The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  “Remember not to hit them too hard,” Hammergrip instructed, curious that he had chosen the elf stamps, a group of fifteen from which all elf symbols could be crafted.

  Bal’kor bit the side of his tongue as he concentrated on following the dwarve’s instructions to the letter. He grabbed the first punch. One by one, he tapped the design into each side of the blade. Some of the characters took three or four stamps. When he had finished, he polished the blade until it shined with rosin stone and handed his finished piece to the dwarf.

  Hammergrip was beside himself. He gently cradled the fifteen-inch blade in his hands as he turned it over and inspected the work. The blade was true, unblemished, and held as fine an edge as he had ever seen. He took the blade over to the light and read the runes that Bal’kor had placed on the side.

  He read slowly, because the translation was difficult, even for him. A prayer to both Aegis and Hephaestus, asking for swiftness of blade, strength against temptation and death to enemies. Hammergrip was lost in thought, wondering where the boy had learned the language of the elves and learned of the gods. He had heard this prayer long, long ago, but he could not place it. He looked down at the blade as it began to shimmer. He was taken aback. The glyphs were not a simple prayer; they were a prayer and magic spell on the blade. A spell of such he believed only an elven sword master could craft. He revered the small sword as he proudly returned it to Bal’kor who was waiting for him to pronounce judgment.

  “Tis a fine blade,” he stammered out, handing the lad his handiwork. “Ye best make yourself a sheath for that. Come back tomorrow and I’ll help you cut some leather.

  “Can’t we do it now?” Bal’kor pleaded.

  “It is late in the day, and you need to go and have your sup.”

  Bal’kor looked out. He hadn’t noticed that the sun had already set, and the stars were starting to shine. He smiled back at the smithy and thanked him for all his instruction. Then he turned and ran back toward the Keep.

  Hammergrip stood there, watching the boy leave. If ever there was a gifted ironworker, this boy was it. He didn’t know where he had learned his skill, but the lad was skilled in the ways of iron. He pondered the lad’s comments about talking to the metal and he was sure that the lad had been telling the truth, but that should have been impossible. There hadn’t been a round-ears who could work iron since the days of Ror.

  It was late. Ja’tar and Zedd’aki were sitting in the great dining room enjoying some mead when both Brink and Hammergrip pulled up stools and joined them, exchanging nods with each other.

  Ja’tar slid his stool to the side to make room. “Well met!”

  The two men nodded curtly to Ja’tar and Zedd’aki.

  “To what do we owe this fine visit?” Zedd’aki asked.

  Hammergrip hefted his tankard-sized mug up and drank deeply, letting some of the ale, which he preferred over mead, dribble down his beard. He used his sleeve to wipe across his thick mustache and cleared his throat.

  “We’d like to talk about the boy,” they both blurted out almost in unison.

  “The boy?” Ja’tar frowned. “Has he been causing problems?”

  Hammergrip looked to Brink with a puzzled look, “No, quite the opposite.”

  “Exactly,” said Brink.

  Ja’tar sighed in relief.

  “It seems the boy has an aptitude for metal.” Hammergrip said.

  Brink’s eyebrow went up.

  “Aptitude?” Zedd’aki asked, letting the question hang in the air.

  Hammergrip growled. “Ye know what I’m saying. Do I have to spell it out for ye?”

  Ja’tar had a confused look on his face.

  “Well,” the old dwarf grumbled. “Not exactly ... He has a gift. That’s what I’d call it. This boy made the most amazing sword today. I haven’t seen a round-ears ...”

  “Round-ears?” a shouting Brink interrupted.

  Hammergrip looked up shocked, “Sorry. A human ... who could work metal like he can since before Ror. The boy talks to the iron. The last human who could do that was P’qell.”

  “Talks? In what way?” Zedd’aki asked.

  “Ye know—talks!”

  Zedd’aki stared blankly.

  Hammergrip leaned close, “He can hear the iron tell him how to mold it and what it wants to be. P’qell made the Five Swords of Sharona.”

  Zedd’aki eyes widened as he asked, “M-m-my, Sharona! Are you sure?”

  Hammergrip acted insulted, “Boy told me his self.”

  Ja’tar’s eyes shot wide. He knew exactly what that meant. The ‘voice’ as the dwarves would call it was their connection to the metal that allowed them to create such intricate and stunning pieces. Ja’tar could see Hammergrip’s white knuckled grip on his pewter mug. The mug was already out of round and he expected the dwarf to smash it at any second. He remembered P’qell’s name, but not much else. Nevertheless, he remembered the blades. Rather, he remembered hearing of the blades from his father.

  Brink looked from Hammergrip to Ja’tar and then back over to Zedd’aki. “I-I-I was going to say the same thing about him and apothecary arts. He knew the —” Brink lowered his voice to a hush, “Nine Herbs Spell.”

  Zedd’aki spit out a big mouth-full of mead and started coughing.

  “Exactly,” said Brink, shaking his head.

  Hammergrip stared into his drink. “You should see the blade. He even added ancient glyphs, a powerful spell to Aegis, he wrote it in some form of elven, weren’t Torren, too sing-songy. I saw the blade shimmer. It took on the polish. His glyphs held strong magic.”

  Brink blurted out, “He knows how to use all manner of herbs and created a sleep potion that I would have a hard time duplicating.”

  Ja’tar’s eyes narrowed. “How can that be? The lad is only a week or so old.” His mother, my sister, was no expert in either metal or apothecary. As far as Zedd’aki and I can ascertain, he has no magic of himself. It seems to be stuck.”

  Brink looked up, “Stuck?”

  Zedd’aki took another sip. He swallowed and then answered carefully. “He knows the spells alright, but the magic doesn’t form. Appears to be blocked, but there is no apparent reason for it.”

  “You don’t say,” Hammergrip nodded slack-jawed. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  Brink slammed his mug down. “Back to the real reason we’re here. According to Bal’kor, his mother knew enough to treat the locals. What say you?”

  “True enough, suppose it is,” Ja’tar replied, “but it was simple potions she had amended with magic to increase their effectiveness. As a traveler, her guise was that of being a medicine woman.”

  Zedd’aki looked at his friend. This was the first he had ever heard of that. He tried to contain his surprise.

  “Maybe his father?” Hammergrip added under his breath as if it were unmentionable.

  “I know little of him except from what her note said. He was a well-regarded mage in her realm, not our caliber of course, but the strongest they had. Their realm wasn’t yet invited into the Guild, so I assume the magic was not significant.”

  “Well,” Brink said, with a scowl. “He got it from someone. You all know how these things work.”

  Everyone at the table grunted and for a while, they sat and drank their mead in silence.

  Ja’tar took advantage and wove his glamour spell, making the boys appear at the far end of the room. They walked stiffly into the kitchen, and returned carrying mugs of mead. They didn’t linger and left the room immediately.

  Brink motioned in their direction. “What’s gotten into those three?”

  “What do you mean?” Ja’tar asked.

  “Nothing I guess. They have been more quiet than usual. I thought they would be right up in your face giving you crap about your sister and the lad.”

  Ja’tar feigned concern. “I don’t think they feel too well.”

  Zedd’aki agreed. “I heard they came down with some bug that has them heaving and shitting like ge
ese. Thank the Ten they have enough common sense to stay away from the rest of us.”

  Brink elevated his mug. “Hear, hear!”

  Bal’kor was lying down on his bed, a stack of hot meat pies on his little end table. He held his small sword out and watched the firelight dance over the blade. He could see the metal shimmer and could hear it talk. It was happy. It was happy with his handiwork, and it was happy being in his hand. It had thanked him for releasing it from the rough ore. Then it told him its name, Fan láidir. It meant “Stay Strong!”

  Bal’kor reached over and ate his fourth meat pie, wiping the juice from his lips. He thought about the day. It had been one of the better days he had spent here at the Keep. He still didn’t understand why so many of the wizards were mean to him. The bumped him in the halls, made snide remarks, and ignored him. He suppose it would just take time. He drank a big gulp from his tankard and let the strong apple cider wash down his dry throat.

  He was surprised at what he had accomplished today. He didn’t understand how he knew herb lore and metal-craft. He just knew. It wasn’t magic, that was for sure. The voice of Lana was quiet in his head. She always yelled at him when he tried to use the gift. Today, he had managed to make it through the whole day without even trying. A broad smile crossed his lips.

  He set his sword to the side, crawled in under the covers and felt himself nodding off. Just before he fell asleep, a soft quiet voice flooded into his mind, washing over him with a warm embrace. He didn’t notice that the bracelet on his arm was glowing softly.

  “Mom?”

  “Bal’kor, I miss you ...”

  “Mom? Where are you?”

  “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

  Bal’kor felt a tear in his eye. “It’s hard, Mom. Everyone hates me!”

  “Dear one, they don’t hate you. They fear you. However, they hate me.”

  “Why, Mom? Why? I haven’t done anything to anyone.”

  “I know, Bal’kor. It’s not your fault. But you have to be patient. Ja’tar and Zedd’aki are your friends, so are Brink and Hammergrip. You’ll make other friends along the way.”

  “I miss you so much!”

  “I miss you too, sweetie. Can you give Ja’tar a message for me?”

  “I guess so ...”

  “Good. Can you tell him the word ‘Muningenic?’”

  “Muningenic?”

  “Yes, it is a very old word. He’ll know what it means.”

  “He won’t get mad at me for knowing it.”

  “No, Dear. Just tell him it is from me.”

  “Can I see you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m a long way away, but maybe someday.”

  By now, Bal’kor was sobbing. His breath came in gasps and his chin trembled. He clutched the blanket tight to his head.

  “I need to go now.”

  “Please don’t go,” he pleaded.

  “I must, but I am proud of you ...”

  “Mom ... Mom? Mom?”

  And she was gone. Bal’kor fell asleep. Memories of his mother filled his thoughts. A radiant smile filled his lips.

  Bal’kor joined Ja’tar and Zedd’aki at breakfast.

  Ja’tar looked up from his eggs and bread. “Good morning, Bal’kor.”

  “Good morning Uncle!”

  Ja’tar grinned. “And how are you this fine morning?”

  “I’m starving ...”

  Both Ja’tar and Zedd’aki chuckled. They couldn’t help but notice that Bal’kor’s robe was getting short again.

  Ja’tar pointed his fork at the lad, “I think you’ll be needing a new robe soon.”

  Bal’kor woefully looked down and saw that his robe was almost a dress. “I wish I’d stop growing ...”

  Ja’tar shook his fork.“You will. I can feel the magic giving way. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Ja’tar lowered his fork, stabbed a sausage link, stuffed it into his mouth, and was wiping his plate clean with a chunk of bread. “You’re beard is starting to come in. Have you given any thought to how you want to shape it?”

  Bal’kor shook his head, not having given it a thought. He rubbed his chin and felt the stubble.

  “Will you join us?” Zedd’aki said, motioning to the chair.

  Bal’kor nodded and turned to go to the kitchen. “Uncle?”

  Ja’tar had just stuffed a big yolk-drenched chunk of bread into his mouth so he just looked up and arched his eyebrows.

  “Mother says I am supposed to tell you something. She said to tell you a word. I think it was ‘Muningenic.’”

  Ja’tar coughed, forcing Zedd’aki to reach across the table and pound him on his back.

  Ja’tar waved Zedd’aki off and cleared his throat. “Go get some breakfast lad.”

  Bal’kor smiled widely and headed off to the kitchen knowing full well that Gretta probably had a special treat for him.

  Zedd’aki frowned. “What was that all about?”

  Ja’tar leaned in very close to Zedd’aki. “A Muningenic is a mythical ability attributed to the Lync, a beast that can learn and absorb other people’s thoughts and talents. The tribes to the north have stories about them. To’paz and I used to read the stories when we were young, imagining what it would be like to have that kind of ability.”

  “So?” Zedd’aki asked, while sipping his mead.

  Ja’tar frowned, wondering how much he should say. He recalled spending months with his sister trying to acquire the gift and turn themselves into Muningens, well—at least that is what they had decided to call them.

  “I think Topaz was trying to tell me that she thinks Bal’kor is a Muningen.”

  Zedd’aki’s eyes got wide, “Does such a thing exist.”

  Ja’tar rubbed his eyes. “There have been unconfirmed reports, back in the time of Ror, that such creatures existed.”

  “But Bal’kor is not a ‘creature.’

  “I will need to search the archives, but I don’t think it was ever confirmed that they were creatures ... however, it would explain a few things.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Do? Why nothing ... for now.”

  “Can you test him?”

  “I could, but if he is, he would learn the secrets of the Keep.”

  “I’ve been testing and training him.” Zedd’aki drained his entire mug of mead. “I think I need another tankard of mead.”

  “We may all need a lot more mead before this is settled.”

  By the time Bal’kor returned, Ja’tar and Zedd’aki had regained their composure. They ate in silence until a short mage approached the table.

  “So this is the lad,” the man said, extending his hand. “I’m Collin.”

  Bal’kor reached for his hand, but a voice in his head screamed, “No! Kill him. Kill him. Use me to kill him.”

  Bal’kor shuddered and turned white. The voice coming from his newly formed blade penetrated his head, made him nauseated, and dizzy.

  Ja’tar looked at him and saw him go unsteady on his feet. He grabbed him and lowered him to the bench.

  “Seems the boy has been eating too many of Gretta’s honey cakes,” Zedd’aki said, with a grin.

  Collin rolled his eyes having been there himself on occasion, “Well, maybe later.”

  Ja’tar watched as the man turned and walked away.

  Ja’tar looked at Zedd’aki. “What was that all about?”

  Zedd’aki looked down at the boy who was almost recovered. Ja’tar pushed him toward the door, “Why don’t you run along. Zedd’aki will see you for your lessons.”

  Bal’kor smiled. “I feel better now.”

  Ja’tar and Zedd’aki sat there watching the strange lad leave.

  As soon as Bal’kor was out of sight, he turned and ran straight to the Smitty. He rushed in to the forge area causing Hammergrip to startle.

  “Hammergrip, I need your help,” the boy moaned, tears filling his eyes.

  Hammergrip put his hand on the boy’s head, “Calm down lad. Did one of the wiza
rds shove you again?”

  “No, I can’t calm down! Everything is wrong and now, it is worse than ever. This is horrible.”

  “Yes, you can. Calm down and tell me what you need.”

  Bal’kor pulled in a deep sniffle as he pulled his blade out of its sheath and handed it to Hammergrip. “It’s my knife. It’s telling me to kill someone!”

  Hammergrip’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”

  Bal’kor sniveled and nodded.

  “Who?” Hammergrip asked, searching the boy’s eyes for the truth.

  Bal’kor choked back another sob. “A man named Collin. I just met him today, and the knife screamed in my head when I went to shake his hand. It screamed so loud it made me sick.”

  “Well, I’ve known Collin for years. Can’t see any reason why the knife would do that.”

  “What should I do? I’m afraid to tell Uncle, he’ll get mad and yell at me.”

  “Well, I’d just stay away from Collin for a while. Give me some time to puzzle this out. I’m sure there is a logical explanation.”

  Bal’kor’s body was trembling. Hammergrip could see how upset the lad was. Strangest thing, it was! He reached over and gave the lad a big bear hug, surprised at how solid he was getting.

  “I need to get back to work,” Hammergrip said. “Why don’t you come back to see me later. I’ll keep your blade here until then.”

  Bal’kor turned and slowly walked back to the Keep without even saying good-bye.

  Hammergrip stood and watched the boy go. He wondered what it meant. While it was true that he had known Collin for centuries, even fought with him in the minor skirmishes after Ror, he didn’t really know that much about him. Collin kept to himself. Clearly, the knife knew something, he was sure of that. Blades that talk are magic-infused, created by strong prayers and runes. Even the elves couldn’t create them at will. History was littered with stories of these blades, often wielded by heroes and great men who fought against evil and the Dark Ones. He couldn’t recall a single story of a blade being wrong.

  Hammergrip cursed and shook his head. The knife could be wrong, but he doubted it. The real question here was did the man pose a threat to just the boy, or to all of the magi in the Keep. Then again, he wondered why. He would have to go and talk to Ja’tar.