Waxley the Bold Ch. 01

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slyc_willie
slyc_willie
1,343 Followers

Waxley's shoulders sagged. "That is because before, I was a simple pick-pocket," he said. "And, Idunn knows why, but I found that exciting. But I didn't know what my lot in life was, then. Now I know."

She smiled widely. "Yes. The hero of Crawley's Crossing, Waxley the Bold!"

Waxley grimaced, waved his arms erratically as he stepped away again. "Stop that!" he cried. "You're as bad as the rest of them!"

Corabell looked suddenly indignant. She placed her hands on her hips and frowned. "As bad as who? The people of this village who look up to you? The Warrows who now see you as an inspiration, rather than a running joke? Is that 'them?'"

Waxley closed his eyes, sighed heavily. "I didn't mean--"

"Waxley Paddins," she huffed. "I came here to offer myself to you, fully and completely, and you're sounding like the spoiled brat I knew last week, who tried to goad me into letting him sneak a peek up my skirt behind Maddy Lowens' barn!"

Waxley stared, jaw working as if to say something. But he closed his mouth, looked away, trying to sort through the emotions and thoughts tumbling in his mind. "You're right," he said at last, his voice calm now. "I'm not making much sense."

Corabell's features softened somewhat. "That's better," she said.

Waxley raised his hands, held them a few inches apart as he closed his eyes and searched for the most diplomatic words he could conceive. "It's like this," he said, opening his eyes. "Riley was slain by a dire badger, correct?"

Corabell frowned, crossed her arms. All sexiness that had been evident in her before now seemed to have vanished. "Okay, right," she said, expectant.

"All right," continued Waxley. "Riley was sent out to hunt this monster, because everyone knows that he was the best hunter, and he's fought them before. Right?"

She sighed. "Right."

"But Riley gets killed, ambushed by the dire badger. That would seem to be the end of it. No one else could hunt such a monster."

"Well, perhaps there is--"

Waxley squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "Right?"

Corabell rolled her eyes. "Fine. Right."

Waxley opened his eyes again. "That night, stupid and full of vengeance, his nephew takes Riley's crossbow out into the woods, encounters some goblins, some of whom he slays. He overhears the goblins talking about a 'master' who controls the badger, and them, as well. A master who will command them to attack Crawley's Crossing when the 'time is right.'"

Corabell frowned, some of her indignance gone. "What are you getting at?" she asked.

Waxley paused a moment, bringing his thoughts together. He looked at her meaningfully. "When do you think would be the best time to attack the village?"

Corabell shrugged. "At night?" she asked.

Waxley shook his head. "I mean, conditions. If you were going to attack Crawley's Crossing--"

"I would never do such a thing, even if I could!"

"Just . . . Listen to me, please!"

Corabell frowned, fell silent.

"If you were going to attack Crawley's Crossing, what would be the best way to do it? Our village is well-fortified; we have a wall that stands half again the height of a Luthit, with constables patrolling at all hours. We have one of the most renowned and skillful hunters in all the Warrow lands, a man capable of standing against a dozen goblins, by himself, armed with only a butter knife and a loincloth. Now, how would you weaken Crawley's Crossing?"

Corabell shrugged. ". . . kill some of the constables," she said in a meek voice.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Waxley, jabbing a finger at Corabell, startling her. "Not just some of the constables, but the constable, the one Warrow who poses the most threat! Then, after he was dispatched, you would draw out the others, kill them a few here, a few there. Right?"

Corabell shrugged. "I would suppose . . . ."

"Eventually, there would be no one left to guard the town, save a few stout villagers with pitchforks and spears. But then, unexpectedly, there's a new threat. Someone that no one would ever think could be a hero. He slays a few goblins, helps capture some prisoners . . . And everyone looks to him for inspiration. And all the while, the dire badger is still out there, and so is the master who commands him . . . A master who doesn't want heroes in Crawley's Crossing."

Corabell stared, but her clouded eyes indicated she was thinking, finally beginning to follow Waxley's train of thought. "You mean . . . ."

"Riley always told me, 'the most dangerous part of a serpent is not its bite, but the venom it carries.' This 'master' is the venom, and the goblins and dire badger are just its fangs. And if a serpent could, where would it strike? Not the arm or leg, but the heart."

Corabell suddenly understood. "He's going to come after you, isn't he?" she asked fearfully. "This . . . This 'master' is going to come after you."

Waxley nodded with a sigh of relief that Corabell finally understood. "Yes, I think so," he said. "Whether I like it or not, whether I've earned it or not, I am now the inspiration for Crawley's Crossing. And this 'master,' who wants to ravage and burn our village, will not set his goblins against us until I am dead."

Corabell swallowed nervously. "And . . . How will he do this?" she asked.

Waxley spread his arms wide. "In tried and true fashion," he said. "He will set the dire badger upon me."

Corabell's eyes suddenly became liquid. "Oh, Waxley, no!" she cried. "What--"

"I have to meet it first," he said, then laughed ruefully, shaking his head. "I cannot believe I am saying this, but I have to do what I set out to do in the first place: hunt down and slay the badger. Not just to avenge Riley, but to save myself and this village as well."

*

Moments later, Waxley and Corabell left the constables' office, after Waxley had locked up the building. The hero was garbed as if for battle, with the sword and crossbow he had worn earlier in the day. He walked briskly, heading toward the tavern, where he intended to pass back the key Captain Wills had given him. Corabell shuffled beside him, hiking up her dress to keep up with the determined Warrow.

". . . but must you leave tonight?" she queried fearfully. "Can you not wait until morning, when you will be able to see better? You need your rest, Waxley. And food. I have already prepared--"

Waxley stopped suddenly, almost making Corabell stumble to the ground as she lurched past him. "No," he said. "It cannot wait. If I wait, the master will only gather strength. I have to find the badger, slay it, and return as quickly as I can. Otherwise, it is all for naught."

"But, if Riley could not kill it--" she protested as Waxley resumed his quick march.

"I must find a way," he said. "There has to be some way . . . ." his voice trailed off, unheard by the ears of the shadowy figure who stood beneath the eaves of the closed-down cobbler. The figure watched from beneath a hood the color of blackest night, a cloak covering its body that matched the shadows around it.

"Aye, Waxley," hissed the voice of the figure. "There may be a way. But you will not be allowed to find it . . . ."

***

Waxley stormed into the tavern with all the purpose and grace of a charging bull. A minstrel playing in a corner stumbled on the chords of his lyre. Conversation stammered to a halt. All eyes within the cozy structure turned toward Waxley, only peripherally noticing the alluring madchen who stood behind him.

"Where is Captain Wills?" shouted Waxley.

A group of constables crowded around a table looked up, beer-foam dripping off their lips. "Oy, Waxley," said one. "He bought a round for us and checked out. Said he had some more logistics or something to go over. I think he went home."

Waxley and Corabell exchanged sudden worried looks. "Captain Wills!" they exclaimed in unison.

Sensing something amiss, the constables stumbled to their feet as Waxley and Corabell darted from the doorway and back out into the twilight. Waxley ran ahead, moving much faster than Corabell's dress would allow. The three constables who followed Waxley hesitated as they passed her.

"What the hell--?" the began.

"Just -- follow him!" she gasped, waving her arm onward, giving up the chase and remaining in the street. The constables, blessed with inordinate foresight, continued up the hill toward the home of Captain Wills, where Waxley was headed.

At the door of the home, through the windows of which flickered the light of a single lamp, Waxley hammered with his fist, calling the captain's name desperately. In a moment, it flung open, the disturbed face of Captain Wills jutting out.

"Waxley!" he exclaimed. "By the gods! What is it? An attack?"

"Mayhap," said Waxley, pushing past the captain and into the man's home. He looked about the captain's abode, noting peripherally the various animal heads mounted on placards on the wall, the numerous books, the assembly of herbs and other plants upon a central table. He was somewhat impressed at the eclectic taste of the Captain of the Constabulary.

He looked back to the captain. "You must suit up," he said. "Damn it! I should have realized this! It's not me he's after!"

Captain Wills frowned, clad in his bedclothes. "You're talking nonsense, lad!" he said. "Calm down!"

"I will be quick," said Waxley. "And please believe me. Our foe, this 'master' the goblins spoke of, who leads them and commands the badger, seeks to break the will of Crawley's Crossing before attacking. I thought he would be after me, but I was wrong. You are the captain. It is you he wishes to slay!"

Captain Wills was taken aback. "What?" he exclaimed. "How do you know this?"

"Captain Wills!" exclaimed a voice from the doorway. The three constables from the tavern now stood upon the captain's porch, swords already drawn. The lead man had a quivering look in his eye.

"I'm not sure why, but the hero, here, makes sense. I--"

All conversation stopped as terrific crashing noise sounded through the door that lead further into the captain's hillside home. All assembled automatically crowded behind Waxley, who immediately brought his loaded crossbow to bear. A sinister growling sounded from beyond the portal.

"Waxley, my lad," whispered Captain Wills, peering over the hero's shoulder. "Is that what I think--"

"I fear so," said Waxley, heart hammering. "He has set it upon you. You must leave. We will deal with this."

"'We?'" queried the three constables at once, eyes and voices fearful.

"Go!" snapped Waxley to the captain. "Find the other constables! We'll slay the beast with numbers!"

"Waxley, my boy, there is no braver soul in this village than you," said the captain quickly, patting the young Warrow on the shoulder. Then he darted for the door, leaving Waxley and the three constables to face the beast behind the door.

Waxley braced Riley's crossbow against his padded shoulder, ready for the attack he knew would come. He whispered over his shoulder to the other constables.

"Close the front door."

"What? Why?" asked the first of the three, adopting the same hushed tone.

"So we can trap it," hissed Waxley.

The constable nodded to his fellow closest the door, who hesitantly closed it. The first constable, reaffirming his grip on his sword, stared warily at the opposite door, through which more growls sounded.

"Waxley," he said in a wavering voice.

"What?"

"If I die, I'm going to kill you in Valhalla."

Waxley grinned. "I'll hold you to that," he said.

With a shuddering explosion, the door to Captain Wills' back room exploded outward with a flurry of wooden splinters, and a massive, fearsome creature crashed its way into the room. So wide was it, that it splintered the door frame to which the door had been attached. It had a broad, ferocious head, snarling with enormous, vicious teeth, thin lips dripping with feral saliva. Its body was stocky and thick, coated in matted, dark fur with bright silver tips. The powerful limbs each ended with a heavy set of claws, as long as any Warrow's forearm. And it's eyes . . . They were the most terrifying aspect of the monster, narrow and beady, glowing with an evil, crimson intensity.

The beast bellowed, an ear-splitting roar that seemed to shake the home to its foundation. Waxley winced at the baleful howl, but had the presence of mind and the stoutness of heart to loose the quarrel he'd loaded in Riley's bow.

"For Riley!" he cried valiantly. The giant badger howled in anger as the projectile slammed into its hide, just behind its right forelimb. But the beast seemed neither affected by, nor conscious of, the attack as it bounded forward, hurling its mass at the four Warrows.

Waxley grunted, the crossbow knocked from his hand to skitter across the floor as he was hurled to the side. A massive, deadly claw barely missed him, but another caught the first constable full in the chest, raking downward and opening three great gashes from which sprang forth geysers of blood. Yet, even with such a mortal wound, the constable managed to pierce the monster's hide with his sword, stabbing with all the strength he could muster. The giant badger roared, but remained unfettered.

The great beast pivoted, knocking the other two constables through the front door, hurling them out of the home. The monster sniffed the air, its malevolent eyes coming to rest on Waxley with a look akin to recognition. Scrambling back across the floor, Waxley hastily drew his sword, and just managed to raise it to protect himself from a deadly downward swipe.

Suddenly, a strange radiance seemed to wash over the creature, a purplish glow that vanished as quickly as it was spawned. Waxley could hear an echoing chant, and looked to the doorway to see Corabell gesturing, hands glowing with the same violet glow. Her eyes, closed during the intonation, now suddenly snapped open.

"I've weakened it, Waxley!" she cried. "Strike, if you can!"

Hearing Corabell's voice, the dire badger whirled about to face her with a deadly snarl, and the Warrow madchen shrieked in mortal fear. But Waxley was faster, and inspired by an overwhelming desire to protect Corabell, he leapt forward, burying his sword to the hilt in the monster's flank. He emitted a gallant cry as he did so, and felt a warrior's satisfaction as his blade bit deep.

The great badger howled and shook in pain, and Waxley abandoned his sword, rolling and leaping past the creature to grab the terrified Corabell and wrench her from death's grip, just a heartbeat before the monster slashed downward with both claws. Had Corabell still been where she was, she would have been eviscerated.

The two Warrows tumbled to the ground, out of the monster's reach, and the dire badger slashed impotently at empty air. Then, guided only by ferocity, it crashed through the doorway much too small for its girth, splintering wood and sending fragments of paneling in all directions. With a fearful howl, the badger bounded down the slope, looking for different victims to satisfy its craving for blood.

Waxley looked to Corabell, who shuddered beneath him, eyes wide in fear. "Are you all right?" he asked quickly.

"B-b-badger!" she shrieked.

He looked over her body, found no sign of blood. "You're fine," he said. He gave her a quick kiss on her trembling lips. "Forgive me, love," he said, and lurched to his feet. Swiftly, he darted back into Captain Wills' house, and his eyes spied the constable laying on the floor, saturated in his own blood. Amazingly, the Warrow was still alive. Waxley knelt beside him, a pained look on his face.

"I . . . I got him good . . . Didn't I?" sputtered the constable, blood foaming on his lips.

Waxley nodded. "You got him real good," he said.

The constable grinned as his life began to trickle away. His eyes fluttered closed. "I won't . . . kill you . . . in Valhalla . . . ." he uttered with his last breath.

Waxley squeezed his eyes shut, ground his teeth. Refueled with conviction now at the death of the constable, Waxley scampered across the floor, snatching up Riley's crossbow. He loaded it quickly as he stepped through the doorway, a grim, determined look upon his face.

"Monster," he intoned, jerking back the string. "Your time has come."

With quick, resolute steps, Waxley headed down the slope from Captain Wills' home, easily finding the dire badger as it battled the full compliment of Crawley's Crossing's constabulary. It swiped and slashed, bleeding from a host of wounds, yet its ferocity, if anything, seemed to have increased. The bellows and howls of the beast filled the air, ferocious enough to instill fear in all but the most hardened of hearts . . But not that of Waxley the Bold.

Face set in stone, Waxley approached the monster from behind, stopped thirty Warrow paces away. He raised Riley's crossbow, sighted over the bow, aimed for a weak spot on the beast's flank, just where the ribs would separate, allowing a well-placed shot to pierce a lung . . . .

The recoil of the weapon was satisfying against Waxley's guard-covered shoulder. The quarrel found its mark, and the dire badger howled in true, mortal pain. Yet, unbelievably, it still did not fall. Yet, the wounds it had received were too grievous for it to continue with the fight, and even such a feral animal as the dire badger understood this. With a menacing howl, it reared onto its rear legs, slashing blindly at the other constables. One came too close, and was slashed across the torso before the beast turned and bounded up a different slope, toward the edge of the village, moving faster than any Warrow could follow. Yet follow the constables did, with a fierce-eyed Waxley the Bold leading them.

But as they passed by the darkened structure of the village wainwright, with the badger cowering against a fence too high for it to scale or leap, their prey was once again denied them. A dark-cloaked figure, of goblin height, leapt from the shadows, its hands glowing with eldritch flame. It hurled these deadly incendiary missiles toward the constables, the nature of which shocked and stunned and halted the constables in their charge.

Waxley ducked beneath a missile of hurled flame, and stared with wide, fierce eyes at the new arrival. "It's the master!" he cried. "Shoot him!"

Even as he bellowed these words, Waxley raised Riley's crossbow, sighting quickly and aiming for the dark figure's heart. "May Riley curse you," he hissed, and fired.

The deadly bolt sped toward its target, slamming with perfect aim into the figure's chest. Yet, before Waxley's stunned eyes, the bolt merely bounced off the figure's shadowed chest, as if it had struck the trunk of a great oak.

The sound of an insane chuckle emanated from the nefarious figure as it faced Waxley directly. It made a gesture, intoned a few words which Waxley could not understand. Suddenly, the crossbow in his grip twisted upon itself, as if it had come alive and transformed into a snake. Wood creaked and snapped, and in the space of a few heartbeats, what had once been a mighty weapon was nothing more than a warped chunk of wood, such as might be found upon the shores of the Luthian Sea, utterly useless.

Waxley staggered back, stunned more from the destruction of his uncle's prized weapon than from anything else. Still, instincts prevailed, and he reached to one of the two slim-bladed knives in his boot tops, jerked it free, and hurled the weapon toward the cloaked figure. He felt a grim sense of satisfaction as this projectile bit into the flesh of the figure's dark forearm.

The attack, however, did not keep the figure from gesturing again, and a moment later, roots and grasses in the ground rose up with a life of their own, writhing and reaching, wrapping themselves around the ankles of Warrows, keeping them from resuming their charge. A few of the more focused Warrows managed to let loose quarrels from their crossbows, which either missed their mark or thumped impotently against the figure's form, just as Waxley's shot had.

slyc_willie
slyc_willie
1,343 Followers