A Collection of Fantasy and Science Fiction Short Stories - Special ...

Azro looked up at his father and shrugged as if the answer should have been
obvious. “I will stop when I bring home the head of a troll or some other beast. I won’t
stop until I become a hero. They’ll—“
“Sing of your adventures for centuries to come, right?” Tiloft sighed as he rolled
his eyes and turned away. Each time it was the same answer. “You’re sixteen-years-old
now, Azro. You’ve been doing well as an apprentice blacksmith. In a few years you
could leave your brother’s forge and start your own. Or at least take over mine when I
become too old to lift a hammer.”
Azro stared at his father’s broad back—saw the thick dreadlocks that stretched all
the way down to the middle of that wall of muscle—and shook his head. There were no
signs of old age in that strong back. It would be decades before his father would give up
blacksmithing.
“I don’t want to spend my life making weapons. I want to help people,” Azro said
as he followed Tiloft through the rows of stalls set up for the festival.
Tiloft shook his head and looked down at his son. “Swords help people Azro, and
you’re better at making them then you are at using them.”
“Yes, but only because there aren’t any master swordsmen around here. I would
be better if I had someone with more skill to spar with. If we lived closer to the capital I
could have found someone to train under years ago.” Azro spotted the tightening of his
father’s jaw and stopped walking.
“I will leave tonight, Father,” he called to Tiloft’s receding back. “Your youngest
son will become a hero soon.” He turned and looked at the surrounding stalls. Prized
fruits and vegetables were being judged to his left, directly in front of the school house,
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