by Reaves, Troy
***
Galant's concerns about the foaming sickness were unmerited. The ranger had said that the natural balance would be maintained, and the forest had looked after itself where the disease was concerned. The small rodents who had carried the infection died within a few days. Gregor and the ranger became close companions, tracking through the forest day after day. The rigors of the trail strengthened the young man and it was not long before his constitution matched that of his new Master. The woodsman insisted that Gregor learn to escape danger before he would train him in the martial art forms. The student complimented the teacher with the patience and perseverance he demonstrated every day.
***
Gregor caught his wind as Silverwing stopped abruptly in front of him as the pair completed their morning patrol of the forest. “When you face an overwhelming opponent, it can be far more advantageous to stay away from the threat you have spotted. I teach you avoidance, and the art of measuring a threat, so that you can know when to engage and when to flee.” Gregor nodded with understanding as the ranger continued. “See there?” Silverwing pointed toward a small copse of trees where there was a glint of metal as the sun filtered into the clearing ahead. Gregor crouched as Silverwing's hand waved him down, though he could hear no movement from the clearing. Silverwing's voice dropped to a whisper. “The one we see is no indication that there are no more present. Poachers are cowards and travel in packs like wild dogs. I leave these to you, Gregor. What is your plan?”
Gregor took a moment to take stock of the ranger's words and his own weapons. The short swords at his sides gave him little comfort as he considered facing organized bandits. “Plan? The best plan would be to quietly circle around the clearing and see what it is I face.” Sweat dripped down his cheek and Gregor could only hope his mentor did not hear the trembling in his voice.
“A valid thought and a serviceable plan, I suppose. Go on then and I will watch for anyone sneaking around the campsite. It is quiet so be aware of where you place your feet. These scoundrels will surely hear you if you break a stick as you move.” Silverwing drew his bow into his hand and pointed toward the outer edge of the trees.
Gregor grasped his short swords and moved as quietly as possible, keeping the metal gleam Silverwing had noted between himself and the trees as best he could. He was beginning to feel a bit confident in his careful movements as he rounded the far side of the grove, daring to move in closer. Only the sound of a slight breeze disturbed the leaves of the trees, but it was enough. Gregor sighted the shield hanging from the tree in the center of the clearing that had reflected the morning sun's light. Someone was hunting, but it appeared that they were not hunting animals. Gregor rose to shout a warning to Silverwing, nearly having an arrow pierce his throat for the effort. “Down, Gregor! Now!” Silverwing's yell sent birds into the air from all the nearby trees as yet another arrow flew at the boy, sinking into the tree which Gregor had shifted behind for cover. Another arrow narrowly missed imbedding itself in Gregor's shoulder, its fletching whispering in Gregor's ear as the boy dove into the trees behind him. Silverwing's pupil lay in the underbrush, drawing each breath as if it were to be his last. He could still hear nothing, yet another well-placed arrow struck near his head.
As quickly as it had begun, the lesson was over. Silverwing moved blithely into the clearing, calling for Gregor with the unmistakable sound of laughter in his voice as he chastised his student. “Well, so much for the 'Let us see how many there are and take them' approach! Come on then, Gregor, and bring my arrows with you! Reflect on what you have learned while you dust off your clothes!”
The initial swell of anger that surged through Gregor gave way to his own laughter soon enough. Silverwing was a cunning mentor, that much was certain, and even when suffering the man's twisted sense of humor the boy could not deny the effectiveness of his training. “You are an evil Master, Silverwing! One day I will get the better of you!”
Silverwing waved a greeting as Gregor entered the clearing where the shield hung, the boy noting the worn symbol of the Knights of Bella Grey at its center. “Good luck in that pursuit, Gregor. Many have issued such a challenge and no single enemy can claim that victory.” Silverwing held out his hand and replaced the arrows in his quiver as Gregor passed them to him. “One day, with time and training, you will be able to stand at my side as an equal. It will be interesting to see who can outdo whom when that time comes.” Silverwing's smile shifted into the studied look of a mentor once more before he continued. “So, tell me what you have learned.”
Gregor adopted his mentor's serious look before forming his reply. “What is behind you can kill you just as easily as that which is in front of you.”
“And?”
This time Gregor could not restrain his own smile. “Never underestimate your opponent, never think the enemy is going to engage you honorably, and never trust a ranger! You could have killed me!”
“Any reasonable archer could have killed you several times, I assure you. You move like a cow bearing a calf in her belly. I guess stealthy movements will never be your strength. Good thing you can drop quickly.” Silverwing grinned as a fiery flush colored the boy's cheeks.
“Damn you, Master Silverwing! I grow tired of dodging through trees, nipping at your heels. When are you going to train me to fight?” Gregor regretted the anger in his tone, but Silverwing chose to ignore it.
Silverwing cocked an eyebrow at his pupil. “Good! We begin your bow training tomorrow. Remember, Gregor, that each lesson builds on the last and you will do well.”
***
Galant Silverwing rarely spoke of anything outside the woods and his training was rigorous enough that Gregor had little time to be concerned about his mentor's past. Most of the pair's time was spent running through the thick woods with Gregor dodging low branches and slipping on protruding roots. When the ranger was off on errands beyond Gregor's ability, the young boy that was quickly developing into a man of some strength spent his time in the woods, taking what peace he could from the thick scents of the wild flowers and the cleansing mist that formed a nearly constant blanket over the forest floor.
***
When Master Silverwing began teaching Gregor the art of weapon handling, he insisted that they focus on the bow before the sword. His reasoning was this; Gregor was marked by a lack of dexterity, and Silverwing felt the bow would improve his hand-eye coordination while also adding an amount of control to the boy's choppy movements.
Gregor listened intently as Silverwing expounded the virtues of the bow on the fine clear morning the day after he had been taught the value of flight. It had been a full season since the pair had met. As the crops in the fields grew heavy with their bounty, so the young man had grown.
Gregor was more than ready to take a weapon, any weapon, into his hands, knowing that each day brought him closer to matching swords with his mentor. “We learn the bow before the blade because if your enemy becomes aware of us, then a wounding or crippling shot from a distance better serves us. It is rarely necessary to kill the woodland creatures, except for food, and small game can be trapped with snares when the need arises. Even the interlopers from the cities that come to hunt for sport,” the ranger spat out the last word with vitriolic scorn, “make better messengers to other would-be sportsmen with an arrow in their thigh. I personally enjoy shooting them in the leg and whooping like a madman.”
Silverwing let out a gibbering howl and flapped his arms wildly to demonstrate the proper execution of this technique, making Gregor take a few rapid steps back. “If I am particularly annoyed, or if they are repeat offenders, then an arrow or two in the buttocks usually prevents another incursion. There are some pleasures to be taken in the performance of one's duties.” He smiled, full of mischief, no doubt thinking of Gregor's trials the day before. “It is my personal feeling that all should find some amount of happiness in whatever they choose to do, except for those who perpetuate evil. Evil should be summarily destroyed once it is disco
vered.”
The last words seemed to Gregor to be out of place. These statements would have been more appropriate coming from one of the Knights of Bella Grey than the rough-cut Galant. This wasn't the first time the woodsman had let slip glimpses into his beliefs. Gregor had wondered about Master Silverwing's past from their very first encounter. There was the curious nature of his name as well as the odd thought the man sometimes voiced. Silverwing made some sense when taken with the longbow being the hunter's weapon of choice. Still, there was an unspoken amount of weight that the name carried. Gregor considered it a title rather than a given name, which only served to confuse the issue more.
***
Gregor's targeting with the bow could only be termed random at best, even while he attempted to fire on the still targets Silverwing had fashioned of cloth sacks. Galant often had to subdue laughter, although just as often the ranger could not restrain it. Silverwing had some time ago assembled a pulley system, to teach tracking and leading moving enemies, and the ranger's dismay only deepened with each day the boy left the targets untouched. After being driven from nearby trees by the random shots Gregor unleashed, birds watching this curious development in their forest got in the habit of perching directly on the slow-moving targets. This seemed to give them the best advantage, because no creature was safe in front of or behind the path of the target itself.
“The best I can say of your skills with that bow, Gregor, is that there might be some level of intimidation involved in the delivery of your misfires. Anyone who would see the amount of intensity you have in your eyes before you release the shaft would be certain to attribute a great deal of skill to you. It would stand to reason that your enemy might think you are missing on purpose as a warning.” Silverwing wiped away tears of laughter before delivering the words Gregor had longed to hear since his training had begun. “My young one, I feel that you have no more to gain continuing your training with the bow. Despite the strength of your arms, your trembling hands will never master the steady hold required to sight with the bow properly. We will begin your blade training immediately, before any innocent forest dwellers can be harmed by your pitiful aim. I can only hope the long hours committed to the bow have bestowed some amount of dexterity and, more importantly, balance, as we take up the blades. I fear, if this is not the case, you will be relegated to using a heavy mace or club that might benefit from your strength.”
Gregor still bore the twin short swords from his previous home with the Knights of Bella Grey, and his infrequent practice sessions when Silverwing had left him in the forest while on unknown errands were still marked by a lack of dexterity, but the power behind his thrusts and slashes was increasing. The bow training had served to increase his ability to weigh his strikes as he wielded the two short blades, and Gregor felt certain his mentor would be surprised at his skills.
When he announced that the blade training would begin, Galant had taken the young man to the village smith to fit him for proper chain mail. Galant had explained that it would do no good to train without the interference of armor. Considering the ranger wore only leather armor, Gregor had found this strange, but he could find no reason to question Silverwing at the time. More curious was the warm reception the ranger received from the blacksmith, who was notoriously ill-mannered to everyone. Gregor was amazed once more by how little he actually knew the man who had mentored him the past season, and, as the harvest neared, Gregor could not help but wonder where the road with this mysterious ranger might lead.
Then there was the matter of the long swords that the smithy had kept maintained for Master Galant. “I was wondering when you would pop in to check on your weapons, Lord Silverwing. I take it the bow I acquired has been serving you well, as you aren't dead from being alone in those woods.” The smith had said with a rough chuckle.
“The longbow has proven more than adequate. Few poachers leave the wood without feeling its sting,” Silverwing assured him.
The smith moved into the rear of his shop to retrieve a long package wrapped in silk cloth. The man laid the package on the counter in front of Gregor and Silverwing with the kind of reverence one would normally reserve for a holy artifact. “They are a beautiful pair of swords, Lord Silverwing, and I admit I would be happy to inherit them if you should pass on into the realm of the God of Light.” As the blacksmith spoke and slowly began opening the package, it was all the young man could do not to spout out the numerous questions that flooded his mind. One thing he knew without asking; Galant Silverwing had been a knight of some merit in years past. This knowledge answered none of the riddles concerning the ranger and only created more unanswered questions. Gregor was stunned to silence with admiration as Master Galant drew the weapons from their simple leather sheaths, with the blacksmith grinning broadly at the wonder reflected in the boy's eyes. Gregor's time with the Knights of Bella Grey had given him great appreciation of properly crafted and well-balanced weapons, and the two blades that lay before him were exquisite, crafted of an alloy he could not recognize, and ornately carved with gilded hilts. Each of the hilts of the twin blades was decorated with golden dragons intertwining their serpentine forms down the full length of the handle, their long necks curving outward to form the branches of the guard. The dragons’ bodies were woven around nearly identical intricately cut crystals in the center of the grips. Golden claws appeared to suspend each crystal at the top and bottom within the handle. The crystals showered every surface near them with a spray of multicolored light, reflecting the fiery glow from the forge. Gregor could only imagine how beautiful they would appear in full sunlight. He thought he would faint if Sir Galant passed these blades to him even for training.
He could imagine the feints and strikes he could deliver with these weapons. Suddenly his blows were felling giants and deadly creatures of the night, the blades glimmering with power and purity. No evil beast or man could stand before him with his enchanted blades and practiced movements. Master Silverwing pulled him from his reverie as quickly as Gregor had become lost in it.
The ranger smiled at the smith, removing the huntsman's knife, and the belt where he had carried it, from his waist. “Won't have much use for this knife any longer, I suppose. Pass it on to one of the local huntsmen when they come to have their weapons tended. It has served its purpose well over the years and I would hate to see it go unused.”
Silverwing secured the belt and scabbards that were meant to carry his weapons as he placed his order with the blacksmith, restoring his swords to their proper place. “Master Ian, I need a chain mail shirt and two properly balanced long swords crafted for this young man. Please take his measure and I will have him pass by again for proper fitting in a couple of weeks. Would you be able to forge these in a month’s time?” Silverwing smiled briefly, awaiting the smith's answer.
“If it was anyone else asking me, they would be told it would be done when it was done. It will be ready for you in three weeks, Sir Galant, and the boy will bear weapons and armor worthy of his mentor.”
“You will need a bit of coin for the sweat of your labors, Master Ian.” Silverwing drew several coins from a small leather pouch at his side, only to receive a hard look from the smith before he could place them on the counter.
“Do not insult me with the offer of payment. Your service to these lands is payment enough.” The smith's crossed arms and furrowed brow showed he would hear no more such nonsense from Silverwing on the matter, and the ranger respectfully dropped the coins back into his purse.
The smith bowed to the ranger. The bow was returned in kind with the respect usually reserved for the meeting of kings. These were both men of honor of a kind few common people could understand. Gregor felt humbled to be in their presence.
***
“Well, I guess you want to know about the blades and how I came to have them?” Gregor felt that he might just have heard the biggest understatement ever from Master Galant. The ranger may just as well have said he was only a fair shot with the bow. “The sto
ry is a long one, but we have time until proper blade training can begin. Sit on the stone and practice listening. It is one of the most useful skills I can teach you.” Sir Galant began to relate the story of the creation of the Golden Dragon, Keepers of the White Light.
The Order of the Knights of the Golden Dragon had taken their name from the God of Light they served and the beast whose hide was formed into the armor they originally wore. Gregor learned from Silverwing's story that the original warriors were drawn from an elite guard unit in service to a Lord of the House of Materon. “The dragon-scaled armor worn by the first knights remains in service, worn by elite guards of the House of Materon to this day. No one dares to challenge the guards that wear the armor, and the lands overseen by the House of Materon enjoy peace and prosperity even at the worst of times. Perhaps you will see the great keep where we originated one day in your travels.”