by Ryan Cahill
The blade was effortlessly smooth, sharp on only one edge, and slightly curved, not like the typical style of sword Calen was used to seeing in Illyanara. It looked as if it had been made to slice through the clouds. The polished steel shone in waves of oranges and reds as the light of the forge flickered across its pristine surface.
The crossguard was simple. Starting as a silver bar set perpendicular to the blade, its centre pierced upwards into the blade and downward into the handle like the points of a star. Its handle was wrapped in dark emerald-green leather and masterfully set, with ornate swirls and spirals etched into its surface. The pommel looked like a thick silver coin set at the base of the handle. Calen could have spent hours just looking at it.
“It was given to me a long time ago,” Vars said as he gazed down at the sword. “And now it’s time that I pass it on to you. It’s an elven blade, better than anything I could make myself. The curve in the blade allows for smoother, cleaner strikes. Not as good at punching through armour, but if you’re quick enough, that won’t matter.” He nodded to himself, his eyes drifting across the sword.
Calen was still in shock. “Dad… I—”
“You need not say anything. I cannot give you much, Calen, but I can give you this,” Vars said with a half-smile. “Give it a swing. Feel it.”
Calen took a step back, letting the cloth bundle fall to the floor. He gripped the sword tightly with both hands. The leather felt smooth against his skin.
“Hand-and-a-half,” Vars said. His head followed the flight of the blade as Calen swung it with one hand, moving through some of the forms that Vars had taught him. It felt perfect in his hands. It was almost weightless, perfectly balanced.
When he looked back at Vars, he was holding a brown leather scabbard fitted with straps of green leather, similar to what the blade’s handle was wrapped with. “No sense in having the sword and not being able to carry it. A gift from Tharn.”
Calen could not have wiped the smile from his face even if he wanted to. He took the scabbard from Vars and fixed it to his belt, sheathing the blade. “Thank you, so much.” Calen wrapped his arms around Vars and pulled him into a hug, which he held for a few seconds.
“There is no need to thank me, Calen. You have filled me with more pride than I ever thought possible. The man you have become is thanks enough.” Calen held his left hand on the hilt of his new sword, unwilling to break contact with it. “Come, the cart is already loaded. Let’s just take a last look over it before you head off.”
Rist and Dann were waiting for them when they stepped out from the forge into the brisk morning; their breath plumed in streaks through the air.
“Ready to go?” Rist said, pulling his coat tight around himself.
“Just about,” Calen replied. “We’re just going to head around back and check the load before we set off.”
As they turned the corner around the forge, Calen went straight to Vars’s horse, Drifter. His reins were already set, and he was ready to go.
“Ready for a bit of a trip, boy?” Calen asked, running his hand along the side of Drifter’s face. Drifter had been his father’s horse for as long as Calen could remember, as much a part of the family as Faenir was.
“Everything looks good,” Vars called from the back of the cart. “Darda will be waiting for you at the port.” Vars made his way around to the front of the cart, rubbing dirt off his hands with a small cloth that he then shoved into the pocket at the front of his apron. “He’s expecting you around midday. Just bring the cart up around the back, and he’ll help you unload the stock. Drop off the delivery, and then you boys enjoy a good night.”
“Okay, perfect.” Calen cupped his hands to his mouth and blew warm air into the space between them, then rubbed them together for heat. “And again, thank you for the gift.”
Vars embraced Calen. “Travel safely, and I will see you when you get back.”
They finished up with some final checks, ensuring the cart was in working order. Then, with a firm shake, Calen checked that all the ropes were secure. Once they were set, one by one, they all climbed up onto the front of the cart.
“Hey. What’s that?” Dann said. He pulled back the bottom of Calen’s coat to reveal the sword his father had gifted him, secured within the emerald green leather scabbard.
Calen swatted Dann’s hand away, pulling his coat back over the sword. “It’s a gift from my father,” he said curtly.
“Hey, no need to be rude. It’s beautiful is all. You’ll have to show me it properly when we’re back for the night.”
Calen nodded, twisting his mouth up into a placating smile that could have been taken as a frown. He wasn’t sure why he felt uncomfortable showing the sword to Dann and Rist. He just was. Coin wasn’t something that any of them had a lot of, and just by virtue of the craftsmanship alone, the sword was worth a lot. Anything with that kind of value always made Calen uncomfortable.
He took the reins firmly in both hands. Waving goodbye to Vars, they set off following the road north, towards Milltown.
The journey to Milltown was a reasonably short one and mostly downhill, only a few hours when travelling by horse and cart. They arrived just before midday, as Vars had said they would. The earlier chill dissipated from the air as the sunlight ebbed away at the blanket of cloud above.
Milltown was the largest of all the villages. In truth, it was more of a town. It was nearly twice the size of The Glade. Most of it had to do with its small but busy port, which acted as the main supply port from the villages to Gisa. All of Vars’s shipments to the North went through Milltown, on to Gisa, and then up the coast to Loria. Calen figured that was the case for most craftsmen in the villages.
Despite its size, the buildings were much the same as those in The Glade, thick and wide-set, built with trees from the outer edge of Ölm Forest. As they drew closer to the centre of the village, the bouncing of the cart let Calen know that the usual dirt track underneath had changed to cobbled stone.
“Well, that’s new,” Rist said. His speech was jarred as the vibrations pulsing through the cart bounced him up and down on the rough plank of wood that masqueraded as a seat.
Leading the cart down the main street turned out to be more difficult than Calen had remembered. He had forgotten how frantic it was during the big trading periods. The start of summer was one of those periods, with apricots, blueberries, and a plethora of other fruits grown in the southern regions of Epheria coming into season. The ports of Milltown and Salme were always flooded with trading vessels at that time of year, and the streets were thronged with merchants eager to flog their fresh harvests.
Calen tightened his grip on Drifter’s reins. The horse was old and reliable, but scared easily. He had to swerve to avoid a woman who had stepped into the middle of the street to shout at a peddler. It would only be a matter of time before he knocked down some poor rambling child or ran over a small dog.
Even in the off seasons, the entire town seemed as if it were simply one big market. The sides of the road were lined with stalls, day traders, and peddlers. The buzz of excitement never seemed to dim. If it weren’t for the ever-present, pungent waft of fish emanating from the port, Calen would almost consider it a nice place to live.
“I think Darda’s building is just up here,” Rist said.
The cobbled stones under the cart gave way to the wooden planks of the docks. Rist pointed to a shop on the right-hand side of the road. A heavy wooden sign hung above the doorway, featuring a large black lion above the words, Darda Vastion Shipping.
“And what would make you think that, Rist?” The sarcasm oozed through Dann’s words as he smirked to himself.
Ignoring Dann, Calen nodded and pulled the cart down the nearest side street, narrowly avoiding flattening a small child who did not seem to have any heed for personal conservation. After Dann shouted a few choice words at the hapless child, Calen drew the cart up around the back of Darda’s shop.
Darda Vastion was an abrupt man, no
t impolite but without any time for dawdling. It took less than ten minutes from him answering the door for the entire cart to be unloaded and double-checked for anything left behind.
“Thank you very much, young Master Bryer. Tell your father I send my thanks. His delivery is as high-quality as ever,” Darda said as he shook Calen’s hand.
“I will, of course,” Calen replied with a smile.
“Oh, and young Master Bryer, congratulations on The Hunt. You both as well,” Darda said with a shallow bow towards Dann and Rist, who were sitting up on the cart. Before any of them could reply, he was back inside his shop with the door closed. The lock clicked into place before a “thank you” could escape Calen’s lips.
“Strange man.” Dann’s eyes were still fixed on the rear door to Darda’s shop.
“Agreed,” Rist said.
Calen leapt up into the front of the cart and shoved Dann aside, despite his protests. He grabbed the reins with both hands and ushered Drifter onward into a slow walk.
“Looking for a room, young sirs?” enquired a fair-haired man in a long blue coat as they drew the cart into the stable yard of The Two Barges. He was in his mid-thirties, his face dotted with freckles, with a crease at the corner of his mouth that showed when he smiled.
“Aye,” Calen replied.
The group dismounted to greet the man, then retrieved their bags from the back of the cart.
“Happy to hear. Barret, see that the horse is fed and watered and the cart secured,” he barked at a young boy, no more than fourteen summers. The boy nodded and set about his business, guiding Drifter over towards the blocks. “Well met, my name is Gawain, and I am the stablemaster here. Shall I take you inside to the mistress of the house? She can see to it that your rooms are arranged.”
Calen nodded, shaking the man’s hand with a firm grip. Calen couldn’t help but think that Gawain was altogether too formal for his station. His back was stiff, and his nose was ever so slightly tilted into the air. His long blue coat was crisp, not a crease in sight. His shirt was the same, firmly tucked into the waist of his plain brown trousers.
The man led them through a short entrance corridor. A small woman, no larger than five feet tall, met them as they entered the common room.
“Afternoon,” she chirped, a welcoming smile spread across her youthful face. She wore a long blue dress with white frills at the end and a white apron draped over her front. Her long braided hair was a deep brown, tied at the end with a white bow. She was quite pretty and looked a lot younger than Calen had expected, not even thirty summers.
“I am Elena, mistress of The Two Barges inn. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I see you have met Gawain already. We have a lovely room available upstairs with three beds, if that takes your fancy?”
“Aye, that would be perfect,” Rist said.
Elena nodded, her smile never leaving her face. “Please follow me this way, and I will show you to your room. It will be five coppers a night each if that does suit you?” she said, speaking half over her shoulder as she led them through the lounge and around to the base of the stairs. A quick nod of her head let Gawain know that his presence was no longer required, and he strolled back through the entrance corridor without a word.
“That sounds fine. We’ll only be staying one night,” Calen said. He cast his eyes around the room. The inn seemed well-kept. The common room was large, with big round tables taking up most of the floor space. The long oak bar was set across the wall to the left of the door Calen had just walked through. It was clean, and the air was warm with the aroma of freshly cooked food – beef stew, if his nose was right.
Being so early in the day, not many people idled around. A group of four hard-looking men sat at a table on the other side of the room, talking away about some troubles out at sea. Something to do with the empire. Calen couldn’t help but lean in to catch more of the conversation. But Elena shuffled them up the stairs before he could hear anything. She led them down a long tidy hallway, stopping at the room second from the end. Mistress Elena promptly opened the door and stepped inside, beckoning for Calen, Dann, and Rist to follow. “Come on now. Don’t be shy. There are three beds here that I think should do you just fine. The washroom is back down the hallway – last door on the right.”
The room was simple and homely, if not a touch small. A window was set into the back wall, where three single beds were lined next to each other, with just enough space between them for one person to stand. A small chair and desk sat in the right-hand corner of the room closest to the door. There was only just enough space for someone to lean back in the chair without bumping off the end of the closest bed. Still, it would do perfectly.
Calen tossed his bag down on the bed at the far left, while Dann jumped onto the bed opposite him, bouncing up and down.
“Will you be eating right away?” Elena asked, her hand lingering on the door frame.
“No, thank you, Mistress Elena,” Calen said. “I think we are going to look around the markets. My father tells me that supper here is lovely though. We will be back by dark.”
Elena’s eyes lit up, and her eyebrows peaked in interest. “Oh, who might your father be?”
“Vars Bryer, Mistress. He’s the blacksmith of The Glade,” Calen replied as he searched through his bag for his woollen gloves.
“Oh, I know of him. He’s a fine man.” Elena paused, a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “Your mother is a lucky woman,” she chirped, and then she was gone.
“Well, she’s just a big ball of excitement, isn’t she?” Dann said, finally sitting still on the mattress.
“I think she’s quite lovely.” Rist pulled his coat tighter around himself, puffing his cheeks out. “Although, she could do with lighting a fire in this place.”
Calen laughed to himself as he checked his pockets for his purse. A light jingling noise disclosed its location. He didn’t think he’d ever seen as much coin in his life; he still didn’t feel comfortable carrying it around. He had offered it to his parents the morning after the feast, but they had seemed almost offended. Vars just turned and walked out of the room. “Okay, shall we go to the markets? We can wander around and then meet up back here before sunset?”
The sun sank down over the docks as Calen placed an intricately woven silk scarf into his coat pocket, paying careful attention not to crease or mark it. It was a beautiful autumn red, with vines of gold and cream woven through it in the pattern of leaves blowing through the wind. His mother would love it.
He thanked the merchant and started off towards The Two Barges. He raised his hand to his forehead, protecting his eyes from the twilight glow piercing over the rooftops.
The liveliness of the town did not die down with the setting sun. Instead, it transitioned seamlessly from bustling market centre into a hub of nightlife and revelry. In the docks, the sailors gathered in sunken pits of sand, crowded in around braziers. They emptied casks of ale into their tankards as they exchanged adventure stories at the top of their lungs.
“Sunk the ship, so they did,” one of the sailors said in a whispered voice, that may as well have been a shout. “Dremin said they ‘ad a mage aboard. He tore it apart with magic, so ‘e did. But the ones they were after got away. That’s why they’re ‘ere!”
The other sailors leaned in close, their eyes wide open as they drank in the story. Calen couldn’t help but perk his ears as he walked by. Sailors were known for their wildly ridiculous stories. Not much else to do at sea, Calen supposed, but the mention of the word “magic” always caught his interest.
“Ensure the boat is moored securely before you begin your patrol. We are not in southern lands to be marooned here. Go, and report back to me before you set off.” The commanding voice boomed through the docks. It came from a man with mid-length black hair and a tightly cropped beard. He wore a battle-worn steel breastplate bearing the sigil of a roaring black lion across its width. A long coat of mail dropped down to his knees. A deep red hooded cloak was draped
around his shoulders, flapping in the wind. He addressed twenty or so men who were garbed in much the same way, except they did not wear a cloak. Another man stood behind the commander, his black cloak billowing in the wind as he stared off into the distance.
They stood on the deck of a large, broad warship that appeared to have only recently arrived in the docks. Three masts protruded from the deck of the ship, jutting up into the sky, each rigged with cream-white sails. The same roaring jet-black lion on the man’s breastplate was emblazoned on the middle, largest sail. The Black Lion of Loria. What are imperial soldiers doing in Milltown? Calen slowed his pace. The dim moonlight caused him to squint as he tried to get a better look at the group of soldiers.
There were old wives’ tales that the imperial Inquisitors snuck around at night and stole children that misbehaved. His mother had often scared him witless with those stories. But Lorian soldiers were rarely seen in the villages, not in the hundred years since the Valtaran uprising. There was just no need for them to venture out that far. When they came south, it was usually a show of force to the high lords, or to accompany the emissaries.
Travelling from the North to the South of the continent, or back the other way, was difficult since the fall of The Order. The continent was split in half by the Burnt Lands and the Darkwood. Those who survived the vast wastelands in the centre of Epheria were then faced with journeying through the cursed woodland. Calen had heard more than a few stories of doomed adventurers who tried to make that journey. Nobody who ventured into the Darkwood ever came out the other side.
This made voyage by boat the only viable option for those who wished to go from the North to the South of the continent. For that reason, the Lorian Empire seemed content to let the Southern lords of Epheria argue amongst themselves with minimal supervision, only intervening when things did not go the way the empire wished.