King of Ashes

by Raymond E. Feist

  Still, fate had brought Declan to learn from a true great master, if such a rank existed. Over the years, as Declan had served his master, word of Edvalt’s skill had travelled, and despite their living in the Covenant, more commissions for arms had come. Declan did not know yet how to measure what he’d learned from Edvalt, but he suspected he had reached a lofty rank because of his teacher and that only a handful of smiths were in his position.

  He looked at his masterpiece and realised that it would be painful to see Baron Bartholomy take it away. Declan would know it was his, though Bartholomy would credit Edvalt with its fashioning. Declan was at peace with that; he owed everything he was and knew to Edvalt.

  Then there was Roz. She had fulfilled her promise and the sex had been more intense than any he had ever known. However, the best part of the night had been the conversation afterwards, an intimacy Declan had never before experienced. He had felt a deep peace and there was, for lack of a better word, trust in it, space where ideas and feelings could flow.

  Roz had been up before first light, shaking off the straw from the stable they had used for bedding, and as the false dawn brightened the eastern sky, she had driven her wagons up the hill to the main road.

  Declan had felt a pang of regret watching her leave. It wasn’t just the sex, though she was the best lover he had known. Bedding the town girls was a pleasure he declined more often than accepted. Roz had set something of a standard they couldn’t equal. He chuckled to himself as he imagined that it must be a little like the deep passionate love the taletellers sang about: lovers separated by some dire circumstance, who either conquer all or die tragically depending on the tale.

  Declan saw himself as no hero, nor Roz as any damsel, but he knew his feelings for her were a bit more than perhaps he cared to admit, even to himself. She was almost old enough to be his mother, and he suspected she had lovers all over the East Lands, in the past even a few here in Oncon; he had a sense of who they might be, though he had never enquired.

  It was because she made him feel differently about things, but mostly about himself. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he sensed these different feelings were important and something he needed to better understand. Certainly before he settled down and wed. No matter who she might be, the woman who became his wife would need to make him feel the way Roz did.

  Declan was not by nature an introspective man, yet for the first time in his life he found himself with a great deal to ponder. In his easy conversation with Roz the previous night, he had come to understand that he would leave Oncon sooner rather than later. He would not buy Edvalt’s smithy.

  Edvalt, despite his protests, still had many years of good work before him. Declan knew him well enough to know that a retirement sitting around Marius’s miserable excuse for an inn was not in his nature – mostly because, except for a few hours in the evening when the weather was good, it was usually empty. Sitting on a stool on the beach, fishing beyond the breakers, was not a pastime the old smith would enjoy for long. Mila might at last convince him to plant some fruit trees behind the house, but Declan couldn’t see Edvalt as a grower or gardener.

  No, Edvalt was the sort of man who would work until he could not. Declan couldn’t imagine anything after that, because Edvalt was a man to whom work was life, and life was work. Deep in his heart, Declan knew that if the old smith were to cease working, it would be his first step towards welcoming death. Thinking about age, infirmity, and death caused Declan’s mood to darken, so he turned his mind to the moment, concentrating on the sword he had fashioned the day before.

  As the morning sun rose above the horizon, Declan inspected the blade. He had never finished one of this quality – Edvalt had always seen to the task before – and saw that the metal resisted polishing more than more common steel. It was the nature of the thing, Declan assumed; he had experienced it in the final finishing at the forge, when he also recognised that setting the edge to give it sharpness was actually more delicate a task than he had anticipated. There he had to act quickly to set the edge, but now he could take his time with the polish.

  Which was fine with the newly anointed master smith, for Baron Bartholomy was two days away from appearing to claim it; Declan would put the blade away when the day’s work began and return to it in the evening, slowly but surely polishing the blade to gleam like a jewel in the sunlight.

  Jusan appeared at the door. Often upon arising, he did small tasks for Mila before meeting Edvalt’s needs. He waved at Declan and shouted, ‘Berries!’

  Declan laughed, for the summer berries grew on the lower hills and Jusan would be gone for half a day, which would annoy Edvalt, though he would never voice that displeasure to his wife.

  A few moments later, Edvalt emerged out of the little house. Seeing the retreating back of his apprentice, he asked, ‘Berries?’

  Declan nodded.

  ‘Well, I must remind Mila that she’s going to have to start taking care of these tasks herself if you leave us, as then it will just be Jusan and me.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that,’ said Declan.

  ‘Right,’ agreed Edvalt. ‘How’s the polish coming?’

  Declan handed him the blade. Edvalt flipped it in his hand, turned it towards the rising sun, and inspected the finish.

  ‘Slow going, this steel,’ he said, handing the sword back to Declan.

  Before Declan could reply, Jusan came back into sight, scurrying down the small road that led to the highway. ‘Riders!’ he shouted, just as the sound of hoofbeats in the distance reached them. ‘Armed riders!’

  ‘Oathmen or mercenaries?’ asked Edvalt.

  ‘I see badges of Sandura, but no tabards nor uniforms; they look like mercenaries.’

  Edvalt nodded once and said, ‘Bring me my sword.’ Jusan ran off and returned moments later with two swords. The young apprentice threw a two-handed longsword to Edvalt and pulled a shorter broadsword out of its scabbard, which he tossed aside. Edvalt said, ‘We start no fights, but be ready for one.’

  Edvalt glanced at Declan, who quickly twirled the newly minted sword, testing its balance again. Edvalt’s expression asked if the new master smith was prepared to fight.

  Declan nodded once. Neither he nor Jusan had faced an armed man in combat before, yet Edvalt had trained them to be as competent with a weapon as the men who would wield them, for it was a poor smith who didn’t know how his wares were to be used. Declan had joined a few fistfights as a youth, as had Jusan, so they both knew how to stand up for themselves, but armed combat was another thing altogether.

  Declan knew he had the skill to fight, he just didn’t know yet if he had the stomach for it. Jusan looked frightened, but he was a resolute boy and would stand his ground.

  Riders appeared on the short road down from the highway. A trio of horsemen moved purposefully towards the smithy. A clutch of men on foot halted at the verge of the road, waiting.

  The riders reined in a half a dozen paces before the smith. The leader glanced at Jusan and Edvalt, then at Declan. He looked at the forge and bellows, then said to Edvalt, ‘It’s an odd smith who greets a stranger with his weapon drawn.’

  Ignoring the banter, Edvalt said, ‘State your business.’

  Pointing at Declan, then Jusan, the man said, ‘That’s what we require. Sturdy lads who can wield a sword.’ The men behind chuckled, and the leader said, ‘Or try to learn.’

  ‘Declan was my journeyman, now he’s a master smith,’ said Edvalt. The blacksmith held his sword in his right hand, the flat on his shoulder, a fashion that suggested he was willing to use it but was not looking for conflict.

  ‘You a warrior, then, smith?’ asked the lead rider.

  Declan studied the men. The leader, a slender, nervous-looking man with dark hair and eyes, sat astride a grey gelding, the best of a poor group of mounts. Declan assayed the other two horses, judging them perhaps days away from being unfit; one had an obvious bone spavin that would have the animal limping soon, and the other a hitch in i
ts movement that suggested a ruptured tendon or an abscessed hoof. The men looked equally woebegone, their equipment little better than what ghouls might glean from the fallen in battle to sell at market.

  One rider wore a jack jerkin – a heavily quilted cloth double folded to stop all but a direct hit – the other metal scale sewn to jack. The leader wore a well-made, if damaged, overshirt of linked chain. All of them wore a band of dark red cloth with a single yellow slash tied around their left arms: the mark of Sandura. If they truly served a king, they were of the lowest rank: hired swords, not oathmen. More likely they were slavers pretending to be a press gang for Sandura.

  Declan glanced at Edvalt, who nodded slightly, and the apprentice knew what his master did not say: these men were skilled in warcraft and unpredictable. Declan nodded in return he was ready.

  Edvalt answered, ‘I’ve fought, in younger days.’ Glancing again at Declan, he added, ‘And it’s a poor forger of weapons who doesn’t understand their use.’

  The leader was silent, as if appraising the risk. ‘We have the king’s writ to take recruits.’

  Quietly, Edvalt said, ‘Not here. A quarter of a mile back where the roads meet, where the black oak stands, is a wooden sign, upon which is inscribed the Emblem of the Covenant. The five crowns—’ He halted. Old habits die hard, he conceded; it hadn’t been five crowns for almost seventeen years. ‘The four crowns,’ he amended, ‘concede this road.’ He pointed to where the men, whom Edvalt now knew to be conscripts for Sandura’s army, waited. ‘The Narrows Covenant covers all surrounding lands! Your king has no writ here!’

  The leader glanced at the men beside him, as if trying to gauge the balance between risk and reward. Edvalt, while older, was still a powerful figure and had the poise of a seasoned warrior. Jusan was large for his age and seemed ready for a brawl, his expression one of determination, wary, but without fear. Declan was a tall, strong-looking young man, and his purchase price would be that of three lesser boys, especially if the buyer needed a smith. All three men stood with hands on swords, ready to enforce their demand. Edvalt added, ‘You may not be oathmen to the king of Sandura, but you act in his name; would you have Lodavico named oath breaker?’

  The leader of the mercenaries silently weighed his options for a moment. ‘Truth to tell, old man, we’re not strictly Lodavico’s men. He’s just paying more these days than anyone else!’ He suddenly shouted and drove his heels into his horse’s flanks. The animal leapt forward, knocking Edvalt off balance and the smith stumbled backwards before getting his feet under him and throwing his weight forward to unleash a blow at the rider.

  The rider turned as Jusan and Declan prepared for the others to attack. Edvalt didn’t hesitate and lashed out with his own sword, striking so hard he completely severed the man’s right leg below the knee and sliced through the stirrup leathers and girth, cutting into the horse’s side and causing it to buck and thrash, and almost kick Edvalt in the process.

  Blood fountained from the rider’s severed leg as he screamed and was thrown from the horse, high into the air, before hitting the ground with a painful thud, his saddle falling with him.

  The horse bucked again, then bolted in pain and ran straight at the other riders, causing them to split up. The lead rider lay screaming for a moment, gripping uselessly at his leg, his blood spewing. Declan knew that if someone didn’t get a tourniquet on him soon, the man would bleed to death in minutes. He lifted his own sword, ignoring the dying man a few feet away, and watched the other riders.

  They glanced at each other and it was clear there was no obvious second-in-command. Neither of them seemed certain what to do next. Edvalt said evenly, ‘Slavers! You best turn around and leave the Covenant. We’ll not go quietly, nor will the lads in the village down the road. You’ll have nothing but blood and pain for your labours.’

  Still the riders hesitated. Then in a commanding tone, Edvalt shouted, ‘Leave now!’

  Looking at their unconscious leader bleeding out on the ground, the man closest to Edvalt said, ‘What about him?’

  ‘We’ll bury him. Now go!’

  The riders sat motionless for a moment, until one turned his animal and the other followed. Edvalt motioned for Jusan and Declan to stand next to him. Without taking his eyes off the road above the smithy, he said, ‘They’ll be back with the others. And this time they’ll come down the hill at a charge.’ He glanced around and then started to jog towards the house. ‘Follow me.’

  Declan spared a glance at the fallen rider, who now lay motionless; his eyes were fixed on a point in space above him and held no sign of life.

  They reached the door of his home as Edvalt’s wife appeared. ‘I saw,’ she said. Mila was sun-browned and tiny, but as tough as old leather in Declan’s opinion. Her hair had been fair when she was younger, but the blonde had turned to white over the last ten years.

  ‘Then to the village as fast as you can, old woman, and fetch armed lads and whichever old men wish to keep their sons free of these slavers.’

  Without comment, she hurried towards the heart of the village, running like a girl a third her age.

  Edvalt said, ‘Declan, the sword.’

  Declan knew he was being told not to let that blade fall into the hands of these mercenaries. He glanced at it. Unfinished and only partly polished, it looked an average blade. Until it was finished few would recognise its worth. Still, a skilled swordsman would only have to feel the balance and test the edge to know it was a fine weapon, and any smith of repute who gave it a polish would recognise it for the treasure it was.

  ‘The lads from the village will be here shortly,’ said Edvalt. ‘But we’re probably going to have to do some hurting until then. You boys ready?’

  He glanced from Declan to Jusan, then returned his attention to the road. Both had nodded once.

  ‘Now, in a minute or two they’ll come racing down that road with the boys on foot trying to stay close. If they’re smart, they’ll come at once, but they don’t look like they have the wits the old gods gave fish, so the horses are likely to be a fair bit in front; try to dodge away at the last.’ Both young men had worked with enough horses to have a very good idea how it would feel to be run over by one. ‘Get your backs to a wall and just keep them off you until the village lads get here.’

  As predicted, the two riders came galloping down the short road to the smithy and Declan readied his sword. He’d never faced a man in a real fight, and his heart pounded. He tried to remember everything Edvalt had taught him over the years, but his mind was awash with conflicting thoughts, almost all of which were swept away by a sudden urge to turn and flee.

  He could feel his knees shake, and perspiration poured from his face and back as if he were again at the forge, but this time it reeked of fear. He hesitated, almost a moment too long, as one rider veered towards him with his sword back, ready to lop off Declan’s head, then suddenly he was moving.

  The rider swung low and Declan only kept his head by chance, as the man held his sword raised to the left side, and he inadvertently deflected the blow. He staggered as he felt shock run through his arms and was abruptly slammed by the side of the horse. It was a glancing strike, but it knocked him back and he felt the air explode out of his lungs from the impact with the wall of the smithy.

  Fury rose up and fear fled as he saw the rider turn his mount, urging it forward again. Declan set himself, then ducked and unloaded a low blow that took the horse’s left foreleg out from under him. The rider yelled in a mix of rage and shock as he was sent flying over his horse’s withers, and Declan turned and ran to where he had struck the dirt. Declan dodged around the screaming, thrashing mount and charged at the horseman. The rider was attempting to roll to his feet when Declan swung hard in an upward blow and cut deep into the man’s throat. Blood spurted like a fountain and for a brief instant Declan felt his sword held, then he yanked it back and turned to survey the fight.

  His gaze narrowed, and with unexpected clarity he could see eve
ry aspect of the struggle. Jusan and Edvalt were besieged by another rider, though they’d positioned themselves near the side of the house, so the horse was more of a hindrance to the man’s getting close than a threat to the two smiths.

  Declan sensed more than heard the first of the fighters on foot as he attacked and spun as the man bore down on him. He saw the blow coming this time, as clearly as he had when practising with Edvalt, and took it on the strongest part of his own sword: the shock taken and returned, so the attacker’s arm recoiled as he turned the wrong way, opening himself to a quick counterthrust. Declan twisted his wrist and extended his arm, gutting the unarmoured warrior like a fish. The man fell, and Declan ended his life with one plunge of the blade.

  The fear of the first moments of combat was washed away in a rush of energy unlike anything Declan had known in his life. He had no sense of his own mortality, only a certainty he would come through this struggle victoriously. He spun in place, seeking his next opponent, and saw the scene had barely changed from before the man attacked; time itself seemed to have slowed.

  He rushed to Edvalt’s aid as the old smith protected Jusan from the remaining rider; the boy had been injured and stood with his back against the wall of their hut. Blood flowed down one arm. With a leap, Declan grabbed the collar of the rearmost rider’s leather jerkin from behind and dragged him from his saddle. Edvalt was instantly on the fallen man and had his sword into his throat before Declan was fully on his feet. The horse shied and ran, and Declan saw every detail, as the warriors on foot continued to arrive. For a moment Declan wondered what had taken them so long to reach the struggle.

  He pushed the thought aside and turned to face seven armed men who slowly fanned out in front of him. From their expressions and the lack of leadership, Declan could tell not one of them wished to be the first into the fray. With a glance, he saw Edvalt crouched and ready for the attack.