by JD Moyer
She ran toward the noise. A crowd had gathered in the road. It made no sense. Haakon’s raiders would come down through the High Pass, from the opposite direction. Had they found another way?
She pushed through the crowd. She saw smiling faces, and some with open mouths, confusion or shock. “Let me through!” she cried, shoving people aside. Everyone jostled forward to get a better look.
Finally she broke through to the front rank, and gasped. Her son Trond stood before her in the mud. He looked different, not as broad and mighty as when he had left, and his face was roughly shaved. But it was him, looking like the beardless, unwashed boy she remembered so well.
Trond carried a small woman. She hung loosely in his arms. She was brown-skinned, but most of her body was covered by silvery cloth. The shiny material reflected light like the scales of a wet fish. It was the woman who had come before, who called herself Car-En. Did she live? Her arm twitched – she was not dead. Elke had warned her not to return unless accompanied by Elke’s children. It looked as if the strange woman had made good on that deal, even if she was the worse for wear for it.
Next to Trond stood Esper, tall and proud. She rushed forward to embrace him. “Esper! Trond! My sons have returned!” She looked around, hopefully, but they had not brought Katja home.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jense sat on a flat rock and ate the last of his brown bread, stale but still good. He thanked his hunger for that; an empty stomach turned the meanest scraps into delicious morsels. He had finished the last of the cheese yesterday. He checked his food sack – what was left? A few dried apples, three small smoked fish, a single strip of dried goat meat. Enough to make it home, if he turned back now.
But he could not go home yet. Not until he found Katja, or her brothers.
First he had taken the northern trail, passing the Three Stones. Elke thought that Trond and Esper had taken the Silver Trail west, along the Nyr Begna, so Jense had taken a different direction. He had seen nothing. This did not mean there was nothing to see; he was no expert tracker. But the woods felt empty. It was easy to imagine he was the only man left in the world. One day he would die, and there would only be birds, and boar, and a few lynx. And bugs, of course. There would always be bugs.
On the first day he took the northern trail all the way to Skrova, the smallest village of the Five Valleys. The people there were friendly, and he saw faces that looked familiar from years past. Boys had grown into young men, full-grown men now had gray in the beards. Had they seen Katja? They had not. What of Kaldbrek? They feared Haakon, and kept their distance. They gave Jense food and drink, and a place to sleep. The next morning, he went on his way.
First he traveled west along Skrova’s wide valley until it rose and narrowed, finally reaching the headwaters of the Nyr Begna. He followed the river south for a day, stepping carefully and making slow progress. When he reached the High Pass trail, he took it west, climbing the high mountain range that separated Skrova and Happdal from Kaldbrek. The trail was steep. He did not want to go to Kaldbrek, but where else was there to look? Haakon had raided Happdal before – perhaps the Kaldbrek jarl had taken Katja.
He loved the girl. She was too young for him, and she was half- sister to his son, so he kept his love to himself. But she knew. She must. Even Trond seemed to know. With nowhere else to put it, Jense had poured his love into Katja’s blade. He would finish it, and give it to her when she returned to Happdal.
Did Elke know of his love for her daughter? He had once loved the mother. Fierce, beautiful Elke. He still respected her, and feared her a little, but long ago he had pulled his heart away. Elke was cruel and hard. It had taken him years to learn that. She hid her ruthlessness beneath her beauty and persuasiveness. If he ever touched Katja, and Elke found out, she might murder him.
Did Elke love her daughter protectively, or was she jealous of her? Maybe both. His real mission, Jense knew, was to find Elke’s sons. For Elke, finding Katja was an afterthought. No, that was cruel. Elke cared for her daughter. But whatever the woman’s feelings, Jense knew his own. He would find Katja first.
He swallowed the last of his bread, gathered his things, slung his greatsword, Bár, over his shoulder, and continued his trek. He would reach the top of the ridge within the hour.
Bár was a soulsword containing the spirit of a mighty brown bear. Jense had resolved that upon his return he would teach the final secret of godsteel to Trond. The time was right, and he was sick of secrets. The other secret he would take to his grave – that much he had sworn to Elke – but there was no reason to jealously guard his craft. His son was full smith and had earned the right of knowledge.
Jense had learned the Five Secrets from his father, Baldr, who had learned them from the swordsmith Kai, who had learned them from Jakob the Bold, who had learned them from Happdal’s first smith, the great Stian. What if Jense had waited too long, and now Trond was dead? Who would carry on the knowledge then? One of the bellows boys? Grundar was too impatient, but Karl showed promise. Hinrik’s son was stoic and a quick learner. On the downside, the boy was thin-limbed and prone to injuring himself. Was Karl immune to pain, as his father had been? Hinrik had lost several fingers and received many burns because of it. To feel no pain sounded like a blessing, but pain kept you whole. Especially in the smithy.
Harald the cheesemaker had asked Jense if he could borrow the bellows boys while the forge was cold, and Jense had given him Grundar and Karl. The other two, Jalmar and Gregers, he had sent to the mines. For years Jense had relied on trade with Kaldbrek to obtain iron ore, but Summer Trade was no more, and now a crew of Happdal men worked in open pits, digging red rock from the earth and hauling it back to the forge. It was hard work, and Jalmar and Gregers had complained. Did they want to become apprentices or not? They had bowed to his threats, though in truth neither was bright enough to become a full smith. Jalmar was the least dull of the two. Maybe one day, with hard work, Jalmar might learn to make a decent mudsteel plow.
Ultimately, Trond would choose his own apprentice. Deep down, Jense did not fear for his son. Trond would not die easily. Perhaps one day Trond would lose his shyness around women and find a wife, and the Red Brother would bless them with a son. The baby would have arms like fat sausages and would grow into a beast of a man, like his father and grandfather. Jense grinned at the thought and picked up his pace.
The first secret was the Crucible. To make godsteel, first go to the riverbank. There, collect clay, and from that fresh clay construct the vessel. The size and construction was important; too large and it might crack, too thick and it would not get hot enough, too small and it would not hold enough ore to make a weapon. A conical shape was ideal.
Once fired, fill the crucible with iron ore and a small amount of black charcoal dust to add strength to the steel. Last, add a handful of river sand, and a shard of broken glass, to draw the impurities from the metal.
The next step in the process – the true second secret – was the one that Jense had hidden from Trond. It was not necessary to make godsteel, but it was the only way to make a soulsword.
Before sealing the crucible, add a bit of burned bone. To make Bár, Jense had used a fragment of the jawbone of a great brown bear, one he had slain himself with a half-dozen arrows over the course of a three-day hunt. You could make a soulsword with any piece of bone, as long as the soul had not already been captured (or, in the case of a warrior, ascended to Valhalla). But if you killed the man or beast yourself, the soulsword would be loyal to you. The weapon was enslaved to the killer of the soul it contained. This secret was named the Captured Soul.
War was coming to Happdal. It was time Trond learned the secret of the soulsword. Jense had been reluctant to give it up. Had he been guarding the knowledge jealously? Maybe, but he had also wanted to protect his son. A soulsword was a powerful weapon, but also a dangerous one, for the trapped soul was angry. When you held the blade, the r
age of the enslaved soul coursed through the hilt, into your hand, up your arm, and lodged in your heart. Heart thus blackened, a man could fight with great ferocity. But could he lay down the sword when the fight was done? Would he be able to distinguish friend from foe? One could only hope, and pray to the Red Brother.
The third secret: the Sealed Oven. Construct the oven from brick and clay, adding vents on the sides. Gently place the crucible inside, and seal the top with river clay. The heat from the charcoal fire thus contained, the crucible within would be fiercely heated, as if by hellfire. This required constant, tireless stoking from the bellows, but that was what the bellows boys were for.
The fourth secret was the Gentle Shaping. Break off the top of the crucible, pour the molten metal into the mold, then allow it to cool. The resulting godsteel ingot could not be brutally smashed and sparked like a chunk of mudsteel. With godsteel there were few sparks; the metal had already been purified from the heat and the sand and the glass. You struck it gently, and for longer, slowly shaping the ingot into a rod, and from a rod into a sword, constantly reheating the metal to keep it supple. Too hard or too fast and the steel might crack.
If shaping mudsteel was like lying with a married woman, then shaping godsteel was like lying with a virgin. A married woman with children might not mind if you held her roughly; a little pain did not scare her. She had already known the agony of childbirth and emerged whole. But you had to be gentle with a virgin. Later, she would become strong, but she was vulnerable while you lay with her the first time. If Elke was mudsteel, then Katja was godsteel.
He grunted, relieved that nobody could hear him think. He supposed only smiths had such thoughts.
The last secret: the Flaming Sword. Quench the hot blade in oil, not water, to cool it more slowly. Demand silence, and listen, and hold your breath, and pray to the Red Brother. If there was no ping, no high sound of cracking steel, then the blade was sound. As you raise the sword, the oil burns off, the sword is alight, and it looks magical. And some were filled with magic, with angry souls.
Then, the sword could be etched and sharpened and polished like any blade. After a final heating to add strength, construct the hilt around the tang, using the finest materials: hardwood and bone, thin strips of softened leather, perhaps a gemstone in the pommel. Craft the scabbard in wood, and line it with fur to keep the blade oiled.
The godsteel blade was a fearsome weapon. It could slice a foe in two. In battle, the blade was strong and flexible and pointed; it could whip around a man’s shield and slip into his body in a single motion. A godsteel sword could shatter a mudsteel blade. It could slice through the haft of an axe. It could pierce mail. There was no higher form of weaponry.
Jense had almost reached the top of the ridge. Something caught his eye – a blur of orange fur, fifty paces up the slope. A fox. He climbed, and cleared the tree line. The fox was long gone, but he saw what had attracted the animal in the first place: the blood-soaked carcass of a bear. The beast had been hacked apart, partially eaten, and abandoned. Jense knelt and touched the thick, brown fur. The carcass was cold but still fresh. There was no smell of rot, and while the ants had begun their work, the flies had not yet discovered the feast. There were clear blade wounds; a man (or woman) had killed the animal. Some of the meat had been cut away, but most had been left for the forest scavengers. It was a wasteful scene, and Jense felt ashamed. He too had once killed a bear, but every bit of it had been eaten, or used for tools or clothing. He touched Bár’s hilt and felt the soulsword’s rage.
Jense searched the area carefully. There were no signs of a campfire or bedding. Whoever had killed the bear had not stayed here long. Faint tracks headed south along the ridge. He followed them, and continued south even after he lost the trail, walking until the sun was low in the sky. He would soon need to find a place to camp.
Kaldbrek was west from here, down into the valley. If he rushed down the mountainside, he could make it there in less than an hour. But that would be foolish. Jogging down a steep slope in the dark was a sure way to turn an ankle, or worse. And even if he made it to Kaldbrek whole, what would he find there? Katja, as a prisoner? Even if he found her, what then? Sneak in, kill her guards, and take her away? Jense was not light-footed; a stealthy approach was unlikely to be successful. How many men could he kill before they felled him? Dying bravely would not help Katja, even if he slaughtered half of Kaldbrek before he was overcome.
In the dusk light he saw something move, far ahead. Perhaps a lynx or a marten, or the fox he had caught sight of earlier. When he made his way to the spot, he found nothing. He stood still among the tough grasses and rocky ground of the high ridge, and let his mind go blank. The Red Brother would show him the way, if he waited long enough and listened. For a long time he remained still, until the mountain air cooled his limbs and face, and only his innards remained warm. A thought came to him. He took a deep breath and cried out as loud as he could: “Kaaatjaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
He waited, then he called her name again. And again, holding the last syllable in a long, mournful cry.
“Kaaatjaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Jense was quiet for a long time, listening for a response. There was nothing, except for the wind and the distant, high-pitched chattering of siskins from the tree line below. Jense shivered, missing the warmth of his forge.
“I will make a fire,” he said to the siskins, and slapped his body and legs with his hands to warm himself, and also to drive out his self-pity.
When he looked up, he noticed a figure, watching him, not twenty paces away. A woman, clearly – but it was too dark to make out her face.
“Hello! I did not hear you approach. I am Jense, from Happdal.”
He stepped closer, slowly, holding up his hands to show that he meant no harm. At ten paces, he saw that she was thin and ashen-skinned. Her long hair was in braids that had come partially undone, tangled and beginning to mat. Her bare arms were smeared with dirt, or blood, or both. At first, Jense did not believe his own eyes.
Finally, he muttered, “Katja,” and took a step back. Something was wrong.
She stared at him, dead-eyed. Who had mistreated her so? He would find the person responsible and cut them down. Or perhaps devise a harsher punishment. A smith’s tools could be used for more than just shaping metal….
Two crossed longswords were slung across her back. In a single motion she drew both, silently, from their fur-lined scabbards. He had never seen her wield two swords. She preferred a single blade, or a two-handed sword (like the one he had almost finished, to gift her), or a spear.
She spun each blade in the air, lazily. Her motions were fluid, devoid of any beginner’s awkwardness. Somehow she had learned to fight in this style.
“Katja!” he yelled. “Do you not recognize me? It is your friend, Jense. Elke sent me to find you, and now I have.” He had imagined that he would feel a sense of jubilant relief when he found her, but he felt nothing of the sort. Instead, dread filled his heart. What had become of her?
She approached, circling. He drew Bár, turning to face her. He could feel the bear’s hunger in his hands and shoulders and heart. “Careful, woman,” he said, “this sword has not fed for many years.” He did not use her name, for he was no longer sure it was his friend he faced.
She tested his defenses with a lazy thrust. He reacted with a single step back, keeping his sword raised defensively. She would have to do more than that to make him move his metal. Her face was dead, unsmiling. He had sparred with Katja many times, and was used to seeing a glint in her eye and a smirk on her face while she fought. She loved to play with steel, and fought joyfully. There was no sign of that joy now, or any other emotion for that matter.
She swung at his head, with full force, and an instant later thrust the other blade at his belly. He parried the first blow easily, the second with difficulty. These were no playful blows; she meant to gut him.
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br /> “Whoever you are, release my friend! What has she done to hurt you? Take me instead, if you need a body to play with.” There was no other explanation; Katja was possessed.
She swung a blade downward, as if to split his head like a log. He blocked, holding his steel upward at an angle. Her sword slid down the length of his blade and caught against the hilt. He noticed a mark on her weapon, one he recognized. Stian’s mark. He had one of the founding smith’s blades in his collection, and had studied it often for inspiration.
Next to Stian’s mark was the etched outline of a tooth. He recalled a legend, twin blades made by Stian: Biter, holding the soul of a wolf, and Taker, with the bound soul of a cruel man. A man from Kaldbrek.
Jense twisted away as the other blade came in, but not soon enough, and the point pierced his leather shirt and dug into his belly. He grunted – a shallow wound, but it hurt.
Who had ended up with those blades? Elke’s grandfather. Morfar Henning, who had disappeared into the forest, never to be seen again. But some had sworn they had seen him, years later, still lurking in the woods.
As soon as the pieces fit together in his mind, he let out a great shout. “I know who you are! Release this body, gast, and return to your spirit world!” With this proclamation, he swung Bár. He did not know if there was a remedy for possession, but maybe the forest sprite would flee its host if he could make the body bleed. It was worth a try. If that did not work, maybe he could knock Katja out and carry her back to Happdal. The crone Ilsa might have a cure.
The gast stepped back fluidly, easily avoiding the blow. That motion he recognized. Katja could judge distance like no other, and make a man look foolish, staying just out of reach while her opponent swung at empty air. So, somehow, she was still in there. That, or the gast had stolen her fighting style, and added to it. He had heard legends of Henning’s speed and skill with two swords (godsteel soulswords, crafted by a master, no less), and now he felt genuine fear. The gast was only playing with him. The real fight had not yet begun.