Chapter 3 - A History
Wyland was blessed with just as much force of will as any man in the Fifth, if not a touch more. He wasn't so much taller than most as to be out of place. Or so much wider. As a youth he had never been remarked for speed, or for being uncommonly lucky with the girls. But Wyland always seemed to have others at his table asking his advice.
Twice he had turned down the mayorship. The second time Trin Turalde and Bonl Seen had been so adamant that Wyland had moved his family in with his cousin Ton's folks up near Ferryton. Wyland didn't worry much about Trin; the innkeeper was feisty but wouldn't say 'up' to Wyland if he knew that Wyland was adamant about 'down'. But Bonl...Bonl's father had been the town blacksmith before Bonl had finally taken over. Bonl had been swinging hammers at the forge when most boys were still wobbly-legged chasing their ma's apron strings. Bonl could knock a man senseless without exerting himself.
Bonl had told Trin that Wyland was going to be mayor if he had to be punched in the nose so that somebody with some wits could slip the medallion of office over his head while he was senseless on the ground. Wyland had kept his family in Ferryton for two months, and even began letting rumors get around that he was looking for a buyer for the farm. The Village Council finally grew tired of the game and elected Bonl instead.
When Wyland brought his family through town on the way back to his farm a few days later he stopped by the forge to congratulate Bonl. Only his quick reflexes saved him from a broken nose. "On principle, and for the charade of selling that farm that everyone knows good and well that you would die defending." Wyland was certain that half of the reason Bonl had been so adamant on electing Wyland was because he wanted to avoid the Mayor's Medallion himself. Nobody would be able to put a finger on exactly what it was that made Wyland different from the other men of the Fifthland, but every single Fifthlander that met him knew that he was different.
Wyland no longer noticed the steady creak of the cart that disturbed the early morning darkness with regular protestations, Wyland's mind was focused elsewhere. Four nights ago he had saddled Zarine after the workday was done and headed east down Whitechild Road to Parn Alver's farm.
Riding atop Zarine would have made most men look foolish; the Andoran Pullhorse was almost as wide as two men abreast, and tall enough that not a man in Ni'Baras stand could look her in the eye. Wyland's solid figure did not look foolish atop the draft horse. He looked imposing.
At Parn's farm Wyland had shaken Bant's hand and thanked him for bringing the news of the stranger, ruffled Brenl's hair; though he was five years younger than his brother, Brenl was only a hand shorter, and given Liggy a hug and an apple pie that Detra had baked. Every man who had ever seen her agreed that Ligwin Alver was the most beautiful woman in the Fifth. Wyland felt that she was a very close second to Detra Ibarra. Liggy was just a bit taller than her husband, with lustrous dark brown hair that fell all the way down her back in soft waves. Her striking green eyes almost detracted from her face of fine white porcelain, until she smiled. Kings would ransom palaces for that smile. Her slender frame held just the right curves to make men's mouths go dry. It was a very quick hug.
"Wyl! It's good to see you!" Parn's smile was the only redeeming feature in a face marked by sun and thickness. Of an average height, and above average belly, years of farming in the near-wilderness had turned the round softness of Parn's youth into a stolid roundness that still shook when he bellowed his hearty laughs, but told of an iron core.
"And you Parn, and you."
"Master Ibarra, why is that stranger asking questions about you?" Brenl squeaked. His curiosity was as well-known as his prankish nature. Both were also known to get his hide tanned with regularity.
"I don't know Brenl." He could see that Brenl was not going to accept or believe that for an answer.
"Then why does he have-"
"Liggy, why don't you take the boys in and bring out my pipe and tabac." Brenl looked ready to keep at it, but the sharp look from his father, and the grip of his brother dragging him into the house, cut him short. "Will you take some wine, Wyl?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Come on and lets us talk of the Dragon."
The formality would have been odd in anyone other than Parn, but Wyland was comfortable with his jovial use of over-formality; Parn used what he saw as silly or needless formality to lighten moments and make friends smile. It always worked on Wyland.
"Let us talk of the Dragon, Master Alver." Chuckling a little, he took the rough wooden chair next to the one Parn plopped himself heavily into. Liggy came back carrying a wooden tray laden with a dented wine pitcher, two flagons, and Parn's pipe and pouch. Setting the tray between the men she turned to Wyland.
"Give Detra our thanks for the pie; it's been ages since we've enjoyed one of her apple wonders."
"I'll be sure to, Liggy." Wyland said, smiling.
After Liggy was back in the house and the flagons were full of dark red wine, Parn filled his pipe and handed the pouch to Wyland. Handing Wyland a striker he scraped another along the sole of his boot and used the flame to light his bowl. Taking a few contented puffs, he turned his head toward Wyland and asked, "How goes the harvest, old friend?"
"Well enough. Detra has set aside her weaving to help and the girls are happy enough to get away from the looms for a while. We'll have it in on time for the festival, if just."
Cocking an eyebrow Parn blew a ring of smoke before he started laughing. "Oh, I'll wager she's overly happy about that!" his belly shook with mirth, "Do you want me to send Bant over? We finished pulling in the apples yesterday."
"Thank you, but I think I'll already be paying whatever price she sets, so I might as well enjoy her company in the field for a few days, it seems like I hardly get to see her this time of year." Wyland pulled from his pipe, and exhaling, took a drink of wine. "You know I'm not here to talk about crops, Parn."
"I know it, but there is always room in a conversation for crops."
Wyland decided it was time to force the conversation away from the harvest, "Who is this stranger in town?"
"Well, he says he's come from Caemlyn, but his accents mind me of that northern merchant that never pays market price for anything. Says his name is Prosht." Stopping there, Parn picked up his flagon and took a sip, slowly enjoying the flavor.
"Leave over! Must I drag every detail from you? I can't imagine why anyone from Caemlyn would be asking after me, but it's the sort of thing that may not be a boon! What's this stranger after?"
"There aren't many details to be dragged. He's been in the village for a day or two; he's been asking a load of questions of anyone who'll talk to him. Questions of every sort; is the weather normal for this time of year, how are the crops this season, has anyone seen anything out of the ordinary, has any livestock gone missing, he's spent quite a bit of time with the Wisdom, apparently trying to find out if the winds carry any messages to her ears. But the one thing that he asks everybody is whether or not they've ever met you. He doesn't give your name; he says he's looking for a man named Conl Brandiwyn, Captain Conl Brandiwyn, but the description he gives could paint a picture of you fine enough to hang over your mantle."
The smoke from Wyland's pipe seemed rough and choking of a sudden. Coughing it out, he whispered, "Brandiwyn? You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Do you think I'd hear about some stranger asking after you and not do my best to find out what he's about?" Concern bled through the joviality on his face. "What is it? Do you know this stranger, or this Brandiwyn?"
"No," Wyland answered, shaking his head, "I don't know anybody called Prosht, but I knew Captain Conl Brandiwyn." He stopped there taking a long draw off of his pipe. Slowly he let out the blue-gray smoke and seemed to brace himself. "I've never told you much about the time I spent outland. Haven't really told anybody very much about it, in fact."
"A man's stories are his own." Parn reached over and clasped a hand on Wyland's shoulder. "Nobody begrudges you the right to tell what you will and hold back what you see fit. Everyone was sure interested to hear about it when you came back, after ten years or more, but mostly just because we all like to hear rumors from afar. Your past is yours, and if you want to leave it behind you, then it's not for anybody else to drudge up."
Smiling gratefully, Wyland said, "It seems that what I wanted left behind is trying to track me down. What I tell you stays here between you and me, all right?"
He waited for Parn to nod, and then continued. "When I decided to leave the Fifthland, I thought I wanted to try a new life, so I decided I would do it with a new name. I chose Conl Brandiwyn. Conl is a family name, and you remember the great love I had for drink back then; I figured brandy and wine were as good to be called after as anything else.
"Not very long after I left Ni'Baras Stand to see the world, I found myself in Caemlyn. I was trying to find work, just something to make a little coin to get me on to the ruins of Tarvalon; I'd always wanted to see that great ruined city of some long lost age. Well the only work I was able to find was as a soldier for the Queen. Soldiering didn't sound very appealing to me, but when you're starting to get hungry you take what you can find.
"I found out that I was pretty good with weapons, first the sword, then the spear, then I picked up a hammer. Not many soldiers carry a hammer, Parn, and for good reason; the weight of a hammer can slow you down. In a fight, speed is the same as life. I was training hard every day with the weapons that I was given, and I was getting good enough to start attracting attention.
"One day a grizzled old, gnarled-up, hunk of oak tree with the knots of a Captain of the Queens Guard on his shoulder saw me sparring against two other recruits. After I beat them both and grounded my practice sword, the Captain called me over to him and said 'Put down that sword, son. You are good, but you will never be a blademaster.' I asked him why he thought I wasn't good enough; after all I had just picked up a sword for the first time weeks before.
"He told me I was so big and so muscular that he didn't think I would ever achieve the lithe grace required to earn a heron. The Captain, his name was Tram Oldspir, told me to find a war hammer, and when I stole, bought, or borrowed one, that he would show me how to use it." Tapping out the remains of his pipe he replaced it in his coat, and emptied his flagon.
"Oldspir taught me the hammer, trained me personally. A captain training a raw recruit! He worked me for endless hours with a hammer I had found collecting dust in a blacksmith's shop. As I repeated form after form, Oldspir told war stories. He told me about battles and skirmishes, victories and losses and the whys and hows of both.
"He told me when he was done with me I would be a match for any swordsman, my strength was enhanced by the tactics used with a hammer, and I was fast enough with it that I would force swordsmen to defend first and look for an opening second, or if they weren't very smart, they would just lose their forehead to my hammer without recognizing the need to defend first. I enjoyed learning from him, I didn't think I would ever have a lot of use for it because I was still planning on skipping out of the Guard and travelling the world on my own, but the learning was fun nonetheless."
"Then Queen Mindrelene declared war on Mayene. Their dominance of the southern coasts had led them to begin squeezing the trade down the River Tearendrelle. So I found myself fighting for Andor in the Sea Trade Wars. My comrades came to call me 'Conl the Hammer'."
"As the 'The Hammer' I rose through the ranks of Her Majesty's Guard. By the last battles of the Trade Wars I was a Captain. When the armies of Mayene finally limped back to the coast, Andor had guarantees for safe passage down the Tearendrelle and through any waters controlled by Mayene. Tram Oldspir had been raised to First Sword, Captain General of Her Majesty's Armies, Defender of Andor. A long-winded title for a long-lived man. Upon my return from the front back to the city, General Oldspir told me that I was to be his replacement, he had decided to retire."
"I won't lie to you Parn, I felt a thrill of pride then. I had worked hard and I felt like I had earned the post. But as I opened my mouth to thank my mentor I saw a vision of the ten years I had spent arriving there in his chambers. Ten years of blood and violence and death. A decade spent taking lives and losing friends. More horror than any man should ever have to see."
"I knew then that I was going to return to the Fifth. I was done with the world out there, done with war and killing men. I resigned my position and told him that all I wanted was the peace of a farm. I apologized and left Caemlyn the next morning. I came back here and vowed to leave that life behind as completely as I had left this one ten years earlier. I never talked about any of this because I didn't want to remember it. I don't know why that stranger is looking for me, but I'm going to tell him he can turn around and go straight on back to Caemlyn."
Parn shook his head and whistled softly through his teeth. "You're a war hero, Wyl."
"A war has no heroes, Parn. And I wasn't there, that was a man named Conl."
Glancing back from his seat atop the cart, Wyland saw that the load of barley was still riding fine, those sacks in the back of the cart and all those strapped to the four pack mules strung out on a rope line behind the cart; it had been a good year for his barley. The sun was starting to rise; he had risked the road in the dark and traveled most of the night to arrive in the village early. He hoped to sort out this stranger and send him on his way early enough so he could send back to the farm for Detra and the children, so that they might make it to the village by dusk.
Jorle had not been happy about being left behind, not with the festival starting and especially not with Wyland going to meet this stranger, but he knew the tone of voice that brooked no argument. He had only mumbled quietly to himself about it being "foolish going alone looking for this stranger nobody knows anything about" as he walked away from the cart and back into the house.
The cart team reached the curve of the road that led into the village and as the main street came into view, the sun crested the trees behind him. In the middle of the street stood a man he had never seen before. The man held his ground as Wyland rode forward. His eyes seemed to bore into Wyland as if searching the depths of his soul.
"Hello, Captain Brandiwyn. I am Servant Prosht."