The not-immortal Blacksmith

8th of Aneal, First month of Snow,

2109 years since the new gods came.

"Sir, we may have a problem."

"What is it Lieutenant?"

"I was going through the personal mail before dispersal to the troops, as required - - -"

"Get to the point."

"- - - Sorry sir. The Heretic sent us a letter. Sir."

"Well crap. Read it to me."

To whomever it may concern,

Get on with it. Send the kid the proper support to win your little war. I don't want to have to come and sort it out for you.

Maxwell

PS. What is with that Goat?

"What goat is he talking about, Lieutenant?"

"Some vaguely annoying creature that has been helping Liam. I don't get it either."

"Very well. I suppose I need to go have a talk with the Council of Generals. We don't need a repeat of the 'Tristan Incident' that the Heretic is alluding to."

"...Um...Do I want to know what happened?"

"The short story is that the Council of Generals of the time disbanded after half of them died in 'mysterious incidents'. I will have to give the Council the full version."

"Tristan the Hero? The Heretic's teacher and mentor? That Tristan? He was a Hero! Perfect in every way!"

"Far from it. He was a drinker to the extreme, smoked some noxious herb called 'tobakie' that made him cough something fierce, whored like you wouldn't believe, and was all sorts of disrespectful."

"But, the history books say none of that..."

"Of course not. Would you like our greatest hero to have flaws? He was just a man, like you and me. Just, coarse and violent to the extreme. One general, who's name is lost to history, demanded he be shown Tristan's 'hand cannon'. Tristan obliged, by shoving the thing into his face and firing it. The general was dead before he hit the floor. Not surprising since he was missing the top of his head."

"No wonder the Heretic is so bad, with him as a role-model."

"No, the Heretic has a heart. Tristan really didn't. He was a man killer, in every form of the word. The Heretic was his only friend, according to the records, anyway."

"Okay. One day I will be allowed to read some of those reports, yes?"

"If you live long enough. Send Liam his letter. I have people to talk to."

*-*-*

December 13th, 1893, Denver Colorado, USA

"ACHOO!!!" Tristan sneezed, his black stetson falling off with the force of it. "Sorry honey, don't know what got into me. Lets get back to our shenanigans before your husband gets home."