by Janice Jackson and Daniel Olarnick
"Ah that was refreshing!" said Karl Strange to his adopted son Pytre.
"We should have constructed this years ago, instead of washing ourselves in those frigid river water."
Steam rose from the dragon-scaled natural hot pool, covering Karl's well-muscled body as he exited the hot pool that he and Pytre had just constructed. It had taken them more than a year to gather enough dragon scales to build the steam bath and surround the natural hot pool with heavy stones and mortar. They had diverted the natural cold stream from the mountains to run into the pool, mixing the elements, making the hot pool's natural mineral waters healing and refreshing.
Pytre laughed at his father's actions, seeing him lie back in the pool, soaking his body, then as the steam mists clung to Karl's body, he saw an ancient wound suddenly appear on Karl's chest, that appeared to turn red and seemed to throb while being heated in the waters.
"Father, “asked Pytre Strange, his voice sad, tears welling in his eyes, as he gently touched the long white scar on Karl's chest. "How did you get that awful wound?”
“Now, now lad,” said Karl, trying to comfort Pytre's obvious concern, but he knew that Pytre's curiosity, once aroused would have to be answered.
“It was long, long ago, said Karl,” as he ran his finger across the long, jagged white scar that ran across his chest.
“I'll take you across the mists of time, my son,” said Karl not revealing that he had kept this story hidden for over two hundred years. No need to tell the lad that his father would not age, that time would not weaken him or humble him with death, as it would the son who stood before him, sharing a moment that he would cherish in the centuries to come...
Karl took a deep breath and spoke in his faraway voice, invoking the images of time: "Once, long ago, I fought in the Troll Wars. – you've heard of those in your lessons.” Karl knew that Pytre would forget the story, yet it would remain in the deep recesses of his mind, never to question Karl on the scar again. “I think I told you that it was a time of great sadness for our lands. The Trolls and their tribes had united, making them a force to be reckoned with. I had completed my initial year of wizard's training, but was more accustomed to war, weapons and death. I was in the employ of King James the Elder of the ancient kingdom of Saxony. I was a captain, and under my command, one hundred and thirty of the finest horse soldiers any captain would ever want for. My second-in-command, an old friend from my youth, Karnak.” Karl paused, allowing Pytre's mind to absorb this, yes, Karnak, his immortal enemy.
“We had been fighting the Trolls for five years, but this was the campaign in which we sought to destroy their main encampment. We thought we had them cornered, as we followed them into an enclosed horseshoe valley -- and into a deadly trap. The history scrolls call it, Moribund Valley.”
Karl heard himself issuing his commands, fresh and sure in his duties: "Grey troop to the south of the low ridge. See if you can spy any place where an ambush might be set.
“Roan troop to the west, scout out the lay of the land.” “All our troops were named after the colors of their horses. We were young, brave, bold and undefeated in the field of battle.”
I ordered my men to scout the vast valley carefully, knowing how treacherous our enemy could be. All our reports told us that at the end of the valley, where the river flows from the mountains, a hidden pathway that would lead us to the Trollian encampment, where we would wipe out their leaders. Our scouts reported that there was no enemy for as far as the eye could see.
My men reached the bottom of the valley, signaled us to come ahead. We followed through the narrow valley entrance. Strange mists surrounded the valley. Locust flowers were in full bloom as we entered the valley floor.
"Captain Strange,” spoke young Peter Waits, my lead scout, "There's no sign of the hairy beastie bastards. Look here,” he said, brandishing his weapon above his head, “I sharpened me sword to cleave a few skulls for the walls of our regiment."
His words sent a round of relieved laughter through the ranks. Tension for the entire morning had been extremely high, and so the failure to see or smell any of our enemies relaxed the troops.
I smiled, riding through the ranks, and joked with them for a bit. We broke camp, posting our guards, rested our mounts. The noon sun was high in the ground, blinding us from the west, so we turned our backs and proceeded deeper into the valley.
“Then came the terrible war cries. Have you ever heard a Trollian war cry? No, I doubt it, son, it is not something that can easily be described. It sends icy needles down your spine.
They had sealed the valley with an avalanche and attacked us from all sides, from the valley walls, from the holes they had dug in the grounds, from caverns.
Chaos and panic griped us all. Where had they come from? So many, so many,” Karl's voice trembled remembering the suddenness of the attack, of how he had underestimated the enemy. “We were totally surprised by the suddenness of their attack, of how effective their troops moved. Some one had organized their attack. It was rumored to be a son of TiRe or perhaps TiRe himself. To this day, no one knows...
Young Peter Waits fell as he mounted his horse, an arrow piercing his throat. I turned our horses, trying to drive them through the advancing trolls, hoping to break their charge, but we were met by a powerful enemy, wielding axes and arrows, as they cut across our numbers.
My men were brave and well-trained. We regrouped and charged once again into the onslaught of death that awaited us. Never once did we falter in our devotion to our brothers, but we were out numbered eight to one.
The Trolls came out of every openings in the rocks, in the ground, from the very soil it self, yet we rode on, pressing to get to the entrance of the valley, not knowing it had been sealed. They were everywhere.
"I don't remember how long we fought for. It was less than the history scrolls say, but it seemed like an eternity. I can still hear the screams of my men, as they fell to the axes and the war hammers the Trolls were so adept at using.
Body parts flew through the air before of me. My war horse reared up, his hooves striking the trolls, clearing the way. Onward, ever onward we pressed deep in blood and mire as we fought to get out of the valley of death.
I fell from my horse when a Trollian warrior swung his ax and cleaving his head from his body. I rolled to the side -- somehow, I had lost my sword. -- I stood quickly, prepared to meet my death once unhorsed.
The Troll, a chieftain by his markings, swung his spiked hammer at my chest. I grabbed for a black shard that I had fashioned into a boot dagger, my weapon of last resort.
Just as the Troll prepared to throw his hammer at me, I threw the black shard at him, its jagged edges gleamed in the sunlight – and I swear, the shard seemed to have energy of its own; it flew out of my hand, embedded itself deeply into the Troll's armor and kept going until it vanished from sight. For a moment, the Troll looked down at his chest, dropping war hammer, as if it had suddenly become too heavy, his hurled his curled circular knife at me – as it left his hand, he vanished, gone without a trace, but his weapon struck true, embedding itself in my chest, nearly cutting through my leather armor, traveling from here to here,” said Karl, tracing the wound..
“The valley walls seemed to explode from within. Karnak had used an explosive gemstone to pierce the entrance. I felt myself falling to the ground, my men rallied around me; they fought the advancing trolls with a savageness that even the trolls could not match.
I was lifted from the ground, found myself mounted behind Karnak. We sounded retreat, headed for the gap that led out of the valley. Only twenty men rode out with Karnak leading the way. We had suffered our worse defeat.”
“That is how I got this scar. Fortunately, Karnak was adept at healing, and sealed this wound, leaving only this mark to remind me of that that dark and evil day.
“We returned, a few days later, to Moribund Valley, as we now called it to reclaim the bodies of our men, but we could not give them even that honor, as the Trolls had eaten them.”
“But the shard, did you recover it?” Pytre did not know why that bothered him, that the shard had vanished – then the shock of hearing the trolls devouring the fallen troops brought tears to his eyes and deep sobs at the reality of war.
“The shard found me, I did not find it. Now you will forget, my son, forget the horror of war, and the scar I bear.”
Karl held a black shard in front of Pytre's eyes, it twirled and floated, seemed to dance in the air, as it sent waves of forgetfulness through the mind of Pytre Strange.
Karl put the black shard back around his neck, as it seemed to vanish from sight.
Pytre's mind filled with thoughts of glory and victory battles. He was hungry to take up the sword of his father, to ride off into battles, and receive his own scars of valor.
He gave no though to the bloodshed and to death, even that of his own. He was, after all mortal, but he was the son of Karl Strange, hero. He too would be a hero, to be admired by all.
Karl watched the thoughts forming across Pytre's mind, as if they were being written there. His heart was sad with the thoughts of all the young men who would fall in battle. But he could not allow fear to live within the mind of his adopted son, for fear was a deadly enemy, fear invited death and death was the great destroyer of life.
Karl ran his hands across his son's hair, tousling it in a fatherly act of affection.
Pytre's young boyish mind saw only honor and glory coming his way: “just as soon as I join the militia, became a soldier of fortune, perhaps even a captain, like father” he thought. After all, he was Pytre's Strange, future hero of the Volante Volunteers. At least, that was how he thought of himself, and smiled the smile of youth on his handsome, unlined face..
Pytre practically pranced inside the Inn, it was time for the mid-day meal, and Dora had his favorite desserts waiting for him -- even brave warriors deserved to eat desserts.
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