The Sword of Darrow (18 page)

H
opeless.”

Sesha folded her arms and pressed her lips together, shaking her head at Scodo’s bleak assessment.

“He is brave. He speaks with beautiful words. But what does that matter? He’ll be dead in a week.”

Scodo turned his head, not wanting to see the disappointment in Sesha’s face.

“He will get better,” Sesha shot back.

“He is small. He can’t lift a sword. He walks with a limp.”

Sesha winced at each word. Then she asked, “And the others?”

“The cave troll is dead. The remaining two were once great fighters, but they are old.”

A long silence filled the wagon.

Sesha lifted her chin, a sparkle in her eye. “Then somehow we must make a fighter of our man Darrow.”

“He would need a sword as light as a feather,” answered Scodo, almost laughing in despair.

A long silence followed. Then Sesha, eyes twinkling once more, looked up at Scodo. “Scodo, my friend, you are a genius!”

Scodo looked back, confused. Sesha stood up, her smile now a look of determination.

“I must go now. But there is one thing you must do. You must spread the word of Darrow’s great victory over the goblins.”

“Victory?” Scodo asked.

“Yes, victory. The goblins retreated. Darrow won. Is that not correct?”

Scodo stared back, wordless.

“I can help Darrow fight. That will be my job. But there is something much more important. The people need hope, and they need a hero. This Darrow may not be much, but he is all we have.”

“Well, that much is true.”

“Scodo, I need you to write down a message about Darrow’s victory over the goblins. You must carry this message to every village on the plains. We must spread the word of Darrow’s great victory.

“The people must know. They must have something to believe in!”

He looked back at Sesha and sighed. “Okay. I will deliver the messages. I just hope when they learn of their hero that their hero will still be alive.”

It had not rained in many days and, as the wagon came to a halt, the air filled with a fine dust that lingered in the air. The old mule, Zauberyungi, coughed and wheezed.

Sesha climbed down and stepped into the road. For a few minutes, she looked down from the mountain to the valley below, remembering the beautiful view she had enjoyed as a child. Then, with slow steps, she walked toward the door. When she reached it, she hesitated again. Mustering her courage, she knocked.

From the other side, the blacksmith and famous pot-maker, Thor, peered through a hole and saw the gypsy girl. She had bought pots from him to sell in the villages. Recognizing her, he opened the door and invited her inside.

“Ah, Sesha, so good to see you today. You must need some new pots. Have they been selling in the villages?” he asked.

“I’ve sold a few,” Sesha replied.

“And how was your journey? May I give you a cup of water or a piece of bread?”

“I have brought
you
some bread.” Sesha handed him a small parcel containing a fresh loaf filled with raisins.

“What beautiful bread!” Thor exclaimed, surprised at so fine a gift. “But at least you could enjoy something to quench the thirst.”

“A drink of water would be nice.”

Thor ladled water into a wooden cup from a bucket next to his table. They both sat down.

“I have a number of small pots,” Thor began. “But if you’re wanting something bigger . . .”

“Thank you, sir,” Sesha replied, “but I have not come for a pot.”

Thor looked a bit surprised. “Then how can I help you?”

“I need a sword.”

No one had asked Thor for a sword in at least thirty years. He thought of his wife, who died by a weapon shaped by his very own hands.

“I am a pot-maker, young miss,” he answered politely. “You must go elsewhere to find a sword.”

Sesha sat silent for a time, struggling to find her words. Her silence made Thor uncomfortable.

“And why might you need a sword?” Thor asked, mostly to move the conversation.

“It is not for me. It is for a friend.”

“A sword is a sword, young lady. It can bring no good, if you ask my opinion.”

“But the sword I need will be too light for any man. Really, it is a toy, hardly a weapon at all. My friend is barely more than a boy. What harm could it do in his hands?”

“There are swordsmiths aplenty throughout the kingdom who will be happy to make you a sword.”

“No, it must be done by you. It must be forged in the hottest fire. Here, I brought special materials for the sword.” Sesha held out two small sacks of powder.

Thor crossed his arms, his face stern. What did this gypsy girl know about his fire?

“You’d best get going, young lady,” he replied, struggling to remain polite. “Please take this business elsewhere.”

Sesha’s face fell. She reached into her dress and retrieved a sack of coins.

“Please, I can pay you well for this task.”

These words insulted Thor.

“No amount of money will make a sword-maker out of me. My work fills the stomachs of children—not the hands of murderers and thieves.”

Sesha tried to reply, but the old blacksmith was waving her away.

“Out. Get out.”

Sesha retreated from the cabin.

“Out. Out!” Thor was shouting now, pointing toward her wagon.

Still facing Thor, her eyes searching for the slightest softness, she stepped backwards toward the wagon.

Thor stood in his doorway with his arms folded, his expression unchanged.

She reached the driver’s seat. She looked back at Thor with pleading eyes. Thor did not move.

She wanted to cry out to him. She wanted to hug his neck and tell him that she was really the princess. She wanted to say that this sword was more important to her and their kingdom than anything else in the world. But she could not betray her secret.

She grasped the reins and looked at the old mule, but her hands would not move. She braced herself, refusing to cry. All the while, Thor stood silently, staring at her.

Then she had an idea. She reached back into her wagon and pulled from the canopy one of the tiny yellow birds. She climbed down. In slow, timid steps, she approached Thor once again, her body shaking with emotion, her hand outstretched, offering him the tiny bird.

Thor knitted his brow, unsure of the meaning of her approach. Sesha moved closer, each step filled with the fear of failing in the great mission that rested upon her shoulders alone. She stood directly before the old blacksmith. She dropped to one knee.

But before she could lift her hands to offer her gift, Moakie appeared, bouncing excitedly around the corner of the cabin, almost knocking Sesha to the ground.

“Moakie, Moakie, Moakie!” Sesha cried, hugging the dragon’s neck just as in days past. Moakie’s teeth were black and old, but it did not stop her smile. She bounded in circles around Sesha, nuzzling her with her nose. Sesha moved back and forth, stroking the dragon with her hands.

Thor knitted his heavy brow. How did this gypsy girl who sold pots in the villages know Moakie? And when Moakie had calmed down, Sesha dropped to her knee and offered the yellow bird to the old blacksmith.

“I bring you a gift from Princess Babette.”

Thor stammered, “How do you know the princess?”

Sesha could not lie to the man who saved her life. So she simply hung her head in silence.

For a moment, Thor considered her words. What if this girl knew Babette? What if Babette needed help?

“It doesn’t matter. I will not make this sword.” With those words, Thor stepped inside his cabin and shut the door.

The next morning, Thor rose and drew water from his well. After washing his face, he went to the shed to wake Moakie. Moakie was sound asleep and snoring even louder than usual. Thor leaned over and gave his dragon a gentle shake.

On the floor lay a brush, its bristles worn and stained black.

Moakie snorted and shivered and then lifted her head. When she saw Thor, she broke into a smile and in the soft morning light, her smile sparkled in a way Thor had not seen in ten long years. Every tooth was gleaming white.

Next to Moakie lay two bags of magic powder and instructions for mixing the powder and making the sword.

Thor looked out the window and softly spoke.

“Yes, my princess, you will have your sword.”

I
n a small clearing, Darrow lifted his hand, shading his eyes against the light. It was morning and the sun had just risen above the trees. Gauging its direction, he placed the sun at his back, and marched to the west, the direction out of the forest and onto the plain.

Nearby was a goblin fort. It was a small structure of logs and a few stone buildings. Normally, it held only twenty or so soldiers. But these soldiers were on high alert. Each and every one patrolled the forest, searching for the thieves who attacked the wagon at Frenngravel Creek.

So Darrow avoided the roads and trudged through the underbrush, setting his direction as best he could.

Two weeks had passed since Naark had fallen. Alone in the forest, three warriors could do little to save a kingdom. He needed volunteers.

His target was the small hamlet of Siegenhoffen, which was near the forest’s edge. It was where goat farmers came to trade and buy supplies. Barely fifty people called it home. Most were old. He had chosen the village because it was small and no goblin soldiers were stationed there. After a long discussion with Hugga Hugga and Timwee, Darrow selected it as the place to start.

To convince these men, Darrow would need optimism and belief. But today, as Darrow trudged through the forest, he was almost overcome with gloom.

The vision of Naark falling to the dogs played again and again in Darrow’s mind. What was Naark’s reward for courage? Only the appearance of the scorpion man had saved Darrow from an equal fate.

The goblin army was at least five thousand strong. They were three. In Siegenhoffen, he would be lucky to find two volunteers. And who might those volunteers be? Who would follow
him
, hardly even a grown man, small, lame, and too weak to lift his own sword?

A day later, Darrow stepped out of the forest and into the plain. His clothes were torn and ragged. Across his arms and legs were cuts and scratches where the briars had torn at his skin. But these injuries were barely visible beneath the dust and dirt that covered his skin.

In the distance, he could see Siegenhoffen. It was a collection of small huts that seemed to have dropped onto the plain in no pattern or form. Barely rising above the town was the steeple of the church, too big for the village but built when the goats were plentiful and the price was high.

For many months, he had imagined this moment when he would pour forth his vision of a free kingdom. But now, facing this tiny village, he stood doubtful and exhausted.

He thought back to the day that the goblin beat old man Groompus. Some of the anger that began his journey returned and from this anger he found resolve. He lifted his head and walked into the village.

The afternoon sun beat down on the dusty street. The villagers mostly remained in their houses, small one-room structures with walls of stacked sod and roofs of straw. Many appeared empty. There was the stone church and a couple of wooden buildings. Seeing a man carrying a box, Darrow spoke.

“Good sir, I have traveled far to this village. I would like to speak with your elder.”

The man, old but with large arms and strong, thick legs, might have been the elder himself, but he did not answer right away. He took a step back, placed his box on the ground, and eyed Darrow from head to toe.

“And who might you be?” he finally asked.

“I am Darrow of Ael. I have urgent business.”

The old man’s eyes widened. Nervously, he looked around the street.

“And from where have you traveled?”

“From Hexenwald.”

The old man gave a nod and held up his hand as if to say
wait
. He walked briskly down the street, leaning into windows and doors along the way. People entered the street, watching Darrow from afar.

The onlookers gathered and moved closer toward Darrow, taking their measure of this ragged, filthy boy. Darrow wondered if visitors were so rare.

The old man returned, this time not walking but running. Behind him, a gray-haired man, tall and stooped over, struggled to keep pace. The two of them stood before Darrow. The crowd hovered close.

The tall, gray man was the first to speak.

“Who are you and what is your business?”

Darrow looked around and realized that the entire village was standing in the street.

“I am Darrow of Ael.” He paused for a moment not sure where to start. Then he said it.

“I have come to enlist the citizens of Siegenhoffen in a great crusade to free Sonnencrest.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.

The elder lifted a piece of paper. “Are you the one who attacked the goblins at Frenngravel Creek? Are you the so-called hero who defeated the goblins in the forest?”

Darrow was dumbfounded. The crowd now pressed tight. Every ear awaited his response. For once, words escaped him. All he could summon was a single word.

“Yes.”

“Will you please walk to the door of that house and back?”

Puzzled, Darrow did as he was asked, bobbing with his usual gait along the way. The two men whispered to one another, nodding and noting that indeed he walked with a limp.

“Then this is you?” He handed Darrow the paper. His hands shaking, Darrow struggled to read the paper. The crowd pushed at him from all sides. What he read he could barely believe.

Our Battle for Freedom Has Begun

To the Citizens of Sonnencrest: From the tiny village of Ael, a hero named Darrow has emerged. Although he is lame and walks with a limp, he is a mighty warrior who has already defeated the goblins three times. First, he broke into the Kirstinnex dungeon to free Sonnencrest’s bravest warriors. Four of them ambushed a goblin supply wagon and escaped with a supply of weapons. When the goblins followed them into the Hexenwald Forest, they defeated an entire army of men and dogs alike. The battle is known as the Battle of Naark’s Hill, named for the courageous cave troll who gave his life that day. Now, brave men from every corner of Sonnencrest are pouring into the Hexenwald Forest to join Darrow’s army and help bring an end to goblin rule. There is new hope in our land. Please make copies of this message and carry them to every neighboring village.

“We received this two days ago,” the elder stated. He raised his hands, trying to calm the onlookers. Turning again to Darrow, he said, “Speak to us. Can this really be true?”

Darrow paused, wondering if perhaps he might correct some of the details, but this was no time for small points. He lifted his head and spoke.

“It is true. We have engaged the goblins in a battle to free Sonnencrest. I am here to tell the citizens of Siegenhoffen that we can and will succeed.”

There was some applause but mostly murmurs.

“My fellow citizens of Sonnencrest,” he began. The crowd fell silent.

“Ten long years of tyranny have left our people broken and in despair. The goblins have robbed our homes, our businesses, and our churches. But they have taken something far more precious still.

“During these years, they have taken from our people the hope that we can change our future. They have stolen the courage we need to stand against the oppressors and drive them from our land.

“Today, in the forest, brave warriors are preparing for battle. In the forest lies a goblin fort housing no more than twenty soldiers. With volunteers, we can take this fort and drive the goblins from the forest.

“With a victory in the forest, we can march onto the plains and assemble a great army. That army will face the goblins in battle and force them from our land.

“I know, as you do, that the goblins are a formidable foe. Their soldiers number two thousand or more. But our greatest enemy is not the goblins at all. Our greatest enemy is the fear and despair that occupies our hearts.

“To lead this quest, I left the village of Ael, far to the west and so tiny that, to us, Siegenhoffen would appear a great city. But from small beginnings, great deeds can grow. Today, in the tiny hamlet of Siegenhoffen, a great journey begins. It is a journey of the heart. It begins with the belief that submission to an evil master is no life at all and that death in the battle for freedom is the highest honor any one of us could possibly obtain.

“And it begins with the belief that we can find our courage, the belief that we can face our foe, and the belief that we can assemble an army and march from the forest to slay our oppressors and restore freedom, honor, and dignity to our kingdom.”

As Darrow spoke, the crowd forgot his dirty rags. As they listened to his words, he seemed no longer small but a figure of size and power. Instead of remembering that he was lame, they imagined a great march, the march against the goblin army that this man somehow knew he could defeat. When he was finished, there were few doubters. A great cheer erupted from the crowd.

Only a handful of young men lived in the hamlet of Siegenhoffen, but when Darrow returned to the forest, six of them followed him.