Chapter Two. Stranger Among Us.

              "Curse this rain!" Brenan Draszman shouted.

              There was no reason for him to shout, or even for him to speak; he was alone except for his tired horse, who did not seem to care about the rain. Talking to himself relieved the oppressive silence Brenan had endured for the past five days. And though it was his own voice that broke the steady patter of the rain, it gave him comfort from the unrelenting loneliness that accompanied these hunting trips deep into the wilds.  He smiled to himself at the irony: He had barely been able to contain his excitement at the prospect of getting away from his family and the farm to go on this hunting expedition.  Now he found himself anxious to return just so he could talk to other people again.

         The three pelts strapped to the saddle attested to the success of his adventure. Wolves had been preying on the family's sheep ever since winter had loosened its frosty grip on the plains. They claimed four spring lambs, an expensive price for these subsistence farmers, before young Brenan embarked on the hunting expedition to rid farm and the flock of the menace. The severe winter had driven the wolves far south in search of food, and once the predators found easy prey in the docile sheep of the Draszman farm, they lingered. Brenan and his brothers had guessed that there were only three or four wolves terrorizing their livestock, probably loners driven from their packs by competition, and now linked as a cohesive and deadly unit for mutual survival. The hunt had netted three fine, silvery skins but the fourth wolf, a cunning veteran of the chase, had eluded Brenan’s best efforts. But Brenan was not concerned; his pursuit had forced the animal away from the farm, far enough to ensure that this last wolf would not return.

         Rain poured down steadily as it had all that day since morning. Brenan planned to take the marsh road home to cut his travel time but he now knew the downpour would make the overgrown track through the eerie swamp impassable. More dangerous than the flooded road was travelling through the Fen in darkness. Many travellers in the past had tried to navigate the marsh at night but few were ever seen again. A person could wander through the hundreds of square miles of swamp land for weeks before reaching safe, dry land, but few such lost travellers were ever seen alive again.  If hunger did not take them, then surely the famed inhabitants of the Fen would see them to an untimely and horrible demise. Though Brenan had come this far with the intent of traversing the Fen, better sense told him to skirt the southern border of the marshland on a safer road that would bring him home only two or three hours later than planned.

         The persistent rain had penetrated his outer clothing hours earlier and now it seeped through to his skin, dampening both his spirits and his skin. He was uncomfortable and generally miserable. Only the greeting of a blazing hearth, a flagon of strong mulled cider, and a steaming bowl of mutton stew spurred Brenan's speedy passage home.

         The southern road that circumnavigated the swamp was old and now rarely travelled. Once it had been wide enough for the merchant caravans of old, carrying their cargos of cloth and spice north to bustling markets, but time and disuse now rendered the narrow track to a single horse-breadth. Thick, twisting alders, and low gorse and bracken crowded the once well-worn path. A steep, rocky hill rose on one side to form a natural fence between the Fen and the northern edge of the Roaming Wood. On the other side of the old road, the marsh had encroached dry land with its black and foul-smelling murky waters of unknown depth. The scenery was dreary, and this made Brenan's journey tedious. Only the creeping shadows of approaching dusk kept him wary and alert. The tales of the strange marsh inhabitants, with their evil magic, and horrible beasts that preyed upon wayward travellers he scarcely believed. These were stories for children. But the Fen was a wild and unpredictable place and Brenan was keenly aware of its many hidden dangers, and perhaps even still a little trusting of childhood tales. As he rode, he glanced into the darkening depths of the rotting trees with their long mossy beards, and he imagined all sorts of unspeakable horrors that lay inside the marsh. The silence of the place unnerved him and made him feel that concealed eyes lurked just out of his sight, following his progress with hungry interest. Brenan hummed to himself to break the monotonous silence and it helped to pass the tedious hours of travel through this unwholesome landscape.

         The appearance of something in his path made Brenan reign in his horse and stand in the stirrups. Ahead on the path, partially concealed by the scrub and the falling darkness, something blocked his passage. A fallen tree? he speculated. He couldn't really say for certain in the failing daylight and shifting ground mist. Perhaps it was a dead animal, or even a live animal. If it was an animal, whether dead or alive, Brenan knew that he should take every precaution. If alive, it could be dangerous, and if dead, a predator could surely be near by. He pulled the hunting bow from around his shoulders and fitted an arrow to the string. He urged his horse forward slowly and carefully, his senses tuned for any sound or movement.

         As he drew nearer, Brenan could discern that this indistinguishable lump was a human form arrayed in tattered and filthy hunter’s garb. The body was prone on the earth and covered in a thick layer of mud and leaves. Brenan almost overlooked the impressive sword that the man gripped in hands. He scanned the surrounding brush for signs of a trap. Were there bandits laying in wait for him? Taking careful aim Brenan fired his arrow with deadly accuracy in the soft earth only inches from the man's head. The body did not even flinch. He called out in a loud voice. Still, there was no movement either from the man or the surrounding underbrush. He stowed the bow and drew a long hunting knife, carefully dismounted and moved cautiously to the side of the inert man.

         Warily, his knife poised in readiness, he bent over the form and gagged on the stench of stagnant pond water that wafted up from the man̓s wet, filthy clothes. Brenan carefully lay his hand on the man's back. The fellow breathed but each breath was shallow, weak and laboured. Brenan noticed the jagged shaft of wood that jutted from the man's back near his shoulder blade and the crimson stain that spread out from it. The blood-stain was fresh which meant that the wound was no more than a few hours old. He tried several more attempts at reviving the man to no avail. The unknown hunter was unconscious, probably from blood loss. Even through the patina of dirt, leaf litter and the oily residue left by the swamp water, he could tell that the stranger̀s face was weathered, careworn and haggard. Though there was abundant grey in his hair and beard, and deep lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth, the man’s body looked vital, muscular and strong.

         The rain continued relentlessly. The sky grew darker and the clouds gave no hint that the downpour would ease. The silence of the place became suddenly eerie, even with the rain falling on the swamp pools and the thick layers of leaves that littered the ground, it seemed to Brenan to make no noise. He stared down at the body.

         ‘Who was this fellow?’ he asked himself again. ‘Why was he lying here with an arrow in his back, near death, and clutching such a magnificent sword?’ Brenan knew that bringing this stranger to his home was a very dangerous prospect. Only the gods knew what manner of villain this man might be.

         Brenan stood up. He could not risk his safety or the security of his family. What if there were bandits watching him right now, waiting for him to lead the way to his farm so that they could loot, and burn and kill?

         His gaze drifted to the great weapon the stranger still clutched in his hand. It was magnificently beautiful and Brenan had never seen such craftsmanship. He leaned over and pried the stranger̀s fingers from the long hilt. Brenan pulled back suddenly, the heavy blade still in his hand, as the man moaned weakly and fell silent again. He stared down at the body curiously, warily. It took the strength of both of Brenaǹs arms to hold the sword up before him and he stared at it in wonder sensing its perfect balance. The young man swung the blade in a slow, smooth arch, as if at some unseen enemy, then pulled it back before his eyes. A trick of his imagination made the leather-wrapped hilt feel warm to the touch, and Brenan was certain that the edges of the broad steel blade burned with a barely visible flame, although it was probably just a trick of the rays of daylight. The weapon was indeed a true find, a prize which Brenan could not resist claiming. No one need ever know its origin. Brenan looked down at the inert body. The stranger would not be needing it on his journey to the after life, so Brenan decided that he might as well claim it as his own.

         With sword in hand, Brenan turned and mounted his patient horse. He secured the blade to his saddle and then steered a course around the dying man. Brenan rode only a few yards though before he stopped. He turned in his saddle and stared pitiously at the body of the stranger near to death and covered unceremoniously in filth and pond scum. He could not do it. He could not leave this man, whoever he was, to die in the lonely wilderness, to become the fodder of crows and other scavengers of death. He recalled his mother's warning to never bring strangers into their home but guilt stabbed at his gut. Brenan would accept the responsibility. His conscience would not permit him leave this fellow to certain death.

         He dismounted and led the horse back to the body. Working quickly, he fashioned a litter from a few saplings and his thick wool blanket. He struggled to place the maǹs heavy but flaccid form onto the litter and then hitched it to his horse. The man's face was deathly pale. He secured the fellow into place with rope and then resumed his ride towards the farm at a pace restrained by the stretcher's tentative sturdiness. It was now completely dark and the rain fell more earnestly. He would now be unable to make up any lost time travelling more quickly on the open plains with the stretcher and its injured occupant, and he knew that his delay would worry his mother. When he finally did arrive home, late and with the injured stranger in tow, Brenan also knew his mother would be furious.

         An hour of riding brought Brenan to the end of the marsh's southern road that emptied onto the Khelendhar Plains and was swallowed up in the wide, rolling expanse of grassland. He turned northward and headed for home. From here, and with the added encumbrance, the ride would bring him to the farm in another two or three hours. The weather was another factor. In the openness of the plains the wind blew harder and pelted the rain down hard into his face obscuring his vision, further slowing his progress. He pulled his hood closer about him and crouched down in the saddle as if trying to shrink behind the horsès neck for shelter. Though he was miserable at the thought of three more hours riding in such weather, Brenan congratulated himself for having the good sense to avoid the road through the Fen, for he surely would have been lost in the darkness and foul weather.

         As he reached the crest of a high hill, he saw two bright lanterns burning through the murky darkness of the storm a short distance from him. When he did not return on time, he knew his mother would be worried and would have sent his brothers, Direck and Jerem out to search for Brenan. It annoyed him how his mother fussed. Brenan was twenty-one and capable of taking care of himself in the wilderness. He had been on many such excursions before, often in worse weather and for many days longer. It angered Brenan more that she would risk sending the younger boys, Direk and Jerem, out in such a gale. Brenan shouted to them, straining to be heard above the wind. As he anticipated, the lantern bearers proved to be his two brothers.

         "Mother sent us out to look for you when you did not return by sundown," hollered Direk above the wind.

         "She worries too much!" replied Brenan. "I was forced to take the southern road around the Marsh."

         "Don't be angry with her Brenan," Direk said chastised.

         "She knew that if the weather turned bad I would be delayed. I just wish she would..."

         "Who is that?" Jerem exclaimed, staring down at the unconscious man in the stretcher.

         "I don't know," shrugged Brenan, "I found him on the Marsh road. He's badly wounded, and he has lost a lot of blood. He is still alive, or at least he was a few hours ago. Who knows now. It was this stretcher that slowed me down so much. I was afraid it might come apart if I rode too fast. Jerem, you ride on ahead home as fast as you can and tell mother to prepare some of her medicines. And prepare my room so we can look after this fellow right away."

         Direk grabbed Jerem's horse by the bridle before the boy could ride away. "Wait! Brenan, do think it wise to bring this stranger to the house?"

         Brenan shot him an angry look. "The man is near death! Show a little compassion," he barked. Direk bowed his head, ashamed and stung by his brother’s rebuke. Jerem glanced anxiously from brother to brother uncertain of what to do next.

         "Well," Brenan shouted, "What are you waiting for? Go! We will see you at the farm within the hour. And tell mother not worry, I know what I am doing." With that Brenan slapped his hand on the rump of Jerem's horse and it shot off into the rainy darkness. He turned to Direk and motioned forward. The two set off slowly towards their home.

         After a long time, Direk broke the silence between them. "How fared you with the hunt?”

         "Fine. I got them all except for one but he will not bother us any more. I drove him far south." There was silence again but Direk could see the aggravation on his brother's face. "Why did mother send you out here in this?"

         "You know how she worries."

         Brenan sighed, then laughed, "I guess we will never grow up in her eyes. Still, she never should have sent Jerem. He is too young."

         "Come now; Jerem is fifteen. He can look after himself, you have said so yourself many times,” Direck replied. It was wounded pride more than concern for his brothers that affected Brenan and Direk knew it. “You alone are not the only one who grows towards manhood! It is your stubborn pride and independence, not mother’s concern that raises your ire. We are a family. We watch over each other."

         "Father would never have allowed it, Direk, and you know that." Brenan shot back.

         "Father is dead. He died a long time ago."

         "And so his wisdom and the memory of his lessons die also?" Brenan demanded. "Not for me!"

         The two brothers rode the rest of the way home in silence. Brenan brooded over his mother's worrying and the argument with his brother, and Direk brooded over his older brother's insufferable pride and the stinging rebuke. In a short while they approached the small, family farmhouse and adjoining barn that lay nestled amidst a copse of tall, budding oaks. They crossed the shallow river on the property's edge and rode up hill to the stable. Jerem, their sister Leshia, and Shalla, their mother, awaited them just inside the barn doorway. Once inside Jerem quickly closed the doors, shutting out the stormy night.

         The barn felt warm to Brenan who had not been dry or comfortable in several days. The familiar sweet, earthy fragrance of hay that filled the air comforted Brenan. In the shadows at the far end of the barn came the bleating of the spring lambs not yet a month old. He was glad that his brothers had the good sense to bring them in out of the storm. The new lambs would have easily become sick in the wet and cold and Brenan knew that they could not afford to lose any more.

         He dismounted and pulled off his rain-soaked mantle. "Jerem, take care of the horses," he commanded as he turned to his mother who waited silently. "Is my room ready? We must get this man inside. He is badly injured."

         "Brenan, you should not have brought him here," Shalla began in a low but firm voice. "He could be a bandit, and you have disobeyed ..."

         "If our places were exchanged, would you have left him to die?" Brenan's voice rose in angry defiance to this reaction had he anticipated. He and his mother glared at each other, neither speaking. Shalla glanced at the broken body that lay in the stretcher. The man was deathly pale and his soaked and ragged clothes made him look even more wretched. Brenan saw his mother’s face soften in pity "No. I thought not."

         His siblings remained conspicuously silent, not wanting to be caught in the middle of this battle of wills. Brenan stared at Shalla a moment longer and then, sensing that she would not protest further, moved to unhitch the stretcher.

         "Direk, help me with this please." The two carried the inert man through the kitchen and into Brenan's room. A fire burned strongly in the hearth and the room was well lit with oil lamps. Beside the bed Shalla had laid out fresh bandages, wash clothes and medicines. They carefully laid the wounded stranger face down on the bed. Shalla followed her sons into the room and pulled a stool to the bedside to begin her work.

         She grabbed Brenan's arm before he could leave. "We shall speak of this later. Now go and get cleaned up and something to eat." Without another word, Shalla turned to her work. She carefully removed the arrow from the man's shoulder and cleaned the wound. She pressed a wad of bandage onto the wound to stop the bleeding. Brenan watched for a moment and then left her to her healing work.

         After washing and changing into dry clothes, Brenan returned to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of hot, spiced wine and sat at the table, exhausted by the day's events. Leshia and Jerem came in from the barn. Jerem sat with Brenan while Leshia disappeared into the pantry to prepare Brenan's meal. She had just begun her seventeenth year and had already become a beautiful woman. Brenan guessed that in her younger years his mother had looked like his sister. It was Leshia's quiet manner, her golden brown hair and emerald eyes that attracted her many suitors from the farms in the surrounding lands. In spite of the generous dowries offered and the promises of a good life and life long love, Leshia was content to remain at home for a while longer, where her good humour and hard work was still needed by the family. This suited her mother just fine. Leshia, like the rest of the children, was an integral part in the functioning of the farm. Shalla knew that the day would come when Leshia would marry and leave the farm bot for now at least she was glad that that day seemed distant.

         Brenan smiled at his sister as she placed a steaming bowl of stew and a loaf of bread before him. She patted him lightly on the shoulder before she retired to the corner and took up her embroidery where she had left off. Brenan dug into the hot food and ate hungrily as his youngest brother bobbed and fidgeted across the table from him, looking anxious to speak.

         "I hung up the pelts to dry," Jerem reported proudly. "They should cure nicely."

         "Thank you," Brenan replied without looking up from his food.

         "I counted only three; the fourth escaped?"

         "Yes." Brenan scooped a spoonful for stew onto his bread and continued eating. There was silence for moment that only the crackling hearth and the wind outside broke through.

         "Why are you angry with us, Bren?" Jerem inquired sheepishly. Brenan stopped eating and looked up at his brother. He glanced at Leshia who was intent on her sewing and pretended to ignore the conversation. The knowing smirk on her face gave her away. Brenan looked back at Jerem.

         "I am not angry with you, Jerem, or anyone else," explained Brenan in a gentle voice. "I was tired, wet and hungry and, well, short tempered I suppose."

         "Well don't be angry at mother, either," the fifteen year old instructed, "she was only concerned for our safety, Bren."

         Brenan looked at his sister again. Her broad smile revealed obvious amusement at her brothers. Brenan frowned and turned back to Jerem, smiling weakly. "I know she was."

         Jerem stood up from the table, and said, "Then you should apologize for yelling at her. I think it would only be the proper thing to do. Good night." Jerem turned and left the kitchen for his room in the loft.

         "Good night," Brenan called after him. Simultaneous laughter erupted from Leshia and from Shalla who now stood in the doorway to Brenan's room. Brenan’s surprised frown quickly gave way and he laughed along with them, his earlier anger spent.

         Still chuckling softly at her youngest son’s cheekiness, Shalla crossed kitchen and washed her hands in the basin. She returned to the table and took up Jerem's vacated seat. Brenan gave his mother a wry smile.

         "You put him up to that," he accused good-naturedly.

         His mother gestured to herself in an exaggerated manner, "Oh  no dear, I would never do any such thing." Leshia laughed again.

         "It was not very funny," Brenan responded, biting into another slice of bread.

         "My youngest boy defends me because he loves me," Shalla held out her hands in mock dismay, "even when my eldest does not."

         Both Shalla and Leshia chortled again. Brenan offered a half smile, half frown at the chiding, "Very well. I apologize for yelling, and for defying you." Shalla helped herself to a cup of tea, yawned and rubbed her eyes. Brenan regarded her expectantly when she sat back down, "Will he live?"

         "I pray the compress drew all the infection from the wound, so fever should not take him. He has lost a lot of blood, more than I have the skill to mend. He is in the hands of the goddess now, I think." The lines around her eyes became more pronounced in the dim light when she smiled weakly at her son. It suddenly occurred to Brenan that his mother was getting old. Somehow he had always thought of her as ageless, or perhaps no older than she was in his most distant memories. To Brenan, Shalla was the same strong, youthful woman who had raised her children alone after her husband died. Brenan found himself staring and averted his eyes when she looked up again. "Fortune has smiled upon this stranger. The arrow struck the shoulder buckle of his jerkin. By some grace it did not penetrate too deeply but even if the wound heals and he lives, he will remember the wound for a long time. For a man of his age a wound like that is serious. Still, this fellow is hale and sturdy, so he may yet endure."

         Brenan sighed wearily and nodded, "We have done all that we can. His fate is in the hands of the goddess now, as you say." He yawned. "Where is Direk?"

         "He is keeping the first watch over our visitor so you may rest," Shalla set her eyes upon her daughter. "Off to bed with you as well, young lady. You know how hard it is for me to get you up in the morning." Leshia scowled but gathered her handiwork up and headed for her room in the loft after bidding them good night.

         Brenan took a long draught from his cup. When he looked up again he caught his mother studying him intently. "What is it?" he asked.

         "Brenan, I too am sorry. You were right to help this fellow in his need. I have always taught you that we must never allow fear or suspicion lead us to neglect another̀s need. If we lose our compassion for others, we have lost everything in life." Shalla stared into the fireplace, regretting her earlier reaction.

         Brenan patted her hand. "I understand why you were upset. I acted rashly. It could have been dangerous for us all." He yawned again.

         Shalla sipped her tea. "Never mind. It is done. A man’s life may be saved and we are no worse for it.” She smiled at her oldest son. “You are spent; get some rest."

         Brenan laughed at Shalla's persistent mothering but made no move. "I am going into Horsham Dwells tomorrow," he announced suddenly.

         "Sweet Sylva preserve me!" she gasped with a frown. "Is there no way I can keep you at home to do an honest day’s work? Why must you go running off to Horsham Dwells?"

         "For one," he began, "we need a new axe blade. The one we have has been ground almost to nothing it is so old. While I'm there, I can get the news from Gareth. Perhaps he may know something of this stranger, or offer some advice about him. Take no alarm but I was suspicious of the way in which this fellow was armed."

         "What do you mean?" Shalla sat forward, concern growing on her brow.

         "Let me show you." Brenan went to the barn and was gone only a few minutes when he returned with a long object wrapped in a blanket. He lay the bundle on the table and once uncovered the ornate two-handed sword of war Brenan had found in the grasp of the unconscious stranger. Shalla sat back with a renewed look of surprise and concern. Brenan drew the weapon from its sheath and laid it on the table for inspection. The blade was immaculate, neither stained nor notched, and it glinted brightly in even in the dim lantern light as though it had lately been polished or even newly forged. Both hilt and blade were etched with many strange looking characters. Inlaid into the hilt designs were tiny gems of red, green, blue, white, and yellow. At the very base of the hilt was set a fist-sized stone carved in the shape of a many-pointed star. It was larger and more striking than anything either Brenan or his mother had ever seen. The transparent stone caught the light from the hearth and the lantern and projected dazzling spears of light in all colours of the spectrum about the kitchen. On even closer inspection, the heart of the jewel held a tinier, brilliant blue star. There were no seams or spaces or evidence of any kind to suggest the work of mortal hands. This jewel was a miracle of nature, or the work of some greater power equal, perhaps, to nature itself.

         "I have never seen anything quite like it before, or anything quite as beautiful as that gemstone," Shalla mumbled in amazement. She looked up at her son. "Only a fool would travel unprotected in the wilds. Surely it must be this fellow's weapon."

         "Aye, his weapon it is but the axe and the bow are weapons for travellers. They are useful beyond their role as mere weapons. A magnificent blade like this," he said, hefting the sword in one hand, "is a weapon of war." There was silence as mother and son stared at the intricate sword.

         “There were no other clues to his identity on his person,” Shalla sighed.          
         “He could be a lord,” he said staring at his own distorted reflection in the polish of the blade.

         “If he does not wake, we will never know,” she shrugged and sipped her tea.

         "I am anxious and curious to know the tale of this anonymous traveller," he studied the blade intently, unable to take his eyes from it.

         Shalla looked thoughtfully into her tea and was silent for a moment. "It is good that you are going to seek Gareth's advice tomorrow. You must take the sword with you. Gareth is wise in such things and he may know by whose hands this blade was fashioned." She stood up suddenly. "Now then, enough of this for tonight. I have set a bedroll and some blankets in the corner for you. You can sleep here in front of the hearth. Good night, my son." Shalla leaned across the table and kissed her son’s forehead. It was enough to break his attention from the shiny blade. He looked up and smiled.

         "Good night mother." Brenan watched Shalla disappear down the hallway to her own room. After he drained his cup and put the sword away, he made up his bed and crawled beneath the heavy blankets. It took him a long time to find sleep though he was tired. The stranger and the magnificent sword dwelt in his thoughts. He finally drifted off to sleep and into bizarre dreams filled with wondrous places, battlefields where armies were locked in desperate struggles, and, strangest of all, Brenan dreamt of black-cloaked and shadowy knights who pursued him through endless, dreary landscapes. Their laughter chilled him through, and they grabbed at him from dark recesses and called his name until he woke suddenly from the nightmare, covered in sweat. The fire had burned low in the hearth. The cloak of night still shrouded the land, and all around the farmhouse remained dark and silent except for the wind rustling the naked tree branches outside. Brenan shrugged off the dream and settled down once again. Sleep came upon him quickly but just before he dozed off a faint sound of a hunters horn carried upon the night winds from far away touched his ears. Someone was lost out on the moor, he thought; or it could have been a trick of the storm whistling through the trees around the farm. Unconcerned he soon faded into a deep and fitful sleep.

* * *(/center}

         The very next day Brenan rode to Horsham Dwells to pay a visit to Gareth the barkeep, who had been a life long friend of Brenan’s father, and who now kept watch over the Draszmans as often as he could spare the time away from his thriving roadhouse. He was Shalla’s trusted advisor, and he was quickly becoming Brenan’s confidant and mentor. Gareth never had a family of his own. His wife had died young from a fever before the couple could have children, and Gareth never remarried. Later, when death took his friend Kemran Draszman, Shalla and her children would become Gareth’s surrogate family.

         The smoky roadhouse in Horsham Dwells was a rough and raucous place, even during midday. The tiny town was only one of few stops along the King’s Highway, and Gareth’s ale was renowned throughout half the realm as being the finest barley malt in the land. On the day that Brenan stopped by, Gareth had a full house and he was run off his feet. He was barely able to spare a few moments for young Brenan, and only half of his attention to Brenan’s story about the mysterious traveller Brenan had rescued in the wilds. Gareth had perked up at the mention of the sword, and Brenan insisted on showing the blade to the barkeep. As the eager lad laid the wrapped sword on the bar and began to unwrap it, Gareth scooped it up under his burley arm, grabbed Brenan by the shoulder and pulled him into the back room as he shouted orders to his staff.

         Once they were out of sight of the bar staff and patrons, Gareth mustered a strained grin at Brenan. “My boy,” rasped the gruff barkeep, “never produce any weapon in an alehouse unless you’re prepared to use it, or die.” Gareth smiled but Brenan knew he was deadly serious.

         Brenan felt the blood rising in his cheeks. Embarrassed, he fumbled with the sword’s wrapping. “I’m sorry, Gareth. I didn’t know.”

         Gareth chuckled and tousled Brenan’s hair, “No, of course not; how could you? Just be careful, lad, especially when you’re in the company of the kind of scoundrels that drink in alehouses like mine.” Brenan looked up and they both laughed. “Now, let me see this wondrous blade.”

         The crusty barkeep gasped when Brenan pulled back the folds of blanket that swaddled the sword. There was a moment of silence between them as they stared at the sword’s seeming perfection. “Now you see what I mean,” Brenan said breaking their silent reverie.

         “Aye, lad,” Gareth mumbled. “She’s a beauty. This is a nobleman’s weapon, as sure as I’m a gin-soaked barman!”

         “Then the stranger must be a prince or a lord!”

         Gareth coughed out a gravelly guffaw, “More likely a thief. I’ll wager your wounded stranger got shot making off with this beauty but was able to get away from his pursuers before he succumbed to the wound in his back.” Before Gareth could continue, one of his staff pounded on the door and called his name. Gareth bellowed back in reply and rose to attend to his customers. “Put this thing out of sight, and make sure that you and your brothers do not take your eyes off this man for one minute, even if he appears to be asleep.”

         “Direk’s watching him as we speak.” Again, Gareth’s staff shouted out for him. The big man rose and made for the door but turned before entering the barroom.

         “I’ll try to pay a visit just as soon as I can grab a moment’s peace from this damned tavern, so I can size this fellow up for myself,” Gareth took a step back toward the table, and then leaned in close to Brenan. His face went deadly serious, “Promise me you won’t hesitate...”

         The colour drained from Brenan’s face as soon as he guessed where Gareth’s counsel was leading, and he nodded his head quickly. “I’ll do what I have to Gareth, I promise.”

         “There’s a good lad. Now stow that thing back here out of the way, and then come have an ale and a plate of stew on the house.” Gareth grinned, winked and left Brenan alone in the room. Once he’d hidden the bulky weapon, he returned to the bar to find Gareth mediating a dispute between two patrons. The big man stood between the men, gripping a thick wooden cudgel and speaking to them in a low tone. Brenan watched with interest until one of Gareth’s barmaids grabbed him by the arm and led him wordlessly to a plate of stew and frothy pint laid out on the bar, far from harm’s way. In a few moments the dispute was resolved and Gareth invited the two men to leave the bar. Except for Brenan, no one else in the smoky den seemed to even notice.

         Brenan hung around the bar for the rest of the afternoon listening eagerly to the many travellers’ spin their tales of the road. Finally, Gareth made Brenan leave the roadhouse so that he would not be riding after dark. He sent him packing with the bundled sword and a satchel full of small gifts for all the Drazsman children. For Shalla, some precious spices from the far south, and for each of her children a different sweet confection from the great city of the Realm, Shalendon.