Both fighters hit hard and Uthar heard King Olmas laughing. Uthar glanced at his own son and saw fear etched on the young man’s face. Ian wasn’t a fighter. The earl wouldn’t go so far as to call Ian a coward, but he doubted his heir would ever willingly engage in a fair fight. Turning his attention back to the ring Uthar saw that once again Orin had backed away, giving the two other men time to regain their feet. The rage had turned to disbelief on the faces of the two men, but they didn’t have time to be afraid. Orin came quickly back for the two men. He hurried forward, moving more quickly than Uthar would have thought possible.
Pivoting on one foot, Orin brought up his leg and slammed the man on his right with a massive kick that sent his opponent tumbling head over heels. Orin then let his momentum carry him around into a spinning move. He stretched out one arm and would have smashed it hard into the second man’s throat, but the fighter ducked below the strike. He then leaped onto Orin’s exposed back, trying desperately to sneak a forearm under the bigger man’s chin, but Orin simply reached back, hooking his fin-like hand onto the back of his opponent’s head, and with a quick bowing motion, flipped the fighter off his back. The man landed hard and was moving slow as Orin raised a boot over the fallen man’s head. He glanced at his father, and Uthar saw the king nod slightly, then the boot came down hard. The fallen man’s body jerked upon impact, then lay still.
The other fighter was back on his feet, but made no move to attack the king’s champion. He waved his hands as if to say he was finished, but Orin stalked forward. His opponent tried to back away, slipping between the torches only to be shoved back into the ring by some of the king’s men who were mocking the fighter. He scrambled around the edges of the ring, trying to stay away from Orin, who steadfastly pursued. The big man was like a lion stalking its prey. He didn’t rush, but it was clear he wouldn’t stop until he had his opponent in his grasp.
“This is madness,” Uthar said, rising to his feet.
“Let them fight, Uthar,” the king said with a chuckle. “The men are loving it.”
“The fight is clearly over,” Uthar said.
“The fight is never over until one man is unable to rise.”
Finally, realizing he couldn’t escape, Uthar’s fighter pulled one of the torches from the ground. It was a tall stake, easily the height of an average man once it was uprooted from the ground. Orin seemed not to notice or care about the sudden change of conditions. He simple kept pursuing his opponent, who was backing up quickly and waving the torch menacingly.
“Now it gets interesting,” the king said with a chuckle as he clapped his hands.
People in the crowd were shouting. Uthar was on his feet, about to call his people in to stop the fight but the king put a cold hand on the earl’s arm.
“Sit, Uthar, I want to see this play out.”
“There is no honor in this!” Uthar said loudly.
“Of course there isn’t,” the king replied. “Those are not men, they are animals. Let them fight.”
Uthar was disgusted by the king’s attitude, but what finally silenced him was his son. Ian was on the edge of his seat, a look of eagerness on his face that Uthar had never seen before. He was held in rapt attention at the violence before him, anxious for suffering and death. Uthar’s blood ran cold at the sheer inhumanity of it all. He felt tainted somehow and appalled that the king, protector of honor throughout the realm, saw no shame in the fight.
Orin finally caught up to his opponent. The fighter swung his torch like a club, but Orin didn’t back away. He didn’t duck the torch or even try to avoid it, instead he stepped forward, directly into the path of the flaming weapon, and raised his stub. The torch hit hard, but the big man hardly seemed to notice. The flaming end snapped off right at the point where the stake hit Orin’s arm. It flew behind the big man, sparks trailing as it sputtered to the ground. Orin folded his fin hand and drove it hard into the fighter’s face. He fell to the ground, his body stiff, so that he looked like a tree that had been chopped down in a clearing. Uthar was close enough to see that the fighter’s eyes had rolled back into his head so that only the whites showed as his eyelids fluttered. Orin placed his boot on the unconscious man’s throat and stepped down. The body jerked spasmodically, but the fighter didn’t resist. Uthar guessed he was out cold from the punch, perhaps even injured from the blow. It only took a few moments and the fighter died in the dirt as the crowd cheered the king’s hulking champion.
Chapter 3
It was the day before the festival, and Feray was once again in high spirits. Marc had completed his work on the sword, adding an ornate handle and silver embellishment to the cross guard. He had also completed a wagon’s load of cooking utensils, farming implements, and various other tools. The festival would be a perfect opportunity to set up their booth and sell the surplus goods that Marc made in between commissioned projects.
Feray loved working the booth. She loved hearing the townsfolk rave about her husband’s work. Not to mention having the opportunity to visit with so many people that she only rarely had the opportunity to see. Their cottage was on the outskirts of Greenhaven, and they only went into town on rare occasions. The village was large enough to support several local smiths, but Marc had a reputation for quality work which allowed him to focus on special, custom jobs that provided anything their family needed.
Luc was excited about the festival, even though he didn’t really understand the significance of the event. It was a rare opportunity for the High King of Floralon to visit cities in the interior. As a general rule, goods for trade flowed east, toward the coast, where merchants in grand sailing ships plied their wares up and down the coast where the wealthiest citizens lived. The king had fortresses and palaces on the coasts and up the larger rivers in every earldom and spent a good portion of his time traveling up and down the length of Floralon, although it was traditional for the sovereign ruler to travel by ship and only stop at the larger ports. Feray had been a child the last time a High King had visited the interior of the Darnish Counties. King Vorner had been a beloved ruler, and she remembered his snow-white hair and gentle eyes as he rode through the small village she had been raised in. King Vorner had died a few years later, passing on the crown to his son Brogan of Feetan, but it hadn’t taken long before Lord Olmas of Westham had rebelled and with an army from the earldoms of Kinsington and The Reech, had marched into Feetan before help could be summoned from the south. King Brogan had no choice but to turn over the crown and throw his support behind King Olmas. If he had dared to escape by sailing south, his kingdom would have been left in ruins, its people enslaved and turned against him. The former king died mysteriously not long after, and many people said King Olmas sent assassins to murder his rival, but it was also thought that Brogan died of shame.
Feray had heard all the rumors, although she had never spent much of her time considering what the nobles were doing. There was always intrigues at court as alliances were formed and friends were betrayed. Floralon was a confederation of kingdoms flanked on one side by the Mountain Veil, and on the other side by the sea. Beyond the mountains was a vast land known only as the wilderness, but it was agreed that many dangers and savage beasts thrived in the wild, untamed lands. Feray had never heard of anyone who had gone beyond the mountains and lived. There were tales of wild beasts that roamed the dense forest beyond the mountains, elves were said to live in ancient wooded glades, and dwarves made their homes in the roots of the mountains themselves. Feray had even heard tales of dragons, although she didn’t believe them. There had been a time when she had dreamed of exploring great unknown places, and meeting wonderful magical creatures, but those dreams had been put away in favor of more practical matters. Her hopes centered instead on Luc and her beloved Marc. She worked hard every day to ensure that they shared a good life together and there was no room for the mystical or the fantastic, not when there were chores to be done, meals to be cooked, and a child to be looked after.
Marc had moved t
he wagon to his workshop and loaded the trade goods inside. Feray knew that there would be plenty of food available in Greenhaven, but she packed some fresh loaves, cheese, apples, and nuts for them to snack on. She also filled a water skin with Marc’s home-brewed ale. It was sour, and even bitter at times. There would be much better spirits in the village, but Marc was proud of his brew and she was proud of her man. He might want it, so she packed it for them. It would do no good to spend all the money they made selling Marc’s wares on food and ale before they even left the festival. She would buy Luc some sweets, and make sure the boy had a good time. Then they could return to their cottage, to the quiet, reassuring predictability of life.
As she turned she saw Marc approaching. He had the new sword in his hand, and although she had no doubt that if push came to shove he would be a formidable fighter, seeing her husband with the deadly weapon made her shiver. She didn’t normally believe in signs or omens, but at that moment she couldn’t help but feel that something bad was approaching. Something violent and terrible.
“We’re loaded,” Marc said with a grin. “All that’s left is to get this beauty wrapped up.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea,” Feray said. “Why take the chance?”
“Because it’s an opportunity, darling. A chance to make my mark, and perhaps make life a little easier for you. Tell me you wouldn’t like having a servant or two. Tell me that scrubbing the sweat from my clothes is what you dreamed of as a child, and I’ll leave the sword here.”
“I don’t mind taking care of the people I love,” Feray said. “I’m not noble born. I don’t need servants to wait on me hand and foot.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t want to be gnarled hands and aching shoulders from hammering steel when I’m old. If I had enough orders I could hire some help to do the heavy labor. If things go well, we might even be able to afford to place Luc as a squire. He could be a knight in the earl’s household. Just think of that.”
Feray didn’t have to think about her son becoming a warrior. She understood that a knight had many opportunities that a laborer would never have. He could be given land to oversee, hold positions in court, perhaps even rise to become an earl one day, if he was fortunate enough. But, despite the obvious opportunities, Feray didn’t want her son to become a knight. She didn’t want to think of him fighting and risking his life because his lord called him into service.
She looked out the open window to where Luc was playing in the yard, and was surprised to see a huge dog near her son.
“Marc!” Feray said, rushing to the open doorway.
“What’s wrong?” her husband asked, moving behind her with the sword still in his hand.
“Where did that dog come from?” she asked, more than a little surprised by what she saw.
The dog was massive, with a boxy head and drooping jowls. It had sad eyes, and a tawny hide, except for its face which was black. It was easily as tall as Luc, and looked dangerous, but as Feray watched, Luc moved around to the side of the dog, scratching it behind its ears and talking to the animal without a trace of fear.
“Would you look at that?” Marc said. “It’s a Mastiff, but I’ve never known them to be wild.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“I should think so,” Marc continued. “I’ve heard they’re used to protect the royal family. I’ve only ever seen one or two in my whole life, but it looks friendly.”
Feray moved out toward her son, careful not to make any sudden movements that might frighten the dog and cause it to bite. She had always had an affinity for animals, and Luc had inherited the trait, but she’d never known wild animals to be drawn to people. As she approached the dog it looked up at her with a longing that made Feray feel sad.
“He’s lost, mama,” Luc said. “He needs a family.”
“Is that so,” Feray said, kneeling down beside her son.
“He’s hungry. Can we feed him?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”
The dog moaned and dropped down on the ground, laying its massive head on its forelegs and looking up at Feray with its sad eyes.
“Oh, please, mama, he’s a good dog. He didn’t chase the chickens and we have room. He can stay with me.”
“Luc, there’s just not…” she couldn’t finish her thought. The truth was they had more than enough for a dog, and while she didn’t relish having one in her cottage, it might be good protection as a guard dog. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She got back to her feet as Marc approached.
“Look, papa! His name is Rolo and we’re going to keep him.”
“Is that a fact?” Marc said, glancing at his wife with a knowing grin.
“Of course it is, papa. He’s a good dog, aren’t you Rolo. You’re my best friend.”
“That was fast,” Marc said to his wife in a quiet voice.
“He seems tame enough.”
“Imagine that, you taking in another helpless animal,” he teased. “We’ll have to be sure he doesn’t eat the chickens.”
“Luc pointed out that he hasn’t even chased them,” Feray said fetching an old bucket and putting some water inside. “He looks worn out to me.”
“I thought he looked dangerous?” Marc said.
“Well, I was startled at first, but I’ve got a good feeling about him. He seems like a good dog.”
“Rolo is a good name for dog,” Marc said. “And Luc could use a companion. He’s already decided it’s his best friend.”
Feray smiled as she tore apart some stale bread and gathered some pork bones she’d been saving. She carried the food outside, along with the bucket of water, and set it on the ground not far from the dog. Rolo didn’t move, it just looked at Feray.
“Go ahead, eat,” she told him.
The dog bounded up faster than she thought possible and began gobbling up the food. Once the bread was gone, it dipped its head into the old bucket and lapped up the water. Then it returned to the bones and began gnawing them. It only took a moment before Feray heard the thick bones snapping between the dog’s powerful jaws.
“You’ll be in charge of this beast,” Marc told Luc. “You’ll have to fetch his water and keep him away from the chickens.”
“I can do it!” Luc said. “I’m big enough, papa. I promise. I’ll do such a good job. I love him so much.”
Luc threw his arms around the dog’s neck and was rewarded with a long, slobbery lick.
“Ewww, Rolo, that’s gross!” Luc bellowed as Feray and Marc both laughed.
That evening, once Luc was safely tucked into bed and Rolo was given an old quilt to lay on beside the cottage’s door, Marc looked at his magnificent sword one last time before wrapping it in a velvet cloth and then rolling the weapon into a blanket.
“There’s that put away safe,” he declared. “No one can accuse us of carrying a weapon. I’ll only reveal it once I’ve gained an audience with Lord Uthar.”
“You know it’s possible he won’t see you,” Feray said. “He’ll be entertaining the king.”
“He’s a smart man,” Marc declared. “He won’t pass up an opportunity like this. He might even allow me to show it to King Olmas. Wouldn’t that be something.”
Feray nodded as her husband sat on the bed and pulled his boots off. She loved to hear him talk about his dreams. Her heart was completely his, and while she still had dreams of her own, her love had swept her away in the ambitions of her strong blacksmith. She would gladly lay down her every desire to see his dreams come to fruition. As he slipped under the blankets and quilts that covered their bed, she reached out and stroked his face.
“What’s this?” he said with a grin.
“My favorite face,” she said.
“You’re too good to me, my love. You’re so much more than I deserve.”
“Don’t say that,” Feray chided softly. “You’re the most talented man I’ve ever known.”
“Well, I’ll take that co
mpliment and give you one in return. You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”
“More beautiful than a rose in bloom?” she asked.
“Much more.’
“More beautiful than a butterfly in flight?”
“Even more beautiful than a butterfly.”
“Oh, Marc. I’m so happy when I’m with you.”
“Well that’s good,” he said, pulling her close, “because you’re stuck with me as long as I live.”
The kiss that followed was warm, intimate yet familiar. They lay there in each other’s arms, listening to the sound of Rolo snoring and trying not to laugh.
“He’s a noisy sleeper, that one,” Marc said. “That’ll take some getting used to.”
“If we can’t sleep, whatever shall we do?” Feray said.
“I’ve got just the thing,” Marc said. And then he pulled her even closer and kissed her again.
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