Elfborn: The Quest

Chapter 3: Forging a Weapon

The snows of Winter, having only whispered of their eventual coming in the days that followed Garrett dragging his dead companion from the cold waters of the Strait, finally unleashed themselves in a fury the day after Lash awoke in his uncle's tent. With a swiftness that caught them all off guard, northern storms swept down onto the camp to pound it with high winds and stinging sleet. Blizzard snows quickly followed the sleet as the clouds blocked the sun and the days became gray twilight.

But with Frederik in camp, Wilfred couldn't afford to let the training pause for any longer than a day. After taking the brunt of the storms for only the space of 24 hours, the bluff-faced knight from Germanse ordered his men to take extra clothing rations from the quartermaster. Then he ordered them back into the practice yards, swinging dull-edged wooden swords and staffs to quicken their reflexes and strengthen their muscles before the beginning of their long sojourn to the south, across the Meridian to Arafel and the scorching lands of Ebrahin.

Given only his short time to recover, Lash was still strong enough to begin his training the day Wilfred ordered it commence. First thing that morning, after a quick stop at the quartermasters for essential supplies like winter clothing, he marched down with the other raw recruits, the youngest sons of local nobles, and any young man seeking to make a name for himself, to the weaponmaster's tent, where they would receive their training equipment.

The line, trapped mostly out in the driving snow, slowly inched forward, the men in it hunched over in an attempt to lessen the storm's bite into their flesh. Thankfully Lash's Elfborn constitution proved much sturdier than the men with him and the cold merely felt uncomfortable. Still he felt a measure of relief when he finally found himself under the tent's meager protection and standing before the camp's weaponmaster, a broad and powerful man handpicked by Sir Wilfred from the ranks of the Germansic knights to train the perspective knight recruits.

"And who's this reed of a boy?" he rumbled as Lash, his clothing still caked in a goodly amount of icy snow, stepped in front of him to receive his training armor and weapons. Dark eyes stared out of a weather-beaten face, challenging and unrelenting as they gazed at the slender young man.

Lash's eyebrow slowly rose as he returned that gaze without flinching, looking up at the massive man in front of him, made even more so by being dressed in full plate armor. Truly Sir Wilfred had chosen well, if he was going for discipline and order among the rank and file. For this man was hard and unwavering in expression, a fierce countenance and a shaved head completing the picture.

He loomed over not only the recruits, but his fellow knights by nearly a head, looking to have used enough metal for his armor to build a small boat. Jagged scars marred the shaved pate where various weapons had managed to penetrate the man's helm and chainmail hood to cut and gash his flesh. More scars marked his face.

"Well?" the gruff man demanded tightly. "Do you have a name, boy? Or should I just call you 'It'?"

At the rough question Lash felt like leaping over the table and throttling the man where he stood, knowing that he was very capable of such a thing despite the man's gargantuan size. Yet, his vow held him tightly and he found his teeth grinding as he forced his ire to subside before he killed the man.

"Let me guess. Another snot-nosed bastard of a local lord?" the big man rumbled, staring at Lash with a frown. However, it wasn't Lash who answered. Instead it was the knight that was sitting at the table behind the big weapon's master, flipping through a sheaf of parchments covered with names.

"No, Sir Guile," the knight interjected, speaking as he found Lash's name on the page in front of him. "This would be Lash de Marniet, of Hybernia. Son of Baron Lev de Marniet."