Bladeshire 3

By David C. Daoust

The small group of riders approached at a saunter. At the lead was the baron himself, to his right, the Pound Keep (Chantilles’ father). At their back, a group of men-at-arms, each armed and armored as they trailed behind their Lord.

Abe appeared from the tall grass, a mass of dark flapping saggy skin over a slobbering jaw of teeth as he raced to the forefront of the party.

Braidon’s eyes went wide with their arrival; there was a lot swirling through the boy’s mind. The least of which was not the stolen helm.

It was apparent to the two mud covered children that the mastiff, Abe, had led help back to the swamp, though how exactly the baron and his men got pulled into the mix was a wonder indeed.

Abe was not the only dog among the group; the baron had a pair of hounds with him. These were mastiff’s as well, though of a slightly different breed. Known as Noble Corso, they were of a breed favored by the nobles of Llewelynn. They were about the same size, though less dumpy– less saggy skin.

The Corso had solid black fur; it was said they could be confused for a panther at the right angle. This would have to be a comparison to their void-like coat rather than anything feline; the hound was clearly canine.  In the past, Braidon had found the comparison apt, the Corso were much more elegant– regal even. Especially when compared to the saggy skin of the commoner’s mastiffs.

The boy’s guilt twisted his stomach. His mind racing with the absolute worst ideas. The fact that the Baron himself was waiting outside the swamp sent his hands to shaking. He could be branded a thief— literally scarred for life. Or worse, have his hands cut from the wrist, maybe even put to death.

The muddy boy looked to Chantilles, who only looked relieved at the mounted men’s approach. She could not know what he had done. She could not know that the helm the Kyoba took from him, was not his property. He had meant only to play with the helmet; he fully intended to return it to its rightful spot in the Abbey.

The baron was a tall man with a long, thin moustache that draped over the corners of his mouth. His hairline arched over a heavily creased forehead, creases which echoed his permanently raised eyebrows. The lazy gaze below made him seem bored with his hawkish nose, forever skyward. Lord Elaris, Baron of Lyonsette Keep, wore the most expensive clothing Braidon had ever seen. The leather of the baron’s belt and scabbard was by far the finest tooled and the saber hilt at his hip had a sheen that was only overtaken by the flash of its gems. Silk draped the baron’s chest; the number of ruffles almost looked like a bird’s chest and the layered cloak at his shoulders only helped the effect.

The Pound Keep, Arugan, was the opposite; he wore simple homespun clothes much like Braidon’s own. The pinder was at home in a saddle, though seemed especially so with the uptight noble next to him. The concern was clear on the man’s face as he found his daughter climbing from the swamp, covered in mud.

Abe raced back to greet the girl upon her return to the less waterlogged lands above. Braidon liked to think the dog was relieved at her return, though he supposed he was projecting such emotions upon the dog.

Her father’s concern turned to ire as it became apparent that they were healthy. The poundmaster climbed down from his saddle, “What are you doing in the Creep? You know you are not to be anywhere near here!”

In a flash, the girl’s relief was replaced by the reminder that she was in the wrong. She cobbled together a hasty explanation, “I went after Abe, he’d runoff…”

“Into the swamp?” The angry father found this absurd. Even the dogs knew not to wander into the swamp. “Do you know how dangerous it is in there? You should!”

“And you, son?” one of the lords’ men-at-arms asked Braidon.

The direct attention sent the guilty boy’s mind reeling. Images of his hands—or head on the Chopping Block confounded his tongue.

“He noticed I was missing,” Chantilles supplied quickly, relaying what he had claimed earlier. “Luckily, he showed up to help or I would have lost Abe for good.”

“You went in there alone??” Arugan was even angrier.

“I had to get Abe!” she pressed.

“Brave chap,” the warrior said back to his lord, “Rescues the girl– Looks like he did not have an easy time of it either.”

“He got pulled under,” Chantilles completely agreed, “Right into the earth itself… he was completely emersed…”

“It looks it,” the rider referred to the mud covering the boy. Only Braidon’s dark hair, and where he had scraped mud from his face before it had a chance to dry, were yet clean. “I’d have to say he was pretty lucky to climb his way out…”

“Sheer luck that the beast-man had come to pull him out,” Chantilles corrected.

“What?”

“It was a Kyoba what pulled him out,” Chantilles explained.

“A Kyoba?” the Lord Elaris asked, suddenly much more interested in the events.

“We’ve not had reports of them this close to the border in years,” another man-at-arms stated aloud.

“You witnessed them?” the father asked the two.

“One of them pulled Braidon from certain death…” the girl explained again.

Braidon only nodded with Chantilles words.

The lord and his men trotted closer to the swamp; plans were being made to send scouts into the Creep even as they moved out of earshot. The pinder stood angrily over the two troublesome children, reins in hand as his horse fought the need to follow along with the rest.

Arugan tried to collect himself as he still had more to share.

In way of explaining why the Baron was there to begin with, while also preparing her for news that might get a bad reaction, he confessed carefully to his daughter, “The good baron caught old’Hindal’s pig in the fields…”

“Oh no!” the young girls’ eyes went wide; mouth covered with her hands. It was clear she already knew what happened.

“It was only a matter of time,” he studied her face.

“Oh, you didn’t!” she rasped to her father.

“Of course I did,” he whispered back. “The baron commanded it.”

“You couldn’t!” she stressed.

“It’s a pig!” he stated, ending the argument as the small troop of mounted men returned from their planning.

“It is clear what happened,” the baron, having considered the situation, interjected, “The dog had runoff to die…”

Chantilles’ father sighed, he knew what came next

“…have it putdown before it causes any more trouble,” the baron finished.

Chantilles, eyes wild, knew better than to protest; only a whimper escaped her clamped shut mouth.

Braidon, however, found his voice at last. “Oh no, you can’t!” He protested. The idea that old dog’s runoff to die was a fallacy. Braidon’s sudden need to share this, however, was a greater fallacy.

The boy caught a cuff to his mouth, thrown back to the ground.

“You’ll be silent boy,” the pinder threatened, before turning to the baron. “He’s young. Just a foolish boy. My apologies, m’lord.”

Braidon suddenly realized how close he was to the Block!

And for a reason completely separate from what he was worried might send him there.