Do note that the first verses depict the cause of his revenge.
The Lost Blacksmith
Attend the tale of Sanger Zonvold,
A tale of treachery woven by the hands of God.
Fifteen years ago…
There was a blacksmith and his wife,
And she was beautiful,
A foolish blacksmith and his wife,
She was his reason and his life,
And she was beautiful,
And she was virtuous,
And he was… naïve,
There was another man who saw,
That she was beautiful,
A pious vulture of the law,
Who with a gesture of his claw,
Removed the sentry from his plate,
Then there was nothing but to wait,
And she would fall,
So soft,
So young,
So lost and oh so beautiful!
Sven sighed as he set foot upon the shores of his homeland again.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of being caged. An eternity spent in darkness. He will pay, there’s no doubt.
The once familiar streets, which were used to be illuminated with warmth were now cloaked with frigid shadows, stank of malice and malevolence.
Sven shouldered his rucksack and trod slowly toward where his old smithy used to stand. What lay at his destination rooted him to the spot, as the ruins of his previous life held his gaze till the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon rose. A tap on his arm jerked him out of his reverie. Whirling, he beheld a blonde-haired young man with a dreadful scar across his forehead standing behind him.
“What happened here?” Sven implored.
“Fifteen years ago, there was a blacksmith who worked here. He was taken away by the guards, and no one has heard of him ever again.”
“Taken away by the guards? And his crime?”
“Foolishness. You see, he had this beautiful wife. The night after they took him away, Judge Branstein, aye, the honorable Judge Branstein, sent his henchman Ingram Wildschwein to abduct the blacksmith’s wife.”
“What befell her?”
“She was imprisoned. Fucked to no end every night like some harlot. Rumor has it that she poisoned herself two months later, unable to bear the shame. Poor thing.”
“NO!” Sven wailed as his hands clutched his head. His memories of his wife Euphemia le Britannia gushed through his mind as a volatile mix of emotions spun wildly within him, depriving him of the strength to stand and driving him to his knees in despair.
“So it’s you after all, Master Sanger!”
“No! Sanger Zonvold is dead! It’s Sven now. Sven Petrovich. And he will have his revenge.” Sven replied, his eyes afire with vengeance. Rage gave him strength to rise again. “You name me Master; is it you Ratsel?”
Ratsel Sibelwind nodded sadly. “I used to keep your forges hot as your apprentice, but those times are but distant memories now. Only one has survived. Follow me,” the young man gestured as he stepped over the ruins. Sven quietly tailed him and watched silently as Ratsel rummaged amongst the debris.
Sweeping away a pile of rubble that was once the roof, Ratsel reached down into an alcove hidden underneath the floorboard to retrieve an elongated package. After brushing off the layers of dust that had accumulated over the years, Ratsel slit open the wrapping to reveal a huge zweihander. The blade glowed as it reflected the moonlight. Solemnly and silently Ratsel handed the sword over to Sven. Speechless at first, Sven could only caress the weapon lovingly as he sang softly to himself:
This is my friend,
See how it glistens,
See this blade shine,
How he smiles,
In the light,
My friend,
My clever friend,
Till now your shine,
Was merely silver,
Friend,
You shall drip rubies,
You’ll soon drip precious rubies…
“The blade is chaste silver, isn’t it?”
“Silver, yes.” Sven murmured as he fingered the edge idly. “Goblins’.”
Crossing his wrists to grip the sword with both hands, Sanger pointed it skywards with a cry, “At last, my arm is complete again!” A tremulous smile graced his face, the first smile after all those years of torment and agony.
“What, may I ask, are you going to do now, Master?”
“I will find Branstein and put an end to him.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll leave.”
“Where to?”
Sven paused momentarily. “I don’t know. Mayhaps Felwood. I can hardly stay here after exacting my revenge.”
“I pray to Elune that we will meet again, master. It has, and will always be a pleasure to serve you.”
“You were ever faithful, Ratsel.” Sven smiled bitterly as he clapped a heavy hand on the shoulder of his former apprentice. “I ask one last duty of you.” With Ratsel’s aid Sven sheathed the sword and slung the scabbard across his back.
“Now tell me, where resides the foul knave?”
“I’ll lead you there myself.”
~~~
In front of Branstein’s manor, Sven parted ways with Ratsel. He drew a deep breath as he turned to face the oaken door-
Now then my friend. Time to your purpose. Patience, enjoy it, revenge can’t be taken in haste.
-then hammered a clenched fist against the wood.
The knocks were answered by a pompous squat man who promptly barked,
“What’s the ruckus about? Who the hell are you?”
“I presume, my good sir, that you would be Ingram Wildschwein?”
“How do you know my-“his words were cut short by a slash of Sven’s sword.
Sven stepped over Ingram’s body and surveyed it coldly as it bled out.
“One down. One more to go.”
Sword at the ready, Sven swiftly ascended to the second floor, slaughtering those unfortunate enough to appear before him as he sprinted from room to room. The screams of the dying pervaded the air as Sven’s sword callously sliced through flesh and bone.
At last he threw open a portal to regard his nemesis sitting comfortably in an armchair, sipping from a teacup and reading a tome.
“Ingram, how many times must I remind you, to NOT ever show your foul temper in this house?” Branstein snapped crossly without even bothering to look up.
“Ingram is dead.”
“What was that?” Branstein’s head whipped up in shock. “Who are you?”
“The years no doubt have changed me sir, but then I suppose the face of a blacksmith… the face of a prisoner in the dock is not particularly memorable.” Sven responded bleakly, his fingers stroking the edge of his dripping sword.
“Sanger Zonvold!” Branstein’s eyes widened in horror as truth sank into him; the truth that the person he had so unjustly deported fifteen years ago was now standing before him, very much alive and seeking his blood.
“SANGER ZONVOLD!” Sven roared as a golden aura of light erupted around him, empowering him with divine strength. He rammed his blade to the hilt into Branstein’s chest, withdrew it in an arc of blood, and then with repetitive strokes clove Branstein’s limp body into two gory halves. But Sven did not stop there; No, this blade would not be stopped until enough blood had been shed.
By the time the deed was done the carcass was beyond recognition. Sven fell upon his knees panting from exerting so much effort. Limply he let his weapon fall upon Branstein’s mutilated remains.
Rest now, my friend. Rest now forever. Sleep now, the untroubled sleep of the angels.
Sven rose and turned to leave, never to return.
Farewell now, my friend.
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