by David Welch
“But trouble soon came again. For, several years later, while walking through the market with her children, Osburu noticed her youngest standing beside a boy of similar age, and horror filled her eyes as she noticed the resemblance. As the day went on, she saw it again and again, in the faces of a dozen children in the village. At home that night, she broke down crying. Her husband returned late from the lord’s castle once again, and, knowing what to look for, she thought she detected a slight hint of perfume on him. She wept, for though she had a man who could match her constant desires, she found herself with a husband whose needs she was not enough to meet! Thus ends the story of Wandering Osburu.”
Ailwur folded his arms and smiled triumphantly, as if he’d just figured out some ancient and incredible secret. Herv shook his head, but there was a grin on his face nonetheless.
“So that’s your bawdy tale?” asked Turee. “Hell, my mom used to tell saltier stories than that!”
“Your mother?” Kamith asked, incredulous.
“Well not to me,” she said, “but she didn’t always know when I was listening, and my dad liked that kind of talk.”
Ailwur leered, saying, “Well, I know a few others—”
“Alright,” Herv said firmly. “Enough of that.”
Ailwur chuckled and got to his feet languorously. He retreated back to his straw seat and collapsed into it, stretching out his limbs to relax. Outside, the rain continued on, heavy as ever. For long minutes, there was silence.
“Well,” Herv said, ending the awkwardness. “We have all spoken. Perhaps you have something that’ll keep us entertained?”
Gunnar, Kamith, and Turee looked from one to another uneasily. Gunnar was sorely tempted to tell them about some of their adventures, but his better sense prevailed. They were still in the Freshwater kingdoms. Should he reveal some small detail about Turee’s royal parentage, there was still a slight chance, even so far away from Starth, that it could lead to trouble.
“If you don’t want to talk about you travels, surely you can tell us a tale from your homeland?” Herv pressed, looking to Kamith. “How about you, miss? Forgive my boldness, but we have rarely seen a woman with skin like yours. I would love to know about your people.”
Kamith frowned, saying, “I am the last of my people.”
“Oh,” Herv said, looking down, red-faced.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter what village or town or kingdom you live in. People are people. Nothing the people in my village did would be all that surprising to you,” she added.
Herv nodded, accepting her words. The awkward silence returned, but only for a moment.
“I have a story,” Gunnar said. “From my homeland beyond the Great Grasslands.”
“Beyond the Great Grasslands?” Merl said, shocked.
“Yes,” Gunnar said. “Beneath the Mountains of Ice, along the Spine of the World.”
“I-I didn’t know the grasslands ever ended,” Merl said, his amazement overwhelming his shyness. “What lies there?”
“Mountains,” Gunnar informed him. “Great mountains. They rise from the Great Grass, sudden and abrupt. They rise, and, at first, the forest thins and stunts, until the trees are no higher than a man’s waist. Then, the trees fall away, but the mountains rise still, until only grass grows. Then the grass dies, and there is only rock. Yet still, they rise. Atop these mountains, snow does not melt; it forms great ridges of ice that lift up boulders the size of a castle. So high are they that the air itself becomes thin, barely able to support a man’s breath.”
Merl’s eyes grew wide.
“There are two peoples in these lands. On the western edge of the Great Grasslands lay the Langal kingdoms. They build castles and walls and homes much like yours. They farm the river valleys and moist low-places, and they graze livestock across the rest. Above them, in the highlands, live the Tarn. They live on the slopes of the mountains and in the deep valleys between them. They grow few crops, mostly potatoes and cabbage, and pasture sheep and cattle.
“And though they both speak the same language, these two peoples hate each other. It is said that the Tarn once lived on the plains and were a plentiful people, but then the Langal came out of the east and drove them into the mountains, not having the strength to finish them off. They fight constantly. The Langal have power and numbers, and they raid the Tarn for slaves. The Tarn are ferocious fighters hardened by years spent living in the mountains, and they look for any excuse to burn a Langal village and terrify the locals. It has been this way for as long as any can remember.
“But it is not always blood and violence between us. The Langal have strict kings and religious orders which grind their people into the dust. Some cannot take it, and they flee to the mountains to regain their freedom. The Tarn are always wary of such people, but most have gone on to be accepted. So much has this happened that traditions of lowlanders fleeing to the mountains are as old as traditions of the Langal and Tarn killing each other. My own father was one such man. My dark eyes come from him. Lowlanders have dark eyes; most Tarn have lighter eyes of blue and grey.
“There is a story amongst my people, an old one, known by every adult and child. It has a thousand names, but the tale is basically the same. It begins in the lowlands, in the Langal kingdom of Harmon. There lived a man named ‘Alcidath’. He was a metalworker, working more than mere iron and steel. He could shape tin, copper, silver, even gold. He had a skill with it that few could match, a natural skill. Often, he would speak, to any who would listen, about how he could ‘see’ what the metal was trying to show him and ‘hear’ what it was trying to say. From his thirteenth winter on, he worked in his father’s shop. By fifteen, he was considered a master of the craft. Swords and spearheads for the local lords, rims for shields and wagon wheels, axe heads and hammer heads, nails and spikes, chain-mail and helmets and armor of all sorts, horseshoes and hoes and any farming gear you can think of, this man made it. And it took him no longer than any other blacksmith.
“So well did he work metal that, soon, most of the kingdom knew of his skill at the forge, and customers rolled in. He had collected a small fortune by the time he was twenty, and he had made weapons and armor for the leading knights of the kingdom. But this patronage was to lead to Alcidath’s downfall. One day, a knight rode up to the front of Alcidath’s shop. ‘Your armor saved me from an arrow, where other mail would have shattered and split,’ the knight proclaimed. ‘As a token of my thanks, I give you this slave. May you get many years of use out of him.’ And so the knight dropped a young boy who had been draped across his saddle. It was a small boy, barely seven winters.
While Alcidath may have made weapons of war, he was not a warrior. His heart cried for creation, and metal was the medium in which he worked. Faced with this child – ‘Ilvar’ was his Tarnish name – he found his soul troubled. The boy had light eyes and hair, and bronze skin. He was a typical Tarnish lad, and though he looked different from the dark-eyed, dark-haired, light-skinned boys of the Langal, Alcidath could see beyond the external differences, and he saw only a terrified child far from his home.
“Now you must understand that, in Harmon, in all of the lowland kingdoms, slaves are governed by strict rules. The Tarn are considered inferior, barely human, by the priests and kings of the lowlanders. They are treated very poorly. They cannot become subjects of the kings, they cannot become family, they cannot even be liberated. A slave is to be kept as a slave or killed. Never can they be returned to their people, or allowed to join Langal society in any way. But, as the weeks passed, Alcidath grew to know young Ilvar. He was a curious boy, too young to be of much help in the shop, but endlessly trying to figure out how everything worked. While he knew he was supposed to despise this child, Alcidath could not help but be amused by the child’s precociousness. Before long, Ilvar had figured out the bellows and was able to operate them for Alcidath. He knew then that he could never kill this child, and that he could not keep him either. He knew the child’s family must miss him, o
r be mourning his enslavement as a fate worse than death. Alcidath knew what must be done. While freeing a slave was punishable by imprisonment, it was not unheard of in the Langal kingdoms. Some of the more compassionate amongst them had occasionally released slaves in secret, then reported to their lords that they had run off in the night. Alcidath intended to do just that.
“On the pretense of delivering a sword and armor to a lord at a frontier fortress, Alcidath travelled to the edge of the kingdom. Having only seen the great peaks from the distance, he was overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the Mountains of Ice. Just shy of the fortress, he pulled off the road, finding a small nook in a hill on the prairie where he could hide until nightfall. His plan was simple: come nightfall, he would ride up to the mountains and release young Ilvar to find his way home. Then, he would ride along the base of the peaks through the night, pretending he was looking for his ‘runaway’ slave. When daylight came, and the soldiers saw him, he would tell them of his escaped slave and put on a show of looking for the child, but, by then, Ilvar would be far up the peaks, where lowlanders did not go, except in force.
“But the Gods Above were in a fickle mood. Not long after Ilvar disappeared into the woods, he slipped on a wet stone and broke his ankle. Lost and alone, Ilvar crawled through the forest until he came out in front of the frontier fortress. The soldiers saw him and captured him with ease. Seeing that he was Tarn, and branded as a slave, they took him into the fortress to be killed. Alcidath did not know any of this, and he continued riding. When morning came, and the soldiers spotted him in the distance, they rode out to meet him. When they saw he was a lowlander, they asked, ‘What brings you to the frontier, sir?’ and Alcidath replied, ‘My brat of a slave ran off as I rode towards the fortress. I am searching for him.’ At this, the slaves laughed, saying, ‘I am afraid you are too late, sir. The child slave was captured last night and subjected to the same fate as all slaves who try to escape!’
“Alcidath’s heart went cold, but he maintained his composure. Holding out small hope that Ilvar might still be alive, he rode with the soldiers towards the fortress. But as he came within sight, he saw a small, tortured body hanging by the neck from the walls of the fort. It was Ilvar, lifeless.
“Alcidath showed no emotion at the sight, for those who helped slaves escape fared little better than the slaves themselves. He mouthed words of regret that he would have to find a new slave and then rode slowly back to his camp. There, he waited and mourned. Day slipped away, and as it did, Alcidath knew that there was no going back to his shop or his people. When night fell, he rode to where he had released Ilvar. There, he took his pack and a spear, and he began climbing the great ranges of the Mountains of Ice. None followed, for none knew of his plans. He was alone.
“Born on the plains, Alcidath was ill-prepared for the rocky crags of the Mountains of Ice. Yet he persisted, spending most of his first day climbing high into the peaks, avoiding the valleys that cut into the mountains, where Lowlanders would sometimes raid. Unaccustomed to the steep terrain and thin air, his progress was slow and soon observed. Tarn lookouts saw him as soon as he broke the treeline. When he settled to camp, they came to him, swords and axes ready.
“Alcidath held up his hands in surrender. Having taken in many exiles and misfits from the lowlands before, the Tarn were patient. They knew a lone man was no threat and that he was probably seeking refuge. But lowlander kings had sent spies under the guise of refugees, so they acted cautiously, unwilling to lower their weapons until Alcidath explained himself.
“‘I seek asylum with your people,’ he explained. ‘A slave of mine, a young boy I had grown quite fond of, was murdered by soldiers of the king. I could no longer be amongst them. It was too painful to hear others speak of your people as if they were animals, when I knew from experience that they were not.’
“Their weapons lowered slightly, but the caution remained. Finally, Alcidath said, ‘I do not expect you to trust me; I know I am an outsider to your people. But I can be of service. I am a blacksmith. I have made weapons and armor for the soldiers of Harmon and for many others. I can make them for your people just as easily.’
“The leader of the lookouts nodded slowly, but wariness remained in his eyes. ‘We shall bring you to Hrattar,’ he said. ‘He is the chief of the nearest village. He will decide if you are of worth to our people.’ So they camped there that night and travelled the next day, deeper into the mountains. By sunset, they had come to a mountain valley. The high slopes of the peaks were covered in elk and game. On the lower slopes, square patches of trees had been cleared away, leaving only lines of wood between them. Here grazed cattle and sheep. On the valley floor, plots of land were farmed. They clustered around a swift creek that ran through the valley’s center. Small farmsteads and homes dotted the valley. In the center sat a village of stone buildings, surrounded by a twenty-foot stone wall. This was the Ice Horn Village. It had been named for a vast wall of ice that sat on a peak far above the village. This ice lasted throughout even the hottest of summers, barely even shrinking. It was shaped like the horns of a bull. Ice Horn was one of the easternmost villages, but its location in a high valley gave it protection from the lowlanders. Alcidath knew when he first saw it that he could be safe there, should the Tarn accept him.
“He was brought before Hrattar, who, even as Chief, had to tend to his livestock like any other man. Hrattar had been cutting meat into strips to dry, but he turned from his work to meet the newcomer. Nearby, Alcidath could not help but notice, a young woman milked a cow while a small girl ran about. From the resemblance, he could clearly tell that this was the chief’s daughter, though what had become of her husband, he did not know. He knew enough of the Tarn to know women did not live in their father’s house after marriage.
“Whether Hrattar noticed him appreciating his daughter, I do not know; the story doesn’t tell. Hrattar walked up to Alcidath and looked him over. He said simply, ‘Why did you come here?’ Alcidath gave the same story he’d given the guards, not mentioning that he felt guilty for not following the boy and helping him up the mountain. Alcidath rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, ‘Why would you care for the life of one of our children? We’re animals to you.’ To which Alcidath replied, ‘No, you are not. Perhaps once I was foolish enough to think so, but I could see clearly in the eyes of young Ilvar that he was as much a boy as any lowlander.’
“Hrattar seemed to understand this, but he had not become chief by being gullible or simple. He asked more questions of Alcidath, learning of his skills with metal. It was here that Alcidath saw his opportunity. He nodded towards the men guarding him and said, ‘With charcoal, fire, and a bellows, I can make the steel of your swords and axes much stronger. When the lowlanders come raiding, you will not find your weapons breaking as often or dulling as quickly.’
“To this Hrattar raised an eyebrow and said, ‘You think you can do better than our smiths?’ To which Alcidath replied, ‘It is no false boast to say that I was one of the best blacksmiths in Harmon. I made weapons for the king’s bodyguards. I can teach your people the secret of their steel.’
“Hrattar decided then to give Alcidath a chance to prove himself. He said, ‘You may stay here for one month. Make for me a sword, armor, and helmet. I shall use them in the challenge ring. If they perform as you say, I shall extend to you a permanent invitation to Ice Horn. Our current blacksmith has seen fifty winters and his spirit will pass before too much longer. He is in need of an ‘apprentice’, and I think you may be able to fit the position nicely, provided your steel performs as you say.’
“Alcidath accepted the challenge, and he was sent to the smith. Both he and Hrattar knew that the smith could teach him little; that, in all likelihood, he knew more of working metal than the old man. But Turvein the blacksmith welcomed him. He had no children, and his wife had died of fever two years prior, so he was grateful for the company and the conversation. Alcidath spent half of each day helping Turvein meet his customer’s needs,
making nails and farming implements, but each afternoon, he worked on Hrattar’s sword, armor, and helmet. He started by digging a pit before the shop, where he added charcoal and soil and a pipe for blowing air. Using a technique only he knew, he worked the steel at lower heat than most, strengthening it. When it emerged, he forged it, creating a longsword with a pattern like the ripples of a pond. Turvein had seen nothing like it. He took more of the steel and made loops of metal, tiny ones half the size of the nail on your little finger. He made hundreds and laboriously looped them together into a dense, though somewhat heavy, coat of mail. Finally, he forged the helmet, welding small pieces of steel together into a stiff bowl, then lining it with leather, boiled hard.
“As he worked, the chief’s daughter would stop by to appraise the work being done for her father. Though she was reluctant to talk to Alcidath, he managed to learn that her name was ‘Jarsava’, and that her husband had indeed passed away, killed while she was pregnant by one of the great brown bears that lived in the Mountains of Ice. Though she tried to remain cool to him, she asked questions of the lowlands, which he did his best to answer. When Alcidath had finished his work on her father’s armor, she arrived, and looked at the work with a critical eye. ‘I have never seen such patterns on a sword before,’ she said, pointing out the wave-like lines in the steel. ‘Soon, all Tarn men will be wanting it,’ Alcidath replied confidently. ‘And I will teach all your smiths the secret of making it.’ Whether this impressed her, he did not know. Jarsava was masterful when it came to hiding her emotions. She brought the armor to her father, and Alcidath awaited word that he would enter the ring and put his work to the test.