Chapter 1: Trial By Fire (pt. 2)

Previously in The Tale of Jarthen, we saw our hero chastised by the powerful centaur, Glothnafar, while performing tedious tasks. Though Jarthen remains constant in his belief in the justness of his new cause, he laments that his lowly position and isolation from the other creatures in the Rebel Forces. In addition we met Jarthen's best friend from the West Fethil, Bertronius Worthis, who has vowed to avenge his friend's death, and ran away from home.
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“Finished at last.” Jarthen sighed after a long day of pot washing: he felt as if his hands would never dry out. His daily labor now complete, the young lad decided he had earned a well-deserved rest. The rebel encampment lay in a large clearing, covering almost a full square mile in size, and was protected from outsiders by several miles of thick forest. The cook had told Jarthen to clean the pots on the edge of camp (which seemed quite prudent), but this meant that Jarthen was a decent walk from his tent. Fatigue weighed heavily on Jarthen, and he came to the conclusion that the distance was too far to walk, so he put the freshly cleaned pots aside and settled against a nearby tree where the clearing gave way to the denser, darker interior of the woods.

The Erkenheld was an massive, ancient virgin forest dominated by towering oak, hickory, and maple trees that created a nearly impenetrable canopy of foliage. The forest floor was carpeted in a heavy layer of decomposing leaves, large stones, and ferns, which proliferated in the moist, shady interior of the forest. Jarthen felt as if he could sense a strange, wild magick emanating from the trees. This, combined with his knowledge that the Erkenheld was home to creatures stranger and potentially more dangerous than even those in the rebel army, made him reluctant to venture unaccompanied into the forest any further.

the dark and moody interior of the Erkenheld Forest

Jarthen was snapped out of his drowsy, contemplative mood by a strange noise nearby. Is was a rustling, like something small and quick running through the underbrush. Then he thought he heard high-pitched chattering behind him. Jarthen was unnerved, and after scooping up the pots and pans he’d just washed, retreated back into the relative calm and security of the clearing. He headed off in the direction of the tent he shared with several elves, and deposited the pots with the cook on the way back. Just as he was about to throw himself down on the spare straw mattress that acted as his bed, he heard Jellihondor, the commander of the battalion to which Jarthen had been assigned, calling his troops to order. Exhausted, Jarthen dragged his body and mind away from his waiting mattress, and headed towards the elf commander.

*****

Bertronius banged on the heavy wooden door of the guard shack at the garrison’s gate. A pimply-faced youth not much older than Bertronius himself answered the door. In a sullen, sneering voice, the guardsman asked, “what do you want?”

“I’m here to see the garrison commander. I want to join the ranks of Her Royal Majesty’s Imperial Army,” Bertronius responded defiantly.

“Well he isn’t seeing anyone right this minute, ‘specially not punk kids like you,” the guard replied in the same sniping voice.

“I’ll have your pock-marked hide if you don’t let me through!” Bertronius shouted with an unexpected fury that clearly caught the young soldier off guard. “Do you have any idea who my father is? Are you not familiar with the name…Worthis?”

At the mention of Bertronius’s surname, the guard’s entire deportment changed dramatically: he stood erect at attention, and addressed the younger boy with the same respectful deference he would speak to an officer. “Yes sir, right away,” the guard replied, clapping his heels together as he rushed to get the gate open, shouting to other soldiers to hurry up: a Worthis was at the gates, and could not be kept waiting.

Bertronius was used to such treatment. Only one child of his age treated him in anything other than a sycophantic manner. That fearless young boy was none other than Jarthen Furblog. In a world that never told him the truth, Bertronius could always rely on Jarthen for an honest opinion. It was this quality, combined with Jarthen’s quick wit and good nature that cemented their friendship.

the dilapidated West Fethil garrison

*****

Jarthen had been assigned to a battalion of elf archers, as elves, with their slight build and nimble movement, most resembled the newly recruited young boy. Although he was quite glad that he had been captured and drafted into the rebel army, Jarthen was beginning to grow tired of the tedium of camp life: despite being in a combat battalion, the elves had not undertook to use Jarthen as nothing more than a gofer (much as he had been in the Imperial Army), ordering him about with an air of contempt. The boy still hadn’t gotten used to being scoffed at and frowned upon for being human by the assortment of creatures that composed the Rebel Forces. Resigned to the further menial labor that seemed to be his fate, Jarthen approached his battalion and prepared himself to scrub, lug, shovel, or polish whatever it was that needed doing.

“Alrigh’ lads,” Jellihondor began gruffly, “time for you lot ta’ practice yer shootin’. Make two lines.” The aged elf then turned to Jarthen, gestured for the lad to join him on a nearby log, where he proceeded to pack a pipe of with elvish pipe weed. After Jarthen sat down and Jellihondor’s pipe was well-lit, he embarked upon a very long explanation of how the elvish monetary system (an interesting, if somewhat arcane subject) came into being. During the recounting of this long history, Jarthen found it difficult to keep his eyes from glazing over and began to wonder why the elf was telling him this, when Jellihondor finally got to the end of his speech, concluding, “go ta’ the carpenter: yer ta’ ha’ yer bow.”

“What?” Jarthen asked, when it was clear that he was supposed to do something—he had long since stopped paying attention.

“Yer ta’ ha’ yer bow!” Jellihondor said slowly, clearly exasperated.

He was finally to have his weapon. He could hardly believe his ears: the sign of a true soldier! Not delaying even to respond to his superior, Jarthen set off at a gallop away from the elves’ long, low tents (which were tall enough for most elves to stand in, if they cocked their heads to the side) to where he knew the carpenter to have established himself.

Jarthen was becoming more and more familiar with the wide variety of structures in the camp, which belied the diversity of the rebel army. Jarthen sprinted past the sleeping forms of several dwarves, who being a hardy, rustic people eschewed any form of shelter, preferring to sleep exposed to the elements, their weapons by their side, ready to leap to the attack. Being formidable fighters, Jarthen took care to tread quietly. After the dwarves, Jarthen ran past the huge circular huts constructed by the Rebel Force’s giants. After winding his way between the massive shelters, which looked so daunting that no one in his right mind would consider threatening the camp after having seen them, Jarthen finally saw the gnomish dwellings. They were round, and made of skins stretched over a wooden frame, much like a wigwam.

The carpenter was an elderly gnome by the name of Nadras: he was short-tempered, but eminently skilled at his profession. Gnomes were renowned for their woodworking ability: indeed, this was the realm in which their ability to command magic was most apparent. Gnomish bows were reputed to fire farther and more accurately than the ranged weapons made by any other race, and were also practically indestructible.

Jarthen must have awoken Nadras from a rather good dream, as the gnome greeted him with an exceptionally bleary eyed look of anger. “What the devil do you want at an hour like this?” the gnome demanded.

Ignoring the fact that it was now getting close to sundown, and Nadras had probably been sleeping since breakfast, Jarthen responded that his commander had sent him to get a bow. The gnome pushed his pair of round spectacles up his nose and examined Jarthen from head to toe, and after a moment, said “You’ll be the man-child then. Well let’s see what I’ve got.”

The gnome hobbled over to a collection of bows of various lengths and widths, and after perusing them and muttering to himself, Nadras settled on one and handed it to Jarthen. Jarthen tried to pull its rope towards him, but found that it was far too tightly strung for him to even be able to make it budge. The gnome watched Jarthen’s futile struggling with a smirk on his bearded old face. “Well,” the gnome grunted, “I guess we’ll be needing a slightly less powerful weapon then.”

Nadras returned the first bow to its location, and handed Jarthen another, lighter bow. As soon as Jarthen laid his hands on it, he felt a bolt of electricity travel through his entire body. For the first time that Jarthen entered his workshop, he saw the gnome smile as he remarked, “that’ll be the one then, let’s get ye some arrows.” Jarthen plucked the bowstring and it responded with a satisfying ‘plunk.’ Despite the light weight of the wood, the bow felt strong, and powerful: it was if it was alive in his hands: it implored him to use it. Jarthen muttered some thanks when the gnome returned with a quiver laden with arrows, and then departed as quickly as he had arrived.
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³For detailed information about the size and location of the Erkenheld forest, see here.