Yes—yes, it is. This is my funeral.
Gifford had spent his whole life on a dirt floor, alone in a small home. He lived each day digging in the dirt, looking for clay, and occasionally working it into pots and cups. The nice people ignored him, avoided him as if his twisted back, gimp leg, and dead face were a disease they might catch. The others—the not-so-nice—insulted and belittled. Even the few very nice people, the ones he dared call friends, still made him feel useless. They didn’t mean to. They thought they were being kind when they made a big deal of his pottery. Look what the cripple managed to do! Maybe they didn’t mean it like that, but that’s what he always heard. He was cursed. He was damned. The gods hated him, and he knew with absolute certainty that he would continue to invisibly dig in the dirt until one day he died covered in a slurry of silt. That was all he could ever hope for, that was the best, and he also knew he should be grateful. Anyone other than Aria’s son would have been abandoned to the forest when an infant. That didn’t happen to him—this did.
As the gate opened, Gifford, dressed in shining armor and wearing a gleaming sword on his side, sat on a beautiful white horse and looked out across the Grandford Bridge at the great pillars flying the Instarya banners. Beyond them, he saw the campfires of a vast army—the army he was about to single-handedly challenge on behalf of…of his lady.
I’m a hero like in a story or an old song. Me—Gifford the Cripple, also known as the troll boy—but not tonight. Tonight I’m a warrior, riding out of wondrous gates to do battle with gods.
He smiled then.
The guard noticed. “You really do want to die, don’t you?” He lingered, staring up at Gifford.
“No, but all people have to, and can you honestly think of a mo’ beautiful way to go?”
The guard gave him a sidelong stare, wetting his lower lip. “Are you sure you’re not an Instarya?”
Gifford shook his head. “Just the son of a bwave woman.”
“At least you’ll have the advantage of surprise,” the soldier said. “They sure won’t be expecting you.”
Gifford turned. “What’s yew name?”
“Plymerath, but my friends call me Plym.” The soldier looked out at the elven camp and then back up at Gifford. “Are you really going to attempt to ride through that and bring back help for us?”
“I weel-ly am.”
The soldier nodded. He switched the spear he held to his left and reached up with his right hand, holding his open palm out. “Then you can call me Plym.”
Gifford reached down and shook his hand. “Thanks, Plym.”
Gifford urged Naraspur forward.
“Good luck,” Plym said. “I hope you make it. You know what? Even if you don’t, I’m going to tell the story of the shining, mounted warrior who rode out the gates of Alon Rhist on a white horse to meet his destiny wearing a smile. How could I not? And while the story might die with us, for a short time you’ll be a hero.”
Gifford looked back, waiting for it, for the snide comment, or the parting kick. The you’re all right…for a cripple, or even the you’re brave…for a Rhune. Instead, he watched as Plym silently closed the gate.
Gifford was alone. He was heading for the bridge that spanned the Bern River gorge dressed in magic armor, with a magic sword, on the back of a magic horse. Not at all what I expected to be doing today.
Naraspur walked across the bridge, her hooves making a lonely clip-clop on the stone. Wasn’t hard to stay on her when she walked. Gifford sat up. No wind—everything was eerily calm. The faint growl of the cascades far below in the Bern River sounded like a cat purring. Some of the spray carried up. He could feel the damp on his face. Little beads of moisture formed on Naraspur’s mane. Overhead, stars sparkled, and a near full moon guided him, bathing the world in a pale light.
Your mother was special, Padera had told him, and you’re supposed to be special, too. I’ve taught you to fight. To fight when every single person around you would walk away. I’ve taught you to strive for the impossible because that’s what you’ll have to do. One day, you’ll have to do the impossible, Gifford. One day you’ll have to run faster and farther than anyone has because that is the only thing that will save our people. That’s why your mother died, and I won’t let her death be in vain.
He never knew his mother. Wished he had. From the stories he had heard, Aria seemed like a good person, a brave person, the sort of person he wanted to be.