Bryan’s eyes popped wide at the gift. So long he had admired the crafted blade hanging over the mantel in the sitting room. His father had trained him in the use of a sword-all fathers taught their children in this land, so close to the wilds of the Baerendel Mountains-but never had this blade been used in those practice sessions. It was a family heirloom, a magical blade from the elven valley, the sword Meriwindle had wielded during the Battle of Mountaingate, when he had fought beside Arien Silverleaf himself.
Bryan slid the slender blade out to feel the perfection of its balance and to witness the soft glow of blue light that held the magic of the fine edge.
“The Baerendels are a wild place,” Meriwindle explained. “It is best to be prepared.”
“I fear I might break it,” said Bryan, so obviously overwhelmed, his hands trembling.
“I have trained you myself,” Meriwindle reminded the lad. “And your talents exceed any I have ever seen of your age and experience. Few understand the dance of the blade as well as you, my son. And that sword is elven make, hardened by the magical fires of the Silver Mage and far stronger than its slender size would lead you to believe. No, you’ll not break it, nor will you break the armor and shield.”
“Armor and shield?” Bryan could hardly speak the words.
“Of course,” answered his father. “If you wish to act the part of an elven warrior, then you must look the part of an elven warrior.”
Bryan mocked a quick inspection of himself. “But I am not true elven,” he said skeptically. “Half my blood is human.”
“So it is,” muttered Meriwindle, but the disappointment in his tone was feigned, and Bryan knew it. If Bryan was an example of the offspring of elf and human joined, then more would be wise to consider the formula. He was possessed of the best of both worlds, slender and handsome as an elven lad, yet with the hardened muscles and strength more common to the humans.
“You decline the gifts, then?”
“Oh no!” Bryan cried, hoping his father would not rescind his offer. “Truly I will wear them as best I may. Truly-”
Meriwindle stopped him with an outstretched hand. “No need to plead your case, my son,” he assured the boy. He walked over and put his hands on Bryan’s hardened shoulders. “Never has a father been more proud of his child,” he said, moisture rimming his large eyes. “You have all my faith. You will wear the outfit more finely than ever I could.”
Bryan responded in the only way he possibly could. He gave his father a hug.
Meriwindle answered the excited knock on his door with a mixture of pride and sadness. He recognized the unique pattern to the knock-that of Bryan’s best friend-and he knew what that meant.
“Good morning, sir,” greeted the diminutive lad at the head of a column of twelve, every one of them outfitted for the road.
“Welcome, Lennard,” Meriwindle replied. “Do come in.” He called out to Bryan, who was getting ready in another room, while the adventuring party, boys and girls of Bryan’s age, marched into the sitting room.
“Are you all gathered and prepared?” Meriwindle asked them.
“All except for Bryan and Jolsen Smithyson,” replied Lennard. He drew out a narrow blade, a foil, for Meriwindle’s inspection.
“Fine weapon,” the elf commented politely, though he had reservations about the wisdom of carrying such a blade into the wilds of the mountains. In trained hands, the whipping speed of a foil could be a great advantage against an armed opponent, poking through defenses before one’s enemy ever brought his heavier blade to bear. But the dangers the troupe would likely encounter up in the Baerendels, bears and boars and giant lizards, would better be fought with a heavier blade such as a broadsword or an ax.
No matter, Meriwindle reminded himself. All of the youngsters carried bows and knew how to use them, and Bryan would certainly be prepared to handle anything that came his way.
“Bah, you should have brought the spear,” remarked Siana, one of the girls. “That little blade will snap the first time you strike something bigger than you.”
Meriwindle tried to hide his agreeing smile. He liked Siana perhaps best of all, and was pleased that she was wise enough to see the logic.
“Never it will!” Lennard shouted back. “In and out.” He accentuated his point by snapping off a quick back-and-forth stab with the foil. “Before anyone-or anything-even knows what hits him.”
“A bear will know soon enough when it looks down and sees half the silly thing broken off and sticking out the front of its hide,” Siana replied without missing a beat. The others, Meriwindle included, shared a laugh at Lennard’s expense, but the diminutive lad just shrugged and joined in.
“Should have known better than to match wits with Siana,” the defeated Lennard reminded himself under his breath.
“Let the day begin!” came Bryan’s call as he entered the room. Meriwindle tried to hide his satisfaction as a general gasp rolled through the group, stealing their laughter. And when the elf turned and looked upon his son, he, too, caught his breath.
The elven sword hung easily on Bryan’s hip, hidden by the jeweled scabbard, but from the rest of Bryan’s outfit the others could well imagine the sword’s incredible workmanship. Bryan wore the chain-mail armor common to the elven folk, yet rarely seen outside of Illuma Vale, a fine mesh of interlocking links so perfectly crafted-and so perfectly fitting Meriwindle’s son-that it bent and formed to the contours of Bryan’s body like a second skin. The shield was of a shining silvery metal, inlaid with the quarter-moon crescent of Lochsilinilume. A wide-brimmed hat cunningly inlaid with strips of protective metal, high but supple leather boots, and a thick forest-green cloak completed the trimmings over Bryan’s normal clothing.
“Are you going somewhere?” Lennard remarked, an awe-inspired smile spreading over his face.
“Just to market,” replied Bryan, and he swept off the hat, dipping into a gentleman’s bow.
“The Baerendels are not a game,” Meriwindle put in sternly. He didn’t want to dispel the fun, but neither did he want the troupe moving out from the safety of the town with an improper attitude. “You will find danger up there, do not doubt. Many animals wander the course of those uncharted mountains, and talons have been spotted there on more than one occasion.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” one of the girls that Meriwindle did not recognize assured him.
Meriwindle regarded the group for a long moment. They were the children of farmers and craftsmen, more accustomed to wielding a hammer or hoe than a weapon. But they were a smart lot, and grown straight and tall under the brilliant sunshine of western Calvan fields.
They all waited now, breathless and anxious, for the judgment of the most famous warrior in all of Corning, perhaps in all of the lands west of the great River Ne’er Ending.
“So you can,” Meriwindle told the girl sincerely. “I do not doubt that for a moment. If I did, I would not allow my son to accompany you.” The group relaxed visibly, a smile finding its way onto every face. If Meriwindle, the elven warrior who had fought in the Battle of Mountaingate, had faith in them, they could not fail.
“To the road, then!” cried Lennard. “To Jolsen’s and then to the Baerendels!”
They filed out of the small cottage with a heightened spring in their step. Bryan lagged behind for some final words with his father.
“Do you really believe that we can take care of ourselves?” he had to ask.
“If I did not, I would surely not let you go,” Meriwindle replied.
“We will return within the span of two months,” Bryan assured him. “In time for the autumn harvest.”
“Of course,” said Meriwindle. “And after that…” he began tentatively.
Bryan cocked his head, realizing from the suddenly grim tone that his father had something important to tell him.
“I had thought to do some traveling myself,” Meriwindle explained. “After the crop is in and safely off to market.”