The Swayback Horse Read online

The Swayback Horse

  William E. Samela

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Swayback Horse

  Cover Art by William E. Samela

  Copyright 2013 by William E. Samela

  Second Edition Revised

  [email protected]

  This short story is based on the now released novel titled Games of the Powerful written, edited and published by the same author.

  All rights reserved.

  Forward

  Welcome to my first real attempt to write a short story, well second attempt since I have practically rewritten this one after the first publishing and edited it thoroughly making numerous corrections to what I think is a much better read. My now released book titled Games of the Powerful that this story is based on has gone through the same massive editing and rewrite as this story so if you took a first look at it please give it a second look. This story will be integral to my second book, Magda: Rise of Darkness that I believe is going to be a better book partly due to learning experience and storyline. Frankly, I love to read books and now that I have written one and a short story to go with it I have found my new passion and that is to write books but the question that will need answering is whether I am any good at it. I have been reading fantasy sword and sorcery type books since 1971 when I read Savage Tales #1 The Frost Giant’s Daughter, Robert E Howard’s Conan the Barbarian. That single comic book changed my opinion of reading. Prior to me reading the Frost Giant’s Daughter, I hated reading with every fiber of my being, much to the chagrin of my parents I should add, to a person that could not get enough of reading. I destroyed the entire Conan the Barbarian series paperbacks written by Lin Carter and L. Sprague de Camp in a matter of months and I still could not get enough. John Carter of Mars soon fell followed by John Norman’s Tarnsman of Gor, Lord of Rings, The Sword of Shannara you get the picture.

  I have been studying Shotokan Karate for thirty-nine years and I am a fourth degree black belt. I have studied other forms of martial arts including Toyama-Ryu Batto Jutsu the art of swordsmanship. I live where I was born in Tampa Florida in 1955. If I am a success with this grand new adventure I am on, there will be plenty of stories and books to come. Thank you for taking the time to read this short story and I hope that you will look for more of my work. Please see the excerpt from my new book titled Games of the Powerful.

  Standing under the overhang of a wooden porch in front of one of the lower end merchant’s place of business in the town of Qenildor watching it rain Gawain is quite bored watching the rainwater pouring off the overhang filling the street in front of him with pools of water finally draining into the now swollen Brookmoor River. This spring rain like many previous this season has added to the already bad conditions on the river owing to snowmelt from the northern mountains. Barge traffic is at a standstill with some lower end docks completely under water as it rushes past them around both sides of Qenildor Castle and into the marsh and swamp just south of the castle. Looking up at the cloudy sky Gawain hoped to see a thinning in the clouds that would signal the rain might soon stop.

  At the young age of twelve, he is tall for his age and whipcord strong but not heavily muscled. He gained his strength by mucking out the common stables at the castle and at the nearby manor house. Many would consider it unprecedented because he is the Duke of Qenildor’s only son and child for that matter. Duke Lucian and Gawain are like it or not nobility, and for the duke's only son to have a job working like a commoner is a lesson for Gawain to understand what it means to earn money and make his own way. In this way, Duke Lucian hoped the menial work would help him to grow into the man he would ultimately need to be to become a benevolent Duke of Qenildor. Gawain did not have to work in the stables he could choose any job around the castle and town but his passion for horses drove him to want to be around them as much as possible. Not only did Gawain have to work; he had his normal studies with his tutor and his martial training with the master of arms preferring them greatly to the boring studies with his tutor.

  Therefore, the tall boy with his now wet straight black hair trimmed to just below the ears and tapering to the back of his neck stood on the porch on his only day off bored to the point of insanity. Looking up towards the sky and this time unlike all the previous times, he noticed a thinning in the clouds that could finally signal that the rain would soon stop. His short-sleeved leather jerkin with laces up the middle, leather pants and boots were already soaked so he stepped off the porch into the steady drizzle determined to find something of interest to buy. Walking northward up the street his wet boots made sloshing sounds as he walked through the puddles of water.

  Wooden buildings with stoops and porches leading into each place of business lined both sides of the street. A few people still stood under the porches as he had done earlier, but mostly the streets became deserted as people returned indoors tired of the rain. The northerly direction he is heading will bring him to merchants selling swords and other weapons although not of the highest quality but certainly in the price range of a not so pampered duke’s son. Vendors of clothes, jewelry, inexpensive rugs, trinkets and daggers from as far south as the famed city of Khuul can be had for the cost of a few coppers to the more expensive items that would take silver to buy. Walking up the street, he still could not decide on what he wanted to buy, his only thought was to spend some of his hard-earned silver on what it did not seem to matter. With his mind so preoccupied, he did not see the three boys coming from an alley to his right until it was too late. Cursing himself for a fool for not paying more attention, he watched as three boys around his age stepped out from the alley impeding his progress forcing him to stop abruptly or run into them.

  He knew all three of the boys and he knew this would invariably lead to trouble with most if not all of it for him. Lining up three abreast with their arms folded across their chests, the boys blocked him from proceeding any farther up the street unless he walked through them or around them. Either way it will lead to a fight, so he defiantly stood his ground in front of them. Unlike him, they are dressed in finery matching their stations. Wearing royal court long sleeve doublets in blue, dark brown and black made of heavy brocade fabric with gold buttons and matching black trews tucked into rich black leather knee-high boots the boys dressed the part of pampered sons of nobility. Adding to the aspect of nobility, each wore black thin supple leather capes over their shoulders matching their gold ring belts around their waists and leather encased ornate daggers.

  “Where are you slogging off to dung mucker?” the biggest and leader asked Gawain.

  “Off to see your hated mother for the afternoon while your father is away on the duke's business," Gawain snapped sarcastically.

  Brendan Nielroy Anthor son of the Earl of Qenildor is enraged to the point of irrationality his face now matching his flaming red hair with his large fists clenched tightly at his side while his two sycophants Korin and Malaric stood at his side glaring with murder-filled eyes. The sad part of it is most that knew her truly did hate his mother from the Earl of Qenildor down to the peasant farmers working for the earl. Forced by the King of Riannon into a marriage of convenience to help solidify the northern realms she made it quite clear to any who would listen that she was outraged by the decision and hated the earl and everyone else for that matter. If she loved anything, it could be her son Brendan, and no one is sure about that not even Brendan himself. Dulcina Faylinn Tessaril Anthor is only concerned about her power and prestige she craves so much and the contrived marriage to the Earl of Qenildor was not what she had in mind. Even the earl himself looks the other way knowing she ha
s a long list of playthings she occupies her time with one of them not being Gawain. He implied that she likes boys only to enrage Brendan and now he was not so sure that was a very smart thing to do.

  When the wild punch he expected finally came, Gawain stepped forward with a high block into the crook of Brendan’s right arm stopping the punch. He quickly followed with a straight punch with his right smashing Brendan’s nose to a bloody pulp. Blood dripped from Brendan’s nose as he staggered backwards billowing in rage and anger. Suddenly, all three of them pounced on him like the animals they are punching and kicking him driving his face into the crushed granite and hard-packed dirt of the road. He lost track of how long the three older boys punched and kicked him until they finally tired of it walking off leaving him in the street battered and hurting. Lightning flashed across the cloudy sky followed by a powerful clap of thunder shattering the silence. Following the lightning, the floodgates opened in the sky, and a powerful deluge drenched him unrelentingly pounding him farther into the road.

  “Boy, are you hurt bad? Let me try to help you up lad can you stand?” A kindly voice asked seeming to come from a great distance. Unable to catch the words, Gawain rolled over wincing in pain as he tried to clear his rattled brain and rain filled eyes. Gradually, he began to distinguish a kindly face of an old man and a horse looking down at him. Gawain felt drawn to the horse’s eyes, there is something important hidden there, something pure, filled with light and love drawing him in calling to him asking him to do something but what. Intruding on his thoughts, he heard the old man’s voice but he did not know what he said nor did he care at that moment, all he knew was he had to get up from the street. Wincing he tried to stand, and could not do so on his own. Quickly coming to his aid the kindly old man gently helped him to his feet.

  “Thank you, who are you?” Gawain whispered through clenched teeth trying not to pass out from the pain. The rain abated to that irritating steady drizzle that soaked everything.

  “Just an old man and an old horse passing by at the right time to help you. Those ruffians gave you a sound drubbing but it seems you are made of sterner stuff. Let me help you to my wagon I have some herbs and salves at my shack for a house that will help you so you can be on your way as quickly as possible,” he concluded sincerely without guile.

  Settling in the back of the hay-filled wagon, he noticed for the first time it had stopped raining and the sun was finally breaking through the clouds. Staring at the clouds, listening to the clop clop of the horse’s hooves on the road and the creak of the wagon making its way down the street he wondered where he was going. He was not alarmed in any way he just wondered was all. Then the thought he was not alarmed crept through his pain filled brain, and he tried to understand why he was not justifiable alarmed. He was just beaten half to death, now he finds himself lying in a stranger’s wagon, going to who knows where and he is not the least concerned about it. He winced in pain when the wagon hit a hole in the road and wondered why he was not afraid in the least, on the contrary he never felt safer not even in his father’s castle surrounded by guards. If he could laugh about his predicament, he would but he knew it would hurt too much.

  “Are you faring well lad? I am trying to take it easy with all these bumps and holes in the road and all but rest assured we are almost there.” Gawain did not have the energy to respond so he stared up at the clearing sky waiting for this punishment to stop and finally it did when the wagon abruptly halted.

  Feeling the wagon shift to one side Gawain waited for the old man to climb down from the wagon seat, and come around the back. Gingerly and with great care, he helped Gawain ease himself out of the wagon dragging some hay with him to fall on the ground at his feet. Standing on shaky feet, he took a moment waiting for the pain to subside some and his head to stop spinning hoping all the while that he would not pass out. Resting his hand on the side of the wagon he took a moment to look at his surroundings and found the old man was right his house is nothing more than a shank with a lean-to for the horse. Looking to his right he could see the Brookmoor River between some houses and warehouses across the road. It seemed he was in the northern most part of the town. The funny thing is he could not remember ever seeing this place and he has roamed both the east and west side of this town, across the Brookmoor River from here, all his life.

  With no choice in the matter, he let the old man lead him across the small yard to the front door of the shack and inside to a well-lighted room. The room is bare but clean with a welcoming feather down mattress with a feather down pillow to match. With some effort on the old man's part, they manage to get him into bed, wet clothes and all quickly covering him with a blanket to keep the chill from him. The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the old man telling him he would be right back he had to unhitch horse from the wagon.

  His dreams were fitful at first with him riding a magnificent horse that ran like the wind and fought valiantly at his side against dark creatures attacking them from every direction. He carried a truly magnificent long sword imbued with a pure white light easily killing the grotesque creatures cutting them to pieces as he slashed at them from horseback. When the horse reared and struck with its pure white, steel shod shoes, they had the same destructive effect on the creatures as the sword, except the hooves crushed them, leaving broken remnants of what they once were.

  Quickly shifting, his dream went from them surrounded by hideous creatures fighting for their very lives in a desolate war torn valley, to serenely walking across rolling hills covered in flowers and trees the likes he has never seen. The abundance of color from every color spectrum imaginable threatened to overwhelm his senses. Reaching the crest of a small hill, a covey of strange but beautiful birds reminding him of field pheasant but with coloring to match the flowers and the trees flew out of the vegetation around them startling them. Stopping for a moment, he looked about him noticing the light is different here; it is pure light without glare from the sun. Searching the blue sky seeing only a few puffy white clouds drifting off into the distance, he could not see any evidence of a sun. Glancing down at the bottom of the hill, he spotted a beautiful stream meandering its way between the hills slowly drifting off into the distance.

  Walking his horse down the hill towards the sparkling stream, he heard the pleasant sound of the water gurgling over the rocks drawing his attention to the other sounds around him. He could hear birds in the distance chattering back and forth in a small stand of strange looking trees between two hills; he could hear the leaves of the trees rustling in wind gently blowing across the hills.

  “It is beautiful here is it not?” Startled Gawain turned quickly in his saddle to look behind him with his hand on his sword only to find a man and a woman standing there. They like everything else in this beautiful land gave an impression of perfectness in every way. Seeming to convey no ill intensions towards him, Gawain relaxed his hand from the hilt of his sword.

  “Yes it is beautiful here but where is here?” he asked, dismounting leading his horse by the reins to the stream so she could drink and graze. Letting go of the reins he turned towards the two people getting a better look at them. Both are beautiful beyond compare the man in a handsome way with his long-brown hair and brown eyes and the woman exquisitely beautiful her long-red hair framing a pale but beautiful face.

  “At this moment you are in your dream as it should be and we are here but it is not yet your time to join us,” the man said in a soft voice filled with strength.

  “In your dream you are grown and have become a great warrior but you are truly a young lad sleeping and healing,” the woman said with her musical voice and hers like her companion carried great strength.

  “Why am I here then if it is not my time yet?” Gawain voice shook slightly a little unnerved at having such a vivid dream.

  “Why, silly to talk to us of course,” the woman laughed delightfully.

  “No need to be afraid Gawain you can rest assured you are safe with us and when you wake
from this short rest you will be healed from your injuries. Please heed what we tell you, for our time is growing short. When you wake from this dream the old man will not be there to greet you for his is no longer of your realm. The last task in his long fight against the darkness was to find you and bring you to us. His horse too has one last task in her long battle against the darkness. She needs your loving care and you need the pure light of love that she has to give you in return.”

  “Gawain, it is that what you must do, you will give her all your love and in return she will give you a gift that will help you save kingdoms from the darkness,” the woman added prophetically.

  “How am I being healed?” Gawain asked curiously.

  “He placed you in an ancient but useful healing sleep allowing us to have this short discourse and when you wake you will be completely healed. It is time Gawain, remember to take the horse and love her and care for her until her time in your realm is complete. Oh, and Gawain it would probably be very wise of you not to tell anyone of this dream,” the man said as an afterthought. Both smiled at him suddenly vanishing in a flash of pure white light thrusting him from his dream to wake in shock staring at the ceiling of the shack in disbelief.

  Lying still for a moment, he tried to gather his thoughts, desperately trying to understand a dream so vivid, so real that he could remember all of it in perfect clarity frightened him more than he wanted to admit. Throwing the blanket off him, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He felt wonderful, no pain or any evidence injury. He would have to check his face in a mirror to be sure but he could not feel any injury or swelling with this hands. The door of the shack stood wide open with a shaft sunlight shining through it on the floor. Standing next to the bed for a moment, he watched the dust motes chasing each other around in and out of the light gathering his nerve to go outside to see whether the horse is in the makeshift barn.

  Finally, stepping out into the small yard he saw her. There she stood swayback and all eating hay and drinking water from the watering trough. Gazing at her from a distance, he tried to decide what kind of horse she could be. Solid white, strongly muscled, with beautiful lines even with the swayback he could tell she is a magnificent animal. Coming up behind her he gently ran his hand from her buttocks down he back then through her withers down the side of her neck gently scratching her cheek. She stopped eating looking at him with her amazingly blue eyes boring straight through him with her ability to see his inner spirit, and there deep in her eyes, he could see the pure light of love he had seen earlier.

  “Are you ready to come with me,” he asked her not expecting an answer. She placed her head gently against his chest so he could scratch both her cheeks. With not a halter anywhere in sight, he wondered how he was going to lead her back to the castle. Gently nudging him with her head sending him back a step as if she wanted him to move he realized she was telling him she was ready to go.

  The walk back through the town with the horse following him was quite surreal with people stopping their daily lives to stare in amazement. When he finally turned south on Barge Road the castle jumped out in front of him in its entire majestic splendor. After a short walk, they turned onto Old Bofin Bridge.

  The bridge is a massive affair designed and built long before the castle foundation. Bofin was a renowned dwarf mason who decided that a granite bridge is just the thing to span the river right before the island. The massive bridge and its huge arches span the river for two furlongs. Halfway across the main bridge, a fixed bridge constructed of granite faced the island and right after it, a huge barbican with a drawbridge. At the time of the construction of the bridge, labors cleared the island of trees and built a wooden fortress with a drawbridge leading from the main gate to a wooden gatehouse attached to the barbican. Standing perpetual guard, three towers each 50-foot high at the center of the bridge one on the north side directly in the center and two more on the south side at the apex between the bridge and the wall leading to the barbican loom large and imposing to all that see them. As many years past, the wooden fortress turned into the massive castle that has become a small city in itself. The river creating a natural moat flows around the island forming a large marsh and swamp south of the castle.

  Walking along the bridge with his obedient horse following close behind him, Gawain was deep in thought ignoring the majestic view and anyone that happened to pass by him. The castle with its forty-foot tall outer wall is more than two and one-half furlongs long and perfectly square with four towers sixty foot tall on the front, sides and back walls with colorful pennants and flags with the crests of previous dukes hanging on flagpoles along the tops of the battlements. Someone that has never seen the sight before would be awestruck at its grandeur but for Gawain it was nothing more than what it has always been; a place he calls home.

  The outer walls were built to withstand the most inexorable of attacks on them at twenty foot thick filled with crushed granite and mortar separated in the inside by an outer bailey and an inner wall ten feet thick and eighty feet high. Protruding from the center of the front wall is a massive gatehouse with ninety-foot tall walls and two outer towers one-hundred foot tall with a similar gatehouse at the center of the inner rear wall facing the southern outer wall. The square keep is directly in the center of the inner wall with four towers one hundred and twenty feet tall on each corner with its main walls one hundred ten feet tall.

  People coming to and from the castle pulling carts and carrying heavy loads on their backs stopped what they were doing to gape at them as they passed the towers and turned left heading for the drawbridge leading to the barbican. The guards quickly recognized him coming to attention but with expressions of astonishment wondering why the duke's son is walking nonchalantly into the castle with an old worn-out horse following close on his heels.

  They passed through the barbican lit with torches under a second portcullis leading to another drawbridge to the main castle gatehouse. A mix of torches and lanterns lighted the inside showing the massive gears and counterweights that raise and lower the great drawbridge. Murder holes were spaced evenly along the walls and there are wooden stairs leading to the battlements above.

  Still deep in thought ignoring the strange looks he was getting from the captain of the guard and his men, they left the gatehouse turning an abrupt right past the soldier’s quarters. During the day the castle is a bustle with soldiers cleaning weapons and armor, women in white shirts, and long heavy cotton skirts with red sashes carrying clothes needing washing, buckets of water and food for workers in their heavy leather jerkins and pants repairing the walls. The reaction he got from people was the same as he led the horse to the left to follow the walls to the south gatehouse. On the right, there are more barracks, then farther along quarters for all sorts of support staff to the castle and the grounds. Interspersed between them granite steps leading to the battlements run right up the inside of the walls.

  Finally, reaching the end of the inner wall he turned left with the horse following towards the inner gatehouse. The smell of horse manure and wet horses coming from the stables wafting in the wind brought Gawain out of his long rumination. Along the entire outer back wall are stables for what the hostler calls the finest horses in the land. Stabled here are horses for each knight, squire, courtesan for their carriages and of course, the duke’s favorites. He found an empty stall and led her in closing the gate behind her. His mind still on the events of the day, he returned shortly with a bucket of grain, dumping it in the feed trough. Taking a brush off the shelf, he momentarily drifted off deep in thought, still trying to understand the events of the day and their meaning. He was not grooming her long when he heard the stall door open and knew without looking that it would be his father. Duke Lucian walked into the stall in his riding leathers and knee-high black boots filling the leftover space with his large heavily muscled frame.

  “What have we here lad?” the duke asked his expert eyes scanning the horse and his hands gently touching the sc
ares littering her body.

  “I am not sure father she seems to be fine horseflesh and a magnificent warhorse in her time but used up and near her end.”

  “Aye that she is son,” the duke replied as he stooped low near the horse’s stomach to get a closer look at an unusual scar. The duke initially thought some kind of animal had done this to the horse but after closer inspection, it was clear by the three jagged lines of the scar that no animal made them. The duke’s face paled considerably as he ran his fingers up and down the jagged scar.

  His father’s silence drew Gawain’s attention and when he saw how pale his father’s face had become he became very concerned. “Father, are you alright?" he asked, getting a closer look at the scar his father was looking at. He knew without his father saying anything what caused the ugly scar.

  “Son this horse is a valiant warrior and should be cared for above all else. Feed her only the best grain and groom her before all others. You are to walk her twice a day morning and afternoon. See to her needs until her time has come Gawain.”

  “Yes father I will gladly care for her.”

  “That is good son,” the duke replied turning to leave the stall. “Oh, and son from what I heard tell Brendan’s nose is smashed up real good. It must have been one heck of a fall he took from that horse of his,” he said as an afterthought walking out of the stall closing the door behind him.