The Heirloom

A note from the author: This story was inspired by a character in one of my favourite video games, Dark Souls II. In the game, he speaks with a jolly Scottish brogue, however I didn’t want to go full Irvine Welsh, so I kept the dialect in English with a few Scot inflections here and there. If you want, feel free to read the dialogue in your best internal Scottish accent. Or don’t, I’m not your dad. Either way, I hope you enjoy - Paul

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Steel clashed, sending tingles up Ben’s arm. Funny, how far he’d come. How barely a few years before, such a blow would have sent him reeling, perhaps even knocked the blade right from his palm. A few years before, such a blow would have been a major problem, causing him to hesitate, leaving him open. He lived, breathed, ate, and slept his training. It took up all of his waking hours, as well as all of his dreams, took up all of his life. The tingle was a reminder that he had yet to face a true challenge, and in a way, soured him.

“So, what’s it to be?”

Gurthar side-stepped him, making a slow curve around the small courtyard, drawing his sword up into a guarded position. Ben rushed him, and their blades locked, their faces mere inches apart. Ben raised an eyebrow at the man, who continued the line of questioning as they fought.

“Don’ look at me like that! You gonna yield, and join the Regiment?”

Ben laughed as he swiped at Gurthar’s ankle with his boot, breaking the man’s guard. He staggered back, and Ben spun his sword in his palm as he swung it into Gurthar’s side. The blow landed, the blade’s flat edge slapping the breath out of his opponent. Ben reset his stance, giving Gurthar a chance to recover.

“Why would you say that?”

Gurthar groaned his breath back.

“Because you're fightin' like you're bored of me! You need to spar with someone else? "

Ben cocked his head to the side. Gurthar smirked, feigned an upward swing, and brought his sword around for an overhead chop. Ben swivelled on his heels, and parried the blow, sparks flashing off the edges of their blades.

“Now what do you mean? This is a good bit o' fun!”

Gurthar pressed him again, their blades locking for a moment, and he put all of his body weight into shoving Ben back toward the small brick fence that lined the sparring arena.

“Aye, but don't you think your talents are wastin’?”

Ben let his body follow his opponent’s lead, then at the last minute, planted his heels and pushed back, the effort bringing Gurthar to a stop, and a smile to Ben’s face.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself - I’ve got a real sweat on!”

Ben pushed Gurthar off him using his sword, and the other man stepped back, his body somewhat slackened, perhaps looking to regain some energy.

“She hits hard enough, your sword.”

Ben held up his weapon with pride. It had been gifted to him from his father, who had in turn been gifted the sword from his father before him, and so on for generations.

With a blade five feet long and almost a foot wide at its golden cross guard, it certainly took some effort to wield effectively, let alone with skill. From the humble pommel and simple leather grip up, it grew more elaborately decorated – the sweeping lines on the guard turning into intricate Celtic patterns closer toward the tip. The most notorious feature of the weapon was its colour; the broad teal blade almost glowed in the pre-dusk sunlight.

“You don’t know the half of it. Either do I...”

Gurthar sighed, and shook his head.

“So that’s a ‘no’?”

“Aye, that’s a ‘no’.”

“You and your family...”

He suddenly lunged at Ben, driving forward with his sword held single-handed like a rapier. Ben took in a quick gasp of air and dodged, felt the blade nick his surcoat under his arm. He used Gurthar’s momentum to his advantage, reaching over the man’s head with his free hand to grab the nape of his neck, and with one smooth motion, flipped him over onto his back. Gurthar’s blade clattered to the dirt, and Ben put one foot on his ribcage, pointing the tip of his blade at the man’s throat.

“My family...are not botherin’ anyone. We are true swordsmen.”

Gurthar tapped on Ben’s boot.

“I yield, I yield.”

Ben smiled, took his foot off Gurthar’s chest, and extended his hand to the man. Gurthar grunted as he pulled himself off the ground using Ben’s arm as an anchor. He shook loose the gravel from his clothing. The men raised their swords in front of their faces, signifying the end of the sparring match, an honourable gesture to a fight well fought – even if it was easier for Ben than it had been for Gurthar.

They walked over to the arena’s edge towards a wooden bucket and two small wooden cups. They dunked the cups into the bucket, gulping the water down, their breathing slowly returning to normal. They loosened their surcoats and took off their sword belts, and leaned against the wall, settling their pulses. Ben cradled his sword. Gurthar broke the silence.

“You know...you never get any easier to fight, despite how much practice I get!”

Ben chuckled, and shrugged, gesturing back towards town.

“Drink?”

Gurthar pointed at the bucket.

“We just had a drink?”

“Real drink?”

Gurthar nodded, chuckling.

The tavern was thick with warmth, sweat, the smell of ale, and laughter. It was surprisingly lively despite being barely half populated. Mostly local farmers celebrating a long day tending the fields, with a pocket of lower caste soldiers joking and singing by the hearth. Ben and Gurthar took a seat at a small wooden table, and the barkeep approached slowly with two tankards, froth brimming over their sides.

“Thin ice, Ben!”

Ben raised his hands in surrender.

“I know, I know! I’ll be on my best behaviour; I swear on my sword!”

The barkeep lowered the mugs onto the table, and looked down his nose at Ben.

“You swore on your sword last time...”

“And I made good, didn’t I? How is the new bar?”

“Let’s just hope you’re a better swordsman than a carpenter, for your Da’s sake!”

Ben laughed, placing on hand over his heart, raising the other.

“I swear on my sword and my life, I will behave.”

The barkeep continued to look down his nose at Ben, and gestured at Gurthar to keep an eye on him. Gurthar shrugged, and the barkeep walked away muttering to himself. One of the soldiers gestured with his head at the two men, and called out.

“Oi Gurthar, too good to come drink with us?”

Gurthar smirked.

“I see enough of your ugly mugs each day. I’m seein’ a different ugly mug for a change.”

The soldiers roared with laughter, and Ben chuckled with them. He lifted his mug in the air, and Gurthar did the same.

“I am Benvaryon of Hyugo...”

“I am Gurthar of Hyugo...”

“...we seek an audience with the lord of this tavern, that we might test his mightiest libation!”

The two men knocked their steins together, foam sloshing onto the tabletop below.

“We meet you with truth and honour and the beverage of our host, that our consumption may reveal its glory!”

Gurthar chuckled at the toast and drank. Ben lifted the tankard to his lips and took a hearty swig. The ale was especially crisp this batch. Jonty had done well. It was so good that he drained the rest of it in another three gulps, letting out a satisfied belch.

“How bad is it gettin’?”

Gurthar swallowed, wiping his lips.

“Eh?”

“You brought up the idea of me enlistin’, I imagine because of the conflict in Sirrah. How bad is it gettin’? How close?”

Gurthar sighed, the brief distraction from the oncoming war beginning to evaporate around him.

“Close. Could be another month, maybe weeks, maybe even days. We’re the only kingdom on their borders that they’re not yet in conflict with, but it won’t take long for the fightin’ to spill out into ours. We will be next, Ben. That’s why I brought it up.”

Ben sighed.

“But you know me, know what my answer will be! It’s the Captain, aye?”

Gurthar looked down into his empty tankard.

“...no.”

“Want me to have a word with him? Stop him harassin’ you into harassin’ me?”

Gurthar looked over at the soldiers by the hearth.

“No, I’ll just let him harass me for not harassin’ you good enough.”

Ben tutted. A silence between the men passed as the other occupants of the tavern carried on with their merriment. One of the soldiers walked out of the tavern, casting a sidewards glance at the two men. Gurthar sighed.

“...I know it’s important to you to honour your Da’, and you Da's Da' - everyone in the city knows it! But ...”

Ben felt a sting of frustration build up in his gut. He knew what was coming. The same argument each time. The same attempt to convert him to basic military service. The same attempt to distract him from his destiny. He couldn’t fault Gurthar, though, he knew it wasn’t his friend asking as much as it was his friends, fellow soldiers, and that damnable Captain.

The general populace of Hyugo was bred and trained for combat, to fill out the ranks of the city’s army to defend her. But Ben and his family were considered outliers. For generations, the men of his line passed his greatsword down, along with a prophecy. It was rumoured that deep within the blade slept a hidden power, and that only a swordsman of the utmost worth could unlock it. While his family certainly weren’t held as total pariahs for this tradition, they were somewhat shunned for it, and the acknowledgement stung Ben’s pride a touch.

“...but don’t you want to help us protect all of this, that one day one of your sons can honour you? Is it just to be trainin’ and sparrin’ until a valiant challenger rides into the city by chance?”

Ben looked down to the greatsword by his side. He’d heard many whispers behind his back over the years, directed at his family and himself. Words like ‘delusion’, ‘fairy tale’, 'forgery', and ‘fool’ followed his line back generations, but like his ancestors before him, he brushed them off because he knew in his heart that they were all wrong.

Didn’t he?

No, he did. He’d felt the power that lay within his family heirloom whisper to him during many a fight, it was only a matter of finding a challenge strong enough to unlock it. Based on the battles he’d fought, it’d have to be a bloody hard one.

Ben looked Gurthar directly in the eyes.

“If our city was under attack, I’d be the first one outside the walls protectin’ her. But I’m not goin’ to volunteer to go off and fight in a war over imaginary lines on the ground for a king I don’t know, that's no' for me. So, trainin’ and sparrin’ - as you call it - it is.”

Gurthar looked away, nodding in resignation. Ben sighed.

“Maybe I ought to fight him...”

Gurthar raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s that?”

“The Captain. To shut him up once and for all, as well as for puttin’ his words down your throat!”

Gurthar scoffed.

“It’s not just him. More than anyone I know how much stronger our city’s army would be with you in her ranks. My sword arm knows it, that’s for certain.”

Ben tapped on the tankard in his hand. He could understand the point Gurthar was making, even if he didn’t necessarily like it.

“I know you, Ben. And I respect your decision to dedicate your life to the blade. I know I should save my words, but I don’t know...I feel like part of me had to try. I hope you understand. Another round?”

Ben nodded, grinning.

“Now those are words worth speakin’!”

Gurthar let out a piercing whistle from between his front teeth, and signalled Jonty for another round of drinks. The barkeep poured out two fresh mugs, and made his way over to the table, before stopping a few feet short as the door to the tavern swung inward, the cool afternoon breeze blowing into the small room.

“Benvaryon the Bold!”

Ben twisted in his seat to look upon the man who had spoken his name, but he knew from the condescending tone and nasal inflection who the owner was.

It was the Captain.

His attitude and voice aside, there was a reason he had both been appointed his position with Hyugo’s royal army and commanded the respect of his men. Standing over six feet tall, he was broad and well-muscled, though lithe on his feet and handy with his sword. His ego had admittedly been earned through the conquest of dozens battles and the defeat of countless opponents. Still, size had never deterred Ben in the past, and likely wouldn’t stop him in the future.

“I heard you had decided to grace the town with your presence in a rare departure from your beloved training arena. It brings a smile to my face to think that perhaps you're considering putting your talents to good use, finally!”

Ben stood up, lifting his greatsword and resting it on his shoulder.

“Good to see you also, Captain; was war cancelled today?”

A few patrons of the tavern attempted to stifle their laughter, and the Captain sneered. He stepped towards Ben, stopping two feet short, his hand dropping toward his sword belt. Ben smirked, holding his ground.

“You know, there will come a day when your delusion finally breaks, and you realise that you spent your entire life trainin’ for nothin’. When that day comes, this city will be reduced to rubble, and anyone left alive will look to you as the man who refused to save her, all for the glory of a sword that is, in all likelihood, just a sword. What will you do then?”

Jonty recovered his composure, and stepped toward the two men, looking to put his body between them.

“Now now lads, no grousin’ in the tavern.”

“You just don’t want any more of my woodwork, Jonty.”

Ben took a mug of ale that Jonty had forgotten he was holding from the man, the barkeep almost dropping the other in the process from surprise. He looked the Captain in the eye as he slowly drained the drink. Smacking his lips, he replied to the Captain.

“You know, I’d take stock in your words, Captain, if they weren’t spoken by a blowhard that used them to poison his men against me...”

Ben glanced at the soldier that had left the tavern, clearly looking to earn favour with the Captain, who now hovered at the doorway, his head lowering, looking away from Ben.

“...though I shouldn’t be surprised; they say poison is not the weapon of a real man...”

“Say that again. Give me any reason to bring the war to you, since you won’t come to it.”

Jonty tried to adjudicate.

“You made an oath, Ben!”

Ben kept his eyes on the Captain, but turned his head toward the barkeep, nodding.

“Aye.”

The Captain scoffed.

“Coward.”

Ben smiled. Gurthar groaned. The Captain looked puzzled. And Jonty shouted.

“OUTSIDE!!”

Ben dropped the greatsword down across his stomach, pressed his free hand against the flat side at the tip, and slammed it into the Captain’s chest, driving him back out the door of the tavern. He shouted back at the barkeep as he left the building.

“I’M A MAN OF MY WORD, JONTY!”

He shoved the Captain away from him, and brought the greatsword up into a guard. The occupants of the tavern all scrambled out of the door, forming a loose circle around the two men. The Captain regained his footing, drew his broadsword, and spat on the ground.

"Great idea, Benvaryon the Bold; let's settle this once and for all!"

"I'll make you a deal - I lose, and I join yer precious army. I win, and that's the end of it, you leave me alone for good."

"Well then, I look forward to making you dig latrines for the next six months! I accept."

Ben spoke the words.

“I am Benvaryon of Hyugo, and I meet you with truth and honour and the blade of my ancestors, that our battle may reveal its secrets.”

The Captain shifted his sword in his grip, narrowed his eyes, and spoke through gritted teeth.

“Save your words, Benvaryon, your honour isn’t worth shit in this city or any other!”

"Then talk to my steel, you full-of-shite fandan!"

Ben stepped in toward the Captain, who saw the move as an attempt to make a strike. He threw his own counter, but as Ben's move was a feint, the swing was swiftly parried, Ben slamming his blade into the side of the Captain's cuirass. The steel crunched, and Ben's sword sang to him. He chuckled, and the Captain's eyes bulged as he watched the air get knocked out of his body.

Ben reset his stance, allowing the Captain the chance to reconsider, but the man seemed as stubborn as Ben was devoted. He swung again, and Ben parried again. He thrust, and Ben knocked his blade toward the ground like it was nothing. He tried to ram Ben with his shield, but Ben simply tripped him up, and slammed the sword into the backplate of the Captain's armour. With each successive blow and parry, the man become more enraged, more relentless, and most importantly, more tired.

"Just yield, Captain, while you can still walk away."

"Yield? To a spineless outcast like you?! I will never!"

The Captain must have been saving his rage for this point, and he sprang towards Ben, unleashing a volley of strikes and swings that Ben didn't imagine he'd have the stamina left to deliver. One such strike nicked Ben on his thigh, the pain shocking him, an almost unfamiliar sensation. Was this it? Was he finally being challenged?

He changed his tactic, employing a more aggressive approach. His eyes tracking the tip of his opponent's blade, he swung his sword in a pattern meant to confound his opponent. The Captain continued his frenzied attack, but the more he swung with abandon, the more he allowed himself to become vulnerable to an attack.

"Yield!"

"I'm going to kill you!"

Ben backed up, breaking the Captain's attack, and drew the greatsword back for a final blow. He heard Gurthar shouting - his friend likely interpreting Ben's posture correctly.

"BEN! NO!!!"

The Captain screamed so hard that veins popped on either side of his eyes, and in one swift motion, Ben swung his weapon, and took the man's head off.

The crowd stood, slack-jawed. Gurthar shouted again.

"BEN! RUN!!!"

Before any of the soldiers could move to either fight or detain him, Ben sheathed his sword, darted back toward the tavern, ripped the reins of the Captain's horse from one of the awning posts, and hurled himself onto the animal's back. He kicked her in the ribs, and headed toward the city gates. He was half-way over the drawbridge before the distant sound of horns could warn the guardsmen to lower the portcullis.

So that was that. He was a criminal, a fugitive, some may even call him traitor. Sure, it had been in self defence, but none the less, he'd killed a decorated war hero. Had he just doomed his people? No. The Captain was a blowhard; if Ben hadn't defeated him, the man's ego would have done the job soon enough. He rode on, steering the horse toward the borders of Hyugo.

The following weeks were a blur. For a fleeting moment upon his escape, Ben had considered the notion of Hyugo's army hunting him down. But the sight of a procession of Sirrahnese troops two days from their borders silenced that notion. Too, he had contemplated how the knights of the neighbouring kingdom would react to his presence, but the region was so beset with conflict that the weary soldiers he passed on the road didn't even seem to register his presence, and the fresh-faced recruits were too distracted with the prospect of their first battle to inquire as to who he was, where he was headed.

The few soldiers and bandits who deigned to bother him were no real trouble at all, Ben expending as much effort dispatching them as he did when he shaved. He began to feel a deep, unsettling despair sprout inside of him. Would he ever fulfil his destiny? Would he find his great challenge? Would he unlock the secret of his sword? His questions were shortly to be answered.

While fleeing his home was certainly a significant turning point in his life, his journey through Sirrah had proved surprisingly uneventful thus far. The first real occasion of prominence was...days? weeks? after crossing into the war-torn territory.

He was passing through a small village, its thatched huts smouldering black, the bodies of men littered its bloody and muddy roads. There weren't even any animals, neither domesticated nor wild - not even crows stopped to feed here. A nasty place. A dead place. He took in the destruction, and shook his head. All of this for a man on a seat in a fancy hat. So many lives lost over land that no ruler could take with them into the next life. He was making his way out of the hamlet when a prehistoric voice broke the eerie silence.

"You're too late..."

Ben pulled back on the reins, and turned in his saddle. Sat outside of one of the fewer houses to – mostly – survive the desolation sat an old crone, her robes filthy, her hair unkempt, her skin smudged with soot and dirt.

"What am I too late for, then?"

"They're all gone. Headed in every direction but here. Headed for blood. Headed for death. There is nothing here anymore, nothing...”

“You’re here...”

The crone didn’t reply. Ben craned around, scanning the horizon in each direction. He spurred the horse, beginning to continue on his way out of the village. The crone called out to him.

“Not that way. Nothing that way. Just war. Seek the lands west of the sea, where a different war is fought. A war of giants. A war of demons. A war for the very soul of the land."

"What are you talkin' about?"

The crone just laughed, refused to say anything else. Ben pressed on, scanning the sky for the sun, and pointing his horse in the direction he could best figure to be westward. After all, he didn't really have any other destination in mind, he might as well look for these giants and demons. They might provide the challenge he sought.

The journey to the coast was as uneventful as the first part of his travels through Sirrah, with nothing of note, just more conflict, more death. The monarchy of Sirrah was ambitious to start so many wars, but the common people of the land paid the price for it. Ben knew there was a destiny awaiting him, and that idea kept his thoughts from turning too melancholy, at least long enough to get him to the coast.

At the port he traded his horse for some gold coins, and was able to pay a merchant to ferry him west across the sea. If the trip through Sirrah took weeks, the journey across the ocean took months, maybe even a year. Once the gash on his leg had healed, Ben practiced his form on the empty decks of the freighter each night to stay sharp. He didn’t talk to the crew or the other passengers, with the exception of a travelling merchant, who told him of an immense castle, as big as ten cities, three days journey from the docks. A small glimmer of hope, of adventure, of challenges to come.

When it seemed like he’d be stuck on the vessel for eternity, land was finally sighted.

The second his boots thudded onto the western docks, Ben felt overcome with a sense of relief. The next three days would be considerably longer now he’d sold the Captain’s horse, but he didn’t care, his thoughts swimming with the possibilities this strange land held for him. He set off on a road marked ‘north’, and before he knew it, the sounds of the port were long behind him, the terrain morphing from open and flat plains to dying forests and rolling hills.

At around midday on his third day in the land, Ben crested a particularly steep hill and beheld a magnificent sight. A massive wall, easily ten men high, and behind it a castle the likes of which he’d never before witnessed. It dwarfed the keep in his hometown, and then some. He followed the cobblestone path until he came to a small bonfire. Almost instinctively, he touched the pommel of the sword embedded in it, and felt an odd sensation stirring in his chest. He ignored it, and made his way down the avenue leading toward what he could only assume was one of many city gates.

He came to a stop a few feet from the entrance, and called out.

“Hello there! I am Benvaryon of Hugo, I seek an audience with the lord of this castle, that I might test his mightiest champion!”

He was greeted with silence. He waited. After what felt like half the day, he could make out sounds of movement beyond the city gates. The giant wooden door rattled and creaked, a fine layer of dust shimmered in the air before raining down around Ben. The doors swung inward, and behind them stood a lone knight.

He was as massive as the city beyond the doors. In one hand he held a giant round shield covered in scars, and in the other an ornately decorated greatsword that was almost as long as he was tall. His black armour seemed to absorb light, except for two places; his breastplate, which looked as if it was prison to a vast number of souls, their faces attempting to push their way out of the metal of the armament, and the slit in his helm’s visor, which seemed to glow an enraged red. The knight said nothing, made no honourable gesture, simply strode toward Ben.

Ben drew his sword, and spoke his oath:

“I meet you with truth and honour and the blade of my ancestors, that our battle may reveal its secrets.”

Ben drew his sword back and moved to strike. The knight’s greatsword tore Ben’s chest plate open with an ungodly crunch, and as he began to black out, he heard it come out the other side with a squelch and another crunch of steel on steel. As the darkness took him, he felt the vibration in his chest as the giant blade, scarred with notches from previous victories, pushed further through his rib cage, coming to a rest in the ground below him.

Ben surrendered to the abyss.

It was black for all but a second. Ben felt the warmth of the bonfire through the soles of his boots. The darkness lifted as he opened his eyes, sitting up in front of the twisted sword lodged deep within the small burning mound. He instinctively touched his chest, anticipating a gaping wound and immense, unbearable pain. But there was no wound, no pain. He looked down, and indeed his armour had been split, was stained with his blood. But the flesh beneath didn’t even bear a scar - it was, however, a strange shade of grey.

Ben scanned around the bonfire. He was back outside the city gate. He could see the avenue beyond that led to the knave that had just bested him. He could just make out the man himself, standing guard inside the giant wooden doors, greatsword drawn and slung over his shoulder. Ben smiled as he got to his feet. He drew his blue blade from its scabbard, and strode back toward the city.

Now this was a challenge.