The half-orc rested, his thoughts roaming idly, eyelids closed but his ears still alert. His table sat near the back of the tavern. A half-forgotten mug of ale adorned the table. Arms crossed, Jake allowed the smells and sounds of the tavern to permeate him. Muscles mildly sore from hours of labor at the brewery loosened slowly.
"...it was on the body of some dead soldier." A voice filtered through the overall chatter of the room. Voices snickered.
"Was he dead before you found him?" Another voice, this one coarse and gutteral. His voice slurred slightly from heavy drinking.
The half-orc only half listened. Dead soldiers were pretty common. Brigands looting dead soldiers common enough as well. Nor was it unusual for those same brigands to find their way to Badside.
"Zohannon take me, wasn't me that did him. Cold done it, if you ask me." More snickering.
While the orc contemplated more ale, the voices faded out of focus. They had begun discussing loot, the details of which held no interest to him, until, "...the dirk, had a fine blade it did. Bluish steel, with a razor's edge. Twitch payed a pretty crown for it. Had a signet mark on it. Red and gold. Never saw it before. Reminded me of a claw, or a raptor's talon."
The orc lurched up, the chair clattering down to set all four legs down. His eyes came wide and he sought out the voice.
"Bet it was some baronet's knife. ..." The voice faded out as the half-orc stamped his way to their table. Jake peered intently at the speaker.
"What's your problem, orc?" One of the others at the table spoke. Jake paid him no heed.
"What did you say the crest looked like?" The orc's voice was low and demanding.
"What's it matter to you, orc? Go back to ..." the speaker got no farther as Jake snapped out a kick, planting a heavy boot into the man's chest, knocking him and his chair to the floor. The orc's eyes did not leave the one who had spoken of the dirk. The man on the floor began coughing, trying to regain his breath from the blow.
"What did the crest look like?" he repeated. His fists curled in readiness, muscles tightened like coiled springs.
The man gazed at the orc for a moment, perhaps considering whether it was worth it to press the point. Jake readied himself, but saw the man's shoulders relax slightly.
"Can't hurt me none to tell." He leaned back slightly, seeking a little distance from the orc towering over the table. "Red circle, emblazoned with a gold talon, or maybe a wing, I dunno, looked a little like both. No gems or nothing, just that crest inset into the hilt and a steel blade."
The man hesitated, watching Jake warily. His compatriot was slowly getting up off the floor with the aid of another.
"Where's the blade now?" Jake demanded, lips pressed thin, leaving his tusks slightly bared.
"Sold it to Twitch." The man's eyes narrowed, perhaps fearful the orc was going to trying and claim his money. His hand moved slightly towards a knife hilt.
The coughing man was mostly up now, his face was twisted into a mask of both rage and pain. His companion was both holding him up, and holding him back, arm tightly grasped.
"That the only thing that carried the crest? Was there anything else?"
"No...no, that was it. The only thing with the crest. Why? What's it mean? Who's it belong to? Was it worth more?"
The orc grimaced, pulling his lips back a little more from the sharp tusks. Then with a sudden movement he stepped back from the table and turned. The coughing man started, almost falling backwards over his chair again. Jake ignored him. Looking out over the crowded tavern, Jake could see that both Scarface and his newest bouncer had been carefully watching.
Jake nodded to the proprietor and called out. "A round of ale, on me, for them." He gestured back to the table. Scarface nodded, and then again to the thug standing ready by the door. The bouncer eased his stance, but the cudgel remained casually in his hand.
Stepping out into the darkened tunnel, the orc paused, orienting himself, and then struck out down the shadowy tunnel.
The half-orc stormed into the makeshift shop. "Where is it?!" he bellowed.
"Ow!" the cry came from behind a table as a small, hunched man slammed his head against a shelf.
Jake marched directly for the sound, brushing aside a table of goods, helms mostly, sending them crashing to the floor.
"Crap, Jake..." the figure moved quickly to put a table between them. "Where's what? I don't have it. ... Whatever it is."
"Don't make me tear your worm-ridden pile of stolen and worthless junk apart, you misbegotten little gulka. The knife with the crest. Where is it?" Jake shoved aside another pile of unsorted goods, sending leather armor and thick furs spilling down.
"Don't have it! Never seen one. No idea what you are talking about!" Twitch protested, backing away from the orc. He ducked behind another table, this one of axe heads, miscellaneous belts, trappings and assorted junk.
"Wait! You mean the one with the red and gold crest!" A flash of recognition glimmered in his eyes. "Alright, alright, I've got it. Don't tear my place apart. I'll get it. I'll get it."
Jake paused, ready to tumble the table away, his gaze centered on the fidgeting man. "Make it quick. I'm gettin' impatient."
Twitch darted back behind a counter, reaching for a locked cabinet. The orc could hear him mutter sarcastically "When ISN'T he impatient, always hitting people...." The keys jingled for a moment as he pulled out a key ring and counted through them until he produced one that he slid into the cabinet's lock.
Twitch pulled free a collection of daggers, some of them wrapped in cloth or wool. The one Jake sought was immediately obvious. The red and gold crest of Siera gleamed upon a plain leather wrapped hilt. The orc's hand shot out for it, grabbing it up from the counter. "Hey!" Twitch protested.
Jake pulled the dirk free of its sheath. The slightly bluish steel blade was just as the rogue had described it. Jake tested a heavily calloused finger against the edge, the keen blade was just as expected. Whomever its previous owner had been, he had kept it well cared for.
"I'm taking this." The orc's tone was final.
"What a freaking minute! I paid good silver for that blade! A full three...FOUR crowns!" Twitch protested, undoubtedly sure he was about to be robbed by the orc. The thought of monetary loss even enough for the man to lose his fear of being hit.
The orc said nothing, reached into his belt and pulled free two crowns and threw them onto the counter. "You paid one." Jake turned, heading out as abruptly as he had entered. The small man lived up to his namesake, his frame twitched violently though he made no argument about the price.
Jake paused in the doorway, glaring back at the twitching man. "Anything else comes across your hands with this crest," the orc paused to make his point clear, "you bring it to me." Then the orc slipped the precious knife into his vest and stamped out into the darkness of the tunnels of Badside.
Back at the brewery, Jake nursed a mug of cold Bane's Brew. The crest of the dirk's hilt sent the orc's thoughts racing back to their first meeting.
Where else would such a meeting have been? In the rings of the Arena. The orc had agreed to a contest of blades with her. He had watched her for part of the evening, and judged her skillful.
She had opened with a lunging thrust, her famous blade ready to grant its first lesson upon an upstart first-timer in the rings. He had gauged her correctly. Direct, plain-spoken, sure to press the attack with the confidence of a warrior. His quick dodge to the side had prevented him from taking that first blow. His brawn and crude skill though had been woefully inadequate to protect him from the sound thrashing that followed her initial miss. A wry smile crossed the orc's features at the memory. His moment of advantage had been short-lived in that contest.
Like the honest soldier she was, she offered him an ale after schooling him on this thing called the Duel of Swords. Together they drank. It was not to be the last time they shared ale, nor was it the last time they tested each other in the ring. He had learned much from her over the years.
The orc stared at the hilt's sole decoration. The symbol of Siera of Redwin. Jake half-remembered seeing its like worn on harnesses of men that had called her commander.
His eyes wandered briefly about the brewery as he threw back a long slug of ale. The memories the dirk evoked were powerful. The question now was what to do with the blade? His eyes flickered over the brewery, and caught on a flash of silver.
The silver elven blade rested in its place against the wall. His...trophy...of that visit to a dark place. Jake's eyes fell upon the dagger again. Of course, this too had been a trophy. Someone had treasured this blade as a symbol.
The half-orc frowned. Orcs did not believe in elaborate burial. The dead were the dead. They had no need of weapons. Better trophies of that sort go to the living. To be used in glorious battle as they were intended. If the bearer of this blade were dead, then what should become of it?
The orc growled at the thought of it becoming a mere token owned by a rogue or brigand that knew not its meaning. Better that he take it back...
Yes, that is what he would do. Take it back. Take it back to one who knew the signifcance of the mark and could assign the dirk to its proper role once again.
Jake finished the ale in a single long guzzle and tossed aside the mug. He grabbed up harness and belt and shoved his own complement of blades into their proper place. The red and gold adorned blade was last. He made a special place for it beneath his vest, making sure it was doubly secure. Then, without further delay, the orc marched out of the brewery in search of the camp of Darian Redwin.
"Let me go, ya' freakin' gutless sons of goat-sucking gulka, before I rip..." the sound of a hafted weapon cracked against bone cutting off the rest of a litany of curses in mid-stream.
A series of loud cracking noises followed. "Ow! Kalin's Blood, he bit me!"
"Hold him! Don't let his arms get loose again!"
Outside the commander's tent, a muffled scream of pain followed the sound of what might have been a heavy boot thumping into a lightly armored body.
"Dammit! Don't let him kick out!"
"I'm gonna gut every last motherless one of ya' if ya' don't let me see him!"
A tent flap opened, and out stepped an armored figure. "What is this nonsense?"
The sight that met the man was that of four veterans struggling to restrain what appeared to be a half-crazed orc that fought like a raging beast to be free of their grip. Two other veterans lay on the ground nursing wounds, though a quick assessment showed none that looked mortal. A broken bone or two perhaps.
The soldiers attempted to wrestle the half-orc to the ground, with little success. Each time they got a firm hold, the orc, long experienced in close-quarters pit-fighting, found a way to lash out with a boot, or an elbow, or a knee.
The soldier peered hard at the orcish figure, a glimmer of recognition coming to him. He half-smiled. "Hold it! I know this ugly, drunken, ill-mannered, brutish thug." The soldiers hesitated at the order. "Damn it, I said release him!"
They reluctantly let loose of the orc, who glared hard at them, tusks bared. The wary soldiers did not step away far, still suspicious of the orc's intent, and ready to tackle him again given the command.
Darian Redwin folded his arms and looked upon the orc, his expression one of wry amusement. "Sorry about that. You should consider announcing yourself more appropriately... it would save my already tired troops from unnecessary bruising."
Wordlessly, the orc reached into his vest, pulling free the crested dirk. The soldiers tensed, ready to pounce. Jake presented the sheathed weapon, making visible the crest for all to see.
Darian's humor dissolved, his brow furrowing. He extended his hand, and the orc turned the dirk over to Redwin. The hands of some of his men instinctively drifted toward their own weapons, suspicion present on every face. His voice quieter by degrees as he grasped the blade, studying it, the Heir of Redwin spoke slowly. "I give you the benefit of the doubt here, Jake, because well do I know of your friendship with my predecessor... still, one question must needs be answered to my satisfaction, else blood may spill: how exactly did you come to possess this blade?"
The orc glanced about at the soldiers to assure himself they would not jump him again before he spoke. Jake looked to their commander, "I heard tale of it in Badside. A man spoke of finding it upon a dead soldier. When he described it to his cronies I recognized the mark it bore. He sold it to a trader I know. I took it off his hands as I could not tolerate it being passed about like some cheap trinket. Not all in Rhydin have forgotten the name of Siera Redwin."
After a moment Jake continued, "I wondered what to do with it." The orc turned slowly, his gaze sweeping across the encircling men. "Then I remembered you and thought it should be returned to one who could properly decide its fate. The customs of men are different from the customs of orc." The orc's steel-colored eyes returned to Darian, "and I would not dishonor one whom I called friend."
Darian listened intently, his eyes never leaving the half-orc's own. The troops surrounding the pair were not in the least shy about allowing their feelings regarding the death a comrade to show on their faces. Finally, Darian nodded. "Do you know what this is, Jake?"
The orc shrugged and shook his head. "It bears the mark of Siera. That was enough to consider it important."
"Whether Siera began it or not, I cannot say, but we have a tradition here. If you'll look at that device, and then this one," he said, gesturing to his own chest and indicating a very similar blade, "you will see that the hilts are somewhat different, but the devices are identical." The orc nodded, then glanced around. Many of the men also wore the blade; some were identical, and others had a different border; a very few had the same hilt as the blade the orc had recovered, as opposed to a hilt identical to the commander's. Darian anticipated his question. "Those who wear the device with the black border are those who have earned the Talon since Siera fell. I felt it important to differentiate."
Jake nodded and returned his attention to Darian. "And the hilts?"
Darian unfolded his arms, pacing a bit. "These dirks have been traditionally awarded on two criteria. The first -- the style you see me wear -- are direct rewards from the commander... that is, from Siera, or now from myself... based on deeds performed in the field. I received my own not but a few days prior to... no matter. This style, on the other hand," he continued after a pause, brandishing the blade for emphasis, "is a different reward. Periodically, we have a tourney within the lower ranks... not unlike those you are familiar with in the Arena, although not nearly so... polite." A sardonic expression drifted over his face, the full knowledge of how impolite the Arena's tournaments had been known to become on occasion clearly not lost on him.
"Anyway... this blade was a reward for victory in one of those tournaments. The winner of our last tourney was Anderos... and he has been missing for some days. It seems, friend orc, that you have brought us a mournful answer to his disappearance."
A menacing voice lifted from the ranks. "How do we know he didn't do it and then make up this story, sir?"
Darian glanced to the men, an eyebrow rising in contemplation. "Anything is possible," he murmured, looking back to the orc, "but in this case, highly improbable. Only an idiot would kill one of my men and then bring me the evidence, don't you think?"
Some of the soldiers seemed reluctant to put aside their misgivings, and Darian added with a note of irritation at their hesitance. "Did the orc ever draw weapon upon you?" The men glanced amongst each a moment, though none answered. "Doesn't it seem odd that an orc would attack without at least drawing a weapon?"
The men seemed to accept that explanation and assumed a more relaxed, if still wary, stance.
Darian then raised the blade over his head, looking out among the men. "We have lost one of our own. Tonight, we feast in his memory. I would have the bearer of these miserable tidings join us, so that we may honor him for honoring us by retrieving and returning the Talon. What say you?"
Only a momentary pause separated the question and the voice of assent from the ranks.
"Soldiers of Redwin!" A strong, commanding voice broke in over the sounds of feasting and reverie. Darian Redwin stood at the head table, his gaze sweeping the men as they slowly quieted and turned their attention upon their commander.
As the men settled, Darian's voice rang out over them. "Soldiers of Redwin! We are gathered here on this night to mourn the passing of a brother. We are here to celebrate and remember one of our own. Not just one of our own, but one of our veterans. Anderos, who won the Talon of Redwin only recently for his bold skill with a sword!
"We mourn to hear that a brother in arms has fallen, but we celebrate his life, his strength, and his valor by feasting here tonight in his name."
The man clamored in response, fists thumping against tables. Hardened veterans and young recruits alike applauded.
"Anderos would not have you weep like gentle women for him. Anderos would have you remember him by your side. His shield held to protect his fellow. His sword smiting our common enemies.
"Anderos would not have you cry like babes at a lost pet, but rather to raise your mugs in salute." Many of the men did just so, raising their mugs in salute and their voices in loud acclaim. "He would have had you remember the camraderie and fellowship we share as soldiers in the service of the mighty Redwin!"
The men cheered and rose to their feet, ale sloshed from mugs as they were hefted high into the air. "Anderos! For Anderos!" they shouted. Darian himself took a long quaff of ale, joining his men in their salute.
Darian gave them time for their cheers to subside before continuing. He wiped away the foam of good ale from his lips and looked out amongst the brave men gathered at the feast.
"It is our tradition, to recount the deeds of our fallen when we feast. To pay homage to them and strengthen our memory of them, so that their valor may bolster us in our own trials. And so shall we do this for Anderos as well!
"Anderos the Quick, some called him. His hand with a blade was deft, sure, and like the strike of serpent. So did he earn the badge of honor he wore with pride...the Talon of Redwin!" Darian hefted the prized dirk before him, letting the men see it in his grasp.
"To honor his memory, to pay respect to his ability, we recount the tale of the first Talon, and of how Siera of Redwin herself granted it to her men..."
It wasn't drink, what ruined soldiers. Not drink, nor women.
What else might a man live or die for, if not a warm cup—of the one, if not the other. Both might stir a man to courage assuming the wine were good and the women were not; sour wine might turn a man sick and honorable women make a man die cautiously when he might fight desperately and live. But even well intentioned sweethearts did less damage than the warrior's greatest enemy: the waiting.
It was the waiting, what drove a man to barter with his courage, that made him weigh the worth of honor against the surety of breathing one day more.
Oh, better disease, which earmarked only the displeasure of gods—or hunger, the indifference of nature—than the demons of fighting unfilled time.
A vast wing circled the plain of Etrasi, a predator, settling into the grass, sinking in for the wait.
Red was the wing. Gold was the talon.
Morah took it in with a grim look. Neatish plaits, all told—some twelve of them, tied off in bits of leather thong. He'd seen it before in the barbarians of the northern clans, the nomadic warriors for whom water was gold and blood was honor and horses and swords were gods. The braids were newly wrought and tied with a savage fastidiousness never meant for Cadonian heads.
Or auburn hair.
But oh, how they suited—except when they were tidy. Oh, aye. It was a bad sign all around when the liege's grooming rivaled that of her horse.
"Wot. I suppose you'll be bathing next."
"You might try tying it back," he said, snagging a chair more seasoned than any man in the company—and gimp-legged than most veterans. "Takes less time."
"And comes undone." Her eyes never left her finger where it traced the river Reida to its southern tributary. Morah knew full well she could have retraced every hillock and boundary on that map from memory.
"Well, aye, if you leave it for a fortnight a'time, I suppose it might. And host louse as well." Only Morah enjoyed the privilege of speaking so candidly with the liege. Oh, rare, he thought, wouldn't all of Redwin—no, Cadonia itself—marvel to hear the Redwin liege complaining of hairstyles while her second henpecked her like an old fishwife?
"Is it any wonder the common folk call you 'demon' when you cling to the ways of the horde?"
"Which certes has naught to do with Feadur," she said, droll.
The dark elf her swordbrother. All the more reason for whispers—and eeriness among the night guard. Even to Morah, acquainted with the Moriquendi, his shadowy presence summed all that was uncanny. Bad enough that she drank and spit like a man, that she entertained half-orcs with her personal store of ale… and that touched none a'tall upon the infamously unremarkable blade at her hip.
She put aside the map. "And so?" He knew she wanted word from the scouts. But he had none to give her.
"Naught. Not a cook fire, horse dollop or fart on the wind. From as far as Edona there's no sighting them yet." Weeks, already, they had waited for the Jardinian force that must march through this plain if they were to attempt the nearby river port.
"And Red, weapons are polished, horse tails curried—blast, even the jacks are spotless."
"As bad as all that."
She shoved up from the chair. "Come on, then. And get Ethan."
Theatric banter drew curious onlookers.
Her bow was in her hand. She pointed it toward a nearby ash. "What, that one there?"
Ethan pointed, lowering a quiver to the ground. "Nay, but yonder."
She shaded her eyes and seemed to squint.
Morah, also carrying his bow, shook his head. "Yer daft. There's no tree there." Ethan pointed again.
"That twig there?" Siera said, seeming incredulous.
Ethan grinned. "The very one."
Morah turned toward a group of officers who had come to see what had the leige's attention. To see Ethan and Morah and the liege looking toward the same direction together could portend no good thing. Morah turned on the officers, but only to demand: "Does that look like a tree to you?"
One of the larger men looked and grinned. "A runt o' one. Like Pullin here!" He slapped his friend on the shoulder to guffaws. The stockier man pulled himself straight.
"I'm an oak where it counts!" Raucous laughter. Some thirty men had gathered by then. More ambled over, curious, eager to leave petty tasks and even dice games that had become so routine as to seem like a chore.
"And so," she said. "The stick over there." A shout of approval issued as Ethan produced a gold noble, lifting it up between his fingers so all could see. Siera and Morah turned their attention to Ethan's quiver.
Examining an arrow's fletching, Morah muttered, "Are you certain it can be done?"
She knew it could; had seen it done from horseback by steppe archers more proficient than she. It had been a game once, a trick played with clods of earth or a pouch full of sand… She had won a fine bridle bit in such a contest once—and then a broken nose from the sore loser.
She only didn't know if it could be done by her now; the sword had long ago surpassed the bow as her weapon of choice.
The men, sensing the spirit of the competition, pulled in closely enough only to afford them enough room.
Ethan looked to her first. "Liege?"
At her nod, he tossed the noble high into the air. The coin caught the sun, flipping to a zenith against the backdrop of trees.
She notched the arrow in a smooth motion and her wrist sung to the harpsong of the string. A sharp shout issued from someone near her right as iron proved gold's better, lashing the coin through the air and pinning it to the thin bark of Ethan's tree, which shook at the impact.
Well, bugger me.
A collective shout issued from some one hundred onlookers. Morah whistled through his teeth.
Ethan announced, "A noble for any man what hits the mark from here!"
That evening a soldier named Ancel received the gold noble, having nicked the edge of the coin on the tree.
The next morning, soldiers mustered to find a ring marked off in the trampled grass, Sargen, one of the drillmasters, welcoming comers. When Siera wandered toward the makeshift ring with Ethan, she recognized the man choosing his wooden sword as the stocky Pullin.
"Oak!" Someone cheered. And another, "Put up the sword, Sargen, and get your axe!"
"They truly call him that?" she asked Ethan, nodding as the two saluted.
"I know what Sargen calls him."
She chuckled as the drillmaster connected smartly with the shorter man's shin. "Fresh meat."
Ethan nodded toward the post where others stood by to challenge the winner. "There, Red. The tall one. He's a churlish looking one. What do you call him?"
"Thorn in my side."
"Darian. Lout son of some petty lord or another who thinks he'll find a nursemaid here to give him the thrashing he never got at home, I wager."
"He's got that far into your good graces has he?"
She snorted. Her love for nobles—and all their political maneuvering—was well known. Were it not for the Cadonian nobility—most particularly those comprising the Quorum—she would even now be overseeing the re-fortification of her western wall and the breaking of the new colts… rather than fending off chiggers on this forsaken plain.
"And the Quorum officer what insists upon calling you 'lady?' What do you call him?"
Sargen had finally been eliminated by a lucky blow from a tall man named Fenser. Darian, to the surprise of most, had seemed mute to the taunting of the others, who knew him only as the newest lordling's son to be fostered out to Redwin's garrison. Ethan had paused to watch, noting how the men had nodded at his first win—a solid display, all told. He had scraped out a second win a little later. His handiwork was neat; the youth was agile in a way that reminded him something of the liege, though Ethan would never have said it. The taunting had stopped after that. Bugger, but the boy nearly took a third win, and might have if not for having caught his heel in a bit of torn-up grass and having lost his balance. A couple of men clapped him on the shoulder when he left the makeshift ring. Siera, nearby, said nothing, her eyes following the youth with a thoughtful expression.
A well-liked, fair-haired horse of a man named Grent won the day, and when he came before Red for the prize, he hesitated in accepting the silver cup one of Morah's men had found for reward.
Noticing, she asked, "Is it not to your liking?"
"I would not appear ungrateful, liege," the man said.
"Speak your mind."
Grent turned the cup slowly in his hands. "This is the handcraft of Edon, is it not?"
"Aye, I suppose that it is."
The man, a rare near-foot taller than the liege when he was standing, tilted his head as he knelt before her. "A gold noble bears the face of no man I know or serve. This cup bears the mark of no Redwinian. Let me carry as pride some thing bearing likeness to that which means honor—"
But as he would have finished, the hard gallop of two riders raced into camp.
"They're coming—" the one said, breathless. "Jardinians, a day's ride out!"
With their main force engaged at the coast, the Quorum had insisted the Jardinian contingent would consist of no more than a hundred-fifty. They had come four hundred strong.
The token officer provided by the Quorum—a man with only ten men of his own—had accused her of cowardice and worse when she would not give the signal to advance and meet them. She had had him arrested and rope-tied, saying it was better to lose a pair of arms, out-numbered as they were, than to lose the battle were he fool enough to rush and anyone suicidal enough to follow him. In the end, the Jardinians had been forced to cross the river. Their center had failed, the men had routed, fleeing back toward the other bank, many of them drowning in the river and preventing their comrades' advance.
In all the talon lost some forty men. Only some forty of the Jardinians survived.
That evening, Siera knelt near the body of one of her fallen, noting the shock of blonde hair, those parts of it that were not caked with grime or blood.
"What then should we carry as pride," she said softly, "except those things that mean honor to us?" She slipped free the dirk from her belt, running her thumb along the hilt to the device. "Perhaps this, then, my friend, will suffice." She laid it upon the man's chest, closing stiffening fingers around it.
As she left the moon shone full upon him, the faint gleam of red and gold beneath the dead man's thumb.
The men filed out of the large tent, some staggering from much drink and supported by their fellows. A few drunkenly
sang lyrics to old ditties and marches as they exited. Darian Redwin followed their with his eyes. His own mood was
not as light as theirs.
The feasts were important for the men. For soldiers that might die any day in battle, any chance to improve morale was
worthwhile. Even the passing of a fellow was turned into a way to bolster their spirits and encourage them.
But the feast did little to bolster Darian Redwin's spirit. The Talon he held before him hung heavy in his heart.
Anderos was not the first warrior to fall, nor was he the first recipient of the Talon to meet death. But, it struck
Darian as a poor omen that Anderos fell so soon after being awarded this prize. He was not a superstitious man, but it
did not pay to ignore intuition. Intuition was a soldier's best ally.
As he studied the blade in deep reverie, a voice cut into his thoughts. "What will you do with the blade?"
Darian broke free from his speculation and looked over to his friend Sartan. Not one of his soliders, Sartan was a comrade of another sort. A colleague from Darian's time with the Crimson Fury. That seemed like a time so long ago.
"I..." Darian hesitated to answer for a moment, "I haven't decided."
Sartan nodded to the blade. "It troubles you doesn't it."
Darian reluctantly answered, "yes, it does." The commander moved about the long low table, joining his friend who
visited from Rhydin. "It troubles me that this blade was found so far away from his comrades in arms. I wonder what
brought Anderos to such ill fate."
"Perhaps...perhaps you'd prefer the blade be sent away?"
Darian frowned, his lips pursed tightly together. "There is no one to accept the Talon on his behalf. Anderos had no family to treasure this heirloom."
Sartan's eyes searched Darian's face before speaking again. "May I suggest you send it to the Arena?"
His eyes widened with some surprise, Darian inquired "why there?"
"It has been many years since the name of Siera Redwin was commonly known in the rings. You may find it amazing, but the tales of glory do not live so long there anymore. There are scant few that remember her days there." Sartan pointed to the blade. "I could take it there. It could be used to strengthen the memory of Siera, and others, from older days. To preserve her memory the way you celebrate here.
"A way to establish a tradition of honoring the past," Sartan raised his mug toward Darian. "A friend of mine is putting together a tournament. She could use a worthy prize to award. I can think of none better than one like you hold that could bring back some memory of the likes of Siera."
Darian stood for a time, pondering the idea.
Sartan watched Darian's face for reaction. "What do you think, old friend?"
The next morning, Sartan set out. Secured in his gear was the prized blade, on its way back to the Arena.
Back story copyright the players of: Siera Redwin, Darian Redwin, Jake Thrash 2004. All rights reserved.
For more information about the Talon of Redwin Tournament, please contact Rory Laurent.