Curse

heroajax1 · Oct 09, 2006, 12:44 AM // 00:44

This is where I will post the history/fan fiction of my first character. Stelman Fellhammer. Be gentle with your critcism. Thanks. Hope you all enjoy.

heroajax1 · Oct 09, 2006, 12:45 AM // 00:45

A Brief History of the Fellhammer Clan

Chapter I

He sat quietly leaning back against the Giant Beehive Tree in the Guild Hall of Magic Rose. It was his favorite spot and he sat there often. Often enough that there was now a permanent impression of his bottom in the dirt. The lush green grass which grew throughout the guild hall stopped growing in that spot long ago. It was almost if the grass respected that area as Stelman’s own personal spot. Other members of the guild liked to sit near the waterfall and feel the soothing mist of the splashing water caress their faces. Stelman liked his tree. He liked to rest there and often thinks about his family and friends. There was only one place he liked better in all of Tyria.

The fat bumble bees buzzed quietly to and fro gathering pollen from the wildflowers and lavender to make sweet honey and their giant hive even bigger. The drones leaving the hive zipped quickly away to their chosen flower, while the ones returning could barley keep aloft from the weight of the golden pollen sticking to their legs. The hive had grown so big over the years the oak limb developed a crack in an early spring gale and drooped lower than usual. Observant as always, Stelman noticed the crack and a few months ago climbed up the tree and tied a spare piece of rope from the trebuchet’s repair kit to support the branch, ensuring he felt, that something at least in Tyria would have a safe home.

A gentle, salty-smelling breeze from the ocean caressed Stelman’s face as he stared off into the distance at the dock, knees propped up and his hammer’s leather wrapped haft leaning against his thigh. A close look at the hammer’s haft revealed the impressions of his large hands and fingers that dented the leather over the years of battle. For anyone watching, it appeared he was nothing more than a statue under the giant beehive. A sigh escaped Stelman’s lungs and he looked down into his heavy calloused hands. Most people assumed the calluses came from wielding his hammer with ferocity in battle, but his friends knew the calluses were there long before he ever thought of using a hammer as a weapon.

“Never be clean again,” he muttered to himself as he saw his hands. They were a bit on the brownish-orange side. Of course, that’s probably true of most warriors in Tyria. A small tear escaped the left corner of his piercing green eyes and a twitch of anger flashed across his cheek. Stelman stared off into the distance again, still as a statue, looking at nothing, just playing his memories over and over so he would never forget them.

No one really knew how it began anymore. That is a history long before writing even began. One thing everyone was sure of though, was the Fellhammer Clan were the finest blacksmiths in all the land. The greatest heroes in all of Tyria’s history wielded a weapon forged with the sweat and toil of a Fellhammer. People from across all of Tyria traveled far to commission weapons forged by Stelman’s father Dolan Fellhammer. Even Prince Rurik Adelbern’s Fiery Dragon Sword was forged by Stelman’s father. The king himself had come personally to the family’s home in the small fishing village in Regent Valley to commission the sword for the prince who would be entering the Academy at Nolani the following season. In his youth, Dolan learned a few elementalists’ skills from a local mage, so he was familiar with the intricate crafting required of the flaming sword the king commissioned for the young prince.

Dolan himself was a large man, with broad shoulders and over-large hands, which were stained a golden bronze from working the forge since his youth. When the town held festivals, they were often surprised by Dolan’s appearance. They usually saw the master smith wearing his thick leather apron, peen hammer in one hand, locking tongs in another and a rag used to wipe his forehead hanging out of a pocket. He was a handsome man, no doubt and even in his middle years still caught the eye of some of the younger ladies of the village. Stelman’s mother Ardara was slender and carried her self with an aura of femininity. She usually wore flowing dresses and her black hair framed a classically pale face with large, round green eyes. Dolan and Ardara loved each other deeply. Despite being married for many years they were still each other’s best friend, lover and confidant.

Stelman’s birth was the most joyous occasion in recent years of the large Fellhammer Clan. Ardara and Dolan tried for a few years to have children and almost gave up hope of being blessed. Stelman entered the world kicking and screaming. So eager to make his little presence known to the world, he appeared a few weeks ahead of schedule. Early enough anyway, that the furniture maker had to rush to finish the crib. He was a chubby baby with spectacular green eyes matching his mother’s and flame-red hair like his father. Ardara and Dolan didn’t spoil him like some parents do with their first born, but they loved him more deeply than even each other. As such, they ensured their son never wanted. Often Ardara could be seen sitting on the porch under the thatched roof; gently rocking in the chair, nursing baby Stelman while she watched the fishermen struggle to pull the nets back into the boats.

Stelman was a happy child. He always tagged along with some of the older boys in the village Aidan Bowheart and his young protégé Ivor Trueshot. He liked playing in the forest with them, mostly because he liked the animals. When he was very young, Aidan taught Stelman how to tame the local animals so they would obey his commands. Aidan instructed well enough that Stelman always had a pet to play with and guide him home when he got lost in the woods. Something that still happens to this day. Unfortunately, Dolan proved to be allergic to almost every animal Stelman managed to tame and frequently carried them back to the forest sneezing all the way. Stelman stopped taming pets after the novelty wore off. At least that’s what he said to his mother and father one day when he came home without a new companion. Ardara and Dolan thought it had much more to do with the ripped shirt and fresh bear claw marks on his ribs than anything else.

“I was not ‘brutally mauled,’” Stelman insisted as he walked up the stairs to the wash room. Dolan and Ardara chuckled to themselves as they watched their son stomp his way up.

Eventually, Aidan taught him how to shoot a bow. It took much convincing, begging and threats of punches from Stelman, which made Aidan roll on the ground with laughter before he would agree to teach Stelman how to shoot a short bow. He never quite got the feel or the ability to read the wind like the apprentice ranger. In this one case, Stelman felt that being able to shoot near what he was aiming at was good enough.

When Stelman turned eight years old or so, it was time for the fun in the woods to stop. That was ok with him though, the constant training rangers needed never really suited him all that much. Wandering aimlessly through the woods for days on end wasn’t exactly up his alley either. It was mostly just playing with the animals that Stelman liked so much. Now, however, it was time for him to take up the mantle of the family and learn to become a master smith.

The day dawned early for Stelman’s first day of work in the forge. In Stelman’s mind, the day hadn’t dawned at all since it was still dark out in the early morning hours. Ardara had to try several times to shake him out of his dreams.

“Stelman dear, time to wake up,” Ardara said as she gently rubbed his chest. With a smile on her face and a glow of pride for her son in her eyes she said, “it’s time to become a blacksmith.”

“Mrmrogph,” Stelman said as he rolled over on his side. Ardara shook him a bit harder as Stelman flailed his arms in an effort to stay asleep. After several tries with mostly the same result, the smile substantially smaller and the glow in her eye a decidedly different feel, Ardara ripped the blankets off Stelman and walked out of his room. Shivering, Stelman rolled over in the bed and fell to the floor with a small thump.

Still mostly asleep, he managed to dress himself. Of course, the shirt was on backward, the chest pocket at his shoulder blade instead of in front. He peeked between the curtains and seeing it was still dark outside thought his mother and father had lost their minds. He contemplated for a moment of getting back into bed, but Stelman knew all to well the rude ripping of the blankets from him was a warning. Next time, he knew his mother would not be so kind. She was never mean or cruel to him, ever, but she could get a bit fiery at times. When those times occurred, even Dolan made some excuse to be away from the house for several hours.

“Well,” Stelman said aloud, “out of their minds or not I’m not going to get in trouble on my first day.”

As he made his way down the stairs to the main room, the realization of what day it was hit him and instantly woke him up. He hurried down the hall to the stairs where he could see his father waiting patiently for son to come down. Stelman and Dolan left the warmth of the house and entered the crisp morning air. The tail end of the morning fog rolled off the lake and through the village as they made their way to the forge. He never really noticed before how clear the ringing of the hammers on fresh steel could be heard throughout the village. It wasn’t just because he had never been up that early before, but also because it just was. He always lived in the village and always heard the hammers ringing out. To Stelman, each ring announced the honor of his clan and in particular his father to anyone who heard. His other relatives were hard at work already and smoke billowed out of the forge’s vent. He took special note of it this particular morning and made it important to remember as many of the details as he could. The birds chirping, the sound of a frog croaking, the moist smell of the air, the dew covered grass; all were imprinted in the memory of that first morning. A surge of excitement twitched in him and he had to repress the urge to skip ahead of his father.

“I felt the same way on my first day too,” Dolan sighed, mostly to himself. Knowing his son’s exact feeling, he smirked a little crooked smile and rubbed his large golden-bronze hands affectionately on his son’s red head.

Ardara was still at the house preparing the morning meal for the Clan. Several of the members of the Clan lived in the fishing village, but a few moved away years ago to farther lands to seek their own fortunes. Stelman didn’t often get to see those relatives, but there was a great sense of joy and togetherness when the family managed to get together.

As they approached the forge, Stelman, still keen to remember every detail noticed for the first time how truly large the building was. The forge’s building was actually half again as large as the family’s stone and thatched-roof house. It needed to be that big since several of Stelman’s older cousins and uncles worked the forge. Unlike the other buildings in the village which had thatched roofs, the forge had a metal roof. It was patched a few times by one of Stelman’s relatives where the metal had rusted through, but overall was in good condition. The walls, made from large, stone blocks were carefully set in place by Dolan’s father when he built the forge. The stone blocks were at least a cubit thick and held together with only a thin layer of mortar; their sheer weight held everything in place. Even the floor of the forge was made of stone blocks. It was ungodly hot inside during the summer months since the windows were very small and didn’t let in a lot of fresh air, but the metal roof provided some safety for the village in case of fires. Dolan pulled the large knocker opening the doors and the pure ring of the hammers on the steel clangored out into the early morning mist. As he entered the dark, thick, intricately-carved double doors of the forge, the heat from the glowing coals in the hearth almost knocked Stelman off his feet. He paused for a moment before entering to catch his breath and shake the ringing out of his ears.

“Here we are son,” Dolan beamed. “Welcome to the family. Let me show you around. You’ll need to know where everything is so you can quickly bring it to the smiths. Let’s start over here,”

Dolan walked his son to the bellows’ lever. It was a heavy piece of wood suspended on a steel fulcrum which hung down from the high soot covered ceiling. It actually looked more like a giant log to Stelman, especially seeing as how much of the rough bark was still attached. The lever’s end was attached to planks of wood which were cut in a circle and bound together by a metal band. The wooden top of the bellows was as big as the family’s formal dining table, its weight easily compressing the thick, sealed leather bladder which blew fresh air into the hearth.

“Stelman,” Dolan said with a decided note of seriousness completely lost on his son. “This is your most important responsibility. You must keep the fire hot and to do that you pump the bellows like this.” Dolan demonstrated how to pump the bellows and pulled on the lever with one hand. “Up and down, just like this. Here, you try now.”

Dolan lowered the bellows lever for his son to take hold of and eager to begin, Stelman grabbed a hold. When Dolan let go however, the lever was so heavy Stelman was simply lifted off his feet and into the air several inches. Struggling to hold on and pull the lever back down, Stelman pumped and jerked his legs in an effort to make himself weigh just a bit more. It had some mild success and his feet finally touched the ground again inflating the bellow’s bladder.

“Good son, good,” Dolan said smiling at his son and repressing a chuckle of memory, “now up.”

Not finding the humor in being hoisted off his feet by a lever, Stelman got underneath it and pushed up with all his might. The lever didn’t move. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek as he blew out his breath, let out a long grunt and renewed his effort. Slowly, the bellows began to compress and blow air into the hearth. The embers glowed anew and tongues of flame sprung up randomly in the pit. Several of the smiths plunged their metal back into the fires to heat them up again to be worked. While the lever rose into the air, Stelman realized he had better grab a hold if he wanted to get it back down again. Digging his fingers into the rough bark of the lever, he held on as the weight of the top finished the job and compressed the bellows. Once again, Stelman, kicked his legs as hard as he could to make the lever go back down.

By now, Dolan was trying as hard as he could not to embarrass his son by laughing out loud at the little display. He had crossed his arms and his bronze-gold hand covered his mouth in what he thought was a look of serious criticism. Stelman didn’t notice his father. What he did notice is that several of his relatives were openly, and to him, over raucously laughing at the scene of Stelman trying to pump the bellows.

Dolan turned and gave a quick glance full of fire at the other smiths and they immediately stopped. The hammers began to ring out again as they sheepishly returned to work. Turning back, “good, son. Now over here is where we keep the anvils and the tools. For now, the smiths will get their own anvils as they need them, but you’ll need to put the tools back here on the wall before we leave for the night.”

The wall Dolan indicated was filled with row upon row of tools used in the smith’s art. Tongs of many sizes, hammers of types Stelman had never even thought of, chisels for cutting the steel and even more tools of types he didn’t know about. Below the neatly hung tools were several shelves of anvils. The anvils were all stained black from years of use and there were many different types also. Some were simple flat blocks of steel, several had a pointed knurl, a few had rounded knurls and one was completely round, mounted on a flat base.

“Over here is where we keep the charcoal we get from the dwarves,” said Dolan indicating a large cabinet set as far away from the hearth as possible. “The oil is kept there also.” Stelman noticed under the oil vat’s four-legged stand that it had a conical bottom. The bottom came to a point and a small metal tube projected toward the ground. The tube had a handle near the end, presumably to let the oil out when it was needed. Stelman’s glance returned to the charcoal cabinet. At the top of the large cabinet there seemed to be a wide tilting door that lowered down to fill the charcoal box and at the bottom was a small square door with a latch on it. Hanging from the side of the charcoal box was a wide shovel and a pail sat on the ground underneath.

“Do I need to keep the hearth filled with charcoal, dad?” Stelman asked.

“Exactly son,” Dolan replied. “You open the door at the bottom and shovel it into the bucket to carry it to the hearth. Lastly, you will need to make sure the floor is swept clean every night. The brooms are on the other side of the coal box.”

Dolan squatted down in front of his son, “dad has to go to work now, why don’t you go back and pump the bellows a few times then start watching your cousins work the steel for a bit. Your mother will be along with breakfast soon. After that, pump the bellows and help the smiths with whatever they need. Okay?”

“Sure dad,” Stelman smiled even as he eyed the bellows lever with disdain.

Breakfast was a blur. Ardara seemed to appear one moment with the food and disappear just as quickly the next moment; carrying the crockery back to the family house for cleaning. Even to this day he couldn’t remember what he ate on that first morning. To Stelman, they always seemed to be busy; rushing the hammered steel to the hearth to heat it back up for more work; rushing the red-hot steel back to the anvil After getting knocked around a few times, he learned how to observe, but stay out of the way. He learned their family crafted all types of metal and at least half of the forge was dedicated to making weapons. Dolan’s arm commanded the raw iron to take the shape he wanted. Wheels, plows, chains, tools of all sorts were crafted under the strict standards of the Fellhammer forge. Weapons were the family’s specialty, but that goes without saying.

Stelman approached the bellow’s lever to pump it and re-heat the embers with a new life. Several time he jumped as high as he could in an effort to reach the lever, but to no avail. The closest he managed to get was brushing his fingertips along the bottom edge of the rough bark. Cursing inwardly to himself, he looked around for a stool of some sort to give him just a bit more height so he could jump. He didn’t find one. It was one of the hallmarks of the clan that they stood while they worked. Fellhammers had strong legs. What he did see was a neat little stack of black bricks lying in a far corner of the forge. An idea sprung into Stelman’s head. He bustled around the forge looking for one other item he knew would help him out. He spied a large crate which stood at the end of the anvil shelves. He made his way to it and opened the lid.

Success. Exactly what he was looking for. Strips of leather his family used to make the wrappings for the various weapons’ grips. Grabbing a few, he hurried back to the stack of bricks and took two off the top. He was sweating profusely now from the heat of the hearth and his rushed actions as he sat down underneath the bellows lever. He tied one brick to the bottom of each foot with the long leather strips. Stumbling a bit as he managed to get back up to a standing position Stelman smiled with a bit of pride as he reached his hand to the rough bark of the lever. Now, with the extra height provided by the bricks, his fingers almost brushed the bottom of the lever. Rubbing his hands together and licking his lips, he squatted down for the effort of the jump to grab the lever. He pushed off from the ground as hard as he could and jumped to the lever promptly banging his face into the bottom. He managed to wrap his arms around the lever and locked his fingers in the bark. The lever slowly began to lower as it inflated the leather bladder and his brick-laden feet settled on the ground. He swung one leg around the lever to get it to lower even farther. Happy with himself, he again squatted down underneath the lever, but this time to push it back up. Both hands held overhead, his bottom almost touched his feet, he shoved with his legs as hard as he could and pushed the lever back up into place forcing fresh air into the hearth. Tongues of red and yellow flame leapt from the hearth’s embers as they radiated their heat once more.

After several more pumps of the lever, Dolan approached his son to see how he had managed to pump the bellows lever. Stelman beamed with the pride success at his father. For his part, noticing the bricks on his son’s feet, Dolan gave Stelman a, “well-if-it-works, it-works-look,” rubbed his son’s head and went back to his anvil.

“Stelman,” one of the cousins called. “I need some oil here.” Running to the vat, bricks still on his feet, Stelman grabbed the tin pan off the top and set it underneath the spigot. When the pan was full, he picked it up and began to hurry to the cousin’s anvil. He was staring intently at the amber-colored oil in the pan trying hard not to spill a drop as he made his way through the workstations to his destination. He passed one of the small windows and out of the corner of his eye, saw a red and gold flash, which distracted him from staring at the oil. He risked a glance outside through the window and saw the red and gold object was an amazingly ornate carriage of an obviously wealthy family. Pulled by four black stallions, their long manes flowed in the wind, the carriage rolled smoothly down the road past the window he was looking out of. Wanting to get a better look as the carriage rolled past, he turned quickly to go to another window. As he turned, intent on making it to a window to get another look at the carriage, he slammed into one of his cousins and the oil pan flew into the air. Stelman fell to the ground and cracked his head on the base of one of the anvils. Bright flashes of light passed in front of his eyes as he saw the pan’s trajectory headed directly for the hearth’s bright flames.

Almost as if it sensed something was coming, the fire rose up to meet the falling pan of oil. The pan plopped directly in the middle of the hearth with a dull thwap of soft metal on the glowing coals. The oil splashed out and a great fireball exploded from the hearth sending coals flying to every corner of the forge. Stelman heard shouts and commands and through blurry eyes, could see silhouettes of his cousins rushing out of the way of the flying coals. Strong hands grabbed his feet and began dragging him quickly and unceremoniously from the forge to the double doors. A rush of cool, fresh air hit Stelman’s lungs as he felt a sting across his face. Instantly his eyes were clear and he could see a huge, roaring fire where the smoldering embers used to be. Dolan and a few cousins sprinted toward the lake grabbing any bucket within reach as they rushed to get water to put out the fire. By this time, the bellows’ bladder was growing larger and larger with every passing moment. The heat of the fire caused the trapped air inside to expand and stretch the seams. Shouts could be heard throughout the village as people rushed to the lake to help save the forge. The bellows’ bladder exploded creating a new source of fuel for the fire. Stelman was blown backward, brick laden feet tumbling over his head rolling him away from the building.

At that moment, amid the confusion the red and gold carriage caught Stelman’s eye again. Despite the distance away from the forge, the stallions reared up and tugged at the driver’s reigns in an effort to get away from the fire. The carriage door burst open and a beautiful blond girl wearing a lacy blue dress, jumped out. Hands reached from inside the carriage to grab her back to safety, but she was too quick. Landing firmly on the ground, the young girl sprinted to the Fellhammer Forge. Less than a year older than Stelman, she was very small for her age and even at the distance, he could sense some sort of power radiating from her presence. He had felt it before a few times in his life. Mostly from his father when he crafted some special weapon the forge. The girl rushed past him to the entrance of the forge and stopped right in front of the double doors. The flames licked the top edge of the doorway searching for more fuel to continue to grow. Stelman tried to get to his feet to stop her from entering, but the bricks made him fall back over again. He saw a rush of air swirl around the girl and she slowly rose into the air as if being pulled up from her chest by some great power. Her arms fell open and suddenly chilled air rushed past Stelman toward the girl. He could see the girl’s bluish aura through the steam of his breath in the air. His teeth began to chatter with the newly frigid air coalescing about the girl. Brighter and brighter the aura surrounding the girl grew until he could hardly see her. Suddenly she was clear as the ring of a bell on a cold winter morning and the blue aura flew from her arms and directly onto the hearth, the maelstrom she created froze everything inside the forge and snuffed the fire completely. The patched metal roof was now a sheet of ice several inches thick. He saw a faint smile cross her exhausted face for a split second before she fell unconscious into her parents’ arms as they laid her gently on the ground. Her soft blond hair spread out on her mother’s lap.

Dolan and the cousins had made it back from the lake with their buckets just in time to see the fire snuffed out. It didn’t matter now, the fire was out and the young girl saved the family’s forge from further damage. Dolan, stared open mouthed at the young girl whose head now lay in her mother’s lap, then glanced down at the now useless bucket. Looking a little closer, he then upended it and out came a bucket-shaped block of ice, which plopped on the ground next to Stelman.

Quick of thought, Dolan ordered one of his nephews to run to get the local monk to care for the girl. Cautiously, he approached the young girl and her parents. Her mouth hung open and her eyes stared vacantly at the sky. Her mother caressed her daughter’s forehead in her lap. Dolan noticed that she didn’t seem to be quite as frantic as he was about her condition.

“T-t-thank you,” Dolan stammered kneeling next to the family. “Will she be all right? I’ve sent my nephew to fetch the monk. He should be here shortly.”

The mother glanced over at her husband kneeling on the other side of her, his daughter’s small hand in his, then she looked up at Dolan some tears were in her eyes, but also a small smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “We think so. This has happened to her before. We’re sending her to the academy at Nolani so she can learn more control. She will need a place to lie down for a bit and recover.”

“You are all welcome at my home,” Dolan said with no small amount of relief in his voice. “I will tell my wife to prepare my son’s bed for her,” Dolan gave a hard glance at his son, “after all, he’s responsible for this mess.”

“Run home and tell your mother to prepare fresh linens for your bed,” Dolan commanded as he cuffed the back of his son’s head sending him sprinting away. Brick laden feet an all.

Just then the monk arrived. Panting and out of breath he paused, a small, dark-haired, female apprentice trailed behind him. He paused to wipe the sweat off his tattooed head and knelt down next to the girl. He laid his hands along either side of her head, his fingers caressing through her hair. Closing his eyes, Dolan saw the look of concentration in the monk’s face and his lips moved silently saying a prayer to Dwayna. The monk trembled a bit then relaxed as a small blue aura surrounded the young girl. The aura vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The small girl blinked her eyes and took a deep breath.

“She will need rest for some time,” the monk advised the parents. “Do you have arrangements my lord and lady?”

The mother looked up at Dolan who nodded his head. “Yes, good healer. I believe we have arrangements. Thank you for the offer and for coming so quickly.”

“I believe there are a few others who have some minor injuries good monk. Thank you for coming so promptly,” Dolan said to the monk who walked off to find others in need of help.

The small girl’s father moved to pick her up, but Dolan laid his large hands gently on his shoulder. “It would be my pleasure, sir.” With that, he reached down and picked her up. She weighed almost nothing. So much power in such a small body he thought. Dolan was impressed with this girl. He thought Stelman could probably have carried her. “I am Dolan Fellhammer. My son, who caused all this trouble is Stelman.”

“Ah, we have heard of your noble family and the famed weapons you create. I am Himdar, this is my wife Wynnyce. Our daughter is Cynn,” the father said to Dolan. “A pleasure to meet you. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

“No, Himdar, the pleasure is mine. If it weren’t for your daughter, Himdar, I would no longer be able to make those weapons you spoke of. My home is this way. You are welcome for as long as you like,” Dolan said with a smile as they set off for the Fellhammer home.

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heroajax1 · Oct 09, 2006, 12:47 AM // 00:47

A Brief History of the Fellhammer Clan

Chapter II

TING, ting. TING, ting. TING, ting. Now it was starting to take shape Stelman thought to himself. “Time for some more fire though,” he said as he walked the basilard’s blade to the forge. Holding it tightly in the tongs, he thrust the whole blade into the smoldering charcoal. “Hmm, need some more fire here too,” he said as he eyed the charcoals critically. Leaving the tongs resting on the stone ledge of the forge, Stelman walked over to the bellows’ lever.

He no longer needed the bricks for his feet; hadn’t needed them for a few years now. He positioned himself under the lever and stretched up on his tip toes, fingers grasped the worn bark of the lever. Securing his grip, he flexed his arms and pulled down with all his might. The bellows gasped with the sudden surge of air into the bladder. He moved to one side in the rhythmic motion he did many times a day. He shifted his hands to the top of the lever, pushed down and filled the bladder to its capacity. Squatting slightly, he reached his arms underneath the lever and prepared to push it back up to give the charcoal new life. He flexed his legs and grunted slightly with the effort and shoved up with all his might forcing the air into the forge. Such was the force of the rushing air, that some of the charcoals trembled as the air blew through them. Stelman liked the new bellows and lever. Well, it wasn’t exactly new anymore. It was five years almost to the day since that fateful fire he caused. Dolan took the chance to remake the bellows system by repositioning the fulcrum on the lever. It was still just as hard to pump, but now it was more efficient. He saw a few of the fire’s scorch marks on the bricks of the forge. A smile crossed his face and a wince in his bottom made him remember the past as if it just happened.

Stelman couldn’t sit down for several hours after the fire and it was more than a week until he could sit comfortably. It didn’t bother him all that much he remembered. He knew it was deserved. His lack of attention caused that fire. Fortunately, no one but Cynn was seriously hurt. Oh, yes, Cynn. He remembered her very well as her face flashed in his memory. She was a lordly little princess she was. She took pleasure in adding to Stelman’s punishment. Seeing how it was Stelman’s fault she became so exhausted she required the monk’s help in recovering, Dolan thought it fitting his son should attend her in her weakened condition. Actually, in Stelman’s opinion, Cynn was completely fine the next day, but he ended up attending her for almost a week. Oh, what a week it was. He never got a chance to sit down. Not that he could have anyway, but that’s beside the point. First she was too cold, so he got her a blanket. Then she was too hot. He took them away. Stelman’s felt, her temperature changes seemed to occur every few minutes, which of course required his attention. He brought her meals. Accordingly, she spared no complaints about his attendance to her. Many times Stelman made several trips to the fruit bowl, since the pieces he brought her always seemed to be bruised to unacceptability. Finally, he simply carried the whole bowl up to her in his room. At that point, she declared she didn’t want any fruit now. Needless to say, he was happy to see her and her family continue on their trip to Nolani.

Several more pumps of the bellows gave a slightly blue glow to the charcoal. Satisfied with the heat level, he walked back and stood in front of the tongs. While waiting for his blade to take on the bright red glow of hot, malleable metal, his memories played out again. He crossed his arms and examined his left hand. He remembered looking at them a few hours after the tears stopped streaming from his eyes. His father was strong and had large hands that seemed to cover Stelman’s entire bottom at once. From that day forward, they never seemed to get clean. No matter how much he washed them. He let out a big sigh, “well, that’s the end of that,” he remembered saying. “They’ll never be clean again.” A smile broke across his lips though followed by a wince of pain from his bottom as he thought one day his would be just like his fathers. Now, from so many years of working the forge, Dolan’s hands were a deep golden-bronze color that extended slightly past his wrist. So far, Stelman’s hands were going the way of his fathers. Although not quite as large and somewhat black from the soot of stoking the forge, he knew that in time, they’d be exactly the same. He like that thought very much. It made him feel like he was a truly part of the family. His bottom hurt slightly less as he thought about his family and their forge.

He looked at his left hand a bit more closely. “Still tan,” he muttered to himself cleaning a spot in his palm with his thumb. “Well, better than all sooty black.” He looked at the dagger blade. “Almost ready,” he said aloud.

“It’s ready now, Stelman,” one of his cousins called out.

“Another minute or two,” he countered. Stelman was right actually. Having the blade hotter at this point made his job a bit easier. He wasn’t yet as strong as the other smiths, so more heat helped him to fold the metal on itself. The more folds, the stronger the blade one of his ancestors wrote. It didn’t really matter at all in this case. It was a ceremonial piece for some lord’s daughter. It was good learning for him though. Stelman was always a bright boy and he learned quickly after a reddened bottom and the first day’s mistake. Part of his training on becoming a blacksmith included reading his family’s history and personal journals about smithing.

Aside from the Fellhammer’s exacting standards and quality raw materials, the journals were one of the keys to the family’s success and renown at their trade. Unlike most blacksmiths who simply teach the next in line about how to smith, the Fellhammers actually wrote their knowledge down. Typically, in a blacksmithing family, the father teaches the son who teaches the son and so on. What happens with this tradition is the knowledge gets changed over time as perceptions take over, memory fades or flat out disagreement about technique changes the knowledge. About eight generations ago, one of Stelman’s ancestors had the brilliant idea to write his knowledge down so his son could always reference his father’s thoughts after he passed to the Underworld. This tradition continued as each member of Fellhammer clan contributed to the wealth of knowledge. By now, the Fellhammers had a virtual library of information about every aspect of the smithing trade. The head of the clan, in this case, Dolan, is responsible for maintaining and adding to this knowledge. Dolan not only kept a personal journal about his discoveries of metallurgy, but required each of his smiths to do the same. Upon a Fellhammer’s death, the journal was given to the head of the clan for review and addition to the library.

Over the next several years, he learned all he could about smithing. Stelman spent hours after working in the forge absorbing all the knowledge he could from his family. On more than several occasions, Ardara found her son asleep at the writing desk. She always took the book and put it reverently back on the shelf before waking her son to send him off to bed. Personal instruction from his father during the day and intense study of the journals at night was his life for as long as he could remember. Pump the bellows, fill the charcoal, bring the oil, sweep the floor, hang the tools, eat supper, read, sleep, do it all over again. It wasn’t the most exciting life by any stretch of the imagination. Some days he did long to go to the woods and get himself a new pet, but overall, he was happy. He was making a place for himself in his family. By the time he was nine, Dolan allowed him to make arrowheads and ceremonial daggers unsupervised. He still made a lot of horse shoes and nails though. When he was 10, he made his first pair of tongs. Of course, they promptly fell apart when he tried to squeeze what would have been a horse shoe.

“Tools are hard to make,” Dolan assured his young son. “You did better than I did when I made my first set. Yours at least opened and closed. I hammered my rivet in too hard. It swelled up from my hitting it and permanently kept the jaws in the open position.”

“I didn’t hammer mine hard enough then,” Stelman asked, his memory echoing.

Stelman snapped back to the present. He had a basilard to finish today. It was nice and bright red now. He picked up his tongs off the stone ledge and thrust them into the charcoals to retrieve the blade. Sparks flew up and cracked as he shook the particles of charcoal from the blade. Returning to his anvil, he retrieved his hammer. Unlike many smiths who only use one hand to hammer and the other to hold the tongs, Stelman switched sides. He didn’t know why he did it. He seemed to remember reading something in the journals about balance. So he alternated his hammering hand to keep the balance. No other smith in the forge did anything like that. Not even his father did. For a while, his cousins picked on him, but after they saw Stelman’s determination, they stopped. Today, was left day. Grasping the tongs in his right hand and the hammer in his right, he began working the blade of the basilard again. He only needed to finish shaping the point and all the parts would be finished. He would be able to complete the assembly of the basilard after dinner.

TING, ting. TING, ting. TING, ting.

“Is that dagger for the Duke’s daughter done yet,” Dolan shouted over the ringing of the hammers.

“I’m just finishing the assembly now, dad,” Stelman shouted back over the crackle of charcoal in the forge and the searing of steel being tempered.

“Well, hurry up. You need to take it to the jeweler in an hour or so to for him to mount the gems on it,” Dolan warned his son. “I want to see it before you leave with it.”

“It’ll be done, dad. No worries.”

Now that the blade was cool enough to handle, Stelman began the meticulous assembly of the cross, pommel and grip. After laying the parts on his anvil, he walked over to the box where they kept the leather for making the grips. He selected three narrow strips of dark red leather. He felt it would compliment the golden-colored cross nicely. When the jeweler dropped off the gold wire Stelman would use to secure the leather grip, he advised he would be using rubies and diamonds for the decorative jewels. Returning, he stood the hilt upright with the crossbar down on the anvil. He began braiding the leather strips, being extra careful to twist them as he interlaced them together. The twisting he felt added an extra detail which suited a ceremonial dagger very nicely. It wasn’t practical, but it was for the duke’s daughter who rumor has it wasn’t very practical herself. The combination of the scroll work he carved into the cross and the twisted braids of leather made a nice touch. When he finished the braids, he took up the gold wire and began wrapping it around the new grip. In this case, he chose a simple twisting wrap around the new grip. Usually, he would have chosen to do a crisscross pattern of the gold wire. Since he chose to make the grip a twisted braid, he felt the simple wrap would set off the leather detail much better. A combination of the simple and complex would become Stelman’s hallmark and his contribution to their family’s name.

He slid the ornately-scrolled cross and newly finished grip over the tang and rested it against the blade’s shoulder. The hard part of the assembly was the pommel. It was a tricky exercise to hold the pommel in place while trying to pop in the capstan pin. Poorly made weapons did not have a tight fitting pommel. The pommel’s job is to hold everything together. It’s a tight fit and a correctly made dagger or sword should never rattle. Fellhammer weapons never rattled. Holding the tapered pin in his teeth, Stelman pushed the pommel into place. Looking at it he could just see the holes barely lining up. Quickly and maintaining the pressure, he bent his head down and pushed the pin in place enough to hold the pommel in place. He grabbed the small pointed hammer and gently tapped the pin all the way in.

Now that it was complete, Stelman began an exacting inspection of his basilard. He grabbed the rag hanging out of his pocket and wiped his brow. He started by checking the shape of the blade itself, making sure the shape was symmetrical. He twisted it in his hand to check the blade itself by sighting along it’s edge. It wasn’t sharp, but it didn’t need to be. It did need to be straight and not twisted in any way. Next he checked the fuller. That part was an unusual request for a ceremonial dagger. They usually didn’t have fullers, since it wasn’t necessary. They weren’t designed to be used in actual combat, but, the Fellhammers followed the golden rule of their customers. “He who has the gold makes the rules.” Stelman remembered reading his great, great, great, great, great uncle’s description of a fuller. Commonly, but incorrectly, fullers are also referred to as a “blood grove” or “blood run.” Fuller’s have nothing to do with blood however. The fuller is a small channel along the blade which allows the smith to remove material and create a lighter blade. The blade’s strength is maintained by giving an alternate shape to the steel. The challenge with a fuller is to make sure the same amount of material is removed on both sides. For a real weapon, this is extremely important as it affects the blade’s balance. The basilard simply needed to look the same on both sides. Now, the real test. The balance test.

Turning slightly to block this next test from view of the other smiths, Stelman laid the cross along his index finger and kept the blade parallel to the floor. “Let me get it right this time,” he thought to himself. Closing his eyes, he took his other hand away. So far, so good. He could feel a slight movement of the basilard. The pommel slowly dipped down and the blade’s tip rose. A bit more, a bit more it rolled along the width of his finger. It fell off. The pommel clunked the stone floor. He cursed himself. This was one of the true tests of a quality weapon. To Stelman, it didn’t matter that it would never be used, it was the point. He wanted it right. Sighing inwardly, he picked up his weapon and walked out to find his father.

Stepping out from the hot air of the forge into the much cooler fall air, Stelman took a deep breath of fresh air. The smell of the water tickled his nostrils and he cracked a smile. It was nice to be outside of the smoldering forge every once in a while. He stretched back, turned his face up to the sky and felt the sunlight’s natural warmth hit his face. He took another deep breath and could distinctly smell animal. He cracked open an eye and tilted his head toward the smell. There he saw a beautiful brown and white spotted horse. The horse let out a snuffle and a snort while its front foot dug at the ground a bit. Stelman didn’t know a lot about horses, but he did know something about craftsmanship. Seeing as how he still primarily made horseshoes, he moved over to inspect the ones on this horse. Since the horse was mostly facing away from him, he walked the long way around to make sure he didn’t spook it. Confidently, he approached the horse and noticed the fine quality of the saddle work. The horse took a few steps toward Stelman and extended his head to get a better smell. Stelman reached out his hand and rubbed the horse’s head.

“How are your shoes,” Stelman asked. The horse snuffled in response. “Let’s take a look.” Kneeling down, he lifted the fore hoof and gave a quick inspection of the shoe. Quickly and efficiently, he proceeded to the other three shoes giving them a once-over. “Well, looks like you’ve only thrown a couple nails. Shouldn’t be a problem though. Someone takes good care of you. Well, your feet at least,” he said. Giving the horse’s neck a couple of pats, he walked away leaving the horse to continue inspecting the grass around the forge.

Looking around for his father, he spotted him sitting at the table under the awning where the workers had their breakfast and supper. He wasn’t alone though. Dolan was in a deep discussion with a man dressed in a red cloak. Since the man’s back was to Stelman, he could easily see the golden symbol of King Adelbern woven into the fabric of the man’s cape. The two were reviewing a small stack of scrolls and Stelman noticed his father had a serious look on his face.

These functionaries of the king seemed to be arriving more and more often Stelman thought. This was the second one this week and it appeared he had some importance to him; if the quality of his cape were any sign of his position. He thought it best to let them finish their discussion and turned to walk back into the forge to start sweeping up when his father called out to him.

“Stelman, my boy,” Dolan said as he rose from his chair. The man his father was speaking to turned in his seat to look. “Come here. I’d like you to meet someone.”

Stelman walked to the table and Dolan came to his side and put an arm around his son, resting his large golden-bronze hand on his shoulder. “Son, this is the king’s quartermaster, Merrow.”

“Nice to meet you,” Stelman said. He felt his father squeeze his shoulder a bit. “Sir.”

“You as well, young master,” Merrow said. “You’re a big lad. How old are you my boy?”

“Thirteen, sir”

“A nice young age to begin your instruction in the family trade. How long have you been working the forge,” Merrow asked.

“About five years now. I started just after my eighth birthday.”

“Excellent. Following in the family tradition I see.” Noticing the basilard, he smiled and proceeded, “you make that dagger,” Merrow asked with a glance at Stelman’s light-tan hand.

“It’s a basilard, but yes, I did. I believe it’s for the duke’s daughter.” Stelman had to repress a wince as he felt his father’s squeeze his shoulder at the correction made to the quartermaster.

With a glance up at Dolan and a raised eyebrow, Merrow asked, “may I see it?” Dolan cracked a smile at the quartermaster and winked an eye as Stelman passed the basilard to the quartermaster pommel first. Even though it was a ceremonial piece and not sharp, he still observed the proper handling of a weapon. Merrow took it from Stelman. A quick inspection of the piece earned Stelman a nod and a smile from the quartermaster.

“Excellent work you’ve done there, my boy. You’ll be just like your dad in a few years.” Stelman beamed with pride at the recognition. “Althea will love it I’m sure. I was under the impression that you were commissioned to make the basilard, Dolan,” Merrow asked.

Dolan gave a quirky smile, “you think they’ll notice?”

“No,” Merrow chuckled, giving a slight smile and shake of the head. “You’ve taught your son very well. I wouldn’t have known had I not been here to ask about it. Certainly someone like Althea would never even pay attention. Very good work, Stelman,” he added looking back to Dolan’s son. Returning to the business at hand, “so, Dolan, you think you will be able to do that in six months?”

“As long as the arrangements for supplies have been made with Ironhammer, there should be no problem with that order,” Dolan answered.

“Excellent,” Merrow said rising. He extended his hand to shake Dolan’s to seal the agreement. “I can always count on the Fellhammers to do what’s necessary. The king’s army appreciates the dedication your family has shown over the years. Many a good soldier has been spared because of the quality of your weapons.” Merrow gathered up the small stack of scrolls and placed them into a saddle bag which lay on the ground next to his chair. “I’ll let Grast and Tydus know their requests will be fulfilled.”

Merrow gave a quick sharp whistle as he walked away from the table. His horse walked up and stood next to his master. Securing the saddle bag in place, he slipped a foot into the stirrup and mounted his horse. He gave the horse a couple of pats on the neck and said to Dolan, “I’ll see you in about six months then. Thanks again.” He nudged his heels a bit to the horse’s sides and trotted off toward Ascalon City. They watched him ride off for a bit before Dolan turned to his son.

“Well,” questioned Dolan.

Stelman did not reply. He merely looked down and shook his head slightly.

Dolan held out his hand for the basilard, “how bad is it?”

“Better than last time,” Stelman answered eyes looking at the ground as he gripped the blade and offered the handle to his father.

“Couldn’t possibly be much worse,” Dolan chuckled.

Stelman smirked sheepishly as his father began inspecting the weapon. He, like his son started with the symmetry of the blade.

“This is good, son. This one side is just slightly off from the other. See how you made a slightly sharper angle here than here?”

“No.”

“Here, look at it this way,” Dolan said as he held up the basilard to the light of the sun to compare the shape. “See, right here and here. This side is just a hair different than this side. This side was a left-day wasn’t it?”

“Umm, probably,” Stelman replied. Being right handed naturally, his left hadn’t quite caught up to the quality of his right. It used to be much worse.

“If you want to keep switching like that, you need to do it right. That’s why I stopped doing it. My lefts were always horrid. Nice work on the fuller. Looks like you got the depth right on both sides this time. I like the wrapping on the grip also. Very nice. Good attention to detail. Especially on a ceremonial dagger like this one. Okay, now for the real test. Let’s see how bad it is.”

Dolan laid the cross along his index finger just as his son did a few moments ago. After a few seconds, the blade tip rose and the pommel sagged. Slowly, slowly it rolled on Dolan’s finger until finally it fell with a thump in the dirt. Dolan looked at his son and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not all that entirely bad,” Dolan advised. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s only for ceremonies anyway. All these critiques are only things we Fellhammers will ever notice. Sure, the balance is off; any blacksmith or soldier would notice that, but daggers don’t matter as much. Better to be slightly heavier in the grip anyway. Makes the blade move a smidge faster. The problem is that it will get worse. The jeweler is putting some rather large gems on this. The largest is going in the pommel. That will make the balance worse. Did you ask the jeweler how much the gems weighed?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I took the gems’ weight into account when I made the pommel,” Stelman said. “I think I forgot about it.”

“You can’t forget son,” Dolan said gravely. “When you start making the real weapons, you have to take everything into consideration. The ornamentation, the size and weight of the user, the user’s strength, the materials; all need to be considered when crafting quality weapons. It’s a nice basilard. You did good work. The duke’s daughter will never notice it. She’ll be too wrapped up in the rubies.” Dolan smiled at his son. “Take it to the jeweler on your way home and start your studies. I’ll be along for dinner in a bit. When you get home, pull out your great, great grandfather’s journal for study tonight. He has quite a detailed description about how to account for those things. Tomorrow I want you to read your great, great uncle’s journal. He wrote a long entry about how to make corrections to balance by removing and adding metal in different areas. That should help you out in the future until you get the precise measurements and weights down.”

“Sure thing dad,” Stelman said as he took the basilard back from his father and turned to make his way to the jeweler’s workshop.

“Make sure you wash up before you open any of those books. I don’t need you leaving your mark on the Clan by having your grubby little fingers over all the pages,” Dolan called out after his son as he walked back to the forge.

“Dad,” Stelman replied as he glanced at his hands. “It’s not like they’ll ever be clean again anyway.”

“I don’t care, just do it.” Dolan slammed the forge’s door closed. Stelman rolled his eyes and walked off toward the jeweler.

TING, ting. TING, ting. TING, ting.

Stelman’s arms were loaded with swords and he trembled a bit with their weight as he made his way to the forge’s double doors. Each sword was wrapped in an oil cloth to protect the blades from rusting. Usually, the Fellhammers also crafted the accompanying scabbards, but apparently Merrow advised it wouldn’t be necessary for this large order. Stelman knew from the dinner table discussion Dolan had strongly objected to leaving the scabbards for any-old blacksmith to make.

“These are Fellhammer blades. Each scabbard must be custom made,” Dolan had blurted out at the table one evening and almost sent his food flying out of his mouth. Apparently, it had bothered him, even a week after the meeting with Merrow. “Especially since the blades will be Fellhammer blades. What in the name of Balthazar’s beard is Merrow thinking.”

Ardara had smiled at her husband’s passion for his work. This is why she fell in love with him. It wasn’t just about the fact the swords would represent the Fellhammer Clan in battle, but the fact Dolan knew it wouldn’t be done correctly. She knew it bothered him to think his work was in someone’s hand that wasn’t up to the Fellhammer standards. Stelman smiled at his father also. He also knew from his studies and having made a few himself, that a scabbard was not just a point of pride and family honor. All scabbards were custom fitted to the sword it would sheath. Each sword, no matter how meticulous the blacksmith was in crafting it, could not be exactly duplicated. There would always be some slight difference from sword to sword.

“He’s thinking that he gave you a large order to complete in a short amount of time,” Ardara had replied with a pleasing smile at her husband. “Besides, it’s not the scabbard that counts, it’s what’s inside.”

“Pffffft,” Dolan muttered. “You two … he said the same thing.” Dolan took an extra large forkful to give him time to think of an appropriate response. Ardara smiled with a twinkle in her eye, knowing this was the most important point.

Only three months passed since Merrow placed the order, but they were finished with the requested amounts of swords. Stelman shoved the door open with his shoulder and stepped outside into the biting cold air of winter. The Winter’s Day Festival was in just a few days. The soldiers destined for the swords he carried would be extra pleased with their gifts this year. “Really,” Stelman thought. “What could a soldier want more than a Fellhammer weapon?” It was the perfect gift for them in his opinion.

Stepping through the door he kicked it closed and made his way to the waiting wagon loaded with the other swords. It was a normal winter day; overcast, quiet and windy at the same time. The snow squeaked under his boots as he walked the short distance to the wagon and steam rose from his sweating chest into the crisp air. His father had a scroll in hand and was counting the crates of swords his two cousins were lifting into the wagon. Stelman knew from loading several that each of the 20 or so crates contained 50 swords each. They were quite heavy and even his cousins struggled a bit lifting them into the wagon. The wagon’s driver, being typically lazy and not wanting to do any real work, sat in the driver’s seat with an impatient look on his face. Another man wearing the king’s livery stood next to Dolan looking at the scroll and counting the crates as they were loaded.

“Oh, good. The last ones,” Dolan said hearing the snow squeak as his son approached the wagon. “That crate over there,” indicating the one remaining crate with an open lid. “Help him out.” Apparently he still wasn’t pleased at his swords not having scabbards Stelman noted. He had been like this for a few weeks and Stelman was cautious around his father lately. The cousins walked over to him and took a few swords each and placed them carefully in the almost full crate. As the burden of the swords was taken from Stelman, he began to stand up straight again and knelt down to place the remaining swords in the crate. Pulling a hammer out of his leather loop, his cousin nailed the top firmly in place. They loaded up the remaining crates and the king’s functionary handed Dolan several large bags heavy with gold coins from the chest located under the wagon driver’s seat. Payment for their sweat and toil.

Several hours after the sword laden wagon left, Stelman was sweeping the floor behind the forge of ashes, soot and steel flakes from the day’s work. His cousins and uncles were taking their tools to the racks and preparing to bank the forge for the night. They all heard a loud banging as of someone knocking on the forge’s doors. It was unusual and they all stopped and looked at the doors. No one knocked on the door of a forge. Between the fire and the hammering, and the shouting no one would ever hear it. You just walked in and shouted to the nearest person to get some attention. The only reason they heard it now was due to the fact they were getting ready to leave for the day. The banging sounded again. Raising an eyebrow and shrugging his shoulders slightly at everyone, Dolan walked over and opened one side of the double doors. Curious to see who would bother banging on their door, they all inched closer to it to see who was outside.

Another functionary of the king. Stelman rolled his eyes. “What do they want now,” he thought and made to continue sweeping when he saw his father bow low.

“All hail King Adelbern,” the functionary shouted as he stepped to the side opening the other door. Instantly everyone bowed low. Cold air rushed into the forge causing Stelman to give a slight shudder. Broom in hand, Stelman stood there stunned, mouth wide open. The king, himself coming to the Fellhammer forge? Looking outside he could see there were two rows of guards. Standing at attention, they formed a path leading to a large carriage pulled by a team of six horses. The carriage driver opened the door as a footman placed the padded steps at the edge of the doorway. Their jobs’ complete, they each took a step back and stood at attention like the guards.

From the shadowy interior, Stelman could see movement. A hand reached out and grasped the doorway, a boot touched the top step and a shining gold crown poked out followed by the king. The king was an older man. Not elderly by any means. Even at this distance, Stelman could tell the king had been a strong and handsome man in his youth. He knew from the history his mother taught him the king was once a guild champion. He was no stranger to battle and that was one of the main reasons his people liked him. He kept his people well fed and protected them from their enemies. As the king approached the doors to the forge, Stelman noticed he walked with the confidence of a trained warrior. He suspected the king probably didn’t need the guards and that although certainly well trained, they were in all likeliness mostly unnecessary. King Adelbern could handle himself. His red cape flowing in the wind, he walked toward the forge.

“Dolan, I told you before when I bestowed the title on your family,” the king said as he entered the forge. “You don’t have to bow to me. It is I who should be grateful to you. Your family’s weapons and the arms of our heroes have kept our enemies at bay for many years.”

Title? Stelman knew nothing of a title for their family. He knew they were revered, but that was of course for their weapons nothing more. Wasn’t it?

“I merely make them your majesty,” Dolan humbly replied rising. “It’s the people who do the fighting that keep the enemies away. We just sent the swords to Quartermaster Merrow. Was there some probl ….”

Adelbern cut him off, “I’m sure they are fine. I’m not here to discuss those swords. I have a favor to request of you privately.”

“Of course, your majesty anything,” Dolan answered with curiosity. “Perhaps my house might be ….”

“No. Here is fine. I’m in a bit of a hurry to get back to Ascalon City,” Adelbern said cutting him off again.

“That’s all gentlemen,” Dolan said to his family. The Fellhammers quickly and quietly exited the forge. As they did so, the functionary shut the doors. Suddenly the king’s shoulders dropped and he stammered out his next words as if reluctant to hear them aloud.

“My,” he started and stopped. After a long pause in which Dolan grew visibly uncomfortable. Something was deeply troubling the king. “My youngest son is dying.”

“Oh, my lord. I had no idea,” Dolan said with a soft voice. “From our family, please accept my deepest condolences. I’m not sure how I can help though.”

“The royal monks tell me he won’t live out the night. I wanted to come to you personally and ask you for a favor.” There was a dull thwack of wood on stone. The broom had slipped from Stelman’s hand and fell to the ground.

“Any thing my lord.” Dolan’s head snapped to look where the sound came from. “My deepest apologies for any offense, my lord. This is my son. He was supposed to leave with the others.”

“I hate wearing this thing,” the king sighed as he removed his crown and rubbed his other hand on his forehead. He slid his fingers through his iron gray hair and placed the crown on the ledge of the forge. “It gives me a migraine sometimes. It’s all right, no offense at all.” The king looked over the forge at Stelman. Even from this distance Stelman could see the kings eyes welling up. “Come here and let me see you.”

Stelman didn’t move.

“It’s all right. I don’t bite. Let me have a look at you.”

Gingerly Stelman willed one foot to move forward. Slowly he made his way around the forge, between the anvils to where his father and the king stood. He stopped several feet away and bowed low as he had seen his father do. Not sure what to do, he didn’t stand back up though. The king took a few steps toward Stelman.

“Rise, it’s ok. Let’s see you,” the king said gently. “Big strapping lad you are. You’re definitely a Fellhammer.”

“This is my son, Stelman,” Dolan said with a small smile of pride.

“About 15 now, by the look of you.”

“Thir … thir … thir… teen,” Stelman stammered. “Your majesty.”

“My son’s age.” Stelman barely heard the whisper.

The king approached Stelman and very gently placed a hand on his shoulder. With his other he tilted Stelman’s head up to get a better look at him. The king’s hand had a gentle touch even though Stelman could feel the calluses from years of wielding a sword. The king stared at the young smith for a long time. Stelman could sense the ache in the king’s heart at the coming loss of his son. The king continued to stare, but Stelman sensed he was not looking at him, rather that he was seeing his son in his memories instead. Stelman looked at the aging king. The warm red light from the charcoal of the forge illuminated the torment in the king’s face. He could see the sagging skin underneath his eyes from little sleep. His eyes were red and puffy from the weeping he had been doing. After quite some time in silence with only the soft sound of the smoldering charcoal, Dolan cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the way the king looked at his son. He couldn’t see that the king was not really looking at Stelman, but was temporarily lost in his memories.

“Uh, your majesty,” Dolan said quietly breaking the silence. “You wanted to request something of me?”

Dragging himself back to the present he turned to Dolan and replied slowly, “yes. I’d like you to make the burial sword for my son. As a young boy, he and Rurik liked to play with the wooden toy swords. He always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a guild champion one day.”

“Of course my lord. I’m honored. Did you have anything specific in mind.”

“Not really. I would just like him to have it when he passes into the Underworld and shakes off this illness he’s had for most of his life. Perhaps it will remind him of what he wanted to become. At least that’s my hope. Of course you know the myths of the monsters there who prevent unworthy souls from reaching the glory of Balthazar. I’d like him to have something to defend himself with if that be true. Who better to make that sword than you?”

“I’m honored you would think of me your majesty. I will get started immediately.” Dolan looked as if he were going to continue speaking but stopped when he noticed his son behind the king. Noticing Dolan’s gaze, the king turned slightly, looked at Stelman then back to Dolan.

“What is it?”

“Your majesty, I was thinking. With your permission of course, that perhaps in this case, Stelman might be more suited to crafting your son’s sword?”

Stelman’s eyes practically popped out of his head with shock. “Me, make the young prince’s sword? Dad’s gone crazy, I can’t do anything like that,” he thought to himself. The king looked back at Stelman, turned to Dolan once more looking a bit skeptical.

Before the king could raise an objection, Dolan said, “I would be with him every step of the way. I was merely thinking of this since our sons are the same age, it would be like one family honoring; bestowing a mark of that family’s honor. My son honoring yours with the best he is capable of doing.”

The king looked over at his crown. The polished gold reflected the red glow of the forge. Seemingly reluctantly, he picked it up and observed the jewels set at even intervals all the way around. He seemed incapable of wanting to do anything or make any decision. He sighed and set the crown back on his head, for a moment, it seemed the idea of Stelman crafting his son’s sword lessened the burden of grief. He nodded to Dolan silently, “is a week enough time?”

“It will be finished as you command your majesty.”

Turning toward the doors the king left with a final word, “it’s a favor Dolan, not a command.”

“Yes, my lord.”

************************************************** ********

heroajax1 · Oct 09, 2006, 12:48 AM // 00:48

A Brief History of the Fellhammer Clan

Chapter III

ThwakThwakThwakThwak “Owwww,” thwump.

Stelman lay on the ground with stars in his eyes and a massive headache forming over his eyes. Sweat dripped down his face from the hot summer sun that blazed overhead didn’t help alleviate the stars in his eyes. A massive figure moved over him silhouetted by the sunlight, weapon pointed at Stelman.

“You can’t parry an overhead strike like that,” Dolan said to his son. “You’ll get wacked in the head every time. Slow down too, we’re not in a hurry here.” He switched his wastel from golden-bronze right hand to his left and reached down to help his son up from the soft sand of the training circle. Stelman grabbed his father’s hand and shakily stood up to his feet. His head throbbed a bit from the smack his father had given him. Now at 15 years old. Stelman was almost as tall as his father. A few inches shorter and several narrower, he would grow up to be just as, if not bigger than his father.

“That’s why we use these wastels and not real swords like we make. How’s your head,” Dolan asked steadying his son.

“I’ll be fine, dad. What am I supposed to do? I can’t tell when that hit is coming,” Stelman said rubbing his head and trying to clear out the last bit of flickering from the stars.

“All right. Watch me again,” Dolan said as he jabbed the point of his wastel in the ground. “When you see my feet do this cockstep,” he made a little skipping step that kept his lead foot in front, “you need to change from the close guard stance you use at the start the fight to the crown stance I showed you. It’s a higher form of a defensive stance that will allow you to get the block up over your head quicker. Watch again,” he shuffled his feet again.

“So when I see that cockstep, the chances are I’m gonna have to block over head,” Stelman asked.

“It’s a good chance that will happen. Most fighters would choose to use an overhead cut because they keep a good balance in case the cut is blocked. Better fighters will chose to do something else coming in for the attack from this type of footwork. The key for you is to watch their body movements. If you see the hips make a slight twist toward one side or the other chances are it’s going to be some sort of side attack. Your opponent will lose a bit of power from that type of attack, but it usually works,” Dolan instructed his son.

“Well, great, dad, when can I learn that?”

“When you learn to block properly,” Dolan said with a finality that left no question in Stelman’s mind that he would not be learning to attack any time soon. “It’s more important to learn to defend. When it comes to sword fighting, well, any fighting actually, a good defense is the best offense. If you know how to defend properly, then the attacks will flow naturally from the defense. You’ll be able to more easily see your opponent’s defense mistakes and take advantage of them.”

“Okay. Show me again what I’m supposed to do.”

Dolan retrieved his wastel and stood next to his son in the low guard position. Stelman copied his pose. At the same time they proceeded through the series of three defensive movements, Dolan smooth and efficient as he proceeded from one position to the next, his son sort of stumbling through the movements. They repeated this several times until Stelman no longer tripped over his feet changing from one position to the next. Dolan stopped his movement to more closely watch his son and provided corrections to insure his son wouldn’t get rapped on the head again.

“Think you’re ready to try again,” Dolan asked his son.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Stelman said with a bit of uncertainty.

Dolan moved around to face his son and raised his wastel to the ready position. “Guard up,” he said quietly. “Ready, good. Here we go.” He smoothly thrust his wastel toward his son who parried it a bit slowly, but managed to avoid getting poked. Dolan then took a slight step forward and performed and outside cut which was easily blocked. He quickly cockstepped and performed the downward cut which Stelman managed to block this time. “Good. Much better this time. See how you got yourself into the proper position to block the attack?”

“Yeah, that was easier. Again,” Stelman asked as they moved back to the center of the training circle.

“Yup. You need to learn how to use the weapons you craft. You don’t need to be good with them, but at least have a working knowledge so when someone commissions you with specific requirements, you’ll know what they’re talking about.”

“Isn’t that kind of our job? I mean aren’t we supposed to be making the weapons to deal out the damage,” Stelman asked not really sure of what even he meant.

“Yes and no son,” Dolan replied understanding his son’s unspoken question. “What you need to keep in mind here is that people are different. They have different fighting styles, techniques and skills they prefer to use over others. So, yes you’re right in that’s our job to dictate how the weapons should work, but sometimes, some modifications to the weapons are better suited for one technique over another. Make sense?”

“I guess. Sort of, but not really.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. Trust me. As you start to learn more and more, you’ll see what I mean. Not every warrior out there uses a sword. Some prefer axes and a chosen special few,” Dolan said with a gleam in his eye, “actually prefer hammers.”

“Wait, you can use a hammer as a weapon,” Stelman asked. Holding his wastel up, “then why am I learning how to use this thing?”

“How many swords have you made,” Dolan asked rolling his eyes.

“Less than 50.”

“And how many axes?”

“A couple.”

“And how many hammers?”

“Ummmm ….”

“Exactly. Guard up.”

Stelman sighed as he raised his wastel and prepared to defend himself, again and again.

“Wake up honey,” Ardara gently nudged her son’s shoulder. “Please don’t drool in the books, you’ll ruin the family’s history. Supper’s ready.”

Stelman lifted his head from one of the family’s many smithy journals laid out on the study table.

“Ok, mom. I’m coming,” Stelman replied sleepily.

“Looks like you had a hard day of training,” Ardara said noticing the bruise on her son’s forehead as she brushed his red hair out of his eyes.

“Yea, I still can’t get that overhead parry correct,” he said wincing sat up straight.

“Here, let me help you a bit,” Ardara said as she sat on the table next to her son. She laid both hands gently on either side of his head and closed her blue eyes in deep concentration.

As she slowly tilted her head toward his, Stelman could hear his mother whispering something. As she moved closer and closer, her black hair fell around them and he began to feel calm and cool. The throbbing in his head slowly diminished, allowing him to feel more and more relaxed. Ardara had leaned in so close now that her head almost touched his. The shimmering, golden necklace Dolan made for her as an engagement gift hung down into his view. It was a beautiful and extremely intricately crafted rose in full bloom. He was just getting ready to reach up and touch the charm when a slight flash of blue light interrupted his thoughts. Suddenly he felt much better.

“How’s that,” Ardara asked as she sat back upright looking over the place where the bruise used to be.

“Wow, much better. Thanks mom.”

“Sure thing,” She smiled at her son lifting the journal he fell asleep in. “Just pay better attention to your father next time. I don’t have much training in healing to deal with anything more serious then mending a broken bone or two. After supper, I’ll sit and work with you over the economy of blacksmithing. It’s not your father’s strongest area of knowledge and my side of the family has several relatives who are merchants.”

“Oh, good. I didn’t understand any of that. What’s for supper?”

“You’ll see. Now, wash up. It’ll be just a few miutes.”

“They don’t come clean anymore, Mom,” Stelman said looking at his bronzing hands. What’s the point?”

“Because I’m your mother and I said so,” Ardara smiled sweetly. “Do it anyway,” not so sweetly.

Stelman and Ardara retired to the study after supper while Dolan cleaned up the kitchen. Stelman sat on one side of the table and Ardara on the other. The study smelled exactly as one would expect. Like old books. The table they sat at was old, but well cared for. The wood was dark, highly polished and a corner was stained black. One day a few years ago, while studying, Stelman tipped over a vial of ink. He was a bit tired when it happened and wasn’t quick enough to clean up the ink before it stained. The last remaining light of the setting sun burned brightly through the window and gave an orange glow to everything inside. The table almost appeared to be on fire, the summer light was so intense. In a corner of the room was the small writing desk and chair Dolan used for writing in his smithy journal. The matching straight-backed chair was pushed in against the desk and everything was neat and organized. There were a couple of vials of ink in a cubby, a jar with extra quills. In the corner of the desk were Stelman’s and Dolan’s leather bound journals as well as a few extra blank ones. Stelman had been working on his first journal for several years now, while Dolan was close to completing his second one this year. That was okay with Stelman. He knew he didn’t really know anything about smithing yet. He would probably be considered to be a good smith by most standards, but the Fellhammers being who they were had higher standards and he was only considered an apprentice. The oddest thing about the desk, contrary to most of the Fellhammer’s furniture was a complete lack of any decoration or carvings on the wood. It was completely plain. It was stained dark to match the table and shelves of books, but no other decoration. Not even on the back of the chair.

“It keeps my mind clear for writing,” Dolan had explained one day when Stelman commented on the lack of design on that piece of furniture. “I take my journal writing very seriously Stelman. As head of the Clan, it’s my job to pass on the knowledge I’ve acquired to you and the rest of the family. When I write, I want my mind clear so my journal doesn’t get filled with unnecessary details. I’m not a very good writer, but I am exact. The plainness of the desk helps me stay clear headed.”

Having read several of his father’s journals as part of his studies, Stelman would tend to disagree with his father’s stated lack of writing ability. His father’s knowledge of the smithy was amazing. No single person in the history of the Clan knew as much as Dolan did.

Ardara lit the two oil lamps on the table. It was hard to tell they were lit due to the sunlight still streaming into the study, but without them, the room would be black in just a few minutes.

“So,” Ardara started with a quirky smile on her face, “what did you find too boring to keep your eyes open before supper?”

“I don’t understand the merchants, Mom,” Stelman answered. “Nothing about them makes any sense. Why they exist, the items they carry, prices they set. None of it.”

“Okay. It’s pretty simple to understand, you’re probably just getting caught up in the details rather than just trying to get a general view of their place in trade.”

“Well, as far as I can tell, the picture is huge.”

“It is, but let’s try and make it a bit more simple. There several types of merchants. We’ll use Ascalon City as our example. They have a lot there. As their most basic function, merchants bring buyers and sellers together. They acquire large amounts of items and sell them to people who need them. There are general and specialized merchants. General merchants will buy and sell just about anything. Some of the specialized merchants are material traders, craftsmen and artisans. There are also armorers and blacksmiths like you and your dad. There are two types of material traders. Common and rare. For example, our Clan purchases tanned hides from the material trader to make the leather grips for the weapons and tools. We also buy charcoal to heat the forge from the rare material trader. Rare materials are a bit harder to come by, so they’re more expensive. Make sense?”

“Yeah, that does. The journal I was reading didn’t quite explain it like that. That’s so much easier to understand. The journal was so complicated with numbers and quantities and who you could and should trade with … blech. I couldn’t understand it.”

Ardara smiled. “It was probably your great uncle’s journal. He was a bit complicated himself. Let’s continue.”

She continued to teach Stelman about the basic economy of Tyria; supply and demand; trade routes and crafters. Eventually, Dolan came in to write some notes in his journal. He was only there for a few minutes and didn’t say anything to disturb his wife’s lesson. When he finished, he merely kissed her cheek on the way out of the study.

Stelman continued to study at night and train with a sword during the day. In fact, to him, it seemed that was all he was doing. Rarely, he’d felt he picked up a hammer to make a repair let alone craft anything. He actually started to miss hammering the steel. After a few weeks, Dolan stopped instructing his son in sword play. Lately, there seemed to almost be a desperation in his instruction. He informed Stelman that his cousin Jaylyn would be taking over. Jaylyn worked in the forge with the rest of the Clan, but Stelman never had much interaction with her since she was a bit on the quiet and withdrawn side. She was petite, especially for a Fellhammer, but was very strong. She had long flowing blonde hair speckled here and there with gray, which she usually kept tied back out of the way. Most men would consider her to be pretty, but to Stelman, there was something decidedly harsh about her. He couldn’t quite ever put his finger on it, but he thought some of that might be due to losing her husband in The Guild Wars. He was some high ranking officer in the Ascalonian Army and apparently was killed in combat. Jaylyn didn’t speak of it much. Well, she didn’t speak much at all.

Jaylyn was a perfect instructor for Stelman. During the war against the Krytans, Jaylyn enlisted in the Ascalonian Army. She led several successful battles against the Krytan’s guilds including the Nebo Offensive and the Siege of the Watchtower Coast. Eventually, the Warmasters at that time recognized her prowess with not only a sword, but her battle strategies as well and made her Captain Instructor of the Ascalon Academy. There she oversaw the training and instruction of new army recruits in basic and advanced combat techniques. She even had a hand in teaching Prince Rurick. After serving for many years and the sorrow over the loss of her husband, she retired from the army. Stelman seemed to get the sense that her work in the smithy served two purposes. One to take out her anger at the world and two, to provide the best weapons possible. Stelman overheard her one day muttering to a sword she was inspecting, “well, if you die, it won’t be my fault you didn’t have a good enough weapon.” He didn’t think she was speaking to the sword.

To say that Jaylyn was brutal with Stelman would be an understatement. He had been practicing with a sword for several weeks now, but even so, the next day after her instruction, he couldn’t lift his arm. Jaylyn didn’t seem to care. She simply made him use the other one. When he couldn’t lift that one anymore, she made him do exercises. So exhausted was he at the end of the training days, he didn’t even get a chance to study anymore. He almost fell asleep in his supper one night. A couple of weeks passed under Jaylyn’s cruel tutelage. He was better for it though. Toward the end of their training, he was able to hold his own against her attacks … for a while anyway.

Stelman returned to the forge after a month or so of his cousin’s instruction. He relished in it. He commanded the steel to take shape under his hammer and anvil. He probably took out some of his frustrations with Jaylyn also. Dolan would have preferred Stelman keep training, but Merrow had commissioned a large number of axes. They were almost near the deadline and every hand was needed to finish on time. Most of the axe heads were completed, so Stelman was given the task of mounting them to the handles and wrapping on the leather grips. Normally, each smith would choose the handle and wrap it himself, but because there were so many, Dolan decided to leave the easiest task for last. It still required the Fellhammer quality, but it was simpler and less time consuming than, say tempering the steel heads. Stelman had to work quickly to finish by the deadline. When he started with the first few, it took him about 30 minutes to complete each grip, but by the time he got down to the last few, he was completing them in less than five minutes.

“That’s the last of them, Dad,” Stelman said handing the final axe to Dolan for inspection.

Dolan didn’t need to inspect his son’s work anymore. He did so many over the last several days that his quality now rivaled the master’s. The speed at which Stelman completed them was certainly much faster than Dolan’s.

“I want you to write a journal entry on your wrapping technique tonight instead of studying,” Dolan said as he looked over the axe. “Tomorrow we’ll deliver the axes to Merrow. In fact, write it in my journal. I want you to write it as if you were teaching someone with no experience. Make sure you write your name at the end. You’ll be writing in my journal, but the credit belongs to you. Be neat and legible about it too.”

Stelman was stunned. Never before had his father asked him to write in his journal. He had been keeping his own journal, but it was more of a record of what he was learning. For the first time Stelman would be sharing his knowledge with the Clan.

“Get to be d as soon as you’re done. We have a very long day ahead. We may need to travel up to Yak’s Bend to get iron and charcoal from the Dwarves. I hope not, but we may need to.”

“Sure thing, dad,” Stelman answered barely containing his disbelief at his father’s request.

Dawn came early for Stelman that day. He was up for most of the night. He was excited to be getting up to the big city. Usually, they only traveled to Ashford. Most of the merchants they dealt with could be found there. The weapons they made mostly went to Ascalon City, Fort Ranik or the Academy. Once or twice a year, the dwarves in Droknar’s Forge would request some specialized tools. Mostly though, Stelman’s lack of sleep came from his journal entry. Several times, he neatly tore out a page and started over. He had trouble organizing his thoughts because he was contributing to the clan and knew it would be available for future members to read. He woke in the middle of the night with the overwhelming urge to re-write the whole thing. He finally decided against it thinking it would be better to let Dolan read it over and decide.

When they arrived at the forge, the wagon was loaded with the crates of axes and the horses were being haltered to the wagon. Dolan went inside the forge to give the instructions for the day while Stelman climbed into the wagon and took a seat on the bench. He placed the pack with their lunches underneath the seat along with Dolan’s sword … just in case trouble showed up. Dolan came out of the forge, quickly took a seat in the wagon, shook the reigns a bit and they were off. The forge quickly disappeared in the morning mist.

“I read your journal entry this morning,” Dolan started once they were comfortably on their way to Ascalon.

Stelman held his breath.

“I thought it was really good. Very nice way of explaining how you wrapped those axes so quickly. That technique you used is adapted from how you wrap your daggers isn’t it?

“Yeah, it is. It’s a bit quicker, but more functional since the axes will be used in combat and not for just decoration.”

“Show me how you do it.”

“I don’t have a …”

“It’s ok,” Dolan interjected. “Just show me your hand movements in the air.”

Stelman quickly demonstrated.

“No, no, no. Slow down. I need to see how you are turning your wrists.”

He slowed down to clearly show his movement.

“Ah, I see now, you do a full twist with your wrist. That would make for a rougher handle, turn the rough side out,” Dolan said mostly to himself.

“It does,” Stelman explained hearing his father’s comments. “The rough part of the leather wears down pretty quickly and since I used the size two leather strips, the twists seem to fall between most men’s fingers and prevent the weapon from sliding around and causing blisters.”

“Hmm. Good point. We’ll point out the change to Merrow and ask him to let us know how the soldiers like it. When we get back we’ll add a drawing to the journal entry you made. I think it will help make your explanation easier for future readers to understand.”

They rode quietly for a while, Dolan pointed out the various wildlife; river scale, stone elementals, Melandru’s stalkers and some grawl. When he pointed out the sloth of black bears, Stelman glared at them and rubbed his ribs slightly. Dolan suppressed a chuckle remembering his son’s experience at trying to charm one. When they were about halfway to Ashford three blood sworn bandits jumped out of the nearby trees and rushed the wagon. They startled the horses enough to make them stop.

With swords drawn, they approached the wagon. “We’re hungry men good farmer. What have you got there,” one bandit asked eyeballing the crates in the wagon.

“One, you have no business stopping us,” Dolan answered so coldly and calmly that even Stelman was startled. “Two, I’m not a farmer, I’m a black smith. And three,” Dolan continued, slid the long sword out from under the bench seat and laid it across his lap. “what we carry is none of your business.”

The bandits looked nervous.

“That’s a really big sword,” one of them whispered. “He’s probably just got farming tools anyway. Nothin’ of any real value.”

The first bandit thought for a moment, glancing at Dolan’s sword, then his golden-bronze hands, his arms and finally locked his gaze on Dolan’s. “Meh, forget it. It’s not worth the effort for useless farming tools. Let’s get out of here.” With that, the bandits disappeared back into the trees as quickly as they appeared.

“Wow,” Stelman said blowing out his breath not realizing he had even been holding it. “I thought we might have to fight them for a minute there.”

“No,” Dolan answered and shook the reigns to start the horses again. “Bandits like them are basically cowards who simply want easy pickings and no fight to get it. We would have been too much of a problem for them.

After another hour or so they crossed over the Ashford Bridge and Stelman could see the Great Northern Wall. It loomed large over the southern portion of the Kingdom of Ascalon. People use it as their “landmark” to determine which way is north. Stelman knew from his studies that the City of Surmia is just north of the Great Wall along the wall’s eastern edge. Many of the worlds greatest artisans travel to Surmia to live, work and visit its museums. The Nolani Academy of Magic is on the western edge of the wall and also north of the Great Wall. The academy serves as a magical university of sorts. Some of the richest families in Tyria arrange for their children to study at the academy. South of the academy was the king’s city of Rin. It’s where the palace was located and served as the capital of Ascalon. Eventually, they made their way through the main gate only stopping to ask a guard for directions to the quartermasters’ offices.

As they pulled into the quartermasters’ section, a shout came from behind them.

“Dolan Fellhammer!”

Dolan and Stelman turned together to see Quartermaster Merrow waiving at them and walking toward their axe-laden wagon.

“Good to see you again, Dolan. You too Stelman. Wow. You’ve grown. Almost as big as your dad now. Not a moment too soon either. Are they done,” Merrow asked eager to see the order of axes.

“Of course. You think I drove up here for my health or to see that silly grin on your face,” Dolan replied with a glint in his eye.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Merrow laughed and clapped his hands. “Let’s see them. I know there’s many a soldier who’s looking forward to one of your axes.”

Dolan slid down out of the wagon and shook hands with Merrow. “Of course they are. They should be looking forward to using one of my hammers though.”

Merrow rolled his eyes slightly as if this was an ancient discussion about to continue. “Yes, yes, I know as well as you do your hammers do amazing damage. More damage than swords and axes do. For some reason we can’t convince the new recruits to try them out. They seem to like the extra protection the shields offer. I agree with you,” Merrow quickly cut off Dolan next comment, “kill the enemy before he has a chance to kill you. Hammers certainly fit that bill. Let’s get these unloaded and get you back to your forge. We need more weapons.”

Dolan looked shocked. “More,” he asked. “Stelman, help them unload. We must have equipped most of this year’s recruits already. What’s going on? We still need to pick up some supplies and head back before nightfall.”

On? What is going on Stelman wondered. He tried to listen to Merrow and Dolan’s conversation as he helped unload the wagon.

“It’s not going well I’m afraid Dolan,” Merrow said quietly, sounding exhausted. “The Charr are relentless and for some reason they seem to have a lot more power than they ever did. It’s almost as if they’re getting help from somewhere or something beyond any of us.”

“What do you think will happen,” Dolan asked.

“I’m not sure, I hear the King Adelbern expects an invasion at any time. We’ve got smiths working day in and day out making weapons to equip the army. Most of your weapons are going to the officers.”

“I’d rather see them going to the hand of those doing the real fighting. Maybe they’ll stay alive longer.”

“Well, you’re the one who has to make the finest quality weapons in the world. They go to the finest soldiers in the Army. They aren’t always the best fighters, but they are the best leaders. You should know that by now.”

“Oh, of course I do,” Dolan smiled. “I just want them to be used that’s all. Not serve as decoration.”

“Trust me, in these times all of them get used,” Merrow said confidently.

“Speaking of decoration … Stelman, open up a crate and bring me an axe. I want to show Merrow your new grip.” He took the axe handed to him and showed it to Merrow. “See here, Stelman developed this grip. We’d like to know how the soldiers like it, see if it works any better.”

“Hmm, that’s very interesting,” Merrow said taking the axe from Dolan and giving it a few test swings. “Very comfortable grip. It doesn’t seem to move around in my hand as much. I’ll let the drill sergeants know when they collect their requisitions for their recruits.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, you mentioned something about wanting to commission my Clan again?”

“Oh, yes. We need shields this time … a lot of them. Step into my office, we’ll discuss the terms while they finish unloading.”

Stelman waited patiently for his father to conclude their business. When Dolan returned he was carrying a large sack of gold. Payment for the axes, but to Stelman, it looked as if it was on the large side even for the speed at which they filled the order. Dolan noticed his son’s glance at the leather bag.

“For the axes and a down payment for the shields,” Dolan said placing the sack under the bench seat.

“How many does he want?”

“A lot son … a lot,” Dolan trailed off.

Stelman noticed his father seemed to be rather absentminded for the rest of the day. He barely put up any sort of a haggle with the merchants over the supplies they needed. As they were leaving the city, Stelman had to grab the reigns from his father to prevent the wagon from knocking over a merchant’s tent.

“What’s going on, dad” Stelman asked genuinely concerned for his father. He had never seen him act this way before.

“Oh, nothing. I’m sorry. Here you drive I need to think,” he handed the reigns over.

As they exited Ascalon City through the main gate, Stelman asked, “Dad, what’s a Charr?”

Dolan didn’t seem to hear him and Stelman let the question go unanswered. They rode home in silence, Dolan lost in his thoughts and Stelman replaying the conversation he overheard hoping to gain some insight as to what was going on outside the kingdom.

************************************************** ********

heroajax1 · Apr 11, 2007, 11:40 PM // 23:40

A Brief History of the Fellhammer Clan

Chapter IV

The day dawned on the Kingdom of Ascalon. It arrived with no fanfare from the palace guards, no tolling of bells from the priests calling the citizens to worship. Even the livestock in the market quarter remained strangely silent. King Adelbern sat at his large desk. His sunken eyes were bloodshot from being up all night. His face was gaunt and hollow. He held his head in his hands struggling to keep awake and review the reports from the army’s leaders. His cape had been thrown into the corner of a couch sometime during the night; his crown tossed on top of it an instant later.

The warmasters’ reports were spread across the desk. Some were so hastily written, the king cold barely even read what was written, others were stained with blood. As Adelbern shuffled through them, his jaw became more and more firm.

“Scribe!” Adelbern shouted.

The study’s door slowly opened and the scribe entered from the front office suppressing a yawn.

“No time for sleeping,” the king said as he opened a side drawer in his desk. He pulled out a vial of ink and a quill. From another drawer, he retrieved a small sheet of parchment and laid this on top of the reports he had been reading. “Have a seat. I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course, my lord,” the scribe managed to say before a yawn captured his breath again. “Anything you need.”

The king uncorked the vial, dipped his quill and began writing. As the quill scratched across the parchment quickly, the ink became the king’s commands. A warm breeze blew in through the open windows rustling the reports a bit. He finished writing. As he stamped it with the signet wring, he stood and addressed his scribe again.

“These Charr are relentless, but we shall hold the wall at all costs. I will not allow my kingdom to fall to these mangy beasts from the north. Take this message to Sir Tydus.” He handed the sealed message to the scribe. “Tell him to search far and wide; go forth and recruit the strongest and the smartest heroes from all the land. Bring me the bravest in all of Ascalon. Find me heroes who will lead our kingdom to glory. We shall drive the Charr back across the border and obliterate them from the face of Tyria.

The scribe took the king’s message, bowed and departed without a word. Addlebern turned back and walked to the window overlooking the City of Rin. As he watched his people carry on with their daily lives, tears streamed down his face. In just a short while, everything they have ever known will come to an end.

The warm morning breeze drifted through the open window caressing Stelman’s peacefully slumbering face. He smiled gently and cracked his eyes slightly. Stretching out, he let out a roar; the roar of a good night’s sleep. He noticed he’d been doing that a lot over the last couple of years. His feet hung over the edge of the bed as he stretched again. He brought his knees up and kicked off the linens and sprang out of bed. He was happier than he had ever been in his life. As he grabbed his clothes, he thought about the events that occurred to him over the past couple of years. Last year on his sixteenth birthday Stelman officially became a member of the Clan. Birth was no guarantee of membership in the Clan. Only on the sixteenth birthday do members officially declare their loyalty and swear allegiance to the Clan. Still, official was official and Stelman was official now. As an early seventeenth birthday present, Dolan promoted him to forge foreman. Some of the older smiths retired wanting to spend time with their families. This also had the added benefit of allowing Dolan to focus on bartering, trading and meeting with military personnel to show off the strength of their weapons.

Mostly, Stelman reflected as he laced up his heavy work boots. He was happy because of his contributions to the Clan’s fame and honor. He was now fully aware of Ascalon’s war with the Charr. Every sword he hammered out meant another dead Charr; every shield a live Ascalonian soldier. He definitely felt good. He knew in his heart he was making a contribution. He knew he mattered and his work mattered. He looked at his hands and felt a swelling of pride. They were deeply tanned now and beginning to take on the traditional bronze color of the Fellhammer smiths. The surge of pride in his heart welled up in him again.

Off to work, he thought as he stood. He ran his massive hands through his long, flaming red hair. A heavily calloused finger scraped the sleep from the corner of his green eyes. He looked at the gunk on the tip of his finger and wondered where it came from. Opening the door with the other hand, he stared at it as he walked down the stairs to the kitchen to grab a snack before heading off to the forge. Ardara noticed him staring at his finger as he entered the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He walked over to where she stood preparing the Clan’s morning meal, jabbed the gunked finger in her face and asked, “what’s this?”

“Eww! Get that out away from me! Where did you get that,” she exclaimed.

“This morning from the corner of my eye,” he explained innocently.

“It’s dried tears,” she answered sounding relieved. “Wipe it off and get to the forge. Your father said to make sure … NO!” she slapped his hand away from the cooling sausages. “You wait for breakfast like everyone else. Take an apple and get to work. Dolan expects those Rinblades done and crated up by midday.”

“Yeah, I know. We’re almost done. There’s a dozen or so that need to be assembled. Then they all need to be oiled and crated. We should be done just after breakfast. Is he coming back from his meeting with the dwarves today?”

“Yes. He stayed in Ascalon last night to meet with Merrow about the next orders. He’ll be back soon to give a final inspection of those swords before you take them up to Ascalon this morning. You’ll also need to pick up the materials from Merrow and talk to Miller Upton. We’re running low on flour. Probably Farmer Dirk as well, we need more sausages …” she trailed off. “Well, nevermind that now. I’ll have a list for you before you go. Now, off to work.”

He hugged his mother almost hiding her completely in his huge arms. “Bye mom. See you in a little bit.” He walked out and headed off the forge. By the time he arrived, several of the smiths were there preparing for their day. Tools were quickly grabbed off the racks, specialty anvils removed from the shelves while Stelman approached the bellows lever. He reached up with his right hand, grabbed a hold and started to pump the bellows. At first, there was no noticeable affect, but after a few minutes of his vigorous labor, the charcoal glowed an angry red. Tongues of flame leapt up from the smoldering forge and created odd shadows against the walls.

By now, all the other smiths had arrived. They all grabbed their first part and plunged them into the forge. Once everyone had their parts in the fire, Stelman announced breakfast and lead them outside where Ardara was finishing laying out the morning’s meal.

“All right. Let’s get some eats,” Stelman said handing out plates to everyone as they got in line. “After we eat, I want everyone on oil and crate duty. I’ll wrap the last few swords. We’ll all load up the wagon for delivery to Merrow. I want to be back before nightfall to get the new orders going. Everyone good with that?”

They all nodded politely as they ate. Eventually, the discussion turned to the war with the Charr. All of the Fellhammers felt good. They knew they were doing their part as best they could. They all worked their best for long hours hoping their weapons would keep the soldiers alive. They quickly finished their meal and walked back to the smoldering forge. Stelman grabbed the dozen or so swords still needing a grip and got to work on them while everyone else crated the finished swords. When everything was ready, Stelman walked back home to hitch the horses to the wagon. As was his custom, more habit really, he inspected the horses’ shoes. He hitched them up and was about to drive off when both Ardara and Dolan came into the barn. They held hands like school children. Stelman noticed both gripped a little tightly.

“Hey, mom, dad. Welcome back. The swords are ready for your final inspection. He smiled at his parents. “How was the trip?”

“Good and bad. I think Ascalon might be in some very real danger son,” Dolan answered somberly.

“What?” Stelman replied shocked. “What did Merrow say?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. Our meeting was very brief. Little more than ‘hello, here’s your order. Questions? No, good, I’ll expect them in a month.’ There’s murmurings of a serious invasion from the Charr. Most people I spoke with feel it’s several weeks away, but unless the king and prince do something soon, even we might be in danger.”

“Why us?”

“Think son. What do we do? We’re supplying the Charr’s enemy with the means to resist. Our Clan is known all throughout Tyria. Even those whom we’d rather not know us, know of us.”

“When you get back tonight, we’ll sit and talk about where we might go until the war is over,” Ardara continued for her husband.

“Run away?” Stelman asked. “The soldiers need us …”

“Yes, they do,” Dolan interrupted. “We’ll not do anyone any good if we’re not here to make the weapons the army needs. I talked with King Ironhammer’s people. They said they would be glad to have our Clan stay with them for a while.

“But …” Stelman started. “Jaylyn taught me about this. Cowardice in the face of the enemy … or something light that. Soldiers are hanged for that.”

“We’re not soldiers,” Ardara reminded her son. “We are a family of smiths with only a cursory training in weapons. Admittedly, you’ve had more training than almost all of our family aside from your cousin, but even so, you are no match for a battle-hardened Charr soldier. We are not in any abandoning our people, but we can’t risk staying any longer. If the Charr breach the Great Northern Wall, they will come for us with all haste. They will come to destroy. They will show us no mercy. They will exterminate us because of who we are and what we do. Deliver those swords and come back here as quickly as you can. We need to leave the day after next. Your father and I will be packing up the library and our money.”

Stelman simply nodded and turned to climb the wagon.

“Think about it this way,” Dolan said as he walked over to help his son get into the wagon. We’re getting a chance to work with and possibly learn from the dwarves. The dwarves son. The finest metalsmiths in all the land agreed to take us in. No one else.”

Stelman cracked a slightly dreamy smile of awe at that thought. He nodded his head again. Lost in his thoughts and feelings he was unable to do more. He settled into the seat and shook the reigns to head over to the forge. Once there he barely watched as the swords were loaded. When the wagon’s gate was closed, he headed off toward Ascalon.

Lost in thought, he allowed the horses to canter unguided. He wasn’t concerned. They knew the way. Anytime they get hitched to the wagon, they really only went two places. Ashford or Ascalon. Since they were on the same road, they simply walked relying on Stelman to tell them when to stop. He looked around, his green eyes trying to take in every detail of his home before he left … for who knew how long. Part of him knew his father and mother were right. Their small village wasn’t capable of handling its own defense. He had never known his father to fear though. Stelman knew he wasn’t being completely honest. How could the Charr possibly be winning the war? They had been forging weapons for the army for as long as Stelman could remember. Letters from soldiers’ families arrived every week praising them for their craftsmanship. The army’s smiths’ weapons broke once in a while and unfortunately, the soldier wielding it soon after. Stelman knew it. He felt it. Leaving now was wrong. He’d talk with his mother and father when he got back.

He passed a few of the outlying houses of Ashford. He was still studying the landscape to try and remember it all when the wagon came to a rather sudden stop throwing him from his seat. He fell forward and was doubled-over the front foot rail half in and half out of the wagon.

“What in the name of Balthazaar’s blasted beard …” he started to curse. Then he heard it. A low deep growl reached his ears as he righted himself. He began to tremble with a small amount of fear. He looked up and saw a large black bear blocking the road. “Oh, you,” he muttered. His hand involuntarily moved to his ribs. “Shoo, go away!” he shouted. The bear didn’t move. It licked its lips. Apparently thinking horse might make a good lunch … and diner; probably breakfast too.

“Don’t you even think about it,” Stelman shouted as he grabbed his sword and leapt down from the wagon. As he moved around the front of the horses, sword held at the ready, “these are not for lunch. Go away!” he shouted firmly.

Suddenly realizing what happened, the bear got rather testy about its meal being interrupted. Rearing up on its hind legs, it let out a loud roar and lunged at Stelman as it fell forward. Familiar now with how bears tended to brutally maul their prey, Stelman nimbly jumped off to the side and swung his sword down in a powerful attack which hit the bear squarely on the back cutting a deep wound into its flesh. The bear howled out in pain and slashed Stelman across the leg. Stelman and the bear danced around each other for a few moments both swinging often; Stelman with his sword, the bear with its teeth and claws. Just as Stelman was getting a little light-headed from the loss of blood, the bear reared up preparing again to brutally maul its opponent. He acted quickly while the bear was off balance. He stepped in and gave one final thrust with his sword straight into the bear’s chest. The bear let out a howl that shook the ground. It collapsed straight on top of Stelman crushing him down to the dirt road, sword and all.

The weight of the bear’s impact on Stelman blew the air from his lungs and caused him to black out for a moment or two. One of the horses snuffling in his ear snapped his attention back to reality. He quickly looked around and came face to face with the bear’s head and teeth. A brief panic ran through him. Realizing where he was made him desperate to get out from under the bear’s corpse. He pushed up against the bear’s lifeless body with all the strength he could muster. It didn’t budge. He redoubled his efforts making his face and angry red and renewed his dizziness in the process. The bear’s body managed about an eighth of a turn which resettled back onto Stelman when he relaxed. Exhausted from the effort of fighting and now trying to move the bear, he decided to rest a few minutes. Looking around, he saw the horses standing over him. He made a soft cluck with his mouth and urged the horses closer. One lowered its head to its master and licked his face. Stelman scratched behind its ears with one hand and grabbed the bridle with the other. He clucked again and the horses slowly backed up dragging him along. At first the bear moved along with him, but after a few feet, the bear’s lifeless body rolled off. Once free, Stelman got shakily to his feet. Once the dizziness passed, he stood up straight and looked around. He reached around the horse and gave it a big hug. He sighed his relief as he turned to face the bear.

“Well, no sense in wasting good meat,” he said aloud as he rolled the body over to inspect it. I’ll drop you off at the butcher’s in Ashford while I finish delivering the swords. If I can get you into the wagon, that is.”

He grabbed the sword from where it fell out of his hand when the bear landed on him. It was covered in blood and he knelt down to wipe it off on the fur. With most of the sword clean, he returned to the wagon and grabbed a rag from under the seat to finish the job. He left the sword on top of the seat just in case any other predators decided to show up. He picked up the reigns and walked the horses with the wagon around the bear’s body so he could load it from the rear. Once in position he set the wagon’s wheel lock in place and lowered the rear gate. Instinctively, he knew this was a problem he wouldn’t be able to tackle with his muscles alone. The bear easily outweighed him at least three, probably closer to four times. So he paused and let his brain do the work. Nothing happened. Time passed. Still nothing.

“How am I going to get you up here?” he asked the bear. The bear didn’t answer. “Well, I suppose I could drag you behind the wagon all the way to Ashford. You probably won’t taste very good after that though.” The bear said nothing.

A bird’s chirp from a nearby tree branch caught his attention and he looked up. A smile crossed his face. He was going to have bear steak for dinner. He retrieved a rope from under the wagon’s seat and unhitched the horses. He moved the horses closer to the tree branch and tied one end of the rope to the hitch. He threw the looped end of the rope over the branch and it fell with a plop on the dirt road causing a little cloud of dust to poof up. He walked the rope over to the bear and tied its paws up. He then walked back to the wagon and released the wheel lock. It was angled downhill already so, it only needed a little bit of guidance to roll next to the bear. It rolled perfectly into position. Stelman was almost giddy with his success. He set the wheel lock again and walked back to the horses. Looking up he wasn’t sure it would hoist the bear because of the angle of the branch. He moved in front of the horses and gently pulled them forward. The rope tensioned and dragged the bear to the cart. Slowly, the bear rolled on its back, paws up, held by the rope. Now, the moment of truth. As Stelman led the horses a bit farther long, the rope started to slip on the branch and slide toward the end. He changed the horses’ angle a bit toward the tree. The bear lifted off the ground and slid up the side of the wagon. Higher and higher. Stelman had to be careful now. Too high and it would swing all the way over the wagon and pass right over it. He inched the horses along now. A single step at a time. The bear was almost over the side. He stopped the horses, fearing they would walk too far.

“Stay,” he command as he walked to the wagon. He thought he’d try muscling the bear over the side just to be safe. He walked around the wagon and set himself in position under the bear, thinking that if he pushed with his legs, it might be better than just his arms. Shoulder set firmly in place, he shoved with all his might and tipped the bear over the side. The bear swung over the wagon and hit the other side as Stelman expected, but did not go all the way over the far edge. He walked back to the horses, while the bear dangled over the wagon. He got in front of them and gently pushed them back lowering the bear into the wagon. Quickly, he untied the bear, stowed the rope under the seat and re-hitched the horses. With a big smile on his face, he hopped into the seat and chucked the reigns until he was moving along at a quick canter. He arrived in Ashford in just a short while.

Once in town, he made his way to Farmer Dirk’s home. Dirk was a pretty famous pig farmer, but also served as the local butcher. Dirk’s hogs had won so many prizes, the hog judging committee finally just awarded him a life-time grand prize and politely asked him to never again enter competition. In exchange, they also made Dirk the permanent Grand Marshal of the annual Hog Festival. Stelman remembered Dirk’s name from his youth and knew that he was an honorable man who took it all with great stride. Stelman spotted Dirk in his sty slopping his hogs.

“Huzzah, Dirk!” Stelman shouted and waved to the farmer.

Dirk looked up a bit confused as he didn’t recognize the huge man driving the wagon. He waved politely though and made his way toward the sty’s gate.

“What can I do fer ya sonny?” Dirk asked as Stelman stopped the wagon.

Stelman noticed the questioning look on Dirk’s face. “You don’t recognize me do you?” he asked.

Dirk pushed back his hat and scratched his head. “Nope. Can’t rightly says as I do. Sorry about that my boy. Although I think I should remember one as big as you.”

Stelman chuckled and extended his hand to the farmer, “well, the last time we met, I was only about half as big. Stelman Fellhammer,” he said as he shook hand with Dirk.

“Balthazaar’s beard boy. Looka the size of you. What’s that mother of yours been feedin ya?”

“Well, hopefully she’ll be feeding me some bear tonight.”

“Oh ya?” Dirk asked.

“Yeah, one of them thought my horses might make a good lunch and supper. He wasn’t too happy when I convinced him otherwise,” Stelman explained.

“Oh ya,” Dirk asked again.

“Yeah, do you think you could cut him up for us?” Stelman asked. “I have to stop by the miller’s with our flour order and drop these swords off in Ascalon. Then … oh yeah,” he reached into his pocked and handed the list from his mother to Dirk. “Mom wanted these things too. Do you think they’ll be ready by the time I get back?”

“Hmmm. I have most of this ready to go,” Dirk said perusing the list. He put it in his pocket and looked up at Stelman. “Let’s see this bear of yours though.”

Stelman led the farmer to the back of the wagon and lowered the gate.

“Whoowee, that’s a big one,” Dirk exclaimed appraising the bear.

“Weighs a ton too,” Stelman added.

“Let’s see. Git ’im on the table. He’s gonna take the rest of the day to slaughter for you,” Dirk advised.

Stelman and Dirk backed the wagon up to the slaughter hut as close as they could get it. Stelman dropped the wagon’s gate again. They both pulled the bear out of the wagon and slid it onto the thick butcher table. Stelman shook the farmer’s hand and set off for Ascalon again. As he rounded the corner from the farmer’s, the Abbey came into view and he heard someone shouting from inside a nearby house.

“You said it would be done today!” a deep voice shouted and shook the house’s windows. Stelman involuntarily slowed the wagon.

“It’s not my fault. No pelts have come in and the traps have all been empty lately,” replied a woman sounding on the verge of tears.

“It’s always excuses with you. Get it done by the end of the week. If it’s not delivered by the day after tomorrow, I’m gonna cancel the order and find someone else to do it,” the man roared. “I’ll be at duke Barradin’s. You do know where that is?” he asked snidely.

Stelman stopped the wagon just as the door to the small house flew open and a man ran past leaving, not even bothering to close the door. A woman walked out after him. She plopped down dejectedly on the gray stone steps and began to cry. Stelman’s heart broke for her. He hopped down from the wagon and approached the woman.

“Excuse me miss?” Stelman asked.

“Oh,” she gasped. “You scared me.”

“I? I scared you? After that?” he thumbed over his shoulder indicating the direction the man ran off.

“Stupid Thom. He doesn’t realize that it’s not my fault I can’t finish. I simply don’t have the materials.”

“What are you making … miss?”

“Oh, Allison. Allison the tanner. I’m making a bear cape for ’Lil Thom. He thinks he’ll look soooo gooood in it with his new guild and everything. Guild leader …” she muttered mostly to herself. “Pfffft … idiot couldn’t lead a horse to water.”

“I thought guilds were outlawed?”

“Oh, they have been. Well, no, that’s not right. After the Guild Wars, no guild was allowed to have guild halls or land in Ascalon any more. So, they moved all their halls to the Battle Isles, just south of Lion’s Arch. The king didn’t outlaw guild membership, just their halls being on Ascalonian soil. He thought that might stop all their fighting. It didn’t work. They simply moved and fight their war games there instead. Thom is starting his own guild and commissioned me to make a cape for them. Of course he wants a big cape too. I need another pelt to finish it, but I don’t have one.”

“Pelt of what?” Stelman asked.

“Bear. Weren’t you paying attention?” Allison smirked.

“Hmm. I think I might be able to help.”

“Really?” Allison asked elated as she jumped up.

“Actually, yeah. One of them tried to have my team for lunch and dinner, so, me and my sword convinced him otherwise. Now, he’s going to be my lunch and dinner. You can have the pelt if you want it.”

“Really? Oh, thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouth ankyouthankyou,” she hugged him. Then suddenly realizing what she did, let him go, cleared her throat and smoothed down her clothes. “Ummm,” she started a little sheepishly. “Where did you say the pelt is?”

“Farmer Dirk is slaughtering the bear for me now. You can have the pelt. Just tell him I said it’s okay.”

“Yay! Thank you so much. I’ll talk to Dirk right now.” With that she ran off toward Dirk’s house.

Stelman got back in the wagon feeling pretty good about being able to help Allison. He chucked the reigns again and continued on toward Ascalon. He turned his wagon north and when he got past the trees, he could easily see the castle buildings and ramparts. He chucked the reigns again eager to make his delivery and get home with his bear steaks. His stomach rumbled at the thought.

As he crossed over a small river, he got in line with all the other wagons making their deliveries and slowly inched toward the main gates. Usually only one or two guards were posted at the main gate, but for some reason, there were at lest 20 with more manning the ramparts. The catapults were loaded and set with tension on them. Cauldrons of oil were boiling. “Geez, he thought, were they inspecting an invasion?” The closest any enemy had ever gotten to Ascalon City was at least 10 miles north of the Great Wall. They actually seemed worried.

“Eww, a beetle,” a high-pitched voice shouted. “Can you help me?”

Stelman looked around.

“You look like a great hero. Can you help me?” the voice asked again.

He looked around some more and still didn’t see anything. He slid to the left side of the wagon and looked down. Nothing. He slid to the right side and looked down again. There looking up at him was a small girl with a bowl-cut hairdo and a pale blue dress. Her eyes were red and puffy. Obviously, she’s been crying.

“Was that you?” Stelman asked?

“Yes, you look like a big strong hero, would you help me?” the small girl asked again.

“This is going to be trouble,” Stelman thought to himself. Despite his misgivings, he put on a bright smile, “sure, what can I do for you? Kill the beetle?” he hoped privately.

“I dropped my flute just on the other side of the stream. There’s scary monsters over there so I ran away. Would you please get it for me? My mom will be upset if she learns I lost another one.”

“Sure,” Stelman sighed as he turned his cart off the road and parked it near a shrine close to the wall. He reached under the seat, retrieved the sword and buckled it in place around his waist.

“Oh, thank you so much,” the girl said as she twirled with glee. She didn’t stop until she fell over dizzy.

Stelman walked in the direction the girl pointed. As he approached the river, the light gleamed off the metal of the flute catching his eye. He walked straight toward it and immediately saw the problem. It seemed the little girl played too close to a nest of river scale. No problem for a large man like Stelman, but he could she why she ran away.

A few of the scale appeared to be fighting over their shiny new toy. Stelman made a straight line toward them and waded across the river. A few of the scale noticed his approach and broke off their struggle for the flute. They positioned themselves to defend their prize. He sighed and drew his sword. They rushed him en mass. A few swings and it was over. He washed the scale blood off the sword and returned it to the scabbard. He picked up the flute and walked back toward the city gates. He spotted the wagon and noticed the little girl who was alternating skipping and twirling in circles. Too cheery, he thought. Even for a kid.

She spotted him and came running up. She started skipping around him as he walked.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, holding out the flute.

“Oh thank you so much,” she said, retrieving her flute and hugging his leg. It was as high as she could reach.

“You’re welcome, Little Girl.”

“Gwen.”

“What?”

“Gwen. It’s my name. Not ‘little girl,’” she smirked. “Watcha doin’?”

Stelman pried his leg out of her surprisingly strong arms. “I’m delivering swords to Merrow for the army,” he answered as he made his way back to the wagon. “You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?”

“No, but I’m sure the town crier does. Ask him.” With that, she skipped off toward shrine, playing her flute.

Stelman shook his head and chuckled. “Kids, hmmmph.” He drove the wagon through the front gate without incident and set his ears to hear the town crier. It wasn’t long before the crier shouted out the news of the day. Stelman turned the wagon toward the sound. He spotted the crier standing on a box just as he was finishing the announcements.

“Join the Army, kill some Charr, Rurick needs you!” the crier shouted as Stelman pulled the wagon next to him.

“Excuse me,” Stelman said politely. “I’m looking for Merrow. I heard you might know where I might find him.”

The crier looked Stelman up and down with a smarmy look on his face. “Who are you and what business do you have with the king’s quartermaster?”

“I am Stelman Fellhammer and I have swords for the army,” he replied ignoring the crier’s attitude.

“Oh, sir,” the crier stammered. “I do apologize. He’s probably over there,” the crier indicated a street of what appeared to be short warehouses. “Sir Tydus asked me to tell you he’d like to see you after you finish up your delivery.”

“Who’s Sir Tydus?

“Sir Tydus is one of the Academy’s captains. I believe he has a message for you family.”

“Thank you,” Stelman said as he chucked the reigns and turned the wagon in the direction the crier indicated.

He had a difficult time driving the wagon. There were so many people and they were all shouting. “WTB Black Dye … 100g,” “WTS yellow dye,” “LFG Adventure with an Ally … pm me,” “One more for Across the Wall,” “Anyone want to go Charr hunting?” “NAKED DANCE PARTY … NOW!!!!!”

Uggh, this was too much. Sure, Stelman had been to Ascalon City before, but the shouting had never been this bad before. He had a great difficulty concentrating on what he was doing with everyone shouting all the time. He chucked the reigns again to speed up the horses and hopefully get away from this madness.

Stelman drove on for a few hundred more yards desperately trying to blackout all the noise and find Merrow. He managed to make it to the warehouses the crier indicated earlier. Now he just needed to find Merrow. Able to concentrate a bit better now without all the shouting, he looked around a little bit. They were all virtually identical. All the warehouses had a large gate in which a wagon could enter. Just inside the gate was an office. Presumably, this is where all the inventory records were kept. This street was quiet compared to the main entrance. All the vendors were shouting, all the people were shouting back. It was just too much. Almost no one was on this warehouse street though. He looked p and noticed each warehouse had a sign hanging over the gate. As he looked at each sign, he noticed they all had symbols on them rather than words. They varied from very simple to very intricate. Some even matched the guild capes he saw earlier in the crowd. Must be guild storage, he thought.

After passing several warehouses, he spotted one sign that bore the king’s emblem. He took a chance and turned his wagon toward that one. Sure enough as he got closer, he saw Merrow talking with another wagon driver. He walked inside as the driver moved away. Stelman turned his wagon inside Merrow’s warehouse. Once inside, he hopped down off the wagon and entered the office. Merrow had his back to the door and was looking over some papers.

“Merrow?” Stelman asked politely.

Merrow turned toward him, “oh, thank the five gods you’re here. Let me send for Warmaster Grast to come and get his swords. We’re not even going to inventory them this time. They’re going directly to the solders right out of the boxes.”

He walked out to tell one of the workers to get the warmaster. Stelman walked to the back of the wagon and lowered the gate. A worker ran past him and out the gate, presumably to find the warmaster. Merrow came back.

“Right on time. You Fellhammers are amazing,” Merrow said chuckling. “Your mother and father all right I hope?”

“Of course, they’re at home packing up the library. We’re running away to hide with the dwarves,” Stelman replied darkly.

“You’re not hiding, son,” Merrow said as he laid a hand on Stelman’s shoulder and looked him dead in the eyes. “The kingdom can’t afford to lose you or … or any member of your family. The king needs you to keep making swords and shields. We are at a desperate time now.”

“Why, what’s happening,” Stelman asked.

“We’re barely holding the line about 12 miles north of the Great Wall. The Academy at Drascir has already fallen as has the City of Rin. The Academy of Nolani is going to fall any day now. There are just too many Charr. They’re overwhelming us. On top of all that, the seers report feeling some massive power is coming toward us. Our only hope is more and better weapons. That means you and your family. So, you just get all that ‘hiding’ nonsense out of your head right now. We need you doing what your family does best.”

Stelman was shocked. He couldn’t believe his ears. His mind reeled with unidentifiable thoughts and feelings. He didn’t know what to think. He walked outside to catch his breath. He stood alone for a few minutes in the warm afternoon breeze trying to collect his thoughts. Merrow watched the young man sympathetically. Several minutes passed before Stelman was brought back to reality by the heavy cadence of soldiers. He looked up the street and saw two squads of soldiers marching down the road. A large man in plate mail armor marched just off the side and commanded his troops. He had a hammer slung over his shoulder and marched sharply despite the armor’s bulk. Stelman was impressed. He walked back to the wagon and prepared to help the soldiers unload.

“Squad … halt!” shouted the man. They stopped at attention. “At ease!” They relaxed … a little.

The man turned and walked to where Stelman and Merrow stood waiting. “Merrow, I hear you have good news for me,” he said as he extended his hand.

“The Fellhamer swords are here,” Merrow replied taking the man’s hand. “I’d also like to introduce you to the foreman, Stelman Fellhammer. Stelman, this is Warmaster Grast.

The warmaster shook hands with Stelman. “A very great pleasure to meet you. Your weapons have saved countless lives. You’re huge!” he said as if just noticing him. “You’d make a fine warrior. Too bad you’re leaving.”

“Honestly, I don’t have the training to be a warrior. I’m sure you training saved more lives than my swords,” Stelman replied humbly.

“Every little bit helps against the Charr. So, let’s get these swords unloaded,” Grast said eyeing the crates in the wagon. “I’d like to get them into the soldier’s hands before supper. Fall out boys,” he said over his shoulder to his troops. “Let’s get unloadin’.”

The squads moved up quickly and started to unload the crates of swords. They moved quickly and efficiently and had several crates unloaded in a few minutes. They lowered one down from the middle which caught the warmaster’s eye.

“What happened to this one?” the warmaster asked pointing to a big red spot on the crate.

“Oh, that’s just bear blood,” Stelman replied. Even Merrow looked over.

“What bear?” Grast asked.

“South of Ashford, one of them thought my horses might make a good meal or four. So I had to kill him.”

“By yourself?” Grast asked a bit surprised. The soldiers even paused unloading.

“Well, ya. I was the only one in the wagon.”

“Hmmph, I think you’ve had more training than you led on,” Grast noted. “Who taught you?”

“Well, my cousin Jaylyn, but only for a few weeks.”

“I’ve heard of her. She fought in the last Guild Wars. She had some impressive victories.”

“I guess. She never really talked much about it.”

“She retired as Captain Instructor at the Academy a few years before I got there,” Grast continued. “Some of the elder instructors still have tales about her.”

“Well, she usually just beat me to the ground.”

“Hey! Keep moving, we have to go,” Grast said to his men. “Let me show you a few things. If nothing else, it might help you on your way to Deldrimor.”

Stelman retrieved his sword from under the seat and faced off in the middle of the street against the warmaster. The soldiers slowly continued to unload the wagon as they caught glances at their commander getting ready to fight.

“Ready?” Grast asked as he raised his hammer several yards from his opponent.

“Ready,” Stelman confirmed and assumed a low-guard position.

“Go!” The warmaster sprinted and was on Stelman in an instant. A frenzied flurry of attacks came at the young smith. The warmaster easily slipped inside the clumsy parry. Using the head of the hammer, he butted Stelman’s forearm, opened his guard and caused him to drop the sword. He started to stumble back, but in one swift motion, the warmaster stepped on his foot and swept the hammers handle up, right into Stelman’s stomach. The blow was hard enough to double Stelman over. He heard a loud shout, a woosh beside his ear and saw the warmaster’s hammer slam into the dirt road below his face. A ‘killing’ blow that would have turned Stelmans’ head to pulp … if they were really fighting.

Stelman looked up at the warmaster with a little fear in his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. “H-h-how did you do that?” he gasped. He drew in a deep breath. “I’ve never seen anyone, even Jaylyn move that fast. Especially with a hammer.”

The warmaster smiled and helped Stelman upright. “Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth,” he said as he vigorously rubbed Stelman’s stomach where he hit him. “That better?” Stelman nodded. The warmaster retrieved the dropped sword and handed it back. “Here, I’ll show you a couple of skills Jaylyn probably didn’t have time to show you. Stand next to me and put your guard up. Now, the attack I’m going to show you is called Frenzy. It has some good points and some bad ones as well. If you can master its use, it’s amazing.” The warmaster adopted an instructor tone and had a twinkle in his eye.

The soldiers continued to unload the wagon as Grast imparted knowledge to his new student. In a little while, Stelman learned the basics of the Frenzy attack and how to sprint into battle. He was elated to learn something new and promptly forgot the warmaster’s warning about when to use each skill properly. The soldiers finished unloading Stelman’s wagon and reformed their ranks; one crate for every two men.

The warmaster clapped Stelman’s shoulder. “Merrow, it’s time we were off. Thank you for these swords.” He turned to Stelman and bowed slightly, “thank you very much for the swords. You and any member of your family have my eternal gratitude … my lord. You should think about joining the army. We need warriors like you …”

Merrow loudly cleared his throat. The warmaster turned and noticed the almost imperceptible shake of the quartermaster’s head.

Turning back to Stelman, “well, anyway, thanks again for the swords. Your timing is perfect. If you ever need anything, just ask.” The warmaster smiled, shook his hand and marched off to resume his position in command of his squads.

“Aaaaaaaten ... HUT!” the warmaster commanded. The squads snapped to attention and each pair lifted a crate. “Foooooooorward … HARCH!” the warmaster commanded again. As the troops moved forward down the road, the warmaster saluted Stelman, turned and marched off with his troops.

“He sees potential in you,” Merrow said as Stelman approached the wagon.

Stelman put the sword back in the scabbard and under the seat. “As what? A training barrel?” he said with obvious disappointment at his combat abilities. “Seriously, it took him all of about a blink of an eye to ‘kill’ me.”

“Well, yes” Merrow admitted. “Look at it this way. How long have you been a blacksmith?”

“About nine years.”

“The warmaster has been an instructor at the Academy for about nine years. You’ve had nine years of training being a blacksmith. What would happen if the warmaster came to your forge and tried to make … even a horseshoe?”

“I guess,” Stelman said seeing Merrow’s point.

“Besides, he wouldn’t have bothered to teach you anything if he didn’t.” Stelman nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ve seen him use that move to teach new recruits,” Merrow continued. “Most of them are lying on the floor for a good hour gasping for breath after that handle uppercut he does. You didn’t even fall down.”

This cheered Stelman slightly. “Thanks, Merrow.”

“All right. Here’s your money. Your supplies are already loaded. The order is in the top crate there,” Merrow said as he handed over a large bag of gold and platinum coins. “You need to get going. Your family needs to be on its way no later than tomorrow afternoon. No fighting. No matter how much you want to.”

Stelman nodded and climbed into the wagon. He tugged on the reigns and the horses backed out into the road. He got the wagon and the horses pointed in the right direction. He waved to Merrow and started on his way home.

“Be safe. Tell your father is said ‘good journey,’” Merrow called as Stelman rode away. The young blacksmith raised his hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn in his seat.

As he drove back toward the main gate, he remembered the town crier said Sir Tydus had a message for him. When he got to the top of the street, he turned the wagon toward the academy and away from the main gate. He noticed people were still shouting and dancing, but now that he was away from the crowd, he wasn’t quite as overwhelmed as before. He spotted the gates of the academy at the top of a long set of wide, stone steps. He pulled the wagon over to the side of the stairs. He climbed out of the wagon and headed up the stairs. About halfway up, he noticed a group of people standing in line to talk to a warrior guarding the closed gates. As he approached, he noticed the gates would open once in a while allowing a person to enter the academy. Most people chatted briefly with the guard and then ran off to do their own thing. He presumed this was Sir Tydus and got in line with everyone else when he got to the top of the steps. While he waited, he noticed, well, almost stepped on a young monk in front of him. She was so small, she barely came to his waist. At first, he thought she was just a child, but she moved with the confidence of someone much older. She felt Stelman behind him. She turned and smiled, but didn’t say anything. She had long, black hair done up in the traditional dual buns on the rear of her head, bright blue-green eyes and a heart-shaped face. Stelman felt a familiarity tug in the back of his mind, but couldn’t place where he thought he knew her. He let it go as it was her turn to talk to Tydus. Tydus shook her hand and she ran off as Stelman approached.

“Ah, there you are my friend,” Sir Tydus said cordially as they shook hands. “I have some news I think you’ll appreciate. I’ve been looking everywhere for you Stelman. The king has ordered a new offensive against those Charr invaders. This is your chance for glory and adventure. You look like you’d make a good warrior,” he said approvingly.

“I’ve had some training, but not much,” Stelman replied honestly.

“That’s all right. If you’re going to be a warrior, you need to learn more about being a warrior before we send you to the front lines against the Charr. Van the Warrior is outside the main gate training new warrior recruits. He can show you a trick or two. I know you’re supposed to get out of town, but I just wanted you to know the army’s always looking for big, strong young men like yourself to lop off Charr heads,” Tydus said chuckling. “It’s up to you though. I know your family helps in its own way and it’s important to the army. There are other options for you as well. Good luck with whatever you choose to do.” He shook hands with Stelman as he started with the same conversation to the person behind him.

“I’ll think about it,” Stelman said as he walked off. He walked back down the stairs and climbed once more back into his wagon. He needed to hurry now if he wanted to make it home before night fell. He still had to stop off at Ashford to pick up their food. He got back into the wagon and passed through the main gate. He heard a flute playing. He looked over toward the shrine and saw Gwen skipping around in a circle playing her flute. He waved to her. She waved back with a bright smile. He chucked the reigns and pushed the horses into a slow gallop. He wanted to get to Ashford quickly. He was glad now to be out of the city, but Sir Tydus’ words left a feeling of dread within him. He wanted to get home and be with his family. His mind was roiling form his experiences of the day and he didn’t know what to do to sort it all out. He killed a bear; he helped the cute tanner; he got Gwen’s flute back for her; got beaten down by a warmaster; was told repeatedly to join the army and to get out of town; he just didn’t know what to do. He would talk to his parents when he got home. Meanwhile, he would just concentrate on getting there.

He was about halfway to Ashford and had just crossed the river when he noticed the sky was getting strangely dark. He pushed the horses into a faster gallop. Something was making him nervous. In few minutes, he made it to Ashford and quickly turned toward Farmer Dirk’s house. As he turned the corner to his destination, the sky turned noticeably darker. It was only a few hours into the afternoon. The sun wasn’t supposed to set for several hours after the usual supper time. This was odd. Even the horses were skittish. Stelman was concentrating on the sky so hard, he almost passed Dirk’s house. He yanked on the reigns. The horses skidded to a stop almost throwing Stelman out of the seat again. He pried himself out from between the seat and the foot rest and quickly walked toward Dirk’s slaughter hut. He opened the heavy wood door and immediately closed it. The smell from inside washed over him and almost knocked him off his feet. He caught a couple of breaths and steeled himself before opening the door again. It didn’t smell this way this morning.

“Dirk?” he gasped as he entered.

“Ah, Stelman, there you are. I was getting worried about you,” Dirk said. He was covered from head to toe in blood, most likely the bear’s. There were several crates on the table. Most likely the bear also. They were beginning to seep a little. “Sorry about the mess m’boy, but I hadda hurry seein’ as how you were commin’ back so quick. Obviously, there’s no chance the meat is aged, so I packed in all in salt to help cure it. The steaks are in that crate and I threw in some other spices as well to give ’em some extra flavor. The inward meats are packed into that crate there for your mum’s stews. They’ll add a nice bit of flavor. Welp, let’s get you loaded up and on your way,” he said as he pulled off his apron and hung it on a hook.

Stelman grabbed a crate and pulled the door open with his foot; eager to get outside to fresh air. Dirk grabbed a crate and followed the smith outside.

“Oh, ya,” Dirk said as he came outside. “I almost forgot. Miller Upton dropped off your order here as well. He figgered you didn’t wanna make more stops than ya needed ta.”

“Inside?” Stelman prayed inwardly.

“Nah, it’s over there on the side. Like four or five bags. I don’t remember.”

“Okay, good. I’ll load those. Would you mind loading the rest of the bear?”

“Sure thing,” Dirk said chuckling. “I’m surprised you were actually able to make it in the door. Most aren’t able to tolerate the smell.”

Embarrassed or not he was just thankful he didn’t have to go back inside. He and dirk finished loading the wagon. When they were done, Stelman just had to ask. “Dirk, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he replied placing the last crate in the wagon.

“You’re wise in the ways of nature and everything being a farmer, right?

“Uhhh, sure, I guess,” Dirk answered confused.

“What is that?” Stelman said pointing up at the even darker and redder sky.

“By the Grace of Dwayna!” Dirk exclaimed. “I have no idea. I’m gettin’ my hogs and getting outta here. You should too.”

“Okay,” Stelman said getting really nervous about the sky. “How much do I owe you?”

“Well, the bear’s free. That tanner lady stopped by for the pelt. She paid for the hide and your meat. So your order is only for the sausages and I think Miller Upton wanted 10 gold for the flour … so call it 25 gold even,” the farmer said anxiously. Stelman wondered if he wasn’t shorting the numbers a bit to send him on his way.

He retrieved the bag of money from under the seat and counted out the 25 gold. “Thanks much, Dirk,” he said handing over the money. “Good luck with your journey.”

“You as well young man. Tell your parents I said ‘hello.’”

“I will,” he replied as he got back into the driver’s seat. He turned to say goodbye to the farmer, but he was already heading quickly toward his sty.

Stelman snapped the reigns and turned the wagon toward home. The horses moved into a fast gallop on their own. The sky was almost black now. No stars showed through, but there was a strange red glow to everything. Stelman was getting scared; the horses were getting panicked. The town of Ashford faded quickly behind him.. They were running so fast he had to rein them in to prevent them from hurting themselves or his cargo from bouncing out. Stelman looked up and was horrified. The sky was dead black, but patches of angry red fire were visible. As he watched, those patches grew brighter and brighter. They got larger and more appeared right before his eyes. The black sky filled with hundreds of fiery red patches. He tried to restrain his fear to concentrate on driving. It almost appeared as if the forge he worked in for so many years was now up in the sky. As he watched, he noticed several of the red patches falling out of the sky. Almost as if a huge hand were dumping charcoal down on to Tyria. He couldn’t restrain the horses any longer. He was holding the reigns and the wagon’s side now to prevent from being bounced out.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and blew hot air all around him. So hot, it was almost as if he was standing over the forge itself. Several of the red spots had definitely broken off now and were falling. Sweat was pouring down his face caused by the heat and his efforts to stay in the wagon. His hair was soaked through and stuck to his skin. Stelman became panicked at the realization that the sky was raining fire. One of the balls of fire landed several miles away, but the explosion of its impact reached him despite the distance. It was all he could do to hold onto the bouncing wagon. It was so hot now, he was on the verge of passing out from the heat. A low roaring penetrated his ears. Everything was happening so quickly he couldn’t even think. He looked up behind him and saw one of the balls fire heading right toward him. It was massive and only grew larger as it came closer and closer. There was no where to get away from it. A wave of panic swept over him. He thought it was following him as it fell. Larger and larger, there was no way to get out of its path. The roaring in his ears was so loud now he couldn’t stand it. He let go of the reigns and covered his ears with his huge hands. He looked back up at his flaming doom descending down on him.

He thought of his mother. Her smile lit up her beautiful eyes. He saw his father giving a sword a final inspection. Tears welled up in his eyes. The heat from the ball was searing his skin causing it to burn. A shrill scream pierced his covered ears somehow making it through the roar surrounding him. He snapped his head toward the sound and saw one of the horses go down. It pulled the other down as well and drove the hitch into the ground. The wagon flipped forward and launched Stelman into the air. The ball of fire slammed into the wagon incinerating it. He sailed through the air directly at a pile of large boulders by the side of the road. He threw out his hands to try and brace himself against the impact. He slammed into the rocks. A large gash opened over his eye. He flipped over and over finally landing far from the road. Dazed, he rolled over. Every breath burned his lungs and blood dripped into his eye. He looked up and saw the sky was now a storm of fire falling everywhere. He fell back unconscious, unaware that in a short while everything he ever knew would come to an end.

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