Читать книгу The Shadow Scrolls: Series Book One, The Vale of Blood - PD Ph.D. Lorenz - Страница 5

“So, some strange, far off king was killed and dragged into a pit!” he fired. “The story is centuries old, Da’. What has it got to do with me?” challenged Jonathan as he defiantly stared into the blank, soot surrounded eyes of his father who was seated in front of a hearth-fire pumping away at its billow. The creaky wooden contraption sounded like a ship being rocked by the sea, and somehow, it strengthened the boy.

Jonathan of Scharp was a young man of fifteen when he first began to feel his oats. Raised the son of a weapon master, his father John of Scharp, had created quite a name for himself by having fashioned a multitude of fine weapons of warfare made famous by the fact that is was said that not one of them had ever failed in battle. It was an unverifiable rumor of course, but nonetheless, it had served its purpose though the weapon master had never condoned such a statement. Be that as it may, the fame cast a shadow whose shade the son was destined to grow up within, and therein lay the problem. For its boundaries, as Jonathan would often think, threaten to choke the life right out of me.

From an outsider’s point of view, it seemed only natural that the son would follow in the footsteps of the father and to carry on the work of the family. Even their appearance spoke of their commonality. Each had green penetrating eyes save for some subtle differences which shall be revealed shortly, and each had flowing black hair that poured from their heads like waves flowing in from the sea. These and more, they had inherited from their grandfather, a hunter of the Scharp line. However, John of Scharp was the first to depart from that infamous family procession to forge ahead anew by no choice of his own, the reasons of which lay locked away in the deep caverns of the weapon master’s heart. Nevertheless, it was a break in a long line of hunters, that is, pseudo-warriors that had served the kingdom for a multitude of generations.

Both John and Jonathan supported a stout frame with powerful arms and legs made stronger still by the fashioning of fine instruments of war, a work they had spent countless hours perfecting. Jonathan himself had been an apprentice to his Da’ long before his memory would allow him to remember. And alas, both were stubbornly devoted to whatever task their heart had fixed itself upon. Unfortunately for the weapon master, the son’s heart had begun to fasten to another life altogether different from the one that had been laboriously carved out for him like a bow from a Willowfeld branch. Unlike the obedient materials of craftsmanship, the human heart and its will was most unpredictable as the master forger was about to discover.

For young Jonathan, his heart was set toward a life of soldiery and adventure which he dreamed would take him far from the village he had grown up within. Though Safehaven was a respectable township and had recently outgrown its status as a village, due in large part to the hard work of John himself, its size was not the problem at all. It was, rather, an inner turmoil that had been forced to the surface. It was as if a deep, unfathomable, and long forgotten well of water had been waiting to spring to life, and when it was finally uncorked, it created a wave that the young Jonathan would have to ride; nay, was thrilled to ride. It was that urge, or rather surge, that pushed the younger to challenge the elder.

“Do you even know what the soldiers fight for?” asked Jonathan snidely. “Where they go? What, or who your precious weapons are used on? Do you even know that, Da‘?” It was a line of sarcastic questioning with a purpose… It was a means to an end like a series of levers that were being pulled one after another in the hope that it would produce some expected result.

As for John, the weapon master of Safehaven, he was oblivious to the fact that he was about to be blindsided by such a line of inquisition. For the moment, he was hardly listening, and was only thinking about how he had groomed his son well and that his final task of forging the boy would lay in his belief system, a system that John had come to depend upon and even live for. Therefore, even as the son spoke to the father in defiance, a smile escaped his mouth while he secretly thought of how proud he was of the boy. Time has passed so quickly, he thought to himself. I have carved out a life for him here. He will carry on this work, make a name for himself, and start a family of his own…Yes, a family of his own.

“Are you even listening to me, Da? Do you even care about what I’m saying?” Jonathan, as was usual, found it always difficult to communicate with his father. For as long as he could remember, he was never quite sure what his father was thinking behind his quiet, gentle, and at times mysterious demeanor. And then, there were the times when it became quite clear. In fact, at that moment, Jonathan was trying produce one of those times.

“I don’t want to do this work…! I want a life of soldiery!” He flatly stated.

Jonathan watched the hands of his father closely for he knew that if they began to shake and tremble, that would be the sign that the earthquake was about to strike. Even with fear in his heart, his adolescent chemistry would urge him beyond any caution signal that would arise. It was a long planned speech, months of preparation had been leading up to it, and he hoped that it would become the pry pole that would create an argument designed solely to lever him free from life’s niche that he felt he was destined to be stuck into like one more indistinguishable brick in the gray prison of life. It was not that Jonathan didn’t love his father, no; it was something much larger than that. Though he could not put his finger upon it, the specter ate at him for a long time and was pushing him toward a life of defiance if not rebellion. The shadow could not be explained nor understood, and it couldn’t wait any longer.

John, seated at the fiery billows of the hearth, continued to pump with his leg causing the fire to glow hotter and hotter. A sword, which lay atop the coals, grew brighter. All the while, and without even knowing, John’s hand began to shake as he formed a fist. This, Jonathan took note of and quickly yet silently made his way across the hardened clay floor of the weapon master‘s hovel. Like a thief in the night, Jonathan lifted a small stool and silently placed it between him and his Da’. With his back to his only means of egress, and facing his foe, he purposely raised the stakes in the male to male challenge.

“One day, one of your weapons will fail in battle and the people who admire you will turn on you and they will turn on our family. Where will that place me in this society that you so love? Where will my life be at that point?” Jonathan watched his father carefully, knowing that his powerful hands could snap him like a twig, and yet there was still no response save for the clenching of the fist. It was time to cinch the knot tighter. “I have learned to use some of the weapons we have fashioned together. Against your orders Da’, I have practiced… this art of war.” Jonathan threw out the statement like a fishing line in hopes that it would produce some sort of bite.

“Art of war?” John bellowed as he stood to his feet. At last, Jonathan had touched upon a subject he knew would arouse his father, the famous weapon master known to outsiders, at least, for his intricate weapon-forming patience.

Perhaps it was his father’s voice or the way his eyes seemed to light up even though dim. Nevertheless, in that moment of challenge, Jonathan’s memory leaped to the surface and threatened to defeat the assault even as the gauntlet had just been thrown down. The produce of memories nearly caused him to abandon his challenge for it was a memory of a far off time when he and his Da’ had first connected as a father and son.

It was upon a great rock that they had climbed together. The two sat upon the height overlooking small lakes and the river that fed them as it meandered from one shire to another. A canyon over, and a bit above their height, sat the crumbled remains of the majestic castle Kalaw tucked into its pocket beneath the heights shrouded in mist; mists that gently descended from the lofts beyond, a residue created by the outpouring of torrential runoff. It was the first time that Jonathan had seen the world beyond the surroundings of his home, the then village of Safehaven. Together, they faced the world beyond. To the younger it was a revelation of grandeur for what he saw, he described to his blind father.

“I see grand forests with a million trees, Da’. As far as I can see, there are trees. They’re like…, like great armies filling the mountains and valleys.” he explained, his excitement palpable. “And the river is like… a train of war wagons all tied together and carrying the weapons and supplies.” His wonderment was tangible, and John felt the satisfaction of being a father.

“And we are the ones that supply those soldiers with their weapons, son.” It was the statement of a man who knew he, and his work had and would make a difference in the world. However, his son’s following statement would connect and disconnect the two of them all at the same time.

“Where do the soldiers go to fight, Da’?” the younger asked innocently.

After a long pause, his father answered. “… Past the trees and beyond the forest, Jonathan. They go to a place where darkness reigns supreme. A place we don’t need to think about. As long as we supply the soldiers with their weapons, they can hold off that dark tide and it won’t come near us at all. Not near you, your mother, or your baby brother.” Though blind, John seemed to be looking at objects in the distance.

“Were you born blind, Da’?” the son asked. With that, a longer paused prevailed.

“… We need to return to your mother, son. She’s expecting us for victuals. If we’re not there, she’ll be cooking our hides for sure. Come, lead us home, boy.” John rose and urged his son to abandon the conversation, but Jonathan remained a moment longer gazing past the horizon and beyond.

Thus, a seed had been sown. A seed that would produce a tree that’s branches would, for a long time, form a distinct intersection….

“Thank you for taking me here… I love you, Da‘.”

Jonathan’s maturity never ceased to amaze the weapon master.

… So that was the intersection… That was the deep connection, and at the same time, the deep dividing fissure that would become a chasm in their relationship; a chasm that would take only the greatest of blind leaps to re-cross.

“I never wanted to be like you!” shouted Jonathan to his fuming father. “I never once wanted to carry on your work!” It was an adolescent icicle that pierced John’s heart and for a moment Jonathan regretted the whole idea of the attack, regretted the whole idea of freeing himself from the confines of the status quo, but alas it was fleeting.

Jonathan made his way across the clay floor of the shop and John could hear a weapon being removed from the wall. It sounded like a war hatch, the throwing axe that he completed just one day prior.

How angry is this boy, thought John to himself. What, or who, has pushed him to this point?

Jonathan had taken the war hatch from the wall and if John could have been looking, he would have seen the emotional turmoil that rippled across the face of his son. It was not a look of murderous rage, but rather the look of a young man desperate for a life of his own.

“I wish that you could see me, Da’… but you can’t. Here I stand, thirty steps from the Willowfeld tree that you were awarded. Our horse is tethered to the tree and to her leather lash I set my eyes, but before I throw this axe at it, I close my eyes… Now, I’m just like you… I cannot see Swift’s tether, or the tree.” His voice quivered as it trailed off and a pause hung in the air as the boy’s adolescent and impulsive chemicals assaulted his emotional control. Only the crackling of the hearth fire made itself known.

John, with his keen senses, could hear his son positioning himself to throw. “That throw will be the beginning of the end of our relationship, son. I beg you not to do it,” John cautioned.

With closed eyes and a wince, Jonathan let the instrument of war fly toward the tree that sat just outside of the weapon shop. Little did the boy know, but at the same moment, a warrior of unprecedented size stepped into the doorway of the weapon master’s shop!

If it were not for his keen fighting abilities, Nathan, the captain of the king’s army, keeper of the castle, and leader of the Council would have had his forehead split asunder. The axe traveled end over end, within inches of his face, and beyond the door to the tree where it cut in two the leather strap that held the family horse. With a whiny, the mare took off in a gallop.

Jonathan watched the pregnant horse scamper down the hill toward the forest in the distance. At the same moment, John had reached his boiling point. No longer could he tether his famous patience, and sprung in the direction of his son bent on teaching him the lesson of his life. Jonathan turned just in time to witness his blind father trip over the small obstacle of a stool which he had placed earlier and slam onto the floor with a whimper. To Jonathan, it was a bitter sweet moment for he knew that the thrashing he would have received would have been bone crushing, and yet, for the first time in his life he had seen the utter weakness of his Da’. It was the culmination of the fuming frustrations of unanswered questions and what seemed to him to be a boxed in life. At the same time, he knew it was the final axe blow to the creaky wooden bridge that barely held their relationship together.

With a face covered in dirt and blood, John struggled to his feet and bellowed toward his son. “Jonathan, go get that horse…, now! Only God knows where she’ll run to, but if it’s to the far reaches of the realm and you are gone for months on end, then that will be just fine with me!”

Jonathan slunk out of the shop with a defiant and quiet anger coupled with pain, not even glancing at the warrior he had nearly killed. One step led to another that quickly turned into a sprint. As he ran, tears welled up and tracked horizontally across his cheeks.

The crackle and pop of the forging fire was still all that echoed off the walls of John’s shop. In his dimness, he did not perceive the entrance of Nathan into the hovel, a rarity, for his keen ears had been finely tuned over the years. The weapon master struggled to his feet and the blood that trickled from his nose threatened to cause an uncontrollable sneeze to tickle its way to the surface. John held it back for as long as he could before it finally gushed out all over the floor…

“Bless you, my friend.” announced the Captain of the Guard.

John faced the direction of the voice. The bloody sneeze made his face look as though it had been smashed in with a stick. “Nathan, is that you?”

“Aye.” Nathan was an enormous man trained in the art of war from a boy. A man groomed by meticulous repetition and forged by the fiery trials of constant sorties. At that moment, he was not arrayed in his battle fatigues, but rather in his royal business attire. An immensely thick cloak, as thick as a normal man’s forearm, draped his dark skinned frame and only added to his already enormous stature. From beneath its folds, his arms reached down to his wounded comrade.

“I haven’t seen you look this bad since the Campaign of Eight,” Nathan declared.

“Ah, Nathan! You have always had impeccable timing. Again, your arm reaches to me.” John could feel the strong squeeze of the captain’s hand around his bicep and took note that it encircled the entirety of his forger’s arm. It reminded him that his friend was no mere man, but rather a descendant of the realm’s great warrior families. Struggling to his feet, he wiped the free flowing blood with his ever present slog towel which hung at his side from his leather apron. Through a pinched nose, he continued his conversation… “How much of that exchange did you see?”

“Enough to know that you’ve got a fighter on your hands.” stated Nathan with his deep and hardened voice.

“Aye, a rebellious boy that needs the billows of discipline, not the fires of war,” John said flatly.

Nathan made his way to the fire where the sword John had been forging still lay in it, its white hot metal beginning to spark. “This sword that you have been forging… What would happen if you were to leave it sitting here in the billows?” questioned the captain. “Would it not fight for life, spark, crackle, and hold on to its form just before it smelted into something else altogether different?”

“I know what you’re saying, Nathan.” interjected the weapon master still blotting his stained face… “But my son is not hardened metal. He’s just a boy that’s grown up in this village… And Safehaven is just that for him. It’s a place where he can have the goodness of life. Have we not worked toward this safety? Have we not bled for such a place? Now that it has grown into a township, it has become the perfect place for him to begin a life of his own, forging his own name in the world. In this safe world...” Nathan watched as John settled himself onto the stool that he had fallen over, brushing his clothes off. “… He built this stool on his own. It was his first craftsmanship. The fire was too dangerous for him, so I told him he could start by working with wood. He so much wanted to be like me back then. Now, things are so different.”

“When your campaign days were over, and you were finally healed of your wounds… When I brought you here… you knew that sense of confinement as well. John, it was like a prison sentence for you. You told me that, remember? Why do you expect your son, your first born not to feel the same way?” asked Nathan.

“My wounds were barely survivable, Nathan,” John replied, his voice gaining in strength.

“But you did survive,” Nathan quickly interjected. “We all did.”

“Only by the merciful grace of God did I survive my infirmities… I don’t want him to go through that ever. He wants soldiery… And soldiery is certain destruction… Nathan, we go back a long way, but I have to disagree with you, respectively. My son cannot have that life. I will not allow it,” John stated with finality.

“… And I will not push you, my friend. I cannot…,” Nathan replied after a long pause. “I will only say this more. You are a forger of weapons, a weapon’s master… A weapon is not fashioned to merely hang on the wall or ornament a living quarter is it?”

The silence grew thick as John stood to his feet and made his way to the still baking sword struggling for the life of its form. Nathan thought that he may have pushed the issue to the edge, but trusted that their years of fighting side by side in death defying situations would hold them fast.

“John, I did come on business however,” The silence still palpable. “I’ve come to ask if the latest order of weapons could move ahead of schedule by three days. I know it is a lot to ask, but I’ve brought workers to assist you. They’re waiting outside if you need them.” Still, John’s silence continued. “This is the kingdoms and the council’s command, John, and our need is urgent. We have never seen this kind of enemy movement since, well, since the Campaign of Eight. Our spies are not returning from their missions anymore. Only a handful have made it there and back again and they’ve reported an increase in activity.” Nathan’s voice was taking on an air of authority that was his just due, and John slowly perceived that his small world issues were becoming of minor concern.

Removing the sword from the fire, John struck it a couple of times with his forgers hammer, and placed it into the water basin that sat next to the hearth. Instantly, a massive amount of steam and hissing exploded, filling the room with its humid odor. John’s forehead beaded and dripped with sweat that mixed with the already drying blood on his face. Together, the crimson hued streaks ran around the forming smile on his face. Nathan responded in like manner, satisfied that their friendship had held intact.

“I can have the order done and I won’t need the workers, though I thank you for the gesture. My son and I will accomplish this task together…, or only I will,” stated John with a warmed heart.

“I can always count on you my friend… I always have.” With that, Nathan slapped John on the back and exited the hovel of the weapon master’s shop. John held the sword over the basin momentarily before plunging it into the swirling water once again. At times, he imagined that he could see his reflection, but alas, it was only the distant memory of a face much younger, younger and more naïve, like his firstborn son.