laneys.info Beware of Yankees, drunks, and loose women.

Dillon stood on the ledge of the fountain in the town square and looked around, watching everything and nothing all at once. He had gotten quite good over the past seven months at spotting travelers as they came into town, and this was the best vantage point. He didn't see anyone new in the marketplace. He shouldered his pack, then jumped off the wall and headed toward the city gate. He needed to make a sale today, one way or another.

As Dillon approached the gate, he saw two knights enter bearing unfamiliar heraldry. "There. Right there," he thought. He followed them at a discrete distance until they stopped at The Golden Lady, one of the town's inns. Dillon hurried off when the innkeeper's son came out to lead the horses to the stable. He knew that the knights would have to go pay their respects to the baron, and he needed to be back before they were.

As he hurried through the streets to the house, his heart ached with what he was about to do. He wondered what his father might have done, what he might have said in this situation.

"One thing's for sure," Dillon thought, "he would have still been upbeat about the whole thing."

Still thinking about his father, Dillon turned the corner and stopped short. At the end of the street, towering above all the surrounding buildings, stood the church. The bell began ringing its call to midday prayers as he looked at the building. He put his head down and resumed his quick pace down the street.

He opened the door of the house, entered quickly, and shut the door again. He stood for a long time in the nearly empty room, staring at the shelf on the wall. There were so many memories wrapped up here, and many of them came flooding over him all at once. He felt like he was selling off his family, its history. He looked around the room again, even though he already knew its contents. As much as he needed the money, what he was about to do still saddened and angered him.

He had been able to maintain the family candle business until just over a month ago, when the church of Arhus got a new leader. Father Andrew had been the only priest he had known personally, and now he was far away in another duchy. The new priest, Father George, arrived soon after Father Andrew left. As Dillon heard the story later, Father George had been very impressed by the candles used by the church until he heard they were being supplied by an eleven-year-old boy. The church never sent their payment for his last delivery, and every time Dillon went to see Father George, he was "busy." Word got around town soon after that, and Dillon found that the truth had become the newest casualty. He wasn't getting any new orders, he wasn't getting paid for old orders, and rumors were spreading that the church had backed out of the deal because Father George nearly caught fire himself when lighting one of the "child's candles."

He dragged a chair over to the wall and climbed up. He took a deep breath.

"Forgive me," he said quietly.

He reached up and took the long sword down off the wall. Wrapping it in a soft cloth, he put it into his pack and walked out the door.

As he made his way back to the inn, he noticed a priest of Arhus standing on the steps of the church. The priest was a portly, older man, two qualities that his brown robes did very little to diminish. His graying hair was thinning on top of his round head, making him resemble a dirty snowman. As people passed by the church, he was trying to encourage them to stop in for the midday service.

"You there, my lad," the priest called out. He was looking right at Dillon. "Where are you off to? Service is getting ready to start."

"I'm about my business," Dillon replied, not breaking his stride. "I've more important matters to attend."

The priest's face changed immediately to a look of indignation. He moved out into the street and stopped Dillon with a hand on his shoulder.

"See here, lad. There's naught more important than giving the god of justice his due. I don't think I like the tone of your voice."

"And I don't like the sound of yours, Father George."

Dillon shrugged off the man's hand and resumed walking. Before he could escape completely, though, Father George spied the pommel of the sword sticking out of Dillon's pack. With surprising speed, the priest seized the weapon and drew it from its cloth.

"Hullo, what's this?" He drew the sword from its scabbard and looked the weapon up and down. "Kuzomen, if I'm not mistaken."

"Hey! Give that back! That's mine!" Dillon reached for the weapon, but Father George lifted it up out of his grasp.

"I think not. Someone could get hurt with you parading around town with this. I'd better keep this until we can find out a little more about why you have it."

"I have it because it's mine and I'm taking it to someone who wants to buy it," Dillon half-lied. After all, just because the knight didn't know about it yet didn't mean he didn't want to buy it. "Now, give it back to me."

"And where did someone your age get a sword, hmm?"

"It's been in my family for generations, passed down from father to son."

"Oh, ho! Now we come to it!" he exclaimed, as if he had just gotten a confession. "Does your father know you're off to sell his sword?"

"Probably not, as he's been dead now these seven months. Thanks for asking."

"You watch your tongue, lad, and don't give me any of your sauce, or I'll have your mother give you what for."

"That would be somewhat difficult, as she preceded my father to the grave by a week."

"Nonsense! A lad such as you would have come to be part of our orphanage if that were true."

"Only if he were very unlucky."

"Now see here, lad, I'll not warn you again! Don't give me any more cheek! I'm more certain than ever, now that I've heard your tale, that you are an imp and a liar. Don't you know where liars go?"

"Nurmes. And you can go there first." At that, Dillon circled quickly to the priest's side, ramming into him with his full weight. As the adult shifted his body to the leg opposite Dillon's charge, Dillon quickly thrust out his foot to the back of that knee, causing the man to stumble. As Father George brought down his hand to steady himself, Dillon seized the sword by the scabbard and twisted it, wrenching it away from the man's grasp. He ran for the inn. Father George yelled out for him to stop, but Dillon was soon out of sight.

Dillon stopped opposite the inn to catch his breath and put the sword back into his pack. He hadn't known that little bit of information about the sword being Kuzomen. He hoped that pompous toad was right about that. He also hoped the delay hadn't caused him to miss the knights as they returned from the keep. He began walking toward the keep, hoping to meet them on the way. Soon he spied them, making their way through the crowd. He stepped out to come alongside them as they walked.

"Good day to you, sirs. Would either of you be interested in a long sword of quality and ancient origin?"

"No thanks, my lad," replied the knight closest to Dillon. His accent placed him as being from the other side of the Frontier, Dillon guessed.

"Good sir, this is a weapon of extraordinary quality. Crafted by the finest Kuzomen smiths, it has served in many a skirmish without so much as a scratch or notch. This sword even saw battle in the Great War."

At that, the second knight stopped. "The Great War, you say? What do you know of the Great War?"

"Quite a bit, my good sir. My grandfather used this very sword in the Great War and passed down his tales. My father also taught me about the fight against the Darkness." Dillon's heart was pounding so hard, he wondered if the knights could hear it.

"Very well, son, let me see the blade," said the second knight.

Dillon drew the sword and scabbard from his pack and handed it, hilt first, to the knight. The knight drew the sword and looked at it with a critical eye, much as Father George had done.

"Yes, I see. This weapon is very old, and definitely of Kuzomen forging. Sir Mark, I believe this would serve you better than what you carry now."

He handed the blade to Sir Mark, who looked it over and then turned to Dillon.

"I believe this sword will do. I'll give you two gold for it."

"Two gold? My lord, a sword of this quality and renown is worth at least ten gold, if not more!"

Sir Mark looked to his companion with a smile.

"Beware, Sir David. It appears that our young friend here has some skill in the marketplace." He turned back to Dillon. "Very well, friend, five gold for this magnificent blade of heroic deeds."

"My lord, I could take it to the smithy and get five gold by having them melt it down as scrap metal. Surely, a weapon this fine is worth eight gold?"

Both men smiled.

"I'll give you six gold for it, but only if you come and dine with us at the inn and regale us with tales from the Great War."

"Deal, as long as you're the one buying." Dillon had to admit, he was pretty hungry. And he knew a story or two...