Malcor's Story

by Eric K. Barnum

  “Does she?” Malcor replied drawing a small bead of blood from his fingers along the sword’s edge. “I know we’re taught She does, but if so, why voice it as a prayer? When I feel nothing, why bother at all Ishan? Except at the shrine or when the Temple is watching. Oh, I saw a red-haired priestess at the shrine today. A giant was with her. Is a Dar and her Dread Lord here for the ceremony tomorrow? That’d be more than Klenna’s ever had before.”

  He heard the blacksmith sigh and rest his back against the door. “Aye Mal, we’ve heard rumors that Dar Shara, Lord of the Temple of Glass, is here. She's here to watch over the westward knights heading to Bloodstone or somewhere. Lots of speculation but no real reason for her being here. Some of the knights in her entourage came by earlier for some repair work. She hasn’t left the shrine, though someone claims she healed old Marta from southside. You remember Marta?”

  Malcor grunted and laid his sword on the bed next to him. “We fixed that steel circlet she wore as a necklace, yeah? I remember her. Didn’t know she was ill.”

  “Stories are that she was called, she went, she was cured. No one knows of what though. Clerics,” the smith muttered, “always have to be so cryptic. Cured of what? Can’t be a miracle if nothing miraculous occurred now can it? Well, if true, I’m sure Marta knows. Said it was Dar Shara who called her,” Malcor continued inspecting the scabbard and said nothing in reply. The smith added, “Speaking of which, do you know yet? You’d be a master smith you know, coming out of the Ceremony. Fighter, warrior, knight? You sure you want that really? There’s a bet that you go fighter with odds of making it to the knights you know. Boy you’d be a blacksmith for the ages if you stayed.”

  Malcor listened as Ishan rambled on about how it had been years since so many knights had been deployed west. Rumors about war, Bloodstone Valley, the king, and even wild dragon sightings. Nothing particular stood out about any of it, and Malcor had heard much of it himself many times over, but all together? That made it interesting. His mind had long ago begun connecting these kinds of things and often allowed him an almost prescient ability to determine the flow and ebb of war. And it had made the forge a fortune. If it looked like war preparations and involved the military, then logically… his master cut into his musings, “I wonder if we’re about to get into it with Taysor? The peace has held too long, no – that’s not it.”

  Malcor thought about it though. Taysor, their strong and far more populous neighbor to the north, did some trading with Morbatten, but mostly the truce – ceasefire really – had been intact for ages. Morbatten and Taysor patrolled the borders in the mountain range that divided the two, but in winter when the passes became impossible, everyone knew that both empires fought a shadowy winter war there. The knights even had a rank medal for fighting in the winter wars. The medal featured a dark metal dragon coiled around a star, Morbatten’s winter star. Every knight had one, and so did more than a few of the veteran soldiers. Taysor mirrored Morbatten, their knights having some variant of the winter war medal. Malcor noted, “The other night, at the inn, I overheard a group of Sorians. They seemed fine and relaxed. I doubt it’s war with them.” The smith nodded. “More likely that it is a common threat to Sora and Tania,” Malcor noted using the two empires’ more common slang terms. "Or maybe it's some big thing at Bloodstone. Wouldn't be the first time we've seen this many troop movements because of it."

  Malcor settled on a final polish and began applying it to another handmade offering for the Aging Ceremony tomorrow. Klenna had just ten other children in this Coming of Age ceremony. A few were already spoken for by betrothal or by apprenticeships ready for contracting once the child crossed over to adulthood. The only real stand out this year would be Calvin, the magistrate's son. Though not friends, they were friendly enough for Malcor to envy the better education and martial training Calvin received. While Malcor made friends quickly enough, he always felt a loner in a crowd and Calvin always made this isolation feel worse. Probably because of his father's status, Calvin always had several girls with him and never wanted for friends hanging on his every antic. Malcor, while seeming to attract the attention of girls easy enough, struggled one on one. Like Malcor, Calvin had not yet declared his intentions, even though the Klenna’s magistrate could buy Calvin’s entrance into anything except the Temple’s orders. Malcor refused negotiating and declaring he would stay a smith his entire life. He felt compelled to refuse, though he could not say why. In contrast, Calvin had often and openly speculated about his desire to join the knighthood. The owners of the metalwork operations had taken his silence as a negotiating tactic and had tried everything short of abduction and torture to learn what it would take to have Malcor stay on.

  Though not required by the Ceremony, doctrine allowed a handmade gift to be presented within certain rules; bribes were not allowed. However, a gift made of fire, love, dreams, and an eye single to the Queen’s glory could be presented to and accepted by a priest. The empire overflowed with stories of failed attempts at this. Malcor had a dream when he first joined the forge of presenting a steelwrought dragon statue at the ceremony, to a dragon, a black dragon. Since that time, he had worked on and off again to perfect this statue. Several months ago, he had felt it perfect and now only revisited it to apply polish. It had been hard to keep it a secret at the forge. In their all-things-dragon-obsessed empire, a piece of art from a prodigy like Malcor would have commanded a fortune and brought the forge fame beyond the Apprentice’s Sword.

  Ishan egged him a bit in this regard and summarized, “Your own foundry. Your own supply sourcing. Your first pick of next 5 year’s apprentices! Damn Mal, why not? With war or whatever coming, you’d have work and wealth. Why not declare? Save us all the trouble… let me win my bet!”

  The entire village seemed in on the “what would Malcor do?” bet, with the bets growing daily for what Malcor would do, and what the outcome of the Ceremony would be. Though stopping just short of saying it, Malcor had made it very clear that he wanted to be a knight. So, a betting pool around his acceptance into a knightly order had popped up. Calvin had told him in passing that he had bet against Malcor making it. Calvin was like that though always getting in Malcor's way, or trying to create real and, like this, mental obstacles to what Mal wanted. Like how Calvin had asked that girl to the village festival the day after Malcor had asked her if she had a date. She had gone with Calvin.

  The polish applied, Malcor held the dragon up and checked it from all possible angles. "It's perfect," he said wrapping it carefully in fur. “As I have said, I feel compelled to go out there and find something. I won’t find it with metalwork, no matter the quality of metal or the quality of the team. You are the best here but somehow, I keep feeling that I, me, I am out there waiting to find me,” he emphasized pointing out the window. He knew his master would have that look and so added, “Quit giving me that look.”

  “And your friend Calvin?” his master, mentor, friend, and father asked suddenly all those things at once.

  “If it’s just the two of us AND we qualify, I can only pray they take us both.” He and Calvin had different family lives. Son of the mayor, Calvin’s life pulled him into the political world of his father’s wealth and influence. Calvin, by now, had received the best training available. Me?, Malcor snorted at the thought. He had received his training through metalwork and a few actual fights when they visited the nearby mines. His training in heraldry, combat, sword technique, even manner of speaking was paltry and inadequate compared to Calvin, but then that is why, “I made the dragon statue, to give me an edge.”

  “It’s risky Mal,” Ishan said. They both nodded. Custom allowed gifts, but not bribes. Walking that thin line. “I hope you don’t feel the need.”

  With several hours till bed time and nothing to do, Malcor picked up his armorer’s gear and walked to the foundry across the way. His master fell in behind him. They would work till exhausted. His fellows knew that tomorrow was his day and perhaps sensing his distraction, gave him sp
ace to work. In the heat wash of the forge’s cradle, he could see clearly that his dragon statue must have red eyes, like the glowing embers of a fire. Sweat dripped and rolled from his back and arms as he moved the statue to a dream state where somehow he saw HOW to make the eyes glow like embers.

  His hands moved on their own and materials just seemed to be there and ready. Molten gold, already refined and ready to pour, right there. So too did crucible with mithril hissing silver steam as it rolled along the lattice cut into the statue. And the red eyes appeared as if blood had been frozen into rubies, uncut but rounded and smooth cabochons ready for insert. “It’s perfect,” Malcor whispered as he applied the final touches and then he collapsed unconscious into a deep sleep. His master Ishan had long before fallen asleep propped up in the corner.

  A voice answered back from the darkness, “Yes, it is.” Dar Shara stepped into the forge. Her pale white skin perfect and flawless as the forge’s heat whipped her long red hair and spidersilk dress. “Sleep Malcor, in Takhissis’ embrace. Show us your best tomorrow. The king will be here. Offer but do not give him your statue.” As she spoke she crouched down by Malcor and ran her fingertips along his brow.

  From the doorway, a sinuous baritone voice demanded to know, “This is the next king?” Shara looked back at Dread Lord Armageddon and nodded her head. He sniffed, “He stinks of meat. Does he know?”

  “No, the king shall see for himself. And he resents a ruined surprise as much as he hates surprises. Let him be surprised. Tomorrow.” She looked down at the boy. “He has a feeling of destiny about him no?”

  “The Queen has plans for this one no doubt.” Armageddon chuffed and walked over to the forge where he ran his gauntleted fingers through the hot fires still burning as coal red embers now. A shower of sparks rose where he stirred the mix. “Already the River parts around this child. He is strong, for a human…”

  Malcor greeted sunrise already bathed, dressed in his best leathers, and with no recollection of having cleaned up at all. A memory of rough hands that felt like hot boulders had caught him, or something, and the red-haired priestess had said something. Bits of conversation lingered in his mind about rivers and destiny but, like a soon-forgotten dream, he saw the giant’s eyes. He wished he could remember.

  Ishan and his wife gave him a satchel big enough for his statue also packed with a breakfast and snacks for his trek to the shrine. "Did you hear?" Ishan asked from the small house's doorway. "That caravan arrived late last night with a regiment of knights and others. There's been some heavy partying downtown but there's a different cluster of knights up at the shrine. Just thought you should know as you will have an audience. And Mal, you look great! Don’t remember you coming back from the forge last night. Hey, let me see your dragon statue…”

  Malcor felt himself pulled aside and his dragon removed from the satchel. Soon the entire neighborhood gathered and more came from the nearby workplaces to see. “Malcor’s dragon! It’s amazing!” and other similar expressions. He used the time to choke back the knot in his gut at the thought of the Ceremony and all the knights that would no doubt be there to watch.

  After some time, the commotion died down and Ishan called him out into the front courtyard. Stepping outside, their tiny neighborhood and all those in the area looked from the dragon standing on a makeshift table, to Malcor. A slight pause and then cheering erupted. Malcor found himself swept into the congregation with many a well-wished “good luck!” and “give that Calvin hell!” and “we will miss you Mal!” Who knew that such a small neighborhood had that much good will or even that many people in it?

  Malcor came at last to the street he’d walk to the shrine. The owner and lord of the forge stood there in his fine nobleman attire. The medallion of the Merchant’s Guild hung heavy and golden around his neck. “R’Dar Tor, good morning to you sir.” Malcor bowed and held the bow until the owner acknowledged him. Most of the well-wishers had noticed the lord and hush fell over the group. Not as high ranking as a "Dar", the R’Dar title designated wealth and inherited status. The title could be bought and passed along to one's family, but it was always dangerous to interact with them. And R’Dar Tor had prevented him from the Ceremony for years now.

  “Yes, yes. Malcor my boy, I understand but must ask just once more – are you really sure that you’re NOT staying with us? Really? Such talent. I can’t have you going up there and making us all look bad. We did not train you as a fighter. Your calling is to the forge. You. Must. Reconsider.” That last part was a command and Malcor felt its nuances.

  “My Dar, I must apologize. While not trained as a fighter, I feel there is something out there, that if I do not at least TRY, I will have violated some commandment. Violated something I don’t know. Apologies but my education in words and Temple doctrine fail me R’Dar Tor. I feel a calling and will go to please the Queen.” Bringing the Temple into it seemed the only way to get out of a nasty confrontation. Malcor hoped it would work. R’Dar Tor worshipped at the altar of wealth, not the Temple. But, like all Tanians, he paid his tithe and did his service to the Temple and Empire.

  “Reconsider.” Again, that command. In the empire, commands like these often carried legal weight. To refuse could be considered insubordination against the lord. The lord’s eyes stared at Malcor as if daring him to disobey.

  Malcor did the only thing he could do. “I shall re-consider in the ceremony." He tried a different tact, "Have you heard that a high priestess presides? The one with red-hair. Dar Shara. She came by the forge last night…” Malcor walked past the lord as if beginning the long trek.

  “I think not,” and steel blade lanced past Malcor’s cheek. Malcor did not flinch, did not look away, and carefully did not do anything that could appear as a challenge. “Reconsider now.”

  Though reality only held the steel blade in Malcor’s face a few moments, Malcor felt an eternity slide by moment by dragging moment until, without warning, the earlier group of friends and family reconvened with enthusiasm and singing. His friends and family swept Malcor into its midst and swallowed him out of that dangerous moment with the angry lord. “We’ve got you Mal,” he heard his master’s whispered assurance.

  To keep Malcor safe, the celebration would have to continue all the way to the shrine’s grounds. “Thank you,” Malcor said to each and every person as they came past him. The traditional Klennan dance had a lot of combat-style whirling and twirling. Usually only done at marriages, births, or other particularly happy community events, Mal felt certain it had never been done from the village up to the mountain shrine. A normal walk would take just over an hour of fairly steep climbing. Men, women, and the children all dancing and all his friends committed to carry him or else they would all face R’Dar Tor’s wrath.

  He saw in a moment those he had argued or fought with, like that one young man and his one time rival for his position at the forge. Some girls he had loved and through time or idiocy had parted ways with, some now partnered with past enemies and now they all danced together to give him this chance. Somehow, the surrealism of it all filled him with gratitude and then he saw something he had never noticed before.

  Glimmers of dust in dawn’s sunbeams seemed to slow and vertical lines became visible through the air and dancers’ movements. Though they still moved, something streamed past them washing over them and he realized his perception felt shifted, different somehow. A small girl, barely six years old, who often brought him food or water at the forge looked at him with unfiltered glee and love and her eyes. She appeared frozen to his perception in that moment of sunbeams, which spoke of childlike adoration for that one time Mal had found her in the streets, and brought her home. She had been abandoned in Klenna by some passerby. It had snowed that day. The moment was there in the background of her eyes – of a sister's love for a brother protecting her - and… then it all stopped. Malcor fell to the ground as the hands carrying him parted. The girl who had come to be named Klara smiled and gave him a hug.

  The pe
rception was gone and his friends, he found all of them staring at him intently. Some had bowed. The vertical lines in the air faded and with a rush of noise, the surreal feeling passed. Everything resumed its proper time and place and motion but in the eerie silence, Malcor licked his lips and started to ask the obvious question. His master cut him off, “No my lord Malcor. No. Say nothing. If ever I wondered before, I know now. The Queen favors you.” The crowd around him bowed and made holy signs. He had another twenty minutes of climbing.

  “My friends,” Malcor stammered. “My family. I will honor what you have done for me here today.”

  The crowd, though no longer dancing or singing, followed him the rest of the way to the shrine. R’Dar Tor, stuck in back, could only follow up the mountain trail. Their committed celebration replaced with something else, reverence? What had just happened? He arrived a bit late, but in time for Calvin’s introduction.

  The shrine sat on the eastern hill cradling Klenna. Its spires caught the sunlight and officially marked dawn and other times for Klenna as the shrine’s bell ringer sounded out certain times of the day. The shrine itself was fairly small and enclosed but opened up to a huge outdoor courtyard ringed by large steps. Except for times like this, the courtyard saw only visiting knights and clerics training, pilgrimages, and the occasional official function like this Ceremony. Sermons and preaching drew smaller crowds and so occurred inside.

  Today, for the Ceremony, the courtyard was packed. Calvin and another eight children stood in the courtyard. They looked nervous and small and tentative. Then Malcor saw it. A throne had been erected facing the great city eastwards. The red-haired priestess sat on it. She stared down at Malcor. Moments before the rest of the attendees noticed him, the armored giant leaned around the throne to regard Malcor as well. The regard behind the giant’s eyes felt like a kick to Malcor’s gut yet it seemed the giant looked at him more out of curiosity as opposed to threat assessment.