Harvest Celebration
Clang! Clang! Clang! The steel swords rang loud as they echoed throughout the valley below. The knights of the City of Sayir were practicing their swordsmanship at the most prestigious school for knighthood in all the land. The school was located on a mountain overlooking the city, a citadel hovering over a noble land
A stone pavement jetting out from the adjoining building near the edge of a cliff was the instructor’s ideal place of practice, except when winter weather moved in, in which case, they would go indoors to a spacious room adjacent the cobblestone pavement. Large columns lined the arena, supporting a flat roof connected to the building, which provided a spacious area for outside practice, sheltering them from the rains that blew in from time to time.
The towering trees below were taking on their iridescent array of colors as fall approached. The green leaves were turning orange, red and yellow, and the wild flowers blossomed all across the mountains. The sun shimmered brightly on the stone structures nestled in the valley below. The citizens of Sayir were gleefully making preparations for the festivities of the week, the celebration of their yearly harvest, a five-day festival. This was a big event because many of the diverse citizens from across the Land of Shalahem would travel to Sayir to join in the harvest festival.
Atop the mountain, Nimri’s sword swung low toward Cozbi’s knees. Cozbi swung hard and fast, blocking the blow with his own sword and parrying it up toward Nimri’s left side. Cozbi then came in with a straight jab, thrusting toward Nimri’s neck. Nimri stepped back, his footwork unconsciously precise, and blocked the attack with his sword. Nimri then attempted to step behind Cozbi to make a killer attack, but Cozbi was far too skilled, as he parried his sword, blocking it.
“You’re gonna have to do bettah than that, mate,” he said with confidence.
“Ah, But you haven’t put me out yet, mate,” Nimri retorted, as he brandished his weapon for another go.
“I’m just waitin’ on you to get tired. If I put you out too quickly, then I won’t have anyone to practice with besides Nuvatian and Gilmanza. No one else around here is a challenge, mate,” Cozbi said truthfully, but showing his arrogance.
“I wouldn’t be so self-assured if I were you.”
“Well, there is a reason that you and I are usually paired up,” Cozbi acknowledged. “We are the best in the class.”
"A bit arrogant too, mate."
"Nothin' wrong with acknowledging your talents."
Back and forth they continued, skillfully sparring and not missing a beat, like the rhythm of a good Sayirian folksong. Beneath their mail their tired bodies were moistened with sweat. A small collective pool had gathered in their lower backs, like liquid gold poured into a mold. Their garments beneath their armor were wringing wet, not a stitch of dry fabric could be found. The noise of their swords was merely another clang among the many swords and shields, reverberating throughout the mountain range like a melody that sang of national pride and security to its citizens below.
The bell rang loud and Gilmanza, the chief instructor of the school, held up his right hand. A scar marring his arm and hand gave weighty testimony of a man of many wars.
“Attention! Bond your swords noble knights.”
In haste, the student body of knights lined up shoulder-to-shoulder and in rows at Gilmanza’s command. In one synchronized accord, they placed their steel swords in their sheaths, marched their right feet on the ground, then their left, and placed their arms to their sides.
A gentle wind blew Gilmanza’a long gray hair as he stood in front of his students and the sun shone down on his back, casting a shadow across his face and camouflaging his wrinkles. He was a man of many life-experiences: he was ancient and he had led Shalahem into more than a few successful battles. Although a veteran of many wars, he was a gentle man; perhaps time’s effect had softened the once rough edges. With every stroke a cut above the rest, he had been fortunate enough to escape death. Despite his age, he was as nimble as the young lads he trained.
Nuvatian, an accomplished knight and assistant to Gilmanza, stood to Gilmanza’s right. For a moment, all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of the knights as they tried to draw breath.
“At ease, my noble knights,” Gilmanza said, scratching his face beneath his long gray beard. Straightaway, the knights pulled off their helmets and held them beneath their left arms. Pools of sweat rolled from their heads and down their faces and dripped onto the stone pavement.
“You have all practiced long and hard. Your expertise is made evident in the skill by which you use your swords. Even so, the skill of the sword is not all there is to knighthood. Remembah, a sword is no more powerful than the one who swings it; it is no more a weapon of defense than the man who bears it; it has no more heart than the one who possesses it; it has no more nobility than the man who uses it for noble purposes. Knighthood is not all about skill; it is also about charactah. It is about honor.
“Always remembah,” he concluded, “it is the charactah of the knight that gives honor to the sword. Arrogance does not befit a knight—so bear it with humility. Aggression does not befit a knight—so walk in peace. And fear does not befit a knight—so remain steadfast and courageous. Go in peace.”
After they had bowed toward Gilmanza and Nuvatian, the class of sword-masters was dismissed.
“What say ye nobles we meet up at sunset for the celebration tonight?” Cozbi suggested to Nuvatian and Nimri, as he ran a towel over his wet dark blond hair.
“That sounds good to me,” answered Nuvatian. Sweat ran across his dimples as he searched for a towel.
“How about an hour before sunset and we’ll play Triple B?” suggested Nimri.
“You’re on,” answered Cozbi.
Nuvatian agreed, grinning at his friends as he ran his hands through his long hair.
“Be sure to bring your sistah,” Nimri yelled to Nuvatian.
“Watch it! I wouldn’t want to have to huht you, mate.”
“Ah! Come on! Wouldn’t you rathah her be with a nice and handsome man like myself—a trusted friend at that?”
“You have a point, but she’s still my sistah.” Nuvatian threw his hand up at a comrade. Then he continued, “I think she likes you too, mate. She asked me about you the othah day.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Nimri, slinging his sweaty towel in the air. “I’ll see you and your sistah tonight, mate.”
The sun shone down on Nuvatian’s sweaty olive skin, casting sheen on his muscular frame as he strolled across the stone pavement toward his horse. He seemed to be a man who had it all: personality, looks, skill, and strength. His dreamy sable-brown eyes decorated with dark eyebrows were like the detailed work of an embroiderer, crafted with the most skilled of hands. His sometimes rugged appearance did him no harm; in fact, he wore the look all too well. Even so, he did not flaunt his physique; he was far more interested in his duty to his country. Perhaps this was due in part to his high standards of integrity as well as the fact that he had had his tender heart broken once before.
But women were still high on his list, just had yet to find the gal of his dreams.
Although friends with Cozbi and Nimri, in fact the three had been best of friends since childhood, he was far more mature and took his duties to the kingdom with great seriousness. Because he had been eager to learn from his superiors, he sat among the elite councilmen of the king.
Nimri and Cozbi did not fall far behind Nuvatian, either in good looks or in swordsmanship. As with all fighting knights, Nimri and Cozbi were well-shaped, and strong. Nimri, although a nice guy overall, had a tendency to be a little over-confident, sometimes even a bit arrogant, but his arrogance was for the most part reserved and usually only showed itself as it pertained to his opinionated beliefs and his excellent skill with the sword.
Cozbi was well-disciplined in his training, always striving to be better. If he could wear accolades, he would display everyone where they could
be seen. He was a charismatic fellow, and popular with the people, so much so that some believe him half capable of charming a snake into submission. Nuvatian, Nimri, and Cozbi were long-time friends; like hobbies, same career path, and loyalty characterized their friendship-bond.
The setting sun cast a beautiful array of orange and pink hues across the sky. Dressed in the colorful apparel typical of such celebrations, people had begun to gather on the hillside with their musical instruments. As the sun slowly vanished and the hillside populated with people, the comfortable night air became fragrant with the aroma of apple pies, grilled meats, and baked delicacies.
Pumpkins, melons, and various kinds of squash adorned the hillside on lorries as a witness to their fruitful season. Dried gourds painted in fantastic colors by the children were streamed at various places along the hillside. Bales of hay had been stacked along the stone wall that wrapped itself around the spacious and convivial lot. Strategically placed torches lit up the hillside, casting eerie shadows along the outskirts of the forest and giving form to the darkness. Shadows danced along with the celebration, as though telling a story of a time when darkness first collided with light, a time when celebration was far removed from the kingdom.
“Yes! Five!” said Nuvatian. Nuvatian, Nimri and Cozbi were high with emotions in their game of Triple B, booing and jeering over every move. Triple B stood for betrayal, betrothal, and bloodshed. The game was played with a single die and a drawn-out board resembling an ancient and complicated map. The winner was the one who successfully reached the castle with the rescued girl.
Nuvatian’s time to roll came again and he rolled a six, just what was needed to gain the betrothal. “Yes!” he cried in triumph. “I told you I would get the gihl.”
“Yes, but the quest for you is dependent upon you keepin’ her, and makin’ it to the castle,” Nimri reminded him. “You staht well but a man must not boast puttin’ on his ahma. He should reserve all such boastin’ for when he takes it off.” He flipped his dark hair away from his face as he picked up the die.
Nimri and Cozbi were now tied. Nimri rolled a five. Cozbi rolled and the die landed on two. “Yes,” Nimri exclaimed.
“At last! I got the sword. My sword may take your fair lady away there, mate,” Nimri said to Nuvatian.
“Like you said, one should reserve all such boastin’ for when he takes off his ahmah,” said Nuvatian, laughing.
“Cozbi, you’re the betrayer,” the other two mocked.
“You laugh now, but you won’t be laughin’ when I betray you.”
They continued rolling the die and moving their game-pieces along the game board, trying to win the fair lady and make it to the castle. The most enjoyable experience about playing Triple B was that each time it told a different story of betrayal, betrothal, and bloodshed.
Music and dancing, eating and laughing had broken out on the hillside as the grand festivities escalated. The sound of music filled the air while the scent of traditional Shalaham delicacies drifted for miles, teasing the nostrils as far as the wind carried the pleasant aroma. Citizens of Shalahem had come from all over the land. A few came from the wider areas of Shalahem: the Earthdwellers who live southwest in the hills of the Shovi, a hand full of Elves from the northeast, tall and slender people with pointed elvish ears, and a few Waddies from the south came too.
Some Gommits, who live in the rural southland, came. Gommits are rather odd-looking creatures. Their big mouths could chew threw just about anything. Their flexible ears are peculiar, folding over like earmuffs on the sides of their heads. But it is their large floppy cheeks that stand out as most unusual, large enough to easily store a cantaloupe in each side.
From the southeast regions came a handful of country folks, known as Himps. Himps sort of resemble a coalescence of a goat and a human with their goatish teeth, beady eyes, floppy ears and wiry hair, much like steel wool. The rest of their bodies are humanoid. Wearing overalls and simple clothing, these cowboys and cowgals are known as generally hard workers, plowing and planting, watering and weeding.
A tall and lanky old man donning a pointed hat moved through the diverse crowd, his sights set upon the three men playing their game. He eyed them, finding the best angle to sneak upon them.
“Ahhhhh, I’ll take your fair lady now, mate,” Nimri said to Nuvatian.
“That fair lady is not nearly as fair as the one I see coming through the gateway,” said the old man with long silver hair and elongated gray beard standing behind them.
“Windsor!” they shouted. “You made it! We’re so glad you’re here!”
Windsor was the top wizard throughout the land, a rather tacit individual and a man of few but worthy words. He was a very ancient wizard, even older than his dear friend, Gilmanza. He was from a generation that preceded the dire effects of the curse upon humanity, and he alone was left from that generation, the others long since having shed this mortal coil; he was the only one left who knew life as an immortal, except for the immortals living in the only kingdom untouched by the curse. Nonetheless, he was mortal although some doubted if he would ever die.
Windor’s tall slender build was topped off with a sable-brown wizard’s hat. Across his left cheek he bore a scar, partially hidden by his long gray beard, a visible reminder of betrayal from long ago. He also sported a long scar across his chest and another across his left hand, also marks from conflicts long-past. He had seen more than his fair share of tragedy and war.
Taking in Windsor’s reference of a fair lady, Nimri’s eyes gazed over Windsor’s shoulder, immediately spotting Nuvatian’s sister through the crowd.
“Speaking of fair ladies…” Nuvatian reminded them, laying out the redemption money to buy back the fair lady in their competitive board game.
“Ah, man, that’s not fair,” said Cozbi.
Rolling the die, he landed a six. Moving him and his fair lady six spaces, Nuvatian landed his game piece on the castle. Leaning back in a relaxed position he said, “What says you to that, mate?”
“You can have your wooden fair lady, mate,” Nimri said, dropping the die. “I’m goin’ aftah the real deal.” Rising to his feet, he sauntered toward Nuvatian’s sister, pushing his way through the crowd of people.
“Well, crony, looks like he rolled a six, which gives him enough points to kill you with his sword, you betrayah you,” Nuvatian said to Cozbi. “And I know you don’t have enough money to buy yourself life,” he added.
Cozbi stuck out his bottom lip in a playful manner, looking slightly displeased at the outcome of their little game. They laughed and made room for Windsor, happy to see a revered friend.
Suddenly, the voice of a woman calling out for Nuvatian resounded through the crowd. It was a young woman with a crush on Nuvatian—a crush that was not reciprocated.
Snickering, Nimri shuffled out of the woman’s way, giving her a bird’s eye view of Nuvatian’s surprised face. Hearing his name above the noise of the crowd, Nuvatian looked up and spotted the pesky woman. “Aahhh, I think it’s time for me to turn in, mates,” he muttered. Aware of the young woman’s infatuation of the man, his friends laughed heartily. Pushing and shoving her way across the populated hillside, she yelled his name over and over, but Nuvatian slipped through the crowd, ducking as he ran, using every person he could find as a hiding post, until finally he reached the edge of the masses where the dark street to home lay before him.
Nuvatian turned the corner at the Knights Armory and Dragon Reigns Store in a near run. The red sign with black letters hung from a silver chain that captured the light of the moon. As he accelerated around the corner, he ran smack into someone, knocking the individual to the ground.
“Aaaahhhh!” yelped a woman. “Brute beast!” She uttered the words under her breath.
“Oh, excuse me! Let me help you.”
Through the shimmering of the moonlight, Nuvatian caught a glimpse of the delicate face of the individual he had knocked down, a
nd instantly lost all words. Her long dark-brown hair with subtle auburn highlights, dark-olive complexion, and vibrant green eyes made him weak in the knees. He was utterly embarrassed that he had just plowed over the most beautiful of all women in the kingdom: the princess.
“Please, accept my apologies, princess,” Nuvatian said, helping her up. As she got steady on her feet, she got a better look at her ‘brute beast’ and quickly saw him as no beast at all but a rather handsome man, a man she recognized as the noble knight Nuvatian. Even so, she did not let that silence her but for a moment.
“What do you think you’re doing, running like that?” she scolded. “Simply mindless! Running a corner, and never minding who you might plow over in your empty pursuit of swiftness.”
Awestruck by her beauty, Nuvatian struggled to get out the right words, “Ple- Please do accept my apologies, Princess Nadora. I was in a hurry.”
“Obviously!” she said brushing off her black jacket with the jade trim. The tailored jacket was cut to accentuate her petite and shapely form. Black riding pants covered her legs, like black velvet over the muscular frame of a panther.
She pulled off her riding coat to brush off the lingering dirt, revealing the arms of a well-conditioned body. The silver studs around her collar and the studded leather belt around her waist gave her a fashionable touch of royal toughness. While many women were stuck in the tradition of long dresses, this princess refused to be molded by ancient practices, paving her own way towards her identity as a woman. Even as she was dusting off her jacket and railing at him, Nuvatian couldn’t help but notice the particles of dirt on her well-rounded bottom.
“You have…” he began, unable to get a word in edgewise.
“What were you thinking running like that?”
“I do apologize, princess.”
“Very well, then, apology accepted.”
“You have…” Nuvatian tried again to point out her soiled yet delectable posterior.
“Next time, watch where you’re going!” the princess concluded, putting her well- dusted jacket back over her shoulders.
“Yes, my lady.” He reached down and picked up a black and silver brooch that had fallen from the princess’s royal raiment; it depicted chivalry in the finest of art. “I believe this is yours,” Nuvatian said looking into her hazel eyes.
“Yes!” she replied, her tone now softened. “Thank you.”
Disrupting the conversation was the persistent sound of a woman’s voice in the near distance, still yelling, “Nuvatian! Nuvatian! ”
He took advantage of the distraction. “Now, if you will excuse me. And please don’t mention that you saw me.” Nuvatian bowed politely as he turned to find a hiding place from the annoying woman, and took his leave of the princess. He sauntered down the road a bit and then stepped behind a building in order to hide from his determined pursuer. The princess sashayed off, unaware that her bottom was still covered in dirt. Having cooled off a bit, she looked back at Nuvatian and then smiled as the woman approached her.
“Princess, have you seen a man coming this way?”
“Well, I have seen several men come this way. I doubt if I would know what sort of man you speak of.” She snickered as she walked off.
“Of course. My apologies.” The woman hurried down the road, not giving up easily on her search.
Taking one last look back at the princess, Nuvatian admired her backside as equally as the front. “Of all people to run ovah, why did I have to run over the Princess—the Princess! My God, she's fine” he muttered to himself as he made a gesture towards heaven as though he were thanking God for creating beautiful women.
The night’s festivities eventually died down and the lights went out all over the Land of Shalahem. The city was now still and quiet. All the while, Pip was in his home, entertaining himself with the intriguing power of his new sword. With both hands wrapped around the sword, he practiced against an imaginary opponent, daydreaming of becoming venerated as an accomplished swordsman. He dreamed of becoming powerful, somebody respected and esteemed among the heroes of the world. Thoroughly obsessed with his dazzling new toy, he had completely forgotten about the festivities. The sword made him feel strong and confident, yet also vengeful, superior and powerfully charged with authority.
Something he had never felt in his life.