9 January 2013
For anyone who is interested, here is the beginning of chapter two.
Chapter 2 The horn sounded again, more distinct than before. Beren passed into the main road, following the sound, and then moved by a number of streets northwards. After running through the deserted marketplace and back onto the main road, he at length sighted the north gate. There, through the rain, he saw ahead of him the shape of a man holding a hunting horn. His guard’s uniform hid underneath a drenched cloak, which clung to his clothes. His long hair twisted in a wild, drowned state of disarray. A few other figures, those who had already answered the horn, stood around the man, sharpening their swords. Taking up his horn once more, the man sounded the call to arms, then, noticing Beren, replaced the horn in his belt. “Ah,” said the man, moving forward, “Hasten! Has anyone told you of the threat? Well, I will tell you. Ah, most regrettable circumstance! A band of Oriabs, nearly a hundred in number, is coming to attack Celphaïs. I saw them emerge from the forest not long ago. They will arrive soon. Now say whether or not you will aid us. Speak quickly!” Beren’s mind clouded with thoughts: Oriabs! An attack! This…this is…what shall I do? Beren considered the implications of this news. Orbia, after many years of endless warfare with Calduria, had recently negotiated with its enemies for peace: if the Oriabs had continued much longer, they would have been crushed, for civil war with the city of Kiner had greatly depleted the Oriabs’ resources. In the following years the opposing kingdoms had settled into a tense, uneasy peace. To all it seemed as if the war was over. Why then would one hundred Oriabs be marching towards Celphaïs? When Beren had heard the horn, he had not expected such a threat: he had expected rogues, or something of that sort. It made no sense! Could they possibly want war? Even if that were the case, why would they only bring one hundred men, and, more importantly, why would they attack Celphaïs? In the end, motives mattered little: whatever the outcome of this attack, it would severely threaten the peace. Whatever the outcome of this attack, it would constitute an issue of great political magnitude. Whatever the outcome of this attack, soon all would know of it. A single phrase possessed Beren’s mind, a phrase he had thought to himself for far too long without seeking out a way to fulfill it: one great act of importance! Yes, this is my fate! I alone heard the horn, and I alone shall have my wish. This battle shall be my road to lordship! All I need do is survive it. He knew he needed to respond to the guard’s words quickly. How can I impress him? If he is to lead this battle, and he may, I must gain not only his trust but also his respect, or my deeds here will not be known. I must show my honor…honor, yes. Perhaps an oath. An oath would guarantee that I am trustworthy and display honor. That should be enough to engender respect. Yes, an oath! He brandished his sword and raised it to the man, “By this sword I make an oath of loyalty to the town of Celphaïs: yes, I shall aid you!” The man eyed the sword with awe, “That sword looks finely crafted. You must be a noble man, indeed, to possess such a blade.” Beren laughed inwardly, My father’s gift has finally proved useful; it appears that the quality of the sword alone would have won me this man’s respect. “What is your name, sir?” asked the man. “Beren.” “And I am Sieghall, guard of the northern watchtower of Celphaïs. My heart is lightened by the presence of such a warrior as you, Beren.” “I am glad,” said Beren. “If you, who will lead us in battle, rejoice at the sight of me, with certainty I see our enemies swiftly defeated with those others who will assuredly come.” Sieghall, impressed by this loftily articulated declaration, exclaimed, “Ah, I see virtue in you, noble Beren! I would be honored if you would lead with me against the Oriabs.” Beren smiled with joy: one great act of importance. He wants me to lead with him! Lead! How easy this will be to draw attention, if I am to be a leader in the battle. “I would be honored to stand beside you, Sieghall.” “Praised be this day, which grants us such an ally!” cried Sieghall. “Now return to the town and help gather men,” he said, returning to his hurried tone. “We shall need a great number to defeat our foes.” He gestured to the sparse, but growing, company around him, “Three times what we have now.” “Farewell, then,” said Beren as he left. “I shall return soon.” Passing through the northern gate, he heard Sieghall sounding his horn once again. Most blessed music, he thought joyfully. He ran along the main road, calling out to the townsfolk, already in the streets listening to the call to arms. In the marketplace he met some prominent merchants, to whom he detailed the situation, urging them to the north gate. After much of this mustering, Beren resolved to return to the inn. Now I shall see if Kashmar truly wants to be a soldier. Returning to the main road, he passed a number of armed townspeople. I doubt he’ll even choose to join the battle, the coward. Crossing again into the lesser roads, he heard the distinct sound of a psaltery, playing that same disturbing melody which he had also heard often since his arrival at Celphaïs. Ah, that sound again! If only the musician would join the battle—and be slain. Beren, wearing his wry smile, entered the inn to find Kashmar staring fixedly at the aged man in the corner. He oddly did not acknowledge Beren’s return. Retaining his smile, Beren took a step forward. “Oh, Beren,” said Kashmar. “Did you find—” Beren interrupted, “Take up your sword, Kashmar. The horn was indeed the call to arms. Oriabs attack from the north. The watchtower guard says they are one hundred in number. Though we know not yet how organized they are, Celphaïs can defeat them.” Kashmar stammered, “Or…Oriabs? Well, yes, we can defeat them: in Celphaïs reside a great number of swordsmen. But, Beren, is this true? Oriabs?” “It is true, my friend. They will arrive in less than an hour.” Kashmar still doubted, “But the peace! The Oriabs would not break the peace.” “Perhaps they are renegades,” said Beren impatiently. “Quite right, quite right. Renegades would make sense. Oh, they can’t be warmongers, can they? Everyone agreed to the peace! It makes no sense!” Beren scowled, “Now is not the time to consider motives. Get your sword, Kashmar.” “This cannot be the only option,” said Kashmar, uncertain. “What do you mean?” asked Beren “We…can’t you convince the people of Celphaïs to flee?” “Flee? Why? There’s no reason to flee!” said Beren indignantly. “If we flee, we spare the people and sacrifice the town. Then we can wait for Calduris to intervene. There would be no chance of failure that way.” “No!” cried Beren in consternation. “We must meet the Oriabs ourselves!” “Your greed has blinded you!” said Kashmar impetuously. “You just want the lordship, the ‘one great act of importance’! You don’t care about…those who could die in this battle!” “Don't be rash, bartender!” said Beren coldly. The innkeeper froze, the color in his face draining. All vestiges of a friendship between the two men temporarily shattered. Kashmar passed towards the stairs, “I’ll…find my sword.” He touched his forehead for no reason in particular and, taking up his cloak, trudged to the second story. Beren turned to the two guests of the inn, both of whom stared blankly at the floor. Perhaps I should ask them to join the battle. Sieghall would look on me more favorably if I brought him more men. He studied both of them briefly. Which one first? Taking a few steps toward the man in the corner with the wide-brimmed hat, he cleared his throat and said, “Good sir, enemies approach from the northern land of Orbia. If we are to be victorious, we shall need a force which matches that of our enemy in number. Would you be willing to aid us?” He said this with some degree of hesitancy and reserve, for he felt a seemingly out of place fear of this man. The aged man slowly rose and, stepping horizontally away from Beren, strode to the door. Pushing aside increasing anxiety, Beren tried to call out to the man as he departed, but the words did not form quickly enough. As the door slid shut, Beren’s heavy heart, to his relief, lightened. The other one, I hope, will prove more favorable. If not, though, at least I will have driven out both of Kashmar’s guests. With caution and apprehension Beren turned to the wanderer, who still avoided his gaze. “You must have heard me just then,” he said. “I trust I need not repeat it.” The wanderer appeared not to hear. “Well, will you aid us?” No movement. “Speak now. I have no reason to linger here longer.” The wanderer turned slightly, struggling with indecision. Should I do this? Is Beren truly worthy of it? Well…of course he…I can’t be certain! I must be certain! No, no. I shall aid Beren! He deserves the title he desires…it may even make him a better man. If he is not worthy now, I shall make him worthy. He fully turned, standing, and faced Beren. It must be done, then. Gathering his strength, the wanderer inspected the man before him. He must be worthy. “I am yours to command,” said the wanderer, unexpectedly kneeling as a servant to a king. There: I have spoken. That is enough…no, not nearly enough. He hesitantly withdrew an item from within his cloak. Though he had known it for so long, he still experienced a strange feeling when he grasped it, the symbol of his chosen path. It was a staff of pure onyx, glistening in the low light of the inn, thin so as to keep it secret, dark so as to keep it hidden, hidden so as to keep it uncommon. It was the kind of staff few expected to bear the sight of, the kind which was the subject of strange, rare tales. It was the staff of a sorcerer. Beren stared at the slender weapon, awed and startled. To meet a sorcerer was a great honor, for these men were rarely seen.
Danforth (Chapter 2) • Opuss № I