by Damien Lake
“Yes. Not many people have them in Tattersfield.”
“I won’t try and tell you everything there is to know about them, but I’ll tell you enough to build the foundations in your mind. You can add specific knowledge later as you come across it.”
Marik was ambivalent. Possessing only partial knowledge could cause him trouble later. But anything new would be better than the nothing he currently had.
“This is the way I learned it. Think of swords in four different categories. Look at your own first. Draw it out.” Marik did and Maddock continued. “First look here at the color of the blade. It is much darker than the color of my axe. That is because the blade is mostly iron rather than pure steel. This means it is less flexible and more likely to be damaged than true steel would be. Also look here at the hilt. Look closely at the joining of the blade to the guard. You can see that it is all of a piece. A good sword is made of a blade and hilt joined together from separate pieces. With this one-piece sword you have, you will feel the entire impact through the hilt.”
Phantom vibrations, the ghosts of every time he had struck a solid object during his practices, faintly ran through Marik’s arms while he listened. He admitted, “I thought I had to get used to that.”
“You do need to become accustomed to the feel of the blade as it strikes, but the shock is lessened when the hilt is a separate piece. Also, the fact the hilt and blade are one means the blade was cast instead of forged.”
“What does that mean? Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No. When a tool is cast, the melted metal is poured into a mold the shape of whatever you are making. For a weapon, that means it won’t be as strong as if it were forged instead. That is when the metal is pounded with a hammer, re-heated and pounded again until it is the right shape. Doing this compacts the metal and makes it denser and flexible, so it is stronger.”
Marik gazed at his father’s sword in a different manner than ever before. How could it be that Rail, a skilled fighter in all respects, possessed a sword of such apparent low quality? He asked, “So then who would make a sword like this? It seems as though everything about it is the wrong way to do it!”
“I doubt this blade was made by a swordsmith. Most likely it was created by a blacksmith, either for extra income or because his lord needed a large supply of weapons in a short amount of time. This is the quickest way to create a sword.” He noticed Marik staring at the weapon and correctly interpreted the thoughts flashing across his face. “Many mercenaries choose to keep spare weapons. In all likelihood, your father claimed this from a battlefield. Not the first sword choice he would make, certainly, but it came without a cost to his coin purse.”
Marik nodded slightly. He agreed that was a probable scenario. “Which type of sword is this, then? I assume it’s the least of them.”
“Yes it is. The four categories are called, as I was taught, common, high, master and true.”
“As you were taught? Are there other teachings then?”
Maddock smiled anew. “Not as such. I meant only that not everyone calls things by the same name as you travel from region to region.”
“So this is a common sword then? I guess that means most of the swords I’ll come across will be like this.”
“Not exactly like that. Common swords are merely weapons that were created without a great deal of skill. Usually by blacksmiths quickly producing a large quantity for a specific need or making them on the side for extra business. The techniques and materials used are neither advanced nor masterful. In that same light, the high swords are much better weapons. They are forged by swordsmiths and are of quality steel.”
“And harder to find I’ll bet. And expensive.”
“Indeed, you are correct in both. The master swords are on a higher level still. They are produced by the truly skilled swordsmiths, and are only created on demand for those who can afford them. Usually only a noble will ever bear a master blade. They take long to create and are exceptional weapons. The culmination of an elite swordsmith’s skills honed over decades.”
“And the last? These true swords. How are they more true a sword than the others?”
Maddock’s smile twitched, a suppression of a broader grin. “These are the swords of legend. I’m sure you’ve heard many of the songs and tales about them. A true sword has a life of its own and no swordsmith, however skillful, can set out to create one. In fact, it is very lucky if any swordsmith out of an entire generation ever creates one.”
With a snort, Marik asked, “If they can’t be created then how can they exist?” He recalled tales heard from minstrels in Puarri’s tavern. Marik had never been able to convince himself such weapons could exist, or ever had.
Maddock remained calm in the face of his skepticism. “A swordsmith sets out to create a sword. If he’s lucky, he will create a true sword instead of what he had intended, and then he will only do so if he realizes he is creating a true sword during the forging process. A true sword is the result of everything the smith has ever learned and every skill he has honed throughout his life. As such, no two true swords are ever the same.” Marik’s skepticism persisted. It must have shown. “This is the truth. So much as a single missed stroke with the hammer will be enough to ruin the true sword during the forging and leave the smith with nothing but a regular blade.”
“The stories I remember say the swords were gifts from the gods.”
“They could be correct in that a god involves himself in the forging process, but I do not know the truth of such.”
“I would think,” Marik commented with a sarcastic edge, “that these true swords would still be around. Every song I’ve ever heard tells of the ancient past. What happened to these magnificent weapons?”
“They are still around,” Maddock stated authoritatively. At Marik’s raised eyebrows he continued. “Think if the town council of Tattersfield had one in its possession. Every bandit in the entire kingdom would attack the town in hopes of obtaining it for their own uses. Even the king, I am certain, would demand it be turned over to the throne. Whoever has the keeping of the true swords these days must go to great lengths to keep them a secret.”
“I suppose…” Marik was still unconvinced. “On the theory that I accept their existence, exactly how are they so much better than the others? The only passages I know go along the lines of ‘and he smote the legions of his foes as they took up arms against him’. That’s not very informative.”
“As I said, no two are entirely alike. From what I know, any true sword is able to slice through metal like a dagger slicing into a pad of butter. They also shared one other property. They had a unique reflective quality. Like this.” Maddock unhooked the axe from his pack and held it in the sunlight. He tilted it slightly a few times so Marik could see the silver sheen which crossed the axe from top to bottom when light reflected off its surface. “Their sheen was not silver, but instead shone in different colors as when oil floats on water; like a rain arch. Other than that, their properties differed from blade to blade. I heard tell of one that anytime it was drawn from its sheath, the blade was wet, as if it had been wielded in the rain. Swinging the blade would send a spray of water droplets through the air.”
“A magic sword? But only mages can wield such!” Marik exclaimed with profound distaste.
“No, they are not weapons created by magic. They might seem magical in nature, but they are not. No blade created through the use of magic can match the power of a true sword. I think that’s enough for the time being. Let us stop for lunch while you think on what we have discussed. Later, we will speak further.”
As if on cue, Chatham and Harlan stepped off the road to some trees which provided shade from the afternoon sun.
* * * * *
No one spoke later in the day during their continued travels, which suited Marik. As Maddock had promised earlier, he remained silent, giving Marik time to consider what he’d heard thus far. Harlan offered a rare comment during their lunch to the effect tha
t everything held deeper ramifications than a person might see at first. A slight nod and thoughtful expression from Maddock suggested he wanted Marik to think about what they had spoken of in this manner.
Fine. Well, to start with, any weapons knowledge would be useful to a fighter. That was the obvious one, so what was less obvious? It was nice to talk about legendary weapons or blades crafted so fine they seemed works of art but what were the odds of him, a commoner with no claims to any noble title, ever seeing one much less owning it? Absolutely none as far as Marik could see.
The only practical application he could see would be in purchasing new weapons. Knowing the differences in steel qualities or craftsmanship would help him choose the best one. That would also keep the merchant from charging a higher price than the blade’s actual worth, except the only blades he would likely find were the common ones; low quality and low craftsmanship. In the cities he might be able to find finer quality blades at the established shops, the high swords Maddock spoke of. It might be a good idea to find a better sword when they came to a city of any size, considering the blade he bore. A weapon might not make the fighter, and a skilled fighter might be able to use even a low quality sword effectively, but obtaining the best weapon available would certainly be a boon.
This led Marik’s thoughts in a new direction. Recognizing the quality of an opponent’s blade might help him in a fight. That could be an application of such knowledge. If one knew the particular weaknesses in a blade’s design, then a skilled fighter might be able to attack them directly. He considered his own weapon, one giant piece of metal.
Anyone striking the blade sufficiently hard would numb his entire arm; a serious disadvantage. The leather grip wrapped around the hilt helped, though not to any significant degree. He would definitely need to replace this blade sooner or later. But hadn’t Maddock mentioned that better quality weapons were harder to find?
He became convinced that any weapons he ever used or faced would be these low quality common blades until a thought rose through his grim convictions. What about Maddock’s axe? Or Chatham’s sword? They certainly did not fit his idea of common blades. Their silver surfaces shone much brighter than the dull reflections off his own, yet the metal seemed colder at the same time. Chatham’s hilt and the grip on Maddock’s axe appeared much higher quality as well. The leather and metal almost blended as one. If they were not common swords, what were they?
Obviously one type higher. High swords. Or high weapons, actually. This agreed with his logic. As mercenaries, the men would want to obtain the best possible weapons available. He decided to ask Maddock later about where to obtain a better sword and reasonable prices for such.
While this all might be good to think about, to Marik’s mind it was mostly academic. An iron edge separating your head from your neck left you as dead as the best steel ever crafted. He suspected the true reason Maddock had encouraged him to think was to get him into the practice of using his brain.
When he had been younger, his father once told him, “A man who uses his head is twice as effective as a man who doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if you’re a fancy courtier or a blood-soaked soldier. It’s true in everything a man does.”
So far he had never found reason to doubt the sentiment, though he’d found little opportunity to practice the philosophy under Pate’s loving care.
Marik felt he’d worked through as much as he would without further discussion or actual study of weapons. He needed to find a weapons merchant in a town and observe the differences rather than imagine what they might be, as he could only do while walking the road.
He shook off his introspective cloud to notice Chatham and Harlan walking ahead again. Marik wondered if they customarily traveled in this formation or if they only chose to now in order to give Marik and Maddock the chance to talk undisturbed. The two conversed quietly. A few petals still stuck to Harlan’s back.
Maddock overrode him when Marik turned to renew the discussion. “I see that you have questions, but I would ask that you hold onto them for a little longer. We are nearly at the Varmeese ford. We should reach it very soon.”
* * * * *
Marik knew of the Varmeese of course. One of the larger rivers flowing through the kingdom, it was a major trade route. The Greenbanks River, which Tattersfield utilized to power its logging mills, joined it further to the south after passing through the Rovasii. When their group followed the road around a rise, the river came into view.
At first Marik could hardly believe such a large part of the terrain could have remained hidden until they were practically on it. Half a mile of water separated the two shores. The churning waters off the nearer bank revealed the shallow draft. Midway across, the waters calmed and flowed smoothly, concealing any depth from five feet to a hundred.
Short hills rose from both stony shores. A hike down a steep path would take them to the riverbank’s flats. Trees had crowded forward to the water’s edge as far as he could see except at the ford.
When they reached the bottom, Chatham asked over the quiet roar of flowing water, “Impressive, eh laddie? It looks like a real challenge, but fortunately it’s one we needn’t rise to ourselves.”
Marik’s shuddered momentarily from the chilled breeze off the water. “Why? Is there a ferry?”
“Not quite, lad-o. But o’ course if you really had your little heart set on a swim, I won’t try to change it. Here comes my bestest buddy.”
Not realizing Harlan had left, Marik glanced sideways to see him returning. He brought a huge, half-naked man with him, clad only in a loincloth. The best Marik could say about him was he looked strong. His muscles were hardened. This stranger stopped outside their small gathering.
Harlan said, “We’re in luck. There’s no line at the moment.”
“How pleasing to see that the gods don’t dish it in your face at every opportunity,” commented Chatham. “We might even stand a chance o’ getting to the Randy Unicorn before full dark!”
A deep scowl creased Harlan’s face, as it usually did in the wake of Chatham’s running commentary. He rebuked, “I’m not paying your debts this time. I’ll leave you to wash dishes for a month.” With that, he turned to walk with the half-naked man toward the shore. Marik wondered what that last comment had meant as he followed an exaggeratedly wounded Chatham.
They were led to what Marik could only think of as a staging area. A large bonfire blazed in a patch of shoreline nearly level with the water. Around it sat a host of other exposed men. All were clad in loincloths like the first. Also near them, sheltered by several pavilion awnings, were stacks Marik took to be wooden pallets.
His thoughts were corrected after they walked past the tableau. He could see a group of travelers who had arrived on the main road before them. Several pieces of baggage were piled on one pallet and the travelers took seats atop two others. Rails protruding from the front and rear of each pallet. While he worked this out, the men in loincloths hoisted them off the ground, resting the padded rails on their shoulders, four men per pallet, one on each corner. The pallets acted like the sedan chairs he had heard were used by Perrisan’s nobility. They carried their passengers into the ford above the water. Three other men followed the pallets into the water leading a pair of horses each.
How terribly interesting! In all the tales he’d heard at Puarri’s over the years, never had he heard of this method for fording waterways. He glanced at Maddock, who curtly told him, “Rivermen. Not the same as ferrymen. If they give you any trouble, put your hand on your hilt and narrow your eyes.” With that, he focused on their guide, who had stopped at a pallet pile.
Wary, what was that supposed to mean?, Marik studied the men around him anew. All were large like the first, unshaven, heavily muscled. They could have passed as bandits anywhere in the world. At least they were clean from their regular bathing by walking through the waters of the Varmeese.
Harlan spoke to a different man who wore actual clothing. He handed the stranger several co
ins. The clothed man took the coins inside a small tent attached to a pavilion. Most likely he acted as the rivermen’s version of a caravan yard superintendent.
The first half-naked man made a gesture at the bonfire. Seven others rose to shuffle over. Small river pebbles scattered away from their dragging, bare feet. They looked unhappy, probably because they were damp and trying to warm themselves. It made Marik uneasy when they eyed his quartet in the manner of a jeweler appraising a stone.
Harlan spoke to them. “If we get to the other side without mishap, we’ll give you some drinking coin as a bonus for your care.” This obviously pleased them, which made Marik happy as well. Chatham had torn away his assumptions that he possessed any real skill with a sword. He did not wish to test his abilities in combat against these men. “You go with Maddock. You are the lightest, and he the heaviest.”
The rivermen brought two pallets from the stacks and laid them down near the water. Maddock took off his pack so he could hold it where he sat. Marik emulated him. Railings that were only six inches tall lined the four sides. They would hardly prevent a rider from falling over the side but they gave the passengers a handy grip to cling to. With one hand on the railing and the other holding tightly to his pack, he felt unprepared to handle any problems which might arise.
Maddock’s axe remained strapped to his pack. Marik’s blade was sheathed at his belt. The sword stuck out at a very awkward angle and he would have trouble drawing it if he needed to. He might have missed considering the potential problem if Maddock had not mentioned trouble earlier. Marik berated himself for his lack of vigilance. If he seriously intended to travel the roads, he must be aware of such things without thinking about them.
After the pallets were settled on the rivermen’s shoulders, the ride progressed at a surprisingly smooth pace. The men stepped to the same rhythm and he found the experience intriguing.
The rivermen stumbled occasionally over underwater obstacles, but they recovered so the two passengers were spared an unexpected swim. In places the water came level with the porters’ shoulders. Their pallet appearing to be a raft floating on the water, and yet the rivermen evinced no signs of worry. Walking the route several times a day kept them familiar with the lay of the underwater land. They knew the safest unseen paths.