by Garth Nix
“Looks like there is a crossroads ahead,” he said. “And maybe even a smithy.”
“I knew it!” exclaimed Biter.
Eleanor didn’t comment. Her head was cocked, attending to another detail. She stopped and held up her hand for silence.
“You hear that?” she whispered.
Something was splashing in the mud up ahead, out of sight below the riverbank.
“It’ll just be ducks,” Odo said. They had passed a flock of wild mallards earlier, their green-and-gold heads bright in the sunlight.
But it didn’t really sound like ducks. There were regular splashes, and between them he caught a very human sound, the low sobbing of someone hurt or distressed.
“Is that someone … crying?” asked Eleanor.
“I think so.”
“To the rescue!” cried Biter. He leaped out of his scabbard and zoomed forward, with Odo hanging on as best he could. Pulled by the sword, he crashed through willow branches, trod down a huge clump of weed, and came out on the riverbank.
The river was notionally the same width as it was near Lenburh, but now there was only a narrow channel of water barely two paces wide surrounded by an expanse of sticky, stinky mud. A decrepit wooden jetty stuck out twenty feet across the mud, a stark reminder that up until recently the river had been navigable for small boats. At the far end of the jetty, but under its boards, a forlorn figure crouched in the muck. It was a boy roughly the same age as Odo and Eleanor. He was dressed in a gray shift, weeping disconsolately and throwing rocks at the remaining rivulet in the middle of the river.
“Hello!” called Odo. “Are you all right?”
The boy looked up in fright and went to stand. One foot shot out from under him and with a squawk he fell backward into the mud.
“This is as bad as the sheep,” said Odo, hurrying to the jetty and running along it, Eleanor close behind. At the end, they climbed down a short ladder and dropped to the mud, sinking halfway up their shins. Biter allowed himself to be sheathed once he was certain there were no monsters or villains nearby. Mindful of their own balance, Odo and Eleanor wallowed over to the weeping boy.
He was sitting up and doing his best to wipe the mud off his clothes, but very clumsily. There seemed to be something wrong with his hands, as if it hurt him to use them.
“Are you all right?” Eleanor, the first to reach him, asked. “We didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
“It’s not your fault,” the boy said. “I’m just clumsy. That’s what Master Fyrennian always says. Clumsy as a pig in a pantry, and he’s right.”
Up close, Odo could see that the boy was pale-skinned and thin, with lank blond hair that had odd gaps here and there, as though random lengths of it had been cut away. His nose was long and narrow, with a blister on the end, and he had no eyebrows.
“Anyone could slip in this mud,” said Odo, reaching for the boy’s hand to help him up. “Up you come!”
“No!” shrieked the boy, falling back into the mud again. He held up his hands, showing the travelers that his palms and the insides of all ten fingers were badly burned. The skin was shining red and already beginning to peel away. From the pain in his eyes, Eleanor could tell it hurt terribly to move them.
“Chaff and weevils!” Odo rarely swore, but this seemed an appropriate time to do so. “How did you do that?”
“Pig in a pantry, remember?” The boy looked close to crying again. “Not good for an apprentice smith.”
“I have some cream for burns in my pack,” Eleanor said. Her father had provided an unguent for every ailment imaginable. She reached behind to swing her pack around but stopped as the boy cried out again.
“I can’t!” The boy’s expression changed to one of alarm. “Master Fyrennian will have my hide.”
“What?” asked Odo.
“I’m supposed to let my hands stay like this until they heal,” sobbed the boy. “To l-l-learn my l-lesson.”
“Lesson?” rumbled Odo. “Those burns won’t heal on their own!”
“The m-mud helps,” sobbed the boy. “And if I wash it off before I go back, the Master will never know.”
“Come with us,” said Odo, picking the boy up and slinging him over his shoulder. He weighed surprisingly little, less than a full flour sack, and it wasn’t too difficult for Odo to carry him ashore, even wading through the mud. “I want to know more about this master who treats you so badly.”
On the riverbank, Odo and Eleanor introduced themselves. Biter was uncharacteristically silent, perhaps remembering the fright he had caused during previous encounters on the road, and Odo chose not to mention him.
“My name is Toland,” said the boy. “I have to get back to the smithy. Master Fyrennian only gave me leave for an hour —”
“Not yet,” said Eleanor. She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back down. “I’m going to treat those hands.”
“No, you mustn’t!” shrieked Toland again. “He’ll burn … that is, I must learn … I must learn my lesson.”
“We will talk to your master,” said Odo. He hesitated, then added with what he hoped sounded like confidence, “I am a knight. It is my duty to help the defenseless, and you are certainly that.”
“So keep still,” said Eleanor firmly.
Toland looked up at Odo, then down to the sword at his side. He hesitated for a moment before slowly holding out his hands.
Eleanor applied one of her father’s ointments as gently as she could. Toland flinched every time she touched him, as much from fear as from actual pain, Eleanor thought.
While Eleanor applied the balm, Odo asked questions. They quickly learned that there was a crossroads ahead, and by it sat Anfyltarn, a village that existed solely to serve the huge smithy that had “always been there.” Toland was just one of dozens of apprentices and smiths all indentured to the formidable Master Fyrennian.
“Tell us how you got burned,” said Odo, his voice gentle and encouraging.
“It was the fire.”
“Yes, we guessed that,” Eleanor said.
Odo nudged her, and she took the hint to let the boy talk at his own speed.
“I picked up a mold Master Fyrennian had been using before it was completely cooled down. I waited the normal time, but I forgot his forge is much hotter than the others.”
Odo felt Biter shift at his side, the sword edging half an inch out of the scabbard.
“Why is it hotter?” asked Odo, correctly interpreting Biter’s move as interest.
“Magic,” whispered Toland. “One load of coal will last a week, burning night and day, and it never needs the bellows. It melts iron in a minute, so you can pour it like water.”
Toland’s expression was of wonderment as he described this marvel, but collapsed into a wince as Eleanor rubbed a particularly sensitive spot. “When he brands you, the fire is so hot you hardly feel it, at least not at first.”
“He brands you?” Odo asked, aghast.
“Sure. It’s to bind us to the mystery, he says, but the older smiths say that’s not true. I think it’s to show we belong to him.”
He slipped one hand free and pulled up the arm of his shift. On his shoulder they saw a lumpy, pinkish scar in the shape of an F, about the size of a hen’s egg.
“We had to swear an oath of loyalty to him as well, when he took over from Master Thrytin. Even the senior smiths had to swear, though they didn’t like it. No one ever had to swear an oath like that before. I crossed my fingers, so it didn’t count.”
Odo and Eleanor exchanged a glance. This whole business of branding and oaths and refusing treatment for burns sounded not only very unusual but positively evil.
“Who’s Master Thrytin?” asked Eleanor.
“He used to be the master of Anfyltarn. He was much kinder to us, particularly the little ones. Then Master Fyrennian came, and they had a contest of skill. Master Fyrennian won, but only because he had the magic fire. Master Thrytin has been locked up ever since, because he wouldn’t take the
oath Fyrennian demanded.”
“Did anyone else refuse?” Odo asked.
“No,” said Toland. He swallowed and smiled weakly. “Master Fyrennian isn’t so bad, really.”
“So why won’t he let you heal your burns?” Eleanor asked.
“To teach us to be more careful next time.”
“And what would happen if you tried to run away?”
“We can’t. He’s too rich and powerful. Everyone around here knows that he’ll pay a reward for any of his branded servants. There was one girl, Scylle, she was two days’ walk away when she was caught. The Master branded her again, on the other arm.”
“You must tell me more about the fire,” said Biter suddenly, unable to remain silent any longer. “The magic fire.”
Toland jumped and cried out.
“Did that … was that … did that sword really just talk?”
“I did,” said Biter. “I have a professional interest in fires such as the one your master uses.”
“Only enchanted swords talk!” exclaimed Toland. “That’s how you can tell if they’re enchanted!”
“Indeed,” said Biter. “Though I have other marks of distinction.”
“Even the master can’t make an enchanted sword! Can I touch the blade?”
“No,” said Biter crossly. “I keep my metal to myself, my knight, and my squire, and the last only for maintenance.”
“I get all the fun jobs,” said Eleanor.
“Enough of this prattle,” said the sword. “The fire!”
Odo pressed more gently. “Can you tell us anything about Master Fyrennian’s magic fire, or is that part of the secret you’re sworn to keep?”
Toland tore his eyes off Biter’s hilt and shrugged.
“I’m sure it is, but I told you I crossed my fingers. The master never lets anyone see exactly how he kindles his flame.”
“What does he kindle it with?”
“I said he doesn’t let anyone see … but he does talk about it sometimes, when he’s angry and everything is waiting for the hot forge. Muttering to himself, about how if he’d found the crop himself he wouldn’t have settled for just one firestarter. But I don’t know what that means, or what crops have to do with fire. We don’t grow anything. We don’t even have any fields.”
At Odo’s side, Biter twitched again.
“Maybe he’s just trying to put you off the scent,” said Eleanor, not noticing.
“People talk a lot of nonsense when they’re angry,” said Odo.
“Not in this case,” said Biter. “He is a fool to speak about his secret fire in such a way.”
“But he didn’t say anything!” said Toland, his face falling. “Did he? Oh, he’ll have me for ashes if I’ve said anything I oughtn’t to!”
“It’s not your fault,” Eleanor assured him, wondering what Biter was talking about. “This ‘Master’ Fyrennian of yours sounds like a real blackguard. Deposing the old master smith, branding and burning people, treating you like a slave …”
She’d noticed that Toland was not only thin and clearly underfed, but his shift was threadbare and burned in places, never patched or repaired.
“How are your hands now?” she asked.
Toland cautiously flexed his fingers. “They feel much better.”
“Wait here for a moment. I need to talk to Odo. Uh … Sir Odo.”
They left Toland partly concealed under the gorse bushes, looking simultaneously relieved and worried, and walked thirty paces along the river path to be out of earshot.
“We have to help him,” Eleanor told Odo quietly.
“I agree,” he said with a firmness she hadn’t expected. “If I’m going to be a knight, I have to help people. I can’t walk away from something like this.”
“Bravo, Sir Odo.” She grinned up at him. “Now, Biter, what do you know about that fire? I want to hear everything before we go charging up that hill.”
“I cannot be certain,” said the sword, in something less than his usual bellow. “But the boy’s description is evocative: a fire that is both hot and pure, that consumes little coal or wood, and is capable of melting iron so quickly. There is only one flame hot enough to do that, and that is a dragon’s.”
“You think he has a dragon up there?” hissed Odo in alarm.
“No, I do not. They are impossible to hide, even in a smithy as large as the one Toland describes.”
“Then what?”
“Consider the goose,” Biter said. “It eats stones to grind down its food, does it not? These stones it keeps in a special stomach, which is called —”
“A crop!” exclaimed Eleanor, before she remembered they were supposed to be whispering. “You think this Fyrennian has something from inside a dragon’s crop? The thing that makes its flame so hot?”
“I believe so. My recollections are somewhat vague … in places … but I do know that a dragon’s fire is made in its crop, from the firestarters that gather there like the stones in a goose’s crop. How Fyrennian comes to have one, I do not know. Perhaps he stole it from a dragon’s corpse, or found it buried under the site of an ancient battle. Either way, it is our duty to take it from him.”
“Agreed. Also, if we take away the source of his magic fire, then there could be a new contest of skill, which he would probably lose. Or we could give the firestarter to Master Thrytin —”
“No!” The sword’s sudden bark made them both jump with surprise. “No human should possess such a thing.”
“Why not?” asked Odo. “It sounds incredibly useful.”
“And incredibly … dangerous,” Biter said. “I cannot explain. I have slept too long; so many of my memories are obscured. But I know that such a power should not remain in human hands …”
The sword’s voice trailed off and he made a curious throat-clearing noise.
“Not in human hands?” he resumed a moment later, sounding rather confused. “What is a dragon’s must remain a dragon’s … ? No, no, that can’t be right.”
“What are you saying?” Eleanor was confused too. “If we get the firestarter we should give it back to a dragon? To swallow up for its own crop? How could we do that? I mean, it’d just burn us up before we could even talk to it, surely.”
“I … I can’t remember,” said Biter. “The important thing … I think … is that it mustn’t remain in human hands. It should be … it should be …”
“Destroyed?” suggested Odo. There were lots of stories about evil magic things that needed to be destroyed. Often in very complicated ways.
“Yes!” answered Biter with some of his usual gusto. “Destroyed! It is your duty to correct this wrong, Sir Odo.”
The sword slid out of the scabbard, flipped in the air, and slid his hilt into Odo’s hand, as though to emphasize the importance of its conclusion. Neither Odo nor Eleanor found reason to argue. They wanted to challenge Fyrennian because of his cruel and tyrannical behavior, as knights were supposed to do. Or at least that was what they did in all the heroic tales. Sir Halfdan mainly pottered about his house, complaining about aches and pains, but he was old and had presumably dealt with his fair share of petty tyrants in his younger days. No one told heroic tales about neighbors who were still alive.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Odo said, staring at the sword as though hypnotized.
“What, are you scared?” said Eleanor.
“Yes. Aren’t you?”
“A bit.” She forced a fearless grin. “But we’ll have Biter. And it’ll be good practice.”
“That it will,” said the sword. “Remember everything that I taught you, Sir Odo, and you will be fine.”
“Really?” Odo said, surprised. “I thought I had a lot left to learn.”
“You do,” Biter said. “Fortunately, your enemy will be a smith and not a dragon. I am certain you will prevail.”
Odo frowned. He was not at all certain on this point. Something had to be done about Master Fyrennian, he felt this quite strongly, but the
business of the firestarter worried him. Still, he supposed it was straightforward enough. Get the firestarter, depose Fyrennian, replace him with Master Thrytin …
They returned to the gorse to give Toland the good news, that they were going to come with him back to the smithy and liberate him and everyone else from Fyrennian.
But the gorse was empty.
The boy was gone.
Rancid oxgall!” It was Eleanor’s turn to curse. “Did Fyrennian find him and take him back?”
“I heard no sign of a struggle,” Biter said.
“I think he just slipped away himself,” said Odo, inspecting the ground for footprints and finding only Toland’s. “We shouldn’t have left him alone.”
“Why would he go back there?”
“Because he’s afraid of what Fyrennian will do to him if he doesn’t, I guess.”
“That makes no sense.”
Odo shrugged. It made sense to him. His father was by no means a Master Fyrennian, but when he was angry, he got very angry. Often it was better to confess to some wrongdoing and take a lesser punishment rather than risk an explosion.
“If we hurry,” Odo said, “we might be able to get there before he does.”
“Take only what you need,” Biter advised them. “Light load makes fleet feet.”
They hid their packs and set off, Odo with Biter and Eleanor clutching the paring knife. Toland’s tracks led in a straight line uphill, away from the river, diverting to avoid the largest trees as the stumpy willows and alders gave way to more substantial oaks and beeches.
It soon became clear that they wouldn’t catch Toland as they reached the edge of the sparse upper forest and Anfyltarn came into view.
It was not a typical village. It had a defensive earthwork mound built around it, topped by a wooden palisade. While there were a dozen or so of the usual small wattle-and-daub huts sprinkled about, the whole place was dominated by the great stone-built house in its very center, a sprawling structure larger than any barn. It was twice the size of Sir Halfdan’s manor house, which was the largest building either Eleanor or Odo had ever seen. Smoke billowed from seven tall chimneys, and the sound of industry rang from numerous open windows — the clanging of metal on metal, the roaring of giant bellows, and the hissing of steam. It looked easily large enough to house fifty people.
