Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  In one hand, the Cyclops hoisted a metal girder over his shoulder. Although Lakif suspected it was at least a hundred pounds, the blacksmith supported it like the Acaanan would a walking staff.

  From behind the blacksmith emerged a Bodak. He wore a metal helmet that shielded his entire head save for a T-shaped aperture in front. Lakif understood him to be the blacksmith’s assistant. The Bodak, although himself much stouter than the Acaanan, looked puny next to the Cyclops. He bobbed at the smith’s rear like a rowboat sucked into a ship’s wake.

  If the Acaanan had heard an earful about the Bodaks during her inquiries, she had been inundated with stories of the famous blacksmiths. By all accounts there were three brothers, and the trio was the subject of all manner of gossip. Unfortunately, all such stories were pigeonholed with far-fetched fantasy. What was generally accepted was that the blacksmiths hailed from Rime Isle in the Dank Well Sea. It was said a whole tribe of the giants dwelled on that remote isle. There they inhabited pastoral, wooded hills and lived a bucolic life as simple shepherds. This image was difficult to reconcile with the world-renowned metallurgists of the Vulcan.

  The ancient pact was known by all. Every generation, three would be chosen to travel to Grimpkin. Here, they replaced their predecessors, who could then return to their home to live out their remaining years. The term of service was a full score of years.

  How and why such a pact had been forged in the first place was wild conjecture. Some claimed it stemmed from an ancient battle in which the Cyclopes had been bested. Rather than face extinction, they offered up their services to Grimpkin for all future generations. Lakif found this version hard to swallow. The Acaanan couldn’t imagine a battle in such a remote locale as Rime Isle. And if so, who had represented the forces of Grimpkin? Others claimed that the giants willingly opted for the role, considering it an honor to aid in forging Grimpkin future. Lakif was reminded of the Laureate’s account. Plutus had claimed that an army of Cyclopes was marshaled under the command of general Grimpkin. Could that role have had something to do with the pact? Still others held the extreme view that the duty was penitence for an affront committed by one of their distant forebears.

  Whatever the original reason, the Cyclopes of the Vulcan had a long and prodigious history in the district. It was said that within these pits, under their expert guidance, the construct of Talos was hammered out. Popular lore held that the blacksmiths hurled thunderbolts to forge the titan. That their giant hands were at work in the construction of the Leviathan was not questioned at all. Their world-renowned puissance only added to their mastery of metallurgy. No such feat was said to be beyond them. It was even claimed that they could forge smooth, cool creations from liquid chaos.

  Despite the Cyclops’ formidable appearance, Lakif didn’t hesitate to approach him. All and sundry accredited them with an easy, accessible demeanor. The Cyclops stopped before a row of massive shields that lined a wall.

  “Blacksmith, may I share a word with you?” Lakif shouted out. She found that her mouth was already parched from the arid air.

  “Of course, Master Acaanan.” The blacksmith’s voice resounded like a beating drum. A hatchet-shaped tooth jutted from his prognathous jaw.

  “I am not your master. Why do you speak so politely?”

  “As you are fortune’s footstool,” the giant bellowed.

  “How so?”

  “You are an Acaanan, a woman, and lame to boot! But the meek shall inherit the earth. Beside, great things come in small packages. Even almighty Zeus was nursed by a mere goat!”

  “Well…” Lakif began. She realized that she still walked with a trace limp, which the giant had noted and interpreted as a permanent disability.

  “There’s no need for excuses!” The Cyclops continued. “My master shares a similar affliction, and he landed a beautiful trophy wife! I’ve thought of lopping off a limb to share in his misfortune!”

  Lakif didn’t know what the Cyclops was talking about. She knew that there were three blacksmiths, but she hadn’t heard of a master blacksmith. She considered revealing that her affliction was only a minor injury and that in no time at all she would be perfectly well. But seeing that the ailment had favorably disposed the Cyclops, she decided to let the misconception stand.

  X

  The Pathos

  “WE CAN ONLY HOPE TO SHARE IN YOUR MASTER’S BENEDICTION,” LAKIF added. Up close, the Acaanan could now appreciate better the girder that the blacksmith balanced on his shoulder. It was inflected similar to the one she had seen above, although much shorter. In fact, it had an uncanny resemblance to a rib. Lakif wondered if the blacksmith was working on another titan.

  “What are you building?” Lakif gestured to the warped girder.

  “A ship.”

  “A ship?” Lakif wiped clear a rivulet of sweat pouring down her brow.

  “We commence with the hull.”

  “A metallic ship?” Lakif doubted.

  “It is within our works,” he claimed, as his big eye blinked. It glowed rubescent with the reflection of the lava pool.

  “But why?”

  “By the order of my brother Arges. He is the bright one. He hopes to be finished by Beltane’s eve. I feel that date is too optimistic. To achieve such a deadline, we would need the help of a hundred-handed giant!”

  Lakif understood Arges to be one of the three blacksmiths. From her research, she had gleaned the forger’s names.

  “Are you Steropes?” Lakif found that it was difficult maintaining a clear image of the Cyclops with the perspiration salting her eyes.

  The smith shook his wide eye from side to side. “I am Brontes, the thunderer.”

  “Brontes, I have come for your mighty hand,” Lakif slightly bowed.

  “How can I help thee, little one?”

  “Prepare yourself for a teary tale.” At the telling preamble, the Cyclops set the girder down. He dismissed his assistant with an unintelligible order and squatted on the girder. Slumped forward, he looked like a giant one-eyed boulder. Lakif felt the outline of the Stone in her tunic and began her narrative.

  “I grew up in the northern rim of Grimpkin. Our apartment was but one of countless others that overlooked the Dank Well. From the kitchen window, there was a crammed view of the boulder-strewn beach below. My mother was a simple woman, sweet and attentive to our needs. In the stormy autumn evenings, when the winds blew harshest, my father used to cull the beach. He lugged home many a flotsam and jetsam from ships broken under the sea’s fists. In fact, that single pursuit seemed to be his only real interest in life. He was by most accounts a first-rate roué, a cruel man who oft levied a heavy hand against my mom. While he was out drinking, she was at home nursing a daughter. When he came home late all stinky and cranky, she obediently rubbed his feet. Yes, she served him faithfully. In addition, she was a generation his junior, and I sometimes wondered what quirks of fortune had tied the knot of their destinies together.

  “A week ago, I discovered the shocking truth. Unable to sleep, I emerged from my room, attracted by voices in the dining hall below. My father was with one of his cronies. It was late, and both, sodden with drink, were sitting around the hearth and reliving their glory years. To my surprise, the subject of my mother came up. I listened in pensive silence from the head of the stairs.

  “His lips lubricated with booze, my father began bragging that my mother was the most useful treasure he had saved from the sea. His compatriot begged him to elaborate. To indulge his curiosity, my father began a meandering tale. To my horror, what unfolded was no tale of true love overcoming all obstacles. The sordid truth was far more damning.

  “It began many years ago. At that time my father was a bachelor, having been singularly unsuccessful in affairs of the heart. One day, while strolling down a stretch of desolate beach, he came across a tide pool. A dulcet voice rang out from the foam. From behind a rock formation, he eagerly peeked out. There, swimming amid the churning surf, was a fair maiden. He recognized her as t
he daughter of a local family who lived farther down the beach. Their paths had crossed from time to time. But now, seeing her lithe, supple form bobbing in the waters, his appreciation ran in an entirely different light. After absorbing an eyeful, he skulked away.

  “Thereafter, he made it a habit of roaming the same stretch of beach at the same hour, hoping to spy on the nymph as she wiggled among the waves. Often, he was rewarded for his pains when he caught a glimpse of supple flesh. Other times he lumbered home heavyhearted, his voyeuristic impulses denied.

  “In time, his needs grew far beyond merely ogling the maid from afar. She had become an obsession, such that the entire value of a day was centered on the prospect of seeing her. If successful, he swooned with adolescent excitement. If not, he wallowed in despair.

  “He knew, of course, that he could never have her hand in marriage. The summer of his life was setting, while she was blossoming with a vernal bloom.

  “But it was more than the steep age difference that split the bedrock of their destinies. This would have been overlooked if he had been a man of means. As it stood, his loftiest ambition was scouring the beach for discarded trinkets. In addition, he had a reputation as a stiff-necked pervert whose eye roamed all too comfortably toward the youngest maids in the vicinity. No, he knew he had no hope of stealing her hand by the customary channels.

  “For weeks on end he fretted over the unobtainable prize, ignoring all other facets of his wretched life. Finally, stricken with desperation, he resorted to seeking the advice of a local beldam of unsavory aspect. Many averred her to be a witch. The hag lived in an old lighthouse on a cape overlooking the Dank Well.

  “When she opened the door to greet him, my father was immediately convinced that the stories about her rang true. Animal hides dried over a bubbling cauldron, and a half-blind black cat hissed from under a stool. He hesitantly entered and explained his dilemma.

  “The crone listened to his case with a glimmer in her eye. Afterward, she claimed she could lead him to his heart’s desire, for a price. ‘Quid pro quo,’ she chanted. He must likewise do a favor for her. On completion of said chore, she would reciprocate and deliver the girl to his wanton bed.

  “Although the drunken confederate pleaded with my dad to elaborate, he refused to reveal the specifics of his bargain with the witch. That he was so tight-lipped about the contract, even in his tipsy state, only hinted at the horrors it entailed.

  “Having completed his end of the deal, he returned to the lighthouse. The crone then described a certain cursed stone, lost to ages from the clutches of man. The stone has a certain magical power, making the person who touches it fall madly in love with the next person their eyes cross. Hearing this, he was certain this was the key to the maid’s zipper.

  “The witch revealed a maligned recipe to obtain the stone. He must buy a cow squealing with dementia. Then he must slit its belly open and let the blood spill onto a pile of dried mugwort. At dusk, he was to burn the stained plant. The first person who walked through the smoke would lead him to the stone.

  “My father dutifully did as instructed. Who can say where he found a senile cow in those parts? He burned the mugwort, and the smoke drifted out the window and into a neighboring lane.

  “As he watched open-jawed through the window, a disheveled traveler wandered by and breeched the train of smoke. My father shadowed the fellow as he wandered into a field on the other side of the complex. There, as night was dropping, the journeyman lay down and slept under a rotted tree.

  “The next morning my father returned, shovel in hand, and began digging at the base of the trunk. Sure enough, he unearthed a sparkling stone from amid the hairy roots. With a gloved hand, he placed it in his pocket and ran off with glee.

  “The following morning, when the maiden was again swimming in the choppy pond, he stole from the rocks and placed the stone prominently near her discarded robe. As the maid emerged from her swim, she gasped at the sight of the twinkling jewel. As she picked it up to admire it, my father leapt from his hiding place. As presaged, the maiden was absolutely bewitched by the stone’s power. She was his forever.

  “But the clouds in her eyes were not the mists of love, but the suffocating smoke of slavery. She had forfeited her will to his whim. She doted on his every word. My father of course realized that it was not true love that governed her senses, but the distinction mattered little to the rakehell. All he could see was the line between her ass cheeks, the ‘line of life,’ he laughingly called it.

  “Curiously, her parents met with an untimely demise shortly thereafter, conveniently canceling their objections to the union. Whether or not this was truly accidental, or part of the stone’s power, nobody could say. On the way home from the funeral, they stopped off in the chapel to get married.

  “At this point, my father finished the story abruptly. His stunned audience demanded to know the fate of the bewitching jewel. The blackguard eventually succumbed before the pleas, boasting that it was well protected. He kept it locked up, and the key had never been removed from his person. He went on to boast that even if the stone was brought to light, it would have to be destroyed to set her heart free. He laughed that it was as hard as the Shamir rock of legend, so he was in no danger of losing his dutiful sex toy.

  “That very night, when he lay in a drunken coma, I pilfered the key from his coat pocket. I knew he kept a locked chest in the attic, one that I had found by accident once. For my curiosity, I was rewarded with this broken ankle,” Lakif paused to frown at her foot. “The deformity will follow me to the grave. Key in hand, I opened the chest and rescued the jewel from its prison. The very next morning I ran away at first light.”

  With that, Lakif produced the Rare Earth Stone from her pocket. The iridescent shine briefly blinded her. She held it at arm’s length, but it still only reached the crouched listener’s chin.

  “This is the Stone. The inner light is the trapped heart of my mother.” She then remembered that Brontes could not appreciate the Stone’s inner drama. “Let not its precious appearance fool you, thunderer. It’s valued much less than my father’s love.”

  XI

  The Clout

  “MY GREAT EYE IS MADE FOR WEEPING.” A DROP OF WATER TRICKLED DOWN Brontes’ cheek. Was it sweat or really a tear? “How can I help you, little one?”

  “Destroy it,” Lakif ordered. “Throw it into the lava, and when it is softened, smite it with your hammer, summoning all your might. With its destruction, we will be forever free of that bastard.”

  “To tempt a father’s wrath in order to free a mother’s chained soul? Your wretched tale smites at my heart of flint, eliciting a spark of compassion. My obedience is yours to command, Acaanan. Come.”

  Lakif smiled inwardly as the Cyclops lumbered to his feet. Lakif smiled, for her story, from alpha to omega, had been a complete lie.

  She had always known that the acquisition of a Rare Earth Stone was but the first step in capturing its ancient power. Mere possession was insufficient to wield its might. The abbot could attest to that. The Arcanum was frozen within; it could not be called forth to produce wonders. Lakif knew that the Arcanum had to be freed from its faceted confines. Only by destroying it in her own presence could she hope to absorb its eldritch energy.

  That said, Lakif knew that such a feat was well beyond her abilities. Rare Earth Stones were notoriously invulnerable to harm. Such a feat would require the hottest of forges and the strongest of blows to reduce it to rubble. She had concluded that the only sure way was to enlist the aid of the most famous of blacksmiths, the Cyclopes of the Vulcan.

  That decided, she had been faced with yet another dilemma. She couldn’t very well show up and simply ask the giant to pulverize the hard-earned treasure. Although of giant stature, the Cyclopes were not mindless brutes. They were widely accredited with a philosophical nature. There was a chance, however slight, that the metal worker would know of the ancient legends concerning the destruction of a Rare Earth Stone. If so, the A
caanan’s request would immediately peg her as an aspiring warlock. This, of course, would be disastrous considering the universal scorn directed toward Arcanum. Public outrage at suspected warlocks knew no bounds. She would surely be beaten to death or cast into a lava pit. Or worse, she could be relinquished over to the Seekers.

  No, she had known that she would have to somehow dupe the blacksmith. She had initially thought of hiding the Stone in another object. Using a hollow tube had intrigued her. But she feared that under the lava, some of the metal would melt away, revealing the glittering Stone underneath. She would surely be branded a warlock if this deception came to light.

  In the end she settled on inventing an elaborate story. In the day following her return to the Goblin Knight, her cocktail came to fruition. Recent events from her own life were essential ingredients. Lucretia had become the inspiration for the lighthouse witch. Her young mother frolicking in the tide pool had been inspired by the lover in the baker’s story. In addition, she threw in elements of reality to lend credibility. She was well aware that Grimpkin’s northern rim was congested with derelict apartment buildings that leaned over the raging swells of the Dank Well. The reference to the Shamir rock was added to sting the metal worker’s pride. That legendary stone, supposedly harder than diamond, was said to be used to etch metal. By citing it, Lakif obliquely implied that it was immune to any metal worker’s manipulation.

  But for the most part, Lakif had unleashed her feral imagination. In addition, she had an army of accessory details at hand to add authenticity if the need surfaced. All in all, Lakif was pleased with her forgery. It was reasonably interesting, with a believable marriage of the fantastic with the mundane. But most importantly, it was cleverly crafted to tug at the blacksmith’s heartstrings. Lakif was no orator, but considering that the fate of her quest hung in the balance, she delivered the tale with as much pathos as she could muster. Once or twice her narration had nearly stalled under the weight of that single, giant eye; she felt it was steadily dissecting every falsehood. But she was able to press on without breaking stride. In the end, she was successful, delivering a seamless tale that won the blacksmith over.