CHAPTER 4

Whip It

Octobre 31, 5599

Upon awakening, Shorn could not really remember much about the dreams he had that night, just some vague whispers that floated around in his mind. He had not slept well, but was in a good mood anyway because he felt he had the most unique chainmail in the kingdom.

He waved a hand back and forth 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 where his chainmail rested. 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 walked back to the chair and set the mail shirt down. He stepped over to his closet and grabbed one of the quitted undergarments that sat on a shelf and inspected it. He threw it aside when he saw the slash mark across the chest of the shirt. He grabbed another and also threw it aside, disgusted with the worn garment. The pile on the floor grew and he went through all of his haubergeons. Finally, the last one on the shelf looked brand new. The black quilted material didn’t have a single mark or hole in it. He brought it into the sunshine in his room and looked it over again.

Perfect, he thought, putting it on and adjusting it so that it fit snuggly. He turned back the chair and excitedly grabbed the hauberk. He lifted up the chainmail shirt, slid it over his head, slipped his arms into the sleeves, and slowly pulled it down over his chest. This time, he was happy to find, the hauberk fit properly, and even appeared to self-adjust until the fit was flawless, hugging his large frame, but not too tight. Shorn’s eyebrows rose as he finally realized that the armor must be 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! This is my armor now, not his!

Thinking he should probably wear something on his bare legs, he went back into the closet, kicked the pile of damaged haubergeons aside, grabbed a pair of his sparring pants, and pulled them on. He grabbed a leather belt and cinched it around his waist on the outside of the chainmail hauberk.

Shorn retrieved his leather sparring 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 did not do this on purpose. Shorn had been growing stronger over the years, and he was often amazed at his own 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 was almost as if he were magically growing while he slept. He could not explain it.

“Oops,” he said, tugging on the other side of the stuck door handle, but it would not 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, causing 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. “To die by a flying door would be dishonorable.” He took two steps away from the door and leaned back on his pike again.

Shorn turned around and headed through 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 graperry 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 did not 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 would not 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.

King Gridarg was not present in the dining hall, so Shorn was a little bummed that he could not show off his new, shiny armor to his father. I’ll show it to him later, the thought, taking a drink of cowoat milk.

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. He swung it a couple of times back and forth, testing the balance, and then nodded with satisfaction.

Halfear, so named because he had 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 did not care that the chainmail had done its job and protected him from being impaled. He was just upset that it might have been ruined.

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 beatle he had 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 in the links or scratches.” The goblin quickly turned away and ran back to the squished beatle and began stomping on it. He kept glancing at Shorn, hoping the prince would not notice the hand-size dirty mark he had 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 practicing 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 did not 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 there was some sort of power within himself. 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. As he focused on her, he became quite fascinated with her fluid movements and the shower of lightning bolts striking the ground all around her. Shorn didn’t understand why, but he felt an instant connection to this girl, like she was a part of him. What a strange thought, he thought.

The blorc reached out toward her, first physically, with his left arm, and then he reached for her using the power within him, even though he had no idea what the power was or what he was doing. He was disappointed when she didn’t respond.

Shorn frowned when she dropped her swords, obviously, utterly exhausted, feeling for the girl. When he saw her collapse to the ground, the vision began to slowly fade, but not before he saw a welcorg rush to her side.

The last thing he witnessed were the two amber swords lying on the ground.

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