Bladeshire 1

by David C. Daoust

Homespun, simple clothing, mired in dirt, right hand clutched a rather swordlike stick as the left held one of the leather straps that fastened a wooden shield to his arm. Both of which were exactly what they appeared to be– driftwood, scrap. The dark-haired boy, crouched in the underbrush under a large old tree, peered through the eye slits of an oversized kettle sallet. This was an actual piece of armor; a helmet of shining metal, polished to a high chrome finish. Of course, the kettle helm was made for a grown man. It took some doing but the boy managed to adjust the inner lining to sit on his head properly. The leather and cloth wad, tucked under the dome, which he used to achieve this feat of engineering, chafed his forehead. He was not about to complain. He was dressed for battle– no one said marching off to war was meant to be comfortable.

Braidon lay in wait— though he had been waiting for quite a while. His mind began to drift a while ago, his ready-for-action crouch had shifted into a lazy lean against the nearest tree, and his stick-like sword was held like a cane. He found himself studying the ground beneath his feet.

She came by here every day, every day without fail.

Yet this day, there was no sign of her.

Chantilles was the only other child, his age, in the village. She was the pinder’s daughter… and as such, her duties put her marching through this section of the Darwood. The young girl had taken it upon herself to make sure old-man Hindal’s pig did not make it into the neighboring fields. The pig was a bit too cunning for the old man and had come to cost him quite a bit in fines. Many threatened to kill the pig outright. When Old Hindal, himself, voiced that he may have to put the pig down, the threat alone was enough for Chantilles to issue her own marching orders. Every day she would make her way to this section of the village, her oversized dog beside her; a Llewelynn Mastiff, native to these lands. All to scare the pig into staying within his pin. Every day.

Braidon sighed as he finally gave up and wandered from his hiding spot.

The boy’s planned ambush was a bust. He did not actually mean the girl any harm; he was just going to surprise her— maybe visit for a while and hope another game would spring to mind. He kicked some rocks as he puzzled out what else he could be doing.

The Southlands, known as Llewelynn to the Southlanders, were annexed by the Northern Kingdoms long before Braidon was born. Llewelynn was mostly made up of midlands; prairies, plains, and hilly country, among areas lost completely in forested regions. Its northern border reached to the very foot of the Rockthorn Mountains; eastern was a questionable line through the Wetlands; while south lay directly against Muldigar, where none but the bravest knights dare tread. The City of LeVelle sat to the west, which of course was a guard of happenstance to the Longwood of Carris Laroo, the peninsula of the Dianon. The furthest western border was somewhere in the Black Sea… yet contested.

Llewelynn was cut into shires, each of which held fiefdoms granted by the Duke of LeVelle. One such shire was known as Bladeshire. While shires were made up of many different villages, manors, and baronies, each held only one Abbey.

As an orphan of the lands, Braidon was of Bladeshire Abbey. While the village the abbey was built within was so small, it barely had a name, it adopted the name of the local Abbey. Thus, Bladeshire was a very small, out of the way, village. Surrounded mostly by farmlands, worked by serfs for the local Baron, part of a much larger fiefdom. Braidon was one such serf, though his duties had been ‘finished early,’– at least, if anyone asked.

The shire ran up against the outskirts of wetlands that ranged far and wide. All the way to the eastern straits, or so he was told; such a description seemed impressive at the time. He had never actually been to the sea, though knew it was quite a way off. Marshes, bogs, swamplands— the wetlands were a compilation of all these different water-soaked realms… nearest was the swamp.

A swamp known as ‘Redcap Creep.’ Named after the swamp berries, commonly referred to as Redcaps, that grew throughout the wetlands. Bladeshire sat on the dry lands, high up from the wetlands, but the Creep could be witnessed at least once a year, flooding over the lowlands below. The raising water pulled the Redcaps from their stem, filling the surrounding waters with berries. (This was unusual for such swamp fruits; most had a bit better grip on their stem.)

Braidon began meandering, wandering through the wood. What he did not realize was that he started to wander in the direction of the swamp– at least, if anyone asked. The boy knew he was not really meant to be so close to the Creep; he made sure to study the skies as he approached. He could surely feign surprise if someone noticed him.

The Wetlands were known to be inhabited by monstrous dog-men, that forever encroached Llewelynn’s eastern border, creatures known as ‘Kyoba’ to the humans. The thought of which made him grip his stick and shield that much tighter.

Braidon toyed with the idea that the Kyoba were a threat to them all. Certain that it was only a matter of time before the insidious creatures raided Bladeshire, tried to sack the Baron’s keep– or both!

Braidon tapped his shield with his stick as he grimly studied the dark and murky wetlands below. He was just daring himself to get closer, when he heard in the distance a slop of goo, a young girls yelp, and a series of low panicked barks!

He recognized the dog’s bark, a local mastiff named Abe, which meant the girl’s yelp could only be the pound-keep’s daughter— Chantilles.

Braidon forgot all thoughts of staying out of the swamp, of possible dog-men invaders, or any of that. He ran straight down into the wetlands to see what could be happening with the young girl.

More slopping could be heard, denoted a struggle within the swamp. Abe was still barking, low and gruff as always, yet with an element of panic.

Braidon honed in on the sound, splashed through puddles and leapt narrow streams. Fully in the swamp, he was surrounded by murky trees, exposed root systems, and muddy waters. He climbed a small islet, among other such swampy islets, held together by the exposed roots of the bent, crooked trees.

Below he spotted Chantilles.

The russet haired girl was sitting on a knot of muddy roots, arms wrapped around the large dog’s neck, its front legs sprawled over her lap as the rest of him was lost in the mud. She struggled all she could, trying to haul the massive dog up out of the muck. The old Mastiff was being pulled under!

Braidon did not hesitate to slide down further into the area; the stick was lost from his hand as new scrapes and bruises were collected. He was on the wrong side of a wide pond of standing water. He could not know the depth, or how muddy… The boy knew he could, easily, find himself in the exact same situation as the dog -sucked into the muck- if he was not careful.

A little further down he spotted a felled tree and sprinted to it. He scurried quickly up onto the decaying trunk, ever watchful of the action as Chantilles was not willing to let go of the hound.

Braidon was certain she would sooner be pulled under with the dog than give up. Abe was an old, good dog; he agreed with the notion wholeheartedly as he crawled over the rotten decaying wood.

Braidon had called out to her several times, though doubted she heard him over the dogs raucous barking. He slid to the ground near them… the helm probably startled the girl, but it was strapped on too tight to remove.

Recognition crossed her face. “Braidon?” Chantilles said her green eyes bright as always, though clearly, she was afraid, probably more of the situation than him. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the fields?”

“I noticed you weren’t um… where you normally are…” the boy stammered, leaving out the details of his full plan to surprise her, “Lucky I heard the two of you mucking around in here.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that,” the young girl agreed as she took his claims at face value, “please help me… he slipped too close to the water’s edge.”

The massive dog was larger than the girl, her hold on Abe tenuous. The more of its weight that sank into the mire, the more her grip proved to be useless from the start.

Braidon was already in it… literally in the mud. He managed to slide the driftwood shield under his left knee before he even started to help. Despite this, he felt his right boot get sucked down as he managed to pry an arm under the dog; he simply was not worried about himself yet, his knee still held a solid purchase on the shield.

Chantilles, pinned, had a tight hold on the dog’s front half; most of her body was supporting the weight.

Once Braidon got some leverage under the dog, the shield inadvertently slid closer. He could hear the suction as the mud gave way. The pair of children managed to actually move the dog up. The mastiff planted a back paw on the bound planks, able to push itself the rest of the way from its predicament– up over the girl, and onto the drier land. The dog’s action, however, pushed the shield away from Braidon completely.

The girl was bowled over and the dog was free, yet Braidon found that his right leg was stuck solid… his left knee, which lost the wide support of the driftwood-shield, sank in as well.

Chantilles was up, trying to get a grip on the still frantic dog.

Abe, barking excitedly, pulled free from the girl’s grip. The mastiff ran off fast and hard, barking to the very heavens.

Braidon heard Chantilles call out, told the dog no, without a glance back at Braidon she rushed to follow. Alone, he almost panicked as his knee pressed into the mud. His right leg fully entombed at this point; he could not move it. Muddy water rushed in; his left leg was getting pulled in knee first; This really took away from his mobility. He forced the knee down in the hopes that it was close enough to the drier land that he could pull his right leg up from the mud. It proved a terrible idea. He fell forward; the hand that caught him slipped out wide. More of his body was sucked into the mire; up to his hips.

He reached for the knot of roots that the young girl had managed to anchor herself to, his muddy grip slipped and his hand plunged straight down into the swampy mud. Sprawled forward, he could smell the muck as his chin smooshed into it.

Braidon felt the girls hand grab his free arm, even as her other arm wrapped under his sunken arm. She must have realized he was not following; she came back for him. He was almost relieved, yet the young girl was known to be frail, and she was already tired from the struggle to save the dog. Chantilles strength was just not enough.

The swamp seemed to have a grip on him. It seemed to want him.

Braidon felt as though he was going to be swallowed whole… just one big gulp and he was done for.