The men gathered around the benches and began to examine the array of swords. Pertheron showed far more interest in the details of each sword than any of the others. The Duke expressed concern that the grips were not the same but was quickly satisfied by Ben’s explanation of a fighter needing a grip that suited his hand. All in all, they were quite pleased with the quality of the smith’s workmanship.
The smith stepped over to the two swords he’d stuck into the ground. “Before you go, Duke Rodney, there is something I would like to show you. I understand that you commissioned several smiths to make swords for your men. I believe mine are the first that you have come to inspect.”
At the Duke’s nod, the smith continued. “Not all swords are as they appear. These two swords look and feel as well crafted as any you see before you. They are not. I kept them only so that I could show you how to find flaws that are hidden from the untrained eye.”
Taking one of the swords, the smith slid the blade between two of the heavy boards that made up the top of one of the benches. When about a third of the length of the blade was through the bench top the smith grasped the unfinished grip and pushed sideways on the sword. With the strength and weight of the smith pressing against it, the blade slowly bent over. When the smith released the grip the blade remained bent over.
“A proper blade would spring back to its original shape. This metal was made too soft. It would loose its edge quickly and eventually it would fail and be discarded.” Frank’s voice was firm and clear as he spoke.
Taking the second sword by the grip in both hands the smith raised it above his head and swung it down striking the anvil that rested on the bench top. With a sharp crack the blade shattered as it struck the anvil. Shards of metal pelted the ground. A few pieces actually stuck into the side of the building.
“This metal was made too brittle. Had it turned out right the sword would have bounced back from the anvil. The edge would likely be damaged, but the blade would remain intact. This flaw is worse than the other as it would likely fail in the heat of battle.”
Franks laid the broken sword down next to the anvil. The Duke looked at the bent and broken swords with concern in his eyes. He walked over and picked up a shard from the broken sword from the ground. Holding it up the Duke closely examined the broken edge of the metal. With a shake of his head the Duke turned and tossed the shard to Pertheron.
“Can you tell a good blade from a bad one by looking at it?” Duke Rodney asked the smith.
“Not all, sire,” the smith responded, “but most. There are small signs on the blade and near the hilt if you know what to look for. I would be happy to show you what to look for.”
“Nonsense,” the Duke waved off the suggestion. “I want you to come with us. From what Pertheron tells me, you are the best smith for many days’ travel. You know what to look for and the other smiths know it. When we’re done, we’ll return to the keep for a grand meal.”
Franks was preening at the Duke’s words. “Of course, sire. Give me a moment to hitch a horse and wagon and I’ll be ready.” The smith hesitated for a moment. “One thing more sire. Ben, would you get the sword we made for Pertheron?”
Ben nodded and headed for the shop door. He was trying hard not to limp and Jorem knew the effort was costing him some pain. Quickly, Jorem dashed into the smithy and snatched up the sword. He managed to meet Ben just as he entered the doorway. When Jorem held the sword out for Ben to take, the corner of Ben’s mouth quirked up in a silent, “Thank you.” Ben took the sword out and handed it to his Father. Though Ben did his best not to limp, it was obvious that the Duke noticed by the scowl on his face. Jorem had remained in the doorway so that he was mostly hidden in the shadows.
Jorem took half a step forward, just enough to catch the Duke’s eye, and then stepped back. Gazing steadily at the Duke, Jorem gave a half bow of acknowledgement, his long hair partially concealing his face. Sensing that Jorem had no desire to draw attention away from the smith, Duke Rodney gave a slight nod and turned away. Satisfied that his part in this exchange was over, Jorem remained quietly unnoticed.
The smith presented the sword to Pertheron. Franks cradled the sword in his arms as if he were holding a newborn child. Pertheron was effusive in his appreciation of the gift. It was not lost on the Duke’s son that this was indeed a very special sword. So taken was he with the unusual beauty and balance of the sword that he removed his own sword from its scabbard at his side and replaced it with the new one. His old sword he placed on the bench with the others for someone else to claim.
After the men had gone, Ben and Jorem returned to the smithy and began cleaning up. Ben quickly tired and was forced to sit and watch while Jorem continued to clean the mess that had been created over the last sevenday. Jorem wasn’t sure which of them had the harder task. He, who had to do all the cleaning, or Ben, who was forced to remain idle, his own body limiting what he could do.
Getting the heavy benches through the doorway and into the building by himself was quite a struggle. Ben tried to help with the benches but he simply didn’t have the strength needed to lift the heavy wooden tables. By the time he had all of the tools back in their places and the floor swept, the sun had just set and the darkness of night was settling in. Ben sat slumped on a stool, a very discouraged look on his face.
Jorem walked over and leaned against the bench next to Ben. “Your father is certainly happy to have you working at his side again.”
Ben snorted dismissively. “I’m as weak as a newborn kitten and about as useful too.”
Jorem chuckled at Ben’s statement. “Careful, you’ll hurt my pride. You’re little more than half healed and you are already doing more than I could when I first came here.”
Ben looked at Jorem and smiled. “Father did say that you were fair to useless for near a full season.”
Both boys were still laughing about that when Jannett came to help Ben back to the house. As the two left, Jorem gathered up the last load of cinders from the forge and carried them around back to dump in the waste pit. After this, he would be able to go back to the inn, stuff himself with food and sleep all the way through Firstday. With no sleep last night, and less sleep in the last several days than he usually got in one night, Jorem was fast approaching collapse.
The sound of rushing horses came from the other side of the building. Jorem thought it odd that the Duke would send that many men to escort the smith back to his home. That thought ended when he heard a woman’s scream. Before he could react, he heard the sound of horses galloping away. Dropping what he was doing, Jorem hurried back to the front of the building.
Ben lay on the ground staring into the distance, his hand outstretched toward the sound of horses fading in the distance. Jorem rushed to Ben’s side and tried without success to get an explanation as to what had happened. He helped Ben up and got him back into the smithy. The boy was babbling and crying so that Jorem couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Sitting Ben down on a stool, Jorem placed a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders and gave him a firm shaking.
“Ben!” Jorem said urgently. “Ben, what happened?”
Ben’s eyes were both frantic and fearful and his voice cracked when he spoke. “It was they. It was the folk. They took Jan. I tried to stop them, but I couldn’t.”
Jorem could see that Ben was starting to panic. His eyes were wide and tears were running down his face. The knuckles of his hands were turning white from the claw-like grip he had on the side of the bench.
“We’ve go to go after them,” Ben said in a rush. But the boy could barely stand.
Just then Jorem looked up and saw the smith’s wife standing in the doorway. She too had the look of fear in her eyes. She rushed over to Ben and grasped the sleeve of his shirt. Her hair was coming out of the neat little bun that she’d had it in. She must have been washing something when she’d heard the commotion as there was soapy foam dripping from her arms. Ben was unable to meet her gaze as tears ran down his face. Jorem
reached out and grasped the woman’s shoulders. Her look of helplessness tore at his heart.
With as firm a voice as he could muster, Jorem said, “Go to the inn. Tell Biorne what has happened. He can get word to the keep. The Duke can get the guard to search for her.”
Luciel sniffed back her sobs. A small glimmer of hope crossed her eyes. With a nod she dashed out the door and headed for the inn. Ben sat staring out the door after her.
In a numb voice Ben asked, “Do you think there is a chance?”
Trying to sound confident, Jorem responded, “Lore on the Folk is sketchy at best. From what I’ve heard and read, when they emerge from their realm, it’s generally at sundown and they don’t return until dawn. That leaves several hours to find them.”
“It could take hours for the Duke to form search parties,” Ben said. “They could be anywhere.”
Ben looked up at Jorem. He reached out and grasped Jorem by the arm. In a quavering voice he said, “Jorem, she’s my sister! You must help her, for I cannot!”
Jorem looked down and shook his head. “Very well, I’ll do what I can.”
Without hesitating, Jorem ran over to the stables near the house. Franks had taken the only riding horse, but a farmer had brought an old workhorse in to be shod. Not his preferred mount to chase after the Folk, but it was the only horse left. The saddle Franks had for his own horse might just barley fit this horse so he grabbed that on his way. Jorem lead the workhorse back to the smithy and tied it next to the doorway.
“Is there a hillside nearby that is covered in clover and fern?” he asked Ben as he settled the saddle in place and began cinching it around the wide girth of the horse. It was a tight fit at best, with the cinch and every other strap stretched to their limit.
“Ay, just east of here, about two marks’ hard ride through the woods.” Bens voice quivered a bit as he spoke. “There’s a trail behind the house near the woodpile, though ‘tis faint and difficult to follow at night. The spot with the ferns is on the eastern slope of the hill.”
The old workhorse was none too pleased with the bit and bridle, being more accustomed to the harness. Taking one of the remaining unfinished blades from the corner, Jorem tied it to the back of the saddle and climbed up on the horse. “I’ll try, Ben, but I make no promises.”
“Find her, Jorem. She’s the best of us.”
With a curt nod of his head, Jorem reined the horse toward the back of the house. What was it Grendith had written? “The Folk delight more in the chase than in the spoils.” Jorem recalled the phrase from the book he’d read. Maybe, just maybe he could get to their portal before they wearied of their fun. What to do when he got there was something he would have to consider on the way.
To say the workhorse’s gait was rough was like saying the smithy was a bit warm. If he lived through the night, he wouldn’t be sitting for a week. Though unaccustomed to being ridden, the horse seemed to sense the urgency and galloped headlong into the brush. Two hours hard ride on a good horse, Ben had said. At the speed of the workhorse it would be a close thing to make the ride before dawn. Between dodging branches and grimacing from the punishing ride, Jorem wracked his mind for every scrap of lore he had ever heard or read about the Folk.
“The Folk respect courage and a fine-edged sword, though their moods are rather fickle. Never turn your back to them, for their humor is beyond description.” An unseen branch in the darkness whipped Jorem’s face, stinging and scratching his cheek and neck. The trail was little more than a thinning of the brush and Jorem was not a great rider at the best of times. Riding in the dark in an unfamiliar area on a horse that had far more muscle than brains was insane, but what choice was there?
The horse bunched and jumped. Jorem saw moonlight flicker off of water below. Then the horse landed with such force that Jorem was thrown forward then back. The saddle horn dug into his stomach and he felt jarred to his marrow. On and on he rode. Time lost it’s meaning as the night wore on. Tree branches reached out of the night to slap his face and arms. The workhorse, though strong as it was, could not maintain a gallop for long. Jorem could see by the foam on the horse’s neck that if he pressed the poor animal any harder it would collapse.
Their pace slowed but they pressed on. Jorem would have dozed in the saddle if he could have, but the rough gait and the unexpected slap of branches denied him the chance. He thought for sure the horse would have to stop, but it actually seemed to regain its strength at the slower pace. The only time the horse stumbled was when a log, hidden in the dark, crossed the path. Jorem had no idea how long he had been riding. Heavy clouds had moved in, obscuring the stars and making it impossible to judge the hour.
Looking ahead, Jorem saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. Time was running out. At the first ray of sunlight the portal would close. There was a slight rise just ahead. Perhaps this was the hill of which Ben had spoken. Rounding what was a gentle slope on the westerly side, Jorem found that the eastern side was steeper and in the center of the hill was what appeared to be a cavern. A slow tingling began to creep up his neck. “This has to be it,” Jorem thought. Looking down at the horse, he could see the horse’s sweat had worked back into lather and there was foam around its mouth.
“Come on boy, just a few steps further.” Jorem nudged the horse until it stood directly in front of the cave’s mouth.
In the distance, Jorem could hear the approach of a number of horses. As if to confirm it, the workhorse perked its ears and looked off into the trees. The thunder of horse hooves pounding the ground grew louder each moment. Jorem drew the half-formed sword from the saddle where it was tied. He thought to himself that this had to be the stupidest thing that he had ever done. He was alone, untrained and more frightened than he had ever been.
They came in a rush, swarming toward him. The lead rider barely stopped his mount before it collided with the large workhorse. The other riders milled about, vainly trying to control their horses, thwarted in their headlong rush. The leader raised his hand and with a word, all became silent. He was tall and slight, his face pale in the moonlight. Grendith had said in his book that they were a beautiful people, but his descriptions fell far short of the mark. The man before Jorem was far more striking than anyone Jorem had seen or heard of. More striking than any man could possibly be.
The man’s face looked elfin but much more pale than any of that race. There was surprise in his eyes as he looked at Jorem. His high brows arched and his eyes went wide. Jorem looked upon the leader with all the calm he could muster, raised the sword before him and said, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack and betray his fears, “The girl. Release her!”
“Grendith, is that you?” the leader of the horde nearly whispered. Jorem’s mind raced. He thinks I’m my grandfather. Should I bluff him? “Never be caught in a lie to the folk. Their tolerance of lies is nonexistent.” Jorem could almost hear the words written in his grandfather’s book. “Nay, I am not Grendith, but kin of his.”
“Ah.” A light seemed to glint in the leader’s eyes. “And you would stand against me and my men for a mere waif of a girl?” The corners of his mouth rose as if a game were in play. “And what if we should choose to cut you down, crush you and spill your blood upon this fertile ground?”
Jorem took a deep breath and let his gaze wander from face to face of the men of the Folk that now surrounded him. Each face was pale and proud, yet tense, awaiting the words of him who led them. “Should it come that my blood be spilt this morn and seep into this ground, be warned that my cause is right. This very ground with my blood enriched shall rise up against thee until my wrath upon you is found.”
The stillness in the glade was filled with such tension Jorem had to restrain himself from bolting for the woods. All eyes seemed to be fixed upon the young boy astride an exhausted horse. He was very much aware that they had no fear of him. Just as Jorem was certain the horde was about to attack, the leader raised his head and laughed. The tension drained from his band and each of them tur
ned away with a shaking of heads.
The leader looked again at Jorem, all malice gone as he said, “Brave words for a mortal so young. Our fun we have had, of the girl we’ve no need. Take her and be well, son of Grendith.”
Jorem backed his mount from the entrance of the cave to allow room for the riders to pass. The sword he kept in his hand, though he lowered it to his side. The leader of the band reined his horse over to the other side of the entrance and waited while the others rode by. A horse carrying double approached Jorem. The rider seemed much younger than any others that had passed.
“You risked much for this one,” he said, nodding toward his passenger. “Is she your life’s love?” he asked.
Jorem looked at Jannett. She seemed as if in a trance. “Nay,” said Jorem. “She is but the sister of a friend.”
The young rider’s brows rose as he looked at Jorem. “Such a friend has more value than gold.” Gently, he lowered Jannett to the ground and rode on. Jannett slumped down and sat on the ground at the workhorse’s side. How many of the Folk passed by him he could not count. The events of the night were taking their toll. Never had he felt so tired.
The last of the Folk filed through the entrance of the cave. The leader of the band approached Jorem. He looked down at Jannett. She was sitting on the ground, her head leaning against the horse’s leg. Her eyes were slightly glazed as if she were unaware of what was happening. The man raised his eyes until they were even with Jorem’s.
“There must be quite a reward for you to take such a risk,” the rider said.
Jorem shook his head and replied, “I did what was needed. There will be no praise, for I am not well-liked by those that approach.”
The leader’s look became very intense as he asked, “Why then have your risked the fury of the Folk?”
Jorem could only think of one reply. “Because it is what my father’s father would have done.”
HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) Page 18
