Chapter 3
Paetoric – The Halberd
PAETORIC ME'EAR - WATER ELEMENTAL
Of the four brothers,
he simulates their Father the closest,
maturing and wizening to the world at youth's age.
Yet similar still is his journey,
for like his father once,
he is destined to fight many battles ahead.
PAETORIC, Seften's next elder brother by 2 years, a full day's ride away from Seften, was working already under the new morning's sun. His work was in a smithy under charge of his father. In his apprenticeship, this morning Father had him preparing the metal scraps, which were once useful weapons and tools, outside the smithy, cleaning them, unbinding the handles of any wood or leather, so that they could be melted down and poured to form. His father's business was Royalty Affiliated—he worked for the Lord DeKade, for the Kingdom. Shipments were arranged for metal to be transported down to his shop, and he would fashion weapons for use with the Kingdom's soldiers, also making a small wage with that, and, having extra metal, his own business between him and the common folk.
Paetoric was dirty from his work. He was sitting on a stool, with a knife, crudely cutting away boiled-leather bindings from what looked like the hilt broken off of a sword. With one last jerk of the knife, the old bindings fell to the ground, revealing plain metal beneath. Paetoric turned it in his hand, his other knife-hand swung down to his side, idly. He looked at it a little more, and tossed it into a small, building heap beside the smithy’s back entrance. It was a scrap, ready to be melted down.
Several long hours went by, of picking these scraps from an unhorsed wagon, preparing them, and tossing them aside. He took one last bent, wooden-handled dagger, hammered the handle until it shattered off of the bare metal, and chucked it on the pile, then pocketed his knife and walked into the front entrance of the smithy, the one customers use, which is a simple wood panel walled room with a brief wooden floor ending in hard dirt ground, with a counter, on the wall behind the counter were hung several shields and swords, axes, daggers, a quarter-staff and a mace, all to the display to the customer. He walked up to and around the counter to behind it, pushed open the door there and came to the forgery section of his father's shop. It was unlit; the only light was shafts of sunlight through two, small, square open windows and a soft glow from molten metal in open castings. His father was bent over axe head castings, pouring bright, fiery-orange molten steel into them. Paetoric stopped a distance away, granting a wide radius around Father, in good practice to give someone space who was handling molten metal. Father carefully poured the liquidized metal into a carved casting, filled it slowly, and moved the melt pot over the next casting gap. He tilted the melt pot on its long handle, and filled the next one. After finishing emptying the last of the molten contents into the castings, he brought the melt pot over to a stone bench, setting it down upon it. Seeing that Father had completed his process, Paetoric then spoke. "I've sorted the scrap, and there's a large pile outside the back entrance."
Father looked up at Paetoric, his thick leather vest blackened with the day's metal work, his eyes red from the heat rising off of the molten steel he had just been handling. "Leave it outside," Father began in his heat-dried voice, "we need to test the metals for any enchantments."
Paetoric understood. Some enchantments forged into weapons don't go away though the weapon is destroyed, and sometimes react badly when melted down. Paetoric recalled an explosion-enchanted ballistic arrow head, used to demolish catapults and castle walls, in war: during it’s melting process, it blew half of the blast furnace away, and he and Father had spent a week repairing it and cleaning up the mess of much spilt molten metal, which had remixed with the slag and had to be melted again. Since then, they had resolved to be mindful about possibly enchanted metals, especially, weapons and armor.
The axe head forms Father had poured were left to set. Paetoric and Father exited the forge through a back door into their bedrooms, through those and into a connecting room, which they used for storing foods and supplies. There they retrieved some bread and smoked meat from a cupboard, some fresh milk in a cabinet down by the cool floor, sat down on stools, and spread their goods on top of a counter.
After they finished eating, they headed back to the forge. Paetoric began transferring the pile of scrap outside into the forge on a testing table, as Father asked, and Father was taking the scraps one by one and testing the metal for residual enchantment effects. He was taking pinches of a black powder, a low-grade inexpensive form of casting dust, and sparingly dusting the metal with it. The casting dust was not very powerful, but sensitive—the type of casting dust used in beginning teaching levels of magic schools for the learning pupils—and would plainly react even to the lightest of enchantments, on the metal. A dagger blade: nothing. Metal rod: nothing. Sword hilt: POP! Paetoric heard the noise from outside, and re-entered the forge to see. A coil of blue smoke was slowly spiraling upwards, in an unusually solid pattern for smoke.
"Light-weight enchanted,” Father stated to Paetoric behind him, still observing the smoke. This enchantment makes the effected object lighter to the user, Father once told him. Father took the enchanted item, still faintly emitting blue smoke, and tossed it onto a broad, sturdy, scarred wooden bench, with a thud. Paetoric looked once more to the item, and walked back out to continue to collect the scrap.
Two loads of scrap transporting later, Paetoric heard within the forge a heavy patter of staggering feet, and one heavier thud of fallen metal, on dirt ground. Interpreting it as possible trouble, he dropped his load-in-progress and ran inside. Father was backed away from his testing table, watching something upon the floor. Paetoric looked past Father and down, and was shocked at the sight: It was a large halberd head, one for a halberd, shedding an eerie, mysteriously powerful looking red light, and blinding jolts of blue lightning toiling around it. Paetoric looked up to Father for action, yet Father did nothing, but took another step back. A moment later, the twisting blue energy streams ceased, and with an evident shudder, the halberd head’s red light faded, and it returned to normal. Father took cautious steps forward, and bent slowly down over it. He gave it a quick tap with his hand. "That's weird," Father began, reaching down again with his hand and picking it up off of the ground, "it's completely cool—no heat at all." He looked at it for a contemplative moment, turning it over with his hands, and said, "I'm going to have to check this one out - I might not be able to remove the enchantment." He walked over to the stout, scarred bench, and set it down beside the enchanted sword hilt, Paetoric's eyes never leaving it. Father looked up at Paetoric, and, noticing Paetoric's interest, said, "If I can't do anything with it, I will have to get rid of it."
"I'll take it!" Paetoric responded instantly.
Father chuckled, and said, "Deal. Now get back to it,” with an amused smile on his face. Paetoric, considering that the binding promise that he would receive the awesome relic, obligingly retreated back outside and gathered another load of scrap. A magic halberd-head, and it was as good as his!
The next morning, Paetoric woke up earlier than usual, and Father was still sleeping, in the bunk across from him. He slid out of bed and exited the bedroom, stepping on the spots of the creaky wooden floor he memorized as unsounding. Quicker but still quietly he went through the stores room, through the next doorway and into the unlit forge. There it was! The enchanted halberd head was still sitting upon the bench, and the sword hilt before was gone. Father had purposely left it there for him then? Paetoric went silently over to the bench, sat beside the weapon head, and examined it, not touching it. It was broad, with a waving tip like a spear, and a two ornately designed cutting edges. Father probably couldn't remove the enchantment it was so powerful. Why can't Paetoric take it now? With that justification, Paetoric picked it up in his hands. It was lighter than it looked, and felt cool to the touch—like it could neither be hot nor co
ld. It was formed with designs, giving it an overall appearance of not only a fierce weapon, but also a sort of magic symbol. The cutting edges appeared to be entwined twin serpents, the thrusting head formed the pattern of striking lightning, and the center shaft of the head were scaled, coiling dragon tails around mysterious three-eyed skulls. The cutting edges were still keenly sharp, Paetoric felt with his finger. This was truly a well-designed weapon! And most likely, Paetoric gathered by the weapon’s symbolic appearance, that it was a weapon with an important history.
He stood up, and walked softly back toward the storeroom, the relic in his hands. He would fit a new handle to it, he thought to himself. It would be his weapon. He wondered what the attacking effect the enchantment would have. He rounded the stores room towards the bedroom. So that Father wouldn't notice, he moved silently, ever so silently, upon those same memorized spots on the floor which did not sound under weight of step, toward his bunk bed, his father still breathing heavily in his sleep. He reached the side of his bunk, and, carefully so as not to sound, raised the cotton mattress off of it's place. He brought the halberd head up with his other hand, and, being painfully gentle, lowered it to the smooth wooden surface of his bunk bed’s build. It only made a slight sound barely above a whisper, and didn't disturb Father. Paetoric lowered his mattress, and lied back in his bunk bed, thinking of his claimed treasure.
It had been a week ago that Paetoric took the enchanted halberd head, and Father said not a word of it missing. Paetoric was examining what looked to be a twisted sword blade, in his scrap sorting routine, when he heard a distant noise of approaching horse's hooves hitting the ground at an easy trot. That's strange... the weekly supply of scrap has already been delivered not two days ago. Who could be approaching?
Father's banging of the tilt hammer on heated metal suddenly stopped. Father had noted the sound, too. Paetoric heard the clunk of Father setting the tilt hammer down, then his footsteps across the smithy room, and heard the front door of the smithy swing open. Paetoric was behind the outside of the smithy, and didn't see what was going on. He set down the tortured metal piece, got up, and walked through the smithy room's back door, and started toward the door to the front of the smithy, to follow out his father. He stopped when he heard voices outside. It was a man, speaking with Father. He must have been the approaching rider...
Paetoric continued toward the front entrance of the smithy. "Is there anyone else that works at this smithy beside you, Mr. Me'Aer?” Paetoric heard the man say from outside. Paetoric halted, still out of view of the open front door way. Maybe this wasn't a situation to walk in on...
He couldn't discern his father's response to the question. Paetoric turned, and instead of the door, walked toward a small window next to it. He peered out the side of the window to see the visitor.
The man looked like an ambassador of a Lord: he had on full chain mail, under a leather tunic emblazoned with a royal design; with a shining, solid silver helmet, and a gold hilted sword sheathed at his belt. Paetoric looked at the man's mail-gloved hands, to see that he was clutching a scroll. There were two other, but less official looking, men with him, who seemed like escorts or guards for the man. They, too, had horses, as the messenger. They were unmounted from their steeds, and one of them was holding the reigns of the messenger's horse. "With internal staff rearrangements, your recall to direct castle duties was necessary." the messenger said to Father. "Here is the official mandate for the Me'Aer family," the messenger unraveled the scroll, and read from it, "Gyle Me'Aer, castle blacksmith, granted official leave to familial concerns, is herby recalled to duty, by mandate of Lord DeKade, signed," the messenger indicated a signature on the document and continued, "and this mandate further binds the four sons of Gyle Me'Aer to the castle duties of war, unless otherwise accounted for." At this, he looked one last time at the document as if seeing that he did not miss anything, rolled it back up, and held it out to Father. Father took it, looking down at the rolled up parchment, thinking. "Torius is on duty as a Knight of The Guard under Lord DeKade," Father began, and the messenger looked at him, listening, "Rhoin ran away from home years ago"- Father hastened to the next sentence without pause as if averting questions - "and Seften keeps a farm." The messenger gave a brief nod in acknowledgement. Then, the messenger asked, "The mandate mentions that you have four sons, Mr. Me'Aer..." Father didn't answer right away, and he looked like he was about to when...
Creak, went the floorboards in the smithy, as Paetoric unwittingly shifted his weight standing, and the two guards turned their sights toward the smithy, looking at the door, then on the roof, then into the window.
They saw Paetoric!
Paetoric nearly jumped, but then controlled himself and tried to look casual as he walked out the front door to his audience. He strode up to Father's side and looked at the messenger, then at Father. "Yes, that's correct,” Father said, sounding as if he expected Paetoric to walk out at that moment, "and this is my other son, Paetoric." The messenger was looking at Paetoric. Paetoric had his mind on the mandate-document Father had in his hand, and purposely didn't look at it. He didn't want to go to 'duties of war', whatever that would entail!
The messenger looked back at Father and his mouth opened to speak, but Father calmly cut in, "He keeps the farm with Seften." Paetoric kept his casual face, knowing his father had just lied. The messenger remained unspeaking, looked at Father, then looked again to Paetoric consideringly. After a moment of contemplation, the messenger gave his brief nod to Father, and stated, "you have a period of two days to report to the castle of Lord DeKade, including travel time, to present this document. Settle any of your affairs in that given time." Father gave one heavy nod, and the messenger took the reigns of his horse from one of his guards, kicked up onto the back of his horse, his guards doing the same after him. Paetoric watched them as they trotted a way down the path. Father turned to Paetoric, looking slightly grave. "Pack your things, and go to the farm. Do you remember how to get there?" Paetoric nodded. "Good. Leave as soon as possible. There is a small sack of copper pieces on the night-stand beside my bed, and a few silver pieces in the drawer; and a staff in the forging room, take both." Paetoric couldn't think of anything to say. Why? Why was this happening? This was so sudden.
He was walking toward the smithy door when Father called "and, Paet?"
Paetoric stopped and turned to his father, from the doorway. "Don't forget the enchanted halberd head under your bed mattress. It should fit well on the top of the staff, it's about the right size." Paetoric was surprised. How did Father know he had snuck the item away? Had he not really been sleeping that night? He managed out a confused "okay, Father" before he continued into the smithy. He walked into the forging room, contemplating the anvil, the bench, the floor, the test table, as he walked by them, knowing he wouldn't see them again, just knowing. He grabbed up the staff Father had mentioned—a hard, strong and straight wooden rod, with leather bindings at it's mid-section, it a little above shoulder height—and turned to the direction of the stores room. He took rations from the stores room and went through that into the bedroom, looked at the little nightstand by Father's bed, finding and taking the little leather sack of copper coins. He pulled open the nightstand's small drawer, and to his father's word, saw the silver pieces, and pocketed them. He then turned to his own bed. He lifted the mattress as if lifting the cover of a treasure chest, and removed the halberd head from its secret place. He fitted the enchanted weapon to the staff, secured it in place with Father's tilt hammer in the forging room, spiking it in place, and stepped outside the back door. It felt as if he missed the smithy already. He sensed the cooling presence of the open forging room behind him, as if he was still inside. He wanted to go back in.
Keeping in mind Father's last order, he willed himself to set one foot in front of the other, in start of the half-day walk to the farm, halberd in hand, the coin sack sounding softly at his side. r />
It was turning to evening, and Paetoric was traveling down a wide dirt trail, his halberd slung over his shoulder. He had been traveling for many hours, legs aching from travel’s labor. He resolved to break, and walked off of the side of the path, sitting himself down at the base of a tree. He unpackaged a ration of smoked meat, and a container of water. The tough strips of meat were satisfactorily filling, and he downed the water in several gulps. He sat back, letting his throbbing legs recover. He was so tired, his head was spinning from the events of that day he still hadn't taken in, his eyelids lowered, and he drifted into a deep sleep...
He awoke with a start in the black of night. His halberd was lying up against the tree, next to him, blade reflecting the moon's light. He looked around to find his foodstuffs, and found his water container, which he tied back to his belt. He stood up, and took his halberd in hand. He had not wanted to travel at night, as it was a time when bandits were out, and magical beasts of prey deep from the forests roamed. Being that he was nowhere near a town or a lodging, he decided to chance bandits on the trail rather than hungry, hunting magical animals off of the trail.
He started walking up the trail, making his way by moonlight, but by the first few steps, he heard a noise, and stopped to listen. The noise was footsteps, footsteps of more than one man. He felt a chill go up his spine. Bandits?
Before he could act, his arms were jerked back by two pairs of arms much stronger than his, and his halberd clattered to the ground. He panicked and tried wrenching himself out of the powerful grip of the attackers, but to no avail. He caught sight of a third figure standing before him, which he could not make out in the dark. He felt the heavy clout of a sword hilt upon his skull by a forth assailant from behind, and his vision went black.
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