An Age Returned

Chapter 1

King’s Day, High Sun 1, 733, Second Age

Twelve Days Since the Attack

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

In a time now long past, they were but legends. Mythic heroes unleashed mighty power against even mightier beasts. The breaths of flame and booming voices were met with steel and magic. Cities toppled and skies rumbled as the winged devils claimed our world as their own. But the mortal folk of these magnificent lands stood mightily, and the dragons were pushed out of our homes and into the skies and mountains where they belonged.

But those are only stories. Tales to tell around the campfire to scare the children and make mothers dread putting them to bed. Tales to make the men feel big and strong so that if war comes threatening they fall back on their mighty ancestry of dragon slayers. Tales to make our small-town history seem more exciting than finding a river that would be a good place to farm and deciding to farm there.

Those living in Arestarde are more often than not those seeking the simple life. Take my mother for example. Asimi Oakley, a farmhand who married a farm owner only to do twice the work of a farmhand in and around the house. On exciting days, she and I would go on “adventures,” which was a simple walk through the forest with mother. It was in those days I dreamed of being a mighty hero, defending our home from dragon attacks. I lifted whatever stick I might find as my heroic weapon, and defended my frightened mother from the various trees and frogs we passed by.

Make no mistake, I do not mean to imply that the simple life is some kind of horrid thing. I now see why the tranquility of fresh air is preferred over the rancid stink of burning flesh and the horrid screams of the dead and wounded. I would much rather spend a day with my mother running our hands through fields of daisy like some kind of dream sent by the spirits of nature. But that simply is not the life that I’ve been allowed to live.

I turned sixteen twenty days ago. For the past two years, I’ve been apprentice to the blacksmith in town. In company I called him Master, but while I was working I called him Balderk. The town called him Balderk Smithson, a name he hasn’t been able to shake since his father was the one who built the forge. But he was a far more talented blacksmith who chose to come back home to work rather than stay in the big city where he was apprenticed. Luckily for me, who got to be his apprentice without even leaving home.

For my sixteenth birthday, Balderk let me do something I had wanted to since before I was his apprentice. He laid out equipment, parchment, and measurement tools for me and stood back with his arms crossed, the way he does when he’s judging my work. “Go on, son,” he said. “Design your sword.”

I was elated, and got straight to work doing so. I’d thought about it for years, the sword that I would wield against my foes when the time came. Though, of course, in those days there weren’t many foes to wield against. But I was a dreamer.

The sword would be a longsword. The blade would be only thirty-two inches and the grip only seven, to account for my under average height at five feet eight inches. Balderk always liked to joke that I would find a better master in the mountains with the Dwarves.

I finished the blade with a somewhat thin fuller, the gap in the center of the sword that works to widen the blade. I intended to swing quickly and accurately. I am not a large man, so a heavy blade would do me no good.

I never told Balderk this, but I had already crafted a piece of the sword’s hilt. I had made a cross-guard as a “piece to support the furnace,” years ago when some of the bricks were coming loose. This was a lie, of course. I had set a brick aside, and thank the gods it was still hidden under the porch, and replaced it with that piece. I swapped them out when Balderk wasn’t looking and attached it to the rest of the hilt. In retrospect, I think he knew.

The grip would be solid oak wrapped in a dark leather I had tanned years ago. Not the strongest of materials, but it seemed wrong given by name to not include oak in my own sword.

At last, I attached the pommel. I used the traditional brass circle stuck to the bottom, though I made my own adjustments. I left a small space in which a symbol would fit. The symbol I had worn around my neck for many years prior, gifted to me by my mother.

“What is that?” Balderk asked as I squeezed it in.

“An olive branch,” I said. Balderk nodded and smiled. “Ah, for your name.”

“Yes,” I said. “But it’s also a symbol of Iolis, the god of war and love.”

“An olive branch is a symbol of peace,” Balderk said, confused.

“You think the war god wants war?” I asked. He knew me too well to think the answer would be yes, but watching him try and put the answer together was like the birds who would watch us work the furnace.

“You’re too smart for me, Oliver,” he said. “But that sword will never help you beat me.”

He was wrong about that, too. I did beat him with this sword a couple times in that week as he continued asking for rematches. I obliged, and continued to win in the end. That sword remained by my side for the few weeks I had after that. And it continued to be on my side when I left town ten days ago.

Many long nights later and I had arrived at my goal. Weary and starved, I still managed to approach the gates of the border city with ease, before dropping to my knees before the approaching guards. I heard shouting and hurrying as my eyes threatened darkness, and the guard pleaded with me to stay alive. Before getting the chance for rest, a man in a long white cloak strode forward to tower over me, before slowly leaning down and looking into my eyes.

“What is your name, son?”

“Oliver,” I croaked.

“Oliver what?”

“Oakley.”

The man’s eyes went wide and he looked down at my blade. My ears began ringing as though to sound me back to consciousness, to no avail. My vision blurred and everything went dark, as the last few words I could hear snuck their way past the deafening ringing.

“This is her son. Asimi. The witch.”