"The Knights: Atrus" by Nathan W. Woods

Young, short, thin, and very obviously pregnant. Her raven hair hangs down to her waist. Dark circles under her eyes rob her of much of her beauty, but still it is obvious that she has the inner glow of the truly beautiful. She goes about chores in the small village like they should be no bother to a gravid woman. Mid day she is working in the garden. She waves at a neighbor, then suddenly collapses. The neighbor runs over calling for a healer. The neighbor grabs her under the arms, years of work and adrenaline adding the strength to get her to the healer. Quickly everyone in the town hears the calls and the Healer and the woman's husband step forward to take her. The husband and the neighbor carry her to the healer's hut while the healer runs inside to prepare a remedy of some kind. They place the woman on the table while the healer grabbed herbs off of his shelves to try to help her.
"Its too late."
"What? How do you know?" asked the healer. The man had his fingers along the artery in the woman's throat.
"Her heart has stopped, and her lips are blue." Then a flutter against his fingers… The woman gasps for breath and her body heaves in contraction.
"She is not dead yet, and neither is the baby, come I will need help. You Arreine go and bring the midwife. Perry, I need you to hold her in this position," the healer holds the woman up. "It will help both her breathing and the baby." The man nods as the midwife comes in followed by Arreine.
"Arie, I will need hot water and any clean linens you can find." The neighbor runs out while the Perry speaks soothing words into his wife's ears. The midwife prepares her self and starts chanting off instructions to both the wife and husband while the healer prepares a vile of a vile solution, mixing herbs and chanting incantations over them. He tips the woman's head back and pours the concoction down her throat. She coughs and immediately starts to breathe easier as the contractions become closer and closer together. She seems to be tiring but with a sudden final heave the baby is brought into the world. She sighs tiredly and seems to go to sleep. The husband looks at her with growing concern as he realizes that she came back only long enough to give birth to his child. The midwife cuts the cord and gives the baby a smart smack on the backside.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Screams the boy at the top of his small lungs. He has brown hair just like his father, but the eyes that would turn green were all his now dead mother's. He is small as babies go, but there looks to be nothing wrong after his torturous ordeal. His father is caught between weeping for joy and for grief at the passing of his young wife. Overcome with emotion, the man drops to his knees and weeps, his newborn son crying as well.

"Boy, come here!" yells the boy's father. A tired looking man now, his appearance much older than his years, stands in the garden, leaning heavily on a wooden cane.

"Yes, father?" the boy replies as he comes dashing around the side of the house. "What do you need?"

"Atrus, my boy," begins the man, "One day my time will come, and I will leave this world. When that time comes I want you to seek out Malleus, the hermit near the outskirts of town. I want you to stay with him until you are ready to journey out on your own."
"But, father, why do you wish me to stay with a hermit?" questioned the boy in his usual, curious tone. "He is old now, and doesn't even come in to town for supplies."
"Trust me, my son," his father said. "He will teach you much, Atrus. Much more than you could ever imagine."

"Father, I'm home!" calls Atrus, returning from his morning jog. Yet this day he receives no response to his entrance. "Father?" he calls out once more. Stepping further into the tiny home he looks right, to the kitchen, but does not see his father at the table. Turning left he ventures down a small corridor, a hallway, if it could be called that, to his own room. He glances in and sees only his bed, made neatly as he had left it this morning. A few steps more down the hallway and he comes to his father's bedroom. The oak door is open and Atrus ventures in. By the window, back to the doorway, sits his father.
"Father? I'm home," he says once more. The man in the chair does not move. Atrus, worried, rushes over to the chair and places a hand on his father's shoulder. Again the man does not move. With tears in his eyes the boy stumbles backwards towards the bed, finds it, and sits. A light crunch alerts him of a paper beneath him, and he slowly reaches down to retrieve it. Bringing crumpled paper to reading level he reads aloud softly, struggling to make out the harsh scribble hastily jotted down upon it.

"My son,
I fear my time is drawing near, and I shall pass this morn. When you return home I believe I will be gone, and I beg of you to be strong. Look under my bed. There you will find a chest, the contents of which Malleus will explain to you. Do not open the chest until you are safely within Malleus' care! He will tell you everything that I cannot. I love you, Atrus. Be strong, my son. One day you too will have a family and a lucky woman will be your wife. I will be watching over you.

All my love,
D. W."

Fighting back his tears Atrus makes his way back to his room. He gathers his scarce possessions and wraps them in his bedding, taking the chest in his other hand. He leaves the house and makes his way to the edge of the forest, just outside of town. He knows where the hermit's house is, and yet, for some reason, the trip there seems to take forever. Dusk is setting as he arrives at the cabin. He raps lightly on the door, which is quickly answered by an elderly man who still moves with cunning speed.
"Yes, what is it?" the man asks in a slightly husky voice. Atrus takes a long look at him and draws a deep breath before speaking.
"Are you...Malleus?" he asks the man standing in the doorway.
"Yes, I am he. Now what is it you're here for, boy?" Malleus replies, his tone slightly annoyed.
"My...my father," Atrus begins, but isn't able to finish the sentence before he breaks into tears.
"Come in, boy. Come in. I know why you've come here this night," Malleus said as he ushered Atrus into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. After leading him to a room, Malleus went to the kitchen and proceeded to mix a drink for the boy. In a little under an hour Atrus emerges from his room and meets Malleus in the kitchen.
"Ah, all better now are we?" Malleus says as he sees the boy enter the room. He offers him a seat at the table and gives him the herbal drink to soothe his nerves. After a short while in silence the boy speaks up.
"My father left me a chest," he said. "He told me I wasn't to open it until I was here." With that Atrus rushes to the room he was in and returns momentarily, carrying the chest. He lays it on the table in front of Malleus and, with a nod from the elder, releases the latch and opens it. The chest, a dull metallic color outside, was coated with red velvet inside. Inside was a sword, a magnificent sword, the handle engraved with an odd symbol.
"This, young Atrus, is your future. The responsibility you now face is awesome, but you are strong enough to handle it. This sword," Malleus said, illustrating the engraving by pointing with his finger, but not daring to touch it, "is known as the WhiteLion. I watched your grandfather grow with it, I watched your father grow with it, and now I have the privilege of watching you grow into a man with it. You were meant for this sword, Atrus. Take it in your hand now, take its power into yourself." With that Atrus reaches his hand out and slowly, cautiously, grips the hilt of the sword and lifts it from the chest. Within seconds a searing pain blasts throughout his arm, and he cries out in pain. His palm burns like fire, and yet he cannot release the sword from his grasp. With a final cry Atrus and the sword fall to the ground, landing in unison. Atrus lay there bordering the edge of unconsciousness for some time. His eyes drift from the blade to his hand, the engraving on the hilt now burnt into his right palm. Some time passes before he gains the strength the stand. When he does, Malleus is sitting patiently at the kitchen table.
"Come, Atrus," Malleus says, standing slowly. "You will need your rest. Tomorrow you begin your training."
"Training?" questions Atrus, a tired, confused look on his face.
"Yes, training. You are to become a Ranger, young Atrus. And a fine Ranger you will become..." These last words echo through Atrus' mind as he falls into a deep sleep, only moments after laying himself upon the cot in what is now his room.

Atrus wakes slowly, the late morning sun shining brightly onto his face through the window to his right. He sits up on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A few moments later he stands, changes clothes quickly, and emerges from his room. He doesn't see Malleus anywhere near, so he makes his way back to the kitchen. Glancing out the window he sees Malleus standing in the morning light, waiting. He hurriedly rushes out to meet him in the small patch of grass behind the cabin.
"Ah, Atrus!" Malleus calls to him in greeting. "I see you're up. Are you ready to begin your training?"
"Yes, I think so," he replied, still unsure of what was in store for him.
"Excellent," exclaims Malleus. "But before we begin I must explain the rest of the legend of the swords to you. There are 16 swords in this world, Atrus, 16 swords unlike any others. Each sword is unique, containing it's own special power and granting a gift to it's user. The swords cannot be used by anyone but their owner, not even held for more than an instant. If, for any reason, your sword is destroyed by a god it is gone forever, and the world has lost an invaluable item. If the sword is destroyed by a human, legend holds that it will be recreated upon this earth, in your lifetime or not, and find itself another worthy owner. Your sword, Atrus, is the WhiteLion. It is unique, as all of them are. This sword, whilst swift and deadly on it's own, will become even more powerful as its enemies fall. With each enemy slain by the WhiteLion it grows stronger and faster, growing more powerful until it's battle is done. Its gift to you, Atrus, is an interesting one indeed. While using the WhiteLion you have the power to communicate with any beast upon this earth, friendly or otherwise. The other swords all have abilities like and unlike yours, but you will discover this later. Now we must begin your training. You have much to learn, and you will learn, Atrus. Oh yes, you will learn..."

Atrus moves swiftly through the forest, silent as the subtle breeze blowing through it. His feet fall quickly on the forest floor, and yet no sound is heard. His youthful eyes dart this way and that, scanning his surroundings, taking in every detail. He notices the ultra-thin rope stretched between two trees, acting like a tripwire, into a well-hidden pit. Moments before reaching the rope he leaps silently up, grasping onto a branch and pulling himself up into the trees. He continues his stealthy movements in the treetops, darting from tree limb to tree limb with incredible speed. A sweat was beginning to break on his forehead and his breathing was starting to increase. He had been going for some time now, but a Ranger's stamina was one of his strong points. He kept up his pace for quite some time, all the while his eyes following the semi-visible track on the forest floor. His breathing was now heavy, and sweat was trickling down his face, being absorbed by his tunic. All of a sudden his foot lands upon a weak branch, and a heart rending snap is heard as it breaks from the tree. It falls to the ground, along with Atrus, who lands hard upon the earth. He coughs and groans lightly as he struggles to gain his wind back. In a few moments Malleus emerges from the trees to the north and comes to his side.
"Well done, my boy. You are learning very quickly. Do you know why you fell?" he questioned, always challenging the youth.
"I...I lost...concentration," Atrus said between deep breaths of air. "I didn't see...the branch was weak and...I fell. I'm sorry, teacher."
"It's alright, Atrus. You are becoming a fine Ranger. Come now, enough training for this day. Let us return home to rest." With that they return to the cabin by foot, have dinner, discuss the happenings of the day and make their way to the bedrooms for a well-deserved rest.

"Atrus, come here boy. It is time for you to put everything you have learned to the test." Malleus is older now, his hair white, his eyes tired. He speaks slower now, as if he struggles to push each word from his mouth.
"Excellent!" exclaims Atrus. "I've been waiting for this day to come!" Atrus himself is older as well. He has grown taller, stronger. His body is stronger and his stamina is outstanding. He is able to push himself beyond what most men could ever accomplish. His tracking skills are on par with those specialized in the field and his mobility is an inspiration to the townspeople. "What do you wish me to do?" he asks.
"Atrus, there is a gang of thieves that travels the land, plundering all that they find. I have received word they are no more than a day's journey from here. You must stop them before they reach Oakwood! The townspeople here stand no chance against a band of thieves. Travel north, through the forest. Within it you will find an encampment, their home. I want you to get rid of them, Atrus, however you can. Take your sword with you, this will be your first real test. Fail here, and you may very well perish. Succeed, and you shall be ready to learn the last part about the legend." Malleus looks off into the sunrise and lets out a long, tired sigh. His faith in Atrus is astounding, but he would hate to see him fail now.
"Don't worry teacher. I will take care of these thieves and put an end to their foolish treachery." Atrus glances at Malleus, his eyes full of the love he felt for his parents, and now feels for this man, his father for the past 8 years. He pats him lightly on the back and makes his way inside to prepare for the task awaiting him. He puts on his equipment: a suit of leather armor, leather boots, gray pants, and a green cloak. He straps his scabbard to his left side and sheathes the WhiteLion in it. He gathers a small amount of food in a pouch and emerges from the cabin once again. With a wave he bids farewell to his friend and teacher. In moments he is in the forest, working through the trees with incredible speed. His feet hit the ground, one after another, only a near silent thump coming each time they hit. His cloak matches the color of the trees and brush found throughout the forest, acting as camouflage.

Several hours pass and still Atrus has found no signs of the thieves. He was about to settle down for a short rest when something caught his attention. He hears voices in the distance, though not too far. Slowing himself, he moves stealthily through the brush, following the voices. In a few moments he catches sight of two men, rough and weathered, not well equipped to be plundering cities.
"He doesn't know what he's talking about, I say we take him tonight, he's been leading us through this forest forever!" one of the men says in an annoyed, angered tone.
"I...I don't know, I think he knows what he's doing. Come on, let's get back to camp before the others get suspicious," replies the other. The two turn around and begin trudging back through the forest, leaving a trail even the most inept tracker could follow. Atrus follows them silently, always keeping just out of sight in case the men turn around. After a short walk the two thieves clear the brush between some trees and reveal a small glade within the forest. Four wooden watchtowers sit in the corners, each roofed and containing one visible lookout. There are various tents set up within the perimeter. Brown tents, a soft appearance and yet durable no doubt. A circle of rocks and pile of wood in the center of the camp indicate the locals are preparing to build a fire for the night. Atrus glances around the outskirts of the camp and notes a smaller circle of rocks between each of the towers, totaling 5 fires in all. Various barrels, wooden, weathered and beaten, some leaking, are gathered on the west side of the encampment. Still unnoticed, Atrus sneaks off to plan his assault during the night.

A cricket's chirp awakens Atrus from a slight dose. He glances around, alert, and looks up to the sky above. Through the treetops he makes out the moon, shining full and white, high in the night sky. Gathering his wits once more Atrus makes his way around to the southeast corner of the camp, hiding in the brush a few meters from the nearest watchtower. His cloak has taken on a darker hue now, the forest green of the day had dulled to a near black shade in the night. Atrus looks up to the tower, noting the guard. He watches him for several minutes, noting his patterns in watch. Once the time is right, Atrus sets his plan into motion. Dashing from the brush silently he makes his way to the base of the watchtower. The ladder leading up appears to be in bad shape, but able to support a man's weight. Atrus ascends the latter slowly, bare hand and booted foot ascending a single rung at a time. He stops a few rungs short of the top, waiting for a short moment to allow the guard to turn to the north, just on schedule. Siezing his windows of opportunity Atrus hurries up the latter, pulling himself into the tower and landing with a soft thud upon the wood. Slightly startled the guard whirls around only to meet a swift blade across the throat. Silently the man falls to the floor of the tower, blood oozing from the gash within his jugular vein. Blood drips from the tip of the WhiteLion and it takes on a slightly reddish hue, sensing the approaching battle. Atrus props the sword against the tower's side wall and grabs the guard's short bow off his back. Pulling a single arrow from the dead man's quiver he proceeds to wrap the head of the arrow in a cloth, only exposing enough of the tip to allow the arrow to stick in it's victim. Lifting the arrow in his left hand he quickly swings it through the flame of the torch on the side of the tower. It alights with a hiss and emits a soft glow from the center of the tower. In a singular motion Atrus is standing in the tower, flaming arrow drawn back upon the bow, attracting attention from the guards in the other watch towers.
"Your evil deeds stop today!" he cries, releasing the arrow from the bow. It flies straight and true, landing loudly in the side of a barrel. The guards in the towers let out cries of their own and thieves come streaming out from the tents scattered throughout the camp. As they gather their wits and weapons the arrow ignites the ale seeping from the barrel holding it. With an enormous noise the barrel explodes, sending flames and wood splinters out in all directions. Various shouts come from the camp as thieves fall dead, wooden spikes sticking from their chests. Tents surrounding the barrels burst into flames, casting a pale red light throughout the encampment. Smoke pours from the flames as Atrus descends the guard tower ladder, sword in hand. The thieves shout out in a drunken rage, charging blindly through the smoke. Atrus meets the first of the group and readies his sword. The man brings his hatchet high and lets out a cry as he charges the ranger. A clumsy swing leaves him open for attack, and the WhiteLion finds its mark along the man's backside. Blood coats the side of the blade as the hue reddens, the sword growing stronger. Atrus brings the sword close and charges into the smoke, meeting the thieves inside the confusion of the fray. He swings his blade again, catching a man across the chest, sending him to the ground with ease. Atrus falls to the ground swiftly as a club swings across the air above him at great speed. He turns over onto his back and lets out a gasp as a sword falls upon his torso. A few seconds pass and he feels no pain, no blood seeping from him. He opens his eyes and turns his head to the right, finding the owner of the sword. The man lays on the ground, sword laying in his limp hand, a gaping knife wound in his side. Atrus praised the stars as his plan began to take effect. Caught off guard the thieves had begun fighting blindly within the smoke, swinging at anything that moved. Standing once more Atrus gathers his wits quickly and looks around him. Through the thick fog of smoke he can make out a figure to his left, back turned. The man falls to the ground dead without a sound, the WhiteLion sliding out from the wound piercing him back to front. Atrus spins around and catches another man in the side before he is hit deftly on the left shoulder with a hard, spiked object. Crying out in pain he drops to the ground, blood running slowly from the four holes in his armor. He rolls to his left just in time to see the same mace smash into the ground where his head previously was. Jumping to his feet Atrus swings at the man, his sword being met by the metal of his opponent's weapon. Another swing is parried, an attack dodged, the two fight viciously for a few moments before a thrust, too fast for the man to parry, catches him in the lower right chest. The battle rages on for a good twenty minutes before the fires burn themselves out and the fighting has ceased. Atrus looks around, WhiteLion in hand and glowing an eerie red, and spots a few thieves scattered throughout the camp, but well nonetheless. Taking a deep breath Atrus raises his sword once more, locking eyes with the nearest opponent. In seconds the man turns tail and dashes into the forest, the others following suit, all running blindly in different directions. The camp lies in ruins, the campfire in the center making the only noise, a harsh crackling of flame upon wood. Letting out a sigh Atrus places the WhiteLion back into it's sheath. He glances once more throughout the camp before turning back towards Oakwood and his teacher. He stretches his legs and begins the considerable walk home, in the dark no less. His work is finished, and he is anxious to see what awaits him and his blade the next day.

Arriving home early the next morning, Atrus finds Malleus sitting outside on a tree stump. His eyes are as bloodshot from lack of sleep as the young boy's, but he sits tall and stands quickly upon seeing the boy.
"By the stars, Atrus! By the stars! You did it!" he shouts, walking hastily towards the boy.
"Malleus," Atrus begins, "the sword...it's...amazing!"
"I knew you were the true owner Atrus. Only a man worthy of such a blade could take on such odds and emerge triumphant." Malleus wraps his arms around the young man and hugs him soundly, but his grip lessens considerably when Atrus winces.
"What is it son?" he asks in a worried tone. Atrus remains silent and gestures to the holes in his armor, streaks of blood dried beneath each one.
"Come boy," instructs the elder man. "Let us get you inside and take care of those wounds." The next day Atrus awakens late, stretching his sore muscles and avoiding the use of his damaged left shoulder. He emerges from his room and meets Malleus in the kitchen.
"Good morning, Atrus!" Malleus says with a smile. "I'm sure you're dying to know what I could not tell you before. Come, sit. All will be explained now." Atrus sat at the table besides Malleus and listening intently to what the man had to say.

"By owning that sword, Atrus, you are sworn to a loyal order of knights who fight to bring peace to our world. They total sixteen in all, each of them with their own sword. This order will meet in a few days and you must attend. There you will meet the owners of the other swords, all in the same situation as you. You cannot escape this fate Atrus. You were chosen and you alone can aid the knights in their journey. I will show you the way to their next meeting place later today, but first, tell me of the thieves. I'm dying to hear just how you pulled that one off." Malleus' words were full of vigor and energy, and Atrus was eager to tell him all of the events the happened that night. Atrus finished the story and left with Malleus to see the way to the meeting place. Three days later they were at the same road again, Atrus clad in his armor, WhiteLion at his side, pack on his back. "Farewell, my son. Safe journey! There is nary a doubt in my mind you will achieve much with the knights." And it was with those words in mind that Atrus set off to begin the journey of a lifetime.