Cat wore her usual black traveling leathers. At her side rested her preferred blade: the silver rapier with the cat’s-head pommel. Attached to her saddle were two crossbows; her favorite choice of arms. Cat wore her old helm instead of the Taef’ Adorina. While on the road, she wanted to be properly protected and armored against the hazards of the wilds. Her long black hair cascaded from beneath the helm, too sodden to playfully whip about in the wind.
As Trestan and Cat rode through the outlying farms, the surroundings seemed out of place. At first it was hard to put a finger on anything particular. Trestan wondered if it was simply a matter of his own perspective, knowing what lay ahead. The buildings and countryside appeared just as he had left them four years ago. Despite the peaceful appearance of the farms, there lurked an intangible, sorrowful presence in the land. The two companions could feel the depth of it more clearly whenever they saw some of the village folk in the fields. Mothers kept a closer eye on their children. Everyone looked up when Trestan and Cat passed by, looks tinged with fear for what unknown dangers might wander the road to their settlement. Some moved out of sight at the first glance of Trestan’s armor or Cat’s rapier. It pained Trestan to see his friends and acquaintances casting such fearful glances at travelers. He could remember how he and Petrow had looked forward to travelers passing through the village. They heard stories of distant lands, snickered at foreign styles of dress, or looked forward to anything exciting compared to the boring tedium typical of small village life.
The eyes of those people gave Trestan the first hint of changes. As he rode onward more differences became apparent. Trestan saw a young lad working a field with his sisters. The dirty trio of siblings paused to regard the strangers with sad eyes. A wooden board at the end of the field marked a mound of dark dirt covering a newly dug grave…large enough for a beloved father to be put to rest. Trestan offered up a silent prayer to Abriana for the children.
The two companions passed by the keep of Lord Verantir. They noted several workers constructing new defensive fortifications along the ground and the walls. Word had been relayed to Cat that the noble did not sent any troops to the defense of the village; instead, he positioned the guards on his own walls for fear that he would be attacked. Now the noble family took measures to better protect their own home if any marauders ever returned.
When the village came into view, the same palpable sadness and fear emanated from the streets. Villagers lacked jovial chatter and smiles. People continued picking up the pieces of their broken lives. Trestan became aghast when he saw the damage done to his hometown. Many structures stood as blackened wooden frames or worse. The north part of the street endured well, but the southern portion of the village suffered. The inn and several other large structures showed at least partial damage from flames. The stone walls of the Church of the Sacred Harvest stood strong, but the roof and interior had been gutted by fire. The structure did not look livable except for linen sheets covering parts of the inside as makeshift tent rooms. Further down the street, Trestan saw a sight that immediately brought wetness to his eyes. The home of his mentor, Sir Wilhelm Jareth, completely burned to the ground. Once the largest private home on the streets of the village, now it was a pile of grayish-black ashes. Even the dirt street became a dark, blackened coloring from the fires and soot.
Trestan worried about the condition he would find the smithy and his home. The smithy stood across the street from the stables, and not far from the church. Trestan noted with some initial relief that the shop stood, as well as the buildings on both sides of it. The carpenter’s shop to the south had come close to becoming a bonfire, but the efforts of the villagers quenched the flames just before it could ignite the wood supplies within. As they rode closer, Trestan welcomed the sound of a hammer ringing on metal. The small, thankful smile ended when he realized the situation. The person who worked the forge was not his father. The chosen of Abriana barely recognized Mikhael, for the boy had grown since they had last seen each other. Cat had told Trestan that his father had been too weak to lay hand to hammer. It had been over half a week, more than five days, since Cat had last seen the aging smith. Trestan could only hope that his father was on the mend.
Mikhael looked up as the pair of riders dismounted before the shop. He recognized Cat right away, but his gaze lingered on Trestan. The smith’s son had changed in many ways since his departure to the seminary. The superficial aspects distracted old friends: the large warhorse Belgard, the thicker mustache, the suit of armor that featured religious designs, the confident stride, and the good cloth garments from Kashmer. There was a long moment in which Trestan stood quietly before Mikhael’s inquisitive inspection. The youth smiled with recognition, and some amazement at the perceived changes in Trestan’s garments, gait and facial expressions. Mikhael set aside the hammer and quickly took to washing his hands for a formal greeting.
“Trestan, is it? Must be! It’s been so long, and the seasons have brought changes to you.”
The two shook hands as Cat finished hitching her horse to the rail. Trestan asked the youth, “It’s good to be home, despite the scenes of sorrow and loss appearing before my eyes. How have the years treated you, Mikhael?”
The younger man put on a brief smile. “I learn much here. Your father treats me well. He gives good instruction without being too angry at me when I spoil something expensive.”
Trestan asked, “Your parents do not mind your absence at the store?”
The youth shrugged, “I have two sisters and another brother to help them out. They do not miss me that much, and I love the work here.”
Mikhael’s gaze drifted beyond Trestan. “It was a good life here until the raiders came. Now…well…there is much grief lingering on everyone. Many souls yet to bury and rebuilding to be done. I have been putting out a constant supply of nails, hinges, and any number of tools for reconstruction.”
As Cat stood quietly nearby, Trestan picked up on something Mikhael had said. “Alone? What about my father?”
Mikhael could see a whirlpool of doubts and fears in Trestan’s eyes. “Oh, your father is resting inside. He is holding himself steady as best he can, but work at the forge is far too taxing on him. There hasn’t been enough healing to go around for the survivors, as most of the church clerics were killed. They removed the crossbow bolt that wounded your father, but the wound itself has not fully healed. We should get you inside right away; he will feel better seeing you again!”
* * * * *
Hebden Karok rested on his bed until Trestan entered. The return of his son lifted the older man’s spirits and put strength back into his tired muscles. Despite the concerns of the others, the injured smith got out of his bed and insisted on sitting up in the common room with his son while they talked over drinks. Trestan assisted his limping father to the common table, while Mikhael and Cat cooked up two pots. His guests enjoyed the finest tea locally grown. Hebden drank an herbal broth set forth by one of the surviving clergy of the village.
Father and son savored the first visual contact with each other since Trestan had left four years ago. Abriana’s champion noted the added lines of worry to his father’s face. Trestan looked on with concern as Hebden made every attempt to appear stronger than he actually felt. Hebden saw the worry in his son’s eyes, and felt embarrassed that his only offspring had reason to look at him in that way. For his part, Hebden admired everything about the younger man. His son had grown strong, with new wisdom apparent in those eyes. Hebden remembered a time when Trestan wore dirty shirts and a rope belt; now the young man dressed in a way more befitting one chosen to champion a god.
Trestan respectfully left the opening of the conversation to his father. As much as thoughts and worries assailed his mind, it would not do to begin the reunion with heavy concerns. Apparently, Hebden shared that sentiment. When the older smith started talking, he began by asking Trestan questions about the seminary, Kashmer and his training. Trestan described life at the seminary, highlighting the c
onversation with tasks he performed and miracles witnessed. Together, Cat and Trestan talked about the day of the Embarking. They told Hebden how Kashmer had changed in the years since the older man last visited. Though the mood surrounding the village had been so poor of late, the conversation in the tiny home produced smiles and laughter. For a time they easily forgot the worries of the world, as father and son shared a warm homecoming.
The conversation eventually turned to the gloomy present. Hebden talked of the scourge of riders. “It was a massacre. Bloodlust! I saw the two from your stories, Revwar and Savannah, as they rode into town. Another rode with them; his nature seemed above the rest of the other rabble sacking the town. They came and took the relic while the rest of us hid in our homes.”
Trestan stroked his thick mustache as he listened. As Hebden paused to sip broth, the young paladin spoke up. “Was there any resistance to meet them?”
Hebden shook his head and scowled, “Lord Verantir seemed just as scared. He sent nay men to help, and those unfortunate to be in town at the time died quickly. The lord hid behind his own walls and withheld the warriors fealty-sworn to protect the area.”
Trestan nodded, knowing as much from Cat’s words. However, the young man felt that Hebden had missed the true meaning of his question.
“I didn’t mean from the guards,” he spoke, “I was referring to the villagers. We saw many new graves on fields outside of the village. I wondered if there had been townsfolk resisting them.”
Hebden looked at Trestan over the rim of his cup. The old smith recalled that night many years ago when the other party of adventurers arrived to steal the relic the first time. Many villagers, Hebden included, holed up in their homes in the hope of not getting involved. Trestan, Petrow and the late Sir Wilhelm were among the few that openly tried to stop the other band. Hebden mused that perhaps Trestan expected an outcome closer to how he would have reacted.
“Trestan, we are simple folk. You had the courage to stand and face adversaries when called to do so, but most here are not up to that danger. There was little we could do. They rode right up to the southern merchant carts and attacked defenseless people in force. We could only run or hide.”
Trestan lowered his head, “If only I’d been able to help somehow.” A thought came to Trestan and his head raised back up. “What about Petrow? Surely he showed a few of them his axe!”
A sad look crossed Hebden’s eyes. The older smith remembered the moment his own hopes lifted upon seeing Petrow that day, only to be smashed again when the handyman turned and ran. Hebden spoke rather hesitantly when he found his voice, trying to voice the truth without judging Petrow too harshly.
“Trestan…he has a family to watch over now. Petrow’s first thought when the riders came was to look after them.”
Trestan’s visage changed to one that was more introspective. Hebden thought to say more but didn’t, allowing the young paladin to interpret the words on his own.
Mikhael and Cat had said little since the conversation had turned more solemn, although they continued to sip their drinks next to father and son. At that uneasy silence, Cat decided to turn the conversation toward a subject she knew troubled Trestan’s heart. It had been obvious during the whole conversation Hebden’s injury still distressed him.
The half-elf indicated Hebden’s hip, “Your wound is now a week-and-a-half old, and the clerics have not fully healed you?”
Hebden absently massaged his wounded side as he replied, “There are many still in need of healing. Only two of the clergy survived the attack, and their miraculous healing skills are little at best. They sent for more help. In the meantime, there are many like me: slowly recovering from our wounds with broth and older, natural medicines.”
Trestan looked to his father with imploring eyes, “Allow me to help, father. I have my own healing miracles at my command now.”
Hebden seemed a little startled; as if in the mood of the occasion he had forgotten his son had schooled for four years to serve a goddess. The older smith nodded, shedding some fatherly pride in admitting his pain to his son. At once Trestan got up and circled the table to be beside his father. The young worshipper of Abriana tenderly placed his hands on Hebden’s side.
“He truly is blessed,” Cat said, “You would have been so proud of him at the Embarking.”
Hebden looked to his son as the young man tenderly touched the wounded area. Trestan prayed quietly, “Abriana, heed the call of your faithful. Heal this person whom I love.”
The warmth and love of his goddess flowed through Trestan. The young paladin-aspirant used his body as a conduit to channel the miracle. Love filled Trestan and buoyed his spirit as he let the healing energies course through him. His mind saw a dark scar on Hebden representing the injury. Through the power of faith Trestan guided healing energies around the wound. The darkness shriveled away from the power of the miracle. It faded to a shade, and then disappeared entirely. Trestan ended the flow of healing. The effort drained Trestan a bit, even though the young man wore a smile from the power of the love that had flowed forth.
Cat smiled and asked Hebden, “How do you feel now?”
Hebden’s eyes were wide with wonder. The smith started to stretch out his legs and twist his torso. The man gave a hearty laugh and patted Trestan on the back. His other hand held the cup of broth, but that hand set the cup down and pushed it away from him.
“Why, I feel good enough to dump this foul-tasting broth and get some good meat in my stomach!”
Hebden smiled to his son, looking him in the eyes. “You have a special gift, my boy. I feel you are truly destined for some higher purpose.”
* * * * *
There were few places Trestan and Cat thought to go after meeting his father, but Trestan felt drawn to one of spiritual significance. The two companions tread up the path along the river, into the small wood outside of the village. In a secluded clearing they came upon the shrine built to honor Abriana. Wooden benches bordered a tiered garden of flowers. People could sit for hours while losing their thoughts in the simple beauty of the shrine. Next to the garden, two magically lit gems cast a constant glow over a stone marker.
“Sir Wilhelm Jareth. Champion of Abriana. A good friend and second father to many.”
Trestan kneeled before the grave and offered a silent prayer, while Katressa stood back with her head down in deference to the man who rested there. Sir Wilhelm Jareth first taught Trestan how to defend himself with a sword. The paladin of Abriana, a reputable man in Troutbrook, touched many lives with wisdom and compassion. Upon his death, at the hands of the elf wizard Revwar, his magical elvish blade passed to Trestan. The young paladin still wore the sword on his back. Trestan had not known it at the time of Jareth’s death, but the aging mentor had already instilled in him the values which would lead him to follow the man’s footsteps. Now Trestan adopted service to Abriana, albeit still a paladin-in-training according to the seminary doctrines. The ring known as Faithful’s Companion adorned a finger on his right hand, displaying a few runes representing unresolved tests facing him. If Sir Wilhelm could see the young man who prayed before his grave, the old warrior would surely smile.
When Trestan’s prayer ended, he took a seat with Cat among one of the many benches. The wind playfully rustled the flowers of the garden as the lovers watched. His dark brown eyes sought out her bright emerald orbs, sharing a loving gaze for some time.
Trestan said, “I’m sorry if you feel I have ignored you in any way, faunlessa. For so long I looked forward to being with you, free of the bounds of the seminary. I’m glad for the private time we cherish, yet my heart has been burdened by the plight of my friends and father.”
Katressa leaned forward and gently kissed him, offering a comforting smile. “I know your heart troubles you. I am from a patient race; I would stand beside you for whatever time you need.”
The paladin welcomed Cat’s support, though he disagreed with her perception of time. “Cat, I will love you forever
if you would have me for that long.”
Cat, born from long-lived elvish heritage, could only offer a sad smile, “I can only wish that we have that time, my love.”
Trestan turned to silently regard the flowers once more. Cat inquired about his musings. “Faunlessa, you have seen your father and helped him. You have seen the damage to your home village. I would know your thoughts.”
Trestan groped for the proper words, “I feel…my spirit is restless. It is daunting to know what we faced those years ago…and succeeded…only to see the violent results and know that the relic has once again been stolen.”
Noise from the trail interrupted their private conversation. Trestan and Cat turned, surprised to see a small number of villagers approaching. Some of the approaching villagers were limping; others displayed distress from other injuries.
“Hail, Trestan, hero of Abriana!” One of them welcomed.
Trestan and Cat exchanged confused glances. The greeting offered had been most unexpected. Trestan regarded the speaker. “Only Squire Trestan as of yet, a hopeful to champion Abriana. Your greeting surprises me, what honor do I claim to be addressed in such a way?”
The man, carrying a child close to the age of four, responded. “We are worshippers of Abriana as well. We tended the shrine in the years since Sir Wilhelm fell and you departed. The word spread that you were back to visit after learning the ways of the goddess. When I heard you were here, I had to bring my daughter and seek your help.”
Trestan looked down at the young child in his arms. The little girl hugged her father close as she looked at Trestan with uncertainty and fear. Trestan asked, “What would you ask of me?”
The man unwrapped a small blanket from around the girl. Cat gasped, and Trestan was stunned, at seeing that the child was missing a leg. A bandage covered the stump.
Her father shed tears as he continued talking, “Her mother and I tried to run from the riders by escaping across the field. The butchers rode us down as we fled. My daughter was fortunate enough only to lose a leg, for the cut took her mother’s life. She needs a miracle and there have been little enough miracles to go around between the two clerics of Yestreal that survived.”
The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith Page 8