with which she accepted Taryl’s command that she assume the mantle of power and responsibility at Wolfsguard; a distracted wave of the hand was in fact her only answer as she continued poring over the shipping invoices spread across her desk. Satisfied that his People were being left in competent hands during his absence, our dear hero gathered the Trunk and the faithful lackey that bore it, and took his leave.
And thus we find the noble Lord Taryl dar Alklawi striding confidently this crisp morning through the halls of birch and spruce, beneath the lintels of oak and elm, across the carpet of fallen leaves that cushions the tread of the traveler on the road to Corynth. Indeed, it was to Corynth that the dear Lord Taryl had directed his attention.
See his chiseled visage riding proudly over a lofty and well-formed carriage, framed by a gleaming mane of long chestnut hair. A bright eye beneath a noble brow bespeaks an intelligence sharper even than the jaunty long sword riding at his hip. This fine example of the weapon-smith’s art is as ancient as it is jaunty, and alert observers would perhaps presume it to be a family heirloom; in this presumption they would be absolutely correct.
The costume of this fine looking young gentleman accurately reflects the confident and youthful spirit beneath; shirt, waistcoat, jacket, trews and boots of a cut fashionable for the spring season, though perhaps the most critical could be somewhat justified in pointing out that the fashion would have been more appropriate four springs ago. And if this dastardly nay-sayer were to further point to the frayed cuff, the stained collar, the scuffed and worn leather, what of it? Indeed, this foul pessimist has said more than enough already, and we shall turn our backs on he who would introduce such a gloomy aspect to our joyful morning. Curse you, critics!
With light, gay strides our hero is drawn through the emerald sunlight of Wolfsguard Wood, and behind him comes the remainder of his wardrobe, a few dozen cherished books, some sandwiches prepared by Dora the cook of Lupine Tower, and a potent hemorrhoid lotion all packed tightly and carefully into the Trunk, best described as an oversized sea-trunk provided with steel cable armstraps that the whole may be transported on one’s back. And the back that currently ached and staggered beneath this wonder of travel accessory engineering belonged to that most faithful of lackeys, Borin. Grey beard swinging so as to sweep the path before him as he waddled down the leafy road bent over and grunting, Borin’s piggy little eyes glittered through a warty and wrinkled countenance as he eyed his master’s back just ahead of him, and his stubby, gnarled fingers caressed the hilt of a knife protruding from his belt. Borin’s emotions for his dear master could at times be overwhelming.
As they trotted along at a rapid pace, Taryl found occasion to comment to his manservant wistfully, “Ah, sweet Borin, I must confess that I regret not having brought a horse for the journey.”
Borin, allowing sweat to pour from his head in what would be an unsightly manner for any born of a more refined class of society, replied through clenched teeth, “A horse, master?”
Taryl arched a sable eyebrow and favored Borin with a backwards glance of surprise. “Yes Borin, a ‘horse’. They have four legs, a pungent odor, and a taste for apples, and are surprisingly pleasant to mount and ride. I wonder that you have never heard the term before, Borin. We had quite a few in my father’s stables at home.”
Borin’s answering words were lost in the grey tangle of his beard.
They stopped for the evening in a small glade that Taryl found charming, and after Taryl had dined on the packed sandwiches and generously granted Borin leave to scrounge for acorns and berries in the forest, two pairs of eyes put up the shutters to these windows to the soul, and sought sleep beneath the whirling stars. As the rosy red fingers of dawn speared the gloom of night, Taryl emerged from the halls of the Sandman fully alert, and just able to duck beneath a humming knife that Borin had accidentally dropped from the other side of the glade. Borin cursed and chewed his beard, no doubt distressed that he had come so near to causing his master harm, but Taryl set the lackey at his ease. “I understand, and do not blame you, dear Borin. Ye of the laboring classes are inherently incompetent, and prone to mistakes. This is why we have been placed on this earth with you, to guide and instruct your actions.” Taryl then provided an example of his words by generously directing Borin through rekindling the fire and brewing a pot of tea that the young lord may break his nocturnal fast and fuel strength to meet the coming day’s trials. Within the hour they had resumed their trek Corynth-wards.
It was just after mid-day that the pair attained the crest of a rise just at the edge of the tree line, and saw spread before them the plains across which sprawled the magnificent city of Corynth, capital of the kingdom. Towers soared over the clusters of peaked roofs, gargoyles, and squat battlements; spires punctured the noontime sky, while bridges that from this distance seemed as ephemeral as cobweb stretched from tower to roof to spire to tower again. The whole threatened to burst from the formidable curtain walls that girded the city’s waist, while from beneath the feet of this wall spilled the ploughed fields that made this one of the most wealthy of cities in the Free Kingdoms, in emerald and gold colors as bright as jeweled blankets in the noon sun. Behind this monument to the achievements of Mankind stretched the glittering ocean, upon whose waves rode the sea-merchants, the second source of Corynth’s wealth and prestige. The very sight swelled Taryl’s heart with joy and expectation. To accompany the expansive gesture that he made with his arm, he spoke thusly: “Corynth, faithful Borin! Corynth, city of riches and power, where one can expect opportunity to lurk around every corner. Here I shall find my destiny, I shall carve a name for myself with my sword, I shall plan a campaign of success with my razor wit, I shall… Here, what is it that you are doing, Borin?”
He had turned to face his manservant while distributing these wise predictions and found the gnarled oak of a man lifting a knobbled club. “A winged insect of some form had had the audacity to land upon m’lord’s head,” quothe that steadfast Borin smoothly. “If the master would be so good as to turn around again, I shall resume my dispatch.”
Taryl waved a hand airily. “No, no, Borin, find in your heart mercy towards even the smallest and most winged of the gods’ creatures. I have not the time to waste in pest control. Come, we sally into adventure!” And that noble gentleman leapt forward gazelle-like as a prelude to his sprint across the last mile and a half to the city gates, obliging the honest Borin to stagger along with the Trunk in his master’s wake.
When one is blessed with such long and well-formed limbs as the scion of House Alklawi possessed, it takes but moments to glide across a mile or so, to draw to a halt before the magnificent oaken gates of Corynth. Taryl executed exactly this series of events, while Borin lumbered in his wake and finished the brief exercise by sprawling in the dust at his master’s heels beneath the impressive weight of the Trunk. Taryl’s bright eye took in the watchtowers, the stone arch that defined the portal soaring far over his head, the enormous doors that yawned invitingly open, and the two guardsmen who, from beneath rusting mail hoods, eyed our good gentleman in what could perhaps be interpreted as a bellicose manner. It was to these last specimens of the Honest Soldiery that Taryl directed the focus of his attention, and he stepped forward while flashing the smile that had won him many friends and endangered the virtues of many women. A “Well done, lads! You may announce my arrival,” accompanied this grin.
As noble and ancient a house as the Alklawi may be, it should be noted that its members rarely found themselves as far east as Corynth; and even had these ignorant wage-serfs been acquainted with the House itself, they no doubt had never before been privileged enough to gaze upon the features of its last son. An excuse therefore exists for their failure to recognize the fine Lord Taryl as nobility, and a generous heart may choose to accept this as a valid excuse for their next actions: the shorter guardsman spat into the dust near Taryl’s boot while the taller one just gazed blankly into the middle distance and chewed what appeared to be cud. Taryl’s heart was just so generous… if not more so.
Taryl offered a sad, forgiving smile and nodded. “Unfortunate wretches such as yourself cannot be expected to be familiar with every one of the niceties of civilized culture. Nor can the lower classes be expected to recognize their superiors on sight; it is a well known medical fact that your intellects are far too limited for such tasks. I will therefore forgive your lapse this once and guide you through your duties, as a wise and caring shepherd should. One of you is to hurry to the palace with the announcement to His Majesty that the Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, Master of Lupine Hall and Protector of Wolfsguard, has arrived in Corynth. The other may then act as my escort in conjunction with my lackey.” And here Taryl indicated the faithful Borin, who had allowed blood to run from his ears as he lay stretched beneath the Trunk.
As well meant and generous as this advice was, the vulgars received the lesson in a less gracious spirit than it was delivered. The height-challenged guard, possibly because of a defensive nature brought on by consistent short jokes made at his expense as a child, snorted in what could be described as a “derisive” manner. The taller guard, apparently still unsatisfied with his progress on the cud, frowned carefully into the space unseen by the saner examples of his fellow men. Taryl began to feel the warmth of his collar. “Very well,” he replied to this silent snub; “If you refuse to observe the most basic of courtesies, I at least demand that you stand out of my path, and I will enter the city in my own way.” Defiance and nobility flashed from beneath his sable brows.
Nor did this brave statement move the rudely-born wage earners; in fact, it elicited even greater impertinence. Lolling in a manner that in some way managed to convey insolent sloth and a coiled belligerence at the same time, the shorter guard spake thusly: “Ach ye, ‘Lord’, we’ve ‘ad auwer orders, we ‘ave. No young lords of lofty carriage and bright eye seekin’ their fortunes to be let inta th’city. They cause trouble ‘v all sort: robbin’ temples, seducin’ lady folk, leadin’ rebellions, an’ the like. An’ that,” with the vague wave of a grimy glove at Taryl’s chest “me young sir, looks like a mighty lofty carriage, an’ that,” a second wave across Taryl’s vision, “looks the brightest eye I seen yet.”
As a fair skinned lad, it was Taryl’s curse to blush with ease, and he now felt the warmth of his collar climbing upwards. “You have a keen eye, my low browed friend, but let me draw its power of observation to the longsword hanging so jauntily from my belt. It is long, it is jaunty, and I must once again repeat my order that you stand down and allow me unmolested passage into the city.”
The guards, who like Taryl, the author, and perhaps the reader, were completely ignorant of the definition of the word “jaunty” either as a adjective or an adverb, nevertheless recognized a threat when they heard it. The taller guard, against all expectation, paused in his mastication and took a sudden interest in the drama unfolding before him, while the shorter hefted the stout pike in his meaty fist, as if testing it for its own jauntiness. As stated before, Taryl’s was a quick wit, and his bright eye had soon taken the measurement of the pike, multiplied it by two, then compared it with the well-known length of his own jaunty longsword. The product of this mathematical exercise caused that noble brow to furrow in some concern; then a conclusion was no doubt reached, for our dear lord turned on his noble heel and sprinted back up along the road from whence he’d come. Borin found himself motivated to follow his master primarily by loyalty, and perhaps also by the manner in which the guards continued to heft their pikes, yet now turned their attention to the innocent lackey.
Unfortunately, the only way to continue reading now is to buy the book… but happily, you are already on the internet and need only click HERE!
BlackSilver Studios 