The three boys stepped forward, all in their best clothes. As if underlining the priest’s words, they were quite different from each other in appearance and demeanour, as though the god of forms was showing the gathering how varied mankind could be.
But Ahren was nowhere to be seen.
Likis was cloaked in feast day clothing, which displayed the colours of the merchants’ guild – yellow on blue. He stood there, small and slight, and glanced around with a worried look. His friend not turning up couldn’t be good, and of course he’d heard the uproar the previous night and was now greatly worried.
Holken was standing beside him, his big, brawny frame forced into a robe much too small for him and which he was wearing with obvious discomfort.
And finally Rufus, with his nondescript face, stood shyly in simple but clean clothing.
The clergyman looked at the three youths with surprise. ‘Well now, where is Ahren? There should be four boys here, ready to show the world their form’.
A snort could be heard from the beer stand. Edrik, who was celebrating in his own way and was already quite tipsy, shouted ‘the young boy won’t be coming. He’ll be starting tomorrow as a labourer on Trell’s farm’. With these words a murmur rippled through the crowd while Likis gasped in shock. An embarrassed Trell meanwhile, stepped from one foot to the other. The gaunt landowner wasn’t very popular anyway and he really didn’t want to play an unwitting part in this little scandal.
‘Oh, well then, if he’s already made his decision, I don’t want to stand in the way of the Moulder’s decision’. Piqued that his ceremony had been thrown into disorder, Jegral was just about to continue when unrest broke out on the fringes of the crowd. It was Ahren, who pushed his way through the crowd, until quite out of breath, he positioned himself beside Likis. He was filthy, full of badly healed scratches, and his left hand was terribly swollen. He had woken up late from an exhausted sleep, and with a pounding pain in his hand he had dragged himself to the village square. His friend looked at him anxiously. ‘Did a carter’s wagon roll over you?’ Likis followed Ahren’s eyes as he looked meaningfully at his father, who had made himself comfortable at the beer stand. Edrik examined his son with a suspicious look and Likis murmured, ‘I understand’.
The villagers had recovered from their initial shock and were now whispering intently among themselves. Annoyance at the boy’s unseemly conduct was mixed with pity. A feeling of cold contempt began to spread, for a man who hated his son so much that he would shame him in public.
‘He, who moulds will now accompany these young men to achieving manhood. May out of them be moulded men of whom we may be proud‘, intoned Keeper Jegral, trying to keep the ceremony on the right track. ‘Which master today seeks the advice of the Moulder?’
Likis’ father stepped forward. ‘Master Velem seeks a boy who can be moulded into a merchant’, at which point he looked steadfastly at his son and gave him a wink.
Then it was the shoemaker’s turn. ‘Mistress Dohlmen seeks a boy who can be moulded into a shoemaker’.
And finally, the bailiff stepped forward. ‘Master Pragur seeks a boy who can be moulded into a bailiff’. Jegral made the sign of the Three in front of each of them and continued.
‘The masters and the mistress may step forward and present their tests’.
With measured steps the two masters and the mistress stepped forward and positioned themselves behind their respective guild signs. In unison they uttered the ritual, ‘May He, who moulds guide our process’.
At this point Likis’ father stepped forward. ‘As merchants you must master the art of counting, so I shall give each of you three problems you must solve’. With a few short words he gave each of the boys, three sums to solve. It quickly became clear that Likis was the mathematical genius in the group, as he answered all his questions quickly and correctly. Ahren needed a little longer, but he was surprised to see that he too could answer all the questions. Likis had helped him, of course, when they’d practised together. Every answer was a struggle for Holken, while Rufus could only answer one question. Yet he didn’t seem too bothered.
Likis’ father turned to Keeper Jegral. ‘The boys Ahren and Likis can be moulded into merchants’.
The priest responded. ‘Which should be your apprentice, so that he may be finally moulded into a merchant?’
The merchant gave Ahren an apologetic look and said, ‘the boy Likis should be a merchant, by the mercy of the Moulder’.
A cheer rose up from the crowd of villagers, even if the outcome of the choice had never been in doubt. Everyone had assumed Likis would be next in line, and today’s ceremony was simply a formality that needed to be observed.
‘Then, apprentice, take your place by the side of your master,’ Jergal intoned and Likis, brimming with joy, went over to stand beside his father, who looked at him proudly as he positioned himself under the merchants’ symbol. When Ahren saw this, his heart sank and he almost broke down. He stole a glance at the beer stand and saw his father staring listlessly into space.
A pity that the innkeeper wasn’t recruiting this year, thought Ahren. After years of experience, the boy could tell by looking at anyone, how much beer they would tolerate before falling asleep. This black humour helped to cheer him up. He smiled sincerely at his best friend who beamed at him with joy.
Then Mistress Dohlmen stepped forward. ‘As a shoemaker you have to be skilled with your hands and know how to handle the leather correctly. Each of you will now, to the best of your ability, put soles on the boots we have ready for you here’
Three footstools were put before the boys, with needle, thread, boots and soles on them. Ahren struggled to clamp the boot between his legs and to feed the thread through the needle, and soon realized he couldn’t hammer well with his bruised hand. Clenching his teeth and ignoring the pain, he did as well as his talent and injury would allow. He took even longer than Holken, and his boots were no great shakes. Mistress Dohlmen examined the boot with a frown and then shook her head. Holken’s boot provoked the same reaction. Rufus’ sample, on the other hand, showed even, clean stitching. Indeed, while the boy was working, he had been humming quietly to himself, moving the needle in a steady rhythm and everyone could see clearly that the shy young boy must have been secretly practising for weeks. After a few seconds the shoemaker gave a smile of surprise and said with scarcely concealed joy, ‘Young Rufus may be moulded into the trade of shoemaker’.
Great! Good for her and good for me, thought Ahren. If Holken’s father steps forward and calls him to his side as apprentice, then I’ll get the bailiff’s job. Then I just have to pass the test, and there won’t even be any competition. Full of expectation he glanced over at the blacksmith, but he only looked over to his son and gave him an encouraging smile. Crucial seconds passed by with nothing happening and a cold shiver ran down Ahren’s spine as the realization suddenly struck him. Holken didn’t want to become a blacksmith, but a bailiff! The terrible thought flashed through his head.
Suddenly, the bailiff stepped forward and spoke: ‘He who wishes to protect this place and keep the peace must have the necessary skills in combat and be in the appropriate physical condition. As there are only two candidates left, they must take each other on, with wooden sword and shield, and put their abilities to the test’.
Gloomily Ahren observed how Holken nonchalantly took up the sword and shield and held both of them easily, although the shield alone must have weighed at least eight stone.
Now Ahren received his weaponry. Awkwardly he strapped the shield to his injured left hand, and with his right, he clumsily grasped the rough, wooden sword handle. Holken’s sword, held with a firm grip, pointed steadily towards the skies while his own continually fell towards the earth. It took all his energy to raise it upwards.
He was in a cold sweat already. He thought of all the tales where weak but nimble warriors defeated mighty but cumbersome monsters. Now, standing opposite the blacksmith’s son with the midday sun beating
down and the whole village looking on, he didn’t believe any of these stories anymore.
‘Are you prepared?’ asked Pragur.
Holken thundered a powerful ‘yes!’ Ahren, however, only managed a timid nod, which was greeted with a snigger from one of the village boys. Ahren glanced around once more, looked in the faces of the onlookers and saw pity in almost all their eyes. They had already written him off.
And then Ahren became angry.
They had given up on him, just as his father had given up on him.
Just as he had almost given up on himself!
He gripped his weapons more firmly, felt a painful stabbing in his left hand, and looked resolutely at Holken. His opponent was taken aback by his change of demeanour and gave him a respectful nod.
‘He who first drops his sword or surrenders, either through defeat or agreement, is the loser’, called Pragur. ‘The victor shall be my new apprentice. And now, begin!’
The bailiff had hardly finished speaking when Holken sprang forward and swung his sword down on Ahren. He just managed to raise his wooden sword and parried the blow after a fashion towards the right. His right arm began to hurt with the force of the impact. The shield, Ahren thought, use your shield! The next blow was already coming towards him. Because his left hand was already in pain from just holding the shield, and his right was still slightly numb, Ahren instinctively ducked, and Holken’s blade whizzed over him. For his own part, and quite instinctively, Ahren swung his sword towards Holken, just as the latter was preparing to begin a powerful swing of his own. With a loud clash, Ahren’s blunt sword landed on his opponent’s shield.
A murmur rose from the crowd. Nobody had thought that the delicate boy would last for more than a few seconds, never mind go on the attack. Even Holken seemed surprised and hesitated, giving Ahren the opportunity to hit him a couple more times. These blows were rather ineffective however, as they were repeatedly repelled by the other’s shield. Nevertheless, a feeling of triumph grew in Ahren and he fired himself up by thinking: I can do it. I can beat him. I’m going to be a bailiff. I…
Holken brushed Ahren’s last sword thrust to the side and rained down a series of punishing blows on the young boy’s shield.
Ahren could see stars in front of his eyes. Something went out of place in his hand and suddenly the feeling of a thousand hot needles exploded in his arm, but strangely, his hand now felt totally numb. When he looked down, he could see that his shield was hanging loosely from his arm and his hand was dangling uselessly. The villagers around him were gasping. Another second passed and despite the shock, the feeling in his hand gradually returned. Panting he sunk down on one knee.
Holken took a step backwards. ‘Do you yield?’ he asked loudly.
An eternity at my father’s side, echoed in Ahren’s head, and he painfully stood up again. ‘Never!’ Ahren gasped. The pain was getting worse. ‘I can stand. So I can fight!’
The first cries to abandon the fight could be heard from the crowd and Pragur was just moving into position, but Holken had heard Ahren’s answer and shrugged his shoulders. He took two steps towards the injured youth and clipped him with his sword, a movement which Ahren wearily parried. But this was only a ploy.
For at the same instant Holken smashed the edge of his own shield with full force down on the injured hand of the stunned youth.
Ahren fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, while an overpowering darkness came over him and washed all sensation away.
He was in the pond again. In the forest and under water. Water which surrounded him and comforted him. It took away all his pain, all his feelings, leaving him comfortably numb. Time was unimportant in this wonderful, cool place. Then he noticed a movement in the pond. Something from below was coming towards him. Something that was bigger than him. The spectre became clearer as it approached inexorably. With horror he recognized the figure of his father, felt how he was being grasped and pulled into the depths. Ahren fought back. Fought with all the strength he could muster, floundered and raged and kicked and somehow tore himself away. But the figure of his father grasped him firmly by his left wrist and pulled him into the depths again. A fiery pain began to rage under his skin, in his hand, where his father was grasping him. Ahren paddled and floundered, but his father’s grip was too powerful, the saving light of the surface too far away. The more he pulled, the greater the pain, but Ahren did not want to give up, did not want to go into the darkness his father had prepared for him. Pragur’s face loomed on the surface and Ahren thrashed upwards with all his strength, fought his way up from the depths, his left arm in excruciating pain. Then he broke through the surface and opened his eyes.
‘He’s awake again’ said Pragur and disappeared from Ahren’s view. Ahren looked around him, totally disorientated. He was surrounded by faces. Holken, Dohlmen, Rufus, Pragur and several more. Dust tickled his nose and the sun stung his eyes. The one constant was the unbearable pain in his left arm. Ahren was afraid to look. To see what had become of his arm. Nightmarish pictures raced through his brain, of him as a cripple, fighting his way through life.
Keeper Jegral’s voice intoned, ‘Make room, make room I tell you, all of you!’. He carved out a passage through the crowd with untypical aggression, and knelt down beside Ahren. ‘You’ll be alright, young man, you’ll see’, he said in a friendly voice and took Ahren’s mangled hand in his own. ‘This day is under the protection of Him, who moulds, and no-one shall come to grief, if it be not his will’. Closing his eyes, the gaunt man started to recite in a singsong voice as he manipulated Ahren’s injured hand and pushed the damaged bones back into their correct position.
Ahren watched all this as through a veil. The priestly song seemed to vibrate in his head and no pain seemed able to penetrate the movements. The young boy watched with grim fascination how Jegral, with eyes closed, put all the bones under his skin to rights, as if playing with one of those wooden puzzles, where you always had to push the correct piece so that the next one would slot into place.
The priest finished his song and a profound silence hung over the village square, broken only by Ahren’s heavy breathing. But that too began to ease off as the boy realised that the pain wasn’t returning, although the Keeper had finished. Slowly, he tried to move his hand. To his amazement, it felt as if the injuries of the last two days had never occured.
While the boy was staring fixedly at his hand, Keeper Jegral stood up and spoke in a firm voice. ‘He, who moulds has determined the hand of this youth be healed. Let us pray’.
The whole village intoned the litany of the Three, and Ahren had a little time to recover. Of course, he had heard of the healing powers of the Keeper before, but he had never seen such a miracle healing, never mind experienced it on his own body. Following the death of his mother, his father had broken off all contact with the Keeper. He was bitter that the priest had not been able to heal her. Jegral had tried to explain that the Keepers could only put things into shape. Mend broken bones or re-attach limbs, for instance. The curing of diseases was beyond their competencies, however. An infected lung or a gangrene-infected leg was damaged in its substance, not in its form. But Edrik didn’t want to hear of it. And for this reason Ahren had only spoken to Keeper Jegral about half a dozen times in his life, each time more or less by chance, and only briefly. There would be a beating if his father saw him with the charlatan, as he called him.
Can charlatans cure limbs? he asked himself. His hand was answer enough. He knew why his father hadn’t stopped the healing. A quick glanced to the beer stand confirmed that Edrik had fallen asleep long ago.
The villagers had finished their prayer in the meantime and Jegral began to speak again. ‘Now, Master Pragur, what say you?’
The strong man with the steel-grey hair pushed himself forward and said, ‘Young Ahren and Holken can be moulded to the position of bailiff’. Ahren’s heart jumped for joy.
‘As, however, I need only one apprentice, and as I determined the rules befor
ehand, I select Holken’, said the bailiff and turning towards Ahren he continued more quietly, ‘you’re a brave boy with an impressive will to fight. I would have taken you on as an apprentice too if I could have. But Deepstone is too small for so many bailiffs, and my apprentices would have to get on’. With a last apologetic look to Ahren, he grasped the law enforcer Holken by the arm and placed him by his side in the place of ritual beneath the bailiffs’ guild symbol.
Ahren slumped down as Jegral began to utter his closing words. Words that would seal his fate. ‘He, who moulds has shown us today how the youths assembled here shall become members of our society…’
‘Forgive the interruption, but we’re not quite finished’, a deep, full-bodied voice intoned from the edge of the square. Jegral looked angrily in the direction of the trouble-maker but could see nothing, other than an unusual wooden shape that looked like a crooked sign. The construction started to move and then Falk stepped from behind it and into the middle of the square. He wore the cloak he had made from Grey Fang the Fog Cat. Ahren remembered the beast’s reign of terror only as a succession of tedious days. He, like all the other village children, had not been allowed to leave the house until the Forest Guardian had killed the Dark One. He had only seen the Guardian wear this cloak on one other occasion – when Telem, a farm labourer had been sent into exile for robbery. The Guardian had worn the same clothing that time as he led the banished man a day’s march to the east and left him there. For weeks after he didn’t make an appearance in the village. There were rumours that Telem had tried to win him over and this had really bothered Falk. Yet this somehow didn’t fit into Ahren’s picture of Falk – the man was simply too stern. A frightening thought struck him. What, if he wants to lead me into exile. Maybe the village council had judged our prank to be robbery, and as I was the only one to be caught…have I really made so many enemies? He looked around furtively while fear ran through his youthful veins. But he saw only curiosity in the faces of the others – with the exception perhaps of Jegral. His attitude veered between surprise and annoyance.
Ahren- the 13th Paladin Page 4
