The Knight of Darkened Light
Published by Andrew Legend at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Andrew Legend
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ESPERYNZIA – A WORLD CRAFTED OF ELEMENTS
Before Time’s beginning, there were only the Gods and their Divine realm.
Through their power, Esperynzia was created, a realm existent upon the Balance of the Elements, a realm ruled by Mortalkind.
There was a great war between the Mortalkind and a degraded God – the God of Dark. At war’s end, the God of Dark was banished by the other Gods, yet the mortal realm of Esperynzia suffered a scar: an unfathomable turn of fates from the all-powerful intervention and presence of the divine beings upset the delicate Balance of Elements of Esperynzia. The balance destabilized, changing Esperynzia forever.
What beholds then Esperynzia’s fate?
Such is told in legends new, born through high adventures lead by heroes come forth.
Behold the new legends of the mysterious magical world of Esperynzia.
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LIGHT, DARK, NEW LIGHT, AND DARKENED LIGHT
In study of magic’s elements, many students of magic immediately associate the Light element with "good" and the Dark element with "evil". This is not necessarily so.
Light is the element toward life; Dark is the element toward death, or the destruction of life.
Know that Dark was once known as "New Light", for as Dark is the end of Light, it also can begin the existence of new Light.
Dark is not an evil element. However, when Dark is set in purpose for annihilation of Light, with no future Light, then we see that Dark has the possibility to manifest evil. All Dark—never Light. This is the evil side of the Dark element.
The Dark and Light elements wage an endless war, though they exist in a balance.
A Dark or Light elemental is innately apart of this special Balance, each influencing the Balance and so influencing the future. So closely tied are these elements that a Dark may change to a Light, and a Light may change to a Dark. The medium of this extremely rare changing is the state of Darkened Light. It is existence's given pause; Fate's ponder of one's future. It affects one's powers; it affects one's views—it affects one's life forever.
And beyond Darkened Light, one can become a special Light, or one can become a Dark—a very powerful Dark. His power will then magnify. But to Light or to Dark, is a decision of his own, and so deep, that it is chosen only by his soul's true desire.
- Szeoloche
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INDEX
Chapter 1 Drewth – A Promotion to Power
Chapter 2 Seften – A Family of Magic
Chapter 3 Paetoric – The Halberd
Chapter 4 Rhoin – Elvin Sorcery
Chapter 5 The Arbiter
Chapter 6 Her Love
Chapter 7 Torius – The Enemy Force
Chapter 8 Prisoners
Chapter 9 A Dream of Storms
Chapter 10 Their New Prison
Chapter 11 Not Alone
Chapter 12 Resignment
Chapter 13 Wicked Betrayal
Chapter 14 The Cursed Wound Which Wounded Two
Chapter 15 Burial of Fire
Chapter 16 The Thief and The Driadon
Chapter 17 Warrior of Magic
Chapter 18 The Way Out
Chapter 19 Futility of Vengeance
Chapter 20 Knight of Rage
Chapter 21 Follow
Chapter 22 The Summoner’s Task
Chapter 23 Battle to Sea – Anger of The Halberd
Chapter 24 Syndirin’s Plan
Chapter 25 Darkened Light
Chapter 26 The Voice of The Halberd
Chapter 27 An Adventure’s End and an Adventure’s Beginning
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Chapter 1
Drewth - A Promotion to Power
DREWTH - LIGHT ELEMENTAL
Worthy valor tainted by a wickedness,
he struggles within to determine
what is wrong or right,
questioning his own existence.
Forces inside him of Dark and Light
turmoil over his destiny,
but in the end, only he will decide.
"SIR DREWTH!” cried a castle guard in recognition of an officer, fully armored in black plate, approaching his guarding position, next to wooden double doors. His associate guard on the other side of the door recognized the name and stood straighter in respect. The officer knight did not respond; he progressed toward the doors without word, the only sound his hard boots on the floor. The first guard noticed his intended direction through the double doors and without hesitation reached with his free hand and pulled the left door open, the second guard doing the same with the right door. Still silently and not even looking at the guards, the officer knight swept silently through the doors, hearing them creak on metal hinges as the obedient guards pushed them shut behind him.
He was now walking down a hallway with a bare stone floor, old enchanted yellow fire torches hanging from their black iron sconces on the stone walls. At the end was a stone stairway, which he descended, that turned into a large room with a broad square wooden table in the center, empty wooden chairs tucked in on all sides, a couple were askew from the table by recent users.
"Lord Syndirin!" called the knight as he descended the steps. He reached the bottom, and walked straight toward a tall, bony middle-aged man in a great night blue cloak adorn with gold lining and swirling gold patterns. He walked in prompt fashion up to this man, and dropped to one knee with his eyes to the ground, in proper etiquette.
"You may rise", pronounced the man, wearily.
The knight rose to a stance face to face with the cloaked man. "M'Lord", the knight started, eyes still with a hard glare of recent battle, voice quiet but equally hard, "as you ordered, the Driadon slave rebellion has been ended."
"Ended?” questioned the man in a tone of dark amusement.
"Ended, M'Lord.” the knight concluded. And picking up on the man's amuse, added, "Had to use a bit of force"—he patted the shining black hilt of a sheathed sword at his side with a gauntleted hand -"to accomplish that, though."
The cloaked man contemplated the protruding sword hilt, and a smile slowly crossed his bony face. "Slaves, Driadon or not, should be respectful to there true masters...sometimes they do need to be, ah, put back in there place."
The knight nodded once to the calmly stated but malicious thought, agreeing, and added, "If the Driadons do not want to be under masters, then they should have fought a little harder when we went to take them in as slaves." The cloaked man laughed sinisterly, turning and taking a couple slow steps away, ponderous of the knight's last statement.
He stopped, and turned back to the knight. "Drewth, you merit a rank higher than mere Officer Knight,” he said. Drewth looked at him curiously. The man continued, "I wish you to train to become Arbiter’s Second." The knight peered even more curiously at the man. This man was ranked Arbiter, himself! That was a title right under a King! The Arbiter was a wizard over all wizards, and had the power of a King's command should the King be absent. Arbiter's Second was right beneath Arbiter. He would have so much more power as an Arbiter's Second. This meant magic training... He looked at Lord Syndirin, and as if reading the knight's mind, Syndirin said, "Yes, you will rank right under me. But you will not go under any magic trainer."
Drewth became no longer curious, but confused. "M'Lord?” he said, muddled. No magic trainer?
"You will train under me, personally." Stated the man surely, as if it was the only option and any other idea was insulting. The knight looked at him, remaining professionally calm but still incredulous. The Arbiter wants to magic train him himself!
"Yes, M'Lord.” he replied automatically, as a junior would to an order.
Syndirin bowed his head slightly to Drewth, his wordless way of dispatching him from conference. In his bow, the spare light was shadowed from his face, defining the bony jaw line and the deep sockets where his narrow eyes were encaved. An odd twinkle formed in those eyes as Drewth returned a deeper bow of head, turning away to exit the room. Syndirin’s eyes followed him out, and one end of his thin mouth turned up in a greedy subtle grin.
“You truly believe you can alter him?” a raspy voice queried from the dark corner of the room. The source of the voice, Korchloc, a Summoner, slowly materialized from the shadowy corner behind Syndirin as he terminated his Shadow Cloak spell to become visible again from his hiding. He had, under Syndirin’s instruct, hidden there to observe Drewth.
Syndirin turned his head slightly to, his broad back still to Korchloc. “One can only find out by trying.”
“You attempt to do what only Fate can decide, M’Lord”, Korchloc asserted, but with obvious caution in his tone.
Syndirin turned around to face Korchloc, who then instinctively attempted to inch away, only finding his back touch the wall behind him. Despite Korchloc’s attempt to further his distance, Syndirin took a slow, contemplative step toward Korchloc. “Fate,” Syndirin began, eyes locked with Korchloc’s, “is left with making the decision when one will not make the decision himself. Where it may not be Drewth’s fate, as it is a rarer fate indeed, perhaps I can direct his fate for him through my decision – my actions.” He took a final slow step toward Korchloc, now a distance within arm’s reach, and stopped, looming before him. “I’ve only now to find how. Or are you so feeble to not challenge Fate?”
“M’Lord,” Korchloc began carefully, “I’ve seen in no study or teachings, nor heard of any spell which would accomplish the Darkening of Light, the creation of a Greater Dark Elemental. Being of its experimental stage, it chances failure, but most definitely invokes dangers. I question if Drewth will remain alive through any involved procedures.”
Syndirin remarked pitilessly, “Well, we shall leave that part up to ‘Fate’, won’t we?”
Drewth's horse carried him through the night down the broad dirt road, lit only with the light of the moon, with dull thuds of hoofed feet. His mind was alive with thoughts of his promotion. Arbiter's Second!
Lights from torches dotted the ramparts of a small, distant castle, an outpost castle. Some windows glowed from lights within, making them seem like bright eyes on the lookout. His horse trotted toward the gate without him having to steer the reins; the horse knew this path. It took its master toward the tall, protective wooden gates, which is where the dirt road ended. The horse stopped before the closed gate.
"Who goes there?” cried a soldier from up top the wall. He was the gatekeeper.
The knight looked up at him, uttering no word in response, but glared indignantly. Did they not know who he was? He ran this unit and this outpost! After a moment of silent peering, the gatekeeper cognized with a half hearted and abashed "Oh..." - which Drewth heard—and then quickly stepped back, somewhere, which was out of the knight's view. Drewth looked on to the gates. After a moment he heard heavy chains engaging wooden gears, and the dwarfing doors of the entrance slowly started to open. The horse trotted on without letting the gatekeeper finish the process of opening all of the way; again, a trained-in routine from his rider. They passed through the castle's front gate and continued toward the rear tower.
He tied his horse up to the stall beside the stony wall of the tower, patted him on the neck appreciatively, and walked around to the tower's door. Pulling out a black iron key, he slid it into a lock in the handle and turned it, until he heard a click of a disengaged deadbolt, and pulled the thick wooden door open. He stepped inside.
He started ascending the winding tower stone stairs, which ran into smooth, stonewalls. He had elegantly had one of the royal blacksmiths place enchanted torches on the outside of the stairs, so as to light up the enclosed space entirely. As he walked by their magically cool flame, he remembered when he ordered that castle blacksmith to enchant yellow fire upon the torches that never burn anything, never leave off smoke, and never end, but always give off bright light.
After passing by landings with heavy wooden locked doors, he reached his, second from the top. His own smoothed wooden door had a handle of shining steel, enchanted so as never to break or tarnish, which again he had that castle blacksmith craft. He reached for it with his gauntleted hand, turned it, and pulled it open.
He entered into his home. The floor was of polished white stone, a wolf’s fur rug at the foot of the threshold. The main room had two standing torches, also enchanted like the ones in the hallway, at the far back corners on either side of a fireplace; a tall, smooth stone basin to the left wall, enchanted to purify it's contents, filled with clear, cool drinking water, and silver goblets set upon it's broad rim, ready for use. He did not see his wife, and thought that she was absent. He turned into his bedroom from the main room, and reached the clasp on his cloak to undo it. But then, he felt calm, loving eyes looking at him from the back. It was her—Arigwhen.
He continued to undo his cloak, facing his opened armoire, not turning to acknowledge her presence. He swept his cloak off of his shoulders, and hung it on hooks. He removed the gauntlets from his hands, set them inside the armoire, and proceeded to undo his black armor, still feeling the silent observation on his back. Drewth somehow felt guilty; he had fought and killed that day - fought and killed slaves fighting for freedom. She always had a silent argument with this point. He knew she disagreed with a lot of the things he was ordered to do, and felt guilty toward her. Guilt... His head shook as he rid himself of that thought. He wasn't guilty! They deserved it!
It was as if he was already arguing with his wife.
He was having particular trouble with undoing a tie on his shoulder piece, when he felt a light tugging of his wife's gentle hands on the leather binding, and he dropped his hands to his side to let her work. He remained wordless, and facing ahead, trying not to start communication with her.
He felt one last gentle tug, and the shoulder piece lift from his body. She stepped past him quietly, the tough armor piece in her gentle hands, and set it softly down inside the armoire. She turned around, and stood in front and to the side of him, and he felt her begin undoing the other shoulder piece's bindings.
Drewth only then looked at her. She was beautiful; though dressed down in a white bedding gown, she still was beautiful. Her young soft pink lips silently closed on her youthful face, haloed with her long, wavy auburn hair that was left flowing down her back. Her blue-green eyes seemed full of knowledge, peace, and glowing with love, always.
He looked into her eyes, but she continued to look off at the shoulder piece, undoing its bindings. Moments before he did not want to talk to her, he felt resentful, but looking into her eyes, he softened, and even felt sorry for not communicating to her. Her expression did not change, though; it was as if she knew, knew his feelings. And then she spoke.
"I heard what happened.” she simply said, softly, a tone of understanding in her voice, still looking at the bindings, undoing them. She knew. How did she know? "A soldier had told me," she cut into his thoughts, as if answering. "I overheard a dispatch of soldiers' orders, before they left the outpost." The weight of the other shoulder piece lifted as she drew it off of him, unbound. She was not going to argue with him; she never had before. She was always loving. But surely, he felt it coming. He knew it was a violent experience, his job, but he had to do it, for the good of the Kingdom. Driadon slave rebellions could get nasty if not quickly retorted upon. Powerful beasts they were, and so equally as dangerous. This was a job he needed to do!
But she said no further words. She had turned back to him, and worked silently on the bindings of the cuirass piece.
All of the black armor was removed. He laid his sheathed sword inside the armoire, and shut it’s doors. He felt light after having worn the heavy armor all day. He bathed, then dressed into his nightshirt, and lay in his bed silently, staring up at a broad wooden support beam on the stone ceiling. He felt a depression on the bed to his side as his wife lay down next to him. She lay her head down by his side, and rested a hand on his chest. He felt the warmth of her hand through his nightshirt. He cared so much for her...
His thicker strong hand drifted over and lay on top of her gentle slender hand, fingers entwining with hers. After some time of silence, he heard her breathing calmly in sleep. He was still awake, staring at the ceiling. Why did he do what he did? His wife did have a point, he thought to himself, now in doubt. But he respected the Arbiter, who acted as his guide, his mentor. The Arbiter was truly wise. But magic training? He was classed Light Elemental, and with low potential, and this is why he was posted in the rank of Officer Knight. The only spell he could do was a minor Body Healing spell, which was a training step in Knighthood, as he was, before being promoted to Officer Knighthood. How would he live up to Arbiter's Second? His waking thoughts dimmed as he drifted off into sleep.
Chapter 2
Seften – A Family of Magic
SEFTEN ME'AER - WIND ELEMENTAL
A young man with still a young mind.
Yet when his simpleton existence is consumed
into the depths of adventure,
a dynamic soul develops and is drawn out from within.
IT WAS A COOL summer-season on the Isles of Windpass. Far north lay a system of mountains; so far they barely peaked above the horizon, a dark gray color. Enshrouded in vast forests lay an open field, and within that field there was an old, small wooden farm -house, which boasted a several acre field of wheat and a large barn. A gentle ssyth, ssything sound of a swinging scythe mowing wheat could be heard amidst the gentle quietness of the placid summer's day.
A young man was reaping this field, had been since dawn. Two fresh, tall stacks of reaped hay lay in the field, from the morning's work. His name was Seften, born of the Me'Aer family, himself born under the Sign of the Element of Wind. He, to all appearances, had no high potential in his Element class, only potential up to beginner’s levels: sense of wind direction change, and vague weather prediction. His father stated this fact to him once, that he may not ever be truly powerful, and at this, Seften never heeded magic training or it’s scholastics. His father had trained him in the ways of a Mundainant, a person born not able to use magic, people of which there were more and more of in ratio to magic possessing people from generation to generation. Such teachings as culturing a farm, living off the land, trade, the use of a scythe, cooking, and use of tools. Abilities and teachings that were more common than ever.
Ssyth, he swung another clump of wheat down, and drew his scythe up to his side, leaning on it like an odd staff. He wiped his darkened blonde hair from his face, concentrated slightly, and closed his eyes...
The winds were changing path again, and dark clouds were drawing with these new winds in his direction. He did not sense this with his eyes, they were closed; he focused with his magical ability in the Wind Element; you will hear much of the Elements in this world.
The clouds: this meant it was going to rain. He concentrated slightly harder: yes, those clouds felt heavy and thick. It was definitely going to rain. He ceased his magic, for he did not want to exhaust himself. Magic was extremely taxing to the strength, at lower levels of ability and tolerance of it. But he did notice he could take more of it; throughout his young years of use of these abilities, though minor, did feel more trained and stronger, more definite.
He wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, lowered the scythe and gripped its body with both hands, and again began to reap, in steady, level swipes, as his father had taught him long ago.
Hours had passed. He was heaping lain hay upon a stack, his wheat field emptier than what it had been the day before. He set down his pitchfork and once again for that day consulted the sky. Yes, he now saw a dark blanket of clouds creeping in from the north, just as he sensed earlier. It would be a couple more hours until it rained, he calculated, without consulting his magic sense.
Seften picked up both his scythe and pitchfork and proceeded to his small house, shelter from the impending rain. He grabbed a loaf of bread from a cupboard, and pulled out his knife to cut it. It was a knife from his father, a fighting knife. It was a double-edged blade, one and a half hand-width’s long, ending in a sharp point. He remembered how his father taught him how to fight with it, and basic defensive maneuvers. "Your magic isn't that strong, so your hand'll make up for it's lackin’", he remembered his father saying, before presenting him with the weapon. "Aim for the chest, always. It's the broadest target, along with the back. That's the key."
He was 14 years of age, then, and his father was teaching him how to fight. He was 16 years now.
He finished his light meal, and fetched some cheese and ate it too. Satisfied, he walked through a door that led into the barn. It was large and smelled of hay, which it stored. He crossed the hard packed dirt floor with his scythe, picking his scythe stone from his pocket, which he habitually carried around. Sitting down with the curved blade lying across his lap, he began rasping the scythe stone, a gray block, on its edge, sharpening it.
Thunder boomed, and the freshened smell of rain was in the air. Seften stood up and set the scythe hanging from the barn’s wall, it's place, the scythe stone he slid back into his pocket. The inside of the barn grew dark and looked like a cavern, as the storm had slowly come, darkening as well the sky’s light. The only light was a wavering glow flooding in from the open door of the small house, the light of a small, crackling fireplace. He walked from the dirt floor of the barn to the wooden floor of his kitchen, through that, to the small main room, and sat in a rickety wood chair in front of the small stone fireplace. He had pulled out the knife again, and was turning it over in his hands, in thought. He had not seen his father for several months. His father was off at his smithy, which was a half of a day's walk in a southwest direction. It was the Me'Aer family's main source of income; the farm was the second, less important source.
His father ran the smithy with the next eldest brother of his three elder brothers, Paetoric. He was full two years older, and classed Elemental as like Seften, only born under the Element of Water instead of Wind. "I want you to run the farm, so that I may run the smithy business," his father once told him. He had consented to this request, and his father had said, "I'll teach you the basics—the scythe, storing wheat so it doesn't go bad, thrashing the wheat, storing food, managing finances and so on—and then you'll be off on your own." Only he wasn't entirely off on his own; his father visited every couple days for the first month, for the next month was a day every week, then he only visited one day every other week, one day every month, then only one day every other month. It had now been three full months since his father's last visit. He could not leave to visit his father; he had to watch over the farm. His father could leave the smithy to his brother, Paetoric, and visit him, though. Nor had he heard from Paetoric since his father left him alone at the farm to work at the smithy. They both lived there now – only that Paetoric never left when Father had come to visit him. It had been a full year.
Rhoin, his next eldest brother, had mysteriously disappeared. But it was only mysterious to the rest of the family, for Seften knew the truth. He was witness to things the rest of the family did not know about. It was several years ago; Seften was a distance from the farm, walking along, when he saw Rhoin standing at the edge of the bordering wood, peering in. Seften silently approached, unnoticed. Still a distance off, Seften saw what Rhoin was looking at. Seften gasped, and sunk down amongst the tall grass, hidden. It was a young, slender of body and face, almond-skinned girl, standing in the shadow of a tree. Apparently conferring seriously with Rhoin. After a lasting moment of silence, she stepped forward and fell into an embrace with Rhoin, and her shining brown hair swept forward, parting to reveal pointed, elfish ears. A Nymph! She had slipped back into the shadows of the trees, and disappeared into the wood. And that day was the last he had seen of her. And the following day was the last he had seen of Rhoin. Seften never knew what Rhoin had done or where Rhoin had gone, but always thought it had something to do with that nymph on that day. Seften never told anyone of this incident. "Do not ask, and do not tell.” Rhoin had stated intently, after he had discovered Seften had been witness to his Nymphian visitor. And so Seften kept silent.
It troubled his other brothers when they discovered Rhoin's prolonged absence. They were afraid he was dead, to which Seften almost corrected aloud, but did not, remembering his last promise to Rhoin. Father had taken off on horseback with only a small pouch of copper pieces, in concerned search. He did not return for six days. On his return, after roaming fields, consulting one traveling wizard (whom had, through an unidentified Light Elemental spell, confirmed that Rhoin was still alive), exploring woods, entering pubs and communing with travelers as he passed them by, he concluded he was alive, but gone. "Several things of his are missing from the house,” Father had remarked, looking haggard from his travels. "It seems he went off, on his own. It doesn't look like he will return again."
And so it was concluded that Rhoin, being the exuberant age of a young man, had ran away to live on his own, and on this supposition, life for the Me'Aer family had returned to normal.
That night, Seften dreamt of himself soaring through the dark thundercloud blanketed night skies above his home, which he soared in and out of, arms spread like wings. He flew above the clouds, pushing them away to the north with invisible strengths. The dream ended with clear skies and a cold sunrise, and he awoke with a strange feeling of peace.
He stepped outside and what he saw looked exactly like his dream—a cold rising dawn, and clear dark blue skies fading into red. He had this type of dream before, of predicting the sky; it was occurring occasionally, yet more often than before. He had asked his father once about these dreams, to which his father answered with learned certainty in his voice, "it’s the flying dream Wind Elementals can have – you’re havin’ it more and more is just that your Element is strengthening. In it, you think you’re pushing the sky around – you are just feeling the sky’s desires. But I’ve heard of some Wind Elementals gaining enough power to move the sky around by their own free will in these dreams.” Father had learned much about magic in his life, though he took no training. He was only classed Esperential—a person with general uncategorized magic capabilities, and he without showing signs of much capability at all, like Rhoin. Yet Father could identify with magic concerns. Seften and his brothers were accurately classified their magic signs at birth by him, by the traditional tests of magic passed down by generations to generations. The Wind test Seften, though of infancy at the time, clearly remembered: a sensitive flute was placed lengthwise upon the baby's back, and held there, and one breathed sharply upon the baby's chest. If the flute on the baby's back then sounds, that is a Sign of Wind. The traditional test of Water Sign was holding the baby's hand above a small, still pool of water, and if the water begins to ripple, that is the Sign. Paetoric was born under the Sign of Water. Rhoin passed no test—but did show magical qualities: communicating into Father’s mind at distances was the noted indicator. Father said that only within three days after birth could one accurately test, as that is when the type manifests most evident, the energies greatly provoked in the cycle of birth; and settles down as the baby settles down, and thus less obvious and less active. Torius, his eldest brother, bore none of the Signs, and not a trace of magic. Classed neither Elementual nor Esperential, he was classed a Mundainant—a non-magical. But what he did not have of magic, he made up for this lack with physical strength and a powerful will.
Torius was 8 years older than Seften; also was he broader, half a head taller, and red-haired like Father was in his younger days. At age 13 he became a Squire, and at a mere age 17, was an alleged Knight of The Guard: he bore weapon and armor and was his duty to police and defend general welfare. Being a Knight of The Guard, he lived in a barracks that was several days trek away.
Torius visited the winter of every year, with Seften, Father and Paetoric, and told Seften his tales of various deeds he merited: the seeking out of rogues and putting them to justice; dispelling a town of a curse, imposed by a warlock, by slaying him (he described the enchanted magic-absorbing chain mail he was issued for the task); even a defense of a small village from an attack by a pack of Biowolves—large, poison-fanged wolves, he, three other Guard knights and two wizards accomplished. Torius even boasted a promotion from Knight of The Guard to Knight of The Watch—a defender of a castle of a minor royalty, therefore issued an Enchanted dagger, which Torius called a "fire dagger", which he showed to Seften in the winter that just passed: a smooth, beautiful weighted blade, with a black grip on solid silver handle, and a single red jewel embedded in the pommel, enchanted with a powerful Fire spell which gives the blade a magically cutting edge and tip that can penetrate even protective metal armor. Torius would not make much higher knight rank than that, for higher ranks have magic training as a criterion, and Torius had not the magic capabilities. “Aye, but you’ve the courage to, brother!” Seften had then responded encouragingly.
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Chapter 3
Paetoric – The Halberd
PAETORIC ME'EAR - WATER ELEMENTAL
Of the four brothers,
he simulates their Father the closest,
maturing and wizening to the world at youth's age.
Yet similar still is his journey,
for like his father once,
he is destined to fight many battles ahead.
PAETORIC, Seften's next elder brother by 2 years, a full day's ride away from Seften, was working already under the new morning's sun. His work was in a smithy under charge of his father. In his apprenticeship, this morning Father had him preparing the metal scraps, which were once useful weapons and tools, outside the smithy, cleaning them, unbinding the handles of any wood or leather, so that they could be melted down and poured to form. His father's business was Royalty Affiliated—he worked for the Lord DeKade, for the Kingdom. Shipments were arranged for metal to be transported down to his shop, and he would fashion weapons for use with the Kingdom's soldiers, also making a small wage with that, and, having extra metal, his own business between him and the common folk.
Paetoric was dirty from his work. He was sitting on a stool, with a knife, crudely cutting away boiled-leather bindings from what looked like the hilt broken off of a sword. With one last jerk of the knife, the old bindings fell to the ground, revealing plain metal beneath. Paetoric turned it in his hand, his other knife-hand swung down to his side, idly. He looked at it a little more, and tossed it into a small, building heap beside the smithy’s back entrance. It was a scrap, ready to be melted down.
Several long hours went by, of picking these scraps from an unhorsed wagon, preparing them, and tossing them aside. He took one last bent, wooden-handled dagger, hammered the handle until it shattered off of the bare metal, and chucked it on the pile, then pocketed his knife and walked into the front entrance of the smithy, the one customers use, which is a simple wood panel walled room with a brief wooden floor ending in hard dirt ground, with a counter, on the wall behind the counter were hung several shields and swords, axes, daggers, a quarter-staff and a mace, all to the display to the customer. He walked up to and around the counter to behind it, pushed open the door there and came to the forgery section of his father's shop. It was unlit; the only light was shafts of sunlight through two, small, square open windows and a soft glow from molten metal in open castings. His father was bent over axe head castings, pouring bright, fiery-orange molten steel into them. Paetoric stopped a distance away, granting a wide radius around Father, in good practice to give someone space who was handling molten metal. Father carefully poured the liquidized metal into a carved casting, filled it slowly, and moved the melt pot over the next casting gap. He tilted the melt pot on its long handle, and filled the next one. After finishing emptying the last of the molten contents into the castings, he brought the melt pot over to a stone bench, setting it down upon it. Seeing that Father had completed his process, Paetoric then spoke. "I've sorted the scrap, and there's a large pile outside the back entrance."
Father looked up at Paetoric, his thick leather vest blackened with the day's metal work, his eyes red from the heat rising off of the molten steel he had just been handling. "Leave it outside," Father began in his heat-dried voice, "we need to test the metals for any enchantments."
Paetoric understood. Some enchantments forged into weapons don't go away though the weapon is destroyed, and sometimes react badly when melted down. Paetoric recalled an explosion-enchanted ballistic arrow head, used to demolish catapults and castle walls, in war: during it’s melting process, it blew half of the blast furnace away, and he and Father had spent a week repairing it and cleaning up the mess of much spilt molten metal, which had remixed with the slag and had to be melted again. Since then, they had resolved to be mindful about possibly enchanted metals, especially, weapons and armor.
The axe head forms Father had poured were left to set. Paetoric and Father exited the forge through a back door into their bedrooms, through those and into a connecting room, which they used for storing foods and supplies. There they retrieved some bread and smoked meat from a cupboard, some fresh milk in a cabinet down by the cool floor, sat down on stools, and spread their goods on top of a counter.
After they finished eating, they headed back to the forge. Paetoric began transferring the pile of scrap outside into the forge on a testing table, as Father asked, and Father was taking the scraps one by one and testing the metal for residual enchantment effects. He was taking pinches of a black powder, a low-grade inexpensive form of casting dust, and sparingly dusting the metal with it. The casting dust was not very powerful, but sensitive—the type of casting dust used in beginning teaching levels of magic schools for the learning pupils—and would plainly react even to the lightest of enchantments, on the metal. A dagger blade: nothing. Metal rod: nothing. Sword hilt: POP! Paetoric heard the noise from outside, and re-entered the forge to see. A coil of blue smoke was slowly spiraling upwards, in an unusually solid pattern for smoke.
"Light-weight enchanted,” Father stated to Paetoric behind him, still observing the smoke. This enchantment makes the effected object lighter to the user, Father once told him. Father took the enchanted item, still faintly emitting blue smoke, and tossed it onto a broad, sturdy, scarred wooden bench, with a thud. Paetoric looked once more to the item, and walked back out to continue to collect the scrap.
Two loads of scrap transporting later, Paetoric heard within the forge a heavy patter of staggering feet, and one heavier thud of fallen metal, on dirt ground. Interpreting it as possible trouble, he dropped his load-in-progress and ran inside. Father was backed away from his testing table, watching something upon the floor. Paetoric looked past Father and down, and was shocked at the sight: It was a large halberd head, one for a halberd, shedding an eerie, mysteriously powerful looking red light, and blinding jolts of blue lightning toiling around it. Paetoric looked up to Father for action, yet Father did nothing, but took another step back. A moment later, the twisting blue energy streams ceased, and with an evident shudder, the halberd head’s red light faded, and it returned to normal. Father took cautious steps forward, and bent slowly down over it. He gave it a quick tap with his hand. "That's weird," Father began, reaching down again with his hand and picking it up off of the ground, "it's completely cool—no heat at all." He looked at it for a contemplative moment, turning it over with his hands, and said, "I'm going to have to check this one out - I might not be able to remove the enchantment." He walked over to the stout, scarred bench, and set it down beside the enchanted sword hilt, Paetoric's eyes never leaving it. Father looked up at Paetoric, and, noticing Paetoric's interest, said, "If I can't do anything with it, I will have to get rid of it."
"I'll take it!" Paetoric responded instantly.
Father chuckled, and said, "Deal. Now get back to it,” with an amused smile on his face. Paetoric, considering that the binding promise that he would receive the awesome relic, obligingly retreated back outside and gathered another load of scrap. A magic halberd-head, and it was as good as his!
The next morning, Paetoric woke up earlier than usual, and Father was still sleeping, in the bunk across from him. He slid out of bed and exited the bedroom, stepping on the spots of the creaky wooden floor he memorized as unsounding. Quicker but still quietly he went through the stores room, through the next doorway and into the unlit forge. There it was! The enchanted halberd head was still sitting upon the bench, and the sword hilt before was gone. Father had purposely left it there for him then? Paetoric went silently over to the bench, sat beside the weapon head, and examined it, not touching it. It was broad, with a waving tip like a spear, and a two ornately designed cutting edges. Father probably couldn't remove the enchantment it was so powerful. Why can't Paetoric take it now? With that justification, Paetoric picked it up in his hands. It was lighter than it looked, and felt cool to the touch—like it could neither be hot nor cold. It was formed with designs, giving it an overall appearance of not only a fierce weapon, but also a sort of magic symbol. The cutting edges appeared to be entwined twin serpents, the thrusting head formed the pattern of striking lightning, and the center shaft of the head were scaled, coiling dragon tails around mysterious three-eyed skulls. The cutting edges were still keenly sharp, Paetoric felt with his finger. This was truly a well-designed weapon! And most likely, Paetoric gathered by the weapon’s symbolic appearance, that it was a weapon with an important history.
He stood up, and walked softly back toward the storeroom, the relic in his hands. He would fit a new handle to it, he thought to himself. It would be his weapon. He wondered what the attacking effect the enchantment would have. He rounded the stores room towards the bedroom. So that Father wouldn't notice, he moved silently, ever so silently, upon those same memorized spots on the floor which did not sound under weight of step, toward his bunk bed, his father still breathing heavily in his sleep. He reached the side of his bunk, and, carefully so as not to sound, raised the cotton mattress off of it's place. He brought the halberd head up with his other hand, and, being painfully gentle, lowered it to the smooth wooden surface of his bunk bed’s build. It only made a slight sound barely above a whisper, and didn't disturb Father. Paetoric lowered his mattress, and lied back in his bunk bed, thinking of his claimed treasure.
It had been a week ago that Paetoric took the enchanted halberd head, and Father said not a word of it missing. Paetoric was examining what looked to be a twisted sword blade, in his scrap sorting routine, when he heard a distant noise of approaching horse's hooves hitting the ground at an easy trot. That's strange... the weekly supply of scrap has already been delivered not two days ago. Who could be approaching?
Father's banging of the tilt hammer on heated metal suddenly stopped. Father had noted the sound, too. Paetoric heard the clunk of Father setting the tilt hammer down, then his footsteps across the smithy room, and heard the front door of the smithy swing open. Paetoric was behind the outside of the smithy, and didn't see what was going on. He set down the tortured metal piece, got up, and walked through the smithy room's back door, and started toward the door to the front of the smithy, to follow out his father. He stopped when he heard voices outside. It was a man, speaking with Father. He must have been the approaching rider...
Paetoric continued toward the front entrance of the smithy. "Is there anyone else that works at this smithy beside you, Mr. Me'Aer?” Paetoric heard the man say from outside. Paetoric halted, still out of view of the open front door way. Maybe this wasn't a situation to walk in on...
He couldn't discern his father's response to the question. Paetoric turned, and instead of the door, walked toward a small window next to it. He peered out the side of the window to see the visitor.
The man looked like an ambassador of a Lord: he had on full chain mail, under a leather tunic emblazoned with a royal design; with a shining, solid silver helmet, and a gold hilted sword sheathed at his belt. Paetoric looked at the man's mail-gloved hands, to see that he was clutching a scroll. There were two other, but less official looking, men with him, who seemed like escorts or guards for the man. They, too, had horses, as the messenger. They were unmounted from their steeds, and one of them was holding the reigns of the messenger's horse. "With internal staff rearrangements, your recall to direct castle duties was necessary." the messenger said to Father. "Here is the official mandate for the Me'Aer family," the messenger unraveled the scroll, and read from it, "Gyle Me'Aer, castle blacksmith, granted official leave to familial concerns, is herby recalled to duty, by mandate of Lord DeKade, signed," the messenger indicated a signature on the document and continued, "and this mandate further binds the four sons of Gyle Me'Aer to the castle duties of war, unless otherwise accounted for." At this, he looked one last time at the document as if seeing that he did not miss anything, rolled it back up, and held it out to Father. Father took it, looking down at the rolled up parchment, thinking. "Torius is on duty as a Knight of The Guard under Lord DeKade," Father began, and the messenger looked at him, listening, "Rhoin ran away from home years ago"- Father hastened to the next sentence without pause as if averting questions - "and Seften keeps a farm." The messenger gave a brief nod in acknowledgement. Then, the messenger asked, "The mandate mentions that you have four sons, Mr. Me'Aer..." Father didn't answer right away, and he looked like he was about to when...
Creak, went the floorboards in the smithy, as Paetoric unwittingly shifted his weight standing, and the two guards turned their sights toward the smithy, looking at the door, then on the roof, then into the window.
They saw Paetoric!
Paetoric nearly jumped, but then controlled himself and tried to look casual as he walked out the front door to his audience. He strode up to Father's side and looked at the messenger, then at Father. "Yes, that's correct,” Father said, sounding as if he expected Paetoric to walk out at that moment, "and this is my other son, Paetoric." The messenger was looking at Paetoric. Paetoric had his mind on the mandate-document Father had in his hand, and purposely didn't look at it. He didn't want to go to 'duties of war', whatever that would entail!
The messenger looked back at Father and his mouth opened to speak, but Father calmly cut in, "He keeps the farm with Seften." Paetoric kept his casual face, knowing his father had just lied. The messenger remained unspeaking, looked at Father, then looked again to Paetoric consideringly. After a moment of contemplation, the messenger gave his brief nod to Father, and stated, "you have a period of two days to report to the castle of Lord DeKade, including travel time, to present this document. Settle any of your affairs in that given time." Father gave one heavy nod, and the messenger took the reigns of his horse from one of his guards, kicked up onto the back of his horse, his guards doing the same after him. Paetoric watched them as they trotted a way down the path. Father turned to Paetoric, looking slightly grave. "Pack your things, and go to the farm. Do you remember how to get there?" Paetoric nodded. "Good. Leave as soon as possible. There is a small sack of copper pieces on the night-stand beside my bed, and a few silver pieces in the drawer; and a staff in the forging room, take both." Paetoric couldn't think of anything to say. Why? Why was this happening? This was so sudden.
He was walking toward the smithy door when Father called "and, Paet?"
Paetoric stopped and turned to his father, from the doorway. "Don't forget the enchanted halberd head under your bed mattress. It should fit well on the top of the staff, it's about the right size." Paetoric was surprised. How did Father know he had snuck the item away? Had he not really been sleeping that night? He managed out a confused "okay, Father" before he continued into the smithy. He walked into the forging room, contemplating the anvil, the bench, the floor, the test table, as he walked by them, knowing he wouldn't see them again, just knowing. He grabbed up the staff Father had mentioned—a hard, strong and straight wooden rod, with leather bindings at it's mid-section, it a little above shoulder height—and turned to the direction of the stores room. He took rations from the stores room and went through that into the bedroom, looked at the little nightstand by Father's bed, finding and taking the little leather sack of copper coins. He pulled open the nightstand's small drawer, and to his father's word, saw the silver pieces, and pocketed them. He then turned to his own bed. He lifted the mattress as if lifting the cover of a treasure chest, and removed the halberd head from its secret place. He fitted the enchanted weapon to the staff, secured it in place with Father's tilt hammer in the forging room, spiking it in place, and stepped outside the back door. It felt as if he missed the smithy already. He sensed the cooling presence of the open forging room behind him, as if he was still inside. He wanted to go back in.