'The peddler has come.'

The words came sweet from the boy's mouth and Kerrigan had enjoyed hearing it. His face had lit up like fireworks, red and beaming. Ever since his childhood, he had heard tales of this peddler, who his mother used to say came often into town to sell his wares and would stay through the night telling stories of the outside world. But all through the winter, he had never come and the entire town had sulked.

Kerrigan had never met the peddler before, but he seemed to know him quite well. Cutting through the fields, jumping on the rocky outcrops, he made his way downward to the valley, a smile on his face, eager to see the man of his stories. His parents screamed behind him on the path, pleading for him to wait, but Kerrigan did not pay a heed. He just ran as fast as his feet could take him.

The road to Sipleton wound like a snake and would have been a longer route. The path he had taken was a short cut, but dangerous. To his right was a sheer drop, not so deep yet enough to break bones should one fall.

Pebbles flew from beneath his feet as he crossed little tribulets and orchards of apple and grape. Dogs barked at him as he strutted across the breadth of the fields; some even pursued him. But he minded them not. His only thought was on the village and the peddler who visited it. One could say he was under a spell, mesmerized by the memories of the stories his mother used to tell.

He finally reached the peaceful town; only this time, its roads were inundated with people who seemed in quite a hurry. He could not blame them. After all, even he had zigzagged through the wilderness to reach here, even as his eyes darted from house to house, wondering whether he could pinpoint the place the peddler would be staying in. He couldn't.

Children jumped on the streets. He was sure his excitement matched theirs. Dressed in his nightly clothes -- a dusty brown shirt and black trousers -- he made his way through the walking throng, smiling at each as he passed the people by. They stared at him weird, their brows frowning. Some called curses at him, but he bothered not. He had become used to them. He belonged to the lower clans and the people who stayed in town did not like them. Him, most of all. What it was about him that bothered them, he could not tell, and he did not want to know.

The houses were made of bricks, just like his home. The paint of each varied depending on the choice of the household, but most were red or variations of the color. Ever and anon, he would encounter a green, and that house would stand out among the rest.

Most people in the town were middle-aged. Most men, at this time, would be preparing for work, but courtesy the arrival of the peddler, all genders alike made way towards the huge clearing to the south where the peddler was rumored to have set shop. He followed the crowd, more excited than they ever were.

The peddler was an old man with a gray beard and a bald head, and he sat on a wooden stool right in front of his magnanimous red tent. Behind him, a pair of burly men ferried furniture from one place to another, and another -- a slender man somewhere in his early twenties -- was labeling the items by sticking a piece of white paper and writing on it with a blue quill dipped in black ink.

But his eyes returned to the old peddler again, the aura of the latter making him curious. The wizened-looking man sat still, waiting for the men and women of the town to gather around him with a calculating smile. Kerrigan began to get irked by his appearance. He had expected the peddler to have a good presence, but the sight of him sent tremors through his body. The gray eyes told him that the peddler was ancient of age; in them was wisdom and strength alike.

When all had come, or rather, most, the peddler stood up and paced on the dais he had had erected. Kerrigan scoffed at the old man's inclination towards showmanship. A dais for a sale of wares, he murmured, smirking. But at the glares of the townspeople around him, he kept quiet. They did not like it that he was making fun of the one they had come to hear. Of course, he hadn't meant to joke about the appearance and the proclivities of the peddler, but they wouldn't know that.

The yellow sun had become brighter, the sudden warmth forcing people to cover their heads with scarves and kerchiefs of myriad hues. He stood rooted to his place despite the heat and stared straight at the motley crew that worked without stop on the stage. His eyes taking him ack to the peddler, he wondered what story the old man was going to tell.

'Kerrigan,' someone called.

Turning, he saw that his parents had arrived and with them was young Petros who strived hard to get to the front so he could see the peddler enact the tale from the front rows where children usually sat. To Kerrigan's surprise, Petros failed as the men and women around him cursed under their breaths. The sadness that followed made him pity the small kid. He moved to bring Petros to where he was standing, aloof and on a stony outcrop, its surface gray in hue.

But he was interrupted by the old peddler who began to speak. 'The town of Sipleton. I welcome you here,' shouted the gray beard, 'as I always have. I must tell you that the long winter has made me travel less and so might not have as much tales of the world outside to tell.' At this, the throng grunted. Some of them cursed. 'But that does not mean I have no story to tell.'

Sighs of excitement followed.

'Today, in this beautiful morning of the much-awaited spring, I shall tell you the tale of Atillor The Broad and the greatbow he possessed, the one famously known as The Gusserat, using which he killed the tall daemon named Gorthag.'

Many among the crowd curiously looked at each other and then at the peddler. Kerrigan could see the ignorance on their faces. But he had heard of The Gusserat, which was said to be a magical bow that could only be used by a person to whom it gave consent to. However, he only knew the tale in brief, having heard it from an uncle who lived in Ruthbox on the other side of the mountains. His uncle would not tell him more as he was but a child then, not old enough to hear the gore and the violence that came with the tale of Atillor The Broad. Today, he was eighteen-years-old, mature enough to handle the stories, but he frowned at the presence of the children. Their parents and caretakers did not move to send them away. For a moment, he felt a bit envious.

'Who's Atillor The Broad?' asked a man who stood just behind the row of children. Kerrigan remembered that he was none other than Blarc, the town physician.

The peddler smiled. 'Patience, my dear Blarc; curious as always, aren't you?' he laughed.

Kerrigan raised his brows. He was surprised the peddler remembered the physician's name.

'But I will not delay now,' continued the old man, 'since you all seem to be hungry for stories and tales. Never have I met anyone as curious as the people of this quaint little town, somewhere isolated in the wilderness. Perhaps it is the lonely location in which you dwell that make you people yearn for the happenings of places more populated, always yearning for that noise and clamor. So be it then. Let me start the tale of Atillor The Broad.'

The crowd bobbed their heads in anticipation. Kerrigan could not help but join in the excitement.

'Once upon a time in the far northern settlements of Glaecea, the huge continent of which Galacor is part, lived a middle-aged man named Atillor. He had broad shoulders and was tall, and he was a farmer's son.' A murmur followed. 'One day it so happened that a royal carriage was passing through his lands, carefully making its paths through the swerving roads when one of its wheels got stuck in the soil. The retinue that accompanied it, all great horsemen, dismounted and tried to move the wheel out of the earth. Despite their strength, they could not lift it. Out of the carriage stepped a Princess, whose name was Lorelei. She was the daughter of the king of Armandor, the great monarch Brodstr. She was as beautiful as the radiant sun, fair of skin and golden hair that lengthened into curls behind shoulder. Her eyes were iridiscent blue, her nose pointed, and by nature a good judge of character. She had been traveling the northern fringes of her kingdom, the land now controlled by the Shadow. Asked she did the reason for their failure, to which the answer they knew not. They deliberated on how they could get out the wheel and for hours they got no solution. Afternoon gave way to evening and evening to night. The snow fell heavily that day and in no time they were all deep in snow. Shivering and their teeth warring against each other, they sat, their fires all extinguished, losing out all hope. The dawn came swift and even though the snow began to melt, the heat wasn't enough. Frost bit them.'

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The children had their mouths shaped like an "O".

He couldn't help but smile.

'The ninth hour of the day came and up trudged the snake-like path none other than our Atillor. He had been seeking his missing flock of sheep and saw to his front the unfortunate situation of the travelers. Being the kind person he was, he ran towards them and cleared them of the snow. And then looking at the carriage, he nodded and removed the wheel with his one hand alone. The Princess was surprised and shocked at the same time. Her followers too could not help but admire the strength Atillor had in him. All enquired of his being, of what he did, and of how he was able to accomplish the feat. But he only gave them modest answers. To most questions, he was shy and answered in a word or two. Lorelei began to look at him amusingly and whispered to her retinue. The head of the horsemen, a man named Surd, asked him to accompany to the city of Portsmouthe, a citadel by the great ocean, where it was ever warm and humid, a place winter never touched.'

'Winter never touched?' mouthed another of the townsfolk. Kerrigan turned towards the voice but could not decipher who it belonged to.

The old peddler smiled. 'Yes, there was a time when the Shadow had not gained such a power as it has now, and winter was short, reigning the earth for two to three months. And Portsmouthe, it never dared to touch. There was ever warmth there, and hope. But let us not talk about winter any longer for the season bears weary memories, dark and hopeless. Let us talk of what followed.'

The crowd shouted excitedly.

'Atillor, with the blessings of his elders, accepted Surd's proposition, and journeyed with them to the South and the West. To Portsmouthe he came, and wonder took him. The magnificence of the castle, its huge walls of stone, and its royal splendor left him open-mouthed, which made him embarrassed all too often. Surd asked him to come to the barracks the next day, having acquired for him a small room for his stay. And so Atillor obeyed, punctual as he always was. Day after day he trained under the eyes of the warriors. With mace, he excelled; with swords he was deadly. But he became the master of the bow, a weapon recently acquired by mankind. To gain the skills of bow magic, he was sent into the forests and after long years he returned, bearing gifts unlike any in the world of men had seen. He could use magical arrows that far outranked those who had already studied them. Many said he was gifted by the angels.'

'Was he?' asked a young boy, eager for an answer.

The old man nodded. 'He was definitely blessed. But these gifts, though earning him many accolades, got him resentment as well. Many knew that he was the son of a farmer and considered him of a low caste. It was only because of Surd's recommendation that the trainers had taken him in. And now that he was growing in skill far beyond them, they could not help but envy him. Even Surd began to feel jealous. Even more so because the Princess Lorelei had fallen in love with him.'

The peddler stopped to drink some water from a jug placed nearby on a short wooden table.

'Now Atillor began to sense slowly the hostility his own peers bore him, although they weren't so open about it. The admiration they had for him suddenly turned into fear. But Lorelei's company made him forget all about the hardships. A day came when Surd rushed into the courtroom and spoke about daemons and how they had been sighted on the land's borders. He said that Gorthag was their leader and the king very well knew who that was. Surd had the courtiers clamor for Atillor's name. The Princess looked horrified when Atillor accepted the mission, to which Surd and his followers secretly laughed. Nobody had survived a duel with Gorthag. Lorelei offered to go with him and being a woman of tact, she argued that she knew the arts of healing and would be of help to Atillor. The King had refused at first but then finally relented, heaping the responsibility of her well-being on Atillor.'

He gulped a mouthful of water again.

'The duo traveled for leagues, over the mountains, and under the hills, through valleys and across woodlands; sleeping in dark caverns, its floors full of slick. One day they came upon a shrine dedicated to one of The Trinity. It was not a huge temple, but big enough. It had an aura that beckoned Atillor towards it and despite being a non-believer in the powers of the Gods, he entered the temple. There were a few priests about, all clad in holy saffron, their black hair knotted. A bright, white light led him through semi-dark corridors, followed closely by Lorelei. In one of the sepulchres, he found a greatbow lying encased in a transparent cocoon that burned with silver light. He grew enamored of it and paced towards the bow. Lorelei looked at it with knowing. She had read about greatbows in the library. "The Gusserat," she whispered, her voice echoing through the room. He bothered not about the name. His hand plunged into the cocoon and held the bow in his hand. The Gusserat shone, giving a sign that it had accepted Atillor as its owner as long as he lived. Taking the greatbow then, with the blessings of the priests, they continued on their journey. They soon came to the borderlands where Gorthag was last sighted. For two nights they camped at one place and the third night, Lorelei went missing.'

The children gasped.

'But,' the peddler said, smiling as he saw the looks on the children's faces, 'Atillor found her, gagged and held captive in one of the daemon's dens. A huge duel he fought with the daemon Gorthag and he finally killed him, the great General of The Brothers Dark.'

The children looked happy.

Kerrigan grinned. He knew the peddler had let go of the gory details of the battle, having hurried through it, knowing well the children were in the crowd. The adults seemed to heave in secret a sigh of relief.

'What happened next?' asked an eight-year-old with black curly hair.

The peddler laughed. 'They returned to Portsmouthe and married each other with the blessings of the King. Surd and his followers were quietened forever. The greatbow lay in his possession for the rest of Atillor's long life. When he died, the greatbow just disappeared.'

'Are there any descendants?' ventured Kerrigan.

He could feel the old man's eyes on him. It felt like he was being ripped apart, his soul lain bare to the peddler.

'Yes, there are, but where I know not. Brodstr's dynasty fell two kings after Atillor when the regime of Addam raided its shores. And after that, an army General who had served under the erstwhile king took back what belonged to Armandor and made himself lord. It is his line that rules Armandor now despite vehement opposition from a line that boasts of being descended directly from Atillor himself. I know for a fact that they are frauds as they are descendants of the last king's dalliance with his mistress. Bastards, all of them, and hence they do not have lawful claim to the throne.'

'But there are no legitimate descendants?' Kerrigan asked.

'I know for a fact that the last king had a son and a daughter through his wife. The son was killed in battle with a daemon soon after Portsmouthe was lost. The daughter, I think, fled south. Nobody has seen or heard of her ever since.'

'And where now do you think The Gusserat is? Has it returned to the shrine where it was once kept?'

The old man gave him a mysterious smile. He frowned. What signal was the old man giving him?

'The Gusserat disappeared with the death of Atillor the Broad. But it has been seen in many a hand since then. At least three that have been recorded in history.'

'And now?'

The peddler grinned wide. 'And now The Gusserat is in my possession.' The old one whistled to his followers. The two burly men pushed the greatbow, now encased in a silver cocoon just like it had been in the stories. The crowd stood awed at the magnificent craftsmanship of the bow, white like an elephant's tusk.

'Behold The Gusserat!' the old man bellowed.

***