#patur

[samwendelfiction]

Axe: Foreboding

The room was unremarkable, with its bare wooden floors and chipped paint. All the same, Patur had not slept under a roof, much less in a bed, in many nights. He sighed deeply as he undressed, feeling the weight of time and hard travel. He then slipped into bed and fell into a long, dreamless sleep.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Patur woke. Ordinarily he would have cursed himself for all the hours wasted, especially knowing that his business was not finished in Carlin. Every day spent in town meant he fell farther behind what he was chasing. Patur knew that whatever snare the man had left for him would culminate in its own time. There was no use rushing headlong into its grasp. Patur slowly dressed and made his way down the stairs. He decided to find the man from the bar immediately. He needed to find which way the man he was chasing had fled. Patur exited the inn, squinting into the mid-morning sun. Following the directions of the innkeeper, he stayed on the main thoroughfare. Outside of town, its dusty trail crossed with another path. Patur turned onto the intersecting street. In the distance he saw his destination. It was, as the innkeeper promised, a large ranch. The house itself was plain, with brown shingles and mismatched shutters. A sense of foreboding was overwhelming; it felt to Patur as though he had stepped into a great shadow.   

[samwendelfiction]

Axe: The Innkeeper

Patur left the bar and made for the local inn. He was not used to losing fights, and needed to collect himself. His work was not complete, but he recognized that any decision he made would be clouded by wounded pride. He walked up the creaky wooden stairs and thrust open the double doors of the inn. Patur approached the wide counter only to find it unattended. He rang the bell, rapping his knuckles against the oak desk. Presently an old woman shuffled from some back office to the counter. Her white hair was pulled into a single braid that lay across her stooped shoulders.  Her eyes grew wide as she saw Patur’s axes, and she hurriedly bowed her slight frame. ‘A Berzerker, here, in the flesh…I never thought I’d see the day. Welcome!’ she stammered. ‘Rise, and see true. There are not many of us, but here I am. I have travelled far and need lodging. Are there any rooms available?’ ‘Not the last, you say? Well I’ll be. But a room! There is always room for those such as yourself. Right this way.”  Patur followed as the old woman scuttled down the hall and up a flight of circular stairs. She stopped abruptly and opened the door, unveiling a small apartment. ‘Will this do?’ the inn keep asked, somewhat bashfully. ‘Yes, of course,’ Patur replied. ‘I just have one more thing to ask you of. Do you know where I can find a certain man?’ He went on to describe the man he encountered at the tavern. ‘Oh yes, I know him,’ the old woman answered. ‘Bad business, that one. Owns a ranch just north of town. Stay on the main road till the first crossroad, then turn right. It’s the only place out there.’ ‘Thank you kindly,’ said Patur, ‘I’ll be sure to find it.’ With that he bowed low and took his leave.

[samwendelfiction]

Axe: The Grey Wastes

Tonight, the memories are catching up with him. He sits and contemplates his doings, his life. He thinks of all the wrong that he has done, trying to reconcile his actions with his moral standard. He tries to convince himself that he is not a bad person, simply a flawed one. But he wishes he was more, wishes that he could emulate the heroes of his mother’s stories. He stares down into his creased, callused hands. He massages the deep scars that mark his left palm and fingers. His hands are tanned, like the sun aged leather straps that crisscross his back. Tucked into their folds were the sharpened heads of two axes, their handles just above his shoulders, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice. The weight, the gravity of his weapons reassures him. They are soothing, for they are not only means of war, but also tools of peace. His teacher had taught him long ago how to chop wood, to skin game, to tan leather, to build shelter, all with the axe. A great shield is also strapped to his back, its engraved surface reflecting the moonlight overhead. A mighty tree is etched into the metal, and he traces the outline idly.  

  Påtur inherited his axes from his father, as was tradition. The axes were ancient, and their story is long and bloody. But Patur’s shield was completely his own, something he would never pass on to his eldest son. Custom decreed that he would take his shield to the grave, whether it be on the battlefield or the funeral pyre. Not every man earns his father’s axes. Many try, fail, and must live with the consequences of failure. Those who fall short, or do not even attempt to win their birthright, are doomed to a life of servitude; they are not leaders of men. But for those who take the day and secure their father’s weapons, they forge their own shield. The shield embodies the means by which the victor won his weapons. Each man challenges for his birthright according to his own time – he chooses when to take up the task. And thus each man’s story of victory is different, for no two tasks are alike. The High Council chooses a task worthy to test the challenger’s mettle, and every task is different. Herakles performed eight labors to regain his lost honor. Patur and his kind felt blessed only to be charged with one. His shield reminds his allies of his unique strengths. Those who complete the task are seen as equal, but each man’s shield reminds the others that his journey was his own. Patur runs his hands along the edge of his shield, feeling its intricate engravings. He reclines, shield sprawled across his lap, and dreams of happier, younger days.

  Patur woke with the sun, his legs and back sore from the hard ground. This was the forty-third morning since he entered the Grey Wastes. As the sun spilled its pale light over Patur’s camp, he saw the Wastes stretch out before him. The terrain seemed endless, with no sign of conclusion in any direction. The Wastes were featureless, with no path among the colorless stone. A persistent grey mist hung above the earth. Very little could survive in the Wastes. Plants could not sink their roots into the stone, and animals grew wary of the mist. Patur had to force his way across, however. There was no other way. The man he was chasing came this way, so Patur would too.  

  Patur gathered his pack, scattered the ashes of last night’s fire, and began resumed his pursuit. His course, as ever, was due west. As he walked, Patur wondered how close he truly was to catching up with the man he sought. Some nights he thought he saw the flickering of a fire far off in the distance. But he knew the mind was often a weak and gullible thing. Other days he found the charred remains of campfires, but it was impossible to guess their age. Like everything here, the old campsites were featureless, washed-out. Their remnants might be only days old, or they might be many months. It was beyond Patur’s skill to guess.

  The Berzerker looked out across the desolation, trying to gauge how far he had come. More importantly, he wondered how many miles were between him and the end of the Wastes. He was falling ill, and the Wastes would claim him soon. At first it wasn’t so bad, only brief bouts of nausea and dizziness. But as the sickness set in, Patur became more concerned. In all of his long travels he had never seen an affliction such as this. Open sores festered across his skin, red and raw and angry. Vomiting became routine, mixed with blood and pus. Patur knew he only had a day, maybe two, left in him. He knew there was no solution but to walk – no salvation could be found in this place.

  It was growing dark when Patur reached the edge of the chasm. The fading light and heavy mist had previously concealed the vast split. The lip of the abyss fell away sharply, disappearing into the caverns below. The ravine was long, extending far into the distance, and lay directly across Patur’s path. He could not guess how wide the gap was, as the gulf became engulfed in fog. Across the chasm, extending out into the mist was a narrow piece of iron cylindrical piping. The metal was wet with the fog’s moisture condensating on its rusted surface. On the edge of the abyss, near the metal tube, was a sign. In neatly painted letters it read, “Hello Patur.”

  Patur knew the trap had been left by the man he pursued. Unfortunately, Patur knew his options were limited. He could attempt to find a way around the chasm, but he doubted he had the time to find a new path. He could try to climb down the canyon wall and up the other side. If Patur had been healthy he might have favored this approach, but he knew he didn’t have the strength in his current condition. So it came down to this. He had to trust that the piping would support his weight, and hope the gap was not as a far as he suspected. He looked up at the setting sun, weighing his options. Then he inhaled deeply, swinging his right leg out into the abyss. Patur continued like a man walking a tightrope, arms extended out to either side, head held aloft. His body was damp with sweat, and his hands trembled with sickness and nervousness. Patur walked onward, and saw the far edge through the fog. At the same time, a spell of dizziness and nausea overcame him. He swayed, arms flapping windmilling through the air. The darkness of the pit cried out to him, urging him to join them in the depths of the cavern. Come, it said, let go. Leave your painful world behind and live forever in our darkness. Patur cried out and for a long, dreadful moment was sure he would fall. His feet righted themselves, and Patur scampered over the last portion of the piping. He fell to the earth in exhaustion. Patur looked to the sky and felt, for the first time in many days, the undimmed power of the sun upon his face. He had escaped the Grey Wastes.

  After a few minutes, Patur righted himself and left the chasm behind him. Its presence made him uneasy, and he was eager to leave it. Ahead in the distance laid the outline of a town. Patur decided to make his camp here, on the outskirts, rather than come across the place by night. He slept like a man renewed, and when he woke found his body overcoming its illness. Overnight his sores had begun to close, and he no longer felt nauseated or dizzy. He packed his camp and presently made his way to the town. Its buildings were unremarkable, erected with weatherworn oak and ash. A raised sidewalk bordered the storefronts, allowing pedestrians escape from the refuse that piled in the dirt street. Patur headed for the saloon, for it was the best place to find news in a town such as this.

   Patur entered the dim haze of the tavern, wiping the dust of the Grey Wastes from his boots. The sun was just beginning its disappearance behind the hills as the door swung shut behind him. The air was heavy with sweat and booze, and already some townsfolk were slumped over at the bar. Patur pushed past the men crowding the card tables and made for the bar. He had travelled far, and his long legs were sore and bruised. He had seen a countless shithole towns like this one, and would see countless more.

  Clouds of sawdust followed Patur’s strides as he approached the bar, which consisted of little more than a long stretch of wood balanced atop two saw horses. A heavy silence fell over the tavern as even the heaviest of drinkers began to realize what was in their midst. ‘Whiskey, neat, and whatever you pass for meat in this place,’ said Patur to the bartend. ‘Gonna need to see the money first,’ the man replied, ‘nothin’ personal, but you know how it is these days.’ Patur slowly removed a coin from his purse and placed it heavily on the bar. The eyes of all the townsfolk stared. The bartender surveyed the coin, bit it, and wordlessly poured his drink. The smell of sweet sausage filled the tavern, and the eyes became harder. When the meal was placed before him, Patur quietly thanked the bartend and hungrily ate what was put before him. He tried not to think of what sort of animal the sausage was ground from. In places such as these it was better not to know.

  As Patur was finishing his meal, a man rose from the shadows. He made for the bar as if to retrieve another drink. As he neared Patur’s seat, he lurched forward, revealing an unsheathed blade. In one terribly fluid and precise motion, Patur spun, and seized the man’s wrist. The man cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. His hand lay limply at his side, broken and useless, while Patur silently returned to his meal. There were always fools, and Patur had no pity for them. His travels were too far, his life too long and sad to be cut down by some drunk in a no-name town. After another drink, Patur put his back to the bartend and made his way towards the door. He knew that as the night grew there would only be more trouble. Men with drink do funny things, as he well knew. He was nearly to the exit when he saw a dark shape in the corner of the room beckoning.

He approached the hooded figure slowly, his footfalls heavy on the wooden floor. ‘Thought your kind was dead,’ the shadowed figure said flatly. ‘Dead and dying,’ replied Patur. ‘What is a man like yourself doing in a town like Carlin?’ Patur’s slate grey eyes stared the man over. His cloak and hood were ragged and weather stained. Through the tatters he wore a well- oiled leather jerkin, with boots to match and a knife on his hip. ‘I did not travel so far to be questioned by some drunkard about my business,’ Patur said. The man threw back his hood and laughed a cackling, manic sound. ‘Trouble is, friend, I know what you came for. But you won’t get it. It’s long gone. Long, long gone. Gone where you can’t find it, I believe. He said you’d come, and so you have. And now I suggest you leave, before things get too messy.’ In a flash, Patur overturned the table where the man sat, and flung him high against the wall. As Patur held him there, intent to make this man pay for his loose tongue, he felt a sharp blade firmly held against his stomach. ‘Pretty thing, isn’t she?’ the man said,’ Bites deep too. Put me down, unless you like the taste of steel.’ Patur let him drop, fury burning deep in his eyes. ‘Now then, that’s better,’ the man said, laughing. ‘I do hate to disappoint, but you were always a long shot. But it was nice to see you again Patur. I do hope we’ll meet again soon.’ And so the cloaked man exited the saloon, leaving Patur in a haze of anger and frustration.

[samwendelfiction]

Tavern, Part II

After another drink, Patur put his back to the bartend and made his way towards the door. He knew that as the night grew there would only be more trouble. Men with drink do funny things, as he well knew. He was nearly to the exit when he saw a dark shape in the corner of the room beckon to him. He approached the hooded figure slowly, his footfalls heavy on the wooden floor.

‘Thought your kind was dead,’ the shadowed figure said flatly. ‘Dead and dying,’ replied Patur. ‘What is a man like yourself doing in a town like Carlin?’ Patur’s slate grey eyes stared the man over. His cloak and hood were ragged and weather stained. Through the tatters he wore a well-oiled leather jerkin, with boots to match and a knife on his hip. ‘I did not travel so far to be questioned by some drunkard about my business,’ Patur said. The man threw back his hood and laughed a cackling, manic sound. ‘Trouble is, friend, I know what you came for. But you won’t get it. It’s long gone. Long, long gone. Gone where you can’t find it, I believe. He said you’d come, and so you have. And now I suggest you leave, before things get too messy.’ In a flash, Patur overturned the table where the man sat, and flung him high against the wall. As Patur held him there, intent to make this man pay for his loose tongue, he felt a sharp blade firmly held against his stomach. ‘Pretty thing, isn’t she?’ the man said,’ Bites deep too. Put me down, unless you like the taste of steel.’ Patur let him drop, fury burning deep in his eyes. ‘Now then, that’s better,’ the man said, laughing. ‘I do hate to disappoint, but you were always a long shot. But it was nice to see you again Patur. I do hope we’ll meet again soon.’ And so the cloaked man exited the tavern, leaving Patur in a haze of anger and frustration.   

[samwendelfiction]

Tavern

Patur entered the dim haze of the tavern, wiping the dust of the grey wastes from his boots. The sun was just beginning its disappearance behind the hills as the door swung shut behind him. The air was heavy with sweat and booze, and already some townsfolk were slumped over at the bar. Patur pushed past the men crowding the card tables and made for the bar. He had travelled far, and his long legs were sore and bruised. He had seen a countless shithole towns like this one, and would see countless more.

Clouds of sawdust followed Patur’s strides as he approached the bar, which consisted of little more than a long stretch of wood balanced atop two saw horses. A heavy silence fell over the tavern as even the heaviest of drinkers began to realize what was in their midst. ‘Whiskey, neat, and whatever you pass for meat in this place,’ said Patur to the bartend. ‘Gonna need to see the money first,’ the man replied, ‘nothin’ personal, but you know how it is these days.’ Patur slowly removed a coin from his purse and placed it heavily on the bar. The eyes of all the townsfolk stared. The bartender surveyed the coin, bit it, and wordlessly poured his drink. The smell of sweet sausage filled the tavern, and the eyes became harder. When the meal was placed before him, Patur quietly thanked the bartend and hungrily ate what was put before him. He tried not to think of what sort of animal the sausage was ground from. In places such as these it was better not to know.

As Patur was finishing his meal, a man rose from the shadows. He made for the bar as if to retrieve another drink. As he neared Patur’s seat, he lurched forward, revealing an unsheathed blade. In one terribly fluid and precise motion, Patur spun, and seized the man’s wrist. The man cried out in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. His hand lay limply at his side, broken and useless, while Patur silently returned to his meal. There were always fools, and Patur had no pity for them. His travels were too far, his life too long and sad to be cut down by some simpleton in a no-name town.

After another drink, Patur put his back to the bartend and made his way towards the door. He knew that as the night grew there would only be more trouble. Men with drink do funny things, as he well knew. He was nearly to the exit when he saw a dark shape in the corner of the room beckon to him. He approached the hooded figure slowly, his footfalls heavy on the wooden floor.

[samwendelfiction]

The Tavern

Patur entered the dim haze of the tavern, wiping the dust of the grey wastes from his boots. It was that awkward time that exists after midday but before dinner. Still, the tavern was not devoid of its regular patrons, plus a few more besides. The men were clustered around the bar and card tables, speaking in low voices. The people of this land were tall and dark of hair, with pale skin and long limbs. They had once been faithful vassals of the Kings of old, but grew weary of servitude. When their Lords called in time of need they failed to answer. And so was the beginning of the end for the Kings of yesteryear. The land became divided, and now the people of this place quarrel amongst themselves. Numerous chiefs and strongmen hold small fiefdoms, unwilling to relinquish their tiny plots save by force. Their people, once just and strong, have dwindled. Far from the days of old have they fallen. They have forgotten many of the fair things they once knew, and only the grass remembers the stern Kings of yesterday.

Patur strode through the bar, leaving clouds of sawdust in his wake. He hung his shield on the wall, as was custom, but left his axes by his side. His entrance did not generate much interest. The majority of the men failed to recognize the significance of his axes or shield. Nor could they seem to appreciate the confidence and strength of his gait. Those few who were learned enough to know these things had long ago concluded that drink was their only solace in these troubled times. One, however, took note of the broad man crossing the tavern floor. Alone he sat in a forgotten corner, a long hooded cloak hiding his fair features. He was not like the others, for where they were dark and brooding he was light and noble. His long blonde hair was worn in a single braid down his back, and his eyes were pale and lively. Patur made no mark of him, and proceeded to the bar and called for a drink. He received his beer and drank deeply. Even though the brew was watery and sour, it felt sweet and wholesome upon his lips. Patur had not such a thing for many months, as he had been traveling in the barren wilderness. He turned away from the bar and surveyed the room, seeking a quiet spot to sit and rest. Patur saw the hooded figure in the corner, who beckoned him.

Patur heeded the call and approached the table where the man sat. “Come and sit,” the hooded man spoke, “for you have traveled far and are in want of rest.” “I would not hesitate to join you,” Patur replied, “but your robes hide your face and I do not know you. Yet you seem to recognize me. Who are you, and why have you picked me from all those in this place?” The man laughed and threw back his cloak, his blonde hair piercing through the haze of the tavern. He seemed to grow great in Patur’s presence, as though his garments had constrained the true magnificence of his being. “I am Agar, son of Agenor, though I go by many names. I am in great need, and it has been long since I have seen a traveler of your kind in this part of the world. So I ask you join me in drink, for your thirst is great and my tale is long.”

So Patur sat, mystified that a man such as this would chance upon him in this far corner of the world. He had heard of Agar and his family, for his lineage was long and his family great. Agenor, his father, was the twelfth of the line that had long ago claimed the northern woodlands as their own. There his forefathers built a great hall with a thatched roof of gold, with warm hearths and tall wooden pillars. Those of the Northwoods had an old knowledge of the forest and the creatures therein. It was said that they understood the deep whisperings of the wood, and could speak with trees and animals alike. Patur knew the stories, and believed many of the adventures of which they told. He put little faith in such superstition, however, as he thought most of the Old Ways and magic of yesterday had left this world entirely.

“So tell me, Berserker, what is your name?” spoke Agar. “Although I might guess, it is only polite that you might return the favor. How did you come to such a lonesome place, for you are far from home and the lands that birthed your kind.”

“I am Patur Brightmoor, son of Markus, third of his name. You know me for what I am, so I will spare you from the long list of titles that follow needlessly. I have come from afar, and indeed I am many leagues from my nearest kin. We are scattered now, as you have surely heard. Our homeland was taken by treachery and our naivety. I have walked many miles since that night, and to tell all of what I have seen would take more time than would be wise. I crossed the grey wastes and braved the foul things I found there. Darker and stronger they have become in these days of twilight. I have come here to search for something long lost, something that has not seen the light of day since the true Kings ruled this land. Perhaps it is good fortune that our paths have crossed, for I would hear much of the Northwoods and your business here.”

“You carry dark tidings on your wing indeed, Rasent,” Agar said, using the Northwood’s tongue for Berserker. “In hard to reach places I have dwelt and little news do I hear of the wide world. What mighty force could lay low a race as true and strong as yours?”

“It is a tale of sadness and betrayal, and I would not speak of it in such a place. I do not know much of the people of this place, but it is clear they have fallen from high. I will only say this – our defeat was at the hands of things that I thought had long passed from this world, things dark and fearful. Some black sorcery has been revived, and a chill strikes my heart at its very thought.” His speech was quiet and mournful, and Agar could see his eyes full of remorse with the terrible things he had seen.

“Come then, finish your mug, and we will leave this place. I have a place of comfort where we can talk with no fear of what might be overheard,” said Agar, pushing back from his place at the table. Patur stood, drained his ale, and removed his shield from its place on the wall. With that, the two men exited the tavern and moved away into the starry night.       

[samwendelfiction]

Aurik

Patur sunk his heels deep into the soft mud and squatted, inspecting the tracks that lay before him. They were days old, and he was lucky that mist and rain had not entirely washed them away. They showed the hoof prints of a heavily laden horse, led by a person of medium stature and gait. This he could measure from the depth and breadth of the tracks, each imprint whispering small secrets in his ear. Patur rose, glad he was now only a few days behind his quarry. He thought of the old stories of the gods who stole each other’s herds, fastening horseshoes to the beasts backwards, sending Apollo round and round in search of his cattle. Patur hoped the man he was tracking was not so clever. In the end though, even Apollo was rewarded with a golden lyre. He somehow doubted his fortune would end so benevolently if he wandered into such a trap.

For many years over Patur had searched for the man that lay miles and miles before him. To some he appeared as a knight of old, atop a mighty black destrier, with a two-handed broadsword at his side and a thick shield mounted on his saddle. To others he came as a cloaked old man, gripping an intricately carved staff and a dark amulet hanging from his neck. Still others saw him as a hunter, with a great cedar bow lashed to his back and a long knife hanging from his belt. Patur had heard much of him over the many years, most of it tending towards fanciful rather than factual. Patur was not entirely sure how to classify the person he doggedly followed. He chose man for convenience’s sake, but that was not entirely accurate. Summoner or necromancer might have come close. Sorcerer or wizard might have struck closer still. Whatever he was, the being that ventured before Patur was ancient, and schooled in the Old Ways that have long since passed. Above all he was both clever and deadly, in equal doses.

There was perhaps a time when the magician was fair and neutral party in the dealings with other men. In the days of old he was mostly disinterested with the comings and goings of heroes and warriors. Often they would come to him seeking enchantments and other aid for quests, but as time passed he became disinclined to lend them sustenance. What interested him was the endless knowledge to be gained from scrolls of yesterday. The wizard himself was an ancient being, but he understood that deep powers were alive well before him, waiting to be reawakened. As his knowledge deepened, he became convinced that honesty and earnest rule were not the standard, but the exception. Power was seized, he believed, by deception and ruthlessness. Who ever took control without violence and treachery? Colonies threw off the yolk of their mother country with strife and rebellion. Kings and dictators alike were brought low by poison and assassinations. And so he began to school himself in dark ways, and he festered in solitude for many years.

Now he had finally slipped away from the hills in the east, where he had made his refuge for time unknown. Patur and his tribe knew him well, for once he had been quick to lend his help to the Berserkers who sought it. Patur’s father was one of the few who could call Aurik, as he was called in those days, a friend. On the day Patur’s father passed from this world, Aurik swore off all ties to men and their useless dealings. He sought refuge in the forgotten tomes buried deep beneath the earth, so beginning his slow decline into madness and terror. Most of the world turned a blind eye towards the wizard’s doings, save Patur and his clan. And so when Patur heard that Aurik had finally emerged from his stronghold in the east, he had no choice but to follow.

[samwendelfiction]

Axe: Parts I-VI

So, here's the first story about Patur. I broke it up into 6 parts, and it tells of him passing into manhood. For your viewing pleasure, here are all 6 parts in one post! Hopefully there will be more stories about Patur to follow...Cheers

Old Age

Tonight, the memories are catching up with him. He sits and contemplates his doings, his life. He thinks of all the wrong that he has done, trying to reconcile his actions with his moral standard. He tries to convince himself that he is not a bad person, simply a flawed one. But he wishes he was more, wishes that he could emulate the heroes of his mother’s stories.

He stares down into his creased, callused hands. He massages the deep scars that mark his left palm and fingers. His hands are tanned, like the sun aged leather straps that crisscross his back. Tucked into their folds were the sharpened heads of two axes, their handles just above his shoulders, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice. The weight, the gravity of his weapons reassures him. They are soothing, for they are not only means of war, but also tools of peace. His teacher had taught him long ago how to chop wood, to skin game, to tan leather, to build shelter, all with the axe.

A great shield is also strapped to his back, its engraved surface reflecting the moonlight overhead. A mighty tree is etched into the metal, and his mind wanders to the origins of the emblem. Påtur inherited his axes from his father, as was tradition. The axes were ancient, and their story is long and bloody. But Patur’s shield was completely his own, something he would never pass on to his eldest son.

Custom decreed that he would take his shield to the grave, whether it be on the battlefield or the funeral pyre. Not every man earns his father’s axes. Many try, fail, and must live with the consequences of failure. Those who fall short, or do not even attempt to win their birthright, are doomed to a life of servitude; they are not leaders of men. But for those who win the day and secure their father’s weapons, they forge their own shield. The shield embodies the means by which the victor won his weapons. Each man challenges for his birthright according to his own time – he chooses when to take up the task. And thus each man’s story of victory is different, for no two tasks are alike. The High Council chooses a task worthy to test the challenger’s mettle, and every task is different.

Herakles performed eight labors to regain his lost honor. Patur and his kind felt blessed only to be charged with one. His shield reminds his allies of his unique strengths. Those who complete the task are seen as equal, but each man’s shield reminds the others that his journey was his own.  Patur runs his hands along the edge of his shield, feeling its intricate engravings. He reclines, shield sprawled across his lap, and thinks back to the way he won his shield, the task he was given all those years ago.

  The Follower

Patur stood at the edge of the forest, gazing down the ancient path that led to its center. He was young, not much more than a boy really, his long golden-brown hair resting just below his narrow shoulders. Although he would grow into a broad shouldered man, he was young and slender. One of the youngest to even request to be tested for his father’s weapons. And Patur was the youngest to win them. But the eventual triumph that awaited him was unknown to the young man standing at the edge of the Black Forest.

He moved quickly down the path, putting his misgivings aside. The tortuous lead-up to this moment was finally over. His goal was clear - remove whatever was afflicting the forest, whatever was slowly eroding the Great Tree. The previous days had been difficult as he sought to make a cohesive plan. He had found sleep hard to come by as he raked his brain for ideas. He thought of all his training, but nothing seemed to hold relevance. This was his Test - if he succeeded, he would acquire his birthright, his father's axes, and join their ranks as a Berserker. He could not fail, condemned to live out the rest of his days in regret and shame. In many ways, his entire life had been in anticipation of this moment. He was grateful that the waiting period was over. He was ready for action.  A cold feeling spread across him, took hold of his mind, the way it always does before a fight. He welcomed the cool sense of calm, allowed it to sharpen his vision, enhance his senses. He disagreed with those who talk of battle fever, they who pair violence with red, raw emotion. His preparation rejected such recklessness. He allowed his cold calm to take hold, to coil deep within him, ready for release. The cold prevented idle thought from taking hold, allowing his body to do as it had been trained.

With his mind clear he entered the old forest, following the old path closely. He went silently, his deerskin moccasins treading softly across the forest floor. He unwittingly avoided disturbing the natural setting. His movements were almost eerie in their silence. He more resembled a predator stalking its quarry than a boy walking through the woods.

But Patur did not feel like a predator, not in this forest. From the moment he entered, he knew he was being watched. As he continued deeper into the forest, it seemed as though the very trees bent towards him, watching, listening. Birds fell silent; the entire forest was quiet and muffled. As Patur soundlessly padded on, he became aware of something following him. He was being tracked. Out of the corner of his eye he would occasionally sense something just outside of his field of vision. Every now and again he would hear a slight rustling of fallen leaves, a crunching of pine needles, a faint rustle through the underbrush. Others would not have noticed these disturbances, or at best might have attributed them to nervousness. “Now Patur,” they would say, “fear is reverting you into a child.” But he knew the truth, and the truth was that he was being followed. Patur did not alter his stride nor attempt to look at his pursuer. At the very least he remembered not to reveal that he was aware of his adversary.

Patur kept up this charade for what seemed like many miles. He walked onward, continuing deeper into the forest. His follower remained mostly silent, but Patur could tell his pursuer was drawing closer. The sun moved across the sky, and his shadow grew long. Daylight was drawing to a close, and Patur knew his follower would reveal himself soon. So he set up camp, as he was taught to do. He built a simple shelter, quickly lashing evergreen branches together and laying them across a crude lean-to. Patur then lit a fire, striking his flint and steel together rhythmically. He ate some of the dried meat from his pack and warmed himself by the fire. As the embers burned low he yawned, stretching his long arms up towards the night sky. He crawled into his lean-to, and, feigning sleep, waited.  

When his adversary appeared, there was no plan, really. Patur was not one to micro-manage; he had no love for greatly detailed arrangements. He knew that whatever pursued him would choose its time to appear. He lacked the imagination required to concoct an intricate ploy. His strengths were more guttural – his instincts were strong, and he relied heavily on his ability to improvise and adapt on the fly. The minutes stretched long as he waited for his enemy to present himself. It was tempting to let sleep overcome his mind, but he knew only death awaited him if he allowed fatigue to take its course. Patur heard the faint rustling of leaves and knew he had arrived.

Careful to maintain the slow breathing patterns that indicated sleep, Patur slowly raised his right eye and peered out into the night. The embers of his fire had burned low, but the harvest moon was full, brightly illuminating his campsite. A twig snapped, and Patur fought the instinct to sit upright and bolt from his lean-to. Surprise was a weapon he did not intend to lose. Slowly, carefully, he scanned the grounds where he had made his camp. There, coiling near the coals of the exhausted fire was the largest snake Patur had ever seen. Its white scales glistened in the moonlight, its eyes the same dark red as the glowing ashes of the fire. The snake was endless – its tail stretched untold lengths into the darkness. Fear nestled deep into Patur’s stomach. His entire body tensed, his knuckles white as his hands balled into fists. The snake advanced towards the shelter, its huge head swinging side-to-side. Its black tongue flickered rhythmically between its long fangs. Patur lay still, waiting for the right moment. The beast paused, turning its head away from Patur’s shelter. Perhaps it smelled or heard something, or maybe it was just dumb luck. Patur knew he was unlikely to have a better opportunity. In one fluid motion he rose, grabbed the axe that was laid by his head, and rushed at the monster. The snake turned its massive bulk as Petur burst from his shelter. The serpent was disturbingly fast, but it was not expecting this reckless assault. Its brief moment of surprise presented Patur with an opening. Running, he swung his axe with two hands. The blow was meant to split the beast’s head in two. The snake was too fast, however, and Patur missed the head entirely. Instead, his blade bit the serpent’s torso, scouring a deep vertical gash. The snake recoiled in pain and blood poured from the wound. Patur’s respite was brief, and in a flash he was knocked flat on his back, his axe far out of reach. The snake coiled its long body around Patur, crushing the air out of his lungs. His panicked, flailing movements did nothing to lessen the serpent’s hold. There was no time for thinking, only desperate action. His left arm, by good fortune, had escaped the awful constriction of his adversary. With it, he grasped for some sort of weapon – anything to save him from death. He grabbed a rock, felt its sharp edge, and smashed it repeatedly against the skull of the snake. For an awful, tortuous moment it did not release its hold. Then the monster went limp, and Patur scrambled out of its grasp. He ran to his axe and turned to face the beast, but it was motionless. Patur cautiously approached the serpent and cleaved the head from its body. Only then did he feel the awful pain in his left hand. He looked down and saw his fingers and palm were severely burned. The rock that had ended the serpent’s life lay near his foot, and it was glowing red-hot.

  Wounds

The entire episode couldn’t have lasted more than a few moments, but to Patur the struggle was timeless. Dazed, he slowly backed away from his enemy’s carcass. Its disembodied head stared up at him, and Patur knew he must leave this place. The ground was covered in thick, dark blood. The stench was overwhelming. Slowly, he turned and began gathering his things. Every movement was filled with sharp pain. He wondered vaguely how many ribs were broken or bruised. But this was not his greatest concern. He paused and examined his left hand. His palm and fingers were severely burned. The upper part of his palm, where his calluses were thickest, bore the worst of the damage. His skin there was charred black. The surrounding area was swollen, splotchy, and already beginning to blister. The pain was indescribable.

Patur weighed his options. He could abandon his test and go back the way he came. He was about a day’s journey from the edge of the forest, where the elders would be waiting for him. It was likely they had the power to heal his wounds. But that would mean failure. In returning to the elders without resolving the decline of the heart of the forest, he would be found unworthy of his inheritance. He would never bear the title Berserker. But something else pulled at Patur, not just fear of judgment, or failure, or the accolades that come with success. Partly it was simply youthful naiveté. Partly it was the deep curiosity that stirs within us every once in a great while. And partly it was the dogged pride that Patur possessed, even at such a tender age. The boy refused to accept defeat, in spite of his grave wounds. He cleaned his injured hand, running cool water over the damaged site. He allowed the area to dry before wrapping it with strips he cut from his extra tunic. Dawn was still far off, but Patur was not sleepy. His mind had not yet recovered from the fight, and seemed unlikely to do so any time soon. So Patur again set out along the path, moonlight dancing across the night sky.

As Patur walked, his mind cleared, and he was happy to put his back to the snake. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He walked beneath the trees, stealing glances towards the night sky. He enjoyed the starlight filtering through the forest canopy. The moonlight soothed his racing thoughts. The night sky was welcoming, and bade him to rest. Too tired to construct another shelter, he wandered to a tree not far from the path, and curled up to sleep in the safe embrace of its roots.

The sun had long since risen when Patur woke. The soft, soothing moonlight was replaced with blazing sunlight. His hand burned as though he still grasped the molten rock. Deep, purplish bruising had set in across his ribs and abdomen. Patur fought his way to his knees and vomited. He was sweating and feverish. He knew he must try and find the Heart Tree. He would not die here, lying just off the path, beneath an unknown oak. The Great Tree was said to be a place of powerful magic. The world was not what it once was, but perhaps the Tree retained its healing powers. Getting to the Tree was the only plan Patur could think of. His solace would have to come from within the forest; the wood’s edge was too far. So he rinsed his mouth, and then took to rewrapping his hand. Afterwards he rose, and slowly resumed his march towards the center of the forest.

  The Heart Tree 

The Tree was unlike anything Patur had ever seen. He, and most everyone else, thought world had long since passed the days of true magic and sorcery. What was left were simply cheap tricks – filthy old men wrapped in ragged cloaks, promising healing potions and curses to destroy your enemies. They were frauds, plain and simple. Tales of skin-changers, elves, dwarves and the like were simply bed time stories to soothe small children to sleep. The reality was this world was ruled by steel and blood – fantasy was a luxury afforded only to the young and naïve. But as Patur looked for the first time at the Great Tree, he understood that the old stories were more than simple fantasy. They touched on something deeper, on a power that was once strong and beautiful, but had since dwindled and lay dormant. The world did not stop to lament its passing, as life is short and ruthless. Time passed and the world forgot, but strange and powerful things like the Tree lived on.

Its trunk was massive, bigger than Patur would have ever thought possible. The width of the Tree alone was greater than the length of his uncle’s knarr, the long vessel he used to transport and sell and trade goods and livestock along the coast. The Tree’s branches reached far into the sky, creating its own canopy high above any of the surrounding woods. Huge oaks that would otherwise stand tall amongst the forest looked like mere saplings in the Tree’s shadow. Its bark was a pale, glowing white. It seemed as though a well of great light was pooling just below its surface, dancing and pulsing to its own rhythm. The Tree had an aura, the same sort of soft glow of a full moon shining through an evening cloud. Its foliage was thick, full of broad, brilliantly green leaves. The Tree called to him, and Patur could not resist. It was the most beautiful, perfect thing he had ever seen.    

Patur stumbled to the Tree, feeling another wave of nausea rising in his throat. As he drew near, he felt a warm calm spread throughout his body. It started at the top of his head and ran down to the tips of his toes. The feverish sweat that settled on his forehead cooled. The deep nausea and vomiting he had battled all afternoon finally relented. He stood at the base of the Tree, staring up at its long arms. Gingerly, he unwrapped his injured left hand. The bandages were soaked with pus and blood. Slowly, he raised his burnt hand to the trunk of the Tree. As Patur’s raw flesh caressed its bark, he felt a surge of power and light enter his arm. Patur fell backwards to the floor, and his world turned black.

  Dreams 

Strange visions came to Patur under the darkness of the Tree. Time slipped away, rendered meaningless and shrouded. In his dreams, Patur saw the huge white serpent that now lay dead deep in the forest. But in his imaginings the serpent was younger, sleeker, stronger. Its muscles rippled under thick, impenetrable scales. The snake approached the Tree, its pale skin dull and sickly in comparison with the Tree’s while glow. The serpent reached the base of the tree, slowly winding its massive body around the trunk. But before the serpent could climb too high, a massive elk emerged from the shade, throwing the trespasser from his perch. The elk reared, and a long and savage battle ensued. The victor resumed his climb up the Tree, coiling high in the branches. The snake’s bulk seemed to absorb the very light that the Tree emitted. Seasons passed, and the serpent grew comfortable in his roost. Heroes and lesser men came with the intent of exiling him, but the snake was indomitable. Arrows could not pierce his hide, while swords blunted across his scales. All the while the Tree became lesser, more sickly and weak. Men left the woods well alone, and the snake grew old and complacent with time. The paths crumbled and men forgot. Then, after years of slumber and leisure, his reign unchallenged, the snake felt something stirring in the forest, something he had not felt in years. He smelled man flesh and steel. The coming of a challenger, an intruder, filled him with rage untold. He dropped from his perch and made haste to destroy the soft creature that had entered his domain. And so Patur lay beneath the Tree and uneasily dreamt of the days leading up to their meeting.

Rebirth

Patur stood, his old bones creaking softly under dry, leathered skin. Finally he pried his eyes away from the battered yet magnificent shield that had conjured all these memories. The final days of that adventure were hazy and still somewhat of a mystery to him. His memories were flashes, like brief punctuations of lighting across a night sky. Patur remembered lying on his back, the forest canopy passing quickly above him. He felt the untold power of whatever was carrying him, but the beast itself was a mystery to him. Again Patur’s world turned dark. He regained consciousness again on his back, staring at the ceiling of a crude hut from the floor. He was stripped naked save a small loincloth. A wet, filthy rag lay next to him. The hut buzzed with activity, and Patur quietly slipped from consciousness. The Elders later told him that he remained in such a state for a fortnight, slipping in and out of darkness. They said they found him at the edge of the woods just beyond a strange set of tracks. They brought him to the hut and removed his tunic, which was stuffed full of healing ointments, herbs, and plants. Using the knowledge they had gained over hard-fought years of trial and error, they were able to tend to his wounds. His hand, however, was beyond their powers. They were amazed to see the swelling subside and scar tissue develop seemingly on its own. As soon as he was able, Patur told the Elders of his conquest and misfortune, elated to have escaped the forest alive. Later, once news reached home, the High Council would declare upon Patur the rights that he had won. His shield was forged, and newly minted axes were granted to Patur until his father chose to pass his on.

Patur looked back on those happier days with nostalgia. The scarring on his left hand was but the beginning; his body would come to bear many reminders of battles and injury. Patur looked about, ready to resume his journey. He wished that all of his doings had been as clear cut as that journey long ago. Delve into the forest, slay the monster, win the day. No dealings with the spiteful, teary-eyed mourners that lay in the village behind him. Their men had lost the battle. Patur had won. The faces of those he vanquished in battle did not plague him. It was those left behind – the women, the children, the old – and they all hated him. Hated him for destroying the ones they loved. He turned and left the ruined village in his wake, struggling to put the hateful eyes and haggard faces to peace.