Bloodlines – Harsh Fate

By W.L. Burke

Bloodlines – Harsh Fate is a fantasy, set on the continent of Mataan, a land originally inhabited by humans, elves and dwarves, for the most part. A many-decade long war, with a race of people known as Krakons, from across the ocean, has defeated the original races and taken over the lands of Mataan. The human race has been assimilated into Krakon society as a slave class, a few scattered to wild lands in the northwest, now called the Outlaw Kingdom.

But there has been a foretelling of a Ravenlock, the old rulers of the dark Wars era, that would rise up once more, unite the races, and renew the war with the Krakons. A Renewing of the first formal Joining, the true sign of this prophecy.

This is the story of one of Raklor Ravenlock’s scion, hundreds of years after the Dark Wars, found deep in the mountains of the Outlaw Kingdom – a short and somewhat concise telling of the events, occurrences, and happenings of his formative years. His journey to this fabled renewing.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781647508234

W.L. Burke

W.L. Burke was born, raised and resides in the rocky mountains. He has been living there for the last 30 years, on a small ranch, raising children, horses, dogs, and various sundry types of animals. Some of those were sold, some were raced, some were rescued, and some are kept around as family. One of five children, the author quit school at 15 and went to work full time, but recommends this option to no one. A life-long love of reading overcame this shortfall, gaining a diploma and taking some college courses, which, prompted some writing attempts.

Book preview

Chapter One

He stood on the top of the world, his world at least. The four mountain chains that comprised the Outlaw Kingdom, spread before him in every direction, as far as the eye could see. Yes, his world was a vast one, but others lie beyond its borders. Most of those he had only learned of recently, They still sounded like fairy tales, he admitted to himself. He had come to this place to consider his life till now, his future from this day forward.

The mountaintop he considered from was indeed the highest mountain in the kingdom, the highest for a thousand miles in fact. The Spike; ’twas affectionately called Heaven’s Spike more formally, towering sixteen thousand feet above sea level. He chuckled as he remembered the many ways such a measurement could be obtained.

His favorite had been the man who ran in place for a full minute, timed his breathing for another minute, then shouted out his measurement. Some had laughed, but even his teacher had stressed that the man’s talents had basis in facts, both medical and mathematical. Of course, it helped his case that the man was never wrong within a hundred feet. It had been part of his schooling, as were most things.

An Outlaw Kingdom education consisted of anything and everything that any within camp, or from other camps, could teach. They were nomadic peoples, following the seasons and sometimes the whims of their leaders, but reading, language, astronomy, biology, woodworking, and metals were taught from an early age, considered the basics in his camp.

Meadow Camp claimed the entire meadow mountain range as its own, several hundred miles wide, near a thousand miles long, north to south. ’Twas a fair piece of ground, for a people numbering mere hundreds in population.

The camps were military in structure, some more so than others, but still military in nature, out of self-preservation. They were hunted, after all. Not all the time, and not necessarily by superior numbers, but they were hunted nonetheless. So, much of schooling had its roots in warfare.

Fighting of many types and styles were taught, hand to hand, blades and axes, bows and spears. Biology and plant life were a must if one wished to be a proficient Tracker or Scout, both respected professions, if one chose either teaching to pursue for life. He admitted his life had changed several times growing up, becoming a scout, had been one such change, picking up a sword, had been another.

His name was Jikai; it meant Forcewind in the old tongue. They said the Horsemen of the Plains had called the scouring spring storms, Jikai. Fitting, his adopted father had thought, for they had found him, after a particularly harsh storm passed, in the center of their camp, six months old, alone. His childhood had been nearly idyllic though, at least he thought so, except for those few times.

Orion was the Leader of Meadow Camp, referred to by many as Chief, an unofficial title. He’d inherited leadership from his father, which was rare, as the leader was named by the people. He had taken Jikai into his house, not wanting to burden any other before himself. He could afford the extra mouth, as he received extra shares for being the leader. Jikai had lucked out there, he thought, smiling. They, Orion, and his wife, Lily, perhaps saw it differently once in a while, but it had been great for him, except those few times.

He had shown a talent at tracking when still very young and it had served him well at five years old, it still served him well, approaching twenty or so. Tracking though, had led him to other things, hunting, fishing, weapons, scouting, fighting, and killing. The wind blew cold and sharp across his already slightly weathered face.

At four or five, I had tracked a thieving marmot out of camp, towards the stream into the brambles. I lost it, found it again and finally stopped at the stream, where the tracks entered the water. I sighed in frustration and swung my small wooden spear over the water, cursing the marmot which had stolen a saved sweetbread from my small pack, inside my own tent. I was still swinging the spear back and forth when I spied the tiny figure out of the corner of one eye. I took a deep breath, still swinging, and spun to face what I’d seen, spear pointed outward.

He stood, leaning against a bramble bush that towered over him. Six inches tall, if that, white beard and long, matching sleeveless cloak. Before I could speak, or even squeak, he skipped, or flickered and reappeared at the water’s edge. He was mumbling something, it sounded like, More careful, and he moved slightly onto the water, disappearing.

Remember, I was four or five years old. The tale, told unrestrainedly and enthusiastically by such a one, well, wishing I’d kept it to myself now, did no good. Sometimes family and friends could be somewhat cruel, but this thought came with a smile.

The memory was one of those childhood images that stuck with you, like the feel and shape of a pommel on a saddle. Riding safe and warm before your father on the back of a huge horse, the large pommel, sloping flat top that narrowed to a neck that even a child could grasp onto in need.

It was like that, a memory that had texture, evoked feeling, yet lacked reality. For flying off a horse, pommel or no, became not a common occurrence perhaps, but one that happened from time to time. His memory of the little man though, that may have been his first brush with, yes, he admitted it, magic. The occurrence had not changed his life, but perhaps ignited possibilities. Some told him he’d imagined it, nearly all in fact, but a few had only nodded.

At ten years of age, he was a veteran stick fighter. The practice sword, the staff, there were none his age better. He had grown quickly and was agile to boot, so things of this nature came easily to his hand. He practiced the next two years with older boys which kept his head from getting too big, or so his adopted grandfather, Coker, told him. At twelve, life changed, childhood dropped away quickly and he received his first sword.

A lot of change, he mused sadly. He had not always been such a loner, as many would call him now, perhaps pariah was more accurate, or enigma.

At twelve, two others had been major parts of his life, along with family of course. Balkan and Ree, best friends, inseparable really and as different as could be. Balkan had dwarvish blood in his family tree was a head shorter than I or Ree, and perhaps two of me wide, three of Ree. He was strong though and remarkably agile, for one of his build.

Ree, on the other hand, was whip thin, tough as rawhide and quick as a snake. They oft asked him the question, Are your ears pointed?

Sure to get a rise, but there could have been more than a drop or two of Elven, in Ree’s history, if there were such things. We shared each other’s lives from childhood, we were as family.

We all had memories of a day long ago when we had been rushed into a cave used for cold storage, ’twas just before the tiny man story got circulated, if I remembered correctly.

It had been exciting then, the rush and fear, hiding for an hour in the ground. The true meaning of such things, not the prevue of young children. The aftermath not understood, our own small worlds not affected, so it was but a story to us, this day of the dragon. At twelve, some truths revealed themselves.

’Twas the high point of summer in the Meadow Mountains, summer festival only a week away. A time when some, or all of the other mountain ranges joined in festival. This year ’twas in our own meadow range. The camps would be arriving soon, Coast Camp had far to come, from the west and far south of us. Canyon Camp was furthest east and bordered the Krakon Lands, with Rock Camp west of them.

We had just moved to this northern site a week before. In deep summer, the higher mountain meadows were the place to be in the Meadow Mountains. Abundant game, crystal clear waters, cool nights, and warm days. A place far from the previous southern winter haunts along the river and a place unknown to three young boys.

The trio was entering camp from the east, triumphant hunters all. A young deer was slung over Balkan’s wide shoulders, a stringer of high mountain trout over Jikai’s, and Ree had a bushel of prized mushrooms over his. Being twelve had its benefits, time to explore and plunder the natural resources of new forests and streams, one of the best. All three had bows they had made themselves, after three or four attempts perhaps, and each carried a staff sharpened at one end. The lack of a sword marked them, as still young, therefore, allowed to range free at times, as long as some good use was made of that time. These three rarely disappointed in this area and had proven resourceful over the last few years. A fact their future teachers took notice of, to be sure. Joking and laughing, we made our way through camp and were struck down, wide eyed and voiceless, as most are when feeling dragon-fear for the first time. Only Bethan, Orion’s son, my older brother, saved any of us that first pass. I felt myself being pummeled and kicked and finally blurted out, Alright, enough, what is it?

Bethan grabbed me by the ears and shouted, Dragon, run!

He grabbed Balkan, hauling him to his feet and took Ree by the collar for several lumbering steps before we came to ourselves. All of us sprinted out the west side of camp, just as roaring fire started thirty yards behind us. Ten steps further and the heat wave struck our backs and sent us rolling into a shallow ravine. The flames billowed over us and our three faces were buried in the dirt. Then it was gone. We sat, wide eyed, checking each other to see if hurt, then the screams started. Bethan jumped into the ravine and calmly said, Dragon, it will come back, as he patted at the still smoldering patches on his shirt. Go get Jasmine and the children to the cellar. Watch for Krakons, guard them. Go!

We sprinted across the camp, faster than we’d ever ran in fact, to find three large tents in flames. Jasmine was herding screaming toddlers away out the back, some hurt, all scared. Dragon coming! screamed Ree and the fear struck again. We handled it better this time, but it was a heavy presence, hard to ignore.

Cellar! Move! Move! Move! I screamed, knowing with a certainty that doom was dropping upon us as I pushed them toward the cold cellar. Jasmine had two infants in her arms, I grabbed up the closest two, still yelling at the rest, Run to the cellar, run! I turned once to see Ree hot on my heels, a child in each arm. Several strides behind him, Balkan was scooping up a third in his rolling lope. We hit the tunnel to the cellar in a sprint, pushing a small herd before us. As I tossed my load in, I stepped aside and heard the inferno strike ground once more. I shoved Ree and two kids down the hole and turned for Balkan, Balkan. Our eyes locked for an instant, that incessant grin of his lit his eyes, then, they were gone, mid stride.

The blast knocked me backwards down the cellar hole. I woke slowly, my sight fuzzy. I heard screaming and came fully awake, surrounded by terrified, screaming children. I heard swords above the din and rose shakily, looking for my staff. It was gone, so was my bow and I stumbled up to daylight, knife in one hand, the other shading my burned eyes.

Ree and Jasmine fought off a black, leather clad soldier, while another struggled with four or five of the older children. I stumbled toward the latter and the soldier lost patience, hacking his sword halfway through ten-year old Josteen. Something snapped, I don’t really remember much after that, except my knife, a lot of blood, and a dying man’s eyes. The kids said they pulled me off him and I jumped on the others back, with my knife, and a lot of blood.

Yep, life changed a little that day.

Maybe I never really recovered from that day, I thought idly, watching two eagles far below, maybe life did not change at all, maybe, I just never recovered.

It was weeks before I truly healed enough physically, or mentally, to function normally. But I already had a sword in my hand, I didn’t really go anywhere without it, anywhere. I won’t say it was an obsession really, maybe a little excessive.

At thirteen, I had my own camp, at least tent, though still welcome in my father’s house. I healed, but I was harder, and I wanted to be harder still. I obtained first level mastery of the sword at fifteen, the youngest ever, they said. At sixteen, I stepped up from apprentice tracker, to apprentice scout, though some were not in favor of it. At seventeen, I obtained second level mastery of the sword and marksman of the bow, again to some’s dismay. Looking back at the thousands of hours of practice, I still did not think my fascination with the sword was an obsession, perhaps a rampant goal of excellence. I liked that description better.

Ree finished his apprenticeship tracking, then stayed on to get his mastery. We worked together sometimes, but a scout’s life, a young one with no family, took nearly all one’s time. And there was the sword.

Tracking, which I and Ree probably fell into more naturally than most, and excelled at, was one of a half dozen disciplines open to young, would-be apprentices. Somewhere between twelve years of age and fifteen years, a young man, and rarely a young woman, was asked to be apprenticed, dependent on the year, one’s abilities, and the needs within a camp. Trackers were exactly that, not hunters, not scouts, but trackers. They worked for the hunting parties, worked for the scouts when needed, and filled in gaps of manpower in between the two, if needed.

Ree was instantly snatched up by the trackers, at twelve; they made their first advance upon him, just after the dragon had come. He had declined laughingly, which was his way, but many questioned him as to why, for he was already talented in this discipline. He had mysteriously avoided answering them, keeping stubbornly to his own counsel. The trackers had waited though, they were after all, trackers, patience one of the qualities prized by this group, or Guild, if you will. A choosing did not have to be a permanent attachment to a Guild for one either, you could switch disciplines, especially if encouraged to do so. Some developed talents better suited to other Guilds over a year or two, or used one discipline to build an array of talents, stepping from one, hopefully upwards, to another. Guilds were not favored over one another, nor officially ranked over one another, though I believe down deep that most knew, that Scouts ruled. Besides, when it came to security, protection or raiding, they were the front line and the commanders. So that is where I aspired to be, hunting Krakons of course, though this subject was never discussed openly in camp.

I alone knew Ree’s motivations in declining that first invitation to join. He waited for me. I did mention it took a while to heal, physically and mentally, did I not? I won’t go into the mental aspect, but the physical piece was mended well in those six months. When the second invitation came, it was for us both, we accepted. Actually, that first year I was on loan to the hunters, as often as I was used by the trackers. I still don’t know if that was need, or if someone directed my course to learn both disciplines thoroughly, knowing I had higher aspirations. I had told few I wanted a scout position, but some teachers know more about their students than the students themselves. Scouting apprenticeships were not given until one was eighteen years of age, normally. However, there are exceptions to most rules, especially when one evinces proclivities in one way or another. Intensive and extensive training in warfare, came only upon entrance to the discipline of scout, though living with a sword in your hand for years beforehand might give you a leg up in this department.

It was during this first year of scout apprentice that I obtained the second of three levels of the sword. Intensive training is an understatement, and of course that meant competitive testing of one’s skills, to measure one’s learning. After enough level twos fell to me in competition, the council was actually forced to test me, and raise me to the higher level. You might say I forced their hand, not something you really want to do with a council, I’ve learned.

Chapter Two

It was the fourth time I’d made the southern run, without backup. The trails changed each time, no routine followed for an enemy to anticipate. Four days out, four back home. Rendezvous at two days and six days with inner perimeter scouts. There was a longer run, an outside perimeter run, I’d done it once on the northern loop. Ten days out, ten days back, different sides of the range, rendezvous with Rock Camp and Coast Camp Scouts in a two-day window, halfway through each side. There were outers, too, those semi-permanent outposts that were manned on three-month intervals, depending on the individual. If you weren’t on a formal route, you were on standby for messages, and sometimes for hunting parties, not the game kind.

I was on my last day, back in familiar territory, ten miles from camp. I was tired, but well used to the travel. I was scouting a low ridge before crossing over, when I saw the first Krakon. He was a scout, you know by their dress and if they are any good, by the way they move. I was lucky and caught him on the move. I crept back down, putting the ridge between us and ran. I knew where he was headed, had to get there before him.

Twenty minutes later, I took cover in a stand of small pine, where two trails met. I grew quiet and still, crouched with arrow nocked. I felt him in my stillness, and heard him, before he came into view. He moved lightly, quickly and quietly. He was within twenty paces when I heard the other make his way smoothly past on my right side, barely ten paces away. I cursed silently, for the mistake was mine. Preconceptions kill; my teacher had pounded into us. I had been focused on, and expecting only one, so the other had gone unnoticed. Lucky, I thought, and pushed that luck as I stepped out in his wake, and put an arrow through his neck. I’d hoped to be silent, but he struggled and gurgled. I crouched and waited as he fell and expired. The other approached, somewhere. I stilled myself, low in a tree well, for long minutes. At last he moved, crawling slowly toward his mate, who no longer breathed. I waited, watching until I could get a shot, and took it. He was low in the grass and I knew it was a risk, but took it anyway. The arrow deflected slightly and sunk into the light, leather shoulder of his armor. Judging by the swiftness of the return crossbow bolt, I did not think I hurt him.

In one step, I had sword drawn and was sprinting through the low pines. He wasted a second thinking about another arrow, or perhaps a blow on the horn at his shoulder, and barely got his sword out in parry when I struck. He was knocked back a step and I went into Thief in the Night, a set of moves practiced in daily forms, it lost him another step and Scythe the Wheat, took him in the leg, Pull the willow branch was so fast he could not follow it, he died quickly. I stilled myself, drug one body after another into the low trees, searched them, and took what I wanted, which was little. I cat footed to the stream, drank deeply, and ran, with an eye to the sky.

I was at seventeen years of age in that moment in time, ironically, about the number of my Krakon kills. I did not really keep count, I just kept seeing Josteen every time, cut in half from impatience on a Krakon sword. Balkan, turned to ash, arms full of kids. They had taken six children that day, that day I was twelve, that day that Balkan died. Twenty-seven dead, fifty wounded, six taken. So I ran like dragon’s fire chased me, because it was happening again. The certain dread of it lent wings to my feet.

They had come in from the north, ’twas why I did not find them sooner. The first two were scouting their flanks. I ran into several more, I gave them no chance, no quarter. Five miles out, I sounded my horn, I sounded again at three and ran as horns answered. I dropped off the ridge behind camp like a rabbiting deer, two Krakon Scouts in pursuit. I looked down past camp and saw them as I left the heights, the Krakon troop coming up the valley, the dragon. It wasn’t the week before summer festival this time, it was the week of summer festival.

My horn had given ten minutes warning or more, camp was near deserted as I sprinted out of the trees. My closest pursuer broke cover and took my arrow dead center. I did not stay to watch him fall as I heard the solid twang of crossbows, from the guards at their post.

The warriors of three Camps gathered in the trees at the south end of our camp. I ran in their midst, chest heaving, as they charged out to meet the Krakons bearing down on the arriving people of Coast Camp.

The dragon, now at treetop level was upon them. It moved at a terrifying speed, its wings stretched and immobile as it pulled out of its dive to glide over the Krakon troop. From its huge snout to its tail, it measured fifty to sixty feet long, with a wing span to match. This dragon was black as the night, covered with shiny, armor-like scales, red slits for eyes, and rows of teeth in crooked sets lining its jaws. Its head resembled a large dog that had been flattened and widened with huge flaring nostrils. The canine-like teeth, if they could be called that, were close to two feet long and interlocked when its mouth was closed, to stick out like giant tusks. I watched, spellbound as the dragon opened its mouth and greenish red fire spewed forth, like a fountain under pressure. It cut a swath, thirty feet wide through the people of Coast Camp. The air from the dragon’s wings fanned the flames as it banked and climbed, to get height for another pass. The Krakons hit them as they scattered from the flames. Twenty were horsemen and they struck quickly and were reforming by the time we got there. The dragon had strafed the camp behind us and was in a climbing loop over the eastern ridges, circling to come back at us. We had scant seconds, so we charged them.

Dragon tactics, beginner level for any scout. If they have a dragon, engage them. Half the dead would be theirs at least. The horsemen ran columns along the sides of the small valley, attempting to keep us from scattering up into the trees. I crouched and loosed two of my valuable, black fletched arrows, at the last in line. The second took him from the saddle and I was off. I sprinted, using up what wind I had, but caught a rein on my leaping grab. He dragged me to a grudging halt, this big red, roan horse. I was up before he could stomp me with his striking hoof. I pulled his head around in a curl and he spun into the charging path of another horseman. He was a big roan horse; he gave ground, but kept his feet at impact. I was on him in a flash and loosed an arrow point blank, into a swing from the rider’s sword. His sword deflected off my bow and broke it in the process. I kneed the roan up close as my sword swung out of scabbard, from over my shoulder. He parried, but was wounded, and I kicked him from the saddle as I grasped his horse’s reins and broke into a gallop, looking for Ree.

Ree and I had been doing battle on horseback from the first time they let us ride, which was on night guard, over the remuda. Frowned upon that, but even Balkan had some experience before. I found Ree, quiver empty, as always. He was being hard-pressed by two Krakons with half armor and shields. They looked very wrathful and several of their fellows lay like pin cushions beyond them. He was giving ground, when he saw me coming and jumped back with a grin, as I rode over the top of one and stuck my blade down the others shoulder piece.

He laughed at me when astride the extra mount. I was rasping for breath still, blood spattered, only a little my own, and he said, You scouts have it so easy, just roamin’ around the mountains visiting folks. For the first time in a month, I smiled.

We engaged two more Horsemen with limited success. We had another horse, but Ree had taken a spear wound to his upper arm. I slashed an arrow away with my sword as he tied the wound. I gave the spare horse to the first camp man we came to, it happened to be Bethan and as usual, he had a plan.

Look to the rear, on horseback in the black armor.

He was already off, skirting the main body and we kicked heels to stay with him. He was their Commander, no matter his rank, two horsemen never left his side and four shieldmen proceeded him. We engaged twice before we got near him, but none were mounted and it delayed us only a little. At first, they took no notice, we were mounted after all and across a battlefield of several hundred yards, they assumed us Krakon. But as we closed, the horsemen charged out front and the shielders took up a tight rank. Something in the disciplined way they moved, told me we were in trouble.

In the heart stopping seconds, it took to close upon them, I caught a glimpse of the dragon, high on the ridges east of camp. Odd, he was on the ground, spewing fire at something unseen. Odd that I remember that moment too, of all the moments.

Three abreast we rode and I forced Ree’s horse to the left with Bethan, cutting out the rider on my right. They took the left side rider and he collided head on with Bethan’s horse in a crash and horse’s scream. I lost them for a while then.

He swung mightily across the ears of the roan horse; blade horizontal. He barely got his arm back as I swung straight down onto his forearm. He jerked his arm in and our blades met, caroming off each other and past. We circled and he bull rushed me, trying to bowl us over. Ahh, that red roan was tough. He knocked the others head aside, shoulders colliding and the Krakon went down. Not from anything I did, but I wasn’t complaining, as we did our best, me and that roan horse, to stomp the life out of the other before he got up. I saw that horse get at least one solid strike on the man, but he rolled under my horse, popping up to leap upon me as I slashed at him. He bore me to the ground, taking my knife to the elbow on the way down. I rolled and came up just in time to parry a strike over my head, from another horseman who rode me down.

When the breath came back to my body, some long seconds later in a choking gasp, I was twenty feet from where I’d stood. I can only surmise they thought me dead, for no blades protruded from me, yet. A slash down my chest bled thickly, I was not sure if it came from my own blade in the roll, or another. I grasped my blade from the dirt and looked up to see an object land with a thud, next to me. I looked down into the eyes of Ree, blond hair blowing across his face.

I would say something snapped within me, but it did not. Something moved within me, shifted, and the stillness found me. It was the stillness sought by swordsmen; the stillness learned from early training. Still yourself, only you and the sword, be as one we are taught. But I did not seek it, it sought me out. It had never done that before.

There is no emotion in the Stillness. It is a blending of thought and movement; it is smooth steel and flowing force, of engrained forms and clarity of mind, instinct, and muscle memory. I have heard others call it many things, bowmen say it is a void, spearmen say it is a link, swordsmen the blend, of steel and flesh and will. On this day, it was a blessing, for there is no emotion in the Stillness.

Their commander stood fifteen feet away, over the headless body of Ree. He was no longer horseback and only two shields men remained. As I rose to my feet, Bethan attacked one of those and I felt the battle surge around us, in a swell. He was lost to my sight for long moments, but I flowed through two lesser soldiers and he was there before me. He glimpsed me as his shield man thrust a spear into my stillness. Never stopping or pausing, I swept his spear aside, moving in, I made him raise his shield to ward a strike to his head, when he did, I slipped beneath it and cut the large artery in his leg, with my knife. As he went to a knee convulsively, my blade took him in that split second of weakness, across his neck. Light chainmail may have kept my cutting edge from him, but I heard the bones in his neck and stepped onward.

He saw me coming, even as he fought another, he felt me coming. His sword flashed down and where it met steel, a darkness was sparked. A dark void around the blades, a nothingness. The man he faced was a coast camp warrior, a scout in fact. His face showed fear and he quailed as the blow shattered his steel, hacking into the side of his head.

A vile sound came from, from the sword is how I heard it, it crawled into my stillness, but the stillness tightened around me as the scout literally turned gray, wrinkled, and fell to the ground in a heap.

But there is no emotion in the stillness.

I flowed into him with round the oak, a form of offense and defense, against a shielded swordsman. I felt it at the first strike, and it was dark, I shuddered in the stillness. Its sickness was a foul miasma, and the stillness tightened even more. Two strikes and I hammered my blade against his ankle with swipe the daisies. He backed off, eying me curiously as he unbuckled his shield, tossing it aside. He was not cut, but I know it hurt him. He was a swordsman and a sword needed two hands, to make it sing. I flowed into him with quarter the moon and my stillness moved out to sword length around me, the mark upon the blade glowed blue.

The mark upon the blade, Oh yes, the mark, I murmured as the sun broke over the Spike, striking at the peak, and working slowly downward.

The man was a master, I knew that much after the first few strokes. He drove me back and our song split the air, in ringing harmony. Back and forth, circle, glide in on raven’s wings, move to arc and bow, defend with bend the rushes, strike, parry, glide. The men near us began to push away, some began to watch. The sound was not normal, more than steel on steel, more piercing, more violent and darkness struck upon blue fire, time after time.

He began to speak. I was not listening and struck with adder in the silk. What have I found here, a barbarian Mage? he struck with a deadly form I’d never seen, but I slid smoothly away in the Stillness. What are you, boy? he asked, half taunting, half fearing. I eased into lilies in the wind and caught him across a rib with part the grasses. He grunted and real fear showed in his eyes. Tell me boy, what are you?

In a desperation he should not have felt, he charged, trying to overpower me. I met his overhand strike early, high in the air, my blade skinning off his in a shower of blue sparks and dark nothingness. I spun into bend the branch, faster than I ever had. I felt it cleave the mesh below his helm and embed in the bone at the back of his neck. And I stilled myself, inside the flash of blue light that discharged my blade.

I looked around at the men, most not moving, I really did not understand that.

From his knees, the Krakon impossibly choked out, Ravenlock, and fell over in the grass. His men backed off, then some turned away, it became a retreat in an instant.

Dragon protocol, beginner scout, if they have a dragon, engage. The order charge came seconds later and the retreating Krakon troop was struck from the side by a hail of arrows. I thought I saw Jasmine and other women of my camp moving among the trees. The battle moved away from me, downslope from where I sat, looking at Ree. His blond hair was blowing across a withered and grey imitation of Ree’s face.

They had a dragon. Fire on the high east ridges bloomed from near the top. The dragon was pawing boulders and ripping debris into the air, pausing only to spew his incinerating flames into the stone. He did not see her, till she struck him. I saw her, it was an oddity, one I noted faintly, as I lay back in the grass, beside Ree.

There were some things as a tracker or scout, or smithy or seamstress or even just any living thing, that you just know you should stay away from. Of course, dragon is at the top of that list, but secondly, and less rarely than a dragon, was the Griffon. A bull sized lion, that for some unknown reason, the earthmother gave wings to.

Cats are not uncommon in the outlaw kingdom; we have our share and some are very dangerous. Moor cats, large and scary, snow tigers, not good at all. Cougar, bobcat, lynx, and leopard, all dangerous if cornered, or hunted. I had even seen a Panther, once, but, the Griffon was not as these. It is said that some men used to hunt them, now that is crazy, for a Griffon knows. I don’t know how he knows, or even how much he knows, but a Griffin does know. Every generation one comes along, one with a brave heart, a great hunter out to prove himself, usually young. The one I met from rock camp was seventeen and fancied himself a hunter. A Griffons talon was a prized possession, a set, a small fortune. The Rock Range probably held more Griffon than any, they liked their solitude and high desolate roosts. Deep valleys to hunt and many untouched places lay within the highest of Ranges.

He’d gone on his hunt for three long weeks and come back wounded, but with a single talon. Most considered him lucky, some just foolish. Ten days after his return, a Griffon, never seen in a camp before, sliced through the main encampment and snatched him from beside his fire. A miraculous coincidence? I think not. A Griffon can track you from the air, run you down on foot and take on a number of armed men without much threat to himself. Did I mention they like their solitude? Thank the earthmother that they do, for a Griffon knows, and does not forget.

She struck silently, from behind the black monster, ripping and tearing with teeth and talon. Horrid roars echoed down the valley and the behemoth took sudden flight. She struck again as he tried to gain altitude, upon his wing. He veered his flight and turning his sinuous neck, shot fire down over his wing. Yet, she remained long enough to launch herself from wing to neck. When she did, a piece of the dragon’s wing tore loose from his body, it flapped loosely in the wind.

The dragon stopped climbing and glided downslope toward us, laying in the grass, Ree and I.

It gained speed as it swept down the valley, still in combat with the Griffon. As it neared, I noted the closed eye and greenish fluid leaking from it. One notices small things in a memory, it seemed incongruous at the time. I remember the green ocher hissing in the grass after its passing. The Griffon leapt nimbly up the long neck, half flying, half clawing, and black scales fell intermittently to the ground. Then I saw her goal, seconds before they passed over. A cowled being sat astride the beast, riding it. That’s when I knew I was dreaming, laying in the grass, with Ree. As though to prove it, the griffoness lunged at the figure and a black spear was thrust into the cat’s chest. Her screams were nearly in my ear it seemed, in the dream. For only in a dream could the black cloaked figure disappear in a puff of smoke at the Griffons next lunge.

And yes, life changed more than a little, that day. Reality from dreams, ’tis a hard twist to make when it blurs so much.

Not all the changes in my life were violent, but most it seems. It should not be that way I know, but the rock is warming to the morning sun, it feels good, up so high on the Spike. This is magic, this morning, this place that few ever see. I wish this were all that I knew of magic.

Chapter Three

Sword making is an art, make no mistake about it, but it can be learned. It had to do with a sword, so I was an avid pupil, obsessive though, was such a harsh term.

One of the drawbacks is that the Smithy is also the horseshoer, pot and pan maker, buckle maker, and the armorer. So that is how long winters were spent, when tracking, hunting and scouting slowed, one embarked on alternate disciplines. Ree said I was crazy, he may have been right about that, but not because I chose the forge. Ree himself, he chose the remuda, caring for the horses in winter also had its drawbacks, but laboring twelve hours a day over the forge, was not one of them. One nearly immediate benefit however, was it built strength. By sixteen, I was starting to look like our Smithy, Belam, the bear, we called him. He was the master armorer of five in the Smithy, a giant of a man, muscled like a bull. After my sixteenth year I left the forge, I could not risk becoming too bulky to run, for a scout must run.

My third winter on the forge, I had foregone my own sword making again, waiting, testing, learning. Each young man, or woman of the camp, was allotted one sword, whether made by the armorer, chosen from stores, or made by his own hand. The latter being rare as one wants the best sword possible. Usually by fifteen, any apprentice hunter, tracker, or scout have their own sword, blessed, and named, if they are a swordsman anyway. Some do so with bow and spear also, but your sword was your life if you followed the way of stillness. It was imperative that you choose wisely. Perhaps that is why it took me so long to choose, wisdom comes slowly, usually at a price.

We came to the Durning, every few years, never on a schedule, as usual. It was the only place in the meadow range that spoke of civilization, though long gone. A ruin that once had been a small stone fortress. It was as far north as we ever travelled in our range and sat hard up against the Storm Keep, the wall of glacial mountains that bounded all four Ranges on the north. It was an odd place, in all our range, there was no other like the Durning. Though at the northern most reaches, it was not the coldest of places, nor did the snow set in until late in the winter.

We usually trekked to Durning in late fall, early winter some years, using it to prolong the fall, stave off the winter perhaps. It was low in elevation on the west side of our meadow range, the ground falling to the river from here was moors, some bogs and swamp. Though Durning itself was above these, where the ground turned to stone and rose into the mountains. Hundreds of pools dotted the sloping, rock piled hillsides, and all the pools were warm. Steam filled the long plateau and lay over the bogs and marshes below. The moors were a late fall treasure trove of things not found elsewhere. Herbs that grew no other places, pure salts that could be pulled from the rocks, things that other camps wanted or needed could be found here, goods for trading.

Wild asparagus, mushrooms, rare flowers, and fruits could be found, as well as the one true forge in all the Meadow Mountain Range, being in a small courtyard amid the ruins of the fortress.

Why would any not wait, even if it meant years, to make their sword upon Durning’s Forge, if they had a choice?

One would not, not if they wished to make their own, as I did.

So it was, that I came to Durning’s Forge at winter solstice, with Belam the Bear. One chance, to make a sword, to last a lifetime. The sword I carried since age twelve, was that of a Krakon, the first I’d ever killed, before the cellar where Balkan di… The same that had severed…

I’d hoarded a great treasure looking to this day, waiting, collecting, weighing, ’twas another reason I was late in the making. I had what I prayed was enough Elven steel, for one blade. When I revealed my treasure to Belam, he looked at me suspiciously and inspected the trove closely. I knew what Elven steel was because of the few items Belam had at his smithy in camp, which was somewhat limited, because it had to be packable and easily moved. The steel was rare, trinkets usually, buttons, rings, a bracelet alone could buy you most swords. There were a few swords made from it in our entire range, perhaps several in the other camps. They were owned by Masters of the Sword, and some of those were taken from a Krakon at one point or another. Belam had made two in his life, he retained neither, too valuable he claimed for a Smithy. He, too, thought me crazy at times. I could tell he knew the source of my trove, for he eyed me long and hard, his assessment of me changing in that moment. Every piece had come from a slain Krakon.

I had made three versions already of my sword, not counting the four, which I had all changed slightly before those. I had studied every kind of sword that anyone I could talk to would tell me about, Belams books on metallurgy, his book of swords, every master’s sword in the kingdom really, over some years. I settled on a simple, unadorned, unpretentious blade, made simply for fighting.

There are so many types of swords, and yes, most are made for fighting. But there are many types of fighting also, which creates many variants. Short swords, broad swords, long swords, sabers, cutlasses, and on and on. Each man favored something and chose his sword accordingly. Some had their blades handed down by their fathers, others traded for what they wished to have, some created a sword that fit their style of fighting. I wanted a sword that would accommodate all the styles I’d learned, and hopefully many more yet unlearned. After so long, so much trial and error, so much research and practice with experiments, it was a slightly sickening irony, I felt, at my final choice. My biggest treasure among the Elven steel was a dagger, a tanto dagger, undamaged, and carried on my person at all times. It was single edged, simply designed, perfectly balanced, and could be thrown, twirled, spun or, used in battle. My design finally, after years, came down to almost the same exact design as the dagger, though much, much larger.

I laid out the mold for Belam’s inspection and he chuckled, which sounded like a bear shuffling. What took you so long to choose, Hammerhead? he asked finally. That being his chosen nickname for me, though he had them for everyone, Belam did not discriminate. He saw the resemblance to the dagger I’d carried for several years, Belam knew everyone’s weapons, hidden or not. He saw the irony, my long years of study and searching, only to settle upon a design I possessed for nearly all that time.

Of course, he tried to talk me out it, using every argument, starting with, You know this much Elven steel would support you, and several wives, for oh, half score of years I’d reckon, he said stroking his long black beard. Old man Starth would give you his daughters and that many shares to be rid of them. I knew the two daughters he spoke of, and they were very easy to look at, all Starth’s daughters were, all eight of them. The two he spoke of, were of a marrying age and Starth was not beyond making, shall we say, deals. However, Starth girls, of whom I may have trifled with a time or two, came with a price. The entire family was cursed as far I could see, for not one of them could stop talking, some not even in their sleep. ’Twas not something I could overlook. A tracker or scout lived in silence, sought silence, valued silence, me more than most, it was untenable to consider.

He weighed the Elven steel carefully, then the weighted sand in the mold, just as carefully. The blade is a little larger than it looks, he muttered to himself as he peered intently at each. The exact amount will come down to the purity of your originals, he said, indicating my treasure trove on one side of the scale. We can purify it some if need be, with the Durning Forge, but the more we purify, the less we’ll have. I took a deep breath and asked, Is it enough Belam, or must I wait another year?

He knew that year I spoke of, was probably several, as we only came to Durning one year in three. At last, he grunted, It is enough for the blade. Then added, The guard may have to come later though. I nodded my understanding, and relief, for he’d seen the single piece structure of tang and blade, not always so, some fitted pieces. The guard was small, as guards go and could be fitted later if needed. Though small and oval in shape, the guard had to be stout enough to withstand direct blows, therefore, took a fair amount of steel. The blade would not be balanced either until the guard was fitted. Still, I was elated and relieved beyond measure. The camp packed up and left for winter grounds, leaving only a small guard and those who would use the forge. The forge was never used when camp was made, for the fear that its use would draw unwanted attention. If it did, which had not happened within memory, only it’s users would be found there. Some claimed the forge was magic and could not be discerned, none wished to test it.

Belam fired the forge in the early morning, he had two swords to make himself, this was not just for me. He laughed when I bounded up the steps and into the small court. He could tell I was charged up and ready to begin. When he stopped laughing, he tossed me a stone and said, Find me more of these, then gather a cord of hardwood, Red Fir and maybe Tamarack. I groaned slightly and he chastised, You wanted the Elven steel boy, it won’t melt down with pine and charcoal. I turned to go when he added, A half cord of Black Oak should suffice. I stopped in my tracks at this, taking a huge breath. Black Oak meant the swamp, if found, it would take a dozen trips to get back to the forge. Belam added lightly, I took it for granted you wanted it folded. I had not asked him, for it was too much to ask, folding steel of this quality was a lost art, a finely difficult art, not one practiced by even the master armorers. I said nothing and did my best to bounce down the steps going, as I had coming up.

Three days, three long grueling days, wood gathering, cutting, dragging, hauling, stacking, done. I was actually feeling lucky now, for if not for Darthea, the gathering would have taken five.

Darthea was as old as granite dust, or so she tells it. She can’t be far off on that estimate though. We have a few people near eighty years of age in our camp, they all remember Darthea from when they were children, and she was grown. Of course, some said it was magic, anything not easily explained was always magic to those of the camps. Also, Darthea was, and had always been, unwed. Wives tongues could be wicked to one who makes her way alone, perhaps some of that was jealousy, for she made her own way, very well indeed.

They’d left us horses, and two horses could move some wood. I had made one trip to the swamp for black oak, it was looking grim. Though I found a single tree close to the moors, it yielded only a tenth of what I needed. I was mostly back across the moors, a long series of shallow ponds and raised trails when I came upon her.

Hello, Jikai, she said in her husky voice, without turning. I came alongside her and dismounted.

A long walk, Darthea, I said. It was odd seeing her so far from camp, alone.

Oh, not so far when you know it’s one way.

I looked at her puzzled, but she said no more. I walked with her in silence for a long while, as she seemed content to do so. Her staff swung rhythmically and her pace was not slow. She started to turn off on a path moving north and I said, Dartha, I am going further west to the swamp for Black Oak, can I help you with something? I am loath to leave you this far from camp.

She simply laughed, husky, and low, saying softly, If it’s Black Oak you want, you should be following me.

She’d never paused a step, and never one to not take a hint, I fell in step with her once more.

She led me over two short trails and to a spot where the swamp had made a deep inroad into the moors. There, stood three black oaks, like a border between moor and swamp. They were old and strong trees, too, it made a big difference. She rode one horse back, dragging a makeshift sled on which three large branches sat. I led the other, with twice that on his. Her black oaks saved me a day at minimum. Through it all, she had little to say, which was normal for Darthea, if she had something to say to you, you knew it.

Darthea was one of a handful of people in Meadow Camp that could start a fire without tinder, coal nor stone. Of course, some said it was magic, me, I thought of it more as a mastery, like tracking, smithing, she obviously had mastered an art, perhaps of a mineral, or plant of some kind, or of just keeping a fire alive perhaps. Why did it have to be magic? Darthea also led a contingent among our Camp, followers of the earthmother.

I rested a day, on Belam’s advice. I ate, I drank, and I practiced the sword for long hours, a day of rest.

The making took two days, once started you must continue until done, or start over. Belam assured me that would not happen, then drove me to see that it did not. The special stones I had you gather, retain more heat, Belam explained, and continued to explain how and why they did so, to an exhaustive conclusion, two hours later. The stones actually multiplied the heat generated from the Black Oak, which multiplied the heat from the hard woods. Simple, right? Doing was not as simple.

It was done in a series of chambers made from massive stones of the same variety I had gathered. How they could have been fashioned was a three-hour discourse from my teacher, ending with, I believe the forge to be Dwarven or perhaps Giant made. I could only stare at him for a moment in surprise. Three hours and he spoke as if he’d made it himself, in minute detail on how each piece was crafted, just to end with, a Dwarf made it? My stare made him uncomfortable for some reason and he said, That bellows won’t pump itself, irritably. Half a day to heat the fires, half a day to melt the steel. Another half day to purify, which had me jumping with nervousness. If I purified too much, I would not have enough to complete it.

Two purifications done; the decision was at hand. Ahh, Belam made it for me, I owe him much for that. They say the finest steel is purified three times before the forging. He started the third without even asking.

The preparation was done, now two days for the making. I thought about his comment of dwarves and giants throughout, for one was a rarity, seldom spoken