2: the gift

 

 

            There was a gentle creaking in the woods, an unearthly groan as of nature herself was stretching as she awoke. An old man followed the smell of smoke and as he reached a clearing, he stood silently, bowing his head in great sadness at the sight before him. A large clearing was scorched and destroyed, trees lying around the ground, chopped and charred. He feared this much, feeling a heavy burden of sadness like he had lost a close friend. He listened for the sounds of trees and heard nothing. He pried himself over the fallen logs with his walking staff, to get a better view. He searched for a while, starting to give up and head back when he heard a small creaking, like an old floor no longer comfortable with bearing a footstep. He rushed to the edge of the clearing and discovered a small sapling. He smiled through his sadness.

            "You are all alone aren't you, little guy?" he smiled, trying to comfort the tree. A portly young man of 16 years old, huffed and followed to see what his master had found.

            "What happened here?" he wheezed.

            "South Elm Army. They kill everything they cannot control." sighed the old man.

            "I don’t understand, they're just trees, what did they ever do to them?" he asked, feeling heavy hearted as well.

            "Nothing, nothing at all. They knew of the power these trees possessed and since they could not understand them, they had to destroy them. Only this poor sapling remains." he said.

            "We must protect him. Can you cast a spell of protection?" the boy asked.

            "No foolish lad, magic requires a sacrifice. I was unable to even hide the walking swamp from the darkness, I could not begin to protect this poor creature where he stands. We must remove him, take him with us." he sighed.

            "How can we move a tree without killing it?" asked the young man.

            "He is a Walking Oak, young apprentice…we need only to guide him." he smiled.

 

            The young man prepared the soup for a late dinner, always looking out the window to check on the tree they had planted outside the cabin.

            "Do not lose focus Alden, mind the food. The sapling will stay where he is." said the old man, reading his book.

            "Sir…I can feel him watching me. What if he is afraid?" Alden asked.

            "He is afraid, and he should be. He is the last Walking Oak in this land, perhaps as far as Engelhill. He survived by the grace of the forest gods, only to see his people burned and chopped down. Luckily he is too young to understand and may soon forget." he said, walking to a pile of metal that was partially covered in cloth. He sat down and began engraving it with a small mallet and chisel as Alden cooked away.

            "Some day you must teach me the magic of Alchemy." he said softly.

            "Far too advanced for you. How can you learn to wield the forbidden magic if you cannot even make soup?" he asked, raising his attention to the pot that was boiling over.

            "I’m sorry, sir." he apologized.

            "Do not apologize. Only do what you can to learn from your errors. You are but a boy, and not a particularly smart one at that. You can make a fine friend, even a useful cook with some time, but a mage you are not. You do not have the fire within." he said tapping away in the runes he had whittled in the metal. Alden nodded meekly, tending to his chores.

            Later that night, he left the warmth of the cabin and brought a pot of hot water with him to the sapling.

            "Are you cold?" he asked it, rolling his eyes at the dumbness of asking a tree, as if it could reply. He placed the pot in front of it. "It is very hot right now, so let it rest before you drink it. I am very sorry about your people. South Elm doesn’t care for anything that cannot strengthen its army. Sir will take care of you." he assured. The tree did as a tree does… nothing at all. Alden shivered and sat down on an old stump, feeling strange since it may seem like sitting on the corpse of the sapling's kind. He was unsure of the sapling knew the difference between a walking tree and a normal one. He jumped slightly at the sound of large wings flapping to propel it along above the treetops. A dragon, big one by the sound of the air it displaced. He held still, knowing they are normally passive unless provoked. Still, such a creature was unsettling. He checked the water and decided it was not hot enough to burn the sapling, so he made his way back inside, leaving the pot behind. He crept in slowly so he would not wake Sir, slumped over his work and snoring fairly loud. He had been working on that armor for years, since before Alden found the place. It would never be finished, not really. Every detail was tended to as of the world depended on its every line being exact. Sir was a strange man, never spoke of his past, and always dodged the questions with proverbs and snippets of wisdom.

            He crept to the back room, where he was rarely allowed, lifting the cloth that covered the glass case in the corner. He gazed at the small pile of orange stones that glowed in the night. He was always drawn to them, never fully told what they were, only that they came from the gods and never to speak of them to anyone but Sir. He covered the glass again, creeping away from it to read one of the books. He flipped through the sketches, the drawing old Sir had kept and rarely shown him, only when he was in a very good mood and Alden did something well enough to be rewarded with knowledge. He couldn’t make out all the words, his writing and reading was limited, but he had a general idea from the context. They were the seeds of life, brought by the gods, glowing orange gems of power. He always wondered what would happen if one was planted, but the protection spells carved around the wooden stand suggested it needed containing for some good reason.

            He jumped, noticing old Sir standing in the doorway.

            "Reading my books again, Alden." he yawned.

            "Sorry sir, I only wish to know more." he nodded. Sir sighed heavily.

            "Maybe I should teach you after all." he said, sitting down.

            "You think I am ready?" grinned Alden.

            "Of course not, you are dense and young, but I fear my son will never return to take my place as the guardian of this land, and I will not live forever. Even a fool can drive the darkness away but for a short time. Time is all we have as mortals, and every bit is precious. The seeds…you ask me often what they do?" he asked.

            "Yes, I wish to know." the boy nodded vigorously.

            "Long ago, before you were born, these lands belonged to us. Nature was its own ruler, a harsh but fair master of its own forces. Magic was common back then, or so say the old tales. Before that time there were no gods in this land, only the trees and man, the various creatures of the sea and soil. The gods taught us how to wield the elements, fire to make metals, water to move machines and make our own food as we saw fit, to master our world, but they soon became greedy and divided in their intent. Some of the gods did not see us as worthy to play with such forces, and others felt is was our birthright. That was the start of the fighting between the gods. One day, from the sky came streaks of fire, crashing down to the land. The gods quickly gathered these falling stars so we could not have them. It was forbidden to approach one of the stars. The stars are not for man to wield, so they say."

            "How can one wield a star?" asked Alden.

            "It is said that the stars that fell were sent from heaven, a gift to the gods of our land, but not everyone believed this. Men are curious creatures, not wise like the elves. We found a star that they had missed its mark, and took it for ourselves." he said flipping to a page in his notebook with a drawing of an egg. "So that one day we may have the power to rival the gods." he finished.

            "It is death to defy them." he reminded softly.

            "Yes…but men cannot obey what they do not understand. What gives them the right to make us work for their metals, only to ration our own crops to us, enough to live but never enough to prosper." he said, defiantly for an old man.

            "They created us, they have every right." said Alden.

            "Lies. We were here long before they came, and these lands are now theirs through force and magic alone. If man could master such magic, we could one day take back our lands." smiled the mischievous old man.

            "To say such things could get us both killed." he nervously whispered.

            "So would what sits in this room. The gods refuse to tell us the truth, so a few of us vowed to find out for ourselves. The stars above us are not as they say, they are the gods themselves, eggs of the gods, waiting to be hatched." he said.

            "These are words of madness." objected Alden.

            "No. The star that we found was made of the metal that makes up the armor in my den. Inside this broken shell of metal was a jar, an unbreakable glass enchanted with the holy waters it held. To touch the holy water is death, and within that Egg lies the unborn child that all stars in the sky must have. It was dead when we found it, and there are likely more of them that were missed or hidden away." he said

            "I don’t understand. How can the stars be the children of the gods?" asked a frantic Alden.

            "Perhaps it is how they are conceived. But once the stars fell and were gathered, no new gods took their places. They were killing the unborn of their own kind to ensure their reign. Even the gods are corruptible, and enough power can poison the heart of all. Those stones in the glass case are from the egg we kept secret. Legend tells that one day, a child will awaken and restore the land to man. A child of the purest heart, born of the gods but raised by men, he will lead us to the city and this land will no longer be theirs."

            "What if they killed all of them, and no savior was spared for us to depend on?" he asked.

            "A question that requires both faith, and preparation. If the gods have slain our hero, we must become our own hero. When this armor is complete, it will be indestructible. A sword will be crafted for his mighty hands, and the stones will be presented to him. With this power, man will finally have dominion of his own destiny. and I have prayed that I would live to see my son return from the city with the hero's blade, and maybe even live long enough to see the savior of our people wear his armor into battle. Nevertheless, I have grown old, and my son has been gone for many years. The sword was never finished, the armor incomplete, and no child to speak of has revealed himself. When I die, I want you to finish the armor for when he arrives. To do that you must learn patience." he said.

            "The stones…what do they do?" he asked.

            "They give life. To plant one is to change the land it resides in. it is what created the 9 realms, gave the dwarves their strength, the elves their wisdom, and man his curiosity. It changes things. Within the stones are the power of time, and where they are planted, time will be sped up, things will grow unnaturally. You must make sure they never touch soil." the old man warned.

            "I will protect them." he nodded. "And some day I will give them to the savior you speak of and restore the world to its rightful state." he said firmly. "How will I know it is him?" asked Alden.

            "By his deeds. He will be strong and wise, a graceful man of serenity and peace, but with immortality in his veins. He will find you, and when you find him, his majesty will be unmistakable among men. The grace of an elf, and the courage of men to do what is right, bringing hope and prosperity to all who grace his presence." the old man said, kissing his pendant for luck. "The child of the star-seed is far more merciful and kind than we, the soul of a kind child who knows no hate or vengeance. His words shall be soft and chosen wisely." he smiled with warmth.

 

 

 

            "More ale, you b*****d dogs of w****s!" A young adult Greg cheered.

            A loud holler of drunken objection rung out in the small pub, as another broken arm and money lost drained the mood, Greg stood victorious, stumbling over his stool and falling backwards to the muddy wooden floor.

            "You cheat!" objected the large man, holding his broken arm."

            "A wager is a wager, I did not break the rules, only your spirit and you're drinking arm." he slurred, picking himself up by the table and locating his glass.

            Greg staggered out into the cold street with his very light bag of gold, feeling cheated as a bet was not honored.

            "You Damn Trolls!! What kind of gold bets a Troll he doesn’t have to gamble with for?" he said, tripping on his own words. He unscrewed the cap of his flask and took the last swig. Sadness and void.

            "S**t." he muttered, realizing he needed that money to fill his flask. "No honor among beasts." he said, trudging through the snow and heading back to the stable. This town was dried up, no opportunity to be had and much deception to be pushed. He hated Trolls, but not their beverage comforts. A young man shuffled towards him, hiding his ears under his cloak.

            "You always seem to infuriate the locals, Lord Greggarious." he smirked.

            "Fallon, where have you been?" he asked.

            "You did not leave a note, so I followed the sounds of angry peasants." he said irately.

            "And have you found a quest for us that pays?" he asked.

            "No, it seems your reputation has beaten us here. None will have us." he sighed.

            "Ungrateful dog s***s, the lot of them. The dwarves ask for a warrior. I slay their bear menace and they pay me half what they offered because they see my ears and call me an elf. I rescue one of the Elvin daughters from the enemies of Gnor and the elves do not pay me even half the reward because they see my teeth and call me a Troll. The trolls will not do business because they call me a mage, and mortal men fear anything that is not of their blood, let alone blue-blood. What outcasts are we?" he asked, patting himself down for a backup flask.

            "I am no outcast among my people…you are simply cursed." said Fallon.

            "Then why do you still follow me?" he asked.

            "Because you are the best blacksmith in the land, and my family is entrusted with the task of keeping you drunk and hidden. We have swords to be made and horses to shoe. You do make this difficult." he said, handing him a tiny flask of liquid.

            "I knew I let you follow me for some reason." he grinned.

            "Why can you not just obey the rules, Adrian?" he asked.

            "Greg…call me by my earned name, elf." he said, sipping the sweet brew.

            "You have been honored as Adrian Michael of the house of Gnor. Why don't you accept this honor and live among the clan?" Fallon asked.

            "Because I am not an elf, they made that perfectly clear when they told me I could stay among them, if I agreed to accept the role as a half-breed servant. Hardly a fitting honor for a warrior." he boasted.

            "You are not a warrior of any clan, and you are a halfbreed." he reminded.

            "We don’t know what I am, but I am no pet of the Gnor house and I will live free as I choose. I only let you follow me because you have a way with words and papers and I seem to lack the subtlety required for a convincing noble." Greg said.  

            "And as the time of prophesy approaches, you must remain focused so that when the chosen child becomes a man, his holy blade will be ready for him. That is the gift the highest gods have blessed you with…to be the hammer that forges the weapon that will bring peace to the world." he quoted.

            "Legends, gods, prophesy…bullshit and nonsense. I've dug the grave of these gods and they are just men with gold. I am a b*****d son of a farmer and his favored wife who died over ten seasons ago to senseless violence. I am good with a hammer, the best…therefore I must be chosen to serve this imaginary gods who command beasts of the sky with their glory. If I cared for prophesy at all, I would be flattered. Fortunately for you, I have a vengeful heart. The man who took my sister was never found, and I wasted my youth chasing ghosts and drowning their screams. To kill a god, requires a blade of quality, they said. It is easier to learn the craft of metal than to spend ones life earning the gold it would take to buy one. If a hero does exist, the child of a fallen star, then he will need a sharp sword, but more likely is the fact that even if no such man exists…there will be elders telling stories and paying much gold to the man who brings the finest steel." he smirked. "And I like gold, especially what it buys me."

            "So you don’t believe in the prophesy, you just prey on the ignorance of men who do?" asked Fallon.

            "I make no such deceptions, nor do I claim to believe. I mastered a craft, and the craft yields something that they pay well for. A blacksmith must eat, must buy clothes, must afford the comforts of a home. I am merely filling a need." Greg belched.

            "Yet you refuse to teach others your craft and hide the secret of your steel, forcing the elves to pay you more for it." he said with animosity.

            "I am protecting my livelihood. If I teach them my secrets, then I will have no job. I am to believe they will keep paying me once they have my secret?" he asked.

            "For the good of the mortal realms, to ensure our prophesy and the end of the tyrants who enslave us, yes you are expected to share the knowledge you have been blessed with." he barked.

            "Well…then it’s a good thing I don’t believe in that nonsense, or I would be a real selfish dog for keeping it secret." he smiled, pocketing the small flask.

            "They won't protect you anymore. Their patience has run out, and they no longer believe you are the Hammer of Fate. The Hammer is a tool for good, not a drunken halfbreed who cares for nothing." he muttered. Greg reached out with his hand and the elf felt himself pulled through the snow, sliding to his open palm and his neck landing in his grip as if magic. Greg's eyes glowed blue and his fangs lowered.

            "I AM NO HALFBREED!!" he growled, letting him go and shuffling off.

            "You deny your magic until your become too angry to hide it, Adrian. You cannot deny your diluted Elvin blood." he hollered. Greg lifted his sword from his sheath and ran his hand over it, grabbing Fallon's cloak and wiping his blood on him.

            "And what Elf bleeds this color?" he asked, showing the nearly clear blood with its oddly reflective hint of blue."

            "You know what I speak of. You have the blood of a dragon and the soul of the damned, but you are more elf than anything." he reminded.

            "I am not of your kind, nor do I know where I belong. All I know is that wherever I go, trouble follows. Death came for my family and my village. Death robbed me of my revenge before I could taste the blood of my enemy, and now I am destined to craft the weapon that will slay the gods. I am not a child of the nomads anymore, I was never a child of the Gnor, and I will not be a child of politics. I belong to no one, and none can tell me what to do with my destiny." he argued.

            "Fate guides us all." said Fallon.

            "No, politicians and kings guide the weak and hunt the strong." he said pulling up his sleeve and showing his forearm. "The mark I was given when I agreed to serve has faded away, my oath to the North is no more." he said.

            "Then there is no point in keeping this from you." Fallon said, causing Greg to stop and ponder what he meant.

            "Something that is mine to know?" he asked.

            "The man that purchased your sister…he did not die." he admitted. Greg reached out his hand and swiped the air, sending Fallon to the snow as he approached.

            "What lies now do you think I will believe? He growled.

            "The man who bought your sister, was of the royal family in South Elm, not a stone carver. The elders believed that if you went to South elm, you would be killed, so they told you he was dead and kept you employed. Those with the eyes of the chosen, must be protected, to bring the prophesy." he wheezed as Greg lifted him to his open hand without touching him.

            "Why should I believe you now?" he asked.

            "Because you cannot be controlled. There is no reason to keep you protected if you will not share your gifts. Those blessed with magic are in debt to the prophesy, but you are no friend of our kind. If you will not share your gifts, then they may as well be taken from you in death. So go…ride to South Elm and take your vengeance. Kill the man who put your sister in chains and worked her to an early death, and while you are wasting your gift, I hope you get satisfaction and may you even succeed in falling a god in the process. If you cannot see what life we have given you by hiding you from death, and you cannot help us bring and end to this reign, then it is better you die in the city and find rest that doesn’t not require a deeper bottle. You are not the Hammer, just a b*****d son of a farmer who's blood is unknown and who's magic is squandered to afford his own drunkenness. I ask that you only consider sharing this knowledge before you march to your death. Is that too much to ask?" he wheezed, as Greg released him from the invisible grip.

            "If you want to know the truth, follow me. You have told me what I wanted to know so before I depart, I will do the same." he said, shuffling off as Fallon regained his breath and hesitantly followed. He noticed marks across his neck and clothing, thin lines where the magic hand gripped him. The walk to the woods was cold and quiet. Fallon grew tired of walking and wondered why they did not simply ride the horses they brought. Greg made no mention of the wooden box he was carrying.

            "Why must we walk?" Fallon asked.

            "Because my horse can't carry me and the tools, and if I have to walk…you have to walk. This requires some privacy, and it doesn’t exactly hide behind a barn door without drawing attention." he muttered. Fallon feared he was being lead to his execution, and as he rolled out his bundle, his concerns did not waver. "This is what you wanted to know about." he said tossing him a small ingot of metal. It was heavy, far heavier than expected.

            "This is not ordinary steel." he noted, running his fingers over the layered pattern.  

            "Observant little elfling." Greg said rudely. He began unpacking; finally opening the box he was carrying to reveal an anvil. He placed it on a nearby stump and drove 2 nails into the feet to hold it down.

            "Now bring me some water." he ordered, handing him a water skin.

 

            Fallon stood, hunkered down, exhausted by the work. He had brought at least a dozen skins of water to fill the hole in the ground he had dug in the frozen clay, while Greg set up the anvil and the tools.

            "I need to rest, we don’t even have any firewood." he wheezed.

            "We don’t need any." Greg said, rekindling his fear that he was being tricked.

            "You have me dig a pit, bring you water, and now you tell me there will be no fire? Enough deception." Fallon objected.

            "And I have no patience? Then go home. If you won't trust me, then I have no reason to show you." Greg said tossing down the hammer he was cleaning.

            "I'm sorry, I just don’t understand." he admitted.

            "Clearly." he sighed. He placed a few chunks of metal in a crucible, and centered it in front of him. He removed his coat and hung it on a nearby tree limb. Fallon watched in confusion as he stripped down naked and sat on the cold ground, crossing his legs as if meditating. He held the crucible in his hands and sat silently. The ground began to sizzle and the snow around him melted, boiling away as a wave of heat radiated from his body. Fallon stepped back and braced for whatever was happening. Within a few minutes the crucible had started to glow blue and Greg's hands were glowing as well. He walked around in a wide circle to get a better look. Greg's eyes were white, his skin almost translucent, and a strange binding of what looked like rope made of light was wrapped around the metal crucible, heating it. He diverted his eyes, going blind from the white light and having to blink away the spots before looking back. The sudden glow stopped and he was holding a crucible of molten metal.

            "What was that?" asked a dumbfounded Fallon.

            "I don’t know how to explain it. Since I was a young boy I always had a fire inside of me, something wanting to get out, and when I held it in, it came out in the form of death. As I became older, I learned to meditate to control my anger. When I began to learn my trade, I found that I could hold my hand in the fire and never be burned. I could…somehow absorb it and store it, releasing it when I wanted."

            "The gift of the gods." he said in awe.

            "Whatever it is…it flows through me. When I lose control of it, it only brings destruction, but when I am at peace…I control the energy." he said removing a glowing yellow bar of metal from the crucible.

            "Then your ale elixir is more medicine than vice?" he asked.

            "Bit of both." he admitted. "It silences the nightmares and quiets the voices. I can always hear them in my head, thoughts not of my own, incomplete and unwanted, trying to force my hand to do what I know I shouldn’t. Sleep is not an ally of the tormented. I am no more useful riddled with guilt and regret and deprived of peace than I am staggering and blurred. I fear the potency needed to silence the voices may also scar my soul. The gods have not been kind to me." he said laying the metal on the anvil and carefully hammering, shaping it, sitting on the ground before the anvil.

            "A curse, but also a great gift. Magic so great is not given to those without potential. You must cleanse your heart to silence your demons." he advised, holding up his lucky charm of the Elvin religion.

            "You pray to your gods for strength, and I make blades to kill mine. We will never have the same definition of purpose." he said, hammering the ingot over the side and folding it into itself with what looked like impossible ease.

            "It is all written before us, we must only play our roles as best we can." Fallon said, scooting back as he continued to heat the ingot with his left hand as he worked, refusing to let it cool. He grabbed a sprinkle of powder from a pouch to his side and dusted the metal before hammering the next fold on itself. "The secret of your magic?" he asked.

            "The secret of all steel is in the bones of fallen warriors. A stronger warrior will make stronger blades if the craftsman does his job well." Greg yawned.

            "Who's bones have you saturated this blade with?" asked Fallon.

            "My father. He may not have been the strongest fighter, but his heart was stronger than any man's. It will make a quality blade. Any god cut down by my hand or another will give my father respect and honor." he nodded in respect. Fallon noticed a smaller bag that had been tied shut and sealed with wax, tucked away in the box of magical trinkets.

            "And who's bones are you saving for your masterpiece?" he asked boldly.

            "The strongest man I know of. It is only strengthening with every day it seasons, and when it has reached its perfection…so shall the blade I forge from it. It will taste the blood of the gods, weather wielded by a chosen hero or the hands of a blacksmith…it will one day know the sweet quench of that blood-thirst as I will." he growled.

            "Who was this man?" he asked.

            "Pay attention to the steel and stop letting your thoughts flutter into fancy. By folding in the ashes, working it like raw clay, one can not only cleanse the impurity of the metal, but embody it with the strength of the fallen. It is as much recipe as meditation.

            "I have been told it takes many years to perfect a blade, a lifetime even." he noted.

            "I don’t have a lifetime to perfect it, nor the patience to let my enemies live long fruitful lives while I toil. If I cannot sleep, I will find peace elsewhere. My hatred goes into every blade and part of me binds the layers. A blade born of rage has a wicket thirst…perfect for an instrument of death." he shrugged. "Why do you think I never make axes for cutting wood?" he smirked.

            "You make it look so easy." he admired from a distance.

            "Most of the smith's time is spent re-heating and resting, putting unneeded stress on the metal each time that must be worked out. By keeping the blade hot and using my strength to shape it quickly, I have avoided the problems that take years to work out, and eliminated the failures that require one to spend years avoiding again. This steel is born of unnatural fire, and it will only know the shock of hardening when it is hammered to completion." he said, still folding the metal as if it was soft clay, effortlessly and swiftly. Fallon watched in silent respect as he kneaded the metal by hand and delicate hammer taps, sometimes even flattening it with his palm, more like a potter than a blacksmith.

            Hours passed as he carefully drew it out and formed a rather impressive dagger. He left it flat on one side, beveling the edges like a chisel and leaving a rough fuller to distribute weight. Greg kept the steel hot with his left hand as he warmed a series of stoned in the other, carefully sanding them down as the metal glowed a warm red. Fallon yawned, making some tea to keep him awake as the morning sun peaked over the horizon. They had been there all night, and the knife was nearly finished. Greg carefully checked it for imperfections before laying it on the anvil and holding his hands over it as if saying some incantation. The edges of the steel glowed brighter for a moment, and then with a sudden hiss of air, the blade cooled and frosted over almost instantly. He picked it up and handed it to Fallon, who was resistant to take it. It was cold, colder even than the winter air around them He poured a bucket of wood dust into the trough of water that had begin to crust with ice through the night. He placed the blade in the water and let it go, freezing it solid in the middle before it reached the bottom. The ice block remained still as he shoveled the dirt back over it.

            "I don’t understand." said Fallon.

            "The cold will harden the steel further, you can return tomorrow to retrieve it. With a little stone-work and a good carpenter to fit a handle…this will be a knife that last a lifetime of use, in a kitchen or a battlefield." he said confidently.

            "How can I tell my superiors that the secrets we have worked for are useless without the hands that discovered them?" he asked.

            "I would offer them a drink first, soften the bad news." he suggested, taking a swing and rolling up his tools. "Or perhaps they would like to keep paying me and stop calling me half-breed."