"Ah do declare, Ox. You swing a mean sword for so young a lad. You’ll do us proud. Ah’ve not seen such talent since old Gadd first marched off for the Goblin Wars. And you’re even quicker than he wuz - stronger too." As always, Hereric spoke loudly, to make sure he heard himself.

Ox flushed with pride at the praise . . . and also with guilty shame because after tonight, he’d not be around to do the militia proud. He’d trained so hard because he knew that one day he leave this little town he was forced to call home, and he knew he’d need the skill. He enjoyed swordplay, but all the militia ever did was practice (and even then only with spears), and put out the occasional fire. They never had more to look forward to, and didn’t want more, most of them. The dull, boring country life suited them. Turning, he replaced the heavy wooden practice sword in the rack and took a ladle full of cool well-water, draining it in one long pull. Proffering the ladle to Hereric, who took it gratefully, Ox felt his own gratitude for the older man. If Hereric had not seen something in Thrydwulf Oxthew, he’d be training with spears like the rest of the militia.

Ox’s mind returned to the day, nearly three years in the past, when, only a little past his fifteenth birthday, he’d headed up to the training field with Denic Forgefire and some other young men from the village. It had been at the very start of their militia training and they still weren’t trusted even with spear, handling only staffs (but expected to act like they were spears). Halfway through the day, bored and frustrated with the simple weapon, Ox had wandered from the others and the droning voice of Byrnhorn, the man assigned to teach the new lads. Ox’s wandering feet had taken him to the place where the few knights and squires of the Margrave’s household trained swords and such with His Lordship’s sons, all under the watchful eye of Hereric. Ox had been impressed by the skill of the knights and older squires and amused by the fumbling attempts of the younger boys to use the sword.

Finally, his amusement escaped him and he snorted a laugh, "Maybe a tree’d suit ‘im better. Wouldn’t move for ‘im so much." Ox hadn’t meant to be heard, but he had been. The young man, a pockmarked squire named Glor Somesuch, had reddened (which had looked even funnier, given his very red hair), and challenged Ox. "What would a farm boy know of swordplay? You should run back to the cows, they need milking," he’d sneered.

Several of his fellows had laughed at this, even young Denic Wychcross with whom Ox had a passing acquaintance. However, even at fifteen, Thrydwulf did not come easily to anger. He’d just smiled back, saying, "Maybe more’n you think." And that had been that. One of the knights, malice clearly evident on his face, had fetched another of the wooden swords from the rack and tossed it to Ox, "Put your body where your mouth be, farmboy."

Ox caught the sword easily by the hilt. It had been heavier than he’d expected, but already he was much stronger than most and it hadn’t been a problem. Of more difficulty, the distribution of weigh differed significantly from the staffs and spears and even axes with which he had more familiarity. Still, after swinging it experimentally a few times, Ox felt confident he could handle it reasonably well. He’d nodded his readiness to the knight, who now regarded him with a certain speculation. The knight gestured for Ox and Glor to face-off in the practice area, raised his hand, and, with a last look at the combatants, said, "Ho!"

Glor had pounced with a surprising quickness, swinging his sword in a whistling arc aimed at Ox’s shoulder. However, for all his size and bulk, Thrydwulf Oxthew was quick himself, quicker than most, and he’d easily dodged aside. His own strike had been slow and clumsy, easily parried by the relatively more experienced Glor. To the accompanying cheers of his fellows, he’d then landed a glancing blow on Ox’s left leg. Ox had grimaced from the pain, backed away, swinging the sword a few more times to get its feel. Glor had advanced, sensing weakness. His next swing, however, had not been avoided but parried and they spent the next few moments trading blows, circling like drunken dancers. Suddenly, Ox saw something, a weakness in Glor’s attacks. When he attacked overhand, he was slow to get back to guard. When his next overhand attack came, Ox was ready. With a hard, but glancing swinging sideways parry, Ox knocked Glor’s blade aside and used the momentum of his own swing to bring the sword up, around, and down hard on Glor’s right shoulder. With a loud and meaty THWACK, the sword landed true and hard.

Glor dropped to one knee, his sword sliding from his numbed grasp. Ox had stepped back, breathing hard. He became aware of the silence around him, as the gentry took in what had happened. Then, "Well done, Thrydwulf. Now, return tuh the other farmboys." Hereric’s voice, strong and commanding, had left no room for argument. To the accompaniment of sniggers and chuckles (but none from Glor who eyed him with a cold hatred), Ox returned the sword to its place and walked away, thinking he would never return. He was wrong.

The next day he’d been summoned to Hereric’s office at the Margrave’s residence. He’d never been there before and felt a little afraid. But he went and well that he did. Hereric had wasted no time on formalities, beyond offering Ox hot, spiced cider, gratefully accepted. "Ah’ll not take time with hints, boy - not my way. You’ve a talent for swordplay such as Ah’ve rarely seen. It’d be wasted with the others, training spears only. The Margrave’s given permission for me tuh train you some with the knights and such. You’ll still have tuh train with the rest uh the lads, an’ that’s important. A fighter ought tuh know as many weapons as he can." He indicated a weapon rack on one wall, which contained four swords, a couple of spears, some daggers, and even a gleaming oaken staff. "Besides, the Margrave’s not got a sword he can spare for a farm boy, and you’ve not one of your own to carry to war, if it comes to that. Well, what do you say?"

Ox had said yes, and enthusiastically so. And so Thrydwulf Oxthew, son of Tatwulf Oakcudgle, had split his training time between the spear and the sword. Soon, he’d outstripped most of the other young men learning either and began to spend more and more time with Hereric and the more advanced students. When necessary, Hereric loaned Ox one of his own blades, and he taught the young man the fine points which separated a true swordsman from a fighter. One day, nearly two years later, as he, Hereric, and Lord Denic Wychcross shared a mug after practice, Hereric had given Ox a cloth-wrapped bundle.

"What’s this?" he’d asked. "Open it and see," had been Hereric’s reply. Inside, in a plain but well-made scabbard had been one of Hereric’s own blades. "Ah’ve got several. You have none. A swordsman like yourself oughta have his own blade. Care for it well." Ox nodded, so overcome that he’d not even tried to refuse, knowing that even the attempt would be insulting (and not really wishing to in any case).

"Ox, Ox," Ox came back to himself, suddenly aware that Hereric had called his name several times. "You OK? You went away for a bit?" Ox detected real concern in the blade-master’s voice.

"Yeah, Ah’m fine. Just thinking about how Ah got started with the swords," he said nostalgically and they shared at smile at the memory.

"That’s good. Ah thought you were thinkin’ uh tonight." Hereric laughed deep and long at the stunned, pole-axed expression on his young student’s face. "Ah do declare, Ox, you’d better never play cahds for money. Ah’ve seen more’n a few boys take off at night. Ah know the signs. Ah won’t ask were your headed cuz you’re too smart, whatever they say in the village, tuh tell me. Ah’ll only say be careful. Most uh the world just ain’t kind like Wychcross, son, Ah know. You’ll meet the decent people from time tuh time, but most folks, they be lookin’ out for themselves." He gripped Ox’s shoulder. "You come back with your friends when you’re ready. An if you come back rich, well, that’ll be gravy. Come, let’s share a last mug."

And so the teacher and student, the two swordsmen, the two friends shared a last mug of cool, refreshing ale and then Ox began the long walk home. He was glad not only that Hereric knew but that he understood and wouldn’t try to stop Ox and the others. Does he know about the Margrave’s son, Ox wondered. Probably not. It’d be worth his job and maybe his head if he knew and didn’t say anything. Ah’m glad Padder doesn’t know cuz he surely would stop us. He just doesn’t understand. Thrydwulf’s father, Tatwulf wanted Ox to settle down, now, marry, have some children, start his own farm, maybe, or perhaps a little business. Ox’s brother Aegenwulf planned to do just, that, happy in this bucolic life. Ox didn’t begrudge his brother that happiness. If it was his, so much the better. A man oughtta be happy, Ah say.

But not Thrydwulf Oxthew, by the Goddess! He was made for greater things than using his goddess bestows thews, the self-same thews which had earned him his name, to hew down stalks of corn or wheat! It was that reason, more than any other, that had led him to plan with the Denics and Katra the Vos, especially Roweena Brightheart to leave Wychcross - and tonight would see them gone. Suddenly, he recalled the last time he’d mentioned leaving to his father, and winced visibly at the thought. It had been early last spring, eighteen or nineteen moons ago . . .

"What!?" roared Tatwulf Oakcudgle. "Leave Wychcross? Why would yah want to do such a blamefool thing like that? It’s that Katra wench, no good Vos. She’s been fillin’ yer head with tales of adventure, Ah’ll warrant." He didn’t notice the sharp glance his son shot him. "Well let me tell you, Ox . . . Ha! That’s a good name fer yah, fer yah’ve not got the sense the Goddess gifted even an ox with. Ah tell you, Ah’ve been out, seen the world." He sneered so hard saying ‘world’ that Ox almost couldn’t understand him. "The world’s a mean place, son, ornery an’ mean, the way a raccoon is mean, all vicious and bitin’ first. It’ll hurt you sumthin fierce, yah go out there." He paused and visibly gained control of himself before continuing.

"Now, Thrydwulf, Ah wasn’t tryin’ tuh be mean before, but yah know it’s the honest truth; yer not the sharpest axe on the wall, but the Goddess gave yah a good, strong body instead. And Ah’m not the only one who’s thinkin’ that way. It’s time you married, settled down, raised some children." Ox nearly burst into laughter at this bucolic view of life, only just turning it into a cough at the last possible moment. Tatwulf paused, eyeing his son sharply before continuing. "Ah’d wanted tuh keep this a secret fer a bit longer, but Ah think it’ll do yah good tah hear it. Last month Ah was havin’ a pint with old Odo Widegirdle and you came up. He told me he’s been eyein’ yah fer real long time, now, an’ he likes what he sees. He’s of a mind fer yah tah marry little Burgwynn, his second daughter. Now how’s that fer luck? Yah barely intah your manhood and already with a wife waitin’ for yah." His father had beamed at this, doubtless seeing grandchildren and a place for him when he was too old to work the farm. He’d been lonely, even with two grown sons, since Thrydwulf’s mother had caught the lung plague last winter and died. "And what a wife; not only pretty but well dowered, Ah’ve no doubt!"

Ox had glowered at this. Him, marry the mean spirited Burgwynn? Never! If he had wanted to marry now, it would not be her. Oh, sure, she was pretty enough, as he and Denic had discussed many times. Sadly, her inner beauty did not match the outer. "Padder, Ah won’t marry that girl. She’s pretty, sure, an’ pretty mean." His father had become even angrier at this and they’d fought for an hour until Ox, pushed nearly to the limits of his endurance, had stormed from the house, fearing harm to his father.

As he walked home, Ox smiled at the memory of the weeks that had followed. It hadn’t taken long, in so small a village, for news of Burgwynn’s spurning to get out. Denic Forgefire, of course, had been instantaneously, and, as much as he ever was, vocally supportive, like the good friend he was. Many of his other so-called friends had openly questioned his sanity and then thanked the gods for their own good fortune. Burgwynn was still available and she’d not lacked for suitors. Her wedding had been just two months ago, to some fellow from Piping Hollow, Osgood something or other.

Ox’s smile was for the good that had come from that troubling time. Not only had he and Denic become even closer, strengthening a bond begun in childhood and reinforced by time spent training in the militia, but he’d garnered two new friends, people who had supported his decision, and, more importantly, understood it: Katra the Vos and, surprisingly, Rowena, the spoiled younger sister of Burgwynn. Apparently, she not only had all the inner beauty her sister lacked, but she knew her sister well. In the time since, the four of them had become close and it was from that closeness that the meeting planned for tonight had sprung.

As always, thoughts of Rowena brought a smile to Ox’s big, plain face. It’s a good thing Padder didn’t suggest Ah marry her. If he had, who knows. However, Ox knew that even that wouldn’t have worked. Whatever his feelings for Rowena, and he sure felt something, he didn’t want to marry yet.

As he crested the small hill which hid the home he shared with his father and brother, Aegenwulf, from the farm of Denic’s family, Ox knew the night would see him gone. Tonight, at midnight, he would meet his four friends, and they would leave this tiny village behind and see what treasures the world had waiting. Ox, despite being slow, was no fool. Ah know it might get dangerous, but that’s what makes it exciting, the not knowing.

He saw his father and brother working in the fields. He’d already got his stuff together, his bow and travel gear, some food, his armor. He didn’t like running out on his father and brother, but Wychcross, well it was just too small for a big guy like him. Besides, they’d be alright and Aegenwulf would probably marry old Ailmar’s daughter, Godelina, next summer. He certainly talked about it often enough, and that would give Padder the grandchildren he wanted.

Stripping off his gear, Ox threw on yesterday’s clothes and went out to help his father and brother one last time in the fields. It felt good to work with them, partly because he knew it was the last time. Dinner, a simple fair of vegetable stew with a little meat, was quiet and good and Ox had to fight to keep tears back. He knew he might never seen his father or brother again.

As midnight approached, Ox donned his gear, shouldered his pack, picked up his bedroll, and, quietly as a big man might (much more quietly than anyone would think), stole away and headed for the grove where the five friends planned to meet.

Ox is quiet. He understands that he’s not the smartest guy (or gal) around, so he’d rather let the smart people talk. After all, he’s got a sword to do the talking for him. Somewhere inside, he’s begun to fall for Rowena, but isn’t really aware of it, yet.