by Peter Fane
Dan stepped into the room. It was square and not too big, maybe ten paces across on each side. The ceiling was way taller than he’d expected. Dozens and dozens of lamps hung from the silvery vines up there. The vines came out of these floating silver balls. Each ball was about the size of a fist and each one had these strange designs and patterns carved on them. The balls just floated there in the air, right below the ceiling, moving slowly, warm light all over everything.
Along the walls of the room, there were a bunch of cabinets, all of them set side by side, each about as tall as a grown-up. The cabinets were made of different kinds of wood. Some of the wood was warm and brown, some was pale and silvery, some was golden, some was red. A few of the cabinets on the wall across from the door were made from wood that was almost black. All the cabinets were carved with all kinds of different shapes and creatures and scenes and things. Some cabinets had shields and swords and axes and other weapons carved on them. Some had the Tarn’s symbol, the six-pointed sun. Then there were others that had carved pictures of fighting, each little fight in its own little box.
“Famous battles, all of ‘em.” Master Falmon nodded, noticing where Dan was looking. “Except those.” Master Falmon cocked his head at the cabinets made of black wood.
The black cabinets had pictures of scary monsters. Dan had never seen anything like them. Winged things with giant fangs and tails like snakes. Six-legged things with legs like the tree trunks. A huge giant with one big eye in the center of his head, his arms ending with swords instead of hands. A thing like a dragon, but without wings, three heads instead of one, one of its mouths chewing on its own body. A tall thing with a head like an egg. When the lamps shone on the carvings, the monsters seemed to move, as if they were about to come to life. Dan swallowed.
Dan realized that all the cabinets had another thing in common: They were each locked with a silver lock. One of the biggest silver cabinets, there on Dan’s right, even had two locks on it. That cabinet looked like it had a whole big war carved onto it, all kinds of different scenes with soldiers and armies fighting on different lands and forests and mountains, and over there was a flat field that ran up against the wall of a big fortress, fighting everywhere, all kinds of different places. He took a step toward the cabinet—.
And stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide.
“Stormy?” Dan whispered, in spite of himself.
In the center of the battle scene, right there on the carving, there was a huge battle cannon. It looked just like Stormy. The cannon’s mouth was shaped like a dragon getting ready to breathe fire, lips peeled back, eyes just about to close. There was another big cannon right next to him, and that one had a lion’s mouth, open and roaring just like a giant lion would.
“Oblivion,” Dan whispered, nodding to himself.
It was both of them. For truth!
Dan turned to Master Falmon, pointing.
But the Master was lighting another lamp and paid him no mind.
Stormy and Oblivion, no doubt. Dan blinked and stepped closer. And there were their war adepts, five robed ladies next to each big gun, two on each side, one in the back just like they would be, singing their songs to make Stormy’s fire. And they must’ve just finished singing, because there was a big explosion on the other side of the carved picture, there against the wall of the big fortress where all those soldiers were fighting. There was a silvery line coming out of Stormy’s mouth. Without thinking, Dan put his finger into the line and traced it across the battlefield, the wood cool under his fingertip, all the way to the explosion against the giant wall.
“Ka-boom,” Dan whispered. “For the Remain.”
It was Stormy.
He knew it.
Had to be.
The lamp light flickered, and the cannon’s dragon eye winked at him.
Dan stared, his mouth falling open.
And then all the figures and the warriors and the cannon seemed to move—to shift—as if he was watching the war from above, like he’d climbed a giant tree, or like he was seeing the battle from the sky, how a flying dragon might see it. The whole scene moved at once, each figure at the same time, but slowly, as if they were moving though honey. Dan felt a little dizzy. He closed his eyes; opened them. The battle was still there in front of him, and nothing had changed, everyone moving and fighting and charging at once. And then he heard something in his head. Something familiar, like a battle horn, a set of drums, thumping drums, a deep and ancient blowing—.
“Eadle,” Master Falmon said gently behind him.
Dan spun, blinked, winced as he saluted, his tiny fist thumping his chest, the pain cutting into his elbow. “Yes, sir! Master Falmon, sir!”
“What’s wrong with your arm, boy?”
“Nothing, sir!” Dan put his hand down at his side, keeping his face totally blank as the pain came on like a red light. Take the hits, soldier! You take ‘em! But he felt all woozy for a second, then he blinked, took a deep breath, saluted with his other fist. “Ready for duty, sir! Every day, sir! That’s the way! Master Falmon, sir!”
The Master gave him a long look with his good eye. Then he adjusted his eyepatch, reached into his belt, and took out a small box of silvery wood. He opened it.
“Here.” Master Falmon pinched a dried, bluish leaf from the box, stepped over to Dan, broke the leaf in half, handed one half to him. “Put it under your tongue, lad. Helps. Perfectly safe. If you feel sick, spit it out.”
Dan blinked, took the blue leaf, and did what he was told. It tasted like strong mint and seemed to sparkle in his mouth before his tongue went entirely numb. But he was already feeling better. He looked at Master Falmon wonderingly and touched at his sore elbow.
It didn’t hurt at all.
Just like that!
Dan smiled.
“You get your front tooth knocked out?” Master Falmon asked.
Dan shook his head. “No, sir! Master Falmon, sir! Fell out, sir! I have it in my box, sir!” He waved back in the general direction of the pit, where his box was. “I can give it to you, sir! Trade is a trade! Yes, sir!” He pointed at his own mouth. “Arm is better! Fair is fair, sir! You want my tooth, for trade, sir?”
Boy, did his elbow feel better.
His smile went wider.
Master Falmon raised the silver box at him, nodded, and adjusted his eye patch. “No trade needed. A gift from Lord Garen, now my gift to you.” The Master put the rest of the blue leaf under his own tongue, snapped the box shut, tucked it back in his belt. “Take heart, lad. There are people snug in their soft beds right now because hard men like you and me—regular soldiers, strong and loyal—stand ready to bear pain on their behalf. We’re not pretty.” Master Falmon touched the deep scar in his forehead. “But we’re here. A long tradition, and a fine one. You’re part of that? Understand?”
Dan didn’t really understand all of it, but he nodded and saluted all the same. “Yes, sir, Master Falmon!”
His arm didn’t hurt a bit!
Master Falmon grinned, his scarred-up face crinkling. He touched the box in his belt. “Helps, doesn’t it?”
Dan nodded.
“Alright,” Master Falmon grunted. “Come on over here. Wanna teach you something.”
12
AS LITTLE DAN WATCHED, Master Falmon took a ring of silver keys from his belt pouch, separated a small one from the others, then put the key into the lock of the cabinet in front of him, a cabinet made of silvery-white wood. Master Falmon turned the key, but it didn’t click. Instead, there was a quiet whirling sound, a sound that Dan could barely hear, like a hundred tiny little gears all spinning up together. Master Falmon turned the key again to the left, then all the way back around to the right. Then he took the key out of the lock and stepped back. The cabinet doors swung outward.
Inside the cabinet, sitting on a tall, wooden stand, there was a suit of armor made of high silver. Behind the armor, Dan could see the Tarn’s mark, the six-pointed sun, carved into the cabinet’s wood. The armor sat right in
front of the mark, so all you could see was the sun’s six tears coming out like arrows behind the armor’s back. The lamp’s orange light glowed in the armor’s curves; very nice, very smooth. There was a silver helmet, a silver neck guard, silver shoulder pads, a silver breastplate, protection for the guts that Dan could never remember the name for, protection for the legs and the shins, and a pair of what looked like silver shoes that Dan knew would get worn over regular war boots. There were designs all over the gear, shaped right into the silver. These designs sort of followed the shape of the armor, matching the way the armor moved, thin lines and shapes and other kinds of nice patterns, vines and plants and other things. Without thinking, Dan reached up and put his hand on one of the shin guards. The high silver was cool beneath his palm. Felt good. Yes, sir. He closed his eyes and just like that, without waiting, a song—kind of like Stormy’s song—came rushing up through his hand and his arm, all the way into his heart—.
“Wait, lad.” Master Falmon took Dan’s hand gently and pushed him back a little. “We don’t touch the gear, not before it’s tuned.”
“Yes, sir!” Dan took a step back and saluted. “Sorry, sir!”
“No reason to be sorry.” Master Falmon shook his head. “You never been down here before. I show you how to do it, then you do it right the next time. Reason I wanted you to come down. The big guns seem to like you, figure you might try your hand at something like this.” He gestured at the armor.
Dan nodded. He didn’t really understand what the Master meant, but he was starting to think that this might be the best morning in the pit he’d ever had. Yes, sir!
Below the armor, on a separate little shelf, there was a row of about a dozen books. Each of the books was made of blue-colored leather. Some of the books were dark blue, almost black, others were lighter blue. All the books were marked at their tops in silver with the Tarn’s six-pointed sun. Master Falmon took the last book off the shelf, the brightest blue one, thumbed it open about halfway.
“Each time the gear comes out . . .” the Master cocked his head at the armor, “. . . we mark it down in here, in the log.” He held the book open so that Dan could look. Dan didn’t know how to read, not a word, but he saw blocks of writing in little boxes, each box set in a column.
“This here . . .” Master Falmon pointed at the first column. “. . . tells the day and the year the gear was taken out.” He touched the second column. “This one here gives the name of the warrior who wore it.” He touched the third. “This one tells the world on which the action took place.” He touched the last. “And this big one here is where you put your notes and such—repairs needed, damage taken to the undercarriage, padding, straps, that sort of thing. You fill that last one out when the gear comes back.”
“Does it always come back?” Dan asked, without thinking.
Master Falmon looked down at him with his good eye. “Always. Been wars fought over this gear. A good soldier either brings it back himself or his mates bring it back. You don’t leave high silver on the battlefield, lad. Ever. And if you do, then you go back out and you get it.”
Dan squinted. “That’s, uh . . . . That’s one of the rules?”
“‘One of the rules?’” Master Falmon raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s right. One of the rules.”
Dan nodded. Made sense.
A couple of the boxes in the last columns had words, but they also had a red X in them. There were only a few of those.
“What’s them little red marks, there?” Dan asked.
“That’s what we put when the soldier is killed in action, when the gear fails its lord.”
Dan blinked. There were only two or three red marks on the page—three out of a dozen. Dan nodded. “This silver is strong.”
“You speak truth,” the Master said seriously. “Some of the finest in the Realm. And tomorrow, it must do its work.” He wrote a few things in the book, slid it back into its place, making sure it was perfectly in line with the others. “These logs weren’t started until the last millennium of the Plague Years, so nobody knows when this armor was crafted. Some think it was shaped way back in the beginning for Christopher the First, the War-Bringer, at the start of the Founding War. Others think it belongs later, sometime at the beginning of the Plague Years. Either way, it’s strong, as you say. Very strong. But the record, lad—that’s the real strength.” He touched the row of blue books. “The memory is what matters. It’s when we forget that we lose. And even with these . . . .” He touched the books again. “We always forget.”
Dan frowned. He didn’t fully understand what the Master meant, but the Master seemed to think it was real important, so Dan nodded.
Master Falmon adjusted his eyepatch, then fixed Dan with his one good eye. “It matters because it’s our history.” He gestured toward the books and the armor. “Marks and memories like these are our history, lad. And it’s our history that makes us. Our poems and our tales and our music, they too shape the mind. But history is the foundation for all of that, for everything. You, me, everyone. That’s why the best warriors and generals make the study of history their most important duty. They fight with it, they argue about it, and they do their best to learn from it.”
Dan frowned. “What do they learn?”
“Most of ‘em learn to ignore the lessons of history.” Master Falmon grunted. “But a special few—a very special few—take the lessons that time teaches and try to do it better.”
“Every day’s a day to do better, sir.”
“That’s right. Now, attend.”
From his belt pouch, the Master took a rolled sheet of oiled leather. The Master knelt to the ground, knees popping, and unrolled the leather sheet on the floor. Inside the sheet, there were five small hammers, each one made of high silver. Each hammer was a bit smaller than the next. The top of each hammer was marked by the Tarn’s mark, the six-pointed sun, but on the sides, they each had a different symbol: a tear, a sword, a book, a set of scales, and a weird-looking horn.
Master Falmon spread his hands over the hammers and whispered, “Great Sisters, exemplars of history and time, let us look to our past’s best as we forge our future. Let us learn from our mistakes, let us honor our families and our lands, and let us do what is right—always. Great Sister Eressa, patron of quests, grant us the will to begin this war with determination and resolve. Great Sister Alea, patron of swords, grant us the strength to make this war with ferocity and zeal. Great Sister Aaryn, patron of wisdom, grant us the knowledge to wage this war with foresight and reason. Great Sister Kora, patron of justice, grant us the courage to win this war with principle and honor. Great Sister Margo, patron of plenty, grant us the grace to end this war with speed—and to foster lasting peace.”
Master Falmon took the first silver hammer, the one marked with the tear, stood up, and tapped the top of the armor’s silver helmet. When he hit the helmet, there was a low ringing sound, and the helmet glowed with silvery-white light.
Dan took a step back despite himself.
The sound was new, kind of like Stormy’s song, but . . . different. It was like no song he’d ever heard before, and yet, at the exact same time, it was somehow familiar—and slightly wrong.
And that wrongness seemed to reach right into the center of Dan’s chest.
Without thinking, Dan put his hands over his ears.
But that didn’t stop the sound.
The sound didn’t come from the armor.
The sound came from inside his head.
Master Falmon cocked his head at the armor, like he was listening, too. He tapped the helmet once more, a little harder this time. The glow went brighter. The Master frowned and shook his head, then hit the helmet again, harder.
Dan closed his eyes.
So loud.
So wrong.
He was getting dizzy and kind of sick to his stomach. The sound in his head changed when the Master hit the helmet, and the glow went brighter, and then the Master hit it again, and something seemed to
“click.” The silver light and the ringing sound joined together and became one thing and stopped being wrong. Dan didn’t have the words, but it felt good.
“Ah,” Little Dan said.
It felt right.
“Yes, sir,” Dan whispered, opening his eyes.
The Master grunted, nodded, then looked at Dan. “The great beast from whence this armor came sang the greatest and saddest of songs. Beasts like him sang the mighty hymns for Acasius and his Sisters when they shaped the Realm, when they bound the Remain together. Part of our work before battle, lad, is to ensure that the ancient song rings true.” He touched the center of the silver breastplate with his hand, right where the soldier’s heart would be. “The harmonies of space and memory are here—within—alive and strong. Living. Just like your Stormhammer, lad. Each shape, each curve, each line, all born of need, crafted by the ancient shaper’s song—and alive. So long as the song stays true, no force can kill it.” He held the hammer’s handle out to Dan. “The tuning is how we know, how we keep the silver song true. Want to try?”
Even though he didn’t understand everything the Master meant, Dan nodded and took the hammer. It was very light. The silver handle was cool in his hand.
“Just here.” Master Falmon gestured to the right shin guard, where Dan could reach easy. “A little tap at first, just a touch, then listen for it.” The Master made a little gesture with his empty hand, like he was lightly hitting the armor. “Just like that. Then listen.”
Dan looked up at him, blinked, suddenly nervous.
He didn’t want to make a mistake, didn’t want to do it wrong. No, sir.
He hesitated, swallowed.
The Master put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright, lad. Just a light touch, and I’ll take it from there. Every day, we try new things. Every day’s a day to do better. You said so yourself, didn’t you?”
Dan nodded.
Then he stepped up to the armor, and lightly tapped the shin guard.
The moment he tapped it, the silver-white glow came, but the sound was all wrong again. So without thinking, Dan put his little hand on the silver, shut his eyes, and sang a bit of how it was supposed to sound in his own head, just to show how it should be, just how Dan might do with Stormy. And the song flowed from his head, through his chest, down his arm like a warm wave of rightness, lining up perfect and strong and true. He nodded and saw that the light and the sound were together and right, just as they should be. Yes, sir! That was good.
