The Last Man

4. Leaving Home

The silhouette of the jagged mountains stood sharp against the purple and orange- hued sunset, which rose and faded into the growing dark. The highest peaks stood tall and majestic, almost as if they were the guardians of the valley. Landor looked up at the sky as he passed through the gate, and with a heavy heart, walked towards the forge.

So as not to be noticed, he scrambled up the bank and skirted the edge of the forest, until he saw the smoke from the hearth, hardly discernible against the low lit sky.

Landor cautiously descended the bank, edging forwards, digging foot-holds with his heels. The ground was wet and slippery from the recent rain, and Landor's pack was weighing him down. It had provisions in it, as well as his water bottle. He also had his bow that was four feet long, and a quiver of Dûrost's finest arrows. Isirin was hidden in a pouch in the quiver, the pommel hidden by his hood. Dodging the mud-patches, he came to the door of the forge.

"Dûrost? Are you there?" he whispered through the key-hole.

"Landor? Come in." said Dûrost, his voice muffled by the door. "I was just waiting for you to come- have you everything you need?"

"Everything. I am sure of it." Landor replied, as he came into the warm room. "Provisions, water, bow and quiver, myself and of course..." He indicated the sword hiding among his arrows, "Isirin." His whisper was barely audible.

"I've got all I need- enough food for the both of us, and more, as well as my humble sword." Dûrost laughed quietly as he drew his sword from its scabbard. It was similar to Isirin in size and shape, but there were less intricate patterns woven into the hilt, and there were certainly no precious stones adorning it either.

"Your sword- what is it called?" Landor inquired, a look of interest lighting up his tired face.

"My sword?" Dûrost chuckled. "It has no name- only the greatest swords of a most fine lineage have a name. But it is still a good enough sword for me!" he smiled, but suddenly frowned. "I just hope I don't have to prove its worth- but I have a feeling both your skills and mine will soon be tested in battle." Dûrost sighed, worrying for what was to come. "It is inevitable, I suppose." Dûrost said, trying, and failing to sound cheerful. "There is not time, nor is there a place to learn great swordsmanship for many leagues around." Dûrost added, giving up completely on his attempted optimism. "But I will tell you this: you cannot fight at close range, with just a bow. You would need to be incredibly quick of arm to reload and fire accurately before you are savagely cut to death. You will need to use a hand-to-hand weapon, such as a small sword or dagger."

"What about a small axe? I've used those for chopping firewood before, so it would not be completely new and strange." Landor suggested, but his smile faltered at the disapproval on Dûrost's face.

"An axe? No, that would definitely not do. A small one is not powerful enough, but the more powerful axes are far too heavy, and the balance is completely different to what you are used to. I don't make battle-axes anyway; they are too hard to make light, and the handle tends to break under the strain. If you want an axe, go to the Dwarves. Their skills in metal-work and stone-work are near impossible to rival. Their King has an axe that penetrates almost as well as a sword, and smashes like a mace; it is a deadly weapon. But enough weapon talk- you need a fighting blade. Come with me." Dûrost gestured impatiently towards a door.

Landor followed Dûrost into a dimly lit room. It was lit by lamps on the wall, which gave a faint golden glow. The yellow light was mirrored by the polished blades and the wide array of tools and weapons hanging on the walls. And the swords! Landor looked around himself in awe. I have never seen so many in the same room. Single-handed swords, broadswords, double-handed swords and scimitars. And above them, on a shelf were many arrows. Rather like my own, actually. Landor grinned to himself.