Chapter 3 – Village and Traven I
Meanwhile, the call for aid from the eastern kings reached every corner of the region. In response, cites, villages and minor landlords deliberated over their allegiance. Many pledged their support, recognising the daunting challenge of facing King Azure’s formidable army. Others, daunted by the prospect of war, chose to evacuate the eastern region, seeking refuge from the impending storm.
For those who committed to the cause, the stakes were clear. Victory meant survival, while defeat meant inevitable destruction. As tensions mounted and preparations intensified, the eastern kingdoms braced themselves for a battle that would decide the fate of their lands.
The news of rising war spread throughout the eastern region, but that news had not yet reached the village of Katanha, situated on the border of the far southeast in the Azurian kingdom. Katanha was renowned for producing the finest and sharpest swords, boasting some of the most skilled blacksmiths in the world.
The village rested on the edge of a slope facing east, while the remaining sides were encircled by forest, serving as a natural barrier. It had two entrances: one to the west and another to the south, both protected by wooden walls and guarded by two watchmen each. Entering through the western gate, the village is greeted with rice fields to the right and a small local market to the left. The path then wound through rows of houses, most of which housed blacksmiths tirelessly forging swords and other weapons. This road led to the village centre, a circular plaza dominated by a massive banyan tree that overlooked the uphill slope.
[The above pic is for reference]
The village is bustled with activity—carts pulled by oxen, villagers carrying coal and wood, forges blazing as hammers struck steel. Yet all of it fell silent at once, replaced by the steady, rhythmic clang of hammer on iron echoing across the village from its farthest edge.
Atop the slope, overlooking the vast forest beyond, stood a modest house. Inside, an old man in his sixties, his long grey hair tied into a ponytail and beard framing a weathered yet strong face, struck his hammer against glowing steel. His body, still muscular despite his years, moved with deliberate strength. In his hand, the hammer seemed small as he shaped the iron into a perfect blade. The sound of his craft resonated through the village—a familiar reassurance that brought smiles to the people, for they knew the old man was at work once more.
In the village centre, beneath the banyan tree, the elderly village head sat watching, murmuring to himself, “Looks like he’s making another masterpiece.” At that moment, a royal messenger emerged from the forest at the south gate. He rode quickly into the plaza, dismounted, and presented a scroll bearing the royal seal to the village head before departing in haste. Back at the house on top of the slope, the old man quenched the glowing blade in cool water, steam rising as the sword was completed.
Upon reading the message in the scroll, the village head of Katanha sounded the alarm to gather all the villagers for an important gathering, while the old man inspected the sword with a keen eye and hung it on the wall. The sound of the village bell reached his ears, calling the villagers to gather. The villagers, including the old man, slowly gathered beneath the banyan tree, anticipation and anxiety evident on their faces.
The village head addressed the crowd with a sombre expression. “There is going to be war,” the crowd’s expression changed as the village head continued, “The Tri-kings of the south have requested our aid in the upcoming war waged by King Azure. Despite the Tri-kings’ request, I have to make a choice, and my choice is what is best for the village. The war begins in 10 days, and as village head, I decide that our village will not participate in this war, as I cannot let our village go against King Azure while our village resides in the Azurian kingdom.”
The crowd’s expression was still anxious and worried while the village head continued, “I cannot in full mind answer the Tri-king’s call and face the rage of King Azure, but if someone wishes to answer the call of the Tri-kings, it is your decision, and I will not stop anyone.”
The gravity of the decision settled over the villagers like a heavy fog. Murmurs of concern and determination rippled through the crowd. Families began to make preparations, understanding the dire need for unity and strength in the face of impending conflict and a decision to be made.
The old man and the village head exchanged a brief nod, understanding passing between them. Without a hint of concern, the old man turned and strode purposefully towards his house on the cliff. The village head, watching him go, muttered to himself with a furrowed brow, “The upcoming days are full of uncertainty.”
Upon reaching his home, the old man glanced casually at the wall where his newly forged swords were displayed. His eyes quickly noticed an empty spot where a sword was missing. He exhaled softly and muttered under his breath, “Not again.” Without dwelling on it further, he left the house, his movements steady and deliberate as he exited the village through the south gate and followed the route along the cliff into the forest.
To the east of the forest stood a tavern, rowdy and dimly lit. Its square hall reeked of ale and smoke, its wooden beams groaning under the weight of rogues, thieves, mercenaries, assassins, and bounty hunters who filled the place with laughter and shouts. Lanterns flickered as mugs clashed, coins traded hands, and dangerous games unfolded in every corner. A stairway at the far wall led to a shadowed upper floor.
Suddenly, the double doors creaked open. A cloaked figure entered, their face hidden, the hilt of a weapon jutting faintly from beneath the cloak. The figure moved with a quiet confidence, suddenly pulled out a sword from inside the cloak and spun it around and plunged a double-edged sword into the wooden floor with a solid thunk and placed a hand on its hilt from inside the cloak. The room fell momentarily silent, eyes drawn to the figure and the weapon. Interest quickly waned, however, as the patrons resumed their activities, unimpressed. The sword height is the same as the cloaked figure’s shoulder.
Then, a small boy stepped out from the back of the cloaked figure. With a show of clearing his throat to seek attention, he began to announce using a makeshift trumpet, “Greetings, everyone—barkeepers, assassins, cutpurses, and all who dwell in shadows. Before you see a sword forged by the finest blacksmith from the village of Katanha.”
The mention of Katanha caused a ripple of interest through the crowd. Conversations halted and heads turned, curiosity piqued. The boy continued, seizing the moment, “Anyone brave enough can come forward and face the mysterious figure. It is a simple challenge: if your weapon can withstand five strikes from this sword, then the sword is yours to keep. If not, you owe two gold coins to the challenger and one to the tavern owner, making a total of three coins. So, who’s brave enough to take on the challenge?”.
The room buzzed with renewed interest, eyes scanning the cloaked figure and the gleaming sword embedded in the floor. The legend of Katanha’s blacksmiths was well-known, and the opportunity to claim such a weapon was too tempting to ignore. But no one rose to the challenge, the small boy replied, “No one, uh!” The small boy was dumbstruck as he scanned the room, seeing the hesitation and knowing glances exchanged among the patrons. They seemed to recognise something, an unspoken past that kept them in their seats.
The small boy turned to look at the cloaked figure, who gave a subtle nod of understanding. Gathering his resolve, the boy cleared his throat again and announced, “Not only will you get to keep the sword, but we will also throw in 5 gold coins along with it, if you win.”
The atmosphere in the tavern remained tense, the weight of scepticism palpable among the patrons. The bartender, his lips curled in a small smirk, muttered under his breath as he wiped a glass, “How would anyone accept their challenge when they know they’ve never been defeated?“. A customer sitting nearby leaned forward, curiosity evident on his face. “Is it 6 times till now?” he asked. “No,” another replied with a knowing shake of his head, “it’s been 8 times so far,” while puffing on his smoke pipe and letting the smoke out.
“Not falling for it again,” grumbled a grizzled mercenary from his seat, his voice tinged with disdain. The patrons had grown wise to the game, unwilling to part with their hard-earned money for a seemingly impossible challenge.
Just as the small boy began to turn towards the cloaked figure, ready to concede defeat, he whispered mildly, with his head down in disappointment, “No one will fall for it a 9th time.” His words hung in the air with finality. But then, breaking the uneasy silence, a lone traveller rose from a shadowed corner of the room. He stood tall and muscular, a commanding presence amidst the sceptical crowd. His grey iron-armoured cloak clinked softly as he moved, revealing the heavy claymore strapped securely to his back. With a voice as calm and steady as the quiet before a storm, he declared, “I will accept your challenge.“
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