by Terry Brooks
XXI
It was sunset, and the city of Dechtera was bathed in blood-red light. The city sprawled across a plain between low-lying hills that ran north and south, the buildings a ragged, uneven jumble of walls and roofs silhouetted against the crimson horizon. Darkness crept out of the eastern grasslands, pushing back against the stain of the dying light, swallowing up the land in its black maw. The sun had settled behind a low bank of clouds, turning both sky and land first orange and then red, painting with vibrant, breathtaking colors, a defiant parting gesture as the day came to its reluctant close.
Standing east with Bremen and Mareth where the darkness already commanded the low heights and the plains below were beginning to streak with shadows, Kinson Ravenlock stared wordlessly down at the destination they had traveled so far to find.
Dechtera was an industrial city, easily reached from the other major Southland cities, set close to the mines that served its needs. It was large, far larger than any city that lay north, any of the border cities, any of the Dwarf or Elven cities, and any but the greatest of the Troll cities. There were people and homes and shops in Dechtera, but mostly there were the furnaces. They burned without ceasing, grouped in clusters throughout the city, defined in daylight by the plumes of thick smoke that rose from their stacks and at night by the bright, hot glow of their open mouths. They drank greedily of the wood and coal that fed the firings of the ores that passed into their bellies to be melted down and shaped. The hammers and anvils of the smiths clanged and sparked at all hours, and Dechtera was a city of never-ending color and sound. Smoke and heat, ash and grit filled the air and coated the buildings and the people. Amid the cities of the Southland, Dechtera was a grime-encrusted member of a family that needed more than wanted her, put up with more than embraced her, and never once thought to view her with anything approaching pride or hope.
It was an unlikely choice for the forging of their talisman, thought Kinson Ravenlock once more, for it was a city that cared nothing for imagination, a city that survived by toil and rote, a city notoriously inhospitable to Druids and magic alike. Yet it was here, Bremen had countered when the Borderman had first mentioned his concerns some days ago, that the man they needed would be found.
Whoever he was, Kinson amended, because although the Druid had been willing enough to tell them where they were going, he hadn’t been willing to tell them who they were going to see.
It had taken them almost two weeks to complete their journey. Cogline had given Bremen the formula for the mixing of the metal alloy to be used in the forging of the sword that would be carried in battle against the Warlock Lord. Cogline had remained recalcitrant and skeptical to the moment of their parting, bidding farewell with the firm assurance that he expected never to see any of them again. They had accepted his dismissal with weary resignation, departing Hearthstone for Storlock, retracing their steps through Darklin Reach. That portion of their trek alone had taken them almost a week. Upon their arrival back in Storlock, they had secured horses and ridden out onto the plains. The Northland army had passed south by then, engaged in its hunt for the Dwarves in the Wolfsktaag. Nevertheless, Bremen was wary of those forces still deployed outside the Anar and took his companions all the way to the Mountains of Runne and then south along the shores of the Rainbow Lake. That far west of the Anar, he believed, they had less chance of encountering those who served the Warlock Lord. They passed down across the Silver River and skirted the Mist Marsh before passing onto the Battlemound. Travel was slow and cautious, for this was dangerous country even without the added presence of the creatures that served Brona, and there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. There were things born of old magic living in the Battlemound, things akin to those that resided in the Wolfsktaag, and while Bremen knew of them and of the ways in which they could be combated, the better choice was to avoid them altogether.
So the trio rode south along a line that: angled between the barren stretches of the Battlemound, with its Sirens and wights, and the dark depths of the Black Oaks with its wolf packs. They traveled by day and kept close watch over one another by night. They sensed, rather than saw, the things they wished to avoid, things both native and foreign, things of land, water, and air alike, aware of the eyes that followed after them, feeling more than once a presence pass close by. But nothing challenged them outright or made any attempt to track them, and so they eased past the dangers of the Borderlands and moved steadily on.
So that now, at the close of the thirteenth day of this most recent leg of their odyssey, they stood looking down at the red welter of Dechtera’s industrial nightmare.
“I hate this city already,” Kinson offered glumly, brushing the dust from his clothes. The land about them was barren and dry, empty of trees and shade, thick with long grass and loose silt. If it rained in this part of the world, it did not do so regularly.
“I would not want to live in such a place,” Mareth agreed. “I cannot imagine those who do.”
Bremen said nothing. He stood looking down at Dechtera, his gaze more distant than the city itself. Then he closed his eyes and went still. Kinson and Mareth glanced at each other, waiting him out, letting him be. Below, the mouths of the furnaces glowed in white-hot spots amid the gathering dark. The red wash of the sunset had died away, the sun gone down below the horizon far enough that its light was just a dim streak barely visible through the clouds west. A silence had settled across the plains, and in its hush could be heard the hammering of metal on metal.
“We are here,” Bremen said suddenly, his eyes open once more, “because Dechtera is home to the finest smiths in the Four Lands outside the Troll nation. The Southlanders have no use for the Druids, but they are more likely to provide us with what we require than the Trolls. All we need do is find the right man. Kinson, that will be your task. You will be able to pass through the city freely and without attracting attention.”
“Fair enough,” Kinson agreed, anxious to get on with matters. “Who is it I seek?”
“That will be up to you to decide.”
“Up to me?” Kinson was astounded. “We came all this way to find a man we don’t even know?”
Bremen smiled indulgently. “Patience, Kinson. And have faith. We did not come here blindly or without reason. The man we seek is here, known to us or not. As I said, the best smiths in the Four Lands reside in Dechtera. But we must choose among them and choose wisely. It will take some investigating. Your Tracker skills should serve you well.”
“What exactly am I looking for in this man?” Kinson pressed; he was irritated by his own uncertainty.
“What you would look for in any other man—plus skill, knowledge, and pride of workmanship in his trade. A master smith.” Bremen put one frail hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Did you really have to ask me that?”
Kinson grimaced. Standing to one side, Mareth smiled faintly. “What do I do when I’ve found this master smith?”
“Return here for me. Then we will go down together to persuade him to our cause.”
Kinson looked back at the city, at its maze of dark buildings and scattered fires, at the mix of black shadows and crimson glare. The workday had become the work night, and there was no dimming of the furnaces or slowing of the labor. The swelter of heat and body sweat hung above the city in a damp shimmer.
“A smith who understands the concept of mixing ores to make stronger alloys and of tempering metals to gain that strength.” Kinson shook his head. “Not to mention a smith who thinks it is all right to help the Druids forge a weapon of magic.”
Bremen tightened his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Do not be overly concerned with our smith’s beliefs. Look for the other qualities instead. Find the master we seek—leave the rest to me.”
Kinson nodded. He looked at Mareth, at the huge, dark eyes staring back into his. “What of you?”
“Mareth and I will wait here for your return. You will do better alone. You will be able to move more freely if not burdened by the pr
esence of companions.” Bremen took his hand from the Borderman’s shoulder. “But be careful, Kinson. These are your countrymen, but they are not necessarily your friends.”
Kinson stripped off his pack, checked his weapons, and wrapped his cloak carefully about his shoulders. “I know that.”
He clasped the old man’s hand and held it. Bird bones, more fragile than he remembered. He released his grip quickly.
Then, so impulsively he could not later decipher his reasoning, he bent to Mareth, kissed her lightly on the cheek, turned, and set off down the slope of the night-draped hill for the city.
His journey in took him more than an hour. He did not set a hurried pace, but walked slowly and easily across the flats that led in. There was no reason to rush, and should anyone be watching he did not want to call attention to himself. He worked his way steadily out of the darkness and into the light, feeling the temperature of the air rise as he neared the buildings, hearing the sounds of hammer and tongs on metal grow louder and more intense. Voices rose, a cacophony that signaled the presence of ale houses, taverns, inns, and brothels amid the great furnaces and warehouses. Laughter rose out of the grunts and swearing, out of the clamor and din, and the mix of work and pleasure was pervasive and incongruous. No separation of life’s functions in this city, the Borderman decided. No separation of any sort.
He thought briefly of Mareth, of that quiet way she had of looking at him—as if she was studying him in ways he could not understand, as if she was measuring him for something. Strangely enough, it did not bother him. There was reassurance to be found in her gaze, a comfort to be taken from having her want to know him better. That had never happened before, not even with Bremen. But Mareth was different. They had grown close in the past two weeks, in the time they had traveled south to Dechtera. They had talked not of the present, but of the past, of when they were young and of what growing up had meant for them. They had told their separate stories and begun to discover they shared much in common. The sharing was not of events or of experiences so much as of insights. They had learned the same lessons in their lives and arrived at the same conclusions. Their view of the world was similar. They were content with who and what they were, accepting that they were different from others. They were content to live alone, to travel, to explore what was unknown, to discover what was new. They had given up their family ties long ago. They had shed their civilized skin and taken on the wanderer’s cloak. They saw themselves as outcasts by choice and accepted that it was all right to be so.
But most important of all was their mutual willingness to allow themselves to keep what secrets they would and to reveal them as they chose. It meant more to Mareth, perhaps, than to Kinson, for she was the more closely guarded of the two and the one to whom privacy meant the most. She had harbored secrets from the beginning, and Kinson felt certain that despite her recent revelations she harbored them still. But he did not sense bad intent in this, and he believed strongly that everyone had the right to wrestle their personal demons without interference from others. Mareth was risking as much as they in coming with them. She had taken a gamble in allying herself with them when it would have been just as easy to go her own way. Perhaps Bremen would be able to help her with her magic and perhaps not—there was no guarantee. She had to know this. After all, he had barely mentioned the matter since leaving Hearthstone, and Mareth had not sought to press him.
In any event, they had drawn closer as a result of their confidences, their bonds forged selectively and with care, and now each possessed insight to help determine how best to measure the other’s words and actions. Kinson liked that.
Yet there remained a distance between them that he could not close, a separateness that no words could transcend or actions breach. It was Mareth’s choice to enforce this condition, and while it was not just Kinson whom she kept at arm’s length it sometimes felt so to him when measured against the closeness they had otherwise achieved. Mareth’s reasons, while unknown, seemed weighted by habit and fear. There was something within her that demanded she stay isolated from others, some flaw, some defect, or perhaps some secret more frightening than anything he might imagine. Now and again, he would sense her trying to break past her self-imposed prison with some small word or act. But she could not seem to manage it. Lines had been drawn in the sand, a box for her to stand inside, and she could not make herself step out.
That was why he felt some satisfaction now, he supposed, from surprising her as he had with that kiss, an act so unexpected that for one brief moment it had breached her defenses. He recalled the look on her face as he drew away. He recalled how her arms had wrapped protectively about her small body.
He smiled to himself as he walked, Dechtera drawing close now, its separate parts coming into focus—the walls and roofs of individual buildings, the lights shining out of windows and doorways, the alleys prowled by rats and the streets roamed by homeless, the working men and women moving through the screen of ash and heat in pursuit of their goals. He put his thoughts of Mareth aside, no longer able to dwell on them, the task that lay ahead demanding his full attention. There would be time for Mareth later. He let the image of her eyes linger before him a moment more, then brushed it away.
He walked into the city along one of several main streets, taking time to study the buildings and the people crowded around him. He was in a working district, amid a cluster of warehouses and storage sheds. Flat carts pulled by donkeys hauled pieces of metal scrap for melting and reshaping at the furnaces. He scanned the rusted, broken buildings, a neglected, mostly dilapidated collection, and then moved on. He passed through a section of smaller forges manned by single smiths, the tools and molds rudimentary, the firings meant for simple tasks, and did not slow. He passed slag heaps and scrap piles, stacks of old building timbers and rows of abandoned buildings. Smells rose out of the gutters and refuse, rank and pervasive. Kinson shied away. Shadows flickered and jumped in the glare of the furnace fires and street lamps, small creatures darting momentarily from hiding places and then disappearing back again. The men who passed him were bent and worn, laborers all their lives, trudging from payday to payday until death laid claim to their souls. Few eyes even bothered to look up as he passed. No one spoke.
He went down into the center of the city, the evening close and sluggish with heat, the hour edging toward midnight. He glanced through the doors and windows of the ale houses and taverns, debating whether he should enter. He did finally, choosing one or two that suited his purpose, staying long enough to listen to the talk, to ask a question or two, to buy a glass when it was called for, then moving on. Who did the finest metalwork in all the city? he would ask. Which of the smiths was master of his craft? The choices differed each time, and the reasons supporting the choices differed even more. Using the names he had heard mentioned more than once, Kinson stopped at a handful of midsize forges to test them on the smiths at work there. Some responded with little more than grunts of disinterest. Some had more voluble opinions to offer. One or two gave a thoughtful response. Kinson listened, smiled agreeably, and moved on.
Midnight came and went.
“He will not be back tonight,” Bremen said, looking down at the city from the hills, his cloak wrapped tightly about his spare form in spite of the heat.
Mareth stood next to him in silence. They had watched the Borderman until he could no longer be seen, a diminishing figure melting away in the gathering dark. Even then, they had not moved, continuing their vigil as if sentinels posted against the coming of the night. Overhead the skies brightened with stars and a quarter-moon, visible from the heights, but not from the smoke-shrouded city below.
Bremen turned away, walked a few steps to his left, and settled himself in a patch of soft, thick grass. Comfort for his aging bones. He sighed contentedly. It took less and less to satisfy him, he found. He thought to eat, but realized he wasn’t really hungry. He looked up as Mareth came over to join him, seating herself unbidden, looking off into the dark as if so
mething waited for her there.
“Would you like to eat?” he asked her, but she shook her head. Lost in her thoughts, gone back into the past again or perhaps speculating on the future—he had learned to recognize the look. More often somewhere other than where she was, possessed of a restless spirit and a dissatisfied heart, that was Mareth.
He left her alone for a time, gathering his own thoughts, not wanting to rush what he intended. It was a delicate matter, and if she felt she was being coerced, she would close herself off from him completely. Yet there must be a resolution, and it must come now.
“On nights like these, I think of my boyhood,” he said finally, looking not at her, but at the summit of the hills and the stars that hung above them. He smiled. “Oh, I suppose it seems as if someone as old as I am could not ever have been young. But I was. I lived in the hill country below Leah with my grandfather, who was a metalworker of great skill. Even when he was old, his hands were steady and his eye keen. I would watch him for hours, amazed at his dexterity and patience. He loved my grandmother, and when she died, he said she took a part of him with her that he could never have back again, but that the loss was worth it for the time they had shared. He said I had been given him in her place. He was a fine man.”
He looked at Mareth now and found her looking back, interested. “But my parents were another matter. They were nothing like my grandfather. They were never able to settle in one spot for long, not ever in their short lives, and nothing of my grandfather’s dedication to his craft ever took root in them. They were always moving about, changing their lives, looking for something new, something different. They left me with my grandfather shortly after I was born. They had no time for me.”
His aged brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “I resented it for many years, but eventually I came to understand. That’s how it is with parents and children. Each disappoints the other in ways that neither recognizes nor intends, and it takes time to overcome that disappointment. It was so with my parents and their decision to leave me.”
