Heirs of Prophecy

by M. A. Rothman

  “Sloane, can you close the door?” he said. “I need darkness.”

  Sloane did as she was asked.

  “Why do you need darkness?” said Aaron.

  “Because I’m looking for the sword to turn a very specific color before I start hardening the outer edge. If it’s too hot, the steel might crack. If it’s too cold, it won’t harden properly. The color is the best way to judge the temperature, and when it comes to judging the color of hot metal, darkness is best.”

  The only sound was the crackle of the furnace as they all kept their eyes trained on the sword. It changed from red to orange to white. Then Dad picked it up with the tongs and dunked it into the barrel of water. An explosion of steam erupted, hissing for so long that Ryan wondered whether it would ever stop. But silence did return, and Dad asked Sloane to open the door once more.

  “Did it work?” she asked.

  Dad wiped his brow. “Let’s see.”

  He stuck the tongs into the barrel and extracted the sword. It was still intact. Dad looked down the length of the blade and smiled.

  He hopped over to the grinding wheel and began sharpening the blade. Sparks flew. And ten minutes later, Dad sat back. “Now for the final step.”

  He walked over to a shelf that held an array of stones. “These are called finishing stones,” he explained. “They’re used to hone a blade to maximum sharpness.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Dad worked the sword with the stones. When he’d finished, he tested the edge against his thumb, cut himself, and looked up with a smile.

  It turned out there was one additional step. Dad took some bands of rawhide and wrapped the handle. When it was tied off, he was done. He held the sword in one hand, switched hands back and forth, and grinned, clearly satisfied.

  “So it’s done?” Aaron asked.

  “It’s done.”

  “And will it hold its edge?” Ryan asked.

  Dad shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

  He led everyone outside, where a pile of logs was stacked beside the smithy. He took a log from the top of the pile, stood it on end, and took several whacks at it with his beautiful new sword. The blade hacked the log apart in just a few quick strokes. Dad then chopped two more logs in half. Finally he tested the edge of the blade again with his thumb.

  He jerked back, a drop of blood welling up on his thumb. “Still very sharp,” he proclaimed, sticking his thumb in his mouth.

  Everyone cheered.

  Dad wrapped the sword in a leather apron. “Okay, guys, let’s clean up. I think I finally have a gift that will begin to repay Throll for all he’s done for us.”

  Sloane shrieked. “You cannot give that as a gift! That would be crazy!”

  “My next gift,” Dad said, “at least when I get around to it, will be a similarly made dagger for you, my dear.”

  Sloane backed away, looking ready to protest some more—then broke into a wide smile. Her gratitude was written all over her face.

  Ryan was helping his brother and father clean up when he made a mistake that was so stupid, so foolish, that it could have cost him his hand—if not his life.

  He was watching his dad, admiring the look of pride and competence on his face. The man was truly at home here. He was a blacksmith, and he was good at it.

  But Ryan allowed himself to be distracted, which is never a wise thing in a smithy. As he grabbed for the tongs without looking, he accidentally grabbed them by the wrong end. He heard the sizzling of his flesh almost as quickly as his brain registered the pain. But before he could even cry out, an explosion of blindingly bright electricity shot from his hand, coursed through the tongs, and arced to the hammer Dad held, knocking it from his hand. It all happened in an instant, with a thunderous aftershock that left Ryan’s ears ringing. Before he knew what had happened, he was lying on his back on the ground.

  “What… just… happened?” Aaron said.

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m so stupid. I burned myself on the tongs. It must have sent out a spark.”

  “Ryan,” Dad said, “that was no spark. That was an arc of lightning. It came from the tongs and flew right at me.”

  “It didn’t come from the tongs,” said Aaron. “It came from Ryan.”

  Ryan felt all eyes on him.

  Sloane broke the silence “Um… Jared… look at your hammer.”

  They all looked to the floor where the hammer had fallen. It looked unchanged… except that now it was glowing with a bluish-white light. Dad knelt and reached out toward it gingerly, fearing its heat. But apparently he felt none, as a moment later he closed his fingers around it and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands.

  He turned to Sloane with a serious expression. “Sloane, please keep this to yourself. Your father warned us that any hint of… well, anything unusual, would get unwanted attention.”

  Sloane sniffed. “Of course. What do you think I am? A gossip?”

  Ryan noticed his mom looking pensive. “Mom? What is it?”

  She shook her head. “I was just thinking… you can do that, and we’ve seen what Aaron can do. So… Jared, can I see your thumb? The one you cut?”

  Looking curious, Dad held out his hand.

  Mom found the cut, put her fingers on it, and looked as if she was concentrating.

  “What are you doing?” Dad asked.

  Mom held her hand up to quiet him. She closed her eyes, and after a moment she swayed a bit, just as she’d done when tending to Ryan’s wound. And then she straightened—and smiled.

  “Look at your thumb,” she said.

  Dad did, and his eyes widened. Ryan and Aaron pushed forward to look as well.

  There was no hint of a cut.

  Ryan looked at his mom. “You too?”

  “Looks like it. Now give me your hand.”

  Ryan held out his burned hand. Blisters had already begun to form. His mother covered the burn with her fingers, concentrated deeply, then once again began to sway.

  Finally, she opened her eyes, looked at Ryan’s hand, and clapped her hands like a little girl. “Look, Jared! I did it!”

  Ryan’s hand was completely healed.

  Two Worlds Collide

  To Ohaobbok, mornings didn’t seem normal unless he got himself into trouble with his mother. Ohaobbok had always thought himself quite different from the other members of the Bloody Fist Clan. Chiefly, he couldn’t support the violent nature of his brethren. He was a pacifist—and a vegetarian besides. But he was only nine years old, and quite small for his age, so when he’d question the stubborn ways of his clan, his mother would usually snarl, smack him, or grace him with a tremendous kick to the behind. He couldn’t blame her; she was, in her own way, just trying to teach him how to behave. In this clan, violence and cruelty was simply the way of the world.

  For as long as he could remember, he’d been sneaking out of the house to visit his special hiding spot. There was a tiny trail running behind his village, too narrow for any other ogre to traverse. But given his diminutive size—a minuscule seven feet tall—Ohaobbok never had any trouble squeezing through. It led him over a meandering, craggy path through the mountain, to a quiet spot where he relished his privacy, to say nothing of the reprieve from the constant fights he witnessed at home. And his spot came equipped with a large bush flush with his favorite berries.

  If my mother could see me now, he’d think whenever he sat on his favorite boulder and enjoyed his treat. The other members of his clan would never eat berries, wood bark, or even rocks—unless they were starving and there was no meat available. But Ohaobbok was disgusted by even the thought of eating meat, and had felt that way for as long as he could remember. The last time he’d so much as taken a bite of it was when he was a toddler and his mother forced the matter. She shoved a healthy chunk of dwarf meat into his mouth and used her giant hands to make him chew and swallow. Ohaobbok was immediately ill. His mother beat him and sent him out of her sight before she completely lost her temper.

  Th
is morning, he’d suffered another such beating, which was far from uncommon. And once again Ohaobbok had retreated to his secret spot. But it didn’t bring him the joy it usually did; in fact, he was worried. Worried because for the first time ever, he’d had a bit of trouble squeezing through the narrow path. He was growing—and it wouldn’t be long now before he grew too large to visit this place any longer.

  Feeling morose, he ate berries and gazed down at the dwarves guarding the cave some fifty feet below. They never noticed him; they rarely even bothered to look up, and when they did, he merely stayed still. Perhaps because they spent so much time underground, their eyesight was poor in daylight.

  Ohaobbok liked watching the dwarves. They fascinated him. At only about three feet tall, they were the only non-woodland creatures that stood shorter than he, and the thought of standing so low to the ground puzzled and delighted him. They were also a very happy people who laughed often. Among ogres, or at least the ogres of his clan, laughter was a device reserved for ridicule. But it had become clear to him that the dwarves who congregated about the cave mouth laughed with one another, never at each other. To Ohaobbok, this was a curious thing.

  Since he could count to a number higher than he could reach on his fingers and toes—an ability that irked his mother—Ohaobbok had deduced that a lot of dwarves lived in or near this cave. They were coming and going on an almost constant basis. The long, flowing beards of some indicated their advanced age, and the short, stubbly beards of others evidenced their youth. And over the years that he’d been coming here to observe the dwarves, Ohaobbok had also come to understand their language. Ogres were generally not very verbal—they would most often express themselves by pointing at or hitting things—but this was yet another way in which Ohaobbok differed from his clan. He not only had full command of his own language, he’d been able to, with study, learn another.

  Today, the dwarves were arguing, as usual. They would debate anything, whether it was the strength of a particular vintage of ale, whatever that was, or whether the mutton had been cooked properly for last night’s dinner. There was plenty of arguing in Ohaobbok’s clan, but it was almost exclusively over the possession of things, and quickly turned to violence.

  Not for the first time, Ohaobbok wished that he’d been born a dwarf.

  As Ohaobbok watched and listened, one of the tiniest female dwarves he’d ever seen stepped out from the cave and spoke to the guards stationed outside. He couldn’t hear the dwarf’s wispy voice, and he twisted his bulk just a bit so he could lean over the edge to hear what she was saying. It must have been due to his gaining weight, but before he knew what was happening, he felt the boulder on which he sat shift beneath him. He flailed his arms, trying to move his weight back, but he was too late. With a great crack, the boulder rolled forward and toppled off the edge, down into the clearing outside the cave, taking Ohaobbok along with it.

  He was tough—given all the beatings he’d sustained over the years, he’d had to be—but the fifty-foot drop left him dazed, and he struggled to catch his breath. Before he could even gather his wits about him, a spear buried itself in the dirt not far from his leg. He turned his head toward the cave, and found the tiny female dwarf he’d seen outside the cave standing near him.

  “D-do not m-move or I w-will kill you,” the dwarf stammered.

  “I won’t move,” Ohaobbok quietly replied.

  The little dwarf shrieked. “It talks!” She ran back to the cave, obviously frightened, but the cave entrance was now blocked by the boulder that had so recently served as Ohaobbok’s favorite perch. Muffled voices sounded from inside—shouting from the dwarves who were now trapped within.

  Still shaken, Ohaobbok rose slowly to his feet, then staggered toward the cave. He tried to be non-threatening, but he towered over even the tallest of these creatures, and the tiny one was terrified.

  “Grandpa!” the little dwarf cried into the boulder. “There’s an ogre! He’s gonna eat me! Help!”

  Of course Ohaobbok meant her no harm. Indeed, he felt nearly as afraid as she looked. He’d never been seen by a dwarf before, and had always feared what they might think of him. Now he knew. They thought he was a beast who would eat them. Her companions must have been shoved back into the cave when boulder fell.

  He stopped where he was and sat down, hoping not to alarm her further, and called out gently. “Can I help you, little one?”

  The little dwarf’s crying slowed, and she looked at him in disbelief. “What did you say?”

  Ohaobbok repeated himself, slowly and carefully. “Can I help you somehow? I’m sorry that the rock fell. It was an accident.”

  Instead of responding, the dwarf mumbled something into the crack between the boulder and the cave mouth. Her message was met with a chorus of protests. But the tiny dwarf ignored them and instead strode over to the ogre. Even seated, he was much taller than her.

  “My name’s Andrea Hammerthrower,” the little dwarf said. “My grandfather is chief of the Hammerthrower Clan. Your rock has blocked a cave that means a great deal to my people, and you have trapped many of them inside. If your offer of help is sincere, I would appreciate if you could help undo what you’ve done.”

  Ohaobbok was doubtful that he could move the great boulder, but he was obligated to try. “My name is Ohaobbok. I’m of the Bloody Fist Clan. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He stood and examined the boulder. It was definitely too large for him to move it without a tool. Perhaps he could use a tree as a lever?

  As he pondered, a dwarf shouted from inside. “Andrea, answer me! Are ye alright?”

  “Andrea is fine,” he responded gently. “I’m trying to clear the entrance.”

  The dwarves inside fell silent.

  Ohaobbok wandered down the trail a bit in search of a properly sized tree. Andrea ran along with him, practically sprinting to keep up with his long strides.

  “Where are ye going? I thought ye were going to help!” she cried.

  Ohaobbok smiled. “I am helping,” he said simply.

  He found a tree that looked strong enough and thin enough to do the trick. He managed to loosen the roots from the forest floor, then used a good shove to send the tree to the ground. As Andrea watched, he stripped the trunk of its branches, then returned to the boulder.

  There was now a loud hammering coming from inside.

  “Stop!” he yelled into the crack.

  The hammering immediately stopped.

  “I’m going to use a lever to try to move the boulder,” he said. “When I say push, would you folks push on the rock as hard as you can?”

  Several voices shouted, “Aye!”

  With Andrea’s help, Ohaobbok dug a small hole in the ground beneath the boulder and next to the cave entrance. He positioned a smaller rock near the hole to use as a wedge, and Ohaobbok positioned the trunk in place.

  “Push!” he yelled.

  He put all his weight into the trunk. The wood creaked and threatened to snap. But it held… and the boulder moved. He pushed harder, and the dwarves pushed from the other side, and suddenly the boulder popped forward, its moment sending it farther than he’d intended. It ended up rumbling down the path and out of sight—and Ohaoobok ended up falling backward onto his rear.

  A half dozen armed dwarves sprang out of the cave, looking wary. Two rushed over to Andrea, but the other four charged Ohaobbok with their spears aimed at his chest.

  “Stop!” Andrea cried. She ran to stand between the dwarves and the ogre. “Don’t ye be harmin’ him!”

  The tallest of the four dwarves, a male with a long red beard, growled. “But he threatened to eat you!”

  Andrea stomped her foot. “No, he did not. I was scared he was going to, but he never threatened me.”

  Another dwarf, this one with jangly bells woven into his beard, stomped his foot in reply. “Dat may be so, but he nearly killed us with dat boulder of his dropping on our heads.”

  Andrea backed right up against Ohaobbok. �
�He told me it was an accident, and I believe him. He looked as surprised as we were. He isn’t like other ogres. Would I be standin’ in front of a normal ogre and not expect him to snatch me up and bite me in two? Besides, when have ye ever heard an ogre speak with anything other than a howl or a grunt?”

  A stocky, elderly dwarf with a gray beard turned his gaze on Ohaobbok. “Is it true what she be sayin’? Did you intend no harm to those guarding the cave?”

  Ohaobbok carefully considered his next words. “Andrea Hammerthrower speaks the truth. What happened was an accident. I didn’t mean to cause you harm. I was sitting on a ledge up above. In fact, I’ve been sitting there most days for many seasons, watching you dwarves. That’s how I learned your language. I wish…” He paused. “I wish to be a friend.”

  All the dwarves, save for Andrea, looked stunned.

  “Dis is extremely unusual,” the graybeard said. “In my one hundred and twenty years, I’ve never heard anything like dis.”

  Andrea stepped forward and placed her hand on the graybeard’s shoulder. “He is genuine and kind, Grandfather. We cannot turn him away.”

  The old dwarf sighed. “Very well.” He looked up at Ohaobbok. “Hear me then, ogre. If ye agree to not make war on my people, and ye are willing to help us in our time of need, we’ll consider ye Friend of Dwarves, and grant you safe passage through our land.”

  Ohaobbok felt his throat grow tight. He could scarcely breathe, and his eyes became wet.

  Andrea looked up at him, smiling. “Does dat make you happy?”

  Ohaobbok returned the smile. His feelings were confusing. “I think… I think it does.”

  “I don’t trust him, Mattias,” said the red-bearded dwarf, spitting on the ground at his feet.

  “I agree,” said another dwarf, his beard shaped like a bell. “We cannot give an ogre safe passage on our trails. I had a cousin eaten by one of his lot. How do we know he’s not like all da rest?”