Lessons In Loyalty

An errant ray of light reflected from the blade, striking him in the eye. Despite the piercing glare, Anyon’s eyes opened wider, his slack jaw left hanging. The angry slate grey of the sword contrasted with the bright sunshine washing over the village. Plain brown leather wrapped the hilt under the iron crossguard, it looked soft and supple, inviting his young hands to take it up. It was shortened, custom made for a child, and for eight summer old Anyon, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. “Is it mine?” “Aye. It is yours.” “Truly?” “Truly, my son.” The thick, red tangle of Gerralt’s matted beard split into a wide smile as the youngster reached for the blade. At the least second, he yanked the sword away from his only son’s reaching hands. “You must make me a promise before you can have it.” “Anything papa, anything.” Anyon’s green eyes, a colour so deep it rivaled the midsummer grasses, were rimmed with tears at the anticipation. Geraalt went to one knee, the soft earth squelching under his weight. He pushed the tip of the blade into the ground, his heavy arms crossed and resting on the plain iron pommel. Eye level with the boy, he peered into his earnest face. The piercing winter blue stare of his father sobered him up and took some of the edge off his anticipation. “You must swear to me that you will never use this, unless you mean to.” Anyon’s head c****d to one side. “Well of course-” “No, Anyon. It is not as obvious as it seems. This is no toy.” He pulled the sword from the soil and held it between them. “This is not a doll stuffed with wool or a pigs bladder filled with air for batting, this is a tool. A tool of war. You must learn to use it, while praying you never do.” Anyon thought of the slate grey long sword hanging above the hearth in his family’s small house. He’d seen his father take it from its hooks and practice with it, but never had he used it for violence. “When you use this,” his father continued, “you must be sure your life, or the life of someone you love, hangs in the balance. You can’t undo a strike from the blade.” Anyon nodded. Only eight summers old, he’d already seen his share of the aftermath of sword strikes. Only a week ago a group of Kofflandian rebels had staggered through the village. Men moaned as they shambled along, clutching grizzly wounds that stank. One man had died while the group was here and was buried at the far end of Oakreach’s small cemetery in an unmarked grave. Although the majority of the fighting was far to the north, around the rich iron mines, it was a stark reminder to the tiny village that Koffland was still occupied by Etranian armies. “I won’t use it papa, unless I must. I swear it.” His father stood and reversed the blade, handing it to him by the hilt. “Then I knight thee, Sir Anyon! Go forth and slay mighty dragons.” Anyon’s hands shook as he took the blade from his father. He held it in front of his face, reveling in the feeling of the soft leather against his palms. He looked to his father’s still smiling face. “Thank you, papa.” His father’s meaty hand found his head and ruffled the unkept hair. “You’re quite welcome. Remember what I asked of you, don’t make me regret this day.” “I won’t father, I promise.” With that the boy turned and dashed into the Summer Day crowd. The first day of summer, the longest day of the year, was a day of feasting and celebration. Gifts were exchanged, kisses were given, and many babies were made. It was a time to be thankful for being alive, to rejoice in the bounties that the gods had given, and pray for their continued blessings. “I pray we haven’t made a grave mistake.” Rhiannon wrapped an arm around her husband’s waist and gazed at her son as he disappeared into the throng. “I’ll admit, I was twelve summers old before I was given my first blade. And it was nowhere near as fine a sword. But we live in a different world now.” Gerralt turned to gaze at his wife. A half head shorter than him, she had her raven black hair pulled back into an elaborate braid. Wildflowers and spring berries were worked into the plait, accentuating her grey eyes. Despite having borne him two children, she was still slender, and her shoulders were broad. On top of raising their family, she’d helped her millwright husband, carrying timber and stacking sawn planks. Perched on the curve of her hip, a mite of a girl peeked around her mother’s shoulder, a mischievous grin lighting her small mouth. Blonde ringlets, decorated with bright orange flowers fell from her head. “And what has the summers bounty brought you, my little apple seed?” He reached out and tickled the small girl under her exposed arm causing her to burst in a fit of giggles as she squirmed against her mother’s cream blouse. “Stop it, papa,” she managed to cry out, “or I won’t show you.” “Oh my. Well I’d better be good then.” He held his hands up in front of her, demonstrating his intentions. Still giggling, she thrust an arm at him. Clutched in her tiny fingers was a leather doll. Rhiannon had taken the skin from their old sheep, Merle, after they’d butchered her. She’d dried and cured the skin herself and then spent countless nights stitching the body parts together around clumps of wool. Gerralt had teased her once about turning the sheep inside out and received a frosty stare that had lowered the temperature in their small house in return. “My goodness but she’s beautiful. Have you named her yet?” The small girl nodded, her curls bouncing. “Apple seed!” “A lovely name my sweet. Almost as beautiful as Gwithlyn.” He reached out and delivered another round of tickles. Gwithlyn roared with laughter again as her mother struggled to hold the squirming toddler. “Enough!” She barked at the big man, slapping at his calloused hands. “The poor thing can barely breathe.” She adjusted the girl on her hip and looked back to her husband. “I’m serious, have we made a mistake in giving Anyon that sword?” “I told you, it’s a different world.” Gerralt shrugged his massive shoulders. A lifetime of hauling wood had left him with bulging muscles that pulled his thin brown tunic taught across his back and chest. “As Etrana tightens her hold over us, more people rise up to fight back.” He paused and looked Rhiannon in the eye. “As they should.” Rhiannon looked away. “Please Gerralt, not today.” The big man spit into the dirt. “Pah. Not today, not tomorrow. Men are dying Rhi. I will not-” The ground rumbled, cutting the millwright off. Celebrations ground to a halt as an angry thunder rolled over the village. A couple of dozen heavy cavalry poured from the trees and charged towards the village. Large clods of dirt flew behind them, churned up by the monstrous hooves of the great war horses. The riders all rode straight backed, checkered yellow and red jupons flapping over shining chain mail armor. Sword hilts jutted from sheaths next to their legs while shields hung from the saddle backs. A roaring, midnight blue lion was painted across each shield and stitched on the right breast of each man. Helms, tied to the saddles, bounced and thumped along the horses flanks. A long, flowing cape rippled behind the lead rider as he approached. “Go find Anyon,” Gerralt hissed to his wife, “and make sure his sword is hidden.” Rhiannon shot into the crowd, a wide eyed Gwithlyn clinging to her mother. The rest of the villagers were crowding together, staring at the approaching visitors in silence. Etranian patrols were not uncommon, but they were rarely this large. The horses slowed, and at a motion from the caped leader a group broke away from the main host and headed towards the small thatched houses that made up the settlement. The rest fanned out, facing the revelers. "A group of men passed this way within the past week." The caped rider leaned on the pommel of his saddle, hard eyes boring into the crowd. "One man died and the rest left...except for one." Silence greeted the leader's comment. Confused faces turned to look at companions or friends, but no one replied. The horseman straightened up and hacked a glob of phlegm into the turf. "The men were traitors, rebels to the crown of Etrana. They've since been dealt with...but not before questioning. If you turn over the criminal who remains among you, you'll be spared. If not, you'll share his fate." More silence greeted the soldiers. Gerralt rose to his toe tips, scanning the crowd for any sign of Rhiannon and Anyon. He balled his fists and cursed under his breath. Where is the damn woman? As if summoned, she materialized next to him, the young boy in tow. Anyon's eyes were wide again in a pale face as he stared at the soldiers. He clutched his father's legs with shivering arms. The sword was nowhere in sight. Gerralt reached one arm towards his wife and pulled her and his daughter closer. She smiled at him and nodded once, the sword was hidden. "This is the last time I'll ask." The soldier was leaning forward again, an angry crease to his dark brows. "There's no one here mi'lord." Old Randall stumped forward, his oak cane digging deep into the earth. His dead leg dragged behind him. "The men came as you said. One died and we buried him out back. Another was too weak to travel and stayed a couple of days to regain his strength. He left when he was able to walk." The captain stared at the old man standing in front of his horse, weighing his words. "So you admit to aiding and abetting Kofflandian rebels?" "No mi'lord, we didn't know they were traitors. They said they were merchants for the Etranian army, but were beset by raiders. They headed that way," he pointed west, "but it seems as though you've already found them." The captain looked to his right at the soldier next to him. This man had several scars running along a face framed by lanky blonde hair. A length of red rope, knotted twice along its length, hung from one shoulder. He looked at the captain and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The captain looked beyond the crowd of villagers towards the riders that had broken away from the main group. "Search the village, find the traitor. A bounty for the man who brings him to me." "Mi'lord!" Randall spluttered at the armored rider. "I assure you, there are no traitors here. There is no need-" The captain reached across his saddle. In one smooth motion he drew and swung the mace. The solid iron head slammed into the old man's skull with a sickening crunch, sending him spinning into the dirt. The village folk gasped as Randall twitched on the ground, blood seeping into the hungry soil. Rhiannon stifled a yelp and turned into Gerralt who wrapped an arm around her and Gwithlyn. He pulled Anyon close with his other hand, shielding the boy’s eyes. The men on horseback all pulled swords free and herded the terrified village folk back to the center of the village common while the other men dismounted and entered the cluster of homes. Tables, chairs, pottery and anything else breakable was smashed, the sounds of the destruction escaping the open windows. Rhiannon sobbed quietly into Gerralt’s shoulder while he shushed his small daughter who began to cry because her mama was. Within moments, two of the soldiers emerged from one of the houses, a tall, lanky man held between them. Blood stained bandages were wrapped around his head and torso. Some glistened as the wounds underneath had broken open and fresh blood seeped into the cloth. Despite his condition he held his head high, blue eyes clear, as he gazed at the captain waiting for him. “Sergeant.” The man wearing the cape said, a grin splitting his face. “Yes, sir.” The rider wearing the knotted rope replied. “Fetch me a rope.” He paused as another pair of soldiers burst from the same house. They held a woman between them. She twisted and hissed at them like a cornered alley cat. Her hair was long and dark and covered her face as her head flailed from side to side. A foot slammed into the greave of one of the men holding her, making her yelp and hop. “Check that Sergeant. Find me two.”