Sir Wilhelm Jareth ended his prayers and took a seat at one of the benches he had fashioned nearby. He motioned for Trestan to have the seat opposite and join him for a while. The young man accepted. Trestan waited for words to issue forth from the old adventurer, but when they did not come he offered a few of his own. “They were a sorry lot, despicable,” he motioned to indicate the trees that had been his sparring partners. “They pick out a poor man like me and wish to steal my money for their own selfish pursuits. They would have left me dead and later would be drinking and laughing over it.”
Sir Wilhelm responded, “Surely a tragedy to lose such a young lad, but I feel sorry for those attackers. You are a good boy and may find the afterlife that suits you, but their deeds condemn them. It is enough to feel sorry for them.” The veteran warrior grinned.
The young man returned the grin. “This is one of your oddities of looking at life and death.”
Jareth motioned to his holy symbols on his fine armor, “I am a servant of Abriana. Although she is a peaceful and loving goddess, many warriors follow her tenets to protect that which we love. There is much to be fought for in this world, but how we face life decides the next one. Grieve for a lost loved one who meets their death prematurely, but at least know they go to a better place. The attackers are the ones for which you should truly feel sorry. Their path condemns them to suffer an afterlife of torment. If they could only be turned to something good, the world and their souls would be much better off. Yet many die in their selfish pursuits, and their souls are lost for good. A good man has nothing to fear from an early death.”
“I’ve never been there to see someone under the threat of the sword, but I’m guessing it isn’t easy to simply hold your blade back and try to redeem a person that just killed someone you loved.” Trestan’s tone wasn’t offering argument. He showed interest in learning Jareth’s response.
“Well,” the older man murmured, measuring an honest response. “If my loved one were still alive to protect, I would indeed fight fiercely to protect them. That displays to Abriana the measure of my love…willing to risk my own life and limb to protect another. A downed or surrendered opponent deserves mercy, and Abriana offers it. A saved soul is worth as much as a faithful one.”
After that, Sir Wilhelm was still in quiet contemplation when Trestan prodded him again. “But, if blood was spilled, and they stood defiant…” He left the sentence unfinished.
Sir Wilhelm drew out his sword from the scabbard. The steel reflected the light of the morning sun, highlighting the unknown writing and symbols that ran along the length of the blade. Large but fast, tough but graceful, it promised a skilled fight against any who would test it. To the young smith, the sword looked as if its value was much more than a normal sword, and it was very well crafted.
“There are many places of worship where the goddess will take in any who willingly desire to turn from selfish ways. But, we do not replace courts and judges. If the man is there I then feel sorrow for him as I spirit him away from this world. That man is the enemy of love and healing if he hates and kills. There are evil men that actually pay homage to gods who terrorize decent folk. They will reach their own afterlife, finding that it actually offers some of the same strife and sadness they have filled their lives with in this world. Am I to feel sorry for them? That will not stop my blade from sending them to their destiny.”
Sir Wilhelm replaced the valuable sword in his scabbard. Seeing Trestan’s eyes still on the sword, he changed the subject. “I saw part of your practice fight, you are imitating my style.”
The young man blushed, though one could hardly tell from the ash and dust on his face. “Oh that. Well, I took some of what I saw you doing and I thought I’d practice it. I felt it wasn’t the smoothest, but guessing I at least looked a little fast and impressive.”
The seasoned warrior smiled, “It was good. You are still quite the novice, but probably one of the better swordsman in the village…well, not that it seems a big compliment.”
Trestan blushed, but protested the observation, “Surely you jest!”
“I am quite serious my boy! Aside from myself and Sahbin, I doubt there is a man around here that could match your abilities. The guards look tough and can hold a sword, but I’ve seen how poorly they wield their blades. Without the discipline Sahbin instills in them, they’d be little more than ruffians.”
Trestan’s mind flitted briefly to Sahbin. Hired a few years ago, she led the local lord’s men, who doubled as village constables and keep guards.
Sir Wilhelm further remarked, “I hope you don’t take my compliments and feel like settling an argument with a sword some day. It’s better to go through life never having the need to use one.”
Trestan saw the opportunity to ask a question he hadn’t inquired from his mentor before, “You say that most knights who use such swords put all their strength into a strong blow, yet you use the handle and a lighter blade to use speed and control instead. Where did you learn this from?”
“I observed warriors up north, in the Empire of Tariyka. Their fighting styles are amazing to behold. They tend to fight with less armor, so their styles represent speed and grace over physical strength. Most opponents you face will not be as armored as I am, so you don’t need powerful blows to knock them down. It is much more useful to be able to switch from offense to defense, right and left, with speed and precision. I saw your spinning style and the way you turn your blade around with simple hand and wrist movements, rather than needing to reset your hips a different way each time and rolling your whole body around. It looked very good. It also helps to have a light sword, for I couldn’t wield a heavy one and use that same style.” At that thought Sir Wilhelm saw the young man’s gaze drift back to the sword, and he saw the next question before it was asked.
He offered the sword, still residing in its scabbard, for Trestan to hold. The young man, (dirty, poor, and with little chance of pursuing some boyish dreams), looked to the old knight as if he was offering one dream come true. Trestan gingerly took it, and once settled in his hands marveled at how light it was compared to its look. Since he had worked on a lot of metal in his young life, he could feel the exceptionally good craftsmanship involved. “It feels so light! It must have magic in it, right? Mind if I draw out the blade?”
The older man laughed, “My boy, I wouldn’t give you the sword and forbid you to draw out the blade. Have a look and wave it around a bit…not too close to a tree root mind you.”
Trestan displayed the greatest reverence for the blade as he drew it out. Setting the scabbard aside, he waved it in the air a bit. He actually showed much concern that the clean and polished blade touched nothing. Sir Wilhelm Jareth continued to talk about the blade while the lad reveled in being able to simply hold it. “Its origin is of elvish make. I tried to acquire a Tariykan sword, but they protect the secrets of their crafted weapons closely. Their swords are treated with much more respect then most anything a family could own; it is the pride of the house. That elvish sword works well enough for the purpose. After all, the elves are also known more for their skill and grace than raw strength.”
The aging warrior watched Trestan, though his gaze took in the qualities that seemed to exist deep within the young man. As the young smith continued to stare in awe at the sword, Sir Wilhelm’s gentle words startled him, “Boy, I have nay sons or daughters. Much as I have loved some women in my life, I was never blessed with a child from them. Among all the villagers, you are the only other person that comes to the lady’s shrine on a regular basis. I don’t count Lord Verantir Tessald among such people, for he goes out only to pay lip service to all the shrines and temples as part of his political position. You, on the other hand, share my ideals and seem to follow the goddess in your own way. I’ve seen how much help you’ve been to the people of the village, showing genuine compassion and love to all you meet. It’s rare that I hear an angry tone from your lips. If I ever meet my time, I want you to take care of my sword
for me.”
Trestan, slack-jawed with shock, allowed the sword to drop low enough to make a solid noise on a rock. The look on his face reflected more disbelief that he had let the sword smack the ground. He stammered out an apology and quickly re-sheathed the blade. Jareth laughed as the sword was hastily returned to him, hilt first as was proper custom, “I meant it boy…I mean…young man. It wouldn’t be proper to call you a boy anymore; you have grown so much. I hope you shall never have to use a sword, I hope it rusts to nothing before it is ever needed again to defend someone loved. Nevertheless, when I pass on, I can think of nay others better suited to take care of it for me.”
The young man tried to recover his composure, “I…uh…don’t know what to say. I hope to have you around for a very long time though, maybe even to be a teacher and guide to my children if I ever get the blessing and curse of having some.”
The retired adventurer laughed, “Well, that may be a long time yet, I’m not dead. Although…you may be soon once you finally get to work and your father gets a hold of you!”
“Uh oh,” Trestan looked towards the sun, “I’ve been relaxing and playing way too long, my father is going to be upset. I better run, but I’ll see you tonight if I’m able!”
“You know where I live; the door is always open,” was the reply.
Trestan got up and bowed in respect to one of the wisest men he knew. He then dashed off down the trail back to the village. A couple seconds later, he turned around and raced back because he had forgotten his quarterstaff at the shrine. He retrieved it with an embarrassed smile. Then the young man bowed a second time then ran off again.
After he was gone the older warrior looked up to the heavens and spoke to some unseen presence. “That young man could be a smith forever in a small hamlet and be content. I think, however; he could be much more in your service if given the chance. The lad is capable of more than what fate’s lot has dealt him so far.”
Sir Wilhelm looked down to the rock that had been hit by the sword. It had been a thin rock to be sure, the kind one might skip across a pond. Nevertheless, the small drop of the sword sundered it into two halves without placing a nick on the blade…and Trestan had been too preoccupied to notice.
“A curse on all Tariykan sword smiths anyway,” noted Sir Wilhelm Jareth. “Elven magic makes for a much better blade!”
* * * * *
A sparse wood grew along the brook, and the brook ran down past the village some miles to the ocean. The bountiful fishing along the brook provided the village its name: Troutbrook. Water drifted lazily past, deep enough for the fish, but not so deep as to be a major deterrent for anyone wanting to cross. A small stone bridge, just wide enough for a single wagon to go over, straddled the river at the village. Freshly planted farm fields bordered the woods along the brook where Trestan ran. The cattle and sheep herders occupied the south side of the brook, which avoided some land disputes with the farmers. It was a good time of the year to enjoy an outdoor run along that peaceful waterway. The scents from many breakfast cook fires filled the breeze. The trees were starting to flower. Some of the village men who had no other obligations were already out by the brook fishing. Trestan passed them with a wave but didn’t stop for conversation. Many villages up and down the coastline traded deep-sea fish and crabs with Troutbrook for other supplies, so there was no shortage of seafood around Trestan’s home. Fishing, however, was a part of the heritage.
Trestan finally came over a slight rise where the riverbank turned steep and gazed upon the buildings of his home. Three main streets composed Troutbrook, with the biggest one traveling in a straight line out from the old stone bridge. This main road had the most important merchant locales on it, which included: the inn, pub, a couple of dry goods stores, carpenter shop, stable, church, bakery and the smithy. Both ends of the street near the outskirts had open-air markets for those merchants that couldn’t afford a building. The smaller two streets ran parallel to the main one, were for merchants’ back doors and some houses. A few unnamed cross streets and alleys provided access between the three roads.
The single dominant building on the main street, The Church of the Sacred Harvest, reflected the large farmer population of the area. Based on the tenets of Yestreal, God of Sun and Weather, it appealed to humble folk who tamed the land. Farmers prayed for their livelihood and crops, others paid homage more out of respect for the cycle of the seasons and nature. The other god that held sway over the ground and crops, Mothrok, was not particularly well liked among the general populace. Mothrok’s domain, Goddess of Earth and Stone, linked to the land as well. Due to her nature, most farmers offered prayers out of fear and the desire not to have a crop ruined by the soil. The Church of the Sacred Harvest was the only real church attended by clergy. There were shrines to other gods outside of town, (like Sir Wilhelm Jareth’s shrine to Abriana), but no other buildings of worship. Yestreal’s church included a shrine built out in the middle of the main street in front of the church. A green stone etched with strange markings occupied a column of marble, and this formed a part of the central well in the village. The stone had magical properties, and was said to be a gift from the god to promote the growth of crops and the prosperity of the region. People often prayed to it for good weather in lean times.
Trestan glanced north, along the ridge and slightly off the road from the village. Even the church seemed a small and insignificant building compared to the manor where Lord Verantir Tessald lived and ruled over the immediate area. It was the oldest structure around, and had been tended well during the dark years. The manor was also home to the most beautiful young lady in the village, who notably was still unwed. The local boys, Trestan included, fancied her despite knowing they would never win her father’s approval.
Closer to town, Trestan cut across a field to head straight for the smithy. Aside from the other noises coming from the village, he could hear the hammer sounds clearly now. Coming up from behind the smithy as he was, Trestan faced the humble home that he lived in with his father. The side street passing by the front of their house wasn’t anything grand to look at. Two stumps sat outside the front door where father and son could sit and enjoy a quiet sunset after a hard day’s work. A few houses belonging to other village folk dotted the west side of street. Other than that, it was rather open space with some small farms and unused land. The row of houses and merchant back doors looked drab and plain, yet it had been the only home Trestan had ever known. The front of the house faced one of the small side streets, while the back of the house joined the back of the smith yard, and the blacksmith stall faced the main street. It wasn’t a very far distance to walk to work, unless you had a care to go play in the woods that morning. The house itself was one level and boasted only three rooms. One room was a common room and kitchen combined, the next was his father’s bedroom, the third was part Trestan’s bedroom and part storage. An enclosed yard sat between the house and the smithy, bordered on either side by other buildings. In the yard, metal stock piled next to a large metal tub which served as the sunlit bath for father and son, (the view blocked from the main street by the laundry line).
He ran into the house and dropped off his quarterstaff and practice sword. Using some water that was available in the common room, he splashed his face and hands a bit to refresh himself before the facing the ash of the forge. Trestan’s mind remained distracted on Sir Wilhem’s offer regarding the sword. His mentor had shown quite a bit of his heart that morning, and it was something the young man wouldn’t soon forget. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then exited the back door. It was time to put in a hard day of work.
His father, Hebden Karok, pounded away to finish last night’s project. Usually they had the help of one of the local boys, but he wasn’t in sight. Mikhael, son of the owner of the dry goods store, worked in the smithy from time to time in exchange for deals for his father. Hebden glanced up, a reflection of how Trestan might look when older. They shared many of the same physical traits, tho
ugh the father had his share of gray hairs. The older smith sported thicker arms, as well as an extra layer of soot. Trestan looked for any expression in his father’s face, and he got the feeling he would have been a more welcome sight if he had gotten there earlier.
Hebden Karok set down the unfinished piece of metal and hammer, standing tall and proper to address his son. “Glad to see you found your way here. I hope your morning walk got you fresh and ready for the day. Mikhael can’t join us; his folks had some chores for him.”
Trestan grabbed a leather apron to protect his patched work clothes. “What have we got in store for us today? You look like you’ve got something big on your mind.”
Hebden nodded and smiled, though it wasn’t the most pleasant of smiles. “Lord Verantir himself sent word this morning. He has a tiny little job for us to do.”
A slight pause informed the young smith the job wasn’t exactly tiny, or easy. “I’m ready, what is it?”
Hebden nodded to the stall used to show horses. “His lordship would like us to shoe several of his horses that are overdue. I’ve already seen them: big warhorses most of them, with only one exception! It promises to take up a lot of time today on top of some items I’d like to get repaired for friends.”
Trestan acknowledged his readiness to get started. As he did, a glance around the street turned up something out of the normal day’s pleasures, and it pulled at the young man’s attention. Fairest among any flowers in the valley, the Lady Shauntay Tessald could catch any young man’s eyes across the length of the village street. Silver clasps adorned braided, long, blonde hair. Her perfume wielded the power to entice many a man swept up in her blue eyes. The lady’s corset accentuated her already ample bosom; the neckline just low enough to show the beginning of her cleavage. In a fashion unladylike to nobles she wore a ruffle skirt, which stopped at the knees, and her knee-high heeled boots. Men could get a forbidden glance at the thighs when she positioned herself to “accidentally” show it. While such apparel was not uncommon among most women, the nobility formed its own intricate codes of dress. Though the older women in the village would frown at her style of dress, she was still a noble, and thus above them. Despite the allure of her figure and dress, her smile remained her most captivating weapon. Trestan knew the young maiden could persuade many people to do things her way, yet she made it seem that doing any favor for her was the best reward you could have. Indeed, men fawned over her and bent over backwards to please and win another smile from her. She was actually quite the scandal to the well-respected women of the village. She didn’t care or didn’t listen, and like it or not she could do what she pleased as the lord’s only daughter.
The Earthrin Stones 1 of 3: Inheritance of a Sword and a Path Page 2