The Three Fingers of Death

By Tristan Gregory

Jon is a weaponsmith who yearns to forge the perfect blade. Having learned all he can from the Masters back home, he has traveled to the clans of the distant southern mountains. There live the ironmasters, the finest smiths in the world, and keepers of knowledge that Jon hungers to know.

Amongst the clans, Jon's dedication earns him respect, and he befriends Arodan, one of the last of the ironmasters and a man embittered by the slow death of his profession. Arodan teaches him many things, and Jon grows to unrivaled mastery of their craft.

When he leaves Arodan, Jon has learned all the many secrets of the ironmasters - including some that more suspicious folk might consider sorcerous. Despite Arodan's fervent belief, Jon disregards the old superstitions... even when three clansmen come to him in the wake of a bloody slaughter, hoping to wreak their revenge with weapons of legend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tristan Gregory
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466029897

Tristan Gregory

Tristan is a writer, computer programmer, and martial arts instructor living in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

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The Three Fingers of Death

A Story of The Wandering Tale

by Tristan Gregory

Copyright 2012 Tristan Gregory

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Cover art by Graham Hanks

http://www.grahamhanks.co.uk/

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The Three Fingers of Death

Blasted mountains.

I wiggled my toes – or tried to, at least. It had been hours since I could actually feel my feet.

Blasted snow.

A particularly violent gust tore my hood from my head, leaving my face unprotected. Each snowflake bit like an arrow until I had myself covered again.

Blasted wind.

The storm had come on suddenly, as I knew they often did in the mountain passes. A few miles north and a few thousand feet lower down, spring had already broken the dull white cover of winter. Up here, though... There was nothing to do but keep going. The town I sought was only a short ways ahead.

Suddenly, a house loomed up out of the white blur that my world had become. The sturdy cobblestone structure was nearly buried in snow – but I could see a person moving by the door, taking firewood from a pile. I had to call to him three times before he heard me over the roaring wind.

Is this Dorin-on-the-Water? I asked, giving the name of the town I had come so far to find.

The man was the very picture of the local peasantry; burly, with a thick auburn beard.

It is! he shouted back. What are you doing out in this storm?

I'm looking for the ironmaster, Arodan! I shouted.

He lives on the far side of town! You won't make it through this – better come inside! he called. I have never been more grateful in my life.

When the man shut the door against the raging storm, the sudden quiet left my ears ringing. I pushed my hood back and basked in the warmth – the house was not large, and there was a fire burning brightly in the hearth. I brushed the snow from my face, and when I opened my eyes again there were three other people – one huge young man and two women, one older and one young and pretty - to greet me and my savior.

Martha, heat some wine. The storm caught this poor fool on the road.

Mind your tongue with the guest! the older woman exclaimed. You bring him under my roof and insult him? She turned to me. Be welcome to my home and hearth.

"Beg pardon, goodwife, but I am a fool, I said, knowing that the folk hereabout preferred a man to speak up, and speak plainly. I should have turned back when the storm hit, but I pressed on. It was only a few more miles, I thought I could make it before it got bad."

"Round here, storms start bad, and get worse," the man who'd brought me in said, handing me a thick fur cloak that had been sitting near the fire. I traded my soaked, frigid garment for it and nearly wept at the feeling. My hands and arms were shaking fiercely.

I can't thank you enough, I said through chattering teeth. My name is Jon. May I have the pleasure to know yours?

Alferd, he replied, stacking the wood he'd brought in. These here are my own, my wife Martha, my daughter Breta, and the lad is Hedmund.

Martha approached and handed me a goblet of hammered pewter. The wine within was sweet and dark, and warm. As the drink spread through me, I felt like I was coming to life again after a few years in the grave.

Again, thank you, I said.

Alferd pulled up a thick little stool and took a seat beside me, accepting a goblet of his own from his wife. Well, Jon, by your speech you're from a good ways to the north. You said you've come to find Arodan?

I nodded. I'm a smith myself. I've been hearing stories about the ironmasters for years. Recently I've been hearing that there aren't many left.

Alferd shifted in his seat with a grunt. And we've got you lowlanders to thank for that. Your priests bring this new religion of theirs into clan territory and denounce anything that seems funny to them. The ironmasters use a lot of rituals in their work – so they got labeled as sorcerers and demon worshipers. Now they have trouble finding apprentices, and some of them are blatantly harassed by those damn priests.

From where she had been kneading dough in the corner, Martha started at Alferd's words. To my surprise, she made a familiar sign with the fingers of her right hand, and cast a disapproving look at her husband. I looked at him as well, and he met my eyes with a rueful expression.

Oh, yes. They got to my dear wife as well, and my children. All anointed under the Great Holy what-you-call-it and blessed by the High this-or-that. But it's not for me! Alferd called over his shoulder. I'll die with the gods I was born with.

Turning back to me, he heaved a sigh. "I'm one of the few though. Once