Valley of the Shadow

by Michael Gardner

  Klinge laughed. “I’m busy. Find someone else.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “I’m absolutely serious. Do you not desire an Imperial commission?”

  Klinge raised his hammer. “Go away, before I’m forced to use this on you.”

  The man stood his ground. “Let’s do a deal. Sell me your unfinished sword. Name your price. If Caesar agrees with my assessment of your skill, I’ll return and double your price... on the condition you come with me to meet him.”

  “Name my price?”

  The man nodded.

  Klinge reached for an oily cloth and began to clean the blade. It needed to be folded and shaped many more times. Then it would have to be tempered, polished and sharpened. Its present worth wasn’t great. “Two hundred denarii,” he said.

  The man smiled, reached into his tunic and pulled out his purse. He counted out eight gold coins and offered them on his outstretched hand.

  Klinge took them. “To think, people say Romans have more money than sense!”

  The man took the sword, bowed his head and left without saying another word.

  Klinge chuckled, unable to believe his luck. Despite having to start a new sword, the money would pay his expenses for months. He felt the weight of the gold in his hand. He’d never sought to amass wealth, only what he needed to get by. This was the most money he’d ever had. “I think this calls for a celebration,” he said, watching the man disappear down the hill on horseback towards the township of Strido Dalmatiae.

  Klinge had built his home and forge a league from the town. He wanted to keep his distance from human affairs without appearing like too much of a recluse. When he needed food or supplies, he traded horse shoes or farming implements with the townspeople. He was content to be known by reputation alone. If anyone got to know him too well, they would soon notice he never aged. He wanted to stay in one place for as long as he could. Relocating was a nuisance and he had no idea how long it would be before he was reunited with his companions. He wondered how they had fared with Solomon.

  He put seven of the gold coins in a small box and placed it under a loose stone at the foot the forge. He pocketed the other and walked to town considering all the ways he could spend it. Strido Dalmatiae had prospered under Roman occupation. The town supported a resident cohort. The soldiers were well paid and spent their money freely. Old wooden buildings were being replaced with bigger, taller, better-constructed ones with straight lines, perfectly formed arches and blood-red tile roofs. The main streets, no longer trampled mud, were paved with cobblestones. They hummed with activity. Klinge found the bustle both overwhelming and exciting. He breathed in the smells, a curious but not unpleasant mix of cooking, perfume and horse dung. He remembered how much he liked being amongst ordinary people living out their lives, content each day to have little more than a full stomach and a roof over their head. There were men dressed in togas, women in stolae, and all wearing fashionable colours: yellow, blue, indigo and purple-red for those with enough money. Klinge felt shabby in his soot-stained tunic. He hurried to the centre of town, temporarily avoiding the many temptations along the way: food, wine and women. He wanted a hot bath first.

  The bathhouse was a two storey building with perfect stonework and more pillars than necessary supporting the roof. He glanced up and saw statues of the Gods looking back down at him. He removed his robes, made use of the water closet and passed into the atrium. The bath was crowded with men both in and out of the water. The babble of their conversation echoed about. Klinge slipped into the hot olive-green water, rinsed his hair and reclined at the edge with his arms stretched out on the stone. He let out a long sigh. Some men were discussing business, others various sporting events. One man caught Klinge’s eye. He was tracing a woman’s body into the air with his hands and basking in the attention he received from other men. Money exchanged hands. More men came and went. Eventually the man was on his own. Klinge swam over to him. “I noticed the subject of your conversation,” he said, resting his forearms on the stone lip. “Is she available?”

  The man was young, well-exercised with neatly trimmed hair. He smiled on one side of his mouth and extended his hand. “Tertius,” he said.

  “Klinge,” said Klinge, accepting the handshake.

  Tertius raised an eyebrow. “The blacksmith?”

  Klinge nodded. “Amongst other things. Are you the kind of man I should talk to if I’d made a little extra money?”

  “That depends on how much you call ‘a little.’ ”

  “In the vicinity of one gold aureus.”

  Tertius smiled fully. “That’s a very fine amount indeed. What’s your pleasure?”

  “Food, wine... and the woman you were describing earlier.”

  “Just one?” Tertius laughed. “I think we will be good friends, Klinge.”

  * * *

  Klinge couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. He’d eaten the best meal of his life: oysters, ham, pears, figs and other foods with names he couldn’t remember. Cloelia had told him what he was eating as she had placed the food in his mouth but he was more interested in removing her stolae. The wine never ran out. He sipped some, not caring that it ran down his cheek. It had been sweetened with honey. He knew he had consumed too much and that there would be consequences, so he swallowed the rest and tossed the goblet aside. For now, he wanted to enjoy the warmth of two naked women lying on each side of him and the touch of silk sheets on his back. “Now, this is living!” he said, slurring his words.

  Cloelia looked up at him, smiled briefly and went back to sleep. He squirmed out of their embraces, reached for an amphora and uncorked it with his teeth. “Everybody’s tired!” he said, taking a long drink. “Can’t keep up with the Khryseoi!” He finished the amphorae and opened another. By the time it was empty, his body had surrendered to the wine.

  * * *

  Klinge woke to the sound of mechanical clanking and squeaking. His head hurt, the bed had become hard and mobile. For some reason, he couldn’t move. He lay still for a moment wondering if he should open an eye. Eventually he plucked up the courage. He could see light beyond the mesh that covered his face. Trying to sit up, he discovered his hands and feet were bound. He was on a horse-drawn cart. He cried out. The cart came to rest and he heard someone climb aboard. The person was heavy and the cart rocked.

  “Shuddup, unless you want a gag too!” said a gruff voice.

  Klinge felt the back of the man’s hand. His cheek stung and he tasted salt. The man got down from the cart. Klinge heard a whip crack and the horses started moving again. Eventually the cart arrived wherever it was going. Klinge was hauled out by two men with strong hands; their fingers dug into his skin. They dragged him up some steps and across a floor. He felt his heels scraping on stone. There were more steps, down this time. Doors were opened and closed and the air cooled, taking on a faint smell of sulphur. There was one last door, a step and he was dropped. He felt his bonds loosen as they were cut from his wrists. Someone pulled the hood from his head. The light was bright and for a moment Klinge could see only intense whiteness. He heard a door slam, a key grind in a lock and boots clomping away.

  Klinge rubbed his eyes and blinked until he felt moisture sooth the dryness and clear his sight. He was in a tiny cell not long enough to lie right down. The walls were stone and cement. There was a square hole in the floor that smelled of human waste. High above, sunlight shone through an opening to the outside world. It was blocked by stout criss-crossing bars. Klinge knew the sight would fill an ordinary man with impossible hope. In reality the cell was designed to use the elements to torture its occupant. A man would bake by day in the sun and freeze by night without a roof over his head. Klinge sat for some hours wondering what to do and how long he would be locked in the cell. Eventually he heard someone return. The small gate in the door snapped open.

  “Lie face down if you want to eat!”

  Klinge did as he was told. He was hungry, thirsty and in no mood for a beating. He heard the ra
ttle of keys, the creak of the door and the clang of a metal bowl being placed on the ground without care. He waited for the man to go before he dared to move or look up. The bowl was filled with cold mashed cereal. He scoffed it down. It wasn’t the worst meal he’d eaten but it came close.

  Late in the day, Klinge heard another person approach the door. He couldn’t tell if it were a man or a woman but his visitor had light, quick footsteps and moved with purpose. The gate slid open. Klinge remained where he was sitting with his back to the wall, his forearms resting on his raised knees.

  “Get up!” The voice was deep and spoke Latin without an accent.

  “Why are you holding me prisoner?” said Klinge without looking up.

  He heard the clack-clack-clack of metal being dragged across the bars. He looked up and caught a glimpse of the unfinished sword purchased by the Roman.

  “Get up!”

  Klinge looked up and saw the man beyond the bars. His brown eyes were so dark they appeared to have no pupils. The man blinked. Klinge felt the hot wash of the epiphaneia. “Solomon? Solomon! Let me out of here!”

  Solomon’s eyebrows bunched at his nose. “Why would I do that? I’m responsible for putting you in there.”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “I do. Very well,” Solomon replied. “And I know your workmanship... intimately. I’ve had men seeking you for some time. The one who bought this sword from you... how much did he pay you for it?”

  “Two hundred denarii.”

  “Hmm... he made a tidy profit then.” Solomon stared at him through the bars. “Your presence on the mountain seemed familiar but your swords are unmistakable. That made you the easiest one to find. You are clear in my mind’s eye. I remember your name... Erfinder.”

  Solomon slammed the gate. Klinge listened to his footsteps padding away into silence. Night swallowed day and the cell fell into darkness. Klinge huddled in a ball on the chilly stone with his arms wrapped around his knees.

  * * *

  Klinge woke as soon as he heard someone approaching the door. He knew by the sound of his footsteps it was Solomon. Solomon unlocked the cell and opened the door wide. He invited Klinge to leave with an outstretched arm. Klinge eyed him up and down. A toga became Solomon; the folds of cloth flattered his ropey physique.

  “I apologise for the way you’ve been treated,” said Solomon. “I’ve invested a considerable sum of money to find you. I had to be certain you were the man... the Khryseoi I was looking for.”

  Klinge picked himself up and dusted off his tunic. “I find your methods distasteful.”

  Solomon shrugged. “I know what the other Khryseoi say about me. Would you have come if I’d asked?”

  “Probably not.”

  Solomon touched him lightly on the shoulder, urging him from the cell. “Come, you must be hungry.”

  A modest guardroom lay beyond the prison cell but it had been lavishly furnished. There were two banqueting couches covered in cushions on either side of a table laden with platters of fresh fruits, cold meats, bread and cheese. A luxuriously made-up bed had been placed to one side. Klinge tested the mattress with his fingers. It was stuffed with feathers. A single door led outside. It was as solid as the cell door and reinforced with steel.

  Solomon held up an amphora. “Wine?”

  “No, thank you,” Klinge replied, rubbing his hands together. His fingers were stiff and sore from lying on the ground. He took a handful of grapes and popped one into his mouth. The sweet juice cleaned away the lingering taste of his upset stomach.

  “Sit! Eat!” Solomon reclined on one of the banqueting couches and wriggled his shoulders to mould the pillows to his back.

  “What brings you down from your mountain?” said Klinge, chewing another grape.

  “I venture from the mountain often,” said Solomon, pouring himself some wine. “It’s only one of my homes, one I use to keep certain possessions safe.” Klinge inched closer to the door. “Come, eat! The door will remain locked for the time being.”

  “Why am I being held prisoner?” Klinge started to pace the room. He grabbed a hunk of bread as he passed the table.

  “Because you are Khryseoi and I have no power over you other than to keep you shut in this room. Once you’ve heard what I have to say, I will unlock the door and you may leave.”

  “Get on with it then,” said Klinge through a mouthful of bread.

  “You know how the war started, but do you know why?”

  “It was a war. It happened. The reason doesn’t change anything.”

  “Hear me out and you may find that it does. Eurynomos seeks revenge against the Gods for locking him in Tartarus. He wants to destroy everything the Gods hold dear: all life in this world. When Phylasso carried Eurynomos back to his cage, all he did was to deepen Euynomos’s lust for revenge. I believe Phylasso realises the enormity of his mistake. So, he has abandoned his children and left us to die.”

  Klinge dug his tongue into his teeth, wrestling with a grape pip. “I’m confused. What mistake?”

  “He created the Khryseoi, a race of demigods. We weren’t to know it was wrong to do so. All we wanted to do was to defend our lands, homes and loved ones.” Solomon’s lips stretched across his teeth. “And we saw them die anyway. This is what happens when gods interfere in mortal matters. They give no thought to the consequences. When Phylasso created the Khryseoi, he gave Eurynomos a focus for his hatred. The best service the Khryseoi can offer this world now is to leave it. This was Phylasso’s mistake and he is ashamed of us.”

  Klinge stopped pacing and sat down. “Maybe I will have wine; a small one.” Solomon filled a goblet and set it in front of Klinge. “How did you come to this conclusion?” said Klinge, taking a sip.

  “During the war, I found a tiny stone, a fragment from another world that had been carried into ours. It extended my sight and in doing so showed me how little we know about the Gods and their ways. I tried to tell Raven...”

  “Yes?”

  Solomon licked a finger and smoothed his eyebrows. “I was close to understanding the secret of The Unbinding but Raven and... Windsong... took my life and stole my talisman. I must get it back! Do you see? We must release the Khryseoi from this curse! We’re being made to suffer for Phylasso’s hubris. We must find an end to this curse of immortality!”

  Klinge swallowed his wine and slid the goblet across the table. Solomon filled it again and passed it back. “Your eyes are walled,” he said. “Open them!”

  Klinge shook his head. “What you’re saying... makes sense but...” He looked away and saw a moth circling a torch resting in a sconce. It was enchanted by the light.

  “I’ve worked it out,” said Solomon. “Phylasso was careful to limit our gifts, to prevent us from passing them on. Acabar has been sent to take our souls and deliver them to Eurynomos for eternal torment. Phylasso hopes to appease Eurynomos by sacrificing us.” Solomon fixed Klinge with his dark eyes. “If what I am saying were false, Phylasso would be here, now, to stop it from happening!”

  Klinge pushed his goblet aside. The wine didn’t taste sweet anymore.

  Solomon snapped his fingers and Klinge heard scraping as a bar was lifted from the door. Tertius stood on the other side. Solomon thanked him and turned his attention back to Klinge. “Phylasso has disappeared from necessity, not by accident.”

  Klinge’s heart began to beat heavily. His forehead felt cold. He wiped it with the side of his hand and saw a sheen of sweat.

  Solomon breathed out slowly. “You wear your thoughts openly. What are you keeping from me?”

  Klinge swallowed hard. His throat was dry. He drank more wine but it wasn’t soothing. “Phylasso appeared to me... after the war.” He saw Solomon was listening attentively. “He gave me his sword and told me to learn to make a weapon of equal quality.”

  Solomon nodded slowly. “Have you spoken of this to anyone else?”

  “I’ve told my companions but I don’t think they believed me. I didn’t te
ll them what Phylasso asked me to do.” He took a deep breath. As he let it out he felt relieved to have spoken his secret at last, even if his confidante was Solomon.

  “Did he tell you why you must learn to make his sword?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Phylasso explained himself to no-one.”

  Solomon nodded. “Indeed.” His lips thinned in thought. “I have the answers you seek.” Klinge sat up. “Phylasso’s sword is not of this earth. Through it, he has the power to grant us gifts or take them away. That’s how he destroyed Eurynomos’s mortal form. It is no accident you are the only Khryseoi to have seen him since the war. It is no accident we have been brought together now. We should seize this opportunity to save our brothers and sisters from Acabar. If you can forge another unearthly blade, we can discover how to perform The Unbinding and set the Khryseoi free. Will you join me?”

  Klinge lowered his eyes. “I... many of us believed you were a madman... that your powers had warped your mind.” Solomon regarded him calmly. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “Will you join me?”

  Klinge swallowed. He recalled the look on Phylasso’s face, the ambiguousness of his instruction. Perhaps all he needed to learn was how to recognise a weapon capable of performing The Unbinding. Perhaps Phylasso intended him to save as many Khryseoi as he could from death at the hands of Acabar. Phylasso wasn’t evil and the ways of the Gods were often too subtle to be understood. “There may be no need to forge Phylasso’s sword. There is another. Raven has... had Acabar’s sword, last I knew. It too is not of this earth. It’s forged from black copper, from a fallen star. I’m sure it possesses the same power.”

  “Can you get this sword and bring it to me?”

  “I doubt Raven will give it to me.”

  “He stole a valued possession of mine. It seems a fair exchange.”