tolund’s waking
by
Tom Gramza
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Tom Gramza on Smashwords
Tolund’s Waking
Copyright © 2010 by Tom Gramza
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Tolund’s Waking
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Prelude: Bleeding Shadows
It began at midnight. The warm, thick air of the island fortress sharpened into an unnatural cold. The great stormlock, Sethnu was roused from his sleep by whispered threats. The threats echoed about his chambers, crept up his spine, and gnawed at his soul; the threats were bleeding out of the shadows themselves. Undaunted, Sethnu donned his robe and strode deliberately out into his courtyard. He was the dread Sethnu. He was the warlock most feared by the White Council, paladins, and even the other warlock orders. He was the stormlock who had butchered an entire firelock raiding party single-handedly, he was the stormlock who had killed the vicious beastlock, Prath in a legendary duel; he was the only warlock who dared to hunt the sea dragons of the Coastlands simply for the sport of it. No one would dare challenge him in his own keep, surrounded by his own powerful disciples.
As he threw open the large doors to the courtyard, even the great sorcerer was horrified by what he saw; hanging all about him, floating and weaving in the night air were the ensnared bodies of every last one of his deadly followers. Numbering over two dozen, each of Sethnu’s disciples hung silent and helpless, smothered in shrouds of writhing black shadow.
“Are they alive?” asked the stormlock, his voice echoing off the thick walls of his stronghold. Now the bright flames of the torches that lined the courtyard darkened and twisted to flames of deep black. Sethnu’s silver eyes narrowed and shifted about.
“I’m not here for them ‘great’ Sethnu, they are only here as witnesses,” answered a smooth, confident voice. The words seemed to seep out of every shadow at once. “I’m here for you.”
“Well then, show yourself!” barked the stormlock. “Or are you going to cower inside your precious darkness all night?” An amused laughter filled the air as a hooded figure in a tattered black cloak emerged from the shadows at the far corner of the courtyard.
“Celmus, at your service,” announced the warlock with a mock bow. “You’ve been widely accepted as the most powerful among us for far too long Sethnu. I’ve come to remedy that.”
“Very well,” smiled Sethnu, “I accept your challenge.” Instantly a searing bolt of lightning tore from Sethnu’s hands into Celmus’ chest. Powered by the stormlock’s rage, this spear of lightning would have torn through the largest of dragons. The dark warlock stood unaffected. He did not move or wince as the lightning struck him. The only proof that it had struck him at all was a charred hole in Celmus’ cloak and the smoke in the air about him. Beneath his hood, Celmus’ eyes burned black and red. Sethnu’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open in disbelief.
“Now it becomes clear doesn’t it?” taunted Celmus. “This was
never a true contest. It’s merely a formality; a single step on a
greater path. After tonight all of the ruling warlocks and their
orders will know that I am the greatest among them.”
“No!”
snapped Sethnu, his eyes and veins now burning a bright silver. “You
were never one of us. You will never be accepted as one of us!”
Savage winds and lightning strikes cut down toward Celmus as the
stormlock brought the thick stone columns of his own courtyard down
upon his rival. Cracking stone and clouds of dust filled the fortress
alongside the pounding thunder and flashing lighting. In moments it
was over. Sethnu breathed heavily, his eyes, hands, and veins burning
and sparking with lightning. He knew that no man, beast, or warlock
could have survived that attack. As he took a step forward to inspect
Celmus’ scorched and mangled corpse, a voice from behind halted his
step.
“I’ve no more time for this nonsense ‘great’ Sethnu,” said Celmus as he strode, unscathed, out of yet another shadow directly behind the stormlock. “I’m done with you.”
Far out over the ocean waves that surrounded the stormlock’s fortress the dying screams of the mighty Sethnu echoed into the night.
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Chapter 1
Empty Gloves
Waking never came easily to Tolund Dellender. Every morning, in the greying light that came between dark and dawn, his mother would fight to rouse him from his deep sleep. Tolund loved his soft bed and his magnificent, wondrous dreams. Even as a young boy he’d been able to remember his dreams in striking detail. In them, he fought monsters, rode lightning, flew among the clouds and much, much more.
All his life he awoke frustrated because waking meant that he had to abandon whatever fantastic adventure he was having. In more joyous times, his mother, Gwendolyn, used to wake him with a song that she had made up for him when he was a newborn. To this day, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Tolund couldn’t remember the last time she’d sung it to him.
This past year had been a flood of nightmares for the Dellender family. Eleven months earlier, a horrific sickness known as the “Stench Plague” (due to the vile smell that accompanied it) spread across their countryside. Tolund’s father, Collin, after battling it valiantly for over a month, was lost to the disease. Though he had always been a stout man, his father had withered to a mockery of his great strength and lost all color in his appearance. In his last weeks he had a ghastly, ashen look to him. Even now, Tolund wished that he could forget those last weeks and remember his father as he was before the illness took hold.
Tragically, the plague poisoned more than just his father. Five months after his father’s death, Tolund’s mother gave birth to his little sister, Emilyse. Even though the babe was a blessing and was greatly loved, everyone could see that Emilyse was not well. Somehow, a small touch of this hateful plague had reached her. She did not have the more profound sufferings—the smelly boils, the violent shaking, and fits of pain, but she was ashen grey in color and was always very weak. Since the time of her birth, Emilyse’s poor health had been relatively steady, but lately she had taken a nasty turn and was fading quickly. Gwendolyn was beside herself with despair because she knew that her precious daughter’s time was growing short. All of this and more was why Gwendolyn Dellender did not sing to awaken her beloved son; she simply had no song inside her in these dark days.
She stirred him with a gentle shake, “Tolund, time to wake up dear.” As always, it was a battle for Tolund to wake, partly because he hated most of his life right now and partly because he had just been dreaming of being strong enough to lift giant boulders over his head and skip them across a huge lake as if they were small pebbles.
Dutifully, he forced himself to get up with a groan and a lazy stretch. Rubbing his eyes, he kissed his mother on the cheek and gave her a firm hug. He always loved how her curly brown hair itched the side of his face a little. “Morning Mom,” he said sleepily.
“Good morning, Luv,” she replied, heading to the kitchen to get his breakfast. Tolund put on his socks quickly because of the cold floor. On his way to wash up he looked in on Emilyse. She was sleeping soundly, as she did most of the time now.
“Good morning, little princess,” he offered in a soft voice as he laid a gentle hand on her head. She looked so pale and cold and her thin brown hair had begun to fall out in patches. One side of her tiny mouth curved up into a half-smile at his touch and her small fingers opened and closed once. As Tolund watched her sleep a stray thought seized him-this crib will be empty soon. The shock of this thought stopped his breath; his blue eyes warmed and welled up with tears. He blinked the tears back and stumbled
away from her crib. He had another long day ahead of him, they were counting on him; he had to push that thought out of his mind and start his day right.
Tolund had done an astounding job in these times for a lad of only twelve. After the losses that his family had endured, he’d taken it upon himself to look after his mother and sister. The Dellenders owned a large piece of land along the Barrier River that had a humble, yet successful iron mine upon it. Like most folk who lived in the mining realm of the Stonelands, Tolund’s family made a living by selling the valuable ore to the other realms that had none. Although their mines had none of the magical rewards of the dwarf mines or the cleric mines, most Stonelanders did well enough to meet their needs.
The Dellender mine was well-crafted and safe to work in, but now Tolund was working it all alone with only the occasional help of their village cleric, Cleric Michaels. Waking before dawn, Tolund worked the mine for most of the day. In the late afternoon he helped his mother work their small family farm. He did all this without complaint, even though his heart was always heavy inside of him.
Soon Tolund had washed and dressed for the day and was sitting at the breakfast table. “Would you like some tea dear? It’s good and strong,” offered his mother.
“That sounds great. Thanks.” He ate his eggs and biscuits quickly as he talked. “Are the Michaels coming today?” he asked, with his right cheek stuffed with biscuit.
“Yes, I’m expecting them at any time. Mrs. Michaels said she had a small surprise for us.” Gwendolyn gave her son a concerned look. “Tolund, are you sure that all of this work isn’t too much for you?”
“No, Mom,” he groaned in an annoyed tone. “I told you, I’m not even sore anymore. I feel better than I have in a long time. I think I’m used to the extra work now. I’ve definitely gotten stronger.”
“You couldn’t tell by looking at you!” she teased as she handed him his tea. “You’re still the skinniest strongman I’ve ever seen!” She smiled and tousled his light brown hair doing her best to lighten the mood of their home.
Before he could reply, the morning air was disturbed by the delighted barking of their dogs, Tooth and Fang. “That must be the Michaels,” Tolund smiled, “Fang always yelps a little louder for Cleric Michaels.”
Coming down the front path was, in fact, the Michaels. The Dellenders were always glad to see them, even before the bad times began. Cleric Warren Michaels was a common village cleric. He was almost completely bald, with only a small crescent ring of silver-grey hair at the base of his head. He wore simple clothes, enjoyed the company of his fellow townsfolk, and was as unpretentious as anyone Tolund had ever known. The boy liked the way the old pastor could always make him laugh, even when he didn’t feel like laughing. He liked being around Mrs. Michaels too.
Rachel Michaels complemented her husband perfectly. Although not quite as outgoing as the cleric, she was warm and encouraging to everyone she encountered. She had a particular soft spot for children and they loved her right back. Also, while the cleric was better with people, she was better with things. Always dressed neatly and tastefully, she loved to cook and decorate and give gifts. She was far more organized than her more gregarious spouse.
So it was that the two of them came cheerfully up the walk to greet the Dellender household just as dawn was breaking. Cleric Michaels was trying frantically to calm the happy dogs so they wouldn’t wake the baby. This was funny, because his shushing and petting only made them twist and bark more furiously.
“It’s all right, Cleric,” called Tolund. “Emilyse is used to their noise. They’re not going to wake her up.”
As they had come to expect these days, Cleric Michaels was dressed for work. He wore a blue work shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows and dark brown pants held up by suspenders. He carried a sack of freshly ground flour over one shoulder. Mrs. Michaels was dressed in a plain, pretty green dress and carried a large jar of berry preserves.
“Good morning, Tol,” she offered with a wide smile. “These are for your mother. How are you this morning?”
“Fair enough I guess,” Tolund replied, taking the heavy jar. “How are you, Mrs. Michaels?”
“She’s a little grouchy,” Cleric Michaels interrupted playfully. “Don’t tell her I said that, or she’ll give me another beating!” Of course he said this nice and loud. Mrs. Michaels responded with a laugh and mischievous elbow to her husband’s ribs. “You see?!? I wasn’t kidding! I tell people and tell people and no one believes me.” Tolund always loved having them around. Their shared laughter was broken up by Mrs. Dellender’s invitation to come in for tea and biscuits.
“Well, maybe a quick bite and one cup, thank you.” Cleric Michaels answered as they all moved into the house. “I’ll only be here for a half day before I have to get over to the Evans’ place to help with their crops. Speaking of which, this is for you.” He placed the large sack of flour on the kitchen table. “Someone brought it by the sanctuary yesterday.”
“Oh, how do you always know?” Gwendolyn beamed. “We were down to our last cup. Now I can make some fresh bread for dinner. Thank you so much and thank you for the preserves, Rachel. They look delicious.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, Gwen,” said Mrs. Michaels. “I knew blackberry was Tolund’s favorite, and what’s bread and biscuit without something sweet to put on them?”
The pleasant conversation continued and they all enjoyed one another’s company over their tea. Soon it was time to feed Emilyse and time for the men to get to the mine. Mrs. Michaels always loved to hold the baby and Gwendolyn appreciated the break from her constant mothering of the sick child, as well as the sympathetic ear and cheerful encouragement of her good friend.
Tolund quickly slipped into his boots and grabbed his father’s leather work gloves. Every single time he put on the oversized gloves he thought they looked ridiculous. It was all he could do to keep the baggy old things on his hands. He couldn’t imagine ever growing into them. Tolund watched as Cleric Michaels had a quick look at the baby; the boy’s mind saw an image of the Cleric standing over a tiny coffin. Angry at that intruding thought he pushed it out of his head again. Turning away, he headed out the door.
“See you at lunch, Mom,” Tolund called over his shoulder.
“Goodbye, Tol. Be careful in there.”
Tolund smiled and shook his head slightly—she always said that and nothing ever happened to him in the mine. He figured that it was just something all mothers had to say.
They walked down the worn dirt path a bit, discussing several mundane, forgettable things, Cleric Michaels changed the conversation, “So how is everything with you today, Tol?” The concern in his voice was obvious.
“About the same I guess,” Tolund replied. “The work’s getting done and Mom and I are holding up well enough. I can’t stop thinking about Emilyse. She looks worse today than even yesterday. What do you think?”
His pastor gave him a look of sincere concern. “Honestly Tol, I don’t see any more color in her either. Still, we’ve got the whole church family praying…things may take a turn for the better.” He gave the boy a reassuring slap on the shoulder. Tolund was in need of some good news today, but as the cleric spoke his heart felt like a cold piece of granite inside his chest.
Tolund stared down at his own feet. “Do you think her crib will be empty soon?” he asked abruptly.
“Tolund I…” his gentle pastor took a deep breath, “I’m afraid we may have to brace ourselves for the worst.”
They walked about twenty more steps as the lad fought to push down the feelings that had started to boil out. Respectfully, Cleric Michaels said nothing and walked beside him with a concerned look on his face. Tolund had held so much in for so many months and now, on this sad morning, his grief and fear and frustration jumped up and punched him in the chest. This time Tolund stopped walking and slumped down on a dead tree beside the path. “I’m sick of feeling like this! I’m sick of it!” The boy pressed his palms into his eye sockets as if he could push his tears back somehow. He didn’t like crying and he especially didn’t like crying in front of anyone else. Several strained moments crawled by.
Finally, Cleric Michaels knelt down in front of Tolund and grasped his shoulders firmly with both hands, “Listen to me carefully lad. If you remember anything during these dark times, you remember this—feeling helpless does not make you helpless. I believe that doing the right things when you feel like broken glass inside, and moving forward when you are feeling helpless, shows the greatest courage. Have faith, lad. Trust that the High King hears our prayers and acts on them in His own way. You may not feel like that is true right now, but it is true nonetheless.”
Tolund said nothing. He just sat there with his face pressed into his palms, breathing heavily with emotion. “Tell you what,” the cleric continued, “I’ll go on ahead and get the ore cart ready and you just come along when you feel like it.” Tolund nodded silently.
As he heard his friend’s footsteps move down the path, another wave of emotion overwhelmed the boy. “Why did you leave us Dad?” he sobbed into both hands; the dam burst and all the pain that was trapped inside of him poured out. All he could think of was his father; his smile and his strength and how he would have handled these wretched days if he were still here.
Tolund grieved with everything he had at first, missing everything about his father. He thought about them racing to beat each other to the house for dinner at the end of the day. He remembered the fishing trips and the training for the arena battles. He remembered the funny way his dad would laugh, the way he’d hug him so tightly it almost hurt, and countless other perfect things. Then his grief melted into anger at being left alone to take care of his mother and his dying sister with absolutely no idea how he was going to do it.
He threw his father’s empty gloves to the ground; he knew better than to blame his father for these tragedies, but his heart did anyway. Perhaps this was why he couldn’t bring himself to visit his father’s grave since the funeral.
Finally, his anger melted into terror. Emilyse was dying a breath at a time. How could he prevent that? How long would it be before it was just himself and his mother in an empty house? The last question shot an icy chill up his spine. In truth, it probably wouldn’t be long in coming. This last realization shook him from his mourning and worry. “Enough of this.” he said to himself in a determined whisper that echoed Collin Dellender. His eyes stung from the salt of his tears and his forehead and temples throbbed. “You have work to do.”
Lifting himself up, he wiped his face and trotted off to the mine, breathing more evenly with each step. In his grieving, he didn’t even notice that his father’s gloves were left there beside the dusty path. To his right, in the western sky along the other side of the Barrier River, a bronze sunrise was warming the morning. In time, the fog hovering over the slow-moving water would burn off and it would turn out to be a glorious day. All of this was completely lost on the boy.
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Chapter 2
Friends
Tolund forced his feet to move. By the time he arrived at the small mine’s entrance, Cleric Michaels had finished unloading the ore carts into the trading wagon and was greasing the wheels of the second ore cart. “I’m impressed, young man,” he smiled. “Two full carts in less than a week. That should help with things around here.”
Tolund was embarrassed for breaking down and would never forget how his pastor respected his dignity and never made an issue of it. For his part, the cleric simply trusted that the boy would come to him for advice and solace in his own time.
“Are the dwarves trading fairly?” he asked Tolund. “Are you getting a good price per pound?”
“I think so. Dad was always strict about keeping good trading records and I just take those with me each time as a record of what I should be getting for the ore. After I did that a few times they left me alone about the ‘smelting costs’ and ’forging charges’ that they were trying to heap on the other pup miners. “Pup miners” was the new title given
to young men, like Tolund, who had lost their fathers to the plague and who now had to make their way alone.
“Yes,” agreed Cleric Michaels. “Collin was always a shrewd trader. Well, let’s get down there and see what’s what.” They tossed their water skins and tools into the ore cart and started pushing it down the track into the mine. Unknown to either of them, from far off, two hateful eyes watched them with fanatical interest.
Tolund and his pastor made their way down to the furthest shaft that curved to the left. The glow of the amber-colored smoothstone somehow shone into every corner and crevice. The bright glow always made the boy feel safe and protected. His family’s only smoothstone was fused permanently into the main pillar of granite that supported the entire mine. “Cleric? What is the real story behind the smoothstones? I know that they’re holy and good, but I’ve heard so many tales and legends that I’m more confused about them than anything else.”
“Well, what did your parents tell you?”
“Mom says they come from loved ones who’ve passed away, almost like a parting gift or prayer or something. Dad said that they’re left over from the ancient days and that only clerics know the truth. Why don’t you ever talk about them?”
“It’s not like we are hiding anything, son,” Cleric Michaels assured him. “The truth of it is that anyone can learn about them if they want to, but many are afraid to hear the whole story; there is more to smoothstones than just what is good and holy. Besides, I’ve learned that Stonelanders seem to enjoy their legends and wives-tales a great deal more than their history.” He said this last part with an amused grin. “Are you sure you want to learn more about them?” Tolund nodded eagerly.
“All right then. As you know, smoothstones are magical in nature, costly, and difficult to acquire. Most folk live their entire lives without owning one; yours was a gift from your grandfather, as I recall. The reason for their rarity is that, unlike iron or bronze or other natural elements, smoothstones are not really naturally occurring objects.
“You see, our world was founded in a flawless paradise. As our ancestors’ pride and rebelliousness rejected that paradise, their own choices expelled them from that place. This holy dwelling changed over time into a common, natural area, but not all of its blessings disappeared completely. When the winds took the leaves from the paradise trees and scattered them across our world, it’s believed that, in every place a leaf landed and eventually dissolved into the ground, common stones all about that area were transformed into sacred and powerful smoothstones. That is the first creation of them.”
“The second thing that creates smoothstones is whenever an emissary of the High Kingdom sets foot on our soil. Beneath every step smoothstones are born. That is why they have such endless power and beauty. It’s also why they are found in such random places. Unlike natural elements, they don’t follow patterns and cannot be predicted.”
“So, how are they found at all?” Tolund asked.
“Ah! That’s the fascinating thing. Smoothstones can be right under someone’s feet all their lives and go totally unnoticed and wasted. This is because it is only when someone is focused on purity and who has a heart close to the High Kingdom that they can sense and uncover a smoothstone. That is why the wicked are completely blind to buried smoothstones.”
“So only the different types of clerics can find them?”
“No, not at all. Although it is true that genuine clerics are more likely to find them than common folk, they can be sensed by anyone of pure intent. As a matter of fact, small children have been known to find them faster than even High clerics. I’ve heard of instances where children who could not even talk had led others to buried smoothstones. Innocence is much more powerful than people realize.”
By now they had reached the end of the eastern shaft and were slowing down to a stop. Tolund still wanted to hear more, “So if the smoothstones come from holiness and are so wonderful, then why don’t people want to know more about them?”
“Because there is more to the story. How much do you know about ‘darkstones?” asked Cleric Michaels
“Well, I’ve heard them mentioned around the fire; you know, kids telling ghost stories, but I don’t think any of us really knew what they were. I mean, we’d all figured they were some bad kind of smoothstone, but that’s about it. Any time we’d ask adults about them, they told us not to speak of them. It made even my parents nervous.”
“With good reason, son. You see, living so far out in the Stonelands as you do, you’ve grown up without a need to know the dangers of the other realms of Vedris. The blunt edge of it is that there really are ruthless beings out there who live solely for power and cruelty. In their lust for that power they will defile and exploit anything and anyone that they can” The pastor took on a more serious tone as he continued.
“Think about it, evil cannot create, it can only steal or disfigure. Even the ‘Enemy’ and his ‘Fallen Ones’ are limited in what they can or cannot do. When unbound smoothstones are found, they can be stolen and tainted. As we use them to give us good things, the malevolent use them to give themselves evil things. As soon as this is done, the smoothstones blacken and become pitted and scarred; it also cuts their power by about half. Generally, it takes two darkstones to equal the power of a single smoothstone. Once a smoothstone is bound to its owner, it cannot be used again by anyone else. This makes the warlocks and their followers covet unbound smoothstones above all other prizes. It makes their worth ten times that of gold or precious gems.”
“That’s wild!” exclaimed the captivated lad, “No wonder we only have one of them.”
“And you were blessed to have that. Just its presence in this mine provides light and comfort and protection.”
“Tell me more about these wicked creatures, you know, warlocks and such.” Tolund urged. “All I know is that they are the mortal enemies of clerics and that even paladins and soldiers fear them.”
“In due course, Tol,” the cleric said as he lifted his pick-axe. “Right now, we’d better get to work and save the history lessons for later.”
Tolund smiled to himself as they began to work. As usual, just being around Cleric Michaels had brightened his spirits. For hours after that, the sounds of striking pick-axes and Cleric Michael’s cheerful humming echoed throughout the Dellender mine.
It was just about one o’clock when the tired workers came home for lunch. The ladies had been talking, baking, working, and tending to Emilyse all morning. Truthfully, Mrs. Michaels had held the baby almost the entire time. Gwendolyn, free from constantly holding the baby, was able to get a great deal done around the home and farm. More importantly, she was able to laugh with and be comforted by her best friend. Tolund and Cleric Michaels were delighted to find a stout meal waiting for them.
The table was set neatly with an arrangement of fresh daisies at its center. Gwen had opened the windows to let in the morning breezes. The air flowing in from the east over the stone hills was clean and sharp. Mingling with the fresh air was the aroma of Mrs. Dellender’s famous ‘Ham Socks.’ They could smell the ham, onions, cheese, mushrooms, and spices all folded and baked within a soft bread crust. The ham had been a gift from the Smith family and Gwen was making excellent use of it today. After grace was said and everyone was happily getting started, a soft knocking was heard at the front door.
Gwen excused herself and answered the door. It was Heather Bonwell. Heather was a sweet young lady, only a few years younger than Tolund, who was one of her son’s constant companions. Her sandy blond hair was neatly combed and her gentle brown eyes shone as she greeted Gwendolyn.
“Good afternoon Mrs. Dellender,” she said in her usual reserved tone. “Is Tolund home?” Of all of Tolund’s childhood friends Gwen liked Heather the most. Although she was quiet and rather plain to look at, Heather had always been the kind of soft-natured and trustworthy friend that every mother wants her child to be around. She had never heard Heather speak an ill word about anyone and she didn’t know of a single person in the entire village of Glendien who didn’t think highly of the girl.
“Oh! I’m sorry, I thought you’d be done with lunch by now. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Heather exclaimed.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Gwen laughed. “Come on in and join us. Have you eaten yet, dear?”
“Yes, thank you,” the girl answered as she walked through the door.
“Well, at least have some tea with us, Heather.”
Heather accepted and was greeted heartily by everyone. Pleasant conversation joined with numerous compliments for Mrs. Dellender’s delicious meal as they all enjoyed the small get together. Gwen loved the sound of laughter bouncing around her home. In a short while, as everyone finished up, Tolund noticed movement in the bushes past the back door. The indifference of his dogs told him exactly who was hiding back there.
With thanks on both sides, the Michaels headed back up the road that had brought them to the Dellender cottage. As Gwendolyn cleaned things up, Tolund and Heather went out back to greet their “intruders.” To no one’s surprise, they found Jareg Admunson and Lem Miller. The four of them had been close friends ever since they were very little.
Lem came from a nice, humble family. His mother and father kept to themselves and grew squash and cabbage on their small farm. Lem never had a great deal to say, but he was quick to echo Jareg, whom he shadowed everywhere.
Jareg was the jester of the group. Always boisterous and funny, he made sure that, even when things were dull and boring, they never got really dull and boring. Jareg’s mother died giving birth to him and his father had died heroically serving as a paladin in the Plainslands. The orphaned boy had been taken in as the ward of Talbot Kessing, a well-respected businessman. Quite wealthy for his age, Mr. Kessing had brought Jareg to his estate in Glendien when he’d heard of the boy’s plight during his travels.
“Your mom made hamsocks again didn’t she?” asked Jareg eagerly, “Are there any left for me?”
“Yes and no,” answered Tolund. “I ate two, but I would have shared with you if you had come in instead of waiting out here in the bushes.”
“Oh, you know I feel weird around the cleric,” Jareg groaned. “I like to wait until he leaves. Hey! Let’s go do something! Let’s go throw rocks into the river or something.”
“I can’t,” said Tolund. “I have to weed the corn patch, check the ears for worms, and water all of the crops.”
“Aw, we can help you finish all of that and then we can do something fun,” offered Jareg. “Besides, we have an arena match tomorrow against Sheldon; we can practice in your barn later on.”
“Sounds good to me,” smiled Tolund. “Let’s go!”
With that, the four friends followed their plan and spent the rest of the day together working, laughing, and playing. When they finally headed to their own homes around sunset, Tolund was grateful for his friends. As bad as things were these days, at least he knew that he still had them to lean on.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
Good Battles
Another sunrise greeted the beleaguered town of Glendien. Tolund awoke with bleary eyes from a dream of racing on the backs of giant ferrets against Heather, Jareg, and Lem (he won, of course). The boy went about his daily routine while all across the rough countryside, the rest of the townsfolk did the same.
The Stench plague had hit Glendien hard. Brother Bollingsworth, the healing cleric, believed that the outbreak had something to do with insects coming over from the accursed Boglands. Everyone suspected that the nearby swamps had something to do with the sickness, but no one was really sure how this new plague came about. In the last two years hundreds of people had died, all in areas or towns near the Boglands. Fortunately, the plague did not show any signs of spreading from victim to victim, and no one had been infected since the Dellender household was stricken. Even so, the sickness had devastated the hamlet of Glendien.
To their credit, the proud folk of the village did their very best to carry on. Even with mourning hearts, they conducted their usual business of mining and farming. The town sanctuary and the clerics’ keep were sources of tremendous comfort and support in these painful times. Moreover, the people refused to give in to despair and made it a point to hold feasts, celebrations, and parties at every opportunity.
Another source of relief came in the form of the traditional arena games. Displayed in the magical fireshows each month and also fought on their own simple arenas with local fighters, these mock battles had been a passion for the townsfolk for many generations. It was for one of these competitions that Tolund and Jareg were practicing for the previous day.
As the day moved on into late afternoon , Tolund made his way to the arenas near the center of town to prepare for his match against the team from the nearby town of Sheldon. Sadly, the plague had reduced the Glendien team to only three fighters: Tolund, Jareg, and an older boy named, Smitty Caldwell.
According to the rules, if a town could not field a proper team of five fighters in each age group, they had to mix whatever ages they had left and do their best against the opposing team. The warrior teams consisted of only adult fighters who were never allowed to battle the younger classes. Boys and girls between the ages of fifteen and eighteen fought on apprentice teams, while the novice-teams were for children who were from ten to fourteen years of age. Furthermore, if they still could not field a full team of five then they forfeited each empty arena and hopefully had enough to win the day.
In years past the Sheldon fighters had provided little competition for the tough Glendien teams, but because the Stench plague had hit Glendien so hard, there were hardly any young fighters left to compete. In fact, the men’s and women’s teams had disbanded completely. As you might expect, this was very difficult for a town with such a proud tradition of arena fighting. For these people, watching the great fireshow in the town square each month was secondary; they loved their own local matches fought in their own dirt arenas best.
As it stood now, the three Glendien boys had to forfeit two out of five match-ups right away which meant that they could not afford a single loss or that competition was over. And, of course, the two younger lads had to fight against older, stronger, more experienced fighters. Despite all of this, the Glendien team pressed on.
Fortunately, Smitty was an excellent apprentice-level axe fighter and could almost always be counted on for a win. Jareg was undaunted by older, more experienced opponents, and seemed to enjoy the challenge and attention that fighting apprentices guaranteed. Tolund was up to the task, but he always struggled under the pressure of playing for a town that desperately needed any form of encouragement. It was now these three boys who drew the hopes and expectations of their small hurting town to their humble dirt arenas once a month.
The arena rules were fairly simple: two fighters entered a dirt circle that was cut three feet into the ground and about forty feet across. Both fighters wore leather tunics that held thick crystal plates six inches wide; one in the middle of the chest and the other in middle of the back. Each crystal plate bore the crest of the fighter’s village. The goal of each fighter was to damage, crack, or shatter either of their opponent’s crests. After three timed battles, the arena official inspected both fighters’ crests and awarded the victory point to the fighter whose crest sustained the least damage.
Fighters usually fought with swords, axes, spears, hammers, and shields all crafted from a feather-light, but invincible type of wood that came from the enchanted Mountains of Life. All weapon edges were magically designed to crack the opponent’s crest without inflicting serious harm to the fighter. Also, each arena was blessed with spells of protection that ensured no one would ever be in mortal danger within them. Still, the battles were heated and injuries small and large were common. Metal armor was encouraged for all participants, but not required. Most fighters used some combination of armor and virtually everyone wore a good helmet. As you would expect, courage was the first requirement for anyone who chose to play in the arena games.
The sun was setting now and the Sheldon lads were arriving and preparing themselves for the match. As Heather was set out Tolund’s equipment, the lad took a moment to breathe in the charged atmosphere that always preceded the games. The five arena circles were located near the center of the village, not far from the meeting area. Volunteers were busy lighting torches, arranging chairs, and raising the wine-red banners of Glendien which depicted a wreath of Briarwall thorns surrounding a strong hand that grasped a pick-axe.
This village held a small measure of fame throughout the civilized realms due to its unenviable location. Just on the other side of the Barrier River lay the deadly Boglands. The only thing that protected all good people from the vile scourge of the ancients, the Bogmen, was the enchanted ‘Crimson Briarwall.’ This huge living cage, which formed a towering wall all about the Boglands, had held the monstrosities within their festering swamplands for generations. Thus, the Briarwall was a symbol of strength and safety for all good people and it was with a burning sense of pride that the people of Glendien claimed it as their own.
Tolund always enjoyed watching the activities before a match. When he was a little boy he had helped his mother prepare for his father’s matches. During these matches, it always felt like something magnificent was taking place, that the whole world simply disappeared except for these five arenas. His heart would thump and his breathing would speed up and he felt like he would burst from anticipation. Now, he breathed out a quick laugh as he appreciated the fact that, even with all of the recent hardships, all of this still felt much like it had when he was little. Heather interrupted his reverie by handing him his gauntlets.
Unlike most fighters, Tolund did not wear a lot of armor. He liked using his speed and agility in matches, and armor just felt too clumsy and unwieldy to him. Aside from his required leather tunic and its inlaid glass crest, he wore only armored gauntlets and metal bracers on his forearms, along with a light helm. The simple helm consisted of two iron bands wrapped in leather. One band encircled his forehead like a crown while the other cross over the top of his head from front to back. The lad figured that if he was fast enough and alert enough, than his injuries would be insignificant and few in number. Tolund finished strapping on his bracers and slipping on his gauntlets as Heather laid out his weapons.
Tolund had three weapons at his disposal-- a broadsword, a small axe, and a spear. Every beginner who passed the first judgment received a weapon of their own choosing and it was their task to master it over the years. It was once unheard of to see a novice with more than one weapon, but since the plague a number of young fighters had inherited the weapons of their deceased family members. Tolund’s spear and axe had been his father’s. Tolund was unusual for his age in that he was fairly skilled with three weapons. Most lads struggled using new weapons, if they bothered using them at all, but Tolund liked the diversity and challenge of using them. This gave him a versatility that most novices, and even many apprentices, lacked.
Once the fighters were suited, they warmed up with some easy sparring. Tolund and Jareg squared off and began slow, simple ‘strike-and-parry’ exercises as people started arriving and taking their seats. “Good luck tonight, boys!” they would shout, or “Crack em’ good, lads!” Jareg, who relished having all eyes upon him, never let an opportunity to praise himself pass by.
“Oh, don’t waste your breath cheering me on,” he replied. “You need to comfort the poor fighter that’s going to lose to me tonight!” Jareg shouted with a laugh.
Of course, the Sheldon team heard his loud taunts and, being older fighters, they didn’t find it humorous in the least.
“Ignore the whelp, lads!” barked the Sheldon taskmaster. “He’s only trying to get under your skins.”
“I’m not trying to get under their skins,” Jareg told Tolund in a lowered voice. “I am under their skins!” Tolund smiled and shook his head in bemusement just as he always did at his friend’s antics. The two boys could not have been more of a contrast to one another.
Jareg always fought in the same armor, with the same weapons and in the same fashion. Being a stocky boy who hated to train, he relied upon an unusually reckless and undisciplined approach. Although he was rather slow, he was stronger than most lads his age and, therefore, could manage greater weights in combat. He preferred to wear a heavy armor suit and a thick helm; in fact, if it wasn’t for his age and lack of a beard, people could easily mistake him for a dwarf.
The only weapons Jareg ever used were two short-handled battle hammers with huge, squared heads. They were difficult to maneuver or parry with, so Jareg rarely bothered to do so. At the official's call he would just charge straight toward his opponent, swinging the bulky hammers, and hope that he could inflict enough damage to the other fighter’s crest before he ran out of breath. He relied on his armor to protect him as he bore his way in and that his sheer ferocity would unnerve his opponent and give him the opening he needed to score a good, solid blow. Tolund was amazed that his friend would use such a clumsy strategy and even more amazed that Jareg had been so successful with it. Mr. Kessing, Glendien’s new taskmaster, called the boys in; it was time.
Talbot Kessing was Glendien’s ‘finest son.’ Aside from being one of the wealthiest men in the entire Stonelands, he was also its most eligible bachelor. In his early thirties, Kessing was handsome, always attired in the finest clothes and a sharp-minded, successful businessman. Although he spent a great deal of time traveling and trading, he was well-liked and respected by the folk of Glendien for his acts of kindness and charity. Not only had he taken Jareg in as if the boy was his own son, but he also made it a practice to help out people in need with gifts of food, tools, or livestock. Recently, he had stepped in to serve as the new arena taskmaster when the plague had claimed the life of old Master Billings.
“How are we feeling tonight boys?” he asked in a steady voice. “Ready to deal some damage?”
“Ready, sir!” the trio replied in their practiced shout.
“Excellent.” Kessing allowed himself a slight grin. He liked the fact that these boys had the courage to participate in such an uneven competition. “Now, here’s the plan. I want to put Jareg on first, which should get some noise from our folk. Smitty will be on second and Tolund will finish things up for us. Remember lads, as always these days, we need every single point to scratch out a win. Don’t forget to cheer your teammates on. We need to show Sheldon our resolve.”
He addressed each boy in turn with a firm clear gaze. “Jareg, I’d wager that you’ll be leading off against Griffith. He’s their strongest lad and an able shieldsman. He’s used to playing the bully and pushing his opponents around, but you won’t let him do that to you, will you? Your job will be to act like a wild man and go after him like a starving dwarf on a roasted boar. The more insane the better—knock him back on his heels right away and you should get your opening.
“Smitty, I know they’ll put you up against their best fighter, Howe. They have to be worried because you’ve beaten him soundly in both of your previous battles.” A slight, half-grin formed on Smitty’s face. Kessing was too sharp to miss this, “Don’t get careless boy! ‘Wounded pride makes for worthy efforts,’ so be ready for whatever he may throw at you.” Smitty nodded in agreement.
Turning to Tolund, Kessing placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’m not worried about you, Tol. You’re a natural. Howe is their best fighter and the other three are all shieldsmen. You’ll outfox either Griffith, Braddock, or Mullers if you’re sharp---and you will be.” He said this last part with an encouraging slap on the boy’s shoulder.
The booming voice of the official announced the beginning of the match. “Present colors! Both teams to the first arena!” Lining up, with each taskmaster bearing his town’s banner, the two teams marched proudly onto the neatly raked earth of the middle arena. The commanding voice shouted once more in a regal, ceremonial tone, “All honorable participants will greet one another.” Now the taskmasters, fighters, and assistants stepped forward to shake hands formally. The Sheldon lads maintained a steady, unblinking gaze into the eyes of the three Glendien boys. Smitty met their eyes in the same fashion. Jareg widened his eyes, lifted his eyebrows and shuddered just enough for the Sheldon team to notice, like a good wild man should. Tolund kept his eyes forward and fought the impulse to laugh at his friend’s crazed look.
“Now, let us receive the blessing,” called the official. Everyone uncovered and bowed their heads, “May the High King watch over us tonight and may we compete in a manner that would honor Him. Amen.”
“Amen,” the people echoed.
“Fighters to your positions!” Jareg took his place in the arena across from the Sheldon lad, Griffith, while Taskmaster Bollars and Taskmaster Kessing crossed their traditional spears between the fighters.
“Good fighting, lads!” the official shouted. The taskmasters swept their spears back to begin the match.
With a piercing wail, Jareg blazed forward. Flailing madly, he launched his hammers onto Griffith’s shield with a barrage that pushed the larger boy back to the edge of the arena. From all sides, Jareg could feel the shouts of the townsfolk pressing him forward. So powerful was his first assault that it almost looked like the impervious enchanted
shield would splinter and buckle at any second.
With his feet wedged up against the earthen boundary, Griffith’s pride awoke. “This fool won’t spook me!” he thought to himself. Gritting his teeth and lowering his back knee, he drove straight ahead with his shield angled diagonally.
This was a common and very effective shieldfighter counter. The idea was to drive yourself low into your opponent’s midsection and, using the strength of your legs, shove him off-balance to one side. If you were forceful enough, he might stumble sideways and fall, giving you a clear shot at his crest with one of your shield points (arena shields had sharpened points all about them, making them offensive weapons as well as defensive ones). Even if he maintained his footing, with his balance thrown off, you might score a lucky hit on his crest as you passed.
As soon as Griffith made his move, Jareg surprised him and everyone else. “Thank you!” Jareg shouted as he side-stepped the shield charge, hooked both hammerheads under the left side of Griffith’s shield and pulled. Using Griffith’s momentum and leaning his own girth back and to the left, Jareg managed to send the larger boy sprawling to the ground. As he fell, Griffith instinctively released a hand to stay his fall. This was an unpardonable sin for a shield fighter—they were taught to never, ever let go of their shields.
“Griffith, hold fast!!” bellowed the Sheldon taskmaster. Jareg threw his entire weight upon the shield. The older boy let out a squall of pain as Jareg’s weight flattened his arm, and the shield, to the ground. The stout hammer in Jareg’s left hand thundered down upon the Sheldon crest on Griffith’s back and shards of thick glass flew in all directions. The official separated the two fighters and checked on the injured lad. With a wrenched arm that he could barely lift and his entire back crest shattered, the Sheldon taskmaster conceded the battle to Jareg. The first match-up was over.
“Glendieeeennn!!” Jareg cried out with both hammers held aloft. His fellow townspeople echoed his victory roar as they hopped up and down with joy. Shamelessly, Jareg bounded around the circle, barking out his own name, “Jareg, Jareg, Jareg.” Taskmaster Kessing shook his head in disapproval of his ward’s immature behavior, but he could not argue that the boy had given the Glendien team an impressive start.
Smitty was up next. After the noise from Jareg’s win died down, the people made their way to the second arena. In just moments, everyone was in place and Smitty stood across the circle from Sheldon’s Howe. Though he tried desperately to hide it, Sheldon’s top
fighter was on edge. Smitty could see it in the way he kept glancing nervously to his taskmaster and his teammates as if he were hoping for someone else to step in for him. Howe was a spearfighter, and a fine one, but Smitty was just as strong on defense as he was on offense, and good at attacking any mistake. Smitty Caldwell felt a surge of steady confidence. He was ready.
As their first battle began, Howe took an unusual defensive position. In their last two match-ups against Smitty, he had started aggressively with spear thrusts and jabs. This time he backed up to the edge of the circle with his spear pointed straight ahead in his opponent’s direction. Howe was inviting Smitty to charge ahead in hopes that he could land his spearpoint on his crest as he moved in. It was an admirable strategy that would not save him.
Patiently, Smitty parried with his long axe. He was too experienced to expose his own crest by dashing in foolishly. He would parry, feint, and step back again and again and again. After seven or eight feints, Glendien’s best fighter found an opening and charged.
Howe had lifted both elbows trying to get over and down to Smitty’s crest. Now he was vulnerable. Smitty slashed in, beneath the long spear, and struck a heavy blow to Howe’s crest with the edge of his axe. The crowd gasped and the Sheldon taskmaster screamed at his fighter to escape and defend. Howe side-stepped quickly and re-
established his defensive stance. The horn for this battle sounded and the lads rested by their assistants.
The second battle followed the same rhythm of feint, block, and circle. Howe took two more hits to his crest while Smitty’s remained untouched. By the beginning of the last battle, Howe knew that he had to gamble and take risks or this match-up was lost. Unfortunately for him, Smitty knew that too.
At the sound of the horn, Howe charged. Smitty ducked to his left and blocked the spear with the haft of his axe, making sure that his parry pushed up and to the right to avoid damage to his crest. Howe backed up for another charge. His second charge was a little faster than his first. Smitty ducked too late and Howe landed a decent hit on the upper left corner of Smitty’s front crest. The Glendien crowd scolded their fighter for allowing the hit. Again Howe backed up for another charge, but this time his opponent followed.
Smitty reclaimed the offensive and got inside the reach of the spearfighter. His first thrust was with the right edge of his axe and was only a glancing blow to Howe’s front crest. The second cut, however, brought the left edge of the axe down hard upon the glass circle sending pieces of glass flying. Howe retreated into a defensive stance for the last few seconds of the battle. He was finished. The horn announced the end of this match-up.
Howe stabbed his spear in the dirt and dropped his head in disgust. Smitty offered a handshake and congratulated the other boy’s effort. The elated townsfolk, now shouting Smitty’s name, celebrated wildly. As he joined in the cheering, Tolund felt his stomach and throat tighten. His fingers and knees were also shaking slightly. It was his turn now.
There was no question to any who understood arena fighting that Tolund was a quick study and a natural talent. His potential was lauded by both his supporters and his opponents. Oddly enough, Tolund himself was the only one who failed to see how good he really was and how good he could yet become.
As Heather followed by his side and encouraged him, he made his way through the cheering crowd to the third arena. His townsfolk slapped him on the back and tousled his hair as they shouted advice and bold words. Tolund knew that all of this was meant to inspire him, but what it really did was increase his fears. The boy knew as well as any how much these contests meant to these people. This made the pressure of failing them that much greater. Tolund swallowed slowly and wished that someone else, someone more courageous or experienced, would fight in his stead.
As he awaited the official’s horn, he searched the crowd for Cleric Michaels. “Step to it lad!” a friendly voiced boomed. Tolund smiled as he followed the voice to the confident smile of his pastor. The boy raised his spear and nodded; he wished his mother could have been here too.
Again, the beginning protocols were observed and the taskmaster stood ready to begin the match. Taksmaster Kessing shot Tolund a look of unwavering confidence—he had the look of someone who really believed that this battle was already won. The official shouted, the spears parted and the battle was underway.
Tolund held his long spear in front and diagonally, with his left hand grasping it straight out and his right hand holding it overhead. The shieldfighter, Braddock, looked puzzled by Tolund’s strange fighting stance. “Wits and speed, lad, wits and speed!” called Taskmaster Kessing. The two boys slowly circled the arena across from one another. Tolund urged himself to keep his feet light and quick.
“Don’t wait on him Braddock, use your strength!” Taskmaster Bollars commanded. The burly Sheldon boy shot forward with unexpected speed, hoping to back Tolund up. Tolund ran to meet him and then, stabbing his spear into the ground just to his left, he used it to vault to the side of his opponent’s charge. Upon landing, Tolund spun the haft of his spear backward and down, looking to catch Braddock’s back crest by surprise. Crack! A solid hit just on the rim of the glass circle. The crowd howled its approval. It was a maneuver worthy of a warrior-class fighter.