Someone once told Dallen that the best tasting meal in the world was any meal that you ate for free. He reckoned that man hadn’t tasted the tough meat and gruel that they brought him that morning, following his release. He thought he wasn’t supposed to be a prisoner anymore, but this meal felt a lot like punishment to him.
At the same time, Dallen did figure that had he paid for such a meal, he would have been a great deal more disappointed in it. Perhaps that was the truth of it. “Free” was just a spice for foods. It might make it go down easier, but it couldn’t cover up the taste of shit. But the meal was, by the loosest definitions, food. And he had long learned that forgoing a filling meal on account of its taste was a fool’s way of going about life. So he shoveled it down, and thanked the two ornery guards that had brought it.
They led him to a bath next. Now this was more like it. It felt like Dallen hadn’t had a proper bath since he’d set out on the road, unless you counted washing in chill streams and trickling falls. And when he emerged, they returned his confiscated gear to him.
He strapped the hardened leather and mail across his chest and left shoulder. It wouldn’t do much against a swing from a greataxe, but it was something against smaller cuts and blows. The right shoulder, of course, didn’t need anything. It would do a great deal against a swing from a greataxe.
Next he picked up his sword, sitting in its beaten leather sheath. It was a hand-and-a-half, near big enough to be a greatsword, made for display more than it was made for cutting. It had once been a fine thing; a gilded crossguard beset with small gems, the metal polished mirror-bright with a long, powerful blade jutting from it. Now, it was beaten, scuffed, and scraped. Half of the gems had fallen out from it, most of the the rest he’d sold. The blade itself had fared even worse. But still Dallen kept it. It was a reminder. He tied the weapon to his waist, and looked down at the rest of his gear.
It was, to put it gently, a pile of shit. His cloak was torn in so many places he could barely see where his head was supposed to go in it. His boots were worn nearly through the soles, and had the amazing capacity to take on water, and then never let it go. His overshirt looked more like a worn roughspun bag, crumpled on the floor as it was.
“If I’m to be entering into our lord the baron’s service,” Dallen said, placing hands on his hips, “I’m going to need some proper equipment, don’t you think?”
The two guards looked at each other, somehow even less amused than when they had started.
“The baron sent you summons,” one said, speaking through a thick, unkempt mustache. “It’s best not to keep him waiting.”
“So is it best that I show up looking like a beaten beggar?” He gestured at his half-complete attire. “Or a boy whose mother hasn’t taught him how to properly dress himself?”
The first guard let out a growl of a sigh, and looked with tired eyes to the other, who shrugged impatiently.
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
“Yes, I believe that was the idea.”
In the light of the morning, Dallen could finally get a decent look at the town of Haverren. It had clearly never been a big town — just a wooden wall with maybe thirty buildings, and a stone keep for its lord. But the tremors of the Shattered Heights had taken away what little charm it might have once had. Constant shakes and shifts in the land had wrought havoc here. Chasms opened up in the ground, right below abandoned homes and across the rough cobble streets. The entire land had shifted, making cliffs in the middle of the originally flat town, tearing apart the wooden wall in the process. What little protection that wall might have offered was now most certainly gone, with gaping holes of broken, splintered wood that nobody had bothered to patch up. They were all too busy just trying to live, Dallen supposed, and made the new geography work as they could. Beaten dirt paths wound around the chasms and cliffs, straying from the old cobble. Someone had propped up a decent wooden bridge where they couldn’t go around, though it was likely to collapse at the next shake. The whole sight reeked of a place that had been dealt a killing blow, and was now just waiting for death to run its course.
And above it all, sitting high on the conveniently raised cliff, was a great square slab of ugly stone. The baron’s keep loomed over the sunken town, like a threatening watchman. And that was where Dallen and his amiable guard chaperones were headed.
The guards watched him with caution and a little animosity as they led him through the gates into the inner wall, where several other buildings surrounded the stone keep. Let them look, though. As long as they stuck to looking, and didn’t try anything. One would hope that as word of his brawl in the tavern spread, they’d be smart enough not to, but Dallen knew that might be giving them too much credit.
In the shadow of the great keep was the armorer’s station. It wasn’t much to look at — just a blacksmith’s simple forge, a storage house, and some basic tools for working leather and cloth. However, the quality of a blacksmith’s station lay not in the tools it had, but in the one who was handling them. And this one greeted Dallen with a big, soot-covered smile, flanked by thick mutton chops as dark as the coal he worked with.
“Good day, good sir! A fine day, even!”
Dallen looked up. It was mostly cloudy, but with no rain. And the ground was not actively opening up beneath them.
“As good a day as there is anymore, I suppose.”
“Any day’s a good one if you make it, good sir,” the blacksmith said with a widening grin. Dallen couldn’t help but smile back, although he doubted he’d buy into this cheery fellow’s personal philosophy anytime soon.
“I’m afraid I’ve come to rid you of some of your fine wares, friend.”
The blacksmith waved the comment away.
“Bah! Fine wares are made to be used. Especially by fine folk.” He glanced down at the Maker’s arm for a moment, then back to Dallen’s face. “Hope you don’t mind me saying sir, but I got properly excited when I heard you were in town. A true knight. In my humble smithy! A fella can’t help but be excited, seeing his handiwork go somewhere it’ll be used properly.” He leaned over, gesturing towards the guards behind him. “Not that it wouldn’t for these fine men, of course!”
The guards stayed frowning, not affected by the man’s excitement.
“I’ll take the best you’ve got then,” said Dallen. “I need a good overshirt, cloak, and boots at least. While we’re at it; a good pair of gloves too.” He raised the Maker’s arm, waggling the fingers.
The blacksmith nodded his head.
“Of course, of course, we’ve got plenty in the store room, and all of good quality too.” He placed down his tools at the forge, and went inside. Dallen snuck a glance in at the equipment lying around, to get a feel for what the baron’s men were working with. He didn’t plan on getting into a fight with them, but he never did. And if things went south, he’d like to know what he was dealing with.
The blacksmith was quick and effective with his work. He found a good pair of boots that fit Dallen well, of simple and tough black leather. A shirt of well-spun cloth that laced halfway up on the front. A cloak that was thick and slightly rough, but durable. And a pair of thin hide gloves that would keep the wind from biting at the flesh on his left hand, as well as keep the steel grey of his right covered. Dallen fitted the new gear on, and could hear the guard behind him breathing in, about to tell him that they should get moving to see the baron, before the blacksmith jumped in ahead of him.
“If you don’t mind me asking, good sir — before you go, you wouldn’t happen to need any work done on that fine sword of yours, would you?” His friendly eyes flicked down to Dallen’s sword. No…the Duke’s sword.
The gems on its hilt may have all fallen or been picked off, but it was still gilded and finely made. Dallen forgot sometimes that out here, even in its current state, the sword was a good stretch finer than any most folks had seen. He grabbed hold of it and drew it from its sheath, holding it sideways, left hand resting beneath the blade.
The blacksmith’s face immediately fell, looking like he’d just been told a beloved family member was sick. Dallen couldn’t blame him — though the hilt could still pass for fine to the untrained eye, the blade itself certainly could not. It was scratched and nicked as if Dallen had thrown it tumbling down the First Wall Mountains, its sheen gone and its edge dulled from harder use than it had ever been made for.
“I…” the blacksmith started, looking genuinely distraught. “Sir, I…you can’t walk around with so fine a weapon in this kind of state.” He reached for it, and Dallen instinctively pulled back, an odd bout of anger clenching at his guts. His grip tightened hard on the hilt, softly creaking against the banded leather.
The blacksmith took a step back, holding his hands up amiably.
“No offense please, sir. My mistake. Should know better than to reach for another’s weapon.” Dallen relaxed, forcing down the irrational anger. He cleared his throat, feeling like he’d just stepped on the man’s foot and had to apologize.
“No, you’re right, friend.” He extended his arms, handing the sword to the blacksmith. “The damn thing is in desperate need of a touch-up. Apologies.”
The blacksmith took it as if he were holding the very axe of Malakkin himself. Gently holding it aloft, looking deeply at the craftsmanship that Dallen had so callously disregarded while he’d carried it.
“I understand, Sir Osterval.” The full title stung, and Dallen had to keep from wincing. “This sword…I trust it came from Callia?” Dallen gave a tight nod, staring at the gemless hilt. “Ah…then I’ll be handling it with the greatest care, sir. Wouldn’t want to tarnish the last little bit of memory you have from that time.”
“Yeah.” Dallen did not take his eyes from the blade as the smith took it over to his workstation. “Something like that.”
The guards shifted uncomfortably, stealing glances up at the high windows of the keep, but the blacksmith went about his work with the rehearsed pace of a well-seasoned expert. Sparks flew from the grindstone, and Dallen focused on the glow. Anything to anchor him to the present, and not let his mind wander to the distant feeling that had taken him when he’d drawn his blade.
“Oy. The fuck are you looking at, boy?”
Dallen turned toward the guard who had spoken. Both of them were now staring at another — a younger lad, barely a man, in a guard’s uniform as well. He was skinny, with light brown hair and eyes to match. He had been looking at Dallen, but his eyes flicked to the guard who had spoken, and wavered.
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“Well?” asked the other guard. “Hoping for a show?”
“Maybe he wanted to see what a real man looked like,” said the other, his tone growing mocking and agitated. He stole another glance at the high windows of the keep, then looked back towards the lad. “Go on, get out of here, ya little shit.”
The boy raised his eyes to look at the guard, mouth quivering as if he meant to speak his mind. But nothing came out, and he just lowered his head, as if trying to hide his defeated expression. Dallen sighed.
“Devils, boy, don’t you know responding like that’s only gonna make them give you more shit? Grow a bit of a spine.” All three looked towards him now — the boy with some measure of frustration, the guards with sharp disapproval.
“Say something witty,” Dallen continued. “Spit an insult back at them.” He looked the guards up and down. “Shouldn’t be too hard to come up with one.”
One guard’s face grew red with embarrassment, fury, or both.
“Yeah? And what if I don’t like what he says back, and decide I want to knock his teeth in to teach him a lesson?”
Dallen looked them up and down again. He shrugged.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to fight you either.”
The boy spoke up.
“I wouldn’t fight them.” His voice was high and wavering, but he tried to keep it steady. “I wouldn’t. That’s not what we’re supposed to do. Guards. We’re supposed to protect people.”
Ah. Another one of those boys, who thinks he can save the world with good intentions.
The guards looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Ah, look here! Bloody Bant thinks he’s a Paladin or something!”
“Oh, my mistake,” teased the other. “Didn’t realize we were in the presence of one so holy and righteous as yourself.” He gave a mocking bow, and the other laughed harder.
Bant’s face scrunched up red, and Dallen thought he could see the start of tears welling up in his eyes. Without another word, the boy turned, head hung low, and walked off, both hands gripping the spear over his shoulder tight to his chest like it was a child’s toy that brought him comfort.
It was probably for the best that he left when he did. Being an optimist in this world was even more dangerous than being a coward. The boy seemed to be both. Maybe that was for the best, though. Maybe his cowardice would keep him from getting killed long enough to rid himself of that deadly optimism.
“Done!”
The blacksmith rose from his station, evidently unaware of the events that had just transpired. His face was proud as a father’s. He held the Duke’s sword up, shining and sharp as a razor.
“A weapon more fit for your talents, Sir Osterval. Though if I may say…the blade wasn’t meant to go through near as much wear as you’ve put on it. I wouldn’t tell you to part with it, not at all, but…I might suggest you keep an eye on a replacement. Far better to have one before you need it, eh?”
Dallen took the Duke’s sword back up in his left hand. He spun it about, then threw it to his right. In the Maker’s arm, the weapon’s considerable weight felt like a toothpick.
“I’ll keep an eye out. Thank you, smith.”
“Please,” the smith said, bowing low. “You can call me Orram, sir. And I’m here every day, serving the good men of the baron. Come by anytime you need.”
Dallen slid the sword back into its sheath with a soft hiss, and turned to the guards. They looked somehow even less happy than they had all morning.
“You finally done? The baron will have our damn heads at this rate.”
“I’m not so worried. If he wanted my head, he would’ve had a far easier time lopping it off while I was still in that cell.” He set off past the guards without waiting, towards the great front gate of the keep.
It became immediately apparent, once inside the keep, that the structure had been built with a much bigger town in mind. It was comparatively huge, but so much so that it couldn’t even be properly manned and filled. As far as Dallen could tell, they mostly used the northern half of the keep, and left the southern half mostly unoccupied. On their way to the baron’s hall, Dallen passed more than a few hallways that clearly led to empty wings, dusty and unlit by torches or opened windows. Frankly, those that were occupied and furnished weren’t in all that better of shape; they were warm enough against the chill outside, but disorganized and dirty. Dallen guessed that this whole keep had been built right before the Final Battle, with grand plans to expand and form a new, sizable city right on the road. Now, that size which had been a luxury was just a burden, left to a baron without enough men to fill the cavernous spaces.
Unless he simply let some of his cold and hungry people from the town below take shelter inside these thick stone walls. But Dallen knew that the whole town would be swallowed up by the earth before any lord let such a thing happen. Even with the Pattern dead and broken, hierarchies needed to be enforced. Otherwise the world might actually change for the better.
The guards finally led Dallen to a great open feast hall, with beams of morning sunlight cutting through the thick, musty air. The thousand motes of dust that danced about looked like a swarm of floating stars, but made Dallen want to bundle his cloak up over his mouth.
The host himself sat at the center of a huge table elevated on a high platform. The table was meant for distinguished guests and members of the noble ruling family, to preside over the hundreds that would fill the many long tables throughout the hall. Though now, the baron sat alone, and most of the long bottom-level tables looked like they hadn’t been used in decades. The huge room, meant to impress guests and communicate a sense of grandeur, now gave the opposite effect. It made the lone man eating at the table look smaller than ever, like a child wearing his father’s clothing.
The baron seemed unaware of this fact; he was too busy stuffing his face with a breakfast of eggs, sausages, and seasoned potatoes. A far better meal most everyone else in the town had seen in their whole lives, Dallen reckoned. And thrice as much besides in quantity, for one man. Though Dallen had held up their group in meeting with Baron Prout, the lord had not seemed to notice the delay. He waved Dallen over, and dismissed the guards.
“Have a seat, Sir Osvertal.” He wiped his mouth with a dirty sleeve. “Been a while since you’ve eaten in a feasting hall, I reckon.” Prout pushed a plate towards Dallen, but his stomach had already been filled from the morning’s decadent serving of gruel. And somehow, all the food — and the man currently eating it — did not help with his appetite.
“Usually when I went to a feasting hall, it was filled with guests. For a feast, one might suppose.”
“Aye,” the baron said, nodding and looking around at the great empty hall. “Perhaps in another lifetime. But the days of feasting and great gatherings are long gone for Haverren. We’ve got more space here that we know what to do with.” We went for another bite of sausage, then laughed to himself. “Though I’m sure it’s still child’s play compared to what they have in Callia, eh?”
A flash of tension shot through Dallen, and he looked away from the baron.
“These days, I think this hall has Callia beaten.”
The baron coughed awkwardly.
“Yes, well…naturally. We take what we can get, I suppose.”
The man didn’t slow his eating, and Dallen quickly found the sounds of him slurping down and loudly chewing food to be increasingly aggravating. He couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he wanted to leave this hall and this meal as quickly as possible.
“You freed me from that cell and brought me here for a conversation, Baron Prout, so let’s hear it. What are these grand plans of yours? And who do you want me to fight?”
That made the baron stop for a moment. He placed down his food and utensils, and cocked one thick eyebrow at Dallen.
“Who said that I want you to fight anyone?”
Dallen scoffed.
“We dress up knights in fancy armors and titles, and parade them around with stories of chivalry across the land, but there’s only one real reason a man ever wants a knight in his service: because they’re fighters, and damn good at it. All the rest is just fluff.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a knight anymore.”
“That I am not,” Dallen said, pointing a finger at the baron. “You’re catching on. But I am a good fighter. Spare me the game of pretending that there’s some other reason you want me around.”
The baron considered this, and thought it over for a moment.
“We live in dark times, Dallen Osterval,” he finally said.
“Most of us have only known dark times our whole lives, baron.”
Prout nodded solemnly, and slowly turned around to face the back wall. Across it were old, stained banners. Right in the center, bigger than the rest, was the black-on-white crest of the Empyre — a representation of the Pattern of humanity itself. So he’d been told by wizards and priests. He’d never been one for reading the Patterns of the world.
“You’ve seen the same things I have, Osterval. The lords and holymen out there pretend that the Pattern is still ever-present. That the Empyre still lives, enveloping everyone under the cause of the Highest Order. But the world is broken and scattered, and the pieces aren’t going to be put back together anytime soon.”
Dallen could hardly disagree. But he also couldn’t resist playing a devil’s advocate. Just to see what the baron truly believed.
“I’ve heard some saying the Empyre is reforming west of the First Wall Mountains. The Constellate reigns from the towers of Londoria. Demigods still live. There’s been talk of mustering forces in the great cities still left standing.”
The baron scoffed.
“What in the deep hell are they mustering for? I’ve heard the same bloody rumors of forces gathering to the west of here, in Osdram of all places. But what damn good are rumors in this day?” He took a hearty drink from a goblet. “You learn swift and cruel lessons, being a leader in a place like Haverren: the kingdoms of the old Empyre are leaderless, they care little for towns such as ours, and empty promises are of little value in a broken world.”
Baron Prout learned forward, a bit of wine still stuck in his greying beard, and looked Dallen in the eyes.
“What we need in this age is strength. Real strength, not just the promise of it. We must seek it out, find it, gather it, and — if we must — follow it. It’s the only way to survive in this cursed world anymore.”
“And which are you doing?” asked Dallen. “Providing the strength, or following it?”
To his credit, the baron shook his head.
“I tried being the strength to lead these damn people. Tried to rule with a strong fist and an iron will, like old King Leidreck does in Leyenfell.” He sighed, heavy and world-weary. “But a smart man knows when to follow those that are stronger. There’s wisdom in that, you know.”
“And you’ve found someone strong enough to lead? Strong enough for you to follow?” Dallen knew the answer from Vanteus, but he wanted to hear the baron say it.
The man looked back with somber, sunken eyes, burning with renewed intensity. And a little fear.
“Stronger than you know, Osterval.”
Dallen had seen a good many strong men in his lifetime. Men given strength by powers both pure and evil. The fingers on his right hand twitched.
“He’s not like anything I’ve ever seen,” the baron went on. “Like something out of a story from the old times, before the Final Battle. His fighting, his sheer will — he’s unbreakable. He’s the strength we need in these times.”
He looked around at the great empty hall, forgetting about the bounty of food still on the plate before him.
“We can’t just sit around and wait to die with the rest of the world. We need something more than that. He can give that to us.” He looked down, towards Dallen. “I can give that to you. To all my people. They’ve all given up, I can see it in each of them. But they’ll see it soon. They’ll be woken up from this miserable lie we’ve been living, and they’ll see that the Pattern is dead and gone, and that they’re the ones in control of their own fates. They won’t like it — but they’ll be more free than they’ve ever been. And you can help me with that, Osterval. Will you?”
Dallen fixed his eyes on the baron. The man’s face was a mix of determination and desperation. As if one little push in the wrong direction would break whatever certainty he was clinging to.
“Aye. I’ll help.”
He didn’t trust the baron as far as he could throw him left-handed. But he wasn’t completely sure he was lying when he said that, either.