For fifteen years, that's the greeting I alternately bellowed, minced, solemnized and sang out to the people that broached my doors. No more! The Stalwart Frog is no more. And so begins this, the journal of Melmac Marsh, once and future innkeep, but presently living the life of a sword for hire. HA! Me! Melmac Marsh, a sellsword. After 15 years of honest work, it scarcely seems possible.
At any rate, here's how it began.
Two weeks ago, I emptied out the common room as usual in the wee hours of the morn, and, giving the bar a last wipe - Ah! 'twas a brilliant bar! Imagine a felled tree, its crown removed, the bark removed, the top and bottom flattened and polished to a mirror sheen! It was the pride of my establishment, and my own addition - and headed up the stairs to my welcoming bed. A solitary bed, 'tis true...there be no Missus Melmac Marsh as to yet...but my soft down mattress and thick woolen blanket were welcoming nonetheless.
The life of the keeper of the lone tavern on the crossroads of the Prince's High Road and the Kalorian Way is a busy one. I'm - I WAS - open every day save New Year's Day, and no help save the occasional fly-by-night barmaid or traveling minstrel.
The Frog was originally founded by one Sergeant Bal O'Brisco - my sergeant in the Prince's Regiment of the Great War. The sergeant built the place with booty from the war, and as I was at loose ends, I volunteered for barkeep duty. Fifteen years ago the sergeant who kept his limbs and blood through six years of warfare, died quietly in his bed of fever. He had no next of kin, and I inherited myself a tavern.
It was a life that kept food in my belly and a roof over my head - that is, until two weeks ago.
I had scarce set bum to bed when I smelled smoke. 'Tis not uncommon to smell smoke at the Crossroads, but something told me this was different - especially when it became difficult to breathe. I crawled from the bed and down the stairs, the common room was alive with smoke and flame.
It was a near thing, but I grabbed that thick blanket from my bed, and dashed through the flames, stopping to grab the sword from its brackets on the wall behind the bar. And then I was out into the cool air.
I made some motions with a bucket and the stream, but it was no use. The dragonish flames would not be denied. My only victory in the battle was saving the tavern sign from its hanger over the door. You can see the device on the cover of this book: "The Stalwart Frog", a handsome hopper armed to the teeth with board and steel, fighting valorously.
Sorting through the wreckage afterwards, I discovered an old leather bridle; attaching this strapping to my sign, I fashioned a crude shield to complement the sword, and so began my career as sword for hire.
A word about the sword: Sergeant Bal obtained the sword on campaign in southern Kaloria. We had stopped in a gloomy section of those vast moory plains they have down there; it was Private Japeet that discovered the barrow. None of the men would enter the place, but I followed Bal into the darkness. I won't describe here what horrors plagued us in that pit, but when we emerged, I had a plain, golden armband as a souvenir, while Bal had the sword.
It's hilt is ordinary enough; bronze, with moderately rich sapphires set into the ends of the quillons, a slightly larger one in the pommel, the grip wrapped in leather. No, it's the sword's blade that is unique. The blade is straight and thin and razor sharp. People talk about blades being "razor sharp" as if it's a common feature. This sword never needs sharpening, never needs nicks milled out of it or the edge keened up. And it shines like a lady's mirror in the light. I served in the war with Sergeant Bal and we both saw hundreds and hundreds of swords. Neither of us ever saw the like of this blade.
But therein is the problem. Bal never named it HIS sword, and likewise 'tis not MY blade. It's just the sword. Or, should more of a name be required, the barrow-sword. In some strange fashion, it belongs to itself. Doesn't make sense does it? But that's the way it is. That's the way Sarge named it, and I understand his reasons, even if I can't write them.
So that's the beginning of it. I know not how the fire began. I left no fire burning, and the sky was clear of lightning. But it will be rebuilt and I will be the keep of the Stalwart Frog once more, or my name is not Melmac Marsh, sellsword extraordinaire.
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