Upon the wall of The Knights Rest hangs a shield like no other. The main bulk of the metal is a deep, dark blue, accented with gold designs and fine markings—battered by age and war, yet still gleaming with pride. At its center is affixed a crest no longer recognized, but one that once held great weight and influence.

It was left by a mysterious wanderer who carried many tales and was deeply appreciative of the rest and refuge the tavern offered. After a few visits and many questions, the traveller told the story of the crest and his shield.

He sat by the hearth, staring daggers at the flames, as though daring them to sear his soul, so intense was his gaze. He began.

Many years ago, when my back was still straight and I could dual-wield full-sized halberds, my lord and patron ordered me to war. It was not a war I was comfortable with. We outnumbered them; their lines were full of men who had seen too many winters and boys who had seen too few. But my master was cruel, and in that time we were bound by land and oath alike.

I implored his grace to accept their surrender, but he would not have it. I tried again and again, finally breaking his patience and making him determined to break my will. My loved ones were taken, my land salted, and I was forced to the front line with minimal armor and blunt blades—effectively marching to my death.

Even with my lackluster equipment, my experience in battle far outweighed that of my opponents, and it kept me alive, while I watched innocents slaughtered all around me. One old man, in the throes of battle, stared deeply into my eyes, almost serene.

He spoke truths he could not have known—about me, my master, and our sordid past. My eyes begged to know how he possessed this knowledge, but before the question could leave my lips, a spear pierced his back and burst through the front of his armor. Still, he remained serene, staring intently, as if, when speaking soul to soul, the body held no merit.

“My master is the antithesis of yours. Where yours brings hate, mine brings love—cruelty matched with kindness, and abuse nullified by empathy. This is his shield. It was given to me to pass on to one with great power and a pure soul—one who knows how to reach the usurper and make justice real.”

As he spoke, the man before me died and shifted—from one weathered by age to one filled with vitality, yet bereft of breath. I took the shield firmly and charged my way out of battle. No blade seemed able to touch me, even as I walked from the front line to the encampments of the reserves some distance back. I continued to trudge; neither hunger nor thirst could touch me, nor did heat or cold affect my body, until I came upon the usurper’s throne.

There he stood, ready to destroy the one who had defied him. As I looked down before battle, to pray one last time before being felled by this mighty foe, I realized my arms were not my own—nor my body. Scars that had once marked my hands seemed to vanish. The weight of years and battle lifted. I was no longer the man I had been.

I was him—the one who gave me the shield.

Our blades screamed as they met. The usurper swung; I blocked with the shield bestowed upon me. The deep blue of the metal seemed to shift to liquid, as though the will behind it reshaped its form, swallowing the usurper’s weapon. He stared at me in disbelief.

“Impossible,” he spat. “I have rid the world of his magic—it cannot be his shield!”

I had questions, but they were drowned by my rage. I thrust. The blade pierced. His black blood flowed down my sword, over my body, and into the shield.

That was my final battle. Since then, I have wandered, using my strength to help the weak—building houses and tending farmland. The shield continues to hold its vitality, ready to absorb another wretched, diseased soul into its deep, dark blue.

Still, the shield hangs on the tavern wall, making those with ill intent uncomfortable for reasons unknown. It is said that when a brawl breaks out and glasses of ale begin flying, any that strike the shield simply pass through its deep blue metal, lost forever—though sometimes followed by a low, satisfied burp.

And on rare nights, when the tavern is quiet, some swear the gold crest at its center shifts.

Cover Photo: Design Stock photos by Vecteezy