Shadows of Forever

by Bryce V. Giroux

part 8

* * *

Tarn mounted and spurred his steed ahead with Temmit following. They rode behind their companies, and broke off to the northwest once past the gate.

Tarn sensed that the right way was north... it was almost as though the sword was beckoning him.

“You seem like you know the way,” Temmit said.

“Somehow I do. Every part of my being says to go this way.”

“Do you think we’ll find it?”

“I don’t know, Temmit. I do know that if we don’t, I hope to Talin that no one else does.”

Temmit and Tarn rode silently across the fields. Within a few hours, they happened upon a farm. Tarn could only assume it belonged to Fearghus. He steadied his steed and dismounted. He drew a sword from the saddle and started toward the house with Temmit close behind him.

“There’s something odd about this house, Temmit; I can feel it,” Tarn whispered.

Temmit shivered. “I can feel it too — it’s the stench of death.”

The place looked long-abandoned, and weeds crept up the walls. “I don’t know why the two runaways would have stayed here,” Temmit said.

“There’s more to this place than what it appears. Perhaps the runaways didn’t know this place was in such a condition when they came.”

Tarn climbed the dilapidated steps and touched the broken door. The wooden door swung down and crashed, stirring dust and annihilating cobwebs.

“Are you sure this is the right farm?” Temmit whispered as if not to disturb the dust.

“He’s sure,” a voice whispered.

Both Tarn and Temmit spun round. Farmer Fearghus, who somehow seemed different, stood behind them.

“Tarn?” Temmit called.

“Take it easy, Temmit. I don’t think the farmer wants us dead. Do you?” Fearghus remained silent. “What do you want, Fearghus?”

“I want the youth’s souls.”

“What manner of man are you?” Temmit asked.

“He’s not a man, Temmit. He... rather, it’s, some kind of-”

“What?” Fearghus hissed. “A monster? No one calls me a monster.” The two captains took a step back. “Bring the young people to me. You can keep the sword.”

“Where can we find them and the sword?”

“You can find it in the woods. No one leaves the woods.”

Temmit scanned the horizon. “There are no woods, probably not for miles.”

“As I said before: The woods have moved. Find the woods, and you will find the youth and the young woman.”

Tarn and Temmit left the farm with heavy hearts. The beast that claimed to be an agent of Talin left them with uneasy feelings.

They first came to an empty field behind the farm. The land was desolate and bleak; no vegetation grew within hundreds of feet in all directions, and the soil was black and tarry. A chill fell across Tarn’s spine as though a thousand spirits were wailing out in pain. Even the sky above the desolated land was dreary.

“What is this place?” Temmit asked.

“I don’t know. It’s like all the life was just sucked out of the land.”

Tarn and Temmit passed the perimeter of bleakness. A feeling of sorrow washed over them in waves.

Tarn knew this place from his nightmares. “This is Shadowood,” he said. “Or rather, it was. It’s like what that thing back there said: The woods move and take all life with it.”

Tarn dismounted. Kneeling, he took some soil in his hand and sniffed it. “Life will come back here. It may be a while. If the young people took the sword in there, there’s no telling where it is now. Dark forces control the forest, Temmit. Much darker than anything we’ve seen before.”

* * *

Padraig awoke the next morning still propped against the door. His back ached from the awkward position, and his head ached from the crying.

A knock came to the door. Padraig stood and straightened his tunic. When he opened the door, he saw Colban’s beaming face. “They’re ready for you, Padraig. The forge is hot.”

Padraig followed Colban through a maze of twisted corridors. He was glad Colban knew the way there. Master Colban had many stories about the path to the antechamber, but he’d never been past it.

Padraig picked up the heavy mallet that rested beside a gold gong. He looked over at Colban. The Smith nodded. Padraig swung the mallet and struck the gong. A loud crash rang out through the halls.

As if by magic, the steel doors swung open. Two burly Smiths wearing leather overalls and leather hoods flanked the doors. The one to Padraig’s left held a large decorative hammer, while the one on the right held a pair of golden tongs. Padraig recognized these tools from his studies: The hammer was Pitair’s own hammer that struck the iron that forged Moradon; and those tongs pulled the iron from the forge, and dipped the sword into the cooling waters.

The moment Padraig passed into the Smith-works, the doors shut, closing out Colban on the other side.

The Smith-works were much larger than Padraig had imagined. Marble pillars stretched almost thirty feet into the air, meeting a glittering copper ceiling. The center of the room was dominated by a large anvil — the Sacred Anvil. On the far wall was an oven so large that Padraig could have stood on a tall man’s shoulders and still would not have been able to reach the top. On the left wall was a forge large enough to melt enough iron to arm three dozen men. A humble well, which seemed out of place in this ostentatious hall, occupied the right wall.

A stack of fifty or so bricks of ore stood next to the forge. Smiths had already begun loading in the bricks. For Padraig’s sword, the smiths would produce iron that would be so fine that it would gleam like a beacon. Ritual only allowed the purest of iron to touch the anvil.

The room was surprisingly cool despite the fires that blazed in the forge and in the oven. Padraig noticed large vents near the ceiling with fans that kept a good circulation about the room.

Aymer met Padraig immediately. He wore a leather apron of a color Padraig found hard to describe; it was almost as though it shifted from black to brown in the light. Embroidered in golden thread on the chest of the apron was an icon of a hammer striking an anvil. It was the holiest of vestments of the Sacred Order.

He solemnly handed Padraig a bundle of leather. Padraig took it sheepishly from the Smith and unfolded it. It was an apron made of the finest quality of leather, and it too had the emblem of the Sacred Anvil on the chest.

Padraig put the straps over his neck and cinched the ties in the back.

Aymer then handed Padraig a pair of sturdy gloves. Padraig slipped them on easily, and noticed how soft the lining was.

Quietly, Aymer led Padraig to the anvil. Its size was immense. Padraig could barely see over the top of it. He was ushered by two masked Smiths up a few stairs to a dais that brought him to a comfortable working level with the anvil.

He watched as the Smiths poured the molten iron into a template used to produce sword blanks. When the iron had cooled enough to become solid, Aymer carried the blank to the anvil.

Padraig lifted his hammer high in the air and struck down on the white-hot iron.

Sparks erupted as he rhythmically crashed the hammer down again and again on the sword. When the blade cooled enough that hammering did nothing more, Padraig re-fired the blade, and the process began again.

Padraig pounded on the iron fiercely as his thoughts turned to Mairghraed and her last moments. Those Visharians bastards will pay with their lives, he repeated, as he pounded.

* * *

After hours of forging, the sword was finally complete. Padraig plunged the blade into the cool water. Steam billowed from the trough, and when Padraig drew the edge out, the iron was so black it absorbed the light about it.

As Padraig admired the weapon, he heard a gasp. He looked up and saw the ghostly image of Mairghraed standing before him. She held her hands out silently, waiting to touch the sword. Padraig extended it to her, and her delicate translucent fingers caressed the edge. Then, without a sound, her image dissipated into a fog that enveloped the sword. The sword, like a siphon, inhaled the fog. No longer did the sword absorb light; rather, it radiated with an eerie red-and-black glow. “Elfbane,” Padraig whispered. “That is what you’ll be called.”

Avenge me, Padraig, a voice said in his head. It was unmistakably hers.

“I will, Mairgie. I will.”

Aymer gently put his hand on Padraig’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to have doubted you, lad. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Padraig looked at the Grand Smith. “It’s all right, Aymer. Mairgie and I will see things through.”

Padraig stepped away from the Smith. “I wish to leave now. My work is done, and battle must be made.”

Aymer let Padraig back into the antechamber. Colban looked at him anxiously. Padraig remained quiet. No one spoke a word through the halls, until they reached the door to the courtyard. “I believe Master Léod would want to see you, Padraig.”

“I will see him,” he said solemnly.

They entered the courtyard and the bright mid-afternoon sun. Léod sat under an apple tree in the center of the yard reading a heavy tome; he didn’t seem to notice either Colban or Padraig approach.

“Master Léod?” Padraig asked.

Léod looked up and in a moment, his eyes glittered with recognition. “Well, if it isn’t Padraig the Tiger.” He chuckled. Padraig helped the Elder to his feet. “So, did you forge your sword?”

“Yes, Master Léod.” Padraig lifted the sword so Léod might see it.

The Elder stared in awe at the weapon. His eyes tried to follow the light as it rippled up and down the edge. “Does it glow?” Léod asked.

“Yes, with Mairghraed’s soul and my rage. I call it Elfbane.”

“It’s beautiful,” Colban said.

“Like her,” said Léod distantly. The Elder turned to the Smith. “Master Colban, may I speak with Padraig privately?”

Colban bowed and stepped out of earshot of the two.

“Padraig, I’m leaving for the Red Mountain in the morning,” the Elder said. “I’d like you to come with me. I could use the company.”

“Oh, Master Léod, I can’t. I want to be with the army when they meet the Visharians. I promised Mairghraed that she’ll get justice for her death.”

“Of course.” Léod looked at the ground. “I completely understand.”

Padraig looked to the Smith, who was admiring some flowers. “Of course, Colban may wish to go. I would like both of you to be as far from here as possible when the war begins.” Padraig smiled at the Elder, and then left the two alone in the courtyard.

As he walked to the barracks, he believed it would be the last time he saw either of his old masters.

* * *

Léod and Colban set out shortly before sunrise. The Lady had been gracious enough to give them a pair of horses. It would only take three days now to reach Drustanrægh, then three more to reach the Red Mountain from there.

Léod told Colban everything about Kalzrok and of the divine army that awaited them. Colban seemed excited to reach the mountain, almost as excited as Léod. “I was told by Kalzrok that I wasn’t to tell anyone.”

“So why did you tell me?”

“Because I trust you, cousin. More than anyone else and I know that you wouldn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.

“Besides, I really would enjoy the company on my journey.”

The Elder was reluctant to give their escort any details of their mission, and in fact, they didn’t ask. The journey to Drustanrægh was going to be uneventful. Léod turned back and watched the spires of the Lady’s city disappear; a tear came to his eye.

“What’s wrong?” Colban asked.

“I believe this is the last we’ll see of our land. Our future lies now in Padraig’s hands.”

“Then it is in good hands; you trained him well, Léod. He’ll become a grand leader one day. We can do nothing more. Our path is much different from his, and perhaps together we can beat the long-ears back to where they came.”

“I hope you’re right, Colban. I hope to the Nins you are right.”

Silently, Léod and Colban rode down the High Road.

They reached Drustanrægh in three days. As Lady Éua demanded, Colban and Léod received the new provisions and gear they needed for climbing the path up the mountain. Despite advice from the commander of the Drustanrægh garrison, they refused escort.

“You are most gracious, Commander,” Léod told the large soldier, “but the path Colban and I are on we must take alone.”

The commander rubbed his beard and looked over Léod and Colban. “I insist you take some arms with you, at least. The path is full of bandits this time of year.”

“We’ll be fine, Commander,” Léod said. “I’m sure we’ll be watched over on our journey.”

The Elder and the Smith left for the Red Mountain with their packs full of rations, and canteens full of water, and one full of wine. They got to Pilgrim’s Trail early in the morning. The smell of autumn had begun to hang in the air, along with the faint scent of sulfur, which drifted down from the mountain. Léod and Colban were now near enough that they could see the gray crags looming on the horizon; already the land had begun to get hilly.

Léod saw the red jagged tooth take form among the pointy gray humps. “Red Mountain,” he whispered. Even this proximity to the red rocks made Léod’s heart flutter. No man who scaled the red cliffs had ever returned. The volcano that had heaved up the odd-colored rocks had long been dormant. Léod struggled to remember his nursery tales; he recalled something about the fire dragon Ægra, breathing his last breath on the land at this place when Nin Colaim slew him. Some said the blood of Ægra spilling across the land formed the red rocks. Some said the rocks were the petrified bones of Ægra that Nin Colaim piled up and crushed into stone. Léod didn’t know which to believe.

The two continued up the Pilgrim Path until sunset. Colban gathered what wood he could find in this forsaken land, while Léod took out some rations and prepared supper. The Elder and the Smith ate their meals silently in the deepening darkness; the two lay down by the fire and tried to fall asleep.

“Léod, we’re never going to see Glærn, and its people again, are we?”

Léod stared at the twinkling stars, silent for a moment; then finally sighed. “I don’t think we’ll see anyone again, Colban.”

“Now don’t be so glum,” someone said from the darkness.

Colban and Léod sat up and searched the shadows for the source of the voice. A thin man in tattered clothes stepped into the light, his skin pale and hair patchy. He wore a filthy tattered robe where he hid his hands. “I would appreciate some food,” the stranger said.

“We barely have enough for the two of us,” Léod said

The stranger drew a dagger from beneath the folds of his robe. “Then I’ll just have to take it from you.”

Léod fumbled from a weapon, anything. He wasn’t quick enough. The stranger was upon him with his weapon to the Elder’s throat. Colban struggled to stand, but an assailant too suddenly beset him.

The one on Léod called out into the darkness. Four bandits crept in like snakes and began to rummage through their belongings. When the bandits took everything of value they disappeared back into the night.

Colban and Léod huddled near the fire. “I think we should have taken the commander up on his offer of weapons,” the Smith said.

As the two tried to calm themselves after their ordeal, they heard a loud cry, and wailing. The sound chilled Léod’s blood.

The crying and wailing continued for what seemed like hours, until it suddenly stopped.

* * *

Temmit and Tarn had ridden hard for three days. Two days ago, they’d forded a river and entered a dense forest. Temmit hoped this was the fabled Shadowood, yet it didn’t have the foreboding sense he expected.

They spied a fire glowing through the bush. Tarn motioned to Temmit. Temmit nodded, already aware of the camp. The two Visharians passed through the woods as silently as possible; drawing their weapons, prepared for anything.

They crept closer and closer to the camp. Temmit hoped this was the Smith’s apprentice and the butcher’s daughter.

Temmit felt icy steel touch his cheek. A tall Ægrinian stood behind him, and behind the Ægrinian stood five others, each armed with menacing axes and wearing crude armor. Temmit gaped. Before he could warn Tarn, the flat of the axe struck the side of his head. His world went black.

* * *

Padraig had just been fitted for his armor when he heard the news. A private from the Third Long-spear Division burst into the barracks. “Captain Giric,” he said between huffs, “scouts have captured two Visharians roaming through the Great Wilds.”

Padraig jumped off the fitting stool where the leatherworker had been taking his measurements. “Where are they now?” he asked.

The private looked at Padraig, then back at Giric.

“Answer the man’s question, Private,” Giric said.

“They were taken to the prison tower for questioning.”

“I’d like to see them if I may,” Padraig said to Giric.

Giric nodded slowly. “I will see what I can do.” Then to the private, “Thank you, Private. You are dismissed.”

The private turned and marched out of the barracks.

Padraig huffed when he sat on his bunk. He had to see those Visharians — he had to see if they were the ones responsible for Mairgie’s death.

Proceed to part 9...