Elwise

By W.Wm. Mee

The story you are about to read is a ‘historical fantasy’. It tells of an ancient, medieval type society in the far off land of Oma-Var and how the use of the phenomenon we know as ‘gunpowder’ changed their world --- but it is much more than that.
As every good tale should be, it is also a story about people. Good ones, bad ones --- and like most of us, the in-between ones.
And lastly, as all good tales must be, it is a story about love. That age old emotion that has thrilled, captivated and haunted us down through the ages --- ‘love’, in all its many forms, flavours and ever changing faces.
The young kind with its quick beating heart; butterflies in the stomach and its anxious, glorious anticipation!
The older, more mature kind that slowly tempers the mercurial passions of youth and grows deeper and sweeter with the passing years.
And lastly the dark, twisted kind. Born not out of caring, sacrifice and compassion but out of lust, jealousy and ownership.
These forms and others are represented in this tale, waiting only for the powder keg of emotions to be set ablaze by the strike of a firelock or the flash of a haughty look.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Sep 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215938386

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

ELWISE

by

W.Wm.Mee

A Fantasy about Love,

Obsession & Revenge

In far off Oma-Var

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2023 W.Wm.Mee

***

INTRODUCTION

‘Long Ago & Far Away ’

The story you are about to read is a ‘historical fantasy’. It tells of an ancient, medieval type society in the far off land of Oma-Var and how the use of the phenomenon we know as ‘gunpowder’ changed their world --- but it is much more than that.

As every good tale should be, it is also a story about people. Good ones, bad ones --- and like most of us, the in-between ones.

And lastly, as all good tales must be, it is a story about love. That age old emotion that has thrilled, captivated and haunted us down through the ages --- ‘love’, in all its many forms, flavours and ever changing faces.

The young kind with its quick beating heart; butterflies in the stomach and its anxious, glorious anticipation!

The older, more mature kind that slowly tempers the mercurial passions of youth and grows deeper and sweeter with the passing years.

And lastly the dark, twisted kind. Born not out of caring, sacrifice and compassion but out of lust, jealousy and ownership.

These forms and others are represented in this tale, waiting only for the powder keg of emotions to be set ablaze by the strike of a firelock or the flash of a haughty look.

***

The Path To Oma-Var

‘First left past the Milky Way.

On out to greet the newborn day,

As it dawns.

Skipping over sunbeams we move on.

This is the Land of Make-Believe

All things here are fantasy,

You and Me;

We are all just learning to be free.’

***

Chapter 1: ‘New Tricks For An Old Dog’

Castle Landismere in the Slain Mountains,

The northern part of the Kingdom of Tyree.

Year 55 of the 4th Age of Oma-Var,

The sixth year of King Donalbain’s iron-fisted rein.

The harsh, strident clang of metal on metal filled the ancient courtyard. The noon day sun cast all into either bright light or dark shadow. The two combatants, wearing gleaming but dented breastplates over slashed doublets and colourful hose, hacked away at each other, the sun’s rays reflecting off their flashing blades.

The older of the two was a fierce eyed, short, swarthy fellow from the southern Hot Lands called ‘Blademaster Jocomo Baradaldi’. He was fairly new to Count Landismere’s service, and though often sullen and temperamental, there were none that could best the little man with a bladed weapon. Today he wielded a long heavy, two-handed Great Sword or ‘Flambrand’, the signature blade of the fifty elite shock troops in the count’s five hundred strong ‘Company of Pikes’.

Blademaster Jocomo’s student was the count’s red headed daughter, Yolanda Landismere. A head taller than her tutor, she was using a ‘katzbalger’, the weapon carried by all five hundred of the Count’s Pikemen. It is a short, one handed weapon with a serpentine double ring guard. It can either split a log for the fire or a man’s skull --- just the kind of short, fast weapon needed to counter the much heavier, longer but slower Great Sword wielded today by the smaller man from the mysterious Hot Lands far to the south.

CLANG!

The five foot long ‘flambrand’ was parried neatly by the much shorter ‘katzbalger’ --- but the count’s daughter was far from finished. She then slide her shorter weapon up the longer, wider blade to where a claw-guard, much like the thorns on a rose stem, flared out to catch or deflect an opponent’s edge. The red headed beauty then twirled like a dancer, swinging the flat of her blade in a wide arc meant to slam into her adversary’s armored back. Only this time it slammed not into Blademaster Jocomo, but his already waiting ‘great sword’.

This surprise defense not only rebounded her lighter blade away, but sent a numbing shock up the young woman’s arm and on into her shoulder! Then Jocomo, light as a dancer himself, skipped backwards, thrust the long blade between the stunned woman’s legs and pushed the long handle off to the side --- neatly tripping the countess-to-be and landing her solidly on her noble backside.

Sa et set, Mea-Flama! Jocomo said in his thick, liquid Hot Land tongue. "Bout and match, Lady Flame! My four kills to your one! But you are improvings, Mea-Flama! Last months you were lucky to win one bout in a weeks!"

"Lucky am I? Yolanda countered, rolling lightly to her knees and leaning on her sword. I can’t feel my bloody hand!"

Jocomo shrugged. Zere is a price to pay for everythings my lady --- and not all of it in gold or silvers.

Her green eyes narrowed. "You knew I was going to pivot?! Bastardey! she said, copying one of his favorite curses. But how?! I haven’t used that move in over a week!"

"Ahhhh, but you show in your --- isos, in your ‘eyes’, Mea Flama! Zey become bigger just before you turn."

Shit! Yolanda muttered just as the count, watching silently from the shadows, stepped out into the light. The overhead sun glistened off his breastplate, the ancient ‘flambrand’ he carried on his shoulder and the smile that lit up his weathered face.

Blademaster Jocomo, the count said as he strode across the courtyard. I must congratulate you on a job well done! You have succeeded where all others, including myself, have failed!

The short yet powerfully built swarthy little man bowed deeply, then frowned as he rose and absently stoked his dark moustache. You have me at disadvantages, Count Landismere, for I know not of which you speak.

"I ‘speak’, sir, about the fact that you and you alone are the only one in the castle --- if indeed not the whole of Tyree --- that has ever knocked my headstrong daughter on her ass!"

Jocomo, though still learning the dialect of Tyree, understood well the meaning of the count’s words. "She is what we call in my land, a ‘fray-domma’. A ‘naturals’ I believe you’d say in your somewhat barbaric tongue. I show her somezing once, and after a few tries, fakeeseo! It is mastered --- zough zat rather obvious ‘twirl’ she just attempted was definitely not her finest momentos."

Jocomo stepped closer to the count and lowered his voice. "I keep telling her to guard her isos and also the set of her chins, but ‘sa!’ Does she listen to my sage advices?! Netata!"

Still smiling, though now for different reasons, the count leaned down and spoke into the much shorter man’s ear. "Her mother, may her spirit rest in peace, was just the same! Beautiful, intelligent, but she never listened either! Netata!"

As the two men continued to share their joke, Yolanda stood up, bowed to the Blademaster, kissed her father quickly on the cheek and headed inside. Stripping off her gloves, breastplate and leathers as she went, she called out that she was headed for the bathhouse and was in need of some very strong wine!

As the count watched his youngest child stride away his heart swelled with both love and pride. His wife had given him three healthy children, dying herself shortly after Yolanda’s birth. Two of his children, Lancel the first born and Yolanda the last, were the joys of his life --- but as for the middle one, Rodamund, sadly there had been nothing but one disappointment after another.

Excuse me, Lord, said Geoff, an old servant that had been born into Landismere service and had known the count as a boy. Your son is here and wishes to see you.

The count turned, his smile even wider. "Lancel is here?!"

"No Lord, I’m afraid not. It is your other son, Rodamund. Newly arrived back from the distant Isles of Chin I believe."

The smile was suddenly replaced by a frown. "Rodamund? Here? But he wasn’t due back for another month or more! What devilry has the boy been up to now?!"

The servant, long aware of the count’s legendary temper, knew better than to hazard a guess --- especially when it came to his master’s younger son. ‘Rod the Rowdy’ as many called him, was a handsome, but rather wayward youth, always in some kind of trouble --- usually involving either money or women --- or both.

I’m sure I don’t know, my lord the old servant said politely; but Lord Rodamund has arrived with several wagonloads of very large crates.

The Count’s frown deepened. He thrust the long, heavy ‘flambrand’ out for the frail old servant to take. The man did so gingerly, sagging under the great sword’s considerable weight. Grounding the rounded point on the stone floor for support, the servant watched as his master went off to greet his youngest son, thinking to himself that he’d seen the count more eager to confront foes on a battlefield than he was to greet his wayward offspring.

***

"And I’ll tell you once more, Rodamund, that I like neither them nor the men who use the accursed things! the count growled, tossing the expensive looking handgunn down on the table. Only a fool would trust his life to a temperamental machine instead of a good blade and the strength of his own arm!"

The handgunn in question was a strangely erotic looking weapon, almost ‘phallic’ in nature. Made of grey steel elaborately engraved and dark wood polished to a smooth luster, it felt like a long, heavy dagger in the hand --- yet at the flick of a finger it could send forth red death faster than a crossbow bolt could fly!

"No real soldier would sell his honour so cheaply as to use such pretty abominations!" the count continued, glaring down at the deadly work of art.

"But father, they are the weapon of the future!" Rodamund said; as usual his easy smile and handsome face was offset by his insolent, mocking tone.

"Not my future! the young man’s father countered with considerable force. I want nothing to do with them! They lack all honour!"

Rodamund’s handsome smile suddenly became something else, for though he was accustomed to his father’s obvious disappointment with him, Rodamund thought this new trade deal to import Chin firelocks would change things for the better. Finding out that it did not made him angry. "They may lack your precious ‘honour’, father, but they kill just as well if not better than that rusting heirloom you carry on your hip!"

The count’s hand went to the ancient katzbalger at his side. It had once belonged to his great-great grandfather, the fourth Count of Landismere; given to him by his best friend and then newly crowned king of Tyree, Domanos the Just, as one of many rewards for faithful service nearly two hundred years ago.

Calmer now, Rodamund continued more smoothly; Father, soon every soldier, officer and strutting lackwit in the kingdom will be sporting a firelock right alongside your beloved swords!

The count frowned at his youngest son. "They may be carried by strutting fools with more money than brains and shown off like over dressed strumpets displaying their latest bobbles, but they’ll never replace the age-old weapons of pike, spear and crossbow --- and certainly not sharp edged steel!"

Once again the younger son contradicted the man that had sired him. "They may not replace then, father --- at least not in what’s left of your lifetime, but they can and will be used alongside the older style weapons in mine!"

Rodamund paused briefly, lowered his voice and continued. "Father, all the more progressive nobles are already raising companies of ‘handgunners’ to fight alongside their pikes and crossbowmen. The cavalry as well are looking into each man carrying a brace of pistols strapped across his mount’s neck! Why, King Donalbain himself already has three companies of handgunners and is training three more companies with the newer, long barrelled muskets!"

Count Vilhelm Landismere looked at his youngest son and, not for the first time, wondered where he had gone wrong. His other two children had turned out just fine. Lancel, his eldest, was a soldier of great fame and was overall commander of both the five hundred strong ‘Landismere Pikes’, and the fifty elite ‘Flambrands’. His daughter Yolanda, a considerable swordswoman in her own right, not only ran the castle itself, but the daily business of dealing with the local farmers, artisans and tradesmen that lived in and around Castle Landismere. When the bloody and destructive ‘civil war’ had finally ended and the count had been sent as a ‘political prisoner’ to the tower, it was Lancel’s strong right arm and his daughter quick, keen mind that had kept the wolves from the castle door!

The count now paused and glanced around his ancestral home. The large, run down pile of ancient stones and the few acres around it were the only thing the newly crowned King Donalbain had left him after the war had ended six years ago --- the first five of which the count had spent locked in the King’s Tower --- as had most the nobles that had backed the late king and not his usurping younger brother. Only after Lancel had finally sworn fealty to the new king and Yolanda had sold off what little lands they had left could they ‘buy’ the count’s freedom.

They had brought him home a little over a year ago and nursed him back to health --- while Rodamund, the count’s youngest son, was off gambling, whoring and spending money he did not have. Then, six months ago, Rodamund had taken a sudden interest in the family shipping business. At the time the count had been hopeful yet skeptical --- and indeed things had seemed to be working out quite well, for profits from cargo shipped both to and from the mysterious Isles of Chin had greatly increased the Count’s nearly empty coffers! The ‘problem’ came however when Yolanda finally told the Count just what Rodamund had been bringing back from Chin.

"He buys iron ore from here in the Slain Mountains, has it delivered to our port on the coast and then ships it eastward to the Chin Isles, the red headed beauty had reluctantly told her father just a few days earlier. He then sells the ore to the Chin foundries --- where they use the metal to produce hundreds of those new handgunns and long barrelled muskets." Her father had frowned at that, and, taking a deep breath, she had rushed on to deliver the worst of the news. "Rodamund then buys those in bulk, brings the weapons and the powder they use back here to Tyree and sells it to the highest bidder --- who often as not turns out to be the new king --- the same man that stole most our lands and put you in prison!"

"He sells firelocks to Donalbain?!" the count had gasped.

Reluctantly Yolanda had nodded.

The count had not taken the news very well at all! He was not happy that his offspring was spreading the use of a new weapon that he himself found repulsive. But he was even less happy that King Donalbain, the man he hated most in this life, was encouraging his son to do so!

As ever Yolanda had tried to smooth things over between her father and her often foolish younger brother. She’d respectfully pointed out to that change, though at times unsettling, was also ‘unstoppable’. Sooner or later, father, the ‘old’ is always replaced by the ‘new’. Therefore, she had calmly continued; "why shouldn’t Roddy be the one to profit by selling this amazing new weapon? The money he has already brought into the family has allowed me to pay off all our ‘outstanding debts’ and some of our long term ones as well! After one or two more ‘voyages to Chin’ we will not only be debt free for the first time since the war, but able to buy back some of the land that we were forced to sell to pay the bills!"

‘The Civil War’ was a sore point with the count. Just over six years ago --- shortly after the death of