(AN: Thank you for the reviews on this story so far. Let me state that I have noticed my habit of using one-lines rather than huge paragraphs. That is both intentional and unintentional. Intentional because I will sometimes use a single line to attract attention to one specific thing that is going on, or to build up dramatic tension. Unintentional because sometimes I don't have enough words to make lengthy paragraphs, or, because I'm using notepad, the paragraphs get smaller when converted to FF.)
(This took me a little bit of a while to formulate, since I've been wondering how to get our hero knowledgeable about the Sword. This, I believe, is the most logical and canonical explanation.)
The Legend
An ale-house somewhere in Munich. Young men shirking their daily duties were there, spending hard-earned duckets on hard drink. Old timers sat about in small groups, talking about the old wars and how good the youngsters had it. Several gypsies were peddling their wares to a customer who looked slightly interested in what they were discussing. A tramp was trying to get the lovely bar-maid to give him credit for his next drink.
Off by himself sat a young man, staring at the tankard of ale before him in silence. The bottom of the jar was his only friend these days. It was the only one who understood him, who could take away all the pain.
Pain. That was what Siegfried Schtauffen felt. Pain that he was sitting here, idling, rotting, wasting away in some pub in Bavaria while somewhere out there his father's murderer roamed free, alive and unpunished. Guilt it was, more like, that stung Siegfried's mind. Guilt that after five months he had done nothing. Or was it the guilt of his conscience telling him to stop the charade and admit that he had lied to himself?
But he would not listen. For if he was wrong, then he was guilty not only of patricide but also of lying. He was not an evil man, he kept telling himself, but a victim of the times. Weren't we all, he mused? Just leaves being blown about on the winds of change, powerless to direct our course...
Just then, the door opened and five or six gentlemen walked into the tavern, giving a "Guten tag" or "Salut" to the bar-maid.
"Where are you gents off to today?" the woman asked as she began filling one of the tankards from a large, over-turned keg behind the counter.
"We're Landsknechts, us." one of the men said. He was obviously their leader, for he was older and bore more scars than the others. He was slightly barrel-chested, but his arms looked strong enough to uproot a tree with his bare-hands.
"Mercenaries," she stated, placing the full tankard on the counter. The closest of the mercenaries picked it up and buried his bearded face in the white, frothy beer.
"We've been hired, by the Duke of Ostrheinsburg," the oldest one continued. "We're on our way to his schloss now as we speak. Just thought we'd stop by and have a drink."
The bar-maid continued with pouring the rest of the drinks for the Landsknechts. From his corner, however, the young man was paying attention to what they were talking about. His attention was piqued by who they were going to serve.
The Duke of Ostrheinsburg.
"Pardon me," he said to the Landsknechts as he sat himself closer to them. The eldest of them eyed the youngster in a very condescending manner.
"May I help you, boy?" he asked.
"I heard you were hired into service by the Duke of Ostrheinsburg." Siegfried answered.
"You should know better than to listen to the words of your elders." the warrior said, turning back to his tankard.
Siegfried walked over to the gentleman and pointed to the sword on his back.
"That's a pretty little knife you have there, boy," the Landsknecht said. "But do you know how to use it?"
"Yes." Siegfried replied, a little harsher than he had intended. "Now tell me about the Duke."
"He's the greatest swordsman in Christendom east of the Rhine," the old man said. "It is said that no man alive can match him in a sword-fight."
"There's more to it than just that, though." one of the other Landsknechts said. "It's that sword of his. Something about it makes stronger...better than any sword forged by man."
"It's not the size of the blade, Johan," a third mercenary said. "It's how you wield it."
"That's not what I've heard," the Landsknecht named Johan returned. "It's been reported that some swords are more than just pieces of metal."
"Oh, for the love of God!" exclaimed the third one, rolling his eyes.
"It's true!"
"Johan, do you really believe anything that floats into that brain of yours?" the third one asked.
"Surely you've heard the rumors about Sir Stefan's Grimblade," Johan continued. "There's no way that can be any normal blade."
"I've heard the rumors."
"And?"
"It's myth, old wives' tales," the third one obstinately replied. "Fairy tales, just like the Sword of Heroes."
"What was that again?"
The three mercenaries turned to the young man.
"Listen to Johan, little boy," the obstinate Landsknecht said. "He'll tell you anything and say it's the truth! I'm returning to my ale."
"I've got to check on the men." the eldest said. He then finished his mug and walked out of the tavern.
The warrior known as Johan turned to Siegfried. He was at least old enough to be the youth's father, but there was a kind of friendly light in his eyes, more akin to that of an older brother or a goodly uncle.
"Rub up here, son," Johan said. "I'll buy you a drink and tell you all about it."
Siegfried nodded and sat next to the seasoned warrior, while he purchased another round for the two of them.
"First, tell me," Johan began as he pushed the mug to Siegfried. "Where are you from?"
"Ober-Getzenberg." Siegfried replied. "Yourself?"
"Constance." Johan drank from his cup.
Siegfried followed suit. It was damnable bitter, like pure gall. But anything was better than the memories, the fear, the guilt, the tragedy...
The truth.
"Now," Siegfried said, slamming his tankard on the bar. "Tell me about this Sword of Heroes."
"It's a sword," Johan said. "Believed to be the strongest weapon in all the land. Thousands of warriors have been driven to death or madness in search of the blade, giving up everything only to have their dreams turn to ashes."
"But is it real?" Siegfried asked.
"I've only heard the stories about it," Johan said.
Siegfried paused. The thought of it was enough to make his head spin. The strongest weapon in all the world...a fitting way to kill the bastard who slew his father. The last five months he had spent scouring the lands, hoping to find the one who killed Frederick Schtauffen...and going over the events of that night in his head.
There was no doubt in Siegfried's mind that the person who killed his father was not only clever at coming and going without being seen, but had the ability to plant images in his own head, making him - Siegfried - think that it was he who had killed his own father.
To defeat such a foe...it would require the greatest weapon the world has ever known.
"Take me with you," Siegfried said. "I'm pretty good with a sword. I want to serve Sir Stefan with you."
Johan chuckled. "You sound like my sons. They all want to follow in their father's foot-steps: be big, brave warriors, fighting the enemies of the Emperor on any battlefield." He then turned to the young lad. "I think we have a place open." He nodded. "Very well..." He turned to the bar-maid and dropped a few coins in her hand before turning back to the young man. "You shall come with me, be part of my tross. After you've proven yourself, you will be a fähnriche in my company."
He patted the young man on the back, who smiled in return. Whether it was because of the older man's kindness or because of the indulgence of beer he had imbibed, Siegfried could not comprehend which one it was, but followed after the gentleman.
"What's your name, sir?" he asked.
"Johan Dürer, lad. And yourself?"
"Siegfried Schtauffen."
At the mention of Schtauffen, the old man paused, looking with a crinkled forehead out at the noon-day town. He shook his head and continued walking on, with Siegfried at his tail.
(Yes, that is indeed the Johan Dürer. It might be bending canon, to have him meet Siegfried this early on in the story, but his bio on the Soul Calibur wiki has that he was also a mercenary, so I decided to make him a landsknecht as well.)
(I've used German liberally when it comes to Siegfried, and intend to do so again. Fähnriche is an ensign rank and the tross it the baggage train that follows a landsknecht company about - women, children, servants, etc.)
(Speaking of German, that leads me to another issue. The name for Ostrheinsburg seems to be made up of several German words: osten which means "east", a variant of Rhine and burg. This would lead one to assume that Ostrheinsburg is located "east of the Rhine". However, the name for Austria in German is Österreich, which might mean that Ostrheinsburg is located, not in Germany, but in Austria [which is also east of the Rhine river]. Please tell me where you want me to have Ostrheinsburg: east Germany or Austria. It's sort of important, because that will be a major locale in the coming chapters.)