by Jack Geurts
The blacksmith just sat there, huddled in the folds of his cloak and nursing a cup of undiluted wine. He might have had some kind of speech prepared on the dangers of the bush after dark, but it had likely been forgotten somewhere between his third and fourth refill. Either that or he no longer possessed the clarity of mind to do it justice.
Whatever the case, he jerked his head in the direction of the loft. The boy breathed an inward sigh of relief and scampered up the ladder like a mouse released from the lion’s paw.
Their house was typical of the town. Four long, narrow rooms arrayed around a central courtyard open to the air, with an open hearth where a fire could be lit beneath the stars. Two of the rooms ran alongside the courtyard, separated by rows of wooden poles that held up their roofs. On the right side of the courtyard was a workshop. On the left, a kitchen with a dung-fuelled oven, and a pen where they kept two irritable goats.
A third room ran across the back of these and was primarily a storage area. Above this was an upstairs loft where they slept, and which allowed access to the rooftops of the downstairs rooms on either side of the courtyard. From either of these, it was possible to climb a ladder onto the roof, where occasionally Gaius and the boy laid out under the stars on warmer nights.
Wealthier folk often had a shaded rooftop area where they, too, might sleep in more seasonal weather, or simply sip their wine and watch the sun set over the fields and the bush.
The boy peered down from the loft and saw his master scratching Merlin absent-mindedly behind the ears. The dog wagging his tail and oblivious to any tension in the house.
He was a powerful man, Gaius, in presence if not in stature. When he spoke, he did so with force and verve, enunciating his words where the boy tended to mumble. He might have made a good orator in another life, or perhaps even a lawyer.
He was sixty or thereabouts, and had darker skin than the boy – than anyone in town, for that matter. But his skin colour wasn’t where the townsfolk found fault with him. They had plenty of other reasons not to like him, and his blackness was not so strange as to shun him from his neighbours. Indeed, the boy had seen people with the same pigmentation only two hours away in Daetia, and no one seemed to mind at all.
It was well known that the Kemish slave camps had been a melting pot of ethnicities. Certainly, members of other races had been assimilated into the Liberite nation before and during the Great Departure, so it was common to see people of all colours, from light tan to dark black, especially in a port town like Daetia, where people came from all over to trade.
In truth, what the townsfolk found more offensive about Gaius was his baldness.
The boy had often tried to grow a beard, and each time, it came in all sparse and patchy. Gaius joked that at least if he wanted to grow a beard, he could. But every day, he took a straight razor to his face and scalp, leaving only his eyebrows untouched.
He did so in defiance of local custom, which was to wear the beard long and uncut, and to do the same with the hair. The boy had often asked him why he did this, and Gaius told the boy that he stopped considering himself a part of that town long ago. Besides, there were more pressing things than a hairless blacksmith for the neighbours to talk about behind his back.
But the boy was never totally convinced by that argument. Occasionally, he caught himself wondering whether Gaius did it for his benefit, so he wouldn’t feel so alone – even at the cost of his own isolation. That thought in itself was enough to get the boy through most days, even if it wasn’t true.
Down below, Gaius blew out the lamp but continued to sit there awhile, on a bench he’d built into the mudbrick wall by his workshop. When it became apparent that his master was not going to move, Merlin curled up at his feet and went to sleep.
Gaius did not sleep.
He looked out at the darkness where the Tall Timber lay in wait. It was not so much what lurked out there that scared him, as what lurked within his own town. The sideways glances and whispers out of earshot.
The boy was not from here.
He was one of them.
He couldn’t be trusted.
For years, Gaius had endured it. The boy had endured it. He let himself grow content with the assumption that no one would dare to harm him, but every now and then, he felt that old familiar dread creeping back into his bones.
He wondered what would happen if tomorrow he slipped and broke his neck. What would happen to the boy then, without him there to act as guard?
A part of him knew that the boy didn’t need his protection. He had seen him do things beyond imagining. The townsfolk had, too, either directly or through what was told to them by someone else.
That was part of the fear of him. What he was. What he could do.
The other part was his name. Imharak. It was the name of a Kemite, not a Liberite, and only reinforced his coming from somewhere else. Somewhere people would rather forget.
They hated the boy and were terrified of him all at once, and Gaius knew it wasn’t him keeping the townsfolk at bay. It was the boy himself, and all the magnificent terror he was capable of. For the sake of social order, he had told his apprentice not to use the magic unless his life depended on it. And for the sake of his master, Imharak had agreed.
But a couple of times, his life had depended on it. Someone or multiple someones, usually drunk and brave and thinking they could take the kid. And each time, the fear in him was renewed. The hate.
He hadn’t killed anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time. And Caelos only knew what would happen to him then. Sure, he could take a few drunk farmers, maybe even more than a few. But a whole town coming at him with ropes and rocks and pointy things – that was another matter.
That was why he made Imharak take Merlin with him everywhere he went. It was why he taught the boy to use his words to solve problems. And if words failed, fists. And if fists failed, teeth. If teeth failed, steel. If steel failed, well...
Then he was free to unleash the side of him less human than the other.
Gaius figured he’d be gone in two years. He’d have earned his iron and would be free to find work in the cities. Free to leave this place. Free to change his name, hide his nature and get away from those who knew too much about him.
Just two more years.
In the meantime, Gaius imagined the boy not coming home at all tonight. He imagined going out and finding his body torn and broken.
He imagined burying him in a rock-cut tomb.
And he did not sleep a wink.
CHAPTER 2
The Demon-Child Of Alba
In the morning, Imharak told Gaius about the ruins he had seen and asked him what they were. Gaius shook his head as he removed the glowing iron from the forge and laid it on the anvil. “Don’t know.”
He tapped the iron with his hammer and Imharak brought the sledge down on that exact area. Gaius proceeded with a succession of taps based on where he wanted his apprentice to strike the iron and how hard.
The harder he tapped, the harder Imharak struck. All the while, Gaius turned the iron with his other hand, so the sledgehammer came down exactly where and how hard he wanted it.
The relationship between a blacksmith and his striker was an odd one, but fascinating to watch. There existed a rhythmic shorthand between them in which they communicated not with words, but with taps.
And now that they had begun, there were no words. That was the whole point of the thing – to be able to communicate efficiently without the blacksmith having to point out where he wanted the iron struck and trying to describe how hard. In this particular circumstance, showing was easier than telling.
Imharak could hear the most minuscule variation in pitch and answer it with the perfect strike to meet his master’s demand. There was an intimate understanding between them, born of many years working side by side, that enabled this process to flow efficiently. It was a conversation without speech, a discussion without words – just two people talking in the cold, hard language of st
eel.
They continued in this way for a minute or so, a series of alternating taps clanging loudly in the workshop like some dissonant, yet strangely beautiful music. Then Gaius laid his hammer flat on the anvil to signal they were done. Imharak let the sledge down, and Gaius threw the iron back in the forge.
The boy could already feel his tunic starting to stick to him, despite the morning’s chill. He pinched the cloth at his chest and moved it away from his body, then back in several times, sucking in a few drafts to cool his sweat-damp skin. Gaius did the same.
Imharak hadn’t been allowed to work metal right away. The first year or so was wasted on menial tasks like the organising and storing of tools after work, sweeping up, cleaning the forge. It was a proud day when he graduated to working the bellows. Then it was onto filing and later, striking.
Not that any of the more mundane chores were behind him, by any means. To the contrary, he still had to manage all that while taking on new work, learning new skills.
He’d take the ox-cart to Daetia for the shipment of sponge iron that came weekly from the mines of Erephos. He’d haul water from the well and charcoal from the earthen pit where they slow-burned logs for days under a blanket of soil and straw.
And it wasn’t as if Gaius didn’t help him with this, either. He did. He was just very selective about the jobs he chose to partake in, sure to leave the truly undesirable work to his apprentice.
Still, Imharak had to consider himself lucky. Gaius was a rare breed in Alba, in that a bullwhip was not an integral part of his tool kit. Indeed, for some men, it was the only tool they did use. The way things were, Gaius could have treated Imharak in any way he saw fit. He could have made him work his fingers to the bone, flogged him, beat him. Made him cook his food and pour his wine. But he didn’t. He wanted Imharak to be a good blacksmith. He wanted him to earn his iron and get out of this town in one piece.
That did not mean he was easy on the boy.
He worked him hard. But he also worked him right. He taught him the proper way to do things, and every now and then, they’d forge a certain tool. That tool would be placed alongside others they had made in a sturdy leather bag, and when the time came for Imharak to leave this place and become a journeyman, he would take that bag with him.
Though it was mandated by the Guild that any qualified apprentice leave their place of learning with their own kit, Gaius had told Imharak stories of other masters who gave their apprentices old and rusted tools. Hammers that broke upon their first beating, tongs that snapped, chisels that cracked.
His kit would not be that way.
His would be of such high quality that smiths from Erephos to Tenebris would welcome him with open arms. They would want to see what he could do with such fine tools, and when he showed them, they would rest assured that he was no rich man’s son.
In time, he could submit a piece of work to the Guild as a mark of his craftsmanship and become a master himself. Then he would be free to open his own shop, take on his own apprentice.
Gaius wanted all that for the boy and more. He wanted him to be able to work a forge anywhere, within Nemeros or without. Within Libera or without. To Kemet, if that’s where the wind took him. At least his name would not earn him judgment there.
He wanted the boy to go anywhere, be anyone. Most of all, Imharak thought, Gaius wanted him to be happy.
He wanted him to be happy in a way that Gaius himself had never been. If he’d ever known a wife or child, he didn’t tell the boy about it. On occasion, when his tongue was loosened by wine, he would mention a woman he had loved. But never did he say more. Never did he give her a name.
The boy watched his master eye the glowing piece and pretend he wasn’t thinking about what Imharak had said. Either he knew about the ruins and didn’t want to talk about them, or he had no idea what Imharak was talking about, and it was pointless asking him anyway.
Imharak took out the bronze amulet he had found among the coals and tossed it onto the workbench beside the forge. Gaius couldn’t help but see it.
“What worthless trinket have you got there?” he asked with a chuckle, and re-addressed the forge a little too quickly.
If Imharak had been less observant, he might have missed it.
The way the blacksmith’s eyes had swelled with recognition. The way his body stiffened ever so slightly. The way his jaw was now clenched and his eyes more intensely focused on a heating iron than Imharak had ever seen. Almost as if he had to fight not to take another glance at the amulet.
“I found it,” Imharak said. “In a temple.”
“Oh, there’s a temple now?” He sounded bemused, like this was a good story the boy was making up.
“Yeah. At the centre of the town. It looked like...” He tried to find the right words. “Like an army had come through there and laid waste to it all.”
Gaius just turned the iron and said nothing.
“But...there were no bodies,” Imharak went on. “Wouldn’t there be bodies if something like that had happened?”
In lieu of an answer, the blacksmith pretended like the heat was fading from his forge and set to working the bellows. He pumped air directly onto the coals, causing them to glow an incandescent orange. With each pump of the artificial lung, they grew hotter.
Imharak watched as he drew the iron out and set the hot end on the anvil. He lifted the hammer with his other hand and brought it down hard three times, ignoring the boy. After the third strike, he realised it still wasn’t hot enough and went to cast it back in.
But something stopped him.
Imharak had leaned forward and was holding the end of the iron. He had taken off his thick leather gloves and was holding the red-hot iron with his bare hand.
If he had been an ordinary boy, they would have been able to hear his skin sizzle, smell his flesh as it roasted.
But Imharak was no ordinary boy.
And his hand was not skin or flesh or bone, but solid steel now, halfway to the elbow.
Imharak just sat there holding the iron and looking up at his master like it was nothing. For his part, Gaius could only watch as the iron began to bend...
The glowing section of metal curved as if it had been suddenly and rapidly heated. Not enough to make it melt or droop down, but enough that Imharak could bend the steel by hand.
It wasn’t the first time Gaius had seen the boy do something like this, but it never ceased to amaze him.
After a few seconds, Gaius remembered where he was and yanked the iron away from his apprentice. He looked around through any windows that might have allowed an audience, but luckily, there was no one there.
Gaius thrust the iron into the coals with a fury even hotter than they were and turned back to face Imharak.
“What in the name of Caelos do you think you’re doing?!” he demanded, in a yell reduced to a whisper.
“Why won’t you tell me what happened to the town?”
Gaius could barely believe what he was hearing. “I don’t know what happened to the town. I’ve never even seen the town.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“No.”
“It’s not three hours walk from here.”
“Well, rarely do I have to travel three hours directly into the bush.”
Imharak couldn’t argue with that, but said, “I find it hard to believe that no one in Alba has seen this place.”
“Harder things have been believed. Trust me.”
He went to turn back to the forge.
“Don’t you find it all strange?” said Imharak.
Gaius whipped back around, keeping his voice low. “Yes, I find it strange. Abandoned ruins in the bush – very strange. Not strange enough to warrant you using magic and risk being seen by the whole town.”
“No one saw.” Imharak glanced down at his hand – not steel anymore, just ordinary skin.
“Not this time.” Gaius levelled the boy with a serious look. “But you know there are eyes everywhere. All of them
pointed at you, waiting for you to do something stupid. And here you are, doing something stupid. They’re waiting for any excuse, boy. You can’t give it to them.”
“I’m not afraid of them.”
Gaius chuckled again, but there was no mirth in it. “Oh, I am. And I’m not saying you should be too, but at the very least, you should be wary of them. Self-confidence is a good thing, but it pales in comparison to self-awareness.”
He turned back to the forge, apparently done with their conversation. Imharak decided not to press the issue. There was no convincing Gaius when he had his mind made up on something.
They continued to work through the morning.
Merlin was curled up on the mudbrick bench where Gaius had sat up waiting the previous night. When the sun rose high enough that its light began pouring into the courtyard, he opened one eye and stared for a long while before realising it was probably warmer over there.
With the tired reluctance of an old man, he rose, hopped down off the bench and shuffled out into the sun. Then he collapsed on the warm earth like it had taken his last ounce of strength and resumed his dozing.
Underneath the overhang, the goats scrabbled around in their pen and Imharak threw some hay to them, watching as they ate. When there was less work to be done, he took them out to the pasture of a local farmer in exchange for repairs or a day of labour during the harvest.
As with most undesirable work, it was not often Gaius doing the labour. He said the goats were fine where they were, but Imharak thought they needed to get out once and a while. Taste the fresh air, eat the fresh grass. He didn’t mind spending a day here and there in the fields.
He didn’t even mind the glares and whispers of the slaves out there with him. He’d gotten good at ignoring that kind of thing.
Master and apprentice worked until a voice was heard amidst the clang of hammer on steel. Their guest called out a few times, each louder and more impatient than the last, and when finally Gaius and Imharak turned, they saw a man standing in the doorway.