by Teel James Glenn
in Issue 149, June 2024
A parable of Altiva
It happened not so long ago and not so far from here that the great sword smith, Aldred, said to his wife that he was too old to continue his craft.
“I will make one more sword,” he said, his voice trembling with age, “a sword that will embody all I know of the warrior’s art.” His wife of many decades nodded at his pronouncement and poured him some tea.
“What will you do with this work?” She asked. She had spent many years beside him as he labored to forge the souls of warriors, turning raw iron into sharpest steel.
“I will give it only to the most-worthy warrior,” Aldred said. “I will give it to he who honors the sword he now possesses, who proves he is the greatest warrior.”
Word of this pronouncement went far and wide, from tavern to tavern, by road to by road and training yards all across the land– “Aldred’s making a sword!”
“The old sword master is making one more sword!”
“Aldred’s gonna give away a sword!”
Yet every paladin and free sword who heard of the great event knew the tests that might be imposed could be fierce. And dangerous. So, by and by many of them decided “this old sword of mine on my hip is more than enough for me…” so in time only three warriors of very different sorts came knocking on the swordmaker’s door:
Bellox the Mighty, a fighter of wide girth and narrow mind lumbered to Aldred’s door. He flexed his many muscles and demanded in a deep voice, “I deserve your sword by virtue of my great strength.” And to prove it he bent an iron fireplace poker into the shape of a Q.
Aldred restrained a laugh, rose from his seat at his table the and said simply, “I will give my last sword only to the greatest warrior; he who most honor’s his blade. Return to me in a ten-day.” Then the old man added, “and bend my poker back to shape, before you go!”
So Bellox the MIghty wandered the countryside far and wide in search of some way to prove his power and show his warrior prowess. He searched for bandits to slay, or ogres or dragons!
He found none.
At long last he met an old woman swathed in layers of rags walking along a crossroads. “Old woman,” he thundered, “where may a paladin exercise his blade around here?”
She was frightened of the giant warrior and so spoke slowly, “This is a peaceful valley, sir warrior, I know of no dragons or bandits or ogres to test the metal of such as you.”
This angered Bellox who would have struck her save at that moment he saw a wood gatherer at the edge of the forest. The village man was stooped over as he gathered fallen tree limbs, bundled them with string and sold them for firewood.
The sight of the gatherer inspired Bellox who proclaimed, “I shall cut down each tree in the forest with a single stroke of my mighty sword to show my strength.”
The old woman was shocked. “Sire,” she said haltingly. “That will that leave no home for the animals, no shelter for the villages’ crops?”
“What do I care for animals or villagers,” Bellox roared, “I am a warrior and my sword needs work.” With that he drew his broadsword and sliced through a tree as thick around as a man with a single stroke. Then another, and another until at last, there was not a single living tree…
The second warrior who knocked at Aldred’s door was of a very different sort. Wes’x The Well-bred, stood tall and thin, bedecked in lace and silk finery, with a penchant for snuff which he kept in a small, gilded box. He had just taken a pinch and inhaled it when Aldred answered his door.
“Achoo!” he greeted the sword smith, which startled the old man, “I am here to claim your last sword by virtue of my great breeding!”
Aldred wiped his sleeve as if he had been rained upon, looked Wes’x up and down as if he were a dairy cow being examined for signs of disease and said, “Bred or hatched I will only give my last sword to he who honors the sword he has, who shows me he is the greatest warrior.” He tottered around the bejeweled supplicant looking him up and down then snickered. “You have a ten-day to show me you honor your sword. Now go—and clean up that mess o’ the door lintel afore you leave.”
So Wes’x wandered looking for days for bandits to slay, or ogres or firehawks with which to do battle, but all he found, by the side of a lake, was a ragged old woman who insisted, “No this is a peaceful valley—or at least it used to be before this inquisition by wandering warriors.”
Just then, out on the lake a beautiful, silvered fish leaped clear of the water, described a rainbow arc in the sunslight and splashed into the water again.
“Ahah!” Wes’x exclaimed. He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed and was inspired.
“I will cut each fish in the lake in perfect half as it leaps from the water to prove my exquisit skill with the blade,” he said aloud, “and surely I will receive Aldred’s sword!”
“But sire,” the old woman questioned, “will that not leave all we who live by the lake, wanting for food and life?”
“What matter to me, woman,” Wes’x said as he hailed a fisherman and forced him to row the paladin out into the lake, “I am a warrior, such things mean nothing to me!” Once in the center of the lake the warrior stood, balance and drew his rapier. As the first fish arced upward he sliced the giant fish cleanly in half, a task he repeated again and again until the entire lake ran red with blood.
The third paladin who appeared at Aldred’s door was of a very different type. Young Erique of Shoutte stood tall, thin and shaking outside the door of the swordsmith’s shop, his long black hair tied back so tight it seemed an attempt to keep him from vibrating apart from his nerves.
His knock on the door was like the gentle touch of a fluttering bird’s wing. He almost jumped back in fright when the door opened. “Excuse me, sir,” Erique stuttered, “I-uh-I would like to, sir-uh- essay the tests for your sword, sir.”
The sword smith smiled from the deep shadow of the doorway. “Three sirs, eh, hehe, heh!” then he drew himself to his full height and intoned formally, “then, warrior, know I will give my last sword to only he who honors the sword he has. He who proves he is the greatest warrior. You have a Ten-day!”
With that the old smith closed the door gently, leaving Erique blinking like a confused owl in the bright sunslight.
Erique searched the land around for any bandits or dragons or…well, you know, but all he found was an old woman swathed in rags, carrying a basket of apples who, when she saw the would-be-paladin approaching turned on heel and tried to scurry away, but he was more fleet of foot and soon stood before her.
“Good day, good mother,” Young Shoutte began, “have you seen-”
“Again!” she blurted out quickly, stamping her feet., “No, I have seen no bandits, nor beasts of any kind,” her wizened face scrunched like a dried apple and she jabbed a stick thin finger into the boy’s chest, “just noisy warriors who leave me no peace!”
Young Shoutte was about to apologize and get on with his quest when a chattering sound came to his ears as of many high-pitched voices. The old woman evidenced a sudden state of stark terror.
“The village children,” she whispered, “they steal my apples and call me hag!” She tried to hurry past Young Erique, off the path into the woods, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“That is not right,” the boy said, “not at all!” The young warrior looked at the setting suns as twilight fell.
“I have an idea how we can put a stop to that,” he said gently, “if you will trust me.”
Minutes later a rag-shrouded figure, hunched over and carrying the basket of apples rounded the bend in the path and was spotted by the group of some eight teenage boys.
“It is the old hag,” the leader of the group of children yelled. The group began to move like starving beasts toward the bent over figure.
“I want me a fresh apple, grandmother,” the leader smirked as he reached for the succulent fruit atop the pile in the basket.
Suddenly the leader’s world exploded as the boy found himself hurtling through the air to land painfully in a thorn bush beside the road. The same happened to each of the other delinquents as they lunged at the shrouded figure, their hands seized, a quick twist and disaster.
Quick as thought the shrouded figure disappeared back around the bend in the path leaving behind a chorus of pained adolescents. Once around the bend the figure stepped up to the old woman who was huddled behind a bush.
“There, old mother,” Shoutte said as he removed her tattered shawl and returned it to her, “those ruffians will not bother you for some time.” He also returned her basket of apples as he retrieved his sword-in-scabbard and travel pack from her care.
“Good day,” he waved and walked off in search of a suitable task to honour his sword.
The old woman ambled back up the path and tentatively looked around the bend. When one of the hooligans who had just extracted himself from the thorn bushes saw her he screamed “She’s back!” and threw himself back onto the painful barbs.
The old woman giggled and gummed an apple all the way to the village…
The young paladin spent the remainder of his ten-day journey looking for troubles that never materialized. Eventually he found a stout stick, attached a line and caught some juicy fish from a forest stream, collected some dried branches from the forest floor to build a fire and ate the fish with relish. Later he used his ‘fishing stick’ to practice his swordsmanship then fell into a dreamless sleep.
So this pattern continued the whole ten-day with not one opportunity to draw his sword in earnest contest…
At the end of the ten-day the three paladins returned to Aldred’s smithy to tell him of their exploits, to convince him they were worthy of his final sword.
When all three tales were done (Shoutte’s being sparse to the point of starving) the old swordsmith shuffled before the aspirants and addressed them individually:
“Ballox the Mighty,” the smith said with a snear. He stood before the muscular man and mimed bending a poker, “You used your sword where an axe would better suit; strength alone is not the way of the warrior. Begone!”
The muscled giant stared stunned at the wizened smith in great confusion (not an uncommon condition for him, true, but of greater depth than usual). Then the behemoth wandered aimlessly out the door and into obscurity.
“Wes’ex the Well-bred,” Aldred continued with a look of disgust on his face. The preening nobleman straightened and assumed a pre-victorious pose. “You used your sword where a butcher’s tool would better suit; death alone is not the way of the warrior. Begone taker of life!”
And the well bred, well shamed, noble slunk out the door.
“Come, Young Erique,” the smith said, “come get your sword!” The old man led the startled lad to the back room of his shop where was displayed the fruit of Aldred’s long years of service to the gods of the warrior.
On a table before the two was the most beautiful sword-in-scabbard that may ever have existed. The scabbard was all of ivory, carved with hunting, war and mythic scenes and the handle of jade inlaid with precious stones.
Young Erique of Shoutte placed his left hand around the scabbard, his right on the sword hilt and drew—nothing!
There was no blade.
His look must have exclaimed his confusion, so Aldred spoke to clarify.
And even as the old man spoke, Erique understood—
“The greatest warrior,” Aldred said, “never has need to draw his sword!”
And this is as true as the sun rising, so help me……
©June 2024, Teel James Glenn
Teel James Glenn’s award winning work has been seen in Weird Tales, Mad, Sherlock Holmes Mystery, Scifan, Fantasy Tales, and Mystery Weekly and previously in Swords & Sorcery. Visit him at theurbanswashbuckler.com.
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