Danforth (Chapter 3 continued) A curious thought occurred to Kashmar which drew him out of his dullness, “Are you weighing the importance of the dead on how many others they have killed?” “Well of...” he stopped, shocked by his own answer. He regained his voice and justified himself, “My meaning was that kings...and lords are remembered by their military success; their deaths in battle are honored with funeral pyres. These men did not demonstrate much strength in the battle, and so it seems this honor raises them higher than their acts warrant." “They had the strength enough to join the battle, Beren. But should you not put aside this idea, at least, since they are dead?” Considering what he had said, Kashmar ventured in a more precarious direction, “In fact, something has come to my mind, an instance which stirs up thoughts. Upon the hill, after that regrettable circumstance with Danforth, I saw a man carrying away the body of an Oriab. I observed the dead man, and at once I was possessed of an ill feeling, which, thinking on it now, I know to be some form of guilt. Quite strange it is; I did not kill him, nor any of his fellows, yet the feeling smote me in the back so that I stooped over. It has since left me, but it causes me to wonder.” Interest overcoming restraint, in a quiet voice, and with careful consideration, he asked the question, “How terribly must remorse strike one who has actually killed?” He awaited an answer. Starting, his eyes darkened, Beren turned away from the innkeeper, I felt no remorse, he thought. I never even thought to feel remorse. His hand sought support on a pillar. I killed so many; my sword was thick with blood; their weapons lay shattered at my feet. It was a victory! Yet...a victory, without remorse, without sorrow for death…how could it be so? How could I not regret? What of the common portrait of the conqueror-king Jaldersong, kneeling in sorrow over his slain enemy? Do not the legends speak of him as the most honorable king? I do not feel his virtuous remorse...where is it? Where is it, Jaldersong? He imagined the weeping king and tried to find tears in himself. None. Oh, if you could grant me but a few moments...curses upon me if I can have no remorse! A glimmer invaded his mind, a glimmer of a shroud. The glimmer faded in and out of existence, all the time reappearing in sudden movements. Beren stumbled to the ground, his eyes baptized. Great was his happiness. The sorrow murders me with narrow stabs: deal a fatal blow, joyous guilt! The fearful weeping entombed him. Strong and bright, the glimmer pivoted into a spectral force of threatening magnificence. Beren cried in terror, No, kill me not! None have gone so far. I must tear myself from this. I know I have this virtue now, but I would not have it end me. The terror became madness. Yet what cure is there for a poison already drunk? A voice answered him, “I am sorry. I will silence my questioning.” Kashmar held out a cup, “Come, friend Beren, free yourself. Here is some ale.” Beren grasped for the cup through his dulled vision, only finding it after many attempts. “Forgive me for my asking. It was on my mind, and I...” Slowly, after taking a draught, Beren whispered, “It was a worthy question.” “Good, good, and now it is answered,” said Kashmar hurriedly, trying to sound cheerful. “But you spoke of something before: what was it? Ah, yes, it was about the pyre. You said you disliked it.” “Yes, that I did say,” Beren said, recovering. “I can hardly explain it.” “You’re thinking it through too much,” said the innkeeper, “and I know exactly why that is. It’s…” He frowned. “Well, I suppose you’d know better than I would. In any case, there’s no need to be so glum. The battle was a victory, after all.” ​“Yes, yes, no need to remind me: I can’t forget.” He looked up at the pyre again. “To be honest, it’s not really the men burning that bother me. It’s the fire.” ​“The fire?” He frowned again. “What do you mean by that?” ​“Oh, never mind. Let’s talk about something else.” He thought of something shallow, “I heard the king granted a man fifty pounds of gold a fortnight ago for killing a group of traitorous merchants.” ​The innkeeper nodded, “I heard the same, except it was sixty pounds. Lordship may…” ​“That’s not all I want,” interrupted Beren. “It would be welcome to see more fortifications and soldiers here, in case of another attack. If ever I should see the king, or even one of his officials, I would make the suggestion to him.” Beren sighed, for he had said this only to appear more good-natured than he was, and he already wished he had not done so. ​Kashmar laughed, forgetting the need to lighten his friend's mood, “I’m sure you will…right after you tell him the story of how Beren the Great single-handedly killed one hundred Oriabs.” He continued to laugh. ​Beren scowled, “Don’t mock me. I’ve told you before that I would tell only the truth. It would be unwise to begin relations with anyone important by lying. Lies need to be concealed, told only to few, so that news of them does not reach knowledgeable ears; I’m afraid lies just don’t work with kings, for everything said to the king except in utmost secrecy is generally known within a month. Truths, on the other hand, can always be made publically known: the truth need never be concealed.” ​“Now I whole-heartedly disagree,” said the innkeeper, raising his voice. “Public truth is no truth at all. Truth is the only thing that ever should be hidden!” ​A look of surprise came across Beren’s face, “Oh, really. Why?” Kashmar’s unusual claim had fully, though quite unintentionally, restored Beren's spirits. ​The innkeeper whet his lips, as if to prepare for the beginning of a grand speech, “Let’s say there is a man named Wise, and this man possesses a truth. Wise, being a very wise man, will consider what the best course of action is for dealing with this truth. The first possibility is to make it known all around the world. Now what would be an example of such a truth, a truth known to all? Well…hmm…what about this: ‘It is dishonorable to kill an unarmed man.’ Now consider that: do you consider that to be a truth? No! That, to you, is common sense. So how is one to know if it was ever realized by someone such as Wise? There is no way. What is the issue with all this? Well, what is common sense? Common sense, Beren, is a collection of ‘truths’ invented by society. No one knows where they came from or if they actually are ‘true.’ So, back to the situation, what would happen if Wise revealed his truth to the world? It would be mistakenly greeted by the next generation as common sense. So, if a man of that following generation decided one day to consider Wise’s truth, he would be slightly skeptical as to the truth of it. So Wise, in his action, catalyzed the reduction of his truth into something less than what it is! A mere invention! Now how could he have avoided this? What is the only way to deal with this issue? Well, honestly, the only way to preserve the validity of a truth is to conceal it, so that only those willing to accept it in all its veracious glory will find it,” he finished proudly with a smug grin. ​Beren crossed his arms, hiding his surprise, “I must say, you’ve thoroughly convinced me. Well, now I feel I must prove myself to you, philosopher.” ​“Oh, really…then…prove to me that the king is not mad.” ​“We’ve already been over this,” he said, frowning. ​“Yes, but you have never proven it to me.” ​Beren paused to consider this, “How can I begin to prove it without knowing the man?” ​Kashmar leaned towards Beren, “Follow my example and define madness.” ​“Well, madness is…well…doing things that no one in their right mind would do.” ​The innkeeper laughed, “Really? Madness is doing things people who are not mad would not do? That’s not very sound logic.” ​“I dislike this argument,” said Beren angrily. ​“Fine,” said the innkeeper, retrieving his hat from the ground. “Then create another.” ​“What could I prove that would match your dissertation?” ​The innkeeper placed the hat firmly on his head, “How could I know?” ​“Well, think of something worthwhile.” ​Kashmar adjusted his hat, “No, no. I tire of this game. Let us speak of other matters.” He paused to generate a topic of conversation. “Have you seen Danforth?” ​“I suppose he’s probably still at the inn.” ​The innkeeper grimaced, “He is a very strange man, and I can’t say I won’t be happy when he leaves.” ​“How could you say such a thing?” said Beren, incredulous. “He saved Celphaïs!” ​“No, that was you,” said a voice. Out of the shadows a man wearing rough, wool garments and an embroidered cloak and clutching a psaltery emerged. For a moment Beren shuddered violently at the thought that this could be the musician he had heard so many times near the inn: as the man played a few disconnected chords, though, he realized that it could not be. The man continued in a soft, staccato voice, “That sorcerer had nothing to do with this. He’s a mere man, but you, Beren, are greater. You come from the sky and rain upon the fields of the ocean and stab the flesh of the filthy orbs. They rest like sheep while you let your hands rip the hide from their bones. That man Danforth can only create a flame or a mild curse. Such things are too noble for you.” ​Beren stood in shock, trying to find meaning in the words. ​“I am the son of the father of a merchant,” said the man. “Merchants are noble folk.” What is he talking about? thought Beren. I’ve never heard anyone call a merchant noble. “Remember that when you’re killing one. Merchants are noble folk. Remember that when you’re dead.” ​“Get away, you drunkard!” said Kashmar. ​“What?” said the man, surprised. “Am I drunk?” The innkeeper nodded, “I’d hope so.” ​“No, it’s not true! I’m a noble man! A merchant!” At this point he had drawn the attention of some nearby. “I’m a man of noble blood! I need that title! Nothing exists without the intercession of the noble! Vile blood of the dead shall spill from the hearts of the noble! I know falsehoods that can make even the...” His voice faded away like a dying animal, and he stared blankly into the fire. He bit his lip, savored for a moment the taste of blood in his mouth, and whispered, “Perhaps I am” before descending to the earth, unconscious. A twang sounded from the psaltery as it struck the ground, a whining, melancholy note. ​Beren twisted his face with rage, telling Kashmar, “I told you I didn’t like this pyre.” The innkeeper opened his mouth to speak, but Beren raised a hand to silence him. “Don’t try to disprove me. I won’t accept anything you say on this matter. The whole purpose of a funeral pyre is to honor the dead. But everyone danced, sang, and laughed right in front of the unfortunate corpses, mocking those who died. I fear you would have done the same even if…even if a lord had lain there in the smoke. They should have followed our example, talking mildly. At least we showed no dishonor! Why can’t the low ones understand the importance of honor! I’d kill them all if it didn’t hurt my honor. There’s nothing more worthless than a batch of fruitless peasants like these people all around us!” Some of the citizens glared at Beren. “You don’t like the insults? Well the dead don’t like insults either! They also like rightness, and this pyre is not right! They don’t deserve it, and, no, that’s not an insult!” He drew his cloak around himself, then let it wave in the breeze. His voice descended to something close to a whisper, “Only lords and kings deserve this kind of honor.” With that, he grabbed the drunkard’s psaltery from underneath his body, tossed it indifferently into the flames, and stormed off. … ​Beren’s footsteps fell upon the earth with such murderous strength that he felt as if he could hear the cracking of his bones with each step. But he persisted, lost in a wild attempt to escape his fear—the sharp, stabbing shrieks of the flames. No sound then seemed more terrible to him, and he felt the beginnings of madness rise in him each time a new crackle broke the silence of the night. I must not live in madness, he thought, thinking of his path and stumbling across the road. I must not live in madness. As he lumbered over a corner, he cried out piteously, for the melody, the motive of dread played on the never-seen psaltery, tore into his ear, just as it had before so often. Its plaintive notes thrashed around him like the convulsions of an ancient man racked with anguish. They wailed, quiet yet pleading, as if seeking long-sought redemption, long-sought but all-forsaken. Now Beren wailed, also, stricken down with wounds that music should not be able to inflict, yet had through threats of destruction, seeking but never finding. As if drunk with madness, Beren fell to the ground and crawled with his hands to grasp the side of a building. What is to become of me, that sounds should so ruin me? #life and expression: I cannot think! Lordship! Lordship! He pleaded the skies, supplicating himself in some hope of freeing himself from what he heard. He raised a hand against the music, as if such a shield could protect him here. He shouted insults to the musician, attempting to dilute the sound with his own. No efforts helped him, and as a terrible crash from the far off flames joined with the darkest of notes, all hope fell from him; his eyes failed him, and he sighted across the way a vision of his own body, lying in chill and despondent death. A final shriek, either from the flames or from his own mouth, felled Beren, and unconsciousness held him fast. It was a dull unconsciousness at first, empty, an expression of the realm of night. But soon crafty guile forced into Beren’s mind a fearful dream. He imagined himself, lying flat, dead and #lifeless, staring at the wondrous stars. His hair had grayed, and all memory had left his body, all thoughts of the past, of his #life, of his death. The only thing which remained was the fixation: how could he forget it? The body gained some vague sense, and it wondered, Did I in #life achieve my goal? Did I die a lord? The body looked cautiously to the side and saw bright, scarlet light. To the other side, the same. All around him, a glowing gleam. Flames! his voice proclaimed. It is done! I have succeeded! How could I not have died a lord, when flames now come to consume by body? Sacred victory! Yet he became aware of a dull and far off sound, which in fact was very near. He looked beyond the flames, with shallow caution, and there, before him, standing just outside of the flames, were common people, laughing, dancing, mocking! Beren felt the waves of their mirth showering around him, slicing into his soul. The greatest horror folded around him and became his funeral shroud. I failed! I failed! Profane defeat! The shroud smoked and blazed, and his misery fell into obscurity as he was consumed. ​The thought of such a death scorched Beren and inflamed within him the greatest fear. He felt himself, rising from unconsciousness, returning to a place where lordship still remained so far off to him. So far off! What joy was there in #life, with such fear as a companion, fear brought on by such a dignified fixation? As Beren regained his senses, he saw his hands trembling like burning candles. What has become of me? What has this pyre revealed to me, what horror? He stood slowly and gripped the nearby wall as he struggled towards the inn. The beating of his heart, so filled with fear, overpowered the sound of the psaltery, and he did not hear it. So at length he was able to reach the place of safety. As he reached for the door, he stumbled once again, and he crouched into the inn, his hand grazing the side of the door and soon shining red with blood. Amidst his fear and sorrow Beren could walk no further, and he rested upon the ground with his head propped against the wall. ​Soon thereafter Danforth found the unfortunate man, and he went to his side and knelt next to him. “What misfortune has befallen you, noble Beren?” he asked quietly. ​Beren answered slowly, his eyes closed, “I have left the pyre.” ​“And why is that?” questioned the sorcerer. ​“Sorrow and fear,” responded Beren in a whisper. ​“Sorrow and fear? What could have driven you to such depths? Do you not recall our recent words? I have chosen to aid you, Beren, and I shall. You shall not be barred from lordship, not even without my aid. Come, Beren, raise yourself from this sorrow. Free yourself!” ​Beren cringed, and stared at his bloodied hand. Though at first the words brought the proud man comfort, the last exclamation brought back a recent memory, the memory of Kashmar’s question about remorse and his own terrifying answer. But I did feel remorse at last…but too late. With great effort he restrained that memory, and with it restrained the rest of the night’s power. “Yes, Danforth,” he said at length. “You remind me of thoughts of joy, and of lordship; I hope that you maintain your steadfastness to me, or else I fear I will not ever have it.” ​Danforth tried to console his companion further, “I would not neglect my aid to you: do not doubt me.” He paused, then returned with new vigor, “But if you will not trust me, I will swear my loyalty to you in an oath! Yes, I say it now,” here he clutched both his staff and his sword with both hands, “I swear on these solemn weapons of war that I shall aid the honorable Beren, who ought already to be a lord, towards the achievement of that very title, in any way I see fit, and to the extent which shall be most beneficial to him.” ​Beren’s eyes gleamed with new light, and a smile shone upon his face. And Danforth smiled, too, knowing that the oath had restored Beren to himself. The two men felt once again the strength of their alliance, the uncommon power of directing the future. Danforth settled into his thoughts once again, and Beren settled into his wry smile. ​Unaware of the oath just proclaimed, Kashmar ambled into the inn. “Beren,” he called, not seeing him at first. “Beren, you ought to know that, through my efforts, much of your reputation has been saved.” Beren stared blankly. Kashmar attempted to explain, “I have convinced everyone that you were drunk, which seems quite reasonable. You acted more drunk than that musician fellow. What a madman’s speech that was!” In fact, Beren had quite forgotten about that speech, and he was angered by Kashmar’s reminding him of it. “So the townspeople think well of me still?” he scowled. “That is good to hear, though I still revile them for that pyre.” He sighed, anxious that he would fall into sadness and mindless stumbling again. “No, I shall not revile them; I will rather forget the pyre completely. In that way I may remember the better past.” So saying, he dismissed himself from the presence of others and retreated to his bed, where he struggled to conjure up pleasant dreams, but through thoughts of Danforth and lordship at last succeeded.

Danforth (Chapter 3) Here is the beginning of chapter three. Chapter 3 ​A great forest, encompassed on all sides but one by lean, claw-like mountains, with the other side barred by a gentle river, let out choking gasps of ash into the sky. A stoic regus tree stood amidst this tormented forest, itself straining against the fearsome conflagration. Its trunk and those boughs which clung most closely to it remained untouched by the flames. Other branches were blackened and scorched, and they hung limply, like parasites sucking the #life out of a helpless host. The boughs which distanced themselves most from the trunk cracked and fell to the tree’s base. ​Another branch, darkened not by the fire but by some other force, rested at the feet of a man who stood before the regus. He gazed at the branch, occasionally looking away to the tree. Then a cloud of scathing smoke obscured the ground, and the branch vanished behind its darkness. The man spent a long while staring at the regus, witnessing as branches fell or blackened. A great rumbling of earth nearly broke the man’s unmoving stillness, and the great tree shook violently. Another such sound, another violent shake, and the tree collapsed. Its demise cleared the earthen haze, once again revealing the dark branch. The man leaned down and captured it, examining it thoroughly before dismissively tossing it aside. ​A voice entered the man’s awareness, “Hey, you! Are you mad? Before long there’ll be no escape from this abhorred fire!” A common soldier wearing a loose leather helm and chest plate, a sword stained with ripe blood in his hand, appeared coughing out of the smoke. “Follow me,” he said. “I know the way to the river. I’ll warrant we’ll be safe if we reach it in time.” The man studied the sky for a moment, inciting a rather irritated glance from the soldier. “Do you want to die? I have no reason to waste time saving you, especially with those sacrilegious madmen coming our way. They killed my general, you know, stabbed him…oh, you wouldn’t care. What are you doing out here anyway? Decided to go for a nice walk? I’ll admit I didn’t expect it to go this badly, but I still wouldn’t have come out here just to look at the trees! You obviously didn’t come here to help us. I suppose it doesn’t matter to you whether I survive!” At this point the man was grinning slyly, finding the whole situation ridiculous: the soldier claimed to be in a hurry, yet he had time to stand here and talk about his troubles. He continued, “Would you like to know…will you stop staring at me like that! I’m trying to help you, a stranger, and you…you mock me! I’ve never felt so dishonored in my #life. Will you…” His voice trailed off as the clear but distant sound of war horns joined the harmonies of the fire. The soldier gestured to the man, speaking quietly, “Follow me. We’d better start towards the river.” ​The soldier sheathed his sword, coughing and wiping ash from his face. He gestured one more time to the man and jumped between two trees, breaking into a forcible run as he landed. The man followed him with equal haste, leaving the dead regus tree to itself. The soldier stepped across burning logs and shrubs, stamping out the occasional ember that threatened to light his cloak ablaze. At one point he reached a brightly burning line of trees, forcing him to turn back to search for a new route. It was at this moment that he noticed that the man followed him. “I’m pleased you decided to live,” he said quickly before resuming his flight. The war horns sounded again, this time closer and more discordant: clashes of metal and cries of pain accompanied them. The soldier harkened the sounds, looking anxiously into the forest. Loudly calling for the man to hurry, he turned back, sprinting into the previously dismissed line of trees. “The river’s only a few miles distant,” he said, coughing hoarsely. Two more times the war horns sounded, and two more times the soldier called for the man to hasten. At the third sounding, the soldier came across a low wall of ruined stone, the sign of a fortress built in the forest long ago. Here the soldier rested, his back to the war horns. The man kneeled beside him. ​“We’ll continue in a few moments,” said the soldier, breathing heavily. “Oh!” he exclaimed, for the first time scrutinizing his companion. “I know your face! You came through our camp once.” He laughed, “You looked more noble then. Did you ever…?” The man shook his head. “Ah, it’s probably for the best. You’re probably not fit for such a responsibility anyway.” The man’s eyes flickered slightly. The soldier frowned, “Where’ll you go, supposing you choose to leave this place? Misthálen?” The man shook his head. “Ha! Of course not: I almost forgot that only barbarians live there. Calduria, perhaps?” The man nodded. “That’s a half-respectable place, and, as they say, Caldurians have the best morals. They’re always killing the Oriabs, though…and they have a penchant for not wearing much armor into battle. And they refuse to wear helms. Ha! Something about it being ‘dishonorable.’” He laughed jovially. “Honor’s more important to them than safety.” ​The war horns sounded once more, this time much closer. “Oh, that’s a shame!” said the soldier. “I was quite enjoying this conversation, but I’m afraid we have to move on.” He stood, smoothing his clothes. The man’s vision began to fade, and as he followed the soldier’s flight once again, his sight fell downwards into darkness, only to emerge once again in light. ​Danforth lay in near stillness, his mind slowly returning to Celphaïs. That dream, he thought. That memory! I have not thought of that strange soldier in a very long time. It was so long ago that I travelled freely with him, with neither path nor worry…only a simple desire to meet my unique opportunity. Sorcery! Wandering! Why did I ever choose such a thing? I could have stayed in that unusual land with that unusual man, following him alone in his various endeavors: he would not have been bothered by me and my silent presence. Well…is that not what I try to do now with Beren? No, this is not the same. I am leading Beren to greatness, leading him! I could have chosen to simply follow someone, with no purpose, no goal…with only a vague existence which was free from the troubles of what I do now. But no, I have followed the writer, not the soldier. And not the writer only: I have followed myself…and that miserable face! His mind, still coming back to him, had now sighted the shore of Calduria. And what have I gained? A path of wandering which I have grown to despise so greatly that I even now make efforts to end it. In fact, it is already ended. My name is known. My path is known. I am known. My wandering is over. Yet, even as I free myself from one path, another constrains me. Beren! I have made the choice to follow Beren to lordship. A new path, which could itself prove just as insufficient as the first. His mind tracked through the wilderness. No, no. I saw what joy the writer obtained, and I know Beren can have the same joy. Why should I deprive him of that? Well, what of myself? His mind passed into open land. Perhaps doing this thing will help me find a true path. Perhaps, once I have done this, I may return to that far-off land. The gates of Celphaïs lay before his mind. Yes, yes! One last trial before my return! His mind stepped into the inn. Oh, but the face…what shall I do about the face…oh, the face… His mind entered the room marked “3.” I must be rid of the face, as well… His hand wavering slightly, Danforth stood, fully wakened but still weak. After making a few attempts to step forward, he collapsed backwards, his mind exhausted from thought, and crumbled back into sleep. … As Beren woke from a restful night, he frowned in concern. The sorcerer had responded just as his father would have predicted, and Beren had been foolish to think otherwise. His father had said, the ways of sorcerers never change, so don’t think this advice will become obsolete: this I can assure you. Yet Beren had allowed this to happen, standing idly as Danforth grew more and more enraged at Kashmar’s demands. At least the sorcerer had returned to the inn without issue. When Beren had arrived, his friend the innkeeper had greeted him with a meek sigh. They had spoken a few words, exchanged a few nondescript glances, and retreated to their rooms. Soon after, Beren had heard Danforth’s footsteps and the opening of a door. Wrapping his cloak around him, Beren now stepped down into the room where the hearth now burned and Kashmar was staring at his sword, which lay on one of the tables. “Did you ever use it, Kashmar?” asked Beren, trying to start a cheerful conversation. “No,” said Kashmar with apathy. “My only service was to tend to the wounded. I’m sure you fared much differently. I hear you killed many Oriabs fighting alone.” Tiring of being so dull, Kashmar smiled and said, “Well, it seems you have your ‘one great act of importance.’ Are you not joyful at that thought? Lordship may yet be yours!” These words dispelled Beren’s ill mood, “Yes. A foolish notion, Kashmar? It seems I’ve proved you wrong. Soon all those travelers who so recently entered Celphaïs will move on the Calduris, and the whole capital will be filled with news of the battle. As the importance of our victory becomes apparent, even the king will not be able to ignore it.” Kashmar sighed, “There’s still time, though, before any of that happens. Time enough to celebrate victory.” “Is there to be a celebration in Celphaïs?” Kashmar passed back to find some wine, “Well, I have heard that some are planning a… funeral pyre. Like in the legends. It seems to me like a noble gesture.” “A funeral pyre?” said Beren, disquieted. “Yes, for the ones killed by the Oriabs,” he said, handing Beren some wine. “And this is to be some sort of ceremony?” asked Beren before tasting the drink. ​“It’ll be tomorrow night. I hear one man’s prepared a wonderful speech, and the wife of one of those wealthy innkeepers near the north gate already wrote a #poem about the battle. My friend from the marketplace told me this pyre’ll live with the old legends.” He paused to refill Beren’s wine. “I doubt that, but I suppose it will be interesting, though somewhat somber.” ​Beren lowered his head slightly, as if examining the contents of his wine. A funeral pyre? Like the ones for lords? Would the king approve of this? He combed his fingers through his hair, considering his friend’s words. Somber? Everyone’s probably excited for the break in the normal routine. There’ll be speeches and songs? It sounds more like an excuse for entertainment than a ceremony to honor the dead. Well, I suppose that’s alright, as long as it takes the minds of the citizens off the horrors of the world. After all, they know so little of them. ​The floorboards creaked weakly as Danforth climbed down the stairs. He wore a haggard, weary expression, as if he’d lain awake very troubled that night. He smiled mildly at the sight of Beren, his hand brushing across the hilt of his sword, which hung presently at his side. ​“Hello, Danforth,” said Beren. He grimaced, regretting using the sorcerer’s name. Never remind a sorcerer of his mistakes: they don’t think kindly of you for it. Danforth nodded acknowledgment and trudged to the door. Beren looked questioningly after the sorcerer, but he knew not to inquire further, especially with so dangerous a man. As if hearing Beren’s thought, Danforth stopped at the door and muttered a word. Retracing his steps, he paced uncertainly, waited a few moments, then dejectedly seated himself at one of the inn’s tables, his hand on his forehead. Kashmar looked at the sorcerer and sighed, shaking his head before patting Beren on the shoulder and retreating upstairs to reorganize some rooms. Beren glanced back at the sorcerer, questioning whether or not to speak with him. Did the man truly respect him? His actions at the battle seemed to make that clear, but his father’s words caused Beren to doubt. Perhaps Danforth had a certain purpose for his actions independent of Beren’s interests. Perhaps Danforth was using Beren as a means, a weapon to lay aside and take up again later. Perhaps Danforth acted on a whim. Beren’s father frowned angrily, one can never know a sorcerer’s mind! Do not waste daylight trying to. Yet a rift of understanding certainly hindered Beren, and he knew that without action his companionship with the sorcerer would never give him further benefit. Glancing back again, Beren more carefully scrutinized the sorcerer. Danforth’s eyes wandered across the floor as he sat leaning forward, his hands now clasped together on one knee, his cloak wrapped around one leg, his face calm and unconcerned. My father, Beren thought, I trust simply speaking with him would not go against your advice. He imagined his father leaning back and smiling. Resolved, Beren stepped near to the sorcerer, resting one arm on his back so that his crimson cloak twisted nobly about him, and waited until he looked up. “You honor me by remaining here, sorcerer, for I would expect you to have left us to return to your path.” “My path is finished,” said Danforth candidly. “No recognized man can wander, for wandering demands silence and solitude, neither of which survive with the mark of a name.” Beren moved a chair near to Danforth and sat down, his cloak enshrining him as a ring enshrines a jewel. “I feel I must speak,” he said carefully. “though what I must say I cannot discover.” Such uncertainty, thought Danforth. He knows not whether to fear me. “You must say whatever you wish openly with me: I am not one who cannot understand reason. Speak, and I shall listen.” Beren sifted through his father’s advice, but could not find anything suitable, so he followed Danforth’s advice instead. “I wish to understand your opinion of me and your purpose with me…that is, I wish to understand our companionship. You were under my command, but was it because of your opinion of me or some other purpose?” There, it is said. Danforth, pleased by Beren’s boldness, stood. “I honored you with command over me because I was honored by your command. From your words and appearance I saw that you were a man of worth, noble and virtuous. How could anyone not have submitted to your command, seeing that? So I plainly state my opinion: I respect you, and I will aid you in whatever task you choose now to complete, should you but ask.” Hearing these words, Beren could not understand how they could be true. Such praises, so pleasing to the ear, how could he comprehend that they came from a sorcerer? But he believed in Danforth’s sincerity, for it gave him delight to think of the future with such a powerful weapon to reduce to ruins all obstructions to lordship. He imagined himself surrounded by mirthful celebration, smiling at each merry chant of “Lord Beren.” Yes, he could not reject the sorcerer’s offer with the possibility of using him to gain lordship so prevalent in his consciousness. But his father’s wariness caused him to choose his words with care, so as not to incite the sorcerer’s anger. “I rejoice,” he said, unable not to smile, “to have such a companion, and I certainly would like for you to give me aid. I seek a noble position, the title of a lord. This battle undoubtedly will bring me fortune, but should it not lead me straight to lordship, your aid in achieving it I will graciously receive.” Danforth nodded approvingly, as if the information was new, “The rank of lord is an honorable goal, one which I will do all I see fit to bring to you.” “I thank you, and I shall return your kindness as best I can, when the time comes.” The two men felt the strength of their alliance, the uncommon power of directing the future. Danforth bowed his head slightly while Beren smiled wryly at his success. Unaware of the pact just formulated, Kashmar ambled into the room, “I meant to ask you, Beren: will you stay longer in Celphaïs now?” Beren laughed, still thinking of the future, “Yes, yes. This town is now a place of importance.” He took up his cup and finished the wine. Danforth smiled, gestured farewell to Beren, and went upstairs. “I think I will go to the marketplace,” Beren said, nodding farewell to the innkeeper and leaving him in the room alone. ​Stepping back towards the stairs and muttering some incoherent phrases, Kashmar noted a certain hollowness in his inn. The dark corner no longer housed a tenant. “He’s gone!” cried Kashmar. What’s this? he thought, looking back on the pain and sadness with which he had made the exclamation. He was a miserable fellow, an unwelcome fellow. Why do I miss his silent presence? He knocked insolently on a nearby wall to dispel a growing silence. A miserable, unwelcome fellow! He clambered up the stairs. ​In the marketplace Beren bought a new brooch for his cloak. The merchant who sold it to him recognized him from the battle and offered his thanks. Enjoying the praise, Beren wandered around Celphaïs and collected compliments from all who passed by him. Even those who had not seen him in the battle or had not been in it themselves gestured respectfully to Beren, assuming he must have played some major part upon seeing either his crimson cloak or his sword. At one point on this glorious walk Beren saw Sieghall walk past him; he decided not to greet him. Finally, having covered almost all of the paths in the town, Beren strode back towards the inn. As he turned the corner where he had many times before heard a dreadful melody, he, further than not hearing it, though it was there, thought of something else entirely. He thought of Sieghall, who he now realized had been walking north. He must have been going to the watchtower, he thought, unable to repress a feeling of respect for the man. ​He returned to the inn and, after a few hours, bade Kashmar good night. … The following evening brought forth a calm and radiant sky; the stars glimmered like the reflections of the sun off a sword, and the brightest seemed to be held aloft by the force of man as a healing torch. Such wonders, though, hid themselves from the people of Celphais above the smoke-filled shroud of the funeral pyre. Tall stacks of flaming bark surrounded the bodies of the slain, so that the watchers would not become sickened by the unruly sight of them. Stones had been arranged across the floor of the cleared marketplace to prevent the charring of the more permanent stones of the town. A faint breeze swept the smoke away from Celphaïs, momentarily revealing the sky before another wave emerged. The entirety of the town’s population was present. Some were staring idly at the spectacle, while others smiled at the variety of entertainment. Musicians crowded the corners of the square: they played at once but with different melodies, creating a wild dissonance to intermingle with the crackle of the flames. Beren drew his palm across his chin, hiding a lip curled in mild disgust. He leaned against one of the columns that outlined the market and on most days divided the numerous market stalls. His friend the innkeeper stood beside him, decidedly apathetic in his expression. He had tossed aside his makeshift hat, which now lay unimpressively at his feet. His thinned hair spun mildly with the draft. “I don’t like it,” stated Beren plainly. “Don’t like what?” his friend asked with no particular interest. Beren shrugged, “This pyre, I guess. It still eludes me why they chose such a thing. You read about these in legends, and even there only the noblest men are honored in this way. Why then should these men who probably only killed one man in their whole lives have a pyre? Was it their relatives who demanded it?” Beren lowered his head with a woeful shudder. “I know they’ll be loath to believe it, but these men do not deserve a funeral pyre.”

Danforth (Chapter 2 continued) Here is the rest of chapter two. “Ninety-three,” said Kashmar, running up to Sieghall, “against their hundred.” Sieghall nodded, pleased, “A good number, more than I expected.” “When will those foul Oriabs arrive?” asked the innkeeper. “It's not wise to be standing here in the rain so long.” “They should be rounding the crest of that hill within ten minutes, if Sieghall’s estimation is correct,” replied Beren, moving away from his forward stance. “It matters not, though: the rain’s almost gone.” Sieghall muttered, “I doubt my estimation is flawed. I’ve looked from that watchtower to the forest for years, and made the journey there often.” “But through the rain, perhaps…” Beren’s voice lowered as a thought occurred to him. “How did you know, Sieghall, that those leaving the forest were Oriabs? The rain was heavy, then, and the tree line is far enough away that they have not arrived yet...” “Banners,” said Sieghall. “They carried Oriab banners, unmistakable even at that distance. To others, the distinction may not have been made, but I was chosen as watchtower guard.” In that statement Beren saw the honor and pride the man took in his duties that meant he would never be a lord. The wanderer had seen it before, and now Beren saw it. Here was a visage of leadership and respect that all could not help but follow. Here was a visage of calm and tradition which could lead armies. And yet here also was a visage of contentment with a simple rank and indifference to change. Beren could not help but think, What a noble man! Kashmar nodded goodbye to the leaders and returned to the Caldurian force. Though he had always wanted to fight in battles, he realized that practicality demanded he not bother the leaders needlessly. At least I may have the chance to use my sword today, he thought. Then, looking down at his sword, he reconsidered. It’ll shatter for sure! Ah, if only I’d used some of the money from the inn to buy a decent weapon…money! Yes, now I see purpose in it: wonderful. He looked at the men around him. Trained swordsmen, all! Look at that sword, so finely made. Even the dagger at that man’s belt seems stronger than my blade. Yes, it’ll shatter for sure! Taking this knowledge to heart, Kashmar moved to one of the rear lines. I’d best not hinder the real fighters. Perhaps I can be of some use…oh, I’ll probably end up only tending to the wounded afterwards. Well, that’s a respected duty, at least. Curse that I never bought a decent sword! Beren lifted himself to a vantage point on the hill, the wanderer a few paces behind him. Come, Oriabs, thought Beren. Hasten! All he saw was the hill-ridden lands between the town and the forest. They must be hidden beneath…A realization shocked him, then he felt pleased with himself for having thought of it. It made sense that the Oriabs would attack Celphaïs. The forest! The great Silvar Forest extended from the land near Celphaïs in the south to a little beyond the Oriab border in the north. The forest provided some benefit for hunting, but apart from that was nearly uninhabited. No roads led through it, and travelers rarely used it. An Oriab force could march through it and remain unnoticed until leaving the forest, until reaching Celphaïs. This naturally made Celphaïs the most vulnerable place for attack. How simple. The wanderer gestured ahead of him: the tops of the Oriab banners protruded from the crest of a hill not far away. Beren motioned to Sieghall, who joined them as the Oriab force came into view. At their head was a fanatical-looking man, clean-shaven and well-dressed, wielding an iron spear. No hints there whether or not they are renegades, thought Beren. Behind him were one hundred Oriabs, each wielding a plain sword in one hand and some smaller dagger or the like in the other. They seem organized and that may be a professional military formation…or perhaps not. The Oriab leader, taking notice of the three men upon the hill, whispered something to a banner carrier at his side, who waved the banner in such a way that it compelled the Oriab force to quicken its pace. Now that’s an Oriab tactic, but it’s entirely unnecessary with only a hundred men, thought Beren, using the military training his father had given him. It shows pride on the part of the leader…or something of that nature. Sieghall called back for the men to ready themselves. For a moment Beren considered adding to this by giving them a rousing speech like the great kings of old. He dismissed the idea, deciding instead to formulate a battle plan. The Oriab leader called for his men to stop at the summit of another hill, where he drew up a hasty battle line. Beren stared back at the men. Their eyes were seething with determination. ​“They are not moving further forward,” said Beren. “They cannot see our force.” ​Sieghall added, “They want us to advance, so they have a chance to weigh their options.” ​“That could mean they are cautious, or even fearful. We must take this opportunity.” ​“What do you suggest? If they are indeed apprehensive, perhaps we can drive them off.” ​“Yes, yes, drive them off.” Beren nodded, thinking. “We should test their resilience.” Possibilities weighed on Beren’s thoughts. A sure way to test resilience is to present one’s opponents with an entirely unexpected threat: if they are not strong enough in their desire to follow through with their plans, they will retreat. Of course the sorcerer would be perfect for such a test, but the consequences should this succeed troubled Beren. The sorcerer would be recognized as the sole savior of Celphaïs, and all my hopes of lordship would be shattered. Beren turned back to the men behind him. Ah! I cannot be so dishonorable as to risk their lives if there is a way around it. But lordship! That which I have sought all these years! No, all will be for nothing if I do not send forth the sorcerer. If I am to be a lord, I will be a lord who never compromised his honor. ​The wanderer, understanding what Beren had meant, decided it was best to help him in this instance. It is a delicate matter for his purposes. “The Oriabs will not expect a sorcerer. If I reveal myself to them, that should frighten them enough that, if they ever will flee, they will flee then. Do you agree, Beren? I follow your orders alone: I merely make a suggestion.” ​Beren nodded quickly, “Yes, yes, I agree. You may attempt this.” The wanderer took a few steps towards the Oriabs. He looked back, noted both Sieghall’s and Beren’s unmistakable excitement. They have never seen sorcery, he thought. But do they expect something specific? What notions could they have of what I am capable of? Among sorcerers, I would not be great; that is, if sorcerers ever met together. The greatest sorcerers never doubt their choice, and yet I doubt my choice always…at least of late. He reluctantly stopped this rolling wheel of thought, though he knew it would lead him to some important conclusion. I have a task to perform now! The wanderer let his cloak twist towards his back, revealing his staff. He thrust the staff forwards, displaying it to the Oriabs, who stared at it confusedly while their leader furrowed his brow in concern. Allowing himself some histrionics, the sorcerer raised the staff and inclined it towards the Oriabs, preparing himself: mystical rays of energy fled wildly from the onyx prison, flailing in rapid agitation before striking the base of the hill upon which the Oriab force was aligned. The Oriabs took a step back, breaking out into maddened discourse, and only the intercession of their leader, who calmed them with shouted words, prevented a retreat. The courage of that man! The wanderer turned back to Beren and Sieghall, who had observed the event with awe. ​“If not for that man, we would have defeated them without bloodshed!” cried Sieghall, noting the Oriab leader’s rallying cry. “I wonder what gives him such fortitude.” ​“Or such hubris!” said Beren, drawing his sword. “Let them see our men, Sieghall.” ​“It is inevitable, then,” muttered Sieghall, taking up his horn and gesturing behind him for the men to advance. “Let the Oriabs hear my honorable challenge!” He put the horn to his mouth and played a gallant melody which rang with notes of august solemnity. The Caldurians paced forward, slowly coming into the view of the company opposite. As the last men reached the summit of the hill, Sieghall finished with a drawn-out, jubilant version of the call-to-arms. ​The wanderer turned to Beren, “When the Oriabs come, how do you command me to use my weapons?” ​Beren put his hand to his forehead, thinking. Ah, of course: the sorcerer is under my command, so I must tell him how he may best serve me in battle. My answer must be well conceived. That sorcery could easily overpower the Oriabs…far too easily. I don’t want a slaughter! But I am obliged by honor to choose the path which is most favorable for our side. If I tell the sorcerer to abstain from using his staff, that will mean more deaths for us—we can’t have that—but if I tell him otherwise, the bloodbath would border on the immoral and, more to the point, the sorcerer would receive all the credit for the victory. A third option, then. Ah! He straightened, “Sorcery, I think you would agree, is a weapon which, though powerful, ought to be used with great care. I also see that with a single strike sorcery could kill a man: this, it seems to me, could compromise our honor.” Sieghall turned his attention away from the men, whom he had been further preparing, and took heed of Beren’s words. “Such an advantage as this seems akin to an armed man killing an unarmed man. So, sorcerer, I command that you use this type of sorcery sparingly. Most of your energies, I say, must be devoted to protecting our men. When no Oriab approaches you, look around you and defend those who are near overpowered with your sorcery. But when an Oriab draws his weapon on you, rely on your sword!” ​“Oh, most wise decree!” cried Sieghall with heightened admiration. ​“I shall do as you say,” said the wanderer. ​The Oriab leader muttered something to his banner carrier and, in that same method of the Oriabs, the banner gave the assembled foes the order to advance. Giving a last order, the banner carrier thrust his banner into the ground, and the other ones carrying banners did the same. All now had weapons drawn. As the last of the rain struck the ground, the Oriabs charged, their leader falling back into the midst of his army. ​With uniform motion, the Caldurians took defensive stances and waited for the clash. The Oriabs crossed one hill, two hills, three hills, and the last hill. Their front line now resounded with war cries, more archaic than threatening. As they reached the summit of the hill where the Caldurians had made their battle line, Beren took a step forward: the first Oriab fell to his sword. Thus begins my journey to lordship, he thought as he let his blade meet another sturdy Oriab’s. Felling this one after a brief parry, Beren turned back to find the hill already in that battle-frenzied state where all formation was lost and all were woven together in dispersed combat. Already corpses littered the ground, some Caldurian. Where is that sorcerer? I told him to protect the men! Looking around him, he found the sorcerer, his bloodied sword in one hand, his staff in the other. Beren followed the sorcerer’s intent gaze to a group of combatants which included a near-overpowered Caldurian. Act, sorcerer! Follow my command! As an Oriab whirled his sword at the Caldurian, the sorcerer moved his staff slightly: the foreign blade halted just long enough for the Caldurian to recover and parry the blow. Ha! Perfect! Aid without breach of honor, just as I said. With this thought, Beren returned to the fight. ​The sorcerer, after quickly preventing a number of Caldurian deaths, used a brief window of calm around him to observe how the battle progressed. As he saw, weakness already scourged the Oriabs, and their numbers were declining rapidly. Where is the noble Beren? He sighted the man not far off, standing amidst a crowd of Oriabs: he struck down each in turn, and soon Caldurians came to his aid, pressing past him to another group of foes. Opposite Beren the sorcerer saw Sieghall, fighting his way towards the bottom of the hill, where the Oriab leader and a few of his fellows had fled for a short rest. He shows no fear! Sieghall, as the sorcerer saw it, was possibly greater than Beren in strength and honor. But see how, whenever he can, he turns back and looks at Beren with reverence. An approaching Oriab forced him to look away from Sieghall, who now drew very close to the protected Oriab leader. Swinging his sword to parry, the sorcerer paced to the side, curved his blade, and slashed the Oriab’s chest. As the enemy fell, the sorcerer turned back to the foot of the hill: Sieghall stood alone among the slain. Oh, he would also have made a noble lord! He had thought it before, but he thought it again. This Sieghall reminded him of a warrior-king he had read of in a Caldurian history. I doubt Beren could ever be a king, but…but this man! If only he had a desire for such titles… ​ He forced himself out of his thoughts and glanced around the battlefield once more. The last of the Oriabs was even then sinking to the ground from a blow from Beren’s sword. Fresh blood touched his sword first and last in this fight: his deeds here will not be forgotten. The Caldurians gradually realized the battle had concluded, and they sheathed their swords. Then the living divided the final tasks: some gathered the Caldurian dead or tended the wounded, others carried the Oriab corpses away, while others returned to the town to tell all of the victory, and others still praised the leaders or stood in quiet joy simply for being alive. ​After a time Beren strode to the wanderer, an inevitable smile on his face, “I thank you for your service to me: I hear only eleven of us are dead, and I believe the number would have been much higher if not for your efforts. Being as it is that the threat is ended, you may now leave my command. I do not wish to hinder a sorcerer’s path more than is needed.” ​“I only accept this kindness with reluctance,” said the wanderer. “And I must ask that you call upon me again without reservation if you feel it necessary.” As he said this, Kashmar hurried up to them. Beren greeted his friend, and the innkeeper nodded to him before turning to the sorcerer, “So, now that this is done, can we not let this mysteriousness end?” Beren recoiled slightly, shocked by Kashmar’s strange and capricious question. I should not be surprised: good Kashmar is always capricious. Kashmar continued, “You have served this town very honorably, but in time, I fear, none will remember.” What is this? He speaks as if he has authority here. What does he seek? “So that this does not occur, I ask you this: what is your name, sorcerer?” The wanderer replied, “I am a wanderer. Nothing more.” At this, Beren recalled something his father had once told him. When asking a question of a sorcerer, remember this. He may answer in one of three ways. He may avoid the question, he may answer in a riddle, or he may be angered and use violence. In any case, if you persist, beware! This is why Beren was concerned when the innkeeper continued. “Come, now. Names carry much weight, and a name is not oft forgotten. Names can be written. You must be recognized as a victor in this fight, but none are so recognized nameless.” “There is no need for any recognition," replied the sorcerer. Beren heard no tenseness in his voice, but his fear heightened. More of his father’s words returned. A sorcerer never wishes for his name to be known, and he will do anything to avoid its discovery. I learned this at a great price, and I wouldn’t want you to act so foolish as I did. So, if you ever encounter one of their kind, don’t ask their name. It’s best not to gamble with death. “What great secret could your name be?” asked Kashmar. “No secret,” replied the sorcerer, still remarkably serene. “He does not wish to reveal his name,” said Beren. “There is no need to persist.” “Tell me!” demanded Kashmar. Beren, confused by the innkeeper’s overly-characteristic manner, pondered how to intercede. Quickly it became apparent that this was not necessary, for the sorcerer simply sighed and walked away. "Wh-where are you going?" asked the innkeeper, taking a step to follow the sorcerer. “Stop this madness!” shouted Beren, holding out an arm to restrain Kashmar. The innkeeper cringed, realizing his folly, “I hope I have not made an enemy of him.” The sorcerer stopped, his mind reeling. His name had always been a cherished secret of his, and he had guarded it well. Yet his mind still wavered as it considered the idea of telling those two men. No, I can’t reveal it! That innkeeper would be quick to tell all his friends, and soon enough all of Calduria would know his name and face. He would have no choice but to cease his wandering! The image of the face invaded his mind: it smiled softly, beckoning. The wanderer perceived that the man must have been pleased with his decision. He tilted his head towards the two Caldurians: Beren was admonishing the innkeeper for his foolishness. Should I reveal my name? What harm would it cause? Well…I would have to break my oath! No, I can’t let that happen. Yet, if the vile face enjoys my secrecy, why not reveal myself to slight him? The face’s smile had vanished; a solemn frown stood in its place. Ha! You do not control me! The wanderer plodded to Kashmar, who wore an apologetic expression, and said, “I-I have…” His voice faded. I cannot do this! I cannot end my wandering! Ah, ah! I despise my chosen path, why should I not end it? An oath…is merely an…oath. No, no, I will not. The face smiled again. Accursed face! I have ignored you before, but your presence plagues me. I wish to be rid of it…perhaps this will do it. Yes, yes, I will. I will reveal my name! He surged hurriedly on to voice the word before his decision changed, “Danforth.” He paused, his focus drifting. “My name is Danforth.” Even as he uttered the near-forgotten name, the face broke out into a fiery grin. Danforth’s eyes widened, confusion and rage overtaking him. The face has misled me! Foul deception! The face responded with a shuddering laugh. I’ll…I’ll…well…that accursed face! The face gave a mocking smile before fading into the background. ​Danforth’s attention returned to the lowly innkeeper, who was cowering on the ground. Evidently the sorcerer’s rage had shown. Danforth glowered at the plain man, “Well, are you now appeased? You won’t be so happy when you’re lying in a pool of your own blood!” With that Danforth stormed away, his weathered robes billowing in the wind.

Danforth (Chapter 2) For anyone who is interested, here is the beginning of chapter two. Chapter 2 The horn sounded again, more distinct than before. Beren passed into the main road, following the sound, and then moved by a number of streets northwards. After running through the deserted marketplace and back onto the main road, he at length sighted the north gate. There, through the rain, he saw ahead of him the shape of a man holding a hunting horn. His guard’s uniform hid underneath a drenched cloak, which clung to his clothes. His long hair twisted in a wild, drowned state of disarray. A few other figures, those who had already answered the horn, stood around the man, sharpening their swords. Taking up his horn once more, the man sounded the call to arms, then, noticing Beren, replaced the horn in his belt. “Ah,” said the man, moving forward, “Hasten! Has anyone told you of the threat? Well, I will tell you. Ah, most regrettable circumstance! A band of Oriabs, nearly a hundred in number, is coming to attack Celphaïs. I saw them emerge from the forest not long ago. They will arrive soon. Now say whether or not you will aid us. Speak quickly!” Beren’s mind clouded with thoughts: Oriabs! An attack! This…this is…what shall I do? Beren considered the implications of this news. Orbia, after many years of endless warfare with Calduria, had recently negotiated with its enemies for peace: if the Oriabs had continued much longer, they would have been crushed, for civil war with the city of Kiner had greatly depleted the Oriabs’ resources. In the following years the opposing kingdoms had settled into a tense, uneasy peace. To all it seemed as if the war was over. Why then would one hundred Oriabs be marching towards Celphaïs? When Beren had heard the horn, he had not expected such a threat: he had expected rogues, or something of that sort. It made no sense! Could they possibly want war? Even if that were the case, why would they only bring one hundred men, and, more importantly, why would they attack Celphaïs? In the end, motives mattered little: whatever the outcome of this attack, it would severely threaten the peace. Whatever the outcome of this attack, it would constitute an issue of great political magnitude. Whatever the outcome of this attack, soon all would know of it. A single phrase possessed Beren’s mind, a phrase he had thought to himself for far too long without seeking out a way to fulfill it: one great act of importance! Yes, this is my fate! I alone heard the horn, and I alone shall have my wish. This battle shall be my road to lordship! All I need do is survive it. He knew he needed to respond to the guard’s words quickly. How can I impress him? If he is to lead this battle, and he may, I must gain not only his trust but also his respect, or my deeds here will not be known. I must show my honor…honor, yes. Perhaps an oath. An oath would guarantee that I am trustworthy and display honor. That should be enough to engender respect. Yes, an oath! He brandished his sword and raised it to the man, “By this sword I make an oath of loyalty to the town of Celphaïs: yes, I shall aid you!” The man eyed the sword with awe, “That sword looks finely crafted. You must be a noble man, indeed, to possess such a blade.” Beren laughed inwardly, My father’s gift has finally proved useful; it appears that the quality of the sword alone would have won me this man’s respect. “What is your name, sir?” asked the man. “Beren.” “And I am Sieghall, guard of the northern watchtower of Celphaïs. My heart is lightened by the presence of such a warrior as you, Beren.” “I am glad,” said Beren. “If you, who will lead us in battle, rejoice at the sight of me, with certainty I see our enemies swiftly defeated with those others who will assuredly come.” Sieghall, impressed by this loftily articulated declaration, exclaimed, “Ah, I see virtue in you, noble Beren! I would be honored if you would lead with me against the Oriabs.” Beren smiled with joy: one great act of importance. He wants me to lead with him! Lead! How easy this will be to draw attention, if I am to be a leader in the battle. “I would be honored to stand beside you, Sieghall.” “Praised be this day, which grants us such an ally!” cried Sieghall. “Now return to the town and help gather men,” he said, returning to his hurried tone. “We shall need a great number to defeat our foes.” He gestured to the sparse, but growing, company around him, “Three times what we have now.” “Farewell, then,” said Beren as he left. “I shall return soon.” Passing through the northern gate, he heard Sieghall sounding his horn once again. Most blessed music, he thought joyfully. He ran along the main road, calling out to the townsfolk, already in the streets listening to the call to arms. In the marketplace he met some prominent merchants, to whom he detailed the situation, urging them to the north gate. After much of this mustering, Beren resolved to return to the inn. Now I shall see if Kashmar truly wants to be a soldier. Returning to the main road, he passed a number of armed townspeople. I doubt he’ll even choose to join the battle, the coward. Crossing again into the lesser roads, he heard the distinct sound of a psaltery, playing that same disturbing melody which he had also heard often since his arrival at Celphaïs. Ah, that sound again! If only the musician would join the battle—and be slain. Beren, wearing his wry smile, entered the inn to find Kashmar staring fixedly at the aged man in the corner. He oddly did not acknowledge Beren’s return. Retaining his smile, Beren took a step forward. “Oh, Beren,” said Kashmar. “Did you find—” Beren interrupted, “Take up your sword, Kashmar. The horn was indeed the call to arms. Oriabs attack from the north. The watchtower guard says they are one hundred in number. Though we know not yet how organized they are, Celphaïs can defeat them.” Kashmar stammered, “Or…Oriabs? Well, yes, we can defeat them: in Celphaïs reside a great number of swordsmen. But, Beren, is this true? Oriabs?” “It is true, my friend. They will arrive in less than an hour.” Kashmar still doubted, “But the peace! The Oriabs would not break the peace.” “Perhaps they are renegades,” said Beren impatiently. “Quite right, quite right. Renegades would make sense. Oh, they can’t be warmongers, can they? Everyone agreed to the peace! It makes no sense!” Beren scowled, “Now is not the time to consider motives. Get your sword, Kashmar.” “This cannot be the only option,” said Kashmar, uncertain. “What do you mean?” asked Beren “We…can’t you convince the people of Celphaïs to flee?” “Flee? Why? There’s no reason to flee!” said Beren indignantly. “If we flee, we spare the people and sacrifice the town. Then we can wait for Calduris to intervene. There would be no chance of failure that way.” “No!” cried Beren in consternation. “We must meet the Oriabs ourselves!” “Your greed has blinded you!” said Kashmar impetuously. “You just want the lordship, the ‘one great act of importance’! You don’t care about…those who could die in this battle!” “Don't be rash, bartender!” said Beren coldly. The innkeeper froze, the color in his face draining. All vestiges of a friendship between the two men temporarily shattered. Kashmar passed towards the stairs, “I’ll…find my sword.” He touched his forehead for no reason in particular and, taking up his cloak, trudged to the second story. Beren turned to the two guests of the inn, both of whom stared blankly at the floor. Perhaps I should ask them to join the battle. Sieghall would look on me more favorably if I brought him more men. He studied both of them briefly. Which one first? Taking a few steps toward the man in the corner with the wide-brimmed hat, he cleared his throat and said, “Good sir, enemies approach from the northern land of Orbia. If we are to be victorious, we shall need a force which matches that of our enemy in number. Would you be willing to aid us?” He said this with some degree of hesitancy and reserve, for he felt a seemingly out of place fear of this man. ​The aged man slowly rose and, stepping horizontally away from Beren, strode to the door. Pushing aside increasing anxiety, Beren tried to call out to the man as he departed, but the words did not form quickly enough. As the door slid shut, Beren’s heavy heart, to his relief, lightened. The other one, I hope, will prove more favorable. If not, though, at least I will have driven out both of Kashmar’s guests. With caution and apprehension Beren turned to the wanderer, who still avoided his gaze. “You must have heard me just then,” he said. “I trust I need not repeat it.” The wanderer appeared not to hear. “Well, will you aid us?” No movement. “Speak now. I have no reason to linger here longer.” The wanderer turned slightly, struggling with indecision. Should I do this? Is Beren truly worthy of it? Well…of course he…I can’t be certain! I must be certain! No, no. I shall aid Beren! He deserves the title he desires…it may even make him a better man. If he is not worthy now, I shall make him worthy. He fully turned, standing, and faced Beren. It must be done, then. Gathering his strength, the wanderer inspected the man before him. He must be worthy. “I am yours to command,” said the wanderer, unexpectedly kneeling as a servant to a king. There: I have spoken. That is enough…no, not nearly enough. He hesitantly withdrew an item from within his cloak. Though he had known it for so long, he still experienced a strange feeling when he grasped it, the symbol of his chosen path. It was a staff of pure onyx, glistening in the low light of the inn, thin so as to keep it secret, dark so as to keep it hidden, hidden so as to keep it uncommon. It was the kind of staff few expected to bear the sight of, the kind which was the subject of strange, rare tales. It was the staff of a sorcerer. Beren stared at the slender weapon, awed and startled. To meet a sorcerer was a great honor, for these men were rarely seen. The few who still followed the sorcerer’s way of wandering preferred not to reveal themselves. One could be speaking with one without the knowledge of the fact, as had been the case here. It was said only the most respectable people received this opportunity, a fact which caused some to avoid respect, for sorcerers were known to be as unpredictable as the weather. Beren’s father had been somewhat of an “authority” on sorcerers, for he had met one on a near-deserted island while on a voyage to Rosnis. The days he spent with the sorcerer, as he stated, were some of the most memorable days of his #life. When the two parted ways, the sorcerer had bestowed upon Beren’s father a sword, a sword which now rested in the sheath at Beren’s side. Along with the gift, Beren’s father had also gained great insights into the mind of the sorcerer, insights which he had gladly told Beren on multiple occasions. One insight in particular came to Beren presently: If a sorcerer makes himself known in your presence, show as much honor for him as possible, for he has honored you in his action. If you do not, he will be angered and likely resort to violence in order to do away with you! With that warning in mind, Beren prepared to respond to the sorcerer’s statement. “I revere highly your presence, sorcerer, and I hope you are not unhappy with mine.” “You show me more respect than I am worthy of,” replied the wanderer calmly, thinking, he will yet learn that he also is worthy of more respect than I show him now. Now how will he respond? Based on his response I can learn much about him. To the wanderer’s discontent, Kashmar ambled towards them at that moment, a rusty sword in his hand. As he prepared a nonchalant introductory statement, he fixed his eyes on the sorcerer’s staff. Dismissing his casual demeanor, Kashmar turned to the wanderer and, removing his hat, bowed appropriately before him. Then, replacing his hat, he said formally, “I never expected to meet a sorcerer, and, if that is what you are, I am grateful for your presence.” “I am a sorcerer,” said the wanderer matter-of-factly, “and I have made myself known that I may aid in the battle which now threatens Celphaïs.” Kashmar exclaimed, “Then I will set aside all words of flight. A sorcerer for an ally! This will be a hasty victory indeed.” “Then let us grasp that victory!” cried Beren merrily, before, remembering the presence of a sorcerer, hurriedly asking the wanderer, “Shall we join the battle now?” He is at the height of elation, thought the wanderer, vaguely disturbed by Beren’s exclamation. He eyed Beren grimly, “That is not for me to decide.” The wanderer worried at how Beren had reacted when first he had revealed himself: his words had sounded almost mechanical, but also with an undeniable degree of…something. What was it? Confidence! Beren had been confident that his words would please the wanderer, confident that he had spoken them well, confident that they had fit the standard. What standard? If Beren had grasped onto some preconceived notion which now prevented the wanderer from playing his desired part, that flaw required hasty mending. That phrase should do it: ‘That is not for me to decide.’ Simple enough. The way Beren had responded to his first words still troubled him, though. He must have, likely in the shock of the moment, quite forgotten my original statement. Ah! I ought to remind him outright, then. The wanderer looked back to Beren, who still brooded over what he had just heard, and said, “I am yours to command, if you recall. I hold no desire to wield sturdy weapons over you. My path does not indicate leadership, only…travel. But your path…” He allowed the statement to complete itself. You must feel it right that you command me, Beren. Beren allowed these words to drive him to their intended conclusion. This sorcerer respects me! More of his father’s words lent themselves to explain this phenomenon: do not ever permit yourself to believe you can know a sorcerer’s mind. Take his words, however few, for what they are. Follow them unquestioningly, but not like a fool! Allow the sorcerer to entertain his whims. Beren took this memory gratefully and endeavored to follow his father’s advice. So the sorcerer seems to respect me, he thought. He is asking me to lead, that is clear. Then I shall lead! He wrapped a respectably commanding aura about him and faced the sorcerer, “We shall leave now and join our fellow men at the north gate.” Beren felt somewhat liberated by his statement: my father would be greatly surprised to find his advice now leads me to give orders to a sorcerer! Ha! See how he nods acknowledgement and makes ready to follow me? Ah, mighty sorcerer! How could it be that I have been granted such good fortune? Lordship! Lordship! Let Kashmar call that a foolish notion now. If this sorcerer leads me to my goal, I will surely repay the gift with thanks, gold, anything he asks. Hmm…altruism? Well, it seems fitting that virtue should accompany the approach of my victory…why is that? I’ve never been much inclined to such thoughts as these…well…no need to dwell on them now. Beren collected himself and, beckoning the others to follow, strode out into the rain, which, as he noticed, had grown milder. Taking the same route as before, Beren moved onwards with those same heavy, calculated footsteps the wanderer had recognized only a day before on the road to Celphaïs. Even now they gladdened the wanderer, for they signified that the noble man still maintained his conviction to his goal. He may one day need those footsteps as a reminder, if the road ahead spreads too dimly before him, thought the wanderer as he kept pace behind. The rain, he saw, had indeed thinned, a decent indicator that the sky would be clear by the time the Oriabs arrived. We will see our enemies sooner and thus be able to prepare more effectively. This was warrior-thought, the wanderer realized, something he had rarely found the need for in the past. I must not allow my inexperience in battle to show: all will expect a great warrior, and they must have one. My staff should do most of the work in achieving that, but I must not forget to use my sword. That sounds like something a leader of sorcerers would say…that’s an odd thought: sorcerers do not have leaders. Beren sighted the main road ahead of him and made for it: it would lead them to the north gate directly. Just as he thought this, though, he felt ill at ease. I don’t want to hear that dread music again, he thought just as the sound of the psaltery entered his awareness. Curse it! The wanderer heard it, too, much to his disquiet. Only Kashmar seemed undisturbed. How does it not drive him mad? thought Beren, looking back at his friend. How does it not drive me mad? It nearly does, but not quite…ah, I should be thankful for that. He hurried his steps and soon the melody faded away. The three men passed the marketplace and reentered the main road. Soon the north gate would be within sight. The rain had lightened considerably since their journey began and was now almost unnoticeable. Yes, more efficiency, greater chance of success, benefit to defenders, thought the wanderer. Battle fit nicely with the wandering way, for permanent residences inhibit attackers, having more than themselves to lose, and defenders, having only one place to defend: often the enemy, when failing to strike one place, tries another. The wanderer considered this, Even a victory here could lead to war. This kind of event will never simply go unnoticed. Politics will draw this out: if Orbia claims these attackers are renegades, Calduria will threaten war so as to force a bribe. If the Oriabs say this was a deliberate attack, it will be Calduria chained with threats. Or perhaps neither will happen. The Caldurian king…the rumors of him lean towards a man who would not resort to such feeble tactics. What do they say of him? Hmm, ‘overly generous’ is a common phrase and… The north gate lay before them, crowded with loyal men intent on protecting their town. Most bore a look of determination, and only a few showed fear. The swordsmen sharpened their weapons with an air of cool precision, and the less trained followed their example. The casual observer would have looked upon this scene and expected them to be a small cohort preparing for a training exercise. Such was their mood, which the wanderer insightfully noted drew its origin from the one among them who presented himself most calmly: the guardsman Sieghall. The wanderer had seen the man before, at other times when his wandering had led him to Celphaïs, and he had seen a great leader in him. Now he knew he had been correct. He would make a great lord, as well, if he had a liking for titles. Sadly he does not. Sieghall raised his head from sharpening his sword, and, seeing Beren, made his way through the throng to him and said, “Beren! What men have you brought us?” “I bring you Kashmar, innkeeper,” said Beren, presenting his friend. “He may be of some use for auxiliary purposes…or on the battlefield, though his sword is regrettably poor.” “Indeed. I have need of someone to count the men. Would you be willing, innkeeper?” Kashmar was disappointed by Beren’s somewhat uncouth presentation of him and mildly affronted by Sieghall’s unimpressive choice of role for him, but he gave a simple, “I am willing,” and went about completing the task immediately. “And the other, Beren?” asked Sieghall, indicating the wanderer. Beren spoke proudly, “I know not his name…” The wanderer withdrew the staff once again from within his cloak and watched the man’s reaction. His previously idyllic face was now a mingling of surprise and joy. “A sorcerer!” Sieghall cried. “Has Beren brought us a sorcerer?” The wanderer saw his opportunity and took it, “Beren is a most honorable man, and I found it necessary, when he asked for aid, that I follow his wish. I am under his command.” Sieghall exclaimed, “Praised be Beren, who gives us such an ally!” The others had taken note of this interchange, and now each stared in awe at either Beren or the wanderer. Beren will not be forgotten now, thought the wanderer. He is now great among them. … The rain now descended from the sky only like sparks from a dying forge as the people of Celphaïs stood outside the north gate, waiting. Some carried swords, and most also hid daggers and various small blades on their belts. A few held spears as their weapons of choice. Beren wielded the polished, sharp sword of his father, that which had first won him the guardsman Sieghall’s loyalty. The wanderer, who stood a step behind Beren, had his staff, half-hidden in his cloak, along with a magnificent sword which rivaled that of Beren still sheathed at his side. Sieghall, who paced along the front lines of the sturdy fighters to assure himself of their readiness, had a sword of his own, not nearly as great as Beren’s, but still more than most would expect a mere watchtower guard to possess.

Danforth (end of Chapter 1) It seems I exceeded the word limit last time, so here's the last paragraph of chapter one. The wanderer looked after him in admiration. Though he had not heard any horn, he sensed that the noble Beren had not been mistaken. He considered following him, but decided against it. 'It is not yet the time for decisive action.' He looked towards Kashmar, who was pacing across the inn in confusion, and thought, 'soon, though, decisive action will be necessary. That is, if I truly desire to see Beren succeed…and I do, of course. Beren is a man of virtue; that is not a matter of doubt. Yet, helping him absolutely to lordship may force me to neglect my choice…no, I shall give him victory, even if that means I must stray from my chosen path, increasingly displeasing to me. A path is merely a path, and an oath is merely an oath. Though some may warn and threaten with words of downfall, I will not heed them. I have seen one very like Beren achieve the greatest joy, and if I, having no one fixation, cannot do the same, I shall aid another more deserving than I in achieving that happiness: if that means I as a result can abandon my choice, let it be so.'