We are all familiar, of course, with the heroic acts of that legendary group but, as is often the case, few accounts of their beginnings have been found. In my researches I have found only three documents that mention the swordmaster, Amber Hope, and her life before the foundation of one of the most legendary of teams.
The first document is a story recorded by the elfin troubadour Lissy North. In her introduction, the troubadour states that it was a story told by her mother, the renowned illusionist Bretta North, who, in turn, learned it from her grandfather who claimed to have met the famous swordmaster in his youth.
The second document claims to be an excerpt from Amber Hope’s personal journals. However, as it has been well established that the swordmaster rarely, if ever, talked of her past, the document is subject to suspicion. The truth of this is doubly hard to verify as it is appears to be only part of a larger whole; the bottom half has been torn off and the writing is obviously interrupted.
The last is an ancient dwarven forge chant that some claim was a tribute to the swordmaster. The chant seems rather nonspecific but does have certain similarities to both of the first two documents. It certainly seems an odd medium to pay tribute in if the other tales are to be believed.
Legend the First
Tonight on this night of wind and lightning I will tell you of Amber Hope. Ah, I see your eyes sparkle, my child, but remember that you asked for the beginning. These are our heroes before the legends.
Travel with me now just east of that molten place known as Death’s Sea near to the Dragon Mountains. Here are the Badlands as we know them now – thriving cities and fertile ground. See how the children there play games in the streets just as you do here? Let us turn our eyes just a bit northward and we find acres upon acres of yellow grain waving in the gentle wind. What’s this you tell me? Not yellow but amber? So it is. Keep your focus steady now and back we go many, many years to a time only a century after the end of the Scourge. See now? See how there is nothing but rocky hills and blasted heaths. Horrors still roam these places and only the bravest of heroes dare to travel deep into its boarders. Not too far into this desecrated place we see a lonely kaer and this is where our story begins.
When this kaer closed before the Scourge it was filled with the farmers and townsfolk of several neighboring communities; they called themselves the People of the Wheat. I see how you wrinkle your nose in disdain at these simple folk but remember, my child, that these people are heroes too in their own way. Is that confusion on your face? Perhaps you wonder how this can be if they do not have songs written of their many deeds? That, my dear, is their deed; they live and love and work and do what must be done and they do it in anonymity.
But back we go to this kaer and we see that it is opened and managing well though certainly no one would say it is thriving. These people are not the farmers that their ancestors were for their land will no longer support the skills of their fathers. Instead they are a people of craft. In return for the food and supplies so desperately needed, they trade quality items both common and rare. Few outsiders will risk coming to trade in this dangerous land and so it is that the People of the Wheat must take their goods a long distance from home. A few heroes come every year and try to convince these intractable people to move to a better place, a safer place, but this is their home and farmers, even the children of farmers, are often very stubborn people.
But where is Amber Hope, you wonder? She is not here. Look instead and see among the clever crafters the weaponsmith, Joy of my heart Miller, called Joy Miller. Her work is in hammer and steel and magic. Joy is aptly named for she finds great pleasure in the feel of the hammer bending red metal to her whim. See on the walls, a number of her creations; look closer and you can spot that each one has a small heart enameled on the hilt or haft of the weapon. This is her small joke for she puts her heart into the making of each weapon. Now the day wanes and she banks the forge’s fire. See the wistful smile on the edge of her lips; she is thinking of the only thing she loves more than the hammer and her forge, Calm as the stone Weaver, called Calm Weaver. Ah, how fortunate! Here he comes, striding on his long legs into the shop, eager to tell Joy of the newest thing he has learned. The elementalist’s robes swing about his ankles and pay a mocking tribute to his name; even the smallest of movements speak of barely contained energy. Calm’s eyes flash with the same energy; look now and see reflected in his gaze the thing that brought him home after many years of travel and adventure. In the twilight glow of the setting sun, the couple whisper promises of their future together. Let us leave the two alone in their happiness, for it is a momentary thing. Back home we come and I will simply tell you of the rest – it is not a thing for a child to see.
Now, the People of the Wheat were not foolish, merely stubborn, and every man, woman, and child learned the use of weapons and the other skills of war. Since the opening of their kaer, they had battled the denizens of the Badlands, including a number of minor horrors. But when the Horror came, they were little prepared for what they faced. At first they thought themselves at least partially successful for they held it off for many years – they did not realize how the Horror played with them. Nearly a thousand people died in those years of fighting. The weapons that Joy made for the fighters no longer bore the small enameled heart but rather the outline of a tear; these blades were forged in sorrow and quenched in blood.
Joy’s brother, Peace to my soul Miller, called Peace Miller, saw how the Horror mocked the People of the Wheat. He used the knowledge he had gained as a great swordmaster to rally the people once more for a final battle. No longer would the people be content to watch their numbers dwindle; either the Horror would fall or the kaer would be no more. Anyone who could hold a weapon, however meager, marched with the army.
The final battle was fierce and terrible. After three days time, the Horror was slain but at a terrible price. In its death throws it laid a curse upon the People of the Wheat and upon their lands; every Named thing connected to the pattern of that place became diseased. I will not tell you details of the disease, my child, but that it was painful in the extreme, dreadful to behold, and very fatal.
In vain the scholars and adepts searched for a cure but all they could find was a single legend that told of an item that might lift such a curse. The legend was ancient and vague; despite many pain filled hours spent researching, the scholars learned only that the name of the item was Faerlorn or, in the ancient language of the tale, the Hope of Life, and that it had been lost to treachery after its successful use by one Bril Nayth of Levens Hearth.
Still, the People of the Wheat did not give up. They loved their land dearly, even though there was little to love, and they would not forsake their home. Instead they saw a desperate hope; since the curse was tied to the land, if a person cut himself off from the land, perhaps the curse would loose its hold. However, it would not do to simply leave the land; the person would have to change his True Pattern enough so that the land and its people were no longer a part of it. All those left behind could be placed under a seal that would slow time enough that it might be possible for the item to be found. This became their plan. Three adepts would be chosen for the quest while the rest would seal themselves back within the subterranean depths of the kaer and put into a great sleep so that they would not have to live with the pain of the curse. The spellweavers, alone, would remain awake to protect. They, too, would be put under a time seal but these would not be spared the pain of the disease; they would find merely a prolonging of the final ending.
I see that look of longing on your face, child. Can it be that you wish to see this last, desperate plan put into action? Back, then, we go into the long forgotten history of this place; the People of the Wheat are already asleep in neat rows on the floor of the Great Cavern. Standing nearby, careful not to disrupt the circle of spellweavers, is a grey haired man. Do you recognize him? It is Joy’s brother, Peace. How he has aged since we saw him last; these have not been easy years. He, too, will remain awake to protect his sleeping people. And there, surrounded by the casters’ circle are the three chosen to forsake their names, their people, their land, their very lives. Look closely now; among them stands the weaponsmith Joy Miller. Look back at circle of spellweavers and there, do you see him? It is her lover Calm Weaver. They face each other with dry eyes for they have already said their goodbyes. Perhaps one day they will meet again.
The ritual starts. See how the small hairs on the participants’ arms raise with the presence of the magic?
But what is this? The spell begins to go awry; the Horror’s curse is more insidious than anyone had guessed. Lines of worry and strain begin to cross the features of the casters. They redouble their efforts and the three in the center of the circle sink to their knees under the weight of the warring magic. Rather than a gentle change from old to new, the patterns of the three are ripped and torn asunder.
There! One of the spellweavers has fallen! Peace rushes to help but he can do nothing; the caster is dead. The weavers continue on – the plan must go forward. The ritual must work! One by one they drop and Peace catches each as they fall; it is the last service he can give. Tears stream down his face; these were his friends, his boyhood companions.
And now only Calm is left to weave the threads. Peace holds him steady – the elementalist’s boundless energy is gone, sapped by the deviousness of the Horror’s curse. Tears of blood stream down his face and his body arches back as the last thread is woven and the magic at last flows through the completed matrix.
Open your eyes, my child. The worst is over. See? There is the one who was once known as Joy Miller lying crumpled on the floor, reaching out her hand to touch Calm. His eyes no longer shine but he smiles and from the floor he too reaches out. They hold hands for a moment and all is well. Listen now, do you hear? The one who was Joy whispers her love. Calm’s smile deepens and once again she is reflected in his eyes. But what’s this? He reaches with his other hand and unsheathes a dagger. This weapon, too, bears a heart at the center of the hilt but it is no whimsical thing of enamel; instead it is a ruby of deepest red. The woman sees but she does not protest; this is what must be. One last connection, too strong to break, holds her to the kaer. In one swift motion Calm severs the tie; with his death Hope is born.
Hush, my child. I warned you of the beginnings of things. But remember now the glorious deeds that are sung of Amber Hope. The Hope of life reborn in a desolate place. Hope that one day, the place that was her home in a different lifetime would once again support the People of the Wheat.
Legend the Second
I’m often asked about the renaming ritual and why I chose my name as I did. The three of us who underwent that torment picked names as reminders so that when the quest became difficult the sound of our names would reaffirm and reground us. The others became Rage of vengeance Hunter and Life in the wastes Seeker. I never asked them why. As for me, Amber in the fields was the condition I had to meet before my duty was completed and I could Hope to lay down for the last, great sleep. Let me explain.
When we buried Calm Weaver I destroyed the dagger that I had made for him. I hadn’t the heart to clean out the cooled molten ore that had once been my heartsblade and so I tossed the dagger in, ruby and all. That was all the grieving I could afford; I didn’t have time to wallow in misery. Nor were my companions content to let me do so. We didn't know how much time the spells of protection placed on the kaer would afford us and so I buried my grief and my despair. They sank deep into my heart and planted roots of anger and of rage.
When my brother, Peace, began to train me he saw the rage and, rather than help me to heal by rooting it out, he taught me to freeze it in icy uncaring, melted only by the heat of battle. I refused to care for anyone but Peace, Rage, and Life.
It took a long time for that ice to crack.
It first began to do so when I met William Halish, a thief of local renown. He somehow managed to pocket the blood pendant connecting me with Rage and Life. I chased him down and nearly killed him. The only reason I didn’t was because he convinced me that he could be useful. I had grown tired of hiring scouts and thieves to accompany me to every abandoned kaer with rumors of knowledge pertinent to my quest and he agreed to teach me the needed skills. We traveled together for some time before he was finally caught robbing some merchant’s house and hung for the thief he was. Even so, scamp that he was, I count him as the first friend I made.
It continued when I met the troll sky raider, Or’ham Su’andish’ir. I had been slogging through some swamp land, I don’t remember why, when a fierce lightning storm blew in. The next thing I know, a sky raider ship was falling from the sky. I ran to help but found all but one dead (from the lightning, not the fall). He was horribly injured and it was obvious that he would die if he didn’t get proper help. After several tense moments spent dancing around issues of honor, we discovered that we were both heading in the same direction and that I, as a weak human, would be in need of a bodyguard if I were to safely return back to civilized land. We talked of many things during that journey and he taught me what he could in exchange for his services as a bodyguard. We separated when we reached the nearest town; our goals were not the same though we wished each other well.
It was not long after that I met the good folk whom I would eventually form a group pattern with. I’m sure ……
Legend the Third
The battle raged
The battle won
The death toll high
‘Neath third day’s sun
And the living died of the curse
The living died of the curse
Chorus:
The arm lifts up
The hammer swings
The metal turns
The anvil rings
Bellows blow
And fire sings
Oh what I see in the fire
Can only be forged by the fire
The circle formed
The circle fell
The last link cut
Sound death’s knell
And Hope was born from the grave
Hope was born from the grave
Chorus
A pendant stolen
A chase begun
One thief caught
An ally won
For some secrets hide in the dark
Some secrets hide in the dark
Chorus
Lightning sparked
A ship crashed down
A race through swamp
One life found
So the troll taught Hope of the skies
The troll taught Hope of the skies
Chorus
Knowledge bought
A wife enslaved
Bind new companions
In lives now saved
And Hope travels alone no more
Hope travels alone no more
Chorus