The Acquisition

The Tavern

Far to the east, in a land more cold than warm, was nestled the small village of Gorod. The village was situated on the plains, and it was surrounded by distant mountains topped with dense forests of hardwood trees. The people of Gorod were peasant folk. Stocky and fair-haired, they farmed the rich fields and plied their simple trades. Seldom, if ever, did anyone chance to venture from the village. Seldom, still, did they ever return.

In the middle of Gorod stood a tavern of rough-hewn wood. The tavern was called the Antlers, for that was what hung over the doorway. The antlers were sun-bleached, bony white and porous, marking their age in seasons. Fare at the Antlers was meager. The only beverage served was mead. The mead was stout, however, and it was the best in the village. In the evening, as the sun went down, villagers would cease their labors and stop by for a brew before sitting down to their meal and subsequently dropping off to a restful sleep. This pastime usually was limited to the younger of the folk who still had the energy left after a day's work.

Today, however, was different. Now the tavern bustled with farmers anxious to hear the latest reports. A monstrous sow, which only the few remaining elders remembered, had returned. The return of Kathryn was news indeed!

Kathryn was far from being an ordinary sow. Some believed that she was a demon wrought by the curse of Baba Yaga. Others thought she was the reincarnation of Baba Yaga herself. The evil sorceress who had died more than a century ago was still recalled in tales around the hearth, but she was considered as more of a children's story. Even men of stout heart now shivered at the mention of Kathryn. From whence Kathryn returned, no one knew. When her foul temper suited her, she would leave the dark forest and raze the fields, burn the summer crops with her breath and ravage all in her path. The countryside was blighted.

"Yeauh, I saw her!" said the Miller. "She was big as a bull, she was. Her mouth was full of big awful teeth." The Miller grimaced to illustrate the remark with his own jagged dental work.

"Who's going to drive her away?" asked the farmer who first saw her.

"I saw her too," added another farmer. "She spit out a fiery froth and set my rye ablaze. My crop is lost. What am I going to do?"

"Someone should go after her and kill her," suggested another farmer.

Nobody looked the farmer in the eye. Nobody even wanted to hint that he might wish to undertake such a task, for it seemed true; Baba Yaga had returned in some other form.

"Who's going to drive her away?" Asked the same worried farmer as he wrung his hands.

"Anybody who is fool enough to follow her back into the forest will never return," commented another.

The door to the tavern opened and a wobbly-legged figure wended its way around the oaken benches to find a seat near the kegs.

"Yeauh, that's a fact," sneered the Miller as he eyed Banewood staggering through the door. "Maybe our Shaman can fix her one of his spells. Kathryn'd get so dizzy that she might burn herself into a hole!" Everyone laughed at the Miller's remark and at their stumbling Shaman, who had been attempting to induce a vision by smoking some hebona. Banewood was still reeling and talking to the air as he tried to pour himself a draught. Everyone laughed again, forgetting Kathryn for the moment.

The apprentice Shaman sat with his mead and weathered the jeers brought on by the Miller. Banewood wondered why he came to the Antlers rather than stay at home to sleep off the effects of the powerful smoke that he used for divination. He found a quiet seat far from the burly Miller and sipped from his flagon of mead. His head cleared slowly. Banewood recalled his flying vision through the forest to what appeared to be a dilapidated hovel. From the darkened door peered two crimson eyes -- eyes that haunted Banewood for the remainder of his trance.

Kathryn could hardly be forgotten. She was black and as large as the largest bull, just as the Miller had described. From her mouth, which bristled with large and irregular teeth, she could spew a cloud of caustic vapor that would ignite objects it came in contact with.

The fact that Kathryn's eyes were red. brought on the notion that she was really Baba Yaga.

When she had lived, Baba Yaga was known for her blazing red eyes which defied description. They shone of their own light -- a bright, bloody red. Tales of her sorcery were numerous. She was known to fly and to take on animal forms. In any form she took, she worked solely for evil. Never actually seeking mastery over men, she controlled them only long enough to bring them to ruin. As an outcast throughout her life, Baba Yaga came to hate humans or any reminder that life was good.

To the inhabitants of Gorod, Baba Yaga seemed to live far beyond her years. As time progressed, she made fewer appearances, but her evil work continued through lesser genii which were under her mastery. Eventually there came rumors of her death. Her demise was never confirmed, for nobody had the courage to approach her dwelling within the dark forest. Whenever a marauding beast met its end, it was with the anticipation that it might have been Baba Yaga in one of her forms. Deathly visages, the skins of wolves and bears and a large stuffed owl adorned the tavern wall; silent reminders that the black forest was never far away.

When the wide doors opened again, they offered Sod the plowman to the gossiping crowd. Sod was dressed in the brown, earth-crusted clothes of a farmer. He was richly tanned and had the muscular heaviness as befited his trade. Within his brow, his eyes were deep and clear. They sparkled with a life seen in few other faces of the village. This time, worry lines corded across the plowman's brow. Sod went to Banewood when he saw where he was and sat before the smiling Shaman. In his hands, Sod carried a burlap bundle, which he placed carefully on the table before Banewood. A crowd gathered as Banewood unwrapped it. Silently and soberly, Banewood lifted the cloth and revealed a sword.

Before the wide eyes of the gathered crowd lay a sword of unsurpassed beauty. The sword sat bright. It was about two cubits long, but it had the grace and balance of a finely wrought instrument. Its edge was keen. Unadorned, the hilt was of a hard, white material which shone immaculately. The sword had the gloss and weight of a material more like porcelain than metal; it rang clearly when struck.

Sod looked as amazed and perplexed as Banewood. The strong but unassuming plowman gazed steadily at the sword. The two, sword and person, appeared almost as if they were measuring one another.

"The sword looked just like this when my plow turned it up." Said the plowman, breaking the silence which had accumulated.

At once, theories were offered as to the possible origin of the sword.

"It looks like it was made by magic." Said a farmer.

"It was probably made by Pollocks," snarled the Miller, who washed his remark with a gulp of mead. If the Miller seemed spiteful of everything, it was because he was. He resented his life and occupation, and he thought that everyone should share his bitterness. To the Miller, his crude remarks were an anodyne for the harsh realities of life.

"The sword is crafted as if it is beyond age," Banewood countered. He shot a reproachful look at the Miller. "Yet it looks as if it might have just been forged." "It could have been made by the Ludki," he thought silently to himself.

The Ludki were a legendary race of little people fabled for their craftsmanship with metals. They were reputed to be peace-loving, however, and were not known to craft weapons. Aloud, Banewood said "For those who believe that the present holds the greatest marvels, I say: Look again and consider this ancient treasure! There is some timeless magic within it."

The Shaman felt more power emanating from the strange weapon than he stated openly. His knowledge of lore extended far beyond the simple life of Gorod, yet he was at a loss to determine the history of the sword. It could have been crafted by the Ludki but... his knowledge was incomplete.

Banewood was a loner. He was twice orphaned: once by his parents who perished in a blaze and once by the Shaman who'd adopted him, only to die himself several years later. The Shaman had only just begun the long task of training his apprentice. When the Shaman died, Banewood was left with only his master's books and the roughest of outlines to follow in his quest for the greater knowledge. Because Banewood continued on the road to knowledge with no guide, a task never attempted before, he would often err. The apprentice would sometimes find himself wandering alone in a stuporous haze brought on by smoking some of the strange concoctions left by the Shaman. Once, when the Shaman lived, Banewood had a guide to help him through these tortuous visions which helped to give a Shaman his knowledge and opened the secret doors of power to him. Now alone, Banewood faltered like a man blind. His acquisition of power was slow and unsure.

Banewood noticed how well the sword fit the hand of the plowman. When Sod hefted it, the sword moved easily, as if it were pliant with the wishes of its wielder.

When the crowd at the Antlers had all viewed the sword, the conversation turned to the possible use of the sword against Kathryn. They talked of what damage such a sword could do to its victim. Each offered his opinion of a sufficiently brave fellow, one other than himself. A challenge to one's manhood was quickly answered by bluster and puffery but not by a volunteer.

"Yeauh, maybe our Shaman could fix up one of his..."

"Shut up!" Came the unexpected response from the usually demure Banewood.

The Miller sat transfixed, his hand at his throat, unable to utter a sound. There was silence.

"What did you do to him!" Yelled one of the Miller's companions as he started to lunge for Banewood.

At that instant, the room resounded with a loud bang and the splintering of wood. One of the large oaken tables lay on the ground, cloven in two. The lunging man stopped in his tracks and stared in disbelief. Sod, still holding the sword, blushed. His only response to the crowd of farmers was a firm, "I'll do it."

Comraderie again filled the air. Fresh kegs were tapped and toasts were offered to Sod. Men normally distant to Sod hugged him to show their admiration for him, to bask in reflected glory and to wish the best of luck to the doomed fellow.

"Yes, with such a weapon, one could take on Baba Yaga herself!" said a distant relative to Sod who wondered of his own claim to the doomed man's land and oxen.

Sod left the celebration early. He needed to sleep and to ponder the consequences of his decision. "What had happened?" he asked himself. He had been fondling the hilt of the sword at the time the near fight broke out. He had been weighing a decision to seek the monstrous sow and had made his resolution as the Miller made his last remark. Sod had only thought of stopping the incipient brawl by slapping his weapon down on the table. It was a common method of gaining attention. Now he found himself alone on a vain quest.

Sod the plowman lived alone in his hut of modest means. The modesty was of twofold nature: Sod spent his long days in the fields and his nights resting from the day's labors, and Sod's livelihood as a plowman brought him only a meager subsistence. Sod enjoyed his occupation, for he knew he must make the best of his situation chances were that it would be for life. The physical exertion of guiding a plow did not demand a similar mental exertion. Therefore, Sod spent his working time dreaming of other lives and other worlds -- noble dreams in the mind of a simple man. In Sod's fantasy, he would roam the kingdom as a knight errant, working deeds for glory and profit, for surely, people paid well for such special services. These were mere dreams, however, and Sod realized that he possessed neither the ability nor the courage to live the life of a hero.

And now what was he to do? He was commited to a suicidal quest on the basis of momentary courage. What could he say? He found a strange and unique weapon and that weapon offered itself as a chance, a fleeting opportunity that must be seized and used at the instant it is offered. Sod was unaccustomed to making such hasty decisions, but equally, he was unaccustomed to receiving opportunities. Sod the plowman dropped off to sleep, still clutching his new sword.

In the early morning Sod awoke to the usual sound of birds chirping outside of his dwelling. He had already packed the meager belongings he wished to take on his journey. Crafting a makeshift strap, Sod girded the newfound sword to his side and stepped outside to begin his journey. He almost stumbled across a reclining figure.

"Banewood! What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you. I'm going with you," Banewood said as he limberly rose without the aid of his hands. A satchel lay at his side and a quiver full of arrows hung across his back. The old Shaman's longbow was gripped by Banewood's left hand.

"Don't you realize that this is going to be a dangerous trip? Few venture into the forest to return again."

"Yes, I realize the consequences. I have a knowledge of the trees, and besides, two can travel safer than one." Banewood didn't mention that he'd already decided to attempt the quest himself.

Sod slapped his new comrade on the back and silently thanked his luck that he would have a companion on such a fateful journey. Together, they marched down the dusty path that led away from Gorod and across the fields. On their walk they passed by stooped women already gathering herbs from their gardens. A few men were working in the fields. The men stopped momentarily to wave to the departing travelers. The night's comraderie was worn and forgotten.

If they had talked about this journey and their reasons for going, Banewood and Sod would each have realized their similarity. Banewood's quest for knowledge was proceeding slowly, much too slowly. Still, Banewood felt that he knew as much as any man in Gorod about the ways of their primitive world. Banewood knew that something had to be done about Kathryn. If Gorod didn't offer a means to the solution, then maybe the answer lay elsewhere. Sod, on the other hand, was not on a quest for any knowledge -- he was instead trapped in the occupation of the plowman. His work had dignity, though, and Sod felt good about it. The sword changed Sod's outlook, though. He felt that fate was offering him some sort of opportunity; that given the means to accomplish something, he must seize the opportunity and act upon it. Somehow, it seemed that the sword was capable of slaying Kathryn, that all it took was the resolve to accomplish it.