Lost City

by Jeffrey Poole

  “How do you know that?”

  Lukas sighed and rolled his eyes. “I read it. From the same book I gave to you.”

  The child walked deliberately over to the table and reached for the open book.

  “Now wait just a moment.” Venk hurried over to the small work table and yanked the book out of his son’s grasp. He gestured angrily at the page on the right. “Nowhere does it state that the skull has a ridge.”

  Lukas pulled the book down lower so that he could see the descriptions for himself. With his father still holding the book, Lukas glanced down at the aforementioned paragraph.

  “There is no mention of a cranial ridge in that passage,” Lukas admitted. “The problem is –”

  Venk smiled. “Ha. Thought as much.”

  “The problem is,” Lukas continued, ignoring his father’s outburst, “this passage refers to an infant troll. The description of the adult skull is on the opposite page.”

  Venk’s angry eyes jumped from the right page to the left.

  “Well I’ll be a son of a...”

  Sure enough, the description of the adult’s skull was there, along with mention of the infernal cranial ridge his son had reminded him about.

  Lukas noticed his father’s darkening mood and hastily pointed back at the small furnace.

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult to fashion a cranial ridge out of more silver if you have some left in the smelter.”

  With a scowl, Venk donned his thick leather gloves and pulled out the tiny pot of molten silver. His son was right, of course. It shouldn’t be too difficult to add a line of silver to...

  Turning too quickly, Venk stubbed his toe on the closest table leg and lurched forward, smashing his knee into a stool. Since working with molten metal would undoubtedly set any wood furniture ablaze, all of his shop’s furniture was solid metal. His knee throbbed mercilessly. Venk hurriedly set the iron pot down on his workbench before any of the molten silver could spill out. Unfortunately, a tiny drop splashed out of the pot and arced gracefully through the air. It landed high on his son’s right shoulder, causing him to cry out in pain.

  ****

  One week later Venk and his son were standing patiently in the home of the clan’s healer. Lukas’ burn had refused to heal despite having numerous salves and bits of herbs applied to it. In fact, the wound had become infected in only a matter of days, thus forcing the desperate parents to seek out the services of the healer. The last thing either of the parents wanted was their son’s secret “deformity” becoming known.

  Hands jammed deep in his pockets, Venk softly scowled. If Lukas had not accompanied him that fateful day almost seven months ago, he wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Venk sighed. Lukas was a very bright child and was naturally inquisitive about a great many things. So when his son had learned Maelnar was not only offering tours of his famous workshop in Borahgg but also lessons in rudimentary metal smithing, he convinced his father to not only sign up, but to also allow him to tag along.

  The seminar had been going well. That is, until those two misbehaving kelpah knocked his son into the forge. Lukas claimed he hadn’t been burned, yet the large disfiguring mark covering most of his back said otherwise. Venk had hoped that his son’s back would heal and the mark would fade away, but alas, it had not. As a result, he had to instruct his son to keep his shirt on at all times. Not that he had too much to worry about; dwarf children, and adults for that matter, rarely took their shirts off in public.

  Now, however, his son had been burned by his carelessness. The healer was going to want to inspect the wound up close and in order to do that Lukas would have to remove his shirt. How was he going to explain the existence of the large mark covering his son’s back?

  Venk twisted his beard so much that it began to resemble a knotted rope.

  “Venk. Young master Lukas. What seems to be the problem today?”

  Venk’s head snapped up. Master Peridal had finally appeared. Tiny and withered, the gray bearded healer approached the two of them and eyed them speculatively, no doubt trying to determine why they required his services.

  “He’s got a burn on his shoulder.”

  “Does he now? Very well. Come with me.”

  Master Peridal turned to walk into his study. Father and son followed silently.

  “Sit there,” Peridal instructed Lukas. “Remove your shirt and we will have a look.”

  Lukas hopped up on the bare wood stool and pulled his tunic over his head. Peridal peeled back the bandage on the boy’s right shoulder and gently prodded the wound, noting that the burn had indeed become infected. Catching sight of what appeared to be gray blobs on the underling’s back, Peridal slowly walked around the stool. The healer’s eyes widened with surprise as he observed a large disfiguration on the boy’s skin that looked as though a mass of tiny fluffy clouds had descended from Topside and taken up residence on Lukas’ back.. The large gray mark stretched from the base of Lukas’ neck to just above his waist. Questioningly, Peridal turned to the boy’s father.

  “It’s a burn he received months ago,” Venk explained. “It never festered and from what my son tells me he was never in any pain.”

  “Yet it failed to heal properly,” Peridal observed.

  “Aye.”

  The healer poked the boy’s back in several random spots. “Do you feel any pain?”

  Lukas shook his head. “No.”

  Peridal looked at the boy’s father, surprise evident on his face. “It’s a tattoo.”

  “My son does not have a tattoo. He was pushed into a furnace and the mark appeared as a result. End of story.”

  A corner of the boy’s back caught the healer’s eye. Peridal dropped down on one knee to inspect the lower left corner of the ‘tattoo’. A section the size of a large pebble had caught his eye. It was darker than the rest of the mark and stood out like a sore thumb.

  “This looks like a hammer.”

  Venk nodded. “I’ve seen it. It’s not any style of hammer I’m familiar with. My son got the burn on Master Maelnar’s forge. I

  figure the surface of the furnace must have had that hammer on it somewhere.”

  “I would still argue that the mark has been tattooed on young Lukas’ back,” Peridal told Venk, running his finger tips along the surface of the ‘hammer’. Only the boy’s unbroken skin could be felt. No scars, no damaged tissue, not even so much as a wrinkle could be detected. Very peculiar.

  “Well, if we were to believe this is a burn, and not a tattoo, and since he is in no pain, there is not much I can do. Give it some time. I am certain it will fade away on its own.”

  Satisfied, Venk nodded. It was what he wanted to hear.

  Peridal indicated the boy’s infected shoulder.

  “Now that is a burn. I have just the thing for it.”

  ****

  Several months later the neighboring city of Borahgg sent out a call for every available healer to help battle a pox that had rapidly spread throughout the population. Peridal and his apprentice were immediately dispatched to their southern neighbors. Together, they worked long hours treating case after case of sick people with symptoms ranging from simple blisters to dangerously high fevers and pustules covering their bodies. It was close to a full week before Borahgg’s chief healer, Kovabel, was certain the pandemic had been neutralized. Finally able to relax, they all agreed to share a communal meal at the council chambers and compare notes before they all parted ways.

  “It is without a doubt the fastest infection rate I have ever witnessed,” one Chanusian healer noted, eliciting nods of approval from the others. “Treat a family member in the morning and the rest of the family will become infected by midday. Simply incredible.”

  “At least there were no fatalities,” Kovabel noted, taking a healthy swig of ale.

  “There shouldn’t be, not after we inoculated the entire populace,” another scoffed.

  Finished with his meal, Peridal pushed his plate away and pulled out his pipe. “I sti
ll find it alarming how quickly this virus spread amongst the people. I treated a young boy two days ago and within an hour the boy’s sister was standing before me.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” one of the apprentices piped up, eager to add something to the conversation.

  Packing tobacco into his pipe, Peridal’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember the name of master Jocastin’s apprentice.

  “Indeed, young Creedyn,” Kovabel said. “Just last week I treated an underling who had a small contusion on his upper arm which I thought was a tattoo of a guur. I accused the poor lad of falling in with the wrong crowds.”

  “I’ll bet the boy’s father loved that,” one healer quipped, eliciting several chuckles from his colleagues.

  “I think we can all agree,” Peridal began, slowly, “that we have all witnessed something during our careers that simply defied logic. I am no different. Earlier this year I treated a boy for a burn on his shoulder.”

  “What’s so remarkable about that?” Jocastin dryly asked.

  “His shoulder wasn’t what had drawn my attention, but his back. It was covered with what the father called a burn, but it wasn’t a burn. I maintain it was a tattoo. It looked as though he had rolled in soot. He was –”

  “Children often play in the dirt,” Jocastin haughtily interrupted. “Soiled skin should not arouse suspicion.”

  Peridal rolled his eyes. “Care to let me finish before you interrupt?”

  Jocastin impatiently waved him on.

  “In the lower left corner of the mark there was a hammer. Not a style that is in use today, but still undeniably a hammer.”

  Curiosity piqued, Jocastin and several others leaned forward. “A hammer, eh?”

  Peridal nodded. “Aye.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “It was upside-down and resting on its head. I remember seeing a jewel on the head, and a –”

  A new voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Unlikely. No one puts gems on axe heads.”

  Peridal, Jocastin, and several others turned to see an on-duty guard standing nearby.

  “Too easy to be dislodged,” the guard said impassively.

  “How would you know?” Jocastin dryly asked. “Are you an expert in the creation of hammers? Have you made many?”

  The guard shook his head. “I have not. But he has.”

  The group turned to see who the guard was pointing at. All conversation died off and it became eerily quiet.

  A dozen feet away, enjoying a meal, was perhaps the single most recognizable dwarf in Borahgg. Maelnar, the famous portal keymaker, was staring pointedly at the group of healers.

  “I have made a few hammers in my time,” Maelnar began, rising from his table where he was having lunch with one of his many granddaughters. “He is quite right. Hammers are never adorned with jewels. Repeated blows will loosen any adornments on a hammer’s head. That’s why decorations are typically carved into the surface. You saw something that shows otherwise?”

  Peridal nodded. “Aye. The hammer was resting upside down on its head. A jewel was visible on the large part of the head, while the other side of the hammer –”

  “Tapered to a point.” Maelnar finished for him. “An atypically small point.”

  Peridal nodded, unsurprised that a master blacksmith would know more about hammers than he would.

  “Are you familiar with that type of hammer, Master Maelnar? I have not seen the like before.”

  Maelnar sighed. “The description reminds me of a type of hammer I know I have seen, but I cannot remember where.” One of his young granddaughters suddenly appeared and tugged on his sleeve, trying to pull him back towards their table.

  “Come on, grandfather! You told me I could pick whatever dessert I wanted!”

  Maelnar smiled at the young girl. “Aye, I did. I will be right there.”

  With a pout on her face, the girl returned to her table and crossed her thin arms over her chest.

  Maelnar returned his attention to the healer. “Please forgive the intrusion. As I was saying, I remember seeing a hammer that fits the description you gave, but damned if I can remember where I saw it.”

  “A journal of metallurgy perhaps?” Peridal suggested.

  Maelnar nodded. “Perhaps. It will come to me. Good day, sir.”

  Nodding politely, Peridal returned to the group of healers as though there had been no interruptions.

  “As I was saying, the hammer on the –”

  “Forget the hammer!” Jocastin remarked as he turned to watch Maelnar and his family disappear through the building’s exit. “You spoke with Maelnar! That’s remarkable!”

  “So I spoke with an affluent blacksmith,” Peridal huffed out with annoyance. “Just because he is well known does not mean we should all act like fools. Are we done here? I am looking forward to returning home.”

  A chorus of agreement met his ears. The healers finished their meal and headed to their respective cities.

  ****

  “What’s the matter, grandfather?” a small voice suddenly asked him. “Are you well?”

  Surprised, Maelnar glanced down at his granddaughter, the same one who celebrated her birthday earlier today. He smiled and knelt down besides the girl.

  “All is well, Trindolyn. I was presented a puzzle earlier today and I am keen to solve it before it drives me insane.”

  The child’s face lit up with wonder. “I love puzzles, grandfather! May I help?”

  “I wish you could, lass.”

  “Maybe I can! Tell me about the puzzle. Oftentimes if you describe a problem to someone else then enlightenment is just around the corner. Do try, grandfather.”

  Maelnar stared at Trindolyn with a look of bemusement on his face. Since when had his seven year old granddaughter become so wise?

  “Very well, princess. Do you remember at lunchtime when you interrupted me talking with the strangers?”

  The child’s face turned red. She had been thoroughly admonished by her parents for interrupting her grandfather when he had been discussing grownup matters.

  “I am sorry, grandfather.”

  “Bah. Think nothing of it. Anyway, one of those healers mentioned seeing a strange mark on a boy’s back. A boy close to your own age from the sounds of it. This mark is what intrigues me, Trindolyn. A hammer was visible.”

  “What is so important about a hammer?” Trindolyn asked thoughtfully.

  “The hammer is a unique design. A jewel was on one side of the head and the other side tapered to a point. I have seen a hammer with a jewel on it before but I cannot remember where.”

  Trindolyn swelled with excitement. “I have seen it before, too, grandfather! It’s a hammer from one of my storybooks.”

  Maelnar eyed his youngest granddaughter. “You think you recognize this hammer from one of your stories?”

  Trindolyn again adopted her trademark stance by crossing her thin arms over her chest. “I don’t think. I know.”

  “Enlighten me, lass.”

  “Grandfather, how is it you don’t remember?”

  Maelnar swallowed his impatience and pulled the girl up onto his lap.

  “Help your grandfather out, will you? What story are you referring to?”

  “The one you have read me many times.”

  Maelnar took several deep, calming breaths.

  “Which one, princess?”

  “The story of Nar, silly!”

  Maelnar hesitated. He did remember that one of Trindolyn’s favorite bedtime stories was about the fabled lost city of Nar.

  “You think that hammer is Narian? Have you seen a picture of such a hammer?”

  The child nodded. “Aye! It’s in my book. The king carried one, and –”

  “Where is this book now?” Maelnar wanted to know.

  “My room, with all my other books.”

  “Would you kindly fetch it for me?”

  “Of course, grandfather.”

  Eager to pl
ease, Trindolyn leapt off her grandfather’s lap and darted away.

  Maelnar leaned back in his chair behind his desk and stroked his beard. The hammer was Narian? Incredible. There had been no known hints or clues from Nar in many centuries. No supposed sightings and no new rumors had recently surfaced that he knew of. There were only a few known Narian documents in existence and all were accounted for. There was the military dispatch inquiring as to the combat readiness of the one of the two Narian armies. There was a sheet of parchment with a list of provisions. And finally, there was a map of the northwestern section of the Bohani Mountains. Thanks to that map, that particular area of the Bohanis had been searched incredibly well.

  Maelnar glanced at the framed document next to a portrait of his father. That small map was perhaps the most valuable possession he owned. Everyone knew he had it, and practically everyone had at one time studied it. In the lower left corner of that document was another hammer. It, too, was upside-down.

  So what was the image of a Narian hammer doing on an unknown boy’s back? He had never been a believer of coincidences. The mark had to mean something!

  Maelnar tapped his fingers on his desk. First things first. Before he would let himself get excited he had to inspect Trindolyn’s book and see for himself what her hammer looked like. Wouldn’t it be fascinating to discover another authentic reference to Nar and have it be under his roof all this time?

  His granddaughter zipped back into his study several minutes later and proudly plopped her book down on his desk. A tattered, illustrated children’s book he was very familiar with met his eyes. Trindolyn was right. He had seen this book many times, having read it to his own children and countless grandchildren over and over. He picked up the thin dilapidated book entitled The Legend of Nar and began to flip through the crinkled pages.

  In the annals of history,

  Long has it been told: