Garrard's Tale V.1

***Just some dialog practice to shake off some writing rust.***

Cyrus stood before the small circle of stones, holding out his arms. His red robes fluttered in the breeze and he closed his eyes. He took a few deep breaths and started to hum. Blue mist materialized in his cupped hands, translucent and faint at first, but grew more solid and visible. Cyrus furrowed his brow as he began to chant, his intensity growing with every verse. The mist grew and transformed into a growing ball of energy, brilliant and blue. The ball pulsed and crackled with energy as it began to hover above Cyrus’ hands. Small lightning bolts spewed from the ball, as it began to drift around the three men.

“Come on, any day now,” said Garrard watching the ball float around the circle. “I’m cold.”

Cyrus’ eyes flared open and he summoned the ball back. The ball drifted to his face and as he blew from his lips, the ball shot forth into the pile of wood in the center of the small circle. The ball exploded into the small pile of wood. The cascade of flames took hold and began to crackle and pop as the column of smoke rose into the darkening sky.

The three men leaned into the growing fire, rubbing their hands and holding them before the flames. Garrard unfastened the straps of his worn, dented armor, and dropped it next to the tent. Garrard swung his arms about, stretching them. “Ah, feels much better,” he said, as he squatted down several times, his knees crackling as he did.

“Maybe if you lost a little weight, you’d be better off,” said Cyrus staring into the fire. “Have you thought about eating less? Or cutting back on the ale? You are filling out a bit much, if you ask me,” Cyrus smiled as he glanced over at Garrard.

“Do all mages have to be smart asses?” said Roland before Garrard could respond. Roland dropped his armor next to the tent as well and ran his hands through his disheveled, greying hair.

“Yes, we do,” Cyrus smiled. “But it’s like what they say, better to be a smart ass than a dumb ass. Am I right? Huh?”

“A man of wisdom,” Garrard laughed as the three men leaned in to the fire. “And no, I will not cut back on ale. If anything, I’m not drinking enough of it. Where’s Jimmy? He should’ve been back by now.” Garrard sat on a wooden stump and stretched out his legs, rubbing his muscles.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Cyrus. “Getting your page to get you ale and food. Getting him to help with the tent. Getting him to do this, or do that. That promotion spoiled you rotten.”

“Don’t make me get up. I’d still lay you out, magic or no magic,” said Garrard. “You want me to get up? Ah the hell with it, I’m too tired.” The three men laughed.

Garrard stroked his salty beard while staring into the flickering flames. The wood popped and an explosion of sparks spewed forth, escaping into the night sky before flashing out of existence. The three men sat in silence, as smoke from other fires in the camp drifted into the air.
Roland looked around the camp, “Good, here he comes,” he said.

Jimmy approached from a line of tents carrying three large mugs of ale. He stumbled on an exposed root and lunged forward, but caught himself before he fell.

“Easy does it, precious cargo,” said Garrard standing up to help.

“Here’re you go, Sir Garrard,” said Jimmy, handing the first mug of ale to him, before handing a mug to Cyrus and Roland. Jimmy sat on a small log next to Garrard and began to rub his hands near the flames.

“Just Garrard, son. Leave the titles for when we’re on duty.” Garrard took a long draught of ale from the mug. Excess ale trickled down each side of the cup and into his beard. He belched. “Oh this is the good stuff. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“To Jimmy, may he bring us more ale than we can drink,” said Cyrus, holding up his mug. The three men toasted and drank a draught of their ale.

“To the Queens honor,” said Roland holding up his mug. All three men toasted and drank.

“To the scoundrels who took it,” said Cyrus. The men laughed and drank their ale. Garrard beat against his chest and belched.

“To Garrard’s manners,” said Roland. The three men finished off their ale.

“Round two, Jimmy,” said Garrard handing over his empty mug. Jimmy retrieved the mugs from the three men. “Get yourself one too.”

“No thanks, it tastes horrible,” said Jimmy as he sped off to the ale wagon.

“Ah, he’ll learn, I suppose,” said Roland. “How can you be a soldier and not drink ale? It’s unnatural.” Roland shook his head.

“Hanging around you two, he’ll get a taste of it yet,” said Cyrus. “Being a bad influence and all.”

“Ah, give him a little break. He’s a good kid, and if he doesn’t like, then he doesn’t like it,” said Garrard. “Damn, when I tried it the first time, I thought I was drinking some kind of piss. I got sick as a dog.” Garrard shuddered.

Jimmy came back a few minutes later with three mugs of ale. He handed one to each of the other three. Taking a couple pieces of wood from a nearby stack, he added them to the fire. The shifting wood caused an eruption of sparks but the fire settled back and resumed cracking and popping.

“Are you going to tell me about the monk,” said Jimmy, breaking the silence. “You promised.”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Garrard. He took a long draught of the ale and gazed into the fire for a moment. “We were pursuing a battle mage. Prince Stephen didn’t want to let him get away, so we were pursing hard. The men were wearing down, but we were catching ‘em. We caught them at Banners Creek and forced their hand. Not enough time to cross and we had them pinned against it. They quickly formed their lines for battle.

“We rushed to form our lines, but we outnumbered them and they were pinned against the creek. Each side was winded and tired, but the Prince wanted to strike while we had them in sight. I could see their battle mage riding his horse along the front lines, shouting commands and encouragement. They all carry on like that. Makes ‘em feel important, I suppose. You couldn’t miss those red robes, shouting and carrying on, and took a spot behind the lines. I saw the monk in orange robes. Still as a statue, he was. If we were going to get the mage, we would have to get through him. Doable, but it would be tough.”

Garrard drank some ale and continued. “The order to advance sounded out and we began to move. Men were screaming and roaring during the charge. Their lines advanced and we met. Screams of fury and madness combined with those of the wounded and dying. Swords and axes were covered with blood. Dead bodies fell amid the fighting. It was pure chaos.

“We hacked and slashed our way through their lines. You never heard screaming like that, Jimmy.” Garrard paused, and took another gulp of his ale. “Their lines were thinning, and we kept pressing. Half the time I couldn’t tell what I was hitting. People were bumping and falling into each other. Jimmy, all we could do was to press forward and avoid being hit by your own guys.

“Their lines were holding, but me and Roland broke through along the side. I looked over to the middle and saw their mage, and we ran towards him. He was chanting something and was focused on the lines. I thought we could get to him before anyone noticed. You know, cut the head off the snake, and the rest crumbles.

“We were about fifty paces away when it felt like I hit something and lost my balance. There was an orange blur, and then I was face down in the dirt. I tried to get up and felt my head snap over to the side. Things got a little blurry and I think I blacked out for a second.”

“Orange blur is right,” said Roland. “He was quick as a water bug.”

“I rolled over to the side, tasting dirt and blood. I held my hand up to the side of my head and it was bleeding. It felt wet,” said Garrard, rubbing his head. “I saw Roland was advancing on the monk, and while he was busy, I grabbed my sword and shield and got back to my feet. We kept at opposite sides, keeping the monk engaged on two fronts. We timed our attacks at the same time, but that monk kept blocking us with his quarter staff. He was quick, and his movement was so fluid. Like swinging at air.”

“He struck Roland with his staff. A quick jab to his gut, and he swung it up and struck Roland’s head. It snapped back, and he dropped. The monk turned spun around and was twirling his staff as he approached me. This time, I let him press the attack. His staff was like a blur. I couldn’t see any openings, so I decided to ram him with my shield and swung my sword around, hoping to catch him by surprise. He side-stepped my attack, and countered with his staff to my lower back. A piercing pain shot through my back and shot through my arms and legs. I fell to my knees as he struck me in the head. Everything was spinning and I was tasting dirt again.

“I hurt like hell, and his foot caught me on the side. I thought I felt a crack in my ribs. It hurt to breathe. I thought it was the end. But then he made a mistake. Instead of rushing it to finish me off, he paced around saying something. I think he was taunting me. My senses were coming back and I fumbled for my sword. Hell, if you go out, might as well die with your sword in hand. I saw Roland roll onto his knees as he launched himself into the monk’s back. His eyes were full of surprise as he sprung forward just as I brought up my sword as he ran through it. He stared at me for a moment, and tried to mumble something, but blood began to pour through his lips instead. His eyes faded, and I rolled him off to the side as he went limp. His blank stare aimed at the sky. We were damn lucky. He should have finished off both of us.

“I pulled the sword from him, leaving blood streaks on his orange robe as I wiped my blade. Roland grabbed my hand and helped me up. It hurt to stand upright. Damn, it hurt to breathe. Roland looked like hell, but we were standing. I hit Roland on his shoulder and pointed over to the mage. His attention focused on the battle. Poor bastard thought his monk was still protecting him.

We ran, stumbled more like it, over to the mage. He didn’t see us coming and a quick swing of the sword took his head off. The body froze for a few seconds. His muscled were rigid, and the spurts of blood spewed forth from his neck. I think it spurted three times at least, before his body crumbled. As soon as the mage was dead, their forces began to panic. Their lines crumbled and the soldiers scattered. Some men went to their knees to surrender, others flew like rabbits. After everything settled, Prince Stephen cracked open the medicine cask to help with the wounded and weary.”

“You mean some post battle ale,” said Cyrus. “Right?”

“Hell yea. The Prince got out some from his special reserve as a reward,” said Garrard. He smiled and finished off his ale. “The best kind of medicine. Round three, Jimmy.”

Jimmy was staring at Garrard, eyes wide. “You got it,” he said. “Can you tell me about the scar next time? Was that where the monk hit you? What happened next?”

“Just get our ale,” said Garrard. Roland and Cyrus tossed their empty mug to Jimmy. “After that, we’ll see.”

Jimmy nodded and disappeared between the rows of tents.

“So, are you going to tell him about the barmaid giving you that scar in our post battle briefing?” said Roland. The three men laughed.

“Does being hit with a pot on the side of the head count as a battle injury?” said Garrard. “I’ll just say the monk did it.”