the meaning of it all, they hauled the body of his horse into the shallows beneath the floor of the valley…, a valley that would forever be known as, “The Vale of Blood.”
…Over the years Oliver, the once stammering hunter, became an orator and carried the story to the far reaches of the realm and beyond. As for Salmon, his once angry and bitter cousin, he quietly and peacefully communicated the account through the written word for the bitterness of life had long lost its purpose… And the story which he wrote, he writ upon a scroll, nay, upon a number of scrolls for that which you have just read was only the first of the Shadow Scrolls that I was compelled to write. For that was not the end of the tale… it was merely the end of the beginning.
The Vale of Blood
- Part One -
“Heroes are not born, they are forged… And most often, it is by fire.”
- Ancient Irenay Scribe -
Chapter One
A Safe Haven
- The Spring -
“So, some strange, far off king was killed and dragged into a pit!” he fired. “The story is centuries old, Da’. What has it got to do with me?” challenged Jonathan as he defiantly stared into the blank, soot surrounded eyes of his father who was seated in front of a hearth-fire pumping away at its billow. The creaky wooden contraption sounded like a ship being rocked by the sea, and somehow, it strengthened the boy.
Jonathan of Scharp was a young man of fifteen when he first began to feel his oats. Raised the son of a weapon master, his father John of Scharp, had created quite a name for himself by having fashioned a multitude of fine weapons of warfare made famous by the fact that is was said that not one of them had ever failed in battle. It was an unverifiable rumor of course, but nonetheless, it had served its purpose though the weapon master had never condoned such a statement. Be that as it may, the fame cast a shadow whose shade the son was destined to grow up within, and therein lay the problem. For its boundaries, as Jonathan would often think, threaten to choke the life right out of me.
From an outsider’s point of view, it seemed only natural that the son would follow in the footsteps of the father and to carry on the work of the family. Even their appearance spoke of their commonality. Each had green penetrating eyes save for some subtle differences which shall be revealed shortly, and each had flowing black hair that poured from their heads like waves flowing in from the sea. These and more, they had inherited from their grandfather, a hunter of the Scharp line. However, John of Scharp was the first to depart from that infamous family procession to forge ahead anew by no choice of his own, the reasons of which lay locked away in the deep caverns of the weapon master’s heart. Nevertheless, it was a break in a long line of hunters, that is, pseudo-warriors that had served the kingdom for a multitude of generations.
Both John and Jonathan supported a stout frame with powerful arms and legs made stronger still by the fashioning of fine instruments of war, a work they had spent countless hours perfecting. Jonathan himself had been an apprentice to his Da’ long before his memory would allow him to remember. And alas, both were stubbornly devoted to whatever task their heart had fixed itself upon. Unfortunately for the weapon master, the son’s heart had begun to fasten to another life altogether different from the one that had been laboriously carved out for him like a bow from a Willowfeld branch. Unlike the obedient materials of craftsmanship, the human heart and its will was most unpredictable as the master forger was about to discover.
For young Jonathan, his heart was set toward a life of soldiery and adventure which he dreamed would take him far from the village he had grown up within. Though Safehaven was a respectable township and had recently outgrown its status as a village, due in large part to the hard work of John himself, its size was not the problem at all. It was, rather, an inner turmoil that had been forced to the surface. It was as if a deep, unfathomable, and long forgotten well of water had been waiting to spring to life, and when it was finally uncorked, it created a wave that the young Jonathan would have to ride; nay, was thrilled to ride. It was that urge, or rather surge, that pushed the younger to challenge the elder.
“Do you even know what the soldiers fight for?” asked Jonathan snidely. “Where they go? What, or who your precious weapons are used on? Do you even know that, Da‘?” It was a line of sarcastic questioning with a purpose… It was a means to an end like a series of levers that were being pulled one after another in the hope that it would produce some expected result.
As for John, the weapon master of Safehaven, he was oblivious to the fact that he was about to be blindsided by such a line of inquisition. For the moment, he was hardly listening, and was only thinking about how he had groomed his son well and that his final task of forging the boy would lay in his belief system, a system that John had come to depend upon and even live for. Therefore, even as the son spoke to the father in defiance, a smile escaped his mouth while he secretly thought of how proud he was of the boy. Time has passed so quickly, he thought to himself. I have carved out a life for him here. He will carry on this work, make a name for himself, and start a family of his own…Yes, a family of his own.
“Are you even listening to me, Da? Do you even care about what I’m saying?” Jonathan, as was usual, found it always difficult to communicate with his father. For as long as he could remember, he was never quite sure what his father was thinking behind his quiet, gentle, and at times mysterious demeanor. And then, there were the times when it became quite clear. In fact, at that moment, Jonathan was trying produce one of those times.
“I don’t want to do this work…! I want a life of soldiery!” He flatly stated.
Jonathan watched the hands of his father closely for he knew that if they began to shake and tremble, that would be the sign that the earthquake was about to strike. Even with fear in his heart, his adolescent chemistry would urge him beyond any caution signal that would arise. It was a long planned speech, months of preparation had been leading up to it, and he hoped that it would become the pry pole that would create an argument designed solely to lever him free from life’s niche that he felt he was destined to be stuck into like one more indistinguishable brick in the gray prison of life. It was not that Jonathan didn’t love his father, no; it was something much larger than that. Though he could not put his finger upon it, the specter ate at him for a long time and was pushing him toward a life of defiance if not rebellion. The shadow could not be explained nor understood, and it couldn’t wait any longer.
John, seated at the fiery billows of the hearth, continued to pump with his leg causing the fire to glow hotter and hotter. A sword, which lay atop the coals, grew brighter. All the while, and without even knowing, John’s hand began to shake as he formed a fist. This, Jonathan took note of and quickly yet silently made his way across the hardened clay floor of the weapon master‘s hovel. Like a thief in the night, Jonathan lifted a small stool and silently placed it between him and his Da’. With his back to his only means of egress, and facing his foe, he purposely raised the stakes in the male to male challenge.
“One day, one of your weapons will fail in battle and the people who admire you will turn on you and they will turn on our family. Where will that place me in this society that you so love? Where will my life be at that point?” Jonathan watched his father carefully, knowing that his powerful hands could snap him like a twig, and yet there was still no response save for the clenching of the fist. It was time to cinch the knot tighter. “I have learned to use some of the weapons we have fashioned together. Against your orders Da’, I have practiced… this art of war.” Jonathan threw out the statement like a fishing line in hopes that it would produce some sort of bite.
“Art of war?” John bellowed as he stood to his feet. At last, Jonathan had touched upon a subject he knew would arouse his father, the famous weapon master known to outsiders, at least, for his intricate weapon-forming patience.
Perhaps it was his father’s voice or the way his eyes seemed to light up even though dim. Nevertheless, in that moment of challenge, Jonathan’s memory leaped to the surface and threatened to defeat the assault even as the gauntlet had just been thrown