by Mark Shane
Garen’s face lit up. “You’ve never held a Master’s blade. I have. Dad let me hold Hothfyre.”
It meant ‘Heaven’s fire’ in the old, ceremonial language. A long, single-edged blade slightly curved with a chiseled tip. It was a product of Crafting, metal melded with magic. Close to indestructible, Hothfyre could penetrate the strongest armor with ease, yet never lose its edge. Ironically, the most famous attribute was the blade’s red hue.
In the last century, less than fifty such swords had been made in Timmaron and each crafted specifically to enhance the traits of the wielder. A man with brute strength became stronger, agile wrists quicker, a tactician more cunning. The skill, leadership, and valor required to earn a master’s blade was the substance of legends.
Jensen Baldwin, Garen’s father, became one such legend for his role in the Sarlon War. After the war, the king promoted him to general, but, to everyone's surprise, he insisted on taking charge of the southern border garrisons—Whitewater’s Forge, Glokstein, and Blackstone. Other generals scoffed at the idea, and the king was reluctant. Baldwin cared little what other men thought and whatever reasons he laid out to the king proved sufficient. Under his command, the garrisons became the posts soldiers requested most frequently despite being far removed from the citadel in Tallijor. Once a place soldiers were sent to for career ending infractions, the southern border garrisons were now the premier training grounds.
“It felt better than any sword I’ve held; the balance, the grip, the edge!” Garen looked at his practice sword, realizing he held it up as if it had transformed into the legendary blade and let it fall to his side. “We could earn our blades together, side by side. I bet they’d start working on yours the day you signed up.”
“I doubt it. I’m just a carpenter, Garen. Besides, I’ve held your father’s sword.” The shocked expression on Garen’s face was priceless. “And I don’t think it has an equal, but it didn’t feel right in my hands. It didn’t have the feel a hammer does. It didn’t feel...” he paused, searching for the word to describe what he felt, “It didn’t feel complete.”
Hothfyre was the most amazing blade he had ever held. His movements had been so precise, so fast, as if the blade could read his thoughts. He had felt a strange connection to the sword, like something within it called to him, but he had no desire for battle and glory. That was Garen’s path. His calling lay in serving others and for that the hammer fit best.
“When did you hold my father’s sword?”
Michael grinned. “You’re not the only one to try and persuade me to join.”
“You’re telling me my dad let you hold Hothfyre as an attempt to recruit you?”
“Hold it?” Michael laughed. “He let me spar him with it.”
“My dad let you spar him with Hothfyre?” Garen asked, incredulous. “What did he use, a stick?”
“No, he used his other sword.” Michael chuckled as his friend almost choked from what he heard.
“And let me guess. You beat him, right?”
“No, it was a draw.” Michael had passed on a chance to defeat General Baldwin. Enhanced by Hothfyre, it hadn’t been a fair match, and he had no interest in beating the man with his own sword.
“Horse dung! I’m not buying a word of it.” Garen pointed an accusing finger at him. “You just want to see if I’ll ask him. Then the two of you will have a good laugh over it. No thank you.”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
Garen looked to the sky. Midmorning had given way to early afternoon. “I’d better get back and finish my chores before Dad sends Stren to drag me back by my ear.”
“Too late,” a familiar, deep voice resonated behind them.
Garen and Michael turned and saw Stren standing at the fringes of the clearing. With muscles like corded rope, he was easily one of the largest men in the garrison. His bald head and steel grey eyes added intimidation to his size. As immovable as a mountain yet quick as a whip, Stren had earned his rank as second in command. He had the scars to prove it and a story to go along with each one. Garen and Michael had grown up hearing his stories and often caught him adding liberally to them. Few dared to give the man a hard time, but they often did, even though Stren usually managed to get the last laugh.
Garen held up his hands. “I was just on my way back, Stren
“Then we can go together.” He shot Garen a stern look. “I saw you leaving with your chores halfway done. Figured you two were out getting into mischief. Training classes kept me tied up for a while, though.”
Stren scanned the area, his eyes missing nothing. “A person can hone his skills in different ways out here. I see why you chose to practice here.”
Lately, they had practiced out in the woods more often than not for reasons other than what Stren saw. Michael had grown uncomfortable with everyone stopping to watch him spar with Garen. And he had been approached far too many times about joining the army. Garen did not understand Michael’s discomfort but agreed to meet outside the garrison stating he didn’t want anything affecting his friend’s concentration.
“It does have its good points,” Garen replied with a hint of pride. He had, after all, found this particular spot.
“That it does,” Stren mused, looking around one last time. “Michael, General Baldwin is looking forward to a rematch. I think he’d love to spar here. Perhaps soon? Equal footing this time though. No Hothfyre. Just plain practice swords.”
Garen’s jaw dropped.
A grin spread across Michael’s face. “Perhaps,” he replied. He was happy to spar the general on equal footing and he could not resist egging Garen a little more.
“Well then,” Stren said, clapping his hands together, face beaming like he had just made a great sale, “I will tell him. He’ll probably spend much of the next few days practicing.”
With that settled, Stren turned and headed toward town. “Coming, Garen?” he said over his shoulder.
Garen stood speechless as he looked between Stren’s parting back and Michael’s amused face. “Want to help me finish my chores?”
“Sorry, I need to put another coat of varnish on Mrs. Naples new table then pay a visit to my parents.”
“You came to a draw with my dad? And he let you use Hothfyre? Unbelievable.” Garen fell into step behind Stren, still shaking his head.
Michael watched them leave, his smile slipping as Garen disappeared into the forest. Maybe Garen was right. Perhaps his skill with a sword was rare, but what difference could another good blade make? He would answer the call if required to, but all he truly wanted was to follow in his father’s footsteps as a carpenter. Garen wanted to honor his father by being the best soldier he could. Why couldn’t he understand Michael only wanted to do the same?
He glanced at the sun approaching mid-afternoon. He was going to be hard pressed to get his work done and still have time to see his parents.
A pair of golden eyes watched him set off at a trot down the eastern path, weighing him.
CHAPTER 2
Strangers and Familiar Faces
Falon walked with determination though her legs threatened to give out at any step. The journey had been long, but apprehension gave her legs more trouble than fatigue. Ten months she had traveled. Seemed more like years. Now, anticipation and fear washed away all other emotions. Few would accuse Falon of being fearful, but the prospect of meeting the one person who could save her people churned her stomach. What would he say? What would he do? He had to help her. She had come too far, sacrificed too much, for him to refuse.
When she had arrived, a man had given her directions, but none of the houses fit his description. “Excuse me,” she said, stopping a lady with a small boy in tow. “I’m looking for a healer. His name is Max.”
The lady smiled as she looked Falon up and down, sizing her up for some reason.
“Max is a good friend, my dear. Who might you be?”
“Marissa.” It was probably safe to use her real name this far
from Shaladon, but it had become habit to use her alias over the last ten months. Besides, she liked being Marissa more than herself.
“Oh my! Marissa is a lovely name, dear,” the woman said very motherly like. “Max is the finest healer in the area. And a fine man. His house is one street over, second on the right. Has a lantern hanging over the blue door.”
She thanked the woman and moved on briskly. For some reason, the woman seemed almost giddy.
She looked down the street, scanning each person, noting every detail. Would she ever be able to stop looking over her shoulder? Not likely, she derided, knocking on the door a little harder than necessary. She smoothed her pants nervously then chided herself when she realized she was doing it. Fool girl, you’re not meeting a king. Still, in some ways he came close. Her trepidation proved to be for nothing as her rapping went unanswered.
Blowing stray hairs out of her eyes, she looked down the street, the way she had come. Stubborn determination, her trademark quality, set in replacing her apprehension. The town square lay in that direction. Perhaps she would find him there.
Two-story houses of rough timber and plaster lined each side of the street. Some people would call them plain, but she saw beauty in their simplicity. They were well built and functional which appeared to carry more importance than show. Many butted against each other with a sporadic alleyway here and there. The women had a knack for making their ordinary homes look warm and inviting. Most had planted flowers of various colors and hues under their windowsills, and many of the houses had varying trim work to make them more original.
Houses gave way to the town square, more oval than square in shape. In the early afternoon sun, the square bustled with activity under a statue of a man holding a blacksmith’s hammer. Carts and outdoor shops with canvas tarps for roofs lined the left side of the square. The merchants barked out the quality of their goods and haggled prices with customers in the same breath. From spices to garments, food to tools, false claims to true cures, everything was for sale.
To her right, shops lined the square. Tailors, jewelers, exporters, and businesses of the higher class were a refined sight. Whatever the social makeup of this town was everyone did their buying and selling within eyesight of each other. It reminded her of home only on a much smaller scale.
She was not going to find him standing on the edge of the square, so she set off for the shops. Perhaps someone there could give her an idea of where “Max the healer” might be found.
***
Max finished haggling with Pier for two wineskins and headed across the square for Brae’s shop. His morning rounds had depleted him of Winslow root and elk weed not to mention the list of herbs he had run out of while in Tanner’s Meadow the past day. Brae was a good exporter. Whether common supplies from the region like Winslow root or exotics like blood petals shipped in from Tallijor, his typical response was, “I just got a shipment in.” Max hoped today would be no exception.
He noticed a young woman leaving Brae’s shop as he approached. A stout wool cloak of dark forest green, matching pants, beige shirt and rugged yet worn boots marked her as a traveler who had seen many miles, but her face was soft and smooth. An odd pairing, very different from the weathered, calloused appearance he was accustomed to seeing attached to such clothing. His friend, A’lan, had been a great traveler with a face that held a line for every adventure. Her long, brown hair shimmered in the sunlight, tied back at the nape of her neck except for a few strands that had managed to come loose.
While this oddity of traveler’s clothing and beauty caught his attention, her face reminded him of someone. And her amber eyes, radiating the sunlight as they did, created a spark of recognition in the far reaches of his mind.
Max, you’re getting old. He could remember a time when he never forgot a face, and now he found a stranger’s face familiar. He passed her, stealing one last glance, hoping it would jog his memory, then entered Brae’s shop.
The shopkeeper smiled. “Max!”
“The Creator’s blessings to you, Brae,” Max responded, wondering why the exporter smiled at him like a cat leaving the milk bowl.
“So who is she?” Brae asked.
“Who is who?” came the puzzled reply.
“What do you mean ‘who is who’?” Brae said a little indignant. “That beautiful picture that was just in here.”
Max turned, looking out the shop windows. “What picture?” His eyebrows furrowed, painting a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion on his face. Brae did like to play jokes.
“That beautiful picture of a woman who was just in here. She asked for you.”
Max’s eyebrows raised, concern replacing puzzlement. “Who? The one in traveler’s clothes?”
“Yes! A bit odd seeing a lass that beautiful in those clothes. Then again, plenty of things have gotten odd these days.” Max’s head whipped around to the door. “Surely you spoke to her,” Brae continued, “you must’ve passed right by her?”
“Did she ask for me by name?” Max asked, trying to be nonchalant. Brae’s grin returned to Max’s annoyance. Several of his friends persisted in trying to fix him up with a wife. Apparently, Brae had succumbed to the madness.
“Nope. Asked for the local healer. Said she’d been to your house, but you weren’t there. I told her you’d probably be making rounds at the Luck of the Lady anytime now. Better hurry, she’s a beauty, that one.”
“She’s young enough to be my daughter!”
“Well, then perhaps she has a widowed mother just as striking. Eh?” Brae’s eyebrows jumped several times.
“Thanks, Brae. I gotta go.”
Max hurried out of the shop, Brae’s chuckle following him. Bloody fools, all of them. Fixing him up with a wife was a sickness he needed to find a cure for soon before the whole town saw to it he settled down.
The traveler girl was nowhere in sight. He headed for the inn, his steps a little quicker than normal. Who was she? What did she want? Travelers came and went all the time and occasionally one needed to see the local healer. Why did this girl trouble him? He reminded himself he was well hidden, far from his former life and sixteen years past to boot. He was safe. Besides she would have been a child when he fled Shaladon. Still, that spark of recognition lurked in his mind. Who was she?
Max rounded the corner and spotted her talking to the innkeeper, Benjamin, underneath the inn’s sign of a lady holding two gold coins. Benjamin pointed at him eliminating any chance of ducking back around the corner. Standing there, Max felt exposed. Benjamin gave him the same smile Brae had. Suppressing his annoyance, Max approached the three-story inn wishing his friends would stop trying to match him up with every pretty girl in the province. Molly Floren had been a bad idea, Jessica Crome even worse, and now they were eyeing younger girls in hopes of matching him with their mothers! This nonsense had to end.
“Max,” Benjamin said as the healer joined them, “I would like to introduce you to Marissa.”
“Marissa,” he said, holding his hand toward Max, “the best healer in all the province, Max Thorn.”
The innkeeper smiled like he had brought them together. No doubt, he already saw the wedding in his mind.
“Marissa, how may I help you?” Max said with a gracious bow. She gazed at him expectantly, like he was the answer to all her problems. He did not like the feeling one bit, and he still could not place who she reminded him of. Someone from Glokstein perhaps or maybe Anista.
“I was sent from,” she glanced at the innkeeper, “sent to ask for your help.”
“No better person to seek out,” Benjamin interjected. “Max here is one of the greatest healers in Timmaron if you ask me.” Benjamin closed his mouth, realizing his flattery was a tad obvious.
Max shot a sidelong glance at Benjamin. “I’m the local healer, Marissa, but far from great. Is someone you know ill?”
She paused, her eyes going distant like his words made her think of someone. Then she refocused on him; jaw set, amber eyes fierce. Her ey
es. Yes, that’s it, her eyes and her stance. But who?
“I’m looking for a great wizard…”
The hair on the back of Max’s neck rose. Could she be from Shaladon? The thought felt like ice in his bones. Who was she? Who sent her? He had to get her alone before she revealed more.
“Wizard!” Benjamin chortled. “Sorry, lass, but there’s none of them in this area. Not since the Sarlon War. They keep to themselves and better for it.” He nodded to himself like he had declared an absolute.
She looked between the two men, puzzled.
“The Sarlon War left many in Timmaron leery of magichae,” Max explained, sounding much calmer than he felt. He hoped a brief history lesson would silence her tongue about wizards.
“Leery! Scared’s more like it,” Benjamin said. He glanced at Marissa. “Well, left plenty of us darn fearful at least. I’m not prejudiced, mind you, but I could do without ever meeting a magichae.” He looked at Marissa fatherly. “Ah, my dear, whatever the trouble, surely it can be solved without magic.”
She glanced between the two men before settling her gaze on Max with a determined expression.
No! The spark of recognition in Max’s mind ignited into an inferno of realization. She can’t be! This woman could not possibly be. She was a child when I—how could she be here? Thoughts ran over one another, his mind racing for answers and fear threatening to take control. If an agent of Cintaur was here, who else was looking and what did they know?
“I do know of a man, a hermit, who might be the person you’re looking for.” Max worked hard to stay calm. “Lives not too far away. I must warn you though, he will not be pleased to have company.”
She looked at him, curiously. He half expected her to call him out right there. “I must speak with him,” she said after a moment.
“Very well,” Max replied, clasping his hands together. “Come with me, I’ll show you where to find him.”
***