The Blacksmith's Son

by Michael G. Manning

  “Lady please, I beg of you, keep this to yourself for now.” Surely she could see my desperation; I think she enjoyed tormenting men.

  “Until the day of revelation I suppose?” She pursed her lips in a mock pout. The woman was entirely too perceptive.

  “Indeed,” I replied. “If you will allow me a moment alone, I truly need to talk to Penny.” I tugged at Penelope’s hands and Lady Rose nodded her approval. We walked a short way down the hall. “Penny I’ve been trying to find you for two days, it’s about the other night...”

  She flinched when I said that, “Whatever you heard is probably true Mort. I’d rather not be reminded.”

  “No that’s not what I meant,” I was puzzled. “Did you get my note?”

  “The one where you told me that you are a nobleman in hiding, biding his time to reclaim his ancestral home or the one where you told me that you’re a wizard with the powers of light and darkness at his command?” She had gone from curious to upset rather quickly.

  “I tried to explain that to you the other day but you ran off before I could finish!” My own frustration was bubbling up.

  “And how long have you known about your illustrious heritage?” she countered.

  “I just found out this afternoon when I went to see my parents, that’s where I got this tabard.” I held the fabric out as if it would support my tale.

  “And yet within just hours of finding out you manage to challenge one of the most powerful men in the realm to a chess match and clean him out.” She said in a tone that implied she was not as mad as I thought.

  “Yes, well he said something about you that I couldn’t forgive, and things just sort of went downhill from there.” I replied.

  Penelope’s face went white and her entire demeanor changed, “I appreciate you defending my honor Mort, but you don’t understand.”

  “I wasn’t defending your honor exactly... he said some things about my parents, and then he mentioned how he had learned them; Which is why I need to talk to you, about the other night. When you were in his room; I know what happened and I wanted...” I tried to say, I wanted to tell you what happened after you went to sleep, but I never got there.

  Her hand struck me solidly across the cheek and left a ringing in my ears. “So you were upset that he insulted your parentage! Never mind that you think I’m a whore, that’s completely understandable. You are the world’s second biggest ass! And what did you say you wanted? Were you going to ask if you could pay for an evening as well? Now that you’re about to be a high and mighty lord yourself. Go to hell Mordecai!”

  She was walking away now, as I stood there trying to figure out where I had gone wrong, “Wait Penny...you’ve misunderstood me, and I still haven’t told you the full story yet!” I yelled after her.

  She didn’t stop and I didn’t chase her. After a minute Rose walked over to me, “You certainly handled that well.”

  “Do you ever say anything helpful? Anything sincere, to actually help someone? Or do you just sit there on your high society horse and play games with everyone?” I was mad and Rose was near at hand.

  “That actually stung. Despite what you believe I care a lot. That girl of yours has been through a lot and if you love her you’ll be patient,” she actually looked sincere as she said this, her usual sly smile was gone.

  “She’s not my girl,” I answered. “And she’s been through a lot more than you know. If she would talk to me I could help her.”

  “I know more than you realize, and I’m telling you to be patient. Simply put, you may think you know what she’s been through but you haven’t the faintest clue. Keep barging around and you’ll only drive her away.” Rose Hightower had drawn herself up to her full height and she radiated a warning aura. I had well and truly pissed her off. “Good evening to you,” she finished and turned to head the same direction that Penny had stalked off in. I might have said she ‘flounced’ away, but a woman as high bred and well mannered as Rose Hightower never flounced.

  Chapter 13

  The Hunt

  After the near destruction of the world by the dark god Balinthor, the ancients established a system to prevent such an event from ever occurring again. All the known bloodlines that had produced powerful wizards were catalogued and their heirs were carefully watched. Any mage born with sufficient power to create a world bridge was given a ‘protector’; although I use that term loosely. They were required to form a bond with someone, usually a trusted friend. The person bonded came to be referred to as Anath’Meridum, which meant ‘Final Pact’ in the old tongue. This guardian’s true purpose was to ensure that the mage they were bonded to would never forsake humanity and create a bridge to allow one of the gods to cross over, whether by choice or under duress. Wizards powerful enough to require bonding were called ‘Ardeth’.

  The bond between a mage and their Anath’Meridum is poorly understood but it is known to link the lives of both individuals, such that if one were to die the other would immediately follow. Anath’Meridum were trained to kill their charges if they should be corrupted by the enemy or betray their oaths. Failing that, they would kill themselves, thus ensuring the safety of all.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  Getting into a fight with someone is an excellent way to ensure that you will get the worst possible sleep. Someone was knocking on the door. In my head I could hear a voice saying, please please go away and let me sleep. Unfortunately reason reared its ugly head and explained to that voice in no uncertain terms that I would have to get up, since they would not go away. Reason is a bitch sometimes. “Alright, hang on!” I shouted at the door.

  Benchley stood outside, “If you had left the door unbarred I could have woken you a bit more carefully sir.”

  “People like you are exactly why I barred the door to begin with,” I grumbled to myself.

  “Master Marcus told me to get you ready for the hunt this morning.” He had a set of riding leathers draped over one arm. I decided then and there, that if there were ever to be hunting on the Cameron estates it would have to be an afternoon affair. The idea had merit. I should probably issue a proclamation requiring all the animals to stay in bed till noon as well, to even the playing field. I tried to explain my idea to Benchley but he seemed to be related to the voice of reason that had made me answer the door in the first place. Both of them ignored me.

  A quarter of an hour later I was dressed and more or less awake. Benchley had a lot of experience at this sort of thing and had come prepared. Black tea, hard bread and a bit of sausage followed him in the door, carried by Timothy. “Breakfast for you sir!” Timothy still had that gap toothed grin that always cheered me up.

  Soon enough I was down at the stables where everyone was gathering. I had never been on a boar hunt, so I didn’t realize what a large production it was. The good duke had a large kennel with a variety of hunting dogs, and there were two particular kinds that would be used today. The ‘bay’ dogs would find the boar and alert us to their location. The ‘catch’ dogs would attempt to hold the boar in place, a dangerous task. Apparently it was not uncommon for one of the large mastiffs to be killed.

  The Duke’s master of the hunt was a man named William Doyle, who also happened to be my friend Timothy’s father. As I came up he was explaining the lay of the land, where the boars were to be found that morning. I found out later that it was customary for him to go out before every major hunt, a ‘quest’ it was called, to find the game before the hunters rode out. I guessed he must be a masochist, since he had been up several hours before the rest of us.

  Sir Kelton, the marshal was out as well and he had the grooms running back and forth, fetching horses for the participants. As was usual, we were all to be mounted on coursers, their speed being preferred for the hunt. I found myself on a dun horse and carrying a boar spear. The spear itself was interesting. The ash shaft was about six foot in length and terminated with a long leaf shaped blade that probably a
dded another foot or so to the overall length. A small crosspiece behind the blade was there to protect the hunter. I checked the head and found my father’s mark impressed on the steel there.

  Marc rode up beside me, his face flushed with excitement, “You know what to do right?!”

  I shook my head, “Not a damn clue.” Apparently my remark was funny because someone behind me started laughing. Dorian had ridden up.

  “I can sympathize with you my friend, I never got a taste for these sorts of adventures either,” said Dorian. “I always feel sorry for the poor boar.” Despite his position and training as a warrior Dorian had always been a gentle boy as we grew up. He often played peacemaker when others lost their temper and he had a great affection for animals.

  “Just listen for the hounds Mort! When you hear the baying start you know they’ve found one, so ride quickly or you’ll be late for the kill.” My experience with killing was limited to chickens and considering how enjoyable that was I didn’t really know if I wanted to be the first to find the boar anyway.

  We set out riding across the fields around Castle Lancaster, spreading out as we cantered along. Dorian and I took a position on the right hand side and soon we were more than a hundred yards from the nearest riders on either side of us. We reached the edge of the forest and then we were among the trees. The ground was dappled with spots of sunshine coming through the leaves, and a light breeze kept everything in motion.

  The air was sweet with the smells of spring and green things growing. Despite my early morning crankiness I had to admit that the idyllic scenery around me worked a subtle magic. The wind ruffled my hair as the powerful horse beneath me walked easily along. Dorian and I spread apart as well, and soon even he was lost to sight. Closing my eyes I could feel the forest around me, tasting it with my mind in a way that was almost spiritual.

  I relaxed and soon forgot the hunt. If I heard the hounds I decided I would ignore them, the day was too beautiful to spoil with blood. Or maybe I was just lazy. I continued to expand my awareness, startled at how much life there was around me. Things unnoticed by the eye, the badger in his lair beneath an oak thirty yards away, the finches fluttering in their nests high above, mice and small creatures filtering through the grass, searching for seeds. These were things I had never known before, not in such an intimate way. Reaching further I felt Dorian more than a hundred yards to my left, fighting to get through a thick patch of brambles. I couldn’t ‘see’ him, but somehow I knew it was Dorian, it felt like him.

  I laughed thinking of his predicament, for I knew he was in no serious trouble. Then I felt it behind me, a tight knot of hatred, a man and horse, emanating that sickening purple aura. Devon Tremont was following me cautiously. He was still at a distance, but he was closing steadily, so I picked up speed. I would rather not encounter that unpleasant man on such a fine day.

  Within a minute I knew he had sped up as well, he must be at a full gallop in fact, since he was closing quickly. Lets see how he handles this then, I thought to myself, and I switched directions, heading to my left. That would put me across Dorian’s path eventually. Assuming that Devon wasn’t able to track me he would wind up quite some distance from me very quickly. As a precaution I made sure I had myself completely shielded, I had forgotten to do so that morning.

  Sure enough Devon turned to follow... he must be able to sense me, in much the same way I could sense him. Does that mean he’s a mage also? I had been wondering that since seeing his purplish aura the first time, this seemed to make it even more likely. I kicked my horse, breaking into a full gallop now, if he wanted to catch me I would lead him a merry chase through the woods. I smiled to myself as the trees raced by... the wind was in my face and I could not help but laugh.

  Glancing over my shoulder I saw Devon come into sight through the trees, he was bent low over his mount and pressing it for all the speed his horse could muster. He looked serious, which only made me laugh harder, so I gave him a cavalier wave. “Ho Devon, it seems you want to race!” I shouted back, although I have no clue whether he could make out my words as the wind and trees whipped by me.

  Then I felt something. Something against my shield, pressing, trying to reach my mind. After a moment it was gone and I laughed even harder knowing that he had failed at whatever he planned. Have I mentioned that I sometimes lack all common sense? Finding his target unreachable, Devon did something I should have expected, if I had been thinking rather than laughing at him.

  My courser, the beautiful horse that was galloping beneath me, froze. I don’t have a better way to describe it. One moment we were racing the wind, the next every muscle in the poor beast’s body locked up. It went down immediately, legs snapping as it struck the earth like thunder, twisting and rolling. I might have felt sorry for it, but my own problems were nearly as great. Still laughing I suddenly felt as if a giant hand had plucked me from my seat. As the horse went down I sailed forward, like some great misshapen bird flying headlong into the trees. I probably would have flown a great distance but for a large oak tree that stopped my forward progress.

  I woke on the ground. Something wet was running down my face, making it hard to see, so I reached up to wipe it off and my hand came away covered in blood. I could hardly breathe; each shuddering breath came with stabbing pains in my side. Some of my ribs must have been cracked. Miraculously both arms and legs seemed functional, but I could not help but think that if it hadn’t been for my shield I would be dead already. He tried to kill me! That thought ran through my mind and it seemed extremely important, although I was having trouble remembering why.

  A shadow fell over me and I looked up, Devon stood over me with a smile so evil I knew he had not tried to kill me. He was there to finish the job. “Grethak!” he spoke and my body went rigid. I was beginning to understand what my poor horse had gone through and perhaps Penny as well, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. “Poor Mordecai, you really shouldn’t have been riding so fast!” he said.

  In his hands he held a large leather pouch, “And here I was just trying to catch up with you, to give you the money I owe!” I was struggling internally now, my lungs were locked and I could not breathe. Imagine drowning, tied and unable to move and you’ll be close to the sensation I was experiencing. Nothing worked and my heart was beating faster and faster, pounding in my ears as my body starved for air. Within my mind I could feel his magic, wrapped like a snake about my brain, paralyzing my movement centers. I tried to pull it loose, but it was difficult, more so because I had no way to speak. Even so, I could eventually have gotten free, with or without words, but I didn’t have that much time.

  Devon was standing over me, gloating, but I could no longer hear his words over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I felt a fool as I stared up at him with my eyes bulging. My vision grew dim and then I could not see at all. Trapped in darkness I wondered if the next life would be better, this one had been nothing but trouble. At last the darkness left me and I sank into oblivion.

  Chapter 14

  Frequently misunderstood are the gifts of those who are sometimes called prophets, or seers. They are thought to be similar in nature to channelers in that they do not possess a large amount of native aythar, in many cases they also show little emmittance as well. The visions that frequently haunt them seem to be largely unintentional in nature. Possibly they possess some sort of subconscious sensitivity similar to magesight, but below the threshold of awareness.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  Penelope’s shoulders moved steadily, the muscles tensing and relaxing as her arms swept the floors. She was young and healthy, long practice had given her ample stamina for the task so that she hardly broke a sweat as she worked her way down the long corridor. It was one of those jobs that never seemed to end. By the time you had finished sweeping the entire labyrinth of Lancaster Castle the floors were dirty again back where you had started. Consequently the maids had someone sweeping almost co
nstantly as Genevieve Lancaster would not tolerate dirty floors.

  Penny didn’t mind though, the work was steady and unlike most of her other tasks she was able to think or daydream without interruption while she swept. Today she was thinking about Mordecai. She had watched him that morning as he had ridden out with the hunting party. Tall and slim, the riding leathers had looked uncommonly good on him, accented by his dark hair and bright eyes. To be so good looking and so stupid at the same time, she thought to herself. Their conversation the night before had upset her, and she was still angry with him. She kept telling herself that, but she just didn’t feel it. In all honesty as she thought back, she was more ashamed and embarrassed than anything else.

  When he said he knew what had happened... I just couldn’t bear it, she realized. Obviously Devon had been bragging, and so bold that he had even told Mort. And he was upset that Devon had called him a blacksmith! She knew Mordecai wasn’t so insensitive as that, he hadn’t meant it that way. Yet to tell her he knew what had been done to her, and then say something else was more important? “What the hell could he have wanted to tell me then?” she said aloud to herself. Now that she had slept and her mind was clear she could see that something had been bothering him, something important.

  She kept sweeping, letting the rhythmic movement of her body relax her mind. She drifted, daydreaming as she worked, but Mordecai kept returning to her mind, until finally she saw him, as he must be now. He was riding hard, driving his horse through sparse woods and past large oaks. The sun was shining on his face, lighting his eyes up like sapphires while he laughed and rode on. He looked over his shoulder to see something, and then he was flying. The horse fell and she could see that it would never recover from such a fall. Mort flew from the courser’s back at the speed of a full gallop and flew head first into the trunk of a large oak.