Heirs of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  The man smiled. “That’s right. Name’s Itzik.”

  He held out a hand, and Ryan shook it. Itzik looked to be about his own dad’s age, with a few gray streaks in his black hair. His cheeks were crisscrossed with scars, but he had a kind look to him.

  Itzik smacked the reins, urging his horse forward and it took only a few minutes before Itzik halted the wagon outside the Lancaster barn. Gwen and Aubrey were just exiting the livestock pen.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lancaster,” Itzik called down.

  Gwen grinned. “Itzik, you fool, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Gwen?”

  “My apologies, Miss… er… Gwen,” Itzik stammered, his eyes averted. “I have a boy here whose arm needs your stitching service.”

  “His arm needs what?” Mom shouted.

  As Ryan hopped down from the wagon, both women rushed to his side.

  “If it’s okay, Missus—Gwen,” said Itzik, “there’s another boy what’s hurt, and a wagon what needs rescuing. This young man here will tell you all about it.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Itzik.”

  As Itzik headed out again, Ryan explained what had happened. Gwen examined his wound while he spoke, and he hadn’t even finished his story when she announced, “I need to get something to wash your wound before I close it. It’s deep, and I don’t want it to fester.”

  Gwen hurried back into the house and returned with a cup of brownish liquid and a stick. “Here,” she said, handing him the stick. “Bite down on this. It’s going to hurt when I clean the wound, but it’s better for it to hurt now and heal than it is to lose your arm later.”

  “Lose his arm?” Mom said, her face going pale.

  “It’s okay, Aubrey,” Gwen said, more gently. “That’s why I’m cleaning it.” She held up the cup. “This is a very strong wine. It works miracles on deep cuts like these.”

  Ryan chomped down on the stick and grabbed his mother’s hand.

  Gwen carefully parted the folds of his cut skin, and poured the wine directly into the wound. Presumably it was washing the blood and grime away, but Ryan could concentrate only on the burning, lancing pain; it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He felt lightheaded and was afraid he might faint. When the searing finally subsided, he realized he’d bitten the stick in half.

  Gwen pulled a very fine needle and a wiry thread from a pocket in her dress, but she had no sooner threaded the needle than Mom reached out.

  “Let me sew the wound,” she said.

  “You don’t trust me to do it myself?” Gwen asked tersely.

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just… well, this is my baby, and…”

  Gwen smiled warmly. “Say no more.” She handed over the needle.

  “Can you just watch and make sure I don’t do anything I shouldn’t?”

  Gwen placed a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Of course.”

  To Ryan’s surprise, he felt almost no pain as his mom sewed the wound closed—just a distant pushing sensation. Perhaps the intensity of pain from the wine had numbed him to these pricks of the needle. Before he knew it, Mom was wrapping his arm in a clean cloth that Gwen provided.

  Until that moment, Mom had mostly kept it together, but when her work was done, her emotions got the better of her. “Oh, Ryan!” she wailed, throwing her arms around him. “I’m so sorry you got hurt. I can’t believe this happened.”

  But just as quickly as she had embraced him, her arms fell away and her knees buckled, and Ryan found himself holding on to her with his good arm to keep her from slumping to the ground. He laid her down gently. “Mom? Mom! What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t respond. She’d passed out.

  Gwen knelt and pressed a palm to Mom’s head. After a moment, she nodded. “She’s just had a long day. Her boy being hurt probably was too much for her.”

  Even as she spoke the words, Mom’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh my… what happened?”

  “You passed out, Mom!” Ryan felt his nervous tension turn to inappropriate nervous laughter. “And you scared the heck out of me.”

  Mom stood shakily, leaning on both Gwen and Ryan. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know how that happened. I think maybe I just need to eat something and rest a moment.” She smiled at Ryan. “But I’m fine. Really. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  She pulled away from Ryan’s and Gwen’s helping hands and stood on her own two feet.

  “You sure, Mom?”

  “I’m sure. I’m ashamed to say I’m just not used to all the hard work involved in farming.”

  “In that case… is it okay if I try to catch up with Itzik? There’s another injured boy, and I want to make sure he’s taken care of. Plus Dad’s counting on me to get that coal and ore to the smithy.”

  “Are you serious?” Mom said. “No chance! You nearly lost your arm in a fight! You’re not going anywhere.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “I didn’t nearly lose my arm, Mom. In fact,” he said, swelling with pride, “I was attacked by four guys and I still came out of it with nothing but a little cut. Those martial arts lessons really paid off—it’s actually kind of amazing to see how well it worked.”

  “A little cut! You could have been killed. And next time these bullies may come at you with more than just a knife and a club.”

  Ryan frowned. Mom made a good point. Martial arts would only get him so far.

  He turned to Gwen. “Do you think Throll would be willing to teach me how to use a sword?”

  Mom shrieked. “Ryan!”

  “What? You were just saying…”

  Mom took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm herself. Then she paused and shook her head. “You know what… you’re right. We’re in Trimoria now… things are different. Maybe it isn’t such a terrible idea.”

  Gwen smiled. “If your mother allows it, Ryan, I’m sure Throll will be happy to aid you in learning whatever skills he thinks are best for you to use in your defense. All you have to do is ask.”

  Ryan felt a rush of energy. He rotated his wounded arm in a circle and shrugged his shoulders. He really felt no pain at all. It was amazing. Maybe the alcohol had seeped into him and he’d gotten numb to the pain.

  “I’m gonna go ask him now then. And help out Itzik. And Kendrick. And Dad. Is that okay? I promise I’m feeling great, Mom.”

  Mom shook her head incredulously, but Ryan caught the tiny grin breaking through the stern look she was trying to maintain. “I see I can’t stop you. Go ahead. Just don’t get into any more fights if you can avoid it.”

  Ryan chuckled and began trotting back up the road toward the smithy. And as he ran, he couldn’t believe how good he felt. He felt even better now, more energetic, just plain healthier… than he did even before the fight.

  Why am I feeling so good?

  The Hidden King

  After having just completed the deal with the widow, and watching Throll hand her a large bag of coins, Jared could scarcely believe that he would soon be setting up shop as a blacksmith in this strange new world. Metalworking had long been a fascination of his, and he couldn’t help but feel that he was living in a dream and was due to wake up at any moment.

  Jared shook his head in amazement. “So, other than the storage shed—”

  “Which is already being built,” Throll said, “and should be finished in a few days.”

  “Everything else is actually ready to go at the smithy?”

  “Yes, pretty much. We have several deliveries arriving today, but it should be quite usable by the end of today.”

  As Jared walked toward the smithy with Throll, a rider on horseback approached them from the direction of town. The horseman slowed his horse to a trot and came to a halt before them.

  “Hello, Yakov,” said Throll with a friendly wave. “Heading out for the hunt?”

  Yakov dismounted. Instead of responding, he looked Jared up and down, assessing.

  “Sorry,” Throll said with a chuckle. “This is Jared, a friend of mine from Cammoria. We grew up t
ogether. He’s a good man. Jared, this is Yakov, one of the rangers stationed here at Aubgherle.”

  Jared nodded at Yakov. “Good to meet you.”

  Yakov nodded in return, then leaned in toward Throll and spoke in a low voice. “You might be interested to know that we’ve noted an increased presence of Azazel’s troops in the city.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that, too,” Throll said, also keeping his voice to a whisper.

  “Have you heard that they’ve been asking funny questions of the merchants?”

  Throll frowned. “What sort of questions?”

  Yakov glanced over his shoulder as if he expected someone to sneak up on him at any moment. When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet that Jared had to strain to hear.

  “They’re looking for strangers to Trimoria. They claim to be offering rewards.”

  Throll straightened up, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and gave him a nod. “Thank you for the information, my friend. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “For strangers?” Yakov asked, his eyes darting to Jared.

  Throll chuckled. “No… for Azazel’s soldiers. Between you and me, I hope the whole lot of them succumb to the rot.”

  “Well, then,” said Yakov, “I must be off. Edna keeps reminding me that we’re growing short on our supply of venison.”

  Throll clasped hands with the ranger. “Good luck on the hunt.”

  Yakov mounted his horse and galloped onward.

  After having taken a quick tour of the smithy, Jared and Throll reclined beneath a large tree while they waited for the deliveries.

  “It sounds like you aren’t the biggest fan of Azazel’s soldiers,” Jared remarked.

  Throll’s expression turned grim. “You might say I take issue with Azazel himself, rather than with his men. Those who call themselves his soldiers are merely hired mercenaries. Men with little honor. They’re paid to perform a task, nothing more.”

  Jared raised an eyebrow. “There has to be a story behind that animosity.”

  Throll sighed and slumped back against the tree. He took a deep breath. “My father was a blacksmith in Cammoria, the city of my birth. As the firstborn son, I was expected to follow in his footsteps. I obediently learned the trade—which is how I’ll be able to help you get started—but I always knew that my true interests lay elsewhere. So as soon as I was old enough to prove my skills with a sword and bow, I joined the rangers.”

  “I bet your father wasn’t happy about that.”

  Throll shrugged. “He was angry at first, but truthfully, he believed it was only a temporary dalliance—that I would soon outgrow my desire to do my ‘adventuring,’ as he put it. Of course, I never did. My younger brother, by contrast, loved metalwork, so I asked him to take over the smithy in my place. It was the sensible solution, for both he and I. We merely had to convince my father of our wisdom.”

  Throll paused and looked off into the distance. “In time he came to see that we were both determined. Only then did he reveal to me his true concerns—and the real reasons why he’d so wanted me to become a smith. To my surprise, these reasons involved family secrets dating back to my great-grandfather’s time.”

  Throll looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Even when I was a young boy, my father believed I was destined to follow in my ancestors’ footsteps. He saw my interest in Trimoria’s histories, my strong sense of right and wrong, and my natural skills with the sword and bow. And it worried him. You see, I’m the descendent of a long line of kings that stretches back centuries.”

  Jared’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, I said kings. Warrior-kings. But there is more. Jared, one of these ancestors—my great-great-grandfather thirty times over—was not only a king and a warrior, he was also a wizard. He was the First Protector.”

  “You mean the man on the hill that destroyed the demons?”

  Throll nodded.

  “But he was a hero!” Jared said. “Why would it be a bad thing to be descended from the First Protector?”

  Throll hissed, pressing a finger to his lips for silence. “Quiet. And please, don’t ever speak these things aloud with anyone but me. Don’t even share this with your wife or children. Swear to me.”

  Jared suddenly felt sheepish. “I swear.”

  Throll relaxed a bit, but kept his voice low. “At first, I’m sure he was a hero, and celebrated. But not long after the demons were cleared from Trimoria, Azazel came into power. I don’t know how, or where he came from. The histories I’ve uncovered lack any details of his origin. But what I do know, from both the histories and from my father, is that the Protector’s descendants—my ancestors, and other branches of his tree—suffered a string of particularly bad luck through the ages. Children would die unexpectedly in their sleep. Hunting accidents would occur. Sometimes people would simply vanish.”

  He looked Jared in the eye. “I’m convinced that Azazel himself is behind this ‘bad luck.’ For centuries, he’s been trying to eradicate all vestiges of my family.”

  Jared’s eyes widened. “For centuries? How old is this Azazel?”

  Throll shrugged. “The rational townspeople believe that he’s not actually of extraordinary age—that he’s merely a descendant of other wizards, all of whom name themselves Azazel. Azazel’s reclusiveness makes this rumor easy to believe. But… I don’t believe it. My family’s history, given to me by my father, suggests that the wizard Azazel that we know is the same wizard who first rose to power so long ago.”

  “And he’s been killing off your extended family the entire time.”

  “Yes.”

  “But… you’re not in hiding. You’re the Protector-General, which as I understand it means you’re very well known. How is it that this ‘bad luck’ hasn’t befallen you?”

  “Because my lineage is secret,” Throll replied, “thanks to my great-grandfather. Eighty years ago, he had a son—my grandfather. Knowing the history of our family, and the threat we were under, he pretended that this son died at birth. But in truth, he gave his son to a townswoman who’d just lost her own child. It broke his heart to lose his child, but he felt it was the only way to protect him—and to protect his children, and so on. He intended to break the cycle of persecution that my family had long endured.”

  Jared felt a hollow in his stomach as he thought of the man’s sacrifice. To give away his own son…

  “My great-grandfather was beyond wise to do so. His other children all died of mysterious illnesses and accidents—every last one. And then Great-Grandfather himself was poisoned. Only one of his children survived—the one who’d grown up in a blacksmith’s household. My grandfather.

  “It appeared to the world that my family’s line had at last been terminated. But the blacksmith’s wife, the woman who’d adopted Grandfather, she knew the truth, and she told it to Grandfather. And Grandfather vowed to keep the line of the First Protector going—and to keep our lineage secret until we are safe to reveal ourselves once more, if we choose.”

  Throll slumped back onto his elbows. “So now you know my secret. It’s anonymity that has kept my family alive. And that’s why my father wanted me to become a blacksmith. No one would suspect a blacksmith of being a descendant of kings. But a Protector-General…” He sighed. “Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I draw too much attention. I’m, as you say, well known.”

  Jared shook his head. “Do you even have any idea why this wizard wants to wipe out your family?”

  “No reason I can say with certainty. However, there is a prophecy. It’s known as the prophecy of resurrection.”

  Throll lay down fully on the grass, closing his eyes as he recited what sounded like a well-memorized passage.

  “Through the battle that has passed, the Protector lived for his people. Only when the Protector and his progeny die will he return to finish what was started.”

  “What does that mean?” Jared asked.

  Throll shrugged. “I don’t know. Regardless, I remain alive. If the prophecy is
true, then for as long as I live, the First Protector will not return.”

  “But what if you’re the First Protector reborn?” Jared whispered loudly. “No, hear me out. Maybe the prophecy meant that everyone thinks the progeny are dead, like they do now. That prophecy sounds like it could be you.”

  “I doubt I’m the Protector of the prophecy. Remember, the First Protector was a great wizard. I have no wizardly powers. And the few books I’ve studied on the subject haven’t helped me learn any, either.”

  “But he was also a king, right?”

  At that moment, a black bird fluttered across the plain and settled in the tree overhead. Throll held a finger to his lips, then leaned in to whisper in Jared’s ear.

  “It’s known that the birds are Azazel’s spies. Be silent.”

  Left with more questions than answers, Jared lay back and pondered all that he’d learned.

  Building a Smithy

  Jared had been expecting Ryan, but when he saw a figure running toward them through the fields, a chill ran up his spine as he hopped up onto his feet. It was Aaron racing toward them, with Silver on his heels.

  He came to a stop in front of them, red-faced and breathless. “Hey! I’ve been doing chores in the fields with Sloane all day, working my butt off, and you guys are relaxing under a tree? That isn’t fair.”

  “And why are you not still helping Sloane?” Throll asked.

  “Well…” Aaron paused. “When it came to working in the field, I was fine. But when Sloane told me that her next job was to wash the clothes, I remembered you might need some help setting up the smithy.”

  The men broke into hearty laughter.

  “That wasn’t exactly honest,” Jared said, feeling a great sense of relief. “But I understand. By the way, have you seen your brother? We’ve been expecting him for quite a while now.”

  Aaron shrugged. “Nope. I came straight from the fields.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, why don’t I show you around?”

  Jared led his son around to the rear of the building, to the large hearth that served as the furnace. He pointed to an accordion-shaped implement at the base. “That’s called a bellows. It’s used to force air onto the fuel in the furnace, raising the temperature.”