It took well over an hour before Linsair halted them in a stony place. Broad trees had grown between numerous boulders strewn over a small hill in the forest.
Rose’el leaned against a tree and crossed her arms. “We followed, sword smith. Now, pray tell us what in Subterran you’ve brought us here for.”
“We are near Mathaliah Hollow.” Evela pointed to the northwest. “Ilfedo’s parents died not far from here when he was a younger man. I wonder how well the cabin is holding up. He’s not been out here for a long time.”
Linsair used his foot to clear fallen branches from a stone. Then he bent over the boulder and dug his arms around it, rolling it out of the ground. In the boulder’s place a hole no more than two feet across stabbed deep into the earth. An iron grating spanned its mouth, alleviating Caritha’s fears that a person or animal might break their leg falling inside.
“Follow me.” The sword smith barreled downhill through thick bushes. Caritha and her sisters swept after him until he paused by another boulder and stepped behind it, out of sight.
Caritha stepped over a dead branch. Her skirt caught, and she knelt to free it.
“Caritha.” Laura crouched next to her and whispered, “He reminds me of Father.”
“You mean Linsair?”
Laura nodded vigorously.
“Yes,” Caritha admitted. She freed her skirt and stood, placing a hand on her sister’s arm with a smile. “But Father is a good deal larger than any man.”
Everyone laughed except for Rose’el. She rolled her eyes and trudged around the boulder.
Caritha followed to the mouth of a deep cave. Large torches lined the long tunnel that descended under the hill. Their flames spread a warm orange glow down the passageway, and at their end stood Linsair, a blazing torch in his fist.
Rose’el trudged forward, neither glancing to the right nor to the left. She stood next to the sword smith, unsmiling.
“What delayed thee?” the man demanded of the lagging sisters.
Caritha gazed around the cave’s interior, a circular chamber of considerable size. The walls of solid stone behind the sword smith arched to an orifice at its center some fifteen feet above her head. Directly beneath it on the floor an enormous forge stood on tri-sided legs of hammered iron. “Linsair, what is this place?”
The smith strode to the forge and ignited its wood with his torch. The flames ripped through the dry bark, chasing the shadows farther from the smith. Next to the forge sat an anvil much larger than the one Linsair kept in Commander Veil’s camp.
“My work will continue in secret,” Linsair said. “Here, away from the noise and disturbance, I will create weapons for your lord’s army.” He set his silver hammer on the anvil. “The people of this land will know misery before they know a time of peace. I would that their passage through misery be eased.”
Laura frowned. “We don’t understand. Is there something you need us to do?”
“I can fashion swords that are lightweight and strong, Warrioresses. Yet, if I had one—” He held up his index finger. “If I had only one drop of your dragon blood to use with each sword, I could create weapons that would array their bearers in light. On the field of battle, when darkness fell, the bearers of those swords would shine like stars on Subterran.”
His pink eyes flared as if with fire. He pulled a sword out of a dark corner and buried its blade in the forge. When he withdrew it, the blade glowed white-hot. “Give me only one drop. Sacrifice it willingly for the soldier who will one day wield it.”
Evela narrowed her eyes. “How does he know these things?”
“Yes. How does a sword smith know that we are of dragon blood?” Caritha drew her sword and Laura did the same. “Speak, Linsair. We want to know the truth.”
He regarded them with steady eyes. “Put down your weapons.”
“No.” Evela drew her rusted blade. “Answer her question.”
“So be it.” Linsair heaved a sigh and shook his head. “As you may have guessed by now, I am also of dragon blood. Remember how Lord Ilfedo’s sword responded to my touch. Unlike you, I know both the limits and the extent of my abilities. Therefore the Sword of the Dragon will not ignite if one of you were to use it.”
“Ah,” Evela said. “You are mistaken. Lord Ilfedo is not of dragon blood.”
Caritha smiled. Surely the sword smith had cornered himself.
But the man laughed—long and loud. “Thou art so innocent of that weapon’s true nature,” he said. “It is a weapon of living fire, not of dragon blood. The difference is vast, yet you cannot begin to understand. I could not explain it to you, and if I tried, I would likely fail.
“For the time being it must be enough that I do understand, that the Sword of Ilfedo covered me in living fire, and that I have the knowledge to use your gift for the good of mankind.”
He frowned and swung the white-hot blade to point at them. “Do you believe I am a deceiver? Or have you any cause to think that I mean harm to the people of this land? And what of my faith? Do you find it in thine hearts to condemn me?”
The sisters regarded him in silence. One by one they lowered their blades.
“Surely thou hast seen purity in my heart. Otherwise I would not still be standing.” Linsair relaxed his frown. “Trust me, dragon daughters, I intend only good.”
Caritha sheathed her sword and nodded for the others to follow her lead. “Forgive us, Linsair. It is only—that we have lost so much, and we are cautious.”
“Thou art deceiving thyself, Warrioress. It is not caution which compels you.” The smith lowered the sword, resting it on the anvil. “It is fear.
He glanced from one face to the next. “Now, who will sacrifice a drop to empower this weapon?”
For a long while no one answered his plea. Then Rose’el stepped forward, drew a dagger from her belt, and pricked her finger. A single crimson drop splashed onto the sword. The metal thrummed as if it were the bass string on a harp. The blade glowed pure white, and Linsair beat it with his silver hammer. Sparks flew in every direction, and he smiled down at Rose’el. Flipping the blade on his anvil, he beat it with such rapid strokes that Caritha could not distinguish one strike from another.
Linsair plunged the sword into a barrel. The metal sizzled; steam rose in billowing clouds. Linsair held forth the sword, and it radiated white light. “Now you see.” He smiled again. “My promise is true.”
Caritha took a step forward. “Very well, Linsair, your point is well made.” She swallowed and glanced at her remaining sisters. “We will contribute a thousand drops of blood to be used in the creation of swords of light for the Elite.”
He nodded and went back to work. She glanced at the floor and walked up to him, putting her mouth close to his ear. His arm froze in place as he listened. “Later I have a favor to ask of you, sword smith.”
Six years later the final wall rose in Fort North. Two dozen men strained at the ropes, holding it in place as others pegged it to the adjacent walls. Ombre, Honer and Ganning mingled with the laborers. One man slipped and fell, letting loose his rope. The wall leaned toward him, threatening to fall.
“Ah no, it doesn’t!” Ganning limped up to the wall and threw his weight against it. “You stay where you are.”
The wall groaned, the full weight leaning on Ganning. Ombre and Honer ran up, whipping off their shirts and braced themselves alongside him.
Ilfedo stood nearby and glanced over his shoulder at his officers. “Lend them a hand.”
“Aye, my lord.” The officers stripped off their shirts and weapons and ran to the tilting wall. Soon the barrier stood straight and firm. Five hundred men cheered, clapped each other on the back, and marched onto the parade grounds.
Ilfedo’s officers slipped out of the crowd, donned their shirts, and belted their swords to their sides. They lined up behind him, and he led them between the ranks of smiling faces to the fort’s central structure made of sizeable logs. He climbed a short flight of stairs and stood on the
porch.
Down on the parade ground the men gazed back at him. Honer strode through the ranks and up the stairs until he stood beside him. Ganning limped up after, leaning on the porch rail. Ombre walked through the crowd. The men stepped out of his path, acknowledging his passage with slight, respectful bows. At last he too made his way up the steps and smiled at Ilfedo.
Ilfedo smiled back and faced his soldiers. Six years of hard labor had paid off. The fort filled the valley where once his men had encamped to hunt Art’en. Today log walls encircled the valley at its crest, and the trees camouflaged them from prying eyes.
“Today,” he shouted, “thanks to your hard work, the citizens of the Hemmed Land know peace. Peace from the strange creatures that would hunt us from without and within our borders. The land has been tamed, and the towns are growing into cities.”
He frowned. “Where once a young man could lose his father and mother in a single night to a wilderness beast, today those beasts have been hunted down. Where once the Sea Serpents haunted our shores, now coastal towns prosper. And where the Art’en flew into our northern forests, we have erected a fort.”
The men cheered long and then feasted that night. Ilfedo slipped away from the milling crowd with Ombre. “I’m going home to see my little girl. It has been too long.”
Ombre raised a mug of juice and smiled. “Safe journey, Lord of the Hemmed Land!” Ilfedo turned to go, but Ombre laid a hand on his shoulder. “I almost forgot.” He set his mug on the ground and dug into his pocket before putting something small into Ilfedo’s hand. “Please give this to her.” Picking up the mug he walked off, eyes fastened on his cup.
Ilfedo watched him go, watched him mingle with the crowd. He shook his head. Ombre wanted a family badly, and he probably would have had one by now if he didn’t have his eye on a certain woman. Caritha rarely let down her guard in Ombre’s presence. And so Oganna had filled the gap. “Someday, Ilfedo. Someday I’ll have a little angel of my own,” his friend would often say.
Ilfedo tucked the gift into his pocket and tightened his backpack’s straps. A long hike lay ahead of him, and Linsair had sent word that he’d completed the swords for the Elite Thousand.
The forest swallowed Ilfedo in its lonely embrace. He left the sword of the dragon in its scabbard, preferring a slow pace over bright light. Owls swooped from the trees, catching mice. A vixen raced through the bushes, barking at her three pups as they stopped to stare curiously up at him. They nipped at one another’s ears, played with each other’s tails, and rolled in the leaves.
He skirted the area and continued south toward home. It was a moonless night, and soon the depths of the forest grew too dark for him to see his path. Drawing the sword of the dragon from its sheath, he let the living fire clothe him in armor of light. The brightness obscured his surroundings, and he closed his eyes, hoping to somehow dim the light through will-power. When he looked, the blade no longer sprayed harsh light into the forest but glowed instead, gently illuminating every stone, tree, and creature in his path.
Until early morning he journeyed without stopping to rest. A few hours later he pressed on as Yimshi’s rays split the sky. A rooster crowed in the distance, a reminder that the wilderness had been tamed. He shook his head. If only it had never been tamed. He preferred the wild, untamed land of his childhood. But that sort of land was not a place to raise his only child.
When he finally arrived home, the smell of onion soup greeted him. He opened the door.
“Father!” Oganna was six now. He spread his arms wide and dropped to his knees, letting a relieved smile play across his face. She raced from the kitchen, radiant with childish joy. Her blond tresses were so fair that they could have been woven gold. Her gold-blue eyes sparkled, and she giggled before throwing herself into his arms, pressing her cheek against his, and grabbing his hair in her small hands.
Evela stood up by the fireplace, resting her hand on the mantel. Her eyes shone almost as brightly as his daughter’s.
“How is my little angel?” He kissed his child’s forehead and lifted her off the floor, holding her at arms’ length. “My goodness, have you grown in this past month?”
She laughed as he set her down. “Look what Rose’el made for me.” She twirled, permitting him a full evaluation of the purple dress fashioned in the manner of the Warrioresses—and of Dantress’s.
“It is beautiful.” He kissed her forehead again and strode to the fireplace.
With a long wooden spoon Evela stirred the contents of the pot hanging over the flames. “Are you hungry, my lord?”
“Truly starved.” He kissed her hand, immediately regretting it as her cheeks flushed. Over the past years her actions had told him that she held a romantic place for him in her heart. He sighed and turned to Oganna. “How would you like to take a walk after breakfast? Just the two of us.”
She jumped up and down. “Oh yes! I would, I would!” Then she stopped and curtsied, glancing up at Evela. “I mean, of course I would love to, Father.”
“Then we shall.” He glanced around the room. “Is anyone else home?”
“Aunt Caritha was gone when I woke up. I know Rose’el and Aunt Levena went berry-picking.” The child stuck her finger between her teeth and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know what happened to Aunt Laura.”
Evela stopped stirring and pulled the spoon out of the soup. She dabbed her finger in the pot and licked it. “Laura will be back soon. She’s checking the garden for tomatoes.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Perfect.”
“Oganna.” Ilfedo dug into his pocket and lowered his voice. “I need a few minutes alone with your aunt, so I’d like you to go outside. Can you do that for me?”
Her smile melted, and she turned away. He grabbed her shoulder. “Hold a second, my little one. Ombre gave me—well, I’m not sure what it is—but I have something here for you.” Pulling it from his pocket, he placed it in her outstretched hands. The firelight revealed a wooden wolf, finely carved.
Oganna’s face lit up, and she bounded to her bedroom at the opposite side of the house, closing the door after her.
“That was nice of him,” Evela said. She stopped stirring and sat on the hearth, gazing up at Ilfedo.
Clearing his throat he sat next to her. How should he do this? He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Ilfedo, what’s wrong?” She slipped her hand into his, her dark eyes earnestly searching his.
He felt awful, yet he had to do it. He pulled his hand away from hers. “I can see you have feelings for me,” he said at last. “These past few years it has become more and more apparent to me and to those around me.”
“Ilfedo, what are you saying?”
“Please, please let me finish.” He swallowed. “It has taken me a long time to work up the nerve to approach you about this.”
He hesitated, and in that moment she smiled shyly, lowering her gaze. “Then you feel something for me?”
“No.” He watched her eyes well with tears. How heavy his heart felt. But the truth had to be told. “I’m so very, very sorry.” He touched her hand, and she glanced down at it. A few of her tears splashed onto his skin. “Please understand. It is not you. In fact, if I were inclined to remarry, you would make a wonderful wife. And I’ve seen how my little girl looks up to you.
“But for me … for me there was and always will be only one woman. I loved her with all that I had. My heart is and always will remain empty where Dantress once filled it.
“I don’t want to deny you happiness, but neither will I deceive you. I am still grieving for your sister. And my grief is as fresh—as painful—as the day she died.” Suddenly the memories of Dantress flooded his mind, and his heart ached. He bent over in pain, weeping as he clutched his chest. Tears spilled from his eyes, and every tear spawned a new pain in his body until he felt small and childlike.
Evela stood, tears running down her own face. “Y … yes,” she sobbed. “I do l … love you. But you have hardened your heart to
the world. You cannot see and cannot allow me to love you because you are unwilling to let go of your pain. You are unwilling to heal. I pity us the joy we will never know because of your scars.” With that she kissed his cheek and ran her soft hand down his face.
He instinctively closed his eyes. Her hand comforted him.
She withdrew it, cupping her hands over her face, and fled out the door sobbing.
As he sat there, miserable and heartbroken, Oganna opened her door and came to him. “Father? You are crying.” She hugged him, burying her head in his chest. Such tenderness washed over him. He clutched her to himself, wishing that somehow the pain would vanish.
When he thought his sobbing had ended, he released her. But looking upon her, little beauty that she was, his heart pained him again. Tears flowed down his cheeks.
“Father, don’t cry!” She gazed back into his eyes and clutched his shirt with her hands. As he sobbed, he saw her chest heave, too. His tears slowed, but they rained from her eyes. Oganna clutched at her own chest, and his pain vanished. With a startled cry, she fainted in his arms.
“Help! Someone help me!” His pain had disappeared and his tears had stopped flowing, but he could not rouse his daughter. “No! I will not lose you, too.”
Caritha watched Linsair drop his hammer on the broad side of the blade of a long sword. White-hot sparks splintered from the metal, and a wave of heat washed over him. Whereas sweat dripped down her face, the large man before her did not show a hint of moisture.
The walls of the deep underground cave where the smith worked had been hardened and singed by his tireless forging. He’d forbidden anyone else to enter the cave save for she, Ilfedo, and her sisters.
Offspring (The Sword of the Dragon) Page 12