The chagrined teen retrieved his forgotten blade as he was made to recite the object lesson endlessly drilled into him a thousand times beforehand. “A warrior's sword is his truest companion: unfailing and uncompromising. I will find no better friend of steely mettle. To lose such a comrade is to surely forfeit my life."
"Words to live by,” Shudonn said in reminder. “When next you repeat them put a little heart into it.” He gave the boy a playful cuff about the head and grimaced. “I really need to rub some salve on this shoulder of mine."
"You're hardly a spring chicken now, Pappy,” Garrich observed, sheathing his sword and helping the old-timer to his feet. “Injuries for you take a darn sight longer to heal."
"Don't be so impolite, boy!” berated Tylar. Oldness was a touchy subject for the once vigorous soldier.
"Let's get you back to the cottage,” said the youth, hiding his grin of amusement. His attempt to aid the elderly warrior was rejected with an indignant shove.
"Stop your mothering, Garrich. I'm hardly a cripple yet. I can manage perfectly well on my own.” Stubbornly proud, Tylar Shudonn squared his shoulders with a suppressed groan, picked up his own dropped blade and proceeded to march in smart military fashion from the small clearing ringed by ash and beech. Garrich followed and was immediately rebuffed by his elder. “Oh no, youngster. You're going to wash yourself in the creek before coming home. You smell like a rancid boar.” With that, the old soldier tramped imperiously into the surrounding wood.
Garrich ambled from the glade and made his way to the merrily gurgling brook that flowed a short distance from the practice field, absently kicking at the stray leaves littering the forest floor as he walked. Autumn was only beginning to brush the stretch of timberland adjacent to Wivernbush with its desiccating touch; the boughs overhead sported a colorful mantle of foliage fading from vibrant green to mute yellow and interspersed with splotches of rusty orange and deathly red. Over the coming weeks the trees would shed their leafy crowns altogether, leaving their branches starkly naked and forlorn, to carpet the wood with a matting of multi-hued detritus. Garrich always considered autumn to be the saddest of the four seasons, a time of withering that led into the deathly white freeze preceding the spring rebirth.
Stripping down to his waist, the topless boy shivered from exposure to the crisp breeze carrying with it the frigid promise of winter. He knelt beside the water's edge, listening for a quiet moment to the musical tinkling of the babbling stream, before removing his own helmet; glad to be rid of the weighty headgear with its discomforting nose and cheek guards. Never completely at ease donning armor, Garrich found a helm and breastplate annoyingly restrictive items in a warrior's garb.
Scratching his itchy head, he followed his usual routine when bathing by searching out a pool of stilled water to gaze at his reflection in before washing. That is not to say the youth was vain, for he did not possess a conceited bone in his body. Rather, Garrich was obsessed by his undisclosed parentage and habitually strove to try and discern his abstruse ancestry by studying his exotic looks, for since reaching his teens he increasingly noticed and been bothered by the marked physical differences between him and Tylar Shudonn. Aside from the proud old soldier standing a head taller than his ward and sporting sun browned skin compared to the boy's olive complexion, the facial contrasts between father and adopted son were incontrovertible.
Garrich examined himself anew in the watery mirror. He turned his head this way and that, trying to gain a fresh perspective but his looks remained annoyingly mystifying: the abnormally high cheekbones, slanted eyes and upwardly angled eyebrows—even the glossy raven hair tied back in a pony-tail. Their very alienage taunted him. The enigma of his lineage stayed frustratingly unchanged, as did his unsightly acne. Sighing disconsolately, the teenager unbuckled his belted sword, removed his boots and breeches, and waded unclad into the middle of the stream to sit in the chill water with an exasperated splash.
He still had no inkling of what race he belonged to or what diverse cultural heritage his bloodline was part of. The only clue Garrich possessed was the furred swaddling Shudonn claimed to have found him wrapped in as an abandoned babe and thoughtfully kept as a keepsake for when the boy turned old enough to understand the importance of the memento as his legacy. Consequently, the moldy pelt remained the teenager's prized possession. His sole link to an undiscovered personal history, the scrap of hide was as cryptic as his facial features.
Dunking his head, Garrich hurriedly washed himself before clambering from the brook on to the embankment and shaking the water from his hair. Shivering as the wind dried his dripping body, the apprentice swordsman warmed himself by executing classic fencing moves with a stick of dead wood. Garrich made a comical sight as he lunged and parried totally nude against an imaginary foe. His frame exhibited the leanness of youth, but a hint of the man to come lay in a broadening of the shoulders and bulking up of corded muscles developed from countless hours spent training. Fluidly thrusting and blocking with practiced ease until dry Garrich dressed and set off along the winding path leading back to the glade.
A pale noonday sun shone weakly from an overcast sky as he crossed the clearing and took the footpath to Falloway Cottage. The rustic log cabin with its creaky porch and backyard vegetable garden lying fallow awaiting spring planting was the only abode the boy had ever known. Looking more like an uprooted extension of the encircling trees than a manmade affair, an occupier other than Tylar Shudonn built the timbered dwelling years beforehand. Rotted and warped planking was renewed annually, keeping the exterior a mismatch of newly milled and seasoned wood. Whatever fate befell the former and unnamed resident, the retired soldier either refused to comment on or simply did not know. It mattered little to Garrich. The cottage stayed his anchor in a world of unsettling mystery. It was home.
Bounding up the steps with youthful exuberance, Garrich discovered Tylar inside struggling to undo his tunic one-handed. “Get me out of this quilted straightjacket,” begged the oldster. ‘I feel like a trussed up stag.’ The boy helped his guardian change clothes before exchanging his own garments for fresh breeches and a loose-fitting shirt laced up at the front. Garrich then rubbed a foul smelling balm into Shudonn's numbing shoulder before the pair lunched in silence upon simple fare of bread and cheese, followed by a small selection of dried fruit washed down with cool water.
Austere like its unadorned outer walls, Falloway Cottage's interior reflected the functional simplicity of Tylar Shudonn's military upbringing. Furnishings were practical rather than decorative, the living room dominated by a sturdy and laden weapons rack sited opposite the blazing iron firepot doubling as the cabin's heating source and cooking stove. Placed alongside that hulking piece of furniture with its assorted blades, maces, axes, and lances stood a narrower cabinet of dark, lacquered cherry wood filled with tin dishes, cups, pots, and pans plus a score of well thumbed books sitting neatly upright on the uppermost shelf. Every item had its place. Garrich and Tylar were seated at a plainly carved table of burnished walnut, the milky light of the cloudy day lighting the otherwise dismal room via the solitary four-paned window adjoining the solid oaken front door set in the west wall. The only other doorway in the dwelling led off the lounge to the single bedroom shared by the pair: a cramped windowless chamber housing two cots separated by a communal chest of drawers. The roomies thankfully enjoyed individual chamber pots.
Nibbling on a slice of brittle apricot, Garrich asked his minimalist father, “What shall I practice this afternoon? Close quarter drill with a fighting staff, or maybe spear throwing? Oh, I know. Handling a battleaxe might be fun."
"Don't talk with your mouth full,” chided Tylar. Considering his stiffening shoulder, he decided, “We'll resume your schooling."
The boy groaned. “I'd prefer weapons training. What use is book learning in a fight, unless you whack an opponent over the head with a thick tome."
"Plenty, my flippant son. Volumes have been written on tactics and strategy. A w
ell read soldier is—"
"—a prepared soldier,” finished Garrich, pouting resignedly as he rose from the dining table and trudged across the room to where the china cabinet-cum-bookcase stood, his literary education plainly an unavoidable chore. “What book do you want fetched? The atlas perhaps, for the lively subject of geography, or Flinder's mind-numbing dissertation on siege engines."
Shudonn glowered reprovingly. “I don't know where on Terrath you get this streak of sarcasm from, boy. It's certainly none of my doing."
Garrich shrugged. “My parents, I guess. Whoever they might have been."
Tylar motioned for Garrich to return to his seat without a reference text. “Today's lesson will be a spoken narrative on history,” he announced. The empty handed teenager looked decidedly uninterested as he slouched in his chair. “My account of the border clashes,” added the veteran officer. Garrich brightened visibly and sat up. No dry recitation of some snooty historian's embellished and inaccurate secondhand chronicle of the nation's recorded conflicts for him!
The old-timer began. “I was younger than you when I enlisted with the Borderlanders. A snot-nosed fourteen year old that passed himself off as sixteen so he could find adventure as a soldier.” Tylar slowly shook his near hairless head in fond remembrance. “And what escapades I had. My squad chased bandit bands from Serepar to Woldsham and back again. That's how I came by this souvenir.” He tapped his scarred chin. “We endured a motherless sergeant who bullied us terribly. A born survivor, he taught me most of what I teach you. Made me his corporal. He hammered into my fellow recruits the soldiering skills we needed to run down brigands and stay alive. Yet, for all his expertise he suffered a soldier's fate."
"He got killed in battle?” ventured Garrich, his eyes afire with fascination.
Tylar nodded sadly. “Knifed in the belly by a downed robber he presumed dead. Took him two days and a night to die, poor sod. Strange I haven't thought of him in years. His demise got me promoted to acting sergeant. From there my rise through the ranks was fairly standard. Lieutenant by the time I turned thirty, a captain commanding my own unit thirteen years later.” He looked pointedly at Garrich. “Let's review your knowledge of the facts concerning the armed skirmishes. When and where was the first altercation between Men and Goblins?"
The boy screwed up his face in concentration. “Year 283 in ... Rolverton?"
"Haston,” corrected Shudonn.
"I always get those two mixed up,” complained Garrich.
"An easy mistake. Elaborate."
"Er, the troop of mounted infantry destined to be formed into the famed Strantharian Lancers intercepted western raiders, wiping them out."
"Mmm, the abridged version,” assessed Tylar.
"That's what is written in the history books given me,” the boy avowed.
"True enough. A concise summation is well and good, but what you—the reader—cannot gain from such texts is the brutal reality of warfare. That can only be imparted by firsthand observations."
Tylar Shudonn commenced to recount his personal experiences from the brief, but fierce and frequent scuffles waged between the Borderland Patrol and its Goblin foil, each vehemently defending their respective side of Montaine Divide. His wish to enliven otherwise dreary teaching through animated storytelling was realized as Garrich sat entranced by sagas of unthinking heroism and selfless bravery in the heat of battle. Mindful not to glorify those deeds, for warring is a bloody business, the old-timer painted an equally graphic picture of the deaths upon the battlefield incurred by both victor and foe. It progressed into a woeful tale punctuated by the lamentable loss of two close comrades who fell in the closing stages of a particularly violent struggle when the opposing bands tussled inconclusively over the strip of rocky land isolating Carnach from Anarica.
"Such a tragic waste of life on both sides,” concluded the oldster.
"But containing the Westies was a triumph for the Borderlanders,” countered Garrich, puzzled by his guardian's sympathy for the enemy.
"A bittersweet result that cost East and West dearly. Nobody gained ground; we each lost good men. You miss the consequence of battle, my son. It is neither tarnished medals nor hollow accolades. The outcome is always the same: grief."
Garrich was confused. “A soldier's duty is to war, father."
"No,” rejected Tylar. “He is duty-bound to uphold the decrees of his monarch and government of lords. Nobles wage war. Soldiers merely enforce such policies."
"I don't understand,” professed the teen.
"Let me simplify it for you then. Why do you carry a sword?"
"For protection."
"And?"
Garrich fumbled. “To defend others if need be?"
"Precisely.” Shudonn smiled approvingly. The moral values he diligently instilled upon the maturing boy at the earliest age were showing through. “The same can be said of an army, for its prime role is to maintain peace and protect citizenry through a show of force. Only when that bluff is called must soldiery commit to battle to resolve disputation. A soldier should be compelled to fight only as a last resort.” Seeing Garrich's continuing bemusement, Tylar explained on a more personal note. “I am proud to have served my count as a loyal trooper and bear no regrets whatsoever in following the orders I was oath-bound to obey. What shames me as a man is the many times I was forced to take a life when enacting that duty."
The reminiscing old-timer pushed out his chair and came to his feet. Looking startlingly frail to Garrich's eyes, Shudonn shuffled around the table to place a trembling hand upon the boy's sinewy shoulder. “Son, you are fortunate not to have slain another living being. I pray to Jeshuvallhod that you never will, for the guilt never leaves you. Ever."
"I'm not sure that is a prayer the Maker can answer."
Frowning, Tylar asked, “Why ever not?"
Garrich nervously cleared his throat. “My sixteenth birthday is half a year away. When it arrives I intend traveling to Alberion to join the prince's army. I want to be a professional soldier."
"I forbid it."
Shudonn's resistance was expected. His outright refusal came as a complete shock. “But I'll be old enough by then,” Garrich stammered in protest.
"In years, yes,” conceded Tylar, “but not in maturity. You wield a sword admirably. Are you prepared to end a person's life with your blade though?"
"I wish to live a soldier's life. If that means killing in service to the crown, so be it."
"Brave words, boy. My answer is still no. You'd hate army life: too much marching and saluting. Besides, you've never been to a city. You wouldn't like the experience—all that noise and crush of people. You're better off here with me."
"You can't stop me,” Garrich blurted defiantly. He instantly regretted that remark as Shudonn painfully tightened his grip on the youth's shoulder.
"Don't be so sure, son,” Tylar rumbled warningly. “I haven't taught you every trick in my book."
Garrich gulped nervously.
Noticing the lengthening shadows on the planked floor as the eventful day drew to a close, the oldster released his ward and ambled to the window. The enfolding forest looked decidedly dim and cheerless in the dusky light. Tylar stoked the embers of the glimmering firepot before sitting and casually said, as if nothing untoward had just happened, “Whose turn to cook tonight, youngster?"
"Mine, I think,” replied the flummoxed teen.
Shudonn smacked his gummy lips. “Best get on with preparing supper then. I'm famished."
Garrich served up a meaty stew of boiled venison and diced vegetables in repast as Tylar customarily read one of his beloved books by firelight before dinner, leisurely thumbing through a tome illustrating Anarican heraldry. Tasting the steaming ragout, the oldster grimaced and remarked, “You need to brush up on your culinary skills. An army marches on its stomach you know."
The boy shoved his plate away. “Not funny."
"A poor choice of words on my part. Sorry."
Sh
udonn cleaned his plate despite Garrich's botched cookery. Once the dishes of the evening meal were cleared, rinsed in a pail and upended on the floor to dry, he set out quill and parchment to indulge in his passion. One might think poetry a strange pastime for a retired soldier, but Tylar needed an outlet for the streak of creativity inherited from his artistic mother. The rigidity of army life precluded hobbies, so the legendary trooper always made time to express himself in the eloquence of written verse now that freedom permitted: an understandable form of release for the pent-up emotions that invariably resulted from having led such a disciplined existence. Garrich meanwhile undertook his weekly chore of weapons maintenance; replacing damaged shafts and bindings, sharpening dulled blades with a whetstone, as well as stitching the rent in Shudonn's padded jacket. He finished his task the same way each time by retrieving his mentor's cherished broadsword from its place of honor atop the cluttered rack. Drawing the blade of finely crafted steel from its battered leather scabbard, the boy fastidiously oiled and polished the sword until it gleamed.
His lips pursed in thought, Tylar asked, “What rhymes with raven?"
Garrich considered the question. “Haven,” he suggested.
Shudonn grunted his approval of the offering and, dipping his feathered pen in the inkpot beside him, scribbled enthusiastically. His decade long work in progress was an ode to the thirty-fourth Prince of Men, Torsca Holbyant, given the unofficial accolade ‘the Soldier Prince’ on account of his undying patronage to the Anarican military. “Your home schooling is not wasted after all,” he muttered to Garrich.
The teenager ignored the comment, too engrossed with his guardian's precious sword to care about the jibe. Hefting the blade from hand to hand, Garrich never ceased to marvel at the precise balance of the surprisingly lightweight broadsword. Commissioned by the officer commanding the Royal High Army to forge the exquisite weapon as Tylar Shudonn's retirement gift, the reputable Min Alorth smith responsible charged the princedom's treasury an exorbitant sum for the finished article; a price the marshal gladly paid, as everyone knew that Dwarven smiths were unequalled as metalworkers in all of Terrath. Garrich tested the feel of the sword and sliced through the air in a tight arc. The swinging blade generated the mournful sough of wind humming through the trees.
Wizard's Goal Page 2
