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.