"Sure are a lot of people. At least a hundred, I'd say. Maybe more, if you count all the kids." Bevil said. "Where'd all these kids come from, anyway? Feels like just a few seasons ago when you and me and Amie were chasing about and getting underfoot." he said to Marcus. "Remember how angry Tarmas would get? Heh. Now he's got a whole new brood to complain about."
"Only when you'd knock over one of his experiments, Bevil." Marcus teased. "I remember when Amie was sick with that fever a few years ago, Tarmas stayed at her bedside for a week, telling her stories, while I would run back and forth with potions from Brother Merring..."
"He's got a good enough heart, but he really enjoys being dismal. Really, really enjoys it." Amie said fondly, with a faint smile.
"What kind of stories did Tarmas tell you?" Bevil asked.
"They always involved wizards, in dark places under the ground, surrounded by wrights and spirits and worse. And always searching for something. Tarmas isn't as dramatic as Georg, but his tales have this... realism. Like he's been there, experienced them himself." Amie replied thoughtfully.
Marcus nodded in agreement. "I'd have to agree, Amie, after hearing more than a few myself over the years."
"Do you think he was one of the wizards mentioned in those stories?" Bevil asked his two friends.
Amie gave a shrug. "It's hard to imagine Tarmas in a dungeon, but... at least some of those stories had to have been about him." She said.
"Quick, quick! They're all waiting for you, dear!" Retta Starling, Bevil's mother called to Amie as the three friends walked up.
"Waiting for me?" Amie asked looking a little confused.
"Of course!" Retta cried. "Juggling and puppetry are well and good, but the children want to see magic. And so do I!" she said excitedly.
"Are you ready for this, Amie?" Bevil asked.
"The pixies in my stomach say no." Amie said, uncertain. "But it's just kids watching, right?"
"Right. You can do this. Don't worry." Marcus said, reassuring his nervous friend. If it was anything like last year, he thought, everyone else will gather once Amie has started, which is probably a good thing.
Amie's first spell was fairly simple, she summoned a wolf, which padded round the audience licking several of the children and growled at the Mossfeld boys, before it returned to Amie's side. Her next spell came as a surprise to both Bevil and Marcus as well as the audience as she cast an enlargement spell on the both of them, making them the size of hill giants. The two young men had to laugh at the look of utter fear that had crossed Wyl Mossfeld's face. It was a pity that magic wasn't allowed in the Harvest Brawl. Amie finished her act with a flourish by firing a frost ray at an old wooden barrel destroying it in a shower of ice. The gathered crowd's applause was deafening.
"That was brilliant, young lady, absolutely brilliant!" Retta cried delighted, once Amie had finished. "I've not seen such a display of magic since... well..." the older woman became very subdued.
"Mother? You all right?" Bevil asked, clearly worried.
Retta waved away her son's concerns. "It's been a... long time. Nevermind all that." she said. "You three are most certainly the winners of the contest. That was quite a thrill for all of us. Oh, and I nearly forgot! Tarmas gave me these scrolls... said I should give them to his apprentice and her friends, if they won the talent show." Retta said as she passed Amie three mage scrolls.
"So you've decided to compete for the Cup, I see. I know this is your last year, but the rules apply to all… even foster sons." Daeghun said.
"Of course, do you really think I'd let the Mossfelds just take the Cup?" Marcus asked, an eyebrow raised. "Also here is the Duskwood bow from Galen." he said, handing the longbow over.
Daeghun was quite for a few moments as he studied the bow. "A fine bow, a fine one." The wild elf said, with some emotion, a rare thing indeed. "Made by one who loves his craft." Daeghun looked up. "You may keep the rest of the gold as your allowance for the season, Marcus. But you came for the archery competition as well, did you not?"
"Obviously." Marcus said dryly as he readied a light crossbow.
Daeghun merely nodded. "The rules are the same as last year… ten shots and ten targets. Your targets will be old bottles, set atop the crates, yonder." The wild elf said indicating the shooting range. "Five is the best score so far. If you remember the lessons that have been taught to you, you should be able to best that." It was clear that Daeghun was expecting great things from his ward.
"So, no pressure then, Marcus?" Amie asked brightly.
"No more than usual, you mean." Marcus replied rolling his eyes as he walked over to the shooting range.
Marcus took aim at the first bottle and fired. The bolt struck the old wine bottle at the base of the neck, making it shatter. He took his time reloading; crossbows could be problematic if reloaded in a hurry as they could jam-one of the reasons Marcus preferred a longbow. Raising the crossbow and firing at the second bottle, Marcus continued to work his way along the line of bottles until all ten were destroyed.
Daeghun almost looked pleased. "Well done. A perfect score wins the competition outright." He said with a slight smile. "I have rarely seen such a fine performance so early in the day. You have a marksman's instinct... that much is plain." The wild elf said. "Go on, now. There is still more of the Fair to see."
"Brr." Bevil said as they walked away. "How do you manage, Marcus? Daeghun seems so… cold, distant even."
"Truthfully, Bevil, I'm not sure how I manage, but I have." Marcus replied. "I hate to say this, but Georg's been more of a father than Daeghun… even Tarmas has his moments." The young man paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Sometimes, very rarely, I've seen glimpses of what Daeghun may have been like years ago, before the war with the King of Shadows… usually when we've been escorting merchants, or sailing with Captain Finn of the Double Eagle." Marcus shook his head. "Daeghun wasn't always this closed off, but something happened the night West Harbour was almost wiped from the map…"
"Enjoying the Fair, Marcus?" Tarmas asked "Packs of feral children set loose to find trinkets, grown men braining one another with clubs... Do you know they're actually granting prizes for the fattest pig?" the wizard asked, incredulous. "As if the creatures needed encouragement."
Marcus smiled slightly. "Good to see you, too, Tarmas. But can't you quit your grumbling, just for one day, wizard?" he teased.
Tarmas snorted. "Who's grumbling? They've given me charge of the aptly-named Knaves' Challenge. Surrounded by muck and reek, and why not encourage our children to be thieves, as well? That's what I always tell them." he said, looking over the three friends. "Come to think of it, I don't believe any of you has the skills to compete. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But you'll need to find someone who can pick pockets, and break locks, and search for hidden trinkets, if you want to compete."
"Lock-breakers? Pocket-pickers? I don't know anyone like that, do you?" Bevil asked, looking bewildered.
"What about Kipp? He's always nicking vials from Tarmas, and he's right over there, behind the tent." Amie said as she waved toward a small boy near the back of a nearby tent.
"We want to hear about Cormick!" one of the children cried that had gathered to hear Georg tell his tall tales.
"Yeah!" cried another boy. "Folk say that Marcus could be the next Cormick!"
Georg chuckled; he'd heard the comparison often enough. "Ol' Cormick fought in the Harvest Brawl against Bevil's older brother." He lowered his voice, making it seem more dramatic. "Stuff of legend, that was..."
"Let's have the tale, then!" the assembled children called.
"Aye, then. A tale you'll have..." Georg said only to happy to oblige. "It was the year of the foul harvest, when the crops grew stunted and weak. Not so different from this year, in fact, and folks were anxious for a fair, to take their minds off their troubles." He gestured round the village as he spoke. "It so happened that there were two village lads of the same age, and both of 'em were big. Not just big in a physical sense, mind you, but big in talent, and big in courage, and big in potential." Each time Georg said the word big he extended his hands farther and farther apart. "One of 'em alone would have been too big for this village, but they were two, and the time was ripe for a contest between 'em." He said. "One of them was ol' Cormick... he'd trained with the militia since he was a lad, so he knew his way around a fighting ring. But all bets were on his rival, who was tougher still..."
"So Cormick was one. And his rival was Bevil's brother?" one of the children asked
Georg nodded. "Yes, indeed... the brother of our very own Bevil, and the eldest of the Starling lads... Lorne Starling was his name, and he was a sight! Over seven foot tall and built like a high lord's keep. Our Bevil's a sturdy lad, to be sure, but it'd take two of him to match Lorne for size." He paused for effect. "Now old Lorne was champion of the Harvest Brawl. Three years he'd held the title, and most boys had only to look at him, 'fore they'd faint dead away. But our Cormick had a notion to win the Brawl that year and humble his rival for good." Georg paused again. "So up he steps, and the crowd goes hushed. Then Lorne starts insulting him… It began as good-natured ribbing, but Cormick just stood there, and he didn't say a word. And that got Lorne angry."
"He just stood there and said nothing?" one of the children called, baffled.
"Aye. Cormick said not a word. Finally, Lorne came at him in a fury, still casting insults, but Cormick wouldn't rise to the bait… He took a few hits, but mostly he tried to stay out of Lorne's way. And Lorne got madder and madder and madder still." Georg said, snarling and hissing. "Then, all of a sudden, Cormick stopped in his tracks and gave old Lorne a punch, right in the nose! Lorne was so angry by then that he couldn't block it." Georg grinned. "Cormick gave him another punch, and another, and another, until old Lorne toppled over like a felled oak!" he said as he punched thin air. "And just like that, Cormick won the Harvest Brawl."
"So what happened to Cormick and Lorne?" asked one of the children.
"Well, next day, Cormick was gone. Folks reckoned that he'd done all there was to do in West Harbour, and it was time to move on… As for Lorne, well... Lorne Starling never was the same after that fight. He and Cormick had been friends, you might say, but only one of them was going to leave that ring with his pride intact. Lorne skipped town, too. Went and joined the Neverwinter army, the last I heard." Georg said.
"Isn't that the boy who stole my basilisk eyelash? And not once, but four times?" Tarmas asked incredulously.
"That's right. My frog needed eyelashes. Then I got him a sweetheart, and she needed 'em too." Kipp said defiantly, not fazed by the grumpy wizard.
"Sorry, Tarmas. He's just joined our team, I'm afraid." Marcus said, slightly apologetic.
"Don't trouble yourself on my account, Marcus. I'll settle with the young artiste and his frogs later." Tarmas said, while staring at the boy. "Before you begin, I suppose you'll want to hear the rhyme?" he asked.
"What rhyme?" Amie asked.
"You hadn't heard? Better for me if I'd kept my peace." Tarmas said with a grimace. "Georg asked for a rhyme this year. That's what wizards do, we compose rhymes. Here, I'll demonstrate. Ahem." Tarmas then begin to speak in rhyme. "I've hidden three feathers, scattered them wide, Placed White in a box, and locked it inside. Blue followed termite tracks, down where they ran, Green in the pocket of same coloured man."
"So we're to look for three feathers that you've hidden, huh? Doesn't sound so bad." Marcus said.
"Yes… You and half the waifs in West Harbour. I adore children, did you know that? Swamp-children particularly." Tarmas said as he waved them away.
It didn't take Kipp long to locate the three feathers. The blue feather was the first one the young boy found, hidden under a pile of logs, the white one was locked inside a chest hidden behind one of the houses and the green feather was in the pocket of a man dressed in green, though it did take Kipp several attempts to get it without the man noticing.
"It really is a dreadful day for a Fair. Not even the tents are managing to look cheerful." Tarmas said as Marcus and the others returned.
"Dreadful or not, with Kipp's help, we've got the three feathers." Marcus said as he handed them over.
"Thank the gods. The Knaves' Challenge is won, and I can go someplace dry." Tarmas said with relief. "I'd kiss all of you, but no one respects an affectionate wizard."
"You really enjoy being dismal, don't you, Tarmas?" Marcus asked.
"Far from it. I'm quite cheerful by nature." The wizard replied with a wry smile. "That's why I moved to a swamp, you know... sort of a challenge to myself."
"The Morninglord grants a fine day, even for a Brawl." Brother Merring, the village's resident priest said with a faint smile. "He likes you Harbourmen, I think. Lathander delights in contests of physical skill. People forget that. Though I must admit… few such contests are quite as... enthusiastic... as the Brawl." Merring had been in West Harbour for five years but even so he was still considered by many to be an outsider. Most Harbourmen were farmers and followed the Earthmother, Chauntea. Not that they weren't grateful to have a healer in their midst, but they were very set in their ways.
"Brother Merring? You're running the Harvest Brawl?" Amie asked a little surprised.
"In truth, Amie, I volunteered." Merring said with a shrug. "Otherwise I'd be racing from the church at every bout, mending cuts and setting bones to right. Better that I'm on hand to do Lathander's work, and to see that all is fought in fairness."
"Have there been injuries already? Or is that a silly question?" Marcus asked.
"A few scrapes and broken bones, mostly at the hands of the Mossfelds." Merring replied while casting a glace at the village bullies. "Poor Garth Lannon is but a wisp of a boy, but still he insisted upon facing lads twice his size in the ring. Broken bones are easily mended, by the Morninglord's grace." The cleric sighed. "Not so for broken pride... Before I came to West Harbour, I never imagined I'd be mending broken ribs on High Harvest Day."
"Don't other villages celebrate with a Harvest Brawl?" Bevil asked scratching his head.
"I'm not sure the Harvest Brawl is observed in any other village... though a Harvest Ball is certainly common enough." Merring replied thoughtfully. "I suspect that some enterprising Harbourman found the one better suited to the local tastes than the other."
"I don't know about that, Merring." Amie said with a grin. "I enjoy seeing Marcus dressed up and trying to avoid all the eligible girls at the Harvest Ball!"
Marcus made a face. "Thanks for reminding me, Amie." he muttered.
Merring smiled at the banter. "I fear the gods have granted you few competitors this year... The Mossfeld brothers are the only team still in contention. Before you start, I'll go over the rules." the cleric said, clearing his throat. "As always, I expect a clean fight... remember that the others look to you for leadership, Marcus, and if you fight fairly, so will they." Merring lowered his voice. "Though with the Mossfelds I'm not so sure. As always, only melee attacks are permitted… no arrows, and no magic." He said pointing a finger at Amie. "You may fight bare-handed, or you may arm yourself with a Training Club, the choice is yours. And finally, no bets."
"We understand, Merring." Marcus said as he handed a training club to Bevil and Amie before taking one for himself, he then turned to Kipp. "Sorry Kipp, you'll have to sit this one out I'm afraid."
The boy gave a shrug then grinned. "It's alright I can see you beat the Mossfelds better from out here."
Marcus chuckled. "We hope to, Kipp. Looks like we're ready, Bother Merring."
"Very well. The Mossfelds await you in the ring." The cleric said as he let the three friends into the brawling ring.
"Look who it is, brothers... Marcus, everyone's favourite for the Brawl. Looking to beat the champ of three years running?" taunted Wyl, the oldest of the three Mossfeld bothers. "Thinks he's Cormick, he does."
"Stow it, Mossfeld. You're not smart enough to be funny." Amie snapped, readying herself for the coming fight.
"Who asked you, you ratty little orphan? Always tagging after Marcus like a blood-fly, singing his reekin' praises. It's a shame those demons didn't burn you up along with your parents." Wyl sneered.
It took all of Marcus' self control not to cross the ring and wring Wyl's neck for that remark. He was torn between defending Amie and winning the cup. If they won the cup then that would be just as good as beating Wyl Mossfled senseless. Marcus looked over at Amie to see how she was, she looked deeply hurt by Wyl's taunt.
"That was out of line Wyl and you know it. If you've got a problem, you can take it up with me." Marcus said coldly turning his full attention back to the eldest Mossfled. Usually Marcus was mild mannered and easy going but once the Mossfelds showed up he had a very short fuse and his temper was well known. Marcus had butted heads with Wyl more times than he could count and over things of no real consequence. Merring had helped Marcus to control his anger but even so he had a long way to go.
"Fine. You want my title, you'll fight my brothers and me. We've beat this Brawl three years running." Wyl said.
"Well, it's time you lost then." Marcus replied.
Wyl charged at Marcus yelling insults as he did so. Marcus merely narrowed his eyes and smiled; then he did something that Wyl was ill prepared to counter. Marcus turned and crouched slightly so that his right shoulder was facing the charging Mossfeld. Marcus used Wyl's momentum against him and flipped the eldest Mossfeld flat on his back winding him. Marcus grinned as he went to help Bevil with Ward Mossfeld.
"You wouldn't hit a girl would you, Webb?" Amie asked, batting her eyes at the youngest of the Mossfeld brothers.
Webb stammered a moment as he had a crush on the wizard's apprentice, not that he'd admit that to his older brothers. Webb's hesitation was all Amie needed as she knocked him senseless with her training club.
"Sorry, Webb." Amie said as she knelt by the dazed young man. "Make it up to you at the Ball." She then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Webb just looked up at her, a silly smile on his face. He didn't give a damn about the Harvest Cup, for Amie Fern had kissed him.
Marcus raised an eyebrow at Amie questioningly as she skipped over to them, a grin on her face. "Did I just see you kiss Webb?" he asked, only mildly surprised.
"You did, Marcus. Why? Jealous, are we?" Amie teased.
"No, not at all, just surprised." Marcus replied with a grin.
"Heh, guess we don't have to ask who you'll be dancing with at the ball, do we?" Bevil said as they walked out of the ring, Amie blushed.
"Well done, all three of you!" Merring said clapping. "The townsfolk have often compared you to Cormick, Marcus and it seems they aren't mistaken! I haven't seen such prowess in years." The cleric admitted. "You've won the Brawl, and you've won the Cup as well. Thank the gods, Marcus, for truly, they have shown you favour today." Merring said.
"Well played, Marcus, you've won the Cup! And all four events, nobody's done that since Cormick!" Georg said with a big smile as he enthusiastically congratulated the three friends and Kipp. "That warrants a special reward, of course. I'll have a Harvest Cloak for the four you, courtesy of the village council. They'll be yours at the end of the day. If there's anything you wanted to do before the award ceremony, now's the time. Maybe a mug of Harvest Mead to celebrate, eh?" Georg said with a wink. "I'll meet you at the stage when you're ready for the victory speech, Marcus." he said over his shoulder as he walked off.
"We did it, we beat the Mossfelds!" Amie said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"That we did, Amie." Marcus said. "Though I think Webb doesn't care, since you kissed him. He won't wash for a week, I'm sure."
"Gather round, mates, gather round..." Georg called as Marcus, Amie, Bevil abd Kipp arrived at the stage. "This Harvest Fair's a celebration, but it's also a dark anniversary. We all know what else happened on this day. Not so long ago, we nearly lost this village. Almost lost our lives, almost lost it all!" Georg said in all seriousness. "But we came back. Cleared burnt farms, buried our dead, and put our ashes behind us. And we rebuilt, tougher and stronger than ever. Long as there's a Harvest Fair, we won't forget that day." He said turning to the three friends an, Kipp, as he presented them with the Harvest Cup and their Harvest Cloaks. "And our young folks, they'll stay tough, long as they compete for the Harvest Cup! So let's hear it for this year's winners! Three cheers for the Harvest Champions! Hip hip hooray...!"
At the edge of the village in a line of trees that acted as a wind break a tall cowled figure moved into view. "A strange place for the blade... Nevertheless, I sense that it is here..." he said as he turned away and walked back into the tree line. "We wait until nightfall. Then we reclaim what is ours..."