by Lexy Wolfe
Intent on the tangle of metal and leather in her hands, Tiwaz did not look up right away. When she did, her frown of intense focus melted into one of surprise. “Gareth?”
He smiled, inclining his head in greeting. “I told you I would come find you.” He sat on a bench near her, staying out of her way as she returned to her work. “You and Doom had crossed the border just in time. Some people I recognized from the Dramaden arena were trying to convince him you were both alive. His searching spells found nothing, of course.”
He shrugged at her scowl. “Alimar well and truly believes you both dead and anyone telling him otherwise is trying to gain his favor or his gold. I doubt many will be trying after what he did to those poor bastards who tried to lay hands on him when he spurned their attempts to convince him.”
She paused, staring sightlessly at the anvil, then closed her eyes, hands closing into tight fists. “We don’t have to run anymore.”
“No,” Gareth assured with firm gentility. “So long as you continue wearing those pendants I had given you, you don’t have to run from him even if he comes to the north.” He looked away to allow her a modicum of privacy for her emotions and noticed the sword near her. “Nice sword. Did you make it yourself?”
She awarded him a sour expression. “You are funny. Can’t you smell the magic in it? I have none to put into a weapon and no skill to do so even if I wished.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied in vast amusement. He continued before she could demand an explanation for his quip. “But I was teasing. I can see that thing is ancient. It looks like one I had heard stories about.” The hammer stopped mid-fall. He frowned when she remained motionless. The hammer hovering over her work. “What is the matter?”
“Do you know who this sword belonged to? Do you know if their family yet lives?” she asked without inflection, putting the hammer down and setting aside the harness and sheath she had been making for it. “I must return it to them.”
“Whyever for?” He held up his hands defensively when she shot a hateful glare at him. “You are the one that found it. Why not keep it for yourself?”
She snorted in disgust. “You always speak with such confidence and wisdom, I forgot you are not a real warrior.” He frowned at the underlying insult. She explained with the tones of an adult speaking to a naive child. “You do not understand what a weapon is to a true warrior. It is not a thing or a trinket. It is no prize to be won or lost or carelessly tossed aside and replaced whimsically.”
She touched the hilt with her fingertips in a manner that reminded Gareth how a mother might touch the cheek of her infant. “For the true artisan who crafts a weapon, it is their child, a small piece of them sent out into the world. It speaks of their skill, their pride in their work. Their heart and soul are forged into the metal, wrapped in the hilt, set in every edge and plane. A great artisan would only allow a great warrior to bear such workmanship, because how it is wielded reflects upon their craftsmanship.
“For the warrior, their weapon is a part of them. It is different than one they use because it is what is available. Their weapon is an extension of them. It is their friend, their lover, their child, their everything. They wield it, care for it, and in turn, it protects them.
“The weapon and the warrior become a part of each other. When the warrior succumbs to their final enemy, their weapon is all their family has left of them. To be given the weapon of an ancestor or someone deeply admired is like having them by your side, fighting with you. No matter how alone you are, you never walk alone when you carry their companion.” She closed her eyes, pulling her hand away from the sword. “It should be returned to the family of its warrior. Everyone deserves their family, even a lost warrior’s sword.”
By the time she had finished speaking, Gareth stared at her, both in awe and admiration. His voice was soft with humility. “Truly, I had no idea. It seems I allowed myself to fall into the thinking that warriors were shallow, thoughtless oafs. Forgive me for my ignorance.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Some are thoughtless oafs. Like the man I fought in Dramaden. They are still dangerous, perhaps more so because they do not fight with honor. They are just idiots and I have little respect or patience for idiots.”
“Point taken.” He got to his feet and held his hands out. “Let me see it. There are many stories of many legendary warriors and their weapons. Sadly, the most notable stories are those who left no one behind in their passing.” She hesitated, then lifted the blade and rested in his hands. He walked to the door to use the brighter outdoor light to examine it. His expression changed from neutral to blank shock. “Well, now, this is unexpected.”
Tiwaz remained where she had been standing, but crossed her arms. “What is unexpected?” she demanded when he did not continue speaking.
“I have never seen it, only heard stories,” he warned. “But if I am right, this sword is named Ghalnecha. It is legendary not for its wielder, but for its forging.” He returned, reversing the blade to offer it back to her. She took it, studying it as he spoke. “How much do you know about the war that broke the world?”
“I know that high elves used magic on all the races to keep them enslaved. When all the races rebelled at one time, it created a backlash that broke the land like cracked glass.” She rested the sword on the table with the same reverence she had used earlier with it. “Alimar liked to tell me he was stronger than any high elf.” A small, feral smile touched her lips. “It is probably why he was so furious when I fought his spell and won.”
“No argument there,” he agreed. “What few talk about anymore are the years afterward while the world remained in turmoil. There are different realms of existence that overlap one another. The ones most closely tied to this world are the heavens and hells.” She looked confused. “Think of it like the ocean versus the land versus the sky. There are things that live only in the water, on the land, or in the air. There are things that can move between both, though native to only one. Normally, the barriers are not easily broken. But when the magic energy of the world shattered, many things spilled between these separate realms.”
Tiwaz frowned. “That sounds…bad.”
“Very bad,” he agreed grimly. “It took decades for the barriers to mend themselves. The borders between the various lands are the scars left behind. But before then, powerful creatures foreign to this plane terrorized the land. People were neither prepared for nor capable of fighting such monsters.” He paused a moment. “To make a long, elaborate story short, a master weapon smith forged the blade with the soul of a priest within it and quenched it in the blood of a god to drive the demons back into the hells.” She stared blankly at him. “Well. That is the story. It’s a very old story, so it is likely exaggerated in the retelling.”
“So, the story does not speak of who wielded it?”
Gareth chuckled. “My friend, the story says it chooses its wielder. At least, that’s how the stories would go. Ghalnecha would be lost, eventually found by another, and lost again.” He looked at the sword. “If this is the true Ghalnecha, I think it chose you.” He smiled warmly at her. “It only chooses someone truly special.”
“Feh. I am not special. I’m just a gladiator,” she stated, picking up the leather work and focusing on it. “A flawed gladiator at that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Gareth stated in gentle tones bordering patronizing. “Everyone has flaws—” He winced at the painful ring of the hammer brought down hard on the anvil. The man felt the stirrings of fear when he met her dark look.
“You think you know me? You think you understand?” she seethed. “Is it because I was trained to be a gladiator, I am the mindless oaf you see all who train in combat? Because I was a slave, I cannot comprehend anything of the world beyond my shackles?” She slammed the hammer on the anvil again, the painful ring echoing. “Maybe because I am female, that I cannot possibly understand anything about what is or is not within me?”
“Ti, please.” Hi
s attempt to calm her only infuriated her more. She forced him to take hasty steps back when she took one towards him, her knuckles white clenching the hammer.
“Only Doom can call me that!” She pointed the hammer at him. “To you, I am Tiwaz. Only Tiwaz!” Hands held up, he nodded, saying nothing to avoid provoking her more. “You think to judge me? You think my pain is merely ignorance born of a feeble mind?! Get out.” She stalked towards him. “Get out! I do not need you reminding me how broken I am. Out!”
He backed towards the door and several feet away from the building in haste. Once he was certain she was not going to follow him outside, he went back to peer in the door. She had returned to her work on the sword’s harness, her intense focus blocking the rest of the world out. With a sigh, he leaned against the building, keeping well out of the woman’s line of sight.
Flinching, he pulled out the dragon medallion he wore. The blue diamond eye glittered in the sunlight. He looked upwards in exasperation as he held it. “Don’t go blaming me for this. You didn’t warn me—” He frowned. “How am I supposed to know what to ask you?” He sighed heavily closing his eyes. “Fine. I will get them there.” He looked back inside. “If I can figure out how. And if I haven’t gotten her to completely distrust me now.” He slanted a skeptical look skyward, then rolled his eyes and shook his head.
KERK CAME OUT of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Supper is ready.” He glanced towards the door. “It’s getting rather late. Aren’t you worried…?”
“Ti won’t run away again,” Doom stated with absolute confidence. “Even if she did, Pack Leader has the entire wolflen tribe keeping an eye on her. Whether she realizes it or not.” He looked to the fire in the hearth, his expression grim. “Not that it fixes anything.” He uttered an inarticulate sound of anger and frustration. “I so wish I could rip Alimar’s arms off and beat him with them for what he did to her!”
“Things will be made right one day,” Gareth assured as he came out of another spare room, tugging a clean, loose tunic in place. He looked to Kerk. “I am deeply grateful to be allowed to share your roof, Master Kerk.”
“Bah.” Kerk waved off the honorific. “Everyone knows I am a master blacksmith, Bard. Only one in the region, so no need to be using the title when you’re under my roof.” He poured a mug of ale, offering it to the other man, handing a second to Doom before pouring for himself. “Common courtesy to offer bards shelter and I’m one of the few able to spare the room.”
“But sheltering bards who manage to piss off touchy gladiators that share the same roof?” he asked dryly. He could almost feel the glare Doom turned on him. “No insult intended. But she is touchy.”
“I am many things. Without discipline is not one of them.” All three startled as the door opened to admit Tiwaz. She shook the snow off her cloak before hanging it, not looking at the males. “If I was without discipline, there would be many dead.”
“So, you forgive me?” Gareth asked, hopeful. He sighed at her hateful expression. “Well, can’t blame a guy for hoping.” Kerk and Doom both chuckled, Tiwaz settling on the floor by Doom’s side, resting her head on his thigh and closing her eyes. “I am sorry I insulted you, Tiwaz.”
“I should not have gotten so angry,” she answered, relaxing partly when Doom lightly rested his hand on her back. “How can you understand what you cannot see?”
“That is…admirably tolerant and understanding.” Gareth grinned when she opened one eye to look at him. “Believe me, very few people admit to their own failings much less apologize for them. It makes you rather unique.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, grumpy. “Unique. I will allow unique,” she stated. Gareth smiled, pleased to have diffused her usual self-denigration. Sniffing the air, she looked at Kerk with reproach. “Why didn’t you say supper was ready?”
“Bah, not like stew can’t wait. I’m just happy to see you in better spirits, lass,” Kerk replied easily. They all got up to relocate to the kitchen. “Good thing the farmers didn’t have a bad time of things during the warmer seasons, or we’d be hurting a lot more.” He served the bowls of stew while Gareth helped by setting out the bread and butter. As they settled in to eat, the man wagged his butter knife at Tiwaz and Doom. “You are going to need to do something with that dragon skull. It got moved from the square to between the house and smithy and I know I will break my neck tripping over it one of these mornings or nights.”
“The ground is frozen,” Tiwaz stated, her eyes on her food. She looked up when the rest were silent, sensing their confusion at her comment. “It would dishonor the spirit of the dragon to smash it to burn and we cannot bury it until the ground thaws.”
Gareth blinked. “That thing is massive! You would seriously dig—? Wait. No, just ignore my question. Of course you would.” She smirked at him, going back to eating. After several minutes in companionable silence, he offered casually, “You could take it to one of the Dragonway temples. The nearest one is only about thirty minutes’ walk west from Bralden. At least, during good weather.”
“Heh.” Kerk shook his head, his tone disparaging. “Keep forgetting about them.” Gareth arched a querulous eyebrow at the smith.
Doom and Tiwaz traded bewildered, uncertain looks. “Can they be trusted?”
“Eh? Oh, yeah, they can be trusted,” Kerk replied dryly. “I have never been one to have much faith in gods. But their gods are dragons, so I’m sure they’d find some use for a dragon’s skull.” He took a bite of stew, swallowing. “Dump it on their doorstep. Let it be their problem.”
Tiwaz frowned. Gareth watched her for a time before pointing out, “As Kerk said, their gods are dragons. I can assure you they would not abide desecration of the skull. They will know how to take care of its soul properly.” The bard put his chin in his palm and regarded her in bemusement. “You know, I can just see your cat ears flattening as I speak.” He held up his hands defensively when she raised a hand as if ready to backhand him. “You do want the see the dragon’s remains are treated with respect, don’t you? What’s the matter?”
She turned red, not looking at him. “You want me to go to a temple. I do not like the idea of religion. It sounds like slavery, submitting to the whim and will of a god or the god’s priests. Being told what to do and how to think, and punished if we do not abide by their version of what is right and wrong.”
Doom put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re not going to submit to anyone or anything. We’re just going to take the dragon skull to them so it’s out of Kerk’s way and it’s given the respect in death that it is due. That is all.”
She sighed gustily, conceding. “Fine. We’ll take the skull to the dragon temple after we’ve rested. But that’s all!” She grumbled, attention on her food. “My head still hurts from being thrown against that tree.”
“Of course,” Gareth agreed, sighing inwardly in relief.
IN THE MORNING, Tiwaz, Gareth and Doom came out to see Tracker and several younger wolflen waiting. “Cat-Sister, ready for lessons?”
She managed a wan smile. “You did not need to come fetch me, Tracker. I was just on my way.” Her smile lost some of its sadness as several of the eager youngsters captured her hands and pulled her along with happy yips.
“Impatient cubs,” Tracker explained. “Wanting play chase with Cat-Sister.” The group led her off. Doom watched the group disappear, his expression a mix of affection and concern.
Gareth watched Doom until Tiwaz was well out of sight. “You don’t approve of her running with wolflen? I heard rumors she is, ah, rather close to one of them.”
When the bard’s question and statement registered, Doom turned to level a faint frown at him. “I have no problem with her being with Tracker or spending time with the rest of the wolflen. They accepted her for who she was as a person and value her beyond her being a gladiator. They could care less that she is a shape-shifter and even let her night hunt with them as a panther.” He turned his gazed back in the direction t
he group had disappeared. “She needs to know she is not alone,” he stated flatly.
“But she isn’t alone,” Gareth pointed out, his words measured. “She has you.” He looked away from the expression Doom turned towards him. “I suppose it would be different in her mind.”
“She has only ever had me. Alimar kept Ti isolated. And when she had reached out to others, he made her kill them.” Doom closed his eyes, clenching his fists. “I think…no. I know she feared one day she would face me in the arena. That is why she fought so hard to overcome his compulsion spell. Killing me or watching me be killed would have destroyed her.”
“Unmitigated bastard doesn’t begin to describe your former master,” Gareth grumbled.
The gromek didn’t argue. “I wish I was enough, but this…As much as I love her, I cannot help her. I have always been the exception to the rules she believes. Kerk helped her see she wasn’t useless. The wolflen help her see she is not a monster. Tracker…that she can be loved by someone other than me. Having been Alimar’s toy and then discovering she was a shape-shifter, believing everyone in the world will kill the monster first, and ask questions later?” Doom shook his head. “You remember what happened in Crossroads.”
“I remember.” The bard looked away. “I wish I could forget.” He looked back to Doom with a heavy sigh. “Come on. Kerk said he’s a ton of work he needs to catch up on and a new apprentice to break in at the forge. Let’s go to the Wolf’s Den for a drink.”
“Little early to start drinking, isn’t it?” Doom asked blandly, falling in step with the bard.
“Never too early to drink,” the bard replied archly. With more seriousness, he added, “Always too early to get drunk. I never advocate drinking to excess.” He patted the lute across his back. “Besides, taverns and inns are the best places to hear the local news and gossip, as well as pass it along. It is how a bard survives. Get a few coins for entertaining, pass along news, gather more news. Offer teaching to local youngsters. Often times get a free room or meal.”
