Away Brant, away


Here’s episode 7 of Brant. Don’t worry, the previous 6 episodes are still up, and there’s plenty more to go.

What has gone before:
Brant is a mercenary, come hand for hire. He inhabits a world not dissimilar to our own. In this sword and sandal world, his wanderings bring him through Brychon Woods in search of the famed Brychon ponies. That lands him in the realm of Tyrikhon, where he gets embroiled in a tale of a Princess held captive against her will, an evil uncle and loyal retainers. However it’s just not that simple. He rescues her but gets tricked; now he’s on the run and things are about to get worse.
Read his back-story here.

The emollient tones of Garan echoed after him. “You have my word, she will be treated nobly. Why would I ruin something of value to me?” Words to ring in Brant’s ears as he was escorted on. Effectively shooed away, as if an errant animal.
Dulled sounds no longer lay behind him. He’d left unwillingly, and even now strained to listen, should there be cries for help. Or curses.
But he heard nothing. There was no trigger to make him turn back. His loss of face was great. Even more so was his loss of honour. How could he live with honour gone?
He’d thought to escort his charges, both her and her hand-maid, to a place of safety, and he’d been outwitted. They’d been taken from him, right in front of his nose. He’d been made to look a fool, but what could he have done with those bows trained on him?
How could he reclaim his honour? No answer occurred to him. Where to now? No matter where he went, loss of honour was part of him. Where would he go to now?
West Caulder was definitely out of the question. Even with a pack animal – and there was none, both having been appropriated by Garan – it was an undesirable and long journey.
Orby? Now that would become extremely dangerous for him if what Garan said was true. It would be just a matter of time before the seneschal at the keep pieced the story together. But why did they allow the princess to pose as a street youth? For that matter, how had Garan known the way they would go? He’d no answer.
He gave a mental shrug. What was done, was done. This was far from home.

Butterflies bumbled aimlessly in the afternoon, too few to pester him as the flies and midges did. Around him was the quiet noise of a forest breathing and growing into spring. This season’s new growth was lost on him. What Brant wanted to know was how Garan knew where to intercept him.
How had Garan known? It was all too neat for his liking.

He adjusted his pack on his back and trudged on. There were few perils in Brychon Woods other than man himself. To that he’d drink a toast.
The track meandered on ahead of him. Sometimes it was submerged under clumps of grass that spilled over from the verges. The new life contrasted badly with his doleful mood.

Hidden far above the canopy of leaves, the sun shone, coaxing new growth. The afternoon drifted into evening and the sun settled, lower and lower until the flecks of light barely touched the tops of the trees. Each step taken in its turn became weightier and weightier.
The light was fleeing from the land and with it the opportunity to choose a good resting place. But Brant wasn’t ready to rest. He needed to be away from Garan and his band of forest hunters. He doubted that they followed him but who knew what wood-wise men might do if they decided Brant was a threat. Besides, he needed to think.


About Terence Park

Collections: vinyl records, comic books, paperbacks; I've plenty of them all. I also do spreadsheets.
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