Chapter Four
A Friend and a Dream
By the time he reached eleven, Ollie had begun to earn more responsibility. He was no longer just a faceless servant running unnoticed through the castle halls. He was given tasks that required more trust—tending to the stables, assisting the castle blacksmith, even delivering messages for the steward himself. He took pride in his work, always striving to do more, to prove himself to those who had taken him in. He had his new family here, and the guards who ruffled his hair and the knights who let him watch their training—they felt like a part of it too.
Ollie now spent most of his time in the forge, where the rhythmic clang of metal on metal and the hiss of steam from the quenching buckets surrounded him. He was mentored under the watchful eye of Reginald, Garriks’s old friend, who had taken Ollie under his wing as his apprentice. Reginald was a burly man with broad shoulders, and had known Garrick, Ollie’s father, for decades. Reginald’s son, Kenneth, also worked in the armory and was only a few months older than Ollie. The two of them quickly became inseparable – Kenneth was a bit taller and more confident, but Ollie had learned to match his friend’s enthusiasm.
The boys often challenged each other in friendly rivalry.
“Bet you can’t fix that sword faster than me!” Kenneth would challenge, grinning mischievously.
Ollie would laugh, his face bright. “We’ll see about that!”
They shared the dream of becoming knights, often discussing the ones they’d seen at the castle—tall, proud men in shining armor.
“I’ll have a sword as good as theirs one day,” Ollie would say, eyes wide with excitement. “And I’ll fight for the king, just like my father.”
Kenneth would grin, determination in his eyes. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Working together, Ollie and Kenneth learned the art of weapons in a way no other boy their age had. How the weight of a sword affected its use and how the balance of a shield determined its strength in battle.
Reginald, though strict, was patient, often saying, “You’ll never wield a sword with skill if you don’t understand it first. The sword is more than just a weapon; it’s an extension of your body. Treat it with respect.”
During an early evening, after a long day spent fixing a batch of damaged spears, Ollie and Kenneth sat side by side on the stone steps outside the forge, catching their breath. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the courtyard.
“I wonder what it’s like, you know, to actually fight in one of those battles,” Kenneth pondered, tossing a small stone up into the air and catching it. “To feel the weight of a sword in your hand, the pressure when the battle starts.”
Ollie shrugged, and found himself staring at the grand knights in the courtyard, watching them as they practiced in their shining armor, their swords gleaming in the sunlight. “I think it would be marvellous,” he breathed.
Just as Ollie was about to continue, the sound of heavy boots clunking against the ground disrupted his thoughts, and Sir Garrick rounded the corner.
“Father!” Ollie beamed.
Garrick gave him a quick nod, his brow furrowed as always, but his expression softened when he saw Ollie. “You’re working well, son. I’ve got word that some of the guards have reported a few problems on the western edge of the kingdom. I’ve been asked to help.”
Ollie’s heart leapt. He had always wanted to be like his father, to stand at his side and fight beside him as a knight. Garrick patted him on the shoulder.
“You boys are doing good,” he said, his voice low. “Keep it up.”
As his father turned and left, Ollie glanced at Kenneth.
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“Maybe one day, we’ll be lucky enough to fight beside them,” Ollie said, his voice soft with hope.
Kenneth smiled. “We’ll be ready when that day comes.”
Ollie had grown used to the tasks at the forge. Just like the blacksmiths in the village who shaped swords and shields, he now worked like one of them, fixing broken blades and ensuring each piece was sharp and ready for use. His hands had grown strong, callused from the many hours of work spent, sharpening the edges of all kinds – swords, spears, shields, battle axes. The shields would be reinforced and polished, their wooden surfaces smoothed until they gleamed in the torchlight.
One night, while tending to his duties in the armory, Ollie’s fate took another turn.
Ollie had been tasked with polishing the weapon racks, a tedious chore that left his arms aching. The air in the armory smelled of oiled leather and heated metal, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer ringing from the forge. He was nearly finished when he overheard a commotion outside. A servant rushed past the open doorway, nearly colliding with him.
“Bandits at the west gate!” the man panted. “The guards have engaged, but they need reinforcements!”
Ollie’s heart quickened. He had heard stories of attacks on the outskirts of the kingdom, of raiders who struck trade caravans and farmsteads, but never had trouble come so close to the castle itself.
For a moment, he hesitated. This was not his fight. He was a servant, not a warrior. But as he looked to the weapons laid out before him, gleaming in the torchlight, he knew the guards would need them. Without thinking, he grabbed a handful of swords and shields, barely managing to carry them in his arms, and sprinted toward the western courtyard.
Kenneth was close behind him, having heard the same call to action. His eyes were wide with the same mixture of excitement and fear that Ollie felt in his chest. “You can’t carry all of them, Ollie!” Kenneth shouted, grabbing a heavy axe from the rack. “Let me help!”
By the time they arrived, the scene was chaos. The guards were locked in combat, their shouts ringing through the stone passageways. The attackers were few but ruthless, wielding crude weapons with a ferocity that spoke of desperation. Ollie saw one of the younger guards falter, his sword knocked from his grip. Without thinking, Ollie rushed forward, tossing the man a fresh blade.
The guard caught it, barely sparing Ollie a glance before turning back to the fight. But another saw them—an older knight with a scar along his jaw, clad in the king’s colors. His eyes locked onto Ollie and Kenneth as they sprinted across the courtyard, bearing weapons.
“What are you two doing here?” the knight demanded, his sword flashing as he shoved an attacker back with his shield.
“Bringing weapons, sir!” Ollie gasped.
The knight’s eyes flickered to the swords in their arms, then back to the fray. He nodded sharply. “Good lads. Stay back, but keep them coming!”
Ollie and Kenneth did not need to be told twice. They ran back to the armory, retrieving more swords, shields, and spears. Trip after trip, their arms burned with the weight of the weapons, their hands bruised from the metal. They barely had time to breathe before rushing back to the courtyard, where the last of the bandits were being subdued.
When the last attacker had been dragged away, the knight with the scar approached Ollie and Kenneth, sheathing his sword. He looked them over, his eyes narrowed.
“What’s your name, boy?” the knight asked Ollie.
“Olivander, sir.”
“And yours?” the knight said, turning to Kenneth.
“Kenneth, sir.”
The knight’s lips twitched, as if impressed, though his expression remained stern. “You’ve both got more courage than sense. But you may have just saved a few lives today.”
Ollie swallowed hard, unsure what to say.
The knight turned to one of the other guards. “Tell the captain that these boys showed initiative. I want to keep an eye on them.”
As the words settled in, Ollie felt a rush of pride. Kenneth grinned, his excitement mirrored in Ollie’s chest. They had earned something that day—something more than the possibility of becoming blacksmiths. They were no longer just servant boys. They’d been noticed.
And in the castle, that meant everything.
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