The Dark Ability: Books 1-4

by D. K. Holmberg

  Every so often, he hesitated, listening for the tapping. The steady sound continued, like a distant hammering, only never coming any closer. Rsiran did not dare investigate.

  Unlike when he had mined during the day, the foreman distracted and barely paying attention, only the orange light of the strange lanterns lighting the tunnels, he worked entirely by feel. This made him more attuned to the lorcith as he focused on where he chipped away at the stone. All around him he felt other large deposits of lorcith, some buried deeply, while others like the one he freed with the blunted pick, sat near the surface.

  With as many as he felt, it seemed strange that large finds were rare. Even working blindly, the others should have been found, freed by luck and time by the workers sentenced to serve in Ilphaesn.

  He had nearly freed the large collection when he realized the tapping had stopped.

  It was during one of his pauses, and it took his mind several moments to register what was missing. He waited, expecting the sound to resume, but it did not.

  What did its absence mean? Rather than resuming work, he dusted around the stone with his hand, feeling the size of the lorcith he had freed. The lump was massive, far larger than any other he had taken, and sat loosely in the wall. Another few strikes with the pick, and it would be free.

  The sudden silence disconcerted him. He worked to steady his breathing, but memories of the last time he was in the mine kept pushing to the front of his mind. That attack had nearly killed him, the poison on the pick acting quickly enough that he had been lucky to Slide from the mine when he did.

  Instead of using the pick, he took the hammer and scratched at the rock, scraping it as quietly as he could over the lump of lorcith, pulling on it to try and free it from the stone.

  As it began moving, the tapping began again.

  This time it was close and almost loud enough it could be in the same tunnel as he was. Rsiran froze, hands wrapped around the lump of lorcith, the pick and hammer trapped between his knees.

  The tapping continued, steadily, breaking occasionally. Rsiran suddenly understood what he was hearing. It paused like he did, as if to wipe dust away.

  His mouth went dry. Reaching to grab the device Della had given him, he found it had fallen out of his pocket somewhere in the darkness.

  There was around him but more blackness. And now he was certain he wasn’t the only one mining the lorcith at night.

  Barely breathing, he felt the lorcith stone begin to shift. It screamed as it came free of the wall.

  The tapping stopped.

  Rsiran didn’t wait to hear if it would resume. He Slid.

  The air in the smithy felt cold compared to the mine. The light from the lanterns nearly blinded him. Rsiran’s arms shook as he clung to the lorcith, and his heart pounded, blood rushing through his ears. Nausea rolled through his stomach.

  He staggered toward the forge, dropped the lorcith next to the other nugget, and leaned against the crumbling stone to steady himself, his mind racing with what he encountered.

  Someone else mined at night.

  That meant Sighted or someone who could sense the lorcith within the walls.

  How many nights had he stayed awake, lying and listening to the steady tapping? Even when he went down into the mines on his own, walking through the darkness at night, he hadn’t been certain what it was that he had been hearing.

  There was no doubt now.

  Rsiran looked at the two nuggets he had. Enough to get started. More than enough to forge a knife or longer blade. But he would need more if he was going to make Brusus’s goal worthwhile, much more if he was going to actually help Brusus pay off his debt.

  How could he return to the mines now? Whoever was there had to have noticed him; had stopped hammering when he pulled the lorcith from the stone. What if it was the same person who had attacked him?

  To settle his mind, he set to working. The coals had already been aligned, and he used the flint and steel that Brusus had provided to build the flames. His hands shook as he started, the trembling making his work difficult, but he somehow managed to strike a fire, only injuring his hands a few times in the process.

  Stoking the flames helped calm him. This was familiar. Even though the smithy was different, the forge and bellows not the same as he knew, the work was the same. Once the coals were glowing comfortably, he briefly Slid outside to ensure it vented. Only after he was convinced that smoke rose freely from the chimney did he set to work.

  He had a hammer; though it was not ideal, the small mining hammer could be used to shape the lorcith. Setting the smaller lorcith nugget atop the coals—the one reclaimed from the forest—he let the heat consume it. He stared at the glowing coals, letting his mind wander as the lorcith heated. When it began glowing red, he reached for tongs… but realized he didn’t have any.

  In his need for familiarity, the need for something to calm him, he had forgotten he didn’t have any other tools. Now that the lorcith was already glowing, he had no choice but to shape it, otherwise it would cool and become useless, no more changeable than the bowl Brusus had in the tavern.

  He looked around the open smithy for anything that could be used for tongs.

  The forge and bellows consumed one wall. Piles of debris—cracked and crumbling stone from the walls and the forge—scattered along the others. He considered somehow using the lanterns, perhaps pulling off the handles to twist into makeshift tongs, but they would not be thick enough to support the weight. In one darkened corner he saw a wooden bucket and thought he could use the metal support hoop—one of the few things his father sanctioned him to fashion—but as he picked it up, the iron crumbled, corroded by time and salty air. Along the wall opposite the forge, there was a small shelf, but other than dust and cobwebs it was empty, only imprints of what had once been stored remained.

  There was nothing in the empty building he could use.

  Cursing himself for his stupidity, he hurried back to the forge. The lorcith was glowing nicely, heated nearly to the point where it would be workable. Much longer, and it would be useless.

  What was he thinking to start the coals and begin heating the lorcith without the proper tools? Had he so quickly forgotten the lessons his father had taught him?

  Maybe he had been away from the smithy too long. Perhaps he couldn’t make what he had promised Brusus.

  The idea of letting Brusus down hurt. He had more lorcith, but how much more would he be able to obtain? If tonight was any indication, Sliding into the mines was going to be dangerous, and he would have to be extremely careful and prepare for the possibility that he would have to Slide away at any moment, abandoning his work.

  It was either risk his safety or risk drawing attention to all of them. Rsiran knew already what he would choose. There was no other alternative.

  He Slid to his father’s smith.

  Coming out of the Slide, he staggered forward. In one night, he had used his ability more often than he should, expending too much effort. For the first time, he worried about the return Slide. And he still had a night of forging ahead.

  Rsiran looked around the darkened smith. Faint streetlight filtered through dirty windows. Little had changed since he had last been here. The forge cooled along the back wall, heat still radiating from the heated coals earlier in the day. Bins full of iron and steel were stationed to one side. A smaller bin loaded with lumps of lorcith was on the other. He considered taking a single nugget but decided against it. His father might notice.

  Along the back wall, near his beaten and faded wooden workbench, was a line of hooks. Various tools of the trade were placed carefully on the hooks, each returned to its place at the end of the day. His father would know if one was missing, but Rsiran intended to return what he borrowed before anything was noticed. Tomorrow he could have Brusus find him proper tools; for tonight he would borrow them.

  Hurrying over, he grabbed a long-handled tong, and after a moment’s consideration, a heavy hammer. The small mining hamm
er would work fine for some of the detail work, but he needed something with more heft for striking and shaping.

  He paused and looked around the shop again, thinking briefly of all the time he had spent working alongside the journeymen, the time he had spent cleaning and organizing, all the time he had spent daydreaming that one day he would work alongside his father before eventually taking over the shop. Now those were only lost dreams. He would have to find a new dream.

  He worried the lorcith heating on the forge would become unusable if he waited much longer. Moving toward the middle of the shop, he Slid back to Lower Town and his rundown smithy.

  The scent of the heated lorcith greeted him as he emerged from the Slide. Fatigue nearly overwhelmed him, and he caught himself on the anvil before he tripped into hot coals. He swallowed against a dry mouth, wishing for water, but that would come later.

  He should rest. Pressing on when exhausted risked him simply passing out. But Rsiran shook his head, blinking to try and clear his tired mind. He had to focus on his task, use the lorcith now glowing brightly.

  Taking the tongs, he lifted the nugget off the coals and set in on the anvil. He had no idea what he would forge. Brusus wanted knives, but this was too large of a nugget to be a single knife. Could he manage to split it? Maybe he could make two or three knives…

  Inhaling deeply, he set the tongs next to him and lifted the heavy hammer, pausing long enough to listen for the call of the lorcith, to see if it would direct his forging as he remembered. He heard nothing.

  Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. Had he been too long away from the forge? Rsiran didn’t want to think of the disappointment Brusus would feel or the look he would get from Jessa if he couldn’t manage what he had promised. He had not known them long, and there were no ties to him other than the casual friendship he had made. If his own family could discard him, what would stop near strangers?

  Rsiran pushed the thoughts out of his mind and focused on the lorcith.

  There was nothing to do but begin.

  He raised the hammer and started striking. The sound of it hitting the lorcith rang out loudly, a familiar and reassuring sound. Tightness in his back quickly loosened, and his neck itched with sweat that dripped along his still healing skin. With each blow, his anxiety about disappointing Brusus and Haern faded more. Another dozen heavy strikes, and the worry about hurting Jessa faded. Soon he fell into a steady rhythm.

  He was not certain when he lost awareness of the hammering. One moment, he struggled making anything appear, struggling simply to change the shape of the lorcith, hoping that the metal would trigger something within him and guide his blows, and the next moment, he was lost in a flurry of steady strikes. First he worked with the heavy hammer, flattening and stretching, using the few tools he had, and then he switched to the small mining hammer, carefully shaping and directing each strike.

  At some point, he began feeling the pull of the metal, feeling as if each movement was guided, his hand directed by whatever shape was within the lorcith and wanted out. Over and over the hammer fell, his mind blank as the movement became everything, a steady jarring sensation as it worked up his arm. Heat came off the blade, seemed to know when it was time to bring it back to the coals to bring the reddish glow back to the metal. Rsiran ignored the sweat streaming from his body.

  And then he was done.

  Rsiran felt a sense of release from the lorcith, as if whatever had taken hold of him had given up its grip, freeing him now that the work was finished. The soft call of the metal faded, disappearing in what seemed a sense of satisfaction. Tunneled vision cleared, and slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He looked down to see what he had made.

  A long blade lay on the anvil. The entire length still glowed a faint orange. The tip was wide and tapered gradually toward the blunt tang. The metal seemed to shift and shimmer, almost as if liquid beneath the surface. It shifted with a pattern formed from metal folded over in a way he could not even remember, let alone describe. He ran his hand above the blade, knew that it would be smooth, and wondered how well it would take sharpening.

  If it was anything like the others he had made, it would quickly take an edge, almost demanding that it be sharpened. All this blade needed was a hilt, and it would be complete.

  His heart fluttered as he realized what he had done. A sword. A tool of death, forbidden by the guild. It was enough to bring him before the Elvraeth council, possibly enough to get him banished. But why did it look so beautiful?

  Rsiran had never forged anything like it before. There had been the blade he started in his father’s shop, destroyed when his father realized what he made, but this was different. The only other swords he had ever seen were made of steel, carefully crafted by master bladesmiths. Never out of lorcith.

  He knew how he had done it, understood that it was the guidance of the lorcith calling to him that pulled the shape out of the raw nugget. But what if it was more than that? What if the lorcith reacted to something within him to make this? What if this was part of the darkness his father believed within him?

  A small mark was near the base of the sword, above the tang where it would be visible with the attached hilt. At some point, he had engraved a small marking, the same as he had made on the knife blades that he should not have created. He didn’t know how he managed to make such fine detail along the blade, a twisted piece of the handle off one of the lanterns rested alongside the anvil.

  As he leaned against the anvil, tired and sweaty, he wished nothing more than to lay on the ground and sleep. Maybe he would awaken and this would be nothing more than a dream, the sword simply part of his imagination, but he knew better.

  Already much of the night must be gone, spent mining and forging, and still he must return the tools to his father’s shop before he noticed they were missing. Pushing back up, he staggered toward the door and pulled it open, curious how late in the night it was, hoping he would have time to sleep before Brusus came bursting in, looking to see what else he might need.

  Rsiran wasn’t sure he had the energy needed to Slide back to his father’s shop, but needed to try before morning came and he noticed the missing tools.

  As he opened the door, his heart sank.

  Reddish orange light from the sun rising over the harbor made him stagger back. Little darkness remained, only memories of shadows lingering in the spaces between the falling buildings. He swallowed against the nausea rising in his stomach as he pushed the door closed and locked. Leaning back against the rough wooden door, he steadied his breathing.

  He had spent the entire night mining and forging. His eyes fell on the tools borrowed from his father’s shop. How long before his father noticed? How long before he suspected Rsiran? And how long before he turned him in and the guild came searching for him? How long did he have before he was brought before the Elvraeth and banished?

  Because of him, Brusus would not have the knives he needed to pay off his debt.

  Chapter 21

  Rsiran awoke to a loud pounding in his head.

  His eyes were hazy, covered by a film from sleep, and his first thought was that he was somehow back in the mine and that the steady tapping came from deep within. In a fit of confusion, he panicked.

  He sat up with a start and nearly smacked his head into the anvil.

  Sleeping. Only sleeping, and fitfully at that. He remembered snippets of dreams where darkness followed him, the sense that someone loomed out of sight, and always the fear of another attack.

  His back burned, and his neck ached. After running a hand across the still fresh wound, he pulled it away tentatively, fearing he might find blood. He let out a long breath when he did not.

  Looking around, he was still in the old smithy, the coals cooling behind him, the long blade he had forged during the night resting on the ground near him. Bright light shone through the cracked ceiling, lighting a spot on the floor. Debris and dust scattered across the floor seemed more noticeable in the light. One of the lanterns stil
l flickered, the oil within burning with a thin smoke. Another lantern laid near him, disassembled, the handle twisted and bent.

  Above everything was the pounding.

  Not in his head, though. It took him a few moments to realize what he was hearing. Someone was pounding on the door to the building.

  Rsiran pushed himself up and took the long blade, holding it away from himself. Even holding it made him feel somewhat sick, knowing such a thing should not exist. In the daylight, the pattern along the surface shimmered even more, appearing to shift and slide, as if his eyes couldn’t focus on it properly.

  He hid it to one side of the forge, tucking it behind the bellows so the wooden frame would prevent anyone from seeing it.

  As much as the blade bothered him, part of him wanted to keep the blade to himself, sharpen the edge, and attach a hilt. But he had no use for such a weapon. Likely as not, he would trip over the blade or worse, cut himself carrying it. The small knives he had made suited him better, and even those should not have been made.

  The pounding came faster, more urgent. Whoever was at the door was persistent. Hopefully it was only Jessa or Brusus, but what if it was not? Could he take the chance that it was someone else? What if someone had heard his hammering last night?

  If the guild learned of an unsanctioned smith, the constabulary would be notified. If Shael did not have the proper proof of ownership of the building—and Rsiran was not certain that he did, or that he’d bribed the right constables to leave him alone—the building could be raided. And then the lorcith would be found. The blade would be discovered.

  Maybe his father was right after all. Had his ability turned him into something worse than a thief? But why did the sword still seem so beautiful?

  Wiping the dust from the floor off his pants, he hurried to the door and unlocked it, pulling it open enough to see who battered the other side. It pushed open in a heavy blast, and Brusus barreled inside.