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.