hummed as he held the sword up in the torchlight. The blade was polished silver and curved slightly at the end. Both sides were razor sharp and there was writing etched in the middle of the blade.
Jonas brought the blade closer to his face so he could get a better look. He felt the power pulse within the sword and the energy vibrated in his head. The sword was extremely light and perfectly balanced. Jonas looked at the script carved into the blade. He recognized it as elven and he tried to pronounce it.
“Tanaii…”
“Tanai’ Kay Des-tai,” interjected Kiln as he stepped closer to analyze the blade.
“What does it mean?” Jonas asked.
“It is elven. It means the path of righteousness, a fitting saying for a blade. I think your goddess has given you some powerful weapons, Jonas.”
“Should I take them?” Jonas asked, unsure.
“Yes. All cavaliers are given weapons by their god when they pass the tests at Annure.”
“But I have passed no tests,” Jonas said skeptically.
“It seems that Shyann does not care. Take the gifts, Jonas,” Kiln said.
Jonas looked at Kiln who was nodding his head in affirmation. “Go ahead.”
Jonas slid the blade back into the scabbard and laid down the sword belt. He lifted off his traveling cloak, tunic, and old mail shirt and dropped them to the floor. He then noticed that in a neat pile near the armor were new breeches made of dark fine leather, along with a blue tunic made of the same soft material. There was also a long shirt made of thick soft cotton, and black leather boots that laced up to the knees. They were magnificent, fit for royalty, and Jonas quickly discarded his old clothes for the new. The leather and soft cloth felt warm and comfortable as they caressed his skin. He reached out and lifted up the shiny chain mail shirt. It was light and warm to the touch as well.
“It is so light,” Jonas said in wonder.
“It is magic. You will barely be able to feel that shirt and yet it will stop a spear thrown by a giant. A magnificent gift,” Kiln said.
Jonas dropped the sparkling shirt over his head and it seemed to shrink to his form, looking like a normal shirt of metal. It was so light that Jonas could barely feel it. Next he put the breastplate over his head and buckled it at the sides. It, too, fit perfectly, as if it were made for him. He buckled on his shoulder guards, greaves, and wrist guards. He put his new tunic in his backpack and lifted his green traveling cloak from the floor and put it back over his head. He then unbuckled his old sword and buckled on his new ones. The twin blades hung lightly at his side and the belt fit him perfectly.
Lastly, he reached out and grabbed his new bow and quiver. He buckled the quiver to the side of his pack and held the long black bow firmly in his hand. He felt magic within the bow as well, and the grip fit his hand perfectly. There was no doubt in Jonas’s mind that these were indeed gifts from Shyann.
“You are looking more and more like a cavalier every day. Now all you need is your steed,” Kiln said with a smile.
Jonas looked down at his breastplate, his swords, and his bow and grinned from ear to ear. “This all feels so right, like they were made for me.”
“I think they were, my friend.”
Eight
Startling Events
Lathrin, third lance of the Finarthian Knights, led fifty of his knights off the main road towards the farm. A report had come in several days ago that there was a massacre at one of the farm settlements near the outer limits of the king’s land. Lathrin and his men were sent out immediately by the king to investigate the attack.
Lathrin led the column of knights toward a lone farmhouse, their sparkling lance tips flashing as the setting sun shone against the jostling weapons.
A middle aged farmer wearing old worn out clothing approached them as they neared his home.
“Good day, sir, I am Lathrin, third lance of the Finarthian Knights. We have come to investigate the massacre,” he said as he stopped his warhorse next to the man.
The man eyed the soldiers uneasily before replying. “Two days ago in the middle of the night my family and I heard horrible sounds, like a battle of some sort. There was screaming and horrible screeches, sort of