Taraborn stood before the noble man, two of his guards pinning his arms to his sides and holding him in place. Lord Amalir wiped blood from his nose, after the boy before him had head butted it. “You little shit!” He growls down at him. “I could have your head for that!”
“Well you tried to steal from me!” The fifteen-year-old yelled in response, struggling against the two large men either side of him to no avail.
“I merely took what is my right!” The noble man declared, “A sword was made for me, and I can only assume it was this one.” He gestures to the sword in his hand, a beautifully crafted masterpiece. It’s long, elegant, with a perfect shine and the perfect weighting. It’s hilt was decorated, many engravings on the cross guard and pommel, and fine black leather wrapped around the handle.
“Cunt! That’s mine!”
“Yours? Why would a commoner street rat like yourself need a blade such as this?” Amalir asked, his tone condescending and snide.
“My father crafted that for me! It’s mine!” Amalir only scoffs, and gives a nod to his guards. Kicking Taraborn’s legs from beneath him, he falls to his knees. He continues trying to pull away till he feels cold steel against the back of his neck.
“I should kill you as you kneel for daring to strike me.” The lord states angrily, then pauses, “but then what would the court say?” He pulls the sword, Taraborn’s sword, from his neck. “Take him away.”
The guards drag Taraborn away from the old forge and the house he had grown up in, where his father had worked his whole life. But now he was gone, and it was only fitting that Taraborn be forced to leave the next day.
He spent that night in a cell, awaiting a trial the next day. All he could think about was what had happened. His father had died, passing away in his sleep. He had known he was ill, something wrong in his blood the healers had said, and he wouldn’t last longer than a month. In that time, he had begun working on the finest sword he could, inheritance for his only, and now orphaned, son. Then Amalir had arrived the next day. He had commissioned a sword, and wanted to collect it or take his money back. Unfortunately, Taraborn hadn’t hidden his sword, and Amalir had taken a fancy to it. That was when he headbutted the nobleman.
Now here he was, sitting in the corner of a crowded cell awaiting the trial the next day.
*****
The trial came, and he was stood before the court, giving his account of what had happened. How he had told Amalir that his sword was ready, and he would fetch it for him, and that the sword Amalir had taken had been for himself, a gift from his father. Some of the jury believed him, some did not, most believed he was just a lying street urchin who deserved a good hiding.
It was decided. He would spend a day in the stocks. The judge, a higher noble than Amalir, taking pity on him. “His father had just died, he is a son grieving. But still it was wrong. He will get five lashings, beyond that, the stocks will teach him.”
So, for the next day, he is in the stocks. Searing summer heat beating down on him as the street urchins he had not long ago considered to be his friends pelt him with old fruit. He didn’t blame them, they knew not what he had done. The blame lay on Amalir. What gave him the right to take what he would when he would. Especially something of such importance to Taraborn. Even as an old tomato splats into his face he smiles slightly. He would get the sword back.
Two days later he left Minas Tirith, sword on his back and clad in new armour. He had sold the house and the forge, which had garnered some money, but he had earned more when he stole from Amalir. He had made his way throughout the mansion, taking what he fancied. He wasn’t stopped. Amalir was dead and the guards had no idea anything was wrong. With it, he had brought a horse and armour for himself, as well as many travelling provisions before leaving, never to come back for many years.
