by David Welch
“A day before his month was up, Alcidath received word from Hrattar that he would be fighting in the ring with his new armor. Alcidath and Turvein went to the center of the village, where a large plaza lay. A crowd had formed near the edges, and several men wore leather and spears. These men formed a circle around the center of the plaza. In that center, a young man awaited, clad in armor but bound to a pole in the center of the plaza. Alcidath felt a lump of fear in his throat. The man was maybe twenty winters old, and Hrattar was at least twice that, yet the chief arrived, clad in the mail and helmet Alcidath had made. He held the sword in hand, ready for war. Without a word, he strode into the circle. Turvein explained, ‘The young man is Sveivar. He is a warrior, but he was found forcing himself on the son of a herdsman who lives in the valley. He is here today to meet his fate.’
“‘And what if he lives?’ asked Alcidath, and Turvein replied, ‘Then he fights all the men of the village, one by one. Should he die, justice will be done. Should he survive, then the Gods Above desire that he live, despite his crimes. None have ever done so, but that is the law.’
“Guards came from the edge of the circle. They released Sveivar and gave him a sword. The young rapist eyed the crowd around him warily, looking for any chance to escape, but none presented itself. Finally, he turned to Hrattar. ‘This old man dies tonight! His wife sleeps a widow, and you people go to your beds without a chief to lead you!’ Jeers erupted from the crowd, but Hrattar remained silent. He and Sveivar circled each other until the youth bellowed and lunged.
“Swords clashed and the two fought furiously. Sveivar swung ferociously, throwing great energy in a flurry of hard and fast blows. Hrattar retreated, using his strength to parry the blows with his new sword. Alcidath feared for the man, who seemed only to retreat under the onslaught, but Turvein put a hand on his shoulder, and said, ‘You don’t get to be chief without being crafty, boy. Just you wait.’ The battle raged on for a minute more before they reached the edge of the ring. There, Hrattar stepped aside almost effortlessly, just as Sveivar swung down on him. The blow missed and Sveivar stumbled forward into the ring of guards. The crowd laughed, and Hrattar strutted away, smiling at the crowd. Alcidath breathed a sigh of relief, realizing the truth in Turvein’s words.
“He also took note of Hrattar’s sword. Some small chips lay in the edges and across the flat, where he had blocked his attacker’s blows. Even the strongest steel could not withstand such massive blows without a mark, but Sveivar’s sword looked far worse for wear. Three times as many chips and chunks had been torn from its edge, and they were of greater length and width. The criminal’s blade held though, and he launched himself at Hrattar.
“The chief parried the blow and headbutted the man, slamming the bridge of his new helmet into the man’s face. Sveivar stumbled back, his face bloody and torn in several spots, but the angry young man charged again, and the swords clashed once more. Sveivar’s huge, arcing blows rained down, but each was intercepted by the quick, precise movements of Hrattar. He blocked the overhead swings, parried the stabs and underhand strikes, and swept aside attacks from his left and right. Before him, the young man grew tired, sweating and breathing furiously. But wily Hrattar was just warmed up, and he grinned at his enemy. Now, the minds of the young are easily fooled, and so infuriated was Sveivar with the chief’s grin that he charged again, still struggling for breath. As he swung at the chief’s head, Hrattar planted his feet and brought his sword up from his hip in an impossibly quick arc. His blade caught Sveivar’s and gouged a huge rent into the youth’s sword, chewing nearly halfway through the metal of the weapon. With a swift kick, Hrattar sent him stumbling backwards. Hrattar laughed, then he shot a look over to Alcidath. He raised his sword and nodded. Alcidath realized then that he was toying with the boy, drawing out the fight only to put his new gear to the test.
“But Sveivar did not know he was doomed. He looked incredulously at his sword. He tapped the blade, and the weapon cracked in half. Staring at half a blade, he suddenly realized that Hrattar approached. Frantically, he lunged, slashing at the man’s mail with his half-sword. Hrattar dodged, but a single blow hit its target…
“And did nothing. The dense mail of Alcidath’s hauberk easily shrugged off the blow. Hrattar brought the pommel of his sword down on Sveivar’s head, denting his helmet and sending the young man stumbling back, dazed. Before the youth could regain his sense, Hrattar stepped forth and thrust his sword with great force. It pierced Sveivar’s mail and ripped through his chest, shattering bone as it went. The young man grabbed at the blade instinctively, desperately trying to pull it free in his final moments. But all he managed to do was cut up his hands. He slumped to his knees, his armor now slick with crimson blood. Hrattar kicked him off the sword and left him to collapse in the dust.
“The chief turned to the crowd, and proclaimed, ‘Justice has been done! Let all who would break our laws remember what has happened this day!’
“With that, the crowd began to break up, people moving back to their houses, muttering about how Sveivar had gotten what was coming to him. The chief went to his daughter, who gave him a cloth with which to clean his new blade. After doing so, they walked over to Alcidath and Turvein.
“‘This is without a doubt the finest blade I have ever seen,’ said Hrattar. Alcidath nodded, saying, ‘Thank you, but Sveivar’s sword wasn’t exactly a masterwork. Perhaps you want to test it against a better weapon before you say for sure.’ His words of caution were met with a bemused look from the chief.
“‘Sveivar was given my sword,’ said Hrattar. ‘One of lowland steel that I took from one of their raiders. Until today, it was the finest weapon in the village!’ Alcidath went white as a ghost, afraid he had insulted the chief, but Hrattar was too smart of a man to let his pride get in the way of a good decision. He slung his arm around Alcidath and said, ‘I made a deal with you, and you have fulfilled your end far better than I ever expected. So, I will uphold my word. You are welcome here. Learn the laws, remain loyal, and you and your descendants shall be Tarn until the earth ends and the skies fade into black.’
“Alcidath returned to Turvein’s shop and took up residence there. He worked his trade, and soon word of his skill spread throughout the lands of the Tarn. Peoples from many valleys came to buy from him, and blacksmiths, once they got over their jealousy towards the newcomer, came to learn his methods. Alcidath kept his word, and within a decade it was known to all the lowland kingdoms that Tarnish steel was the hardest to break and the deadliest in battle.
“Though he had finished his job for the chief, Alcidath still found himself getting visits from Jarsava. First every week or so, then every few days, then almost every day. Word spread that the two had become sweethearts, though Alcidath, unaware of local customs and afraid of breaking Tarn law, had never laid a hand on her. Finally, one day, Jarsava declared, ‘If you don’t kiss me, I’ll marry the tanner up the valley. He’s been asking!’ A man doesn’t refuse a command like that. With Alcidath making plenty of gold as a smith, the chief gave his blessing, and the two were wed in the Tarnish fashion just a month later. Alcidath adopted her daughter as his own, and many more children were to follow.”
The words hung in the air. All listening crouched forwards, expecting more.
“That’s it,” Gunnar said with a shrug. “We call it the story of how the Tarn came to have the best steel. Though I’ve always thought of it as the story of Alcidath.”
They still sat, silent.
“It was… quite a tale,” Herv said.
“Yes,” said Ailwur, then looked to Turee and Kamith. “Guess you two are stuck with topping that!”
“Oh no,” Turee said. “I’m not even going to try.”
“Me neither,” Kamith said, looking at Gunnar lovingly. “Besides, I think the rain is letting up.”
Enraptured by the story, they hadn’t really looked out of the open door. The rain still came, but it had lightened considerably. Herv walked over to the doo
r and watched as it slackened off.
“Guess we can make it to Evelwul’s, now,” he said.
“Already drunk,” Ailwur announced. “Kind of defeats the point.”
“Not for him,” Herv said. “You know how much he hates being left out of things. I don’t give him a taste of this batch of mead, I’ll be hearing about it for weeks.”
“Awright, awright,” Ailwur said, lurching to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for the slightest moment, then asserted control. “Let’s go.”
The two disappeared from the building, the rain now a light drizzle. The sun burned through the clouds, casting spots of light onto the field.
“I suppose you want some privacy, too,” Gunnar grumbled towards Turee. A normal girl would’ve gone red-faced, but Turee just shrugged.
“Unless you want to join—”
“Enough of that!” Gunnar said, flinging up his hand for emphasis. “We’ll leave you two alone. Just don’t do anything that’ll get us kicked out of town.”
Turee smiled sordidly but said nothing. Gunnar and Kamith made their way out of the stable and started the walk back to town.
***
When Kamith found him later, he was standing atop Thelwul’s keep. In this flat land, it was pretty much the highest point around. Gunnar looked east, in the direction they would most likely be going when they left. In the distance, just barely visible, was the place where three of the Great Seas came together. A walled city was barely visible on the horizon, controlling that point.
While she suspected Gunnar was thinking over the various strategic implications of all that in his warrior’s mind, her mind was on a different topic altogether.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that story?” she asked, making sure she sounded curious and not accusatory.
“I did,” he replied as she sidled up next to him. “The general version, at least.”
“I don’t remember any of that tale,” she said.
“The names were different. Instead of ‘Alcidath’ and ‘Jarsava’, it was ‘Haemon’ and ‘Sigurna’,” he explained.
Kamith thought for a second, the names familiar.
“Your parents?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said. “I was lying when I said it was an old tale that every Tarn knew. I’d be surprised if a half-dozen people still remember any of it.”
“You never said anything about Ilvar,” she said. “Or the showdown to prove your father’s skill.”
Gunnar frowned, saying, “In the fourteen years I knew him, my father spoke of Ilvar exactly once, and he had trouble getting through that. My mother told me that he never forgave himself for not making sure the kid made it through the wilderness, and I don’t blame him. I suppose I would blame myself, too.”
“And all that stuff about the steel?” Kamith pressed.
“Entirely true,” he replied. “One of the reasons the lowlanders killed him on the spot when they overran our village. For a decade, they’d been fighting Tarn armed with metal blades far superior to anything they had, and they knew the only smith who knew the secrets of such steel had fled into the mountains years earlier. Unfortunately for my father, he had gained some bit of fame before he fled, and his former countrymen were not pleased he had given such fine steel to their oldest enemy.”
Kamith frowned and looked at her feet, saying, “I’m sorry to hear that. I guess they didn’t live happily ever after, then.”
“Well, for those fourteen years, he was pretty happy,” Gunnar said. “But I couldn’t exactly end the story with everybody getting slaughtered.”
“Not everybody,” Kamith said, looping her arm through his.
“Okay,” he agreed, cracking a half-smile. “Not everyone.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“Do you think anybody will tell our story like that?” she asked.
“I doubt it,” he replied grimly.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Who’d believe it?” he asked. “All the things we’ve been through? They’d say it was all too unbelievable and laugh at whoever was telling the story.”
“But it’s all true,” she insisted.
“What’s true is rarely as important to people as what they think is true,” Gunnar grumbled. “Part of me wonders if those priests who worshipped the carpenter believed what I told them.”
Kamith sighed, saying, “So all we’ve been through ends with us?”
“Who said anything about ending?” asked Gunnar. “I plan to see at least sixty winters, before I’m through.”
Kamith laughed, saying, “You’re the surliest optimist I know.”
“And you’re the most stunning woman I know,” he replied.
She cocked her head, enjoying the naughty-boy expression coming across his face.
“That’s not exactly the same sort of thing,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “But it’s true. Or, at least, I think it’s true. Either way, I stand by it.”
She sighed and pulled away from his side. She could feel him watching her as she approached the hatch to the stairs that led back into the keep. She closed it and slid a metal latch into place.
“You’re as bad as Turee, sometimes,” she said, pulling her tunic over her head.
“I don’t think that’s—”
“Enough,” she interrupted, and kissed him to shut him up.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank Ebooklaunch.com for its cover-design services, Standout Books for its editing services, and LiberWriter for its file-conversion services. He would like to thank Amazon for making the Kindle platform available to authors. He would like to thank all the websites kind enough to let independent authors promote their works on their venues. Finally, he would like to thank friends and family for their continued support, as well all the readers out there for their continued patronage.
About the Author
David Welch hails from the capital district of upstate New York, where he has lived all his life. He is a longtime fan of action-adventure tales in all genres, be it classic pulp tales, shoot-‘em-up westerns, or ripping space operas. When not writing he spends his time hiking, skiing, and exploring out-of-the-way places. His books are all currently available on Amazon.
