by K Schultz
“Maybe if you try to sing it to us the words will come to you, lad?”
“Good idea,” Rehaak said. “I don’t think you’ve ever sung, hummed, or even whistled during your stay with me.”
“My voice might crack, but I will try singing it, and hopefully I will remember the words...if you both promise not to laugh.”
Laakea took a deep breath and began. It was more a chant than a song. He gained confidence as he continued in a beautiful baritone without the boyish squeaks that often broke through, but Isil had been right. Once he started, the words flowed naturally.
Blacksmith, fireborn, fierce and able,
Selvyn stands at Hyrim’s table,
takes ehlbringa he is given,
that from Aarda’s heart was riven,
gives his promise to the king.
He alone has heard the call,
come to stand in Hyrim’s hall.
Sea ice, featherlight it shone.
Steel, such strength could never own.
He will work it for the king.
Fire burns within his blood,
needs no charcoal or no wood,
master of the forge and flame,
calls the metal by its name,
his will form it for the king.
None before him had the skill
to bend ehlbringa to their will.
Takes the fire in his hands,
forms the metal where he stands
in the presence of the king.
Those who have the same desire
must not fear the heat or fire,
must only fear its Maker.
Draw the burning deep inside,
mold ehlbringa thin or wide,
sing joyful to the Maker.
Call the metal by its name,
stretch the hand and hold the flame,
children of the Maker.
Seek the shape within the mind.
Singer, form the flame’s design.
Sing joyful to the Maker.
Those who never fear the flame,
those who bear the Maker’s name,
never shall they falter.
Those who quail must bear the loss,
fire will require a cost,
at the Maker’s flaming altar.
Rehaak involuntarily opened his mouth and looked like he might join Laakea, but in the end, he simply listened.
“Well, that was entertainin’ for sure, but I don’t see how that’s gonna help you. A person can’t take fire in his hands and sing to metal to make it do what he wants. Sounds like plain foolishness to me.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Rehaak said, “but sometimes people write things as metaphors and symbols of what is real. We’re too tired to think. A new day and rested minds will help us understand what the bard meant.
Laakea yawned and stretched. Tired but elated, he headed for his bedroom and left Isil and Rehaak staring into the embers in the stone hearth. The distorted ehlbringa still lay on the smithy floor, defying his skill as a swordsmith. He was the first Eniila in many generations to hold ehlbringa in his hands, and he hoped, the first to rediscover the secret of its forging.
I wonder if I’ll dream about ehlbringa again tonight?
The Creator’s Forge
Laakea stripped off his clothes and slid into bed. He locked his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling while he pondered what to do next.
“Maker, Creator, Golden Voice, please speak to me and help me solve the puzzle of ehlbringa. My friends and I need your help. Please show me what to do,” he prayed. He waited and listened for the voice of the Creator but only heard Rehaak snoring in front of the hearth and the night breeze in the trees outside his window. Minutes became hours of uninterrupted silence, and Laakea fell asleep while “The Song of the Smith” repeated in his head.
.
Laakea awoke alone on a vast mesa. Rising like grass around his feet, multicolored flames flickered across his body and tickled the hair on his bare legs like a summer breeze. The plateau stretched beyond the limits of his vision in every direction. Laakea strolled through the blaze. His entire body tingled, and his skin prickled as the flames climbed higher and danced while the crackles, pops, and sizzles they made created a strange kind of music.
It took a few moments for Laakea to realize the shapes reminded him of a garden. The assorted colors and varied heights spread out in an orderly fashion, forming analogs of Aarda’s grass, shrubs, and flowers. Unlike any gardens he had seen, this one was not static. The fire dissolved, reformed, and danced across the surface of the mesa in every direction. He couldn’t find a fuel source that supported this endless burning plain. Perhaps it had a fuel he could not detect because it was too far beyond his limited experience.
“Who made this, and how did I get here?” he asked aloud. No one answered. “What is this place?”
Off to his right, a deep voice said, “Welcome, youngster. Welcome to the forge of the Maker, the high altar of the Creator.”
Laakea turned to see who spoke. A fiery being in an Eniila form stood beside a shrub made of blue and gold light and beckoned him to come closer.
“Do not fear me. You may call me Selvyn. It is my role, not my name, but the name holds importance for you.”
“Selvyn, from ‘The Song of the Smith?’”
“Yes.”
“What can you tell me about ehlbringa? How do I call it by name, like in the song? How can I shape it, and why does it draw me, even in my dreams?”
“I cannot answer your questions; you must find the answers yourself.”
“But why not? Why bother bringing me here if you can’t help me?”
“I did not bring you to this place. You came here of your own will and the desire of He who made us both. There are answers here, but you must discover them yourself. You have everything you need around you to learn what you must. Open the eyes of your heart and understand the place where the Maker formed the Eniila.”
“Faugh! You are as bad as Rehaak with his damned riddles.”
“Rehaak, your companion, is prudent and tried to teach you how to learn but never told you what to think. Do you remember your words to your companions? ‘Only the strongest are fit to live.’ You must learn the language of the fire, and you must prove your strength because all knowledge has a cost, but ignorance has an even higher price. You must learn to control your anger and master the tools the Maker gave you. If you fail, you will perish here, because only the strongest survive.”
“But if you don’t teach me, how will I learn? There is no one else who knows the secrets of ehlbringa.”
“You are here. The knowledge you seek is here or already inside you. The Maker has heard your request. Surrender and trust yourself to Him and to His holy fire, and you shall be like no one since Selvyn. If you do not, the flames of this place will consume you like iron left too long in the forge.
“Selvyn came here too. He was the only person in his generation who learned the secrets of this place and the last one able to shape ehlbringa. Selvyn learned here and grew stronger. If you fail, you shall perish, but if you succeed, the power you wield shall be unlike anything in the memory of your kind.”
Doubts arose in Laakea’s mind, and as his fear grew, the flames curled around his legs and singed his hair. “But if I have so much power and misuse—”
“I see doubt grows within, and with doubt comes pain. If you cannot overcome fear and doubt, your life will end here, and you will die a painful death. There is a risk. You have spoken the truth. To Selvyn’s disgrace, he strayed from the Maker’s plan and became corrupt.”
“The same could happen to me. I cannot distinguish good from evil,” Laakea said, referring to his bloodlust. “So how will I know if I misuse the power and do something evil?” Laakea trembled as though he was cold, although his skin flaked, and the stench of burned hair filled his nostrils.
“All men can judge between good and evil. Discernment is not the root of humankind�
��s problems. The problems men face arise from a different origin. If you find a problem’s root, then you find the solution to it. Remember what your companions have taught you. When I leave, your trial begins. Face it with courage, and you may survive. Farewell.” With those words, the figure turned and merged into the forest of flame.
“Come back!” Laakea shouted after him, but he was alone again. The garden of fire still flickered and flared around him. The flames sang their own songs while they danced in place. It was as if the creature called Selvyn had never existed.
Suddenly the flames ceased their dance and penetrated his naked body. Laakea fought the urge to scream as his skin rippled and convulsed with the fire burning beneath it. Hot iron had burned him many times when he worked with his father, but that pain was nothing like the searing heat inside him now. As his self-control faltered, he screamed, “It burns! It burns!”
Into the Surf
Aelfric abandoned his grip on the oars and held tight to the seat as the boat turned on its side. His right hand lost its grip on the bench. A sharp pain shot through his left shoulder as the skiff capsized and slammed him into the foaming surf. Darkness engulfed him and trapped him in a pocket of air beneath the hull of his little rowboat. Caught in the gloom, the waves tossed the boat about and slammed against his wrenched shoulder.
I must get free before I’m crushed beneath this tub. If I lose my grip, I’ll drown...hold on long enough to touch bottom, that’s all I need. Then I can walk ashore.
Aelfric reached out his right hand and grasped the gunwale, took a deep breath, and ducked under the boat’s rim. Once outside the air pocket, he gripped the gunwale with both hands and thrust himself upward. A wave hammered Aelfric against the dinghy; he lost his grip and clawed at the hull, desperate to regain his hold on the vessel as he slid across its surface. The wave hurled him forward across the boat’s hull, drove the breath from his lungs, and plunged him beneath the dark water. He flailed his arms and legs, frantic to reach the surface.
The ingrained Eniila fear of water overcame him, and panic overwhelmed him. Aelfric never feared death on the battlefield, but this; a death in the cold, dark water, induced frenzied terror. It was all he could do to suppress the urge to scream and waste what little air remained in his lungs.
I must exhale very tiny amounts of air and go upward. Aelfric let out a small amount of air through his mouth to buy time before he ran out of breath. His arms and legs flailed and slowly took his body toward the surface. I must survive...must reach air...don’t want to die. Not like this...alone in the dark.
Aelfric surfaced and sucked in a spluttering breath before a wave knocked him underwater and plunged him deeper into terror. His soaked clothes and leather boots dragged him toward the bottom, but still he fought his way upward. Every time he resurfaced, waves drove him toward the gravelly bottom.
Water rushed in through his nose and mouth. His mind raced and filled with incoherent thoughts, but Shelhera’s voice said, “You must reach the surface.” Moments felt like hours, and the need to inhale almost overtook his will to hold onto the little bit of air that remained in his lungs.
And then, in a moment of clarity, he thought, If I wait until the wave passes, I can resurface in the trough between the waves. But Aelfric waited too long. A giant wave hit him, knocked him back under, and dragged him along the bottom. His lungs ached. He resurfaced and filled his lungs just before he went under for the third time.
The waves had pushed him closer to land, to a shallower spot where he could touch the gravel bed. Aelfric got his feet under him, and he thrust his head above the water. He staggered to the shore, pummeled by the surf and disoriented. He coughed up water and collapsed on a stretch of sand above the tidemark. The seawater he had swallowed and inhaled stung his nose and throat.
Aelfric raised his head and looked seaward in time to see a massive wave smash his boat against a large rock. The hull splintered and cracked, and the broken bits of wood rose and fell, tossed by the breakers. By sheer chance, the stern of the boat where he had lashed his gear remained intact. I hope the lashings held; otherwise, my equipment is on the bottom. Exhausted by his efforts, he slumped back onto the sand and stared at the gray sky, grateful for every burning inhalation, and he stayed that way until twilight.
Once Aelfric regained a measure of strength, he rose and stripped off his salt-encrusted clothes. He scrounged driftwood and lit a fire to dry his clothes and keep him warm through the night. Thank the gods my flint and steel are still in my pocket and not with the rest of my gear in the boat’s stern.
As the sun sank lower in the sky, Aelfric stoically watched the waves hammering the shoreline. His hopes rose when he spotted his duffel still lashed to remnants of the stern. It landed atop some rocks, but when waves continued to pound the wreckage. The boards splintered, and the duffel disappeared into the foaming breakers.
.
In the morning, the clouds had thinned, and the eastern sky glowed pink and gold, pregnant with the promise of beautiful weather. The previous day’s wind had subsided, and the ocean surface shone like polished metal in the morning sun. The tide had receded and exposed crabs on the beach. They had buried their unprotected backsides in the sand with their pincers held skyward, prepared for battle. Aelfric scooped the crabs from their burrows and roasted them over the coals of his driftwood fire.
Once he ate his fill, Aelfric tossed the crab shells on the campfire and walked to the water’s edge to wash crab juice off his fingers. The blisters on his hands from the oars had broken and left loose flaps of skin, and the saltwater stung the tender skin beneath the wounds. I won’t miss rowing the skiff, but I will miss my weapons and my other gear. The gods are fickle and dangerous creatures.
When he dried his hands against the legs of his trousers and squinted into the dawn light, a large object floated in a tidal pool. Once he got close enough, he recognized it as his duffel bag. He waded into the water and dragged the sack containing his bedroll and weapons onto the beach. Somehow it had survived the wreck and become trapped in the rocky depression along with some driftwood and remnants of the skiff. Some water had leaked inside the oilskin duffel, but it had kept enough air inside to stay afloat.
Aelfric emptied the bag onto the sand near the fire and dried out his gear. Encouraged by the discovery of his blankets and weapons, he searched for his packsack and other equipment while his bedding dried near the fire.
After a prolonged search, he found the stern of the rowboat upside down, wedged between two rocks. Aelfric flipped the wreckage over and saw his pack still stuck beneath the rear seat of the little craft. The rocks and waves had torn the bag’s side pockets open, and the ocean gods had claimed the food inside as a fee for his safe passage. The small purse of gold, nine bars of silver, and the bag of silver jewelry remained stowed inside the big knapsack. I can’t eat gold or silver, but at least I have my weapons, and I can hunt.
“You see this,” he shouted, raising the backpack above his head. “You see this, you fickle and accursed gods? No matter how many times you’ve tried to kill me, I survive. I defeat every effort you make to destroy me. You have taken everything from me, but I will have my vengeance despite your best efforts!”
The Forging
Laakea collapsed, writhed, and screamed in agony among the flame flowers while they burned inside him. He fought to concentrate on what Selvyn said, and as he focused on Selvyn’s words, the pain eased, and reason returned.
If distinguishing between good and evil isn’t the root of humankind’s problems, what is? I have more questions than ever. According to Rehaak, knowledge begins with questions. Is this what the flame creature meant when it said Rehaak taught me how to learn? Why does everyone make things complicated and confusing?
“I cannot judge between right and wrong,” Laakea said aloud. His voice quavered from the pain as he spoke. “Wait a moment. That is not a question; it’s a belief, but is it true, or is it nonsense?” Speaking aloud helped him artic
ulate his thoughts and gave form and substance to his ideas so he could work them like metal. To his astonishment, the pain ebbed further as he continued voicing his thoughts.
“Is this why we Eniila have no written language? Is there power in our words?” He returned to his quest for the origin of evil. “I can tell the difference between right and wrong. Sometimes I did wrong, although I knew I shouldn’t, but what motivated me?” The pain subsided more.
Memories flashed through his mind as he recalled all of his offenses and insults and the reasons for those crimes. “Creator forgive me for those offenses. I err because I want things. Aha! Desire makes me...no, wait, desire is not always bad. I can desire either good or evil things. Desire is neither good nor evil. It’s when I want... Wait!” Laakea leaped to his feet and danced among the flames, feeling much better. “Now I understand,” he sang out while he danced. “I sin when I want something so badly I don’t care about the consequences of my actions on others...selfishness!
Selfishness is the root of my wrongdoing and the source of mankind’s problems. Selflessness is what my companions have taught me by their actions and their words. Rehaak and Isil put the needs of others first. Respect, honor, and love motivate them. That is what Selvyn meant when he said to remember what my companions taught.”
The flames around him rose higher, celebrating his revelation with him, and the pain of their burning inside him disappeared.
“So if I care as much for others as I do for myself, I avoid wrongdoing. If I care more about my own wants and myself than I do about others and their needs, then I embrace evil. Wait till I tell Rehaak! Now, what about the other problems?
“If I care for others, can I take their lives? Is it right to kill?” Laakea paused and reflected before he spoke again. “If I never killed those assassins, they would have killed my friend. If I never acted, they would have carried out their intentions toward him. I opposed those intentions and the men who bore them. If they had succeeded, then evil would have triumphed. They chose evil, but I chose justice. If we allow evil to continue unchecked and unopposed, all Creation is at risk. I have sworn to protect the weak and the innocent, and I took an oath to oppose wickedness, so...I may kill to dispense justice and prevent murder.”