Journeyman Warsmith

by Chris Hollaway

  They hurried through the twisted passageways to the main entrance, garnering more than a few strange looks from the locals, who had never seen them unescorted.

  “Ten minutes,” Bertus said, grasping Mirsa’s hands and squeezing a reassurance. “I’ll have them ready and here in ten minutes, and meet you back in the residence to…”

  “Heroes!” Kylgren-Wode called as he burst into the chamber, wheezing, at a dead run. “Heroes… Wait…” The Ambassador stumbled over to them. “I apologize fer our King’s…” He snorted. “Not just fer our King. Fer all of us. Yer right te be angry. Since the Wars, we’ve been hiding, training fer another battle with Men that never happened. Mining, hoarding weapons and armor, and pretending all Men were good fer was growing our food. I’m…”

  “Kylgren-Wode!” Bargthar-Stoun shouted from the entrance to the room they had all just passed through.

  The Ambassador snarled a few abrupt phrases to the King, and turned to face his ruler, face twisted in a fiery glare.

  Bargthar-Stoun smiled, nodded and advanced toward the trio. His fatigue was not as pronounced as Kylgren’s had been, but he was in no great hurry to cross the last few yards to where the others stood. As he drew close, he punched Kylgren-Wode in the shoulder, barking in Dwarven, and laughing.

  Kylgren nodded and turned to Bertus. “I’m not te speak te him like that again, unless I mean it.”

  Mirsa peered toward the passageway, expecting a contingency of guards to burst through at any moment. The King followed her gaze, shook his head, waved his hands in front of her, and spoke to Kylgren once more. He pulled the rings from his fingers and began putting them in a pouch as the Ambassador translated.

  “The guards remain in the Throne Room and…” Kylgren-Wode slowed as Bargthar-Stoun extended an upturned palm to Mirsa, and kissed the back of her offered hand. “They wait fer our return.”

  The King gestured at Mirsa’s feet, then up to her face, talking through his laughter before turning to shake Bertus’s hand with an iron grip.

  “I won’t be translating that fer ye,” Kylgren-Wode said soberly. The Ambassador shook his ruler’s shoulder, questioning him in Dwarven.

  “Boka!” Bargthar-Stoun exclaimed, still pumping Bertus’s hand with an almost childlike exuberance.

  “Aye. He wants te see yer book,” Kylgren-Wode explained.

  “Ahhh…” The King said as Mirsa drew the text from her robe pocket, and unwrapped it. “Boka anch…” he whispered when he saw the runes inscribed on the cover, extending a hand slowly, as if asking permission.

  Mirsa untied the fastenings, bowed and handed him the book. He leafed carefully through a few pages, and shook his head. “Anch mo…” he decided, showing a page to Kylgren. “Rhysabeth-Dane!” he shouted.

  Kylgren-Wode put a hand on Bargthar-Stoun’s shoulder, speaking a few calming words before taking the book from him and returning it to Mirsa. “There’s someone you need te meet.”

  * * *

  After some convincing by the Ambassador, Bargthar-Stoun returned to the Throne Room to reassure his guards that nothing had happened. The King’s absence also allowed the Kylgren-Wode and his guests to continue without undue disruption.

  “I must warn ye…” Kylgren paused outside the door he had led Bertus and Mirsa to. “She’s… zarray… ahh…” he fumbled for the right word. “Odd?”

  Bertus chuckled, recalling their ordeal only minutes before with Bargthar-Stoun. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  The library was lit with the same light-stone sconces as the outside passages and chambers, only smaller and hung at closer intervals, as well as on the lower hanging ceiling. Thick cut slabs of dark polished wood were joined in severe but serviceable bookshelves that were crowded with volumes of all sizes and shapes.

  Though gloved and covered by a thin cloak, Mirsa wove a deliberate path through the stacks, watching for the occasional metal-clasped book and other obstacles that had not been marked for her safety due to the relative suddenness of their visit. Years of practice made it seem like occasional steps to an elaborate dance, to halting music that only she could hear.

  Stopping at the end of a row and peering along the walls to either side, Kylgren-Wode grumbled loudly. “Ye’ll find her downstairs, then.” He motioned back the direction they had come from, to a recessed stairwell near the entrance. He followed Mirsa and Bertus back to the opposite end of the row, then moved around them to lead the way down the narrow stairwell.

  After the staircase doubled back on itself, the passage opened up to reveal a space with a far different feel than the level above. The group passed by rooms that were filled with dusty, broken items, and another chamber that was a meeting hall, or classroom, filled with chairs both stacked to the side and arranged in a large circle. Past those rooms and more bookshelves was another door that Kylgren rapped on three times before turning back to the others and waiting.

  The door opened a crack, and a dwarf poked her head out, looking over the Ambassador and his charges. She disappeared for a moment, returning with a stumpy tallow candle on a dish, throwing more light into the hallway. “Mirsa ‘ap Briltor, Bertus Orcslayer, this is Rhysabeth-Dane.

  Kylgren-Wode spoke to her while she continued her inspection of Mirsa and Bertus. She nodded at several of the Ambassador’s comments and questions, and at length asked questions of her own.

  “She would like te see the book, if ye would,” Kylgren-Wode announced.

  As Mirsa produced the book, the tiny librarian hooted gleefully at the sight of the rune on the cover. After placing her lit candle back inside the room and peering wide-eyed at the Master Mage for approval, she took the leather-bound volume and ran her fingers over the stitching on the front before gesturing for the others to follow her through the doorway.

  Rhysabeth-Dane set the book down on a low table, and set about arranging the lighting. Several freestanding lamps made from the metal-caged light-stones were moved well away from the immediate area, and other candles were lit and positioned close around. After admiring the cover a moment longer, she checked the book’s spine and binding before opening it with something akin to reverence. After leafing through several pages, she squawked something at Kylgren-Wode, and began rearranging the candles in a wider pattern. She left the room, and returned with two other books that she laid out beside the grimoire. These she flipped through with a casual familiarity, stopping frequently to compare symbols, shake her head, mutter, and continue.

  “The words she is able te translate make no sense put together,” Kylgren relayed to the others after Rhysabeth-Dane closed the book and spoke with him, rubbing her eyes. “She says she thinks there is a pattern, it could be a code, but it will take weeks te figure it out.”

  “We don’t have weeks,” Bertus sighed. “We need to get back on the road, find our friend.”

  “And we trust you,” Mirsa added, “But we dare not leave the book behind to be studied.”

  “I’m sorry we could not do more for ye,” Kylgren-Wode apologized. “At least ye know a bit more about yer book.”

  “Would ye be able to stay one more night?” the Ambassador asked, turning back after the few steps he’d taken toward the door. “I’m certain Bargthar-Stoun would want te have a feast in yer honor. As ye’ve pointed out, we’ve had no Heroes in an age, and little cause te celebrate. It may be that this generation of Dwarves needs te learn from the courage of Men.”

  “We would be honored,” Mirsa answered. “And thank you,” the Master Mage said, placing her hand on Rhysabeth-Dane’s before collecting the book and following the others out of the library.

  The Dwarven librarian sat, staring at the volumes of research material arrayed before her. She looked out of the room to see the others around a corner, out of sight. She shook her head, muttering, and picked up two of the books. Halfway through the door on her way to return them to the shelves, she stopped. A smile curved the corners of her mouth, and she returned the books to the table she’d been working on.
She searched the bins in the corner shelf until she found a sturdy leather knapsack, and stacked the small pile of books into it. Whistling a cheery tune, she prowled back into the main area of the library, searching for more.

  Chapter 35

  It had taken Kevon two days to mix the paints into colors that were believable enough at a distance to even think about painting the sword he had whittled to something resembling sharpness. The flat grey was somewhere between steel and weathered silver, without the sheen of either. He hoped the lacquer that Alanna’s lackeys were supposed to be fetching him worked to pull the look together enough to be believed.

  “I don’t see how a fake sword is going to help at all,” Alanna teased, as Kevon brushed color into the corner of the joint of the blade and the crosspiece.

  “I don’t expect you to, or even need you to understand it,” Kevon answered, frustrated with the familiarity of her behaviors the last few days. He had done everything he knew how to let her know he was not interested in the woman she’d become, but it seemed to make the game that much more interesting in her eyes. “Just as I don’t want to know what your part in this is, as long as it’s done.”

  “My men will do their part,” she said, walking toward the door, trailing her fingers along his shoulders and neck as she passed behind him. “All of them,” she whispered in a husky tone before sweeping out of the room, giggling.

  Kevon pushed the unfinished project away, nearly spilling the container of paint he’d spent so much time getting just right. He buried his face in his hands and tried to calm his breathing. Being around Marelle when he was attracted to her had been frustrating enough. Adding fear and loathing into the equation, without being able to wholly remove the attraction was tilting him toward madness.

  He gathered his wits and made himself pick up the painted sword once more. If Alanna happened back in while he was struggling with his emotions, there would be no end to the gloating and teasing. Kevon was looking forward to confronting the enemy Magi, and was hopeful that with more help this time, the city would not be pulled down around him. He wondered if once they were done, Alanna would let him leave, rejoin his friends without further delay.

  If I can keep my magic limited to Movement, a few small Illusions, and stay away from Fire, he thought, it might not focus her rage on me. That should improve my chances.

  The Warsmith patted the scrolls he had hidden in a tunic pocket. He’d scribed them with the paints he hadn’t mixed in with the colors he’d needed for the sword, passed them off as color tests for mixing the other paints. Although the runes were mottled, garish monstrosities that seemed to mock the severity of the situation they were created for, Kevon could still feel the power humming in the Concealed Movement runes when he touched the dried symbols, and could not detect them as soon as his skin no longer made contact. He thought he might have need of them in the coming days.

  “The lacquer is here,” Alanna announced, leaning through the doorway, holding a covered ceramic vessel. “Is your blade ready to polish?”

  Kevon glared at her, and shook his head. “The paint is still wet in places. It’ll take a few hours to dry, then the lacquer can dry overnight.”

  “So we have time for… other things?” Alanna teased, setting the container down on the desk and moving in closer.

  “Plenty of time to talk,” Kevon answered, peering closer at the detail work on the painted sword. “If you want.”

  “I don’t know why you think you have to try and figure out what’s wrong with me,” Alanna hissed. “I know how the world works. That’s all. Marelle didn’t.”

  “Every time I see something of her in you, you push it down, hide it away,” Kevon mused. “Are you afraid that if you let go of the anger, the control, she might come back?”

  “Do you know what the men Alanna controls would do to Marelle? What they did?” Alanna’s eye flashed wide with anger before she recovered her composure. “She’s better off hiding while I take care of things.”

  “What they did?” Kevon turned and grabbed Alanna by the shoulders. “Your father? Your eye? Some of them did this to you?”

  “There’s only one left,” she whispered. “The others have paid with their lives. None of them knew until the end. The last one is one of the few keeping the rest of the Guild in line, and I need him to finish this mission, at least. I don’t know if Marelle will come back when he’s gone or not. Either way, I lose.”

  Alanna’s madness spun into perspective for Kevon. Having to depend on your father’s killers for support all this time, keeping up appearances to stay in their good graces, and stay alive. Learning at the feet of your worst enemies, and becoming capable enough to lead them?

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Save your pity for some-” Alanna’s voice cracked. “Save your…” Her breath quickened, and her eye fluttered, blinking away the beginning of a tear. “Save me.”

  Chapter 36

  The room seemed to spin as Mirsa’s feet beat a rhythm in time with the choppy music, a difficult task made near impossible by the amount of wine she’d had with her dinner. The room lurched as Bargthar-Stoun finished his circuit and grabbed her hand to twirl her around to Bertus’s waiting grasp. Three quick steps and she was matching palms with Kylgren-Wode, then pushing off to fall back into line and hoping her footwork held up to the continued scrutiny of the rest of the gathering.

  Seconds later, the Dwarves present shouted in exaltation, and the music stopped. Mirsa tottered a bit before bowing to the other dancers. She endured the rough congratulations of the now rowdy Dwarves, and made her way back to her seat.

  “Not bad, for a Mage,” Bertus whispered as he came up behind her, serving as a buffer against the still-jostling crowd. “It’s almost like you’d done this before.”

  “In my village, before I was chosen,” Mirsa laughed, still gasping for air. “I loved the Feastday celebrations. Until I was twelve, there was not a dance I could not do.”

  “And since?”

  “Magi have a higher standard to uphold,” she sighed. “Mingling with the commoners is frowned upon, dangerous. You never know who might have an iron bracelet or earring, dagger hilt. It seemed frivolous… the potential danger for so petty a pleasure. This has made me rethink things a bit…”

  Bertus smiled and eased the Master Mage into her chair, pushing it in as she sat. “It suits you, I think. Perhaps not every day, but often, I would hope.”

  “This place makes me believe it is possible,” Mirsa admitted. “But for now, we have other concerns at hand.”

  “Yer prayers have been answered,” Kylgren-Wode announced as he reached the table, followed by Bargthar-Stoun. “Perhaps,” he added as the companions looked to him, and then each other.

  “Our King has asked, and we have both agreed te accompany ye on yer way,” the Ambassador explained, “Te figure out yer book, and help ye with whatever else ye might need.”

  “Both?” Bertus asked.

  “Rhysabeth-Dane,” Kylgren answered. “She is gathering books te study as we speak. We’ll get extra supplies loaded in yer wagon before morning, and be ready te leave as soon as ye like.”

  “Knowing us is not the safest thing, outside these walls,” Mirsa cautioned. “You may want to reconsider.”

  “Rhysabeth-Dane is eager te get te studying the book,” Kylgren said, with a half-shrug. “I have my suspicions it was all her idea. I’ll need to be there te translate… but…” the Ambassador leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “The worst day since yer arrival tops the best day before it, fer me anyway. I like being an Ambassador, not being called one.”

  “Well then,” Bertus said, extending his hand in greeting, “Your words, and your axe, are welcome in our company. May we all find what we seek.”

  “Agreed,” Mirsa added, pushing her chair away from the table to stand. “And I think it best we leave at first light. The sooner we begin, the sooner we find out what happened to Kevon.”

  Chapter 37


  The ‘sword’ looked almost too perfect from a distance, gleaming in the firelight across the room from Kevon. As the Warsmith drew closer, he could tell it was a fake, at no more than half a dozen yards. He hoped that his experience as a Warrior and Blacksmith gave him a better eye when it came down to it, and that in the heat of battle, a Mage would not realize the difference at all.

  Or at least not until it’s too late, anyway. He smiled, and picked the weapon up, running his fingers along the blade to check once more for uncured spots that might stick in the scabbard, or collect dirt and ruin the illusion. Finding none, he scabbarded and drew it several times, noting only minor scratches in the clear finish, and only a slight difference in the sound between the fake blade and a real one.

  One of Alanna’s henchmen watched from a darkened corner with something less respectful than disdain. Even though their leader’s position on Kevon had softened the last few days, none of her subordinates had been anything even approaching civil to him since his abduction.

  There had been no more discussion of Marelle’s transition to Alanna since the other night. The half-sane leader of the Assassin’s Guild had limited her interactions with the other Guild members in Kevon’s presence. He was not sure which was the remaining assailant that Alanna intended to dispatch as soon as their usefulness came to an end, but two men were at the top of Kevon’s suspect list. The man in the corner was one of them.

  He’s younger, more savage than the other, less calculating. Kevon’s mind raced, comparing him to the other man. They both hold sway in the Guild, but this one I can believe might not recognize a past victim. The other assassin was older, almost the equivalent to Carlo in the Warrior’s Guild. Where the younger used fear, he led with experience and wisdom. To have survived so long in the company they kept, however, he must have done things to earn a reputation that would retain influence over the noise of all the brash newcomers.