Something I have abandoned

Rubecula

A short story I abandoned a while ago. It has been playing around in my mind. But until I get back into it I thought you may enjoy a little read of it.

The original title was to have been "The Adventures of Claymore XLCR"

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Part One

The armies of the Overlord had rampaged through the Kingdom, slaughtering, pillaging and doing pretty much as they pleased once the standing army had been eviscerated and destroyed.

In the palace grounds, the young boy called Clay had been beaten to the ground, trussed up and made to walk barefoot away from the only home he had ever known. He never saw his father die bravely defending the King. He never saw the King getting beheaded, nor the Princess Laurine being taken prisoner.

Claymore was force marched for days, how many days he couldn't afterwards remember, as one day blurred into the next and the only thing he was aware of was thirst, hunger and the pain of his bindings. Stubbonly, he had refused to speak, even to ask for a loosening of those bindings, as he knew the only answer would be to tighten them further.

One wet and dismal day, the march ended and along with other children he had been thrown into a cage on the outskirts of a strange, unknown town. Eager eyes peered in through the bars of the cage at the bedraggled children. A day later, after a meagre drink of water, the children were taken one at a time, never to return. When Clay's turn came, his size meant he was given special treatment. He was urged onwards by use of whips to a small stone platform, surrounded by dozens of staring people. A big greasy fat man, pulled on the ropes binding Clay forcing him up onto the platform. Clay had had enough, and tried to bite the fat man's hands. This resulted in a slashing blow with a heavy stick that sent him to his knees.

"This one has spirit, and look at his build, a strong future for this one people. Now what am I bid for this fine specimen?"

There was an uproar of voices calling out words that the dazed Clay couldn't understand, until finally the fat man shouted out. "Sold to Quarry Master Skunge."

Clay felt himself hauled away and tied to a group of other big children, mostly farm boys. After a while, they were all marched along fastened in single file away from the town and off across rocky terrain. The path they followed was rough and uneven. One boy tripped, fell and was hauled along and given a hefty clout by one of the men walking alongside.

When night came eventually, the exhausted children were allowed to rest with a bowl of water between every six of them and another bowl of sticky oats for food. Famished as they were they all took care not to fight over the food. Some of them murmering about fighting their way out and going home. All nonesense really, thought Clay, nobody was strong enough to break free, and as children, how could they fight a way through the guards that watched them.

After eating and drinking. Clay curled up and went to sleep on the hard ground, exhaustion overcoming his lack of comfort.

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Clay was awakened from a cold sleep by a cruel heavy boot delivered with malice. He refused to allow the man to see his pain, and stubbonly remained silent, his glare was answered with a second unnecessary kick. The man sauntered off as Clay struggled to his feet.

The children recieved a sip of water for breakfast before the forced march continued.

The walk went on for hours, in fact for the rest of the day, with no food or water for them. Eventually as darkness began to fall, they limped and crawled into what could only be described as a camp. Surrounded by sheer rock faces, some with scaffold of rough hewn wood.

The children were ushered into a huge iron barred cage with a trough of more sticky oat mush at one end and a large stone bowl of water. Most of the children were too exhausted to get food. Clay with a touch of his in built kindness grabbed handfuls of the mush and passed them around to those who had no strength left to get it for themselves. Two other boys helped him when they saw what he was doing. Clay was surprised to see that he recognised them. It was the twin brothers Michael and Peter Keys, sons of the blacksmith Donal. Don Keys had been a friend of sorts to his father and the boys knew each other in passing. After passing out the food the three of them settled together in a corner and whispered to each other.

"Any idea where we are Clay?" Peter asked. "Michael and I couldn't make out which way we came."

"I think we travelled east out of the city but beyond that I am not sure, i never recognised the town we went to. How many of us got this far?"

"None except the three of us I think" answered Michael. "There were a few with us from the village but they never got bought by the Quarry Master."

"Fat old toad isn't he" grinned Peter.

"But very cruel I feel, and so are his men" Peter put in.

"We will have to see what happens and try to plan a way out of here." Clay said after a moments silence. "I suggest we rest as best we can, before we get too weak to do anything."

The three boys curled up close together for warmth and slept fitfully despite their exhaustion.




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After that first night, the children were put to work. Long hard days of breaking rocks, for some unknown purpose which were carted away by older children, who were already broken spirits. It was a nightmare that never ended.

The day was only broken by the few drinks of water and a bowl of sticky oats at mid day. Night, when it came was more water, sticky oats and occassionally some semi rotten meat from what animal they could only guess at. This rancid fare was all they had to keep up their strength.

One day, Michael slipped and fell down a sharp incline, scraping his face. The nearest guard stormed over screaming obscenities and whipping Michael. "Get up get up you lazy stupid dog's droppings" The guard was frothing at the mouth inhis crazed madness. Peter who was nearby flew at the guard in protection of his twin, but the guard simply used his big fists to punch Peter down. Instantly, with blood running down his face, Michael leapt to the defense of his twin and dived at the guard's feet. A clubbing blow sent him sprawling too. The guard was out of control and he meant to kill the brothers.

Clay leapt in, but knowing his light weight and boyish muscles could not compete with the big guard, he held a rock on each hand. A blow to the guard's temple from the rocks stunned him. With the guard stunned Clay went berserk raining blow after blow to the guards head. The big man fell over backwards like a tree being felled. Cly didn't stop though, he was terrified the guard would get up again and take out his punishment on the three boys. He pounded the guard's head to mush with the rocks, before strong hands hauled him off.

It was only then he heard the uproar from the children around him, all of them screaming for him to kill.

He had. Clay had brutally killed his first man.

The Quarrymaster was waddling as fast as possible towards them. Each of the three boys being held by two big guards. One of the one's holding Clay looked to the mess of the fallen guard and whistled. "You sure as hell didn't like him much did you boy?"

"String them up, string them up i have guests here we need to set an example." Skunge was hopping in fury as he arrived.

A voice came commandingly from behind Skunge. "Hold"

A tall well dressed man came over to them. A man none of the children had ever seen before.

"I will take all three Skunge. Here." And he threw a purse at Skunge. "I think they will do well in my school"

That was how Claymore, Peter and Michael became property of a Lanista. They were now pupils in the deadliest school ever to exist. Gladatorial School.




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Part two

Life in the Lanista was tough and hard, but Clay did have a small advantage in that as the son of the King's Champion, he had already recieved some trainig with a sword and a lance. A gladiator though did not use a horse and lance, but the sword was good in his hands.

Able to use it in both hands right from the start, he impressed with his youthful speed and agility. Within a few months he was paired up for his first fight.

His opponent was somewhat older and larger, yet he had put on muscle and some bulk by this time and when he entered the arena he was not overawed.

In fact it was not so much of a fight really, the older gladiator who came from another school swept in to swipe the young upstart away and Clay simply ducked, moved forward and swung his sword back across the older man's legs, hamstringing him. Then as he had been taught to do, he held his blade to his opponents throat and waited for the signal that indicated kill or allow to live. Death was the decision and Clay had killed his second man.

Later that evening in the gladiators accomodation he sat back with Peter and Michael and ate well. "I am not sure I can goon with this you know. I didn't like killing that fellow today, it was like being a butcher. I want out of this as soon as possible."

"You did well though Clay" said Peter. "You could make a good living out of this."

"It is not my idea to make a living like this eith" responded Michael. "I will fight an enemy, but not some other poor slob in the same situation as me. I want out too."

A week later and Peter had also killed in the arena, albeit with a wound to his chest.

"You were right Clay, this stinks."

Michael was prowling up and down the cage they were in, not yet having faught anyone but not wanting to either. He was due to fight two days hence. Angrily he kicked at the cage door, and it swung slightly open.

"Hey this isn't locked guys. The lock has not caught."

Clay and Peter bounded up and stared at the open door. "A trap?" asked Peter

"I doubt it" answered Clay "We have not been here long enough for them to try out our loyalty."

The three looked at one another for a few minutes and then without a word they all ran out of the door as silently as they could.

Escape was through the town, in the other direction they would have to go past encampments and be seen, even on a dark night like this.

Clay found a spot where horses had relieved themselves and made muddy puddles of horse urine and dirt. Rolling in the fetid mess he covered his bare skin in the dark cloying mud. "Camouflage" he whispered. The brothers swiftly did the same with screwed up faces, and then they were off through the town, clinging to shadows.

Nobody saw them, nobody heard them, and within an hour of escaping, they were following the road away from town and off to wherever it led them.

About a week later, they were hiding in a forested area, not having eaten for some days, when Peter sniffed the air.

"It may be my imagination but I am sure I can small roast pork"

"I do too" Michael sniffed hard. "I think it is coming from that way." He pointed.

Clay nodded and set off in the lead, careful to avoid making any noise.

The three lads soon came across a reddish glow through the trees, and the sounds of quiet talking. With careful listening, they could also hear some heavy snoring.

Motioning the other two to remain silent, Clay crawled closer to the fire to get a look. What he saw was a group of heavily armed men sitting or laying around a camp fire, over which a pig was being slowly rotated. A second pig had already been cooked in this manner and was hanging from a tree branch, juices dripping off it alluringly.

Clay was not a thief, but his hunger and concern for his friends drove him forward. Slowly and ever carefully he approached the pig. He just reached out to grasp at it with one hand when he felt something on his neck. Turning his head he saw a sharp sword blade resting on his shoulder.

"My Lord we have a thief in our midst."

"And two more over here Sire" A second voice broke in.

Clay didn't fight back, it would have been suicide in a good state of health, but weak from tiredness and hunger it was doubly so. He allowed himself to be taken prisoner. As he was ushered in towards the camp fire he could see Peter and Michael in the firm grasp of a massive man. One gripped in each fist. They looked at each other and Clay gave a silent shake of the head and a shrug.

"Boys you blockhead, they are nothing but hungry boys." The tall elegant man spoke softly. "You seem to be in dire need of food youngsters. We can let you have some if you work for it." The man smiled not unkindly, but not altogether kindly either. My name is Plantagenet, might I ask yours?"

"Claymore."

"Peter"

"Michael"

"My soul the blacksmith's sons, and if I read things aright, you Claymore are the son of the King's Champion."

"Aye sir that is true" answered Claymore.

"Food for the lads right away." Plantagenet called "Tell me lads how came you here? and what armies have you seen?"

"No armies sir, nobody at all in fact since we escaped some days back"

Clay, glad of a friendly welcome from a man who knew of them, then told the entire story to Plantagenet.

"So the King is dead then. Damn and blast." Plantagenet growled and paced the ground. "Very well lads it looks like we are doing the only thing possible for now. " Turning to Claymore. "You swear to uphold the tenets of the mercenary code?"

Claymore had no idea what he meant and looked to Peter who shrugged. Michael just looked baffled. "I suppose we do sir if we understood what you meant."

"Mercenaries are soldiers who fight for money. We also defend our own without any discrimination of where they come from. There is quite a bit more to it than that but it is stuff you learn as you go along."

"Ummm well yes in that case I suppose we do Sir" Claymore tilted his head in bemusement.

"Good you have now entered into a life of soldiering. Grab some food and some sleep, we ride at dawn. You boys will ride the pack horses and care for the equipment and steeds."

This was how Claymore became a mercenary, a trade he carried on for the rest of his life. Lord Plantagenet became his friend, and his mentor.





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Part Three



It was perhaps three years later, the thre lads had grown and filled out into fine young men. Peter and Michael had strength in abundance, but Clay had agility and great skill. He had also developed a nice ability in tactical fighting.

Rising through the ranks he was now a lieutenant in the company. His friend Plantagenet had also risen in this time and now commanded a number of mercenary companies. (The Free Brotherhood they called themselves.) So it was left to the new Captain to lead the company. Clay liked the man, but considered him a little naive in battle. This naivity showed up on day when the company led a small diversionary attack on an army of Warlord troops.

They were supposed to draw them into a trap by attacking and running for cover down a narrow defile where the main body of companies lay in wait. However the Captain, keen to get a good name for himself pressed home the attack long after he should have broken off.

The company was slaughtered. The first heartache for Clay was seeing Michael hit on the head by a mace, braining him and dropping him to the ground, dead. Peter cried out in anguish and rushed to help his fallen brother. The powerful and mighty young man Peter was hewn down. He took many with him, but eventually, the overwhelming number of lances, keeping him at bay pierced his mighty heart and he fell astride his brother, their blood mingling in the dusty ground. Unable to get to his friends Clay howled in distress, and lay about himself with his sword and lance, smiting everyone in reaching distance.

Then strong arms pulled him. The Captain was trying to pull him away. "Enough Clay, your men need you" Sobbing with rage and frustration, Clay allowed himself to be hauled away. Mounting his horse he set off for the defile, but he went alone, the captain received a fatal wound in his back from an arrow. The rest of the company lay torn to bloody rags.

An arrow pierced his shoulder as he rode away at full tilt. then his old horse staggered, recovered and went on, but it was labouring. In the defile it finally gasped it's last as it's life blood poured from a horrendous wound in it's side.

Clay fell but quickly regained his feet, his lance broken, he re-drew his sword and stood one armed glaring at the approaching army of the Warlord.

Screaming a wordless curse at the approaching enemy, he goaded them on towards him. His insultin manner had them howling for his blood and they all rushed headlong at him, all wanting to be the first to lay hands on this young upstart.

Onward they came, screaming bloody oaths at him, and then suddenly a massed horde of mercenaries erupted from both sides converging on the warlords troopers.

Clay was almost insensible to what was happening as fighting broke out all around him. He felt nothing as he swung his sword wildly, until his vision blurred and exhaustion overtook him. His wounded arm hanging useless underneath his pierced shoulder. He fell to his knees before finally collapsing face first into the dirt.



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When Clay awoke he was on his back under a tree, with blankets over him. A gruff voice was saying. "Stitched him up and he will be fine, but his exhaustion may take a few days to go away, and he will be damn sore."

Another voice spoke. "Aha he is awake." This voice Clay recognised as Plantagenet.

Clay looked over to his superior and friend. "I tried sir, but they all died." His voice broke into sobs.

"You did well Clay, better than well. I hope you never lose the spirit you showed today and the sadness of death. At any event you now are the Captain of the company by right of ascension."

"What company? They are all dead."

"Many are dead, the company will be reborn with you as it's leader. Now get some rest. Tomorrow we move on to the South. I understand there are a few Lordlings there who pay well for trained men."

Plantagenet left Clay to rest and went to another of his Captains. "When Clay is rested let him go to the compound and chose a horse string. He needs a mount and a good pack horse."

The following morning Clay with his arm in a sling and a tired look in his eyes which were also filled with sadness at the loss of his dearest friends, strolled over to the compound. He was not very interested, but swiftly chose a good strong looking packhorse.

He didn't feel like trying to pick a charger though, and in his mind, none were that good anyway. Sitting on a fallen tree he stared at the milling horses without much feeling. Sensing movement to his left he sat still and watched. The trees parted and a young colt, black as night appeared. Horses are gregarious and this wild animal was here for the promise of fellowship with it's own kind. Amazed, Clay watched, unmoving as the colt trotted over towards the herd. There was a bit of shuffling and the odd whinny, and the colt, boldened by this came closer and closer. The young horse was magnificent, and showed signs of strength and stamina. It was also limping at what looked like a bite mark on a fore leg. As it moved around the edge of the compound, it went out of view behind the herd and Clay swiftly threw off his sling and reached, painfully, for a rope and noose. He stood up and stared. the colt was drifting back around towards him, not spotting him until too late. Clay looped the noose and threw it, lassooing the colt.

The horse went mad. It had trouble running due to the injury, but it made a vallient effort to get free, dragging Clay all around the clearing they were in on his back. Hanging on with all his strength Clay refused to let go. This went on for a long time a very long time and the horse was off through the trees, Clay bouncing along the ground behind it. Unable to free itself the horse then did something Clay was unprepared for. It attacked. Remembering his lessons Clay dodged and sent loops of rope to entangle the horse's legs.

Finally the two of them, both wounded and exhausted stood face to face.

Panting at the horse Clay nodded and sank to his knees. "Nice fight Horse" he said, not unkindly.

"What will you call him?" A voice came from behind.

"I don't know." Clay turned and saw Plantagenet watching him. A knowing look on his face as he had realised that Clay needed this struggle to get his grief out of his system. A warrior paralised with grief was a dead man walking. Now Clay had something to live for. His new horse.

"There is a small feisty bird that hangs it's prey out to dry as it were. That young Colt, wounded as he is, certainly left you out to dry in that struggle. The bird is a Shrike."

"Shrike? Thats what his name will be then. I think he will be a mighty stallion when he grows."

"Don't want him to grow much bigger or you will never be able to feed him" Plantagenet laughed gently. Take him to the farrier, he needs that leg looked at.

Shrike struggled against the rope as Clay led him, but soft words calmed him. Clay was not foolish enough to try to pet the colt. Those teeth looked vicious. But gently and with encouraging words he led Shrike to the farrier. The farrier nearly lost a piece of his arm as Shrike tried to use those self same teeth on him. Experience though held sway and after a brief examination, he pronounced his verdict.

"No lasting damage, I think that was probably caused by a Stallion getting the young pretender out of the herd about a week back. It is healing well, but possibly it hurts like hell. If he had been fit, you would have had a hard time catching him. The poor beast was lonely for his own kind after getting kicked out. I have some ointment you can rub into his leg, if you have the guts to try."

It took a few weeks to heal, but with careful ministrations from Clay the soothing ointment did it's job. Long before the healing was completed the horse Shrike, had learned to trust Clay and even gave a whinny of recognition each time he came over. Besides Shrike liked the food he was getting, it was better than just grass.

Finally both of them were physically healed, and the horrors that had befallen Clay at the battle had faded. Peter and Michael would never be forgotten, but now they would be remembered properly by a true friend.

It was time to start training Shrike, with help from Plantagenet and the farrier if possible.

But that is a story for another time. A time just before Plantagenet regained his position as Lord. A lord who seemingly bowed to the Warlord but constantly led the mercenary army against him. A mercenary army with their greatest captain amongst them, Claymore Excelsior.

jonbravo

As a reader I want to feel this journey, I mean the walking no mention of torn feet..etc
The malice of the boot but were did it hit, the slave won't work fast but work forever...within him/her self.

I like it none the less..now to read the rest!

Rubecula

Thanks Jonbravo. It was a work in progress and I did have a half decent idea for it. It is only rough though by no means a finished article. I just wanted to show folks the sort of mundane nonsense I have floating around in my warped mind :pac:

It is nice to know that someone enjoyed it though. It makes it all worthwhile if just one person enjoys it.