ch 7 To Be Worthy of Steel

As the days stretched on, filled with the rustle of leaves and the quiet murmur of village life, Rhys passed his time contentedly with Meryl, their moments together serene and tender, as if the world beyond their hearts had fallen into quiet stillness. Yet, for Jesse and Jacques, the stirrings of adventure grew restless. They had bid Keldrin farewell in the early light, as he prepared to make his way into the Satyr Woods—a place of ancient secrets and wild things. He sought to tame a creature there, a beast of strength and cunning that might lend its power to their cause in the perilous days to come.

It was Jacques, the thinker and planner of their company, who had voiced his doubts as Keldrin shouldered his bow and made ready to depart. His brow furrowed, and he spoke with the gravity of one who often measured risk in finer terms.

“Keldrin, my dear friend,” said Jacques, his voice carrying the weight of caution born of experience, “why should we pursue the taming of a wild direwolf? These creatures are fierce, untamed as the very heart of the wilderness. You may find more trouble than you bargained for if you attempt to claim one. And is it not a form of poaching in these lands? You risk not only your life but the ire of the local laws.”

But Keldrin, a hunter through and through, gave a knowing smile, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger. “Ah, Jacques,” he said, his voice calm but resolute, “you forget I hail from Eissenfeste, where the taming of beasts is as much a part of our livelihood as the steel at our side. I hold a permit, signed and sealed by the confederation itself. In these woods, I am free to tame as I will, so long as the law permits. But more than that,” his tone darkened, “we will need a tracker. The goblins that plague these forests are small and weak, yes—but they are legion. They multiply quickly, swarming like a plague of rats. We have seen what they can do, their crude bows and scavenged weapons in hand. Even a handful of us would fall swiftly to an ambush of thirty or more.”

At this, Jesse, standing quietly nearby, crossed his arms and nodded, though his face was set in deep concern. “It’s true, Keldrin, and though I’m no coward, I’d feel better if we had more numbers. I’ve no fear of a fight, but against a goblin horde, it’s madness. We should join a merchant caravan—strength in numbers, you know. Their guards could bolster us if we’re attacked, and we’d have the safety of the road.”

Jacques, ever the tactician, agreed. “Aye, Jesse speaks wisely. We will need more than just warriors, Keldrin. A retinue of sorts. Cooks to feed us, wizards to lend their spells to our cause. If we’re to fight off goblins or worse, we’ll need all the help we can muster.”

Keldrin nodded, his gaze distant as he considered their words. “I’ll gather what information I can from my fellow rangers in the woods,” he said. “We can seek out more allies as we go. But first, I will track the beast I seek. I’ll meet you back in town by nightfall.”

And so, with that promise, Keldrin departed, vanishing into the trees, his form soon lost to the shadows of the Satyr Woods.

Meanwhile, Jesse and Jacques made their way through the winding streets of Eire, their steps unhurried. The city bustled around them—markets alive with the cries of merchants and the laughter of children.

At Jesse’s suggestion, the two made their way first to Muse’s great library, an ancient repository of knowledge where the scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air like whispers of old wisdom. The grand hall stood with towering shelves, filled with books bound in worn leather, their spines etched with runes and golden script. Beyond, the merchant post bustled with traders who had traveled far and wide, their goods arrayed in stalls of polished wood beneath the dappled light of stained-glass windows.

The merchants, though lively in their dealings, wore expressions lined with worry. One, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair, wiped his brow and sighed. "Muse is as lively as ever, aye," he admitted, weighing a bundle of silk, "but trade’s been slow. The dam to the east was damaged last season—repair work has slowed the flow of goods, and the roads aren’t what they used to be. It’s a wonder caravans still make the journey at all."

Jacques exchanged a glance with Jesse, taking in the hushed murmurs of other traders who spoke in cautious tones of looming unrest. The city-states, once bound by fragile alliances, were fraying at the edges. War, it seemed, loomed on the horizon.

As they perused the library, its vaulted ceilings echoing the rustle of turning pages, Jacques caught sight of a familiar figure nestled in a secluded alcove. Pammie, a halfling rogue of quick wit and sharper instincts, sat hunched over a weathered tome, her brows furrowed in deep thought.

As he approached, she barely looked up, only acknowledging him with a brief flick of her eyes before closing her book with a sigh. "Jacques," she murmured, her voice edged with something unreadable. "I figured you’d be here sooner or later."

She gestured for him to sit, and as he did, her usual smirk gave way to a more somber expression. "You know what’s happening in Muse, don’t you? The Crimson Blade Conclave and the warlords of the Cerberus Highlands—preparing for war. Siege engines are being built, and mercenaries are gathering like crows to a battlefield. And then there’s the mining cities, the Woodland Lords in the southwest—Muse is teetering on ruin."

Jacques stirred the contents of his thoughts, as though mixing a potion in an unseen cauldron. "I know, Pammie. That is precisely why I must go."

She studied him, exhaling sharply before leaning back in her chair. "And you won’t take me with you, will you?"

A solemn smile touched his lips. "I cannot. The road is perilous, and my purpose is my own."

Ever the rogue, Pammie masked her disappointment with a smirk. "Then maybe we’ll meet down the road. I’ve enrolled in Marywood College, southwest of Muse. If you find yourself in need of a friendly blade, seek me out."

Jacques nodded, the weight of fate settling upon his shoulders. "Until then, my friend."

As Jesse and Jacques meandered through the merchant post, a collision of hurried steps sent Jesse stumbling backward. Looking up, he found himself face to face with two gnomes, their small frames draped in traveling cloaks stained with the scents of herbs and alchemical brews.

"Oh! My apologies!" chirped the first, a sprightly gnome with thick spectacles and a belt lined with flasks of curious liquids. "You alright there?"

Jesse, dusting himself off, studied them both. The faint, unmistakable scent of tonic herbs and mineral salts clung to their clothes. "You’re medics, aren’t you?" he observed, tilting his head. "Alchemy-based?"

The second gnome, stockier and quieter, let out a surprised grunt. "Sharp eye. Most folk wouldn’t notice." He adjusted the vials on his belt and nodded. "I’m Jethrin, and this is Jinxi. We’ve got twelve caravaneers heading north—we’re needed elsewhere."

Jesse, intrigued, asked, "North? Any chance you’re bound for Muse?"

Jinxi shook her head. "Wish we could take more people, but we’re full up. Here—" She reached into her satchel, pulling out a bundle of thick glass vials filled with a shimmering red liquid. "Take these. Stronger than your average healing potions. We’re friends now, so consider it a gift. And who knows? Perhaps we’ll cross paths again someday."

Jacques watched the two gnomes disappear into the crowd, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Chatty, aren’t they?"

Jesse smirked. "Maybe. But they know their craft."

As the sun climbed into the sky, they made their way to The Flying Marlin, a famed tavern and training ground nestled in one of Eire’s busier districts.

The Flying Marlin was no ordinary establishment, for it was managed by Queen Zephyr, wife of Bertram, an old king now retired from rule but not from the vigor of life. As they approached, Zephyr herself greeted them at the door, her face bright with warmth. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Bertram has been waiting for you. You’ll find him within.”

The tavern was alive with the sound of merriment, and there, near the hearth, stood King Bertram, old but not bent, his eyes gleaming with a fire that had not dimmed with age. His hands rested on his sword, and he looked up as Jesse and Jacques entered, a wide grin spreading across his weathered face.

“I seek a challenge, Jesse,” Bertram said without preamble, his voice a rumbling echo through the room. “My sword arm grows restless, and I would test myself against a worthy opponent.”

Jesse, though honored, hesitated. “Your Majesty,” he began, his tone humble, “it would be my honor to spar with you, but I fear I may not be up to the task.”

Bertram laughed heartily, his voice booming. “Nonsense! I have seen the fire in your eyes, halfling. There is strength in you yet, enough to face me with steel in hand. Come now, let us see if I am still the warrior I once was.”

With a sigh of resignation, but a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Jesse nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. I accept.”

The tavern patrons cheered as the two combatants took their places, and the clash of steel soon followed. Bertram, though aged, moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior, his strikes strong and deliberate. But Jesse, small and agile, darted and weaved, his movements quick as lightning. Blow for blow, they matched each other, the fight a dazzling display of skill.

At last, though, Bertram disarmed Jesse with a swift maneuver, and the crowd gasped as the king’s blade hovered near the halfling’s throat. But in a flash, Jesse reclaimed his sword and pressed the attack once more, forcing Bertram to retreat. The fight raged on, neither willing to yield.

Finally, with one last surge of strength, Bertram bested Jesse, but instead of a victor’s boast, he extended his hand. “Well fought, Jesse,” he said with a grin. “You are a worthy opponent, and I would call this a draw.”

As the crowd erupted in cheers, the two warriors sheathed their swords and took their seats, welcomed by Zephyr herself. She laid before them a feast of roasted boar ribs and her famous chicken, seasoned with a secret blend of herbs, and they ate heartily, their laughter mingling with the crackle of the fire. The scent of wild meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, and as they dined, Zephyr regaled them with tales of her adventures, as once she too had roamed far and wide.

King Bertram, moved by the camaraderie between Jesse and Jacques, began to sing a ballad he had composed. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the tavern with a haunting melody.

"Once I was a young man, filled with dreams of glory,"Roaming the land, a fearless, daring story."I fought for the weak, the downtrodden, the oppressed,"My heart aflame with passion, never suppressed."

"But now I'm old, my strength has waned,"My spirit weary, my courage strained."If only I were young again,"I'd join you in your quest, my noble friends."

"But I must stay here, to fight for the free,"To defend our land from tyranny."Though I may not venture forth with thee,"My heart will be with you, wild and free."

The ballad resonated with Jesse and Jacques, who had both experienced the thrill of adventure and the hardships of war. They raised their cups in a silent toast to the old king, a man who, despite his age, still possessed a spirit of adventure and a fierce determination to protect his people.

after the duel, as the embers of the hearth crackled in The Flying Marlin, Bertram studied Jesse with a thoughtful gaze, his fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. "Jesse, tell me something," he said at last. "Do you follow a deity?"

Jesse hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Never have."

Bertram nodded, as though confirming a long-held suspicion. "I see. Many halflings possess an innate magic, even a trace of it, but you… you have none. That is a rare thing indeed."

Jesse frowned slightly. "You think it matters?"

"It will," Bertram said, leaning forward. "You are clever, that much is certain. But the road you walk is dangerous. Without a deity to guide your path, you’ll need something else—something tangible. You should seek a teacher in magic, someone who can give you at least the basics."

Jesse scoffed, a small grin pulling at his lips. "You think a bit of spellcraft will save my skin?"

Bertram chuckled, though his tone remained serious. "Perhaps not. But elemental weapons—those will serve you well. If you lack magic within, then wield it through your blade. It will grant you an edge where faith would not."

Jesse sat back, considering the old king’s words. Magic had never been a part of his life, but perhaps it was time to change that. And perhaps, before their journey truly began, he would seek out one who could teach him the art he had long ignored.

As noon passed and the sun began to sink lower, Jesse and Jacques bade their farewells to Bertram and Zephyr, their bellies full and their spirits light. They knew, as they left the Flying Marlin behind, that the days ahead would be fraught with danger, but for now, there was warmth in the camaraderie they had found.

They would meet Keldrin again soon, and the adventure—filled with peril and promise—awaited.