Forged

by Liam Reese

  He was reasonably certain that the grumbling under her breath was along the lines of, “Oh, hells.”

  But there was no more time to argue about what emotions he did or didn’t feel. They had reached the monastery gates, which were open. Passing through, they entered a small courtyard. Tightly packed stones stood everywhere they looked.

  “Gravestones,” said the bard. His voice was so faint as to almost be unheard by anyone without incredibly good hearing.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Thorn.

  But he, too, was perfectly certain that they were gravestones. There were no names on them, but numbers. And if the amount was anything to go by, there had been burials here for a very, very long time.

  He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. How on earth had he ended up here? All he had done was told one simple little lie —

  He preceded the other two up the deep-set steps, which were also made of well-worn galestone, but had been painted red at some point in the past. The yellow stone showed through in patches and streaks, plus there were spots of a darker substance that he did not want to identify.

  On the threshold, he gathered himself, lifted a fist, and knocked before he could think better of it.

  There was a long, echoing silence from within, and then, at last, the sound of footsteps. They echoed, loud but muffled, without any sharp edges to the sound, all the way down a long hallway and to the door, where they stopped.

  There was a creak as an inner bolt was lifted, and another as the door opened, impossibly tall above them. It opened not more than a crack, the interior was far too dark to see anything.

  Thorn took a deep breath. “My name is Thorn of the Pluron Woods,” he said. “I am one of the Forged, and I’m here for your help.”

  10

  Mercy Kills

  For a long moment he thought that nothing would happen at all.

  Then, at last, the door creaked open a little wider, and though he had been looking straight up, expecting to catch sight of a face at over ten feet tall, he had to lower his expectations, and his eye line, quite suddenly.

  The man who opened the door was rather on the short side. In fact, he was not much bigger than Irae, who had chosen this, of all times, as the appropriate moment to give in to her sense of humor. Turned away from them all, she chewed on her sleeve to try and put a stop to her laughter.

  The doorkeeper was an elderly man in spectacles and a white robe, who did not seem to have a sense of humor at all. He frowned to indicate he did not appreciate Irae’s mirth.

  “Forged?” he said, with less reverence than Thorn had hoped. “How did you come to be here?”

  “I heard stories,” said Thorn. He pointed at Ruben, who quaked into life in response. “This man is a legendarian. He told me that the monks here have a long history with the Forged.”

  He also told me that you were giants and we should run away from you very fast, he thought. Clearly something was lost in the translation.

  The doorkeeper made a noise that was halfway between a yes and a no. “And what is it that you want us to do for you?” he said.

  “Are you the head of the order?”

  “The head?”

  “Yes, the —” Thorn hesitated. Perhaps there was a special word that the Rindian Order used for their leader. That would have been the useful kind of information for Ruben’s compendium to possess. “The one who tells the others what to do.”

  “I’m the doorkeeper,” said the doorkeeper. “I open the door. I was a warrior once, like all of us, but no more. I can’t help you with anything, and the honored head of our order is buried out there somewhere.” He gestured towards the cemetery. “Number sixty-five, if you choose to go looking for him. Though I don’t think he’d do you much good.”

  Against his better judgement, Thorn cast a glance over his shoulder as though he would find Number Sixty-five, with the leader’s ghost leaning nonchalantly against his own stone. There was, of course, no such thing to be found, and in his moment of abstraction, the doorkeeper grew tired of fulfilling his duties and made to shut the door entirely.

  Ruben’s foot got there first. He stuck a hand in as well, and then pressed his entire body into the crack of the door, forcing it to grow wider. The doorkeeper fell back before his assault.

  Irae, Thorn, and Karyl looked at each other, then back at the unexpected show, all equally taken aback.

  “You’re supposed to be giants!” said the bard, having gained the threshold and pushed the door open nearly all the way. The doorkeeper stood, blinking through his spectacles in the fierce, cold light of the day. Ruben waved at him, looking almost distraught. “Look at you! I’m nearly a foot taller, myself! If you’re a giant, then my horse is Pegasus.”

  “Giants?” The doorkeeper scoffed. “We haven’t had giants here in years. Decades. Centuries, practically, though I’d have to look at the census to be sure. No, no. They died out quickly, you know. Giants are an aberration to begin with, and infertile; it can’t be passed on. And, well,” he adjusted his spectacles, “we are monks, after all.”

  Ruben was fully inside the hall now and looking about himself. Thorn and the others pressed forward as well, not waiting for an invitation that was certain never to come.

  The hall was narrow, all built of that same yellow galestone, with not a single decoration

  or piece of furniture to be seen. There were small half-circle windows far up at the top, near the ceiling, and these let in the only light.

  “No giants,” said Irae. “Not for years, decades, centuries. A classical education, indeed.”

  Ruben gazed straight up at the ceiling, mumbling to himself. Thorn caught a half-whispered reiteration of, “Classical education,” in tones of some disgust. He looked up as well, and found where all the decoration had gone. The ceiling, far above them and half lost in the little light that shone through the windows, was painted with gilt-edged reliefs of scenes from the past in the holy order of Rindor. Giants were a notable feature, and so was violence.

  It was difficult to credit, looking at the slight, elderly doorkeeper.

  “Never mind the history lesson,” Thorn said. “What about my quest? Can you help me?”

  “That depends on what you want help with.”

  “Who might I speak to about it?”

  The doorkeeper made a little face.

  “There’s always Number Eighty-seven,” he said. “He seems to be full of good ideas these days.”

  No sense of humor, but an overdeveloped touch for sarcasm.

  “Fine,” said Thorn, “please lead me to Number Eighty-seven.”

  “Very well.” The doorkeeper turned and led the way to the right down the hallway, which spread an equal distance in either direction. It turned out to be lined with doors, though as they were made of a soft yellow wood, they were difficult to determine in the half-light. After a moment or two of walking, which seemed interminable, the doorkeeper turned abruptly to his left and pawed open a door without knocking.

  It opened into an enormous, empty room with a glass ceiling.

  They stepped in, mouths agape, instinctively looking up at the ceiling far, far above them. The sun shone brilliantly in shafts, slanting down to the floor below, and illuminating what little there was to be illuminated. A few chairs, and a tiny bookshelf with no books, sat at the far end, but nothing more.

  The doorkeeper imitated them, looking up for a moment at the beautiful sight of the sky. Then he looked down again, with a dismissive sniff.

  “The devil to clean,” he said, and went out again.

  They walked further into the room, the tension somewhat dissipated by his removal. Thorn took a deep breath in the sunlight, filling his lungs with air that was still brisk and cool, but did not actually freeze anything inside him.

  “No giants,” pointed out Karyl, “in case anyone missed that.”

  No one had missed that.

  “What do you think happened—” said Irae. But the bard hel
d up a hand.

  “Please,” he said, “I am quite upset enough already without you making it worse.”

  Irae turned to Thorn, instead, and raised her eyebrows. “Going to be easier than we thought, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Thorn hedged, “he seems like a pretty hard nut to crack.” He walked a few more steps in and listened to his footsteps echo through the enormous room. “Do you suppose there are a lot of the monks left? There were an awful lot of gravestones out there.”

  “Have we considered just asking for what we want?” said Irae. “If they’re not the warriors they once were, perhaps they’ll be sympathetic to us.”

  “Sympathetic to what, exactly?” Someone else was there, suddenly, an elderly man not much different from the doorkeeper. He wore the same glasses, though he was balder, and there was a smile line or two around his mouth. He was dressed the same, in long off-white robes that appeared to be the traditional mode of dress for the order. “What is it that you want?”

  The four companions spun around to face him. Thorn was the first to recover.

  “Your help,” he said, swallowing hard. “That is, if you are Number Eighty-seven.”

  “I am,” said Number Eighty-seven. “At least, I was this morning when I woke up. The question is not who I am, though, it is who you are.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Irae. “That is what all of us seek, eternally, to truly find out.”

  “I wasn’t being deep, girl. I want you to tell me.”

  “My name is Patterick,” said Thorn, “and my companions three are Moise, Elda, and Virse.” He didn’t suppose that anyone would ever find out that he had named them after cats he remembered from his childhood.

  “I see that you are travelers. Why did you come to us?”

  “To find my purpose,” said Thorn.

  Number Eighty-seven harrumphed. “And what is that bard doing here?”

  “He’s traditional,” said Thorn.

  “I see. Well, regardless of the fact that obviously none of you are telling me the whole

  truth, I suppose I had better hear you out. What is it that you need help with, precisely?”

  Thorn stood away from the others, straight and tall. He hesitated for a moment, then swept his hair back behind his ears.

  “I am Forged,” he said, “and I want you to take away my curse.”

  Number Eighty-seven sniffed, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and eyed him seriously. He came even closer, and tilted to one side, stretching up onto his tiptoes to get a better view of Thorn’s mangled ear holes.

  “Cursed,” he murmured, coming back down to earth and developing a small, strange smile. “That’s what they would say, it’s true. My boy, I would greatly like to learn a bit more about you before I assist you in any such venture. You are, indeed, Forged — I can tell by the scar patterns. Tell me your history. From which line is your power descended? At what age did it manifest? To whom are you bonded?”

  “I — don’t know the answers to any of those questions,” said Thorn, flustered. “I don’t know that anyone does.”

  Number Eighty-seven tutted. “Well, we can’t very well have you trying to destroy your power, and likely yourself with it, without even knowing what all it entails, and to what extent it goes. Look, my boy, if you want to throw your life away, you’re welcome to stay here with us.” There was a gleam in his eye that Thorn did not like very much. “The others, of course, will have to go.”

  “We are not going anywhere,” said Irae. Number Eighty-seven cast her a quick, calculating glance, and dismissed her immediately.

  This was not going how Thorn had hoped.

  “There is no point to my power,” he said, attempting a different tack. “My life is utterly empty. I will never be able to make it of any use to anyone.”

  “And if that’s the case, we can put you in the stables, where you might at least tend the llamas,” said Number Eighty-seven. “Look, boy, if you are really so determined to give up on yourself, you could have done it any number of places other than here. What made you come here? It is not an easy journey, and we have spread a great reputation that should have inspired fear.”

  No one wanted to tell him that they had scarcely been heard of. His eyes behind the spectacles were very direct and keen. Thorn squirmed a little.

  “I heard the reputation,” he said, “and I also heard that you have an Anvil of the Soul. I thought perhaps I would give myself one more chance. After all, the curse is that of being pointless, empty, a vague mockery of a human being. If I can make my powers do something, be something, create something meaningful that lasts — perhaps I won’t feel so empty. Do you understand?”

  Number Eighty-seven said, slowly and thoughtfully, “You want to Forge on the Anvil. The Anvil that has not been used as anything other than an object of veneration for well over a century.”

  “I’ll be careful with it,” said Thorn.

  “And just who, precisely, do you intend to Forge? You can’t expect us to have someone on hand that we wish turned into something else.”

  “Him,” said Thorn, pointing at the bard.

  “Me?” squeaked Ruben.

  “Why?” inquired Number Eighty-seven.

  Thorn hesitated. Ruben beyond speaking.

  “He is dying,” Irae said. “He has been dying of an illness, slowly, for years now, and he wants to be put out of his pain.” She stepped forward, and put a hand on Thorn’s shoulder, pressing gently, possessive. “He can help him. He can take the pain away and let him live free.”

  “Is that so,” murmured Number Eighty-seven thoughtfully. He looked from one to the other, and indeed Ruben did look strangely in fear for his life. Thorn watched the sun shafting down through the roof, and thought of it doing the same, in another time, another place, illuminating a young, newly-planted sapling.

  At last the monk said, “Very well, then. I have a proposition for you. You have permission to try to Forge this bard into something more useful. If you fail, you may do what you like. If you succeed, you will serve here in the Order. You’re quite ready to throw your life away regardless. Let us give you a purpose.”

  “Serve in the Order— as what?”

  Number Eighty-seven looked into the distance, as though he saw a sight he liked. “It has been many years since a Forged used their ability in our behalf, but in the golden days — ah, who doesn’t remember them with a smile? We had a reputation, then. It was the time of giants — I’m certain we could think of something for you to do. Come with me.”

  He led them back down the hallway, and through a series of doors that made Thorn itch. Even if they were to get the Anvil, how would they find their way out again?

  First impossible problem first, he reminded himself. Besides, if he heard correctly, Irae was counting under her breath.

  After innumerable doors and unending hallways, they were led into a room somewhat smaller than the previous one. The ceiling was the same, that bright clear glass let the sun in. The entire room bathed in it. At one end sat a stone pedestal made up of three layers, the bottom wide enough for a man to lay entirely prone.

  Thorn’s heart sank. There was no way they would be able to carry that out! It would take ten men!

  Karyl nudged him and nodded at it. “Just the top,” he murmured.

  Thorn scrutinized it anxiously and nodded in relief. The top layer was a thin, flat piece of metal, vaguely oval, about three feet long. That was much more doable.

  If they got to that point.

  The Anvil itself was made of iron, black with a reddish tinge, as though there were something else inside it. Now that he had a clear sight of it, it was less awe-inspiring than he had expected.

  “Why do you have it?” He had asked the question before he knew he’d opened his mouth.

  Number Eighty-seven approached it slowly, both hands out, palms open.

  “It dates back to the first Forged who came to the Order,” he said reverently. “She brought it with her.
You will learn more about it, if you stay with us, and perhaps we will invent some new ways to use it.”

  “Other than an object of veneration?”

  “The Anvil has been very important to us over the centuries. It has seen the birth of giants, the change of enemies, and assisted in the passage of the poor and helpless.”

  “Passage?” said Irae.

  “When we no longer had a Forged,” said Number Eighty-seven, “it was used in other ways. Much the same way that the Anvil at the king’s castle itself is still used. It shows respect.”

  “They use it as a chopping block,” said Irae. “They kill people on it.”

  Thorn put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Only those who, like you, come to us looking to change their lives. They come to us for

  help. There are times that the only help we can give is to help them to pass on to eternal rest.”

  “I thought you said it was only used as an object of veneration,” said Ruben, gulping.

  “We venerate the passage of poor and unfortunate souls,” Number Eighty-seven assured him. “After all, no one else will.”

  He knelt in front of it, then, bowing his head for a moment in silence. The rest of them waited, somewhat awkwardly, exchanging glances of differing degrees of horror, until he heaved a sigh and stood up. His knees creaked with the effort.

  “I daren’t hope that you understand the import of this, young man,” he said. “How could you? With no clear idea of your own history, and without having lived long enough to see the power for yourself — well. I will say no more. Don’t try to deceive me again.” He gestured towards the stone. “Go on.”

  Thorn glanced briefly at Jelen, who nodded without meeting his eyes.

  It was time.

  With an alert and obviously frightened Ruben at his side, Thorn advanced on the Anvil. He put his hand out and ran his fingertips over it. It was smooth, apart from a few scratches here and there that looked like axe marks. The red beneath showed clearly in the grooves.

  He slipped the tips of his fingers underneath, hooked them under the edge, and lifted it.