The Elder Stones Saga Boxset: Books 1-3

by D. K. Holmberg

  He stormed through the trees, unsurprised to find Galen waiting for him. “You left me with them?”

  “I anticipated you would spend longer working with them.”

  “You anticipated?”

  “I cannot help it that you failed so quickly.”

  “I didn’t fail quickly.”

  “Then you succeeded? You’re still working with them?” He glanced beyond Haern, looking toward the forest. “Interesting, as I don’t see it.”

  “That’s enough,” Haern said.

  “I imagine they said the same to you.”

  “Galen—”

  “Would you have me say something else?”

  “I’ve never even seen you work with a sword. Why would you have me do it when you can’t?”

  “What makes you think I cannot?”

  “Oh, so you can? I just haven’t seen it before?”

  “Do you believe you know me so well as to know every fighting style I’m capable of?”

  There was a hardness to his voice that took Haern aback, and something deep inside of him cautioned him to be careful what he said next. He might anger Galen even more, and that wasn’t something he wanted to do. Galen had offered him an opportunity, and he needed to continue his studies with him to prepare to confront the Forgers. But irritation overwhelmed his reason.

  “I think that if you could use a sword, I would have seen it by now.”

  Galen cocked his head, studying him for a moment before throwing back his cloak, revealing a sword sheathed beneath. He quickly withdrew it, bringing it around. Haern had barely a moment to react, blocking. Galen darted forward, swinging his sword in one attack after another, each one striking with rapid intensity, reminding him of the way the sellswords had fought, though Galen was perhaps even faster than the sellswords. There was a precision to his movements.

  The sword swept through Haern’s ability to defend, catching him on the leg, and Haern dropped, pain shooting through him. As he knelt, looking up at Galen, gripping his sword helplessly, Galen stood over him and casually sheathed his sword.

  “Don’t make assumptions.”

  “If you can fight like that, why use your darts and poison?”

  “Not everything is as easy as you would like it to be, Haern. And as I’ve told you, there are many ways to fight. If you continue to work with me, I will ensure that you are capable of fighting in as many ways as possible. And I will help you become less reliant on your Great Watcher–given abilities. If you choose otherwise, I can make no such promises. Perhaps that is as you would like it.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Do you want to learn? Do you want to train? Or would you like to remain easy for the Forgers to defeat?”

  “I’ll keep training.”

  Galen nodded. “Good. Now, go on to Darren and see if he can’t heal those two injuries.”

  Galen nodded. “Why do you need me to work with the Neelish sellswords if you’re such a skilled swordmaster?”

  Galen paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Haern. “Who do you think taught me?”

  14

  Haern

  Haern kept his arm pressed up against his body, holding it close. It still throbbed, but less than it had. The healing Darren had used on him left him feeling cold, awash with his Healing magic, and while Haern tried to ignore it, much like he tried to ignore the pain in his arm, he succeeded with neither.

  “A training accident?” Darren asked, standing from where he’d been crouched next to Haern’s leg.

  Haern looked past the Healer. He was friendly with Darren, having known him nearly his entire life, but lately there had been a distance between them. He’d come to Darren far too often looking for help and Healing. He wished it weren’t necessary, but unfortunately it seemed to be. Too often he had to have something restored, and rarely was he able to offer the right sort of explanation as to what had happened. Each time it was a training accident, but some accidents weren’t quite accidents, not when it came to training with Galen.

  “He has me learning to handle a sword.”

  Darren grunted as he grabbed Haern’s arm, running his fingers along either side of the cut. It was deep, and though it had stopped bleeding, Haern was forced to look away from it, not wanting to see the muscles revealed beneath the bite of the blade. A wound like that could be fatal without someone like Darren to Heal it. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about that.

  Then again, outside of the city, there weren’t Healers like Darren. He was unique—at least, somewhat unique. There was another like him, though Haern didn’t know the old Healer Della as well as his father did.

  “There was a time when swords were forbidden within Elaeavn,” Darren said, the Healing washing through Haern.

  “I know.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if that might not have been a better time.”

  “You realize that time involved the Elvraeth having complete control over the city,” Haern said, bringing his gaze back around to Darren. Darren had pale green eyes, which startled him each time he saw them, mostly because he was such a powerful Healer.

  “I’m not saying that the Elvraeth rule was a better time. All I’m getting at is that weapons like this,” he said, tapping him on the arm, “are unfortunate. I’ve seen far too many people suffer because of such injuries. I would try to protect as many as I can.”

  “I’d like to protect as many as I could, too, but with the Forgers—”

  “Don’t go into the Forgers with me,” Darren said, a little more sharply than necessary. The heat in his voice surprised Haern. Darren took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I’ve heard enough about the Forgers. They might have left us alone—”

  “Except for the fact that my father went after them. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  “There’s something to be said about that,” Darren said.

  “My father isn’t to blame for the Forgers continuing to attack the Aisl and Elaeavn.”

  “We won’t know, now will we?”

  “I’ve traveled out of the city. I’ve seen the way the Forgers are willing to attack, to hurt other people. I understand just what they do.” Haern took a deep breath, struggling to remove the image of the Forgers in the last city from his mind, but he couldn’t shake it. They had overpowered him, and had Galen not arrived, he might have fallen, cut down by them. He had no idea what the Forgers did to others in that city or how much the people there suffered. Maybe it was no different than how his people had suffered under the Elvraeth. In both cases, there was a certain tyranny. “The Forgers would have come regardless of what we might have done,” he said.

  Haern got up, pulling his arm away from Darren. The Healing continued to leave him cool, some of his energy waning, but that was the price of Healing. It took energy from the person who was Healed, forcing them to use their own abilities to recover, though this was a relatively minor injury in the scheme of things.

  He scanned the inside of Darren’s home. A small fireplace crackled softly, the heat radiating into the room. It was a welcome heat after Healing such as he had gone through. Without the fireplace, the chill of the Healing might be more than he could tolerate. Some who suffered from more serious injuries would be even colder, and he was thankful he didn’t have to know what that felt like. At least not yet. Within the fireplace, a pot boiled, casting off a hint of spiced steam he suspected was some medicinal Darren preferred. Galen would have known, but he had returned to Elaeavn, back to the Floating Palace, and back to his comforts.

  “Are we done?” he asked.

  Darren frowned at him. “You don’t need to be angry about this.”

  “I’m not angry. There’s just so much for me to do.”

  “Is this all about your father?”

  “This is about the Forgers, not just about my father.”

  “And once you’re done training, what is it you intend to do?”

  Haern shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Will
there be an end to your training?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope you can find a measure of peace your father never managed. It’s unfortunate he wasn’t able to relax and enjoy the comforts of the forest he helped the guilds establish.”

  “I think he would claim that he managed to enjoy those things.”

  “He might make that claim, but did he really?”

  Haern scanned the inside of the home again, his gaze lingering on the row of jars near the door. In them were various medicinals. Some were herbs that could be used for healing. Many of them were names that Haern had learned, names of items that had much benefit, whereas others were things he didn’t know, and perhaps never would. He had trained with Galen, learning about both healing and harming medicines, and unfortunately, he had more use for the latter.

  “We’ll never know.”

  “Good luck, Haern. You know that I’m here if you need me.”

  Haern nodded. “I know. And I thank you.”

  They met each other’s eyes for a moment before he turned away. It was unfortunate that there remained an awkwardness between them. There shouldn’t be, not between men who had been friends, and yet there was. Darren was content remaining within the Aisl, Healing, comfortable with his life and the lot the Great Watcher had given him. Haern no longer believed he could sit back and observe as he once had. Would it be so awkward if he and Lucy came back together? His friend had changed even more than Haern had.

  Maybe that was what he should have been spending his time doing. There were still people within Elaeavn who could Slide him to Lucy, and once Lucy learned Rsiran was missing again, wouldn’t she help?

  Maybe she wouldn’t—or couldn’t. Considering what she had been through, it was possible that she needed to continue working with Carth in order to fully understand what she needed to know.

  The challenge would be in finding her. They had left Asador, and now he didn’t know where to locate his friend. With Lucy’s ability to Slide now augmented by the lorcith alloy, he might not be able to find her. It would be easy for her to disappear, to go someplace she couldn’t be tracked. Which was a shame. Lucy could be a valuable ally—and an asset—in confronting the Forgers.

  As he stepped back into the clearing at the heart of the Aisl, he shook his head. Could he really be thinking like that? Could he really be viewing his friend—a woman he’d known for years—as simply an asset?

  Maybe he had changed more than he realized.

  He paused in the center of the clearing. The forest forge took up most of the space in the center, smoke billowing from the chimney telling him that the forge was active. Likely that meant his grandfather. Though he had a forge in Elaeavn—the Lareth family forge—he often preferred to use the one here, wanting to be connected to the Aisl. Since Rsiran’s disappearance, he had spent even more time here. It was as if his grandfather wanted to keep the tradition of the forest forge operating. More than that, though, his grandfather had an ability with lorcith that, while not as strong as Rsiran’s, still had significant potential.

  Stepping inside the forge, he was greeted by a familiar heat. The steady tapping of the hammer on metal alerted him of his grandfather’s work, and he paused for a moment, listening for the sense and sound of lorcith, but there was none. Either his grandfather wasn’t using the metal, or there was simply too much lorcith all around. After his time in the lorcith mines over the last few weeks, though, he was more attuned to lorcith than ever before.

  He stood back, watching his grandfather work. He had a steady and rhythmic movement, each blow made with precision, and Haern wondered what his grandfather was creating. He stepped closer and realized that it was a long slender bar, and while it wasn’t made from lorcith, he didn’t know what material it was.

  “Are you going to watch, or will you join me?”

  Haern stepped up to the forge, joining his grandfather. “What are you working at?”

  His grandfather paused, hammer in midswing, and glanced over at Haern, a hint of a smile on his face. “Have you been away from the forge so long that you don’t recognize a crafting?”

  “I don’t think so, but in this shape, you could make many things.”

  “Indeed. But what do you think a shape like this likely represents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His grandfather stared at him for a moment before flicking his gaze to the sword Haern held. He’d carried it from Darren’s shop but had forgotten about it. “You don’t know, yet you carry something similar?”

  “You’re making a sword?”

  His grandfather began to hammer again, the movements steady and regular. Each blow struck the metal, thinning it slightly. “Don’t say it as if you’re so surprised.”

  “It’s just that I know how you feel about swords.” His grandfather felt much the same way as most of the older generation did, those who had lived in the time when the Elvraeth had forbidden the use of swords.

  “Times—and people—change, Haern.”

  “I know they do, Grandfather, it’s just…”

  “Are you going to help me, or do you intend to just stand there?”

  Haern nodded and carried the sword over to the side of the room, where he set it down. There was a table with other items, and he placed the sword amongst them, though most were far more nicely made than his sword. This didn’t appear to be one of his father’s creations, or that of anyone from the guild.

  Returning to the forge, he grabbed a leather apron, tying it on, and slipped on the leather gloves to match before picking up the tongs and helping his grandfather as he hammered. His role was to move the metal, carrying it over to the heat, and he had done it enough over the years to know how he could best assist his grandfather, though it had been quite a while since he had spent much time forging.

  As they worked in relative silence, nothing more than the steady hammering of metal, Haern fell back into the rhythm of it. It was something he knew, though not as well as others in his family. His father was far more comfortable working at the forge, but then again, his grandfather was more comfortable than either of them.

  The blade began to emerge. His grandfather had a practiced stroke to his hammering, each blow perfectly placed, drawing out the length of the blade, flattening it, turning it into a slender and curved blade. Haern focused on the metal, trying to determine what it was.

  “It’s not steel,” he said.

  “No,” his grandfather answered. He continued hammering, and Haern turned it before bringing it back to the forge to heat.

  “And it’s not lorcith, either.”

  His grandfather glanced up at him. “Are you certain?”

  Haern frowned, focusing on the blade. Lorcith was notoriously difficult to work with, and it required someone with patience and an understanding of the metal in order to form it into the various shapes it could take. It could be forced, but lorcith worked better if you worked with it. That was something his father had taught him, and Haern had taken it to heart. Forcing lorcith became difficult, and the more someone tried to force it, the more likely it was that the forging would fail. Working with it allowed the forging to happen more naturally, and each piecing that emerged came out stronger for it.

  As he focused, he didn’t pick up on anything within it that suggested the blade was lorcith.

  He glanced over at his grandfather. “I don’t think it is lorcith.”

  “Your father would be disappointed.”

  “Why? Is it?”

  “There’s lorcith in this.”

  As his grandfather continued to hammer, Haern worked on connecting to the metal, searching for anything within it that would reveal the lorcith. If it was there, it wasn’t obvious.

  There was other lorcith around him. The knives he had made. The part-lorcith coins he had in his pouch. There were even lumps of lorcith in the forge. All of those drew his attention the way lorcith always did. This did not.

  Could he push away the sense of lorcith
all around him?

  There was a lot of competition for his attention, and unlike in the lorcith mines, it wouldn’t be easy for him to ignore that sense here.

  Still he tried.

  It required that he push away the sense of the lorcith closest to him, and as he did, he was able to ignore the knives sheathed at his side along with the lump of lorcith in the room. That left the coins. They were smaller, and he tried to ignore them, pushing away his awareness of them.

  When that was done, he focused, attempting to maintain a connection to the lorcith, trying to understand whether the sword his grandfather was making had any lorcith in it, and came up empty.

  If there was lorcith in the blade, it had to be a negligible amount, less even than what was in the coins. A blade like this would be useful, but only if he could connect to it.

  He continued to focus, searching for the stirrings of metal.

  It was faint. Little more than a tracing.

  Striations of lorcith traced along the blade, and he marveled. It wasn’t an alloy so much as a filament of lorcith worked within the rest of the metal.

  He focused on that filament, connecting to it.

  “Would you stop that?”

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re going to draw it out,” his grandfather said.

  “You can tell what I’m doing?”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s so small. It’s almost as if it’s not even there.”

  “Which is exactly how I was instructed to make it.”

  “Who wants a sword like this?”

  His grandfather continued to hammer, working on the blade without answering. It was incredibly shaped, slender but curved, and now that Haern was aware of the lorcith in it, he could practically hear it humming. It was soft, like a stirring on the breeze, little more than a faint voice. Nothing more than a murmuring, really.

  His grandfather carried the blade over to the quenching basin, stuffing it in there and leaving it. When he was done, he turned to Haern.

  “Who is that for?”

  “You, now that you can pick up on the lorcith.”