Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Hot Swamp by R. M. Ballantyne (latest novels to read .txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Hot Swamp by R. M. Ballantyne (latest novels to read .txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“I have met foul play,” replied the chief angrily. “He pretended that he could not run, else would I have put on more force. But it matters not. I will have another opportunity of trying him. Meanwhile, there is yet the heavy stone to throw. How now, wench?” he added, turning fiercely on Branwen, who had nearly hidden her face in her shawl, “do you try to hide that you are laughing at me?”
Poor Branwen was in anything but a laughing mood. She was too much afraid of the fiery chief for that, and had merely covered her face, as a modern beauty might drop her veil, to avoid his gaze.
The fair-haired Hafrydda, however, was not so timid, her smile was evidently one of amusement at his defeat, which angered him all the more.
“Gunrig,” said the king, drawing himself up, and speaking impressively, “remember that you are my guest, and that it ill becomes you to insult my women before my face.”
“Pardon me,” replied the chief, with an effort to recover himself. “You must remember that I am not accustomed to defeat.”
“True,” returned the king blandly, “so now you had better take to the heavy stone and come off the victor.”
Gunrig at once went down into the arena and sent a challenge to Bladud.
The latter had returned to his place among the spectators, but his height rendered him easy to find. He accepted the challenge at once, and, as no other competitor for the heavy stone offered, the two had it all to themselves. This was no matter of wonder, for the heaviest stone among those laid out for trial was of a weight that many of the young men or warriors could barely lift, while the stoutest of them could not have thrown it more than a few feet.
Boiling over as he was with indignation, Gunrig felt as if he was endued with more than usual strength. He lifted the stone with ease, faced the platform, heeled the line, and hurled the stone violently over his head, so that it fell with a heavy thud far behind him. Then Bladud took it up.
“Oh! what a stout man he is!” whispered Branwen to Hafrydda, “and what a handsome face!”
“That is true; and I hope he will win,” replied the princess.
“Hush! child, the king will be displeased if he hears you,” said her mother earnestly. “What ever you think, keep silence.”
The queen spoke with such unwonted energy that Hafrydda was surprised, but her thoughts were instantly diverted to Bladud, who made a magnificent cast and sent the stone a yard further than his opponent. But Gunrig seized it again and hurled it a foot beyond that.
“Well done,” said the king. “Go on. It is the best in three heaves that wins.”
Bladud grasped the stone and hurled it back over his head with all his force. Up and up it went as if it had resolved to become an aerolite and visit the moon! Then down it came with a mighty thud ten yards beyond Gunrig’s mark.
Once more the air rang with the enthusiastic plaudits of the multitude, while the king ordered the victor to approach the stand.
Bladud did so with some trepidation, for now he knew that he would have to speak, and feared that though his appearance had not betrayed him, his voice would probably do so.
Every eye was riveted with admiration and curiosity on the young stranger as he approached.
“You have acquitted yourself well, young man,” said the king, “and it becomes us to invite you to our palace and to ask if we can serve you in any way.”
Bladud had a deep voice, and, by way of increasing his chances of concealing his identity, he pitched it a note or two lower than usual as he replied.
“I thank you, sir, for your hospitality and gladly accept it. As to your offer to serve me, I would count it a favour if you will permit me to enter into combat with one of your friends.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the king, in great surprise, “that is a strange request, but I may not deny you. Which of my warriors may it be?”
“It is none of your warriors, sir,” answered Bladud, “but one of your guests who has, I am told, challenged whoever will to fight him for the hand of your fair daughter. I am here now to accept that challenge and to fight with Gunrig if he will.”
“Assuredly, young man, your ambition or presumption seems equal to your prowess,” returned the king with an offended look; “know ye not that this challenge was delivered to chiefs of this country, not to unknown strangers, and although I admit that your tongue seems well accustomed to our language, it has a foreign smack about it which does not belong to those who are home-bred.”
“I am a chief,” answered Bladud, proudly, “and this is my native land.”
“What is your name, then, and where come ye from?” demanded the king.
“That I may not answer just now, but I am here, in your power, if what I say be not found true, you may do what you will with me. Meanwhile I ask permission to accept the challenge.”
At this point Gunrig, unable to restrain himself longer, sprang forward.
“Grant him permission, king,” he cried. “If I were not ready to abide by my word I were not worth my salt. Nay, indeed, whether you grant him permission or not I will fight him, for he has twice beaten me this day, and now insults me, therefore there is a deadly feud between us.”
“You were always a hot-head, Gunrig,” replied the king, with a grim smile. “But have your way. Only it does not follow that if you lose the day I will give my child to the conqueror.”
“Be that as you choose,” said Gunrig, “I am now ready.”
As he spoke the fiery chief grasped his shield, leaped down into the arena and drew his sword.
Bladud was not slow to follow. In those days action usually followed close on the heels of purpose, and as the laws of chivalry had not yet been formulated there was no braying of trumpets or tedious ceremonial to delay the combat.
“Oh! I do hope he will conquer,” whispered the Princess Hafrydda to her dark-eyed companion, “and save me from that horrid man.”
“I hope so too,” returned Branwen, in a subdued voice, “but—”
She stopped abruptly, and a blush deepened the rich colour of her cheek, which she sought to conceal by drawing her shawl still closer over it. This was needless, for the clash of swords at the moment, as the combatants met in deadly conflict, claimed the exclusive attention of the damsels, and caused the entire concourse to press close around the barricades with eager interest.
“A strange way to mark his home-coming,” muttered Captain Arkal, thrusting himself as near to the scene of action as possible, closely followed by Maikar, who, being little, kept easily in his wake.
“He knows well what he’s about,” returned the little man, whose admiration for Bladud was great, and his belief in him unbounded.
Maikar was one of those men—of whom there are no doubt thousands—who powerfully appreciate, almost venerate, and always recognise, the spirit of justice when displayed by their fellows, although they may not always be aware of the fact that they do recognise it—hence his belief in the prince.
“A good day for the land if that long-legged fellow slays him,” remarked one of the crowd.
“That’s true,” said another.
Indeed, this seemed to be the opinion of most of the spectators; there was also a general expression of confidence that the stranger was sure to be victorious, but some objectors—of whom there are, and necessarily must be a considerable number in the world—held that Gunrig was a stout man to tackle, and it was not always length of limb that gained the day.
Such comments, however, were not numerous, for the concourse soon became too deeply absorbed to indulge in speech.
The fight that now ensued gave some weight to the objectors’ views.
At first the combatants rushed at each other with the ferocity of men who mean to settle a dispute by instant and mutual destruction, and there was a sort of gasp of excited surprise among the people as the two swords fell at the same moment with something like a thunderclap on the respective shields. Feeling that neither could overcome the other by the might of a resistless blow, each, after one or two rapid cuts, thrusts, and guards, ascertained that his adversary was so nearly his match as to render great care needful. They retired a few paces, and then advancing, settled down to their work, point to point and foot to foot.
Gunrig, although inferior in stature to the prince, was about equal to him in strength and weight, and, being a trained warrior in the prime of life, was possessed of a sturdy endurance which, to some extent, made up for the other’s superior agility. In other respects they seemed well matched, for each was highly trained and expert in the use of his weapons.
After a second onset, somewhat similar to the first, and with much the same result, the two went at each other with cut and thrust so rapidly that it was almost impossible to distinguish their swords as they flashed like gleaming flames in the sunshine.
Suddenly Gunrig drew back, and, springing at the prince with uplifted weapon, as if to cut him down, changed the attack into a quick thrust which, passing under the youth’s uplifted shield, went straight to his breast. But the quick eye of Bladud detected the intention in time. Leaping lightly backward, he caused the thrust to come short; at the same time he returned with a quick thrust at the chief’s right shoulder which took effect slightly. Giving him no time to recover, he made a sweeping cut at Gunrig’s neck, which, had it fallen, would have shorn his head from his shoulders, but the chief, instead of guarding it, suddenly stooped, and, as the sword passed whistling above him, returned with a thrust so fierce that it pierced right through the thick shield opposed to it.
Here was an opportunity of which Bladud was not slow to avail himself. Although the arm which held it was slightly wounded, he gave the shield a violent and sudden twist, which not only held the weapon fast but nearly wrenched it out of the chief’s hand. An ordinary sword would have been snapped, but Gunrig’s weapon was a big bronze one that had done service in many a fray, and its owner’s hand was strong. He held it fast, but before he could withdraw it and recover himself Bladud cut him fair over the head. Whether it was accident or design no one could tell, but the flat instead of the edge of his sword descended on the headpiece, and the blow which should otherwise have cleft his adversary to the chin only stretched him insensible on the field.
A great sigh of relief, mingled with wild cheers of satisfaction, greeted this effective termination of the fight, and the king was evidently not ill-pleased.
“Pick him up, some of you,” he said, pointing to the prostrate Gunrig, “and carry him to the palace. See that he is well cared for. Go, Branwen, and see that everything is properly done for him.”
Branwen at once left the stand, and the king, descending into the arena, proceeded to congratulate the victor.
Before he could do so, however, to his unbounded surprise, the queen also descended with her daughter and threw her arms round the prince’s neck, while Hafrydda seized his hand and covered it with kisses.
“Body of me! am I dreaming?” cried the king, after a few moments of speechless amazement.
“Oh! Bladud,” exclaimed the queen, looking up in his smiling face, “did you really think you
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