Oster Agress never had any trouble going to sleep. The older he became, the easier it was to nod off. That in of itself was a little alarming. He wondered if the natural course of old age was, one day, to fall asleep and die, never to wake up at all. But worrying about it wouldn’t delay the inevitable and when he heard the cock crow, he dragged himself upright. Not that he was particularly keen on farming but he had learnt to heed the cry of his bladder.

As he ate his bread and cheese, he reflected upon the enormity of the two weeks prior, culminating in the surprising victory of a middle class lad triumphing over lordly superiority and pride.

It had been a wonderful moment.

A final crowning achievement to his experience and skills.

He didn’t feel so cast aside now.

Sure, being a farmer was almost the last thing he ever wanted to be but as the very last thing was growing old, Oster realised there were some things that couldn’t be avoided.

Besides, his life wasn’t so bad. He had food, shelter, the ability to pee without it burning after the healer’s effective tonic and his little plot of land that was in need of attention after two weeks of neglect.

Oster picked up his cane and put his hand on his door, hearing a grunting, huffing noise outside. His fingers tightened around his cane and he threw open his door, ready to give the kids who thought nothing of running through his garden, trampling his seedlings, a serving of words that would make a fisherman proud.

But his words died when he caught sight of Judd LaMogre, champion of Fort Bastil’s fighting tournament, digging up weeds. His lady friend with the knack for healing was raking leaves and the mostly silent one was reattaching the head of the scarecrow onto its body.

“What are you doing?” Oster demanded but in a voice that was hollow.

“That might scare the children away,” Judd jerked his head to the decapitated scarecrow, “but it’s useless against crows.”

“After training Judd for two weeks,” Aalis added, “he was concerned that your garden had been both damaged and neglected.”

“Aren’t you some big hero now?” Oster challenged.

Judd snorted. “Champion isn’t the same as hero. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s that I’ve got a long way to go before I can be called that.”

Oster couldn’t muster the strength to argue. He couldn’t comprehend this lad and his little entourage. They didn’t make sense to him. But perhaps, during this age of assumed and expected comforts, Judd LaMogre made more sense than anyone else. They worked all morning until the plot of land was restored and the scarecrow’s head was back on its body, albeit at a strange angle.

“There are plenty of leftovers from last night for our midday repast.” Aalis announced.

“As long as we go easy on the cider.”

“Hold up, lad.” Oster stopped Judd.

“Is there something more I can do for you?” Judd asked.

Oster stared at him for so long that Judd grew uncomfortable, shifting his weight on his feet.

“Come with me.” Oster led him to his hut and allowed him inside. His armour adorned a wooden mannequin of the most basic construct in a corner of the hut. Oster put his hand on it, saying goodbye then turned to Judd. “I want you to have my armour.”

“No.” Judd said out of pure instinct. “Ow!” He rubbed his head as Oster glared at him. “What?”

“Don’t belittle an old man’s gift.”

“I’m not belittling it.” Judd insisted. “It’s your armour. It’s from when you had a straight spine and when you were a sword master…it’s your legacy.”

“And without a wife or children, what’ll happen to it when I die?” Oster shook his head. “One day I won’t wake up or I’ll keel over in my field…and my beloved armour will be stolen by an opportunist or divvied up amongst the greedy and the conniving…” He sighed. “It’s got so much more life left to give. It shouldn’t just be put out to pasture because someone got old.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Judd couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know what to say…”

“Thank you would be a good start.” Oster grunted as Judd embraced him solidly.

“Thank you.”

“Easy on my back you great oaf.” Oster cleared his throat, driving away his embarrassment. “Come on, let’s get it ready to travel.”

When Judd and Oster returned to the campfire, Verne approached them. “Judd, there’s a minstrel here to see you.”

“Giordi Gavoli,” Judd nodded and walked over to the golden haired musician, “I see you’re ready to depart.”

“Whenever you are.”

“He’s coming with us?” Verne asked.

“I asked if I might accompany Judd LaMogre on his knighthood quest.” Giordi smiled easily, dimples appearing in his cheeks.

“And give up a plumb placement in Fort Bastil, with all your lady admirers?” Oster folded his arms.

“I go where inspiration leads,” Giordi replied vaguely then touched his cheek, “and there can be such a thing as too many lady admirers.”

“I’m guessing the last one objected to how favourably you were being admired.” Judd chuckled.

“Yes, the jealous female is hardly an understanding creature,” Giordi turned at Aalis’ gasp and swept into an elegant bow, “but who is this?”

“Aalis, this is Giordi Gavoli, a travelling minstrel who has asked if his travels might coincide with us.” Judd explained.

Aalis just stared at Giordi, her expression unreadable. “Of course.” She said softly. “Welcome, Giordi, to our table.” She cleared her throat and held out a shallow basket of party food leftovers. The meal was simple but tasty and Giordi’s company was amiable and pleasant.

“I couldn’t lose the opportunity of chronicling the rise of a middle class fisherman on his quest to become a knight. It’s the kind of epic saga that most minstrels dream of.” Giordi explained. “After Dalain’s defeat, I could not sleep as my mind began to construct the words around a melody to tell the tale.”

“Not sure how popular it would be in Fort Bastil,” Judd winked at Verne, “but it’ll probably amuse others elsewhere.”

“So, when do we leave?”

“I left a message with the steward to pass on that I would be leaving tomorrow morning.” Judd explained. “Caste should be here by then.”

“And your stable stallion?” Oster asked.

“Actually, I think it’s being delivered right now.” Judd thumped Verne on the shoulder and stood up as Fort Bastil’s steward led a horse towards their party.

“Judd LaMogre, champion of Fort Bastil’s fighting tournament,” the steward greeted, “I am pleased to deliver to you, your prize.”

“Well, Verne, what do you think?”

Verne stared at the horse, stunned. “It’s…it’s…”

Judd stepped close to the horse with the brown and white spotty coat, its placid eyes gazing around itself in interest.

“You’re the one who drew my attention to them. The horses that spend their lives walking yet never go anywhere. I thought, well, why not walk with us?”

Verne rubbed the mare’s nose with his hand, stroking its coat, tucking the fringe of its mane from its eyes.

“You chose a horse that pulls the drawbridge up and down over a stallion?” Oster exclaimed.

“Actually, Sir Alaykin was with me at the time and I believe his exact words were, you cannot be serious. One of my stallions is worth twice as much as this animal…so then I said I’d take both of them.”

Verne, Aalis and Giordi leaned to look past the first horse to see its pair standing behind it, nibbling at the grass it could reach, twitching its ears in the light breeze.

“Why?” Verne asked, turning to Judd. “Not just why you picked these horses…but why didn’t you get a stallion?”

“What would I do with it?”

“Ride it!”

“I know less about riding horses than I did about swordplay,” Judd chortled and rubbed the neck of the horse closest to him, “and even if I was bold enough or skilled enough to ride a spirited stallion, what are you all going to do? Follow on foot? Seems pretentious to me. So Quell and Zeke,” he gestured to the first horse then to the second, “will be able to carry most of our provisions and we’ll walk with them.” They all stared at him. “What?”

“For a man who wants to be a knight, sometimes you don’t act very knightly,” Oster observed, “and I mean that in the best possible way.”

“Thanks.”

“Then I leave these two steeds in your hands,” the steward placed the reins into Judd’s grasp, “oh, and before I forget, Cleric Caste asked to accompany me when I delivered your prize.”

“Where is he?” Judd paused when he heard a wheezing sound. “There he is!” Caste, bearing his hefty travelling pack once more, stumbled into their midst. “You know we’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

“Like I want to get up at the crack of dawn just to make sure you don’t leave without me.” Caste blurted and before Judd pointed out that he couldn’t leave without his cleric, Caste’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Giordi. “Although I’m starting to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off doing so that endure more pointless melodies.” Gavoli simply smirked at Caste’s attack. “Still, at least it’s just for one night.”

Judd opened his mouth then paused. “Oh I haven’t the heart to tell him.”

“I will.” Verne folded his arms. “Giordi Gavoli is coming with us.”

Caste stared at Verne, blinking slowly. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no…”

“Come now, my clerical companion,” Giordi slapped Caste on the arm, “music is good for the weary soul.”

“Not when it kills the listener! Judd…Judd! We have to talk about this!”

Verne looked at Aalis who smiled as Caste berated and complained and objected, not caring if Giordi heard him.

“Do you think we should soften the blow by telling Caste he does not have to carry his pack across Terra anymore?”

“In a minute…or two.”