by Wolfe Locke
But now it was done, and the land was perfect for what he wanted. It was green and grassy, right on the road, with a babbling brook at the back that would be a reliable source of fresh water and stone. A stand of ash and cedar trees at the front would provide shade for travelers’ horses, and the forest out back was full of pine for the fires.
Sven had given a great deal of thought to what he’d build here, what sort of community he wanted to build up. With an attached tavern, I’ll have an inn open to all adventurers of all levels and stripes. Live music, merrymaking, dancing every night, and women. So many women.
He wanted people to come together rather than dividing themselves up by rank. He sent a letter to Lloyd, inviting him to tend bar, brew some new ales, and leave the lonely King’s Arms behind. And Sven would preside over it all, protecting and guiding everyone who came through the door.
It was perfect. He was done with adventuring himself. It had lost its luster for him long ago, and guiding others just tarnished the fond memories he had of his own adventures and triumphs. But he could act as a teacher to a new generation of fighters and pass his wisdom on to them. He had misty visions of weapons practice in the courtyard, of story time by the fire, of being summoned out occasionally to deal with some monster the younger adventurers couldn’t handle.
A purpose. Meaning. It was something Sven had wanted for a long time, and he never even knew it.
He even thought he might be able to get some of his old friends to come. The few who were still alive had retired and lived off their adventuring fortunes. They owned remote castles and had set themselves up as lords or had opened businesses of their own. Sven had long thought they might be judging him, just a bit. He was the old guy who’d kept at it, chasing a dead dream, long after they’d thrown in the towel. He’d lost touch with most of them over the years. He hadn’t talk to any since the last mission. But now they’d see he was working on something great, and they’d all come out again. It would be just like old times.
Sven took a deep breath, feeling like he was about to start something meaningful, and unfurled the land deed and attached business license. It was brief, boilerplate city language, really, outlining the location of the tract of land he’d purchased and what he intended to build on it.
There was one notable thing about the document, though. Mr. Matthews hadn’t let him use his adventuring name. They’d wanted the name on his birth records. So, there it was: Thomas Riley. Sven had signed in a bold and looping script—his old signature, from back when he was just a boy.
He remembered the day he’d left that name behind—for good, he’d thought at the time.
Ma Riley had sent him to the market for oranges, a special treat for him and the family that she’d saved up and slaved to get the coin to buy them. The ships had just come in from the south, and everyone was haggling for the strange and unusual goods they’d brought.
He’d filled his pockets with sweetmeats instead and wandered on down to the docks, hoping to see the ships before they sailed out again. He was admiring a top-of-the-line schooner decked out with billowing flags when he saw it.
A sign was hanging from the end of one of the docks. Cabin Boy Wanted. To Start Immediately.
The ship parked at that dock wasn’t particularly impressive. It was smaller than the others, with only three sails, but it looked like it had come a long way. Its figurehead was in the shape of a long-toothed dragon in the style of the Southern Isles. It was painted a jaunty green and looked trim and shipshape.
"Boy," a gruff voice called out from the deck of the ship.
Thomas looked up. A grizzled old man peered down at him.
"Y-yes?" Thomas stammered. "Sir?"
"You’re looking at the sign," the man said. "I saw you."
"You need a cabin boy," Thomas said, cursing himself. He sounded like an idiot.
The old man looked surprised. "You can read. We can find room for you."
"My ma taught me," Thomas said. "She taught me a few other things too. I can sew. I can cook a bit if there’s a good fire going."
The old man held up a golden spyglass and squinted at Thomas through it. His eye looked strange and oversized through the glass. The spyglass glistened with an enchantment.
"A sailor needs to be able to sew," he said, pondering. "Come up here, boy."
Fighting back a smile, trying not to get too excited, Thomas raced up the rope ladder and leaped onto the deck. He could feel the salt wind racing through his hair and wondered what it would be like to be on the ship as it sailed across the water.
"So, you want to come out with us?" the old man said. "Don’t you have a family who’ll miss you? A mother? Brothers, sisters?"
Thomas’ smile faded. Ma Riley. She’d been so good to him all these years. And she would miss him, he knew it. But she’d urged him to follow his dream, and this might be his only chance. He thought guiltily of the sweetmeats in his pockets and vowed to send money back.
"No," he said confidently. "No one at all. No, one’ll even know I’m gone."
"Hmm," the old man said, looking skeptical. "Well, if you say so. We’ve all got our own reasons to take to the sea.. I’m Captain Quinn, and you’re on the Wayfinder. A little sloop, but a neat one. Cabin boy’s a hard job, but it’s honest work, and you’ll be treated well here. Pay’s two coppers a day, to be paid at the end of the journey. Minus expenses."
"Wow!" Thomas said. Two coppers a day was more than he’d ever made in his life. "Where are you bound? ‘We’, sorry, I meant where are we bound?"
"Lemon Harbor," Captain Quinn said. "Then the Near Islands."
Lemon Harbor. The name conjured up citrus trees, sunbaked flagstones, hot-blooded horses. And the Near Islands were even more exciting. Thomas had no idea what he might encounter there.
"I’m in!" he shouted. "I want to be a cabin boy!"
"All right," Captain Quinn chuckled. "Settle down. What’s your name, boy?"
Thomas paused. "Thomas Riley" didn’t seem like an adventurer’s name. He tried to think of the most exciting name he could. An image flashed into his mind, inspired by a traveler’s story. A massive warrior from the icy north, hair slick with bear grease, holding an axe in one hand and a broadsword in the other.
"Sven!" he said, flexing his skinny arms. "Sven the Shatterfist!"
"Sven...the Shatterfist," the captain wrote in his massive ship’s log, biting back a smile. "You might need to work on those hands, boy, or you’ll find yourself dazed looking at the stars more often than not."
"Anything!" Thomas shouted. "I want to be the greatest warrior and adventurer in all the land."
Captain Quinn shook his head. "Well, you can start by being a cabin boy. Get good at that and move up."
The captain walked off to check on a supply delivery, leaving Thomas alone. He breathed in, exhilarated. At last, after years of waiting, his real-life was finally starting.
Tony Williams, from the Cobbles, passed below him on the dock with a sack of flour. He was bringing the sack to the Wayfinder!
"Tony!" Thomas shouted. "Tony!"
Tony looked up, and his eyes widened with shock when he saw Thomas standing on the deck of the ship.
"What you are doing up there, Tom?" he said.
"I’ve got a job now, Tony! We’re going to Lemon Harbor!" Thomas said excitedly.
Tony whistled and shook his head, dropping the flour at the edge of the gangplank.
"Good luck, mate!" he said. "Bring us something when you get back. Something fancy!"
Thomas had no intention of coming back, but he wasn’t going to tell Tony that.
"Hey," he said, tossing the sweetmeats over to Tony on the dock. "Take these to my ma! Tell her they’re from me…Sven the Shatterfist!"
Back on his plot of land, the grown Sven chuckled, remembering how he’d been as a kid. His smile dimmed, though, when he remembered how little he’d seen Ma Riley in the years after he’d left. She had always been supportive of his adventuring, though. Even
when it took him far away from her. It wasn’t too many years after that first journey, he took that she passed.
“I would have liked to have another day with you ma.” Sven muttered as his heart grew heavy.
He stayed like that for a moment, and then got moving. There was no changing the past, and "Thomas Riley" had been laid to rest years ago. The only reminders of his existence now were his birth records at the City Office, a debt contract, and a land deed. But what were any of those things but merely parchment in the end?
Sven lifted a shovel in his powerful arms and plunged it into the dirt. He was tired of dwelling on things he couldn’t change. It was time to get to work. Though if I need it, I’ve a few artifacts to speed up the process.
Chapter 7: The Time Passed
In the end, Sven chose to a few artifacts. Three weeks later, he stood in front of a completed tavern and wiped the sweat from his brow. A smile was wide on his face. I did it, I actually did it. I haven’t built anything for years. He was pleased with the effort. His work completed; Sven put the [Engineer’s Inheritance] back in the pocket dimension of his [Spacial Ring]. Without the legendary set of artifacts, Sven was fairly confident the tavern would have never been completed without hiring a crew. He cringed. I owe enough money already.
Sven had learned the hard way that money didn’t come quite so easily to S-Rankers. Dungeon loot and drops tended to be sparse, overkill wasn’t rewarded and access to places S-Rankers kept their wealth wasn’t easy. The system of power that governed the world refused to award adventurers for completing dungeons far below their skill level. Which is why I’ve been doing escort duty. The combined levels tended to even it out a bit on averages.
To get the coinage needed to meet Mr. Matthews, the City Official’s deposit and material ask. Sven had to do several dungeon raids and escort even more small parties through the Dungeon of the Sands. I did make a promise, at least to myself, to try to leave the Dungeon of the Wood and its hydra alone.
In the end, Sven had handed over the lump sum in gold and silver. The remainder was a note against his name in debt. But now, here he was, and nothing could sour his good mood. The tavern was everything he’d ever dreamed for it to be. It was moderately sized with room to expand if he needed it.
It was a three-building complex made up of the main building, which held a dual-purpose tavern and inn. With the ground floor being the tavern area, and the 2nd floor being the rooms for guests. He’d even constructed a second building out back with additional rooms for overflow and larger parties, and a third building for the horses. A stable he’d placed on the road he’d carved into the earth that lead from the main road directly to the tavern and stables.
The first floor was almost all river rock that he had dragged out of a nearby creek-bed and set to dry under the sun for a few days. It would help protect from fires in the kitchen and hopefully weather rowdy adventurers better than some of the taverns Sven had visited over the years.
But the real beauty was the upper level. The walls were whitewashed, and the windows were made of real paned glass. An orderly roof of sugar pine shingles that he’d crafted by hand to finish it off. Well, mostly by hand. I had help. After all, this would have been impossible without the [Engineer’s Inheritance].
"Dear Gods above Sven," a gloomy voice said from behind him. "You work quickly. This should have taken at least a season, and yet here you are, already finished. Shame on me for thinking to check on you after that offer you sent."
Sven turned around, his smile growing wider. "Lloyd! It’s great to see you. I’m glad you got my message. I’m assuming you’ve come to join me?"
The surly bartender’s mouth twitched in an almost smile and nodded. That’s the closest I’ve seen him come to a smile in the entire time I’ve known him.
He ran over to the bartender and swept him up in a big hug. The bartender, while unamused, let it happen. "I've got a surprise for you," Sven said. "A full brewery in the basement. I called in a favor with the merchant Bartleby. And I can get you all the help you want if you want to take up the position."
"Sven, this is just too much. Thanks for picking me up from the King’s Arms. You know how lonely it could be in that place," Lloyd said, looking emotional. "I don't think I could stand growing much older in that place."
"Too many memories, and not " Sven agreed. "But now we'll have a chance to make some new ones. Better ones. I bought some casks from the Crazy Pony until you’ve had a chance to make your own. Hope you don't mind. Just far warning, the Honey Mead is meant as a gift, sort of an apology, so if you come across it, just know it's been spoken for."
"It'll do for now. But I'll make something much better. As for the Honey Mead, I’ll make sure no one touches it." Lloyd responded.
"So... want to crack a cask right now?" Sven said with a grin. "I've had a long and thirsty few weeks and I’m ready to get this started."
Lloyd nodded and responded with a real smile. "I’ve love to see what the competition has to offer."
The two talked and drank for hours, up alone in the empty inn. Sven had forgotten what it was like to see Lloyd in a good mood. He’s been like that for years, ever since the war with the Dark Lord started and the loss of so many of our comrades.
Eventually, Lloyd began to tire, and Sven knew it was time to move on.
"Listen, Lloyd," Sven said drunkenly. "You can have the first room upstairs for your own. I didn’t think you would actually take me up on my offer, so I didn’t bother building a guest house."
Lloyd waved the admission away. It was a friendly dismissal. "It’s no bother, Sven. You’ve done enough. If it becomes a problem, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough to expand. Thank you, though. It’s similar accommodations to what I’m used to."
It was starting to get dark, and Lloyd took the time to start cleaning up and then retreated upstairs to get unpacked. Sven, though, wasn’t quite ready to call it quits and sat alone at a table, cask close at hand and a stein in the other drinking alone.
Sven still hadn’t thought of a name for the tavern despite his best attempts. He’d carried a piece of tattered parchment around with him for weeks, jotting down ideas as they came to him. The Bard’s Tale, The Three Falcons, The Young Goat... Each name seemed wrong. But now I’ve got one of the best tools for being creative. A buzz.
As he leaned back in his chair, he pulled the parchment out and started to brainstorm again. It needs to be something that matters. A name that people can instantly recognize and want to be part of. This needs to be a special place like the King’s Arms used to be.
Quill at the ready, Sven let his mind wander. It’s pretty amazing that I’m even here. Even if I’d never managed to become a famous adventurer, just getting out of the Cobbles was an achievement in its own right. The tavern was beautiful, with simple pine chairs and tables and a massive fireplace burning hot with cedar. Sven was still decorating, but he hoped eventually to put up mementos of his travels. They would be reminders of how far he’d come.
How many friends had he lost over the years? It was the way of life for adventurers and men like him, but it never got easier. They were promised to Death, and Death was always ready to claim her own. And some losses hit harder than others. Three friends came to mind, their faces swimming toward him in his memory.
Chapter 8: The Adventurer’s Rest
Thoughts of the past came to him as the ale worked to relax him. After finishing his contract as a cabin boy on the Wayfinder, Sven stayed in the Near Islands to learn the way of the sword. He’d felt lonely as he stood on the dock and watched the ship that had become his home retreat into the distance. Over the course of their journey, Captain Quinn had become like the father he’d never had. He would miss the old man.
Once the Wayfinder had vanished over the horizon, the young Sven turned around and entered Hirado City. It was time to find something to eat. He’d stayed on with the ship during its lengthy resupply process, so he knew the city well enough. He was heading for one of
the noodle shops near the port that catered to sailors and dockworkers. The food there was simple but cheap—and Sven liked it cheap. His two coppers hadn’t gone far as he’d thought they would, and Sven liked to send coin back to Ma Riley for the family.
Lost in thought, imagining the bright future ahead of him, Sven tripped over something on the ground and fell flat on his face.
“Watch where you’re going!” the thing said in a refined voice. “Be aware of your surroundings! Situational awareness!”
“S-sorry! Sorry!” Sven stammered, looking to see what he’d fallen over.
A young man sat on the ground in front of him, gritting his teeth in extreme concentration. He wore the dark green glasses used by the blind in Hirado, and he kept his hair in the braided ponytail of an aristocrat. His elegant robes were printed with golden dahlias.
“Why are you sitting there like that?” Sven snapped, irritated. “Somebody could trip over you! Are you crazy?”
“Hardly. What’s crazy?” the man asked with a smile. “Maybe you’re the one who’s crazy. Casually approaching a stranger you don’t know like that.”
Sven looked closely at the man. He was younger than he’d originally looked—around Sven’s age.
“I’m Basequin,” he said. “If you were wondering. Just Basequin. I’ve no family name. For I’ve no need of family.”
The man clearly had a family who could afford to keep him in such style, but Sven bit his tongue.
“I’m Sven,” he said, holding out his hand. “Sven the Shatterfist! At least one day I will be.”
Rather than shaking it, Basequin slapped the hand away. “We don’t need your northern customs here!” he said. “Keep them for yourself!”
It seemed like an extreme reaction. Sven let it go. “How did you know my hand was there? Aren’t you blind?”