Arn OF CLAYHAVEN
AUTUMN'S LONELY ROAD
by
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Arn woke to a dim, grey light, with a definite chill in the air. The coals in his small fireplace that had comforted him the night before had burned out. As Arn rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he had to feel beneath his pillow to see that the beautiful blade had not been a dream. It was still there. He smiled to himself and quickly went over and placed the blade in his hiding niche. He took out a small leather bag and had a brief visit with his few lead soldiers. Then he carefully returned them to their hiding place. He donned his clothes, for he knew it would be a long day. As he unbolted his door and went out of the small room, he saw the sky was heavily laden, brooding, and dark. A thick, soupy mist was about in many places, and it didn't look like it would burn off today. It looked like it was going to be a chilly, dreary day. He hated to muck out stalls in the rain. It was always most unpleasant. As he looked across the courtyard he saw his friend Greymist come out of the fog wagging his big, hairy tail. Greymist already had a thick winter coat and was himself dressed for whatever the winter might hold. Arn quickly broke his fast and to his delight it was precious leftovers from last eve's meal. Brother Francis and Father Kile were not present at breakfast and Brother Clement seemed strangely quiet. As Arn gave some precious scraps to Greymist, the big dog seemed to look at him with a bit of worry in his face, like perhaps he didn't like the fog either, or maybe he was just getting older and it was sinking into his bones. He patted the dog on the head and told him all would be well, and to curl up in one of the empty stalls to stay dry if it should rain. Arn retrieved his pitchfork and went off to his daily tasks. As he approached the inn, he heard the town's bell, which was mounted up on a large post not too far from the inn. There were three gongs, a pause, and three more gongs. Arn recognized this was the signal that the men of the village had something to be discussed with the elders or perhaps the lord of the town. The time was near when the local nobles and landlords collected their taxes and fees. Perhaps they would start collecting these early. Many men and some ladies of the town were going to the inn to hear whatever announcement was to be made. Arn, being a young man now of 12 summers, also went to hear the announcement. He felt a queasiness in the pit of his stomach that he had only felt when he had been scared of the graveyard outside of town when he was a lad. Arn quickly went to the large door of the inn to see that the fire had been stoked up in the center hearth and that many of the young men and elders, and some of the lady folk, had gathered around. To his surprise he saw that the one who seemed to be the center of attention was a herald of the high King of Southaven himself. Although this was unusual, Arn thought he would probably be announcing a new tax. He took a place standing near the doorway, because there was no place to sit, and watched quietly. The men of the tavern had never been nice to Arn. Cantree had always been cordial, at least, but he had never done much about the taunting. Sometimes they would throw half-eaten potatoes and such at him, saying he stank, and shouldn’t come into the inn stinking so badly. He remembered those events, and looked around and saw many of the faces that taunted him in the past. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible by shrinking against a support beam. Feeling the beam and wall to his back was somehow comforting. The herald cleared his throat, with a definite intent to get the crowd's attention. “Hear ye this. Hear ye,” he said in a clear, distinctive voice. “From his lordship the high King of Southaven, ye of the town of Clayhaven and the Lord Noble Moresfield of this region, are hereby levied to make available to his royal highness, as many combat-worthy men as possible. All who are of age from 12 to 62 are hereby ordered by his royal highness to gather upon ye what ye need for travel and for warfare, whatever equipage thereof that ye have. His highness will see to it that all who serve him nobly and well will be compensated for their time spent in his majesty's army.” This announcement immediately caused quite a stir among the townspeople. Arn realized with a cold shiver that 12 was his age, and levied he had just been. Thought Arn, What am I to do?
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About the Book
To all ye who seek adventure, and crave a story of a young underdog: Open this chronicle, for it is a magic gateway to the story of our hero, Arn of Clayhaven, an orphan raised by monks. He is scorned in his village and destined to be nobody in everyone's eyes, save a few friends. At only fifteen years of age, he is conscripted in a time of great peril for his home land. He must fight, not only the disdain of those around him and villainous threats to Southaven, but also for a sense of self worth. Unjustly accused of a crime, and forced into battle, he finds high adventure and friendship in strange places. Although he was a reluctant player in his own destiny, the cold hands of fate pulled him to the ends of the earth, to the shadowy Isle of the Dead.
About the Author
Greyson de Saye resides in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, which reminds him very much of his home, until he can return to the Silver Door Valley in Southaven. He stays in touch with Arn weekly, and is diligently writing other chronicles with the help of his assistants, Ann and young Godfrey. His time is spent in tending his gardens, caring for his various animals, practicing the art of cooking, and sharpening his sword skills so that he will not again be put down in a field of combat.