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I have gone over this a few times now and I am unsure as to it's worth. Is it cliched, is there a place for this type of scene in modern fantasy. Any thoughts would be welcome.
They stood in the armory, the walls about them adorned with weaponry. It was an arsenal of deadly killing devices from swords, to maces, lances, bows and the dreaded morning star. Racks of rough hewed wooden beams created little aisles across the room. From these hung suits of armor, polished and oiled. Some of the armor had not been touched for a century or more, the men they had been made for were now long dead. Caric stopped at the suit of armor that had been commissioned for him by his father and finished not a month before. It had thrilled him to receive the armor, it was a sign of his manhood. He had dreamed of wearing it to joust, or better still, to war. Now the time had come…
“It is a nice piece,” said Ragnar ’Toothless’, admiring the expertly linked iron rings of the hauberk. Caric reached up to remove the helm from the stand, but Ragnar had not finished speaking. The weapons master looked around the room as he ran his hand through what hairs were left on his receding hairline.
“It will still be a nice piece when you return from the east and get to use it properly in a joust or the southern wars. But where you are going you will need something more functional.”
Caric looked at the old warrior with his thickset neck and bulging arms, of course as his nickname suggested the most striking feature of the man was his face and the deceptively weak chin. As the years had gone on the jawbone had retreated due to the lack of teeth which he had lost in a fight during his youth.
Ragnar spoke again, his gravel timbre much more suited to the Kalnordian which he always used in preference to Janterian when he could. It was a language that had been drummed into the princes over hours of training sessions.
“This should do,” he tossed Caric a conical helmet with a nose guard and flaps that protected the cheeks when tied.
“This is ancient!” exclaimed the young prince.
“True, and battered,” said Ragnar pointing out scrapes and dents that had been beaten out of the helm, the legacy of many fights or one very hard one.
“But the man that wore it died in his bed.”
Caric tried it on to find that the helm fitted perfectly, much to his surprise. He tried on the mail hauberk that was with the helm to find that it was too loose. It also felt strange as it had no sleeves. But it was light compared to the heavy armor his father had commissioned for him. Ragnar looked on approvingly.
“Not to worry,” said Ragnar, “the smiths at the barracks will be able to adjust that for you.”
They then began to regard the weaponry.
Caric asked him a question.
“Should I take a bow?” He was proficient in the use of the bow and sword, but he was best with the lance.
Ragnar shook his head. “No, in the east men are thought from boyhood to use a bow whilst at the full gallop. If I had thought you that art ten years ago, maybe...”
Mindful of the armor Caric decided to ask about the sword; “What sword should I bring?”
Ragnar turned to regard him. “What do you think you should bring?”
Caric looked about at the array of swords “Long but light, straight not curved, I dislike sabres.”
Ragnar nodded in agreement. “Three foot should do in reach, a bit of practice and you will learn the knack of using the lighter weapon.” The older man paused for a moment.
“Forget everything I have ever thought you on warfare while you are in the east. You are going back to an older time. There are no rules, no ‘code’. The Hes and the Burgundians have strange notions of what is honorable. Think quickly but act even quicker.”
Caric suddenly felt very young and not a little afraid. It was starting to seem more real now and a world away from the jousts which though violent were only lethal by accident.
Ragnar smiled at Caric. “By all means be a little afraid, it will help keep you alive. If you survive your first fight, and you should, it will seem a little less awesome.”
Alone for once without even Herk or Dagal, the prince allowed his mask to slip.
“What was your first fight like? Was it in a battle?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant. Caric was not sure if he was ready for the answer.
“All fights are battles. To fight one is to fight a thousand. There is a beginning, middle and an end. The scenario and players may change, but the fear remains the same.”
Caric took it in, he had heard Ragnar spout this rubbish before.
“But your first…”
“It was like my first woman. I was not expecting it and it ended very quickly.” Caric broke into laughter and some of the tension on his features faded. Ragnar himself smiled and then continued.
“I was fourteen; it was in mid winter, a season before I met your father in Tromsfjord. I was returning home after cutting some timber for our fire. A local man who was himself gathering lumber saw my full sled and decided it would be easier to take my kindling than to cut his own.”
“He was wrong?” ventured Caric.
“Yes, he approached me and told me he would give me a copper for the wood. It was so cold I wouldn’t have given up the wood for a kingdom. I wanted to go back indoors. Then he threatened me. I told him I would kill him, he laughed, so I did. My temper was quick to boil when I was a young man. It was a failing of mine, but I have thankfully worked on that over the years.”
“But how did you do it?” asked Caric pressing the issue.
“I picked up a piece of the timber and threw it, when he shied I stepped in and hit him a blow with my axe. He fell to the ground and every time he tried to get up I hit him again.”
Caric pictured the scene in his mind. Though Ragnar’s word were simple they painted a gruesome picture.
“How did you feel?”
“I acted…” Ragnar stopped to frame his words. “It is different for every man. For some it shatters their world and haunts their dreams, for others it changes them, it gives them a taste for violence and combat, they become villains or heroes depending on whether they won or lost.”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I have never thought about it much. I have served your father for many years and killed many men for him. That is my world. You will know soon enough if it is yours.”
Caric considered the sword in his hand and twisted it about watching the light catch the runic symbols along the blade. He knew enough of the Kalnordian script to understand the legend. Wield me true and fail you I will not, the runes said and Caric suddenly smiled.
“I name you Truthgiver,” he whispered to the sword.
“A good name for all truth lies in death,” Ragnar said approvingly.
“No dallying there, Caric. You must bid farewell to the Queen,” the voice of Rolf Del Chirtar called from the doorway in to the armory.
The two, boy and man, turned to face the lord who looked at Caric with a strange expression on his face. Rolf quickly schooled his features and strode in to the armory.
“Take that stuff off or else you will frighten your mother to death. I still remember the look on her face when she first saw Thrand accoutered for war,” he said, taking the helm from Caric’s hand.
Rolf raised an eyebrow at the helm and looked to Ragnar.
“Amoled’s?” he asked.
Ragnar nodded and Caric looked at the helm with surprise. Amoled had ruled Janter five hundred years in the past and was almost as legendary as Gulnar. His rule had lasted for an incredible sixty years and the time was considered a golden age of achievement for the Janterians.
“The sword?” queried Rolf.
“Also his, but now Caric’s,” Ragnar replied.
Rolf turned to an astounded Caric and smiled.
“It seems you have chosen well for Amoled was never defeated in battle,” he said, clapping the Prince on the shoulder.
“Come let us go to your mother. She is fretful for you so it would be best if you put her at ease.”
As they left the armory Caric thought on Ragnar’s words. Life was fleeting and fragile. Death was everywhere and stalked the very halls of the palace. From a young age he had known that. Three of his siblings had not survived a year beyond their birth and his cousin Marcus had lost two of his brother’s to plague only last year. At the age of eleven he had seen a man beheaded, although it had been from a distance. But he had been close enough to see the spray of blood and the head tumble in to the basket at the end of the executioners block. He still had vivid memories of the Hooded Man holding the head up high and crying out to the crowd; “Behold the traitor! Witness the price of treachery!”
As the Hooded Man roared out the words to the baying crowd Ranald who had stood beside Caric uttered bitterly; “Such are the wages of pride. Remember that son.”
Yes, he knew about death, it had touched him but could he kill? This Caric did not know.
They stood in the armory, the walls about them adorned with weaponry. It was an arsenal of deadly killing devices from swords, to maces, lances, bows and the dreaded morning star. Racks of rough hewed wooden beams created little aisles across the room. From these hung suits of armor, polished and oiled. Some of the armor had not been touched for a century or more, the men they had been made for were now long dead. Caric stopped at the suit of armor that had been commissioned for him by his father and finished not a month before. It had thrilled him to receive the armor, it was a sign of his manhood. He had dreamed of wearing it to joust, or better still, to war. Now the time had come…
“It is a nice piece,” said Ragnar ’Toothless’, admiring the expertly linked iron rings of the hauberk. Caric reached up to remove the helm from the stand, but Ragnar had not finished speaking. The weapons master looked around the room as he ran his hand through what hairs were left on his receding hairline.
“It will still be a nice piece when you return from the east and get to use it properly in a joust or the southern wars. But where you are going you will need something more functional.”
Caric looked at the old warrior with his thickset neck and bulging arms, of course as his nickname suggested the most striking feature of the man was his face and the deceptively weak chin. As the years had gone on the jawbone had retreated due to the lack of teeth which he had lost in a fight during his youth.
Ragnar spoke again, his gravel timbre much more suited to the Kalnordian which he always used in preference to Janterian when he could. It was a language that had been drummed into the princes over hours of training sessions.
“This should do,” he tossed Caric a conical helmet with a nose guard and flaps that protected the cheeks when tied.
“This is ancient!” exclaimed the young prince.
“True, and battered,” said Ragnar pointing out scrapes and dents that had been beaten out of the helm, the legacy of many fights or one very hard one.
“But the man that wore it died in his bed.”
Caric tried it on to find that the helm fitted perfectly, much to his surprise. He tried on the mail hauberk that was with the helm to find that it was too loose. It also felt strange as it had no sleeves. But it was light compared to the heavy armor his father had commissioned for him. Ragnar looked on approvingly.
“Not to worry,” said Ragnar, “the smiths at the barracks will be able to adjust that for you.”
They then began to regard the weaponry.
Caric asked him a question.
“Should I take a bow?” He was proficient in the use of the bow and sword, but he was best with the lance.
Ragnar shook his head. “No, in the east men are thought from boyhood to use a bow whilst at the full gallop. If I had thought you that art ten years ago, maybe...”
Mindful of the armor Caric decided to ask about the sword; “What sword should I bring?”
Ragnar turned to regard him. “What do you think you should bring?”
Caric looked about at the array of swords “Long but light, straight not curved, I dislike sabres.”
Ragnar nodded in agreement. “Three foot should do in reach, a bit of practice and you will learn the knack of using the lighter weapon.” The older man paused for a moment.
“Forget everything I have ever thought you on warfare while you are in the east. You are going back to an older time. There are no rules, no ‘code’. The Hes and the Burgundians have strange notions of what is honorable. Think quickly but act even quicker.”
Caric suddenly felt very young and not a little afraid. It was starting to seem more real now and a world away from the jousts which though violent were only lethal by accident.
Ragnar smiled at Caric. “By all means be a little afraid, it will help keep you alive. If you survive your first fight, and you should, it will seem a little less awesome.”
Alone for once without even Herk or Dagal, the prince allowed his mask to slip.
“What was your first fight like? Was it in a battle?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant. Caric was not sure if he was ready for the answer.
“All fights are battles. To fight one is to fight a thousand. There is a beginning, middle and an end. The scenario and players may change, but the fear remains the same.”
Caric took it in, he had heard Ragnar spout this rubbish before.
“But your first…”
“It was like my first woman. I was not expecting it and it ended very quickly.” Caric broke into laughter and some of the tension on his features faded. Ragnar himself smiled and then continued.
“I was fourteen; it was in mid winter, a season before I met your father in Tromsfjord. I was returning home after cutting some timber for our fire. A local man who was himself gathering lumber saw my full sled and decided it would be easier to take my kindling than to cut his own.”
“He was wrong?” ventured Caric.
“Yes, he approached me and told me he would give me a copper for the wood. It was so cold I wouldn’t have given up the wood for a kingdom. I wanted to go back indoors. Then he threatened me. I told him I would kill him, he laughed, so I did. My temper was quick to boil when I was a young man. It was a failing of mine, but I have thankfully worked on that over the years.”
“But how did you do it?” asked Caric pressing the issue.
“I picked up a piece of the timber and threw it, when he shied I stepped in and hit him a blow with my axe. He fell to the ground and every time he tried to get up I hit him again.”
Caric pictured the scene in his mind. Though Ragnar’s word were simple they painted a gruesome picture.
“How did you feel?”
“I acted…” Ragnar stopped to frame his words. “It is different for every man. For some it shatters their world and haunts their dreams, for others it changes them, it gives them a taste for violence and combat, they become villains or heroes depending on whether they won or lost.”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I have never thought about it much. I have served your father for many years and killed many men for him. That is my world. You will know soon enough if it is yours.”
Caric considered the sword in his hand and twisted it about watching the light catch the runic symbols along the blade. He knew enough of the Kalnordian script to understand the legend. Wield me true and fail you I will not, the runes said and Caric suddenly smiled.
“I name you Truthgiver,” he whispered to the sword.
“A good name for all truth lies in death,” Ragnar said approvingly.
“No dallying there, Caric. You must bid farewell to the Queen,” the voice of Rolf Del Chirtar called from the doorway in to the armory.
The two, boy and man, turned to face the lord who looked at Caric with a strange expression on his face. Rolf quickly schooled his features and strode in to the armory.
“Take that stuff off or else you will frighten your mother to death. I still remember the look on her face when she first saw Thrand accoutered for war,” he said, taking the helm from Caric’s hand.
Rolf raised an eyebrow at the helm and looked to Ragnar.
“Amoled’s?” he asked.
Ragnar nodded and Caric looked at the helm with surprise. Amoled had ruled Janter five hundred years in the past and was almost as legendary as Gulnar. His rule had lasted for an incredible sixty years and the time was considered a golden age of achievement for the Janterians.
“The sword?” queried Rolf.
“Also his, but now Caric’s,” Ragnar replied.
Rolf turned to an astounded Caric and smiled.
“It seems you have chosen well for Amoled was never defeated in battle,” he said, clapping the Prince on the shoulder.
“Come let us go to your mother. She is fretful for you so it would be best if you put her at ease.”
As they left the armory Caric thought on Ragnar’s words. Life was fleeting and fragile. Death was everywhere and stalked the very halls of the palace. From a young age he had known that. Three of his siblings had not survived a year beyond their birth and his cousin Marcus had lost two of his brother’s to plague only last year. At the age of eleven he had seen a man beheaded, although it had been from a distance. But he had been close enough to see the spray of blood and the head tumble in to the basket at the end of the executioners block. He still had vivid memories of the Hooded Man holding the head up high and crying out to the crowd; “Behold the traitor! Witness the price of treachery!”
As the Hooded Man roared out the words to the baying crowd Ranald who had stood beside Caric uttered bitterly; “Such are the wages of pride. Remember that son.”
Yes, he knew about death, it had touched him but could he kill? This Caric did not know.
