Ledo didn’t bother to glance back from his cherished spot by the portable heater, which was currently sputtering in a valiant attempt at bravely holding its ground. Unfortunately this was against a chill that tried its best to pervade the rest of the planet, so it didn’t stand a chance. Somewhere behind him, a familiar thud reverberated through the walls, the unmistakable sound of skull meeting door in a clash of ineptitude and hard surfaces. It was followed by the equally familiar sounds of someone attempting to go through the door without first acknowledging that doors, by their very nature, require opening before entering.
Ledo sighed, he knew this series of bewildering errors could only mean one thing. “Temrit again, Denor, or are the Trunian invaders at it once more?”
There was a loud crack as the door finally surrendered, just in time for Denor to burst through like a hero returning from an epic quest, minus the part where there was some semblance of coordination. His breathless entrance was matched only by the glazed look in his eyes and the way he clutched his head like a man who’d managed to lose a duel with his own helmet. He was the sort who probably should wear a safety helmet, to give his poor cranium a much-needed break.
“Just scouting the area,” Denor announced, clearly believing this a task of monumental importance, “checking the perimeter defenses. Didn’t see a thing.”
The boy was puffed up with pride, which was never a good sign. He plonked his prize down on the table, grinning widely in a gormless manner. “Got us some rabbits for the stew! First kill of the season!”
Ledo smiled, stirring the bubbling contents of the saucepan that the heater was doing its best to keep warm. “Hang them up, let them mature a bit. Rortak’s eldest took down a buck, so I traded for some venison. Should make for a decent stew.”
“Lidar took down a buck with a blaster?” Denor scoffed, tying up the rabbits’ hind legs with all the finesse of a one-handed man attempting to juggle live eels. “The buck must’ve been drunk!”
“Lidar might be slow, but he’s got a decent shot,” Ledo replied, eyeing his son with a pointed look. “Unlike being slow and a bad shot, which some people might be.”
Denor laughed, as he didn’t get that he was the punchline. “Some of those boys will have to run the trials multiple times, at this rate!”
Ledo let the silence hang, waiting for his son to catch up. His mind, like the stew, needed a bit more time to mature.
“I could take down a buck easy!” Denor declared, tapping his blaster in a way that suggested a hereto unforeseen competence.
"And could you do that without a blaster?" Ledo inquired, eyeing his son's hand with obvious disbelief that it had anything to do with the supposed ‘catch’.
Denor, meanwhile, was engaged in his least favorite pastime: thinking. He narrowed his eyes as he hung the rabbits by the door, a sort of 'contemplating the meaning of life' squint that never really boded well.
"Planning to shoot bolts from your fingertips, are you?" Ledo prodded, sloshing thick, suspiciously gray stew into two metallic bowls. "To master a blaster or a blade, a warrior's got to live through enough battles first, and to live through those, he'll fight with whatever comes to hand—be it a rock, a stick, or his very own limbs. Some of the best prefer it that way."
Denor shook his head, still battling the notion. "You can't just use anything as a weapon."
"Oh, you'd be surprised." Ledo handed his son a bowl, the contents of which were already setting into a substance better suited to repairing potholes than nourishing the human body. "I could beat you, armed or not, just because I know what to do with these," he said, waving his hands in a way that suggested they had once been registered as lethal weapons, if only in more recent years by the local cooks. Ledo regularly offered to lend his culinary talents at the multitudinous number of village feasts, which was why he was shepherded towards the alcohol so quickly.
Denor peered suspiciously at the gelatinous mass in his bowl that had the gall to call itself ‘stew’. "But what about blocking blades? Wouldn't they just... slice you to ribbons?"
Ledo rose from his chair, preparing to impart great wisdom—or at least put on a good show. His hands were outstretched, as if ready to take on the world—or perhaps just the particularly persistent nuisance that was his son. "Go on, attack me."
Denor hesitated, eyes darting to a kitchen knife that had seen better days.
"Don't be shy, boy," Ledo said, not budging an inch as the boy hesitantly picked up the knife.
Denor’s gaze drifted to the stew, which was congealing with alarming speed, soon it would need an excavation team, not a spoon.
He edged closer, knife in hand, looking more like a boy approaching a ticking bomb with a pair of blunt scissors than a credible threat.
"Well, boy? Are we waiting for the stew to grow legs and attack me first?" Ledo prompted.
With a resigned nod, Denor thrust the knife forward, eyes screwed shut as if expecting the worst.
"Not bad on the aim," Ledo remarked as the knife met his hand—only to be swatted aside with the ease of flicking away a troublesome fly. "Pity about the weapon, though."
Denor opened his eyes just in time to see the knife clatter to the floor in pieces, adding yet another item to his ever-growing list of ‘things destroyed as a result of Denor’. Sweeping up shattered knives, he noted, was not how he'd envisioned spending his evening.
"Good enough, son," Ledo grunted, nudging the bench away from the table with his foot, not exactly awash with awe, but for a boy his age and disposition, it would have to do. "Now, finish your dinner and get some more. You’re a growing lad, and you’ll need it."
The boy grinned like someone who had just been told they’d won the lottery, a free meal, and the admiration of the village all in one go. He jumped to his seat, missed it, reseated himself, and began to shovel stew into his mouth as if it were his last meal before a month-long fast. Ledo let him eat in silence, only speaking again when Denor returned with a second helping.
"Listen closely, my son. Many battles are won long before the first bolt is fired or the first punch is thrown. To an innocent bystander you looked to have the upper hand with the knife, but I was never in any real danger."
Denor paused mid-bite, the lesson sinking in like a stone in a pond, sending ripples of thought through his young mind. "Ledo?"
"Yes?" Ledo asked, hardly daring to hope that this question bore any relevance to the important lesson he was trying to impart.
“Why didn’t you ever go on raids like Grandfather? Everyone says you’re a great warrior, and just knowing that Ledo lives in this village keeps our enemies at bay. It’s just that..." Denor trailed off, a hesitant look in his eyes as though he had just realized he might be treading on dangerous ground.
Ledo’s frown deepened, the kind of frown that made grown men reconsider their life choices. "Are you suggesting I lacked the courage to go?"
Denor’s spoon clattered back into the stew as he fought down panic. "No, Ledo, no! I’ve heard the stories."
“Now, lad,” he began, his voice steady and without anger, “I’ve heard no disrespect in your words. Just the fire of youth, same as I had when I was a young fool listening to my father’s tales. His exploits, grand as they were, stirred my dreams too. But I’m a man who prefers the solid feel of metal to the slippery promises of glory. That’s why I make the weapons that guard this village. I craft tools that let others sleep easy, knowing they’re safe from the shadows.”
Denor, full of the conviction only youth and questionable decisions can bring, leaned forward, his eyes alight with thoughts of what could have been. “But, Father, you could’ve been rich! You could have had a proper portable generator that actually worked! We could’ve lived like kings!”
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Ledo smiled the kind of smile that’s halfway between pride and exasperation. “Rich, you say? Tell me, Denor, have you ever seen a single gemstone among my father’s treasures? A medal pinned to his chest from some distant emperor? A proclamation from a king declaring him a hero? You won’t. His house was no bigger than ours, and his pockets no heavier. But every man in this village carries a weapon made by me. That, my boy, is what I call wealth. I’m content to guard this village. It’s my duty, and I’ve taken it on most seriously.”
“But you could be more than a gunsmith, Father!” Denor persisted. “You could be a great war leader! Think of the stories they’d tell!”
Ledo leaned back, a chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Ah, stories. There’s one from Trunia, though I doubt you’ve heard it. When a general wins a great battle, they parade him through the capital in a magnificent hovercar with all the trimmings, so fancy it practically sneers at the dirt beneath it. The streets are lined with people, flowers raining down like confetti, offers of love and loyalty from every corner. He’s the hero of the hour, broadcast to millions. But, lad, nestled deep in his mind, there’s a thought, as persistent as a bit of gristle gone bad. And that thought whispers, ‘Remember, you’re only mortal. As you’ve killed, so too can you be killed. Fame is fickle, and one day, you’ll just be a name in a dusty archive, a ghost in a databank, forgotten and irrelevant.’”
Denor’s enthusiasm faltered, confusion crinkling his brow. “But, Father, that makes no sense. Tamet has blessed me with the gift of eternal life! I can’t be killed like that general in your story!”
Ledo’s eyes drifted to the spot on Denor’s chest where the bolt had once torn through, now healed without so much as a scar. He suppressed a shudder, the kind that came when you knew the gods were playing games with your fate. “So it’s said, lad. But pain? Pain will find you. Death will come, and in time, you’ll be forgotten, no matter how many deeds you pile up. Do you really want to spend what life you’ve got exploiting a curse from that trickster, Tamet?”
Denor, as subtle as a sledgehammer, straightened up and slammed his fist on the table, shaking the bowls and sending a spoon clattering to the floor. The stew in the bowls was unaffected by this shaking, clinging to the sides with the same tenacity as Denor’s own delusions of grandeur. “No one will forget Denor, son of Ledo! With this power, I’ll do good! I’ll right the wrongs of the world!”
Ledo sighed a deep, weary sigh. These grand proclamations, sprinkled with exclamations as though punctuation itself were an afterthought, only deepened his unease. But he knew there was no stopping a young fool with a head full of dreams. Patting his son on both shoulders, he spoke with the resignation of a man accepting the inevitable. “If Tamet wills it, who am I to stand in your way? You’ve never been the brightest star in the sky, Denor, but this... this is something I can’t forbid. Even if it leads to disaster. Now, eat your stew before it gets cold.”
As his son turned back to his meal, Ledo trudged across the small, well-worn building, shaking his head at both the boy and the inevitable folly of what he was about to do. He reached up to the rafters, where all things best kept away from curious hands were stashed, and pulled down a cloth-wrapped bundle. He placed it on the table with great care, reverential of the contents.
"Since you're so intent on chasing after glory," Ledo said, his voice a mix of resignation and something that might have been pride, "you should probably have this."
Now, there are many things a small package could contain—a loaf of bread, a stack of data pads, perhaps a small, particularly lethargic cat if you’re lucky—but there was no mistaking what lay within this particular wrapping. It was long, slender, and had that telltale cross-shaped hilt that screamed ‘I’m definitely a sword’ in a way that only swords and particularly violent crosses do. Not a grand sword, mind you, the kind that heroes pull out of stones or wave about on battlefields, but certainly more than a knife—a marked step up from the dangerous kitchenware that Denor had previously been brandishing.
The boy’s eyes widened, his hand twitching towards the bundle. But then, in a display of self-control that ran contrary to everything previously established, he resumed his eating with such determination that Ledo half-expected the spoon to disappear along with the stew. He continued to watch the boy closer, and behind the habitual concern of a parent was something deeper—an understanding that for all his antics, the lad had greatness in him since this curse had landed. Not the neat, well-manicured sort of greatness that grows in tidy rows, but the wild, unruly kind that could either topple kingdoms or build them, depending on which way the wind blew.
When Denor finally finished, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that seemed to suggest readiness rather than manners, Ledo gave a nod. The boy’s fingers trembled slightly as they peeled back the cloth, revealing the sword—a finely crafted blade that caught what little light there was in the dimness of the room.
"It’s beautiful," Denor whispered, awe winding around his words like the last thread of cloth around the sword.
"It’s more than beautiful," Ledo replied, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder, as if to pass down the gravity of countless generations in a single touch. "It’s a tool, a weapon, and a reminder. It might serve you well in war, and just as well in peace. But remember, lad, true strength isn’t just muscle and steel—it’s wisdom and understanding. First, though, you’ll need to master the power within you to truly make it sing. Otherwise, it’s just steel—dangerous to the unsuspecting, perhaps, but little more than an inconvenience to anyone truly dangerous, and no more effective than that kitchen knife was on me."
Denor nodded, his gaze fixed on the sword as if it held all the answers to life’s most pressing questions. He could feel the weight of it, not just in his hand but in his soul, knowing that this wasn’t just a gift—it was an inheritance. He showed more restraint than Ledo had given him credit for, finishing his stew and even tidying up, as if this moment needed to be earned with a final (or in this case, first) act of responsibility.
"Go on, then. Unwrap it."
With great reverence, Denor revealed the sword. The steel blade, just long enough to make one question whether a lad his size should be wielding it, gleamed dully in the light. Though the edges were blunt and the tip rounded—because Ledo wasn’t entirely daft—it was clear that, in the right hands, it could do far more than carve up dinner. It could carve out a future.
If only Denor knew how to do that, Ledo mused. But that was the thing with knowing—while it often came after you needed it, like an umbrella that shows up only when the sun is shining—it did come eventually with enough persistence, and the boy had that in spades.
Denor’s hand hovered over the hilt, uncertainty scribbling itself across his brow. He glanced at his father.
"Now listen carefully," Ledo began, the way a man does when he's about to say something important. "This sword—well, it's got a bit of a history. My father gave it to me when I was your age. Made it himself, from a Trunian short sword some trader swindled him into buying from Titania Vale, back in the old days. It's not Andronian steel—you'll have to earn that, and believe me, it's a pain to do so—but it's better than waving a stick around and calling it practice. And for the love of all that's sharp and pointy, don’t even think about charging into battle until you can channel energy into the blade properly. Otherwise, you'll end up looking like a right fool, and nobody wants that."
Denor nodded, half-listening, which was the expected amount for any son who’d heard his father lecture many times. He took up the blade, tracing lazy circles in the air with it, as if the sword might reveal some ancient secret through sheer boredom. Ledo watched, knowing full well he’d be repeating this lecture until the words wore out, and confiscating that sword more times than he cared to count. Still, there was something different about Denor today—something that made him study the weapon’s heft with a seriousness Ledo hadn’t expected. Any other boy, even those who’d been drilled by the best warriors, would have run off by now to slice imaginary foes into ribbons. Denor, though... Denor had changed since Ledo had carried him back from the cemetery. The change was subtle, but it was there, like the first hint of a storm on the horizon.
"It may be a terrible thing I’ve done here, my son," he murmured, as if the very act of giving a sword to a boy like Denor might come back to haunt him. "Know this: you’ll be angry with me over that blade—more times than either of us will care to remember."
"Angry? Why would I be angry?" Denor asked, looking up with the innocence only a child can still manage while holding a sword.
"Because," Ledo said, taking the blade from him, "by giving you this sword, I’m handing you the means for the man you’ll become to destroy the child you were." He paused, searching for words that might do justice to the turmoil ahead. "The path before you is one of great torment and struggle. You cannot die, but that doesn’t mean you won’t feel pain. Oh, you’ll feel plenty of that, make no mistake."
Denor smiled. "I will destroy our enemies."
Ledo sighed again, he seemed to be doing that a lot this evening. What else could a father do when his son says something like that? "I hope so, but remember, my son, there will be many who’ll try to use you for their own ends. They’ll push you and pull you until you learn to be more than you are now. The power you gain will come slowly, and it will hurt, but it will change you in ways you can’t yet understand."
Denor took back the sword and, in a gesture far too solemn for someone still growing into their shoes, sheathed it. "I will try, Father. I will train hard and learn what it means to be a warrior. I won’t disgrace our family name."
"Very good," Ledo grunted, though privately he wondered if there was a chance Denor might give it all up and settle for being an unkillable janitor instead. The thought had its appeal, even if it meant tolerating him until the end of his days.
Denor looked up and proceeded to utter the words Ledo thought he’d never hear. "Will you train me?"
His father blinked, taken aback. "Why would you want me to train you? There are plenty of skilled warriors in the village."
"I can’t trust them to be hard on me," Denor said, his gaze unwavering. "You’ve always treated me poorly, and it worked."
Ledo couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride, though he’d never admit it. "If you complete every task I give you and rise to every challenge, then yes, I’ll train you. I’ve given you the means to defeat others... and I’ll make sure you know when to do it and how to do it well."
There was no need to add, "and why you shouldn't," though it hung in the air between them, like a lesson not yet learned.
He just hoped that in unleashing Denor upon the world, he hadn’t committed some terrible mistake.