Here are a few small stories to give you a feel for Fritzholm's personality and development:
Jumping out of a tree
Leaving Lyonspire
An attack on the Master Trader
Favor in Engle
Fritzholm saved in a swamp
On trial in Jarad
The knife game
Fritz blinked until his blurred vision began to clear. From this vantage point on the ground the tree looked as though it stretched all the way up to the clouds. He thought about the story his father had told him about the boy who climbed a tree up into the clouds. That's what Fritz wanted to do someday - climb up into the clouds. He was sure there was a lot of excitement up there.
"Are you OK, you clutz?" his sister called from some unseen part of the tree. He sat up. His left arm and side hurt, but he was fine. He actually liked the numb feeling of a fall as long as he landed someplace soft.
"I didn't fall ya know. I jumped!" he shouted up to his sister. Of course he was a terrible tree climber, but he could almost convince himself that he had tumbled off the branch on purpose.
"I'm going to have to tie a rope to you. One of these days your gonna fall on your head and Dad is gonna chew me out good for letting you do it."
Sara was 4 years older than Fritz. She looked after him while their father in town trading goods. He had been away for days now and Fritz was beginning to miss him. Sara and Fritz were able to take care of themselves even though neither was even 14 years of age. Still, he missed his father's stories and jokes. He missed hunting with his father. Maybe Dad would bring back a book from town.
"You gonna sit on the ground all day, or are you gonna climb up here? I think I can see some deer from here." Sara told him.
"OK." Fritz jumped and hoisted himself into the tree.
"Woodsman Hammermill, you have served me well. In these last four years you have enacted many fine deeds. You have done more than your share to make our lands safe. You have proven yourself capable beyond your current position. Now I find myself in need of a new Captain-of-arms. I could have very easily chosen you..." Lord Lyons stopped and settled back in his large-backed oaken chair. His face now longer illuminated by the closest lamp. "but I have not."
The words came as less of a shock to Fritzholm than a grim assurance. He had, not two weeks ago, been foretold of such by the truest seer in all of Lyonspire. The small stump of a woman had gazed into Fritzholm's eyes and seen there, clear as the purest pool, the he would need to travel to attain greatness and that no further good could come of his stay. He remembered wondering why he should leave Lord Lyons, who had been nothing but kind and fair to him. Now he began to see.
"You see. I must have a Captain who holds and upholds the laws of the land in high light. My captains must follow my commands and policies above their own - something you are not the man to do. You are too willful and unpredictable. You must be your own man. You must mark your own path. Stay on as a woodsman as long as you like, but should you decide to move on I will grant you whatever support you need to begin you success."
Fritzholm suited up in his field armor, climbed upon a gift stead, and rode out of Lyonspire the next day.
Shontinno had only been inside the hall for a few minutes when Fritzholm heard a faint thud and a muffled cry. He spun from his position outside the door and charged into the hall. At the far end near the guildmaster's chambers stood a shadowy leather clad figure brandishing a small mace and another dragging Shontinno's body away. Figuring that the second man wouldn't get far dragging a body he beset upon the mace wielder. With large powerful strides Fritzholm bounded down the hall and plowed full steam into his opponent. A nearby pillar provided an excellent stop to his charge and the man with the mace made good padding for his shoulder. Fritzholm stepped back. While the man staggered trying to regain his wind Fritzholm drew the greatsword from his back and chopped the sword firmly into the man's knee.
Fritzholm shifted and turned to his right to see where the second assailant had gotten to. He was still trying to drag Shontinno off. The second man was smaller than the man on the floor clutching his leg and he didn't have a weapon drawn. A smile crossed Fritzholm's face as he ran at the second attacker. The rouge bolted, forsaking Shontinno's body. Fritzholm lumbered down the side passage after the fleeing man, but was outdistanced. Soon he gave up the chase and returned to Shontinno.
Shontinno was breathing raggedly, but his pulse was strong. He'd be alright. Flalack, one of Shontinno's assistants wandered into the hall. He gasped and rushed over to the trader's fallen body.
"Waatz gone on hearz?" barked Flalack frantically.
"Why don't we ask Gimpy here?" Fritzholm walked over to the man on the floor and pulled him up by the jacket until his feet dangled a few inches above the ground. A shattered bone was protruding from the man's leg and blood was pouring out from both sides. The knee was destroyed. Fritzholm figured it wouldn't be long before the man passed out from blood loss. "Talk fast! Why did you attack Shontinno?"
"Hired" he groaned, "just doing my job."
"Who hired you?" Fritzholm waited, but received no reply. "WHO HIRED YOU?" He shook the man hard.
"The..." the man stammered, reluctant to talk. Fritzholm shook him again. "The Hierarchy." Fritzholm lowered the man onto his good leg and let go of him with his right hand. A moment later Fritzholm had jabbed him in the jaw and the man had slumped unconscious.
The hospitaller ushered Fritzholm and Flalack into the room. Shontinno didn't look very good, but he was alert. His head was bound in blood-soaked bandages. Fritzholm was glad the hospitaller had shown up when he had. Without his magical assistance Shontinno may not have survived the surgeon's treatment.
"Flalack, I will not be making the rest of the journey." Shontinno told the small trader in a firm but tired voice. "I will need to stay here for nearly a month while my wounds heal. Our caravan will have to go on to Bolden without me."
"But zir! The Boldeze will neverz trade with I or any Koboldz."
"I know this. The Boldese are a closed minded people, but there is much profit to be made there with our goods and we must return to Lyonspire before the cold season." Shontinno paused. His eyelids drooped. With effort he continued. "I have decided to let you handle the bargaining, Fritzholm." Fritzholm was startled by the choice. He had only been traveling with the small caravan for a few months and had only been hired as a guard. Still the decision made sense. He was the only other human male in the party old enough to negotiate with the Boldese. "Flalack, you will still be in charge of the caravan, but upon reaching Bolden Fritzholm becomes the master trader. Is this agreeable?" Both men nodded. Shontinno was the sort of man who always saw the best course of action.
An unnerving feeling fell over Fritzholm as he rode down the road to Engle. The fires were all out now, but the damage had been done. He had not seen a single farm in Engle's neat rows that had been spared from the torch. Fritzholm called to a villager who was working near a small well. The villager, anxious to speak with an armed traveler, jogged up to him.
"Hello sir." Fritzholm said from atop his horse. "I heard that this village was calling for a full load of winter stock, and now I see why. What happened here?"
"It was terrible... happened two nights ago. Raiders came. Overwhelmed the guards." The man spat. "By the time I woke up my crops were all a-burnin'. I only saw them riding off. My son said they were on giant black hairy beasts. Had to be orcs."
Fritzholm nodded. The orcs seemed to be working their way further east. At this rate their attacks might reach to Lyonspire in a few short month. He dismounted and walked with the man a while. "Tell me, were there any attacks before this one?" Fritzholm scanned the ground while he talked.
"Yep. There was a bunch of the countess' men returning from patrols out beyond. I hear they got ambushed. I think a trapper found some of their bodies. That wasn't even a week ago." Fritzholm knelt down to examine some tracks as the man talked. "There's no one to protect us now. Some people are already leaving, what with their houses and barns burnt up, most of them." The prints were those of a pack of maybe five very large wolves, probably dire wolves, a favored mount of orcs. He guessed there would be evidence of more such packs around.
"I'll tell you what. I'll ride out and find the raider's encampment. I'll see if I can distract them or even capture or kill a few. There should be more men arriving here in a few days." He stood and put his hand on the villager's shoulder. "It is my favor to you to keep this village safe until then."
When Fritzholm had woken up this morning he had been filled with optimistic wanderlust. The tavern stories he had been told of a great city and its mysterious tower the last few nights had put Fritzholm in rare form. He felt compelled to ride off towards this far away city immediately. That was this morning. Now he found himself riding through one of the gloomiest marshes he'd ever seen. He had to keep reminding himself that it was a bright sunny day. So little of the light penetrated this swamp that it was barely lighter than night. The trail was getting soggy and difficult to follow. Fritzholm wished he had chosen to catch a boat across one of the lakes instead of riding between the two like he had.
Just at that moment some sort of noise startled Fritzholm's horse who managed to pitch Fritzholm into the swamp and lame herself all in one move. Fritzholm found himself instantly in the water a few feet from the trail. The mossy marsh around him offered no firm hold with which to pull himself out and was too thick to swim through. He considered removing his cumbersome platemail, but decided that the effort would be fruitless since he doubted he'd be able to reach the trail even without the extra weight. Things were not looking good as he sunk chest deep into the muck. He thought back to the last time he was in a similar position.
Nearly two years ago, when combing through the swamps to the west of Lyonspire in search of a band of lost surveyors, he had found himself chest deep in soggy sand which afforded no footing and was also too thick to swim through. That time, however, he had his pack with him and deftly hooked a nearby tree with his grapnel. This day his pack lay on the trail with his fallen horse. The horse had made several attempts to stand and was now lying on her side whining. Fritzholm contemplated recent events as he slowly sank into the mire. He arched his back and tried not to move much, thus slowing his descent. It was truly bad luck that had fallen upon him today. This was a terrible way to die - pitched off an otherwise reliable horse and into slow-forming grave. What had spooked his horse? He remembered the sound that had distracted his horse and, pulling off his helmet, he listened for it again. It was there, a heavy treading and whacking noise. Maybe it was another traveler. Fritzholm shouted for help and rang his helmet against his shoulderpiece to attract attention.
Attention Fritzholm received. A stubby, chainmail clad dwarf came splashing through the underbrush. It looked as though his rescuer had arrived none too soon.
"Rope! In my pack!" Fritzholm shouted, but he only got a puzzled look from the dwarf in return. "Hello?" Fritzholm was now sunk up to his chin. The dwarf was looking around. He seemed aware of the situation. "Are you deaf?" No reply. Fritzholm thought he saw the dwarf rubbing a stone in his left hand and remembered he also held something in his hand. He lobbed the helmet up over his horse and it collided with the backpack and rung satisfyingly off the metal frame. He hoped that would do the trick as his head sank underwater.
Fritzholm spat muddy water out of his mouth and wiped at his filthy platemail. The wet air felt awful in his lungs, but he was thankful to be breathing. He knelt and reach to shake the dwarf's hand.
"Thank you for saving my life. My name's Fritzholm."
"Grack carnagle frang sar Nikkos." the dwarf replied.
"Nikkos? Glad to meet ya."
"And so the council sentances the four of you to exhile with a 100 gold piece bounty on your heads unless and until the gem in returned intact!"
Fritzholm looked around at his companions - his good friend Nikkos and a pair of elves who had been in the cell next to his. He sighed. 'What a farce' he thought, fuming. There had been no mistake about it. They had either all been framed for the theft of some gem, or the charges had been completely trumped up. Fritzholm was inclined to believe the latter. The only thing he couldn't figure out is why they choose this group. What made us special?
"You are each allowed one chance to speak, to ask a single question." said the warden from his podium.
The elves both looked deep in thought and Nikkos was never one for words so Fritzholm stood from his chair.
"Alright here's my question: Will you still be wearing that pompous look on your face when you are swinging from the gallows for this attrocious miscarriage of justice?"
"Take them away!" the warden spat. The guards hoisted the lot of them from their chairs and roughly escorted them out of the hall.
"Nice move fellow, now we won't learn anything." said one of the elves.
"The game is played like so..." Karden drew the knife from his belt and embedded it in the table in a quick and smooth movement that Fritzholm admired. "We each lay our forearm on the table, elbow at the edge, so that your arm covers the black circle. When Andrew gives the signal we begin with the knives. The point must touch between every finger on your hand before you move it back a full finger's length. We both keep this up, hitting between the fingers and moving our hands back until one man has placed his knife in the circle. Got it?" Fritzholm nodded and grinned.
"Karden, this is a fine game, and since this is you bar I shall give you the advantage." Karden looked at him doubtfully, knowing full well that Fritzholm was unlikely to beat him anyhow. "I shall wield the knife in my left hand. How's that for fair?"
"That does sound fair, hunter, for it will give you and excuse for your loss." Karden beamed and Fritzholm let out a hardy laugh. A small crowd gathered around to place small wagers. Andrew lifted his arm. Both men gripped their knives and prepared for the match. Andrews arm swung down and Karden deftly tapped the knife between his fingers with lightning speed, but his jaw dropped as he look across the table.
Fritzholm had sunk his knife clean through his own right arm and into the black circle. Fritz gritted his teeth.
"You lose, friend, time to pay up." he said through a cletched jaw.
It took 3 months for his arm to heal from that wound.