The energy and power he often felt when working in the forge grew within him, stronger than ever before. The metal sang to him, he was one with the hammer, the anvil, the forge. This would be a master piece. He could feel it, he knew it. Dell and Reece would be pleased when Von presented them with these prizes.
He pounded the metal, folded it, again and again. The power built within him, became a song, built in tempo, built in volume.
He worked in the forge fires with skill and artistry, drawing upon all that was taught him in his years of training, blending the techniques together, changing them slightly, making them his own. He worked by instinct, sheer talent, incorporating all the brawn, force, power, energy, speed he could muster.
The power was growing. Building to a climax. Each hammer stroke continued the song. It sang to him a melody, one of his own making. He laid a pattern into the metal. Layer after invisible layer. Each building upon the other. Fitting perfectly into an intricate puzzle.
“What’s going on here?”
The voice startled Von. He whirled around.
Berkler stood just a few paces away. The man possessed the face of a weasel and Von often thought of him as such. There was not much left of his sand colored hair, and his body was just as thin and appeared frail, but years working as a blacksmith had actually made him strong and wiry. Those who thought Old Berk, as many called him, was weak did not know the man.
“What’s going on here?” he repeated.
“Nothing,” Von answered, shaken by the appearance of the man. “I”m just working.”
“On what?” Berkler demanded.
“Just a dagger,” Von answered.
Berkler scrutinized the dagger on the anvil then gazed back at Von. “Doesn’t look too remarkable. What kind of techniques are you using?”
“Just what I’ve been shown,” Von said, not willing to share with Berkler the strange feeling that had overcome him. He hoped Berkler didn’t look too closely at the dagger. Berkler had no right to know about the alloy or the cave.
Berkler stared Von down. Von shrunk under the gaze, wished he could leave, just turn and go, ensure his secret stayed safe, but Berkler was a master blacksmith and demanded respect. Von was not in a position to talk back to him or refuse to answer his questions.
“I’m going to watch you, make sure you’re not being sloppy.”
Von sighed and Berkler’s eyes narrowed.
Von couldn’t argue. It was supposed to be a privilege to have a master blacksmith watch you, critique you. If Von was honest with himself, one of the reasons he was so talented was Berkler’s unreasonable interest in him. For some reason Von felt less than privileged. He turned and began working again. With Berkler watching, Von was uncomfortable. He continued to work with flawless technique, but his excitement was gone, the power that filled him no longer there. Missing. It left a void, one Von couldn’t fill. He wasn’t sure he wanted it back, not with Berkler standing behind him. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder, see what Berkler was doing.
Hours passed and Berkler became agitated. He began to criticize Von, analyzing his every hammer stroke.
“More power in your strike.
“No, not that much. Use a larger hammer.
“Heat the blade again.
“Your fire is getting too cold.
“Work the bellows more evenly. Smooth motions.
“Turn the blade. More of an angle.
“Fold the metal again.”
The berating continued through the afternoon until the blade was finally complete. Von quenched the dagger in the oil barrel and held it up. Berkler snatched it from his grip.
The man turned the weapon over in his hands. Von knew Berkler was admiring the work.
“A fine blade, but you still have much to learn. We will do this again, and soon.” He gave the dagger back to Von.
Von watched Berkler leave. At least the afternoon wasn’t an entire waste. Two daggers nearly complete. They only needed hilts and leather wrappings. That shouldn’t be too hard. Harvest Celebration was still days away.
He wondered about that strange feeling, the mysterious growing power. Where had it come from? Why did it leave? The feeling was not new to him. It came to him often when he worked, but never so powerfully. He turned the dagger over in his hands, much like Berkler had, and examined it. The weapon was flawless, like its’ twin that sat on the shelf. Von laid the new dagger down carefully next to the first, studied them both for a moment.
He set his hammer on the anvil with a weary sigh and started cleaning up the shop. It was going to be a late night. He still needed to muck out the stables. Berkler sure knew how to ruin a day.
Chapter Three
Wellen arose early, wishing once again Baiden would have been willing to send someone else, someone younger. He did not enjoy sleeping away from home and last night was a particularly restless one. Still, it was better than the previous nights spent on the long boat. Four weeks on the road was not easy on an old man’s bones, so he was glad that he could finally see an end in sight.
Jaramen, the Halfen clan cleric, had been more than accommodating. The room Jaramen provided was easily large enough for a small family. Currently Wellen was the only occupant.
The wash water was cold from sitting all night on the bed stand, but was clean and helped clear Wellen’s head. He would need a sharp mind to convince Chief Cray to listen to reason. Wellen had come to the Halfen last. He knew with the strength of the other six clans now behind Baiden, Cray would be more likely to fall in line. Often the clan chiefs were not easy to win over. The fact Wellen had already secured the support of the other six was the only reason Wellen even bothered to come here at all. Cray would be the most difficult by far.
The Halfen were a mixed breed. Generations ago they consisted of escaped slaves and pirates more than Northmen. Their ancestors created a safe haven for themselves here in the north, intermarrying with the native people and adopting much of the culture. Not considered true Northmen at first, they were called half northmen, then half men. Eventually they became their own clan, the Halfen, a fact that was forgotten by almost all but the clerics.
From his travel pack Wellen pulled an intricately woven mat and laid it carefully on the floor. Clearing his thoughts he knelt and began to prepare his mind and body for the task at hand. His morning meditations gave him the strength he needed to come this far. This morning he would need more strength than he thought he had left. His rhythmic breathing calmed him as he opened his mind to the distance. Discerning the horizon. His father had taught him this skill. Most clerics could do it easily, but with mixed results. Most never saw anything more than the next storm coming in from the west sea. Some clerics were more gifted. Wellen knew of none that were as gifted as the ancients. Malaar, the cleric of the Celtens, was the most talented in all the seven clans. His young apprentice, Byen showed even more promise. For that reason the Celtens had been easy to convince. Malaar and Byen were plagued with the same visions that began troubling Wellen since before the snows melted last spring. Visions of a black cloud engulfing the lands to the south and moving northward. Visions of fierce storms wrecking havoc on the seven clans. Wellen knew these were no true storms.
Wellen reached his mind out to the distant horizon and felt the cloud there, waiting. It was closer this time. More menacing. The billowing grey formation was growing, building in strength. Threatening to send wind, hail, and lightning down upon the people of the north.
A knock at the door interrupted Wellen’s thoughts. “Wellen, are you in there?” The voice was a strange mix of apology and impatience. “Cray is waiting. He will see you now.”
Wellen arose and answered the door. Jaramen stood in the open doorway, ready to escort Wellen to Cray. The Halfen cleric also sensed something amiss in his dreams, but the Halfen people rarely gave thought to what their clerics advised. They did as they wished with no thought of the consequences. Wellen wondered why they even kept a cleric around.
The hall of the Halfen was nearly identical in design to the Kailfen’s. All the halls belonging to the seven clans were similar in pattern and size. Even some of the larger towns possessed their own, but the Halfen hall was a little different than most others. Their only tapestries depicted gory battle scenes and most of those were stained with beer and mead and blood. Wellen thought they should at least clean up after themselves. This place was a breeding ground for disease. Once again Wellen wondered why the Halfen even bothered to have a cleric. Maybe it was to take care of them after they sat in their own filth for so long. The timber walls were just as stained as the tapestries and held more weapon displays than any of the other clans. Those weapons, Wellen would wager against the Cleric’s Cup, had been used on more than one occasion. He shuddered at the thought of being trapped inside this stink hole if a fight broke out.
Cray, the aging Halfen chief, was seated at the table at the head of the room. Ky and Pleven, his two remaining councilors were at his side. Wellen recently heard a rumor Cray killed the third councilor for giving advice he didn’t agree with. Not exactly wise, but Wellen had never met a Halfen he thought was.
Cray spoke before Wellen made it halfway down the hall. Rude.
“Rumors travel faster than you do it seems. I have been expecting you for weeks.” Common courtesy dictated that Cray wait until Wellen made it to the head of the hall, and a visiting cleric demanded more respect than just common courtesy.
“I was delayed by the early snows. I bring greetings from Baiden and the Kailfen.” Wellen gave a slight bow, trying hard to sound pleasant. “I am honored that you have received me with such dignity.” Wellen disliked playing this foolish game with Cray. It was the same way with Cray’s father and his uncle before that. Wellen did his best to hide his displeasure. Despite how he felt he did not want to sound, nor appear, annoyed or irritated.
“You honor us. Would you like to share some of our breakfast?” Only scraps remained and none of that appeared to be anything Wellen desired to ingest.
“I thank you, no. I have been well taken care of...”
Cray interrupted him in mid sentence. “I trust you were. You cleric types are so friendly with one another. Now what good news comes from our brothers in the south?”
Azmark was located more west than south of here. Wellen let the feeble attempt at an insult slide.
“The new city-states in the south squabble over land while an army mounts at their doors. They will be overrun in a matter of weeks once that army decides to move. We will be next.” Wellen was done with small talk. “We must send envoys of peace and offers of alliance to all the city-states. Our armies must assemble and help defend these southern lands. If we stop the Black Horde there, we may have a chance. If we wait we will have none.”
Ky spoke as if he were the clan chief. “Baiden wished us to assemble our armies eight years ago to win back Evenfelle, though it had already been lost. You remember what disaster befell us then.”
Wellen remembered all too well. The Halfen lost few men in that attempt, if any. Most of them stayed at home, and those that did go, did so against the wishes of their chief, who at the time was Cray’s father.
“We are better off without Evenfelle,” Ky continued. “We are free. We have not been harmed in these eight years and we will not ever be. The Black Horde fears to come to the north.”
“The Dominion does not fear us,” Wellen countered. The Dominion was the true name of the Black Horde, what they called themselves, but most men used the name given to them out of fear. The Dominion truly was a Black Horde, swarming like locusts over the southern mountains, devouring all in their wake. Their leader, the Demon Mage, used dark magics Wellen little understood, nor did he want to. “They have been occupying themselves with the Gothen Isle. The Gothen Navy could hold their shores safe for only so long. The island is being pillaged as we speak.”
It was Cray’s turn to argue. “Ky has spoken true. We have been safe these last eight years. No harm has come to us. Why should we fear now?”
“The Horde is moving north...”
“Yes, yes.” Cray waived a dismissive hand. “I have heard all about your dreams and night visions. You clerics can’t even predict the weather. How can you foresee the movements of armies.”
“My ‘dreams’ are not what has warned us of the movements of the Dominion. There have been reports.”
“These reports do not say anything of an invasion this far north,” barked Ky. “Baiden is suffering from a guilty conscience. He failed as Keeper in the North and Evenfelle died. Nothing we do will resurrect it. We will just lose lives and gain nothing.”
“We are not asking for men now. An assembly of chiefs has been called. It is there we hope all will pledge their strength to repel our common enemy.”
Cray actually snickered. “I will come. If the Black Horde is genuinely moving north we will pledge our men. We will need strong proof and we will not send more men than would leave us at a disadvantage should anyone strike our homeland while we were away.”
“Cray you must not listen to this foolishness.” Ky hissed. Rage filled his eyes and spittle dripped from his lips. He spat the words in anger. “Baiden is a fool. If there is a threat we must fortify our homeland not spend our strength fighting in the south.”
Wellen gritted his teeth.
“It may be foolishness, but I will at least attend the assembly.” Cray sounded irritated. “My full decision will be made then.”
This was more than Wellen had hoped for. The great burden weighing on his shoulders felt slightly lighter. He’d half expected to be thrown into the fjord. This small success was just the beginning. There was much left to be done.
“Thank you Chief. I will return your answer to Baiden and will see you in two weeks time.”
Wellen was more than happy to be on his way. Home beaconed to him and there was an urgent need to talk with Baiden on a wholly different subject. One that they had not discussed in eight years.
Ky stood in front of the fire, its’ light barely keeping the night at bay. Eight others stood gathered in a half circle around him. The trees of the forest stretched their branches into a canopy over the men while the fire caused shadows to dance across their faces. They were all large men, hardened men, chosen for this very reason. Each skilled in the arts of war yet none possessed any principles or strong morals to speak of. The Halfen clan was not particularly known for its honesty even amongst its own members. Those who didn’t learn to fight early in their lives often didn’t keep what was their own, and these men frequently did the taking.
Cannon could remember knowing most of these men his entire life. Grew up with them, fought along side them. Some he found occasion to fight against. The fact those he fought against were still alive was a testament to their skill and resourcefulness. Not many who ever faced him still lived. Cannon studied the men carefully as if seeing them for the first time. Pleven was tall and long limbed, his red hair and beard speckled with grey. Grey hair was all he had to show for his years, no wisdom shone behind those cold dark eyes. Smen was fair haired and stocky. His muscled frame only appeared short compared to the men around him. Vlennen held himself like a snowcat, ready to strike. His dark hair, quite common to the Halfen clan, matched his dark personality. Dennen, Drake and Druden were brothers, and anyone could tell they had learned about hygiene from the same place. Their long strawberry hair, a color more common to the other clans, drifted in every direction, some strands braided with bone. Their teeth, what was left of them, might fall out at any moment. The swords at their hips, however were given the utmost attention. All three kept their weapons clean and sharp as a razor. Then there was Jubben, a massive hulk standing just to the side of Ky. Everything about him was large, yet he could move with grace and speed that belied his size.
Ky was crafty and ambitious. So were the rest of these men. That was why they’d met Ky at this spot. His dark features, inherited from intermingling with the races to the south, accen
ted his dark tone. He had been speaking for some time, laying out his case before them. Cannon knew what it was leading up to.
“Chief Cray has not done what he promised to do. He is too weak to lead us. We are the strongest clan, in might as well as in wealth. Much stronger than the Kailfen. Few of their warriors survived the war with Ludinia. Those who did are old and weak. Baiden is no exception. If Evenfelle had not arrived at the mire, the Kailfen would have been defeated. Maybe even wiped off the face of the north. Now Evenfelle is gone, we have thrown their yoke off our necks. It belongs to us...the strong...to lead the north. When the seven clans are united under us we will live off the spoils of the south.”
Smen interrupted. “Cray is just biding his time. He will know when to strike.”
“We need not strike as you are implying. An all out war is not what is needed, nor would it be profitable.” Ky’s tone implied patience, though Cannon knew him to possess none.
Jubben gave a laugh. Other than the scar across his nose, Jubben’s appearance was jovial and his demeanor hid his dangerous nature. He spoke softly out of the side of his mouth. “What is it that you do suggest my old friend? Do you have a reason for bringing us here or are you just wasting our time and trying to give us frost bite?”
Ky laughed back, though it was more forced. “We must do what should have been done long ago.” He paused to emphasize his point. “Remove Cray.” That last came out a near whisper, almost a hiss.
It was Smen’s turn to laugh. “Remove Cray? You can’t just vote him out. This is foolishness.”
Haven Keep (Book 1) Page 3