Chronicle of the Savage King - Chapter 1

The day I fought with Ged was the day I learned to forge.

Ged was another boy from my village; he was an ugly little whelp with feathery blonde hair, buck teeth, and massive ears he would never grow into. While he may have been a year younger, a few fingers shorter, and several stone lighter than me, he was also tenaciously stubborn and had an acid tongue that always got him into trouble.

It got us both into trouble that fateful day.

My sister Sylda and I were playing in the stream that snakes past our village to join the River Gyll. Ged, who seemingly had nothing better to do with himself, had followed us and was busying himself by throwing pebbles at our stick boats and shouting obscenities. Sylda and I ignored him at first. Of course, when he decided to throw bigger rocks, and succeeded in sinking a handsome little raft I had constructed, we gave up on the shipbuilding and made ready to return home.

Seeing us leave, Ged trailed behind us, tossing more rocks and pinecones as he went, calling us every juvenile insult under the sky. One of the missiles - not too big, but quite sharp - struck Sylda in the shoulder. She choked back a cry of pain and shot the little bully a venomous glare. Knowing he would be too stupid to take that as a warning, I wheeled on Ged and growled, “Leave her alone, weasel.”

He grinned from ear to ear, looking very much like an oversized weasel, and retorted, “Your sister has a face like a cow and smells twice as bad.”

Usually, I was quite good at controlling my anger at Ged’s insults, but I must have been particularly angry that day. The thin trickle of blood dripping down Sylda’s arm certainly didn’t help.

I flung myself at Ged with my fists balled and ready to strike. He crumpled under me and fell on his back before the first blow landed on his face. He yelped as blood spurted from his nose. To his credit, he didn’t give up the fight immediately. He lashed out with a few feeble punches of his own which just bounced uselessly off my chest. I was much bigger than him, after all. I punched him again, he yelped again, and managed to catch my wrist with both hands as I drew it back. Then the little bastard bit me. Those ugly buck teeth of his sank into my arm and I cried out - more in sheer surprise at the act than from pain.

You want to play dirty? I remember thinking. Two can play that game, weasel!

I put my full weight on top of him, pried my bleeding wrist out of his mouth, and bit down hard on one of those obscenely big ears. Then Ged began to scream and weep, and I knew I had won the fight.

That’s when Ged’s father found us. He pried me off of his son and looked at me like I was a demon spawned from the pits of the Underworld. Unconsciously, I spit something out of my mouth and only then realized that an entire upper portion of Ged’s left ear was missing. Blood, bright and red, slathered the side of his paling face. I looked down and saw that my own tunic was also awash with blood. His father uttered some unintelligible curse under his breath, then dragged the two of us back to the village. Sylda - blinking in amazement - followed us.

Ged’s father threw me down in the dirt at my father’s feet, calling me a beast and a hell-spawn and a son-of-a-whore. At least I know where Ged learned his way with words. He showed my father the wounds I’d inflicted on his precious son - a broken nose and torn ear. Then he demanded that I be punished for my insolence with a beating or a flogging or some other such brutal punishment.

My father bore the brunt of the other man’s tirade with a stoic calmness on his bearded face. When it was at last his turn to speak, he apologized for my trespass and promised Ged’s father a new axe as an offering of atonement. Ged’s father must have found that acceptable, for his tone with my father immediately softened, though the light of anger still simmered in his eyes. My father then put a strong, gentle hand on Ged’s head - an action I thought a bit haughty, given the situation - and assured them both that I would receive my punishment.

When Ged and his father had left, my father shooed Sylda away - telling her to go help our mother with the oxen - and bade me to follow him to his smithy.

I had been to the smithy many times before. Oftentimes, when my day’s chores were finished, I would watch my father work and marvel at the sparks that flew whenever his hammer struck hot metal. I liked the heat of the forge, the smell of smoke and oil and iron, and the rhythmic ringing of the hammer on the anvil. When I was very young, I would sometimes fall asleep there, bundled in the bedroll in the corner that my father set aside for me, lulled by the hammering and the waves of heat and the dancing fire within the forge. To this day, there is no place where I feel more at home than a smithy.

However, that fateful day, with the promise of some looming punishment foremost in my mind, I felt like the walk to the smithy was the slow march to my doom. My father, Oldan the Smith, walked with a limp in his left leg - a souvenir from a spear thrust he’d endured during his time as a soldier - but he stood tall and mighty when he stood before his forge. On that day, he seemed to me like a demon himself, staring loftily down at me as the firelight made ominous shapes of the shadows on his stern face.

“You started the fight?” he said. It wasn’t a question, even though he posed it as such. Oldan had a way of peeling me apart and staring into my soul. It was why, for as long as he lived, I could never lie to him.

“I did,” I said.

“Why?”

I tried to glance away, but those shadow rimmed eyes of his held my gaze. “Ged hit Sylda with a rock and called her ugly.”

“Hmmm…” Oldan sighed and crossed the two muscle-pleated trunks that were his arms. “I suspected something like that.”

He then turned away from me, picked up a strip of iron on his work bench, and thrust it into his glowing forge. He stood there, heating the metal, watching the fire turn it red-hot, watching the impurities burn away. It looked as if he was returning to work, the matter settled. I knew that wasn’t the case. I stood there awkwardly and watched him withdraw the hot iron from the flames.

“Pick up that hammer,” he ordered, nodding to it.

I did so, and was taken aback by just how heavy the thing was. I had always seen Oldan wield the hammer in one hand, swinging it as if it were no more than a wooden cudgel. It took both of my clumsy little mitts just to heft the damned thing.

Oldan placed the hot metal on his anvil with a pair of tongs and nodded to it. “Strike.”

I blinked at him.

“Go on,” he ordered, “before the metal cools. Lift the hammer high and strike it hard.”

I approached the anvil and did his bidding.

Tried to.

The hammer head missed the iron and glanced off the edge of the anvil. I nearly dropped it and stared up at my father apologetically.

“Not too tight,” he said, his tone patient, “and not too loose. Make sure your grip won’t slip on the haft, but don’t be rigid either. Find the balance. Strike.”

I tried again. This time, the hammer landed, and sparks leapt off the anvil.

“Good.” Oldan nodded. “Again.”

I struck again, and again, and again.

After a few moments, Oldan held up the metal, inspected it, then returned it to the forge to reheat it. As he did, I leaned the hammer against the anvil and wrung my hands. My palms were red and smarting from striking with the hammer so many times in succession. I remember wondering how in the world my father put up with such an annoyance, and my reverence for the man increased ever so slightly.

“Do you know what makes good steel, Olbek?” Oldan asked, still turning the iron in the forge.

I thought about it for a moment. Despite my father’s profession, I myself knew precious little about metalworking at the time. He must have known I would never guess correctly, because he told me before I tried to answer.

“Balance, my son. Balance makes good steel, as it does all good things. If steel is too soft, it bends, and if it is too hard, it breaks. A smith always looks for a balance between hard and soft. Make sense?”

I shrugged. “Makes sense.”

He turned to me with a skeptical look and brought the hot iron back to the anvil. “Strike,” he ordered. And I did.

As I continued to work, he continued to talk, and I tried my hardest to listen. “Balance makes all good things, as I said. It is the same in life as it is in smithing. A man should be balanced just as steel is balanced. Too soft, and he becomes weak, too hard, and he becomes cruel. Do you take my meaning?”

“I think so,” I said, and I honestly thought I did.

Oldan knew I did not, and went on. “A man must know when to act hard and when to act soft. Rather, he must know how to be strong, and yet meek. Who is our god, Olbek?”

“Wuulfir,” I answered and missed my next strike. I grumbled and swung again successfully.

Our people, the Almonari, had many gods. There was Wotan the Hunter, who rode a great golden-furred stag with many legs, and his wife Fulla, who arranged the stars in the sky. There was also Thunar the Mighty, who slayed giants and dragons, Sifir the Fair, who made men brave and women beautiful, and Lokk - my favorite - who played tricks on both men and gods alike.

Even so, my father’s faith - as far as I know - was only ever in Wuulfir the Craftsman. Many people - particularly warriors - thought him a dull and boring god, but Oldan never wavered from his belief.

“Wuulfir is the god of balance,” he told me. “He is strong and wise and capable, yet, while the other gods boast and mock and go to war with one another, Wuulfir remains in his smithy…until the time he is needed most. Do you know the story of the Mountain Troll, Olbek?”

“No,” I said, and struck the metal. My palms were beginning to burn again.

“One day, long, long ago,” Oldan told me, “Wotan rode out from his golden hall in search of wild game, as he does every morning. While out on his hunt, he came upon a troll so tall that its head pierced the heavens. Wotan thought that such a monster would make good sport, and so he and his huntsman hurled their javelins at the troll, but the beast’s flesh was as hard as stone and would not be pierced. Not wanting to be outmatched, Wotan returned to his hall where he told the other gods about the huge troll, and convinced them to join him in bringing it down. That very day, the golden hall of Valhollr was emptied, and all the gods rode out to slay the beast…all except for Wuulfir.

“Now the Great Craftsman remained at his forge, shaping blades and armor for the prophesied Battle of Twilight, when all the world shall end. He and the dwarves who aided him would neither heed the other gods, nor even entertain the thought of joining the hunt, for there was much work to be done.

“Meanwhile, Wotan and his retinue tracked down the troll and harried it with spears and arrows and flaming bolts. Not a single scratch was made on the troll’s hide, but its anger was soon stirred, and it at last turned against the gods and struck back. Now the hunt had become a great battle. The fighting between the troll and the gods shook the earth to its very bones, and every creature - bird, beast, and man alike - cried out in anguish. Overcome by battle-lust, the troll went on a fearsome rampage, destroying everything in its path, while the gods followed at its heels and tried in vain to bring it down.”

Oldan held up a hand, halting the momentum of my next swing. He picked up the iron I was hammering and squinted at it. There was a sizable crack in the metal. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. I felt a wave of shame wash over me, but Oldan merely tossed the iron to the side and picked up another from his bench.

“Can you guess what happened next?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Well, the troll’s rampage made it as far as Valhollr itself, and there it made a grave mistake. It smashed through the walls of the great hall, scattering brick, mortar, and golden thatching to the four winds. Wuulfir was fetching coal for his furnace at the time, and when he returned, he found the troll stomping upon the ruins of his precious forge, and many dwarves lay dead at its feet. The Great Craftsman was filled with sorrow and rage, and in that rage, he drew forth his axe Brittlesheer and cut the monstrous troll down with a single swing!

“The other gods were stunned and amazed at Wuulfir’s sudden wrath, and watched as he rolled the troll’s body back down to the mortal world, where it landed with a thunderous crash. The skalds tell us that the troll’s name was Rogorm, and its stony body remains on its deathbed to this very day.”

At this, Oldan gestured to the plains of brownish green grass that lay outside our village. Beyond them, far to the north, lay the gray heap of the mountain Rogorumar, its white peak piercing the clouds. In that moment, I remember thinking it indeed resembled a titanic, slouching body. I admit, I’ve never looked at a mountain the same way since.

“Now tell me, Olbek,” my father went on, still heating the new iron, “which of the gods do you think was justified in attacking the Mountain Troll?”

I didn’t need much time to think of my answer. “Wuulfir.”

“And why is that?”

I was well aware my father knew why. He was testing me, yet again. “Because the troll destroyed something Wuulfir loved, I suppose.”

Oldan turned to me and nodded. “You suppose rightly.”

Again he placed a hot iron on the anvil and ordered me to hammer it. Again I obeyed, and my palms screamed in agony, but I dared not show any more weakness in front of my father. I was only just beginning to understand the lesson he was trying to teach me.

“A good man - a balanced man,” he went on, “knows when it is time to fight. He does not go seeking violence for the sake of sport, or to prove how strong he might be. But when the fight comes to him - when others threaten violence against him and those he loves - then he must not hesitate. Then he must be as fierce as Wuulfir, and strike just as true; otherwise, his enemies will destroy all that he holds dear.”

He sighed and turned the hot metal over, indicating that I should even out the other side.

“I think,” Oldan said, “that you were right to confront Ged earlier.”

I balked at him in confusion. “I was?”

“Right to confront him, mind you. Confronting and pulverizing are two different things, Olbek! The little snot hit Sylda with a rock; that is hardly enough reason to break his nose and maim his ear.”

“Oh…” I said, only feeling a bit guilty.

“You fight for the right reasons, son,” Oldan assured me, “but you lack temperance. Learn when to be soft and when to be hard, Olbek. Then, you will be balanced, just like fine steel.”

His lecture finished, my father raised the new iron and inspected it. My hands felt like they were shredded. I whispered a silent prayer to Wuulfir, hoping that whatever flaws there had been in the last metal were not present in this one.

As I said, I knew very little about smithing back then.

Oldan shrugged without comment, then plunged the hammered iron piece into his water barrel. Steam hissed and roiled about his face, filling the whole smithy with a thin gray haze.

I blinked and set down the hammer, blowing on my trembling hands which were now caked in fresh blisters. The next words out of my mouth were a testament to just how young and foolish I really was.

“So…does this mean I won’t be punished?”

Oldan the Smith rarely smiled. Even in moments of true joy and revelry, I had never seen such an expression grace his shaggy, bearded face. Perhaps it was the soldier’s soul in him - the grim, iron-strong stoicism that had been beaten into him from years of service to his lord’s army - for the only time my father ever did smile, was at the mention of some cruel or darksome joke.

He was smiling then.

“Now, now, boy,” he said softly, “I never said that.”

He glanced down at my shaking, tattered hands, then picked up another iron from his bench and thrust it into the fire.

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Chronicle of the Savage King is a story idea I've been toying with lately. I recently did some light research on the fall of the Roman empire and the "migration period" that preceded it, and felt inspired to write something that took place within the various "barbarian kingdoms" at the time. This led (as such ideas usually do) to my conceiving of a mythical history and lore for a sort of alternate universe in which the fall of Rome was surrounded, not just by several disparate tribes of Germanic migrants, but by a war between ambitious kingdoms seeking to succeed Rome as Europe's next major empire. Among these squabbling factions - I thought - would rise a single, mythical figure; a hero from humble origins who seeks to unite the far-flung tribes of Europe into a kingdom of his own, not for personal wealth or glory, but to establish a realm of true peace and prosperity.

A lofty idea, perhaps, but one that would make for an epic saga!

I plan on piecing together the history of this mythical hero, bit by bit, here on the site. I've got a broad idea on where I want his story to go, but this is mainly just a way for me to get some writing practice in between my major projects, so we'll see how far I get.