Greater Things than Thou

By R.L. Dean

An orphan boy is told that he’s meant for greater things ...

Gray eyes are the mark of those with the Gift: an inherent ability to connect with otherworldly technology. In a dangerous world filled with thieves and bloodshed, the Gift can change your entire life.

Patrin is one such gifted person, and he knows it’s the only reason he’s alive. As a teenager, rescued from bloodthirsty bandits, Patrin give his loyalty to Galin, a deposed Crown Prince, promising to help him seize power.

As Galin teaches him about technology, history, and the shifting moralities of man, Patrin must choose where fate will take him. Galin intends for him to assassinate the current king, but Patrin does not know if he can carry out the bloody task.

With the help of new friends and the beautiful Lady Lena, Patrin will have to decide between helping one of the few people who have ever valued him, or forging his own way in a dark and treacherous world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.L. Dean
• Release date: Nov 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532353260

R.L. Dean

As a native Texan in the early 90s R.L. Dean created door programs for bulletin board software. In 1998 R.L. became a Christian and has taught expositional Sunday School at his local church for eight years. He currently resides in southeast Texas with his wife of 20 years, ten cats, and two stray dogs. He works in the IT industry as a technician for a large restaurant, but his dream is to work professionally creating novels, television shows, and films.

Book preview

PART 1 - BALER

Divider

Chapter 1

   As winter settles in, an old man sits down to write the tale of his youth.  A sense of melancholy, of love lost, and the disappointment of labors performed in vain cloak his shoulders.  He leans forward, the feather pen in the weathered knuckles of his hand hovering over parchment.  Asking himself where it all began was unnecessary ... time could not erase the flames that leapt in his mind's eye.

   My first memory is that of my house burning down— of heat and blood and sweat— the things that would become the fruit of my life.  A mere boy then, I am old now writing this tale, and my body bears the scars of Galin's plans.

   I do not remember my mother or my father.  Nor do I recall any brothers or sisters.  Though I surely had them, they were seared from my mind along with all feelings from my heart.  The flames licked at the dry whitewash planks of my home ... or perhaps it was a neighbor's home.  Maybe I was staying the night with a friend.  I do not even recall the name of where I lived.  From my years in conversation with Galin, relating to him my memories of the countryside and certain little things, like the sassabrush blossoms that would blow in the wind and cover everything, he came to believe I was raised south of the Vis River near the trading town of Orlon but not the town itself.  Orlon is too large and too well defended for the events that took place that night to have occurred.

   I am convinced I will never know if he were right, but it's not a burden to be ignorant of that particular truth.  After this much time, it no longer matters.

   There was a hot wind that summer night, lending strength to the fires that were started by Baler's men during the raid.  The air churned with smoke, desperation, and fear.  People rushed by, running wild through the dirt-packed streets.  Women carried babies and dragged children by the arm, and I remember a bug-eyed man pulling at a frightened cow.  Homes burst into red and orange ... men working with useless buckets of water to put out a growing avenue of flames.  A horse ran over someone.  She looked right at me before her face slammed into the dirt.  Odd, I cannot recall my own mother's face, but that woman's face is very vivid ... tangible even.

   I was paralyzed, unable to move, watching everything that I must have cared for turn to ash because of Baler's cruelty and greed.  There were sounds of fighting; of what I now know as swords being pulled from scabbards and the ring of metal on metal and then the sounds of dying.  It was Baler himself, and not one of his men, that found me.  He was a large man.  One moment I was in the midst of an infernal chaos, and then the next, he was standing in front of me.  His sweaty face was half in shadows and half glowing with raging firelight, his beard grimy and long hair tangled.  He looked like he came from the Wildrun.  That's the way I always remember him— a brute, a large and ugly abscess in my life.

   I said hello to him and asked him who he was.

   His beard split into a smile of rotten teeth.  Why, I'm the Old Man of the Woods come to steal you, boy!

   The Old Man of the Woods ... it's a name mothers use to frighten precocious children from straying too far from home.  He will come and take you, like a lamb that escapes the shepherd's notice and is taken by a wolf.  It was then that I realized all of this was my fault.  The fire, the panic, the deaths ... I was the cause ... the Old Man of the Woods would not come unless you did something wrong.  Something surged in my body and my rigid legs broke free of their hold.  Two steps into my run I heard Baler laugh, and then there was a flash of pain in the back of my head and blackness.

* * *

   I woke gagging on the smell of moldy potatoes.  I thought I opened my eyes, but it was black, like they were still closed.  My ribs ached and my stomach felt hollow.  I was laying on something, the weight of my own body stretching me out and my hands were tied behind my back.  That something was moving ... ponderously like a plow horse.

   I tried to turn my head and the pain in the base of my skull was like a dagger being shoved out of my eye.  Something wet and sticky ran down the side of my face ... I licked my lips and tasted copper.  It was then that I learned there is no limit to the amount of fear a person can experience.  The realization that it was blood I tasted energized my limbs.  I bucked and twisted.  It was a brief and futile attempt at freedom.  My feet and hands were tied and numb.  Floundering on the horse's back caused the potato sack to rub against my sweaty skin, burning my chin and shoulders.  The horse neighed in protest and someone hit me on my backside.  Stop squirming, boy, a gruff voice said.  So trapped in the heat, itching and hurting, I closed my eyes and waited.

   From time to time during that long ride to Baler's camp I could hear his men talking.  Their voices were weary, but they were pleased at the crimes they had accomplished.  At that age, I didn't understand their lewd remarks about the women that had fallen victim to their lusts.  Realization grew over time, but by then my life was ... horrible ... and their ill behavior normal fare.  As the ride lengthened their conversation shifted to complaints and their language grew coarser.  Listening to them, I wondered about my grievous errors in life.  How many times was I told to go to bed now and not done it, or something else equally offensive ... something that would make the Old Man of the Woods notice me.  I don't remember all of my jumbled thoughts then ... just regret at my perceived sins and fear of what was going to happen to me.  I was convinced I was going to die, and so not being able to escape my fate, tied up and choking on my own body heat inside a sack, I did what was natural for a child to do.  I cried.

Chapter 2

   The old man sits his pen down, rubbing his fingers.  Morning has come and gone, but he hasn't written much.  It's not failing memory or even the pain of those memories that slows his progress.  It's the pain and stiffness in his hands from numerous knife fights.  He gets up and walks to the back porch.  Under a towering pine— a sapling when he first came to Galin's refuge here in the forest— is the grave of Garret.  The old man dug that grave himself with his own scarred hands, but it was a task meant for Galin's hands.  Princes use people up and leave the weight of loss for others to bear, he muses. 

   Decades have passed since that night, but I wonder how much better off I am now than I was then.  I still have a faint scar on the back of my head where Baler struck me with the pommel of his sword.  It took better than a week for the rashes to go away from where the sack rubbed me.  Sometimes I itch for no reason.

   Not long before his death, Serin told me I should write out my story so that I could reflect upon it.  Perhaps placing my memories and thoughts in order would help me dispel this melancholy.  I feel I have to write this, perhaps he was right, putting everything down in order will help me see some meaning in my life.

* * *

   I suppose I passed out.  The transition from crying to the sense of freefall as I was dumped off the horse was a blank.  I hit the ground flat on my stomach, the breath knocked out of me.  My mouth opened in a yell that came out more as a strangled whisper.

   Careful with him, someone said.  Baler wants him whole.

   There was a shuffle of boots and a loud snort, then, a new voice said, I don't know why.  He looks pretty weak.

   They speculated on what Baler would do with me and laughed, but the throbbing in my head made it impossible to concentrate entirely on what they were saying.  My body was coming alive with aches and my skin felt like it was blistering.  I floated in and out of consciousness.  Between the heat and pain, I was sure I would die tied up in the sack.  When next I came to my senses it was still hot, but not the suffocating heat of the sack.  Instead, I was lain out on my back staring up at the dawn, or evening, sky through pine tree branches.  It was a scene out of a painting, those gray clouds lazily floating by.  I felt disoriented and realized that I vomited on myself ... I did it again.  Afraid I would choke, I tried to roll over, but the ropes now bound my hands in front of me and tied to my waist and my feet were still held tight.

   I thrashed, turned my neck and let the bile spill out on to the ground.  Eventually my jerking and choking brought attention, and worn boots appeared by my head.  A moment later, a heavy heel pulled back as if to stomp me, and I gritted my teeth, trying to tuck my head in to my chest.

   The blow never came.

   I looked up at the filthy man standing over me.  He was tall with mismatched clothes, torn in places.  The tan face with its thin, patchy, beard did not belong to the Old Man of the Woods.

   Keep quiet boy, he snarled, then kicked dust and twigs in my face before walking away.

   Gil is long dead now, but I will never forget him.  I found out very soon after that first night that he was in charge of me.  Baler ordered him to feed and keep watch over me, with instructions that he wasn't to harm me ... or harm me to the extent that it wouldn't heal.  Gil didn't like being a babysitter and he detested me.

* * *

   I don't know how long I lay there, feeling sorry for myself and horrified at what was going to happen to me.  Ever so slowly, like watching paint dry, dawn began to open the forest.  Leaves and dirt worked in to my cuts and rashes, a stick poked in my back.  As the light grew, every pain in my body seem to intensify.  It was not a trick of the light, but a trick of time— my body was abused for too long without rest.  Through the pain and aches, I took in my surroundings.  I can say with certainty we passed through the Blackpine Forest, or a thicket near it, because the trees were of that type— strong and tall, black pines.  Probably the southern edge of the forest, Baler would have stayed away from the more northern districts because of the soldiers on regular patrols around Whitefield and the larger cities.  He didn't have enough strength to risk drawing state attention.  Galin thinks I was about eight or ten when Baler took me, and he himself already enmeshed in the legitimate duties of a Crown Prince— rather than simply sitting beside his father the king like a handsome, smiling puppet.

   There are not many oldsters, like me, still living that remember Baler, but he was accomplished for his time.  If he were more charismatic and garnered more reliable men then he might be known as a rebel, and not a bandit.

   It was a makeshift camp— bedrolls, cooking pots over the remains of small fires, and slumbering men.  They lay scattered and as the dawn turned to morning, they begin to rise, coughing and hacking, spitting and peeing.  Weary men awakened from a night of half sleep.  I didn't see Baler at first, but I remember him bellowing from one side of the camp.  The few men still trying to sleep stood up quickly.  I heard, rather than saw, him make his way across the camp to me.  He looked even more disheveled than when he grabbed me the night before.  His eyes were bloodshot and his beard littered with bits of bread and grime.  Gil was with him, grimacing.  For a few moments Baler just stared at me, then said, Feed him, and get him clean him up.  Those cuts will become infected.

   Gil snorted, Baler ignored him and walked away.  He watched Baler's back.  His face reminded me of a rat.  It was easy to imagine his eyes turning red.  He hunched down and grabbed my wrists with one hand and pulled a gutting knife from his belt.  Cutting me loose wasn't a gentle process.  With my feet still tingling from blood rushing back in to them, he half dragged me to a deer pond and dropped me in it.

   I'm not a nursemaid, he yelled.  Get cleaned up!

   I was on my hands and knees in the water ... I made the mistake of turning my head and staring at him.  He kicked me over and started yelling again.

   My name is Gil.  You call me sir!  Do what I say when I say it!

   My heart was hammering in my chest, and I had held my bladder for so long, and I was so afraid that I peed on myself.  With half numb hands, I splashed water on myself used my shirt like a washcloth.  I cleaned my blood matted hair, the scrapes and cuts, and behind my ears.

   When Gil dragged me out of the water and back to the camp he somehow found a pair of boots and made me wear them, explaining, I don't want Baler blubbering about your tender little feet.

   The boots were too big, but I felt strangely gratified.  I was barefoot, with only a shirt and pants, when Baler took me.  When I say that I was gratified I mean to Baler ... because it was fear of him that kept Gil from killing me.  It was by Baler's word that I was being cared for.  Gil shoved a raw potato in my hand.  My stomach was empty and I wanted it, but I stared at it.  My thoughts were shifting between thinking that it could be my last meal and wondering what Baler wanted with me.  Why was he keeping me alive?  By then, I realized that he was not the Old Man of the Woods.  If he were then surely I would already be dead.  But who was he?

   I couldn't have known it then, but Baler had plans for me, and later Galin too would have plans for me.  One, a self-proclaimed bandit king, and the other a deposed prince.  It's been decades, and I still wonder which of them left the deepest scars.

Chapter 3

   From the porch, the old man walks to the small stable where Kirin stands lazily while Hefft brushes her.  Except for the occasional ride for exercise, she doesn't stretch her legs much these days.  The day he bought her, he decided that she was the last horse he would ever own.  He was tired of watching them die.  Hefft too, he decided then, he would send him to the city ... he was still young enough to marry and create his own destiny.  Hefft smiles in greeting, oblivious to this new idea of his, but Kirin snorted and jerked her head.

   As Baler and his men pulled camp and mounted to leave, Gil tied my hands to a lead rope, then he tied the other end to his saddle.  Baler caught sight and turned his big bay toward us.  The argument with Gil was brief, leaving him in a worse mood than when I first opened my eyes and saw him.  He jumped up in the saddle, then with my hands still tied, he hoisted me roughly up behind him and wrapped the excess rope around my arms.  If you run I'll put a knife through your back, I swear it.  So, please try to run.

   Thankfully, my bladder was empty.  Sitting so close in the saddle to him, I would have peed on both of us.

   In a train of twenty men plus pack horses, Baler led us through a trail clogged with brush from disuse.  I don't know if it was just how the positions fell out, or if it was intentional, but Gil was last.  At times, he would curse the dust and me, and then fall silent, seething, then start cursing again.  Gil was one of those men that reeked malice, like an aura.  It would take almost five years before he was sure of himself enough to attempt my life.  He hated his new position in Baler's camp hierarchy, but he needed some excuse that Baler would believe before arranging my death.  As a child I didn't understand why he hated me so much.  It was a long time before I realized that he was just ... malicious ... evil.

   Under Galin's care, I saw much more of the world than Baler's faux fiefdom and I met a lot of people.  Some were like Gil, cruel and openly hateful.  Others were more subtle like Lady Elsina, in Whitefield, whose face shown like an angel's— while she poured poisoned tea.  I met men like Garret, those with integrity, but they were few ... so very few.

   So the horses moved at a slow walk along Baler's chosen path, and I endured under Gil's cursing while my arms cramped in the ropes and the blood stopped flowing to my hands.  We stopped overnight three more times before reaching Baler's main encampment.  Each time Gil would jerk me off the horse, tie me to a tree, attend to his needs, and lie down on his bedroll, drinking and sleeping for most of the evening before seeing to me.  Gil wasn't popular with the rest of Baler's men.  I don't know if it was because he was new to their particular criminal organization and hadn't earned his stripes— certainly his lot never improved all the time I was there— or if it was because of some other reason ... perhaps his attitude.  No one under Baler's rule could be described as kind, but it was as if Gil stank.  He would untie me and give me a cup of water with a potato or piece of bread.  His breath was always foul from drinking and the glint in his eyes from the fires that the men lit to push back the darkness made me shake at times.  One night, he fell asleep so drunk that he forgot to tie me back up.  I was so terrified that I pulled my knees up, wrapped my arms around them, and tried to sleep.

   Each morning Baler would walk through the camp yelling until everyone was up ... some needed a boot to help them.  Gil thought I needed to be slapped on my head, even though I was always awake before Baler started his bellowing.  I was soft as a child, sleeping on the ground, suffering abuse at Gil's hands, the ropes cutting into my wrists ... those three days were hard.  It was years away before I would toughen up and could endure the mistreatment.

   Denion is a humid country.  Foreigners have described the air as suffocating in the summer and the feeling of freezing from the lungs out during the winter.  It was high summer when Baler abducted me.  In the Settlement of Denion, an extremely dry text that Serin insisted I read as part of my education, it tells of thousands of deaths among the immigrants related to lung fever during the early years of the settlement period.  Our forefathers came from beyond the Northwall, where it's far colder but drier.

   The forest heat was oppressive.  Gil's body odor was foul.  Last night's drink was spilled on his clothes and mixed with his sweat.  When I gagged, he would curse at me, words that didn't make sense to a boy of perhaps eight or nine ... but the tone was threatening.  I did my best to call him sir when I apologized, which seemed to make him angrier.

   It was the night before we reached the end of our trip that I heard the men talking of something other than their exploits during the burning of my village.  I was tied to a tree, and through the haze of exhaustion and pain the ropes caused, I was aware of Gil sitting nearby.  He was staring into the flames of a small fire, drinking and, I guess, contemplating his own angry little existence.  In the background, I could hear the muttered voices and laughter of Baler's men— then Gil suddenly yelled at them to shut up.  He threatened and cursed them, which caused them to laugh more.  In a drunken frenzy, he jumped up, stumbling through the fire, he yelled something at me, and threw the swill in his cup at me— missed— and cursed more.

   Hey, nursemaid, someone yelled.  Don't throw away good ale!

   They were teasing him.  The very men he kept company with ridiculed him.  I think I came close to dying that night, it was only fear of Baler that restrained him.  He beat me black and blue, and I hated the men for what they did to him.  The next morning, I was so sore I could hardly walk.  He cursed because I wasn't quick enough for him.  I guess some of my innocence broke then ... I promised myself that I would pay him back for every bruise.  It was a child's promise, quick and intense, sincere without any understanding of what it would take to actually see it through.  I failed to keep that promise, but he was destined to die quickly by Garret's blade— without suffering.  I'm not sure I ever forgave Garret.

Chapter 4

   Hefft was gone now.  The old man sent him to Lady Elsina's residence in Whitefield with a letter of introduction.  He long suspected Garret descended from Denion's peerage, despite his protestations, and Elsina's daughter Elisa— the Lady herself long passed away— was in a position to verify his suspicions and trace the deceased sergeant's lineage.  She would ensure that the boy married well ... perhaps to a niece or country cousin of one of her ladies in waiting.  Whoever it was, she would be pretty, healthy, and wealthy.  Hefft could stop trying to be his grandfather, Garret, and become a father.

   I often wonder what made our forefathers migrate this far south and displace the people that formerly lived in Denion of the past.  There is a long and vibrant history recorded after they arrived here but nothing before.  When I was much younger and Serin sparked my curiosity with reading, I asked him about it.  He thought the history was recorded somewhere, but it's not at the Royal Archives in Whitefield.  Between the two of us we have over seventy years of experience in ferreting out scrolls in the dark stone corridors and cobwebbed shelves.  If it were there, we would have found it.  I did, however, find the origin story for the Old Man of the Woods ... curious that Serin never showed it to me.  He was a native living in the Grandwood, resisting the logging attempts by our people.  Those early villages and loggers were often attacked by the large gray wolves that roam the area, and the Old Man of the Woods was said to command them.  Baby snatching was also attributed to him and his wolves as well.  Stories and sightings of an old man, bedraggled, wild eyed, with deer antlers tied to his head persist in our written history long after he would have died.

   I didn't see any wolves on that trip, and by the time we reached the encampment any idea that I was taken by the Old Man of the Woods was gone.  Baler and his men were bandits.  The pack horses carried things stolen from my village.  The blood that still crusted some of the men's sword scabbards belonged to people that I knew ... had once known.  That feeling— my heart pounding when we first came into the clearing— it was like a blacksmith's anvil was dropped on my chest.  There was this sense of hopelessness.  Whatever Baler had planned for me was permanent.  Like dogs, soaked in the rain and forest murk, we entered the cluttered