This story is one of a dozen "background flavor pieces" I wrote for Sierra On-Line's 1997 roleplaying title, Betrayal in Antara. All appeared either in the game, on Sierra's website as a teaser for the game, or both.

Halder's Tale
-- a winter’s fireside tale
story by Cindy Vanous, ©1997 Sierra On-Line

Before the enlightened times, long before the Kingdom of Antara, there stood in what would become the province of Ticor a small farming town called Larran. And though the town is now many generations gone, and even the stone fireplaces are dust in the fields, it will always be remembered as the place where Halder the blacksmith had his shop.

The people of the town regarded Halder with affection, for he was as good of a neighbor as anyone could wish for, and often took his payments in trade rather than coin if times were poor. And it must also be said that they regarded him with a certain awe, since the many years of pounding iron into horseshoes and plowshares had given him the strength of a cart-horse and arms like a trerang. And so his business prospered.

Now, there came one day to the town of Larran a traveling show, with dancers and joymen, fire-eaters and tricksters, and even a tame jaeger who watched the crowd through half-shut eyes. And they swept into town with a laugh and the jingle of cart-trappings, and suddenly the world seemed brighter and full of wonder. And even Halder was drawn from his shop by the sound of the merry procession.

That night, they performed in their encampment by the edge of town. Bright lanterns and streamers festooned the trees, their flickering colors making the woods look even darker outside of the ring of firelight. And fully a third of the townsfolk gathered to watch their show. The dancers juggled scarves and knives, the tricksters turned apples into birds, and the jaeger permitted the beast-handler to rub its belly.

But the festive crowd grew quiet as the show's end drew near, for the last act was always the most improbable. As it happened, the last performer to enter the clearing that night was a lanky, thin man with a nose like a hawk's beak and a diffident smile. He gestured, and four burly horse-handlers carefully carried a full-sized anvil to the center of the clearing. Still smiling, and with great flourish, the thin man bent and, astoundingly, lifted the anvil clear of the ground! And Halder, intrigued, determined to ask the man the secret of his great strength, for he looked no more muscled than a schoolboy.

After the performance, as the townsfolk reluctantly abandoned the clearing to return to their homes, Halder the blacksmith circled the troupe's camp in the hopes of catching a word with their strong man. But before he could step from the trees, he heard a man's voice in low tones, whispering unwelcome words.

The voice said that the town had been scouted and would be simple to rob, so long as most of the townsfolk were present at the following night's performance. Another voice replied scornfully that they could not help but come, since word would sweep through the town of a man who could lift anvils, and, after all, who could possibly guess what feats of strength would be displayed on the following night? The first voice replied placatingly, saying that the strength potion was certainly the second voice's finest creation yet.

Well, one thing you learn when you're a man the size of Halder is to control your temper. If you take offense easily, and always win the resultant fights, you hold no one's respect or regard for long. And so he kept himself hidden just inside the woods, and thought about what to do, and he waited. He waited until the performers had cooked their dinner over the fire. He waited until they had finished eating and opened the wineskins. He waited until they were deep in conversation and even further into their cups, and then he crept forth and let himself into the strong man's tent. For all his size, Halder could move very quietly when he wished. He emerged only a few minutes later with a smile on his face and a page of hastily-copied notes.

Now, in those days, mages were not well-regarded. Driven from their cities and palaces after the disaster of the Waste, they were thought to have sought refuge on foreign shores, and over the great northern mountains. But there are many useful things that a good and kind mage might do for a town, and so some few remained in their homes, and were passed off as farmers or peddlers or retired soldiers by the townsfolk. The town of Larran had one such mage, and it was to this old woman that Halder brought his purloined recipe.

His next stop was at the tavern called the Laughing Cat, where he dropped a terse word in the ears of the few people he trusted most. By the following evening, all was in readiness.

As expected, almost every man, woman, and child in the town attended the next performance. But, just as the troupe's trail-master was about to start the show (and the troupe's horse-handlers were about to sneak off and help themselves to the town's meager riches), Halder stepped up to the edge of the clearing and called for the strong man to perform. His call was taken up around the crowd, by several of the town's most popular citizens (all patrons of the Laughing Cat). The rest of the crowd soon followed suit, since after all, they had come to see feats of strength. Why should they have to wait until the end of the performance?

The trail-master, anxious to calm the crowd so that his thieves could make good their departure, called forth the strong man. Surprised but confident, that lanky charlatan took a swig from his wine-cup and stepped into the firelight. He gestured for his anvil and, after it was fetched, proceeded to lift it completely off the ground, to the great wonder and awe of the crowd.

That was when Halder took a drink from his own wineskin and stepped forward. He laughed out loud and said that lifting an anvil might be difficult, but surely a blacksmith could do it. Amused, the strong man stood back. But his smile turned to puzzlement when Halder hefted the anvil as easily as he himself had. And the puzzlement turned to shock and horror when Halder dropped the anvil with a cry of rage.

"A trick!" cried Halder, "This anvil is no heavier than a small boy! Why, my own sister could lift it!"

The assembled townsfolk began to mutter angrily, and when Halder's sister did in fact emerge from the crowd and pick up the anvil, the mutters turned to curses and well-aimed rocks. And so, with cries of fraud and trickery, they drove the panicked performers and would-be thieves from their town and their lands.

And Halder? Well, before the potion wore off, he and his sister manhandled the anvil back to the smithy, for what good blacksmith would turn down that much high-quality iron? And many many years later, he gave the whole story to his friends at the Laughing Cat, and that is how it came to be told over and over and even to this day. For although the smithy is dust and the anvil is rust and the town is all but forgotten, a good winter's tale will outlast even us, my friends.