Falk was not known for involving himself in village matters. He’d been living in the Eastern Forest for as long as Ahren could remember. But nobody knew much about him, except that he was a blow-in. Which, in a village like Deepstone, meant anyone who wasn’t at least third generation there. The Forest Guardian lived off the beaten track in the woods, liked to keep himself to himself, and lived by the motto: ‘live and let live’. Hardly anyone in the village took any notice of him. Except for four years earlier, when for once he was the talk of the village. One of the five seats on the council had become vacant and he was offered the position. He had recently killed a particularly large Fog Cat called Grey Fang, who had been a danger to the village. There was great consternation when the Forest Guardian turned down the offer as no-one remembered anyone rejecting this honour before. Since that time this silent man was left to go about his work unhindered and they respected his solitary way of life. The villagers considered him austere and serious, so Ahren was doubly grateful for what he had done for him today.
Panting, Ahren dropped a heavy branch on the woodpile behind the house and went into the wood once more. He had picked a tree far away from this morning’s clearing and so the journey was twice as long. The sun was low now, but he still had to bring back two more branches. He could cut them up into smaller pieces tomorrow. His mind wandered to the Apprenticeship Tests that would be taking place the following week. His prospects really weren’t good and he had tried not to think about it for as long as possible. These tests were held every year among the thirteen-year-olds of the village. This made it possible to determine who would be suitable for one of the available trades. The master craftsmen and women might be looking for an apprentice or might wish to promote a particular talent. Being an apprentice had many advantages. You got a little apprenticeship money, you were allowed to drink alcohol, could go to dances, and of course you learned the basics with which you could make a name for yourself later. After some time you could work as a journeyman or even become a master craftsman. Plus, you belonged to the apprentices, no longer to the everyday village boys. Then Ahren would be free of his adversaries. Nobody messed with an apprentice – out of respect for the master.
No-one knew yet which masters had registered their need for an apprentice with Keeper Jegral, the village priest. Likis was thirteen too, so he would go to the test with Ahren, but it went without saying that his own father, Merchant Velem, would take him on. Holken too would be standing in the village square next week, but it was equally certain that his father wouldn’t officially apply and simply claim him as an apprentice during the ritual. Making a claim in this way was frowned upon, as it meant circumventing the suitability test. There would be no risk of another candidate endangering the chances of your child getting the apprenticeship. Likis’ father, on the other hand, believed his son had to earn the position. As he was a traditionalist, he made an official search, which didn’t stop him from preparing Likis as thoroughly as possible beforehand.
That left only Rufus and Ahren as genuine candidates, as no girls were applying this year. Ahren could only hope that at least two more master craftsmen or women would officially register a search. Of course, it wasn’t certain that a master who registered would necessarily pick one of the apprentices, but there was a very good chance – as long as you didn’t reveal yourself to be hopelessly inadequate in the relevant trade. If you came away empty-handed, you’d be hired by one of the farms or businesses, from where it was almost impossible to get one of the desired apprenticeships. Deepstone was simply too small. Some of the disappointed candidates moved away in order to find work for themselves in a strange place, but most of them moved back within a short time. It was no better in the other villages. A few went off to the big towns, for example Three Rivers, and were never heard of again. A last resort was the army, but the recruiters were notorious for paying a miserable wage.
Hjalgar didn’t have a traditional standing army – the country was simply too small, and surrounded by powerful kingdoms. No-one wanted to end up a soldier. One look at the dilapidated border stations and the bored faces of the few soldiers with their dull eyes and you understood exactly how the proverb ‘useless as a Hjalgar soldier’ came about. The fact that the small country in the Eastern Midlands had never been seized was down to its peculiar location. It was a buffer zone between the three kingdoms of the Midlands and none of its neighbours dared to invade as that would immediately start a war with Hjalgar’s two other neighbouring states. No-one wanted this area to fall into the hands of the other and so Hjalgar had remained one of the safest places on the whole continent for the previous three hundred years. Also, because it had no army and so proved no threat. Lost in thought, Ahren brought the last heavy branch to the hut and admired the sizeable pile of firewood. Then he went in to prepare supper so his father’s mood wouldn’t worsen.
The next few days flew by. Likis burst into laughter when his friend told him about his little adventure with Holken and his gang. And he dismissed Ahren’s worries about him. Of course, the wiry boy had had all the time in the world to safely bring his share of the wood from the clearing to the merchant’s hut, and he had spent the rest of the day in one of his secluded hideaways on the river, hoping that Ahren would turn up again. Sven couldn’t frighten the feisty young boy. In fact, he wasn’t fit to hold a candle to him. The two friends enjoyed themselves with all sorts of silliness, knowing full well that the carefree days of their childhood would be over forever once they had completed the Apprenticeship Test. The children of the village only had to do a few jobs and usually had the full day to do them. If they completed whatever they’d been given to do quickly, then they had a lot of time to play. This would all change the following week. Likis was excited and his eyes shone when he talked about his forthcoming apprenticeship in the merchant’s shop, while Ahren pondered his uncertain future. One afternoon the two friends were walking along, deep in conversation, on the main street towards the village square, when Likis tapped Ahren on the shoulder. With a wink and a little nod, he indicated to his friend that he should look around discreetly. Casually turning his head in the direction his wiry friend had suggested, he quickly understood what his friend had noticed. A familiar muscular back could clearly be seen protruding over the rough picket fence of one of the many vegetable patches found beside almost every house in Deepstone. Holken, it seemed, was trying to stalk them.
‘Well, hiding isn’t one of his strong points’, Likis whispered quietly. Then he added loudly, ‘am I glad I’m not in Holken’s shoes. His father’s been looking for him for ages. Called him a lazybones and is really furious. If Hammerhead doesn’t make an appearance soon, he’ll be in for a real hiding’. Suppressing giggles, he pair leaned against the wall of a hut, clearly visible but at a safe distance from Holken’s hiding place, and pretended to be engaged in a quiet conversation. In reality, however, they were watching the ruffian with glee as he became increasingly nervous in his hiding place. Finally, the big boy jumped up and ran towards the blacksmith’s, his face a picture of fear, while the two friends doubled over with laughter before running from the scene. They wanted to be gone before Holken realized he had fallen for one of Likis’ tricks again. The blacksmith’s son never stalked them again.
Two days before the test Ahren and Likis were lying on the riverbank, their fishing rods in the water. The weather reflected Ahren’s mood. Dark clouds moved across the skies, the sun occasionally breaking through for a moment.
‘Likis?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it known at this stage which master craftsmen and women have registered a search?’ asked Ahren, his voice a mixture of hope and fear.
‘Father proclaimed his quest to the Keeper today. And he also asked who else had visited the priest. At my request’. Likis looked mischievously at his friend and continued, ‘Master Pragur and Mistress Dohlmen were there. I don’t think anyone else will turn up’. Mistress Dohlmen was the village shoemaker. It was true that Ahren
had nothing in particular against shoes and the mistress had a good reputation. But he was also aware that Rufus was very poor at sewing so the selection wouldn’t favour him. But Ahren too was clumsy with his fingers. Anyway, Ahren knew which Master he wanted to impress. Pragur was namely the village bailiff. A bailiff, yes, being a bailiff was something Ahren could easily live with. Everyone respected you, and your armour was made from cured leather. You also had a short sword and a truncheon. You trained with those weapons, and only the village council could set aside your rulings. Bailiffs enforced law and order and chased away bandits and other riff-raff. A bailiff was a hero in Hjalgar – or at least what was the nearest thing to a hero in Hjalgar.
As he lay on the riverbank, Ahren imagined himself outdoing Rufus in the Apprenticeship Test and eventually being picked by Pragur. That man was one of the few people in Deepstone who had time for Ahren. He was often called upon to lay down the law whenever Ahren’s father became too loud. The peace keeper was always friendly and compassionate to the young boy on these occasions. If he were to become a Bailiff aspirant, he himself could perhaps make a stand against his father. This thought put Ahren into the best of moods.
Likis prodded him in the side. ‘And? What do you think, shoemaker or bailiff?’
‘Hmm, bailiff would be great’, said Ahren. ‘All I have to do is beat Rufus in Pragur’s test. He isn’t particularly strong or fast, so I should be able to manage it’.
‘Oh yes, you as a bailiff, then you could always keep an eye on our shop. And your father would have to be nicer to you’. The two friends began building castles in the air and by the time the midday sun had won its battle with the clouds, they were imagining themselves as town council members leading Deepstone towards a glorious future.
It was the evening before the summer solstice, the day when the Apprenticeship Tests were traditionally held, and Ahren was so excited that he could hardly sit still at the supper table. Again and again he imagined his triumphal election to bailiff, persuaded himself that he alone was the correct choice, that Pragur had taken to him kindly, that…
His father, dark rings around his eyes and no longer quite sober, growled, ‘Stop fidgeting, boy. Tomorrow you’ll be able to do your bit for our livelihood at last. I’ve had a word with Trull. You can work on his farm for half a crown a week and give me a hand. Good news, isn’t it?’
Ahren froze. All his images of the following day vanished in front of his eyes. ‘Bu…but the test tomorrow’ he began.
‘Yes? What about it?’ his father interrupted. ‘Do you think anyone will take you on with all the mistakes you keep making? You’re useless as a fisherman, your shoulders aren’t broad enough for heavy labour, and you’re always in a world of your own. Just be thankful that I’m able to get you on to Trell’s farm without fuss. So at least you’ll be spared the humiliation of not being selected by anyone’.
The matter-of-fact way in which Ahren’s father shattered his dreams filled him with a feeling of hopelessness. Not only was he condemned to working beside his father, but he’d be working for a pittance as well. The thought of having to spend days and years in his father’s company horrified him but this made him bolder than usual. ‘And what about the position of bailiff?’ he ventured.
‘I suppose you think you’re better than I am? I get a job for you and this is my thanks?! If the work is good enough for me, then it’s good enough for you. You’re coming to the farm with me tomorrow and beginning your new job, understood?’ The threatening undertone in his father’s voice made it clear that any objection would result in a beating.
But Ahren didn’t care, not this time, not with these terrible pictures in his head of himself, broken, sitting beside his father with a pitcher in front of him, both waiting in cold silence with bitter looks on their faces, waiting for another day of endless, monotonous work. Ahren was nearly in a state of panic. ‘I’m going to be in the fairground tomorrow, and I’m going to take part in the test and become a bailiff and then you can look for someone else you can let off steam at’. No sooner were the words out of his mouth when Ahren recoiled. One look at his father and he knew he’d gone too far, much too far.
‘Let off steam?’ he roared. ‘I’ll show you what letting off steam is!’ He threw over the table with a crash and grabbed his belt.
If he catches me now, the boy thought horrified, I won’t be able to go tomorrow, never mind pass the test and I’ll spend the rest of my life here. His eyes bulging with fear, he rushed to the door and pushed the heavy latch to the side. His father locked the door with it every evening and normally Ahren found it very difficult to push the heavy latch aside, but now he was possessed by a hot wild panic and with his first attempt it slipped open. Feverishly he tried to evade his father’s drunken fingers while simultaneously opening the door. The whole hut suddenly seemed even darker and more threatening than before. The tar that filled in the joints seemed to be stretching out in an attempt to pen him into the house. He had just managed to open the door widely enough to slip out, when his father’s hand grasped his arm and yanked him back inside. With a triumphant yell, the drunken man pulled his own arm backwards, holding the belt ready to chastise his son.
He’s not even looking at where he’s going to lash me, Ahren realized in shock. It was clear to him that the leather belt would hit his face. In a flash he raised his arm and with a loud slap, the leather strap hit his left hand. Ahren heard a crunching noise as a fiery red pain shot through his wrist. His father raised his arm again only to slip on a plate that had fallen to the ground with the table, and tumbled to the floor.
‘The Three be thanked!’ Ahren thanked his lucky stars, gathered himself up and quick as a flash disappeared into the forest. The coarse insults of his father rang in his ears as he pushed his way through the undergrowth, scratching his skin all over, and ran to the only safe place he could think of, his tree-house, his safehold.
The cries of his progenitor grew ever fainter. But the final, babbling, tortured cry would remain with him forever. ‘It’s your fault. You’re the reason she’s dead!’
This cry echoed long through the night in Ahren’s ears as he lay in a ball in his tree-house, his injured hand pressed against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably for a mother he had never known but whose death he had caused, however unwittingly.
Chapter 2
Midsummer’s day begin in glorious sunshine which provided a ceremonious invitation to the festivities. Every self-respecting person was there, spending the day mingling on the village square with the other villagers. The village innkeeper served beer and the miller’s wife offered her famous little cakes, which were so tasty that it was rumoured the miller had only married her on account of these little delicacies. A look at the miller’s portly figure and the plain features of his wife only added credibility to the rumour. The centre of the village community was dominated on one side by an enormous oak tree, whose heavy branches offered protection and shade. Deepstone’s vast warehouse dominated the other side. The communal village supplies were stored there and it also served as temporary accommodation for festivities such as this. The two other sides of the village square were lined by the most important buildings in the community. Here you could find the tavern, the forge, the grocer’s, the Village Hall, and of course the village chapel. It was the only building made of white stone, and it dominated the area. All the houses surrounding the square had been festooned with cloth garlands that morning and these were fluttering colourfully in the breeze. The Village Hall was the only two storied building on the north side of the square and with its hard-packed clay walls it lent the scene a certain grandeur.
Apprenticeship Day was always filled with laughter. Stories of past Apprenticeship Tests were told and the merits of the new candidates compared. One or two even placed bets on the possible outcomes of the day ahead, although this was officially prohibited by the village council. Everyone was finely dressed, in clothes they would otherwise only wear on the Days of the Gods, when the
y would stream into the chapel to listen to Keeper Jegral’s prayer service. And indeed here he stood now, in full regalia on the festively decorated square, chatting with the council members before striding to the centre.
Three tall poles were rammed into the earth, on top of which were three wooden flags, the symbols of the respective guilds. On the first pole was a wheel with twelve spokes, a symbol of the twelve trading towns that were scattered around the whole continent and that made up the merchants’ council. The second flag displayed a leather hunting boot with spurs, in front of a stylized coat of arms. These shoes were only worn by the nobility and only a guild shoemaker had permission to make them. And, last but not least, a short sword in front of the locked town gate, the bailiff’s sign, which stood for protection and order.
The priest turned around and recited the opening formula. ‘May He, who moulds hold his guiding hand over this Apprenticeship Test and show to all, what sort of people he has created out of the young members of this village. May the inner form he has given them enrich our community, and may it bring to light today, which calling they each should follow’. His tunic, woven from shimmersilk, glittered in all the colours of the rainbow and lent the thin, bald man with the friendly eyes the impression of constant movement. Every time Keeper Jegral moved and the colours were rolling like waves over his regalia, changing ever so slightly. Spellbound by the interplay of form and colour within the robe, even the smallest children remained still when they saw the traditional clothing of the priest. ‘May the young men now step forward to give the future of this village a new shape.
Ahren- the 13th Paladin Page 3
