by A. J. Searle
The King's sword
A. J. Searle
A. J. Searle
The King's Sword
One
As Ronan lifted the finished sword, light from the small window in his workshop bounced along the smooth white blade. Made entirely of rare Hadenla metal that was only mined from the peaks of the Genelle Mountains, the weapon was a masterpiece of fluent lines and simple elegance. Ronan smiled with satisfaction as he turned the blade against his calloused hands in appreciation of his hard work. He’d done well.
He’d been chosen to make the King’s Sword months ago for the newly named king. The assignment had come as a surprise to him. While he was confident in his skill level as a blacksmith, he’d not realized that word of his work had travelled as far as Merisgale. The guard that had delivered the unique metal and the summons of work told him that the young king had requested Ronan by name. It had filled him with pride of having his work acknowledged by a wizard king.
“Master Culley?” Young Arien’s cracking voice caused Ronan to wince from his thoughts. Wishing desperately that the plague of puberty would have pity on his ears, Ronan turned to face the boy he’d hired on only a few months prior.
The boy had been half starved under a filthy mop of blond hair when Ronan had found him sleeping in the hay of his stable. When the boy awoke, he’d been afraid and Ronan couldn’t blame him. All the Culley men were large. Ronan was no different. He stood average height but his broad shoulders and deep chest made many take a step back. Those that didn’t were of the few that saw Ronan’s true non violent nature.
He’d given Arien food and had found out easily enough that he’d been orphaned for several years. No home. No family. And Ronan hadn’t the heart to send him away. Instead he washed him up, gave his hair an even trim, and put him into some clean clothes.
Ronan needed no apprentice but offered the boy a chance to learn a skill that would earn him food and a bed for a couple of years. Arien had burst into tears, promising Ronan that he wouldn’t disappoint him. Ronan could not accuse the boy of lying for he learned quickly and did the work of three boys with never a complaint.
Ronan couldn’t deny that he liked having the boy around. Unmarried and living alone was fine with the thirty-six year old blacksmith but since Arien had joined him, he found he looked forward to the company and conversations they shared at mealtimes. Granted Arien did most of the talking while Ronan mostly listened, but it made life less lonely with someone there.
“What is it?” Ronan asked when the boy stepped through the doorway and into the workshop.
Arien’s gaze rested on the King’s Sword. “It is beautiful, Master Culley. I hope to have so much skill one day,” the apprentice said softly, admiration filling his words.
Ronan’s attention dropped to the weapon he held. Carefully, he laid the sword on the leather hide and wrapped it again, feeling a bit embarrassed to be caught admiring his own handiwork for the second time since he’d finished the assignment.
“Do you need something?” Ronan prompted as he placed the wrapped weapon on the table.
Arien nodded and held out the small dagger he’d finished that morning. It was his first project completed without supervision. Ronan took the blade and turned it in his palm. Fairly smooth lines, no rough edges, and the hilt wrapped tightly. He scratched at his beard thoughtfully.
“Well, done. The blade is as good as any I’ve ever seen. Lot Greer will be pleased,” Ronan said after several moments of inspecting the weapon closely. He offered a nod and handed the dagger back to Arien. The boy beamed with pride.
“If I don’t keep you under my eye, you might steal all of my business right out from under me,” Ronan added just to give the boy an extra boost.
It hadn’t been difficult to guess that Ronan’s approval meant a lot to Arien, so he tried to compliment his young apprentice whenever he could. It was awkward for him at first, since he had no experience in encouraging anyone, let alone a youth. But it had grown easier over the months. And every compliment was an honest one.
“If I can be only half as skilled as you, Master Culley, I shall be happy.” Arien sighed wistfully. “I almost hate that they will take it away. It should be yours to keep.” He touched the edge of the leather wrap that held the sword, obviously both curious and afraid of the weapon.
Ronan turned away quickly so that Arien wouldn’t see the selfish longing to hold on to the sword in his own expression. “They are to arrive this morning to take the sword and I shall start something new.”
“Something I can help with?” Arien asked eagerly and Ronan smiled without looking back at the boy. He could not help but to enjoy Arien’s enthusiasm. It was what he had come to enjoy; having someone love the work as much as he did.
“Perhaps.” He nodded. “I think you are ready for something larger than daggers and kitchen knives.” A shadow fell over the room, blocking out the sun. Ronan turned to find a man wearing royal colors standing in the doorway.
“Good day to you, sir,” Ronan greeted but the man only slumped sideways. It was then that Ronan noticed the large crimson stain that covered the royal guard’s left side.
“Master Culley,” Arien whispered, his blue eyes rounding in the same instant that Ronan also realized the man was injured.
“Go for a healer…in town…hurry.” Ronan moved forward to slide a strong shoulder beneath the man’s arm and half drag him back outside and toward the house. One glance over his shoulder and he was relieved to find Arien racing toward the road as he was told.
“Hold on. The boy will bring someone to help you,” Ronan offered when the man groaned with pain.
“Ambushed,” the man murmured as Ronan got him inside and on a bed. “The others…dead.” Ronan’s hands worked quickly to pull away the fabric of the man’s clothes so he could assess the wound. It was deep…too deep for Ronan to do anything to help the stranger. Still he reached for the pitcher of water he kept at his bedside.
“The sword must be delivered.”
Ronan nodded at the man’s words, though he was only half listening as he wiped down the gash and pressed cloth against it in an effort to stop the flow of blood. So this was one of the guards who were to retrieve the sword. Ronan had suspected so from the clothes he wore. There was supposed to be nine of them. But they were dead and this one was hurrying to join them in their dark sleep.
“It is…” the guard coughed, fingers fisting in Ronan’s shirt and pulling the blacksmith closer. “It is up to you…to deliver the…” Ronan stared as the guard’s entire body shuddered, then relaxed. He was gone.
Ronan swallowed hard. He reached up and removed the man’s fingers from his shirt. Once freed from the hand that held him, Ronan took a step backward.
“Move aside,” a voice commanded from behind him and Ronan turned to find Arien with an old woman who looked more witch than healer. She was a short, stump of a woman with thin shoulders and arms set on a very round body. Her hair was gray, almost white, and her skin looked like leather, too long exposed to the raw elements. She carried an odd smell about her that reminded Ronan of lavender mixed with something rotten.
Arien shrugged when Ronan raised a brow. “She was at the road.”
The woman pushed Ronan out of the way when he didn’t move, surprising him with the strength that came from her old body.
He looked down at his hands and the guard’s blood glared back at him. He swallowed again. He had little experience with death, though he knew that many of the weapons he made were used to bring about just that. Still, murder was something new to him and filled him with uneasiness.
“He’s dead,” the healer spoke over the shoulder of her gray dress. “If you are the one who killed him, there is a way to bring his life bac
k.”
“I am not a murderer.” Ronan frowned, clearly not liking the woman’s accusing black eyes when she faced him. “He is a guard from Merisgale Castle. He was supposed to collect the King’s Sword. Before he died he said something about being ambushed.”
“A likely story.” Her words laced with sarcasm so thick it should have choked her. It brought Ronan’s narrowed gaze up from the dead man. Who was this woman to accuse him?
“I did not kill this man.” Ronan crossed his large arms. It was a trick he’d learned years ago for making himself appear larger than he really was. Instantly, it worked and Arien took a step away from him but the witch would not be intimidated.
“Hmm.” She looked as if she wasn’t certain if she could believe him. “No chance that perhaps you wanted the sword for yourself?”
“Why would I want it? I couldn’t use it.” Ronan was growing more irritated with the woman by the moment.
“Don’t be a fool. Anyone can use the King’s Sword. But it has to be used only against Sleagan’s dark forces.
Arien gave a startled cry, his eyes widening at the easiness in which the healer had spoken the name. Ronan just stared at the woman.
“It is just a name.” She looked at the boy. “It’s not the name you have to be afraid of.”
Ronan began to grow suspicious. “How is it you came to be so close by?”
She eyed him steadily, and then shrugged her thin shoulders. “I have a gift of knowing where and when I am needed. I had a feeling this morning and began walking in this direction. Unfortunately, that gift doesn’t account for old age slowing me down. It seems I’m too late to save this man.”
Ronan made a quick decision not to accuse her of anything. “Even if I wanted the sword I would know nothing of using one against anyone. I just make the weapons. The business of what is done with them belongs to others.”
“So you are a blacksmith.” Her gaze dropped to his feet and slowly traveled up the entire length of him.
Ronan’s frown deepened. He didn’t like her scrutiny or the judgment that was obvious in her eyes. “There is nothing for you to do here, healer. As you said, he is dead. You may go,” he said when her gaze settled on his face. She slanted a glance back to the guard.
“So you may do away with this man and keep the sword?”
“I have no reason to keep the damned sword,” Ronan snapped. “It has proven more burden than privilege. His last words were that it was my responsibility to take the sword to Merisgale. I cannot complete his request. I have work here that must be done.”
“He made you a guard?” Arien said with shock. “You are a royal guard?”
“I am a blacksmith,” Ronan corrected.
“You cannot reject a summons of service,” the witch argued. “If you do, you won’t be much of a smith when you are thrown into a prison for the rest of your life.” She looked at him as if he was stupid and it irritated him.
“Why are you still here?” Ronan snapped.
“My interest is in the new king. If that sword falls into the wrong hands or is used by the wrong person, it could damn us all to the will of the dark forces.” She glanced at the boy, then back at Ronan. “If you are taking this sword anywhere, I’m coming with you.”
“Besides,” she added when he opened his mouth to argue, “I have a feeling I will be needed.”
“Maybe, she’s right.” Arien touched Ronan’s arm. “She did say she had a gift of knowing those kinds of things. And maybe she knows the way to Merisgale.”
“I do not,” the witch answered.
“Nor do I.” Ronan ran a large hand over his face, and then scratched at his beard. “Surely if we wait long enough, they will send someone else to collect it.” The hopefulness in his voice sounded silly even to him. He felt like a child trying to think his way out of an unfavorable chore.
“To collect the sword and you.” The witch nodded.
“I don’t even have a horse, just a pack mule.” Ronan exhaled heavily. He didn’t want this. He didn’t like getting involved in these kinds of things. He minded his own business and allowed others to mind theirs. It had worked well for him…until now.
“Keegan Yore has many horses,” Arien piped. “And I’d bet he knows the way.”
Ronan cut him a silencing glare, but immediately felt guilty when he saw the boy’s deflated expression. Arien was only trying to help. It wasn’t his fault that this damned guard had dropped the burden in his lap. “Yore isn’t a very generous man and I haven’t the money he would ask for three horses.” Ronan didn’t add that he barely had enough to purchase one.
“It is Merisgale business. You will not have to pay. He is obligated to provide you and those with you with whatever is needed,” the witch countered.
“You just have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Ronan growled.
“Those who think usually do.” She smirked.
“And what do you call yourself, witch? Since you are set upon coming with me, I will know your name.” Ronan waited for Arien to step aside so he could move from the room. It was starting to feel a little too crowded, mostly by death.
“Ula Bane,” the healer answered as he finally nudged Arien toward the door.
Ronan had never really met Keegan Yore. He’d only seen the hulking, red haired man once or twice on the road when the horse rancher took his horses to the city of Fullerk. Up close Ronan could see the man’s blue eyes were as hard as his body.
“What makes you think I will just hand over three of my horses? That’s a lot of money to lose on a story like the one you’re telling.” Keegan didn’t rise from behind his desk. Instead he leaned back in his chair and eyeing the three with a steady gaze.
“The King’s business does not require that we give you any money. But it does require your cooperation.” Ula spoke before Ronan could answer. He shot her a silencing glare. If she saw it, she gave no indication of acknowledgment.
“I know the laws of Meris.” Keegan’s attention remained on Ronan. “But I’d rather be thrown into a prison than lose the money that those three horses would cost me. And I don’t have horses that run cheap.”
“Maybe one of your men could come with us,” Arien suggested, “to be certain they are returned to you safely.”
Ronan gritted his teeth, wishing the two beside him would keep quiet and let him handle Keegan Yore. He understood the man. He was a businessman like himself. Skill for money. It was simple.
“Where’s the sword?” Keegan asked. Ronan hesitated, then turned and pulled out the leather bundle. The blacksmith carefully unfolded the thick material from around the sword. The white metal seemed to glow and Keegan whistled when Ronan held it up.
“The King’s Sword made of Hadenla metal.” Ronan gave the weapon a swing, enjoying the feel of the weight that commanded the muscles of his hand and arm. “So you see I am no liar. And I mean to take the sword to Merisgale Castle so I am not a cheat either. But we need horses and someone who knows the way.”
Keegan nodded as he watched Ronan slide the weapon back into the leather and cover it. “Alright. I shall give you the use of horses but you shall owe me, Culley.”
“Sir Culley,” Arien corrected. “He is a royal guard now.”
Keegan grunted in response, clearly unimpressed. Neither was Ronan. He’d not considered that he was now a royal guard. A part of him swelled with pride while another part cursed at the extra responsibility that the title included even if it was only temporary.
“And you will send someone with us who knows the way?” Ronan pressed, deciding to contemplate the title of guard later.
“I’ll go myself,” Keegan told him. “I will feel better if I am there to tend the horses, and because I don’t trust the three of you and am still not sure I believe your story. When do we leave?”
Ronan stifled the urge to pull the sword back out and slice off the man’s large head. “First light.”
Ronan watched the woman shake something that looked like a dried
up foot at him. Ula had insisted that they do some kind of preparation ritual the night before they were to leave. Ronan wanted no part of it but the woman was unrelenting and Ronan finally gave in just to cease her rattling.
Now he and Arien sat at the table watching Ula move around them as she chanted words of a foreign language. The toes of that foot waved dangerously close to his face as she passed and he leaned away, glancing at Arien’s expression. The boy was terrified. He couldn’t blame him.
Finally she halted at the end of the table and retrieved a red ribbon from inside her pocket. One end was tied to a large brown rock. She dipped the rock into a bowl of saltwater and then swung the rock over her head, wailing like a harpy. She shook the foot again.
Laughter bubbled up abruptly and he lifted his fist to his mouth in an attempt to stifle his humor. She looked like a mad woman and he couldn’t be sure if she wasn’t truly half crazed anyway. One look at Arien and he found the boy was struggling in his own battle against hilarity, his earlier fear completely erased.
When Ula threw back her head and wailed, Ronan gave up the battle and bowed his head as he laughed aloud. Once he finally got a hold of himself he looked up to find tears rolling down Arien’s cheeks as he clutched his stomach, laughing so hard that he shook.
Ula grew still and frowned at them with disapproval. “This is serious business.”
Arien gasped for breath as Ronan pointed at the thing she held, “Is that a dog’s foot?” The boy held his nose, trying to stifle another gale that threatened to escape him. It succeeded in him making a loud snorting noise which only caused him to laugh louder.
“It is a foot of a swamp rat from Fullerk and it could save your lives,” Ula snapped and Arien doubled over with laughter. “It is nothing to laugh at.”
“She’s right.” Ronan forced a solemn expression. “If it can save us, let her continue without interruption.”
Ula’s frown deepened. “It must be done. I have a bad feeling about the journey.” She lifted the foot and swung her rock, continuing the ceremony, even when the two began to laugh again. She began to stomp her feet and chanted for nearly another hour before she finally ended the ritual.
