by Troy Osgood
Normally, when traveling, he was up with the dawn. But exhaustion and being in a comfortable bed had allowed him another hour or so of much needed sleep.
He came into a crowded common room. All the tables were full as was the bar, all men and a couple of older boys. Murphy, the tavern keeper was running from table to table, handing out food and collecting dishes and mugs. A couple women were assisting him. Most of the men sitting down looked tired but some looked like they had just woken up.
Murphy caught sight of Culann and motioned him towards the bar.
“Here now Tafford,” the man said to another sitting at the end of the counter. “Let Master Hawkfall have the seat.”
The man called Tafford turned around on the stool, noticed Culann by the stairs and stood up. He nodded to the stool as Murphy picked up the man’s plate and utensils.
“You can have my seat sir,” Tafford said. The man was really a boy, no more than eighteen. He was one of the ones that looked awake. “I need to go start my watch.”
Culann watched the boy walk through the crowded room, tapping another on the shoulder before walking out. The other man got up from his seat and followed Tafford out into the village. Culann took the stool as Murphy wiped down the bar. He didn’t even have to ask before one of the women placed a plate of food and mug of ale in front of him. Eggs, buttered bread and a couple slices of bacon. It all smelled delicious and he was famished.
Culann looked around the room. The undercurrent of fear that had been through the villagers the previous day was missing. All these men were focused.
“Aye, quite a turn out,” the tavern keeper said as he walked by. “All these boys are either coming off night watches or heading out. Feeding ‘em was the least I could do.”
Digging into the food, Culann was surprised how good it was. The tavern’s cook must have been making more food than he ever had at one time and normally that meant cutting corners. But the breakfast was excellent. As he ate the men sharing the bar with him all left at various points. Murphy and his helpers were quick to clear the dishes and clean up.
A fresh plate and mug were set down next to him and Culann saw Private Jemas sit down.
“I didn’t think I would be this hungry,” Jemas said wasting no time in eating.
“Take every chance ta eat that ye kin,” Culann told the young soldier. “Ye never know when yer next meal will be.”
“That sounds like something my old drill sergeant used to say,” Jemas replied between mouthfuls of food.
Silence fell as both men ate. Without being asked, Murphy gave each of them a second helping of breakfast, refilling their mugs at the same time. Culann nodded his thanks.
“What’s yer full name lad,” Culann finally asked as they were finished up the second serving.
“Tern Jemas.”
“Ye from Jeryan?”
“Yeah,” Jemas answered pushing his plate away to indicate he was full. Culann waved his fork and got an additional helping of eggs. The seats at the bar had filled up again with people coming off the last watch. “Farmers. Family has a place to the South, in the Brookmar Duchy. Fourth son in the family, so becoming a soldier was really my only option.”
“Naething wrong wit’ that lad,” Culann said finishing off the last of the eggs. “The world needs farmers but sadly it needs soldiers just as much,” he added standing up. “Did ye have yer fill?”
“Huh?,” Jemas asked. “Oh, yes,” he answered when Culann pointed at the plate of empty food.
“Good, we have a long day ahead o’ us and might nae end up eating again today. Always take food and rest when ye have the chance fer ye may nae get another.”
Culann stood up, thanking Murphy.
“Come wit’ me Tern Jemas,” he said turning to leave.
“What are we doing?,” the young man asked following.
“Ye shall see,” the Far Rider answered walking out the door.
It was a beautiful day, Culann thought as they walked out of the tavern. The sun was shining bright over the mountains, warming the cool morning. He paused on the porch, breathing in the air. It was clean, pure. There was nothing like mountain air. Minoda wasn’t high up the side of the mountain, not like he was used to, but it was still nice country. He was not a city lover, preferring the mountains and the forests. Luckily the Centerlands was mostly just that. It was the Southern Marches that had the oldest cities on the continent and maybe the world. Oldest human cities anyways.
“Beautiful country up here,” he said as the two walked towards the stage in the middle of the village square. “Reminds me o’ home.”
“Where is that sir?,” Jemas asked.
“The Scholari Highlands,” Culann replied pointing in that general direction. “Far ta the West, almost ta the Perselin Sea.”
“Why did you leave?”
Jemas looked up at Culann when there was no immediate answer. The man was staring into the sky, watching the birds flying. There was a wistful look on his face, a sadness and longing in the eyes.
“That is a long story lad,” he replied a minute later, the same care freeness that he had been wearing since Jemas had first met him now back in his expressions. “Nae one fer now.”
The center of the square was busy. Almost a dozen men stood around it, armed with sledge hammers, pick axes, shovels and clubs. At the center of the group was Sheren, his own sledge in hand. The miner was directing the others, pointing out watch assignments. Culann paused and watched. All the villagers looked to Sheren, nodding their heads and accepting the other’s orders. There was no talking back, no questioning. They listened and obeyed.
“Yer Sergeant Jaspers might be a decent man,” Culann started smiling. “But I doubt it.” He could see Jemas smirking, holding back a laugh. “That is what he wished he could be,” he finished nodding towards Sheren.
Jemas was confused at first, but as he watched and understanding came to his face.
The crowd around the stage thinned and Sheren noticed the two men. He waved, walking over and meeting them.
“Did Murphy feed you?,” he asked
“Aye,” Culann said in reply with Jemas nodding. “Was a good meal.”
“Good.” Sheren looking around the village. “We have sentries posted at the mines with pairs set up to relay down the road,” he said pointing towards the mines. “The blockade to the cemetery is covered by a half dozen men with a pair of runners further up the road,” he added. “I didn’t think that we should have sentries closer to the cemetery.”
“Good thinking,” Culann replied. “Any closer and they might attract the skeletons attention.”
“That was what I thought,” the miner said, glad to know he had been making the right decisions. “What are you going to do?,” he asked focusing on the Far Rider.
“I need ta visit the smithy,” Culann said moving that way, indicating Sheren and Jemas to follow.
“Harland is still blinded,” Sheren said.
“I donae need him fer this, just his workspace,” Culann said. “Time ta see what we kin do ta make that better,” he added pointing to Sheren’s sledge hammer.
The plateau outside the mines looked much changed since the other day. All three entrances were covered up with heavy planks of wood nailed into the arches surrounding the mine openings. Other beams had been set up at angles from the planks to the ground; providing bracing should anything push against them.
There were three groups of men, all in pairs, stationed around the area. One pair were standing outside the third mine, where the skeletons had come from, right near the opening so they could hear inside. The second pair were sitting on the stone walls surrounding the forge. The last pair was at the entrance to the road, where it opened onto the plateau, ready to run or shout to the sentries further down.
“Nae one alone,” Culann commented. “Good.”
The three men walked towards the smithy. Culann noticed the villagers all standing straighter when Sheren approached, the same as the men they
had passed on the road. If they were slouching, they stood up. If they were leaning against something, they stopped. Sheren said a greeting to all, speaking their names and pausing to shake a hand or clap a shoulder.
Stepping through an opening in the wall they noticed the forge fires had gone out. Without the warmth of the fires it was still cool, almost cold, in the shadows under the roof. Culann moved over to one of the work benches, looking the surface over.
“I hope the smith does nae mind,” he said moving the various tools and implements out of the way, clearing an area.
“What do you need?,” Sheren asked watching.
“That,” the Far Rider said pointing to Sheren’s sledge hammer.
The big miner looked surprised, staring at the man and at his tool that was now turned into a weapon. He held it out towards Culann.
He took the sledge hammer from Sheren’s hands. Culann ran his hand over the surface of the hammer, feeling the dents and nicks. This was a tool that had seen much use. A good tool. A solid tool. An honest tool. A simple tool, made to smash. Not with finesse but with power.
It would do. It would do perfectly.
He laid it on the smithy’s bench and reached into the ever present satchel at his side. The other two, along with the villagers outside watched as he pulled out a small book and started flipping through the pages. He finally stopped on one. The page contained an image, a symbol. It looked like just lines in an odd shape, crossing each other. It was a rune, that much Jemas knew. Culann studied the rune, glancing back and forth from the page to the hammer’s head. He used his fingers to measure the head of the hammer, the slightly damaged surface. He took a rag that was laying on the worktable and wiped off the face of the sledge.
“I think this one’ll work,” he told the others reaching into the pouch and pulling out a small hammer and chisel.
He laid the chisel against the head of the sledge and started tapping with the hammer.
“Wait!,” Sheren said, startled, reaching to stop him.
“Master Tobiason,” Culann paused in his work, looking over his shoulder. “This will help. Please trust me.”
Sheren studied the man and nodded, stepping back.
“Now is there anyone in the village that works wit’ fine tools,” Culann asked going back to tapping the chisel, moving it slowly along the surface of the hammer. “A tinker or jeweler? A tradesman like that?”
“There’s a tinker in town,” one of the villagers said. The two nearby were now watching Culann, interested in what the Far Rider was doing.
“Good,” Culann said not looking over his shoulder as he spoke, continuing to lightly tap the chisel. “Tell him ta bring his tools here.” The villager looked at Sheren, who nodded. He ran off towards the road. “The rest o’ you,” Culann said to anyone that was listening. “Ye go and find as many blunt tools like this as ye kin,” he said indicating Sheren’s sledge hammer. “Naething round,” he added pointing at the mace Jemas wore on his belt.
The three men in the forge looked at each other, a little confused.
“Hurry,” Culann said turning around.
“You heard him,” Sheren said moving towards the road. “Toby, ask Daryl and William what they have at their homes,” he told the villager, pointing towards the two guards at the mine entrance. “Private, would you mind helping me gather what Master Hawkfall needs.”
“No sir,” Jemas replied following the miner.
Culann returned to his work, glancing from the page to the slowly developing rune he was etching in the hammer’s head.
“I heard you asked for me,” a voice, old and cracking, said from behind, surprising him. Culann had not realized how absorbed in the work he had gotten. He had no idea how much time had passed.
He ran his hand over the half finished symbol, smoothing it.
Turning around he saw the voice belonged to an old man, well past his prime. He was thin, bent with age. His beard had grown long, unkempt. The hands shook a little as he held a small tool box. The tools in the box were well cared for. They looked regularly oiled and sharpened. The box itself was neat and well made. Not the youngest, and probably not the best, but he would have to do.
Behind the old man, Culann could see Davey Tobiason and other village boys standing with sledge hammers and other tools in their hands.
“See this symbol,” Culann asked the old man, indicating the open book. “Kin ye carve that onto the head o’ anything the villagers bring ye.”
Culann handed the book to the old man. He looked at the image drawn onto the page and at what Culann had carved into the head of the hammer.
“Aye,” the tinker said tracing the image with his finger. “I can do that. Won’t be the cleanest work,” he added holding up his hands. “My time for fine detail is long gone.”
“That’s fine,” Culann told him clapping the old man on the shoulder. “Just needs the shape o’ the rune. I need ta add the magic wit’ the final fine etching but ye kin do the main work.”
“That I can do,” the old man said clearing a space at another work bench.
He carefully set down the tool box, pulling out a hammer and chisel. He looked at the implements and replaced them, pulling out another set of different sizes. He set the notebook on the bench next to him, studying the rune. Satisfied that he knew the shape he motioned to Davey who stepped forward. The tinker took a sledge from the boy.
Culann watched as the old man put the sledge hammer into a vise. Certain that the tool wasn’t going to move, the man started tapping on the iron surface with the smaller hammer and chisel. He worked slowly, getting the outline of the shape and then quicker as he removed more material cutting the symbol into the surface.
Satisfied that the man knew what he was doing, Culann went back to Sheren Tobiason’s sledge hammer. He tapped his hammer with the chisel, finishing the shape a short time later. He then started to hum as he took a smaller hammer and a finer bladed chisel. He tapped the new chisel around the symbol, humming the whole time, changing the pitch and modulation.
The rune glowed softly; flashing with the change in Culann’s humming.
The humming came to an end and the rune’s light flashed once more before disappearing.
Culann looked it over, running his hand over the symbol.
“Never seen that before,” the old tinker remarked.
“Just a bit o’ rune smithing,” Culann said. “I’m nae very good at it.”
“Could have fooled me,” the man said returning to his work.
Outside of the forge, Culann saw looks of surprise and astonishment on the faces of the village boys. They were talking excitedly to each other pointing at the sledge hammer.
Smiling, Culann set Sheren’s sledge aside and motioned to the boys for another piece of equipment to etch the symbol into.
Sheren traced the etching head of the hammer with his finger. The carved edges were sharp but not rough. It was expert craftsmanship. He had just returned to the smithy, with Jemas. Both men had been pushing wagons filled with various tools. He had sent Davey and a couple other boys ahead with armfuls. He had just walked into the forge when Culann had handed his sledge back to him.
The tool felt the same, no different in weight, but he thought it felt different. Not the strength or swing. It was the same tool he had held countless times before, but now there was a vibration to it. He couldn’t explain it.
“This will work?,” he asked doubtfully. He had seen the power of the runes carved into Culann Hawkfall’s two weapons but he was still skeptical about one on his own hammer. “The first one took forever for us to bash apart.”
“It’ll take more than one swing wit’ that,” Culann said as he bent over the table etching another hammer, his voice a little hoarse from the humming he had been doing near constantly for a while now. “Maybe five or six swings ta do damage,” he glanced over his shoulder looking at the crowd of villagers that had begun to gather once they heard what was happening. “Three or four fer some o’
ye,” he added remembering that Minoda was a village of miners.
“Three, five, what does it matter,” one of the villagers said. “The skeletons will just keep coming.”
Culann stood up, looking the crowd over. He could see fear and confusion in their eyes. Understandable. They were miners and farmers, woodsmen. They weren’t fighters. This was something outside their scope of understanding. This was something they should never have to deal with. Add to it that he was asking them to trust in a magic that they didn’t know. Most of these villagers had never seen real magic before and he was asking them to trust in a single symbol carved into iron. He started to say something but Sheren spoke up first.
“We work in teams of two or three,” the big miner said. He was still looking at the sledgehammer’s head. “No one faces a skeleton alone. Attack, one after the other. Keep the things spinning, off balance. One hits, then the other.”
Culann nodded and smiled. That was what he would have suggested but it was better coming from one of their own. He watched as the villagers gathered around Sheren, listening and talking as the miner handed out the weapons that had already been marked. Culann returned to the work bench listening to the sounds of activity behind him.
“Good man, that Sheren,” he heard the old tinker say.
“That looks like the symbols in that room at the end of the new shaft,” Culann heard one of the villagers say, a newcomer to the group that had gathered around the forge.
“What did ye say,” he asked loudly, quickly turning around, looking through the crowd for the speaker.
The villagers all quieted, spreading apart and isolating the speaker. He was a middle aged man, as big as Sheren, but with bright red hair and beard. He looked embarrassed to be the center of attention.
“That symbol,” the man said finally pointing at one of the runed weapons. “It looks like the ones in the new shaft.”
“Chicol’s Breath,” Sheren cursed, swearing at himself. “I should have made the connection.”