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The Prince was in armour, having just trounced several of his gentlemen on the tilt field, when his constable approached with a stocky, plain-faced spatharios at his back. “My Lord, I think you know Andreas Alcaeus, who has served four years with you as a member of the Guard.” He bowed and extended an arm towards the man, who was quite obviously nervous – he fidgeted in place, constantly making minute adjustments to his kit, which he had polished to a mirror sheen.
The Prince smiled warmly, and reached out to clap Andreas’ shoulder. “You’re leaving, then. I’ll miss you – the sight of you always made me feel safe.” He admitted, and laughed.
Andreas swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and bowed deeply. “I am needed home, your grace. My…father has passed, and I wish to be there for his burial.”
The Prince nodded seriously and frowned in commiseration. “I’m sorry to hear that. Will you return afterwards?” Strangely, in his eyes the Prince spied a steely determination, and no small amount of anger.
Andreas stiffened, then said slowly, “If I am able, your grace.”
The Prince leaned close and smiled. “Then I’ll expect you back, Andreas.” He turned to his constable. “See that his kit is well-stored. I grant him leave, but do not discharge him from my service.”
“My Lord!” The constable replied, bowing slightly.
The Prince grinned and turned, calling over his shoulder. “Now get going!”
Andreas bowed again, as ceremony demanded, and walked from the Prince’s presence to the guardroom, where he embraced a dozen close friends, drank a farewell cup of wine, and handed the steward his kit – his maille hauberk and his good cote of plates beautifully covered in the Imperial purple; his two purple cotes with matching hoods, for wear at court, and his hose of purple cloth. He went to hand in his badge, too – a cleverly fashioned thing of silver and gold enamel, with the Imperial double-headed eagle as the centerpiece – but the steward handed it back to him. “His Majesty expressly stated that you were to keep your badge, as you are on leave and not discharged from the Guard.”
Andreas almost cried.
The apprentice cut the lashings on the sacking, revealing a rounded pommel on one end, ferruled in heavy bronze, balancing a fine sword blade at the other end. The hilt was worked in silver, and the guard made up of two griffin-heads; the fuller extended from the base of the hilt to two-thirds the way to the blade’s tip. A tassel of Imperial purple hung from the base of the pommel in place of a peen block.
It was a guardsman’s sword, but incomparably finer, made by a master and not by one of the dozens of journeyman smiths under the employ of the Domestikos.
Andreas couldn’t help himself, and he whirled it between his hands, the blade cutting the air and the tip not quite brushing the plaster of the low room.
The apprentice flattened himself against the wall, and the master nodded, satisfied. “The sword you brought me was a fine enough weapon,” the master said. “Competently made. But the finish,” he winced, then shrugged. “And I thought that the balance could be improved.”
Andreas just smiled in appreciation. The master added a scabbard – a sheath of wood covered in fine red leather with the Imperial insignia stamped in the center. Andreas counted down a hundred silver marks – a sizeable portion of four years’ pay.
Andreas carried his new sword out to his riding horse and put it lovingly into the straps, close to hand. No one watching doubted that he’d handle it a dozen more times before he was clear of the suburbs. Or that he’d stop and use it on the first bush he found growing by the road.
“You ride today, then,” the master said.
Andreas nodded. “I’m needed in the north,” he said. “My father has passed.”
The weapon smith nodded. “Send him my respects, then, and the sele of the day on you.”
Andreas embraced the smith, stepped through the door, and walked his horse back up the road.
“There goes a good man,” said the master to his apprentice. “I’ve known a few. And yet as fierce as a lion when his blood’s up. A better knight than many who wear spurs.”
The apprentice was too smitten with hero-worship to comment. The master tried not to wonder why a man would commission a sword for a funeral.
The Nightwood was much the same as Andreas remembered. Same sights, same smells, and in many cases, even the same trees. Why, that tree there was where Brand showed him how to make his first snare, and just over yonder was the tree he had used to climb when he wanted to be alone.
He smiled sadly. There were a lot of memories in these woods. Good ones, mostly. But now they all felt a somewhat bitter, knowing what had happened to old Brand.
Andreas fingered the hilt of the sword at his side. He would bring justice back to these woods. For Brand.
It wasn’t long until he reached the barrow. He touched the runes with a nostalgic fondness, and walked inside to greet his erstwhile family.
The Prince smiled warmly, and reached out to clap Andreas’ shoulder. “You’re leaving, then. I’ll miss you – the sight of you always made me feel safe.” He admitted, and laughed.
Andreas swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and bowed deeply. “I am needed home, your grace. My…father has passed, and I wish to be there for his burial.”
The Prince nodded seriously and frowned in commiseration. “I’m sorry to hear that. Will you return afterwards?” Strangely, in his eyes the Prince spied a steely determination, and no small amount of anger.
Andreas stiffened, then said slowly, “If I am able, your grace.”
The Prince leaned close and smiled. “Then I’ll expect you back, Andreas.” He turned to his constable. “See that his kit is well-stored. I grant him leave, but do not discharge him from my service.”
“My Lord!” The constable replied, bowing slightly.
The Prince grinned and turned, calling over his shoulder. “Now get going!”
Andreas bowed again, as ceremony demanded, and walked from the Prince’s presence to the guardroom, where he embraced a dozen close friends, drank a farewell cup of wine, and handed the steward his kit – his maille hauberk and his good cote of plates beautifully covered in the Imperial purple; his two purple cotes with matching hoods, for wear at court, and his hose of purple cloth. He went to hand in his badge, too – a cleverly fashioned thing of silver and gold enamel, with the Imperial double-headed eagle as the centerpiece – but the steward handed it back to him. “His Majesty expressly stated that you were to keep your badge, as you are on leave and not discharged from the Guard.”
Andreas almost cried.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The apprentice cut the lashings on the sacking, revealing a rounded pommel on one end, ferruled in heavy bronze, balancing a fine sword blade at the other end. The hilt was worked in silver, and the guard made up of two griffin-heads; the fuller extended from the base of the hilt to two-thirds the way to the blade’s tip. A tassel of Imperial purple hung from the base of the pommel in place of a peen block.
It was a guardsman’s sword, but incomparably finer, made by a master and not by one of the dozens of journeyman smiths under the employ of the Domestikos.
Andreas couldn’t help himself, and he whirled it between his hands, the blade cutting the air and the tip not quite brushing the plaster of the low room.
The apprentice flattened himself against the wall, and the master nodded, satisfied. “The sword you brought me was a fine enough weapon,” the master said. “Competently made. But the finish,” he winced, then shrugged. “And I thought that the balance could be improved.”
Andreas just smiled in appreciation. The master added a scabbard – a sheath of wood covered in fine red leather with the Imperial insignia stamped in the center. Andreas counted down a hundred silver marks – a sizeable portion of four years’ pay.
Andreas carried his new sword out to his riding horse and put it lovingly into the straps, close to hand. No one watching doubted that he’d handle it a dozen more times before he was clear of the suburbs. Or that he’d stop and use it on the first bush he found growing by the road.
“You ride today, then,” the master said.
Andreas nodded. “I’m needed in the north,” he said. “My father has passed.”
The weapon smith nodded. “Send him my respects, then, and the sele of the day on you.”
Andreas embraced the smith, stepped through the door, and walked his horse back up the road.
“There goes a good man,” said the master to his apprentice. “I’ve known a few. And yet as fierce as a lion when his blood’s up. A better knight than many who wear spurs.”
The apprentice was too smitten with hero-worship to comment. The master tried not to wonder why a man would commission a sword for a funeral.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Nightwood was much the same as Andreas remembered. Same sights, same smells, and in many cases, even the same trees. Why, that tree there was where Brand showed him how to make his first snare, and just over yonder was the tree he had used to climb when he wanted to be alone.
He smiled sadly. There were a lot of memories in these woods. Good ones, mostly. But now they all felt a somewhat bitter, knowing what had happened to old Brand.
Andreas fingered the hilt of the sword at his side. He would bring justice back to these woods. For Brand.
It wasn’t long until he reached the barrow. He touched the runes with a nostalgic fondness, and walked inside to greet his erstwhile family.