CHAPTER IV

Pain Leads to Wonder

Octobre 31, 5599

 

Before falling asleep, Shorn and Stench had polished the chainmail hauberk late into the evening until the entire shirt shone brightly in the candlelight. Shorn hadn’t noticed the color of the chainmail when it was covered with decades of dust, but now he could tell that the metal was something he’d never seen before. It seemed to be a very hard yellowish-orange metal, the same color as his eyes. He was excited to wear it the following day when he would practice sparring with some of the guards.

Exhausted, Shorn had finally fallen asleep, but it was a restless sleep. He was plagued with dreams of battles, which was normal, but also by some strange dreams about the chainmail hauberk. Upon awakening, he couldn’t really remember much about the dreams, just some vague whispers that floated around in his mind. He hadn’t slept well, but was in a good mood anyway because he had the most unique chainmail in the kingdom.

He waved a hand in the air, as if brushing aside his bad dreams and then threw back the sheet. Shorn made his way over to the corner and relieved himself in a chamber pot.

His bare feet padded across the cobblestone floor to the overly ornate chair that his chainmail rested upon. He lifted the shirt, held it out at arm’s length, walked over to the dark green curtains covering the twelve-foot tall windows, and threw the musty shades to the side, letting the sunlight shine directly onto his new armor. He squinted his eyes and smiled with joy as the chainmail shone brightly, making the room glitter with thousands of tiny amber sparkles. He raised the chainmail shirt over his head, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and let it slowly slide over his chest. This time, he was happy to find, the hauberk fit properly, and even appeared to self-adjust until the fit was perfect. Shorn’s eyebrows rose as he finally realized that the armor was magical.

Father doesn’t understand what he has given me, he thought. If only he knew . . . Well, there’s no way I’m going to tell him anything!

He walked over to the chair, took off the chainmail shirt, and then pulled on a tight-fitting black long-sleeve shirt. He stepped into his sparring pants and slid the chainmail shirt back on.

Shorn retrieved his sparring leather boots, each with a three-inch spike protruding from the toe. Throwing on a thick pair of socks, he slid his feet into the boots and grunted as he bent over and laced them up. He straightened and walked over to the full-length mirror beside his bed. He stood there for a couple of minutes admiring the fit of the chainmail hauberk, his eyes finally catching on the family crest stamped onto the plates on both his sleeves.

“I wonder what the original images were,” he muttered. Shrugging his shoulders, he swung his bedroom door open and it smashed against the wall, the doorknob making the large hole in the wall even bigger as chunks of plaster fell to the floor onto the ever-growing pile of debris. In the last four years, his battered bedroom door had been replaced more than a dozen times. The wall had been patched almost the same amount. He didn’t do this on purpose. Shorn had been growing stronger over the years, and he was often amazed with his strength, not knowing where it all came from. Often, when he woke up after a good night’s sleep, he would swear that he was stronger and larger than the day before. It’s almost as if he were magically growing while he slept. He couldn’t explain it.

“Oops,” he said, tugging on the other side of the stuck door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He grasped the handle even tighter, bunched his shoulder muscles, and gave a mighty heave. The handle, being made of cast iron, shattered as it was pulled out of the hole. The door, suddenly free, slammed into his right foot, the spike penetrating the door the full three inches, the point just showing through on the other side. Shorn tried to shake the door free of his foot, but it was now stuck fast to his boot.

With a deep growl, he grabbed both sides of the door and ripped it free of the hinges. This caused it to slide off of the spike on his boot. Holding the heavy door over his head, he approached the open window and threw the door through it. The door sailed out about twenty feet and then fell three stories to the stone patio below, barely missing a guard. The guard, who had been leaning on his pike, almost asleep, jumped in shock when the door smashed down a mere arm’s length away.

“Watch it,” Shorn called down, giving his warning too late for the guard to do anything about it.

The guard looked up and blinked in shock at the young prince. This was the fourth flying door that had almost killed him. “I need a different posting,” he said, shaking his head.

Shorn turned around and headed out the broken frame of his bedchamber doorway, his stomach rumbling with hunger.

As he walked into the dining hall, he strutted a bit knowing how impressive he looked. All heads in the dining hall turned to look at him in his polished chainmail. He sat down next to Stench, who was already halfway through a hearty breakfast of eggels, slausage, and toasty slathered with dewshine jam.

Shorn reached over and took Stench’s plate from in front of the goblin and started eating the remains of the goblin’s breakfast. Stench didn’t say a word. After all, Shorn was his sire and best friend. He stood up, belched, and walked to the kitchen where he filled another plate for himself. Returning, he put his plate on the table, sat down, and noticed a slausage on the floor at his feet. He reached down, picked up the slausage with his dirty fingers, sniffed it, shrugged, and then popped it into his mouth. Straightening, he noticed that Shorn had again switched plates with him and was now eating the food Stench had just retrieved from the kitchen, leaving him with an empty plate. Stench stared at his empty plate and then looked at Shorn, who just returned his gaze with a smile while he chewed on Stench’s breakfast. Stench sighed, stood up again, grabbed the empty plate, returned to the kitchen, and filled his plate . . . again. When he sat down, he held firmly to the edge of the plate with his left hand so Shorn wouldn’t snag it again.

Shorn laughed and said, “I’m almost full, so you don’t have any need to worry.”

“Whatever you say, sire,” Stench replied, still holding onto his plate and keeping one eye on Shorn as he ate.

Shorn laughed even harder and waited for Stench to finish his breakfast.

After eating their fill, Shorn and Stench went outside and walked over to the training grounds. Eight guards were practicing with a variety of weapons.

Shorn watched for a couple of minutes and then asked in a loud voice, “Who would spar with me?”

All eight of the guards stopped what they were doing and craned their necks to face the prince. Every one of them had received bruises, cuts, and broken bones from previous spars with Shorn, who rarely showed mercy, even while practicing. Halfear, a guard that Shorn had recently defeated with a mace, squinted his eyes at the prince, nodded his head, and said, “Ugh, I’ll face you.”

Shorn walked into the battle ring and selected a broad sword, which he held in both hands. Halfear, so named because he’d lost half of his right ear in practice to the prince when Shorn was but nine years old, picked up a short sword and shield. He turned and grinned at the prince. “Ready?” he asked.

Shorn raised his sword and winked at Stench.

The two blorcs approached each other, touched swords, and began to spar. At first, Shorn took it easy on Halfear, but when the guard got in a lucky jab and struck the prince on his left shoulder, impacting the chainmail with his short sword, Shorn became angry. The last thing he wanted was his precious chainmail damaged. He didn’t care that the chainmail had done its job and protected him from being impaled, he was just upset that it might have been damaged.

Shorn attacked Halfear like someone possessed, striking again, and again, and again, until he clove Halfear’s shield in half. His blade bit into Halfear’s left arm, and the guard howled in pain as the blade struck bone. Shorn then swung his sword in a wide arc and connected with Halfear’s skull just above his half ear with the flat of his blade. Halfear dropped to the ground like a sack of plotatoes, unconscious.

Breathing hard, Shorn called out, “Stench, get over here and see how much damage that dolt caused to my chainmail.”

Stench dropped the beetle he’d been toying with, stepped on it, and ran to his prince’s side. Shorn bent down so Stench could get a good look. The goblin stood up on his tiptoes and thoroughly examined Shorn’s left shoulder, touching it with his grimy fingers, leaving a smear of dirt on the chainmail.

“I’m happy to report that there appears to be no damage, sire.”

“None? Are you sure?” Shorn asked, trying to see for himself.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Stench replied, noticing the dirt, and rubbing it with his hand, but only making it worse. “Um . . . it looks brand new. No breaks or dents.” The goblin quickly turned away and ran back to the squished beetle and began stomping on it. He kept glancing at Shorn, hoping the prince wouldn’t notice the hand-size dirty mark he’d left.

Shorn smiled and stood erect. So, it seemed that the chainmail was very strong, and possibly enchanted. Great, Shorn thought. Let’s see how much punishment it can take.

Turning to the remaining guards, he stepped over the prone body of Halfear and pointed to one of them with the sword.

“You. Come. We shall spar.” Pointing at the weapon rack with his sword, he said, “Pick your weapon.”

The guard looked frightened, but picked up a mace in a shaking hand.

The sparring began. And so the morning went, with Shorn sparring with all but the last guard. Of the seven defeated guards, four were unconscious and three had been injured and carried off for medical attention. The eighth guard, Dryptt, begrudgingly selected a whip and turned to face the prince.

The sparring had just begun when, suddenly, a gut-wrenching pain shot through Shorn’s body. He felt something stir within the core of his chest. The pain was so intense that he bent over, dropping his guard. In this state, Shorn didn’t see Dryptt snap the whip toward his head. The end of the whip snapped and sliced Shorn’s right cheek open, showing the bone underneath. Shorn screamed and collapsed to the ground, not because of the sting of the whip, but because of the pain in his chest. He lay in the dirt gasping for breath.

“Sire!” Stench yelled, leaping into the ring and running toward the prince.

Shorn fought through the pain. He focused on it and suddenly realized that it felt very powerful. As he tried to figure out what this power was, he had a vision.  A teenage human girl was twirling twin amber blades on a hill with lightning flashing all around her. He felt an instant connection to her, like she was a part of him. He reached out toward her, using the power within him to try to contact her. When he saw her collapse to the ground, his contact with her was severed and the vision began to fade, but not before he saw a welcorg run to her side. The last thing he witnessed were the two swords lying on the ground.

Shorn passed out. On his sleeves, both of the plates on the chainmail glowed brightly, one orange and one green. When the glow faded, the seal of the house of Zogstomp was no more. The asp tree and lightning bolt had returned.

Shorn awoke in his bed. The sun had set and his room was dark, except for a lit candle on the bedside table and a small fire in the fireplace.

“Sire?” Stench asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine . . . ow,” Shorn said, reaching his hand up to his face and feeling a bandage there. “How bad is it?” he asked Stench.

“Well, it required thirteen stitches and the healer said that the scar wouldn’t be too prominent. I think it’ll give you some character,” Stench said, smiling.

“I don’t need any more character.”

“True,” Stench replied. “Then, at least, it’ll make you look more rugged.”

Shorn frowned and noticed the dwarf plate mail on a chair across the room. He pointed at it and said, “How’d that get here?”

Stench turned and looked to see what Shorn was pointing at. “Ah,” he said, walking up to the rusty armor. “After you fainted . . .”

“I didn’t faint. I passed out from the pain,” Shorn insisted.

“What pain?”

“The pain in my chest.”

“In your chest?”

“Yes, in my chest,” Shorn said, getting angry.

“But the whip sliced your cheek,” Stench replied, confused.

“The whip didn’t cause the pain I was talking about.”

“Then what did?”

“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Shorn replied, slowly, thinking about earlier. “I wish I knew. Enough of this, tell me about your armor.”

“Oh, so after you faint . . . uh, passed out, I made sure you were safely placed in your bed and your cheek looked after. There wasn’t anything I could do here, and it was getting dark, so I walked over to the royal blacksmith. He’d finished altering the dwarf armor and it fit perfectly.”

“You didn’t have any problems, then?”

“No, he was just grumpy because they had been up all night working to make sure they had it done on time. I think he was upset that you didn’t show up. I told him that you were just too busy and that you’d sent me instead.”

Shorn laughed at this, “That was good thinking.”

“Thank you, sire. I didn’t want to tell him that you faint . . . um, passed out.”

“Are you happy with it?”

“Yes, sire. I love it,” Stench said rubbing the rusty armor with his hands. “So pretty,” he mumbled.

“He didn’t have time to polish it?”

“Oh, he was about to do that and I told him not to,” Stench replied, patting the armor. “That would take all of the character out of it. Besides, I think the dwarf’s blood is a nice touch. It’ll make me look fierce!”

Shorn raised his eyebrows thinking that nothing the goblin could wear would ever make him look fierce, or even a little dangerous. He pointed at the door. “Bring me something to eat. I seem to have slept through midday meal, and apparently supper,” he said while looking outside. “I’m famished.”

“So very pretty,” Stench mumbled as he laid his head on the plate mail. He closed his eyes and began humming to himself.

“Stench!” Shorn screamed. “Ow!” he said, covering his bandage with his hand. “Supper! Now!”

Stench stood up quickly, his armor forgotten for the moment. “Yes, sire,” he exclaimed as he scurried out the door.

Shorn felt around the bandage on his face and thought of the human girl he’d seen in his vision. I must find her, he thought. He played the vision over and over again in his head. Then he realized something he hadn’t noticed before. As the swords fell out of the girl’s hands, he’d seen images engraved on the pommels of both swords; an asp tree and a lightning bolt.

He sat up straight in his bed. Didn’t Father say that the plates on the chainmail originally had a tree and a lightning bolt etched onto them? Shorn reached for his chainmail shirt and noticed that the Zogstomp family crest was no longer there. He then closely inspected both plates. His mouth made an “O” and he rubbed each of the new symbols and wondered what they meant.

The king came in a few minutes later and stood beside Shorn’s bed. He put his hand on Shorn’s shoulder and asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Shorn laid the chainmail back on his bed, the symbols facing down so his father couldn’t see them, and looked at the king. “My face is a little sore, but beyond that, I’m fine. Just hungry.”

“The guard that whipped you has been punished,” Gridarg said. “He’s no longer works here and has lost the ability to use his right arm. I fed it to the creatures in the castle moat.”

“Serves him right,” Shorn replied. He tried to smile, but it hurt too much.

“What happened?” King Gridarg asked.

Shorn first described his sparring matches, all of which made the king proud of the prince. Then he began to talk about the vision he had. He told his father about the human girl on the hill with the swords.

“A human girl?” the king asked.

“Yes, and she had swords with the same symbols on them as my chainmail,” Shorn replied.

“The Zogstomp family crest?” Gridarg asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“No, the tree and lightning bolt,” Shorn replied with a sigh. Sometimes his father wasn’t the brightest. In fact, most blorcs he knew weren’t very intelligent. Shorn had always known that he was smarter than anyone he’d ever met, except for possibly Reilyk the Red. This was something that had always confused him. Why was he so different than everyone else?

“Hm, I see,” Gridarg said, scratching his head.

“I must find her. Maybe she knows something about the history of my new chainmail.”

“She won’t talk with you,” Gridarg said.

“Why not?” Shorn asked.

“She’s a human. You’re a blorc.”

“What does that matter?”

“It just does. Our races don’t talk. We battle to the death. We’ve been killing humans for thousands of years. They’re fairly useless creatures. And, they’re pretty stupid, you know,” Gridarg said, smiling. He hated humans.

“That doesn’t matter,” Shorn said, slamming a hand onto the bed. “I must find her,” he said running his other hand through his thick, black hair. His amber eyes were shining, standing out strikingly from his pure black skin.

“I wish to send out some of your Black Plague to find her and bring her here. Tell Captain Grizill Toefungus to come to me,” Shorn said, tapping a finger to his head while he put his thoughts together. “He’ll lead a party of his best warriors to track down this human girl. I saw a welcorg with her. She must be living with them in the Sherran Hills. That’s a good place to start his search.”

“There are many welcorg villages in the Sherran Hills. How will he know where to start?”

“If Grizill has to visit every welcorg village looking for this girl, he’ll do so. He must find her.”

“I’ll tell Grizill what he needs to do,” Gridarg said as he patted his son on the shoulder. “After all, I’m the king . . . not you.” He squeezed Shorn’s shoulder harder than needed, just to prove his point.

Gridarg turned and left the room, smiling to himself. He didn’t like the idea his son had about bringing the human girl to Strudhyne. On the other hand, he was very interested in obtaining the swords Shorn had mentioned. He went to fetch Grizill to tell him of his plan, which had nothing to do with his son’s wishes. This would be the first step in wiping the human race from the face of Kepler.

Shorn leaned back in his bed and wrung his hands together. Yes, I’ll meet this human girl with the flashing swords, he thought. We’re tied together somehow. I must know why.

His stomach rumbled, and Shorn looked toward the door.

“Stench!” Shorn shouted. “Where the heck are you? I’m starving! Ow!” he said, raising his hand to his cheek again.

Just then, Shorn heard a tray of food clatter to the floor in the hallway.

“Oh, horse dung!” he heard Stench say.

Shorn sighed. Sometimes his best friend was a royal pain.