The books in the laboratory emphasized either the scientific or philosophical aspects of alchemy. The scientific books provided long lists of empirical recipes for accomplishing a myriad of arcane tasks. There were recipes for preparing deadly poisons, such as Agua Tofani, and useful pigments like Philosophers’ Wool made by burning zinc. He learned how to make Muriatic Acid and Agua Fortis and to combine the two to make Aqua Regis, the only caustic that could dissolve gold.
He read dozens of formulas for combining copper, zinc, galena, stibnite and bismuth in various combinations to produce a variety of alloys that mimicked gold and silver. Some, like Queen’s Metal and Pinchbeck, were useful for making inferior jewelry, and some, like Talmi gold, for counterfeiting. He paid special attention to chemical methods for silvering glass and mixing tin with quicksilver to give stones the brilliance of diamonds. Trak memorized the recipes for a variety of explosives, such as Fulminating Silver made by burning silver and dissolving the resulting black powder in aqueous ammonia. In solution, the substance was stable, but exploded violently when allowed to dry. Purple of Cassius, Powder of Algaroth, the Spirit of Hartshorn, Sugar of Galena, Milk of Sulphur, Luna Cornea, Lunar Caustic, Bluestone, Butter of Tin and Mosiac Gold, the list went on and on.
Trak encountered substances that he recognized as constituents of a metal smith’s paraphernalia. He already knew that niter was useful for cleaning tarnished metal, but he discovered it was also a key ingredient in pyrotechnic materials. When niter was combined with sugar refined from beets or honey, a substance was produced that burned rapidly to generate a dense smoke. If it was mixed with charcoal and brimstone, it made black powder, the new explosive that sappers used to shatter the walls of enemy fortresses. If cotton threads were dipped in a solution of niter and allowed to dry, a fuse was created that allowed time for someone to flee an area before the powder ignited. A tome described the preparation of a liquid made from pine resins, naphtha and niter that ignited upon contact with water. The liquid could be placed in ceramic vessels and catapulted at an enemy fleet.
Trak learned niter was present in the white powder that formed as water evaporated from the walls of caves, a secret he wished he had discovered sooner and been spared all those years when Baelock required him to maintain a vat filled with a slop of animal manure and urine soaked straw. As an apprentice, it was his task to collect the white crust that formed by evaporation on the surface of that foul muck.
The formulas were too numerous to reliably memorize, so Trak recorded the recipes in his own shorthand on scraps of parchment. He attempted to duplicate some recipes using the reagents he found on the shelves of the lab. Some worked and some didn’t. Trak suspected that many of the starting reagents had deteriorated on standing and were no longer viable.
A passage in a book discussed how gold and silver could be separated from impurities by dissolving ores in quicksilver and distilling off the liquid metal. The passage reminded him of the night he had used this knowledge to outwit Wreen Wormclaw. On that night, his future was uncertain, but now as the time to depart the island approached, Trak dreamed of finding a new life in the capital. Surely, his iron making skills ensured his future.
***
One look at the remains of the forge Trak built on the cliff face and Baelock understood intuitively how to construct and operate a new one. Within ten days, he produced his first batch of steel and within a fortnight had with the help of the duke’s men built five new kilns. With the ample manpower supplied by the duke, there was no obstacle to producing large quantities of raw metal. Making weapons would take longer. There were only a handful of smiths on the island and each sword would take a smith two days to make. It would be months before the duke’s army was armed with steel swords and longer still before armor, spears and projectile points could be manufactured—yet, it was a good beginning.
As a precaution, Krage ordered Baelock to keep the steel ingots hidden until he was ready to forge a weapon. He further instructed Trak to reseal the door to the Broch’s underground passage with the junk stored in the cellar to prevent it from being discovered during their absence. Trak’s big secret was apparently not a secret to Krage. Trak assisted the alchemist in packing a few belongings for the journey to the mainland. Most were stored on the fourth floor of the broch, a chamber that Trak had never before entered. The most striking item in the room was a manikin that wore a splendid suit of armor made of heavy, red-stained leather and decorated with engraved silver medallions. “Shall I pack this, My Lord?” Trak asked, using the title that the duke had used in addressing Krage.
“No. It is only a ceremonial uniform, and one I don’t care to wear.” Krage opened a large wooden chest and pulled out two unadorned, boiled-leather vests heavily lined with felt. “These will serve well should we have to defend ourselves.” He gave one to Trak along with two changes of clothes. It was the largest wardrobe Trak had ever possessed. Krage selected a chest of clothing for himself and a heavy, locked strongbox that Trak suspected contained the valuable items that Krage was charged by the king to protect. A chest of books and parchments completed Krage’s travel luggage. Trak was relieved that Krage included the Alchemist’s Guide to Metallurgy and several other alchemy texts. The duke arranged for the luggage and provisions to be preloaded onto the small boat that would take them to the mainland in the morning.
“Are you ready to leave this island?” the alchemist asked.
Trak replied. “I regret not saying a proper good-bye to the old goblin in the forest.”
“I feel certain you will see her again,” Krage reassured him.
***
The channel crossing took most of the morning. Trak sat quietly in the bow watching the sea birds and relishing his first sailing experience. He felt strangely important wearing leather armor and a fighting sword. Krage’s yellow dog seemed to enjoy the crossing as much as Trak. Their escort was waiting for them when they docked at the small port city of Halban by the Sea. As they disembarked their boat, the leader of the escort stepped forward. “Good morning, Lord Krage, my father has commanded me to escort you to your destination.”
“Gobshite!” Trak said under his breath as he recognized the arrogant face of the duke’s son.
Farg Giantslayer turned toward Trak and taunted, “Don’t you look threatening all dressed up in your warrior’s outfit. Maybe we will encounter some rabid chickens for you to battle.” Trak did not respond. He accepted a certain amount of abuse as part of a servant’s existence. Farg ordered ten soldiers, who would serve as porters, to offload the provisions and Krage’s personal gear and repack it in their backracks. So as not to attract attention, the party broke into small groups that walked separately to the edge of town where they regrouped. Farg immediately led them off the road and up a steep hill into the forest. He wanted to avoid the well-traveled coastal road that leisurely passed through a dozen towns and hamlets.
Farg learned all the back trails by accompanying his father on trips to the capital. To reinforce his memory, Farg carried a rope map that he constructed on previous trips. Knots were tied along the length of the rope to indicate a day’s journey. Various knots tied in the rope at specific intervals indicated water holes, alternate trails and other features along the way. Goblins were physically suited for traversing the rugged terrain of their mountainous homeland, and the party made good time following narrow, worn trails through the forest. The armed guard went first, followed by Farg, Krage and Trak. The porters came last.
On the second day of their journey, Trak was musing on the lushness of the sun-dappled landscape and dreaming of the opportunities he would have in the capital, when a loud shriek from the ridge above caused him to look up. Five sword-wielding Spore dressed in tattered armor were jumping and sliding wildly down the ridge and heading directly to where Krage and Trak stood. Krage’s yellow dog barked loudly. “Attack!” yelled Farg, drawing his sword. Trak clumsily followed his example. In the three seconds that it took for the attackers to reach them, T
rak grasped what was happening. Three of the attackers were heading directly for Krage and the other two, to his horror, were coming for him.
***
Trak stood frozen and would have been hacked down had not Krage flung something into the air that exploded with a flash and ear-shattering bang, causing the attackers to look up. With his other hand Krage drew the newly minted steel sword and christened it in the chest of the lead attacker. Krage’s small dog snarled and leaped. Trak jumped back a step and raised his sword defensively. Unfortunately for the lead attacker, his momentum caused him to stumble over a berm and careen uncontrollably into Trak’s sword, driving the point into his screaming mouth. The air was sprayed with a mist and odor of blood. Before Trak could recover, the second attacker was on him and preparing to strike. As Trak braced for the attacker’s sword to crash down on his head, Farg suddenly appeared in front of him and sliced through the attacker’s neck.
Krage managed to hold off the two remaining assailants until Farg’s soldiers cut them down from behind. Trak was aghast by how much carnage occurred in the space of ten rapid heartbeats. Trak’s ears were still ringing from Krage’s blast as he stared at the goblin he killed, hardly more than a boy. What dreams died with him? Who will grieve?
Farg also stood eyeing the dead attackers. “Your first kill?” he said to Trak. “Mine too. It feels great doesn’t it? You did well for a chicken.”
If Trak was left shaken, Krage was annoyed. “I never expected an attack so soon. Someone knew we were coming.”
“Yes, but they couldn’t have known our exact route. They must have prepositioned several small units along the mountain trails to wait in ambush,” Farg astutely reasoned. He searched the bodies for something that would identify the suicidal attackers and found a blue dagger embroidered on several pieces of clothing. Trak removed a silver ring from a bloody finger that bore a similar dagger and put it in his vest pocket.
It was Krage who first noticed that his yellow dog, Dun, was missing. He found him a moment later in the tall grass at the side of the trail. He was already dead from a slash to his midsection. Krage took a moment to dig a hole and bury the animal.
Farg led the party to the top of the ridge from where the attackers descended. They found a camp and evidence that the attackers had been there for several days. In a knapsack the duke’s son found a red banner displaying the blue dagger. “Whose sigil is this?” queried Farg.
“I don’t recognize it.” Krage lied. “It is as you suggested, Lord Farg. The ambushers were prepositioned and waiting for us. The question is, did we kill all the attackers or had they the good sense to send someone with word of our presence?”
“We must assume the worse,” replied Farg who set off through the trees on a cross-country route that avoided all trails. He looked back at Trak and smiled as he shouted, “Come on, Chicken. This is turning fun.”
Trak, who was beginning to calm from the ordeal, thought begrudgingly, “That arrogant arse just saved my life.” Unfortunately, the Chicken label stuck. After the attack, Farg warmed toward the cross-breed, but he could never bring himself to address him by any other name than Chicken.
Farg sent out two of his soldiers to scout ahead, and ordered the porters to remove their short swords from their backracks and keep them handy. The party didn’t risk a fire, and Trak spent a cold, sleepless night having second thoughts about the wisdom of traveling disguised as Krage’s apprentice. The loss of Dun left Trak feeling like he had lost his only friend.
***
Three days later, Farg announces that their route is approaching the Western Pass. It is a likely place for an ambush. The scouts return with word that two lookouts are hiding on the cliff above the entrance. “We can’t sneak past them,” says Farg, “and it is a two day journey to the Eastern Pass, where it is likely we will encounter a waiting ambush there as well.”
“I agree,” replies the alchemist, “Let us discuss how we might improve our chances.”
While Krage and Farg discuss possible strategies for fighting their way through the pass, Trak tries to imagine what is going through the mind of the commander who waits to launch his ambush. He only half listens to what Farg and Krage are discussing. He emerges from his thoughts as Farg is saying, “With luck we will lose only half our strength.”
“I know how we can get through and not lose anyone,” Trak calmly interjects.
“Wonderful, Chicken has been in one skirmish and is now a master strategist,” mocks Farg. Krage raises a hand to quiet him and to listen to Trak’s proposal.
“Whoever is waiting for us in the pass knows we are in the area. They may even have scouts watching as we speak. To reach the pass we must climb up a long, exposed slope of loose tailings. Even at night, we would be detected long before we reached the pass and for the last hundred meters be an easy target for bowmen. We would lose half our strength before the fighting even begins, and we have no idea how many we will face when those of us who are still alive reach the pass. It is likely that in the end none of us would survive.”
Farg grows quiet as the grim truth of what Trak describes settles in. “But there is a way,” the apprentice adds and explains his plan. Krage and Farg reluctantly accept Trak’s crazy scheme as their best option. It is then that Trak realizes he has unthinkingly volunteered to play the role of hero. It is too late to back down.
Trak hangs back in the forest while Farg alters course and heads the party in the direction of the Eastern Pass. When they are nearly out of sight of the lookouts on the Western Pass, they stop, set up camp and light cooking fires. Trak emerges from the woods dressed in clothes taken from the goblins that attacked three days before and begins climbing the loose tailings in plain view of the lookouts above. When he arrives at a clearing near the mouth of the pass, he draws his sword and places it on the ground. He then unfolds the red banner displaying the blue dagger and lifts it over his head. He stands perfectly still. After a while, he hears the crunching of feet on the trail and looks up to face six armed goblins who roughly tie his hands and push him deeper into the pass.
They stand him in front of their captain who is now holding the red banner. “Speak! I’d better like what you say.”
“Captain,” Trak begins, “I am what is left of a patrol that has been tracking an armed party since it left the Isle of Uisgebeatha five days ago. They are the ones your lookouts have undoubtedly reported seeing below the pass. Lord Farg, the son of the Duke of Uisgebeatha, leads the party. He is guiding on old goblin who is posing as the duke’s alchemist. I am sure he is the one we seek. I fear that Lord Farg has detected your trap and is now leading his party toward the Eastern Pass. I come to you for help. Together we can capture the goblin and gain the reward for ourselves. We can even capture Farg and hold him for ransom. If we let them reach the Eastern Pass, the glory and reward will go to someone else. We will have lost our chance.”
The leader eyes Trak. A big cross-breed, most likely a border mercenary, he thinks. The leader turns to one of his lookouts who declares, “It is true Captain, the party has turned to the east and has stopped for the night in a small copse a league from here.”
The thought of losing the reward galls him. He gives his orders. “When the moon has set, we will attack, capture the highborn and kill the rest. Give this cross-breed back his sword and get him something to eat and drink.” He will deal with the cross-breed after the fighting is over.
Trak stands by a campfire at the edge of the camp, while the ambushers prepare themselves for their night’s business. An older goblin approaches Trak with a drumstick and a flagon of wine. “Eat up! Ye will fight better on a full stomach,” he says. “I be Grenab Spidermouth. From where hail ye?” he asks, attempting to make small talk.
“Near Halban by the Sea,” Trak replies. “What about you.”
“I’m a Neu Ardonbrae son. Served for twenty years in the palace guard. Ye seem young. Be ye new to soldierin’?”
“Yes, I enlisted six months ago.” Tra
k replies. He has to be careful what he says. His subterfuge could be easily discovered if he says the wrong thing.
“Well, hang with me when the fightin’ starts,” Grenab casually offers. “I will cover your arse and you can watch mine. That way we both have a better chance of comin’ out of this alive.”
At midnight, twenty men dressed in mismatched clothing, but all carrying swords of the standard design issued to the king’s troops, quietly descend the tailings that front the pass. Trak is relieved that there are only twenty, the size of a squad. Twenty, Farg’s soldiers can handle. The ambushers silently surround the copse and creep into the sleeping camp. Trak and the man, Grenab, hold back as the noose tightens. Both seem to know what will happen next.
The attackers begin thrusting their swords into the bedrolls that lay by the fires, only to find the bedrolls filled with branches and leaves. Then Farg closes his own trap. Archers hidden in the dark begin firing arrows into the camp. Those who escape the arrows are cut down as they flee the light of the campfires. When the captain of the ambushers realizes he has been tricked, he charges at Trak screaming, “Traitor” and takes a wild slash at his head. At the same moment Grenab shoves Trak to the ground. When Trak rolls over, he sees Grenab standing over the dead captain.
Trak warily appraises Grenab Spidermouth as the goblin pulls him to his feet. While Trak is still half-dazed, Grenab hands Trak his bloodied sword and falls to his knees just seconds before Farg and his men emerge from the darkness and surround them. “What are you waiting for? Finish him!” shouted Farg.
Trak appraises the situation and replies, “We need to let Krage interrogate him.” The soldiers shove Grenab to where Krage is standing. As he approaches, a look of recognition crosses Grenab’s face. Krage holds up his hand to stop the captive from speaking and says pointing to the duke’s son, “This is Lord Farg, and I am Krage the Duke of Uisgebeatha’s alchemist. Who are you?”
Forging the Half-Goblin Sorcerer Page 8
