Spellscribed Tales: First Refrain

Spellscribed Tales

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First Refrain-

PART ONE: JOVEN’S STORY

PART TWO: DEVINIA’S STORY

This book is dedicated to my family, who had the patience to help me sort through the chaos that is my creative process, and to my readers, who have continued to encourage me to keep writing.

Joven’s Story

Chapter 01: Now

Joven’s familial home was not a small one. By necessity, Balatoran houses were made of solid stone, thick cut wood and were made to survive generations of men and women who, on average, could pick up and throw an average man several feet. Joven’s home had been built to handle the rigors of the barbarian’s kind, and then some. As its purpose was to be a generational home and training ground for an elite bloodline of guardians, the structure was one of the sturdiest buildings in the city.

Behind the gates, there were several yards of open space in front and in back of the building that had been laid in flagstones. The grouting was regularly replaced, the fixtures kept clean and in good repair, and the sparse mountain plants that passed as landscaping were well tended. It was proof that a well-disciplined hand was at work in the home.

Inside the home, the stone floor was sunk down an inch and inlaid with well worn, polished wood; only returning to stone around the hearth and in the door frames. An artist had resided here at some point in the past and had lived for some time; the warm wood had been etched over every available inch of its surface with pretty swirls and lines. Enough time and polish had passed since that that they had become more strong suggestions of a pattern than a clear picture of any sort, though staring at them long enough, one could almost comprehend what the artist was trying to accomplish.

No servants worked in the home despite its size; Balator’s people had little use for those who needed others to handle their day to day duties, so those who lived in their homes were expected to be able to handle their property.

The front room was the family hall, where the bulk of the family activities were accomplished. There the wood floor was the most worn, but also the most visible. Lacking furniture save for a few discreetly placed cabinets, its dominant feature was the hearth in the back of the hall, across from the doors to the courtyard.

Set in black stone and reinforced with the barbarian’s signature black iron, the fireplace was large enough to warm the hall, but was also open in the back where one could see into the kitchen. People on either side could enjoy the fire’s warmth, and it could be used for cooking.

Doors on either side of the hearth opened to the kitchen and dining area, the bedrooms, the bath and the training yard. While other Balatoran houses had similarly styled bedrooms and baths, the home of Daelen sported a few extra amenities due to the family’s profession. The back yard had been designed for weapons training. To the side of the open air training yard were the family’s armory and personal forge.

A small fire burned merrily in the hearth that day as a lone woman bustled about the house. Alone in the home, she busied herself with simple tasks and projects of her own.

An elder, the woman was still impressive at six foot four. The bulk of her well-developed muscle had softened with age, but had not succumbed to it as she kept far from a sedentary lifestyle. Having grayed over the years, only a few strands of her waist length braid of hair were the original brown. Alert blue eyes examined every detail of the longsword she had been carrying back to the training room, using the light of the hearth and windows to reveal any flaws in her work.

Dressed in simple clothes and a leather apron, the shirt at one point had sleeves.
Burns, sears and pitting crossed the apron, but looked as if they weren’t very recent. The only marking on the woman was a strange scar across her left shoulder that looked like a thick crisscrossing X and a vast array of tiny little nicks on her hands and forearms. She smelled of steel and carbon from working the forge most of the day.

She had just decided she was satisfied with the sharpening she had performed on the weapon when she heard the sound of a voice approaching, followed by multiple sets of footsteps.

Walking to the door, she reached it just as a knock sounded. Yanking the door open with the sword in her off hand, she was surprised by what awaited her on the other side.

At first she thought it was a frail woman, but she’d never seen one so tiny, flat and short. So it must have been a little girl. She realized an instant later that there was a bloody smear down the front of the girl’s shirt, the source of which was a crescent line across her neck. She was too pale to be alive, and hair hung limply around the girl’s face.

“The dead!” She exclaimed in surprise. It didn’t occur to her that the dead wouldn’t be knocking politely on the door; the thing’s appearance caught her off guard and her years of experience kicked in. She had a sword, so she swung at it.

“Whoa!” the dead girl gasped hoarsely, reeling back from her attack. Her blade had greater reach, and it was about to bite in when a short sword came in from the side and swept her stroke off its course. Her sword skimmed the doorframe as she reversed the blade’s path, keeping it from getting stuck in the wood. A strong muscular hand shoved the undead child back as the hand’s owner moved into the way. The silhouette looked familiar, but the jumble of action put recognition of faces on the back of the line.

She reacted without thinking, stepping back and giving herself more room in the hall to fight with the longsword. An enemy with a shortsword had a maneuvering advantage in tight spaces. She prepared a counterattack that would take advantage of the enemy’s position in the doorway.

Her opponent pressed into the room, speaking, but going unheard as she was already committed to a quick flurry of high and low stabs, a Steel Swarm Offensive. Her opponent counted with the Five-Hydra parry, deflecting the attacks just enough to glance off of his armor. A minimalist defense like that meant that the defender kept his blade at the ready to exploit an opening that the attacker had from extending their reach, which her opponent took advantage of, sweeping her final thrust away and moving in close.

This was the opening she had been waiting for. With the speed of lightning and all the force of an avalanche, her free hand balled into a well-calloused fist and drove it into the side of his head. As the man’s attack faltered and he stumbled to the side, she swung the sword in at his neck.

Which he caught, just barely, with a mace he pulled from his belt.
He recovered quickly, counter-attacking in a perfect Blade under Anvil stance. Recognition dawned on her. It had pushed its way down the line and she finally realized who it was – but she had already started fighting so she might as well finish it. If anything, she could turn it into a test of sorts.

Blade under Anvil was difficult to defeat with a single blade, but she had decades of fighting experience and was not at as much of a disadvantage as her opponent might think. She deflected his weak thrust with the shortsword, came in for the opening she knew he left open, and as expected, he brought the mace down and sword up, a trapping maneuver meant to break an opponent’s weapon. She instead let go of the longsword at the last moment, and the mace only flipped the weapon over the edge of his shortsword. She delivered a kick to his leg while he looked surprised and she caught the flipping sword in her other hand.

He started to speak, but it turned into a grunt as her boot impacted his shin a second time, causing him to hop backwards. She followed up her kick with a family favorite maneuver, an overhead chop with both hands gripping the sword her husband had dubbed the Mountain Cleaver.

The man dove out of the way, hitting the ground as she checked her strike before it cleaved her fine wood flooring. He tried to bounce back to his feet, but she had closed distance and lunged in for a stab. He rolled into her as she drove her blade down, forcing her to leap over the barbarian lest he knock her down and use his superior weight to his advantage. She rebounded at him before he could rise and kicked the man in the side.

He slid back across the floor, coming to a stop against the open door’s frame. Coughing, he shoved himself to his feet and came back into the fight with vigor.

She sidestepped his lunge, deflecting the thrust of his shortsword to give her enough room to duck the simultaneous swipe of his mace, and from beneath
him used her sword arm to add force to the elbow she drove up with her free hand. Her elbow hit him just below the ribcage, and she grinned as she heard the air driven from his lungs.

He stumbled back, the shortsword falling from his grip. The blade thunked onto the wooden floor at his feet, the tip only barely biting into the wood before falling over. The barbarian dropped to a knee and set the mace on the ground, still trying to catch his breath.

“Nice to see you too, mom.” Joven wheezed,. “I keep forgetting how good you are without weapons.”

Her serious battle expression changed to one of feigned pleasant surprise.

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “That’s because I keep knocking the memory out of your head! Welcome home, Joven!”

Outside a woman’s voice echoed in. “Is it safe? Did you win?”

She checked over the sword, only noting one notch in the edge. “Of course I did!” She replied. “I’m his mother.

*
* * *

“Leona, mother. He’s not an undead.” Joven assured her. “He’s the Spengur.”

Only minutes had passed, but she had finally become willing to let them inside and explain the situation without trying to kill Endrance on sight.

“I was at the ceremony.” Leona replied. “He did not look like that.”

Endrance sighed, wiping at the blood with little effect.

“He had just been attacked by an assassin.” Anna replied.

Leona’s eyes narrowed. “He could have ‘survived’ because he was undead!” she reasoned.

“Don’t be silly, mother.” Joven replied. “He was able to heal the wound before it was fatal.”

Endrance looked at Selene and gestured at his neck. She turned to Leona. “He’s still trying to heal his vocal chords, so he’s not going to talk much.” She pulled a cloth from her pocket, spat onto it, and used it to start clearing the blood away from her Spengur’s neck. Every time she crossed the cut line he winced, but otherwise remained still.

“I… all right.” Leona admitted. “But you’re responsible for him, all right? I know you’re supposed to protect him, but… just get him cleaned up.”

“Fine.” Joven said, shaking his head, a half smile on his lips.

Though her son had talked much about the man when he was at home, she didn’t quite believe that he was as good as Joven made him out to be. Joven had said he was strong, smart and capable, a killer of tigers and hydras. She just couldn’t see it, not in his build or his stature.

The Spengur went to the bath to clean up while his three Draugnoa stood watch around the doors to the kitchen. From there, they had a view of many of the rooms and areas of the house, including the training yard in the back.

“I told Endrance you made an amazing stew, and we’ve just had a close call. I was thinking we could have dinner with you.” Joven said, stowing his excess weapons on a nearby weapons rack.

“Sure, I had been planning on making some soon anyway. I picked up some boar on the market in the third bowl for a great price. It will make for good stew.”

“Mmm…” Joven replied.
“Boar.”

They moved into the kitchen, an area half the size of the family hall. It had been furnished with a solid kitchen table, twelve chairs, a cooking counter, and a large stone basin in one corner for cleaning cookware and dishes. The larder was connected directly to the kitchen, and was the only room not insulated against the cold. Therefore, it remained a chill temperature all year round.

Leona started cooking immediately, leaving the longsword on a weapons rack in the hall. Boar meat, potatoes, and several other vegetables were chopped with quick efficiency and added to a large cast iron pot. Selene assisted by bringing in water.

Anna stood by the hearth, warm and glowing in the fire’s light. She had not relinquished her shield and spear. “We should stay alert for now.” She said, thinking. “Keep an eye out for the assassin.”

Bridget came back into the kitchen from the hall, her weapon held loosely. “It’s clear.” She grumbled. She tossed her chopping sword on the table. “Well, it looks clear. I still don’t know how she got past us in the first place.” she grumbled. She started to sit when Leona smacked her upside the head. Bridge scowled at her, confused.

“No weapons on the dinner table!” Leona chided. “Put it on the hooks underneath.”

Bridget ducked under the table. Mounted into the underside of the thick table surface were a row of hooks where one could hang a weapon out of the way, but within reach if it should be needed.

“Oooh.”
She murmured, fumbling with the sword until it was properly set. “We need this.” She declared, sitting down. She smiled at Leona. “Thanks.” She said, nodding to the elder.

Anna looked around. “Selene?” She asked.

“Yes?” She replied, setting the water bucket back next to the basin.

“You’ve seen to Endrance, is he all right?” Anna asked.

Selene blushed. “Well, I think he’s better than -”

“Is he doing physically well?” Anna interrupted, clarifying.

Selene’s blush deepened. “Y-yes.” She responded sheepishly. “He’s drying out his shirt. Joven’s standing watch outside the bath, and Gullin’s in there watching him.”

Bridget scoffed, “What the hells can that puffball do to save him?”