Chapter 1

In which we meet the bard, and also the hero of this tale: Holisz, orphan, kitchen boy, and stable-hand.

The sign, a carving of an enraged swine with tusks a-flashing and slaver a-dripping, advertised the Crashing Boar, a tavern where men of the village came to drink better ale than they’d get at home, and enjoy better company too for the most part! This evening, the tavern held but one patron. Others there would be, but for the nonce there was but the one. Bard he was, or such did he claim himself to be, and well regarded he was in the villages around.

Gray he was as well, and sparse of hair upon his pate! Yet was he known far and wide for his ready wit and endless fund of tales, some designed to inspire listeners with great deeds of bravery, while others were told merely to amuse the tavern’s patrons that they might provide the ale that kept the old man’s tongue loose.

Envied by some, deplored now and then by others, yet disparaged by none, for added to his ability to spin a tale he possessed an awesome ability to guzzle ale! Yet despite his thirst was he always welcome when he visited, for well known it was that the old bard was at his best when the ale flowed freely!

So it was that none among his audience would carp and quail at the reckoning when ‘twas presented by the tap-man at the close of an evening of such entertainment, and as for the tapmen themselves? Tavern-keepers are not known for their charity!

Yet ‘twas a fine investment, did the tapster reckon; a leathern jack of ale and a joint of beef, to hold the old man in the tavern until the village’s men should arrive with their coin! Copper of a certainty, silver belike, even a gold or two should a noble lodge at the tavern!

Aye, they regarded the old man’s dinner and occasional refreshment, paid by the tavern’s account, as a minor cost when reckoned against the additional jacks of ale bought by those who listed spellbound to his tales.

This day he had come to the door, seeking entry, and the tavern keeper quickly provided him a joint of beef, a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and a jack of ale. ‘Twas well received by the bard,. Far agone were the days when he had himself gone a-venturing, aye, as welcome in the company of heroes then as any other warrior! But time had done what the swords and lances of foes never could. His warring days now long a-gone and his wants few, the old man sustained himself by the sharpness not of sword, but of tongue and wit.

The taverner was well pleased to provide his best, that the old man might remain. ‘Twas an investment, for the village’s men and boys would soon learn that the old bard had stopped this day at the Crashing Boar. Then would they wend their way to the tavern, hungry for entertainment after a day in the fields, and prepared to remain until the last heroic tale was told. Some would purchase their own joint if their purses contained silver coin, while others of less means would content themselves with naught but a jack of the tap-man’s excellent ale. Yet all would remain content while they gave heed to the words of the bard.

The first customer soon entered, intending but to quaff an ale ere he wandered off home. A bit of a wastrel was he, noted less for his ability to work than for the allowance given him by his father; yet was he always welcomed by the tap-man, for ‘twas also known that he was free with his coin. He was as yet young and unseasoned, but even so had knowledge of the entertainment to come. So it was that he soon purchased a second foaming jack, this one his gift to the bard. The old man nodded his thanks and buried muzzle and even a bit of his luxurious moustache in the mug.

“Hast a lusty tale for us this night, good Bard?” the young man asked. “Belike a tale of Arthur, who did cut so many corners, even the ones on his high table, that men called it round? Who did make for himself a fortress of the place wherein the Saracens kept their beasts, the place known thereafter as the Camel-lot?”

“Nay, lad,” demurred the bard; “that tale is too often told, even by inferior tale-tellers and bards who are undeserving of such name! This evening do I offer ye the tale of Holisz, who faced great tragedy and even japes by the gods, whose sense of humor is oft cruel as all men know!

“Yet did the hero Holisz not allow such to daunt him! Aye, Holisz did more than that! Untried and unprepared, he attempted great sorcery, and thereby fell victim to the displeasure of the very gods themselves! For know ye, ere that fateful day Holisz, then a mere boy albeit a strapping one, was beneath the notice of the gods, even as I once was! But know ye also that tale-telling be thirsty work, and my tongue shall need wetting from time to time lest my words dry up and I feel the need to go a-wandering to the next village and tavern, where the ale may be equally pleasant to the taste and the customers more free with their purses!”

Even as the youth conversed with the bard did other men arrive at the Crashing Boar. ‘Tis a wonder, the speed whereby news passes in a village as wind doth stir the corn! The newcomers looked pointedly at the youngster, and he grumbled, as oft he did when called out for his stinge, but soon brought another jack of ale that the old bard not expire of thirst.

After a deep guzzle and momentarily, a prodigious belch, the old man smiled at his eager listeners and began his tale:

“Know ye, life was good for Holisz. Comely was he, stalwart, strong, and of good disposition! A way with horses had Holisz, and if he was not yet a seasoned warrior, still he prepared for the day when the need should find him. Men and women found him agreeable; if any grumped, why, most oft ‘twas the old wizard himself, he who was Holisz’ master in the study of arcane arts and who was otherwise employed by the baron to protect his lands. And none marked his words especially, for ‘tis well known that wizards be a grumpy lot at the best of times!

“Such had not always been so for Holis.; Hard-working his parents were, but poor as the beggars who wait outside the cathedral door, albeit more honest as a rule. Aye, ‘tis said they were not above forgetfulness when the baron’s tax collectors came by and demanded half of their grain! But doubtless such tales had their origin in the knowledge that his parents were no longer able to deny such slander.

“And by much inventiveness did the baron’s men-at-arms seek to cast aside any hint of sloth, that they themselves did discover the baron’s displeasure by lack of attentiveness to their duty, to protect the baron’s tenants! They much favored collecting, know ye, over patrolling and mayhap fighting against the desperate raiders who nibbled about the borders of the barony! So it was that Holisz’ ill-fortune came to pass by a sudden raid, such that he found himself losing in bare minutes family, friends, and home! Aye, ‘twas a day to break the stoutest of hearts, and for a child, ‘twas a misfortune beyond reckoning!

“He had been out and about, playing as young boys do, ere he was frightened by the loud noise. Quick to attend was Holisz, for he scurried into hiding beneath a growth of gorse! Face upon the ground, unseen and unseeing, he remained there until the raiders left and quiet returned. Know ye, he thought only of survival at that time, for while sight had he not, still did he hear the war-calls and death-screams. In time, the hoarse shouts of the victorious raiders died away in the distance along with the hoof-beats of their horses.

“Then did Holisz bestir himself and depart his covert. The village was not silent; nay, the sounds revealed the horror of that scene.” The old bard wagged his head at the image, quaffed deeply from his jack of ale, and wiped his gray mustache ere resuming his tale. “If Holisz sniffled, who can blame him? Not all were yet dead, ye ken, and well did they bemoan their ill fortune on that black day!

“But Holisz’ family called not, for the raiders had ended their lives, father, mother, and older sibs. Holisz, know ye, was alone, a child who seemed destined to die as had the others, but mayhap a slower death of starvation or the chance encounter with a wolf or cat. And might the raiders not decide to return? What to do? Holisz, even then, was not loath to act, for he slipped away in the brush, seeking and finding the small openings where a full-grown man would not dare to go.