Fates Choice Page 4

  Organised trade with the Deeplings had emerged over the lifetime of Torr’s grandfather and father opening up, over time, new trade routes across the sea, right into the natural shelter of Paegas Bay. Even without this intervention, had been a small port and fishing harbour for countless generations, well before the time of The Sunlords Chosen, just over seven hundred years ago.

  His uncertainty about what became of Eagred played on Torr’s mind over the next few days, leaving him in the grip of something of a morose. He couldn’t very well ask anyone who was there what happened. As he started to feel stronger over the next few days, he contemplated returning but sense played its part.

  It was whilst he occupied himself with these thoughts, looking through the main stone mullioned window in his bedroom, over the formal garden to the south and west aspect of the manor grounds, that his most keenly awaited visitor arrived, quietly entering Torr’s room without announcing himself in an effort to try and startle him: “Sodding Hells you pervert, I can’t leave you alone for five minutes before you try and shag every tree between here and the sea”.

  The voice was enough to break Torr’s malaise and bring a grin to his face. He turned, putting on a deadpan expression. “I only went to warn them about your small dick. Naturally, they couldn’t keep their hands off me”.

  Raeknor grinned back, before a brief look of genuine concern crossed his face. ”But you are alright though. All we were told was that you had been subject to some terrifying ordeal with creatures of the wood. It was only after talking to your brother that I found out what really happened”

  “Oh, Sunlord’s Balls, how many people has he told?” exclaimed Torr. Raeknors mischievous look returned. “Well he put out a full advert in Paegas Gazetteer saying that Torr Skarsdale likes to bugger tree spirits. We also tried to petition all seven Weald Lords to put up a statue of you entitled: ‘I am a clueless dickbrain’ but there wasn’t enough money for it. Shame, Aelfsige and me thought we could make a fortune selling cheap replicas to travelling merchants!”

  Raeknors grin dropped slightly again. “But seriously, you alright?” Raeknor knew where and when to draw the line with their mirth although the benchmark between them for this was very high. More than once in their old school grounds and cloisters, passing clerics had overheard their wit and stopped to rebuke them for their ‘rudeness’ to their fellow student.

  Torr sighed. “Yeah, fine mate honest. Fed up with being stuck here”. Raeknor perched himself on Torr’s grand high backed chair, a gift from Torr's father all the way from Sha Haram. Raeknor slid the chair (with difficulty as its stone base was rather heavy and Raeknor was not the strongest of young men) through a half circle so it faced away from the writing table, in order to hear the full tale, first hand, from Torr himself.

  “So, what did they actually look like then and – Raeknor made a curving motion with his hands - you know?” Torr ignored his friends jibe. He knew Raeknor was genuinely an empathetic character, there was just no need for them, as friends, to express themselves in such tones.

  “So who knows what really happened?” Torr probed, not responding to Raeknors request for measurements. He didn’t like discussing Eagred in such terms, even with Raeknor. “Just your family, mine and your family’s apothecary who treated you”.

  Torr took some comfort in this. He accompanied his father and brother on too many functions now that any adverse comments about his ‘activities’, would affect more than just himself. Not that any merchants really had any choice in dealing with the Skarsdales if they wanted the largest, fastest and strongest fleet possible. There were no other shipyards as large as theirs, not only on the coast of Sommerswake, but along the entirety of the western weald coastline. The only other known and approachable shipbuilders of this size were either in the Bay of Suthras or The Shallows, and that meant dealing with Suthrasians, Alrunians and all manner of other folk.

  Nevertheless, a cordial atmosphere in negotiations, meetings and social events always helped matters progress smoothly. If Torr developed a reputation for abhorrent behaviour not befitting his station, merchant families, port officials and other traders would certainly try and use it to their advantage in negotiations. Blackmail was not a problem at this level of financial transaction.

  Their conversation turned to more general topics, albeit still largely involving talk of which girls they would likely meet at the Highsun’s seasons gatherings.

  Raeknor’s father could also count on a skilled trade, as a miller and, over time and with prudent hard work, he had now acquired all the water powered mills that ran along the river Daret and most of the other mills on approach to Paega. Between Raeknor’s and Torr’s family, they had both been elevated into the running of the town as strong traders. This included the inevitable rise into all manner of social events and occasions, the vast majority of which were commissioned and hosted by the Valheimer family, owners of most of the land in and around Paegas Bay and beyond.

  The Valheimers’ were, in any event, directly related to the Weald Lord of Sommerswake, thereby running all of Sommerswake with a suitable mandate from this highest of offices and The Sunlords church anyway.

  In comparison therefore, Raeknors family and the Skarsdales were little more than trumped up peasants vulgar enough to have a trade behind them. Still, any such social gatherings’ were still large enough that most invitees would naturally steer themselves towards a sub group of like minded peers.

  In addition to Raeknors family, the Skarsdales would mix with other merchant families from Paegas Bay and neighbouring Tantes, together with members of the mariners and ship captains’ guild, some minor clergy and more distant relatives of the Valheimers. This presented plenty of families with plenty of daughters for Torr and Raeknor to discuss. Prior to Torr’s encounter with Eagred, he had been known to smile and bow towards a pretty young redhead who actually appeared to be some part of the Valheimer family, but always seemed to spend her time at these functions with more distant relatives, closer (physically and socially) to the Skarsdales.

  The opportunity had still not presented itself for an introduction so Torr and Raeknor spent the rest of their time trying to engineer a chance encounter, with the challenge of ‘may the best man win’.

  This returned some much needed positivity to Torr’s world, a resumption of normal issues and things to look forward to over the remainder of Highsun.

  Perhaps his encounter with the dryad’s could be relegated to just a memory after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A fter Raeknor had left, Torr wandered out to the walled gardens which were now coming into the late splendour of the season of the Highsun. For a young man, Torr appreciated the aesthetics of the garden, if not the full herbal names of each plant and flower. Herbology and apothecary studies had been one of his least favoured topics at Paegas church school. Technically, it ranked as an abbey but, this far west, the distinction was dropped in common parlance. During canticles, ceremonies, holy days and festivals, its full title was repeated as ‘The Lord of the Heavens Abbey of Paegas Bay’. Even the relatively accepted colloquium of ‘The Sunlord’ was dropped.

  Torr had ended his studies, a couple of years ago, to specialise (with his fathers blessing) as a cavalry officer in training, although he had not actually been called into service yet. As such, he had not formally received his commission. He had therefore spent the last couple of years assisting with overseeing the shipyard, alongside his brother. Raeknor, being more bookish, had elected to study for the magistrate’s exams, something that would stand him and his family in good stead in Paega.

  Torr, however, was drawn by the stories of The Giant Wars to the north which had raged for around a hundred years now. That, and a natural talent for riding and interest in tactics, had led Torr toward a cavalry command. It was this affinity for speed that led Torr now through the walled gardens and into the cider apple orchard round the back of Home Manor, running well past the house itself, towards the stables. One of the bo
nuses for Torr’s family home here was the abundant cider apple trees which had apparently been cultivated as a Skarsdale sideline for generations before the shipyard.

  It was widely accepted that cider, or scrumpy as it was traditionally called, originated in, and could only come from, Sommerswake and purely from the fermentation of the bitter and large apples that grew here.

  Simply brewing other fruits or adding spices or other such nonsense, did not make it cider.

  The apples on the tree now at this time of year were the size of normal eating apples, still some way to go before they were suitable for fermentation.

  Passing through the orchard path, Torr came to the stable compound on the far side, out of sight of the house thanks to the low hillock on which the orchard had been cultivated. The yard was empty and there was no sign of any workers still on duty within the stables themselves. Torr’s father did not believe in dedicated stable hands. Instead the role would go to more junior hands taken in, either through the church run houses of destitution, sons of existing workers or those plain found wandering the roads by local merchants.

  The horses could hear him approach. His favourite charge of the moment, Scout, could recognise Torr before he put his head round the stable door. He could bridle up in no time now, plenty of drill practice at school, although he was less keen on the conditioning of his tack.

  Having made sure the stable gate on the far side of the yard was open first, Torr could get Scout up to a canter before they even left the compound, despite the tight nature of the turn out of the paddock.

  This was one of the reasons Torr liked Scout. His ability to change direction, at speed, without upsetting his balance, made them a very quick combination both on the tracks around Home Manor and on the time trials set out at all the major local festivals and regattas.

  He had only competed with Scout since last year. As his control, balance and familiarity improved on practice sessions like this however, he was sure he could wipe the floor with anyone in any category this year.

  True, he had taken a tumble at last year’s race at Moorsmeet. He had not raced that trail before though but had still managed to get a comfy lead before a particularly deceptive, tightening, left hander had thrown him out of the side door.

  Scout had come to a stop quickly and fixed Torr with a stare that made it quite clear who the horse blamed for that. He had learned that Scout needed a rider to chuck his weight about through the bends, something Torr found he could manage with a different saddle. Now, if you stood on the wrong side of a bend, you could barely see Torr at all. Head, knee and elbows so far out and down it looked like the horse had no rider.

  Trotting back to the stable after a vigorous training session, Torr thought to himself: this is going to be a good end to the Highsun.

  The Sunlord had indeed blessed Sommerswake that season, a fact that priests were keen to use in sermons and blessings, as a mark of the weald’s piety, at the start of the numerous race events that Torr was allowed to compete in that year.

  The point race at Moorsmeet proved particularly rewarding although he did not feel confident when he arrived and prepared. Physical contact between riders was, quite literally, par for the course here, which was also longer and more demanding.

  Many found the transition to this course difficult. Some even decided that riding was no longer for them and that other scholarly pursuits should perhaps be looked at instead.

  However, the disadvantage he had suffered over the last few years, competing against smaller and lighter riders, now worked in his favour. Something the family’s horse master was quick to point out.

  “He’ll be up against bigger horses but Scout doesn’t like a heavy rider anyway, not what he’s built for”, said Caenet, the horse master, in his broad Sommerswake accent. A retired cavalryman himself, anything he did not know about riding (if not the finer points of horse breeding itself) was not worth knowing. He had served with a heavy horse company from Sommerswake in The Giant Wars, rising to company sergeant. He had survived a charge at giants, falling and managing to remount another horse (his own being torn in two when it was picked up by said beast), taking his company captain back with him, who had also fallen in similar fashion.

  “But this course will suit him and you. Just try and ignore the insults that’ll get hurled at you and, for the Lord’s sake, don’t be afraid to use your elbows to barge your way past if needs be. They’ll not think twice about doing it to you”.

  Sure enough, the local riders from Moorsmeet proved to be quite vocal at the start, easily spotting Torr as an outsider, even though Moorsmeet was still in the Weald of Sommerswake. Torr felt his temper rising, something that simply seemed to goad some of the more inbred competitors on in their jibes.

  One or two of the Valheimer family members who were also taking part looked on in mirthful amusement at the initiation Torr was facing. They certainly weren’t going to leap to his aid either.

  Lord Valheimer of Paega was actually the cousin of the Weald Lord of Sommerswake, their predecessors by direct lineage having laid claim to the title for six generations now and, before that, through marriage and careful posturing and politics. The inevitable genetic limitations of narcissism being spouted by those in charge as careful breeding.

  This was more than evident to Torr at school. Six generations had been plenty of time for the Valheimers to permeate every aspect of governance through Sommerswake.

  Paegas Bay, being one of the larger towns, required apothecaries, administrators, magistrates, clergy, scribes and all the other professions whose lofty perch could only be reached through successful completion of studies at the only church school, situated on the edge of Paega. It was perhaps no coincidence that the school had been built at the top of the hill at the head of the main road into the town of Paega itself. Plenty of opportunity for its students to gain practice looking down their nose at those whom they would surely govern in the future.

  Torr's place here had been gained after his grandfather’s death. The shipyard had done well enough that Aelboric was able to purchase title to their grounds and home from the Valheimers.

  The vulgar purchase of rank was something that he was occasionally reminded of by the various Valheimer cousins and nephews with whom he had the joy of previously sharing classrooms and training fields. One or two of the priest teachers were not above such cutting remarks either.

  As such, it was of no surprise now, to see one or two of the younger competitors, sporting the Valheimers Arms embossed on their saddles and riding gear, looking on with amusement.

  Fortunately, the distraction proved to be the undoing of his closest competitors. Out of the corner of his eye, Torr saw the starter unfurl his flag. He nudged Scout forward, with his tormentors simply assuming he was trying to escape them.

  They followed but, as they were in the middle of the starting pack, they moved side on to the start line. Torr timed his start perfectly, leaving enough distance between himself so that when he went past the line, he was already about to break Scout into a canter. At this point, his ‘followers’ were still side on. Not only were they trying to start the race at a ninety degree angle to the course, but they succeeded in baulking half the field behind them as well.

  Only those on the far right hand side of the course had got away cleanly and the first bend was a sharp left hander.

  Only one horse had the legs on Scout but only just, as they approached the bend. Torr knew he did not have the best line in. He was too close to the inside of the track. However, the horse to his right was not fully in front. As they closed right down to the bend, Torr was able to keep Scout alongside enough that he could use his new, closest, friend, to keep himself from coming out of the corner too wide.

  Torr and Scout collided with the other horse and rider more or less, stirrup to stirrup, but there was something of a height difference, meaning the other rider couldn’t lock elbows or reigns, to stop Torr physically pushing past.

  There was a slight s
crabble of hoofs but, being smaller and more agile, Scout was able to keep his momentum, coming out of the corner in the lead.

  The move was harsh, possibly questionable, but a gap was a gap in his view.

  His competitor seemed less than pleased with his barging tactics. The verbal tirade behind was clearly audible to Torr. More abuse followed but the thump of Scout’s hooves, mirrored by his own heart beat, drowned out any further specifics.

  He never looked back. He was never far enough ahead that, when he crossed the finish line, there was a lengthy delay before the second and third horses came in but no one got in front through the woods and copse nature of this course.

  Caenet was over the moons and exuded the sort of inherent menace that ensured no one started any trouble with Torr afterwards. The local boys also seemed deflated. Torr could not resist the temptation of discreetly raising his little finger at them from across the finishing yard. A common gesture of questioning someone’s manhood and virility and to round out a good day.

  His form continued during the regatta and rowing season as well. Truth be told, he was only entered in the one race, but it was easily the largest and longest race in Sommerswake and beyond. Understandably, given their roles and location, the shipyard workers had to develop their rowing skills, not only to help pull half built, ocean going hulls up and down river but, also, supplying a tonne or more of supplies to the lighthouse. Any slacking here, against strong wind, tide and local eddy’s meant, at least, a smashed boat and several hours waiting for rescue clinging to a rock or, at worst, death!

  As such, a thirty mile row up the Great Boar River could seem like a gentle day out by comparison. Despite this, it was still the first year that his brother’s handpicked team (his father still wasn’t home to choose this year’s crew himself) had won the race for the Skarsdale family. Their boat, a six oared working gig, had been polished to within an inch of its woodwork before the long cart journey to the northern edge of Sommerswake.