The Kinshield Legacy (an epic/heroic fantasy adventure) (The Kinshield Saga)

by K. C. May

  “Are you going to get a new horse before you return?” Daia asked.

  “I doubt it,” JNese replied. “I haven't the money, and besides, Aminda has agreements with local horse breeders. I can walk back or ride double with Cirang.”

  “No thanks to Daia,” Cirang shot. “You should give JNese your horse to ride, and walk back yourself.”

  “Cirang,” Daia said with an exasperated sigh. “Just shut up.”

  “Don’t worry,” JNese said. “I’ll stand beside you when we tell Aminda.”

  “My thanks.”

  Cirang turned and glared at JNese.

  The lordover had always made an effort to keep the city’s entry point, Trader’s Square and main thoroughfares clean and attractive. But here, every house, every shop they passed looked like a sick dog that had crawled off to die. Flies swarmed everywhere, and the smell made Daia long for a bath. Children grew up in this filth. The Lordover should do something about it.

  A barefoot and dirty-faced child dressed in rags jostled Daia's coin purse as he ran past, and Daia clutched it to her hip. Little urchins could snatch her purse and be gone before she had a chance to react. “Where’s our outpost? I expected it to be closer to the city gate.”

  “Watch out,” JNese said. She grabbed Daia's arm and pulled her away just as someone threw the contents of a chamber pot onto the dirt road.

  “Ugh! That's disgusting,” Daia said.

  “What, highbrows don't piss?” Cirang said.

  JNese made a rude gesture. “Did you see the guard post far just inside the city gate? The lordover’s not using it. We want to lease it. It has a room big enough for a couple of beds, so we could save money on lodging.”

  “And be readily available for escorts,” Daia said. “It sounds ideal.”

  “That's our current outpost.” JNese pointed to a tiny shack.

  Its rudimentary door hung lower on one side than on the other and left gaps on the sides. Only a stick on a nail latched it shut. The rusted and dented tin roof sat so lightly upon the walls that a good sneeze might have sent it sailing into the sky. On an overturned crate in front of the shack, sat a woman sharpening a knife. Cirang dismounted, and she and Daia hitched their horses to the post beside the shack.

  “Hail, Tennara,” Daia said.

  Tennara climbed to her feet and extended a hand to each of her fellow Sisters. Gentle lines framed her smile. She had an angular, freckled face with deep-set laugh lines beside her eyes that belied the stern expression she wore. Daia knew no one as agreeable as this battler, nor as deadly. She served as a model for the principles upon which the Sisterhood was founded.

  “Which one of you is returning to Sohan first?” she asked.

  “I am,” Daia said. “I’m supposed to collect something from you.”

  Tennara looked her over. “Not my knife, I hope. You should be carrying a second blade.”

  “What are you talking about?” Daia asked as she looked down at herself. Her sword hung ready at her left hip, but the sheath on her right was empty. “Callibisters! I must have lost my dagger in the beyonder fight. I’ll look for it on my way back.”

  “Callibisters?” Cirang laughed. “Is that the best you can do? Oh, I forgot. Highbrows don’t curse. That would be unladylike.”

  “Unlike yours, Cirang, my mouth and my ass have different functions,” Daia shot back.

  Tennara turned to Cirang. “Don’t tell me Aminda sent you to negotiate with the lordover.”

  Cirang sneered. “I can be diplomatic when I need to be.”

  “You mean, you can hand him cow shit and make him think it’s rose petals,” Tennara said.

  “You call it cow shit; I call it ‘a rich, fragrant material to encourage growth.’”

  They all laughed.

  “Listen,” Tennara said. “The lordover passed a law a few days ago forbidding women to carry blades longer than ten inches in the city. We all need to--”

  “What?!” Daia shrieked.

  “--try to avoid the men-at-arms. I doubt you’re going to have success convincing him to repeal it, and I suspect that you traveled all this way for naught. From what I hear, he’s calling for your return,” Tennara said, turning her eyes to Daia. “If you renounced your affiliation to the Sisterhood and reclaimed your place as his heiress, supposedly he’d repeal the law.”

  “What a grand idea,” Cirang said, slapping Daia’s back. “You should do it – for the good of the Sisterhood. Show us what a noble woman you are.”

  “To hell with you,” JNese said, shoving Cirang’s shoulder. “Daia’s a better battler than you’ll ever be.”

  “Ladies, please,” Tennara said. “I’m sure you two will present an argument so compelling that he will gladly repeal the law without such a ridiculous stipulation. If not, he can arrest us and have the entire Sisterhood pounding fists on his door.”

  This was insane. Daia could not believe her father would be so vindictive. Yes, he was a jackass, but this law was beyond ludicrous. Her fists trembled, and she clenched her jaw. She had more than a few words to say about it, and say them she would. Loudly. As Daia started toward her horse, Tennara seized her arm.

  “Do you think you’re in the right frame of mind to talk to him now?” the elder battler asked.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “But he’s gone too far this time. He--” Daia stiffened. He was baiting her. He wanted her to go storming into his office so he could detain her. This was just another attempt at controlling the daughter with whom he’d always been at odds. The better plan would be to find out what Cirang and JNese had to say after their meeting, and perhaps confront the lordover later. Daia breathed a sigh. “You’re right.”

  “Let JNese and Cirang have a chance with him first. We might be surprised. Are you returning to Sohan right away?”

  At Daia’s nod, Tennara gave her the money she had been collecting for her services in Tern. Daia added it to the money she’d received from the merchant.

  “I’m going to find lodging near the edge of the city,” she told JNese and Tennara, avoiding eye contact with Cirang. “That way I can rise early and be on my way without having to travel through the market during the morning frenzy.”

  Chapter 15

  Risan Stronghammer’s skin glistened in the red glow of the furnace. After melting the iron ore, he poured it into a mold to create a long strip, then heated and hammered it flat. He heated it twice more to infuse it with the power of fire. Satisfied that it was the best quality steel he could forge, he mixed iron ore with the sky rocks he’d saved. While he had no name for this metal, he knew its strength by the way it felt when he hammered it, and by the color and intensity of its glow when heated. When he turned the metal bar over and began to pound it again, the dreamlike sensation that he had done this before told him he was on the right path.

  Once he had the metal forged, he folded the steel with the sky rock alloy. Never had he tried this pattern welding in waking life, and he questioned the wisdom of using a new technique on a sword so important. The king’s sword. But Risan had to follow his dream -- his premonition -- and his dream-self had folded the metals this way.

  He pounded it for hours, heating, folding and shaping it until it was exactly the sword he had envisioned. Finally, he plunged it into a vat of snake blood to harden it, knowing its viscosity would cool the metal at just the right rate.

  When, at last, he had tempered, sharpened and polished the sword and bolted its hilt to the tang, Risan took it outside and held it in the sunlight. The pattern created by his folding technique, along with colors the sky rock alloy reflected, gave the surface of the blade the appearance of snake scales. He smiled, pleased with his work.

  No, he told himself. I must look at it objectively. Was it good enough to present to the king? He took it back into his forge and held the flat of the blade on the top of his work bench, bearing down on the hilt to test its flex. The blade was stiff, but bowed a good four inches. Perfect.

  Risan pluck
ed a wiry hair from his beard. He leaned down and shut one eye, then pushed the hair’s end against the sword’s edge. The hair split in two. Hoo! That will do.

  He had sculpted the snakes on the hilt in the style common to artisans of Fartha, but would people of Thendylath find Farthan artwork beautiful? Would Gavin be disappointed in his new weapon? Risan looked it over. No. He could not do better. Here, in his hands, was his life’s best work.

  It was time.

  He set the sword on his workbench and went into the house, pausing to wash and dry his hands. In his bedroom, buried in a chest with sweaters and bedding, the three gems lay twisted within one of his wife’s handkerchiefs. He took them to his forge.

  Risan carefully placed the gems in the hilt, setting them into small holes the mold had created. The snake’s head that formed the pommel received two gems for the eyes; the head at the weapon’s shoulder received the third. His hand trembled, and he shook out his nervousness and bent down again. With a soldering iron, he melted a length of wire around each gem to hold them securely in place, then gilded the setting with gold.

  He took the sword into the shop, holding it carefully so that the blade did not strike anything as he walked. Arlet sat stitching a leather sheath for a small dagger.

  “Arlet, examine this blade for me. Tell me honestly what you think.”

  She set down the sheath and looked up. “This is it?” she asked. Her eyes shone with the same excitement Risan himself felt every time he looked upon it.

  “This is it. Is it enough? Do you think Gavin will like it?”

  The sword was so long that standing it on its point would have brought the pommel to Risan’s chin. He held it first one way and then the other so Arlet could inspect it.

  “Risan,” she breathed. “This sword is more beautiful than words can say. You did a fine job. Gavin will be overjoyed. The hilt is finished, gems are set, blade is sharpened and polished. It is ready.”

  Risan could not hold back a grin. His wife had a critical eye for weapons, and rarely had nothing to suggest in the way of improvements.

  “Let me measure it,” Arlet said. “I’ll start making a scabbard.” She opened a drawer in her desk, pulled out a long strip of cotton and held it to the blade first lengthwise, then widthwise, marking the dimensions on the cloth with a piece of charcoal. “I’ll tool it with a beautiful drawing. The tanner down the road should have some new skins to choose from.”

  “Remember, Gavin likes to wear his weapon on his back.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Snakes. Put snakes in the design. And a cougar. I think it should have a cougar. Mayhap a bat.”

  “Or mayhap you can trust the design to me,” Arlet said.

  “Arlet, I want to make this a sword like no other, truly worthy of our king.” Risan took Arlet by the shoulders, prompting her to look into his eyes. He took a deep breath. “I want to take it to Jennalia.”

  “What?” Arlet clapped a hand to her breast. “Jennalia? No, you cannot. She doesn’t use her skill for such things, Risan.”

  “We can ask her. Where’s the harm in asking?”

  “She might think I am trying to get a favor from her because I am her student.”

  “Mayhap she’ll do it because the sword is for our new king.”

  “King or not, she will say no. And she will feel insulted if I ask.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t ask. If Jennalia was going to say no, Risan preferred to let her say it herself. “This is important to me. I’ll take it to her myself then. You don’t need to come.”

  “Don’t you dare go without me.” Arlet bolted the door and propped the Closed sign in the window. On the table, she laid down a sheet of leather and wrapped Gavin’s sword in it while Risan pinched his lips to hide a smile. Ah, he loved this paradoxical woman.

  * * * * *

  Risan clutched the blade in both hands, and Arlet walked beside him through the street. She carried a coin purse, bulging with their savings, cradled against her breast. It had taken years to save that money, but now that mattered little to Risan.

  They hurried through the streets of Ambryce south through the market district, their boots whispering along the stone and brick pavement with their mismatched strides. Risan barely noticed the stares he and Arlet usually received when walking among the taller, rounder-of-eye and larger-of-nose Thendylathians. The loud enticements of merchants gave way to children’s singing games and barking dogs as they left the market and entered the poor residential district. Even the blooming magnolias could not cover the stench of human waste. At last, they turned down the row and stopped in front of a shack with a thatch roof and yellow window shutters.

  Risan and Arlet looked at each other. Her eyes sparkled. She gave him her most beautiful smile, and he realized it was just like all of her smiles.

  “Here we are,” she whispered.

  Risan nodded and kissed her forehead. He raised his fist to knock on the door, but just as his knuckles tipped forward, the door swung open.

  A Farthan woman stood at the door. Her hunched posture made her shorter than Arlet by several inches. She smiled broadly, showing her brown, unevenly worn teeth. A blue-white film covered her eyes. White hair trailed down her back like a horse’s tail.

  “Arlet, what a surprise,” Jennalia said in their native language. “And you brought someone with you. Come in.”

  Risan gave Arlet a wink as she stepped before him into the woman’s home.

  “This is my husband, Risan,” Arlet replied.

  “Well met,” Risan said. “I have heard many wonderful things about you.”

  “It’s always good to meet my students’ loved ones,” Jennalia said. “How can I help you?”

  “We have a sword,” Risan said, “for a very special man.”

  Jennalia closed the door and walked past them to a dresser, opened a ceramic jar and pulled from it a black gem like the one Risan had put in the lower snake’s eye. “And you want an enchantment for this sword.”

  “I told Risan that you don’t use your skill for such things,” Arlet said. “But this man saved my life. He’s a true hero.”

  Jennalia’s eyebrows went up. “Have you touched him?”

  “Yes,” Arlet said. “He saved me in the river.”

  “I did also,” Risan said. “I shook his hand.”

  “Good,” Jennalia said. “Your spirit knows him more deeply than your mind does.” She shuffled up to Arlet and held one hand in front of her, palm facing outward. “He has some magic that is not his own. Powerful magic, but untrained. He left something undone.” She turned and went to Risan. “Oh dear. This man has a terrible burden to bear, far greater than the promise he made. He will need help. You have something of his.”

  “Yes,” Risan said. “The sword I made for him has his gems in the hilt. They are the Rune Stones. He’ll be the next king of Thendylath.”

  “Ahhh,” Jennalia said, nodding and grinning. Her eyes stared past him. “Rune Stones. I understand now. A ribbon will finally be burned.”

  Risan looked at Arlet with wide eyes. A ribbon will be burned. Gavin was fulfilling his destiny. A shiver swept through him. No wonder his dream had been so powerful.

  “We want to buy a special enchantment for his new sword,” Arlet told Jennalia. “We have gold.”

  Jennalia chuckled and went to the dresser again. “You need no gold here, my dear.” She opened a drawer and withdrew a piece of parchment. “Enchantments such as this cannot be bought for any amount of money.” She shut the drawer and motioned Risan to follow her to a table. “Put it there.”

  Risan removed the leather wrap, set the sword on the table, and stepped back.

  Jennalia laid the parchment on the table and ran her hands lightly over the sword. “The enchantment I will put on this weapon is very strong. It will bind to whoever claims the sword.”

  “I’ll keep it safe,” he said.

  “You must
not let anyone take up this weapon before the king does. It will speak to anyone with a warrior’s spirit. No one but the king must utter its name else the weapon will bind itself to the wrong person.”

  “No one must handle the sword.”

  “Whoever speaks its name owns the sword. Only the owner’s death can unbind the enchantment, which weakens every time it is unbound.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  Jennalia opened another drawer in the dresser and withdrew an inkpot and a brush. She set them on the table and opened the inkpot. She dipped the brush into it. Risan watched the brush as she drew it across the parchment, first a horizontal line, then slightly curved line to the left, and then another at a downward angle to the right. She drew in the ancient script of Fartha, but he did not recognize the symbols. When at last she lifted the brush and wrapped it in a piece of paper, Risan studied the drawing, cocking his head. On the parchment were three symbols, one atop the other.

  “Strength in battle,” Arlet whispered, pointing to the top symbol. “But written backward.”

  “Yes, backward,” Jennalia said. “The other two are for sharpness, so the blade will never dull, and Warrior’s Wisdom. With the Rune Stones in the sword, the enchantments will become even more powerful.” She placed three deep brown gems on the parchment around the three symbols and waved her hand in the air over them. Her lips moved silently.

  As Risan watched the parchment and the symbols upon it, the ink flared up suddenly in a sparkling gold color, and then faded to black once more.

  Jennalia laid the parchment on the blade, ink against metal, at the sword’s shoulder. After a moment, a wisp of smoke wove its way skyward. The three characters faded into view on the reverse side of the parchment. Their color went from pale pink to blood red to dark brown and then to black. When the three characters stopped smoking, she lifted the parchment.

  The symbols were burned into the metal, black and dull against the silver blade.

  “It is done,” Jennalia said in a shaking voice. She moved stiffly, raising a hand to her head, and fumbled for a chair before collapsing onto it. “Take it to our king, but remember my warning.”