Journeyman Warsmith Read online

  Journeyman Warsmith

  By Chris Hollaway

  Text copyright © 2013 Chris Hollaway

  All Rights Reserved

  Special thanks to:

  My wife and kids for their love and support

  Ken, for being the Carlo to my Kevon

  Diane, without whom Rhysabeth-Dane would not exist

  The crew at Systems Integration, for the constant prodding

  Fans of ‘The Blademage Saga’ worldwide

  Sverre, because everyone should have an eccentric Norwiegan in their corner.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  From many an untold age ago, when the Orclords raged

  I sing now of the first Hero, and the battles that he waged

  From Keldin’s Reach, the Twisted Spires, to the Southern Shore

  Rode the mighty Bartok, behind him followed war.

  -From the Ballad of Bartok Brokenblade

  Author unknown

  Chapter 1

  Kevon yelped and jumped back, left hand balled into a fist. The hammer tumbled to the dirt floor with a dull thud. Teeth clenched, the Seeker muttered under his breath. He heard a giggle from somewhere behind him, and the other boy in front of him looked about ready to burst.

  The Apprentice Blacksmith took a deep breath. “I’m going for a little walk... Why don’t the two of you run and get yourselves a treat and nobody else hears about this?”

  Grubby fingers snatched at the offered coppers, and the boys dashed out of the smithy, laughing and calling to each other. Kevon knew that before an hour passed, he would be teased about the incident, but he didn’t mind. He pinched his thumb to make sure it wasn’t broken, and walked outside.

  The midday heat beating down on Kevon was a welcome break from the forge heat that had just been glaring up at him. The boys were already out of sight, on their way to the trading post in the center of the mining camp.

  He faced into the slight breeze and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath that didn’t smell of burnt iron, and smiled. Moments like these, Kevon could almost be happy. He could almost forget who he really was, what he’d done, what he was running from.

  Almost.

  Kevon heard a noise behind him, and whirled around to see what it was. He found himself staring at a surprised Marelle. She was taller, darker, and more pleasantly proportioned that he remembered, but was exactly as he’d imagined, it being over two years since they met last. She dropped the broken halves of the horseshoe she’d been carrying, and stepped closer.

  “I came to buy a horseshoe,” she began, her gaze drifting down to Kevon’s bare chest. “I may need a few other things.” She leaned in closer, and Kevon’s already pounding heart leapt as she locked her deep green eyes onto his. Marelle’s lips parted slightly, and Kevon’s eyes closed in anticipation.

  A crackling of thunder shattered the moment, and the Seeker turned toward the sound, Marelle slipping from the beginnings of his embrace.

  The blazing rift in the sky spread like wildfire, painting the blue canvas of the heavens with a deep crimson stroke. Lightning danced between the new sky and the arid land below, the rumbling of its passage rolling over in waves.

  “Anton,” Marelle said, her voice cracking.

  Kevon wondered absently how she knew the name he was using while staying here, his attention focused on the winged behemoth that flapped in the sky before him.

  “Anton!” she said again, urgently, her voice distorting more.

  He said nothing, gazing at the dragon, and the hooded figure he could barely see in the distance, standing tall in the middle of the broken landscape.

  The world shuddered as Kevon felt himself cuffed alongside the head.

  “Wha-?” he mumbled, trying to re-open eyes that were unusually heavy-lidded.

  “Wake up, Anton!” Nic whined plaintively, shaking Kevon. “It’s late! Master Farren is looking for you!”

  Kevon sat bolt upright. Even though he’d been apprenticing under Farren Smith for over a year now, the word ‘Master” still unsettled him.

  He blinked several times and the mousy little junior apprentice came into focus.

  “Are you coming?” Nic squealed, eyes wide.

  “Yes, calm down, Nic.” Kevon reached down to the foot of the cot and picked up his arm bracers. He squeezed his hands through and slid them to rest snugly on his forearms. The smooth steel strips woven into the inner padding felt cool and comforting against his skin. Kevon slipped the iron ring off his right hand and dropped it into a pouch that lay near where he’d picked up the bracers. He picked through the pile of clothing and found a light tunic that was not too soiled, pulled it on over his head, and stepped into his boots.

  “Let’s go.”

  Kevon led Nic through the main part of the barracks where the miners and garrison troops bunked.

  “It’s Anton and his pet rat!” someone called from the middle of the room, and chuckles roiled briefly. Kevon smiled, and Nic scowled and shook his fist in the direction the voice had come from.

  They continued on through the hallway that led to the commissary. Kevon picked up a small, flat loaf of bread and two strips of jerky, holding them up until the record-keeper tallied them. Kevon handed one of the strips to Nic, and headed for the exit.

  He walked unhurriedly as he ate his breakfast, finishing up as he reached the well near the north guard post. He hauled up the bucket and dipped ladles of water into the tin cups that Nic pulled off the hanging hooks at the side of the wall.

  After the two had finished their drinks, Kevon set off for the smithy at a brisk pace, forcing Nic to run at times to keep up.

  The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, but glancing back to the east, Kevon could already see the wavy lines of distortion as the barrens to sunward began to bake. The junior apprentice kicked Kevon in the shins.

  “Go, already!” Nic yelled, scrunching his face up in an attempt to look intimidating.

  Kevon smiled and resumed his faster pace.

  They reached the smithy as the sun crept just above the horizon and other people started coming out into the street. Kevon noted that the woodpile was fully stocked, and as they neared the forge, he saw that the three quenching barrels were all filled correctly as well. The other junior apprentice, Tom, sat on a stool, slumped over into a corner.

  “You lout!” Tom jumped up and rushed toward Nic. “I had to fill all-”

  Tom stopped, an
d hesitantly took the half piece of jerky that Nic held out to him. The junior apprentices wandered toward the back of the smithy, Nic telling Tom about how he almost had to thrash a dozen miners, Tom nodding and gnawing.

  Kevon pulled off his tunic and worked the bellows on the small forge to get the heat up to working temperature. Once it glowed brightly enough, he resumed the project he’d been working on the day before, a batch of hoof-picks.

  His warrior training served him well in the forge. His practiced manual dexterity and arm strength had been amplified over the last year, and he’d learned the slow, easy rhythm that raised a sweat without forcing him to gasp for air after a few minutes.

  The tool quickly took shape, but started cooling before it was quite done. Kevon flipped the strip of iron back into the coals with his tongs and worked the bellows for a minute before retrieving it and resuming his work. He quickly made the last few adjustments, turning the tip and pounding it just so, making the slight hook that gave the tool yet another advantage over a knife when used properly.

  Satisfied, Kevon dipped the still-glowing metal into the water barrel, swirling it in slow circles with the long-handled forge tongs. When he withdrew it and found it comfortable to the touch, Kevon scraped it thoroughly on the large whetstone that sat on a bench near the forge. Kevon finished smoothing the bumps off the business end of the tool as well as the stem for the handle. This would ensure there would be less chance of the tool’s user scratching themselves accidentally. He tossed the finished product into the nearby pile.

  Kevon walked over to the scrap bin and dug carefully through broken sword edges and other sharp objects that were not so readily identifiable. He quickly found a scrap that was about the right size, and returned to work.

  He had just tossed the next finished pick into the pile when Master Farren arrived.

  “Are you almost done with those?” the Master Smith asked gruffly.

  The Apprentice nodded. “All they need are handles. I can have then done-”

  “No,” Farren interrupted. “I’ll have the other apprentices split the batch, and see who can do the best job of putting handles on those picks.” The smith spoke louder than needed to inform Kevon, but his words had their intended effect. Nic and Tom scurried in and began taking turns choosing hooked implements from the pile.

  Kevon nodded to Farren, acknowledging the tactic. The boys always did better work when they were competing against each other.

  “Besides, neither of them has the strength to work the bellows on the good forge,” Master Farren commented.

  “Awww...” Tom’s outburst nearly drowned out Nic’s sigh of disgust. The boys quickly finished sorting the pile and took their respective projects outside.

  Kevon smiled, saying nothing as he set about helping Farren prepare the forge for use. When Kevon finally got to working the bellows in earnest, Nic and Tom ventured in with their completed batches of tools for the Master Smith’s inspection.

  “Excellent work, boys,” Farren said after making sure that every leather-wrapped wooden handle was snugly fastened so as not to slip during use. “I’m certain you both will be working the small forge by this time next year.”

  The Seeker nodded in agreement, in time with the rhythm of the bellows. He watched as the boys, obviously bothered by the heat of the larger forge, remained in the open-ended building. They roamed separately, well out of the way, each checking to make sure that tools and supplies were all in their proper places.

  The Master Smith disappeared into the back of the building and returned quickly with a short steel bar in one hand, and his favorite hammer in the other. The Master Smith tossed the ingot into the glowing coals, leaned the hammer against the large anvil standing to the side of the forge, and walked over to sit beside Kevon.

  “How is that helmet coming along?” Farren asked over the soft creaking and whooshing of the hide-covered blowing contraption.

  “Not good.” Kevon scowled. He paused for a moment. “I don’t think it would even fit Waine’s lumpy head.” He pronounced the Adept Warrior’s name like the locals here did, more like ‘win’ than ‘wane”.

  “So you did see me,” Waine chuckled from just inside the entrance to the building.

  “The change in light reflected off the swords hanging on the side wall, a glance from Master Farren,” Kevon commented blandly. “And you’re not that quiet.”

  “Fair enough,” Waine agreed. “I can see you’re busy now, but we need to talk later.” The Adept turned and left without another word.

  Farren was already up, fishing the only slightly glowing ingot from the coals. He placed the block of metal on an anvil on an unused bench, and returned to drive Kevon from his spot at the bellows with a series of elbow pokes.

  “Something tells me you’ll want to finish your helmet today,” the Master Smith said, grimacing.

  * * *

  Under the older smith’s direction, Kevon finished the helmet to Farren’s satisfaction in just a few hours. Nic and Tom sat on stools stitching the leather padding that was going in the helmet, gossiping like old women.

  “That’s it, then,” Farren said, rapping an anvil lightly with his forge hammer. “You’ve done plenty of tools, several knives, and now armor.” The gruff older man squinted and looked Kevon in the eye. “So now you’re a Journeyman.”

  That last word made Kevon’s blood run cold. It was not the first time he’d earned that title, though Waine was the only one here that even suspected.

  Kevon was a Journeyman in the Mage’s Guild, normally a feat that a Warrior or Blacksmith simply could not accomplish. Handling iron or steel was the touch of death for any accomplished magic-user, so the two worlds stayed well clear of each other.

  It was only by accident that Kevon discovered he could survive the touch of steel the day before his mentor, the Magi Holten, had promoted him from Apprentice to Journeyman Mage. It was also by accident that weeks later, Kevon discovered his former Master was not as good a man as he pretended to be.

  Kevon turned away from the forge, rubbed his eyes with the back of his forearm, and nodded to the waiting Smith.

  Nic handed Kevon the completed helmet. Kevon ruffled the boy’s hair, and earned a swift kick in the shin for his efforts.

  The Journeyman inspected the headgear for a few moments, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the leatherwork. He handed the finished product to Farren, who handed him a hammer in exchange.

  “Use it well,” Farren sighed. “Return when you can.”

  Kevon nodded. He had picked up on the tension in Waine’s voice earlier, and evidently Master Farren had, as well. He was not sure where he was headed, but was certain that in a few days’ time he would be well away from this place he had called home for the last few seasons. He turned to say goodbye to the boys, but they were somewhere further back in the building. Kevon could hear their muted bickering over the low flames in the forge, and it brought a smile to his face.

  “We’ll…” Kevon began, choking on a bit of dust. “We’ll see each other again.”

  Farren nodded once, and turned his back to Kevon. The Master Smith rattled around some of his tools until Kevon’s footfalls faded into silence. After a minute of contemplation, Farren tossed the bar of sword-steel into the forge and shouted at the back of the building for his apprentices.

  * * *

  Kevon hadn’t been looking too long when he found Waine and Bertus at the armory. The Adept already had a small wooden case tucked snugly under his arm, and was helping their younger friend get the feel for a heavy crossbow.

  “What are you going to be hunting now?” Kevon asked, jokingly.

  “Orcs,” Waine replied. “And Demons.” The Adept waited for Kevon’s surprised expression before continuing. “And you’re coming with us.”

  Chapter 2

  The companions were on the road headed west before dawn. The horses seemed excited, eager to press on faster. They quickly settled into the pace they remembered from the la
st time the group had traveled together. Their riders maintained an uneasy silence.

  Lacking shade and running low on water, the party dismounted and walked during the worst heat of the day. After taking the first road north, they finally came to a mostly dried streambed. The sun was dropping lower in the sky, and the horses seemed fine, but they decided to stay there for the night, not knowing how far away the next water would be.

  After the horses were cared for and weapons and gear checked, the three travelers sat about on bedrolls propped against saddles in the still stifling heat. Kevon and Waine gnawed on strips of jerky while Bertus munched on a small, somewhat shriveled apple.

  Finishing the swig of water he’d just washed his meal down with, Kevon capped the waterskin, and wiped the corner of his mouth. “You never did give any details on where we’re going, what exactly we’re doing,” he commented, looking at Waine.

  “Some ears have no business hearing what we know,” Waine answered, before glancing over at Bertus. “I think it’s time the boy knew what you were about. We’ll need that advantage, and you’ll need to practice.”

  “I’ve seen you practice before,” Bertus said, eyes darting between the two Warriors.

  “What is this about?” Kevon pressed Waine, ignoring Bertus for the moment. “I need to know before…”

  “The roads west of Navlia are no longer safe to travel, especially at night. Only soldiers moving in numbers seem immune to the attacks, and they will not even go into the ruined valley.”

  “Ruined valley?” Kevon asked, shaking his head. “Where…”

  Waine nodded as understanding left Kevon’s mouth agape.

  “The very same. Everything seemed fine there for a season after we left. Then no word came from anyone in the valley, and none who ventured there returned.” Waine took a few deep breaths. “There is one who escaped the valley. I found him, talked to him, but he made more sense when he was stone-drunk than screaming sober. What I did gather in the few moments between the two was what he described as the center of the evil. It’s the ruins of the Tower, and I recognized the imps, at least, from his rantings...”