Though plenty in the city confused Oleja, nothing about the building joined that list. As if suddenly remembering long-forgotten knowledge, the building’s design made sense to her at once.
“It uses the river for power,” she said aloud, awe plain in her voice. “Yes, this is perfect.” And then, without waiting for Maloia, she hurried ahead.
An arched bridge of stone spanned the river, and then the gravel path continued up to the door. Oleja hastened across and up to the entry, a heavy double door. With Tor at her side, she pushed them open.
An eclipser waited inside.
The monster towered over Oleja, standing at least eight feet in height which put her head near the ceiling. She had the typical eclipser skin tone of ashy pale-grey marred by thick streaks of pink as if rubbed raw, visible on her face and her bare, muscular arms. Silver-grey hair topped her head, cut short and uneven in places. Two black eyes stared down at Oleja, watching her as she froze in the doorway for a fraction of a second.
But that fraction of a second passed and Oleja snapped to her senses. A spear lay on a workbench just beside the door, and she cast aside her crutches to seize it in both hands. With a roar of fury, she lunged.
Oleja jabbed the spearhead towards the eclipser’s abdomen. The eclipser, taking a step back, swung a hammer. It struck the spearhead with a clang and Oleja’s weapon swung to the side. The tip sunk deep into the wooden leg of a table.
The eclipser lashed out with frighteningly quick reflexes. She grabbed the shaft of the spear near the head, closing it tightly in her fist, and wrenched it free of the wood. Oleja yanked back on her weapon in an attempt to free it from her enemy’s grasp, but though the eclipser took an involuntary step forward with the force, she held the weapon fast.
“Oleja! Oleja stop!” Maloia’s voice came from somewhere near the door.
The eclipser, now, tried to pull the spear from Oleja’s grip. Oleja kept her hold on the weapon, but as the eclipser pulled, Oleja’s balance on her prosthetic teetered, and then she fell, releasing the spear as she hit the stone floor.
Oleja tried to scramble back to her feet. A moment later, Maloia crouched at her side. Oleja extended a hand, thinking Maloia came to help her up, but Maloia leaned her weight on Oleja, pinning her harder against the floor.
“What is this? What are you doing?” shouted Oleja, her voice growing frantic. She was not about to be conspired against and sold out to an eclipser by someone she trusted. Not again.
“Oleja, please,” said Maloia in quick desperation. “This is Sreovel, she owns the forge. She’s not here to hurt you. Stop fighting.” Slowly, Maloia eased up on Oleja. Oleja shook herself free, rolled onto her back, and—using the nearby table for support—got back up to stand. She kept her eyes trained on the eclipser.
Around them, the forge blazed with life. Hammers pounded away at sheets of metal, operating on their own as pieces in the great gear-turning mechanisms attached to the wheels in the river. Fires burned in brick hearths, melting metal in their heat, and numerous benches filled the room, each one piled high with weapons and armor and tools. Dim daylight came in through a handful of windows and through the open doorway behind them, but most of the light came from the fires and the red-hot metal, bathing the room in a warm, orange glow. Earthy smells of smoke and coal and metal hung thick in the room, clinging to the air—so hot it reminded Oleja of her time in the desert, though being used to such climates and working in forges, it lost its oppressive quality and took on a familiar one, like returning home after a long day away.
Only one other door provided an exit from the building—a smaller, single wooden door in the back corner.
Maloia kept one arm outstretched, blocking Oleja from darting forwards again. But Oleja could overpower Maloia easily if she needed to.
“Oleja, Sreovel is—” started Maloia.
“An earthborn. Evil. An enemy,” spat Oleja.
“A citizen of Ahwan,” said Maloia with a glare. “I know you’ve had dealings with earthborn in the past, but your quarrel is with Itsoh.”
“My quarrel is with earthborn.”
“Oleja. Give this a chance.”
“Absolutely not. Take me to a different forge.”
Sreovel, whose eyes had remained fixed on Oleja, now shifted for a moment to glance at Maloia. They exchanged a look, sharing something unspoken for a moment.
“What?” demanded Oleja.
Sreovel spoke next. “There aren’t exactly any other forges.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” said Oleja, turning her focus to Maloia.
“Oleja! There is no need to be so rude. Sreovel is right—there aren’t any other forges, at least not the sort you seek. Any other you may find is a small family operation—independent tradespeople working from shops in their homes. They wouldn’t hire you, nor are they likely to be able to share their facilities temporarily without hefty compensation. Sreovel’s forge is the best in Ahwan anyway.”
“I doubt that.”
Maloia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oleja,” she groaned.
“I supply nearly every soldier in Ahwan with weapons and armor. The king hires my services directly,” said Sreovel, a hint of boastful defensiveness in her words.
“The king is hardly better than an earthborn himself,” said Oleja.
“If you do not wish to be here, no one is keeping you from leaving,” said Sreovel with a sigh.
“Then I will be leaving now.”
Maloia grabbed Oleja’s arm. “Oleja, Sreovel’s forge is your only option if you want the facilities to make your prosthetic design—a job and further plans aside. You don’t have any other choices.”
Oleja turned and cast a quick glance at the door. Tor cowered there, his body halfway hidden around the wall past the open entryway. Though his fear showed clearly in his posture, a growl rumbled from within him, escaping his mouth through bared teeth. His whole body bristled.
“Oleja is really fantastic at crafting,” said Maloia, turning her attention to Sreovel to speak as if Oleja had left the room. “I have seen her at work. She built the prosthetic leg she wears, constructed all from her own design, though it has seen better days. Some chance accidents got the better of it, but it was truly impressive in its prime. She has told me of other things she’s made too. Her skill is among the best I’ve ever seen.”
“It is too good for this place,” said Oleja, turning her attention back to the conversation. Maloia glared at her. Sreovel looked annoyed, but unsurprised.
“Come and train under me when you are ready, Oleja. I will not force you one way or the other. But your skill is welcome in my forge.”
Oleja sized up the eclipser again. Why she made such offers, Oleja didn’t know. She looked hardly different from the eclipsers of Itsoh—Honn and all of the guards she encountered and killed the day of her escape—but she wore no armor, only simple, shoddily-made clothes over which she wore a heavy apron. She carried no weapon, only the simple smith’s hammer in her hand that she had used to bat Oleja’s spear strike away. Oleja had to concede, at least, that Sreovel was not suited up for a battle, so unless the whole situation was some carefully crafted ruse of Maloia’s or Sreovel’s or even the eclipsers of Itsoh, trying now to trick her and kill her before she could carry out her plans, the story Maloia told seemed to be an honest one. Though why the people of Ahwan allowed an eclipser to live and work in their midst—supplying their fighters with the very weapons they used to kill other eclipsers or whatever other threats emerged from the wilds beyond the city’s borders—Oleja hadn’t the slightest idea.
Foolishness and lies, most likely.
One feature of Sreovel’s appearance caught Oleja’s eye—something she hadn’t noticed before as she lunged into a fight. On her right arm, high up near her shoulder, she bore black markings—a tattoo, like Brashen’s. The image was an odd one—messy, as if she had decided to change the design halfway through. After some discerning, Oleja made out the symbol of Ahwan, drawn i
n deep, heavy strokes. Yet the rounded part of the symbol closed into a full circle with a smaller line, and three straight lines ran through the design: one at the top of the circle, positioned vertically, and two others also near the top but set at opposite angles. Each looked to be of the same thin strokes that closed the circle, and all were faded and warped, cut through by ragged grey scars as if someone tried long ago to carve the design from her skin.
Oleja met Sreovel’s eyes again. “You’d be lucky to have my skill. But I would rather die than work at your side.” With that, she turned and marched out through the door, Tor falling in step beside her after one last growl cast back in Sreovel’s direction.
Only when she reached the bridge back across the river did she realize she had left her crutches in the forge, somewhere on the floor after casting them down to take up the spear. But no part of her wanted to turn back and fetch them, returning moments after her decisive departure like a fool, so she kept going, picking her way carefully along the uneven terrain to avoid losing her balance and falling on her face, which promised to make her look like no less of a fool than going back for her crutches.
Though, at least if she fell the only witness would be Tor, and he seemed unlikely to judge her for taking such a tumble. He had seen her in worse situations besides, and none of it mattered to him so long as she continued the flow of food into his mouth.
She looked down at Tor. His fur still bristled, and he looked nervously from side to side, but otherwise he seemed to have left the events at the forge behind them. With any luck, neither of them would ever have reason to set foot inside again.
“I guess we are off to find ourselves another forge that will have us, huh bud?” said Oleja aloud to Tor. He looked up at her and panted.
Down the path they went, heading back towards the city, Oleja going slow in order to remain upright in her preferred position. When they reached another bridge—this one narrower and made of wood—Oleja stopped.
She looked back the way they’d come, and then ahead again. Though she couldn’t be certain, she didn’t recall crossing more than once bridge since leaving the city. Other paths branched off from the one she’d been following, but until arriving at the bridge she hadn’t questioned which way she headed.
Turning her gaze skyward, she looked to the peaks on either side. They still walked through roughly the center of the North Run, so they could not be too far off track.
With a shrug, she moved ahead, crossing the bridge. Tor kept up behind her.
The path curved right, and then wound back and forth as it started uphill. At no point in their walk to the forge had she and Maloia gone down a slope. Just as she readied to turn back, she caught sight of a shape in the trees.
A low cabin sat just ahead, its walls and roof made from weathered wooden boards. A slanting porch clung to the front. Through the dark windows, nothing moved.
“Oleja!”
Oleja turned to see Maloia walking up the path, her crutches in hand.
“Funny that I find you here,” said Maloia, coming to stand beside Oleja. She looked the cabin up and down.
“Why is that?”
“I just talked to Sreovel about places nearby available for rent. She recommended this cabin—the cost is low and it’s the closest thing to the forge. I will get everything sorted out this afternoon, and we can move you in tomorrow.”
“I’m not going back to that forge.”
“I don’t think you have much of a choice.”
Oleja turned to face Maloia. “I always have a choice. I am free and I do what I want. I will not go back to that forge!”
“Oleja, I know why you have reservations, but Sreovel has done you no wrongs. She wants to help you.”
“She’s an earthborn,” said Oleja, shaking her head. “She wants to help no one.”
“You do not even know her.”
“I know others like her, and they’re all the same. They’re all monstrous, and I will kill every last one of them before I’m dead.”
“With what force? You want to raise an army, yes? For that you need to enact the rest of the plan you’ve come up with, and that starts with a forge.”
“I’ll figure it out. I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but you should not have taken me to this forge. I cannot work alongside earthborn when my aim is their death.”
“But your aim is the end of Itsoh, and Sreovel is not part of that camp—she never has been, and she certainly swears no allegiance to them now. She is a citizen of Ahwan, just the same as I am, and Wil, and you, now, as well.”
Oleja stood in silence for many moments. No words from Maloia would change what Oleja knew to be true—that eclipsers were horrible, vicious creatures who kept humans as slaves or killed them in the wilds. No goodness burned in their hearts, not even a spark of it; only death and destruction found a home in their minds.
“So, I am going to live here?” said Oleja at last.
“Yes,” said Maloia with a sigh. “The rent is cheap, though you’ll still need a job to afford it.”
“Why so cheap?”
Maloia stuck her tongue into her cheek. She combed her fingers through her coppery hair, shaking the curls. “Not many are willing to live so close to the forge.”
Oleja raised an eyebrow. “You mean not many are willing to live so close to the earthborn.”
“Damn it, Oleja!” said Maloia in exasperation. “You are beyond stubborn. Yes, few are willing to live so near to Sreovel, but that’s only because many hold the same biases as you. But you need somewhere to live, and you won’t be able to afford much if you keep at this attitude.”
“I suppose this is another matter on which I have no choice, then?”
“You can always lie in the street as a beggar.”
Silence fell between them.
“I will take the cabin. I like it here in the woods anyway.”
Maloia nodded. “I will get everything sorted. Shall we head back to the city now?” She held Oleja’s crutches out to her. Oleja took them, slid them onto her arms, and started down the hill.
As she went, she cast her eyes northeast, up the hill and deeper into the North Run. Smoke rose in a white-grey plume a ways off as the fires in the forge blazed on.
When Itsoh burned, the smoke would be as black as the night.
Chapter Eight
Oleja pushed through the door and stepped into the cabin. The hinges squealed as the door shuddered open, quieting only after it hit the wall and came to a stop. Stale air carrying the smells of mildew and animal droppings hit her nose like a blow from a weapon. Plumes of dust rose up in waves with every step across the creaky floorboards.
One room made up the cabin, minus what looked to be a closet in the far corner. To the right of the door, counters lined the wall beneath a row of cupboards, and an odd collection of chairs and stools rimmed a table in the corner. To the left, a double bed took up much of the space, the bare mattress stained and torn in places and set beneath a carved wooden headboard. Two side tables flanked it. A long desk with no accompanying chair squeezed in next to the bed as if shoved there as an afterthought. Along the back wall was a brick hearth in which lay a few charred logs, and beside it, a door that led out to the back of the house.
“Homey,” said Brashen, stepping past Oleja with a tall stack of boxes.
“Disgusting,” said Cyrah following close behind, a pail of water from the river in one hand and a fistful of clean rags in the other.
Brashen went to the desk and put the boxes down, then crossed the room to investigate the closet. Cyrah went first to the table and placed the pail down, then soaked one rag, wrung the excess water from it, and began wiping down the countertops.
“Oleja, where do you want this?” called Wil from outside. Oleja looked back through the door to see the boy holding her old sled aloft in both hands, pulled from the cart still loaded with the rest of Oleja’s stuff—which wasn’t much, mostly boxes filled with tinkering components she had acquired s
ince arriving, but some other stuff given to her by her friends filled the cart too.
“Uh, just put it outside along the side of the house,” said Oleja with a shrug. The sled, once belonging to Honn, had seen better days. Maloia told her when she’d first awoken that they had it, and though she doubted it could serve any further use, she held onto it.
“Oh, perfect!” Brashen called. Oleja turned back to see him emerge from the closet, an old broom in hand. Spiderwebs clung to the handle, their threads trailing as he carried it through the room.
“Here, you’re into cleaning,” said Brashen, holding the broom out to Cyrah. Cyrah looked the web-covered broom up and down.
“Get away from me.”
“Okay.”
Maloia and Wil came through the door next, each carrying a load of stuff from the cart.
“This is a good size,” said Maloia, looking around. “And I’m sure you’ll have it all fixed up in no time.”
The five of them set to work on the cabin while Tor ran around outside, exploring the new area. With the windows and back door open, the room filled with fresh, clean-smelling air. Brashen swept out the dust and dirt; Cyrah wiped down all of the furniture and cupboards; Maloia finished carrying things in; Wil got to work sorting all of Oleja’s tinkering components. Oleja took a look in the closet and found an assortment of other items left over by the previous inhabitants. A shovel and some clay pots, and then two other items Oleja couldn’t name, and so the others explained them: one was a fishing rod, and the other, an old, torn kite.
Most of the shelves in the cupboards lay bare, but in one they found some old tin cans, which Oleja insisted she keep, and in another hid a somewhat dented cooking pot and a dirty spoon. Two clay mugs were stacked in the corner of a third, one with the handle broken off, and the other with a chip missing from the rim. Oleja kept it all, despite Cyrah and Maloia urging she dispose of the spoon at the very least.
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