Daegar wasn't sure where the time went. It seemed like only yesterday that Delgar had turned twelve, but then the winter came and Daegar had Brother Guthwulf teach Delgar how to read during the cold nights.
And then the planting season arrived, and books came for Delgar with the spring market, brought by Guthwulf, who no doubt hoped that Delgar would join him in the holy calling. If Guthwulf had noticed the luckstone, he never mentioned it. Delgar had little time to read, however. With the planting came work, and the boy was now old enough to help his father. The spring turned to summer, and the summer turned to the harvest, and more books came with the market. Soon Delgar was spending his evening hours with a book in his hands, reading the sagas of Idan and Belathus, and other stories that Daegar had never even heard of.
As the winters passed, Delgar also began to spend more and more time with Lera, and soon the only time that Daegar could see his son was during the workday and the occasional meal; Delgar's world had become Lera and his books.
Delgar turned fifteen, and Daegar had to marvel. His son was still tall and gaunt, but the blue eyes held a keen intelligence. His hair had turned dark brown, just as Daegar had expected, and he thought it would become darker still. The winter began, and as the snow fell, Daegar felt a sense of dread with every day.
Delgar was growing up, and soon he would have to leave the nest. Almost every hour, he wondered if this was how his father had felt so many years ago. But turning the hourglass back was an impossibility; Delgar would leave the nest, and he would probably do it soon.
Daegar dreaded that moment, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had seen Delgar and Lera kissing during one sunset, and he knew the inevitable would occur.
Marriage. Delgar would be old enough in another year, and so would Lera. And then the couple would be off on their own, either farming or smithing or whatever else they chose to do.
Daegar frowned. At least Thorgar was back. He had been on a campaign against the goblins for the last three winters, hunting them through the woods, but the campaign had ended as the warriors involved pressed to return to their families for the winter.
They sat at the table with cups of warm mead one cloudy afternoon in heavy cloaks, looking out the window as the snow blew around the open shutters. At the other end of the room, the fire blazed in the hearth, sending smoke curling up the chimney.
“Thorgar, do I have any grey in my hair?” Daegar asked, gazing at his friend in the flickering light..
The warrior laughed, pounding his hand on the table. “No grey hairs, Daegar! Do you think you're getting old?”
“Delgar's growing up too fast,” Daegar complained. “I feel like an old man.”
“Daegar, you don’t even have thirty five winters yet,” Thorgar said, leaning forward. “You have another ten winters of life to you, at least. I’m the one with the dangerous job, remember?”
Daegar nodded. “How was your campaign, anyway?”
The warrior snorted. “A great waste of time. We spent three winters running down tracks, but we were always too late. We should have spent time fortifying the villages, but the king wanted a glorious battle. You're ready for the goblins if they should come, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you going to be here?” the farmer asked.
Thorgar shook his head. “The campaign is only over for the winter. Daegar, you haven’t been learning the sword, have you?”
Daegar shook his head. “Been spending my time farming. It’s what I do.”
“I’ll teach you what I can this winter,” Thorgar offered.
Daegar only shook his head.
“Daegar, they raided a village not more than five miles away from here during harvest. They could be here this spring.”
“We have nothing they want,” Daegar pointed out. “Why would they come?”
“We don’t know what they want. For all we know they want blood.”
“Fine, you can teach me what you can,” Daegar conceded. “But don’t go turning me into a reaver, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Thorgar chuckled. “You’ll probably be worse than Wigmund. He tried to join the campaign, did you know?”
“Really? How did he fare?”
“Well, he ended up accidentally throwing his sword into the lake during a swing, and we wondered for a moment whether we should give him to the goblins, but in the end we let him go back to his woodcarving.”
Daegar laughed. “Amazing how somebody who works in a precision craft can’t hit the side of a castle with a sword.”
Thorgar looked around. “As a matter of interest, where is Delgar?”
“He’s off with Lera,” Daegar replied. “Wandering through the forest, I think.”
“I hope he’s armed.”
“It’s Delgar,” Daegar pointed out. “He can take care of himself. Besides, he has the luckstone.” Daegar frowned, suddenly wondering why that would be any comfort at all.
Delgar sighed inwardly as he looked at the tall, slim beauty beside him. Lera had blossomed into the pride of the village, with almost every boy in the village pining for the blonde beauty. But her heart belonged to Delgar, and his heart belonged to her. And the village knew it.
The other boys envied Delgar as they envied no other, but there was nothing they could do about it. Any time one of them had ever approached Lera, she had let them know exactly how she felt, and the chastised boy had slinked off home, cursing Delgar under his breath.
Perhaps it was the luckstone, but the girls felt the same way about Delgar. More than once he had been forced to fend off their advances, some of them offering themselves in what he considered a most wanton manner. But he always turned them aside gently, and they went home cursing Lera under their breath.
In the end, the entire village could see that the two were meant for each other. The village elders had begun to plot to bring Delgar among them, as he was quickly becoming known as a man wise beyond his years. However, Delgar managed to hold them off as deftly as he did the amorous girls. As he had once told Lera: “Maybe I’ll be ready for a seat in a few years, but not yet.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lera breathed, her voice a high contralto. Delgar snapped back to the present. She had dressed in a blue woolen cloak which complimented her crystal eyes perfectly.
“Yes,” Delgar agreed, looking around the forest. The snow had tapered off to a light fall, and it gave the woods an air of magic. They stood on a tree covered hill looking over a great valley which stretched to the horizon. Through the forest wound a rocky path, barely visible in the snow.
“Okay, Delgar, when are we going to do it?” Lera demanded.
Delgar blinked. “Do what?”
“Get married, you silly,” Lera said, hugging him. “All the village is talking about us, and we’ll be old enough next harvest.”
“Oh, that,” Delgar gulped. “I hadn’t really thought of it. Not next harvest, though.”
“Why not? I want to spend the winter giving you children.”
He grinned. “It doesn’t sound like that much fun.”
She hit him. “You big oaf! You've heard how fun it is, just as I have. We should settle down into a little love nest.”
“Don’t you want to travel a bit first, Lera?” Delgar asked. “There’s a great big world out there, with lots to see, and as soon as we get married we have to start our farm, and then we’re stuck in the village until we either die or get rich enough to move.”
She fingered his luckstone, drawing it out of his tunic. “I just want to be with you, wherever you go.”
He held her close again and kissed her. “Then right after the harvest we’ll hire a ship and go south for a winter or two. And then we’ll see the great deserts of Barsh, and the lovely forests of Taerraland, and perhaps go to Pakaria.”
She kissed him back. “And perhaps see some Dragons?”
He smiled. “Of course. And then we’ll come back here,” he kissed her again, “and get married.”
“And we'll have lots of kids,” she said.
“Hundreds.”
She made a show of hitting him. “Not THAT many! You'd kill me!”
He kissed her. “Fifty, then?”
“Try twelve.”
“Twelve's okay.”
“What's that?”
Delgar blinked. “Sorry?”
Lera pointed across the valley. “That. Do you see it?”
Delgar squinted, looking to the horizon. The valley passes were blocked with snow and the trees looked like small, spiky, snow covered hills. Just over the horizon, though, he made out a small, dark column of smoke rising to the heavens in the light breeze.
“Could be a funeral pyre,” Delgar suggested. “You remember how high the smoke rose when Wigfrith passed to the Eternal One.”
“But visible from that far away?” Lera asked. “It has to be bigger than just a funeral pyre.”
“A forest fire?”
“In the winter?”
“I hate to suggest it, but what about raiders?” Delgar finally said. “Uncle Thorgar keeps saying that the goblins are getting closer.”
Lera pressed herself to him for comfort. “Could they be coming for us?”
“Not this winter,” Delgar declared. “You see there? The pass is snowed in. If they come at us, it will be in the spring, and the warriors will be ready.”
“Are you sure?”
Delgar nodded. “Of course I'm sure.” I think I'm sure, he added silently.
Lera looked around, marking how the sun was sinking into the horizon. “We should get back. Dada will be expecting me soon.”
“And I should tell father and uncle Thorgar,” Delgar agreed. He offered his arm. “Shall we away?”
“Yes,” she smiled, taking his arm. “We shall.”
And then the planting season arrived, and books came for Delgar with the spring market, brought by Guthwulf, who no doubt hoped that Delgar would join him in the holy calling. If Guthwulf had noticed the luckstone, he never mentioned it. Delgar had little time to read, however. With the planting came work, and the boy was now old enough to help his father. The spring turned to summer, and the summer turned to the harvest, and more books came with the market. Soon Delgar was spending his evening hours with a book in his hands, reading the sagas of Idan and Belathus, and other stories that Daegar had never even heard of.
As the winters passed, Delgar also began to spend more and more time with Lera, and soon the only time that Daegar could see his son was during the workday and the occasional meal; Delgar's world had become Lera and his books.
Delgar turned fifteen, and Daegar had to marvel. His son was still tall and gaunt, but the blue eyes held a keen intelligence. His hair had turned dark brown, just as Daegar had expected, and he thought it would become darker still. The winter began, and as the snow fell, Daegar felt a sense of dread with every day.
Delgar was growing up, and soon he would have to leave the nest. Almost every hour, he wondered if this was how his father had felt so many years ago. But turning the hourglass back was an impossibility; Delgar would leave the nest, and he would probably do it soon.
Daegar dreaded that moment, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had seen Delgar and Lera kissing during one sunset, and he knew the inevitable would occur.
Marriage. Delgar would be old enough in another year, and so would Lera. And then the couple would be off on their own, either farming or smithing or whatever else they chose to do.
Daegar frowned. At least Thorgar was back. He had been on a campaign against the goblins for the last three winters, hunting them through the woods, but the campaign had ended as the warriors involved pressed to return to their families for the winter.
They sat at the table with cups of warm mead one cloudy afternoon in heavy cloaks, looking out the window as the snow blew around the open shutters. At the other end of the room, the fire blazed in the hearth, sending smoke curling up the chimney.
“Thorgar, do I have any grey in my hair?” Daegar asked, gazing at his friend in the flickering light..
The warrior laughed, pounding his hand on the table. “No grey hairs, Daegar! Do you think you're getting old?”
“Delgar's growing up too fast,” Daegar complained. “I feel like an old man.”
“Daegar, you don’t even have thirty five winters yet,” Thorgar said, leaning forward. “You have another ten winters of life to you, at least. I’m the one with the dangerous job, remember?”
Daegar nodded. “How was your campaign, anyway?”
The warrior snorted. “A great waste of time. We spent three winters running down tracks, but we were always too late. We should have spent time fortifying the villages, but the king wanted a glorious battle. You're ready for the goblins if they should come, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you going to be here?” the farmer asked.
Thorgar shook his head. “The campaign is only over for the winter. Daegar, you haven’t been learning the sword, have you?”
Daegar shook his head. “Been spending my time farming. It’s what I do.”
“I’ll teach you what I can this winter,” Thorgar offered.
Daegar only shook his head.
“Daegar, they raided a village not more than five miles away from here during harvest. They could be here this spring.”
“We have nothing they want,” Daegar pointed out. “Why would they come?”
“We don’t know what they want. For all we know they want blood.”
“Fine, you can teach me what you can,” Daegar conceded. “But don’t go turning me into a reaver, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Thorgar chuckled. “You’ll probably be worse than Wigmund. He tried to join the campaign, did you know?”
“Really? How did he fare?”
“Well, he ended up accidentally throwing his sword into the lake during a swing, and we wondered for a moment whether we should give him to the goblins, but in the end we let him go back to his woodcarving.”
Daegar laughed. “Amazing how somebody who works in a precision craft can’t hit the side of a castle with a sword.”
Thorgar looked around. “As a matter of interest, where is Delgar?”
“He’s off with Lera,” Daegar replied. “Wandering through the forest, I think.”
“I hope he’s armed.”
“It’s Delgar,” Daegar pointed out. “He can take care of himself. Besides, he has the luckstone.” Daegar frowned, suddenly wondering why that would be any comfort at all.
Delgar sighed inwardly as he looked at the tall, slim beauty beside him. Lera had blossomed into the pride of the village, with almost every boy in the village pining for the blonde beauty. But her heart belonged to Delgar, and his heart belonged to her. And the village knew it.
The other boys envied Delgar as they envied no other, but there was nothing they could do about it. Any time one of them had ever approached Lera, she had let them know exactly how she felt, and the chastised boy had slinked off home, cursing Delgar under his breath.
Perhaps it was the luckstone, but the girls felt the same way about Delgar. More than once he had been forced to fend off their advances, some of them offering themselves in what he considered a most wanton manner. But he always turned them aside gently, and they went home cursing Lera under their breath.
In the end, the entire village could see that the two were meant for each other. The village elders had begun to plot to bring Delgar among them, as he was quickly becoming known as a man wise beyond his years. However, Delgar managed to hold them off as deftly as he did the amorous girls. As he had once told Lera: “Maybe I’ll be ready for a seat in a few years, but not yet.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lera breathed, her voice a high contralto. Delgar snapped back to the present. She had dressed in a blue woolen cloak which complimented her crystal eyes perfectly.
“Yes,” Delgar agreed, looking around the forest. The snow had tapered off to a light fall, and it gave the woods an air of magic. They stood on a tree covered hill looking over a great valley which stretched to the horizon. Through the forest wound a rocky path, barely visible in the snow.
“Okay, Delgar, when are we going to do it?” Lera demanded.
Delgar blinked. “Do what?”
“Get married, you silly,” Lera said, hugging him. “All the village is talking about us, and we’ll be old enough next harvest.”
“Oh, that,” Delgar gulped. “I hadn’t really thought of it. Not next harvest, though.”
“Why not? I want to spend the winter giving you children.”
He grinned. “It doesn’t sound like that much fun.”
She hit him. “You big oaf! You've heard how fun it is, just as I have. We should settle down into a little love nest.”
“Don’t you want to travel a bit first, Lera?” Delgar asked. “There’s a great big world out there, with lots to see, and as soon as we get married we have to start our farm, and then we’re stuck in the village until we either die or get rich enough to move.”
She fingered his luckstone, drawing it out of his tunic. “I just want to be with you, wherever you go.”
He held her close again and kissed her. “Then right after the harvest we’ll hire a ship and go south for a winter or two. And then we’ll see the great deserts of Barsh, and the lovely forests of Taerraland, and perhaps go to Pakaria.”
She kissed him back. “And perhaps see some Dragons?”
He smiled. “Of course. And then we’ll come back here,” he kissed her again, “and get married.”
“And we'll have lots of kids,” she said.
“Hundreds.”
She made a show of hitting him. “Not THAT many! You'd kill me!”
He kissed her. “Fifty, then?”
“Try twelve.”
“Twelve's okay.”
“What's that?”
Delgar blinked. “Sorry?”
Lera pointed across the valley. “That. Do you see it?”
Delgar squinted, looking to the horizon. The valley passes were blocked with snow and the trees looked like small, spiky, snow covered hills. Just over the horizon, though, he made out a small, dark column of smoke rising to the heavens in the light breeze.
“Could be a funeral pyre,” Delgar suggested. “You remember how high the smoke rose when Wigfrith passed to the Eternal One.”
“But visible from that far away?” Lera asked. “It has to be bigger than just a funeral pyre.”
“A forest fire?”
“In the winter?”
“I hate to suggest it, but what about raiders?” Delgar finally said. “Uncle Thorgar keeps saying that the goblins are getting closer.”
Lera pressed herself to him for comfort. “Could they be coming for us?”
“Not this winter,” Delgar declared. “You see there? The pass is snowed in. If they come at us, it will be in the spring, and the warriors will be ready.”
“Are you sure?”
Delgar nodded. “Of course I'm sure.” I think I'm sure, he added silently.
Lera looked around, marking how the sun was sinking into the horizon. “We should get back. Dada will be expecting me soon.”
“And I should tell father and uncle Thorgar,” Delgar agreed. He offered his arm. “Shall we away?”
“Yes,” she smiled, taking his arm. “We shall.”
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