by Jeff Gunzel
Eric had learned to utilize his time well in order to accomplish all the things he was not only ordered to do by his father, but also loved to do. Eric enjoyed the grind of his full day from morning till night. The daily regimen was always the same. After waking up bright and early, he began studying the lessons chosen by his dad, which was common in small towns like Bryer. All children were home-schooled, and it was the parents’ responsibility to make sure their children were properly educated so they could contribute to the benefit of the town as they got older. This benefited them as well, seeing as most would spend their entire lives here.
He studied mathematics, languages, and quite a bit about history. His father emphasized this heavily and made sure he studied for at least four hours every morning year-round. This was followed by intense sparring, including hand-to-hand combat and the use of various forms of weaponry. The long sword was his weapon of choice, and the one he excelled with during practice. One day a week was set aside to learn ranged combat, including the crossbow as well as a longbow.
Eric was not really sure why his father pressured him to such a great extent to learn all these forms of combat, but he didn’t really care either way, since he loved every minute of it. The hours and hours spent training with his father after his studies were finished brought him pure joy. He would get lost in the deadly dance of blade on blade as he fantasized he was on the battlefield during the famed Undead War, butchering crytons left and right. His father had served in the army of Taron and had been promoted to general before meeting his mother and moving to Bryer. There they started a family as well as a blacksmithing business. This was how he attained all of the combat skills he was now passing down to his son.
Eric had no memory of his mother. His father told stories of how wonderful she was and how much he missed her. She had gotten sick and took a high fever shortly after he was born, never recovering. Even though it was not logical, Eric had somehow always felt responsible. The rest of the day would be spent in the shop banging away with his hammer, making everything from cauldrons to blades, from axes to sickles. Sure, Eric also made weapons, but these were mostly custom jobs that came at a price—a price many seemed willing to pay, given his reputation as one of the finest craftsmen in these parts.
Eric lived his life by a handful of simple rules: protect the ones you love, and fully commit to everything you do. He truly never strayed from these beliefs. Every book Eric studied, he did his best to force every word to memory. Whether he was making a simple candlestick or sparring with his father, using all the energy he could muster, it was with complete dedication to be the best. For the friends and family he held so dear, he would gladly give his live. This complete dedication to a lifestyle so few would ever choose simplified everything in Eric’s eyes. When you know you’ve given one hundred percent, how can there be regrets?
Lord Pike strolled up to the booth just outside the blacksmith’s shop, where Eric was working. In a deep, booming voice, he said, “Afternoon, Eric, seems you are busy as always. I assume you will be joining in the celebration this evening. I mean, you don’t work all the time, do you? Maybe a break once a year wouldn’t kill you...would it?”
Wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, Eric put down the hammer and turned slowly to meet the smile of Lord Pike, returning it with a bigger one of his own. With his other hand he wiped the damp, curly brown hair from his eyes. “Yes, Hubert, I will be attending, since the whole town would not have fun unless I am there. And no, I don’t work all the time. I took a break two years ago and found it quite dull.”
The two kept their faces straight as long as they could before tight smiles could no longer be held back. Lord Pike muttered something about Eric being crazy as he strode away with a huge grin on his face. He had always liked Eric and enjoyed talking to him whenever possible. He was one of the few who were not intimidated by his presence. Sure, everyone respected and even adored Lord Pike, but few could be themselves in front of him. It seemed to him that Eric would smart off to a king if he felt like it. In an odd way, he respected that.
“One of these days he is going to make you leave town,” came a familiar voice from behind Eric. He whirled around to see his dad standing there in a brown sleeveless shirt, displaying muscles nearly as big as Eric’s.
Unlike Eric’s brown curly hair, Henry had short blond hair and was about two inches shorter than his son. However, both had soft dark eyes that always appeared to be deep in thought.
“I don’t think that will ever happen. After all, who will make his candlesticks?” Eric said, thrusting his head towards his dad and grinning as his hair fell back into his eyes.
Henry forced half a smile before dropping his eyes. “Be sure to get cleaned up soon. Once this gets going, there will be no business to be had. Might as well get out there and enjoy yourself.” He reached up and clasped his wrist in his opposite hand, stretching hard while making a groaning sound before walking back inside the shop.
Eric just shook his head, wondering. There had been news a few years back of the raid on Brinton. Rumor had it that the assault had been led by a pack of leathers hired by Athsmin. None had been left alive, and any that might have escaped surely fell victim to the wilds of Tarmerria. For some reason, his dad had been absolutely crushed by the news. Eric knew his father as a caring man who would go out of his way to help strangers. Never before had he seen the man act like this, however, as he cried literally for days on end. Years removed from the incident, he was still a broken man. Whenever Eric asked why he was so attached to something that had so little bearing on his own life, he would just revert to tears all over again and say nothing.
It’s not like he knew anyone who lived there. Eric learned to just stop talking about it and hoped time would heal the mysterious wound. The festival would begin shortly, and it was time to clean up his work area before getting ready.
Rolling his neck as he stretched out his arms, Eric suddenly noticed two girls watching him from across the road. Who knows how long they had been there, but both smiled when they saw that he had finally noticed them. Realizing he had been inadvertently flexing his muscles, he felt heat build in his face as he awkwardly looked away. Then, right on cue, he dropped the large hammer he had been using with a loud clang. Spending several seconds fumbling around trying to pick it up as fast as he could, he did his best not to look back in their direction. His face was pure fire.
“All those muscles and not a brain in your head,” came a chuckling voice from behind him.
Eric whirled around, already wearing a huge grin, knowing exactly who this was. There stood a lightly muscled young man of average height. Blond spiky hair, light blue eyes and a huge grin made Jacob seem like the most charming young man alive. This was not far from the truth, as Jacob had stolen the heart of almost every girl in town. With his hoop earrings, flashy smile, and masterful charm, it was hard not to think of him as anything but a ladies’ man. But he had special combat skills that were nearly unmatched, and he had won the stick-fighting tournament almost every year. Looking past his charm and good looks, he was quite dangerous in his own right. He sparred with Eric all the time, and although Eric was better in almost every other weapon, he could not touch Jacob’s skill with a staff. Not that Jacob was any slouch in other forms of weaponry, but a quarterstaff might as well have been part of his own body.
“Since it appears you blew it with two girls at once without saying a word to either one—which simply must be some kind of record—I guess I will have to take both of them off your hands,” Jacob said, trying his best to keep a straight face. “No, no. Don’t thank me yet. I will try my best to assure both of them you are not mentally challenged, although I’m afraid this might take all evening.”
The two young men shared a hearty laugh. Although their personalities were very different, they complemented each other quite well.
Jacob had always done well with the ladies, and he had a very aggressive personality—but not always to his
benefit. He had gotten in many fights with the other boys for stealing girls’ hearts. Sometimes it was an older brother seeking revenge, other times a rival who had his eye on the same girl. He had a bit of a temper himself, and it found him trouble more often than not.
Eric, on the other hand, was reserved with the ladies. Not that they didn’t like him; far from it. With his long, curly brown hair and bulging arms, the girls would watch him all day as he trained out in the yard. Shortly after that, they continued to watch as he began working away in the shop. He was always in control of his emotions and never let them get the best of him. Eric hated making hasty decisions, and always took the time to think things through.
As different as they were, the two friends loved each other like brothers.
“So, are you going watch me tonight?” asked Jacob, still grinning widely. “I’m considering using a little tree branch this year to even the odds, you know.”
No doubt he was talking about the stick-fighting competition. Eric respected Jacob’s skill, but always thought he could do with a little humility. Although to be fair, his arrogance spilled over into all aspects of his life, not just his skill with a staff. He was just very sure of himself at all times. Eric could not deny his jealousy of Jacob in his free-spirited ways.
“Of course I am. Someone will need to pick you up off the ground,” said Eric, returning the huge grin. “So you think I might lose, do you?” his friend replied with his hands held out wide and one eyebrow raised. He then began pacing back and forth, still holding the sarcastic pose with his eyes looking up, fixed on nothing as he said, “I suppose it’s possible, no matter how unlikely. I could fall and injure myself before the competition ever begins. Lightning could strike me in the head four consecutive times before lunch time. Demons might fly out of the sky and—”
“Alright, by the gods,” Eric said, laughing into the back of his hand. “I said I will watch, now go and get ready. I’ve got to clean up here and get ready myself. I’ll see you there,” he said, already looking around the booth, deciding what to take care of first. After putting all his tools away and sweeping the black ash from the floor, Eric took one last long look down the street. He pulled down the light cage that covered the side openings of the booth and locked it.
Eric lived only a short distance away, but it took longer than usual to walk there, given how the streets and walkways were beginning to fill up quickly. People were putting the last touches on their wagons. Final streamers and decorations were being hung wherever there was still a place to put them.
Children were running in the streets, laughing and waving pinwheels around, trying to make them spin faster before their parents came to scoop them up and bring them back to the walkway, which was where they were supposed to be all along.
When he got back home and walked inside, his father was sitting in front of the fireplace, slumped over in a chair with his head in his hands. He didn’t even seem to notice Eric walk in.
The living room was rather modest-looking, sporting wooden floors and furniture. There was a simple table made of pine, and four matching chairs. The wooden couch and large chair were decorated with brown cushions that were handmade by Henry years ago and still served well enough. The fireplace was quite large, with candles and little wooden figurines on the platform above the hearth.
Eric strolled up to his dad, who still didn’t seem to notice him. “Dad?” he said in barely a whisper, leaning down close to his father’s ear. “I’m going to get ready to go out. You shouldn’t just sit here. I think you will have fun. The celebration will be everywhere. Just step out for a while.”
Eric stood there for a minute, until the silence became unbearable. He sighed and turned to walk upstairs to his room.
“You know, I didn’t say happy nameday last week,” Henry said in a soft voice, not looking up, with his head still in his hands. “Twenty years old. I can’t believe it’s here already.”
It was true. Eric had turned twenty years last week. He and his dad never celebrated or even spoke of it. This was not that unusual, though. As he had gotten older, they had acknowledged his nameday less and less, but this was the first year his dad had not said anything at all.
Not knowing exactly what to say, Eric ambled up the stairs to his room and sat on his bed for a moment. Why was his dad acting stranger and stranger every day? Eric loved his father, but did not know how to tell what was really bothering him or how to get through to him.
He just sighed and looked around the room at his simple set of belongings. A wooden dresser stood against one wall. A small mirror attached to the top of the dresser, and one plain wooden chair sitting in the corner, were about all that could be seen. Eric sat in that chair frequently to read by the light of his old lantern. Not his usual studies that he would read downstairs at the table, but his private collection of adventure books that he had loved since he was a child. He loved stories of folk whose lives were exciting and had meaning, where the fate of the world rested in their hands.
Deciding it would be best to just clean up for Sanctas and try not to think about anything else, he stripped down and bent over his washbowl, splashing about. After disappearing into his closet for a few minutes, he returned wearing his favorite black pants with a white collared shirt and red vest. Black leather boots completed the outfit. He admired himself in the mirror one last time, flipping his curly hair out of his eyes before heading back downstairs.
Taking a last look towards his dad, who seemed to be frozen in time, still sitting in his chair with his head in his hands, Eric just shook his head as he walked past him.
Loud music and the sounds of celebration could be heard through the house long before he got to the door. Stepping onto the walkway was like entering another world entirely. Folk were dancing in the streets, waving brightly colored ribbons and banners.
Folk kept running up to Eric and shoving food items into his arms. Old Lady Smithies ran up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as she shoved a large apple into his hand. Before he could say anything, she had already run off, but her presence was quickly replaced by the butcher, Mr. Humpry, who shoved a fresh sausage with bun into his free hand while hugging him with the other. Not a single word was exchanged other than a warm smile, and he was off as quickly as he came.
As much as Eric loved the warm exchanges, he needed to get to the other side of town, where the tournaments were taking place. He lightly pushed his way through the crowded streets, staying towards the center of the road, where it was the least congested.
The sides of the road were packed with folk set up in mini shops and wagons with the tarps pulled back. They were giving away food and tiny trinkets for the children. Horns were blowing and drums were being beaten—sometimes to an actual song. Others just tried to make as much joyous noise as they could. Jugglers created small patches of space here and there, the crowd giving them just enough room to perform their craft. The ones juggling lit torches were given a bit more.
Eric could see he would have to adjust his route when he saw what appeared to be a parade of some kind coming right at him. It was hard to tell exactly what the commotion was, given how dense the crowd had become and how limited his forward sight was now. As he slowly shoved his way to the side of the street, the source of the commotion became much more apparent. A long, lizard-type puppet was dancing along as it slowly made its way down the street. The giant yellow head seemed completely animated, with a mouth that kept opening and closing as eyes with black eyelashes gazed around, blinking repeatedly. Various sections of the long green body danced up and down in no particular pattern as people pointed and cheered. It was hard to tell how many folk were controlling the dance under the giant puppet, but it seemed it had to be twenty or so.
After letting the spectacle pass by, Eric continued to push through the dense crowd, constantly bumping into people but getting nothing but a smile in return for his trouble. It was about this time that it really hit him how many strangers were here. He knew almos
t everyone in town, but there were so many faces he didn’t recognize. Even considering the local farmers that had come for the festival, it still seemed a large number of people he couldn’t place. They must have traveled from Denark and maybe even as far as Athsmin. Very dangerous to travel that far just for Sanctas, he thought.
The local farmers lived in relative safety because of the militia Lord Pike sent out just to patrol the local area regularly. They were instructed to change their route every day just in case it was being monitored by someone or something. But anyone traveling from another town was really on their own. Eric could not see risking life and limb for a local festival.
Before he knew it, he could see the platform up ahead that had been set up days ago for the local events. Getting closer, he could now observe the activity taking place high up on the canvas stage.
Two knights, each wearing full plate mail, were clanging away at each other. The choreography was brilliant, as they had practiced for weeks leading up to this one event. The first had silver plate mail with a green tree painted on the breastplate. He carried a golden shield with a red half-moon in one hand, and a long sword in the other.
The second knight was clearly playing the part of evil. His armor consisted of jet-black plate mail with a red skull painted on the breastplate. He carried no shield, but spun a black morning star in each hand. The spiked balls of death whirled around him in circles until he changed the pattern to figure eights then back to circles again, attacking at all the right moments to have the weapons bounce hard but harmlessly off the other knight’s shield. Then he would go on the defensive and work the morning stars into looping circles to deflect the long sword’s attacks. The weapons were real, so the dance had to be perfect, which it was.
