Chapter 4 – Village and Traven II
All eyes turned towards the armoured traveller, murmurs rippling through the tavern like a wave. The bartender continued to clean his glass, shaking his head slightly as he muttered to himself, “Well, here goes another one, straight into the lion’s den.”
As the armoured warrior confidently stepped into the centre of the tavern, the small boy sidled up to a group near the bartender and climbed onto a tall chair despite his small height, a mischievous grin on his face. “Hey, can I get a glass of milk?” he quipped, drawing snickers from those around him. The bartender, wiping down a glass, glanced at the small boy with a smirk. “Milk, huh? Is that all you need?” he retorted, feigning pity for the armoured warrior who seemed to be underestimating the challenge ahead.
Turning to the patrons with a theatrical wave of his hand, the small boy raised his voice, announcing loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen! Place your bets! Will this mighty claymore withstand all five strikes, or will our challenger’s sword meet its match?” The crowd buzzed and hushed with speculation, some placing bets on two strikes, others on just one, and so on.
The armoured warrior stood poised before the cloaked figure, standing at 5’8”, as he looked down while the cloaked figure raised his head from inside his hood. Their eyes locked in a silent exchange of determination. Towering over the figure, the warrior swung his claymore in a powerful arc aimed at the cloaked figure’s sword. The blades collided with a resounding clash, sending a shockwave reverberating through the tavern and briefly exposing the youthful face beneath the cloak. Despite the forceful blow, the cloaked figure remained unmoved, hand steady on the hilt.
Recognising the strength of his opponent’s weapon, the armoured warrior hesitated momentarily, realising it was no ordinary sword. However, undeterred by the challenge, he maintained his resolve to prevail in this impromptu duel. The small boy raised his voice near the bartender. “Those who bet on the armoured warrior’s sword not lasting one strike—my apologies, you just lost your bet.” The crowd who had bet on the first strike groaned in frustration, but then a sound from the cloaked figure prompted the small boy to backtrack. “Okay, okay, that one doesn’t count as one of the five strikes. You’re still in the game.” The crowd cheered in relief, and the cloaked figure tilted his head slightly beneath the hood, grinning as he noticed the small crack that had appeared in the armoured warrior’s claymore from their clash.
The cloaked figure slowly removed his hood and cloak, revealing a slender, 16-year-old boy with a confident smirk. “Let’s begin the challenge now,” he announced with style, eyes fixed on the armoured warrior. “Hope you’re ready.” With deliberate steps, he retrieved his sword from the floor, the metal glinting in the dim light of the tavern. Taking a stance, he balanced the blade expertly, anticipation radiating from his poised form.
The armoured warrior’s confidence swelled as he observed the young boy, perceiving him as underestimating the challenge ahead. However, he mirrored the boy’s caution and assumed a defensive stance, unaware of the hidden damage to his claymore from the earlier clash. They stood only a few feet apart.
Murmurs of excitement filled the tavern, anticipation hanging heavy in the air as patrons raised their mugs. All eyes were fixed on the unfolding duel. “Here we go!” the crowd shouted with bated breath, eliciting nods of agreement from those nearby.
After a tense moment, the young boy lunged forward with swift grace, his first strike a calculated left swing aimed at the warrior’s side. The armoured warrior parried with a sharp clang of metal against metal, but the force of the blow revealed a slight tremor in his stance. Undeterred, the boy pivoted smoothly, executing a right swing with precision. Again, the warrior blocked, but the strain on his claymore was becoming evident as the crack lengthened.
Sensing an opening, the boy shifted tactics, launching a final powerful overhead strike aimed at the warrior’s helm. The warrior responded by raising his claymore to defend. The already-weakened blade could not withstand the force. With a resounding crack, the claymore shattered into pieces. The warrior stumbled backwards and crashed to the ground, left with only the hilt in his hand.
The impact reverberated through the tavern, met with a collective gasp from the onlookers. “There goes his claymore,” someone remarked in a resigned tone, acknowledging the inevitable outcome. Another voice chimed in, “Another one bites the dust.” A hushed voice followed, “He withstood it in three strikes, didn’t he?” reflecting on the swift conclusion of the duel.
Behind the bar, the bartender clinked his beer mug against the small boy’s milk mug in celebration. “Congratulations on winning the ninth time,” the bartender called out with a wry smile, acknowledging the boy’s continued dominance in the challenge. Around the tavern, grumbles and rueful chuckles rose from those who had bet against the young victor, their coins changing hands begrudgingly.
The young boy, basking in his victory, swung his sword with a flourish and rested it on his shoulder horizontally. “Sorry about your claymore, but it’s time to pay,” he said coolly to the armoured warrior, a confident smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. With an air of triumph, he turned and walked towards the small boy and the bartender, sheathing his sword at his back.
However, the armoured warrior, seething from the loss and humiliated by defeat at the hands of a mere boy, threw his broken claymore aside, rage bubbling within him. Rising to his feet, he charged at the young boy with murderous intent. The boy’s instincts kicked in; without turning back, he sensed the danger. He reached for the hilt of his sword, preparing to swing—only to be stopped by a firm grip on his wrist.
In a swift motion, from out of nowhere, a newcomer caught the boy’s hand to prevent him from drawing his sword while pressing his other hand against the armoured warrior’s chest, halting them both. “Whoa there,” a calm voice interjected. “Cool down, both of you. There’s no need for more bloodshed today.”
The sudden intervention froze both combatants, the newcomer’s calm authority defusing the tension in an instant. No one had even noticed his presence until now—he had appeared between the young boy and the armoured warrior.
A mix of fear and guilt washed over the young boy as he recognised the familiar grip. He turned to see who held him, only to realise it was his grandfather, the old man from the village. He had been caught taking his grandfather’s sword without permission.
“Grandpa?” the boy whispered, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.
The armoured warrior, still seething and struggling, found himself unable to move against the old man’s firm hold. Once the bartender noticed him, he smirked. “Fun’s over, gentlemen.” The small boy, who had been drinking the rest of his milk, spat it in shock upon seeing the old man. Quickly covering his head with a weathered hood, he deftly grabbed a pouch of coins, set aside a few for the milk, and melted into the crowd.
Turning to his grandson, the old man’s voice was stern yet tinged with affection. “I’ll deal with you once I’m finished with him.” Redirecting his attention to the armoured warrior, who was still struggling, the old man placed his palm against the man’s chest and pushed gently yet firmly. The warrior stumbled backwards, landing outside the traven, and his armour shattered into pieces under the pressure. Murmurs followed. “He could have left with some dignity after losing his sword, but now his armour’s in tatters.”
Taking his sword back from his grandson’s back, the old man secured it at his own. He turned to address the boy in front of everyone. “Shawn, how many times have I told you not to touch the sword, and not to come here?” Shawn hung his head, absorbing his grandfather’s scolding.
While reprimanding Shawn, the old man deftly kicked the broken claymore’s hilt on the ground in the air. With a flick, the shattered weapon sailed across the tavern and embedded itself in the wooden door beside the face of the small boy attempting to flee. The tavern fell silent. With a wry smile, the bartender muttered to himself, “Well, well, looks like he’s been caught, too.”
The small boy, shocked by the flying claymore, took a step back, breathing heavily. He lowered his head, crossed his arms, and walked towards Shawn and his grandfather, standing beside Shawn. The old man fixed him with a stern gaze and began scolding him as well. “Not you too, Ruth. Does your grandfather know you’ve left the village to participate in this Stratagem?” Both Shawn and Ruth kept silent, glancing at each other before muttering apologies in unison.
Shawn’s grandfather sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I am disappointed in both of you. Now, let’s go back to the village.” He turned and started walking out of the tavern, Shawn and Ruth following closely behind.
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