Forged

by Liam Reese

  As the sun dipped below the mountains, she picked up the pace, and he kept up with her easily. Her protestations of traveling faster alone to the contrary, she didn’t seem well cut-out for this sort of journey. From the way she walked, she probably already had a stitch in her side.

  “I think it will be too far for this evening,” he said cautiously. Too far for you, at any rate, was what he meant, but it didn’t seem like a wise idea to say it. “We should look for some sort of shelter to spend the night.”

  “There is no shelter for miles around. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Up there,” he said, lifting a hand to point at an outcropping of rock. One sparse, unhappy tree was clinging to life atop it. “If we set up camp behind it, we will be out of the line of sight for anyone who might pass by. I assume you’re as un-keen on attracting attention from strangers as I am?”

  She grunted a little, which he took for assent.

  “Very well, then. Come on.” He strode forward, easily taking the lead from her. She did, of course, have much shorter legs. He would call that the reason, if she wanted to pick a fight.

  She didn’t pick a fight. That in itself surprised him, but he was grateful for the peace.

  They gained the outcrop within half an hour, during which the sun went down and left them in the odd lavender half-light. Nothing could be heard but the sound of their footfalls on the dusty path. The countryside stretched out around them, and the lights of a fire twinkled in the distance. Some little settlement, full of little houses and little families, tucking themselves in for the night. The sight made Thorn unexpectedly lonely, and he turned his head away to look at Jelen instead.

  “Be grateful for small mercies,” he said.

  Jelen looked back at him in surprise. “What was that?”

  Thorn cleared his throat. “I said, I wish we had horses.”

  “Ah.”

  They trekked into the field to the outcrop and made their way to the far side of it. It was far larger up close than it had appeared from a distance. Apart from the tree, there was not the slightest bit of vegetation around them, not even dry branches or wood.

  “No fire tonight, obviously.”

  “Then there’s less fear of us being seen.”

  “There’s a relief, at least,” said Jelen, setting her bag down against the rock. It rose sheer above them for some fifteen feet. Even in the cool evening air, the face was still warm from the long-cast light of the setting sun. Thorn put one hand on it, to feel the warmth, and half-smiled at the sensation.

  “We can sleep till a bit before dawn, perhaps. Then we can be on our way. We should get to Deen before noon tomorrow.”

  “Are you certain we shouldn’t continue and get there tonight?”

  “That’s nearly a full day of traveling still to get through. In the dark? With the highwaymen about?”

  She sat down beside her bag, and he emulated her. “Yes, of course, you’re right. It’s only that I’m eager to be back with my friends.”

  “I suppose you haven’t had many run ins with them.”

  “I — no. No, I haven’t. I traveled during the day and kept a sharp eye out. I was fortunate, I suppose.”

  “That’s why we should be ready to travel through the fields, if we hear someone coming. They’re not entirely pleasant to deal with.” He hoped that she caught his sarcasm, but she didn’t respond in kind.

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  He looked over at her, a sudden wolfish grin on his face. “Is there anything you haven’t heard stories of? Anything that you’ve actually encountered in real life, to date?”

  “Well, there’s you,” she said, a bit sourly. “I suppose my experience has to start somewhere.”

  “Yes.” He pulled a leaf-wrapped packet from his bag and settled himself a little more comfortably. They were both now leaning up against the crag, only their packs between them. It was almost companionable. He unwrapped the packet and took two strips of dried meat from within. “I suppose this princess of yours has a virtual army of loyal subjects. How many will be waiting in Deen?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “Currently,” she said, “there are three. It’s best to keep things quiet until we have something solid to go on.”

  He stopped chewing and stared at her. “That’s all? You’re going to take the castle with three?”

  “It is a beginning,” she said, stiffly.

  “I’ll give you that. Who are they, then?”

  “My — my friend, the Queen’s former nurse. She raised her from a small child. Her name is Graic, and she is positively ancient, but loyal. Faithful.”

  “Like a dog.”

  She bristled. “You don’t need to be rude.”

  “To be compared to a dog is the highest compliment I can think of. Loyal, faithful. Who else?”

  “A guard who has defected to follow his Queen. Jahan Karyl. He has been very helpful.”

  “I’m sure. And the third?”

  “A serving girl from the kitchens. Lully, I believe her name is.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I can’t keep track of everyone!”

  “There were only three.”

  She crossed her arms huffily. “I do not have to defend myself against you,” she said. “You live in the woods. Of course, you would remember every person you have ever met.”

  He let that one go, and bit off a piece of dried meat. He chewed it slowly, knowing she was watching and likely hungry. After all, those birds had been quite some time ago.

  Eventually, she evidently thought better of her words and her angry expression subsided.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “Anyway, I’m terrible with names.”

  He handed her the other strip of meat. She took it swiftly, as though wanting to get it before he changed his mind. She nodded her thanks, and he nodded back, unsure of what to do with even this small portion of gratitude. They ate together without words, watching the last of the light fade from the sky in front of them.

  “I hope I can sleep,” she ventured at last. “These last few days— I haven’t had much rest.” He turned his head to look at her, and she shrugged gently. “Worry, you know.”

  “Traveling may be swifter when you are by yourself, but it is rarely more carefree. No matter what happens tonight, I’m certain that you will feel more yourself once you are reunited with your friends.”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about the princess herself?” he probed gently. “Will she deign to bless us with her presence in Deen?”

  “Oh— yes, of course.” She shifted against the rock. “Of course she will be there. Yes. You will meet the Queen tomorrow.”

  Unless he had already met her. Noble-born Jelen was remarkably coy about it, but he wasn’t sure what she would have to gain by pretending to be someone else. “I’ll hardly know what to do in the presence of royalty.”

  She yawned. “Much the same thing that you do in the presence of commoners.”

  “Yes, well, I hardly know what to do with them either.”

  “Oh, I think you’re doing quite well.”

  She busied herself with sliding down to lay on the ground, tucking her pack underneath her head as a pillow and swaddling herself in her cloak.

  “That’s very flattering of you,” he said.

  “Think nothing of it. I am going to sleep. Wake me when it is time to get on the road.”

  And asleep she went, regardless of her worries. He sat up for a time, watching the moon come up, staying alert to any noises from the road. In the hours of the afternoon, no other travelers had passed them, and he was reasonably sure that he would hear anyone going by on the other side of the rocks. This was not a well-traveled road. The thought gave him hope, which he found ironic. They would, hopefully, with a little luck, avoid highwaymen and other thieves entirely.

  And then tomorrow they would reach Deen—

  — and he would have to do something.

  He fell to
puzzling it out. Could he tell Jelen that his powers were unreliable, that the last few attempts had gone horribly wrong? It wasn’t just the lack of result. It had been the feeling of reaching deep inside himself to find the golden glow, pouring it out, and getting nothing. And it hurt. It hurt, and it shamed him, and none of that was a conversation he was eager to have, not when he so rarely had conversations at all.

  Human society made him weak.

  Weak, and foolish. What kind of plan was this, anyway? To go to the capital city with a Queen, a Forged, a disgraced royal guard, a kitchen girl, and a nanny? To go up against an immortal steward who named himself king? What on earth did she think she was going to gain by all this lunacy?

  And why in the name of God had he agreed to go along with it?

  It made him uncomfortable just thinking about it. He tugged with both hands at the ends of his long hair, just where it covered his ears. If he’d had ears.

  But it was too late now. Too late to change what he had done, anyway — never too late to try and get out of it.

  He sat for a while, lapsed in thought, while the stars whirled above his head, silent and ancient. The night grew older.

  Just when he was reaching the brink of actually dropping off to sleep, he heard a sound.

  It was just at the edge of his exceptionally sharp hearing, but it made him spring readily alert, eyes wide in the darkness. He focused intently. Vague and muffled. Someone traveling under cover of night and taking pains to not be heard.

  He stood up and moved in a crouch around the side of the outcrop.

  Only a sliver of the moon showed in the sky. Under the sparse, wan light it offered, he made out the shape of a large closed black cart, with everything strangely swaddled. The wheels were wrapped in cloth, the harness and tack of the horses likewise; even the hooves of the four horses were wrapped in the black material. The cart bore no markings, no lit carriage lamps. All in all, it was a curious sight, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

  It came along the road toward where he waited, until it was just by where they had turned off the path and struck out into the field. It creaked to a halt and sat silent as though it knew he was there, watching. Thorn held his breath.

  The driver’s box was covered, leaving the inside in shadow. He could see a shape, that the reins of the horses — perfectly ordinary horses as far as he could tell — were held by something, but even as he squinted at it and tried to put the vague shape into a proper form, it seemed to waver and shift like smoke.

  He was so intent on the driver that he did not even realize that the door on the side of the cart had opened. When a movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, it looked like nothing so much as a single disembodied hand, whitely glimmering a little, having grown out of the side of the cart.

  The hand held something, another black shape that he could not quite ascertain. As he watched, the grip loosened. The hand was left empty, a small palm with slim fingers, a delicate wrist and a forearm were all he could see. For a moment the hand held still and open, palm up, and then it disappeared rapidly as though snatched back into the depths of the cart. The door closed, and the wheels creaked back into movement.

  He watched it out of sight along the long straight path that led towards Deen.

  When it finally disappeared from his vision, he let his breath out in a whoosh, and ducked back behind the outcrop to check on Jelen. She was still sleeping, sprawled out on her stomach with her arms flung out from her sides; a fairly unladylike position, he thought. He ventured out of the shadow of the rock again.

  The stars were bright, not faded by the light from the sliver moon. He thought he could see for miles; but there was hardly anything to see. The faintly silvery trail of the road in front of him, and the fields.

  And whatever had been dropped by the mysterious hand.

  He picked his way down to the road, giving another glance now and then to the horizon in case some other strange vehicle travelled this way. Only calling blackbirds broke the silence. When he reached the road, a chill went up his spine. The cloth-wrapped wheels had left no tracks in the dust. It was as though the cart had not been there at all.

  The object dropped by the hand turned out to be an injured black rabbit. Thorn wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong with it. It seemed to be in shock. He bent down. It didn’t move beyond shivering away from him just a little. At the sight of it, pity stabbed sharp in his throat.

  He went to his knees, put his hand on it, smoothing the soft fur.

  “Poor little,” he murmured. “Poor little. You don’t understand anything of what has

  happened, do you? No more do I.”

  Under his hand, the small creature tensed a little more. If it had been healthy, it would have struggled away from him and been off into the fields. Thorn tightened his left hand into a fist on his knee.

  He cast another glance over his shoulder, in the direction in which they had made camp. Jelen must have still been asleep; she was nowhere to be seen, and he could hear nothing from her direction.

  He glanced up and down the road, but he appeared to be entirely alone.

  Thorn petted the belly of the rabbit, softly, crooning to it wordlessly. Although the night was cool, he already had sweat beading on his forehead. He licked his dry lips, flattened his hand on the down-soft belly of the injured animal, and closed his eyes to concentrate.

  “Live. Grow deep,” he murmured. “Grow strong.”

  He thought of green things, the richness of soil in sunlight, roots pushing deep, seeking through the earth. Though he knew there must be a glow emanating from his right hand, he did not open his eyes to see it. He could feel the heat, the strange pulsating in his palm, the rush and push of his own blood, of the rabbit’s pulse, growing faster, louder, stronger.

  Thorn only opened his eyes when something bit him.

  The animal beneath his outspread hand was no longer a rabbit. It was slightly larger, and a great deal angrier, with a longer neck, so it could reach him, and larger teeth. It scrabbled at his hand with both front paws as it attempted to gnaw off his fingers.

  He let it go and the weasel scampered off into the night.

  Thorn cradled his hand against him, wiping off the blood against his other sleeve.

  “Live weasel is better than a dead rabbit,” he said. “I think.”

  But the strangeness of the black cart with its curious cargo stuck with him as he made his way back to the little camp. When he fell asleep, he dreamed of things with small, sharp teeth.

  5

  Hidden in Truth

  Deen was a bustling village, the sort Thorn would normally have tried his hardest to avoid. It had been some time since he’d been here, so he was reasonably sure that no one would remember him. Still, he drew his cloak carefully around himself and kept to the shadows.

  Thankfully, Jelen did not seem any keener on attracting attention here than she had been on the road. She took him along alleyways and skirted the center of squares wherever possible, moving swiftly enough that he had trouble keeping track of their direction.

  As they went, he could hear, oh, so many things. The glorious cacophony of noise that he had tried so hard to avoid, the thing that haunted him whenever he came near a village. Especially a large one, like Deen. With his sensitive ears, it seemed he could hear everything in this half of the village, and the accumulative effect was overwhelming.

  He put a hand over his ears, at first, but dropped them when he realized that a strange cloaked figure grasping his head would attract more attention, not less. Instead, he tried to concentrate on one or two sources of sound — the children playing in a corner of the market, running back and forth, calling each other. That was safe. A crier in the center called out the news of note to anyone who would listen.

  “The December King, Lev of Porras, returns to Castle Balfour and declares a treaty in

  the works between Ainsea and Elgodon! Peace and security are at hand!”

 
; Jelen muttered fiercely, and Thorn said, “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No? I thought you said, ‘Hells, hells, hells.’”

  “The Anvil of the Soul stolen from Castle Balfour in the night!” bawled the young crier with impressive range. Thorn winced. “Highwaymen likely held responsible!”

  “What on earth would highwaymen be doing in the Castle?” said Jelen irritably. “That seems like poor crying to me. Nothing but supposition and rumors. Not to mention that it follows so swiftly on ‘peace and security at hand.’ He should at least have done an interim piece on a two-headed chicken, or something.”

  “Anvil of the Soul?” said Thorn. Jelen cast him a quick glance.

  “Balfour Castle has its own,” she said. “Well. Had.”

  “What for?”

  The disbelieving look she gave him this time was interrupted only by a passing miller barging into them as he tried to manhandle a heavy sack of flour from his cart.

  “Surely you know what they’re for. You being one of the—” She caught herself just in time. “One of the whatsits.”

  “Very dignified.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. The whole bit about how a Forged can only change things for seven years, and if they want to bind the change, it must be done on greystone iron. The Anvils of the Soul.”

  “Of course I know about that,” said Thorn, though in fact he knew very little. It was surprising how, when you were raised in the middle of the woods with no human companionship, you heard very few stories, even when they concerned the very legend to which you were inextricably linked. But the idea of it sank down into his brains for future reference, and indeed already had begun to germinate. “I simply don’t know why Castle Balfour would have an Anvil of its own. There probably hasn’t been a Forged in residence for three hundred years.”

  “Mm, not quite that long. The Queen’s great grandfather had a Forged, if my father was to be believed. It was against the law even then, of course, but the September King was notorious for ignoring laws when it suited him.”