Bladeshire 11
By David C. Daoust
Where Chantilles was focused only on Braidon speaking out against the Baron’s command, and Braidon was focused only on his carelessness with Sir Brutius’s Helm; Lord Elaris, and his men, only saw a hero. A hero that charged into danger to rescue a young girl.
The Baron of Lyonsette Keep was forever interested in brave men. Brave Swords to offer to the Duke… to the Crusades. Such actions were rewarded! Or so Lord Elaris claimed when he offered to train the boy as a man-at-arms. A warrior of the lands. Such men could buy their freedom, join mercenary companies… Even, though very rarely, be awarded lands and titles.
Braidon agreed quickly, though probably for all the wrong reasons. The thought of the lost helm weighed on him. The fear of its absence discovered– absolutely haunted him. The picture in his head of having to witness the abbot, when the kind old monk found the artifact was stolen! What was he to say? Braidon could not take it. The young boy saw a chance to be elsewhere, and he took it. He took that chance and left with the Baron then and there.
The next day, Braidon awoke in the kennel, surrounded by dogs. He was apprenticed to the huntsman. Put simply, the plans took a turn.
Upon their return to the castle, the huntsman claimed his current apprentice was an idiot. Declared it, loud and clear, as the small group entered the courtyard. The Baron was still a bit preoccupied with one of his hounds missing, but had offered up Braidon as a good substitute.
To be a huntsman? A huntsman could go where he wished, hunt what he wanted… this was not a step down in any way, shape, or form. Usually reserved for noblemen or possibly freemen, no one would guess an orphan from the abbey would be found in such a position. All Braidon could think, he might be eating much more meat… which entailed much less pottage. Sounded good.
‘Huntsman Apprentice’ sounded pretty good to Braidon too, but at this point in his training he was the kennel boy; cleaning up shit, feeding dogs, cleaning up more shit. He was to live with the dogs, literally. His pallet of hay was only slightly raised from the mounds the dogs got to sleep on.
Just him and a bunch of dogs. He could not complain. He always liked dogs. Never had one himself. Dogs were more for working than prayer. The monastery was full of mousers; cats prowled pretty much every corridor. This led to a lot of them being treated as pets. Cats were a bit too haughty for Braidon, he supposed they were pleasant enough when they wanted something…
The Baron’s kennel was nicer than he would have guessed. Clean straw, clean floor… there was a sewage system that helped. It consisted of a sloped floor that helped the waste drain to a trench… even the trench was lined with stones. Led to a drainage pit, all of it ‘downhill and downwind.’
A small hand pump and spout let water flow from a cistern below, it was key in the cleanliness witnessed in the kennel. Braidon was already familiar with the concept of a cistern, just from living in the abbey. He knew he was now responsible for maintaining everything he’d found ‘nicer than he’d expected.’
The kennel boy was equipped with a brush and a short strap of braided leather for signaling the doggies. Braidon would come to find out, the main reason the last apprentice was declared an idiot- he could not figure out that the leather was used for tapping his own thigh or boot, as a way of signaling the animals. The boy used it on the dogs, again and again. Slapped them with it. More so, apparently, when the Corso were not home to keep him warry. A hound bit the fool, and good. The huntsman mentioned he was lucky the greyhounds were in the keep, as the boy packed up his meager belongings and limped out of the kennel.
Braidon moved right in.
Under his care, Braidon had a plethora of dogs. Different breeds for different jobs. Among them, he had a pair of bloodhounds, scent tracking dogs for before the hunt began. Six foxhounds- a pack to run prey down. Three greyhounds- fast dogs, used for their speed and the final takedown. Plus, the Noble Corso, pretty much a guard dog—though often used to seize powerful prey and hold them tight for the kill. (Well, two Corso when they find the bitch that runoff.) But also, a pair of Lightpaw Setters, both were insanely playful. One was actually the falconers, the other the baronesses. Both were used to flush prey from the brush, although the baroness liked taking shots with her bow. It was a lot to remember, so he went over it, over and over, as he got to know the dogs.
Braidon always had a way with animals, so they were no problem. He spent most of the previous evening playing with the Lightpaws. At least, until all the foxhounds joined in, which got the bloodhounds howling… things started to get out of hand. The huntsman, Krous, came down from his quarters, nearby, to check on things. The new kennel boy only flushed a bit when he was caught laughing among the riot. Each animal was introduced to him as the huntsman tried to calm them all down.
Braidon drifted off to sleep with all the names of all his new charges, and all the neat things they were used for, swimming through his head. He had, at least, managed to forget about the stolen helm long enough to get a decent night’s sleep.
Fresh and ready for the day, he had washed up at the pump, used a wet rag to scrub his teeth, and redressed before heading directly to his new job. Braidon had already mucked out and flushed many of the pens before the huntsman showed up to see how the new kennel boy was taking to his duties.
The man helped replace the hay, made sure the boy knew the right way- and, most of all, expressed that he would not have help with any of it in the future. The huntsman took the time to explain the cistern… where the rainwater collected below the keep.
Braidon did not bother telling Huntmaster Krous he was familiar with the idea; he simply soaked in the new telling. He’d found in the past that such declarations of already knowing something, tended to stunt the amount of information offered. Which often included subjects not even the slightest bit related. It came from being taught so much from the monks, and then having to turn around and deal with the villagers. They really were not as well mannered.
Braidon spent the rest of the morning grooming the animals. It wasn’t a bad job. Barely a chore. Each animal had its quarks and attitudes, their own personality; he liked meeting them. ‘First set of chores he’d ever been offered he did not consider chores at all. Eye-opening, really. This’d be what he was musing as the visitors arrived to stow their beasts in the stable next door.
‘Had to be the largest character Braidon had ever seen. He was not much taller than any other man, but he was wide —broad even. Not fat, all muscle and meat. His arms and legs were round as trees, sled-like feet, with fists the size of human heads—its own head, like a boulder. The build made the whole being seem squat, short even, but he was not. So not. Braidon would say he was a giant. And he’d be closer than if he’d guessed it was an old-man of the mountain, which was how the bearded folk were often referred to in Llewelynn villages.
They were Ancients, one of the long-lived races. This one alone was older than any other man in the castle. Known as the Baeldryn, the name translated to ‘dwarves of the mountains.’ They descended from giants before the first human ever walked Light’s Reach. Such an ancient was a rare sight. This was to be Braidon’s first. He stood stock still as a small company of the oversized dwarves made their way into the keep.
“I see you found our guests,” Huntmaster Krous said simply when he found the wide eyed boy staring at the procession.
“Old-men of the Mountains,” Braidon spoke his thoughts aloud. “They’re absolutely huge.”
“Can’ya believe they call themselves dwarves,” the huntsman laughed.
The boy nodded, but only because he already knew of such claims. “The Baeldryn,” he said.
“These ones‘are the Baeldhori,” the huntsman corrected. “Dwarves of the hill.”
Braidon had heard of the hill dwarves. They were families of the fighters that helped cleanse the lands of the undead. Veterans of old wars. Where most Baeldryn found the idea of no roof overhead unbearable, the hill dwarves came to love the open sky. They had no interest in returning to the deep ancient halls below the Rockthorns.
“What do they want?” Braidon asked.
“Not my place to say,” Krous answered with a shrug. “Nor, really, either of ours to know.”
Braidon leapt up to try and catch the greyhounds as they quickly followed the Baeldryn into the keep. The huntsman stopped him, “Don’t worry about them, they’re the baron’s favored. They’re clean enough… and someone’ll feed’em before they so much as think about whining.” He stopped and then gestured towards a separate building from the keep, “Come lad, I’ll show’ya where we keep the grub. Maybe even find something for our own bellies.”
The call was distant. It sounded like his name. Disembodied and far away, he thought maybe he was hearing things, but he pinpointed the source immediately. A blackbird, a crow or raven, lighted the distant wall.
Braidon had sharp eyes and good hearing; better than any other in Bladeshire. He could see the glint of a gem on the bird’s chest, held in place by material around its neck. The bird turned suddenly. Braidon could only see the birds back and one of its eyes as the new kennel boy followed Krous to the cook-house.