by Jordan Baker
Aaron thought about his friend Brian, the oldest son of Jacob the farmer and his wife Mariel. At a half a day’s ride, they were the closest neighbors and Tarnath often stopped in to see them on the way to town. Over the years Aaron, Brian and his two younger brothers had been on many adventures together, most of which consisted of fishing or tramping around in the forest, playing at rangers and bandits. Aaron earnestly hoped he would get to see his friend again soon, then put aside such thoughts when Tarnath emerged from his room carrying a long, leather-wrapped bundle. He placed it on the table then began to lace up his boots.
“We’re not goin' to town, or to Jacob's farm,” the old man told him.
“Then where are we going?” Aaron asked, eyeing the leather bundle that lay before him.
“You’ll see,” Tarnath replied with a mysterious wink and the twinkle in his eye that told Aaron that the old man was up to something and, knowing Tarnath, it most likely had to do with more chores.
By the time they finished clearing breakfast, the sun was shining brightly through the cottage window. Aaron went to his room, finished dressing and quickly grabbed his heavy fur-lined grey cloak from its peg. He went out to the main room to find Tarnath waiting at the doorway with a long bundle under his arm. Aaron wondered what his mischievous old uncle had in mind.
“Come on, boyo, we’ve a bit of a walk ahead of us,” Tarnath told him and then pushed open the door and plunged out into the cold winter air. Aaron followed him out of the warmth of the cottage, discovering that thought the day was crisp, the warmth of the sun made it bearable, and the snow glittered in the bright light of the clear day.
As they walked across the yard surrounding the cottage, Aaron noticed something strange from the corner of his eye. One of the trees outside his window had begun to grow buds. At first, he wondered if spring might be coming soon but he realized that it would be weeks yet before the weather would break, and the tree should not be budding yet. He looked around and saw that all the other trees were still bare and frozen. It was strange that only one should try and grow so early.
Without any idea why such a thing would happen, Aaron decided to shrug it off, and he trudged through the snow, following Tarnath from the yard and into the surrounding forest. Tarnath had also noticed the buds on the tree. It was unseasonal for such a thing to have happened, but he already knew what had most likely caused it, though he made no mention of it to Aaron. Tarnath figured that it was best not to think about it, especially when there was precious little he could do about such things. Still, he brooded about it quietly, as he broke his way through the fresh snow, unable to shake the worries that entered his mind.
The way was difficult as they pushed through the woods on a brisk march through the drifts of snow. The exercise would do them both some good, the old man told Aaron, but before long, Aaron felt the cold wetness creeping its way over the tops of his boots and through the tough leather that protected his feet. He had forgotten that when winter started to thaw, it meant that everything got wet, and wet meant the cold would feel even colder. The best he could do was to keep moving and hope his boots would keep the dampness from his toes.
They finally arrived at a pond and found it frozen thick with ice that was smooth as glass, its surface blown clear of snow. At the edge, Aaron stopped to brush the melting snow that had gathered around the tops of his boots and marveled at how perfectly wintry the pond looked. Without breaking stride, Tarnath walked purposefully out to the centre of the ice and beckoned for Aaron to follow. Aaron stepped out onto the ice only to find his feet sliding ahead of the rest of him. He landed flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.
“A might slippery isn’t it,” Tarnath called from halfway across the ice. Aaron pushed himself up, scowling. The moisture his boots had gathered was now beginning to freeze again and the ice-clad leather would not take purchase on the slick ice. Aaron fell a few more times before he finally got his footing. Carefully, he made his way over to the center of the ice where Tarnath waited.
He motioned Aaron over to him and unrolled the bundle he had carried. At his feet were two swords, gleaming cold and steely grey in the morning light. Tarnath smiled.
“Here lad, you pick one and I’ll use the other. It’s time you learned how to handle one of these proper like.”
Aaron slowly bent and touched the tip of his finger to the edge of the sword closest to him. He pulled his hand back sharply as he felt the steel begin to cut into his skin from even that slight amount of pressure.
“These are sharp,” Aaron said, checking his finger and seeing a small line where the steel had cut him. Thankfully, his hands were tough from the smithing he had been doing so the blade had not bit deeply.
“They’re swords lad, they’re supposed to be sharp.” The old man rolled his eyes and shook his head. “You’d think I’d raised a simpleton the way you carry on sometimes.”
Ever since he could remember, Tarnath had made him train with wooden sticks and the countless times they had sparred with each other had been for Aaron a lifelong exercise in futility. For years, no matter how hard he had tried, he could never win against the old man. However, a few days previously, Aaron had finally come close to catching his uncle with the dull edge of the wooden practice blade, not just once, but several times during their practice. Even though his near victories gave him a feeling of accomplishment, Aaron knew he was still no match for the old man and he did not think it was wise to swing sharpened steel at one another on the precarious ice.
“Why are we out here, Tarnath?” Aaron asked. “It isn’t like we have enemies. And sword fighting on the ice is dangerous. My boots are frozen and I can barely stand.”
“That’s exactly the point, boy. It is dangerous. Just like the world. And don’t for a minute think that ye’ve got no enemies. There be plenty of them in this world. Bandits on the road, brigands and cutthroats, soldiers who follow a lord who’s not your own, there be enemies aplenty in this world! And it might be true that we have no enemies way out here in the wilds, but things can change my boy, and when they do, they often change quickly.”
There was no arguing with Tarnath when he set his mind to lecturing him on the ways of the world. As far as Aaron could tell, the land was peaceful and it had been that way for almost a generation. There were always minor skirmishes between neighboring lords and the border to the east was known to be difficult, but most of the Maramyrian lands were lawful and relatively safe. Besides, living out in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the forest, the only real threat was the occasional wild animal that stumbled through their land. Knowing that Tarnath would not be convinced otherwise, Aaron resigned himself to what would be the day’s chores; sword practice. Tarnath’s obsession with weapons and his endless lessons on their use at least gave them something to do to break up the monotony of winter. The old man meant well and as apprehensive as he was, Aaron was intrigued that he was finally being trusted with a blade. It had been years since he had stopped asking when they would train with steel, and now, here they were, each of them sword in hand as Tarnath outlined his views on the subject. Aaron had heard countless versions of this speech before and could almost recite it word for word but he let his uncle go through the routine anyway.
“You’re pretty much a grown man now, Aaron and a man’s gotta respect danger ‘cause, it’s a dangerous world. I wouldn’t consider myself havin' done a good job of raising you if I didn’t teach you how to deal with some of life’s dangers. Now, sword fighting is one of the more dangerous things a man can do and it pays to know how to do it right. Ye've got some skills, but there's always more to learn.”
Tarnath raised his sword and then took his usual stance. He swung the blade a few times, testing its balance.
“When the time arises when you’re going to have to swing a sword, you'd best already know how to do it better than the other fellow ‘cause when you’re facing a fight, there just isn’t the time to go and practice. Now pick one up and we’ll begin
.”
Aaron reached down and picked up the sword that had nicked his finger.
Master the blade, Tarnath had taught him. Do not let the blade master you.
Tarnath nodded and walked calmly to the far edge of the frozen pond. Following his lead, Aaron walked carefully, trying not to slip and fall on the ice.
Tarnath stood patiently, idly looking at the mist of his breath in the cold morning air.
“About time you got here lad,” he said. “You figure out your footing on this ice yet?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Not quite,” Aaron said as his feet slipped again on the hard surface.
“Well, you’d better get the hang of it quick, boyo!” Tarnath asked as he brought his sword in a wide arc toward Aaron’s head. “Have at you!” he yelled.
Aaron instinctively brought up his own blade only to find his feet separating from each other. He felt his backside hitting hard on the ice beneath him.
“Balance, my boy. Balance is everything,” Tarnath told him. Aaron groaned and tried to push himself up from the frozen surface.
“Here, I’ll help you up.” The old man extended his hand.
Aaron reached up to Tarnath’s hand and pulled hard. Tarnath tried to balance himself but it was too late. In a moment, Tarnath too landed heavily on the ice. Aaron quickly leapt to his feet, slipping a little but holding steady, his sword at the ready. He laughed as Tarnath gave him a sore look then, almost impossibly fast, the old man was back on his feet. Aaron backed away, cautiously.
“Well Aaron, you always were a clever lad. I guess that’s my own lesson for the day, a reminder to never drop one's guard. Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet, but it’s time for you to learn the most difficult lesson of all. Now attack me.”
“We always work on blocking and defense first,” Aaron said.
“Attack me, boy!” Tarnath told him. Aaron held for a moment, apprehensive about swinging the razor sharp sword at his uncle. “We didn’t just come out here for a nice chat did we? Now attack me or I’ll attack you. Which would you prefer? We're not here to drill, this here's a sparring match, on unfamiliar ground.”
Tarnath grinned beneath his whiskers. Aaron shook his head then swung his sword at Tarnath’s extended blade. The sound of steel meeting steel rang loudly through the leafless woods. Aaron felt Tarnath’s heavy, gloved hand push his shoulder and he again found himself sitting on the ice.
“I said, attack me, not my sword. See, you've gone back to fighting like a child. Don't let your surroundings undo you. Again!”
Aaron bounced to his feet again and slid on the ice, quickly finding that it was all he could do to avoid skewering himself with his sword on such terrain. Aaron was still reluctant to attack, but the old man pressed in on him like he had said he would.
“Either attack me, or defend yourself. ‘Tis no jest.” Tarnath swung at his neck and Aaron raised his blade in time to stop a real blow, a killing blow. Aaron was confused. The sharp steel would have certainly killed him. With hardly a moment to think, Aaron found himself blocking the next swing. He blocked several more in quick succession then responded with an attack Tarnath had taught him. It was simple attack, but it was designed to throw one’s opponent off balance.
“That’s right, my boy. Now you’re getting it. Use the terrain against your opponent,” Tarnath rasped through his own exertion.
The old man smiled at him then pressed him hard with faster attacks that twisted and moved unpredictably. Aaron knew he was going to find himself knocked to the ice more than once this day but he now understood the value in the training, and soon he began to feel his footing become steadier and sure as he learned to control his balance. Before long, he was almost able to fight at his usual level, despite the added challenge of the ice.
They fought for several hours before Tarnath finally called a stop. Bruised, exhausted and with Aaron bearing more than a few nicks and cuts from the sharp blades, they rested for a moment at the edge of the ice. Tarnath handed Aaron a plain leather scabbard.
“What’s this?” Aaron asked.
“It’s for your sword boy. You carry it with you, always. Got that?”
“Yes sir,” Aaron said and put the sword in its sheath and buckled it to his belt.
“Now let’s get on home. The days are still short and it’ll be dark again before long. Besides, it’s turning damn cold out here.”
The sun had moved to the other side of the sky and a cold wind was beginning to blow from the mountains to the northeast. The muscles in their legs still burning from the day’s exertions, the two of them headed back along the tracks they had made earlier in the snow.
*****
In a land far to the west, where the climate was gentler and winter had already left the land, a cold wind stirred the dead leaves that still covered the dark forest floor. It gusted out across a small clearing, its biting chill awakening a young mage, who hung on a wooden cross, barely alive. He opened his eye a crack and was surprised that he was not yet dead. His other eye would not open, its lid held shut by encrusted blood that had long since dried. At least the bleeding had stopped, he thought, and through the pain that wracked his entire body, he wondered whether his eye was still in its socket beneath the blood and gore that had been made of his face. He cursed inwardly, reminding himself not to succumb to such thoughts. He was a mage, and though they had tortured and maimed his body, his mind was still intact, and that was what mattered most. He wondered if perhaps some of his power remained as well. Slowly, cautiously, he looked around at the ground below the rough wooden cross where he hung, his wrists and ankles pierced by thick metal spikes that that sent pain coursing through his entire body with even the slightest movement. The clearing was empty, save for several other crosses where hung the limp, lifeless forms of others who had been tortured and left to die. Nothing stirred in the clearing and his initial fears subsided.
Thank the gods, his attackers were gone.
He flexed his shoulders as much as he could, raising himself up so he could breathe more easily, his lungs starving for the air they had long been denied. The movement caused the blood to flow again from the many wounds on his maimed body. He knew he would not last much longer like this.
His one eye fluttered as he felt out with his mind to gather his magic to him but instead of the familiar feeling of warmth and strength his power would normally bring, he felt only a sense of rawness and confusion. He searched again, deeper within himself, in the corridors of his soul that once flowed with life and power but were now dark and cold. Finally, he felt it, like a fine thread of the strongest steel, tempting him to seize upon it and drink in the magic that it offered, but he hesitated. Something about it was false.
They had offered this to him before, but he had refused. He knew that the power he felt from that source was not real power. It was enslavement, meant to drain him of his will and his life. He gritted his teeth and sent his feelings in every other direction, his growing frustration lending him a little energy. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he found it, hidden, buried deep within him. Only a flicker remained, for it was all he had been able to hide from them, a spell he had cast upon himself long ago, and one they had thankfully not recognized. He focused on it and prayed for salvation, wondering if he would last the night. No, he must stay focused, he reminded himself, fighting the fear and his helpless feelings. The effort to concentrate brought him more pain, and it was almost too much to bear, but he gritted his teeth and tried. He reached out with his mind and grasped at the flickering source but he could not reach it. Perhaps if he rested just a moment, he thought, and it all began to slip away from him.
Nearby, a pair of eyes saw the flicker of power in the young mage and then began to fade. A voice rasped a curse in the darkness and an old man with grey hair and a grey cloak appeared from the trees and hurried to where the young mage hung, on the verge of death. With a strength unnatural to his stature, he lifted the cross out of the ground and lay it gently flat on th
e ground. He shook his head and frowned as he rested his hand on the young mage’s chest. The iron spikes that pinned him to the cross disintegrated and their absence renewed the pain they had caused.
The mage cried out.
His good eye struggled against the fog that crept across the edges of his vision. Something had changed. Above him he saw the starlit sky and wondered if perhaps he was not seeing the first glimpses of the afterworld. Was this death? If so, then why did it hurt so much? Would he be cursed to bear his wounds into the next life? He fought against the blanket that covered his senses and then he saw the old man in the grey cloak looking down at him. The young mage’s lips, cracked with blood, turned up at a corner with his best attempt at a smile.
“Stavros,” he whispered before his one remaining eye rolled back into darkness.
A noise from the forest alerted the old mage, his senses already sharpened by his own magic, which coursed strongly through every fiber of his being, his power at the ready, knowing the danger in revealing himself in this place. His brow creased angrily and Stavros snapped his fingers. In a shimmering flash, he and the wounded mage disappeared, leaving the cross empty on the ground. A moment later, a raven flew into the clearing, its thick black wings beating the air as it came to rest on the arm of a cross. The black bird cawed in the silence as it surveyed the scene, where so many dead figures hung from as many crosses, then it pecked out the eyeball of the body next to it, hungrily enjoying the carrion delicacy.
CHAPTER TWO
After a few weeks, a warm breeze blew in from the west, quickly melting winter from the land. The snows that covered the countryside quickly receded and the new growth of spring soon appeared. It was not long before Tarnath announced that he was planning a trip to the nearby town of Ashford. The roads would now be open and the mud from the melting snow and the spring rains had dried enough to provide surer footing for the horses. Aaron was pleased at the news and hoped to visit with his friend Brian, who lived on a nearby farm that was on the way into town.
