by Nikolas Rex
It was at this anvil that caught most of Marc’s attention.
A young man bent over the anvil, a large hammer in one hand, and a pair of tongs holding a piece of metal into place in the other, it appeared to be a sword. The boy was about Marc’s age. He wore brown leather breeches, heavy brown boots, a light colored tunic, heavy black gloves, and a thick black apron over his clothes. He had fairly long light brown hair falling down to his shoulders.
Marc stood in the doorway, and watched, fascinated, as the blacksmith skillfully worked on a sword. Marc’s world was one of mass production, where things were created in copious amounts, cheaply made, cheaply distributed. But here was a single young man hard at work on a single item. It seemed to resonate with Marc’s soul. Each blow of the blacksmiths’ hammer was struck with precision and dedication. The young man worked the bellows, stoked the coals into flashes of fiery red and searing white, then retrieved the weapon and hammered the malleable hot metal into submission.
But never did he turn to Marc. Marc was invisible again. He did not know what to do. The last time he had been frightened by the boy covered in blood, and did not know what to make of this. So instead he watched to see what would come of his presence there. For hours the smith pounded the sword, to the fire, then back to the anvil. It was a fascinating and exhilarating thing to watch. The boy seemed to be struggling to get the sword just right, it was still bent at an odd angle near the tip.
The young man began to look tired and he stopped, wiping the heavy sweat from his forehead. He took a number of deep breaths and let his head back, closing his eyes. Then he slowly stopped and turned around, looking directly at Marc.
For a moment Marc thought the boy could see him, but the young man looked around the room. He set down his tools and went over to the walls. He climbed up on a stool and peered out the slits near the ceiling. He checked all four walls of slits, then he went to the door at the end of the room next to Marc. He opened the door and glanced to the right and the left, as if making sure no one was nearby or watching him.
Finally, satisfied, he shut the door and returned to his work. But instead of picking up the tongs and metal hammer as before, the young man picked up the blade itself. Marc was about to call out, as the sword on the anvil still steamed with fiery heat. But the boy did not yelp or even react at touching the heated metal. He held it easily in his hands. He closed his eyes and sat on the ground.
Marc watched in utter amazement at what happened next.
A sort of glow came over the boys hands, a soft silver light, it filled the blade. The entire room began to brighten. Then, the sword in the boys hands began to change, it moved and warped like clay being shaped by invisible hands. The silver light pulsed like a heartbeat, stronger, brighter. The boy began to sweat, concentration showed on his face. The aura fell in brilliance for a moment and the boy shook his head, as if warding off a distraction. Then, the odd bent angle in the tip of the blade straightened itself and the light went out. The boy smiled and opened his eyes.
The boys eyes were a sharp silver grey.
Instantly Marc felt himself become visible.
They exchanged a brief glance.
The boy half stood, puzzled, and said,
“Tristen?”
But Marc was already gone.
Like before, there was a flash of light and the sound like all the air in the world was being slowly inhaled followed by a deep boom, then silence.
Marc felt himself being pulled back to his body. The hot forge, the silver magic, and the young blacksmith with grey eyes, everything Marc had seen there, quickly vanished to be replaced with the shimmering silver realm.
With a jolt he found himself back in his body, standing next to Sesuadra.
There was silence for a moment, and then Sesuadra spoke.
“What did you dream this time?”
“No,” Marc said with a shake of his head, “I don’t think what I see are dreams.”
He looked at Sesuadra then,
“I think they are real.”
Chapter Seven
Kolima
Marc woke up to Soren’s baritone voice.
“Wake up, we are here!”
He pulled the cart to a stop at the top of a hill.
Marc rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and sat up. His body was sore from the not at all comfortable seat and his attempt at sleeping on it.
“Ah,” The man said with a sigh, “There it is. Home!”
The bright morning sunlight cast beautiful glowing shades of dark pink, soft violet, and fiery orange across the landscape.
The hill overlooked a great city built along a smooth and rugged coastline. Hundreds and hundreds of reddish-brown slate rooftops glinted from the sun’s morning rays and just as many chimneys jutted upwards out of the roofs, releasing trails of wispy smoke into the air. The city was comprised of many buildings of varying sizes all cramped together.
From their vantage point on top of the hill Marc could make out wide curving streets where the huge city was separated into different sections. The buildings were made of wood, clay and stone and all were consistent in their architectural design, except for a single section of the city. Lofty stone watchtowers joined together a fifteen foot high stone wall, which almost completely surrounded the great city except for where the city met the ocean, at which countless docks connected both sea and civilization together. Along the docks and upon the waters nearby were long rows of ships of all sizes, all of which were constructed of wood and had at least one long mast, if not more, protruding from their decks. The vast ocean of dark cerulean sea water stretched out as far as the eye could see, upon which the dazzling sunrise reflected magnificently.
A large castle rose up in the middle of the city, tall parapets and spires rose up from its walls. Colorful banners whipped in the sea breezes.
Also surrounding the city were many large groupings of trees. He could now make out the green rolling hills behind the wagon they were in and tall foreboding mountains loomed even further behind those. The long dirt road upon which they had been traveling wound its way past the hills and up to the large entrance of the city.
After a long look, Soren whipped the beasts back into a trot and they descended the hill, making their way towards the palisade.
There were other carts as well, separate from their train, pulled by balkars of different dark colors and a few small carts pulled by aldoms. Everyone was moving towards the city entrance. The men were dressed in plain white shirts, brown breeches, and dark leather boots, or a variation of the same sort. The more renowned women wore extravagant flowing gowns, but most were adorned in simple blouses. Some of the more prominent looking people rode aldoms adorned with decorated armor and harnesses.
“It’s stunning,” Marc said simply.
He had seen plenty of things taller and grander in cities back home, with towering skyscrapers and high rises which were impressive just by their height, but this city held a different kind of beauty, a magnificence in its own right. He took a breath of fresh air, untainted by exhaust and pollutants. He looked on in awe at the landscape before him. It was so much more enchanting than anything he could compare it to in his mind.
Their cart fell into position in one of the long lines leading up to Kolima, and they slowed to a crawl, stopping frequently. Because of the slow pace, Marc was able to study the people and creatures around him with more detail.
Snippets of conversation drifted past his ears. Most were engaged in cheerful chit chat about the upcoming celebration but he overheard some groups discussing more somber matters. Most of which consisted of violent attacks from wild beasts so close to the civilized world. One man was saying he had never seen so many this far from the Wildlands, and another commented he had killed one with his bare hands the other day.
Zildjin passed around some foodstuffs for their morning meal and they munched while they waited to arrive at the gates.
Their turn finally came not too long after they had f
inished their meal with a swig of bitter juice. Soren urged the balkars forward and they approached the entrance. The city gates ahead were huge and Marc had to crane his neck to see the top of the two towers on either side of the road. Rich cobalt blue banners waved in the breeze and hung from the towers and on the walls in evenly spaced intervals. Gold symbols outlined in black were emblazoned on the banners, the silhouette of a great ship with three masts sat on top of a kite shield background on a field of blue.
Men in shiny steel full-plate armor stood on each side of the gates as foreboding sentinels. Opened-face helmets with blue plumes adorned their heads. Some wore swords and had shields on their backs, others were armed with lances.
The front of their wagon train stopped just short of the line of guards.
The same symbols on the banners flapping above the city were also inscribed on the soldier’s shiny steel chest-plates.
“So many soldiers,” Marc pointed out aloud.
“The city guard,” Zildjin responded, “Every city in Itherin has their own army, in Kolima, we call them Protectors.”
“What does the symbol stand for?” Marc asked. He had been noting many symbols.
Soren turned to speak, “The Shield and the Ship. The Ship means to show that Kolima is indeed the Great Trade Capitol of the Freelands. Ships from all over come to trade in Kolima. The Shield stands for justice, peace, prosperity, and freedom entitled to all Itherians. All who live in Kolima are willing to fight and defend, even die, to preserve this freedom. The Overseer, makes sure that the Shield and Ship are more than just symbols.”
“Like a King,” Marc commented offhandedly.
“Not at all!” Zildjin seemed heated, then cooled off quickly, “I mean, we are not governed by the whims of a single man like Terragur.”
“He is right,” Sesuadra added, “The Overseer has only certain powers and is balanced out by five other Commissioners who represent the voice of the people in matters concerning the city. Every cycle the people elect new Commissioners so if they do not like the current elected official they have a chance to elect a new one.”
Marc also noticed a few figures garbed in robes with hoods. Their robes were a deep royal blue, with gold embroidery at the collars and sleeves.
Zildjin saw Marc glance at the robed men.
“Those are the Overseer’s hands,” Zildjin commented. Then, at Marc’s confused look he continued, “They make up the few magic wielders in almost all of the Freelands. They are the reason why Kolima is so prosperous and safe. During such an event as The Gathering, they must be extra vigilant in their duties, keeping the city security tight.”
Finally they approached the entrance and it was their turn to show their papers to be let in. Two men in steel armor, followed by one of the robed figures, came up to the wagon.
The figure in the blue and gold robes had his hood up, concealing all the features of his face except for his chin, whereupon lay a medium length carefully trimmed beard there. The Protector in front brought up a hand in greeting and said, “All is well?”
“All is well,” Soren replied.
“Welcome travelers, to Kolima,” The man in armor continued, “Is this your first visit here or are you residents?”
“Resident,” Soren answered politely, “I have my parchment roll right here,”
Soren handed the parchment to the man and the Protector unrolled it carefully. He scanned it quickly and then looked up and said, “It says here that there are only three of you but I count four present.”
He paused as his eyes fell on Marc. The soldier clearly was puzzled at Marc’s clothes and appearance.
Marc froze with fear. He realized that he was an extra body and probably wasn’t included in the headcount since they had found him on the trail. A hundred questions shot through his brain. Would he be allowed in the city? What if he was taken in for questioning about where he was from, why he wore such strange apparel, and especially about the magic that brought him here and the sword? What was he going to do?
“You are correct sir,” Soren again spoke politely, “This is my nephew Marc,”
Marc nodded and smiled at mention of his name, to the Protector.
“We brought him up from Luciertown to help me work the docks for my shipping company, you can see it right there on the parchment, Soren’s Shipping Co.”
The Protector glanced down at the roll in his hand and nodded, “All is well, then. And these goods are headed where?” The Protector eyed the large crate and burlap sacks and the other things in the wagon.
“To Jeron, my benefactor, and to Eleanor of the Magic Emporium. We conducted a trade in Luciertown for these goods.”
There was only another moment’s pause and then the Protector nodded his head, “All is well,” The man rolled up the scroll and handed it back to Soren.
He then turned to the figure in the blue robes.
“Alright, Safral, you may begin your examination.”
The two men in armor stepped back and the hooded figure took just a slight step forward. He began chanting quietly and moving his hands in careful, methodical gestures. A soft bluish glow began to pulse around his fingertips until a large sphere encircled both of his hands.
Magic, Marc watched, thoroughly intrigued, so real and beautiful.
The sorcerer stopped chanting and let his hands drop. The blue sphere disappeared, fading into the air like smoke. Though his face was hidden the figure turned his head and seemed to be looking directly at Marc. The young man stared back casually but his whole body was taut with apprehension.
“Well?”
The conjurer was silent for only another moment until finally
“All is well.”
“All is WELL! Let them through! On to the next one!”
The two soldiers then turned their backs to the wagon the three young men occupied and began ushering the last few carts to advance.
“Forward ho!” Soren grabbed the reins and whipped the two balkars into a trot.
Marc couldn’t help but keep his eyes on the figure in blue, thinking about the magic. As they moved through the gates Marc’s hand touched the hilt of the sword strapped to his side and he felt the same warm sensation as before wash over him again, starting from the sword, making the tips of his fingers tingle. The hooded figure swiftly turned around, his gaze snapping instantly to the three boys’ retreating wagon. Marc lifted his hand from the hilt and the conjurer looked right and left until he finally shook his covered head and turned back around. Marc watched the robed man until finally they were inside the city and the road curved, blocking any line of sight.
Neither Sesuadra nor Zildjin seemed to have noticed the conjurer’s odd behavior so Marc decided to put it out of his mind. He shook his head and looked forward, past the driver’s bench.
“Well, Marcus, look before you,” Soren said at the young man’s movements, “and I will give you the grand tour!”
And with a sweeping flourish of his arm and exaggerated mysterious tone in his voice he said, “Welcome, to Kolima!”
Marc took all of Kolima in with eagerness.
It was a wonderful place filled with motion and energy.
Soren gestured while he talked, pointing out places of interest, Marc listened and watched. Zildjin gave the occasional comment. Sesuadra participated silently but Marc felt good to have him there.
For the first time in a long while, Marc felt he belonged somewhere.
Not too long after they had entered Kolima, Marc saw a sign etched with strange symbols. He was about to ask about them, but he blinked and the sign seemed to change, almost instantly. It then read, in clear English letters: MARKET DISTRICT.
Strange. Marc thought for a brief moment. However, because there was so much happening around him to occupy his thoughts he took little note of it at first. As they continued on, and he looked upon more and more things with symbols on them, there was always a slight delay between the strange symbols, and their conversion into letters his mind could
understand. A small sensation of magic came over him each time it happened and he began to get used to it.
While his eyes soaked in the bustle of activity before him, his other senses were also engaged. The hot sun shone overhead and the sharp tang of the salty sea wafted past his nose.
The unpaved streets were packed with folk of all ages. Almost all were dressed in light airy garb because of the weather, but there was the occasional hooded cloak poking out in the crowd. Everyone was busy going about their business, moving to and fro with purpose.
Those not prudent or observant enough on the street risked a run in against carriage and wagon alike.
Lean-tos and makeshift shops dotted the side streets. Traders and peddlers ventured to convince the crowds to purchase their wares, shouting promises of high quality goods at unbelievable prices. A diverse assortment of establishments lined each side of the main road. Signs hanging under windows, over the streets or nailed to walls above doors stated what goods or services were sold inside. Marc found the blacksmith shops the most fascinating. They were always open to the street, showing the men hard at work, pounding red hot steel, sending great showers of sparks into the air. Market places and bazaars were most abundant.
Marc got caught up in the excitement and wished he had a couple hundred dollars, yen, or whatever it was they used here, to spend.
The flow of wagons suddenly stopped and Soren pulled sharply on the reins, avoiding a collision. They were near the edge of the Market District and a line of carts, citizens, and balkars lay in their path. Two large towers rose up from the buildings and a sign hung from both stating that they were entering the Industrial District. The crowd ahead of them finally began moving forward and Soren got the balkars to follow suit. They passed quickly underneath the banner and towers and continued towards their destination.
