by J. M. Briggs
“Oh, they did not,” Nicki growled. She opened her hands, summoning her magic and casting blue light all around them.
The Red Caps took that as the signal. They came running out of the shadowy patches, all wearing bright red hats. Bran shook himself, trying to dismiss the tangle of thoughts all centered around almost being stabbed with the knife. Pulling on his magic again, he felt the spark ignite and shoved the magic forth. A wave of yellow energy rolled forward, sending the Red Caps on the lawn flying with small shrieks of pain and anger. Grimacing, Bran looked towards the nearest neighboring home. Nothing yet. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any problems.
“Any idea how Alex cast that notice-us-not spell?” Aiden called.
“No details, I guess she just really really thought about it,” Nicki said. “God, that sounded stupid!”
“You can’t visualize everything,” Aiden said. A fireball flashed to life in his hands and he tossed it into a group of Redcaps.
They caught fire and one instantly dropped to the ground, rolling around to put out the flames. Aiden groaned as the fire started to spread. Bran held back a sigh and glanced towards Aiden, debating if Aiden would take him putting the fire out personally.
“That didn’t work,” Bran said.
“I got it,” Aiden huffed.
Aiden reached out his hand as red sparks swirled down his arm. The flames started twisting up from the ground, swirling into a small spinning vortex. Bran looked at Aiden in surprise. His friend’s hand was shaking, but his expression was pure concentration. Eyes widening, Bran watched as it floated off the air and spun around in a circle, catching all of the Red Caps. There were small shrieks, but those quickly faded. Nicki was cheering. Bran didn’t know how to react. On the one hand, he was very impressed, but on the other, he was vaguely disturbed.
There were only a few survivors. Bran threw a hand forward, focusing the magic into one point on the nearest Red Cap’s chest. The yellow bolt connected with the Red Cap, killing it instantly. He moved on, pushing another magical bolt at the next one he spotted. They were splitting up, moving all over the place. Cold hit his arm, and he looked sharply to the right. Part of the lawn was frozen, and there were three small frozen figures, like something from a cartoon. Nicki stalked forward. Bran couldn’t see her expression, but anger and violence were telegraphed with every step. Then the ice shattered, breaking apart the Red Caps.
Everything was still and silent. Closing his eyes, Bran strained his ears and listened. If Alex had been here she could have spread out her magic to check. He didn’t understand how she did it. The low ache in his chest warned him against trying.
“I think we’re done,” Aiden said.
“Arthur’s got to know that Red Caps won’t do the job,” Nicki was glaring at the trees. “So, what was even the point of that?”
Bran didn’t have an answer. Maybe it was a numbers game, and Arthur figured that sooner or later a Red Cap would get lucky. Or maybe it was part of something else. Part of some larger plan. He didn’t know and his stomach twisted into a knot. He didn’t know.
27
What He Wants
Podlasie Province, Poland 983 C.E.
Dobiemir felt something as he brought the hammer down on the iron. There was a warmth beneath his skin. Illusive, but there. If he could just grab it then he would be able to do more; do what Merlin and Morgana did. He raised the hammer and slammed it down again. The hot iron shifted at the impact, widening and flattening under the pressure.
A jolt of pride raced through him. It wasn’t pretty. That much he knew; but it was working. He was doing it. Iron wasn’t too easy to come by, but if he could master this, or at least learn it decently, then it was one more thing that could help him and his son survive. Dobiemir flexed his fingers around the handle of the hammer.
He fell into the rhythm of the work. In theory, it was simple, but there were so many tiny things. The angle of the hammer mattered when trying to shape the metal. He had to mind the temperature and texture of the metal. The work was soothing. Being a farmer was a lot of work and waiting. This was solid, he could hold it in his hands.
Dobiemir wasn’t even sure what he was working on. It was slowly taking shape as he kept hammering. The heat in the small forge was thickening, pressing down on him. Outside the warm sun was beating down on the small earthen hut that Merlin had created in only one morning. The stone furnace channeled the heat just right and didn’t use as much fuel as he’d feared. A small selection of tools hung from hooks to his right. Where Merlin had acquired them, Dobiemir didn’t know, but he was grateful to have been spared the expense.
Pounding the metal again, Dobiemir noted with surprise that it was flattening into a remarkably even circular shape. Maybe he would make it into a pot. Even if he lacked the skill to make it attractive, it would still be useful. Merlin had started his lessons with simple daggers, but Dobiemir had little interest in weapons. When this was all over he’d restrict himself to making tools and goods that he could trade for materials.
Putting the iron back into the fire, Dobiemir rolled his shoulders and considered taking off his shirt. His sweat was making the material stick to his back uncomfortably. The thought of a stray coal hitting his bare skin was enough to make Dobiemir keep his shirt on. His muscles were beginning to protest. This was a different kind of work — a different kind of movement and motion. His arms were strong from carrying supplies and cutting crops, but this was something else.
It was still difficult for him to be sure of the temperature and how long to let the metal heat up. Merlin was a good teacher, but he’d made it clear that experience was the key. There was a ‘feel’ to the metal that he had to learn for himself. At least this was proving easier than magic. Pulling out the iron, Dobiemir thought it might still be a little cool, but hammered it a few times anyway.
Sweat trickled into his eyes. Dobiemir grunted and put the cooling metal aside. His eyes stung, and his body ached. Time to rest. Setting the hammer to the side, he brought up a hand and wiped his face. That didn’t help much: he’d have to remember to bring a rag out to the small forge. Turning around, he almost stumbled back into the furnace. Morgana was leaning against the side of the doorway watching him.
“Morgana? Is something wrong?”
“You have a talent for working iron,” Morgana said. Her voice was soft and wistful. Turning to look at her, he noted that Morgana’s gaze seemed far away. “That’s not surprising.”
“Why isn’t it?”
Morgana blinked. It took her a moment to recover, but then she smiled at him. “You’re a working man. Good with your hands and unafraid of toil. You’re patient, and you’re willing to let things take some time to get right. Those are very good traits for when you work metal.”
Dobiemir didn’t believe her. There was something else. There was always something else. A secret that all the others knew and understood, but no one shared with him. Shifting awkwardly, he started to move his hand but thought better of it. Morgana straightened up and stepped into the furnace. It was tight, but it meant that he could leave now if he wanted to.
Stepping into the doorway, Dobiemir leaned outside and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. Even the light breeze was enough to cool his skin instantly. The change was so sudden that he shivered a little but gloried in it.
“Blacksmithing is hot work,” Morgana said. “Don’t worry. You’ll build up endurance to the heat.”
“Do you smith?” he asked. Turning back to Morgana, he found her examining the tools critically. “Merlin never said.”
“I know how to work iron,” Morgana answered. “But Merlin is much more skilled than I. It is better that you learn from him.”
He nodded absentmindedly, looking towards the fields to check on Slavko. His son was lounging in the sunshine outside of the animal yard. There was no sign of Merlin or any of the Old Ones who had taken to visiting his home at odd hours in the day. Cyrridven had come out of the small pond that Baldr and Merlin ha
d built up behind the house last night for a brief time before returning to the water. Somehow, this was his life now.
“You’re pushing magic into the iron,” Morgana said. She reached towards the rounded piece of metal he’d been working on with a glowing fingertip. “Watch.” A soft light appeared from the metal. Dobiemir blinked in surprise, but there it was. A faint purple hint that was brighter than the rest of the metal. Morgana smiled, and the glow grew brighter, bathing the forge with color. “You don’t have full control of it, but your magic is responding to your thoughts. I’ve seen this before.”
“I- how am I doing it?” Dobiemir blinked, not believing his eyes, but the glow was still there.
“What are you thinking about?” Morgana drew her hand away, and the glow started to fade.
“I don’t know. Nothing special.” He shrugged even as he kept staring at the metal. The glow was gone now. “My son, what happens next, that night in the forest. It’s all sort of jumbled together.”
“Hmmm.” Morgana studied him for a moment. “Your magic could be responding to your worry for Slavko, in light of Chernobog being so close.” Tilting her head, Morgana raised an eyebrow. “So, the question is, Dobiemir, what is it that you want from magic? It is yours to command, to achieve what you need.”
Dobiemir’s eyes jumped to the flattened round shape. What was it going to be? What did he want it to do? He hadn’t been thinking about anything like that, so what was possible now? Morgana stayed silent, just watching him process this. There was a sharpness to her gaze. It took him a moment to recognize it, but there it was — that same searching look that she frequently gave him. That Sif, Odin, Merlin, and Baldr all gave him. They were looking for something and not finding it.
Anger and frustration started brewing in his chest. Bitterness licked at his heart like flames around a pot. He hated it. Dobiemir struggled against the growing storm of emotions for a moment. But he was tired, sore, and tired of the looks.
“I’m not stupid,” he said. It was hard to meet Morgana’s gaze, but he did. “I know there are things you aren’t telling me.”
“You’re right,” Morgana said. She held his eyes, looking much calmer than he felt. “There are things that you haven’t been told. I’m not sure you really want to know them. You’re special Dobiemir. Special as a mage as well as a man, but you have a life. You have a son. Merlin and I… we agreed that if we can deal with Chernobog, that you don’t need to get pulled into the greater scope of magic.”
“You think that’s best?”
“I think you’d prefer it.”
“I don’t feel like that is a real answer.”
“When this is over, Merlin and I will move on. I’ll scry once more and make sure that there are no other problems that we need to address. But you… you can stay here at this farm with your son. You’ll still have some access to magic. You can make your life a little easier and live in peace.”
“And that’s what you want?” Dobiemir asked. She didn’t answer, and he sighed. “I just… I feel lost, Morgana. There are these holes in my understanding, and no one is filling them in. And there’s something more powerful than I can imagine in the forest, just waiting and growing stronger while we try to think of a plan.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Morgana said. “Merlin and I… we’ve put a lot on mages in the past. We’re trying to be smarter, kinder about the mages we meet. You have a child who needs you.”
“My ignorance won’t protect Slavko.” Dobiemir swallowed, suddenly chilled at the thought of something happening to his son. “Or me,” he added when Morgana raised that damned eyebrow. “But it might get me killed.”
Morgana studied him for another moment. Then she stepped out of the forge, leaving the furnace to cool behind her. “No, I suppose it won’t. Your soul is ancient,” Morgana said. “You don’t remember anything from life to life, but I’m sure you are the current incarnation of the Iron Soul.” She shook her head when he opened his mouth to speak. “It doesn’t change who you are, but it explains why you are here.” A soft chuckle escaped her, and Morgana smiled sadly. “The Iron Soul is always where they are needed. Always. No matter how much time passes, Merlin and I always seem to find a mage nearby.”
“I… that doesn’t mean that I have the same soul. Mages are supposed to protect the world.”
“Yes,” Morgana agreed. “But I’m sure. I scryed for the current Iron Soul when we became aware of the danger. And we found you. I’m confident that it’s you. But that’s just it, Dobiemir. You will die someday and be reborn again to fight when needed. I suppose that seeing you with your son, a peaceful man trying to live a peaceful life, that Merlin and I just wanted to let you have that.”
“Why? Why does that matter so much?”
“The Iron Soul doesn’t always live.”
The words stung. They caught in the air and struck like a cold wind. Exhaling, Dobiemir felt a rush of worry and relief. It shouldn’t be surprising. This was dangerous. He’d known that something horrible and dangerous was going on the moment those Shadows appeared. Yet, hearing Morgana say the words still had an impact. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was something about his soul.
A laugh escaped him. “The Iron Soul?” he repeated. “I’m not sure how the Christians would feel about that.”
Morgana smiled, but she was still watching him carefully. Her hand came up and toyed with her necklace as she waited for him to say something. She expected questions, but he didn’t know what to ask. The idea that he somehow kept returning to fight with magic was strange. Besides, it wasn’t him. He couldn’t remember anything. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe Morgana and Merlin just saw what they wanted to see. His eyes were drawn to the three spirals that formed her necklace. It was familiar, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. Morgana lowered her hand and frowned at him.
“Dobiemir? Are you alright? Do you have questions?”
“That symbol,” Dobiemir said. He pointed to the necklace around Morgana’s neck. “The spirals, what is it?”
“We call it the triskelion,” Morgana answered. Her long fingers came up to touch it softly, tracing the symbol. “It has other names, but it was an important symbol in our homeland. We see it as the symbol of magic. It represents a unity of different forces.”
“So that’s why you both wear it.”
“Yes. You’ve also seen it on the sword that Cyrridven carries. Several items carry that symbol. As I said, to us, it is a symbol of magic.”
He nodded; that made sense he supposed. “Is Cyrridven Merlin’s mother?” he asked. “They seem… they seem very close.”
A chuckle escaped Morgana. Her smile widened, and her eyes sparkled with real amusement. Then her expression softened and turned more thoughtful. A soft sigh escaped her, and she looked out into the distance for a moment before turning her attention back to him.
“No, she is not his mother. His mother was human. Very human. She was not even a mage, though she did have some ability to call on and use magic from what he has told me. Cyrridven was his teacher though, when he was much younger. They remain… close. Even after all the years we’ve spent together, sometimes I think she still knows him better than I do.”
“Oh.” He grimaced, internally groaning at his response. Was that all he could say? “I’m sorry?”
Morgana chuckled and shook her head, almost fondly. “Thank you, Dobiemir, but it’s alright. Merlin and I trust each other now, but we haven’t always been close.” Folding her hands in front of her, she glanced back into the forge. “Is there anything I can help you with? The others are checking the area for Shadows.”
“No,” he said. Shaking his head, Dobiemir grasped at the frayed edges of his thoughts. “No… I think that I’ll keep working in the forge. What you said about what I wanted… I think that maybe I understand.”
“I hope so,” Morgana said. She gave him one more searching look. “You are a good man, Dobiemir. A good father.” Then she turned and walked towards the hi
llside.
Dobiemir watched Morgana walk away. He didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t want to stop her. Something like fondness warmed his chest. It might have been gratitude. There was something in her words, something in her gaze that was softer and kinder than he understood. Yet, Dobiemir was sure that it wasn’t really about him. This Iron Soul… it didn’t matter. Not really. Morgana was right; he was a farmer. He was a simple man and all he wanted was to keep his son, his only remaining family, safe from the monsters.
Nothing else mattered. He searched the yards and smiled when he found Slavko. The boy was sitting amongst some of the goats and weaving a basket. He was lucky that the goats were occupied with other food or else they’d be pulling the reeds out of his hands. His boy’s skin had a healthy glow, and he was growing again. That was enough. That was more than enough.
