by Aaron Bunce
“I understand,” Dennah said, recognizing that not even Sayer understood the truth of Roman’s identity or significance.
Sayer smiled and took a drink of wine. “Then to Bardstown it is. To the caravan, your friends, and duty.”
* * * *
Berg brought his hammer down, the flat head striking the hot steel and throwing sparks into the air. He turned the piece over and pounded it flat, spreading the hot metal into a more desirable shape.
After only a few hammer strikes, Berg, Bardstown’s resident blacksmith, stuck the ingot back into the forge and pulled on the bellows. Air rushed in, the coals glowing bright in response.
Berg continued to work the metal for a time, alternating the hammer for heat. He lifted it into the light, pleased with the work, before using a chisel to cut off the excess.
He used his heavy tongs and cast the hot metal into the bucket at his feet. Once it was cool, Berg dropped the finished bracket into a bin by the wall, left to clatter against a number of identical pieces.
It was boring work. The kind delegated to apprentice smiths learning simple technique. But Berg didn’t have an apprentice, nor would he until his eldest son got a little bigger and stronger.
“You almost done?” Gladitha asked, leaning out the door of the house.
Berg straightened up, the muscles in his back bunching up. He wiped his face on his forearm, before dropping his hammer onto the anvil.
“Mightn’t be, Momma,” he said.
“You’ve been pounding out here since sun up. Those wagon wheels can wait till tomorrow,” Gladitha said, blowing into her cupped hands. “Bring your ass inside, I’ve got a pot of stew bubbling by the fire and your favorite mug filled with ale.”
“Sounds good, Momma. You get out of this cold. I’m gonna clean up this mess and I’ll be in,” Berg said.
Gladitha smiled and closed the door. He eyed the window. Filled with the gentle light of candles and a healthy fire, it was definitely inviting. It looked pleasant and safe, but he knew better.
Turning from the house, Berg the blacksmith pulled his heavy apron over his head and hung it on its hook. He walked to the railing, leaned heavily onto the worn wood, and looked out into the town. Bardstown had never looked quieter.
It wasn’t the gentle quiet of an early morning, before people had yet to rise, like he was used to. No, it was the quiet of a town hurting, and overcome by grief. A town left without a beating heart at its center, without a leader.
Berg ran his hand through his closely cropped hair and scratched behind his ear. His finger snagged on a scar. A particularly vivid reminder of a more violent time in his youth, when he fell victim to foolish notions of honor and bravery. He learned the truth quickly. Service wasn’t upholding law and righteousness. It was supporting other men’s interests, and spilling blood to protect them.
A gust of wind blew up out of the south, carrying with it the slightly sour odor of burnt wood. He couldn’t see it, but he knew the winter barn was there, at least the fire-scorched skeletal remains of it. An entire cold season of hay and dried food goods gone, just like that.
Berg let his gaze drift up the lane, where the long line of Lord Thatcher’s wagons sat, sad and covered in a hand or more of snow.
“Damn fools,” he spat, thinking of the broken skeins, axles, and wheels the wagon dogs broke trying to free them from the ice.
“They can’t leave soon enough,” he mumbled, straightening and turning back to his forge. He needed things to calm down, so he could settle back into a routine.
Berg picked up his tongs and other tools and dropped them back into the box at his feet. He swept dust and metal shavings off the smooth brick and ensured everything was in its proper place. That was how he liked it.
The mayhem in town unsettled him more than even his wife knew. Greta was dead, and her husband and sons missing, not to mention Argus Kettleborn and the city guard. Berg would never go near the orchard again.
Roman, he thought, the boy’s name never far from his thoughts as of late. He was always a bit odd, but he never thought him capable of harming anyone, let alone murder.
Berg rubbed his eyes and scratched his beard, before turning to walk into the house. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Best he didn’t heap his troubled thoughts onto Gladitha. She has enough to worry about with the kids and the house.
A board creaked behind him and a shingled rattled above, a heartbeat later, the lean-to roof groaned. Berg turned, his hand dropping to the hatchet he had started stuffing into his belt.
The wind cut through the open-air forge, ash swirling into the air. A stick snapped out in the trees. The hatchet pulled free, the smooth wood and heavy blade a reassuring weight in his hand.
The sound of dishes clattering together, mixed with his daughter singing filtered out of the house behind him. Another stick snapped in the darkness of the trees, this one closer to the house than the last.
“Who’s there?” Berg called out, his voice steady and deep.
Something rustled in the snow just beyond the north railing. He walked forward slowly, the hatchet held by his right ear. Berg found only snow, however, highlighted by the bright outlines of the windows on the darkness. He dropped the hatchet and leaned against the railing.
What’s happened to me? I’m afraid of shadows and noises now, he thought.
Something shifted in the snow. He caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. It moved into the light of the window. He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t seen it before, as it appeared to be quite large.
Berg moved to jump over the railing as the snow crumbled and broke. He could see something moving beneath the surface, but couldn’t make out exactly what.
The roof groaned again just before something dropped heavily to the floor behind him. Berg spun, a slim, dark figure standing a few short paces away, only the glow from the forge illuminating them. The tinkling of shattering glass filled the still air and then he heart Gladitha scream.
“I think you’re at the wrong house, stranger,” Berg growled, lifting the hatchet threateningly.
“No, Berg. We are exactly where we are intended to be. Here, with you,” the slim figure said, stepping forward and into the light from the door.
Berg’s arm dropped a little as the young man’s face appeared.
“Devlin?” he said, caught off guard.
The young man nodded, his dark, hooded eyes and prominent nose making him look so much like his father.
“What? Your father…where?” Berg stammered, before collecting himself. “Gladitha!”
He turned and reached for the door, but the young man’s hands clamped onto his thick shoulders. Berg wrenched free and turned. With a single, forceful push, he toppled the young man onto his backside.
Berg pushed the door open, the frame rattling angrily as it crashed against the wall inside. He tromped into the house, his hand, which was cold and sore from hammering all day, was still clenched to the hatchet at his side.
“Gladitha?!” he cried out, spotting his wife clutching protectively to his son and daughter.
“Arrin, you get away from them. You got no business being in this house!” Berg growled, maneuvering to get between the young man and his family.
Arrin turned and considered him. He had always been the dopier looking of the two boys, but now he looked truly off. His eyes were glazed and dark, and the edges of his mouth drooped. His shoulders sagged while his hands hung in the air before him, clawing and grasping at the air like dangling spiders.
“Boy, I said get away from my family!” Berg yelled, the hatchet cutting the air before him.
Arrin gasped and moaned, his mouth forming sounds he couldn’t hope to understand.
“Behind you!” Gladitha yelled.
The blacksmith turned just as a weight fell over his back. Wiry arms wrapped around his neck. Arms that felt far too strong to belong to the wiry boy.
Devlin grunted and growled, moaning strange noises into h
is ear. Berg spun to his right, the boy’s legs whipping one way and then back the other.
“Get off me, boy!” Berg yelled, but despite his strength and size, he wasn’t able to dislodge the young man from his back.
Wiry arms continued to clamp down on his throat. Berg was fighting one moment, and in the next he was wheezing. The room was spinning and he wasn’t sure if he was moving, or it was.
The massive blacksmith crumbled to his knees, his head spinning and his breath gone. He could hear Gladitha and the kids crying, their feet shuffling against the rough plank flooring as Garon’s boy corralled them in the corner.
A buzzing formed in his ears and everything went fuzzy, but then he could breathe. The arm wasn’t around his neck anymore. Berg plopped back onto his rear as the door closed behind him.
Hard-soled boots sounded and a shadow fell over him. He looked up as the man crouched down, his face barely two hands from his own.
“You fight to protect your family. I like that. It says more about you than you can know,” the man said.
Berg recognized his voice instantly. “Garon! What’s got you and those fool boys breaking into my house!?” he said angrily.
“Apologies,” Garon whispered, the warm light glistening off his dark hair.
Berg took a deep breath and propped himself up. He eyed the man, while casually sliding the hatchet under his leg. Garon looked different than he’d remembered. His cheeks weren’t sunken, or tainted red by drink, and his green eyes sparkled.
Were they always so green? He thought, but couldn’t rightly remember. He didn’t usually pay attention to those details. That was Gladitha’s strength.
“I’m gonna warn you once. Get yours, and get out, Garon!” Berg growled.
“I’m afraid we cannot leave yet. You see, I have a need of your particular services,” Garon said coolly.
“I’m not for doing anything for you. Don’t matter how much coin you offer.”
“Oh, Berg, you will!” Garon said, his green eyes pulsing from a strange inner light.
Berg’s anger and fight bled away. He felt a strange presence wash over his mind, covering it like a blanket of early morning fog. He suddenly couldn’t remember why he was angry, who he wanted to fight, or why he was on the floor.
“You see, I have these,” Garon said, pulling a lump of dull rock out of his pocket. He reached over and slid the hatchet out from beneath the blacksmith’s leg. Berg didn’t care. Why would he need a hatchet inside?
Garon ran the blade across his palm, opening his pale flesh, and allowing dark blood to ooze forth.
“I can overthrow your mind, Berg. But to do that, it requires all of my concentration and energy. So that is why I need these,” he said, dropping the dull rock into the blood pooling into his hand before closing his fingers around it.
Berg looked into the man’s face, and then back to his fist. His knuckles grew white, and the tendons and veins in his forearm bulged freakishly. The eerie light in his eyes grew brighter, until he gasped and his head slumped. Garon opened his hand, exposing not the dull rock, but an opaque, green gem.
“This,” Garon said, pinching the gem between his fingers and holding it up to the light, “is an extension of my will. It will set you all free from a tremendous burden.”
“Don’t do anything for him, Berg. He’s mad. He’s probably the one that hurt all the people in town, his wife first of all,” Gladitha yelled angrily.
Her voice cut through the fog and Berg reclaimed a bit of himself. “Burden? What burden?” he asked.
“Well, my precious blacksmith. I will wash away the corruption of choice, desire, doubt, and indecision. Now, let us put those skilled hands to work. There is much work to be done and time presses against us.”
Berg felt a compulsion stab into his mind, his body moving quickly in response. He heard his wife calling out to him, crying, and yelling, but she sounded far off in the distance. He needn’t worry about her, only setting his hands to purpose.
Part Four
Heroes Rise
Chapter 31
Weighed and empowered
Roman lost track of time completely. He slept when he was tired, ate when he absolutely had to, and spent the rest of his time listening to the darkness.
Haybear talked a lot. He told many stories, some of which made absolutely no sense. Roman listened sometimes, and grumbled in response to let him know that he was there. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was starting to get the feeling that Haybear would talk whether he was there or not.
Rat came and went regularly, always shimmying through the small door. Once in a while, the boy brought him food. At others, he just brought his small lamp. He didn’t always talk, but that was okay with Roman, he just liked having the company.
Minos made the rounds regularly. Occasionally he would throw candle stubs into his cell. There was never enough left to burn, so Roman stashed them under his mattress, next to the small hammer, just in case he came back and unlocked his cell door again.
“There has to be a way through down there,” Roman said, cringing when his hand brushed against the hammer. The thought of mangling his hands to get free still made him sick.
“Out?! Through?! There is, truly. Two things. You need two things,” Haybear hissed, his voice echoing through the hole in the wall.
“But how do you know?” Roman asked, “If you’ve been in your cell, how can you know?”
“Oh, Ro. Haybear’s been many places, talked with many faces, and seen many things. The deep dark is a place, so I’ve seen it!”
Roman shook his head, rubbing one of the candles on his wrists while halfheartedly trying to pull his hands free. “What does that even mean? Are you saying you’ve been out of your cell and seen the tunnels?” he asked.
Anymore, Haybear spoke more in riddles than not. Sometimes he would try and explain what he meant, at others, he would simply go silent.
“Two things. The deep dark needs two things. The tunnels are a maze. They twist, they turn, weave, and double back. A person needs a guide to lead them through. Why? Why? A man can’t trust just his eyes. He needs to look beyond, see beyond, feel beyond,” Haybear said rather loudly.
“So, it’s a maze. That makes sense,” Roman grunted, pulling on the cuff until the sharp edge started cutting into the meat of his thumb. “What is the second thing?”
“Light, Ro. Eyes can’t see in the dark. The tunnel, the maze, it hates the light. Light reveals the skeletons of the dead. That’s it, a guide to lead without eyes, and a light to follow what sees without seeing,” Haybear said, before coughing violently.
What in the hells does that mean? Roman thought irritably, and threw the last bit of candle against the wall.
“Would you take to the dark if it meant living free?” Haybear asked, the mania gone from his voice.
“I would,” Roman answered honestly, “but I don’t favor the idea of smashing my hands to do so.”
“What if someone stood between you and the tunnel? Knowing that freedom lies at the end, would you take that hammer to someone to gain it?” Haybear asked quietly.
Roman rubbed his wrists, favoring the spot where the cuffs had scraped his skin raw and troubled over the question. He thought of Dennah in the barn, and Banus. He remembered how the anger coursed through his body and made his fists shake. Roman wanted to hurt Banus, make him bleed, but even then he didn’t want to kill him. Not with his own hands anyways.
During his time at Garon’s farm he had gotten into fights with Arrin and Devlin. They’d bloodied each other’s noses and split lips, but he couldn’t image lifting a hammer to either of them. They were bullies, but they didn’t deserve that. The memories flashed in his head, almost as vivid as if he relived the days, right there in the dark of his cell. Even the emotions felt real.
“No, I don’t think I could,” Roman finally said. “I couldn’t bring myself to hurt someone, kill someone doing their duty, just to be free of this place.” He visualized a sol
dier opening the door of his cell, and the hammer striking against their skull as he fought to be free. He felt the shock of metal striking bone. The thought made him shudder.
“You’re a good lad, Ro,” Haybear said, “I can tell. You ain’t the monster they claim you to be.”
Roman took a deep, cleansing breath and tried to ignore the weight and irritating chafe of the shackles. “Thanks, Haybear,” he said, but a loud click sounded in the hallway.
“Someone’s coming. I have to go,” he whispered and fumbled for the brick in the darkness.
“Someone? Who?” Haybear asked, his voice rising in pitch, but Roman stuffed the brick back into its hole and cut him off.
Torchlight filled the hallway as Roman settled back onto the straw filled mattress. A moment later, a man’s face appeared in the barred window.
“Got a special little treat for you,” the man said, tapping a metal spoon against the bars.
“For me?” Roman asked skeptically.
“Yes you! Unless you’re hiding someone else in there with you,” the guard said, guffawing quietly.
Roman laughed uncomfortably. “No, just me I’m afraid,” he said, shielding his eyes from the stinging light.
“Compliments of the lord constable,” the guard said, opening Rat’s small door and setting a metal plate on the floor.
“Enjoy. We’ll collect the plate later…when you’re done,” the guard said and left, locking the door behind him.
Roman scuttled forward, hunched over on his hands and knees. It was the dark. It weighed him down, along with the fear of bumping his head into something hard unexpectedly.
Gagging through so many plates of cold porridge, Roman had almost forgotten what hot food smelled like. It filled his nose and made his mouth water. He scooped the plate off the ground without thought and nearly smashed his face into the food in his haste.
Sliding back against the wall, Roman worked his hand around the plate until he found the spoon and crammed a bite into his mouth. He tasted potato, meat, and something savory. He had barely swallowed the first bite by the time he crammed another spoonful in.